AN: Thanks for sticking with me as I verrrry slowwwly chip away at this story. I know it's been slow going for a long time now, and the style is very different from what it was to start with. I feel like it's doing something worthwhile, though, and like writing it has made me more careful with character development and outline work. Some disparate parts are going to start weaving back in soon, and I think the payoff will ultimately be pretty sweet, even though it's still a ways off. (I hope you'll let me know what you think, pros and cons, especially in the next few chapters.)
Anyway here's this one. Thanks for reading! And always, always for reviewing.
.
The battle for the Boiling Rock was bloody and desperate, but by late afternoon, the Warden stood in the decimated communications tower where the last holdouts had made their stand. The surviving prisoners were all back in their cells, well-beaten for the time being, but the mess they had left was extensive. The communications tower was the worst. Anything that could be destroyed had been, which meant ink pots were smashed on the walls of the office and tiny message scrolls were crushed and scattered across the floor. Spare canisters and harness had been burned.
And the hawks. The aviary reeked of scorched feathers and there was not one bird left alive. The Warden stepped carefully over the charred lumps on the floor on his way to the window. He looked down on the yard, where bodies were being laid out in tidy rows, including the prisoners who had dared persist in their rebellion to the bitter end.
The Warden could admit that it was a clever move. The hawks could have been sent for reinforcements, had that become necessary. Still, the waste of good animals disgusted him, and the traitorous consequences went far beyond their immediate results. Without the hawks, and with the winch crumpled into a ruin as the metalbender had left it, there would be no sending word of the Avatar's escape to the Fire Lord. It would be days before the winch could be repaired and a messenger sent out to the nearest station.
Only one thing frightened the Warden more than informing the Fire Lord of his failure to trap the airbender or any of his allies; failing to report the failure. The very thought sent a cold bead of sweat oozing down the back of his neck.
"Sir?" His notary hovered by the doorway where he had been taking inventory of the damages on his prim clipboard. "Were you speaking to me?"
In fact, the Warden had been praying under his breath. He was not a spiritual man, not a believer in forces greater than his own will, and yet a single brush with the Avatar had him begging whatever spirit was listening for some thread of good fortune to save him. He scoffed and turned, intent on lashing out at the notary with the disdain he felt for his own weakness.
In that instant, a single messenger hawk, very much alive, soared through the window and settled hard on his upraised vambrace. The Warden gaped down at the bird's leather traces, its flashing golden eye.
A different sort of man might have taken it for a sign, a miracle, the Spirits' merciful response to a mortal's plea. He might have contemplated what it meant that it was the Avatar, the bridge to the spirit world, who he was now aligned against. But the Warden was no such man. To him, the hawk was simply a lost bird that had come back at the most opportune moment.
"Open a missive to the Fire Lord," he snapped. "Tell him the Avatar has evaded our forces and left the island by stolen ship."
.
.
Zuko stared back at himself from the long mirror affixed to the dressing room wall. He stood cold as a statue while Yotsu and the other servants moved around him, adjusting his formal robes in preparation for the feast that was to be held in Zhao's honor. The light of the lamps cast a soft glow about him, but the shadows in his eyes were deep, and his scar was a dark smear on his pale face. He could not stop looking into his own eyes and imagining himself at his father's side, spewing flames across the Earth Kingdom.
It was both gratifying and terrifying to see his skin was a little pale, and nothing else showed of the state of his mind.
On his way out of his quarters, he pulled up short at the sight of Katara, head bowed as she awaited him. Her dress for the occasion was understated, a slim rose shift under a servant's simple kimono, and the subtle elegance may have been intended to make her appear humble at his side, but with her bearing - some subtlety of her straight neck and stiff shoulders - Zuko found she cut a dignified figure.
To think, it was only his grandfather's tactical inadequacy that made the difference between Katara alive and Katara never born at all.
She flicked her eyes up to him, an unspoken question at his hesitance. Zuko remembered that Yotsu and the other servants watched them. With an idle wave of his hand, he dismissed them, and Lieutenant Roshu, and strode toward the formal dining hall. Katara followed behind him, just a swish of silk and slippers and a wisp of fresh scent at the edge of his senses.
He could not afford now to be unfocused. Zuko had to be strong. He had to be composed, or the nobles of the Fire Court would cut into his heart with their eyes and pick through his secrets like the seeds of a pomme-melon. The details of war meetings were well-guarded, but Zuko was not so naive as to think that the nature of his proposal would remain a secret. There could be no doubt that by the end of this dinner, his… humanitarian inclinations would be common knowledge. He had to present himself with dignity and strength now if he ever hoped to be taken seriously again. But even as he asserted this to himself, his focus was pulled apart, his mind dragged back to the flames-
"You're upset."
