Chapter 4: Nightmares are King

They had won. They had won the war, won peace, and they were all still alive and practically unscathed. It was her greatest hope come true, yet there was a little blip she didn't know how to feel about. As Aang had explained, even Ozai wasn't dead.

Katara had taken to staying at Sokka's place overnight as she reeled with discovery, experienced joy, and grappled with out-of-place loss. She couldn't express how grateful she was that some things never changed. Her sloth of a brother still slept on even after Aang's rackety entrance come morning. Good thing, too, because the elevating contraption he had instead of stairs was not just an engineering marvel, but an aspiring eardrum-breaker too.

She did her hair as Aang sat across the third floor bedroom, once thin little limbs long and filled out with muscle. He was older than she was now. Maybe the same age as Haru or Zuko—the Zuko she remembered, anyway.

Older-Aang's soft, handsome voice carried. "I wanted it to be us, you know."

"I know." She ducked her head. Hopefully her hands and braid hid her blush.

He wasn't done. "If I hadn't been so insensitive, would I have had a chance?"

"I don't know, Aang." She always seemed to say that, didn't she? "I don't even know why all... this happened."

Aang sighed. It blew a gust that ruffled the strand of hair that she was beading. "I do. At least partially." He leaned back on his hands and looked up. "Zuko always respected your space and your opinions. He helped you face the man who killed your mother."

"I remember that."

"Yeah. But do you remember when he took the lightning to protect you?"

A standstill. A flash. A harrowing scream. NO.

A bead fell from her hands and clinked on the floor. "I remember."

"What?" He looked at her, brow furrowing deeply. "I thought—"

"I remember!" The play, Aang's disappearance, the Agni Kai, those terrible days willing Zuko not to die and waiting, waiting in the dark for news that they were alive...

Nothing.

"That's as far as it goes," she whispered.

The memories were coming back, but if they had lost years, they were coming far too slow.

...

Sokka finally accepted that this wasn't all a dream when he woke up to the teenage Avatar's looming face.

"Good morning, Sokka!" he chirped, bent inches over Sokka's prone form. Age hadn't dulled his dazzling personality.

"Hi, Aang," he deadpanned. He dragged out the "a" sound to wash Aang in the fragrance of his morning breath.

Teenage Aang's nose scrunched magnificently, then he gasped. "You said my name right!"

"What? I always..." No. "I didn't."

Sokka sat up, barely avoiding knocking his forehead on the teenage boy's chin. "You're the Avatar," he said, on a roll. "You did this gigantic waterbending spout that crashed Zuko's ship. You brought us to the Southern Air Temple, and you saw Gyatso, then you went ballistic."

"...Yeah."

"Wow. Okay. I am not crossing you again."

"No, that's okay. I can control my Avatar State now. I mean!" Aang crossed his arms and lifted his chin. Since he was standing and Sokka was sitting, Sokka can be excused for finding it intimidating. "I control the Avatar State, thus I can go ballistic anytime I want. So. I really suggest that you keep me happy."

Yeah, okay, this wasn't a dream. It was a nightmare.

...

Zuko had always known that this was real.

Call it pessimism, call it fatalism. Zuko called it being right. It wouldn't be the first time he had his entire life upheaved overnight.

Granted, he actually knew how it happened the last time, even if he didn't understand why.

All things considered, this new situation was almost... nice.

Not the cold, Agni, he hated the cold. Nor the pervasive agitation he felt at being, both figuratively and literally, out of his element. But the people. The people were nice. Unless they were Sokka, but Sokka was thoroughly upfront about it. The people were genuine, and often genuinely on the friendly side.

There was that healer who ensured that Sokka's kick hadn't dealt him lasting damage. She must have felt the humiliation radiating off of him in waves and decided to take pity. There was Gran-Gran, but he chalked that up to her being old. There was Katara, but it wasn't like she knew what to do with the situation either. Then, there was Hakoda.

There wasn't a but anything.

He was a respected chief. He was a hardened warrior. He was the father of an only favored daughter.

Zuko couldn't grasp it. Maybe it was political?

Yet, politicians didn't pull their sleeping bags into banished princes' rooms at bedtime. They didn't sleep by the door to guard against violent amnesiac sons. And they certainly didn't have heart-to-hearts in the lamplight about wives and loss and love.

