Zuko's world tilts on its axis. Gravity weighs heavy on his shoulders and he has to struggle just to keep his knees from buckling. The air seems thinner and thinner, and surely Aang must have misspoken, surely he must had misheard.

He swallows thickly. "No. That's impossible. He was fine."

Concern etches Aang's face. "I'm so sorry, Zuko. I wish it weren't true."

Zuko backs out of his grasp. "You don't understand. He was perfectly healthy. Suki, you saw him no more than two hours ago. Tell them."

Suki stays silent, her eyes dropping to the ground as her lip trembles. Sokka puts an arm around her and gives Zuko a pained look. "We were there when it happened, Zuko. He just started rubbing his arm while we were watching the fireworks and he seemed to be short of breath. He asked for some tea, but a few minutes afterward he just collapsed."

"Collapsed?" He pictures the scene, but it won't form. The reality of it is too painful, too much. Instead horrible images crowd his mind, of assassins and poisons and conspiracy. Because what else could it be? His Uncle wouldn't just die, he was the Dragon of the West, untouchable, he was supposed to live forever - "Find who did this!" His voice is too loud, too grating in his own ears, but he forges ahead. He would find who was responsible, and they would pay. The commands spill out, quick and frantic. "Now! Full lock down! No one leaves, everyone is questioned. Compete detainment until – "

"Zuko." Mai's voice is quiet, her face a stern mask. "Stop. Please. You're frightening everyone." For the first time he notices the way his daughter cowers under his gaze, clinging to her mother's side. Under any other circumstance he would be ashamed, but in this moment all he feels is an expanding emptiness that is slowly filling with anger.

"And why shouldn't they be frightened? Our family – all of our families are in danger! If they can get to Uncle, they can get to all of us! You know how s – " his voice starts to crack, and his throat starts to close. He swallows hard, tries again. "You know how strong he is. He wouldn't just collapse. He was fine!" Desperation curves his words, though he isn't sure who he is pleading with.

A hand settles gently on his shoulder. "Zuko, it sounds like he might have had a heart attack. He was very strong, but he wasn't a young man anymore. I know you must be hurting, but let's not jump to any conclusions just yet." Katara's voice is a calming balm, anchoring him back to reason, but it's not nearly enough to ease the torrent inside him. Rage builds inside him and explodes.

"How can you say that?" He slaps her hand away. Too late he sees that her eyes are already red-rimmed and tears streak her face. But he has no room for her sorrow, or anyone else's. He rips his eyes away from her and scans the crowd. "Did any of you even try to save him? Did any of you even care?"

The crowd collectively cringes. Sokka is brave enough to speak up. "We all cared about him. You know that. We tried to revive him, but there was nothing we could do. There weren't any physicians nearby, but I don't think – "

"Physicians…" The realization slams into him and everything inside him becomes very still. Someone was to blame for all this. He closes his eyes and feels his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palms. "If there had been a healer there, would he still be alive?"

The silence is too long, too telling. Aang clears his throat. "It's impossible to know for sure. Probably not."

Probably not. Probably not. Probably probably probably maybe maybe yesyesyesyes –

He's moving before he even registers it, backpedaling away from the crowd and turning to sprint back the way he came. Distantly he can hear people calling his name but he doesn't bother to respond as he flings a leg over Druk's head and digs his heels into the dragon's neck. The ground falls away from him and for the first time since riding Druk he feels that he might actually be sick. He swallows down the bile that threatens to bubble up and leans in close, urging Druk on. They easily clear the lip of the caldera and shoot past the rocky terrain to the northwest. Faster, faster, as though he can outrun this feeling, as though he can escape to a place where this night never happened and his Uncle is alive. The sea opens up in front of him, the moonlight glancing off of the waves looking razor sharp.

For a while he indulges in this fantasy, focusing only on the cold salt breeze whipping against his skin and the fire burning in his chest. However, it isn't long before the small, rational part of himself that is still functioning reminds him that such a place doesn't exist, that Druk can't keep this pace forever, that he'll have to face all of this sooner or later. But the idea of it – of facing a world where Uncle isn't goading him into some silly scheme or another, or advising him on conflicts between his petty council members, or sending his daughter boxes of the rock candy she so adores – is unfathomable. Something akin to hysteria creeps in as he can almost hear his Uncle's voice – compromise is the key to successful leadership, nephew – and he decides that a compromise was just what he needed. He would deal with this. He would figure it out. Just not yet. He might not be able to get away from the truth, but he could get away.

He tugs the reins and Druk loops and twists, directing them back in the direction of the capital. Another tug angles them east. Though he had no destination in mind before, he knows now just where he can lay low until he can sort all of this out.

The beach house is dark when he arrives, just as he had hoped. During the off-season the live-in staff moves out, returning only on a bi-weekly basis for maintenance. From the air it takes on an eerie, empty quality, which suits his current mood just fine. Zuko barely has enough time to stumble off of Druk and onto the soft sands of the beach before the dragon flaps his wings and heads for the hills behind the house. Zuko has no doubt that he's exhausted from the flight and is on the hunt for a place to finally catch some uninterrupted sleep.

Zuko feels like he can relate, though his exhaustion is emotional and he isn't sure he could actually sleep if he tried. During the flight he has mastered a fragile, careful sort of calm. His mind feels crowded, but in a strange, contained sort of way. He thinks of the parade earlier that day; his thoughts were like the crowds of spectators, hovering at the periphery of his brain and all shouting at once. Every once in a while a voice comes through loud and clear, but it is quickly swallowed up in the din, like static punctuated by brief bursts of meaningful phrases. It's too much effort to try to organize it all, too frightening to look to closely at the words themselves. He briefly wonders if this is what madness feels like, if this is what his sister struggled with, but soon enough this thought is lost with all the rest.

Maybe he really should try to get some sleep. Everything would make more sense in the morning, over a nice cup of t –

Tea.

His knees wobble beneath him and he barely feels it when they collide with the sand.

A nice cup of tea. Ginseng? Or jasmine, perhaps? Or even oolong? Which was his favorite these days? Was it the gray cups with white trim or the white cups with gray trim? The ones with gray and white stripes?

Hollow laughter bursts out of his mouth.

Then the crowded thoughts that were so neatly contained break free, surging forward in an attempt to smother him.

I don't need any calming tea –

I'm so lucky to have such an understanding nephew –

You're a lazy, mistrustful, shallow old man -

Who are you and what do you want -

We could have returned together –

I was never angry with you –

I'm so sorry and ashamed of what I did –

It has to be you, Zuko –

Thank you for everything –

My greatest wish is for your happiness –

I think of you as my own –

I think of you as my own –

My own -

Somewhere along the line the laughter dissolves into tears and Zuko finds himself wracked with great, heaving sobs, choking on the memory of him, grasping at great handfuls of sand that only slip through his fingers the harder he tries to hold on.

