A/N: Happy Valentine's Day. Whether you have a real Valentine or not, you are my dear Valentine! I heart all my fans and reviewers so much. Chocolate candy and flowers go to ML8991, who encourages me frequently with a PM and a great discussion, I really appreciate your devotion. Heart shaped, Be Mine, candies go to my new reviewers, thanks for bringing me such joy: nameless but appreciated guests, and of course, KafKafKaf, and Ady. Roses are Red and Violets are true blue with your story follows, following, & favorites: Shivisdivis & seekerofloststories.

Disclaimer: I heart Zutara, but can't claim the magic of Avatar the Last Airbender.


Zuko drives his monocycle far below the upper city. The single wheel rotates around him, while he rushes past the walls of flowing lava. A red river runs in viscous sheets, funneling into the earth, glowing with bright flecks of flickering molten yellow. Zuko doesn't notice the lava's red cast of light which creates an eerie ambiance; his monocycle's helmet is equipped with night vision. It penetrates the darkness and shades the surroundings with green tones. His right foot pushes down on the pedal, increasing his velocity. The engine hums slightly louder but is otherwise silent. As Zuko races through the tunnel, the wall of lava morphs from a thick stream intermixed with solid black ribbons to gradually hardening into a porous wall. The stretch of pumice is the signal that the garage, beneath the royal palace, is nearing.

Typing in a radio code on the monocycle's hand clutch, Zuko looks up to see a solid metal archway, with long bands of rivets upon the gate, forms an imposing impediment. The portcullis looms larger as his speeding monocycle approaches it. The radio signal triggers unseen gears to groan; hidden mechanics part the giant metal doors, which separate down the middle, rolling into the side pumice walls. Zuko hasn't paused in his driving; the distance and timing of the radio signal have made the opening large enough for him. As the monocycle passes beneath the monolith archway, a grinding sound emits. The doors reverse, slowly closing again.

Lights flash in succession over Zuko's appearance, brightly at first but gradually adjust to an acceptable level. A warm glow settles around the wrought iron chandeliers, reflecting off the wooden ceiling's shiny coating and creating illuminated pools on the vast subterranean area's copper colored floor. The white columns, widely spaced apart with their fluted capitals, stand upon immense bases and sheer breadth of the carved pillars indicate the working purpose and that the ornamentation is secondary. Zuko steers into a vacant parking space, next to the other docked fleet of monocycles. Switching off the handle, the engine ceases. Removing the brass key, he pockets it. Zuko kicks down the small propping stand and then swings his leg over the steering and engine components. Removing his helmet, he places it on the leather seat and moves to the back of the monocycle, where the balancing wing is located. Zuko depresses a button and a panel flips open. Drawing out the cable, he plugs it into the only empty slot along the plaster wall. The heavy pronged switch next to port is resistant to being raised but then suddenly gives way and snaps into the upward position. Two parallel copper wires heat and flash; blue energy funnels up in consecutive pulses as the monocycle recharges.

Zuko opens a hatch near the monocycle's extended cable and pulls out a satchel. Slinging it over his shoulder, he strides toward the circular elevator that is in the center of the underground complex. He passes other fantastical machines and engineering marvels, each categorized according to its purpose. Zuko reaches the key repository, located next to the elevator. Empty canisters are lined up in the cage return, taking one, as another rolls into place; he unscrews the metal top from the glass canister and drops the brass key inside it. The vessel is shoved into the glass tubing, where it is quickly sucked up and disappears into the wooden ceiling. Anxiety grips Zuko when he pulls down on the elevator's call pulley. He doesn't want to face his uncle or cousin and report upon another failed mission. A conical cage descends from the ceiling onto the concrete flooring. The elevator's decorative outer metalwork has been fashioned over the wooden passenger cab; steel bars have been contorted to form crisscrossing dragon lilies.

Mahogany elevator doors with pearl inlay immediately slide open. Zuko had calculated the evening for success, hoping to avoid his typical slap-dash affair. Stepping inside the opulent interior, he reaches over to the side panel and turns the gold knob to the fourth floor. The doors seal shut automatically. The slow ascent upwards is marked by the steady grind of gears and pulleys, guiding the elevator car up the long shaft. Zuko sinks down onto the plush carpet out of sheer exhaustion and frustration. This night was a complete waste. The resonance of reproach reverberates into the mocking cackle of Azula and withering derision of his father. His leg violently kicks his satchel across the plush, red carpet. The bag bounces against the wall and flops open, with the Blue Spirit mask tumbling out.

