Grace In Disgrace

First comes the lumber. Lengths of dark, fragrant rosewood from the southern islands, and sturdy fir from the foothills of the mountains. It’s stacked neatly in the corner of the garden, ready for the two of you to get to work as soon as the negotiations conclude. Zuko had promised.

Next comes the earth. Dozens of sacks of rich loam from the Shadow Forest. Bags of white sand from Ember Island. Crushed seashells for the pond, and smooth, round river rocks for the path. You spend an entire day moving it all, spreading the soil over the newly cleared ground and mixing in the sand and ash to create the perfect blend of nutrients and drainage.

Then the plants arrive, and your excitement reaches a fever pitch. A large cherry tree that took three men to carry. Fragile jasmine vines that you carefully wind around the new trellis by the garden gate. A dozen varieties of roses, some of which are more thorn than flower. And the seed pods for the panda lilies, which you take into your possession immediately and squirrel away in the study off the Sun Chamber, where you’ve set up a small terrarium to experiment with. You send word to Zuko that he is forbidden from touching them under threat of horrible, unspeakable things.

You work from sunup to sundown, too full of nervous energy to sleep or eat. You're creating. You're breathing life back into this corner of the world, and the thought of it, the sheer, glorious potential of it, keeps you going long after your muscles start to scream in protest. You don't care. You'll sleep when you're dead. Or when you have to attend another banquet. Whichever comes first.

You see Zuko briefly, in passing. He looks as tired as you feel, but he always stops to ask about your progress. You give him quick, breathless tours when you can, pointing out the new paths and plants you've laid, and the general shape of the teahouse you've marked out with string and stakes. His eyes light up every time with a familiar hungry curiosity, and every time, you’ll start to convince yourself he'll abandon his duties to work alongside you.

But the moment never lasts. A guard or Shoji always appears, clearing their throat and reminding him of his obligations, and Zuko always just gives you an apologetic smile and disappears back into the belly of the beast.

You try not to let it bother you. But it's hard. You miss him. You miss his company, his quiet presence, his dry commentary on your methods. The garden feels empty without him, a play without its lead actor, and you find yourself constantly glancing towards the palace, half-expecting to see him leaning against the gate, watching you work. But he never is.

And you have no right to be disappointed by that. Zuko has a country to run. You have a garden. The two are not compatible, and it was foolish of you to think they ever could be.

It’s on the fourth day, as the sun is starting its slow descent, casting long shadows across the garden, that the gate creaks open behind you. You're on your knees, your hands deep in the dirt as you transplant a row of fire lilies along the new path, and you don't bother to look up.

“You can just leave it on the bench,” you call over your shoulder, not breaking your concentration as you carefully pat the soil around the fragile roots of a bulb. “I'll get to it later. Unless it's that taro tea again. You can take that back.”

A low chuckle is the response you get, and your head snaps up. You know that laugh.

You scramble to your feet, wiping your dirty hands on your already filthy trousers as you turn. Zuko stands just inside the gate, dressed in the simple robes he wears when he's not holding court. Even though he looks just as exhausted as he did the last time you saw him, there's a lightness to him that wasn't there before. A spring in his step that makes your heart leap.

"Zuko!" you call out, your face splitting into a grin. "What are you doing here? I thought you had another meeting."

"I did," he says, and he steps further into the garden, his eyes taking in the changes you've made. His gaze lingers on the new cherry tree, the sapling already stretching towards the sky, and the neat rows of herbs and vegetables you've started in the southwest corner. "It just ended."

"And you didn't go straight to bed?" You raise an eyebrow. "You must be feeling better."

"Something like that," he replies as his eyes finally land on you and the grass stains on your knees. "You look like you've been living out here."

"I practically have," you admit with a shrug. "There's too much to do. I can't stop now."

Zuko walks over to the raised bed where you were working, and he reaches down, picking up a small trowel and turning it over in his hands. "You're going to work yourself into the ground," he says, his voice soft with a concern that makes your stomach flutter. "You need to rest."

"I'll rest when the job is done," you say, moving to stand beside him. You take the trowel from his hand and set it back down, your fingers brushing against his in the process. "Besides, I'm having too much fun."

He lets out another amused huff. "You're insane."

"I know," you reply, smiling up at him. "So, how did the meeting go? Do you have your trade agreement?"

He shakes his head, and your smile fades.

"They're stalling," he explains, rubbing his temples. "Guo keeps finding new objections. The jade tariffs were just the beginning. Now he's demanding the return of a set of ancient scrolls that were 'liberated' from a library in Ba Sing Se during the siege. The scrolls are currently in the royal archives, and he knows it. I‘d give them to him in a heartbeat, but Izeron and Morao are throwing a fit about setting a precedent. They say it makes us look weak."

You frown. It sounds like a headache. A big one. And you can see the toll it's taking on him. The lines around his eyes are deeper, and the set of his jaw is tight with tension.

"Is there anything I can do?" you ask. "I could go talk to Minister Guo. He seems to like me."

"No," Zuko says, a little too quickly. He shakes his head. "No. This is my mess. I'll handle it. I just… needed a break."

You nod, and you turn to look at the garden. It is a break. A small, quiet corner of the world where the weight of history and politics doesn't reach. And Zuko needs that more than anyone.

You reach out and place your hand on his arm. "Well, you've come to the right place. The Ministry of Flowers is always open for business."

He looks down at your hand, and you pull away, suddenly feeling awkward. But he doesn't let you go. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around it, and he turns your arm over, pulling up your sleeve.

"How is it?" he asks as his thumb traces the line of shiny pink skin on your forearm.

"It's fine," you say, resisting the urge to tug your arm back. His feather-light touch is making your spine tingle. "Just tender. But I've had worse. Remember that time Sokka fell out of the sky on Appa and hit me? That was much worse. I couldn't feel my legs for hours."

He gives you an exasperated look. "I'm serious."

"So am I," you insist. "I can bend. That's what matters. And in a couple weeks, the scar will fade. So you can stop beating yourself up about it now. We have more important things to do."

You gently pull your arm free, and he lets you go with a sigh. He follows you as you walk over to the flat rock where you keep your tools.

"More important things like breaking your back trying to single-handedly re-landscape a royal garden?" he asks, leaning against the rock. "You've been out here for four days straight. You're going to burn out."

"And you've been in meetings for four days straight," you shoot back, grabbing a watering can and filling it from the pump. "Don't talk to me about burning out."

"It's not the same," he argues. "This is your project. You should be enjoying it."

"I am enjoying it," you insist as you haul the watering can over to the fire lilies. "But there's a lot to do, and I want to get it done before the rainy season starts. And before you have to go back to your life, and I have to go back to mine."

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them, and you immediately regret them. They're too honest, too revealing, and you feel a familiar flush of shame creep up your neck. You turn away from him, focusing on the task at hand, but it's too late. You've said it.

Zuko doesn't say anything for a long moment. You can feel him watching you, and you brace yourself for the question, for the gentle prodding about your plans that you've been dreading. But it never comes.

"Then we'll just have to work faster," he says, and you look up, surprised. He's shrugging off his outer robe, draping it over the rock, and rolling up the sleeves of his tunic, revealing the strong, corded muscles of his forearms. "Which bed is next?"

"What are you doing?" you ask, your brow furrowed in confusion. "You're supposed to be de-stressing."

"I am de-stressing," he insists, grabbing the other watering can and heading to the pump. "This is much better than sitting in my study reviewing the price index of jade. What do you need me to do?"

You stare at him, completely dumbfounded. This is not the reaction you were expecting. You were expecting guilt, or pity, or that careful, measured concern he's been showing you since the sparring incident. Not... this. This cheerful, almost eager determination to get his hands dirty with you.

"You don't have to do this," you say, but you can't keep the hope out of your voice. "I'm sure you have better things to do."

"I don't.” Zuko smiles at you as he carries the full bucket over to join you, the kind of smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look years younger. "This is exactly where I want to be."

You can't argue with that. You can't do anything but smile back, your heart swelling with warmth, and you lead him over to the next plot of land, where the rose seedlings are waiting to be planted. You give him a quick lesson on how deep to dig the holes and how to space the plants, and he listens with an intensity that makes you laugh.

He glances up from the dirt, his brow furrowed as he balances a rose seedling in one hand. "What?"

"Nothing," you say, shaking your head and turning back to your own plants. "It's just... you. Here. Like this. It's nice."

"Nice?" he repeats. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him raising an eyebrow, a small smirk playing on his lips. "You're not impressed by my newfound agricultural expertise?"

"Oh, I'm impressed," you assure him, letting a grin spread across your face. "Truly. The way you're handling that trowel... it's art. They'll be writing poems about you."

He snorts, but you can see the pleased flush creeping up his neck as he returns to his work. "Just keep digging, smart mouth."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur of easy conversation and comfortable silence. You show him how to build up the soil around the base of the cherry tree to help retain water, and he listens with a rapt attention that makes your chest feel tight. He tells you stories about his childhood here, about the games he used to play in the orchard, about the time he tried to carve his initials into the trunk of the old oak tree and his mother caught him and made him apologize to the tree. And you surprise yourself by sharing a little about your own childhood. Little things you’d forgotten about, brought to light by the comfort of his presence.

“We used to have a huge pumpkin patch,” you tell him as you work side-by-side to fill the rose bed with mulch. The sun is starting to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink, and the air is cooling rapidly. "My dad would always bet my mom that he could grow the biggest one. He never did. Hers were always twice the size. I think she used earthbending to cheat."

Zuko laughs as he dumps another shovel of mulch for you to pack in. “So that’s where you get it from. Your flagrant disregard for the rules.”

“I’m not breaking any rules!” you protest, swatting his leg with the back of your hand. He grins, dodging your half-hearted attack. “I'm just... creatively interpreting them."

“Mhm. I'm sure that's what you'll tell the council when they find out you've been importing illegal plants.”

"They're not illegal," you argue. "They're just... restricted."

"Because they're incredibly difficult and dangerous to cultivate," he counters. "I'm pretty sure that makes them illegal for people who aren't world-renowned earthbending masters."

"I'll have you know that I am considered a highly-respected agricultural consultant in several rural Earth Kingdom provinces," you say with a huff of indignation. "The panda lily will grow. I just need to find the right soil composition. With a little bit of lavabending, I'm sure I can replicate the volcanic conditions of Mount Makapu in the garden.”

The words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, casual and unthinking. Zuko freezes mid-shovel, the implement clattering against the stone path as his hands go slack at his sides. His head snaps toward you, eyes wide with disbelief.

"You can... you can lava bend?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. "Since when?”

Oh no. You squeeze your eyes shut, cringing internally. You hadn't meant to say that. It's not a secret, exactly, but it's not something you advertise. It's a rare and dangerous ability, one that most earthbenders never even attempt to learn. And you've barely mastered it yourself. You've used it exactly once in a real fight, and that was out of sheer desperation. You were hoping to surprise him with it, maybe, when you actually managed to grow the stupid lily.

"Since... a while," you say, trying to sound nonchalant as you turn away from him and start patting down the mulch. "It's not a big deal. I've never really had much use for it. It's a bit dramatic for farming."

"A bit dramatic?" he echoes. "You can bend lava, and you've just been... keeping it to yourself?"

"I didn't keep it to myself," you mumble as you focus on smoothing the mulch around the base of a rosebush. "I told you about the time I redirected that volcano in the western Earth Kingdom. The one that was going to wipe out that village."

"I thought that was a joke!" he exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air. "You told me you just 'pushed' it a little. I had no idea you meant you actually bent the lava!"

"Well, I didn't want to sound like I was bragging," you say defensively. "And people tend to get nervous when they find out you can melt rock. It's not exactly a marketable skill for a farmer."

"I can't believe you,” he scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "You've been holding out on me."

"I haven't been holding out," you protest, and you finally look at him. He's staring at you like you've just revealed you can fly, his eyes wide and bright with an excitement that makes your stomach flip. "It's just... not relevant. I'm a gardener, Zuko. I make things grow. I don't destroy them."

He makes an exasperated sound low in his throat and shakes his head again. You expect him to argue, to press the issue with that stubborn determination you know so well, but he doesn't. He just lets out a slow breath, his gaze softening, and he picks up the shovel again.

"That's... very you," he murmurs as he resumes his work. "It's impressive."

You feel a blush creep up your cheeks, and you duck your head, focusing on your task to hide the smile that tugs at your lips. "Thanks."

The two of you fall back into your rhythm after that, but the air between you has changed. It's charged with a new energy, a new understanding. You've shared a piece of yourself that you rarely show anyone, and he hasn't run away screaming. If anything, he looks more intrigued than ever. It's unsettling, but not in a bad way.

You work together in silence, finishing the last of the beds and spreading the rest of the mulch around the base of the trees. It feels easy. It feels right. It feels like the two of you, the way you've always been. And for a little while, you let yourself forget that this is borrowed time. That you're a guest in his world, and that one day soon, you'll have to leave it. You bury that thought deep, under the rich, dark earth, and you focus on the simple joy of working side-by-side with your best friend.

The peaceful bubble is shattered when the gate to the garden creaks open again. This time, it's Shoji who appears, his face a mask of utter horror that even surpasses his reaction to the stream incident. He stands frozen for a moment, his eyes wide as he takes in the scene before him: the Fire Lord kneeling in the dirt, his hands and robes covered in soil and mulch, and beside him, you, not much better off.

"Fire Lord Zuko!" he calls, hurrying over as soon as he manages to shake off his shock. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Zuko lets out a long-suffering sigh and gets to his feet, brushing off his trousers as best he can. "What is it, Shoji? I told you I wasn't to be disturbed."

“Forgive me, my Lord, but the hour grows late." Shoji wrings his hands, his gaze darting from Zuko to you and back again. He looks like he's just swallowed a lemon. “The state dinner is set to commence in two hours. You must prepare."

“I know.” Zuko runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a clump of dirt. “I’ll be there soon.”

Shoji bows, but he doesn’t leave. He hovers, his gaze now fixed on you with a thinly veiled disapproval. "My Lord, perhaps it would be best if..." he trails off, his meaning clear as crystal. He wants you gone. He wants you to disappear back to your own rooms and leave the Fire Lord to his lordly duties.

A surge of defiance rises in your chest, hot and sharp. You’ve spent the entire afternoon working to make this moment happen, to give Zuko a slice of the peace he deserves, and this stuffy old man wants to take it away with a look and a few pointed words. But Zuko speaks before you can tell him to stick it.

"Shoji, I think you're needed in the kitchens," he says, his voice deceptively calm. But there's a glint in his eye that you recognize from his more impulsive days. "There seems to be a mouse problem. The head chef was quite distressed."

Shoji blanches. "A... a mouse problem, my Lord?"

"Mmm," Zuko hums, and he claps the man on the shoulder. "I'm sure you'll handle it. Now, we have some work to finish up here. I'll be along shortly."

He turns his back on the Grand Chamberlain, effectively dismissing him, and you have to bite your lip to keep from grinning. Shoji stands there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Then, with another stiff bow, he turns and scurries out of the garden, his shoulders hunched and his robes billowing behind him.

Zuko watches him go, and once the gate is firmly shut, he lets out a snort of laughter. "Did you see his face? I thought he was going to pass out."

"That was mean," you say, laughing. "He's probably going to spend the next hour searching the kitchens for imaginary mice."

"Good," he says, grinning as he turns to you. "He's been getting too big for his boots lately. A little mouse hunt will do him good."

You shake your head, your heart feeling lighter than it has in days. He's still in here, the old Zuko, buried under the weight of the crown, but not gone. You just have to dig a little to find him.

Zuko picks up his shovel, and he looks around the garden, his expression softening as he takes in the results of your shared labor. "I should go," he says, his voice quiet. He doesn't sound happy about it. "I have to change. And... be Fire Lord. For a few hours, at least."

You nod, trying to ignore the pang of disappointment in your gut. "I know."

He walks over to the bench where he left his robe, and you follow, your hands hanging awkwardly at your sides. You watch as he picks it up and shrugs it on, his fingers fumbling with the clasps. You can see the reluctance in his every move, the way he keeps glancing back at the garden, at you.

"Thank you," he says as he finishes with the last clasp. "For today. This was... I needed this."

"Me too," you admit. You offer him a smile, hoping it doesn't look as sad as it feels. "It's been a good day."

"The best," he agrees. He hesitates, glancing down at the ground before his eyes flick back up to you. “You should come tonight. To the dinner."

You blink, surprised. "To the dinner?"

"Yeah," he says, and he takes a step closer. "It's just the council and a few visiting dignitaries. It’ll be boring, but... the food is good. And you could use a meal that isn’t cold tea and rice cakes. You’ve been living on those."

"I like rice cakes," you mutter as your heart starts to beat faster. You haven't been to a state dinner since that first awful banquet. You're not sure you're ready for another one, with all the scrutiny and the politics and the way everyone looks at you like you're some kind of exotic creature making a mess on the royal carpets. You’d thought you’d had your fill of that for a lifetime, and now he wants you to do it again? Why? Because he feels guilty for leaving you?

"I... Zuko, I can't," you stammer, shaking your head. "I don't belong at those things. You know that."

He frowns, and you can see the flicker of hurt in his eyes before he masks it. "You belong wherever you want to be. And I want you there."

You look away, unable to bear the intensity of his gaze. It's not that simple, and he knows it. You don't belong in his world, no matter how many times you pretend. You're just a guest, a temporary distraction, and sooner or later, you have to go back to your own life, where things are simpler and you don't have to worry about which fork to use or who you're offending with your table manners. The invitation feels like a test, one you're sure to fail.

"I'm a mess," you say, gesturing at yourself. Your clothes are covered in dirt, your hair is a mess, and you're pretty sure you have a smudge of mud across your cheek. "I can't just... show up like this."

"So change," he says, and there's an edge of frustration to his voice now. "You have a whole room full of clothes. Use them."

"It's not that easy," you insist. You feel like you're being backed into a corner, and your own frustration is rising to meet his. "You know it's not."

"I do know," he snaps, and he turns away, running his hands over his face. "I know you don't like it. I know it's not your... scene. But I'm asking you. I need you there."

The words make your heart stutter. He needs you. Not wants, not would prefer, but needs. And it's that one word that breaks your resolve.

Because you need him, too. You need to see him, to be near him, even if it's just for a few hours across a crowded room. Even if it means wearing a dress that feels like a costume and smiling at people who think you're a joke. You can do that for him. You'd do a hell of a lot more than that.

You let out a defeated sigh and nod. "Okay."

Zuko turns back to you, his eyes searching your face for any sign of deception. "Okay?"

"Okay." You give him a small smile. "I'll be there. But I'm not promising to be good company. And I'm definitely not promising to use the right fork."

A brilliant, relieved smile breaks across his face, and it's like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. "Deal. I'll send Lan to help you get ready. She's been dying to get her hands on you again."

"Oh, joy," you mutter, but you're still smiling. It’s hard not to when he looks at you like that.

Zuko moves to the gate and pauses, his hand on the rusted iron. He looks back at you, his expression turning serious. "I'll see you tonight, then."

"I'll be there," you promise.

He looks like he wants to say more, but in the end, he just gives you one last lingering look before he turns and walks out of the garden. The gate shuts behind him with a soft clang, and you're alone.

You look down at the dirt on your hands. The promise of the panda lily, the future of the garden. It all seems so small and insignificant now, dwarfed by the looming reality of the dinner and the man who will be sitting at the head of the table. A man who is, you're slowly starting to realize, just as lost as you are.

You take a deep breath and finish packing your things, your heart pounding a nervous rhythm in your chest. You have a state dinner to get ready for. And you have a feeling it's going to be a lot more complicated than just making faces at the boring parts. It always is, with him.

Lan is waiting for you when you slip through the doors of the Sun Chamber, and she ushers you into the bath before you can even get a word in. The water is scalding and scented with jasmine, and it does little to soothe the frantic energy humming under your skin. You feel like a dragon hawk in a cage, pacing and restless. This isn't you. This whole situation—the dinner, the politics, the clothes—it's not the life you've chosen. And yet, here you are, letting yourself be swept along by it, because the alternative is walking away from him. And that's not a choice you're ready to make.

