Blood Rights
Summary: "He became a victim to this thirst, this mania. He could have destroyed her. Several times during her imprisonment, he was seized with the desire to crush her neck between his palms. Or at least remove his armor and show her. He was the man, she was just a small girl – no further debate." Zuko/Katara. OneShot; Dark; Rated M.
Author's Note: Cleaning up my old computer from 2010, and I found this unpublished piece. I know, I know. I'm in my late 20s now and you are all asking "WHAT ABOUT YOUR OTHER PIECES?!" You're right. I've been horrible. It's been years. But I've been re-watching ATLA on Netflix recently and just felt invigorated. I do plan on finishing "Forfeits" and "Big City White Boys" before the end of 2022. I hope you'll join me for that, as you always have.
Very dark, season 1 Zuko (at the time, no other seasons were available yet!). I'll keep my original author's note below. I sound adorable. I was probably 17. Reviews are welcome:
This short piece came to me as a self-imposed challenge – an exercise in my limits as an aspiring writer that seized me during my time away from the United States this summer. Hungry for something bigger than AU fiction, and reminiscing on the glorious one-shot days several years ago, I sat down and produced this in the wake of a few hours. Make of it what you will – good or bad – but kindly review. And forgive the anti-patriarchal nuance that has infiltrated my tone these days. A girl can only read so much feminist literature without brandishing her own mark herself.
This fiction operates on the fact that, at 17 in the Avatar's world, Zuko is already a man (did you know that Alexander the Great conquered "the world" when he was only 17?).
Apologies for the darkness of this. Needed something to make me feel evil – guess this did the trick. Also, warning: it's pointless except for the darkness of it. You've been warned!
When they turned her in she was bruised, bloodied. Her right eye circled with blue, both lips cut right above a chipped incisor. A fractured cheek bone gave her face a drooping, swollen, flushed quality. What a pity, he thought at first. She had been beautiful. Organic. Now she looked unappetizing and thin – terribly thin and young, not at all supple as he had seen her with the Avatar.
He asked the guard, "How long have you kept her here?"
"A week," said the man who had been her keeper. Behind him stood a guard. Both were old enough to father her. "Since we contacted you."
"Your money is on the table."
"We can carry her to your ship"
"She'll walk."
"I doubt she can."
She stood up then and spit, a wad of copper-tinged saliva. Her blue eyes bright in the dark, and held fast on the man, she asserted, "I can walk fine," and stood at the door, waiting for Zuko to follow her. The guard tensed with an urge to smack her.
They haven't broken her, he thought. A week of beatings and possibly rapes. And she still says she's fine.
He was impressed but annoyed. He held her by the arm but she walked several paces ahead of him. His armor made his steps late and slow. She was dressed in rags – remnants of her blue kimono, now bloodied, torn, and soiled – but the way she walked with her chest to the heavens, you'd think she wore the robes of a scholar.
On the ship, Uncle refused to speak to him. So long as he was keeping her prisoner, he was going to sport a pout. Nothing could change his mind. A few days passed. On music nights with the crew, Uncle insisted they bring her up from the keep and have her play with them – maybe Sungi horn, since Zuko always refused. Uncle made these claims to another man on the ship, a middle-aged engineer named Zhang, within earshot of his nephew. Zuko wouldn't crack.
"She's a prisoner, not part of the ship. She's bait for the Avatar. How many times do I have to explain it?"
"Enough," said Uncle. "You've said it enough."
That night Zuko brought her food downstairs himself – usually Zhang's responsibility. Stale bread, water, some lard. Zhang spent a lot of time down here, thought Zuko. He wondered if he was touching her. He was suddenly enraged that Zhang was pleasuring himself with the Avatar bait Zuko had paid good money to acquire. When he opened the door of the keep and found her facing the opposite wall, her back to him, he relaxed a little. She would have been more welcoming, maybe, if she was waiting for the kind-hearted Zhang.
She seemed meditative. She was too tired to waterbend, he knew, because if she wanted, she could have easily capsized the ship.
"Turn around," he ordered.
She was unresponsive.
"Did you hear me, peasant dog? I said turn around."
She moved her face so that he could see the corner of her eye. Her blue iris flashed at him.
"All the way."
She shifted on her bottom to face him.
"Come eat," he ordered. He crossed his arms and the clinking of his armor filled the small, windowless room. "Come here and eat."
"I'm not hungry. Thank you."
"I didn't ask you if you were hungry." He picked up the bread and threw it at her. It hit her head. The soft thud and her flinching made him smile.
She opened her mouth to say something but decided against it. The blood from her lips crusted her mouth shut. At least since arriving here, he hadn't beaten her. Generous of him, he thought. But he had no idea what Zhang did.
