"Where is the Avatar?"
The waterbender glares at him across the table. She wants to chew on her lip, he can see it in the way it begins to press against her teeth, the tips indenting through the dark skin before she reaches the split, winces, and stops. Whatever the Warden of the Earthbender rig allowed his men to do to her, Zuko mentally adds it to his list of charges against the man.
Instead of answering him, she gently prods the wound with her tongue. His eyes flick between the motion and her stubborn, blue eyes. He should have guessed as much. Good luck moving the tides to a ship's whim. Good luck getting this waterbender to talk.
She hasn't been allowed to leave the table since he brought her onto his ship. The chain connecting the metal caps over her hands thread through an iron ring. He had the manacles tailor made for the Avatar. Nothing can bend metal, not even the human tie to the spirit realm, power and destruction incarnate.
The cell, stripped of all ornament, decoration, and, most importantly, water, lies deep in the bowels of the ship. Four tons of metal stand between her and the ocean.
Zuko's only just made his presence known, announcing it with the question as he strode in and parked himself directly in front of her. She sneered as he joined her, having no choice but to share the space with her hands shackled to the table.
She sneers now, the hatred ugly even on her exotically charming face. "Where is the Avatar?" he repeats.
She shrugs boyishly. "How would I know? He has a flying bison, and I haven't been let out of this box for hours."
"Days," Zuko corrects, and takes pleasure in the way her face falls. A day and a half, technically, but the more alienated she feels from her friends the better.
"Days," she practically spits the words. "Then I'll clearly be of no help. Good luck, you can drop me off at the next port."
"Drop you off for him to find?" Zuko raises his lone eyebrow at her. "Why add an extra step? If I hold on to you long enough, won't he eventually find his way to me?" Zuko leans back in his seat. "Might be nice for a change. I can save my energy."
"Won't be enough to beat Aang," the waterbender snarls. "Rest all you want. The Avatar won't be beaten by the Fire Nation, and he definitely won't fall for your slimy, dishonourable tricks."
Zuko stands, swift and sharp strides taking him to the door. Before he's finished slamming it behind him, his uncle's voice is admonishing him. "Prince Zuko, it is rude to speak to a woman so inappropriately."
"Some woman," he mutters, stalking away down the corridor.
Eleven Months Previously:
The Avatar Returns
"You will not cross the sea by staring at the water, Prince Zuko."
"That's why we have a ship." Zuko's in no mood to listen to his uncle quote Sunblood to him.
The old man respected his colleague when they fought at the walls in Ba Sing Se, and still respects him long after his sudden departure. He always said the legendary Sunblood was a great man, it was why he was never at peace. Zuko knows that weight by proxy, years watching his grandfather, then father, rule a nation, watching them bend like the willow a little more each day. Barely twenty, Zuko wonders when his own spine will creek after he retakes his place in the courts.
His uncle is a good man. Good men don't have to understand why great men sacrifice their peace so the good can remain so.
The endless blue water stretches before them, melds with the horizon. Ice borders their slow passage north, towering corridors disappearing into the sky on both sides. The Southern Watertribe sets at their backs with the sun. Agni's light, how he wishes the poles would succumb and melt away. A month and a half here, and he can thoroughly say he hates the cold. Or, more than ever, he misses his home.
He misses the precise heat of the Fire Nation capital, how the welcoming breeze atop the Caldera can't find its way between the bustle and bodies of the market proper. He misses watching fire lilies bloom with the sunrise. His throat burns with the memory of his mother and he drinking aged red spirits in her personal garden, stout tumbler for her while he was only permitted a finger or two.
He misses the turtleducks.
The purple frost-iris rests in his palm, a disappointing facsimile to the vibrant colours of his home. He'll smile when it dies, signalling warmer weather on their horizon.
The men assigned to his command will twirl and jump with the setting sun tonight, in the boastful flips and cartwheels of the people they're returning to. A people of raw strength, kinetic heat, and powerful movement.
Unlike his uncle with his treasured tsungi horn, Zuko will take no part in the foolery. He hasn't danced since his mother disappeared.
Instead, he'll be consumed by the disdain the watertribe peasants so readily greeted them with. He knew they would not be welcome, but the utter loathing surprised him. Fire Lord Sozin, his great-great grandfather, had a dream of sharing their Nation's wealth with the rest of the world. Ozai has not yet completed it, nor reached this deeply into the poles. The fact there was a tribe at all to welcome them was a shock.
In his other hand he grips the airbenders staff. A hundred years old, yet when he tested it across his knee, the wood was supple as the day it was made, flexible like the ashroot Azula would swat him with as they chased each other through the palace. They'd have duels over who got to swing the switch by placing it on the ground between them and see who could charr the wood first, fighting to disrupt the others fire while shooting their own. Azula always won even when, as big brother honour decrees, he stopped letting her.