Stupid. He was so stupid, and selfish, and Katara had been right all along, he was self-absorbed and entitled and he had never taken the time to be truly grateful for everything his uncle had done, for the sacrifices he had made and the countless times he had forgiven him for his mistakes and gently guided him kicking and screaming into doing what was right. Today was just a culmination, a perfect little capsule of just how petty he could be. His Uncle had worked so hard to make Zuko happy but he was too wrapped up in his own trivial drama to really appreciate it, to marvel at the time and expense such an effort must have cost. If only he had been there, then Katara would have been there too, and maybe –

It was all his fault.

That was the crux of it. A deep, wounding shame rips into him, crushing his lungs and tearing into his heart. If he had been there, maybe he could have saved him. He should have made different choices. Better choices. But he hadn't. He had wanted to pin the blame on someone, but the truth was that all fingers pointed to him. Even at forty years old he was still bumbling through life, and when it really mattered all he could be counted on to do was to screw things up. Only now his Uncle wouldn't be there to pick up the pieces of the destruction he left in his wake. Not now. Not ever again.

Anger boils inside of him, and he can feel his skin burn with rage. For the briefest moment he wishes he could set the whole world on fire. But there's no one to be angry with, no one to take his rage out on except himself. His hands close around sand and he flings it toward the sea, a guttural sound bursting out of him. It doesn't change anything, but it is satisfying in a way that he can't quite explain. He does it again. And again and again, until he is digging deep, flinging sand everywhere, first dry handfuls and then wet clumps underneath. An odd part of his brain reasons that perhaps he could just keep going, tunnel to Ba Sing Se and live out the rest of his days as Lee the refugee until a stray grain of sand finds its way into his eye.

"Dammit!"

Fire flares in his fist and he sweeps it across the wet sand where it fizzles pointlessly. His eye waters and burns but he doesn't stop; he gets to his feet and flings fire at the sea, gaining satisfaction from the thick clouds of steam that rise in its wake. His breath is coming in thick pants but it feels good to move, good to burn away the feeling inside of him.

He's making so much noise that he almost doesn't hear the groan of the flying bison that lands a short distance away on the beach.

Almost.

He turns, eyes wild, and there she is, the woman of his sweetest dreams and deepest despair. Even from this distance her eyes look hollow and anger rises up in him again to think that it is his fault that she looks so tired and sad, and that she isn't the only one. There's more than a few people at the palace that he is sure share her expression, who are suffering because of his mistakes. And even still, here she is to comfort and coddle him. But he doesn't deserve it. He has failed each and every one of them, his Uncle most of all. Katara is living proof of his failures in more ways than one as she stands looking defeated on the beach. He can't stand to be reminded of it, not now.

He keeps his voice even, though all he wants to do is shout. "You shouldn't be here, Katara. Go back to the capital."

She starts to jog toward him but he raises a palm full of fire. She stops, puts up her hands. "Zuko, I know you're upset. We're all worried about you. Please, get Druk and come back home."

There it is. That undeserved compassion. He can't control the growl in his voice. "Get out of here. Now."

She winces. "I know you're angry. But if you won't come back, can we at least talk?"

He rounds on her. "My Uncle is dead! What else is there to talk about?"

Her expression starts to crumble. "I'm so sorry Zuko – "

"Enough!" The fire in his hands flares and he sweeps it in front of him, causing her to jump back. From behind her Appa takes to the air. "I don't want to hear it! I don't want your apologies or your condolences! Just leave me alone!"

She takes a step back, but then her brow furrows and her spine straightens. "No. I never turn my back on people who need me. You want to fight me? Fine. But I'm not leaving you. Not until you hear me out."

He slides into an offensive stance. A distant part of him is reminded of the last time they were here – you came for a challenge? – and a humorless smile works its way onto his face. "Come and get it."

He fires a few quick blasts in her direction, but Katara blocks easily, drawing water directly from the tides. She turns it back on him immediately, catching him off guard and striking him in the chest. He lands hard on his tailbone but pops back up, sweeping a leg trailing fire at her ankles. She is ready for him. She creates an ice ramp and launches into the air just before the flames reach her. The ice shatters at her feet as she leaps backward. He transitions to one knee and sends a jet of flame directly at her torso, which she narrowly avoids. When she lands the sleeve of her blue robe is trailing smoke. She barely gives it a second glance before pulling a thick rope of water around her, readying her defense.

He fights her for every inch. He can tell she is trying to maneuver closer to the water, but he won't fall for that trick again. Instead, he drives her farther up the beach, forcing her closer and closer to the house. He's not holding back this time but neither is she. More than one of her ice darts makes it past his defenses and slices through his robes at his shin and shoulder. He doesn't even feel it. He strikes at her again and again, muscles tense and burning under his skin. A distant part of him whispers that she is not the enemy, that taking this out on her is wrong, but the idea of stopping is so much worse. If she knew what was good for her she would just leave, abandon him like everyone else.

The second time she knocks him down he feels it. He doesn't get up right away, fatigue settling in his muscles and crying out now that he is still. He takes a moment to survey his surroundings and notices that they have made it halfway up the gravel road to the beach house. Katara ceases her assault but doesn't drop her water.

"We don't have to do this. Please, just let me talk to you."

He's so tired all of a sudden, and part of him wishes that he could just lie down right here and sleep. But the longer he sits the more he remembers exactly why he is here in the first place. Fear and pain and rage spur his muscles into movement, propelling him to his feet.

"No. We don't have to. I want to."

Disappointment flits across her face but her body signals its resolve as she readies for his next assault.

He attacks with renewed purpose, his focus narrowed to the fire in his limbs. She counters him smoothly, but her water supply is dwindling with each attack. She dodges another blast and yells. "Listen to me! I know why you're angry!"

"You don't know anything!" Fatigue is burning in his limbs and his punches are becoming wilder, his precision waning. He may have maneuvered her away from the water but she still has the advantage – the moon is nearly full and she hasn't expended half of the energy he has all day.

She whips a stream of water at him, trying for his ankles, but he knows this trick, leaps to avoid it. She tries again. "Yes I do! I know you're hurt and angry – "

"Don't tell me how I feel!" He whips fire right back at her, and the two streams clash and sizzle. A stray thought pops into his head – I thought you had changed – but he wills it away.

