I thought about including a few lines of Azula's 'inner monologue' on the way down to the plaza – something to the effect of "I knew I wasn't going to betray everyone's trust and use this opportunity to completely fuck the world over because _." But then I decided not to. Because I figured that if, by this point in the narrative, if you aren't already convinced that she's not going to betray everyone's trust and use this opportunity to completely fuck the world over, I've failed to do my job as an author, and no inner monologue is going to fix that now.

Anyway! Here we are at the end of another journey, the last one for now. This is the final chapter of Satellite, to which there will be no sequel. Thanks, to those of you who reviewed; it's been a crazy ride.

23. Azula Takes Flight

The servants had lain out my armor, on the table in my dressing room. Not the armor I'd once worn – it would be kind of pathetic, if I hadn't grown since I was fourteen – but close enough. Black plates, leather laces, gold accents glinting when I moved. Layers of wine-red broadcloth underneath. I caught my reflection's gaze, blinking back from the full-length mirror on the wall; I touched the glass, and so did she. The girl with yellow eyes.

No. No. The red room was still the red room, but its power had thinned like winter sun; someone had swept up the shards of glass. Wearing what I had worn didn't make me what I had been. I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again the ghost had gone – it was just me, standing there, in my armor and my lipstick and still with my hair hanging loose. Right. I'd wanted to be alone this morning, to set my mind straight before I left. I'd sent my handmaids away. So I'd have to fix my hair myself, in the waning slice of time before dawn—before the sun broke over the lip of the caldera, on the first day of the rest of my life.

Things were quiet, before sunrise. So quiet I could hear the birds sing outside. So quiet that I heard her, before I saw her face; Mother's steps were soft, but I heard them from the hall. When the curtains parted, at the other end of the room, I saw her slip inside. I paused, comb in my hand, as she came close. I didn't say anything, and I'd like to say I didn't even turn, but for half a second I did – just once, to be sure she was really there. Standing behind me, pondwater still. Not smiling, exactly, but not frowning. Just looking back at me.

She didn't speak, and neither did I, but I didn't tell her to leave. Which was something all on its own. I went back to combing my hair, only half-watching her in the mirror, toying with the question of why she'd come. She's probably just here to lecture me, I thought. One last talking-to before I leave. She's going to tell me be good, work hard, don't backslide on us now. She's going to tell me she loves me, one more time.

But she didn't say any of that. She didn't say anything at all. And when she reached out, to take the comb mid-stroke, for some reason I just let her. My hand fell to my side, slow like pushing a spoon through honey, like the air had gone liquid all at once; gently, she began to card the comb through my hair. Still, I didn't stop her. Should have, maybe, but didn't. It actually felt nice.

I couldn't remember when I'd last let Mother touch me, even indirectly like this. I couldn't remember why it had been such a big deal. Like always, she smelled of soap and sandalwood, and I found it wasn't such a bad smell after all; in the mirror, she kept her eyes on her work, so I could watch her without catching them. Not that I watched her for long. The rhythm of the comb was soothing, like a hand rocking a cradle, and after a minute I felt my mind drift away. Eventually, I closed my eyes and let out my breath, dropped what remained of my guard.

I blinked when I heard her set down the comb. She pulled my hair into a knot and tied it, good and tight with a red satin ribbon. Then she picked up my pin, waiting on the table, winking in the lanternlight – tucked it in almost tenderly, as if my reflection were a portrait, and that pin the last daub of paint. Again, I blinked into my own eyes. I touched the mirror's surface, expecting to taste something bitter, a jolt of resentment or regret. Looking for the girl with yellow eyes. Finding no one but me.

And Mother behind me, still silent. She never said a word. But she did smile at me, before she left.

I walked down to the plaza by myself. They'd offered the palanquin, but I didn't want it; I didn't need anyone to carry me. Besides, it was a long walk, through the city, up into the cliffs, down the mountain on the other side. It would give me more time to clear my head. When I left the palace, it was still twilight, the first sliver of sun biding its time. As I wound my way up the wall of the caldera, I saw the darkness ebb slowly, from violet to lavender – I saw gold slide in a stripe over the horizon, spreading pale fingers across the sky. The stars, like little flames, went out with the breath of day.

By the time I reached the plaza, dawn was in full force. And the airship was there, just like she had said, docked on the platform by the sea. There was no one outside it, though, on the catwalk or the ladder to the hatch; I climbed the steps and found myself alone. Until, about a minute later – when I'd had time to glance around, and fold my arms, and let a frown begin to tug at my brow – I heard the clang of feet on the ladder's rungs. It's about time. Would it be so much to ask for some pr—

My train of thought suddenly crashed. "You came."

