PaillettEtCadi

The once-silent paths were no longer silent. Tiny footsteps now interrupted them at unpredictable intervals. Small laughter echoed between stone walls that had once only known the weight of council discussions and war planning.

And in the center of it all, Izumi ran.

Well.. ran was generous.

She was fast in that uneven, determined way toddlers were fast: half stumble, half sprint, entirely convinced she was escaping something important.At this moment, it was a cluster of turtleducks that seemed to have decided she was the most entertaining thing they had ever seen.

They followed her with ridiculous dedication.

Izumi squealed, turning sharply, her little arms flailing as she tried to keep balance.

Behind her, Zuko tensed instinctively.

“Careful..”

But Katara, sitting nearby on the stone edge of the pond, raised a hand without looking up. “She’s fine.”

Zuko stopped mid-word.

He still watched, though.

Always watched.

The garden was warm with late afternoon light. The pond reflected soft gold across the stones, and the turtleducks glided lazily through the water whenever Izumi paused long enough for them to regroup.

Aang was sitting beside Katara, one hand resting lightly near her stomach. Katara was visibly far along in her pregnancy, her movements slower, more deliberate, but her expression calm in a way that seemed almost permanent.

Peaceful.

Sokka lay stretched out in the grass nearby, pretending he wasn’t actively losing a silent war against a turtleduck trying to steal his shoe.

Toph had already declared the entire situation “loud, chaotic, and therefore tolerable.”

Izumi tripped.

Zuko was on his feet instantly, but she caught herself.

Barely.

She turned around, looked at the turtleducks like they had personally betrayed her, and immediately stomped her tiny foot.

The glare she gave them was furious.

Absolutely offended.

The turtleducks paused.

Then continued following her anyway.

Sokka snorted. “She’s got your intensity, man.”

Zuko didn’t answer immediately.

He was still watching her.

Something soft crossed his face, something none of them would have recognized a year ago.

“She’s getting faster,” he said.

Aang smiled. “She’s also getting more dramatic.”

“She’s very expressive,” Katara added.

Izumi suddenly turned and ran back toward Zuko, arms outstretched.

“Papa!”

She collided into his legs with all the force her tiny body could manage.

Zuko caught her immediately, lifting her with practiced ease. She giggled loudly, grabbing at his robes as if she intended to climb him entirely.

He adjusted her carefully against his shoulder.

“She almost climbed the entire staircase this morning,” he said, as if continuing a report.

Aang raised an eyebrow. “That’s impressive?”

“She was trying to fight a pillow when Toph and I arrived” Sokka added.

“It was winning,” Toph said flatly.

Izumi laughed at the attention, clearly pleased with herself.

Zuko looked down toward her, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

“She’s starting to mimic expressions more,” he said quietly. “Especially when she’s angry.”

Katara tilted her head slightly. “Oh?”

Zuko hesitated.. just briefly.

Then, almost absentmindedly, he added:

“When she’s upset with me… she makes this face.”

He paused.

A small, almost private smile formed at the corner of his mouth.

“Exactly like Mai used to when she was bored out of her mind.”

The garden went quiet in a way that wasn’t uncomfortable.

Just attentive.

Zuko didn’t stop speaking.

“She’ll sit there, just like this,” he said, gently shifting Izumi in his arms as she continued to cling to him, “and stare at me like I’ve personally offended the universe. Completely silent. Completely unimpressed.”

Izumi, on cue, narrowed her eyes at Sokka for absolutely no reason.

Sokka leaned back. “I feel judged.”

“She definitely got that from Mai,” Zuko added, still watching Izumi.

Katara studied him carefully.

Because something was different.

Not the grief.

That was still there, in quiet places.

But something had changed around it.

Before, mentioning Mai would have pulled him under immediately, like falling into the North Pole water freezing, deadly.

Now, he just… spoke.

Like the memory was part of him instead of something that destroyed him.

Like it hurt, but didn’t break him open anymore.

Izumi reached up and grabbed his face with both hands, forcing him to look at her directly.

Zuko blinked.

Then, instead of pulling away or tensing,

he smiled.

Small.

Natural.

Unforced.

Katara noticed first.

Her eyes softened instantly, her posture relaxing.

Aang followed her gaze.

Then Sokka.

Even Toph tilted her head slightly, like she had just heard something shift in the air.

Zuko adjusted Izumi on his hip, still smiling faintly as she babbled something incomprehensible at him.

“She’s stubborn,” he said.

“She’s a child of two stubborn parents,” Katara replied.

That earned a quiet huff of laughter from him.

Not forced.

Not fragile.

Real.

And in that moment, it settled into all of them at once, quiet, undeniable, simple:

He was still here.

But more importantly..

he was going to be okay.

————————————————

I found a lot of different version of this setting but this one in particular felt the best

“My lord… the palace requests your immediate return.”

Zuko looked up from the reports spread across the table. His eyes were already tired, already aching from days of work that never seemed to end. “What is it?”

The messenger swallowed, holding out a sealed scroll stamped with the royal crest. “From the capital. Urgent.”

Something cold slid into Zuko’s stomach before he even broke the seal. His fingers felt clumsy, suddenly too slow, as he unfolded the paper.

The labor has begun.

That was all it said.

The room tilted.

For a heartbeat he simply stared at the words, as if they might rearrange themselves into something less terrifying. Less final. Less real.

Then the chair scraped loudly against the floor as he stood so fast it nearly toppled behind him.

“Prepare the transport balloon,” he said, already moving toward the door. “Now.”

Servants scattered before him. Advisors called after him. Someone tried to ask about the meeting he had been in the middle of. The reports still lay open on the table, ink drying mid-sentence.

Zuko barely remembered leaving the room.

One moment the message was in his hands, the next the palace corridors were rushing past in a blur of blue and silver. Servants flattened themselves against the walls as he passed. Someone called his name. Someone else asked for orders.

He gave none.

The words the labor has begun echoed in his skull, louder than anything around him.

He should have been there already. He should have planned better. Stayed closer. Cancelled the trip. Cancelled everything.

The guilt arrived fast and merciless.

By the time he reached the courtyard, the transport balloon was only half-prepared. Ropes still coiled on the ground. Crew scrambling. Flames not yet fully fed into the furnace.

“Leave it,” he snapped. “We go now.”

“My lord, the weather…”

“Now.”

The single word cracked like thunder.

No one argued again.

The balloon surged upward in a violent lurch that nearly threw him off balance. The capital shrank beneath them, rooftops melting into a patchwork of crimson tiles and smoke.

Too slow.
Still too slow.

