Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The first few weeks are the worst.

That’s not to say that all of it isn’t bad, because it is, but the first few weeks are the worst of it. Mostly because he’s barely conscious for most of it, and when he is, he’s hurting. His face is healing and he can still see, mostly, but it isn’t healing all the way. It’ll never heal all the way. He knew from the look on his uncle’s face when he asked his bad it was that it would never heal all the way. That doesn’t make it any easier.

He’s still reeling. His quarters on the ship are unfamiliar and bare. Like a stranger’s room, or some old abandoned thing. He thinks he fits right in, all ruined and exiled now.

When he sees his scar for the first time, the way it’s healed halfway, stretched across his eye and curling down half of his face, he breaks the glass of the mirror. He doesn’t do it on purpose, but he just—he just—he can’t. He can’t. He can’t. He doesn’t look in the mirror again for at least a week, leans how to tie what’s left of his hair up without looking and tilts his chin up and asks if there’s a problem when the crew see him without the bandages for the first time. The lieutenant says no, not a thing, and he looks impressed, even though Zuko’s hands are shaking where they’re pressed behind his back into tight tight fists.

He doesn’t hear from his father, reads over every scroll or book he can find, and comes to the conclusion that his search will be essentially useless. He'll do it anyways, because his father has told him to and it’s the only way he’ll ever get home. He’ll do it if it kills him, and fuck anyone who thinks he can’t. The nobles. His sister. His father. His uncle, maybe, he talks and looks at him like he knows he’s not going to win this. Some of the crew. Zhao.

The thing about Zhao is that he picks a target and hit and hits and hits them until they break. The thing about Zuko is that he’s his damn favorite.

He doesn’t know why. He does know that even a year ago he wouldn’t have dared speak to him the way he does, so maybe it just makes him feel good to talk down to royalty. Zuko doesn’t care. He doesn’t care when Zhao tells him that the scar looks just as bad as the day he got it, and he doesn’t care when he calls his ship small and his crew incompetent. The thing he does care about, a little bit, is when Zhao, at least a foot taller than him and who knows how much older, looks him in the face and says you’ll never find the Avatar.

Bet on that, Zuko says, daring him. Zhao just scoffs and politely calls him a child, says you’re a little too old to be making bets, don’t you think, and then wishes him good luck on his journey.

Two years later, Zuko just barely stops himself from blasting the asshole’s face off. He won, and Zhao will have to live with that, and that’s enough for him.

“Your father raised a coward,” Zhao says, like he knows anything about who his father raised.

“Your father raised a sore loser,” he spits back. Holds his gaze. “I’m sure you’re glad you didn’t take that bet.”

His father found him one day when he was practicing with his swords, the ones he saw at the market one day when Uncle dragged him along and somehow wound up in the training room (he thinks it was Uncle). He had a teacher, for a little bit, but Father found out about that and put a stop to it, told him that this was the reason he was so bad at bending, and to stop wasting his time.

When he finds him this time, he’s mad, because he already told Zuko to stop once and he hated having to repeat himself. He gets a big hand around his wrist and says stop wasting your time playing with swords, you are a prince, you need to act like one, and his hand is red hot and burning and his twists his arm back and back and Zuko says I’m sorry, I’m sorry, before he pushes it too far back and breaks his arm a second time. He needs his arm, can’t practice either without it.

When his father lets go, there’s the bright pink imprint of his palm and fingers and he says I better not see you with those things again, I’m not going to tell you a third time, and then he leaves.

Zuko gingerly cradles his arm, pressing at the light burn until he hisses and has to pull away. He runs some water over it, and considers going to the infirmary, but eventually decides against it. He looks at the blades, strewn out where they’d fallen on the floor.

He knows he has to stop, but he’s just. He’s good at it. He’s never been flawless and graceful with his bending, but he can move with the blades in a way that’s never come easy to him before. And he likes it. 

He bites his lip, glancing back at the door. There's nobody here to watch him. He'll practice his bending just as much. His father doesn't have to know.

Carefully, and with a grace meant only for sacred objects, Zuko picks up the swords, and folds into his first stance.

And maybe Father was right about the swords being a bad idea, because years later and he’s breaking into the biggest Fire Nation stronghold there is, just because Zhao is an absolute asshole and also he needs the Avatar if he wants to go home, which he does.

He should probably feel worse about fighting off his own soldiers, but he doesn’t kill any of them. It’s more of a rush than anything. They make a good team, and he tries very hard not to think about what that could ever mean.

