A/N: Trigger warning for graphic depictions of violence. Ends on a pretty tight cliffhanger again, be warned.
AANG
Despite his confidence in Zuko and Azula, he can't help but worry, pausing on the roof of another ship to survey the landscape. The intermittent blasts of flame that had illuminated the craggy arena are now absent, and fear clings to him like his shadow. What if Ozai somehow took them both out while I was mucking about with helium?
The moment is shattered when a trapdoor in the roof pops open. "The intruder's here! Stop him!"
Oh, fuck. The other ships must have warned their comrades even as they sank to their oblivion. Aang whirls around just in time to deflect with a quick spin of his glider. Dodge, duck, return blast, cartwheel, circle around—their exchange of blows initiates a futile cycle, the firebender constantly attacking, the airbender ever evading. Perfect harmony, but not ideal for Aang, who needs to be getting a move on.
Afar in the corner of his eye, a huge fire blast blossoms, the resumption of Azula's blue flame to counter it, and the distraction is all his adversary needs to fire a particularly aggressive strike. The force of the air pressure knocks his glider from his hand and himself headfirst into a rigid column of metal affixed to the roof, hard enough that his sight flickers and his head spins. Flashes of bright and dark encroach farther and farther onto his visual field as he loses his footing and slips off the edge—
—falling—
—a distant bellow, sounds like an enraged sky bison—
—suddenly it's dark, so dark, what's happening—
And then, blessed silence.
AAA
SOKKA
Sokka's always believed that the muster before a great battle is an awesome spectacle. He'll never know for sure, because Master Piandao has them standing up here, watching the western arena from the sidelines on a nearby range, the Jade Hills.
"Our spies within the Fire army have confirmed that the plan is to send reinforcements against the eastern front, close to Lake Laogai," Piandao drones. "They know Lieutenant Colonel Lu Ten once suffered a great defeat at that site, so they want us to believe they won't concentrate their efforts there, when in fact that will be their tour de force."
He frowns at Sokka, looking much as he did during their training whenever his pupil would present a particular harebrained response to his tutelage. "Say what is on your mind, Sokka."
It is a clear day; the Outer Wall is visible ten miles to the south. It is not difficult to imagine the melee already starting there. The enemy nears amid a rain of arrows. Some fall and do not rise; others step over their bodies and march on. The second wave commences: earthbenders launch sealed clay jugs full of oil into the air, arcing over the Outer Wall, smashing skulls and bursting open as they hit the ground, and more importantly, dousing the ranks of firebenders in flammable oil. They will set their bodies alight and consume themselves alive with their comet-enhanced bending, spelling their own deaths.
"Is this all there is to the art of war?" he blurts out, unable to refine his turbid thoughts any further. "Stand on a wall and theorize about wiping out enough of your enemy before they even engage? It's no better than fighting battles on paper."
Piandao raises an eyebrow, hand on his sword hilt tightening. Old men declare wars, but it is the young who must fight and die, no questions asked. Sokka knows, via Zuko, that young men have been scarred and shamed for asking questions less pointed than these.
"If we allow them to drive their chariots to the wall unchecked and only then react, will there not be more life lost ultimately? Slake their lust for warfare here, break their will to fight now, and pray that they surrender sooner rather than later," Piandao counters.
"Break down our strategy for me, Sokka. To see victory only when it is within the ken of the common herd is not the acme of excellence. You must be able to see past all plots and decoys to divine the truth."
SSS
The Fire Nation's lavabenders are few but heavily protected. Their advances bring them within striking distance of the wall, and from there, the only way to go is down.
"The wall comes down, they flood in, and their forces are choked at the bottleneck of the hole in the wall. Our side has retreated slightly in preparation for open battle in the zone between the walls, and from a distance, we detonate huge amounts of explosives hidden in the Outer Wall for this very purpose."
The explosion flings stone and bodies sky-high like missiles. Vast swathes of firebending battalions fall, crushed under the tons of wall crumbling around them, further slowing their advance and sowing chaos. Their ranks are broken as they swell into the open field, disorganized, unable to rally to a single focus of attack.
"The enemy has broken in, but they've suffered heavy losses. They send signals to their allies on the eastern front indicating such, and this is the moment in which we divide and conquer."
"General Mung is inexperienced and unskilled, having been transferred from the home guard to the front lines only recently." Piandao speaks with disdain of his former colleague, and Sokka nods, having been acquainted with Mung and his less-than-admirable comportment at the Painted Lady's village. "He longs for recognition and accomplishment and chafes under the direction of General Mongke, who has more experience in the field."
