Chapter Text
Zuko knew he lived in a world between life and death. He was not quite alive, but not quite dead, and there was no terminology available to him to describe such a thing. One moment his physical body was tangible, and the next he was a ghost.
Zuko journeyed through darkness– walking thin land, stowing in ships, and drowning in waters he couldn’t die in. He lived only at night, when spirits roamed. He didn’t know what he was– alive or dead, tangible or invisible. Whether he was alive or not did not matter– he knew like the sun rose and set that this was the land of the living. Everything was lined in correct order: if he stowed and slept in a ship, he woke the next day in that ship.
He kneeled in a large room, thousands of eyes on him, confused on how he ended up here. He was just trying to swim through impossibly choppy waters, and he was in a large hall he recognized. His kneeling was familiar, the shadow of a person in front of him was familiar, and his love and fear for the shadow were married in a terrifying matrimony– death, death, death. He stood in the hallways of a large house that was fuzzy; he was visible and yet ignored. This was the world of death– he was considered for execution at every moment and fuzzy faces taunted him with the threat of it. He tripped and fell, made a thousand mistakes that put his body half in a funeral pyre. These were disorganized, cluttered memories, filled with cobwebs and skeletons that never would burn. These were memories of a past life he couldn't picture fully with family he couldn't name.
He came back to himself, or the more present version of himself, in the same choppy waters. He was swimming with no direction, and when the waves overtook him and he began to drown, he never died. He only lost himself again– he lost himself to that large, large house or that hall, or in an unfamiliar infirmary with voices above his head. He lost himself to the land of the dead and found himself in the land of the living; lost himself and found himself, over and over again.
When Earth Kingdom traders found him in the bellies of their ship in the land of the living and they began to scream, he lost himself to the heat of a summer palace. When he drowned for the hundredth time, he lost himself to that hall with a thousand eyes and a terrifying shadow in front of him. When he burned in these places of death, he found himself on his perilous journey through the living again.
Zuko's mother had told him that before the moment of death, Agni replayed your life four times over in front of your eyes. He wondered if this is what these cluttered visions were. If these memories were Agni repeating his failures four times over while he tried, tooth and nail, to make his way through the land of the living and get to that place beyond life. Maybe this was reincarnation. Zuko traveled through his current life and was punished by his last all the while.
With the living, he was being drawn to a place he couldn’t name– a place beyond the sky where he could escape this abyss, and he intrinsically knew where it was. He knew where it was like he felt a string tugging at his waist, and he knew he must get there. He needed to escape the drowning, the hiding, the past that he kept getting dragged back to when he lost himself.
And once, he found himself on a ship. It was chilly and the wind was whipping, and he was cold. He wasn’t on a funeral pyre, he wasn’t drowning in warm waters, the flesh under his bandage wasn’t burning and pulsing in heat. It was nighttime, and he was cold. And it was peaceful. People found him, but they weren’t screaming or dragging him off the boat. They let him have his space, and he met Hakoda. He knew he was safe here, where everyone looked so unfamiliar and larger than life.
Hakoda said that word– Spirit– and he was lost again.
The third time Zuko found himself on the boat, he appeared in the storage room where he last slept. The bedroll Chief Hakoda had given him is rumpled, the pillow skewed and the fur blanket undone. It looked like someone just got out of bed, but Zuko knew he'd been missing for an indeterminable amount of time. When he reached down to touch the bedroll, it was as cushiony as when he last touched it, but long gone cold.
Zuko stood, still shaken up from the land of death. His memories were always fuzzy when he came out of it, but he knew there had been the smell of burning flesh on his arms, a face of a firebending teacher, and a young girl he saw a lot. She was probably his sister, but the details were fuzzy, even when he was living it again. Of course, he’d been hurt, but when he looked down to his arms where the burn scars should be, there was nothing.
A bandage always clung to his face here, and he had no desire to take it off. He knew what was underneath it– a large, damaged wound inflicted when he was kneeling in front of that shadow. He knew it was a sign of his failures, of his dishonor, and it was much more appealing to hide it away. He knew it was the reason he was being pulled to a land beyond life, that place in the sky. But these were the few things he intrinsically knew. Most of the rest was confusing and fuzzy, no matter how many times he was shoved back into that deathly life of burning and failure.
