Beauty Is the Beast

Chapter 8: The Agreement


In the pantry: three potatoes, one onion, a handful of apricots, and a rucksack bursting with radishes.

Crumbles of pie crust on the floor. An apple, bruised and rejected—left behind. A few rolls of bandages and vials of medicine, now in disarray within their air-tight containers. Burn ointment specially imported from the Fire Nation, missing. A stolen knapsack to carry it all.

Though her pantry was pilfered—goods strewn throughout her small dwelling—Kanna sat on her favorite dining room chair, weathered lips framed around a soft smile and irises focused on the full bag of radishes. Tears prickled the corners of her eyes. And when her vision turned too blurry to see properly, she rubbed at her face until they were gone.

Her granddaughter never liked radishes, even as a babe.

Eyes that had seen too much blinked. Tears flowed free. A shaky voice followed, small and bewildered, containing long-diminished hope, reawakened, "Katara's alive."

Knock, knock, knock.

The door cracked open and Kanna rubbed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose so she could feign exhaustion. A familiar form settled in the chair opposite her, his fingers laced together on the tabletop.

She looked at Bato's worn face, studied his haggard expression. The ornaments in his hair clinked as he shifted, sparkled as his head dipped. Though he appeared regal and adorned, he looked anything but. Torn, more like. Torn between his duty and person; torn between vengeance and grief.

"This is always a depressing time of the year," Kanna agreed, her voice filled with motherly comfort for the best friend of her long-deceased, cherished son, for the man she dared say burgeoned into her second son.

He winced and looked away. "It's the waiting that's depressing," he said. "Every day is a like a cruel game. Every day, I hope one of those men returns with the slain carcass of that beast across his shoulders. And sitting here makes me nervous—frustrates me."

Kanna reached forward, cupped his clenched hands. "I know, dearest. I know."

"I still hear their screams, Kanna."

"I know."

"I still see their bloodied remains." He slumped forward, put his head in his hands, stroked his forehead with his thumbs. "We couldn't even piece them together. We couldn't figure out what was Hakoda, Sokka, or Katara—couldn't even differentiate their scattered remains to give them a proper funeral." He looked up, eyes watering. "After ten years of tireless exploits, you'd have thought that one of those idiots would've been successful." Anger radiated from his posture and he blinked back tears. "But no, each year…we find more and more dead hunters. Each year, they all fail."

Smash!

His fist hit the table. "I want that beast dead."

Kanna shifted uncomfortably, glanced at the unnoticed mess in her apartment. Her gaze rested on the bag of radishes and she nibbled her worn bottom lip, contemplating something she hadn't considered before seeing the mess in her apartment, seeing that unopened, rejected bag of her granddaughter's least favorite food.

For a moment, she pondered.

Katara was alive; she was somewhere—in the tundra, the abandoned palace, concealed beneath the frozen surface—somewhere alive, albeit hidden. And there was a reason she was hiding, a reason she hadn't visited or tried to communicate before now.

Kanna released her lip, focused her brow. Katara was out there fighting—surviving—eluding, annihilating, and persevering. And she knew she had to help her granddaughter, help her only living relative. Her messy little water fountain. Even if she didn't know how Katara was alive, why she remained alone.

"Maybe…it's time to move on." She felt Bato stiffen. "Maybe it's time to lay my son's, grandson's, and…granddaughter's memories to rest."

"Excuse me?"

"Sending all of these men out…year after year…what have we gained?"

He gripped his forehead harder, and looked up, eyes filled with tears. "Nothing." He blinked. "But the people—"

"Will follow their leader."

"The people want justice—want vengeance for their fallen brethren. Want retribution for their slain chief."

"It's been ten years, Bato. How many people even remember why we started the hunt? How many people remember—" She sighed. "How many people remember a chief before you—a time before you? Ten years is a long, long time." A sad blink. "The people have forgotten my son. The people have forgotten my grandchildren. And maybe it's time…we did, too."

"I will never forget my best friend—"

"I'm not asking you to—"

"I will never forget my godchildren—"

"I'm not asking you to—"

"Then what are you asking, Kanna?" Bato snapped.

"Peace," she whispered. "Acceptance and hope. A chance for our future generations." Bato's gaze was cold, but he was listening, as he always did. "It's time we ended the hunt…time we left the beast be. It's taken too much from us—from the world."

