Zutara Week, Day 5.
Heartstrings: Your deepest feelings of love and compassion.
The water gently lapped at the shores, slowly eating away at sand, pulling the loose fragments back to sink deeper into the sea. The dry sand had just a hint of sun-kissed warmth, as the water-gulls circled in the sky, crying out to the fishes dwelling beneath the water's surface. The wind was blowing gently, carrying the salty spray and the scent of the ocean in the direction of a scarred face, as the sun gradually lowered itself, meeting the horizon, magically meshing half of itself with the ocean, giving off water-colored splashes of illumination upon the calm ripples, temporarily surrendering its throne to its sister, the moon.
Circling each other in an eternal dance. Balance depending heavily upon both of them. Complete opposites; push and pull, flowing like the blood in veins, and flickering, pulsing, like the heartbeats, nurturing life and breath. Still yet so helplessly, irrevocably intertwined in their destinies, that neither of them would survive without each other.
Golden eyes gazed across the ocean, watching the waves rise and fall, as if in trance. As absurd as it may be, he missed it. He missed breathing in that sharp, salty scent—and listening to the winds' whispers. Those three years in exile may have been the worst years of his life, but at least it was predictable. Search, hunt, and capture the Avatar. Now—with his duty as Fire Lord, new problems seemed to arise out of nowhere, simply adding to the problems that already were there. There were still long-broken alliance still to be mended, paperwork to fill, establishment of trade agreements with any nations still willing to trade with the Fire Nation—and so many more. To top it all off, many people weren't pleased with him uptaking the crown. Him—the traitor, the so-called betrayer, the exile, usurping the very throne meant for the prodigy? Needless to say, he'd already survived five assassination attempts over the first two years of being Fire Lord, and he was sure that there were many more attempts, still to come. He hadn't told anyone in the gang, quite frankly—he didn't want them to worry over his problems. They had come to Ember Island for a vacation—to rest.
Yes, that was it. Except he couldn't rest. He didn't even want to go in the first place—the only reason why he had gone was because Uncle had pushed him to do so. Nephew, you need rest. I will take over your duties temporarily—so you can enjoy your much-deserved time with your friends.
Zuko didn't find it in himself to enjoy the vacation—he couldn't enjoy it—but then, when had he ever been able to truly enjoy something?
He sighed.
Not since his mother, Princess Ursa, disappeared. He had searched for her—and to no avail. Not since Azula started… playing "games" with him, shortly after the disappearance and Grandfather's death. Not since the scarring, and the banishment. Not since the world turned upside-down, and imploded into flames. Not since so many things.
There was this deep, dark hole gouged into his heart and soul—it had been there for as long as he could remember. It'd flare and ebb—at times it felt as though as it was attempting to pull him under—to drown him—to suffocate, to make sure he never crawled back out. Other times, in dreams it took the shape of a mahogany-red dragon and an azure-blue dragon, each snapping and growling, caught up in a battle-crazed joy, a whirlwind of flame, deadly fangs, claws, and burning, raging hate. Failure, failure… disappear, just like mother… Or it'd be his mother, whispering goodbye, goodbye... and as soon as he'd call out—anything for her not to leave—Ursa's soft, kind golden eyes would morph into cold, hard burning amber, Hello, Zuzu. Back so soon? Azula would croon. A searing pain on the left side of his face—as he watched his thirteen-year-old self fall, body spasming in pain, Father, I will not fight you, screams piercing the stagnant air as nobody moved, or cared, Suffering will be your teacher. His uncle, a shadow of his former self, with a grime-caked face and greasy, stringy gray hair as he turned his back on him for the first time—with a face of irrevocable sorrow, as his sixteen-year-old self, dragon-gold eyes glittering with rage and hatred and fear, screaming and snarling out hateful words and spitting out curses.
Even with his honor redeemed and his uncle back—the spirits seemed set on torturing him, for regrets never left, they only lingered, and made themselves known, burning deep in him, branding his very heart and soul.
The more he thought, the more he realized that over the course of these three years, he had been closer to turning into his father than he'd ever been—or ever wanted. His fingers were now desperately hanging on to the rim—he felt himself slipping deeper into that dark pit, which promised nothing but more misery and sorrow and regret and self-hate, leading to nothing good—he could still feel that shadow of himself, his former self—it was there—always would be—it longed to burn, to set the entire world ablaze, and watch it go up in his fire, and listen to the faint cries choked off by smoke and ashes and dust, until there was nothing left behind, except for air-filled smoke, the fire-tinted sky, the clouds littered with dust, and the ashes on the ground.