The blue and white visage lies on the deep pile of carpet face up; its gaping grin mocking Zuko. Staring at the white rimmed eyes and jutting incisors, the black eye holes create a phantasmal abyss. The mask blankly stares at Zuko with watchful judgment. He knows all too well about the power of measuring a situation. Behind the disguise, he experiences the freedom rarely enjoined in his daily existence. When he slips on the Blue Spirit persona, he possesses an ability to be agile in situations. The power courses through him that he, alone, warrants swift justice or grants clemency. Hiding in the shadows, Zuko is no longer tethered by royal and family politics. It was one of the reasons he agreed to take on the covert work. The other, his uncle and cousin had asked him.

Iroh had placed his hand lovingly upon Zuko's shoulder. "My boy, this is dangerous work, but I trust you alone."

Zuko bows his head under the honor, but feels conflicted and glances at his cousin. "What of Lu Ten?" Doubt evident in Zuko's voice, he whispers roughly. "Cousin, you are much more adept than me at such things. I would only mangle it."

Lu Ten speaks with the same sure poignancy as his father had uttered. "Brother," Zuko jerks upward at the rarely uttered endearment. "The level of your qualms about yourself pale in how much Father and I believe in you." Lu Ten reaches out and squeezes Zuko's other shoulder, as Iroh's hand has not faltered from its opposite perch. Lu Ten continues, "My obligations are elsewhere. I cannot do this covert work, and you are the only one that..." he glances at his father, who nods with conviction. "That we both trust to carry out something so important." he emphatically stresses the word that equates their feeling of having a few stalwart confidants who are truly loyal. The vulnerability in Zuko's eyes dissipates and is replaced with fierce determination. Lu Ten and Iroh smile at each other over Zuko's transformation.

The Blue Spirit was born. Zuko needed the cloak of anonymity to ferret out who was orchestrating the underground slave trade, locate the puppet master who yanks upon the strings of a spreading pestilence. The nefarious slave operation entraps more each day as Imperial City floods with refugees. The Imperial Police force is ineffectual, stymied by false leads and bribes to cause the bureaucratic wrangling to grind from plodding to absolute lethargy. Zuko had spent months in subterfuge, following leads into dead-end alleys and abandoned warehouses. Until, the winds of fortunate had him stumble upon two minions, a skinny pirate and his more muscled cohort. He followed them to another dead-end, which seemed to bear the fruit of such promise.

Zuko rests the back of his head against the elevator's mahogany wall. Gears and chains wind upwards with a predictable pattern, each tick chimes out how the two pirates had to be the connection link, funneling potential slaves into a transport system for wider disbursement. The pirates' simpleton antics only confirmed they were mere instruments in a much wider network. Zuko was convinced he was finally being led to the main operative base, positive it would lead him to the leader. He would finally find the main artery to cauterize or at least how the information on potential shipments was received.

Ursa's voice gently mentally chides, "Zuko, darling, those individuals are people and must be treated with respect."

Zuko shakes his head in disgust that he referred to human lives as nothing more than cargo. It was exactly the kind of dispersion Azula or his father would place upon those they considered beneath them, simply because they weren't born royal.

The dull throbbing in Zuko's leg hasn't abated since he pulled the knife from his calf. Leaning over his bent legs, he carefully rolls up his pants leg. The black leggings catch on the charred wound, matted with blood and burnt flesh. The speediest method to quickly stop the flow of blood and allow him to carry Lady Katara had been to sear the wound. He had been briefly entranced by the flickering flames, glowing and snapping on his palm. The beauty of his element rarely gave him pause to marvel at its bewitching beauty. As he moved the flames closer to his flesh, he had to time precisely the actions of yanking out the knife and his hand upon his skin. They were performed in agonizing successions of each other and all with him managing to not black out. The presence of pain and the hallmarks which are left have long been a part of his life.

