〝 𝑖𝑖𝑖.

. . .

The cracked tiles which lined the roofs of upper ring houses reflected moonlight from their flat faces, casting a yellow tinge onto whatever passed over them in shimmering waves. The color twinkled under her shoes, thin pieces that helped her climb without fear of slipping. Zaia wore them always in case she was thrown into a situation where she would need to do so. It was an action that became a habit — and for good reason . . . but she had no reason to worry over falling tonight. Tonight she sat on the roof next to her bedroom, knees pulled up to her chest with a lemur at her side.

In the span of one evening, the animal had quickly settled himself into her room; he curled up in the middle of her bed, waited for her as she washed and changed, and now he was sitting with her on the roof, leaning into her hip as the pygmy pumas had. Truthfully, she had expected to see the last of her little friend that night when the sky had rid itself of storm clouds and the moon spread its light along the stone paths, giving him the perfect weather to fly home . . . wherever that was.

But no. Zaia talked to him as if he could understand, saying he could leave. Yet all the lemur did was chirp, hop onto her shoulder and stay there until she climbed out onto the roof.

Her lips pressed into a thin line and without looking at the creature, she asked quietly, "Do you think I should go see them?"

A moment of nothing but a subtle howl of the wind filled what would have been a dense silence.

Zaia suddenly realized who she was talking to. She shook her head. "What am I doing?" she murmured to herself in disbelief. Zaia glanced down at her friend. "You have no idea who I'm talking about."

The lemur's head tilted to the side and she had a second revelation.

". . . And you probably have no idea what I'm saying," she concluded, letting out something between a sigh and a groan. She leaned her head back against the golden tiles.

Zaia was feeling just a touch ridiculous.

The fact was that the decision she was trying to make was simple, but the fear of what would come with it made it seem difficult. As far as her homeland was aware, she conveniently disappeared after an accident that made people turn their heads in fear. And, despite their absence, she had convinced herself that word would have gotten to the banished prince or the retired general somehow. Rumors had the potential to spread like wildfire for miles and miles. How hard could it be for those rumors to reach Zuko's ship?

Zaia turned her head to the right, looking at the lemur's curled-up form. "I should think of a name for you," she said, welcoming the new thought. "I can't keep calling you 'lemur'."

Green eyes became curious. Big ears turned towards her.

"What do you think, hm?"

He sat up, tilting his head. Zaia squinted. "Or do you already have a name?"

The lemur chirped and she absently took that as a yes.

"I wish you could tell me what it is," she muttered. Zaia took a moment to think. "But for now . . . how about I call you Pamu?"

She swore the lemur shook his head.

"Mula?" she tried.

He only blinked.

"Oh! Kota?"

A low chirp came this time.

Zaia huffed in defeat, rolling her head against the oddly comfortable roofing. "You're picky for a lemur," she said, gazing up at the moon.

He did nothing but curl himself into a little ball. She began to bob one foot, picking at the tile under her hand which was not only cracked but began to chip, telling her it needed a fresh coat of paint. Or perhaps replacing altogether.

She could not call for someone to fix such a thing at such an hour. In fact, she did not intend to call for anyone at all. Her grandfather liked his house this way: ancient and waring, telling everyone just how old it was, and doing it with pride. Just like him. The man was not lazy, nor was he a slob. He welcomed age as an old friend, proud to show others how far he had come, how far his house had come. Even if there were some stiff joints and loose boards; creaks and moans. His home was one of the oldest buildings in Ba Sing Se, and he was proud of it.

She supposed she would say she was proud of it too, now that she saw what the Earth Kingdom's capital city really looked like. Ba Sing Se had not mirrored the stories she heard. If anything, it exceeded her expectations. The houses of the Upper Ring exuded the wealth and prosperity their city had accumulated over decades, as did the people, the shops, the land. It was the capital city for a reason . . . but she knew it was housing like her grandfather's that reminded people how such a place came to be.

