Chapter Text
Zuko used to be a prince. He supposed he still was a prince, but he also supposed nothing would ever come of it. His days used to be spent under the gaze and rod of harsh tutors, being taught how to fight without mercy and with no acknowledgement that he was just a child who could barely lift a sword, isolated from other children and alone, unless his fiery little sister was allowed near him. Azula had his father’s favor and Zuko decidedly did not, however, so those were rare occasions (though they were occasions held close to his heart, sometimes recalled with childlike homesickness during sleepless nights). Zuko used to be a prince who was sheltered and spoiled with luxury, even if it was dampened drastically by Crown Prince Ozai’s constant grimace and heavy hand.
Zuko used to be a prince. Zuko was now a proficient farmhand, yielding a scythe as he was taught to yield a sword, body strong from shoveling hay and hoeing fields. He had never shied away from hard work; a tenacious child turned into a resilient young man, he was not too proud to bow his head under the sun when, in another life, a crown might have been held high. Once a prince, now a peasant, banished from the castle and capital for daring to question his father about the cruelty of his military tactics in the presence of his father’s generals, cast out beyond the walls with a horrid burn on his face. Under normal circumstances, banishment would have been represented by a cut off ear, so that all who saw him would know his shame and treat him accordingly. That was not enough for Ozai - his failure of a son, the disappointing prince, must learn respect, and suffering was to be his teacher. He could not kill him outright, of course, but the likelihood of mortal infection was enough.
He had been thirteen; a child, still growing, still scared of the dark and closed closets and the tell-tale sound of his father’s steps coming towards his room after another day of Zuko’s failure. His only ally was his Uncle Iroh, and maybe Uncle Iroh would have stopped the whole thing had he even been in the country, maybe he could have kept Zuko from speaking out, from being burned, from being cast out of the only place he had ever known. As he had been escorted from the grounds to the edge of the woods, he had chanced a single glance back and saw his little sister wave from the window. She was scared of the dark, too. More than his own fear of death and of being alone, he was struck with fear for her - Azula would have no one to hide her weaknesses from their father, few though there were. He hoped his mother’s spirit would look over her instead of him.
Zuko survived. He had been lucky to be born, and he continued to be lucky to live. A gruff healer with just enough kindness behind his eyes had found him deep in the woods, exhausted and delirious and nearly fulfilling his father’s hopes of dying from infection. He had nursed him back to health, muttering complaints about their kingdom and Ozai’s rule as he did so - he knew who Zuko was, then. When he felt it would be traitorous to listen to his complaints in silence, he choked out, “I’m the prince,” hoping it would make the healer think about who he was speaking treason to.
The healer gave him a sharp look, and taught him his first lesson outside the castle walls. “Were, my boy. You’re the prince no longer.”
Had Zuko been a lost little prince, still crowned and honorable, caught in some accident that left him in dire straits, the healer would have left him to die. But as it was, he turned him out only when he could walk on his own, shoved a book about foraging into his chest, and slammed the door in his face. With the healer’s lesson still fresh in his mind, Zuko could only be grateful.
He learned through suffering; his father had been correct. Suffering was a wonderful teacher - one kinder than the tutors and masters and his mother’s death and father’s eyes - and Zuko learned. He learned to cover himself with foliage in the freezing nights, both to keep warm and to hide himself from the predators that roamed the woods around him. He learned what he could eat as he stumbled through the forest, using the healer’s book as a guide. He quickly learned to stick to foraging rather than hunting, finding himself unable to hurt small creatures but even more than that unable to be near the cooking fire without fear coursing through him, bone-deep.
He stumbled his way through the forest - and then through tiny towns - as quickly as he could. He had acquired the skill of stealth through years of practice in moving silently through the castle, hiding away from the many people who did not look at him kindly, and he used it now to steal food from market stalls. (Other than Uncle Iroh, Azula was the only person who had looked at him kindly since Princess Ursa had died, and even then the kindness came from eyes that looked too much like their father’s.) He took on any job he could, from shoveling cow shit to carrying an old woman’s groceries to more unsavory and more unspeakable tasks, but his mark of shame saw him turned away from the vast majority of opportunities, and he was unable to find anything stable, even as he passed through dozens of towns over dozens of months.
He had wandered onto Hakoda’s farm when he had nearly run out of both coin and luck. He had been nearing death, at that point, a starved thing of fifteen riding an old mule in the pouring rain. He had been hoping that the owner of the farm might allow him to find shelter with the pigs (and, if they didn’t, he might have sought their shelter anyway with the intent to sneak out before sunrise). Instead, he found Hakoda, a strong man who worked his land with pride, carrying most of it on his own shoulders since his wife had passed and his children had begun to seek more gainful employment. Zuko wasn’t sure what Hakoda saw in him that day (what he saw was a boy who could have been his son, too drawn in on himself and much, much too thin), but he had been taken on as a farmhand, paid through a small wage and meals and a warm bed in a little hovel by the barn.
Hakoda’s children were just like him: talented, strong, and unbreakable in spirit. The youngest, Katara, was a brilliant young girl of thirteen, and studied under the village healer. Though she technically lived at home with her father, she was often away, traveling with the healer to even more rural places in need of a talented hand. When Katara was at home, she and Zuko had a respectable working relationship - one might call it a friendship, though Zuko did not have another one of those to compare it to. He would mend her things along with Hakoda’s and his own by the fire, and she would sometimes allow him to eat dinner at the table. It was kind, familial, and infrequent. Zuko liked it. He didn’t say so. He barely ever said .
Zuko didn’t meet Hakoda’s eldest, Sokka, until nearly a year into his employment. Hakoda and Katara both spoke very highly of Sokka whenever he came up, albeit with an air of benevolent exasperation. Sokka was a talented young man of sixteen, and was apprenticing under a master swordsmith a few nations away in Shu Jing, not able to come home until the master saw fit for him to do so. Although he did not say, as he barely ever said, Zuko greatly admired this - he knew of Master Piandao of Shu Jing, and knew that “mastery” was an understatement for a swordsmith of his talents. Perhaps, if he was still Prince Zuko, he would have said. Or perhaps if he kept his Piandao-crafted dual dao equipped and not tucked between his bed and the wall. But as it was, he could only ponder and hope that he would meet Sokka one day, that maybe he and his own master’s son could spar and see what the other could do.
He did meet Sokka, one perfect fall afternoon right before harvest season began. Katara had mentioned that he would be returning to help with the harvest (as he was a loyal farmer’s son who knew the importance of the season), as Master Piandao had declared him “adequate enough” and allowed him a season’s leave. Zuko had been collecting carrots in the little garden beside the house when he looked up and saw one of the most beautiful men he had ever seen (Sokka was, of course, one of the world’s twenty most beautiful men, mathematically and objectively), framed by the gorgeous golden glow of a perfect fall sunset. Zuko could do nothing but stare as he walked up, still bent over his work but hands stilled as if frozen by his approach.
Sokka stopped in front of him, looked down at him with perfect blue eyes, his perfect face framed by perfect hair, perfect arms holding a perfect leather bag, perfect sword equipped on his perfect back, perfect lips set into a perfect suspicious line.
“Farm boy,” he said, perfectly, surrounded by a perfect autumn halo. “Tell my father I’ve arrived.”
Zuko rose, standing straight, and inclined his head as if this perfect man was a perfect lord. He felt as if it was the start of something, something that would be impossible to stop.
“As you wish,” Zuko said, voice raspy by nature as well as rare use. The words, never said before, felt natural on his tongue. He fetched Hakoda, watched as he and Katara ran to hug their dearly loved and sorely missed son and brother. He felt a pang of envy at the sight. Hakoda was the kindest man he had ever met (and the strongest, the wisest, the best) and it was evident in the love he showed Katara, but to see the same kind look, kind touch, kind words to his son - it struck Zuko’s heart tenfold.
