They drink outside Zura’s cabin, after she checks to make sure her daughter is sleeping. Mao looks over her shoulder, and doesn’t quite know what to think. She’s about the size of his little brother, and he knows that in a few years he might have been expected to produce one or two of his own. It doesn’t make it any easier to imagine Zura with a baby, even with everything that’s happened, even with it right in front of him, dozing in a tiny hammock.
That mad protective streak that flares up when she touches the blanket, though- that fits. He thinks he can start to reassemble the picture of his exiled first-love-come-home from there.
They talk in low voices, in fits and spurts, avoiding the raw spots as best they can- it doesn’t keep them from stumbling on them headlong.
“You know people will talk about us if we’re all over each other when we get home.” He’s level-voiced as ever, as if he’s talking about potaturnips for dinner.
“Let them.” The reply is short and harsh, and Zura buries anything further in her teacup.
“Is that any good for Lan Min?”
She looks up at him, her good eye blank, her bad eye glaring.
“It’s gotta be better than the truth,” she finally allows, looking at the floor. The silence fills the air between them for a while, a heavy bubble growing slowly larger until Mao pokes it, more hesitantly than he’s ever thrown his needles or his knives.
“…what is the truth?”
A laugh bubbles up in her, something half-hysterical and more than a little like a sob. “I don’t know,” she says, running her fingers through her ragged, tufted hair. “Even now- I just couldn’t tell you, because I don’t know. It could be either. It could be anyone, if they were stupid enough.” Or unlucky enough to get caught in Azulon’s little games.
Mao bows his head, mouth in a straight line and eyes hidden. Zura doesn’t know if it’s from her pain or his.
She looks at the moon out the porthole, and shakes her head, setting down her teacup.
“It doesn’t matter. I traded a kingdom’s-“ Uncle’s- “freedom for her- if I have to bring down the walls of Ba Sing Se again by hand, I’ll do it. If anyone asks, I’ll say she’s the true-born Son of the Sun and anyone who says otherwise is blaspheming.”
It really doesn’t matter. The Avatar is defeated. She’s on a ship bound for home. The moon is still here. She is still here, or here again, even after a night when the world went from red to black and only the death of a princess could have restored her.
Questions About Lan Min's Father- Zura Reacts 2/2
That mad protective streak that flares up when she touches the blanket, though- that fits. He thinks he can start to reassemble the picture of his exiled first-love-come-home from there.
They talk in low voices, in fits and spurts, avoiding the raw spots as best they can- it doesn’t keep them from stumbling on them headlong.
“You know people will talk about us if we’re all over each other when we get home.” He’s level-voiced as ever, as if he’s talking about potaturnips for dinner.
“Let them.” The reply is short and harsh, and Zura buries anything further in her teacup.
“Is that any good for Lan Min?”
She looks up at him, her good eye blank, her bad eye glaring.
“It’s gotta be better than the truth,” she finally allows, looking at the floor. The silence fills the air between them for a while, a heavy bubble growing slowly larger until Mao pokes it, more hesitantly than he’s ever thrown his needles or his knives.
“…what is the truth?”
A laugh bubbles up in her, something half-hysterical and more than a little like a sob. “I don’t know,” she says, running her fingers through her ragged, tufted hair. “Even now- I just couldn’t tell you, because I don’t know. It could be either. It could be anyone, if they were stupid enough.” Or unlucky enough to get caught in Azulon’s little games.
Mao bows his head, mouth in a straight line and eyes hidden. Zura doesn’t know if it’s from her pain or his.
She looks at the moon out the porthole, and shakes her head, setting down her teacup.
“It doesn’t matter. I traded a kingdom’s-“ Uncle’s- “freedom for her- if I have to bring down the walls of Ba Sing Se again by hand, I’ll do it. If anyone asks, I’ll say she’s the true-born Son of the Sun and anyone who says otherwise is blaspheming.”
It really doesn’t matter. The Avatar is defeated. She’s on a ship bound for home. The moon is still here. She is still here, or here again, even after a night when the world went from red to black and only the death of a princess could have restored her.
Anything is possible.
If she has to, she’ll make it happen.