The first time the Firelord collapsed, it was just after a meeting with the council. His knees had buckled, his eyes had rolled back into his head, and if it hadn't been for the reflexes of the advisor nearest to him, he likely would have split his skull open on the corner of the table. There'd been a brief panic - shouts to send for the physician, servants clambering over each other to get a better view, guards forming a barrier to give the Emperor space as the advisor lowered him to the ground - but a few moments later, Firelord Zuko came to. He dusted himself off, and assured everyone that he was fine. I'm just dehydrated, he'd explained. I'm just tired. I just need to eat. It had all been true; he was dehydrated and exhausted and hungry. So he drank, and he slept, and he had a hearty meal, and he was fine.

When it happened again, his eldest daughter was four years old. The bouncing, bumbling toddler had been running through the halls when she tripped over her father's leg where it was protruding from his bedroom doorway. She didn't think much of it - only that her father had chosen a very strange place for his nap - and she'd sat down beside him, playing in his hair until her mother found them.

In the weeks that ensued, Zuko met secretly with several doctors. His symptoms were vague - lethargy, shortness of breath, dizzy spells and chest pains - and nobody could advise any remedies other than to get enough rest, and stay away from stress. Stay away from stress, he'd mocked, I'm the Firelord for crying out loud. His wife did the best she could with her healing abilities; it was hard for Katara to know what to heal if she wasn't even sure which parts of him were sick.

Their daughters were six and two when he began coughing up blood. It happened one night just before bed. He'd been clearing his throat when a fit of coughs began to shake his shoulders. He was mostly unconcerned - he'd thought maybe he'd just inhaled a bit of dust or, at worst, was coming down with a cold - but the look on Katara's face as she stared at him almost caused him to ache inside. One hand was covering her mouth while the other reached out to brush her thumb across his lips to show him the redness. They were silent, and suddenly Zuko didn't know if the pain in his chest was from fear or from illness.

They did their best to hide his sickness from everyone. For many months, the secret was kept closely between the Firelord and Firelady, and the team of doctors that was quickly running out of ideas. Even the princesses didn't know how swiftly their father was deteriorating. By the next year, Zuko could hardly manage to eat, and if he did manage at all, food simply wouldn't stay down.

It was around this time that the Firelady began sending for barrels of spirit water from the North Pole - she'd thought perhaps it could cure him. The logic seemed sound; if spirit water could resurrect the Avatar, then surely it could fix whatever was ailing Firelord Zuko. And for a while, it had worked. For several months, there'd been no bloody coughs, no dizzy-spells, and he was energetic enough to keep up with the girls in his down time as they ran and played and climbed all over him… it felt like a miracle, for lack of a better word. The Lord and Lady held each other at night and each unlabored breath felt like a sigh of relief. Life had returned to normal in the Fire Nation Royal Palace.

Until, that is, Katara found herself jostled awake by her husband's heaving shoulders, and the rough, whooping sounds of his coughing. "It's back?" she'd asked, feeling hollow with fear. Instead of answering, Zuko simply showed her his blood-spattered sleeve.

So they repeated the spirit water treatment, and again, he was well for a while - but for only weeks, instead of months. And each time Katara treated him, the symptoms returned sooner and sooner still, until there was hardly any relief at all. By the end of the season, Zuko ordered a cessation on the spirit water deliveries.

"I went to go ask why the next barrel still hasn't arrived," Katara had confronted him in his study, "and they told me you cancelled the orders."

"That's right." He wouldn't look up from his papers.

"Why would you do that?"

"It's not working anymore, and spirit water is only slowly renewable. There's no point in wasting it on me."

"Wasting?"

"Katara, I don't have the energy to argue. It's not working. Let it go."

She'd found the complacence in his voice despicable, and she stalked forward to slam her palms onto his desk. "Just because you've given up on yourself doesn't mean that I have to give up on you, too!" She was trembling, and neither of them had been able to tell if it was more from anger or from fear. Whatever the case, it prompted Zuko to slide his hands over hers, and Katara wilted a little on the inside; he wasn't as warm as he used to be.

"Nobody's giving up." And his tone wasn't as strong as it used to be. "I'm just… trying to be practical."

"That's the same thing."

