Chapter Text
It is, quite possibly, the most difficult decision of Sokka’s life.
He is supposed to protect her, has been charged with keeping her safe during the siege, but he cannot let Katara go alone in search of Aang. It is blizzarding out upon the tundra, and there are Fire Nation soldiers everywhere, and even during a full moon he knows that Zuko will be formidable when found.
But Yue will not come with them.
“I would just be in the way,” she says to him, her voice resigned but free of self-pity. “Just one more thing for you to worry about.”
Sokka opens his mouth to protest, but Yue grips him by the shoulders and gives him a reassuring smile.
“The Spirit Oasis is the safest place I can be right now, other than with you,” she soothes. “Besides, I owe the Moon Spirit my life. If anyone should stay here, it’s me.”
Yue tells him of her birth – her illness and weakness, how she was born uncrying and with eyes closed, as though asleep – and of her parents’ desperation. How Chief Arnook begged and pleaded with the spirits not to take his daughter from him, and how, for his reverent humility, he received a vision instructing him to place the infant in the blessed pool.
“My dark hair turned white. I opened my eyes and began to cry, and they knew I would live. That’s why my mother named me Yue – for the Moon.”
Sokka knows there is something else in her words, a message not-quite spoken and which he is simply too dull to decipher. He furrows his brows, dark almost-understanding hanging over him like a cloud.
“But – ” he begins, and then Yue’s bare hands have moved from his shoulders to cup either side of his face. She kisses him, the tip of her nose cold against his cheek. He reaches up, anchoring one of his own hands against her ear, and kisses her back. Something sad twists in his stomach, the hissing suggestion that he may never get another chance to taste her lips, but it only makes him frightfully gentle, tentative.
Yue moves her mouth against his, a faint sucking sensation against his bottom lip, and then she pulls away. They draw back their hands almost at the same time, and she reaches up to give his own one last comforting squeeze. He realizes that he is being dismissed, in some way, and his heart breaks. From behind him, Katara lets out a quiet, self-conscious cough.
“Go,” Yue instructs him, her voice thick, “find Aang. The Avatar is the last hope for my people.”
Sokka sets his mouth in a determined line and nods his head, turning away and towards his sister before his legs become too stubborn and root him to the grass of the Spirit Oasis. He tells himself that Zuko can’t have made it that far, that they might only be gone for a few moments. The small, hopeful part of him too accustomed to bargaining decides that maybe bringing Aang back will prove a more meaningful form of protection than simply acting as a bodyguard to the princess. After all, what can he do, really? He is barely a man, armed with a boomerang and a club and a jawblade that he has mostly taught himself to use. Aang is the Avatar, his sister a powerful bender trained by a master. Though he would willingly die for her, Yue is safer with his companions than she is with him. Even the protection of the spirits may be better than what he can offer.
So he lets her stay, lets her convince him to abandon his promise to her father.
Katara waves to Yue once she is secure in Appa’s saddle, promising that they will return as soon as they can. Yue returns the gesture, exuding more confidence than Sokka thinks should be possible to feel when her city – her home – is under attack. Watching her wear this mask of bravery, this dutifully appeasing smile, makes his tongue taste bitter. It is too familiar.
He yip-yips and then Appa is rising in the air.
“Goodbye, Sokka!” she calls to him from below, watching as the large silhouette of the flying bison grows smaller and smaller against the brilliance of the moon. Then they are gone, her friends and defenders, and Yue knows a chill unlike anything the North Pole has ever produced.
She stares down at the undulating forms of Tui and La, their constant circling in the small pool a strange source of comfort, even though the vulnerability of the spirits’ chosen mortal forms is impossible to deny. They are so small, slender bodies graceful within the water, but still no longer than her forearm. It does not occur to the princess that she, too, is of diminutive size. That her pale hair is not the only thing she has in common with the spirit that saved her life.
Yue’s lips pucker into a frown as she dips her fingers distractedly into the water, the warmth of it always a pleasant shock given the surrounding walls of towering ice. Her intrusion disrupts the cyclic swimming of the spirits, they dart away on instinct before returning, the feel of their scales sliding against her hand beyond anything she has words for.
