Chapter Text
Katara is having a bad day. Sokka gets it, he really, really does. Hell, he has bad days all the time. It’s hard not to. If he realizes it, he just takes a day outside the village, out on the ice. He can practice weapon drills or do patrols or hunt, anything to keep his brain and body busy. He’s not good at stasis, and trying to be good at it makes the bad days worse.
His sister’s the same way. She’ll deny it, because she’s got a head harder than permafrost, but she is. And because she’s stubborn, They’ve lost so much to the Fire Nation — warriors and healers, parents and children — they can’t stand to lose any more. They’ll hold onto what they have with bloody fingernails and teeth if they have to, clawing it back to them. Katara will try to force herself to be what she thinks the tribe needs her to be. She’ll carve pieces of herself away, pretend she’s made of ice, and not pay attention to the way it leaves cracks behind.
Sokka knows what she’s doing. He wishes he could protect her better, that she didn’t have to grow up so fast. But he also knows he can wish all he wants and it won’t change a damn thing.
So on Katara’s bad days, sometimes she’ll stand for hours at the edge of the sea and practice speaking the ocean tongue. Sometimes that helps, and she’ll come back home smiling and satisfied. But sometimes it doesn’t, and his sister comes home sullen and snappish, building another layer of ice around her to keep her feelings inside, and then pretending it’s the same as warmth.
She’ll keep doing it, pushing it in more and more, and even Katara can only hold so much inside under pressure before it explodes outwards. And when that happens, she’ll spend days feeling guilty about it, like she has to apologize for being human and having feelings.
Okay, so sometimes, this explosion involves some fascinating changes to the local geography (hooray, living in and on and generally around ice), but he’s used to it. Everyone is. But Katara will still end up hurting her own feelings over it. Which usually leads to more bad days, and turns this all into a vicious cycle.
And since Sokka is her big brother, it’s his job to try to pull her out of it. He’s tried a lot of things over the years, but there’s one that’s pretty much guaranteed to work. Although she’s usually the picture of respectfulness, he knows that Elder Umik could send her into a rage that made polar-bear dogs look tame. By the time the man died, all it would take was one comment from the elder about “a woman’s proper place in the Tribe” and his sister would be on a tear for the rest of the week.
The first time Sokka blurted out one of Elder Umik’s (many) complaints, it had been an accident. Katara had been spiralling and nothing he did could bring her out. He doesn’t even remember what he repeated, but Katara had totally stopped brooding. Because she instead wanted to dump an entire snowbank on his head.
(She succeeded too.)
So yes, as it turns out, pissing his sister off to the point of incandescent rage is enough to stop a streak of bad days. He hates doing it, but sometimes sacrifices must be made for the good of the community.
He just wishes that right now, they weren’t in a canoe in the middle of an ice floe maze. If he were smart, he’d keep his mouth shut and let Katara screw around with her bending until she gave up and helped him paddle them home. However, since he’s apparently an idiot, he does not do this.
“Is your magic water actually useful for anything, or are we just going to pretend that you didn’t almost crash us into the ice at least three times?” he says, and watches her back stiffen. Okay then, she must really be in a bad mood. One more push... “Leave it to a girl to decide an oar isn’t special enough.”
Katara whirls around and jumps to her feet in their canoe, almost tipping it over in her fury. (Sokka twists his oar against the ice to steady them) And fury is the correct word; it dances in her eyes like an aurora, lighting up everything.
Perhaps he went too far. Shit.
“Oh, I’ve had it with you,” Katara hisses. Oh this is going to be bad. “You were the one who asked me to come with you on this fishing trip. And what have I gotten in return? Not fish, that’s for sure!”
He watches his sister pull herself taller, her voice rising as her frustration and anger come together like a whirlpool. And he’s the target. Which, yes, is strictly better than her being the target, but this...okay, he’s in a canoe in an ice field and his very angry little sister can convince the water to do things. He’d be lucky if he ended up in a snowbank this time.
“No, all I’ve been getting this entire time is completely bone-headed running commentary from my sea-slug-brained brother, who is criticizing me for every little thing just so he can feel better!” Aaand she’s shouting now.
Sokka hears a crack. Oh no. “Um...Katara?” he tries.
But she’s on a roll now. (His sister is an unstoppable force, and he is nowhere near an immovable object.) “So of course he decides that it’s all the girl’s fault.”
Another crack, this time louder. Oh shit that’s definitely a crack in that iceberg. “Katara.”
“Like he hasn’t been asking me to do things this entire time, the ungrateful, sexist, jealous, bone-headed —”
“KATARA!” He shouts, wide-eyed. She stops, but it’s too late. This time, she doesn’t miss the cracking of ice, probably because it’s so loud he can’t even hear himself think. It shakes him down to his bones, down to his teeth.
He sees the ice smash apart around them, sees the cleaved chunk slice into the water like a knife, sees the wave coming. “Flame and ash,” he spits out the harshest curse he knows as he grabs his sister (too stunned to yell at him for swearing) and leaps out of the canoe onto the nearest ice floe. Just in time, too, as the wave smashes his canoe to bits.
Thank you, Dad, for the ice dodging training. Probably not how he’s supposed to use those skills, though.
Katara is lying next to him on the ice, safe and sound. She’s stunned, but safe. Good, that’s what matters. (That’s his responsibility.) “You okay?” he asks, just to be sure.
“Yeah,” she says, stuttering a little as she catches up to current events. “What...”
“I think the water got angry along with you again.”
She looks wide-eyed at the shattered iceberg in front of them. “I did this?” she whispers.
Sokka claps her on the back. “Well, I certainly didn’t.”
Katara sputters.
Well, at least she’s not spiralling or angry anymore. Progress!
“Hey, I think there’s something in there,” she says, pointing at the broken iceberg. She’s not entirely wrong, either. The ice does look strange, almost...glowy? (Which is a good clue that it’s not ice. Sokka knows ice; pretty sure it doesn’t glow.) Katara starts moving towards it.
“Katara, wait!” he hisses. Of course his sister immediately runs towards the weird glowy ice, what was he expecting?
As it turns out, he was not expecting the ice to burst open. And spit out a scrawny bald boy. With blue tattoos on his head and arms. That are glowing. He lands at Katara’s feet.
The glowing fades.
This day is officially Weird.
The boy picks himself up off the ice and looks directly at the two of them standing there dumbfounded. He rubs the back of his head. “Er, hi! Want to go penguin-sledding with me?”
“The nearest otter-penguin colony is half a day’s sled ride from here,” Sokka says automatically. Then his brain catches up with his mouth enough to start asking the important questions. “Wait, who the hell are you? Why were you in the ice? And why the hell aren’t you wearing a coat?!”
Because really, if those robes are actually warm enough for polar temperatures, he’ll eat his boot.
The boy beams up at him. “Oh! Sorry! I’m Aang. And I don’t know? And I’m an airbender, I don’t need a coat.”
Well, now Sokka has even more questions. He and Katara exchange a glance. They’ve gotten really good at having conversations like this (it’s a survival mechanism when everyone in the village is either old enough to be your parent or doesn’t reach beyond your kneecaps).
Airbender?
He could be lying.
Aang is trying to get their attention. “And half a day by sled is no problem, not if Appa — “ He pauses, then gasps. “Appa!” And then proceeds to jump way higher than physically possible, do a backflip, and land back in the iceberg.
“Okay, so...airbender,” Sokka says as calmly as he can. He turns to his sister. “Katara. What.”
“Why do you think I know?” she bites back.
“Come on, I know Gran-Gran’s been teaching you the songs.”
