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Chapter Text

Zuko did not remember the next couple of weeks. He didn’t remember the hours upon hours spent alone in his room, clinging to the turtleduck given to him by his cousin and crying until his face was wet with tears. He didn’t remember refusing to eat or drink anything, leaving full plates of his favourite meals untouched and glasses of water only slightly drained. Only filling his hunger when his father bellowed insults and shoved the offending food roughly down his son’s throat, or when his mother’s pleas and his sister’s misty eyes tore him down. He didn’t remember weeping in his sleep, calling ‘Lu Ten!’ and for him to return.

The first thing that he vividly recalled was his sister’s wakeup call.

It had been another of those days, which had been coming in increasing frequency during this period of his life. Grey skies limited the sunlight infiltrating his room, and the few rays that did poke into the small chamber steered clear of his bed, as if sensing the darkness in his heart and fearing what it would do to their light. Shrouded in shadows, Zuko finally managed to convince himself to get out of bed of his own accord. Normally, if his sister or mother were unfortunately not present, his father would yank him out of his bed by his hair and burn his shoulders yet again for his insolence. Now, however, Ozai was acting strange. He would touch Zuko’s face with cold hands, no intention of burning him, but examining him closely. Looking into his son’s eyes as if he is looking for something in particular. Unnerving golden eyes - promising pain, promising torture - boaring into soft gold eyes.This behaviour unnerved Zuko more than normal: at least he was familiar and knew what was coming before. What happened? Did he suspect him? 

Based on the fact that he wasn’t dead yet, he didn’t think so.

But what was his father looking for?

Stewing in these thoughts, Zuko stumbled to his closet and began to get dressed. Upon lifting his head from its gormless horizontal position off his bed, an instant wave of nausea and dizziness rushed through his brain - encompassing his mind, causing the feeble mushy mess to rattle in his skull. The whole ordeal was frustratingly more difficult than normal as the muscles in his limbs felt sore, heavier than normal as if they were pulled down by hefty weights. Pulling pristine red robes over wrinkled healing skin, the prince battled with tangled hair with a mighty brush. He won the fight, but not without some losses. Zuko clung to his lost comrades in brief sadness, before bending them into his garbage with practised proficiency. The eleven year old peered at the clock. Any slower and he would be late.

What was the point if he was going to be yelled at anyway?

What was the point if all he was going to do was fixate on the empty spot next to him?

Still, he trudged on - trying his best to push through the darkness like Lu Ten taught him. It was getting more difficult every day. This place he lived in was a bejewelled lie of elegance, grace, community and peace: Zuko sat in its prison-like centre, caged in fear, trepidation and paranoia. Squeezing sensations in his stomach were the only things hooking him back into the real world.

Sitting in the dining area caused the boy’s already racing heart to thump even faster. All that his ears could pick up was the rushing of the blood through the fragile organ, washing out Ozai’s backhanded insults and disappointed remarks at his expense. Turbulent emotions composed of anger, sadness and confusion spun together to form a singular feeling capable of a cataclysm in his mind and the world around him. The young boy couldn’t really explain it if he even wanted to. He felt numb. He felt intense rage. He felt overwhelming sadness. All of which proceeded each other randomly at inconsistent times. Zuko couldn’t control it - and that conclusion caused all the hairs on his body to stand up and a lump to form in his fragile stomach. 

Who could he talk to about this?

His mother?

No. He loved his mother, he really did, but something told him - a gut feeling - that telling her would only cause pain and suffering. Ursa went through enough on her own - being picked on and shamed by her own husband. Plus, even as the mother and son spend time together, Zuko always felt a bit bitter about her. Even though the warmth of her smiles were akin to the sun’s, even though she laughed and played and danced with him, even though she taught him the ways of the turtleduck pond, there was a barrier between them. If he had to put a finger on it, it would be her relationship with Azula. The elder woman shunned her completely and refused to even show her even some of the affection so generously given to him. Perhaps that was why being in her presence was like drinking weak tea. Why was she always prioritising him over her? Did she, like the rest of the masses, believe Azula was a monster too? Based on her gentle eyes hardening in the presence of her daughter, her body not so discreetly squirming away every time Azula came too close, he believed she did.

His uncle?

Uncle Iroh was dealing with his own grief and sadness, so Zuko couldn’t burden him with his own. Plus, the overwhelmed general had disappeared after Lu Ten’s death - his whereabouts unknown even to the all knowing Firelord. Those who admired him called it processing devastation, others that criticised and despised him called it wandering madness. Either way, with the ever growing disaster unfolding inside him - by the time he returned, Zuko would’ve done something he regretted in his culminating insanity.

Perhaps he could go to-

“Is there something so interesting with the mahogany of the table that you won’t respond to the Firelord, Prince Zuko?” a painfully displeased voice cut through his monologuing thoughts. 

Crud. 

“O-of course not, Firelord Azulon. Your words are of utmost importance to me.”

“I should hope so, young prince,” the elderly tyrant mused, his eyes disdainful and seeming as if they were calculating the impact Zuko’s disappearance would have on the greater world. “Now to the issue at hand-”

Agni, that was a close one. 

Walking out of the dining space and to his room should’ve been the usual boring affair, filled with pitiful thoughts and barely suppressed cries,  if not for a small red clawed hand gripping his arm and yanking Zuko into a room. Azula’s room. Why was she doing this? Pain bloomed in the aggravated spot (it had been burned the day before), briefly clouding his vision before he gained it back and got the privilege of witnessing her infamous ‘so pissed off I am contemplating murder’ look.

“Listen Zu Zu, I don’t know what is going through your miniscule komodo lizard brain, but you need to get it together.” she spat out, discontent heavy on her tongue. “ And I mean quickly. Yes, Lu Ten is dead. Yes, we are all sad about it. I understand that you two shared a bond, but do you really want to risk your life just because of this? Stop crying, for the love of Agni!” 

“Azula!” Zuko yelled out. His eyebrows converged briefly and his eyes shone brightly with unshed tears. When realising the sheer volume of his voice, he continued his protest in a softer tone.  “That’s really insensitive.”

“No, Zuko, you know what is insensitive?”

“Acting like this when you know that it is exactly the kind of thing Father detests and belittles you for. You know this behaviour gets you in trouble and could possibly cost you dearly.”

“You may be surprised, and I am too, but I liked Lu Ten,” she continued, her confident and arrogant tone wavering slightly at the end of her statement. “And I don’t want to lose another family member so soon.”

“Azula…”

“No!” she shrieked, twin plumes of flames the colour of sadness bursting to life in her palms. “Do not speak to me in that degrading tone!”

“I am not like you Zu Zu!”

“I am not weak.”

“I am not governed by my emotions.”

“I am not a snivelling mess,” she progressed, the fire engulfing her entire hands which shook in reckless abandon. “I am strong, resilient, a true Royal deserving of the Fire Nation dynasty. I am worthy.”

Between each phrase, short gulps of air were taken in, but the inhales were not enough. Her lungs burned in protest of the air shortage. Control over her limbs, appendages and mind wavered. Vision dulled and then tunnelled, and all the young girl could see was the luminescence of her fire, which was bright - too bright, way too bright, so she shut her eyes rapidly to escape the assault on her fragile senses. No, her senses weren’t fragile. She was strong. Strong! Strong! She was smart, she was cunning, she was a genius. 

So what was happening to her?

Why did she feel this way?

Rivulets of sweat clung to her forehead, and absent-mindedly her hand reached to wipe the grimy liquid away. Tingling sensations travelled up her legs, up her arms and up her hands. Her body alternated between feeling too hot and too cold, with her useless limbs shivering in this faux detection of temperature and the whiplash was agony, pure agony.

Was she dying? Was this how it ended?

No, she refused.

The great Azula would not perish at the hands of her own body.

But she couldn’t stop it, and the dread and unease crept upon her in increasing intensity.

Why was this happening to her? Why, why, wh-

“Azula, you can get through this,” a gentle voice interrupted her rapidly unveiling sanity. “I am here for you.”

Zuko, that was Zuko.

“Concentrate on your breathing.” 

