AN: And this is where it all gets twisty…

Chapter Four – The Hidden Prince

The shrine was still covered in early morning mist when they arrived, still making their way back to civilization and away from the haunting hills surrounding the ghost town. It stood, like many in this area, at a crossroads. Song smiled when she saw two of the little figurines sitting within the shelter of the alcove; a brass kirin, badly tarnished and a little wooden speckle-hawk.

Iroh was surprisingly solemn that day, rubbing the still-healing wound on his chest; but then she learned later that he was always like this around sacred places. Song thought that perhaps it was because of his son, just as it was now for her with her parents.

Zuko, however, seemed confused – she read it in his face – his eyes darting, watchful, between his friend and uncle. When she bought a pair of incense sticks from a roadside stall lingering beside the little pilgrims' shrine, the prince stood with her, waiting 'til the merchant wasn't looking before lighting the incense for her. They knelt and watched them burn, the scented smoke mingling with the ebbing mist, flavouring it with the subtle sweetness of peonies.

When the sun began to rise in earnest, he caught her eye and looked a silent question at her. She offered him a weak smile.

"Today would've been my parents wedding anniversary," she told him quietly.

Zuko gazed at her for a few seconds and Song looked away, cheeks burning. She was startled when he came back, a third stick in his hand, this one scented with sugar-almonds, and set it in the censer next to hers.

When she looked her own unspoken question at him, he did as she had done, and gave back a small smile.

"It'll be my mother's birthday next month…"

It was late afternoon when they finally arrived home. As they entered the apartment, he noted Song's shoes tucked neatly to one side of the door and amongst all the exhaustion and emotional turmoil, he felt something akin to warmth seep through him. Vaguely, he wondered where she was in the apartment, why she was home so early.

Unfamiliar heat spiked in his chest.

What…?

There was the sound of the front door being slid closed. He realized Uncle was speaking. "You did the right thing, letting the Avatar's bison go free."

Did I?

The heat roared, pouring out angrily beneath his skin. Molten, alive.

"Uncle? Zuko?"

It was Song, standing like a cream and green vision before him, a growing smile on her sweet face. As the world hazed, he thought that if only he could touch her, everything would be right, everything would be saved. He didn't resist when she hugged him. With a kind of frightening hyperawareness, he felt her breath on his neck, somehow cool. Her hair smelt like peaches…

Neither would ever know why, but somehow Song must have sensed that something wasn't right.

"Zuko?" she whispered, standing back from him a little.

"I don't feel right," he rasped softly, then collapsed forward.

Song gasped but caught him, her legs folding like wet paper under her as she took his weight, so that she ended up on the floor with him cradled on his side against her.

"Zuko!" he heard his Uncle cry, then hands were on him, lifting a turning him, letting him come to rest upon the floor, something soft beneath his head. Cool fingers upon his cheeks and forehead. They felt like ice upon his scar, itself an igniting brand.

"He's burning up…"

Burning up…wick and candle, breath and flame; burning, burning, burning, why did it hurt? The world was cruelly out of focus and all he wanted was to see her face.

A voice like his mother's said, "Go to sleep, beautiful boy."

No, I won't and I'm not.

But he did…

Evening, and the Fox's words lay upon the minds of the two agents as they hung, clinging expertly to the stone ceiling above a dying boy and his two friends.

…their paths are about to cross, however small that crossing may be…

Such a small crossing, thought one, as he drew a blowpipe from his sleeve, loaded two darts and shot them neatly into the necks of the sobbing girl and the boy with the bow.

Such a strange crossing, reflected the other as he thought back to the boy and his uncle, the two of them guiding a grumbling bison down the greenlit hall of the Lake Complex.

Both dropped smoothly from the ceiling as the children collapsed with soft gasps beside their already downed friend. With careful, economical movements, they bent the earth about them, carrying themselves and their young charges to the surface.

As the beaten soil yawned wide to admit them, they espied figures, each in a hooded charcoal coloured cloak, waiting for them on the shore. Over head the stars gleamed cold, welcoming in their nonjudgmental way. The night sky reflected upon the face of the quiescent waters, giving no hint to the drama that had befallen them that day. And silent, upon the edge of the water, was the Fox, a cat-owl shifting upon their left shoulder.

The children were carried on canvas stretchers to a waiting carriage, the murmurs of their sleep lost amongst the rustle of their rescuers cloaks.

"Where are they to be taken?" asked one of the cloaked men.

There was a sigh from the Fox, and they turned from the lake. "The boy is injured, you said?"

