Jin was holding white lilies.
She had no money to buy flowers. She had stolen them from a vendor in Masabi.
Jin was standing before a freshly-dug mound of earth, beneath a barren cherry blossom tree.
She had no money for workers. She had dug the grave herself.
And Jin had placed a slab of rock upon the head of the grave, as she had no money to purchase a tombstone.
Her father's name she had written upon the stone in cheap charcoal. The first rain would wash it away, but she hoped, at least for some time, that the people would refrain from walking on the old man's grave. Her tears were silent and her eyes were empty; a wind blew from the North, a terrible and haunting howling in the leafless cherry blossoms.
Jin held herself and stared at her father's grave a long time.
There was no tea shop in Masabi. There was no money in her pocket. There was no one waiting for her at the city gates.
"I know you told me to stay away, Jet. But you are all I have now."
She placed the white lilies upon the grave. Then she turned and left, walking briskly down the hill, towards the Desert, towards Acchai, towards the Union.
Wind blew through the branches of the barren cherry blossom. It groaned and cracked, as though corrupted, destroyed. A world consumed in fire.
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Katara was clothed in white. It was traditional, for all women who entered the High Temple, to be dressed in this way; clothed in a color of purity, of truth and respect. The Doves themselves wore only white, ever only the bleached and staring white - starched, colorless, fur-lined robes with no creases, folded delicately around their tiny forms, thin from fasting and prayer. Their shoes were white, and their gloves were white, and each Dove's delicate, ceremoniously carved Moon-Amulet was white. White and bright as a full moon, as a fresh layer of snow upon the frozen tundra of the North. Their skin seems shades darker in comparison, their eyes made of black opal; the sweeping locks of their ebony hair were as midnight, and the picture of them was uncanny, surreal, contradictory. Katara was in awe of them, but she was also intimidated, unsure.
In respect of the Acchain custom, a white shawl had been brought for Katara to wrap about her head, in place of the niqab. The Doves assisted her to the Altar, as it was in the very highest arcs of the Temple, closest as the Tribe could approach the moon. It took near fifteen minutes to climb the great, winding staircase to the High Halls, to the Altar of the Moon Spirit; the staircase was made of cold, white marble, draped with fur of the winter wolf to represent Amarok, the Hunting Spirit. The great, Gray Wolf was the source of all things to the Tribe, the Hunter, the swift and silent spirit that stalked the edges of the Northern Waste and guided lost Tribesmen home. Even Katara knew of Amarok, and she feared and loved him just as all those of the Tribe feared and loved him.
It was late, and the halls had been lit with flickering red candles, illuminating the many river-daughters and ocean-nymphs of Tribe lore. Great pillars of glistening marble stood about the small waterbender, dwarfing her shadowed form. The High Altar was placed beneath a great opening in the vaulted ceiling, which allowed the starlight to illuminate Yue's shining, carven white figure; immobilized as she was, etched forever into solid stone surface of the Temple wall, a certain, eerie vitality lingered about her frame. Sometimes, in the shadows and moving light cast by the candles, her sweeping, billowing form seemed to move and drift; her blank, staring white eyes seemed to blink, seemed to look straight through you.
Katara had lit all the candles before the High Altar, the place of worship and homage to the Mistress in the Moon, Yue the Virgin Spirit. She had little idea of how to worship the Mistress, despite the brief instruction of the Doves. In fact, she had little, if any idea why she had even come here. Yue was not her goddess, despite her lineage, and Katara had little belief she would hear her. But Katara knew, also, that there was nowhere else to turn; the memory of the Black lane haunted her, and no one could share in her frustration, her grief.
She felt weak, helpless, just as she had in the terrible halls of Al-Abhad, in their flight from Masabi. It ate at her, the empty faces of the dying, the way the Tribe turned away, ignored, forgot.
"Zuko."
Katara breathed it against the flickering of the candles, and it became smoke, curling upwards into the dark rafters of the Temple.
No one answered her.