It would be blasphemous for anyone else to even wet their fingers with the water, but Yue is an extension of Tui, and La greets her in kind. She wonders momentarily what would happen if she were to shed her long dress-parka, her many layers of fur and wool, and slip into the water naked as the fish. Would she merely succeed in drenching herself, or would the moon spirit see this as an offering of herself, an act of surrendering the life it has loaned her? That’s what her existence is, after all. Borrowed.
Yue withdraws her hand, horrified at the bitterness that has accompanied the thought. She has always been grateful for the generosity of the spirits, for the opportunity to live. It is wrong to approach such a blessing as a burden. And yet…
She leans back, easing some of the pressure off her knees. Her momentary discontent is misplaced. It is not the moon’s fault that she sometimes feels as though her father doesn’t quite know who she is, outside of her title, her duty to the tribe. It is not the moon’s fault that she is betrothed to a young man whom she does not love, and does not imagine she can ever grow to love.
Her mind’s eye lingers on the vision of Hahn’s arrogantly handsome face, and distantly Yue wonders if he has survived the siege. If he was successful in slaying the Fire Nation admiral.
“Well, what do we have here?”
The voice is unfamiliar, and unkind. Yue startles, icy-blue eyes wide and white hair whipping back as she turns her head to stare at the intruder. She scrambles back against the dewy grass, a scream dying in her throat at the sight of not one Fire Nation soldier, but several. Leading them is a tall man with coarse sideburns, a cruel look of amusement etched into his face.
The skull-helmeted soldiers fan out offensively, their hands positioned to strike fire at a moment’s notice. Yue can feel the hammering of her heart in her ears, and is suddenly wretched with fear.
“I didn’t realize the Water Tribe was in the habit of keeping priestesses for their spirits,” the man says, his voice a pitiless growl despite the hint of curiosity in his words. “Out of the way, girl. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Yue stares at him, frozen.
His lip curling in disdain – perhaps at the stupidity or poor hearing of this inferior creature before him – Zhao stalks towards the pool of the Spirit Oasis, a coarse sack gripped in one fist. The sight of the sack seems to waken all of Yue’s comprehension, sick understanding crashing through her skull with enough force to jostle her voice free.
“No!” she shouts, grasping desperately at the man’s cloak as he approaches the pool. He shoves her away, his palm heavy and hot against her shoulder. He barely seems to use any strength, and yet the force of his push sends the air out of Yue’s lungs. She blinks away the angry, burning tears that have started to build in her eyes, and when she opens them again this man, this ashmaker, has dunked the sack into the pool and raised it up, the fabric pulsing with the frantic flopping of the moon spirit.
Full and round like the eye of a turtleseal, the moon suddenly becomes a red medallion in the sky. Everything is bathed crimson light, and Yue feels her throat tighten, her head ache. The wrongness of what has just happened – the sacrilege, the violence – threatens to turn her stomach.
“I am a legend now,” the man is saying to himself, power-drunk madness glinting in his eyes, “The Fire Nation will, for generations, tell stories about the great Zhao who darkened the moon.”
Yue struggles to her feet, the name registering with horror. Zhao. Admiral Zhao.
So Hahn failed in his mission, then.
She brings a hand to her mouth, swallowing down a sudden surge of bile. In all likelihood, her betrothed is dead.
“They will call me Zhao the Conqueror,” the man continues, heedless of her, “Zhao the Moon-Slayer, Zhao the Invincible!”
The sound of his voice incites a rage in her that Yue didn’t know she possessed. She wishes she were a bender, that she had a knife, anything. He speaks theatrically, his arms raised in triumphant gesticulation, exposing the gap in armour at his underarm. Yue hauls back and pummels her small fist into the opening. He grunts, more in surprise at the interruption than in pain, and drops his arms.
“Shut up!” Yue shrieks at him, drawing back her leg to kick him, but her blow is aborted by the back of the man’s hand connecting with her cheek. She staggers, once again reeling from the effortless force of his body.