Zuko put his head in his hands. He wasn't sure if it was aching from the lack of sleep or the whirlpool of ruminations swirling dizzyingly in his mind.

Gran-Gran set a bowl and chopsticks in front of him. He mumbled a thanks. He didn't feel like eating, plus the food looked nasty. He wished he had taken up Hakoda's offer to hail the ship entering the harbor if only to skip breakfast. However, the sour-faced balding man who was probably Gran-Gran's husband looked a great deal like he would take offense if the food was refused, so... Zuko took a bite.

Two chews in, he was struck by the fact that aside from being overly salty, the dish was familiar in a way that reminded him of home. The texture was completely off and it didn't have enough spice, but there was spice. Spice Zuko had craved and hadn't tasted since his ship last stopped to restock at a major colony half a year ago.

Suddenly ravenous, he finished his bowl quickly and asked for another helping.

Gran-Gran's eyes crinkled. "I thought you would enjoy it more if I added the special chili-garlic mix. Your Granpakku's not a fan, but he'll make do."

"Hmph," the old man said, swallowing a mouthful. "I would have preferred it if you used the teriyaki sauce. At least that won't destroy my taste buds."

"Don't lie, you love teriyaki." She lifted a hand to her mouth as she mock-confided to Zuko, "He's too proud to admit he enjoys anything from the Fire Nation."

"Excuse you, I am too proud to enjoy anything from anywhere. A true-blue Water Tribesman never finds his environment wanting."

Gran-Gran rolled her light blue eyes. "Did you hear that? You can withdraw the teriyaki sauce from the trade agreements."

As Granpakku—where had the 'ku' come from?—dignifiedly reminded her not to bother their grandson-in-law, Zuko confoundedly tuned the bickering old couple out. There hadn't been any organized trade with the Water Tribes in decades. Even if there was, in order to affect it, Zuko needed political power.

Was he... no longer banished?

Did Father forgive him?

It... wasn't impossible. Perhaps Father had seen his effort and granted him his honor back for that.

But, crown prince or not, there was no way Father would have him marry in the Water Tribe. They were said to be savage, uncivilized. It would shame the entire royal family.

Not to mention the fact that he seemed to be friends with the Avatar.

Had Zuko... turned his back on Father?

No. No. Of course not. He would never do that. Katara had said something about defeating the Fire Lord together, but Zuko was certain that of all things he must have imagined that.

He would never. Besides, Father was too strong. All the other nations were delusional for thinking that they could stop the Fire Nation, with or without the Avatar.

The Avatar had stopped them, hadn't he? At the North Pole? Such a terrifying force not even Father could stand it, leaving so many pale bodies to float. If Zhao hadn't been such a self-aggrandizing idiot and Father hadn't condoned—

Stop. Just, stop. He wouldn't—he wouldn't think like that.

Maybe the Fire Nation had already won the war, or the Southern Water Tribe surrendered and the Avatar backed out. Then maybe trade negotiations started, and as part of a treaty Zuko married the chief's daughter.

Maybe Father had been willing to give up a little honor for peace.

That sounded about as likely as Father saying that he didn't favor Azula over Zuko, but something had to make sense. Something that didn't involve Zuko changing.

Yet, as Katara greeted him shyly while her father laughed and they sat down for breakfast, as the sour-faced Granpakku pressed a kiss to Gran-Gran's lips before she shooed him off, and as the scent of spice and feeling of love stayed with Zuko even when he was ushered out, a traitorious voice in his heart said that it would be nice—

It would be nice to call this home.

...

There was a rhythym in graceful steps and a soft beat in a dozen foggy breaths. They harmonized with the mesmerizing push and pull of the water which sang a melodic swish and chink. The Changing Glacier form had always been music to his ears—

"This is an abuse of power!"

—when it wasn't barged in on by his cacophanous step-grandson.

Avatar Aang grinned cheekily as he floated after the stomping Sokka into the training grounds. He sing-songed, "You can't impeach the Avatar~"

"Tyrant!" Sokka sniffed. He coughed bison fur and spasmed the rest of it off.