He's on his way back now. Will she be happy to see him? Will father? Destiny would always bring him home. It was his choice to come wrapped in victory. Surely, finally, they'd smile at the sight of him.
Uncle opens his mouth. Bored, getting awfully close to irritated, Zuko spins precisely and strides to the bound boy surrounded by guards. So extreme on such a small child, but it's been seven years. Zuko won't waste another second on soft-hearted flights of sympathy. Uncle's footsteps clink between the clonks of the staff on the deck, until Zuko stands it before the Avatar.
Zuko appreciates the wood again. "This will make an excellent gift for my father." A round impassive face watches him. The blue arrow tip brushes the spot between grey eyes. Zuko isn't sure which to look at, both so unknown to him. "I suppose you wouldn't know much of fathers, being raised by monks."
He blinks slow, imploring Zuko. "What's your father like?"
It's a spark of a question, simple and innocent on its own. But his innate curiosity, infuriating honest grey eyes, years away from home, and the damnable cold, combine and settle on the dry, frail kindling of Zuko's temper.
"Take the Avatar to the prison hold!" he snaps. The boy is led away, but not before he looks back over his shoulder, as if waiting on Zuko for the answer. "And take this staff to my quarters."
Without the staff, his uncle walks through the bowels of the ship at his side. "That was rather rude of you, Prince Zuko. If you are setting course for home, you will need to brush up on your decorum. Especially if the demands are as unassuming as that young boy's question."
"A question I'm under no obligation to answer." His uncle is right, but Zuko is tired, and he knows he won't sleep well for the last leg of his destiny. Excited? Scared? He won't waste his energy figuring it out.
"I see." Iroh ponders, hands folded together beneath his robe's long sleeves. The ship metal acts as a good insulator for the heat running through the pipes, and he's shed the many ridiculous cloaks he wore while placating the tribespeople's children. "It appears I will have to take you back to the basics in all your training. I apologise, my manners at court were never smiled upon."
"Neither was I. What does it matter?"
"It matters because we have the Avatar in our custody. Do you expect me to believe you haven't thought so far ahead as to consider what happens when we return home?"
"Seven years is a long time, Uncle."
His uncle grunts at the not-answer. "When you're a wolfox, play the doehare. When you're a doehare, play the wolfox."
Zuko rolls his eyes. "Sunblood never met a wolfox like my father."
"Technically, he did."
"And he deserted his nation and comrades in the middle of a war. I am returning with this war's greatest criminal. How's that for playing the wolfox?" They've reached Iroh's quarters, thank the warmth which lights the worlds.
Zuko turns to look down at his uncle, the only person with whom his outbursts sit poorly in his soul hours later. He hasn't liked himself since he saw the fear in those peasants' eyes. Yelling at his uncle will sour him indefinitely. "I know how to face my father."
"Whether he can face you is the question." Iroh's steely eyes soften for his nephew. "It's something I hope he considers, as much as I know you do."
They both know Ozai hasn't thought about his son in years. Once Zuko's messengers reach the Fire Nation, the only thing that will change is Azula's bets with Ty Lee and Mai on whether or not he screws up.
He forces the thought away before it can fester. "Get some rest, Uncle. You rose with the sun today."
"You never set."
His uncles iron door closes with a soft click when he turns back.
Captured
The next time he approaches the cell door, hours later, Iroh stands between him and his captive. He moves to go around his uncle, but his way is barred by the stern expression and teapot pressed into his stomach.
"She's been in there almost two full days, Prince Zuko."
"And she'll stay in there until I find out where the Avatar is."
Iroh rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "She doesn't know."
"She says she doesn't know." Zuko fights off the impulse to make the same eyeroll. "Honestly, uncle, how did you interrogate your prisoners?"
Iroh proffers the teapot. "By starting a dialogue, not through parched throats."
Zuko practically guffaws in his uncle's face. "I am not bringing a waterbender tea."
"You have the manacles on her, what damage could she do? Meanwhile you deprive that poor young woman tea because you fear what she could do with it?"
It almost works. Zuko's about to swipe the pot from his uncle's hands. He calms himself, scooches around, and enters the cell. The waterbender sits slumped in her chair, shackled hands limp on the table, chin tipped down to her chest as she snoozes lightly. He knows the neck crick she'll have when she wakes, remembers the many nights he fell asleep at his desk studying the Fire Lords of the past in desperate bids to please his father with knowledge rather than failed Firebending techniques. He had his mother to ease him gently to bed.
It's his ship, his cell, his chair and table. Yet, he hovers, feeling like he's intruding on something as private as a few snatched moments of sleep.
"Please, keep watching me. It's not creepy at all." He starts. Beneath a heavy curtain of dark hair, sharp blue eyes and a slashing half-smile mock him.
