Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prolog.

Zuko was born twice: first as a prince, on a remarkably sunny day at the end of summer. It had been a complicated delivery and for a couple of haunted seconds his mother and the midwife had feared him to be stillborn, before he had parted his lips, lungs shaky with the newfound breath of life, and screamed.

He was born again as a teenage boy, onboard a ship to a foreign land, and this time his scream had been instant.

What they do not tell you, however, is that before you are born you also must die.

Chapter One.

The tea shop is nearly empty with the exception of an old man sitting cross-legged by a Kong table, playing Pai Sho, and waiting for death. The man has a pipe resting in the corner of his mouth, scared to meet his end without it, and hours-old tobacco smoke lingers heavy in the air.

There is a storm outside, the pressing heat of summer giving way to lightning crackling like a whip of silver against the night sky, turning raindrops into crystals, and then back to rain again within the blink of an eye. The only thing that can be heard except for the rain smattering against the windows of the shop is the static voice of a woman singing sorrowfully through the speakers of a radio; of boys going to war and men coming back, of fire and sun that will not reach, and of caskets filled with water.

A clay teapot that cooled hours before fills the room with its sweet jasmine scent just as the clock strikes midnight. Hot steam curling from its spout like the tired breath of a dragon. It is an omen like thunder; a warning that the old man is no longer alone. Death had given him a day's notice, something that is by all things considered, a very generous gesture.

Lightning flashes across the sky, blinding the man by its intensity— spilling in through the windows of the shop like a wave crashing against the shore— and when the man’s sight finally returns it is to a figure standing above him, like a shadow given solid form. Death is a boy with a familiar yet unrecognizable face; unrecognizable because of the mask that hides it, familiar because of the golden eyes staring back at the man from slanted slits like burning ambers dipped in poison.

“I always knew you'd come for me. Long before they found General Li, but unlike that coward, I will not run from you,” the old man says, his words are spoken with vigour and with the type of pride that has been cultivated by a near lifelong title.

”Is that a confession, Admiral Ukano?” The boy asks, his voice curling around the sharp edge of a smile.

“My son, Shiro, is two years older than you, he died in the battle of Kyoshi Island two months ago, his body was lost at sea,” Ukano says, as he takes a deep drag from his pipe and exhales through his nose, the smoke twisting like the tale of an idle cat, tinted red by lantern light. “He fell into the sea when he was five or six, on Emerald Island, nearly drowned… It used to infuriate me, how he never conquered his fear of water and never learnt how to swim.” The Admiral taps his pipe against the wood of the tabletop, right next to an ashtray filled with lynched cigarette buds. “I know what it feels like, the loss of a firstborn son, Prince Zuko, and I do not wish it upon anyone.”

“Sentiment will not spare you,” Zuko responds. “And I care little for it.”

“And I have little time for it, all things considered,” the Admiral says crudely but not unkindly. “I understand now that there is something fundamentally wrong with this nation, something I should have realized years before, when I witnessed a father burn his son in front of crown and kingdom, yet without anyone speaking out to stop him.”

The swords are heard before they are seen, cutting through the air in deadly precision until they rest a near breath away from the admirals neck. The light from the lanterns flickers, shifting the boys’ mask into something living; shadows pooling in the sockets of its eyes and morphing it into an expression that can only be described as fury.“I did not come here to listen to the sorrows or realizations of an old man. I came here to seek revenge; for the death of my mother, and it will be paid by you in blood.” Zuko responds with a voice drenched in smoke, a raspy drawl trying to hide the posh accent of a prince once meant to be king but the tells are still there; in the square line of his shoulders and straight back, in the colour of his eyes. 

“Your mother knew kindness and love, and that became the death of her in a nation that cared little for either. What would she say, if she could see you now, dirtying your hands in her name?”

“Have they not told you, Admiral Ukano? The dead do not talk, or are your son still writing you letters?” Zuko asks, just as the radio crackles and the woman stops singing, but the sorrow in her voice still lingers like a foreboding fog, sticking to the walls of the shop and seeping into the splinted wooden flooring. It curls around their feet like something tangible. It is the sorrow of a son without a mother, and a father without a son; the spoils of war.

“I have a message I need you to deliver, as I cannot be there to deliver it myself tonight,” Ukano says, with the voice of an admiral, expecting his demands to be met.

Zuko chuckles softly.“I'm not in the business of taking on final requests.”

“Perhaps not, but something tells me it would be in your best interest. You are not the Fire Lord's only enemy, Prince Zuko,” Ukano says.

“I am not an enemy of the Fire Lord and I could not care less about his kingdom,” Zuko says, leaning forward until he is looming over the Admiral. “I am an enemy to the man that killed my mother, and the women and men that let him.”

“I can smell your ambition as they rot by your feet, Prince Zuko,” Ukano says.

“I have no ambitions, only obtainable goals,” Zuko responds with a snarl. “And last time I checked my father cast me out. Burned me, and left me for dead on board of a ship with no sails. I am no more prince than you.”

“Being prince is more than a title, it is a birthright. It is not something that can be taken away.” The Admiral’s eyes are a warm brown colour with a ring of ember embracing wide pupils. “This vicious cycle of oppression and hatred must come to an end, and it can only do so by your hand.”

“By me and what army?” Zuko mocks, leaning back. “The loss of your son has made you delusional.”

“But you still intend to assassinate the fire lord, be it your father or your mother's killer it would not be counted as such, it would be regicide even if you sought only revenge. Such an act changes history. It changes the world.” Zuko lifts his sword from the Admiral's neck and points it towards the ground, mimicking its twin blade.

“The world can burn for all I care,” Zuko bites out through gritted teeth, his voice a contrast to the cold iron mask he wears, filled with heat. Zuko is dressed in black, a colour that belongs to no nation or element, it belongs to thieves and wrongdoers trying to blend into the night. It is the colour of coal and ash, of deep waters and the fraying edges of a wound sweet with infection. They had worn the same colours once, when the world had seemed a much kinder place, however time has marked them differently because time changes all things but never once the same.

“Then you are no better than the man you claim to hate,” Ukano says, his mouth a straight line, stretched thin over yellow teeth, stained by tobacco smoke.

“I fear this conversation has dragged on for longer than I intended,” Zuko says, raising his swords once more. “It will be easier if you close your eyes, Admiral, I won’t consider you a coward for it, and even if I did, I will be your only witness in a world that thinks me dead.”

The admiral looks down at his pipe, loosely held in a ring-covered hand with wrinkles stretching over knuckles and bony fingers. “I wish I could undo the damage I have already done, and I am sorry, for the pain I have caused you, and for the pain I still must inflict,” Ukano says, as regret creeps into his voice, with the familiarity of an old friend.

“Your head will do in terms of apology,” Zuko cuts in dryly, his blades gleaming red.

“The Avatar is alive.” The Admiral says.

“You’re lying,” Zuko bites out.

“Perhaps it would be kinder if I was but I am not.”

Zuko’s hands clench around the handle of his swords, and when he speaks his voice is barely a whisper.“I don’t believe you.”

“What purpose does the lies of a dead man serve?” The Admiral asks. “I was meant to deliver this message to the resistance tonight, but then I received your letter, and I knew it must be Agni’s doing. Your role in this war is far from over and your path goes further than that of revenge.”

“You’re wrong,” Zuko hisses as smoke billows from the nostrils of his mask, dark and angry. “The Avatar is dead!” He roars, kicking the low table so that it goes tumbling across the floor, the teapot breaking into a hundred fragmented pieces by the Admiral's crossed legs, bleeding with the sweet scent of jasmine. “You’re lying!” It sounds like a plea.

“I swear it, on my son’s grave.” The admiral responds. “The Avatar is alive and in the fire nation.”

Those words could have granted Zuko freedom once.

Five years ago they would have brought him hope when Zuko had first been asked to chase after what he thought was nothing more but a legend meant to mock him. Meant to chain him to a fate that would have driven him mad. Now they bring him only pain.

Zuko falls to his knees, swords still in hand like two broken wings of gleaming metal, like a bird shot in flight. His knees scrape against porcelain and ash.

“Why are you doing this to me?” Zuko asks, tears in his voice, his words an echo from a different time, from the great halls of a castle, from a son that just lost a mother.

“Because the Avatar alone can not do what must be done, you need to teach him fire. You need to show him that our people are worth saving,” the Admiral says. Zuko lifts his head, eyes glistening with conflicting emotions; fear mingled with hope slowly shifting into hate until something cold and hard stagnates and cracks. The young boy who once was a prince chuckles softly, shaking his head in what must be disbelief.

“Perhaps once, before you held me down while I watched my mother bleed, would your words have meant something to me. I used to admire you, Admiral, used to count your word in gold,” Zuko smiles, watching how regret takes hold of Ukano’s face. “However, that was a long time ago.”

“Prince Zuko—“ The Admiral’s head falls to the floor like a sack of overripe fruit before his fingers go slack around the pipe, and his body follows with a low ‘thud’. Blood sprays from the gaping hole of his neck, painting Zuko in the colour of his homeland.

“I told you, Admiral, that I am no more prince than you,” Zuko says, with a voice as dead as the old man in front of him.

A lotus tile sits by his bent knees, nearly buried in a pile of splintered wood. It gleams like a copper coin, with eight golden petals framing a circle the size of a fingerprint. Zuko stares at it, at the droplets of blood staining its face like red tears.

“Most people think that the lotus tile in Pai sho is insignificant,” Iroh tells him, on a sunny day when Zuko is five, sitting in his mother’s lap. She smells like saffron and roses, and her long hair tickles his face. “But for the strategy I employ the white lotus tile is essential.” His uncle says, holding up the tile so that it catches the sun. “Never underestimate its value, my nephew, it can lose you the game.”

Zuko sheathes his swords across his back and picks up the tile. It weighs close to nothing, yet he feels something within him fold with it. Zuko pockets it, turns around, and leaves without sparing Ukano a second glance.

Lightning frames Zuko’s silhouette every two hundred meters. His black tunic and trousers cling to his skin, caked with dry blood and heavy with the onslaught of rain falling from the sky like needles of silver.

Zuko knows Caldera City like the back of his hand; knows what alleys to dart between and what rooftops to jump across to escape the wandering eyes of the city watch. Has spent years roaming its streets protected by the night and with only the moon’s round belly, and a handful of stars for company.

He has fallen off enough slanted rooftops to learn how to land, and how to tuck his legs and elbows in to prevent a broken bone or a cracked rib. Knows what shops throw away expired food instead of sending it straight to The Pyre. And perhaps most importantly; he knows what area of the city a burn mark or the wrong colored eyes will become a problem and where no one will offer you a second glance; war criminal or not.

The Sink is located by the west end of Coal Drop Harbor, as far away from the staggering towers and shielding walls of the Royal Palace as you can get without leaving the city. It has more than earned its infamous nickname, being close enough to the port that waves crash against its cobblestone streets, filling them with ankle-deep seawater with the help of the high rise of the tide, and far enough from the city centre that the drainage is nearly as poor as the people living there.

Refugees from nearby colonies swarm the harbor nearly daily on board big metal ships so full of bodies they look like ant hills stacked with people; their faces covered in soot, smelling like smoke and gunpowder.

More than once has Zuko spotted eyes the same colour as the sea on open water and skin like burnt sugar. More than once has he caught the gaze of someone so clearly water tribe, so clearly enemy, and only offered them his scarred cheek and a curt nod in response, a secret for a secret, ‘I won’t tell as long as you don’t.’

So for the past three years, Zuko has claimed The Sink as his home, and in turn, The Sink has claimed him.