She needed his strength. She needed his fierce, fiery soul to support her. Zuko would not have seen the Black Lane and allowed it to exist; he would not have tolerated the misery and the agony, the reluctance of the Tribe. He would have stormed his way to the doors of Arnook's quarters and demanded action be taken, no matter what any Chief or healer said.
Katara could not help but smile at the thought of it. Zuko, enraged, probably melting the floor beneath his feet with angry flame.
And then she was reminded, again, of hardly-skinned skeletons, of corpses lying beside the living. She felt her stomach churn.
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Zuko's hands were still broken. He was lying on his side in the cold midnight sand, his back towards the embers of a swiftly dying fire. Various other slaves were huddled around him, so close to the flame they seemed ready to throw themselves into the ashes. They were all of different ages, all men, having been separated from the woman-slaves early on in the slave-stock; Hama, thankfully, was no longer near enough to curdle Zuko's blood with her sick smile. Many of the slaves were wounded, with hands broken like Zuko's - that, or great, deep whip-gashes glistened across their backs (these were older slaves, who had possessed former masters). He was on the outer skirts of their huddled, smelly, filthy mass, barren skin pressed to barren skin, Zuko himself barely able to keep warm because of his fire-breathe.
Zuko was destroyed by the betrayal of Myobu, enraged at his helplessness. He stared out into the dark, into the vast, shadowed expanse of the Desert.
"...Katara..."
Zuko breathed it into the frozen night air, and it came out in a silent mist, forgotten snow falling to the blood-red sand.
No one answered him.
He tried to leave reality. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a place - any place - other than the cold night-washed Desert he lay abandoned in. He tried to imagine her.
He found himself in the depths of the Library. There was no Wan Shi Tong, he discovered; there were no Runners, no staring eyes in the dark, no haunt of man or spirit's footsteps. He was gazing at her down upon the floor from his couch, her body spread across the rainbow variety of sheets and pillows and cushions. Her niqab was undone and she was looking up at him, smiling.
She beckoned him, and he came to her. His hands were not broken, not in this half-awake dream of his; he was running his fingers through her hair, down her cheek, across her soft skin. And she was soft - soft, and warm, and welcoming.
He imagined his hands on her thighs, and her hot breathe against him. Her small, delicate fingers were tracing his lips.
They buried the Black Warrior. They buried him in the red sand so he would shrivel and dry and die.
It was, at the moment, the most unpleasant way Zuko could be wrenched from his daydream.
You cannot smell it. Your mortal flesh is weak, and you cannot smell it.
Myobu's red coat was diminished in the deep dark of the Desert night, his form visible only against the golden glow of the Thieves' campfires. His eyes were bright and wide and wild, and within the moving shadows they did not even resemble eyes; they were twin comets, rogues of the heavens, caught forever within the snarling, eerily-confused face of the Spirit-Fox. Myobu was before Zuko's, moving about in the dark, a wolf stalking, preparing its moment to strike. It took Zuko a long moment to answer the Fox, his throat stuck, choked with fear, with fury.
"I smell a fucking shitbag, gǒuzǎizi," Zuko's snarl was almost as terrific and animalistic as Myobu's.
Myobu did not respond. He paced before the chained firebender, snarling, growling, tossing his head and shoulders as though some dark thought hung on him like a pecking crow. He shook his fiery coat and trembled and clawed at the sands, restless and irate. At some point his great, massive jaw opened wide, and there was blood on his gums from grinding his sharp teeth; he snapped at the blackness of the air, as though trying to silence, destroy, devour whatever evil thing was digging at his mind. This went on for some time, with Zuko watching perplexed and angered and awed; the distressed Myobu grew more and more anxious as the minutes passed, more and more distraught. Finally, and with complete commitment, Myobu pressed his muzzle to the ground and began to tear, ruthlessly, at his nose.
At the sight of the Fox's claws tearing into his own snarling face, fresh reminders of pain surged up from Zuko's hands. He writhed and groaned, but did not take his eyes from the Fox. Myobu seemed all too intent on ripping his nose off, so intent it was nerve-racking.
"Myobu?" Zuko could hardly dare to say the spirit's name. Myobu snarled, still tearing at his muzzle, allowing only a second for his eyes to snap up and glare at the firebender.