Katara winces. “We don’t...not any with...this.” Her voice is quiet and Sokka winces right with her. She doesn’t have to say more. He knows. He knows how much was lost when the Fire Nation attacked, destroyed the halls of the Innqiqti,and scattered their history until only song scraps remain. Gran-Gran says she saw it, heard them sing and learned when she first arrived from the North. She says there’s nothing else like it, a history living and breathing all around you.
She’s the only one left in their family who got to hear it.
His sister chews her lip. “That certainly looked like it could be airbending. Sokka, if he is, then we need to...”
She doesn’t need to finish that. If Aang’s an airbender, then he’s in danger. They haven’t had a raid from the Fire Nation in years, but that doesn’t mean anything. Especially not with the things Dad mentioned last time he was home. There’s a weird new fleet in the sea, and they’re causing a lot of trouble for the Fire Nation. Sokka really can’t complain because the enemy of my enemy is my friend and all that. And it meant Dad and the others could come home with someone else keeping the pressure.
(Dad said they weren’t working together yet, when he last was home. But...well, he knows his Dad. He’s not someone who lets an opportunity slip past his nets. And that was months ago. His information is old.)
Dad is able to keep some of their warriors closer to home just in case. A raid is always possible, after all, and Sokka’s not sure the Tribe could survive another one. (Spirits, he hopes some of the kids he’s training pass the ice dodging trial and choose Brother Wolf. Sokka’s only one person; he can’t make up for all the warriors they lost.)
Sokka shakes his head, trying to get rid of all these other thoughts. He needs to focus on what’s happening now, right in front of him. Which is a boy suddenly appearing out of an iceberg and oh spirits what is that thing?!
A large — make that very large — furry...thing shuffles out of the ice with Aang riding on its head.
“Hey guys, meet Appa! He’s my flying bison! We can get to the penguins in no time,” he says with a grin.
Sokka just stares, then facepalms. Yep, today is really weird.
——-
Azula eyes the way Mistress Beifong piles silks in front of her with growing trepidation. The seamstress in the corner is just waiting to pounce and Azula really wishes she understood what the big deal was. Because as soon as she and Toph set foot in the Beifong manor, she was convinced something was deeply wrong with Mistress Beifong. The woman had gasped and then immediately rushed over to manhandle her into the building as if there was some sort of crisis.
Apparently, Azula’s sleeves and pants legs are too short. Again.
“Oh, I do hope the sets I had made last time still fit,” Mistress Beifong worries. She tsks. “What are they feeding you on that boat? You’re growing like a weed.”
“Food?” Azula tries.
Mistress Beifong just smiles at her and drops another silk garment on the table.
Toph, meanwhile, is laughing at her.
“Better you than me, Smoky.”
“Toph, dear, do you also need new clothes? I’ll have Madam Song take your measurements while she’s here.”
Toph stops laughing. “You know, I had a question for Bàba, I’ll go see if he’s got a minute.” She starts edging towards the door. “Good luck, Smoky.” And then dashes away, leaving her alone with Mistress Beifong and the seamstress.
Azula sighs, then gingerly picks up the top garment. Even she can tell the quality is excellent, almost like something she’d find in the Palace. Not in her own wardrobe, but possibly in Zuko’s.
(She knows he’s alive, but there’s always a spike in her heart rate, a twist in her gut — anxiety — when she thinks about it. He’s not supposed to be alone; she’s supposed to be there to watch his back, to protect him, and she’s far away. She hasn’t seen him in three years, has left him undefended for three years, how could she do this?.)
(Stop. This is not her fault. This is because of the Fire Lord’s order. Zuko is her prince, but his father is not her Fire Lord. She is not his tool.)
She examines the shirt in her hands, brushing the thicker, tightly-woven silk with her fingers. It’s strong enough to turn away a blade or keep an arrow from being fatal, which she appreciates. Looking over the rest of the pile confirms most have a similar weave. The style is more Earth Kingdom than Fire Nation, done in blacks, greys, and blues. There isn’t a hint of red or gold anywhere.
Should that bother her? It’s been the case ever since she had to acquire new clothes. She can hardly assume to get classic Fire Nation-style clothing when she’s legally not allowed within their borders. In some ways, it’s a good thing she’s growing so much so quickly. Azula has long outgrown the armor set she had when she was banished, and there’s not another child-sized set available on the Yinglong. Soon, though, she'll be able to fit into a standard set without needing too many adjustments.
Azula finds she’s strangely ambivalent towards that.
“Azula, would you mind trying this on?” Mistress Beifong holds out what looks to be a black silk jacket; it almost looks like a haori, but it has too much Earth Kingdom influence. Azula shrugs, takes it, and slips it on. The seamstress flies into action, adjusting the jacket and making contemplative noises that Azula ignores in favor of examining the sleeves. (Length is good; it keeps her hands free. No restrictions on range of motion.) There’s a bit of blue embroidery on the cuffs.
She really isn’t surprised by Mistress Beifong’s color choices anymore. As soon as the crew renamed the ship to the Yinglong, someone had made a new flag to replace the old Fire Nation symbols. Instead of the black flame on red of the Fire Nation, they flew a flag bearing a blue dragon on black. It made things easier, especially when more and more ships, Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom alike, started to join them. All of them now flew the same blue dragon flag. They saw it as a statement, a marker.
When Mistress Beifong saw it, all of the clothing she offered Azula started coming in those colors. This, apparently, is Very Important, but the reasons why are still confusing and nonsensical. (How can pants “go with” a shirt? And how does clothing even coordinate, it is not formulating battle tactics?)
At least they are practical.
(Mistress Beifong had tried to give her the fine hanfu and silks the Beifongs traded in. Garments that are very pretty, and very much not for her. Azula’s uncomfortable in those clothes, not only because they feel restrictive, like she's making herself a target, but also because they’re not for her. She grew up in the shadows, cast by her own fire; she wonders if she’ll always be more comfortable there.)
“The fit is adequate,” the seamstress says, stepping back. She sounds almost pleased. “Although I suspect that will only be true for a few more months.”
Mistress Beifong smiles widely and claps her hands. “Oh wonderful. It does make you look very dashing, Azula. Just like a hero out of a story.”
Azula stares. She should be used to these kinds of comments, as they happen every time, but every time, Mistress Beifong manages to say something that is completely baffling. For example, being compared to a hero. She’s not. If anything, she’s the kind of person that heroes defeat. (But why do people keep asking to join her, like she hasn’t been branded a traitor by the Fire Lord?) (She thinks it’s honorable, at least. Zuko would know. And she’ll try to always do what’s best for him.)
The woman takes Azula’s moment of disbelief to place the stack of new clothes in her hands. She then pushes her gently out of the room, cheerfully informing Azula that she’ll take care of having new clothes ready when she outgrows this set.
Azula blinks a bit against the sunlight hitting her in the face in the quiet courtyard. It doesn’t matter how many times this happens, she doesn’t think she’s ever going to understand Toph’s mother. It doesn’t help that Toph is of absolutely no assistance in this either. Speaking of, her friend is sitting on a nearby rock, grinning widely at her.
“You escaped,” Toph says.
Azula frowns behind her scarf. “I got pushed out.”
“Eh, close enough.” Toph shrugs and hops to her feet, toes curling in the dirt. “You ready to head back?”
“Yes.” She’s only here so Toph can visit with her parents. Although she suspects Uncle Iroh will be pleased to see her return with new clothing. He’s been frowning at her sleeves for awhile now. She thinks...no, she is grateful for the larger shirts, with sleeves long enough to cover her arms without interfering. People...give her strange looks when they see her arms.
She earned those marks, every single one of them. Because she wasn’t enough, never enough. The Fire Lord had her trained to be the best, a honed tool forged for a single purpose. And even though Azula can now say the Fire Lord is wrong about a lot of things, he’s not wrong about this. She needs to be perfect, because she needs to stay alive until Zuko needs her, when she can be useful.
