O hai,

I hope y'all are happy with my latest offering. I'm trying hard to focus more on producing shorter, more polished updates, published more frequently. But we shall see.

I am so determined to get this finished that I'm endlessly slashing off the heads of these new little subplots that keep forming. New back stories, relationships, conflict. I want so badly to put everything from my head onto the page, but I have to understand my limitations. I know the core interest here is in Jinko and the Gaang, and I have to stick to that. I'm trying to flesh out a world which is already been created by somebody else.

Damn fanfiction, huh?

That and if I didn't stop somewhere, this thing would end up being longer than War and Peace and it wouldn't be finished until I was into my thirties.

All right, my rant is over. You can read now :)

All right. Breathe in.

Zuko made sure to inhale through his stomach and abdomen rather than his chest. The sun beat down on his bare shoulders. A gentle wind blew in his face. A bird chirped somewhere. The gentle hum and buzz of the crowd danced on the edge of his hearing.

Breathe out.

His hands were open, facing upwards on his crossed legs. His eyes were closed, mouth open as he exhaled. His neck arched backwards, the sun a glaring orange behind his closed eyes. The ancient parchment was pinned to the roof with broken pieces of tile.

Breathe in.

He tried so hard to keep his mind empty, and open. Feel the sun on his face and skin. Embrace the warmth. Let it enrich him. Be mindful of Agni.

That wasn't entirely true. The paper was too old; science had marched on, leaving the legend behind. He knew that the sun was a giant, burning orb of gases, millions and millions of miles away in the stars, not the physical form of an ancient spirit on the edge of the atmosphere.

You're not empty.

Zuko admonished himself, realising that he had forgotten to breathe properly. He settled himself down, and inhaled deeply through the nose, flexing his stomach. His neck was stiff. He heard the clash of steel, somewhere down in the streets. He let it pass.

Breathe in.

Sweat gathered along his brow. It was very hot. He concentrated on the heat. He tried to imagine a world without it – well, that wasn't hard. He'd been in a midwinter night on the North Pole. He remembered the intense cold, the shock of plunging into the freezing water and battling through the blizzard. He remembered how he'd warmed himself with his inner fire.

Breathe out.

This was the second time he'd tried the instructions written on the parchment. It was hard, he didn't often get more than a couple of hours to himself between work and Jin, who he still hadn't admitted his failing to. The first time, he was too distracted, angry, and frustrated, and called it quits after half an hour. He'd hoped that after a day or so, of putting it in the back of his mind, he could perhaps revisit the situation with a clearer head. It wasn't the end of the world. He'd merely been bending with the wrong source. Now, he knew the true, pure form, and he was going to be stronger than ever.

Breathe in.

Zuko realigned his neck, staring with closed eyes up at the sky. He relaxed his clenched fists. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Breathe out.

He imagined his heart was a tiny, pulsating flame within his chest, which swelled and shrank with his lungs. He imagined liquid fire running through his veins, shooting out of his fingertips. He imagined what it would be like to fall into the sun, to be totally surrounded by fire hotter than he could ever comprehend. He breathed in and out, slowly.

After what seemed an age, Zuko opened his eyes. The light was blinding. He blinked slowly, vague shapes swimming on his vision as he tried to regain his sight. Eventually, he was able to focus, looking down at the spread parchment. It was yellow and brittle in the sun. Zuko would have to be very careful when he rolled it up.

Slowly, he cupped his hands together. He kept the images of fire in his mind as he stared down at his white palms. In the very back of his mind, a voice told him that it was too soon, he had to wait, he hadn't done enough meditation and reflection. He ignored it. Maintaining his long, slow breath, Zuko willed the fire to appear in his hands.

Nothing.

"Dammit!" Zuko brought a fist down on the tiled roof. "Why? I am doing everything right!" He ran his fingers through his hair, trembling. "What is wrong with me?"

Maybe I'm just useless. It was a view he easily accepted. He had been enough of a failure in the past. This was just another mark on the tally. Zuko had almost lost count. Perhaps he wasn't able to learn this new form of bending. Perhaps there was still a burning anger, deep inside him, that he refused to let go.

Perhaps?

It was an established fact. Zuko couldn't think about his father and sister without flaring up inside. Even now, he could feel his control slipping. He couldn't stand dwelling on them. Everywhere he turned, he was constantly reminded of who had done this to him, to the city. Zuko could never forgive them for it.

Again, he could feel himself rising at the thought. Zuko closed his eyes, trying to regain his breathing, trying to maintain a calm state of perfect openness. But what little concentration he had was irrevocably shattered. He felt awkward, angry, and jarred inside.

With a long sigh, he began to slowly roll the yellowed scroll, the ancient paper crackling ominously. He needed to be more careful. It didn't have much life left in it.

Zuko would just have to try again.

It was the sound of a girl screaming that jerked Aang out of his torpor. The moment he heard it, he knew that it was Katara. He could never forget her voice. It was a long, horrible shout of pain – no, not of pain. Not physical pain at least. It was the sound of a girl in unimaginable terror.

Something was wrong.