“You look awful,” June tells him when she sees Zuko approaching with his mask carelessly slung around his neck. She stands leaning against the doorframe to Patch’s gambling den, poorly disguised as a tea shop, with yellow lights spilling through boarded shut windows. A sign hangs over the door, swaying in the wind on rusty chains, The Pot, it reads in fraying red letters.

“So do you,” Zuko responds.

“Want a cigarette?” June asks, deciding to ignore him. “Looks like you need one.” She pulls a small silver case from the chest pocket of her leather coat and opens it with the flick of her wrist, holding it out towards him in offering. Zuko sighs, accepting one with a quiet ‘thanks’. He leans against the door next to her, so he is partly shielded from the worst of the rain and lights it with the snap of his fingers.

“Got a spark to spare?” June asks. Zuko snaps his fingers once more, lighting her cigarette for her. She is not a fire bender, Zuko doubts she is even from The Fire Nation; it is not like he has asked or like he cares. She is passing though, her hair is a dark chocolate brown and her eyes a warm chestnut colour, but her accent is not from the capital. It is softer, more of a lazy drawl than a stoic, posh ‘clang’.

“Where have you been? Patch has been asking for you. Dow and Chio have been placing bets on whether or not you will come back in a coffin or not.” June says, with her gaze firmly glued to his face, no doubt taking in the dark circles cradling his eyes and the blood thick in his hair, weighted heavily with rain. He must look crazed, like something that crawled out of a grave.

“What’s the bets?” Zuko asks, taking a deep drag from his cigarette and breathing out through his nose, the scent of Ukano’s pipe still lingers like an invisible veil over his head, sweet and tinted with Jasmine.

“Dow said you’d never let them catch you, Choi claimed there would be nothing left to send back if they did,” she shrugs. “By the looks of it, either of them could have won.“

“It’s not my blood,” Zuko responds.

“No shit, you’d be fucking dead if it was,” she sighs, taking a last toke of her cigarette before she flicks the bud into the darkness of the alley, Zuko can hear it hiss when it kisses the wet ground. “People disappear in The Sink all the time, that ain’t nothing new, tale old as time.” She shrugs. “Sometimes you found em’ in pieces, floating in some alley behind a butcher's shop, or sold to a whorehouse. Most of the time you don’t though, most of the time The Pyre gets em’.”

The Pyre is an island a couple of hundred meters away from the coast of Coal Drop Harbor with a constant, burning fire used to cremate garbage accumulated by the city and nearby islands, however, garbage is not the only thing that tends to burn in The Pyre. During the night you can see it, flames growing high in the breeze of the open sea, like the setting sun against the horizon with billowing, black smoke that can be seen for miles. ‘The Pyre is always hungry.’

“What I’m trying to get at,” June says, pulling a hand through her hair. “Is that I don’t know what it is you’re doing out there, to be honest with you it’s none of my business, but I know what a man looks like when he starts craving death, stars seeking it out.” She turns her head and offers Zuko a long look, and her voice is uncharacteristically grave when she finally says, “And it’s not a good look on you.” Zuko takes another long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke burn in his lungs before he breathes out.

“You’re right,” he responds, throwing his cigarette away and crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s none of your business.”

“It’s your funeral,” she says, offering a one-sided shrug before she kicks off the wall, resting her hands behind her head in a lazy fashion. “Would be a damn shame though, I’d miss our evening smokes, and it would probably break your uncle's heart.” She spins around, offering him an unimpressed glare. “Patch asked me to wait around in case you showed your ugly face, wants to talk to you tomorrow morning, some new job showed up, good money.”

“Yeah,” Zuko sighs, too tired to argue. “And- and thanks, for the cigarette.”

“What can I say, Sparky, I like it when you owe me.” She grins. Zuko watches her go until she is nothing more than a blurry shape, hidden in the rain.

Zuko climbs the metal staircase behind Patch’s shop and up to the second landing with legs that feel like lead. His muscles ache and hurt in a way he has not let himself acknowledge previously tonight, and when he opens the door to his small flat he nearly falls through the threshold face first. He groans, kicking off his boots one after the other.

He throws his mask carelessly in the direction of one of the four corners of the room. It lands with a clang, its fall broken by a couple of empty glass bottles stuffed with unlit candles.

Darkness covers the flat, musky and old like a thin layer of dust. Zuko has not been home for nearly a week. Admiral Ukano proved a difficult man to find, and after his assassination of General Li, two weeks prior security has tightened significantly within the city centre.

He has tried not to think about his conversation with the Admiral, what Ukano told him; about the resistance and the return of the Avatar. He does not believe Ukano lied to him but that does not necessarily mean he knows the truth. Hope can be a very dangerous thing, especially when combined with loss.

Suddenly the darkness inside the room feels too cramped, too restrictive. It reminds Zuko of the steady rocking of a ship out at sea, of caked sweat against his brow, and eyes that refuse to open. There is a sweetness in the air that was not there seconds before thick with illness and his own crying wish for death. “Hush, my boy, the worst is over, I swear it.”

Zuko clenches his fists and every candle still standing inside the room bursts to life, flames growing high, he forces himself to take low, steadying breaths; in through his nose and out through his mouth, until the fire settles with the beat of his own heart.

It is not a memory he likes to dwell on, those first broken weeks after his banishment, when death had seemed like a sweet and tender friend in comparison to the pain burning underneath his skin. He was reborn on that ship, in the wake of his own pain and suffering.

Zuko had sworn his revenge still drunk with fever and clinging to his uncle's side. “You should have stayed,” he had told Iroh, with a voice that barely carried above a whisper. “By coming with me you signed your own death certificate.”

“I am too old and too lazy to sign anything, Prince Zuko,” Iroh had responded, with a voice as quiet as Zuko’s own had been.

He wonders still if things would have been better if Iroh had stayed in the palace, would he have known then what he knows now, he would possibly have forced it. Before Iroh’s mind had started to fail him under a sickness slow and consuming like the fog rolling across the mountain chain in the east, visible from the high towers of the palace.

Zuko puts his face in the palm of his hands, cradling his cheeks, his breath hot against his skin. He stands like that for a handful of minutes, letting the events of the night wash over him like the rain still pouring down outside before he straightens his back and takes a deep, staggering breath.

His tunic is heavy with rain and blood and licks up his back when he pulls it off over his head, throwing it in the same direction as the Blue Spirit mask. The air inside the room is cold against his bare chest, and blood still sticks to his naked skin, making it look like someone carved his chest open and tried to figure out what made him tick; a deep-rooted hatred for his father and fear of his sister, Zuko thinks bitterly.

He looks around for a cloth, about to warm up the wash basin when he hears a low ‘thud’ coming from down the hallway.

“Uncle?” Zuko asks but receives no response. He moves towards the noise coming from the single bedroom by the end of the hallway. The door is not properly closed so Zuko pushes it open with his foot.

Iroh sits on the bed, his legs firmly planted in the carpet like he has grown roots. His grey hair falls down his back and over his face in thick strands of grime and sweat. He is wearing what Zuko last saw him in, nearly a week ago, a red dressing gown so big he is nearly swimming in it, and the smell of unwashed skin and piss stains the air. “Oh, uncle,” Zuko whispers miserably, staring into a pair of eyes the same colour as his own, eyes that used to be filled with so much but are now vacant and empty, like someone left without turning the lights off.

Zuko quickly walks into the sitting room, grabbing the wash basin and a cloth hanging from the back of a chair, before he hurries back to his uncle’s room, putting the items down and crouching by Iroh’s feet. He warms the water with his fire until steam starts to curl from it and bathes the towel, wringing it out before he grabs one of Iroh’s hands and begins to wash the filth off his skin, his heart heavy with guilt.

“I'm sorry uncle,” Zuko whispers. “I should not have left you alone for as long as I have. It was cruel of me.”

“You're bleeding,” His uncle says and when Zuko looks up he is met by the heavy weight of his uncle’s gaze, his eyes clear and warm like an open fire, and Zuko takes a calming breath that sounds an awful lot like a sob.

“Uncle,” he whispers, scared of breaking eye contact, scared that he will blink and once again stare into eyes clouded with poison. “I-I'm fine,” Zuko manages to say. “It's not my blood.”

“Revenge is a wound that bleeds from but one wound, Prince Zuko,” Iroh responds, voice weighted. He puts his free hand on top of Zuko’s who is still grasping the towel in a vice-like grip, his skin stretched tight over clenched knuckles. Zuko sighs and leans his head forward until his forehead is resting against Iroh’s warm chest and underneath the filth, the coppery tang of blood, sweat and illness, he smells like home. The steam of rich spices, of cherry blossom trees swaying in the wind, of the old sheen of polished stone floors, and volcanic rock. However, it is a home from a different life, a different childhood that had yet been tainted with loss, seen through a different lens; the eyes of a firstborn prince, of red silk robes billowing in the wind, of ribboned kites flying along the coast of Emerald Islands sapphire waters, the loving smile of a Queen that was a mother first.

Zuko has learned that the past is a foreign place, they do things differently there. “The Avatar might be alive, uncle,” Zuko mumbles, ignoring how his eyes sting with unshed tears. “I- I don’t know…” He trails off. “I don’t know what to do.” He looks up, expecting to be met by his uncle's searching gaze but Iroh is not even looking at him anymore, his eyes straight forward, staring into the corridor behind Zuko like it might hide the answer to his question, his eyes the colour of whiskey and honey are cloudy, like poorly cut gemstones.

Zuko sighs, untangling his hands from his uncle's loose grip and dips the cloth back into the wash bin, as he tries to ignore the ache in his chest. An ache he has not felt in years, did not think himself capable of.

He dabs the cloth over Iroh’s brow, much like his uncle had done to him all those years ago. “I might have to leave again soon,” Zuko says, even though he knows that his words are pointless, spoken only to himself. “But I will not leave you alone for this long ever again, I swear it.” His voice is fierce, fingers trembling around the cloth.

Ukano had been wrong, Zuko was not meant to save his nation, to mend the world. He was meant to die, die on a ship without sails, and by the hands of a father stripping him of his title and a future that knew love. It is only through pure spite he still breathes.

The path to the throne is not very different than the path he still walks upon, stained in blood; a prince killing a king, much like his father before him.

The only difference is that Zuko has no intention to claim the throne for himself. His family’s legacy will die with him, and perhaps the world will be better for it, but Zuko does not intend to stick around long enough to find out. He is living on borrowed time, he knows it and can feel every life he takes chip away at his own soul like a grain of sand falling down an hourglass.

The Avatar might be alive but Zuko does not care, as long as he gets to his father first, because Zuko has a list and will not rest until every single name on that list are crossed out, one of the names is his father's, the last one is his own.

Patch is sitting by himself by a kong table when Zuko walks into The Pot the next morning, with his knees crossed and elbows balanced on the tabletop. He has a deck of cards scattered in front of him, like the plucked feathers of a bird, and a cigarette is resting in the corner of his mouth, glowing dully in the early morning light.

“So he lives,” Patch says when Zuko joins him, mouth moving around his cigarette like it has grown attached, tip heavy with ash. “And got all your limbs in one piece too. Dow owes me three silver pieces.”

“You didn’t bet against me?” Zuko asks. Patch eyes are hidden behind a pair of round spectacles with dark tinted glass, making his expression difficult to read but Zuko can tell that the man is not impressed, bushy salt and pepper eyebrows hanging low on his forehead.

“Why would I bet against my own investment?” Patch asks. His face is a mask of scars, of burns and crisscross patterns of raised skin. His lips are chipped like the rim of a broken teacup, stretched dangerously thin over the hint of a smile.

