WiltingDaisies94: This story is the brainchild of a rush of nostalgia for ATLA, thanks to 1) my introducing the show to a friend, and 2) a great Youtube video by Shipper's Guide to the Galaxy (check her out, she is delightful) focused on Zutara.

I wrote the opening quite enthusiastically, and I hope it speaks to all lovers of Zutara, ATLA, and mythology. While this story is not an AU or a crossover, it's not 100% the Avatar world as you know it... so take a peek and please leave thoughts, comments, and feedback.

As always, happy reading!

Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, or any related series.

Chapter 1

It was the most magnificent robe she'd ever worn, and no matter how long she stared, it never became less horrifying.

Long before the rich material touched her skin, at a time when the lovely robes hung simply in the confines of the wardrobe, she had trembled at the thought of donning such finery. Her hands nervously clutched the thin folds of her own clothing: a long, plain tunic, given shape by a wide sash, and thick leg wrappings for warmth.

Her shoes had been discarded – at least, they had been taken from her on entry to the temple. She couldn't imagine the stone-faced guard who'd carried her inside would have much use for the sturdy, well-worn boots. He was twice her size, with eyes like a glacier, and had spoken mostly in grunts.

Outmatched, she had left her few belongings behind. Her one defiance had been the pins that held her dark hair aloft – she had smuggled them into the temple, hidden in her undergarments. How strange it was to wear her hair free, flowing along her back as though she were a great lady. From the moment of her first blood, her wayward strands had been pinned and pinched into submission, kept well above her shoulders. Only the highest born women were permitted to wear enfettered locks or long, lusty braids.

Such luxury was not her due, and every morning she considered the hairpins in the bare light that entered the room where she was kept. They were long and thin, made of plainest stone or bone. The largest of them had been carved by her grandmother. It was decorated with the symbols of their people: waving curves and crescent moons, spiraling circles, and some patterns she did not recognize. She kissed the smooth surface every night, and wondered how many more lines had grown on her grandmother's face since their last moments together.

It was a familiar memory, as worn and abused as her boots had ever been. In her sleep, she saw the snowy banks of their home, so near the shifting, icy waters, that any moment it seemed the swells would overtake their cottage. The tracks of small animals dotted the morning landscape, and birds flocked overhead, forever passing on to warmer climes. Lazy floes of ice drifted by, carried on an indulgent sea. In the centre of the village, canoes were built and repaired, fishing spears sharpened. Oars were carved from scarce, precious wood, and looms worked unceasingly in skilled, aged hands.

She had been standing by the cottage entrance, clearing dead wood from the fire pit. It was early winter, and even driftwood was difficult to come by. Sorting through the ashes, digging for charred twigs that might burn once more was no pleasant task, but resources were limited. She knew well how every stick counted in the fight for survival, and that the alternative source of fuel – animal dung – would cling to every mouthful she ate for months.

Her grandmother had been inside, apportioning their food stores, when the trouble began. A flurry of raised voices, gruff and demanding, sounded throughout the village. It was a military unit from the chief of the Lower Territory. A dozen or so armed men swept through the village, barking commands at the frightened people. Their ice-crawlers slithered along the chilly ground, their flat-edged tails whipping carelessly behind them.

Had her grandmother said something, as she pushed her into the cottage? Or was it only her imagination that recalled a warning, a grim determination that shot through her knowing eyes?

She could not remember.

What she was certain of, however, was the refusal. The sharp denial of her grandmother's usually gentle voice, the feeble shield of her ancient body against the cottage entrance. She remembered the angry demands, the repeated shaking of her grandmother's head. The whip-like crack of the guard's hand against the sweet, wrinkled cheek. Fragile bones hitting a solid, icy ground, and her own angry cry.

They had come for her, then, and the last she had known of her grandmother's face was a trickle of blood from temple to chin. The two squinting eyes had burned with tears and worry, a look that broke her heart, one she would carry to her grave.

Strong, brutal arms had scooped her up, tossed her over a hard saddle. The last glimpse of her home faded behind her, blurred by tears she could not banish, no matter how the guards shook her.

The journey to the temple must have lasted a half moon cycle, perhaps longer. It was impossible to tell. The days were dark, and only the faintest rays of sun appeared along the way, never lingering. Fortunately, the ice crawlers had bulging eyes made for arctic blackness, and with their aid, her captors were never lost.

At first, she had recoiled whenever a guardsman came near. But the men rarely spoke to her, and her initial fears were slowly put to rest. Only the biggest of them touched her, and even then, it was merely to replace her in the saddle, or carry her to the evening fire. It was one of their odd rules – they refused to allow her feet to touch the ground.

On arrival at the temple, her burly escorts had turned her over to a new set of guards. These men wore the sky-blue robes of the Moon Temple, and they were no more talkative than their predecessors. After losing all but the least of her clothing, she had been borne away to the high-ceilinged room she now occupied. She was not permitted to leave.

At least within the walls of this sparsely decorated space she could access her own two feet. Soft, woven rugs covered the floor, the room's one luxury.

She never knew how many days she passed in solitude, prisoner in a sacred place. There was so little sunlight to penetrate the clouds, and the only person she saw was the serving maid who brought her meals.

Even then, her tentative self-introduction has been met with silence. All her questions were ignored, wafting uselessly to the ceiling, where they amassed like storm clouds. A guard always accompanied the serving maid, standing in the doorway, a reminder not to run.

In one way, his presence was a mercy. It excused her from answering to herself. Did she have the courage to flee?

No need to ask when there was no opportunity.

She waited and waited, and when a new face finally appeared, she could have wept for the chance at conversation. Her visitor was an elderly woman, with thick features and drooping earlobes, who called herself the White Priestess. In her arms she held the beautiful robes, and in her mouth, an ugly explanation.

She did cry, then, as the White Priestess stood impassively by. Had they no hearts, these powerful men with their schemes? Or were they simply frozen, hard and cold as the ice around them? She would refuse. She would run. She would –

She would not, the White Priestess assured her. She could not. This was no airy matter for a young girl to decide. This was the fate of a people, the lives of tens of thousands. She would do as she was told, and the nation would praise her bones for centuries to come.

With the calm detachment of a snowdrift, the White Priestess had departed, leaving her to fresh waves of fruitless tears.

The robes had remained, and staring at herself now in the long mirror, freshly bathed and draped in fabric, it was hard to think of her bones. She was swathed in layers of cloth, long overskirts in shades of ever-darkening blue. The outermost color was a midnight sky in fabric form, the hem trimmed with fur. Her flowing sleeves were edged with seed pearls, and hung daintily over her wrists. The sky-blue bodice was softer than a dream, and tied with a sash made of delicate spider-bat lace.

Her neck was bare, but the serving maid had come that morning and painted her face. Over the base coat of white, curves of blue paint caressed her cheeks, and two crescent moons intersected on her forehead. Her lips were dyed a deep purple, and black paint lined her eyes. Her hair had been brushed and slightly arranged, with small strands gathered at the back in a knot crowned with pearls. The rest hung in waves down her back.

She looked nothing like herself, draped in yards of luxurious material, her face arch and expressionless beneath the paint.

When the door opened, she stood automatically. A phalanx of temple acolytes entered and she was guided onto a palanquin shouldered by four temple guards. As the procession moved through the quiet halls, she hid behind the curtains and tucked her grandmother's hairpin into her bodice.

Then, swallowing her tears so as not to ruin the painted mask, Katara faced forward and prepared to meet the man who would end her life.