He did not ignore the way Sokka’s eyes met his own over Hakoda’s shoulder, nor the way they struck his heart in a much different way. Perfect, perfect, perfect blue met his own imperfect gold until Zuko remembered, with a different and much worse strike to his heart, the scar that tainted him. He looked away, bowed his head over the carrots once again, and did his best to politely ignore the family reunion ten feet away. He did not look up again, but he felt when Sokka’s gaze left him as they made their way inside, forgoing chores for the time being in favor of catching up.
He continued to collect the vegetables, listening to their muffled laughter and stories through the wall as they ate Katara’s dinner stew. She would often bring a bowl out to him, but Zuko would never begrudge her for not doing so that night. It was a kindness he didn’t deserve or expect. He left the vegetable basket by the door and went off to finish Katara and Hakoda’s evening tasks, wanting to get away from the familial din as much as he wanted to give them time to reunite before the harvest started in earnest.
Zuko woke with the sun the next morning, as he always did. He stretched, washed his face, pushed back his hair, and stepped out of his little hovel to bask in the chilly morning sun - but his eye caught on Sokka, sitting on the step in front of the house, watching him, curious and cool. Zuko watched him back and felt himself itch to acknowledge him somehow, to bow his head or wave or say something, but he was frozen. Sokka watched him for another moment that might have been short but felt like an age before standing and going back into the main house without a word. Zuko tried to feel glad that his social decision had been made for him, but instead felt rejection poke sharply at him. He pushed the feeling to the side and started towards the shelter where they kept the farming equipment, hoping to sharpen the sickle so it wouldn’t take so much time to cut through the wheat - when Sokka’s clear (perfect) voice stopped him in his tracks. He had come back outside, two tin cups of coffee in his hands.
“Farm boy,” he said. “Join me.”
Zuko could do nothing but obey, and wanted to do nothing more. “As you wish,” he said, and joined Sokka on the step, sipping bitter coffee and watching the sun rise over the distant hills.
Zuko had finished his drink minutes before but kept bringing the cup to his lips, not wanting to move, not wanting to leave the warmth radiating from Sokka’s side that was just inches away. But he was nothing if not diligent, so he set his cup down without a word, and went to earn his keep.
His devotion to Sokka set in quickly, taking up residence in his heart and mind without his permission, but without his dismissal, either. It went like this:
“Farm boy,” Sokka would say, wiping sweat from his brow after a long day. “Fetch me a pail of water from the well.”
Zuko, just as exhausted and uncomfortable, would only incline his head and say, “As you wish,” and would bring him the heavy pail, set it at his feet, and take his leave.
“Farm boy,” Sokka would say, peering at him in the setting sunlight. “Wash my coat.”
Zuko, eager for dinner and to rest for the night, would fight back a sigh but feel no urge to reject and would say, “As you wish,” and would wash Sokka’s coat in the stream and hang it to dry before fetching dinner from the house, taking it back to his hovel to scarf down before falling into a fitful sleep.
“Farm boy,” Sokka would say, sacks of heavy grain in his arms for their elderly neighbor. “Deliver these for me.”
Zuko, in the middle of loading barley in the hayloft, would lean the pitchfork against the wall, climb down, take the load from Sokka and would say, “As you wish,” making the delivery without complaint, even though the neighbor clearly scorned him for his scar.
He would come back to the barley baled and loft clean, and would be caught by such surprise that he had to sit, perplexed, for several long minutes. He looked out the barn door and saw Sokka’s perfect blue eyes catch his, a bit of hay caught in his wolftailed hair, evidence of his deed. With a small smile, Sokka would look away, and so would Zuko, and nothing would be said about it.
“Farm boy,” Sokka would say, every morning. “Join me.”
“As you wish,” Zuko would say, and would start his day next to a perfect man, sipping coffee in the morning sun, feeling warmth in the space between them. Three weeks into harvest season, there was no space. Four weeks, it seemed there was even less. Five weeks, Sokka’s head rested against Zuko’s shoulder. Six weeks, it was Sokka’s shoulder and Zuko’s head, Sokka’s deft fingers in Zuko’s soft hair.
Seven weeks, there was no space between their bodies morning or night - there was Sokka in Zuko’s small bed, naked and wanting and perfect in the moonlight, and he would say “Zuko. Kiss me.”
And Zuko would say, “As you wish,” and he would.
Harvest season was brought to a close, and was met with colder days, less work, and fuller coffers. Zuko feared that the end of the season would be the end of Sokka’s stay, but it was just the beginning of Sokka forcing his freezing toes against Zuko’s warm leg under the thick blankets that Sokka had brought from his own bed. Sokka did not return to Master Piandao after the harvest, deciding to make a (very) modest living as a farrier, spending his days over a forge beating out horseshoes and his nights in Zuko’s bed, where they retired every night after a hot dinner with Hakoda and Katara.
“Zuko,” Sokka said one day, his face softer than his voice. His cold fingers brushed against Zuko’s jaw, tracing his scar, but Zuko found himself not minding (if he were honest to himself, he would find himself beyond touched, in heaven with this perfect man touching his imperfect face like it was something precious and treasured). “Do you love me, as I love you?”
Zuko’s breath caught in his throat, his soul yelling ‘yes!’ in a confusing mix of fear and joy and delight and fright and need and want and love. “Do I love you? My God. If your love were a grain of sand, mine would be a universe of beaches. Do I love you? Yes. I love you.”
Sokka’s freezing fingers had stilled against his cheek, but Zuko could barely feel it through the heat of his passion. He was silent just long enough for Zuko to fear that maybe this was a trick, a ruse, a long, cruel act meant to break his heart, but then - Sokka threaded his hand through his hair and pulled him into a kiss, biting and meaningful. (When Sokka said “Zuko. Fuck me,” a rare request and a welcome one, what else could Zuko say but “As you wish”?)
Their tryst continued through the winter chill and the spring harvest and the summer heat and then - before the fields had a chance to fully bloom into their future fortune, before they could reap what they sowed in any way that they could, before there was a chance to save anything, the drought struck their village (and the next, and the next) with a vengeance. Hakoda, Katara, Sokka, and Zuko were united in their numb fear about what this ruined harvest meant for their futures, and were further united by being unable to do anything for it.
Zuko met Hakoda’s eyes one afternoon, arms sore from chopping wood just for something to do. Zuko understood. Hakoda wasn’t able to feed an extra mouth after this, much less pay him wages, and Zuko needed to survive. What’s more, Zuko found that he wanted to help. Hakoda had come to be his father in all but blood. He had never laid a cruel hand on him, never said a cruel word. Even when he found his son kissing the farmhand behind the barn, he had just rolled his eyes, clapped them both on the shoulder and said something about the “boyish joys of youth”. Sokka and Zuko ran from each other in embarrassment as soon as he left, only to wander back an hour later to sheepishly resume their activities.
Sokka understood why he had to leave, of course he did. But it didn’t stop the untargeted anger from his perfect eyes, the sad downwards turn of his perfect lips, or the way his perfect body embraced Zuko that last night as if he feared he would never be able to again.
“Return to me.” Sokka said, furtively, furious, passionate.
Zuko put all of the desire, commitment, undying devotion he felt behind the words and said, “As you wish.”
Zuko set off in the morning, boots crunching on the autumn leaves and the dry wheat that he had spent so many hours bringing to fruition. He was unable to keep himself from turning when he reached the gate, feeling like he was once again leaving everything he knew and loved and valued and feared to lose - because he was. Katara, who had grown to be his sister, gave him a watery smile. Hakoda, who had slipped a gold piece into his bag and squeezed his shoulder and said “Come back to us, son”, nodded at him once with solemn belief that he would find success. Sokka, who he had fallen in love with, quick and hard, leaving no room in his body for anything but blind affection, who he had sworn to marry, whispered in the dead of night and in the midst of passion, who could do so much better than a poor, scarred farmhand who had been lucky to be born, waved, the ‘return to me’ in his eyes so obvious that it could have been printed with dark ink.
Zuko turned, and went, and did not come back.