“I thought you always played to win,” Zuko says, it earns him a low, smoke-drenched chuckle.

“I do, but I also play to gamble, and you’re a gamble, Zuko,” Patch responds, he picks a card up from the table, juggling it between his fingers like one might a knife. The deck is contraband, Earth Kingdom made, with a brown bear instead of a Queen. “I heard a rumour,” Patch says.

“Is that so?”

“From one of Daisys ladies.” Patch responds, his voice rough like gravel, ash falls from his cigarette, landing on his lap like snow. “A young soldier boy visited her house yesterday and got full in his cup, told half of West Harbour about a shipment they had to escort to The Pyre and make sure burnt before sunrise.” Zuko studies the card in Patch’s hand and watches it turn from a soldier into a king and then back again. “Except it wasn’t just your regular shipment, the palace burns things all the time, war plans and secret documents. Always sealed in boxes.”

“And you are telling me this because?” Zuko asks because Patch is not the sort of man who hands out information for free, he sits on it, and hoards it like a magpie would with something that sparkles or shines.

“Because last night the box was a lot larger, a lot heavier, so the soldier boy got curious, decided to crack it open, have a peek inside, and turns out it wasn’t just a box, it was a coffin.”

“They found a body? Do they know who it is?” Zuko asks, careful to keep his voice level. He already knows it must be Ukano. Two high-ranking military men both found dead within the span of a fortnight. Of course the Fire Nation would try and hide such a crime, such a weakness. Zuko hopes his father is sitting in a courtroom right now, sweating. The thought nearly makes him smile.

“An Admiral, high up as well, palace born, blood still warm, don’t know his name, didn’t ask, such things are never good knowing. Can get a man like me killed,” Patch responds.

“And you think I know who it was?”

“Do you?”

“No,” Zuko says. Patch's eyes are two bottomless pits hidden behind black glass, and his gaze crawls over Zuko’s skin like hundreds of ants.

“You know what makes a good gambler, Zuko?” Patch asks, it is clear by his tone that he does not expect an answer, so Zuko does not offer him one. “It's not about reading cards, or hiding tiles, that’s not gambling, that’s hustling. That’s something liars do. If we catch a hustler in The Sink, we break their hand, might take a finger, we turn them into honest men and women. So you don’t read the cards, you read the players, you look for a tell.”

“I thought there was no such thing as honest men and women in The Sink,” Zuko says. Patch barks a laugh, and the cigarette falls from his mouth, rolling across the table between them. Patch squashes it with a closed fist.

“Keeping secrets is different than telling lies. In The Sink, we have to live by code, or otherwise, we will start robbing each other blind,” Patch says, still grinning, he pulls another cigarette from the sleeve of his black dagua and lights it with the help of a silver zippo-lighter, sucking on it thoughtfully. “Your tell is your eyes. In my home town we had a name for it, do you know what it is?”

“No,” Zuko responds flatly.

“Didn’t think so,” Patch says. “We called them butter eyes, yellow like buttercups, most nobles are greasy and fat too. Slippy. When I first saw you, I thought you must be some rich nobleman’s son, wanting to be a bit rebellious, perhaps escaping an arranged marriage, trying to prove a point.” He shrugs. “So I took you in, thought I’d invest; I’d take you under my wing, let you live out your rebellion until a wanted poster popped up, and I’d send you back with a slap on the wrist, and get a reward from father dearest as thanks. So imagine my surprise when time ticked by and nothing showed up. No posters, no reward, no claim.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” Zuko responds darkly.

“Don’t be,” Patch grunts. “It was still a good investment, nobles might know how to hold a sword, but they rarely know how to fight with it, and you know how, like a man that’s had to fight to survive.” Patch strokes a hand across his scarred chin, the gold rings he wears on each finger gleaming greedily, colourful gemstones winking at Zuko like the fangs on a snake ready to pounce.

“Maybe I’m just a bastard, that got cast out, trying to make a living with the cards I’ve been dealt,” Zuko says, it sounds like a dare, a bet.

“Perhaps,” Patch hums. “But I doubt it. You walk and talk like someone who grew up rich, that got taught there was a right or wrong way to do it. Maybe you are a bastard, maybe your mother got down on her knees and begged your father to keep you around until you were old enough to piss standing up, or maybe you did run away but no one cares enough to come looking for you,” Patch pauses to take a drag from his cigarette. “But one thing is for sure, you didn’t grow up in The Sink, you came here for a reason.”

“You’re making an awful lot of guessing,” Zuko says. “And I’m not going to entertain it. Why I’m here is none of your business.”

“Normally I’d agree with you,” Patch responds. “But it becomes my business when it starts to affect my business. You can drink yourself rotten in every whore house from Coal Drop Harbor to Merchants’ Point for all I care, but when you disappear for a week, and show up on my doorstep drenched in blood like you just gutted an entire pigsty the same night an Admiral is found with his head chopped off… People will talk.” Zuko can feel his own heart sink to the pit of his stomach like a lump of smouldering coal, however, when he speaks his voice is steady.

“Did June tell you?”

“June tells me as much as you do, Daisy told me, had to pay her not to repeat it too,” Patch responds. “And I told you, your tell is your eyes, makes you stand out like a black sheep in a herd of white,” he taps a finger against the frame of his glasses. “What reason does a butter eye have to live on the streets, to become my patron, to bathe in blood? Makes people speculate, and speculation is usually more dangerous than the truth itself. So, mind telling me what you were doing for the past week?”

“I was gutting pigs for my father, apparently it’s the only thing a bastard like me is good for,” Zuko says. Patch scoffs.

“And the dead Admiral?”

“Circumstances,” Zuko responds.

“There is no such thing as circumstances, only half-truths and decent lies,” Patch says, breathing out a cloud of smoke. “But I suppose it might be some truth in what you said.” He hums, tapping his fingers across the table. “You owe me for paying off Daisy, and if you show up on my doorstep one more time looking like you just slaughtered king and country, I’ll have you back on the streets quicker than you can say ‘sorry Patch’.”

“Sorry Patch,” Zuko says. The corner of Patch’s mouth twitches like he is fighting a smile.

“Too cheeky for your own good too, consider yourself lucky I like you, kid, otherwise you’d be dead two times over,” he sighs, shaking his head before he hands Zuko a cigarette like it is a peace offering. Zuko accepts it, lighting it with the snap of his fingers, he coughs on the first inhale, being too greedy in trying to soot his own fraying nerves. If Patch notices the slight tremor in his hand, he does not comment on it.

“Got a job for you,” Patch says, once Zuko has finished his cigarette and Dow has served them both a cup of rose tea, offering Zuko’s shoulder a gentle squeeze before she leaves.

“June said,” Zuko responds, taking a sip of his tea. “What is it?” Patch leans forward on his elbows so that they are only a breath away from bumping their foreheads together, and when he speaks his voice is nearly a whisper.

“I’ve had problems with a couple of shipments, Earth Kingdom goods smuggled from Ba Sing Se, cigarettes, dried fruit, tea, nothing special, but getting things across the border is a nightmare, an expensive nightmare.”

“I thought it was impossible to get into Ba Sing Se,” Zuko says, feeling the scar tissue around his right eye pull with the furrow of his brows. Patch leans back a little.

“Getting in yes, as far as I know, that is impossible, getting things out, however, that is a different story.”

“What’s the problem with the shipment, it didn’t show up?” Zuko asks.

“Oh no, it did show up, and if it didn’t I could handle it myself, the journey here isn’t an issue, the issue is keeping it safe once it gets here.” Patch breathes out a cloud of cigarette smoke, tilting his head enough to not blow it directly in Zuko’s face. “A terrorist group that calls themselves the Freedom Fighters have been blowing up shipping containers down at West Harbor. Mostly weapons and military rations, but I’ve been getting caught in the crossfire.”

“If they’re damaging military goods surely the City Watch would be after them, how come they haven’t captured them yet?” Zuko asks. Patch shrugs.

“Your guess is as good as mine, I was planning to leave it, and let the Watch take care of it, but they haven’t, and I’m getting impatient.”

“So you want me to take care of it for you,” Zuko guesses.

“You and a small team of people, June, Dow, Hatch and Hitch.” Zuko has worked with June and Dow before, but never Hatch and Hitch, the twins have a habit of keeping to themselves, they are waterbenders, or so Zuko has heard, but their blue eyes and tanned skin make it easy enough to believe.

“That’s a lot of manpower,” Zuko says.

“I need you to guard the goods, from when it arrives until we have time to move it, it usually takes two nights, and it can only be transported in small quantities,” Patch explains. “I would appreciate a verbal confrontation, but the Freedom Fighters don’t seem like the kind of folk that likes to stick around for a chat. If something would happen I’d like to know we could fight our way out. They’re anti-war, we are capitalizing on it, I don’t think we’ll be very popular.”

“When do we start?” Zuko asks.

“Tonight.” Patch responds. “You’ll leave just before sunrise, the Freedom fighters only operate during the night.”

“Fine,” Zuko says. “But only because I owe you.”

“Then we have an agreement.” Patch holds out his right hand, pulling his sleeve up with his left, Zuko mimics the movement, grasping Patch’s arm by the elbow. Their forearms are pressed together, skin against skin. It’s a thief’s handshake, something Zuko has only witnessed in The Sink, where trust is short at hand, it makes robbing someone difficult and reveals any concealed weapons.

“The deal is the deal,” Patch says.

“The deal is the deal,” Zuko responds. They shake once before they let go.

The sun is setting, painting the ocean in vivid hues of pink and blood orange. The pyre is burning in the distance, the wind carrying traces of smoke and the dust of coal, flames flickering like a red curtain with traces of baby blue.

They are as far away from Coal Drop Harbour as you can get, on the other side of the city and the safety of the Sink. The ocean does not flood the harbour here, waves crashing against the port in contained sprays of sea salt, making the sky glitter.

Rows upon rows of containers cast long shadows over the port, stacked close together like dominos in various hues of grey and coppery red. Most ships have docked for the night, massive military vessels gleam in the setting sun like beetles, with fire nation flags whisking in the wind, a stark red in contrast to the blue of the ocean with black flames like spilt ink.

“Seen any red coats?” Dow asks, she stands leaning against the container they have been set to guard, cleaning the pipe of one of her pistols.

“No, Patch got the time right,” June says. “The Military Police change shifts at sundown, the night watch will start patrolling in an hour, by then the sun should have set.”

“When is Patch not right?” Hitch asks. The twin is standing with his arms crossed, a couple of meters away from their group, creating a dent in their circle, with Hatch only a few steps behind. “That man is all-knowing, give me the creeps.” He shudders.

“Well, I’d rather he’ll be right than wrong,” June says, her hand resting on one of her daggers, its hilt curved like a smile. Her dark hair is tied up in a tight ponytail and she has given up her leather coat in favour of a jacket ending by her waist. “The smuggler should be here within the next two hours, I don’t expect we will run into trouble before then,” she says, pulling out a cigarette from her silver case, putting it in her mouth and shielding it with cupped hands, Zuko discreetly lights it for her without question. “We should take shifts guarding the container. Dow you’ll take the first watch, then Hatch and Hitch, last Zuko and me.”

“How come Dow gets the first watch?” Hitch asks.

“Beauty before age,” Dow responds, grinning. Her black hair grows like a crown of broken feathers around her head, cut short around her ears. Her cheeks are still rounded with youth despite how thin she is, and her smile is framed by a set of dimples. She looks so young, Zuko thinks, like a child, her pistol looks big and wrongly placed in her small hands. “Besides, I'm not good at close combat, It's better if I take the first watch before it gets too dark.” She raises her pistol. “Better if I can see them coming.”

