disclaimer. atla belongs to bryke, zutara belongs to the fans, and nothing belongs to me. it is known.
author's notes. aaand here it is. not quite the update you wanted but probably the one you deserve. i said this would be short. i lied.
enormous thanks to everyone who's been following along and leaving such enthusiastic comments! your guesses and attention to detail keep me going, i swear.
importantly, a HUGE shout-out to circasurvival for beta-reading this and sprinkling everything with a hefty dose of awesomesauce!
i give you...
southern lights
chapter xxi. falling so slow (pt vi. trust)
you showed me hope amongst the hellequins in spring
and you told me life was learning how to be your friend
"rivers in your mouth" / ben howard
"Nothing," Jun mutters fiercely. "Absolutely nothing."
She kicks at the floor aimlessly. Over by the counter, an empty box of jerky topples over onto the ground. Nyla raises her head and whines at her reproachfully, but Jun ignores her.
"No leads, no witnesses, no allies, not one single thing besides those blasted coneheads…"
Jun's apartment is cluttered and tiny, a single room fitted with a cooking range, a countertop, and a trapdoor in the floor leading down to an even more modest cellar. Furnished sparsely with a single bedroll and a couple of moth-eaten armchairs, she's hardly ever regarded it as comfortable. But now, cooped up inside for what feels like weeks while waiting for a message to return from the Grand Lotus, Jun darkly thinks it resembles a prison cell instead.
Unfortunately, Iroh's response to her latest missive has been nothing but silence.
It's unlike him, Jun thinks uncertainly. If she didn't know any better, she would have thought that her letter hadn't reached him. But with the Dai Li on her tail, Jun can't risk sending another letter. They would probably intercept it, read it, and that would the end of it and the end of her.
Game over.
So in the meantime, she's been twiddling her thumbs in the cramped confines of her stuffy apartment, feeling the eyes of the Dai Li agents watching her door, waiting and biding their time. They're not stupid enough to trespass, not with Nyla guarding the door. But as every day passes and Jun's stockpile of stakeout supplies hidden in her cellar dwindles further, they get that much closer to intercepting her.
She isn't naïve enough to think they'll wait to do it under cover of night, either. The lower ring in Ba Sing Se has been a hotbed of Dai Li activity for years now. Getting used to people being hauled off by the silent authority was part and parcel of living in the walled city. Everyone knew that. Besides, all the occupants of her street gave her a wide berth, both because of her reputation and because they were afraid of Nyla. She's pinned in place, alone, with no one to help her but her faithful shirshu.
"Damn it," Jun swears, clenching her hands into a fist.
She's been outgunned from the very beginning. When Iroh sent her that knife, either he had no idea of the implications or he'd held out on her. She curses the day she received it. Hell, she curses the day she met him.
A knock at the door causes her to still.
She casts her eyes at the sundial by the shuttered window. An hour past midday.
Right on schedule.
She and Nyla sit stubbornly motionless.
The knocking continues.
Then it subsides.
Jun lets out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Silence reigns within her little flat, as it usually does.
"We know you're in there, Jun," calls the voice, that loathsome, cultured, silky voice that grates on her nerves and haunts her in her sleep. "You can't stay in there forever. One day, you'll have to come out. Why not now? We'll be merciful if you do."
Merciful. Jun snorts. Yeah right.
She'd be lucky if they killed her quickly.
And then there was Nyla. Jun doesn't know what the Dai Li would do with a beast like her. Use her? Cripple her? Abandon her on her own? It doesn't bear thinking about.
"Still stubborn, I see," the voice continues at last, from just outside her door. "Well, no matter. We'll be back. And one day, you might find that we're not as patient as you."
Then go ahead and try, Jun thinks recklessly, biting her tongue to stop herself from blurting the words out loud.
But that's what they want. To make her careless.
Jun would be fooling herself if she thought that she was safe in her apartment. The Dai Li were earthbenders and if they wanted to, they could make their way as easily into her apartment as they could anywhere else. No, the real message of this prolonged stakeout is loud and clear.
They're toying with her. They want her to fear them, to fear for her life before the end.
This is a game, and the stakes are life or death.
And it ends when they get tired of it. Not her.
Zuko ignores the insistent knocking at his door, choosing to remain lying on his bed instead.
The mattress creaks beneath him, firm, almost uncomfortably solid. The dark red covers, usually soft and comforting, now just chafe against his skin. Around him, the walls of his room loom cold and grey, suffocating like the very air in his room. The curtains remain tightly drawn across the window, plunging everything into a murky timeless dark.
It's been two days since his uncle woke him in the middle of the night with the news. Two days since he's felt the turn of the world, moving slowly beneath his feet, ever onward without him. Two days of limbo, of feeling like he's suspended in the air, mid-flight, waiting to fall.
It all tumbles in his head, the thoughts snatching at him, eating away at the remnants of his sanity until he's certain that he's going to lose it.
He isn't sure what's worse: waiting for the inevitable or watching it unfold. All this time, he's been holding his breath - watching his uncle hold his breath - as the Emperor's days fell into decline. But after hearing the news from Uncle Iroh, seeing him remain so calm, so strong, even while grappling with the loss of his father, Zuko can't help but feel the old wounds opening up again as he lies here like an animal in a cage.
I want to go with you, he'd blurted out to his uncle as he turned to leave. Let me stay by your side. Let me protect you.
Where does he belong if not with his family at a time like this? Even though his own relationship with his now-deceased grandfather was lukewarm at best, and even though his stomach churns with guilt over the twin realizations that he never got to say goodbye and that it doesn't bother him so much because Azulon was a stranger to him anyway - a stranger who could have stopped his father but didn't – the fact still stands. If he can't call Caldera City home now, when his family is mourning, then when will he ever?
I did nothing wrong, he remembers insisting to his uncle so many weeks ago. What if I don't forgive? Doesn't that matter?
At the time, it all seemed so clear. He was in the right and his father had wronged him, and that was the end of it. That was all he needed to calm the storm within.
But now, it feels so naïve, hollow, like it could never be enough. With his grandfather dead, his uncle returning to a home without him hurts too much. The feeling of being apart, of being unwanted…it makes him want to reconsider, to cast aside the accumulated indignation and wounded pride of the last few years and meekly return home. To do anything, no matter the cost, if it meant he could only not be alone anymore.
Except somehow, incredibly, that notion makes him feel even worse. And the helplessness, the sheer injustice of it all rankles at his skin, eating away at him like a canker.
His fingers reach up to graze the edges of his scar and his face twists, contorting into something like a mask out of one of his mother's plays. His scar. A mark of the dishonoured prince, lost to exile and doomed to live life in the shadows. In some ways, it's become a mask of its own. He forgets that he wears it, he's had it for so long now but it's always there. A constant reminder of everything he's lost: honour, love, home, family. All of it gone, snatched away from him by his own father, with the blind complicity of everyone else in his family.
Everyone except his uncle who'd been away from the palace at the time that it happened. All this time, Zuko has been telling himself that if Uncle Iroh had been around, he would have talked some sense into his father or the Emperor. He tells himself that it might have made a difference. He doesn't know whether it's out of blind desperation or cruel hope, but it's kept him going so far.
And then the same hope, rising from the ashes like a newborn phoenix when he'd read his mother's letter, only to be dashed to pieces at the cold realization that maybe he's been fooling himself all along. Maybe his father's love is something he's never had, maybe it's not his fault, and maybe he's been searching for the wrong thing this whole time. And maybe, just maybe, he's found it in his uncle, right in front of him this whole time.