Bato sighed and shook his head. His posture suggested displeasure, but she knew he'd make the right choice. He was a great chief, a well-trained second-in-command, but a war-hardened warrior who grew into his unwanted title. He had made tougher decisions in years' past. "For you," he said, catching her withered, blue eyes, "for Hakoda, Sokka, and Katara…this will be…the last year." He stood and turned to leave. "I just hope that somebody—anybody—is successful this year." He rubbed the back of his head, tightened his wolf-tail. "I just wanted closure, Kanna. Answers."

Kanna nodded as her chief left. And when the door snapped shut, she looked at the mess strewn throughout her apartment and exhaled. "Katara, my messy little water fountain," she bowed her head, prayed to the Ocean and Moon Spirits, "be safe, be smart—be strong."


OoOoO


The full moon disappeared and the prison grew dark and frightening. Only a number of vile shadows remained, silent and deadly company, whispering foul things as they scurried from corner to crevice. Untrustworthy and eerie. Liars, all of them.

While the shadows flitted, the smell of rot spread. Moldy potatoes and onions wafted into Zuko's cell, and the stagnant air grew steadily filthy, disgusting. To fight the scent, Zuko shimmied underneath his blanket and pressed his nose against the fur lining of his shredded parka. The bold-bodied, metallic scent of blood filled his nostrils and he snorted, dispelling the vile aroma. He closed his eyes—darkness within the black of day—and settled. Puffs of frost escaped his lips and he sluggishly slipped away, vehemently overtaken by slumber.

When he could sleep, he dreamed of light—of warming embers and soothing embraces, children laughing and familial love. A twinkle of orange and yellow within crackling flames, his favorite colors swirled together as they soared skyward into the welcoming breeze. Of delicacies like roasted lemon-spiced hen and peppered fire flakes, food served by his mother that had always elicited happiness and birthed joyous memories.

But while imprisoned, he knew he wouldn't receive such kindness. No, he would receive nothing but an endless night. Darkness. For as long as she wished to hold him captive.

The sunless day passed overhead, offering fitful sleep while he tossed and turned, occasionally waking when he heard boots scuffing against flagstone. And though his eyes opened, he was greeted with nothing but gloom. Emptiness and shadows, like his lids were still clenched shut.

A hiss and a shiver, crippling—debilitating.

The floor was cold, but if he curled up just right, his internal heat spread throughout his body—even through his toes, which he wiggled every so often to make sure they were still there. And when he finally found a blissful comfort—no longer squirming as he searched for heat—he drifted deeper, unconsciously more fitful, frustrating.

Occasionally, he trembled, teeth chattering and lips parting, hissing out an awful sigh. Until a familiar crackle made him bolt upright.

Pop. Pop. Snap!

Orange light flickered, banishing shadows to the far corners of his prison. And for the first time in a long while, Zuko smiled.


OoOoO


Katara's clothes were soiled, covered in rusty-colored splotches that were starting to harden, impeding her unusually fluid movements. So she lifted her parka and shirt over her head and bundled them up. Threw them into a hamper where she might remember to mend the holes and wash the grime off after summer was over, when she was human for more than three consecutive nights.

She shook her head, combed through her unruly tresses with her fingers. And then braided her hair until it curled around her shoulders, tail falling elegantly over her left clavicle. Hands trailed over her exposed arms, scratching away dried blood—remnants of her own injuries, still untreated.

A groan and an eye roll. She was exhausted, thoroughly fatigued and ready for a decent day's sleep. But her wounds screamed for attention, demanded immediate treatment or a decent washing.

Another groan. And then she sauntered to her chest, pulled it open with a sharp snap, and rummaged until she hit the wooden bottom. Soap, a clean set of clothes, a fluffy towel; items filled her arms and she disappeared into the dwindle-lighted abyss of her abandoned home. Down the stairs and toward her old room, bare feet scraping against the old flagstones, shuffling languidly as she descended. Her footsteps were uneasy—almost unwilling to continue—moving slow enough to be passed by elderly penguin-otters who waddled lifelessly into the tundra, awaiting the sweet comfort of their final days.

Katara didn't want to keep going, but the growing smell of fresh blood clouded her senses and she knew her wounds needed to be cleaned before healing them, lest they fester and rot. The earthen spikes that had penetrated her flesh were undoubtedly infectious, bursting with bacteria, which meant that she needed to scrub—and scrub hard—to avoid a more serious issue, like the mess she had just seen and smelled on her prisoner's marred face.