"I'll do as I like on my ship."
"So, you like watching people sleep, or is the honour all mine?" Her blinks land heavy. She had been asleep then.
Focus on her exhaustion. Exploit it. She'll get sloppy. He knows from many sleepless nights how awful the burden of the everyday on heavy eyes. So, he stomps as he approaches the table, scrapes the chair legs along the floor. She winces, fails to hide it, settles for chasing it with a glare as he flops into the seat across from her. When he addresses her, he makes sure his voice is twice the size of her.
"Your life, such as one belonging to a watertribe peasant is, depends on what you say." He looks at the bruises under her eyes, traces the lines the bags make. "Do you understand?"
She slumps back in the seat, ostensibly belligerent. Her heavy fringe, dishevelled and falling from her braids, flops across her right eye. Under the table, he twirls his fingers until the sconces on the walls burn bright enough to penetrate the thick curtain, robbing her from the reprieve of what must be a stinging headache.
"The truth will be your only refuge. If I discern you are lying or being less than forthcoming…" He riots the sconces until she's straining under the pressure of suppressing the obvious pain. "You can end this."
"You need to ask a question," she bites out.
Still a little too confrontational for his liking. Imperceptible to her, he deepens his breathing. Wrapped in her watertribe furs, she'll feel the temperature of the room heightening. He waits until he sees the sweat bead at her temples, under her eyes. "How long did the Warden hold you before I came to the rig?"
"I don't know when you got to the rig."
He feels his eye twitch. "How long were you in the cell for?"
"You said I've been here a day and a half?" she answers, fake innocence oozing out of her when he glowers. "Oh, you meant the cell on the rig? Sorry, you'll have to be more specific with your questions."
"How long were you on that rig for?" he snaps but backtracks when he sees the wicked gleam in her eye. "No, not from your arrest in the village. But yes, from your arrest-" He breaks off, grunting in frustration, wishing he could slam his head on the table but for showing her she was succeeding in getting to him. "How long have you been separated from the Avatar?"
Her ocean eyes narrow. "How long have I been your prisoner?"
"That wasn't the question."
"It's mine."
"That's not how this works, peasant." He riots the heat in the room some more, enough even he can feel it, so covered in metal that he is.
"Isn't it? Sorry, I guess interrogations are too complicated a concept for us southern coldies." She sneers when his eyebrows go up. "Yeah, Sokka and I heard that little term of endearment during our travels."
"Not from me." Iroh despises the racism Zhao's generation of soldiers gleefully fling around their ports and colonies, hated even more how they laughed over the 'Muddy earthbenders making it so easy.'
She opens her mouth, but before she can call him a liar, she stops. Studies him. He hates it, her complete focus on his face. His arm tenses with the impulse to cover his scar. "Why did you tell me not to bend?"
"What?" Zuko snaps back into focus.
"On Kyoshi island." It's all she needs to say. He remembers it clearly as if it were yesterday and not the two and a half months it's been since he's seen her. "You warned me-"
"I know." He can't let her see she's thrown him. But he never expected, wanted, this to happen. Not even to act on the reciprocity she'd owe him to further his destiny.
Her frown is pert and discerning. Curse her for having such a quick face. Quick to frown, to laugh, to judge. Where does a watertribe peasant get the nerve?
He doubles down on his efforts in an attempt to refocus them. "Where is the Avatar?"
"Why did you warn me?"
"Where is the Avatar?"
"Why shouldn't I bend?"
"I told you what would happen if you did not cooperate," Zuko warns.
"Prince Zuko," a voice scolds behind him. He hadn't even heard his uncle enter the room. "Give the poor girl a moment. She's clearly been through an ordeal." He holds up his teapot. "Would you like some tea, young lady?"
The waterbender nods, a little unsure. But she'd licked her lips the moment she heard the water slosh in the pot.
His uncle walks over and makes himself comfortable at the table. "My name is Iroh. I was once a general for my father's army." He winces self-deprecatingly. "Though I imagine that isn't something you'd find interesting. Perhaps-"
"Does this have willow bark in it, uncle?" Zuko cuts off before his uncle can dig himself a deeper hole. They're firebenders, she won't find anything they have to say interesting. Except she's looking at him curiously, as is his uncle. "For her head, and her lip, and I'm guessing neck."
"Ah." Iroh stands and heads to the door.
A moment later he's carrying two extra cups and a sachet of deep purple ground up powder. He pours it into the kettle then holds the belly between his palms. Steam soon begins to hiss from the spigot.
"We're all people in the end. Good to remember that. Even my nephew can think of things other than his chase."
She locks back up, eyes narrowing as she watches the hot tea be dispensed between the three cups. "I'm not drinking that."
Zuko roles his eyes, picks up his cup and takes a sip. When her scowl doesn't lift, he drinks from the other two as well.