But when Uncle Iroh had rebuffed his offer – you will stay put, my nephew, he'd replied flatly without a second thought, until I know what's going on you will not leave this encampment, promise me – a part of Zuko, the only part of him that matters after everything, recoils at being left behind yet again.
The rational side of his brain argues that Uncle Iroh is doing this because he cares. That Uncle Iroh is just trying to protect him in his own way and he should be grateful to his uncle for trying to be the father he's never had. And Zuko is.
Except the dull burn of fury coiling in his gut makes it clear that he's not a child anymore, and he doesn't need to be coddled and guarded from the harsh realities of palace life. What he needs is a place where he belongs - a reassurance that unlike the scar on his face, his estrangement from his former life isn't permanent.
Up until now, he's been convincing himself that it's by his uncle's side. That Uncle Iroh regards him as a son too. He has every reason to believe it, with how his uncle has nurtured him and sheltered him from the grief that his own family has ignored, caused even. But if so, wouldn't it mean that Zuko's place should've been beside his uncle - helping him grieve, helping him cope, supporting him – instead of being shut up in his room at an encampment far away surrounded by officers and strangers?
Promise me that you will stay, his uncle commanded that night in a steely voice. You belong here after all, Prince Zuko.
I belong by your side, he'd argued weakly, dashing the tears from the corner of his eyes.
You belong where you are safe, Uncle Iroh returned, his tone brooking no room for protest. You belong where you are loved and cherished. For now, that place is here, with your friends.
But Zuko had tried anyway.
My friends are important to me, he pointed out, but they are not my blood.
No they are not, Uncle Iroh allowed. But they are still your family.
And that was that.
When I have determined that it is safe back home, Uncle Iroh reassured him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, I will send for you. And your friends.
Resentment courses through his veins like an angry fever. He glances blankly at the writing desk by the covered window, usually immaculately kept but now strewn with unrolled scrolls of paper, overturned brushes, and smashed bottles of black ink. The viscous dark fluid seeps into the porous wooden surfaces, half-dried and congealing. All battered survivors of a briefly indulgent outburst of rage the day before, an eternity ago when he still had the energy to move.
It was all so easy for his uncle, to drop everything and move on from one strategy to the next. Everyone loved him, respected him, wanted to die for him. He made it look so easy, to make a home for himself no matter where he was.
Meanwhile, Zuko has been stuck in the same encampment for six whole years now and he still can't bring himself to call it home. And even if his friends are starting to feel comforting and familiar like the family he's never had, he can't bring himself to admit it without feeling like he's settling. Without feeling like a complete failure because if he hadn't lost his real family, he wouldn't be here in the first place.
And all the while, Zuko's mind keeps taunting him, conjuring visions of what awaits his uncle back at the palace. Even if he's been away from home for years and out of touch with his family, there is no doubt in his mind that his father is planning something. And knowing his father, it's something sinister.
He imagines Uncle Iroh being cut down at the palace gates, stabbed in the back by a guard he'd thought to trust a little too readily. Uncle Iroh being barred from the palace and the ensuing fury of those who loved the famed Dragon of the West. His father, whispering into Emperor Azulon's ears all throughout his dying days to alter his will and pass the throne of the Empire to his younger son, in spite of all his previous transgressions. What chaos that would cause. To leave the Empire in the hands of the man who had almost single-handedly rained turbulence upon the empire with his treatment of the water tribes, who was asking after the only waterbender under Iroh's direct command, who couldn't love his only son if his life depended on it…
He imagines his uncle challenging his father to an Agni Kai to settle the matter. That the winner would inherit the kingdom and the loser would spend their life on the outskirts in complete dishonour, the way Zuko had.
He imagines his father parrying, insisting that it was legacy that mattered and their heirs should fight the Agni Kai instead. What did it matter which of the two of them was stronger if they couldn't leave the empire in hands stronger than theirs? He imagines Azula and Lu Ten squaring off. He imagines the look on his uncle's face should his son lose and the kingdom be forfeited to his grasping, conniving brother after all.
He imagines it all and worse, and it's driving him out of his mind, almost out of his very skin, that he can't lift a finger to help any of it along. That he's stuck here, trapped, shouting into the void with no one to listen.
Even though people are around. Why, people have been knocking on his door all day and well into the night. Presumably to offer their sympathies and their allegiances and maybe even their thinly-disguised pity. He wants none of it. Lying back here in bed, staring emptily at the patterns in the stone of his ceiling, he feels absolutely sick of it all.
Last time, he'd wanted the world and only his uncle had showed up. Now, the world is knocking at his door and he only wants his uncle.
"Zuko?" a voice calls through the door, and he recognizes it as Aang's. He stirs, but doesn't move. "It's us again. We're worried about you."
Let him in, advises the voice of his mind that sounds suspiciously like his uncle. He may not be your family by blood, but there are things so much more important than that.
But he claps a hand to his forehead and shakes his head. He doesn't want them to see him like this – paranoid and shaken and utterly falling apart at the seams. He wants to go home, he wants to be okay, and nobody can give him these things so he just wants everyone to go away.
"You haven't stepped out of your room since it happened," Aang continues, his voice steady but concerned. "That's – that's a long time to be cooped up in there. We just want to make sure you're okay."
It's almost as though he's been reading his mind. But Zuko snorts to himself again. As though anything Aang can say or do could possibly make anything okay.
"He hasn't eaten," he hears Katara hiss from somewhere beyond his door. "Tell him he needs to eat something."
Irrationally, he finds himself wishing that his friends would stop wasting their time on him. That they could find someone who was actually worth their efforts and their concern. Because fool that he is, he's too busy mourning the loss of a family that doesn't even consider him good enough to stand by their side during their worst moments. Hell, they won't even deign to support him in his. More often than not, he muses grimly, they cause them.
"We brought you food," Aang speaks up, his weary voice faltering only a little bit. "Again."
"Zuko, let us in." Now it's Katara speaking and her voice is firm, but breaking a bit at the end. "Please."
If only she knew the truth, she wouldn't be wasting her time here. The louder chorus of his instincts instantly drowns out the part of his spirit that springs with hope eternal, that's beside itself because she's here – that she still cares, despite everything. All he can hear are the voices that clamour for him to curl up into a little ball and forget everything, telling him that anything that isn't his family telling him that they need him with them won't make a single difference, and she's wasting her time on him and he never deserved her anyway so why is she still here?
Why are any of them still here? Why do they care?
"Let me handle this." Toph's voice filtering under the crack of his door is quietly capable, before she raises it. "Sparky, that's enough. If you don't let us in by the time I count to ten, I'm breaking down your door."
Oh, he doesn't doubt it.
"Ten. Nine."
He contemplates letting her do it, too. That way they'd know not to interfere next time. Except, then there'd be a giant hole where his door is and he'd have to kiss any privacy of his down the drain.
"Six. Five."
But then –
Love is not a weakness, the voice of his uncle reminds him, taking him back to another time when he lay fallen in the dirt, downtrodden by the weight of his inadequacy. Sometimes it is difficult to see in the darkness. Sometimes it is easy to feel like the love we carry is more a burden than a gift.
Until this moment, he doesn't think he's truly understood the meaning of his uncle's words. But all of his instincts snap at him to shut everything out, to cut his heart out from his chest if he could because only then would everything stop hurting, and at the same time, the weight of everything bears down on him like the heavy stone blocks in the walls pressing into the ground, sturdy and unyielding, and how much he needs to feel it in spite of it all because otherwise what would the point of anything be?