Sitting on the floor of the elevator, Zuko's hand reaches up to his left eye. He can feel the deep ridges of the mark. His oblong eye is forever altered into that shape as is his general appearance. His eyeball flutters beneath his palm. He can feel it in the socket, searching his mind for memories of the accident. The time, before his face had been ravaged, was a blank expanse of emptiness. His farthest recollection could only be traced to an endless melding of nights and days, where physicians hovered with elixirs, and priests chanted prayers. Zuko's own raging internal agony was silent; because his injuries prevented his voice from emitting the shrieks of an all-consuming agony. Eventually, his throat healed enough for him to rasp out pitiful screams of pain; until a series of perpetual draughts drowned all his misery into a hazy vacuum of sleep. His hand follows his scar's furrows which wrap over his withered ear and into his hairline. His fingers finish by slipping through his thick hair, cropped into the short fashion of the day.

Zuko knocks the back of his head against the elevator's wall as he recounts how he had pursued the truck, leaving his monocycle concealed with dirty laundry, a providential abandoned basket had been near the palace. Zuko had traveled over building and apartment rooftops. Flat or steep, he sprinted and stayed abreast with the darting truck. He had been tempted to follow the outbursts and anti-royal propaganda emanating from the courtyard of the two-headed dragon fountain; yet he wouldn't and couldn't be diverted from his mission, not when he had gotten his best lead. When the truck squealed to stop, he clung to the side of the building and saw a woman fighting a sniveling man.

After all this time, the leader of the slavers was a woman?

The idea was preposterous. Zuko pulled out his thin brass case from his holster belt. Pushing a button, the eyeglasses popped open. He put them on his head and adjusted the various dials to bring the woman's face into focus. Her identity had been familiar, but he couldn't place her immediately. The cowering man before her swinging rope wore a rather filthy Imperial Guard uniform. She had quickly disposed of the guard, shackling him to the truck's passing bumper. She fled, not pausing to inspect her handiwork. Zuko wasn't about to let the leader slip from grasp. He pocketed his binoculars while dropping from the building, landing in front of the evading woman. The woman's shirt was ripped open, her breast exposed, dried blood on the side of her mouth, and eye swelling black and blue. In an instant, Zuko comprehended that the guard was not performing his duty, but in the act of possibly raping this woman. Her state filled Zuko with fury to crush the man who dared violate her, but the impulse to pummel the man was momentarily quelled by the fierceness upon her countenance. It was then her vague resemblance meshed into a dawning revelation that this battered and strong woman was in fact, Lady Katara, the same young woman he had met that morning.

How and why was Lady Katara with the slavers?

Before Zuko could have pondered the reasons, Katara had wrapped her arms around him with such abandoned joy. Exhaling relief over Zuko's appearance, he was taken aback. She mentioned Sokka and then the pieces began to puzzle themselves into a semblance of sense that she didn't recognize him but assumed for some inane reason thought Zuko was her older brother. Zuko couldn't and shouldn't reveal his identity. Months of work would be obliterated with the mere telling utterance of one syllable.

The feel of Katara's embrace was so comforting and effortless. She pressed herself tightly against Zuko, almost as if she felt cradled by him. Terror had laced Katara's words with a more obvious edge, as she felt herself relax into the comfort of her presumed brother. She had been scared. Zuko could hear it and feel it in her subtle quaking. Katara's obvious familial connection was palpable and left him momentarily confused. A sister seeking solace, rather than delighting in tormenting her brother, was a foreign concept to Zuko and Azula's relationship. Zuko's only experience with sibling feeling consisted of tension and antipathy.

The elevator groans to a stop; the doors automatically slide open. Zuko stands, bending down to retrieve his satchel and the Blue Spirit mask. Looking at the slashes of blue and white with prominent incisors, he appreciates the disguise. Fighting with Katara, he had felt even more daring than normal. Their fluid interchanges were well matched, and their timely blows had been dealt deftly. Zuko shoves the mask into the bag's interior secret compartment and then slings it over his shoulder. He moves wearily down the hallway. His feet are soundless upon the patterned diamond carpet.