"Please, miss. End an old man's worries by ending your own suffering," Iroh pleads. "The willow bark will help."
"Will it help with these?" She jangles her shackled hands.
"They don't come off," Zuko growls.
"Then I can't drink my tea."
"Pity for you." Zuko takes an indulgent sip.
Iroh stands from his seat, picks up the third, steaming cup, and leans towards the waterbender. She's wary, but the sweltering heat, dehydration, and her headache win out, and she leans forwards to sip the hot tea gently.
Once again, Zuko feels like he's intruding on something private. A gentleness he can't replicate. He has no problem leaving, though. The trouble with having a quick face is how easily it can give the owner away. In that sliver of his uncle interrupting his menace, she softened. Maybe she thought she'd gained an advantage. Maybe her pity weakened her resolve to be hostile. Either way, he seizes the advantage by leaving her to his talkative uncle.
Candles burn and dim in time with his breaths. He doesn't stop the meditation as his uncle enters, finishing his last eight seconds of exhale before inclining his head.
"She told me her name."
He makes Zuko ask. "What is it?"
"Katara. Her brother is-"
"Sokka, I knew that. She let that slip when I met her."
"Did you know the Avatar's name is Aang?"
Zuko frowns. "I'd rather not. He's the Avatar. The target." A target which happens to be a small boy. "What else did you get out of her?"
His uncle lifts an eyebrow. "It was one conversation, nephew. These methods take time. But you made a good step, offering the willow bark."
He'll make Zuko ask, but he won't prompt him either. Zuko holds out for as long as he can, but finally can't help himself from gritting out, "Did it help?"
He can hear the smile in his uncle's voice. "You showed her some compassion. She'll remember."
Zuko knows. She remembers too much for her own good. But his uncle shows no sign of being subject to her specific line of questioning. Hopefully, she'll be too off balance now to remember something so trivial as his concerns for her waterbending. It irks Zuko how he somehow wants her more on her guard, if it means he can avoid answering her dreaded question.
"Did she tell you where to find the Avatar?"
Iroh barks a laugh. "Were you not listening, Nephew?" Unlike his father, the chiding tone is not laced with disgust. "I've shared one conversation with her, and all I've learned is she is a shrewd, capable young woman. You haven't even done that." He holds up a hand when Zuko opens his mouth to object. "You'll get nowhere as you are now. She obviously won't be broken by tricks of intimidation, and any physical methods will only strengthen her resolve."
Both Zuko and his uncle know they'd never resort to such methods. For once he's glad they're adrift, far from the traditions of home.
"You've started off rocky. Your training under Zhao is to blame for that, I should have done better to screen your tutors, but I was away at war. You will get nowhere treating her as you would a captive back home. Fire can be made, yes, placed where it should burn, the flames controlled to an extent."
"I put her in a cell. I've set the fire."
His uncle's belly shakes with the force of his laughter. "You may have that girl in a cell, but she's as far from fire as you'll ever find. Flames without air will never light, and the sparks can still jump back to bite the hand. She is of the watertribe, Prince Zuko. Don't be a fool and think you can move to ocean by force. Getting her to open up on her own is the slower method, but the only way forwards. Time is the only way this interrogation will succeed. Time, and whatever we can learn to get her talking."
Zuko grits his teeth. Seven years of searching and he's being stalled two steps from the end by a stubborn waterbender. For a girl who never shuts up, he can't get her to tell him what he wants to know.
Except… when he told her everything she wanted to know.
Eleven Months Previously:
The Avatar Returns
He's meditating when the alarms go off. Bursting up from his shrine, armoured legs propel him to the door. Wrenching it open, the bells and shouts of his crew flood his quarters.
"The Avatar has escaped! Close off the lower bulk heads!"
Zuko pauses, fingers wrapped around his quarter's door. The Avatar's still inside if they're shutting down the bulkheads and sealing off escape. He looks to where the boys staff leans against his wall and knows where he'll be going if not outside.
So, he leaves the door open and waits. Sure enough, the light pitter patter of an airbenders steps rushes down the corridor. Zuko fights the urge to spring out and meet him, but if his plan succeeds, the boy is his.
"My staff!" The Avatar rushes past his hiding spot.
Zuko slams the door, locking the mechanism into place. "Looks like I underestimated you."
He fires before the Avatar can answer. Flames bursts from his fists in quick succession. He chases the Avatar around the room, shot after shot. His silks on the wall catch. His shrine shatters at the dragons' mouth. Still he fires, roaring. This child cannot dodge him. This child cannot escape him. This child will not beat him!
