Wait a While...

A place for me to a) display my writing and b) do nerdy hoodrat shit.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Ch. 6)

Summary: “It’s supposed to be easy,” she says as the ashes fall into the sea. “The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy.” It’s not long before the Gaang admits that things might have been simpler when they were fighting a war. -A series of scenes in an undeservedly tragic life- (Post Series, non-Korra compliant)

Hellooooo, world! Sorry for the long hiatus, I had a lot of fun begin of summer stuff going on. Luckily, I'm back on a semi-regular schedule which should mean semi-regular updates!

Hope you guys enjoy!

Earth - Six years, exactly

“This is— by far— the stupidest thing you have ever made me do.”

His laughter sounded like brittle leaves crumbling against the soles of her feet. The touch of his hand around hers felt like tree branch fingertips, dry and splintery, snapping at the slightest bit of pressure. She leaned her forehead against the side of his granite throne, gritting her teeth against the dull explosion of his heart, shuddering ever onward— and the wintery pause stretching between each beat.

Toph tightened her grip on his hand and wished for the first time in her life that she could turn her bending off. She would take the darkness— happily— if it meant she couldn’t feel the way his bones creaked and his lungs rasped.

“Stupid,” she whispered, grinding her brow against the stone. “Senseless,” she hissed. “Arrogant!” Bumi’s cackling echoed horribly through the empty throne room, magnified and distorted, too large to let her miss the exhaustion interwoven with his glee. “I’ve finally got proof that you’ve lost the last shred of your fucking mind!”

Bumi cackled again, then coughed, then grinned, preening his thin tufts of silver hair. “Please, Toph, you’re making me blush,” he wheezed. Toph shoved herself to her feet, paced halfway to the door then turned and stomped back.

“Don’t mess with me, old man,” she snarled. “Not today.” Today, when the world outside these four walls buzzed with frantic activity, darting footsteps, an army of heartbeats, swarming, converging on the city center. Today, when she had been rolled out of bed, poked, prodded, painted, pricked, bundled up in silk and lace, carved into a monument that she was not. Today, when her head hung heavy with a crown, a wild tangle of steel and gold spun thin as thread, no gems, no adornments, nothing to say Queen Toph of Omashu but the band above her brow and her own word. Her heart hung heavy with everything else.

“Honestly, Badgerling, I don’t know why you’re so upset,” Bumi hummed, resting his elbow on the arm of his throne and his chin on his knuckles. Toph’s mouth dropped open and her jaw worked soundlessly as she wrestled with the fury and panic twining like serpents in her chest.

Toph had loved Bumi practically from the moment she met him, in her own way, as much as she could. He saw her for who she was from the first, spoke to her warrior before he spoke to her heart, unravelled her rage before he tugged on her sadness. It made him a different type of teacher, one who drew her back to his side time and time again, even when his lessons included the heart-rending dullness of council meetings or meditation or diplomacy. She would learn whatever Bumi deigned to teach her because even at her worst, her most petulant, her most obtuse, Toph could see everything that Bumi was that she was not. Steady. Balanced.

Happy.

“Bumi,” she said slowly, while her pulse raced out in front of her, too far and fast and out of her control. “Bumi listen to me.” What will I do? her heart whispered, woven amongst the thud thud thud in her ears. What will I do? She climbed the steps up to his throne and sat down on her knees at his feet. What will I do? She took his hand and pressed it to her heart. “Listen to me.” Bumi sighed and sat back in his throne, back flush against the granite, and Toph imagined he could see her as she saw him, as a coalescence of vibration and heaviness, a ghost on the other edge of the stone.  He rested his other hand on the crown on her head, the tips of his fingers brushing the iron and gold tangled in her hair. What will I do what will I do what will I—“You. Are. Not. Dying!”

People like Bumi did not wilt and fall apart; they grew bright green, had hearts like running water. They called out the blossoming in everyone else, made new buds out of the undergrowth. People like Bumi were not people at all. Not autumn breezes— they were mountain peaks, high and clear and good. They endured.

They stayed.

Bumi stilled, his entire body, everything in him went quiet for one long moment and Toph’s stomach dropped. Then he squeezed her hand, thumb stroking idly, and made a sound, a shadow of a laugh. “We’re all dying, Badgerling. Some a bit more intensely than others.” Toph shot to her feet, hands clenched into fists. Katara used to do that, stroke her thumb over the back of Aang’s hand quietly, secretly, back when the world was made of straight lines and clear paths. Travel. Fight. Win. Repeat. Now the world was made of smoke and heartache. Toph was good at fighting, but there was no amount of fighting that would fix this.

“This isn’t a joke,” she forced out past the fullness in her throat. The world outside the throne room doors was starting to settle in to an immense, anticipating stillness. “You want me to leave you here,” she whispered, “and go to my coronation.”

Before today, the word had been something garishly bright, golden and hilarious. Ivy vines to match the milky forrest of her eyes. Dignitaries and officials to tell her half truths as clear as the sun. She’d known it was coming, creeping closer every day. It just wasn’t supposed to be today and it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This day was supposed to be far off and warm and full because Bumi was by her side, believing enough for the both of them. Now that it was here, the day was cold and crooked and as immediate as a corpse.

“I want you to leave me and take your place—”

“It’s your place!” Toph snapped. Bumi tilted his head and tapped one knuckle against his own crown. It sagged lower on his brow than normal.

“These are your people now, Toph,” he sighed. His voice was tired, but when he reached for her, his touch was warm and intentional. “That’s what it means,” he said, flicked her crown lightly, and then took her hand in his. He gestured vaguely to the room around them and the palace beyond. “These crowns, these walls, this power…” He slid his hand over her wrist, drawing her meteorite bracelet from her arm. He squeezed and the bracelet splintered, a thin spiderweb of lines appearing along its surface with a thin, musical crack. He took her hand, laid it over his, and pressed. Toph closed her eyes and concentrated. Slowly, she tilted her head, bending away the imperfections on the surface of the stone. She lifted her hand and Bumi smiled, holding the bracelet between two fingers. “They are all for our people,” he sighed and twirled the bracelet on the tip of his finger. Toph closed her eyes and wished that the gesture brought darkness or silence or rest.

“Don’t do this, Bumi,” she whispered and swiped at her cheeks. “Don’t make me do this.”

“Remember to lean on you advisors. You must designate someone you trust as soon as possible to read your official documents to you.”

“You aren’t listening.” There was a girl on the other side of the door gathering the courage to knock. “This is insane. This is impossible.”

“I was about your age when I took the crown. It is hard to be a king so young and I’ve been an old man for a long time. The city has forgotten. But you’ll be able to—”

“You aren’t listening to me, Bumi! I’m not—”

“You are.”

And suddenly Toph had reached the end, the full extent of everything that she could bear. She hated his fluttery, shaky touch, the gasping tenor in his voice, the fact that he was okay with this, with leaving her and going somewhere she could not follow. And she hated that quiet note of something in his words, the steady undertone of pity. It declared plainly something she had never been able to admit, never wanted to acknowledge. She stumbled backwards, ripped away from his gentle touch, scrubbing at her face with the stupid robe with sleeves that were too long and got in her way. She hoped the tears stained the silk good, ruined it forever. She clenched her hands into fists, holding tight so that the trembling stayed deep, deep on the inside.

“You know what?” she snarled. “Fuck you and fuck this. All of this. You want to go? You want to die? Then do it!” She spun on her heel and strode away from the granite throne. She’d thought that the acid would fade as she gained distance, but the burning in her bones only grew and grew and grew. Bumi struggled to his feet, heaved in a breath to say something, but Toph flicked a wrist and the heavy throne room doors flew open. She paused in the doorway, bracing one hand against the marble doors.

Marble was heavy and dense and beautiful and easy to crack or grind down into dust. Not like granite, the fury and might of a volcano made stable and safe. Marble was formed by layers and layers of crap raining down day after day after year after year, by impossible, twisting pressure. But most people at least still wanted marble around.

“Go and do it, if you’re so excited to leave me here with your crown and your throne and your stupid fucking people,” Toph snarled over her shoulder at Bumi’s shadow and his granite throne. “Go and die.”

She let the doors slam shut behind her, let the servants sweep her away, out into the palace courtyard. The ceremony— the coronation— was long and boring and surprisingly good at soothing her runaway temper. By the time her crown had been blessed and consecrated, it’d occurred to her to apologize. By the time she spoke the words and the crowd rumbled them back, she was resigned to it. She spent a long few minutes waiting to be dismissed before realizing that she was the one who did the dismissing now. She broke off from her escort, moving purposefully towards the throne room.

Her face warmed when she stepped into the hall leading to the marble doors. A pair of healers flanked them, probably set to guard him from her smart mouth. She took a quick moment to swallow her pride as she drew near. The healers turned as one as she approached and dipped into low bows. “I need to get in,” she said stopping before them, fidgeting with her fingers. “To apologize.” The healers exchanged glances.

“Your highness,” one began slowly, “you cannot go in.” Toph frowned.

“I’ll be quick,” she said, crossing her arms. “I just want to say I’m sorry. Then I’ll let him rest or whatever.” The healer shifted, but didn’t speak. This time Toph had to bite her tongue to fight down a more scathing retort. “I’ll be quick,” she said again.

“Your highness,” the healer said slowly, “You cannot speak to King Bumi.”

Toph was starting to feel a strange, cold, clawing feeling next to her heart. She lifted her chin despite it, made her voice hard and strong. “Yeah?” Her voice was held steady, but she felt her knees rebelling. “And why not? Is he mad at me? Did I hurt his precious feelings?”

“The king is gone, your highness. You are our queen now.”

The world tilted under Toph’s feet and she collapsed in a heap in front of the old king’s door.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Head First (Zutara Oneshot)

Summary: In which Katara is a weepy drunk and Zuko is somehow the responsible one here. (Oneshot~Zutara~Smut-ish)

We're coming up on summer, I'm almost done with my first year of grad school, I have one paper, two exams, and two assignments due in the next week so of course the only think I could work on this weekend was this random one-shot. Hope you all enjoy!

Once the battle is over, Zuko has been healed, Azula has been hauled away, and Katara has been reassured that Zuko is fine, yes really, yes he’s sure, he’s fine, honestly, Katara summons his servants to his room and demands five bottles of “anything that’ll get me really drunk really fast.” The servants, who have seen three different Fire Lords in power in just as many days blink tiredly at her and ask her preferred accompaniment. She chooses guava juice

Zuko, who has spent the past week as a refugee, a traitor to the crown, an insurgent, and the ruler of a quarter of the entire world, takes the bottle when it’s offered to him and gulps down enough to make his eyes water. Katara swigs from her bottle and chases it with juice. “Thank you,” he says after a long, not-uncomfortable silence. “For helping me against Azula. You didn’t have to.” She sighs his name, climbs to her feet, and crosses the room to stand before him, her arms crossed over her chest and her bottle dangling loosely from her fingertips. She’s still dressed in the robes she battled his sister in in (singed around the hem, torn around the collar, coated in dust and mud) and she’s favoring her right leg. After a moment, she collapses next to him on the cushions, steadying herself with her hand pressed low on his stomach (just below his newest scar). She pulls away quickly and clinks her bottle against his.

“Shut up,” she says. “And drink.”

Zuko obeys because he’s spent who knows how many weeks doing everything he can to get Katara to even tolerate his presence. This is probably the least she could ask of him.

Over the next several hours, they empty three of the bottles of spiced rum (Katara dips well into Zuko’s share), an entire bag of fire flakes (they send for them after half of the first bottle is gone), three platters of dumplings (the fire flakes run out and really it’s dinner time anyway), and several pitchers of water (Zuko insists that they hydrate and Katara mocks him mercilessly for it). Zuko never specifically asks why they are drinking themselves into oblivion, but the rambling way that she regales him with story after story of the South Pole makes him think she’s having some sort of I-almost-died-ending-a-century-long-war-that-altered-the-course-of-history-and-destroyed-everything-I-love type existential crisis. Which is fair. Zuko resolves to let her have her breakdown and spends most of the evening adding juice to her drinks when she isn’t looking.

“I need to take a…” she frowns, “A… you know!” She is laying on the floor with her feet propped up against the wall and her hair fanned out around her like a halo. Zuko snorts and sets another glass of water next to her head. “It’s a…” She waves her hand and an orb wobbles out of the glass, swirls midair in front of Zuko’s face, and then shoots into his eyes. “A bath!” she exclaims. Zuko sputters and wipes his face with the hem of his shirt. When he looks up, she has already shrugged out of her robe and has her leggings halfway down her thighs. Zuko’s brain short-circuits momentarily and he spends half a minute watching the way her legs tense as she works the garment over her knees— and then he comes to his senses and slaps his hands over his eyes so hard that he sees stars.

“Katara!” he yelps.

“Don’t just stand there!” she scolds. There’s shuffling and shifting and she tugs on the hem of his robes. “Help me take off my clothes!” Zuko’s eye twitches (something else twitches too, but he refuses to acknowledge that).

“Can we—” his voice cracks pitifully and he swallows. “Katara, can we maybe just keep our clothes on?” Katara pauses in the midst of fighting her feet free from her leggings and peers at him.

“You want me to take a bath with my clothes on?” She gives him a look that would peel paint from the walls if she weren’t also upside down in her underwear, tangled in her own clothes. Zuko tugs on his collar and fixes his eyes on the ceiling.