They received the letter a year after Zuko left. He had written to them before, descriptive letters about his adventures and the work he had found, often with all of the small bank notes he could spare despite Hakoda’s demand that he sent no more in every single response Zuko got. (Those letters were addressed to Hakoda & Sokka & Katara. The letters to Sokka specifically were much more descriptive about much different things.) According to his letters, Zuko had found honorable employment on the Queen’s Heart, and had for the past few months found both coin and fulfillment in the grueling work of the ship. This letter was not in the careful script that came from Zuko’s own hand. It was blocky and official and so oblivious to the pain that its words caused.
Zuko, seafarer, died upon destruction of ship by Blue Spirit and dreaded pirates. Body not recovered. Apologies for your loss.
Katara sat at the table with a soft sob, covering her mouth in shock. Hakoda reread the letter, put it down, and picked it up to reread, like the words might rewrite themselves to be something more pleasant. Sokka stood solemn, gazing at nothing. He turned, walked into his room, shut the door, and did not come out.
Katara left food for him, but it sat untouched. Hakoda leaned against the wall outside, talking to keep him company, but he did not respond. If Zuko was there and told him to eat, Sokka would have said, “As you wish.” If Zuko was there and asked him to speak, Sokka would have said, “As you wish.” If Zuko was there and asked for Sokka to love him always, to hold him in his heart, to never look away from his perfect golden eyes, Sokka would have not needed to say “As you wish” because there is nothing that could have been more obvious in the world and he would have only kissed Zuko soft then hard then forever.
Sokka emerged from his room three days later, standing straight, eyes clear, and mouth set in a way that suggested it may never smile again. Over the past year, he had risen up the ranks to become one of the fifteen most beautiful men in the world, but he gained a strong air of stubborn resolve that would chase any suitor away. He sat at the table for breakfast that morning and ignored the baffled, worried stares of his father and sister. He ate his oats with no flavor, drank coffee with no company, made sure that nothing remained too neglected in his absence, and did not cry. Once they had finished work for the day, Sokka looked at them both.
“I will never love again,” he said, and meant. He ate his soup and said no more.
As the years went by, Sokka only got more beautiful and more solemn. Suitors did try to seek him out, men and women who were either kind or beautiful or rich but never all three, but his solemnity and resolve to not love assured him his solitude. He continued to farm alongside his father, but their farm (and the next and the next) never truly recovered from that awful harvest. They never had a large bounty to sell, and what bounty they did have was barely enough to keep them afloat. They were surviving, but only just.
This was why Sokka agreed to marry the prince.
Crown Prince Ozai’s procession happened to pass through their village on a day much like one where he met Zuko. The light was bright and golden as the sun began to set, casting a fantastical glow around everything. Zuko had looked like a vision sent by a god who owed Sokka a very large favor, but when Prince Ozai stepped out of his carriage to look them over with a sneer, Sokka could see only a demon with deceptively soft hellfire around him. Ozai’s eyes glanced coldly over Sokka, then Katara, then Sokka again. Katara was one of the thirty most beautiful women in the world, but Sokka was now one of the ten most beautiful men, and that is why Ozai pointed to Sokka, twenty-one and perfect, and said to his attendant, “He will do.”
The attendant quickly jumped into action, grabbing Sokka’s arm with the clear intent to drag him away from his family, his farm, his home. Sokka dug his heels into the ground and looked at the prince with indignant trepidation. “I’ll do for what?”
“You are to marry the Prince.” the attendant said, tugging on Sokka’s arm impatiently.
“To marry the Prince? I will not marry the Prince!” Sokka saw Ozai’s eyebrow twitch up in a dangerous way, and quickly added, “I cannot marry the Prince, I do not love him.”
The attendant looked ready to beg him to hush but Ozai laughed cruelly, already turning to enter the carriage again. He did not look at Sokka as he spoke, voice derisive. “I do not care if you love me.”
Sokka stared at his back, trying to calculate. “I would never love you.”
“I would never want you to love me.” Ozai said, sitting prim but imposing in his carriage, silk robes dull around the bottom hem where they had brushed the ground.
Sokka glanced at the attendant, glanced at his family, glanced at the attendant, and glanced at the prince. “My family will be taken care of?”
Ozai waved a bored hand in dismissal and the coachmen closed the door. The attendant looked almost relieved to be out of Ozai’s sight and looked at Sokka with a put-upon glare. “You will be offered a dowry fit for a Prince’s betrothed. Would you stop this whining and come ?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sokka saw Katara quickly shaking her head and Hakoda opening his mouth to say something like “no, son” or “don’t be foolish” or “do not give up on love, maybe one day you will feel it again” and it was the last that made Sokka react. “I’ll marry the Prince.”
The attendant slumped in relief and Ozai’s carriage began to depart, one much less ostentatious but still more opulent than anything Sokka had ever seen pulled into its place. Katara wrapped Sokka in a hug; Hakoda joined and held them both close to his chest.
“You don’t have to do this, Sokka,” Hakoda said, pressing a kiss to his brow.
“No,” Sokka agreed, and, as loveless as he was, he loved his family fiercely, and found himself clinging to their tunics desperately. When the attendant finally lost his patience and tugged him away, he felt that he could have ripped the fabric if he had not let go. He was bustled into the carriage, a hastily packed bag at his feet, and watched as his father and sister waved and cried and got smaller and smaller and smaller.
Two long years later, perfect Sokka found himself behind perfect stained glass doors in the perfect castle of the perfect nation of Caldera. He felt he should hate it, but he could not feel anything, just as he did not feel anything as he looked at his fiance speaking to what seemed to be an infinite crowd of countless citizens.
“As you know,” Crown Prince Ozai was saying, his commanding voice and imposing body adding up to a domineering presence, “my father, King Azulon, is in failing health, but I, his loyal son, am entrusted with the care of the great nation of Caldera. As you know, the care of the great nation of Caldera requires two people, four hands, to hold her prosperity close to her bosom. As you know, my late wife Princess Ursa is a late wife, and I must have two hands with mine. As you know, the great nation of Caldera is approaching her five-hundredth anniversary. As you now know, on the evening of that great and honorable day, I shall take for my husband Sokka of the Southern Bend.”
Ozai gestured broadly towards the door, it was opened for him and without pause Sokka stepped through.
The crowd gasped, taken aback at this most beautiful creature. He had been one of the twenty most beautiful men in the world when he first kissed Zuko; he had been one of the ten most beautiful men in the world when he agreed to marry Prince Ozai; now that he was oiled and powdered and pampered and dressed by a staff of royal keepers, he was one of the top five. Most of the commoners below had no idea that such perfection even existed, that such clear and tawny skin could be seen outside of dreams, that such strong shoulders could be contained in royal silk, that such clear blue eyes could balance between cutting diamonds or shattering ice. Ozai spared his beautiful prize a generous glance as the crowd cheered. A wedding always brightened the mood.
Sokka gave the crowd a small, perfect wave, and the crowd cheered once more with quickly renewed vigor. The vast majority of his soon-to-be subjects adored him instantly, his perfect figure perfect for a royal, with a tantalizing whisper of spirit hidden within him. Some, of course, were jealous. Some, of course, hated him. In a considerably lucky statistic, only three in attendance were planning on murdering him. But Sokka felt untouchable in that moment, on the heighty balcony beside the second most powerful man in the world, even though he didn’t love him. If he had known death was looking for him so close by he would have laughed. He waved once more to the roaring crowd and turned, going inside without harm, doors closing behind him and muffling the noise of thousands of people, Ozai walking past him swiftly and with no mind paid to him at all.
Outside, in the farthest corner of the royal square, in the tallest building, in the deepest shadow, the man in black stood, watching. His leather boots were black, as was his shirt, his pants, his mask - but his eyes shone gold, bright and glinting and deadly.
The next day, once the hubbub had died down and the out-of-city crowds had gone home, Sokka followed his strict, personally-imposed schedule that he had followed for the past two years of his life at the castle. Without the hard labor that Sokka was accustomed to and found so rewarding, he had turned to studies to occupy his loveless mind.