Here was something he could berate the amnesiac idiot for. "Sokka, don't waste the fur. Your grandmother uses it for her sewing projects."

He whirled and jabbed a finger. "Who are you supposed to be?"

It had been a very long time since anyone who wasn't five had asked Pakku that. He raised a gray brow. "Someone who will disown you should you keep acting like a moron." Yes, if Sokka's foolhardy actions proved to prevent the birth of great-grandchildren, he was revoking Granpakku rights.

Sokka's jaw dropped. "Don't tell me that in addition to the Avatar, Katara and I discovered our long-lost great-great-grandpa."

Forget it. Pakku was revoking Granpakku rights now.

As Sokka dealt with a sudden case of frozen nasal mucus, the gracefully aging master turned coolly to his class. It was composed fully of women who had years of training to catch up on. His few remaining male pupils were all either much advanced or too proud to share the training grounds.

Pah. Vainglorious bums.

Sokka was proving to be one of them because after he snorted the iced mucus out, he said, "Why do you have so many girls playing with their magic water? What about the chores? There's meat to be cooked!"

Perhaps his step-grandson wouldn't have gotten in half as much trouble if he wasn't so amazingly loud.

As one, sixteen girls who had travelled the ends of the earth to escape female oppression turned to the blithering sexist. The expressions on their faces were like leopard-wolves who had found their prey. At the lead was Pupil Tayarik, an unmarried woman whose vengeful drive to become a master surpassed even Katara's. "What," said Tayarik, as sharp as a razor, "did you say?"

Flippantly, Sokka inspected his nails. "I'm just saying that you're wasting your time. Shouldn't you girls be doing something you're actually good at?" He breezily waved his hand side to side. "Cooking, sewing, you know. Relax, leave the fighting to the guys."

Pupil Tayarik cracked her knuckles one by one. The pops echoed ominously in the hush. "Master Pakku?" she addressed him, but her narrowing eyes were dead fixed on Sokka.

He knew that look. He knew that look very, very well.

Wearily, Pakku sighed. "Just make it a fair fight."

"Ohoho, you want to fight me? War hero, savior of Gaipan, leader of Team Avatar? Well, if you're sure. Space Sword here wouldn't want to get rusty, after all." Sokka drew his impressive black sword, beckoned, and smirked. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

Enunciating each letter slowly, Tayarik said, "Try me."

Tayarik would never have Katara's power, but she was extremely precise. Pakku didn't bother to watch.

Instead, as the spectating men collectively whooped and then groaned for Sokka, Pakku walked over to his lovely wife.

"I almost forgot what a chauvinist he used to be," said Kanna.

"Are you going to follow that observation up with a smart remark on what I used to be?"

As perfectly satirical as ever, she replied, "Why, Pakku. How self-aware you are."

Kanna watched Sokka, and Pakku watched Kanna. It was fascinating to see how many different nuances of satisfaction her timeless face could express.

After a particularly explosive noise, Pakku tore his gaze back to the fight, if it could be called one. A sizable crowd had formed around the warrior pinned by impressively close ice stakes that didn't even nick his clothing. The black sword was an embarrassing inch away from Sokka's outstretched hand. He tried to reach for it but failed because the stakes so strategically prevented that. After a minute of futile struggle, Sokka begrudgingly conceded, "Okay, you win, but the magic water gave you an unfair advantage! If it were a REAL warrior, I would totally win."

"Oh, really?"

From the crowd, a red-haired girl stepped forward. In the sunlight, metal glinted as it fluttered daintily by her chin.

A golden fan.

Ohoho, Pakku was going to watch this.

...

The swoosh of water. The cold air's violent shiver. The buzz of a dozen women's chatter.

It was the dreaded laundry day, and Nuba was listening in on the conversations and laughter in the hut around her. It helped to distract from the prickling chill crawling up her numb fingers.

Scrub, scrub, went her hands on the slick dyed fur. She couldn't actually feel them, but decades of handiwork in sub-zero temperatures did wonders for one's hand-eye coordination. Another prickle went up her pinky. She looked enviously at the waterbenders among them. Osva and Yanneh didn't even have their sleeves rolled up. Why bother, when you could control water without touch?