Zuko gripped the railing so tightly the metal creaked beneath his hands. Wind tore at his hair and robes, but he barely felt it. All he could see was distance. Endless distance stretching between him and Mai.

Mai.

He could picture her perfectly. The bored expression. The quiet sarcasm. The way she would pretend not to care and then quietly make sure he had eaten, slept, breathed.

The way her hand always found his without him noticing.

He had left her only days ago.

He remembered standing in the doorway, hesitating longer than usual. She had been sitting near the window, one hand resting on the curve of her stomach.

“You’re staring,” she had said without looking up.

“I’m memorizing,” he had answered.

She rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Maybe.”

A pause. Then softer: “I’ll be back before anything happens.”

She had hummed, unconvinced but not worried. “Babies take forever. You’ll make it.”

You’ll make it.

The memory twisted like a knife.

What if he didn’t, what if the baby was already here?

He started pacing before he even realized he had moved.

One end of the deck to the other. Turn. Repeat.

The pilot tried not to watch.

Zuko dragged a hand through his hair, breathing too fast, thoughts colliding in panicked spirals.

He knew nothing about childbirth. Nothing about babies. Nothing about how to help. He had read the scrolls the healers sent. He had attended the briefings. He had nodded at the right moments.

None of it felt real until now.

Until the words it has begun.

What if she was in pain right now?
What if she was asking for him?

What if she was scared?

Mai didn’t scare easily. She faced assassins without blinking. She had betrayed Azula without hesitation. She had walked into danger like it was an inconvenience.

But this…

This was something She couldn’t fight. Something he couldn’t protect her from. Couldn’t burn away or fix or defeat.

He slammed his fist lightly against the railing, jaw tight.

He was the Fire Lord. He commanded armies. He negotiated peace between nations.

And he couldn’t even be there when the person he loved needed him most.

Hours crawled by.

The sun climbed higher, then began its slow descent. Shadows stretched long across the clouds. The sky shifted from blue to gold to burning orange.

Still not there.

Zuko stopped pacing only to lean over the railing, staring ahead as if sheer willpower might pull the balloon faster through the sky.

“How much longer?” he asked.

“Several hours, my lord.”

Several hours.

His stomach dropped.

Anything could happen in several hours.

He imagined arriving to exhausted smiles and crying laughter and a tiny bundle placed in his arms.

He imagined arriving to silence.

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“No,” he whispered again, voice hoarse from wind and fear. “Hold on. Please just hold on. Please wait for me.”

The balloon creaked as it surged forward into the darkening sky.

He turned sharply, startling the pilot. “Can we go faster?”

“We’re already pushing the limits, my lord.”

Zuko nodded, but the answer did nothing to quiet the frantic rhythm of his thoughts.

He tried to imagine the moment he would walk into the room. Mai would be tired, probably annoyed at the fuss. She would make some dry comment about him worrying too much. Then she would hand him their child with that small, rare smile she only showed when no one else was looking.

He clung to that image like a lifeline.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

The hours stretched endlessly, every minute dragging like an eternity.

And still everything felt unbearably slow

When the balloon finally descended, Zuko did not wait for it to fully land.

He jumped before the ropes were secured, boots hitting the stone courtyard hard enough to jar his bones. Someone shouted after him, but the sound blurred into the roar of blood in his ears as he ran.

Corridors blurred past him again.. red pillars, gold trim, torchlight flickering against polished floors. Servants scattered, startled by the Fire Lord sprinting through the palace like a man fleeing a battlefield.

Maybe he was.

His hand hit the door before his mind caught up.

He shoved it open.

The first thing he heard was crying.

A baby’s cry, sharp, raw, alive.

Relief crashed into him so suddenly it almost knocked the air from his lungs. For a split second the world narrowed to that sound alone, fragile and furious and impossibly small.

Then the rest of the room rushed in.

Chaos.

Healers and nurses moved quickly around the chamber, voices hushed but urgent, hands stained, cloths soaked in water and something darker. Bowls clattered softly. Someone whispered instructions. Someone else hurried past carrying folded linens.

No one noticed him.

Not at first.

Zuko stood frozen just inside the doorway, chest heaving, trying to make sense of the scene. Trying to find her in the blur of movement and shadows.

The crying continued, filling the space where his thoughts should have been.

At last someone turned.

A young nurse, barely older than a girl, met his eyes, and the room fell silent.

The shift was immediate and suffocating. Conversations died mid-sentence. Movement slowed, then stopped. Every pair of eyes dropped toward the floor.

The baby’s cries suddenly sounded impossibly loud.

The young woman stepped forward, cradling a small bundle wrapped in pale blankets. Her hands trembled as she approached him.

“My lord,” she whispered.

Zuko didn’t realize he had stopped breathing until the bundle was placed carefully into his arms.

The crying softened the moment the child settled against his chest.

He stared down.

Tiny. Warm. Real.

A shock of dark hair already visible. Small fingers curled instinctively against the fabric of his robes. A face impossibly delicate, impossibly perfect.

And unmistakably,

Mai.

His vision blurred instantly.

“She’s…” His voice failed him. He swallowed hard, trying again. “She’s beautiful.”

The words came out broken, fragile with disbelief.

The baby squirmed softly, her cries fading into quiet, uneven breaths. One impossibly small hand loosened from the blanket and pressed against his chest, as if searching for a heartbeat.

Zuko felt something inside him crack wide open.

His daughter.

Their daughter.

He lifted his head, heart hammering, ready to ask the question he had been holding back since the moment he entered the room.

Where is Mai?

He never got the chance to say it.

“My lord,” an older healer said quietly.

Something in her tone made the air turn cold.

“Lady Mai did not survive the birth.”

The words landed softly.

Gently.

Mercilessly.

Zuko did not understand them at first. They slid past his ears without meaning, like a language he did not speak.

The healer continued, voice calm and practiced.

“The child is healthy. Strong. The future of the Fire Nation is secure. Arrangements are already being made..”

Secure.

Arrangements.

Healthy.

Words without weight. Without sense. Without meaning.

The room tilted again, slower this time, like the world itself was losing balance.

Zuko’s arms tightened instinctively around the baby as if the ground might vanish beneath him.

Someone was still speaking.

He could not hear them anymore.

The healer’s voice returned slowly, as if rising from underwater.

“I will return next week to ensure the princess continues to thrive, my lord.”

Princess.

The word echoed strangely in the quiet, too large for the tiny weight in his arms, too formal for the fragile life breathing softly against his chest.

Zuko didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure he could.

The healer waited a moment, then bowed deeply and turned away. The sound of her footsteps faded into the corridor, swallowed by the heavy silence that settled over the room.