When he found himself on his journey again, things were much clearer. People’s faces weren’t covered in shadow, he remembered the names he learned, and time was much more linear.
Zuko looked at the door to the storage room wearily. He was cold, and he wearily took the blanket from the cushy bedroll and wrapped it around himself. When he found himself, he was always wearing the same cold infirmary robes. There were many more constants in this land.
He didn’t know whether or not to go outside or if it was safer there. Chief Hakoda was much nicer than other people he’d met while trying to travel, but Zuko wasn’t sure how long his hospitality would last. This place felt right, though. Both because everyone was calmer and kinder, despite how large they loomed and unfamiliar their features were, and because there was something in him telling him to stay. Here, that rope tugging him somewhere he couldn’t name rested, and he felt at ease.
Zuko didn’t want to leave the room, lest he run into the man who asked him a ceaseless number of questions before Chief Hakoda came and took him inside. He was overwhelmed, and he would only get overwhelmed again if he went outside. Here, in the storage room, he didn’t need to sort through his memories or who he was. He could huddle in the warm blanket and half-way nap. He could rest, something he hadn’t gotten a minute of in the past however long.
Zuko napped, or something close to it, for a while. He was warm– not cold, not burning– and he didn’t want to leave the bedroll he’d snuggled into at some point. The room was quietly dark with light seeping through the crack in the door like a nightlight. Zuko was afraid of fully dark rooms and what might lurk in them. The crack in the door was like the flame he used to conjure late at night in his bedroom when he got too scared. It felt much safer than fire, though, not that he was even sure he could conjure flame now. Maybe it had all burned out of him.
His rest didn’t last forever, because what was only a small light coming through the door became a flood of light burning his eyes. Burning. Someone was opening the door and was going to see him curled on the bedroll. He wasn’t terrified, like he was of that shadow he called father, but he was scared of reprimand. He was scared Chief Hakoda’s extension of help would cease, and he was going to be dragged kicking and screaming off of the ship by one of his crew.
The shadowed figure in the doorway let out a quick, “oh!”, and Zuko yanked the furs above his head. He let out a shaky breath, knowing he’d been spotted but hoping to be ignored.
The door remained open, but Zuko heard footsteps going the other way. Maybe he would be ignored? Zuko pulled down the fur blanket to rest just beneath his eyes, still wincing at the light but hesitantly keeping an eye on anyone who would approach.
For a minute or two, Zuko almost believed he would be left alone with the door open, but then two people appeared in the doorway again. He didn’t like the feeling of their eyes on him, and it was stressing him out, the way they were able to look down on him. He didn’t want to disappear again, which happened a lot when he was stressed or in danger, so he pulled the blanket up over his head again and tried to breathe.
“Zuko?” Someone asked, and Zuko was able to register the voice as Chief Hakoda’s. He wanted to speak and answer, he really did, but no words would come out, and he felt safer under the blanket. He knew that ignoring people of authority when they spoke was bad, one of the most awful things he could do, but he just couldn’t. Sometimes words just wouldn’t come out of his mouth and he couldn’t help it. His tutors hated when he did that, and he got enough burns to prove it.
“I’m happy you came back,” Chief Hakoda said, and it made something shift. It was confusing, but Zuko heard someone sit beside his bedroll, and he shifted the furs down slightly to see out of his one eye. Chief Hakoda was sitting with his legs crossed– an impolite and informal way to sit, Zuko knew. It looked silly on someone so big, and Zuko sat up a little, just enough to get his head off of the pillow. There was still another person in the doorway. A woman, the one who’d briefly spotted him and left.
“That’s Taqqiq,” Chief Hakoda said, looking at the woman himself. He must’ve seen Zuko looking her way.
“Hey, Zuko,” Taqqiq said, and Zuko quickly sat up with his knees under him. He gave a quick introductory bow as a reply. Nothing verbal, but it was a slight show of politeness in his awful presentation so far. He didn’t even stand up, but seeing as the Chief was sitting, that might also be rude.
