DEAR DICTATOR → zuko

╸twenty three : let it go

      But for him to be on this wedge, for him to be standing before her, that had to have been false. He was challenged, or why else would he be awaiting the Lei Tai grounds?

      Nari throws out a hand in warning, her voice shrill as she rips her own vocal chords yelling: "Run!". And it, of course, is to no avail. When has Zuko ever listened to her? When has he ever taken the advice Nari gave so strongly, the advice that would save his precious life? And those cotton-filled ears of his, both equally burned out and deaf (the left side especially, harmed by a hateful hand), can't withhold a single warning. He stands, now, unready for battle yet fully prepared to die. It's as though Nari can do nothing but scream, nothing but reach for him, nothing but cry out to deaf ears. Run, you idiot! Run, before you get hurt!

     She refuses to see him that way. To see another flaw on his skin. Another cut, bruise, scratch, or even scuff of dirt. It is not the prince he was, the prince he deserved to be. Zuko is something Nari is not, he is important. He is royal, he is needed by his nation. And most importantly, Zuko has a good soul. It is bright and warm and golden and even past whatever stoic demeanor Zuko puts up, Nari sees this.

     She feels it. In the wholesomeness of his presence, in the intentional touch of a hand or rebutting nudge of an elbow. She hears it. In the calm of his voice, that silken and gentle voice he'd seldom use with anyone but her or the restful breath while he sleeps. She knows it. In those still moments when they'd never be doing anything purposeful, when Zuko would be tracing lines in the dirt and Nari would act busy with her nose in a book, or when he'd always ask her second opinion before deciding something. She knows it in silence, and she knows it in the chaos that is life.

     Zuko has a beautiful soul. She does not.

     Zuko is the heir to a salient throne. Nari is not.

     Zuko is needed. Nari is not.

     Her feet, heavy as sandbags, scratched against the pavement as she ran before him, her body guarding his own like a steel shield of locks to a golden treasure. And behind her back is something so precious that Nari can't quite fathom why her weighted breath is still, why she knows that protecting him is right. In her chest, saving him is right. Part of her knows why, and the other half refuses to admit it.

     Then she sees it. She knows why her breath halts and is thankful that it is not such a core emotion– but as with anything, when relief comes terror always follows.

     She sees, now, that Zuko was not challenged. That is not why he is on the raised platform, it is not why his stern feet are stuck deeply to the cracked, orange ground. His eyes had not started upon an opponent with thick disquietude, they did not tremble with the dread of being struck down. They tremble with a sight so disturbing it would give the devil nightmares.

     Nari's body is twisted and charred before them. Splattered blood, cracked earth, broken bones and caved in ribs. It's her, dead on the pavement. And in the blink of an eye, she is back in that agonizing state. She is her own body again, filled with pain and hatred and greed and grief. She is looking at Zuko from the ground level with blood blurring her eyes, dirt stacked upon clumpy eyelashes. He is shocked. He is hurt, and he is untouched.

     A laugh resonates behind her, deep from a vicious throat. Akio.

     No, not Akio. It was Akio's chuckle, but the hand that yanks Nari by the scalp before throwing her skull face down to the pavement was Ryo.

     Only her skin is not met with the abrasive earth, with the pool of blood and spit and tears below her. It's cushioned into fresh earth, soft and green and damp. Loamy grass and wet soil.