'.'.'.'.'

And who by fire, who by water,
Who in the sunshine, who in the night-time,
Who by high ordeal, who by common trial,
Who in your merry, merry month of May,
Who by very slow decay,

Who shall I say is calling?

'.'.'.'.'

The Painted Lady was suddenly very close to him, still and silent as the water all around them. For a moment, Zuko was completely caught off guard, speechless and despite himself, afraid. Could the Painted Lady truly be so furious?

Through the fiber of her hat, she could feel Zuko's hot and confused breath; an unusual sensation for her cold blood. The moonlight gave her enough light to study the fear on his face, a rare expression for the fire prince to bear outwardly. Steam was rolling off the large chunk of ice encasing half of his body.

"I... you..." he sputtered unintentionally, not quite finding his voice yet. His heart beat faster than a drum.

When his eyes began to soften and his breath grew slower, she realized she was lingering. Biting her lip and swallowing her own pounding heart, she snatched the bag from the boards. It almost looked as though she were floating when she turned to leave.

Finally, Zuko snapped out of it. "H-Hey!" his voice cracked.

Upon getting over the shock of being frozen, all he wished for was the ability to kick himself for what must be his hundredth failed attempt at doing the 'right thing'. He had come all this way for nothing, all because he thought the spirits would have favor on his intentions. And now he was stuck. Frozen.

Who knew she could even do that?

"Come on!" he groaned, his fists pounding on the dirty ice imprisoning him. "I thought you were a compassionate and kind spirit!"

She was back at him again so fast that he almost had to bend backwards to avoid her. Although he couldn't see her face, he could sense the anger seeping from her and hear it seeping from her low, dark voice.

"I am such to those who deserve kindness."

Zuko's eyes widened as a lock of stray hair trussed along his cheek, like a wave rolling along the coast. Didn't he know that scent from somewhere? From someone? It was... like the ocean. A strange feeling rose in his stomach as she snatched the strand back and tucked it behind her ear. At least that's what he imagined she did. He had seen nothing of her above the neck due to the large hat she donned. That hat...

Both curious and suspicious, his hands moved towards her.

But she was gone.

She was gone, tossing the bag of medicine into an open window, flying across the surface of the water and back up the hills with anger ripping at her soul and wind ripping at her hair. She ran and ran and ran, but she didn't run back to the camp; she ran the opposite direction.

Racing through the trees, her mind went as fast as her feet. Who did he think he was? A hero? A good prince, coming to 'help' his people. Right. No, he was a liar and a thief and a traitor. And he was good at what he did, she told herself. There was no reason to trust him.

Finally, panting and near tears from the inept anger and adrenalin, she collapsed under a tree, bitterly resenting the young fire prince more than ever. Who did he think he was fooling? He must be there because word of the Avatar had somehow gotten to the palace.

The thought sent a jolt of panic through her as she looked across the lake to where she knew the group was sleeping. Yet... there was no way Zuko could know Aang was alive, could he? He hadn't attacked her. And he hadn't said anything about the Avatar, which was really something coming from him. But still...

A shadow cast over her, startling her out of her thoughts and into the tree she was slumped under rather clumsily. She looked up and the blood flushed from her face.

It was him, that blue mask looking down at her mockingly. Silently. Knowingly.

"Leave!" she demanded furiously, unafraid of how loud her own voice was. Not even thinking of how he managed to catch up with her so quickly, Katara let loose a fierce cry and jumped forwards. As much as she never wanted to see his face again, she knew he had seen hers; it was too late to run. Aang was in danger if she let him go now. Her water whip lashed out at his legs, intending to knock him down to her feet.

But the whip never made contact with flesh.

Her eyes widened. "Z-Zuko?" she breathed. Finally looking closely at the figure, the terrible realization that he was transparent brought her heart to a terrifying stillness.

This was not Zuko.

The mask was the same, but the clothes were not. Long, dark blue robes hung over the ghost-like body before her, the fabric moving lightly at the wisps of a wind she did not feel. Jet black hair tucked out from behind the mask, which now that she looked at it closer, was much smaller than the replica Zuko had worn. It seemed to be immovably fixed to his face, and Katara had to wonder for a moment if it was his face.

The Blue Spirit didn't even seem to move, yet he was suddenly next to her with unnerving ease.

Katara breathed in sharply, expecting an attack she wasn't ready for. However, he did not attack. When his fingertips touched her cheek, they were so cold it sent chills through every fiber of her being. His fingers were long and dark, maybe even black. Looking down at them, her mind raced to find the difference, perhaps as a means to distract herself from panicking. But she couldn't think straight. His one simple touch emitted a passion and sorrow so willfully raw that she was sure she had never felt anything like it before. Was it even human? He was so close to her that if he had a breath to breathe, she would have felt it on her tear-stained cheek.

But there was no breath.

The dark, empty eye sockets looked at her longingly, and when the full moon escaped the branches of the trees, it illuminated the black, gleaming eyes behind the mask; the eyes of a spirit.

"I'm sorry."

His voice was humble in her ears. Katara drew a sharp breath, fear gripping her and stopping her movements.

"Forgive me."

She knew it was the Painted Lady he was talking to, because the Painted Lady shook her head. She could feel resentment rise up within herself overtop of the now underlying fear and shock. It was not her own emotion, and yet it was.

"Please." The voice was a whisper, a whisper so torn and heartbreaking that it drew tears from Katara, which, despite her anger, she couldn't hold in. She felt the torture of this spirit, but she also felt the hurt and betrayal of the Painted Lady; a feeling she knew all too well.