His schedule was as follows: awake at six, breakfast alone at seven, walk around the gardens at eight, study science at nine, mathematics at ten, history at eleven, science again because he liked it so much at noon, have his daily meeting with Ozai at one, study literature at three minutes past one, lunch alone at two, practice swordsmanship at three, ride the grounds far enough so he cannot see castle walls until dinner alone at seven, read by the fire at eight, do not think of Zuko do not think of home do not cry at nine, and sleep at ten. It was predictable, boring, solid, and just the thing Sokka needed to survive.
He woke, he ate, he walked, he studied, he glanced at Ozai, he studied, he ate, he fought, and now, he rode. His horse was a fast curmudgeon named Horse and he would have loved her had he vowed to not love again. She did not love him, but it was a productive and symbiotic relationship that allowed them both to run, so he accepted her snappish attitude with grace. He did everything with grace nowadays.
Sokka didn’t need to guide Horse at this point; she knew the exact path they took, each twist and turn, each fox den to watch for and each grazing patch where deer may be. He held her reins loosely as she galloped till they reached the gentle brook they both thought of as theirs a few miles away from the castle. He slid from her saddle with practiced ease, patting her flank and ignoring the annoyed swoosh of her tail as it thwacked his face. He sat on the stone he always sat on in the spot he always sat on, the moss rubbed clean away from these two years of use. The brook always reminded him of home, particularly now that he had been commanded to stop writing to his family so often. The water reminded him of Katara, laughing and insistent, shining and pretty. The rocks themselves reminded him of Hakoda, strong and resilient, loyal and weathered. It made him sad, sometimes, often, but it was good to have familiar company. He took out the book from his pocket - not one of his study books but a fiction that had a great deal of romance that his mind scorned and scoffed at but his heart ached and yearned for. It was a secret folly that he would indulge in till the wedding, he had decided. Then it was better to put any small folly of love at least twelve feet under ground.
He sat on his rock, by his stream, with his horse, and opened his book, as he always did. That was all he remembered. When he woke, he was bound with coarse rope around his wrists and ankles, the sound of water lapping against wood unexpected, the shifting deck under his aching head unwelcome, and the three faces around him utterly unfamiliar.
“Who are you?” he slurred, trying to push himself up. One of the figures, a bald child of all things, pushed his shoulder down with just enough force to make him comply.
“Don’t sit up so fast. We might have given you a little too much ether to knock you out,” he grinned. “Sorry, blame Toph.”
“Hey!” Another child, a girl, a blind girl protested. Sokka wondered if he had hit his head. “I got asked to do something, I did it, anything else is on you.”
“What’s—happening?” Sokka asked, hoping that he had been caught up in some play game made up by a group of imaginative and too-capable children. “Who are you? Where am I?”
“On a boat, stupid,” said the blind kid. “I’m Toph, that’s Aang, you’re our captive.”
“Your captive. I’m—why?”
“Uh—” Aang laughed a little, like he couldn’t tell if Sokka was joking or not. “You’re the prince? Or you will be, I guess. Or will you be king? I’m never really sure—”
“Doesn’t matter what he is or isn’t, Aang. He’s our job.” Toph stuck her tongue out.
“Your job ,” said a much deeper voice from much higher above, “is to man the sails. You’re not getting paid to chat with the prisoner.”
Toph blew her bangs up with a raspberry but straightened and walked across the deck, Aang following her after shooting Sokka a sorry smile. Sokka desperately wished for the company of the weird, clever children when he looked up into the stern face of a man with a strong brow, a thick beard, and an unforgiving expression.
“Sokka of the Southern Bend,” the man sneered, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Welcome. I do hope your trip has been comfortable.”
Sokka glared at him and felt fight-or-flight battle within him. “It could have been better. You should work on your hospitality skills. Now who are you ?”
The man laughed and Sokka did not like the sound. “I’m General Fong. I’m here to deliver you to the coast of Ba Sing Se.”
“To—why? Why would Ba Sing Se want me?” He wasn’t stupid and he was well-read, especially when it came to war and history. He knew that any kidnapped royal or royal-to-be could be held for a lofty ransom, or to turn the tides of a battle, or—as a trophy, dead or alive. “Is it Ba Sing Se that wants me?”
Fong grinned and it was evident that he did not grin much unless it was for someone else’s pain. He patted Sokka’s head condescendingly, laughing when Sokka tried to duck to escape it. “Smart boy. Too bad you’re pretty. Ozai might have picked some other lamb to slaughter.”
It didn’t necessarily click but it did make sense. Sokka knew Ozai liked war. War was profitable, and made gods of kings and demons of enemies, and he believed that Ozai would very much like to be a god. And since there was no love between them, and there was a guarantee that love between them would never, never come, Sokka was an easy pawn for reigniting a war that had barely been put out. They would find his horse alone in Caldera, they would follow the no doubt unsubtle path that his captors had left, they would find his body in Ba Sing Se and would assume that he was killed by their enemy nation. He had already become loved by the commoners of the Caldera; he was kind to those he met, and a perfect sight for those he didn’t, and even beyond that, he had been common too, once. The people would take his death just as Ozai wanted them to - as something worthy of revenge, of fire, and of war.
Fong grinned again, crossing his arms behind his back and standing with his feet shoulder-length apart, looking out at the night. A General indeed; he looked the part. “Yes, too bad. It should have taken your horse twenty-seven minutes to get to the castle, another five for the stablehands to realize something’s wrong, another hour to figure out that you have been taken, so I would say that they are within two hours of us. It’s perfect timing, truly. When His Highness finds his beloved's body on the cliffs of Ba Sing Se, it will still be warm! Oh, I imagine he will weep over you. Who could blame him for seeking vengeance?”
One of Sokka’s eyes twitched. Even if he had not been kidnapped by this vile man, he is sure that he would hate him. To be condescended to and underestimated within the same minute was too much for anyone to handle. “What do you get out of this? Starting a war that will see people killed, all at the whim of your callous prince?”
General Fong laughed and knelt down in front of him. “Want to know something, pretty consort? He is no prince of mine. I’m from Ba Sing Se. I worked my way up from some orphan brat to a soldier to a General, one of the best. I have no love for Caldera, but Ozai and I have an understanding. War is good for us. We end up with cash in our pockets and angry peasants ready to attack at the first sign of danger. War is good for business. And,” he grinned and stroked Sokka’s cheek, “I don’t mind killing.”
Sokka spat in his face, earning a furious yell and a resounding slap. Sokka grinned through pain-bidden tears as Fong wiped his face on his sleeve. The bruise on his cheek would surely be worth it, even as Fong growled that he was lucky they needed Sokka’s body or he’d be thrown overboard and left to be devoured by the ravenous eel-sharks. The thought did cause Sokka’s smile to fade. He had nearly drowned playing in the pond as a child, and he would have died if not for Katara’s quick actions. Katara was not here, and there would be no one to drag him from the water should he fall. While Sokka had grown almost tired of life, without love and Zuko and his family and Zuko and his home and Zuko, death by razor-toothed eel-sharks was not the way he wished to go. He leaned against the short wall of the ship, embraced his stinging cheek, and watched his captors sail to kill him in an appropriate place.
Aang was glancing his way, his worried face betraying his age. The furrow of his brow was made all the more evident by his bald head. Toph was not looking his way (or at anything), opting to hold on to a thick rope of the rigging to keep steady on the swaying deck. But there was something distinctly tense about her posture, something that seemed conflicted. Maybe he had a chance with these two. Maybe they would keep Fong from killing him in too brutal a manner.
Toph huffed and let go of the rope, grabbing a blanket from a heavy trunk and stomping over to him. If Sokka had not seen her cloudy eyes and not-quite-direct gaze, he would have never questioned her sight - if he had not seen her hold the rigging steady, he would have questioned her strength. She was small, just like her compatriot, but they seemed capable and experienced in a way that made Sokka’s heart ache, just a little. They could be no older than eighteen, maybe younger, obviously experienced from the rough life they seemed to lead but largely unmarred by the marks that come with injury and age. With near-perfect accuracy, Toph threw the blanket at Sokka, hitting him in the face but adjusting it so it was wrapped around his shoulders, keeping out the worst of the chilly ocean air.