"Yes."

The Fox nodded. "Take them to a healer. There's one in the Lower Ring; clever, discrete."

"Safe?"

A second nod. "One of ours. The apprentice won't be any problem either; she knows them. She'll help see them safe."

There was a cry from the carriage. The Fox strode up the bank to where two of the cloaked men were trying to subdue Jet. "He's feverish," one said.

Jet stilled as the Fox leant over him, his dark eyes filled with the vision of the glowing Noh mask. "Am I dead?" he whispered.

"No," murmured the Fox. "But go back to sleep, Jet. Things will look much better in the morning. I promise."

Without another word, his eyes slipped closed, and his world went dark.

Shan had always been a light sleeper, and so he heard them coming even before the soft knocking began on his front door. It was three hours after sunset.

At this hour, he thought, limping hurriedly downstairs from his apartment to the clinic, this can only mean trouble.

Night, and Song sat below the living room window, eyes half closed; temple and left shoulder leant against the wall. In the stagnant dark, she could hear Iroh's soft snores, and over them, Zuko's feverish rasps.

He shifted fitfully in his sleep, dreaming, perhaps. She heard his breathing hitch and was by his side in an instant, her fingers against his cheek, thumb brushing the paper-thin skin below his right eye. He surfaced a little, not enough for coherence, but enough for her to safely drip water into his mouth while carefully checking his pulse. It alternated between pacing sluggishly and beating like a trapped sparrowkeet.

Oh, Zuko…

"Eeowhoo."

What on earth?

She looked up sharply. There was a cat-owl on the windowsill, glowering at her with self-importance. When she simply stared at it, it flapped restlessly, and she finally caught sight of the message tube attached to one of its legs. It didn't resist when she detached the tube and emptied the tiny vessel into her hand. To her surprise, the missive was addressed to her.

Song,

Emergency at the clinic – life or death – need your help – get here now.

Shan.

"You should go."

She started and looked up to see Iroh sitting beside his nephew, rumpled and sleep worn. His eyes caught the meagre moonlight and shone like pennies.

"How did you know…?"

Iroh shrugged. "Who else would be sending you notes at this time except Shan? It must be urgent, though, Song. You should go."

Her gaze was pained. "I can't. Zuko –"

"Is my nephew," he reminded her gently. "I can look after him for now. Go."

The waiting room was dark when she stepped in. The only light in the clinic seemed to come from behind the screens that hid the patient rooms. It showed up the thin spots in the screens' paint; suddenly they didn't look as dark as they did in daylight.

"Master Shan?"

"Here, Song, quickly."

She dropped her satchel upon one of the waiting room seats and hurried over. There were three cots set up, two occupied with sleeping lumps beneath blankets. Shan stood beside the third clad in what she recognized as his operating clothes – a white smock over his usual blue tunic, a bandana over his forehead to keep sweat out of his eyes and a white linen mask for nose and mouth, currently resting upon his chest. There was a tray of ominous-looking steel tools on a small table beside him.

But it was the unconscious figure on the bed that reeled her in.

"Oh holy ancestors," she breathed. "Jet…"

"Yes," Shan muttered. "That's what they said his name was."

He gloved his hands in glowing water.

"Scrub up and gear up, Song, we have a lot of work ahead of us."

There was blood under her nails. Song shivered. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the scrubbing brush. Her hands shook. The water in the basin was very faintly pink.

"Song?"

Shan slid open the slider that led to his apartment – she was in his washroom. They had worked on Jet for a little over three hours. Dawn was barely nearer than when they started. He looked as weary as she felt.

"I've made tea. Are you…?"

Song looked at him. Her lip trembled. Her hands were still shaking. She hiccupped.

Shan let out a ragged sigh and carefully pried the brush from her hands. He held them under the water and made several small twitching motions with his fingers. As she watched, the blood bent itself from under her nails, spiraling like dancing ribbons of rust red. Shan took a linen towel from the rail beside the basin and slowly dried her hands.

"The first time I operated," he began, his voice low and calming. "I was terrified. I was passing through a village that had suffered several landslips recently; it was spring, the rains were brutal that year. Several young benders went to practice while the earth was still soft. A slip came down, and one ended up with a huge splinter through his chest. Both ends had broken off; there was no way to get it out without cutting him open.

"I did the stupid thing and volunteered to help."

Song took a shaking breath. "Did he live?" she whispered.

Shan nodded. "He did. Nearly lost him to blood loss – I really didn't have a clue back then – but I muddled through and he lived. I was sick for a week though."