Previous excursions had Zuko debriefing in his uncle's apartments. This evening, he didn't relish seeing the jovial man's face and then disappointing him with the same report of another failed mission. Zuko walks down a side hall and reaches his room. Turning the gold knob, he pushes open the heavy wooden door and shuts it behind him. A substantial fireplace with marble mantle is a prominent fixture; a tapestry of the duel-headed dragon hangs above it. The only illumination is from the burning embers in the hearth. Low yellow flames dance among the pile of smoldering red and create a dim radiance to the room. A general darkness aided by the heavy draperies over the window alcove give a somber ambiance which Zuko prefers. His bedroom is smaller compared to the guest quarters or the typical royal family abode; yet, it is the room's size which provides the needed sanctuary and a sense of respite whenever Zuko enters it. The exposed limestone walls are the primary adornments to design, rather than wallpaper. A recessed portion of the stone has an archway which is the width of his heavy bed; thick curving spindles anchor the bed's four corners. Near the fireplace is a robust wardrobe, which houses his personal effects and clothes. It is this streamlined efficiency which had Zuko reduce the normal servant retinue to a personal valet, who was trained to only appear when summoned.

Zuko opens the wardrobe, a robust piece of furniture. He places the satchel inside. A soft sigh is simultaneous uttered. The sound gives him pause. He is alert with his senses, but his motions indicated a casual ignorance. Subtle, the utterance could be attributed to anything or anyone. It could also be relegated to inconsequential if not heard by someone who is trained to be attuned. His eyes peer into the darkness, but the fireplace creates shifting shadows that dance, his own presence adding to the spectral confusion. His fingers run along his holster, unsnapping and removing his knife. A breathy sigh is emitted; he knows someone is present. He moves forward; the blade held forth as he creeps with a subtle crouching of the shoulders. The fire's yellow flames gleam upon the poised blade, Never give up without a fight, glitters an engraved warning.

"Hello, brother," Azula drolls out. Her typical derisive delivery finishes with a slight hitch.

Tension immediately fills the air. Zuko carefully controls his wary feelings. "Azula?" A question issued rather than a demand, as he strains to listen and see what altered her intonation.

A lamp light flashes, creating a circular brilliance around Azula. She is seated behind Zuko's desk which is situated in front of the window's alcove. The brass desk lamp with green shade shows that Azula's head is dropped back. Her normal elaborate hair style is piled into a loose bun. She looks up. There is a slight flush to her cheeks. "Isn't that quaint, you were worried about me." Azula arches her perfect eyebrow at Zuko's drawn knife.

Sheathing the blade quickly, Zuko quells his embarrassment over assuming Azula needed his assistance with anything. "What are you doing in my room?"

Azula moves her head around the modest room, taking in its paltry size and possessions. "More of a servant's quarters than a room befitting a prince, but then again you were always odd."

Zuko's voice is hard with bitterness. He's in no mood to banter with his sister's twisted wit. "Azula, what do you want?"

"Now, is that any way to greet your sister?" Azula pauses. She throws her head back briefly, and her eyes flutter as she makes a final gasp. Sitting up more fully, she wets her lips; a languid demeanor has settled upon her face and body. A slow smile is upon her lips. "That will be enough, thank you." Emerging from underneath the desk is a male servant; his lips are swollen and glisten. He moves to the side and bows close to his mistress. Azula reaches out to the servant's engorged lips and runs a sharp tipped finger over them which are slick to the touch. Popping the same finger into her mouth, she draws it out slowly with approval. "I do taste delightful." She subtly tilts her head in the servant's direction. "You're welcome."

"You had to do that in my room?" Zuko is more outraged than embarrassed that Azula is so obvious in her violation to his premises.

"Zuzu, you are so old fashioned." The chair is pushed away with a fluid motion as Azula stands. A pink dressing gown with matching tassels topped with a braided infinity symbol runs the length of the silk robe. Wide cuffs, folded to her elbows, have the same dangling tassels. A series of ties cinch in her waist but don't close the dressing gown fully, allowing the sheer lace of her nightdress to be shown.

"Don't call me that!" The despicable nickname is aimed to inflict the right amount of hurt.

"What? Don't call you Zuzu or old fashioned? Both are true."

Zuko isn't in the mood to deal with his sister's shifting antics that aim to confuse and distort his perception. "Get out, Azula!"

