"Why is it whenever something happens to him, you're always there?" Katara lifted her face from her hands, not bothering to turn around to face the speaker.

"What?" Her voice was hoarse.

"Every time he's managed to get himself into a life-threatening situation, which I might add is pretty frequently, you're around."

"So?"

"So… I don't know, is it that you just never leave him alone, or-" His jaw clamped shut as Katara swivelled around in her seat to face him. Her eyes were bloodshot, her eyelids pink and swollen, underlined with heavy purple bags. Crystalized salt glinted on her cheeks, though by her set, exhausted expression he could tell she had already shed all her tears. "You look awful," he said honestly. Katara blinked at him.

"What are you trying to say, Zuko?" she asked wearily. Realizing he hadn't picked his previous words very well, the Firelord scratched at his goatee nervously, trying to mould an appropriate, sensitive-sounding sentence.

"Well, uh, I guess… He's pretty lucky. To, uh, to have you around to… You know, to… Fix him." There was a long silence. Zuko started to fiddle with his goatee again, and looked at the floor. Despite years of being force-fed his uncle's infinite wisdom, he had yet to have any luck in recollecting any of it under the appropriate circumstances. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, feeling the weight of Katara's stare. "I'll go now," he said stiffly, slipping through the doorframe. "Sorry-"

"Thank you." He hesitated, glancing over his shoulder. "For everything." Her expression hadn't changed. And yet there was something in her voice that told him she had understood the meaning behind the clumsy words.

"I'll send for some more rags." And that was the end of the conversation.

Katara frowned, turning to face the bed once more. Between the twisted red sheets she had smoothed out hundreds of times during the week lay a pale, ashen ghost of a man. His breath came in shallow, deathly rattles, so quiet that sometimes Katara had to lean in to hear if they still came. Sure enough, to her immense relief she had heard them every time.

In, out, in out. But so faint.

"He's right you know." She winced, squeezing her eyes shut. "You are always there." Katara pulled her knees to her chest, burying her face in the warm blue fabric.

"Go away," she muttered. "This is hard enough without you here."

"Have I upset you?"

"No," mumbled Katara into her skirt. "No, you haven't."

"Then what's wrong?" Hot breath on the rim of her jaw caused Katara to shudder. "Tell me what's wrong. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong." Her breath hitched in her throat as long, warm fingers traced the back of her neck, weaving themselves into a comfortable tangle in her hair.

"Stop it," she whispered.

"I only want to help."

"I don't want your help!" Katara's head snapped up, her face twisted in agony. "Don't you get it?"

"No." Jerking to her feet, Katara stalked towards the window. It was open, and letting in a chill. She slammed it shut.

The room was pitched into a reddish darkness, but for the eerie orange glow of a lantern on a table by the bed. It illuminated the various curiously curved metal instruments beside it, which glinted horribly in the low light. Katara suddenly felt sick. Halfway back to her chair, she stopped, having seemingly changed her mind about the window. She started for it again, before another intangible force prevented her from reaching it. And so Katara paced back and forwards over the rug, snarling like a caged animal.

"What's wrong, Katara?" The voice was soft, gentle; full of empathy and reassurance. She stopped, shoulders sagging in defeat. She slowly turned on the spot to face a tall young man dressed in orange standing on the opposite side of the room. He smiled gently, his grey eyes crinkling pleasantly as he did so. His skin wasn't sallow, he wasn't ghostly. He was as solid and warm and full of life as he had been at the coronation celebration. Looking him square in the eyes, Katara whispered:

"Why can't I save you?" Suddenly, he was in front of her, firmly gripping her shoulders.

"But you already have. So many times." Katara twitched as he pressed his forehead to hers. She drew a sharp breath, and her eyes slid shut.

"That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean?"

"Why," Katara's voice suddenly cracked with rage. "Why can't I stop it?"

"Stop what?"

"Stop this from happening!" Katara screamed, pushing away from him. She stomped towards the window again. "To me! To you! You say I'm always there to save you, but what if I'm not? What then? Why can't I save you once, and let that be enough!" She had run out of tears days ago. Instead, her eyes began to itch something terrible, and she rubbed at them as she whirled around to face him once again. "Why can't-" Her hands fell to her sides, and the breath abruptly left her lungs.

He had vanished, leaving her standing alone in the middle of the dark room.

All alone but for the feeble breaths of his living counterpart.