You emerge from the bath to find Lan holding up a garment that is, thankfully, not the emerald green monstrosity from before. It's a much simpler jade robe, the color of new leaves, with a pale gold under-robe and a wide, darker green obi embroidered with golden dragons. It's beautiful and elegant, but it still feels like a costume.

"This will look wonderful on you," she says with an approving nod. "Dignified, but not severe. Perfect for the occasion."

"And what is the occasion?" you ask as you allow her to help you into the layers of silk. "Is it someone's birthday? A national holiday? The anniversary of the invention of the chopstick?"

"It is the Fire Lord's pleasure," Lan replies, her voice carefully neutral as she cinches the obi around your waist. "He has invited the most senior members of the council and the visiting dignitaries from the Earth Kingdom to a private dinner. It’s... less of a performance. More of a discussion."

"A discussion," you repeat. That sounds even worse than a performance. Discussions involve talking. And listening. And not making faces. And in close quarters, where everyone can see your every move.

"Yes," she confirms, stepping back to admire her handiwork. "The Fire Lord hopes to foster a more... informal atmosphere. To build bridges outside of the council chambers."

She means he's trying to get them drunk and off their guard. A good strategy for any negotiation, but it also means you'll be trapped at a table with a bunch of powerful, stuffy men who see you as an inconvenience at best, a threat at worst, up close and unfiltered.

And Zuko. You'll be trapped at a table with Zuko, watching him play the part of the Fire Lord again. A part that he seems to fit better every day, and a part that you feel less and less connected to.

Lan starts on your hair, weaving it into an elaborate knot at the nape of your neck, and you stare at your reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back is a stranger. She looks poised and elegant and utterly out of her depth. Her eyes are wide and a little wild, and she's clutching her hands in her lap so tightly her knuckles are white. You take a deep breath and try to will her to be braver.

“Stop that,” Lan chides as she places a simple golden pin in your hair. “You look beautiful. And the Fire Lord will be very pleased to see you.”

Your stomach does a nervous flip at her words. It's not his approval you're worried about. It's what his approval does to you. The way it makes you want to please him, to be the person he sees when he looks at you. It's a dangerous feeling. You're not meant for this kind of life, for these kinds of games. You're a farmer. You belong in the dirt, with your hands in the soil, not in a silk robe, trying to navigate the treacherous waters of Fire Nation court politics.

But you're also a woman who made a promise. And you're a friend who is worried about the man at the head of the table, the one who carries the weight of a nation on his shoulders. You’ll just have to power through.

“You know, I overheard Minister Morao and Minister Izeron today,” Lan starts, her hands delicately adjusting the hair around your face. “They’re calling you the gardener.”

You frown. Not ‘the earthbender,’ not ‘the dirt farmer,’ or any of the other, less flattering names you’ve been called. The gardener. It feels... small. Reductive. But it could be worse, you suppose.

"That… doesn’t sound so bad,” you venture.

Lan gives you a knowing look in the mirror. "It does when you hear the way they say it.”

A huff of laughter escapes you, but there’s little humor in it. "Let me guess. With a sneer?"

"Like you're a pet he’s brought in to entertain himself," she confirms with a sad little smile. "Don't let them get to you. They're just old men who are afraid of change."

You nod, but her words don't bring much comfort. You're not afraid of them. You're afraid of what their whispers might do to Zuko. You know how much he cares about his public image, how hard he works to be taken seriously. And having you at his side, a constant reminder of his past and his... softer side, might be undermining all of that. It’s a thought that’s been gnawing at the back of your mind for days, and Lan’s casual observation has just given it teeth.

You should have stayed in the garden. You should have told him no.

"I don’t understand what their problem is. It’s been weeks,” you mutter as Lan finishes with your hair and moves to collect her cosmetics. “I’m not asking for anything. I’m just here to work on the garden. Once it’s done, I’ll be out of their hair. You'd think they'd be happy about that."

“They’re afraid of you,” she says simply, dabbing a bit of rouge on your cheeks.

Your laugh is incredulous. "Afraid of me? Why? I'm just... me."

"Exactly," she replies, her dark eyes meeting yours in the mirror. "You’re not one of them. You’re not... controlled. You came here, and you just started doing things. You talk to the servants. You walk on the walls. You upended a meeting in the throne room. And, most importantly, you have the Fire Lord’s ear.”

She finishes the rouge and picks up a brush to paint your lips, and you sit there, stunned. You’ve never thought of it that way. You’ve just been doing what you do, what comes naturally. You haven't been trying to make a statement or challenge anyone.

But maybe that’s the problem. Your very existence is a challenge to the order they’ve built, the rigid hierarchy they thrive on. And Zuko, by inviting you in and listening to you, is validating that challenge. No wonder they don’t like you.

“I don’t have his ear,” you protest, though you know it's not entirely true. The two of you have discussed policy more than once since you arrived, usually late at night, over a pot of tea. He values your opinion, he's told you so. But that's just friendship, isn't it? That's what friends do.

Lan just gives you a mysterious little smile. "Hm. If you say so."

She finishes the last touches on your makeup and steps back, her head cocked to the side as she surveys her work. "You look perfect. A true vision of Earth Kingdom elegance."

You look at your reflection again, and you have to admit, she’s right. The stranger is still there, but she looks a little less like a frightened girl and a little more like a woman who is ready to face a room full of powerful men who don't want her there. A little.

"Thank you, Lan," you say, turning to face her. "Really. You've been very kind to me."

"Just doing my job," she replies with a formal bow, but her eyes are warm when she straightens up. "Shall we?"

You nod, and you follow her out of the Sun Chamber, your heart beating a nervous tattoo against your ribs. As you walk, you try to channel her confidence, her poise. You try to be the woman in the mirror, calm and collected. But it’s hard when you pass clusters of guards and servants who stop and stare, whispering behind their hands as you go by. You straighten your spine and keep your eyes forward, pretending not to hear the words "gardener" and "earthbender" hissed like insults.

The door to the private dining room is open, and the low rumble of conversation spills out into the hall. There’s no music this time, no grand announcement. Just a small, intimate gathering, as Lan had said. But as you say goodbye to her and step over the threshold, the room stills.

Every head turns to look at you. You recognize some of the faces from the banquet: the fussy Fire Nation ministers, the stoic military generals, and the ever-present Ambassador Fang, with a very full glass of wine in his hand. And Minister Guo, who raises his eyebrows in surprise and then gives you a slow, approving nod. But it’s the man seated at the head of the table who holds your attention, your eyes drawn to him like a compass to true north.

Zuko is already there, sitting at the head of the long, low table, dressed in formal robes of deep red and gold. A dragon in flight wraps around one sleeve, the embroidery so detailed it seems to move in the candlelight as he turns slightly to face the door. He looks powerful, and untouchable, and completely at home.

When his eyes land on you, that composed mask cracks, just a little. A flicker of warmth, a softening of the sharp lines of his face. A private smile meant just for you.

He nods, and you nod back, your heart giving a painful thump in your chest. Then you pull your gaze away, scanning the table for an empty seat. There are placards in front of each setting, each one carefully calligraphed with a title and a family crest. But as you walk down the length of the table, you notice your own seat is not there. There is no place for you.

A flush of embarrassment rises up your neck, and you feel the weight of the room's gaze on you again. You stop, halfway down the table, feeling foolish and exposed. Of course there isn't a seat for you. This is a state dinner, not a casual supper. You're not a dignitary or a council member. You're not even supposed to be here. You're just Zuko's... friend. And in this world, that doesn't warrant a place at the table.

You look back up to Zuko, who seems to just now be realizing the same thing. His eyes dart from the placards to you and back again, and you see a flash of anger cross his features, quickly suppressed.

“Move,” he says to the man sitting to his right, Minister Morao, a man whose department you don't know but whose sour expression you remember well. His topknot is pulled so tight you're surprised his eyes don't pop out of his head. He looks from Zuko to you, and his face contorts with offense.

“Excuse me, my Lord?” he says, his voice dripping with false politeness.

“Move. Down,” Zuko repeats, waving his hand. A cushion has materialized on the floor at the end of the table nearest the door, and the guards have sprung into action to bring another place setting. Morao’s face turns a mottled purple-red, and he looks around the table for support, but finds none. Even the other council members are averting their eyes, unwilling to challenge their Fire Lord on this.

With a huff of indignation, Morao grabs his placard and his wine glass and moves down, his every movement a theatrical display of insult. Zuko doesn't even watch him go. His eyes are on you, and he pats the seat to his right, the place of highest honor after his own.

Your feet feel rooted to the spot. This is not a good idea. This is making a scene. You can already hear the whispers: the Fire Lord and his earthbender pet, flaunting tradition, disregarding protocol. It’s exactly what you didn't want to happen.

But Zuko is still looking at you, his expression open and expectant, and there's no regret in his eyes. Only an unwavering faith that you'll come and sit beside him, that you'll take the place he's offering you, no matter what anyone else thinks. You can’t refuse him. Not in front of all these people. You can't let him make this gesture and have you reject it.

You take a breath and walk towards the head of the table. Every step feels heavy, weighted down by the silent judgment of the room. As you pass, you catch the eye of Minister Guo, who gives you a small, conspiratorial smile. And you see Ambassador Fang, face pinched with disapproval as he takes a long, pointed sip of his wine. The rest of the room is a blur of judgmental stares and hushed whispers.

You reach your seat, and you lower yourself onto the cushion, the silk of your robe rustling in the quiet. Zuko immediately pours you a glass of wine from the carafe in front of him, and he pushes the plate of steamed buns towards you.

"Thank you," he murmurs, his voice low and for your ears alone. "I'm sorry about the confusion. Shoji must have forgotten to add your place."

"It's no problem," you lie, giving him a smile you hope is convincing. You can feel the stares on the side of your head like an arrow poised to let fly, and you wish more than anything that you could just sink into the floor. Your hand finds your wine glass, and you take a heavy sip. "I'm sure it was an honest mistake."

Zuko gives you a look that says he knows you're full of it, but he doesn't press. He just inclines his head and turns to address the table, his voice taking on the formal, commanding tone of the Fire Lord.

"Let's begin, shall we? We have much to discuss."

The dinner is, as Lan predicted, less of a performance and more of an intense, awkward negotiation. The food is excellent, but you barely taste it. You're too focused on not saying anything stupid, on keeping your expression neutral, on not reaching across the table to strangle Minister Morao every time he makes a snide comment about "wasteful spending" that is very clearly aimed at the garden. Zuko handles it all with a stoic patience that you find both admirable and infuriating. He's letting them get away with it. He's playing politics, and you're just the poor soul sitting next to him who has to listen to it.

As the meal progresses, Zuko engages the table in a discussion about trade routes and tariffs. He's in his element now, the Fire Lord holding court, and you watch him with a detached sort of fascination. He's so different like this. Every argument is met with a logical counter, every demand balanced with a compromise. He's firm but fair, authoritative without being arrogant.

He's a good leader, you realize. A great one. He's exactly what his nation needs. And the thought makes your chest swell with pride, even as it makes you feel more distant from him than ever.

You also notice that he keeps turning to you, his eyes seeking yours out after he makes a point, as if checking to see if you’re still there. Or maybe to see if you approve. You give him small nods of encouragement, even though your mind is starting to drift. The talk of harbor improvements and shipping lanes is mind-numbing, and you find yourself studying the patterns on your plate instead of listening.

They’re on their third argument about rice imports now. Surely there has to be something more interesting to discuss, you think, taking another sip of wine. Maybe you could bring up the weather or the cute messenger hawk you saw in the roosting tower. Or the fact that you’re pretty sure you saw Ambassador Fang slip something into his wine that looked suspiciously like a sleeping draught.

“…the harvest reports from the western colonies remain disappointing,” a voice drones on, and it's then that you realize you've missed a crucial transition in the conversation. The speaker, you think it’s Minister Izeron, who had sat next to you at the banquet, gives a pointed look to Zuko. “Perhaps it is time to consider a change in agricultural policy.”

“The reconstruction grants have already been distributed,” Morao chimes in. “If yields remain low next season, we may need to encourage larger operations.”

“Encourage?” another voice snorts. It’s an older man in a military uniform, General Shin, the most sour-faced of the three generals present. “You mean mandate. Small, family-run farms are inefficient. It’s time we move to larger-scale production. Consolidate the land.”

Your head snaps up, your wine glass frozen halfway to your lips. This is no longer boring. This is, in fact, incredibly dangerous. You know this game. You've seen it played out in a dozen different villages across the Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation colonies. The powerful taking from the small, all in the name of "efficiency" and "progress."

Zuko’s eyes flick toward you at your sudden movement. He takes in the set of your jaw, the tight grip of your hand around the stem of your glass, and a look of understanding crosses his face.

“Something to add?” he asks you quietly, and the entire table goes silent.

You open your mouth, and then close it again, your gaze sweeping over the assembled men. They look at you with a mixture of curiosity and condescension, waiting for you to make a fool of yourself. But when you look back at Zuko, you see only interest. He’s not doing this to embarrass you. He’s doing this because he trusts you. He values your opinion, even if no one else in this room does.

“Maybe,” you admit carefully, letting go of your iron grip on your wine. You turn back to Minister Maoro. “Which western colonies?”

He blinks, taken aback. “Er… the Lan-Wun and Kucheza prefectures, mostly. Along the Mo Ce coast.”

You nod slowly. You figured that would be his answer. “I was there last year.”

“The floods?” Minister Guo asks, his voice surprisingly gentle. His eyes have been fixed on you with an analytical curiosity for most of the evening.

You nod again. “The floods.”

“Those were nearly two years ago,” Morao protests. “The land should have recovered by now.”

“Not necessarily,” you counter, finally stepping into the ring. You lean forward on your cushion, resting your elbows on the table. “The soil composition along the Mo Ce coast is very specific. High in clay, low in organic matter. When you get a flood that severe, it doesn't just wash away the topsoil. It fundamentally changes the structure of the earth. The drainage is compromised. It can take years for the micro-fauna in the soil to recover and get things back into balance.”

You see General Shin roll his eyes, but Morao is listening with a frown. “Micro-what?”

“The worms. The bacteria. The fungi,” you say with a wave of your hand. “The things that make dirt into soil. The floods killed them. You can plant all the rice you want, but without healthy soil, the yields will always be disappointing.”

You watch as the men at the end of the table exchange a look that clearly says, she's crazy. Minister Guo, however, is nodding thoughtfully, and Zuko is watching you with an expression of open pride.

“So what are you suggesting?” he asks you, his voice cutting through the whispers.

You shrug, picking up a steamed bun and turning it over in your hands. “I’m suggesting that instead of taking land from people who have farmed it for generations, you invest in remediation. Amend the soil. Introduce new crops that can handle the changed conditions. It takes time, and it's not as profitable in the short term, but it’s better than creating a class of landless farmers who will just end up moving to the cities and straining resources there.”

You take a bite of the bun, chew, and swallow. The table erupts into a cacophony of voices. "Impossible!" "Too expensive!" "The logistics!" "We don't have that kind of time!"

You just listen, your expression calm, as they argue over your head. You know your argument is sound. You’ve seen it work, in villages with far fewer resources than the Fire Nation. You’re not worried about them. You’re watching Zuko.

He lets them go on for a few minutes, his expression impassive as he drums his fingers on the table. Then he raises a hand, and the room falls silent again.

“Draft a proposal,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Councilman Morao, I want a report on the soil composition of the Shu Jing prefecture and every viable farm in the region. General Shin, start looking into the feasibility of a public works program to amend the soil. Minister Guo, I’d appreciate your input on how the Earth Kingdom has handled similar situations.”

Guo gives a nod and a small smile. The rest of the men stare at their leader, and you can see a flicker of the old Zuko in the defiant tilt of his chin as he stares back. The one who never backed down from a fight.

"But my lord—" Morao starts to protest.

"This is not a request," Zuko interrupts, his voice firm. “We'll re-evaluate the harvest projections in six months. Until then, no land is to be consolidated without my direct approval. Is that clear?”

A chorus of “yes, my Lord” echoes around the table, and you hide your smile behind another bite of your bun. You feel a nudge from your elbow, and you turn to see Zuko looking at you, his eyes sparkling with a familiar, mischievous light.

“Good job,” he mouths, and you feel your cheeks flush with warmth.

The conversation moves on to other matters, to the rebuilding of the navy and the ongoing negotiations with the Southern Water Tribe for fishing rights. You listen with half an ear, your attention still buzzing from the small victory. You didn't change the world, but you did something. In just a few minutes, you've potentially changed the course of thousands of farmers' lives. And you did it from a cushion at the Fire Lord's table.

The dinner drags on, course after course, and the wine flows freely. You can see the effect it's having on the council. Their arguments become more spirited, their opinions less filtered. Even Ambassador Fang's perpetual scowl has softened into a drunken stupor. Zuko, you notice, barely touches his glass. He's as sharp and focused as ever, navigating the conversation with a sober clarity that makes you think he's had a lot of practice at this.

You, on the other hand, are feeling pleasantly warm and relaxed. The tension you've been carrying in your shoulders has melted away, and you find yourself laughing along with the others at a particularly bawdy story from Admiral Jee, who is red-faced and slurring his words. Minister Guo is in deep conversation with one of the naval officers about the merits of Earth Kingdom versus Fire Nation ship design, and the atmosphere has shifted from stiff formality to something almost... friendly. It's like being at a very exclusive, very boring party. With your best friend. Who is also the Fire Lord. It's all very surreal.

Zuko leans in close to you as the dessert is brought in, his shoulder brushing against yours. "Having fun?" he asks, his voice low and amused.

"I am," you admit, giving him a grin. "Though I think Ambassador Fang is asleep with his eyes open."

He follows your gaze to the end of the table, where the Earth Kingdom ambassador is indeed swaying slightly in his seat, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Zuko chuckles and lifts his glass to his lips. “Did you see him slip that powder into his wine earlier? I thought he was going to pass out right there in his soup.”

You raise your eyebrows. "So I wasn't imagining it."

"No," he confirms, and he takes a small, controlled sip. “It's going to be a long negotiation tomorrow.”

You watch the ambassador, feeling a flicker of pity. "He's going to have a terrible headache."

"Serves him right," Zuko mutters, but there's no real venom in his voice. Just weariness.

You reach under the table and find his hand where it’s resting on his thigh, and you give it a gentle, reassuring squeeze. He turns to you, his expression softening, and his fingers curl around yours.

"You okay?" you ask, your voice low so no one else can hear.

He nods, but his eyes tell a different story. "I'm fine. This is just... a lot."

You know what he means. Just this one dinner is already leaving you exhausted and drained, and you don't have to get up again in the morning and do it all over again. You can't imagine how he does it, day in and day out. No wonder his fire has dimmed. He's burning himself out to keep the whole nation warm.

"Well," you say, giving his hand another squeeze before letting it go. "Maybe you can take a break tomorrow. Come work in the garden. I could use some help laying the foundation for the teahouse."

The hopeful look that crosses Zuko’s face is almost painful to see. He looks at you like you're offering him a life raft in a stormy sea, and maybe you are. You certainly feel like you're treading water right alongside him.

"I wish I could," he says, his voice heavy with regret. "But the negotiations with the Earth Kingdom are at a critical stage. I can't just... abandon them."

"Right.” You force a smile. You knew it was a long shot. "Of course. Just an idea."

"I'm sorry," he adds, and he looks genuinely pained. "I promise, as soon as this is over, we'll get back to it. I'll clear my schedule."

"Zuko, you don't have to apologize," you tell him, trying to sound casual. You reach for your wine glass, but you stop yourself, remembering how loose your tongue is already feeling. You don't trust yourself to have this conversation with a clear head, let alone a tipsy one, and certainly not with an audience. "I understand. This is your job. And you're doing great at it."

He doesn't look convinced, but Admiral Jee is already dragging him into a discussion about patrol routes in the eastern seas, and the moment is lost. You turn your attention to your plate of lychees, peeling the fruit with a focus you don't feel, and you let the noise of the table wash over you.