He pins him in the corner, draws back his fist. The Avatar executes a flawless aerial spin, catching Zuko off guard. He pushes off his back with his foot and lands behind him, but no matter how much Zuko pivots and spins, he can't get the lithe boy in front of him. The air scooter shreds his temper to the bone. As the Avatar whips behind his back he lashes out with his foot. A screaming arc of fire destroys the ball beneath the Avatar, throwing the child into one of the last tapestry's left whole.
Zuko isn't sure if he's reaching for the boy or one of the last pieces of home. The Avatar disappears behind it, wriggling up the wall like a spider-monkey. He emerges from the top, grabs the tapestry off its hook and spins off the wall. Before Zuko can blink he's cocooned in silk, arms pinned to his sides, and he's watching the Avatar grab his staff.
The cloth disintegrates with the barest of flames. The boy points his staff, but a flimsy piece of wood won't stop Zuko from repaying the boy for the destroyed art of his home. He cocks his arms back. The boy swings his staff as Zuko rushes in. Without moving from his spot, the Avatar takes Zuko off his feet. He can't tell where the blow came from, only that he's being slammed into the wall by something soft. He pushes against it, fighting to get away, and realises it's his bed right before the Avatar swings again, and Zuko and the mattress are flung against the ceiling.
When he looks up from the treacherous bed, the Avatar his gone. His fist leaves a scorch in the mattress as he hurls himself up. Sprinting from the room, bouncing off the walls in his haste, Zuko races for the upper deck. All the other doors are closed. There's nowhere else to go.
The Avatar's in the air when he emerges. No thought goes through his mind. All he can see is the boy escaping. All he can hear is Azula's mocking 'oh, Zuzu.' All he can feel is his scar throbbing.
He's no airbender, but he puts all the strength of his body into the jump. Everything he is. He soars off the metal, arm outstretched. The Avatar screams as Zuko's hand closes around his ankle. They lurch down, the flimsy glider too fragile for the combined weight. Zuko's armour takes the brunt of the fall, and he's rolling up with the momentum. Sick satisfaction fills him at the fear he sees as the Avatar stands to face him. Airbending is a new battle to Zuko, but he's already won the important half. That's right, fear the Fire Nation.
He roars and halts, eyes widening at the inhuman growl that seems to have slipped past his lips.
But the Avatar is suddenly grinning, beaming up past him, into the sky. "Appa!"
A beast unlike anything Zuko has ever seen crests the frozen walls around them. Six legs propel the wingless, massive thing through the air, shaggy fur whipping in a frenzy. "What is that?"
His question answers itself as the Avatar moves to intercept its path. No! Whatever that thing is, the Avatar cannot be allowed near it.
Zuko fires, violently, indiscriminately. Wave after wave burns into the Avatar. He grits his teeth as the boy disappears behind a wall of flame, but the screams remain. The staff deflects, swinging madly, delicate craftmanship struggling to keep up with Zuko's manic rage. He propels himself into the air, crying out in surprise. Touching down on the ledge of the deck, he sways precariously over the side. Balance returns a fraction too late. Zuko fires, roaring, rage blinding him.
The Avatar will not escape him!
Hands fly up, but the fire finds its mark. Glider thumping to the deck, the Avatar disappears over the side of the ship.
Somewhere overhead, a girl's voice screams. He thinks he might know that voice, but his attention is on the water. It settles as the monk sinks. They'll have to comb the seabed for the body. He doesn't want a bloated, floating corpse stinking up his ship on the journey-
The ripples reverse. Zuko, eyes widening, watches the waves form where there is no tide, watches the water froth, churn, and spit a towering colossus into the sky. It dwarfs his ship, a humongous spinning vortex putting his world into shadow. Glowing eyes appear at its zenith. They stare into Zuko, find the horror mounting in his chest and grip it with a glowing, tattooed hand.
Water swirls as the Avatar brings his hands behind his head. It forms a protective circle, spreading outward. Cascading over the deck, Zuko and his men are washed away. The edge rushes up to meet him. He can't breathe, water flooding into his mouth, his nose. Vision filled with water, heart thumping. It's all Zuko can do to reach out and grab the edge before he's washed overboard.
The southerners run to the Avatar as he collapses to the sodden deck. Zuko cannot connect the frail child to the destruction seeking monster he glimpsed atop the whirlpool. No wonder his father wanted the child in Fire Nation custody so badly. Such power, in the hands of a child. The fallout, the destruction.
His soldiers regroup, closing on the three attackers. The girl, he does know her. The Icediver. She sees them coming and lifts her hands.
Watch her, you fools, Zuko wants to yell. But he's struggling to get a grip on the slick deck. She pivots on her heel, lifting the water before his eyes and-
And whips it backwards. She catches her brother's feet, and he cries out. This is the girl he'd been awed by in the tent? Her confident hold on the ball of water was flawless. Now, in leu of precise aim, she has to turn around to successfully land her attack, and Zuko has never felt so foolish. Tricked by a peasant!
