"Ladies! Please, there's enough of me to go around." He says, lifting an arm and tensing to flex it, "One hundred percent Water Tribe hunk-meat. I know, I know. Form an orderly line. Everyone's getting a turn with ol' Sokka—"
"That seems like a pretty short line." The waterbender smirks, leaning in the doorway of his suite. Sokka jolts, turning around and spinning the mirror away from himself.
"Katara!" He cries, "I don't come barging into your room uninvited!"
"Yes, you do. All the time." She says flatly.
"Yeah, but not recently." He pouts as he starts brushing his hair back into a ponytail, and she rolls her eyes as she corrects herself mentally. Warrior's wolf tail!
He's mostly dressed, missing the light blue coat with its fine fur trim around the shoulders. His polished boots are resting on the ground near his feet, and the sword he barely uses sits in its holster on his hip. There's no need for it, but ever since the announcement of Prince Ozai's appearance and warrant, he'd taken to keeping it on him at all times. Ever the chivalrous hero.
"Are you going to keep Dad and I waiting all night?" She questions as she settles on the edge of his bed, toying with the ruffled skirts of her dress. It's an elaborate, indulgent thing. Streams of blue and white swirl throughout the skirt, and the bodice is lightly boned in a way that restricts her movement just enough to make her nervous. It arches high across her chest, circling her neck, just beneath the necklace she kept as a constant companion. A caped shawl sits across her shoulders, heavily lined in the same fur that trimmed Sokka's coat, and it billows around her as she sits. These were the final nights of the Ball, and it was everyone's intent to display what their nation's colors could do. Extravagance and opulence, shows of wealth and prosperity in these peaceful times.
Katara isn't entirely thrilled by it. She could hardly waterbend in these restricting clothes, and she'd found herself stumbling over her skirts and cloak more than once on her walk to Sokka's suite. Sokka doesn't seem to agree, preening and snapping his collar up with an approving nod.
"Perfection doesn't happen all at once, Katara. These things take time." He stands, fumbling with his boots as he slides them on. The laces are complicated and stiff, the heavy leather reluctant to bend.
"Alright, Prince Charming, when you're done seducing your mirror, Dad and I will be waiting in the carriage." She stands, leaving Sokka to his battle with his laces. She closes the heavy door behind her, continuing down the hall of the opulent home they'd been provided with for the duration of their stay in the Earth Kingdom. It's a beautiful place, sprawling and close to the Palace grounds, but all nobility were expected to arrive in carriages no matter the petty distance. The walls are sturdy and well furnished, and each bedroom is equipped with beds big enough to fit five and comfortable enough to spend the entirety of their stay in. As with the rest of the city, most of the décor seems to be in shades of greens and browns, but it's charming. She enjoys the change of scenery from the wintry blues and pure whites of her home.
She loved her village, her Tribe, but there was something to be said about seeing things she hadn't seen a thousand times before. Something within her, something that the boy at the bookstore had ignited, yearned to see more. To explore, to experience. Everywhere she went was familiar, known. This trip to the Earth Kingdom had been her first new experience in years. It was a desire she hadn't known she'd been starved of, and now that she'd tasted this exotic freedom, the thought of returning home filled her with a strange melancholy.
The Southern Water Tribe was her home. The people there were like her family, all of them. She shouldn't be dreading returning, but as she climbs into the carriage and gets settled, she can't wipe the distant look from her eyes.
"Your brother still admiring himself?" Hakoda asks, sitting back with a slight smile. He wears finely crafted clothes as well, his jacket matching his children's in many ways, the only difference being the accent of ivory along the outer hem.
"Deeply." Katara smiles, but she can feel it doesn't quite reach her eyes, "Wooing the many girls that live in his mirror."
"That sounds like him." He nods, the silence stretching out between them as they wait. He tilts his head, watching her, "Something is off. Are you alright?"
She looks to her father, and the sadness she'd been trying to contain makes its way onto her face in full display. She sighs heavily, resting her head against the headrest behind her.
"I just…everything here is so beautiful."
"And that's upsetting you?"
"No! I mean…it's beautiful and different and we're only going to be here a couple weeks, and then we head back home. And then it's all the same again. Just like always." She searches Hakoda's face for a reaction, uncertain. He takes in the information with a concerned furrow of his brow.
"Are you not happy at home?" She's quick to sit up, shaking her head in fervent denial.
