Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Goldstone is the product of high heat and little oxygen. Rather than fragile, it is sturdy as a result of the extreme circumstances of its birth. Often confused with a naturally occurring material, it is the product of human hands. In this way, goldstone can be confused for war, art, and (some would argue) the Gods.

There is a sliver of blue goldstone that is kept by a Prince, imbedded in the old wood of a theatre mask. Once, an actor thought it would bring them luck and fortune. It did, and as the mask switched hands it received more prayers - for good hearing, so no cue would be missed; for light feet, so that the wearer could move with ease; for endurance, so the old body that wore it would not stumble. Eventually, another person that prayed to it pressed the mask into a child’s waiting hands, feeling the electric warmth of being loved. The child held his new mask above his head and watched the glittering depth of the goldstone, and thought it was a beautiful and precious thing - not because of its appearance, but because of who had given him such a gift. The goldstone decided to remain with this one, for now.

The child grew, and the mask was hidden during the day. It soaked in moonlight instead, sleepless nights bringing back the hands that loved it to trace its wooden body, its glittering heart. And like anything else that is loved, the goldstone wished to keep the one who loved it close. So it whispered ideas of fun, of freedom, of all those forbidden little things that its favoured child was being forced to forget. It learned to tempt, and with each little victory of getting its Prince to run along rooftops its voice grew.

Then there was the ship. Then there was the Prince, crying out in agony. Then there was the fevers, the blood, the sweat that festered in the air as the blue, blue tides rolled around them, everything the Prince found beautiful stripped away from him except for the mask and his swords. Its voice couldn’t reach him, couldn’t bring water crashing through the hull to cool his body, to ease his suffering.

Under a layer of dust, in the dark, it whispers to twin spirits of shining steel instead. They come to an understanding.

The Prince takes his swords into the light when he is dizzy trying to adjust to his remaining eye, bandages finally removed and only the faintest remains of a fever on his skin. His blades sing for him, shining as fine as glass in the sun. Through them, the goldstone feeds its blessing to the Prince. He breathes easy, feet light, heart silent. Through the swords, the goldstone gathers prayers again. For strength, for luck, for belonging.

A year passes. On the shores, the goldstone and the blades become one, and their voice is finally strong enough. The Prince is pulled from his miserable hull and out into the trees. They find a friend in the Moon, her shadows a cool embrace. They thank her by guiding their boy to dance with their blades, giving her the beauty of their performance. And he was a boy then, not a Prince. They had finally reminded him.

In their second year, they gain their name.

They rest on a rooftop, fireworks blooming bright in the village square. A festival, welcoming the heat of summer. The crew of the ship stood closer, colours splashing over them. The air is filled with the buzz of a hundred voices - vendors, lovers, families of every kind. They felt peaceful, for once, when they heard it - between the pulse of fireworks there was the sob of something desperate. Their heart stilled, ice dripping through their skin. They moved, feet barely touching rooftop tiles as they vaulted between buildings. They hovered a single moment at the edge of the sound before dropping.

The alley was grey, fetid. Dirt splattered as they landed, their mask appearing to hover in the shadow of the wall. Two bodies hulked over a third, the cool metal of a knife catching the scant light. They step forward, deliberately. Their hand hovers, ready to unsheathe their dao. The assailants stiffen, eyes narrowed. At that moment, their connection wavers and the boy is aware how small he is compared to the men. It does not matter, they whisper to him. They cannot move like we can. And in that moment, their boy knows it to be true.

They vault over them, kicking quickly as they draw their dao. They sweep the brutes’ legs out from under them, momentum on their side. They fall messily together, knife clattering away. It is easy to grab the victim, barely taking in his wide eyes, messy hair, and broken glasses before they’re running.

The man they had saved is stumbling, breath loud in their ear when they finally reach the light. He stumbles, bracing himself against his knees as he pants. They stand beside him, trying to spot someone, anyone in the street. They only knocked those people down - they would be after them soon.

The man recovers soon enough, looking up at his savior.

“Blue…” He manages, reaching out a hand. He takes in the mask, the black clothes, the way they seemed to melt into the shadows behind them. That night, Hoshi sees a spirit.

“Hey, what-!” Someone yells, the man’s attention pulled away from the strange figure in black for a moment. And when he looks back, they are gone.

They are on the ship before the rest of the crew, and they fall back into being just Zuko easily, this other part of himself hung up on the wall, his candles lit and his meditation robe on before Uncle knocked on his door. All the while, a pale man with broken glasses told the story of how he was saved by a Blue Spirit to every soul he passed.

Summer turns to fall, and the story of the Blue Spirit spreads. First, they are a protector. Then they are seen dancing with their swords. Then they are spotted in the theatre. Then there is the time when the Blue Spirit pushes their mortal body too hard and they accidentally destroy a pigeon-hen coop missing a jump, having to walk past the owners of the coop with absolutely no bodily reaction to their bruised legs or bruised ego. They try really very hard not to think about that, or any of the resulting additions to their mythology. They try to stay out of the way of people, mostly. Mostly, they don’t get truly caught. When it does happen, they just have to stand perfectly still, staring down whoever caught them. Sometimes, if they don’t react, they have to start tilting their head. They’ve gotten a few screams out of people this way. It’s all very embarrassing.

Zuko has been trying to go out less. He really has. At least, he’s been trying to go out more as himself during the day. He tries to meditate at night instead, or read, or go over maps for the 100th time. But too long on the boat, surrounded by too much water, and he gets this itch settling under his skin, around his face, on his hands, in his heart. Tending to his swords helps. Wearing something other than armor helps. Looking at the blue goldstone helps. He’s tempted to take it out of the mask. He doesn’t. If he doesn’t, he is sure he can keep the line between himself and the Blue Spirit. He needs that line. He needs to stay focused. There’s only a few places left he hasn’t searched.

In two weeks, they will be in the South Poll. In two weeks, he will find the Avatar. He is sure of this. He has to be.

Chapter Text

They spend weeks away from land, weeks nauseous and itchy and angry, chasing whispers across the water. When their ship runs aground, they set fires. It rushes out of them, the fire inside of them begging to catch dead grass and wind torn brushes peeking through the snow. It begs to live, to burn, to die. A Prince should have more control, they know. A Prince wouldn’t feel like this, they think as they toss dried fragrant herbs on the flames, little offerings for no one, made without thought. A Prince shouldn’t be chasing a child on the ass-end of the globe. They still can’t believe the Avatar is a fucking child.

You are a child too, the part of them that was not the Prince whispers. He growls, and he is just himself again, nothing but dull, insistent pain in the place where the rest of him resides. He, him. He’s a man. He is mortal. He is singular. He is his Father’s son. And because he is his Father’s son, it is natural for him to burn. To hate. To ruin villages. To stomp around the ship daring someone to tell him not to. He stops hiding his mask under his armour - he doesn’t even know why he started doing that in the first place. He is Zuko, Prince of the Fire Nation. He knows this to be true.

A storm shakes their ship, nearly divorcing a man’s life from his body. He knows these people, by name and rank and…. He doesn't know them as people, he realises, not really, not in the way that matters. Two years, and he could not say how Lieutenant Jee liked his tea, or what family he had. Two years, and he had never once joined in for music night. It’s not like he even wanted to join music night, he told himself. But somehow, not going felt… wrong, in retrospect. A part of him that is not part of him whispers how great it would feel, to have music while they danced with their swords and the moon. Lo Tseng apparently was quite the talented tenor, if Uncle was to be believed.

He sits, head in his hands. The pain there is sharper now, a hammer tapping away at the bone between his brows. He should have listened to Uncle. About the storm, in particular. Not about music night - he couldn’t think about music night right now. It could take them days until they caught up with the Avatar again. How much longer did he have before someone decided that his Father would probably pay a handsome bounty for a living legend, or worse?

Not long enough, apparently.

Their ship had limped to the edges of Pohuai, sheltering in the ruins of Taku. The crew took to solid ground gratefully, while their Prince - who was very much not in visible pain thank you - tried his best to dodge Uncle while still in the confines in the ship.

It had taken them just a little nudge for the Prince’s pain to finally give away to sense once he voluntarily confined himself to his room. He touched his swords - just for a second - and they were home again, the rush of relief making them dizzy, and by evening they had full intention of exploring both the surrounding ruins and the stronghold - if they were tracking the Avatar, they needed every advantage they could get. And that meant listening in on the one person that had eyes all over the hills - Colonel Shinu. Besides, they were sure there was something interesting pulling them there. Something important. Something that their Prince couldn’t fully recognize but called out to them all the same. And what a rush, for a spirit such as them to be called for. They made sure the Prince could feel it too, that curiosity and desire, not just the bitter longing that came along with his - their - quest.

What was waiting for them made fury dance in their stomach.

They cursed Admiral Zhao, even as their blood thrummed under the moonlight, finally free after so long. It was a nearly human curse, too weak to have much sway over the tides of his fate, but a curse all the same. They cursed him to slip and fall in piles of shit, every day, for the next 5 years. They would also settle on a mild case of hookworm-leeches swimming up his rectum next time he chose to swim in a river. Bastard, fool, asshole. The Avatar is not yours to capture.

They retreated into the shadows.

_________________________

Zuko lets his bad mood fester, the other half of him fading away so that they might have energy for when they are needed. He pours over the map with Lieutenant Jee, and barely pays attention to what he says as Uncle calmly divorces the rest of the crew from their wages over a game of pai sho. He’s run over the map with Jee before, the day before they landed, and they’ll run through it again before they depart. No adjustments to the heading, no reports of weird storms, or battles they would need to avoid, and no moving islands. It’s pretty straight forward, but it’s almost… Enjoyable, to have everyone in the same room, taking a break from the dreary weather outside even if they’re doing a load of nothing. He’s just glad he managed to avoid getting roped into a game with Uncle.

Zhao, naturally, comes to gloat. He’s sure Zhao feels it just the same as he does too - the Avatar is close. And it pisses him off to no end. Fine, no ships could enter or leave the area. Fine, he wouldn’t be able to give chase if he saw that flying beast in the distance. That was fine. Because he didn’t need a ship to capture the Avatar - no, that was just for convenience. It shouldn’t matter that Zhao had every single resource handed to him like he had the blessing of Agni herself.

Fire pours out of him. He throws himself into it, and for a moment he wishes he could feel the cool rush of his broadswords instead. But there’s nowhere else for his fire to go.

____________________

Evening. He hisses sharply, chopsticks clattering as sudden pain flares between his eyes. He knows something is deeply wrong even as Uncle hovers by his elbow, open concern on his feature.

“Are you alright, Prince Zuko? Has your headache returned?” Zuko shrugs him off, pride not allowing him to acknowledge his Uncle fully. To acknowledge him would mean that he did hurt, that he needed Uncle’s help. He didn’t. He knew from weeks of pain killers mysteriously finding their way onto the table every time he sat down to have a drink and doing nothing (when he did bother to take them) that very few things would actually fix this. Besides, this time it felt like the pain was a sharp tug instead of a slow shattering of himself. So it must be something outside of himself, causing this pain. He quickly decides not to dwell on it too much.

“It’s nothing, I just need to… I’m going to rest. Do not disturb me.” He grumbles, already going to walk away, his dinner half finished.

“A man does need his rest…” Uncle conceded. “I will bring you some soothing tea, and you must promise me you will actually drink it this time!” He called after Zuko, sighing as the Prince yelled loudly that he hated tea. Iroh tried to tell himself that if the boy was yelling, he would be fine. He tried not to dwell too much, but he was worried - for weeks he had watched Zuko wince at loud, sudden noises that didn’t come from his own mouth, shying away from bright light. Though, that was not too hard - Agni was still restful this time of year. It had gotten to the point where his nephew, usually pale, looked nearly white in contrast to the reds of his scar and armour. Still, there was no injury, no dramatic change in their day to day routine. Their nights had even been relatively quiet, without Zuko sneaking off as most teenagers did in the dead of night. And yet, that seemed to vanish overnight once they were on shore. Iroh had heard of such strange maladies coming over earthbenders when they were away from land for too long, but that usually presented first as trouble with their inner ear, eventually morphing into what resembled a wasting disease. And Zuko certainly was not parted from his element. The short days were draining still, but no other crew member was so afflicted.

___________

They dressed quickly and quietly, meditating until they were sure the ship was truly silent and Uncle wouldn’t be at the door with a teapot at any moment. The flames moved with them, their centers aligning. They saw the Pohuai stronghold unfold in their mind’s eye, likely patrol roots memorized from the night before flowing easily across their memory. May we be quick. May we be silent. May we be strong. They tested their swords a moment, feeling them move easily, as it they were no more than an extension of their arms. And then they were gone, nothing but curling smoke where they once stood.

The Avatar must be freed.

Chapter Text

The stronghold loomed black against the sky, flames striking foreboding shadows. They survey the march of soldiers, comparing their patterns to those of the previous night. It is easy to get in - they already knew the chips in the armor, the pace of guards just slightly too familiar with their routine to notice a slight inconsistency. They hitch a ride on a scheduled shipment, the komodo rhino’s ears flicking at the added weight, the smell of someone it didn’t recognize. Nothing comes of it. Even their animals were too used to the routine at this point. The outer wall of the stronghold closes behind them, and they are in. Easy as breathing. They listen for a few minutes as the guards sigh and complain about their presence being mandatory for whatever hot air Zhao decided was worthy of a good half hour of their time.

They almost had to laugh; it was so easy. They keep low, barely making a sound as they slid past the guards who really should have been keeping track of their surroundings even with Zhao having called them all to attention. What kind of moron was running this place? They didn’t have nearly enough eyes on the walls. They pause for just a moment, peeking through an arrow loop at the sound of a bird disturbed from its roost. They watch it circle, one, twice before a white, wet shit coats Zhao’s shoulder. They exhale a ghost of a laugh that is eaten up by the loud sputtering of the great and oh-so dignified Admiral before continuing their journey into the sewers below. They move quickly - everyone should be returning to their posts now.

They spot the guard before he spots them. They stick to the wall, waiting to hear the guard yawn, or start pacing - anything that would give them an opening.

They don’t get one, so they make one.

The supply closet is clearly marked and full of interesting things. Knives, pole-arms, replacement arrows in abundance. There’s a selection of chains hanging beside a particularly vicious looking mop, ordered by weight and forging technique. They choose something light, swinging a section experimentally. It was thick enough to support a body, but barely, which made it dangerous to try and cut if it was already under tension, and downright unwise to try to melt. Perfect.

The guard is still facing their way when they return, chain already in hand as they reach out to the flame beside his head. Inhale. Exhale. The light flickers, drawing the guard’s attention for a second. A second is all they need, the heel of their palm colliding with his jaw. His head snaps back, helmet clattering loudly as the guard stumbles. They pull him forward by the collar of his armor, twisting around to strangle him. He kicks in their grip, the last of his breath funneling into a wave of fire. It’s quick work to tie him once he’s unconscious, hauling him up into the rafters. Adrenaline is singing in their veins as they drop the other two guards.

They don’t know why they find the frozen frogs painting them a clear path to the Avatar’s cell so funny to them, but it is. Battle high, they supposed as they shook out their limbs before pushing opening the door.

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The Avatar is small, pathetic, scared. Their blades slide through his chains like they’re nothing more than butter. Why hadn’t he already escaped on his own? Surely it wasn’t just a matter of stringing him up right. No time to think about it. They gesture for the kid to follow them, ignoring his questions. They don’t have time for answers, not that they particularly wanted to give them anyway. Really, telling them who they were would defeat the whole purpose of wearing a mask in the first place.

Maybe they should have followed the frogs, instead of pulling the Avatar away by the collar. But no, they entered in through the sewers, so they had to leave through the sewers. It was the most efficient route, according to the bounds and limits of a human body. They wait, clinging to the shadows as they listen to the guards’ movements, the Avatar thankfully following their lead easily. He moves silently, for all his earlier noise. Luck is on their side - the rope they had used to repel down the wall was still in place.

Luck turns out to be a fickle lady indeed. They’re not even halfway up the wall when the alarm deafens them, mortal panic freezing them in place. Their escape route is severed suddenly by a very attentive, very present guard. The Avatar kindly catches them both, a cushion of air making for a soft landing. They’re on the ground again before the rope finishes falling, broadswords drawn. The gates - they have to get to the gates! A second to confirm their direction with their swords, and they’re off. They sense the Avatar with them, keeping pace for a moment before the air splits in front of him, his legs carrying him faster, further than The Blue Spirit could force their legs to move. They watch him run nearly through the first gate, and they can go no further.

They manage to keep the tremble out of their hands as they turn, guards surrounding them. Their countrymen. Their human heart is faltering. Fuck.

They’ve disarmed 5 of the guards by the time the Avatar sweeps the rest into distant corners of the courtyard, using his newly acquired staff to throw them onto the wall’s walkway. Guards start to close in the second they’re on their feet, and then the ground falls away again as the Avatar lifts them.

We are never doing this again, they decide, cutting arrows down mid flight. They cannot think - there’s no grace, no delicacy, no art as they fumble their way through the escape.

The gates are closed. They force their breath under control as they hear Zhao speak, not really hearing his words. Quickly their swords cross over the Avatar’s throat, a final desperate bid for freedom. They feel him swallow nervously through their blades. Good, he knew how to sell the act.

The night air is a blessing once they are beyond the outermost wall, beyond the reach of Pohuai’s torches. The Avatar isn’t even trying to speak with them, just shadowing their steps easily. He didn’t have to - their broadswords only have the one edge - but it was appreciated. The part of them that is not a Spirit wonders if this is finally, finally their chance to go home. They just need to walk backwards a few more miles and then they’ll be on their ship. No problem.

Staring down the shaft of their arrow the Yuyan archer takes aim. Aang feels the air shift, hears the hiss of steel and wood and feathers. Swords clatter to the ground.

The wooden mask cracks like glass. Blood, black in the moonless night, bubbles from the fissures.

Aang curses, quickly throwing up a cloud of dust. “Please be ok, please be ok…” He says it like a prayer, reaching towards their mask, the arrow falling as he tilts their head. The mask is warm, leathery when touched. He can see no hint of skin, no closed eyes or pained grimace. He can hear the gates opening.

