Chapter Text
Sometimes, Aang can be pretty wise for a twelve-year-old.
Unfortunately, this isn’t one of those times.
Sokka tightens his grip on Appa’s reins as he chases Aang’s glider, weaving between the inverted towers of the Western Air Temple. Usually, it’s annoying to hear “what the monks always said” for the millionth time, but right now, Sokka would gladly take that over whatever the heck this is.
Maybe it’s Aang’s way of coping after their humiliating failure on the Day of Black Sun. Maybe being around Teo and the Duke again has him reverting to Little Kid Mode. Whatever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that they’re in the middle of a war, and the world’s greatest hope for peace is currently practicing loop-de-loops instead of mastering the elements.
“Aang, can we talk about you learning firebending now?” Katara calls from where she and Toph sit in the bison’s saddle. As much as Sokka might pretend to complain, he’s never been more grateful for his sister’s nagging and mothering. Still, he sometimes thinks it would be nice to have, like, at least one more teenager in the group. And preferably not Haru, because Sokka can’t hold a conversation with the guy without talking directly to that tragic mustache.
“What? The wind is too loud in my ears!”
Yeah, real convincing. Sokka rolls his eyes so hard, he’s pretty sure he sees his own brain. “Aang, I think we should be making some plans about our future!” he shouts.
“Okay!” Aang veers sharply upward, until they’re nearly level with the thick forest above the temple. “We can do that while I show you the giant Pai Sho table! Oh, you’re gonna love the—whoa. Are you guys seeing that?”
“Nope,” Toph deadpans.
Sokka’s just about to ask what latest convenient distraction Aang has found when he spots it, too: a smear of crimson, harsh and violent, amid the green of the treetops.
Even if he hadn’t designed it himself, even if the fabric is too crumpled to make out the insignia, Sokka would recognize a Fire Nation war balloon anywhere. After all, it’s only been a few days since those same balloons were dropping fire and bombs on him and everyone he cared about. And apparently, taking his father prisoner wasn’t enough for those bastards because now they’re being followed again and Sokka just wants one day without having to deal with this shit—
Wait.
Something is wrong. Even more wrong than the presence of the war balloon.
The rage that’s been steadily building in Sokka’s chest fades away as the gears in his head begin to turn.
There’s no mistaking that it’s the Fire Nation, all right, and it’s no coincidence that it followed them here from the invasion. But if the Fire Lord was hunting them down, why hadn’t he sent more than this single, tiny aircraft?
And, another thing. Why had the Fire Lord sent, like, the world’s worst pilot? Those balloons aren’t that hard to control—Sokka would know, he flew one himself at the Northern Air Temple—and yet the soldier somehow managed to crash-land in the trees instead of the wide strip of clear ground just beyond the forest.
Not exactly a threat, all things considered.
So, while he isn’t exactly thrilled about the idea, when Aang insists that they go down for a closer look, Sokka doesn’t object. Normally, he’d insist on running away from signs of danger, but for some reason, as they land Appa a safe distance away from the scene, his instincts just aren’t going off. Besides, if it comes down to it, he’s pretty sure the four of them (or, as Toph puts it, “three plus Sokka”) can take whoever it is.
And yet, for all of Sokka’s strategizing and analyzing, he’s still completely and utterly unprepared for what they find.
Because—that’s a lot of blood.
It’s smeared all over the walls of the balloon’s upturned basket, as if a wounded animal had been violently thrashing inside. It’s coated the wicker floor, thicker than paint. It’s in terrible, gruesome shapes too distinctive, too human, to be anything but handprints.
And, a few feet away, it’s soaking the earth, pooling under the sprawled, lifeless body of—
“Zuko?!”
The four of them gather around cautiously, hardly believing their eyes, because it’s definitely him. Less recognizable without the old ponytail, maybe, but there’s no mistaking the angry, red scar peeking out from under the mop of dark hair. His skin is even paler than usual, covered in a sickly sheen of cold sweat. If he’s alive, if he’s breathing, it’s impossible to tell under the blood-spattered crimson tunic.
