ch: the river of fallen stars.
characters: aang, katara, zuko.
notes: i am so close to completion that i can see it!
…
i. waiting for action
why won't you come over here?
…
Whenever he finds himself thinking of Ursa, he tries to remember her in this way: her hand softly curved around his smaller one, her hair tumbling past her shoulders, her eyes warm and her smile full of kindness. He pictures her laughing with the vendors, handing coins to each and coming away with the shiniest of wares to distract her son. He was never a prince, then; just a three-year-old with the world caught in his eyes, happy to hold his mother's hand throughout the village square. What he remembers most of all is the way she used the dress him when they would venture into the Caldera, just the two of them.
It feels much like how he is dressed when he accompanies Aang and Katara to the marketplace. Zuko's given up his cloak for the time being, but is wearing a Fire Nation style tunic that cuts its hem down towards the center of his chest, and leaves his arms completely exposed. If he focuses, he can see the shattered edges of the lightning scar on his chest, not too far off in the past between the three of them.
Katara wears the same golden silk scarf to cover her hair and sticks close to his side; as it would happen, many of the people not only recognize their Fire Lord, but feel so obliged to approach him. Many citizens offer him glad tidings and express their pleasure at the fact that he has made time to enjoy the spirit of the Festival of the Veil with them, unbeknownst to his true motives. With each greeting, Zuko finds himself laying a hand over Katara's smaller one that is safely nestled in the crook of his arm; with every gentle tap of her nails against his knuckles, he knows she is telling him that he can do this.
The marketplace is overflowing with people today, all swarming around each station in a last minute effort to secure the finishing touches to their ornate outfits. Zuko hasn't seen Aang for what feels like an entire hour amongst the crowd; it rubs against his skin, the fact that he must be the buffer between his two friends because of the hurt that they have unintentionally dealt one another. But he only focuses on infusing as much normalcy into their lives as he can, at least until he can figure out a way to fix it.
Katara stops at the edge of a stand and lifts a mask that reminds Zuko of several things at once—the beautiful violet and gold dress, the watercolor rendering of the Painted Lady, the edges of her eyes when her mind is full to the brim. The mask is thin with gold rimming around the eyes and the edges. Around the lashes, glittering gems are inlaid in a gentle arc at the end of each corner, while the rest of the mask is a deep, royal violet.
She presses the mask against her face and her eyes glint against the golden gems. "I think I've found my perfect mask," she says with a grin, and flutters her lashes for effect. It stirs a laugh out of Zuko, who catches the eye of the vendor.
"My Lord," she tips her head down and Zuko spots the fraying silver strands at the crown of her head. Her face is soft and she doesn't look too much older than he imagines his own mother might look. "It pleases me to see you doing well, and I can say I'm honored by your presence."
For once, when Katara turns to move against his side, he finds he isn't searching for her comfort. "I'm grateful to have been a pleasure to you, ma'am." Zuko leans his head down in deference for the elderly, and it's a motion that softens a smile from Katara's mouth. "How much trouble will I be for one of your lovely masks? And perhaps a scarf as well?"
The woman laughs warmly, and shakes her head the moment that Zuko retrieves a small handful of golden coins from his pockets. "I couldn't ask anything of the sort from you, your Highness."
"And I couldn't leave here with any of your merchandise without leaving a token of my support." Zuko grasps her hand gently and spills enough coins into her palm to bring tears to the corners of her eyes. It's this part of his responsibilities that he can handle; he is three years old, again, looking for the shiniest things and the women with the kind smiles and warm eyes.
"It does a lady well to know that her wares will be rivaled in beauty only by the lovely Master that wears them." She bows her head again, and it takes the span of several seconds for him to divine that she is speaking to Katara. Her face is flushed and she is stuttering out a platitude of thankfulness as she gathers up the mask and another golden scarf; the material is a soft, luxurious silk that is not sheer like the scarf she'd already become fond of wearing.