Breathing? She knew how to breathe, she didn’t need him to say such useless things. Nevertheless, she found herself following his advice. 

“Can you name three things you see?”

What was he saying? Why was he asking this?

“...the floor, your bed and your stupid face.”

A ghost of a smile bloomed on her brother’s face.

“How about three things you hear?”

“...my breathing, the creaking floorboards and your whiny voice.”

“Can you move three parts of your body for me?”

In her head, Azula screamed at the absurdity of these actions, yet she relented - gently rotating her ankle, stretching her fingers and momentarily lifting her leg.  

“How do you feel?”

The haze clouding over her had mostly disappeared, and the intrusive thoughts had largely vanished. Few tingling sensations remained - mainly in her hands which twitched and jerked and quavered. Still, the alertness stayed like an unwelcome houseguest that refused to depart - screaming at her in her father’s deep voice that danger was near and vigilance was needed. 

“Would you like a hug?”

A hug. When was the last time she actually received that particular display of affection? Searching the depths of her brain, she pulled out a fuzzy memory, covered in cobwebs and dust, of her seventh birthday. Zuko had unceremoniously pulled her into the embrace at the smaller gathering for the event, ruffling her smooth hair until her fire got a bit too close for comfort. It was warm, and gave out an aura of comfort and love - but don’t let Ty Lee know that. Ursa attempted to do the same, but the action could not really be classified as a hug. It was merely a few seconds long, and rather than giving out the soothing kindness that her brother’s held, it emitted an aura of detachment. Aloofness if that was even possible. Even as her mother was close, emotionally she couldn’t be further from her daughter. Even for a nonbender, the clasp was frigid - devoid of any care and affection. As if she was thinking of someone else entirely when she was embracing her own child. Who was she thinking of? Wasn’t Azula worthy of love too?

Distantly, in the darkest corner of her mind, in a little unlit cranny in her deteriorating hellscape, a single memory resided. Heavy metal chains looped excessively over the box containing it, with a single lock eaten up with rust. Inside, was an eavesdropped conversation when she was younger. Five year old Azula had only heard a snippet, a small part of the dialogue, yet she tried her best to keep the information learned locked far away. 

“Oh dear Agni, I don’t understand why Azula has to be so violent and crude all the time. She snarled at me yesterday when I tried to reprimand her about burning the roses, like a little devil child. Every day she looks more like her father and I can’t bear it anymore. I don’t know what to do with her.”

“She is acting like a monster.”

It was fine, she reminded herself, she didn’t care that her mother didn’t love her.

Azula always lies.

It was fine if everyone treated her like she was a monster, a demon waiting to feast on people’s insecurities when they let their guard down. Maybe she was a monster. A vile beast, a dark spirit dressed in human flesh. 

Everyone thought so.

Her mother.

Her father.

Her uncle.

Lu Ten, even if he tried to deny it.

The staff and her tutors.

But Zuko didn’t think so. For some reason, the buffoon disagreed. 

And for some reason, that realisation caused her feelings to erupt.

Maybe, monsters could have hugs too…

“...yes.”

Zuko’s eyes widened, clearly not anticipating an agreement. He faltered slightly, just for a moment, then his lips curved up to form a gentle grin. 

“Okay.”

‘What an awkward turtleduck.’ she thought, snorting into her hands.

Gangly arms, riddled with burns and scratches, wrapped around her torso and pulled her in. It was a tad uncomfortable, with the shaking sister still not reciprocating. It was far from perfect. 

Yet that was all that was needed for the floodgates to become overwhelmed, to burst wide open.

Wrapping her own arms around her brother, sobs erupted from her throat, wracking through her body in such intensity that her hands sparked a little as if she was a toddler who still had no control over her flames. Zuko didn’t care, merely rubbing soothing circles on her back as the sparks threatened to singe his robes and parts of his sensitive still healing skin. 

Azula hated this emotion. She wanted to claw it out of her chest with desperate fingers, scoop out all of this vulnerability from her body by force. 

Zuko hated this emotion. This helplessness. 

In all his wallowing, in his grief, he forgot that he wasn’t the only family member who mourned Lu Ten. He forgot about Azula. 

And he would forever despise himself for that outcome. He was just like everyone else - who shunned the nine year old and refused to give her the care that she required. How could he do this to his sister? Even as Azula was infinitely more capable and resilient than him, keeping it together with seemingly effortless grace and poise, she wasn’t invincible. She was still human. Everyone needs support. A helping hand. A brother, as much as she tried to deny that fact. 

And he failed.

How could he let that happen?

No more, he promised himself.

No more.

Chapter Text

He would be lying if he said that things got easier quickly.

For countless nights, cruel nightmares reminding him of who he lost and failed lorded over him like unjust tyrants, withholding sleep from his grasp. Playing with his greatest fears and most gruelling memories to create a play composed purely from his misery. An unending show he was forced to watch, glued to his seat by unseen forces. Some nights though - those precious nights - he would be blessed with dreamless sleep, allowing his guilt riddled brain to finally rest from the stress of practising his bending by himself. Keeping his secret, maintaining normalcy and making up time with his sister. 

So, at least there was progress. 

A support system - even if it was composed of a single person who more often insulted than comforted - and the passing of a few months could do that. 

People think that grief grows smaller with time, but the truth that Zuko discovered was that grief remains the same size, but life slowly grows around it.

At least his research yielded great results: the eleven year old was able to construct what he dubbed an air vortex, that could deflect any object thrown at it at great speed and force. The unfortunate side effect of this acquired knowledge was the sizable book shaped dent in his wall and the echoing thud that even through his doors resonated down the hallway. No one came to investigate, but the fear and terror kept him locked in a perpetual state of paranoia and dread for ten nights. Even Azula raised her eyebrows when they uneasily went for food the following morning. The abundance in Fire Nation propaganda posters came in handy for once in their measly existence in his room. Carefully positioning one over the blatant mark on the wall partially placated his racing heart and mind. After all, who would question an additional poster in the room of a Fire Nation prince? 

Still, the deceit on the piece of parchment caused bitterness to lay heavy on Zuko’s tongue - squeezing his heart in guilt whenever his eyes had the misfortune of gazing upon it. The urge to rip it up into shreds grew stronger every day, but his composure and restraint grew with the temptations. As much as he loathed the smug look on the poster soldier’s face, he needed the illusion of a perfect son and subject more. He owed Azula that much. 

Another piece of good news was the soon arrival of Iroh.

Finally, after what seemed like aeons, his uncle would be returning. Who knew exactly where he had travelled and explored? After a few short days, he would get the opportunity to find out. Containing his excitement may have resulted in red throbbing marks on his arms and shoulders (courtesy of his loving tutors), but even the soreness was overwhelmed by his euphoria of seeing one of the only family members who he at least thought cared about him. Some rumours had spread that he had actually been in the spirit world - which would explain why no one could find him. That thought alone caused millions of questions to flood into the eleven year old’s mind - how, when, why, what had he seen?

Azula had been less enthused with the news, and chose to divert her attention to finally perfecting the few katas she needed to become a master. With every step closer to mastery, Ozai’s pressure to be the perfect crown princess and heir (he knew Zuko was still there, right?) had grown. Whispered threats and precisely picked praises motivated his sister to practise with reckless abandon - to prove her status as the incredible prodigy. Carefully inserted moments of genuine affection were thrust towards Azula like a cruel trainer chucking bits of a treat at a dog, building trust so they can hold it into the perfect weapon. Azula had an unnerving ability to read others, scouring every thought, every pet peeve - twisting and pulling at it until her victims' faces grew red and their fists shake with the barely controllable urge to hit. Yet here she was, unable to see the poison in those little moments of light, unable to take off those rose-tinted glasses she had with her father to see the momentous ocean of red flags. The smartest of people can make the most pathetic mistakes. Often because they can convince themselves that the signs aren't there. Almost every waking hour was spent achieving the goal that wasn't truly her own- neglecting to care for herself on her path to perfection.  Who needs food, sleep, rest when success could nearly be tasted? When the reward of being recognised was so close she could almost grasp it? Zuko’s stomach sank watching his little sister pull herself apart pleasing the apathetic man that claimed to be her proud father. Trying to force Azula to take breaks was like approaching a rabid elephant-rhino, but seeing as her cheeks weren’t sunken in, her eye bags were the average size of a person living in the palace and the girl’s homicidal rage was at its usual level, he reckoned he was successful.

