The distance from the courtyard to his bedroom has never seemed so long. Zuko sags into Katara.
His vision swims and his heart stutters.
He hears her voice through a fog, whispered reassurances and gentle pleas. Stay with me. Come on, Zuko, we're almost there.
He can't find the strength to answer. Every step, every breath, every heartbeat burns, and the corridors stretch on endless before them. His pulse is too loud, too uneven. It hurts.
Her grasp tightens around his waist. I'm going to fix this, Zuko.
He believes her.
He wishes he were strong enough to say it.
Even when the damage is repaired, when his heart, though weak, is whole again, Katara will not move. It's too fresh, too raw. She can still hear him scream, can still see him encased in burning blue light.
She will not risk losing him.
Against the crimson silk, he looks faded, a patch of pallor in a sea of red. But his chest rises and falls, and Katara has never heard anything more beautiful than his heartbeat, steady at last.
She pulls his hand into her lap and finds the pulse in his wrist. She counts his heartbeat until sunrise.