I awake to the comfortable sound of machinery somewhere in the distance. Water laps against metal all around me. Metal bites into my wrists. Engulfed in red light, I do not panic. I kick behind me, and feel the sharp clang of an iron plate. I wiggle my wrists and chains clank merrily in the darkness. My feet are not on the ground, but three feet above. My shoulders ache and the whole of my midsection feels tender. I look down at myself, and see a large white bandage circling my stomach and back. I am still in my slip.
It takes a few minutes, but it finally sinks in. I am a prisoner. Looking around, tears coming to spite me, I realize that nobody else is captive in the brig. A small mercy.
To think, hours before this, I walked in the garden with Aino.
I close my eyes and bit into my wrist. After my mouth relaxes, I open them again, blurry with tears. I recover from my imprisonment, when I used to be queen of the fire nation, quickly. It is my airbender mentality, I guess. I try not to think of Iroh, Zuko, Aino—but the thought of Ozai…that makes my blood boil. The days when he was gentler, when he was more like Iroh, those are over. He is now a tyrant, nearly killing his own son—and scheduling his own wife for execution.
Violence of shock knocks the air from my lungs. I cannot stop the tears now. I know why there is nobody else in the brig.
The cell is the size of the servants quarters. Where the ship is going, I do not know. Red light spills in from a grille in the door three meters ahead of me. I can see two Fire Nation helmets through the window. From the noise, there are three total.
Scrambling for the chains above my head, I grasp one in each hand and close my eyes, bracing myself for the burning. My palms heat, silent fire beginning to lick the iron of my shackles. My eyes water because of the pain, the stench of burning flesh starting to nauseate me, but the metal is softening. I feel it give way and liquefy as I drop to the floor. I blow on both my hands, making sure the remaining chain does not clink against the wall.
My hands will not sustain permanent damage. That is certain. I wipe my newly blistered hands on my slip and walk towards the door. I stay out of sight, but from the angle where I am, I can see that the bars of my cage are wide enough for me to fit my hands through. Two guards stand side by side in front of it.
I whisper for them to forgive me. I plunge my hands out of the cell and grab both their helmets. Before they can react, I bang them together with a sickening clang. The third guard yells and opens the door, hands alight, but he cannot see me. I am directly above his head, wedged into a corner of the ceiling. My arms and legs are shaking, barely supporting my weight. He starts to walk out, but with a yelp, I pounce on him and bang his helmeted head onto the ground.
When I am sure he is unconscious, I stand, my hands shaking. Adrenaline pumps into my veins, the natural repellant for my fire beginning to pool in my palms. I shake them out and stride over the three unconscious people, filled with too much savage pleasure to feel any trace of guilt.
I run soundlessly along the corridor, past guards and sailors alike, amazed I am still able to lope in such a way. When I lived with my mother, I received an education in academics, combat, and, being the only girl in a long line, dance. I point my toes and pull up in my feet, making my walk silent as a ghost. Being the dancer in my group of friends, I was also able to sneak and slide my way into forbidden areas, the agility and endurance coming in handy. Dance was not a waste of time after all!
I remember teaching my son these tricks—climbing up walls, hiding in corners, in darkness, the passages which nobody knew—when he was twelve. I hope he has not forgotten. These movements relieved me of situations in which the average human being would surely perish.
Running up the stairs and down hallways, I notice that every room I peer into is increasingly personalized. Flags and drawings adorn the walls, some sailors sleep in their bunks. Others write letters to their wives, sweethearts, and families. They talk and laugh, complaining of the food and the new leadership. I slip past these rooms, silent as a mouse. Nobody notices the scantily clad, bald Air Nomad in the midst of the night.
Door after door, room after room confuses me to the point of madness until suddenly I freeze in my tracks. I walk backward and peek my head into the small room. It is a single, with a Fire Nation Flag on the floor. Something has burned it. When I see who lies in the bed, my heart stops.
Zuko's hand rests on the floor, his head facing me. I look around as I slip into his room, closing the door behind me. There is no light. The pores in my palm ignite as I bend next to his bed, stroking his forehead with my other hand. There is no hair to push back, only a small stalk resting on his pillow. In the wavering torchlight I can see beads of sweat form on his head and bare chest. I wipe them away. He tenses for a moment, but relaxes as soon as I shush him soothingly.
I try to hold back tears as I feel the bandage where his left eye should be. Thoughts of Ozai hack at my brain until I cannot take it anymore. My stomach tenses and relaxes, my throat making odd gagging noises. I am choking on the evil of the man who mutilated my baby. Closing my eyes, I wait until the urge to yell and spit fire dies. I bend closer to Zuko's face and rest my lips on his forehead. "I love you." I mumble into the hot skin. My mouth cannot control itself as tears stream down my face. I know what I must do.
I edge my way out of his room and close his door. Before I turn around, someone grabs my shoulders. I whip around, hands aflame, filled with quiet, strangling rage, and look into Iroh's face.
"Iroh!" I whisper startlingly. His eyes and mine fill with tears as I embrace him. He holds me out arms length.
"Akito." He uses my first name. That only makes me cry harder. His voice is shaking with happiness. "Ozai said he ordered your execution! But I knew it wasn't true!" he hugs me again, tears sticky in his sideburns. "Never scare me like that again!"
"Iroh…I am scheduled for execution." The look on his face makes me want to die. "I need to escape. Now."
"I should wake Zuko!" Iroh says calmly. I can feel the bursts of hot air that follow his pounding heartbeat. "He needs to say goodbye to his mother."
"Iroh, no." I touch his arm. He does not react. "It is better if he thinks I am dead. You as well as I know that Zuko cannot keep a secret. If he knows that his mother is not dead, he will not mourn me properly."
He nods. "Zuko tried to lie to me once. I know what you mean." Iroh rubs his temples. The air around us considerably warmer, he speaks again, quiet apprehension in his voice. "But this does not seem right, Akito. If we are caught, you will be executed."
"I am supposed to be executed any hour now." I kiss Iroh's cheek. "Do not tell my Zuko of my intended presence on this ship." I whisper in his ear. "Tell him I drowned. He need not know about his mother's execution."
Iroh nods. I hug him tight.