Talisman

It is a child's mantra—the kind of thing that must be repeated over and over because there is no one else to give comfort and fear has long since distorted the truth. There are no monsters under the bed. I am not afraid of the dark. Azula always lies.

Azula always lies.

Her stomach twists, and she hugs her knees to her chest, wondering what kind of sick experiences could cause a sixteen-year-old boy to mumble those words in his sleep. She wonders why she even cares.

She doesn't trust him. She doesn't even like him. He just turned up at the temple with a wave and a hello and expected to be welcomed into their group. But she hasn't accepted him. She will never accept him—not after Ba Sing Se. Not after everything he has done.

Azula always lies.

Her fingernails dig into her knees. She wishes he would stop—wishes she had never woken up and decided to go for a walk to shake off the restless feeling in her limbs. Then she would not have discovered him curled up in a pathetic looking ball far from the warmth of the fire, far from the warmth of his companions, and muttering those desperate words over and over like a talisman. She would not be experiencing such inner turmoil, wondering if she should wake him or leave him.

Azula always lies.

It's just three words, but somehow they dig deeper into her heart with every whisper. Perhaps it's part of being a healer, or perhaps it's just her own inexplicable compassion seeping through, creating cracks in her resolve no matter how many times she tells herself that she hates him and that he doesn't deserve a scrap of her respect.

"Just let it go," she tells herself. "It's just a nightmare."

Except she knows it is not in her nature to walk away. That's why she's still sitting beside him, after all, and shivering under the pale beams of the moon. The nightmare is hurting him, pushing him to speak those magic words that will make the ache in his heart fade. But the monster is more powerful than his talisman. She can see it in the tightness of his jaw, in the sweat gathering on his brow and the frantic flutter of his eyelashes against his cheeks. He is losing this battle, and somehow his pain speaks out to her, begging to be healed.

Azula always lies.

Katara closes her eyes and buries her face into her knees. Everything in her resists helping him, but another part—the part that reached out for a scarred cheek and traced skin so rough it was like dragon scales—knows that this is something she must do. Because she does care, and though she doesn't trust him, she cannot ignore him either.

Exhaling softly, she raises her head from her burrow and stares down at the boy beside her. He's still huddled up in a ball, hands clasped to his chest as if in supplication. His hair is sticking to his face from sweat, half covering the ugly scar that warps the left side of his features, and for some reason this makes him look absurdly young. She can see his lips forming the words over and over; his talisman against his sister—against whatever truth, or lie, Azula tried to feed him. It is a pitiful sight, but it is enough to prompt her into action.

Without a word, she reaches out and places a tentative hand against his cheek—the unscarred side this time. His skin is clammy to touch, but she ignores that and moves her fingers up to his temple to focus her healing powers on soothing his thoughts, much in the same way she had tried to help Jet back in Ba Sing Se. There is so much resistance, so many barriers that refuse to let her in, but then he lets out a deep breath and just like that the pathways open. She cannot see what images haunt his sleeping mind, what words turn him into a child chasing shadows, but she feels her power begin to take hold and cannot help but smile when his feverish muttering stops.

For now, he is quiet. For now, he is at peace.

Katara's smile curves into a frown as she looks down at him, examining the sharp angles and curves that make up his features. "I still don't like you, you know," she whispers, but there is no malice in her voice.

The boy with the scarred face simply lets out another deep breath and shifts into a more comfortable position, losing his foetal-like posture from before. Absently, she smoothes the sticky hair away from his face and, for reasons she doesn't fully understand, she lets her fingers trail in a caress down to his jaw before removing her hand. He does not stir, and for that she can only be grateful. Tonight has been strange enough without having him wake up to discover her there leaning over him. She knows that this impromptu healing session is something she will share with no one—especially not with him.

Her frown deepens and she glances up to stare at the moon, letting the silvery glow wash over her. A part of her is still hyperaware of the boy sleeping beside her, and she sighs and hugs her legs back to her chest, resting her chin on top of her knees. She does not know how to make sense of the feelings that are swirling around inside of her. She never really has known. It's so much easier to deny and deflect, to use rage and hurt to smother her confusion, but he makes that impossible.

"Why do you always have to make things so difficult?" she mutters, glancing back at the dark-haired boy.

Because she doesn't know how to forgive Zuko, but she's beginning to realise that she doesn't know how to hate him either.