“Well, it’s just, you know, maybe you could, um, take a bath in your, um underwear? Like… like you do at the beach?” Just like at the beach. She’s not showing any more skin than he’d see on Ember Island or than he’s seen when she trains with Aang. This is fine. This is totally normal. Zuko can deal with this.

Katara gives a long suffering sigh. “Whatever, Zuko,” she says, “If it’ll get you to help me, I’ll pretend we’re at the beach.” Her voice says plainly that she is sure that he is an idiot, even as she begins to tug with her teeth at the material caught around her ankles. Zuko swallows again and drops to his knees beside her. He sets one hand on her knee to still her kicking, and slides the other down the length of her calf, working the legging over one foot, then the other. He’s touched her dozens of times since joining the team, knocking her sideways when it looks like she’s about to die or squeezing her shoulder when it looks like she might cry. He’s never touched her like this, though, never had time to notice the incredible suppleness of her skin. She stills, and for a moment there’s a look in her eyes that Zuko can’t decipher. But then the look is gone, she scrambles to her feet and dashes into his bathroom.

Zuko knocks his head against the wall as the sound of splashing water filters into the room. And then there’s the sound of something falling to the floor and Zuko is the one scrambling to his feet to make sure Master Katara, who defeated Fire Lord Azula on the day of Sozin’s comet, hasn’t slipped and cracked her head and died in her underwear on his bathroom floor.

When he bursts into the bathroom, there are an assortment of bottles scattered across            the floor, a puddle of something thick and fragrant is dripping from the side of the tub, and Katara is huddle down in the quickly overfilling tub. Zuko swears, turns the tap off, and starts to tell her that she’s officially cut off— but he stops. Her head is tilted back to rest against the tub’s edge and the torchlight flickers, casting warm shadows over the dusk of her skin. She is beautiful.

Zuko turns away.

“If I leave you in here alone, how likely are you to drown?” he asks as he crouches down and sits with his back pressed against the tiles. The torture will probably be easier to bear if he isn’t looking directly at her. Katara snorts, but doesn’t answer. For a while, the only sound is the gentle trickle of the water.

“Zuko?” Her voice is suddenly small.

“Yeah?”

“What do you think it’s like?”

He tilts his head to look at her from the corner of his eye. She is staring straight ahead, fingers moving slowly over the surface of the water.

“What?”

“To be dead.” There’s a soft rush and she hugs her knees to her chest. “What do you think it’s like?”

There are, of course, a thousand answers to this, but none that feel particularly appropriate. Zuko’s face flushes.

“Spirits, Katara, I don’t— what kind of question is that anyway?” he snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose. The beginning of a massive headache is blooming behind his eyes and he suddenly wishes that he had let Azula roast him. “Why would you even want to—”

She makes a soft, sniffling sound that sends him whipping around to face her despite himself. She is scowling at her toes, wiping clumsily at her eyes.

“Are you crying?” he demands. Katara glares.

“No!” She claps her hands over her face. Zuko opens his mouth to demand that she stop crying at once, but then he closes it with a snap and shoves a clean cloth into her hands instead.

“That’s it,” he says, climbing to her feet. He takes hold of her forearm firmly and helps her stand. She grumbles, but does not argue. “Bath time is over.” He wraps a towel around her shoulders, careful not to notice the way the water has turned her white cotton underwear completely translucent. She wrinkles her nose at him and wobbles as she starts to climb out of the tub. Zuko sighs, scooping her into his arms. “I knew waterbenders were trouble,” he mumbles to himself and Katara snorts, laying her cheek against his shoulder.

“Put me down,” she demands and she snuggles deeper into his embrace and he carries her out of the bathroom, through the sitting room and into his bedroom. “Grab the rum!” Zuko rolls his eyes so hard he briefly wonders if he can break them.

“You lost the right to order me around when I became Fire Lord and you started crying in my bathtub. You’re drunk.”

“I am n—” He sets her on her feet next to his bed and she sways, scrambling to take hold of the front of Zuko’s robes. “So what if I am?” Zuko cracks a smile despite himself and places a finger in the center of her forehead, pushing her back. She falls back and sits down hard on the bed, glaring.

“As the only person here in their right mind, I’m going to go ahead and declare the rum portion of the evening officially over.” He pulls an old sleeping robe from the wardrobe next to the bed and helps her push her arms through the sleeves. The hugeness of the garment makes her look even tinier and more fragile than usual. Zuko hesitates, then traces a fingertip across her cheek, tucking her hair back behind her ear. She reaches up to catch his hand in hers with an accuracy that startles him.

Suddenly, she is giving him that look again, quiet, far away, and intense. She presses his captured hand against her cheek, her eyes flutter closed, and an expression skitters across her face, something that stops Zuko’s breath. Too hopeful to be heartbreak, too fearful to be love— all it does is remind him of that helpless moment he spent watching Azula’s lightening arching towards her heart. He steps into her, wrapping his arms around her shoulders. She presses her face against his chest and hugs him back, breathing shakily against his new scar. Suddenly, he is the one blinking back tears. “I’m glad you aren’t dead,” he whispers into the blackness of the room. Her arms tighten around him, but she doesn’t answer. He clears his throat and steps out of her embrace. “Everyone else will be here tomorrow.” The words slam something shut between them. She lets him help her underneath the covers. “Goodnight, Katara.” He practically runs from the room.

Once the door is shut behind him, he strips off his shirt, snatches an extra blanket from a closet and collapses onto the cushions in the sitting room, steadfastly turning his thoughts away from the way moonlit shadows played out over the angles and planes of her face.

It was Toph who first accused Zuko of being in love with Katara. At the time, Zuko had ignored the comment, half because while Katara and Suki had weird cravings and were slightly irritable around new moons, Toph tended towards fits of unchecked malice (that were best endured and not challenged) and half because of course Zuko loved Katara, anyone with two eyes, a heart, and a functioning dick would love Katara. But loving Katara meant nothing when they were all going to die at the end of the summer anyway.

But now the end of the summer is here and Zuko is alive thanks to the half naked, fully drunk waterbender in his bed. The implication of that is far too big to grapple with at the moment, though. Zuko makes himself sleep instead.

He isn’t sure exactly how long he sleeps, but it is well before sunrise when he is awoken by cool hands on his chest. At first, her touch weaves its way into his dream, just another side of his ever-present yearning. But then she sniffs and something cool drips against his neck and he knows that this is real. He would never dream of a Katara with tears in her eyes.

“Katara? What…?” She is on her knees next to him with a hand pressed against his chest, over his heart. Her other hand covers her mouth. His mind feels thick and slow and he’s still not quite convinced that this isn’t a dream, but he manages to close his hand around hers. A shudder goes through her and a thin whimper makes it past her hand. “What are you doing?” he murmurs, his thumb stroking idly over her wrist. She shakes her head slightly and makes that sound again. Her whole body trembles. Zuko reaches up with his other hand and touches the swell of her cheek. “What’s wrong?”

Something in her snaps and she dives for him, her arms winding around his neck, her face buried in the crook of his neck. She is sobbing, her entire body curling up against him. Zuko catches her instinctively and spends a panicked moment unsure of how to react. But then he feels her trembling, feels the desperate way she is clutching at him, and he sits up, knees coming up on either side of her, and tucks her more securely beneath his chin. One hand goes to her hair while the other strokes up and down her back.

“Shh,” he murmurs, because that is what his mother used to say when he couldn’t stop crying. “Just breathe.” He realizes that she is saying something, whispering it over and over against the skin of his neck.

“Could’ve died,” she whimpers and tightens her grip. “Could’ve died.” Zuko’s heart pounds and he tightens his hold on her. “You can’t die, Zuko,” she sobs, holding him so tightly that her nails bite into his skin. “You just… you just can’t. And you almost did. If I had been slower, if I… if I hadn’t been strong enough…”

“Katara…”

“She was aiming for me. It was coming right at me and you just… why did you do that? Why would you do that?”

“Katara.”

“You can’t do things like that. It doesn’t matter if I die. I’m not a prince or the Avatar or some noble. I’m nobody. But you— people need you! I need you! I—”

He kisses her. Softly. Once. Twice. Because he can hardly bear to hear her say anything else about a world in which she is not the sun and the moon and all the stars in the sky. So he kisses her, cradling her face in both of his hands, brushing away her tears with his thumbs. And she kisses him back, lips trembling against his, fingers twining in his hair.

“Nobody?” he whispers against her lips, kisses her jaw, kisses her ear. “Katara…” his voice breaks as he struggles to find words big enough to fit his entire heart. “You are everything.”

She pulls away and looks at him with wide, blue eyes. Her gaze is a thawing glacier, a spring rain on parched earth. She melts into him, slowly this time, attaching her mouth to his. He sinks back into the cushions and she shifts so that her knees are on either side of his hips. He is suddenly painfully aware that she is still in her underwear underneath the robe.

“You’re drunk,” he groans. Her hips are rocking slightly, little undulations that send the blood rushing away from his brain. She shakes her head, mouth moving from his lips, over his jaw, to a spot just below his ear that makes his fingers tighten on her hips.

“I know what I’m doing,” she breathes. “Please.” She takes hold of one of his hands, guiding it to her chest. Zuko groans again and kneads her breast gently, his thumb rolling over her stiff peaks, pinching softly through her wraps. Her hips are rocking more purposefully now, each burst of friction sending shots of pleasure tingling up his spine. Her breathing trembles and she arches into his hand.

“You can’t die,” she mumbles, breath hitching. “Promise. You can’t leave me.” Zuko rolls them and pulls down the top of her bindings, pressing hot, slow kisses to her breasts. He grind his hips more firmly against hers and she gasps, hooking a knee up over his hip. He kisses his way back up to her mouth, nibbles softly on her lower lip.

“I’m here,” he says, “I’m alive.” Her hips shift and she moans aloud. “I won’t ever leave you.” He focuses on that spot, the one that makes her whimper, rolling his hips in short quick bursts. “Say it, Katara,” he groans and attaches his mouth to her neck.

“You’re alive,” she pants, hand sliding down his back to cradle his ass, urging him faster. “You’re alive, you’re—” she breaks off with a choked gasp, moans his name in a way that makes him dizzy with pleasure. Her body goes stiff and then she relaxes, her fingers slow and lethargic against his biceps. He eases his movements, breathing hard against the nape of her neck, then rolls off of her, settling down on the cushions by her side. She reaches over and takes his hand, intertwining their fingers. He tugs and she rolls closer, cuddling up to his side.

“What about—”

“I’m fine,” he tells her, kissing the top of her head. “In the morning.” She chuckles and wraps her arms around his waist. “Sleep.”

“Zuko?”

He tilts his head to look at her, watching the moonlight on her hair and the curl of her fingers against his chest.

“I love you.”

He traces his thumb over her cheek and can almost see a thousand nights unfolding before his eyes, full of the feel of her cool skin against his.

“I love you too.”

 The next morning, the servants seem completely unfazed by every aspect of the scene they find in the young Fire Lord’s rooms, from the heap of empty rum bottles piled in a corner to Katara herself, who is curled up in Zuko’s lap, cradling her head while he reads through a set of scrolls. They collect the bottle as quietly as possible (though Katara still winces at every clink) and drop twin mugs of something hot and strong-smelling alongside breakfast. When they leave, Katara crosses the room to grab their tea, shoves his into his hands, and climbs stiffly back into his embrace.  Zuko sips his tea, still shifting through the documents.

“Remind me,” he says mildly, “what was it you said last night about drinking water and delicate flowers?”

Katara gulps her tea, wincing. “Shut up,”she says, burying her face in the crook of his neck “and drink.”

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Ch. 5)

Summary: “It’s supposed to be easy,” she says as the ashes fall into the sea. “The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy.” It’s not long before the Gaang admits that things might have been simpler when they were fighting a war. -A series of scenes in an undeservedly tragic life- (Post Series, non-Korra compliant)

Possibly the toughest chapter I’ve written yet! It’s been tough stepping out of rosy Zutara-land into to Toph’s head. But I’m excited for the Earth Cycle! Hope you all enjoy!

Part Two - The Earth Cycle

“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” —The Holy Bible

Water - Six years, four months, six days

Every time she had seen Katara in the past six years, there’d been a brat hanging off of her ludicrously voluminous skirts and a heaviness hanging around her center that was sometimes anger, sometimes guilt, and sometimes plain unhappiness. For Toph, a drooling hanger-on was as much a part of who Katara was as the gliding meter of her steps and the way her heart stuttered without fail if you said the right words: husband, Zuko, baby, Aang.

So when Katara emerged from her transport in armor instead of robes with only a handful of uniformed soldiers in tow, the entire picture felt really fucking lopsided.

“Presenting Fire Lady Katara!” one of the soldiers shouted. The crowd gathered in the courtyard hesitated, shooting expectant looks in her direction. She couldn’t see it, but it was easy enough to feel the tilt of their heads and the apprehensive pause between heartbeats. Lately people were always waiting for her to do the right thing. Toph frowned and curled her hands into tight fists, digging her nails into her palms. Royal family arrives, she recited, the throne room is prepared, the rebels are thrown into a deep, dark pit, everyone goes the fuck home. There was nothing in her meticulously planned itinerary about Katara arriving alone or about the appropriate response to some idiot screaming her name. One of her advisors burst into enthusiastic applause. Bumi would say: Bravo! Excellent entrance, really! Toph twisted her mouth, but clapped, struggling not to communicate too much sarcasm.

