Chapter Text
Suki sat on the edge of the cliff, her legs drawn up toward her chest, the cool stone pressing through the thin fabric of her clothes. Below her, the ocean stretched endlessly, dark and restless, waves breaking softly against the rocks as if trying not to disturb the quiet of the night. Above, the moon hung high and full, silver light washing over Kiyoshi Island and turning everything pale and unreal.
She tilted her head back slightly, staring up at it.
Somehow, the moon always made everything feel heavier.
Her thoughts drifted, as they had been doing all evening, back to Sokka.
She could almost hear his voice—too loud, too confident, cracking some half-baked joke at the worst possible moment. She smiled faintly at the thought, then sighed when the image faded. It felt strange how empty the island seemed without him, even though she was surrounded by familiar faces, familiar paths, familiar duties. Kiyoshi Island had always been her home, but tonight it felt quieter than usual, like something important was missing.
She wondered what he was doing right now.
Was he still with Zuko? Complaining about training, or pretending not to complain while clearly suffering? Was he remembering to eat properly, or was he surviving on dried meat and confidence alone? The thought made her huff softly, shaking her head. He promised he’d be careful—but Sokka’s version of “careful” had always been a little… flexible.
Suki hugged her knees tighter.
She hadn’t expected the separation to hurt this much. They’d been apart before—longer than this, even—but this time felt different. The war was closer to its end now, closer to something final. Every goodbye carried more weight, every promise felt fragile. Even just one day without him felt stretched and thin, like time itself was dragging its feet just to be cruel.
Her gaze dropped to the ocean again.
Was he thinking about her too?
The thought crept in quietly, uninvited but persistent. She imagined him looking up at the same moon from wherever he was, maybe rolling his eyes at how “romantic” it sounded, but thinking of her anyway. She hoped he was. She hoped she wasn’t the only one lying awake with that dull ache in her chest, that mix of longing and worry that refused to settle.
Suki exhaled slowly, letting the night air fill her lungs.
She reminded herself why they were doing this. Why they had to be apart. This wasn’t just distance for the sake of distance—it was preparation, survival, the chance to actually make it to a future where they wouldn’t have to say goodbye like this anymore. Where nights like this wouldn’t be filled with wondering and fear, but with certainty.
Still… knowing that didn’t make it easier.
She reached up, absently touching the place on her cheek where he’d kissed her before they parted, as if the memory might still be warm there. Her lips curved into a small, private smile, quickly followed by a soft, shaky breath.
“Be safe,” she whispered to the night, unsure if she meant him, herself, or all of them.
The moon offered no answer, only steady light.
Suki stayed there a while longer, letting the sound of the waves ground her, until the ache eased just enough for her to stand. Tomorrow she would train, lead, prepare—just like always. Tonight, though, she allowed herself one last look at the moon, one last quiet thought of Sokka, before turning back toward the lights of the village and the life waiting for her there.
Toph wasn’t exactly happy in Omashu—but she wasn’t miserable either, and for her, that counted as a win.
The city was loud in a way she liked. Not the polished, careful noise of places where people tried too hard to behave, but the constant grind and clatter of stone moving, carts rolling, mechanisms shifting. Omashu felt alive beneath her feet. The ground hummed with energy, familiar and reassuring, like the city itself was talking back to her every time she listened.
And then there was Bumi.
Toph had expected a lot of things when Aang suggested finding him again. Wise old king. Eccentric mentor. Possibly annoying.
She had not expected to immediately like him.
Despite the massive age gap, they got along frighteningly well. Too well, honestly. Their personalities clicked in a way that made everyone else watching deeply uncomfortable. They both loved doing things the “wrong” way just to prove a point. They both enjoyed confusing people. They both believed that strength meant flexibility, creativity, and not listening to anyone who told you something was impossible.
Bumi called her “little rock” the first day.
She called him “old boulder.”
They both took it as a compliment.
Training with him was exhausting in a way that felt right. Not repetitive drills or rigid forms, but puzzles—impossible-seeming tasks that forced her to rethink how she used her bending. He made her fight uphill battles, literally and figuratively. One day he had her bend metal while standing on shifting stone plates, another day he blindfolded her “for balance,” which earned him a punch to the arm and a cackle of laughter in return.
“You’re vicious,” he’d told her approvingly.
“You’re insane,” she shot back.
They grinned at each other like co-conspirators.
She didn’t think about Aang much while she was there.
Not deliberately, at least.
Most days were too full for that. Training until her muscles screamed, arguing with Bumi over strategy, sneaking food when guards weren’t looking, collapsing into sleep too tired to think. When someone mentioned his name—usually in passing, usually something like “the Avatar will need this skill”—she brushed it off easily enough.
She told herself that was proof she was fine.
Still, he crept in sometimes.
Not during the day. Not when she was awake and in control. Only in dreams.