It was like an old relic, standing tall in the midst of new structures, new designs, and new ways of living. She found the city so different compared to what she heard of it and thought even more so at night. Living in the Upper Ring meant being wrapped in its undeniable tranquility. Despite being at the heart of the city, the richest circle remained the quietest, and perhaps the most beautiful when the moon rose over it. She found herself admiring the golden hue of the roof tiles when she first arrived, feeling a familiarity in it, a warmth in it. And after a year of living under it, she found she had not stopped.

A breeze began to pick up, cooling her cheeks and the back of her neck, her aching hands and exposed calves. Her fingers were sore from a day's work, helping her grandfather and his apprentices make swords and other various weapons as the daily business was for a bladesmith. The ache in his forearm had not subsided altogether — if anything, the only thing that had receded was the throbbing . . . but he claimed it felt better; and because he did, that meant an immediate return to his work.

Zaia could not convince him otherwise, nor could her mother; thus, the former opted to help him instead.

Though, she told herself she would not be helping him too often; after feeling a sting in her palms and a painful twitch in her fingers, Zaia was abruptly reminded of why his craft took years to adjust into. The muscles she pushed were not used to clenching, tugging, or hammering whatsoever. She gripped when she climbed, but her hands and arms were used to being stretched out, open and flowing. It was a common trait of her own craft: swiftness, fluidity. Here she felt stiff and cramped. Perhaps that was why she scaled the roofs so much, just so she could feel her limbs stretch and bend.

"Zaia?" she heard someone whisper her name, turning her gaze to the balcony on her left. Her mother stood behind the railing in her robe, a picture of black hair and forest green. They could no longer wear crimson and gold, not here. "What are you doing up? It's well past midnight."

Zaia gave a lazy lift of her shoulders. "I'm not tired."

"You should try to get some sleep," Sin tried before raising a brow. "You may rise with the moon, but the rest of us rise with the sun, and your grandfather will want your help tomorrow."

Zaia looked at her mother pleadingly, but with another pointed raise of the woman's eyebrows, she sighed. "Alright."

With the still-nameless lemur following, she scaled the small roof and easily bent her limbs over the metal railing, slipping back onto the little extension just outside her safe haven. She hugged her mother and bid her a silent goodnight before the woman turned and left her room. With one last flicker, the lone candle on her bedside table blew out, leaving her in a blue light that peered in through the opening she came from.

She plopped onto her bed, stroking the lemur between its ears as it came in after her, cuddled into one of her pillows. She did not bother closing the door which separated her from her favorite spot in the house. She did not bother closing her eyes, either. She simply couldn't.

Over time she had learned to ignore these small differences. Lying awake because the moon begged her to keep it company; sleeping well into the day because she simply refused to get up when the sunlight made her drowsy; the fluidity of her fighting style compared to the opposing cuts and jabs of her former piers. Oftentimes her mother told her it was nothing. Other times she said it made her special. And yet she could not help but contemplate her own situation. A firebender rises with the sun, that much she knew . . . so why had she always risen with the moon?

. . .

〝 two .

Rather fearful of her mother's pointed glares, upon waking the next day, Zaia did as she was told and returned to her grandfather's smithy, ready to provide her assistance and keep him from overexerting himself once more.

And the next day, and the next, and the next. It was an obvious pattern, and Saoma had known for a time why she was there . . . though a word was never uttered of it, thus she continued helping as if nothing was out of place.

But there was. She was out of place.

By the third day in a row, Zaia was already weary. She would say it until she was red in the face: she was not built for his craft. She was built for noiseless climbs and keeping his loose ends in check . . . but she wanted to help him. So, when the fourth day came, she rose and prepared to do it all over again.

But when Zaia arrived at the smithy, her grandfather was not there. Smoke had billowed from the forge long before she ever approached — in fact, it had probably burned through the night — but at the stone which extended from its side, rather than him, it was Lani who squatted before it.

Like Saoma, Lani was tall and lean, often questioned about his work because of his build. He did not look fit to forge weapons, to handle the likes of a weighted hammer or manage breaking apart stone. But he was stronger than he appeared to be, and he crafted a sword better than any, brawny-looking smith she had seen. At least, that was what she believed.