When the dust clears, the Blue Spirit and the Avatar are gone. All they can find is the arrow and a few drops of blood slowly shifting into glittering goldstone.

Chapter Text

Dawn is still an hour away. Aang can hear the stirring of birds as they prepare their morning chorus, but they are distant. There’s a bubble of silence around them as he guides their rescuer down to the forest floor. They’re breathing at least - slow, measured inhales and quiet exhales. Black still oozes sluggishly from their face, beading on the curves of their smile. Aang can see the glittering of something solid beneath the blood drying in the cracks. Ok. He could do this.

“Spirit, can you hear me? Thank you for rescuing me.” The mask twitches, their black eyes moving. They skim over Aang, focusing instead on the forest as if seeing it for the first time. “You’re safe, it’s ok, I promise.” He watches as their hand traces the cracks in their face, beads of blue goldstone tumbling to the ground before reaching out, gently pulling their hand away. Their body is warm, solid under his touch. Maybe they weren’t a spirit after all, just a strange looking…dragon-monkey? Person who was way into body mods? A dragon-monkey that was way into body mods with really weird blood and an aversion to making any noise at all.

“You probably shouldn’t touch that too much. Does it hurt?” They nod, their grin morphing to a grimace. Their face still looks like wood, but it moves almost like flesh, expressions exaggerated. It reminds him of someone under heavy theatre makeup. “Is there something I can do to help?” They frown, considering this before shrugging. Ok, he’d take that as a maybe.

“Can you tell me what I need to do?” The person looks around, locating a stick. Clearing a space, they begin to write in the cold, silty dirt.

“The voice of this body is not ours alone. We do not speak if there is one self not yet conscious....” Aang reads slowly, brows furrowed. “Well that’s stupid! You’re hurt, and you need help. I’m sure your other self would understand.”

The spirit shakes their head before moving to stand. Shock paints their features as their legs refuse to support their weight. They make a show of hitting their legs, as if they were numb.

“See! You should at least lay down. That other you - is that why you can’t move well? Because they’re not awake?” They nod, reaching to touch their wound again. Aang stops them, examining where the smallest cracks had been filled by goldstone. “Do I just need to stop the bleeding?”

They shake their head, Aang deflating. “Ok, so it’s not the injury itself, but that part of you missing that’s the problem, right?” They wave their hand loosely. Alright, it was both. Dawn is slipping slowly through the trees, Aang growing increasingly conscious of how long he had been away. He was sure that Appa and Momo were doing their very best to take care of Katara and Sokka, but what if someone found them? He had run pretty far, but he was sure the woods would be crawling with soldiers soon.

“Can’t you just tell me what I need to do?” It would be so much easier if they could talk! He knew it wasn’t their fault, but would it really be that much of a betrayal? They shake their head, picking their stick back up.

“What do you mean you don’t know! Hasn’t this happened before?” For his outburst, Aang gets a flick to his nose. “Ow! Hey-” The person muffles him with their hand, grin back in place as wide eyes scan the trees. Aang strains his ears. In the distance, he hears a twig snap, the startle of birds. He hears no human voice, but he can see rust red helmets cresting over a hill. Monkeyfeathers.

He pulls the injured fighter up, looping their arm around his shoulder before they have a chance to protest. He takes a long, looping path back to the river where he first found the frogs, letting them collapse against the roots of a tree as he gathers new frogs for his friends. At least whoever they are seems amused, watching him elbow deep in muck. They tilt their head curiously, gesturing to the mud stains that marked where he had tucked the frog into his tunic.

“Oh! They’re for my friends. They’re sick right now. This old lady told me that sucking on some frogs would help them. Do you think it would help you too?” The expression they pull makes him laugh before he goes to pick them up again.

“Ok, no frogs. Would food help? I know I feel a lot more awake after breakfast, so maybe that’s all your other self needs.” He doesn’t get a response. They’re moving again, slower than before. He doesn’t like how boneless their legs still are, their steps clumsy, their breathing less steady as they make their way up the hill. He tries not to be too worried that they’re still bleeding. At least it isn’t dripping down their face anymore, just oozing slowly before solidifying. They reach up periodically, gathering goldstone in their palm before it has the chance to fall.

They’re both exhausted by the time they reach the Avatar’s camp. The warrior sinks to the ground the second Aang lets them go, ignoring the curious chittering of Momo as he prods their shoulder, sniffs their face. Their eyes do not close, watching from their prone position as the Avatar guides their friends to suck on the frogs.

“Hey buddy, you ok down there?” He yawns, coming to check on them as his friends cough and sputter, the frogs acting quickly. “Do you want to come lay on Appa instead? He’s pretty comfy.” They shake their head, rolling to lay on their back. Momo skitters out of the way momentarily before coming to rest on their chest. Their hand trembles before it comes to rest over the lemur's head, scratching lightly behind his ears. Aang watches, frowning. “I’ll get Katara. Just hold on, ok?”

Neither one of the water tribe siblings are healers they quickly determine as their head throbs, the argument over whether or not it was a good idea to bring them here or if they should just dump the body and move before the fire nation finds their hideaway sounding muffled and far away. None of them are priests, and for all it was said that the Avatar was the bridge between worlds it was abundantly clear that he didn’t know what he was doing either. At least their animal was good company, a welcome weight on their chest. They felt loose, disconnected from form and thought. They barely even register the girl before she’s staring down at them. Well, they thought it was her. Their vision was getting blurry, even as soft hands tilt their head to take a better look at the hole in their face.

She speaks at them, and then not at them. Their head is cradled in her lap the next time they can feel their body, a soft cloth cleaning the wound. They hoped she didn’t want to keep it, knowing that the second it was given the opportunity to dry it would be ruined. Maybe it could be sold, a glittering novelty.

“There’s something stuck in here.” Katara frowns, pressing on either side of their forehead as if she expected to find anything but the solidity of wood instead of the elasticity of skin, as if it was just a splinter to extract.

Aang frowns, hovering beside Katara. “I didn’t see anything stuck. Unless you mean that glittery stuff? I think that’s supposed to be there.”

“How is a human supposed to have rock as part of their face?!” Sokka lingered by Appa, having taken one look at the weird thing laying on the ground. Sure, they saved Aang, but no way was he getting too close - this whole thing reeked of spirits.

“Sokka, can I borrow Boomerang? I need to get this out” Katara asked, Aang moving to root around in their bags.

“Ohhh no, absolutely not. Why don’t you just waterbend it out of there?” Sokka grabbed his boomerang, holding it protectively to his chest.

“Because -” Katara lifts the damp cloth for a moment, watching as fresh blood bubbles up slowly before pressing it back down. “Their blood is really weird? It’s really thick, like tar. I don’t think it’d be possible to get enough water through it to get a decent hold. So it’s either cutting it out or trying to pull it out, and I don’t think forcing chopsticks into a wound is a good idea.”

Sokka hesitated, chewing on his lip as he tried to think of something, anything they could use instead. Why hadn’t he brought a hunting knife? Oh yeah, because boomerang did double duty. Maybe he could really quickly whittle a spoon and Katara could just scoop whatever it was out? No, that wouldn’t work. Maybe there was something in the pile of junk Momo brought them that could help. No, that would take too long to search through. He really didn’t like how still that person had gotten, even looking at them sent shivers up his spine.

“Fine, but if it gets damaged I’m turning Appa around and we’re going right back home until I get a new one.” For all his words, he approached them cautiously, darting back the second his boomerang was securely in Katara’s grip.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.” Katara’s voice is kind, if a little rough from the remains of her cough. She wipes the edges of the boomerang, making sure there was no visible dirt before taking a deep breath, carefully working the pointed tip into the not-wood of the stranger’s flesh. She’s careful to keep her line of sight clear, cloth coming to gather blood before it obscures the sliver of silver hiding between veins of goldstone. Her jaw is set, her lips a hard line as she carefully, slowly angles the boomerang under the sliver, a breath of relief shuddering through her as she watches it become unstuck. She leans back for a moment, Aang guiding a cool breeze over her face. “Almost got it. You said they got an arrow to the head, right? I think the tip must have shattered.”

Aang nods, knee bumping against Katara's as she cleans the fresh well of blood, readying herself. Their blood seems less.. gloopy as she carefully guides the shard out, tossing it off the side of the ruins before leaning back, trying to get the blood off her hands. Aang watches her patient sigh, the cracks in their face mending on their own until it looks like a singular, ordinary crack in an ordinary wooden mask.

“Huh…. Neat! Do you think all blue spirit masks can do that?” And their face does look just like an ordinary mask now, vacant eyes unmoving. They’re breathing deep and even though, their smile back in place.

“Wait, it’s a mask? I thought that was their actual face!” Sokka comes closer, frowning at his boomerang when Katara returns it to him. No damage to the blade itself, but there is a lingering, shimmering stain.

“Well…… Kinda? It’s not not a mask. Even 100 years ago, the blue spirit was a stock character kinda like a dokegata or an onnabudo. Hey, we should see if there’s any plays running next time we’re in a large enough village!” Aang half explained. The siblings were too worn out to ask for more details, and Aang himself looked tired now that all the excitement had passed. The Blue Spirit themself didn’t seem in a hurry to wake up. They all promised each other that they would have a short rest - just half an hour, and then they would leave.

It’s not like the fire nation would catch up to them before then, right?

Chapter Text

Zuko wakes with a groan. His limbs are heavy, his head filled with cotton. The sun was already high in the sky. He can hear the snoring of someone not too far away, the sound of feet moving in their direction. Fuck, fuck - he had to move, he had to go. He forces his limbs to cooperate, using their arms to brace himself in a low crouch, trying to spot the nearest exit.

The Avatar approaches from their left, all soft curious tones. They shift back, hands reaching towards where the hilt of their dao should be, only to brush against empty air. The Avatar is looking at them with concern, the waterbender on their right is reaching out towards them. They jump back, falling into a basic guard. He can see the waterbender’s hackles rise, a garbled, angry noise coming from her mouth before the Avatar is between them, meaning sliding off his words as he speaks.

“What did you do to me?” Zuko tries to yell, hand flying to his throat when all that comes out is the horrible sound of glass being dragged over stone.

There was something wrong with their new friend. Their breathing is quick and shallow, shoulders tense. They don’t drop their guard even though he promised that nobody would hurt them, that they were safe. Aang tries to make his voice as clear as possible, but their face doesn’t shift. And then they try to speak.

Aang and Katara clamp their hands over their ears, Sokka falling off Appa with a yell, hair messy and fumbling for his boomerang. “Fuckinshitweunderattack!” He slurs before noticing that the ruins were devoid of red suits of armour.

“Fix it!” Zuko tries again, flinching as he gets the same results. Sokka winces, Momo hissing before burying under one of Appa’s legs, little hands clamping down on his ears.

“Hey man, I don’t know what’s wrong with you but you’ve gotta stop trying to talk.” Sokka joins the other two, rubbing his ears.

“Ok, ok. No talking. Do we have something for them to write with?” Aang asks, shoulders slumping as Katara shakes her head, Sokka shrugging. “Unless Momo stole a scroll, no. And I’m not letting them write all over the back of the map - what if the ink bleeds through? Not that we have that either.”

Zuko feels dizzy, fingers probing his left ear as the others talked. There had been concerns about his hearing being damaged, but it was fine for the most part, most days. Sometimes there were bad days, sure, but he barely noticed at this point. Nothing - no difference if he covers one or both ears, no matter how much he tugs his ears through the fabric of his cowl. It’s not his hearing that’s the problem, and that’s worse.

“Do your ears hurt?” Aang asks, actively stopping himself from touching them. They were probably scared, and monkey-dragon-people probably reacted like any other animal when in pain and cornered.

“Aang, I don’t think they can understand you. Let’s give them a bit more space - I don’t think they know what’s happening either.” Katara’s hand finds Aang’s shoulder, guiding them both back a step, fully out of arm’s reach. This, for some reason, seems to help. Their breathing is still quick, panicked, but they aren’t coiled as tight.

“...You said they were a warrior? Like a really good one, right?” Sokka moves back with them, watching carefully. They didn’t look like they were going to try and bolt, too occupied with whatever was going on with them. “Do you think they have any familiarity with hand signs?” Battles were loud - most armies and navies had some basic signs, even if they weren’t fully fleshed out languages. If they fought in groups at all, they probably knew at least a few basics.

“That’s a great idea!” Aang perks up immediately before frowning. “..You know some, right?”

“I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t know some!” Sokka scoffs, taking half a step forward to wiggle his hand in the masked person’s line of sight. They still, tracking the movement. Good, he had their attention. He takes a breath, making sure his movements are slow and clear as he tries the sign for a status update. ‘Are you ok?’ He means, trying to get that across in his expression, only for them to tilt their head curiously. He points at them before repeating the sign.

No reaction. Aang deflates slightly. Maybe he had the wrong idea? Sokka chews at his lip for a moment, brow furrowed. Alright, different tactic. He points at them, cups his hand beside his ear, then points at himself. ‘Can you hear me?’

They take an audible, shuddering breath as they shake their head. They gesture at Aang and Katara, miming talking with their hand before copying Sokka’s gesture for hearing before finishing with their arms crossed in a large X across their chest. Not the water tribe sign for negation, but a clear one all the same.

Sokka has to stop himself from cheering. Finally! Progress. But now what? It’s not like he knew how to ask what to do to fix them. All he had done was confirm something Katara had already suspected. After a moment of thought, he tries the signal for injury, tilting his head to make it clear it was a question. No reaction. Alright, so they understood if it was closer to a charade. This was going to be annoying.

Zuko had almost cried when the water tribe boy figured it out and it became clear that they weren’t in fact talking about what horrible thing to do to him, which meant his identity was probably safe as well. Why hadn’t they tried to take off his mask? It would have been the first thing he did. The boy is gesturing again, pointing to his temple first, his hands momentarily parallel to each other in front of his chest before the right lifted over the left in a clear arch. Head, thought, memory…. Previous? The boy repeated the signals, and this time Zuko thought he understood. ‘What do you remember last?’

He remembered the smell of the Avatar’s sweat and fear as they backed out of the stronghold, he remembered the rush of finally, finally getting something right, thinking that the breakout was a complete success and that he could finally capture the kid. He remembers the hiss of an arrow, and a bloom of pain.

Sokka is about to repeat the gesture, the masked person eerily still - he refused to call them a spirit, they were just a really freaky possibly possessed person - when they mime pulling an arrow back and then bring a closed fist to their forehead, bumping twice.

“That far back? No wonder they freaked out.” Aang caught on quickly, waving for the person’s attention. He gestures wide, giving a thumbs up. He points at Sokka and Katara, also giving a thumbs up, before pointing at them, his head tilted. ‘Here is good, we are good, are you good?’

Zuko didn’t know if he meant it in the physical sense or the moral sense because he damn well wasn’t good physically - he thought that was obvious. Thumbs down. The Avatar winces, looking guilty. Guess he figured it was obvious too. It was the girl’s turn next, apparently. She didn’t exaggerate her body language as much as her brother did, but her gestures were smooth and clear. She gestured to herself, mimed sewing something closed, and then gestured at him, keeping her hand outstretched and palm up instead of just pointing. She wanted to fix him?

Katara tried to keep the hurt off her face as the spirit backed away from her rather than taking her hand. She helped them once, hadn’t she? Even if they didn’t remember, she had hoped they could somehow sense it. Besides, she wanted to make sure there wasn’t an infection or anything. She didn’t even know if a spirit could get an infection, but if they could get hurt, then they might get sick too - it was probably why most spirits didn’t manifest so physically, like this one had. She had heard of people getting fevers so high that when they broke they couldn’t see right, or hear right. They didn’t move like they were sick, but what if..? She signed again, dipping her head respectfully instead of reaching her arm out. ‘Please let me help you.’

Zuko didn’t get the chance to respond. Distant voices floated through the air, the sound of snapping branches pulling all four of them to the crumbling edge of the ruin.

“--branches snapped —-- two people, maybe more — injured — advantage.” Sokka bites his tongue, swallowing expletives as red armour comes into view. One glance at Katara and they’re tearing through the camp, their sleeping bags rolled and bags lashed to Appa’s saddle in seconds flat. Aang zips around alongside them, making sure to blow away any trace of their campfire before finding his place on Appa’s broad head.

At least they weren’t archers. Thank fuck they weren’t archers. Zuko’s dao had been tossed into a pile of golden trinkets of all things. He barely has his scabbard in its proper place before the girl is pulling on his wrist, pulling him towards the giant furry beast. It huffed at him, a low warning tone, but let her pull him up onto its back anyway. The boy scrambles up after them, a few choice pieces of treasure in his arms - nothing conspicuous, no jewels, but things that would sell for a good price at most any village.

“Everybody hold on!” Aang calls, effectively breaking whatever cover they had left before Appa lifts off with a groan. The ruins fall away behind them, the shouting of the scouts fading in seconds. Sokks watches the supposed spirit during the ascent, knowing that under their gloves their knuckles were probably white from how hard they gripped the saddle. Yeah, they were definitely just a person. Whatever they saw last night was definitely just the remains of his fever playing tricks on him. Definitely.

Zuko watches the ruins of Taku fade away, Pohuai nothing but an ugly black thorn in the landscape. His ship, his crew, his Uncle were all but invisible to the naked eye. He wanted to tell the Avatar to turn around, or drop him in the woods - anything. He hadn’t even told him where he was going. He just vanished in the middle of the night. Guilt gripped him suddenly. There was no way they hadn’t at least suspected what happened by now, and knowing Uncle he would assume the worst. He was going to be in so much trouble when he got back. And he would get back, one way or another. He just needed to fix his voice first.

Chapter Text

The world sprawls out below, the contours of villages running against farms running against rivers and craggy rock. The terrain here is rough, densely populated by evergreens. Aang does not remember the first time he flew, not really. No more than Sokka remembered seeing a penguin for the first time. But he likes to think about it all the same, the swelling feeling of rightness, the fluttering feeling of discovery. He had seen younger monks flying for the first time, some small enough to be in their diapers as their nomad parents brought them by to introduce to cousins, brothers, sisters - this huge, sprawling family that flowed around the world. He had seen so many friends he would never see again hanging over the edge of Appa’s saddle. He had taken Kuzon up when the plum-cherries were blooming, hills hazy with blooms. He had taken Bumi up in fall, the hills flattering Agni before she slept through the cold days ahead. Katara and Sokka got the heart of winter, the night sky all encompassing as they passed over dark, still waters. Katara had said it felt like she was floating in the stars, everything still and quiet. Sokka was quiet for a long time that night, but when they stopped on solid land he told them the story of a polar bear-dog that ran from the moon, and even now pointed the way north. Aang returned with a story of his own, about a wagon Agni dragged out each night before he went to bed. Traveler's stories, maps riding on the back of myths.