He considers it all deliriously in a span of a moment, before a subtle flickering of the dim light in his room distracts him. The curtains are still tightly drawn across his window but somewhere beyond them the sun still blazes, too bright for his eyes to handle. It could be midday or maybe early afternoon, judging from the intensity and warmth of the light that manages to creep through where the heavy maroon fabric ends and briefly illuminates the room for half a feverish second.
Then, the light shifts and dims again and he lets out an aggravated sigh. Flame trickles from his mouth and nostrils before he finally swings out of bed, planting his bare feet firmly onto the cold stone floor, and trudging slowly to the bolted iron door.
"Two –" Toph is counting, her voice rising in a warning threat when he slips the bolt and swings the door open. The light pouring in from the hallway is blinding and he flinches, staggering back a step, shielding his eyes with a defensively raised forearm.
He doesn't look at them right away but he feels some of the tension sap out of them the instant they see him. He can sense their hesitation too as they struggle to say something to him that isn't presumptive and his irritation with the whole thing mounts even as a part of him is relieved to see them, that they're here.
"About time," Toph says at last, crossing her arms across her chest defiantly. "Otherwise I was going to do it, you know."
"I know." The words scrape over his throat, hoarse and unwilling. It's the first thing he's said out loud since he bid his uncle goodbye. Against his more stubborn impulses he raises his eyes to glance at them briefly – Toph on edge and alert with her arms crossed, Katara with a tray of food in her hands, Aang holding a pitcher of water in his – before his gaze drops again.
"Well don't just stand there," he forces out dismissively, turning on his heel and stubbornly making his way back to his bed. Even now, he is unsure of whether he wants them here for any purpose other than to drive them away, to make a point to them or more like just to himself. He sits on its edge this time, pushing the rumpled covers to the side instead of lying down again and in some ways that's probably an improvement in itself.
The tentativeness of their motions grates hardest on his nerves. They tiptoe around him, exchanging looks with each other whose meaning he doesn't want to comprehend, silently pulling the door shut behind them. He keeps his gaze fixed to the stone-tiled floor, bracing himself for the inevitable condemnation as they take it all in. The state of his room, a dark and silent battlefield of crumpled sheets and discarded clothing and broken bottles of ink. The muffled, wet sound of someone swallowing slowly, a throat clearing quietly, lips pressing together in tightly held concern. They hesitate, hovering on the periphery of his senses, too far away, too close, a happy medium nowhere in sight.
It's this very thing that he's been trying to avoid. He's tired of being treated gently, as though he's some invalid. It reminds him sharply of his uncle, of the last time he'd been helplessly bedridden.
He feels the bed depress slightly as someone sits next to him. "Here," Aang says, lowering the pitcher of water into his hands. "I'd give you a cup but I think you must be really thirsty now."
His mouth tightens as he gazes at it, the cool, clean water rippling within the clay pitcher. Only then does he pay attention to how dry his throat and tongue are, how he can't even remember the last time he drank anything and that maybe on this matter, the Air Nomad is right.
He lifts the pitcher to his lips, tilts it back, and feels the cool water rush into his mouth. He swallows, hesitantly at first, but then quicker and more greedily as his body springs back to life and drowns out the shouting of his mind, overwhelming him with the need for satiety. The water spills over his lips, trickling down his face, dripping onto his lap, and when he lowers the pitcher to catch his breath, it's mostly empty.
He feels their eyes on him, but he doesn't want to meet them yet. He doesn't want to see the pathetic thing he's become, reflected in them.
"Thanks," he rasps out instead, wiping at his face with the short sleeve of his thin red tunic.
"Feeling better?" Aang asks simply, taking the pitcher back. Zuko nods once. The water's done a lot to clear the fog in his head.
"How are you holding up?" This from Toph, leaning against the wall by his bed. He shrugs.
"I don't know," he confesses shortly. The guilt returns as he faces it again. "Okay, I guess? I barely knew my grandfather."
His admission catches them off guard, he sees. They must have expected him to be agonizing over the loss. It's time they learned what a terrible grandson I am, he thinks to himself sourly. He catches the quick exchange of glances between them, the apprehensive understanding – or misunderstanding, he doesn't care to clarify.
He awaits their judgment, feeling detached from it all. In some ways, he invites it. But instead –
"Okay enough for a bit of food?" Katara asks from some distance away, breaking the weighted silence.
The warmth in her voice amazes him. How can she still want to be here after seeing how pathetic this all is? Even more surprising is feeling his stomach awaken, as though in response to her words. He still can't bring himself to meet her eyes, so he nods quietly instead.
She approaches him cautiously, as though he's some wounded feral creature that's gone skittish and she's trying not to set him off. But when she presses the tray into his lap gingerly, fingers accidentally brushing his own as she lets go and retreats a safe distance away, he sees that there isn't pity in her eyes, only concern.
Feeling his spirits marginally rise, he balances the tray on his lap and pulls the lid off one of the dishes. The porridgey jook is still steaming hot and he reaches for the spoon without complaint.
"They've only been serving mourning food," Katara explains, as though she's apologizing. As though she thinks that right now, he has any appetite for food that isn't mushy and bland.
"I know," he makes himself say, before transferring a bite to his mouth. It tastes of rice and water and a hint of salt, but he relishes it all the same. Somehow, as though they knew, it's exactly what he needs. "They'll stick to the mourning diet until the emperor's body has been cremated, probably a few more days at least..." He gulps down a few more mouthfuls before he catches the uneasy look that Aang and Katara exchange. "What?" he asks them, setting down his tray and feeling his stomach roil.
Katara presses her lips tightly together and shakes her head, her wide blue eyes fixed on Aang's.
"What?" Zuko repeats more insistently, throwing an accusing stare at Aang.
Aang lowers his grey eyes. "They cremated him today," he sighs.
Zuko's eyes widen. "Today?" he echoes incredulously. He pushes the tray off of his lap and it balances precariously on top of his covers.
Aang nods sadly. "But –" And Zuko's stammering now because it makes no sense, it's happening too soon, "but that's not right! The emperor's body is supposed to rest for a period of time and they're supposed to hold a state funeral and have the Fire Sages announce the succession –"
The succession.
His hands tangle through his hair, nails scraping against his scalp. His worst fears are rearing their heads in broad daylight now, no longer mere insubstantial figments of his imagination that torment him all night long, but real, materializing before his very eyes.
"Uncle Iroh wouldn't even have had time to make it back to the capital by now," he realizes, nails dragging from his scalp to bite into the skin stretched thinly across his temples. He's positively shaking now. Agni help him, everything he's always feared, everything he's tried to warn Uncle Iroh about - it's all coming true right before his very eyes and there isn't a damned thing he can do about it. "What –"
"They said," Aang goes on, his voice steady and calm, "that your father declared –"
Zuko closes his eyes, jaw clenched and heart drumming in his chest as he remembers with rising dread Uncle Iroh's calm face as he confidently insisted that his father couldn't –
" – joint rule," continues Aang. "Between himself and his brother. He said there was no point in forcing a contest of succession, not now when things need to be stable. That right now, a smooth transition of power was most necessary for peace."
"What?" Zuko chokes, jumping to his feet. His fists clench tightly as he tries to make sense of it all. His voice is a stuttering crack of sound in his distress. "Are – are you sure?"
The tray bounces off the mattress, crashing to the ground with a loud clatter. The little clay bowl cracks into a thousand sharp shards, its mushy contents spreading onto the floor every which way. He pays it little heed, but from the way his companions' heads twitch at the motion, it is clear the same cannot be said of them.
"Well…yeah," Aang affirms, appearing unsure of how to redirect his sudden distress as though it's lightning. "That's what they announced at lunch today –"
"My father," Zuko heaves out, voice strengthening and disbelief growing with every word, "told the entire Empire of his own volition that he was going to share power…with my uncle?"
