A/N: You may not have noticed it, but to date only Zuko and Sokka have spoken, and they have had a conversation every chapter. It has been a little conceit of this story line. I depart from this in this chapter. No one speaks. They have much to think about.
Disclaimer: Okay, I don't own Avatar or its characters. Owell. I'll get over it. So will you. In the meantime…
Chapter 9
The warden had left a little faster than usual.
When Sokka had given yet another flippant response to the query regarding the Avatar's plans, he'd merely grabbed him by the shoulders and thrown him across the cell, cursing Sokka for wasting time. But Sokka didn't care. He even looked forward to the warden's visits, because they were his assurance that Aang and Katara had, in fact, lived up to their agreement. The warden wouldn't waste his own time questioning Sokka if Aang were captured. Would he?
But the truth was, Sokka wasn't so sure. This prison was in a true back-water of the Fire Nation occupied territories. At first, he had wondered why Zuko, or he himself, for that matter, would have been kept here instead of moved to a more prominent location, such as in the Fire Nation itself. He knew he at least was a prominent target – it would be a waste of resources to have forces continue to look for him after his capture.
Zuko himself resolved the former question, bitterly explaining his father's fury over his failures, and his own assumption that the less fuss made about him - even his execution - the better. As for Sokka's presence there, he soon realized that the answer lay in the Fire Nation's hope that the Avatar would be encouraged to attempt a rescue from a location fairly near the front lines. But the prison was far enough removed that Sokka wasn't sure it received regular communications. And what if Katara had attempted a rescue alone, a rescue that failed? Would any mention be made of a lone Water Tribe girl? Was even now, Katara being held somewhere for activities against the Fire Nation?
Zuko was right. Sokka felt that his heart lived somewhere at the bottom of his left boot these days, and that there were no other organs left in his body at all. Just a giant tape-worm of worry. Did it matter that Zuko knew? Well. That was just something he would have to deal with later.
It didn't matter. And yet. There had been a shift in the air between the two cells. This shift was more subtle than the one marking Sokka's increased agitation and Zuko's newfound calm. While Sokka still regularly insulted Zuko, his target's responses were no longer surly, and if smoke occasionally flared Zuko's nostrils, it would be accompanied by a lazy smile.
Sokka wished he still had his boomerang. The act of throwing it, the easy reflex of muscles that required no thinking beyond focus on a target, left his brain free to weigh a given problem's complexities without forced concentration. He had yet to find an exercise that equaled it. And he wanted - no, needed - the structure and time constraints boomerang-throwing imposed on his concentration. He knew he was over-thinking things. He knew he had lost the upper hand with Zuko.
Worse yet. Zuko knew it, too. Shit. Normally, Sokka didn't really worry about what scum thought of him. But Zuko? He could make a difference.
There was nothing in Ling-Ling's expression to suggest she was aware of being observed. She spent no more, nor no less time in Sokka's cell than normal, and he maintained his usual position, sitting in the corner with his arms folded across his chest, giving her plenty of room.
Could he do it? No. That wasn't the right question. Should he do it. Should he build in a safety-net? As it were, double-time Zuko. Why? Because he didn't trust Zuko's ability to seduce the prison drudge? Well. It was patently obvious that Zuko was quite competent at that. Almost unpleasantly competent, despite Sokka's expectations. No. Because he didn't trust Zuko. And this hurt, even though it fit all his expectations.
Sokka was a creature bred of a specific, harsh environment. An environment that did not forgive wasted effort. He had invested effort in Zuko, only the spirits – or Aang and Katara – could guess why. Sokka followed Ling-Ling with his eyes. Perhaps it was false pride, and he would regret it, but he was not yet prepared to write off his investment, even for a backup plan. Luckily, there was all that newfound distance between his head and his heart. The tape worm roared.
Sokka was off-balance, and Zuko knew it. The warrior's heart in Zuko thrummed a happy harmony. From here, it would be easy to topple the other boy. Yes, the Water Tribe boy had gifts that Zuko envied. Yes, he admired and respected him. But he could take him. And that was how it should be.