You're happy for him. You are. He's a good Fire Lord, a great one, and he's doing what he was born to do. But it's hard not to feel a little… left behind. Like you're watching him sail away on a ship you're not allowed to board. You told yourself you wouldn't get attached, that you'd just enjoy this time with him while it lasted, but it's easier said than done. Especially when he looks at you like that, and then turns back to his duty like it's a wall you can't breach.

You’re friends, you remind yourself. This is what friends do. They support each other, even when it hurts. Even when it feels like you're the one being left behind. You just have to be patient. And strong. And maybe drink a little less wine.

You're just considering making your escape, a polite excuse about early morning duties in the garden ready on your lips, when a voice cuts through the low hum of conversation. It's sharp and slurred, and it carries all the way down the length of the table.

"It seems our guest has lost her tongue."

You look up. Minister Morao. His face is flushed a deep, unbecoming red, and he's leaning heavily on his elbow, his wine glass held aloft like a weapon. He's staring right at you, and his eyes are hard with an ugly sort of amusement.

"Or perhaps she's simply run out of dirt to talk about," he continues, a sneer twisting his lips. "Nothing to add on the subject of naval patrols, gardener? No earth-shattering wisdom to impart from your vast experience with... well, earth?"

A ripple of uncomfortable laughter travels around the table. Minister Guo studiously examines his wine glass, while Admiral Jee simply looks bored. Zuko goes utterly still beside you, the pleasant warmth in his eyes vanishing, replaced by something cold and hard. You've seen that look before, usually right before he sets something on fire.

You, however, are not intimidated. You've dealt with bullies your whole life, from the schoolyard to the highest halls of power. They're all the same: small men trying to feel big by putting others down. And you've never been one to back down from a challenge.

"Actually, Minister," you say, your voice deceptively sweet. You pop another lychee in your mouth and chew slowly, letting the silence stretch. "I was just thinking about how fascinating it is to watch men who have never set foot on a farm dictate agricultural policy for an entire nation. It's like watching a fish try to climb a tree. You're just flopping around, making a mess, and getting nowhere."

The silence that follows is absolute. The smile on Morao's face curdles into a snarl, and the room seems to shrink, the air growing thick with tension. Zuko's hand has clenched into a fist on the table, and you can feel the heat radiating off of him. This is it. This is the moment it all goes wrong. You've just insulted a high-ranking council member in front of the entire court. You’ve ruined everything.

But then, to your shock, Minister Guo lets out a low, rumbling chuckle. "She has you there, Morao," he says, shaking his head as he looks down the table at the fuming minister. "Perhaps you should spend less time in your office and more time in the fields you're so eager to manage."

Morao's face turns an even deeper shade of purple. “This is an outrage,” he splutters, pushing himself to his feet. "I will not be mocked by some backwater—"

"Minister Morao."

Zuko's voice cuts through the room like a blade of ice. He hasn't moved, hasn't raised his voice, but the power in those two words is absolute. Every person at the table flinches, even the generals. Morao freezes, his mouth hanging open.

"Fire Lord Zuko," he begins, his tone switching from anger to placating in an instant. "I meant no disrespect. I was merely pointing out that—"

"I know what you were doing," Zuko interrupts, his voice dangerously quiet. He slowly turns his head to look at Morao, and the flames in the lanterns spread around the room flicker and gutter, as if recoiling from his gaze. "You were insulting my guest. My friend. In my home. At my table."

The last word is delivered with a soft finality that is more terrifying than any shout. Morao visibly pales, and he sinks back into his seat, his bluster deflating like a punctured war balloon.

Zuko holds his stare for another long, excruciating moment. No one says a word. You can hear the clink of Admiral Jee's glass as he takes a very pointed sip of his drink. You hold your breath, your hand curled tightly around your own wine glass, as you watch the man you know and the Fire Lord he’s become wage a silent war in the space of a heartbeat.

A war on your behalf.

The thought should make you feel safe. Instead, it makes your heart pound in your chest and your skin prickle with heat. This is not what you wanted. You didn't come here to be his project or his charity case. You came here to help him. But now you've just become another problem for him to solve, another political landmine he has to navigate. You feel foolish and small and suddenly, overwhelmingly, out of place.

"I think," Zuko says, turning back to the center of the table, his voice regaining its composure, "we have all had a bit too much to drink. The hour is late, and we have a long day of negotiations ahead of us tomorrow. I believe it's time to adjourn."

There are no arguments, only a rustle of cloth and a murmured chorus of "Yes, my Lord" and "Thank you, Fire Lord" as the men practically trip over themselves in their haste to stand and bow. Zuko gracefully unfolds himself from his seat and rises to his full imposing height, and he turns to hold out his hand to you, his face still hard with anger. But when his eyes meet yours, you see a flicker of apology.

You take his hand and let him help you up, your body moving on autopilot. You feel numb, detached, as he folds your arm through his and begins to lead you out of the room. You don't look back, but you can feel the weight of their stares, the whispers that will no doubt be flying the moment you're gone. The gardener and the Fire Lord. The rumors are already writing themselves.

He doesn't say anything as you walk. He leads you through the dimly lit halls, past guards who snap to attention and bow as you pass. You're not sure where you're going, and you don't care. You just want this night to be over. You want to go to your room and pull these heavy silk robes off and scrub the makeup from your face and pretend that none of this ever happened.

As the two of you round the corner, you hear the sound of fervent whispering, and your hold on Zuko’s arm tightens. A pair of servants, two young girls, are huddled together by a tapestry, their heads bowed together. They see you, and their whispers die in their throats, their faces paling as they scramble to bow.

Zuko doesn't even seem to notice them. He just keeps walking, his jaw set, his pace unwavering. The girls remain in their deep bows until you reach the doors to the palace gardens, and then you hear them start up again. You have a sinking feeling you know what they’re whispering about.

You pass through the doors and into the cool night air. The garden is quiet, bathed in the silver light of the moon. He leads you down a winding path, away from the main palace, and you realize he’s taking you to the garden. To your garden.

Zuko stops at the gate, his back to you as he fumbles with the lock. The chain rattles, loud and jarring in the stillness. You watch him, your heart aching with a feeling you can't quite place. This is why you can’t stay. You’re not just a distraction for him. You’re a liability.

The gate finally swings open, and he gestures for you to go in before he follows, closing the gate behind you with a final, decisive clang. The two of you stand there, in the shadows of the garden you’ve built together, the moonlight painting streaks of silver on the dark soil.

Zuko stalks past you to the center of the garden, his hands in his pockets, his shoulders hunched. He stops by the empty space where the teahouse will one day stand, and he stares at the piles of lumber, his whole body radiating a tightly coiled tension.

"Sorry," he says at last, his voice rough. "About that. Morao. He's..."

"He's a drunk with a small mind and a big mouth," you finish for him. "It's fine. I've heard worse."

Zuko turns to look at you over his shoulder, his expression shadowed. "It's not fine. He insulted you."

"I'm used to it," you say with a shrug. You move to sit on one of the stacks of lumber, the rough wood digging into your thighs. You’re too tired to stand anymore. "It comes with the territory."

He lets out an angry huff. "You shouldn't have to be."

You give him a sad smile and wrap your arms around yourself. He's not wrong, but he's not right, either. The world is cruel, and people are cruel, and you've learned to live with it. You don’t spend your entire life fighting and building and watching everything you love burn down without developing a pretty thick skin. Though, usually, you’re allowed to throw a punch about it. That's always been your solution to insults.

But you couldn't do that tonight. You couldn't defend yourself, not without making things infinitely worse for him. So you just sat there and took it, and let him fight your battle for you. And you hate it. You hate feeling weak, and you hate watching him be forced into the role of your protector. It's not fair to either of you.

And now, the damage is done. The court will be buzzing with this for weeks. You've just given Morao and his ilk all the ammunition they need to question Zuko's judgment and your presence here.

“I can see why you’re so tired all the time,” you say, your voice quiet. "It's exhausting, all this... pretending. All this politics. How do you do it?"

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets and kicks at a loose stone on the path. "It's my job."

“Some job,” you scoff. “No wonder you want to come play in the dirt.”

Zuko looks up at you, and there's a flash of hurt in his eyes. "I'm not playing. I like being here. With you. It's the highlight of my day."

I know, you want to say. And that’s the problem. Because the more you like it, the more you want it, the harder it's going to be to leave. And you are going to have to leave. It was always the plan. The garden will be finished, Minister Guo will have a position for you, and you’ll go. You’ll go back to your real life, and he'll stay here, in his. And you'll both pretend that this little interlude was just that. An interlude.

But you can't say any of that. Not now. So you just nod and look away, staring at the dark outline of the cherry tree against the stars. "I like it, too. Being here with you."

The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable. You wish you could go back in time, to this afternoon, when you were working in the dirt together and everything was simple. When you weren't dressed up like a doll and sitting at a table full of vipers, making his life harder. You wish you could undo the damage you've done tonight.

"Zuko..." you start, but you don't know how to finish. What can you say? 'I'm sorry I exist?' 'I'm sorry I'm not what you need?' 'I'm sorry I'm not her?’ The words lodge in your throat, and you swallow them down with a shudder.

He seems to sense your distress, and he takes a step toward you, his hands finally emerging from his pockets. "What is it?"

You shake your head, unable to look at him. "I'm just... I'm tired. And this was a mistake. I should have known better than to open my mouth.”

“What?” he says, his voice sharp with disbelief. "You were brilliant in there. You know more about agriculture than Morao and Izeron combined. You were right.”

“Being right isn’t the point,” you say, and you finally raise your head to look at him. He’s standing just a few feet away, his brow furrowed in confusion, and you feel a surge of frustration. He doesn't get it. "The point is that I was never supposed to be there at all.”

Zuko blinks at you, as if this is a revelation he’s never considered before. And maybe it isn’t. He’s so used to being the Fire Lord now, to having people listen to him because of his title, that he’s forgotten what it’s like to be on the outside looking in. To have your competence dismissed because of who you are, or in your case, who you aren't.

He takes another step closer, and now he's standing right in front of you, his boots almost touching the tips of your slippers. "That's not true. I wanted you there. I invited you."

“I know,” you reply, and you do. But that doesn't make it any easier. “But you can’t just… drag me into your world and expect everyone to be okay with it. They’re not. And they’re never going to be.”

“Then who cares what they think?” he argues, his voice rising with frustration. “I’m the Fire Lord. I get to decide who sits at my table. And I want you there. Always.”

You close your eyes, and you will your heart to stop aching. Always. It’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to you, and it feels like a knife twisting in your chest. Because you know he means it. But you also know it can’t last. You can’t be the exception to his rule forever. Eventually, the crown will win, and you'll be the one left behind.

“It’s not that simple,” you tell him, your voice pleading. "And you know it.”

“It is,” he argues. He braces his hands on either side of you on the lumber, caging you in. You open your eyes and find his face inches from yours, his expression fierce and desperate. "It is that simple. You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re kind, and strong, and you see things no one else does. You’re just as good as any of them. Better.”

“I know that,” you whisper. “But I’m trying to be realistic here, Zuko.”

“Realistic is what’s gotten them a hundred years of war and a broken country,” he shoots back. “Realistic is safe. I don’t want to be realistic. I want to be better.”

You stare at him, your breath caught in your throat. In the moonlight, he looks wild, his eyes shining and his hair falling loose around his shoulders. He’s beautiful, and he's passionate, and he’s fighting a battle you’re not sure he can win.

You’ve always thought Zuko was the one who was too jaded, too angry for his own good. But maybe it’s you who’s the pessimist. Maybe you’ve spent so long fighting for small victories, for just a little bit of good in a broken world, that you’ve forgotten how to believe in anything bigger.

You want to believe with him. You want to believe that this thing between you, this friendship, is strong and bright and brilliant, a fire that can burn through all the prejudice and politics, and a hundred years worth of pain. But it's hard. Harder than it’s ever been. Being here has only made you see the chasm between your lives more clearly, and you're not sure how to build a bridge across it.

You drop your gaze, staring at the dark fabric of his sleeves. You can see the tension in his hands, his knuckles white where he grips the lumber on either side of you. He's waiting for you to agree with him, you know, to be the optimistic, fearless person he remembers. But you don't have the energy. You're too tired, and your heart is too full of doubt. So instead, you do the one thing you've gotten very good at over the years. You deflect.

"Zuko, look," you say, your voice thick with emotion. "It's late, and we're both exhausted. And... emotional. Let's just... not, okay? Let's not do this right now."

Zuko lets out a shaky breath, and his shoulders slump. He straightens up, his hands falling from the wood, and he takes a step back. He looks... defeated. And it's your fault. You’ve done this to him. You've taken the fire that was burning in his eyes and snuffed it out with your own cowardice.

"Okay," he murmurs. He turns away from you, staring out into the dark garden. "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have... I'm sorry."

He starts to move towards the gate, but you push yourself off the lumber and grab his arm, stopping him. He turns to you, his face shadowed, and you can see the pain in his eyes. It mirrors your own.

"Don't apologize," you say softly. "You have no reason to. I'm the one who's sorry. I just... I need some time. To think."

Zuko nods, his throat working as he swallows. "I understand."

You don't think he does. But you let him believe he does, because the alternative is too painful to consider. You let go of his arm and step back, putting some space between you. The night air feels suddenly colder, and you wrap your arms around yourself again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," you say, though you’re not sure that’s true. You have no idea what tomorrow will bring, but it feels like the right thing to say.

"Tomorrow," he echoes. He hesitates, his hand twitching, but he shoves it in his pocket again. "Goodnight."

"Night, Zuko," you whisper, and you watch him walk away, his silhouette fading into the darkness. The gate creaks open and then slams shut behind him with a finality that makes you flinch.

You stand there alone for a long time, staring at the gate, your chest aching with a grief you can't quite put a finger on. You’ve lost track of time, lost track of the plan, and now you're just lost. And you're not sure how to find your way back.

Zuko disappears back into the bowels of the palace, a prisoner of his council. You don't see him at all during the day, and your dinner invitations are all politely declined with notes delivered by a very formal, very stuffy page you’d like to trip. You can tell he's miserable, but there's not much you can do about it. The fate of the world, and all that.

Your days settle into a new rhythm. You work in the garden until the sun starts to dip below the high walls, pulling weeds and replanting what you can. You test the pH levels, and amend the soil with sand and compost and crushed eggshells. And you send letters to everyone and anyone you can think of that would be willing to help procure the rare and exotic plants you need.

Which is to say, you write to your least reputable contacts in the Earth Kingdom's most dubious back alleys and hope for the best. It's a little illegal, but you've never let that stop you before. And what Zuko doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

This morning, you're up with the sun. There’s a bounce to your step as you hurry through the meandering halls of the palace toward the roosting tower, where the royal dragon hawks are kept. With any luck, today will be the day you hear back on the panda lily seed pods you sent away for, and you can’t stand the suspense.

You climb the winding stairs of the tower, your hand trailing along the sun-warmed stone as you go. The tower is open to the elements, and from here you can see the whole of the palace and Caldera City stretching out before you in a maze of red roofs and golden spires. It’s beautiful and terrifyingly dizzying in equal measure. If you look too long, it feels like it’s about to swallow you whole.

As you near the top of the tower, a shriek echoes down from above, followed by a pained shout. Your smile vanishes. The dragon hawks are notoriously temperamental, but you’ve never heard one make a sound like that. You quicken your pace, taking the stairs two at a time.

“—let go! You vicious little—ow!"

You burst onto the roosting platform, and the sight that greets you is both comical and alarming. The apprentice hawker is there, a lanky teenager with a mop of unruly black hair, tangled in a mess of leather straps and jesses. And perched on his head, looking very pleased with himself, is one of the largest, most ferocious-looking dragon hawks you've ever seen. His feathers are mottled brown and gold, but the crest on his head is a brilliant, angry red, and he’s using his sharp beak to methodically rip at the boy’s ear.

“Hawky?” you breathe out, incredulous. “Is that you?”

The dragon hawk’s head snaps up at the sound of your voice, and he lets out a delighted caw. He releases the boy’s ear with a final vicious tug, flares his magnificent wings, and launches himself from the boy’s head, swooping down to land on your outstretched arm. The apprentice stumbles backward, clutching his bleeding ear and gaping at you, but you're too busy fussing over the bird to pay him any mind.

"Who’s a good boy," you coo, scratching the soft feathers under Hawky's chin and earning a happy trill for your efforts. “Look at you, all big and handsome. I haven't seen you in ages. What are you doing all the way out here?”

He just butts his head against your palm, demanding more attention, and you laugh and oblige. You’d always had a soft spot for Sokka’s adopted bird. He was a menace, sure, but he was a loyal menace, and he had more personality in one claw than most people had in their entire body.

“You… you know him?” the apprentice stammers, staring at you with wide, terrified eyes.

“He’s an old friend,” you reply, and the boy pales even further when he realizes who he’s talking to. He looks from Hawky to you and back again, and you speak before he can say something that will undoubtedly ruin your good mood. “Have you had any hawks from Makapu today? Or Ba Sing Se?”

"N-no, my lady,” he stammers, bowing low. “Just that one. He arrived at dawn. He's been… difficult.”

"I can see that," you say as Hawky grabs the end of your braid and starts preening it. "He's a terror. But he's all bark. Mostly."

"He bit a chunk out of Captain Timo’s shoulder when he tried to retrieve the message," the boy whispers, and you have to bite back a laugh. Of course he did. That's Sokka's bird, through and through.

You glance at Hawky's back, and sure enough, a rolled-up scroll is in the holster there. Your smile fades at the worn state of it. He must have been trying to track you for days, to no avail. You run a soothing hand down over his head.

“You poor thing. You must be exhausted.” You reach for the scroll, and the bird eagerly sits still for you. "Let's get you some water. And a fish. A big one."

You turn to the apprentice, who looks like he’s about to faint. “Do we have any fish?”

“Y-yes, my lady. In the storage shed. I’ll… I’ll get one,” he stammers, and he scurries away, leaving you to untie the message.

The scroll is tied with a familiar piece of blue twine, and your heart gives a little leap. Sokka. As you work the knot open, Hawky ruffles his feathers and lets out a loud, indignant squawk.

“Yes, yes, I know,” you mutter as you finally get it free. “You’re very important. The most important bird.”

You turn the scroll over in your hands, hesitating for a moment. A message from home, or the closest thing you have to it. The last few weeks have been a dizzying whirlwind of silk and stone and political maneuvering, and you’ve felt more than a little untethered. You didn’t realize how much until just now. How much you needed to hear from someone who knew you before you were the Fire Lord’s pet project.

With a deep breath, you break the wax seal—Sokka’s boomerang, of course—and unravel the scroll.

Hey Dirt Girl,

You let out a small huff of a laugh. Some things never change.

First of all, Hawky better actually find you this time, because I’m starting to think you vanish on purpose whenever anyone tries to contact you.

Second, Katara says hello. Suki says hello. Aang says hello. Appa sneezed on this letter before I folded it, so technically he says hello too.

Third: where ARE you?

You missed Toph cheating half the attendees out of their money at an Earth Rumble tournament, which I personally think should count as a crime. I've been trying to get a message to you for weeks, but every one has come back “address unknown.” The last place I knew you were working was that little village outside Ba Sing Se, but they said you left almost a month ago.

Are you in trouble? Should I send the Kyoshi Warriors? Are you secretly the leader of a new anti-imperialist rebel cell of mole-rats? If so, that's awesome, but please write back.

Your smile fades as you continue reading, a prickle of guilt rising in your chest. You should have written. You know you should have written. You kept meaning to, at the end of a long day when your muscles ached and your hands were caked in dirt, but you’d always fall asleep before you could find a brush and paper. And then you came here, and the days blurred together in a haze of silk and sun, and it became even harder to reach out.

Things here have been weirdly quiet. The rebuilding is going well, and I've almost perfected a new boomerang design that'll cut through a steel plate. I’ll demo it for you next time I see you. Whenever that is!

Also, Zuko keeps writing like an old man now. Every letter is “negotiations are progressing steadily,” and “I am cautiously optimistic about the future of trade relations." BORING. What happened to “my life is a never-ending parade of misery and misfortune?" That guy knew how to write a letter.

