He remembers the first time he stumbled upon her practicing her bending. They'd been at the Western Air Temple, and the moon was high in the sky. Silence had descended over the camp as everyone had fallen asleep; even the fire had ceased to crackle as it too had succumbed to slumber. And yet he had lain awake, the buzzing and clicking noises of the cicadas mirroring the thoughts that whirred through his mind.
He had been thinking about the twelve year old little boy he was helping to train- a boy who was entirely too young to have the fate of the world resting upon his small shoulders. He had been thinking about his sister, about his father, about the Agni damned war that had killed too many innocents, had shattered too many childhoods, all as a result of his family's ruthless ambition. Guilt had twisted and curled in his gut, and had made sleep impossible.
He needed a release for his emotions, needed the fire that flamed in his belly to be worked out through his limbs, needed the intensity of his movements and the sweat on his brow to cool the frantic workings of his weary mind. So he had left his pallet and gone in search of somewhere distant from the group in which he could bend out his frustrations and his guilt and his anger and his fear without waking anyone.
And then he had seen her.
She had been standing in a fountain, her hair soaked with water, her limbs and torso slick with her element, her face tilted up to the moon. She had been twisting her hands smoothly and gracefully, a stream of water following her movements languidly. The moonlight made her seem paler than she was, more beautiful, more ethereal. There was something entirely untouchable about her then, her soft face lifted, her lips curved up into a small smile.
And then suddenly, upon further inspection, she had seemed all too lovely, all too touchable. Her white bindings were see-through from the water, and he could see where her dark nipples were on the swell of her budding breast. A drop of water had been sliding down her torso, heading down to the juncture of his thighs. He had flushed with embarrassment at the time, and had crept away as quickly as possible with all the stealth of the blue spirit. Still, the image had remained in his mind, and it had been the inspiration of many a late night fantasy for years.
He shakes his head a little, and watches her now. She is no longer standing in a crumbling old fountain, but rather she is waist deep in the pool of the Royal Gardens. Like the first time, her face is tilted up to the moon, her arms moving slowly and languidly. But this time, there is a difference. Where a girl on the cusp of maturity had once stood, a woman now stands
Gone were the bulky bindings of the past. Tonight, she wears a silk robe that slips off her shoulders and clings to full breasts, wide hips, and lean thighs. Her once soft and childish face has morphed into that of a rare and exotic beauty with long lashes and full lips. He remembers how for years, the image of her childish body had tormented him, how he had dreamed about removing those hideous bindings and kissing those small breasts and running his hands over those narrow hips. That image now seems so innocent, so far away.
Where had his little Katara gone? And who is this sensuous woman who has taken her place? It is amazing what two years of separation can do, he thinks, and he steals away from his hiding place as quietly as possible.
He knows that this new image of her will haunt him for years to come, much like the image of the first time he'd seen her bending had. They have changed, she and Zuko. He had become Fire Lord, she a stunning woman and remarkable ambassador. But while they have changed… well, some things never will.