Gui Xian tortures me! Tortures me with smells of the ancients, with smells of the Void and the Deep World!
Myobu's jaw snapped together with a loud, metallic clip. He dug three great claws into his soft, black nose, and it burst into a streamer of fresh blood.
Zuko cringed, drawing his hands in towards his chest. Weak and alone and enslaved, the firebender struggled to keep composure, especially before the apparently unstable form of the Spirit-Fox. Blood was pouring from Myobu's nose onto the red sand, and still the spirit was tearing away, his flaming eyes beacons in the dark.
"You're out of your fucking mind," Zuko finally managed.
Myobu snarled, writhed, sprang towards the firebender. Zuko tensed and spat fire between his teeth, but there was little else he could do, preparing for the inexplicable wrath of the Spirit.
But Myobu stopped before the heir of Agni. His bloody teeth were bared, saliva stained red, inches from the firebender's face; Zuko could feel the Fox's hot breathe, see the glistening white spires of his great fangs. Myobu's form shook, shivered, threatened to strike again with a halting jerk forward.
You! You must awaken him!
And Myobu wrapped his jaw around Zuko's upper arm and took off, dragging him suddenly to the Thieve's rock.
Zuko roared as teeth pierced his flesh. Myobu had not grasped him hard enough to shatter bone, nor tear rivets into his already scarred skin - but he was not in enough in a right mind to keep his grip soft enough, and blood began to slide down Zuko's arm in thin streams. The firebender yelled and fought, but this only further slashed his skin against Myobu's fangs, and he could not use his broken hands to fend the creature off. In mounting agony and fury, the firebender was dragged across the earth by his blood-wet arm, kicking wild streams of sand behind him, body leaving grooves in the Desert. Myobu's pace constant and immovable, his eyes briliiant, both he and Zuko's blood dripping from his jaw as he ran.
When they reached the black rock, Myobu did not pause or hesitate before recoiling all his muscles and springing upwards to mount the cold stone. Zuko thrashed desperately as the Fox began to leap, in bounds, up the face of the rock; with each and every landing, the firebender was slammed hard into the unrelenting stone, causing a brief and painful tremor to resound through his form. In a moment, though, he was wrenched into the air again, as Myobu leapt upwards, still dragged solely by the arm trapped in the Fox's jaw. The jerking, violent motion flung him hard, at every impossible angle, into the face of the black rock. His back tore from the brutality of it, and bruises soon began forming on his sun-scorched skin amidst the gashing. Zuko roared and flailed, but it was to no avail, and probably more to his detriment - by the time they reached the summit of the rock, his back was all scattered cuts and bruising, and Myobu had left puncture wounds in the flesh of his arm.
The Fox deposited him roughly and instantly in the midst of that hexagon, that ominous, strange-feeling stone. Zuko rolled up upon his knees from where the Fox had dropped him, still clutching his hands feebly to his chest, muttering curses and quick, sudden gasps of pain.
"Ah - Agni - God, you motherfucker -"
Myobu was not even listening. He had returned to his spot on the far side of the hexagon, trembling and salivating and bleeding from his torn gums. His glistening red coat seemed ragged now, blood drying on his front, body trembling constantly, violently. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed, pupils shrunk, bloodshot and full of unholy fire. The Spirit was steadily and horribly falling to pieces.
Awaken Gui Xian. Awaken the Black Warrior.
The Fox's voice was desperate, strained, insistent. But it was not a request, not even a demand - it was a threat, and Myobu's eyes were crazed, insane.
"Fuck..." Zuko had no idea what to say. He had no idea what was happening anymore. He could not clutch at the wounds on his arm or back, hands still broken and bleeding now from his violent abduction to the rock. Confused, betrayed, and probably at death's door, he closed his eyes, choosing to ignore the Fox. Weak with apin, with rage, with uncertainty, he turned his mind back to Katara.
She was smiling at him. She was running her fingers through his hair.
"AL AN! ASRE'!"
