ARC THREE: SOUL

The Fifteenth Chapter

Freedom

"Katara," says a smooth, condescending voice, "step away from him."

I stare in horror as Zuko – my lover, my confidant, the man I meant to flee this world with – slides to the ground.

There is a bullet hole in his back.

I look up into Jet's eyes and Zuko chokes on his own breath and blood.

"How…no…" I stutter. No. No. Nonono

"I know what you did with him," he leers. "Good work, Longshot," he adds. The silent boy nods, but looks at me with utter regret. He pockets the revolver without a word.

"You see, Cat," he says, and I flinch, "he is an Agni. He is the picture of all scum on this planet. It's these people who had your father taken away, who denied your mother the medicine she needed." He doesn't smile. "Remember?"

"Jet, you monster!" I hiss. "Can't you see – can't you see –" I break off, and lean down – fall to my knees. Zuko's chest is stilling with his soul.

Carefully, gently, I press my bleeding lips to his forehead. "- that I love him?" I finish.

And…

the night doesn't blacken, fog doesn't surround me. The devil doesn't laugh wickedly on my shoulder, nor does the moon fall from the sky.

Instead, at that moment, silence blankets us. It surrounds us and whispers wordlessly in my ear about the natural and supernatural, realistic and fantastic, literal and mythical.

And he dies.

Zuko Agni dies.

So many questions are left unanswered. So many secrets are left untold.

I stand.

"Why, Jet?" I ask softly. "Why did you do this?"

"Because you're mine," he says. "You're mine, not his."

"Give me the gun." He cocks his head at me, those beastly tan eyes curious.

"GIVE ME THE GUN!"

With a trembling hand, Jet takes the weapon – the murder weapon – from Longshot and holds it out to me, butt first. I take hold of it before he has a chance of even thinking about keeping it.

"How many?"

"How many what?"

"How many bullets, Jet?" I whisper shakily. "Are there enough for you? For Longshot? For Toph?" I address the people I see, and ignore those I don't. I know they're there. That's enough.

"Don't be crazy –"

"Are there enough for me, Jet?"

"Cat!" this time it is the shocked voice of a 15 year-old blind girl who was dragged far too quickly into war.

"Don't do it, Katara," said Jet, taking on a more desperate – a pleading – tone.

And I snap.

What right does – does that man have to use my name like that?

"Go to hell, Jet," I snarl. "I loved him."

And slowly, trembling, I lift the gun to my head.