"You're too grounded."

"Yeah, well, sorry. I'm a firebender. We tend to like the ground."

"You're also from a water tribe," Sokka chastises as he walks another circle around Kaz. "And that means you need fluidity."

He sighs and tosses his sword on the ground, standing up and searching for a clear place to sit down with his feet. When his toes touch something that isn't quite grassy he falls down, ignoring the mud he's going to track back home. "Everyone else said that I'm doing fine."

"You can always do better. Come on, now. Get up." He sits with his arms crossed and Sokka chuckles before pressing a warm hand to his shoulder. "I don't want to be mean or anything, Blue. But I think that those Fire Nation tutors of yours might be a little close-minded."

"What does that mean?" Kaz asks crossly. "I'm Fire Nation and we have a way that we fight. You don't fight like that, though."

"No, I still stick to my roots. And I know that you were originally taught another way — your initial stance gives you away. You're unlearning something."

"No I'm not."

"Your father," Sokka continues after a second. "He must have learned something from your mother. One of my old friends used to fight a little bit like you," he squints. "And he wore the mask as well. Strange coincidences."

Those words — an old friend who wore a mask and fought like him. How many people run around the Fire Nation wearing blue masks? Not very many. Only one other, he thinks. He swallows and figures that he maybe should have gone to see Iroh tonight instead of coming here. Sure, that conversation would've been pointless, but maybe he could have learnt more about his parents anyway. He doesn't know what he'd intended to accomplish by fighting with this strange man. And then he gets up. He doesn't want Sokka to keep on talking.

"Fine," he huffs, settling into one of his stances before noticing Sokka's reproach and stepping out of it. "What do I do?"

In response a black blade comes out of nowhere and slams into where he'd just stood. He jumps back and his mouth widens, the bottom part of it clearly visible. Kazou almost slips on the mud. "What was — you can't do that!"

The moon illuminates a bright white and somewhat devious smile. "Just relax, Blue."

And then his sweaty hand raises his sword to weakly defend against another stroke right towards his heart. His grip is weak and Sokka pressures him, forcing his feet to skim the ground until his back is suddenly pressed flush to a tree. In a burst of inspiration he tries to force his fingers to clutch his grip tighter and tugs out of the way. When he ducks he hears something thud below . . . and as he scatters away he blanches as he sees a sword embedded into the tree he'd just been against.

"Are you trying to kill me?"

Maybe he does know who I am. "I'm testing you."

Bright gold eyes flash at him, blue flames, and he's remembering a time only a few months ago when Azula pressed a ball of fire so close to his face his skin felt like melting. And yet this feels different. And he's loitered in this stance for too long — he skitters out of the way as another strong loop of the sword makes its way across the dark night. He feels it flow through the air before he can see it, but he's still a little too late. It nicks his neck and when he holds up his hand there he feels something like blood even though it's not stinging at all.

Kaz is ready to jump out of the way of another attack when Sokka laughs. "I'm not actually gonna hurt you, okay?"

"Okay —" and he pirouettes away and deflects the next blow unintentionally.

"I'll give you a second to wipe off your hands. Sweat doesn't do it."

"I — okay," he reaches down and swipes his palms off on his outfit, then grabs his sword with his right hand. It feels firmer now, and he's prepared for the blow that comes down on his head. He holds his ground firmly as Sokka pressures down before eventually breaking away and moving to the side.

"That's better. But you're too slow," metal clangs above his head. The moon's risen higher into the sky and now it's easier to see body parts moving. Here's the issue with swordfighting versus firebending — physicality is an advantage when you're a nonbender, more so than it is with bending. Azula is inches shorter than him now and she could kill him without a second thought — and he hasn't given this a second thought. He's a firebender.

But his training is in stances and katas, in ways to kick up firmly off the ground. He doesn't know how to bend with a sword in his hand. He doesn't, at least, until Sokka's sword flies past his ear. When he swings his to step back sparks arise from it and almost coat the metal surface — luckily, his grip is leather.

He jumps back after that, poised on his toes, anticipating the next blow, but it doesn't come. After a bleary second and as his adrenaline goes down he realizes that his sparks were blue. Control, Kaz. He still doesn't have it. It sucks. And it probably gave him away. Or maybe . . .

"Sorry, I . . ." Sokka coughs and moves away. There are still sparks on the floor, little embers on the leaves. Kazou slowly moves forward and stomps them out. "Let's take a break."

"But we barely — was I doing that bad?" He was scared while they were swinging but in hindsight he thinks that battle was kind of fun. Something slips down his throat and he realizes that it's his blood, even if the cut still doesn't hurt.

"No, you did fine," he's given a weary smile. "And you let go of the ground — you did good, stayed fluid. Good style. I just . . ."

"Was it . . . my fire?" He might as well say it upfront. Sokka turns his head up.

"Is it . . . common? Having it be that color?"

"I don't know, mine's always been like that," he lies. "My dad used to say blue meant focus."

