Initially, I was going to keep this chapter more simple, but I wanted to explore what it would look like for Katara and Zuko to interact more, so I added a little today. As of now, there is only one more chapter left. Please let me know what you think, dear reader!
'.'.'.'
And who in her lonely slip, who by barbiturate,
Who in these realms of love, who by something blunt,
Who by avalanche, who by powder,
Who for his greed, who for his hunger,
Who shall I say is calling?
'.'.'.'
The midnight air swirled in her lungs as she ran. With the cover of the clouds over the moon, she nearly melted into the night.
Now was her time to act. Now was her time to do what she could not without a disguise. She knew the others wouldn't understand -especially Sokka- but she felt there was no choice. People were starving, sick and dying. How could she just walk away? How could she leave them when she had the power to help?
She couldn't.
The gentle hover of her running feet on the water did nothing to tame the wild adrenaline coursing through her veins, making her more anxious than she would admit. But the uneasiness wasn't from the rush of sneaking off into the night. It wasn't the worry that there would not be enough time or resources to help the people in the village. It wasn't the nervous fear that the gang would eventually realize Appa's tongue was purple not because he was sick, but because of the berries she had been feeding him. It wasn't even the thought of Sokka's predictable lectures if he found out what she was doing. In fact, the unease wasn't from any of the things which usually worried Katara.
No, it was the shadow following her that worried her.
He had been there since the first night of her masquerade, following her with inhumane speed and distance, never stepping from the shadows and never coming close enough to be seen. Perhaps word of the Painted Lady had caught this snooping shadow's attention, or perhaps he had seen her himself and simply followed after her. Katara didn't know, and she didn't care. All that mattered to her was that she wasn't caught, and that the figure didn't follow her back to her camp. If he was a threat, she could handle it.
With one last look over her shoulder, the shadow disappeared into the distant darkness, and everything was just as still as the murky water engulfing the town, as though nothing suspicious had ever been there. With a frustrated huff to let out some of the apprehension, she slid around the side of a house, creeping in to where she knew three sick children were sleeping.
She was in and she was out, moving on to the next house, treasuring the warm and unaware smiles forming on the sleeping faces she touched. Eventually, it took her mind from former worries. Nothing was more satisfying to her in the world.
But after a while, it was clear that her effort wasn't enough. As she looked around, she saw the village was growing worse every night. The elderly were still coughing, the sick children were still whimpering, and families were left with less and less food. And there would be even less tomorrow night. The Painted Lady knew there was too much for her to do on her own.
But Katara was stubborn. Katara couldn't give up.
Just before sliding into the next house she reached for her hidden pack, intending to grab another bag of food, but her hands came back empty. She was out of supplies. Her hands slid down to her sides in momentary frustration when a noise from behind reintroduced the adrenalin into her blood.
"Could... you use a hand?"
Something about the voice made her head snap faster than she meant to. It was strange and strained and somehow familiar. She kept silent, simply staring at the figure, who in turn, stepped out of the shadows it had concealed itself in and stared back at her. Her brows rose a little when she saw who had been following her. Instinctively, she lowered her face so that the brim of her hat kept only her lips and chin exposed. The red paint contrasted sharply with the pale moonlight beginning to break from dark clouds' control.
The Blue Spirit seemed uncomfortable with her silence, so spoke again.
"My mother use to tell me stories about you," he started, taking a small, nervous step forward. "About how you would mysteriously appear in the middle of the night to help those on the edge of death, the ones that everyone else had given up on." He stood watching her for a moment, as if he could not take her all in with once glance. She could read nothing from him other than his stance. The mask covered everything. He was not defensive, nor was he offensive. When he spoke again, his voice flickered. "About the brave and selfless thing you've done..."
Katara's eyes widened in shock, then narrowed in anger. 'That voice... It couldn't be...'
She could have sworn he chuckled a little. "I've heard that when the Painted Lady appears, her lover chases through the night after her. Legend says he broke your trust and you vowed never to see him again, never to forgive him for what he put you through." He stepped forward. "Or even speak to him, apparently."
Katara had to reel back in shock. It was Zuko.
"Wait!" he put out a hand in hopes of stopping her backwards steps. "I know I look like him, and I may even be a little like him..." he looked down and sighed. "But I'm not. I use the Blue Spirit as my disguise. I'm not here to hurt you. I want to help."
'You're WORSE than him,' she fumed inwardly, a new flood of anger tearing through her blood. When she closed her eyes, all she could think about was the moment he had turned on them. They had nearly lost Aang; lost everything. Seeing him standing there, it took everything not to tear him apart, but Katara had learnt a lot about self-control over the past months. Now was not the time to blow her cover. Head tilted down, she turned and began running.
"Hey, wait!" the Blue Spirit -or more so, Zuko- ran after her, keeping as quiet as he could so as not to wake any villagers. "Please! If you don't believe me, I'll... I'll show you."