The ocean. He could leave himself to the mercy of its raging strength—let it take him, drag him under, batter him—pummel him, crush him, and suck the life out of his lungs with its harsh, unforgiving tide, its very current, its push and pull, a mere child of Fire was no match for the might of the sea, after all.
But, what an unfitting way for a Fire Lord to die, he thought to himself wryly. Die by the sea's whims? No, rather, he could set himself ablaze instead—leaving nothing but ashes behind, after all, Agni's children were destined to die—either by old age, or by fire and smoke, or even by the clashes of steel. The gang would be fine without him—he was the last to join them, after all, and they'd survived immeasurable odds, long before he had become their friends—
"What are you doing out here alone?" The brown-haired, blue-eyed beauty padded out of the door of the Royal beach house they were staying in, across the beach, then sat down next to him, knees drawn up against her chest; he had always marveled at how beautiful she was, at her almost-motherly gentleness, the smile that always graced her lips, and the fierce, blazing joy in her eyes during the brunt of battle, as she swung her water-whip around viciously, batting enemies and foes aside, spinning out razor-sharp ice disks…
The young, scarred ruler realized that Katara was waiting for his answer, so he tried for a grin and shrugged. "Just... thinking."
Katara tilted her eyes thoughtfully; her blue eyes seemingly worried, she had obviously taken note of the pause between his words—was she worried about him? It was nighttime now, and the stars shimmered in the sky, as in reverence to the moon.
"Thinking about what, exactly? Why aren't you with the others?" She looked at him questioningly, as her thick, brown hair fell in waves, covering her bare shoulders. She was wearing a Fire Nation outfit—one that revealed her bronze-tanned shoulders and her sleek, flat stomach. The weather at Ember Island was considerably warm—a lot warmer than the Southern Tribe, obviously, and Zuko couldn't deny that she looked good, in fact, too good, in Fire Nation outfit. He preferred red on her than blue— oh.
Katara was staring at him, her delicate eyebrow raised slightly. Slightly embarrassed, he hoped he hadn't been too obvious in ogling her—"Nothing, and why aren't you with the others?" He inwardly cringed at his unintentionally defensive tone in his voice.
She scowled, okay, that expression does not suit her face at all, her cerulean eyes narrowing. "Because I noticed you weren't with us, so I got a little worried. Guess I'll just go now." She made as to get up, but Zuko grabbed her arm before she could walk away.
"Wait, don't go… please? I'm sorry; I didn't mean to sound like that." He mumbled, his golden eyes lowering to stare at the sand. Katara heard the silent pleading hidden in his tone, so she sat back down. They sat side by side, in silence, watching a star shoot across the sky.
"So, what's bothering you?" Katara asked, purposely breaking the nearly-stifling silence. Zuko merely shrugged, obviously not ready to disclose whatever's been bothering him. Katara sighed, and rested a hand on his shoulder. When he didn't budge, she shifted so she was sitting behind him, and laid her hands on each of his shoulders, startling Zuko. "hey, wha—"
"You're so tense. You need to relax; loosen up those muscles." Katara cut in before Zuko could finish, massaging his broad, taut shoulders. Zuko discreetly gulped, as he felt Katara's hands massaging his shoulders—it felt so nice—he made a small noise of contentment beneath her cool, soothing hands, and quickly shut his mouth in embarrassment. Katara chuckled, "Zuko, I'm here for you. All of us are. Why can't you just see that?" She rested her chin upon his left shoulder, her cool breath ghosting over his scarred cheek, making him almost shiver—damn it, couldn't she see what she was doing to him—"Tell me what's wrong. I can help."
He shifted his position so he could face her, and ducking his head, he muttered, "It's about my father."
"Your father?" Her brows were drawn in, as she looked at him, puzzled. "Zuko, you've nothing to worry about. He's not a bender anymore, the war is over, and he's locked up in that cell permanently."
"No!" He nearly shouted, as he shook his head vigorously, his shaggy mop of hair whipping back and forth—and coming to rest over his eyes. Lips set in a grim line; he looked at Katara square in the eyes. "I'm a twisted, messed-up, and a screwed-up person, Katara. I'm probably the most messed-up person there is—and even worse, I'm also the Fire Lord—"
"No!" She cut in, her blue eyes glaring at him. "Don't you ever say that about yourself."