She looked him a question.

The healer smiled. "I'd never seen so much blood in my entire life. Much of the healing that goes on up at the Pole is very clean, very bloodless. I cut that boy open and I thought I was going to pass out then and there.

"My point is, Song, that you handled your first operation far better than I ever did. You were quick and competent and you didn't once bring up your guts. All apprentices should be as stalwart as you."

She managed a faint smile. "Thank you, sifu."

Shan smiled back. "Come." He led her into the living room. "As I said, I've made tea, or attempted to. Mushi has probably spoiled you down at Pao's shop."

Her face clouded at the mention of Uncle.

"What's the matter?"

She frowned into her lap. "It's just – I wasn't going to come down here at first," she told him. "Lee…Lee is very sick. He came home this afternoon and collapsed with a fever. I was afraid to leave, but Mushi said he would be alright…"

The healing master was giving her a very shrewd look. "You think it's that serious?"

She blinked at him. "I – I'm not sure, but – yes. Yes it seems serious to me. I've never seen a fever this bad. Uncle doesn't seem that phased but…"

"I understand." Shan looked thoughtful. She watched as he got to his feet and pulled a small bottle out his personal set of medicine draws. It was about a finger length long and bore a crescent moon in silver ink on its side. Beyond the smoky glass she could make out viscous violet liquid. To her surprise, when he resumed his seat, he handed the bottle to her.

"What – what is this?"

"A feverfew. It will help relieve his symptoms and keep some of the pain at bay."

She smiled. "Thank you. Is there a recipe, so that I can make more of it later…?"

He gave her a rueful look. "It's easy enough to make, there are only three ingredients: arnica, white dragon blossom, crushed dreamseed…oh, and blessed water."

Song stared at him. "…blessed water?"

He nodded. "From the Spirit Oasis of the North Pole. My waterbending master gave me a vial of it before I left. It has special properties – healing things that would be beyond even the most accomplished bender. There are only three drops of it in that particular infusion, but it should be more than enough for your friend Lee."

His apprentice was stunned. "Master Shan…this is…" She bowed at the waist, as much as one could sitting down. "Thank you, thank you so much…" She sat up and gave him a small perplexed frown. "But…you said there are only three ingredients. You mentioned four."

Shan stroked his goateed chin. "So I did. Tell you a secret?"

She nodded eagerly. He grinned.

"The dragon blossom is just for flavour."

It's just as before. He sits upon the throne. He cannot feel the scar upon his face. The flames veil him.

There is someone kneeling before the throne.

Song. Song in white Fire Nation mourning robes. There is something crumpled in front of her…the Red Dragon, its great flanks still and shrunken. In the crackling quiet, he can hear Song breathing, soft and hitching with tears, yet he cannot move his limbs, cannot go to her.

She lifts her woebegone face – and the tears trailing over her cheeks are made of blood.

"What will you do?" she whispers. "Oh, my Lord, what will you do…?"

"Uncle!"

Iroh looked up as Song came barreling in, face full of an elated smile.

"What is it, my dear?"

She waved a small lavender bottle for him to see. "Shan gave me something for Zuko's fever."

He looked doubtful. "Song, I am not sure that –"

Her face softened. "I know. It's not a normal fever. But, Uncle, this infusion has blessed water in it; from the Spirit Oasis in the North Pole…surely, this can help. Or at least can't hurt?"

Iroh frowned looking thoughtful. "Tui and La," he murmured. "Push and pull, yin and yang." A smile grew on his lips. "Give him the infusion, dear girl. You are right; it can't hurt."

Her smile could have outshone the sun.

Iroh watched as she knelt by his nephew, expression tender. Silently, he got up and began preparing the morning meal.

There were whispers…whispers and cool hands against his face.

"Zuko? It's me…its Song."

Song…she was here, she was safe…

"Come on, I need you to sit up a little. Can you do that for me?"

He peeled his eyes open, gazing at her. Sweet face, silk skin, liquid eyes…

"You were crying," he rasped. He lifted one hand, traced the path the tears had taken in the dream.

She smiled. "No, look, see? No tears." She held up something; a small bottle, its contents glowing softly (or was that fever clouding his eyes again?) "Shan gave me this, for your sickness. Here…" She helped him sit up a little, one hand to the back of his neck, the other still holding the bottle as he drank.

Relief swept through him, ribbons of soothing cold. His vision ebbed, swam as he sank into healing sleep. Something tickled either side of his face, and he felt Song's thumbs swiping gently at his cheeks and temples.

