ZW 2016 Day 4: Lilac

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Departures

Gran Gran slips away a few hours after Katara stops forcing the blood through her heart.

Gran Gran's thick parka has always been a delicate shade of lilac, rather than the usual dusty blue at the south pole. Katara had long felt it made Gran special somehow, like the dye had settled into the fibers and never faded, like her grandmother had settled into her life and couldn't ever slip away.

Wrapped in the coat now, Gran Gran looks small, too thin, with a delicate, paper-skinned claw peeking out of one cuff to hold Katara's hand, grip loose and trembling. "Katara, stop."

"No. I'm not stopping until you're healed."

"It's my time now."

"No!" Tears build in her eyes. "It's not time. I'm not ready."

Gran Gran coughs up a laugh, sharp and grating in her throat. "I am a hundred and two years old, child. It's time. Time for you to let me go."

"Well I'm not ready. You have to get better."

Her grandmother traces the unwrinkled knuckles with her thumb. "You have too much life to live to be here, keeping my old heart going. Go home. See your husband. Have your baby. We'll see each other again someday."

A sob catches in Katara's throat as she grips her grandmother's blood tighter.

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It takes a few days to let go, and a few months to really, truly let go, but in the end, four months after her will has disentangled itself from Gran's blood and the old woman's body has floated out to sea, she finally feels the last of the tugs in her veins.

"You okay?" Zuko asks, hand on her shoulder as the hot breeze brushes through her hair.

"No, I'm not okay. I never should have left."

"Why?" He seems genuinely baffled. "You were right to be with her at the end. I would be there for Uncle."

"I mean the South Pole. I missed the last years I had with her." The bitterness in her voice is poison.

Zuko tries very hard not to take that personally. It isn't working, if only because he's overly used to taking the blame from her. "I'm sorry, Katara."

"Don't blame yourself," she mutters, turning away from him.

"It's my fault. I'm sorry."

"I made my choice. I got myself trapped here."

His eyes flash. This isn't the cycle he's used to, and it burns. "I asked you time after time after time whether this was what you really wanted and you-"

"I was eighteen! How was I supposed to know what I wanted?!"

"You were the one who wanted to get married!"

"Well who else would have me, after-" Her eyes go wide, and she claps both hands over her mouth.

Zuko reels back, nearly falling over the edge of the balcony. "So that's why, then. I'm so sorry, Katara, for ruining you. I didn't realize you were so interested in ancient, outdated peasant traditions." The breeze in her hair this time is the force of him leaving her.

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The next time she sees the Fire Lord is at the birth of their child, three weeks later, when he takes the baby from her arms and presses a dry kiss to her forehead. "He's beautiful."

It's true. The baby has a thick head of coarse, black hair, and his eyes are a dusky lilac, the color of Gran Gran's coat. He blinks up at his father, wide-eyed, quiet. "Zuko, I'm sorry." Her voice, strained with exhaustion, catches the words and pinches them. Gran Gran would want her to apologize; she'd look at Katara with those pale blue eyes and thin mouth and cross her arms. "I'm sorry."

Zuko shoots her a dubious glance as he rocks their son. "We were both upset. We said things we probably shouldn't have."

"And I'm sorry."

"Me too," he says, and he returns the baby to her and leaves the way he came.

"Zuko!" She reaches for him as he goes, but then he's gone and she is left.

He returns to her dutifully when he has breaks between meetings and audiences, just long enough to hold the baby a while and humor her attempts at conversation. How is your day, fine, when does the naming ceremony happen, five days, do you think being so ugh with your wife is honorable, deep breaths and smoke. Et cetera.

Her recovery is well under way when she marches into his study on a particularly hot and stifling afternoon. "What is your problem? I'm sorry for what I said, and I'm sorry I avoided you after. I was in mourning. My grandmother died. Can you just forgive me so we can move on?"

A faint odor of smoke tinges the air. "If you've taught me anything, it's that forgiveness has to be earned."

Her jaw drops. "Okay, Zuko, how shall I earn your forgiveness today? Would you like me to crawl around on the floor and scrub the tiles? Would you like me to take over for the servants and dress you in the morning? Or should I go back to the South Pole for another few months?"

When he looks at her, his eyes glimmer, and his voice comes out an octave higher than usual. "Oh, I know. Why don't you bring my mother back?"

She steps back as if slapped. "So you're just going to throw things back in my face now? Fine! I'm leaving. I'm going home. As soon as the baby is old enough, I'm going home and I'm not coming back."

Zuko shoots up from his desk so quickly that he nearly topples it. "Don't you dare. You can't take him away from me."

"You and I both know that children need their mothers."

The shimmering in his eyes turns flinty. "I am sorry, Katara. I'm sorry for ever touching you, for trapping you here, for forcing you to miss the last of your time with your grandmother. Everything that's wrong is my fault, just like everything always is."

"Are you sorry for ignoring me?"

"I haven't been ignoring you! I've come to see you and the baby three or four times a day, every day."

"You barely talk to me."

He snarls. "Well maybe I just needed some space after my wife told me she regretted marrying me."

Katara yanks the water from a plant nearby and douses him with it. "I didn't say that!"

"You might as well have." He sits back down heavily, letting the water drip into his eyes. "You said you were sorry and I forgave you. I've been trying to see you, and talk to you, and you know what? It might be like it was someday. But sometimes forgiveness doesn't mean the things you said don't hurt anymore. So go ahead. Leave. I don't blame you."

Subdued, she steps out of the room and closes the door with a soft click, and makes her way back to the nursery. The baby's lilac eyes are wide and shining when she leans over to pick him up, bright and innocent in the wake of everything.

"I'll fix it," she whispers. "We'll fix it."

She hopes it's not the first time she lies to him.

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A/N: Ever do one of those excavation projects with little kids where you have to dig rocks out of concrete-ish slabs with a plastic chisel? That's what writing this felt like. I truly hope the next chapter comes easier. And faster.