The crowd broke out in scattered applause. Mostly though, they stared. And whispered, craning their necks to see the Fire Lady wrapped in blue-black leather instead of crimson silk, who cast her gaze over the courtyard with the bearing of a general instead of a pretty wife. Under normal circumstances, Toph would be preparing to greet her with a nice friendly punch, but with each step, Toph could feel the not insignificant number of weapons tucked into her boots, hidden up her sleeves, or slid into the waist of her pants. If Katara insisted on having the stupidest position in the stupidest nation in the world, Toph could at least respect that she was also apparently the most prepared to throw down.

Besides, she should pace herself. There were a whole host of embarrassing things Toph would probably do by the day’s end.

Katara’s entourage came to a stop at the top of the stairs. Bumi would say: Thank you for joining us, your Flamey-ness. Toph crossed her arms over her chest and did not flick pebbles at the guards flanking the Fire Lady. “Good thing you brought that guy,” she said. “Would’ve never guessed who you were if it weren’t for him.” There was a thick silence in which her advisors’ hearts quivered nervously.

The last time I saw you, Toph thought, but did not say, you were cracked, overwhelmed, playing a regent at twenty-two. Now, Katara was barely twenty-three, with a presence as steady and queenly as a full moon. Toph was twenty years old and every day still felt like some high-stakes game of pretend. The unfairness of it all rose from a simmer to a boil at the sound of Katara’s laugh.  

“Temper, temper, your highness,” Katara said and folded Toph into a hug. “I almost think you aren’t happy to see me.” Toph scowled, but endured the show of affection. She may as well. Katara co-controlled a fourth of the entire world. And it had been at least a month since anyone had thought to give her a hug.

“Fire Lady Katara,” she mumbled against her shoulder and squirmed to be let go. Katara released her and inclined her head to the officials lined up on either side of her who watched the interaction warily. “What a wasted opportunity,” she said, pulling her robes straight again. “You could’ve been the Icy Hand of Justice or the Fire Lord’s Fist! Princess Icy Pants!” One of the advisors cleared their throat forcefully. Toph snorted and shoved her hands into the absurdly oversized sleeves of her robe. “Could’ve been you,” she sniffed.

Katara grabbed an errant lock of hair and twisted it back into her top knot. “Yes, I got the messages you sent. Turns out Zuko really puts his foot down on stupid stuff like official royal titles.”

“Men ruin everything.”

Toph couldn’t see grins made with the mouth, but the smile Katara gave her shone through her entire body. She reached up to run her fingertips through Toph’s hair, arranging it around the iron-spun circlet perched just so on her head. “Then it’s a good thing they have queens like you to lead them, your highness.”

Bumi would say: neutral jing! Toph punched Katara in the arm. Hard.

The crowd fell into horrified silence, the advisors gasped, and Katara’s guards took a simultaneous step in her direction, pulling swords from their sheaths. Toph arched an eyebrow and started to shift into stance, but then Katara laughed again and flicked her fingers towards her guards. The swords snapped back, the guards stood at attention, and Toph was momentarily stuck on the thoughtless, casual way Katara bent a handful of Fire Nation soldiers to her will. The two men on either side of her dropped into deep bows, babbling apologies to Katara’s shoes.

“The New Queen meant no harm, Fire Lady!”

“The New Queen did not mean to disrespect, Fire Lady!”

Toph stomped her foot and twin pillars of rock jutted up from underneath them, sending them both stumbling backwards. “Actually,” she said, planting her fists on her hips, “I meant at least a small amount of harm and moderate disrespect. Fire Lady.”

“Point taken,” Katara said, massaging her arm. “Are the prisoners prepared?”

Katara’s heart held steady and Toph’s began to pound. “Everything is. Where’s Zuko?”

“He’ll meet me at the Boiling Rock.”

Toph sniffed and turned, leading the way into the palace. Her guards sprang forward, moving to surround her on all sides. “Hubby gonna let you play queen for the day?” she sneered. Katara fell into step behind her and her guards swept into her wake, fanned out behind her like the train of a cloak. There was a steady measure to her steps, an easy angle to her shoulders over her spine.

“I’m not exactly here to be a queen,” she said, and drew a thin line of water from the skin at her hip.

 The laws of Omashu were simultaneously complex and terrifyingly simple. Underlying every one of the thousands of laws, codes, policies and guidelines was one simple fact. Ultimately, there was only one judge, one jury, and one executioner within the city walls.

 It took more than an hour for the crowd to filter into the throne room and settle down. Toph would have closed the doors and proceeded after the first fifteen minutes, but Katara insisted that they wait until every seat was full.

“This hall is big enough for a couple hundred,” Toph said, leaning her back against the wall to feel the crushing rumble of bodies in the next room. Katara chose a piece of fruit from the bowl on the table. “What makes you think that many people want to watch this?”

Katara made a face that was part grin part grimace and swallowed her mouthful of peach. “Tragedy is just another kind of spectacle.”

Toph frowned, turning that one over in her mind. It seemed that the more power she had to cut down anyone who annoyed her, the more twisting it took to unravel meaning behind the things people said.

“Tell me the sentences again,” she demanded. Katara sat down on top of the table and swung her feet idly.

“The firebenders will come with me to serve prison terms at the Boiling Rock. Our intelligence confirms they were all in leadership roles and had a hand in planning the attack.” Her heartbeat holds steady, but her breathing hitches, a phantom ache over a long-healed wound. “The other two will take fifteen lashes each. They contributed time and resources to the cause, but it isn’t clear that they understood the extent of what they had planned. I’ll deliver the lashes myself. They’ll be free to go once I’m done.” Toph’s heartbeat holds steady, but her stomach twists.

Bumi would say: anything. Anything at all. Bumi would know what to say. Toph let the silence stretch out, drumming her fingers against the wall behind her. This wasn’t how this— any of this— was supposed to happen. Zuko was supposed to be here, the Throne room was supposed to be prepared, and Bumi was supposed to be at her side, carrying the crown on his head. Katara sighed suddenly, hopped down, and crossed the room to lean against the wall beside her.

“I want to tell you something,” she said after a moment. She leaned in close enough that Toph could feel her shoulder brush up against hers. “But first, you need to say it. It’s just us.”

Toph started to snap back, lips twisted into a scowl, but she couldn’t quite fit the retort past the lump in her throat. She tilted her head back, feeling the scrape of iron on stone. Bumi would know what to say.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Toph whispered.

Katara didn’t answer, but reached out suddenly to grab Toph by the wrist. She tugged and pressed the young queen’s palm low on her belly, just below her navel. Toph’s eyes went wide and her other hand went to the stone behind Katara’s back, finger’s flexed.

It was faint. But it was there.

“We don’t have to know, Toph,” Katara murmured. “But we have to try.”

There was a sharp knock on the door and Katara dropped her hand. “Let’s go, Queen Bei Fong. The people are waiting.”

Bumi would say: they are your people now. Toph chewed on her bottom lip and followed Katara from the room.

There were seven prisoners in all: five Fire Nation citizens and two Omashu boys. The guards brought them up from the cells one by one to receive judgement. Katara had said: spectacle. Toph called it: drama.

The first five passed in a blur of pomp and ceremony. There were a lot of words that had to be said in order to cast a man’s entire future into a pile of rubble. But then the guards brought out the Omashu boys and Toph was fighting a nest of serpent rats in her belly.

“Yun Lee, guilty of treason and conspiracy!” The boy held his shackled wrists against his chest and crept forward.

“Yun Rei, guilty of treason and conspiracy!” His brother trembled so hard that he stumbled and fell to his knees. Somewhere in the crowd, a woman was sobbing, pressing something hard against her mouth to muffle her cries.

Toph was the only judge, the only jury, the only executioner in Omashu. But Omashu was a drop in the middle of the ocean. Omashu needed allies. So Toph bit down hard on the part of her that was screaming that this was not right that this was not the same that these boys were hers to protect. Katara glided to her feet, just as steady in her decision to lash two young boys as she had been throwing a handful of men into a life of languishing in prison. Toph couldn’t see the stream of water she bent, but knew Katara’s water whip stance almost as well as her own forms. The guards pushed the boys to their knees and tore open their shirt backs. The woman in the crowd was weeping aloud now, not bothering to make the sound any smaller or less heart-rending and Toph’s heart thundered along in time with her ragged gasping. Katara shifted, readying herself to strike—

“Stop!” Toph didn’t know she was going to stand until she was on her feet, didn’t know that she was going to protest until her hand was raised.

Bumi would say: you are their queen.

Katara turned her head, but did not drop her bending stance and one of her advisors stepped forward from his place behind the throne. Toph held up a hand and he shut his mouth with an audible snap. She didn’t need to hear him say that even in Omashu there were rules she could not break, that she had given her judgement, that the Fire Lady had stated the price of her justice and now she had to be paid.

I have no idea what I’m doing, she’d told Katara.

We don’t have to know, Katara had replied, but we have to try.

The guards moved away as she left her throne and approached. Both boys lowered their heads as she came to a stop before them.

“Do you—” Toph swallowed. Her tongue felt thick and dry in her mouth. “Do you confess what you did?” There was a whoosh as Katara bent the water back into her skin. The brothers looked at each other and then bowed low.

“We do, your highness,” one of them said. “We… we gave the rebels food and a place to stay. We gave them supplies. But we swear we had no idea what they were planning.” The one who spoke, Yun Lee, chanced a glance up from the stone floor up at Katara. “We wouldn’t have done it if we had known,” he whispered. Yun Rei was shaking so hard there was a fine, clink coming from his shivering chains. Toph chewed on the inside of her lip.

“Swear to me,” she said, surprising herself with the steadiness of her own voice. “Swear that you are loyal to my crown.” There was a great swell of muttering from the crowd. The boys gaped but then took hold of the hem of her robes.

“We swear,” Yun Rei stammered. “We have always been loyal to Omashu. We will always be loyal to the crown.”

Toph held still, twisting their words around in their mind, trying to find a shadow, any hidden intent. It was the purest thing anyone had said to her in years.

Her fingers didn’t tremble as they undid the sash at her waist. Her hands didn’t fumble as she pushed the robe down from her shoulders so that she stood only in her thin, cotton shift. She turned her head slightly, listening to the way Katara’s heart pounded, matching it to the steady calm in her posture, imagined the performed serenity on her face. “You were sentenced to fifteen lashes,” Toph said and presented her back to Katara’s whip. This is all I can do, she did not say. You are a queen and I am a girl and this is all I can do. Katara had always had knack for hearing what Toph would not say. She swallowed, but sank slowly into her bending stance once more.

The first blow came with a mighty snap. It didn’t hurt so much as sting.

The second blow came and the crowd fell silent. The only sound in the room was the weeping woman’s whimpers.

The fifth blow came and Katara’s breathing began to tremble. Her form did not falter though and her blows began to draw blood.

The ninth blow came and Toph cast her mind back to the day she first set foot in Omashu, to the crazy, gleeful way that Bumi had taken her hand in his.

The twelfth blow came and she cried out despite herself. Yun Lee and Yun Rei each took hold of one of her hands.

The thirteenth blow came and the people rose to their feet.

The fourteenth blow came. Her people were chanting.

The fifteenth blow came. They were saying her name.

Katara let the water fall to the ground and rushed to Toph’s side, already reaching to heal what she had done, but Toph turned, stumbling back out of her reach. She grit her teeth, but held her head high as measured steps carried her back up the dais. And as she sank down onto her throne, her people fell to their knees in ripples, murmuring her name. Katara’s hand twitched, ghosting towards her stomach and then she bowed too, bending low at the waist. Toph dug her toes into the earth, feeling every drip of pain, every lowered head, every loyal heart spread out at her feet.

Bumi would say: Now let’s get started.

Toph painted on a smiled.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Interlude)

Summary: “It’s supposed to be easy,” she says as the ashes fall into the sea. “The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy.” It’s not long before the Gaang admits that things might have been simpler when they were fighting a war. -A series of scenes in an undeservedly tragic life- (Post Series, non-Korra compliant)

A/N: Happy early update! I entered an outtake (if you squint) from this story into Zutara smut week. Check it out if that’s your style. I’m not sure if I’ll do these 50 sentence interludes for every cycle (and of course after I wrote half of it I realized there were set word prompt lists for all the sentences, so I kinda cheated). But I really love the way this one turned out. Hope you enjoy!

#1 - Silver

The servants whisper that widows are cursed women; Katara reasons that this means she should get an extra bun with dinner.

 #2 - Rock

She loves him with everything she is, but Zuko’s tsugi horn playing should be considered an instrument of war.

 #3 - Three

There are still days when she struggles to leave her bed, but now she has Koza to whine and needle and bother and cry and drag her away from her sorrow.

#4 - Wedding

Sokka marries Suki and swears to her that there is nothing she could ask for that he will not give.

 #5 - Covenant

Zuko marries Katara and explains to her how few things she could ask for that aren’t already hers by right.

 #6 - Heirs

It takes a week of questioning before anyone will tell her why Koza’s nurses go to weeping every time she declares her intent to give him a bath.

 #7 - Queen

The Water Tribes are ruled by tradition, the Fire Nation by honor; Katara looks at where she’s been and wonders if she has either.

 #8 - Phantom

On her worst days she listens to Koza laugh and hates the world for the little blue-eyed boy he isn’t.