"Alright, then. I . . . the last person I saw bend blue was Azula . . . your Fire Lord."

Kaz exhales and slides onto the ground again. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, not letting himself think before he speaks. The strands are longer than they've ever been. "You call the Fire Lord by her first name?"

He doesn't think anyone else has used it, at least without a title. He said Fire Lord like an afterthought.

Sokka grimaces. "She doesn't deserve the title. She's not . . . she's crazy."

"Yeah," Kaz agrees firmly in a heartbeat, though he soon realizes that they're probably thinking about the word differently. "How do you . . ."

"We fought against each other. During the war."

"You talk a lot about the war," he treads ahead after a moment. Sokka is gazing out towards the moon, his eyebrows furrowed and his mouth turned downward.

"I don't mean to," he says sadly. "But I think it's defined me."

"I'm sorry," he repeats. Sokka's sword is on the ground. The man picks it back up and then glances back to where he's sitting. The mask is still on his face, though a bit loose. It covers his features but doesn't suffocate him.

"Don't be," he says quietly before tapping his almost grimy fingers against his chin. "You know, that mask really is something. You heard of the Blue Spirit, Blue?"

"Uh, yeah," he admits. "I . . . that's where you got the nickname, right?"

Sokka smiles. "Yeah. He was one of my old buddies, actually."

And that's it. Kaz freezes, utterly and completely, where he's half sitting and standing, hoping Sokka can't read his hesitation. He wants to just run away from this and forget it happened but he has to think objectively . . . he should. "Oh. Who was he?"

"A pretty big guy, actually. I might not be supposed to tell you but . . . he's gone, after all," no he's not. "The Fire Nation's former prince. Zuko, if you've heard," he twists his head. "Do they even teach you about that one?"

"Yeah," he's not sure if his dad is actually in his subject matter, but thinking about it makes him vulnerable. He pops off the ground with faux optimism. "Can you attack me again?"

Sokka looks at him strangely — probably because he should be curious about what he was just told. Anyone would be and he's trying to project that he's anyone and no one but he also doesn't think he has the ability to hide his feelings about his father.

"Are you —" before Sokka can finish the sentence he has to raise his sword to block Kaz's admittedly weak blow. "He was a firebender, you know. I don't think he bent when he was the Blue Spirit but he was absolutely amazing with swords. I think I recall him bending and fighting the few times we sparred."

There are questions he should be asking here: you knew the Fire Nation's prince, you sparred with him, who really are you? But he doesn't want to ask him even though he should, so he lunges over and draws his sword down to the side, suddenly playing the aggressor. He's pushed to the side — he knows he isn't a real challenge for a master — but that's fine.

"He was really inspirational, even when he wasn't the Blue Spirit . . ."

"I'm sure."

"Really?" he's asked as Sokka parries yet another hit. "I wouldn't have thought you'd have learnt anything positive about him. But he was a good man."

"Yeah."

"You doing okay there, son? You seem a little off," and isn't he? Sparks fly out of his hands as the master inflects the last part of his sentence. "Whoa, no need to get angry."

"I'm not angry."

"Did I say something — watch out. Good job staying off the floor, though — hey," a swiping circle of flame flies over Sokka's head and he ducks. When he turns back up a few errant strands of his small ponytail look fried. "Why are you angry?"

"I'm not!"

Sokka sidesteps another blast and once again places his fingers to his chin, his sword still tight in his grasp. "Anger might fuel your bending for now but it probably won't work out in the long run. You need to be stable to fight properly."

"I'm stable."

"You're in denial. Did I say something?"

The small clearing is a little more alight now, the moon full and sparks coating the ground like fireflies. It would almost be a pretty scene if a misstep wouldn't set the entire forest on fire. The trees lurk behind Sokka and across from him, like they're witnesses to this — whatever this is. He wants to run away. He doesn't want to confront the strange fuel which is increasing the fire within his chest, doesn't want to realize what's slowly becoming clear. Sokka is looking up at the moon again and he's remembering one of Iroh's stories. He never heard the rest.

He doesn't know what to do. But Sokka said he'd lost his sister . . . what does that mean? What can he do about that? Nothing, not much. He doesn't have his mother here and he has his aunt and he thinks . . . no.

"You fought with the Avatar," he chokes out after a second of some sort of staredown as Sokka looks back at him. The man nods but doesn't say anything, still seemingly a little confused.

"I don't often admit it," he says. "How do you know?"

It's justice that has Kaz realize, a little too late, that his mask has almost completely fallen off. It had loosened during the initial fight and been swept away by his futile attempts at aggression, and now it's hanging on by a single thread. He shakes a little, unsure how to open that sentence, and his quivering features give him away.

The smooth and pearlescent mask falls away onto the floor with a thud, his face red and full of bluster beneath, and his eyes face the ground with it. He doesn't know what just happened — doesn't know what it'll mean. And almost half a minute later when he glances back up it's to blue eyes wide.

"Katara?"