The distance between the two fronts of battle spans some ten miles, close enough for reinforcements from the east to hasten hence in a timely fashion. There is no doubt as to who will come running when General Bujing sends up the signal for aid, bringing half of the eastern regiment's forces with him and ignoring the original plan for a concerted effort at the Inner Wall.
"We received Lu Ten's signal forty minutes ago that the eastern edge of the Outer Wall had fallen," Sokka recounts. "General Bujing signaled for aid twenty minutes ago, so now… we watch and wait. We wait for Mung to come charging over and fall into our trap. We wait for Bujing to realize that help is not coming and to make a last-ditch forge for the city. By that time, our disciplined ranks will have come around to his backside, sandwiching him between us and our earthbenders at the Inner Wall."
Bujing's forces are trapped in the tiger's mouth. He himself does not partake in the battle, staying instead at the back of the ranks in one of the tall watch posts that dot the agricultural zone. He can only watch, giving ever more indecisive orders, as his men struggle against forces they were told would be easy to defeat.
SSS
Piandao unsheathes his sword, not in defense against any imminent danger. Rather, he holds it out horizontally in front of Sokka.
"The balance of our victory or defeat is delicate." He lays the blade down perpendicular to the side of his outstretched hand. About a palm's breadth above the hilt, it rests on its balance point, falling to neither side, remaining in equilibrium.
"Our victory is not secure. If it were, I would let you go. But our defeat is not assured either. Though the Fire Nation is strong, we are not without our strengths as well. If all was to be lost, why not let you go and delight in the fray until it takes you?"
Sokka shivers at the opaqueness of his tone, reminiscent of some storied past. He wonders if Master Piandao is thinking of times when he was in battle, finding joy in war making, and what that looked like before he deserted.
"So you see, I have no choice but to keep you here, because I have hope that this battle will end in our favor. I do not know precisely how much," Piandao muses. "No matter what, you must survive this war. There are future generations of the White Lotus to think of." He sheathes his sword decisively and resumes his soulful vigil over the battlefield.
Sokka has no argument to counter that, but it still sits uneasily with him. "It hardly seems just, for me to live and so many others to die." He delicately sidesteps saying 'us' instead of 'me' out of respect for his master, but Piandao knows.
Far beneath them, the Fire army turns in restless circles as their adversaries surround them. A messenger trots up the slope to where they stand with updated news, and Piandao sends him off with further instructions to rendezvous with the eastern forces.
"The world is awash with innumerable miseries. Justice is not predicated on how long one man can live for. Sometimes life is its own just deserts, and death the final reprieve."
"But why me?" Sokka tries again, a little desperate. He was raised in the tradition of the Southern Water Tribe, where all warriors were brothers and shared life and death, joy and tragedy equally.
"It's not about you, Sokka," Piandao says brusquely. "It's about what you can do when the flames cool and the blood stops flowing. The war does not end here."
SSS
LU TEN
The Outer Wall has fallen; Generals Mongke and Mung and their ilk trickle in. Lu Ten awaits their charge from a distance, but they are not to withstand this assault either. Instead, they must put up enough of a pretense of resisting while enabling the majority of the infiltrators to reach the Inner Wall. There, they will face the Earthen army that defends the city proper.
Lu Ten estimates that they do not have enough lavabenders left to initiate a full-blown breakdown of the wall. If the timing is right, half of their forces should be diverted west soon enough. With the sundering of their regiments, neither front will have sufficient resources to break through the Inner Wall. Trapped inside a circuit of their own making, they will founder and fail.
But not before we have lost too many of our own.
"Soldiers of sundry nations, hearken to me! Your actions today will fill the annals of history to come. Your blood will water the fertile fields of your families' futures. Today, more than ever, you have the chance to decide your own victory."
"Who will fight with me?"
The wordless cry of thousands of hallowed voices, a choir of gleaming armor and polished steel. In the distance, the gap created by the lavabenders hemorrhages invaders, flowing into the enclosed space behind the wall. It is like a noxious spinneret, sowing silken strands, long lines of enemy soldiers that must be cut down or they will form a tangled web to trap the White Lotus' forces. There is no middle ground in war.
The enemy approaches. Their fate dawns. The moment is now.
He has missed this; he has forgotten how he missed this. Despite the invariable bloody wounds, despite the funeral pyres ever mounted high, he has missed the joy of battle, of the song of his swords and the elated ululation of strokes of flame dancing along their edges. It's strange yet familiar, how utterly at home he feels on the battlefield that sheltered him for three long years. He drives a spear of resistance through the advancing enemy forces, scattering them right and left in shivering chaos.
It is like a trance that descends over him as he throws himself into the midst of the battle. He forgets that he is here among forged blades and riven armor. The clash of steel, an endless stream, becomes as the whine of cicadas to him, constant, benign background noise amid a peaceful forest. Every blast of fire he fields is like a bird in flight, dissipating cheerfully before it can harm him. He is invincible.
