〝 𝑖𝑖.

. . .

The voices came at dusk. Golden hues within the lanterns spilled out into the loneliness of the streets, cutting through the darkness and forming shapes along the cobblestone. Shadows danced in their light, passing over the tenements and creeping under the aging wood of the roofs which were completely subject to the dark. She lounged on one of those roofs, hiding away in the crooks of the lower ring houses.

Their silhouettes appeared first, dancing with the shadows in the corner of her eye along the windows of the local merchant's home; he was a man too cowardly to oversee anything apart from what his superior demanded of him. She had seen this man a few times before, walking tentatively down the stone paths with a tremble in every step, leaving the polished houses of the upper ring to return to the shabby four walls of his own residence. He hid away in the darkened allies now and again, this man. But there were others this time; they took the merchant's place and spoke with hushed words, argued with silent gestures, and she peered over the edge of the roof to lean an ear closer to their voices.

"You're becoming obsessed with this," one said.

"Maybe you've forgotten how the Fire Nation left us all homeless," another snapped.

They went back and forth like this, hissing out muttered words and hollow insults until one decided to quit. The other eventually leaped into attempts to keep him from losing his head, but the one would not listen.

"I'll get the evidence on my own!" he declared.

Overcome by a flush of curiosity, she leaned over too far and almost lost her footing; it caused the roof to creak. They hushed themselves, she regained herself; they turned their heads upward, but they did not see her. She crept back into her crook and the safety of the darkness, moved to another edge as one emerged from the alley, solitary, without those he spoke to.

He was tall, she noted. Tall with a shaggy head of hair and golden skin illuminated by the lanterns which possessed the same color. He wore shoulder guards and subtle armor around his hips, a gleam of sharp silver stowed on his back; they were weapons she had never seen before. His hand reached for the door of the Pao family's tea shop, pushing it open with an abrupt forcefulness.

"I'm tired of waiting!" he exclaimed, pointing a finger accusingly inside. "These two men are firebenders!"

She recognized his voice, marking him as the one who the other called obsessed. He uttered the words "Fire Nation" and "firebender" with ridicule and hatred, yet she could not help but recognize the familiar red of his clothing in the light.

You hate them and yet you wear their color, Golden Boy, she thought. Though maybe it was the burden of another, to have no choice but to wear the colors of those they hated.

He reached his hands behind him and she came to see that the gleam of silver she saw on his back was a pair of hook swords; it was an uncommon choice of weapon in a place like Ba Sing Se. It was an uncommon choice in most places, really. The Golden Boy unsheathed them, stepped further into the tea shop, and, for a moment, she could not see him as the door closed shut. But even from her perch two stories above, she could hear how he shouted his frustrations, accusing, challenging. His words told her he was seething, and it was not long before another sound graced her ears: the clash of metal against metal. He had started a fight.

The lanterns filled with golden hues shook and the shadows shook with them. The door to the house burst open, cracked, and broke into a multitude of pieces. Another figure came out first, forced out and nearly knocked to his knees by the golden boy. He wore an apron of white that stood in contrast to the darkness; she saw it first, and could not see much of anything else. They danced in the dark, moved too fast for her, swinging and ducking and trying to stab each other with their weapons. The golden boy came charging at the one he pushed into the streets, jabbing his hooks down on twin swords. For a moment, he had trapped the figure he fought.

"You must be getting tired of using those swords," he taunted. "Why don't you go ahead and firebend at me?"

They struggled against each other until the blades eventually slipped apart. The clash of metal resumed, and she found herself all the more intrigued by this sudden duel — so much so that she did not recognize the voice that begged them to stop. Like the crowd that began to form around the two, she was hyper-focused on that which was unfolding beneath her. The uncertainty of their outcome.

The Golden Boy and the figure, they flowed with the shadows, fading in and out of the faint light, spinning and leaping and avoiding the sharp edges of each other's blades.

"Bet you wish he'd helped you out with a little fire blast right now!"

What has made him so convinced that they're firebenders? she thought.

The Golden Boy swung his hook low to the ground, over and over until its handle was caught, pinned by a sword stuck between the cobblestones.

"You're the one who needs help!"

Her breath caught in her throat. She blinked, unaware that her hands had gripped around the splintering roof she crouched on until small shreds of wood tried to prick her fingers. She let go.

She thought for a moment that her ears had betrayed her, that she was so transfixed with the sudden burst of tension below that she had begun to imagine things. The golden boy said firebender, and with the familiarity of the voice she heard, her mind began to reel.

But it couldn't be . . .