Another set of steps, a left turn, and she was where she needed to be—a single footstep away from her old bedroom door. Back straightening, eyes forward and unblinking, her baby blues slowly adjusted to the dimly lit hallway, picking out faint rays of the twisted light engulfing the end of the passage with an unusual red hue. Her warped mahogany door with its rusted doorknob shone brightly within the darkness, looking warm and inviting, beckoning her inside. And after a quick twist, she opened the door and entered.

Her old room was broken and disorganized, pieces of furniture overturned or destroyed, clawed or mangled, bitten and crushed. Not looking, she swept by each item, steadfastly ignoring the dusty tapestries on the wall, the oil painting of her family, whole and happy, the unmade bed covered with a mixture of soft brown and coarse white bristles, the shredded clothes piled unceremoniously in every corner, and the lone piece of jewelry, placed mockingly on a table, its triple-orbed, blue-stoned polish faintly glowing, even in the dark.

A brief glance at the necklace and a snort. And then into the bathroom, which was less chaotic, less traumatic.

There was a faucet that worked if she hit it just right, bringing up freshwater from a pocket hidden deep beneath the South's surface. The liquid was barely above freezing, and though Katara always braced for it, it was still hard to adequately prepare for the sheer nip that trembled through her skin upon contact.

Her hand delved into the stream and a hiss poured from her lips. The water was colder than usual, significantly harsher. And it felt like her skin was submerged in a strange, wintery fire, slightly tingly and uncomfortable. So she washed quickly, dousing her wounds until fresh tendrils of blood started to seep out.

Belatedly, she wrapped her hands with her bending; frosted liquid glowed silvery-white as it curled around her numerous wounds, seeping into destroyed skin, soothing broken flesh. Gashes knit together, bruises turned sickly yellow before disappearing, and blood pumped through a watery barrier in her arteries until purged clean. With a silky, exhausted breath, she leaned over the basin, blinking blearily until she scrubbed her face and stared at her pained reflection in the shimmering pool below.

Ocean-blue eyes focused, rippling and strained, bloodshot and fatigued. Weary with age and a myriad of sleepless nights. A foul wrinkle across her brow as she squinted at her liquefied mirror, eyebrows furrowing while visions danced in her bathwater. A blink and her head dipped, expression thoughtful as she watched. The past few hours swirled in the depths of the pool, memories crashing through her all at once as they clouded the soapy water. Wisps took form and churned. Thumbs dangled and encouraged the movement, twitching the bubbles until they took masterful shape.

A battle. A swordsman and a firebender dueling as an intrigued figure watched from the sidelines. The clang of slashing swords, the sizzle of hungry flames. Grunts of agony, the scent of burnt flesh. A wail and a bodily collapse. The crack of ice and an echoing scream. A splash. Contemplative silence and a decision.

Snow flurries and a tireless trek through the snow; an icy sledge driven with the wave of somnolent arms, pushing, pushing, pushing until they could spin no more. A hazardous climb. The thump of a body hitting stone and a murmured apology.

A healing session wrought with surprises. Ripped cloth and fumbling fingers mending wounds and cleaning flesh, purifying skin until it prickled with pinkish hues. Screeching bars and a clicking lock.

Enraged shouts, snarled anguish. An utterance of thanks—a marveled welcome. A glimmer of hope and an unveiled truth. Heartbreaking and aggravating. Spat words. Guilt.

Another blink and the bubbles dissolved. Gone, gone, gone. Like her hope.

Teeth clenched.

Hope was fickle, long lost; not something to live for.

A frown.

Not anymore.

Not when he was in her cellar, tainting her home with his horrid desires, sullying her mind with strange distractions. Not when he wanted to detain her bestial form, imprison or maim her beyond repair, claim a suspected reward for her incarceration or demise.

Irate, she smacked the basin, splashing water onto the floor, dousing it with glistening speckles.

Why couldn't he see it? Why couldn't anybody see it?

The curse wasn't her fault. And after carrying her burden for so long—after ten brutal years—she thought that somebody would've figured it out. Gran Gran, Bato—anybody. But nobody had. Nobody had even tried. No, any human being she had encountered chucked weapons in her general direction, intent on ending her life. And she refused to give them the satisfaction. Refused to show them how much every single attempt weakened her spirit, wrecked her hope, tried her faith in humanity.