“So that settles it,” June says, blowing out a cloud of smoke through her nose. “At least all of us will manage to cramp a couple of hours of sleep in that way. Me and Zuko will take the graveyard shift because we’re old and bitter, and he’s the only one who smokes.” Hitch raises his hand, June gives him a pointed look and adds. “Cigarettes.” Hitch lowers his hand again with a wry smile.

“Whatever,” Zuko responds, sliding down the container until he is sitting cross-legged with his back against it, closing his eyes.

He did not sleep last night, between the hours he spent caring for Iroh and cleaning himself after his assassination on Ukano there was not much time left, and once he did lay down in the early hours of dawn, on the futon by his uncle's bedside, sleep did not manage to find him. It rarely does these days.

His eyes feel like gravel behind the darkness of his eyelids, and once Zuko has closed them he finds it difficult to muster the strength to open them again.

A soft breeze ruffles his hair with gentle fingers, the ground underneath him is warm from the setting sun, he puts his palms flat against it like he can soak up the heat. Warm his bones. He can hear Dow and Hitch bickering, their voices drowned out by the purling of the sea.

He doses off, vivid dreams flickering behind his eyelids like a bird lost in flight. He chases the laughter of children, light and melodic like wind chimes echoing through the great halls of a palace, he counts the petals on a lotus flower that shines golden. “Remember,” his uncle says, his eyes clear and bright like the sun on water. “Who you are.”

Zuko wakes up like someone falling in reverse, and when he opens his eyes it is to the sight of June’s face only inches away from his own. Her brown eyes are wide and nearly crimson in the dull light from the new moon. Her hand is hovering, ghostly pale near his shoulder bent at an odd angle and it is not until Zuko sees his hand gripping her wrist, tight like a snake trying to choke its victim, that he realizes he is the reason for it. He quickly lets go as if burnt.

“I’m sorry,” he says in a hoarse voice. June cracks a smile. Zuko can feel something cold and sharp press against his neck; one of her daggers, gleaming tiredly but with intent.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” she chuckles, twirling the dagger before it disappears in the sleeve of her jacket like it had never existed in the first place. “I was going to wake you, the smugglers are here.” She stands up, offering him one of her hands, Zuko accepts it with a quiet ‘thanks’.

“You got quick reflexes,” June tells him. “Bet you’re not too bad at picking pockets.”

“I could say the same about you,” Zuko responds, dodging her question. June hums thoughtfully.

“Care to see who can manage to steal the smuggler's purse first? Loser owes a cigarette.” June grins.

He smiles. “You’re on.”

The smuggler is a short man with a greying goat beard, and wrinkles line his face like a fisherman’s net. He is standing next to a carriage filled to the brim with cabbages with his arms crossed and chin held high.

“Typical Patch to get a bunch of kids to do his dirty work,” the smuggler says, spitting a lump of tobacco onto the pavement black like tar.

“You’re late,” June says, with a smile that is everything but inviting.

“Oh, yeah?” The smuggler says. “We better get to it then.”

The container is closed with a bolt lock, and it takes both of the twins to open it, the hinges groan in protest, stubborn after so long at sea.

It is filled with boxes stacked on top of each other like teeth in a tight-lipped smile. Dow whistles.

“Damn,” she says. “No wonder it’s a two-night gig. Patch must be a rich man.”

“We split it thirty-twenty, that cheap fuck,” the smuggler says, pulling out two crowbars from his wagon dusted with rost. “Rest is bribe money, it ain’t cheap to make people look the other way.” He throws one of the crowbars at Hatch, the twin catches it in one hand without batting an eye. “Let’s get to it."

They open nearly thirty boxes, lids nailed shut, the wood is damp and weather bitten but it still takes them nearly an hour to open most of them. Zuko’s shoulders ache with the effort, his palms blistering despite his thick skin, used to his swords and the rough streets of the city, however, his swords fit his hands like a glove, whilst the crowbar cuts into his skin from ragged edges.

“Are we done soon?” Hitch complains whilst Hatch groans, they are both filthy from sweat, their matching beige shirts rolled up to their elbows. 

"That should be enough,” the smuggler says, wiping sweat off his brow. “Let’s load the wagon, but only enough so that we can hide it under the cabbages, can’t afford to bribe the entire military police. Those red coats are expensive.” He spits again.

The wagon is only big enough for one man to manoeuvre, so loading it goes quickly. Everything is packed in bags full of dried fruit and rich pillows stuffed with goose feathers, both a luxury, Zuko has seen neither since his time in the palace and behind window displays in shops around the Red Square.

“We’re not gonna be able to fit anything else,” the smuggler that Zuko has learnt goes by the name Hakusai, says. “It will take me about an hour and a half to get to the first checkpoint and back, and then we’ll do one more load and we’re done for the night.” He spits another slob onto the cobblestones, wiping spit from his mouth with the back of his sleeve. “I feel bad leaving a bunch of kids alone in the dark but I ain’t the boss, so what do I know.”

“Don’t worry,” Zuko says, eyeing Dow and her gun with furrowed eyebrows. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, whatever, just… Don’t touch the stuff while I’m gone.” Hakusai says, as he picks the carriage up by the rails, groaning under its weight, his steps are loud when he leaves, echoing in the dark.

Zuko hears something jingle by his right ear, the sound of coins mingling together. “Got it,” June says, once the cabbage man is out of sight, her face is split into a wide smile showing a row of white teeth.

Zuko pulls another pouch out from the lining of his coat, it is bigger than June’s and sits in his palm like a hefty stone.

“You got the wrong one,” he says, matching her smile with a rare one of his own. “Yours is a thief’s debt.”

“A thief’s debt?” June asks with furrowed eyebrows, her smile dropping slowly as she stares at the pouch in Zuko’s outstretched hand.

“A penny for my mother, a penny for the king and his brother. A last penny for the thief and his debt, may it always be kept,” Zuko says, pocketing the purse. “It’s a decoy, a lot of travelling merchants do it or people dealing business in West Port. You know you’re gonna get targeted, so you never carry all your money in the same purse, you leave a smaller one where it’s easy to find and keep your real one better hidden.” June stares at him with something wide in her gaze like she is seeing him in a new light. She looks down at the smaller pouch of coins in her hand, weighing it, she looks up at Zuko again.

“You talk like a street rat, how do you even know that?” She asks.

“You said it yourself, “Zuko says, shrugging one shoulder. “I’d probably make a good pick pocketer, maybe I’ve had more practice than you think.” He holds two fingers out as if in offering. “You owe me a cigarette.”

It is late evening, nearly early morning once the smuggler returns with a less full wagon, and together they quickly stock it again, it goes quicker this time. They work in silence except for Dow who is sleeping, curled up inside the container on top of a crate.

The smuggler does not ask for his missing pouch, either one of them. June smiles gleefully once he finally leaves again after he threatens them to stay until he returns for the last time to lock the container for the night.

It’s Zuko and June's turn to take the last shift until sunrise. They sit together on the roof of the metal box, their legs dangling over the edge. Close enough so that they can talk without raising their voices but they could still fit a person in between them. It is a comfortable distance, a token of friendship that Zuko never thought he would receive.

June offers him a cigarette and takes one for herself, and in an unspoken agreement, Zuko lights it for her, like he always does. The smoke they breathe out mingles together in the air, and there is something poetic about it Zuko thinks.

“You won the game,” June says, breaking their silence. The air is comfortable, a light breeze, still warm, coming in from the open sea. Zuko scoffs.

“You’re still not over that?” He asks, the smuggler's pouch sits as a comfortable weight against his chest. Years ago Zuko would have been counting his blessings twice for it, would have opened it and counted the coins.

“I’ll give him mine back,” he says. “He will get suspicious if both are missing.”

“I’m keeping mine, that fucker hates us. Nearly put a dagger in him.” She takes an angry drag of her cigarette, huffing. “But that still doesn’t explain how you know about a thief’s debt.”

“Why? Because of my eyes?” Zuko asks despite himself, remembering what Patch had called them; butter eyes. He hates the colour in them, so like his fathers. Burning. Bright and angry.

“I’ve only ever seen rich nobles, Admirals and such with eyes like yours,” June confesses. “Ain’t nothing wrong with it but we don’t see your lot around The Sink very often. Hitch and Hatch are the same, they got water nation eyes,” she widens her own as if to make a point. “It marks you, that’s all, more than that scar of yours ever could.” It is true when it comes to The Sink, with the number of war veterans they receive by the nearby harbour. Water tribe men and women escaping the colonies, wanting to disappear in the closest big city. Zuko has seen scars like his more than once; the imprint of a hand over a shoulder or the lick of flames down a bare chest.

“Fire changes people,” his uncle said once. “Unlike water, or earth, it is not something you find in nature, it must be summoned. It is a hard element to master, Prince Zuko, and it affects us all in different ways.”

“I spent a couple of years on the streets when I first got to know the city. Picking pockets in West Harbor and the shops around Red Square,” Zuko says. That time had been like a fever dream, a fog of anger and pain, growling stomachs and the fear of a cold winter. First with Iroh taking care of Zuko and then with Zuko having to take care of his uncle.

“Couldn’t imagine you on the street,” June says softly. “Is that where you learnt to fight?” During the year they have known each other she has never asked him anything about his past, people from the Sink rarely do, it’s usually not a good story to tell.

“I got my bending late, and I wanted to know how to fight, in case I’d never learn fire. So I found someone to teach me.” Piandao had been a good teacher, he had grown up in a farmers' town east of the capital, his skin tan and thick like leather after spending his youth out in the fields. He was a common man who had created a legacy for himself. Had earned the respect other nobles had been so freely given. “In the art of the sword, we are all equal, any man or woman can learn it if they so choose, when you fight with a sword you leave yourself behind.”

“Your master must have been a good swordsman,” June says, Zuko hums in agreement.

“He was a great swordsman but he was an even greater man,” he confesses, smiling despite himself, remembering the hushed whisper of a waterfall and the soft breeze coming in from the mountains overlooking the swordsman’s mansion. How they had stood like father and son, Piandao’s hand resting on top of Zuko’s shoulder like a quiet promise of comfort. He never had to be more than he was with Piandao, not a prince, or a future king. He was a student, someone willing to learn and listen, and that had been enough.

“You sound fond of him,” June says. “Do you know where he is now?”

“The war has spared his town, thanks to him it is prospering,” Zuko responds with a hint of pride in his voice. He will never see his old master again, his face is a ghost, one of many, haunting the memories of a boy that no longer exists. The world thinks him dead; the sad story of a young prince lost at sea.

'It is a song just as sad as any, in for just a pound but out for a penny.
Of prince Zuko, a boy once meant to be king,
It is truly a sad tale to sing.'

They would sing about him, in the taverns near Coal Drop Harbor, travelling ballads or troupers full in their cups, crude tales about a queen and her brunt, one lost to madness and one lost to pride.

Zuko is a common enough name in the fire nation, especially after the year he was born, so he still goes by his given name. He is not starting anew it is a continuation, a promise, that he will finish what he has started; one more name crossed over. Only a few more to go. He wonders distantly what they will sing about him once he kills his father.

“It’s nice to hear that there are still good men left in this world. The war has claimed so many, made criminals out of honest men,” June says. She pulls her legs up, resting her chin on her bent knees. She looks younger like this, almost vulnerable, but her face is set in harsh lines, and her gaze is firm like she has thrown herself at the world and watched it yield.