Aang sat up immediately, throwing the bedclothes aside. He managed to take two steps before his chest flared up in pain, the boy leaning against the wall heavily. It took some moments for him to regain his breath, and he lurched forward unsteadily, wavering on his feet. He didn't know what he was doing; he couldn't help her, not in this state. He could barely walk, how could he face whatever dangers that lurked above his head?

But he couldn't sit downstairs in darkness. He couldn't pull the covers over his head like a child and wait for the noises to go away. It was an iron resolve that pushed him forwards, one hand on the wall for support. No matter how injured he was, how much he suffered, Aang could never just do nothing. The shouts and cries, the biting clang of steel on steel grew louder as he made his way down the dark corridor. He felt his way along in the gloom, staggering along on his uneasy feet. He had trudged only a couple of yards forward when the outside door burst open, a tall figure silhouetted against the bright afternoon sun. Aang fell back against the wall as the man pushed past him, holding an unmoving body in his arms, followed by what must have been Sokka in full armour. Aang's heart seized in terror, and he turned on his heel, limping as fast as he could after the three. They disappeared into Aang's room, and he could hear Katara's indistinct voice. She sounded like she was crying. Aang caught a 'lead your men', before the tall figure staggered out of the room, his face white.

It was Hakoda. Terror rose in Aang's chest as he caught sight of his ravaged face. Hakoda walked like drunken man, his eyes utterly lifeless. If he saw Aang, he didn't pay him any heed, lurching past him, into the light. Aang ran the several steps back to his room, sinking to his knees in the doorway. White spots danced on the edge of his vision, and he had to crawl forward on his hands and knees, dragging himself up by the edge of the bed.

Sokka.

A disconsolate whimper rang in his throat as his eyes locked onto the figure splayed out on the red sheets. Katara's hands emitted a soft glow, pressed tightly against his side. She'd torn off his breastplate and shirt. It was discarded at Aang's side, splattered and stained black with blood. He knew now what made her scream. Aang ignored the pain in his own chest as he heaved himself to the girl. Katara looked up at the movement. Her mouth was twisted in a knot, her eyes rimmed with red.

"I-It's not much." Her voice was a soft, broken whisper. Aang couldn't look away from Sokka's face. He was unconscious, his normally caramel skin the colour of sand. "Just a-a cut in the side. I don't know how..." Katara let out a low moan. "Th-the last thing he said... I-I asked him if he wanted to die for this. Oh Aang." She burst into fresh sobs. Aang wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into his touch, her hands trembling against Sokka's healing wound. She watched the glow on her hands with a heaving breath, Aang shifting his own gaze to her face.

"What happened?" His breath was a faint wisp in her ear. Katara shivered a little from the sensation, looking up from her hands.

"Dad thought... We all thought that... It wasn't him but..." She tried to speak through her tears, screwing up her eyes, trying to wash the image from her mind.

"But what?" He pressed further, his grip on her tightening. Katara sniffed.

"They're th-the men who've... who've been attacking us, all these years. The raiders who killed..." She drew in a deep breath. "They deserved this." But why did she feel so utterly destroyed at the thought of that man dead on the ground?

Katara lifted her hands away. There was nothing but an ugly brown mark on Sokka's skin, and a lot of dried blood, besides. It would be some time before the colour would return to his cheeks, and even more before he would finally wake, but he would survive. Katara craned her neck up to the ceiling. The sound of fighting was muffled in the small cabin, but she could still hear the shouts of men above her. She knew she had to go and help, they would be needing her on the close field of hand-to-hand combat. Her father and his men were outnumbered, and most likely severely demoralised.

"I have to go." She hated herself for saying it. She felt like she was abandoning her brother, leaving him half-alive in the care of a boy who couldn't even walk. But what would he say, if he were awake? He would tell her to go on deck, get out there and kick as much butt as she could. Katara grasped blindly for her helmet. "Watch him... H-He should be fine, but..." She couldn't finish the sentence. Katara embraced Aang tightly, burying her nose in his shoulder. He got a nose full of her hair, and breathed in deeply, his stomach fluttering uncomfortably, despite his sick dread.

"We'll be fine." Katara opened her mouth to counteract Aang, but closed her lips, shaking her head. She just couldn't. Without another word, she pushed the helmet down over her head, hovering carefully in the doorway of the small room. She looked utterly transformed in the armour, the soft glint of her bright blue eyes piercing Aang beneath the visor of the helmet. It seemed to him all that separated her from the other Fire Nation soldiers. She maintained her gaze for a few moments, caught in the heart-wrenching state of indecision, staring the two people closest to her heart horribly wounded on the bed.

How could this ever happen? Katara tore herself away from the pathetic sight. She was crumbling away at the edges, rattled in the core of her very soul. What did we ever do to deserve any of this? Her breath was a harsh gasp in her throat, as she stepped into the darkness, or the light, she didn't know which.

How did we fall so far?

Aang's hands were a twisted lump in his lap as he turned it over slowly in his mind. He was trying separate the tangled rush of his confusion in his head, but every moment, it seemed, he heard another cry, another clang of metal, another heavy thump on the deck. He didn't know who was winning, he had no way of knowing. But they would have had enough men up there, with all the warriors and Katara and Toph besides, they would be fine...