Azula moves around the desk and beckons the servant who is standing at rigid attention. He has hardly flinched or reacted to the sibling interchange. His face is still gleaming with the effects of rendering Azula's climax. She ignores Zuko's demand to cease the nickname. "Zuzu, you really need to loosen up. Perhaps, my servant could help alleviate your obvious tension." The servant dutifully follows his mistress's suggestion. Without prompting, he moves in front of Zuko and kneels in front of prince's crotch.

Zuko scrambles away and barks, "I said, get out! The both of you!"

Azula chuckles, "You heard the prince, he issued an order. You must obey. Run along and don't forget to tidy yourself." The servant stands up stiffly and moves silently out of the room. Neither sibling follows the servant's movements; Zuko and Azula are locked in a mutual battle of competing wills. The click of the door signals the servant's departure.

"I said, you too," Zuko growls.

"I came for a simple visit with my brother, who I love so dearly." The endearment drips with sarcasm. Azula strides over to Zuko with purposeful steps. Her dressing gown wafts behind her, which presses her nightdress close to her body. The firelight highlights her nakedness beneath the gauzy lace, accentuating the smooth skin of her womanly privates. "Here, I only wanted a simple chat with you. There's no reason to be uncordial. Part of your problem with Father is you're too uptight; you need to relax and be more confident in your actions."

Zuko blurts out a protective veneer of denial. "Father and I are fine." He knows his father doesn't prefer his company, and Azula's reminder only makes Zuko's chest constrict slightly.

Azula steps closer to her brother. "Of course, you are, which is why I deigned to wait for you in your pitiful apartments." Her face is slightly lower than his, but she manages to assume a more dominant air. "You plan on attending father's committee meeting tomorrow then?" She glances down at Zuko's black clothing and runs a hand down his costume. "Interesting attire for a night out." Azula raises an eyebrow, "Please tell me, you didn't attend that hideous peasant festival."

"Of course, I am." Zuko's mouth tightens.

Azula splays her hand on Zuko's chest. The red tipped nails scratch subtly at his chest. She walks behind her brother, staying close to Zuko's body, letting her hand trail up his chest and over his shoulder. Zuko stands rigid, feeling tension with each of her movements. Azula presses her length next to his back and leans close to his withered ear. "You are such a bad liar." Stepping away, she moves over to Zuko's open wardrobe. Azula stares at his satchel as she speaks. "No matter, whether you knew or not, the important aspect of this little discussion is that you and I need to be in voting alignment."

"Why?" Zuko's mind is racing, trying to recall how a committee at the tribute time could have possibly been called. Most business is suspended in lieu of handling all the important international delegates.

Azula rolls her eyes and swivels around. "You are the dum dum, aren't you. We must be aligned with our votes in order to counteract Uncle's faction, of course." A melodic whistle bounces and lilts down the passageway towards Zuko's room. "Speak of the devil."

Zuko's eyes narrow threateningly, "Don't call him that."

Azula shrugs, "Are we in agreement? You'll vote as I do."

Zuko glares at his sister. "Counter to your opinion of me, I'm not your lap dog. I'll vote as I please."

"Too bad, here I thought we could have such a pleasant bonding moment." Azula flicks a glance at the turning knob. "It seems you are more the lap dog for Uncle than your own flesh and blood family."

The statement is meant to hurt Zuko, but he learned a long time ago to not value anything Azula had to say. He believes that is true, even though the throbbing within his scar counters it. Spitting with vehemence, he steps closer. "Rather him than you, any day."

Iroh opens the door gaily, hailing out a pleasant greeting, "Good evening, dear nephew or perhaps I should say good morrow." Iroh's face loses its relaxed ease. "Pardon me, Azula, I didn't know you were present."

"Uncle, Azula was just leaving." The flames of the fireplace flash brighter with the heat of enmity from Zuko.

Azula does a small bow in front of Iroh, "Uncle." She turns to Zuko, and the side of her mouth curls up. "Yes, I need to get my beauty sleep for tomorrow." She leans in and kisses Zuko's cheek and whispers. "I'm only trying to help, don't make a mistake that you'll regret, Zuzu."