“I’m from a colony in the earth kingdom, a fisherman’s town that has been under fire nation rule for the past twenty years. My mother died from illness, just a common farmer's flue.” She fiddles with one of her daggers, making it disappear and reappear, it looks like a dance, the movements of her fingers fluid, it reminds Zuko of the court maids that used to weave and spin silk. “My family was never rich but we were comfortable. My father was a rice farmer but the war got more violent each year. They started bombing nearby cities, ruined harvests, and homes. Split families apart.” She takes a deep drag from her cigarette, her eyes gleaming like tarnished steal. “My father took a loan on the farm, started drinking and gambling, owed the wrong people money. When he couldn’t pay them back they took me. Sold me to traffickers. That’s how I ended up here. I got bought by The Ruby.”

The Ruby is a brothel by Coal Drop Harbor that is frequently visited by the military police. They are known for their beautiful women and cheap drinks, and people have lost more than their pennies worth gambling there. You have to pass it if you are coming from down the harbour up to The Sink. Lightly dressed women in red silk with painted lips and cheap sparkling jewels usually stand outside, trying to lure people in. He cannot imagine June working there. Cannot picture her in anything but her leather coat armed with more daggers than an armoury.

“Patch released me of my contract, so now I owe him,” she says.

“I’m sorry,” Zuko whispers, June sends him a sharp look.

“I don’t need your pity.”

“I know,” Zuko says. “I’m not pitying you. I’m just sorry it happened.”

“Well, don’t be,” June says. “It made me who I am.” She offers Zuko another cigarette. “I killed the first man that tried to touch me. A red coat. He was my father's age and rank of cheap whiskey.” She makes a face of disgust, wrinkling her nose as if she can still smell it. “Patch got rid of the body, made it all go away as if it never happened in the first place. I’m grateful to him. He’s a good man, even though he likes to pretend that he isn’t.”

Zuko had heard of Patch years ago when he was still on the streets, the man’s reputation proceeding him. “If you are looking for a pair of swords you should talk to Patch, he can get you anything for the right price.”

“Patch? Do you mean the gambler from down the sink, with the scars and the weird glasses? I heard he was a war criminal, broke himself and some other men out of the boiling rock.”

“-Owner of the Pot, people say he lives to gamble and never loses a bet.”

“He found me while I was stealing from him,” Zuko admits. “My swords.”

He will never forget his first meeting with Patch. How the other man’s gaze had found him in the dark, piercing like a fired arrow meeting its target head-on. “How did you get in here?” Patch had asked, his voice like a scar, hoarse with the promise of danger.

“I picked the lock on the top floor window,” Zuko had responded, not seeing a point in lying. The swords had been in his hands, their grip a comfortable weight. He could have fought his way out, could have dropped them and made a run for it, but instead, he had stayed.

“It’s a three-part lock, I was promised it would be impossible to break.”

“Then whoever sold it to you is a liar,” Zuko said and for some reason, Patch had laughed at that, a deep smoke-drenched chuckle, the cigarette in his mouth moving like the baton carrying an orchestra.

“How about this, I’ll let you keep the swords and in turn, you’ll show me how you picked that lock.” And so Zuko had stayed, he had shown Patch how he broke into the Pot, how he had climbed down the slanted roof and balanced his foot on the windowsill.

Patch had watched him, his eyes unrecognizable behind the shade of his glasses, like two bottomless pools reflecting the darkness of the night. He did not say a word until Zuko had picked the lock for a second time.

“He could have handed me into the Military Police but instead he offered me a contract,” Zuko tells June. “A place to stay and an honourable wage if I agreed to work for him.”

“Patch would cut your hand off before he offered you up to a red coat,” June says, scoffing as if the mere thought is offensive. “I can’t believe you got away with stealing from him.” Her gaze lands on the Tatchi twin blades on Zuko’s back, and the look in her eyes is nearly foreign to him but he recognizes it nonetheless; it’s pride. “That’s pretty cool,” she smiles like she means it, and her eyes sparkle with mischief, the same way they do when one of her daggers finds its target.

Zuko coughs awkwardly, unable to meet her gaze. “I'm not sure if cool is the word I’d use, I think ‘stupid’ would be more fitting.”

“Why can’t it the both?” June asks, grinning, she closes the distance between them, bumping their shoulders together playfully while she swings her legs back and forth over the edge of the container. “I think it’s going to rain;” she says, looking up at the clear, dark blue night sky.

“What makes you say that?” Zuko asks, following her gaze. A vail of light blue licks the horizon, it’s nearly morning. The sound of birds chirping is growing louder. West Port never sleeps for long. Soon the first big shipping boats will come sailing into the harbor. They need to be done before then, they promised Patch to be back before sunrise.

“Just a hunch,” June responds, shrugging. “Come on,” she says, moving to stand up. “Cabbage guy should be back soon, we should wake the others.”

June wakes the twins by pumping their heads together earning her two echoing groans of complaint. “Whatever was that for?” Hitch asks grimacing in pain as he rubs the back of his head, ruffling his cinnamon-brown hair.

“Is the smuggler here?” Dow asks, peaking her head out between two craters, yawning shamelessly. She has one of the twins' red leather jackets thrown over her shoulders, her hand rubbing at a trail of dried drool from the corner of her mouth down her chin.

“Not yet,” June tells her. “But he should be here shortly. The guards will change shifts within the hour, and by that time we’ll need to be far away from here.”

“Cabbage man!” Hitch yells, bumping his fist into the air as he stands up, stretching his back like a cat in the sun. “Our saviour.”

“Hurray us,” Dow mumbles, scowling while she stifles yet another yawn, making her eyes water with the effort. “I’m not meant for this sort of thing,” she complains, rubbing the back of her arm against her eyes, trying to chase away the last traces of sleep. “Patch better give me a bonus for losing so many hours of beauty sleep.”

“You’re getting paid?” Hitch asks as he helps his brother to stand up, nearly loosing his grip around Hatch’s arm, his eyes bulging comically, jaw slack. Hatch sighs.

“So would you,” June says with a wry grin. “If you didn’t owe him your weight in gold.”

“I thought you paid that off years ago?” Dow asks, swinging her legs over the crater.

“He would, if he hadn’t kept gambling even whilst knee-high in debt,” June says, with a hand on her hip. “Lucky you Patch doesn’t accept gambles from drunk bastards or otherwise you’d owe him a lifetime.”

“I’m no bastard,” Hitch says. Zuko notices that he does not rebuke being called a drunk. “I just know how to have a good time.”

“And a costly one at that,” June says, rolling her eyes. “How Hatch hasn’t abandoned you years ago is a mystery to me.” They all stare at the second twin, who scratched his shaved head, kicking at the dust on the floor, shrugging his shoulders.

“He’s alright,” Hatch says in a quiet voice.

“Naw,” Dow coos, smiling softly. “How sweet,” and it sounds like she genuinely means it. She shrugs the jacket off her shoulders and hands it to Hitch who accepts it with a mumbled thanks.

“How much longer do we have?” Zuko asks June who turns towards the gap in the container, grimacing at the newfound light. The sun has nearly started to peak its head out, the sky is a muddy blend of red and dark blue. The sound of the sea can be heard, rippling restlessly, and the scent of smoke from the pyre has strengthened, leaving traces of soot dancing in the air, falling like snow.

“If the smuggler isn’t here within a quarter we’ll leave without him,” she says.

“Patch is not going to like that,” Hitch says with a low whistle, but there is a worried frown between his eyebrows, his blue eyes are staring at the sky like it has personally offended him as he puts a hand on the hip-flask attached to his belt, and despite the jokes about him being a drunk Zuko knows that it contains nothing but water.

“Patch will like it even less if we get stranded here, it’s too dangerous to cross the harbour in daylight,” June says, twirling a knife between her fingers. She is not good at staying idle, never has been, waiting for the smuggler must be driving her half-mad, if it was up to her they would have left hours ago. The tightness of her lips confirms it.

“Remember the plan?” She asks.

“Follow the water line until the third checkpoint, and then cross it up towards Merchants Point, split up, blend into the crowd, and regroup back at The Pot,” Hitch says.

“Do you think something happened to him?” Dow asks. “The smuggler?”

“I don’t know,” June says. “Either way, we’ve held up our end of the deal, if he got caught by a red coat then there’s nothing we can do about it.”

The wind has picked up outside, and so has the black dust, the scent of it lingers in Zuko’s nose, making his eyes sting. The Pyre is always burning, its flames meter high and hungry, but even on a day such as this with a storm brewing outside, it is seldom this active at this part of the harbour.

Something is wrong, and the second Zuko thinks it he can also feel it, deep within the marrow of his bones. He closes his eyes and feels The Pyre, its fire so large that it is impossible to miss, like the sun, always there, tugging at him, but there is something else there as well. Not the sun, or The Pyre, but a third fire, weaker but still burning.

He runs towards the mouth of the container, exiting so that he has free vision at all sides and sees it, the guard tower by the third checkpoint is on fire like a light house facing the open sea. The sky thick with smoke, blending into the night like smudges of charcoal.

“Guys!” He yells, just as June follows him outside, her brown eyes wide with worry. “I don’t think the smuggler is going to come.”

Zuko can tell it will happen before it does, can feel the heat of the explosion building up like thunder before the strike of lightning. June is not a fire bender, so she is oblivious to the pressure of heat-heat-heat pulling inwards, she is still standing between the doors of the container, looking up and out towards the guard tower, shielded by rows upon rows of shipping-containers like stacks of dominos, her expression closed off as the flames dance in her gaze.

Zuko runs towards her, tackling her with his body. June fights him, her stance is solid as steel, so they go down hard, landing with their upper bodies inside the container and with their legs still splayed on the outside. Zuko is on top of her, covering her body with his torso, and their heads with his arms, creating a fort of flesh and bones. “Get down!” He yells.

“What the f—“ June starts but gets interrupted as the explosion rips through the air, it must be handmade and not one of the military’s, as pieces of metal and nails scrape against the roof of the container. Zuko can feel the heat of it dig through his clothes, as something catches in his right leg, something sharp and blunt that cuts through the thick fabric of his cargo trousers, taking a bite out of his calf.

He closes his eyes and can hear Dow scream as the guard tower shatters. They are too far away for the debris to reach them still the sound of it is nearly deafening. Zuko clamps his hands over his ears but it is already too late. His ears are ringing even as silence covers them in the aftermath of the explosion like a heavy, unwelcoming blanket.

June pushes him off, not unkindly, until Zuko is on his back. His chest ache from the hot air, making every breath he takes feel shallow and rough down his lungs.

June leans over him, her hair a mess where it falls over her face and the curve of her shoulders in black, long waves. Her eyes are wide and frantic, Zuko has never seen her like this before, out of control, she is always in her element, no matter what, always the master of her own words and keeper of all her silences.

She is screaming now, Zuko can tell by how her mouth moves, how her lips form his name as if blowing a kiss around each vowel. Sweat drips down her brow, her hands are firm around the collar of his shirt.

“-uko— Zuko!” June yells as the ringing in his ears ebbs out to a whistle. “Zuko! We need to movie!” He groans, slapping her hands away as he struggles to sit up, cutting off a hiss of pain as he moves his injured leg.

“Fuck!” June curses as she spots his injury. “Fuck,” she repeats as if the first time was not enough. “Zuko, your leg.”

“It’s fine,” Zuko bites out through clenched teeth. “Give me one of your knives,” he says, holding out his hand. She offers him one without hesitation, hilt first. It’s one of her favourites, Xiao Hui— little wisdom— with a curved blade and a handle white and smooth like polished bone.

"Is he seriously considering amputating his leg?" Hitch's voice quivers with nausea as his head peeks out from behind June's shoulder. Hatch hovers nearby, gripping Hitch's shoulder as if fearing his twin might topple forward in shock.