But knowing Zuko's true intentions...hurt. Hurt more than a knife in her shoulder, a slash across her arm, or a broken leg. His declaration debilitated her in an unexpected way, a human way. She really wanted him to be different, to be concerned for her—her her. Not the beast lingering within her soul, a wolfish form cursed and bound to her forever.

For the first time in ten brutal years, she thought she had encountered somebody who could understand her plight. Perhaps help break her curse, given time. He had paused—he had lowered his blades and raised them against a more aggressive target. He was different—he was different. But she was wrong. So, so wrong. He wasn't any different than the decade's worth of hunters that had preceded him.

Let her go!

Because he had my target.

A sigh, lonesome and sad. Devastating. And she pulled the stopper. The sink drained; loud gurgles as the water receded. And when it was gone, there was silence. A sickening nothingness quickly filled with a shaky exhale and ruffled fabric.


OoOoO


The further she descended, the louder the curious noise grew.

Katara paused and placed her hand against the chilled wall before continuing down the flagstone stairs, head turned so she could hear the steadily-growing sound from below.

Clack-clack-clack—Shhhhhh—Uhuhuhuhuh—Shhhhhh—Clack-clack-clack.

She stopped at the last step, poked her head around the corner so she could peer into the darkness—watch her prisoner, undetected.

Hidden in the shadows of his makeshift prison, Zuko's blackened silhouette shivered and quaked, blankets rustling as he wriggled and squirmed into a more comfortable position. And when he finally settled, the noise quieted for a moment, and then continued after a shrill hiss, a sharp exhale, and a glow of orange-red embers emanating from behind his teeth.

Katara smirked.

Chattering teeth. Anxious inhales. Obnoxious exhales filled with desperate bending attempts.

Her prisoner was cold—freezing.

And she choked back an amused snort and sat on the bottommost step, listening to his anguish, drinking in the sound of his shivers.

He took in a raspy breath, desperate for a smidgen of warm air. And when he found none, he hissed and trembled, quaked against the frozen floor. His shivers were so intense—so loud—she thought the icy walls were shattering. Cracking and chipping away as they had in years past, back when the palace had been heated and happy, filled with laughter and joyous parties, ballrooms bursting with people from faraway places—nomads and Northerners, Earth Kingdom royalty and Southern peasants.

But thankfully, the walls were still solid, still encased in a thick layer of silvery-blue ice. And Katara let out a shaky breath of her own, perturbed by her strange, contented mood. She didn't usually find joy in other peoples' suffering, and a chill poured through her blood, pulsated inside her marrow, made her nervous and nauseous, annoyed and strangely sad.

Abruptly, she stood and turned, taking the stairs three at a time, ascending with a dedicated purpose, fists tightly clenched at her sides.

Zuko's chattering was aggravating—annoying. And she wanted the noise to stop, lest she grow steadily insane, unable to tolerate his company.

She paused. His company?

And then she stomped through the hallways of the palace, searching with a violent fervor. Snapping open doors and rummaging through disorganized closets. Huffing loudly as her twiddling fingers traced the unfamiliar outline of a wooden box, something she hadn't needed to seek out since being cursed.

The box creaked as it opened, rusted hinges squealing in the dank, dark hallway. And Katara smirked as she gripped the wooden stick resting delicately inside. She sniffed the end and gagged, rubbed her nose until the sour smell of pitch and tar faded away. And when her eyes stopped watering, she retreated. Down, down, down she went, stepping lightly so she could hear the increasingly annoying sounds of shivering and chattering teeth.

At the bottommost stair, she whirled and entered the cellar atrium, stooping low against the nearest wall so her head wouldn't hit the item she was searching for. Her free hand was up, reaching, prodding, and poking in all directions, feeling for a metal holder, a decaying sconce.

Click.

A fingernail lightly brushed the iron and she smirked, lifted the unlit torch above her head and into the bracket. When it was finally set in place, she stood on her tiptoes and pressed her body against the wall, searching for two green-hued and slightly jagged rocks.

Click—click.

Spark rocks pressed tight between her hands, she cracked them together—Smash!—birthing a small spark, a single ember. But it did nothing other than disappear into the darkness. Poof.

So Katara tried again. And again.

Smash! Smash! And then a whoosh!

