I know who you are.
Katara watches recognition unfold on the man's face, the mind behind it bringing together handfuls of the past and present into a single brand to press upon her. His eyes mock her camouflage; the plum silk robe with its modish flowing sleeves dripping past her fingertips, the silver stenciled sash wrapped in the proper modest style, the delicate ornaments decorating her hair, smooth with scented rice water. Each of these things is as particular as a flake of gold applied to a precious picture, a meticulous design of respectability and advantage. Katara knows her appearance is an illusion, artful and kindly given, but without substance nonetheless. Most days the pretty clothes and matching gestures are enough to guarantee the protection of invisibility, a curtain to draw between who she is and who she must pretend to be. Wrapped up in the convincing trappings of Fire Nation elegance, singing the role of the Fire Nation girl she isn't, Katara is apt at avoiding identification.
This time, however, there is no escape.
Of course, she recognizes him too. It's easy, devastatingly so. But then three years are a small amount of time to anyone except a child (in which case three years are the size of an ocean, or the length of a new life.) The few changes present, his sideburns a little trimmer, his brow a little wider, his skin a shade more weathered, are negligible. She does notice the difference in uniform, translating the armor markings as evidence of a promotion from when she saw him last.
Captain, she thinks. Captain Zhao.
"Well," he says, looking down at her, his face recovering from surprise and resettling into unpleasant, unconvincing congeniality. That too, the constant pretense in him, is unchanged from how she remembers it. "Who would have thought we'd meet again?"
Katara stares at him, silent. Paralyzed. In the back of her throat, the acrid scent of smoke drags its nails along the walls. Everything she has goes into keeping her breathing steady. (Strength comes from the breath, Master Iroh says. It cannot be forced, only felt. Zuko has trouble understanding this; Katara doesn't.)
"You look well, little fish. Ah, but not so little anymore, are you?" He smiles. Katara remembers the outlines of fire against the snow, how the screams broke the air. "And hardly a fish now, in those fine clothes. What a pretty thing you've cleaned up to be; one could almost mistake you for a civilized creature in this light." The smile widens; she wants to smash coal against his teeth. "You must've been born under a very lucky star, girl, to have things turn out like this. I trust you feel properly grateful."
Under the cover of the long, exquisitely embroidered sleeve, Katara's fingers curl into a fist.
"Still so quiet, though. I'm surprised; are you naturally silent or merely bashful? But old acquaintances like us have no need to be shy with each other." Zhao's hand rises up to drift towards the jade flowers in her hair. "Or has the illustrious General Iroh succeeded in teaching proper reticence to his wild pet?"
"Don't touch me." His hand stiffens, inches away from contact. Memories of smoke and snow turn Katara's voice into marble, unbreakable; its polish offers no purchase for his scorn. From the hollow center of her gut, she feels the coldness rise and fortify. "Get out of my sight."
His confidence thins, exposing the ill-kept arrogance beneath. "Apparently I gave your manners too much credit; Iroh hasn't explained the importance of showing correct respect to your betters, little fish."
"Master Iroh," Katara says with icy, faultlessly accented diction, "taught me that a man without shame has no honor. And a man without honor doesn't deserve respect, only pity." She unclenches her fists, feeling her expression sculpt itself into a replica of courtly disdain. "Who would lower her head to a worthless being like that?"
Now it is his hands that are clenched in anger, struggling for control. An ugly darkening in the man's expression warns Katara to run. She wants to. Instead, she tilts her chin higher and stares at Zhao without flinching. The energy between them trembles like heat coming off hot iron, palpating like a heart laid open by a knife, a hateful wound.
I know what you are; I remember.
"Katara!"
The tension splinters; Zuko's voice rings unapologetically clear through the hall, immediately changing the atmosphere. Both Katara and Zhao instinctively turn to watch the prince approach.
Zhao bows low. "Your Highness, how good to—"
Zuko ignores him. "Where have you been?" he asks Katara, radiating impatience. "I told you to wait in the west wing; this is north."
"I got lost." To Katara the various palace quarters look aridly the same: grand, vast, and intimidating. She does not like echo created by the high ceilings or the way torchlight oils the decorative ironwork of the numerous huge doors. The place feels too much like a monument and too little like anybody's home. Sometimes she wonders if being born royal means being born immune to a certain type of fear, the fear of empty spaces and their demands. "I always get lost when on my own here."
"Then don't go wandering off," Zuko snaps. Momentarily his attention shifts away from her to settle on Zhao. "Who's this?"
"Captain Zhao, Your Highness." Another bow. "I was just about to offer the young miss some assistance in finding her way. Such a pure beauty, after all, should not be left unescorted." Zhao's smile is polite, conservative, and threatening to any who's aware of the quicksand beneath its surface. "One can never be too careful."
You burned them. I saw you raise your hand and I saw the fire come; I saw the look on your face when you did it. You weren't fighting a war; you were destroying, taking because you could and didn't want to stop. You didn't even see them.
Murderer.
Savage.
Firebender.
"Katara?" She surfaces from the memory, disoriented and numb, surprised to find Zuko's hand on her wrist. It's unusual for him to touch her; the heat of his palm passes through the thin silk of Katara's sleeve, a glow sinking into the bone. "Are you unwell?"
He's worried; she knows the signs: the brittle edge his temper adopts when disturbed by things Zuko can't confront directly. Katara looks at this boy, a prince, the future emblem of the culture that is warring against the world, prince of the people who took her away from all she held dear. He is a Firebender. He will be the Fire Lord. He is the nephew of the man she respects and the son of the man she fears. He is proud and demanding and has eyes the color of raw gold. But he's also Zuko and when Katara looks at him she sees that before all else.
"It's all right; I'm fine." She reassures the boy, this powerful but painfully innocent boy, who is her friend despite the rules of the world around them. "Thank you."
"Come on," he says, letting go of her wrist. "I have something to show you; Uncle sent over another history scroll. About the Earth Kingdom. It's too dull to read alone."
Katara nods and wonders at how easily her paralysis crumbles beneath Zuko's simple, clean blaze of self-assurance. She knows he won't look behind when they walk, won't check to see if she follows, but will simply expect her to be there. It is a sign of egotism, but also, unexpectedly, of trust.
Pausing, she looks back at Zhao.
Etiquette excuses Zuko from having to bid any sort of formal goodbye to Zhao, his elder, the prince's status overriding common protocol. It would be different if Zuko had at any point addressed the man directly; such a connection would create certain polite obligations. But Zuko has not. Zhao stands ignored and thus, subtly, insulted. Katara understands it is not a deliberate slight on the boy's part, subtle or otherwise; it is simply…Zuko. Behind the prince's back, Katara's and Zhao's eyes meet, silently acknowledging the intensity of their connection. She watches the words choke up in his throat, stuck between the pretense of courtesy and sincere resentment.
"Thank you," Katara says, softly, "for your assistance, Captain Zhao. I will not forget to repay you in the future. For everything."
It is hard, so very hard, to turn her back on him, the enemy, but it gets easier with every step she takes. Zhao's hateful gaze spills acid down her back. In the past three years, she's grown used to glancing over her shoulder at whatever threat the shadows hold.
Today, Katara goes forward without looking back.