She shook her head and squinted further into the darkness where the light did not reach. The figure swung at the golden boy, but the latter bent back before blade could meet flesh. He flipped onto the well behind him, extending his arms out towards those who had gathered around to watch their banter.

"You see that? The Fire Nation is trying to silence me!" he shouted to them. "It'll never happen!"

He took his hooks and swung from the well, diving at the one he fought. Their duel resumed, one sword against two hooks going on and on, neither seeming to catch the other by surprise.

"Drop your weapons!" a man boomed, a tone of authority suddenly intervening. Her focus turned to it and she came to see familiar garments of black and green.

The golden boy was the first to retract his weapons. "Arrest them!" he demanded, pointing a sword to the two he spoke of. "They're firebenders!"

"This poor boy is confused," one said. "We're just simple refugees."

She jerked her head around this time, blinking wildly. She rubbed at her eyes.

Iroh?

Her gaze fell on an old man, stout and flushed with hair as silver as the moon which rose above them, and she found herself lighter against her perch. The last time she saw the general was before he sailed away on a ship, and if he was there . . .

"This young man wrecked my tea shop and assaulted my employees!"

"It's true, sir," a city guard spoke. "We saw the whole thing. This crazy kid attacked the finest tea-maker in the city."

She did not have to see him in the dark to know that Iroh had blushed as he gave them his thanks.

"Come with us, son," the authoritative tone resumed.

It was a demand, but the golden boy was not so willing. He swung a hooked blade in defiance and was caught, blocked by a hand of rock she had seen a few times before, shivered at the sight of; such things were associated with the Dai Li. The two in black and green cuffed him with these hands and he groaned in protest.

"You don't understand!" he cried. "They're Fire Nation! You have to believe me!"

But no one listened to him. The crowd began to disperse and the men dragged him into a carriage, blocking out his voice, disappearing in silence as these cultural protectors often did.

People began to return to where they came from and it brought her out of her thoughts, back to the question in her mind which all but begged to be answered now. She searched for Iroh, finding him at the door of the tea shop, the silhouette she had been trying to find not too far behind him. His back faced her, and the lanterns were too weak to allow her to see clearly from where she sat. She squinted, waited.

"Hey!" a man called from below her. "Next time you decide to have a fight out in the streets, keep it on your side, tea-maker! Those boys rattled my shop and broke some of my best pots!"

The weary owner of the teahouse pushed by, waving his fist, shouting his own retort. The boy turned.

A gasp just barely left her lips. "Zuko . . ."

. . .

〝 two .

She had gone out of her way to make sure the places where she hid were just above the dwellings of those her grandfather conversed with — a cluster of merchants and brokers spread out across the city. Some were trustworthy, but the ones she hovered over, they would peer through their windows and hide in their crooks as she hid in hers. She often caught them when they tried to slither down the alleys, out of her line of sight to make a deal with another, to acquire more than they deserved. None of them were particularly good at being quiet when they left their little holes. Her feet would tip over the edge of the roofs and she would land before them, startling them; it kept them on their toes, kept them honest as they so often were not.

Rarely was there an honest soul in Ba Sing Se. Inside the walls, it was known as the city of lies . . . city of secrets. Honesty was rare, and rarely did those few honest souls ever dip their hands into the trade or distribution of weapon-making; it was a job deceitful men often clung to. Desperate men.

She thought about seven nights ago when that golden boy had caused a ruckus. Desperation poured from him and yet he had been speaking the truth. Those men were firebenders — two who she had not seen in a very long time. She still had not found the courage to go see them.

But why were they in Ba Sing Se? Had they been chased away, forced into the life of refugees too?

"Zaia! Why don't you come inside? It looks like it will rain soon."

The man who called her from his window below, thereby disrupting her from her thoughts, was neither desperate nor deceitful; his profession was far from the trade of weapons and other expendable things. Her gaze turned upward as he spoke and she was met with the sight of various shades of gray. Ominous storm clouds were growing darker, bigger, more menacing.

Zaia did as he suggested and swung from the edge of the roof, through the open window, landing gracefully and rather silent. It took him until he turned around to notice her, the sudden presence in the room startling him.

He placed a hand on his chest. "Spirits, you have a way of keeping quiet."

Zaia could not find the will to suppress a smile; the sight was too amusing. "Did I scare you, Pak?"

"For a moment," he admitted with a laugh in his voice, "But don't worry your little head about me. I'm alright."

As Pak headed towards a small table, she took in that which pilled up on the floor and other pieces of furniture since the last time she had been there. The small room was littered with a multitude of colored thread and silver pins, fabric all folded in various piles both big and small. Pak spent most of his life as a tailor, and it was many times that he stitched ripped cloaks, sarongs, and tunics — whether they be hers or her mother's. This time he approached her with a restored tunic of her grandfather's.