She cracks the whip at him once more, then spins, gathering more water from the air. "Would you just listen? I just want to say that I know you're angry with me, but please just let me say I'm sorry – "

"I told you I don't want your condolences!" He kicks fire at her, gaining ground. She raises a wave of water to deflect but the transition into an offensive move is too slow. He sees the opening, takes it. He swings back, starts to throw a flaming punch at her chest –

"I'm sorry because this is all my fault!"

Wait. What?

He stops mid-swing, completely thrown off guard. But she doesn't. A wave of water hits him square in the face and he topples over, temple smacking against the gravel. He gives a low groan as the world fades to black.

When he comes to he's lying on his back, his eyes blinking wearily up at the stars. Disorientation reigns for a moment as he tries to catalogue various sensations: his body aches, his ears are ringing, he can smell smoke. Where was he? Gravel shifts beneath him as he rolls over, catches the sight of the sea. A few feet from him his crown lies in the dirt, gleaming dully in the starlight.

Just as well, he thinks. Let someone else have it. He can't do the job anymore, anyway. Not without Uncle.

Uncle.

It all comes rushing back to him – his Uncle's death, the escape from the capitol, the fight with Katara – Wait. Where was Katara?

With effort he sits up and glances around, wincing at the pain in his head. Despite his earlier protests, he is relieved to see that she is still here – but then is horrified when he sees what she is doing. Katara is positioned in the shadow of the beach house, directing a stream of water along one end of the roof. It hisses as it makes contact with the flames that are crackling merrily along the tiles. Smoke curls up from the copse of trees alongside the house. His Uncle's voice rings loud and clear – you never think these things through.

This is yet another thing he has ruined with his impulsiveness. Another thing he has destroyed. If the list weren't so long already, he might feel awful. As it is, the guilt just adds to an already unbearable burden.

Katara spots him just as she is putting out the last of the fires. She rushes to his side, water at the ready. "Zuko! Thank the spirits!" Already her hands are glowing at his temples, soothing the aches in his head as she runs them over his hair. "I never meant to hurt you, I thought you would block and I – "

"Katara, stop. I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You hit your head really hard and – " Her lip starts to tremble. "This is all my fault!"

He has a weird detached sense of calm – that's something we have in common – as he shakes his head. "No, it's isn't. It's mine."

Tears swell and spill over leaving tracks in the dust on her face, so much like last time it hurts. "Not just the fight. All of it. It was my stupid idea. If we hadn't left the party we would have been there, and maybe I could have saved him, I could have at least tried, and I know you're angry with me for it and I understand, but I just want you to know how sorry I am…" She dissolves into quiet sobs.

Zuko blinks. She has caught him off guard yet again. How could she think…? He pulls her to him and holds her tight, her arms coming up around him as she cries into his shoulder. He strokes her hair. "Don't say that. I never blamed you. It's not your fault. You couldn't have known."

His words echo back and then it hits him: neither could he. It didn't change what happened and it doesn't quite ease the regret, but the truth is that no one could have predicted it. His voice is touched with awe and relief at the realization: "It's nobody's fault."

She pulls back and searches his face. "Do you mean it?" He nods and her body sags in relief. "Oh thank Yue. As soon as you ran off I knew I had to come after you. But Appa isn't as fast as Druk." She searches his face. "I mean it though, Zuko. I wish I would have been there. What if I could have done something? What if – "

He pulls her back as her face starts to crumble and his own throat burns. "I know."

They tremble in each other's arms, raw grief threatening to shake them apart. He can't be sure how much time has passed when they finally pull apart, but he thinks he can see just the barest hints of light on the eastern horizon. She smiles at him, eyes puffy and red, and he does his best to smile back.

"Thank you for coming here. I thought I wanted to be alone, but I was wrong." His eyes fall to the side. "And I'm sorry I fought you. I don't know what came over me."

She reaches out and covers his hand with her own. "Zuko, your father had just died. I think you're allowed to go a little crazy."

His father. Though he had never used the term out loud himself, she was right to use it. The fact that she knew to use it in the first place makes him love her all the more, until the current reality washes over him again: his father – not by blood but by bond – was dead. His heart aches with the weight of it. He hangs his head. "He did his best to teach me self-control. The minute he's gone I lose it completely."

"Grief affects us all differently. You needed to get away. I should have given you some space. It was selfish of me to chase after you."

"No it wasn't. That's just who you are. And I'm glad you did."

She bites her lip. "Do you think you're ready to go back? I know that people are worried. When I left Aang was helping to coordinate things in your absence and Mai was comforting Izumi, but they can't replace you."

At the mention of his daughter he almost acquiesces, but then he thinks of what going home will entail. At the moment he feels contained, but he isn't sure how long it will last faced with grieving friends and family and the details of mourning. He shakes his head. "I can't. Not yet."

"I understand."

The solemnity of her eyes comforts him. While he wasn't ready to return to the palace just yet, he wasn't ready to be alone again, either. He weighs the consequences of his next question carefully, considering the ramifications. He asks it anyway. "Will you – will you stay here with me? Just for a little while. I know it's a lot to ask, especially after everything that's happened, but…"

Unlike him, there is no hesitation in her voice. "Of course." She seems to consider something. "I'll go into town tomorrow and send hawks to let everyone know we're okay. In the meantime though, you should probably get some rest. We both should."

He helps her to her feet, and they both turn to look at the beach house. Though the roof is no longer smoldering, there are thick black scorch marks that stand out starkly even in the dark.

"Do you think it's safe to stay in there?"

He eyes the damage and shakes his head. "With my luck, the house will come crashing down around us as we sleep."

"Are there any inns in town where we could stay?"

He lifts a dirty, charred sleeve in response. She glances down at her own disheveled appearance and nods once. "Right. Camp tonight, inspect in the morning?"

"Probably a good idea."

"Okay. There's some blankets in Appa's saddle. Thank goodness it's warm out tonight."

As she calls Appa with the bison whistle his heart expands for her, watching her shift seamlessly from concerned to pragmatic. He knew she was hurting too, but she still knew exactly what needed to be done and carried it out flawlessly. She was always stronger than he was. Even in his grief he can't help but marvel at her. When she hands him a blanket she catches the look on his face and she gives him a knowing smile.

Deciding that sand is softer than volcanic rock, they carry the blankets down to the beach. By the time they lie down Zuko can barely keep his eyes open despite the fact that dawn isn't far off. Katara curls up on her side next to him as he lies on his back and blinks heavy eyelids at the stars.

Just as he is drifting off Katara rolls over and grabs his hand, pulling him on his side and wrapping his arm around her waist. He curls up behind her and tries not to feel guilty about how right it feels.

"Just for tonight," she mumbles, and he isn't sure if she's talking to him or herself. Sleep takes him before he can give it any thought.