He's about to slip again when his uncle is there, grabbing his arm. The moment his feet are back under him, he's up. "Shoot them down!" he screams as the bison takes flight from the ship, taking the Avatar with it.
He and his uncle may not be of one mind, but when they firebend, they are always of one body. In perfect sync they fire at the bison. There's no way the bison can outrun the burst of flame. It eats the distance between them. Victory is so close, Zuko can taste it. The Avatar will not escape him.
Until the boy leaps from the saddle, swiping at the air with his staff and a fierce yell. Their fire is redirected, slamming into the icy cliffside, impact reverberating through the enormous glacier. His uncle blanches at the massive power, at the snow and ice crashing down onto the front of the ship. They're buried, halted by a mass of snow and ice, and the Avatar disappears into the endless blue sky above.
His uncle feels the rage coming from him in waves. He's hesitant. He's also never held his tongue around Zuko's temper. "Good news for the Fire Lord. The Fire Nation's greatest threat is just a little kid."
The crew will not dance tonight. Zuko has them shovelling snow until long after the sun goes down.
Captured
Zuko lets her experience the dispassion of his soldiers for a few days before he goes back to Katara's cell himself. The evidence is immediately obvious. The front of her parka is covered in old and new stains from the less than gentle treatment of his soldiers feeding her and giving her water. The indignity has done nothing to soften her. Her eyes are ice as he walks to the table, cup of water in hand. He doesn't say a word as he comes around the table, but his grip tightens on the cup when she involuntarily stiffens. Closer now, he can see the stringy curls near her face, see how some stick to her cheeks and neck.
"Are you thirsty?" he rasps, mentally going over the soldiers he put on duty to guard her.
She opens her mouth. Closes it. Nods tightly, opens her mouth and shuts her eyes. He roasts the guards alive in his mind as he leans down. "Katara." Her eyes shoot open in surprise when her name leaves his lips. Carefully, so as not to startle her, he slides one hand along her jaw, and brings the cup to her lips with the other. She flinches, he knew she would, hence the steadying, pre-emptive, hand.
She gulps greedily at the water, sucking it down now she knows it won't be thrown in her face. A trickle slides out from the side of the cup when he misinterprets how quickly she guzzles, dribbling down her cheek and onto where his thumb sits under her chin. Absentminded, he wipes the water from her bottom lip as he withdraws the cup. The action starts her back to where she is, and she jerks back. It shouldn't sting. He pretends it doesn't.
"Your uncle did it better," she mutters when she's done panting.
"He was holding scalding hot tea. He had more reason to be careful." Zuko takes his seat across from her. He's never been good at segways or guiding conversations, so he comes right out with it. "Do you have tea in your tribe?"
Her eyebrow goes up. "Do we have tea? What kind of question is that? Of course we do. We're coldies, not savages."
She loves throwing that in his face, despite the fact he's never even said it, let alone called her one himself. "My mistake-" She interrupts him with a snort. "-I imagined you might have preferred Snowgoat milk." He waits. And waits. Her derision doesn't lift. Other than her hatred of him, he can't discern what's going on in her head. "You're old enough to have it fermented, aren't you, with frostberries?"
"Why would I want to drink spoiled milk?" He lips twist in disgust.
"Not spoiled, fermented." Zuko shakes his head. "It's like wine, or beer."
"Don't condescend to me, I know how wine and beer are made."
He grits his teeth. "I'm not condescending. We'll be stopping to resupply soon."
"Do I get a tasting menu or is it just the rotten milk?"
She'll never believe he's doing something for her because he wants to, not when she knows he wants something from her in return. He affects a sulk and huffs down in his seat. "My uncle asked me to ask you."
Some of her malice falls away immediately. He pretends that doesn't sting a little either. All for the sake of capturing the Avatar. He has nothing to prove to this peasant.
"Oh... How would you even ferment milk?"
It's what Zuko has spent the past two days studying instead of interrogating her himself. He won't make that mistake again, but he thanks his diligent nature, remembering how she'd hung on his every word about the ancient Icedivers of her people.
"It takes a few hours, but the best takes up to a few days." He dives into the process of how ancient watertribes would strap caribouram-hide containers to their mounts when they rode to keep the stirring constant. Today a wooden barrel and a churn would be just as effective, since the watertribes are not as nomadic as they once were. "It thickens and becomes Kumis."
She shows no recognition to the word, but she doesn't make any sign of wanting him to continue either. Or stop.
"Kumis itself isn't that alcoholic," he cautiously persists. He'd picked the easiest subject to parrot back to her and is probably over-explaining. But she hasn't called him condescending again. "It'd be like having a small beer in an Earth Kingdom tavern." She raises an eyebrow when he pauses. "Never had one of those either?"