“Oh, I don’t need any bowing,” Taqqiq said with a light laugh coming after. Zuko hesitated, looking over at Chief Hakoda. Bowing to Taqqiq showed respect to both her and Chief Hakoda, and he wasn’t sure whether to take her word or if it was some type of test.
“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” Taqqiq followed up, and Zuko was very, very uncomfortable. Meals and providing and limiting things to Zuko was probably Chief Hakoda’s authority, so he wasn’t sure how to answer. The real answer was he didn’t feel much hunger or thirst anymore, though eating and drinking was still enjoyable. It was probably much better to not feel hunger– he wouldn’t suffer through food restriction punishments anymore.
At Zuko’s silence and desperate looks to Chief Hakoda, the man spoke. “You can have tea, or come snack with the rest of the crew. Dinner won’t be for a while.”
“I don’t need anything,” Zuko said truthfully, looking between Taqqiq and the Chief.
“You can have as much as you like,” Chief Hakoda said, and those words coming from Father or his tutors would be a trick, but Chief Hakoda seemed earnest. And if he wasn’t, Zuko would be able to face the consequences of giving in.
“Could I have some tea?” Zuko asked, touching the fabric belt of his infirmary wear. He’d really like to be out of it– he wears it sometimes when he’s sent back to the past. In some memories he’s writhing on a private infirmary bed with infected bandages on his face and people arguing above his head. His clothes feel haunted, and he’d like to be wearing anything else. Especially because the infirmary clothes are so uncomfortable.
“Of course,” Chief Hakoda says, standing up from where he sits. He holds out a hand, a large, calloused palm for Zuko to presumably take in hand. Zuko pauses carefully. This initiation of touch couldn’t be anything baleful, could it? No one who ever hurt him reached to touch him in such a careful way, but he was unused to even kinder people in power extending something like this.
It’d been so long since he held someone’s hand. Zuko tentatively put his hand in Chief Hakoda’s. The contact was brief– he lifted himself up, and took back his hand to himself. It still felt wondrous to make contact with someone and not hurt or be hurt.
Chief Hakoda led him to another room, one with domed ceilings and cushions set out in the middle of the room. It was a dining area, but without a kotatsu to set dishes on. Immediately, Zuko spotted the two other people in the room and felt their eyes on him. One was the man that he met abovedeck the last time he visited. The one with endless questions he couldn’t answer. He wished he could hide in some way. He remembered he used to duck himself in his mother’s robes like a turtleduck to hide himself from errant eyes on him.
“Panuk, Siku,” Chief Hakoda said to the two other men. “This is Zuko. Panuk, you’ve met him.”
The man who’d talked to Zuko above deck, who Zuko now knows is Panuk, nods. “Sorry if I freaked you out.”
Taqqiq came up to Panuk and punched him on the upper arm. Zuko knew roughhousing was normal between troops and soldiers, but such behavior in front of the Chief was wildly irresponsible. Chief Hakoda didn’t even bat an eye.
“Siku, can you go into the kitchens and ask Aguta for a cup of tea for our guest?” Chief Hakoda asked. He seemed to be firmly ignoring the whispered bickering going between Taqqiq and Panuk.
Siku was a large, foreboding man. He was almost twice the size of Panuk, and even bigger than the Chief. His eyes were firmly landed on Zuko, but Zuko tried not to make any eye contact. It seemed like a clear threat of territory. Siku seemed dangerous, and Zuko didn’t want to even get close to crossing a line.
Siku exited the room, presumably to the kitchen, and Zuko let out a quiet breath. He still wasn’t comfortable with Panuk, or Taqqiq, but they seemed pretty preoccupied with each other.
Hakoda sighed, sitting down at one of the central cushions in the room. Zuko looked between him and the cushions, conflicted on what to do. Sitting down next to him would be too comfortable, but standing while he was sitting could be seen as a disrespect of power. Before he could think about it longer, another person walked into the room.
“Bato,” Chief Hakoda grinned, and while Bato seemed slightly surprised to see Zuko, his eyes soon shifted to the Chief.