By the time Zuko wakes the sun is already creeping toward its zenith. He can hear the sound of the waves and gulls, and he is sweating underneath a thick blanket. For a moment he is utterly disoriented. He opens his eyes and sits up, his joints creaking and stiff. As soon as he takes in the scorch marks on the beach and the sight of the waterbender lying next to him, it all comes back to him at once.

His Uncle is dead.

The thought is an odd, disembodied thing – real but not real, a fact as simple and emotionless as a statement about the weather. It doesn't conjure up the rage it had the previous night, or the intense sadness. Instead there is just an ache in his chest and a heaviness in his limbs that has nothing to do with the bending battle. He wonders if every day will be like this: an instant of blissful forgetfulness followed by plummeting truth. He knows he should get up, find something to do, but he stays and watches the push and pull of the sea. He thinks life might be easier if he could just stay here forever.

Before long Katara stirs. She does a perfunctory rinse using the ocean water and checks him again for injuries. When she takes Appa to town he remains on the beach, listless and empty. He is still there when she returns an hour later.

Appa lands softly on the sand and she hops off from the space between his horns and her boots splash in the ebb of the tides. She kneels down next to him and lays a hand on his shoulder.

"How are you feeling?"

"Better... Not good. I don't really know."

She nods. "I sent the messages to the palace. I also bought some food. Are you hungry?"

He should be. The last real meal he had eaten was at the lunch banquet his Uncle had prepared the day before – was that only yesterday don't think about it don't – with a few snacks in between. He shakes his head.

"Okay. But you should try to eat something in a little bit anyway. Should we at least go survey the damage to the beach house? Sleeping in a real bed tonight might help."

He nods. She leads him to Appa, who gives them a lift to the front of the house. He helps her unload the baskets of food from the saddle, and then Appa flies off to graze. She gives him a weak smile. "I'm sure it's not as bad as it looks."

They leave the food in the entry way and walk the hallways. Surprisingly, it isn't as bad as it looks. The east wing has suffered some smoke damage and the royal suite has a new skylight, but outside of that the damage is mostly superficial. The bottom floor is untouched. Deciding that the house would not collapse around them, they settle in.

Zuko lights the fire in the oven and Katara sets about making them some lunch. His body is on autopilot as he goes through the motions of chewing and swallowing the meal she makes, not tasting any of it. He thinks that maybe he can get through this, one bite and one step and one day at a time. It's when she offers him some tea that the fragile shell breaks, and she holds him while he cries, her arms the only thing keeping him from cracking and falling apart.

It's like that, for the first two days. She's a constant presence but not a smothering one. She materializes at his side when he starts to shatter and looms in the background when he is calm. She holds herself together better than he does, but more than once he returns the favor when he discovers her crumpled against a wall, silently weeping. But most of their time is spent in banal trivialities. They make meals, wash dishes, drink solemn glasses of rice wine at dusk. She finds the scrolls in the office; he has since organized and expanded on the collection so there's no chance of her picking a salacious scroll by mistake. She spends afternoons reading novels or practicing her bending in the courtyard while he watches. She tries to encourage him to spar with her, but he doesn't trust himself. At night, she says nothing when he drags his blankets and pillow into her room and sleeps on the floor beside her bed.

It's a strange, artificial routine, but not one without its appeal. In the lulls between intense waves of sadness there's the peculiar feeling that perhaps he could stop time here and avoid the reality of his life forever. He's coherent enough to recognize the absurdity of such an idea, and what feelings he can spare aside from his grief are reserved for missing his wife and daughter, but he still can't bring himself to take Druk and go home.

Because home is more than just his family, it's responsibilities and duty and protocol. He feels like he has lost his anchor and he is adrift at sea. He has no idea how to face all those things again. Staying here prolonged the inevitable, allowed him to pretend, even for just a moment, that when he returned things would be normal. That Uncle would be just a messenger hawk or zeppelin away. He isn't ready to accept that he never will be again. He isn't sure if he'll ever be ready.

On the afternoon of the third day he sits in the shade of the lanai as Katara bends the water in the fountain. His eyes track her movement but he isn't really watching her, lost inside the cavern of his head. Her bending, the paved stones at her feet, the vines that curl around the wooden posts: all of it holds just as much interest, which is to say none at all. He tests this theory, shifting his attention around the courtyard, until something actually does catch his eye.

They had surveyed the damage to the house, but they had forgotten about the surrounding property. From where he sits he can see the charred remains of the treetops past the stone stairs. Without thinking about it, he rises from his chair and walks toward it.

It's all dense underbrush and overgrown vines; there's an old path but it's barely visible for the tall grasses that encroach upon it. He moves in the direction of the wreckage, pushing through as old branches snap under his feet. He can hear movement behind him and assumes that Katara has chosen to follow him. He keeps his pace.

The fire has created an artificial clearing; burnt stumps and scorched limbs form a rough empty circle in the surrounding greenery, a dead spot in the middle of teeming life. The only movement in the area comes from a small stream that runs down from the hill and empties out into the sea. He can hear birdsong but the birds themselves are nowhere in sight.

Zuko kneels down and runs a hand across the ground. His fingers come away covered with soot and ash. Katara catches up to him and kneels down beside him. She watches as he examines his dirty fingers.

"Once," she says, "Aang and Sokka and I came across a forest that was ruined by fire. Aang was really upset. But I'll tell you the same thing I told him then: it will grow back."

He sighs. "It can't."

"What?"

He realizes that they are having two different conversations, tries to refocus as he rubs his fingers together. "There's nothing to rise from the ashes. This is all that will be left of my Uncle. As soon as I return home, they'll burn him."

She seems shocked, but covers it quickly. "Is that the tradition in the Fire Nation?"

He swallows as he pictures it, his gaze turned inward. "It will be a state funeral. Hundreds of people will be there. My family and I will stand on the dais in the plaza while the sages drone on about the life that he led. They'll talk about how great he was and they'll get it all wrong, they'll miss all the important parts, the things that made him who he was. And then they'll cremate him to send his spirit home." He looks at her. "I don't think I can do it. I'm the Fire Lord, I'm supposed to be a pillar of strength and an example to my people, but I just can't imagine standing up there and watching him burn without falling apart. But if I do it would dishonor to his memory."

Katara is quiet for a moment, and then says, "Maybe you could say goodbye to him first on your own terms. Would that make it easier?"

Maybe. Maybe not. He shakes his head. "I wouldn't even know how."

"I have an idea, if you would be interested."

He nods, and she stands up and searches the immediate area. A long strip of curved, half-burnt bark catches her attention and she pulls it from the wreckage. She gathers some thick, straight sticks; some she picks up off of the ground and others she breaks off of the dead trees. With her bending she gathers a few vines and uses them to start lashing the branches together. As she works, she speaks.

