He watched her walk away, powerless to prevent it.

Somehow, he'd always known it would end this way: she couldn't stay, and he couldn't leave. If it weren't so damn painful, he'd probably laugh at the irony. During his years of banishment, he'd experienced every hatred imaginable for simply being born into the nation he loved; he'd never imagined that by bringing Katara home with him, he'd be subjecting her to the same treatment.

She'd never complained, even when the palace servants had deliberately given her the clothing of a concubine instead of those of an ambassador. She'd sat beside him for an entire evening, dressed in the clothes of the whore that his people saw her as with her head held high, daring anyone to challenge her. None had.

It was the scar that finally settled it. He had been ready to murder the man who thought to brand Katara with his hands, but she'd merely shaken her head in denial and told him she was going home.

How could he argue with that? Just as her people would probably always hate his family, his people couldn't bear to see the woman responsible for the Avatar's return sitting at the right hand of the man on the throne.