LLL
HARU
He watches, Toph at his side, as the fireworks from the eastern front fade, telling them that General Mung's division are approaching their location rapidly. The last hour or so has been a complex interplay of forces from multiple sides, and they as earthbenders are hinged on the crux of a daring strategy.
"Once the drummers get going, they'll be six feet under," he remarks.
"Figure of speech," she corrects him. "Make that sixty feet under."
If nothing else, the White Lotus has truly worked miracles in its capacity to bring far-flung peoples together, united in a common cause. Toph is an earthbending master who learned her art from badgermoles. The people of the northwestern village of Shouxiang happen to have brought a couple of badgermoles with them. And Haru and the earthbenders of Meikuang have unparalleled expertise in the construction and maintenance of deep, underground mining tunnels. There is no missing the irony of the fact that the Fire Nation, who forced his people to hone their skills to a fine point during their occupation, will now suffer the consequences.
The drums are set up on either side of a wide valley that General Mung and his forces must ride through to join General Bujing far to the west. Fifty on each side, each one taller than a man, round and broad, spaced at five-foot intervals.
Mung will expect an ambush, but from above, not below, so they have prepared one to satisfy his sense of security. As the charging rhinos approach, bellowing thunder and snorting lightning, the soldiers stationed on each wall attack: arrows true and quick, sharp and deadly blasts of fire from those deserters that joined the White Lotus' ranks. Two thousand enemy soldiers ride through the thicket of long-distance attacks; fewer than two thousand make it out. The survivors ride on, confident that they will not face further resistance.
"General Mung does have some lightning in him," Toph recalls. "We encountered him in a village back in the Fire Nation once. He's a nasty one, that's for sure."
"Hm." Haru's not impressed. "I bet I've seen worse lightning in my time. Probably nothing to be worried about."
A lone horn echoes over the walls: the signal for the drummers to unveil their scheme. Toph and Haru stand on the parapets of the Inner Wall. Surrounding them are members of Ba Sing Se's Earthbending guard and members of the Dai Li. They are at the point of where the two walls are most closely apposed to each other, and the drummers closest to the Outer Wall are visible to Haru even from here.
"You miss her, don't you? You wish she were here to see all this go down."
…what.
"Toph," he begins tightly, "I know you feel very confident about this battle's outcome, but the truth is we do not have time for distractions and falsehoods at this moment—"
"Oh stop, I know you're lying." The drumbeats almost drown her voice out now, steadily rising in volume. "Your heartbeat is giving me a headache, don't bother."
The drums are pounding, each earthbender alternately striking their drum and then the ground in furious consecution, generating a frenetic, enlivening rhythm. Haru finds his heart rising to meet that frantic beat; it's nothing to do with how he feels about Azula. This is… not the time and place.
Mung is within sight now, riding at breakneck speed, not stopping to wonder why two rows of battle drummers are beating a call with no defending forces to heed their cry. He rides into the trap, and as the bulk of his forces are situated between the long lines of drums, the earth beneath him begins to crumble and implode.
Haru and his father had spent the weeks leading up to the day of Sozin's comet largely underground plumbing the depths of ancient tunnels between the walls, some of them collapsed long ago. The badgermoles had helped them excavate new passageways winding far beneath the surface, backed up by the expertise of Toph and all the White Lotus' best earthbenders. The result was a complex system of tunnels so well-constructed that the ground above them could hold up—for a time. Under the combined weight of scores of warriors on rhino-back and the relentless assault of the war drums, the roofs of the tunnels can only collapse in glorious downfall, burying the regiment alive.
It would be wrong to say that Haru looks away in discomfort, trying to sanitize his senses of the sound and sight of their enemies drowning in dust and rock. It would be expressly disingenuous to claim that Toph does not bear brazen testimony to General Mung's sorry end, kicking and screaming and choking on clay and sediment.
The earth that nourishes, the soil that brings life, that has been set alight time and time again, now smothers the flame that would burn it anew without mercy.
"For what it's worth," Toph resumes their conversation apropos of nothing, as if they had not just witnessed the massacre of an entire battalion, "I think Azula would be proud of you."
This is not a conversation he was expecting to have on the day of the end of the world. He wonders where Azula is, what she would think of their underhanded scheme, how she would have approached the strategy and won the day. He reminds himself that he no longer has the privilege to wonder anything about her. That bond has been severed like the stalk of a wilted peony flower under this ruthless sun.
HHH
AZULA
She watches, tense and ready, as the Fire Lord approaches, propelled through the air on distilled rage and flame. Zuko hasn't found the sun spirit yet, it seems. What's taking so long? Never mind, she'll defend him until the very last breath.