He wondered what kind of stars their new friend saw at night, if this part of them knew of polar-dogs or pygmy pumas. He wondered what sort of stories they could tell sitting around the fire. It felt like the other them had stories. It’s not exactly like they had much time or desire to talk, but non-humans always had the best stories when they felt like sharing. The self from before didn’t feel quite human, not the way that this one did. Maybe they weren’t a spirit in the traditional sense, but he bet being a monkey-dragon-person let someone see all kinds of interesting things. He wondered if they knew the lemur that stole a golden peach from the garden of paradise. He wondered if they were even that old. They hadn’t moved like it for sure, but maybe that was what this self was for - the body, while the other self was the mind. Oh, maybe that was wrong with them!

“Hey Katara!” Aang called back, opting not to disturb Sokka from the very important task of figuring out what they had to purchase at the next village. More fruit, for sure, maybe some - oh yeah, he was speaking to Katara. Her beautiful blue eyes were looking at him, curious.

“How do you wake up souls in the South Poll? I think that’s why they can’t understand us - if there’s more than one soul in one body, they probably have to divide up who does what.”

“Like, you mean summoning spirits? I haven’t really - I mean, there’s some songs I could sing but we don’t really have a drum or anything to smoke with and I’m not sure if the right stuff even grows here…” Her brows were furrowed, glancing towards the black clad figure hanging off the edge of Appa’s saddle, absorbed in the landscape below.

“No, no. Like waking a soul. You know, like you would do to welcome someone back into the world if they were on a spirit journey for a long time, or if they lost a part of themself that they’re trying to get back. We used to use bells a lot, and if it was a matter of someone estranged from themself we’d welcome them back with good food and sometimes specific exercises to get them back into their body?” He didn’t think physical exercises would work for their friend in this case, but maybe some guided meditation would help. But that required them to understand the words that he was saying…

“Orrrr we could just stop assuming things about a stranger. Like personally, if I had two of me living inside my head, I wouldn’t want some people I didn’t even know trying to pull stuff to bring me back into alignment or whatever without my consent. Who knows, maybe this is normal. Weird, and I mean really weird in so many ways, but normal for them.” Sokka said, leaning back now that all their food items were accounted for and away from Momo. “Shit, maybe they’re even glad to have some room inside of their own head for once.”

“They really weren’t acting like this was normal. The other them said this was the first time anything like last night happened at all. I can’t imagine it feels great to have someone who shares your brain not be there all of a sudden.” Aang frowned, laying back against Appa’s head. “We should land near a river so we can ask what they want to do. I think the ground is still too frosty to write on otherwise.”

“Great idea, Aang! We can get some waterbending practice in.” Katara smiled, crawling up to sit beside Aang as they leaned together to find a good river. “And for the record if I had two of me inside my head, I would want help if they suddenly weren’t there.”

It takes a good hour before they land. Sokka had been sure that the weirdo in black would somehow become less weird over the course of the flight, but if it wasn’t for the slight movements of their head he would have sworn they had fallen asleep while half out of the saddle. They only shift when Appa begins to land, the weird feeling in Sokka’s gut that came with the changing altitudes almost familiar by now. Their posture is great, their movements light as they vault off of Appa the second he’s close enough to the ground. Sokka can’t help but watch them, brows raised, Aang scrambling after them as they move quickly to the trees.

“Hey, wait!” Aang calls, lingering just beyond the tree line. “Sorry, did we offend you somehow?” He calls into the shadows, slumping when no response comes. He didn’t know what they did wrong. Maybe they started understanding them on the way over? But then why didn’t they react to anything…

Zuko can hear nothing but his own heartbeat, the garbled words of the Avatar easy to ignore as he moves deeper into the woods. He needed to get away from them. They kept looking at him, he could feel them watching him almost the entire ride over. He had almost convinced himself he was safe, but they kept looking at him. Staring like that never meant anything good, even if they didn’t seem like they were about to tie him up and torture him. So he stayed still, trying to focus on the places where the land deviated from the Earth Kingdom made maps he had acquired during one of his more adventurous nights out. He pointedly did not think about the Avatar, or his companions, or the curse they somehow put on him. No, he had to prioritize. First, he had to contact Uncle. Uncle would know what to do about the curse. Probably. He would have to send a hawk, even though he couldn’t send a hawk because it would likely be intercepted by Zhao if Uncle hadn’t moved… He slows his pace, finding himself on the same train of thought he had been so desperately trying to ignore.

Alright, so he would find a way to contact Uncle. Then what? It’s not like he could stay with the Avatar and his two lackeys until he could reunite with his ship. The second they saw his face at all, the second he slipped, it would be over even if they weren’t plotting to gain his trust only to betray him once he let his guard down enough at this very second. He didn’t have any of the necessary equipment to capture him either. It’s not like he could just go up to him, slash his heels, and drag him back home.

Well, he could, but then he would just bleed out. And Zuko probably would get eaten by the sky bison - he knew the thing didn’t like fire but its skin was probably as dense as its fur, so he’d probably be about as threatening as a spider-wasp if he tried to do anything to it. Maybe if he…. He finds himself sitting against a lichen covered rock, head in his hands. This would be so much easier if he had his ship back. At least then he could net the beast, jail the siblings… Or jail the boy, he would have to do something different for the girl. One leaky wall or pipe too close to her cell and his whole situation would be under water.

Fuck, his head hurt.

“Well! Easy come, easy go.” Sokka clapped Aang on the shoulder before trudging off to the river. “I’m going to go catch some actual food. Let me know if freaky comes back. Or don’t!”

Aang, after about a good 10 minutes of waiting that felt like forever, kicks the ground and sulks back to join Katara down stream, welcoming the feeling of cold water against his skin. Maybe if he was lucky, his new friend would return by nightfall. It’s not like they had any supplies with them, outside of their swords - Aang knew he would take a warm fire with friendly strangers over trying to figure out if it was a frogmouthed bellbird or an angry ghost three trees over any night.

Chapter Text

The village square is silent, a small pagoda marking the centre of the centre. He had waited until dusk, waited until the Avatar’s group had raised their tents, a spare bedroll set aside as he watched from the shadows of overgrown pine, a fire lit. It burnt low, throwing up a bit too much smoke for a solid cooking fire under the guidance of the waterbender. Zuko watched them around the low fire for a long while, finally deeming it too much of a risk as he turned his back on them and the smell of a warm meal.

He should have felt hungry. He felt something gnawing at his core, but it didn’t feel like hunger. Thinking about it just made his head feel worse, so he relinquished thought and let his feet pull him towards the village. Better to move than to give into pain, always. Always.

If he strains his ears, he can hear the muffled sound of voices, families sitting around tables together, lamps casting glowing lights from their shuttered windows. The ground below him feels warm, the cool tiles of the rooftops a welcome relief as he tries to find whatever passed as the village’s main communication hub. It didn’t seem like it would be too small to have a dedicated post office, but every turn brings him back to a circular door instead, the smell of incense and herbs so heavy in the air he didn’t know how the few people he saw moving in the street could stand it. As is, he felt nearly sick with the stink of it.

The fifth time he passes the door, he feels his temper bubble over. Unable to shout, to curse, to breathe fire without revealing himself, Zuko puts all his energy into kicking the heavy wood. A hollow thump and he’s hissing, hopping away on one foot. One step, two. The door begins to creek open behind him.

He’s frozen. The old man’s gaze is heavy even as he bows to Zuko, beckoning him in. He does not speak. He stinks of mugwort and the yellow resin that sages would dump over hot coals before reading out whatever rites Zuko never really paid attention to.

There is something wrong. Zuko’s heart plays a rhythm in his throat as he stares at the white haired stranger.

There is something right. Zuko’s feet lead him closer, not-hunger clawing at his guts.

Moonlight filters through the clouds just enough to light their way, hallways painted blue, black, and white. The weight of his mask lets itself be known, the area where it rested against his flesh itching despite it having felt like nothing but an extension of his flesh for the past dozen hours as they draw closer to the inner chambers. The elder bows to him again before leaving him.

He can hear the low, rhythmic drone of music. He can see embers banked and glowing in a central pit. He can smell damp earth and dust.

The old woman’s long nails pluck a tune half familiar on her zither, the pulse of it making pain crack through his skull. His body moves itself closer to her even as he flinches mentally, his body out of his control. The air feels different crossing the barrier of bones surrounding the central pit where she sits in a way he cannot describe. Her eyes open a slit, and he finds himself sitting. Move, run, do something! He screams at himself, the banked fire between them flaring for a moment before it too is rendered still. He feels cold in his core.

She looks at him for a long moment, the hum of her zither fading only to be replaced by her voice.

Every note knits together something frayed within him, the pain so like nerves reconnecting running from his forehead down his spine, radiating out from between his shoulder blades. And suddenly, he can understand her - understand the slight waver in her aged voice as she calls forth the strength of the mountains, the coolness of spring rain.

She pauses between verses, the air around them humming. She waits for him.

He finds his breath, a deep shudder pulling cool air in. His voice comes in low, glass and stone pulled into something just off from the voice he knew as his own. He does not remember sitting off stage after a show, lamps dimmed and drinks passed around. He does not remember the laughter of a leading lady, or a voice not quite right for the mask he still wore singing folk songs, this song, an Earth Kingdom song. But for a moment, he is there. The Blue Spirit rises, restored as Zuko falls into a memory not his own - the fractured remains of a different host from a different time.

They bow to the old woman when her fingers are still, the song resolved. “It has been a long time. Thank you.”

“It is an honour and pleasure to sing with you, Blue Spirit. May I?” She gestures towards their face, their mask. “I would like to speak to the one that is your flesh and bones.”

“Do not scare him too badly.” The spirit laughs, leaning forward to allow the old woman to tug gently at black ribbons, the mask falling easily into her hands. She takes in skin too pale to belong to a proper warrior despite the swords on his back, a blue-black bruise contrasting sharply to the angry red that consumed just over a quarter of his face. His yellow eyes are vacant, far away from here.

“My, you’ve chosen an interesting host.” She mutters to the mask, its grin seeming to grow even wider.

Watch out. She hears a faint whisper over her shoulder from a voice far outside herself. She has seconds to shield her face as the embers burst into true flames, gathering height as the young firebender surges to his feet, a roar on his tongue.

“Who are you?” He demands, “What is this place, why did you bring me here!” He crosses through the fire like it was nothing, pulling her up by the collar. Her zither clatters to the ground with an ugly note and then he truly sees her - her, grey haired and wrinkled, round around the middle with fear in her eyes.

“Please young man, I mean you know harm.” She cries, playing her role well. “I felt a spirit in need of aid, and so I provided what aid I could.”

She feels his grip relax, her robes released, but he doesn’t move out of her space, his golden eyes narrowed. “I’m not a spirit.”

He believes it, bless his heart.

“All people have spirits in them, dear. You just have an extra.”

“So, I’m possessed?” He scoffs. Ah, so he’s used to only half-listening to his elders. No surprise there. She adjusts her robes, shifting her pouffe from centred in front of the fire to the upper left corner of the square.

“Not in the way you are thinking of. Please, sit. You haven’t had much in the way of true rest lately, have you?” She gestures to the large green pillow across from her.

“I don’t need rest, I need answers.” He sits across from her anyway, picking up the mask from where it had fallen. She watches how he cradles it, fingers tracing small circles along the sides even though he otherwise appears totally focused on her.

“How much of the past two days do you remember?” She knows that he will provide her with no answers. Not yet.

“Who are you?” He asks, tone as sharp as the blades on his back.

“I am Aunt Wu. I tell fortunes.” She gestures to the bones, the fire, the various tools of her trade.

“That’s not all you are.” He follows her gesture, taking in the large iron bell, the altar, the masks - all the fine things that could not be bartered for through smart words and a bit of luck.

“And neither are you all you appear to be. Tell me, Prince Zuko, how do you know the lyrics of a song born from these very hills?”

Chapter Text

“I…I heard it at port.” The old woman smiles at him, gentle as he hears blood rushing in his ears.

“We both know that isn’t true, dear. Try again.” She prompted patiently, holding herself back from extending a comforting touch, like she would with any other client of hers that looked so lost and confused. She could not imagine that he would take too kindly to the gesture.

“....I heard it after the mid-summer festival, travelling to Lao Shong. Gyo Mih brought the song with her from Makapu. There was a drought. So, she sang, as if that would bring rain and the shade of mountains.” The prince’s features were pinched, as if dragging the memory up hurt him. It probably did - it wasn’t his memory after all.

“And have you ever travelled to Lao Shong?”

“No - but that doesn’t mean anything!” His eyes were open again, harsh gold unyielding to the truth. “I could have dreamed the whole thing, picked up the names and routes while studying and just… inserted the song in there. Stop looking at me like that.” He growled, bristling even as she brought her hands up in a gesture of peace.

“I mean no offence, Your Highness. But you must ask yourself why you dream of the Earth Kingdom.” She tried, as gentle as she could be. It wasn’t her first time with a sceptic, but usually if she was speaking to any of the nobility they had deliberately sought her out.

“It doesn’t mean anything, you’re crazy, and I’m leaving!” He stood, putting the mask back in place with more force than could be comfortable.

It felt more comfortable behind the mask. Zuko couldn’t see the way the old woman was still looking at him. Even if he still felt it, at least he didn’t have to see it. Now all he had to do was leave. He was sure his feet wouldn’t betray him this time, and soon this stinking house with the bones on the floor would be nothing but a distant memory, washed away by ocean breezes and the subtle florals of jasmine tea.

Mind your step.

He’s about to tell the stupid voice in his head which was certainly not a spirit to fuck off. There’s a jolt, his electricity coursing up and down his spine. His vision blurs as stumbles back into the pit, nearly into the coals. Told you.

“What is this?” He paints a demonic picture, fire flaring behind him, his snarling voice turning the mask’s grin sinister.

You should really listen to your elders. All this, and they still refused to truly hear them? It was one thing to ignore their gifts - sight, hearing, the continued use of his vocal cords. They made it all lighter, those deep harms soothed as well as they could with what little power they had. They did it so often that he confused the continued effects for permanent healing. They shared their joy and their humour, their love of art. They gave it all willingly, every positive spark. Because he was their human.

But they took an arrow for him, swapped his blood with their own, and still he had no idea. They feel the inferno in his stomach, curling with anger, boiling their blood. Exasperation ignites into indignation. They mean to grab onto that fire and push it down, force a bit of distance between themself and their Prince. Instead, something tears.

Zuko cannot stand up straight. His limbs feel like dead weight, his breath catching in his chest as he stumbles towards the old woman, sparks flickering between numb fingers. It was her, it must be something she did to him, something in the air. If he could just reach her, he could force her to stop. It feels like there’s shards of glass in his forehead.

“What’s… happening to me?” He manages to gasp before he stumbles, fire extinguished in a puff of smoke as he collapses, a puppet without strings.

_________

Aunt Wu’s hands, her precious stone ring glinting in the remaining candlelight, are the first things he sees. They press into his shoulders, a worried noise coming from her as she helps him sit, pulling his mask away without asking. It clatters to the floor, its smile all wrong.

“Are you alright, dear? The barrier I set is strong - but not that strong.” Zuko groans in response, curling into himself.

“Get it out of me.” He pleads to the floor. “Don’t-!”

Yelling for the white haired man that had been lingering just beyond the doors, she ignores the voice pitching, the spirit’s words forced through.

“You must listen to me, Prince Zuko.” She kneeled beside him, rubbing his back. He felt cold. “This spirit is part of you - pulling out of you will not be clean, or easy.”

“Do it.” He gasped, shutting out the frantic stream of words in his head. “I can’t-” A shudder wracked his body.

“Yao - over here, quickly. Give me the kit.” She wrenches it open, bottles tumbling to the floor, folded paper full of herbs scattering as she pulls the cork on a swirling translucent orange mixture, flecks of red and brown dislodged from an unpleasantly thick sludge at the bottom as she shakes it.

“Feverfew, artemisia, skullcap, ginger, lungwort.” She explains, pressing it into his palms. “To stabilise your fire, dear. Drink slowly, don’t make yourself sick.”

The man - Yao - is muttering something as he walks a circle around the bone barrier. He marks five points with black candles, a second circle walked with resin and heady herbs burning in a censor. Zuko fights not to gag, his stomach rolling at the scent. The potion burns as he forces it down despite Wu’s insistence on going slow.

At least he can sit up properly by the end of it. He takes deep, hitching breaths as he feels more than sees her remove the bottle from him, feels her smear something thick and greasy across his forehead, his palms, the soles of his feet. The fire behind him is being built to a roar by Yao.

“Hold your hands together, dear. That’s it.” She keeps his hands level, palms together as she binds them tight with rope. When had she taken off his gloves? He groans, the heat at his back nothing compared to the feeling of his veins catching fire. Maybe he shouldn’t have drunk that whole bottle. Sweat rolls across his skin, his eyes closed tight against the sensation.

“A drink - for the Gods, for this poor spirit.” Three cups are filled with baijiu. He feels Yao bow behind him, Aunt Wu in front of him before they drink. The third cup is raised to his lips, delicate in Aunt Wu’s grip. Her other hand is less delicate on his face, holding him still even as he gags, bile rising in his throat. I don’t want this! I’m so sorry!

“Now, where do you feel their presence the most?” Please, I didn’t mean to. Please, please, you don’t have to do this.

“....Glass in’m forehead.” Zuko manages, curling forward over his tied hands despite himself. Come on, he could do this. She would make him just be him again, no more voice, no more headaches - they had to be because of this fucking spirit - and no more shit happening that he couldn’t understand.