He rose to his feet. It was wrong to do this, he knew. What could he even do? He could barely stand on his own two feet, let alone fight. But he pressed on forward with a dogged determination. He didn't care how wounded he was, he ignored the pain. He wasn't going to stay down here, whilst everyone above him fought desperately for their lives. He knew, in the pit of his stomach, that if he had been there, Sokka wouldn't have been injured. Not like this.

Surely, he could do something.

"Catch."

Jin was tossing individual nuts in the air, watching as Momo dove from the bed, weaving effortless through the air and catching them before they hit the ground, cramming the tasty treat into his little mouth. He was looking a lot better than he had a week ago – his coat was soft and glossy, his eyes clear, and leg almost healed. He slept on Jin's bed, a little curled ball underneath the blanket that she sometimes kicked at in her sleep. For the first few nights, she started awake at the sensation of fur on her leg, thinking a weasel-rat had sneaked into her bed. But she got used to the little lump of warmth at her side, hearing his odd little breaths and snores in the night.

He was even getting used to Zuko.

Jin flicked a nut off her thumb, watching it arc through the air. Momo didn't miss a beat, settling down on to the bed with his catch. Zuko lay on the bed with his head in her lap, watching the lemur cram the nut into his mouth. His fingers lingered around a glass bottle half filled with a thick, dark liquid. His eyes were glassy and clouded.

"He's looking good." Jin murmured in the pleasant silence, watching Momo turn to her, cocking his head to one side impatiently. Zuko made a small noise of assent in his throat, raising the bottle to his lips. "Don't drink it all. I don't know where we'll be able to get more." Zuko made a face at the taste.

"There'll always be black-market drink." His head lolled backward, and he looked up at her. Jin took the bottle from his slack hand, taking a deep swig. She swallowed the drink, unperturbed. "Even if there's nothing else." The crude words slipped carelessly off his tipsy tongue. Jin raised an eyebrow at the language.

"Even if the city burns down?"

"They'll build a pub in the ashes." Zuko laughed at his own rude joke, rolling onto his side. "Ugh. What time is it?" He sat up slowly, eyes screwing shut. Jin shrugged her shoulders wordlessly, trailing her fingers along the bedspread in search of the stopper. "Must be dinner soon."

"I don't want anything." She plugged the bottle, sounding morose. She still felt empty and disconsolate. She dreaded going back to work the next morning. Who knew what would be standing? Would they still be bleaching sheets and pressing silken shirts? Surely, the Fire Nation would devise another use for their factory. Something they could squeeze money out of. She was terrified of somehow being trapped, forced into slave labour at the hands of the commander who strode so confidently into the factory that morning. Who would be there to speak out for her?

"Me neither." Zuko rubbed at his eyes with his palm. He'd lost track of the time. He emerged from his rooftop perch to find Jin drinking alone on the bed; the women she was drinking with had to return home to their husbands and children. Houses had to be cleaned, dinners cooked. She'd offered him a sip of her thick liquor. He was too exhausted and nervous to turn down the ability to numb himself, and he almost lost himself in the bottle. And her. She was pulling him down into the dark waters, whispering almost desperately in his ear that she wanted this, more than anything. But he emerged gasping, pulling himself away from her, refusing to drown. It was so odd. He didn't want to take her. The thought left him feeling sick. He would lay his hands on her skin, she would pull at her own clothing and his, and he felt removed from himself, stepping back and staring at the scene. And it looked sordid. He always pulled away, straightening his clothing with a reddening, apologetic face.

"We were invited out tonight." Jin spoke out of the gloomy silence. Zuko turned to look at her. "I met Ai, and she told me to bring you and Jiro."

"Where?" Momo approached Zuko cautiously, sniffing his hands. "Everything will be shut. Curfew, remember?"

"Just her place." Jin set the bottle on her bedside table. "Beats sitting around here, locked in our own heads." She rested her head on Zuko's shoulder, pressing a nut into his hand. Zuko offered the treat carefully to Momo, the pair watching the lemur snatche it from his palm, and dart to the corner of the mattress. "He's getting better around you." Zuko's lip twitched in a smile. "So yeah?"

"Yeah." Zuko gave a half-shrug. His hands and feet felt very warm. He watched as Jin pulled herself to her feet, pottering absent-mindedly around the room, fixing her hair and changing her shoes, trying to look nice despite her tired, worn clothing. Zuko lay back down on the mattress with a groan, closing his eyes. He didn't feel like going anywhere. More than anything, he wanted to sleep, a deep, long sleep without any bad dreams. But that hadn't happened for a long time, and, it wouldn't, as far as he could see. The invasion of the city, his bending, his mother, Iroh, they all swum painfully in his head, mournful faces flickering behind his closed eyelids. He opened them, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't consider the risk of getting caught. He just wanted out of his own head.

The less time he spent with himself, the better.

How could you do this to your son?