That left those waterbenders not so much preoccupied in their work as absentminded, and Osva was a notorious gossip. Nuba tuned her focus to the middle-aged Northerners' dialogue.

"...heard you checked up the visitor."

"Yes," Yanneh replied. "He was really quite sweet."

Osva snorted. "Any man would be, in front of a woman inspecting their balls."

"Even then! This was hardly my first time. I know the difference between a cowed ego-tripper and a bashful turtle-pup."

Artfully casual, Osva hummed. "You're right, you would know. What were you treating him for, anyway? Fertility? Or did he fall into an ice hole?"

"Now, Osva, healer-patient confidentiality. Honestly, the things you wheedle out of me! You should—"

The door creaked open. Instantly, every single bustling woman stopped moving.

"Um," the young man hesitantly stepping through the doorway said. He might have been just another foreign visitor if it weren't for the bright gold eyes and scar. "Gran-Gran said I should help... I can't wash, but maybe I could... heat the water?"

"Please," urged Yanneh, and Nuba could have sworn that the Fire Lord blushed.

Healers were recklessly daring, Nuba decided, as Yanneh led him to a seat beside the wash basin. Ever so slightly, Nuba edged away. Never had a man said sweeter words than to offer his help with the chores, alright, but this was no normal man. This was hardly a man at all.

Out of the corner of her eye, Nuba tensely watched as That Monster pulled off his mittens to reveal pale, calloused fingers. To think, Katara subjected herself to those hands for life. Nuba never said it to his face, but the chief had lost her respect when he allowed his daughter to marry the Fire Lord. It only got worse when he invited him with open arms into their home.

Even if this particular Fire Lord couldn't be blamed for the raids, Nuba still remembered the first time he had come to their home. It wasn't a pleasant visit.

"Do I just," he said, as if he really was just a hesitant boy, "plunge in and heat the water directly?"

"Whatever works for you, your Highness. We try to conserve our tiger-seal oil, so the water is barely tolerable," said Yanneh. The healer had always seemed like a sensible woman, but she clearly had lost it if she addressed the Fire Lord without bowing to him even once. Katara's voice drifted to the forefront of Nuba's mind. "Relax, Zuko's harmless," she had told them all, and no one had believed her.

Or so Nuba had thought.

As the temperature of the water steadily rose, the younger girls' shoulders began to drop. "It's so warm," gasped little Anaok, splashing water to her face. She gripped the edge of the basin and proceeded to dunk her head.

She was yanked back by her braid, water dribbling down her nose and chin. "Don't do that, Anaok. Do you know how dirty that water is?"

"But Mommy, feel it!"

Even the waterbenders and the women who had just switched out of the dreaded washing job began curiously dipping their hands into the basin. There was a symphony of sighs.

"Imagine taking a bath with this water. It feels so good, I'd do it every day!"

"Now I understand why anyone would want to swim."

"It's like hot drinks and stew..."

"You can do this for Katara all the time?" burst Anaok's perky chirp. "I want a firebending husband! Can you introduce me to someone?" Then Anaok, who had gotten in their visitor's space, remembered who she was talking to and eeped, sudsy hands clapping over her mouth.

Everyone watched with guarded interest as the Fire Lord blinked pale golden eyes at the little girl who dared come within half a foot. Even Nuba found that curiosity trounced her trepidation. "Uh, sorry, I don't think I know anyone your age..."

"Oh," squeaked Anaok. "Okay. Thanks—thanks anyway, Lord Zuko, Your Highness, sir!"

Anaok hastily bowed and scampered off to hide behind her mom. The other young girls exploded into sniggers.

As Anaok glowered at them, her aunt Sanyok grinned and bowed to the Fire Lord. "Apologies for that, Lord Zuko. My niece can be quite excitable."

"It's alright, I don't mind," he replied with an awkward shrug, both hands still faithfully warming the water. The pads of his fingers must be pruning by now. He opened his mouth again. "Although, there seems to be a misunderstanding, Ma'am. The correct address would be Prince, you see."

Sanyok's head tilted. "Is this because you're on vacation, Your Highness? I would have thought that Fire Lord is a permanent title."

