Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue.

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Chapter 4: The Third Day

"I'm still here."

She hears the words dimly as she sleeps, because her time in the cell has made her a light sleeper and truth be told she doesn't need much sleep anymore; her body has adapted to the late, dark hours of night, to falling asleep in the early hours of morning and lightly dozing. Her mind has adapted to a cycle of physical abuse that knows no end, to a cycle of fear and pain and hunger, and even in sleep she cannot escape the discomfort so she usually doesn't bother with it.

It's been a long, long time since her mind has rested easily and she's actually slept deeply. But she doesn't mind, because she doesn't remember ever sleeping well. She doesn't dream much anymore, either.

But even though she sleeps lightly and in the past any other sound would have been enough to jolt her awake, her eyes wide and her heart pounding and her muscles tense, the boy's words do not bother her.

Over time she has learned to judge a person's intentions just by listening to their voice, judging their tone, how quickly they say some words and how they drag out others, how they pause and plow right through. The words the boy had spoken had been soft, almost as though she had imagined them, soft and gentle and warm like the fire in her head, but more like embers than an actual blazing fire.

It soothes her; his tone, his voice, the pacing of his words. He soothes her, and she wonders if perhaps she knew him in a past life. It's a nice thought.

(He's not the boy she used to know but a man, at least in his own special way that's always been his. It's something she can't quite put her finger on, some kind of trait of his that has no name, something that hangs in the air around him that wasn't there when she knew him, when she loved him.

She knows he's changed, and she's kind of expected that. She still loves him anyway.

"Mai?"

He is the first to speak as they gaze across the distance of the room at each other, and suddenly that feeling—that trait, that trait of his that makes him a man in his own way—is gone, and he's the boy again, the boy she knew so well, the boy she loved and lost in a life neither of them want to remember. His voice is awkward and timid and deathly scared because he's lost so much, and all along he's prayed he hasn't lost her, too, because if he has…

His name rises from her throat, leaves her mouth without a thought, and she smiles.

"Zuko." She steps closer, closing the distance. "It's been a long time.")

Zuko.

The name (is that what it is, his name? What's a name, anyway?) sparks something deep within her subconscious, gentle yellows and oranges drifting along her mind's eye at the mere thought of his name. It sounds of fire and rage, of blood and red, and she knows it should scare her—but the memory, something in his name, also sounds gentle, kind, almost torn in two directions.

She feels as though she's heard his name numerous times, and has said it. Briefly, she wonders what her voice sounds like.

Zuko.

Huh. Somehow, it fits him.

Maybe she'll call him that from now on.

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A night of sitting vigil over Mai's sleeping form (How much sleep had she gotten in the prison? Surely not this much) left Zuko achy and a little slow to move around, but the result was worth it. Once again Mai had slept through the night, this time without her usual whimpers and tossing and turning. Slowly he lifted his hand away from hers, quickly running it through the messy mop of dark hair on his head. After a moment, he lowered his hand again and, in a leap of faith, gently rested the palm of his hand against her forehead.

The strands of dark hair beneath his skin still felt wet and kind of sticky, but Zuko figured that was more from the fever than anything else; he stayed that way for a few seconds before quietly breathing out in relief, lifting his hand away. "Looks like it's finally starting to go down," he murmured to no on in particular, surprised and pleased that Mai hadn't shivered or jerked away when he touched her.

Maybe she was finally getting used to him, in her own way.

If Mai's fever was starting to break, Zuko knew it wouldn't be long before they'd have to start traveling again. As much as he hated the thought of forcing her to keep moving before her strength had fully returned, he knew they couldn't afford to stay in one place for long, at least not until he was absolutely certain that Ozai had lost any and all interest in pursuing Mai.

Zuko couldn't help but wonder what had made Mai so sick to begin with. From what Azula had said Ozai had been treating her well, or at least well enough to keep her in a state of health that he found desirable. And from what Azula had also told him, Ozai had been visiting Mai every night; surely he would have noticed her health beginning to fail.

Unless… he'd just come to have his way with her…

Kill this thought dead.

No, but really, it made sense even as Zuko's stomach rolled…

With your shoe.

It was a logical thought! Why was his mind reacting so badly to it?

Thwack.

Well, that was the end of that, then.

Scowling a little, Zuko shook his head and huffed in frustration. As much as he hated it, he had to come to terms with what Ozai had done to Mai and accept that it had happened. Mai needed him to do at least that much. When she snapped out of her trance and became herself again (he had to believe she would, Agni, he had to), she'd need him.