"I love the South Pole. But now that I've seen all this stuff, all these different people, I don't know…I want to see more. Do more. More of the city, more of the Earth Kingdom…" She can't quite stop thinking of that Fire Nation boy, tilting her head in thought, "Maybe even the Fire Nation, some day."
Hakoda tenses at that.
"You don't need to see the Fire Nation." He always reacted this way when anyone brought the subject up to him, any memory of the Fire Nation a sore one for him, "Maybe we can arrange to see more of the Earth Kingdom some day, but there's nothing for us in the Fire Nation."
"That's not true, Dad. You've seen the Fire Nation, you must have—"
"I have. So I know there's no reason for you to ever go there. It's just…volcanoes, and heat and rock. It's a string of islands. That's it." Hakoda is still tense, hands clasped together between his knees as he leans forward. Anxious energy seems to radiate from him as he speaks through a clenched jaw.
"But what about the people?" That boy. Nothing like the stories said someone from the Fire Nation would be like. He'd seemed…nice, of all things. A little awkward, but nice. If there were more like him, the Fire Nation couldn't be as bad as her father made it sound.
"I can't speak for all of them. I don't really know anyone from the Fire Nation. But the one's I have known?" It seems like it almost pains him to think of it, and she's well aware of why, "Despicable. They're cruel, and selfish, and dangerous. I helped lead warriors from our Tribe against their Royal Family for a reason. I wouldn't have resorted to it if it hadn't been necessary. I was even going to keep our men out of the conflict all together—I wasn't sure a Revolt would even work—but after what they did to your mother…"
They lock eyes, and it rekindles the doubts in her mind of the boy in the bookshop. He was of the same nationality as the man who had killed her mother. Devastated her village to a point of near total annihilation. The stories of them weren't entirely undeserved. But did they all carry those sins?
"I knew I had to fight. And we won, and the war ended. But instead of take their defeat with any dignity, or even remorse, there's still people who think we were in the wrong." He rubs his face, sighing into his hands, "And now with Prince Ozai being alive, the loyalists will only get to be more of a problem in the Fire Nation. Even if I was considering letting you go there, now would be the worst time to do it."
"They wouldn't like us going there?"
"Water Tribe? In the Fire Nation?" He laughs, sitting back and relaxing his tense shoulders, "And me, especially? I don't think they'd welcome us with open arms, no."
The door to the carriage flings open, Sokka standing with one foot propped up on the steps leading inside. He has his hands held on his hips, chest puffed, a wide grin on his face.
"How do I look?"
Katara looks down at his boot, seeing the clumsy knot there. She snorts softly to herself. Hakoda chuckles, pulling him up and into his seat beside Katara as he speaks.
"Like a Prince."
Zuko can't wait for this Ball to end.
Every day he attended with Iroh, he looked for the masked man. Searched the crowd for any suspicious glimpse of porcelain, any hint of a threat. The man had seen Zuko's face, but it had been in dim light. His hair had been pushed back, his face half obscured in darkness. Still, he could be recognized, and he wasn't eager to fight him again.
He could have resorted to refusing to attend the ball with his Uncle, but there was the possibility that Zuko's sudden absence would rouse suspicion if it were to be noticed. He'd been by Iroh's side the entirety of their time here. If the teashop boy stopped appearing just after Ozai's disappearance, they risked implications to the Jasmine Dragon. So he risked discovery in the hopes that he could hide behind a banal persona.
Me? The person who stabbed you and locked in an icebox? No, just a simple teashop worker. He's practiced the line in his head, trying to make it sound casual. But it hadn't come up, and with only two days of the Ball remaining, the man was nowhere to be seen, and Zuko had switched from apprehension to apathy quickly. Perhaps even annoyance, considering the company he was forced to mingle with. Iroh never seemed to tire of it, socializing and charming any guest who spoke to him as he served them their tea, but Zuko's social capabilities began and ended at 'Hello.' He was far from a social butterfly, not ever really making much in the way of friends. Never attending any of the house parties his classmates had occasionally thrown.
That only reminds him of the thought of Ursa enrolling them in their new school starting the upcoming week. He was nearly finished with his education, but the thought of returning to something so normal as school, even this Upper Ring variant, was something he couldn't quite wrap his head around. He'd committed treason against the Earth King, and found out he was the long lost son of the Fire Nation Royal Family.
And now he had to go back to doing homework?
"You get lost in your head so often, nephew." Iroh says, his hand resting on Zuko's shoulder as he tries to get his attention, "You're still worried about your father?"
