The entire world was on fire. Hundreds of thousands of candles flickered in the hastening twilight, gripped by pale hands of every age and gender, the warmth from the tiny flames only adding to the nearly unbearable heat and humidity of the summer evening. Katara had nearly forgotten the muggy warmth of the Fire Nation- the temperature so unbearable that sweat trickled from every pore and the humidity so thick that breathing felt like sucking air through a wet sieve.

Katara shivered despite the heat and wrapped the arm not bearing a candle tightly around her middle, which was robed in traditional mourning-white. She felt the gold bangles she'd been given so long ago press against her belly, the warmth of the night even making the generally cool metal hot against her skin through her linen dress. It had been twenty-one years since she'd attended a Fire Nation funeral. Twenty-one years since Katara had been huddled behind a pillar, watching from the shadows as her child's pyre had been set aflame.

Katara's gut clenched and her heart lurched at the thought, and she swallowed thickly. Back in those days, some two decades prior, it had been Azula and Iroh who had flanked Zuko as he had lit the pyre. Now, standing amidst the sea of his people, Katara could see that it was his wife and five children who stood by his side on the dais, and Uncle who was laid upon the pyre. Sotaro, the oldest of the children and the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, stood close to his father and Katara's breath hitched at the sight of him. At seventeen, he was only a year younger than Zuko had been the last time that she had seen him, and he looked so much like his father had at his age, even from a distance.

Seventeen… Katara vividly recalled what it had been like to be seventeen. In many ways, she still felt the same now as she had then. She was thirty-eight now. Thirty eight and the mother of a twenty year old son. Old enough to be a grandmother, in her tribe. But she didn't feel old; she still felt like the seventeen-year-old girl that she had been so long ago.

Zuko stepped forward from his family, and even from the distance at which she stood, Katara could see the grief etched into the man's features. At forty, Zuko was still as handsome as he had been when they had both drunk from the marriage goblet at seventeen, despite the lines on his face and the weathering of the years. Her heart twisted at the sight of him- not the sharp pain that she had felt in her younger years, but rather a dull, throbbing ache like an old injury on a rainy day.

Zuko lifted his fist and lit the pyre, and Katara finally allowed her long-held tears to fall. Uncle had been like a father to her, and she would miss him, would miss the letters addressed to "My little Swallow," would miss the silk sachets of teas of his own creation, and embraces that smelt of smoke and jasmine. She would miss the tickle of his beard against her forehead, the wisdom offered over a game of Pai Sho. But more than that, she would miss the way Pakak's walls would come crumbling down and his face would light up like a child's every time his uncle came to visit.

Pakak, just returned from his training in the Earth Kingdom, had sobbed when they received the news of Uncle's death, and had begged to journey with her for the funeral. Pakak never begged, not for anything, and Katara had wanted so desperately to bring him with her, to allow him the closure only a funeral pyre seemed able to bring. But she had been adamant that he remain behind. There were things she was not ready for her son to know, things he may have learned had he accompanied her. Luckily, Nukka's sudden, unannounced arrival in the South Pole had been enough to distract him from his anger and disappointment.

The flames flickered high in the air, releasing Iroh's spirit from his body and offering it up to Agni. Through her tears, Katara smiled. Iroh had been ill for over a year, and had written to her more than once that he was ready to leave this world, ready for the suffering to end. Despite her sadness, she was glad. Glad that Iroh was finally able to return to the Spirit world, that he would see his beloved Lu-Ten once again. She wondered, briefly, if Lu Ten would appear to his father as a child again, with chubby arms and toothy grins, the way that Iroh saw him in his heart. Or if he would appear as the man his father had grown to love so fiercely he had lost a nation to his grief.

Katara wondered how she would see Nozomi, when the time came for her to join Iroh, her father, Toph, and Aang in the afterlife. Would the little girl appear as the child she had lost, or the woman she might have grown into, had fate been kind?

She could hear the quiet sobs of the Fire Nation around her, and was struck by just how much these people had loved her Uncle, a man most of them had only known by reputation- The Crown Prince, The Dragon of the West, the grieving father, the traitor, the conqueror, the Fire Lord's closest advisor. What must he have done, from behind those palace walls, to have earned their loyalty?

Eventually, the sobs died down, until there was no sound but the crackling of the funeral pyre. The crowd around her stood in silence for a long time, until the flames had been reduced to embers and then to nothing but smoke rising from the ash. At that moment, the Royal family moved from their silent, stoic vigil. Zuko took Mai's arm and headed down the steps of the dais, their four sons and eleven-year-old daughter falling into place behind them.