Well, there’s only one way to find out.
Without a word, Sokka takes the glider from Aang’s slackened grip and prods Zuko’s shoulder.
“Sokka, don’t—!“ Katara admonishes, but it gets the job done.
Slowly, Zuko’s eyes open. The normally piercing gold is bleary and unfocused, so much so that Sokka isn’t entirely sure the firebender even recognizes them.
That is, until he speaks, his voice raspy and thin. “Are you going to kill me?”
“Do we need to?” Sokka blurts without thinking. The guy’s halfway there already.
Zuko doesn’t answer. Instead, his brow furrows, hands curling into weak fists, as he tries to sit up. Even that slight movement is too much for him, though, and he collapses back to the ground, the good half of his face pressed into the dirt. The pitiful display makes something painful twist in Sokka’s chest.
“Fuck,” he pants. With every one of his rapid, shallow breaths, it seems like the pool beneath him grows larger, if that’s possible. “I was so close. So—so close.”
“Close to what?” Katara snaps, her hands itching for her waterskin. “Capturing the Avatar? Regaining your honor?”
But Zuko doesn’t rise to the bait. There’s no fight left in him, any more than there is blood. “I was going to…to do the right thing,” is all he manages to say, and his eyes slide closed once again.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Katara demands.
She doesn’t get an answer. Zuko’s out cold again, and this time, he seems determined to stay that way, no matter how many times he gets poked with the glider.
Finally, Katara drops her defensive stance, her hands instead settling impatiently on her hips. “I bet he’s faking it,” she huffs.
“How?” Aang says quietly. He studies Zuko’s still form, and Sokka finds himself momentarily stunned by the look on his face. He’s definitely in Little Kid Mode again, but, like, in a different way. There’s no suspicion there, no distrust, only concern. Fear.
“I don’t know!” Katara says exasperatedly, but Sokka can tell she barely believes herself. “He probably just covered himself in animal blood or something, so we’d feel sorry for him, or—“
“He’s not faking.”
The three of them whip around to see Toph crouching next to Zuko, one hand planted in the earth.
“I can feel it,” Toph murmurs. “His heart. It’s the worst I’ve felt since—“
She doesn’t have to say it.
Jet.
Sokka knows that Katara still thinks about him. That she sometimes has nightmares about him, waking up in tears. That she wonders if he lived, what would’ve happened if she’d stayed back to help him, if she’d thought to use the spirit water on him. He knows how much the thought of Jet haunts her, and likely will for the rest of her life.
“If we don’t help him,” Toph says, “he’ll die.”
“So what?”
The younger two gasp, but Sokka ignores them. “Katara,” he says sharply, because she doesn’t mean that. He knows she doesn’t.
He knows his sister is many things: stubborn, fierce, determined. Nurturing, protective, passionate. A fighter and a healer.
And he knows what she isn't: a monster.
“Katara,” he says again, softer. “You would never turn your back on someone who needed you. Would you?”
And just like that, Aang’s back in Avatar Mode. All Life is Sacred Mode. “Please, Katara,” Aang says, reverent and low. “For me?”
She looks down at Zuko. Even in unconsciousness, his eyebrows—eyebrow, singular—stay drawn in pain. Still it’s a far cry from his usual, angry-jerk scowl. Katara’s own expression hard and considering, but there’s no suspense in it. If there’s one thing Sokka’s never doubted, it’s his sister’s innate urge to do the right thing.
“We have to restrain him,” she says finally, and Sokka can hardly blame her. Not after what Zuko pulled in the catacombs of Ba Sing Se. Katara’s compassionate, sure, but she’s definitely not stupid.
Toph nods, and with a stomp of her feet, Zuko’s wrists and ankles are encased in cuffs of rock.
At last, Katara joins the others and kneels at Zuko’s side. Her hands once again flutter at her waterskin, this time for a completely different reason.
With a quiet pop, she uncorks the pouch and gets to work.