Yes, and no. That was a complication he hadn't even managed to get to yet as he stared idly down at the teacups before him. The clerk at the bookstore hadn't offered him any help in deciphering those scrolls, but what he had read was worrying. The spikes Ursa had pulled out of Ozai were depicted there, with vague mentions of Chi and chakras and things Zuko had never paid much mind to. It hadn't said anything about what was inside the spikes, or what they actually did. But it specifically spoke of eliminating firebenders. That couldn't bode well at all. And while only around six of the twenty spikes had emptied into Ozai's blood, there wasn't much information to say what would happen.
Ozai himself seemed largely unperturbed, claiming he felt no different. But he was still recovering. Still weak. There was no telling what that small dose of mystery substance would do in the future.
"I'm not sure." Zuko's answer finally comes, and he looks up from the tea to meet his Uncle's kind eyes, "I just wish I knew what he was trying to do with those in the first place."
"I will keep looking for answers, as will you, I'm sure. But in the mean time, he is in excellent care with your mother watching over him. If anyone can handle my brother, it would be her." Zuko hopes he's right, nodding and looking back out over the people wandering the great hall before them. It's a sort of entry hall leading out into the gardens, most of the draw for them being outside. But for those that needed a respite from the noise and chaos, tea was offered in the dimly lit room. Courtesy of the Jasmine Dragon, of course.
It's the first time they've been free to serve tea to the guests directly, instead of serving as glorified caterers for the Avatar's private meetings with important people that seemed to bore the boy half to death. With what was most certainly relief, Aang had finally been allowed to enjoy the rest of the festivities in peace, his meetings having come to an end and the Jasmine Dragon now commissioned to cater to the rest of the guests.
Zuko can't decide if he hates it or not.
The guests all seem to have a sort of haughty air, a permanent look of disdain or—more aggravatingly—intrigue, when they look at him. He's either seen as a peasant, someone hardly worth noticing, or an oddity. He doesn't like either. But the crowd is almost entirely Earth and Water representing, few instances of other Fire Nation people ever happening by. They truly are an oddity among the crowd.
"Something smells great." Zuko nearly jumps out of his skin, staggering back from the girl who'd appeared at his side while he was lost in thought, scowling at the people lingering in the doorway.
"Take your pick!" Iroh is quick to offer her the tray of brewed teas, each type separated into small clusters. He's rattling off the names of each kind available, but his words fade off as Zuko looks at the girl's face.
That girl from the bookshop he'd—very literally—run into. What was she doing here?
"You're that girl." He says, mostly to himself. It's louder than he meant it to be, and her gaze shifts from the tea to his face. Recognition crosses her features before it becomes shock.
"You!" She says, pulling back and giving him a once over as if to make sure she's seeing him right, "You're the boy from the bookstore. This is amazing."
"It is?" Zuko asks. Iroh pulls back to watch the interaction curiously.
"I was hoping I would see you again." She answers. His first reaction is suspicion.
"You were?"
"Yes. I've never seen one of you up close before." That sensation of being treated like a spectacle, an oddity, comes back in full force. His scowl from before returns.
"Now you have. Are you going to take your tea or not?" His words are sharp, agitated. Iroh elbows him in the ribs and he yelps at the intrusion, looking back at him. His Uncle hands him one of the teas before nudging him forward with the edge of the tray. The look he gives him clearly states 'Play nice.'
"I didn't mean to offend you, I'm sorry. I've just…I've never been outside of the Water Tribes. And I've heard so many stories about people from the Fire Nation and firebenders—are you a firebender?" Zuko tenses, the cup in his hand nearly slipping to the floor. Instead he awkwardly fumbles it, the scalding liquid splattering down his arms and across his apron and tunic. He hisses at the sting, trying to shake the tea from his skin.
"No! I don't know what you heard, or who told you that, but—"
"Spirits, I didn't—this is not going how I wanted it to." She comes forward and Zuko staggers back, sure she's about to grab him. Had the masked man hired her? Was she here to drag him off to the dungeon he'd rescued Ozai from? He stills as his back meets the wall, staring at her with more fear than he'd like to admit.
And then the droplets on his skin lift into the air, and the tea soaked into his clothes slides out and joins them. The fluid arches gracefully, following the smooth rise of her arm, before plopping back into the cup in his hands. Zuko stares at it, dumbfounded and much dryer.