Zuko stopped as if he had struck a wall, and whipped around to stare at her. She looked back at him, and he didn't know how to read the way she watched him.
"Having second thoughts?" She enunciated the words as if working carefully through a tight space. She was angry, he realized, and while in a normal moment he might have retaliated with his own temper, now he could only stare back at her.
Second thoughts?
His pulse hammered through his clenched jaw. His stomach churned sluggishly. Something was rising up to the surface in his brain, threatening to breach like a sea monster. He knew instinctively that the sight of that hideous thing would crush him, spoil all his labors, perhaps smash his grip on sanity.
Katara stared up at him like an unhungry falcon, trying to decide if the feeble scurrying thing before her was worth the trouble of eating. "Just tell me why," she said, quiet in her fury. "What excuse could you possibly have to drag your feet like this?"
Zuko realized in a cold rush through his abdomen that she wasn't talking about what he had thought. She was talking about their plan. The duel. His clean-cut priorities returned to him, stuttering and sterile. Katara's freedom. That came first.
And later, when that much was out of the way, he would have time to consider the other thing.
To Katara's eye, his face altered over the course of just a few seconds. It was pale, with strained lines around his eyes and an overly bright flash in the whites. She could see it as he returned to himself - his face sagged, then narrowed like a sail being drawn tight to a singular purpose. Suddenly, he was himself again, and the thread of unease she had felt loosened its grip on her.
"I'm not dragging my feet," he said irritably, then turned and marched on. Katara followed, somewhat mollified but still watching him for signs of trouble. She was so close now. She wasn't going to let him ruin her chances with his unpredictable moods, not now.
At their approach, a pair of footmen opened a set of grand double doors. The din of a hundred voices beyond washed out onto them. Katara followed Zuko through the doorway and paused behind him as a herald announced him.
The dining hall was almost as massive as the throne room, with two long tables and an army of sitting cushions, all filled with finely-dressed guests. The vaulted ceiling resounded with chatter and polite laughter, all of which went quiet as the many nobles and high-ranking officers and bureaucrats set aside their sparkling wines and rose to welcome their prince. They bowed as he strode the length of the aisle, Katara in his wake.
As the prince passed, the guests resumed their conversations more quietly. Katara could hear them faintly - she heard her own name and his at least once. At last, they stepped onto the low dais where Azula already sat waiting with a chalice of wine in one idle hand. The princess did not wear a gown like most of the ladies present, but formal robes that matched Zuko's, with the same gold embroidery curling along the hems and wide shoulder piece. Katara took her place behind and to the right of the prince and - as Azula uttered some mild reprimand and Zuko curtly replied - observed the room with lowered eyes.
"It was foolish and it was weak," Azula snapped in an undertone.
Subtly, Katara leaned back so that she could peek around Zuko and steal a glance at Azula. If the princess had been anyone else, she would have seemed perfectly collected, but she was not anyone else. A strand of her hair had slipped free from her topknot. Her mouth was slightly too wide, too tight. The look of her made Katara inexplicably nervous, and her tone raised the hairs on the back of her neck.
"He doesn't mean it as a reward. You know that, don't you? The honor is wasted on you."
Zuko snapped his head around to stare across the dining hall and sat straight as a post in his place, stiff and brittle. Watching him surreptitiously, Katara felt that thread of unease pull tight in her again. Something had happened, and she was willing to bet that it had happened in the war meeting Zuko had disappeared into for so many hours. Whatever it was, it had shaken him deeply.
Concern came slithering through her, slick as kelp. In the stream of her mind, she pressed it into the pool of things she shouldn't feel, behind a dam that protected her. Whatever had disturbed Zuko this way, it was his problem.
Finally, the Fire Lord arrived and the guests bowed in silence as he assumed his place on the dais and spoke some glowing words of praise for the guest of honor. Zhao stood from his sitting cushion (which happened to be at the near end of the table directly in front of Zuko) and basked in the accolades like a fat stink-toad in the sun. Katara clenched her hands against the pitcher of wine she held until her knuckles were pale and stiff.
An hour crawled by and a seemingly unending procession of courses came and went. Despite the many conversations going on in the room, it was impossible for Katara to not hear Zhao's steady boasting and the fawning replies of the nobles and high-level bureaucrats seated with him. It was impossible, too, to ignore his occasional glances at Zuko, and at her. His eyes glittered with cruel amusement.