"Haven't had a lot of time between running for my life, dodging fireballs, clinging to Appa's fur as we make a hasty getaway from our camp. I'll be sure to try and sneak a half in though and think of you."
He toasts her empty water cup sardonically. It's a feat in itself when her lips twitch. "Kumis can be made more alcoholic, though."
He dangles the bait. Dangles until he decides it's a lost cause, a wasted strategy, and stands to leave.
"… How?"
She bites.
They take the table away on the fourth day. Katara can't eat or drink with the chains locked to the table, so the chain is unhooked and she's free to walk around the cell with her fists looped together. She claims the straw sleeping pallet, making sure Zuko has to take the floor if he wants to sit whenever he comes to give her water or bring her food. The chunks of bread, slabs of jerky and roasted vegetables are her constant – basically as far from moist and easy to juggle between the manacled cuffs as possible. She wrinkles her nose when he sets the trays in front of her but chews quietly as he launches into the day's history lesson.
He's astounded by how little she knows of her own culture. Of course, he knows why she's only intimate with the last sixty or so years – he supposed that was the age of the elderly woman she clutched to her when he invaded her home. She loves when one of Uncle's texts are out of date and she gets to correct him. Sometimes he gets it wrong on purpose, and inwardly crows when that victorious gleam deepens in her blue eyes.
When she one ups him for the third time, he brings the text and demands she point the inaccuracies out to him, for his uncle's records, of course. If she cares that he sinks to the opposite corner and watches her absorb the words, she doesn't lift her eyes from the pages to tell him to go away.
And when uncle runs out of texts for her to read, they happen to be docking at an Earth Kingdom city port. Zuko spends his leave hours pursuing his interrogation strategy. He's exhausted from perusing the markets and shops, sweating under his hood to hide his identity, getting bustled and barged by the busy shoppers. But he has six more scrolls and texts to tactically feed Katara by the time he returns to the ship. He pretends not to hear his uncle point out he could have easily sent one of the stewards to seek out the documents instead of going himself.
Katara doesn't know either way. All she needs to do is pour over the scrolls and accept a little more of his company with each one he brings.
Then, she completely floors him when he comes in, but she doesn't reach for the scroll he brings this time. "You think it's easy to sleep in this box?" The bags under her eyes have been getting steadily heavier, not that he cares to notice. "Read it to me."
"Excuse me?"
"Read, sunshine. My eyes hurt. And it's more fun to say you're wrong than the text."
Is the bossiness a good sign? He can't tell if she's comfortable enough to be playful, or if she really doesn't have an ounce of respect for him. Not even after all the effort he's put in to teach her her own tribe's history – for his own exploitative gains, of course. But she doesn't need to know that.
And by giving it back to her, he learns about ice hole fishing, hide tanning, bone carving and how fragile a task it really is. The texts detail migrating patterns of Polerbear dogs; Katara details how the species was once domesticated in the south. Now, thanks to the diminutive human population, packs roam and hunt the lands but none of Katara's tribe dare go out to try and capture any. As a result, the once revered tradition of sled-polarbear dogs is all but gone from Katara's home.
"Gran-Gran shared stories of her father speeding across the ice. His sled still sits in our family hut. Sokka used to sit on it and pretend he was one of the endless summer sledders. They'd transport goods between the tribes during the summer. The sun never sets during the season. Apparently, they could go snow-mad if they spent too long out there. Now, there aren't as many tribes left on the ice. I have no idea how much separates us now. Too much for one sled team, I guess."
He learns how tough aged tigerseal skin is to stitch, how best to render fat from whale blubber, how to apply that blubber to the skin to keep the cold out. Katara already knows this, of course, and delights on how clinical the experiences of the texts are compared to her and her brother's escapades. Her favourite accounts are the star patterns.
"Tui and La are constants, in sky and sea. But the stars can shift, burn, be born and die. Don't you find that amazing, Zuko?"
It's the first time she asks him what he thinks. "Why would I?" He spends his visit listening to her tell him why it should be.
When he buys his next batch of scrolls he's so hasty to keep the charade going, he doesn't realise his mistake until he's seated across from her on the floor, back leaning against the wall with the scroll open in his lap. He hadn't been paying close enough attention. He was tired, frustrated by the busy markets again, craving the peace he's come to find on his ship. He saw Watertribe markings, paid, and scurried off, and now sits with a Northern Watertribe betrothal ceremony in his lap.
He knows she doesn't know this one. If she did, she wouldn't mourn the loss of the necklace he has sealed away in a lock box in his quarters. She can question, but she can't correct him. She can't hold onto her edge, and he needs her to think it sharpens with each of his visits. But while her knives dull, his learn the nicks of her watertribe soul; what excites her, like the summer sledders. Makes her go quiet – anything linked to a story her Gran-Gran once told. It's too easy to learn what frustrates her. The first time he started on war rights, she threw him out.
