Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar, its characters, designs etc. Those are © Mike and Bryan, and Nickelodeon. Raihyou and other original characters are © me, Lady Asvin.
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What's on your mind?
It's your sister! She hates me!
He sat, back hunched, in an uncomfortable metal bench. Around him, metal walls creaked an incessant and disorganized rhythm; beyond that, lightning and dark ocean separated him from all he'd so abruptly left behind. Only two other people were on his ship; one, recently hardened by Zuko's own betrayal, manned the ship in which he sat. The other had not regained consciousness, and it was she whom he watched tirelessly, ceasing only when required to take the wheel. He remembered this; it had happened before.
He could almost see the life draining from her body. Her muscles were refusing to heat up, refusing to move; her gift had frozen like ice in her veins.
But this time, it was not her gift that bound her; instead, it was the pain of Fire Nation culture forcibly imposed.
Property of Chen Shu Yin, General, Phoenix Rank.
The door creaked open, and Zuko's eyes hurt at the slight change in light. A broad figure, no longer paunchy, blocked the doorway; some distant part of Zuko's mind wondered who was steering the ship. Cloth rustled softly; the man leaned into the dark cell.
"Nephew." In a word, it asked if he was fine, if she was fine – but who could be, in this situation?
"Nothing's changed, uncle," he said in a broken half-voice. The older man sighed deeply, eyes almost disappearing into the wrinkles and shadows surrounding them.
"There is a very peculiar hawk on the deck," said Iroh after a moment. "It refuses to let me take its message. I recommend you receive it – perhaps it is of some importance." As an afterthought, he added: "And I believe I will make some blazeberry tea." Zuko turned to face the girl on the bench across from him; her forehead was pebbled with sweat, but her skin was cold as ice. Vicious scar tissue popped vividly from her smooth leg.
"She hasn't moved," said Zuko, making no motion to stand. His good eye was shadowed by the uneven light coming in from the door, but even his scarred eye revealed his pain. The girl's chest rose and fell with shallow breathing; her skin was paler than his own, it seemed, and the contrast between it and her dark hair was far too stark for his taste.
"I'll get the hawk," he said heavily, and stood; his legs refused to work for a moment, but he steadied himself and roughly pushed through the door –
And into a demonic flurry of wings and talons. He held up an arm to avoid the sharp points, but his face had earned a few more cuts and his sleeves were shredding before his eyes; the hawk whipped around and clawed at his face, something familiar about its movements but Zuko had a hard time placing it with a savage beak aiming for his eyes –
It stopped.
Landing on his shoulder placidly, the hawk extended its leg so that Zuko could untie the scroll. It was a thin paper, rather like the skin of an onion, covered in cramped, uneven handwriting.
The ocean surges neatly under the full moon
Transitive, changing hands, bondage and betrayal
Assume the pain of roaring fire
Assume the healing of the dragon
Assume the heart of the sacred Lady
The full moon wanes, freedom springs
"Well that's sufficiently cryptic," muttered Zuko in frustration. He breathed a bit of fire and almost threw the paper away but for a splotch of red ink that appeared between the lines of writing. Experimentally, Zuko breathed fire again; more characters appeared in smeared red ink. Irritated, Zuko noticed that the characters were written in some strange script; certain characters resembled those of his own language, but they were impossible to interpret.
"Uncle!" he called. The older man shuffled into the room quickly, alerted to the tension in his nephew's voice. Zuko shoved the paper into his hands. "I can't read this." Iroh had just stretched out the small scroll when the ship careened to the side; the sides of the ship were being punched in by force, and black water swept them brutally across the deck. From inside the cabin, a feral scream of pain and a sickening crunching noise were heard.
Masked men dressed entirely in black appeared; completely ignoring Zuko and Iroh, they made their way into the tiny cabin. A scuffle was heard, a hiss, a scream – and they came out of the cabin, Katara slung over the shoulders of one in only her wraps. Her captors had cut into the scar on her leg; she was bleeding freely, a strip of skin hanging grotesquely off her knee. Zuko brought himself up and assumed a bending stance as best he could on the sinking ship – in, down, through, out – and sent blue fire hurling toward the closes of the men. His legs were bruised, his face was bleeding, he could barely stand, and he released a barrage of fireballs and lightning, aiming to kill in his blind rage –
They disappeared. His fire went through them, and they disappeared completely, melting into thin air as though they had never been there. He ran, horrified, to all parts of the ship; but they had vanished into the atmosphere without warning, taking Katara with them.
"Unsanmushou," wheezed Iroh, and only then did Zuko realize that his uncle had been thrown hard against a railing; his arm stuck out at an odd angle from its socket, and his face was tight and pale. Zuko half-helped, half-dragged him into a sitting position; the old man grunted and pulled himself up with his good arm. The sea was calmer now, though still an ominous black; the ship had suffered a savage denting on the starboard side, and its engine had been disabled.
"Zuko, how much do you know about the Scarlet Orchid?" asked Iroh, surveying the damage through pained eyes. Zuko glanced at the deck, then back at his uncle, shaking his head. Iroh grimaced and pointed to the destroyed cabin. " Let's hope the message remains intact."