“Alright.” She moves back, Yao taking over to lay a white cloth on the floor, helping Zuko shuffle so it was below his knees. Wouldn’t do to dirty the floor, after all. “We’re almost done, dear. Just a bit longer.”

“Bite this.” She folds a talisman drawn onto thick yellow paper. He can taste the fresh ink bleeding through it.

Aunt Wu takes a deep breath, shaking out her hands before she pulls her quartz dagger out from her sleeve, Yao’s arms steading the trembling boy. She prays as she stands, pushing his head back into the light of the fire, ignoring the whine that slips past the folded talisman.

She breaks his skin.

Blood courses quickly from the gash, splattering across his hands as he lurches. She barely has a second to cut the rope from his hands before he’s braced on his hands and knees, retching blue-black ooze flecked with gold.

“Shit. This is why I told him to drink the damn thing slowly.”

Chapter Text

Dawn. Pale gold light filters through shuttered windows. Meng yawns as she tries to get her hair into order, braids taking form before she kneels in front of the manor’s main altar. She lights incense, three sticks. Gentle, floral smoke drifts slowly up. She bows, thinking through her chores for the day. She bows again, trying to focus on the carving of the benevolent goddess set into the wood. She bows a third time, for a reason she does not know but she can feel, restless and humming in the wood around her. Aunt Wu has hung a new mask in her fortune telling room, blue and white. Meng looks up at it, watching it watch her as she leaves to truly start her day.

Their kitchens are large and open, large clay ovens dotting their courtyard just beyond its door. She stirs the coals, bringing water from the well to fill the large iron kettle as the fire comes to life. Today, the women of the village will come through the back gates and cook their bread together. Yao will come sit with them, prescribing this and that for clearer skin or luck in love. Aunt Wu will see them one by one while their bread is baking, assuming there are no visitors to the village - she always prioritised the visitors. In the afternoon, she will read clouds. The village ladies would all go home with their bread, though one or two always left some for her.

She hoped Old Woman Shiyi decided she would bake a sweet bread today - she always liked her stuff the best.

“Good morning, Meng.” Yao yawns, reaching for his wooden cabinet filled with herbs. “We have a guest this morning - he likely will not eat, but our later guests will. Do you want help making anything for them?”

“No, that’s ok! Aunt Wu showed me how to make bean curd puffs last week, and I promised Eki that I’d teach her today.” Eki’s mom always said she didn’t need help with her bread anyway, so usually she followed Meng around on baking days. “Is that who brought the mask last night? I thought I heard music… Oh! Was it a ghost? Is that why it feels like it’s watching me?”

Yao paused, half way through filling a smaller teapot with leaves. “I’m surprised it still has the energy to do that, but yes. A spirit with great love of the arts, from what Wu told me. Its host appeared distressed, so we acted. I personally believe the spirit was not used to having a bender as a host, considering what occurred, but.. Let me know if it tries to speak with you, or if anything strange starts happening.”

“Ohhh… Is that our guest, then? The bender?” Yao nods, Meng moving to look at the herbs he set out. “Ginseng tea with tsuli and skullcap… Ew, remind me never to get possessed if that’s what I have to drink after. Do you think he’d like geimatcha? I can make some geimatcha for him, and we’ve still got sesame crackers from yesterday.”

“Maybe, but let’s try him on this tea first. Do you know why I chose these herbs?” She closed her eyes, reciting her lessons well. Ginseng belonged to blood and fire, tsuli belonged to air and brought balance to the mind while opening the lungs, with skullcap bringing protection against spirits and the grounding of earth. She gets her hair ruffled for her efforts, Yao smiling as she scolds him. She just fixed her hair!

“What would you do to change it?” He asks, watching and she scrunches up her freckled face in concentration.

“I’d make it into a salad. With nuts and yellow pear-apples.” She concludes. That would help balance the bitterness, and she could pick her way around the tsuli if it started overwhelming everything else.

“Alright, dried pear-apple and walnut bits it is. Medicine always works best if you can drink it easily, right?” Yao nodded, adding a small amount of each to the pot before filling it with steaming water, a cup coming to rest along with a small container of honey on a round tray. He grabs a whole apple-pear for himself.

“Would you like to come with me while I bring this to our guest?” She’s surprised he even had to ask.

———

Their guest is the palest person she’s ever seen, nearly the same shade as the bandages wrapped around his head. He doesn’t stir when they walk in, or at the sound of the tea tray coming to rest on the bedside table. Meng stands beside Yao as he lifts the stranger’s arm, fingers at his wrist.

“Chi is still moving slowly… Meng, here. Tell me what you feel.” Yao shuffles to the side, correcting Meng’s grip. She takes a measured breath, closing her eyes and trying to listen fully to the body below her.

“He feels… spicy? And bitter. Is that cause he has a fever?” She frowns. There wasn’t the slightest flush to his features, but he still felt a bit warmer than the average person.

“Try again, Meng. Remember, this person is a bender.” This doesn’t help. She scrunches her nose at the spicy bender before refocusing. Earthbenders usually were…. earthier. Like fresh herbs and vegetables, or the one time Aunt Wu slipped some mushrooms into dinner “just to try, dear”. A waterbender wouldn’t be this far from the poles, and she can’t imagine them feeling like this. That left…

“Firebender.” She gasps, dropping his arm like it had burned her. She backs away, the scar she barely paid attention to earlier now looking more like a promise of what could happen to her, to this village.

“Yes.” Yao puts a steady hand on her shoulder. “He’s a firebender. Make sure you remember that part of his energy, but don’t let it overwhelm the rest. What would you do if you sensed that bitter energy from someone else?”

“I’d make them eat a whole bunch of sweets so they could remember that there are good things.” Meng answered slowly, not turning away from the bender. Did that bitterness come from something he had done, or something done to him?

“And what else did you feel?” Yao prompts, moving to pick up the firebender’s wrist once more.

“Nothing, just those two things and his pulse. It was weird. Can I go now?”

Yao nods, sighing as she leaves. “You are far more trouble than I thought you would be, Prince Zuko.” Yao felt the blocks and tangles in his energy, the sluggish movement of his chi, but he could not feel what Meng felt. Usually her readings were more elaborate - apparently his energy was similar to the bao Ha Pin would sell once a week as a special at his market stall. It felt like some of the knots had been there for years, his energy routing through paths it wasn't supposed to take long term. He wasn’t sure if it was that Meng was picking up on, or if somehow all the rest of the ‘flavours’ that made up a person were just… missing. Well, he would treat what he could.

___________

Zuko wakes up alone. Fully and truly alone. He feels the bandages around his forehead, but no pain. His left eye does not want to open. He scrubs at it with his palm, resigned to a bad vision day. He smears the crusty goop that had been sealing his eye shut on the sheets.

It had been over a year since the last time his eye was this bad. A milky grey film blocks out most of what was on his left side. The same milky grey that the specialist Uncle had dragged aboard said would be there forever. They had been wrong. It took a few months, but they were wrong. He just needed to wait for it to clear again. Even on his bad days, it eventually got to the point where it was like looking through a light mist. It would clear. He would just have to wait a few hours.

He should get up. He should at least look around. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to do much of anything. On any other day this would bother him. No pain pins him to the bed. No fever steals his strength. There’s a hollow in his chest, but that wasn’t a reason to stay still. He just… doesn’t want to move.

He tries to think of Uncle - he must be worried half to death. He still hasn’t figured out what he’s going to do to get back to his ship. That should motivate him. Guilt stirs weakly inside of him as he stares at the ceiling. He tells himself to focus and work on a plan. He gets stuck trying to think about what comes after ‘step one: move’. It seemed pointless to move if he couldn’t figure out what to do when he was up. And eventually, he just resigns himself to thinking about what was waiting for him, if he did manage to figure out how to return.

He wonders if Uncle… It’s not like he had been a particularly pleasant person to be around. He was rude, and loud, and never listened. He wonders if Uncle was relieved to have a break from him, under the worry. The crew certainly would be. What would happen if he didn’t go back? They couldn’t actually retire - hardly anyone retired from the Navy these days - but maybe they wouldn’t be dragged around hostile waters as much. They could get something a bit closer to home. Maybe see their families at least once a year. His Uncle could drink as much tea and play as much pai sho as he wanted.

….Was this him? Really, actually him? He didn’t feel anything inside of him. There weren’t any whispers or strange little pushes at his consciousness to get up, get out, and do something even if it was pointless. Especially if it was pointless.

So. This was him. How he actually was.

He breathes out, rolling to the right, back to the door. He couldn’t go back to sleep. His Father was right about him. He’d probably seen this in him, before Zuko even got that stupid cursed mask.

Zuko cannot hear the opening of the door. He cannot hear the dozen women now filtering into the courtyard, chattering to each other just beyond his window.

“Good morning, dear. Are you awake yet?” She keeps her voice gentle, not wanting to startle the poor boy. He startles anyway, the heavy thump of her kit on the floor beside his bed bringing his attention to her. His gold eyes seem dull, a film she didn’t remember seeing last night over his left.
“I’m glad you are up at last. I heard firebenders always rose with the sun, but it looks like I heard wrong. I’m afraid your tea has gone cold.” She pulls up a chair, smiling gently with her hands in her laps. “How are you feeling?”

“....What?” He rasps, voice rough as if he hadn’t spoken in days.

“I asked how you are, dear.” She speaks louder this time, watching him frown before he shifts, turning to favour his right ear. “How are you?” she repeats once again.

He shrugs, leaning back to rub at the remains of his left ear.

“No aches, no pains?” He nods after a moment.

“There’s nothing. I don’t really feel anything. I sound like this, but it doesn’t hurt.” He touches his throat, finally noticing the teapot beside them. She pours a cup for him without him asking her to, a generous dollop of honey swirled in. He doesn’t ask her what is in it, drinking it without a word. He doesn’t even twitch at the bitter, oversteeped flavour that she knew no amount of honey could truly cover.

“And your bending?” She’s careful to keep her language vague. The walls had a tendency to grow ears on baking day.

He closes his eyes for a moment before bringing a flame to his palm with a flick of his wrist. A bit smaller than usual, pale and wavering slowly - a candle flame rather than a hearthfire.

“Well, you did just go through something physically and spiritually traumatic….” She sighs before gesturing at him to come sit at the edge of the bed. “Let’s take a look at you.”

Chapter Text

“And when was the last time you ate?” She asks, fingers still wrapped around his wrist. He could smell baking bread by now, the morning halfway done, lost to her seemingly endless poking and prodding.

“...Two days ago?” It had been before Pouhai, and even then he hadn’t eaten much. It wasn’t like it was top of his priority list.

“Oh my, I’ve been a bad host. I should have asked much earlier. Any hunger pangs? Cravings?” She frowned at him, finally releasing his wrist.

“No.” He didn’t count the weird not-hunger he had before he entered into Aunt Wu’s house. Whatever that was, it was gone now. “I’m not hungry.”

“Yes you are, dear. Your head just isn’t listening to your stomach.” She pops open her kit, thumbing through triangular folds of medicine. “Take this with the rest of your tea. I’ll get you some of that bread. This one won’t unsettle your gut if you drink it quickly, but try and take it slow.” She hands him a single packet.

“Why are you doing this?” His rough voice comes out softer than he means it to as he looks down at the packet in his calloused hands. “You know who I am. You are under no obligation to-.”

“Oh don’t bore me with ‘obligation’ talk. I’m not obligated to do anything. I choose to do this. Actively. Every single day.” She closes her kit with a snap. “My skills could afford me a place in most any royal court. Perhaps one day you’ll be able to understand why I have chosen this instead.”

He feels a small spark of anger catch in his gut. Of course she assumed he couldn’t understand. Of course she cut him off before he could even finish what he wanted to say in the first place. But that feeling goes nowhere. No desire to rage or burn follows in hand. It doesn’t matter. He shouldn’t have asked anything in the first place - it’s not like anyone over the age of 30 ever explained anything to him anyway.

There’s a knock on the door - sharp, clear, loud even to his ears. He can see a head topped with messy braids poke into the room. The little girl stared at him for a moment like he was some hideous, venomous tiger-snake. “Aunt Wu, Yao said that our other guests are gonna be here soon.” She eventually says.

“I’ll be right along, dear. Could I bother you to fetch some breakfast for this one while I prepare?” She lifts her kit in one hand, bottles clinking with the movement.

“I don’t… Can Yao do it instead?” The girl shrinks back.

“I can just -” Zuko finds himself ignored, grumbling under his breath as Aunt Wu says some nonsense about seeing him as a person before anything else. The kid was right to be afraid of him. He would be in her shoes. He stops trying to follow their conversation quickly, focusing instead on the shuttered window beside his bed.

“Um-” Meng brings herself further into the room, pointing at the window as it clacks closed seconds later, the firebender vanishing nearly without a sound. “You sure you got all the ghost out of him?”
__________________

It is a cruel thing to be nauseous when one lacks a body with organs.

They swirl in the dark, unmoored without sight or sound. They can feel the movement of other souls, far off. They try to move forward and feel the edges of their wooden stage, the wooden mask. They feel regret and pain and hurt, deep and human. The tatters of their Prince remain warm, bits of his soul clinging to them. If they had just had more time, if they could have just-

It was an accident.

They are not a God, and so they are fallible. They wanted space, but that is all. The humans had been efficient in their exorcism - they can feel the weight of their returned blessings over their shoulders, heavy and lopsided. They had tailored them, a perfect fit for what their Prince wanted. The fine tuned hearing, the keen vision, the strength that they pushed into his voice so he could yell over storms and thunder despite the persistent rasp gained from screaming as his flesh melted those many years ago… Blessings they had given time and time again to other humans made particular over years of listening to their Prince demanding more and more of himself.

They knew they should have set a price. Gods can bless without consequence. Spirits required an exchange. They knew this. They blessed him anyway. They figured they would have the time necessary to figure out a price later. Something other than the shreds of him they now held.

Linear time - human time - was a lot harder to gauge when you weren’t necessarily bound by it and there was no script to follow.

Now there was more of that stinking incense that kept them small and trapped and sick floating through the air. Now there was a small girl praying. They feel the thrum of her hopes, and they itch to reach out and speak with her. If they could just explain…

She is gone before they have the energy to even try. They fall back into the void of nothing around them. At least they could feel the Avatar drawing closer. They would rest, and when he arrived, the Blue Spirit would be ready regardless of what foul things the witch kept burning.

__________

Eki is 10 years old. Once a week she helps her mom carry whatever flour was shared out from the community mill over to the courtyard of Aunt Wu’s estate. Her mom told her technically it was supposed to be a building for all of them - they could come get their fortunes told whenever, they could be prescribed herbs for a hundred different problems, they could bake bread and use the kitchens freely as long as they brought in supplies. They could even sleep there if they didn’t want to sleep at home. Aunt Wu just happened to have been residing there the longest. And she paid for nearly everything. Just because her services were free for the villagers and children didn’t mean it was free for everyone.

Yao had joined her long ago enough that Eki didn’t remember a time he didn’t live there too. He smelled weird, but she thought that was just something that happened to old men. Her uncle smelled too, but more like wine and less like herbs. He gave her little honey candies if he caught her doing extra work, so he wasn’t too bad.

She remembered when Meng came to the village though. She had been even smaller, dirt smeared on her cheeks and the bones in her wrists way too prominent as she scrubbed at her eyes. Eki had watched her cry, fat tears rolling down her cheeks as she ate the bread old woman Shiyi had offered her. She promised then that nothing bad or scary would enter into this place and Meng would never cry ever again. She would be the barrier that kept the estate separate from the rest of the world.

So when a weird, pale teen tripped over her she does not scream or cry or shout. She sees the red glare of his left side and decides instantly he is one of Aunt Wu’s special clients, possessed by an ogre and trying to escape. She grabs a rolling pin while the others gawk, bringing it down on the back of his head with a hollow thunk.

“Anybody got a rope?”

Chapter Text

I really hate this place. The back of his head feels tender, a dull thread of pain coursing through his skull. Pain, at least, is familiar. The ground feels hot, more like a sun baked beach at midday and less like the cool earth of the courtyard he finds himself in. Zuko blinks against the pain in his head, dirt and grasses still yellowed from winter swimming into focus for his right eye. Rope is wrapped loosely around his wrists, his hands tied behind his back. He smells bread, cooking fires, and the lingering scent of spices from a meal long past. There’s women talking, their hushed voices making it impossible for him to make anything out though he can see how they cluster together just beyond his reach. Shoes, leather worn and patched with the faded shape of a sunlily enter into his field of vision.

“Did you really think you could get away, demon?” The child’s voice is clear and loud, projecting for her audience. Her arms are crossed, her expression stern as any palace guard despite being barely taller than him even while he was sitting down.

“I’m human.” He growls, watching her narrow his eyes at him. “I just look like this, asshole.”

She hums, leaning forward into his space. He pulls back, scowling as she sniffs at him. Why was everyone in this town so weird? “You smell like an exorcism, and you sound weird. You sure you’re human now?”

“Do you honestly think that if I were a demon I’d let a little girl interrogate me?” He shifts, a careful tug making the rope fall away easily. He drops the rope before her feet. “You’re not even good at this.”

“Yeah, well I still knocked you out!” She sticks her tongue out at him, posture proud at the chattering of the women changes in pitch. He scoffs as he rubs his wrists to soothe the irritation left by the rough rope. “If you’re not a demon, you should prove it.”

“What, do you want to dunk me in the river and see if I float?”

“What? No! Everyone knows that sort of thing doesn’t work.” She frowns for a moment, thinking through her options. “Momma, do we still have the poles from last time?”

_____

Zuko’s breath comes in a rush, bare feet pounding scorching earth as he jumps between twin bamboo poles, stumbling over a rhyme taught to him only minutes before as women shout encouraging words. His face is hot, flushed to his ears with embarrassment. The girl is laughing, skirts hitched up to her knees as she spins and dodges, feet barely touching the ground. There’s a rhythm to the whole thing that he can’t quite get, the bamboo nearly clipping him before the women clap it on the ground. They keep on getting faster somehow.

“My, you look like you’re having fun.” The old man’s voice is finally the thing that makes him stumble, biting back curses as he limps away from Eki as she crows victory.

“It’s not like I had a choice - she wouldn’t let me leave without doing this stupid game.” Zuko grumbles, shrugging off the old lady that went to pat his shoulder in sympathy. At least it’s cooler now that he’s not directly on the ground.

