Chapter 10

Jirou throws the last dried lump of hippo-cow dung into the metal bucket. Finally. He thought being a travelling doctor's apprentice would mean he'd get to do interesting things, like sew people up or visit big cities, but it turns out "apprentice" means doing all the things Uncle doesn't want to do. Plus a lot of reading. Jirou brushes flecks of dung off onto his pants, hoists the bucket up, and makes his way back to the caravan. He has to tilt his body away from the heavy bucket as a counterbalance.

Uncle's wagon stands out black against the setting sun. The ostrich-horse is hobbled a few meters away and stoops to peck at the grass. Fingers growing numb both with cold and from gripping the bucket handle tightly, Jirou shifts the pail to his left hand. In the three weeks since they left his mother and siblings in New Azulon, he must have gathered hundreds of pounds of dung for fuel.

By the time Jirou staggers into camp the sun has almost fallen. Shoulders aching, he drags himself to the far side of Uncle's wagon, where he finds Uncle predictably engaged in conversation with Nekana. Uncle's face is flushed and he moves his hands as he talks.

"No, I'm not saying that all Colonials are well educated, but—"

"If you admit Colonials aren't even educated, why should they be able to make political decisions?"

"Because after all we've been through we should be able to choose,Nekana—"

"Go back to being cynical, idealism doesn't—"

Jirou thumps the bucket of dung down dramatically. A few chips fall off from the impact.

"I have brought the shit," he declares. Both Uncle and Nekana jump in shock.

"Jirou!" Uncle exclaims, noticing his own nephew for the first time. His mouth twitches like he's both amused and disapproving.

"Watch your language," Uncle admonishes. Nekana rolls her eyes and Uncle shoots her a stern glare. She only laughs. Nekana is the only one in their whole party who stands up to Jirou's bossy uncle. Maybe it's because she's a girl. Or maybe it's because she could probably kill Temurin, Altan, and Jirou in less than a minute.

Nekana drags the bucket over to the circle of stones next to the wagon and dumps out half of the dung. With a snap of her fingers, the shit bursts into flame.

"Without me you would all have frozen weeks ago," Nekana declares smugly. She warms her hands by her own fire.

"Don't we have a sparkstone?" asks Jirou.

"We do indeed," Uncle says, clapping a hand on Jirou's shoulder. "Thanks for collecting the fuel, Jirou."

Jirou wishes he could point out that he didn't have a choice.

"I'll start the porridge!" Uncle says brightly. "And Altan said he'll roast the gopher-rabbit he shot this afternoon."

"Nice!" Jirou's mouth waters in anticipation.

"Nekana also tried to kill a gopher-rabbit, but she burnt it to a blackened and inedible crisp," Uncle smirks.

Nekana rises, and the fire flares a foot higher.

"I'd like to see you try to catch a hopping, flaming gopher-rabbit before the meat is ruined," she says. Then she tilts her head and taps her chin in mock consideration with one pointed fingernail.

"Oh wait. You can't hunt at all."

Uncle sputters. Jirou envisions a terrified ball of fire bouncing through the meadow. The image is both sickening and hilarious.

"Is that the delicious smell of burning dung I sense?" Altan emerges from behind the wagon, also carrying a bucket of hippo-cow chips, and stands next to Nekana. His lanky form casts a long shadow behind him.

"Yes," Uncle answers. "We saved you some fuel so you can cook your gopher-rabbit, but I see you've collected your own."

"Excellent, excellent," says Altan distractedly. He runs a hand through his hair, then picks up the half-full bucket with his free hand.

"I think I'll roast the rabbit a ways away...don't want to scare the ostrich-horse with another flaming rabbit, poor thing. Nekana, could you come help me light my fire?"

"If I must," she sighs. The two quickly disappear into the darkness. Uncle wears a sour expression, as if he was the one who earlier this evening had picked up a chip of dung thinking it was dry and instead found it was all gooey at the bottom.

"I guess we'll start the porridge?" Jirou suggests.

"I'll do it," sighs Uncle. "You should catch up on your biology readings."

Jirou peers into the deep twilight. There is no friendly twinkle of firelight, and no delicious scent of gopher-rabbit.

"How long does it take to start a fire, Uncle?" he shouts.

A few hundred meters away from the campfire, the plains dip sharply and Azula can no longer see the wagon. Immediately, Altan drops the buckets of dung onto the grass and turns to Azula.

"Spirits, I've missed you—" he starts. But before he can finish whatever he was going to say, Azula uses both hands to pull him down into a kiss. His breath is hot and he grips her waist with both hands. Azula closes her eyes. She drops a hand from his face to trail down his chest, although the effect is probably diminished by the thick coat he wears. Nevertheless he pulls her closer and she finds herself pleasantly crushed against his chest. His mouth is oddly soft and sweet on hers.

He pulls away first. "I guess you missed me too," he says, grinning. "It feels like forever since we've been able to slip away."

"It's fine," Azula waves him away. She lived for eighteen years without significant physical contact; one evening alone won't kill her. He looks like he's about to talk again, so Azula stretches upward and kisses him again, harder. He responds as enthusiastically as ever. They sway in the post-twilight darkness.

Azula didn't mean for this to become a regular occurrence. But one night, sitting by the fire, she realized that she and Altan were the only ones awake. The firelight flickered across Altan's pale face, throwing his cheekbones into shdow, and she found herself admiring the almost perfect symmetry of his nose.

"What are you staring at?" he grinned.

"You," she replied. And then before she knew it, she was walking over to sit by Altan. Moving closer, like Ty Lee had taught her. And then tasting his strange breath, feeling the odd texture of his lips. When they broke apart she still wasn't sure what she thought. Kissing was…strange. Nothing to destroy kingdoms and face death over. It wasn't until later, when Altan moved his lips down her jaw to her neck, that head flooded her body and she realized what all those songs and poems were about. For the first time she felt like she slightly understood the madness that led Mai to betray her at the Boiling Rock prison.

Still, Azula hadn't meant her experiment with Altan to continue. It just…had.

"You're so beautiful," murmurs Altan against her lips. Azula winces a little, wishing he had complimented something else. But his ill-advised professions of affection are outweighed by his kissing skills. Azula wonders idly where he learned.

"We should probably start cooking that gopher-rabbit," says Altan, pulling away again. He bites his bottom lip guiltily.

"Very well," sighs Azula. She kicks a bucket over and throws a handful of fire at the dry heap. It catches.

"Roast away," Azula orders, and heads back to the wagon.

"You're not staying with me?" asks Altan, light brown eyes widening like a kangaroo-bear.

"I said I would help Temurin teach Jirou basic anatomy," she excuses herself.

Altan's face falls.

"I'll come back," she adds. There may be time for more interesting activities than cooking vermin over a shit-fire.

Altan beams.