Iroh backs away to allow Azula to pass and nods his head slightly to his departing niece, who brushes past her uncle without acknowledging a proper leaving courtesy. Iroh is careful of her, always aware of her poisonous strike. He utters with a bland politeness, "Azula."

The tension of the room abates at the shut of the door. Zuko runs a hand through his hair. His mind is flooded with rage and questions.

Iroh walks over to the fireplace and peers down at the flames, which dance more fully and without the influx of fuel. He places his hands behind his back. His navy blue dressing gown is covered with royal insignia and the design is repeated on his matching cravat. The cuffs of his night shirt cover his hands, a light blue print of eel hounds. Iroh's words are carefully measured in broaching the sensitive topic of his niece. "Now, what possibly could have prompted Azula's visit this evening?"

Zuko blurted out, "Uncle, Father is having a committee meeting tomorrow. Did you know of it?"

Iroh takes a deep breath with almost an audible, And so it begins. "Yes, I did."

A hurt cry cracks out. "Why wasn't I told?"

"Zuko, my boy, I only found out about it late this evening. After you had gone out, or I would have told you. When you didn't stop by my apartment, I came to see if everything was alright, but also to tell you of the meeting." Iroh voice infuses with contempt for his niece. "But it seems that Azula delighted informing you, herself."

Zuko storms across to his wardrobe and rips off his shirt, tossing it inside. The black cloth lands next to his satchel. "Father doesn't trust me."

Iroh comes over and places his hand on Zuko's shoulder. "It has nothing to do with that, and everything to do with Ozai wanting to ensure the least amount of people will attend, in order to maximize his voting favor."

"I don't care." Zuko knew that statement sounded like a lie to even him. "I will show up to that meeting tomorrow and vote as I please."

Iroh spoke gently, "As you should and is your right as part of the noble council." Trying to reverse the tide of machinating alliances that could wait until tomorrow to deal with, Iroh inserts jovially, the glee not having to be manifested on pretense but bubbles with relish. "Have you had any tea?"

Zuko rolls his eyes and chuckles. "No, Uncle, I have not."

Iroh moves to the side of the wardrobe and yanks on the call pull, concealed by the breadth of the wardrobe. "I believe Chamomile and lavender will soothe you. I can only assume if Azula is involved, your conversation was an unpleasant interchange."

Reflecting upon Azula defiling Zuko's room with her presence and act of pleasure, Zuko snorts in response. He knows Azula derived much more satisfaction from needling her brother than the servant's dutiful arousal to her erogenous zone.

Iroh takes Zuko's sound as an affirmation even though Iroh knows much more must have transpired if his niece was involved. "How was the evening's mission?"

Zuko's dread floods him. He draws back his defined shoulders, chiseled with his Warder training. "I managed to located and track two pirates who seem to be the connection point for obtaining slaves."

"Wonderful, my boy. Where is the drop off point?"

"It was an alley not far from the two-headed dragon fountain. However, I'm not sure if that is where the drop-off is consistently or for only that evening." Zuko relays the story of the pirates and Iroh's face gets delighted with each element told. Zuko braces himself as he imparts the next bit of surprising information. "Lady Katara was apparently in the process of being abducted into slavery."

"Did you stop them?" Iroh responds quickly, fearful for the girl and her safety.

"Actually, she stopped them herself." Zuko explains how Katara had signally rendered an Imperial Guard immovable, negating to mention her potential rape at the guard's hands. The rest of the evening's story is regaled with the final telling mention of the knife wound. "The pirates' truck escaped. I couldn't chase after it with Lady Katara knocked unconscious."

"Your wound?" Iroh glances at Zuko's leg.

"It's nothing."

"Zuko," Iroh demands sternly. "Sit down and I will determine whether it is nothing."

"Uncle, I cauterized it. The bleeding has stopped."

"Then we must get the healers."

"No!" Revulsion fills Zuko with the mention of healers. "I don't want healers. I promise if I notice any infection, then I will have it more closely tended."

Iroh crosses his arms and grunts his disapproval. The knock at the door and quick response by Iroh sees a servant enter the room with a silver covered tray. "Thank you, Jamison, I would like to have for myself Chamomile and Lavender and for Zuko..." Iroh gives the servant a pointed exchange that communicates Zuko will receive another combination that will aid in deep sleep. Zuko may not think he needs healers, but his uncle has other ideas. Iroh adds for his nephew's benefit. "And for Zuko...the same."