Aang nods and he feels the bottom drop out of his stomach. The room is spinning around him, or maybe it's just his head, he doesn't know, nothing makes sense anymore –
"Take it easy, Sparky," Toph speaks up, and at once, her solid form is holding him up, guiding him back to the edge of his bed. He doesn't sit down again, but leans against one of the solid wooden posts at the corner for support.
Out of the corner of his eyes, a swish of blue and white. Katara silently kneels on the ground by his bed, hands straightening the scuffed wooden tray, bending the gluey porridge off the ground with a twist of her wrist, picking at the broken pottery shards with delicate, methodical fingers.
He's dimly aware of Toph as she tilts her head, flexes her fingers, and pushes a hand out in front of her. Katara turns her head to flash a small grateful smile at the earthbender as the rest of the small clay pieces rise into the air as one and land on the tray in a neat heap. Toph nods almost imperceptibly before the two of them return their attention to him, faces schooled back to neutrality.
Toph's only a pace away, Aang still sitting with pitcher in hand on the bed, Katara hovering half its length away. They're not far enough, not nearly close enough. Yet there's something faint rising within him, like they're exactly what he needs. It eases the sting of being left behind a little. Only a little. But it's better than nothing. It brings him back, helps him focus.
"That," he mutters, shaking his head, "that is so unlike him."
"What is?" Aang inquires, wide-eyed.
"My father," Zuko explains curtly, rubbing at his forehead in agitation. "Being peaceful. He has something up his sleeve. I know it."
He feels the doubt radiating off Aang, and Toph arches an eyebrow too. But Katara has always been ready to believe in the worst when it comes to his father and when he chances a glance at her he sees that she at least is not so easily convinced.
"Well, if you think about it," she says slowly, and he can see the wheels turning behind her eyes, that she has arrived at the same conclusion that has him unsettled. "Prince Ozai gains a lot more from joint rule than General Iroh. He isn't even the heir. The throne by all rights belongs to the older son. But now –"
"Now what?" Aang asks, ever the voice of reason. He sets the pitcher down on the hard ground next to the tray by Katara's feet, stands up, turns to Zuko hesitantly. "I know you don't think very highly of your father, Zuko – probably rightly so, but –"
"My father," Zuko forces his voice to stay calm but he's still quivering, "is the cruellest man I've ever met. And now he's wrangled his way into sharing the throne with my uncle." He shakes his head. "I'm not even sad about the emperor, you know? What a horrible grandson that must make me." His mouth twists, eyes darting from the floor to each of their faces in turn. He wonders what they see when he looks at them. A pale, gaunt spectre with jittery eyes and an empty space where his heart should be? "I'm just so scared for Uncle. He's an idealist and I know he can maneuver his way around a court plot better than anyone else but…" he flounders, wondering if everyone else thinks he sounds as paranoid as he thinks he does.
"Your uncle's also the rightful ruler," Aang points out. "Maybe he'll have to share power with his brother, maybe he won't –"
"I know Uncle Iroh," Zuko insists through gritted teeth. "He would never risk a war to consolidate his place on the throne. He would rather work with my father –"
"Well, your father isn't stupid either," Aang points out, rather sensibly. "Cruel and selfish doesn't necessarily mean foolish. And I'm sure your father realizes that even if they are equals now, General Iroh is the older brother, the firstborn. He's the one who was raised to rule. He's the one who controls the army. He's the one that the people trust. Even Prince Ozai would know better than to challenge him."
"I know," Zuko admits. "But –" He stops in his tracks and tries to think. Tries to weave together the threads of all the different things eating away at his fraying sanity into something coherent for the others to follow. He crosses his arms and exhales through his teeth. "My father and my uncle have always…been at odds with each other when it comes to a plan for the future of the Empire. Uncle Iroh, as you saw, believes in building bridges and committing to a future for everyone, Fire Nation or not. My father…has other inclinations."
"Fire Nation superiority," Katara supplies, stepping forward, face darkening. He nods his head at her.
"More or less. And what's more important is not that he believes it, but that his supporters do too." He plies Aang with a long, searching glance. "You were correct to point out that my uncle has the support of the army and of the people. But my father's been sitting at the emperor's side, issuing his own edicts. And his supporters are in the palace, with sway in the Imperial Court. And now that he has surrounded himself with like-minded people who share his vision for the future…" he pauses, hand gripping the wooden bed post supporting his weight until his knuckles go white, "…I just wonder if the support of the army and the people will be enough to keep him under control."
"But isn't that what the court is for?" Aang counters, frowning. "I thought the whole point of having all those elected representatives and ambassadors in the court was to disperse all the power from the ruling family and keep them in check."
"Yes," Zuko agrees. "That was the point, way back when Emperor Sozin and General Roku first founded the empire. But Fire Nation elected representatives outnumber the voices from the colonies now. And the ones who control the court are more likely to agree with my father's view of things than my uncle's. They like things the way they are now, after all, and my uncle wants to change everything." He drops his voice to a soft whisper, feeling sick at the thought of it all. "And he's going to be all alone in that den of vipers. That's why I'm worried."
His fingers flex, nails dragging against the wooden post as though to emphasize his disquiet. The others don't say anything, contemplating his words with a reticence that only punctuates their doubt.
"I don't know," he says at last, clapping a hand to his forehead when their silence draws out longer than he's comfortable with. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I am overthinking this."
"We never said that," Toph speaks up and her voice is gentle. "You're afraid for your uncle for very good reason. But if there's one thing Grandpa's good at, it's manipulating people." Her mouth twists into a wry sort of grimace, and he can't help the scoff that escapes him.
"Yes, but –" his gaze flits over to Katara standing grim-faced a dozen paces away, and he straightens, staggering half a step forward because if anyone will understand, it'll be her. "But now that he's put the idea of joint rule out there, the people will expect nothing less." He sees her nodding slowly and he is heartened enough by the sight to continue airing the thoughts that trouble him. "If my uncle refuses to share rule, my father's supporters will be displeased. They might silently plot to have him overthrown or even revolt against him openly. It isn't a good way to start your reign."
"But neither is challenging the rightful heir outright," Katara points out gently, somehow affirming his worst fear and dispelling it at the same time. "No matter what Prince Ozai has planned, he can't do it without angering General Iroh's supporters." She shrugs helplessly. "So, it looks like your father needs your uncle a lot more than your uncle needs him. For now."
"For now." The words are meant to reassure but they settle ominously over him like a shroud instead.
"So why are you still worried?" Toph asks him, ever perceptive. "Grandpa's got the throne and he's also got your dad in a chokehold. Isn't that enough?"
"It should be," Zuko mutters, and he's pacing now, trying to make sense of it all. "It should be enough, but –"
"But what? Why are you still worried?" Toph continues to prod, shaking her head. "The sooner you spit it out, the sooner you can get it off your chest."
Zuko turns back to the wooden post at the corner of his bed, leaning against it as though in defeat. "I know. I just -" His hand rakes across his scalp, a futile habit by now. "I just wish I understood. I wish I knew what my father was thinking."
"Well, it looks like he's thinking about how to keep a steady hold on the throne without letting the empire fall apart into chaos," Aang says, putting a consoling hand on Zuko's shoulder. He flinches at the gesture but doesn't shrink from the air nomad.
"That's just it, though," Zuko gripes. "That's so very unlike him. The man I knew wouldn't do that. Not without a fight."
"Maybe he's changed." The tone of Aang's voice conveys to Zuko that even he considers it unlikely. Nevertheless, he persists. "It's been a long time since you've known him."