“Hey,” Bato grinned, sitting down on a cushion beside the Chief, one leg extended and the other hitched up. “You can come sit, kid,” Bato said, looking over at Zuko. Zuko was quick to follow his instructions, sitting on a cushion far enough away to be respectful of their space. Taking directions from someone under the Chief when he was probably under only the Chief’s care irked Zuko, but they didn’t seem very strict on rules and customs here.
“Is Aguta bringing out an afternoon snack? I heard him cooking,” Bato asks, looking over to the Chief.
“Yeah. You all eat too much,” Chief Hakoda said jovially. Zuko took in the casual way they were both sitting, and shifted his kneeling to pull his knees close to his chest and rest his chin on top of them. He figured everyone was casual enough to not kneel constantly.
“We’re sailors, Hakoda!” Panuk chimed in from the corner where he was still standing with Taqqiq.
“Barely. We’re doing water patrols, and you’ll be back in your own bed by the end of the week,” Chief Hakoda said, rolling his eyes.
“Water patrols?” Zuko interrupted, too curious to stay quiet. He thought they were soldiers off at war. It was foolish to waste manpower with boats patrolling waters rather than fighting the–... Zuko didn’t particularly know who’d they’d be fighting. He couldn’t remember what war was happening, and why, only that there was one, and trying to remember struck a headache.
Taqqiq and Panuk shared a look at his question, one that showed that they didn’t know how to answer Zuko’s curiosity.
“Just making sure boats don’t dip into Southern waters,” Bato filled in, curing the silence in the room.
“Is someone threatening your tribes?” Zuko asked, looking between Bato and Chief Hakoda for answers.
“Yes and no,” Bato answered. “It’s fine. We’ll be home safe soon.”
There’s another question Zuko wanted to ask, one about where he’s going, but the words don’t come out. He pressed his mouth against his knees, hiding the bottom portion of his face. Conversation picked up again, but Zuko looked at the burn on Panuk’s arm and the burn covering Taqqiq’s right foot, and he knew exactly who they’re fighting.
When he realized, he didn't want to be there anymore. He knew they were fighting the Fire Nation, and for a moment he knew that he was Fire Nation. A sick feeling settled in Zuko’s stomach, not from any sense of national pride, but because if they were fighting the Fire Nation, that means they were naturally against Zuko. Zuko has had his own fair share of fights with people of his own nation– he knew very well what it meant to be burned, but he also knew what it meant to burn. He’d conjured fire, the same fire that burned Panuk and Taqqiq. He suddenly felt more like a detainee rather than a guest.
“Why the sour face?” A deep feminine voice asked from above him. The noise made Zuko jump and look up at Taqqiq, who was suddenly standing beside him. Zuko tried to subtly shuffle a little further away, just enough distance so he was still in his own bubble. He didn’t have words to speak, so he kept his mouth pressed against his knees.
He saw Hakoda’s slight frown from the corner of his eye, but he paid it no mind. He suddenly wished that cup of tea would come quicker, so he had something to calm himself. He felt himself slipping– his vision was getting hazy, and he felt lightheaded. He was going to disappear again.
A man Zuko hadn’t seen came into the room with a plate full of food that Zuko didn’t recognize. What he did recognize, through his vision blacking out, was the steaming mug of tea in his other hand. Zuko straightened up, kneeling yet again and settling his hands in his lap. The room full of people was extraordinarily uncomfortable now, and he tried to focus on the cup of tea headed towards him to steady himself. He didn’t want to go back to his memories, he didn’t want to live in that land of fire.
The plate is set down first, then the cup of tea beside him. Zuko took it into his hands and stared down at the light colored tea in the cup. It wasn’t the black teas that were imported from the Earth Nation, surely. Zuko didn’t care much for the flavor, but for the comfort. The feeling of a warm drink soothed his body and reminded him of some nonviolent memories with a person he couldn’t recall.
“Is everything all right, unakuluk?” The tea man asked from above him. The word was unfamiliar, but clearly kind, and Zuko adjusted his shins to try and sit more comfortably while kneeling. The tea man kneeled, just a small distance away from Zuko, picking one of the pieces of food off of the plate. It seemed to be a type of bread, but nothing like the cloud-like stuff he used to have with his tea. It wasn’t intricately shaped– you could see the press of fingers in the dough that made its way to its final form.