Both of them appear unscathed, though their typically tanned skin is noticeably paler. A cowlick sticks out defiantly from the left side of Hitch's head, a testament to his position facing the entrance. Their faces bear the marks of soot, but it is clear that Zuko is the sole casualty among them.

“There’s red coats everywhere!” Dow yells from where she stands, revolver raised, peeking her head around the corner of the entrance. “None coming this way!”

“He’s not gonna cut his fucking leg off!” June tells Hitch with an angry frown before she turns back to Zuko. “Right?”

“Why?” Zuko grits out, pushing the knife against the fabric of his trousers right below his knee, making a small cut so he can rip it off. “Not crippled enough for you?”

“You’re not crippled,” June is quick to defend.

“I can’t see through my left eye, is that not crippled enough for you?” He asks, as he untucks his shirt from his trousers and slices through it up to his navel, ripping strips off as a poor excuse for bandages. Hitch wolf whistles lowly.

“Shut up!” Dow says.

“It’s hard to think of you as a cripple when you fight like the devil,” Hitch says, grinning.

“And fighting like the devil made me who I am!” Dow says, pulling a bad imitation of a soldier's salute, her heels tight together, and her chin held high.

The cut is long but it is not as deep as he feared, the edges jagged but clean, the metal did not cut through any arteries but it is still going to be a pain to walk on.

“Want me to clean that?” Hitch asks, scratching his chin. “Looks kinda painful.”

“Save your water,” Zuko says, wrapping the strips around his leg. “You’re going to need it.”

“Who says I can’t fight red coats with wound water?” Hitch asks. “Can’t do any healing though, at least not open wounds, only fevers, and such,” he says shrugging. “Never had a knack for it.”

“He was too busy blowing things up,” Hatch mumbles solemnly.

“Hydrothermal explosion,” Hitch says, nodding. “Superheated water, trap it until it becomes steam and—“ he closes his fist before he opens it, splaying his fingers. “Kaboom— what, why are you all so quiet?”

“PTSD,” Hatch says, shaking his head.

“Yeah, let’s keep the explosions to a minimum,” June says, standing up and offering Zuko her hand, he accepts it, biting down hard on his bottom lip as he forces his injured leg to carry his weight.

“I’m just surprised you knew the word hydrothermal,” Dow adds.

“We need a plan,” June says. “We can’t stay here.”

“We need to split up,” Zuko says. “We can’t afford to move as a group, we’ll be too easy to spot.”

“You can barely stand on that,” Dow points out, gesturing towards his injured leg as if it has personally offended her. “I doubt you’ll manage to stealth your way past an entire brigade.”

“I’ve had worse,” Zuko responds, testing his leg out. “And I’d rather not slow you guys down.”

“Ooh,” Dow says, in a poor mock imitation of his voice, waving her hands. “My name is Zuko, I’m dark and mysterious, and love being self-sacrificing.” She levels him with a pointed glare. “Nah, not as cool as you think.”

“I’m not trying to be cool,” Zuko bites out. “We need to split up, and soon.”

“I’m not sure if you’ve noticed but there’s a massive fire out there, and at least twenty firebenders, and last time I checked you’re not,” Dow says.

“She has a point— are you smoking?!” Hitch asks incredulously, turning to June who has a cigarette resting between her lips.

“Not yet,” June says. “Sparky?”

“Really?” Zuko asks, staring at her in disbelief. “We’re really doing this now?”

“I’m stressed,” June responds, but there is a challenge in her gaze, a dare. He knows why she is doing it, otherwise Dow would never let him go, but he hates how she took away his choice. Zuko glares at her before he snaps his fingers and lights her cigarette for her, making the flame burn a bit brighter, eating away at half her cigarette just to spite her.

“Wow!” Dow says. “How?” She asks.

“You’re a fire bender,” Hitch whispers, taking a step back as if Zuko might decide to turn him into a human torch.

“Me and Patch are the only ones that know, and we’re going to keep it that way, isn’t that right boys?” June asks, glaring at the twins.

There is a reason only three people including his uncle— when his mind is clear enough for him to remember— that knows Zuko is a firebender. All firebenders have strict orders to enlist, all men and women between the ages of twelve and forty-five. If they can hold a weapon they can fight, and fire is a weapon, a weapon strong enough to have him hunted down by the Military Police if ever discovered.

Now all they see when they look at him is an orphan boy, with a burn bad enough to write him off. Firebenders rarely have burns, they would know better, how to defend themselves. Usually, they think he is a deserter, Zuko knows that some admirals brand deserters with fire, marking them as cowards and enemies of the fire nation, and all things considered, it is not far from the truth.

Fire benders are also forbidden in The Sink, untrusted and chased out. His swords have served him well in that regard because why would a fire bender lower themselves to fight with a weapon when they have been blessed by Agni.

“Right,” Hitch says, his voice clipped as he stares Zuko up and down. “Maybe we should split up.”

“Hitch,” Hatch mumbles, reaching for his twin who takes a step away from him, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

“It’s fine,” he says. “We’re in the fire nation, after all, can’t escape them, would be stupid to think that The Sink would be any different.”

“I can barely fire bend, if that makes you feel any better,” Zuko says, and it is true enough, ever since his father burned him his inner flame has been nothing but a distant warmth.

“It does actually,” Hitch spits out.

“So what’s the plan?” Dow asks. “We split up?” She looks at Zuko nervously, fidgeting with her pistol. “I still don’t like the idea of Zuko going by himself.

“I’ll be fine,” Zuko says, clenching his hands and remembers that he is still holding onto June’s knife. “Here,” he says, holding it out towards her. She must be truly stressed if she has yet to ask for it back.

“Thanks,” she says, blowing out a cloud of smoke, juggling it between her fingers until it disappears as if snatched from thin air, Agni only knows where she stores them all. “Okay so this is the plan,” June says. “Hatch and Hitch—“

“Will go together,” Hitch finishes. “It’s always Hatch and Hitch, why not Hitch and Hatch, huh?”

“Because I like Hatch better,” June smirks ignoring Hitch's noice of complaint.

“And I and Dow will go together, Zuko will find his way back by himself, he knows the harbour better than the rest of us, and he’s right, he’ll only slow us down.”

“Why? Because I’m too weak to go by myself?” Dow asks, pouting.

“No,” June responds. “Because I’ll feel safer with you there to protect me.” Dow blushes, folding her arms over her chest.

“Fine,” Dow responds. “But I still don’t like it, If Zuko gets taken or-or worse I’ll never forgive either of you,” she says, glaring at June and Zuko respectively.

“It’s the best plan that we got,” June says, smiling fondly. “And don’t worry, Zuko is tougher than he looks, even if the crop-top begs to differ.” Zuko groans. Hitch coughs, and June’s smile is nearly deadly.

“Alright then,” June says. “Meet you all back at The Sink, the entire city must be crawling with red coats right now, so keep your heads down. They’re probably looking for a description matching the freedom fighters or another terrorist group, but we’ll be coming straight from the harbour, so it won’t be easy to get through to Merchant's Point.” She holds her hand out. Hitch rolls his eyes but he still does the same and so does the rest of them.

“No caskets,” Dow says.

“No funerals,” they all echo back, before pulling their hands away.

Chapter Text

Hitch and Hatch exit the container first while the rest of them stay behind, giving them some time to get away.

Dow watches them leave looking severely displeased and on the verge of tears, cradling her pistol close to her chest and Zuko can do nothing but pray to Agni that she got the safe on.

June smokes two more cigarettes while they wait, her fingers idle around the hilt of a dagger and her gaze far away before she turns to Dow with a vague smile and asks, “ready soldier?”

“Ay, ay, captain,” Dow responds, with little to no enthusiasm. Her mouth is tightly pinched with worry, her gaze fixated on the container's opening as if she were a pirate standing at the precipice of a plank, ready to take a last faithful step.

Zuko cracks a smile. “I thought you were a soldier, not a pirate,” he says with a raised eyebrow.

“Can’t be I both?” Dow asks, sticking her tongue out at him.

“Difference of opinion.”

“Killjoy,” Dow says, but she still surprises Zuko by throwing her arms around his waist. He is nearly a head taller than her, her face pressed into the rough fabric of his shirt above his collarbones. Zuko pats her back awkwardly. “Please don’t die,” she whispers.

‘Be nice ’ June mouths.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, kid,” he responds, fighting a blush. Zuko does not blush, no matter what June might think, as she stifles a laugh into a closed fist, nearly choking on cigarette smoke.

“I don’t care if you’re a firebender,” Dow says as she pulls away, sniffling, her grey eyes wide and honest. “And I’m not a kid.”

“If you say so,” Zuko responds unhelpfully, ruffling her hair in lack of something better to do. Dow slaps his hand away.

"Time to move," June declares, her grip firm as she seized Dow's shoulder, urgently guiding her away from Zuko and toward the container's gaping maw. “Be careful out there, Sparky, whoever makes it back last owes a cigarette.”

“When am I not?” Zuko asks, folding his arms over his chest as he offers the barest hint of a nervous smile. “But sure, you're on.”

"I mean it, Zuko," June says as if she strongly disagrees, her eyes beseeching as they lock onto his. "Be careful," she repeats, her gaze stern, her lips a taut line before she turns around and follows Dow outside, leaving Zuko alone.

He checks on his makeshift bandaids while he waits, making sure that they are as tight as they can be without cutting off his blood circulation, wishing that he had asked June for a cigarette before she left. Zuko has never been very spiritual, so far Agni has all but cursed his luck in life, as even fate picks favourites, but he nearly sends her a quick prayer then.

He counts quietly down from a thousand before he exits. It is warm outside, splinters of wood, nails and metal cover the ground. What is left of the guard tower is still burning in the distance like a torch lit ablaze, rendering the harbour in shades of blood red and sultry orange. He can hear yelling but no fighting.

Whatever the Freedom Fighters are after it is not a confrontation with the Military Police but a distraction Zuko realizes as unease settles like a heavyweight in the pit of his stomach, forcing him to start walking.

He moves quietly between rows of containers, keeping his back brushed up against them. It hurts his leg to crouch but he still keeps his knees bent and his head down as he goes, well aware of the sun creeping up towards the horizon, higher and higher by every passing minute. Fire-benders rise with the sun, so the city never sleeps for long. He needs to be out of the harbour before then before the city wakes up in earnest.

After a mere fifteen minutes of painful walking, Zuko's ears prick up at the distant sound of approaching footsteps. Instinct kicks in as he breaks into a silent sprint, each footfall cushioned against the damp, slick cobblestones, tainted with the residue of seawater and soot.

Zuko does not dare to glance back. Instead, he pushes himself to run further, his breaths shallow and rapid, until the searing pain in his leg becomes unbearable. He hunches down, gasping for air.

There is still a whistling in his ears, so he waits, drawing his swords to see if the owner of the footsteps has pursued him. However, the harbour has fallen into an eerie hush, save for the rhythmic crash of waves against the creaking docks and the distant shouts emanating from the guard tower. He sighs in relief, about to sheath his dual blades when the sound of metal, cutting through the air and breaking the stillness reaches him.

Zuko could be deaf and blind but he would still know the language of a blade, would like to think himself fluent.

“The language of the sword is not a language that is heard, or seen,” Piandao said, as he had wrapped a piece of cloth over Zuko’s eyes, his voice nearly drowned by the purling rush of water. “It is felt.”

Zuko blocks the dagger with one of his swords, cutting the blade in half.

“Nice swords.” Zuko turns towards the voice. A boy emerges from the narrow space between two shipping containers, swords in hand, their blades crudely curved like a wry snarl or a squared hook.