Lani had proved himself many times over, maintaining his role as first apprentice long before she appeared at the smithy; long before her wide-eyed curiosity had invaded his well-fixed routine consisting of very little company. She wasn't exactly a chattering hog-monkey when she first arrived. If anything, Zaia had been rather quiet (a direct result, she realized, of worrying that she would invade his space). But he had not been bothered in the least.

Lani appreciated her company, in fact. He welcomed her in, explained how he crafted a certain blade as he did it. She was not allowed to create one herself, but she could hammer down blocks of minerals and melt the pieces inside the forge; and when her grandfather began to appear less and less, they formed a routine of their own. Lani had even been generous enough to tell her about his family, where he had been before he met Saoma.

She felt honored to be given such trust, to be allowed to know of his personal life, to be a friend . . . But, at the same time, she felt like such a fraud.

She knew so much about him; about his mother who raised him on her own; about his baby sister who looked up to him as if he was a famed warrior in a glorious tale, and going to Ba Sing Se was his great journey. She knew about his father and how he had perished in the war many years ago . . . and she felt terrible. He knew nothing about her — nothing true, at least, aside from her name.

And she felt like a liar . . . but she had to be. When she had stepped onto that boat, no semblance of her previous life was permitted to follow. Nothing but your name, her mother had said. Zaia was thankful she could at least keep that.

The hiss of molten steel shook her from her moment of pity. Lani had poured the seething mineral into a mold for what she realized was a short sword, wiping his brow once the bucket was emptied and placed on the ground, still steaming near his feet.

"Have you been here all night?" she asked as he began to hammer.

For a time, Zaia never spoke to him until she was acknowledged for fear of breaking him from his concentration. Her grandfather instilled that courtesy into her. It was a polite gesture to elders, he said. It was a way of keeping her from interrupting him, she knew . . . But Lani had never been like him; easily shaken by an intruding voice, brought out of focus. If he had to, she supposed he could sit amidst a handful of ongoing conversations, have one of his own, and still manage to do his work.

With a final whack, Lani let out a heavy sigh. "All night," he drawled before resuming his hammering. "A government official asked that we make a short-sword for his son as a birthday gift. He had hoped that your grandfather might be able to craft it himself, but Saoma declined and said he'd much prefer that I make it —" Lani paused to snort. "I don't know what made him think that, but the man trusts him — and now I have no choice but to make this as perfect as possible."

Zaia rolled her eyes. She would bet the blade he was now shaping was not his first attempt. "You mean you have no choice but to live up to your impossible standards . . ." It was not a question, and Lani did not answer. She cracked a smile. "Lani, you need to stop being so hard on yourself. You're as talented as any swordsmith could ever hope to be."

Lani made a noise of disbelief.

"I'm serious," she persisted. "Why else would my grandfather entrust you with this place while he's gone?"

"Because I'm the only one who gets things done around here?" he said, taking a long, disapproving look at their surroundings. Hammers pounded, newly made blades were hung in their respective places, coal was shoveled; steel and iron were broken down into pieces and tossed into buckets waiting to be placed into the forge. It seemed busy. It sounded busy. To a bystander, it would have appeared to be a regular smithy full of hardworking apprentices simply carrying out a day's work . . . but to Lani, it was a handful of men under him who only put half their effort into what they were doing. They were good, but they could be better, and he grumbled about it every time she was there.

Zaia blinked at the sight of his scrutinizing gaze. "Yes," she drawled. "But because you have a gift too."

Within a year of knowing him, she learned the hard way that Lani was particular with words. When one called him talented, skilled, good with his hands, he would hear it as a compliment . . . but he would not take it. To him, everyone had talent to some degree; everyone could be skilled; lots of people could be good with their hands . . . but not everyone had a gift. A true understanding of something. And when she used that word, she could see his expression light up, just as it did then.

"I'm just glad he trusts me at all," he said.

"You're grossly modest."

"You grossly over-estimate my abilities."

"Says the one who cheers every time I manage to block a blow but fall out of form."