Zuko scoffs again and shakes his head vehemently. "That's what my mother said," he spits out, still finding the words unpalatable. "She – she says that he's changed. That ruling's made him a better man." Contempt turns his words into a sneer.
"You don't believe her," Toph remarks flatly, turning her sightless face in his direction.
"I want to," Zuko confesses, hanging his head. "But I can't."
Toph nods, as though she understands exactly what he's talking about. To his surprise, she steps right up to him and comfortingly puts a hand on his back. She doesn't say anything, but he remembers that she knows all too well what it's like, having incorrigibly controlling parents.
"He's…" Zuko presses on hoarsely, encouraged by the quiet solidarity, of being taken seriously for once, "he's done such terrible things, you can't even imagine. Not just to the Water Tribes –" he briefly turns to face Katara in acknowledgment, feeling the customary jolt in his stomach at the sight of her face crumpling slightly, " – but even to his own people." He closes his eyes, remembering it with disconcerting ease, as though it haunts him at the edges of his subconscious and threads through his nightmares. "He was willing to sacrifice an entire battalion of raw recruits to thwart the revolt of Omashu. Did you know that? When Bumi's forces were too much for his troops to contain, his solution was to lure them away with," he breathes heavily through his nostrils, his fists clenching tightly, "fresh meat."
He opens his eyes to face them defiantly, watching the slow horror of comprehension dawning across their faces.
"I thought your uncle was supposed to be in charge of the army," Aang breathes out, his voice rising barely above the hush of a whisper as though he doesn't trust himself to say anything more.
"Normally he would have been, but this was around the time of the polar wars. My uncle and the emperor naively made the mistake of giving my father a chance to prove his mettle." He turns to face the curtained window, where the flickering light at its edge casts strange shadows across the room. The congealing ink still dripping slowly from broken glass bottles, the crumpled uniform on the ground the same shade as the cascade of his bedcovers, and how the half-light stains it all the colour of blood. He feels them watching him slowly in mounting horror as he continues doggedly. "He founded the city of New Ozai with the blood of good, loyal soldiers who were probably our age and just wanted to serve their country," he says to them, still facing the window listlessly, "and he wouldn't hear a word against it. Anyone who spoke out wasn't just being unpatriotic, according to him – they were challenging his own honour. As though there's honour in slaughter." He wills himself to stop shaking, to banish the memory of his father's sneering voice and the agony of fire on his skin, but –
"And to teach everyone a lesson against speaking out, he even…he –" he chokes out, his throat constricting and a hand coming up to briefly touch the charred red mask of his scar, now mended but never healed. Almost instantly, his hand drops and his throat becomes impossibly tight and he finds himself incapable of going on.
From somewhere behind him, too far away, he hears Katara make a strange, strangled sound, like all the air is being squeezed out of her lungs.
"Agni Kai," she gasps, so quietly it's as though she just talking to herself, as though no one else can hear her.
But he does. He feels his blood turn to ice in his veins. Everything stops for a moment.
His head whips around instantly. She flinches visibly at the intensity of the stare he throws at her.
"I mean," she stammers breathlessly, quailing under the iron of his gaze, "spirits on high."
He watches her wildly, watches the heartbreaking look in her eyes, big and blue like the sky as they widen in shock and devastation. Watches the shadow pass over her, as though a cloud's gone and blocked out the lovely radiant sun of her face.
Does she know? How can she know?
The next thing he knows, she's right in front of him and then she throws her arms around him, knocking him back against the bedpost with the force of it and –
Agni.
"You don't have to say a thing," she whispers, her voice breaking with something that sounds like tears, and now it's her body shaking, trembling against his own and all of his thoughts vanish – "I'm so sorry – I – we believe you, Zuko." And just like that, his disquiet ebbs.
He can't remember anyone holding him like this. Ever. As though he's falling and she's his only lifeline. Her arms encircle him tightly and he's reminded of the sheer strength in them, but also the compassion in there too –
The scampering beat within his chest that frenzied at the memory of that Agni Kai slows to a steady hum of pure, utter bliss, even though she's crying but it's not because of him but for him, with him –
And – and her head fits right into the crook of his neck just the way he knew it would, and she smells like the ocean and waterlilies, and she's wearing her hair down, out of the braid for once and he didn't even notice until now – all this time he's dreamed of this and now –
His arms are uselessly by his sides and he wants to lift them, to wind them back around her so that this moment never ends – but there's a growing disconnect within him where his body remains quite frozen in place while his mind races a mile a minute. Probably because he's still in shock.
Then Toph's hugging him, and then Aang too and he couldn't move anything of his even if he tried – their weight against him is crushing, but reassuring, comforting – he can't remember the last time anyone has hugged him like this and now he's almost drowning in their many-armed embrace.
You're one of us, he hears in the gesture. We're here with you all the way.
They don't have to say it, but they do.
"You're not alone," Katara says, her voice muffled by the cloth of his tunic. "You know that, right?"
"You've got good intuition, Sparky," Toph tells him tactfully, "and if you think your old man's up to something, that's good enough for me." She gives him a reassuring squeeze before casting an amused glance at Katara. "Not sure if it's something to cry about, Sugar Queen. What's with the tearbending?"
Katara makes a noise that sounds like a cross between a scoff and a laugh. She shakes her head but she doesn't pull away.
Every part of him rues the infuriating disconnect between his mind and body as she presses her face into the crook of his neck. Because he wants to feel everything properly, he wants to store it in a corner of his mind as a talisman against the looming dark ahead of him. He's vaguely aware of it all – her body pressed against his, her arms gripping him tightly, the warm wet of her tears against his throat, the feeling of her lips curving into a small smile against the hollow of his throat. And yet his overworked, exhausted mind processes everything sluggishly, reacting to his senses as though he's very far away, watching it all happen to a different person.
"The monks used to say that instinct is the first and last sense," Aang speaks up, tearing him away. His voice is somehow calm even through the loaded emotions running through everyone. "That it always picks up on the things we miss. When someone's lying to us, or means us harm." He raises his head and fixes Zuko with his clear, calm grey eyes. "I think you're very wise to listen to that instinct, Zuko. I don't think it'll lead you astray at all."
Zuko swallows, feeling something very strange swelling within him that fills up his chest and makes it hard to breathe. Something that makes him feel powerful and impossibly vulnerable at the same time.
We may strive for glory, he remembers Uncle Iroh telling him, but we live and die for love.
Once upon a time, half a lifetime ago it feels, he'd spoken out against his father's cruelty and received a devastating lesson written onto his face with fire. He thought himself cut adrift without honour or purpose. Bereft of love, of loyalty, of hope.
But now, when he's never felt more ashamed of falling apart, his friends are here with him, empty of judgment and condemnation and all the other things he's learned. They're here, ready to listen, willing to understand, prepared to comfort him, agree with him, support him with whatever they can in order to make him feel better. Ready to remind him that his uncle was right despite it all, that it's not the ties of blood that make family, but something far stronger.
"Thank you," he whispers, closing his eyes. A tear runs down his scarred cheek. "All of you –"
The day is coming when his uncle will summon him back to the capital. And when he goes to face his father and his narrow ambitions again, he will have precious little to call his own. No legions. No political alliances. No hordes of people chanting his name. Only three bending masters and their unfettered trust. And even though his uncle left him behind again, he feels the iron grip of his resentment weakening. Overwhelmed by the bare hands resting against his back.
He imagines facing his father again, with the weight of his honour and the three of them at his side. Strangely, he still can't imagine losing.
"Thank you."