“Ahhh…. Eki does get some novel ideas regarding malicious spirits. And strangers. Still, it is good to see you up and about.” It’s not an apology, but he bows his head like it is. It doesn’t matter. He’ll be out of here soon anyway. Once it feels like his foot doesn’t feel like it’s going to fall off.

“Good news, you’re not a demon! You just suck! It’s Oma who lost the shoe, not Shu. You gotta get it right or nobody’s gonna want to play with you.” Eki plops down on his right side, still grinning. “And your footwork needs a lot of work.”

“Yeah, I’ll get right on that. Can I go now?” He waves off a different middle aged lady offering him freshly baked bread. She shrugs, handing it to Eki instead who rips into the little loaf greedily.

“Now that Eki has pronounced you demon free, I suppose so. But I would recommend resting for a day or two. I assume you didn’t finish the tea or take the medicine Aunt Wu prescribed?”

“I can’t just sit around here drinking tea and huffing powders. I have to get back to-” Hunting the Avatar, who should still be in the area. Back to his Uncle. Back to his crew. Back to a place where he could wear his own face and hear his own name. Maybe then the hollow feeling in his chest would actually ease instead of something he could only be temporarily distracted from.

“You need to take care of your body or your Uncle will find himself missing you on a more permanent basis.” Zuko flinches at Yao’s words. “At least eat something. Take a bath. I’ll prepare some ink and a scroll for you - letters travel quicker than tired feet.”

“I could have written to him this whole time-” Zuko yells, or tries to. His voice catches in his throat, rasp turning into a cough. He feels a small hand at his back. Not rubbing, not smacking, just gentle and sturdy.

“I’ll make you some fresh tea. You will eat, and drink, and then we will talk.”

________

There is a texture to the air, dense as velvet. They sway their energy over it, unbodied fingers drinking in the ebbs and flows. The Avatar is near. The Great Bridge. Without a body of flesh and bone to ground them they feel it fully, as they had not even days before. Amazing, how dull the senses could get when one is inhabiting the body of another, even after a short time. Yes, it had been a choice, but perhaps they would have chosen differently, if there was another way. The incense the witch favoured burnt out long ago, the remains of the smoke clearing out as humans enter and exit the heart of her practice. It is enough. The Gods appear to be on their side, at least for the moment, the borders of their confinement weak. The child walks in. They reach out.

“Oh, hey! There you are.” The Avatar sees them immediately. They smile as he takes a step closer. That’s it.

“Young man, come away from them. I’m afraid your spirit friend is grounded at the moment.” The witch's voice breaks their spell. Grounded? On whose authority? Ridiculous. The shreds of flame they hold burn brighter, fueling and fueled by their indignation. It stings.

“Awh man… what did they do?” Aang edged away, the Blue Spirit cursing.

“They harmed their host.” An accident! If they could just give their Prince this bit of his soul back, then it would be like nothing ever happened. They were sure of it. They hold the shred of fire tighter, soaking in the pain it grants them.

“Oh no! Are they ok?”

“He will be, in time. Their host’s soul is particularly resilient. But regardless of intention, harm is harm. Now, come and sit. I sense a very interesting future is waiting for you.” The Spirit falls back into the borders of their mask, unable to do anything more now that the Avatar was officially outside of their sphere of influence. It wasn’t fair.

Chapter Text

Madam Wu leans back on the soft cushions as the Avatar leaves for a moment, breathing deep. “Great Spirits, may that boy have the wisdom of a turtle lion and the fortitude of dragon forged steel.” She mutters before moving again, clearing away ashes and bones. She disposes of them in a woven basket, together with the other fortunes of the week. Later Eki and Meng would bring it into the woods to lay it to rest with the village dead.

Dusting herself off, she turns to face the silent mask hanging in the corner. “It's unbecoming for a spirit to sulk, young one.”

I have not asked for your opinion, witch.

She has the audacity to laugh. “Oh, come now. You know I mean no real harm - you wouldn't have come here if I did.”

And yet you ripped me from my chosen. I should curse you.

“You can try, dear.” The witch stands under them now, pulling out a fresh stick of incense. “Your Prince will be fine.”

No thanks to you. They reach out to the smoldering tip of her incense, the flame in their palm glowing brighter as the embers turn to ash, incense extinguished in a puff.

She huffs, shaking her head. “If a child comes to me, scared and confused because someone didn’t explain their gifts or presence, and asks me to act, I will act. Surely you can understand that.”

I asked you not to frighten him!The incense is lit again, and again they push to extinguish it. It flares instead, burning quickly in Wu’s hand.

“I do not think I was the one frightening him, dear.” She pinches the flame between her fingers before waving smoke in their direction. They shrink from it, wishing they had hands to plug their nose. “Either way, what will you do now? You’ve heard the Bridge’s fate. You can go with him when he comes to steal my book, or you can wait for your Prince. Of course, you are always welcome to remain here if your path ends up taking some time to return to.”

I would feel much more welcome if you weren’t burning that shit.

She laughs again. They think they may hate her, though her voice was so sweet when they sang together. “Stop trying to leave before it’s time and perhaps I will offer you a song instead.”

—

Yao’s study is, in a word, creepy. Crowded walls bare down on Zuko as he tries to write, bent over a low desk. Years of burning incense left a sooty, sticky feeling lingering around the delicately carved edges of it. There's a two-headed mocking jay displayed beside a black mirror, stinking herbs overflowing from a half-open chest of drawers. There are bones, half-finished fetishes, and twisted roots everywhere. He can’t sense the fire in the center chambers and cannot feel the pull of the Avatar’s presence just down the hall. Below him, the wooden floors leak heat like sun-soaked metal. There’s a thrumming in his chest, and his bad eye still hasn’t cleared. His knees thump against the bottom of the low table he’s leaned over, the ink from his brush threatening to smear the parchment below his hand.

It’s hard to think. He wants to call Yao back to confirm if the route he wants to take is still clear, or if the spring floods had overrun the path with rushing water. He doesn’t want to talk to anyone.

No, that’s not true. He wants to talk to Uncle. He wants to yell at Lieutenant Ji to get them the hell out of here, and then sit down with Uncle while they go through maps together. Uncle would insist on tea, Zuko would complain but drink it anyway. They’d put together the Avatar’s likely route, Zuko would bother Uncle for an update on the ship’s supplies, Uncle would bemoan not having enough tea (he never had enough tea), and maybe then everything would be normal. No voices, no potions, no stupid weird kids calling him a demon. Just his mission, his Uncle, and his ship.

He groans, flopping back onto the too-warm floor. It shouldn’t be this hard to just write a fucking letter. It’s coded, but he memorized the code years ago. The weird empty feeling had been fading slowly, but that shouldn’t be a distraction. It’s nothing, how could it be a distraction? The only thing he can think of is the restless energy that swept through the city the last time Caldera’s own volcano had been threatening to wake up.

But it can’t be that. An earthbender would have been able to sense a change in the volcanic core - the increasing pressure on the surrounding rocks, fissures threatening to burst like a blood-filled blister from the ground. Even without a bender, no village would just leave a volcano unmonitored, Earth Kingdom or no. There weren’t any alarms though, no scurrying to evacuate or dig barriers.

It was probably just a side effect from whatever Madame Wu gave him. He barely remembers the exorcism, but he remembers the potion’s bitter burn. It would pass.

Maybe he should eat something. He wasn’t hungry, not really, but it had been a while. The thought of accepting actual food blindly didn’t sit well, but maybe he could find some rice he could prepare on his own. He could make rice. How hard could it be?

Agni is high in the sky, puffy white clouds drifting slowly overhead by the time he finds his way back to the kitchen, the chattering village ladies gone. There’s some sweet bread cooling on the kitchen counter next to an overly large teapot, a wok hanging from a hook in the wall, and a smoldering fire waiting to be woken up.

He starts with the fire. Zuko builds it slowly, flames licking playfully at his fingers as he layers on a few slim logs. It’ll be a bit before the fire is good to cook with - he knows that he’s going to need a consistent flame for consistent heat at least. He could push it to catch faster, burn brighter, burn hotter. Part of him wants to. He wants to feed it until the air around him is as hot as he can stand, until he can feel nothing but the fire’s warm embrace.

He turns to try and find the rice instead.
___

All Meng wanted was some of Old Woman Shiyi’s sweetbread to snack on while Aunt Wu read the clouds. What she gets instead is a trail of black coming from the kitchen, a pale-faced teenager who jumps when she yells, and a face full of soot when she dumps a kettle full of water on the too-big fire.

She doesn’t pause to think, rounding on the firebender with fury in her eyes. “What is wrong with you?! Were you trying to burn the whole kitchen down, you stupid firebug!”

“I just-” He rasps, hands held palm up in front of his chest.

“Just nothing! I don’t know why Auntie thought - Augh, this is going to take ages to clean up!” She tugs her pigtails before pushing past Zuko to grab a few rags. “Here, take this, grab some salt, and maybe you can salvage that wok.”

“I don’t-”

“Nope! You burnt it, you get to clean it.” She shakes her own rag at him.

“I was trying to say I don’t know where the salt is.” His features are pinched, golden eyes looking anywhere but her.

“Oh. Why didn’t you just say so?”

—

They talk while they work. Or rather, Meng talks and he mostly listens. Meng stays on his right side without him having to say anything, complaining loudly that she’s going to miss Aunt Wu’s reading because of him.

“I was trying to cook some rice.” He supplies after she works her anger out by scrubbing at the soot left around the stovetop. He’s not sure she heard him, but a few minutes later when there’s nothing but the shadow of culinary disaster in the kitchen she pulls a smaller, cleaner pot out from the recesses of the cupboards.

“Well don’t just sit there, grab the kettle and get some water from the barrel outside. I’ll show you what to do.”

Chapter Text

“I thought you were scared of me.” They’re sitting together in the shade, a bowl of rice for him and a small mountain of sweet bread for Meng, a kettle full of genmaicha between them. Part of him is surprised she was able to drink it almost immediately after pouring, like it wasn’t summer hot out. Zuko always thought cold drinks were more popular in Earth Kingdom during the warm months.

“Why would I be scared of a guy who got knocked out by a 10 year old?” Meng says blandly as Zuko chokes on his rice.

“W-here did you-?”

“Eki’s like my best friend, duh!” She grins. “She told you made the stuuupidest face when she got you! Like bleeeeh~” Her eyes roll back, tongue sticking out.

“I did not-!” He’s red to his ears, shouting dissolving into a cough.

“Ew, you sound gross. Are you ok?” Sweet bread abandoned on the table, Meng carefully refills his tea. “Here, this’ll help.”

He drinks deeply, breathing slowly. “Sorry, this is new. I don’t -” He pauses, hand rubbing his throat.

“Well, don’t strain yourself. Hold on.” She hops down, walking purposefully into the kitchen, only to reappear seconds later to shove something into his hand.

“Candied ginger! It’ll fix basically anything. Cause it’s fire aligned it should be really good for you too, Demon Boy.”

He inhales only to have her hand slap over his face. “No yelling! The less I know about you the better, so it’s either Demon Boy or Firebug and I don’t know about you but I’d muuuuch rather be a demon than a fire bender.”

“Just get your gross fingers out of my mouth.” He lightly shoves her arm away.

____

A black and white flower sways on the crater's edge high on Mount Makapu far above the two boys. Sokka’s gangly limbs pull him slowly up the dramatic slope, his arms starting to burn as he pulls his way over another boulder. Aang floats from rock to rock ahead of him, gravity secondary to his concerns about love.

“I can’t believe you dragged me up here.” Sokka wipes the sweat off his brow once he finds solid support for each one of his limbs, small scrapes stinging his fingertips. “I don’t get what’s so great about a- Nevermind.” He sighs as Aang cheers, the first black and white blossoms coming into view.

Aang hums, hovering over each bloom, carefully grooming through their petals to check for damage. Sokka grumbles, walking past Aang to examine the crater.

Lava is loud. It roars like a blizzard, a blanket of noise like the pressing of his palms against his ears, the rushing of blood, the concerned voice of Aang.

“Oh no.” Sokka, heart in his throat, wishes for once in his life that he was wrong about something. He wishes that psychics were real, that the Spirits cared so much about them that they would deliberately leave messages in tea, palms, bones, and clouds.

“Aunt Wu was wrong.”
___

The restless feeling refuses to leave Zuko. It gets worse as the rice he ate tries and fails to settle into his stomach. He feels nauseous, the thrumming in his chest a memory of stage fright, the heat around him oppressive. For a moment, he is 8 years old, twisting the hem of his shirt between small, sweaty hands, his tsugi horn waiting beside him and his sister grinning like a cottonmouth-alligator and Zuko fighting every instinct he had to run.

“Meng.” His leg bounces under the table. It’s nothing, it’s nothing. It’s just feelings, some stupid triggering of fight-or-flight for no reason. But he needs to confirm, he needs to know it’s nothing.

“Your Demon-ness?” She drawls, leaned back with her eyes on the clouds.

“I am not-” Zuko hisses before clamping his mouth shut, breathing deeply through his nose. “Do you think that-” He swallows, wishing they hadn’t already drunk all the tea. Why was it so fucking hot? “When was the last time Makapu was surveyed?”

“Uhhhhm…” Meng hums, tilting her head to glance at Zuko. “Well, Auntie reads the clouds every year. I don’t know about this year cause somebody doesn’t know how to cook so I missed the reading, but she always says it isn’t going to explode so it’s probably fine? Why?” She sits up straighter as he jumps to his feet. “Demonie?”

“You need to get out of here. Grab everyone you can.” A strong grip clamps down on her arm, dragging her from her seat and towards the rear gates. She stumbles, crying out as he hauls her forward, free hand trying to pry Zuko’s pale fingers open.

The ground shakes. A deafening sound makes her stomach drop into her toes. Molton earth strikes the sky, ash and toxic gases filling the horizon like storm clouds. His voice is the loudest thing she’s ever heard.

“Run.”

So she does.

Blurs of people pass her by, wide-eyed but distracted by someone shouting from the roof. She runs past the crowd, the villagers who did not seem panicked, who trusted so absolutely that they had bet their lives on her word for longer than Meng had been alive. Aunt Wu had spoken, and her word was Truth.

Meng needs to find her, she needs to save this village. Her people. Her home for the past 4 years. She couldn’t have another home be taken from her, she couldn’t do it again.

Eki is the first to be found, Meng flying into her arms. “Meng! What’s wrong? You’ve never missed a reading.” Eki squeezes her tight before holding her at arm’s length, spotting the dirt on her clothes from where she stumbles.

“Eki, we gotta go, we gotta find Auntie and Yao and we gotta go, there’s-”

“Did that possessed jerk do something to you? Should I knock him out again?” Eki scowls, already pushing up her sleeves.

“No! Eki, listen to me.” Meng pushes her arms down, holding her fast. “Mount Makapu’s gonna blow.”

“What? No way, Aunt Wu said-” Eki cuts herself off, taking in her friend’s drawn features. “...How long do we have?”

“Not long enough. That guy - he’s a firebender.” The blood leaves her friend’s face, fear and disgust twisting her features in equal measure. “He ran towards the volcano, I think he’s trying to stop it. He told me to run, and I-” Meng speaks quickly, pausing only to take a steadying breath. Maybe it was foolish, maybe it was rash - her Aunt had never, ever been wrong and yet..

The boy couldn’t even cook rice without it burning. He couldn’t defend against a 10 year old. The bravest, strongest 10 year old she ever met, but 10 years old all the same. He couldn’t be a soldier, a spy, or a killer. “I trust him. We have to find Auntie and get everyone out of here.”

Silence stretches between them, the crowd that had gathered to watch whoever was yelling dissipating in grumbles and scoffs.

“Ok.” Eki nods after a moment, surveying what she can see of the people still ambling about. “You take north, I’ll take south. Meet back up at Aunt Wu’s in 20 minutes. Let’s save this stupid village.”

________________

Aang’s feet barely touch the ground as he searches, darting from place to place within Aunt Wu’s estate. Not in her room, not in the study with the gross stuffed bird, not in the kitchen, not in the sweet buns near the kitchen which Momo helps him check by shoving a few buns in his mouth, not in the bathroom, not in the other bedroom, or the next one, or the one that looked closer to a healer’s room-

Over here.

He halts mid-step, walking slowly to the inner chambers. A murmur passes through the darkness as he pulls open the door. “Hello?”

A hiss of flame, two candles lit on the low altar. Their orange glow catches the curve of white fangs caught in a grin.

“I can’t play with you, Blue.” Aang approaches slowly, trying to catch the outline of a book in the scant light. “I’m looking for a book. It’s pretty important - can you help?”

The light shifts instantly, bright and clear as lanterns light themselves overhead. Of course, Avatar. I only ask a small favour in return…

Chapter Text

Above, a glider swirling up and up into the ash-darkened sky carves a cloud into a skull. Below, two girls run from house to house searching for the Fortune Teller. Momo flies, book in claw, to wrap around Sokka’s shoulders as he stands lookout. Katara tries to gather the town, kind words and promises to put on a show for the kids drawing people closer. They need to be ready to run - Sokka can feel it the back of his calves, bouncing on his toes as he looks over the village again, again, and again. It feels like there's a polar bear dog bearing down on him.

Meng’s breath bursts in a quick staccato rhythm. The shared gardens are steps away. Aunt Wu stands under twisted cyprus branches. They run together.

Aang turns away. Streams of lava create thermal rivers in the air. His glider wants to buck and waver. He holds it steady.

There! The Spirit’s voice, the mask stuffed in his top. Below you.

Golden eyes, black hair, black clothes. A vicious scar, red as the molten rock bubbling beside him. Zuko stares, furious, as the Avatar comes towards him.

“You shouldn’t be here!” Zuko’s voice grates, rough enough that Aang winces.

“Yikes, you sound awful. What happened?” Aang keeps his glider open, ready to fly.

“None of your business.” He snaps. Did everyone need to comment on his voice? “Either help or leave, we don’t have time for this.”

“Alright, tell me what to do.” Aang draws closer, coming to stand on equal ground with Zuko. He could reach out and grab him.

Zuko's eyes flit across the lava flows. This close Aang can see the film clouding half his vision.