You roll your eyes. You can practically hear Sokka’s grumbling voice as you skim the next few lines, his frustration with your friend’s newfound stoicism bleeding through the page. You can’t help but agree. You miss the old Zuko, the one who would complain to you for hours about a stubbed toe or a burnt pot of tea. This new, composed Fire Lord is still him, but he feels like a stranger sometimes.

You're about to skip to the next paragraph when a line catches your eye, and you freeze.

But he does ask if anyone’s heard from you in literally every single letter. Like every. Single. One. It's getting a little annoying.

You stare at the words, and you feel your face grow hot. Of course he has. He’s your friend. It would be weird if he didn’t ask. But the way Sokka writes it, the implication behind it, makes you want to crawl under a rock and never come out. You can just imagine him and Katara and Aang all sitting around, reading Zuko’s letters and giving each other significant looks. It’s unbearable.

Anyway, I’m writing to see if you’ve heard from him, and if he’s actually, you know, ok. Because I’m starting to think he’s been replaced by a pod person. If you see him, punch him for me. And tell him to write about something interesting for once. I’m drowning in tedium over here. If I have to read another paragraph about grain exports, I’m going to invent a submersible machine and go live at the bottom of the ocean.

Seriously, though. If you could let us know if you’re in prison or dead or secretly married, that would be nice. We miss you. And we're starting to get worried.

Sokka

P.S. Tilak says hi, and so do the rest of the warriors. And he says he’s still waiting for your reply to his last letter.

P.P.S. Hawky is not to be fed more than one fish. I know you're thinking about it. Don't do it. He's getting fat.

The apprentice returns with a large, wriggling fish clutched in his hands. He stops when he sees your face, and the fish nearly slips from his fingers.

"Is everything okay, my lady?" he asks, holding out the fish. Hawky lets out an excited shriek and launches himself from your arm, snatching the fish from the boy's grasp and retreating to the corner of the platform to devour it.

"Yeah. Yeah, everything's... great," you reply weakly. You're still staring at the letter, your hands shaking. Sokka’s words swim before your eyes.

Zuko asks about you? In every single letter? That can't be right. Sokka must be exaggerating. He does that.

But the thought sticks, a splinter in your mind, as you fold the letter and tuck it into the deep pocket of your work tunic. It feels heavy against your hip.

"You can give him one more," you say to the boy, nodding toward Hawky. "He's had a long flight."

The apprentice bows and scurries away again, leaving you alone with your thoughts and the greedy sounds of the dragon hawk eating. You move to a small, rickety table tucked away in a corner of the tower, away from the sun and the mess of feathers and fish guts. You sit, pulling out Sokka’s letter and reading it again, slower this time, letting each word sink in.

Zuko keeps writing like an old man now.

Sokka probably thought you would find that funny, and normally you would, but as you sit here, in the heart of the very palace where those boring letters are being written, it doesn’t seem very funny at all. It’s sad. The Zuko you saw in the throne room the other day, weighed down by the crown and the council, is not the Zuko you traveled with. That Zuko was full of fire and frustration, a barely controlled explosion of honor and angst. This one… this one is being slowly, carefully, extinguished.

He does ask if anyone’s heard from you in literally every single letter.

Your thumb smooths over the worn parchment. Every single letter. You think of the letters you received from Zuko over the years, the ones you kept in a small wooden box in your bag. They always started with “I hope this letter finds you well,” and ended with a careful, formal “Your friend.” They were full of news and observations, but never once had he asked about you.

You’d always thought it was just… Zuko. Awkward, emotionally stunted, a little bit clueless. But now you wonder. Did he think you didn’t want him to ask? Or was he just as afraid of the answer as you were?

A sigh escapes you, and you search the desk for a piece of parchment and a brush. You need to write back and let him know you’re alive. But how do you explain this? You don't even understand it yourself.

Hey, Sokka.

I got your letter. I’m not in prison, or dead, or secretly married. So you can tell Suki and the Warriors to stand down. I’m alive, well, and unattached. Though the last few weeks have been strange enough that I had to check a couple of times to make sure I wasn't hallucinating.

I’m in Caldera City temporarily while a situation with a colonial governor settles down.

You pause, your brush hovering over the paper. That’s it. That’s the bombshell. You might as well have written “I've decided to become a professional koala-otter wrestler.” You can practically hear Sokka’s incredulous shout from across the continent. You brace yourself, then keep going.

Long story. I'll tell you about it later. But the short version is I’m staying at the palace for now. Please stop laughing.

About Zuko: he's not a pod person. He's just... Fire Lord. It’s a lot. He looks tired all the time. I'm trying to get him to eat more vegetables, but it's an uphill battle.

You bite your lip. It feels like a betrayal, writing this, sharing these details of his life. But Sokka is his friend. He has a right to know.

He’s doing the best he can. I promise. He’s got a whole council of stuffy old men breathing down his neck who think compromise is a dirty word, and King Kuei seems to have an insatiable appetite for reparations. He's doing a good job, though. Better than I think he even realizes. He had them all in an uproar the other day because he adjourned a council meeting to help me look for some old scrolls in the archives. It was pretty great.

You re-read the last two sentences. That sounds too… fond. You scratch it out.

Zuko had them all in an uproar the other day. He actually walked out on them in the middle of a debate about jade tariffs. They couldn't believe it. That weasely ambassador he always complains about nearly had a fit. It was glorious.

There. That's better.

He's invited me to help restore one of the royal gardens, the one that belonged to his mother. It's... a project. And he's also the reason I'm not in a jail cell for accidentally-on-purpose destroying a statue of a very unpopular official. So I owe him one. Several ones, probably.

Anyway, I'm fine. Tell everyone I said hello back. And tell Aang he needs to get better at relaying messages.

I’ll try to write more soon.

- Your favorite dirt bender

P.S. Hawky looks great. I gave him two fish.

You roll the parchment up and tie it with a spare piece of twine you find in a small wooden box on the table. Hawky, having finished his meal, hops over to you, ruffling his feathers and preening, and you secure the scroll safely in the holster.

"Okay, you," you say, scratching the top of his head. "Go home. And don't get distracted this time."

Hawky lets out a loud caw, nips playfully at your finger, and launches himself into the sky. He circles the tower once, twice, and then he's gone, a small, dark speck against the brilliant blue of the morning sky.

You stand there for a long moment, watching him until he disappears from view. The sun is rising above the rim of the caldera now, and the day is already starting to warm up. A breeze blows in from the sea, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine, and you take a deep breath, trying to clear your head.

The letter from Sokka was like a key, unlocking a box of memories you’d kept sealed away for months. Laughter around a campfire. The thrill of a well-executed plan. The comfort of a shared silence. You miss it. You miss them. You miss the person you were with them, one who wasn't afraid of anything or anyone, least of all herself.

You also miss the person Zuko was with them. The angry, awkward, fiercely loyal boy who would fight a whole army for the people he cared about. You miss him, too. There's been glimpses, bright spots in the fog of duty and diplomacy, but you miss the constant, brilliant burn of him. You miss the fire.

You turn and head back down the stairs of the roosting tower. When you reach the rampart, you hop onto the parapet, balancing easily on the sun-warmed stone. Below, the sprawling palace grounds are laid out like the scrolls you poured over with Zuko, and you walk along the narrow ledge, your arms outstretched for balance.

You've been cooped up in this palace for weeks, and the familiar itch is back, that restless need for motion and open sky. You could walk around the grounds, of course. But that's what nobles do. And you are, and will never be, a noble. So you walk the walls, where the wind is strong and the fall is steep, and for the first time since you arrived, the high stone walls of the palace feel less like a cage and more like a perch.

You follow the rampart towards the back of the palace, towards the small, walled-off section of the grounds that holds your garden. A bird's eye view of the space will help. Something to compare to the dusty old scrolls you and Zuko had dug up the other day.

But as you round the corner of the battlement, a sound draws you to a halt. It's a rhythmic whoosh and crackle, punctuated by the sharp hiss of steam. Fire. And not the controlled, gentle flame of a lantern or the soft glow of the hearth. This is fire with purpose, alive and breathing.

You lean over the parapet, your hair whipping across your face as you peer down into a small, secluded courtyard tucked away between two palace wings and hidden from view by overgrown bougainvillea. You've never noticed it before, but then again, there are countless hidden corners in this labyrinth of stone and gold.

And in the center of this hidden courtyard, moving through a series of firebending katas, is Zuko. He's shirtless, wearing only simple black trousers that hang low on his hips, his feet bare against the flagstones. The morning sun glints off the sweat on his shoulders and chest, tracing the sharp lines of his muscles as he moves. He moves like liquid fire, each motion flowing seamlessly into the next, his breath perfectly timed, his eyes focused and intent.

You watch, mesmerized, as he launches into the next set, the flames flickering like ribbons in his hands. You've seen Zuko practice his forms hundreds of times before. You've watched him lose control, and struggle, and grow. But it’s been years since the last time you watched him do anything more than heat a pot of tea, and you'd forgotten how beautiful he is like this, in the full flush of his power. You’d forgotten the fire.

A slow warmth curls in your stomach, and you lean further over the wall to get a better look. This is how he was meant to be seen, you realize. Not in a gilded throne, weighed down by robes and responsibility. But here, wild and free, dancing with the flame he's spent his life taming. It's the most honest thing you've seen him do since you arrived.

Zuko doesn't see you. He's lost in his own world, and his movements are becoming faster, more aggressive, as the kata progresses. You can see the tension in his shoulders and the furrow in his brow as he pushes himself, again and again, past his own limits. It’s familiar. It's Zuko in a nutshell. So stubbornly determined to be better, to be worthy, that he can't help but try to burn himself up in the process.

And then his foot slides out, tripping over an uneven flagstone. The bright thread of his inner fire snaps. The series of katas ends with a frustrated shout and a massive, roiling blast of fire that scorches the stone around him. He stands there for a moment, chest heaving, hands clenched into fists at his sides, and he glares at the scorch marks on the ground as if they have personally offended him.

"Damn it," he mutters, raking his fingers through his hair. He takes up his stance again, his face set in determination, but you can see the exhaustion pulling at him. He’s been working too hard, for too long.

You shuffle your feet, debating your next move. You could turn and leave, pretend you never saw this, and let him have this private moment of frustration. Or you could go down there and… you don't know what. Something. Help, somehow. That’s what you’re here for, right? To help.

Before you can decide, Zuko looks up, and his gaze meets yours. Even from this distance, you can see his eyes widen in surprise, and a flush of color spreads across his chest as he drops his stance.

“What are you doing up there?” he calls up to you, breathless. “Spying?”

“Just trying to get a little entertainment before breakfast,” you reply, keeping your tone light as you hop from one section of the parapet to the next. "The court gossip is getting boring. I thought I'd see if I could find any real drama."

He lets out a short laugh and shakes his head. “You found it.”

“An impressive display,” you concede, stopping directly above him and peering down. He looks up at you, shielding his eyes against the bright sun. "Though I'm pretty sure that last move wasn't in any of the ancient forms."

"A little improvisation," he replies with a shrug. He looks at the scorch marks on the stone around him. "It's not… working today."

“Maybe you’re trying too hard,” you say as you scan the wall below. The stone is old and weathered, but sturdy, with plenty of hand and footholds. “Don’t move. I’m coming down.”

"You don't have to do that," he starts to protest, but you're already swinging one leg over the side of the parapet. "The stairs are right over there!"

"Where's the fun in that?" you call back as you find your footing on the narrow ledge. You slide the last few feet, landing lightly on the ground in a cloud of dust. "See? Perfectly safe."

"Perfectly insane is more like it," Zuko grumbles as he watches you brush the dirt from your hands. He crosses his arms over his chest, trying to look stern, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. “You could’ve snapped your neck.”

“Dramatic,” you scoff. “We used to go cliff jumping for fun. This is practically a staircase.”

“Cliff jumping was stupid,” he mutters, his lips twitching. “We were stupid.”

“We were,” you agree with a fond smile, and you start to walk a slow circle around him, your hands clasped behind your back. “It was great. Now, we’re just boring adults with jobs and responsibilities.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” Zuko groans. He scrubs his hands over his face, tilting his head back to look at the patch of blue sky visible above the high walls. “I have to be in a meeting in an hour. I just needed to clear my head.”

“You seemed to be doing a good job of it,” you say, nudging one of the scorch marks with the toe of your boot. “Until you got sloppy.”

He turns and shoots you a glare. “I’m not sloppy. I’m tired.”

“Sloppy,” you repeat with a musical lilt to your voice. Zuko rolls his eyes and turns away, scoffing. “Your stance is off. You’re favoring your right leg. Probably from sitting on your ass in that awful throne all day. I could’ve taken you.”

“You wish,” he scoffs, but he shifts his weight, testing it. “You couldn’t take me on my worst day.”

“Is that a challenge, Your Venerableness?” you ask as you stop in front of him again, your eyebrows raised. You take a step back, sinking into a loose earthbending stance. “Because I will happily put you in your place. Right here. Right now.”

“What? No.” Zuko's eyes widen, and his hands fly up, palms out. “We’re not fighting.”

“Why not?” you press, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. “Scared?”

“Of being late for my meeting because I have to explain to Shoji why the head gardener is in the infirmary? Yes.”

You let out a frustrated sigh and drop your stance. "You're no fun anymore."

"I'm plenty of fun," he argues, a familiar defensiveness creeping into his tone. "I'm Fire Lord. I have a country to run. Fun is not a priority."

"It should be," you counter. "It's good for morale. The people's morale, and yours. You look like you're about to start chewing on the furniture. You need a release."

“I was trying to have a release,” he retorts, gesturing at the scorch marks. “You’re the one who interrupted it.”

You cross your arms and tap your foot, considering him. He’s all coiled tension and frustrated energy. He’s not going to get anything done today like this. The thought of him sitting in a stuffy room, stewing in all this agitation, makes you restless. He needs to be shaken out of it, and you're just the person to do it.

“Oh, I see how it is,” you say, nodding sagely. “You’re afraid of losing to a girl. In front of your whole palace.”

A muscle in his jaw twitches. “I am not—”

“You are,” you tease. “You’re afraid I’ll beat you, and all your guards will see, and your reputation will be ruined. The great Fire Lord, defeated by a common dirt bender.”

“You’re not—” he starts, then stops, running a hand through his already messy hair. “This is ridiculous. I’m not doing this.”

You grin, sensing weakness. “Come on, Zuko,” you wheedle, taking a step closer. “It’ll be good for you. Loosen you up. You’re all stiff and political. You’ll be much more charming in your council meeting after you’ve had a proper workout.”

You give him your best, most pleading look, the one you know he can’t resist. You even go so far as to stick out your lower lip, just a little. It's a cheap trick, and beneath you, really, but it works. Always.

His eyes flick down to your mouth and then back up to your eyes, and he swallows. He wavers for a moment, and you can see the war raging on his face, the desire to humor you versus the desire to be responsible and mature and Fire Lordly.

Maturity, as it turns out, doesn't stand a chance.

“Fine,” Zuko grumbles, and he stomps into the center of the courtyard, taking up a familiar opening stance. “But don’t come crying to me when you get a little singed.”

“I won’t." You take your own stance, your body loose and ready. "But I can't promise I won't laugh."

Zuko doesn't waste any more time. With a sharp cry, he launches himself forward, a jet of fire streaming from his fists. It's a half-hearted attack, and you see it coming from a mile away. You sidestep, letting the flame pass harmlessly by your shoulder, and you plant your foot. A small ridge of earth shoots up, catching him just behind the ankle. He stumbles, catching himself before he falls, and turns to glare at you.

“Sloppy,” you taunt, a grin spreading across your face. It feels like coming home. “I told you.”

“I’m just getting warmed up,” he retorts.

He comes at you again, this time with a series of quick jabs, forcing you to dance back, deflecting the heat with walls of compacted soil that erupt from the ground. You feel the heat on your face, the force of the impacts sending vibrations through the stone, but you're not worried. You know him, every move, every tell. You know the way he favors his left, the way he drops his shoulder before a big attack, the slight hesitation before he commits.

You give ground, letting him drive you back across the courtyard. Zuko is good, stronger than you, and faster. But you have patience, and you have the earth. You let him wear himself out, his attacks growing more and more aggressive, more and more desperate. He’s trying to win, and in his haste, he’s making mistakes.

Your opening comes when he leaps into the air for a powerful spinning kick, a whirlwind of flame and fury. But as he lands, you stomp your foot. The ground beneath him shifts, turning from firm stone to loose sand, and he stumbles, his arms flailing to keep his balance. It's all the momentum you need.

With a quick, fluid motion, you sweep your arm, and a vine of stone curls around his wrist, pulling him off balance. He yelps in surprise as he’s jerked forward, and you follow up with a sweeping arc of your arm, sending a low wave of loose earth to sweep his feet out from under him. Zuko goes down with a surprised grunt, landing hard on his back in the dust.

You can’t help the triumphant grin that spreads across your face as you stand over him, watching him catch his breath. “Sloppy.”

He glares up at you, propping himself up on his elbows. The sun catches the sweat on his chest, tracing the defined muscles of his stomach, and you feel your own breath catch. He looks like a fallen god, all golden skin and dark hair, sprawled out in the middle of this forgotten courtyard. And for a moment, you forget how to form words.

"You got lucky," he grumbles, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He wipes a smear of dirt from his cheek with the back of his hand, leaving a streak of it across his jawline. “I was going easy on you.”

"Right," you say, finding your voice again. You dust off your hands with an exaggerated flourish and extend one to him. "You were completely holding back. I could tell."

"I was." He swats your hand away and pushes himself to his feet, a scowl on his face. But you can see the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the tell-tale sign that he’s more amused than angry. "I just wasn't expecting you to fight dirty."

"I didn't fight dirty," you protest, aghast. "I fought smart. There's a difference."

"Turning the ground to quicksand is fighting dirty," he insists as he brushes the dirt from his trousers. “It’s unsporting.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” you retort with a grin. “And sparring. You’re just mad I beat you.”

“I am not mad,” he argues, but the flush creeping up his neck betrays him. He waves a hand at you and moves back to the center of the courtyard. "Again. And no tricks this time."

"Whatever you say," you agree with a shrug, but you’re already sinking back into your stance, your mind racing. No tricks. Fine. But he’s still stiff, still fighting with frustration, and that’s a weakness you can exploit.

Zuko doesn't come at you head-on this time. No grand, dramatic entrance. Instead, he circles, testing your defenses with short, sharp bursts of flame that lick at the edges of your walls of earth. You meet each one, not with brute force, but with a patient, flowing grace. You raise a thin sheet of stone, letting his fire slide off it like rain. You shift your weight, and the ground ripples, throwing him off balance just enough to make his next attack falter. It's a dance you know well, a language of muscle and breath and elements, spoken across years of travel and conflict.

The smile doesn't leave your face. It's been too long since you've had this, this effortless back-and-forth. The frustration that has been simmering in his shoulders, the restlessness building under your own skin, it all bleeds away with every strike, every block, every parry. This is more honest than any conversation you've had with him in weeks. More real than all the polite dinners and carefully worded letters in the world.

The courtyard transforms around you. Neat flagstones are replaced by broken rock and churned earth. Scorch marks bloom across the stone like dark flowers, and the air grows thick with the smell of ozone and dust. You're both sweating now, your clothes damp and clinging, streaked with dirt and grime. A laugh bubbles up in your chest as you duck under a particularly ambitious arc of flame, and you think you hear a choked sound from him that might be a laugh too, but it's lost in the roar and crackle of your battle.

It feels good to let loose, to unleash the full force of your abilities and have them met not with fear or awe, but with an equal and opposing force. To be met by someone who understands the push and pull, the give and take, the beautiful, violent conversation of two masters at the height of their craft. You don't have to hold back with him. You never have.

Zuko is getting better. He’s always been a powerful bender, but there used to be a rage in him, a wildness that made him unpredictable and, at times, clumsy. That fury is still there, you can feel it humming under the surface, but it’s not driving him anymore. He’s in control. Every movement is precise, every strike calculated. And the longer you fight, the more he seems to calibrate his own moves to match yours. He’s learning you, and you’re learning him.