His bold statement earned the desired effect, for she stopped running, but her back remained to him until a hollow thud sounded between them. She turned just enough to see the blue mask lying on the wooden boards, wobbling back and forth.
Zuko stood, his pale skin white as the full orbiting sphere above them, that red, irate scar as contrasting as ever. "I know you probably have no idea who I am..." she tried not to scoff at the irony of his calm voice. "And its best that way. You wouldn't like me very much if you were to know what I've done."
Images of the crystal prison played through her mind. Beneath the brim of her hat, she noted his long, dark brown hair and his simple black outfit, then the Dao swords strapped to his back. He looked different now. He stood with his usual air of determination, but he didn't look like royalty. He didn't look like a once banished prince. He didn't look like someone who had betrayed her, someone she had been vulnerable to and trusted.
But he was.
Why had she even trusted him? Because he had done the same by opening up to her? Or did he just put on a convincing act, like now?
"These people need help," he began again on an even more serious note. "I think it's time for me to do some good for a change. I have supplies. I know it's not much, but you do seem to be running a little low..."
The Painted Lady stopped, and Katara kept her snarl lower than her raging emotions. When she finally decided to speak, her voice was heavily masked and sour. What were the chances he would recognize her voice, anyway? They had only spoken a few fateful times.
"This way." As much as every part of her wanted to slice him into two pieces, she knew he was right. Even if this was just another elaborate act, he had something she needed; something the people needed. And she could take care of any tricks he might throw her way with ease- it was a full moon, after all.
Katara could only pray that this would go quickly.
Zuko let out a relaxed sigh and bent down to pick up his mask before following after her. "Is it really as bad as I've heard? The village?"
Having no desire to speak to him, she simply pointed to the house they were passing by. He stopped to look in through the window at the rows of sick and scrawny children and bit his lip. Those were his people starving.
"It's the factory." He looked at her. "Isn't it?"
From under the brim of her hat, she glared at him. He fixed her with a look she had never seen before; not from him or anyone else. It unnerved her. She pointed for him to open the bag.
"I don't have much for food. It's mostly medical supplies." He looked over at her and she motioned for him to leave the medicine under the window.
When he had placed the medicine and turned around again, she was already down the boardwalk with his bag slung over her shoulder, weaving in and out of houses. He ran up to her and walked along side her in silence, stealing glances and waiting outside doors.
"How long has the factory been here?" he asked when she finally walked in a straight line for more than ten seconds. He waited for her to say something, anything. But she said nothing. His fingers tapped nervously along his hip as they walked, trying to keep a rising feeling of guilt from consuming him.
A long moment of silence passed before she finally stopped in front of a house. Placing her palm out to motion for him to wait, she disappeared into the darkness inside the house. Beginning to feel useless, Zuko paced back and forth, listening to the water lap against the boards beneath him. He knew that water was anything but clean, having rowed himself across it to get to the village after his day long journey.
Surly his father knew about the factory. But did he know what effect it was having to the people in the fishing village? Would he care?
Zuko had told his father that morning he simply wanted to see his own country again, and would be gone for a few days travelling. Not that he would care, anyway. Zuko rarely saw his father as it was. He had considered not even telling him, but he knew that would look terribly suspicious with the fragile ground he stood on in the palace. The only difficult part of any of this so far had been sneaking off without Azula or Mai asking a thousand questions and then losing the spy Azula had sent to follow him.
But seeing the suffering in the village was a difficulty of its own. He had no idea something so terrible could happen in his own nation. They lived in luxury and surplus, so why was this place treated differently? They were fire nation citizens, too.
A sudden blue radiance from inside the house lit up the area around him. Awed, he crept back to the doorway and peered in, expecting to see the spirit in the surge of her own magic, like he had imagined as a child. Did she touch them? Or did she simply have to look their way? But the Painted Lady was nowhere to be seen. Confused, he turned back around and nearly walked into her- her hat, at least.
"O-Oh," he stumbled back. "Sorry. I thought-"
She brushed past him, head down, one glowing hand holding the sack over her shoulder. She seemed fixed on another destination.
'And I thought I was quiet,' Zuko grumbled to himself as he ran to catch up with her. He walked behind her this time, trying to discreetly take her in. She was slender and small- much smaller than he would have expected. He had been told she was giant, exceedingly beautiful and unsurpassably kind. But what did he know about the spirits, anyway? Tons of stories and little of truth, it seemed. Where was the wondrous woman of legend he had grown up hearing of? Sure, she was protecting the village, but she seemed more cold and calculated than kind and loving. He hadn't even seen her face and had hardly heard her voice.
Was it because he represented her lost love? Or was it because she knew about everything he had done? Did she know his thoughts?
"The factory," he began again, trying to push the thought from his mind. "How long has it been here?"