The thing is his sister told him he wasn’t even good, and he’s always been a stubborn little shit and he’s always had a lot of pride. He’s found that spite can carry you a long way, and the need to prove that you can do something, that you’re worth something, that you can master a sword or learn this set or find the Avatar, can carry you even further.

Zhao is a smart bastard, though - there’s a reason he’s climbed his way this far up the ranks - so he sees the blades on his wall and somehow makes the bizarre connection.

I didn’t know you were skilled with broadswords, he says, and Zuko thinks you have no idea, even as he says I’m not, they’re antiques. Uncle probably makes the connection, too, because he’s also smarter than he’ll ever be, and then a few hours later his ship blows up.

The long story short is that his ship explodes, and he lives, because he’s always been a stubborn little shit and he’s always had a lot of pride.

The long story is that Uncle’s gone to port, his entire crew is gone, and he sees that stupid pirate’s stupid bird perched outside the window and then his ship explodes. Luckily for him, he’s a firebender, and he used to have slow reflexes but his father’s made them quicker.

He hits the water hard, gasping for breath. He breaks the surface with the rest of the debris, inhaled air and then inhaled water and then inhaled air, reaching out to the oil burning on the surface and holding it tight. Somehow he makes it to shore, coughing so hard he thinks it might kill him if his ribs don’t puncture a lung first.

Uncle is there, hands shaking as he helps him sit up, pushes the wet hair out of his face and rubs at his back like he’s a child who woke up from a nightmare.

“Pirates,” he manages to say, “Zhao. I think—paid.” That’s all he can get. Uncle seems to understand him anyways, like he does.

His heart hammers in his chest, his pulse racing. His ship is burning. He hated that goddamn thing. He’s sad.

“Why’re you so upset?” He asks, blinking up at Uncle, who looks pale and shaken and scared. It’s scary. “I’m fine.”

Uncle looks at him, eyebrows furrowing, “I thought you were dead,” he says.

He knows that, he thinks, he’s not stupid.

“I know that,” he says, “But I’m fine.”

Uncle shakes his head a little, like he doesn’t understand what zuko is saying. “Do you not know? You’re very dear to me. I thought you were dead,” he says again. Zuko looks away, back at his burning ship. Uncle hugs him tightly, but doesn’t say anything more.

“I think my ribs are broken,” he says eventually.

“Then we’ll have to fix you up,” Uncle says. He sounds old. He looks old. He looks even older when Zuko insists he still wants to go along to the north with the rest of the navy.

He thinks, as he’s crouching low in the little lifeboat to keep hidden as it floats its way through the rocks and ice, that maybe his uncle doesn’t think he’ll survive this. Held him all close and said I think of you as my own, proceeded by ever since my son died. Zuko knows it’s ever since Lu Ten died. He also knows that Uncle’s already sent one son out to die. Uncle isn’t his father, and he refuses to think of him as one, but he isn’t going to be another dead kid for Uncle to guilt himself to death over.

He’s always been stubborn. He broke the Avatar out of the Yuyan stronghold with two swords and a bucket of water. He can get into the North Pole. He almost kills himself trying, just a bit, but the Fire Nation is a Nation of islands, so he knows how to swim. He burns through the ice and into the city above it and breathes and thinks, serenely, that he made it in before Zhao did.

He finds the Avatar, and then he has him, and then they almost freeze to death in a snowstorm, and then he loses him again. He finds Zhao instead, which isn’t a good trade. The only upside is that when Zhao sees him, he looks shocked enough that Zuko could laugh. He really thought he could kill him; he really thought Zuko would let himself die like that.

The thing about Zhao is that he’s always wanted too much, and he’s always taken what he wanted, and Uncle probably has a proverb about how all that bad energy you put into the world will catch up with you one day. Zuko thinks that for Zhao, today is probably that day.

He wanted to go down in the history books so bad, and he will. Publicly bragged about catching the Avatar, but that didn’t work out. Tried to kill the prince, but that didn’t work out. Tried to kill the moon, but oh look , Zuko thinks, glancing up at the sky, that didn’t work out either. Zhao rages at the sight of the moon back in the sky, like he really thought he could get away with fucking up the world like that. Zuko almost feels bad for him, in a vague and fucked up way. He just can’t seem to live up to all his bragging. If he survives this, the Fire Lord won’t be forgiving. Zuko knows.

