Are you dreaming again, Katara? You really shouldn't be here. Maybe you should wake up.
Chapter 1
It was the dream again. She'd had it more frequently these days. She couldn't really figure out why. Maybe it was the stress of her position; running a city-state was certainly not the easiest task anyone had ever had. Especially now, when the whispers of war echoed through the halls as though the castle itself was afraid.
It started just as it had before, with Katara walking slowly down stone steps carved by the friction of a million boots. She was surrounded not by air, but by a distinct nothingness –still, silent, and devoid of any defining characteristics. As she moved, a small part of her recognized that although it was undoubtedly her feet that padded softly downward (no-one else would have those moccasins with the light blue ribbon she had woven through the laces), it was not her will that moved them. She was a prisoner in her own body.
Strangely enough, she wasn't afraid of this situation. She didn't feel anything, really. This place was a vacuum peopled only by static walls, dusky stones, and movement. She achieved the bottom floor, a damp, level thing built of paving stones so huge she wondered if earth-benders had been recruited to shift them. Surrounding this rounded room were small doors, wooden and solid, guarded by two men each. Whoever was behind those doors was either very important or very dangerous. Perhaps both.
Katara almost gasped – well, she would have, if she had any control over her body – when she saw that though the guards seemed human, they were missing a very important human characteristic: they were faceless. From their hairline to their chin, all Katara could make out was a smooth, skin-colored blur. Somehow, Katara knew the facial features were there, but it was almost as if it was her fault for not focusing enough, that if she just looked a little bit longer, she would be able to identify these monstrosities as human beings.
The whole situation was eerie, but again, Katara felt no fear. She shifted forward to one of the doors, ignoring the guards. They were completely still as she moved, neither acknowledging her presence nor shifting in place. Katara soon realized that their lack of response was likely because they were frozen in place. Their chests did not move, their bodies did not slowly sway in the manner of living beings – they were as still and silent as the grave, almost as if someone had carved statues with so much skill as to make them look almost like people.
It was an easy task, then, for Katara to slide the wooden cross-piece which pinned the heavy door in place off its casings and pull the door outward. The room she entered was smaller than her own – her own bed, indeed, would probably not fit into it. But it looked as if two people were living here, as two tiny cots butted up against the side and back walls. One – the dirtier by far – was empty at the moment. The other was pristine except for the form of a man sitting cross-legged, facing the doorway Katara had just entered. His head was bowed, and his form was as still as the guards outside. She couldn't see his face, either, but not for the same reason – it was covered entirely by an ornate blue mask. A mask she had seen before, very long ago.
The Blue Spirit.
Here, Katara did experience a thrill, but it was not of fear. Katara almost questioned why now, of all times, her automatic dream self would be able to feel. Her confusion dissipated as she moved ever closer to the man. This was the point in the dream at which Katara always woke up. If she could just get a little closer this time, close enough to lift the mask…
She felt herself fading. She must be waking up. But her hand reached out, and as the world started to spin into oblivion, she was able to grasp the mask and lift it from the man's face. She expected a faceless blur. Instead, she was treated to perfect skin. No scar? Perfect features. No blur? No. It was the face of the banished prince – no, the lost King, now. Zuko. His eyes were closed as if he were meditating, his face frozen in concentration.
But as she was about to lose her grip on the dream world entirely, his eyes shot open, and she jumped back, pierced through the chest by the electricity of his amber gaze. What was that expression? Surprise? His mouth opened as if he were about to ask her to explain herself-
And she sat up in her bed, her heart racing, her shift drenched with sweat. Her mouth curled up before she could stop herself.
Zuko was alive.
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Zuko sat up on his cot. His thin blanket was damp – he had been sweating again. He did that more frequently of late. Practicing his bending in his dreams probably had something to do with it.
He bowed his head as he considered the dream he had just had. It wasn't like anything he had ever experienced. He had been locked in meditation, locked so he couldn't move, couldn't see. But suddenly, the chains that held his body still were broken, and he opened his eyes to see someone he hadn't seen in years. Katara. She looked older – her skin a bit riper, her lips a bit redder, her body softer and more curved. But it had definitely been her. And for some reason, he was convinced she had really been there.
