Sometimes letters came. Sometimes they didn't. Sometimes Katara went to the South Pole for months, to visit her Father, to talk to her Mother's grave, and to make sure Suru and Siki weren't just taught Northern style waterbending. Sometimes she didn't. She had never realised before, how freeing it was to not have a quest or a chore to look forwards to, to go at her own pace, and not be dragged on a round-the-world-trip to protect the people she loved.
'Come,' Zuko told her one afternoon, fingers still slightly stained with ink from a new document he had been drafting. Katara refrained from bending the dark smears off her fingers, allowing them to settle into their whorls. It would be different, of course, if Zuko had been laying such dirty things across her bare skin – then she would quite happily thrust water over them both.
Zuko grinned and dragged her out into the light, into an new garden to the side of the palace, rows and rows of fire-lilies weaving across the landscape, in freshly planted clusters and circles. It was like a bunch of red moons dotted across the lawn, spilling into the green space that stretched out and away from their feet; their own private universe.
'Oh...' Katara dropped his hand and started forward. Her breath caught in her throat at their scent, a smoky, almost meat-like tang. Not her personal favourite, but...
'You said they were your favourite flowers from the Fire Nation,' Zuko said behind her, painfully shy. 'I thought...I wasn't sure how well Earth Kingdom flowers would grow here, so I had to settle for second-best but...I just wanted you to have something nice.'
Katara instantly turned to him, squeezed his neck, and planted a hefty kiss on his lips. It was something she was getting better at doing, no longer quite as quick to lose her balance whenever she had to stretch up to reach him.
'I have plenty of nice things,' she told him primly. 'You, for instance. Right?'She playfully shoved him, giving him a gentle elbow to the chest. It was something she tended to do mainly to Sokka, but Zuko seemed happy enough to roll with the punches, as it were.
He still rubbed the place she had made contact with, with an exaggerated wince though. 'Toph is a bad influence on you,' he said wryly. 'But, yes: you have me.'
Katara beamed. Then turned, ready to dive back into the flowers waiting for her.
I was angry, stated the letter from Aang that arrived that afternoon. Because you lied. You never meant it to merely be a break. You came back after healing Ozai and I knew; I knew something had happened. You didn't need to say it; it was all in the way you looked at me and said you were sorry.
I'm sorry too. Sorry that you felt frozen, just saying those words to me. Because I want you happy, Katara. That's all I've ever wanted. I just wish you could have let yourself be happy with me.
Katara traced over the lines and swooping curves of ink with a tired thumb. For half a moment she wanted to nestle against Aang's side, use that same thumb to prod at his cheek, smooth over it as though calming a baby. Then she looked down at Zuko, his head nestled into her thighs, the royal sweep of the bed around them flooded with light and felt a painful clawing sensation rise up in her chest. It felt rather like catharsis. Because this, here, wasn't too different from what she had with Aang. Just better.
She breathed. Touched Zuko's scar. Bent down to kiss it. And resolved to herself, to stay happy, no matter what lay in her dreams waiting for her.
In a city, abandoned to history, someone walked. They leapt over the traps that fell and sprang open, they slipped past shadows that would have made a lesser person shiver. They moved round the edges of the jungle that spoke of light, of a campfire closeted by leaves and trunks, that filtered out the light like the bars to a cell. They slammed fist and nails into the sides of the few throats that were unlucky enough to sweep under their gaze, on routine patrol. The last thing these unlucky few saw was the rose-petal-like curve of dark lips, blooming into a cruel, satisfied smirk.
No one was there to watch that new shadow slip up stairs. No drumbeats pounded out to accompany their footwork, light and slight, as was tradition. The Sun warriors slept. The moon, and its domain, so richly closeted by waterbenders, had no pull over their bodies.
The figure paused. A soft blue light lit up their hand. And then after a flicker of a second, with hardly any hesitance to sour their step, they turned to the left.
'Zu-zu wasn't the only one who listened to your fancy stories, Uncle,' Azula spat. 'He was the one you bothered to tell them to, of course; but I saw grandfather's journals. I read between the lines of your mission reports. I know you hid something down here. Something big.'
She lifted her blue flame up to her face. 'And now it's time it helped me be big too.'