For a heartbeat, nothing moved.

Then the doors opened again.

More attendants entered, quietly, efficiently, as though stepping into any ordinary chamber that required cleaning after a long day. Their voices were low and respectful, their movements practiced, precise. Familiar.

Routine.

Zuko stood in the center of the room, unmoving, his mind still struggling to catch up with the words he had heard only moments ago.

Did not survive the birth.

The sentence replayed over and over, but it refused to make sense.

It sounded like something that happened to other people. Something distant. Something that belonged in stories or reports or tragedies from another life.

Not here.
Not to her.

He realized what the attendants were doing only when they approached the bed.

They moved carefully, hands steady, faces composed. Two of them stepped forward together and reached for the still form beneath the sheets.

The world seemed to narrow into a single unbearable point.

They lifted her gently.

The fabric draped over the body shifted with the movement, outlining the familiar shape beneath. The curve of a shoulder. The length of her hair beneath the cloth. The unmistakable silhouette he had known for years.

Zuko’s breath caught sharply in his throat.

His mind screamed at him to look away.

He couldn’t.

He watched as they carried her toward the door, their steps slow and reverent. The room felt impossibly quiet, the only sound the faint rustle of fabric and the soft breathing of the child in his arms.

She passed within a few feet of him.

So close he could have reached out.

So close he almost did.

His fingers twitched, tightening reflexively around the blanket wrapped around his daughter, their daughter, as if the instinct to hold on had nowhere else to go.

Then the attendants disappeared through the doorway.

The door closed with a soft, final click.

The sound echoed far too loudly.

Something inside his chest caved in.

He stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door, waiting for it to open again. Waiting for someone to step back through and say there had been a mistake. That he had misunderstood. That she was asking for him.

The door stayed closed.

The room stayed silent.

Slowly, his gaze drifted back toward the bed.

The sheets were still rumpled from the struggle. Pillows displaced. Blankets twisted. The imprint of a body still visible in the mattress.

And the blood.

Dark. Spreading. Impossible to ignore.

It soaked into the pale fabric like a stain burned into reality itself.

Zuko felt the breath leave his lungs in a shaky, soundless exhale.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this helpless. Not during Agni Kai. Not during the war. Not even when he had been banished.

This was different.

This was final.

He barely noticed the servants step forward again until the bed shifted beneath their hands.

Fresh sheets appeared. Clean linens. A new mattress cover unfolded with practiced efficiency.

They worked quickly, methodically, as if racing against something unseen.

The stained fabric disappeared into baskets. The pillows were replaced. The blankets smoothed flat.

The transformation was swift and merciless.

Within minutes, the bed looked untouched.

Untainted.

As if the room had never witnessed anything but quiet sleep.

As if Mai had never been there at all.

Zuko’s vision blurred.

His arms tightened around the baby instinctively, as if she were the only solid thing left in the world.

One by one, the servants finished their tasks. Bowed. Left the room in silence.

Until only one remained.

The young nurse who had first placed the child in his arms.

She lingered near the doorway, hesitating as though unsure whether she should speak.

Finally, she turned back toward him and bowed deeply.

“My lord… before she passed, Lady Mai chose the princess’s name.”

Zuko’s heart stumbled painfully in his chest.

The nurse’s voice softened.

“She named her Izumi.”

Izumi.

The name settled into the air like a fragile flame.

Zuko swallowed hard, repeating it silently, as if saying it aloud might break something.

Izumi.

The nurse bowed once more and slipped quietly from the room.

The door closed behind her with a gentle click.

And for the first time since he had arrived…

There was nothing left to interrupt the silence.

Zuko stood alone in the stillness, holding a daughter he had only just met, in a world that no longer looked the way it had that morning.

——————————————————

After searching through my documents, I found so many fanfics from this timeline where Mai dies in childbirth.

I don’t really know what to do with all of this. I’m not sure if it’s a good idea to post it all, and if yes, how?

I’m a bit lost, there is so much.

In the span of a few weeks, I wrote thousands of words that I have no memory of. It’s a bit weird.

Servants moved at all hours. Courtiers whispered behind painted screens. Guards shifted outside every door. Somewhere, always, there were footsteps, voices, duties waiting.

But tonight, deep in the Fire Lord’s private chambers, the world had gone still.

Zuko held his daughter against his shoulder and walked slow, careful circles across the room.

Izumi was only a few months old, small and warm and impossibly alive in his arms. A tiny fist clutched the fabric of his robe with stubborn determination, as if she already understood the importance of holding on.

He adjusted her gently.

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he murmured.

She disagreed. Quietly, but firmly.

A soft, indignant noise escaped her as she shifted, blinking up at him with heavy eyes that refused to close.

Zuko smiled despite the ache in his chest.

“You’re stubborn,” he whispered. “I wonder where you got that from.”

The moonlight filtered through the tall windows, painting silver across the floor. It turned the gold decorations pale and muted, stripping the room of its grandeur until it felt almost simple. Almost like the world had been reduced to just the two of them.

Just father and daughter.

He resumed pacing.

Careful steps. Slow breaths. The rhythm had become instinct over the past months he had learned it through sleepless nights and a lot of trial and error. Rock, step, breathe. Rock, step, breathe.

He had faced armies with less uncertainty.

Izumi made another small sound, restless.

“I know,” he said softly. “It’s hard to fall asleep when everything is new.”

His voice faltered at the last word.

Everything is new.

Everything except the absence.

He stopped walking.

The quiet pressed in around him.

There was a chair near the window, the one he had moved there weeks ago when the nights began to feel longer than the days. He lowered himself into it slowly, careful not to wake the child in his arms.

Izumi shifted, then settled against his chest with a soft sigh.

Zuko looked down at her.

Her hair was dark like Mai’s. Her face soft and round and untouched by the world. Her tiny breaths puffed warm against his collar.

She would never know war the way he had. Never know the version of the Fire Nation that raised him.

He would make sure of that.

His throat tightened.

“You would have loved her,” he whispered into the quiet room.

The words hung in the air, spoken to no one and someone at the same time.

He could almost hear the answer anyway.

A warm laugh. Gentle and amused.

Of course I would.

Zuko swallowed hard.

His gaze drifted to the moonlit window.

It had been months, but grief had no respect for time. Some days it sat quietly in the corner of his heart. Other days it filled the entire room.

Tonight it sat in the empty space beside him.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he admitted softly.

Izumi stirred again, making a small protesting sound as if sensing the shift in his voice.

“Sorry,” he murmured quickly. “Too serious.”

He adjusted her in his arms, instinctively rocking her again.