-
Doro-Doro Colonial Harbor.
-
She woke up to a vicious kick in the ribs that knocked the breath out of her and impaired her already-shallow breathing.
"Get up, you peasant whore," laughed the girl who had kicked her. "Your husband wants to see you." Wheezing, Katara opened her eyes; she was on the hard ground under a ragged red tent. Her hair had been cut off; what was left of it matted to her head and curled around her ears. And she was naked, only a wrap around her waist left as clothing.
"I said, get up!" screeched the girl, stepping on Katara's hand. Katara tried to move and more voices joined in the laughter; her arms were yanked back by chains, and she realized that she couldn't even sit upright. Then her nightmare became a reality. She was in a dirty tent surrounded by girls – some younger than her, some slightly older – all branded as she was, but all Fire Nation. They wore ugly, plain sack dresses and their hair cropped; their sunken golden eyes glittered menacingly as they watched the ringleader abuse Katara.
"What's wrong, peasant? Where's your tribal pride?" Her bare foot hovered over Katara's ribs and she stomped, hard; Katara's world went black for a moment, but she tried to cling to the present, dragging her consciousness with her.
"Now, now, ladies," said a male voice. Katara's vision was spotted with black; she could only make out a tall figure with rough pants before her vision slid back to nothingness. "Why the pettiness?" he asked in mock dismay. "You know how I dislike it if someone ruins my… collection." The man's gaze seemed to hover over each girl in turn. "Don't you?"
The ringleader lifted her chin defiantly, but said nothing; it was clear that she would not take the blame for Katara's state of affairs. The man seemed to know, however; he walked to her directly, lifted her chin with a finger, and held her gaze.
"Oh, Juuin," he sighed, making a great effort to sound distressed. A crack of heavy hand against bone made Katara snap her eyes open; the girl Juuin sank to the ground, crying, her jaw bearing a heavy slap mark that would probably bruise colorfully. The man looked around slowly, and each girl bowed her head away from his prying eyes.
"Should any of you think to so much as look at my exotic little specimen," said the man, enunciating every word, "you will find yourselves either working the swamp both shifts for a week, or sinking to the bottom of the harbor." Someone whimpered but was quickly silenced; the man waved vaguely toward the tent flap and the girls shuffled out, heads down. Only then did Katara notice something strange: some of the girls were missing their fourth finger below their knuckle, and many were missing it entirely. She attempted to move her head and see her own hand, but the chains were simply too tight; they held her open, vulnerable, limbs extended in such a way as would not let her bend. She opened her mouth to say something, but discovered that her throat was too dry.
The man turned from the tent entrance; for a moment, his silhouette reminded Katara of someone, but the thought vacated her mind when he walked toward her. She tried to swallow, but the dryness of her throat wouldn't let her. Bracing herself, she was still caught by surprise when the man ran his rough hands up and down her stomach; they stopped for a moment, cupped her hips, and continued down her legs, feeling the scar-brand with relish. They ran back up, and Katara could only watch as she was roughly handled by this stranger in places that nobody ever should have seen. He leaned close to her face; his fetid breath invaded her senses before he bore down on her, stroking her cruelly and bruising her lips with his own. She sobbed silently under him and remembered the last time those lips had been taken…
As always, they competed with each other; elemental opposites to the end, one's kisses were fervently hot and disordered, guided only by touch. The other responded with a cool intensity, frigid demands making themselves clear through lips otherwise occupied…
Abruptly, the man pulled himself up.
"You'll do," he said curtly, and left the tent. She was alone, then, ribs bruised, short of breath, dirty and naked; the tears leaked from her eyes and she was blind, as well, for the chains prevented her from wiping them. A vision stole over her, suddenly, a vision of fog and dark and quiet; before her, out of the ground itself, appeared a beautiful woman in a leaf dress.
I am Raihyou, she said, but it wasn't so much her saying it as it was her speaking directly into Katara's mind. I am the patroness of the innocent, the root of original sin, the Lady you have met once before. Katara wanted to ask her how she could be so many conflicting things, but could not summon the strength or voice. Raihyou transformed, then: she was a stealthy panther, a priestess, a child, a mother, and then –
Familiar face paint began to creep over Raihyou's face; Katara's eyes widened as the Painted Lady stood, arms outstretched, hovering over her.
You have earned this title, daughter, she said. I would not abandon you. Katara was able to glimpse the beginning of one last transformation before the spirit flowed over her, calming her, moistening her lips and throat so she could at last swallow. Her bruises and cuts faded, the pain wracking her body subsided, but she did not feel the brand on her leg disappear.
Do not worry, daughter, the voice comforted. I would not abandon you. Katara sank into a deep sleep; when she awoke, her pain would be a memory, and she would have a small crescent moon marked on the back of her neck.
-
Zuko's ship.
-
"The waning moon leads the way," read Iroh from the scroll that had somehow survived the infiltration. Zuko sat, helplessly, on the wreck of metal his cabin had become.
"The waning moon," he repeated softly. Above, a distant full moon winked back at him.