The two siblings tended to practise together when they could - Azula with her fire and Zuko alternating with his ‘bending’ and his sword fighting. Ever since Ursa had approached Piandao to call in an old favour, the incredible art had become one of Zuko’s passions. And for once, he had a talent for it. Of course, it helped that being an airbender came with improved agility and being light on his feet. If Piandao noticed anything about that, he sure didn’t say anything. He was an old man, likely in his fifties or late forties, but despite his age, held great strength and wisdom. Immediately upon meeting the intimidating figure, a feeling of looming dread, insecurity and inevitable failure clouded Zuko’s mind. He admitted this to the silent swordmaster - proclaiming his unworthiness and lack of talent in the art. Somehow that didn’t deter Piandao. Apparently, he found that refreshing - a clear contrast from the proud candidates that boasted of their prowess and bragged endlessly - and exactly what he needed. 

So he took him in. 

Swordfighting wasn’t the only thing Zuko learned. Landscape painting. Rock gardening. Calligraphy. Everything the young boy learned was interesting, and was actually teached in a way that conveyed the blatant love the master had for his subject and was conducive to learning. And for once, Zuko wasn’t hurt when he messed up! Piandao was a non bender, so the prince figured that punishments would be made up of slaps and strikes to the head. However, when Zuko first messed up, Piandao not only did not harm him physically, but sat him down to talk about previous teachers. 

Scintillating rays poured down in droves from the sun and onto the oak desk in Piandao’s study, revealing the sweating student and their trembling hand carefully and slowly copying the calligraphy. Much later than they should’ve, they finished and grimaced as they gazed upon the final product. It was a mess. It was a disaster. Piandao would be ashamed. Said teacher peered over Zuko’s shoulder, his lips contorting from a neutral line to a distasteful grimace.

“Zuko, this is not your best work,” his cold voice proclaimed. “Why did you struggle?”

“I am sorry, sir,” the anxiety ridden body apologised, body tensed in anticipation of what was to come. “I didn’t mean to mess up, it is just that I do not have a steady hand-”

“Enough.” Piandao uttered, raising his hand abruptly to call for silence.

That is not what Zuko thought a raised hand meant. All he saw was the future strike. The throbbing of his skull that mixed in horribly with the shame in his gut. Twitching of worn palms, leaking red from the ridges imbedded into soft skin. His own trembling appendages reached to protect his head, which tucked itself into his chin. The child braced for impact, his mouth ready to recite apologies once the torment ended. 

Yet it never came.

What was he waiting for?

Was he faking it, waiting for Zuko to calm down and lower his guard before the onslaught began? 

“Prince Zuko,” Piandao murmured, interrupting the young boy’s panic. He lowered his hand, resting it by his side. “It is alright to make mistakes.”

“No, it is not,” Zuko proclaimed, internally cursing his lack of brain-to-mouth filter. “A prince is not supposed to make mistakes, they are supposed to get it right on their first try.” 

“Everyone is meant to make mistakes,” the sword master responded. “Mistakes are a fact of life, that aid people in their growth.”

“Tell me, if one only had success after success, would they learn anything? What information would they retain? They would only catalogue their triumph, and not take into consideration what improvements can be made.”

“Always succeeding, always getting what you want and never fighting for that outcome is bound to lead to tragedy.”

“A soldier who has always been on the top is the worst equipped for failure.”

“So keep on trying.”

“You’ll get there in the end.” 

Eventually, he did and Zuko would be forever thankful to Piandao for being one of the only individuals to show him what a real teacher is like. 

Unlike his lessons with Ty Lee, who was bubbly and carefree - only tensing up when his form bordered on dangerous, Piandao constantly had an air of seriousness and gravitas.

Mistakes were tolerated, as he demonstrated in his speech, and feedback was returned in understandable terms. Not to say that the man wasn’t strict. He most definitely was. Piandao was extremely punctilious: even when Zuko’s form was perfect he found some way to critique it. Zuko was certain that even if Agni himself was performing those moves the swordmaster would have something negative to say about them. Not that he minded. It was necessary to take into account any assessment in order to master the forms. Learning airbending by himself with only other bending techniques and his own instincts to guide him gave the eleven year old almost boundless perseverance and patience. For once, he actually was looking forward to lessons.

Ozai did not share the same view.

His father lamented about how he was stooping embarrassingly low to be practising non bender techniques. Rolling his eyes at his son’s practice and sneering at the beautifully crafted broadswords that Piandao had gifted Zuko for his phenomenal progress. Who knows which unfortunate individual convinced him to not melt down the blades just like he threatened?

Whoever it was, Zuko was thankful.

Now, he could even incorporate weapons into his air bending! Maybe reduce air resistance through his attacks with the broadswords and increase their speed. Maybe use them to produce blades of air that could disorientate his opponent and allow his attack to be more successful. Maybe control his blades solely using his airbending and not using his hands so he could still attack when he is confined! 

Azula was actually impressed with him for once.

“Congratulations Zuko, you found one aspect in life you aren’t a complete loser at.”

Well, as close to impressed that Azula could get. 

Ty Lee and Mai were a bit more enthused, with the acrobat crying out that Mai and Zuko were now ‘blade twins’. Both were not amused with the nickname, and Ty Lee artfully backflipped out of the way of a throwing knife at her observation. Still, at least now Zuko had more in common with Mai and the two’s conversations flowed more easily. 

He hoped that he would get to share his success with his uncle. 

Chapter Text

Uncle Iroh arrived with little fanfare.

Dressed in perfectly suited clothes, the regality of such fabrics befitting for a prince, he ambled into the palace with his usual confidence, yet it was clear that something had changed. Despite his usual robes, his usual hairstyle, his usual walk, something was amiss. Lines on his worn face had smoothened, and his eyes were less of a calamitous seastorm. Now, they were a still ocean, signifying calmness and serenity. Nevertheless, a hint of sadness, of grief peeked through the mask, slightly fracturing the facade of normalcy. 

“Welcome, Prince and General Iroh,” Firelord Azulon greeted him, his eyes blank and void in the presence of his missing son. “I hope you will make up for the loss your presence has caused, as well as your failure in Ba Singh Sai.”

“My condolences for your son. He fought bravely for his country and died an honourable death.” 

What honour lay in his son’s skull being cracked by a rock he will never know.

“Thank you for your kind words, Firelord Azulon,” Iroh replied, jaw clenched slightly as he spoke, before leaving the room with a revolting taste in his mouth. It made sense, since he just told a putrid lie. 

Firelord Azulon didn’t notice: his ego’s size was too tremendous to see the faintly treasonous look in Iroh’s gaze. Instead, he carried out his duties normally, unaware of his unfortunate fate that would be caused by the puppets he thought he was in control of. 

General Iroh however was now open minded, ego torn down to appropriate size - and could see the world more clearly than ever. The rose tinted glasses hadn’t just been taken off, they were ripped off violently and quickly. Guiding himself in a new world full of new colours and views had been difficult, yet he had made it and was now part of a group of like-minded individuals who were working towards a brighter future. Yet, the ache from failing part of his mission remained like a scar that hadn’t quite healed.

He didn’t find Lu Ten in the spirit realm. 

No matter how hard he tried, no matter which spirits he conversed with and had to battle with for survival and favours, his son’s presence eluded him. How he missed him! How the regret and turmoil had eaten him alive - inside out like a gruesome parasite. Guilt weighed him down like a gargantuan crocodile snake, which coiled around his shoulders and caused the general to hunch and struggle with every step. Nights were the hardest of all, especially since the image of his dead son had been seared into his brain, his soul, his spirit. Whenever he closed his eyes for a bit too long, it would spring to the forefront of his mind: Lu Ten sprawled on dusty ground, limbs strewn around like that of a discarded doll’s, his head split messily open like a poorly cracked egg. A viscous stream composed of blood, viscera and bone trickled from the sizable hole in his skull - almost black with occasional sparks of white. All his features had been deformed through the grievous injury and covered by the thick liquid. The only way he could identify him at all was through the traumatised blabberings and sobs of a nearby soldier, as well as his crown. Crumpled as if it was mere paper instead of priceless gold, and stained red. 