The marks on her skin, then, are reminders that she’s not. They’re reminders of her failures to be enough, and she doesn’t like putting those out there for other people to judge. She doesn’t need that shame.
(If they judge her for her arms, what would they say about the brand across her face?)
“I still can’t believe Mother is happy dressing you in practical clothes,” Toph says as they walk back to the ship. “I didn’t think she knew what those were!” She pauses a moment. “Then again, you did set the first set of formal hanfu on fire.”
Azula frowns. “That was an accident.”
“What did you think was going to happen when you tried to do that flaming spin kick?”
“It’s not my fault they weren’t fireproof.” It’s kind of a requirement for formal clothing back home.
Toph snickers. “I don’t think I ever felt Mother run that fast.”
Azula rolls her eyes. “Did you actually have to ask your father about something, or was that just an excuse?”
“Eh, little column A, little column B,” Toph admits. “I did want to ask how returning the stolen property was going. Shika wanted to know if there were any other leads or other shipments en route to the Fire Nation. So I...took the opportunity when it presented itself.”
“Sifu Rùfen would be so proud,” Azula says dryly.
“Damn right.”
As far as excuses go, it’s actually an important one. And true? For the most part. It started entirely by accident. They were low on supplies and needed to dock; however the only ones available were ports in the Earth Kingdom. Exiled or not, they still look Fire Nation enough that ports tended to turn them away more often than not. Captain Jee had been desperate, and mentioned that they had a hold full of what ended up being stolen Earth Kingdom goods they’d recovered from a Fire Navy ship that attacked them.
Suddenly, the Earth Kingdom was a lot more interested in letting them use their ports. As it turns out, returning stolen property makes people treat you a bit favorably.
So now whenever they end up in a fight with the Fire Nation, they try to recover what cargo they can. They relieve ships of their stolen goods and Master Beifong tries to reunite it with the appropriate owners. Azula still isn’t entirely sure how she feels about the practice. It gets them what they need. But it does mean attacking Fire Nation ships. Although those usually attack them first. (Zuko would understand. They don’t harm civilians. They need to do this to survive. He’d understand.)
Those attacks have gotten much more frequent. She’s certain it stems from the fact that Lt. Isao’s crew had not been the only naval crew to defect, just the first. That’s enough to cause problems for the Fire Lord, but then there were Earth Kingdom crews wanting to join them. Some with only modified merchant junks, but determined all the same. (Chief Engineer Tsui has been very happy.) It’s almost enough to be classified as a proper fleet, which means they’re an actual threat.
The idea that the Fire Lord would find her to be a threat is...well, it makes no sense. (Hands holding her down, a grip she can’t break, let go let goletgo) She is nothing to him; he’s always made it clear that he could crush her like an insect, and the only thing stopping him was her continued usefulness.
(So why doesn’t he?)
Some of the crew are finishing up loading supplies on the Yinglong when they arrive. Two more ships float on the river nearby, and she knows there are five more waiting in the open ocean at the river’s mouth. Fai gives her a salute as she passes him and the komodo rhinos that are lazing in the sun.
“Did he?” Azula asks as they board the ship.
Toph shrugs. “He said he’s got some leads and that he’ll send a hawk once he’s sure they’re actually solid.”
Captain Jee steps forward once they’re on deck. “Kaishō. Toph,” he says with a smile.
(Azula managed to convince him to stop calling her “princess”, since she isn’t one, not anymore. Instead, he started using the old rank for fleet admiral. It seems to have stuck.)
“Welcome back. I see your visit with Mistress Beifong was productive.”
“I don’t think it’s possible for Smoky to leave without Mother dropping half a bolt of cloth on her,” Toph says with a laugh.
His smile quirks a little, as if there’s another joke she’s not getting. She knows she’s getting better at understanding people’s rules, but sometimes it still escapes her. People are hard. And while the crew of the Yinglong are probably the ones with rules she understands the best, they can still twist her up sometimes. She sometimes wishes she knew what was wrong with her, because other people don’t have this problem. They just understand these things.
(She is not a broken thing.)
“Oh, Kaishō ?” Captain Jee turns to her. “Your uncle told me he has some correspondence addressed to you in his quarters.”
Azula nods and heads below deck to put away the clothing before visiting Uncle Iroh. Walking into her quarters is always slightly strange. Since she shares the space with Toph, it stands to reason that her friend would store her own belongings in here. Which she does, in a slightly sprawling and scattered fashion. It’s not a problem, not really. It just sometimes makes the back of Azula’s neck itch and her stomach twist a bit when all of her own things fit in a trunk in the corner.
(The important things — Lu’s húdiédāo, some money Uncle Iroh insisted she carry, bandages — those fit in a small rucksack on top. Just in case.)
It’s certainly easier to keep track of things, she thinks as she sets the folded clothes neatly into the trunk and closes the lid. Toph hasn’t followed her down, and since Azula doesn’t have training for a few hours, she heads over to Uncle Iroh’s quarters.
He looks up from his writing desk when she enters. “Ah, impeccable timing, Niece. I was just about to make a pot of tea, if you’d join me?” he asks with a broad smile.
She nods and quietly sits down in her usual chair next to his as he prepares the tea. “Captain Jee said there was correspondence for me?” she asks quietly as she accepts the cup from Uncle Iroh.
He passes over a pile of scrolls, still sealed. Azula raises an eyebrow. Uncle Iroh chuckles. “You’re a popular girl, my dear.”
She rolls her eyes, causing him to laugh.
(There’s a flare of warmth in her chest. Uncle Iroh likes it when she’s less than perfectly respectful. It’s so strange, it should feel wrong, but...it doesn’t. It feels the opposite of that.)
Azula opens the first scroll and scowls. Of course it’s written in Court Huǒzi. Why do some of the colonial governors insist on using it? It’s pointless for this, since Uncle Iroh is the only one who can read it quickly. Even after three years, she still struggles with the characters. Still, she makes it over halfway through the letter before she stumbles and needs to ask Uncle Iroh for help.
He frowns at the characters in question, but explains. She’s learned that part of the difficulty of Court Huǒzi is not only in the characters themselves, but also because the people who write it have the annoying habit of using characters that allude to some classic piece of Fire Nation literature that she’s never read.
(“Why don’t they just...use the normal word?” she had asked Uncle Iroh after a particularly frustrating attempt.
“Because small minds will take any opportunity to make themselves seem bigger than they are,” he replied.)
The letter itself is another request for support against the Earth Kingdom. Azula wonders if the governor is serious or if this is another poorly-disguised trap. She’s well-aware of the bounty on her head; the Fire Lord has distributed posters with her face on it throughout the colonies and into the Earth Kingdom for quite some time, with an ever-increasing reward. The only use for letters such as these is to know which ports to avoid or take a closer look at to see if a government removal is necessary.
It happens with a depressing regularity.
The other scrolls are more useful. One colony reports bolder dissident activity and requests a ship be sent to pick up new recruits. Another is from one of the ships in their makeshift fleet passing along updates to their position. It’s the final scroll, marked with blue on the edge, that is the most interesting.
The wax seal has the mark of the Southern Water Tribe.
Azula breaks the seal and unrolls the scroll, letting out a sigh of relief as she does. Chief Hakoda writes in Standard Huǒzi; she has the thought that the man sees no point in wasting precious time. If only more people were the same. She still hasn’t actually met the man in person, only through correspondence such as this that started approximately one year ago.
She knows what to expect from Chief Hakoda: a brief update on the current vague positions of his fleet and the accompanying requests for backup or relief. Theirs is an odd partnership, one where the other ships in the fleet have had more contact with the Water Tribesmen than the capital ship has.