He tells him as much, and Zhao says, “I’m sure he’ll be more understanding if I bring home a traitor. Maybe I should kill you right here.”

“You tried that already,” Zuko says, has the bruises and half-broken ribs to prove it, “You're welcome to try it again.”

He does try it again, and then he dies. Zuko does not kill him; Zuko tries to save him, but the bastard looks him full in the face, like he did on his ship two years ago, and refuses. Zuko watches him be swept away. The Avatar destroys their navy as easily as stepping on a bug, tossing ships around like they’re nothing more than toys. People die. Zuko watches this happen, too, and for the first time, he is afraid. 

He refuses to die starving to death on a raft in the middle of the ocean, too. If he has to die anywhere, it’ll be on solid ground.

He almost starves to death in the dry stretch of the Earth Kingdom, though. 

Before that, he hangs around a market for a few days, in a nicer part of one of the nicer cities, where he can pretend he’s back home but does not look the part. He sees a few kids, dirty and rough looking, with little twig arms that mean they’re starving. They hang in the background, trying to work up the courage to do something, to say something or take something. Zuko has been doing a lot of taking, lately, in the absence of having, because he’s not a good person. It’s the easiest thing in the world to exhale a little bit, light a stalk of wheat and let it drag people away from their carts to put it out before it anything catches on it. He kicks over a cart full of bread, glares at the kids and says you’d better hurry.

They do hurry, grabbing as much as they can hold in their tiny arms and looking at him like they don’t know what to say. Take it and leave, Zuko tells them. Don’t let them catch you.

He is not a good person. They should be afraid of him. The one in the front bows a little bit, sloppy and rushed, and they run. Someone yells after them, and Zuko grabs a loaf and slips away too. He wonders what Uncle would think about it, and decides he doesn’t want to know. He isn’t here, now, so it doesn’t matter.

Before he leaves town, he hears about an underground fight club tournament thing. Well, he hears about another one, because there’s a huge earthbending one everyone talks about. This one is for all of them—earth and water and none, if you want to. They call for volunteers, and Zuko asks if fire is allowed. The guy running the thing looks at him warily, looks at his scar, and says that as long as he doesn’t maim or kill, that’s fine.

He doesn’t know why he volunteers, only that nobody else is and it’s the perfect opportunity to practice fighting against people who aren’t firebenders. He wasn’t used to water, or air, and he’s definitely not used to earth. This one, an earthbender, is solid in his stance but reckless in his aim. Zuko is still losing. Rocks are flying and Zuko deflects, flame to shatter them as his hands make contact, but he moves too slowly and one hits his elbow hard, drawing blood and knocking him back. Hurts like a bitch, but he shakes it off and doesn’t yield.

Instead, he watches the man’s movements, the way he used to watch the Avatar’s, trying to memorize the way he moved and the way he faltered. His feet are glued to the earth, the exact opposite of the way the Avatar flits around like he’s allergic to the solid ground. His core is rigid but his arms are loose. Fists curled, not unlike a firebender.

Zuko widens his stance just a bit, plants his feet more solidly on the dirty ground, and tries to move like an earthbender. It’s stilted, and imperfect, but it works. He feels more evenly matched, even though part of him is screaming at himself for disregarding everything he’s been taught. Another part of him thinks that if nothing that he’s been taught has been working, he needs to find something new. Besides, he’s always hated losing.

The earthbender is built taller and wider and heavier than Zuko, but Zuko is faster, and he’s spent long enough chasing the Avatar that he’s picked up on how to evade, how to work your opponent up enough that they get sloppy and angry. It’s almost cathartic not to be on the receiving end of it. He twists and turns but keeps his footing solid. Fights more with his fists than his fire, because earth hits you hard but fire burns, and it feels more appropriate, curling his fingers up tight and feeling the press of his knuckles against hard skin. Dirty and wild. Something free.

He wins the fight. Winds up crouched over the earthbender with a hand against his neck, warm enough to be a warning. He wins the fight. He loses half of the blood in his body through his nose, and his elbow is still bleeding and he’s so out of breath he doesn’t think he’ll ever get it all back, but, “The winner is,” the announcer yells, grabbing Zuko’s wrist and pulling his arm up in victory, “this crazy fucking kid.”

The crowds goes wild, all that. Zuko’s heart pounds. There’s a reward, too, which he didn’t know about but is very glad to accept.