Ozai is impatient, longing to stamp them out for once and for all. He rears his head in midair, dragon-like, to direct his fiery breath across the atmosphere at them, consuming and mighty. Azula throws up a shield of blue flame to fend it off. He's close, too close, she can feel her eyeballs boiling—
And then it stops. The absence of flame, a paucity of light, a sudden laxity in her limbs as if she's fallen ill. A divine intervention, not a moment too soon. The sun stutters and winks out, the smoke clears, and only the comet's pale light is left to illuminate the day.
He did it. The sun is no more. She breathes a sigh of relief, approaching the cliff edge to see where their father has plummeted to his death.
Oh. Oh no.
Fire Lord Ozai's hair flies loose, topknot unsecured as he clings to the near-vertical wall. In one hand, he clutches the crown-pin, the Golden Flame of the Fire Nation, its sharp end buried in the rock, anchoring him to the cliff as he balances and tries to find a foothold.
Gods absolve me, why can't he just die already?
She scrambles to her feet—this is no time to panic. She hoists Zuko up under the arms and drags his limp body farther along the ledge, away from the threat. Fluttering about their vicinity, she locates a few fist-sized rocks, nothing larger, and she curses her luck. When she looks over again, Ozai's somehow managed to claw a path halfway up the cliff face: how? Punching holes in the wall to make handholds? Now he's close enough for her to see his expression: crazed, slavering, absolutely mad with fury, greed, and his own indefatigability. Hair a frightful forest, eyes like hot coals, and she longs to smother them.
She casts the rocks over the edge with all the force she possesses—futile. He shelters his face with one arm, missiles hitting him like droplets of rain.
Fuck. Fuck!
"You're not getting rid of me quite yet," he sneers, pulling himself over the edge like a terrible monster of children's stories. "Step aside now and I might let you live once I've killed your brother."
Not a chance. She settles into a defensive crouch, dagger in her right hand.
"So you have chosen death." He wastes no more words, advancing on her like a lion stalking its prey. Azula breathes deeply, body all coiled lightning, shrieking to be loosed, and strikes.
Hand-to-hand combat and weapons training were taught to her by her masters insofar as it benefitted her training in bending, and it sufficed to dispatch the bandits at Song's house. They were hardly worth the effort she expended, but with Fire Lord Ozai, she fears that nothing will be enough to overcome him.
He trains as if he expects his imperial guards to be incompetent or absent, she seethes. Why couldn't he have been the kind of placid, bookish monarch who's totally uninterested in anything athletic? Like every Earth King ever.
She hasn't been this close to her father in months, and certainly never on the receiving end of a purely physical attack. She stumbles amid a flurry of blows, dodging back and evading the fury of his fists. Her dagger lands a few glancing slashes, but Ozai is so fired up on adrenaline that they don't deter him at all. She is outclassed and out of cards to play.
No. I can't give up. I can't let Zuko down.
Determined, she seizes the opportunity and his bulging forearm raised to strike, volleying herself up to rest, knees astride his shoulders, in perfect position to yank his head back and slit his throat—only to be dumped unceremoniously on her head as he drops backwards into a perfect bridge form.
Dazed, she scrabbles for her dagger, cut short as Ozai twists and drags her upright by the throat. She kicks out at him, attacks totally unheeded, and he slams her against the wall with one hand, feet dangling well above the ground.
"This ends now," he snarls.
She can't breathe through his chokehold, vision spattered with dark spots, a roaring rush of blood in her ears blocking out all other sounds. She cannot even cry out in pain as he pulls his steely fist back and punches her, once, twice, over and over and over in the ribcage, right over her heart.
Bone meets bone, and her ribs yield. She feels more than hears them crack. He doesn't stop. A wet sound as fist strikes hollow, and finally, he lets her drop to the ground, limp and immobile.
Hurts… so much…
She has no strength to even turn and watch him, but in her peripheral vision, she sees him going for the little alcove where Zuko's stashed, nothing standing between him and the Avatar. One last rally, she promises herself. One last hurrah, and then you can rest.
With some unknown hidden reserve, she hauls herself upright, one hand brushing against cold steel, her discarded dagger. Desperately, she flings herself across the ground, clinging to his legs like a dying dog, and slashes the blade across the fabric of his thigh before collapsing.
Fire Lord Ozai roars in pain, a reaction at last, but through the mighty gash she's inflicted, it's clear that she's only hit a vein. He won't bleed out fast enough, not before he reaches Zuko.
I'm so tired…
She registers the feeling of pain vaguely, detached as he kicks her aside, the world darkening until she cannot tell if her eyes are open or not.
