She wasn’t expecting him to come visit.
It wasn’t that she didn't want him to, — of course she did. She just thought he would be too overly busy to set some time aside from his tight political duties, and travel all the way down to the South Pole.
The morning Zuko arrives, it’s done unceremoniously, — with no big announcements or fancy royal ships. A metal yacht, — wrapped up in the Fire Nation’s flag, — anchors itself up to the blue, icy shores. He hadn’t brought too much of an entourage with him, either. Just uncle Iroh and some other parliament deputies.
“You’re here…!”, she exhales, throwing herself into his arms. She doesn’t quite care, — that this is out of protocol for them; a Water Tribe Ambassador and the Fire Lord himself. All she had wanted, — for the longest of times, — was to be comforted by him, his warmth. To be held by someone so strong, he could pull her every bit of brokenness back together.
Zuko lets her hide in the crook of his neck.
“‘Course I am”, he whispers; soft, chaste against her hair. He can feel Katara swallow a silent sob there, tucked to his very chest. And so, he can’t help but melt into the hug; closer, tighter. Push her into him with as much delicacy as if she was made of snow. “You needed me.”
She nods, then turns away just enough so she can look at him. He’s wearing a muted-red fur coat, — the tips of dark, straight strands poking right out of his winter hat.
“Let’s go grab a snack”, her hand is on his shoulder; a guidance. “You and your uncle must be starving.”
The rest of the day slips away quickly, — smoother than the frozen slopes in the farthest horizon. Katara takes Zuko and Iroh home to meet with dad, Aang and Sokka, — and then they all gather around to eat a pot of steamy, stewed sea prunes.
The conversation had been calm, collected, — nothing out of the ordinary, in spite of the very obvious pain everyone else was in. It was in the words nobody dared say, — the slight tension floating in the air. Zuko had noticed, mostly because he could see it written in Katara's face, — how she'd smile politely, but the smile would never fully quite reach her irises.
“Ditched the party?”, he tells her now, as he walks up to her in the cold. Funerals in the South Pole were always some kind of celebration, — a special ritual that had been passed from one generation to another. Families circled near the ocean to send the physical bodies out to the Spirit World, — and then there'd be food, and drinks, and music to rejoice in its safe arrival.
Katara doesn't dare face him.
“Didn’t feel like celebrating.”, she says. Here, at her small, snowy Tribe, she's hyper aware of everything around her. Much quite like Toph is when they're standing on fresh grass, or any other type of plain terrain, really.
Zuko exhales. An icy, frozen cloud escapes his parted mouth.
“What about Aang? Your dad…?”
Katara shrugs, — puts her hands inside her coat's pockets. She doesn’t even need to turn around to guess that he’s frowning, — or that his frown carves the tiniest of dimples on his forehead. As any other senior water-bender would, she's learnt to wrap up her instincts around him like that.
“They’re greeting everybody…”, she sighs, her shoulders dropping. “You already know how it is…”
Truth is, actually, that every other place they'd been to, Aang had had to stay longer than she deemed necessary. It wasn’t like she didn’t want to travel and help people, — she sure did. But she also missed home. A lot. And they'd argue every time they’d tried to talk about it.
Zuko stares at her, then at the sky.
“Do you think Grangran is watching?”, he leans to her side; the tips of his elbow brushes at her ribs. High up above, the night is lit-up by a flash of sparkly neon green; — an aurora borealis carving paths into the darkness. It’s a sight so wonderful, — a scene so uniquely magical—, he feels as though he’s short of breath.
“I hope she is.”, she tells him, then, — and her voice is hoarse, broken at the seams. She recalls, her last few days with Grangran had been tough, especially. A separate tent had been set up for them alone, and she'd spend her hours healing a body that was already hollow, withering. “Though I doubt she'd like to know I skipped her funeral party, hah!”
At this, Zuko laughs a little bit, too. To be frank, they both do.
“In the Fire Nation we have this one thing…”, he says, taking out a golden keychain from under layers of fur and wool. It has a typical ember-emblem locket that’s dangling from it, — and the moon catches on its warm, shimmery light. “It’s there to remind us that the people we love are always present somewhere with us.”
Katara focuses on it, — then stops to hold it in the cup of her freezing palms. She can see Ursa’s name engraved in it, — and she’s certain, oh, right that moment, that Zuko gets her completely. Her anger, — her indescribable sorrow, — he sees it. Even when the scars life’s left on her are not as visible as the ones that are on him.
“I know traditions are not exactly the same and whatever…”, he scratches the back of his head. “But, overall, I guess you still understand the meaning…”
She nods, — subconsciously tugs at her mother’s necklace. Well, yes. There’s something in the way Zuko talks, — with such serenity and wisdom— that puts her soul at ease. As if he could reach uninvited into the deepest, scariest parts of her, — and then extract the very same words she needed to hear.
Last time it’d been like this, she remembers, they’d been staying at the Eastern Air Temple; a little summer trip. Aang and the rest were all sleeping in their tents, but the two of them were restless, unable to lie down and close their eyes, for some strange reason.
“Don’t you wanna rage at the world, more often than not?”, she’d gone, totally out of the blue. She was aware, it was out of character for her to improvise stuff like this, — speak up her mind while on the spot. Still, however, she didn’t fully care for it.
Zuko’d raised a brow at her, — stretched back on the stone-cold floor. Pale moonshine traced ancient drawings on his face, — the soft curves of his nose. And so, Katara'd noticed, how young it made him seem, — such delicate lighting. Much quite like war had never maimed his skin, his fingers.
“I do”, he’d told her, then. They were sitting on one of the Temple’s higher lookouts, — their legs swinging off into the void. “I just try not to let my anger get the best of me, you know…?”, a pause, and after it: “That’d be like letting evilness win. And we simply cannot afford that at the moment.”
She smiles at him now, — same as she'd done that night, all those years back. Sure, life could be bleak, and unfair, and devastating. But, even amidst defeat, — the ache in every loss, — they'd found this. A mirror to each other. A road to their most intimate secrets, that wasn’t as terrifying to follow.
Not if they did it together.
“You gotta promise me something”, she says, — with the sudden tone of resolution only she could have.
Zuko smiles again, — at her, this time.
“I'd promise you anything, ‘Tara.”
The words flow out of her like a stream of consciousness.
“You know…”, she starts, — her cheeks apple-red. “You being the Fire Lord, and me travelling with Aang, we'll probably be so busy for the next couple months…”
Matter of fact, it was expected already. Her and Aang actually both had a scheduled trip to Republic City along with Sokka, — and Zuko most likely had to return to the Fire Nation for his own fair share of duties, too.
“I wanna still be in touch with you…”
He stares at her, — feels his own neck grow hot, as well. He can see the aurora borealis green flicker in her crystal blue eyes, — reflect upon the beads in braided, dark-brown locks. There’s something about her authenticity, — how vulnerable she is when she’s with him, — that makes him go warm, fuzzy on the inside. It’s different from anything he’d experienced before, he realizes. Like his heart’s about to burst, rip out of his ribcage, — neon, and flashy, and twinkly, as the colors in the sky.
“I’ll write letters every single week”, he says.
Katara makes a face at him, not so entirely convinced, — so he recoils.
“Alright, alright…!”, his hands are in the air; a sign of surrender. “Whenever we’re tired, or upset, or wanting to rage at the world… Just let me know, and we’ll meet somewhere. Anywhere.”
She gives him a small bump on the shoulder.
“You know me…”, he half-laughs. The air smells of sweet cedar and the salty rush of the open sea. “You can be sure it’s always a promise.”