"I'm being supportive," Lani defended, taking a moment to examine his handiwork. He shook his head at it before throwing a glance at her. "Besides, you are improving."

Zaia crossed her arms, leaning against one of the wooden posts near the entrance. "I'd rather stick to fighting with my hands."

"And climbing? . . ."

Zaia's heart skipped a beat.

The look he gave her was knowing, but she said nothing. How does he know about that? She stayed silent in hopes that he would become engrossed in shaping the sword he held under a skeptical gaze . . . but he only continued. The silence, she supposed, meant another thing to him. "I saw you on your neighbor's roof one night when I was leaving."

Ah . . .

The night she had returned from the Lower Ring. Zaia had wanted to restrain herself — perhaps stubbornly hold onto that last little inkling of hope that if she played dumb, he would come to a sudden realization . . . But this is Lani. And she was too concerned about his words. Was she not as good at hiding as she thought?

"Am I that obvious?" she dared to ask.

"No. I think I just have good timing," said Lani, holding his head a little higher. He smirked. "Actually, I had to really look before I could spot you again, never mind realize it was you. The only reason I caught you was because you had to jump from roof to roof."

"How did you know it was me?"

"Ba Sing Se isn't exactly known for roof crawlers, and you're the only person I know in this city who climbs more than she walks."

Zaia felt her cheeks flush.

"It's a good skill to have," he commented with a raise of his brow. "But being able to climb and fight with your hands won't always be reliable."

"I know, I know," she sighed. "It's like my grandfather says: better to know a multitude of ways to fight rather than just one. Not all opponents are the same."

They had had this conversation many times over: his preference was swords, hers was hand-to-hand. It was not a matter of underappreciating the former, she just didn't think she would be spending her time wisely trying to hone in on a skill she had a lot of trouble with when she could be improving on that which she was already familiar with . . . and actually good at. Not all blades were difficult; stars and daggers were small enough to feel like extensions of her arm, but swords? They were too much in her opinion. It was too easy for her to lose her grip.

Her grumbling had earned a chuckle. "And I thought I was spending too much time with him."

"Would you happen to know where my 'oh wise and knowledgable' grandfather is?"

"Sin came by this morning to tell me he wouldn't be here, so I'd have to take over. She's taking him to a healer in the Middle Ring to see if there was something that could help ease the aches in his arms."

Zaia frowned. "She never woke me."

He shrugged. "She probably didn't want to disturb you."

"Or she was probably trying to hide what they're doing from me," she muttered, her fair mood now dropping into a sour one.

"Zaia . . ."

"Lani . . ."

The swordsmith fell quiet, but his hammering never ceased.

"You know my mother doesn't like to tell me things if she thinks they'll worry me," she continued, walking over to the forge to check the flames.

Lani gave a few hard whacks to the tip of the sword. "Yes, I do know. What I don't know is why this is so upsetting to you."

"I'm not upset, I just feel like I'm being left out . . . It's our fault he's so stressed, and it's because he's stressed that he's having these problems."

"Oh, c'mon, Zaia —"

"I'm serious, Lani. Stress can cause real, physical problems. It's not just in your head —"

Lani held his one free hand up. "Hey, hey — I'm not saying I don't believe you, I'm just saying don't be angry with your mother for trying to protect you . . . and don't be so quick to put the blame on yourself. Your grandfather is his own person; he made the decision to let you come live with him. And if there's anything I've learned, being his apprentice for the last few years, it's that he owns up to his decisions. He doesn't put the burden of them on anyone else, which means you shouldn't either."

Zaia huffed. "I just feel like ever since we've arrived, we've only made things worse. Or, at least, I have."

"You're strangely self-deprecating today, you know that?"

"You're strangely optimistic every day, you know that?"

"I do. You should try it," Lani said, giving the short-sword a satisfied nod before wandering over to the water basin. Carefully, he slid the heated metal in. It hissed, sending billows of steam upward, brushing against his tired face. Once done, he threw her a smile. "It works wonders for your complexion."

She rolled her eyes.