The sacred language struck the air like fire from heaven, a thousand spears on the Spirit's tongue; it sent Zuko straight to the ground, compelled by voices from the Void.
And then, as Zuko collapsed forward, cry half-choked from the weight of the the ancient tongue, a strange, altogether unexpected thing happened. Zuko, still upon his knees, tumbled forwards so that his broken hands pressed roughly to the hexagon floor. He opened his mouth to cry in pain, but no sound came; there was one tremor through the black stone, and one only.
Zuko did not at first realize what had happened. The pain was gone so instantaneously that he wavered in disbelief for a long moment, perplexed, amazed. No cuts on his back, no bruises on his skin, no mark of teeth in his arm. He stared at the full, healed look of his hands, turning them over, pondering them in the dark.
It was in this moment a Thief mounted the summit of the rock. He had seen Myobu's form, barely, dragging a great figure up the winding path. Whether in idiocy or in courage, the Thief had followed the rogue Spirit to the peak, to the very hexagon embedded in the black stone.
"Mtwana!" the man yelled, angrily, in his barbaric language. Zuko could hear his approach behind him, thud of footsteps on the strange blackened rock.
He chanced a glance at Myobu. The Fox was still panting, gums bloody, eyes like hellfire.
The Thief approached from behind, recognizing the man in the hexagon as a runaway slave. No doubt he intended some sort of creative punishment for Zuko; but Zuko was looking at Myobu.
The Fox seemed small, gray. He was shaking.
And Zuko realized, suddenly inexplicably, that Myobu was about to die.
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Katara breathed deeply, smelled the incense, felt the cold tears beneath her eyes. They dripped down, silent and empty, and soaked the edge of the white shawl she wore about her face.
Hollow eyes and swollen stomachs. Crusted blood and bile.
"Please," Katara broke beneath the memory of the Black Lane, and said it without thinking, and then managed to compose herself. She took another deep breathe of the incense, and then bowed her head toward in white were drifting past at every other moment, and she felt humbled and uncertain before the pedestal of the Moon Goddess.
"I am no Dove," she said slowly, in not much more than a whisper. "And I have always been a lady of the Acchain spirits - of Saraswati, and Lakshmi. But... but I come before you now, Yue. I come before a child of the Aurora Tribe, of your people. I come before you confused, and with no one else to go to."
The flames on the candle seemed to flicker, but it was only a draft from the high opening in the ceiling. There was little starlight drifting from the sky, half-shadowed with gray cloud. Katara hesitated, and looked up, humbly, at the blank and powerful eyes of Yue.
The Moon Goddess stared down at her, cold and stern. But there was also kindness in her gaze. Also grace. It gave the waterbender the smallest glimmer of hope.
"I do not believe you will speak to me," she kept her eyes on Yue. "But... I had to add my voice..."
She looked around her, then, to see if any Doves were near. She did not wish to offend any of those who were striving, hard, to solve the same crisis that plagued the Black Lane; the Doves themselves gave all they had to those in the Black Lane, to the Virgin Yue, to kindness and mercy and healing. When she surmised she was safe and alone, she returned her focus to Yue.
"There is great suffering in the Aurora Tribe, with the people of the North. Many are sick... and many are dying. They say there is no cure. the healers - your most precious children - they can do little to ease the suffering. I ask you to com to the aid of a people in grief. They are your daughters. They are the sons of Amarok."
And she bowed, pressing her forehead to the floor, spreading her palms out before her, faced up towards the heavens.
"I implore the Virgin. I implore Yue, the Mistress in the Moon. I implore you for help."
She lay prostrate before the Altar a long time. There was no sound in the halls of the High Temple, aside from the whistle of distant wind, and the low drum of footsteps in lower halls. The candles crackled from where they stood, unsure, at Yue's cold, lifeless Altar. Katara's hands grew cold as they lay upon the floor, as cold as the frozen tundra of the North, as cold as the dying people in the streets of the Black Lane. As cold as the despair in Katara's heart, as the utter and terrible futility of her prayers.