Katara was hardly the only one to notice. Throughout the dining hall, eyes were trained on the Admiral, eyes that followed his glances, attached to mouths that whispered a great many speculations. It was no secret that he and the Prince shared a special animosity, and the glut of rumors surrounding the circumstances was delectable. It was said that they had actually come to blows some months back. It was hinted that someone's maid's cousin had seen fresh burn scars on the Prince's back. Arrogant carelessness, or disregard for the rules of honorable combat?
Whatever the issue was, His Highness sat above them all now with dignity - if perhaps a lackluster appetite. If rumor was to be believed, his performance in the war council had displeased the Fire Lord, though it had been less disastrous than his previous attempt. Whispers circulated a whole variety of debates vis-a-vis the Prince's character; was it cowardice that weighed on him now? His remedial education? It was impossible to guess from the well-honed aristocratic boredom he presented.
But the Admiral… well, if one could fail to spot the man's inferior breeding when he opened his mouth, his manners certainly marked him for what he was.
And might his glances be in some way related to the slave princess's pretty (if basic) appearance tonight? She would be a fine ornament for a prince, if it weren't for all her covert looks and that scowl she perpetually failed to conceal. Not a skilled actress, that one. How she despises that man!
It was a surprise to no one when Prince Zuko retired soon after the night's repast was done and long before the wine would cease flowing, and no one remarked on his slave following close behind him as he strode past Zhao without a sideways glance. But it was a surprise indeed when she tripped on some unseen thing and the contents of the pitcher she carried flew up in a brilliant ruby curtain that splashed down on Prince Zuko's back.
The entire room sat silently watching, many with gaping mouths. The Prince turned slowly on the spot, scowling down at her with a look so fierce it was suddenly obvious that all the rumors about his temper had to be true. The slave princess stared back at him, mortified, then bowed deeply and began sputtering apologies. From her red face and quaking shoulders, she had to be fraught with fear and humiliation. (Though there were those who secretly suspected she might have been choking back laughter.)
"Please, Prince Zuko, it was not my fault. He tripped me!" She flung out an arm toward the Admiral where he still sat.
The Admiral's face, previously occupied by mild and growing delight, pinched in outrage. "Your Highness, she is obviously lying-"
The slave princess threw down the pitcher and turned on him at once. In the shatter and then the silence, suddenly there was no one watching who did not remember the thunder of water on the night of the full moon. She had sat so demurely in their tea rooms, but the memory came quick as her feet slid apart and her delicate hands hardened into fists. Her exotic blue eyes were burning, pin-pointing on the Admiral where he sat still on his cushions.
"How dare you call me a liar! How dare you besmirch my honor and that of Prince Zuko! I challenge you to an Agni Kai!"
The room chorused with gasps.
Yet among those watching, few actually believed the slave princess was not fabricating this entire situation. A Water Tribe princess would have every reason to seek out vengeance against the Moonslayer; she had every reason to make a scene and lie about it. (And, it would be agreed upon later, no one watching had actually seen him trip her.) More interesting than the mere truth, though, was the grudge the slave's master held against the Admiral. Was the Prince devious enough to pull the strings behind this little drama? Was he so much his father's son?
Had the confrontation ended at the challenge, most would have sided with the Admiral and brushed it all off as the theatrics of a high-spirited slave. But it did not end there. Because in the instant when she loomed over him to issue her challenge, Zhao flinched back from her.
Only a few brave souls in the room would not have done the same, but one did not defend weaklings or cowards in the Fire Court. One did not simply go on dining with a celebrated officer who could be cowed by a teenaged girl in an iron collar. Even the Fire Lord, looking on with smoldering fury, could no longer dismiss the confrontation for the farce that it was.
But Ozai could see past it to Prince Zuko, who dripped wine and looked steadily back at him with that carefully controlled expression. And he could very clearly read between the lines. His son was subverting his order to take vengeance against a petty rival. Perversely, it pleased him to see the boy finally prove he possessed a rudimentary spine.
But this defiant act would cost him dearly.
Zhao, who was not a fool, recognized the trap in the seconds after he twitched back from the waterbender. He understood that he was being maneuvered, and he knew he could not refuse the challenge and walk away with his honor. But there was something he could do. He surged to his feet.
"I wouldn't want to insult Prince Zuko by damaging his property," he said down his nose to the much smaller girl, "especially property that has proven to be so difficult for him to control."
Her mouth twisted downward and her face reddened. She held her ground, scowling up at him as he invaded her space. But she did not lash out. A pity. If she had, the challenge could have been ignored without the indignity of actually fighting the wolf pup.
The Prince did not lash out, either, though the barb was as much for him as for the waterbender. Instead, he only spoke, clear and cutting for all those listening to hear.