The pitch caught fire, blazed fiercely against the stone wall, sending hungry, yellow light in all directions, illuminating every dim corner, every dreary wall. And after it flickered brightly—Snap, snap! Pop, pop!—she heard her prisoner rouse, chattering and trembling less and less as consciousness flooded his senses.

When his blanket furled out and away, Katara ducked beneath the torch and pressed her back against the wall, blue eyes carefully examining his every movement, hands laced behind her back as she cautiously pulled a tendril of frozen ice from the wall. She appeared calm and confident. Almost smug.

And though she expected him to see her first—perhaps comment on her smirk or question why she was there—he didn't. His gold-tinted gaze affixed itself to the flames above her head, mesmerized. Focused and captivated. Entranced. Like he was experiencing fire for the first time in weeks—like it didn't live inside him, waiting to be called forth whenever he wanted.

Katara watched him wearily, wondering if giving him a source of bendable material was a sane thing to do. But after thinking about it—after noticing how he sat perfectly still, watching the flickering flames, simply breathing instead of reaching for them—she realized that firebenders and waterbenders didn't bend the same way. Fire came from within—from the breath (if her tutors from over a decade ago were correct). It didn't need a source, probably wasn't the proper way to firebend.

It was so different from waterbending, which needed a pool, a tear, sweat, the ocean, a liquid in order to work. Waterbending didn't originate from the breath—didn't come from within. It was a feeling. Push and pull. A movement. Tui and La. Balance. Harmony.

Pop, pop! Snap!

Katara watched her prisoner smile, watched a whimsical expression flood his face; something childlike and calm, warm and strangely endearing. Dreamy and wistful.

And she found it more annoying than his chattering. So she snorted, which ruined his reverie.


OoOoO


Zuko's gaze immediately flitted to the girl sitting beneath the flames. There was a smirk on her face, something unfriendly and filled with silent gloating, cocky. And he turned his head away from her, pressed his naked side against the chilly bars of his makeshift cell. He inhaled, slow and smooth, just like Uncle had taught him.

And the fire felt good as it flickered against the good side of his face—the unmarred side. The little surges of heat felt refreshing against his skin, even from so far away. He took another deep breath, breathed in the warmth, breathed in the life, and leaned against the bars so he could get closer.

"You're cold." Her voice came out raspy and smug. It wasn't a question, it was an observation, a scrutiny.

A correct scrutiny, which he hated her for. Yes, he was cold. Had been cold ever since he left Fire Nation waters. Had been cold since he disembarked from his pitiful cruiser—graciously lent to him by his merciful father. Had been cold since he left the South's hunting tent, where he had his last decent meal. Had been cold since he wandered off into the tundra by himself, with nothing other than his stark imagination for company. Had been cold since he was stripped of his parka and woolen pants, given a thin blanket to fight the frosty chill in a frozen prison cell.

So he responded the best way he could. "Yeah, and?" He snorted. "Don't beasts like you get cold?"

Her blue eyes narrowed and shadows slipped across her face as the fire crackled above her head. "No, we don't."

Another snort, and a short guffaw. "Must be nice," he said.

Silence. And then, "Not really."

Her retort was startlingly soft, sad. And Zuko stared at her, watched how her chin dipped toward her chest, watched how her knees pulled close, pressed snug against her torso. Watched how her arms wrapped around her legs, hugged them tight. She looked forlorn and dejected, pathetic and abandoned—very unbeastly. And her antics—her fiery gift—was almost human, almost liked she cared. So unlike the treatment he expected. So unlike the care he deserved.

Time and time again, the South's beast proved more and more curious. More and more unlike the stories he had been told. Different. Unexpectedly different. So he blinked and pressed his lips taut, practiced his gratitude before he spoke the word aloud. "Thanks."

She looked up, curiously confused. And for a moment, they gazed at each other—bestial girl and banished prince—blue and gold studying the other through a line of mesh iron.

"For what?"

He nudged his chin skyward and reached for his dejected blanket, wrapping it around his shoulders. "The fire."

She glanced up, squinted at the smoldering burst above. And then she returned her gaze to him, face blank, response clipped, pointed. "I could hear you shivering from two floors away. It was annoying and I thought it would shut you up."

He clenched his lips and held back a vile retort, something undoubtedly unkind and hurtful, which wouldn't benefit him in the least. He grit his teeth, sneered out his words. "I wouldn't be so cold if I had my clothes."