“I should do this more often,” he says absently. Again, he wonders what his uncle would think. He wonders what his father would think of him fighting in a dirty underground arena in some Earth Kingdom town. Your firebending is weak, he remembers; don’t think about showing your face in the dining hall until you’ve mastered this set.

He pushes those thoughts from his mind, and tries to ignore how easy it is to think that advanced set number fourteen did nothing to help him in this fight.

Maybe, he thinks, pocketing the money and trying to decide whether or not to leave town or fight another match. Maybe he really is a traitor.

Before he leaves the town for good, he volunteers again a few nights later.

Chapter Text

He does not win his next fight.

His next opponent is way more controlled than his previous one, and has better aim and more power and know how to pack a punch. With the earth, obviously, because Zuko could turn it into a fistfight but the man’s hands are very big and solid looking and he doesn’t want to break his nose a second time.

The point is, he starts off strong, and it quickly goes all the way downhill. Trying to move more like an earth bender doesn’t help when the earth bender you’re fighting is better at moving than you. He can tell he’s had a lot of practice fighting fire benders, with the way he seems to predict his attacks, and it throws Zuko off balance.

Which is stupid, he thinks. Everyone must know how fire benders work by now. But it seems like every step he takes, every time he tries to ground himself or keep his stance steady, the ground is moving below him and fucking him right up.

He gets a few solid hits in. Grazes his arms and gets close enough to kick him in the chest before the earth bender picks him up like he weighs about as much as a few grapes and tosses him back so hard he scrapes up his knees when he falls. Zuko gets good practice in, cutting through earth with his fire, blocking the onslaught with his fists or his arms. He doesn’t scrape his elbow this time. He can’t feel as grounded so he tries moving lighter on his feet.

It works for a while — and by a while he means it works for a few minutes — but he doesn’t win the fight. He holds out as long as he can, because he never does know when to quit, but he winds up on his back, shot out of the ring and into the stands below.

One of the people watching gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

So much for beginner’s luck, he thinks, blood still pumping hard and fast. Another part of him thinks he should take what happened here as a learning experience and use it in the future. This part of him sounds an awful lot like Uncle.

He sits up, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his forearm. It doesn’t feel good to lose, but it feels like something.

He wants to try again, he thinks. He wants to try again and win. He knows how the man attacks, now, from the ground up and on all sides. If he can find a way to limit his contact with the floor itself, he’ll force the man to adapt, and he can find the right moment to strike instead of attacking outright like he’s used to. He’s always preferred the direct approach — quick and harsh and over with, burning or punching or slicing straight through his obstacles. He’s always been a little slow on the uptake — spirits know Azula’s told him more than once — but even he knows that won’t work here.  

He’s too tired to try again tonight, though, so he sits on the edge of a stream outside of town and splashes water in his face to clear off the dirt and blood, and thinks about the water he poured over the burn his father left on his arm when he told him to stop playing with his swords. He thinks about tilting his head back on the floor of the training room to stop the blood from dripping down his chin after a hard session, and how the blood tasted clotting in his throat.

It tastes the same now, iron in his mouth and nose, so he leans forwards and spits it into the river. He feels kind of bad, but decides that it’s just a few drops of blood. It’ll be washed away soon enough; it doesn’t matter in the long run.

He doesn’t even remember what he did, before he ended up on the floor tilting his head back in the empty training room. He remembers what he was doing before his father broke his arm in two places, but the little things all seem to blur together. 

The fighting is familiar. There’s less burning than he’s used to, and no one’s been calling him weak lately, not since Zhao decided his pride was more important than his life and let the ocean drown him. But the fighting is familiar, in this little town he’s never been to in a nation that isn’t his. Familiar is good. The taste of iron clouds his senses and he hates the way it makes him feel, but it’s familiar, and that’s what matters.

Who he’s fighting isn’t familiar, but he’s learning. He doesn’t win his third fight, but he does win his fourth. He learns how to balance when the earth below him is trying keep him unsteady, and he learns how earth benders, at least the flashy fighty ones, move before they attack. Earth is a very physical element; you have to move your body to move the earth with it. If you’re watching, which he is, the body has to prepare to move before it does.

The point is, he wins his fourth match and only gets a twisted wrist in return. After that, he figures he’s stayed in this village for too long; people are starting to recognize him as that boy they saw the other day or that kid who keeps trying to beat earth benders at their own game, which isn’t good for him right now. So he packs up what meager things he has and takes the ostrich horse he stole and leaves.