"I know firebending isn't legal, and I'm not trying to incriminate you or anything. I just wanted to know more." Zuko looks back at Iroh for help, desperate, but he finds his Uncle gone. A quick glance finds him holding the tray in the middle of a small crowd that had entered the room. He says something and a chorus of drunken laughter erupts from the people. When he looks back to the girl, he isn't sure how to answer.
"So, are you a firebender?" She repeats.
Lie, definitely lie. He looks into her startlingly blue, wide, hopeful eyes.
No.
"Yes."
What was wrong with him?
"Really?" She exclaims, taking the cup and setting it aside. He thinks that might be for the best, considering the last time he'd been trusted to hold it. Her hand then clasps his, and he isn't sure any of this is real. It's so surreal, so strange. Meeting this girl from the bookstore here, being accused of being a firebender, and now she's just holding his hands. Her brow furrows, turning his hands over in hers as if she's looking for something.
"There's all these stories I've heard about firebenders." She starts, letting his hands go. He realizes he should probably breathe, "But then I saw you, and you didn't have fangs or skin that burned me and you didn't even set the clerk on fire—"
"What? Why would I—did you say fangs?"
"Teeth like a dragon." She clarifies. An Earth Kingdom dignitary comes up and whisks a tea from the cart without sparring him a second glance. He eyes her as she stays near the stand, seeming to have nowhere else to be.
"We can't talk about this here." Zuko grumbles, looking around. Iroh is still involved with his new adoring fans. He looks back at the service entrance they'd come from to bring the hot water back and forth, "This way."
It's so dangerous to do this, and he's not sure why he's taking the risk of being alone with her, but he reminds himself that he's not defenseless. If she is somehow connected to the masked man, he can fight back. He was stronger now.
"No dragon teeth then." She clarifies as the door closes behind them, shutting out the muffled sounds of the crowd.
"None. Or skin that burns people. At least not right now." He has no reason to indulge her. He could have easily refused to talk to her at all, and sent her on her way. But he'd admitted to being a firebender, and now he was stuck answering her questions. He couldn't risk rejecting her and having her running to tell the authorities about her discovery.
"Right now?" She asks, taking a step back in concern.
"I can heat my skin. But I'll end up burning myself if I get too hot." It's a trick he'd seen Ozai do, and he'd also seen the scars from when it had gone wrong.
"You can burn yourself?" The magnitude of her ignorance astounds him. He laughs incredulously.
"Obviously. You're a waterbender, but you can still freeze right?" She nods in response, looking down at her slender, tanned hands.
"Yes. These stories are kind of stupid now that I'm saying them out loud." She mutters, fidgeting with the cloak over her shoulders.
"But you people really believe them?" Zuko asks, leaning back against the wall and crossing his arms defensively. He looks her over, having not really stopped to take her in before now. She's shorter than him, but not by much. Her frame is slender, but there's an undercurrent of lean muscle that lets him know he shouldn't underestimate her. Her hair is thick and wavy, pinned back and out of the way by elaborately carved pieces of polished ivory. A delicate nose, rounded cheeks. She's classically pretty in every way a woman could be, and he's not blind to the fact.
And then there's the matter of those eyes. More expressive and intense than anyone else's he's ever seen. They unnerve him with their ability to make him fidget in his skin, uncomfortable under her scrutinizing gaze.
"Some people. Mostly people our age that haven't ever seen a firebender before. And some of them sounded…no. They all sound bad now." She laughs, and the sound is pleasant and infectious. He finds himself chuckling as well. She keeps fidgeting with her skirts and cloak, and he finds that he feels horribly under dressed standing opposite her. His stained apron over a simple tunic and pants compared to her elaborate robes.
"Should I even ask?"
"Not really, no." The silence they enter is somewhat loaded, and he can tell she's debating something behind those damned eyes of hers, "Would you…do some firebending? I just want to see what it looks like." Dangerous territory, and they both know it. If someone caught him bending fire, there would be no way out of it. But the hall is secluded, and there's something about her that puts him at ease. She had a natural calming aura about her, an odd feeling of tentative trust he was tempted to offer. A strange excitement takes up residence in his gut, and he flexes his hands to try and dispel it. The fire broils beneath his skin, itching to come forward.
No one had ever taken interest in him like this before.
He lifts a hand, a tentative flame flickering to life over his palm. It sputters slightly as he pushes his nerves aside. He's unsure of why he's even nervous to begin with, trying to focus on building the fire between them. It grows until it's roughly the size of his palm, licking high above his hand. She watches with astonished eyes, trailing the path of it from above his hand to the tips of its peaks. She nearly reaches out to touch it before she thinks better of it, pulling back. Instead, she uncorks the canteen at her hip, bending out a tiny ball of water. It hovers and shivers as she flicks it into his flame where it collides with a sizzle. She watches the steam rise, satisfied with her test of its authenticity.