They were never romantic, never dramatic. That almost made them worse.
Aang would just… be there.
In one dream, she was fighting a giant badgermole made of jelly, and Aang was standing in the background holding a cup of tea, cheering her on like it was the most normal thing in the world. In another, she was racing down an endless staircase made of metal, and he was sitting halfway down, meditating, eyes closed, completely oblivious as she barreled past.
He never spoke.
He was just present—familiar, irritatingly calm, woven into the scenery of her subconscious like he belonged there.
She’d wake up annoyed every time.
“Stupid dreams,” she muttered one morning, rolling over and punching her pillow.
It wasn’t that she missed him. That was ridiculous. She didn’t miss people. She just… noticed the absence sometimes. Like when she laughed at something and instinctively turned her head toward where she expected him to be. Or when she perfected a new metalbending technique and had the fleeting, traitorous thought that he’d think it was cool.
She shoved those thoughts away just as quickly.
Toph Beifong didn’t pine. She trained. She got stronger. She prepared for war.
And still, late at night, when the city settled and the ground grew quiet, she sometimes lay awake listening to the stone beneath her and wondered—just for a second—if he was listening to the world the same way she was, wherever he was now.
She never said his name out loud.
But it lingered, unspoken, in the back of her mind—steady as bedrock, waiting.
Katara woke every morning before the sun fully crested the ice cliffs of the Northern Water Tribe. The cold was sharp and biting, but it no longer felt hostile the way it once had. Instead, it felt familiar—steady, grounding. She would sit up in her sleeping space, take a quiet breath, and let herself listen to the gentle sounds of the tribe waking around her: footsteps crunching on snow, distant voices, the soft rush of water moving through the canals.
Training began early.
She joined the other students on the ice, sleeves rolled up, breath fogging in the air as they moved through forms together. At first, it had felt strange to be back here without Aang, without Sokka hovering nearby making jokes or complaints about the cold. But as the days passed, the rhythm of it all settled into her bones. The movements were familiar, yet refined—each correction from Pakku precise, demanding, but no longer dismissive the way it had once been.
She trained hard, pushing herself until her arms ached and her focus wavered, then pushed a little more anyway.
Between sessions, she spoke often with Yue’s father. Hakoda—no, Chief Arnook—would greet her warmly whenever their paths crossed. He smiled more these days, though there was still a quiet sadness behind his eyes that Katara recognized too well. He asked about Sokka almost every time they talked, how he was doing, whether he was eating properly, whether he was being careful.
Katara always assured him that Sokka was fine, strong, stubborn as ever.
Sometimes, when Arnook spoke of Yue, his voice softened, and Katara listened without interrupting. There was a shared understanding there—grief that never fully disappeared, only changed shape over time.
Pakku, too, asked her questions.
Not about techniques or forms, but about Kanna.
At first, it caught her off guard. He’d pause during a lesson or while walking beside her through the corridors and ask, almost casually, how her grandmother was doing. Whether she still scolded people for wasting water. Whether she still laughed the same way.
Katara answered honestly, and though Pakku never said much in response, she could feel the weight of memory in the air whenever he did.
Outside of formal training, Katara spent time with the other waterbenders, especially the girls. That, more than anything, felt different this time.
There were more of them now.
Not just standing at the edges, not just watching, but training. Actively bending water, practicing forms, asking questions without hesitation. A few boys had joined the healing classes as well, something that would have been unthinkable not so long ago. The shift wasn’t loud or dramatic—it was subtle, gradual—but it was real.
Katara liked that most of all.
She spent long hours learning healing properly, not just instinctively the way she had before, but with deeper understanding. She learned how to sense disruptions in energy, how to guide water gently rather than forcefully, how patience mattered just as much as power. Healing required a different kind of strength—quiet, focused, compassionate.
It suited her in a way she hadn’t expected.
She laughed with the other girls during breaks, shared stories, listened to theirs. Some talked about families, others about dreams they’d never said out loud before. Katara realized how much she’d missed that—being surrounded by people who understood her bending not as something strange or exceptional, but simply as part of who she was.
At night, she often returned to her room tired but content, fingers still tingling with residual energy from healing practice. Sometimes she thought about the rest of the group—about Aang, wherever he was training, about Toph and her stubborn independence, about Zuko and Sokka off on their own strange path.
And sometimes, when the moonlight reflected off the ice just right, she thought about Yue.
Not with overwhelming sadness anymore, but with a quiet respect. Things had changed since Katara arrived, not just in the tribe, but in herself. She felt steadier, more certain. Still worried, still afraid of what was coming—but better prepared.
Every day, she trained.
Every day, she learned.
And slowly, almost without realizing it, Katara began to feel like she truly belonged there—not just as a visitor, not just as the Avatar’s companion, but as a waterbender in her own right, growing stronger in a place that was finally changing with her.