Only a few minutes of Zuko's miniature tour amongst the citizens carry on before they run into Aang, several parcels protectively clutched to his chest. His smile is a familiar one, full of shameless mischief and something Zuko can only describe with different inflections of Aang, and the three of them gather together to return to their village home.
For once, the silence between the three of them feels serene. Aang leads the group of them with a breeze caught around him, as if it troubles him to put any more pressure onto the world, even if from his own feet. Katara is comfortable enough keeping pace with him, her hand occasionally dipping down into the thick wrap around her bundles to sweep across the smooth fabric.
"Are you going to teach us how to dance, Hotman?" Aang asks with an innocent thread in his voice, but the impish grin on his face is telling.
Zuko wrinkles his nose at the nickname, though it manages to get a soft laugh from Katara. "Don't you have enough practice in dancing," he pauses, and narrows his eyes at the young Avatar, "Twinkletoes?"
For all its worth, Aang conjures up an affronted look and holds his hand over his chest, settling himself to the ground for the full effect of his dramatics. But Zuko walks past him, waits for him to draw himself out of his reverie and catch up to the rest of them, nearly home.
It isn't until Katara peeks over at Zuko's near-empty cot with a frown that it all registers to him. The Festival of the Veil is less than a day away and somehow, they are all several steps closer to solving the crisis that had called them all together again. Something about it seemed bittersweet, but in that moment, he was thrown by the look on his friend's face.
"Can I help you?" He says freshly, and Katara looks affronted for a convincing six seconds.
"You didn't buy a mask?" Zuko lifts his shoulders towards her and angles his golden stare to the young Avatar in the corner. Aang is on his way to stretching a sea salt taffy between his fingers, but catches Zuko's eyes when he gives Katara an answer.
"I already have one."
…
ii. because we both have the fear
fear of being alone
…
"You need a haircut."
Zuko blinks, and refrains from the instinct to shrug off the touch. Katara's fingers are stuck through the tie of his hair, and she slips it out without a second thought. His hair isn't too difficult to manage; it scrapes along his jaw and touches at a point on the back of his neck.
"Cut it, then." He lifts his shoulders in nonchalance, hands tucked against the edge of his cot, and Katara offers a tsk before she lets go of his hair.
"I want to help cut Zuko's hair!" Aang flies into the room—Zuko might even wager that he actually flew into the room with the way he skids over to the two of them. His eyes are bright and there is a dark red fabric clutched in his hands that he holds behind him once he realizes that he's carrying it.
In the end, they all help. Aang prods and pokes at Zuko's face: scrapes his fingers against Zuko's hairline, separates the sections of his hair, rambles about how much younger he'll look as Katara collects all of the ink-black strands into her fist and saws through it all with a knife carved of ice. It ends up a little bit longer than his hair had been back when they'd been nothing but a band of confused teenagers trying to help save the world, and the nostalgia of a haircut that isn't hinged on a terror in his life seems to twist Zuko's insides in a strangely proud way.
"I'll meet you guys at the festival," he says as he slips the sheath of his swords against his body. He catches both pairs of curious eyes, but the information that they seek doesn't come so easily from their friend. "Behave yourselves."
…
Once the sun settles into a lower cradle in the sky, the Festival of the Veil begins. The marketplace is deconstructed and each of the vending tables are replaced by stands overflowing with food and drink, adorned in web-spun silk and tea lights. The crowd of people easily exceeds the normal bustle of the marketplace during the daytime, children and adults alike roaming and mingling through the village center.
Zuko isn't sure how easy it will be to track down his friends, at first.
After all, none of them have seen the outfits they'd planned to wear, with the exception of brief glimpses of Katara's entire ensemble. And he isn't exactly easy to spot out, dressed in black pants and a navy-colored tunic that blends into the rapidly approaching night air. The mask fitted across his face is a familiar one, though: bone-sharp teeth, the dark grin, a white crown, endless eyes. Zuko counts on at least Aang being able to pick him out of the crowd from the mask alone.