I'm sorry, Zuko.
AAA
IROH
In all his years at war, Iroh has never actually had the chance to share the battlefield with his son, instead receiving reports of his victories and hearsay of his fearsome prowess from subordinates. Today, he finally witnesses Lu Ten in action, and what a grandiose show it is.
He is power incarnate and agility embodied, flying high and striking low without an ounce of hesitation. Many who fall in his wake surely do not even know what hit them, and Iroh can only track his progress because he levitates on a column of fire high above, observing the battlefield from a bird's-eye point of view.
Despite his infernal glory, he remains cognizant of the big picture, and Iroh marvels as multiple arms of Lu Ten's forces sweep seamlessly around the enemy, his commands passed down via his various lieutenants. Before long, they have altered their positions to close in behind Mongke as he plows furiously toward the wall, where the Earthen guard lines its heights under the leadership of Generals How and Ai. Mongke is surrounded, and Mung's command has already broken off, doomed to sunder itself in the tunnel traps laid by the White Lotus' earthbending contingents.
We are still not beyond defeat, Iroh reminds himself. Not until the last man lays down his arms can we call our victory.
He may as well speed that moment along. The Dragon of the West descends in defense of the city he once sieged.
III
He catches up to his son just beyond the shadow of the Inner Wall, reining his rhino in to trot mildly alongside Lu Ten, who has resumed his steed as well.
"General Iroh," Lu Ten greets, ever respecting their roles and divisions amid times of war. Iroh ignores these, unable to forget those long years where he had no one to call his son.
"You do me proud, my son."
Lu Ten shakes his head, catching his breath as they pause together beyond the chaos of the battle. "Your men do you proud," he corrects him. "Staunch hearts bleed hale wine. Though so many have fallen, those who remain rouse themselves to arms still more vigorously."
"Indeed." Six hours have passed since dawn and the beginning of the bloodshed. The comet will persist for six more hours, and whether the White Lotus can survive this crucial period will determine the fate of Ba Sing Se. "'They were more than brave: they were possessed by martial spirit, / Steadfast to the end, they could not be daunted,'" Iroh recites in an elegy to the dead.
"'Their bodies were stricken, but their souls have transcended, / Captains among the ghosts, heroes among the dead,'" Lu Ten finishes the couplet, rounding out Qu Yuan's Hymn to the Fallen. "Let us hope, though, that our cause will not follow the fate of that hero-poet's nation."
A strange feeling tingles through Iroh, something chilling that sets his hair on end. "I do not believe it will," he murmurs, unsure what this sense harbors as of yet. He has his suspicions, though, and he raises his eyes to the sky.
No eclipse is intended for today, and indeed, not for many years to come, yet the sky darkens, as if clouds pass before the sun, obscuring it. It is more than that, though—the sun is entirely absent from the heavenly vault.
Lu Ten follows his gaze, stricken in shock. "The sun… what's happening?"
They turn their attention to the sprawling chaos around them, and sure enough, every flame has winked out, every firebender staring at their hands, dumbfounded, their bending gone.
Zuko… he succeeded!
At last, this day can end.
III
ZUKO
It is done. He kneels before Jinwu, acutely aware of himself, his mortal spirit that quakes and shies away from its end. Can't help that now. You promised.
"You meant it." Jinwu sounds surprised. "Avatars love to sacrifice the lives of others, but rarely their own, in my experience. You cannot lie. I know your heart is true and your spirit pure, which is why I do not want it."
Zuko looks up, and it is like looking at the sun that is no longer in the sky. "What do you mean?"
"Remember what you learned when last you were here, Avatar." Jinwu treads at the ground with one of its three clawed feet, and a vast, iridescent net illuminates itself. It spreads as far as the eye can see, like glass beads reflecting the universe.
Zuko touches a hand to one of its facets. "The jeweled net," he breathes.
It shows all. Even now, he can sense what's going on hundreds of miles away, at Ba Sing Se. The Fire army is in retreat, their bending gone, their courage flagging. The White Lotus is winning, all is going well. He turns his focus closer at hand, and his heart stutters. Azula, fighting their father alone. She can't hold out indefinitely. He needs to help her.
"There is a place in the spirit world for him," Jinwu says, cutting off his thoughts. Its eyes are jewel-red, cruel and cold. "He is the instigator of the world's pain, both human and spirit. Not you. I can drag him there and trap him in his own mind forever."
The Fog of Lost Souls. Zuko has seen it before. He shudders at the memory.
"To do so, I will need to join with you, to set foot in the human world and pull him into this one. This is not without risk to you, though."