"That's it," Jun seethes as the knocking on the door recommences. "I can't take it anymore."
It is an hour past midnight and the night sky is clouded over, starless and moonless. It's the perfect setting for a macabre end to an otherwise good life, she reflects ruefully, stocking her belt with vials and vials of the venom that she milks from Nyla daily. All of her other supplies are gone – all she has left are whatever weapons she's managed to stash in her cellar.
And by now she's had enough.
"As they say, the best defense is a good offense. If those Dai Li bastards want a fight," she says to Nyla grimly, saddling her up, "we'll give them one."
The blind shirshu slavers and growls menacingly at the tone of Jun's voice.
The bounty hunter finishes snapping on her armour and swings onto Nyla's back. She straps herself in, bracing herself. She's been in fights with benders before, but she has no idea how many agents are waiting for her outside…
But as long as there's room for Nyla to move, she can count on the shirshu to deal as much damage as they take. With speed and the element of surprise on their side, maybe, just maybe they have a chance…
Either way, they're as good as dead. Might as well make this the spot of their last stand.
"Hyah!" Jun commands, digging her heels into Nyla's spurs.
The shirshu moves with lightning speed, crashing through the apartment door like a storm and crushing the Dai Li agent waiting behind it.
Cold night air rushes into her nostrils, sweet, crisp, clean. She fights the urge to gasp it in, fill her lungs with air that doesn't taste like dust or musty wood or Nyla's stale treats. But there's no time.
Her eyes flick up, scanning her surroundings swiftly. The night is cloudy, dark but for a sliver of the moon hanging like a sickle in the sky. The rows of apartments lining her street are deserted. No witnesses.
One agent lies crumpled beneath the remains of her door. She counts nine of them remaining, marking their positions in the battleground of her mind. Three wait on the ground, a small distance away from her doorway. The other six are scattered on top of the rooftops across the street, their pointed hats silhouetted against the faint grey of the sky. Preparing an aerial advantage, no doubt.
Not if I have something to say about it.
Before they have a chance to process or react, Jun moves.
With a nudge of her foot against Nyla's flank, the shirshu leaps into the air, above the heads of two Dai Li waiting a few paces behind their first unlucky comrade. Jun swings her whip with one hand. It coils around the first agent and flings him bodily against the second. Both tumble and roll along the ground, crashing into the dilapidated storefront opposite her apartment.
Nyla's tongue lashes out at the speed of light, taking out another Dai Li agent as he flexes into a preparatory bending stance. He groans and falls to the ground, paralyzed.
"Now up," Jun hisses, pulling at Nyla's reins with her free hand.
The shirshu obeys, snarling as she bounds up the front of the terraced storefront with a speed that belies the creature's bulky appearance.
By now, the agents are reacting to her bold onslaught. They track her motion, and she processes them as though they're moving in slow motion.
Two agents leap down from the rafters toward them, their hands outstretched as the ground ripples below them –
Jun snaps her whip, pushing them out of her way and they plummet to the ground. As they land, she feels the boulders sailing in her way.
She nudges at the shirshu's side again and Nyla bounds up, higher still.
They scale the height of the empty building effortlessly, where the earthbenders have trouble reaching them with their ground-based attacks.
Nyla's long tongue catches one of the remaining Dai Li at the elbow and the other by the back of his neck. Both crumple to the ground, immobilized.
"Not bad," Jun remarks to Nyla. "Remind me to give you a nice treat if we get out of this, girl."
Nyla growls in response and snaps her teeth as Jun leads her to the edge of the building and they survey the aftermath of their first daring move.
Three Dai Li agents are paralyzed, while one remains unconscious beneath the splintered wood of Jun's front door. The remaining six are regrouping slowly, their shadowed heads tilting up to face her.
"Well, I'm here," Jun taunts them, brandishing her whip at the ready. "Is this what you were waiting for?"
As though by some unspoken command, the group splits off into some sort of formation, in neat rows as uniform and rigid as the iron lanterns lining the street. Two move forward, another pair moves back, and the remaining ones launch themselves into the air.
"Right," Jun comments. "Nyla, down!"
The shirshu jumps.
The crack of Jun's whip is deafening as it splits the air. It coils around one agent's arm and she flings him against the building wall. He slams against a boarded-up window, breath whooshing out of him.
Nyla's flicks her tongue at the other agent, who dodges and bends a pillar of earth at the pair of them –
Jun digs her heel into the shirshu's flank and Nyla curls to the side, evading the pillar by a fraction of an inch. Then, she reorients herself and dashes along the pillar's side, bearing down on the enemy agent with ferocious speed.
The pillar beneath them crumbles into dust and the pair of them go falling.
Jun flattens herself and pulls at Nyla's mane.
The shirshu balls itself up and tumbles in the air, landing on its feet on the ground with a feline sort of grace.
This time as they run toward their adversaries, the ground beneath them ripples. Nyla growls in frustration as her limbs struggle to find purchase on the treacherous ground.
"Up," Jun commands, her whip cracking left and right as the agents begin to dodge her strikes. "We need to get up!" Nyla struggles to obey, righting herself on her haunches and trying to launch herself back into the air. But the ground churns beneath her and interferes with her footing.
"Ugh," Jun seethes in exasperation, as her whip cracks at nothing and the agents weave through the air as though made of smoke. "Come on, girl, come on…"
She reaches into her belt in desperation and flings a vial of shirshu venom at where an agent lands six feet away from her. The glass vial smashes to pieces against the wall beside his head. The toxin emerges in a cloud and the agent coughs, doubling over in pain.
The ground momentarily stills. Nyla regains her balance and leaps into the air again, landing clumsily on a second floor balcony of one of the deserted apartments. She pants heavily.
A cracking sound fills the air around them. Jun looks up to see the stone blocks cemented together to form the walls above them, slowly coming apart above their heads.
"Fuck," Jun swears, uncoiling her whip as the blocks begin to fall.
She slashes at the blocks, pushing them out of the way, in some cases snapping them back to the ground where the Dai Li wait, in other cases, smashing them to rubble with a well-placed strike…
One slips past her and catches her at the shoulder.
A grunt escapes her as she drops the reins.
Then, the ground beneath her ripples. Nyla sways and falls into her side, taking Jun with her.
But the floor doesn't meet them, because it too has disintegrated, block by block.
Shit.
The two of them fall through the air among the scattering rubble.
Jun barely has time to register the ground knocking the air out of her lungs before the rubble falls all around them. She curls into a ball, as small as she can, protecting her head, her vitals as the rocks bounce off her shoulder and hip.
Ouch. The pain sparks through her nerves, white-hot and blinding. She grits her teeth tightly together, struggling not to cry out as the rocks smash into her. Gasping, choking on the dry pulverized bits of rock and earth that fall into her face. Her fists clench tightly as she struggles to hold herself together, nails unearthing small red rivers in the skin of her palms.
When the rocks finally stop and they are buried a foot deep in rubble, she chances a breath to assess the damage.
Nyla's breath is warm against her cheek, though short and in sharp bursts. Jun doesn't feel that much better. Every inch of her screams in protest. Her limbs are in agony where the rocks bear down on her frame with their accumulated weight. Her muscles, strained from the intensity of the fight and now throbbing with the effort of staying curled up. Her lungs, struggling to breathe through the muddle of dirt collecting in her mouth. And how all of it goes straight to her gut, sending it roiling like she's been kicked there repeatedly with a steel boot.