Aang wandered through the forest quietly, his bare feet barely making a sound against the moss and fallen leaves. The trees here were old—thick trunks, twisting roots, branches woven together so tightly that only slivers of sunlight broke through the canopy above. The air smelled like damp earth and pine, calm and still, the kind of place that felt like it should bring clarity.
It wasn’t working.
He walked slowly, hands tucked into the sleeves of his robes, head bowed slightly as if the weight of everything he was carrying might spill out if he looked up for too long. Every step felt heavy, even though his body was light. His thoughts, though—that was where the real weight lived.
He stopped near a small clearing, the sound of a stream nearby, and sat down cross-legged on the ground. He closed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and let himself sink into the Avatar State—not fully, just enough to feel that familiar pull, that sense of others standing beside him even when he was physically alone.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said softly, almost embarrassed by how small his voice sounded in the open space. “I’ve tried everything I can think of.”
The presence came gradually, like echoes settling into place.
Avatar Roku was first, calm and steady, his voice thoughtful but distant. He spoke of duty, of balance, of how some burdens could not be avoided forever. Aang listened, nodding, but his chest tightened. He’d heard this before—duty, responsibility, sacrifice. Words that made sense, but didn’t make the choice any easier.
Then came Avatar Kyoshi.
Her presence was heavier somehow, more solid, as if the earth itself had leaned in to listen. When she spoke, there was no hesitation, no softness.
“You already know what must be done,” Kyoshi said bluntly. “The Fire Lord threatens the balance of the world. You cannot allow him to continue.”
Aang swallowed.
“There has to be another way,” he said quickly, his fingers curling into the fabric of his sleeves. “I don’t believe the only answer is—”
“You are avoiding the truth,” Kyoshi interrupted. “Mercy for one can become cruelty for many. I ended threats when they endangered the world. You may not like it, but that does not make it wrong.”
Her words hit harder than he wanted to admit.
Aang’s shoulders slumped slightly. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of. Exactly what he’d been running from since the moment he realized what facing Fire Lord Ozai really meant. Every Avatar he spoke to seemed to circle back to the same conclusion, no matter how different they were.
He stood abruptly, pacing the clearing, agitation bleeding through his usual calm. “But I’m not like you,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice. “I was raised to value all life. I can’t just—end someone. That’s not who I am.”
The forest, of course, offered no answer.
\
The past Avatars faded slowly, their presence retreating like the tide pulling back from shore, leaving Aang alone again with the sound of the stream and the rustle of leaves. The silence felt louder than their voices had been.
He sank back down onto a fallen log, elbows resting on his knees, head dropping into his hands.
Kyoshi’s words echoed anyway.
You already know what must be done.
Aang squeezed his eyes shut. He thought about Katara’s steady belief in him, about how she always trusted that he’d find a way. He thought about Sokka’s determination, Toph’s confidence, Zuko’s complicated, painful honesty. He thought about the world—villages burned, families torn apart, people living in fear.
And then, despite himself, he thought about what he was being asked to give up.
“I don’t want to lose myself,” he whispered to no one.
The forest didn’t answer, but the breeze stirred the leaves gently, cool against his face. Aang took a slow breath, trying to steady the swirl of fear and doubt inside him. He didn’t have an answer yet. He didn’t know how to reconcile who he was with what the world needed from him.
All he knew was that running from the question wasn’t working anymore.
And that scared him more than anything else.
Zuko and Sokka woke up at dawn to the sharp, unmistakable sound of a wooden staff striking the ground.
Neither of them needed to look at each other to know they were thinking the same thing.
Too early.
Sokka groaned first, rolling onto his side and burying his face into his pillow. Every muscle in his body protested the movement, a deep, aching soreness that felt like it had settled into his bones overnight. His shoulders throbbed, his legs felt stiff, and his arms—his poor arms—felt like they might fall off if he lifted them too quickly.
Zuko, on the other hand, sat up immediately. Not because he felt better—he didn’t—but because years of military training had wired his body to respond before his mind could complain. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as his feet hit the floor.
“Do you think,” Sokka muttered into the pillow, “that Piandao would notice if we were… say… ten minutes late?”
Zuko snorted quietly. “He noticed when you yawned yesterday.”
Sokka lifted his head just enough to glare at him. “That was one yawn. A respectful yawn.”
They dressed quickly, movements stiff and careful, and stepped outside just as the sky began to lighten. The air was cool and crisp, carrying the faint scent of dew and grass. Piandao was already waiting in the courtyard, standing perfectly straight, sword resting at his side, expression calm and unreadable.
“You’re on time,” Piandao said, which somehow sounded less like praise and more like a warning.
Training began immediately.
No warm-up. No easing into it. Piandao handed them wooden swords and launched straight into drills—stances, footwork, strikes, counters. Over and over again. Zuko moved with focused intensity, sweat already gathering at his brow as he corrected his posture instinctively. Sokka struggled more, stumbling once or twice, gritting his teeth as Piandao tapped his knee with a stick every time his stance slipped.
