Acceptance of Fate
Warning: this chapter has bad language because Zuko is like that. Also, for future reference, the rating of this fic will probably have to go up to M, but I'll keep it where it's at until we get to that point.
2: Alone
He had recognized her as soon as he entered the tavern. Perhaps he shouldn't've; he really didn't know her well enough to recognize her the first time he'd seen her in four, maybe even five, years, but he did and he wasn't sorry. A familiar face, even one of a former enemy, was a welcomed sight these days.
So much about her had changed. Gone was the carefree girl of old, and in her stead had been left a tired, broken shell of an angel, lost in tragedy. He knew enough of what had happened after the final battle to know what the cloth wrappings around her wrists were there for. For once, a long time ago, there had been similar ones on his own.
Dark robes now hid her body like shadows, warping her into an aura of mystery. Her eyes were still the crystalline blue, but they were darker, more heartbroken. Underneath them was paint—war paint, if he were any judge—or perhaps that of mourning. Her hair no long followed her like the tail on a cat, but instead was left free, wild curls choosing their own destiny, unlike that of their master.
He noticed she did not smile; not once, not ever.
He really couldn't blame her.
Much had changed since he last saw her, for the both of them. He had long since abandoned his dream of returning home—when his sister was sent to kill him, he took that as a sign that he was no longer welcomed there, under any circumstances. And the Avatar was dead; it was difficult to hunt a dead man, and there was no word on whether he had been reborn or not. Many believed that the cycle was broken and that there would be no child born out of water. Maybe they were correct in this, but Zuko had stopped caring. He had to. If he continued to care, he would continue to hope, and so long as he did that he would never be able to move on.
Devoid of hope, of a dream, of a family, Zuko turned to the only life he was good at.
He became a rogue.
He doubted Uncle would've approved, but Uncle did not approve of a lot of things Zuko did, but that did not stop him. Besides, the old man was dead, just like everyone else Zuko cared about.
Damn it! He should've been faster, should've been more flexible, shouldn't've been so stubborn, shouldn't've been so angry.
Should have told the old man he loved him while he had the chance.
No no no, he needed to stop thinking about this: worrying about the past would do him no good; he needed to let go, needed to grow up. He just had to focus.
But on what? That was his problem nowadays, which was why he always kept himself busy, always kept himself focused. He worked more than he actually needed to in order to get by, but he needed the work, needed the distraction it gave him. Killing and robbing and threatening, while all bad things that his conscious bereted him over, was at least something. It kept him from thinking about the past, about his lost dreams, about his vanished throne.
About how so very alone he was, now.
So instead, he watched the girl from a safe distance, and drank his goddamn ale.
She looked about as well off as he was, taking another drink of her alcohol. For one as small as she was, she could hold her liquor well. There was not even a slight glaze over her eyes; she was still in control.
He was half-tempted to go to her, to smile and talk, but he wondered what she would say. Would she fight him, remembering old grudges? Or would she be like him, and just want to talk, for the simple need to hear a familiar voice once more?
He put what was left of his drink down on the counter and stood.
It would be worth the risk.
XXX
END
:blinks: Wow, this fic is popular. I wasn't expecting that. Thank you bunches! I can't promise how often I'll update, but I'll try, just for you guys. ;)
Jak