"In the Water Tribe, when someone passes away we send them back out to sea to be with the ocean spirit. We dress the person in their favorite clothes and arrange them in a special canoe." Under her practiced hands a tiny water vessel begins to take shape. "We also add some of their favorite possessions. Sentimental things, mostly. People say that it's so they can have those things with them in the spirit world, but I really think it's done to help survivors cope with the loss. It helps them remember, and it helps them forget."

She stops working for a moment and gropes at her throat, but the necklace there is different from the one that used to hang there in her youth. She lowers her hand and keeps working. "My mother's necklace should have gone with her, but I screamed and cried with my father to let me keep it. It took a long time for me to let her go." For an instant this is one more reason to hate himself, for separating her from her mother's necklace for even a short amount of time before she was ready, but then she smiles softly. "You really helped me with that. I don't think you realize how much."

Maybe she's right, but he thinks he does. Or he knows how much it meant to him to help her, at least. On impulse he snatches one of her hands, presses his lips to her knuckles. Even as he does it he realizes that the ritual she suggested may be an exercise in futility; he has never been one to let things go. He clears his throat and nods to the creation in her lap. "Will it still work if I don't have anything that belonged to Uncle? He hasn't been to Ember Island in a long time."

"That's okay. I bet we can find some things that will represent him. If you want to, that is." He nods and she smiles. "Let's go see what we can find."

Together they scour the beach house, and it's heartbreaking how easy it is to find little things that remind him of his uncle: the straggling peonies growing on the edges of the courtyard, the chipped tea cup in the corner cupboard, a scroll of old proverbs in the study. Even though his Uncle would bemoan an incomplete set, he removes the lotus tile from his pai sho game and adds it to the growing pile of items in Katara's makeshift boat. With each item he feels his grief stir and awaken, bit by bit, but it feels purposeful this time instead of meandering and endless.

When it is full they take it down to the beach. Before Katara sets it in the water he reaches down and adds a handful of sand.

"What's that for?"

"We used to play on this beach. We used to come here before Uncle went to war and everything changed." The memory of Uncle splashing through the surf as he chased him and Lu Ten across the beach flashes bright and clear and suddenly his knees feel weak. He lowers himself to the sand and Katara follows, patient in her silence. "I missed him when he left. He wrote to us, and sent us things, but it wasn't the same. You remember that dagger that I carried around during the war? He gave that to me." Part of him wishes that he had it with him now, to send it off with the rest of it, but like so many other things in his life he isn't sure he could ever really part with it.

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and it's surprising just how easy it is to picture the grand halls of the palace in his youth, the way the gardens smelled in spring. "I thought he would come home after Lu Ten died, but he didn't, not right away. Then mom left and it was just me and Azula and Ozai. When he finally came back I think we were both a little lost, but we felt better when we found each other again. I didn't think of it that way at the time, but that's how it was. We spent a lot of time together. He was good at hiding it, but every now and then I would catch him looking at me with this sad smile…" He opens his eyes and shakes his head. "Anyway, I looked up to him a lot. He wasn't stern like my father or cruel like my sister. Even though he was renowned as this fierce military mastermind, he was warm, like my mother."

Katara reaches out and takes his hand. "You were lucky to have each other back then."

Zuko frowns. "I was, but I didn't know it. I was mad at him for a while after… after I was banished. I couldn't understand why he would want to come with me." He pauses, gathers his courage. "For a while I blamed him for what had happened." The words taste sour. He has never said them out loud, though he is sure his actions back then spoke loudly enough. Shame squeezes his heart. "I was thirteen and I thought if he had just been more firm with me I wouldn't have been in that war room in the first place. He should have known I wasn't ready. But of course it was never his fault."

Katara shifts and sits next to him, threads an arm around his waist as she leans into his shoulder. His fingers come up and absentmindedly comb through the loose ends of her hair. "He was the only one who ever trusted me to make my own decisions – and my own mistakes. I made a lot of those." He laughs, short and humorless. "A lot. But he was unconditional. He tried to tell me things, to advise me, but in the end when it really mattered it was always my own choice, my responsibility to do what was right." His throat closes up and he looks at her; she blurs at the edges of his vision. "But now he's gone. What will I do without his wisdom? He can't guide me anymore and I'm lost all over again."

She reaches up and swipes a thumb at the moisture under his good eye. "He trusted you. Honor him by trusting yourself."

He shakes his head and his gaze falls to the sand. "I'm half the man he was."

"You're right."

His tears cease and he looks back at her and frowns. "Thanks. I feel so much better."

But she doesn't try to defend herself. She looks out at the waves, her expression distant. "Do you remember during the war when we hunted for Yon Rha?"

He is utterly confused. "Of course."

"Do you remember what you did when we found him?"

He nods. "I backed you up. I was ready in case he tried to hurt you."

"Yes, but what else?"

He senses that this is a trick question, but for the life of him he can't fathom what the answer is supposed to be. "Nothing."

Her gaze returns to him, and he can see the determined look in her eye, the one she gets when she talks about things that matter to her. "Exactly. You let me make my own choice. Even back then you were just like your Uncle, incorporating his lessons without even knowing it. That's just one example, but all of the things that he was – wise, fiercely protective, strong – you took the best parts of him and mixed them with who you are. He's a part of you, but you're also your own man. And I think that's exactly what he wanted for you." She blinks back tears. "He was so proud of you."

Her words surround him with warmth. A profound calm settles over him and he gives her a soft smile. "Thank you for saying so. When did you get so wise?"

She nudges him with her elbow. "You're not the only one who was a better person for knowing him. Maybe I took a little bit of him for myself too." She lays a hand on the miniature canoe at her side and takes a deep breath. "You ready?"

"Yeah. I think I am."

He helps her to her feet. She sets the boat in the water and uses her bending to send it father out to calm waters where it won't be disturbed. For a long while they watch it drift farther and farther out to sea. Not taking her eyes off of the little craft, Katara takes his hand. "Do you want to say anything?"

He thinks about it. There's so many things he could say, so many things he should say. But in the end he decides against it. He shakes his head. "No. I can't begin to do him justice. All I can say is that I love him and I'll miss him and I'm a better man for knowing him." He turns to Katara. "And I'm a better man for knowing you too. Which was his doing, so I guess I have him to thank for that as well."

She wraps her arms around him and they remain like that for a long time, listening to the sound of the water that carries pieces of his uncle farther and farther away.

