He wakes up alone.
Zuko blinks against the room's soft darkness, unseeing yet solidly convinced of something being out of place. He sits up, confused, and one hand touches the edge of a neatly folded blanket; it is cool and yielding under his touch, its corners in perfect order.
How like her, he thinks and almost smiles. Katara's absence does not disturb him (though a tiny patch of Zuko's mind dallies briefly with the fantasy of waking up to river eyes and maple skin, and the smile that won't reject him.) Undoubtedly, she has returned to own room and bed as is proper. He will see her in the morning. Zuko's internal clock announces such a meeting to be only a few hours away, though it's possible Katara will sleep in; she has, after all, been through a lot. Yes, let her rest and upon rising step out to find her old life ready to welcome her. Zuko can easily predict what kind of welcome the morning will bring; the night of Katara's return was smothered with astonishment, happy but too shocked to be truly inviting: it was simply too unbelievable. But soon, given time between the morning and the miracle, everyone will accept what has happened and celebrate sincerely. No doubt, there will be red and white dumplings at breakfast (her favorite) and a Pai Sho marathon at dinner. Already, he can hear the bustle of the coming Music Night; for a moment, Zuko actually regrets not having access to the musical instruments he's educated in. Not the Sungi horn, but a flute would do. Then again, perhaps the instruments would only serve as an unwanted distraction. They could dance instead, Zuko decides, not realizing the smile threatening his face finally opened its curves and happened. Yes, they will dance together while the firelight flirts with the gold in her hair, and he will oversee her Waterbending practice openly, and—
Why did she come back?
The question pierces his daydreaming, a sudden flash of lightening illuminating cliffs of doubt and the precipice they guard. Zuko pauses, hand on the folded blanket, feeling again the off-key slant which assaulted him upon first seeing her face alive and outlined by fur. The vertigo passes quickly, but he cannot erase the whispering echo of its suspicion.
I don't belong there, she'd said. And, there isn't any place for me. The guilty joy Zuko felt at the confession returns, but now it twists uncomfortably inside his thoughts. At fourteen, he knows her life experience is equally divided between Water and Fire, and she cannot belong entirely to either. From the moment they met, Katara's difference has been Zuko's most constant companion; it defined her, foreign, as his defined him. To the eyes of the Fire Nation they stood outside the ordinary, living without a way to overcome the boundaries their heritages bestowed. Zuko was never more aware of the rigidity of his position than when together with his clever, blue-eyed friend…yet her company was among the most special. Unique. With Katara, formality and convention couldn't be trusted for guidance: the things that to Zuko were inherent, indisputable, transmuted in her brown hands. Practicing calligraphy, copying history anew, how many times did Zuko have to remind himself that the girl at his side viewed all he knew, all he was, with a mind not born of the sun? Even more than coloring and circumstance, Katara stood apart from his people because of her heart's origins and reasoning. Always, he had believed her difference, like his own, was inborn: unchangeable.
In the Fire Nation you are what you are meant to do, from the first breath to the last. It is the makings of your honor. It is the rules of your place. It is the nature of your fate.
But…what if there's more? Somewhere, someone. How much can the world change, if we make the choice to let it? Once upon a more innocent time, Zuko believed in change. He had believed the courage to take a stand guaranteed its success, providing one acted with honor. Now Zuko believes only in what he must do.
Standing up, hands straightening his queue and robes, Zuko walks towards the door and out of the room.
Outside, the ship is quiet but not silent; small noises cross the warm, still air, murmuring evidence of power and movement and heat. Ships, he has learned, have a language of their own. Zuko rests his hand against one iron wall to feel the hum of movement underneath, an echo of the engines' roar, unexpectedly reassured by the metal kissing his palm. It is a good ship. It will get them where they need to be.
Only, where do they go from here?
Iroh's room isn't far but Zuko walks slowly, thinking about how to begin a conversation filled with questions he's not sure how to ask. Getting his uncle's advice on this matter will be…odd. Uncomfortably, Zuko wonders if Iroh will scold him for the timing, the circumstances, the broken protocol. Proper etiquette states a man should approach the woman's family before beginning courtship, declaring his intentions clearly and asking for permission. At the dawn of adolescence, Zuko understood that the design of his romances, voluntarily or otherwise, would curve to a different pattern; a prince's heart is servant to necessity. He knew even then, young and green, watching silky women vanish behind seraglio gates, that his pleasure would always be shadowed by the responsibility of his position. Which is not to say that certain liberties would not occur, Iroh had informed his nephew during one of the man's saltier moments. Every life has its surprises, and a strong man will hold out his hand without fear.
Zuko wonders if any of it justifies kissing your best friend.
Probably not.
But she didn't move away. She could have, of course; he isn't victim to the idea of Katara's actions being a type of obedience, of submission, regardless of how much confusion Zuko's digesting. He can in the brief span of a single breath list a library of incidents describing Katara's immunity to authority. Especially his. Irresistibly, behind his eyes, the record unrolls: she has acted against his orders, sneaked behind his back, shouted over his arguments, seen through his excuses, and generally spent the majority of their friendship darting to the right and left of him. Somehow, no matter how much silk or seawater around her, Katara has always managed to find her own way. A useful, if exasperating, quality in the girl you're trusting fate to keep by your side.