“Again,” Piandao said calmly.
By the time the sun was fully above the trees, both of them were drenched in sweat, breathing hard, arms shaking from the strain.
Then came cleaning.
They scrubbed the courtyard stones, washed training weapons, swept fallen leaves from the paths. Sokka leaned heavily on his broom, staring at the ground like it had personally wronged him.
“I didn’t realize becoming a swordsman also meant becoming a janitor,” he complained.
“Discipline,” Piandao replied without looking up. “Respect for your surroundings reflects respect for yourself.”
Sokka glanced at Zuko. “He says things like that on purpose, right? Like… to mess with us?”
Zuko didn’t answer. He was too busy scrubbing a stubborn patch of dirt, jaw clenched in quiet determination.
Breakfast was simple—rice, vegetables, tea—but it tasted like heaven after hours of work. They sat across from each other at the low table, eating slower than usual, savoring every bite.
Sokka broke the silence first. “I can’t feel my shoulders.”
Zuko nodded. “My legs feel like I fought a badgermole.”
“I swear,” Sokka continued, poking at his food, “Piandao enjoys this. He wakes up and thinks, ‘How can I make them suffer productively today?’”
Zuko huffed a small laugh into his tea. “He’s strict, but… he knows what he’s doing.”
“That doesn’t mean he has to be this strict,” Sokka said. “Yesterday he made me balance on one foot for ten minutes. Ten. Minutes.”
“You kept leaning,” Zuko pointed out.
“Because my leg was shaking!”
They barely had time to finish eating before training started again.
This time, Piandao focused on sparring. Zuko faced him first, every movement sharp and controlled, firebender instincts carefully restrained as he fought using only technique. Piandao corrected him constantly—his grip, his breathing, the angle of his strikes. Every correction stung, not physically, but in the way only honest critique could.
When it was Sokka’s turn, he lasted all of thirty seconds before Piandao disarmed him effortlessly.
“Too much thinking,” Piandao said. “Trust your body.”
“My body is tired,” Sokka groaned, retrieving his sword.
By midday, both of them were exhausted beyond words. They cleaned again, trained again, and by the time dinner rolled around, Sokka dropped into his seat like a sack of rice.
“I miss Appa,” he said suddenly. “Appa never made me do squats.”
Zuko smirked faintly. “You complain a lot.”
“And yet,” Sokka said, pointing his chopsticks at him, “you keep listening.”
They ate in companionable misery, trading complaints about sore muscles and Piandao’s impossible standards. Beneath the whining, though, there was something else—something unspoken but shared.
They were getting stronger.
It hurt. It was frustrating. It was exhausting.
But for the first time in a long while, both of them felt like they were exactly where they needed to be.
“I miss Suki,” Sokka groaned, flopping back onto the grass like his bones had given up on him entirely. He stared up at the sky, arms spread out dramatically. “Like… a lot.”
“You said that yesterday,” Zuko replied flatly, sitting nearby and sharpening his sword with slow, practiced movements.
“I missed her yesterday too,” Sokka argued immediately. “Missing her didn’t magically stop overnight.”
Zuko snorted. “You’re insufferable.”
“Wow,” Sokka said, hand to his chest. “So much compassion. Truly inspiring.”
There was a brief pause, filled only by the scrape of metal against stone and the distant sound of wind through the trees.
Sokka tilted his head slightly, peeking over at Zuko. “What about you, huh? Don’t you miss your gloomy girlfriend?”
Zuko didn’t even look up. “I broke up with her.”
Sokka blinked. “Oh. Right.” He frowned, clearly trying to reroute his thoughts. “Then don’t you miss… I don’t know… Suki aswell?” He squinted.
Zuko sighed, setting his sword aside. He reached up, fingers brushing through his hair without really thinking about it. “I guess so,” he admitted quietly. “She used to put little braids in my hair.”
Sokka’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh yeah! I remember that.” He pushed himself up onto one elbow, grinning. “You looked so cute.”
“I did not look cute,” Zuko snapped, face heating up immediately.
Sokka burst out laughing, loud and unrestrained, the kind that shook his shoulders. “You totally did! Like—angsty prince but make it fashionable.”
Zuko scowled at him. “If you ever say that out loud to anyone else, I will actually duel you.”
“Worth it,” Sokka said cheerfully. “Honestly, I’m just sad Suki never got to see it. She would’ve loved it.”
Zuko rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned back slightly, staring up at the sky now too. “It was… nice,” he admitted. “She didn’t try to change anything. Just did it because she wanted to.”
Sokka hummed thoughtfully. “Yeah. That’s kinda Suki’s thing.” He went quiet for a moment before adding, softer, “She makes things feel easier.”
Zuko nodded once. “Yeah. I get that.”
