Letter or On Leaving Home Again

Every task Zuko performed felt symbolic. Pulling his dark brown hair out of its royal top knot and letting the tendrils fall loose was like grasping freedom. Taking off his armor and placing it down on his bed was a rejection of the war, a rejection of his father.

Now, the letter; how could he explain himself to Mai in a few short lines? How could he convey all his thoughts and feelings? He was never good with words. In his mind, everything was clear and organized. Once he began to talk or write, he stumbled over ideas, mixed things up, allowed emotion to overtake him. So, he took his time, spreading the paper out, making sure it was smooth and ready for the ink. He paused before picking up the brush and thought of Mai; her face, her touch, her scent. It was almost as if she was standing there beside him. But she wasn't. Mai had no idea of his plans and the news would no doubt upset her. That was not his intention, obviously, but it would be the outcome. He wanted her safe, not on the run with a traitor, vulnerable to attacks just because she cared for him. He would give her up if it meant her safety. The thought of losing Mai grieved him, made him ache inside like nothing else ever had. But he pushed those feelings aside. They would only get in the way of his purpose.

He tried but the letter was inadequate. Sighing because of that knowledge, he allowed the ink to dry, and then rolled up the paper, tying a red ribbon around it. He would take it to Mai's house himself and place it on her pillow, where she would see it right away. An image of her throwing blade after blade at it flitted through Zuko's mind.

"Don't hate me, Mai," he implored silently.

The city was deserted in preparation for the invasion and he slipped back into the palace unnoticed. It too was quiet, with everyone safe underground. He placed his mother's portrait on the ledge that surrounded his bed, lit two candles and knelt before it. He pledged to do better, to make the right choices.

It was time to leave. With swords and bag slung over his shoulder, he took a last look at his mother's face, unmindful of the room itself, and pulled up the hood of his cloak. Zuko would make her proud, wherever she was.