“Thank you,” Sokka said, a little perplexed by this obvious kindness. She slugged him in the arm to make up for it.
“Don’t grow too soft, Bandit ,” Fong said from the helm, derision in his voice. “It would be like growing fond of a cow destined for the axe.”
“Fuck off,” Toph grumbled. “I don’t want the cow to get a cold. I wouldn’t fight a sick man, so you shouldn't kill a sick man, either.”
Fong rolled his eyes but objected no further, his attention catching instead on Aang sitting at the aft, who had started to look back at the black ocean every other minute. “What are you doing? Make yourself useful.”
Aang hummed but didn’t stand. “The Prince should be two hours behind us, right?”
“Right,” Fong confirmed.
“So no one could be following us yet?”
Fong scoffed. “Of course no one could be following us. It would be impossible.”
“Absolutely impossible?”
“Absolutely impossible in all ways, and in all other ways inconceivable.” After a moment, Aang cast another look behind him and Fong cast another look at Aang. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” said Aang, standing and stretching his wiry limbs. “Only I happened to look back and a ship was there.”
Fong whirled around, as did Toph, and Sokka’s own neck ached from the way he strained to see. Aang was correct; there was something there. A sailing boat was outlined in the moonlight, small and black and persistent. At the tiller was the dark outline of a single person, clothed all in black.
“It must be some idiot fisherman, hoping to catch night fish alone in eel-shark infested waters,” Fong said gruffly. “Perhaps there is a more reasonable explanation. But no one in Caldera could have caught up so quickly, and no one in Ba Sing Se would know what we’ve done, so it must be coincidence and nothing more.”
Aang nodded, reasonably. “Yes, that’s likely it. He is gaining on us, though.” The General hid his anxieties well, but not well enough. Even Toph could see how it changed the air around him.
“No matter,” he said, looking up at the massive cliffs of the Serpent’s Pass. The cliffs were massive, an impossible climb. And yet, Toph was hopping off of the boat onto a flat rock and strapping herself into a sturdy harness, an incredibly long rope dangling in front of her from the very top of the cliff. Sokka swallowed, nervous even looking at the sheer height. He could barely even see the top, as it was so tall that it seemed shrouded by clouds. “We’re exactly where we need to be. Even if he was following us, which he is not, he could never go where we are going.”
“Up there?” Sokka burst out incredulously. “You expect us to climb up there ? That’s insane!”
“Quiet!” Fong ordered, hoisting him over the side and onto the rock, Aang following behind. Fong tied a strap from Toph’s vest around Sokka, then tied one around himself as Aang did the same. “Go!”
Toph, impossibly, began to climb, one hand after another, moving steadily up. Sokka gaped as he stared upwards, the top of the massive cliff becoming slowly more visible with every instance of this child’s incredible strength. They were five-hundred feet from the water when Aang looked down, with five-hundred feet left to go. “Huh,” he said. “The man has caught up with us. He’s starting to climb.”
Fong looked down and saw the same as Aang: a masked man, clad in black, climbing after them, and was gaining on them quickly. Fong snapped at Toph angrily. “Faster!”
Toph picked up the pace, arms straining but not giving out. When Fong snapped again, “Faster! ”, she bit out, “I’m going faster! But I’m carrying you three and he’s carrying only himself.” Nonetheless, Toph reached the top with amazing speed, leaving two-hundred and fifty feet between them and the still-climbing masked man.
Fong quickly untied himself from Toph, leaving Aang to free Sokka and Toph to free herself. He ran to the rock where the rope was tied and used the sharp knife from his belt to saw through it. As soon as the last strand was cut, the rope raced over the edge, dropping with a thump against the rocks below. Sokka sighed as his hope fell with it, slowly coming to terms with his inevitable death.
Aang hopped to look over the side of the cliff and raised his eyebrows. “He caught himself on the rocks. He’s hanging on. He’s climbing.”
“Impossible!” Fong yelled, storming over to peer over the edge. Indeed, the man in black had found a handhold on the rocks before the rope fell, he had hung on, and now he was climbing, slower and with much more struggle than before but still steadily and with great strength. Fong growled. “Inconceivable. Toph, grab the boy. Aang, take care of the bastard.”
Aang looked between Fong and the man in black, who was looking up at him with a curiously neutral expression. “I won’t kill him without a fair fight.”
With an exasperated groan, General Fong decided that this was a useless argument to have, and it was one that wasted valuable time. “Fine! Do what you will, but do what you must. Tear him down.” Casting a look over the edge again, where the man in black had advanced an incredible fifty feet, he added, “Make it hurt.”
Aang nodded, even as his stomach turned with confliction. But Fong had kept him from certain death and Toph from certain destruction and both from certain doom more than once, and Fong stored their life debts in Toph’s hands and Aang’s sword. They had been alone and lost in their own ways. Toph had left her too-caring-but-uncaring parents, who had expected her to be a demure little lady and dismissed her incredible strength. Aang had been left, his adoptive father murdered along with their entire village, leaving only Aang alive because Gyatso had protected him with his last breath. He devoted his life to finding the man who had killed Gyatso - which proved to be a near-insurmountable challenge of its own, given that the only way that Aang would be able to identify him would be if the man did in fact wear the precious heirloom that he had torn from the neck of his dead father as a trophy. Fong had found him exhausted and practically drained of life, his entire childhood spent searching for a man he never found. He added Aang to his two-person collection, allowing him to possess a master swordsman and one of the world’s strongest people - both youths of fifteen, both easy to control, both easy to convince of their indebtedness, enough that they remained with him these three years later.
Toph had thrown Sokka over her shoulder, even though she was only two-thirds his height, if that. “Farewell, Aang. I’ll see you soon.”
Aang nodded, even though she could not see. No matter how dangerous the situations they found themselves in were, it was always the truth. There was no reason for this to be different. “Farewell, Toph. I’ll see you soon.”
Then they were gone, and Aang was alone. Well - not wholly alone. He looked over the cliff’s edge once more, giving the man in black a little wave when he glanced up. “Hello.”
The man in black gave him an unamused look before continuing his climb. “Hello.”
“You’re very strong, you know. That climb cannot be easy. Toph is one of the world’s twenty strongest people, and even she struggled.” Aang was a pleasant boy, and he enjoyed talking to others. Even those he intended to kill.
“Thank you,” said the man in black. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I am rather busy right now, so please try not to distract me.”
“Oh! Yes, I guess you are. My apologies.” Aang managed to watch him silently for two minutes and nineteen seconds. “I don’t suppose you could hurry up, could you? I’m eager to fight you.”
The man in black cast an aggravated glare at him, a few feet closer than he had been two minutes and nineteen seconds ago. “I cannot hurry up. Unless I have a rope or branch or easier rocks to climb.”
Aang perked up with a smile. “I have a rope! But I don’t think you’d want me to help, since I am planning to kill you.”
With a huff from anger and effort, the man in black continued to climb. “Then I suppose you’ll have to wait. Quietly .”
The man in black was now one hundred feet away. Ninety-five. Eighty. Aang sighed. He was being honest, he was eager to fight and more eager to stop waiting around for him to complete his slow ascent, he had never been a patient man. “What if I promised to not kill you before you reach the top? I’ll even wait a few moments so you can catch your breath!”
The man remained silent and focused, and continued his slow climb until he was sixty-two feet away. “How do I know you’re telling the truth? You might help me up, but you equally might let me go. Even if you intend to kill me, I do not wish to speed up my death.”
Aang squinted down at him in thought before his face lit up. “I swear on my father, Gyatso, who is dead and buried and who I loved very much, that I will help you up and I will not drop you and I will not kill you until you are ready to fight.”