They sat there in silence for a bit, the teasing fading into something calmer, more reflective. Two exhausted boys, sore muscles, aching hearts, and people they missed far more than they wanted to admit.
Sokka broke the quiet again. “When this is all over,” he said, “I’m never letting her leave my side again.”
Zuko glanced at him. “You say that like you have a choice.”
Sokka grinned. “I don’t. But I can still be dramatic about it.”
Zuko huffed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Sokka said, closing his eyes, “you’re stuck training with me.”
Zuko smirked. “Unfortunately.”
That month dragged by for everyone, slow and uneven, the kind of time that stretched when no one was quite where they wanted to be. They tried to send letters when they could—sometimes they arrived, sometimes they vanished somewhere between towns and borders, lost to bad routes or worse luck. Aang was impossible to reach at all. No one knew where he was, not really, and every attempt to track him down ended the same way: uncertainty, rumors, empty hands.
Without fail, though, once a week a letter found its way to Omashu.
Toph always pretended she didn’t care. She’d wake up, go about her morning like usual—spar with Bumi, complain about the food, wander the city barefoot and confident. But on the days the letter came, she always knew before anyone told her. There was a shift in the ground when the messenger approached, a familiar rhythm she’d learned to recognize. Her heart would jump before she could stop it, and she’d scowl at herself for it every single time.
It was embarrassing how excited she got.
The letters weren’t long. Aang never said much—little updates, awkward jokes that barely landed, rambling thoughts written like he didn’t quite know how to end a sentence. Sometimes he talked about the places he’d been, sometimes about the past Avatars, sometimes about nothing important at all. Once he drew a terrible little sketch of Appa in the corner and apologized for how bad it was.
Toph would sit somewhere quiet to read them, back against stone, fingers brushing over the paper as if she could feel his handwriting through it. She never smiled where anyone could see, but she did smile. Every time.
She never wrote back.
It wasn’t because she didn’t want to—if anything, she thought about what she would say far too often. She just didn’t know how. Putting things into words felt harder than breaking through solid rock. And part of her liked that the letters were his, untouched, unchanged. Proof that he was thinking about her without needing anything in return.
So she kept them instead.
She folded each one carefully and tucked it away, pretending it didn’t matter while counting the days until the next one came. And when it did, she’d grumble about how dumb his jokes were, how cheesy his writing sounded—then read it twice more before the day was over.
Somewhere out there, Aang was wandering, unsure and burdened and alone in ways no one else could fully understand.
And in Omashu, without ever sending a single reply, Toph listened to the earth and waited.
Their reunion wasn’t what any of them had imagined.
There was no shouting, no running, no big burst of energy the way it used to be. When they finally stood in the same place again, there was a strange stillness between them, like everyone was afraid that moving too fast would break something fragile. They hugged—one by one, tight and real—and they talked, filling the air with small updates and familiar voices. But underneath it all, they all knew what was coming. It sat between them, unspoken and heavy.
The Western Air Temple felt different from the start.
It wasn’t lively the way their camps used to be. Laughter came less often, and when it did, it faded quickly, like no one wanted to linger in it for too long. Sokka still tried sometimes, tossing out a joke here and there, but even he seemed to sense when it wasn’t the moment. Most of the time, the conversations drifted back to plans, routes, timing—what they would do when the battle finally arrived.
Aang was quieter than before. He listened more than he spoke, eyes distant, hands folded like he was holding himself together. Katara stayed close to him, steady and watchful. Zuko lingered on the edges at first, still unsure of his place even now, though no one pushed him away. Sokka poured his energy into strategy, maps spread out in front of him almost every evening.
Toph noticed everything.
She felt the tension in the stone beneath her feet, the way everyone shifted differently now, heavier, more careful. When Aang stood near her, she could tell he wanted to say something—but the words never came. So she didn’t push. She just stayed where she was, solid and present, the way she always had.
They trained, they planned, they rested when they could. Nights were quiet, broken only by the wind moving through the broken arches of the temple. Sometimes they sat together without speaking at all, watching the sky darken and pretending, just for a moment, that this was only another stop on the road.
But it wasn’t.
The war was close. The battle loomed over every meal, every conversation, every sleepless night. And even in the silence, even in the calm moments, all of them felt it—like the world itself was holding its breath, waiting for what came next.
Suki kept her arms looped around Sokka’s neck, not in any hurry to let go. She swayed them gently, a small, absent-minded motion, like if she stopped moving the moment would end too soon. Her forehead rested against his shoulder, and for a second she just breathed him in, familiar and grounding after weeks apart.
“I missed you,” she repeated, quieter this time, like it was something fragile.
Sokka hummed softly in response, his arms tightening around her waist as if to prove he was really there. He pressed another kiss to her temple, lingering longer than the first, his thumb brushing slow circles into her back. “I missed you too,” he said, and there was no joking edge to his voice now. “Like… a lot. This place was way less tolerable without you around.”