He watched her jaw and fists scrunch, cheekbones and knuckles whiten. "I was nice enough to get you a blanket. Be grateful for what you have."

"Not enough," he said, almost frantic, near pleading. He hid his desperation with a shiver. "I'm a firebender. I need heat—warmth." Light shone throughout the room and he found his backpack. He pointed to it with a shaking finger. "My bag. I have a spare set of clothes in my bag."

She glanced at his bag and turned away, eyes dangerously glassy, evaluating his motivations. "Firebenders draw heat from within. If you get warm, you become more dangerous—more of a threat. If I give you those clothes, if I give you anything that will raise your internal body temperature, you could try to escape."

"I could, but won't."

A blue-tinted glare and a snort. "Won't, huh? And why not?"

"Because you're here."

"Uh-huh. And if I give you clothes, what'll stop you from attacking me when my back is turned? From potentially overpowering me and dragging me out there?"

Zuko considered her query and straightened. He looked regal and intimidating, if only for a moment. "I wouldn't do that. It wouldn't…it wouldn't be fair. Or honorable."

"Pshh," she scoffed. "And what do you know of honor?"

He bristled and looked away. "I won't attack you. I promise."

"You'll bolt the moment you're free. And you know it."

"No," Zuko urged, crossing his arms. "I'll stay." He shifted and clenched his fists, clutched his biceps as he bargained. "You're here, so I'll stay here. And I'll, uh, stay here until you're ready."

"Ready?" she snapped. "Ready for what?"

"To fight me."

Her eyes widened and then narrowed. "It wouldn't be much of a fight. You'd lose. Horribly."

"Then you have nothing to worry about."

She didn't squirm, didn't break her focus. And he stared right back, memorizing the liquidity of her eyes. Sparkling irises, never-ending pools of swirling blue. Captivating. Much like the fire still flickering brightly above her head.

"You're cocky," she said. He smirked. "I don't like that." He frowned. "And I don't trust you."

His frown deepened, stretched awkwardly across his face. "A man's only as good as his word," he whispered. "And I know you don't know me—can't trust me. But I promise that I won't attack you until you're ready—until we're both facing each other in an arena."

"You'll die. You won't last two seconds against—"

"I promised my uncle that I would come home—I gave him my word. And I will defeat you in honorable combat. It might take a few days—it might take a few weeks, but I will return to my country by the end of summer."

"You're ridiculous." She stood and brushed grime off her backside, patted her knees and put her hands on her hips. "I know your type. The moment I give you what you want is the moment you try to overpower me—try to thwart me however you can." She stepped toward the bars—"Deception,"—within his reach—"traps,"—testing him—"whatever you can think of,"—so, so close. "But let me tell you something, Prince Zuko." Another step and she knelt, fingers wrapped around the bars, centimeters from his hands. "You won't win. Nobody's beaten me in a decade. You aren't lucky enough to best me, so you'd better give up now."

Zuko stiffened and fought the urge to reach through the bars, crush her wrist and drag her forward, show her how easy it could be to break something so frail, so thin—to beat her. It wouldn't take much effort, just a quick snap, just a small twist. But he didn't have the strength, didn't have the stamina to move quick enough.

So he exhaled and looked away, didn't move. Didn't give her the satisfaction of falling into her trap. "I won't give up. I never give up."

It took a while, but she released the bars. She didn't move backward, though. Instead, she crossed her arms and glared at him, watched him inhale a shaky, uncoordinated breath. And then his stomach growled. "What have you been eating?"

"Rations," he answered grudgingly. "A mixture of nuts and berries—some sort of trail mix, I think. The tiger-seal you stole—" She frowned. "—from me was nearly inedible. So, not much else."

"How often?"

Zuko regarded her shadowed silhouette. She was standing slightly left of the sconce, arms fixed stubbornly across her chest, an odd look on her face. Something maternal and bizarre; something he hadn't seen in years. "Once a day…maybe? It's hard to tell when I can't see the moon…or the sun."

She tutted. "You don't have enough fat in your diet. All you're eating is protein and sugars. And you're not eating often enough. No wonder you're so cold."

She huffed, ran and hand through her hair, and walked back upstairs, leaving Zuko alone to bask in the fiery blaze, breathe in the steady warmth, and watch his favorite colors flit across the wall, a confused expression plastered on his face.


