III

A woman's voice, full of snake-like venom, slithered through the darkness to the ears of him who was confined with her; the smell of rotted flesh and decaying life filtered through the atmosphere to his nostrils, so strong that he had to hold a handkerchief to his nose to keep from gagging on pure revulsion. Her plans fell from what was left of her lips in complicated phrases, slurred and raspy from her voice's lack of use. Death befell her entire being, and her companion couldn't see how she had preserved another's body as meticulously as she described without tending to herself first. He knew that if he was in her predicament, the last thought he would have would be rebellion, but rather his own life, and preserving the gift received from those of the Beyond.

He saw her eyes clearly, glowing stark against the pure black of their meeting place. He wondered why her eyes had not been the first thing to go, the eyes being as sensitive as they were. Eventually his thoughts traveled much further from the conversation at hand and he felt a wretched, scaly hand grasp his chin.

"Do you listen, Living One?" He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. Her voice grated on his ears so, and for a fleeting moment, he wished he had not made such a deal with this vile creature.

But he had, and his life was on the line because of it.

Along with so many others'.

So he nodded, and began to listen–albeit halfheartedly–to what this thing was telling him.

He would have to betray his allies, she said; he would have to murder one of his own; he would have to deny his place in the Four Nations. To defy her was suicide, she said. In reality, doing either was suicide, for if she didn't kill him for betraying her, then one of his own would for betraying them.

She gave him his instructions for the night, and handed him a vial filled with a deep crimson liquid. At first, he thought it was blood–he wouldn't put it past her to assign him such a task that required the use of someone's blood–but then he found that it wasn't blood, but more of a drought, or poison maybe.

"What is this?"

She sneered, and he supposed that it was meant to be a broken, jagged, sadistic grin. He shivered.

"You'll find out soon enough, Living One. Now go, before you're missed."

He left without question, taking a deep breath of fresh air once he was away from her presence.

Katara smiled, watching Aang dancing with a young Earth Nation girl. He seemed to have grown to be the flirter in the time that she'd been gone, and quite frankly, she thought it was a good thing, even if he swore up and down that he couldn't love any one person above another and whatnot. She still thought that a little affection couldn't hurt him. It had never hurt anybody else. Not Sokka, not her . . .

Not Zuko . . .

She sighed, looking over at the Fire Lord. It seemed so strange to think of him as Lord, but that's what he was, and none could deny it.

Nor could she deny that he was quite . . . dashing in his regal armor . . . She shook her head, clearing it of such thoughts to remain alert. She'd heard rumor in the field that something was to happen here tonight. That's why she'd come. Otherwise, she'd have stayed right where she was–where she was needed. As much as she'd wanted to see her friends in three years and as much as she'd wanted to extend the short visits that they may have had and as much as she'd wanted to see Zuko, she couldn't. She'd been waiting for an excuse such as this just to see them, because her duties as a member of the Nations' Council just weren't as important as her duties as a spy for them.

Duties that Zuko had yet to discover.

She hated lying to him, and she hated asking the other members make up such lavish stories for her, but she just couldn't bring herself to tell him. She had fought for so long to keep it a secret from him, and to tell him now would destroy him. She couldn't tell him that she had stayed away for his own safety, to draw assassins away and lure spies into traps. She couldn't tell him how many near-death experiences she's had the last month, much less the last three years.

She couldn't tell him how she'd missed him and thought of him and ached for him every time she saw her short life flash through before her. She couldn't tell him that she'd suffered wounds for him, been stabbed and whipped for information about him . . .

That she had a permanent mark to prove such suffering.

Because he would pull her away from that, tell her that she couldn't. He would keep her locked up in her rooms and pamper her until she went mad. He wouldn't understand. He could never understand.

Because though he valued her life, she knew that he no longer loved her as she still loved him. Such a thing was obvious from the gossip that had been flying about the Four Nations for the past year and a half.

So she held back when he touched her, listened when he spoke, and looked when he was turned away.

Because she might not ever get the chance–or the confidence–to tell him.

She watched as all the guests around the room flittered and floated about the dance floor, and listened as the chatter wafted to her ears. She smiled as a servant passed, stopping once to offer drinks to the Fire Lord, Jun, and her. Each took one of the three glasses on the platter, the servant bowed and then moved away.

Katara looked about her, then lifted the glass to eye level, staring into the burgundy wine. She swirled the liquid about and noticed a smoky appearance in the color–hers wasn't as transparent as Zuko's. She nodded to herself in approval. She'd chosen the right glass.

She waited to drink anything until Jun had left, and when she had, she pulled Zuko out on a nearby balcony. She turned to face him.

His expression was furrowed into one of confusion. She smiled, putting a hand on his shoulder.

"Katara, is something wrong?" She sighed, her smile faltering, her gaze averting from those golden eyes to rest on his silky, ebony hair.

"Zuko . . . No, nothing is wrong, I'm fine." She sipped her wine deeply. She exhaled sharply as her vision blurred. "Just . . . I–"

Zuko put a hand on her waist. "Katara . . . ?"

She looked into his eyes. "I bestow upon you the gift I was given."

He made to question her as she downed the glass. "Katara, what are you–"

Everyone in the ballroom started as two glasses shattered on the balcony and the Fire Lord called for help.

Author's Note: Okay, okay, I know this took AGES for me to get out, and I'm sorry. I've been super busy lately (excuses excuses) and this is a short chapter because I wanted to get it updated. I hope you like it, and if you don't, let me know. I'll work on it.

Mucho thanks to Kherezae who finally decided to review (even if it was only once for both stories put together) and gave me the encouragement I needed to finally update.

And thanks to Elenea Galad (did I spell that right?) for your guilt trip. You made me get off my butt and write.

Peace Out, God Bless You , and MERRY CHRISTMAS!

I WILL say it here, whether I CAN or NOT!

Peace,

Luci