She didn't know the answer, which made it twice as easy to keep silent. Why did he care, anyway? She slipped some herbs from the bag into an elderly couple's house without missing three steps.
"How many people live here?" he tried again. No answer.
She turned into another house, completely ignoring him. Pale blue light filled the room and she stepped out shortly after it faded.
But Zuko's eagerness hadn't even begun to wear out. "I'm not like you; I'm not an all-powerful spirit."
She couldn't help but laugh at that. Neither was she, and here was the prince of the fire nation, complaining there was nothing he could do. Or was this just part of his act, too?
"What can I do to help these people? I feel responsible for all of this, like I should be able to stop it."
Stopping her forward trek, she pointed towards the factory spitting smoke in the distance. Stepping beside her, Zuko's gaze moved from her to where she gestured.
"The factory?" he looked at her indifferently. "What am I supposed to do, blow it up? I can't do that."
Her eyes lit up at the thought, but she remained silent.
"If this isn't already taking enough of a chance, I can't imagine what destroying that factory would be," Zuko thought disconsolately, although he knew very well he could do it if he really wanted. Risks had never stopped him before. But what would his father do?
He knew the answer to that.
Rubbing his temples, he watched her arm slowly returned to her side. He couldn't help but stare at her, wishing she would look at him or say something. He had dreamt about her as a child, relished every story ever told of her. He had wished his whole life for the chance to see her, to know that she was real and that his mother hadn't been spinning stories.
Were those stories real?
"Why won't you talk to me?" he finally blurted, the question rolling awkwardly from his lips.
She moved to walk past him again but a firm, cold hand on her shoulder stopped her. He was touching her.
"Do you know who I am? Is that why?"
His hand became very hot suddenly. Whether it was just her mind playing tricks on her, she didn't know. All she knew was that his touch was unbearable, raising a new level of anger within her.
"You've betrayed me before. What reason do I have to trust you now?" The words caught Zuko a little, but not the Blue Spirit. And not Katara. She meant them, even if it felt like it was the Painted Lady speaking.
She could tell he wrestled with what to say next, and she almost walked away in the momentary silence. His hand released her shoulder, moving back to the blue, grinning mask concealing his face. It came off slowly this time.
"Whatever happened... whatever he did..." He took a breath, unsure of what exactly he was getting himself into. The spirits had always been a mystery to him, no matter how much he studied or dreamt of them. "He's sorry. And... uhh... he didn't mean to. To hurt you."
His words were half-hearted. Pathetic. All of this was pathetic! She wasn't the real woman of legend; he wasn't the real spirit of lore. Even if he was ignorant of who she really was and the overbearing irony of the whole situation, she couldn't allow anger to get the best of her. Her fists clenched tightly around the bag.
Maybe he did know? Maybe he was trying to sway her again so he could get rid of her like he thought he had done with Aang. It didn't matter. He had lost her trust in Ba Sing Sai. He had back-stabbed all of them, and no matter what he said now, Katara didn't want to waste her time squinting to see some good in the enemy only to put everyone in danger. Especially if he had any hunch the Avatar was alive.
The mask hung at his side now, and the woman beside him seemed to be fixed on it. Zuko could sense the turmoil the mysterious spirit was going through but remained ignorant to its real root, ignorant that her fixation to the mask was more of a lethal glare than anything else. He felt pity- pity for whatever the spirit had been though. Perhaps the spirits weren't such distant, unshakable beings after all? Perhaps she was more like him that he thought?
His voice was surprisingly soft when it broke the night again.
"Your anger towards him is probably beyond justified, but right now these people are more important. They need our help." Not quite sure what else to do, he held out his hand, extending it for her to take. She didn't. She wouldn't.
He felt stupid. "I'm not him. Please. Let me help."
The Painted Lady helped people. Katara helped people. And now, apparently Zuko wanted to 'help' people. She scoffed. No. This... this wasn't right.
Zuko's patience was wearing thin, though he supposed he should have a little more for spirit beings just in case they turned out to be more powerful than he expected. Taking a deep breath, he considered what to do next. Negotiation, let alone communication, was by no means his gifting- especially not with the spirits.
Sighing, he tried the only thing he could think of. "Please," he began, reaching out for her delicate, pale hand. But as he stepped forward a little, and brushed the surprisingly warm fingers of the Painted Lady, something he hadn't expected happened.
"No!" came her distraught cry, and she wretched her whole body away from him. The bag she had been holding over her shoulders slid to the floor as her arms came up at him. The sound of rushing water stirred the otherwise silent night, and Zuko barely had time to look over her shoulder before he knew what was happening.
"Gahh!" he gasped as a stream of the dirty river water came rushing at him, knocking him over and encircling his torso. With a loud crackling, the water became ice and hardened around him until he was immovably frozen up to the waist.