"Katara…" Zuko had always been easily exasperated, and he never did have much patience for fruitless debates, but this was an unprecedented level of defeat. "I don't think you understand what this has been like for me. I finished reading over these documents four hours ago, and I've just been sitting here this whole time because… because I don't think I can walk the fifty paces back to our room anymore without passing out along the way. I am terrified by what's happening to me and I'm sick of being disappointed by that damned spirit water. All right? Is that enough for you?"

But instead of answering, Katara had lowered herself to her knees and gripped Zuko's hands like she'd thought he might disappear. "Tell me what I can do. I have to do something."

"I'm so tired. I just want to go to bed. Help me get into bed."

Within a few months, Katara was doing most of the ruling in her husband's name. While Zuko remained mostly bedridden, the Firelady met with ambassadors and sat through council meetings. When asked of the whereabouts of her husband, she'd say in her most authoritative tone, "The Firelord will take your questions when he deems the moment appropriate."

She'd gotten back to their room late one night to find Zuko sitting up in bed with sunken shoulders, staring at a scroll by lantern-light.

"What is it?" She'd asked, feeling a cold sweat begin to prickle under her arms.

"Doctor's report," Zuko had explained in a monotone as he rolled up the scroll and set it aside.

Katara was pressing her hands to her chest. "And?" She'd rushed to the bedside, crawling in beside him. "Have they figured it out? Are you gonna be okay?"

"Which question do you want me to answer first?"

"Dammit, Zuko-"

"Heart failure. That's what they think. I have six months left, probably. Maybe a year if I'm lucky. That's the word they used," he'd laughed a bitter laugh. "Lucky."

But Katara hadn't really heard anything after the words heart failure. She'd felt like she was falling into a dark tunnel and the room began to spin. Zuko's voice only echoed in her head as he went on. "They think it's a side-effect from the… the lightning strike. Azula's lightning."

The tunnel got deeper, longer, and darker, and Katara breathed quietly, "It was supposed to be me."

"No, it wasn't." Zuko was shaking his head. "My sister knew exactly what I'd do. And I'm still glad I did it."

"Maybe they're wrong." She'd insisted.

"I don't think so." He spoke softly, complacently, with a countenance of resignation.

The tears in her eyes were blinding. "Don't you dare just lay there and accept a death sentence. Not now. Not this. Not you."

The truth was that Zuko was exhausted of fighting, and part of him was content to succumb to illness. If fire and explosions and electricity couldn't put him out of his misery, maybe sickness could.

He told her, "I hope you'll forgive me when I give up."

...

It is now late in the summertime, and the seasons are just beginning to shift. The Fire Nation Royal Palace is quiet, and the residential wing has been completely closed off to anyone outside of the Royal Family, save for a few special visitors.

"They're all here," Katara leans over the Firelord's wilted frame, dabbing at his forehead with a damp towel. She forces a smile. "They've gathered in the tea room. I'll go and get them."

The Firelord moves his mouth to speak, but she presses a finger to his lips. "None of that," she lectures gently, and Zuko gives her an impatient glare. "Save your breath, my love. Please."

So she kisses him - the sort of kiss one bestows upon another before going to bed - and disappears into the hall.

When she enters the tea room, everyone launches up to their feet in anticipation. It's been years since they've all been in the same place at the same time, and they wish to every benevolent spirit that the circumstances that brought them together today could have been different.

"Please tell me we're not too late," a teary-eyed Toph begs.

Katara says, low and resigned, "No. You're in time."

Sokka embraces his sister tightly. "How's he doing?"

"Not good." She chokes on her words, and soon Suki's, Aang's, and Toph's arms are around her, too. "It could be any minute now, really…"

Toph's voice is trembling madly, teetering precariously on the edge of her grief. "I don't understand. I thought they said he had a whole year."

"They said maybe a year," Sokka corrects her.

"Yeah, well it's hardly been half of that!"

"Everyone be calm," Aang says, and Toph huffs out her exasperation. "I know we're all in a difficult place, but this isn't the sort of energy Zuko needs from us right now. Okay?"

One by one, the friends all begin to nod their understanding. Then when the atmosphere has calmed a little, Aang asks, "Katara… may we see him?"

"He's very weak," she admits, "and he's in a lot of pain, so it will have to be brief. But he can't wait to see all of you."

...

Suki and Sokka are first. They hug him, and Suki's throat aches with stifled tears. Sokka tells him, "Don't worry about Katara and the girls, okay? We're all one family, here. They're gonna be fine."

