Hi, guys! I'm kind of on time...I guess...whatever that means ^_^

Anyway, here's the scoop on how things for this story are looking. There are only 2-3 chapters left, plus an epilogue. Heck yeah...almost there :3 I can do this! So there should be around 14 chapters, give or take an epilogue. And I intend to finish this before the end of the summer. I have a month and a half. Can I do it? Past records would suggest not, but I can defintiely try. Yes.

It might not happen though, so don't hold it against me. Andyway, enjoy this chpater :] Thankies for reading this far, everyone.

Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar. That is a very good thing, espeically for all the Kataang supporters.

Warning: Beware for major fluff/corny/crap/ooc-ness...didn't really proofread it either.

Yue didn't know how it had happened.

She had come back again, the next night, eager to see her prince once more. And he had been sitting up, gazing blankly into the distance, not exactly waiting for her, but seemingly having expected her arrival—he didn't start one bit when she came in through the door, and sat beside the bars. Closer this time, closer than all the previous times. Close enough to touch.

They had started out discussing small things. Yue gleefully explained about the Northern Water Tribe, about its customs, and traditions, the weather, how the people acted, how much she loved it here. She spoke of those she saw in the streets everyday, of her lessons that she more often than not drifted off during.

The smile on her face softened when she began to talk about why she loved her nation. In obsessive detail she described the way the ice glinted warmly with the suns last rays each night, reflecting the multi-colored sky, looking for all the world like a liquid rainbow, frozen into a perfect surface. She expressed the way the wind would blow through her hair during the day, cold and chilling, but comforting and familiar, an ever present phenomenon that she had grown up with, as much as one grows up with a dear friend or sibling.

She was an only child. On occasions she had played with other children her own age, but mostly she was by herself, either alone in her room or wandering the streets when not in one of her lessons. The palace maids and servants had been her playmates, playing make-believe and telling her stories when they weren't busy with other work.

Zuko marveled at this freedom she had had. A lonesome freedom sometimes, but a normal childhood nonetheless, filled with games and fun. Haltingly, he began to relate his own.

First he started off describing the Fire Nation. He spoke of how hot and harsh the climate could become in mid summer, how the sun scorched much of the land dry as desert, and volcanoes erupted several times a year, wreaking devastation.

But then he took on a more optimistic approach, describing how beautiful the flowers had been in full bloom during late spring, and how clear his favorite pond was on a perfect day, blue as the cloudless sky, and cool in the oppressive heat. He liked the heat though, much better than he like the frigidity of the North—he shivered, as if to emphasize his point.

His childhood, Yue soon discovered, had not nearly been as pleasant as her own. It was grudgingly that he finally conceded. From the moment his sister had been born, Zuko had experienced the drive, the need to surpass her. He knew his father loved her best, always knew it deep down, as much as tried to convince himself otherwise. But he wanted acknowledgement and so he tried, so hard, so very hard with all he had to please his parent.

It never seemed to be enough. Rarely good enough to receive in the slightest hint of acknowledge, never good enough to draw actual attention and pride.

At first he had had his mother at the very least. She had given him the care and attention his father never had. When his father grew angry at him and yelled, she was there to comfort him, and when the same man he so desperately wanted acknowledgement from ignored him—not even deigning to scorn him most occasions—time and time again, she had let him know how special he was to her, and how she loved him more than she could ever put into words.

His uncle had been there too, of course. Sometimes. He had still been the mighty Dragon of the West back then, and had rarely been home. Still, the few occasions he was able to spend with his nephew, he played games with him, and they drank tea together. They had been close, closer than Zuko and his father ever had been or would be. The Siege of Ba Sing Se began, however, and at that point, Iroh was never home, only sending messages, few and far in between. Yet Zuko had still waited for hawks and the news they would bring, waited eagerly like a child waits for Christmas.

His mother had really been the one there for him, though, all the time, whenever Azula was tormenting him, or Ozai felt it necessary to yet again "teach him a lesson". When she disappeared, leaving Zuko to the mercy of his sister and father, things took a turn for the worse.