The silent mention of fate stirs clouds of nervousness; Zuko quickens his step. Yes, fate brought a girl into a garden in time to watch a boy get pitched into a pond by clumsiness and stupidity. But seven years later fate washed her away and left him behind with broken ribs and a scrap of silk. Zuko does not cherish the notion of trusting important matters solely to fate; his search for the Avatar, for example: its success will come through sweat, not luck. Fortune is fickle, deceiving; the gold it buys your heart with can turn to leaves in the morning. Too much luck inspires laziness and weakness, while too little spins greed into bitterness. No, Zuko doesn't need luck, nor does he want it.
But it would be nice, he thinks, to hear a little reassurance. A few warm words to settle his stomach. Hell, he'll even listen to whatever proverbs Uncle has for the occasion (and there has to be at least one.)
Uncle Iroh's door opens easily; in fact, Zuko suspects the man forgot to close before retiring to bed. Strange, but then perhaps his uncle had other things on his mind. The ghostly scent of ginseng lingering inside, informs Zuko about what sort of things that may be. Did she sit with Iroh before coming to him, or was the visit more recent? Does it matter? No, Zuko decides, and puts a hand on his uncle's shoulder.
There is no response.
Iroh's breathing is deep and flat, and Zuko's gentle shake elicits nothing, not even a twitch. He shakes harder, calling his uncle's name sternly. Iroh continues to sleep, unresponsive, and Zuko feels something wary raise its head inside his thoughts. Uncle Iroh is a sturdy sleeper, yes, but not—something is wrong. Again, he notices the aroma of tea, wondering at how strong she brewed the mixture to have it last this long. It is then, that Zuko notices a recognizable dense sweetness in the air, his hazy suspicions overlapped by her face. Eyes urgent, he scans the room for familiar evidence; the cups and kettle are damnably easy to spot. Zuko picks up a teacup, its blue design misleadingly dark in the dimness of the room, and notes its dryness; the second cup, however, still harbors a wet shine from the use. Next to it, he sees the scroll.
Zuko breaks the seal without hesitation, pulse rushing but hands steady. The parchment unrolls easily; at its end, two treasures clatter to the table with a wink of gold. Ironically, he recognizes the paintbrush before the hairpin, but then it is her favorite brush; his memories of her are more often mixed with ink than metal. Breath frozen, Zuko touches first one object, than the other. The tip of the brush is dark—still damp. The hairpin is tipped with blood. He stares at the two, uncomprehending until he turns his attention to the scroll. Its creamy surface is mostly bare, fresh and harmless, save for the few black characters written in the paper's center and the tiny red fingerprint, like a seal, below the word.
One word.
("You didn't burn my name…")
The scroll falls from his hand; Zuko does not pause to see where it lands: he runs. Out of his uncle's room and into the hall, through the hall and down the stairs, towards—where? Where would she go? Somewhere from within, there breathes an ugly answer and Zuko runs faster, hiding behind his pulse. It is hard. Harder still, when halfway to the exit, he stumbles across the bodies of two guards, sleeping. A half empty bottle lies close; Zuko doesn't have to pick it up to know its wine carries the same thick glimmer of sweetness used in his uncle's tea. What else—the food, more wine, more tea, the drinking water maybe? She has, he knows, enough of the sleeping drug to ward off a year of nightmares, and access to every cup and pot aboard. The quietness of the ship closes a fist around Zuko's heart; it speaks of what he fears to think.
Ice blocks the deck's exit; Zuko blazes it open, passing through water and steam into the predawn light outside.
She is a small, bold mark against the horizon. Even cocooned in the bulky parka, Katara looks undersized, diminished rather than enhanced. Fur hood down, her face is rendered translucent by the cool early light; the expression she turns to Zuko is incomplete, not quite surprise and not quite fear, but somehow it turns the short distance between them into a gulf. When he takes a step forward, she takes one back, and Zuko stops.
Then, he sees the boy.
He looks eleven, maybe a year more, maybe less. The vibrant orange and yellow of his clothes resemble nothing Zuko remembers seeing among the Water Tribe villagers. Nor are his eyes blue. The only blue he has is in the arrow painted down his bald head. Zuko's blood quickens, heating, at the sight of that tattoo and the long wooden staff in the boy's hand. There's no fear in the youngster's face, no alarm in the innocent gray gaze inspecting Zuko; there is nothing to indicate recognition, or forewarning.
"Who's he, Katara?" the child asks.
"Zuko." His name comes from her like a breath, empty and vital. She stands close to the boy, too close, but it is the prince she talks to. "Zuko, please, don't—he's not what you think."
Confused, the boy blinks at her and then looks to Zuko as if for explanation; Zuko has none to give. Instead, he asks the boy, "Who are you?"
"I'm Aang." The affability in his voice fades upon noting the expression on Zuko's face. "Hey, what's wrong? Katara, what's going on?"