Zuko has been instructed not to try to speak, but he's never been good at taking orders. He reaches one unsteady hand out for theirs, and in between ragged, gurgling breaths, he whispers, "My daughters… they'll… need to learn… how to fight without…" He coughs a bloody, gruesome cough, and Suki wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. "Without their bending. I won't get to teach them. You… I need you both to teach them."

"It will be an honor," Suki says around the lump in her throat.

"They're stubborn girls," he chokes, "but they're smart."

Sokka manages a sad chuckle. "Just like their parents."

None of them can bring themselves to say "goodbye." So they simply exchange a knowing nod before departing.

Toph is next.

The sound of Zuko's breathing terrifies her - wet, strained, and desperate as he fights for oxygen. Usually Toph goes to great lengths to hide any feelings of sorrow or grief, but today she can't be bothered, and she does nothing to hide her tears. She paws at the edge of the bed, reaching and feeling for his hands. When she finally makes contact, intertwining her fingers with his, she begins to sob. She hadn't expected him to be so soft and frail.

"Toph… Toph…" he's saying her name, but she hardly hears him over her own crying.

"I'm sorry, Zuko. I'm so sorry." Apologizing is another thing she's always been hard-pressed to do.

"Don't be."

"You've been my best friend for years and I've always been too much of a fucking bitch to tell you."

"I always knew." It's true; out of all of their friends, Toph had always made a point to beat up Zuko the most. And he never minded; Zuko had always been very difficult to bruise.

"You're like a brother to me. I, I love you."

"I love you, too."

Somewhere in her weeping, a helpless laugh escapes. "You know," she says, "you're not supposed to go like this. It doesn't do you justice."

Zuko coughs some more, gripping her hand as tightly as he can. "Honestly, I'm just relieved to go."

Toph wants to beg him to hold on just a little longer; another day or two, maybe just long enough for her to finally tell him - with words instead of affectionate fists - how much he's meant to her for all these years. She knows he could do it if he wanted to. He could keep fighting and keep struggling and keep suffering, and if she asked him to, he probably would. But she won't ask him. She can't. Feeling around to stroke her fingertips across his scar, she says, "Yeah, you do deserve a break, don't you?"

"Can you…" he wheezes and gasps, "send Katara in? I need to speak to her before I see Aang."

Then, finally wiping her eyes, and stuttering around her shaking breaths, "Of course. I'll, um, I'll go get her." Before she can talk herself out of it, she grips his face in her hands and presses her lips tenderly against his forehead. It doesn't feel as strange to either of them as it might have under happier circumstances - under happier circumstances, it would have never even happened. Instead, she'd have jabbed him in the shoulder and insulted him, and he'd have offered some witty, angsty reply, and they'd have laughed about it, because that's what they did together. They laughed.

But Toph can't laugh now, and if Zuko laughed, well, it'd probably kill him on the spot. So no, the kiss isn't strange; It's necessary and understood, and it is the last thing they will ever share.

When Katara returns, she forces a fragile smile. It's the smile she's learned to feign to spare her husband the sight of her bereavement; she'd thought perhaps it might ease his pain and make his decline go more smoothly, if he could just see her smile every now and then. But now her mask is thin and brittle, and she doesn't know how much longer she can maintain the facade. "See?" She says, lowering herself to his bedside and smoothing out the collar of his robe. "I told you they'd make it."

He wants to tell her that he never doubted her or their friends for a second, but he's saving his breath for more important words - right now, he isn't sure exactly how many breaths he has left. There's a primal instinct in all living things, he's learned, to fight to extend life until the body has no other choice than to shut down. If he tried - really, desperately, passionately tried, he thinks he could probably last another day or two. If he just keeps gulping in air with gurgling gasps, keeps forcing out the fluid pooling in his lungs with harsh, ragged, agonizing coughs, he might just make it to their eighth wedding anniversary next week. But after so many years of hurting and fighting and after so many brushes with death, Zuko is simply bored of struggling.

When he gets ready to speak, Katara chastises him again. "What did the doctors tell you?" She scolds. "No talking."

"But I need," he wheezes, "to tell you."

So she nestles close beside him and cradles his face in her hands; she's grown used to looking down at him from this angle, and somehow, in the throes of his terminal illness, Zuko's irises have remained bright and fiery… but sad. "Whatever it is," she pushes wisps of sweat-dampened hair from his forehead, "I'm sure I already know."