Several months passed of pure torture, every moment filled with torture from either Azula or his remaining parent. No rest, no peace of mind. His nights, the only moments he was left alone, where filled with tears and sorrow, mourning for his mother, and regret that he was not good enough, not good enough to have made her stay, not good enough to stand up to Azula, and especially not good enough for his father. No, never. But that didn't keep him from trying, yearning for acceptance. He still did, even to this day, he admitted.

And then Iroh had finally returned, at the end of the Siege. His beloved uncle, the tea loving old fool. The one person who always seemed carefree and optimistic no matter what. But he was changed, very changed, by the war and suffering he had seen, but most of all by the death of his son. He no longer smiled, he never laughed. His tea pot sat dejected and unused in the corner of his room, gathering dust, as the retired-general, once such a noble proud man, curled up amid his bed sheets and soaked in his own pain and grief. He took no visitors, he wanted nothing more than to die himself, he sometimes said. Why couldn't he have died, in place of his son? It wasn't fair.

But eventually those days had come to an end. One afternoon, Iroh had sat up and dried his eyes, washed his face, combed his hair and dressed. He had ventured outside, walking as if in a daze, unseeing, unfeeling, like a zombie. Trailing through the courtyards and empty hallways, he had eventually come upon his nephew "playing" along with his niece and her friends. But it wasn't such a heartwarming scene, as one would expect. Azula had tied Zuko up somehow or other, and she was using him as a sort of human trampoline, jumping up and down on his back, up and down. Ty Lee was turning cartwheels in the background, seemingly oblivious to the on-goings. Mai on the other hand, was hysterical, yelling at Azula to stop because she was hurting him, really hurting him, and couldn't she see that?

Immediately, Iroh ran over to the group, and demanded that Azula leave her brother alone at once. He had scolded her, scolded her for a long time, his voice so angry and stern, and powerful, that even Azula had been taken off guard, and for once, she was the one with a fearful look her eye. Grumbling to herself, she and her friends had gone elsewhere. Iroh had untied his nephew, and helped him to his feet, enfolding him in his arms—gently for he was sore—and sobbing, sobbing, as he never truly had in all his days of grief. But then the tears had stopped, and so had his era of self-pity.

Because although Luten was dead, Iroh had another son. Another son by the name of Zuko. And right now, he needed him, needed him more than he ever had before, and Iroh had to help him, had to be there for him, as he hadn't been these past few months.

And thus things had begun to look up, if only a bit. Zuko was still tormented in every available moment, but now Iroh was there, a comforting presence stealing him away for tea and games, and even simple chit-chat every now and then.

Until his 14th birthday.

Zuko, in the way all teenagers feel at one point or another, felt his life was unfair, although he more justified than most and quite possibly even right. But the world was never a fair place. He had been robbed of his childhood, forced to grow up too fast, and now things were to accelerate even farther.

His fiancée…Yue froze here, waiting for him to continue with baited breath. Zuko was on friendly terms with her, and could perhaps grow to love her in time, who could tell? But he simply was not ready. Not ready to be grown up, not ready for all the new lessons he would be forced to take. Not ready to having anymore thrust into his life, because it was already filled to the brim, with mostly unpleasant things.

And then this had happened. He had been kidnapped, out of the blue, and brought to this god-forsaken place to freeze and rot to death—if one could rot in such frigid a climate—because his father was never going to come after him. Not in a million years.

Yue was silent at this outburst. They both were. Zuko stared off to the side, head resting in his folded arms atop his knees, Yue leaning against the bars, eyes half-lidded in contemplation and filled with sadness, legs curled beneath her.

And then it had happened. She had reached out, through the bars, placing her palms flat on either side of the foreign prince's face, and gently lifting it towards her own, pressed against the bars. And their lips had met. The kiss was not sweet, not happy. It tasted of sorrow and pity and empathy, and all manner of other sad things. But it was soft, and saturated with care and sincerity, and when Yue pulled away, her heart was racing faster than it ever had before in her life.

