Rock Bottom

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Author's Note: Set between Zuko Alone and The Chase.

--

Six numb, thoughtless hours after leaving the nameless, dusty, near-ghost-town, Zuko paused at a stream to let the ostrich-horse drink. He tied the reins to an exposed root so she wouldn't wander off, then knelt and stared at his reflection.

I don't care, he thought, numbly. What they think doesn't matter.

Except it did matter. It mattered a lot. They shot him down, threw him out, when he was only trying to help.

I won't fight you!

He flinched, and started shaking, fighting back tears. I am not going to cry, I'm better than this, I have to be...

He blinked, and an hour had passed. The ostrich-horse was tugging at the rein, wanting to get moving again, but Zuko didn't feel like standing, much less mounting and facing the world again. So he knelt there, legs falling asleep, watching his reflection some more. It had been...how long? He never kept mirrors around, even before he's lost everything again.

When the ostrich-horse sighed and lay down to sleep, he realized he'd lost track of time again. He couldn't feel anything but pins and needles below his knees. His reflection was barely visible now, blurry and dark, now that the moon had set.

Feathery-soft whiteness was falling, too warm and dry for snow--even after three years, he couldn't understand that--but he was wavering too much, had drifted too far from his center, to recognize it for what it really was. So he pretended it was cherry blossoms, and for a moment he was back by the pond--

His shoulders started shaking again. This time he didn't bother holding it back. Why should he? No one was here to see.

I have nothing.

I am nothing.

Everything I touch dies.

I can't do this anymore.

His knife was in his hand--and how did that happen, he couldn't remember--staring up at him, the inscription a mute reproach.

"This is different," he told it, not as firmly as he would've hoped. "I have fought. And I lost. And I keep losing. This isn't giving up. It's accepting the inevitable." The inscription had no answers, clearly not believing him. He turned the knife around.

If he did it here, he would fall into the river. Even if his uncle was following, no one would find him for ages; by then, even he probably wouldn't be able to recognize Zuko anymore. A footnote in history, one failure and defeat after another, until he finally, finally took things into his own hands, and faded away, his death as worthless as his life.

He knew how to do it, of course. Though he'd never considered it before. Had never even thought about it. But now it felt right, necessary. Shaking hands opened his shirt, and he rested the knife against his abdomen. He took a deep breath, and started to press.

Then the ground started shaking. Paranoid, he flopped flat onto the ground, trusting in the tall grass and his nondescript clothing to hide him from view.

When the train rolled by, his eyes narrowed. And then he registered the white fluff dusting the world. He cursed himself, silently, for being so stupid, waited for the train to pass, counted to two hundred, then silently stroked the ostrich-horse awake.

One more chance. He'd get it right this time, die trying, or finish what he started.

Either way, it was almost over.