Hakoda was a ravaged husk of a man as he half-staggered across the deck. His vision swam, and he struggled to focus on the images before him, the twitching of half-dead bodies strewn on the metal deck, the flurry of Bato locked in combat at his left. He raised his sword half-heartedly in his right hand, assuming a defensive stance. Gone was his bloodlust and quest for vengeance. Gone too was his desperate fight for even his own survival. He felt nothing within himself.

"Aang!" Katara's voice rang out in the air, the girl freezing at the sight of him leaning heavily against the door frame. His head was bowed as he struggled to regain his breath. Katara's voice was enough to break Hakoda from his daze, and he turned in time to see the young Avatar step out into the sunlight, his shoulders squared and head erect. He didn't realise what it meant. He didn't connect. Aang raised his arms, focusing deep on the energy within himself. He wasn't concerned with his wound, or the pain. He could do this. The ocean air was brisk and windy enough, and it wasn't hard for him to control the powerful breeze, sweeping several of the raiders overboard. Despite the dark thatch of hair on his head and long sleeves covering his arms, he was instantly recognisable to the band of raiders. They backed away quickly, a couple flinging themselves over the side of the ship.

It didn't take them long. Hakoda managed to regain himself, just enough to hoarsely shout a regroup, for someone to get the ship moving as fast as possible. Toph had managed to incapacitate quite a number of men herself, and they were pinned to the deck, or bound in iron. Katara thought that maybe Toph hadn't realised what had happened to her brother, but she caught a glimpse of her blind eyes beneath the dark curtain of hair. They were red and watery.

She knew.

As soon as the last man had been knocked to the deck, Toph fled. She didn't wait for orders from the chief. She was apart from them, of a different creed. Let them do what they liked. She brushed past Aang, barely taking notice of the boy wavering on his feet. She couldn't feel from here if he was even still alive. The heavy tread of Hakoda's feet had suggested his death, freezing her core. She wouldn't think of anything, not until she was able to see for herself.

He was so still. Toph flung herself down on the bed, reaching out and seizing the closest bit of skin. Her fingers closed around Sokka's ankle, a pulse throbbing in warm skin against her hand. She was limp with relief. Toph screwed up her face, trying desperately to shake the tears stinging her blind eyes. She was being stupid. He was fine, his heart was fine, and he was warm. No shakes, no sweats, he wasn't going to die. Not from this, anyway. Why was she being so weak over this? Toph never cried.

"He got hit in the side." Toph started at the voice in the doorway, face reddening. How had Katara caught her off her guard? The mattress did a very good job at masking vibrations. That was it. "There was a lot of blood but he's fine now." She could hear two people breathing, sensing a pair of footsteps entering the room. One was light-footed, leaning heavily on the other. Aang. "He's fine."

"What happened?" Toph interrogated her, wiping quickly at her face. "I don't get it. One moment they were in talks, then we're under attack. What the heck made your dad bust a nut like that?"

"It's a long story." She set Aang carefully down on the bed. She supposed it would have been more generous to find a new room for him, so they could each get their own bed, but she wanted them to be in the same room. She wanted all of them to be together. "He thought that commander was the man who murdered our mother."

"Oh." Toph's voice was very small in the dim room, the fight in her dissipating. She sank into a strained silence, drawing her knees up to her chest, feeling very small. Katara walked around the room with trembling hands. She checked on Sokka first, and reached over to unwrap Aang's bandages, but he brushed her hands away, shaking his head.

"Don't." His face was white. Katara withdrew, her lower lip quavering. "I'm fine." It was such an obvious lie. He probably moved too quickly, and pulled something, tore something open. But if he was hurting physically, he didn't show it. Katara wondered if he even felt anything. "How many... How many were dead in the end?"

"I don't know." Katara sat down on the edge of the bed. "Half of the soldiers... a few of our men... I didn't keep count."

"If I'd come out earlier-"

"It wouldn't have made a difference." Katara cut over him. She opened her mouth to continue, to launch into a tirade of how he had to realise his own weaknesses and limitations, how he had to let Katara and Sokka handle it, until he was well enough her own mind, it sounded false and weak. It was useless; Aang had stubbornly accepted the weight of the world on his shoulders, and he refused to share the burden, even with the people he declared were his teachers.

But he has a point. Katara couldn't look at her brother, whose prone figure was hidden from her view by Toph's hunched body. She couldn't look at Aang either. She knew he would be staring at her. She kept her gaze on her hands. It was obvious now, more than ever.

We can't defend ourselves anymore.

"This is bullshit."

The small group of teenagers jumped at the hands thudding heavily on the table, ten pale faces flickering uncertainly in the dull lamplight. Jin watched her brother resume his anxious pacing in the gloom with her chin leaning heavily on one hand. He teetered dangerously close to an explosive, angry edge. She shifted her gaze to her left, looking silently at Zuko. His gaze was downcast, the light casting his eyes into deep shadow.

"After so long, how can this happen again?" Jiro's voice rose. "We had freedom, for just one week and now they think they can just take it away?"