"Here we are," he chimed. "Fixed and ready to be worn once more."

Zaia took the piece of clothing, gave a nod of approval after examining it. "Thanks," she said, giving him his payment. "I have a feeling my grandfather would have nothing but ripped shirts if it weren't for you."

The man chuckled, quirking a brow. "Does his work cause that many ailments with his clothes?"

"He is a bladesmith," she reminded him, folding the piece and tucking it carefully under her arm. Pak gave a hum of understanding. "Though I'm not sure how the rips get there. They rarely look like they were made by a sword or a knife."

"One can only wonder," he said, turning to clear away his tools from the table behind him. He put his pins and needles away, then peered out the open window before shutting it tight. "Why don't you stay for a while? The clouds are brewing up quite a storm. I'd hate for you to get caught in it."

Zaia shook her head as they reached a set of stairs. "I'll be fine."

"Are you sure? I make a lovely cup of jasmine tea, you know."

She smiled. "I appreciate it, but I need to get back."

Pak nodded, bidding her goodbye before she descended to the first level of his business: a floor kept neat and orderly, filled with proper displays of different fabrics, as well as tunics and other clothing. He was as equally good a salesman as he was a tailor.

She stepped out onto the path before the house, coming face to face with his neighbor's restaurant just a few feet away. The buildings were set close together as most shop areas of the Middle Ring were, and the scent which came from the establishment made her stomach growl almost pleadingly. Roast duck . . . but she kept herself from indulging. Her attention was focused on something else, anyhow: a multitude of noisy cries coming from the other direction.

Zaia peered around the corner behind her which lead into the square. An ostrich horse stood idly, craning its neck down to the stone. The chains around its legs left it attached to a wooden carriage whose back doors sat wide open, revealing two cages filled with whimpering animals. She noted the three pygmy pumas immediately; they stood on their hind legs and cried out in desperation, clawing at the bars which trapped them. The fourth animal, however, was one she could not place. Its ears nearly stretched the length of its body, its arms — gripped tightly around the black bars — were thin, and it made no sound. It made no plea for help, standing in its cage as the felines stood, barely moving . . . and it was looking right at her.

The long-eared creature had noticed her form in the distance and bore its round eyes into her, big and green, with its striped tail twitching. If she had not felt the pull to help before . . . when the animal reached through the bars helplessly, she found herself moving forward.

Peeking her head further around, Zaia spotted a butcher's shop. She was able to spot a small array of meat that hung from the arched ceiling. Her stomach lurched, imagining the fate of the four animals that were caged. But she could also hear who she assumed was the butcher arguing with another man. Good. It was the distraction she needed.

Zaia moved from her place.

The complete lack of people in the square gave her an advantage, allowing her to tiptoe out into the open yet stay hidden by the stone walls which made up the butcher's shop. She stopped just a few feet away from the cages, looking in far enough to see the two who argued. Their conversation was heated — so much so that the owner was waving around his cleaver. She waited until the pair turned their backs.

The pygmy pumas had ceased their whimpering by then, staring at her hopefully as the other animal had been. Zaia freed the latter first, then immediately went for the felines. When they kept free, she ran off with them as quietly as she came.

She led the animals further down the stone walkway, past Pak's shop, between a few small, run-down houses where stacks of crates sat abandoned, allowing her to return to the rooves. The pumas climbed with ease, following her without fail while the other flew its way up. The creature flapped its wings, sailing near her head until she stopped at the edge of very faded green roof tiles.

Zaia sat on the rough slabs as the felines huddled around her feet. She was surprised that they had not left her to go another way, perhaps to where they usually hid or to another spot that felt safe . . . but no. All they did was purr, sticking close to her hip in a huddle of three.

The other landed on her shoulder and chirped happily, sniffing her face before nudging its own on her cheek affectionately.

She laughed, reaching to scratch between its ears. "You're welcome."

Thunder clapped and she could feel the animals startle, the one on her shoulder now scurrying into her lap. "It's okay," she soothed, stroking its ears once more. "There's nothing to be afraid of. It's just noise."

As Zaia tried to calm the creature, she began to go through a mental list, trying to figure out just what exactly it was. She had a feeling it was not from the Earth Kingdom, but her knowledge of what animals came from which nations was not very vast. It looked like a lemur, but lemurs were known to live near the air temples . . . so how could one have gotten this far?

She did not have much time to dwell over it. One of the pygmy pumas soon climbed over her thigh, reaching over her arm to snatch something from the lemur's leg. It ran off immediately with its two friends, and the lemur soon flew after them, leaving her lap cold.