"Do you decline the challenge?"
No one breathed. Zhao stared at the wine-soaked prince, certain he had planned this and hating him for it. In that scarred face, he could read only impatience, irritation. Zhao turned to glance hopefully up at the Fire Lord.
But there was no mercy there. Ozai frowned and made no move to intervene.
"Of course I must accept," Zhao huffed. He towered over the waterbender, could easily look over the top of her head at Zuko, but now he tipped his chin down and really glowered at her. "When I beat your slave, I will want restitution for this indignity."
One corner of her mouth twitched upward in a nearly-hidden smirk. It made the muscles in his neck stiffen, because he could tell this was exactly what she had wanted. Zhao was not afraid - of course not, not of a little girl and not of the disgrace of a prince who owned her - but he had not forgotten how powerful she could be, or how quick. He had underestimated Katto before. She would not be so lucky this time.
And the Prince would finally learn the price of meddling with Zhao the Conqueror.
.
.
Sokka awoke as the ship ran aground, and he might have hurt himself leaping out of the makeshift cot on the floor of the cramped engine room if Hakoda had not been there waiting. Instead, Sokka only flung himself into his father's arms, and Hakoda held him a little too tightly until he regained his grip on reality.
"We got away?" he asked more than once. "They aren't chasing us?"
"You're safe. I've got you."
Hakoda pressed a canteen into his hands as he withdrew. The water inside tasted faintly minty. As Sokka drank slow, careful sips, Hakoda sat back against the wall and explained how Toph had destroyed the trolly winch, effectively trapping everyone inside the Boiling Rock, then how they had gotten Appa aboard the ship and finally made their escape. The bison was almost too big to fit on the deck and the little vessel had nearly capsized a few times, but between the Avatar and a few strokes of good luck, they made it to the hideout as they had planned. The island was small, tucked in among several similar in size and isolation. Each was dominated by a volcano that rumbled and occasionally belched out a plume of smoke.
"Iroh assures us they're stable enough," Hakoda finished mildly. "With Toph keeping an ear to the ground, we'll be safe to rest here for the night. And in the morning, when the bison has recovered from the sedative, we'll sail for the rendezvous point in the South Sea."
"What about Katara?"
"She made her choice."
The words were sharp, and Sokka felt their raw edge dig into his own heart. But Hakoda immediately shook his head, dropped his eyes. His look was so aching and weary - and old. It frightened Sokka how old his dad suddenly looked. Whatever had passed between him and Katara, it was still a fresh wound.
"I don't want you thinking you should go after her. The Avatar may still believe he can rescue her but-" He looked up abruptly and braced one hand on Sokka's shoulder. It felt warm, that hand, and familiar. "We know Katara better than he does. She's set her mind on doing this thing-"
"And she's going to do it."
Understanding arced between them like a snap of electricity, and the force of it came bubbling up from their bellies as laughter. Jubilant, desperate, despairing laughter.
At length, they went above decks and Sokka thought for a second that he had been blinded by the low glow of the boiler fire. Darkness pressed in against the reach of the few lanterns, stiff and impenetrable. Then his eyes adjusted and he gaped at the domed ceiling of volcanic rock overhead. They were inside a cavern, the nose of the ship wedged high on an unseen beach.
The crew were all working together to transfer Appa off the ship and onto a big wedge of black volcanic rock that Toph had evidently raised up. Aang stood balanced on the opposite gunwale and generated a long, sustained wind while a few warriors helped roll the massive snoring animal. As Appa slumped finally onto his side on the stone, Miku pinwheeled his arms and plopped straight into his gaping mouth. He emerged to hoots of laughter from all around, wiping long strands of saliva off his face and clothes.
"Oh, that is just-" He gagged, his mouth pulled back in a tug of war between grin and grimace. Then, he spotted the newcomers and threw open his arms. "Sokka! Good to see you! How 'bout a hug, kid?"
Bato caught hold of his shoulder to stop his advance. "I think Sokka could probably use a meal first. Iroh's put together some kind of soup down on the beach," he said to Hakoda. There was an undercurrent in his voice. "Kottik's supervising."
Hakoda only sighed and guided Sokka toward the steep gang plank. As they passed, Aang averted his eyes and went on helping Toph move Appa onto the beach.
The flaky black gravel poked dully at Sokka's feet through the flimsy soles of his prison shoes, and it seemed to gulp down the light so that the small cook fire seemed almost to be floating on nothing. Iroh stood serenely over a big pot, stirring occasionally and squinting against the steam. Propped up in a bedroll with big bandages covering his chest, Kottik watched him. Nearby, Akuma lay on his side, only the faint sparkle of reflected firelight suggesting that his eyes were still open a crack.