"I would do it again if I had to," he manages, winded and pained.

"Do wh-..."

Zuko takes one of her hands - they're both trembling now - and presses it against the angry red scar on his abdomen. "Jumping…" he gasps, "in front… of that lightning bolt…" a fit of coughs overtakes him and he grimaces as he recovers, "was the easiest decision I ever made."

The tears that had been welling in Katara's lids finally pool over. She's simultaneously proud and heartbroken and grateful and angry, and filled to the brim with guilt. An unsettlingly large part of her wishes that that lightning bolt could have struck her and killed her on the spot, rather than killing the man who saved her ten years after the fact. And finally, she's worn-down enough to ask the question that pride and dignity had been keeping inside her. Her voice is small and thin like a love letter as she begs of him, "...what am I supposed to do without you?"

It isn't a fair question; especially when the one who's supposed to answer can hardly speak. But for Katara, if it wasn't obvious enough already, Zuko can manage to do just about anything. "Rule," he says simply.

"I can't." She's shaking her head and blinking away tears.

"You will."

"What about Kya and Ta Min?" The hollowness inside her seems to expand at the reality of raising their daughters alone. "They're so young, Zuko... I don't know if I can-"

"You. will."

She almost smiles a real smile; even on his deathbed, he's still as stubborn as he was when they were kids. It was always easier to just concede to him than it was to try to win him over. So after exhaling her grief, she yields. "...I will."

"I love our family more than anything," he tells his wife, but his words are garbled with phlegm. "Now, please…" He's nearly begging, "I need Aang to see me out."

...

The last time Zuko saw Aang, the airbender must have been a foot shorter than he is now. If they could stand shoulder to shoulder, Aang might just be the taller one. He'd always been like a little brother to Zuko - his smarter, nicer, wiser, more handsome, technically older, and now possibly slightly taller little brother. And now, silhouetted in the doorway, Zuko has never seen the Avatar so solemn.

"Hey," Zuko says in an exhausted whisper.

Aang replies in a voice that's deeper and more assured than the one Zuko remembers. "Hey."

"W-will you stay with me?" He chokes out, reaching in Aangs direction with a shaking hand. In one swift second, Aang is kneeling at his bedside, and holding his friend's hand.

"Of course. Whatever you need."

Zuko can hardly breathe. He's wheezing and coughing and straining and his lips and teeth are stained with blood. His eyes are reddening and watering and Aang doesn't know if it's from the pain or from sadness. And as Zuko tries to speak, Aang feels a giant wound open up in his spirit.

"I'm… not… ready." The wetness in Zuko's eyes reveals itself to be real, true tears. They spill over in a rush and mix with sweat. This is what he's been holding back ever since the terminal diagnosis; this is what only the Avatar could know about or understand.

"Few people ever are." Aang tries to console him. But for some things, Aang knows, there are no effective words of consolation.

Zuko is clutching at Aang's hands now, struggling to sputter out his last words. "What's it like… to know…" he hacks out a glob of clotted blood and mucus, "that you'll get another chance at life? To rectify your mistakes… make better choices… fall in love again…" Zuko knows it's a horrible question to ask - especially at a time like this - and he knows that Aang likely won't have a satisfying answer for him, but there's literally nothing to lose anymore.

"I wish I knew what to tell you. I don't think I've ever thought of it that way."

"Aang," Zuko is sobbing as best as his body will allow, "I made so many mistakes. I hurt so many people. I'm still so unsure about everything. I'm not, I'm not r-ready."

"You only ever did the best you knew how. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you."

But Zuko isn't proud. He's confused and ashamed, and he doesn't understand why he's being taken from the world before he can finish making up for his past. If he was still capable of bending, he thinks he'd probably burn the whole palace down from sheer frustration - funny, how some things never change.

He wheezes, "I need your help, Aang."

"Anything. Anything at all."

Now Zuko has Aang's sleeves in an urgent grip, gasping between every few words. "This way… is taking too long. It… hurts… so much. Please… help me."

At first, Aang furrows his brow. He doesn't understand what Zuko means; how he expects him to ease the pain - and he can plainly see that the Firelord is in a profound amount of pain. But there's something about the look in his lacrimal, golden eyes - a desperation that Aang has only seen once before. It's nearly the same way Ozai had looked at him just after he took away his bending; Ozai would have rather died. When Aang understands Zuko's meaning, his eyes go wide, and his mouth falls open a little.