"Jiro, shut up." Jin hissed, head snapping up. "Curfew, remember?" She jerked her head towards the heavily shuttered windows, the cracks stuffed with old rags. "Sit down."

"We spend our whole lives in fear of the Dai Li, and now we get the Fire Nation bearing down on us." Jiro leaned forward over the table, glaring at his sister. "And you want me to calm down?"

"Jiro's right." The lanky Ping spoke up, his arms crossed and feet on the table. "This is bullshit. If the Fire Nation think we're gonna sit back and let this happen, they have another thing coming."

"But we can't even do anything," Ai argued, pushing her cousins' feet off her table. She was an extremely pretty girl, and it wasn't often Jin saw her this close to tears. She looked almost ugly in the candlelight, with the shadows on her creased face. Her mouth was trembling. "They're an army. We couldn't fight off the Dai Li and we can't fight thousands of soldiers. We're stuck here, with this."

"At least you have your job." Zuko spoke up suddenly, raising his face. The shadows remained under his eyes, and Jin realised in the light just how tired and strained Zuko was. He hurt, more than anyone else, over this. It was his own people who held the city, and he was entirely powerless. "You won't be homeless or starving." He bit down hard on his lower lip, unable to banish the image of Xi Quan from his mind. He was a man utterly destroyed by this. A man who had poured everything he had into his business and could do nothing but stand back and watch it burn before his eyes. Tomorrow, he would have to strip his store of everything that held value, give it up to be plundered and destroyed. They would pick through, taking everything they could sell, and burn the rest. If they were lucky, they would leave his shop intact. He could turn it into something else, something legal. Or he could rent it out as living space to a homeless family. He could even reside it in himself. Or he could sell it up entirely, go back to his home, and wait for death. How long would an elderly man live without any purpose, in forced retirement? A year, perhaps? Two, if he was lucky.

No.

Zuko's face tightened, his hands curling into fists on the table. He couldn't let that happen to him. Xi Quan was a good man, who gave him chances and extended his hand when Zuko was at a low point. He couldn't just by and let his life's work crumble before him. It had to be saved, somehow. Zuko was drunk; he wasn't considering the ramifications of the half-baked plan in his head.

"I know something we can do."

It was like being born again. It was cold, so cold, his limbs quivering in the chilly air. Cold and impossibly dark. He cracked his eyes open, and saw absolute blackness. He thought he was blind. He very well could. A groan rattled from a hoarse, disused throat. He was so thirsty. For almost a full minute, he tried to free himself from the turmoil and struggle that wracked his brain. He couldn't think or feel or hear a thing. He felt as though he were suspended in midair, and it took such a long time for him to finally feel again.

He felt the chains on his hands and feet before the bloodied rags binding his chest. The teenager whimpered, trying uselessly to shake himself free. The sound of his fetters rattling against the iron bedstead filled the tiny room, mocking him.

He tried to cry out, but his voice was a low, scraping whisper, hardly audible even to himself. He screwed up his eyes against the darkness, terror rising in his throat. He couldn't remember where he was. He couldn't remember who he was. He couldn't remember anything. Panic rose in his throat as he tried to think where he could have been before this, tried to remember a name or a face. But all he could picture in his mind was complete and utter blackness.

No. This couldn't be it. This couldn't be all that he knew. He had to have memories, a past. Where was he before this? What had happened to him? Tears clung to his eyelashes, overflowed, and started to trickle down his face. He felt the water drip down past his ears, into his thick mop of dark hair. Harsh breathing tore from his cracked, dry lips.

Please somebody has to be out there!

His hands and feet were numb in the darkness, the cold sending goosebumps along his limbs. He wore nothing but tattered rags and bandages, a thin blanket thrown haphazardly over his frame. He struggled once more against the chains, the sound filling his ears. It sounded like a tinny, metallic laughter.

No!

He finally let out a sound, a short, hoarse scream that wrenched painfully from his throat. Did anyone even hear him? Was there anybody to hear his cries? He fell lax against the mattress, hair falling in his eyes. He felt completely overcome with terror and panic. He couldn't breathe. There was still nothing but pure blackness before his face; surely by now, his eyes would have adjusted and found the barest sliver of light. Surely, there would at least be shadows lingering in the gloom. He must be blind, then.

There was nothing left in him. His limbs felt dead. His face was wet. He arched his back in one last, futile struggle against the iron chains that bound him, and collapsed in agony on the mattress. The blind panic had enclosed his heart like a fist. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. His breathing sank into shallow, ragged gasp punctuated by heaving sobs.

All he could do is wait for the darkness to claim him.

"Are you sure about this?"

"Nope." Zuko threw his shoulder against the locked door, but it didn't budge. "I don't suppose there's some scrap metal around here. Jiro, help me."

"Ugh, move." Jin pushed the pair aside, drawing her knee upwards. The door disintegrated in a cloud of dust, leaving a gaping hole in the outside of the building. What was the point of pretending she couldn't anymore? Everybody knew now. "All right, let's go."

"What is it we're doing again?" Ping raised the lantern over his head, staring around at the room. "Is this some sort of paper place?"

"It's a printer." Zuko disappeared into the back as the teenagers filed into the room. "I work here."