“We need to create a vent away from the village. You can earthbend, right?” The heat around them feels like it'll blister Aang’s skin. His stomach twists.

“I haven't done it before.” The admission curdles in his throat. They can’t afford failure.

“Great! No time like the fucking present.” The lava around them bubbles and bursts, Aang dancing out of the way of the sparks.

“There's a parasitic vent on the eastern face. Open that up and it'll redirect the flow.” Zuko looks through the haze of smoke and ash towards the east. “Follow me.”

Two steps back and Zuko bolts, vaulting over the burning river. Aang hesitates for a mere moment. Everything is in stark relief, black and red and glowing gold.

He follows Zuko, cushioning each long leap with a burst of air. A misstep could cost a leg. Hostile ground heaves halfway to the eastern face, a shower of molten rocks hailing down on them. Aang blasts the worst away, and they’re off again.

Earth dwindles below their feet, eaten up by heat and fire. He can see it now - an odd outcropping, a fissure threatening to burst. Sweat boils on Aang’s skin.

He lands, digs his heels in, and pulls.

Nothing.

Lava roars in his ears. Zuko looks like he’s yelling. Aang’s eyes drift towards the village.

“Do it again!” Zuko has him by the shoulders, voice like a knife before he curves into himself, coughing against the strain, the ash in the air, the toxic fumes leaking from the vents.

“I can’t, I can’t, we have to go-”

Enough. They freeze.

“Where did you-” Zuko hisses, wrenching himself away as Aang pulls the mask from his shirt.

Let me be a conduit. Your senses, to aim true. The Avatar’s blessing on my blade. The mask tilts in his hands, staring up at Aang. It does not have to be a grand blessing, nothing more than a wish and a nudge of will. The Blue Spirit turns to Zuko, head dipped and humble. I will bear any costs. There will be no backlash or harm to either of you.

“..I don’t trust you.”

You don’t need to. You have my vow that I will leave you whole. That I will not inhabit you without your will.

“I don’t think we have another option.” Aang tries, ducking sideways as lava splashes against the edges of their outcropping.

“If it doesn’t leave me immediately, get Madame Wu.” Zuko reaches out, the mask lifting from Aang’s palms, floating on cool blue.

The wood is warm, rough, familiar. A welcome weight settles into his chest, something missing he cannot name settling back into place. Wood turns to stone. Blue and glittering gold grinning wildly in the too-red light.

It begins to melt. Thick rivulets course down his arm, palm overflowing. Stone sinks into skin, blue veins turning black. He can feel it move towards his heart.

Peace, it’s just a different method. I have to borrow you instead of you borrowing me. It’ll be over soon.

A shudder, Zuko’s face goes blank. A mask settles over his skin. He watches his movements from a distance as he reaches behind himself, feeling the weight of his dao. His body is not his own.

“Avatar, we ask for your blessing.” His voice is made different, strange to his own ear. Androgynous, warm. Clear, no rasp from the long, agonising minutes spent conscious, screaming while his face melted under his father’s tender touch.

Stay focused. They kneel, the grit of volcanic ash under their knees, twin blades held up in offering.

“Ok, um..” The Avatar breathes deeply through his nose, one hand held in prayer at his chest, the other extended over their blades. “I bless these blades to strike as one, true enough to split the earth. For the protection of the people this will be done.”

A gentle glow, the oppressive air momentarily broken. The dao twitch in the Spirit’s hands for a single moment before pure white smoke lifts them, cascading patterns in the air. Their Prince breathes his own wish, for fresh baked bread and bitter tea, two girls dancing over bamboo, their lives whole.

“So shall it be.” They, the Spirit and the Prince together as one, bow before taking the floating swords from the air. They step away, dao twisting slowly as they examine the ground beneath their feet. Fire sings to them, monstrous heat making it hard to differentiate between their own body and the volcano.

Heat-sense is not visual, and yet it is. It is not physical, and yet it is. Their Prince guides their breath, the radiant weight of the volcano’s air pressing down on them. Their swords scrape the ground. Sparks take to the air. The fine differences come into focus. They see the fissure waiting to burst open. They can see how deep they need to plunge their blade.

Prop work is easy - turning rags to ribbons, pulling fans out of thin air, colourful bits of flare, no rushing to the wings necessary. This is harder. Circling to build momentum, they let their power flow into their dao. A turn, the swords slide together. A turn, the grip lengthens. A turn, the dao reformed.

“‘To strike as one’, was it?” They grin over their shoulder, the Avatar’s wide grey eyes staring at the oversized guandao in their hand. They couldn’t ask for a better audience.

So they put on a show. They dance with their guandao, building momentum until it pulls them off their feet. They drag the heavy weapon into the air with them, steel ripping through the air to slam into the centre of the fissure. The blowback nearly rips them from the pole. Aang moves in, bending away the superheated gases. The sky cracks, lightning shaking the earth. Lava eats away the remaining ground inch by critical inch.

“Get ready to fly, Avatar.” They swing over to perch on the end of the guandao, glittering blue and gold sparking between their palms.

Their hands slam down. Sparks run down the guandao. The ground bulges, molton cracks ripping the surface. A deafening boom, Aang in the air. The guandao, glowing flame blue. The roar of lava. The stink of sulphur. Unbearable heat.

Zuko watches the guandao expand, buckle, explode. It sounds like canon-fire. A crater opens up below, a bubbling cauldron ready to engulf him.

The Avatar, voice muffled as he yells from somewhere on Zuko’s left. He’s falling. Lava leaps to meet him.

Aang saves him. Zuko watches the mountain fall away, the lava trailing down the southern face to the village slowing. The Avatar’s legs are wrapped around his torso, glider wavering as they get further and further away. The trees beyond the mountain are on fire.

Aand lands, Zuko stumbling away from him, the mask slipping from his face. The glider snaps into a staff, Aang sweeping it in front of him to release a powerful gust. Streams of molten rock mere feet from the village boundary ripple, screaming like broken glass as they rapidly cool, their now slow progress halting. It is not a total fix - the angry core of those streams may burst if agitated - but it is enough.

Aang relaxes his stance, staring up at the older teen for a long moment. “...Do you think we could be friends?”

“Fuck off.” Zuko, faded mask in hand, stomps off towards the burning woods. Aang watches him go, and by the time Katara wraps her arms around his neck to cry in relief, Aang can see the distant flames extinguished, pulled into submission inch by inch by the practised hand of a firebender.

Chapter Text

“Thank the spirits, you did it Aang!” Katara has a wide grin on her face, Momo chittering as he rubs against Aang’s cheek.

“How’d you do it anyway?” Sokka hangs his arm off of Aang’s shoulder, eyes bright and grin like his sister’s. “All we saw was this huge flash and then - boom! - new hole in the mountain.”

“I had help!” Aang beams. “That spirit showed up again. Their human didn’t seem pleased to see me, but it worked out!”

“Oh cool, who’s their human? Wait, wait, don’t tell me - I want to guess.” Sokka hums, squinting as he thinks. Villagers flow around them, checking on eachother, checking on their houses. He can hear their relief, their joy, their murmurs of wonder. “Was it that smelly old guy from Aunt Wu’s?”

“Sokka, that’s so rude! Just because he smells doesn’t mean you should say it.” Katara scolds, looking over her shoulder to make sure Yao wasn’t listening.

“Close!” Aang laughs. “His attitude stinks, but that’s it.”

“Shhh, no hints!” Sokka presses a palm against his mouth, Aang laughing louder as he wrestles his way out of Sokka’s grip. “Was it you, Momo?” Sokka squints at the lemur as he lands on Katara, disturbed from his perch on Aang.

“Oh definitely. Wasn't he with you the entire time?” Katara says to her brother, scratching Momo between his ears.

“That's what he wants you to think!” Sokka points, Katara giggling as the lemur presses against her hand. “Is it true, Momo? You have to tell us if you can turn into a dragon-monkey.”

“If anyone can, he can.” Aang reaches out to scratch under Momo’s chin. “Thanks for your help, buddy!” It was probably better they didn’t know who was under the mask - he didn’t think Zuko actually was about to hurt any of them, but he had a feeling that wouldn’t matter so much to the Water Tribe siblings

“Do you guys want to stay for a bit, or start heading out?” Aang glances over to Sokka - he always was more rigid with their timing. If he plays his cards right, maybe they could get out of here without running across their favourite angry firebender.

“Awh, I kinda wanted to stay for the after party.” Sokka slumps. “But we really should head out soon. Katara, we got everything we needed, right?” Aang relaxes. Good ol’ Sokka.

“Well, I could ask Aunt Wu if-”

“Nope, no, we are not going to the lady who said the volcano wouldn’t explode instead of actually, y’know, checking, and thereby endangering her entire village.” Sokka speaks over Katara, guiding Aang by shoulders away from her. “Come on, Aang. Appa probably wants to make sure you’re ok, what with the whole fire and lava thing.”

“I don’t know Sokka, Aunt Wu said the village wouldn’t be destroyed, not that there wouldn’t be an eruption soo…” Aang slips out of Sokka’s grip the older boy stutters, voice pitching as he decries the whole notion of prophecy. Katara walks after them, teasing. “Awh, you’re just jealous cause spirits don’t want to work with you at all.”

“Hey! You don’t know that. I would be an awesome host.” Maybe not a great medicine man, but he was born to be a knowledge keeper so it’s not like he was totally neglected by Tui and La. He could swing being a host - speak with one of the ancestor’s voices, something like that.

“On account of your many skills and abilities, of course.” Katara nods. “Sure, Sokka.”

“That’s what I’m saying!”

____________

The woods aren’t dry enough to burn quickly, but they burn all the same. Zuko walks slowly along the edge, ash clinging to his clothes as he wrestles down the wildfire. He only has a few yards to go until there’s a solid perimeter. Closer to the mountain, fires still rage. They beg for him to come closer, to empty himself of everything but Agni’s conquering will. The woods would be better for it, the soil richer. Sweat pastes his hair to the back of his neck, itchy and full of grit. He grinds his teeth and tells himself that it’s not time for this place to burn. The mask feels heavy in his gi.

Noise, behind and to the right. A shuffling of feet, the shifting of rocks. Zuko breathes slowly, taking the fire down. He refuses to let it spread. He refuses to believe that he wouldn’t sense an attack coming, even like this. He’s stronger than that. He’s better trained than that. He only looks away when the section he was working on lets out a puff of grey smoke, finally extinguished.

“Need a break, boy? The sooner we can get this done, the sooner we can celebrate.” A middle aged earthbender calls to him, his hands massaging his lower back as the other three men roll the burnt ground, embers extinguished under damp earth. “Some of the women should be along soon with drinks though, if you need a sit.”

“...Thank you.” Zuko inclines his head, confusion settling in his stomach as he turns back to the fire. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this, emergency or no. Maybe it was because he wasn’t wearing armour? Did they think he was a civilian from the colonies? He tugs the fire down, he makes it quiet and tries to do the same to his thoughts. It doesn’t matter, he’ll be out of this weird town soon. He’ll go back to where he belongs - with Uncle, on the Wani, hunting for the Avatar. A golden eye flicks to the sky - there’s no white bison cutting through the smoke.

They’ve finished establishing a perimeter around the fire by the time the women come, the pastel coloured skirts of their robes tarnished black. Yet they walk without hesitation, one of the younger benders pulling benches out of the ground to sit on, bowing as he displays his work to one young lady in particular. She giggles, hiding behind her tea set.

“Save it for the after party, Jian!” The third earthbender yells as he carefully takes the kettle offered by a stout, dower looking woman. “I’ll see you there, right Jun?” He says to her, lighting up as she blushes and nods.

“Don’t pay those fools any mind, son.” The older man says, patting the seat beside him. “Take a load off, drink some tea. You’re gonna need your stamina.”

“What makes you think I’ll help you?”

“...You’re kidding, right? Kid, it usually takes hours to get this kinda thing contained and you almost had a break done by the time we even got here. That’s not exactly my idea of a fun afternoon. You could have just kept walking and we wouldn’t have been done the wiser.” He raises his mug, nodding towards Zuko. “Nah, you’re the type that ends things. Now drink up.”

Strongly brewed green tea sits bitter on his tongue. His Uncle would cough and pretend it was delicious, like a true diplomat.

“This tea sucks.” Zuko says instead, ducking his head to hide a grin as the older man wheezes.

“Well shit, how’d you think I got all these wrinkles?”

They work into the evening, Agni sinking into the red horizon by the time the final remains of the near-disaster are deemed safe. Zuko drags himself, foot-sore and chi drained down the mountain, pulling what heat he can from the still lava flows as he passes. Paper lanterns drag him forward, welcoming him alongside the rest of the workers back to the village. He smells food. He hears music. The other men get sake, meat, and kisses on the cheek. He gets incense, bao, and kids tugging at his sleeves until he follows them to Madam Wu's.

“Welcome back, you two. Excellent work today.” Wu greets him at the entrance, guiding his escort back to the party before turning back to him. “Go clean up. We’ll be waiting for you when you wish to talk.”

Chapter Text

Steam curling above him, Zuko sinks as deeply into the wooden bath as its shallow construction allows. Memories of the baths back home makes him want to stretch his legs out, but the warm water feels nice as it is. Through the window he can hear the villagers caught up in their revelry, unintelligible songs all drums and drunken singing. There are lights but no fireworks. They should have fireworks, he thinks. Once his banishment is over he’ll come back here with a whole crate of them.

He’s exhausted. He’s more awake now than he’s been in the last three days.

What did the Avatar even mean, asking him if they could be friends? Did he think he was still talking to the Spirit? There was no context, no connection, just… He had seen his face. He now knew who rescued him from Pouhai. It would be so, so easy to blame it on Zuko getting possessed, but he thought it was him. Did he think it was Zuko that wanted to risk literally everything breaking in to free him?

….Did he? Did he, Zuko, make that choice fully on his own, or was it that fucking Spirit pushing its influence on him? He didn’t know how long this had been going on. Not since he got the mask, surely. His mother would have never given him something like that. She wanted him to be his own person. She, at least, accepted him for him, even when there was no advantage to doing so.

There were some things that made more sense. Nights at port towns, how it felt to dance and… he hesitates to call it play, but that's what it was, wasn’t it? He didn’t play, that wasn’t suitable for a Prince. Movement for its own sake felt good, felt freeing after so long on the ship. He could give himself over to it, forget his banishment, forget his duties for just a few hours. That kind of indulgence had to be the work of the Spirit.

Beyond that it was harder to differentiate. There weren’t a lot of gaps in his memory, just the blank between getting shot at Pouhai and waking up unable to speak correctly, followed by a bit of time after arriving at Madame Wu’s. His body moving on its own was way worse. He shudders. He can’t think about this anymore.

Zuko wrings out his hair, frowning when he can’t dry himself as thoroughly as usual. It doesn’t matter that it had taken hours of concentrated, controlled bending to bring the wildfire to its knees. The earthbenders had let him take the lead in order to tire him out, to make him weak and non-threatening. He should be better than this. He pulls his damp hair into a knot, shrugging on the soft robes lent to him. They smell weird, the same kind of green smell as crushed dandelion leaves. They must be Yao’s, though they are oakmoss green instead of black. He has to roll the sleeves up to feel comfortable, his wrists clear and the fabric not in danger of getting singed if he starts sparking. He wishes he had some extra lengths of fabric to keep the sleeves tight to his forearms. It’ll have to do for now. He still has a letter to write.

It’s easier to think now, no restless energy making it hard to keep the characters smooth and even. By the time his hair is dry, the letter to his uncle is complete. Zuko leans back, rubbing his palm into his off eye. It still hadn’t cleared. His hearing hadn’t gotten any better either. He breathes a curse. Of course he had to deal with this on top of everything else.

“I can make some drops for your eye, if you wish.” Zuko starts as Yao chuckles from where he leans against the door frame.

“You need to not do that.” Zuko scowls, quickly rolling up his letter.

“My apologies, Prince Zuko.” Yao bows lazily in a slight gesture to formality before pointing to the two headed mocking jay taxidermy perching on the chest of drawers to Zuko’s left. “She told me you were done.”

He was sure the bird was stuffed. He is completely, absolutely sure that the bird was not alive. But the heads move in unison, one staring at him as the other looks to Yao. Inky black wings dotted with white spread wide, black talons scratching the wood as she flies to land on Yao’s waiting arm.

“You can guarantee that this will get to my Uncle?” Zuko stands to offer the letter to Yao, moving slowly and predictably as he eyes the unfamiliar corvid.

“Of course, your highness. Yiyi is a dedicated tracker and a most intelligent bird. Zizi is no slouch either.” Yao scratches the chin of one head, the other clicking, her beady black eyes following Zuko. “You may say two heads are better than one!”

i hate it here, I hate it here so much. “Good. I want to leave by sunrise.” He would prefer to leave right away, before the village had a chance to decide it would be better for a firebender to be permanently out of the picture, one way or another. But he still had things to do - his dao didn’t magically reappear, he didn’t have supplies for the road even if he could manage to find shelter on route. And he wanted his mask. Despite it all, he wanted his mask. Wu had taken it as she took his clothes after shoving him into the bath. It was probably in the fortune room.

“So we shall. I’ll have supplies prepared.” Yao takes the letter and leaves, chattering with his strange bird. Birds? He feels a headache coming on. All of this was too much, too strange. He wanted to go home, where things made sense. No ghosts, ghouls, spirits, or anything else he had to burn incense for other than Agni and the quiet dead. No living taxidermy, no questions about who he was.

Zuko waits until he can’t hear Yao’s footsteps before moving towards the kitchen. He wants his own supplies, not something Yao put together. He knows he’ll need at least a knife, something to eat, and something to prevent himself getting possessed again. Once he got back to Uncle he could probably figure out a way to make the mask be just a mask again, and then everything would be back to normal.

The moon doesn’t reach into the depths of the kitchen. There aren’t the kind of fragrant wax candles he’s used to, but there’s rushes dipped in tallow that work well enough. He lights one, placing it in a shallow dish to carry it around without getting melted fat on his hands.