Tears sprang to her eyes. She kept her forehead pressed to the ground, crying silently onto the marble floor. It was a long while before she raised herself from the white rock, a long time before she possessed enough strength to sit up. The edge of her white shawl was soaked, but she did not much care; let the Doves know she had been crying. Let them know she had sobbed before the Altar of Yue. She had probably not been the first to break down before the silent, staring portrait of the Moon Goddess. The cruel and silent Virgin.
Snow was drifting down from the slit in the ceiling, a light, wispy snow. Katara opened her palm and let a flake touch, gently, upon her dark, Tribal skin. She closed her fingers around it and it melted to a frail droplet; she let it drip through her fingers, and raised her face again to Yue.
Perhaps she was despairing, and would have continued to cry. Perhaps she was angry, and would have thrown herself, fists flailing, mouth cursing, upon the Altar. Perhaps she had even resigned to the futility of her coming, resigned to the existence of the Black Lane. All in all, it was not remembered in the end.
Because there was a feather upon the Altar. A white feather, delicate as a fresh snowflake.
Snow fell lightly around Katara, fell around her like whispers, like things forgotten.
A cold night and a red moon. A girl with white hair falling... falling.
Katara stared at the feather.
Aasef, sagheer ta'er.
I am sorry, Little Bird.
And then part of the Yue, part of her great, marble-white portrait, moved.
An owl had perched upon the Altar. It was huge, as large as an Acchain gold-eagle; when it moved, its wings stretched out on either side and gathered up a full seven feet in length, soft and beautiful and imposing. It stared calmly at the frozen waterbender before the Altar, its wide, unblinking eyes huge and dark and blue as the ocean deeps. Its thick, white coat glimmered faintly in the gathering dark, in the illumination of the red candles upon the Altar. Intelligence flickered in its gaze and there was purpose to its movement; lolling its head from side to side, it shuffled along the edge of the Altar, moving steadily closer to the waterbender. Its yellow talons dug into the stone as it moved, leaving scratches on the marble.
Katara's breathe was caught. She tried to tell herself, remind herself, that it was just an owl - only an owl.
The owl cocked its head to one side and studied her. There were shadows moving behind the blue in its eyes.
"...Go... away with you, owl..." but Katara's hand did not move to shoo the beast. She was motionless, watching the creature desperately, intently. Waiting.
The owl opened its mouth and gave a startling, echoing cry.
Katara jumped horribly when she heard it, but the owl remained still. Instantly she grew angry at herself, and half rose to finally swat the bird away.
Hadee', sagheer ta'er.
And the ancient sound stopped her.
Go to Nabau in the deep jungle. Find the Many-Colored Serpent.
And then the owl leapt from the Altar and disappeared through the wide opening in the ceiling, flying up to the high heavens and the clouded stars.
It left only a feather upon the Altar.
Slowly, Katara stood from the marble floor. Her hand shaking, she reached and took the feather from the Altar, the unreal feeling of the delicate thing in her hand.
She looked up, blindly, disbelievingly, at the blank, white eyes of the Virgin Yue.
They stared back blue.
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Acchai was quiet and watchful. The threat of Zuko had diminished significantly in the time of his absence, but the threat still loomed over the war-lands. Encamped in a shaded, tucked away valley on the edge of the Hamun-Jat river, the army was growing more skilled - but it also grew more restless.
Sen Su had long been intent at carving shafts for his iron-tipped arrows; so long, in fact, that it was beginning to bother his smaller brother Lee. The other archers had long finished the training drills the young Sen Su had given them, and were lazing around idly, unsure why their Captain ignored them. Pipsqueak had long been enlisted by Hakoda to help train warriors who could not bend; he was an obedient and efficient teacher that the Chief found much use for, especially in discipline. The gigantic man may have had little in regards to brains, but his fierce and loyal spirit was more than enough compensation for the setback of his intelligence.
The man's current task was in transporting great spears and swords and armor from various smiths and tradesmen; the army was not as well-suited as it could have been, and Hakoda had immediately began rectifying this situation. As Pipsqueak deposited his most recent load beside a group of armor-less soldiers, he noticed the archer sitting aside. he noticed, also, the idleness of the archers under his charge, and even in his dull-witted mind, surmised something awry.