Iroh would live with that picture in his head until the day he died. 

How could he have let his son down like this?

How could have let this happen?

How could he have thought any of this was normal? Good? Honourable?

What honour lied in preventable death?

‘Maybe,’ he thought, spying Azula and Zuko peeking at him from behind a pillar - eyes slightly dull and with a gaze unfit to be upon children. ‘He can help other people affected as well.’

Chapter Text

Unfortunately for Zuko, Iroh was tight lipped about his exploits, only mentioning a few details, painstakingly vague details, before firmly pushing for a different topic. And yet those few sentences always filled him to the brim with excitement. Iroh had actually managed to visit the Spirit world! He met actual spirits!

Well, Zuko met a spirit too, but he supposed seeing one in real life rather than in a cryptic dream was infinitely more breathtaking and phenomenal. One of the only things the young boy could convince his uncle to talk about was his near death experience with Koh - the face stealer. The eleven year old’s mouth dropped open to form a disturbed gasp as the man spun his tale of horror and manipulation at the hands of a spirit capable of snatching his whole identity from him. The picture of a human trying to negotiate with such a powerful being was burned into his mind: his uncle, face purposefully blank to avoid painful demise, and the spirit menacingly playing along with his requests, patiently waiting for him to mess up. Even Azula seemed mesmerised with the story, only rolling her eyes a total of five times. 

However, Iroh shut off again - his jovial smile forming a neutral line at such a speed that it scared the child - when Zuko asked why he was consorting with Koh. Shaking his head, his uncle murmured that it was getting late and that the two needed to rest if they wanted to be refreshed in the morning. Both children saw through the frugal attempt but followed his advice anyway, chatting in hushed tones the reasons behind such an act. What was their uncle hiding? Did it have something to do with Lu Ten? Their theories only managed to generate more questions rather than explanations, and the siblings ambled to their rooms and slept with troubled minds racing with inquiries and possible answers. 

As much as Zuko loved his uncle, sometimes he found the man frustrating. As a general and soon-to-be Firelord, the airbender was aware that he never had to let his guard down around the man. Constant vigilance and such. Who knew what would happen if he actually let someone in who wasn’t as accepting as Lu Ten? Yet Iroh took this as a challenge, trying to break down his nephew’s walls with Zuko building them back up just as fast.

“Let’s play Pai Sho, nephew.”

“Would you like to go feed the turtleducks?”

“Would you like some help with your firebending?”

“I see you have taken up sword fighting and hand to hand combat. I am a bit rusty myself, but I can show you a few tricks.”

“Οh my! Such impressive acrobatics! Why don’t you and Ty Lee show me your progress so far?”

As much as Zuko’s heart swelled up at the praise and positive attention, his walls remained steady and strong. He indulged the elderly man, going through the activities with the proficiency of a skilled actor. Still, Iroh was aware of his performance - curse the man’s acute observations - and actively pushed to spend more and more time together. Don’t get Zuko wrong, he adored their time together, it was just that he was feeling as though he was a…replacement son. Someone to take away the pain, the grief. The thought made the hole in his heart grow bigger. He was never enough on his own for anyone. 

His airbending practice and research remained a comfort, something only for him, in those dark times. Even as he had to become more sneaky than just simply disguising his water bending and earth bending books as other books, he was actually improving - he thought. It was difficult to tell with so few scrolls about the Αir Nomad society - how could he ever had thought that the genocide was justified? At least he was no longer throwing his possessions and himself against the walls, floor and ceiling as often, and was able to muffle the sounds that were made during his failures and mistakes. 

If only he didn’t have to limit that precious time of discovery and joy. If only! As Uncle Iroh grew more friendly, he became more unpredictable - coming to his room with strange excuses like ‘concern that he wasn’t sleeping enough’ and ‘him retreating too often into his room for a growing child that should be making connections’. What was he planning? What did he want? If only he would tell Zuko so he wouldn’t tear himself apart trying to figure it out.

One thing that left Zuko with a bitter taste in his mouth was the absence of Azula in these planned outings and activities together. At first he assumed that Iroh asked his niece previously and she slammed the door in his face (as per the norm when he himself asked his sister to do something she wasn’t interested in). Sadly, that wasn’t the case. 

He found out when playing an interesting game of Pai Sho with his uncle, taking in the board while sipping his lavender tea. It had been his uncle’s move, and he anticipated it with incessant vigour - mentally dotting down the possibilities and ways to combat them. Never had he ever won against Uncle Iroh, but there was a first for everything. During the man’s long deliberation, Azula sauntered past the room, briefly turning her head to spy on the two. Zuko paused his internal rambling to check who was staring intently at him, and started at the sudden appearance of his younger sibling. There was something in her eyes other than her usual displeasure, disgust and smugness. Was that…hurt?

Iroh never asked her in the first place.

Anger boiled inside him at the realisation.

Just like everyone else, he thought Azula was a monster. 

That night, he cornered her just as they were about to depart for their rooms. Their usual silence had become heavy with discomfort and unanswered questions, and he longed for it to go back to normal.

“Zula,” Zuko murmured, conscious of the fragile peace. “Does uncle ask you to do things with him?”

At first he assumed she was ignoring him. Her lips pursed and she looked straight ahead, not even glancing at the person talking to her as if he was simply air. 

Her head snapped towards him. The emotions and accusations in her eyes made him wish to return to the time when she was simply pretending he didn’t exist.

“No, and why would I want him to?” she snidely responded. “Unlike you Zuzu, I use my spare time wisely, not to play games with a disgraced general.”

“What? You thought I would be sad? Upset? Because my uncle doesn’t want to spend time with me and barely gives me the time of day? Well, fucking boo hoo.”

“Azula!”

“Don’t Azula me. Who cares if you always get picked over me, even when I’m the prodigy, I’m the one who is succeeding and I’m the one who is-”

Clawed hands pulled at her hair, releasing it from the girl’s perfect top knot and letting strands cascade down her back. 

“It’s not fair. Why do you get all the affection and not me? Why do I only get him?”

“I don’t know Azula.”

“Yes you do! It’s because you are ‘ kind ’ and ‘caring ’ while I’m a monster .”

“You are NOT a monster!” Zuko cried furiously at his sister’s self-degrading language, then flinched as he realised his voice was too loud.

She rolled her eyes.

“I am,” Azula whispered with conviction. “And I wonder when your thick brain will get the message.”

“You’re nine.”

“Doesn’t change that fact.”

“Of course it does! How can a nine year old be a monster?”

“Whatever.” 

“I’m going to go to uncle Iroh about this and get him to apologise.”

“Do what you want, Zuko.”

He was getting the impression that she wasn’t listening to him, but the plan was now cemented into his mind and didn’t leave even in the following morning. 

When confronted, Iroh - though surprised at his outcry - did indeed look regretful at his actions and promised to do better. The man’s eyes darkened briefly at his accusatory words and his skin creased to form a remorseful grimace. He didn’t interrupt his nephew’s rant. Didn’t chime in to defend himself or attack Zuko by claiming that he was reading into it too much. Instead, he remained silent throughout, greatly unnerving the eleven year old as he became less and less confident as he went on -  stuttering slightly and even pausing at times - wondering when the explosion of fury and rage would occur. 

“I apologise, nephew, but really I should be saying these words to Azula. I am regretful to never have realised how my actions affect her. ” he murmured, before departing his room.

Huh.

That was suspiciously easy.