He’s not the angry boy you once knew. He's a different person. A stronger one. And watching him, you feel a surge of pride so intense it almost brings you to your knees.

You get sloppy.

A misjudged step. A breath mistimed. Zuko leaps into the air, propelling himself upward with twin jets of flames from his feet, and you’re so mesmerized by the sheer beauty of it that you don't see the third stream of fire he unleashes until it's too late. You manage to raise a wall of earth, but it's not enough. Searing heat licks at the sides of the barrier, and a yelp escapes you as the stone crumbles and sends hot embers cascading onto your arm.

You stumble back, clutching your forearm as a sharp, stinging pain radiates up to your elbow. You look down and see a patch of angry red skin through your tattered sleeve, already starting to blister. It’s not a bad burn. You've had worse. A lot worse. But it still hurts.

The fight stops instantly. The courtyard falls silent, the crackle of fire and the rumble of earth fading into the background, and the world narrows to the throbbing pain in your arm and the man standing in the center of the courtyard, staring at you with a look of utter horror on his face.

"I’m sorry," he breathes, and he rushes to your side, grabbing your arm with a gentleness that belies the power you just witnessed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—I got carried away."

"I'm fine," you say, wincing as he examines the burn. "It's just a little singe. It'll be gone by morning."

Zuko doesn't seem to hear you. He pulls you toward a stone bench, all but dragging you behind him, and makes you sit. You can feel the oppressive heat radiating from the bare skin of his chest as he kneels in front of you, cradling your arm in his hands. The proximity is doing funny things to your heart rate, and you try to focus on the pain in your arm and not on the fact that you can see the sweat-slicked muscles in his stomach clench as he takes a steadying breath.

“Stay still," he says, his voice low and stern, and you nod mutely. The quip you’d intended to make about him being bossy gets stuck in your throat as your eyes drag lower, to the dark line of hair that trails down from his navel, disappearing into the waistband of his trousers. You wrench your gaze away and stare determinedly at the scorched stonework of the courtyard. This is not helping. At all.

Zuko lifts your hand, turning it this way and that. The burn isn't terrible, just a patch of angry skin that runs from your wrist to your elbow, blistered in a few places. But Zuko is looking at it like it's a mortal wound.

“I have some salve in my study,” he says, finally releasing your arm. “Come on. We need to get this cleaned and bandaged before it gets infected.”

You let out a strangled laugh. “Zuko, I’ve had worse burns from my kettle. I’m not going to get an infection. I have a whole apothecary in my pack that could—”

“I said, come on,” he cuts you off, and there’s an unfamiliar authority in his voice that has your eyes widening and your mouth snapping shut. You watch as he strides to his discarded clothes and does up his boots before shrugging on his robe, leaving it hanging open to reveal a broad swath of chest. The look in his eyes is not one you can argue with.

And that’s how you find yourself following the Fire Lord through the quiet halls of the palace, your arm throbbing in protest, while he walks with a single-minded purpose that has guards and servants alike scrambling out of his path. They openly gape at you, a disheveled and soot-stained mess trailing behind their fearless leader like a scolded puppy. You keep your chin up, but you can feel your cheeks flush with heat. You’ve never been more embarrassed in your entire life.

Zuko’s study is just as you remember it from your last visit: a beautiful, sprawling room with floor to ceiling bookshelves and a large mahogany desk that looks out over the sea. But instead of being neat and orderly, it looks like it was hit by a political hurricane. Scrolls are stacked in precarious towers on the floor, maps are pinned to the walls, and the desk is buried under a mountain of what you can only assume is official Fire Nation paperwork. It’s the most disorganized you’ve ever seen him, and the sight does little to soothe the knot of guilt tightening in your stomach.

“Sit,” he orders, pointing to his grand chair. You hesitate for a moment, but another pointed look has you sinking into the plush velvet, the burn in your arm throbbing in protest.

Zuko disappears into a small adjoining room, and you hear the clink of glass bottles and the running of water. You look down at the burn again, your stomach twisting. It really wasn't that bad. But the look on Zuko’s face… the sheer, visceral panic in his eyes… that was bad. You'd rather face an entire army of firebenders than see that look on his face again.

He returns a moment later with a basin of water, a stack of clean cloths, and a small clay jar. He sets them on the desk, scattering a few scrolls onto the floor in the process, and he kneels in front of you again, taking your arm in his hands. His touch is impossibly gentle as he begins to clean the burn with a cool damp cloth. You have to stop yourself from flinching.

“Is this the part where you tell me I should’ve been more careful?” you ask. It’s the only thing you can think to say. And you have to say something. Anything to distract from the fact that he's kneeling between your legs, with his hands on you, and your heart is doing a very frantic, very stupid dance in your chest.

“No,” he murmurs, not looking at you as he dips a cloth into the basin. “I should’ve been more careful.”

Your argument dies in your throat as he dabs the cloth against the burn, and a searing pain shoots up your arm. You grit your teeth, determined not to make a sound, but you can’t stop the sharp intake of breath, or the way your fingers curl into a fist on the arm of the chair. He hesitates for a moment, his grip on your arm tightening, and then he continues, slower this time.

“You’re good at this,” you say, your voice a little shaky.

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Zuko replies without looking up. “Mostly on myself.”

You fall silent again, watching the top of his head as he works. His hair is still damp with sweat, and the short hair that usually frames his jaw hangs in front of his face and clings to his forehead. It’s not enough to hide the deep furrow of his brow, or the way his jaw is set with a concentration that borders on painful.

He’s taking this far too seriously. But you don’t have the heart to tease him about it. How can you, when he’s looking at you like this, as if your pain is his own? It's an unfamiliar feeling, to be on the receiving end of such fierce, protective tenderness. It makes you feel small and safe and more than a little terrified, all at the same time.

Once he’s satisfied that the wound is clean, Zuko opens the jar, scooping out a generous amount of a pale green salve with his fingers. He coats the burn with the gel, and a wave of cooling relief washes over you. The throbbing in your arm eases almost instantly. You let out a quiet sigh and slump back in the chair.

“Better?” he asks, and you nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You’re all too aware of the fact that he’s still kneeling at your feet, and that your arm is still in his hands, and that the whole room suddenly feels about ten degrees warmer than it was a minute ago.

He works in silence, spreading the salve over the burn with a touch that’s surprisingly gentle for someone who just spent the last hour trying to set you on fire. He's never touched you like this before, and you find you don't know what to do with it. You've always been the one reaching for him, patching up his scrapes and bruises, soothing his hurts, both seen and unseen. You're not used to being on the receiving end, and it leaves you feeling off-kilter and exposed.

Zuko takes a roll of clean white linen bandages from the small wooden box he’d brought with him and begins to wrap your arm with a practiced efficiency. He's done in seconds, but he doesn't let go. He just stays there, kneeling in front of you, his thumb tracing the edge of the bandage, his gaze fixed on your arm.

“Zuko—”

“Don't." He finally lifts his head to look at you, and your breath catches in your throat. His eyes are a dark, turbulent gold, a storm of emotion swirling in their depths. "Don’t say you’re fine. I can see you’re not.”

"I wasn't," you lie, your gaze dropping to your lap. "I was going to say thank you."

His shoulders slump, and he finally lets go of your arm. “This is my fault,” he says, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes and letting out a frustrated sigh. “All of it. You’re here because of me. You’re hurt because of me. If I had just—”

“Stop,” you cut him off, your voice firm. You reach out with your uninjured hand and place it on his shoulder. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare. This was an accident. A stupid, fun, wonderful accident. And I’m not sorry it happened.”

He drops his hands from his face, and you can see the doubt in his eyes. He doesn’t believe you. You’re not surprised. He’s been blaming himself for things he can’t control for as long as you’ve known him. It’s his default setting.

"I don't want to be the reason you get hurt," he says, so quietly you almost don't hear him. "I can't... I can't let that happen."

Your breath catches in your throat, and your fingers tighten on his shoulder. You have to swallow past the lump that has formed there. You're not sure what you're supposed to say to that. All you know is that you can’t stand the look on his face, that you would do anything to wipe that particular brand of self-recrimination from his eyes.

"You aren't," you finally manage to say, your thumb stroking the silk of his robe. "This? This is… this is how we are, Zuko. We push each other, and we test each other's limits. We help each other get stronger. This is just the price of admission.”

A muscle in his jaw jumps, and he turns his head to look at your hand on his shoulder. He stares at it for a long moment before looking back up at you. "Is it?" he asks, his voice rough. "Are we stronger?"

You open your mouth to say yes, of course we are, look at everything we've accomplished, but the words won't come. Because looking at him now, at the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, you have to wonder. He's the Fire Lord, the most powerful man in the world, but he looks… fragile. And you're suddenly struck by the horrifying thought that maybe you broke him. That all this power and responsibility has hollowed him out, and you're just a reminder of a life he can never have again.

“Of course we are.” You force a smile, but you can feel the way it trembles at the edges. "We're just… rusty. That's all. It's been a while."

His shoulders slump, and you can feel the fight go out of him. "Yeah. It has."

Zuko pushes himself to his feet and moves to the window, turning his back to you to stare out at the sea, and you feel a sudden, sharp pang of loss. He’s putting distance between you again. And you don’t know how to stop him.

"I got a letter today," you say, the words tumbling out of you in a desperate attempt to bridge the gap. "From Sokka."

He turns, and you see a flicker of interest in his eyes. "And?"

You pull the worn, slightly damp parchment from your pocket. "He sent Hawky. Who, by the way, is a menace. The royal hawk keeper is terrified of him."

A small smile touches Zuko's lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "That sounds like Sokka's bird. What did he say?"

You hesitate, your fingers tightening on the scroll. This is what you wanted, isn't it? To talk about something normal. But now that you have the chance, you’re not sure you want to give him this particular piece of information. It feels too… revealing.

"Just... stuff," you say, trying for a casual shrug. Your arm twinges, and you bite back a wince. "You know. Tearing into me for not writing. Asking if I was dead or in prison. The usual."

"Sounds about right," he says, and he takes a step back toward you. He stops by the desk, resting a hand on the high-backed chair, but he doesn't sit. "What else?"

"He says you're a boring old man now," you blurt out, and you immediately regret it as Zuko's posture stiffens. "He says all your letters are about grain exports and irrigation standards. He's worried you've been replaced by a pod person."

A pained expression crosses his face. "I write to him about the state of the nation. He's a tribal leader. He should be interested."

"He is," you say quickly, trying to backpedal. "But you know Sokka. He has the attention span of a badgerfrog. He needs boomerangs and explosions, not… agricultural policy.”

You take a deep breath and brace yourself. Here comes the tricky part.

"He also said... he said you ask about me. In every letter."

Zuko's head snaps up, and he stares at you, his eyes wide with surprise. You watch as a deep, furious flush spreads across the bridge of his nose and up to the tips of his ears.

“I… what?” he croaks.

”You ask about me. In your letters to Sokka,” you clarify, your own heart starting to pound in a frantic rhythm. You feel like a thief, stealing a glimpse into a room you weren't meant to enter, but you can't look away. “Is that true?”

“I don’t—he’s exaggerating,” he stammers, turning away from you to pace in front of the large window that overlooks the sea. “I’m the Fire Lord. I have a responsibility to check in on my—my allies. My friends. We all went through a lot together. It’s not… it’s not a big deal.”

You watch him, your head tilted, as he paces. He's a terrible liar. He always has been. He's talking a mile a minute, not looking at you, and his hands are flailing. It’s almost painful to watch. And a small, traitorous part of you, the part you usually keep buried deep beneath layers of logic and practicality, feels a flutter of… something. Satisfaction, maybe.

“Okay,” you say, drawing the word out. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It’s not,” he insists, a little too loud. He stops to face you, planting his hands on his hips in a poor imitation of authority. “He’s my friend. You’re my friend. Friends ask about friends. That’s what friends do.”

“I know,” you reply, and you can’t keep the smile out of your voice anymore. “It’s okay. You can check in on me. I don’t mind.”

Zuko glares at you, but there’s no heat in it. He looks cornered. Desperate. “Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“Do what?” you ask, grinning. “Be nice?”

“Act like you know what you’re talking about,” he shoots back. “You’re twisting my words. I just—” He cuts himself off with a frustrated sound and runs a hand through his hair, dislodging a few more strands from his topknot. “It’s just... you don't write. You never write back. So I ask Sokka, because at least he answers me. And you're always moving around, and doing dangerous things, and I just… I like to know you're not in prison. Or worse. Is that a crime?"

You shake your head, your smile fading. You'd never considered how your silence might look to him. You always thought you were giving him space, respecting his new life and his new responsibilities. You didn't realize that to him, it might feel like abandonment.

"Zuko, I'm sorry," you say softly. "I didn't know it would bother you. I'm not used to... I don't have people who worry about me."

His shoulders slump, and he drops his gaze to the floor, his hands clenching and relaxing at his sides. "It doesn't bother me," he mumbles. "I just... I worry. That's all. You’re always alone. And you’re always moving. I never know where you are. Or if you’re safe."

You're not sure what you were expecting him to say, but it wasn't this. This quiet, earnest confession that lands like a stone in the center of your chest, sending ripples of something warm and unfamiliar through your entire being. You’ve spent years cultivating your independence, your fierce, unwavering self-reliance. But in this moment, having him admit that he sees it, that he worries about it, feels less like a criticism and more like… an anchor.

“Of course I’m safe,” you say, a little breathlessly. “I’m always safe. I mean, I take risks, but I can handle myself. You know that.”

“I know,” he says, and he finally looks up at you. “But it’s different now. Things are different. You can’t just… vanish into the Earth Kingdom for months at a time without telling anyone. It’s not just you anymore. You have people who care about you. People who would be… devastated if something happened to you.”

You nod, and you look away, your gaze landing on a painting of a phoenix in flight hanging on the wall. You don’t know what to say to that. You don't know how to process the sudden, overwhelming weight of his concern, the idea that your disappearance would cause anyone, let alone him, distress. It’s too much. It's too big.

You’ve spent the last year thinking he was moving on with his life, that he was building a new world for himself and that he didn't have room for you in it. But he’s been here, thinking of you. Worrying about you. You don't know how to feel about that. You don't know how to make it fit with everything else you thought you knew.

“Sokka’s right,” you say with a weak laugh. “You are an old man. Worrying is an old person’s game.”

“And you’re a child for never doing it,” Zuko retorts, but there’s no bite to it. He runs his hands over his face. “It’s my job to worry now. About everything. And everyone.”

You don't like the sound of that. You don't like the sound of him carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders all by himself. And you especially don't like the thought of you being just another item on a long list of things he has to worry about.

A large grandfather clock in the corner of the room begins to chime, deep and resonant, marking the hour. Zuko's head snaps up, and he stares at it with a look of dawning horror.

"Shit," he breathes. "My meeting. I'm late."

He’s out of the room in a flash, moving with a speed and purpose you haven't seen in days. You follow him to the door, leaning against the frame as he barks orders at a passing page, who looks terrified.

"Get me a fresh robe," he commands. "And tell Shoji to… to stall."

"Stall, my lord?" the page asks, his eyes wide with fear.

"Just do it!" he barks, and the boy scurries away. Zuko turns back to you, his hands flying to the knot of his hair, trying to tame it into something resembling order. "I have to go. Will you be okay?"

"I'll be fine," you promise. He shoots you a skeptical look, and you roll your eyes. "Really, Zuko. Just, come here, would you? You're making it worse."

You reach up and push his hands away, your fingers deftly undoing the mess he’s made of his hair. He stills instantly, his shoulders dropping as you work.

"You need to relax," you murmur, your fingers combing through the dark strands. "Go in there with your head on straight. You've got this."

He lets out a soft, shaky breath, and he closes his eyes. "I don't feel like I do."

"Well, you do." You finish his knot with a final, decisive tug. "And if you start to doubt that, just remember that you defeated me today. The most powerful earthbender in the Caldera."

"The only earthbender in the Caldera," he retorts, but his eyes remain closed, and the corner of his mouth lifts in a faint smile.

"All the more impressive," you say as you step back to admire your work. "There. Perfect."

He opens his eyes, and you wish he hadn't. The look in them catches you off guard, stealing the air from your lungs. It's something soft and warm, something achingly fond, all of it directed right at you. You've seen a thousand different expressions cross his face—rage, frustration, determination, embarrassment, even occasional joy—but this is new. And you don't know how to interpret it.

"Thank you," he says, and the words carry an odd sort of weight. It makes you feel like you did more than just fix his hair.

You wave him off with an awkward laugh. "Go get 'em, tigerdillo."

He smiles at that. The warmth in his eyes spreads through your whole body, making your cheeks flush and your heart flutter. But it fades all too quickly, and the smile falls from his face as his eyes drift down to your arm.

"I'm sorry," he says again, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Stop saying that," you tell him, reaching out and giving his hand a gentle squeeze. "It was an accident. It's fine. I'm fine. Now go. I'm not going to be the reason the Fire Lord misses his own council meeting."

"Right," he says, giving your hand one final squeeze before letting it drop. He squares his shoulders, his face settling into an expression of stoic authority. "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

"I would never," you reply, pressing your hands to your heart in mock outrage. "I am the picture of responsibility."

He gives you a long, flat look. "I'm serious. You need to rest your arm."

"I will," you promise. "Go."

Zuko nods and turns. He gives you one last glance, and then he's gone, his robe swirling around him as he strides down the hall, a retinue of guards and servants falling into step behind him. You watch him go, your hand raised in a half-hearted wave, until he disappears. It’s only when he’s out of sight that you allow yourself to let out a long, slow breath.

That was… a lot. More than you were prepared for. You walk over to the window and lean your forehead against the cool glass, trying to sort through the tangled mess of your thoughts. The little splinter of Sokka’s letter, the one that’s been lodged in your mind since you read it, is starting to work its way deeper. He asks about you. He worries about you.

You don’t know what to do with that.

You don’t know what to do with any of this.

It's a strange kind of bliss, this domestic quiet you've found in the middle of the Fire Nation. You're not used to it. You're used to chaos, to constant motion, to the thrill of the unknown. This is anything but. This is a quiet, steady joy, the kind that settles deep in your bones and warms you from the inside out.

And you’re terrified of it.

You tell yourself you’ll leave soon. You tell yourself that this is just a temporary reprieve, a brief moment of peace before you have to go back to your real life. But the days turn into a week, and the week turns into two, and you still haven't left.

You tell yourself it’s the garden. It's the most beautiful, most challenging project you've ever worked on, and you're proud of the progress you've made. The stream is clear, the weeds are gone, and the soil is rich and dark, ready for planting. You’ve even started to fix up the old shed, patching the roof and reinforcing the walls. Zuko mentioned something about turning it into a teahouse, and you’ve found yourself sketching out designs in the margins of your gardening notes. It’s a nice thought. A nice dream. And the thought of not seeing it through is unthinkable.

But you know it's more than that. It's him. It's the way he looks at you, the way he always saves you the last piece of mango at dinner, the way he listens to you, really listens, no matter how much you ramble on about soil acidity or companion planting.

It's the way you feel when you're with him. Seen. Known. Safe.

And that's the problem.

You’re eating dinner with Lan in your rooms tonight, a tray of simple, familiar food spread out between you. You’ve been avoiding the dining hall and its attendant whispers, which have only grown more voracious as of late. Zuko has been good enough to not question it, bringing your meals to you himself when he can. Tonight, he’s tied up with some emergency or other, and you’re alone with Lan and your own jumbled thoughts.

She’s a surprisingly good companion. She’s smart and kind, and she has a wickedly sharp sense of humor that she keeps hidden beneath a veneer of quiet deference. You’ve learned more about the inner workings of the palace from her in the last few days than you would have in a year of formal audiences.

You’ve also learned that she’s a terrible gossip, a quality you secretly admire. You’re not sure if she’s gossiping with you or about you, but you’re learning to live with the ambiguity. It's a small price to pay for a friend.

“He’s in a much better mood since you’ve been here,” she remarks, her chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth. “He used to be so solemn. All the time. Now he actually smiles. It’s a little unsettling.”