Zuko looked up from his tea to notice no one was looking at him anymore. They were all taking a few of the steaming breads and chatting, almost like Zuko’s presence wasn’t abnormal at all. He looked the tea man in the eye, and he’s smiling while ripping pieces of his bread and eating them. He was smiling at Zuko.
“What’s that?” Zuko asked quietly, not wanting anyone to hear other than this man.
“Palauga,” the man answered, taking another piece and offering it to Zuko. Zuko hesitantly took it, setting his teacup on the ground near his knee to properly handle the bread. His nerves were settled, and suddenly, he couldn’t remember why he was upset at all. Zuko took a small bite of the bread, noting its denseness. He liked it.
“Good?” the man asked. Zuko nodded.
“What’s your name?” Zuko asked hesitantly.
“Aguta,” the man answered. “And yours?”
“Zuko,” he answered, taking another small bite of the bread. He’d always been a slow eater, but he didn’t think these people would mind.
“It’s very nice to meet you,” Aguta said, and because Zuko didn’t know much else to do, he nodded, trying to hide a small smile by taking another bite of the palauga.
People kept on eating, Zuko drank his tea, and he kept quiet, his eyes darting around to the different people in the room. Crew filtered in and out, only giving cursory introductions and acknowledgement to Zuko. The afternoon was peaceful, and when he asked to return to the bedroll in the storage room, he was allowed.
It was dark, and a little lonely, but he laid down for another nap and rested.
When Zuko awoke, it wasn’t to a ship rocking. It wasn’t to a crack of light seeping through a wooden door, but to a hot, suffocating room. It was dark, not very well lit. He sat at a desk, kicking his feet slowly while reading one of the plays his mother had lended him. There was a knot of anxiety growing in his stomach, one that messed with the food that he’d just eaten.
He didn’t remember how this day had transpired, and didn’t remember why he was so anxious, but it was soon clear when a shadow appeared in his doorway. The figure was small, but she had shadows encasing her face like that man here he was so terrified of.
“Zuko,” the high pitched feminine voice called. The girl was young, and Zuko had the sense they were siblings, but he’d never seen any sister taunt and terrorize this way. His eyebrows knit in frustration, and he threw the scroll onto his desk, knowing what was coming. The anger was something protective, though. He knew all he really felt was terrified.
“Father is quite upset,” she said, sighing like it was unfortunate news coming to her. “Your display at dinner didn’t please him.”
Zuko stayed quiet, his hands curling into tight, hurting fists at his knees. There was no words he could use to defend himself, because he knew that he messed up. There was no denying their Father’s frustration in him.
“I heard him talking to some servants. Funeral pyre came up quite a lot,” the girl said.
“Stop that, Azula,” Zuko said, even though he couldn’t remember her name just a moment ago.
“I’m just telling you the truth!” Azula exclaimed, the gleam of her white teeth the only sign of a smile.
“No, you’re not,” Zuko protested, but it was more to comfort himself than to oppose her.
“Poor Zuko. You’ll be lucky to be alive in a month.” The girl lit her hands in fire, and the memory burned away.
The next month, there is a funeral. They do burn a pyre, but Zuko isn’t on it. It’s empty, with only the portrait of Zuko’s mother at the reception to place who it's for. The reception is crowded and hot, and Zuko feels like he’s burning himself. He’s seated at the front with Father and Azula, and when he begins to lose his composure and cry, a large hand grips the back of his neck tightly. To anyone else, it might look like a comforting gesture, but the hand slowly begins to heat and burn Zuko’s skin. He can’t tear away, or jump, or sob out in pain, so he stands and takes it, hoping that it at least makes him less of a coward.
The next day there’s a firm red handprint on the back of Zuko’s neck. Not enough to scar, but he’d have to wear high-collared clothing for a while. Tears sprung every time the injury scraped on his collar, but he wasn’t allowed to see a doctor for gauze and salve. This was his punishment– the pain and the silence. He prayed to Agni that persevering would make him better, that this lesson would work, and he would emerge from this flame stronger.