Azula stared down into the cave, into the two golden eyes that reared out to strike her in the soul with their keen animal focus. They slammed into her with the intensity of the sun, some alien emotion filling their gaze and slowly stripping away her confidence.
In...out...in...out...each snarling breath, each timed pant, Azula mimicked. Small plumes of flame rolled out to paste the stones at her feet with a golden light, before shifting enough to display the blue scales and their shimmer that looked more fish-like than reptilian.
'You are one of the masters here,' Azula said. 'You will...' she choked herself off at the snarl that reverberated through the tunnel at her command.
'You can teach me,' she amended. She wasn't stupid. To many people she was a dragon, capable of clawing them apart. To a dragon...well...she was a fish.
The dragon shifted closer. And Azula refused to bite her lip, to tremble and quake at their closeness.
The dragon closed its eyes. And rolled out a breath, so fiery and hot, that the space around Azula warped with heat, a shimmer before her gaze as the tunnel exploded with light. Red wrapped round her, around her skin and clothes, playing with the frayed black ends of her robes.
Azula was stunned. The trembling shakes of fire, of lighting she called up, snapped and frayed, the intense heat pushed her body down to the ground, to swallow down gulps of air frantically. And yet...the coils of red, the dances at the edge of her vision...she felt something in her mind lift. Warmth flared and rolled through her soul.
The dragon reared up and sprang over her fallen shape. Like a serpent it slithered over her. Wonderingly, Azula followed. No, she crawled, shattered, like a baby, she stumbled over to it, arms forced into a spare set of legs as her palms cut against stones and sharp fish bones littering the tunnel. Out into the night she breathed, falling onto the platform that linked her to the stairs and the ground waiting below.
The dragon soared up, painting a dark bridge to block out the stars, and still fumbling, Azula twirled to follow the pattern. She was a prodigy and genius, one who had worked to stay lucky, no matter what Zuko or her father may have believed. Part of that learning had involved observing, taking note of each flex of muscle as someone older and more experienced that her performed a move she should never have been able to copy until years afterwards. And the way that dragon above her moved...it pulled at something in her.
Clumsily, like the girl of eight she had once been, Azula's arms swooped down, then up, rising like the wings that beat above her. Her knee twisted, her leg unfurled, and her foot jutted out into the air at the same angle as the dragon's snout, now pointed towards the heavens. Some of course, she got wrong. Everyone made mistakes before they became perfect, it was part of mastering the craft. But as always, humiliation bubbled within her every time the dragon snarled in displeasure, each rebuke a fiery brand against her spirit. Azula hated being anything less than flawless. Throughout the night, the hours, she watched the curve and loop of the dragon's scales, experimented, and felt her movements grow slower, more curved and composed.
And then, as sun began to spike over the horizon, the dragon landed before her. Its snout dipped and weaved as it drew out long curls of orange flame, the neck arcing and weaving like the long, slow slide of a bender's arms as they moved their hands over someone's chest...
Azula blinked and stepped back, bile in her stomach. For a moment her hands had drifted out as though to trace the coils of flame, as though to copy the very same pattern. A pattern that reminded her of brown hands that cradled the scar she'd given her brother that night she'd been defeated.
She hissed, eyes narrowed in fury like a cat-eagle's. Her mind was clear, sharp, in the way it had used to be. Felt clearer and sharper, now that those curls of flames were riding the air in front of her, close enough to reach out and touch. Each fission of heat over her skin calmed the rolling beat of her heart, relaxed her muscles, cleared her mind. Yanked into her a sharp and sudden awareness of her chi and the way it spiked and rallied in her to produce fire.
'No.' her fists clenched. 'You're telling me to imitate that filthy peasant!'
Yes, Azula had learnt by observing as well as practising. And just as she had observed her old teachers, and the Dai Li, she had also, on some level observed the only waterbender who had made her struggle to achieve victory, and who had, on the most fateful occasion of all, beaten her completely.
The dragon snorted over her gently.
Azula breathed. Remembered the way these movements, these eddying motions of flames felt over her skin, and raised her hands. Out her breath came, warm and rolling, until fire spurted from her mouth. Because it was time to get to work.