“He smiles plenty,” you counter, though you know she’s right. He’s been lighter, somehow, since you arrived. The perpetual furrow in his brow has softened, and he doesn't walk around like he's carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders anymore. He still carries it, of course, but it seems to be a little less heavy.

“He smiles for you,” she says with an arch of her brow. "It's different."

You just give her a look and go back to your food, refusing to take the bait. You’ve had this conversation with her before, and you have no intention of having it again. You’re a friend. A good friend. That’s all. You have to keep telling yourself that, or you’ll start to believe the pretty, dangerous stories she’s weaving.

Lin lets it go, but not before a small, triumphant smile plays on her lips. She's good at that, too. Good at knowing when to push and when to pull back. You're starting to think she'd make an excellent ambassador. Or maybe a spy.

You finish your dinner quietly, listening to the distant sounds of the city at night. You’re getting used to the constant background noise of the capital now, the hum of a thousand lives being lived all at once. It’s a far cry from the quiet solitude of the road, but you find that you don’t mind it as much as you thought you would. Even if you feel like a bird in a very, very fancy cage when you look down for too long. You push the thought away, but it’s a stubborn one. A weed in the otherwise perfectly manicured garden of your new life.

“I heard something interesting today,” Lan says with a casual air as she stacks the bowls.

"Oh?" you ask, raising an eyebrow. You've learned that when Lan says "interesting," she usually means scandalous. And you've also learned that you have a terrible weakness for palace gossip, even when you know you shouldn't.

"It seems that Lady Mai has been seen in the company of a certain poet,” she says, her eyes fixed on her task. “A very handsome, very charming poet. They were spotted together at the theater in Jonduri. Holding hands."

You nearly choke on the sip of wine you've just taken, and Lan quickly hands you a napkin. You dab at your mouth as you try to process this new information. You thought you'd put the whole Mai situation out of your mind, but now that it's been brought up again, you can't help but feel a surge of curiosity. And maybe a little bit of... something else. You stamp it out. Again.

“Holding hands?” you repeat in disbelief. “Mai? The woman who thinks public displays of affection are a sign of moral decay?”

“So it would seem.”

"That's... surprising."

"Mm-hmm," Lan hums, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "They say he wrote a poem for her. Something about her eyes and the sharpness of her daggers. Very romantic."

You let out a snort of laughter. You can just imagine it. Mai, with her deadpan delivery and her arsenal of hidden knives, being serenaded by a lovesick poet. It's the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard, and also, strangely, the most romantic.

“And how do you know all of this?” you ask, leaning in, your curiosity getting the better of you. "You're not secretly a spy for the Earth Kingdom, are you?"

Lin’s smile is a slow, sly thing. "A good servant sees everything, my la—I mean, a good servant hears everything. And I have a cousin who works in the teahouse next to the theater. He hears a lot."

You shake your head, a smile on your face. "You're terrible."

"I'm thorough," she corrects, a note of pride in her voice. "And it's my job to know these things. To protect the Fire Lord. From potential... embarrassments."

Her gaze drifts to you, and you know what she's not saying. She sees you as a potential embarrassment. And she's warning you, in her own subtle, Lan-like way, to be careful.

You nod, your smile fading. You understand. You do. You're a complication, a loose thread in the carefully woven tapestry of the Fire Nation court. And you could unravel it all, if you're not careful. That’s a thought to hold close to the chest, along with all the other uncomfortable truths you’ve been collecting in the palace like shiny little rocks.

"I appreciate the warning," you murmur. "Does Zuko know about this? This poet guy?”

"No," she says, her expression softening. "Not as far as I know. And I'm not going to be the one to tell him. I don't want to be the one to spoil his new happiness.”

You nod, your appetite suddenly gone. You don't like the thought of Zuko being hurt, especially not because of something like this. You may not have ever understood his relationship with Mai, but you know it was important to him. And you know how much it hurts to have someone you care about choose someone else. You've been on the receiving end of that particular brand of misery more times than you'd like to admit.

“Thank you, Lan,” you say, standing up and dusting off your tunic, "for telling me. And for not telling him."

"Of course," she replies with a nod. "I just thought you should know. In case... well, you know."

"In case what?" you ask, but she just shakes her head and gathers the dinner tray.

"I should get this back to the kitchens," Lan says, already backing out of the room. "I'll see you in the morning, my... I'll see you in the morning."

She's gone before you can say anything else. You lean against the railing of the balcony, watching the moon rise over the golden lights of the city below, a glittering imitation of the stars you can barely see in the sky. The cool night air feels good against your skin, and you take a deep breath, trying to clear your head.

You're not sure what you're going to do. You're not sure you can do anything. You're just a visitor, a temporary distraction from a life sentence of political maneuvering and public duty. Zuko is the Fire Lord. He's not just your friend anymore, or the awkward, angry boy you once knew. He's a man with a kingdom to run, and a complicated past to navigate. And you're... you're you. A nomad. A wanderer. A girl who talks to plants. And soon, you'll be gone, and this will all just be a memory.

The thought should bring you relief. A release from the suffocating pressure of the palace, from the confusing, unwelcome feelings that Zuko seems to stir up in you every time you turn around. But all you feel is a cold, empty dread in the pit of your stomach.

You're still thinking in circles when there's a knock at the door. Assuming it’s Lan returning to retrieve a forgotten chopstick, you call out, "It's open."

The doors open, but it's not Lan who steps through. It's Zuko, a look of intense concentration on his face and a scroll clutched in his hand. He's still wearing the formal robes from this morning, and he looks exhausted, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than ever. He stops when he sees you, his gaze sweeping over your simple clothes and your bare feet, and those lines ease, just a little.

"I thought you'd be in the dining hall," he says as he closes the doors behind him. “I looked for you.”

"I wasn't hungry for company," you reply, pushing yourself away from the railing and walking back into the room. You can’t help but notice the way he watches you move. He's always watching. "Long day?"

"You have no idea." Zuko sighs and runs a hand through his already messy hair. His fingers snag, and his nose scrunches in frustration as he works to free them from the knot. “The council wants to send a punitive expedition to the Western Islands to ‘deal’ with the anti-imperial sentiment there. And they want me to raise the tariffs on Earth Kingdom marble in retaliation for their tariffs on our exports.”

“Ah,” you nod. “So it’s ‘let’s start a war’ day at the office?”

“It’s always ‘let’s start a war’ day at the office,” he mutters, his fingers still fumbling with the knot. "They say it's a risk to our national security."

"They would," you scoff as you walk over to him and take the scroll from his hand. You unroll it, scanning the elegant script. It's a list of tariffs and trade routes, and it's incredibly boring. You feel your eyes start to unfocus almost immediately, and you roll it up again. "They're just afraid of change. They've been in charge for so long, they don't know how to do anything else."

"I know," he says, taking the scroll back from you and tossing it onto a nearby table. "But they make it so difficult. They fight me on everything."

"So fight back.” You reach up, batting his hands away and starting to work on the tangled knot yourself. Zuko's whole body goes tense, his breath catching in a soft hitch, but he doesn't pull away. "Don't let them push you around."

"Easier said than done," he mutters. He closes his eyes, and you feel the tension in him begin to fade as you work through the knot, untangling the mess with a patience you rarely feel for anything but your plants. Your fingers brush his skin, and you watch, fascinated, as the hair on his neck stands up, his pulse quickening beneath your fingertips. You wonder idly what else would make him react like that.

"Maybe," you concede, your voice quieter now. “But you’re the Fire Lord. They have to listen to you."

"It's not that simple," he argues as you finally work the knot free. The leather strip falls to the floor, and you start to comb your fingers through his hair, untangling the strands. "They have the support of… of the old guard. The military. If I push them too hard, I risk a…” He sighs as your fingers massage his scalp. “A rebellion. A coup. I don't know.”

You hum in acknowledgement, your focus on the feeling of his hair in your hands. It's so soft, so much softer than you would have expected. And it smells like sandalwood and something else. Something… him. It’s a comforting, familiar scent, and you find yourself leaning in, just a little, to breathe it in.

You’ve only done this a few times now, but already it feels like a ritual. An intimacy you’ve allowed to bloom between you in the quiet space at the end of a long day. Zuko never asks for it, but you know he needs it. The quiet touch, the simple act of caring for him. And you, with your busy hands and your restless heart, need it, too. To be needed.

"You're doing the right thing," you say softly, your fingers still working through his hair. You're done now, but you can't bring yourself to stop. "You're changing things, slowly. And that's how you change the world. Not with a big, flashy show of power, but with small, stubborn acts of decency."

He lets out a quiet laugh. "That's a very earthbender way of looking at it."

"It's the only way that works," you reply. "The earth doesn't move in an instant. It shifts. Slowly. Over time. And that's what you're doing. Shifting the balance."

"Thank you," he murmurs. He lifts his head, and you reluctantly drop your hands, letting them fall to your sides as he turns to face you. His eyes are heavy-lidded, his expression soft in the warm light of the lamps. “I needed to hear that.”

You shrug, suddenly feeling awkward and self-conscious. He's closer than you realized, the heat of him washing over you, and you take a step back to put some space between you. You can't think when he's that close. Your brain turns to mush.

“What you need is a stiff drink,” you say suddenly, moving back and away from the temptation to keep touching him. You walk to the small table by the window, where a decanter of spirits and two glasses sit. “And a change of clothes. You look like you’re about to collapse under all that fabric.”

You pour a generous amount of the amber liquid into two glasses, and when you turn back, you see that Zuko is running his fingers through the tresses you just smoothed, his eyes closed, a small smile on his face.

“Hey,” you say, and he looks up, startled. “Don’t mess up my hard work.”

“I wasn’t,” he mutters, but the flush on his cheeks tells you otherwise. He takes the glass from you, his fingers brushing yours, and you have to stop yourself from snatching your hand back. “You're a bad influence, you know."

“I’m a good friend,” you correct, clinking your glass against his. You drop onto the settee, tucking your legs beneath you, and take a sip. The liquid burns as it goes down, but it’s as good a distraction as any from the way he’s looking at you. “And I’m telling you that you’re working too hard. You need to rest.”

He takes a long swallow of his own drink and sinks into the armchair opposite you. His formal robes fan out around him in a dramatic wave of red and gold, and you can't help but smile.

"I will," he says, leaning back against the cushions and stretching his long legs out in front of him. “When the Fire Nation is at peace, and the council isn’t trying to start another war, and the tariffs are settled, and the reparations are paid, and—”

“Okay, okay. I get it,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes. “You’re a busy guy. But you’re not going to be any good to anyone if you burn yourself out. And I, for one, would appreciate it if you didn't spontaneously combust from exhaustion. We still have an entire teahouse to build. I drew up some plans.”

You retrieve your charcoal sketchbook from the desk and slide it across the table to him. He picks it up, his expression serious as he studies the rough drawings. You watch him, your heart beating a little too fast, as he traces the lines of the small, simple building you’ve designed. It’s not grand or impressive, but it’s yours. A small piece of you, left here in this place.

“This is… good,” he says, a note of surprise in his voice. “It’s… cozy. I like it.”

“‘Cozy’ is not the word a Fire Lord should be using to describe a new addition to the royal grounds,” you tease, but you’re secretly pleased. “He should be using words like ‘majestic,’ and ‘imposing,’ and ‘a testament to the enduring power of the Fire Nation.’”

“I’m not talking as the Fire Lord,” he says, not looking up from the book. “I’m talking as the one who’s going to have to build the thing. I was worried you were going to design some kind of sprawling, three-story monstrosity.”

“I’m an earthbender. We appreciate solid, practical structures,” you say, leaning forward to point to a detail on the sketch. “And I was thinking we could use some of the stone from the old western wall for the foundation. It’s good quality. And it would be… a nice way to honor the past, while still looking to the future.”

Zuko looks up at you then, his eyes soft and his mouth curved in an almost smile. He looks away just as quickly, clearing his throat and flipping to the next page.

“So,” he says, his tone suddenly brusque. "How long do you think all of this will take? The garden, and the teahouse, and the… everything."

You lean back, studying the ceiling, and do the math in your head. "Well, the garden is almost ready for planting. That will take a week, maybe two. And the teahouse, assuming we don't run into any major problems, should take another week or two. So… a month, maybe? A month and a half, if you want your pond.”

“A month,” he repeats. The words are soft, barely audible, but you hear them.

“Give or take,” you add, trying to ignore the way your stomach is clenching. You’ve been thinking in terms of days. A month feels… more permanent. Less temporary. And you’re not sure how you feel about that. “Less, if we get some help. But I think it’s better if we do it ourselves.”

“I agree,” he says quickly, and he closes the sketchbook and slides it back to you. He reaches for his glass, draining the rest of the amber liquid in one go. “Let’s do it ourselves.”

You nod, your throat suddenly tight. You have no idea what he’s thinking, what this means to him, what any of this means. But you know what it means to you. It means a month. A month of this. Of quiet dinners, and stolen moments, and hard work in the sun. A month of Zuko. And it's both the best and worst thing you can imagine.

You finish your drink, and Zuko immediately reaches for the decanter, refilling your glass without a word. “So,” he says, setting it down with a thud. He passes your glass back to you. “What else did I miss today? Any more exciting gossip from the palace?”

You nearly drop your glass. You know he's just making conversation, but his timing is uncanny. You can feel Lan's words echoing in your head. Holding hands. A poem about her daggers. You take a long swallow of your drink, the liquid burning all the way down.

"Nothing exciting," you reply, and you're proud of how steady your voice sounds. "Just the usual. Who's wearing what, and who's cheating at Pai Sho. The usual."

"Sounds thrilling," he snorts. "I'm glad I'm missing it."

You just shrug, your glass pressed to your lips. You feel a pang of guilt for your deception, but you push it down. You're doing the right thing. Zuko has enough to worry about without having to deal with a messy breakup. And you’re not even sure the information is reliable. It's just palace gossip, after all. And Lan, while a reliable source of palace intrigue, isn't exactly an unbiased observer. She wants you and Zuko to get together, as insane as that idea is, and she'll do whatever it takes to make that happen.

“How’d your meeting with Ambassador Fang go?” you ask, changing the subject before he can press you further. “Did you get the jade tariffs sorted?”

“He’s a weasel,” Zuko grumbles, picking up a decorative pillow and hugging it to his chest. He slumps down further into the armchair, looking more petulant teenager than the Fire Lord. "Their Minister of Trade will be here tomorrow. Apparently, the Fire Nation owes them reparations for some ‘cultural artifacts’ that went missing during the war.”

“Which means they want you to pay for the things the Fire Nation stole,” you translate, and he nods, a frustrated sigh escaping him.

“They’re not wrong,” he admits. “But the price they’re asking is ridiculous. They know I need this alliance. They’re taking advantage of me.”

“Then don’t let them,” you say, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your knees. “You’re not the same person who started this war. You’re the one who ended it. You hold all the cards."

"It's not that simple.” Zuko mirrors your posture, his gaze fixed on yours. The firelight catches the gold in his eyes, and you can see the exhaustion in the fine lines around them. “I have to be careful. We can't give up too much, or the other nations will see us as weak. But if we give too little, they'll see us as unrepentant. It's a delicate balance."

You nod, a small frown tugging at your lips. You see the dilemma, but you don't like it. You're a woman of action, of bold moves and decisive victories. This political maneuvering, this slow, careful dance of diplomacy, is not your strong suit. If you had your way, you'd just storm into the negotiating room and tell them what was what. Maybe with a small, localized earthquake to emphasize your point.

But that's not how the world works now. You're not a soldier anymore, and Zuko's not a prince on the run. You're... builders. He's building a new world, and you're repairing the old one. And it's slow, and it's messy, and it's hard.

“You’ll figure it out.” You reach out and put a hand on his arm. His skin is warm, and you can feel the tension in the muscle beneath your touch before he starts to relax. “You always do.”

He covers your hand with his, his thumb tracing circles on the back of your wrist. "I know. It's just hard, sometimes. I wish I could just... make it all better with the snap of my fingers."

"If only firebending could do that," you say with a wry smile. You pull your hand back, a sudden shyness washing over you, and grab your glass to take a large swallow of the burning liquid. It doesn't help.

"Right?” Zuko huffs a laugh. “I'd be a much more popular Fire Lord."

“You seem plenty popular, from what I’ve heard,” you quip, and his head cocks to the side. “I may have heard some things.”

"Oh?" he asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. You bite back one of your own. You knew that would get him. Zuko can pretend to be all serious and stoic, but he's got an ego. A healthy one. He likes to be admired, even if he’d never admit it. "What kind of things?"

"Good things.” You lean back against the cushions, crossing your legs. "That you're a fair ruler. That you're working to restore the balance. That you're a little less... broody than you used to be."

You say the last part with a teasing lilt in your voice, and he rolls his eyes. "I was never broody," he mutters.

"You were a walking thunderstorm," you laugh. "A dark cloud of doom and angst."

"It was a dark cloud of righteous purpose," he corrects, a mock-serious look on his face. "There's a difference."

"Righteous, brooding purpose," you amend, and you both dissolve into laughter. It feels good. It feels right. Like you're seventeen again, sitting around a campfire, trading insults and secrets, the whole world stretched out before you, full of possibilities. You miss it. You miss the simplicity of it.

A sigh escapes you, slow and easy, and you let your head fall back against the cushions of the settee. The spirits are making themselves known now, a pleasant warmth spreading through your limbs, loosening the tension in your shoulders. You'll pay for this tomorrow, most likely with a headache and a fuzzy mouth, but tonight... tonight it feels like exactly what you needed. Dangerous, maybe, with Zuko sitting across from you, watching you with those unnervingly steady eyes. But you can’t find it in yourself to care.

Your gaze drifts upward to the fresco on the ceiling, tracing the gentle curves of the water lilies painted there. In the flickering light, the water ripples almost imperceptibly, giving the illusion that the room itself is breathing, pulsing with a gentle, sleepy life. You’ve been trying to ignore them since you got here, a little overwhelmed by the sheer, unbelievable expense of it all. A whole room. A whole ceiling. For you. But now, with the firelight dancing across the plaster, and Zuko's quiet breaths filling the silence, they're not so overwhelming. They're just... beautiful. A dream, rendered in paint and gold leaf.

You look over at Zuko, your gaze soft, and find him already watching you. He's slumped against the cushions, legs spread wide and his hands resting on his stomach, a lazy, contented smile on his face. His hair is a mess, falling in dark waves across his forehead, and the formal robes he’s wearing are wrinkled and untucked. He’s never looked less like the Fire Lord. He’s never looked more like your Zuko.

"You're staring," you say, and he just shrugs, not even bothering to look away.

"So?"

"So," you smile. "Why are you staring at me?"

"Why not?" he counters, and the traitorous flutter in your stomach returns with a vengeance. You blame the spirits.

You sit up, pulling your knees to your chest, and wrap your arms around them. "So, what's the plan for tomorrow? More council meetings? More haggling over jade?"

"Unfortunately," Zuko sighs, pushing himself up to a sitting position and grabbing the decanter. He refills your glass, and then his, the amber liquid sloshing over the rim and onto the dark wood of the table. "But the Earth Kingdom delegation won't be here until the afternoon, which means we have the morning free."

"Free?" You perk up. "As in, we could work on the garden? The soil won't test itself, you know."

"First thing," he promises, a matching smile on his face. "I'll even bring the shovels."

"My hero,” you giggle into your glass. The sound is loud in the quiet room, and you cover your mouth, your cheeks flushing. Zuko just grins.

You talk for a while longer, your conversation growing softer, more disjointed as the night wears on. The torches crackle, and the city hums, and you drift in a pleasant, hazy warmth, watching the fire lilies on the ceiling dance above you. You're not sure how much time has passed when you feel Zuko shift, his robes rustling as he stands.

"I should go," he says, but he makes no move to leave. He stands by the armchair, his hands clasped behind his back. “It’s late. And I have a long day of being taken advantage of ahead of me.”

“You’ll be great,” you say, standing up as well. You walk him to the door, your footsteps quiet on the plush rug. “You’re the Fire Lord. You’ve got this.”