The motion unlocked a memory he hadn’t touched in months.

A dim tent.
The smell of tea and smoke.
A voice warm enough to make the world feel safe.

The melody came before he realized he was humming.

Soft. Slow. Familiar.

The lullaby felt fragile in the quiet room, like a thread pulled gently from the past into the present.

His voice joined the melody before he could stop it.

He didn’t sing the words at first. Just the tune. Just the rise and fall of notes that had once filled lonely nights with warmth.

Izumi’s breathing began to slow.

Zuko closed his eyes.

He remembered sitting beside a small fire, pretending not to listen while a rough voice sang to the night. Pretending not to need comfort he didn’t believe he deserved.

He had understood the song too late.

He always understood things too late.

His voice grew softer.

Careful.

Reverent.

He let only a few words slip out, barely above a whisper.

“Leaves from the vine…”

The rest stayed locked in his chest, too heavy to carry into the world.

Izumi sighed in her sleep, tiny fingers relaxing against his robe.

Zuko opened his eyes again.

“You won’t remember this,” he whispered to her. “You won’t remember these nights or this song.”

His voice trembled, but he didn’t stop.

“But you’ll grow up hearing stories. About the greatest man I ever knew.”

He smiled faintly.

“He would have spoiled you. Completely. No discipline at all. Tea before bed, extra sweets, stories long past your bedtime.”

A quiet breath escaped him, halfway between a laugh and a sob.

“He would have loved teaching you Pai Sho. And pretending to lose.”

Izumi slept on, unaware of the world being built for her in gentle promises.

“You won’t meet him,” Zuko continued softly. “But everything good in me… everything I’m trying to give you…”

His voice cracked.

“That came from him.”

The moonlight shifted as clouds drifted past, dimming the room.

Zuko pressed his cheek gently against the top of Izumi’s head.

“I hope that’s enough.”

Silence settled around them again, but this time it felt softer. Warmer.

The melody lingered in the air long after he stopped singing.

Zuko sat there for a long time, listening to the quiet rhythm of his daughter’s breathing, the steady proof that the world had continued forward.

That something gentle had survived.

When he finally stood to place her in her cradle, the grief didn’t disappear.

But it felt lighter.

Like a hand resting on his shoulder instead of a weight on his chest.

He tucked the blanket around her carefully.

“Goodnight, Izumi.”

His voice was steady now.

“Goodnight, Uncle.”

—————————————

The Gaang didn’t bother.

Katara walked at the front with determined strides, Aang just behind her, Sokka trying to look official and failing spectacularly, and Toph strolling along as if she’d been invited personally.

The palace doors opened before they reached them. Someone had clearly been watching their approach.

A young woman in formal Fire Nation attire hurried down the steps and bowed deeply.

“Welcome. I’m afraid Fire Lord Zuko is not available to receive visitors today.”

She spoke with rehearsed calm, but her eyes darted nervously between them. It was the look of someone who knew exactly who they were, and exactly how impossible it would be to turn them away.

Katara didn’t slow down.

“That’s not a request,” she said evenly. “We’re informing you that we’re here. He’ll see us whether he wants to or not.”

The woman blinked, caught off guard.

“I.. of course. If you could wait here, I will inform..”

“We’ll come with you,” Sokka added, already stepping inside.

Toph smirked. “Relax. We can wait just be fast.”

The poor woman looked like she might faint. She bowed quickly and rushed off down the corridor at an almost undignified pace.

They waited in the grand entrance hall, the silence stretching long enough to make Katara’s chest tighten.

“He hasn’t written in a month,” she said quietly.

Aang nodded. “That’s not like him.”

Sokka crossed his arms. “Maybe he’s just buried in paperwork. Running a country sounds exhausting.”

Toph tilted her head slightly, sensing the subtle tension in the building. “Yeah. That’s not what this feels like.”

Footsteps echoed rapidly down the hall.

The woman returned, slightly out of breath. “Please follow me.”

No formal announcement. No explanation. Just urgency.

They were led deeper into the palace, through increasingly quiet corridors where servants stepped aside and guards bowed low.

The deeper they went, the more the cheerful noise of the palace faded into uneasy silence.

Katara exchanged a glance with Aang. Something was wrong.

They stopped in front of a tall wooden door at the end of a secluded hallway.

“This is Fire Lord Zuko’s private apartment,” the woman said softly.

She bowed once more and stepped away.

No knocking. No announcement.

Just a closed door.

Aang hesitated for only a second before pushing it open.

The room beyond was dark.

Not dim. Dark.

Heavy curtains blocked the sunlight, leaving the space lit only by faint gray light leaking through the edges. The air felt stale, untouched.

And messy.

Plates stacked on every surface. Cups left forgotten. Papers scattered across the floor. Blankets twisted into tangled piles. Clothes draped over chairs like abandoned thoughts.

It wasn’t the mess of someone busy.

It was the mess of someone who had stopped caring.

On the couch in the center of the room sat Zuko.

Cross-legged. Motionless.

Something small was bundled in his arms.

He looked up slowly as they entered.

The sight hit them all at once.

His hair was unkempt. Dark circles hollowed his eyes. His clothes hung loose from a body that had clearly lost weight. His skin had the pale, washed-out tone of someone who hadn’t seen sunlight in far too long.

He looked like he hadn’t slept.

Or eaten.

Or lived.

For a long time.

The moment the door opened fully, Zuko’s head snapped up.

His body reacted before his mind did, instinct straightening his spine, tightening his shoulders. Even exhausted, even hollowed out, something in him still tried to become the Fire Lord again.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asked sharply.

His voice was rough, like it hadn’t been used properly in days.

Before anyone could answer, he pushed himself slightly more upright, adjusting the small bundle in his arms without thinking.

“The Fire Nation is currently being managed by people I trust completely,” he said quickly, almost mechanically. “I’ve delegated everything. I’ll return to my duties soon, I just..”

“Zuko.”

Katara cut through his words like a blade through cloth.

Her voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

“That’s not why we’re here.”

He stopped.

For a second, there was only silence.

Aang stepped forward gently. “We haven’t heard from you in over a month.”

Sokka nodded. “Not a word. That’s not normal, even for you.”

Katara’s eyes didn’t leave Zuko’s face. “We were worried.”

Zuko let out a short, humorless breath.

“You crossed the entire Fire Nation because I didn’t send a letter?”

Toph crossed her arms.

“Yeah, well, you can laugh but you look like you’re one bad gust of wind away from collapsing. And that’s the blind girl telling you this”

A beat.

Silence hit the room like a weight dropping.

Zuko stared at them.

Really stared.