She admits there is a logic to it: having all the leaders in one place makes a tempting target. Azula doesn’t see any reason to change their arrangement, and assumes Chief Hakoda has assessed the situation and come to the same conclusion.
Therefore, it’s surprising that his letter deviates from the standard update. Something has caused Chief Hakoda to reassess.
Her eyebrows raise as she continues to read the letter. Uncle Iroh notices. “What is it?”
“Chief Hakoda has provided coordinates and a time frame. If we can make it, he would like to discuss a more formal alliance,” she replies. “In person.”
Uncle Iroh sips his tea. “Is it possible?”
She nods. “It’s a very...generous time frame.”
“That’s encouraging. Is there anything else?”
Azula frowns. “The Southern Water Tribe reports that they’ve seen a Fire Nation battlecruiser entering polar waters. They’d appreciate it if we could provide any support.” Her frown deepens. “They say it’s the Golden Wings Brushing Against the Clouds.” Why does that name sound so familiar? “Did we fight them at some point?”
“Yes. Commander Zhao.”
“Who?”
“...You blew up his ship.”
Azula just stares blankly at Uncle Iroh.
He sighs and shakes his head. “It was the first one we blew up.”
Oh. That guy.
“He’s irritating.”
“You are not wrong.” He chuckles, but then grows serious. “But what is Zhao doing so near the pole? He seemed quite insistent on chasing after us.”
He has been a nuisance. But what’s only a nuisance to their Fire Navy style ships is a very different kind of threat to Chief Hakoda. Her frown deepens as she glances back up at the request for a meeting. They are probably the closest to the South Pole at the moment; there’s more than enough time to investigate what Zhao is doing and chase him away if necessary. (It probably will be necessary.)
“I think we need to find out,” Azula says quietly before getting to her feet so she can inform Captain Jee of the change in plans.
It was probably only a matter of time before she ended up at the South Pole, really.
—-
Aang has no idea what’s going on. Oh, he’s figured out he’s at the South Pole, that was the easy part. But he could have sworn the Southern Water Tribe was, well, a lot bigger than what he’s seeing. Is this an outpost? But the Tribe never keeps tiny kids like the ones he sees running around at any of the outposts he knows about. Then again, he hasn’t been to every outpost. Maybe this one’s different.
(He knows something’s wrong, he knows he’s lying to himself. He’s looked up at the sky and it’s all wrong. All the stars are out of place, like the sky forgot what season it is. It’s like an illusion but the rest of the world doesn’t know about it.)
(What happened?)
The girl — Katara —- is really nice. She’s the nicest girl he’s ever met, not that he’s met many, but there’s something in her eyes that makes him wary. Like she knows something and she’s not telling him. (Does she know why the stars are wrong?) Instead, she smiles at him a little too cracked and introduces the members of the tribe with a cheerfulness that rings a little too false.
Aang notices because he thinks his voice is doing the same thing. Katara’s nice enough to pretend not to notice.
Her brother, not so much. Sokka watches him closely; his gaze feels like a hawk’s on the back of Aang’s neck, quiet and intense. It fits, because he recognizes the way Sokka wears his hair. That’s a Wolf’s Tail, a sign that he follows the path of Brother Wolf, if Aang remembers his lessons correctly. There should be more of them, though, even if this is just an outpost. The Wolves are the guardians of the tribe, so why is Sokka the only one here?
Aang shakes his head and aims a giant smile at both siblings. Katara’s smile is not as wide, but it seems genuine. Sokka just keeps his sharp-eyed stare on him.
“So...” he says, rubbing the back of his head. That’s about as far as he gets. He doesn’t know where he’s supposed to take this conversation. Or what he should be doing. Appa needs to rest, so he knows he has to stay here, at least a little bit. Gyatso’s probably worried sick, what with that storm Aang got all caught up in.
He knows he shouldn’t have run. It just proves everything the other monks were saying, that he’s too young, too flighty, not serious enough. That he needs to go and train and...not be himself. Not be Aang. Aang’s not the important one, the Avatar is. So Aang ran away, because he doesn’t want to be not himself. It’s not fair. He didn’t want this, not at all like this, and they want to send him away. He’s not good enough for them.
Gyatso thinks he’s good enough.
But they want to take Gyatso away too. He just...left before they could.
The excuse doesn’t even sound good in his head.
Aang sighs. “Gyatso’s gonna be so mad.”
Katara and Sokka exchange a look. It’s a very...something look.
“Who’s Gyatso?” Katara asks.
“Gyatso’s my mentor,” he rubs his neck again. “Well, he’s more than that. He’s...” He tries to make some kind of gesture to encompass everything that’s “Gyatso” because there aren’t words. It’s like trying to explain the wind.
“Like your dad?” she suggests.
Aang shrugs. “Close enough?” Maybe. Sort of? The idea of having a single guardian who has to be related to you is just...one of those weird culture clash things. But from what he understands of what dads are, it's not that far off. “Anyway, he’s gotta be worried. I didn’t mean to get caught up in that storm.”
The two Water Tribe siblings share another look. “What storm?” Sokka asks.
“Uh, the one...I don’t know how many hours ago. Days? It was pretty big, though! Even Appa had trouble, and that never happens.”
Sokka frowns a lot. “Aang,” he says slowly, “there hasn’t been a storm in weeks.”
Okay, Gyatso is going to be very worried if he’s been missing for weeks. (Is that enough to explain the sky?) Not to mention the other monks. Specifically, the ones who want to send him away.
Maybe they forgot.
Aang opens his mouth when someone clears their throat.
“Gran-Gran?” Katara asks the old woman who is now standing directly behind them. The old woman smiles faintly, then turns to Aang.
He bows deeply, as appropriate. “Thank you for your welcome, Elder...” he trails off because he can’t call her Gran-Gran, that’s too informal, too disrespectful.
“Kanna,” she says, but her smile dims. “Welcome to the Southern Water Tribe, Aang.”
“The Southern...” he looks around again. This...this isn’t an outpost. Elder Kanna welcomed him as if this is the entire tribe.
That’s impossible.
Kanna sighs quietly. “Come, child. I think you have questions and the answers are not things to be shared in the cold.” She gently takes his shoulder and leads him to one of the nearby dwellings. The two siblings follow them inside and Sokka adds more fuel to the fire before sitting off to the side next to his sister. Aang finds himself sitting across the fire from Kanna.
“Child, I have a strange question for you.”
Aang twists his hands in his robes. He’s got a bad feeling about this. “Okay?”
“Who is the current Fire Lord?”
He blinks. How long has he been out of it? Did something happen in the Fire Nation? There were whispers about something, something big. “Sozin. Fire Lord Sozin.”
Sokka hisses. Katara looks stricken. And when he turns back to Kanna, the old woman looks even older than she did before. “Fire Lord Sozin has been dead for over eighty years.”
Aang’s vision goes grey around the edges. “What?”
“Aang,” Katara’s voice is so very soft. Like a cloud. “You were in the ice a long time.”
He shakes his head. “That’s not...no...but...”
“That’s not the worst part,” Sokka mutters.
“Sokka!” Katara hisses.
“What?” Aang’s voice cracks a little. The world moved on for...how many years has he lost? The stars are wrong because it’s not just the season that changed. It’s all so very wrong and it’s not supposed to be like that and now he’s questioning his ability to even find home.
“Aang, do you know Nijjajut?” Kanna asks.
He shakes himself a little. What is going on? Why does...what does it matter if he can speak the old Water Tribe tongue? What does that have to do with anything? “Yes? I can speak it.”
She nods. “Then I think I owe you a tale. It’s a tale that hasn’t been told in...many, many years. I, Kanna of the South, once of the North, learned it in the halls of the Innqiqti, where it had been crafted in the memory of our dear friends who now walk the spirit trails.”