The man in black considered him for a moment before nodding. “Throw me the rope.”
Aang did, gladly. He hated waiting and he loved fighting. He loved helping, too, even if it was before he was to fight the one he was helping. Just a moment later, the man in black was beside Aang, hands on his knees as his heart raced and he tried to catch his breath. True to his word, Aang stepped back and kept his broadsword sheathed. “Please, sit. Rest.”
The man in black nodded and sat on a rock, stretching this way and that to shake the soreness from his muscles. “Thank you,” he said, only three minutes later. “I’m ready.”
“Are you sure? You have only a little while before you’re dead.” At the man in black’s nod, Aang laughed and drew his sword, testing the weight in his hand. “You’re an interesting man. I hate to kill you.”
The man in black inclined his head respectfully, drawing the dual dao that had been strapped to his back. “You’re an interesting man. I hate to die.”
And they began. Before they even drew their swords, Aang knew the man in black was strong, and capable, and tenacious, and that he was driven by something greater than life. Why else would he so stubbornly pursue them? No one did that for nothing. What Aang did not know before they began to fight was that the man in black was an excellent swordsman, nearing Aang’s own skill, perhaps matching it head on. He had never found anyone of this caliber, who was able to match him blade to blade, blow for blow - it was absolutely thrilling.
It is said that it takes ten thousand hours of practice to master a skill, and the man in black moved as if he had around two hundred left to go, driving Aang across the terrain as many times as Aang drove him. The man in black caught Aang’s broadsword between his dao, and Aang met his eyes in shock as his weapon was thrown yards away, lodging itself in the ground. Aang darted towards it, moving across the rocks and ruins with the agility of an acrobat. The man in black followed and parried the freshly-dislodged sword by blocking the hit with his dao.
At that point, Aang stopped holding back. The ferocity of their fencing was unmatched; the complexity of their movements impossible to describe. They were both masters of the art, clever quick-thinking strategists enjoying the play of a deadly game. Aang cornered the man in black against a boulder, the man in black pushed Aang to the very edge of the cliff; Aang parried from high ground, the man in back countered from low; Aang drew first blood, and the man in black paused.
“You’re very good,” he said, his black sleeve cut to reveal his lightly bleeding arm.
“Thank you,” Aang replied, unsuccessfully slicing at him again. “I have worked very hard to become so. You’re very good, too.”
“Thank you,” he said, drawing second blood with a cut to Aang’s shoulder. “It has not come without effort.”
Aang the swordsman and the man in black fought for several fierce moments more, and it became clearer and clearer that Aang was losing. It was by the man’s good fortune - they fought without obstacles, the sun was slightly less in his eyes, the ground just slightly more stable - but he was a small percentage better than Aang at that moment. A hair quicker, a fraction stronger, a speck faster. Just barely. But just enough.
“Who are you?” Aang asked desperately.
“No one of consequence,” the man in black replied.
“Please tell me. I must know.”
“Get used to disappointment.”
And with that, Aang felt a burst of energy flow through his body and he made every attempt, tried every trick, used every drop of the blood, sweat, and tears that had gone into his life of training. He was blocked, again and again; baffled, thwarted, muzzled -
Beaten.
Aang dropped his sword and fell to his knees, youthful and amazed. “Make it quick,” he said, lifting his head so there would be clearer access to his throat.
“I would sooner die than kill an artist like yourself. However - you understand that I must not let you follow me, yes?”
“Of course,” Aang agreed amicably, falling bodily to the side after the man in black struck his head with the butt of his sword.
The man in black continued his pursuit, following the trail of the strong girl, the General, and the perfect man.
General Fong happened to glance behind them at just the right moment, at just the right spot that allowed him to see Aang’s distant, fallen form and the insistent shadow that was the man in black.
“Impossible!” He growled, kicking a boulder and pretending that it did not hurt his foot. “He cannot have beaten Aang. Aang has never been beaten before.”
“He has now,” Toph said, adjusting Sokka where he lay over her shoulders. Toph was not entirely worried about Aang. He told her he would see her soon, and Aang was no liar. Perhaps she would be worried if she saw the General’s fang-like grimace.
“Give me the boy. Stay here and finish him.”
“Finish him?” Toph asked as she set Sokka down (though she seemed to be sympathetic, she was not gentle, and Sokka thunked onto the ground with an oof ).
Fong dragged Sokka up by his arm, gripping him hard enough to leave a dark bruise. He cut the rope around Sokka’s ankles but made up for it by tying a strip of coarse fabric around his head to act as a blindfold; Sokka’s chance of escape grew dramatically when he had been half-unbound, and his chance of escape shrank dramatically when he could no longer see. He did not know the geography here, and, if he could not even see the potential dangers, it would be of no use to run. Sokka was still trying to figure out if it would be better to die from whatever Fong would do to him or from unknown dangers he couldn’t sense. For the time being, he figured it was better to decide this before deciding to run.
“Finish him. Or I’ll find a new brute along with a new swordsman,” Fong confirmed, and then left Toph to herself, dragging Sokka with no attention paid to his comfort.
Toph listened to them go and tried to not feel the sting of his words, but they were very sharp. She had felt alone her whole life, and to be left just as she felt right would be terrible; she did not want to return to her parents’ sweet empty words and high-walled home. It was as good a driving force as any. As quick and light as he was, the man in pursuit (for she did not know for herself that he was a man in black) could not muffle his movements entirely. Toph listened to the shifting rocks that betrayed his steps and knew exactly where to aim.
A small boulder smashed against the large boulder behind the man in black, the force leaving only gravel to fall; it had come flying seemingly out of nowhere, and had missed his head by a measly two inches. The blind girl stepped closer, a solid, unseeing presence. “I meant to miss.”
“I believe you,” said the man in black. He believed her.
“I don’t want an unfair fight.” The man in black knew she did not mean that he had the advantage. It was not a grown man fighting a blind girl, it was a grown man of great strength fighting a young woman of the greatest strength, who could throw boulders the size of small horses and leave him nothing but a crushed melon bleeding out on the ground. “I can kill you quickly, or I can give you a chance.”
“I’ll take the chance,” said the man in black, and Toph set down her boulder, he sheathed his dao, and they began to fight.
Toph knew that the man was strong (only a few people could climb the cliffs of the Serpent’s Pass as they had done. Maybe he was not in the twenty strongest like she was, but he was capable), but Toph also knew he was very lithe and thin, and, no matter how strong he was, he could never be as solid as she. Toph wanted to at least pretend it was a fair fight, though; she allowed him a few hits that she barely felt, but made sure to punch him good in the gut so he would stop holding back. He was considerably strong, even if he wasn’t the strongest, and Toph had to put up a nearly-real fight. Once she was convinced that the man in pursuit would not die embarrassed, she began to move in earnest, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a vice-like grip, moved an arm to press against his throat, prepared to kill him - and then he slipped free.
“What?” she couldn’t help but say. He had done some clever maneuver, using his flexible form to twist and escape her inescapable hold. Toph moved again, catching him easily, raised her fist to make the killing blow - and then he slipped free.
It went on like that for several rounds, Toph growing more and more frustrated, angry and determined with each failed attempt, fighting hard to keep herself from getting sloppy in her rage. “You’re quick,” she said, impressed and unhappy.
“Good thing, too,” the man in pursuit agreed as he deftly twisted once more. “You’re strong.”
Toph almost wanted to grin; her wit was rarely matched in the middle of a fight, her opponents often unable to do anything but catch their breath as they desperately fought against her and against loss. Toph did not grin, however, as she remembered how Aang lay defeated by the cliff’s edge, alone and possibly dead. Probably dead, the sad voice of a little girl whispered in the back of her mind. “You killed my friend.”
“I did no such thing,” said the man in pursuit, slipping from her hold once more. “He’ll wake up with an awful headache but he will wake.”