“Wish I could say the same,” Zuko responds, taking a step back. It must have been the boy’s footsteps that he heard earlier which means he is quick. Quicker than Zuko is with his injured leg. He tightens his grip around his swords as he realizes with grim resolve that fighting is going to be his only means of escape.

“You’re not Military Police, so what are you?” The boy asks, looking Zuko up and down— from his injured leg to the bare skin of his stomach, to the scar over his left eye— as he leans against one of the containers, relaxing his stance. The boy is dressed in light protective gear with black gauntlets and a breastplate, keeping him light on his feet, as if prepared for close combat.

So not a bender then, Zuko thinks, and not from the fire nation either, his skin is tanned like a farmer’s son, his hair unruly and wind kept like he has spent most of his youth outside on an open field. He is built like it too, with broad shoulders, and muscular arms. He could be from the Earth kingdom if his grey eyes are any indication.

“You’re one of the Freedom Fighters,” Zuko realizes.

“Nah-ah,” the boy says, shaking his head, as he offers the barest hint of a smirk. “I'm the one doing the talking here, and I asked you a question,” he says, raising his head so that he can level Zuko with a cold glare. “I know the face of every gang on this side of the city, but I've never seen you around before. Would have recognized a scar like that,” the boy says, winking with his left eye.

“Or maybe you're not as observant as you think,” Zuko replies, taking another small step back.

“Not so fast, Princess,” the boy says, following in Zuko’s step with one of his own. “You see, I’m not really a big fan of strangers, especially strangers snooping around my business. And you look like someone that has been snooping.” He stares pointedly at Zuko’s injured leg, arching an eyebrow. “Liked my explosion?”

“A bit too flashy for my taste,” Zuko replies dryly, the boy barks a laugh.

“Yeah. I didn’t think you’d be a fan,” the boy says, stepping out from between the containers and swinging one of his swords lazily. Zuko takes note of his grip around the blade, the movement of it, the bend of his knees and the square of his shoulders. He is a good swordsman, but not a great one, Zuko doubts he has been trained. His grip is a bit too stern, forcing the movement rather than following it, and his feet are too far apart. “Like what you see?” The boy asks with a smirk.

“You talk too much,” Zuko says.

“And you too little,” the boy replies, swinging his sword again. “You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“I’m not planning to.”

“Then we have a problem,” the boy replies, taking another step closer. “Because I’m not going to let you leave, princess. Not before I know you won’t go running off to the Military Police.”

“I won’t,” Zuko says.

“I don’t trust strangers,” the boy says.

“Does it look like I give a shit about the red coats?” Zuko asks. The boy’s smile widens like a shark catching the scent of blood.

“Red coats?” The boy echoes. “The only people I know referring to the military police as such are Sinkers,” he says, humming thoughtfully. “What are your lot doing in West Port?”

“Sightseeing,” Zuko responds flatly.

“You’re a funny one,” the boy says.

“Funny enough to let me go?”

“Not that funny,” the boy says before he launches at Zuko. Zuko blocks the boy’s swords with his own, their faces close together as metal kiss metal, their blades gleaming a dull orange from the rising sun.

The boy grunts, leaning forward, hoping to overpower him, as Zuko’s feet slide over the wet ground but he keeps his stance firm, knees locked despite the pain in his leg as the damaged muscle threatens to give way. The boy’s eyes are wild but bright, and his smile is all teeth. “I’ve only seen one other person with eyes like yours before, she was a princess too,” the boy says.

“I’m not a fucking princess,” Zuko grits out, strengthening his hold, swinging his arms down and around breaking free.

“Could have fooled me,” the boy says as Zuko swings for him again.

The clash of steel echoes as the boy catches Zuko's swords between his own forming a cross in an attempt to immobilize him. He launches a swift kick toward Zuko's injured leg.

In a lightning-fast response, Zuko spins sideways, extending his arms like wings, effectively throwing the boy off balance mid-kick. Allowing him to wrestle one of the boy's swords from his grasp and forcing the boy to retreat, narrowly evading Zuko's other blade that slices through the space where his head had been mere seconds ago.

"A beheading? How regal of you," the boy quips.

"Shut up," Zuko retorts through gritted teeth, kicking the boy's sword further away and landing it safely out of reach on the damp ground.

The boy twirls his remaining sword, crouching low as he lunges for Zuko once more, targeting his injured leg, a move that Zuko had anticipated.

Zuko jumps, deftly landing on top of the boy's sword, forcing both of them to their knees. He swiftly delivered a powerful kick to the boy's chest, wrenching the sword from his grip. However, the boy's agility surprises Zuko, as he uses the momentum to roll back and regain his footing.

"Not bad," the boy spits out, producing two daggers from his coat sleeves. Zuko knows better than to respond, launching forward with his swords raised, fully determined to end the fight decisively.

But as he leaps, his injured leg betrays him. His balance already compromised from the earlier explosion and the ringing in his ears. Their collision sends them tumbling to the ground in an awkward jumble of limbs and gleaming steel. One of the boy's daggers finds its mark in Zuko's side as they grapple on the ground, vying for dominance. Zuko manages to land a knee in the boy's stomach, eliciting a painful grunt, but the boy's superior strength allows him to pin Zuko beneath him, thighs on either side, pressing down on his injury.

The boy drops his daggers so that he can take hold of Zuko’s wrists, pinning them down over his head. “Not so tough now are we, princess?” The boy sneers at him. “Ready to tell me who you are?”

Zuko spits in the boy’s face.

The boy hisses in anger and lets go of one of Zuko’s wrists so that he can punch him in the face, the blow finds Zuko’s good eye, making pain bloom across his face.

Zuko clenches his free hand, still holding his sword, and swings blindly. The swing cuts through the air without hitting anything as the boy leans forward on top of him, however, his strength around Zuko has loosened enough for Zuko to break free.

He knees the boy in the side again, forcing him off him with a grunt as he rolls on top, his swords on each side of the boy’s neck. “Give me one good reason not to kill you,” Zuko hisses out, his chest heaving. The boy grins at him, full of reckless youth.

“We could use someone like you,” the boy says, eyes sparkling.

“I could do with one less of you,” Zuko says, leaning forward and closing the distance between his blades and the boy’s neck. The boy huffs a breathless laugh.

“I’m Jet,” the boy says, his eyes are charcoal sketches, imperfect hasty lines blurring together to create something unknown. Something dangerous.

“And I’m not interested,” Zuko responds.

“Pity that,” Jet says, his eyes tracing over Zuko’s scar, his grip around his swords. “We’re a lot alike, you and me. You don’t fight like that if you don’t have anything to fight for. Something tells me you’re not a fan of the Fire Nation either. People from the Sink rarely are.”

“Right now I’m not a fan of you,” Zuko says. “If I’ll let you go, will you let me leave?”

Jet hums thoughtfully. “Now that would be a fair trade wouldn’t it?”

“So?” Zuko asks. “We have a deal?”

“Nah, I’m not really in the business of making deals. Besides,” he grins. “Something tells me you won’t kill me.”

“And what makes you say that?” Zuko asks, squinting his eyes.

“That, ” Jet says, nodding to something behind him. Zuko swiftly turns his head, just in time to glimpse a tantalizing flash of cerulean before an icy, relentless wave engulfs him. It propels him away from Jet's grasp, hurling him with bone-chilling force into the unforgiving steel wall of a container, in a brutal impact that jolts through his spine.

Zuko coughs, fumbling to his hands and knees, salt water stinging his eyes.

“Stay down,” a female voice commands. Zuko turns his head towards it and sees a girl with tanned skin and brown, wavy hair hidden underneath a cloak helping Jet to his feet. Her blue eyes are like a lake frozen over as she pins Zuko down with a hateful glare.

A boy stands close behind her, they must be brother and sister, they have the same colouring, the same square set to their jaws, and big almond eyes. He wonders if they are twins, just like Hitch and Hatch, they look similar in age.

“Who is he?” The Water Nation boy asks.

“I don’t know, Sokka, I forgot to ask,” The girl bites back.

“Oh,” the boy, Sokka, breathes  as he looks down at Zuko and asks with little to no fear but with slight hesitation.“What’s your name?”

“I was being ironic,” the girl says with a deep sigh, rolling her eyes.

“I’ve already tried that,” Jet responds, groaning as he touches his side where Zuko kneed him, grimacing. “Didn’t go too well.”

“I said, stay down!” The girl says as Zuko tries to stand up, steadying himself with one hand against the wall of the container, but he quickly crumbles in on himself, realizing that he must have strained a muscle in his back where he hit the wall. He tries again anyway, his vision swimming, his leg aching, he touches the wet bandages with his hand, frowning when it comes back red with blood.

“What about, staying down, do you not understand?” The girl asks with one hand raised as her other hand reaches for a water pouch by her side.

“Katara, calm down,” Sokka says, with furrowed eyebrows, his gaze on Zuko as he nibbles nervously on his bottom lip. “I don’t think he’s a threat.”

“Thanks,” Zuko rasps out, his tone cold.

“Hey, man, I’m just trying to help,” Sokka says, throwing his hands up.

“I don’t need your help,” Zuko says, looking around for his swords. He spots them only a couple of meters away from him laying on top of each other like a cross, and lounges for them. His hands closing around their hilt just as water wraps itself around his wrists like shackles, hardening and freezing until ice covers his hands up to his wrists weighing him down.

“Bad idea,” Katara says, her voice as cold as the ice.

“Let me go,” Zuko bites out through clenched teeth as the cold creeps up his arms and through his torso, his breath coming out in small puffs.

“Katara?” Sokka asks hesitantly, taking a step forward so that he is standing by his sister's side, putting a hand on her shoulder that she is quick to shrug off.

“No, Sokka, he’s from the Fire Nation, we can’t trust him,” Katara says, crossing her arms over her chest, probably feeling comfortable enough with Zuko’s current position to let her guard down.

“Yeah but—“

“We can’t trust him, he hurt Jet—“ Zuko scoffs at her.

“He attacked me first.”

“I did do that,” Jet smirks unhelpfully. “I told you I don’t trust strangers, maybe you should have done a better job introducing yourself, princess.”

“Princess?” Sokka asks baffled, looking at Zuko like he is trying to make sense of the nickname.

“Not a princess,” Zuko says.

“I-I knew that,” Sokka responds, but he is blushing now, pink dusting the bridge of his nose as his ears turn a light shade of red. Zuko hums, shivering as the cold settles in his chest, his clothes heavy with seawater, licking up the curve of his back and sticking uncomfortably to his skin.

It has been years since he tried to fire bend beyond lighting one of June’s cigarettes, but he reaches for his inner flame now. Closing his eyes as he tries to summon it to his palms. To his surprise, it answers him, heat chasing away the frost in his bones, and the worst of the cold. They think he is a non-bender. He did not use his fire once when fighting Jet, and people that can bend seldom carry a weapon, or at least know how to properly fight with one. So he knows that the waterbender girl will keep her guard down.

He makes sure to keep the heat a low yet steady flow, to keep the ice around his hands from melting quickly enough for them to notice.

“What are we going to do with him?” Katara asks. “Leave him here for the Military Police?” Zuko’s heart skips a beat.

“I’d bite my tongue off and bleed to death before I’ll let the red coats have me,” Zuko says, looking Katara square in the eyes.

“Red coats?” Katara echoes.

“Why does it sound like it’s something you’ve considered before?” Sokka asks, frowning.

“People from The Sink refer to the Military Police as red coats,” Jet says, cocking his head like he is finding Zuko incredibly fascinating, Zuko glares at him, his mouth tightening into a snarl.