And Kanna begins to sing.
The words flow around the notes, given a foundation in the beat she taps out on the drum she’s pulled from behind her. It beats like waves against the shore, a push and pull, and her voice gives it shape. She tells the tale in Nijjajut, and Aang feels like his breath has gotten wedged in his throat like a stone, because he could not imagine this being told in anything else.
It’s a memorial.
Kanna’s voice goes harsh, deep quick breaths from her throat that echo the taste of fear, the howls of a wolf looking for his pack, the cry of the raven as he searches for his children. Sounds of grief and madness spring from her voice to reverberate in his bones. It’s the sound of a harsh wind stripping heat and life from bone, the sharp crack of a flame consuming wood and stone. The drumming is a counterpoint, hammering like a heart into his skull, an echo of a people lost.
His people. Kanna sings of the last hours of his people as they died to fire and blade. As the sky burned and the stars fell. As the sun hid and the spirits howled. The echoes reverberate in her voice, over the arc of years and decades, an old, old cry of pain and loss. Of a people betrayed by ones once considered friends.
Aang’s breath is caught in his lungs, grief crushing it down, pulling him to the earth, below the earth. (He ran he ran he ran) This is not a lie. This is truth. The Water Tribe would not create this unless it were.
His people are dead. His people were slaughtered by the Fire Nation when he ran away and he is the last of them.
He tastes salt on his lips and blood on his tongue. His fingers curl into the ice, nails slice into his palms as he gasps, no, sobs. How can he do anything but? It’s his fault. Oh spirits, breath of life, it’s all his fault. He’s going to shake and shake apart, break under the weight of guilt of his sins because he can’t run from this, it’s too big for him.
Slowly, he becomes aware that the weight on his shoulders is warm and he is rocking as well as shaking. Kanna holds him in her arms and whispers soothing words into his ears.
“I’m sorry, child. I’m so sorry. Let it out, child. Just cry.”
It is not absolution. It is something greater than that, and it’s something Aang doesn’t think he deserves. Not this type of kindness when she does not know his sin. “It’s my fault,” he admits into her shoulder.
“It’s the Fire Nation’s fault,” he hears Katara mutter, suddenly vicious. It makes his heart hurt more because she’s right but she’s also so very very wrong and everyone’s going to look at him so differently when the truth comes out.
He thinks about hiding it. Of course he does. He could. He could make up a story about how he survived that ice, survived everything, but anything he tries to think of just sounds so hollow in his heart. All he has left now is the truth, and lying about this is like lying about why his people, his friends, his mentor uncles and aunts, why everyone died.
If he runs again, what would happen?
“You don’t understand,” he mumbles.
Kanna keeps rubbing his back, a warm and steady presence that keeps him grounded like he deserves, but it doesn’t feel like a punishment. It feels like an indulgence, a tether to something solid so he doesn’t blow away in the wind like part of him so very much wants to. “It’s all my fault,” he repeats. “I ran away.”
“Aang,” Katara tries, but Aang shakes his head and pulls away from Kanna’s shoulder.
He takes a deep breath and scrubs the tears from his face before looking at all three of them. “I wasn’t...entirely honest earlier. It’s my fault. I’m the Avatar, and I wasn’t there.”
—-
The sun’s rays are brutal and relentless as they beat down in the training courtyard. Zuko ignores it, just as he ignores the burning in his muscles and the sweat dripping in his eyes as he works through his set yet again. The swords in his hands sing as they slice through the air, extensions of his will, cutting down invisible targets with laughable ease. He’s almost perfect.
Not good enough.
Not yet. It’s not enough. He has to be better, faster, stronger. His enemy has a fleet (his enemy has his sister) and the knowledge burns inside him, driving him forward. This is not enough to face the Dragon of the West. Not enough to keep the one promise he will not break.
(She needs her big brother to look out for her and protect her. Can you do that for me, Zuko?)
“Almost perfect” is not good enough.
Azula seems to agree from where she watches him in the shadows, a small frown on her tiny face. She won’t tell him what he’s doing wrong; he knows she expects him to figure that out for himself. She’d want him to be able to do that much at least. He can’t rely on his little sister to do everything for him, after all.
Zuko looks up at the sky and scowls. Ugh, he has other things to do today. So he dutifully does his cool-down stretches under his sister’s watchful eye before heading back to his rooms. Azula pads quietly after him, reaching no higher than his waist.
She’s six today, apparently.
She hops onto his bed as he puts his swords away before heading to the bath. Part of him wishes he could spend hours just soaking in the water, but he has far too much to do and far too little time. So he bathes quickly and changes into clean clothing. She’s still waiting on the edge of the bed when he returns, little legs not reaching the floor. He can’t help but smile at her. It earns him a quiet scoff and he laughs quietly.
“Come on, Zula, don’t be like that,” he says softly.
Azula gives him a flat look. “You’re going to be late, Zuzu,” she says, because she still called him that when she was that age.
He grimaces. “Yeah, yeah, I know. I won’t be late, don’t worry.”
She scowls, but says nothing more.
Zuko knows Azula is not actually there, sitting on his bed, sitting in his room. She’s not anywhere in the Fire Nation, let alone the Palace. She’s not even the right age, for all that she’s sitting there glaring at him with those gold, gold eyes in all her tiny six-year-old glory.
This isn’t the first time she’s been here. He’s been seeing her since not long after Mai had to go to the colonies. A flash of her topknot out of the corner of his eye, a hint of gold eyes and the slash of a frown in the shadows. Then she showed up on his bed one morning, just like she is now, all small and fierce and a knife right to his heart.
He doesn’t even really want her to go away. (He might be mad. If this is what his madness is, though, he doesn’t think he wants to be sane.)
So Zuko decided to live with it. It beats being lonely. And he knows she’s not real, so...he’s fine. It’s all fine. Today, his little sister is six years old and scowling at him to not be late for his meetings.
(It’s easiest when Azula’s little like this. The other times...it hurts too much. At least when she’s little he can pretend he hasn’t failed her so badly yet.)
There’s a knock at the door. He opens it, coming face to face with Wen’s placid expression. Zuko had managed to wheedle the older woman into his household, after Azula’s was officially dissolved (stupid exile status). So now she was his glorified mail carrier and bearded cat wrangler. It was effectively a demotion for the senior servant, but it was the only thing Zuko could think of, and she at least took to it with good grace.
Which is why she holds a number of scrolls in one hand and a slate tucked under her arm. “Good morning, Your Highness,” she says. “I have your morning correspondence and schedule for you.”
Zuko smiles slightly and takes the offered scrolls as he lets her into his rooms. When he turns towards the bed, Azula is nowhere to be seen. That’s normal. She doesn’t usually appear when other people are around. At least, not like this.
(That’s probably a good thing.)
Behind him, Wen tsks. “You still need to have your hair done before the meeting. Do you want me to take care of it?”
He chuckles weakly and sits down in front of the mirror. “Ah, please?” It’s not that his usual phoenix tail is hard to style, or that he can’t. It’s more that he’s old enough now that he has a certain image to present in public and to various ministers and the Court and...well, he’s got a lot of things to do and this helps a bit.
Wen hums lightly as she efficiently combs out his hair. Zuko finds his shoulders relaxing a little bit. (Mom used to do this. She’d laugh softly at his various attempts to do his own hair, and then he’d pout and she’d help him fix it. But Mom isn’t here now. Mom hasn’t been here for years, and instead it’s been servants helping him when he needed perfect hair for Court. It never felt like this, though. Why can he relax now?)
“What do I have on my agenda today?” he asks quietly.