"Why hasn't the Avatar come to rescue you?" His tone was low and clear. He expected an answer – some secrete truce she had established with the Avatar upon her capture. "Did you tell him not to come?"
She picked up the stale bread and put it back on the tray in front of his feet. The movement was deft and fluid – quickly she leaned, scooped the bread, leaned forward and dropped it silently on the tray. This annoyed him – acting as though this was her home and he was making a mess here.
"Answer me."
"I can't read the Avatar's mind."
"Did you make a truce?"
"No."
"Are you lying?"
"What a stupid thing to ask."
He stomped his foot on the ground. Again the weight of the iron in his heels sent a deep echo in her keep. "I'll kill you," he said. "If he doesn't come, I'll kill you."
She looked at his eyes. The blood on her mouth made her look savage and bereft. He knew without her speaking that she was not afraid.
They received word that her brother was killed almost a week after she'd been on the ship. Zhang was told to deliver this message to her. At the time, Zuko did not know what he was expecting, but it felt like a small victory for him. Some tool to break her spirit so that she would not put bread back on the tray. He had yet to visit her again. He had warned Zhang that if he so much as touched a hair on her head, he'd have him tossed overboard to the fish.
Zhang was married with two children living in the Fire Nation. As an engineer he'd previously hoped to work on flying machines, but he had been drafted by Ozai to accompany his son on banishment instead. He was a good man but he was still a man and Zuko, for reasons beyond him, despised him. Zhang was always in a good mood, always humming tunes in conjunction with Uncle. When Uncle was still speaking to Zuko – before he'd brought the prisoner – he'd say, "Don't waste your energy being angry and sad. Just look at Zhang."
Since her capture, Zhang never finished his plate at dinner or breakfast. He'd save his leftovers for the girl, who reminded him of his oldest daughter. He found himself behaving with compassion towards her despite the frequent impulse to force her into sex. He had lived away from his wife for three full years, his right hand and cheap paintings of nude women the only witnesses to his muzzled sexual appetite.
When Zuko told Zhang to deliver the news, Zhang was disturbed, but abided.
He brought down her food as he always did. Usually he placed it at the door, told her to tell him if she needed anything, and took her waste bucket to empty it. Then he'd empty and rinse the bucket in the adjoining wash room. Once he'd return – only a matter of minutes – the food would be finished, and she'd be back in her corner without so much as a hello.
But this time, he found her crying. Her lips were healing but her right eye was not – it was still as swollen and as blue as her first day.
"Something's happened, hasn't it?" she asked Zhang between sobs. "I can feel it."
Zhang sat on his haunches so that he was on the same level as her. "Yes," he said. "I'm sorry."
"Aang? Aang is dead?" She was taking sharp breaths. Her voice slurred as she wheezed. Until today, he had never heard her speak. The clarity and depth of her voice surprised him.
"No," he said. "Your. It's your." He paused. Taking a risk, he thought, being so gentle. He stood quickly and shut the door of the keep behind him so that Zuko would not reprimand him. He picked her up into his arms. He was stronger than she had imagined and this act shocked her. She tensed, expecting him to beat her or do what the other guards did, but instead he embraced her. Without him continuing, she knew it was her brother who had been killed – not Aang. She screamed. She screamed over and over into his armored shoulders. He held her there and rocked her.
Zuko heard her screams from the deck of the ship and felt pleased yet indignant.
In the keep, Zhang smoothed her hair under his giant palms. He went as far as to kiss her cheeks and mouth - small, familial pecks of grief and pity. He rubbed her back. "I'm so sorry," was all he could bring himself to say. "I'm so sorry that this has happened to you."
She couldn't ask who. She didn't ask when or why. But she screamed and sobbed into him. She bashed his shoulder with her fists, enraged at his nation for bringing death into her life. She continued to pound him, a drizzle of little punches. Her arms were thin. He held her regardless.
Even then, with the young girl wriggling against his body, Zhang was seized with the urge to press her against the wall and take her. He could imagine the salty skin of her neck and the ferrous taste of her lips, crusted with her blood. He could see her young breasts through her rags and he knew that her body was still undeveloped, her skin taught against the musculature, just brushed with new pubic hairs. Three years without the permissive, wet parts of a woman. Three years without a girl to push into and breasts to suck until he slept. The thought made him erect but she did not feel it through his armor, and he held her still, this orphaned prisoner now without a brother, left to rot in a jail cell as bait. He pitied her. He could not do it.
When she stopped beating him and let herself be held, he finally let her go and promised to bring tea later.
He apologized again.