At Sokka's approach, Iroh smiled and filled a bowl with steaming broth. "Ah, Sokka! Good to see you're up and about already! Here, sit and replenish your strength."
The bowl was tin, and the heat of the broth quickly made it uncomfortably warm to the touch. Sokka held it anyway, unflinching; he was very aware of how closely Kottik watched him now, too. He smiled. "Thanks, Mushi."
The old man chuckled and went about dishing up a bowl for Hakoda - this one with solid vegetables in it, Sokka noticed with a touch of envy. After just a few sips from his bowl, though, his stomach rumbled a mixed message and he was glad to be spared from his own impatience.
Others gathered at the fire as he slowly drank. First Kovu and Nuklok, then Bato and a drenched, fresh-out-of-the-ocean Miku. Piecemeal, they told him the story of the fight in the capital and hiding in the countryside. Kottik and Akuma both stoutly proclaimed themselves on the mend. The men all laughed together and asked Sokka about his time behind bars, but there were things they did not mention. Zuko's name never exactly came up, and neither did Katara's. Sokka wasn't sure what had happened back at the palace, but he could guess, and his guess pretty much explained why everyone was still sore from it.
Great job, Katara. Way to make everything just that little extra bit more complicated.
Finally, Toph flopped down at the fire's edge, practically roasting the undersides of her bare feet, which were deeply lined with black dust. Almost immediately, she sniffed and waved a hand in front of her scrunched up nose. "Phew, who stinks like monster breath?"
Miku, across the fire, grinned and patted the damp front of his shirt. "Not me. I just took a bath."
"Dunking yourself in the ocean isn't the same thing as a bath, Lemur Lover."
There was a round of chuckles, through which Miku just peered around the cave. "Speaking of which, where is my little pal?"
"Handling a cave crawler crisis. You'll have to feed the treats in your pocket to somebody else this time."
Miku turned red as Kovu elbowed him. "'Animal magnetism' my boots."
Miku loudly defended himself, but Sokka only heard Toph, who turned toward the spot up the beach where they had settled Appa and all but shouted, "Horse stance, lily liver! I don't want to feel you stand up until you've moved that rock!"
Aang's voice came from the far side of the bison, where a lantern backlit Appa's enormous silhouette. "This would be a whole lot easier if I could have some soup first."
"You'll get your soup when you move that rock. Now quit stalling and get to bending!"
"Yes, Sifu Toph."
Sokka glanced around the campfire and found a lot of bored expressions. Aang sounded pretty miserable, but he didn't seem to be getting a lot of sympathy from this crowd. Even Iroh went on passing out soup without comment.
"So," Sokka ventured, "you're teaching Aang how to earthbend."
"Trying." Toph slurped nonchalantly at her soup. "He's being a real wet noodle about it, though."
"I'm not gonna try to tell you how to do your job, but as a recently incarcerated person, I can vouch for the importance of regular meals."
"I'm not starving him, Snoozles. He had lunch. All he has to do is move the rock. It's not even a big rock. He just has to stick with it and decide he's going to succeed and-" she pitched her voice louder, "-quit trying to weasel out of it like a tricky airbender!"
A frustrated snarl came from the other side of Appa and Aang stomped into view. "I can't do it! All I've done for the past three days is stick with it and try, and I can't! Nothing I try is working-"
"Because all you're trying to do is get around it-"
"-because I'm not an earthbender-"
"-instead of powering through like you really want it!"
"I'm not cut out for this!"
Aang stared wild-eyed around the darkness as if searching for an exit, and apparently Toph could sense the movement - had maybe even expected it - because she folded her arms over her chest grimly.
"You can't run away this time. You saw me shut the cave. You can't leave without earthbending your way out."
Aang spun on his heel and stalked off toward the back of the cave. For a moment, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the distant diminishing scrape of his footsteps. For the first time, Sokka realized the Water Tribe warriors had been conspicuously silent throughout the dispute, wanting nothing to do with it. Hakoda sat straight and still, drinking his soup as he listened impassively. Kottik went on watching Iroh. Sokka saw now the strangeness of his position, caught between two different groups he felt a part of - two groups that were not exactly part of each other.
And it occurred to him, for the first time, that he was going to have to choose between them.
"Are all earthbending instructors that harsh," he finally asked, "or are you trying out for a special award?"