"That's amazing…it would be pretty useful in the South Pole to be able to just make fire on command." She flicks another ball of water into it, watching with intrigue as he builds it to be greater in size to withstand the onslaught. A larger puff of steam emerges.
"That's where you're from?"
"Yes. My Dad is the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe." Zuko's fire dies instantly. He can practically feel the color leaving his face, staring at her with a look of barely restrained shock.
Memories click into place. He'd seen her once before the encounter in that store, he'd known she'd looked familiar. She was the girl he'd seen in the carriage, crafting something made of ice. Ozai had chastised him, telling him it was trouble to even look at them. And he'd admitted to being a firebender to her. Displayed it to her. To a daughter of one of the world leaders who had dethroned his family, killed his grandfather, and forced his mother to do the unspeakable things she'd had to. He stumbles over his words as he tries to decide what to say.
"Your Dad…he helped lead the Elemental Revolt." He says it out loud just because he can't quite fathom it internally. What were the chances?
"He did. He was there when they killed the Fire Lord." She frowns, taking note of his panicked expression, "I'm upsetting you again. Were you raised in the Fire Nation? You're not a loyalist, are you?"
Ozai was going to be furious if he found out what Zuko had just done. Who he'd exhibited his power to. The amount of vulnerability, the danger of it. Why? To be noticed? Because he liked when a pretty girl paid attention to him? He could practically hear Ozai's snide voice now.
"How pathetic."
"I have to go, my Uncle—"
"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought that up—" She reaches for him as he quickly goes to the door, hesitating.
"You won't tell anyone?" Zuko interrupts, turning to look at her over his shoulder. He doesn't know what he can do to stop her if she does, "That I'm a firebender?"
"No." She says solemnly, "I told you I don't want to incriminate you. I'm not going to be here very long, and I just wanted to know more about the outside world before I go home. And since I'll never see the Fire Nation…you're the next best thing, right? I can't thank you enough for showing me that, by the way." She's so genuine. Her gaze is so honest and hopeful, and he feels something in him tug and break at the way she's watching him like he might vanish before her eyes. His shoulders sag, and he thumps his head on the door.
What. Was. Wrong. With. Him?
"I really do need to go. But I'll be here tomorrow." Zuko says into the door. He can tell she's lit up with excitement without looking at her.
"I think I can break away from my family to see you again. My brother might come looking for me, though."
"Should I be worried?" Zuko asks wryly, finally separating his head from the door to look back at her.
"Not really. He's more bark than bite." He opens the door, allowing the two of them entry back into the main room. Iroh's returned to the table, most of his tea's emptied. He pauses what he's doing to look at the two of them. A slow, knowing smile crosses his face. Zuko is about to insist that it isn't what it looks like, pausing as the girl grabs his arm again.
"I never asked your name." She says. He isn't sure what to tell her. Even his own name was a point of contention now.
"Zuko." He decides after a moments hesitation.
"Zuko." She repeats, nodding, "I'm Katara. Thank you, again. I'll see you tomorrow." She starts to leave before doubling back to grab one of the last remaining cups of tea. She gives a friendly wave and hurries back off into the crowd. Zuko rubs the spot on his arm that she'd grabbed. He can still feel her lingering touch there.
"Well." Iroh starts, scooting in close, "I was wondering where you disappeared to. I did not think you had gone off alone with a pretty girl. She seems to like you."
No.
Absolutely not.
"She can't." Zuko answers curtly, "Do you know who she is?" Iroh continues cleaning up his cart, clearing the empty cups into a bin.
"I do not."
"She's the daughter of the Chief of the Southern Water Tribe. The same Chief that helped in the Revolt against our family?" He hisses low, bending to help clean up. The position lets them speak slightly more freely, hidden by the cart, "Ozai's going to light me on fire just for talking to her." Iroh takes the news slowly, considering it for a long moment.
"She is not her father. Just as you are not yours."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Zuko challenges, standing as Iroh finishes the cleanup. He begins to wheel the cart back down the same service hall Zuko had just emerged from.
"It means, if you want to know her, there's no reason not to. She had no involvement in the Revolt, herself, and even if she did, it's up to you to decide who you want to befriend. Why do you care what Ozai thinks?"