The Avatar state. He remembers the handful of times he's merged with spirits—excruciating, scarring experiences that left him weak and trembling, and in Jinwu's case, comatose. As long as he cannot control the Avatar state, that is what will happen should he take up Jinwu's offer.
It's tempting, though. To rid the world of Ozai's scourge, not even a shred of memory left of his father… a clean, new start. He stands and faces the sunbird.
"Great Sun Spirit," he begins, but then a cloud flies across the sky, dusk descending over vermilion. What fresh horror is this?
"Avatar." An infernal sigh, another spirit wronged by one of Zuko's past lives. Another debt to be invoked. Koh coalesces into a hard, dark shell, part scorpion and part deepest fears of all humankind, old as creation itself. "You know why I am here."
The spirit's malevolence brings to mind the taste of volcanic ash contaminating a clear stream, bitter and gritty. Zuko feels his insides freeze and congeal like oozing blood. Koh's presence can signal no good.
"You compelled the sun spirit to your bidding, human," Koh spits. The segments of his body undulate in sequence as he coils, unending, around Zuko's paralyzed position. "You know what I said I would do if you pulled such a trick again."
"I had to, Koh," Zuko protests. "For the sake of the world."
"Not my world. And now you think to join with the sun spirit yourself to eliminate your enemy, as if spirits exist at your beck and call."
"Enough, Koh," Jinwu interrupts, its voice thunder and lightning. "You do not speak for all spirits. You have no power here. Begone!"
"Not here, but there, yes." His silken voice seems to permeate Zuko's soul, and as he menaces Zuko, memories flash before his eyes on the barren, desolate backdrop of the spirit world. Faces, so many faces, everyone that he has encountered throughout his lifetime. Koh riffles through them like sheaves of paper, examining every leaflet carefully.
"This one might do, but you've given him up, haven't you? How noble of you."
Aang.
"This one…" Koh pauses. "Hm, but hers is already gone, no?"
His mother? Zuko gapes, uncomprehending.
"These could all suffice..." Faces upon faces blur past, and Zuko's heart pounds in his throat until the wheel of fate stops spinning—on Lu Ten's face. "Ah. This one seems most satisfactory."
No!
Jinwu looks impassively at Zuko. "You are almost out of time, Avatar." Through the jeweled net, Zuko senses Azula's collapse, their father's triumph. "You must choose. What will you give up?"
Lu Ten? Or the chance to avenge Lu Ten, himself, Azula, all the myriad breaths of stardust who lived and died by Ozai's hand?
You must let them go, Guru Pathik's words echo in his mind. All your earthly attachments, all the things and people that tie you to this world.
Both spirits wait, breaths baited, auras loaded with an odd feeling, almost greedy, coveting the Avatar's will, waiting to reshape the world. Waiting for him to choose.
If I had to, I would give you up, too, Aang once told him. Only if it were the right thing to do, but I would.
He and Aang have evolved to exist in tandem, with and without each other, letting go and circling back to each other at will. They are earthly attachments no more. But Zuko had not accounted for Lu Ten when he first summed up his many tethers to this world, mainly because he hadn't known Lu Ten was alive.
What would Lu Ten do? He falls back on his most basic role model, but that's no help. Lu Ten would have the same dilemma: let Zuko go, for the greater good, or cling to his selfish desires and protect his cousin from an unscrupulous spirit?
In the periphery of his consciousness, the spirit world blending his mind and his surroundings, Koh snarls with impatience, Jinwu beats the air with its vast wings, magnifying the tumultuous emotional currents around the three of them. A maelstrom of darkness crosses his heart. He has loved Lu Ten all his life; he will have the rest of his life to continue loving Lu Ten, dead or alive. He will not have a better chance to end the Fire Lord and empty his heart of darkness.
Goodbye, Lu Ten.
As soon as he verbalizes this thought in his mind, two things happen. First, Koh disappears, leaving behind only the singed smell of sulfur in the air. Second, Zuko collapses to his knees, the sudden jolt of elevated consciousness as his thought chakra bursts open, unleashing untold power.
The magnitude of this might is unimaginable. He is at the peak of the highest mountain, dancing up a celestial staircase. He has reached the pinnacle of the stars; he can pluck the moon from the sky if he so chooses. The power of the universe suffuses him, a radiant glow descending upon his skin, igniting his chi paths with rivers of pure cosmic energy.
His head pounds; he can hear one long, resonant note thrumming through his skull, but within it interlace hundreds upon thousands of brilliant harmonies. They are voices, humming low and thrilling high, coming from within him. They are many, but he stands alone before the sun spirit, trembling at the legion that threatens to burst the dam of his soul. They are all, but all is one, and one is all.
The Avatar state is his.