Like he was seeing them for the first time in weeks instead of just reacting to their presence.

His grip on the bundle in his arms tightened slightly.

Then… something in him cracked.

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t dramatic.

It was just sudden.

His breath broke first.

Then his shoulders.

Then the sound came, raw, uncontrolled, pulled straight from somewhere deep he had been forcing shut for weeks.

He sank forward slightly, still holding the bundle, trying instinctively not to drop it, not to break it, not to lose anything else.

“I can’t..”

His voice fractured.

“I can’t do this.”

Katara moved instantly, crossing the room in a few steps and kneeling beside him.

But she didn’t touch him yet. Not immediately.

She waited.

Zuko’s head dipped.

And then the words came out in pieces, each one heavier than the last.

“Mai is dead.”

The room froze.

Toph’s expression went still.

Aang’s eyes widened.

Sokka stopped breathing for a second.

Zuko laughed once, broken, disbelieving.

“She died giving birth.”

A shaky inhale.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

His grip tightened again around the baby in his arms like it was the only stable thing left in the world.

“I can’t do this I can I just can’t il not strong enough.”

His voice rose slightly, then broke again.

“I keep thinking if I just.. if I had done something differently.. if I had been there sooner..”

Katara placed a hand on his shoulder.

Firm. Warm. Real.

“You couldn’t have stopped it,” she said softly.

Zuko flinched like he didn’t believe her.

“I wasn’t there when she needed me.” he whispered. “I didn’t even say goodbye. I can’t do it alone”

Aang shook his head immediately.

“No one handles this alone.”

Toph nodded once, blunt as ever. “Yeah, that’s kind of the whole point of us.”

Zuko gave a wet, broken laugh that turned into another sob halfway through.

“I don’t know how to be her father,” he admitted. “I don’t know how to do this without Mai. I can’t even look at her without..”

His voice stopped.

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

Katara squeezed his shoulder slightly.

“You don’t have to do it alone,” she said again, softer this time. “We’re here.”

Aang stepped closer, voice gentle but steady.

“We’re a group, Zuko. We don’t leave each other like this.”

Sokka scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, then nodded. “Yeah. Unfortunately for you, you’re stuck with us.”

A faint, shaky exhale escaped Zuko, almost a laugh.

Almost.

But he was still shaking.

Still holding on too tightly to the small life in his arms like letting go would mean losing everything else too.

Katara didn’t move for a moment.

Zuko was still shaking, still holding onto the small bundle in his arms like it was the only solid thing left in a collapsing world.

His breath came unevenly, like every inhale had to be relearned.

Slowly, Katara softened her voice.

“…Can I hold her?”

Zuko blinked, as if the question took a second to reach him.

For a moment, he hesitated.

His grip tightened instinctively.

Then, carefully, almost reluctantly, he shifted the bundle forward.

“Be careful,” he said immediately, too fast, too protective. “She’s, she’s small.”

Katara nodded and gently peeled back the edge of the blanket.

Inside, a tiny baby slept soundly, her face peaceful in a way the room around her was not. Small fists curled near her chest, her breathing soft and steady.

For a moment, even the heaviness in the air seemed to pause.

Aang’s expression softened instantly.

“She’s… really small,” he whispered.

Then he tilted his head slightly, studying her more closely.

“…She looks a lot like Mai.”

The words weren’t meant to hurt.

But they landed anyway.

Zuko’s breath caught sharply.

For a second, he didn’t respond.

His eyes stayed fixed on the child as if looking away would make everything collapse.

Then, quietly, his voice broke through again.

“She is.”

A pause.

And then, softer:

“She’s beautiful.”

His throat tightened immediately after saying it, like even that simple truth was too heavy to hold.

Katara adjusted the baby gently in her arms, careful, instinctive.

Zuko didn’t let go completely, his fingers hovered near the blanket, as if he was afraid even this moment might slip away.

A silence settled again, but this one was different.

Less sharp.

More fragile.

Zuko swallowed hard.

And then it all came out.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

His voice cracked immediately, but he didn’t stop.

“I’m exhausted all the time. I haven’t slept properly in days. Every time I close my eyes I think I hear her crying, and I just.. I can’t.. I can’t tell if I’m doing anything right.”

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers trembling slightly.

“She wakes up constantly. Every forty-five minutes, sometimes less. And I keep thinking I must be doing something wrong, because I can’t get her to sleep longer, I can’t.. I can’t fix it.”

His laugh came out sharp and broken.

“And I keep telling myself I should be able to fix it. Because I’m supposed to be Fire Lord. I’m supposed to be able to handle things.”

His gaze dropped.

“But I can’t even handle this.”

A beat.

His voice lowered.

“I barely leave this room anymore.”

He gestured vaguely around him, like the space itself was closing in.

“Everything here… everything reminds me of her.”

His throat tightened again.

“Mai’s things are still here. She is everywhere. I can’t move anything because it feels like if I do, she’ll be even further away.”

He pressed his lips together, struggling to continue.

“And if I stay here too long, I can’t breathe.”

A shaky inhale.

“But if I leave…” he swallowed hard, “if I leave, I have to be Fire Lord again.”

Silence stretched.

Zuko shook his head slightly.

“I can’t do that right now.”

His voice was almost a whisper.

“I don’t know how.”

A long pause.

Then, quieter still:

“I keep thinking… I wish my uncle was here.”

That sentence landed heavier than the others.

His shoulders dropped slightly as if saying it physically hurt.

“I would give anything to hear him tell me what to do. Or even just… sit there and say nothing. Just being there would be enough.”

His eyes burned.

“I’m not strong enough to be alone again.”

The words came out raw.

Unfiltered.

Honest in a way Zuko rarely allowed himself to be.

His gaze flicked down to Izumi again.

And something in his expression shattered a little more.

“I miss Mai so much it doesn’t even feel real,” he admitted.

His voice broke fully now.

“I keep looking at Izumi and I can’t, I can’t separate her from Mai in my head. Every time I look at her, I just see everything I lost.”

His breath stuttered.

“And then I hate myself for it.”

A pause.

“I sit here holding her and I should be happy, I should be grateful, I should be…”

He shook his head violently once.

“But I just end up crying.”

His voice dropped to something barely audible.

“All the time.”

Katara’s hand tightened gently on his shoulder.

Aang stood a little closer, grounded and steady.

Sokka didn’t speak this time, just watched, unusually serious.

Toph exhaled quietly, softer than before.

Zuko let out a shaky breath.

“I don’t know if I can be what she needs,” he whispered.

“I don’t know if I can be a father.”

A long silence followed.

No one rushed to fill it.