"Hey, wait!"

Zaia quickly descended the roof after the animals, following the lemur as it turned a corner. The felines were quick, but not so quick to where she felt they would lose them. If anything, it seemed the cats wanted them to follow. The one which held the tuft of fur in its mouth paused at another corner, waiting until they caught up before following the other two. It stopped in a large dip, dropping the fur in the middle of it before leaping out, disappearing through an alley.

The lemur lept for the tuft, cuddling it close to its chest. Zaia moved to kneel next to it, about to wonder aloud what exactly had just happened until she took notice of what she was kneeling in front of.

The dip did not look like a dip at all; it looked like a footprint.

She stood to her feet, taking a step back as the rain began to fall against the stone. Huh . . . It was a footprint — a large, three-toed footprint in the middle of a splotch of dried mud.

The lemur chirped in a sorrowful tone and she felt a tug at her heart. It looked forlorn with its ears folded down, clutching the fur tighter, pawing at its eyes. Zaia reached down to stroke its head once more and it leaned into her hand, standing up on its hind legs. The lemur hopped out of the hole and tied the fur around its leg, climbing onto her bent knee, then to her shoulder.

Zaia looked back down to the mark in the mud. "Did you lose a friend?" she asked the small creature.

It barely made a noise in response. Her mind began to reel as she absently traced the outline of the footprint. "What kind of animal could have made this?" she muttered.

The wind began to pick up then, adding to the chill of the rain which was already making her shiver. Zaia looked up as she had when on Pak's roof. It was growing into quite the storm, just as he had said.

She looked to the lemur on her shoulder. "I'd hate to leave you out in this."

The animal did nothing but blink, trying to block the rain by hiding in her hair.

Zaia smiled. "Do you want to come home with me? At least until the rain stops. That way you can fly home without getting wet."

The lemur chirped in a happier tone this time, making her smile widen. "Okay," she said, laughing as it began to nudge at her cheek. "I guess it's settled then."

. . .

〝 three .

Sneaking the lemur into her grandfather's home proved to be harder than she had thought . . . not to mention a plan doomed to fail. Zaia had grown used to the absence of both him and her mother during the day, therefore she expected the house to be empty and free of obstacles so she could bring the little creature into her room. Not only had she jumped to conclusions, but she had completely forgotten that it was, in fact, well past dinner. She was late. An innocent smile was attempted, the lemur hid behind her hair . . . but it did nothing to help her.

Thankfully her grandfather was sympathetic enough to allow the new arrival.

As it had happened, he warmed up to the animal rather quickly. He even went as far as to introduce himself, saying, "Hello little friend, I am Saoma."

He had, of course, received no reply. But when the lemur began to follow her grandfather down the hall, instead of shooing him away, Saoma waved him along. Zaia followed, curious as to what their little companion would do . . . though she had not paid as much attention to the quick movements of the lemur, rather focused on the strained ones of her grandfather.

She frowned as she stepped into his room. "Do you need help?"

"No, no. I can manage it — . . ." his assurances were cut abruptly as he winced in pain.

Zaia rushed to his side, grasping the sleeve which had caught around his arm. She helped him pull his robes over his shoulder carefully, avoiding contact with the place that had essentially spasmed. She insisted he lie in his bed and he did so without protest, though he could not help but grimace at the pain he felt when he moved his arm. She could see it all over his aging face.

Zaia skimmed a hand over his forearm, examining it as if she knew what she was doing. "It's not getting any better, is it?"

The man let out a defeated sigh. "No, but it is not getting any worse. It is simply the same."

Somehow his attempt to be optimistic did not make anything better. Zaia only felt her worry grow.

The lemur chirped and she wondered if he had become worried as well, twirling around in a circle until he settled himself close to her grandfather. He chuckled, reaching out to pet him with the arm that had not recoiled in pain.

"Where in spirits name did you find such a creature?"

Zaia cast a fond glance towards the lemur. "I found him near Pak's shop. He was locked in a cage with a few pygmy pumas behind the butcher, so I snuck them out."

"And this one followed you home, did he?"

She nodded. "He never left my shoulder."

"Do you plan on telling your mother you intend to keep him?"

Her posture became defensive. "How do you know I want to keep him?"

Saoma raised a speculating brow.

Initially, Zaia intended to hold firm. She truly did not intend to keep the lemur, at first. The idea of bringing him into the house was simply a solution to the problem of the animal having to fly home wet . . . but a selfish part of her had hoped that the lemur might not have a home to go to. It seemed he was already making himself at home; and as she asked her question, a smile was already tugging at her lips. She could never last under her grandfather's scrutinizing gazes.