"Great Sun Spirit." His voice resounds with the timbres of scores of different Avatars throughout the ages. "I accept your offer."
ZZZ
LU TEN
It is done. Wherever he is now, Zuko must have won the sun spirit over, causing it to rescind the sun's power. Without the sun, even Sozin's comet can do no harm. Lu Ten himself is affected by this change as well, but the loss of his bending does not matter to him. His swords rest light and graceful in his hands, the only weapon he needs.
The disappearance of the sun has struck a heavy blow to the Fire army. Though there are nonbending infantrymen among them, their morale is low, and the disarmed firebenders are inept with the spears and swords they manage to pick up. Lu Ten recognizes that hubris: back when he commanded several firebending units in the 18th regiment, they too disdained nonbenders and only grudgingly accepted training in weaponry. They have learned nothing from their mistakes.
He stands with his father at an observation post built a quarter of the way up the Inner Wall, one of many such vantage points scattered along its surface. It overlooks a mild valley closed in by several long, sloping buttes, hardly more than a dimpling in the landscape. From here, they see the Fire army retreating, their commanders fleeing for their lives without solid instructions to their men.
"A shameful display." Iroh shakes his head gravely. "I thought General Bujing could maintain greater morale than that in the face of defeat, but apparently not."
"The men should not have to suffer for their superiors' lack of foresight," Lu Ten proposes. "Those who surrender peacefully should be spared. Let it not be said that the future Fire Lord is merciless even towards his own people."
The Fire Nation's forces are decimated beyond repair at this point. There is no meaning in continuing to scatter souls across the plains, sowing seeds of resentment on this battlefield and future ones. Iroh nods thoughtfully. "Very well." To Lu Zhao, he instructs, "Let the captured soldiers be held at our rendezvous point in the Jade Hills, to await further actions."
Lu Zhao hurries down the steps to the ground level where Iroh's retinue is gathered, sending a set of couriers to relay his orders to the commanders active in various arenas of these battlegrounds. Across the field, many soldiers are already beginning to survey the damage, searching for injured survivors to transport to the healing tents. Hanxin had asked permission to go down and help them, his presence at Lu Ten's side no longer needed now that their victory is secured.
Perhaps this was too hasty a decision, as Lu Ten turns his attention back to the scene. His heart leaps when he spies one enemy still charging unchallenged across the plains: General Mongke.
LLL
HANXIN
He and Chey have just finished getting another brace of injured soldiers to medical attention when the valley echoes with an unexpected alarum, a lone rider bellowing bloody murder as he charges towards the wall. Mongke's telltale ponytail whips back and forth as he rides hard, disrupting bands of huddled soldiers as he passes, infuriated at the Fire Nation's defeat and thirsting for vengeance.
Another ripple of shock blitzes through all bystanders, and the cause is apparent. Mongke's path is set to converge with another rider: Jet. He's managed to scrounge up a steed, but the Komodo rhino is crazed and feral from multiple wounds gashing its belly and hindquarters. It is out of control, so Jet does what seems logical to him: stand up on its back and take a running leap from the top of its head to propel himself through the air towards his enemy.
The Rough Rider is still a formidable foe even without his firebending, wielding a heavily spiked mace. Hanxin acts without thinking, unhitching the ostrich-horse from the cart he and Chey have been using for transport.
Jet, no, he thinks frantically in those few heartbeats that elapse as, faster than Hanxin's eyes can track, Mongke lashes out with his weapon, the ball and chain snapping violently until they connect with Jet's body arcing through the air.
The scene is awash with horror, bleached white and stained black. Hanxin's eyeballs burn with the stark image of Jet crumpled and suspended in the air for seemingly longer than possible. Everything slows, just like it did the first time he and Lu Ten met the young boy running for his life.
That time, he let go of Jet to save Lu Ten's life from an arrow fired by the Rough Riders' archer. It's been so long since he'd even thought of making amends for a split-second decision that changed the boy's life forever. He will not abandon Jet this time.
Mongke doesn't even seem to register his approach, focused as he is on Jet's unmoving body on the ground. Hanxin's left his sword back with the medics, his cumbersome kit weighing him down too much to facilitate dragging and lifting injured comrades. Just as well: he doubts he's strong enough to engage Mongke at close quarters, especially with that mace. Instead, he draws the dagger he keeps strapped to his right arm and throws it with his left hand, his aim as true as it's always been.
It's because of your faith in yourself, your belief that you cannot fail, Lu Ten had once told him, noticing his predilection for target practice. Zuko is just the same, but I never quite got the hang of it. Master Piandao always said it was better not to throw your weapon away.