"How your training go?" Pipsqueak attempted, despite the fact that Sen Su looked less than approachable. The archer ignored the giant and continued to tear ruthlessly at the wood with his carving-knife. Pipsqueak sighed, scratched the back of his head.
"...I think Song make rabbit-stew tonight. My favorite," he grinned in delight. Sen Su said nothing; just tossed aside the finished arrow and picked u another branch of wood.
Pipsqueak was saved from another conversation attempt by the passing of the General. Jeong-Jeong, annoyed at the conditions of Zuko's departure, was no less the loyal to his duty. And his past attachments to Hakoda still existed, aside from whatever disagreements he harbored with the Chief's more merciful tactics; that, and despite his denouncement of the importance of destiny, he possessed the same Acchain faith in the Avatar. If this Heir of Agni had a destiny intertwined with the Savior, then it was Jeong-Jeong's sacred duty to aid him in conquest. No other ruler was fit to unite the war-lands; no other ruler would Jeong-Jeong bow to, in the end. Sen Su, however, was young and foolish, and when he saw the great firebender walked by he leapt from his seat to speak with him.
"General! General, when will my Lord return?" there was no hesitation on the General's part.
"Concentrate on training your archers."
Jeong-Jeong brushed by the young Sen Su with a cold and discontented air. The threat of the Runners had been growing in the back of his mind, a quiet but persistent evil, and the General had little time for the musing and doubts of a foolish warrior youth. His firebenders were growing excellently in their training, but nothing, of course, was quite excellent enough to please the General.
Sen Su stood silent a minute, and then begrudgingly returned to his seat with the branch. A deeply clouded look had possessed most of his face and Pipsqueak, concerned but brave, put his hand on the young archer's shoulder.
"Lord will return soon. No worries, ey?" he tried. The archer shrugged his hand away.
"And where has he gone, oh enlightened one?" Sen Su spat ill-humoredly. Pipsqueak hesitated a moment, but then went on confidently:
"He goes to Thieves. He finds help. That's what he doing."
"Or he has fled," Sen Su muttered, and even Pipsqueak, his loyal friend, seemed deeply disturbed by the archer's comment.
"Sen Su, he is good Lord. He good to us both. He be back."
"We all saw him go," Sen Su spat bitterly, and his discontent was now drawing the attention of other warrors. "We saw him run, right after the fight with Mongke's men. How do we know he did not simply run with his tail between his legs?"
"I hope sometimes, Sen Su, that your grip on that bow is not as loose as your tongue."
Hakoda was behind Sen Su. The other warriors looked away, ashamed in the presence of the Chief, ashamed for Sen Su's ramblings. Sen Su stopped carving and stood, slowly, to face the stern-faced Chieftan.
Around them, the army seemed to slow and watch. Restless and discontent as they all were, none of them had yet voiced their darkest thoughts: that the Lord Zuko had betrayed and abandoned them. No one would yet dare to think such things of the Heir of Agni, and it was Sen Su's weakness, not his courage, that forced him to speak. They had seen Myobu run with the Lord; they had seen death haunt his footsteps. They had seen it and known it and kept it in their hearts.
Sen Su, however, had a weak heart. Sen Su had forgotten.
"What right have you to be dishonoring your Lord this way?" Hakoda asked, without allowing Sen Su to open his mouth to explain. The Chief had little patience for rumors and idle talk, and behavior such as Sen Su's was not tolerable in his mind. "You know he rides to the aid of us all. If you are to stir up lies in your Lord's absence than you are not worthy to serve him."
Tension sparked. From some distant corner, Jeong-Jeong snapped his fingers and lit his pipe disinterestedly. He had no respect, and consequently no fear, for the young Sen Su. If the archer had known this, he may have re-evaluated the position in which he stood.
"I know only the warning that lies in my heart," Sen Su responded bravely.