"I don't." Iroh glances back at him. It's all he needs to say, "I don't." Zuko repeats.
The teacups rattle on the cart, and Iroh leaves him to his thoughts.
He's spent the last several days asleep, for the most part, and he finds that now that his strength has started to return, he can't spend another minute on this couch.
He stands, his legs feeling foreign and weak as he gets used to resting his weight on them. He grips the edge of the couch as he stretches, frowning at the tug on his stitches. He looks down at his chest, the puncture wounds all mostly closed and well on their way to healing. Still, he had to be careful about moving too quickly or stretching too far. The skin is tight, agitated, and scabbing.
He walks across the room once he's confident enough in his legs to carry him, pulling aside the thick curtains to view the street below. The festivities still raged on, and people still wandered the brightly lit street to enjoy the shops and their extended hours. Distantly, he can hear the sounds of the teashop below. The clatter of porcelain and china, the hiss and whistle of steam. Music blares distantly from some performer just outside, crooning to those who will stop and listen. The smell of fried dough and savory street foods wafts up through the slightly open window, and Ozai's mouth waters. He hadn't been eating much, the pain being an effective appetite suppressant, but now that he feels more like himself, the idea of a decent meal is one he strongly agrees with.
"Ursa?" He calls in the darkened living room, the fireplace crackling with a slowly dying fire. She'd been bringing him his food periodically, but he hadn't seen her in several hours. Perhaps longer. He wagers a guess that she must be downstairs, assisting in running the teashop while Iroh was preoccupied with that insipid Ball. No matter, he could fend for himself. There must be something his brother kept to eat here.
He hasn't seen anything past the living room and attached dining room. He'd hardly even looked over the back of the couch to see which doors people were coming and going out of. He wanders towards the doors bordering the living room, fingers brushing the embellished wallpaper as he does, and opens the first door he comes across.
A decently sized room, furnished with two large beds that sit opposite each other. A fireplace decorates the far end, ashes pilled inside and spilling out onto the tile in front of it. Streaks of charred stone curl up the wall beside it, telltale signs of someone bending the fire out of it for one reason or another. One half of the room is cluttered with beautiful things—dresses, shirts, long skirts and pants, jewelry and hairpins. Small glass jars and bottles of makeup and other beauty concoctions litter the shared dresser. An assortment of shoes is tucked under the slept in bed littered with pillows.
The other half hardly looks lived in. Zuko's clothes hang in the slightly open armoire, a couple pairs of boots lined up beside it. The bed is freshly made, a single pillow resting on it. A bag filled with scrolls hangs off one of the bedposts, and more scrolls lie lined up on the desk near the door. The only thing that truly personalizes his side is a sheet of parchment pinned to the wall, some street artist's ink painting of a much younger version of their family. Ursa, holding her young toddler aged daughter, and a child sized Zuko clinging to her skirts. It's actually quite a good likeness. It captures that happy yet tired look she was so good at giving. Zuko's crooked smile as he looked up at his mother. A happy family.
Ozai closes the door with a huff, continuing on.
The next door he opens is Iroh's, from the looks of it. It's much more decorated, and far more lived in. There are things he recognizes, things Iroh had always made a habit of surrounding himself with—the Pai Sho board alone is a dead give away. He's about to move on, the items holding no interest for him. The Fire Nation tapestry makes him pause in his quick retreat, though. It's too large for the room, curling onto the floor and continuing for nearly a foot. There are small scuffs of dirt and burned, tattered edges, but Ozai recognizes it.
This was a tapestry from the Fire Nation Royal Palace. He'd walked by it many times. Tugged on it as a child so hard that it had collapsed on top of him and nearly crushed him in its impressive heft. How had Iroh managed to find something like this? How had it survived the Revolt?
Questions he has to save for later. He still hasn't had a full conversation with his brother since their first interaction in the teashop. He's not eager to continue it.
The third door he finds is yet another bedroom. He sighs, getting annoyed in his search for a kitchen or pantry. But the open armoire containing several modest dresses catches his attention. This would be Ursa's room, then.
He wanders into it, hunger momentarily forgotten in his curiosity. Her room in that shack of a home had been little more than a bed. There hadn't been much to see. But she's made herself reasonably at home here. More jars of product line her dresser, but less than the amount Azula had collected. Little pins and clasps are mixed in among them, and Ozai pauses to study one. A hair clasp, so achingly familiar to him. This was old, older than their marriage, even. She'd brought it with her from her village, and worn it regularly even as Fire Princess. She often forgot to remove it when she went to bed and he'd prick his hand on the damned thing.
