Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Avatar. Heck, all inspiration belongs to Day of Black Sun.

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Chapter 3: The Second Day

The gentle sting of dim sunlight against his eyelids stirred Zuko; he groaned softly and straightened slightly against the cave wall, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and glancing out of the mouth of the cave. The sun was just beginning to peek over the horizon beyond, spilling its golden rays along the forest. He smiled briefly before slowly crawling on his hands and knees to where Mai slept, her back to him; at some point during the night, she had shifted and curled into a ball, away from him.

Even in sleep, she instinctively seemed to fear exposing herself. Zuko didn't remember her ever being like that before.

The night had, thankfully, passed uneventfully for Mai; other than a few whimpers here and there and tossing and turning a bit, she had slept through the night and hadn't suffered any other symptoms of serious illness. She still had a fever—Zuko knew by holding his hand just a few inches from her forehead and feeling the heat, because she started shivering in her sleep every time he touched her and he didn't want to scare her when her bond with him was still so fragile—and while it hadn't really gotten any better, it hadn't gotten any worse either.

He knew that assuming the worst was over was foolish; it was a new day, with new rules, and Mai was still sick. Until her body reached some kind of conclusion and her fever broke, she was still at the mercy of her own mind.

Zuko sighed, ran a hand through his hair, then slowly stood up. If his hearing was correct, there was a stream not to far away from the cave. At least he could get a drink—his throat felt dry—and see if there were any fish worth catching.

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It's dark. So dark. She fears the dark, wants nothing more than to escape it, but she isn't aware of her body, can't feel the blood flowing through her veins or the heat of her muscles.

She doesn't think she's dead. When you die, you lose all senses; and though she can't feel her body, can't feel the movement of her muscles or the heat of her blood, she can still smell the air and hear the faint trickling of a stream somewhere. So she knows she isn't dead.

But if she isn't dead, what is she?

There is warmth in the darkness, kind of like a weak fire that's just starting to die; just warm enough for her to be aware of its presence, but not particularly annoying. She can ignore it if she puts her mind to it.

It's actually kind of nice.

There's a strange kind of creaking noise, like a gate blowing haphazardly in the wind; it's an unusual sound, one she's never heard in the confines of her own mind, and wariness creeps through her system.

(the force of his backhanded blow throws her into the wall, and she dimly hears something crack; as she sags to the ground he's there, lifting her up and pushing her back against the wall, holding her shoulders, so she can't twist free, can't squirm. Blood trickles between his eyes from where she managed to scratch him earlier, and his eyes gleam with fury, forcing her legs apart despite her fierce struggles. She can't lift her hands, she can't break free, and all she can do is squeeze her eyes shut and gasp in pain as he pierces her in one fluid movement, all fire and heat and darkness and it feels so wrong)

It's not dark anymore, it's not just black—colors explode and race across the endless plains of her mind, oranges and reds and yellows, all sharp explosive colors like the sun, like fire, like the land she was born and raised in.

But the bright colors startle her, make her want to shrink away; they burn her eyes and make her whimper, and with a jolt she is suddenly aware of her body, of her blood, of everything…

(she sinks slowly to the ground, completely covered in blood; hers and his. Tonight was a rough night, because she still has some fight in her, but it never stops the inevitable; between her legs she aches, she hurts everywhere, and she closes her eyes. All she wants is to forget, to forget the hard, painful length of him, but tomorrow is another night and she wonders how much more she can take)

She whimpers, and she can hear it resound in her ears; but she keeps her eyes closed as the colors flash along her closed lids, as they burn through her memory, all the bright, burning reds and oranges and yellows, like stinging sunlight, like fire, burning, always burning.

She's scared; she's burning and the colors are too bright and she doesn't know how to make them stop, and she's scared. This isn't the fear of when night falls, this isn't the instinctive fear of an animal—it's sheer terror, plain and simple, the kind of terror one feels when they are going through an ordeal and all they want is for someone to be there for them.

But she's alone.

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Zuko had only been away from the cave for a few minutes, his throat cooled by the water—but when he returned, he knew something was wrong.

Mai had rolled over onto her back at some point, and she was shivering; small tremors, barely noticeable unless one looked, rippling through her body like waves. Soft, choked whimpers escaped her every now and then, high pitched and almost similar to a keening wail of fear.

Uncertainly he walked to her, moving slowly in case she woke; but as he sat next to her and held his hand out over her forehead, still wet with sweat, he knew she wouldn't wake. Her fever had barely dropped a few degrees; she was still caught in the tempest of the sickness, her own mental war.

And she sounded very, very scared.

Some part of Zuko knew that what he did now wouldn't count for much later; Mai was still under the influence of the fever, and anything that happened could easily be forgotten. But now she looked fragile, more fragile than she ever had before, and she sounded absolutely terrified, and…

And he couldn't just leave her alone.

Slowly, hesitantly, he brushed the tips of his fingers with hers; when she continued to shiver but didn't pull away, he cautiously wound his fingers with hers and set them down, not even bothering to lift it, not sure of how she'd react. His eyes focused on her face.

"It's all right, Mai," he whispered as she whimpered again. "I'm here."

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She feels the warmth of another hand, soft and gentle against her own, and she pauses for a moment, trying to gauge what's going on, what's happening…

"I'm here."

It's him again. That boy, that man-boy, the one who rescued her, one of the few people she still trusts though she doesn't even remember why.

(he takes her hand and gently pulls her up, brushing the grass and dirt off her shoulders; they always get a little dirty after playing tag, and her face turns bright red and he's blushing too, but his touch is warm and soft and it makes her feel happy)

The colors shift, they change, they soften; now they're no longer red and orange and yellow but blue, gentle shades of blue and purple and maybe even a little green, and these colors are nice and cool, they soothe her, they aren't fire but water, and she knows that water means life, water can't hurt her.

Water keeps her alive.

She relaxes, not even minding that he's touching her, something that will probably be taboo again once she awakens from her trance; but for now she doesn't mind, because this boy's touch soothes her memories, he chases away the angry colors, the harsh burn of red and yellow and orange, the fatal heat of fire.

No, this boy's touch cools her body though she still feels the heat of fever, his touch arouses the gentle colors, the light caress of blue and green and purple, like water, giving her life, giving her strength.

And for a brief moment, she understands.

This boy is her water.

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Zuko stayed that way for the rest of the day, not daring to move. He sat there even as the sun sank below the horizon again, as night fell. His body ached a bit and his stomach growled, but he didn't mind.

Because as long as he stayed there, Mai slept peacefully despite her fever, her breathing slightly ragged and thin but still even, her fingers limp against his and feeling warmer than usual.

And as long as she was soothed, at least until the next day, Zuko had no intention of moving. He smiled tiredly and closed his eyes, bowing his head so his chin touched his chest and his hair fell into his eyes.

"It's all right, Mai," he repeated softly as sleep crept into his mind. Briefly, he gave her fingers a gentle squeeze.

"I'm still here."

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Well, that was fun.

Still testing my limits a bit with the flashbacks... trying to see just how descriptive I'm willing to make them at this point.

Read and review, please!