"This is your big plan?" Jiro sounded disappointed. "To come in and work late? What exactly are we going to do in this place? Lee? Lee, where did you go?" Zuko reappeared in the front room, pushing a large trunk.

"No, we're going to trash it." It seemed so perfect, so brilliant in his mind. He grabbed thick handfuls of blank paper, stuffing it into the trunk. "Can you girls finish up on this?" Jin bit back a retort, approaching the shelves. "Under the desk, there's a box of seals and stamps. Throw them in too. Oh, and the locked strongbox in the bottom. He keeps his money in there." Zuko crouched down beside the largest press, where the ink was kept. He selected half a dozen jars, his hands trembling. One slipped from his fingers in the excitement, and shattered. Black ink spread over the ground, and he jumped back to avoid staining his shoes – that would have been a dead giveaway.

"The fuck?" Jiro grabbed his arm. "This is your boss! What's wrong with you?" Zuko lurched back, swinging around to meet him.

"Nothing." He pulled himself free. "Look. Article seventeen states that everything related to his business is forfeit, right? It has to be given up or destroyed. The Fire Nation are going to come in tomorrow and take everything that isn't nailed down, I know it. But they can't do that if somebody gets there first." He spoke quickly, his face flushed. His mind worked very rapidly, and he couldn't shake the smile from his face. He made his way to the smallest of Xi Quan's three presses. It was his oldest, and had a habit of sticking, but it was the only one they had a hope of moving. "His business is sunk anyway, there's nothing to lose."

"Where are you going to take it?" Jiro watched Zuko set the lantern down on the table, fiddling with a wrench. The press was bolted down onto the heavy table, and he fumbled clumsily with the tool, his motor skills decaying. "You sure can't bring it back to our place, Ma would have a fit."

"I wasn't going to bring it home." Zuko crouched down. "Dammit. Who's good with a wrench?" Guo approached the teenager, and Zuko tossed the wrench to him. "We'd never get it up the stairs. There should be four screws." He ducked into the back room, yanking open a drawer of tiles. He hovered in thought; he could only take a few. The most basic characters, one size only. He found a trunk filled with spare press parts, and upended it noisily. Jiro came into the room to find Zuko tearing one of the drawers from its' shelf, scattering tiles.

"You're crazy, you know that?" He watched with folded arms as Zuko placed shelf after shelf into the small trunk.

"Probably." Zuko panted as he slammed the lid closed. "There, that's as much as I can carry." He lifted the heavy trunk, staggering a little under the weight. "Damn."

"You're destroying the place." Jiro blinked. He was sobering up, and although he liked to raise hell as much as the next guy, there was something odd and unsettling about what they were doing. He never trashed a strangers' place, and worse, this was someone's boss – not a cruel or nasty boss, either, he could understand that, but a man that Zuko had only ever spoken very highly of.

"No, I'm saving it." Zuko crossed into the front room, letting the trunk drop. He winced at the sound of shuffling tiles within the case, but turned to the press. "Is it off?"

"Yep." Guo tried to lift a corner of the press. It rose a few inches off the table, the effort reddening his face. "Phew." Jin was watching Zuko silently, her lower lip quivering. She didn't like how Zuko was behaving – there was something strange in his eyes, his voice. She thought maybe he was having a bad reaction to the alcohol. She didn't realise that he was merely impassioned, more so than he had been around her before, he was totally absorbed, excited at what he was doing. Yes, the alcohol was going a fantastic job in destroying his inhibitions and sense of reason, but it wasn't what drove him. It was defiance, the thrill of subverting authority in a completely new way.

Zuko straightened himself, looking around at the dark press. The few lanterns in the room spelled disaster – the wall was knocked in, papers and tiles were scattered over the floor. But it still wasn't enough. It was too controlled. Zuko hoped that vagrants and thieves would take advantage of the situation and plunder the store. There wasn't much left of overwhelming value, but plenty of people would take anything they could sell for a copper coin.

He was saving this place, not destroying it. Zuko nodded almost imperceptibly, the motion caught only by himself. The other teenagers were staring at him with shock and confusion, they didn't realise what was going on. How could they? Did they think that the Fire Nation wasn't going to hold back? Didn't they see this as the sane option?

"We need to go." Jin spoke up urgently. "Someone is going to see this light, Lee. I'm helping you but I don't want to get caught going this. I read the laws you printed, they're not shy about executing people." The back of her neck crawled uncomfortably. "Please Lee. We can't carry anymore."

"All right." The shadows were under his eyes again, and his face once more looked white and hollow. They might regard it as a momentary lapse of sanity, but Zuko knew that it was the most sensible thing he could have done.

Because now he had one of the most valuable tools imaginable at his hands – the ability say whatever he wanted.

When was he going to be here?

Ursa looked down at her half-finished teacup, the gentle chatter of the teahouse slowly enfolding her. She had been sitting in utter silence for what felt like a long time, waiting, waiting for her son to walk through the door.

Perhaps he wasn't coming.