Toph whipped up a hand as if to stave him off. "Earthbending isn't like air or water. It's not some relaxing low-impact exercise for wishy-washy hobbyists. An earthbender who only kind of wants to bend the rock gets smashed like a bug. If Aang is going to master this element, he's got to start by learning discipline and determination."
Sokka sat back, and a moment later Iroh spoke. "Probably, earthbending is more difficult for Aang because it is the elemental opposite of airbending. The freedom and fluidity of air are very complementary to water - and fire! - but not so for earth." He stirred the last bit of soup and moved the pot away from the heat. "Aang is struggling because the rooted foundation and persistence needed for earthbending are so at odds with the philosophy of bending he first learned."
"That doesn't mean he gets to skip out on learning it."
"On the contrary! He absolutely must learn it." Iroh stooped still over the pot, but a hint of the steel hidden in the old man slipped into view. "He especially must learn the discipline of earthbending before he progresses to firebending. Otherwise, he risks throwing himself out of balance." He shook his head and returned to his seat at the fire's side. "And there is nothing so deadly as facing a master firebender when you lack balance."
Toph drank down the last of her soup in one loud gulp, and Sokka knew somehow that she was thinking of Azula, and Katara, and the beach at the Eastern Air Temple.
"Yeah," she said thickly, "that's no joke."
.
.
The royal dueling chamber was massive, with looming pillars and an open skylight that, by day, would have bathed the long arena in blazing sunlight. It was night now, though, and there was only darkness above the flashing dance of the torches affixed to each pillar. The day's clouds had been blown away at dusk but there was no moon, and what few stars shone down were dull as scattered crumbs.
The stone of the floor was cool and damp against Katara's knees as she waited for the signal to begin. She wanted to leap up and fight the man she knew was kneeling behind her, but she had to follow the rules. Zuko had been insistent about that.
The chamber was not silent; the tiered stone benches were filled with members of the Fire Court, and servants clustered in the shadows of the doorways, craning their necks for a glimpse. The room rustled and hushed itself, and the imperfect quiet dug under Katara's skin like a beetle through rotten wood.
She pushed the feeling away and searched for tranquility. All she found was simmering resentment. Anxiety. Fury. She tried to let her thoughts come and go, but her mind kept straying to places she did not want to visit. Frustration. Pain. Confusion.
Katara opened her eyes and let a long breath out through her tight mouth. It didn't matter. She was going to beat Zhao and win her freedom. The rest she could work out later.
The official called the combatants to the ready. Katara stood and turned. Zhao faced her in a fighting stance. His bare chest was heavy with muscle and hair, and somehow, inexplicably, that sent a dart of unease through her. As if the armor had been merely a mask hiding something more unpredictable.
Katara wasn't going to be intimidated by Zhao, though. Not him. He was vile and he had done unspeakable things. He deserved to be defeated, and she would be the one to defeat him. She held that certainty in her stomach, a furious throbbing egg.
The instant the official called the start, Katara leapt forward, yanking the water out of one of the barrels that had been lined up along the edge of the arena for her use. Zhao struck at the same time with a stomping step forward and a double-armed push that launched a massive gout of flame. Water smashed into fire head on and steam billowed through the chamber.
To the audience, the combatants became only shapes in the fog. The Admiral massive and roaring, the flashes and blasts of his firebending casting brilliant halos in the humid air - while the slave princess sliced through his assaults with phantom blades that gushed and chuckled coldly. They were matched in their hatred for each other and the Fire Court watched, enthralled by drama and bloodlust.
So no one was really watching when the Princess, seated between her brother and the Fire Lord, leaned over to whisper near Prince Zuko's ear.
"Do you see it yet?"
Zuko spared her a sharp sideways glance but kept watching the duel. Fire boomed and water hissed, and Azula had regained her composure. She had seemed furious before dinner but that was all gone now, replaced with cool amusement. Zuko was not certain which should make him more nervous.
"Her stamina really isn't what it used to be, is it?"
"She's fine," he grated out, but even as he said the words, he could see the split second lag in Katara's recovery from strikes, the slightly-too-wide arc of her water, its ragged edge.
"She's overextending," Azula corrected. Zuko did not look at her, but he felt her eyes on him, searing. "She took up too much of her element at once. She thought she would overwhelm him quickly. Now, her energy is running out." Her teeth caught the light as she smiled. "Zhao only needs to wait for her to make a mistake."
"She won't."
There was no doubt in Zuko's tone, but there was cold sweat popping out on the back of his neck. It slicked against his high collar.
"This, exactly, is why you will never thrive in the Fire Court without me."
Zuko finally turned to really look at her. He didn't understand the dull distance that had replaced satisfaction in her eyes.