That was enough to give Toph pause. What sort of villain allowed an enemy to live, especially when they had been fairly beaten and could have been fairly killed? She became thoughtful about this. Was he a villain? If he was not, were they? Her hesitance gave the man in pursuit just enough time to sidle beside her, pressing quick fingers to her temple then neck then jaw then shoulder with purpose.
Toph fell to the ground, her legs unable to hold her up, arms unable to fight, head unable to lift, and mind unable to stay awake. She was alive, of course, but would have a headache to match Aang’s when she woke. The man in black took care to drag her to a more comfortable patch of grass just a short distance away so she would not feel rocks on her spine for the next week. Then the man in pursuit continued to pursue, following the path Fong left behind.
The General was waiting for him (he would have been shocked if the General had not been waiting). Sokka sat stiffly beside him, blindfolded, thin-lipped, wrists tightly bound, and with Fong’s sharp knife held against his perfect throat. In front of them was a quaint picnic; a small plate of cheese and apples, a thin lit candle, two goblets, and a bottle of wine.
“You defeated my swordsman,” Fong said.
“So I did,” the man in black agreed.
“You defeated my brute,” Fong said.
“So it would seem,” the man in black agreed.
“You will not defeat me,” Fong claimed.
“So we shall see,” the man in black stated, stepping forward.
Fong’s knife pressed harder against Sokka’s throat. If it weren’t for the rapid beating of his heart and the quick barely-rise and barely-fall of his chest, Sokka’s cool, cold face would have betrayed no fear, only grim acceptance. “Come any closer and the consort will die.”
The man in black froze and Fong grinned. He loved when risky threats played out so well. “I don’t appreciate this behavior, kind sir. You are trying to steal what I have rightfully stolen, and I am afraid you will not succeed.” Fong withdrew his blade from Sokka’s throat just enough to run the sharp point over his perfect jaw, a threat to them both, though the unpleasantness was meant just for Sokka. “I have been given very clear instructions on what to do with this particular package, and they do not involve handing him off to some vigilante just for his annoying persistence.”
“I suppose not,” said the man in black. “But it would not be just for my annoying persistence. I have gone through great effort and expense and personal sacrifice to reach this point, you see, and if I fail now, I will be incredibly angry.” He glanced significantly at the knife held once more at Sokka’s perfect throat. “And should he bleed, I am afraid that I will be even angrier.”
Fong laughed and made no move to draw blood nor not pull away. “I have no doubt you could kill me. You killed my swordsman and you killed my brute, and I am not half the fighter they were. But know this - you want the boy alive; I want the boy dead. You want his ransom; I want no ransom at all. There is no winning for you here, my masked friend.”
“I am not your friend,” said the man in black. “Nor are your brute and swordsman dead. But how are you so convinced that I will not win? You have admitted yourself that I could kill you with ease.”
“I don’t plan to fight you. I am Ba Sing Se’s best General, a master strategist, and you are no match for my mind.”
The man in black quirked a brow. It was not evident that it was quirked, of course, as his face was shrouded by the black mask, but the air about him changed in a way that greatly suggested a quirked brow. “You’re that smart?”
“There are no words yet invented that could explain how great my brain is.”
The man in black nodded. “In that case, I challenge you to a battle of wits.”
“For the consort?”
“For the consort.”
Sokka had not yet moved. He had not tried to free his wrists or unblind his eyes or protect his throat, but his mind was absolutely racing. Despite how frightful the situation was - being taken from his stream and put on a boat and trundled up a cliffside and held at knifepoint by an angry army man while some mysterious stranger with secret intent vying for his possession - there was something tingling in his limbic system, prickling with pins and needles like a limb that had been numb for approximately three years. How awfully odd.
Fong’s knife stayed at Sokka’s throat as the man in black approached and sat across the makeshift table, pouring wine for them both. Fong watched with shrewd curiosity as he drew out a small vial of white powder, uncorking it and holding it out carefully. “Smell, but do not touch.”
Fong leaned and sniffed. “I don’t smell anything.”
“Correct. The thing you do not smell is white jade powder. It is one of the deadliest poisons in the world. Imbibing just a drop will kill you within minutes. It is scentless and tasteless and dissolves immediately - a silent killer.” With this, the man in black took the full goblets and vial and turned around, busying himself for a long moment before turning back towards the table. Very carefully, he sat the right goblet in front of Fong, the left goblet in front of himself, and the empty white jade vial beside the wine bottle. “It is your guess now. Where is the poison?”
Fong scoffed derisively. “I do not guess, my friend.”
“I am not your friend.”
Fong ignored him, stroking his beard with one hand and holding the knife steady against Sokka’s throat with the other. “I think, I ponder, I deduce, I decide, but I never guess.”
The man in black shrugged, the movement looking too casual for his body. “Then think, ponder, deduce and decide. The game is won when you choose which goblet to drink from, and which I shall drink from, and when we drink at precisely the same time. The winner is the one who is not dead.”
“It’s so simple,” Fong said, squinting at the goblets. “All I have to do is think, ponder, deduce and decide how your mind works. Are you the type of man to poison your own glass or the glass of the enemy?”
“You’re stalling,” said the man in black.
“I’m relishing,” Fong said, stroking his beard once more. “You gave my swordsman a loss, my brute a fight, and me a challenge that I shall inevitably win.” With a deep breath, he leaned forward, knife still at Sokka’s throat. “Only a great fool would poison his own wine, because he knows that one’s first impulse would be to reach for the wine that has been given to him. However, only a great fool would reach first for the wine he is given, and I am not a great fool, so I will not reach for my wine.”
“So that is your choice?”
“Not at all! Because I am not a great fool and you knew I am not a great fool and you thus knew I would not fall for such a wise trick, so I will clearly not reach for yours either.”
“So what is your choice?”
“I am getting there.” Fong growled. He was either enjoying himself greatly or close to a conniption from the way his brows were beginning to meet in the middle. “I have now deduced that the poisoned wine is most likely in front of you, but the poison is a powder made from white jade, and white jade only comes from Pohuai and, as everyone knows, Pohuai is a stronghold of criminals, and criminals are not people who can be trusted, but they are used to having people not trust them, and, as I do not trust you, I clearly cannot choose the wine in front of you!”
“You’re stalling,” said the man in black. His voice was steady, but the General could see with his knowledgeable eyes that he was growing nervous.
“I am explaining my reasoning that will lead to your death. Be grateful,” Fong huffed and continued. “You must have expected me to know the origins of white jade and the population of Pohuai and the immorality of criminals so clearly I cannot choose the wine in front of me.”
“Clearly,” said the man in black. “So which shall you drink?”
“But,” Fong ignored him, peering at the glasses shrewdly. “You bested my brute, which means that you are exceptionally strong, and exceptionally strong men are often foolish enough to believe that they are too strong to die, so you may have put it in your cup believing your strength will save you, so clearly I cannot choose the wine in front of you.”
The man in black, Fong believed, had to be exceptionally nervous.
“ But ,” Fong continued, peering at the man in black shrewdly. “You bested my swordsman, which means you have studied as he studied to achieve excellence, and studied men know how mortal we are and do not wish to die, so you would keep the poison as far from yourself as possible as you do not wish to die, so I clearly cannot choose the wine in front of me.”
The man in black’s voice, Fong believed, shook with a nervousness that any man less wise than himself would believe was anger. “You’re just trying to get me to give something away with all of this chittering but it won’t work. You will learn nothing from me, I can promise you that.”
Fong grinned proudly and prideful. “I have learned everything from you.”
“So you have made your decision?” the man in black asked, voice loud from what was surely nerves. “Then drink.”
The General only laughed at his outburst, but his face twisted into something confused as he pointed over the man in black’s shoulder. “What is that?”
The man in black turned and looked. “I don’t see anything.”
Fong was grinning madly to himself when the man in black turned back around, and ignored his suspicious masked gaze. “I could have sworn I saw something. No matter. Shall we drink?”
He picked up the goblet in front of him, and the man in black picked up the goblet in front of him, and together, they drank their wine.
“You guessed wrong,” said the man in black.