War would not be tolerated. Oppression would not be tolerated.
"Come on, Sunshine," she mocks. It doesn't bother him like it used to. "I'm waiting."
Betrothal rituals. Doweries. Necklaces. All things he can see the romance in, the tradition and honour of it.
Contracts. Bribes. Collars and chains. The trading of a soul for money. All things he knows she'll despise.
"Uh… Polarbear dogs, by nature, migrate. They need to follow the caribou herds, hunt and forage, before settling down for the long winters. They build their dens where they can best cluster for the sake of the pack and-"
"You've read this one," she groans, rolling her head from where it rests on the pillow to stare dully at him.
He thanks Agni for his memory, or her monotony. Either way, his recitation bores her. "You're mistaken," he gruffs. The best way to get a rise out of her. "I would remember. Besides, the text is wrong. The packs head further from the snows in winter, not deeper. When the ice thickens, they can cross to Earth Kingdom main-lands and return before the spring thaws. Uncle and I actually watched it once while we waited for the pack to cross before we sailed through the ice. It's similar to when the turtleducks in my garden would either fly south for the winter or hibernate in the coops."
He expects, anticipates, her to praise his uncle. Maybe mock him some more. So typical of your people, little prince, to think nature is something owed to you, to break and repair itself rather than block your way.
"What are they like?" her small voice interrupts the one he can't seem to get out of his head.
"What?"
"What are your turtleducks like? I've never seen one before."
It's the first time she inquires about something outside the South Pole. He has to remind himself it's not really about him.
"Why haven't you asked me where Aang is?"
She used to greet him with the accusatory question all the time, then grew eager for her history. But he's been repeating himself, or letting her lead with stories, waiting for her to get bored.
He looks up from the scroll. She isn't lying down this time like she usually does but copies his straight-backed lean against the wall. She's more on edge than he realised. Has he really been so distracted during his strategy? "Because you don't know."
He cues the snort in his head as she delivers, shaking her head at him. "So, what, you're just sailing around, hoping to find him?"
"Hoping he finds you."
Blue eyes darken. A storm brews there. "I haven't left this cell in weeks. You bring me trays to fumble at or lean over like a hogmonkey at the trough. I slurp water from a bowl, and your ladies in waiting have to scrub me then stare at me until they're sure every drop of moisture is gone before redressing me." She's never been so exposed, favouring to lock the indignity of her treatment behind walls of brazen force of will. Give him her stoicism over this invasive vulnerability. Give him her hating him instead of adding to the hate he already feels for himself. "How do you expect Aang to find me while I'm kept in this pen like one of your turtleducks?"
He almost runs from the room. "Don't you think people wonder why the Prince of the Fire Nation is buying scrolls about Southern Watertribe culture? Word will spread, hopefully to the ears of the Avatar."
"You were buying them?" It's not the question he expects. Neither did she, for a dusky hue overtakes her cheeks as she quickly backtracks. "You really think rumours will bring Aang to you?"
"Don't underestimate the power of word-of-mouth. It brought me to Kyoshi island."
They haven't talked about Kyoshi island since she was brought to the ship. He sets the bait down, and waits, mentally pulls back. She watches him, takes in his narrowed eyes, the scar because everyone sees it first, lets her mind wander back to that encounter. Mentally sniffing out the bait, unaware of the trap behind it.
Yet all he thinks is spook. See it. Run.
"Why did you warn me not to bend?"
She approaches him as cautiously as he first approached her. Of course, hers is out of curiosity, not foresight. It's how he knows he has her.
"I…" Say it. Make her owe you. It's the next step. Do it, you coward. Damn the consequences. Damn knowing she won't dare listen to another history lesson, let alone be able to look at him. It's all about the Avatar. Everything he's been through and done has led to this moment. Do it. "I warned you because it would have put you in danger if my soldiers saw you bend."
Her brow furrows. Of course it does. She can't imagine the horror coming. Who would want to? Only the Avatar could, he supposes. "They've seen me bend. I did it on your ship."
"They think that was the Avatar. Either they were distracted or were frozen." Zuko made sure they believed it was the boy. "They couldn't know it was because of a bender from the Southern Watertribe."
"Why?"
He swallows. He doesn't have to say anymore. He's expressed he acted in her interest before all this began. She'll remember like she remembers everything. She's a big girl. A big girl standing between him and the Avatar. His destiny. His honour. And all that makes him pause are, what, her feelings? She's the enemy, who cares how she'll feel once she knows the truth? Not like she can go anywhere. Not like the danger can reach her in this cell.
He owes her nothing.
"I told you, it would have put you in danger."
"Why is it dangerous?" she insists. "Why, Zuko?"
It's then he flees, stepping on the crumpled scroll as he does.