The next day, Azula confronted her brother, chastising him about not minding his own business and launching the usual fireball at his face. Though the orange blaze lacked proper heat, and her insults were half-hearted at best - not even spoken with a haughty tone. After all their duties finished and they trudged to their rooms like worn soldiers, his sister informed him that their uncle had found a ‘fun new board game’ in his travels and that he wished to play it with them while trying some Earth Kingdom sweets. The nine year old sneered as she relayed the information to Zuko, as if she couldn’t think of a more torturous way to spend her time, yet she was there amongst them, winning the game with frightful ease and gorging herself on the foreign food.

“This cuisine pales in comparison to the Fire Nation’s,” she critiqued between rapid bites of the bun, by all appearances resembling a squirrel monkey holding onto food for the winter.   “Truly a testament to our country’s greatness.”

Yeah, it was difficult to believe her words when crumbs littered her cheeks like white freckles and small blodges of the sweet paste artfully decorated her chin.

Wiping her face delicately with a napkin to resume the facade of a perfect princess, she peered down at the board, her eyes darting across the surface as she seemingly analysed every possibility. Then, perfectly manicured fingers lightly gripped her chosen piece and moved it.

“I win.”

“What?” Uncle Iroh cried, scratching his head. “How did you do that?”

Zuko giggled at the contrast between the general’s mystified expression and Azula’s shit eating grin. While Iroh looked over the pieces in astonishment, his sister laid comfortably back on her chair - picking at her nails as if she didn’t just beat her uncle and brother for the third time in a row. The boy didn’t even mind that he was losing. Watching his uncle try his best to win against the nine year old and fail miserably was entertaining enough.

“Best out of five.”

“Why? So you can experience me beating you five times in a row?”

“Niece, I believe that I am learning quite quickly and will win against you soon enough. Fourth time’s the charm as they say!”

“Let’s make a bet then. If you win the next game, I will have a whole conversation with you without any insults or threats. If I win, you have to get me thirty more of those buns which I will throw at Zuko.”

“Hey!” the victim in question exclaimed, no longer having fun at the prospect of sticky treats possibly being pelted at him. “I did not agree to this!”

“Hush Zuzu, the adults are talking.”

“Hmm,” Iroh considered, stroking his beard as Zuko cried in astonishment and offence at the lack of people standing up for him. “Interesting.”

“Ten buns and it is done.

“Despite my youthful appearance, Uncle Iroh, I was not born yesterday. Twenty.”

“Fifteen.”

“Eighteen and I will sprinkle in a compliment.”

“Alright,” Uncle Iroh agreed, determination blazing in his eyes as his poor nephew groaned in the corner at the unfairness of it all. “Let us begin. I warn you, Azula, I have come up with a strategy that will guarantee your demi-”

She won again.

Zuko mourned the loss of his pristine and clean hair.

Surprisingly enough, Azula took pity on their gobsmacked uncle, and decided to not hit her brother with buns. Instead, she said that it would be better for her to just take them with her to her room as ‘the treats would probably improve his appearance and we don’t want that’. Zuko thought that that was her plan all along. 

Trust his sister to insult something then create a bet so she can store more of it inside her room.

A squirrel monkey indeed.

As much as he missed the hours spent on his research and bending, that experience wasn’t bad either. Being with two of his family members, teasing each other and having a nice time with games and ‘fire bending’ and tea - that was time well spent. 

Just as long as he didn’t let his guard down.

Chapter Text

Azula had many talents - too many to count and infinitely more that she had yet to find out about.

One of them was sneaking around undetected. While her brother, she reminded herself bitterly, was actually better at it than her somehow, it was undoubtedly a great skill of hers. Silently manoeuvring around semi-crowded hallways, distracting guards as she explored forbidden grounds, hiding in unreachable places when suspicion and paranoia was cast. Clearly, she was gifted.

Normally, this skill would be used in prank wars, getting food and bothering her brother. Yet that night, sleep had eluded her completely, and practising firebending clearly did nothing but rile her up instead of tire her out. So here she was, a nine year old prodigy, dodging guards and moving in the shadows in her boredom - annoying and scaring them slightly in her wrath and apathy. 

However, even watching the guards cry and wail did nothing to quail her spirit.

“....Iroh…no heir.”

Faintly, her ears could pick up a sound. A voice. Straining them slightly in her quest to identify the noise, her heart stuttered in its bony cage as she came to her conclusion. 

Ozai. 

Rationally, she should’ve taken that as her cue to leave the scene, to disappear and never return. However, people seem to forget the innately curious nature of a child. Their morbid curiosity despite all the nightmarish odds and crippling consequences. So, positioning herself slightly closer in a spot where her body would be completely hidden by both pillar and thick fabric, she listened.

“You dare demand for such vile wishes while your brother grieves?” Azulon’s voice spat fiercely, offended at the selfish words of his youngest son. “For that insolence, for that impertinence you should lose your own son!”

For someone who was just commanded to kill his own son, Ozai didn’t seem fazed. Only minorly inconvenienced. 

The girl hiding behind a pillar was.

She barely noticed that her feet had taken off without her knowledge, the sneaking around and dodging eyes now muscle memory. All that remained in her head, all that echoed in the crumbling palace that was her mind was her grandfather’s words.

‘You should lose your own son’. 

Lose your own son.

Lose your own son.

Azula needed to warn him. She needed to warn Zuko. What exactly he should do with that knowledge she didn’t know. Run away? Fight back? Plead with their father? Right now, that wasn’t the goal. Right now, she just needed to get there.

Even Zuko would be impressed at the speed she was travelling, a small part of her mind whispered, before she shoved it back where it belonged. She had bigger things to worry about. Reaching his door, she briefly hesitated.

Would he believe her?

Would he think she was making it up to tease him? To mock him?

Would he thin-

In that small period of time, where her brain ran at a million miles an hour and was still hyped up on adrenaline and panic, the door swung open. 

How did he know she was there?

Why was he awake?

“What is it, Azula?”

Those questions could wait.

“Can we go inside?”

“Οf course.”

Maybe at a different time, Azula would comment on the abysmal state of his room, with books and clothes haphazardly strewn across the floor like a typhoon had struck her brother’s room and destruction was all that remained. Maybe she would even suspiciously point out a sizable dent on the wall beside his bed that was oddly candle shaped. Yet in her growing fear and trepidation, her mind moved past it all and the girl who was trying to hold it all together sat on the crumpled sheets on Zuko’s bed. 

‘Come on,’ her brain screamed at her. ‘Tell him! Tell him!’

But her lips stubbornly refused to follow the desperate instruction, the muscle instead choosing to tremor and twitch uselessly. Why couldn’t she say anything? Internally, she howled at her futile behaviour, her inability to do one of the most simple things in the world. How could she, a prodigy, not be able to speak?

Pathetic.

Pathetic.

“Take your time, Azula,” a sympathetic voice broke through her battling thoughts, soothing her like a balm on an aching wound.

That patience, that kindness. She couldn’t lose it. She couldn’t lose one of the only people who believed in her as a person, not something to be used and moulded. 

“Zuko,” she murmured. “I heard father-”

Come on, Azula.

“What did you hear?”

Here it goes. 

It’s now or never.

“I heard our father dispute with grandfather about something, and then grandfather said that he should pay the price for asking such a thing while uncle is still grieving and that father should kill his own son to feel the same pain.”

Even Zuko’s broadswords wouldn’t have been able to cut through the tension in that silence. The momentous pressure and fear that nearly crushed both siblings’ spirits with its weight.

“Are you sure?” Zuko’s whisper, almost too soft to be heard, broke through the quietude. 

“Yes.”

“Oh Agni.”

What else could be said? What else could he say to such a statement? Azula told lies, frequently to mess with him and cause mayhem, but even she wouldn’t stoop as low to say this. With her vibrating form - no matter how much she tried to hide her weakness, her fear, her brother could always detect it - and her hair, which had escaped from the confine of her pristine and perfect hairstyle, to tangle and interweave with other locks, she had to be telling the truth. 

But what could he even do?

What could he do?

“Your father said what?” 