That night, when Druk lands in the courtyard of the palace his wife and daughter rush out to meet him. He hugs them hard and feels buoyed by their strength. With their help – and the help of the rest of his friends – he has hope that he can make it through.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Bit by bit, he does. Weeks pass and his friends return to their homes and life returns to something that could almost be called normal, save for the silence inside his heart. More than once he absentmindedly begins a letter to Iroh to ask his advice about this issue or that, only to stare blankly at the characters as his wounds stretch open once more. Sometimes, late at night when his wife is sleeping, he pulls out the old book of proverbs from his nightstand, hoping to find some comfort in the words. It helps, if only a little.

After five months he thinks that he might just be finding his stride again; that Katara was right and he could do this with enough support and trust in himself.

Then one night he is jolted from his sleep by his wife's screams, the sheets bunched around her waist soaked with blood. Not even a team of physicians can coax the life back into her or his unborn son, and when they deliver the news, ashen faced and fidgeting, his world shatters into so many pieces he is certain he will never be whole again.

He doesn't run, not like last time, anyway. He doesn't rage or scream or send his servants running for their lives. Instead, he quietly shuts himself in his room and lets the world spin without him.

Days pass and the only sounds he hears are those of servants knocking on his door to offer him meals, most of which he refuses. As his friends arrive in the capitol to attend the upcoming funeral rites they start to knock too. He ignores them with equal measure. Even his favorite waterbender tries to coax him from his isolation, but she meets with defeat each time. Her voice is a disembodied thing, muffled as it strives to penetrate his consciousness through the thick wood of the door. It's a bit like being underwater, and the strangled, calm feeling he has as the days pass feels a little bit like drowning.

Numbness pervades his senses. Everything in his days has the volume turned down; the bright red sheets of his bed take on a muted, washed out tone and what little food he eats is flavorless. The pull in his blood and the light coming in from the widow alert him to the rising and falling of the sun, but time drags on without meaning or consequence.

He tries to conjure up a scrap of feeling, to summon the memories he had of his wife and the years they spent together, but the images that play across his mind feel distant and removed as though he is watching someone else's life and happiness dance before his eyes. He can't connect to the thoughts, can't allow that distance to be breached. Part of him feels that he has spent the last feeling that he had on Uncle's death months ago, but another is terrified that the well goes deeper than he imagined and that he will be sorry if he looks too close. He builds the walls around his heart higher and thicker, just in case.

Despite his efforts there is one sound that breaks through, one that stabs its way past his ribcage with tiny barbs. Sometimes, in the afternoons, Izumi comes to sit outside his door. He can hear her sniffles and the way she shifts against the door. He can picture her there, slumped against the elaborate carvings, no one left to tell her to sit up straight and keep a stiff upper lip. Hairline cracks appear in the impervious wall he has built, but the structural integrity remains intact.

Then one day, it isn't sniffles and quiets cries. One day, she keens.

Instinct makes him want to sprint toward the door and pull her into his arms, comfort her and keep her close. But he has no energy and his body refuses to obey. He has nothing left to give her. He pulls at his hair and digs deeper into the rumpled sheets of his bed.

Each second that it continues scrapes against his soul. He is rendered powerless against it, paralyzed in the face of such raw need. But then the wailing comes to an abrupt halt. The ensuing silence is almost as loud. Then he hears another sound, a soft and soothing voice.

Katara.

He can hear her talking to the princess, empathizing with her loss. Katara knows what it is like to lose a mother. They all do. He thinks that the world is an unbearably cruel place, for all of them to have known such loss at such an early age. The circumstances were different, but the shape of the hole left behind is the same.

Izumi's words are punctuated by hiccups. "Why won't Father come out? Did I do something wrong?"

"No, you didn't do anything at all. Your father is just sad."

"But I'm sad too. Why can't we be sad together?"

Katara is quiet for a moment, then her voice floats through the wood panels. "I'll tell you a secret. When my mother died, my father spent long nights out on the ice by himself. We never knew what he did out there, and my brother and I yearned to be with him, but looking back now I think that's just what he needed. It wasn't because he didn't love us or because he didn't want to be there for us. I think it was just too painful for him to be around others, even his family."

His daughter's voice, thick with tears: "So Father hasn't stopped loving me?"

The shell around his heart splinters and cracks.

"No, sweetie. Your father loves you very much. No matter what happens, you must never forget that."

Unbidden, he remembers his mother's last words to him: no matter how things may change, never forget who you are. Who was he, anyway? He was Zuko, son of Ozai and Ursa, imperial ruler of the honorable Fire Nation. But that's not what mattered most. He was also a friend and a husband and a father. Despite all of the chaos and loss, those facts remained. And right now his daughter needed him.

Zuko knew what it was like to lose a father. Izumi didn't have to feel like she had lost hers too.

With effort he gets out of bed and makes his way to the door. When he opens it he is immediately surrounded by two pairs of arms.

Decades later, when the Avatar dies, Zuko has little opportunity to return the favor, to console his friend and help her to recover from immeasurable loss. It isn't for lack of trying. He arrives at her home as soon as he can once he hears the news, but he is one in a crowd of many. Katara has always surrounded herself with people who love her, draws them in and keeps them close. She has no shortage of people to calm and care for her, people who know what to do and what to say to ease her pain. He's never been good at this sort of thing, but when she cries he holds her hand and when she is calm he holds her silence. It's nowhere near the quality of comfort she has given him in the past, but when her fingers squeeze his he thinks that maybe it's enough.

The world mourns the Avatar, and so does he, but his focus is on the woman who mourns him the most. He knows what it is to lose a spouse. It's one more thing they have in common.

oOoOoOo

Winter – 73 years postwar

Zuko pulls up the hood on his thick maroon parka, waving his thanks to the woman who had given him a ride to town as she pulls away. He gathers his purchases under one arm and begins the trek through the snow to the modest home perched on the edge of town. His breath clouds up in front of him and he thinks again how he has not missed the bitter cold of the poles. It exacerbates the stiffness in his limbs and burns in his lungs more than any fire ever could. Still, this is where he needed to be, and this is where he would stay.

When he arrives at the house Tenzin greets him and helps him out of his coat. The Avatar's children take shifts; it must be Tenzin's turn. From another room he can hear the sound of children playing quietly as they wait for dinner to be served. In the kitchen Kya and Bumi bicker about just the right amount of spices needed to make a perfect pot of sea prunes.

"Any change?"

Tenzin sighs. "No. She's awake though. You're welcome to go in and see her."

Zuko nods. He heads to a room with a curtained door and ducks beneath the fabric panels. The thick pile of furs on the bed is deceptive, hiding the frail body underneath. He approaches and gently touches her forehead. Despite the heavy blankets and the fire cracking merrily in the hearth, Katara's skin feels cool and clammy.