"Alright, fine . . . Maybe I do."

"If Sin does not take kindly to it, I might help you convince her . . ." he said, reaching out to stroke the creature's head. "I rather like this sweet creature myself."

"Convincing her to do anything would be a miracle in itself."

Zaia stood from the edge of the bed, heading towards a small basin at the far end of the room. She flattened her hand over the water and, with a deep breath, allowed heat to emit from her palm. It warmed the opposing element within a moment. Once the towel was dipped in, she squeezed the excess water from it, trailing back to the bed.

Saoma let out a sigh of relief as the warmth wrapped around his forearm, unraveling the tension in his muscles.

"May I ask you something?" Zaia asked after a while. He nodded. "Is there a reason, you think, that others from the Fire Nation would want to come to Ba Sing Se?"

Saoma pulled himself from the relaxed state he had fallen in to gaze questioningly at her. "Whatever made you wonder such a thing?"

She shrugged. "I mean, we're here. And you've lived in the city for years without anyone knowing who you are."

"I have . . ." he paused, contemplating if her words would lead to another result. "And this suddenly has you wondering?"

"You aren't the only one who's turned against the Fire Nation and lived to tell the tale. Or have you forgotten about Master Jeong Jeong?"

Saoma chuckled. "I have not. In fact, he was the one who gave me the courage to leave."

"He was?"

"Quite. He was a good friend of mine."

Zaia narrowed her eyes. "I don't ever remember meeting him."

"That is because you were not yet born when Jeong Jeong and I spent our time together. We met when we were young men — around your age, I suppose. A long-time friend, he was . . . that is until his teaching became of utmost importance. I have not seen him in thirty years."

She nodded absently.

"There is something else you wanted to ask me?" her grandfather voiced, bringing her out of her thoughts.

Eventually, Zaia asked: "How did you get into Ba Sing Se all those years ago?"

"The only way one can: with the help of friends. I was dressed like a refugee when I first came."

"So were we . . . I suppose we are refugees, though." Zaia thought of the rough, green material her mother had demanded she change into that night. "But I don't just mean how you got past the walls. How did you come into the Upper Ring so quickly?"

Her grandfather hummed in thought. "Well, I must start by telling you that I did not always live in such comfortable residencies. I had made a name for myself before I came to the city, and I worked hard, just as I did when I was a young man. It has brought me many blessings . . ." He paused to adjust the warm, damp towel around his forearm. "I must admit though, I would not have come to live in such a place so quickly had I not known the right people."

"And you trusted them?"

"I did, yes. The ones I had befriended before coming here. Though the others . . . I was wary of them. You must always be careful."

Zaia fell quiet and Saoma took this moment to voice his own curiosity.

"What has made you so curious?"

She looked down at her hands. "I was in the Lower Ring last week," she said it reluctantly as if admitting to it would somehow summon Saoma's wrath. He only raised a brow in interest.

"And?"

"And I saw a boy — and no, not in the way you're thinking." She pointed a finger at his change in expression. "He was arguing with someone. A friend, I think. He stormed into the Pao family's tea shop and started shouting, claiming that two men were firebenders . . . then he broke the door down. He chased another boy out into the streets."

"They were fighting?"

"Dueling. They didn't stop until the Dai Li came and made them."

Saoma hummed once more. "So they arrested them, then?"

"Just the one who stormed into the shop. He kept shouting at the people around them, begging that they believe him. He was so convinced they were firebenders . . . I-I couldn't help but wonder."

"Sometimes people are willing to go to great lengths. Even if it is not true, fear can push people into doing unreasonable things."

Zaia thought of how the golden boy had fought: ruthlessly, persistently. He had been trying to taunt Zuko, too. To try and coax him into firebending. Truthfully, she was surprised he did not, even if the reason was obvious. The Zuko she remembered had a very short temper, especially when someone was jeering at him as that boy had.

"Did you recognize the two he accused?" Saoma asked.

Zaia quickly shook her head. "I didn't get a good look at their faces, it was too dark. But if they were firebenders, what reason would they have to come here?"

Her grandfather sat silent for a moment, stroking the white beard that extended from his chin. "There is always the chance that the Fire Lord could be planning an invasion. Spies are never out of the question . . . but I doubt that would be true with the circumstances you described. Otherwise, I am not sure. In all my years of living here in secret, I have never heard or seen another do the same. If one has, then either I do not know of it . . ."

Zaia frowned. "Or?"

"Or they never made it past the outer wall."

. . .