"You are so predictable. You set your sights on impossible things and then act surprised when you fall short again and again."
"You're wrong."
The words sounded stupider out loud than they had in his head. Azula only sighed and looked blandly back at the duel before her.
"Understanding and controlling minds is fundamental to survival in our world, Zuko. It isn't complicated. All you need to do is offer someone a glimmer of hope that what they want most is just barely out of reach-" She subtly gestured to Katara, fighting hard for the freedom he had promised her. "-and then watch them topple themselves grasping for it."
And in that instant, finally, Zuko felt Azula's jaws clamp shut upon him. She had lured him into arranging this fight. She had dangled justice against Zhao in front of him and even though he had realized she was doing it, he still did exactly what she wanted him to do. She had known somehow that Katara was not ready - had known probably since the full moon party - and had known Zuko would overestimate her in his desperation to set her free. Azula had known it all.
He looked back in time to see Katara stagger as she dodged a rapid series of fireballs. She barely kept her feet, teetering on the edge of the arena. Hope lanced through him that she would blunder out of bounds - that would be enough to end the duel, end it now before—
But her feet stayed squarely inside the lines and she shouted hoarsely as she gathered up another stream to launch at Zhao. He slapped it aside and struck at her again, harder, quicker. The flames licked closer and closer to her body, her face. The steam was burning away, leaving her even more exposed - to all these eyes, to the fire…
Zuko had to stop this. He made to rise - but Azula grabbed his forearm, holding him still beside her. It came to him that he couldn't intervene in an Agni Kai in any case. It would be an unspeakable dishonor.
"This lesson is my gift to you," she said, her sharp fingernails digging deep into his sleeve, into the flesh beneath. Unseen, blood crept down his forearm.
Zuko hardly noticed. His world had narrowed to the horror unfolding slowly before his eyes and her voice echoing through his head like a whisper in a silent room. Zhao sprang forward with a sustained outpouring of flames—
"I tried to teach you how to rule the Fire Court, Zuko, but you refused to listen."
Katara raised a wall of ice, but it shattered and she went tumbling back—
"You chose not to join me as an equal - so instead you will obey me."
She painfully pushed herself up to her hands and knees. Zhao closed in in three long strides—
"And if you ever dare undermine me again," Azula whispered gently into his ear, "I will cut the weak heart from your chest and gift it to Father in a silver box."
Zuko couldn't speak, couldn't look away. He was frozen like a child in the midst of a nightmare. He thought maybe Azula was fulfilling her promise already. A cry arose, and he was sure it came from inside him but in truth it was the watching nobles and bureaucrats and servants, gasping and wincing and exalting as Zhao's flaming fist came down.
Katara fell.
.
.
"Aang?" Sokka lifted the lantern a measure higher even though it didn't penetrate any deeper into the thick darkness ahead. "Little buddy? Come on, this is getting seriously creepy…"
Iroh had awakened the camp shortly before dawn, only to find that the kid still hadn't returned from whatever dark crevice he had run off to. Toph had huffed and made to march off after him, but Sokka, hardly realizing what he was about to do or why, volunteered to go instead.
And now he was alone. In the dark. In a cave that Toph said didn't go on that far - but who knew with Toph, really? She would probably think it was pretty funny to get Sokka lost in some bottomless pit - under a volcano, no less. As if he hadn't had enough of volcanos to last a lifetime.
Just as he was beginning to seriously question his decision, Sokka spotted a pale face seeping out of the darkness ahead - a face with four eyes and massive horns. He shrieked manfully and jumped back. Three hammering heartbeats later, he recognized the dim blue arrow and the bewildered look on Aang's hapless face - and Momo's usual inquisitive purr.
"There you are!" Sokka said, straightening up a little too straight. "Didn't you hear me calling? It's pretty rude to not answer when people are looking for you, you know."
"I'm sorry, Sokka." Aang was sitting against a wall with his arm wrapped around his knees. Presently, he pressed his chin into the crook of his elbow and Momo leapt off his shoulder to go polish off the cave's cave crawler population. "I kind of… hoped you wouldn't find me."
Sokka pretended he didn't see the tear tracing down the younger boy's cheek and sat down in front of him. He knew now why he had come down here. Katara wasn't here, and Aang needed something, something Sokka had seen his sister do a few times in the cruiser brig and a million times back home. The kid needed a little compassion and encouragement. It wasn't a warrior's role, not really, but Sokka wasn't exactly a warrior like his father and the other men. The Avatar, and Katara, needed something more from him, and he was going to provide it.
"Listen," he said gently, "I know Toph is being hard on you, but I also know you can handle this earthbending stuff. You're pretty tough for such a skinny kid."