Suki let out a small laugh against his shoulder, the sound warm but a little shaky. “You’re saying that like this place is ever tolerable.”
“Fair point,” Sokka admitted, pulling back just enough to look at her. His eyes softened when he really took her in—her hair, her smile, the way she looked a little tired but still unmistakably herself. “You okay?” he asked quietly. “Kiyoshi Island treat you alright?”
“Yeah,” she nodded. “It was… peaceful. Too peaceful sometimes.” Her fingers tightened briefly at the back of his neck. “I kept thinking about you. Wondering if you were eating properly. Or doing something stupid.”
Sokka scoffed. “I resent that implication. I only did a moderate amount of stupid things.”
She smiled at that, then leaned in again, resting her cheek against his chest. “I worried anyway.”
He rested his chin lightly on the top of her head, staring out at the temple without really seeing it. “I thought about you every day,” he admitted. “Whenever things got heavy, I’d just… picture you yelling at me for not washing my hair properly or telling me I was holding my sword wrong.”
Suki laughed softly. “I would do that.”
“I know,” he said fondly. “That’s why it worked.”
They stood like that for a while, just holding each other, letting the noise of the world fade out. Around them, the others were reuniting in their own ways—quiet conversations, brief smiles, long looks—but Sokka barely noticed. Right now, this was enough.
Eventually, Suki pulled back slightly, her hands still resting on his shoulders. “Things are different now,” she said gently. “You feel it too, right?”
Sokka nodded. “Yeah. I do.” He swallowed, then gave her a small, crooked smile. “But whatever happens… I’m really glad I get to stand next to you through it.”
Suki’s expression softened, something steady and certain settling in her eyes. She leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to his lips—not rushed, not desperate, just full of reassurance.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said quietly.
Sokka smiled, resting his forehead against hers. “Good. Because I kinda like you being here.”
Katara and Zuko stood a short distance apart, close enough that they could feel each other’s presence, yet far enough that it felt like there was an invisible line neither of them quite knew how to cross. The air between them was heavy—not uncomfortable exactly, but charged with everything they hadn’t said during the weeks apart. The crash of the waves below the Western Air Temple filled the silence, steady and constant, as if trying to give them time.
Zuko shifted first, rubbing the back of his neck out of habit. He’d rehearsed a dozen different things he could say on the way here—apologies, jokes, something casual, something meaningful—but now that she was actually in front of him, all of it felt wrong. He glanced at Katara, then quickly looked away again, his jaw tightening. Seeing her again stirred something deep in his chest, a quiet ache he hadn’t let himself name. She looked the same, but also not—stronger somehow, steadier. It made him feel both relieved and painfully aware of himself.
Katara watched him in return, her head tilted slightly, studying him the way she always did when she was trying to understand something complicated. There was curiosity in her gaze, but also caution. She noticed the way his shoulders were tense, how his eyes kept flicking back to her like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to look for too long. Part of her wanted to fill the silence immediately, to smooth it over the way she usually did for everyone else. Another part wanted to sit in it, to see where it led.
“So…” Katara said finally, her voice softer than usual. She gestured vaguely toward him. “You look… different.”
Zuko let out a small, awkward breath that might have been a laugh. “Yeah. I get that a lot.” He hesitated, then added, “You do too. In a good way. I mean—not that you didn’t before, just—” He stopped himself, clearly frustrated, and looked down at the ground. “Sorry.”
Katara smiled faintly at that, not teasing, just gentle. “You don’t have to apologize for everything,” she said. “I know you’ve been… trying.”
He looked up at her then, really looked at her, and the longing he felt slipped through despite his best efforts to hide it. There was something open in his expression, something vulnerable. “I was thinking about you,” he admitted quietly. “A lot, actually.”
Katara’s breath caught just a little, though she didn’t step back. Instead, she folded her arms loosely, more out of nerves than defensiveness. “Me too,” she said after a moment. “I kept wondering… if things would feel different when we all came back together.”
“And do they?” Zuko asked, his voice low.
She considered that, her gaze drifting toward the horizon where the sky met the sea. “Yeah,” she said honestly. “But I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
Zuko nodded slowly, relief and uncertainty mixing in his chest. He took a small step closer—not enough to crowd her, just enough to show he wanted to be nearer. Katara didn’t move away. Their eyes met again, and for a brief moment, the world seemed quieter, like it was holding its breath with them.
Neither of them reached out. Neither of them rushed to define what this was or what it could be. But the awkwardness had softened now, reshaped into something tentative and fragile—and maybe, with time, something more.
The day of Sozin’s Comet dawned heavy and bright, the sky washed in sharp blues and streaks of burning orange as if the world itself knew what was coming. The air felt charged, almost electric, and every sound—footsteps on stone, the flap of Appa’s tail, the rustle of armor—seemed louder than it should have been. No one joked. No one lingered longer than necessary, yet no one truly wanted to leave.