Both children’s forms snapped towards the door, limbs jumping to shield their vital organs and at a moment’s notice protect themselves if needed. They relaxed slightly when only their mother was at Zuko’s door, but Azula’s fingers subconsciously curled up into a fist upon viewing Ursa’s distraught and horrified face, which only had eyes for Zuko. Not even sparing her daughter a second glance, the woman barrelled into his room, manoeuvring around the disarray to comfort the eleven year old. Not even taking into consideration the shaking girl beside him, whose hopeful gaze hardened and grimace contorted into a straight line at the blatant favouritism. Zuko however, noticed his sister’s distress and hurt, and his heart broke at her expression. Once again, the bitterness for his own mother grew, even as she was embracing him.

Ursa broke away from the hug and at long last registered her daughter’s presence. Her emotions travelled too quickly for the two to make them all out individually, but the siblings swore that they saw brief disappointment. Nevertheless, the older woman turned towards Azula, pushing aside stray strands of hair in the nine year old’s face - taking no notice of how the girl flinched slightly at the act. 

“Azula,” she murmured, poorly attempting a consoling hold on Azula’s shoulders . “What did you hear?”

“I heard grandfather tell father to kill Zuko as punishment for something he said.”

“Are you sure you heard it right? Are you telling horrible lies to scare Zuko?”

“No, I’m telling the truth,” the girl spat out with as much offence as she could at such a low volume. “I wouldn’t lie about that.”

Ursa’s lips pursed.

“I see.”

Their mother rose once more - conviction, determination and terror swirling in her eyes. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Contorting her limbs to escape from the colossal chaos on her son’s floor, she exited the small chamber - and took all comfort, hope, tranquillity and order with her. Leaving the two children huddled together stewing in a turbulent mixture of paranoia and terror. She left them with only that one sentence: I’ll see what I can do. Did she know how little certainty that simple phrase filled them with? People only tend to use that expression when they are sure that they will fail what they are asked of, and want to remind the recipient that they will at least try so they don’t get blamed when it all comes crashing down into a blaze.

Azula would deny her actions that night till the day she died. She would deny her hiccuping cries that echoed in the chamber and fell upon her ears like a haunting melody. She would deny clinging onto Zuko and hugging him tightly for the first time in weeks, as if she would never get to repeat the act again. She would deny thinking about pushing Zuko’s drawers, chair and belongings up against the door to block it, as if mere furniture would be able to stop the Firelord from doing as she pleased.

Zuko’s mind felt disconnected with his body. As if he had already died, and his spirit hung just above his body - spectating the events occurring. He murmured soft reassurances to Azula that he didn’t even believe, and was sure she didn’t either. He carefully placed his blanket around her, handing her tissues to wipe her wet face and blow her nose even as she claimed that she was fine and unaffected. He thought about running away: he pondered about packing essentials into a small bag and saying goodbye to his sister before running to the unknown because if he survived his father for so long, maybe he could survive there too.

Hours passed, and then their mother finally returned. 

Face gleaming with shed tears, she threw herself at them both - pulling them into an embrace that felt fragile. That if they questioned it, or moved in any odd way at all, the moment would be crushed. Shattered into a million shards. Body trembling vigorously, she murmured in a regretful tone

“I’m sorry.”

Pulling herself away from the two, both physically and emotionally as her face returned to her usual blank slate, she once again left the room.

What had she done?

Was Zuko safe?

Unwilling to take any chances, Zuko and Azula remained awake against all odds - staring at the door as if dark spirits resided on the other side. Lu Ten wasn’t there to guard it anymore.

Maybe, Ursa would clarify what she did in the morning. 

Maybe, it would be alright.

Chapter Text

They couldn’t be more wrong.

Scrambling to their own rooms, cleaning themselves up to deceive their father of their ignorance on the threat on Zuko’s life took too much energy. Even Azula, whose lying abilities and pretences were world class, struggled with the whiplash tremendously - her ever blank mask crumbling slightly around the edges. The walk to the dining room felt more like lugging to their own execution, for they felt so desperately that they were screwed. Pausing slightly before the action, they opened the door. Before this moment, the door’s size was never properly processed, but at that moment, it seemed to loom over them - judging them, foreboding the terrible tragedy that would enfold beyond it. 

Only two pairs of eyes turned to them as they walked inside, taking their places.

Iroh’s and Ozai’s.

Firelord Azulon and Ursa were conveniently missing from the scene.

The holes in their hearts grew bigger at the observation.

Maybe they were wrong. Maybe they were mistaken.

“Princess Azula,” Ozai called out. “Prince Zuko, you are both late. Ι expected this from the prince but not you, Princess Azula.”

“Do not let this happen again.”

“Yes father.” they responded, Zuko's response slightly later and more shaken than his sister’s, which their father picked up on like a tiger shark picking up on a trail of blood.

“I have some unfortunate news.”

“Firelord Azulon has tragically passed away in his sleep. His attendants spotted him in the morning and would at least like the nation to have the comfort of knowing that his death was peaceful.”

What?

All the red flags rose from the depths, swinging together like a sea of blood - calamitous and deadly.

“His final wish was for me to succeed him as the next Firelord.”

No.

“Why isn’t our mother here?” a torn voice broke through. “What did you do to our mother?”

Azula and Iroh held their breath. Ozai’s eyes narrowed, distaste and irritation so potent that it could be detected through the room’s walls.

“Do not interrupt me. Just know that she is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes, gone. Now one more word and I’ll give you something to cry about, you snivelling waste of a prince.”

Zuko’s mouth clamped shut, and Ozai revelled in the sheer intensity of fright and grief that was released in waves by his son. He smirked as the eleven year old tried his best to hide his shivers, proud of the control he had over the boy. 

Finally, he had won.

Now it was time to break some promises.

Chapter Text

Zuko never knew you could miss someone who was never really there. Someone who you felt somewhat bitter towards, who had such blatant favourites, who never truly tried. Yet, he did. 

It was a strange feeling.

His mother was never there for him for the large things - the burns that led to infections, the panic attacks that lasted entire hours, the self deprecating thoughts that ate away his sanity. His airbending. But, she was there for sniffles, for the scratches and bruises - patching them up with such care and affection. Flashes of spending time at the turtleduck pond when training got too much, warm hugs and soothing words plagued his mind and fed his shame. 

Should he feel guilty that his grief is not as big as it should be?

Or should he feel guilty that his grief was too much?

These conflicting feelings kept him up at night, as he poured over the possibilities of what ‘gone’ really meant, until the morning came and once again sleep remained out of his reach. Based on their matching snail pacing around the palace, it seemed as if Azula suffered from these thoughts too. But, ever the more resilient one, the dark circles slowly disappeared from under her golden eyes which brightened with incessant vigour and energy. Whatever emotions she had echoing in her head she clearly shoved deep down out of sight. Zuko worried about the consequences of such an unhealthy habit, and what would happen if anything triggered those locked up memories. The outcome inevitably would be disastrous. 

Meditating ended up being his salvation. 

As much as his sister and father loved to mock the need for it, that practice was what truly kept him from going over the edge. All bending styles had some form of it, but he found his best results came from his own personal kind. Doing meditation felt as if all the pressure of meeting his father’s impossible expectations, hiding his airbending and keeping up the facade had been lifted - and he became as light as a feather because of it. It was as though his spirit wandered out of his body, travelling freely around him like air. There was no doing it right or wrong. No worry of making mistakes, no need for chastising since no errors could be made. It was liberating. With more and more practice, he felt calmer, more attuned to his own element. Controlling his breathing allowed him to learn how to maintain his body temperature, to keep warm and to gain proper control over the air entering and exiting his lungs.

The tranquillity from meditation stayed with him beyond the finish. But it never stayed long enough, and everything he had been unburdened with would come back in full force. The extended hours of tuition meant more time with his tutor, a sycophant with little hair and even less patience, who struck his hands with his ruler whenever he felt as if he was progressing too slowly. Scars littered his knuckles from the constant assault on fragile skin. Cramps plagued him with increasing quantities to the point where he swore that his hand was going to be ruined from all the rapid movement. His firebending teacher was replaced by his father, whose cruelty knew no bounds: he yelled and screamed and denigrated his son, forcing him to stay in a cold room for hours on end until he produced his own flames. At least his breathing control allowed him to stay warm, and it provided him with such frequent practice that it was now second nature. Still, being surrounded by only metal walls, only being able to make out his own whimpering and heart erratically thumping as if trying to escape from his chest, would almost break him. Hunger and thirst gnawing at his organs would cause the twelve year old to throw himself against the door with all the remaining energy he had left, pleading to be released from his prison. When he would fail his objective, Ozai would grab the weakened boy by his arm and thrust him into his bedroom as one would throw scraps into the garbage - constantly spitting out insults as he did so. 