Katara waited until Zuko’s breathing steadied a little before she spoke again.

“Zuko,” she said gently, still holding Izumi in her arms, “why don’t you take a shower?”

He blinked, as if the suggestion didn’t fully register.

“I’m fine,” he answered automatically.

It wasn’t convincing.

Katara didn’t push immediately. She just adjusted the baby slightly, careful and practiced, as Izumi made a small sleeping sound and settled deeper into the blanket.

“You’re not fine,” she said simply. “You haven’t slept. You haven’t eaten properly. You’re running on nothing.”

Zuko opened his mouth to argue.

Nothing came out.

Aang stepped in softly. “We can stay with her. Just for a bit.”

Zuko’s gaze snapped up immediately.

“No! I can’t just..”

“She’ll be okay,” Katara interrupted, firmer now but still kind. “We’re here.”

A pause.

Izumi stirred slightly in Katara’s arms, then settled again, unharmed, peaceful.

Zuko’s shoulders trembled faintly.

“I don’t like leaving her,” he admitted quietly.

“I know,” Katara said. “But you also can’t take care of her like this.”

Silence.

Then, reluctantly, Zuko exhaled.

“…Okay.”

It sounded like surrender.

But also like exhaustion finally winning.

“I’ll be quick,” he added, almost defensively, as if he needed to justify it.

“You don’t need to be quick,” Sokka said, surprisingly soft. “Just… be a person for a bit.”

Zuko gave him a tired look, but there was no real bite in it.

Then, slowly, he stood.

Before leaving, he hesitated again at Katara’s side, watching Izumi as if memorizing her face.

“Don’t let her cry too much,” he said quietly.

Katara smiled faintly. “We’ve got her.”

Zuko nodded once.

And finally disappeared down the hallway.

The second the bathroom door closed, the room changed.

Not magically. Not instantly.

But gradually, like air returning to lungs.

Katara shifted Izumi carefully into Sokka’s arms.

“Wait.. me?” he whispered.

“Yes you,” Katara said.

Sokka stiffened. “I’m not, I mean.. what if I drop her?”

“You won’t,” Toph said immediately.

“That’s not reassuring!”

But Katara was already moving.

“We should clean this place up a bit,” she said, looking around at the chaos. “And get him food.”

Aang nodded. “I’ll order something.”

Toph cracked her knuckles. “Finally. I was starting to think royalty lived like this on purpose.”

Sokka carefully adjusted Izumi in his arms, staring down at her like she was made of glass and diplomacy.

“…She’s actually kind of cute,” he admitted after a moment.

Katara glanced at him. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I’m not.. I’m just observing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I am not smiling.”

But he was.

When Zuko came back, hair damp and clothes changed, the room didn’t look like a disaster anymore.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was… livable.

Cleaner.

Warmer.

Less like a place someone was drowning in.

He stopped in the doorway.

For a second, he just stared.

Izumi was asleep in Sokka’s arms, completely at ease.

Sokka was sitting awkwardly stiff, clearly terrified to move but trying his best not to show it.

Katara was sorting food onto plates.

Aang was quietly setting things down on the table.

Toph was sitting with her feet on a chair, pretending she wasn’t helping but clearly having moved at least three things.

Zuko exhaled slowly.

“…You didn’t have to do all this.”

“No,” Katara said simply, “but we did.”

He hesitated again.

Then walked in.

Carefully.

Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to take up space here anymore.

Sokka immediately adjusted his grip on Izumi.

“She’s been good,” he said quickly. “Didn’t explode or anything.”

“That’s… reassuring,” Zuko muttered, sitting down slowly on the couch.

Aang handed him food.

He stared at it for a moment.

Then actually ate.

Slowly.

Like he had forgotten what that felt like.

The room stayed quiet, but it wasn’t empty anymore.

There were small sounds. Soft movements. The warmth of shared presence.

At some point, Zuko leaned back into the couch.

Just for a second.

Just to rest his eyes.

And that was all it took.

His head tilted slightly.

His breathing slowed.

For the first time in weeks, his body stopped fighting to stay awake.

Katara noticed immediately.

She didn’t say anything.

Just quietly shifted a blanket over his shoulders.

Aang looked at him, then at the others.

Sokka gently adjusted Izumi so she was more comfortable.

Toph smirked faintly. “He’s out.”

Katara nodded softly.

“Let him sleep.”

Aang watched him breathe evenly and whispered, “We’re not going anywhere.”

And no one disagreed.

————————————————

I hate how I tried to not spoil the baby things it’s badly done but I’m too lazy to rework it so here get the gaang not talking about the fact Mai is pregnant when it’s THE thing they should talk about like « HEY HE DIDNT GIVE US ANY NEWS AND LIKE A BABY IS COMING » come on guys

Fire Lord Zuko preferred it that way.

The guards bowed as he approached the heavy doors. No fanfare. No announcement. Just the dull scrape of metal and the echo of footsteps down a narrow corridor lit by wavering torches.

He had walked this hallway before.

It never got easier.

“Does she know I’m coming?” he asked.

One of the guards shook his head. “No, Your Majesty. She’s been… agitated today.”

Zuko nodded once. Of course she had. Today would never be a calm day for her. Not anymore.

They stopped before a reinforced cell door. The metal was thick, the hinges heavy. A precaution. A necessity. A prison.

Zuko dismissed the guards with a quiet gesture.
“I’ll call if I need you.”

The corridor emptied, leaving only silence behind him.

For a moment, he didn’t move.

Then he opened the door.

Azula was sitting on the floor when he entered, her wrists bound in heavy restraints designed to prevent bending. Her hair hung loose around her face, uneven where it had been cut after the war. The blue flames that had once followed every flick of her fingers were gone.

But the storm in her eyes remained.

She looked up.

Recognition struck like lightning.

Her entire body went rigid before she surged to her feet with a feral snarl.

“YOU.”

The word tore from her throat like a weapon.

She lunged forward instinctively, hands rising, fingers curling, the motion of firebending burned into muscle memory. Nothing came. No heat. No spark. Only the cold jolt of chains stopping her short.

Her scream echoed off the walls.

“Traitor! Usurper! Thief!” she spat, struggling uselessly against the restraints. “You think you can come here and gloat? Come to admire your victory?”

Zuko didn’t step back.

He had learned long ago that retreat only fed the fire.

“I didn’t come to fight you,” he said quietly.

“Oh, I know why you came,” she snapped, breath shaking with fury. “To look at me. To see what you’ve done.”

Her voice cracked on the last word. Just barely. Almost invisible.

Zuko took a step closer.