Ursa didn't blame him. She remembered the intense anger on his face. He looked almost as though he wanted to hit her. A day had barely passed since their reunion, and in those few hours, unspeakable tragedy had already occurred across the city. She was probably the last thing on his mind.

Her tea was cold. Ursa made a face as she took a sip of the liquid, and blew on it gently, steam rising in her face, dampening the thick curtain of hair. She usually pulled her hair back in a long braid, but today she wore it half-down with a loose topknot, a long-forgotten style she hoped would help endear herself to Zuko. She wanted to be as familiar and welcoming to him as possible.

The door snapped open with a low bang. Ursa jerked her head up in a start, eyes widening at the figure stepping across the threshold, scanning the tea shop quickly, searching her out. Zuko found her, and with an impassive look on his face, crossed the dingy room and took his seat before her.

"Morning." He said colourlessly, staring down at the tabletop with his arms crossed. Zuko didn't know what to say to her. His throat felt stuck. He wanted to apologize, to hug her and burst into tears and ask her to never leave him. But at the same time, that familiar rage bubbled up inside him. It had been such a long night, and he was tired and hungover. He'd fallen asleep in Jin's arms, with very little memory of the night before.

"Hello..." Ursa trailed off as she realised that she had no idea of her sons' alias. "Um... What do they call you here?"

"Lee. They call me Lee." Zuko clenched his fists under the table. Ursa nodded, forcing a weak smile.

"Lee then... Would you like some tea?" He nodded silently, slowly lifting his gaze as Ursa poured him a cup of lukewarm amber liquid. "There we go... I almost thought you weren't coming... Did you get my message?"

"It got passed on at home." Zuko took a tiny sip. It was Jasmine. He set the cup back down and pushed it away. He didn't want to smell it.

"Where do you live?" Ursa tried to strike up some normal conversation. Zuko gulped, spreading his hands out on the table.

"With Jin and her family." He said quietly. "I can't stay long, I have to go to work."

"Oh." Ursa said lamely. She stared at the tabletop for several long seconds, not knowing what to say. The awkward silence stretched out painfully, until it finally broke with a soft sob from her end.

"I'm so sorry." Zuko's head jerked up as he heard her tearful voice. Ursa's face was buried in her trembling hands. "Everything I did, I did for you, but..." She gasped. "You were hurt the most and you don't even know why-"

"What happened?" Zuko leaned forward, his voice as hard as iron. "Please Mum, tell me. Tell me now. I keep going over it in my head and I just don't understand why. I know why you had to kill him and leave but I don't know why I had to stay." He took her hands, tugging them down from her face. "Tell me what I don't know."

"W-Well..." Ursa blinked, trying to clear her vision. "I don't know where to start..."

"The beginning. Start from the beginning." Zuko's heart thudded in his chest. He teetered on the edge of a devastating realisation, and Ursa wasn't sure how much she could reveal to him. She didn't know how he would react. He could hate her. She gently tightened her grasp on Zuko's hands.

She panicked, in the end. Ursa was too scared to face Zuko's reaction, so she backed down. It seemed that it was impossible to tell him. She had waited too long, and now she thought it could hurt Zuko. How would he react, if he knew just how special he really was, for her, for the sake of the world? What would he say if she told him about her vision? Her sworn vow to protect him? Spirits, how could she ever tell her son he was conceived out of wedlock? It would destroy him. Ursa saw before her a troubled, scared boy who was unsure of his own destiny and struggling with his inner demons. She thought that she was protecting him, by keeping quiet.

"Ever since you were born..." She closed her eyes, trying to recollect her thoughts. "I knew you were special. Not in that stupid, blind way that every mother sees her first child. You were truly something else. You were born early, you know. You were so sickly and tiny. Everybody said you were too small to live. Azulon commissioned white robes for the family, because we thought there would be a funeral. But you pulled through, somehow. You thought you were a failure as you grew up, but you couldn't be more wrong. You remember sharing your food with one of the servants because you could hear their stomach rumbling?" Zuko shook his head. "You were four years old. You offered him your smoked weasel-snake and Ozai was furious. It was the first time he hit you in front of the servants." Zuko's eyes were trained on the tabletop. "And one night on Ember Island, we saw a peasant child at the theatre with no shoes, and you asked me if you could give him yours, because you had so many. I know you tried hard to please your father, but you were never the kind of person he wanted you to be. You had such a strong sense of right and wrong, and even Azulon noticed. When we... When I planned the assassination, I knew then that the Fire Nation needed you. That night I left you was the darkest in my life." Ursa said honestly. She paused in her long speech, drawing in a breath. They weren't lies. It was just the outline of a picture, a rough sketch that remained incomplete. Zuko opened his mouth to speak, but finding himself at an utter loss for words, closed his lips. "It hurt me, more than you could ever imagine. I wanted to take you with me. I wanted to be selfish. But I knew in my heart, that you were meant for more than what I could ever give to you. I told you to never forget who you were, do you remember?" Zuko nodded wordlessly. Ursa was fighting back tears. "And you can't. Not ever. You had to stay there and remain the Crown Prince. It was what you were born to be."