She finishes combing out his hair and retrieves one of the hair ties to start wrapping it. He knows she’ll do some kind of pattern weave of the ribbon that he can never hope to replicate, which is really annoying because it somehow manages to keep everything perfectly in place, even if he runs through the most intense training session he can think of. (No wonder Azula’s hair was always so neat.)
“You’re supposed to be meeting with General Daichi over breakfast in the Western Garden regarding Home Guard deployments to help with infrastructure improvements. Itsuki should be meeting you there with any relevant documents,” Wen replies, naming Zuko’s personal scribe. “After, you have lessons with Ladies Li and Lo, followed by a meeting with the Agricultural Minister on resource distribution, and finally a meeting with Professor Liang from Caldera Imperial University regarding some research project. I believe Itsuki has the details on the latter as well.”
Zuko groans. Wen is unmoved. Which, fair, because she’s honestly probably used to this. One would think he would be used to his schedule by now. Father had requested Li and Lo as tutors, first for firebending and then, realizing they had a wealth of knowledge on the intricacies of court life, on anything else they could teach Zuko. That would have been daunting enough, but then Azula had shown up.
He thought it was because he had too much time to think at first. That obviously he was being haunted by his little sister because he hasn’t been able to do anything. So he had gone to Father and begged to be able to start helping with governance. Even something small, just to get experience, just to help take some of the stress of running the entire nation off of Father’s shoulders. He’d prepared himself as best he could, expecting to answer whatever question Father threw at him to justify this level of responsibility.
He hadn’t needed it. Father had been pleased with the request. Obviously, Father still has final say, but he’s been giving more and more trust to Zuko, especially after walking Zuko through his decision criteria the first few times. Zuko thinks he’s got a fairly good idea of what decisions Father would make.
Father certainly thinks so. Recently, he gave authorization that the Crown Prince’s seal be almost as binding as the Fire Lord’s for domestic matters. (His chest still swells a bit with pride over that. Father not only trusts him, but approves of his work.)
But all the increased responsibility, all the work he’s taken on, none of it changed the fact that he’s being haunted by the younger version of his little sister, who is very much not dead. If anything, it got worse.
Because that’s when the others showed up.
Of all of them, Zuko prefers Little Azula, for all that she makes it feel like there’s a knife stabbing him in the heart. She’s the first and the most talkative. It’s almost like having another person there to talk to, and she’ll listen to his ideas and tell him when they’re stupid. (She’ll still call him “Zuzu”, and spirits, why does he miss that nickname so much?)
Then came the version of his sister as she was the last time he saw her: eleven years old and fighting an Agni Kai for his sake. She usually appears as all fire and agility and dressed with not a stitch out of place. Usually, except for when she’s not. Because his sister was sent out to sea so sometimes Serious Azula comes to him pale and dripping saltwater and shivering like no firebender ever should. Shivering like the dead.
But Zuko will take even that version over the third. (Don’t think about her unless he wants her to show up. Which he does not. Ever.)
Wen finishes with his hair and steps back. Zuko looks at his reflection in the mirror. Behind him, on the bed, Little Azula sits kicking her legs off the ground.
Oh. She’s...never shown up with Wen here before.
“Stop staring, Zuzu,” she says. “People are gonna think you’re crazy.”
He swallows.
“Prince Zuko?” Wen asks, sounding very concerned. “Is something wrong?”
Zuko turns around, ignoring his sister. He smiles brightly at the older woman. “Nothing is wrong. I’m perfectly fine.”
—-
Katara hesitates in the doorway. She knows Sokka is outside somewhere, prowling around the village, watchful and guarded. But she’s not looking for Sokka right now. No, her attention is on the small figure that stands out like a beacon on the ice, dressed in his yellows and orange. Aang.
The Avatar.
This is...this is a lot.
Because never in a million years would she think that the Avatar would be here, in their little village. An actual living, breathing spirit tale come to life, the master of the four elements. (Someone who could teach her, help her regain the birthright the Fire Nation stole) He’s the one who can end the war against the Fire Nation and balance the scales, see justice served and make the ashmakers pay. (Mom’s spirit could finally rest, and Dad could come home to stay.)
But...in all the stories she’s heard, Katara never expected the Avatar to be, well, Aang. He’s younger than she is! He’s just a kid. Just like her.
And he’s an airbender.
The last airbender.
Katara had never heard Gran-Gran sing the Lament of the Burning Leaves before. She thought she’d heard all the stories Gran-Gran knew, that she’d been taught them all, because the stories need to be passed down. What would they be without their past, without their ancestors to guide them? Now that she’s heard the Lament, she understands.
(She’s dreamt of the smell of burning flesh for so many nights.)
But if it was hard for Katara to hear,it was worse watching Aang. He hadn’t known. So all she could do was watch helplessly as the bright smile slid off his face and something died in his eyes.
Helpless again.
After the revelation that he’s the Avatar, which is so going to get discussed but later, he just ran out onto the ice. She wasn’t sure if she should run after him. Did he want to be alone? Probably. Should he be alone? Probably not. She doesn’t know if he’s even thinking clearly about anything else. Spirits, he didn’t even have a parka. He’d told her that his airbending kept him warm, but every instinct she has is screaming that standing out in the open without anything warmer than his robes is a one-way ticket to hypothermia.
She shakes her head. Focus, Katara.
“Aang?” she calls softly as she walks closer. The boy startles and then rubs his arm across his face before turning. The ice on his cheeks give away his crying. She searches for something, anything, to try to make things a little easier for him. (Not better. Better is impossible.) “You sure you’re not cold?”
Of all the things. Katara wants to facepalm.
“Ah, yup. Totally fine.” he says, giving her a big smile that’s as stable as rotten ice.
Snow crunches under her boots as she slowly walks closer to him. His smile cracks a little more with each step until it falls away completely and he sighs. “I don’t want to believe it,” Aang whispers, “even though my head knows the Innqiqti wouldn’t even have a song like that if...if it...” He chokes the last word down with a sob.
Katara sits down in the snow next to him, not quite touching but close enough to feel his presence. She stares out at the ice shelf in front of them, staying quiet for a long time. “Gran-Gran says that we used to have so many people, we had housing all the way past that ridge,” she says finally, pointing. “That there was a path the traders would wind all the way up past here, to right in front of the lodge. They’d come with their sleds full and you knew they were coming because of the barking.”
Aang is still next to her. “It was. Like that, I mean,” he whispers. “This...this isn’t an outpost, is it?”
Her throat feels tight, threatening to choke her on her feelings. Grief is an old friend. She should be used to this by now. (Katara knows she never will be.)
“No.” She can feel his flinch. “We’re...pretty much all that’s left.”
“Katara,” he breathes. “I’m sor—-”
“It was the Fire Nation,” she interrupts, voice cracking in the cold like ice. “Not you. It was the Fire Nation, Ashmakers, who did this. They destroyed our homes, our people. They melted the hall of the Innqiqti and stole our history. It wasn’t you.”
She grits her teeth and presses the heels of her hands against her face. Her eyes burn. It’s just the wind. She will not cry. (She’s cried too much and tears won’t fix anything.) It happened before she even drew her first breath, before her mother drew hers. The Innqiqti songs are as out of her reach as the bottom of the sea, and all she has of either are the stories her elders had managed to salvage.
But at least they have that. Even this is a priceless treasure compared to the ashes Aang has.
Katara realizes he’s looking at her and meets his wide-eyed gaze. He wears his grief like a mantle, tear-tracks frozen on his cheeks, but there’s something steady in his eyes. Or is it that his eyes now look like theirs, hard as ice and cold as the sea?