Zuko found himself outside of the Chief's door. The back of his neck ached, and a thick feeling of shame surrounds the injury, but little came to him on why or how he got it. When he reached a hand to touch his neck, it's bare of any burn or scar. There was nothing but a phantom pain he feels deeper than the skin. Pain and silence, a wound that hurt with no memory of how it got there, or physical wound as proof at all.
Zuko wanted to knock on Chief Hakoda's door, and he also wanted to curl into his bedroll and rest. The storage room was a bit of a distance away, and he found himself quietly wanting that same, kind contact Chief Hakoda initiated. He wanted to hold his hand and not get burned like he would in the past, even if he wasn't actually brave enough for something like that.
He also didn't want to walk to his storage room and bump into anyone. They'd want to talk to him, and it'd be kind, but still too terrifying for him to be certain he wouldn't disappear again. His memories from this past visit weren't clear, but he knew of a funeral and sorrow and terror, and he didn't want to return. He didn't ever want to return, but especially now, when he could still feel a phantom wound at his neck.
He brought up a light fist to knock it at the Chief's door, half hoping the room was vacant entirely. He didn't know what to expect, or what he hoped to gain from clinging to the chief like a kicked puppy. It's not as if the Chief would heal his nonexistent wounds. He knew it was foolish to expect comfort and kindness from the ruler of a nation, or tribe, but he knew he was naturally tactless.
He knocked anyway, because despite every instinct in his brain telling him he'd only get hurt, or turned away rightfully, something in him still wanted.
The door soon opened before Zuko had any more time to regret or deliberate. Chief Hakoda stood above him similar to how Zuko's father of the past stood above him: imposing and large, with the strength to hurt. Chief Hakoda didn't hurt, though, he only ushered Zuko inside with large hands that Zuko had a hard time believing didn't light on fire.
“Welcome in, Zuko,” Chief Hakoda smiled, arranging all the papers and scrolls on his desk like he did the last time Zuko came into his office. Zuko didn’t mind the mess– it was a little comforting seeing the bed in a state of disarray and papers strewn about the desk like Chief Hakoda was a real, fallible person.
Zuko sat at the same chair he sat in last time, crossing his legs on the cushioned seat. It was unbelievably informal, but he hated sitting stiffly and the Chief didn’t even bat an eye. He didn’t have any dirty shoes on, so it wasn’t blatantly disrespectful to Chief Hakoda’s property.
“I don’t have much for you here, unfortunately,” Chief Hakoda said, sitting on his own chair across from Zuko. He looked so oddly paternal, like how Zuko’s own mother looked. Or his cousin, before he–.... Zuko wondered why he was a Chief in the first place. The idea of an iron fist didn’t fit him, and he seemed too kind.
“Do you have children, Chief Hakoda?” Zuko blurted, looking down at his lap. His bare feet were bound to be dirty and bloody from weeks– months?– travelling with no shoes. But they were as perfect as when he started this journey, and he rubbed a hand at the back of his neck remembering how scars didn’t stick on his body anymore. His feet ached, of course, but there was nothing to fix.
“I do, actually. Why do you ask?”
Zuko shrugged. He tried to imagine the way Chief Hakoda cared for his children: if he acted like a proper father when it came to them, or if he was more like Zuko’s mother, or like how he was with his crew. He tried to imagine a father like that, and it felt like trying to imagine a turtleduck without its shell, or drinking tea without a teacup.
“Just Hakoda is fine,” the Chief added after a moment of silence where Zuko didn’t speak.
“You’re a Chief,” Zuko said, blinking up at him in shock.
“I’m also a father, son, and husband. I don’t ask my mother to call me son Hakoda. ” Chief Hakoda said, like it was that simple. Hearing someone in such a position of power deny the right to their honorable title was an antithesis to everything Zuko believed. Though, he remembered how his father was always Father, but his mother was allowed to be Mom, and briefly Mama, when Zuko was young enough to call her that. But his father never swayed on names and titles.