Now that he thought about it, he had no clue how long it would take Mai to snap out of her trance and slowly become the girl he'd known. Even when she recovered from her fever and regained her strength, there was no guarantee she'd start talking again or go back to her old habits. She seemed to be accepting his timid advances at the moment, but he could barely judge that because she was still sick and unaware of herself.

Heck, assuming Mai would even go back to her old self was stupid on his part. Even if she regained her memories and her voice and her confidence, she would never be the same ever again. Assuming otherwise would be stupidity on his part.

And Zuko discovered that he didn't care how much this changed Mai.

He would still love her, whether she changed or stayed the same. When he got back to the safety of the village, he would ask Iroh to make her some tea. She'd always liked that. Maybe he'd even try and make it himself, though Iroh would probably mutter something about it being nasty-tasting and possibly poisonous in Mai's ear.

The image made Zuko smile tiredly, and it gave him something to believe in. He dozed off again with the image still fully formed in his brain.

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Zuko.

The name drifts in and out of her mind like a winged bird, always flitting out of her grasp as she tries to reach for it. It's annoying, but she doesn't give up. The boy's name is the first real, solid, human thought she's had in a long, long time, and she's not about to lose it now.

Zuko.

She repeats it silently in her head the way one would a treasured mantra, trying to ingrain it into her mind so she never loses it, so it never fades away from her the way her memories have. This name, for some reason, is just as important to her as her memories, possibly even more so.

Zuko.

Her mind scrambles, torn between this new concept of a name and the old habit of judging people by their faces and nothing more; one moment he is just a boy, a boy with golden eyes and wild hair and a scar, and the next he is Zuko (though she still doesn't know what Zuko is or why it's so important to her, why she feels the urge to fight for it). It's a relapse in some way, and she fights it desperately.

If she relapses, if she goes back to judging faces and nothing more, she knows she will never break out of this trance, this dreamlike state where she is only half aware of everything.

Zuko.

She wants, desperately, to be aware of everything again.

She wants to remember.

Because she knows, at least, that before this all started, before she was thrown into her own personal hell, she was somebody. Somebody with a name and a face and a family, somebody who smiled and laughed, somebody who loved and was loved in return.

Zuko.

This name—this boy, Zuko—is the link. Of that much she is certain.

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Zuko drifted in and out of consciousness most of the day, not even bothered by the faint rumblings of his belly. His body had long ago adapted to surviving off scant supplies of food, and now was no different. In a way, he was actually grateful for it; it gave him the time to doze, resting his weary body after such a long journey and a hasty escape.

He was barely awake, so when Mai first stirred he didn't really notice it, still half asleep himself and only partially aware of the world around him. It was only when she stirred the second time, her fingers lazily brushing her wrist, that he blinked groggily and opened his eyes, rubbing at them with the back of his hand. "Mai?" he asked. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Some part of him knew it was foolish to speak to her as though she could answer, but he had no way of knowing her condition; perhaps she could hear him. Maybe she could, because as soon as she heard his voice her fingers stilled. He frowned a little, studying her face, and gently brushed her hair back with his hand. Was her fever coming back? That could be it. Agni, how he wished he was a Waterbender with healing abilities right now…

Her lips moved.

For a second Zuko froze, his eyes wide as he stared, not quite believing what he was seeing; but no, her lips had in fact moved, barely so and without making a single sound. His heart stumbled, missed a beat, pounded faster than it had before.

Is she trying to speak?

Some part of Zuko knew it would be a long, long time before Mai could actually speak, assuming she hadn't said a word since her imprisonment and had most likely forgotten what her own voice sounded like, but at the moment he didn't care. All he could focus on was Mai, and the internal battle she seemed to be waging just to move her mouth of her own free will.

She stilled for a moment, her lips curving down in a frown even as she slept, still drifting in a world Zuko couldn't pull her out of. Zuko felt his heart sink and he wondered if perhaps she had given up, if perhaps she had surrendered to whatever war was going on within her body.

And then, her lips moved again. One last time, she seemed to be thinking. Let me try this one last time.

Once again, her lips moved; slowly, haltingly, as though she had forgotten how to do so. But she didn't stop. And this time, her lips made a word, a name he could recognize though she still made no sound.

Zuko.

She said his name, silently, wordlessly. But it was his name.

A part of her remembered him.

And for the first time since beginning his journey to bring her back, Zuko smiled.

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I honestly have no comment on this chapter.

Read and review, please!