“Don’t bother, priestess,” he snarls at her, all trace of amusement gone. He glares at her murderously, angling his free fist at the weakly twitching sack. “It’s my destiny to destroy the moon and the Water Tribe. You simply get to bear witness.”
Yue’s hands have risen placatingly without her willing them to.
“Destroying the moon won’t just hurt the Water Tribe,” she tells him, “It will hurt everyone, including you.” It seems incredible that she should have to state this most obvious fact, and for a sliver of a second Yue’s hatred for the man transforms into pity. It must be an utterly empty existence, being so separate from the spirits.
“Without the moon, everything will fall out of balance,” she explains, “You have no idea what kind of chaos that would unleash upon the world.”
The man’s face betrays the barest fraction of doubt, the heavy arch of his brows and the hard lines around his mouth softening just so. Then another voice, rich and authoritative, rings out across the oasis.
“She is right, Zhao.”
An elderly man, almost as short as Yue, appears as though out of nowhere, a cloak obscuring his face. He, too, is Fire Nation, and Yue cannot help but feel even more dismay at his arrival, despite his support. What has become of her city that these invaders can so easily march into the Water Tribe’s most sacred space?
“General Iroh,” Zhao drawls, turning his attention to the newcomer, “Why am I not surprised to discovery your treachery?” He assumes an expression somewhere between mockery and genuine disappointment.
Iroh drops the hood back from his face, looking tired and grave.
“I’m no traitor, Zhao,” he says, and Yue cannot help but notice he does not address the admiral by title. Is it because they are friends, or is it an insult?
“The Fire Nation needs the moon, too. We all depend upon the balance.”
Zhao continues to glare, tightening the fist he has aimed at the sack in which Tui, amazingly, continues to struggle. The old general’s expression hardens, several grooves of disapproval furrowing his forehead, the corners of his mouth pulling back to reveal his teeth. There is something frightening about this rotund man when angered, and then Yue realizes why.
Iroh is Fire Lord Ozai’s brother. The Dragon of the West.
“Whatever you do to that spirit, I’ll unleash on you tenfold!”
Zhao’s fist erupts into flame, one half of his mouth lifting in an anticipatory grin. The soldiers around him bend their knees, widening their stances, ready to attack. Yue is forgotten in the midst of this, one girl among men and their warring senses of pride.
“Let it go, now!” roars Iroh, and for one desperate moment she hopes that Zhao will. That he will see reason, that the respect he evidently feels for the older man will be enough to persuade him.
His arm tenses, flames growing erratic, and she is shouting before she can even consider the words.
“Wait!”
The men turn their heads, Iroh expectant, Zhao impatient. Yue draws herself up, affects all the noble certainty and grace that she can, though she is still so very angry. Her eyes reflect the horrible red pall of the sky, and for a moment Iroh thinks he has stumbled upon an oni wearing the skin of a Water Tribe girl. There is a ferocity, a righteous and unyielding decisiveness to her that puts him in mind of his brother despite her disparate size.
“Take me instead!”
Zhao laughs, his derisive mirth at the offer genuine and oddly warm, as though he is indulging the whim of a child. Iroh’s gaze shifts from the girl to the admiral and back, comprehension slow but clear.
“And what, exactly, am I supposed to do with a mere Water Tribe priestess?” Zhao barks at her, the chuckle dying on his lips. Iroh opens his mouth to answer, but Yue beats him to it.
“I am no priestess, admiral,” she spits at him. “I am Princess Yue, daughter of Chief Arnook of the Northern Water Tribe. I bear the moon’s blessing,” she gestures to her hair, “and I offer myself in exchange for the spirit in your grasp.”
Zhao narrows his eyes, and to Yue’s immense relief, the fire surrounding his fist dies.
“Let the spirit go, Zhao,” Iroh repeats, daring to take a step forward. “Hear what she has to say.”
The admiral leers at her, furious but attentive. “Well, princess? I’m listening. Tell me why you are a better prize than the moon.”