But what he doesn't count on is the shouting. Amongst the bustle of the crowds, he can still pick out the very distinct yell of his friend. Zuko glances around and converges on a stand that boasts fresh fruit and sweet sake cups, eyes alert until they land on a familiar sight—a silk scarf curled in a bow against a tumbling sea of curls.
"Stop!" He sees Katara first; her face is obscured by her mask with the exception of her mouth, twisted into a trembling frown. She wears the dress he'd peeked at from her shopping trip last time; it is slimming and clings to her figure, with a wrap made of sheer violet to keep her modest. He can see her eyes through the mask and it is a wonder that she isn't crying from the tears collected in the corners of her eyes.
"There's nothing wrong with us just dancing—"
"No!" He fires back swiftly. Aang's fists are curled at his sides, though. The young Avatar is adorned in a red mask that swirls with the colors of sunset. The lofty orange robes come as a dead giveaway, but there is enough anonymity to keep Aang shielded from any recognition. The wind that curls past Zuko and passes a great shudder through the crowd is not inconspicuous enough, though.
"Aang." Zuko's voice is soft, in a way so controlled as to belie the true emotion he feels, a crude mixture of sadness and anger. His hand finds his shoulder, applies enough pressure to remind him: this is not what we're here for, remember why we're here.
For a moment, guilt flickers across his features when he looks at Katara, but just the angled stare is enough to have her turning away and weaving herself into the crowd. Zuko wants to find her, but he knows it is Aang who is the powder keg to deal with. His shoulders rise and fall with each breath, and Zuko can see the way he steadies his breathing, regains control over his rage.
"I don't understand," he says, sudden exhaustion in his voice, "how she wants so much space away from me but still wants to be close."
Zuko curls his fingers into his shoulder, a reassuring squeeze as he leads Aang towards a table with assorted kebabs. He seems to offer his contemplation to the new distraction, until he can sort out the skewers that are absent of meat.
"You never really learned how to be Katara's friend, Aang." He's not quite sure he understands it, though. His relationship with Mai had been nothing but the pretense of friendship, the entire opposite of what Aang and Katara were going through. "You always loved her as your girlfriend, even before she was. So now that she isn't…I don't think you know how you feel about her."
Chewing around the vegetables, he seems to give a slight consideration to the idea. "I'm sorry," is what he manages, "for dragging you into this. And I think you're right, about the feelings thing. But let's just…try to have fun? And get to the bottom of all of this bad stuff." He's starting to sound more like the whimsical teenager he'd envied—Aang, with the incredible ability to throw a cloak over all of the negative points of life.
Zuko smiles, an expression lost behind the full face of his mask. "A good idea, I think. Shouldn't you be mingling?"
It's a cue that doesn't take Aang long to pick up on, because his lips form into a grin and he's lost in the crowd again, flitting between people as if he was the embodiment of the wind. Zuko watches the sunset-clad form of his friend disappear into the throngs of people, and wonders how hard it'll be to find Katara amongst all of these people.
…
iii. help me be a different person
if i'm somebody else, it never happened to me
…
The harbor contains the trickles of people already merry with the spirit of the festival, and Katara can't help but smile at the sight of them. The festival had given her something to focus on, and maybe she'd even had the smallest hope that it would bring her a little happiness. The Fire Nation was daunting in so many ways that hurt her to put words to, but with these homely celebrations and the surmounting village pride, it reminds Katara so much of her home.
Reaching her hand out to the edge of the dock, Katara pulls ocean water into her hands, and cups her palms against her face. It is a cool touch to her aching eyes, though it washes off the touches of gold she'd lined her lashes with, and makes her face more childish and round. Her mask is at her feet, the violet reflecting back up against the setting sun. As much as she doesn't want to, her thoughts drift away to Aang, and the sadness seems to keep a strong hold against her heart.