OoOoO


Her prisoner was weird. Prince Zuko was weird. And stupid.

Though nobody had ever talked to her—didn't really get the chance to do anything more than scream or mutter their final few words—she doubted anybody would say anything about a man being as good as his word or offer her a chance at honorable combat. No, her prisoner was weird and stupid; weirder than King Bumi and his monstrous rabbit when he showed up for her sixteenth winter. Weirder than Sokka's successful attempt at wooing Princess Yue—who saw that coming? And stupider than that one airbending kid who continuously bothered her with his marble trick.

So...maybe if she...?

She let out a troubled exhale when she reached her cavern. And then she started digging through the supplies she stole from her Gran Gran's pantry, searching frantically for sea prunes and seaweed blubber, sustenance with high fat content, food that would keep Zuko marginally warmer. And when she found the vegetables she was looking for, she piled them in her arms and retreated, padded softly downstairs.

She was…going to regret this. She knew she would. But Zuko was…odd. Odd enough for her to do something incredibly stupid, incredibly un-Katara-y. And if he wanted to fight, she wasn't going to tell him no. Not when he seemed so eager to die.

"Eat this." She chucked a sea prune through the bars.

The prune slipped from his shaking fingers, bounced on the floor, and lolled around, wobbling because of its lopsided form. And when it stilled, Zuko reached for it—gripped it tenderly. He inspected the oddly-shaped vegetation and pushed it through the bars. "I don't want this…whatever it is."

"It's a sea prune. It's good for you."

"It looks like my grandfather's nose. I'll pass."

"It's filled with fat. It'll keep you warm."

"This wrinkled excuse of a vegetable will not keep me warm. Clothes will, though." He pointed to his backpack, still gripping the prune. "And they're right over there."

Katara shook her head. "If you won't eat the prune, you're gonna eat this." She held up a strip of brownish-green paper pocked with off-white circles.

"Ugh! What is that?"

"Seaweed blubber. It's—"

"Disgusting looking."

A thin-lipped frown. "It's not disgusting. Well, I mean…it is, but it'll keep you warm, too." She held it out, fingers carefully splayed to support the flimsy, flattened flora.

Her prisoner didn't reach for it, didn't even bother to wipe the appalled expression from his face. "Pass."

"You want to fight me, right?" she asked, smug.

"Yeah. And?"

"Well, you've been out in the tundra for a few weeks, living off frozen nuts and berries and whatever else you managed to find. If you have any sense, you'll take the food I'm offering you, no matter how it looks. No matter how it tastes."

"And why's that?"

"Because each meal I give you—each table scrap I send your way—is another day I plan on keeping you alive."

Zuko eyed the prune in his hands, rolled it across his palm like he suddenly understood. "Are you...accepting my offer?

"You asked for a fair and honorable fight. And I can respect that." She folded her arms across her chest. "So I'll give you a month to regain your strength. A month to figure out how to beat me."

"By the next full moon?"

Katara smirked and nodded. And then she reached for the cell door, metal key lodged inside her fist. Click! Screech! And the iron mesh shuddered inward.

"And you're letting me out?" he asked, incredulous.

"Do you want to stay in the cell?" He shook his head. "Yeah, that's what I thought."

"But…why?"

She didn't bother answering him. Instead, she stepped aside, allowed him to collect his bag and hastily dress, grab his boots and collect his daggers. And then she hesitantly led him upstairs, fluttering torch in hand. She kept her ears attuned for the swoosh of an unsheathed weapon. And when no sound pierced the air, she gestured outward. "This palace is your temporary home, now. So you're free to go wherever you'd like...except the ballroom."

"What's in the ballroom?"

She turned, glaring, furling out a wicked tendril of razor-sharp, hidden ice, which forced Zuko backward. "It's forbidden."


It's been a while. Sorry about that, but I had another dream about this story and had to revamp my outline. While reorganizing, I started a new fic called Just Us. It's a good little fic; should be significantly shorter than BItB. Also, it's revenge Zutara...Katara revenge Zutara. Did that catch your interest? I hope so. And if it did, take a look, I'm sure you'll like it.

Well, please let me know how you liked the update. And a special thank you to the people who have reviewed. Seeing your reviews gives me happy, squirmy tummy gurgles and I love it. So, see y'all next time! :)