Azula froze, rage flickering into something sharper, more dangerous.

“Don’t,” she warned.

He stopped an arm’s length away.

They stood like that for a long moment, the silence thick with everything they had never learned how to say.

Her breathing slowed first.

It always had.

Azula had always recovered faster than anyone else.

Her shoulders lowered. The wild edge in her eyes dulled into a simmering, contained fury.

“What do you want?” she asked, voice low and venomous.

Zuko didn’t answer immediately.

Instead, he walked past her.

Azula’s eyes followed him, suspicious and blazing, as he stepped behind her.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

He didn’t reply.

From the inside of his robes, he pulled a small, polished mirror.

He placed it carefully on the wall in front of her.

Azula stared at it.

Then at him.

The room filled with a silence so tight it felt like it might shatter.

Zuko reached up slowly and removed the Fire Lord’s crown from his hair.

The golden ornament gleamed in the dim light.

Azula went perfectly still.

For the first time since he had entered, she didn’t speak.

Zuko stepped closer and gently gathered her hair in his hands.

She could have bitten him. Kicked him. Spat in his face.

She did none of those things.

She simply stood there, rigid as a statue, watching him in the mirror with burning, wordless fury.

His hands moved carefully, used to the motions he had done so many times as he twisted her hair into the familiar half-knot of the Fire Nation traditional hairstyle.

The motion stirred memories neither of them spoke aloud.

Servants fussing over royal hair.
Lessons in posture.
Father’s approval.
Father’s expectations.

The crown settled into place.

Zuko stepped back.

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then he spoke softly.

“You are radiant, Your Majesty.”

The words fell into the silence like a fragile offering.

Azula stared at her reflection.

The Fire Lord’s crown gleamed in her dark hair. Her posture straightened instinctively, shoulders pulling back, chin lifting. The girl in the mirror looked regal. Untouchable. Powerful.

Whole.

Her lips trembled.

Then, slowly, unbelievably,

She smiled.

It was small at first. Uncertain. Then it grew, bright and sharp and brilliant in a way Zuko hadn’t seen since they were children.

“Yes,” she whispered.

Her eyes lit up, blazing with manic delight. She stepped closer to the mirror, breath quickening.

“Yes, of course. I knew it. I knew this was temporary.”

Her voice rose, growing more confident with every word.

“The colonies are secure, aren’t they? And the Earth Kingdom, did they finally surrender? They always do eventually. Weak, predictable. I told Father we should have strike earlier”

She laughed, a bright, ringing sound.

“I have so much to do. So many plans. The Fire Nation will be stronger than ever. Stronger than anyone could imagine.”

She tilted her head, admiring the crown from another angle.

Zuko watched her with a soft, aching smile.

He didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t correct her.
He didn’t take the crown back.

He just listened.

After a while, he stepped toward the door.

Azula didn’t notice.

She was still speaking to the mirror, eyes shining with triumphant certainty.

Zuko paused at the threshold.

“Happy birthday, Azula.”

His voice was barely above a whisper.

He closed the door behind him.

The guards straightened as he emerged.

Zuko kept his voice steady.

“When she falls asleep, remove the crown. She could hurt herself. And take the mirror.”

The guard hesitated. “Your Majesty?”

“Let her believe she still has it.”

A pause.

“Yes, Fire Lord.”

Zuko nodded once and walked away.

He didn’t look back.

Hours later, the palace was bright with lantern light and the distant sound of laughter. Life had returned to the capital. Festivals, music, hope.

Things they had fought so hard to build.

The doors to his chambers opened.

Voices burst into cheerful greetings.

“Zuko!”

He barely registered who reached him first. Arms wrapped around him, warm, familiar, safe. A chorus of relieved voices. Friends. Family. His people.

And suddenly, the strength left his body.

He collapsed into their embrace.

The sob tore out of him before he could stop it.

For a long time, the Fire Lord of the Fire Nation simply cried, Zuko cried.

——————————————————

I wrote these at the end of The Legend of Korra, but with the movie coming out, I thought, “Hey, I could actually post them!”

i’m a musician. the first time i touched a cello i was 4. as soon as i could i got into special school programs so i would have more time to play

my cello has been my entire life for as long as i can remember

i was 12 when i first started feeling pain in my hands. i didn’t care much at the time, when you spend that much time playing being in pain just feels normal. i didn’t even realize it was a thing for the first few years

it wasn’t until like three years later that it really started to suck. the pain got so bad i couldn’t move my fingers for hours

i couldn’t play for long without my whole hand swelling. went to a doctor, they said it might get better if i followed treatment and slowed down. stop playing so much

i took the meds, did the physio, but i didn’t stop. Dumb teenager shit.

it was my life. it was everything i had. i had spent so much time and effort and years of my life on this. and if i wasn’t a musician then what even was i

i can’t do anything else. it is the only thing i’m good at. (yeah i still feel that way)

now i sell instruments. i still play, probably more than i should, but what i lost cannot come back

my fingers are still stiff. most days i’m in pain

legend spent his whole life adventuring, the same way i spent mine playing music, and now pain is keeping him from doing what he is best at

it’s not just frustrating. it’sgrief

i had to grieve the musician i will never be

all the time and energy i spent learning how to play, sometimes it just feels like it was for nothing

when people write about legend and chronic pain there is always so much anger and shame in it. and yeah i feel that too

i’m mad at myself for not being strong enough to keep playing

i feel pathetic for not being able to do what others can just because of my stupid hands

but mostly i’m just sad

the best i have ever been, at the only thing i’m good at was when i was 14

i lost what i thought was my life’s purpose

the people who used to play with me can tell i have gotten worse

and i know i will never be great again

i will never be who i was supposed to be, who everyone thought i was becoming

So yeah I want more people talking about the grief and expectations and all

anyway thanks coming to my ted talk

The second dream wasn’t that interesting. Same boy, walking in the night holding his lantern. It was raining now, the boy would be drenched in a few minutes. But Link woke up, and the boy wasn’t that interesting anymore, even if his stance and his small hands were familiar. After all, dreams don’t come from nothing.

The third dream was a bit more worrying. The young boy was drenched, clothes heavy with rain. He was on all fours, pushing dirt and leaves to the side, looking for something. And when Link woke up, for the first time he thought of the boy, with the familiar house, stance, hands. But then he turned around and went to prepare breakfast. It was normal. The boy looked familiar. After all, dreams don’t come from nothing.