"I'm meant to be a lot of things." Zuko whispered. But Ursa didn't hear his low voice. He felt her hand on his wrist, and looked up to see her smiling face.

"And now I find you here." She tilted her head to the side. "And I still don't know why..." Zuko looked back down at the tabletop.

"I know I owe you an explanation." He sighed. "I know I could just say that it was Dad and you would believe it. But there's more, so much more than that. I just don't know how to start. I don't know where it all went wrong... When everything fell apart. Everything... It always felt wrong. Especially after you left." He tried to keep the cold, accusing tone from his voice, but it was still there. It stung her.

"Start from the beginning." She pushed the sensations away. Zuko took in a deep breath, nodding silently.

It took the better part of an hour. Zuko started sketching out the basics, but he found himself going back, explaining everything, filling in holes, and soon he was giving a long, almost blow-by-blow account of the last few years of his life. The tea at his elbow lay abandoned, his hands sweating, clasped with hers. Ursa remained silent, her face largely expressionless as he slowly told his story. It wasn't her place to interject.

When Zuko was finished, his voice was hoarse, and his eyes stung. He couldn't look at her, and he withdrew his hands, clenching them underneath the table.

"Oh honey." She breathed, shaking her head. "Come here." She rose from the table, opening her arms to him. Zuko rose in silence, and without a pause buried his face in her shoulder, trembling violently. He was heartbroken, angry, and most of all, ashamed of himself, and what he had done. She withdrew a little to look at him, and kissed him on the cheek. "I think you're fantastic. I knew that you would see the light one day." She embraced him tightly, not wanting to let go. It was so surreal. She was wrong. He wasn't like his father at all. He wasn't like her, either. He was something entirely different. "Don't stay mired in the past, you'll only get hurt in the end. You're here, you have people who love you." She spoke with experience. "You have to let it be."

"I know." His voice was muffled in her clothing. "But I still... It's hard." He pulled away, the two of them holding hands. "I am sorry Mum. For everything."

"I'm sorry too." She gave a wavering smile. "There's no changing what either of us did, Lee." It felt so odd to use. "I've done things that have made me ashamed. You couldn't begin to imagine. I've spent years trying to reconcile myself with what I've done, but all you can do is let the past stay there and try and move on." He looked rather blankly at her; he had heard the speech a hundred times before. She gave a tiny click of her tongue, wrapping her arms around him again. "Besides, I know you will make amends." Her face was oddly tight, as she said that. You have to.

Zuko disentangled himself from her, keeping his eyes on the ground. He didn't really want to talk to her. He didn't know what to say. He looked up to meet her gaze, but words still failed him. It wasn't the same, what she did. She couldn't possibly understand how he felt, what tormented him. She couldn't ever. But it was something he couldn't even put into words. There was no way, it seemed, to justify or explain himself.

"I have to go to work." He finally spoke up lamely. He didn't want to stay here, talking about her past or his. Ursa stepped back, her chest sinking in disappointment as she realised that Zuko was still ultimately reluctant to open up to her, to trust her. "Look... I'll see you around okay Mum?"

"All right." But she couldn't resist, winding her arms around him in yet another embrace, sharing for a few precious moments in that familiar, yet so utterly alien, smell and warmth. "You should come around and meet the children."

"Yes." Something struck Zuko in the pit of his stomach. He had completely forgotten that Ursa had remarried. "I will..." It seemed so completely surreal. He had siblings. Ursa forced a tiny smile on her lips. "I should really go."

"I'll walk you out." She seized his hand, taking her time as she left the tea shop. He followed her, complicit. Of course she was going to cling to him, it only made sense. Zuko realised only in hindsight that she was desperately trying to seek comfort from him. She was scared and lonely. He didn't see it at the time. He thought she was trying too hard to make up for lost time, in some overblown show of love and affection. He felt smothered by it. But he let her hold his hand, keeping his eyes downcast as he walked with her out of the tea shop. He wasn't looking at her.

But somebody else was.

"She's sure got nerve." A small cluster of men watched her retreating figure carefully, over teacups long emptied.

"You going to tell Enlai about this?" The youngest of the three spoke up. They were all reasonably comfortable bureaucrats, taking advantage of the cheap prices and bottomless cups. Purse strings were being pulled tightly.

"That was his wife Cheng, course I'm gonna tell him." The man leaned back, biting his lip. "Did you get a look at him? He's just a boy." He shook his head. "In public. What a disgrace."

"Maybe we've got it wrong, they could just be fr-"

"Married women do not make friends with young men." Cheng cut over his friend. "And they don't spend time with them alone. Right Wei?"

"Quite right." Wei nodded, rising from his seat. "Cheng, go and catch them. Keep watch and find out where the boy works." He shook his head again. "One of the most popular tea-houses in town. Silly girl."

"That's why I think-"

"I didn't ask what you thought, Gen." The man snapped as Cheng slipped out of the shop. He fell silent. "I always said there was something strange about her." He rested his chin on tented fingers.

Whatever secret she wove, it was starting to unravel.

I'm already working like mad on the next chapter. Don't expect it to take too long.