"So you're awake, then. Grab the guard for me. He and I must have words about last night's dinner. Far too mild for my taste."
Zuko sighed at the old man in the nearby cage. The man thought he was still in a palace ordering servants around. Zuko, for today, was apparently one of those servants. It changed, sometimes. Sometimes Zuko was a slave, sometimes a state official. The man's imagination was as large as his sanity was tenuous. But Zuko wouldn't play along. He never had. He merely turned his back on the muttering fool and focused on his training.
Training was tricky when actual bending was a forbidden act. Zuko sort of had to picture the flames in his mind, focus on them, feel their heat, without actually creating them in the cell. Even bending in his dreams was risky – once he had burned his blanket before he had woken up enough to snuff the flames. The guards had enjoyed beating him soundly for that little mistake. Any actual bending was out of the question. The guards might not have been particularly skilled benders, but they fed him so little he was too weak to mount much of an attack against them. Add to that the fact that any bending they saw was instantly treated with a sound beating, and Zuko had given up on the venture early on.
Zuko didn't regret it one bit. Ironically, by not bending, He felt like he was building his bending skills in ways he never would have had the Fire Nation oligarchy never thrown him in prison. Indeed, this bending-without-bending took more concentration than the actual act. Sometimes Zuko thought he had bent – only to realize his eyes were closed and the flames that had seemed so real were gone as soon as he opened them. It was a strange sensation, like a waking dream.
Zuko knew he was honing his skills – he felt he now knew his own strength better than he ever had. One day he would use it. But not today. Today the guards would beat him, and he would let them, or they would beat him again tomorrow for his resistance. It was a weekly ritual, perverse in the fact that the moment his wounds were healed, they would be ripped open once again.
Zuko laughed bitterly at the thought. Healed so the pain would be fresher. This was no ordinary prison. It wouldn't be; only the most powerful and most feared prisoners were brought to the Wasureru – insurgents, leaders from opposing factions, overthrown kings. It wasn't meant as punishment. It was almost as if every guard who watched the cellmates took some kind of sick pleasure out of tormenting their prey. Each guard was another Azula, bent on hurting for the sake of hurting – not for exacting revenge, or gleaning information. The means were the end. And Zuko would suffer them for the rest of his life.
After the beating left his head throbbing and his gut twisting around a dripping, festering knife wound, Zuko's day was made even worse by a single word uttered by the old man. At first, Zuko didn't hear the man over the jeers and laughs of the exiting guards. But the old man said it again.
"Zuko."
No. Not again. Not a moment of lucidity. Let the fool think him a butler, or a servant, or a MAID for all he cared, just let him remain a fool! Zuko could not weather one more moment alone with-
"Zuko. Why are you cringing like a girl? You cannot stand the sight of your own blood?"
Maybe if he ignored him, he would fall back into nonsensicality.
The man chuckled. "You never were able to stand pain, boy. I remember the time your mother cradled you when you skinned your knee. Your knee! Such a superficial wound, and yet she coddled you for it. She was as much of a-"
"Shut up."
"What?"
"Shut up!"
"Oh, the boy has teeth, eh? He thinks he can stand up for his mother? Why didn't he do that when he was younger, then? Why did he leave her to DIE, only to search for an avatar he couldn't find?"
It was no use. Zuko clapped his hands to his ears in spite of the jolt of pain it caused. Blood trickled from his side and from scrapes on his shoulders, but still the man's voice echoed through his head.
"A banished prince who couldn't restore his own honor. Who never had any honor to begin with. Why did I even bother with you? Why did I even give you a chance? It was obvious from the day you were born that you would never amount to anything. I should have given you away to be raised by peasants."
"I wish you had!" was the only retaliation Zuko could manage. If only his cellmate would lose his mind again. If only he would forget himself. If only he would leave his son alone.
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Like my enigmatic intro? I kinda felt like starting the story right from the get go. It remains to be seen whether those little blurbs will continue or be integral to the story. We shall see.
Let me know what you think!