She had wanted him to beat her, hopeful that he would be savage with his blows – hopeful that she would die like her brother and join him. Instead he had shown her benevolence. He had not raped her. He had permitted her to live and she despised him for it. She fell to her side and rocked herself, her knees drawn to her chest, her eyes shutting out the light of the hallway that his silhouette obstructed.
Since delivering the news of her dead brother, Zhang was hesitant to take food to the girl. Somehow he felt responsible for her brother's death, which did not exist in her mind until he'd brought it to her. Zuko began bringing her food instead. No secret leftovers, no jasmine tea. He'd drop the tray from arm's length so that it clattered and spilled. Then he'd stand there and watch her reorganize it without eating. She never ate in front of him.
Her brother had given her a wild quality. She was grieving but she became mad – she was no longer afraid of anything. Her eyes, blue and bright and insolent, watched whoever opened the door of her keep. She no longer faced the wall. She faced the door and waited.
Why he felt he needed to break her, he did not know. She was only bait after all. But several times during the nights she stayed with them, he would thrash in his bed with thoughts of her. Nothing sexual at first, but they all ended up that way. It always started as food. In his dreams he saw her open her split mouth and bite into stale bread. He watched her tip the tin cup to her lip and drink so that the clear water poured from the sides of her mouth, the cuts in her mouth.
But upon every visit, she refused to fulfill his wish.
And what more, she argued.
"You aren't important enough for the Avatar to come save you. I made a mistake bringing you here and wasting my time."
She would answer, without breaking eye contact, "The value of time during banishment? You aren't important enough for your father to keep you in the palace without the Avatar. He may never come. I hope and pray he doesn't."
When he taunted, "No brother to go back to."
She'd reply, "I'd rather have a good dead brother than an evil living sister," and spit.
He became a victim to this thirst, this mania. He could have destroyed her. Several times during her imprisonment, he was seized with the desire to collapse her trachea between his palms. Or at least remove his armor and show her. He was the man, she was just a small girl – no further debate. And when he gave an order, she was supposed to listen. She was not supposed to talk back. Finally he decided enough was enough.
Four nights after Zhang had told her of her brother, Zuko opened the door of the keep in a haste. He was already fuming. In his fist he held a piece of bread. She was sleeping at the far corner, but the clanking of his armor woke her and she lifted herself and rubbed her good eye. When she saw him charging at her she covered her face with her arms and quivered. He hoisted her up by her arm.
"Eat this," he ordered. "Eat it or I swear to the spirits I will stop sparing you."
"Don't spare me, then." Immediacy, as usual. She wasted no time refuting him.
He slapped her face and she doubled over but snapped back up as quickly as she had sassed him.
She stared at him, unblinking. He finally understood what had bothered him. He had known it all along in some ways but had never given it a name. She was not behaving as a prisoner. All of this was defiance on her part. She was supersaturated with defiance. Fine, thought Zuko. He would have to teach her.
"You're a prisoner. Understand?"
"And you're a banished prince," she spat at him. "Damn you. You think I care what you do to me? You think I give a fuck." She had distanced herself. In the corner of the keep she seethed with her words, her eyes bright and wet.
"I'll give you a fuck," he hissed. "I'll give you a fuck." She watched him remove his breast plate and leg plates. They crashed on the cool brown tiles. When he worked his drawstring she crossed her arms and rolled her eyes. He was furious; she did not even fight him. She would not take her rape seriously. When he fell on top of her she wiggled upwards towards her cot so that she was laying comfortably. He bit her breasts but she did not flinch. He bit her neck and her chin. He bit her clavicles and shoved his tongue into her split mouth. When he moved her kimono up her legs, he forced two of his fingers inside of her and felt resistance. This would hurt her, despite what the others did. She was not broken in, still young. As maliciously as he could, he found her opening with his erection and pushed into her. For all of her bravery, this crossed the line – she hated this. She hated it with the guards and she had hated it with her capturer. It hurt and she screamed. Sharp, shrill, and high, it made him hesitate. It made him ask himself what he was doing.
Her stubbornness had gotten her this far, Zuko thought. He screamed back at her. "I'm in charge." He chanted this as he fucked her. "I. Am. The Prince." When he was through he stood up and spit – the wad landed on her bare stomach. She was still watching him. She had watched him the whole time.
In the morning he visited her again. He did not bring food and he did not rinse her waste bucket. She was still asleep. He came without armor and she woke to find him already on top of her, spreading her legs apart. She watched him, bewildered at his hurry, but did not resist. She still screamed when he entered her but he did not scream back. He did not argue or insist a point; he merely grunted in rhythm and pushed as deep into her as he could. She felt his heavy pelvis crash into her, his testicles slap against her bottom. Feeling cheeky – feeling as though he had won – he curdled a smile. Then the same routine: finish, stand, spit. This time on her legs. When he visited that night he pushed into her backside until she bled and wept. Each day, he came to her twice. The first two days, he had stopped feeding her. Still, she watched him. She did not break her gaze even when he was spitting. Only fucking her from behind spared her stares from him.