"If you want to spend your morning brooding on the roof, by all means, be my guest. I don't need much help today," he told her in an attempt to be lighthearted, but Zaia's frown still remained.

"He'll get better, Zaia," he tried once more. "I know it — I know him. He isn't one to give up so easily."

She hoped he would. She prayed to the spirits he would.

Zaia made a promise to herself that she would not offer to help her grandfather more often than she could handle. Her own body could only take so much with everything else she put it through. His arms had begun to ache and spasm only a few weeks ago; and with the sporadic appearances of the affliction, it was not taken quite seriously . . . Though as of late, she had come to the conclusion that she might have to break that promise. His pain had become more frequent. And as stubborn as he may have been, it was keeping him from his work more and more with each passing day. His time was spent being confined, thus Lani was left to take on the bulk of their work.

She could see it in the younger man's face, Lani was growing weary too. He had been an apprentice to her grandfather for so long, watching and learning, mimicking, preparing for the day he would become what his master was. It was all he ever wanted to be, he had once said. A life-long dream of a lower-class Earth Kingdom boy . . . but that dream had come unexpectedly soon. He was good at hiding it, but Zaia could tell: without Saoma there, he felt lost. Out of his depth, even. And if he felt out of his depth, then she was most certainly a far cry from qualified to assist him. But she did it anyway, despite her own aches and spasms. They were not so persistent as her grandfather's.

And even if she made a mistake, there were other, younger arms waiting to take over within her grandfather's smithy. It was, perhaps, not a wholly good thing; but at least they didn't have to worry about finding help.

What was worrying was that the once impossible thought of losing their smith had now become possible. It was possible that Saoma would be forced to retire because of his aches and spasms. It was possible that he would finally have to face the end of decades of doing what he loved . . . and she knew it would break him. Zaia knew it would hurt his heart to let go.

But she knew it would anger him too. Saoma had uprooted his old life in order to begin anew. He spent years garnering a new reputation for himself throughout various Earth Kingdom cities and towns before coming to Ba Sing Se, disregarding his true roots, going by another name — he was once known as Hikaru, but even that he could not keep. The fame he received back home made his old name too recognizable.

The Earth Kingdom came to know him and his new name, his skill and his word; and many grew to depend on it. They trusted him, gave him their business because they knew what he could offer was worthwhile. He became renowned once more, building a center for his business within a city he thought he would never see. He was a gifted bladesmith . . . and in deciding to retire meant giving all that up.

All the security of years of relationships and connections throughout the Earth Kingdom; his favor among various generals and ministers, soldiers and swordsmen; safety for himself and for her and her mother . . . if his labor suddenly came to an end, then it all might begin to dwindle.

Lani was gifted as well; if Zaia knew anything, she knew this was true . . . but his gift was not known among them like her grandfather's was. His name was not known throughout Ba Sing Se. He was not a familiar face in the western cities; in the colonies who depended on the craft of her grandfather, that were plundered and in constant need of a means to defend themselves. He could sing Lani's praises until his old, gravelly voice gave out . . . but it would never garner the trust and business that decades of hard work and skill managed to bring about.

They would most certainly keep their income, though. There were numerous restaurants, butcher's shops, and households throughout the city in need of a source that could provide them with common kitchen knives, cleavers, and other commonly used blades . . . but it would not provide them the protection they once had.

And Zaia worried; her grandfather worried; her mother worried. Zaia and her mother had only been able to live within the safety of Ba Sing Se for a year. His work was their security in this diverse expanse of a country they did not know. It was their guarantee of safety among people who would otherwise chew them up and spit them out if they knew who they truly were. Where they truly came from.

And it was dwindling.

How much longer could they keep living safely if he no longer had a hand in the business that was only just beginning to flourish without his constant attention? How much longer could they keep prying eyes from attempting to pry further? Or enemies from coming out of the shadows and slashing at their weak points?

Zaia was only so good at keeping slithering merchants in check; and even if she could take on the responsibility of providing her family protection, she was only one person.

You must always be careful, her grandfather told her.

She wondered if there would ever come a day when they would not have to.

. . .