It takes everything she has to heave out one large breath, spitting dirt and blood onto the ground by her face. She sucks in what air she can, tainted by the metallic tang of blood and something chalky that tastes like dust. Her ribs groan with a sharp piercing pain in her side, but she can breathe, she's still breathing. Her heart still pulses, she's spitting blood onto the rocks in front of her, and the pain of it all makes her dizzy but she's alive and Nyla's alive and that's got to count for something.
Her face screws up as she gingerly tries to move her limbs. The pain is a dull roar, deafening all her other senses even as she flexes her arms, straightens a knee, and thanks her stars that her body is only battered, not broken.
The same cannot be said for the glass vials at her belt however, as a sharp pain stabs into her side and she hisses, recoiling. Breathing very carefully, she struggles to move her hand from its protective shell around her head to the arsenal at her hip. Chunks of rock rain down from above at the slow movement, crunching into the dirt by her body. She holds her breath, fingers cautiously tracing cool glass, where smooth curved walls give way to serrated broken edges dripping with sticky fluid poison. With every motion a protest lodged deep in her bones, she very carefully unclips five broken vials from her belt, relieved beyond measure that none of them had vaporized. She counts three remaining and considers her options.
Maybe, she thinks with absurd optimism, she could turn this around after all. Those Dai Li bastards probably thought she was down for the count by now, but she's still in one piece. Battered and bruised, but still with a bit of fight left in her. Feeling her hopes rising marginally, she slits an eye open and pushes her face against a crack in the rocks.
But the small ballooning hope in her chest bursts unceremoniously at the sight of five Dai Li agents still standing. Worse, they appear no worse for the wear beyond a few welts here or there from her whip.
Damn it, she curses in her head, taking a deep, unsteady breath. She'd been right by assuming that the element of surprise was really the only major advantage up her sleeve. Once that had worn off, they'd started toying with her.
Her skin rankles at the thought of it.
"Come…on," she forces out breathlessly, her fingers twitching against Nyla's reins. "We…have to…get up…" She twines her hand into the reins and pulls at them more firmly.
Nyla shifts her weight, grumbling lowly in the back of her throat.
"I know…" Jun gasps, her other hand stroking the animal's mane gently. "It hurts, I know…you probably just want to curl up and never worry again, huh?"
Nyla grumbles again, this time in dissent.
"Yeah, I didn't think so either."
She inhales sharply, mustering her strength for one more, decisive motion. The rocks strewn about them weigh down on her with a force more pressing than gravity. Every part of her body aches.
"Right," Jun whispers, stroking Nyla's jaw comfortingly. "One more charge, yeah? Just one more, to show those bastards what we're made of. Can you do that for me?"
Nyla growls again, and Jun takes it as assent.
"Good girl," she acknowledges. "The best girl, you know that? Once this is done, you'll…you'll have all the treats you want, where we're going."
Her voice catches a bit at the end. Where we're going. It doesn't bear thinking about. She's done a lot of unsavoury things in her time and there's no reason to think that anything pleasant might be awaiting her on the other side of all this.
Still. There might be nothing. At least it'll be quiet.
She latches onto that thought. Quiet. It's a nice thought. Quiet, still, calm. No more pain singing in her bones, no more tracking down people for sport, no more running errands for a bunch of delusional old men. Shame, though, she would've liked to say goodbye to Grandpa properly, even if it's his fault she's in this mess at all…
Nyla whines at her and Jun curls her fingers into her stringy mane. She squints at her through the faint light filtering in through the cracks. Her only friend left. How pathetic it'd be, except the shirshu was more loyal to her than any person she's ever met. Who better to have by her side at the end?
"Right," Jun mumbles, steeling herself for the final onslaught. "Let's give them hell."
She turns her attention back to the street. The five agents are spread out. Tactically, it makes all of them equally invulnerable. If one of them goes down, the others can easily regroup. But Jun isn't concerned about that. All of her thoughts are focused on causing as much damage as possible.
"Now," she hisses, and flexes her fingers at the reins.
Nyla bursts through the pile of rubble like an explosion, Jun holding her whip and the three remaining vials of venom at the ready. In the blink of an eye, the shirshu lands on one agent, slashes at another with her tongue, and Jun pulls at another with her whip and smashes a vial into his face.
A boulder crashes into her abdomen, ripping her from the saddle and knocking her off the shirshu's back. She lands on her back, her head smashing against the hard earth mercilessly.
This time, no sound comes from her mouth as she exhales a long, slow gasp of pain. Something salty and warm trickles from her mouth. Somewhere in the distance, Nyla thrashes and screams.
All this for want of a knife, Jun thinks thickly. And because Grand Lotus Iroh couldn't check his fucking mail.
She fights a laugh.
After all they've been through, it seems like an uncommonly unglamorous way to go out.
But as a Dai Li limps toward her, one of three left standing, she figures they did a respectable job holding their own and giving them a fight. And as the agent bends down and grabs her by the collar of her armour, pulling her to her feet slowly, she still thinks that it's a better way to go than starving alone in her apartment hiding like a coward.
"Do it," Jun barks at him defiantly, her voice thick through the blood that coats her tongue. "Do it quick."
Something stirs in the agent's soulless green eyes.
The sound of rushing air whistling shrilly fills Jun's ears in a sharply rising crescendo. His fingers twitch as he prepares to comply with her request. She squeezes her eyes shut and braces herself for the inevitable.
Thunk.
She blinks in confusion as the agent before her goes down, crumpled in a heap on the ground.
Am I hallucinating now? Did I hit my head too hard?
Wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand as her knees buckle beneath her, she studies the downed agent. His head juts out at a strange angle.
On the ground next to his neck is a polished metal boomerang.
She blinks again, seeing but not really comprehending as she turns her attention back to where the other two agents are occupied with Nyla.
Or at least, they were.
Nyla is roaring and lashing her tongue at one of the Dai Li, who screams as he falls to the ground and the shirshu's razor-sharp claws tear into his skin.
The other Dai Li is engaged in a fight with someone else, someone tall and dark and sturdily built who hadn't been there before. Someone dressed in black, who expertly wields a sword forged from a strange dark metal.
Jun struggles to get to her feet and stumbles forward, everything in her pounding and aching as the newcomer slashes through the Dai Li's defenses and runs him through with his blade, efficiently ending the fight as suddenly as it had started.
The silence that fills the air is deafening, rumbling like thunder in a winter storm. Jun totters on unsteady feet toward her shirshu, who abandons the bloodied remains of the unfortunate Dai Li agent and turns her head toward her mistress.
She collapses against Nyla, leaning against the stocky animal to support her weight as the newcomer cleans his blade with the dead agent's uniform. Her eyes rove over his nut-brown skin, bright blue eyes, and long dark hair swept up in a wolf-tail, before it dawns on her –
"Lee," Jun wheezes in recognition, clutching an arm to her side, where the boulder had knocked her off of her mount earlier. It is tender to the touch - she wouldn't be surprised if she found a few broken ribs. Her relief at his arrival quickly shifts to impatient ire. "About fucking time. Couldn't you have showed up any sooner? I was almost toast." She spits out a mouthful of red blood as though to emphasize her point.
"No kidding! You're lucky I was on my way to find you," the newcomer who calls himself Lee agrees nonchalantly, much to her chagrin. He turns his sword one way and then the other, inspecting it for any traces of blood. The metal is unusual, with a strange unearthly sheen. "I mean I know you missed me but seriously. Can a guy not skip out on town once in a while without everything going to pieces?" His eyes glimmer teasingly as he sheathes his sword into the scabbard strapped to his back.
Jun is winded and aching and far from amused. "Don't you start with me," she rasps hoarsely. She points a finger at him accusingly. "Where the hell were you? I've been looking everywhere for you –"
"I know, I know," Lee consoles even as his face splits into the widest of grins. "I missed my old bounty hunter buddy too."
