Chapter Text
Of all of it, it’s the fire lilies she remembers the most.
Not the bloodbending. The knowledge of that sits like a stone in her stomach, but so long as she sits alone by the shore during a full moon night, it’s something she can ignore. Aang and Sokka don’t argue with her those nights.
Zuko does. Their friendship still has that lingering shine of newness, but it doesn’t stop him from calling out to her when, as soon as the moon makes itself known that night, she dashes down to where the sea meets the sand. She ignores him, but it's a near thing; she doesn't think she'd mind the company while she sits there, the tide and the heady power washing over her, until the sun peaks over the horizon.
When she comes back to the house, climbs the staircase to her room with legs like lead, there’s a bouquet of fire lilies in an ornate, gilded vase on the table by her bed.
It’s not a reaction people should have to flowers. People shouldn’t lose their breath at the sight of them. Their hands shouldn’t tremble. They shouldn’t feel tears welling hot in the corners of their eyes.
Behind her, someone clears their throat.
“Are you feeling better today?” a rasping voice asks. Zuko. Both a surprise and not a surprise at the same time.
“I…” But she can’t make any more words than that.
"Your brother and Aang said you weren't feeling well last night."
"I'm... fine."
Zuko coughs. The moment hangs awkward. He waves at the vase and asks, “Do you like them?”
“They’re beautiful,” she says, but that's the whole problem. They are beautiful. Vivid reds and oranges coalescing like a sunset. And she decimated fields of them to feel powerful.
But he wasn’t around then. He didn’t see her tear the water from them. He didn’t see the field turn brown and dry, barren and useless. She can’t begrudge him. She shouldn’t begrudge him.
“They were my mother’s favourite.”
She spins, facing him properly. He’s leaning against the door frame, arms crossed; the unscarred side of his face is flushed red. “Zuko…”
“But you don’t like them.” It’s not a question.
She sighs. “It’s not that. Just… memories.”
The pointed toe of his boot nudges the corner of the massive area rug. He’s waiting.
“I’ll tell you, one day,” she whispers.
“After the…” He clears his throat again. “After?”
“Yeah,” she agrees. “After.”