"Than you forget the mercy of your Lord," Hakoda declared, and his voice has risen to a fiercer tone that made several men step back in anticipation. Sen Su did not retreat, but a hesitant gleam came into his eye. "You forget, young archer, that it was Lord Zuko of Agni who spared your brother's hand. It was Lord Zuko of Agni who gave you rank, who gave you high esteem among this army. If not for the Lord of Agni, you would be begging on a roadside, without Lord, home, or cause to fight. You forget, young archer, and in forgetting you dishonor your Lord."
The archer swallowed, but Hakoda saw no remorse in his eyes. The same dark thought was in his mind, and the presence of it drew up a wrath little-seen in the Chieftan. So with the army watching, in full view of Pipsqueak, and his brother Lee, Hakoda grabbed the front of the archer's collar with a rough, angry grip that forced the man to look him in the eye.
"You are young, Sen Su. Young, and strong, and proud. And for that reason I council you not to trust too much in your heart."
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Aang had stopped shaving his head since the events at Masabi. He had done it subconsciously, for he still had access to razors and knives - but in some strange way, this seemed to be the airbender's way of lamenting his horrific mistake in the Emperor's city. It was the glory of a monk, the honor of a peace-seeker, to shave his head and deny these certain physical vanities. Yet Aang, having betrayed this rule, betrayed the teachings of Gyatso, now wore a shaggy head of black hair over his sacred arrow tattoo. In the time from their departure from Masabi and their few weeks in the Aurora Tribe, it had grown considerably, and was now dropping well past his ears.
It was getting in Aang's eyes as he took Toph's hand, leading her slowly down the winding paths from the high bridge, careful on the ice. Morning light was beginning to break upon the Northern Aurora Tribe, reflecting off glaciers brighter than any glass mirror; but there were dark, heavy clouds rushing in from the south, and Aang knew there would be snow soon.
He took Toph down to the stables in the lower levels of the city, where they were keeping Appa and Momo. Aang's staff, along with a few of his travel belongings (armor he had saved from Acchai, some currency from the Union, and other such things) had been stowed there for safe keeping. He was also hoping to swing by the very early market stalls, and get them food for their journey. To do this before dawn fully broke, Aang knew he would have to work quickly, while still being mindful of Toph's increased incapability on the ice.
"Toph, we needs ta' be gettin' down ta' the market, see's if'n they got some food we can grab right quick -"
"You get me down there, and I'll take care of it, Aang," said Toph, and for the first time that night there was that familiar, confident laughter in her voice. "The market vendors always end up giving me food free. You know, me being blind and all."
Aang felt a smile spread across his face as Toph told him this. Leading the earthbender around a corner towards the market stands (only a few of them were selling this early, so there would be slim pickings; but it was better that they not wait for the larger vendors to open) he outright laughed.
"Why are you laughing?" but there was a smile on Toph's face beneath the niqab.
"I'm fair sure there's more reason fo' it than tha'," Aang confided in her, and as he said this he drew her in closer, running his thumb across the back of his hand. Her misted eyes grew bright, and even without seeing Aang knew her cheeks flushed.
"What do you mean?"
"Ah, y'know, Toph - most 'em vendors is 'ard young guys. Jus' sayin' - they on'y givin' free eats to the pretty girls," and he squeezed her hand as he said it.
"Then I'll take it as a complement, twinkletoes," she was clearly blushing, flattered; she even giggled, which drove the Avatar wild.
"Y'should," and Aang couldn't resist anymore; he wrapped his arm quickly around her slender waist and kissed her briefly on the forehead.
They gathered up a few supplies, with Toph leading the way (she did get most of it free, aside from a very bitter-looking older woman who demanded five crescent pieces for loaf of her bread, a rathe routrageous price). They were close to the stables and the docks at that point, so Aang cut through a few back alleys to lead them to Appa's location. The stables were the only few wooden buildings in all the Aurora Tribe, so they were not particularly difficult to find - and even though it wasn't earth that Toph stood on inside, it was a relief from the layers of ice and snow.
Momo leapt to Aang's shoulder when they entered, chirping ecstatically as he did so. Upon seeing the lemur happy and in good health, a rush of joy went through the airbender. But there was really not much time for reunion, despite the lemur's excitement; Aang went directly to the storage closets to locate his missing things, leaving Toph beside a sleeping, still bandaged Appa.