Both look towards the Waterbender between them, but she speaks to Zuko. "He's just a child, Zuko. Can't you see; all this time he wasn't hiding, he was lost. We, Sokka and I, found him, when we—in the ice; he was stuck there. Frozen. He's been there, I mean, we think he was trapped there the entire time, a hundred years." Her words are fast, desperate, and her eyes beseech him. "We were wrong about him, Zuko. Everything we read, the stories and the legends and the rumors, everything we predicted—we were wrong about him. Do you understand?"
He does. Zuko stares at the boy with the Air marks on his skin, the naïve gray eyes and the open expression, the lack of apprehension in the young, light body, and sees every theory composed in the past two years crumble into ruin. The prince of the Fire Nation stares at the child, this impossible, unbelievable, fucking child—and knows it changes nothing.
Fire lances out, towards Katara but falling short of actually hitting her. She stumbles back, surprise in her cry, and it is enough; Zuko's next shot is aimed directly at the boy. His hands weave together the next blow even as the boy, the Airbender, dodges the first by launching himself impossibly upward, as if weightless. He lands farther away, the movement effortless with grace, a gust of wind ruffling his bright clothes like a loving hand. A thin wall of water rises and falls between them, its maker stepping into its place with her arms spread. Zuko recognizes the look on her face.
"Don't," Katara says.
"Move." She doesn't. "Move, Katara! He's the one, the Avatar! Now get out of the way—that's a damn order, understand?"
"I won't let you take him."
The words are devastatingly pure, her sincerity insurmountable. He wants to rip them out of the air, wrest them apart, and throw the grizzled remains into the deepest part of the arctic waters. He wants to grab her shoulders, shake until the lunacy flies out of her head, and never remember this moment again. He wants to scream till his throat is raw from it. He wants to hit the boy. He wants the moment to be anything except what it is.
He doesn't want this.
"Step aside, Katara." Zuko's voice is harsh; it hurts his throat. "It's over. Don't you understand—this is it. He's the Avatar. What we've spent the past two years hunting, this whole damn miserable quest, is finally over. No more chasing, no more running from horizon to horizon after century-stale rumors and anecdotes, no more of everything these two years have been. It ends with him, Katara. It ends now. I can go home; things will return to normal."
"Things will never return to normal!" Gone is the unsteadiness of her earlier expression; in its place is rage, and searing conviction. "Home is gone; it vanished the day a father condemned his loyal son for speaking the truth nobody else would. Everything that's happened, to you, to me, to the whole damn world—nothing anyone does will change that. You're right; it has to end and now, oh, don't you see, Zuko, now it can. The Avatar can restore the balance; he can bring back the way things used to be, they way they should be." The steel in her voice cracks, revealing the desperation beneath. "He's the only one who can do it, Zuko. The only one who can stop the terrible things being done. Tell me what'll happen if you put him in chains and bring him to the Fire Lord. Tell me it'll stop the killings. Tell me it'll mean no more mothers crying over undue graves. Tell me no more houses will burn in the night. Tell me no more children will scream. Tell me the snow will never be red or black again. Tell me no more soldiers will surrender their lives to a heartless plan they don't even know about. Tell me the war will end in this lifetime. Tell me."
Zuko cannot. For as long as he lives, Zuko knows he will remember this; the muted hush of the ocean, the cold graze of the air on his skin, the passion and pleading in the face he knows best, the gray-eyed child almost within reach, the throbbing helplessness in his chest, the nearly imperceptible sway of the ship, the girl standing between him and the Avatar. His most surprising ally. His favorite kind-eyed riddle. His best friend.
"Katara," Zuko says. "Get out of my way."
They find him a few hours later, sprawled on the deck with a bruise on the back of his head. Apparently, the clumsy backwater peasant's aim is better the second time around; Zuko is unsure whether it was luck or mercy, or ineptitude, that kept the blow from doing more damage that it did. Sitting still under the ship doctor's questing hands, Zuko tells about the Avatar, the flying bison, the Airbending that stalled their ship in snow, the tribesman boy who attacked from the back. He tells about the direction the Avatar is likely to head in and the route they'll take following him.
He does not tell about how, in the last moment before unconsciousness sank him, a gentle hand touched his ruined face and she said I'm sorry.
---
It's a story; impossible things are easier in stories. I think. So, when the moon was crying the Avatar said, "Don't despair; love does not depend on distance or time. I will give you something more powerful than death or duty, something stronger than dreams or memory. I will give you hope."
The End
Author's Notes: And that's that, folks. Unless, that is, you want to go have a look at the sequel, No Map Without Water . Thank you a thousand times over to my beta mob: ddrfaeryspice , flutie2891, kawaiilyn, Sammy R, skravelle, melodiee. I don't know what I'd do without you (except, y'know, fail miserably.) The other flood of gratitude goes to all the reviewers here and on LJ: despite my pledge to be a cool customer, you guys made me blush and gush like a happy, happy fool. What could be sweeter?
As for everyone else, thanks for reading. Because that, dear fellows, is the reason for it all.