They split into their groups with quiet efficiency, each of them knowing their role by heart. Aang stood a little apart, running his fingers along the edge of his glider, checking it for cracks or splinters he might have missed. His movements were calm, practiced, but beneath that calm there was tension—Toph could feel it through the ground, the subtle shift of his weight, the way his heartbeat thudded faster than usual.
Toph stood off to the side, pretending to focus on the sand beneath her feet, running it through her fingers slowly, grounding herself. She kept telling herself this was just another fight. A big one, sure, but still just a fight. She’d faced impossible odds before. They all had. But this was different, and she hated that she could feel it.
A few steps away, Suki was speaking with a handful of Earth Kingdom soldiers, her voice steady and reassuring as she gave them last-minute instructions. Zuko crouched near Appa, feeding him cabbages one by one while Appa chewed contentedly, oblivious to the weight of the moment. Katara stood with Suki now, listening, nodding, her hands clasped together a little tighter than usual.
Toph’s attention kept drifting back to Aang.
She remembered Suki’s words from Ember Island, remembered how casually they’d been said and how deeply they’d lodged themselves into her chest. There was a very real chance Aang wouldn’t come back from this. The thought made her stomach twist painfully. Worse than that was the idea that he might leave without ever knowing—without ever knowing how much he meant to her, how being around him made her feel lighter, steadier, like maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.
Suki turned, scanning the group. “Toph! We’re leaving!”
“I’m coming,” Toph replied quickly, her voice sharp with urgency.
She took a step forward—then stopped.
Her feet shifted in the sand as she turned back toward Aang one last time. He had finished checking his glider and was standing there now, hands resting on the handles, looking out toward the horizon. For a moment, she almost didn’t do it. Almost convinced herself it was stupid, reckless, unnecessary.
But the ache in her chest refused to quiet.
“A-aang,” she said, her voice catching just slightly.
He turned immediately, as if he’d been waiting for her to say his name. “Yeah?” he answered, smiling—really smiling—in that open, hopeful way that always made her heart trip over itself.
That was it. That was all it took.
Before she could second-guess herself, Toph surged forward. She reached up, cupping his face firmly, her fingers brushing his cheeks, and pulled him down toward her. Her lips met his in a kiss that was sudden, unpolished, and completely honest. It wasn’t careful. It wasn’t planned. It was everything she’d been holding back.
Aang froze at first, eyes wide in shock, his breath hitching. His hands hovered in the air for a heartbeat, unsure where to go, unsure if this was real. Then instinct took over. He placed his hands on her waist gently, like she might disappear if he held her too tightly, and leaned into the kiss, returning it with a quiet urgency of his own.
For a brief moment, the world fell away. No comet. No Fire Lord. No war. Just them.
Then Toph pulled back.
She didn’t give him time to speak, didn’t give herself time to lose her nerve. She turned sharply and walked away, joining the others as if nothing had happened, her fists clenched at her sides to keep from shaking.
“Toph?” Aang breathed, watching her retreat, his lips still parted, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it in his ears.
Suki glanced down at Toph as she reached her side, reading her instantly. “You okay?” she asked quietly.
Toph nodded once, jaw set, forcing her voice to sound steady. “Yeah. Let’s go.” She flexed her hands, grounding herself again. “The Fire Nation won’t kick its own butt.”
Suki gave her a small, knowing smile, then turned back toward the path ahead.
Behind them, Aang stood frozen for just a moment longer before straightening, resolve settling over him like armor. Whatever happened next, he would carry that kiss with him—proof of something worth fighting for.
And with that, they all moved forward, each of them stepping into the fight that would change everything.
The moment Azula challenged Zuko to an Agni Kai, Katara felt something cold and heavy settle in her chest. It wasn’t just fear—it was wrongness, a deep instinct screaming that this wasn’t how things were supposed to go. She took a half-step toward him without even thinking, her mouth already opening to protest, to beg him to reconsider, to say anything—
But Zuko didn’t let her.
He brushed past her gently but firmly, not meeting her eyes, his hand lifting just enough to signal her back. “Stay out of this,” he said quietly, his voice steady in a way that felt forced. “Please.”
Katara froze. Every part of her wanted to argue, to refuse, but she saw it then—the resolve in his posture, the set of his jaw. This was something he felt he had to do alone. Reluctantly, painfully, she stepped aside.
As the Agni Kai began, Katara couldn’t stop watching Azula.
Something was off.
At first, it was subtle—the way Azula’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes, the way her stance wavered just a fraction longer than it should have. Her voice, usually sharp and precise, trembled when she spoke. Yet she acted as if nothing was wrong, laughing lightly, taunting Zuko as though this were all still a game she was certain she would win.
But Katara could see it. The cracks.