There’s a small stack of rough linen cloths, sunbleached and worn in places. He bundles up a few handfuls of rice in one, pulling out a slightly larger linen to act as a pouch. The knives are decent iron, old but carefully cared for. He’ll get them a new set, along with the fireworks. After a moment of hesitation he picks the one he thinks they’ll miss the least - a curved fillet knife, sharp and thin. He tucks it into his belt. It won’t help him much in a prolonged fight, but it wasn’t like he was helpless without a weapon if it broke. The route he planned was far enough away from Pouhai that he shouldn’t run into any trouble.

Now all he needed was a charm or something and his mask.

There’s a light in the courtyard when he turns back, a lone lantern swaying in the cool wind. He can see the silhouette of Madame Wu. As he draws closer, he can hear her laughing lightly as she stumbles over to the words of a song, the echo of what he heard in the streets earlier. Beside her rests his mask, the Spirit’s mask. The blue looks washed out, steely grey on white. He’ll have to get new paint for it.

“Ah, there you are, young Prince.” Wu smiles fondly at him. It makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve that look. “Come, sit. I was just entertaining Blue Spirit.”

He sits to her left side, away from the mask. She says nothing of the small sack in his hand, the hilt of a knife poking out of his belt. “I hope you intend to rest tonight. You won’t find a comfortable bed again for some time.”

“I’m not exactly delicate.” Zuko doesn’t like her phrasing. He doesn’t know what she knows.

“I know, dear.” She leans towards him slightly, as if going to pat his shoulder. He leans away. She goes back to where she was. “I suppose you want to take Blue Spirit with you?”

“Just the mask.” He tells himself he just wants the mask. He doesn’t care about anything else. Even if it would be helpful sometimes, if he could trust it.

Wu hums, considering him a moment before picking up the mask, holding it gently in her lap. “I do not think they would be happy here, though all are welcome under my roof. They are young, you know - they need a journey to become who they are. Much like you.”

“And I don’t want it to invade my head and manipulate me. I want the mask my mother gave me.” Zuko seethes.

“You don’t have to be afraid of them, or of any spirit.” Wu keeps her voice calm, firm. “We can teach you. Your journey is long enough that Yao can at least show you the basics before you reunite with your uncle.”

“Why do you care? I bet you have a dozen fucking spirits floating around here. Put this one in a different mask, or host, or whatever, and let me have my mask.” He's acting like a brat. He doesn't care. He doesn't have a lot left of his mother. He won't lose a single letter, a single ribbon, a single gift. He refused.

I promised her I would protect you.

Chapter Text

I promised her I would protect you.

The Spirit’s voice echoes in Zuko’s skull. He grabs the mask from Wu’s lap, movements coming before thought. “Tell me exactly what you told my mother.”

It will be easier to show you. May I? Their voice is tired, but soft, like the voice his mother used to call an injured turtleduck towards her after he had found it late at night, the third in a week. Zuko’s stomach twists. He hesitates, glancing over to Wu.

“Go on, I’ll make sure you stay yourself.” She nods, her voice without judgement. It’s what Zuko needed to hear. He looks back to the mask.

He looks out to a crowd. They’re buzzing, all talking to each other as more patrons filter in. Everything seems too bright, the candles set around the edge of the stage flickering as they pick up on the anticipation coursing through the theatre.

“Oh man, there’s so many of them!” His mother’s voice, coming out of the body he currently was wearing. I really, really want to nail this. I’ve never been on a stage like this before!

Her wish fills him, and he knows it will be so. He will help make her shine, her voice strong and her movements fluid.

“Ursa! You’re on in five. Get over here.” A stage hand waves at them. He feels her wave back. “Coming!”

Hands pull lightly at his ribbons. A flaw in his paint is corrected. They turn to a long mercury glass mirror, pockmarked with age, and see themselves - the Blue Spirit mask rests flush against Ursa’s face, her costume brushed and adjusted. Perfect. It’s opening night. She’s performing for the Royal Family. She’s never been happier.

The scene changes. Darkness envelops him. Zuko can’t move. The Blue Spirit can’t move. They’ve been locked away in a storage room for months, gathering dust. Eventually there is the sound of movement, near silent steps followed by the slow opening and closing of the sliding door. The shifting of boxes. Then the soft light of a candle flame.

“Oh thank the Spirits, you’re still here.” Ursa looks more like the mother he remembers. She looks tired. “I have to find a different place to hide you - I’m not supposed to have anything from…” She takes a deep breath. “I promise, I’m going to wear you again one day.”

They whisper back that she will, she’ll dance and sing just like she used to. She’ll be free. One day she’ll be free.

They are hidden away in the cold depths of the castle. They can hear servants on occasion - their songs, their sighs, their tears - all faint whispers through thick stone walls. Those are the hardest days. Their yearning leaves a bitter taste on Zuko’s tongue.

The Blue Spirit cannot exist without humans. He feels their consciousness grow thin and sluggish. Eight years pass in silence.

They think they dream of her face one evening, her thin fingers wrapped around a pale flame as she pulls them from the dark. She clears the dust away with the soft length of her sleeve, a mirror motion to how she would clean the dirt off Zuko’s own face. Her touch feels real.

She paints them under the moonlight, singing softly as she works. “There,” the brush comes away with a final flourish. “Look at that grin! So handsome.” She sets the mask down before her, resting her cheek on her knee as she watches the paint dry.

“I miss you.” She confesses.

I miss you too. Zuko’s heart breaks with it, fresh as the day he realised she wasn’t coming back.

“You always were my best good luck charm - everything just worked back then.” Ursa’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My son.. My son is going to need that kind of luck. I think he’s old enough to keep a secret now. I hope he can. I hope you can do for him what you did for me.”

“We go to the theatre, sometimes. It’s not the same, but he’s always so happy there. I wish he could smile like that forever.” In a few days, when the paint has dried and the lacquer is set, the Blue Spirit will look into bright gold eyes under the light of day. Zuko, eight years old, grins as wide as his new mask, and wiggles in place as his mom ties it to his face.

For three years they play together in the shadows. Only Ursa knows their hiding place - a hidden compartment in his tsugi horn case.

She comes to them on a warm summer night with her final wish. Dressed in black, her crown missing, she ties the mask to her face. She checks the poison hidden away in her sleeve. A few drops in the ear is all that is needed. She moves silently, the Blue Spirit lending her a dancer’s grace to keep her far away from curious eyes. Azulon never wakes again.

She leaves that night. Ozai hands her the travelling cloak, the mask already hidden in her dark robes. There is no parting kiss, no final words. She has done all he’s asked.

She goes first to Azula’s room. Her daughter stirs the moment she draws close, her voice curious as her mother soothes back her hair, kissing her forehead. “Sorry, sweetheart. Go back to bed, ok? Mother just had a bad dream and wanted to see you, that's all.”

“You’re leaving, aren’t you.” It’s not a question. Azula stares her down, her small fists tightening on Ursa’s sleeve. “...That song you sang to Zuko. I want you to sing it to me before you go.”

Ursa doesn’t sing often these days. Usually just to her son, who would listen with rapt attention every time. It did wonders if he was crying. He was crying far less these days, more prone to anger and fire back if Azula pushed him too far. The last time she had sung was over a year ago, when he had taken ill and burned with a fever that left him bedridden for days. Azula had sat on his bed, telling him that he was going to die. Ursa had yelled at her. She didn’t mean to, she never meant to. She was worn thin with worry. It was no excuse. In the aftermath, Ursa quelled her anger to sooth the distressed, disoriented boy before her rather than chase after her daughter even as she ran.

That night she sings to her daughter a lilting melody of dancing dragons, warriors of the sun basking in their light. A song her own mother sang to her long ago, before the last of the dragons were killed.

Azula’s eyes are closed by the time the last note leaves her. Ursa gently pulls her fists from her robes, kissing her knuckles before she leaves her behind.

The mask is returned to the hidden place in the tsugi horn’s case. Ursa traces the glittering goldstone once before carefully tucking the ribbons in place so they do not trail out of the enclosure. His mother’s face looks the same as it does in every nightmare he’s had since. The latch closes, her final wish echoing in the dark.

Keep him safe. Let him know that he is loved.

Reality returns by inches. The candle that had lit Wu’s courtyard burns low, concern colouring her voice as Zuko curls forward around his silent mask. He shrugs her off as her hand touches his back. Hot tears darken the ground before his knees. After a moment of hesitation Wu’s presence leaves his side.

Under the dark sky, in a land not his own, Zuko is afforded the dignity of crying himself empty bent double in the dirt.

Chapter Text

Morning comes. Dawn’s thin rays wash over the mountains, the blackened forest. Mist clings to the edges of the dark woods beyond Madame Wu’s house. Zuko, dew on his cheeks and chilled from a night under the stars, wakes slowly to the sound of birds and the feeling of wood under his fingertips. The Blue Spirit’s mask hasn’t strayed from its place under his hand. Sitting up to tuck the mask into his gi, the heavy blanket over his back falls to the ground. He stares at it a moment, before folding it over his arm and walking back inside.

There’s tea waiting for him, a simple meal laid out in the reception hall. Meng sits before the table, her hair a tangled nest. “That one’s for you.” She says around a mouthful of rice, gesturing to the arrangement of small bowls and plates across from her. Jian bing, crispy, fluffy, and just spicy enough is a welcome contrast to the light, sesame dusted rice and savoury soup. Zuko eats more than he thought he would, his chopsticks chasing the last bit of rice as Wu comes in to join them, the tray in her hands laden down with cups and tea. Zuko bows slightly as she serves them, taking his cup without complaint. Clarifying and astringent, it tastes like something Zuko can only describe as ‘green’. Uncle would like it. He swallows the temptation to ask for some of the leaves - he’s already imposed enough, he’s already been delayed enough. The longer he spends here, the longer his uncle waits.

“I imagine you must be anxious to get going, Prince Zuko.” Wu speaks before he can, a kind smile on her face as Meng chokes on her tea. “Would you like a reading before you and Yao depart?”

“No.” He says without a second of hesitation. He already knew his future - capture the Avatar, return to his rightful place at his father’s side, and prove himself a worthy heir.

“A word of advice, then.” Even Meng goes still as Wu leans toward him. “Palm readers can’t work fists.”

She says it with the same tone Uncle uses when he’s speaking in riddles. It’s supposed to mean something more than the obvious. Considering her profession, it seemed like practical advice to him. “...Okay?”

Zuko really hoped she wasn’t telling him that because fortune telling was in his future.

Her mouth twitches momentarily before she sighs and tries again. “It means your future is not fixed until you lay down your arms and reach out your hand instead. You do not have to settle for any path but your own.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” She doesn’t know anything. His future was set from the moment he was born. He was lucky to have that kind of future. He was lucky to be born into the royal family at all. It would be dishonourable to wish for any future aside from the one he had been groomed for since birth - an insult to his bloodline, and an insult to his people, who trusted the royal family that had led their country for generations. He couldn’t just do whatever.

“Thank you for your hospitality.” It comes out clipped, terse. He stands, bowing shallowly to her one last time before turning to Meng. “And thank you for yesterday.” It’s easier to speak to her, to mean it when he gives her a slight smile. “I’ll try not to burn anything next time I cook.”

“Oh, uhm! No problem! Any time, your highness- I mean, your Princeliness - I mean, your Flameiness.” She can’t look at him directly anymore, her eyes averted and hands busy trying to pull her hair into order. It shouldn’t bother him - she didn’t have a title, she was nobody. She was some backwater Earth kingdom peasant. Her reaction is understandable, expected. Zuko knows without a doubt that she would kowtow before him if he let sparks come to his fingertips, same as every peasant in Caldera, same as every servant that crossed Azula’s path.

Zuko turns his back on the child and the crone, resenting something he doesn’t dare name.

Yao waits for him just beyond Wu’s house, leaning against the smooth stone wall with a cigarette dangling from his lips. The smoke is heady, floral, and extinguished with a sharp gesture from Zuko as he draws near.

“You disgust me. Let’s go.”

“Ah, I see Wu tried to lead a horse to water.” The old man has the nerve to grin before tossing a pack to Zuko, cigarette hidden back in his wide sleeve.

“I could just leave. I know the route.” Zuko fumes, settling the light bag over his shoulder. It feels like there’s not much more than a sleeping roll in it. That’s fine - he still has a knife, he still has some rice. He can figure the rest out.

“You know the map, not the road.” Yao’s steps are long and smooth, easily keeping pace with the shorter teen. The village is beginning to stir around them, the chattering of women following them as Zuko grumbles about stupid, smelly old people. The majority carry baskets overflowing with fabric.

“Master Firebender, safe travels!” One woman calls, her laughter like a bell as Zuko’s gait falters. “Yao, you keep that young man sound. It’s been too long since we had one like him in the area.”

“Of course, Miss Shinyi.” Yao bows, taking on the task with solemnity. “You best catch up with the others, or the best spots will be taken.”

“Like hell! I’m not letting Shen take the good rock again.” Hitching her basket higher on hip, she walks quickly past Zuko, yelling at the other women to slow down.

“What did she mean ‘one like him’?” Zuko hangs back, arms crossed as he stares down Yao.

“Mm.. Do you think we always had Wu to check the volcano?” Zuko has a feeling that he’s going to get sick of having his questions answered with questions by the time he’s back to his ship.

“I think you could have gotten an earthbender to check the pressure being built up, or, better yet, you could have just looked.” It’s not like it was impossible to climb. Yao sighs, folding his hands in his sleeves.

“Do not tell me the Fire Nation has forgotten what it used to do.” The women are far ahead of them now, the woods swallowing them on their way to the river. Zuko glares at him, refusing to give Yao anything to work with. “Long ago, before you or I, Fire would follow Air across the lands. Agni’s light would strike the woods, and they would be there to guide the burns. In the eastern kingdoms, this village included, there are trees that still remember this - ones who grow best only after being burnt. Same as the ones from your lands. If there was a volcano in the area, they were the best and most responsive - no hesitation, no qualms about delivering bad news, but the passion necessary to pull even the most stubborn of us from our homes if necessary. We trusted them.”

“That was over a hundred years ago.” The war had called them home - they needed everyone. They were, and remain, a small nation. Agriculture, art, infrastructure - it had all suffered as the Fire Nation poured everything into the war. It was worth it, of course. They were still fighting for a reason.

Yao barks a laugh, covering his mouth quickly. “The Earth Kingdom has a long, long memory. Even if it didn’t, there should be records in the colonies - there are still fire marshals that travel from there, though they are few and far in between.”

“No there aren’t. I would know if there were.” He hadn’t seen any reports - and there were always reports. Every division, every burgeoning civil conflict, every minor shift in power resulted in a report. If there were people doing something that could be leveraged to show the greatness of the Fire Nation so clearly, they would be using it.

“Why would they stop? There’s a decent financial incentive, their own pride, and they’re outside of the direct influence of the Fire Nation.” Zuko can’t stand the look on Yao’s face. “The question, Prince Zuko, is why haven’t you heard about it?”

“Shut up.” Zuko growls, flames between his teeth. “We’re burning daylight. I don’t have the time for this nonsense.” He stomps away, relieved to finally put Mt. Makapu far behind him. Now all he had to do was ditch Yao.

Chapter Text

The trail is long and winding, splintering in two once the village is just beyond sight, the evergreens closing in. They take the southern path. The babbling stream runs twin to the trail, widening as they go. The morning mist lifts as the women on the other side of the water begin their work. Zuko slows as their voices drift over the sound of rushing water. A melody is strung together between the push and pull of fabric against washing boards, the river clouding with suds. He stops as the melody rolls into a song.

“Your highness?” Yao raises a curious eyebrow.

“Quiet.” Zuko hushes him, turning his head slightly to better hear the rhythmic, repetitive verse. You like this kind of stuff, right? Hesitantly prodding at the edges of his mind where the Blue Spirit typically spoke from yields nothing. He breathes through the spark of annoyance before refocusing - if the Spirit was simply sleeping, he could share the memory instead. Probably. Somehow. The song flows from one mouth, then another, then another - a waulking song, broken only by gasps and laughter as a woman slips while trying to reach for another robe.

“Very elegant, Shen!” Yao calls, the woman turning to flip him off. Zuko can recognize Shinyi as she roars with laughter from where she squats on a large, flat rock. Her hands are red from the cold water.

In the fire nation they could have a bender heat rows of deep tubs for them instead of crouching in the river like savages.They would be saved the amount of time it took to dry them too - no need to worry about overcast days or rain. There was so much the Fire Nation could offer them. Once they won the war, everyone’s lives would be better. The thought is a soothing balm, its constant truth bolstered by the evidence in front of him.

He doesn’t need to see anymore. He walks away from the river, falling into the steady rhythms of a march. It’s easy to keep pace with a melody in his head - the steady rhythms similar to the few old shanty songs his crew would rotate through when work was slow and gossip had run dry. They’d been singing the same songs for years, their time at port generally too short to pick up anything new. He could probably ask the Spirit to teach them something new that didn’t make Zuko want to pull his hair out, once they were responsive, but he couldn’t exactly stop and burn incense for them. Maybe if he just kept on pushing those melodies in their direction?

Yao’s presence settles in place just behind him, Zuko ignoring him as he tries to figure out if pushing memories of songs towards the Blue Spirit would even be helpful, or if the theatre spirit needed a live performance. There were artists and playwrights that spoke of ‘feeding a muse’. Maybe he had to do something similar?

Maybe if he took good care of them, they could show him those memories of his mother again.

“Your face will freeze like that if you keep frowning, your highness.” Yao’s voice breaks his thoughts.

“Maybe I want it to!” Zuko snaps back and he stomps ahead. Yao lets him have his distance, but after a few minutes Zuko’s pace slows until he’s by Yao’s side.

“....You know about spirits, right?” Zuko’s tone is tentative, his eyes fixed purposefully forward.

“Spirits, ghosts, ghouls, and other entities of a non-mundane sort, yes.” Yao nods. “What would you like to know?”

“How do I-” He stumbles over his phrasing, not quite sure what to ask. It doesn’t feel like Yao would cut him off from any particular line of questioning, but there was always that chance. “I want to establish a mutual understanding with a theatre spirit. I think they’re a theatre spirit? I haven’t actually asked them, but-” Zuko remembers to breathe. “They’re not answering me.”