 #9 - Honor

The servants call her “Lady Katara;” Zuko corrects them before she has a chance.

 #10 - Yinyang

She rises with the moon, he rises with the sun, so for balance’s sake they must sometimes spend the whole day in bed.

 #11 - Mother

The Fire Nation doesn’t have a formal ceremony; she stands with her toes in the ocean and introduces Koza to the moon and swears that henceforth he will be as her own.

 #12 - Traitor

“It’s possible that this might be at least as good as stewed sea prunes.”

 #13 - Sweet

Katara could be crowned Supreme Empress Overlord of the Known Universe and Beyond and Toph would still call her Sugar Queen and flick toe gunk at her head.  

 #14 - Mine

It never occurs to Koza to call her mom; her name is Katara and that means the same thing anyway.

 #15 - Armor

The Fire Lord doesn’t travel during the new moon.

 #16 - Sovereign

With time, she learns to make every seat into a throne and every room into a cathedral.

 #17 - Kindred

She never feels as close to her mother as she does on the nights when she dreams that she burned instead of them.

 #18 - Buzz

No one warns her about the potency of fire whiskey; Zuko remembers their wedding night fondly and Katara remembers it not at all.

 #19 - Forever

(He makes up for this with a hundred more fondly-remembered nights, several dozen mornings, a handful of middays, and one particularly instructive week.)

 #20 - First

“Of course I’m glad you did well, but I really shouldn’t have to explain to you why a pie eating contest is not becoming of a Fire Lady.”

 #21 - Raw

She tells him about the lost days (when they took me, when they broke me, when they used me, when I was gone) in shreds and whispers over the course of years, but she does not speak of it unless the moon is full.

 #22 - Logic

Koza seems skeptical that there’s really a baby hidden in Katara’s swollen belly, but is polite enough not to tell anyone how stupid that sounds.

 #23 - Feather

His lips move softly across her skin and she smiles even as she moans; Zuko does gentle ember just as well as he does raging flame.

 #24 - Rule

The hearts of the Fire people are won with wise judgements, true words, and ferocity when it’s called for.

 #25 - Link

“We’re a team,” she whispers and hooks a pinky around his as the Fire Sages present them to their people.

 #26 - Reflex

It happens when she’s exhausted, when she’s been drinking, when she’s upset, that Zuko reaches for her in the middle of the night and her body recoils in terror.

 #27 - Home

There’s a day when they’re touring a smaller Southern town and the crowd calls out her name and Katara’s heart expands.

 #28 - Priorities

“People who are incubating the royal line of succession don’t have to attend budget meetings.”

 #29 - Dirty

Zuko says there’s no honor in cheating and Katara agrees emphatically as she teaches Koza to aim kicks for the groin.

 #30 - Eclipse

Eventually the good days overshadow the bad.

 #31 - Cobalt

Drunk Zuko’s favorite topic of conversation is the indescribable blueness of her eyes.

 #32 - Legacy

They call Katara the Southern Serpent and her daughter the Little Asp.

 #33 - Religion

He says her name as if it’s a prayer; she says his name as if it’s a talisman.

 #34 - Bind

Aang doesn’t talk about what he saw in her mind, but a season never goes by without a letter or a visit.

 #35 - Alarm

Sometimes Zuko kisses her awake and sometimes he chooses a squealing child and tosses them onto her bed.

 #36 - War

Koza chooses his bedtime stories from the assortment of scars that crisscross her arms.

 #37- Porcelain

She is secretly relieved when the baby is born a girl; she doesn’t trust herself to love another blue-eyed boy without falling to pieces.

 #38 - Sunlight

There’s something unbelievably sweet about the way Zuko’s smile can fill up a room.

 #39 - Apples

“Why do I even bother letting you two out of my sight?” she sighs and ignores Zuko’s exact scowl pointed up at her from two small, bleeding faces.

 #40 - Tarragon

When Koza asks how the baby got in there in the first place, Katara becomes suddenly absorbed in the delicate flavor profiles of her soup.

 #41 - Diamond

Sometimes it hurts and sometimes it’s messy, but this life is always exactly what she wants.

 #42 - Phobia

“Don’t die,” she whispers as he kisses away her tears, “don’t ever die.”

 #43 - Echo

Mai’s spirit haunts her when she least expects it: in the color of her sitting room, a forgotten gown in her closet, or the dry wit of the son she left behind.

 #44 - Aurora

The night she is born, Katara kisses every tiny fingertip on her daughter’s hands and feels the heaviness drop away, if only for a moment.

 #45 - Eagle

In the evenings, they stand together at the top of the tallest tower in the palace and watch over the Nation that is theirs to fix.

 #46 - Roots

“My daddy is a dragon,” the girl tells the shopkeeper as she takes her flavored ice, “and my mama knows the moon.”

 #47 - Hush

She sits on the floor just outside the nursery and listens to Zuko sing tentative lullabies.

 #48 - Obedient

“Is that an order, my Lord?” she drawls and squeals with laughter as Zuko pounces.

 #49 - Sentinel

He is her husband, her king, her protector, her heart; though he stumbles, Zuko does not let her down.

 #50 - Infinity

“What if we call her Koana?”

[zutarasmutweek]

Zuko's Guide to Maintaining Your Fire Lady

submission by @softlysoftlysoftly

day three - make me beg

In general, Zuko adored his wife.

Katara was everything a subject could want in a ruler (“Our soldiers still need jobs. How can we modify our Navy?”), a child could want in a mother (“Our son is clearly a genius. Koza, tell your father you are a genius!”), a general could want in a warrior (“I was feeling tired, so I just sparred four of the guards, had a bit of a break.”), and a husband could want in a wife (“What do you think, Zuko, leather or silk?”).

Katara’s one weakness (and it was such a minor thing) was that every once in a while she couldn’t help but lose her fucking mind.

“Why is my daughter dressed in black on the hottest day of the season?” Zuko struggled to keep his face blank as the pair of nannies glanced at each other, at the two-year-old in her red dress with black flowers happily shoving her hands into her oatmeal, and then down at their shoes. Koza, who was seven and was starting to understand the particular insanity of women, snorted quietly into his morning tea. It was the kind of thing that would normally earn him a gentle rebuke, but this morning, Katara was too busy pressing the back of her hand to the baby’s cheeks and neck to notice.

“That wasn’t rhetorical. Do you want the princess to die of heatstroke?” The women exchanged glances again, but this time it was Zuko they peeked at underneath their lashes. Zuko sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Now was not the time to point out that he had strenuously objected to the family “vacation” in Ember Island that included Aang, Toph, Sokka, Suki, and their considerable hoard of brats. And it was absolutely not the time to remind Katara that entertaining large numbers of guests for long periods of time tended to turn her into a raging control-freak. Now was more the time to be very, very quiet.

Katara slapped her hand down on the table. “Are you traitors or just negligent?” she snarled.

Zuko stood sharply and clapped his hands together. “Okay!” he said as brightly as he could manage. “Aza, Aga, please attend to the princess’ clothing. Koza, go and find your cousins. Katara, can I speak with you…?” He didn’t wait for her answer. Instead, he marched past her towards the door, snagging her by the wrist as he went.

A weaker man with inferior husbanding skills would simply surrender to his wife’s temporary bout of insanity and wait for it to pass. Zuko spared a moment to pity the poor fools of the world who let their women walk around being lunatics without a clue as to how to fix it.

Katara was grumbling at him as he nearly dragged her from the dining room, down the corridor to their bedroom. Aang and Toph rounded the corner just as they reached their door. Aang lifted a hand to wave, but Zuko gave him a curt head shake and shoved Katara bodily through the door. The last thing he saw before the door snapped shut behind them was Aang’s confused frown and Toph’s smirk.

“Zuko, what the hell—”

Zuko sighed. He was such a good husband.

He whirled, grabbed his wife, and pushed her against the door, pressing the full weight of his body against hers. He didn’t kiss her, not yet. Instead he lowered his face, slid past her mouth with his cheek against hers, and breathed in her ear.

“Hush,” he whispered, his hands going to the tie on her wrap dress. Katara’s breath hitched. He smirked and kissed her. He moved his lips bruisingly against hers, pushed his tongue into her mouth, nipped sharply at her bottom lip. Her hands slid up his chest to wrap around his neck, but Zuko took both wrists and pinned them over her head. She made a soft, irritated sound in the back of her throat and pulled against his grip. Zuko smiled against her mouth and held her tight with one hand while he dragged the other down her arm, up her neck to take hold of her chin. He pulled away, just far enough that he could feel her panting breath fanning out over his face. He kissed her mouth softly and pulled away once, twice— then pushed her head the side to catch her earlobe between his teeth.

“Behave, Katara.”

The Fire Lady’s fits of obsessiveness were was normally caused by an incorrect assumption that she was the only one around capable of giving orders. Zuko, as a loving and attentive husband, was very good at correcting her.

He could feel her pulse kick up against his fingers on her neck and she bit down on her bottom lip. Zuko let go of her and pulled away, both of his hands on either side of her shoulders, caging her in. “Take off your clothes,” he said. Katara let out a shaking breath, folded her own hands behind her back, and gave him a look that was completely unconvincing.

“We don’t have time—”

Zuko captured her lips again, this time running his fingers lightly against the neckline of her dress, down and up and down again. He cupped her breast and ran his thumb gently over her nipple, too gently. He reached down to slide a hand up her thigh, but stopped at the hemline of her dress. Katara moaned and grabbed his wrist, trying to nudge his hand higher. Zuko grinned again and broke away from her lips, trailing kisses along the underside of her jawline. “I’m not going to tell you again,” he said and bit down on her neck.

Katara tilted her head to give him more room and let out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a growl. Her hands went to the tie at her waist. She pulled the knot loose and shrugged the dress from her shoulders, then pushed off the wrapping around her chest and hips. Zuko trailed his fingers up her inner thigh and pressed the flat of his hand against her sex. Katara moaned, hips grinding against his hand, and Zuko ducked his head to flick his tongue over the tip of her nipple.

“Good girl.”

He snatched her into his arms, lifting her up so that her legs wrapped around his waist, and attached his mouth to her breast as he carried her to the bed. He lay her down gently and started to move lower, fingers pinching her nipples, nails dragging down her sides, tongue dipping into her belly button, pressing open-mouthed kisses to her hip bones. He looked up, took in the line of her jaw as she threw her head back, the way she ran her fingers up her stomach, between her breasts and over her neck, the way her eyes slid shut as she moaned. His fingers tightened painfully around her thigh.

“No,” he said. “Look at me.” She sucked in a breath and let it out shakily, but her eyes fluttered open to lock on his as he slid her leg up over his shoulder and pressed his mouth between her legs.

There was no taste like her pleasure on his tongue, made sweeter by the way she whimpered and writhed, but did not look away without his permission. Zuko chuckled and released her gaze, shrugging out of his own robe and pushing his pants over his hips. He stroked his hand over his erection softly, fondling himself as his tongue dipped shallowly into her entrance. Her hands slipped into his hair and her back arched. Zuko reached up to capture her hands, pressing them into the mattress as he pulled away, trailing kisses up her inner thigh. It became a game, sucking gently at nub of flesh that drove her wild, pulling away to run his lips against her thighs when she came close. She struggled against his hold on her wrists, her cries taking on a deliciously desperate note. Zuko grinned again and bit down on the spot where her leg met her hip.

“Zuko,” she whined breathily. Zuko pressed his nails into the skin on her arms.

“Beg,” he murmured against her hip. Katara pulled against his grip again.

“Please,” she panted immediately, and Zuko felt his cock twitch. “Please. I want to come. Please make me come.”

Zuko released her hands and slid two fingers inside of her, pumping furiously. He moaned and lapped long, languid licks to her clit, using his other arm to hold her still.

Her entire body went rigid and she bucked as she came, her fingers knotted tightly in his hair.

Zuko climbed back up her body and attached his lips to hers. She responded languidly, draping her arms over his shoulders and her legs over his hips. She was always sweet and pliable right after she climaxed. Zuko pulled away swiftly and rolled her onto her side, slipping an arm underneath to pull her back flush against his chest. He ran his other hand down the length of her arm, threaded his fingers through hers, and slid inside, muffling his groan in her hair. Katara tilted her head back and attached her lips to his, panting in time with his thrusts.

“Fuck,” he mumbled against her lips. “So beautiful.” He reached around to roll her nipple in his fingers. “So wet.” He held onto her shoulders, ramming quickly, listening to her moan. He wrapped her hair around his fist and pulled sharply, forcing another whimper from her lips. “Tell me again,” he growled against her ear. “Tell me what you want.”

Katara gasped and raked her nails over his hip. “I want you to fuck me,” she breathed. “I want— I want— oh!” Zuko wrapped his arms around her, one hand slithering down her body to rub two fingers against her clit.

“Give me another one,” he groaned against her shoulder, his own breath ragged. “One more, baby, one more, come for me, Katara—”

She came with a shudder and a yelp, her walls clenching around him, and Zuko followed with a low groan.

They both collapsed onto the bed, gasping and slick with sweat. Zuko slid out of her and wriggled down to lay with his head pillowed on he stomach. For a few minutes, they lay without talking, bringing their breathing back under control, while Katara played lazily with Zuko’s hair. He closed his eyes and reveled in the scent of spearmint and sex.

“Zuko?” Katara said eventually.