"But—" He tried to interject.
"No buts. Fire Lord Zuko, you may not have had one of the best childhoods ever—"
He snorted, muttering, "No kidding." Katara slapped him lightly across the shoulders. "No interruptions!"
"Yes, you may have gone through many things in your life, so much more than anyone should have ever gone through—and maybe you're messed up, but it's not your fault. To me, you're one of the most beautiful human beings I know."
Zuko wanted to snort. Beautiful? He wasn't even close—Agni, not if there was a spirit-damned scar covering half of his face—
"Yes, you're not perfect, but nobody's perfect. You've struggled; you've fought for what you believe is right, and you came out of it, alive. I know that Iroh's told you this many times, and I know you've learned of this, but you've always had honor. Always. No matter what you do—no matter whose son you are—you will never be like your father. You've got people who care about you. Your Uncle, me, Toph, Sokka, Aang, Mai—and others. You're not alone. We're all here to help you, and you've done more good for your nation, more than your father and the hundred-year war could ever have done."
Zuko had to smile slightly. Katara was always the one launching into hope-filled speeches. As much as he didn't want to admit it—he was one of the 'lone wolf' types, but—Katara being there with him, letting him know that he wasn't alone…made him feel better. "Thanks, Katara. But me—beautiful?" He just had to snort, resisting the temptation to tilt his head slightly, to let his hair cover a portion of his scar, to resist raising his hand to touch it—he had to call her out on the mistake she was making—ow. Did she just slap him across the shoulder, again?
"I don't care about the scar. In fact, when I look at you, at your face, I don't see the scar. It's become a part of you; it's a part of you. It is not a mark of shame; you have nothing to be ashamed of."
Zuko looked at her as though as he didn't quite believe her—he had spent a majority of his life wallowing in shame regarding his scar, the ugly, red wound—and blinked in surprise, as Katara leaned in and kissed his scarred cheek. …damn it. He felt a pang in his heart, as his face slowly turned a light shade of red, and he tried desperately not to make eye contact with those beautiful, riveting, blue eyes, as Katara smiled slightly, watching him try not to fidget, obviously knowing full well what effect she had on him.
Zuko had debated with himself for a long time, asking himself just what love was. Eventually, he realized that he didn't know, that he couldn't know what it was—for how could he, with someone like Ozai as his father, and a cold, cruel younger sister who had no love left for anyone, just like Ozai. He constantly tried to think—of reasons as to why his mother ever loved someone as hard and cruel as Ozai, and couldn't come up with anything. His relationship with Mai had gradually fell through, of both of their own choosing—he was afraid, too afraid to hurt anyone in the way Ozai and Azula had, all he had ever known himself capable of was destruction, and more destruction, and he had finally come to the solution, that he would not love, that he wasn't capable of it—because he didn't know what it meant. He had thought about that for a long time, especially after he took the lightning to the heart for Katara… he didn't know why he did it—just that he knew that he had known at the time, that Katara's life was worth more than his own alone—
"Why?" He choked out, his eyes brimming with unshed tears.
Katara looked at him, gently waterbended away the tear he didn't know was slipping down his cheeks—smiled sadly, and placed her hands on his scarred cheek, gently tilting his head up to look at her. Zuko couldn't help but to lean into the cool, soothing touch—she was the only one allowed to touch his scar in that way—"Because I care, all right? Don't think you're unloved, because you aren't." She hesitated, and then leaned in, placing her lips against his in a soft, chaste kiss. Zuko blinked in surprise, again—spirits, would this woman ever stop surprising him? Although he much preferred it if she wouldn't…
He closed his eyes, surrendering himself to that gentle kiss, deepening it just slightly, and pulled her up close against him, an arm wrapped around her slender waist, as he ran his fingers through that thick wave of hair. They pulled apart, panting slightly. Katara stroked his cheek gently, as Zuko rested his forehead upon Katara's. His heart was lighter, lighter than it had been in a long time. He felt a tug on his heart, push and pull, indeed, how long had it been since Katara had a hold on his heart?
Love, he realized, wasn't something to be described. It was something that was felt. Something that was shown. Just as Ursa had sacrificed her life, and her position as the Prince's wife in order to save Zuko's. Just as Iroh had stuck by his side during those rough three years. Just as he had leapt in the path of the lightning, for her.