The Blue Spirit cupped her cheek with one hand and continued pleading. "Please, please, let go of what I have done. Forgive."

Forgive.

She felt sick. The Painted Lady shook her head again.

"No." The words came from her lips before she could stop them, and more spilled out the same way. "Forgiveness is given to those who deserve it."

For a moment, the similarities were so stark that her mind imagined those midnight eyes to be the startling gold of the fire prince's; of Zuko's, unwittingly asking for the same thing.

But they were not.

Just as she could do nothing to stop the words she had spoken, it seemed she could do nothing to stop her hands as they reached around the spirit for the strings to the mask. Those thin strands felt like lead in her hands.

The last thing Katara remembered seeing was the agonizing mar in those black eyes, for when the string was pulled and the mask hit the ground, the Blue Spirit was gone.

Raw pain and overpowering emotion spilt as the sorrow in Katara's voice mixed with the bitterness of the Painted Lady's. "NO!" The air in her lungs swirled as she screamed, questioning what had just happened.

Her chest ached. Her cheek burned where his touch had been.

And she was alone, rubbing the paint from her face with sorrowful, spiteful tears, wondering why she was feeling these things that were not herself, things that were not her lifetime. The pain in her stomach was not just physical. Her heart throbbed. Her knees ached as they slumped to the ground. The rest of her body followed as she bled out the unrefined emotions in tears. Her tears.

For once, Katara could not control the flow of liquid. She could only lay there.

',',','

It was everything in restraint for Zuko to contain his fire; a lash out of it, at least. Shaking with frustration at his newest failure, he allowed the most minimum flame in his palm to melt the ice encasing the lower half of his body. He questioned if he would get himself out before the sun rose without making too much noise. That cursed mask was lying just inches away from his reach. There was no way he could hide from anyone who would poke their head out the window or happen to be out on a midnight walk.

But there was another question plaguing him more than his situation.

Who was she? She couldn't be... could she? That would explain the rightful anger, although he didn't think it possible from her. And still, what was she doing prancing around as the Painted Lady at a time like this?

"Well, I guess I'm in about the same metaphorical boat," he realized slowly.

But why was she here? If the Avatar was alive... he would be with them. Despite himself, the thought didn't give him the feeling it would have a month ago. For once, the thought of the Avatar being nearby didn't drive him to hunt, and it didn't make his blood rush. For some reason, it made him feel like even more of a failure. Why did everything always backfire in his face? His uncle, Mai, the Avatar, the waterbender's trust...

A small distance away, a figure caught his attention and rewired his train of thought. She was back. From a good distance away, she was staring him down through that hat again.

He was surprised for a moment, but the words seemed to suddenly flow. For some reason, he trusted that waterbender girl. He had never opened up as much as he had in those crystal prisons, with little spite and ample ease.

"I know who you are," he began slowly. "And.. I'm sorry. I know I betrayed your trust. I've betrayed my uncle's too, and anyone else who matters. I'm just so confused! I-I thought regaining my father's love would be worth it..." an invulnerable shiver passed through his frame from the chill of the ice. "... but it's not. It's nothing like I imagined it to be."

She was silent.

He shivered again, feeling the cold seep into his usually molten core. "I'm sorry."

She remained where she was, staring at him with her deep, black eyes. Then, as if she had been walking the whole time, she was right in front of him, startling him a little.

But even more startling, Zuko realized there was something very different about her. The first strange thing he noted about her was that her feet had made no sound on the wood. The next was that she was translucent, clothed no longer in black but in a flowing white robe. That sense of anger was still there, but when he looked into her eyes, the stark realization hit him.

This was not Katara.

Before he could say anything else, her cold and slender fingertips were thrust on the spot between his eyebrows –that is, if he had both of them- and her eyes closed tightly. His breath grew rigid. His jaw fell open as the rest of his body froze- not in ice, but at her power. Zuko had never felt the touch of a spirit before. It sent a creeping feeling through his head, as if his mind was being probed. Even if he would have been able to, he didn't try to stop her.

He could not.

Instead, he studied her face in their proximity. She was beautiful, just as all the stories had told him. Her face was white as a lotus, her lips as red as blood. Her face itself was the perfect, oval-shaped form he had always imagined. But it was pained. It was bitter. It was full of resentment and hurt. Yet when she drew her hand away from him, her expression slowly changed. She looked regretful, as though she had made some dire mistake.

Tears rolled down her cheeks.

She turned to the mask, still lying helplessly on the floor, and to his surprise, she picked it. In her hands it seemed like glass. There was a long moment of silence before she did anything else. He wondered if she would throw it into the water like he had done with his mask in Ba Sing Sei, or perhaps unleash her otherworldly powers onto it. She could do anything she wanted to that mask, and Zuko could only watch.

He did not expect her to place the mask back over his face, or to tie the strings up behind his head.

Still half-frozen, both physically and mentally, he watched her walk back the way she came. He listened for the sound of her feet, but there was no sound. She walked slowly, and Zuko found his eyes trailing to the water for her reflection, but the water was too full of mud to grace her image.

He was alone when he looked up again.

',','

When Katara finally trudged up the hill to the camp with the first traces of the morning light, she was no longer the Painted Lady. She was a very weary waterbender, physically, mentally and emotionally drained and covered in the murky water.

But she was still haunted by one word.

Forgive.

','

And who shall I say is calling?

Although this is how I originally wrote the story and I am technically considering it done, I have an idea I've been playing around with for the last week- an alternate ending, if you will. I'm going to write it out and see how I like it, but I'm not sure if I'll post it.

Thank you to everyone who read this through! Your reviews and feedback are always appreciated, no matter how small.