Zuko’s cousin allowed him to slip on titles and names as well, though Zuko couldn’t remember now what title or name he was supposed to be calling his cousin. Most of what he could remember of his cousin were warm visits and kind words, even when the world was so large and scary. Maybe the world still was to him.
“But that’s– it’s different ,” Zuko insisted, his words starting to dry up. Not for lack of opinion, but for his inability to voice it. Zuko knew it wasn’t as simple as Chief Hakoda made it seem. There were certain titles for certain people, and while Chief Hakoda could get away with his kids calling him dad, or something equally informal, leadership wasn’t something you could get away with blatantly disregarding. At least, Zuko couldn’t.
“I know the Fire Nation has different customs. You can call me Chief, if it’s more comfortable for you. But I don’t even force Panuk or Taqqiq to call me that, so know it’s nowhere near a requirement,” Chief Hakoda settled. Zuko quieted, but he still couldn’t think of a Chief as just… Hakoda, even at his insistence.
Zuko stayed quiet, and after a while of hearing Chief Hakoda shift, he spoke. “Do you have siblings, Zuko?”
Zuko looked up again, his eyes furrowing slightly. He tried to recollect his memories to best answer the Chief’s question. He remembered a girl, but he wasn’t sure who he was. They were similar in age, but it’s not like they were close in any way, he didn’t think.
“A sister, I think,” he replied quietly, trying to pull some type of memory to describe her. There were only flashed and muddled ones, nothing he could pinpoint.
“I have two little ones,” Chief Hakoda said, tucking his singular braid behind his ear. There are two beads on it, separated from the rest of his hair and hanging on the right side of his face.
“Little ones?” Zuko asked, wrinkling his nose at the wording. When describing children, adults preferred to use strong one or something akin to flame .
“Yes. A boy and a girl,” Chief Hakoda replied.
Zuko paused, squirming in his seat in a way that would get him a smack on the wrist. Chief Hakoda seemed too lost in his wistfulness to notice, so Zuko tucked his hands under his legs to feel the pressure.
“Are they good?” Zuko asked, dipping his head closer to Chief Hakoda like they were about to share a secret. Zuko didn’t know why he asked– it was a stupid question, but adults liked to complain about their children sometimes. Maybe Zuko could see the Chief’s tolerance and where it ended, if he did complain.
“Good?” Chief Hakoda furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Zuko like he’d spoken another language. “I guess so.”
Zuko chewed on his lip, knowing that uncertain answer was as good as a no. He tried to imagine how old Chief Hakoda’s kids were, how awful they’d have to be for Chief Hakoda to think they’re bad. He was tempted to adjust the way he was sitting to be more formal, even if the pressure on his hands felt nice. He had a thousand more questions, but also had the inability to word them.
“They’re not bad,” Chief Hakoda added, as if reading Zuko’s mind. “I just don’t judge my children on their… goodness, or value to me. No one should.”
Zuko didn’t reply. He didn’t want to argue the point, even if he disagreed, and he didn’t have the words to say what he wanted. He shouldn’t argue either, especially not with Chief Hakoda. He wanted to ask why Chief Hakoda was letting him on his ship and taking care of him. Chief Hakoda didn’t have anything to gain, in fact, he was losing supplies by the minute. Zuko brought a light hand to his neck, digging his nails into the nonexistent burn. It still hurt like he was touching at a burn, and he pressed harder.
It wasn’t like Zuko was a real, human child to feel sympathy for. He was… whatever he was. He almost wished Chief Hakoda would throw him off the ship again so he could drown. It’d be familiar, and he’d stop fumbling through every conversation with the people on the ship.
“I’m tired,” Zuko lied, pulling his hands from underneath his legs and fidgeting with them. He felt guilty for lying, but Chief Hakoda complied, of course, guiding him to his room with a light, warm hand on Zuko’s back. He helped Zuko into bed, and Zuko could almost imagine being tucked in with a kiss to the forehead, or a quick story, but he wasn’t a child, much less the Chief’s child. He had children of his own.
Hakoda quietly let Zuko nap, but Zuko didn’t sleep at all.