Then it happened.
Azula’s focus snapped—not at Zuko, but at Katara.
Katara barely had time to register the shift before Azula directed the lightning. Instinct took over. Zuko moved without thinking, stepping into its path, arms lifting as he attempted to redirect it.
The blast hit him square in the chest.
“ZUKO!”
The world seemed to stop.
Zuko collapsed to the ground, unmoving, smoke curling faintly from his clothes.
Time seemed to fracture in that moment, splintering into jagged pieces that refused to move forward properly. The air still crackled faintly with leftover energy from the lightning, the smell of smoke hanging heavy and bitter between them. Zuko lay limp in the dirt, his chest rising shallowly, his face pale in a way Katara had never seen before.
Azula was shaking.
Not with rage. Not with triumph.
With fear.
For a split second, there was nothing but silence—then Azula screamed.
“NO!”
Her hands shook violently as she staggered forward, dropping to her knees beside him. “No—no, no, no,” she babbled, her voice breaking apart. She grabbed his shoulders, pulling him close, her composure shattering completely. “I didn’t mean to! I didn’t—I’m sorry, I’m sorry, wake up, wake up!”
Tears streamed down her face as she shook him gently, then harder, panic overwhelming her. This wasn’t the cold, calculating princess anymore. This was a girl unraveling.
Her hands clutched at Zuko’s robes as if letting go would mean losing him forever. Her composure—so carefully constructed, so cruelly perfect—had completely shattered. Tears streamed down her face unchecked, her breathing coming out in sharp, broken gasps.
“No, no, no…” she kept whispering, her voice cracking further with every word. “I didn’t mean to—Zuzu, wake up. Please. Wake up.”
Katara skidded to a stop beside them, her heart pounding so violently it hurt. She dropped to her knees, already reaching for the necklace fingers fumbling as panic threatened to overwhelm her training.
As Katara reached out, Azula whipped around, eyes wild.
“DON’T TOUCH HIM!” she screamed, wrapping her arms around Zuko protectively, clutching him to her chest as if Katara were the danger. Her sobs grew louder, more desperate. “You’ll hurt him! You’ll make it worse!”
“I won’t,” Katara said quickly, tears stinging her eyes.
“I can help,” Katara pleaded, her own hands trembling as she tugged the necklace from around her neck. Her fingers fumbled with the clasp as she unscrewed the vial, nearly spilling the glowing water. “Please, Azula, I can help him.”
Azula’s breath hitched. She looked down at Zuko, then back at Katara, tears blurring her vision. “Don’t hurt him,” she whispered again, her voice suddenly small, fragile in a way Katara had never heard before.
Katara didn’t waste another second. She knelt closer, careful, slow, her movements deliberately non-threatening. She uncorked the vial, the water inside glowing softly as it responded to her bending. Her hands trembled as she guided it toward the scorched fabric and skin at Zuko’s chest.
As the water flowed, the world narrowed to just the three of them.
Katara focused on her breathing, on the rhythm Pakku had drilled into her again and again. She pushed warmth and energy into the water, coaxing it gently, repairing what had been torn apart. The seconds stretched unbearably long. Azula watched every movement with wide, unblinking eyes, her sobs quieting into shaky breaths.
Then—finally—Zuko stirred.
It was subtle at first. A twitch of his fingers. A shallow breath that grew just a little stronger.
Katara gasped softly as his eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glassy. “Zuko,” she breathed, relief crashing over her so hard her vision blurred. She reached up instinctively, cupping his face with one hand. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”
“K-Katara…” Zuko rasped, his voice hoarse and weak.
Before Katara could say anything else, Azula let out a sharp, broken cry and surged forward, wrapping her arms around him again, burying her face in his shoulder.
“Don’t touch him!” she screamed again, pulling him back into her arms, clinging to him as if terrified he’d vanish. She buried her face in his clothes, sobbing uncontrollably. “He’s still hurt—he’s still—”
Zuko stiffened in her grip, clearly startled. He looked down slowly, confusion giving way to recognition as he took in the sight of his sister clinging to him, shaking.
“A-Azula?” he said softly, his voice rough.
She shook her head violently, refusing to look at him, tears soaking into his clothes. “I didn’t mean to,” she whispered over and over. “I didn’t mean to. I was supposed to win. I was supposed to—”
Zuko didn’t pull away.
Carefully, awkwardly, he lifted one arm and rested it against her back, not quite hugging her but not pushing her away either. His expression twisted with something complicated—shock, pain, and a deep, aching sadness.
“I know,” he said quietly.
Katara stayed where she was, watching them both, her heart heavy and conflicted. This wasn’t the triumphant victory she’d imagined. This wasn’t clean or simple. It was raw and broken and deeply human.
For the first time, Azula didn’t look like a monster.
She looked like a girl who had finally lost control—and didn’t know how to survive without it.