The crowd parted as they made their way through the throng, and Katara's heart beat fast and then stilled when she realized that they were walking in her direction. She swallowed hard and stood her ground, watching as the family drew closer. The years had been kind to Mai, she noted- motherhood softening her eyes and mouth and making her look almost pretty. The boys all resembled their father, but none quite so much like the eldest, so like Zuko that Katara could barely stand to look at him. When her eyes passed over the young princess, her heart stopped, stuttered, and she had to forcibly remind herself that Azula was dead, that this child who shared her face would not conjure lightning in her palms, would not slip a horrific poison into an infant's mashed rice. Quickly, Katara forced her eyes from the little girl, who had done nothing to merit the sudden surge of hatred Katara felt welling up inside of her.

And suddenly, the royal family was right there, right in front of her, and Katara couldn't remember how to breathe. Zuko's once black hair was shot through with gray, his body obviously more sinew beneath his heavy, ornate robes than the muscular form she remembered from their youth. His face was paler, more weathered, deep lines around his mouth and between his brows. There was an aura of sadness about him, a sadness that ran deeper than the sorrow over his uncle's death.

All at once, his eyes flickered up and met hers, and her knees turned to jelly. His eyes were the same. Exactly the same as they had been when he was eighteen- the same molten pools of gold that had haunted her dreams for so many years. When their gaze met he paused for a moment, stumbled, and she saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed, his gaze boring into her. Her limbs were suddenly made of lead, her heart thudding loudly in her ears. "Lee," she breathed, so softly she wasn't sure if he could hear her, the memory of his eighteen-year-old voice ringing in her mind: Don't you wish we could be Lee and Kya once more? Zuko moved as if to walk towards her, but Katara quickly slipped back into the throng of people, away from the boy-turned-man who was still held her heart in the palm of his hand.

She wove her way through the masses, heart pounding a sharp, staccato rhythm that bruised her ribs, as she re-traced her steps to the inn she was staying in. An inn made of white marble with a red door. An inn that was once named Ye Zhi's Tea Shop some two decades prior, before the man and his wife had been executed for harboring known criminals and traitors to the crown. The tea shop where she and Zuko had once curled around each other in a narrow little bed, kept awake by Uncle's snores, as they masqueraded as man and wife. It felt at once felt like that time was yesterday and a thousand years ago.

Rather than returning to her bed, she found a secluded booth in the corner of the room, ordered a glass of firewhiskey, and waited. She waited until she could feel the tug of the moon in her blood, until the only light in the little tavern in the inn was from the candles that flickered on every table, making shadows dance along the wall. Until the firewhiskey warmed her belly and numbed her tongue, and gave her enough courage for her hands to stop shaking. And then a man wrapped in a cloak was sitting beside her, his warm, calloused hands wrapping around her own, and a name fell from his shaking lips. "Kya."

Katara's heart beat wildly, like the wings of a hummingbird, as she felt his calloused thumb brush the sensitive underside of her wrist. She laid down a few coins on the table for the firewhiskey, stood, and took he man- her first and only love, her enemy-turned friend and husband- by the hand and led him up the stairs to her little room. As soon as the door was closed and locked, his hood was down, his hands were cradling her face, his molten golden gaze boring into hers.

In that moment, she was sixteen again. Sixteen and standing before the sacred fire, his hands wrapped around hers and his golden eyes shimmering with happiness as he said his vows in a language that she didn't understand. Sixteen and unbearably shy as he undressed her for the first time, his calloused hands cautious and tentative and unsure, his breath heavy and uneven, his lips trembling as they pressed against her flesh. She took in a strangled breath as memory upon memory crashed over her in the span of seconds, and could see her reaction mirrored in his eyes.

And then his lips were on hers, hot and heady as honey-wine, and she moaned into his mouth as she dug her fingers into his hair and pressed her body flush against his, the years falling away. There were no words, not at first- they moved quickly, frantically, he kicking off his boots and she ripping off his cloak, his mouth going to her breasts and sucking at the nipples through the linen of her dress, her thighs spreading as his hands traced their way up her legs to the cleft between them, where he worked her in a way that made her burn like a firebender at the summer solstice. In between pants and groans, she managed to remove his tunic, sunk her teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder to keep from crying out when he moved his hands just so and she shattered around him.