"If that thing stabs me in my sleep again, I'm cutting it out of your hair."
"I'll still have plenty of hair to put it back into."
He finds himself smiling at the memory, setting the clasp back in its place. There are other small trinkets here, things from her former life as a peasant. Blankets and clothes, scrolls and books. Nothing all that interesting, and he's about to turn and leave until his foot hits the edge of a box half tucked under her bed. He looks down at it, curiosity renewed as he pulls it out into view.
Men's clothes?
He frowns, lifting them to study the details of them. It's several outfits, each one varying shades of earth tones. Finely tailored tunics and shirts. Well made, breathable cotton pants. Long bits of ribbon to tie his hair, a glistening straightedge razor in a polished mahogany box. New boots, the leather still stiff and aromatic. He sits on the edge of her bed, turning them over in his hands. He looks down at his own tattered, ruined pants.
"I thought you'd disappeared again." He jolts, looking up at her as she stands in the doorway. Her dress is covered with a lightly stained apron, confirming his suspicions about her being in the teashop before.
"I was looking for food." Ozai still isn't happy with his voice. It rasps and breaks more than he'd like, but he can at least speak above a whisper now, "This is for me?"
"You can't wear just those pants forever." She answers with a somewhat forced shrug, clearly trying to play off the kindness of the gesture. She's moved closer, her touch grazing his skin as she studies the scabbing cuts.
"I'll put them on after I've properly bathed." The chill in the air made being shirtless just slightly uncomfortable, but soiling these pristine clothes is the last thing he wants to do. He looks to her, and she seems intent on keeping her eyes on his wounds. Silence sits between them, heavy and thick, a tangible thing that makes Ozai shift uncomfortably under her touch.
"I've just been wondering something." Her voice shatters the tense air, and he's thankful for it.
"Are you looking for my permission to ask?" He asks with a terse smile. She rolls her eyes, sitting on the opposite edge of the bed. She rests her hands in her lap, picking at her nails with worry.
"Why did you try to kill the Avatar?" That makes Ozai pause. It seemed so obvious to him. He forgets that such a thing wasn't as common among those who weren't hired assassins.
"A couple reasons." He has no reason to lie to her, not anymore, "I was hired to kill him, firstly. But I was going to spare him if he had agreed to assist me in the restitution of the Fire Nation Royal Family." He doesn't even stop to consider her reaction, lying back on her bed and looking up at her with a sort of dry indifference.
"Which was apparently a lost cause, since the little brat holds a grudge against my family for ordering the extinction of his race. How petty." She's staring down at him, mouth slightly agape, "And on top of that, I received word that they are looking to replace my family with a new lineage. So everything I've worked towards in the last fifteen years is—" He illustrates his point with a quick burst of flame over his hand, the smoke curling upwards thickly.
"Up in smoke."
"So when he refused you…" She finally says.
"I tried to kill him, yes." He meets her eyes, and she bows her head. Her fingers massage her temples as a heavy sigh leaves her.
"I know you're smart, I am very aware of that. But how do you manage to act so incredibly stupid?" His huffs and props himself up on his elbows.
"I told you I was hired to kill him. I would have either spared and defended him if he had agreed to help, or fulfilled my contract if he denied me. I was not acting stupidly, I had a plan." And it had seemed like a good plan to him. So much had seemed simpler, then, "Not that it matters, now. The man who hired me to kill him was the one who captured me. So now I have no mission, or purpose, or, more importantly, money."
"This is a lot to take in." She mumbles against her hand.
"You're the one who made the mistake of asking." Ozai counters gruffly.
"You risked so much doing this. You nearly died. I just can't believe after all this time…you're still so set on being a Prince again—" He puts a hand on her knee to stop her.
"No, you misunderstand me. I have no desire to be a Prince. I wish to be Fire Lord." Her leg tenses beneath his hand. She stares for a long moment before she pulls herself together enough to say anything.
"Even if you did somehow rebuild the monarchy, Iroh would be Fire Lord." Ozai actually laughs at that. It's a bitter sound, choked in his raw throat.
"Iroh has no living heirs. He can keep his teashop. I am entitled to the throne." Ozai retorts. She internally debates that, he can see the conflict behind her eyes, but she doesn't interrupt him, "Again, this was assuming I could even accomplish what I'd been trying to do in the first place. Which I can't, now, and have absolutely no idea where to go from here."