Piandao was right to say so. Mongke's lightning-quick reflexes dodge the dagger aimed for his eye socket, leaving Hanxin defenseless. He glances around, scanning the ground for a discarded sword or spear to arm himself, but no luck. Mongke is already upon him, vilely pleased to encounter another old feud.
"You were part of his company, weren't you?" he sneers in recognition. "Defending that little runt; now look where it's got you."
All Hanxin can do now is try to trample the man to death with his ostrich-horse, but Mongke has other ideas. The ball and chain swing towards him, peerless in their capacity to maim flesh and smash bones, and the ostrich-horse's knees buckle, throwing him off.
Fuck. Heblinks up at the sky through mottled eyes. This was not well-planned.
"Aughh!" A sudden cry of agony snaps him out of his daze. Jet has stumbled to his feet, and the hook of one sword cleverly winds around the Rough Rider's ponytail, yanking his whole body headfirst away from Hanxin.
"This little runt," he spits, "is big enough to defend against you, you animal."
In that same adrenaline-fueled breath, he slams the man, at least twice his weight, to the ground. A quick slash, almost an afterthought, were it not for the force behind his sword arm, and Mongke rises no more.
Jet… He sways and reels, bracing himself weakly on his swords, and Hanxin scrambles to his side, enjoining him with a heavy hand on his back to hurry up, sit down and rest for a bit before you keel over and rest forever. He's avenged his village at last, but it will be in vain if he does not survive to tell the tale and carry on their legacy. His lips move, and Hanxin bends close to hear.
"Thank you," Jet whispers, voice edged with pain but somehow still brimming with the devilish cheer that's grown on Hanxin despite the shortness of their acquaintance. "He'd probably have wiped me off the face of the earth if you hadn't showed up."
Idiot, Hanxin reproves silently. Despite his remonstrance, he breathes a sigh of relief, resting a hand on Jet's shoulder, trying to soothe his labored breaths. Before long, Chey rides up with a handful of soldiers in tow, wary of General Mongke's menace. There is nothing to be feared there anymore.
We made it. The day is secured.
Before Hanxin has quite finished this optimistic thought, a sinister shadow dims the sky, and a chill runs down his spine. He gathers himself to his feet, searching for the source of this unease. In the sun's absence, the sky is lit only with the eerie glow of Sozin's comet, but around them, darkness descends, thick and close like fog. They are caged in a small enclave of a valley, the southern wall at their hind, enemies cut down or in ragged flight. What new terror awaits them as this mist clears, he does not know.
Instinctively, he looks back to where Iroh, Lu Ten, and the others are gathered near the wall. Fear clenches at his heart, constricting, choking, as he sees that the darkness is most concentrated there, the opaque mist coalescing into a horrific form.
It is something unearthly; no creature in this world inhabits such an unnatural form. A body like a scorpion, tail twining in spirals like wicked vines, but it appears to have faces all over itself, sprouting from its legs, strange tentacles of its body, and the fore of its trunk bears a white, mask-like face. Its presence is a paralytic; everyone ceases their activities, unable to do anything but stop and gaze upon this monster, its intent unknown, its very being poison to their souls. It is the stuff of nightmares.
Nightmares…
Oh no. No, it can't be.
With dread cloying his limbs, he tries to sprint back towards Lu Ten, but time is like quicksand, dragging him down. The creature's voice reaches his ears like a death sentence.
"I take my dues for the Avatar's transgression."
Even at this distance, Hanxin can see Lu Ten's face transfixed in horror, swords useless at his sides, as the creature bends over him.
No—
It all happens so quickly. A body slumps to the ground, swords clattering on packed earth. A pause, split by confused murmurs rising and ebbing until they crest in a revulsed tide. An anguished cry splits the air, bloody and raw as the iron that soaks the earth from today's bloodshed. A father's grief, rehearsed once before, now again in an unkind cycle.
Iroh sinks to his knees beside his son's body, Lu Zhao clutching his arm to steady him. About them gather the White Lotus, masters and foot soldiers alike, all standing aghast in a shuddering ring around the scene such that Hanxin can hardly see the body lying there. He slows to a walk, almost unable to force himself to go any farther, denial pulling at his feet. No…
The hateful mist dissipates at the edge of the valley, dark fog lingering unnaturally in the air. The creature has absconded with that which is most precious to him. Though they may celebrate a victory today, there will be no joy in it for Hanxin. Not without Lu Ten.
A/N: If you feel bulldozed after this chapter, that's normal; I felt this way when writing it as well. Oh my - is Azula going to be okay? Is Lu Ten going to be okay? Zuko why? Don't worry, all will be resolved soon! Next chapter to be posted in one week. Notes below, dealing with battle strategies and many decisions / departures from canon.
archiveofourown dot org /works/7019827/chapters/60721486