Fong laughed loudly and gestured at him with the knife that had just been held at Sokka’s throat. “You only think I guessed wrong, you fool! I switched our glasses when your back was turned!”
The man in black said nothing. Fong imagined that he saw terror in the gold eyes behind the mask as he acknowledged his pending doom, reflecting on his last moments, bested by the smartest man that had ever walked the earth. Fong had just opened his mouth to boast, wanting the last thing the foolish man in black to hear to be his voice, when the white jade powder took effect.
With a loud thump, Fong fell to the ground, dead.
Sokka jumped at the sound and the man in black quickly stepped over the still-smiling corpse, carefully removing the blindfold from Sokka’s eyes. Sokka blinked at the sudden sunlight, and at the man in black before him, framed in the bright golden sunlight of a spring afternoon.
“Oh,” he said, quiet and proper. He was always quiet and proper nowadays. He had trained for the past two years to be. “It was your wine that was poisoned after all.”
“Wrong,” said the man in black, untying the rope around his wrists with talented hands. There was something about his voice that made Sokka’s heart ache, just a little, in the very back area that he was still working to suppress. “Both of our wines were poisoned. I’ve spent the past year building up an immunity to white jade powder, should a moment like this ever arise.”
The concept was terrifying to Sokka, as was the man in black’s demeanor, the way he carried himself, his dark clothes and secretive mask, the way he had outclevered the cruel man who held a knife to his throat, outmatched the kind boy who had smiled at him, and outfought the strong girl who had put a blanket over his shoulders so he wouldn’t catch cold. Quietly, he asked, “Who are you?”
The man in black did not meet his eyes. “I am no one of consequence. But I am no one to be trifled with. Come, let’s go.” Sokka stumbled as he was jerked upright, rubbing his rubbed-raw wrists when they were let go. The man in black took a step before frowning back at him, grabbing his wrist again to pull him behind. “Let’s go .”
Sokka could do nothing but stumble along behind him, eventually finding his footing, but it took quite some time for the man in black to loosen his hold. It seemed as if he forgot he was holding onto him at all; when Sokka tried to tug his hand from the grip, the man jumped as if startled, released him as if shocked, and led him silently as if nothing had happened.
They had been moving along the mountain path for several hours before Sokka cleared his throat. “I will pay you a great deal of money to release me.”
The man in black glanced back at him, odd gold eyes unreadable. “You have a great deal of money to pay, then?”
“Well—not yet. But whatever you desire, I promise you will have it if you let me go.” The man in black shook his head with a laugh and anger made Sokka’s jaw tighten. “I’m not jesting!”
“I apologize,” said the man in black, with his familiar-unfamiliar raspy voice that reminded Sokka of smoke. “I know that you are not jesting, but I also know that what I desire, I could never have.”
“Release me and I will make sure you will!”
The man in black shook his head and they walked on.
Sokka walked behind his silent companion for several more long hours, with nothing but his own thoughts to take up space in his head. He found himself curious about the terrifying man in front of him - who was he? Why did he wear a mask? What did he look like underneath? What did he want from Sokka? Where was he taking him? How had he become so strong? How had he become so quick? How had he become so clever? What did he desire that he could not have?
They had been walking for seven hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirty-eight seconds. Of that, seven hours, forty-three minutes, and nineteen seconds had been silent. “What can’t you have?” Sokka asked, referring to something the man in black said seven hours, forty-four minutes, and fifty-five seconds ago.
The man in black seemed to pause mid-step for the smallest moment before he continued on, the only sign that he had heard anything at all. Sokka had just resigned himself to another seven hours, forty-seven minutes, and thirty-eight seconds of silence when the man in black spoke. “Love.”
“Love?”
“Love. I had love, and I lost it.”
“They died?”
“I left.”
Sokka felt that in his very soul, and carried the silence himself for a few more moments, his thoughts as thick and slow as molasses. He had sworn to never love again, and he had kept that promise, but the love he felt for Zuko was sealed in his heart, hammered in his soul, ingrained throughout his body so that every breath he took said “Zuko” against his teeth and every breath he gave sighed “Zuko” against his lips.
“I lost love, too,” Sokka said, quiet and with more emotion than he had in his voice for the past three years.
They trekked on, likely aiming for the shore where there would likely be a ship where he would likely be held for a likely lofty ransom, no matter the impossible desires that the man in black had or the riches he did not want. Sokka’s thoughts continued to flow slowly, though they were devolving from molasses to syrup. All of his energy was spent swimming through the sugar-sweet, heavy-heady lake of his thoughts, so he did not see how the man in black was just as consumed by his own lightning bolt thoughts that struck within his mind. Before him, the man in black experienced several stages of grief in rapid succession. Denial was met by anger was met by bargaining was met by anger was met by bargaining was met by depression was met by denial was met by acceptance.
“How did you lose them?” the man in black asked, so quietly that Sokka questioned if he had said anything at all.
“He died,” Sokka said. “He was a sailor, working to support my family and to marry me. He was killed by a pirate.”
“Tragic,” the man in black said with a note of empathy. “You were to marry him?”
“Yes.”
“You wanted to marry him?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you marrying this prince?”
Sokka was taken aback enough to freeze in place, staring at the man in front of him with shock. “Pardon?” he asked, affronted.
“You wanted to marry this poor sailor, and yet you are to marry a prince. Why?”
Sokka gaped at him for a long moment before his face reddened in fury. “Why? Because my love is dead and my family is poor and the prince is the prince and I would have been unable to refuse.”
“So you loved a poor man and would have married him, despite the fact that he could only help your poor family become poorer and not the other way around?”
“I loved a poor man and he died!”
“So now you love this prince, who must be so unlike your poor, poor sailor—”
“He is unlike my poor, poor sailor and I do not love him!”
“You do not love him? You admit that you do not love your husband-to-be? That is cruelty.”
“Cruelty? That is life, sir, that is survival. For a man who spent the past several days surviving, you do not show it much honor.”
“To survive against death is honorable, to marry without love is not. To marry without love and to have a love that you wanted to marry - that is death.”
“It is death!” Sokka shouted, startling himself, the man in black, and the birds that flew from the trees of the deep raving behind them.
The man in black turned to look at Sokka full on, gold eyes glinting with emotions neither man could begin to comprehend. “Why do you inflict death upon yourself, then? Were you sorry when your sailor died? Did you feel sorrow strike your heart? Did you forget him, as soon as the Prince came to your door?”
“Do not mock my grief!” Sokka yelled, fiercely. “I died that day! ”
Sokka and the man in black fell silent, breathing hard and trying to parse out their own emotions before they could even tackle those of their counterpart. Their silent stare was interrupted by the sound of cannons in the not-so-distant distance that signalled the approach of Prince Ozai and his men. The man in black turned to look at the barely visible coast where Ozai’s ships were changing formation, and where his own ship was soon to be surrounded.
Sokka took advantage of this moment to shove his shoulders with what strength he had remaining. For a long moment, the man teetered on the ravine edge, giving Sokka had just enough time to feel his stomach turn over the thought of being the one to take someone’s life, before falling roughly down the steep hill, stumbling and rolling and tumbling over large rocks and broken sticks and hard earth. Sokka watched the man in black hit the bottom of the ravine with a sick feeling in gut, pretending that the absolute relief he felt when the man moved enough to show his survival was disappointment.
“You can die for all I care!” Sokka yelled, starting towards the coast where his fiance would take him back to the cold castle walls.
The wind was a romantic. It was a gentle thing, though often fierce, and carried all of humanity’s collective hope, joy, sadness, sorrow, anger, madness, relief, and the rest on its gales and blows. The wind was just windy enough that day that it could have drowned the words, allowed Sokka to walk towards Ozai and his men, let him marry someone he did not love and who would never love him. As it was, the wind was a romantic, and it carried the man in black’s words directly to Sokka’s ear.
“As you wish,” the wind breathed, gentle as a sleeping sigh.
“Zuko,” Sokka said with horror, delight, and horror once more. “Zuko!”