"Zuko… you know I can't do what you're asking. I can't do that. Least of all to someone I love. If I couldn't even bring myself to take away your father's life, then how can you ask me to-"

"Aang, please!" His voice shatters like glass into rough, jagged shards. "You showed my father mercy. I'm asking you to do the same for me."

For the moment, Aang can do little more than stare. It's true that his nature is to be merciful; to do no harm, to spare people from their suffering in whatever ways he is able; to guide troubled spirits into peace and understanding. Looking at his friend now, he is suffering. There is nothing peaceful about dying this way. Zuko is still gurgling, murmuring, coughing, "please… please."

Aang wonders why Zuko has asked him, of all people. Sokka would have been a better choice - yes, Sokka probably would have done it. Maybe even Suki or Toph. He could even picture Katara being one to mash a pillow against the Firelord's face and hold it there until the body stopped convulsing. But Aang? He thinks Zuko should have known better.

"...I can't do what you're asking," he says again, "But maybe there's another way."

Zuko would laugh, if he could manage it. Aang was always so full of other ways, and he doesn't know why he expected now to be any different. But he can't laugh. He can only swallow blood and give a questioning glance as the Avatar lifts his arms to place one hand upon the top of his head, and the other on his chest. When Zuko tries to speak, to ask what he's doing, Aang interrupts him.

"Don't."

Zuko is sick of being interrupted, but he obeys.

It isn't more than a few seconds later that Aang's tattoos begin to glow; an ethereal incandescence that Zuko has only bore witness to a few times in his life. And slowly - steadily - the awful sensations that have been racking his body begin to seep away. This is the closest feeling to peace that he can ever remember experiencing. This must be it, he thinks. Finally. For the love of Agni, finally.

…

All around them are trees with great, green branches, and little blossoms all along the ground. Tiny insects that seem more like flowers than butterflies are flitting about in careless, looping patterns, and the air is filled with sweet sounds - like birds, but not any birds he's ever heard before. Zuko and Aang sit upon an enormous vine that stretches across a clear, swift river, and it takes a moment of staring in awe at his surroundings before the Firelord finds the presence of mind to ask, "...Where are we?"

Aang turns to his friend with a gentle smile. "We're in the spirit world."

"The spirit world," he distractedly repeats, turning all about, holding out his hands and examining himself. "Am… am I…?"

"Not yet," Aang explains, gesturing down at the water below them. Instead of a reflection of the sky, in the rippling depths is an image of themselves, still in the Firelord's chambers. Aang's glowing body is leaning over Zuko's, and Zuko's eyes are shining with the same brightness as his physical form shakes and hacks up sprays of redness. "I couldn't take your life like you wanted me to. But I can at least spare you from the pain your body's in. I wasn't sure if it would work, and I'm pretty sure this is cheating, but…" Then he shrugs. "Anyway, we can stay here until it's over. You'll be dead soon."

Somehow, those words don't sound nearly as solemn here as they would have in the physical world.

Zuko can't remember the last time he was able to take in two proper lungfuls of air, or the last time he was able to utter a complete sentence without tasting blood or choking. Looking down at himself, he thinks he already looks like a corpse. For a while he'd worried that his decision not to let his daughters see him anymore as of a few months ago was a cruel one, but now, he decides, he'd done the right thing. Such young children deserved to remember their father as being strong and happy; not as a frighteningly ill invalid.

"That's what I look like?" He says in a low lament. "That's what Katara has been waking up to every morning?"

Ordinarily, Aang would say something encouraging and tell him that he looked fine, but lying would hardly do any good now. "Zuko, you've been dying for months. I think we all stopped caring about what you looked like ages ago."

"I know, I know," he shakes his head dismissively. "It's just… she deserved better than to have to watch me die like this."

"We don't always have the luxury of choosing how or when we'll leave our lives. That's just the way things are."

"You know," Zuko says, casting his gaze upward to the sun, "in the Fire Nation, self-immolation is considered an honorable way to go… Well, it's archaic now, but still honorable." He won't say so, but it hadn't been so long ago that Zuko considered setting himself ablaze and sparing him and his family the hideousness of his decline. Surely it would have been better than this; Zuko had never fathomed himself dying while laying down. In fact, he'd never really fathomed himself dying at all. Maybe in a lot of ways, Zuko had begun to believe he was invulnerable.