Even his proclaimed favourite suffered greatly under his tyrannical reign. Even her clear talent for firebending was not enough for him, and the Firelord would constantly push for her to progress faster and faster. 

“Learn this kata.”

“Master this set.”

“Keep getting better and don’t stop.”

“Υοu don’t need breaks, only success.”

Seeing his sister was limited to nights - when even that monster had to sleep - and they would cling to each other when Azula would allow it. Sometimes she would yell, bellow out slander and complaints to her brother, who would wait for her to tire herself out before he attempted to comfort her. It was always the same: outrage that he wasn’t progressing, calling him weak and lazy for not trying harder. Beneath all those half-hearted words, was worry. Anxiety and dread. A message.

Progress faster or he will hurt you more.

Other times, when their days would be better (which had been coming in less and less frequently), Zuko and Azula would play games, catch up, steal sweets from the kitchens and stuff their mouths with them until the siblings felt sick. When Ozai was occupied with other matters and Iroh was free, the three of them would hang out together -  Azula albeit a bit reluctantly. Those times were precious, a reminder of what a family was truly supposed to look like. How an adult was supposed to treat their family members. Then, the pressures would return and their world became dull and monochrome once more. Devoid of all passion, emotion and hope. 

Fitting everything within his schedule was almost impossible, but Zuko didn’t want to miss a thing. He refused to let Ozai cut down on his hobbies, his interests. His brain became clattered, aching with all the stress clouding his judgement and paranoia chiming in with every decision in his father’s haunting voice, but he had to keep going. He had to. It would work out. Ty Lee’s kind worried eyes, Iroh’s creased eyebrows and his gentle encouragement to take a break, and even Piandao’s tight grimace that his guilt gorged on would not stop him. 

He needed to do better.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter Text

“Absolutely not.”

“Please, you didn’t even give me a chance to explain myself!”

“Zuko, you are not going to the war chamber.”

“But I’m ahead on my tuition for once, and wouldn’t it be better for me to actually get some idea of what it looks like?”

“You are thirteen.”

“ Yοu were thirteen when you went to your first meeting. Please let me come.”

“Zuko-”

“You don’t think I’m ready, do you?” Zuko murmured, looking at the floor with a hurt expression. “Why does no one ever think I’m capable?”

“All I want is a chance.”

Agni above.

“Fine.”

Zuko must have pulled a muscle at how quickly his forlorn pout turned to a bright grin.

“But promise to not say a word.”

“Promise.”

The thought of war absolutely sickened Zuko - the sheer thought of soldiers as young as sixteen being used as pawns for the higher up’s covetous desires - yet he needed to keep up the charade of a loyal prince. And he couldn’t do that on the sidelines, watching as Ozai’s suspicion grew bigger and bigger with each day. With his pathetic firebending and subpar intelligence compared to that of his sister’s, he needed to display something to show his worth. Even if it was something as pitiful as enthusiasm and loyalty. His life depended on it. He needed to keep Azula’s promise. She wouldn’t lose another family member.

The war council looked almost exactly as he imagined. 

A large chamber, with the metal walls bathed in golden hues erupting from nearby fires. Despite these blazes, the room had a certain frigidity to it, lacking a metaphorical warmth. An emotional warmth. It made sense. All of the individuals in this room advocated for mass murder of innocent communities around the world through sacrificing their own soldiers, who were often teetering the line between child and adult. The men, clad in opulent fabric and expensive metals, sat boldly around a table - hardened eyes taking in their surroundings like vultures waiting for the kill. In front of them were a collection of maps, documents and files, arranged neatly in specific piles waiting for their turn.Though it seemed a few were missing.

No matter.

They would turn up soon enough.

Above them all, on an ornate throne lavish in glittering jewels and shining gold, sat Ozai. A path of fire separated the Firelord from the generals, which flickered menacingly as if to remind them of the sheer difference between them and the man in question. The power he wielded even over men like them. One word and he could take away their status, their lives. He had the gaze of someone who looked Agni in the eye and still thought himself superior. 

Carefully, Zuko took his place.

His father looked him up and down, barely bothering to conceal the disgust in his eyes, and waved his hand.

It had begun. 

“The Earth Kingdom defences are concentrated here.” a general to Zuko’s far right informed, pointing towards a certain area on the map. 

“A battalion of their most powerful Earth benders and most dangerous warriors.”

Zuko held his breath.

“So I am recommending the 41st division.”

His stomach dropped as he comprehended the people mentioned. But-

“The 41st division is entirely new recruits,” another individual, long white beard moving in time with his lips, remarked. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “How do you expect them to win against such formidable foes?”

General Yuko smirked, a terrible grin that showed all his white teeth. 

“I don’t.”

No.

“They’ll be used as a distraction while a more experienced division launches an attack from the rear.” 

“What better distraction than fresh meat?”

How could that man even consider himself human? How could he even come up with a plan so twisted and wicked to his very people? Had he no shame? No honour? Νο basic empathy? How could he smile at his words, that would cause Agni to cry out and weep in righteous fury? 

“No! You can’t use an entire division like that!” Zuko sharply burst out. “They love this land and swore their loyalty to the Fire Nation and that’s how you treat them? It’s barbaric, it’s cr-”

“An act of complete disrespect!” Firelord Ozai interrupted, his exclamation so filled with fury that the flames around him roared with anger alongside him. “You dare challenge General Yuko?”

The thirteen year old’s eyes ached as the muscles widened as far as they could. Those two sentences, so brimming with malice and promise of rampage, caused his very bones to tremble beneath their meagre protection of fragile skin. Those words promised punishment, pain of the highest degree. He knew the consequences and what they entailed.

An Agni Kai. 

Gazing upon the general, looking the old man up and down, his fear simmered at what he saw. Such brittle bones. Such uncontrollable rage. Snuffing out this man’s fire, disrupting his breathing and defeating him with his martial arts would be easy. Time had not been kind to General Yuko, whose limbs seemed to creak every time he used them like he was an unoiled machine. Compared to him anyway, who practised air bending almost every night, who trained with Piandao and Ty Lee - who knew no fear even if it stared her straight in the face - he had a chance. 

He was not afraid. 

Getting dressed in light clothes, he braced for the fight. Even as he dragged his body which refused to believe what was happening down towards the arena, his terror was quelled by that knowledge. That though he would soon be facing an actual opponent in an actual Agni Kai, he would be able to win. As much as he despised the man, he did not want to hurt him more than necessary. Dragging out a confrontation would be illogical and dishonourable. 

‘It was alright,’ he soothed himself, all too conscious of the crowd around him and his opponent behind him. ‘He could do this.’ 

He turned around.

And nearly air bended himself out of the arena at who he saw. 

Ozai.

His father. Who killed his grandfather and most likely his mother as well. Whose fire burned so hot that sometimes the flames would contain a whisper of blue. Who was most certainly not an elderly man, but an individual who held the power of a nation in his palm. 

He couldn’t do this. 

“Please father, forgive me!” the thirteen year old pleaded. “I don’t wish to fight you! I had the Fire Nation’s best interests at heart.”

Under the weight of the pressure, Zuko crumpled to his knees. All his limbs became useless blocks of flesh, incapable of any kind of movement other than erratic shaking and twitching. His vision tunnelled and all he could see was his father in front of him, who from his position seemed taller than ever, emphasising the immense power difference between the two. 

His father. How could he fight his father? With the only way he had a chance at success only accelerating his death, and surely his martial arts would be nothing against the ire of a master firebender, not to mention the Firelord . How could he face him?