Zuko straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin as he walked between his guards back to the block of a building that housed a half-dozen cells, all empty but two. He noted again the distances to the common well, the longer block that held a host of prisoners of war and assorted common criminals, and the drainage ditch lining the near wall. He remembered that on the other side of that wall lay several large buildings with dormers for the guards and the warden's office, the kitchens and storage sheds, and yet another wall.
Physically, Zuko knew he was far from his best. But he had learned from this as well. Uncle Iroh had been right about this, as so many other things. Fire came from the breath, not the muscles. Zuko had learned, finally, how to savor each breath. How every time he breathed his muscles received new fuel, how every time he ignored the steady pumping of his heart, the fire within him failed, and no amount of fury would sustain it.
Somewhere within his soul came the greater fire. He knew this, as well. The fire that burned so hot it was nearly blue. The fire that didn't burn but blasted, leaving no flame but only char and cinders. Uncle could tap it; and never did. He knew Azula could and did use it – would have seared him with it if not for Uncle. His father was the greatest fire-bender of the age, wasn't he? His own ancestor had drawn upon the heavens themselves to launch the Fire Nation on its path to glory. This was his heritage. Where did his breath fit into this greater heat? Surely he could tap this power as well, and why shouldn't he?
Zuko understood power on these terms. It was that power that had affirmed his family's rights. Ultimate power was the response to every question. Only the Avatar threatened the Fire Nation's ultimate power.
Power. His uncle, the man he truly most respected, had walked away from it. The Avatar, a mere child, possessed it but didn't know how to exercise it. His father, of course, embodied it, and taught him from the first to respect and honor it.
And then, there was Sokka. Zuko was confounded again by the conflict of his own perceptions. Sokka held no power. None! Hardly more than a child himself, a product of a backwards, nearly extinct culture. No training, no education worth talking about. He couldn't even bend! He was… ordinary.
He and that sister of his, whom he seemed to cherish beyond all reason. Sokka had accused Zuko of arrogance – what arrogance was it to take on the mantle of protectors of the Avatar! Hah! Who did they think they were? And yet, together they had eluded the grasp of the Fire Nation's best. Zuko was not so modest as to exclude himself from this assessment. Not with the Dragon of the West in his corner. Could that be attributed solely to the Avatar, powerful as he was? No. So there was something special about the Water Tribe pair. Something about the girl's passion, and clearly something about the boy's brains. Together, they were an extraordinary force.
Ozai would look at the evidence, and the solution would be obvious. Destroy the Avatar's companions. Then he could imprison the Avatar himself. Let nothing stand in the way of the Fire Nation's destiny. He who is not with me is against me. Zuko would bear the scar of that lesson all of his life. He expected to learn no greater truth from his father.
But the last three years had hardly been so clearly delineated. Now, everything he saw was thrown against the background of those years, and the lines of right and wrong often mutated with every breath. And, since his first encounter with the Avatar this sense of ambiguity had only grown stronger, more oppressive. He longed for the clarity of his childhood. His father considered him a failure for letting the Avatar escape him. How much greater a failure would he think him if he knew that Zuko had lost his sight?
Zuko resented his uncle for refusing to tear away the shrouds of confusion his experiences drew across his vision. He hated the Avatar for seeming to be oblivious to the shrouds.
And he hatedSokka most of all for seeing the shrouds and walking through them unimpeded. In his mind's eye, he watched Sokka striding through his life, fully aware that the ground beneath his feet was shifting, but unconcerned by it. He saw Sokka glance back at him, brows raised in question, and then turn away and continue on. This much their time together in prison had given him.
Sokka hated the Fire Nation, but did not seem to hate its people. When Zuko considered the question honestly he was sure Sokka had good reason to hate the Fire Nation, and him in particular. Without lifting a finger, he could have watched his enemy die. Instead, Sokka had placed himself at yet greater risk to change Zuko's destiny.
The Water Tribe boy was clever – as clever as anyone he had ever met, and that included Uncle! – brave, if foolishly so; loyal, again to a fault; wholly lacking in reverence – was this good or bad? - and possessed of that odd gift of humor that made his company easy, if somewhat annoying.
He could not think of someone he dreaded more facing, or someone he would rather have at his side.
The only answer was to break him beneath his feet.