"Aight, Toph, I'm a needs ya' to 'elp me," Aang said, handing over the bag of market-food to her as he dragged his own satchels out from the closet. As he threw them over his shoulders, Toph felt blindly up Appa's side for the strap of his leather saddle. When she felt only smooth, deep fur, she returned her focus to Aang.
"Where's Appa's saddle?" she asked quietly. She knew they would be stealing the bison, even though everyone considered him property of the airbender. Aang took her hand as Momo bundled up beneath his shirt, preparing for the cold, and led her from the barn.
"We ain't takin' Appa," and a deep, fierce pain resounded in the depths of Aang as he looked upon the still-wounded bison. "The... the healers says 'e got brok'n bones still. His two legs, there. Nah - we gonna take Cap'n Chong's ship out, soon's we can. 'Fore the oth'rs wake."
"You know, you kind of seem like you've done this before," Toph said, and there was excitement and admiration in her voice. It left a smile on Aang's face, and he couldn't help, for a moment, relaying his own experience with avoiding notice.
"Hell... y'know, bein' airbender an' all, gotta sneak lott'a things - with people not noticin' much. I've stole my way out ta' more'n place in me life, see."
The docks were just on the outskirts of the Aurora Tribe's massive, defensive outer wall. A slim pathway had been cut away along one side during the Tribe's long-standing era of peace, for the use of citizens to reach merchant ships. Several distant vessels had arrived during the course of the late night, and were already busy unloading their cargo: wood, wheat, coal, plattery, fruits and vegetables, hay, fur, leather, and some more precious materials; diamonds for Yue's Altar, rare herbs for the Chiefs. Some had live cargo, everything from pig-chickens to antelope-cows; others, however, seemed to carry only refugees and nothing else. The amount of people swarming the docks was unbelievable, and it bothered Aang deep down in his heart. More evidence thrown in his face about the destructive state of the world, his failure as Avatar.
"Look's like a lot'a ships jus' got in," Aang noticed. And truly, this was the only place the refugees could remain; the Tribe could not allow the people into the city without interviews, and there was a long line of people waiting before the ice-gate. Families with children, old grandparents, every variety and age and nationality assembled to enter the haven of the Tribe, safe in the ice-coated landscape of the North.
Aang had no way of knowing from where all the ships were bound. Refugees from Nar'yan Mar, seeking escape from the fires of war at the tope of the world.
He managed to get him and himself past most of the cold and frightened people with a bit of subtle airbending; a push here, a gust there, and he made it so neither he nor Toph got very lost in the crowd. Chong's ship was positioned at the very end of the dock, with Chong himself lounging lazily and sleepily against a dock-pole. Lily was on board making him breakfast, no doubt; the pair never seemed to leave their ship, more home on the wind-swept boat than on any form of land. Aang saw them and smiled, eager to be off. He knew Chong wouldn't ask many questions; he was a nomad like the airbender, and would do anything for the one and only Avatar.
It was Toph who felt it first, though she didn't realize she felt it. She hesitated as Aang led her along, and so Aang hesitated; and in a moment it was upon him too. A brooding cloud, a sinking, terrible feeling, a warning in the wind.
Standing upon the dock beneath the chilling sea breeze, was a tall, dark, motionless figure.
Toph had no way of knowing he was there, but Aang saw him, waiting in the morning mist. A light, sweet snow had just begun to fall from the graying sky.
Aang recognized the face, the shaggy drapes of dirty brown hair. The piece of grass tucked idly in the corner of his mouth, to drive off the hunger in his stomach.
"...Jet?" Aang stuttered. He felt a surge of relief, of remembrance - street fights in Balda Haram, running with a gang for the first time in his life, accepted and important instead of isolated.
"Jet? No fuckin' believin' it, Jet -!"
By the time Aang noticed the blank, inhuman look in his dark eyes, Jet had already drawn his swords and leapt.
The tiger-hook sword ripped across Aang's stomach. Toph screamed against the sound of flesh tearing, the biting ring of steel.