"Thanks, Sokka, but… it's not just that." He wouldn't look up from the rock he was staring at, couldn't seem to bring himself to look anywhere else. "I left your family behind in the Boiling Rock. If it wasn't for Toph, they would still be there now."
A cold lump formed in Sokka's gut at the thought. Aang still wouldn't look at him.
"Nothing I do is ever enough. I couldn't save your family. I couldn't save Katara. I couldn't even save myself. I've messed everything up over and over again." He shook his head, winced. "The Avatar isn't supposed to be weak like this. Maybe… there was a mistake. Maybe I was supposed to die a long time ago and just continuing to live now is making everything so much-"
"Stop."
Silence hung like smoke in the dim lamplight between them. Sokka waved one hand as if to sweep it away, and found himself staring at a boy who was somehow just like him.
"You aren't weak, Aang. Everybody has limitations. Being strong isn't as simple as having more power or ability than anybody else." As he said it, he realized that he believed it, had believed it for a while now. In his mind, it was becoming crystalline, a purer version of itself. This was the lesson he had been learning since the moment Katara had outstripped him as a fighter.
"Strength is knowing when and how to use what you have. When we were escaping the Boiling Rock, you threw everything you had into getting Appa to safety before the drugs hit him. That took so much power and determination. If you had turned back like I wanted you to, we would all be trapped there now."
Aang finally looked up at him, his hands fisted in his ragged sleeves. "But the Avatar has to be stronger than anyone else, Sokka. I have to be powerful enough to defeat the Fire Lord. What am I gonna do? Give it my best?"
He had a quaking pent-up energy just under the surface, like a rabberoo a heartbeat from bolting. Sokka sighed.
"I'm gonna level with you. I don't know. Not yet." He reached out and put his hand on Aang's thin shoulder. It was like gripping a scarecrow's - cool and hard and inflexible. "But that's down the road, Aang. Don't let that stuff distract you from what's right in front of you. The most important thing right now is to focus on your training. Once you've mastered the elements, we'll figure out the rest."
Aang stared doubtfully back at him. Then he ventured a hopeful half-smile. "Does that mean you're coming with us instead of your dad?"
Sokka blinked twice rapidly, because he had somehow not realized that the parting of ways was going to come so soon. He didn't want to say goodbye already to his dad. In fact, the thought of the weary sorrow he had seen in Hakoda the night before made him very reluctant to part from him at all.
Because that was what Katara had done, wasn't it?
But there were priorities to think of here that were much bigger than any one of them. In the interest of ending the war, and ensuring the survival of their people, there was really only one choice for Sokka.
They arrived back at the beach just in time to watch Toph crack the cave open to the green-and-pink horizon and feel a wash of sweet, wet morning air flood in. Sokka felt his skin prickle and tighten all the way from his neck to his knees, but he didn't pause as he parted ways with Aang and joined Hakoda on the beach near the little ship. His father watched the opening in the rock with a steady, grinding patience.
"Dad… I'm sorry," Sokka said. There was no use delaying the inevitable. Not now. "I can't come with you."
For a second, there was no response. Then Hakoda turned to him, a furrow in his brow. "Don't be sorry for doing what's right for you. I don't blame Katara, and I don't blame you." He heaved a big breath and braced one hand on Sokka's shoulder. For the first time, Sokka felt more like he was lending support rather than borrowing it. "My son, fighting at the Avatar's side. I'm proud of you. Don't ever think I'm not."
Sokka couldn't help but smile as his face heated. "We're, uh, heading south. Apparently Iroh has some allies. It's pretty hush-hush."
"Yeah," Hakoda said blandly. "A lot of things are with that old fox-partridge." He peered levelly back at him. "Be careful, Sokka. I get the feeling this war is winding up for a big finish. A little Water Tribe luck and maybe we can meet back home before winter."
"Just in time for blizzard season," Sokka replied unenthusiastically. "What kind of luck is that?"
Hakoda laughed and hugged him too tightly. "Water Tribe luck!"
.
AN: I've been trying not to do this, but I predict that there are gonna be a lot of people disappointed and frustrated that Katara didn't get out this chapter. Totally understood. It's been years. You've been waiting for it to finally happen. And waiting for Zuko to figure his stuff out and actually help her. It's been a long road with more than one false-alarm along the way. That might be starting to feel like a pattern, but I want to reassure you that I'm aware of it. I'm not repeating the same easy trick for kicks; these near-misses are building to what is probably the heart of this book. The perseverance of hope is not impressive without the real possibility of hopelessness.