I hadn't thought she would. After what she'd said last night – after what I hadn't said, last night – I had assumed that would be it. You might not see me for months, you might not see me for years, she'd said, but here she was anyway; she swung down smiling from the ladder, the wind tossing her hair. "Of course I came," she said, as if last night had never been. "I wouldn't let you go without saying goodbye."

I didn't know what to say to that. There were a thousand things I wanted to say, maybe even things I should've said, but none of them would pass my lips. Instead, I just stared at her, until she tried again. "Are you excited?"

"Yeah. I guess."

It felt like there was a coin stuck in my throat. I swallowed, but it wouldn't go down. I blinked at her, into her tourmaline-blue eyes, and she blinked back at me; again, a breeze blew in from the ocean, swirled her hair about her face. She pushed it back. "Azula—"

"Will he forgive you?"

I don't know why I said it. It wasn't as if I cared. Or at least, I hadn't thought I did. After all, wouldn't it be better for me, if he didn't want her back? Maybe we could be together, then. Maybe then she could be mine always, and I'd never have to taste him on her lips; maybe then I could learn to love her. I should have wanted that, for her to say no, for her to say never—but—she would be sad. I'd have to see it in her eyes. I'd have to watch her cry, or worse, try not to cry, hear the tears thick in her voice even as she smiled. She'd have to bear that weight, that loss on her back, for the rest of her life – and she wouldn't be happy, without him. I knew it like I knew the sun would rise.

She had said to me, I want you to be happy. Didn't I owe her the same?

"Eventually." Katara answered after a long pause, the hush of wonder in her voice. As if she couldn't believe I'd said it, either. And there was sadness in her eyes, in that answer, but also hope; she let out a long sigh, and very nearly smiled, and I knew that she had hope. "Not right now. But eventually."

Another moment passed. I blinked at her, and she blinked at me. Then, all of a sudden, she burst out and seized me in a hug—just flung her arms around me tight as she could, crushing the breath from my chest, gluing her head to my shoulder. I could feel my armor dig into her, but she didn't care. She wouldn't let me go. "I already miss you," she whispered, the words tumbling out in a halting shudder. "So much. And I'm going to miss you every day, every minute of every day, until I see you again—and—and I love you, whether it's as a friend or…something else. Whatever you are, whatever we are, I love you. I won't ever regret knowing you, or doing anything we did—and I'm going to be here for you, no matter what. Don't forget that, okay? No matter where you go, no matter what you do—promise me—you won't let yourself forget that."

Even when she gulped herself silent, choking on tears that speckled my shoulderplate, she didn't pull away. She went on holding me, so I slid my arms around her, and let myself breathe into her hair—closed my eyes and inhaled her, the lilac lotion on her skin. The flutter of her heart against my chest. "Thank you."

I realized I'd never said that to her. After everything she'd done. I'd never said thank you for bringing me here, for carrying me all this time; I'd never said thank you for giving me a chance. For sticking it out when things were hard, when I made them hard—for not giving up on me, when everyone else said you should. Thank you for saving my life.

Maybe I should've said those things, all of them – but I didn't, couldn't without falling apart, and I didn't need to. She understood. "Hey, no problem," she said, sort of weakly, as she pulled back and wiped her eyes. "You made my life interesting, you know? I guess—I'll just have to find a new project, now." She flashed a faint smile. "You think I can find somebody crazier than you?"

"I think I'd be insulted if you did."

She laughed and shook her head. For a moment longer, she looked at me, still with that wet sheen to her eyes—I thought she might say something, but she didn't have the chance. Behind her, a pair of boots clanged halfway down the ladder, and a helmeted head appeared from the hatch. Called down to us, something about needing to take off. I wasn't really listening.

But she must've been, because she caught me in another hug, not as long as the first but just as tight. For once – maybe for the first time – I didn't have to think to hug her back. "Fly safe, lightning bug," she said into my ear. "Write me soon."

It was probably a good thing, that she never said goodbye. If she had, I wouldn't have gone.

When the airship took off, I stood on the catwalk, one hand clinging to a metal pole. Wind whipping through the loose locks of my hair. I wouldn't spend the whole trip there, obviously, but I wanted to watch the plaza slip away. To catch a last glimpse of the land, bathed in sunrise, before the ocean swallowed it whole. I needed to see her disappear. So I stood there, looking down on the world, as we sailed higher and she grew smaller, smaller all the time—until she was a dandelion seed, flickering in the breeze. Flashing, and dancing, and finally floating away.