“Yeah?”

“Koana can probably just wear the red and black dress.”

Zuko smiled, but did not open his eyes. “Yeah.”

She slid her hands through his hair, then lower, to his shoulders as she pushed him onto his back.

“I love you,” she murmured against his lips and then continued lower, kissing her way down his chest.

Zuko lay back, struggling to keep his breathing even, and wondered if he should consider writing a book.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Chp 4)

Summary: “It’s supposed to be easy,” she says as the ashes fall into the sea. “The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy.” It’s not long before the Gaang admits that things might have been simpler when they were fighting a war. -A series of scenes in an undeservedly tragic life- (Post Series, non-Korra compliant)

A/N: Happy Easter! You can follow this story on ff.net here!

Air - Five years, three months, two weeks, three days

Katara cut the soldier’s throat and it was like she was cutting herself loose of something heavy and real. She left the arena floating high above her stumbling, battered body, watched as she collapsed just a few steps into the doorway, heard the pounding footfalls and her name on well-known lips. She smiled for him before she let herself lift into the darkness. The very least she could do for him was smile.

For a long time she watched a thousand shades of black rise and fall and rise around her. Sometimes she drifted near and could almost touch the silk sheets clutched in her fists or the calloused hands smoothing over her cheek. Probing fingers wiped salve where she was burned or stitched her together where she had come apart. There was knocking and harsh voices and silences that stretched out tensely enough that she thought they might snap. She listened quietly while he pleaded and soothed. She swallowed broth when it was held up to her lips.

Mostly, though, she drifted far. She drifted back to every nightmare she had ever had, to dip her toes through the moment Umako tied his necklace around her throat. She drifted forward across every birthday Koan would never have or ever wry smile Mai would never give. The world felt lovely and cool when she was drifting, tingling gently against her rubbed raw heart. She didn’t mean to stay, but she did. She drifted for a long time, watching shadows grow and dissolve, building new faces each time.

When the knock came again, she was watching Umako read her letters. Zuko scowled and opened the door a crack. Umako scowled and crumpled the letters in his fists. “Whore,” he said, his voice thick with venom.

“Leave us alone, Aang,” Zuko said through the crack, his voice thick with venom. “No one asked for your— hey!”

Aang shoved his way through the door and Zuko stumbled back. “Get out of my way, Zuko,” Aang said. “I’m serious.” He held his staff loosely in his hand. Smoke curled from Zuko’s clenched fists and he glared at the servant girl who hovered nervously in the doorway. The girl wasn’t looking at him though. She peered past the Fire Lord and the Avatar towards the couch where Katara lay. Her gaze was gentle, worried, but then something blurred and the shadows rose up and a second face wavered over the first, its gaze was hard and disgusted.

“I’m sorry, Fire Lord, but I had to say something,” she whispered, eyes downcast.

“What smells like Southern Rat?” she hissed, looking her up and down.

Aang’s face went pale when he saw her. He dropped to his knees at her side and took one of her wrists in his hands. There was an ashen cast to her skin that reminded her of funeral pyres. Mai’s funeral would have been done in the Fire Nation way. She hadn’t gone. She had been a prisoner in the mountains.

“Katara,” Aang said sharply. “Wake up.”

Zuko grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away. “Leave. Her. Alone,” he snapped. “She’s fine. She’s healing.” Aang’s mouth dropped open, his expression twisted halfway between incredulity and outrage. Somewhere, somewhen, slow heavy footsteps circled her again and again and again. Whatever they’d tied over her eyes was rough and foul-smelling. There was a low, dark chuckle. The footsteps did not stop.

“Healing? Zuko, she’s practically comatose! Noe says she doesn’t eat or sleep—”

“Noe doesn’t know what she’s talking about, I make sure she eats—”

“Are you joking? There’s obviously something wrong!”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” There was a darkness in Zuko’s voice that only ever bubbled to the surface when he was afraid. “She’ll snap out of it— she always snaps out of it. She just needs a day or two—”

“Zuko, it’s been five days!”Aang’s voice was a slap, an explosion, a knife slicing through flesh. Katara twisted the words around in her hands, testing the feel of them. Five days. Five days. It stung like it was true.

Zuko’s face fell and he jerked his fingers through his hair. “She always snaps out of it,” he said, his voice small. Umako leaned back against the wall behind them and tilted his head, regarding her.

“She won’t snap out of it,” he said. Somewhere, somewhen, a little boy laughed. Katara’s heart rattled in her chest.

Aang reached out tentatively and lay a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “How often does this happen?” he asked, his voice low. Zuko sighed and sat on the edge of the couch next to her and pulled a blanket up higher. He brushed a lock of hair away from her face and he took a fistful of her hair and yanked.

“She won’t snap out of it,” Umako sneered.

“Not often,” Zuko said, tracing the curve of her cheek. “Every few months maybe.” His voice was suddenly stubborn, defensive. He took her hands, rubbing the heat back into them. “She just needs a break sometimes. I take care of her, I make sure that she eats, that she’s okay. She’ll snap out of it. She just needs time.” Aang came up next to Zuko and pressed his fingers to the underside of her jaw.

“I was meditating this morning and I…” he set the back of his hand against her forehead, then her cheeks. “I don’t think this is like that. This is even worse than when we found her.” The darkness broke over Zuko’s expression then bloomed outward until it covered the entire room. Lost in the blackness, there was a moment when she couldn’t hear anything except the footsteps.

Aang’s hands kept moving, pressing firmly on her belly, smoothing down the length of her arm. “There’s something wrong, I just can’t quite—” Suddenly, he reached up to press a thumb against the center of her forehead.

The world went white.

Katara’s back arched, her mouth opened, and she screamed. She screamed? She could swear she could hear more than her own voice crying out, all of them whirling summersaults in her head. Seven bolts of lightening pierced her through and it was like a spark to powder. Every inch of her body was numb with cold, the gentle tingle was an electric jangling raging across her skin. She tried to screw her eyes shut against the light, but the brilliance shining from Aang’s face blasted straight through to her heart.

Aang jerked away, stumbled over his feet and fell, gasping huge gulps of air. Zuko had her bundled into his embrace.

Katara drifted.

“What did you do?” Zuko snarled as Aang staggered to his feet. He groaned, clutching his head with both hands.

“Shit,” Aang mumbled, rubbing his temples. “Shit.” He sprang forward, grabbed a fistful of Zuko’s robes and hauled. Zuko stumbled to his feet, clutching Katara to him tightly. “Water,” he said. “We need as much water as we can get, enough to submerge her in.” He looked up at Noe, who was still hovering at the door with her hands clapped over her mouth. “There has to be a lake or river nearby, anything!” he said as he hauled Zuko towards the door. The girl nodded and stepped out of the way.

“There are thermal springs beneath the palace. The entrance is nearby—”

Zuko stopped, adjusting his grip on Katara. “Tell me what the hell is going on, Aang!”

There was a Fire Nation soldier standing at her feet. He laughed as he slid a hand from her ankle up to her knee.

“I’ll explain as much as I can, but we have to move, Zuko. She’s dying.”

So many pairs of eyes, too many pairs of eyes, peered at her from the depths of the gloom.

Zuko ran.

Aang spoke quickly as they went, but his voice wavered and shimmered, too distorted to hear. Instead, Katara listened to the quick rasp of Zuko’s breath and to the enduring drum of his heart. It lulled her, the busy sound of Zuko being alive. Mai rolled her eyes as she kept pace with them.

“For now.”

The walls around were made of stone and carved ice and every doorway they passed led to a room with a crib.

She had known there were hot springs beneath the Palace, but never visited them. The cavern was dimly lit and shaded lanterns cast a gentle, golden glow. “Dimly lit hallways were more your style, if I remember correctly.” Mai dragged knives across her skin and watched something too crimson to be blood bead along her arm. Zuko pulled off her robes with quick hands, leaving her in her under wrappings, then stripped off his own shirt. Aang was already wading into the nearest pool, bare from the waist up.

“In here. You’ll have to hold her up.” Zuko scooped her into his arms and climbed down into the spring. He sat them on the lower ledge and arranged Katara in his lap, her back against his chest. Zuko combed his fingers through her hair and tied it into a messy braid. Aang pressed his fists together and his eyes closed

“I don’t understand,” Zuko murmured. “My healers said she was fine.”

Aang’s mouth twisted, but he didn’t open his eyes. “They wouldn’t have known to look for this. I wouldn’t have even known to look if it hadn’t been for…” He paused and squeezed his eyes more tightly together. “Most people’s chakras are never completely clear. Blockages come and go; there’s always something we’re working through.” The arrow arching over his forehead began to glow and the light flowed down his neck, over his shoulders, into his hands. He opened his eyes and they shone the same white-blue. He reached out and pressed two fingertips to the center of her forehead. There was no blinding light this time, but a line of gentle warmth fell from the top of her head, through her neck, and stopped at the base of her throat. Her entire middle felt still and cold, but a flicker of heat settled at the base of her spine. “Water,” Aang murmured, touching her hip. “Fire,” he touched her stomach, “and air.” He pressed his knuckles to her heart. His hands felt hot against the chill of her skin. “They’re all stopped. No movement, no chi. She’s already slipping away.”

Zuko’s grip tightened around her waist and a pair of hands tightened around her neck. “But you can fix her.” Aang frowned.

“I can help,” he said slowly, “but Katara has to fix it.” He lay his left hand on the top of her head and his right hand on her shoulder. Umako sat across from her with his feet dangling into the pool. His lip curled as he caught her eye.

“She won’t snap out of it.”

“I’m sorry, Katara,” Aang whispered. “I think this will hurt.” Mai peered over Umako’s shoulder.

This already hurts.

Aang’s fingers contracted over her forehead and he forced her head back. His fingers tented over her heart. He pushed and something inside, something feeble and quickly growing cold, rose up to respond. The shadows writhed and descended, smothering everything except for her and Aang. He tilted his head and looked past her body, saw her where she drifted.

“Katara,” he said. Katara’s heart pounded in response.

“Aang.” Her voice was barely a whisper, but it echoed and magnified a thousand times.

“Tell me about the guilt.”

There wasn’t room to refuse. The images rose unbidden and poured out of her mind. The selfish, dogged way she pursued mastery of waterbending. The desperate, thoughtless way she buried herself in Umako’s touch. The easy, casual way she slid Koan into anyone else’s arms. The moment she gave him to Mai and sent them out to face the funeral fires.

Aang’s face fell.

“We can tell you it wasn’t your fault every day until the end of time. But it doesn’t do anything unless you believe it.”

Aang tilted his head and a hundred faces filled the world, crowding out the images pouring out of her mind. Sokka, Zuko, Iroh, Hakoda, Koza, Kanna, Toph, Aang.

“Isn’t there anyone left?” he murmured into her heart. “Isn’t there anyone you care enough about to come back to?”  Again her answer came unbidden, strong and clear. Yes. “Then it’s time to forgive yourself.”

It wasn’t like a sigh, or a breath of relief. It was more like a cut, like hacking off her own dead limb. It didn’t happen all at once, but in fits and pieces. But when it was done, she opened her hands and the guilt dropped away.

The frigid feeling pulsed and contracted up into her stomach. Katara groaned and doubled over, clutching her middle. Aang wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

“It hurts,” she moaned.

“I know.” He rubbed her back. “Tell me about the shame.”

This time it wasn’t images, but sensation that broke over her like waves cresting in the ocean. Cool hands touched her hesitantly, reverently, smoothed the hair away from her forehead to kiss her there. They hadn’t had sex, not on their wedding night, not for months afterward. He spent their nights building her trust in him, learning her mind and holding her hand. He didn’t take anything she wasn’t willing to give. He was her friend before he was anything else.

And then there were hot, bruising hands clawing down her back, clutching her hips, tugging at her hair. Like a match to powder, they were an explosion. It hadn’t taken much more than gold eyes on hers to coax her to lay down in his bed and give him everything she had left.

Whore, he whispered. Whore. Umako’s eyes were hard and narrow. You treat her like some back-alley whore.

“No.” Aang raised his arm, Umako’s gaze dissolved, and Aang’s wide eyes were there instead. “That’s not who you are, Katara. And that’s not what he thought of you.”

“He was right.” The darkness swirled and started to contract around Aang’s face, but he raised his hand again and it fell away.

“You love Zuko,” he said. He took her hand in his and the darkness continued to fade, pulling away from her. “That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Katara scrubbed at her face and Aang pulled her into the circle of his embrace. “Let it go,” he whispered into her hair. “Come back to him. Let it go.”

The shame was something thick and slimy on her skin. She trembled, but she raised her hands. The water from the spring began to glow and slid up to cover her head. The darkness drained off of her in wave after sickening wave, and when the water ran clean there was warmth in her belly, but throbbing icy agony in the center of her chest.

“Aang,” she gasped. Aang’s hands were tight around her shoulder.

“I know,” he whispered, “I know. You’re doing so well. There’s only one more. Tell me about the grief.”

It was like asking about the stars in the sky, about the sand on the beach, about the salt in the ocean. One by one a thousand hearts turned away and disappeared. Her mother’s body turned red and black against the fresh powdered snow. Jet’s cocky smile gone slack and crooked. Zuko’s face turned away from her as she chose her husband over him. An explosion of light as her son burst into flames. Her father’s boats fell over the edge of the horizon. The steel in Umako’s eyes as he inspected the marks left by her lover. Aang’s handwriting scrawled on a tearstained page.