It's almost enough of a distraction that she doesn't notice the figure standing beside her, not immediately. But when she grabs her mask and clamors to her feet, she stumbles at the peripheral view of someone else, feet catching clumsily in the broken boards of the dock.
Pale hands catch her by the forearms and hold her steady. "Hey," the air seals up in her throat until she coughs, hanging her head slightly. "You scared the wits out of me." Katara isn't sure that she's a fan of Zuko's mask; there is something warming about the deep blue, but the nightmarish hellion depicted in its likeness haunts her in a way reminiscent of her childhood. Looking into the eyeholes of the mask dredges up fears long since forgotten about in favor of reality, and Katara shakes her head to dispel of its garish charm.
When she pulls herself upright, the lingering touch against her arm feels heated. "I'm sorry about before," she twists her mask between her hands, finds the ribbons to tie it back in place, "with Aang. Let's just head back, okay?" Katara doesn't have much else to offer in the way of apologies without spilling her heart out, and the danger that lies therein is her inability to put all of the pieces back where they belong.
This feels much like the marketplace, walking with Zuko. Her arm is tucked into the crook of his elbow, warm and muscled. This feels much like home, with her mother brushing her hair for an hour before she fell asleep. Silence and peace and happiness. Katara can't find any words for the feeling far too intense to be comfort, but somewhere in its radius. There is plenty unspoken between the two of them, but she thinks she likes this most. This silence.
"Dance with me, beautiful!"
Katara is offered, and before she can protest, she is pulled into the mass of people. Daring to peek up at her assailant, she's met with someone wearing a red dragon mask with straw hair jutting from the top. She loses Zuko in the sea of people, the mask lost in the waves. So, she dances because it's easier to let go than to hold on, than to keep hurting herself. And it feels nice, she can't deny, to hear those words from someone who doesn't know her. A superficial comment to remind her that she isn't some grand-mastered scheme from the universe, a fated lover, a penance for karma—she is simply a pretty girl.
After a while, Katara finds that she's dancing alone and to the beat of music asynchronous to her surroundings. Sweat streaks along the edge of her curls, her skin pulsing with warmth. She can feel the moon before she spots it in the backdrop of the sky, an unbitten disc rising up. Briefly, she thinks of the children's book with the village and the Painted Lady mantle she'd once assumed on her own. How the people crowded around with masks to try to protect themselves, when nothing but divine intervention could've helped them.
"Katara," she's more surprised by the shock in Zuko's voice than the way he takes her hand, pulls her close to dance. There's the warmth, again, soaking into her skin through her palms. "Why're you so hard to find? Do you want to—" He closes his mouth around the word talk but she knows it's there, skips delicately over its placement. Dancing with him takes up too much of her internal thought process, so she shakes her head dumbly.
"You should've danced with me before, after the docks," she says, before she'd been pried away. "Besides, I already said sorry, about Aang. Let's just have a little fun, keep our eyes peeled." She leans in close and whispers the last statement, trying to find his eyes through the darkened holes of the demon mask. It's unnerving without Zuko's voice echoing against the wood.
Underneath, his eyes shine like little gems, like the ones on her mask. His mouth hangs open for a moment, then she can almost hear the confused rattle of his brain until he can find the words he wants. "Okay," he settles, and Katara is happy enough to just dance with him, "okay, okay. I'm going to grab us some drinks and we can go scout."
Zuko's hand touches the spaces between her fingers gently, then releases his hold. Katara lets the flame seep out slowly, turns away simply to keep to herself. She'd learned so much about the town in the visits to the marketplace that could help them with their dilemma. Other than the lore of the Painted Lady, she learns that this town was popular for many other reasons. The village of Hira'a was home to a famous troupe of actors who had gone on worldwide tours following the new reign of Fire Lord Zuko. Outside of the village was a forest rumored to be a spiritual haven for the lost.
The information that had piqued her interest the most had come from the vendor that'd sold her the scarf. A middle-aged woman, who smiled that day as Zuko had retreated, and said softly how much he looked like her.