There’s another underground fight club thing at the next town he ends up in, something a little fancier than the last one, but this one’s only for earthbending. Earth Tumble, or something. Rumble? Something about the ground moving, which he guesses is appropriate.

He goes to watch it anyways, even though he can’t participate. Uncle always said sometimes it’s best to watch and learn, study through observation. He wonders if he’d be proud of him for finally taking his advice, but pushes the thought out of his head because he’d probably just be disappointed he’s been doing this kind of thing in the first place. Whatever.

He picks a seat somewhere in the middle, close enough that he can see it but far enough away that he won’t be noticed, and he sits and he watches and he tries to learn.

This one’s a little different from the other tournament. It’s more showy, more flashy, more dramatized. He thinks that maybe Uncle would actually enjoy this one a little bit; he can picture him laughing at the flair of it all. He pushes that thought from his mind, too, because it makes him feel lonely.

Even though there’s more acting involved — they have their own special costumes and stage names — there’s still something to be learned from it. Each fighter has their own style. One of them uses his brute strength to shake the earth underneath him, barely using his arm at all. Another one stays low to the ground, scooping the earth up with the curve of his hands and launching them like small projectiles. One of them stays almost exclusively underground, tunneling through it like a prairie dog gopher.

During each round, Zuko imagines what it would be like to fight each of them—how he would do it, what advantages and disadvantages he would have, how he could use their tactics against them or incorporate them in the future. Use a wider stance to keep himself steady on the shaking earth. Keep low to the ground and prepare to defend himself. Set the earth itself on fire, keep him from coming up at all—but he’d have to watch for anything directly underneath him; he doubts the tunnel guy has to be above ground to attack, but if he stays light on his feet he can keep him from knowing exactly where he is. He wants to try it out— he wishes it wasn’t earthbenders only.

He’s about two thirds of the way through when he catches someone looking at him. He’s immediately on alert. He’s been trying to snatch any wanted posters he’s seen of himself, but he knows people have probably seen them already. He keeps very still, and waits. The person keeps on glancing at him, like they’re trying to get a better look at him.

Time to leave, then. He wishes he could stay till the end, but he’d rather not be caught and put to death or something. Or turned over to Azula. Spirits know he’d rather be executed than dragged home in chains by his sister.

He’s had enough practice stealing and hiding and shit to slip out quickly and quietly and make sure he’s not followed. He’s kind of annoyed—he wanted to see if he could catch one of the earthbenders after the tournament and ask them some questions, maybe ask them to spar. He thinks, unfortunately, that he has to get out of town. Again.

He wishes he at least got to watch one more match. Whatever, he thinks, it doesn’t matter.

That’s when he almost starves to death in the dry stretch of the earth kingdom.

He gets through the sand by reminding himself that he swam through ice cold water in the north and then survived a snowstorm. This should be nothing. This shouldn’t be shit. Except that the difference is, there’s no water here, and he’s so thirsty he almost wishes he was back in that snowstorm with the Avatar on his back because at least then he could pick up some damn snow from the ground. He can’t eat dirt.

Then he meets Li. Li makes him very sad. Maybe he reminds him of himself, or something stupid and sappy like that. He talks more than Zuko ever did, and he’s naive in that way Azula never was, and he takes Zuko’s swords to practice even though he doesn’t know how to use them. I think my brother would like you , he says, and Zuko wishes so desperately that it could be true.

He gives him his knife which is a bad idea, because just cause he’s been handling blades since he was ten doesn’t mean this small town earth kingdom boy has. And it’s fucked up because the soldiers are supposed to be the ones protecting the people, but they’re just sick bullies who abuse their power over people who can’t afford to fight back. Their own damn people, like the war they’re fighting isn’t the thing that put them in this position of power in the first place. It’s pathetic, and dishonorable, and his father always likes to call the earth kingdom a kingdom of savages. Zuko thinks that maybe it’s not the earth that makes these soldiers savage, but the power. Power always fucks you up. Just look at Zhao.

The blades he never put down for long probably weren’t a good idea at all, because here he is fighting for a kid he doesn’t know, in a town he doesn’t belong in, in a nation that hates him. He’s been all fucked up lately—without his uncle here he’s been thinking about his mother instead. He stands solid against the soldiers like he’s learned over the past few weeks, and decides to say fuck it to his blades and use his fire instead.

It’s not a good idea. I hate you, Li says.