I can’t.

She clutched her hands against her heart and struggled to breathe through her tears. “People you love,” she whimpered, “always leave.” Aang wound his arms around her, crushed her to his chest.

“Katara,” he sighed, and she could feel the sadness weighing on his shoulders. “Katara, it’s not true.” She shoved him weakly.

“It is!” she screamed. “It is!” Hakoda put her hand in a stranger’s. The soldier shoved his hand up her skirt. Aang’s letters slowly faded in frequency and length until the silence between them stretched to span years. Aang pulled back so that he could see her eyes.

“I loved you,” he said, his voice suddenly rough. “And… and that changed, but it didn’t go away.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to her forehead. “No one you love ever really goes away.”

One by one, everyone she had lost became smoke, which became light, which swirled gently around her. “Love never stops,” he said, touching his thumb to her chin. “Only changes.” The light pulsed, then contracted sharply into a shadow outlined in brilliance. Katara squinted and shielded her eyes, but through her fingers, she thought the shadow might have been a girl. A girl with dark hair and brown skin who scowled like Zuko with a temper like the sea.

“Let it go,” Aang said, “and see where this all ends up.”

Grief was a wound, always bleeding, always there. It had been there for so long that Katara wasn’t sure anymore who she was underneath it. But the grin on this girl, this little blue-eyed girl… Katara raised her hands and pressed gently against her own heart. The water sank deep, knitting together what had come apart. And it hurt, and it scared the hell out of her. But Katara let it drop away and let herself hope.

Her eyes opened at the same moment that his did and slowly Aang pulled his hand away. There was a long minute when all she could do was blink. The three of them were alone in the room, no specters appeared to taunt her. The shadows stayed where they were, flickering in the torchlight. Aang was breathing heavily, his eyes wide and suspiciously bright. Zuko’s hands moved gently over her hair. He whispered her name.

Katara burst into tears.

She scrambled to turn, splashing them all with water, and wrapped her arms and legs around Zuko as tight as she could. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, sobbing messily as Zuko held her tight.

“It’s okay,” he whispered. His voice caught and he cleared his throat. “We’ve got you. You’re okay. It’s going to be—”

“I’ll do it,” Katara blurted, wiping clumsily at her eyes. “I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

Zuko’s jaw dropped and the flames in the torches along the walls jumped three feet into the air. “I— what? Are you—?”

“I’m sure,” Katara interrupted and cradled his face in her hand. “Of course I’m sure. I love you. I’ll do it. I’ll marry you.”

Zuko stared for a moment and then crushed his lips against hers. Katara laughed despite herself and gave him the moment, twining her fingers into his hair. But then she pulled away and disentangled herself gently from his embrace.

“I’m in my underwear right now,” she said, reaching for Aang’s hand, “but I’m going to give you a hug anyway.” Aang grinned and wrapped his arms gently around her shoulders. “Thank you,” she whispered and Aang’s grip tightened.

“Always,” he murmured back and kissed her hair.

And everyone who had died was still dead. But Katara had hope.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Chp 3)

Summary: "It's supposed to be easy," she says as the ashes fall into the sea. "The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy." It's not long before the Gaang admits that things might have been simpler when they were fighting a war. -A series of scenes in an undeservedly tragic life- (Post Series, non-Korra compliant)

A/N:This chapter was tooouuuuugh! In every iteration I’ve ever written of this story, this is where things always get hairy. I think I like the way things are shaking out this time.

Thank you as always to people following and commenting. I hope you continue to enjoy!

Fire - Two years, eight months, two days

Zuko had a way of running his fingers through her hair and turning every thought in her head to smoke, of brushing his hands against her waist, her hips, the back of her thigh, and flooding lightening through her body until every anger, every fear, every passion she had inside was consumed. It was part of what drew her back to his bed again and again. There was something irresistibly delicious about basking in the heat of his embrace, emptied of every lingering anxiety.

But then, there was something nauseating about crawling out of his bed, gathering her clothes from wherever he had thrown them, and seeing what they’d done in the naked sunlight.

“Zuko,” Katara murmured, but Zuko swallowed her words, twining his fingers around the hairs at the nape of her neck. He made a sound somewhere between a growl and a groan and tilted her face higher, pressing her back against the wall with the full weight of his body. Katara lost her breath and curled her hands around the sleeves of his robes. It was an embarrassing number of minutes before she remembered that she was upset with him.

The trick, she’d learned, was to disengage in pieces. And to not be afraid to smack him if he wasn’t quite getting the hint. Katara peeled her hands away first, pressing her palms flat against the wall behind her. It was cool against her feverish skin. That helped. Zuko’s kisses slowed. He leaned back an inch, panting into the space between them.

“Katara,” he said and started to lean in again . Katara scowled and covered his mouth with her hand. He sighed and looked at her. He was easier to take like this, as floating gold, a high brow, a sweeping scar.

“I’m serious, Zuko.” The words were strong. The voice would get there. “I don’t…” She swallowed. “I don’t like this.”

Zuko arched an eyebrow at her and peeled her fingers away from his mouth. “Yes you do,” he said, hooking a finger into the waistline of her leggings and tugging her closer. From anyone else it would have sounded smug. From Zuko, it only sounded certain. Katara blew out a slow, steading breath and Zuko leaned in again, smiling. She turned her head away (such a rookie mistake) and his hands were in her hair again, pulling sharply until he had the exact angle and access that he wanted. Katara sighed and closed her eyes. She gave it exactly five seconds before she hit him in the gut.

Zuko grunted and backed away, scowling. “What?”

Katara matched his glare and folded her arms over her chest. It took her a moment to realize he had undone her robe. She scrambled to pull it closed over her chest wrappings, blushing. “I don’t like this,” she said, enunciating each word. She jerked her chin towards the pair of guards at the end of the hallway. Zuko followed her gaze and then rolled his eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, drawing her further down the hallway, deeper into the shadows. “I forget they’re there most of the time.” He trailed a fingertip down the side of her neck and over the line of her collarbone. Katara slapped his hand away and resisted the urge to strangle him.

“That’s not what I meant,” she said, rubbing her face. “I mean it is, but it’s also…” She made a weak gesture meant to encompass all of it, the hall, the servant’s wing beyond it, the entire Fire Nation Royal Palace. She pushed away from him and drifted towards the window. The moon was new, but the city below glowed anyway, lantern light blazing along the pretty lines of the Caldera City streets. She should have felt out of place here in the heart of a sleeping volcano, but if she reached, she could feel the network of pipes running beneath the city, bringing water to the wealthy nobility. And if she stretched, she could feel the ocean, right on the edge of her senses, rolling dutifully in and out.

She should have, but she never quite felt out of place in the Palace.

“I don’t belong here,” she whispered to herself. Zuko approached slowly, and slid a hand into her hair, kneading the muscles at the base of her neck. She set her hands on the window ledge. “This just keeps getting harder,” she told the spot where the moon should have been. Zuko sighed and tugged her closer so that he could kiss the crown of her head.

Katara turned her face into him and breathed in the scent of clover and baking sand. “What if we just left,” she whispered into his chest. She leaned back to cradle his face in her hands, her right thumb stroking the edge of his scar. “Just… I’ll find a way, I’ll get Koan and you’ll get Koza and we’ll go anywhere. Just go.” She could see the wanting in his eyes, the way the boy inside of him hoped and the wanting swelled and his eyes went distant and warm while the two of them dreamed the same dream. Just for a moment. But then the boy waned and the man was left. The man who was consort, father, and Fire Lord. He closed his eyes and Katara closed hers, fighting against the waves of hopelessness.

Slowly, gently, he drew her into his embrace. “You belong here,” he said after a long minute. “With me.” It was the closest either of them would ever get to saying it, but lately Katara wondered which of them had drawn that line. She leaned into him and let herself be lulled.

“What if someone finds the letters?”

Zuko rubbed her back in long, soothing strokes. “Burn them once you read them. I’ll always send more.”

“What if your guards tell Mai?”

He dragged his hands from her back to settle on her hips, pressing kisses behind her ear. “They won’t,” he whispered and pressed his face against her neck. “They’re loyal to me. They won’t say anything.”

Katara fought to keep her breathing even, even as she fisted her hands in the front of his robes and tilted her head back.

“What if Umako finds out?”

He kissed her and every heavy thing inside of her smoldered away to ash. His hands brushed along her shoulders, and her robe dropped, caught around the crook of her elbows. He pressed her backwards and she followed until her back was flush against a door and he was tugging on her chest wrappings. She fumbled for the doorknob and they tumbled inside.

They barely made it past the doorway.

There was a sharp sigh, and a click, and the pit of Katara’s stomach fell down to her toes. Umako stood at the window, fiddling with a lantern with one hand, Koan tucked securely into his chest with the other. She scrambled for her robe, pulling it over her shoulders, knotting the belt sloppily. Zuko’s face was white, but his eyes were furious. He closed the door behind them with a snap.

There was a long minute in which no one spoke and the only sound in the room was Koan’s long, slow breaths. Katara’s chest ached. She advanced, reaching for her son, and Umako took one swift, wordless step back. She felt his message as clearly as a dagger in her stomach. Another minute passed while she stood there, watching him watch her, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Then he nodded ever so slightly and turned to lay Koan on the crimson silk sheets.

“He only just fell asleep,” he murmured. “I’d hate for you to wake him.”

Heat rolled off of Zuko in waves. “Katara—,” he started, coming forward to take her arm, but Umako cut him off.

“Master Katara,” he said. Zuko’s fingers clenched around her bicep, but Katara didn’t take her eyes off of her baby.

“What?” Zuko spit through his teeth. Umako smiled and sat in a chair pulled up to the bedside, his fingertips stroking lazily through Koan’s hair.

“My wife’s proper title is Master Katara, you highness.” The plainness in his voice made Katara’s heart pound. “It took my servants a long time to perfect it. They’re excellent people, but none of them have spent much time outside of the city walls. The North Pole can be quite… rigid when it comes to gender roles. They called her ‘Lady Katara’ for the longest time. But I insisted. And they learned.

“You see, my wife trained with Master Pakku, our most prolific warrior, and was his most prized pupil. She is a prodigy who mastered waterbending in a matter of weeks. She trained the Avatar, invaded the Fire Nation,” his lip curled ever so slightly, “defeated their Fire Lord in honorable combat.” He stood, drifting towards them, and reached for her. Katara stepped numbly out of Zuko’s grip and into his, eyes still stuck to her sleeping son. Zuko gave a soft, pained grunt.

“She has earned the honor of her proper title,” he said, taking her chin gently. He tilted her head this way and that, inspecting the rapidly darkening marks peppering the skin of her neck. Katara wasn’t sure if it was what he saw there that darkened his gaze like that, but his voice was suddenly deathly cold. “Her honor is clearly not something you are concerned with, Zuko.”

Zuko advanced and Katara suddenly found herself swept to the side. There was a low, steady scrape of bone being pulled from a leather sheath and suddenly Zuko was standing at the end of Umako’s scimitar. Katara’s hands trembled at her sides, but she when she tried to speak nothing happened. This was the one nightmare that was never supposed to come true.

Umako’s hand was steady. Zuko did not come closer, though he did give the sword a vaguely insulted look. “I care about Katara.” Zuko’s words were low and furious. “We care about each other.”

Umako snarled, his lip curling in disgust. “You sneak her through your palace under the cover of night? You hide her in your servant’s quarters? You undress her in hallways while your guards watch?” His voice rose steadily. His knuckles were white around the handle of his sword. “You care about her? Yet you treat her like some back-alley whore.” Zuko drew in a breath, looking stricken, and Katara’s hand went to her mouth, though she wasn’t sure if she was holding back crying or cursing or vomit. Umako’s breath trembled. “Katara is my wife, the mother of my son, and the greatest warrior of our generation. You dishonor her.” His eyes narrowed. “You dishonor me.”

Zuko swallowed, looked at her, and his eyes took on a stubborn glint. “She came here,” he said slowly, “because she wanted to. She came here because she loves me.” His gaze did not falter. “And I love her.” Katara made a low sound, caught between a groan and a whimper.

There was a beat of silence and then Umako snorted. He twirled the scimitar deftly, slipping it back into its sheath at his hip.

“I always forget how much of a child you are, Fire Lord.” He turned away, scooped Koan gently into his arms, and deposited him into Katara’s embrace. Katara took him like a drowning man took air. “Of course she loves you.” Katara dipped her head and breathed in the top of Koan’s fuzzy head. Umako shaped his hand to her cheek and gave her a tight, sad smile. “She is young and overwhelmed, sometimes unhappy, sometimes lonely. Given into a marriage she did not expect in a land that she does not know. You are easy to love when I am easy to hate.”

Katara’s face was hot and her eyes pricked uncomfortably. She had to swallow hard twice before she could find the power to speak. “Umako, I don’t—” He smoothed her hair away from her forehead to kiss her there softly.

“She is going to come home with me now. And she is not going to come back.”

Zuko’s fists burst into flame. “You can’t just make her do something she doesn’t want—!”

“She will do this,” Umako interrupted smoothly, “because she has earned her honor and she will not throw it away for childish passion. She has built a good life— a meaningful life— with me. Of course it’s hard. Anything she does that is worth her effort is going to be hard. But she will return because she knows how much more there is to life than common happiness.”