"No," she murmured. "No tears…"

The last thing he felt before he was swept away was the sensation of her lips on his forehead.

Just as Zuko slipped beneath the veil of sleep, Jet struggled to part it.

Vision initially blurred, all he could make out was a dusky face framing two spots of blue…

"Katara?" he rasped hopefully.

"No," came the stony answer, and the dusky face resolved into that of an irate Water Tribe man.

There was a giggle from his shoulder, and when he cautiously turned his head, he saw Smellerbee, her arms folded on the bed where he lay. Longshot stood at her shoulder, and both of them looked suspiciously muzzy, as though they had recently woken up.

"What happened to you two?"

They exchanged looks, but it was the tribesman who spoke.

"They're suffering the aftereffects of a rather potent knockout draft. It'll be about an hour before it wears off fully." Those unnerving blue eyes were fixed on him again. "It's good that you're up though, we'll only have a few hours after sunset."

Jet stared at him. "What's happening after sunset?"

"We get you out of Ba Sing Se."

The young rebel twisted his head awkwardly, trying to see who had spoken. The tribesman stepped back…and there she was.

"Song," he said softly, voice suddenly hoarse.

The healer lent her head against the edge of the screen and gazed at him with those big sad eyes. "Hey Jet."

Four figures darted from doorway to doorway through the whispering city night. Two blocks from their destination, the tallest faltered, one hand going to his ribs as his tangle-haloed head bowed in pain.

The others paused and drew around him, gently urging him forward. Slowly, carefully, they continued past those two blocks, until they arrived at an abandoned building near the outer wall of Ba Sing Se. They filed down an alleyway on the building's left side, leading to a side door.

One figure drew out a set of keys, unlocked the door and led her companions inside. They emerged in what appeared to be a kitchen.

"What is this place?" Smellerbee whispered, drawing back her hood. She and Longshot were gazing about them, taking in the dust covered floors, moldering furnishing and scattered utensils. The ovens had been torn out, probably by thieves hoping to recycle the clay, leaving a gaping hole in the floor that lead directly to the earth below. The air reeked of the stale spices still hanging in blackened bunches overhead.

Song closed the door behind her and padded over, hoisting her skirts slightly to keep them out of the dust. "It used to be a Pai Sho house. The owner was killed five years ago. This is where Master Shan's friends will meet you, to get you out of the city." She gave them a small sad smile. "I should go."

"Song."

She paused, looked back inquiringly at Smellerbee. The younger girl bit her lip, then darted forward and gave Song a clumsy hug. "Thank you," she whispered. "For helping us."

Song let out a soft gasp, then fiercely hugged back. "You're welcome. I'm just glad you're all safe."

They parted, both feeling slightly misty. Longshot tipped his head to the healer, murmuring very softly, "Thank you." Song smiled and nodded back. Smellerbee stepped away, over to the archer, who put one hand on her shoulder. He was the only one who saw the single tear slide down before it was swiped away by one ragged sleeve.

Behind them, Jet spoke softly to Song. His dark eyes were very earnest, and he laid one hand on her arm as he did so. "I've said it before, but I'll say it again," he murmured. "You don't have to stay with him. Them." She could feel the warmth of him in the air around her. "Come with us," he whispered.

Her own eyes shining, Song gazed back at him. "Oh, Jet." She reached up and touched his cheek once, before placing her hand over his where it lay on her arm. "You need to let go of this. I told you before; they won't hurt me. Ir – Mushi has always looked after me, never raised a hand to me, and always made sure I was safe and at least had the hope of happiness. And Lee…" She let out a soft sigh. "He's a good man. An honourable man; he just needs to realize it."

Jet gazed back at her, a look of disbelief taking over his features. "You love him," he breathed.

Song flushed and looked away. "Be safe, Jet. Farewell."

And with that, she darted away, and back out into the night.

Jet stared after her, stunned.

Then the ground hummed.

"Uh, Jet?"

He turned to his friends. "What is it?"

"Don't know, but its coming from the pit."

The exposed ground where the oven had been hummed and rumbled, then broken open in two perfect segments, which fell away to reveal three figures in a tunnel below.

At either side of the hole were two earthbenders. One had a thin knife scar across his face, while the other had hair one shade away from auburn. Both wore their hair in a single long braid. And standing between them, gazing up at the children with hidden eyes…

"Hello, Jet," said the Fox. "Climb down, and please be quick. We've quite a way to go."

AN2: Review…you know you want to.