Chapter 20
Something in his chest bottomed out at her words when the meaning hit him.
She isn't going to look how you remember, Suki had said.
If you haven't seen someone on their death bed before, then this could shock you, Suki had continued gently. Remember who she is to you, on the inside. Hold onto that. You'll need it.
And as Suki slowly wheeled him into Katara's private room, filled with flowers and cards and gifts and balloons and well-wishes, he couldn't get past how still she was.
Her lax face.
The limp hair.
The sunken eyes, staring glassily at the ceiling. Eyelids open, but eyes unseeing.
The mechanical way her chest rose and fell in time with the machine she was connected to.
The swollen bruising all over her face, the blisters on what little was exposed of her hands and arms. Her fingers were wrapped, and he swallowed, wondering. He was almost grateful he couldn't see her feet, knowing how his looked. Her skin was dry and flaking, and anxiety like he'd never known erupted through him; he wanted to run. Run away from this.
It wasn't her. It wasn't Katara. This isn't real.
But the haggard-looking men at her bedside, their emotions raw and so painfully obvious, couldn't act this well. Hakoda and Sokka were the leaders of the Tribe. They would never allow themselves to be seen like this. Vulnerability like this would never be displayed so openly.
And it was then, when he felt his own heartbreak match theirs and reality hit home to Zuko that he slowly slumped forward and reached out for her bandaged hand.
"Katara?" He struggled to breathe through the invisible bands that tightened around him, constricting and unrelenting.
"Katara?"