“I need...I need to go there,” he says, desperation clear. “I need to see. I need —”
“I know. I get it.” And she does, she really, really does. She’s seen the men who come back having lost one of their own, who came back after the raids, and Katara knows the look in their eyes. The pain of Not Knowing.
(Hope is a knife.)
She grabs his hand and holds it. Aang grips it like a lifeline and she does not want to let go. A wild thought crashes into her head, and she lets herself be swept up in its current. “Let me come with you,”
“What? No, Katara, I can’t ask — “
“You’re not asking. I’m the last waterbender here; we both will need a teacher.” Something in her soul tugs, unceasing and relentless as the tides, and Katara knows she can’t stay here. To stay here is to stagnate, and stagnant water is poison.
She will not let her people die like this. She will not die like this, fighting for scraps cast off from their oppressors. The sea is dark and old, full of secrets man has long forgotten, patient and always changing. (Careful, Sister Orca croons, the deep has teeth. From the sea you came and to the sea you will return.)
“And I don’t want you to go alone.”
Aang looks at her, grey eyes shining. “Okay.”
They make their way back to the rest of the tribe. In the morning, Katara will follow Aang as he retrieves Appa and they’ll head off. She regrets that she’ll sneak out, but she can’t risk this chance. Dad would want her to stay here, but how can she? How can she even hope to protect them as the last waterbender if she can’t speak to the waves? She needs this.
Sokka watches them from the other side of the igloo, a sharpness in his gaze that feels unfamiliar. Her brother is a goofball and stubborn, but ever since Dad spent some time home and was able to take him through the warrior initiation, something’s settled in him. There’s an edge that’s honed instead of brittle.
Then he gives her a lopsided grin and rolls over to fall asleep.
Why is her brother like this?
(Katara wakes up in the middle of the night. Aang is a new presence nearby, curled up like a polar bear puppy under the skins.
Sokka is not next to her.
She squints, vision fuzzy with sleep. Why are he and Gran-Gran up this late?
“ — know your responsibility, Sokka.”
A breath. “I know. I chose it. It’s just — “
“It’s never easy, grandson. But we make our choices, in the end.”
They say nothing more. Katara falls back to sleep before Sokka returns to his bed.)
In the morning, Aang sneaks out to fetch Appa as planned. Katara will meet them on the ice, but first she needs to pack her bag with enough supplies to last them at least a little while. And she has to do it without waking either Sokka or Gran-Gran.
She wishes she had the chance to do this last night, but there wasn’t any time, so she has to do it now. Except she can’t find her bag anywhere.
Sokka clears his throat behind her.
Katara whirls around, annoyance dying on her tongue. Her brother stands there dressed ready to go out (was he only pretending to be asleep?) with a bag slung over his shoulder. Gran-Gran is next to him, with Katara’s bag dangling from her fingers.
“I can explain.” The words tumble from her mouth.
“You’re going with Aang,” Gran-Gran says as she hands over Katara’s bag, which is now more full and better packed than she could have managed.
“And I’m going with you.” Sokka’s tone has a note of finality, an undercurrent of ‘you are not going to argue with me.’
Katara has never obeyed that tone in her life.
“Are you out of your mind?” she yells, causing him to flinch. “What about the Tribe? What about the kids you’re teaching? What if the Fire Nation comes? You have a job, Sokka!”
“Yeah, I do. And what’s going to happen to the Tribe if the Fire Nation catches the last waterbender?” he bites back. Katara’s mouth clicks shut. “I have to make the call and this is it.” He looks to Gran-Gran. “Anyway, it’s not like Dad would leave the Tribe defenseless. They’ll be back in a week or so.” Sokka turns back, face serious. “You need me now.”
Katara can’t help it. She bristles. “I don’t need you to protect me!”
“Both of you, stop it.” Gran-Gran’s voice cracks through their argument with the same authority as an avalanche. “You are both going with Aang. You both need to protect each other. Or have you forgotten?”
That stings. But obviously, she’s right. (As always.) Sheepishly, Katara takes her bag and puts on her gear. “No, Gran-Gran.”
Gran-Gran hugs both of them fiercely, and Katara very carefully does not think about the what-ifs here. Because she will come back, and Gran-Gran and Dad and all the others will be here, safe and sound and they won’t ever have to worry again. She refuses to even consider any other option, because there are none.
“Please. Take care of each other,” Gran-Gran whispers before letting them go. And what else could they do but promise?
Aang gives Katara a look of baffled confusion from where he stands just outside the village with Appa. “Um...hi, Sokka...” he says nervously.
“Morning, Aang!” Sokka sounds way too cheerful as he walks over to the boy. “Ready to go?”
“Um.”
She sighs. Waterbending training. Maybe save the world. She can put up with her brother’s nonsense for this, right? “Sokka wants to come with us,” she explains, apologetic smile firmly in place. “If that’s all right?”
Aang blinks and then shoots them both a big grin. “Really, Sokka?”
“Uh, yeah? Got my gear, boomerang...I’m all set to go with you guys.” Sokka gives her a look she...can’t interpret, not fully, but there’s a warmth there that stays when he turns back to Aang. “I don’t want you guys to go have all the fun without me.”
Aang’s face falls a bit. “I...don’t know if it’ll be fun? I...the Southern Air Temple...”
Sokka’s hand lands on his shoulder. “Which is why you shouldn’t go alone.” His voice is softer (the same tone he uses when he’s giving a child gentle encouragement on how to throw a boomerang). “We don’t let people do hard things alone.”
Aang blinks, and then his smile returns, even brighter than before. And the tension Katara didn’t realize she was carrying uncurls in her stomach, flooding her with warmth and affection as she realizes what her brother is doing: offering this boy in front of them the friendship he needs. It’s a tentative trust that Aang grabs with both hands. (She doesn’t think he’ll ever let go.)
“Well, Appa doesn’t mind, do you boy?” Aang asks the sky bison.
Appa snorts, but apparently takes his additional passengers with good cheer. Once they’re all settled in the saddle, Sokka looks around.
“So, uh, flying bison, you said? How does that work?”
Aang grins. “Like this! Yip, yip!”
Appa leaps from the ground and stays in the air. Sokka yelps, and Katara’s not ashamed to admit she gasps right along with him.
By the tides, they’re actually flying.
The village she spent her entire life in, almost all the people she has left in the world in this tiny scrap of home, seems even tinier as Appa flies higher into the sky. Katara realizes for the first time, in a way she had known but hadn’t really understood before, that her idea of the world is incredibly small.
She refuses to be daunted by it.
Katara watches as the ice shelf gets smaller and smaller behind them, followed by glaciers and icebergs as Aang turns them north towards the Southern Air Temple. She should be looking ahead, because this is really happening, she’s going to go find a master and learn. But this is also the last time she’ll see home and she wants to freeze it into her memory.
That’s the only reason she sees the ship.
She feels her blood freeze in her veins as she catches sight of it, so small in the water below them. It barely looks like a threat from this distance, but Katara can never, ever make that mistake. Not when the terrible grey steel curves slice through her memories, not when it spews black smoke into the air. Not when that bloody red flag flies as a warning.
A Fire Nation ship. Ashmakers.
“Sokka!” she hisses.
For once, he figures out she’s serious and slides over without a word. His face goes cold as he follows her finger to where she’s pointing. As they watch, the ship (there’s only one but there only needs to be one) starts turning. Away from the south pole, thank the spirits.
But it’s turning towards the north. In the same direction they’re going.
(It can’t possibly know. It can’t be following them.)
Katara doesn’t believe in chances, not with the ashmakers. Not since...
Her hand wraps around the necklace at her throat.
“Hey Aang,” Sokka calls. “Can Appa go any higher?” He says it like a challenge.
Aang takes it and laughs. “Of course he can. Come on, buddy, show them!”