The fourth dream was terrifying. The boy was crying, hands covered in dirt and blood, holding the body of an old man, urging him to wake up, to move, to help him, not to leave him alone. And when the body didn’t move, the boy stood up, took the sword the man was holding in his hands, and turned around, still covered in water, dirt and blood, still crying, still scared. And as the boy turned around, for the first time Link saw his face. A familiar face. So familiar. And the more he looked the more the face was familiar and so Link looked, he knew that face, he knew those shaky and bloody hands and this face. This face smelled like ashes

The scent of food, smoke filled his lungs warm and real. And Wild opened his eyes

_____________________________

Hello, hi!

As always, I'm not a native English speaker, so please let me know if anything I wrote doesn't make sense. I honestly have no idea where I'm going with this. I have around five chapters ready, but at the same time it's my first multi-chapter fic and I'm a bit nervous. So yeah, it might not go anywhere. But I really like the beginning, so here, take it!

Please tell me what you think and everything, hehe.

“No, Rav, I’m not. It’s just a form like any other.”

“Mister Hero, I don’t think you understand the implications of what you just told me,” the merchant said in a strangely calm voice. “You have the ability to transform into the most beautiful creature that can exist in this world… and I request you to show me.” Even without looking, Link could feel Ravio’s green eyes staring at him.

“First of all, I don’t have to show you anything if I don’t want to. Second, it’s not like I can. Unless you can bring enough darkness to my soul to make me transform, you’ll have to settle for my Hylian form.” Ravio continued to stare at him, but at least he stopped talking. Link put away the blade he had been preparing and decided to clean the old mirror that started this all mess of a conversation.

“When you come back from your missions, you smell really bad,” Ravio blurted out.

Link stopped rubbing the mirror to turn around and face the other man. Ravio looked at him, and after a short silence, continued his rambling: “I don’t like that you don’t let me sell items that you don’t use anyway, and your bees are ugly and disgusting and scary. We could just buy honey instead of having them at home all the time. You have really weird tastes in decoration, you look bad in the morning, your breath smells like old underwear when you drink coffee. Also, if I had to choose between you and Sherrow, I would choose Sherrow instead of you and—”

“What is happening right now?” Link asked, looking at Ravio with a confused gaze.

“Well… I was trying to bring darkness to your soul, but it’s not working. Maybe I should continue a little more?” Ravio replied, staring at Link’s ears as if he expected them to transform at any moment.

“NO! No, no thank you.” Link took a moment to collect himself. “You… why would you think that? You know what? I don’t want to know how you came to that conclusion. I was talking about dark magic, not making me feel bad about myself, Rav.”

Two giant emerald eyes looked at him before Ravio jumped on him and pulled him into an embrace. “Oh sweet Lolia, I am so, so, so sorry, Mister Hero! That was very petty of me. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad, I promise! Will you ever forgive me? If you want, I can sell you the ice rod you want for the small price of 600 rupees to show you how sorry I am.”

Link let Ravio calm himself in his arms, pondering his words. “Why did you say that to me? You know me better than anyone. If you thought making me feel bad was the solution, why talk about my tastes in decoration and not my adventures or something like that?”

“That would have been mean, Mister Hero, it’s not polite to talk about something that someone cannot change.” Ravio said, looking at him as if he were the weird one.

Link just laughed before burying his face in the Lorulian’s hair. He smelled like apples today, which meant he had stolen Link’s shampoo again. Link would take care of that later; for now, he was planning on enjoying a well-deserved nap in his lover arms. Maybe he could ask the rancher to give him his stange crystal for an hour at two so he could show Rav his rabbit form. He wouldn’t be against somme rub on the back of his ears.

———————————

Same as always

English is not my first language if i made any mistake tell me i really want to improve

Ravio is my favorite character of all the TLOZ game so putting him here was really great

Also did you know that in French his name is Lavio ? And it makes a lot more sense dans Ravio but honestly Lavio just feels wrong

"Who?"

"Your princess."

The sound of the waves was calming. The sand between his fingers was becoming less irritating as time passed on the island.

"No, I don't. Not in the way you're implying. She's the last family I have. She's my sister."

"Do you love me?"

He could feel the heat of her body next to his, and the scent of the plumeria flower she always wore in her hair filled the air.

"Yes. But it won’t be enough, will it?"

He felt a shift beside him and caught a glimpse of red hair. He didn’t turn—he already knew what he would see if he did.

"You need to go back to Hyrule."

"I know."

"Your princess, your sister, needs you."

"I know."

"I need to stay here."

"I know."

"The island needs me."

"I know."

Another shift, the sand moving beneath her feet as the scent of flowers faded. Even though he was still looking at the sea, he caught a flash of her blue dress swaying in the wind.

"Father must be waiting. Will we see you for dinner?"

"No. I need to go to the mountain."

"I see. Be careful, then."

This time, it wasn’t just a shift. He heard the soft crunch of sand beneath her feet as she walked away. He finally turned around.

"You once told me that we are incarnations of souls, traveling through time and places."

"I did, yes."

"Is there a good ending for us anywhere? A world where Hyrule doesn’t need me, a world where you can leave the island?"

A smile touched her lips as she walked back toward him. He was standing now, though he didn’t remember when he had decided to get up. She stopped a few meters away—just far enough that he knew if he reached out, he wouldn’t be able to touch her.

"You will meet them."

"Who?"

Her smile remained, but now that she was closer, he could see the sadness in her eyes.

"One day, you will meet the incarnation of us that had a happy ending, those who were able to grow old together."

"Why not us?"

The sun was starting to set, and a chill began to creep in.

"Not all heroes can be happy. You won’t be happy. You will fight your whole life and die alone, knowing you didn’t make any difference. And you will do it to save others from this fate."

The wind picked up, and the sound of the sea grew louder.

"A storm is coming. It’s time to go home."

This time, he didn’t move. He just watched as she disappeared into the fading light.

He turned to face the towering mountain ahead. His time here was coming to an end.

A flash of light made him open his eyes. He glanced around to see his traveling companions still asleep. Mornings at Lon Lon Ranch were always peaceful; it almost felt like home.

As he made his way down for breakfast, he heard the sound of two voices talking. He just had to close his eyes to hear the sound of the waves again.

Opening the door, he saw the vision of a red-haired woman smiling at him. Beside her was the old man—the hero who had been blessed with a happy ending.

They both smiled as the sound of the waves faded away.

« Good morning Vet. Said the old men. Did You Sleep well ? »

————————————

Hello there !

First of all thank you for reading (I’m saying that even tho I’m sure that no one will read but anyway)

It’s my first time even showing anyone what I write and it’s really scary

English is not my first language si if I did any mistake pease tell me I want to be better

Oh and I know that technically Time and Malon don’t have a happy ending but ✨it’s more dramatic like that✨