Hira'a, it seemed, was where Zuko's mother was from, before she had become a princess.
Katara tries to picture what his mother looked like; in the end, she imagines a Zuko cleansed of scar tissue, the warmth of her own mother's smile, the lingering touch of the love she felt between uncle and nephew. Somehow, from all of the memories and stories and fabrications, she came up with the idea of his mother and her relative innocence to the war. She wondered if she was out there. Maybe she was celebrating the Festival of the Veil under cover of mask and merry.
It is easy to think of these things without knowing what comes next. Katara finds the simplicity in indulging her imagination as an escape from reality, and up until this moment, it serves her just fine.
…
iv. you don't mess with love
you mess with the truth
…
A cup bumps into her knuckles before long, and Katara smiles as she accepts the offering. She can't see the line of his mouth, but Katara feels like he is smiling at her beneath the mask. Her nose tips towards the edge of the cup, wafts the scent of something fruity and strong swirling within.
"This might not be a great idea," but she's drinking it anyway, walking with him anyway. He laughs, and it sounds like a foreign thing; a deep rumble in the center of his chest that causes her to shudder with its timbre. This time, it is his hand on her waist, leading her along a worn path parallel to the docks.
Halfway through the cup, Katara feels the bite of alcohol on her tongue and wonders just how strong these drinks are. "How is anyone supposed to fend off malevolent spirits with this much—" she squints into the cup, and then tips her head towards Zuko, "—what is this?"
Katara's eyes glaze over at the spread of heat in her cheeks. It isn't until her vision blurs for a moment that she realizes it's his hand, creeping along the side of her face. His other hand has untied the knot at the back of her head, and he brushes his fingertips over the rise of her cheeks. She looks for his eyes underneath the mask, the glittering gems in the sea of blue, but she can't quite bring them into focus.
Stunned, she doesn't move. Katara doesn't breathe, doesn't say a single word. His hand rests with his thumb on the underside of her jaw, and maybe she feels warm from the alcohol, or the weather, or the closeness. Maybe she likes the way Zuko touches her face and she feels like she's just met him tonight for the first time. Maybe she's tipsy and likes to not hurt as much.
"You remind me so much of her, just as beautiful," her eyes cross for a moment because that is not her friend's voice, but suddenly he is so close she can feel the heat of his body. His fingers lock against her collarbone, and he pushes the mask away from his mouth. Katara is dizzy from alcohol, or else she would react much faster to the smoothness of the skin visible; no touches of rumpled skin and fire-branded cheekbones. And that voice, the way the words almost feel like damnation.
His mouth fits against hers and surges with a dangerous mixture of fire and electricity. Katara finds herself entranced in a perilous situation, because the alcohol blots out all of the reasoning, only raises a mild panic at the fact that she doesn't know who she's kissing. His hand presses into her collarbone with a force that feels destructive, but the ache is low and dull. Her mouth shapes around a scream, and Katara twists away long enough to see the clear grey eyes staring at her.
"Who are you?" She asks, unable to stop the tremble in her voice.
His thumb presses into the muscle at her neck. "When you see her, tell her I loved her." Before Katara can do anything else, he wrenches her to the side. She feels the weight of her legs buckling, loses her balance, and plummets into the water. It stings against her skin when she breaks the surface and she swallows mouthfuls of ocean water from the impact.
Her entire body fights all at once, a collaborative effort. Her soul commands waterbend so she pulls the water around her, but there is so much of it and her brain begs her to breathe but each lung is terrified of the saltwater waiting to be inhaled. Katara's hands circle around her neck, where that hand is still firm in her collar. A strength she isn't familiar with, and she digs her nails in as deep as she can, churns the water around her body into a cyclone but the ocean simply fills in the empty spaces.
The only thing she can make out through the water is the mask, staring down into the depths. Everything falls into darkness soon after that.