"I know," he says, his hand resting on the polished brass of the doorknob. He hesitates, fingers tightening on the metal, before turning back to face you. “We’ll have to skip our dinner again tomorrow. We’re having a banquet to welcome Minister Guo. The council insists.”

“Oh,” you murmur, trying to hide your disappointment. You’re not sure you’re successful. You enjoy your dinners with Lan, but you’d much rather be with him. You'd rather be with him even when he’s tired and stressed, even when you have to eat in the dining hall and pretend you don't hear the whispers. “I’m sure Lan and I will manage to entertain ourselves. Perhaps we’ll start a Pai Sho tournament.”

Zuko’s brow furrows, and his hand falls away from the door. “Huh? No. I want you to come with me. To the banquet.”

Your eyes widen. “What?”

You weren't expecting that. At all. You assumed you were still persona non grata in the formal spaces of the palace, especially after the scene you caused in the stream. And after the scene in the dining hall. And after the scene... well, you've caused a lot of scenes. You’re surprised Shoji hasn't had you thrown out on your ass yet.

"Zuko, no," you protest as soon as you can form words again, shaking your head enough to make the room sway. “I can’t.”

“You can.” He takes a step closer, his gaze intense. “I want you there. As my guest.”

“It’s a state banquet,” you say, your voice rising with panic. “It’s for important people. For diplomats and advisors. I’m… I’m just a farmer.”

“You’re also a war hero and member of the Earth Kingdom. Even if some of them tried to run you out of town,” he adds with a wry smile. “And a very important guest of the Fire Nation. I can introduce you to the minister and the council. They should meet the person who's going to be responsible for restoring the royal gardens.”

“I think the last thing the Earth Kingdom wants to see is a former enemy’s royal gardens being restored by an earthbender,” you say with a nervous laugh. Your gaze falls to your hands, and you start to pick at a loose thread on your tunic. “That’s not exactly the image of peace you’re trying to project.”

“I think it’s exactly the image of peace I’m trying to project,” Zuko counters, his voice firm. “It’s a symbol of the new world we’re building. And you’re the best symbol I have.”

You don’t know what to say to that. He's putting you on a pedestal, making you into something you're not. You're not a symbol. You're just you. A stubborn, restless, occasionally foolish woman who happens to be good with dirt. And you’re not sure you can handle the pressure of being more than that. You’re not sure you want to.

“I don’t know, Zuko,” you say, your gaze fixed on the floor. “It’s… a lot.”

“It is,” he admits. He reaches out and takes your hands in his, stilling your nervous fidgeting. Your fingers curl around his on instinct. “But you’re not going to be alone. I’ll be right there with you. The whole time.”

You look down at your joined hands, at the way his thumbs are stroking the backs of your palms, and you feel the last of your resistance crumble. He’s too good at this. Too good at getting what he wants. He always has been.

“Okay,” you hear yourself say. “I’ll go.”

His answering grin is bright enough to light up the whole palace, and you feel a wave of something warm and overwhelming wash over you. You feel a little bit like you’re drowning, but you don't think you'd mind if you did. You pull your hands back, a little too quickly, and he lets them go, but the warmth of his touch lingers. You rub your palms on your trousers, trying to get the feeling to go away, but it’s no use. You’re branded.

“Great,” he says. “It’ll be great. You’ll see.”

"Great," you repeat, but the word comes out weak and breathless, and you can't manage a smile to match his. You open the door, gesturing for him to go. You need to go scream into your pillow and rethink all your life choices. Alone. "Now go. Before I decide to run away and join a circus."

"I'd find you," he replies, a teasing glint in his eye. "And then I'd have to ban all circuses. And that would be a whole other crisis."

You roll your eyes and shoo him out the door. "Go. Go brood over your tariffs."

"I'm going,” he chuckles. “I'll send Lan to help you get ready. It's formal, so... dress up a bit."

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” you ask as you watch him start down the hall, your hands on your hips.

"Nothing. You always look beautiful,” Zuko replies absentmindedly. He suddenly stops mid-stride and half-turns, and you see the panic in his eyes. A blush, dark and furious, spreads across his face and up to the tips of his ears. “I mean—fine. You always look fine. Good. Just… formal. It's a formal thing."

And with that, he flees down the hall with his robe flapping behind him, leaving you standing in the doorway, your heart pounding and your mind a complete and utter mess. The two guards framing your door are studiously looking at the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at you, and you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. You close the door with a soft click and lean against it, your head thumping against the wood a few times for good measure, just to see if you can knock some sense into yourself.

He thinks you’re beautiful. He actually said it. You don't know if it was the alcohol talking, or if he really meant it, but Zuko isn’t in the habit of saying things he doesn't mean. He's not like you, a slave to the impulse of the moment, a blur of half-formed thoughts and poorly timed jokes. He's deliberate. He's careful. And he doesn't just throw words like that around.

You don't want to think about it. You can't think about it. You have a banquet to get ready for, and you have a garden to save, and a life to get back to. A life that doesn't involve the Fire Lord and the mess he's making of your carefully constructed defenses. You're going to go to this banquet, you're going to be a good little symbol, and then you're going to leave. That's the plan.

You always look beautiful.

"Oh, this is bad," you murmur to the empty room. "This is very, very bad."

The thought brings with it an unfamiliar sense of calm, and you take a deep breath, savoring the moment. The birds are singing, the morning sun is streaming in through the balcony doors, and you have nowhere to be, nothing to do, for once. It's nice.

You're half-tempted to burrow deeper into the soft pillows and drift back off to sleep, but a gentle knock at the door interrupts the fantasy. You push yourself up on your elbows, frowning. Who would be knocking at your door this early?

Another knock, more insistent this time, and you can hear a muffled voice from the other side of the door. "My Lady? Are you awake?"

You sigh and sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. "Come in."

The door opens, and the servant from dinner the night before enters, a breakfast tray balanced expertly in her hands. She's dressed in the same red-and-gold uniform as before, and her hair is done up in a neat bun, a few stray wisps escaping to frame her face.

"Good morning, my Lady," she says, bowing her head. "I hope you slept well."

"Good morning," you say, forcing a smile. You don't want her to feel bad, not when she's only doing her job. "And yes, I did. Thank you."

She sets the tray down on the table near the balcony doors, the porcelain dishes clinking softly as she does. You’re relieved to see it’s a simple spread, just tea, congee, and a bowl of fruit. Though the flower in the tiny vase is an unexpected touch.

"Lord Zuko thought you might like breakfast," she says, adjusting the vase and fussing with the arrangement of the dishes. "He sends his apologies for not being able to join you, but he has a meeting with the trade council this morning."

"That's fine," you say, trying not to feel disappointed. You didn't expect him to take the morning off, not for you. "What time is it, anyway?"

"Just after eight, my Lady," she says as she smoothes out an invisible wrinkle in the tablecloth. She steps back and gives the arrangement a satisfied nod, before turning to face you again. "If you'd like, I can draw you a bath. Or a hot towel, if you prefer. And the seamstress will be here in an hour to take your measurements."

"Seamstress?" you ask. "For what?"

"For your wardrobe,” she answers, gesturing to the closet you’d perused yesterday, where your threadbare clothes hang next to the array of silk and satin. "The Fire Lord mentioned you didn’t bring much with you. He’s taken the liberty of providing you with a few things. But the seamstress will need your measurements to make any adjustments."

"He… what?" you sputter as the words finally sink in. He's having a whole new wardrobe made for you. A whole new wardrobe of clothes that you have no intention of wearing. You're here for a few days, a week at most, and you're perfectly happy in your own clothes.

You know, though, that this is one battle you're not going to win. He’s already gone to all this trouble, and you don't want to hurt his feelings. Again. So you'll just have to grin and bear it. You'll let the seamstress take your measurements, and you'll try on the ridiculous clothes, and you'll pretend that you're not completely and totally out of your element.

"Okay," you say, your voice tight. "That's... fine."

A small smile breaks through her formal mask. "Great. I’ll send for her."

She gives you a quick bow, and then she's gone, leaving you alone with your thoughts and a breakfast you're no longer hungry for. You pour a cup of tea and take a slow sip, trying to ignore the knot of unease tightening in your stomach. You’re being ungrateful. You know you are. He’s just trying to be nice. He’s just trying to take care of you, in the only way he knows how.

But it’s too much. It’s all too much.

You stand up and walk to the balcony, the morning sun warm on your skin. The city below is starting to come to life, the streets filling with people and the sounds of a new day. You watch them for a while, trying to lose yourself in the rhythm of their lives, in the simple, everyday act of living. You need to get out of here. You need to get some fresh air, to feel the earth beneath your feet, to be somewhere you're not a charity case. You need to be somewhere you belong.

But you can't leave. You're trapped. Not by the walls of the palace, but by your own stupid, stubborn pride. You don't want to disappoint Zuko. You don't want to hurt him. But so far, you’ve only done both, and you’re not sure how to stop.

A soft knock on the door pulls you from your thoughts. You take a deep breath and brace yourself.

The door opens, and an older woman with silver hair pulled back in a severe bun enters. She's carrying a large, leather-bound book and a narrow box, and she has the same no-nonsense look as the servant who’d brought your breakfast. You recognize her from your brief tour of the palace as the head seamstress, and your stomach sinks.

“My Lady,” she says, her head bowed. “I am here to take your measurements.”

“Right,” you say tightly. “Of course. Let’s just get this over with.”

She sets her things down on the table and opens the book, revealing a dizzying array of fabric swatches and design sketches. She looks at you, her eyes narrowed, and you have the sudden, unnerving feeling that she can see right through you, through the threadbare cotton of your nightdress and the flimsy armor of your good humor. You look away.

“If you could just stand here, my Lady,” she points. “And hold your arms out to the side.”

You do as she asks, your movements stiff and awkward. You feel like a bug pinned to a board. She wraps a measuring tape around your chest, your waist, your hips with quick movements. She calls out the numbers, her tone flat and clinical, and you try to ignore the heat creeping up your neck. You’re used to being looked at, but this is different. This is... invasive.

“You have a strong frame,” she says, and you’re surprised by the note of approval in her voice. “Good, solid bone structure. You’ll be able to carry the heavier fabrics without it looking… costume-y.”

“I… thank you?” you say, not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.

“The Fire Lord’s orders were very specific,” she continues, unspooling the tape and moving to your arms. “He wants you to be comfortable. But he also wants you to look… presentable. To be an ambassador for the new Fire Nation.”

“He said that?”

“He did,” she confirms without looking up. “He thinks very highly of you, my Lady.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just stand there, your arms outstretched, and you let her work. You try to process her words, to make sense of the strange, warm feeling that’s spreading through your chest. He thinks highly of you. Of course he does. You’re friends. But the way she said it made it sound like something else.

She finishes with the measurements and closes her book, a satisfied look on her face. You watch as she moves to the closet and gathers the finery hanging beside your own clothes, holding each garment up to the light before she folds it and places it in a large wicker basket. 

“These will all be altered to fit you,” she says, gesturing to the basket. “I’ll have my girls work on them today. They should be ready by tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow?” you repeat. You’re sure you must have heard her wrong. “You can have all of this done by tomorrow?”

“We can,” she says with a proud smile. “We are very good at what we do.”

She picks up the basket and turns to leave, but she stops at the door and looks back at you, her head tilted to the side. “Lord Zuko also mentioned you might enjoy something a little more… practical. For your daily activities. We have some lovely linens and cottons, if you’d like to see them.”

“I… I would,” you say softly. “I would like that very much.”

She gives you a small nod, and then she’s gone, leaving you alone to stare at your single outfit still swaying on its wooden hanger.

The morning passes in a blur of activity. You bathe in the massive tub with jasmine oils. You explore the study, finding a collection of scrolls on horticulture and agriculture, and you spend a pleasant hour reading about the cultivation of fire lilies. You even venture out onto the balcony to do your katas before the feeling of being a caged bird returns with a vengeance, and you retreat back into the gilded safety of your rooms.

By the time your guide returns to lead you to the royal gardens, you’re buzzing with a nervous energy you can’t quite shake. You're looking forward to seeing Zuko, but you're also dreading it. Every interaction with him feels like a minefield now, and you're afraid you're going to say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, and ruin the fragile peace you've found.

You follow your guide through the winding corridors of the palace, trying to keep up with her hurried pace. The halls are bustling with courtiers and officials, all of whom stop to stare as you pass. You can hear their whispers, feel their eyes on your back, and you straighten your shoulders, a defiant tilt to your chin. You refuse to let them intimidate you. You’ve faced down firebending warlords and vengeful spirits. A few nosy nobles are nothing.

Zuko intercepts you just as you reach a set of grand doors, propped open to let the spring breeze flow through. He’s wearing a brocade robe of black and gold, crown nestled on his topknot, and he’s frowning at a scroll in his hands. He doesn’t notice you at first, and you take a moment to study him, to see the Fire Lord instead of your friend.

He’s changed. The years have carved new lines and shadows around his eyes, and the stoic set of his jaw is more pronounced than you remember. There's a gravity to him now, a weight of responsibility that sits heavy on his shoulders. He looks older, tired. But he also looks… settled. At peace with himself in a way he never was when you were younger.

He looks up then, and his frown melts away when he sees you. A genuine smile spreads slowly across his face, and the guards standing at attention nearby visibly flinch in surprise. You have a feeling they don't see that smile very often.

“There you are,” he says as he rolls up the scroll with a flick of his wrist. “I was starting to think you’d gotten lost.”

“It was a near thing,” you grin. “This place is a maze.”

“Tell me about it. I still get lost sometimes, and I live here.”

Your guide steps forward to take the scroll from him, and Zuko surprises you by removing his heavy robe next. The fabric drags on the ground for a moment before the servant can catch it, stumbling slightly under the weight. He’s left in a simpler tunic and loose trousers, an outfit you’ve seen him wear a hundred times. He moves more freely already, the tense set of his shoulders relaxing as he rolls the stiffness from his neck.

“These can go back to my study," he tells the woman. "And we’ll be in the garden. No interruptions.”

The guide bows, her eyes wide. “Of course, my Lord.”

“Let’s go,” he says, turning back to you with that same smile. “Before someone finds another ‘urgent’ matter for me to attend to.”

Zuko doesn't offer you his arm this time, but he walks close enough that your knuckles brush against his with every other step. The simple, accidental contact sends a jolt of awareness through you, and you have to fight the urge to pull away. You haven't felt this awkward around him since the early days, when you were still trying to figure out if he was going to try to kill you in your sleep. You don't understand why it’s happening now.

The guards who had been flanking him peel away and stand just outside the doors as you step through them, into the warm afternoon sun. The smell hits you first, a rich, loamy scent of damp earth, blooming flowers, and freshly cut grass. It's so different from the sterile, perfumed air of the palace that you stop for a moment and just breathe, your eyes roving over the vast expanse of color before you.

You’ve seen some of the most beautiful places in the world, but this… this is something else. It’s a carefully curated, meticulously maintained slice of paradise, and it’s breathtaking. Despite the obvious effort to order the wildness of nature, the sheer, untamable life-force of it all is a relief. You can feel the thrum of the earth beneath your feet here, even more than in the city. This is better. This is a place you can understand.

“It’s something, isn’t it?” Zuko asks from beside you.

“It’s beautiful,” you breathe out, your eyes wide with wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“My grandfather had it designed,” he says, a wry note in his voice. “He had a thing for dragons.”

You follow his gaze and see them, then. They’re carved into the stone of the pathways, long, sinuous bodies twisting through the beds of flowers. They're in the metalwork of the benches with wings spread in flight, and they’re in the fountains with all-seeing stone eyes. A silent, imposing reminder of the power and the pride of the Fire Nation, everywhere you look. Your nose wrinkles.

“Well, they’re no turtleducks.”

He snorts a laugh. “No, they’re not. But they have their charms. This way.”

He leads you down a winding path, past beds of lupines and fire lilies with blooms as big as your fist. The air is buzzing with the drone of bees, and the sun is warm on your skin. You feel the last of the tightness in your shoulders finally dissolve, and your earlier enthusiasm returns, bubbling up inside of you like a spring from where your feet touch the ground. 

You can't resist. You stop, pressing your palm to the earth, and you let a small tendril of stone rise up. You shape it with your fingers, coaxing it into the rough likeness of an hibiscus growing beside you. It's crude, and a little bit lopsided, but it has a certain charm, if you do say so yourself.

You turn to Zuko, expecting an eye roll or an exasperated sigh. Instead, you find him watching you with an amused smile, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Neat trick," he says. "Can you make it a komodo rhino?"

"It's a flower," you say with a laugh. "It wants to be a flower. You can't force these things."

"Right," he says, a thoughtful look on his face. "The earth gives you what it wants to give you."

"Exactly," you smile, letting the flower crumble back into dust. "It's a conversation. You can't just… tell it what to do. You have to listen."

You're not sure if he understands what you mean by that, or if he's just humoring you, but Zuko doesn't press the issue. He just nods and leads you further into the garden, and you walk beside him, your hands swinging at your sides. You fall into an easy rhythm, the silence between you comfortable, companionable. You feel like you could walk with him forever.

You’re so caught up in the beauty of the gardens, in the simple joy of being in his company, that you almost forget the nagging questions that have been plaguing you. But as you round a corner and a stunning collection of bonsai trees comes into view, you find yourself asking before you can stop yourself.

“How’s Mai? She didn’t want to come with us? I bet she’d love the peacocks.”

You say it casually, but you’re not feeling casual. Your stomach is in knots, and your heart is beating a little too fast in your chest. But you have to know. You have to know if the life he’s built for himself includes her, the way you always assumed it would. 

The thought sends a sharp pang of something that feels an awful lot like jealousy through you, and you push it down, hard. You just need to know he’s not alone in this palace, that’s all.

Zuko looks at you like you’ve sprouted a second head. Now your stomach hurts, and you’re confused.

“Mai? Oh. She’s fine, I think,” he says, and the casual dismissal is so unlike him that it makes you frown. “She’s in Jonduri. And she hates birds. All birds. She thinks they’re…messy.”

“Oh,” you say, your brow furrowing. That explains why she’s not here, but not why he’s talking about her like she’s a distant acquaintance, not the woman he’s supposed to be in love with. “It must be hard, having her so far away.”

“It’s fine.” He shrugs. “We send letters sometimes.”

Letters? Sometimes? You stop walking. This isn't right. This isn't the Zuko and Mai you remember. They were always so intense, so wrapped up in each other, so dramatic. You remember the charged silences and the meaningful glances, the way they were always touching, even when they were fighting. This… this is nothing. This is… friendship. And a lukewarm one, at that.

You open your mouth to ask him what’s going on, but he’s already moving, turning a corner and nearly disappearing behind a hedge of vibrant, pink bougainvillea. You quickly jog after him, shaking your head.

“Here we are,” Zuko says as he stops in front of a simple wooden gate. “This is what I wanted to show you.”

You look from him to the gate, a frown still set on your face. You want to press him for more information about Mai, to demand to know what he's not telling you, but his expression stops you. His earlier awkwardness has returned, and he's shifting from foot to foot, his hands clasped behind his back like he’s waiting for a verdict.

Zuko takes a deep breath and pushes open the gate, gesturing for you to go inside. You give him a questioning look before you step through, and what you see when you emerge stops you in your tracks.

It's a garden. But it's not like the rest of the manicured, ordered gardens you’ve been walking through. This is wild, chaotic, and teeming with life. It’s a riot of green and brown, with a few splashes of color from the flowers that have managed to stake their claim among the weeds. A trickling stream meanders through the middle of the plot, and a small, rickety-looking bridge spans its width. There’s a wooden shed in one corner, roof sagging and windows caked with dirt. You spot a citrus tree struggling under the weight of its own fruit, and a small patch of what looks like tomatoes with vines spreading in all directions.

It’s messy. It’s overgrown. It’s perfect. And in the middle of it all, a single, stubborn fire lily pushes its way through the hard packed soil.

“Zuko, this is incredible,” you breathe out, moving to inspect the cabbage roses that have escaped their neatly trimmed beds. They’re twice the size of any you’ve ever seen, and you find yourself checking the stems for signs of pests. You find a few, but not enough to cause any real damage. You'll need to mix a soap spray, but it can wait until tomorrow.