"There's honor in this, too," Aang assures him. "You saved Katara's life. You got to marry the woman of your dreams and start a beautiful family with her. Some people don't even get that much."

"My family…" Zuko seems to sink into himself with sorrow. "My daughters won't remember me. They might remember my face or my voice, but they'll never know who I was." Then, he looks upon Aang with insistent eyes. "You'll have to tell them. Everything. Not just the good things, but the horrible things, too. When they're ready."

Aang nods a sullen nod. "Of course."

"And Katara… she's going to need help. In the event of the Firelord's death, it's the duty of his Firelady to reign until his heir comes of age. But she can't do it alone." Then, almost smiling, he amends, "Well, she's capable of doing it alone. But she shouldn't have to. Aang, I know it's a lot to ask, but-"

"You don't have to ask." Aang is firm in the gentle way that people are firm toward those they care for. "You know I'd do anything to help either of you. I'll be there for Katara, and I'll be there for the girls, too. We all will. You don't have to worry."

In many respects, Zuko knows that everyone will be fine without him; none of his friends are strangers to loss. They've coped with death before, and they'll do it again, and they'll teach his young daughters to do the same… he's nearly overwhelmed with the thought of just how much love and strength and wisdom they'll be surrounded by.

Zuko takes in a breath - he can't tell if the air in the spirit world really is cleaner and more refreshing, or if it only feels that way because he hasn't been able to breathe for so long. "I had so much left to do. So many broken things to fix," he says, finally averting his eyes from his dying form. "I won't get to raise my daughters… I regret so much. I'm not ready for this. But… to be honest with you, Aang, I'm so relieved."

"That's what death is, in some ways. Relief."

In the river, they can see Zuko's body beginning to grow weaker. The coughs and convulsions are coming fewer and further between each other - his breaths more shallow. Muscles that had been tensed and pained are now relaxed.

"So… what happens now?" The fear in Zuko's voice is subtle, and perhaps most people wouldn't be able to discern it amongst the grit, but Aang knows.

"Now… now I go back to the physical world."

"And what about me?"

So Aang reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. "Now you stop fighting."

"...What?"

"You have to stop fighting. I know it's in your nature to never give up. But it's time. Look at yourself. Stop dragging it out and just let go. You deserve to let go."

Zuko has lived his entire life holding on, whether it was anger or hope or honor or love that he was holding onto. Letting go isn't something he thinks he knows how to do. But something in him - some innate part of his spirit that kicks in and takes over - compels him to simply say, "...Okay."

"Okay?" Aang smiles.

"Okay."

Then they share a wordless moment - both of them already know all that the other wanted them to know. Floral scents are traveling on the breeze, and as the wind picks up, Zuko's form begins to fade before Aang's eyes. Like sand or leaves being blown away, he dissolves from underneath Aang's hand and soon, in the time of a single sigh, the space beside the Avatar is vacant. His hand closes into an empty fist before lowering.

It hurts more than he thought it would.

…

Aang thinks he might be shaking - he can't tell if the turbulence is in his body or in his mind - though, he supposes, if it's in one, it's likely in the other as well. Before him, Zuko's body is still, cold, and pale. His eyes are wide open, still appearing to be in agony, and Aang almost feels sick to his stomach as he reaches out to close them.

He's had several months to prepare for this; to think on exactly what words he'd use to tell the princesses about their father, to mull over the prayers he'd say before the cremation, to prepare himself for the burden of supporting the royal family through their grief… but everything is always more manageable in hypotheticals. He'd told Zuko that everyone would be fine, and it's true - they will all be fine - but, he realizes, that may not be until an achingly distant future.

"Knowing you in this life," he whispers to the corpse, "was the greatest honor I'll ever know."

...

Author's Note: Hello again, from FireLordFrowny! I felt like writing a sad fic, so I hope I've made a few of you shed a tear or two. I'm not sure I'm too satisfied with the ending here, but it was either this, or accidentally turn it into a 500 page epic. Soooo... I chose this. :) If you liked it, don't forget to favorite and review! If you didn't like it... well then, sucks for you. :P

So much love,

-FireLordFrowny