In the time it took to catch her breath, his pants were gone, her dress was on the floor, and he was buried to the hilt inside of her, thrusting roughly- too roughly- it had been so long since she'd allowed a man into her bed and it hurt, but in the best of ways. He palmed a breast and buried his head in her neck, and when he did, Katara could feel the dampness of his tears against her skin. It was only in that moment she realized she was crying too, that as she rained kisses over his cheeks and lips and neck, she could taste the salt of her own tears on her lips. He began to shudder, his pace becoming erratic, and he moved his hand in between their bodies, touching her in a place that had her back arching off the bed and her nails digging into his shoulders before she felt him pulse inside her, burning her from the inside out.

When they lay, boneless, sated, and tangled together, he pressed a kiss to her forehead, her eyes, her lips. "Hey. Zuko here," he said softly, his face younger in the light of the moon, his grin impossibly boyish. Katara chuckled and wrapped her arms around his neck, softly kissing him at the corner of his lips. His eyes softened, the smile slid down so it was just a gentle upturn of his lips, and he ran his fingers through her hair. "I never thought I'd see you again," he whispered, and Katara buried her face against his chest, pressed a kiss to his shoulder.

"Neither did I," she murmured.

He kissed her again, slowly this time, deeply, and Katara languidly returned it, her body remembering what her mind had tried to forget. The different places to touch him that made him gasp and groan, just how to elicit the sharp, high pitched inhale that let her know she had done something just right. This time, she moved above him, slowly, languidly, their hands intertwined, mouths meeting in soft kisses again and again and again. They re-learned each other's bodies, hands and lips roaming, hips lifting and rotating, quiet gasps and soft moans the barometer of their success. When she finally rolled off of him, her limbs pleasantly heavy and eyelids sliding closed, he pillowed her head with his arm and drew her close.

The years slowly crept back to them- and they talked in murmured, muted voices about their child. Katara told him story after story about Pakak; he was desperate for every detail, like a man who'd been wandering the desert that had finally been given the chance to slake his thirst. He laughed when she told him of his son's antics as a small child terrorizing the staff, and he told her it must be a familial trait- that his sons wreaked havoc in his own home. His eyes filled when she told him how Sokka had stepped in as a father to their child, how the boy had never wanted for love. And his eyes shone with something Katara couldn't quite name when she told him of his son's love for Nukka, and the way the avatar let her hands linger on him just a moment too long, the way her gaze would flick to the boy's lips when she thought no one was watching.

They both carefully avoided talking about Mai; it wouldn't be right to bring her here, in this room, where they lay sweaty and naked and pressed so close that it was hard to tell where one began and the other ended. Wouldn't be fair to her, not really, the woman who belonged to and supported this man who cradled the love of his life in his arms.

They talked through the night, until the weak rays of dawn pierced the privacy of their room, and then Zuko was inside her again; they were both too exhausted to move much, spooning as they rocked back and forth in lazy motions, boneless and half-asleep. This time, when they were through, Zuko pressed a kiss to her temple and buried his face in her hair, his fingers digging lightly into her hips as he inhaled. "I love you," he whispered, and Katara closed her eyes, committing the moment to memory- the feeling of his naked warmth against her back, the gravelly-soft sound of his voice, the way his breath tickled her neck.

She turned to look at him, and her breath caught in her throat. He looked like an ivory god in the weak morning light, all golden eyes and translucent skin and flesh drawn tight over solid muscle. She pushed herself up ton her elbows, amused at the way his eyes became transfixed on the dusky nipples of her heavy breasts when she did so, and tilted his chin so that he was meeting her eyes again. "I love you too," she murmured softly, cupping his cheeks in her dark hands and drawing his face down close enough that she could kiss his forehead.

He gently ran his fingers over her cheeks her heavy eyelids, her kiss-swollen lips, and his mouth curved into the saddest smile she'd seen him wear since he entered the inn the night before. "Sleep, Kata," he murmured, pulling her to rest against him again, her legs twined with his, her cheek resting over his heart. The soft beat of it lulled her into slumber, as and she was drawn down into darkness, she listened to his raspy voice as he whispered children's tales of what might have been. And as she lay in his arms, body sore and pleasantly aching, she allowed herself to believe them.

When she woke, the rays of the afternoon sun flooding her bed and stinging her eyes, he was gone.

But somehow, miraculously, she wasn't lonely anymore.