“I’m glad you think so,” he says, and you can hear the relief in his voice. He follows you as you move to the citrus tree, frowning at the yellowing leaves.

“It’s getting too much water,” you say, more to yourself than to him. You check the soil around the base of the trunk, your fingers sinking into the rich, dark earth. “And it needs to be fertilized. Have you been using the compost?”

“I… have not,” he admits. “I wasn't sure how.”

“Of course,” you mutter as you walk to the wooden shed, pulling open the door. Your nose is immediately assaulted by the sharp, chemical smell of improperly aged fertilizer, and you wrinkle your nose in disgust and slam the door. “Oh, Zuko. This is a mess.”

You turn to face him and find him standing there, hands tucked into his pockets, a helpless look on his face. He looks so out of place among the weeds and the overgrown plants, and you have to fight the urge to laugh. He’s the Fire Lord. He commands armies and negotiates treaties, but he’s defeated by a pile of compost.

“Don’t you have gardeners for this?” you ask, a teasing note in your voice. You gesture to the garden around you. “Surely they can handle a few weeds and some fertilizer.”

His face falters, and he looks away, crossing his arms over his chest. “They were ordered not to touch it. This used to be my mother’s garden. After she… after she left, no one was allowed to come in here. And it just… fell apart.”

Oh.

His mother's garden. Of course. You look around again, and you can see her influence in the choice of plants, in the layout of the paths. It’s a place of beauty and peace, a sanctuary, and you can understand why he would want to keep it safe. Why he would want to keep it exactly as she left it. But it's not a sanctuary anymore. It's a tomb. And you know, better than anyone, that tombs are no place for the living.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “I didn't know.”

“It’s fine,” he says, but it’s not. You can hear the pain in his voice. “I tried to take care of it for a while, after I came back. But I… I’m not very good at it. And I didn’t have the time.”

“You were a little busy,” you say gently. “Fixing the world and all.”

A faint smile touches his lips. “Something like that.”

Zuko straightens, stuffing his hands back into his pockets. “But I was thinking,” he continues, his gaze fixed on the lone fire lily in the middle of the garden. “That maybe you could… help. If you wanted to.”

Your eyes widen, and the caged bird of your heart beats its wings against your ribs. This is what he was so nervous about? This is the secret he was keeping? He wasn’t asking you to be his ambassador. He was asking you to be his gardener. And it's the most thoughtful, most perfect thing anyone has ever offered you.

“You want me to… fix your garden?” you ask, just to be sure. He's the Fire Lord. He has an entire staff of gardeners at his disposal. Why would he want you?

“I want you to bring it back to life,” he corrects quietly, finally meeting your eyes. “I think my mother would have liked that.”

A slow smile spreads across your face, and you can feel the joy bubbling up inside of you, bright and effervescent. You could learn so much from this garden, and you could create something truly special, something that would honor his mother and bring him joy. You could help him, actually help him, in a way that matters. In a way that you understand.

You let out a happy whoop and launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck and nearly sending you both careening into the lemon tree. Zuko lets out a choked sound of surprise as you hug him, and for a moment he just stands there, stiff and awkward, before he hesitantly pats your back. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the familiar scent of smoke and spice.

“Is that a yes?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

“Of course it’s a yes,” you murmur against his skin. “It’s a definite, absolute yes.”

You pull away, your hands still resting on his shoulders, and look up at him. His face is flushed, and there's a dazed expression in his eyes. “Good,” he says, a little breathless. “That’s… good.”

You can’t help but grin at his flustered state, and you lean in closer. “You’re going to regret this, you know. I have very high standards. There will be no chemical fertilizers. No pesticides. We’re going to do this the right way.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says as a genuine smile finally breaks through. His hands come up to rest on your waist, and he gently sets you back on your feet. “I’ll have my people draw up a contract.”

“Oh, you will not,” you laugh, letting go of him and turning back to the garden, your mind already racing with ideas. “This is a pro-bono gig. My payment is the satisfaction of a job well done. And unlimited access to the royal compost piles. And you have to help.”

“Me?” His eyes widen. “I have a country to run.”

“Not all the time,” you say, pointing a finger at him. “And I’m sure you can spare an hour or two a week. It’s good for you. Fresh air, manual labor. Builds character.”

You’re already walking, already moving, already planning. Zuko trails after you, a bemused look on his face, as you circle the garden , your hands clasped behind your back. You’re talking to yourself, muttering about soil quality and crop rotation and companion planting, and you can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t care. For the first time in days , you feel like you’re in your element, like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

“—and we’ll need to build a proper compost bin, something with three sections so we can turn it properly, and we should get a rain barrel for the shed, and do you have any seeds? We’ll need seeds. We could order some from Makapu, they have the best—”

You stop, turning to face him, and he’s just standing there, a smile playing on his lips, his hands tucked in his pockets. He looks happier, lighter, than you've seen him since you arrived, and the sight makes your heart ache in the strangest, sweetest way.

“What?” you ask, your hands on your hips. “Am I boring you?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Not at all. I just… I like seeing you like this.”

“Like what?” you frown. “Dirty and sweaty and bossing you around?”

“Enthusiastic,” he corrects quietly. “It’s nice.”

The warmth that spreads through your chest at his words is entirely unfamiliar, and you have to look away, a flush creeping up your neck. He’s right. You are happy. You’re happier than you’ve been in a long, long time, and he’s the reason. He brought you here, to this place, and he gave you this gift. This wild, messy, overgrown piece of paradise.

Your gaze falls on the single fire lily in the middle of the garden as you struggle to find the words to fill the silence, to push back the sudden surge of confusing, unwelcome feelings he's stirring up in you. You’re a nomad. You’re a wanderer. You don’t stay in one place for long. You don’t get attached. But you already are. You were attached the moment you met him. Even when he was trying to capture Aang, even when he was your enemy, you were attached. You saw the good in him, the person he was trying to be, and you held onto that. You’ve been holding onto it ever since.

"Right," you say, a bit more subdued. "Well, I'll need to assess the soil, and make an inventory of what's already here. And then I'll need to draw up a plan, and get your approval, of course. And then we can start."

"Of course," he agrees. "Whatever you need."

You nod and try to ignore the way your stomach flutters at the simple, trusting generosity in his voice. This is a bad idea. A terrible, wonderful, horrible idea. You should say no. You should thank him for the offer, pack your bags, and leave before you do something stupid. Before you ruin the best friendship you've ever had.

But you won't. You know you won't.

"So," Zuko starts with a cough, breaking you from your spiral. He points his thumb over his shoulder. "Now that that's settled, do you want to see the peacocks?"

You turn to him, a grin spreading across your face. "I thought you'd never ask."

You spend the rest of the afternoon in the gardens, Zuko trailing after you as you stop to examine the plants every few feet, your hands moving over leaves and stems, your brow furrowed in concentration. He doesn't say much, just watches, and you find that you don't mind. It’s comforting. Like having your own personal, very handsome, very quiet shadow.

The komodo peacocks are, as expected, ridiculous. They strut around like they own the place, their iridescent tails fanning out in a display of vanity. You laugh until your sides hurt, especially when one of them takes offense to Zuko’s shiny shoes and tries to peck them.

The sun is setting by the time you make it back to the palace, painting the sky in vivid, swirling hues of red and gold. You're buzzing with a nervous energy, a mix of excitement for the project and a healthy dose of fear for what it might mean for your friendship, for your life. But you’ve never backed down from a challenge before, and you’re not about to start now.

"So, what do you think? Can you work with this?" he asks as you walk.

"Oh, absolutely," you nod, a skip to your step. You’re on his arm again, and he lets you pull him along without complaint. "This is a dream come true. I've never seen anything like it. The potential is just...wow."

“I wasn’t sure if you had the time,” he admits. “I know how important your work is.”

“My work will still be there when I’m done,” you say, waving a dismissive hand. “And the world needs more beautiful things. Don’t you think?”

You look over at him, and he’s already looking at you, a soft, fond smile on his face. Your breath catches in your throat, and you have to look away, your cheeks flushing. He’s been doing that a lot today. Just looking at you. You don’t remember him being so… watchful, so attentive. Maybe you never noticed before.

“Plus, it’s for you. Of course I’d make the time,” you add, squeezing his arm in a way you hope is casual.

His steps falter, just for a moment, and you feel the muscle in his arm tense beneath your touch. “You don’t have to do that,” he says quietly.

“I know,” you reply. “But I want to. You’re my friend, Zuko. I’d do anything for you.”

You can feel the tension radiating off of him as he processes your words, and you're not sure what to make of it. You were just being honest, but it seems to have hit a nerve. He's quiet for a long moment, his jaw working as he stares ahead, and you're about to ask him what's wrong, when he finally speaks.

"I... I appreciate that," he says, his voice tight. "More than you know. And I'm glad you're here. I've...I've missed you."

Your breath catches, and you look up at him, your heart swelling with affection. You've missed him, too, more than you'd like to admit. There's been a hole in your life since the war ended, a space that used to be filled with laughter and adventure and the easy camaraderie of your friends. You've kept in touch, of course, but it's not the same. It's not the same as being here, with him, in this strange, beautiful, overwhelming place.

"I've missed you, too," you say, and you give his arm another squeeze, trying to convey all the things you can't say. "But I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere for a while."

"Good," he murmurs. "I'm glad."

You're back inside the palace now, and a servant is waiting to lead you to the dining hall. You can't help but notice the way they glance at Zuko's arm, still linked with yours, and you feel a flash of self-consciousness. You quickly pull away, not wanting to cause any more gossip, and you wrap your arms around your middle.

Zuko frowns, but doesn't say anything. Instead, he just leads the way to the dining hall, his back straight and his hands clenched into fists. You follow him, wishing you could take back your hasty movement. You don't want to make things awkward between you, but you can't help but be aware of the rumors that could start, the whispers that could follow you. You're not here to cause a scandal, and you're definitely not here to break up the Fire Lord and his girlfriend. Even if she's in another city, and they only "sometimes" send letters.

You reach the dining hall, and the same servant from this morning is waiting for you. She’s a little less stiff than she was before, but you can still see the curiosity in her eyes as she looks between the two of you. You give her a small smile, hoping to put her at ease, but she just looks away, her cheeks flushing. Great. You're going to be the talk of the palace before the day is out.

Zuko pulls out your chair for you with a jerky motion, and you murmur a quiet "thank you" as you sit down. He takes the seat next to you, and the two of you sit in silence as the servants bring out the food. Tonight, the spread is much simpler, just a few dishes of rice, fish, and vegetables, and you feel a wave of relief. You’re not sure you could handle another feast.

As you eat, you try to make small talk, asking about his day and the council meeting he'd mentioned earlier. He’s quiet, his answers short and to the point, and you can tell that something is bothering him. You have a sinking feeling that it’s you, but you can't for the life of you figure out what it is.

Finally, you can't take it anymore. "What's wrong?" you ask, your voice a bit sharper than you intended. "You've been staring at me all night. Did I spill something on my shirt?"

“What?” His head snaps up, and you realize he must have been miles away. “No. No, you didn’t. I was just… thinking.”

“About what?” you press, setting your chopsticks down. "Is it about the garden? Because if you're having second thoughts, you should just tell me. I won't be upset."

He shakes his head, his brow furrowed. "No, it's not that. I'm not having second thoughts. I want you to do it. I just... I have a question, and I'm not sure how to ask it."

"Well, you can ask me anything," you say. "We're friends."

“Then why do you keep pulling away from me?"

You blink at him, taken aback by the hurt in his voice. You were expecting a question about the garden, or the council, or the state of the Fire Nation. You were not expecting this. You were not expecting him to call you out, to lay your insecurities bare on the polished mahogany of the dining table.

“I… I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you stammer, and Zuko scoffs.

"Yes, you do," he insists. "You did it yesterday, in the hallway. And you did it again today. I'm not an idiot, I know we're being watched, but I don't understand why you feel like you have to act like we're strangers."

Your mind races as you try to come up with a plausible explanation. You can't very well tell him you're worried about people getting the wrong idea about the two of you. That would make things even more awkward, and you'd have to explain why you care so much about rumors. You're not even sure why you care, to be honest. You've never been one to worry about what other people think.

But the thought of being the subject of palace gossip, of being the other woman in a story you don't even understand , makes your stomach churn. You don't want to be that person. You don't want to be a complication in his life.

"I'm just... trying to be respectful," you finally settle on, and you can hear the weakness in your own voice. "You're the Fire Lord, and I'm your guest. I'm not sure what the rules are."

"The rules are that we're friends," he says as he leans in closer, his elbows on the table. "And that we can act like it. I don't care what anyone else thinks."

Easy for him to say. He's the Fire Lord. He doesn't have to deal with the whispers and the sideways glances. He doesn't have to worry about being seen as a gold-digging trollop who's trying to worm her way into the royal bedchamber.

"I care.” You look down at your plate, pushing a piece of fish around with your chopsticks. "I don't want to make things difficult for you. You have enough to deal with without having to manage a scandal."

A silence falls between you, thick and heavy. You risk a glance up at him, and you see a whole range of emotions cross his face. Confusion, frustration, and finally, a dawning realization. Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and he lets out a slow, careful breath.

“You’re not making things difficult for me,” he says, his voice quieter now, more measured. “You’re making them better. Just by being here.”

You want to believe him, you really do, but a nagging doubt lingers in the back of your mind. You can't shake the feeling that you're in over your head, that you're playing a game you don't know the rules to. And you're afraid of getting hurt, or worse, hurting him.

"Okay," you say, your voice small. "I'll try to remember that."

"Good.” Zuko reaches across the table, taking your hand in his. His palm is warm, calloused from years of sword-fighting, and your fingers curl around his on instinct. “Because I really… I really want you to stay.”

The sincerity in his voice is your undoing. You look up at him, and your heart aches at the hopeful, vulnerable look on his face. He's not the Fire Lord right now. He's just Zuko. Your friend. The boy you watched grow from an angry, lost child into a strong, capable man. And you can't say no to him. You never could.

"I'll stay," you promise, and you give his hand a squeeze. "For the garden, of course."

The relieved smile that spreads across his face is worth more than any treasure in the world. He squeezes your hand once, fingers trailing across your knuckles before he lets go, leaving the skin tingling in their wake. You quickly pull your hand back, a rush of heat flooding your cheeks, and focus on your food.

You finish the rest of your meal in a comfortable quiet. Zuko tells you about the new trade routes he's trying to establish with the Earth Kingdom, and you tell him about a new irrigation system you helped design for a village in the Si Wong Desert. It’s easy, this. Falling back into the familiar rhythm of your friendship, the shared experiences and inside jokes that have bonded you together over the years.

Before long, your heads are bowed together, eagerly trading ideas for the garden. Zuko calls for parchment and charcoal, and you sketch out a rough plan right there on the table, your hands flying across the page as you describe your vision. A space that is both productive and beautiful, a place where his mother’s spirit can rest, and where he can find some peace from the pressures of his new life. One with plants not just from the Fire Nation, but from all four nations, a true symbol of the world he is trying to build. 

He listens intently, asking questions and offering suggestions, and you’re so caught up in the excitement of it all that you don’t notice how dark it’s grown in the chamber until a discrete cough from the doorway interrupts you mid-sentence.

You look up to see Zuko’s grand chamberlain, Shoji, standing in the doorway, a scroll clutched in his hands and a pained expression on his face. Zuko, however, doesn’t look up at all.

“Just a minute, Shoji,” he says, waving a dismissive hand, before turning back to you. “And we could put the pond right here, by the bridge. The stream could feed into it.”

You nod, adding a few quick lines to the sketch and a note in the margins. “There are a few bioluminescent species of lily that grow on Jasmine Island. They would look incredible at night. Like a patch of stars.”

Zuko leans in closer, his head bent next to yours as he studies the drawing. “That’s… that’s a great idea.” His voice is a low murmur, and you can feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek, the scent of tea and spice. A shiver runs down your spine, and you quickly pull away, putting some much-needed distance between you. You clear your throat, a little too loudly, and focus back on the drawing.

You can feel the weight of Shoji's stare on you, and you know you’ve overstayed your welcome. You’ve kept the Fire Lord from his duties long enough.

You start to gather your things, but Zuko puts a hand on your arm, stopping you. “Don’t go,” he says. “We’re not done.”

“Lord Zuko,” Shoji interjects, his voice strained. “The Admiral is waiting. He’s been waiting for over an hour.”

An hour? You shoot a guilty look at Zuko, but he just waves Shoji off again. “He can wait a little longer. I’m in a meeting.”

“With whom, my lord?” Shoji asks. You can hear the unspoken question in his voice. That creeping feeling of being a problem returns, settling uncomfortably in your chest. You’re an interruption. An inconvenience. You’re keeping him from his responsibilities, from doing the work he was meant to do.

“With my head gardener,” Zuko answers without missing a beat. 

Your head whips around to stare at him, and your heart gives a lurch in your chest. You’re not sure if you like the sound of that. It sounds official. Permanent. It sounds like something you can’t just walk away from when the whispers get too loud. 

The look Shoji gives you confirms your fears. His thin lips press into a tight line, and his mustache seems to quiver with disapproval. He doesn’t believe you’re a head gardener. He thinks you’re something else entirely. Something much, much worse.

You have to get out of here. Before you do any more damage.

“Right, well, I’m exhausted,” you announce, standing up so quickly that your chair scrapes against the floor. “All that garden-planning has really taken it out of me. I should probably go to bed. Big day tomorrow. Weeding. And… soil analysis.”

Zuko looks up to you, his brow furrowed. He can probably tell you’re lying, but you don’t care. You just need to get out of this room, away from Shoji’s judgmental stare and Zuko’s intense, unnerving focus. You’re starting to feel like a cornered animal, and you need to run.

“But—” he starts, but you cut him off.

“I’ll see you in the morning,” you say, already backing away towards the door. “In the garden. Bright and early. Don’t be late.”

You turn and flee before he can say another word, almost running into Shoji in your haste to escape. You give him a wide berth and a tight smile, but he just stands there, a silent, disapproving statue. You can feel his eyes on your back as you hurry down the hall, and it makes you walk faster.

When you reach your room, you shut the door behind you and lean against it, taking deep breaths to calm yourself. Your heart is pounding in your chest, and you can still feel the phantom warmth of Zuko's touch on your skin. You're overreacting, you know you are. He's just being friendly. He's just happy to have a friend here, someone who knew him before he was the Fire Lord. Someone who doesn't want anything from him.

But you can't shake the feeling that things are only going to get more complicated from here on out. You’re no longer just a friend visiting. You're the "head gardener." And in a place like this, where every action has a consequence and every word is dissected, that’s a title that comes with a lot more baggage than you're prepared to carry.

After the announcement teaser trailer in 2023 completely blew up and I got to see how much love and support there already is for Tukk, his company and the project, I got motivated to push both my storytelling skills and the film itself a lot further, going back and rewriting the whole thing to let us spend more time with these characters and tell a more impactful and memorable story.

Instead of a little one-off 6 minute short (which at the time was still mostly in rough previz stage), it evolved into something closer to a full Clone Wars episode, which I've eventually decided to separate into three mini-episodes, inspired by the beautiful "Tales of" shows from Lucasfilm.

With that expansion also came the need for a lot more characters, designs and assets. And since I'm making all of those from scratch, with hand-painted textures, animator-friendly rigs and screen-accurate details that have to hold up in all kinds of close-ups, I've spent a LOT of time on that part of the process while simultaneously setting up some of the previz animations for the new story.

But an end of that step is in sight and once it is complete, updates will become way more frequent as I'm much faster when it comes to bringing shots from previz to a final stage.

I still can't give a release date yet as it's a no-budget personal project that is happening between client jobs, but it's still going full steam ahead and I'm extremely excited about the new direction it has taken on a while ago.

I'll also be looking for other character animators to bring onto the project later on and help out with some shots, so if you're interested in volunteering, feel free to send me your reel (mail address in my linktree)!

That's it for now, more character reveals soon (and no, they won't all be clones 🗡️🥸)!