"Back so soon?"

"Your neighbor from down the road was kind enough to give me a ride." He fiddles with the blankets around her shoulders and she smacks his hand away playfully, rearranging them to her liking.

"You've really got to learn to drive, Zuko."

"And you really should be resting."

"That's all I do anymore is rest. You all fuss too much."

Both statements are true, in their own way. In the month that he has been here he has watched her steady decline, from days where she was unsteady on her feet to days where she was no longer able to leave her bed. She spends most of her time sleeping, fighting off the inevitable. Most of the losses in Zuko's life had been sudden, and he had always been left with the feeling that he had been robbed of last words and things left undone. As if to mock him, the spirits had granted him the opportunity to watch the process in slow motion. It is no less painful, and he finds that he still doesn't know the right words to say or the best things to do. Instead, he fusses along with her children and grandchildren, watching and waiting.

He tries to keep his tone light. "You're just angry that someone else has taken over your job."

This earns him a laugh, which dissolves into a dry cough. "You're probably right about that."

He crosses the room and picks up a teapot that sits on a small side table, the water in it gone cool. He heats it with his bending, then adds the tea leaves that he bought at the market. When it is ready he pours her a cup and helps her sit up. She takes a sip and wrinkles her nose.

"No offense, but I think your tea-making could still use a little work."

He rolls his eyes. "It's not supposed to taste good. It's medicine. Uncle used to give this to me when I was sick. He said that it helped with fevers."

She gives him a sad smile. "That's thoughtful of you. But you know it can't be helped."

He frowns at her. "I might not be able to stop it, but I can at least help you feel better."

She reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. "Having you here is more than I could ask."

"It's not nearly enough." He studies the carpet. "Are you sure you can't heal it?"

She takes her hand back, sips her tea. "We've been over this. There's no cure for old age, Zuko. "

His voice is quiet. "I know." He takes the empty cup from her, switches to a more conversational tone. "Are you hungry? I think the kids are making your favorite."

"How can I refuse?" She eases herself back down onto the bed. She smirks at him. "Let's hope their sea prunes taste better than your tea."

The family brings in the meal and they all sit around her to eat. He watches her carefully; she picks at her food more than eating it, despite the praise she gives her children for finding just the right flavor balance. When the meal is finished the children and grandchildren kiss her goodnight and Zuko tucks the blankets around her once more.

"You have the night shift again?"

"Yes. It's what I wanted." It's true. The events of his life have made him a light sleeper. He knows that even the slightest change will awaken him should she need anything.

She eyes the sleeping pallet on the side of the room. "How long are you going to sleep on that uncomfortable thing?"

For as long as I need to, he thinks. But instead he says, "It's not that bad. I've slept in worse places."

"Sure, back when you were sixteen. You could use a night in a real bed for once. Go on. One night won't hurt anything."

It might, or it might not. Either way, he's not willing to take the risk. "Now who's fussing?"

"Can't help it." Her smile turns serious. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm okay if you're okay."

"That's not saying much."

He levels his gaze at her. "You know what I mean."

Even now, her eyes spark. "Do I?"

He sighs. "If you mean am I okay sleeping here, than yes. If you mean am I okay with… the rest of it, then…" He has no answer for this. He is far from okay with it. He cannot imagine a universe in which he would be okay with it. But the universe has rarely had any consideration for his wishes. "Then you'll just have to ask me when you wake up tomorrow."

"Zuko…"

He musters his most gentle but authoritative voice, bending down to press a quick kiss to her forehead. "I mean it. Get some sleep. Wake me if you need anything."

"I will. Goodnight, Zuko."

He shuffles to the other side of the room and slowly swings his legs into his makeshift bed. He waves his hand and douses the light, knowing that he is in for another long night.

Four days later in the hours before dawn he hears her gasp. He shoots out of bed, the blankets falling at a heap on the floor. She is grasping her chest and grimacing in pain. Long strands of gray hair stick to her forehead with sweat. He thought when it finally happened he would be ready. He was wrong. His skin goes cold in terror as he rushes to her side.

"Katara? What's wrong? I'll go get Tenzin – "

"No." Her face relaxes a little and she seems to catch her breath. "Zuko, listen to me. I have a favor to ask."

He doesn't want to know. His voice is tentative. "What do you need?"

"Promise you'll help me."

Even after all these years he still can't refuse her. He sighs resignedly. "Whatever you want."

"Take me outside. Take me to the sea."

Of all the things she could have asked of him, he would have never guessed this. Immediately he balks. "Are you crazy? It's freezing! You'll d –"

"Please." Her gaze is direct and pleading. She places her hand over his, the skin paper-thin and hot. "Take me to the water."

He searches her eyes for just a moment and deep down, he knows. "Okay." He takes a deep breath and nods. "Okay."

He quickly finds her coat and gloves. As he fastens the clasps on her parka it occurs to him that he might not be able to fulfill her request; he is not a young man anymore and his back is already screaming in protest from sleeping on the uncomfortable pallet. But he has to try. To his surprise and dismay she is bird-bone light and fragile in her cocoon of furs when he lifts her off the bed. She wraps weak arms around his neck and settles her cheek against his chest.

They manage to make it out of the house without waking the others. At this hour the tundra is eerily silent. He feels like a smuggler. She gives him soft encouragement him as he wades through snow drifts, slowly but steadily approaching the sea. The coastline here is smooth sheets of ice instead of sand, and twice he almost loses his balance. By the time they settle down near the tides his arms are aching and his legs are shaking, though he isn't sure if it has anything to do with the physical exertion.

The sea is gentle and still, a soft murmur in the background as he sits down on the ice. Already he can feel the cold seeping through his clothes, but he ignores it. He focuses his attentions on arranging her in his lap, curling his body around hers for warmth. During the long walk he hadn't been able to monitor her very closely, but now that he looks at her he can see the way her head lolls against his shoulder and how her eyes drift in and out of focus. He pats her cheek.

"Katara? Hey. We made it."

She takes the ghost of a deep breath, inhaling the frigid ocean air. "So we have." Her eyes blink up at the sky, then go wide. He is about to ask her what's wrong when she smiles. "They're here!"

He looks around. They are alone. His heart breaks as he thinks she must be delusional, but it won't do any good to argue with her. "Who?"

"Look, Zuko. Look up."

He doesn't understand. A gloved hand reaches weakly out of the furs and angles his chin up and to the east. His heart breaks all the more upon realizing what she means. Orihime and Hikoboshi shine brightly in the southern sky. His throat closes up, remembering dancing and folklore and clumsy kisses.

Katara's voice breaks him out of his thoughts. "What did you wish for that night?"