For a long moment, he didn't speak. In fact, the warmth that bathed them seemed to hang in suspense— The Fire Lord had stopped breathing.

Sanyok bit her lip nervously. "Your Highness?"

Yanneh crossed the room, looking him over with a healer's eye. In contrast with her earlier familiar demeanor, she sounded professional. "Fire Lord Zuko. Are you alright?"

Haunted gold eyes fixed on her. "...What?"

"Are you alright, Lord Zuko? Please, Your Majesty, breathe."

And he did, and the water got searingly hot. Everyone jerked their hands out of it fast enough not to be burned, but not fast enough to forget the scald.

Belatedly, the Fire Lord also tore his hands out. He looked them in horror with increasingly ragged breaths. "I'm sorry," he rasped, but everyone was already backing away.

"I'm sorry," he whispered and bolted, the door creaking in his wake.

...

Zuko was the Fire Lord. Zuko was the Fire Lord.

Which meant one thing. His father was dead.

Zuko knew his father would stop at nothing to have the throne. The only way someone could take it away was to pry it from his cold, dead fingers.

And the Avatar was very capable of rendering fingers cold and dead.

The North. It was the Siege of the North all over again. Icy whiteness, all around him, just like this. The chilling atmosphere that soaked his bones from his steel entrance to his wooden exit. A hundred waterlogged bodies floating in the ocean in the aftermath, all non-combative staff because anyone in armor would have sank.

Or, like Zhao, been dragged down to the depths. What would have happened, if Zhao had taken Zuko's hand? Would they have both survived, or would Zuko have joined him, all for daring to try to save him?

...His sister. His sister. Azula would have fought for their father until her final breath.

His sister was dead, his father was dead, and the worst implication of all was that Zuko had helped.

He ran, and ran, and pumped his legs faster, lungs burning and throat choking with the dry air, no other goal in mind than to get away.

Ice was not made for running on. He slipped, ankle twisting painfully in the fall. The arm he flung out to steady himself cracked. He didn't know if it was the sickening sound or the swoop in his belly that triggered his nausea. He heaved, heaved until he made a hollow of his stomach, until the rancid scent of acid and chili-garlic permeated the empty air.

He got up, almost slipping again in his own sick. The world tilted, but he kept going, relishing the frenetic shot nerves up his leg and arm. Good. If he felt enough pain in the rest of his body, maybe he wouldn't feel the pain in his chest.

He ran with no destination, but he landed at one anyway. The ship thing. Figures in red, like blood in the snow, ran out to meet him.

"My lord!" one of them gasped. An imperial guard, the gold lining on his armor declared. He was saying something, but Zuko was still reeling on my lord, not my prince. Your Majesty, not Your Highness.

An armored hand reached out. Zuko twisted away, growling. Then another hand, and another, they were crowding himwhen he needed to be alone—

Rage flared within him, and he lashed out—

The servant recoiled and cried out, cradling her arm—

The glove was charred there was a burn she was burned he burned her.

He burst up the ramp to the ship, dodging through anyone in the way. It was red, finally red, but there were too many people, too many bodies, too many casualties—

This was a luxurious ship a royalty ship Azula should be here but she wasn't—

"Zuzu!"

—and Mom was gone, she was gone disappeared dead because of him.

He found an empty room in a secluded hallway. The door locked from the inside with a click.

He pushed with his good wrist off the steel and stumbled to the far corner. There, he collapsed into a pathetic curl. There was no porthole for ventilation. The only light was the thin edge of the door. He watched dimly as the still air stirred with his broken, foggy breaths.

This was good. This was alone.

Maybe Zuko would suffocate in here, and no one else would die.

Author's Note:

Yanneh's name was originally going to spelled Yane, but then I realized that all you Anglo- people would read that as Yayn. *shakes head sadly* English spelling is weird. Y'all should take notes from Filipino.

On an unrelated note, the nearby Taal Volcano is erupting. My country will never experience a white Christmas, but it's certainly having a grey New Year! Everything's dusty with ashfall, not to mention rife with rain, earthquakes and volcanic lightning. The latter is just as gorgeous as it is deadly in a way Azula would appreciate.

Another marvelous day in the Pacific Ring of Fire. #It'sMoreFunInThePhilippines