And as those hours raced by, the Sun Warriors started to gather at the bottom of the stairs, glaring up at her as they nursed bruises on their neck. Azula did not spare them a glance; she was too wrapped up in the circular movement she copied from the sky, of the way, she brought fire out of her movements and made them flow, slow and gentle. The dragon drew itself through the sky in a glide above her, snorting out its happiness, the long line of it blue and slow, like the gentle unfolding of a water-whip and Azula grit her teeth at the resulting flash of memory, chasing away the sensation of a peasant clipping her hair with a long arm of water in a glowing catacomb below Ba Sing Se.
For she had always been a hard worker, more than Zu-zu ever gave her credit for. And eventually, hours later, as her limbs shook, as her lung almost collapsed, the pain stabbing through her body, the dragon drew itself down and coiled lazily round her form. Azula felt the warmth pulse around her back, the feather-like quiver of its tail-tip resting on her lap. And then a cough, a great hulking cough, shaking her to the core and rattling her ribs.
Darkness passed overhead, a spread of it detaching itself from the clouds nearby and drifting down, the sun playing out broad strokes of red against its scarlet coat, a second dragon touched down, eyes like live coals. And all Azula could do was gasp, limbs shaking in exhaustion as it curled its head down towards her and deposited a hunk of red, glistening meat in front of her. It hit her leg with a wet slap, and despite the ruby slew of gristle and blood, Azula did not turn away. She did, however allow herself to wrinkle her nose.
'How barbaric,' she drawled, letting one long silver of flame draw out of her finger.
The dragons naturally, did nothing to help her cook their gift. And Azula was careful not to walk away from anything, drawing moisture from the blood, in place of water, smearing her mouth with the juice of a kill still fresh from the hunt. Eventually, after she was satisfied, she drew herself up and stumbled towards the stairs. There, she stood for a minute, wind in her uneven hair, that was, eventually, after months of care, starting to look less lop-sided. Gone were the long, curve of bangs; now they hung short like squares, cheek-length, to help box in the face beneath the harsh fringe she had chopped for herself. It didn't suit her, looked more like something a Water Tribe barbarian would wear. But then again, Azula had been learning, this last year, that adapting to something outside the Fire Nation was something she needed to pay more attention to.
Azula looked down, to the warrior below, their drums still, and their forms blurred against the rocks. Like armadillo-ants, she thought savagely. She waited until the trembling in her frame had stopped completely. And then she walked down the stairs, cool poise in every step. Almost nonchalantly, she raised her head and inclined her chin towards the blue dragon which had started to circle overhead. With a rush it flew down to arch over her, not quite menacingly.
Azula hadn't guessed it would happen. She had known it would.
With barely a glance she drifted past the warriors. Stopped directly in front of their chief. And waited, until he stepped aside to let her pass.
Katara rose, practically bolted out of the bed, the memory of ice gold eyes chasing her from her dreams. She tripped and flailed, duvet converted into a long loose ribbon as it wrapped around her legs and landed on the floor. For a moment she stayed there and breathed, utterly still.
Then, trembling, she pulled water from the bowl she had left on her nightstand and pushed it against her brow. The throb of her head died in time to the rhythmic kneading of her fingers over her skin and eventually, she pushed the water back into the bowl in one long stream of motion.
'What was that?' she breathed.
Nothing answered her, but the worry, lodged in her stomach, like a knife, continued to twist for the rest of the day. And she hated it. It was there, when she looked at her food at the breakfast, as she touched the neatly-made rice-cakes with her chopsticks. It was there as Zuko took her hand afterwards and asked her, quietly but urgently what was wrong. It was there as she fobbed him off and lied horribly about having a headache.
It was there, it was there, it was there.
Eventually, Katara backed off from the book she was reading later that morning, head nursed between her palms as no amount of soothing water could make her worry ebb. The words ran before her eyes, transforming into inky blots with no meaning and she gasped, turning to flee from the library.
'I'll be in the city, if anyone asks,' she told the palanquin bearers at the palace entrance, refusing their aid, as she always did. She had two good feet, used to trekking through ice and snow and much harsher terrain; she didn't need to be carried anywhere.