In his youth he might have tried to evade her, but there was no longer any time for the luxury of secrets. "To see you again. To spend time with you after we left Ember Island."

"You got your wish, then."

"Yes, I suppose I did." Looking back, he wishes that he would have dreamt a little bigger. "What did you wish for?"

"For you and I to be happy and find love."

He isn't surprised. "You were always more gracious than I was."

She gives a little laugh, but the shallow intake of her breath chases away his amusement. After it evens out she gazes blankly at the stars, her expression remote. "Did my wish come true for you, Zuko?"

Had he been happy? Had he found love? Yes. Not in the way he might have expected, but it seems that the spirits had granted her wish as well. "Yes. Did it come true for you?"

She finds his eyes. "Yes."

On impulse he kisses her forehead. "I'm glad." He squeezes her gently and gives her a wry smile. "You could have been a little more specific, though. Happiness and love together might have been nice."

Her gloved fingers find the scarred side of his face, and he leans into her light touch, wishing he could feel her warmth. "We're together now."

He shuts his eyes and wills himself not to cry. "Yes. I suppose we are."

Katara withdraws her hand back into the heap of furs and they lapse into silence, listening to the sea. After a while, she says, "I'm scared."

He's scared too, but he does his best not to show it. "Don't be. Think of all the people you'll get to see. Aang, Sokka, Toph, Uncle, your dad… and your mom. You'll get to see your mom."

The barest hint of a smile graces her lips, crinkling the wrinkles at her eyes and mouth. Then it falls. "Mom… that's right." Under the blankets she shuffles, and after a moment her fist emerges, a faded blue ribbon trailing from between her fingers. She holds it out to him. "Here."

The ribbon might have seen better days, but the pendant that gleams from it is as smooth and perfect as it was when he carried it around his wrist all those decades ago. The significance of this offering is not lost on him, but he clings to the last bit of denial that he has by making a joke. "Though I appreciate the gesture, I hardly think this is the time or place for a proposal."

That she has enough energy to huff and roll her eyes gives him the tiniest glimmer of hope, though he knows it is futile. "Shut up and take it, Zuko."

He reaches for it but stops short. Accepting it feels like accepting the truth, and he isn't ready. "I can't. I can't keep that."

She looks at him thoughtfully. "Then don't think of it as yours. Think of it as holding on to it for safe keeping. You've taken good care of it before. You can return it properly to me later."

He thinks of their ritual on Ember Island after his Uncle passed away. He doesn't want to say it, but the words come out anyway. "Shouldn't… shouldn't it go with you?"

She drops her gaze. "Only if you want it to. I'll let you decide."

With shaking fingers he takes it from her, searches her gaze. "How am I supposed to let you go?"

She has no answer, and neither does he. He suspects that there isn't one.

The moment is broken when, despite the layers of fur, she shivers violently and her teeth start to chatter. Panic threatens at the corners of his mind, and he shifts, preparing to stand. "Okay, that's it. I'm taking you back inside. This was a bad idea."

With shocking speed a hand clamps around his wrist. "No. Please. Just… let me watch the sea. Just a little longer."

He squeezes his eyes shut. He knows what she means. Even if he had the strength and the speed, Katara wouldn't be returning home. But then, the sea was her home in so many ways, and this feels appropriate somehow. He would honor her choice. He could give her that much, at least.

He props her up, cages her in with his legs and wraps his arms around her. His chin finds her shoulder and together they watch the sea. As the sky begins to lighten her breath starts to shudder. His grip on her tightens, as though somehow he could keep her here by the strength of his arms. She grips his hand and sighs.

"I love the sea."

He kisses her temple. "I love you."

"I love you too."

There's nothing more to say after that.

The first fingers of dawn stretch across the horizon to steal her last breath, and she is gone with a sigh of the waves.

The sun breaks over the trees, signaling the beginning of the New Year.

Though he's supposed to be looking forward to fresh new days, he can't help but look back. This time is reserved for her, and he kneels down reverently at the foot of her stone.

He remembers the colors of her life, and the color she brought to his. She was a vibrant, dynamic presence, unforgettable no matter how many years passed or how their lives converged or separated. Though he had loved others just as fiercely, she had colonized a part of his heart long ago in his youth and had refused to budge no matter how he had tried to evict her. He was glad for her tenacity, her forgiveness, and her strength. But most of all he was grateful for her love.

He remembers her final moments, surrounded by the deep cobalt of the ocean and the crisp glimmering white of the tundra. It was fitting, really. She should have never been swathed in green, or draped in crimson, or bathed in yellow. She could be beautiful in all of them but they were costumes, charades. She was as fluid and constant as the water, as fierce and powerful as a storm, as gentle as a spring rain. She was who she was, no more, no less, perfect in a paradox of simple complexity.

He has no flowers to offer today, no petals to cloak her in colors that don't fit. Instead, he unwraps the necklace from around his wrist and lays it across her stone, the swirling engravings identical. He sighs and gives a sad smile.

"You always belonged in blue."

A/N – I'm really sorry it took so long to finish this. Many things got in the way (work, life, writer's block, watching Inuyasha for the first time and falling in love with Sesshomaru's hair, etc.), but I never forgot about this story. I itched to finish it, but I think I was avoiding it. I mean, I knew where this story was going, and the truth is writing this final arc was hard. The whole story premise is sad, but I think I outdid myself in the angst category this time. I think the thing that finally pushed me to come back to it was the new Zutara Week prompts. This chapter was originally based off of the prompt 'cobalt blue' from last year, but when I saw 'vigil' I knew that it was meant to be. So for better or worse, this story now technically spans two ZK Weeks.

This story had 10,000 details and about 9,950 of them were unplanned. When it began I had solid ideas for the framing device – I knew that I wanted to use the colors of the four nations and the four seasons and would relate each arc to a celebration/festival - but everything else was sort of up for grabs and it got complicated pretty quickly. This story was named for the framing device, but perhaps a more apt (and less clumsy) title would have been "Little Things." There are a lot of 'little things' in this story that aren't so little at all: objects, moments, phrases. I'm a sucker in particular for the power simple objects can have, and this idea pops up frequently in this story and a few of my others. Anyway, hopefully it was complicated in a good way, and hopefully I didn't drop anything important in all of the juggling.

Also, as always this story was conceived to be short, but as it turns out it is my longest story to date. The power of Zutara gets me every time.

Edit: treycain03 over on tumblr made an absolutely stunning piece of art for Chapter 5 of this fic. There's a link in my profile, be sure to check it out! You'll be glad that you did!

As always, your comments, critique, and support are cherished. Thank you for going on this journey with me!