“Ahhh, I understand.” Yao strokes his chin, the gesture making Zuko wish his Uncle was here instead. “Establishing a mutual understanding is, in many ways, both the easiest and hardest part of working with spirits. It depends a lot on both your personality and the personality of the spirit you’re working with. Most abide by contracts, though those can be exploited and require you to be able to write one that respects both you and the spirit.”

“I can handle that.” He’d need to consult Uncle for specific phrasing, but a contract wasn’t totally dissimilar to a treaty, and he certainly spent enough time studying those.

“The other way is to form an understanding based upon communication, commitment, and care.” Zuko pulls a face at Yao’s words.

“Then there’s no guarantee.” He’s ready to dismiss the notion all together - without leverage, there was always a chance things could go horribly. Knowing his luck, without a contract the best he could hope for was resentment to build up over the next few months until they found some street performer to steal them away from him.

“...I don’t mean this as a judgement, please understand, but have you ever had friends before?”

Zuko stops in his tracks. Of course he’s had friends, he wants to yell. There was Mai - though really she was his sister’s friend, not his. Azula had made that abundantly clear. At least Mai was alive. Lu Ten was dead, and had been dead for years. There had never been anyone else.

Do you think we could be friends? The Avatar’s voice, his wide grey eyes, surfaces in Zuko’s mind unbidden. That had to be a lie - it didn’t make sense otherwise. He had to know that they couldn’t ever be friends, regardless of what happened at Pouhai, regardless how either of them felt. Not that he felt anything besides wanting to bring the Avatar before his Father.

“It’s not like I grew up without worldly attachments. I’m not some monk.” He begins to walk again, not giving Yao a second glance as the older man raises a sceptical eyebrow. “Just tell me how to wake them up.” He’d figure the rest out later.

“Spirits need rest when their powers are over-extended, same as a human. The more powerful the spirit, the less they need to rest.” Yao begins after a moment of considering where to begin. “Aside from offerings - which depend on the broader class of the spirit - there are more personal things that can be done. You said they are a theatre spirit, correct? Do you know their role within the theatre?”

“They, uh….” Yao probably didn’t mean how they were treated as nothing more than a lucky charm. “A performer, I guess? They showed me some memories. I could feel what the actress was doing while she was wearing the mask.” He doesn’t want to give too many specifics - he wants to keep what he can of those memories to himself. “I think they… They’ve been making things easier for me, physically. If that helps.”

“Interesting,” Yao hums. “Most non-corporeal performers are ghosts who just don't want to quit the stage, not spirits. A muse might be more fitting, though they tend to be flighty and not fixed to a particular object…. Have you been feeling compelled to engage in creative action at all?”

“Not really.” Zuko pauses, considering. “I think they were encouraging me to just mess around with my katas, or run around whatever port.” His cheeks colour lightly as he speaks, embarrassment hot on his neck at the memory. He tries to keep the coop they destroyed while running around far, far away from the forefront of his mind. That was definitely not creative action by any stretch. “I was thinking about joining music night.”

“Free play is the foundation of creative thought, I’ve heard.” More humming and Zuko’s shoulders begin to creep towards his ears. The appraisal isn’t even directed at him, he knows this, he asked for this, but he can’t shake the feeling of risk as he talks about his experiences. “If they are indeed a muse, having you engage in easy creative play or things that make you feel strongly would fuel them, just the same as offering certain herbs or incense might.”

“So I just have to dance around like an idiot and then they’ll speak to me?” If Uncle ever saw him reciting lines in his room he would die on the spot, he was sure of it. If he was dancing he could at least pretend it was some new bending form he was trying out.

“That’s a way to do it, yeah.” Yao shrugs. “Stopping to listen to people singing is another way, as would be reading poetry, or watching the sunrise. Muses can be bolstered by the widest array of human experiences.”

“But you’re not sure if they are a muse.” Zuko presses.

“Of course not! We haven’t asked.” Yao’s tone is light, as if this was all a matter of fact. “They may be a luck spirit, or a healing spirit if you say they’ve been helping you physically. They could be all of these things, or none of them. Most spirits settle into a solid identity after a few hundred years. Others shift slightly depending on the consensus of their patrons. Still others defy easy categories.”

“Whatever the case may be, I think you being curious is the most helpful and appropriate step right now. I’ll show you some herbs that would be a good fit for them when we break for lunch.” Yao leans forward slightly so Zuko can see his gentle smile. “And I am sure that you will be a good friend to them, regardless of how you show your care.”

Chapter Text

For hours they walk, and for hours they talk. Yao’s explanations are sprawling, branching things - to explain which incense he should offer, Yao deems it necessary to explain the doctrine of signatures, the tracing of the stars, and how one can tell which element the plant belonged to. Zuko’s head feels overfull, details appreciated but slipping through his ears as he tries to figure out what he’s going to need for the Blue Spirit. Emotional arts belonged to air and water, but physical arts belonged to earth or fire, so he should offer bergamot and cinnamon sometimes, patchouli or jasmine others, depending on the season, the weather, and what Zuko would like to work on with the spirit. By noon he has the names of a dozen herbs and associations swimming in his head as he tries to figure out how he’s going to get them on the ship, what ports he could probably find them at, and how angry Uncle would be if he took a bit of the dried bergamot that rested in his tea collection.

And that was just one type of offering. He didn’t even know if it was the Blue Spirit’s preferred offering. Could he offer up a script? Probably. Could he offer up sake? Probably. Could he offer blood? Sweat? Tears? Probably, but maybe stay clear of those.

“Sending up offerings in a formal way helps strengthen a spirit, and your bond to them, but it also can serve as a buffer. It says, here - I acknowledge you, I honour you, but draw from this instead, not from me. Blood, sweat, and tears are all powerful offerings because it connects the spirit directly to your energy. It’s a lot safer to start with food, smoke, and non-bodily liquids. Then do stuff like arts and crafts you made. The more personal it is, the more power there is.” Yao shifts his pack, perking up as the trail begins to level out, a roof with broken shingles peeking out from the horizon. “You’d get tangled again pretty easily if you went right to blood.”

The structure is years neglected, little more than a roof held up on rotting pillars. Moss and cobwebs cling to corners, weeds spilling from the cracked stone floor. There’s a clay oven towards the back, cracked and useless. Yao bows to the stone statue of a woman and her child presiding over it all as they arrive, Zuko squinting into the rafters. He could have sworn he saw something move, but even closing his bad eye there’s nothing. It was probably just a sparrow-rat.

“Come sit, I wish to show you something.” Yao digs through his pack, setting aside three pear-apples, small dishes, and a familiar sachet of incense.

“Hey, that’s mine.” Zuko reaches for the sachet. He doesn’t remember the face of the person who gave it to him - the celebratory crowd had been too great, everyone pushing and chattering. It disappearing after he had bathed hadn’t exactly been his top priority.

“See if you can identify any of the herbs we talked about in there.” Yao suggests as Zuko takes in the bright, woody scent drifting from it. An elegant amethyst blade comes to rest beside the pear-apples, a black candle and a small pouch spilling salt joining soon after.

“Smells like there’s sandalwood in here.” Zuko says after a moment.

“Good, you can use that.” Water spills into a shallow copper bowl from a black waterskin embossed with silver. “Water from a sacred place is always best, but any will do.” Yao begins. “Not just for this, but for any magic. Light this, if you would.” He holds up the black candle, Zuko obliging with a flick of his fingers. The candle is set aside to melt. Salt comes next, sprinkled into the waters.

“Salt is purifying - ghosts shy away from it, demons cannot cross it, and even humans can succumb to it. To drink salt water is to invite a slow death, as I’m sure a sailor knows.” Zuko nods - there was a reason why the Wani kept at least two barrels exclusively for drinking water.

“I now cast a circle to protect the work - a knife to draw the boundary line.” The purple knife skims against stone, its silver handle flashing in Yao’s hand. “Any blade of significance will do, forged or found.”

Yao sits back, blade held carefully in his hands. “Next, silence. Focus your mind upon the work, do not let it stray.” The meditation is brief, the gentle sound of distant animals carried on the wind as it washes through the forest becoming loud. Still in silence, Yao takes the candle in his right hand, black wax threatening to spill before it streams into the copper bowl, shapes blossoming in the waters.

“There is a way to read the wax. I will not bore you with that. Instead of looking to the future, we will view the present.” Yao dips the tip of the blade into the water. The wax moves with the ripple, the edges catching silver. The blade withdraws. Wax turns inky, midnight black spreading until the copper bowl holds an onyx mirror. “Look when you are ready.”

The present does not strike him as a stranger, he doesn’t know what Yao would want him to see. Zuko sits forward on his knees, a deep breath held in his lungs as his reflection comes into focus within the waters. His own face stares back at him, ugly in the same way it always was. “....I just see myself.”

“Hmm…” Yao rubs his chin, considering. “Try closing your right eye.”

He becomes an outline of himself, grey and featureless on black, save for ruddy smear if his scar and dots of pale blue at his throat. When he reaches up to trace the marks, he finds they match the contours of his fingertips pressed around his voice box. “What the-”

“Excellent, you can see it.” Yao smiles. “I suspected your off eye might be more sensitive.”

“Great. Just what I always wanted.” Zuko grumbles.

“Your spirit friend must be awake, if not responsive, for you to have those marks.” Zuko frowns at Yao’s words, hand settling over the mask hidden in his robes.

“Why? I didn't ask for this.” He had noticed the catch in his throat that had been plaguing him since he woke up after the exorcism was barely impacting him, the faintest hint of a rasp the only remainder. He had thought it was because he hadn't been yelling much, his voice having long hours to rest as he slept.

“How many times have you wished you could speak freely, Prince Zuko? How strong was your desire?” Zuko goes silent, mouth a thin line, face tilted away so all Yao can see is the unmoving snarl of his scar. “Wanting to be heard is a completely normal thing, but specific language can help prevent a well intentioned spirit from overstepping. Since they are awake, see if you can enforce a boundary. Ask them to withdraw for now.”

Do you hear that? I can speak on my own. You can stop. The thought is met with silence. It can’t be that easy, of course it couldn’t be that easy - since when had just asking for someone to stop ever worked for him? He doesn't feel any different, yet when he looks in the opaque waters again the marks have faded, barely there specks instead of fingerprints. He checks, and checks again.

“They're-” Zuko swallows past the catch in his throat, caught between resenting and relishing the rasp he hears. “They're gone.”

Chapter Text

When he is thirteen his father presses his palm against his face and burns his life away. Men come to take his body from the infirmary. He is nothing more than waste to be disposed of lest the Princess become excited by the sight of his corpse and fall into one of her more destructive moods. Then there is the boat, the spray of ocean water freezing against his fevered skin. Then there is a bed, the men long gone. Then there are warm hands tipping tea into his mouth. She is kind. The village is poor. The sheets are threadbare and scratchy, ripping under his hands as his wounds are dressed.

The pungent salve the healer smears across the place where his eye once was only sinks in so deep. He is slow to heal. He is slow to die. His fever breaks. The healer runs out of sedative. He can not sleep, except when the fevers return to drag him under. He is too weak to get out of bed and vomits on the floor instead. Awareness is fleeting. He knows he will die if he stays here. He knows he will die if he leaves. He does not know why the men did not toss his body into the sea.

He tries his legs when the healer isn’t looking and finds he makes more progress crawling to the wall. He is found on the floor, exhausted and delirious. The healer’s gentle voice lifts him back to bed and presses a cold towel to his neck, his cheek, his chest every time she finds his fallen form, and the next time he can move under his own will, he tries again.

There is one day the healer disappears. Hurried voices, the slamming of doors, clattering as the healer tears through her office gathering supplies - the sounds are muffled but reach through the halls all the same. A solitary golden eye cracks open as the noise dissipates, thin fingers finding their way across to the wall. His steps are shuffling things, but he has time. He exits the room. He slips on the stairs despite holding onto the banister for dear life. His legs feel loose and shaky. He can see the door, left half open and waiting. It’s light outside. He crawls to it. His vision wavers. He is on the floor. It is dusk. The healer hasn’t returned. Cool air brushes his cheek. He pushes himself to his knees. He finds the wall and pushes past the open door.

The healer’s house overlooks a harbour, the sky open and speckled with the first stars. The moon is rising. He leans against the doorway, and the dizziness does not go away, merely settles momentarily with the slow, purposeful rise and fall of his chest.

It is true night by the time he reaches the barn, sweat stinging his eye as he fumbles with the locks. Dark eyes watch him, a beak the size of his torso pulling at chains until the half melted metal clutched in the boy’s hands breaks. He sinks to the ground, no longer able to support himself. He does not move as the bar keeping her pinned falls. The ostrich-horse sniffs at him, tail flicking.

“S’rry, I- nn.” His voice is thin, the words pulling at the damaged side of his face. The ostrich-horse presses her beak into his torso, clucking softly. Her feathered ears are soft under his hand. She closes her eyes as he scratches the point where her beak meets her feathers.

“Help.” He whispers to her, leaning his head against her own. She turns, her broad back lowering as she kneels before him. He loops his trembling arms around her neck. She moves. He sees the sky. He sees the black of the woods.

When the healer returns it is to a quiet house. Her instruments are strewn across the floor, but nothing is stolen. She tidies up slowly, sighing out her day. It was a long labour, both for the mother and the healer. The child was healthy, screaming and pink, too big for his slightly built mother. The kettle boils. She measures out herbs carefully, wondering if her supply will be enough to last until the plant blooms again in the summer, wondering if it even makes a difference at this point. The tea steeps. If he can keep it down, she’ll see about getting him some broth. She dwells on the image of a child, white as the grave save for the festering red of his wounds, and a child, bright and new and whole.

She’s on the third step up to the sick child’s room when she notices the door is open. The tea cup tumbles, cracks against the floor, medicine wasted. She searches the room. She searches the house. The stable doors are open and her ostrich-horse is gone. It does not come back the next day, or the next, or ever again. Only a letter remains, something pressed into her hand by her cousin, the child covered in a death shroud balanced against his shoulder.

~

Voices find him in the woods. First his sister, whispering into the ear that isn’t there anymore. He does not remember what she says. Then his father, clear and cruel. Suffering will be his teacher. Then there is a stranger rubbing circles on his back as he heaves, drool and blood and bile splattering on the dirt road. It is agony when they try to remove the bandages stuck to his melted flesh. They give him tea to make him sleep and he finds he cannot move for days. The family has land, they have people to work the land, they have food to spare, and he is a curiosity, a project for their would-be physician daughter. They let her work on him because of his bound breasts and the negative space between his thighs. His sex is left to their interpretation, and they deem it nothing that their daughter has not seen before. By the time he can speak they do not listen, they do not know his language. They think he’s mad when he switches to a merchant’s tongue and calls himself a boy. The whispering about institutionalization stops only when he tucks the truth of himself away. Eventually he disappears out the window one moonlit night with a roll of bandages, a book of herbs, and a small pouch of medicine rolled together in cloth. At the next house, he steals a knife. At the next village, he steals coins.

~

There is a winding trail between Wian Zhu and Nai Mung. In the early spring it floods, meltwater transforming the trickling brook to a muddy river, its strong current unable to be traversed until after the blossoms begin to fall and berries begin to form. A pale form bows before it, drinking in cool water. It is thin, unkempt, greasy hair hanging in its face. The ostrich-horse beside it looks half feral, her beak sharpened against rock and bark and bone. The coins have run out. The pouch is empty. No travelers have entered the woods, and the closer village has grown wary. The book is marked with charcoal, scribbled notes in a separate script speculating about translations sprawling in the margins of the few plants that the boy could recognize, when it was lucid enough to be a boy. That night the ostrich-horse eats the head of a rabbit-fox while the thing that rides her guts the rest. Its hands shake. It’s taken the wrong herbs. The tremors can only be the fault of the herbs. There’s blood on the ground. There’s guts on the ground, fetid liquid leaking from where they burst. It can’t do anything right. It whines, half-face buried in soft, still warm fur. The spine, twisted from the bird thrashing it against rocks, bends further still. It never wanted this. Wrists, hands, knees, ankles, face, stomach, guts, cuts - it all hurts. The knife sliding through flesh hurts. If only it was just it, a thing, an animal who could maybe read, if only the characters made sense, if only it was in a place where it knew the language. If only, if only.

~

A cold storm catches them, short weeks after he finds a herb that numbs his limbs and lets him return to himself. The rain means he cannot hunt and has no food. The rain means a chill seeps deep into his bones and washes some of the filth off his back. He chews the thing that numbs him, and finds villages shuttered to him. They know him already - word travels faster than he does. A mistake on his part. He has grown greedy, desperate. They fear his bird more than they fear him, but he will not part with her. He moves on. The rain keeps coming. Storms chase him all the way back to the colonies. He gets sicker. The bird folds her form around him as he lays in a shallow cave. The bandages stuck to his ruined flesh weep infection into his mouth when he rolls to his side. He begs for water. The words are slurred, half his face unmoving. He is dying, again. He is decaying from the inside out, his guts crawling with maggots already. His sister tells him it’s what he deserves, the fire that stole his life the closest he’ll get to a proper cremation. She does not mourn him. He does not mourn himself. When the storm breaks his last companion will leave him behind to seek others.

~

He is in a different place. A different house. The ceiling is made of cedar beams and there’s citrus trees in the yard. He is warm. The bed is soft. He is so tired. It is summer and he’s slept past noon, but father isn’t there to yell at him. His sister’s claws grow long, her fangs sinking deep into his father’s neck. They speak of it in hushed voices over him, breaking from muttering rote encouragement as they work to make his rotting body cling to life. He is happy for her. For some time, he is happy for her.

~

He leaves the people in their quiet town as fall colours the horizon. He cannot stay. The new Fire Lord has been crowned - a child, she is still just a child, but she is dazzling, a prodigy, her blue fire lighting the way to a victorious future. His uncle is nowhere to be found. He cannot stay. He leaves in the clothes of another, carrying his name. Lee, a child that left to meet his death on the front lines. He is the son of the colonies now, her geography unfolding under foot and claw. He meets people - some friendly, most not. He gains his swords, his mask, his reputation. A bounty settles on his head, a different sort of crown. Years march on, interrupted with blood and sweat and twisted joints. Eventually he meets a boy named Jet. Eventually he meets a boy named Sokka.