Appa soars higher and higher still, above the clouds. Out of sight of the ship.
Sokka looks at her, frowning. “We need to tell him,” he whispers.
Katara nods. But...she thinks about what they’re flying to, what Aang’s already putting a brave face on for. “After,” she whispers back. At Sokka’s skeptical look, she shakes her head and continues. “We’re already going...anyway, they might not have seen us.” (She doesn’t even pretend to believe that) “And they don’t know where we’re going. We don’t need to add this, not yet.”
Sokka presses his lips together, but nods. “Not yet. But after.”
She sighs and looks to the front of the saddle, where the boy who is the Avatar sits and flies them to where they all know his heart will shatter. “Yeah. After.”
——-
Xicheng is nothing special, as far as colonies go. Colonel Sanren sat astride his mongoose lizard as he and his men marched through farmland and past the various mines dotting the landscape. Fairly typical, really. Once they entered the town gates, his impression of its dullness didn’t abate. Civilians gave the soldiers a wide berth, which was smart of them, really, both colonist and native alike.
He frowns. Ah yes. Xicheng had been one of the colonies that had needed a...rather sudden replacement in leadership almost three years ago. Which reminds him.
“Captain Masa!” he calls.
The man pulls his own mongoose lizard up besides him. “Sir?”
“Take some men and start postering,” Sanren commands as he gazes over the main street. “Send the rest to the barracks. I have some business to attend to.”
“Yes sir.” Masa snaps off a salute and starts issuing orders. Sanren smiles as he watches his men work. The captain is competent, always a wonderful feature in a second, and soon fresh posters are going up on walls up and down the street.
The exiled former princess’s face stares back at him. Sanren notes the reward has gone up again. He shakes his head. Such a waste.
Oh, he’s heard the rumors. It’s impossible not to have heard them. The truth slipped from the mouths of sailors to the rest of the military. And Sanren knew the old General. The man lived up to his reputation, as wily and dangerous as his namesake. Any hope that the kid was unaffected and merely a hostage was misplaced.
The Dragon of the West has had three years to sink his claws into her.
Poor kid.
Sighing, he nudges his mount into movement and rides to the governor’s manor. Time to go play politics.
It is rather nice, though, to be on his own two feet instead of in the saddle. And it doesn’t look like he’s going to be wasting time, either, which is also a pleasant surprise. Someone must have seen him arriving and ran to tell the governor, as the man is waiting for him.
“Governor Ukano,” Sanren says pleasantly as he dismounts and bows a greeting. “Thank you for your kind welcome.”
Ukano smiles politely (so false) and bows as well. “Colonel Sanren. I hope you had no trouble on our roads.”
“No, no trouble. In fact, I saw very little signs of any discontent,” he says blandly as the governor ushers him inside the manor. The decor is tasteful, more Fire Nation than Earth Kingdom, thankfully. (He’s seen far more governors than he’d like all but adopt Earth Kingdom affectation. As if it were a magical talisman against attack.) (How quickly fools forget that the Exile they fear so much is a child playing war.)
The man stiffens. “Of course. I am the Fire Lord’s loyal servant and of course represent him to the best of my abilities.” Are you accusing me of being in league with traitors, soldier? is what the colonel hears.
“As are we all,” Sanren replies pleasantly.
Oh, he knows Ukano’s reputation. He knows it very much indeed.
The two men engage in the required pointless smalltalk before they can actually get down to practical matters. At least Ukano’s refreshments are respectable, he notes as the teenage girl brings them tea and wagashi on a pretty tray. The girl glances at him with a blank expression, then steps back and hides her hands in her long sleeves.
“Mai,” Ukano says, then gestures to him. “This is Colonel Sanren. Colonel, this is my daughter, Mai.”
“An honor to meet you, sir,” the girl says dully.
If she sounded any more bored, the poor girl would be asleep. Sanren can’t help the amused quirk of his lips. “A pleasure, lady,” he says smoothly. He allows his smile to grow a bit. “Ah yes, I’ve heard that you are quite close with the Crown Prince.”
“We keep in touch.” Her tone remains perfectly flat. The girl gives him nothing; it’s rather impressive.
(Her father, on the other hand, couldn’t hide his thoughts from showing on his face if he shoved his head into a bag. Sanren despises the actual effort it takes to keep from rolling his eyes. The girl cannot be older than sixteen, and even if she was not a known associate of the Crown Prince, he is a man with honor. He will not replace Meilin — may her soul burn brightly forever — with a child.)
“Hmm.” He takes a sip of his tea. Delicious. “I also heard you were close to the exiled princess?”
Mai tilts her head slightly. “As you said, I know the Crown Prince. Knowing his sister was inevitable when she was there.”
“And now?”
She shrugs, a purposely artless motion he can’t help but be amused by. She’s a sharp one, certainly moreso than her father. “She’s an exile. I don’t keep correspondence with traitors.”
Sanren laughs. “Clever girl,” he says. He means it, too. Ukano looks like he’s about to have a heart attack while his daughter barely looks phased. With any luck, the rumors of her association with Crown Prince Zuko hold enough weight; she’d be a cobra in that pit of vipers and he’d be delighted to witness the carnage.
Ukano clears his throat. “Thank you, Mai,” he says in clear dismissal. The girl bows stiffly and takes her leave.
Sanren brings his cup to his lips. That short conversation with the girl was far more enlightening than whatever platitudes Ukano blathers at him. He can read the reports, thank you. He’s in the military, it doesn’t mean he’s an idiot. All the man does is confirm the conjectures Sanren’s already made about the state of the colony.
Oh, it’s well-run, he’ll give Ukano that. But Sanren referred to the “exiled princess” when he spoke to the daughter, and she did not correct him. Either that was out of misplaced childhood loyalties (and she was far too careful for that), or she hears the word “princess” enough that it no longer registers as suspicious. That means there are quite possibly sympathizers in Xicheng that Ukano is not telling him about.
It’s not technically his current objective. There have been reported incidents near Gaipan and it’s become one problem too many to ignore. Sanren has orders to make his way there to assist the local garrison. However, as an officer in the Fire Army, he also has a duty to his nation to maintain order. And that means if he runs across any kind of nascent rebellion, well, he’s supposed to assist local authorities before it becomes a problem.
“I hope you understand, Governor, that I meant no disrespect to you or your daughter,” he murmurs. Ukano’s eyes sharpen, but some of the man’s uneasiness leaves him. “I had orders to update the Wanted posters in your colony. I feared I would be causing...unfortunate distress by showing a friend’s face.”
“Ah, well,” the man equivocates. “Understandable. That’s very...thoughtful, Colonel. But it is as my daughter said. I would not allow an association with a known traitor.”
“Of course not,” Sanren agrees. He pauses. “Have you had any trouble with that? In general, I mean. Among the populace. I hear that the exiled princess is quite popular in some areas.”
Ukano waves the concern away. “Not that I am aware of.”
Then there is much that the man is unaware of. Because one of the intelligence reports Sanren also received spoke of some slightly-concerning activities. Nothing too worrisome. Not yet. It’s only been an odd word here, and a questionable conversation overheard there. The most alarming thing in the report was a mention of an odd essay found in Xicheng and some of the other nearby colonies. The author had some strange, but not actually treasonous, ideas about the relationship between Fire and Earth. Or Fire and Water. It was too philosophical to be actual dissent, but Sanren has his suspicions about this Saya. This author clearly knows where the line is, and he just as clearly takes great pains to not cross it despite how close he dances.
He has a few days here in Xicheng to rest and resupply. If he uses the time to investigate the governor’s clear blindspots, then what else is there to do?
“Of course, thank you,” Sanren says with a smile. “We are all the Fire Lord’s loyal subjects, after all.”