Zhang brought her something to eat on the third day once he realized what was happening. He went to Uncle and told him – he even asked Uncle to counsel Zuko to stop – but Uncle was tenacious with his wishes. So long as the girl was on the ship, he was not speaking to his nephew. The cold shoulder wasn't as effective as he had hoped, but it was the best way he knew to teach Zuko.
Surprisingly, she did not ask Zhang for help. She did not ask him to defend her when he came and brought her food. She probably felt she could not trust him. And on one of Zuko's visits, despite her glaring at him and biting him when he came too close to her mouth, he felt her climax beneath him. It was brief – a shiver, a tight pulsating on his dick while he was deep inside. He looked at her face to see the evidence of this, to know that he had brought her here, but there was no proof of her orgasm. Her face was still, her lips slightly parted, her hair over her black eye. Something twitched in her neck and she swallowed.
This time, upon leaving her cellar, Zuko was met with Uncle, who had waited outside. He had heard her screaming during tea and couldn't ignore the wrongs of his nephew anymore.
"Five days like this, morning and night, and no food?"
"She's my prisoner." She had taught him to be immovable as she was. He looked straight at Uncle while he spoke. "I'm the prince. It's my blood right."
"To beat and rape her?"
"I'm not beating her."
"Ah. You're not. Then you're a saint."
"She's bait for the Avatar! I paid for her capture and I'll do as I damn well please! Or would you rather have Zhang down here?"
His uncle looked at him with pity. He shook his head and held his beard. He managed, "Look at you," and turned to the stairs.
When the shame would wash over him, it happened in droves. It was ceaseless. After Iroh confronted him, he could not see her face again. He would only look at himself objectively – older than she was, larger and stronger. Refusing her food. Not cleaning up after her. And continually raping her. What did he expect out of it, he wondered. What did he expect. What did he even want.
In the morning Zhang emerged from the lower deck with news: she had escaped. How she had done it, he was unsure, but when Zuko checked his spare pants for the keys, they were missing. It didn't necessarily mean she had taken them (Zuko suspected his uncle had freed her), but he was relieved. He was giddy. He put on a good face for the crew and brushed it off like a sour loss.
They had docked two days prior and Zuko suspected she was in the port or city. At night, he went to walk around and clear his mind. To search for her. He wasn't sure why he left the ship – partly to free himself from the accusing glances of Zhang, partly to ensure she wasn't near his ship attempting to destroy it.
Then he saw him, a flash of gold and orange. He shot a string of fire from his fists without focusing. The Avatar was here. The Avatar was at the port. Was it luck or fate – or was it planned? Had he corresponded with the girl?
"Up here!" the boy called from a rooftop. "Up here, come shoot up here."
"I've got you!" He held his stance and burst with flames again. The Avatar shot into the night air and dropped again, throwing blasts of air from his fingertips. He was enthralled. Wild. His chest burst with excitement and success. He was going to reclaim his honor. He was going to triumph today – he knew it.
But did he? As he shot the Avatar with fire – and dodged the Avatar's air born attacks – he suddenly felt loss. He was afraid. But it wasn't the familiar fear. It wasn't the fear of losing the Avatar and falling into the chase again. He had grown accustomed to that rhythm, that metronome of his banished life. He was afraid of a second, more foreboding thing. He had never felt this fear before.
He didn't have time to analyze it, because within a matter of moments after the initial fight began, he felt the back of his neck snapping, as if being whipped. A sharp pain dulled his shoulders. He doubled over as the whip sliced down again. He felt his feet go out first. Like a kerosene lamp snapping off, they would not respond to his requests to stand. He looked about him but he couldn't find her. This was her doing. The Avatar suddenly disappeared in the back ally of the rooftop he was fighting from – a well placed distraction. He heard a pair of steps approach him and prepared to fight, but could not lift his arms. Helpless and sprawled on his back, he could only wait for his uncle to come find him, or for the girl to get revenge.
She stood over him. She was wearing the Avatar's clothing, but on her body, the top and bottom were too small. The Avatar stood beside her. He could tell by the pained look on his face that he knew what Zuko had done, but that it was against his morals to destroy him. She had done enough; the only thing he could feel was the cool air against his face and the warm blood pooling behind his neck.
"I found your honor," the Avatar chastised. "Thank you for bringing her to me."
Zuko heard her gurgle and spit; it splattered between his eyes. It would be another twelve hours before Zhang found him, teary-eyed and reeking, only thirty meters from his ship.