Ozai’s palms - a bit warm, enough to be detectable upon Zuko’s skin -  cupped the child’s cheek. Brushing a tear away with his thumb, steely golden eyes bored down upon his son. Was that mercy in his gaze at long last?

“You shall learn respect.”

The palm grew hotter. Too hot. No, there was no mercy-

“And suffering will be your teacher.”

Zuko’s screams - potent with pain, hysteria and shock - echoed in the large chamber, a cacophony of tragedy. An orchestra of noises that grated on people’s ears, minds, souls or the hole where their souls should’ve resided. Even the darkest of spirits would’ve recoiled at the caterwauling and begged for it to cease. Proceeded by howls, shrieks and sobs, the sounds of distress never seemed to end, and Iroh turned his face away in an attempt to push himself away from the scene in front of him. Retches tied into the discordance as the boy’s nose became conscious of the putrid stench of cooking flesh, his cooking flesh. At some point, fortunately and unfortunately, the cries began to die down - hiccups giving way to laughs.

Has anything like that happened to you? Where your mind is so worn with hurt and anger and suffering that chuckles and giggles escape you, forcing their way up your throat as you bend over through the sheer intensity of their force? Where you are in denial of what is happening to you even as the agony rushed through your veins like molten lava? And you lie on the ground, thinking that there must be no hell because nothing could possibly be worse than this feeling. This torment and discomfort. Have you had family members, friends stare at you in fear and concern at your actions, hands uselessly by their sides as they don’t know whether to comfort you or leave you alone? 

And Zuko laughed and sobbed and laughed and screamed. Because the tears made it worse, so much worse , emphasising the torture tenfold, and he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear properly. Only snippets of his father - no he wasn’t his father, how could a father do this, how could anyone do this - sneering at his writhing form and barking out an order to ‘take him away’. Arms gingerly lifted his arms and legs as though he was already a corpse, and was he actually dying? Spots in his vision appeared with increasing frequency, and the murmurs died down and he was so, so tired.

He was just so tired.

Chapter Text

The first time he woke up he wished he didn’t. 

Covered in bandages that pressed lightly, but not lightly enough on his sensitive skin caused waves upon waves of pain to travel through his body, his nerves. All coherent thoughts had vanished, leaving only ‘It hurts.’ and ‘It’s agony’ to repeat endlessly in his brain. Faintly, he could register and be thankful for the cool and soothing nature of ointments on his skin, but the sensations coursing through his body overwhelmed them entirely. He was hot. Too hot. Sweat uncomfortably ran down his arms, his legs, his torso and he couldn’t move, he couldn’t move. The thirteen year old could barely see: only cataloguing oblong fuzzy shapes with faded colours, as if all of life and vividness had been sapped from the hues. Yet the momentous ache that occurred when he opened his eyelids was too much for him, so he simply chose to not view anything at all. At least, he could hear snippets, though only from one ear. He didn’t want to think about the implications of that. 

“...You have some nerve showing your face around here, brother.”

Silence.

“What are you doing here? I can’t imagine you are here out of pity and remorse.”

Silence yet again.

“Have you got nothing to say? Have you got nothing to say in terms of your son , your child who you mutilated and burned with a straight face, you sick, sick bastard? He is barely clinging on to life! ”

“He lives?”

If he could move, he would’ve flinched, trembled. Made himself seem smaller.

“How is that your takeaway from this?”

“How unfortunate.”

“Why I ought to-”

And then Zuko slept once more.

The second time Zuko woke up he wished he didn’t.

Discomfort greeted him first. Then tell-tale sharp stinging and prickling about his arms, legs, and most prominent around his face. Then, with no mercy, no warning ( just like Ozai) , the burning sensations overwhelmed him - quickly taking over his brain in their conquest. It felt like his face was still on fire, still alight with his skin being grilled to a lifeless crisp, exposing tender tissue that was cooked under the persistent heat. He gagged under the phantom smell of scorching flesh. 

Hands, too many hands, too many of them roamed over his body, applying salves, taking his temperature and administering medicine. He didn’t need his sight to tell him what they were seeing wasn’t good - the wavering voices, hushed whispers of his condition ‘getting worse’ weren’t exactly being subtle. Hope was dying and he couldn’t blame them.

In the background of it all, all the murmurs and bustling, a faint sobbing could be heard. The person must be in incredible sorrow to be heard over all the hubbub of cutting, snipping, moving and wrapping.

Yet the energy to strain his ears to identify the mystery mourner was too great, so he fell unconscious to recover.

Chapter Text

The first few nights after the Agni Kai passed slowly.

Everything was too quiet, and the palace - though already a dead thing - seemed to be a shell of what it used to be. Already skittish maids and guards became even more detached, and limited their presence as much as possible. They liked Zuko: they liked the way he treated them like people, like human beings with thoughts, feelings and ambitions. He always thanked them for their help, bowed respectfully and started meaningless conversations discussing their views and beliefs - even when that behaviour wasn’t encouraged. Zuko made them little presents for their birthdays and asked about their family, comforting them when they were upset.

He was patient.

Kind.

Even to those who Azula believed didn’t deserve it. 

Now, he was paying the price for it.

Why did he do that?

What on earth possessed him to act in such a way?

She had to see him. See what happened to her brother for herself.

Her father restricted all of the individuals entering and exiting the room her brother was in, but there was yet to be a room in this palace she couldn’t sneak into. Donning her outfit specifically for getting around undetected, she began her journey. Weaving through the shadows which welcomed her as one of their own, riling up the guards so their paranoia influenced them to check other rooms and open up her path, contorting her body to shift behind objects when people’s gazes came too close. Gently opening the final door in such a way to encourage the hinges to not creak, she slid her body through the crack. 

Too easy. 

She turned around.

And there the idiot was.

Azula’s breath did not hitch. Panic did not overwhelm her mind as she saw the one person who understood her the most, who she cared about the most (excluding herself of course) unable to move, unable to do anything on a tiny bed. Her lungs did not seem as if they had shrunk in size, and every inhale she took in did not feel more and more restricting until she was certain that no oxygen was entering her body at all. Her heart did not falter in its regular rhythm at the sight of her thirteen year old brother looking so small in the room with no colour and no comfort. A glorified cell. Tears did not cloud her vision like raindrops running down a windowpane. Azula was strong. Azula was brave.

Azula always lies.

“Zula…” that same comforting voice - so shattered, so broken, so devoid of everything it used to be, murmured. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying, you dolt.”

“Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you stay quiet?”

“...not right.” 

“Zuko, they are just soldiers. They die all the time.”

“Still not right.”

“Agni, you’re hopeless,” she sighed, adjusting her seat on the edge of the hospital bed. 

Azula peered at the soundless form of her brother, so bundled with bandages and gauzes.

“Look at you. Why did you provoke him?”

He said nothing.

“Why didn’t you fight back? Why were you such a coward?” she cried, standing up from her position on the rickety mattress. 

“I bet it isn’t even that bad, why are they acting like you are going to die?” 

Why wasn’t he responding?

“Unless you speak up Zuko, I’m going to check.” she threatened in a sing-song voice, menacingly moving her fingers towards the bandages on his face like dangerous claws waiting to clasp their prey.

Still nothing.

Carefully pulling with slow precise movements, the white wraps gradually became undone and her anticipation grew. The pile of bandages by her side became larger and larger and she was almost able to get a glimpse.

“Last chance, Zuzu.”

Nothing.

Her pout distorted into a grimace.

She would show him.

He only had himself to bla-

Azula prided herself on her self-control. That is why she didn’t gasp while others in the same position as her once did, didn’t cry out or scream, or become green in the face. Her eyes didn’t widen, her pupils didn’t shrink and she definitely didn’t run to heave into a rubbish bin as one of the interns did. The only thing that happened was a twitch of her lips. Then, she began to wrap up her brother’s face again, movements smooth and accurate, in exactly the same place the bandages previously resided. Shaking hands encased the last bit of the protection on Zuko, before the eleven year old primly ambled out of the room. Quietly closing the door behind her.

She didn’t sleep that night.

Or the next.

Or the one after.