"Fuck off," Jun snaps irritably, longing to slap that obnoxious grin off of his face. Her exasperation momentarily numbs the pain holding her in its grip. She wipes at her mouth and is relieved that the bleeding appears to be slowing.
"I'm just saying," Lee points out, shrugging innocently even as he drags the words out. "For someone who almost got pulverized by the Dai Li, you could be a little more grateful, you know?"
"Grateful?" Jun all but yells as he picks at the dirt under his fingernails, thoroughly unconcerned by the mayhem surrounding them. "This is all your fault! If you'd just been here when I needed you, I wouldn't have had to piss off the Dai Li!"
"Come on, Jun," Lee snorts in exasperation, clapping his hands to the shaved bottom half of his scalp. "What am I, your bodyguard or something? I have a life too, you know. I can't just show up every time you need your evening to go from Dai Li to hi, Lee."
Jun claps a hand over her ears, groaning loudly. "Never do that again," she orders even as he smirks triumphantly at her. Her breath comes out in a huff and for a moment, she wishes that she could breathe fire. "And for your information, I've been looking for you for weeks. This was just the last straw."
His startlingly blue eyes narrow for a moment as her voice lowers, perhaps picking up for the first time the seriousness of the whole damn thing. "Well, here I am then," he quips, nodding his head at her as he crosses his arms across his chest. "What's up?"
"What's up?" Jun echoes incredulously, glaring at him. "What's up is that I had the unparalleled honour of being sent a knife by a Grand Lotus, of all people –"
"Ooh." Lee's face scrunches up wincingly. "Tough luck there."
"Yeah. You're telling me," Jun deadpans in agreement. She fumbles at her belt, searching for the little green knife, the root of all her troubles. "Here." She plucks it from where it hangs next to the last of her vials and dangles it in the air between them. "Have you seen this before?"
The knife glimmers in the dim light of the night, its brilliant green hilt grimy with dust and fingerprints by now. But the wry expression on Lee's face fades at the sight of it.
"I'll take that as a yes," Jun remarks dryly as he reaches out slowly and plucks the knife from her fingers. He holds it up to his face, turning it this way and that, examining every angle. In his large hands, the knife appears deceptively, innocuously small.
"Where did you find this?" Lee's voice isn't light and teasing anymore. The change is striking, as though someone's flipped a switch in him.
"I just told you," Jun maintains, fighting a shiver at how unusually grim Lee's becoming. "A Grand Lotus sent it to me in the mail."
Lee is still before her, staring long and hard at the knife. His posture has shifted, Jun notices, watching tension appear in his shoulders where it hadn't been there before.
"I tracked it back to the old palace," she continues slowly, eyes narrowing as she watches him carefully for a reaction. "The Dai Li denied all knowledge of it. They even tried to take it away from me. Then I followed the trail to a couple of dead ends. One was some nobleman, probably under house arrest by now." She takes a breath as he stills. "The other was where Jet and his boys were staying."
His head snaps up to meet her accusing gaze wildly.
"Know anything about that?" Jun demands, her voice dangerously soft.
Lee swallows. Jun would have thought him nervous, if a guy like him could even feel such a thing.
"You know what happened to Jet, right?" he asks in a low voice, all of his previous mirth replaced with unsettlingly grim seriousness.
"I don't know shit," Jun scoffs, wincing as pain radiates from the spot where the boulder had hit her. She wipes at her mouth again, leaning back against Nyla, the shirshu's bulky warmth reassuring in the chill of the night. "I'm not the one on the inside here. All I know is that I think – I think this is big."
She shivers.
"Well, speaking as someone with a finger on the pulse," Lee informs her, his face growing uneasy, "I can tell you that you thought right." Her heart sinks in her chest as he barrels on, still so unusually austere. "Jet got mixed up in something bad. All this?" He waves a hand, gesturing emphatically at all the chaotic destruction around them. "This is just the start."
"What do you mean?" Jun's mouth is dry with growing apprehension, gathering within her like a storm cloud.
"Didn't you even stop to think," Lee asks, plying her with a curious blue stare, "why only ten agents showed up, Jun? Did you just think you were lucky, that they didn't swarm you like they usually do?"
"I –" Jun stammers, a hand clutching at her chest now because now that he mentions it, he's right. Reinforcements should have popped out of the streets like weeds in an upper-ringer's prize garden. So where is everyone?
"You're so lucky," Lee breathes, "that they couldn't spare more."
"Spare more from what?" Jun questions, wrapping her arms around herself as though she's cold. But Lee's hand tightens around the green knife resolutely instead.
"Something big," he declares and Jun finds that she can't hold his gaze after all. She glances at the prone figures of the fallen Dai Li agents littering the ground as he continues steadily. "Something big is going to happen, Jun. Now that the emperor's dead, the Dai Li are –"
Something like a scream tears through the silence of the night and Lee's voice hitches suddenly. Jun nearly jumps out of her skin. But it's only the wind, the sharp chilly wind whistling loudly through the narrow street, rustling at the flimsy splintered bits of wood and stone littering the roadside.
"The emperor?" Jun latches onto the word in disbelief, eyes widening. "As in Emperor Azulon?"
Lee's eyebrows shoot up to the level of his hairline. "Moon and ocean spirits, how do you not know that, Jun? Have you been hiding under a rock or something?"
"Something like that, yeah," Jun snaps in retort, though privately relieved that Lee's reverted back to his usual self. "Why, what happened?"
He rubs at the back of his neck aggravatingly. "He died in his sleep a week ago," he explains, as though he would to a child. "Prince Ozai held the funeral back in the capital before his older brother could arrive and now he's planning Day of the Dragons celebrations instead of mourning and…it's tense out there." His voice drops at the end to a quiet murmur.
Jun's head is spinning now. Well, that would explain why Iroh never got back to me, she thinks numbly.
"So what do we do?" she asks, her mouth dry. "About all this?"
There's a pause while her companion considers her question and all its implications. "What do we do?" he echoes, before straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. He meets her apprehensive eyes with his bright ones. "We stop it, of course!"
"Come again?" Jun challenges sceptically.
"We stop it," Lee repeats, regaining some of his confidence from earlier. He twirls the green knife expertly between his fingers and slips it into his belt. "We find the Crown Prince, and his army, and we warn him about what the Dai Li has planned next. Easy."
Easy, Jun scoffs mentally. Yeah right.
"Fine," she says out loud instead, rolling her eyes. "But if we're going to do this, you're steering Nyla. I can't do shit right now." She glares at him. "And I think you owe me an explanation. I want to know what the hell's going on."
"Fair enough," Lee remarks. "I'll tell you on the way. But first, I need to reload." He marches over to where the other Dai Li agent lies unconscious on the ground, and picks up the shining metal boomerang. Jun doesn't hide her snort at the sight of it.
"Isn't that a new sword?" she calls out to him with a hint of a sneer. "Why on earth are you still wasting your time throwing boomerangs around like a fucking child?"
Lee makes a face at her. "Hey," he bristles, clearly insulted. "No insulting the boomerang, alright?" He tosses it in the air and catches it with another hand, his mouth quirking into a crooked grin. "In fact, you should be grateful, all things considered."
"Should I, now?" Jun arches an eyebrow.
"Sure thing," he quips brightly. "Boomerangs always come back." He shoves the curving metal object into his belt. "And so do I."
author's notes. ...
¯\_(ツ)_/¯
but what about day of the dragons? brace yourselves, that's coming up next. holler if you want it!
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