Yue swallows, worriedly glancing at the sack in his fist.
“You’ve already captured our city,” she tells him levelly, and the truth of it makes her heart ache. “You have accomplished what no one else in the Fire Nation has been able to do for almost a century. It would tarnish your victory to destroy the moon.”
Her admission of his success threatens to turn her stomach again, but she continues. “Besides, you came here by boat. Unless you plan on slaying the ocean spirit too, who can say what will happen to your men and your ships if you kill the moon? The Avatar is still free, can still take vengeance on you for your desecration.”
That seems to give Zhao pause, and at long last he drops his arm completely.
“Killing the moon might take away every waterbender’s bending, but my people are more useful to you if they are allowed to practice our craft. You have an army – we have healers. Your navy can join forces with our own. Agna Quel’a is the gate to the north, you can come and go through our waters, gain access to the top of the Earth Kingdom by water instead of having to march through untold miles of heavily defended territory.”
She fixes Zhao with a glare of ominous promise.
“But if you kill the moon, my people will fight you every step of the way. Even without their bending.”
“And simply taking you hostage is assurance enough that they won’t resist? Your people must love you very much, princess.”
The admiral is condescending, but the question itself is not unreasonable. Yue blinks, has to remind herself to unclench her jaw even as her hands ball into fists. This, of course, is the true measure of her desperation.
“It won’t work if you keep me as a prisoner in a cell,” she admits unhappily, and Zhao raises one brow inquisitively. “It will be seen as just another subjugation. We need to be something other than enemies.”
Across the pool, she can hear Iroh shift uncomfortably on his feet. She does not know much of Fire Lord Ozai’s brother, beyond his own reputation as a powerful firebender and military figure, but there is something about the man’s spiritual knowledge that suggests he may know what she is alluding to. Zhao, as expected, does not.
“What do you propose?” he asks, his expression softening into something languid.
For a moment Yue falters, unable to find her voice as the reality of what she is about to say – must say – crashes down around her. It is revolting, a fate she wouldn’t wish on anyone. Zhao is an invader, and she hates him so intensely – from the smug curl of his lip to the cruel glint of his eyes to the stupid hair on either side of his face – that she almost cannot bring herself to speak the words. Not even for the sake of her people.
But then Tui writhes weakly in the sack, and Yue thinks of the alternative, of a night sky forever dark, and swallows her pride.
“Family is one of the strongest bonds that my people recognize. If we are bound to each other, then the Water Tribe will have no choice, they will follow your instruction through me.”
Zhao’s smug expression deepens into something scathing. It is, however, free of the disgust she had expected to see, and she does not know whether to be relieved or repulsed at his apparent acceptance of her offer. Iroh lets out a sigh of resignation, lowers his gaze.
“A marriage, then. That’s what you’re suggesting?” Zhao’s tone is serious, as though he is clarifying an important point he is worried he has misheard.
Yue stiffens, her lips a thin line, but nods her head. It is awful to hear it put so plainly.
She regards Zhao as he considers, his eyes sparking. Even drenched in the unnatural red of the sky, she can tell they are unlike any colour she has ever seen, dark and bright and warm all at once. One of her father’s men had returned from a mission to the Earth Kingdom several years ago, bearing with him a gift. It was a jar of something sweet and sticky, close in colour to the dun-gold of a coyotehawk’s fur. Honey, it had been called. That, she decides, is the colour of Zhao’s blazing, foreign eyes.
If she is going to bind herself to this man, she might as well start associating him with positive things now.
“Well,” Zhao says unpleasantly, drawing her out of her dour contemplation. “A man could certainly do worse than a princess.”
He bends one knee, letting the captured moon spirit fall gracelessly from the sack back into the pool with a splash. Yue lets out a gasp of relief – for herself, the pain in her head, her people, the spirit – and the sky returns to its normal hue as her shoulders sink.
He straightens, tossing aside the dampened sack and fixes her with a wolfish look.
“I accept your...proposal, Princess Yue.”