He stood there, watching her, so quiet and so sure. Katara could storm, Katara could drown and the steadiness in those eyes would bring her safely to shore every time. And then there was Zuko, whose glare was blazing through her even now. Where Umako was cool, icy clarity, Zuko couldn’t help but consume her, to burn her through until she was nothing but smoke. That was just what fire did.

Umako kissed the corner of her mouth, went to the door, and waited. Katara swallowed again, tucked Koan more securely against her breast, and left the room. She tried not to pause as she passed him, but the weight of his words wouldn’t let her by. She opened her mouth and tried to say that they could still go away, that this was their chance, that of course she loved him. Zuko turned his face away. Katara shut her mouth with a snap and hurried past.

Umako closed the door after her and started off down the hall. Not once did he look back to ensure Katara followed behind.

She kept quiet until she had slid into the carriage. Mai was settled on the bench across from her, gazing through the window with her elbow on the sill and her temple propped against the back of her knuckles.

“Mai?” Katara’s voice was a squeak. Mai’s tawny gaze slid in her direction, though no other part of her moved.

“It is the royal consort’s duty to see the Fire Lord’s guests off safely,” she said, and returned her attention to the scenery. Something in her bearing had turned the cramped interior into a throne room and Katara felt very, very small. The carriage jerked into motion and the only sound between them was Koan’s soft snores.

But then they came to a halt.

Umako craned his neck to see through the window to the front of the carriage. “Why are we stopping?” he asked quietly. Mai narrowed her eyes and reached into her sleeve.

“Look,” she said, and Katara focused on the forms moving in the alleyway shadows of the oddly deserted street. She reached automatically for her hip and then cursed. Her waterskin had been left behind at the Palace. She clutched Koan more tightly to her chest, stretching out with all of her senses. There was a gentle flow of water beneath them, a sewer line. She could pull it to the surface, but she couldn’t fight and hold a baby at the same time. Umako’s gaze was dark as he reached for the door, scimitar in hand, when suddenly it swung open from the other side.

“My orders were for a water bitch, not a whole circus. Who are the spares?”

Two men peered into the cabin. Katara could see Mai’s hand tighten around the knife in her sleeve, but her eyes kept shifting from the men at the door to the baby.

They had to get out of the carriage.

One of them stepped forward, a soldier from the look of his uniform. His ebony hair was long and immaculate, striking against his porcelain complexion. “There was a change of plans,” he said. “It was all or nothing.” The second man shrugged from his place in the shadows.

“We only need the girl. Get the others out of there.”

Katara was feeling distinctly lightheaded, but the way forward snapped suddenly into focus. She slid Koan into Mai’s arms. Mai sucked in a tiny breath, but she set her jaw and settled the baby securely against her chest. Katara turned and threw her arms around Umako’s neck. “Go,” she mouthed against his ear. “Tell him I’m gone and he’ll come for me.”

Umako’s hands clenched around her waist and he whispered something into her hair, too low for her to quite make out. Then he pulled away, crawling out of the carriage with Mai right behind him. Koan stirred as they went past, and Katara traced his cheek with her fingertips.

It would be okay, Katara told herself as she pressed herself back into the leather seats. They would tie them up and leave them somewhere, but Mai would be free in a matter of hours. They could take her quite far in a matter of hours, but it made no difference how far they took her. They’d give her water eventually, or she’d pull it from wherever she had to. Once he knows I’m gone, she told her fluttering heart, he’ll come for me.

Umako held his hands up, standing protectively between Mai and the two soldiers. “Okay,” he said in his smoothest, most hypnotic of tones. “Okay. I have money. Let’s settle this—”

It happened so fast that Katara didn’t understand until Umako’s body had fallen and his blood was spreading on the cobblestones. Mai released a strangled cry and had let three knives fly before anyone could react. The soldier jerked back, glared at the stiletto impaled in his left shoulder, struck out with sparks flying from his right fist—

 In the ensuing battle, an entire city block fell to Katara’s might. But when she was subdued (and she was subdued) there were seven drowned men left in the street and three charred bodies: two large, and one world-shatteringly small.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Ch 2)

Summary: "It's supposed to be easy," she says as the ashes fall into the sea. "The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy." He knows not to answer. He knows to hold her hand. Because pain is the ransom for every precious thing. -A series of scenes in an undeservedly tragic life- 

Thank you to those who liked and commented! I’m still learning to live/exist on this site so thank you as well for the patience. Hope you enjoy chapter 2!

Earth - Two years, two months, and two days

“When I said we should get together soon, this is not what I meant,” Katara said. She paused with her hands on her hips in the doorway to her quarters, taking in the jagged stone chair punching up through her sitting room floor. She turned and instantly a pair of servants materialized. There were few places in the North Pole that she could go and not be flanked by at least one person eternally ready to fetch or carry or polish or primp. These two, a pair of young women, stared in horrified fascination at the spiderweb of cracks spreading out from the base. Toph snickered, dangling one arm over the back of her chair.

“Just for future reference,” Katara said, “Lady Beifong isn’t someone you should leave alone with flooring you care about.” She swept into the room, tossing her bag to one side. The servants started and followed. One went to the fireplace, setting a kettle over the flames and pulling out tea. She started for the white jasmine, but then cast a glance at Katara’s scowl and went for the orange blossom instead. The other went to Katara, beginning the arduous process of peeling off the outer layers of her clothing. Toph cackled again and Katara blushed. “I’ll take care of it myself,” she said as gently as she could manage. Still, the girl leapt away looking chastised. “Please just inform my husband of my arrival. And someone bring Koan. And some food. Please.”

The girls nodded, mumbled a simultaneous “at once,” and left. Katara huffed and dug her goes into the heels of her boots, kicking them off. She dropped her parka, her undercoat, and her sweater where she stood and stumbled further into the room, flopping face-first onto the mound of cushions and furs near the fire.

The majority of Umako’s household thought she was a freak. Which was fair. As enamored as Katara was with the North Pole’s soaring walls and icy cityscapes, of the infinite fountain of waterbending expertise, the people there clung to a never-ending litany of stilted formalities and rigid traditions. Every meal required complex equations to determine her exact social status in relation to whoever was passing the bread. Every trip to the market involved strict restrictions on which fish salesmen she could look at, chat with, or buy from. She could easily spend several lifetimes offending everyone around her with errant twitches of her eyebrows before she figured out how it all worked. So in the meantime she alternated between doing her best and doing whatever the hell she wanted.

It had been more than a year and a half that they’d been married, and her servants still ran to Umako every time she took her tea wrong.

Toph was still laughing, picking pieces of stone from her chair and flicking them at Katara’s head. “Oh, my lord husband,” she drawled in a high falsetto. “How I’ve missed your blessed presence by my side.” She switched do a deep baritone. “As have I, my lady. As have I.” She descended into a chorus of moaning and smacking. Katara groaned.

“I don’t see any bags,” she said without lifting her face from the furs. “Can I assume that means you aren’t staying long?” Toph snorted, running her fingers lazily through her hair.

“Temper, temper, princess,” she said. “I almost think you aren’t happy to see me.” Katara snorted this time. “You gonna clean your clothes off of the floor or wait for your maid to do it?”

Katara rolled her onto her back, shooting the tiled ceiling a dirty look. “They get grumpy when I don’t leave them enough to do.” Toph arched an eyebrow.

“They’re allowed to be grumpy with you?” She stood, and wandered over to the wall next to the window. Katara almost expected her to pause at the view of the North Pole sprawled out at their feet, but Toph breezed past it, trailing her hands over a pair of ceremonial spears instead. “You’re nicer to your help than my parents are to theirs.”

Katara sat up and began to yank her hair loose from the intricate braided bun she’d endured for the ship. “High praise,” she said flatly. She watched Toph trace the edges of the room, dragging her fingertips over the antique masks and framed paintings on her walls. “Seriously, Toph, what are you doing here?” If it were anyone else, she would have chosen her words more carefully. Toph just sighed. “I mean, I am happy to see you and all, but you left so suddenly from the Palace I figured there must be an emergency in Gaoling. What happened to the beach house? Taking a few days? Spending some time catching up?” The kettle began to whistle and she dragged herself off of the furs, pouring tea into the cups the servants had left for them. She took a deep breath and concentrated on the steam wafting from their mugs, the soft, twisting pattern it made as it rose. “Aang left too right after you did.” She allowed herself a moment to be pleased with the way her voice breezed past his name and then she turned her thoughts resolutely away.

“Yeah, I already know that you and Aang had a fight. You can stop with the zen master mind tricks. It makes your heart sound funny.”

Katara scowled. “I’m just saying, it’s like I blinked and it was just me and Zuko,” she said. At this, Toph laughed aloud and crossed the room to take her cup.

“Bet you loved that,” she muttered into her tea as she threw herself back into the chair. Katara whirled, opening her mouth to retort, but just as she did, the door opened and a flurry of activity overtook the room. The girls were back, this time carrying trays of Earth Kingdom-style pastries. They offered them to Toph then Katara, setting the extras alongside their tea. Behind them came Umako, tall and dark-toned, carrying a squirming, bright-eyed baby. The baby squealed when he saw Katara and Katara grinned, plucking him out of Umako’s arms. He was somehow more beautiful than he had been four weeks ago, with wider more alert eyes and hair that flopped over his forehead instead of wisping at the top of his head. When he was older, he would have is father’s face, Umako’s long nose and high forehead and sharp cheeks. But where Umako’s eyes were blue like the sky, Koan had eyes like his mother, like the sea. He took a fistful of her hair and yanked and Katara winced, laughing.

Umako smiled at her, his hand coming up to run his fingers through her hair, shaking it loose from its partially undone braid. “Welcome home,” he said and Katara stood still to accept the kiss he laid on her lips. His gaze swept the room, sticking briefly on Toph and the shattered floor. “Lady Beifong,” he said, accepting the cup of tea one of the girls placed in his hands. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

Toph stretched languidly and squirmed until her knees were draped across one arm of the chair and her shoulders supported by the other. “Please, Umako, the pleasure is all mine. It’s simply been ages,” she said through a mouthful of honeyed buns. The servants froze in the midst of refreshing the tea and exchanged scandalized glances. Umako chuckled.

“Not since the wedding I believe. I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for the naming of the Fire Lord’s son, but my business could not spare me. What did they call him?”

Katara hoisted Koan high, laughing at his squeal-y giggles. One of the servants cleared her throat, looking alarmed. Katara ignored her, lowering the baby slowly to smooch his face and lifting him quickly again. “They named him Koza,” she said as Koan clapped her cheeks between his hands. Umako gave a noncommittal hum while Toph made retching noises.

“The whole thing was gross. Super corny, shitty food, and boring company.” Katara wrinkled her nose.

“Hey!”

Toph kicked her feet idly. “The truth hurts. The drinks were good at least.” At this Umako laughed aloud and turned to Katara, settling his hands on her hips. Koan reached for him and he nibbled playfully at his fingers.

“My wife has been gone for four weeks now,” he sighed. “I thought I would be getting her back today.”

“I’ll have her back to you before you know it, your lordship,” Toph said. Katara rolled her eyes and captured one of Koan’s waving fists, bouncing him gently.

“Tell Chief Arnook I said hi,” she told Umako brightly. He laughed again and threaded his fingers into her hair, drawing her into a soft kiss.

“I’ll have dinner sent to you,” he said and kissed the top of Koan’s head. “Enjoy your visit Lady Beifong.” He nodded at the girls hovering around the edges of the room as he left and they swept into his wake, closing the door firmly behind them. Koan babbled at his father’s departure and the stuffed the stone on Katara’s necklace into his mouth.

“So,” Toph said, swallowing the last of her pastry. “Is he like good? You know, in bed?” Katara choked on her tea.

“Toph!” she said through coughing fits.

“What?” Toph stood and stomped her foot. The chair shot back into the floor, leaving a patch of cracked, but smooth, stone. “You’re a married woman, Katara. You’re allowed to admit to having sex. Hell, you can admit to liking it.” She ambled closer and pounded Katara on the back. “Who’s better? Him or Zu—”

Katara’s entire body flushed cold and she had a hand slapped over Toph’s mouth before she could completely process what had happened.

“Don’t,” she hissed, eyes glued to the door. “Not here. Not even as a joke. I know that you— that we shouldn’t— but Toph you can’t say that. Not here.” Toph’s eyes were wide, but she nodded and Katara peeled her hand away one finger at a time. The North Pole was a labyrinth of social expectations and blunders, but in this case there was no ambiguity. No confusion. Toph was frowning, drumming her fingers against her thigh. Suddenly, she took hold of Katara’s wrist, pulling her closer.

“Just… tell me one thing,” she whispered. Intensity was easy to read on Toph’s face once one knew where to look. Katara nodded, stunned by the hardness in her voice. “That night, at the Palace, I heard what you said to Aang, that you and Zuko…” Her frown deepened and she blushed and her grip on Katara’s wrist tightened. “You could go away, Katara. You could go anywhere. Why don’t you just… go?”

The question hit her in the face. She opened her mouth to answer, but the words were too big, too obvious to fit past her lips. She was Umako’s wife and Koan was Umako’s son. There was nowhere to go where that would not be true. She drew in breath to try to explain that any one of the million links chaining her to his side and Zuko to Mai’s. But before she said a word, Toph released a sharp breath and closed her eyes. She let go of her wrist and took a careful step back.