It’s all so fucked up. The war is our way of sharing our greatness with the world, his professor said to him. He doesn’t see any greatness here. He sees a poor village with all the young people off fighting and dying for nothing, and he sees hatred that his own people caused.

There’s not really any new strategy or attack or move he can learn from this. Advanced set number twelve didn’t help at all, and he’s not a very good person anyways so they’re probably right to kick him out. He thinks that maybe the war isn’t what he thought it was, and that maybe his professors have been wrong this whole goddamn time. He thinks about his mother telling him to never forget who he is, and feels bad, because he doesn’t think he knows shit anymore.

He fights one more time before he finds his uncle again and watches him get shot full of lightning and almost die.

It’s in some backwater, worn out little town that reminds him of Li’s. And it’s not so much a tournament as just a group of people taking turns beating the shit out of each other for "training's sake." It’s pretty weird, actually, but he’s not really in any place to judge.

It’s not strictly for bending. You can use bending or blades or your fists if you want. You decide and get paired up with someone who decides the same. It seems more like a training exercise than anything, which is fine with him.

After his last experience firebending in a small, war torn earth kingdom town, he decides to go with the other two options. The first round he uses his dao. He’s up against a lady with a long sword he’s only seen earth kingdom mercenaries use, which is pretty cool. She’s good with it. Has a style he’s never seen, moves he never taught himself. It’s kind of fun, trying to counter and counter attack. She knocks one of the blades from his hand, so he kicks dirt up into her face and she laughs even as she has to squeeze her eyes shut. He wins, eventually, but just barely.

“You’ve got fire, kid,” she says, and slaps him on the back so hard it stings.

If only she knew.

His next round, he tries his fists. He gets matched up against a guy a solid foot taller than him and much broader. The guy looks down at him and smiles apologetically, like he knows exactly how much he’s about to kick the shit out of him.

And he does. Zuko’s not super good at direct hand to hand. He has quick reflexes from years of sword fighting, but he’s not great at hitting hard. He does land some solid hits. He tries to use the dirt trick again, but the guy was watching his other match and sees it coming—gets Zuko’s leg out from underneath him and knock him to the ground. Zuko barely rolls out of the way of his kick, catching his ankle and yanking. It doesn’t bring him to his knees, but it does knock him off balance long enough to scramble back to his feet again.

He doesn’t really get any further than that. The guy hits him hard and he goes toppling down again, land hard on his back and knocks his head back against the solid ground. His vision spins but he gets back up. If there’s anything his father has taught him more than to keep quiet and show some spirits-damned respect, it’s never to stay down unless you physically can’t get up anymore. Not to surrender unless you have to, unless your arm is broken in two places or half your face just got charred off.

He feels his nose break clean in two, and he gets back up. He scrapes his knees hard against he dirt, and he gets back up. He hears his father saying get up and fight, you coward, and he thinks about that stupid knife he tried to give to Li, and he gets back up until he really just can’t anymore.

“Hey,” someone says, suddenly at his back; he jumps at the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder, “You’re good, kid. You fought good. Take it easy, okay?”

Zuko takes it easy. Someone hands him a cup of water and props him against the wall of the house they’ve been fighting in front of.

“You really beat the shit out of that kid, huh,” he hears.

“He just kept on getting up. It felt kinda wrong to just stop. I had to see how many times he could do it.”

“Crazy kid doesn’t know when to give up. That’ll get him killed.”

He closes his eyes against the way that makes him feel. He doesn’t know how it makes him feel. They might have a point, he thinks vaguely. Not giving up got his ship blown up and his dumb ass trapped in a cave in a snowstorm. It also found him the avatar. All giving up ever got him was kicked out of his nation with half his face burned off. He could do without the blood in his throat and the pounding in his head, though. It’s familiar, but in the bad way this time. He focuses on the wood of the wall against his temple, and the sound of skin on skin.

Someone sits next to him and pats him on the back. He wonders how some people can be so nice but others can be so horrible. He wonders if these people would hate him if they found out who he is. He finds that he doesn’t want them to. He's never cared before. Some of his own men have looked at with contempt and he said to them: get over it, or get out. Zhao treated him like the enemy and he looked up at him and told him: fuck off and stay out of my way. The world tried to kill him and he just didn't let it. But, inexplicably, he doesn't want these random earth kingdom citizens to hate him. He doesn't want them to know who he is. 

Spirits, he thinks, sighing long and deep into the hot air. Yeah. Maybe he really is a traitor.