Zuko looked confused. Sad and hurt and lost—not because of her—but mostly and overwhelmingly confused. His pales lips shaped a single word, a question, his voice odd sounding and quiet as a whisper in the still, dark, cell. "Why?"

"Because," and here she moved even closer against the bars, slipping her arms through them, one around his neck, one around his back and pulling him towards her, as if she could absorb his sorrow into her being, and take it away from him, "Because I love you. And you deserve it." Few words, so very few words, and this made no sense. No sense at all, with the current events. She had known him but a few short weeks, no more, no less, and still she knew what she said was the truth. She knew it with every fiber of her being, and she could tell he knew she meant it. And that, as he pressed his lips to hers this time—soft, hesitant, cautious—he returned her feelings. Even if only a little.

The ocean breeze was sharp against Iroh's skin as he gazed ahead, watching the waves break and crash against the bow of the ship, as it cut through the water, fierce, commanding, and determined to reach its destination. He and his handpicked crew had set out mid-afternoon the previous day, amid goodbyes and cheers.

Ozai had made a big show of the whole affair. How he was sending out a rescue mission for his son, to save him, even if deep down in his heart he knew it was too late. But he would not believe it, would not give up hope. And thus was spawned this little escapade. Of course, he would have spared every ship and every man to pursue his beloved son. Yet, they were in a war, and he must put his people before his son, however much it pained him. The explanation for sending only a single ship on the journey.

Right.

Iroh wonder how many people were honestly stupid enough to believe the blatant lies spewing from the Fire Lord's mouth. Not that it mattered; they couldn't do anything. Having them realize the falsehoods for what they were wouldn't bring Zuko back any sooner.

And so Iroh did not dwell on the scenario, and merely pushed ahead, placing all his efforts into tracking after his nephew, and—hopefully—rescuing him. This was a suicide mission more or less. He realized this, indeed he did. Hordes upon hordes of armored warships, equipped with the best new technology and fighters of the time, had been sent to the Northern Water Tribe in hopes of defeating it, but they had all failed. What made him think he would be able to succeed against such odds? The answer was quite simple: determination and skill. Iroh needed to rescue Zuko, and he was going to, one way or another. There was no doubt about it. He might very well get himself killed in the process, but that was a risk he was very well willing to take.

Zuko had been through enough in his young life—he didn't need to suffer any more.

Yue lay on her bed, gazing dreamily up at the ceiling. They had kissed! Her father would murder her if he found out, but she had just had her first kiss. Her lips still tingled from where they had made contact with Zuko's. She was ecstatic.

In retrospect, she wasn't entirely sure what had possessed her to do such a thing, nor what had given her the courage to even think of committing such a daring act in the first place. But it had happened, and she was floating on her own little dream cloud.

Perhaps the two could get married, and reunite their nations. It was a far fetched imagining, to be sure, but what if such a thing were possible? Granted Zuko was already engaged—her heart skipped a beat at the thought—but surely that contract could be made void if such an important union were to take its place.

A silly, silly idea, of course, but one that made her stomach churn in delight nonetheless. Mind caught up in entertaining fantasies, Yue drifted off into a peaceful, content sleep.

Hours later, after Yue was long gone, spirited off for the day to her normal life and activities, Zuko mentally slapped himself. What had he been thinking, revealing all that to a border-line stranger, one from behind enemy lines no less? It was stupid, so insanely stupid, he could not find words to describe its stupidity.

And then the kiss. He was engaged, for the love of Agni, engaged and here he was kissing another girl. The daughter of the leader of one of the Fire Nation's greatest enemies, again, no less. Much mental slapping ensued.

But he did feel better now, as much as he hated to admit it. Never before had he spoken for so long, so passionately, and truthfully about anyone subject, and it was therapy in and of itself to get such a thing off his chest and into the open. The kiss had been an added—albeit, shameful—bonus. Yet, in that moment, he had felt something. Some spark, some sensation that made his mind foggy with glee, and his heart soar. How idiotic and ill-placed a sentiment. He needed to worry about getting out of here…he needed to worry about…

Yet somehow, he couldn't seem to pull his thoughts away from the odd foreign girl. From Yue.