“I get it,” she said. She took a deep breath in and blew it out slowly. “Spirits, I get it.” She turned on her heel and paced away, made it to the door, turned and paced back. Koan squawked and Katara realized how tightly her arms were twined around his little body. She loosened her grip, rubbing his back in long, gentle strokes.

“Toph… what’s going on? What are you doing here?” she said slowly. Toph lapped the room twice more before she stopped in front of Katara, staring resolutely through the center of her chest.

“I need you to check me out. Examine me.”

Katara blinked, but she went immediately to the walrus ivory crib tucked at one end of the room and settled Koan inside. He pulled himself up by the bars, straining on his tip toes to see over the railing. Katara laid Toph onto the furs and bent two handfuls of water onto her hands. She started at her head, pressing glowing fingers from the top of her scalp, sliding down her cheeks, down her neck, across her shoulders.

“Have you been feeling ill?” she murmured as she slid her hands over Toph’s arms and inspected each of her fingers. No one could accuse Katara of enjoying the spare bit of time she spent training with the healers, but she was at least diligent about it.

“No,” Toph answered and her voice was flat. “Not yet.”

Katara frowned as she skimmed across her chest, feeling the quick work of her heart and lungs. Across the liver, the stomach, intestines, no problems nothing wrong. Katara wanted to complain, to tell Toph that she was scaring her, that she needed to tell her what was going on, but as her hands slipped lower, saying anything felt more and more wrong.

She had her hands pressed against the flat space of stomach underneath Toph’s belly button when she felt it. It was almost nothing, barely more than a fizzle, a not quite heartbeat. Katara snatched her hands away as if she’d been burned. Toph made a sound Katara had never imagined she could make, a strangled sort of whimper, and covered her face.

“Four weeks?” she asked in a voice quiet and brittle as sun-bleached bone.

“Toph.” Katara didn’t know where to put her hands. She found herself clutching them to her mouth. “Toph, what happened?”

Toph didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just lay there breathing. And after some infinite amount of breaths, she peeled her hands off of her face, and lay them low on her belly.

“I need you,” Toph said in that same, bone-bare voice, “to take care of it.” Katara didn’t speak. Koan babbled from the corner.

She’d cried the night that he was born. She’d touched his silky cheeks, traced the perfect ‘oh’ of his lips, felt the grip of his impossibly small hands clamped around the tip of her finger and she’d cried. And with each tear that fell, she felt something else fall away too. Something inside that had been wild and selfish and brilliant melted away the night that Koan was born.

So, Katara lay one hand over Toph’s cheek and the other over her womb. She didn’t speak, but Toph could hear her heart. The younger girl lay back on the furs and soundlessly began to cry.

[softlysoftlysoftly]

Every Precious Thing (Ch 1)

Summary: "It's supposed to be easy," she says as the ashes fall into the sea. "The life you have after you save the world is supposed to be easy." He knows not to answer. He knows to hold her hand. Because pain is the ransom for every precious thing.

This fic is something like 4-5 years in the making. I’ve picked it up and put it back so many times I’m equal parts sick of it and in love with it. Hopefully, I can get it all the way out this time!

Part One - The Water Cycle

“Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy.” —F. Scott Fitzgerald

Water - Five years, three months, one week, five days

The Fire Nation had it’s own kind of sun. It was dull and potent; it crept, slithering into every crack and corner. Its rays poured down from the sky like a waterfall, washing over the city in tsunami waves. Nothing like the Poles, where sunlight cut through the shadows like a dagger through meat, leaving hard lines between light and darkness. In the never-ending desert it was always hot, always bright. What fingers of light stretched out to touch, they illuminated. And burned.

She was standing outside of herself, watching her fuzzy shadow shift in the Fire Nation light. Ugly, she thought, taking in the strident aroma of singed hair and sweat, the blood weeping from jagged cuts, running rivulets over her skin. The soles of her shoes were soaked in putrid water, mud and spit and blood all swirling together. Her robes were tattered and scorched.

Ugly, she thought, watching the Fire Nation soldier push himself onto his hands and knees. His head hung low so that his forehead almost touched the puddle of watery blood underneath him. His ebony hair was too long, tangled, crusted with dirt and sweat. He panted harshly and Katara imagined she could smell his rancid breath filling the air between them.

Ugly, she thought as the blood dripped from the tip of his nose. Ugly poured from every inch of her flesh, pooling in the center of her chest. It was a hum, a vibration on the tips of her fingers. She wanted to pull this man open and lay him out on the baking sand. She wanted to hold his heart in her hands, inspect his insides, to find that same ugliness in him splashed onto his organs. She wanted him dead and hurting.

She raised her arms, raised the water, forming long, thick shards of ice that hovered at her back, sharpened ends out like the quills of a porcupine hare. The soldier heaved another ragged breath.

“My duty, my lady,” he wheezed. “I was only doing my duty. I was only following orders.” The words were like wisps floating in the space between them. They couldn’t reach her in this outside space, as she watched her life happen to her body.

The disaster started when the shaman asked, “Who gives this woman to wed this man?” and Hakoda said, “I do.” When all of her closest friends gathered to watch her hand put in his— except for the one who mattered most. He sent a note in his place. She’d stared at the page for hours before the ceremony, thinking of the wasted paper. I’m sorry, Katara. I can’t.

Suki had said the ceremony was beautiful. Toph said her gown was lovely. Sokka said their mother would be proud. Her father said their tribe would flourish because of her. Gran Gran didn’t say anything, just presented her with a hand-made parka and kissed both of her cheeks. And through it all, she’d gazed down the aisle and felt her best friend’s words looming so that she could hardly see past them.  I can’t. I can’t.

I can’t.

Now, Aang’s gaze was like a boulder, shoving between her shoulder blades. She felt the weight of it as she waved her hand and sent daggers of ice shooting forward to tear at the soldier’s flesh. He was seated at the Fire Lord’s right hand, shaded from the sun by the crest of the Fire nation, given a privileged view of the blood spreading out over the dirt. Five years shouldn’t have been enough to change Aang, but they did. Where he had once been clean and carefree, he was now heavy. And sad. He was broad and strong, but also weary and pale, and still he looked at her as if she were something lovely, blameless, and pure, as if his gaze could beat her back into the person she’d been back when she was beautiful, and fifteen and had somehow managed to save the world.

“I made a mistake, my lady,” the soldier screamed, his voice rising over the sound of ice piercing hard-packed earth. “Have mercy, my lady!” And these were the words that broke through to her, that pricked her where she stood next to herself, drawing her back into her own mind. Mercy, she thought, staggering backwards. Mercy, she thought, wrapping her arms around herself. Mercy, she thought, remembering his dirty hair and his porcelain hands prying her knees apart. “I am begging,” he rasped. “I am begging for mercy.” Everything inside her was roiling, overwhelming and she floundered for something that could release this pressure, that could drain this ugliness away and leave her finally, blissfully, empty.

“I hate you.” Her next breath came more easily. “I hate you.” She felt light and dizzy. She reeled forward, reached out and slashed with her water whip, opening a deep gash across the solder’s chest. And he screamed and the crowd roared and Katara felt better.

The crowd was on their feet, screaming, waving, cheering. They were enthralled by her, hungry for her. These people understood power, domination, revenge and honor. They understood violence and loss. And now they knew that she did too.

Zuko didn’t scream, didn’t cheer, didn’t move, even as Aang whispered furiously in his ear. He was an oasis in the never-ending desert, an armor around her heart when the eternal warring between joy and anguish made her want to pluck it out. When Aang had come to her with words, Zuko had simply kissed the crown of her head and helped her fix her hair into a top knot. Zuko was respect. Zuko was worth loving.

He understood more than anyone that dead families needed avenging.

Katara raised her arms and coils of water shot forward, twining around the soldier’s arms and under his shoulders. She hoisted him high into the air and held him there, hung like a seal carcass. She rotated his body slowly, taking in the sallow yellow of his skin, trying to find the monster who’d destroyed the last tattered remains of her life.

Katara breathed, in and out. “You raped me,” she said. The soldier whimpered and did not respond. Katara yanked. There was a snap and the soldier screamed. The crowd roared. “Say it,” she snapped. “Say what you did!”

“I raped you,” he cried. “I raped you, my lady, please!”

Katara breathed, blinking fresh tears from old, old wounds. “And you slit my husband’s throat.”

“I killed him, my lady. Please show mercy!”

“Mai!”

The soldier gagged he was sobbing so hard. “I killed the royal consort.”

Her outsides were too big, her insides were too small, there was something deep in her core shaking, rattling around too loud in her ears, making her fingers tremble. “Say what you did!” she screamed, slamming his broken body down onto the ground. “Say what you did!” she screamed and something inside of her shrank away from the ugliness flooding out of her. “Say what you did!” The words tore through her like blades.

“I killed the baby!” the soldier wailed. “I killed the baby, my lady, I’m sorry!”

It would have been better if she hadn’t been his to give away that day; if her father had had no right to place her hand in a stranger’s and bind them together, ’til death did they part. She would have never broken Aang’s heart, never betrayed a good man, never had to choose between her honor and her sanity.

“You killed my baby.”

She would never have found love incarnate only to have it snatched away. She would never have seen her own heart broken, shattered, shredded in her chest.

“They were my orders, my lady!”

“You killed my son!”

She couldn’t hear his words or hers or anything over the ugliness surging in her ears. There was no room left for seeing or hearing or touch. Drowning in her own mind, she floundered and found Aang’s face in the crowd. I hate you, she thought and from the way he recoiled she was sure that the force of her hatred had burned a bridge from her heart to his. She hated Aang and his honor and his stupid sadness. He didn’t understand loss the way she did, the way he should. His people had died quietly while he slept beneath the ice.

It was easy. There was a squelch and a gurgle and she was reminded of the first time she’d slaughtered a rabbit, the bright, scarlet that spurted up to sting her eyes. But the sun was different here and when she reached up to wipe the wetness sprayed over her face it was thick and brown and hot and sticking. And everyone who had died was still dead, but so was the soldier. And Katara felt better.

[cityofsaintshq]

Name: River Riley Alias: Zero Occupation: Receptionist at Tidelands Scrap (Noble Robin-Hood-esque thief)(Purveyor of All Things Highly Illegal) Group: Urban Legends (Leader) Faceclaim: Kat Graham

The Good: Smart, Determined, Playful, Loyal

The Bad: Proud, Manipulative, Unforgiving, Impatient

River controls technology with her mind. Machines come alive for her, bending to her will with a thought. She is also able to absorb, process, and emit wi-fi, cell phone, and radio waves in such a way that she can visualize and hear data transmitted in this way in her mind.

She is limited in that she can mess with a machine’s programming, but cannot affect it physically. If a cell phone she controls runs out of battery, she loses control of it. She can’t make her toaster walk down to her bedroom and deliver her breakfast (believe her, she’s tried).

Despite these limitations, River has turned herself into a formidable hacker and inventor, possibly the best in the world. She honed her skills at CalTech, studying computer science, electrical engineering, and programming.

River also specializes in designing gadgets, perfect for the metahuman who has everything. Among her most prized inventions (and only for her) is her meso-skeleton, a complex system of nano-bots and neural interfaces that enhance her reflexes and strength, and boost her healing abilities, enabling her to keep up with the riff-raff she might see on any given night.

Finally, River grew up groomed for a life of a vigilante. Therefore she is highly trained in self-defence and close combat. She is, however, the shittiest marksman you ever did see.

River’s family is the closest one could get to a vigilante dynasty. Her father is one of the originals, Static, who made a name for himself during the Golden Age of Heros. Her mother, though never a vigilante, was a metahuman with powerful psychic abilities and one of the founding members of Helios. She rose quickly through the ranks. The pair had two children: River and her older brother. From the moment they were born they were expected to be exceptional.

And, of course, neither of them disappointed.

River and her brother were taught to fight and defend themselves both physically and mentally, from a young age. River knew the proper way to throw a punch before she could write her own name. When River’s abilities began to reveal themselves, her parents took care to nurture it, to help her learn to control her power, and to send her to the very best school money could buy. Still, all of this “care” wasn’t the same as a hug or a night curled up together in front of a movie. River’s parents’ idea of bonding included far too many weapons for comfort.

It was at CalTech that River met Paige Ellsworth. Paige was a year ahead of her, but the two of them became close friends despite their conflicting personalities. River almost begged Paige not to go off with ANVIL, but Paige believed in the organization.

When she graduated, River’s parents expected her to join Helios like her brother, but just before she made the leap, she realized how little of her life she’d lived for herself and how much of it had been lived for her parents’ expectations. So, she “ran away”. She found herself a crummy apartment and a crummy job, knowing full well that anyone in her family could break down the door and cart her off whenever they felt like it. She played with the idea of becoming a Saint, even tag teamed with them on a few operations, but at the end of the day, the Saints offered the same publicity-obsessed brand of vigilantism she’d grown up with. If she wanted to sit through self-righteous speeches about her image, she’d do it at home. So, she took a job as a receptionist at Tidelands Scrap, and made money on the side by selling whatever she could get her hands on: gadgets, viruses, information, mostly to the Saints, but also to anyone with the cash who didn’t seem too overtly evil.

It was sometime later that she was contacted by a barely alive Paige and she threw herself into getting her friend back into the states. The two of them became the Urban Legends and began working on their own terms to make the streets of San Diego a little safer.