"So you're staying here?" She asks tentatively. He searches her face for the source of that hesitation, and he's intrigued to find a brief flicker of hope.
"My dear." He's sitting up fully, the movement a smooth slide from his elbows that has him sitting closer to her, their knees brushing, "Is that an invitation?"
"No." She answers too quickly.
"You didn't want me to leave at all, did you?" Maybe the idea of her wanting him helped patch his bruised ego. Maybe it was a good distraction from the complete hopelessness he'd been battling off in his waking hours. He reaches up and clasps her jaw, and she doesn't pull away. Her face is an open book to him, so easy to read. That had never changed.
He comes closer still, only the border of their knees separating them.
"Ozai…" No matter what he'd done to her, the trials he'd forced her through, the burden of his abandonment, she couldn't quite lock her heart away from him. It is her greatest weakness, and an astounding oddity that he never could understand. How did a person go through life feeling so deeply as she did? How could she still be alive in this world that tore hearts like hers to shreds so easily? She is a plumed bird with hollow bones; a stunning flower with easily crushed petals. She's a curiosity he must have.
He kisses her slow. It's different than any kiss they'd shared since his return, and it surprises even him. It's not demanding, not needy and clouded with lust or teasing and playful. It's something different entirely. Full of contradictions, a push and pull of desire for more and fear of too much. She tastes like tea, which kind he can't tell, but that earthy aftertaste is there. He chases it, the hand on her jaw reaches around to tangle in her hair and tilt her head to give him a better angle.
Teeth on lips, the slide of his tongue teasing hers. It's a blur of desire as he finds her pinned to the bed beneath him, his breaths coming in heavy pants. His heart is beating loud in his ears. His head swims, and he buries his face in her neck to steady himself. The healing balm on his nose and cheeks rubs off onto her flushed skin. She's panting softly as well, dazed as her hands slide along his shoulders until they touch a hardened scab. She frowns, pausing.
"We can't…Ozai, you're still hurt." He doesn't care. He's never cared less about something before. His stitches could break; he could endure a week's more of that torture if just to have her right now. She smells as fragrant as she tastes, and he unties the apron around her slender waist, his hands sliding along her sides in search of the clasps or ties holding her dress closed.
"Flesh wounds." He mumbles into the skin of her neck, peppering rough kisses there that make her shiver and arch. So responsive under his touch, his lust only flares higher and sends a rush of blood southward.
He feels lightheaded again, blinking to try and clear his mind. He returns to adorning her neck with eager kisses. He finds the clasps along her side, the top of her dress pulled away and his mouth travels lower. He teases the peak of a breast with one of his hands, the other hurriedly working to free her of her skirts as well. He gives up on the notion quickly, yanking it up her legs and digging firm fingers into her thigh. She gasps against him, and he moans softly at her receptive sounds under his mouth, the intense want burning in his blood pushing him forward as his head seems to fog. The world spins, his vision blurs.
Something intensely warm dribbles from his nose and across her chest. He pulls back slowly, reaching up and wiping under his nose. The back of his hand comes back stained with blood, tiny ribbons of glittering black smeared through it. He feels more droplets start to run. He curses his luck at the timing of it.
"Ozai!" She's quick to react as soon as she sees the blood start to freely flow and drip through his fingers. There isn't much on hand to stem the bleeding, so she sacrifices one of the pillow cases, holding it out to him. He holds it to his nose, frowning as he studies his dripping hand in the light.
More of the strange black fluid marbling his blood leaks from him and into the pillowcase before it overflows the sodden fabric onto the bedspread. He sits back, the mood effectively ruined as he tilts his head back to try and slow the flow of it. He was simply out of luck, it seemed, recently.
"Are you alright?" She asks, and he realizes he's been staring off into space, unable to focus. His head still feels fogged and distant, his vision hazy. He blinks to focus on her, but her voice still sounds far away over the pounding of his heartbeat.
"Just give me a moment. We can continue—"
"Are you joking?! No, we're not doing that right now. We shouldn't have even been doing that to begin with. You're in no condition for it. You're laying down. Alone." She hurriedly buttons the top of her dress back into place and slides her skirt down her legs. There's a vague disappointment, but nothing can quite piece together. He's not sure when he settled onto her bed, a plush towel replacing the thin pillowcase. Everything blends and blurs, and through it all, Ursa flits around beside him. A nervous energy, like a spirit watching over him.
N/A: Uh-oh.