Jamison nods, "Yes, sir, I understand." He moves over to the desk and begins the preparation for the tea. The leaves are combined and steeped, while Iroh and Zuko converse on the next objective for the missions. Ideas are exchanged. Zuko has pulled his desk chair over for his uncle to sit by the fire, while Zuko leans against the mantle. The marble cools his naked skin hot from his churning emotions and fire's flames. With tea cups poised in their hands, Zuko and Iroh each sip their brew. Unaware of the flavors, Zuko accepts his drink as being the same as his uncle's.

Iroh encourages a grumbling Zuko. "There are always leads, my boy, they might be hidden and have not revealed themselves."

"My two leads escaped in the truck." Zuko attempts a dry joke. "Of course, they left me a parting gift."

Iroh chuckles and then leans forward with seriousness. "Nephew, did you save the blade that stabbed you?"

"Yes, it is in my satchel, but..." Zuko smiles with dawning understanding, that the knife has the pirate's fingerprints. "Of course, Uncle, how stupid of me to not realize it. I can use the mechanical dogs to locate the pirate from the knife itself; and then, I can begin to infiltrate the slave operation."

"Exactly." Iroh is pleased that Zuko deduced the quandary himself. Finishing the rest of the tea, Zuko stretches. Iroh rises from the chair. "I will leave you to rest." Stepping closer, Iroh hugs Zuko. "I'm proud of you. You did good work this evening."

Zuko sighs; relieved that he had pleased his uncle, but also that his mission wasn't a failure. "Thank you, Uncle."

Giving a strong clap on Zuko's back, Iroh steps away. "I bid you a good night and hope for a speedy healing."

Zuko clicks his heels and bows to his uncle. Iroh nods toward Jamison. The servant gathers the empty tea cups and replaces everything on the silver tray, covering it with the dome. The servant follows Iroh out into the hall.

Iroh turns to Jamison and says in a low voice. "It should be soon that Zuko has succumbed to a deep sleep. Get the healers and have them attend to his wound."

"Yes, sir," Jamison does not ask for leave but immediately departs to carry out the Crown Prince's orders.

After Iroh had vacated the bedroom, Zuko checks his satchel. The knife with his dried blood rests inside. Shrugging off the rest of his clothes, Zuko dons simple pajama bottoms. He crawls into bed. His blood can sense the approach of dawn, which gives him a few hours of rest before he must face new intrigue at court.

The sheets feel cool as does the pillow. It hadn't been easy to carry Katara back to her apartments. Zuko had to move stealthfully between the Imperial Guards' check points, slipping through a brief blind spot to the servant's tunnel. Luckily, it wasn't during the shift change, so it was completely vacant. He moved through the secret passageways, to the Southern Tribe's apartments. Iroh, as Crown Prince, has a master key to the palace, which he gave to Zuko for the purpose of subterfuge.

Katara had nestled in Zuko's arms, never stirring. He would have been alarmed, if not for the sweet whisper between her lips. He had covered Katara to preserve her modesty; her shirt tucked into the waist of her pants to secure its closure, since the buttons had been ripped off. Zuko wasn't sure how Katara will cover up all her bruises and cuts. As he placed her upon blue comforter within her room, she had sighed and nestled in the bed. Zuko had paused to look at her. Katara had seemed so innocent and young. He couldn't imagine what had transpired for her to become so strong and brave. Even with the bruises, she possessed a beauty that hadn't moved him in a long time. The image of Katara sleeping drifted away into the blackness of a deep sleep, which claimed Zuko.


A/N: Alright, three chapters for Imperial, I wanted to show appreciation for the love you are giving. However, I HAVE to finish Guardians of the White Lotus. I want that done before the new Guardians of the Galaxy movie comes out. What does that mean for Imperial...Well, I still need you my faithful! With each review, follow, PM and general love you give, it makes me type faster on Guardians, which means a quicker entrance to the next chapter of Imperial. So please give me the love, it means the world to this writer, who is only paid in accolades.