“The Sink?” Sokka asks.

“Haven’t been in town for very long have you?” Zuko says, wiggling his fingers underneath the ice where the heat from his hands has created a small pocket.

“It’s not really a tourist-friendly place, is it, princess?” Jet replies with a raised eyebrow.

“If you let me go I’ll go back to The Sink, you’ll never have to see me again,” Zuko says. Jet laughs softly.

“Nice try, not going to happen,” Jet replies, smiling nearly fondly at Zuko as he shakes his head lightly. “We’re bringing you back with us.”

“We’re doing what ?!” Katara asks, staring at Jet like he has sprouted a second head. Jet shrugs.

“What?” Jet asks, looking down at Zuko with something hungry in his gaze. “I like him, besides, he’s good with a sword, and nearly managed to sneak past me. Very stealthy.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “And we still don’t know what he was doing here, and I don’t like not knowing things. People from The Sink rarely go beyond its borders, they’re awfully patriotic.”

“You’re talking as if I’ll come willingly,” Zuko says.

“Now, what would be the fun in that, princess?” Jet asks. Sokka’s eyes dart between Zuko and Jet like he is watching the push and pull of a wave, his eyebrows tightly knitted together, the corner of his mouth twisting down unpleasantly.

“You don’t know if I’m working alone, and there are probably twenty to thirty red coats running around the harbour thanks to you,” Zuko says, even though he knows that June and the others are probably far gone by now. Zuko’s eyes are as sharp and threatening as his blades when he adds in a rough voice. “I’m going to make a fuss, do you really want to risk getting caught for the likes of me?” Jet’s smile only widens as he strides over to Zuko, leaning forward so that they are nearly face to face. His grey eyes burning like metal forged in fire, this close Zuko can spot the dust of freckles under his right eye and the light peach fuzz of a moustache over the curve of his lip.

“I think I can manage it,” Jet says, his breath warm against Zuko’s skin. “For the likes of you. ” Zuko fights the urge to spit in his face again.

“I’ll scream,” he says, his voice low and menacing. Jet reaches out a clawed hand, framing Zuko’s cheeks between his fingers.

“Not if I gag you,” Jet says like he finds the image amusing. Zuko leans back as far as Jet’s grip around him will allow and forcefully thrusts his head forward square between Jet’s eyes. Jet grunts, the force of the impact making him stagger back.

“Jet!” Katara yells just as another wave of freezing water pushes Zuko another couple of meters back. He coughs, batting his eyes against the sting of salt, wheezing.

Jet chuckles, wiping blood from his nose with the back of his sleeve. “So not a fan of a gag are we? Princess?” He says, advancing on Zuko again. Jet pets his head like one would a dog, his fingers stroking nearly gently through Zuko’s hair before they close around the strands in an iron fist, forcing his head up. Zuko hisses as the grip nearly lifts him from his knees. “I could cut your tongue off instead, as you’d so kindly offered, but I do so enjoy the sound of your voice.”

“Jet,” Sokka says, the name nearly a warning. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what, Sokka?” Jet asks, turning his head towards the water nation boy with a small sneer. “We’re at war, he’s from the Fire Nation. He should consider himself lucky that he still has information we need, or else he would be dead. Did the fire nation spare your mother? Did the fire nation hesitate to burn your village down?” Sokka opens his mouth as if to argue but quickly closes it again with a small shake of his head.

“No they didn’t, Sokka,” Katara says, her voice firm.

“Yes but—“

“What? We can’t just let him go, can we?” Katara asks like she is trying to convince herself. “He’s dangerous, we don’t even know who he’s working with, for all we know he could be a spy or—“ Zuko barks a laugh at the absurdity of her suggestion, unable to help himself, imagining the fire lord demanding Zuko to spy for him. To do anything for him except burn. Five years ago his father had sent him away, on board a ship with no flag, and no name, without a title or a home to return to.

“Find the Avatar, and I will restore your honour, or do not return at all and live in shame.” Zuko had known his father had never expected his return, sending his son out to chase nothing but the shadow of a long-forgotten name. Had sat in a boat, next to his uncle, and watched his ship burn like a grave lit ablaze raised in memory of the boy he could have been.

“What’s so funny?” Jet asks, his grip tightening.

“Inside joke,” Zuko hisses, as Jet’s nails scrape against his scalp.

“Care to share it with the group?” Jet asks.

“You wouldn’t find it funny,” Zuko responds.

“Try me,” Jet says, Zuko smiles and crouches down, sending a final blast of heat through his hands, making the ice explode in a flash of sparkling blue and violent yellow. Trapped heat with nowhere to go but out, “Hydrothermal explosion,” Hitch had called it.

The blast catches Jet off guard, he groans, letting go of Zuko’s hair to shield his eyes from the light as Zuko charges forward, swinging his blades. Jet grunts, barely dodging his attack, saved by a wall of ice.

“He’s a fire bender!” Katara yells, as Zuko nearly trips as the ice melts and solidifies like the frozen surface of a pond underneath his feet, threatening to crawl up his legs as he jumps and lands in a sprint. He is not going to be able to fight off the three of them, not with his injuries, not when the world tilts dangerously around him, black dots dancing vividly before his vision like stars in the night sky. He spots Sokka, caught off guard only a couple of meters away from him and charges for him, taking hold of Sokka’s tunic as he spins around, pressing them flush against each other. Sokka’s back against Zuko’s chest, trapping him in the cage of his swords.

“Stay back!” Zuko yells as Sokka wiggles in his hold. Katara and Jet stand in a half circle around them, their arms and hands raised. Katara’s eyes are wild and big, the whites of her eyes framing burning blue. “Or else I’ll slit his throat!”

“Let him go!” Katara yells as she drops her hands. “Jet stay back!”

“I told you, you wouldn’t find it funny,” Zuko says, as he takes a couple of steps back, nearly dragging Sokka with him. “I’ll let him go once I’m out of the harbour, if you follow me I’ll know, I won’t let you take me alive but any sudden moments and he’ll join me,” he says as he pushes his blades closer against the sensitive skin of Sokka’s neck.

“Are you sure you want to go through with this, princess?” Jet asks, daggers still raised. “Even if you get away I won’t forget about you, I’ll find you, and I won’t be as forgiving next time.”

“I don’t think you’re in the right position to be making threats,” Zuko growls, taking another couple of steps back. Katara’s mouth wobbles as if she is fighting back a sob, protest, or curse.

“I know you’re a firebender now,” Jet says. “And I have no patience with firebenders.”

“Please,” Katara whispers, her eyes pleading. “Just, please don’t hurt my brother.”

“Let us go and I won’t have to,” Zuko responds, his voice calm despite the ache in his back and his throbbing head, how embarrassing, he thinks, if he passed out now. He wobbles, his grip around his swords slipping as one of his blades accidentally paints a red line against Sokka’s tanned skin, fighting against the shivers overtaking him like a strong wind wrestling leaves. Sokka tenses against him, he is nearly taller than Zuko, broader too, Zuko leans against him, using him as a crutch.

“Okay!” Katara yells. “We’ll let you go! I promise we won’t follow you! Just please, don’t hurt him, he’s all that I have left! Please don’t hurt my brother!” Her words bring Zuko back, like a slap across his face, back to the polished sheen of ancient stone floors, spindly towers stretching up towards a blue sky with greedy fingers. Back to a young boy screaming his pain into the palm of a hand. ‘Please, please don’t kill my mother, she is all that I have left!’ The shock of the memory nearly makes Zuko push Sokka away from him in disgust, as he sees his own mother's killer mirrored in Katara’s eyes.

“I won’t,” Zuko snarls. “I’ll let him go once we’re out of the harbour, but if you want him alive you’ll let us go first.”

“Fine!” Katara yells. “I’ll do anything you want, Jet, stay back.” Jet growls but lowers his daggers, his gaze burning Zuko’s skin shimmering with anger like a hot, boiling soup of charcoal and ash.

“You’ll regret this, princess,” Jet says.

“Start walking that way, hands behind your backs,” Zuko says, nodding in the opposite direction of the guard tower. “Any sudden movements, any signs of either of you following us, and I’ll slit his throat.” Katara’s eyes are wide with tears as she nods tightly, hiding her hands behind her back before she turns around.

“You too,” Zuko tells Jet. “And drop your daggers.” He does not bother asking Katara for her water pouch, they are by the harbour, and the ocean is her weapon. Even her tears could be wielded like bullets. He only hopes that his threats to her brother’s life will be enough to keep her from turning him into a block of ice.

“I’ll kill you,” Jet hisses, but he still complies with Zuko’s demands, letting go of his daggers and turning around. “I’ll find you, and gag you, and leave you somewhere to rot.”

“Leave,” Zuko hisses.

“Please don’t—“

“Leave,” Zuko says again, his voice hoarse as he fights against the shivers wrecking through his body.

“It’s okay, Katara,” Sokka says. "I'll see you soon," he reassures her in a tender whisper. Katara nods, her initial step cautious, as if she is tethered by an invisible force. However, determination soon fuels her stride, as she firmly grips Jet's arm, leading him away.

Jet casts one final, seething glare in Zuko's direction, a venomous promise of reckoning in his eyes, before they both vanish between the narrow gap formed by two containers.

Zuko remained eerily silent, his senses heightened, counting each of his heartbeats slowly up to five hundred. Only then does he release a shuddering breath, his shoulders involuntarily slumping forward. “Are you okay?” Sokka asks, his lips only inches away from Zuko’s ear. Zuko scoffs, offering a throaty laugh.

“I’m the one keeping you hostage and you’re asking me if I’m okay?”

“It’s just—“ Sokka begins, huffing. “I can feel you shivering.”

“Do you have any weapons?” Zuko asks, ignoring Sokka’s statement, unsure what to make of it.

“I got a boomerang, but I’m not a water bender if that’s what you’re asking,” Sokka responds, his voice surprisingly calm.

“Unsheathe it, drop it to the ground, and kick it as far away as you can, any sudden movements and it’s your neck on the line, got it?” Zuko asks. Sokka nods, his hair brushing Zuko’s cheek but he still stands still against him, uncurling and curling his fingers by his sides.

“Got it?” Zuko repeats. Sokka gulps, showing a hint of fear for the very first time.

“It’s just that...” He begins, clearing his throat as if the words pains him. “It’s the only memorabilia I have left of my father.” 

“ Fine ,” Zuko groans. “Drop it on the ground and take  two steps forward, any sudden movements and I won’t hesitate to kill you, and keep your hands raised,” Zuko commands, his voice strained. Sokka fumbles for his boomerang hidden in a holster by his hip and accidentally elbows Zuko in the side when he pulls it free.

“Careful,” Zuko grunts.

“S-sorry,” Sokka stammers, dropping the boomerang. Zuko uncrosses his swords sheathing one of them over his back, and Sokka lifts his hands in response taking two hesitant steps.

"Stay still," Zuko murmurs, his free sword hovering perilously close to the small of Sokka's back. With broken grace, he crouches down to retrieve the boomerang, tucking it securely into his belt as he struggles to stand back up as pain jolts down his spine. The tension in the air is palpable, the silence broken only by the faint rustle of fabric. “I’ll give it back to you once we’re out of the harbour,” he says.

“Thank you,” Sokka mumbles, before he quietly adds. “So you’re not going to kill me?”

“Kill you?” Zuko echoes as if the thought has never crossed his mind. “No I’m not going to kill you, a dead hostage is a shit hostage.” Sokka turns slightly towards him, as if unsure he is allowed to move at all, one of his blue eyes searching Zuko’s gaze.

“Thank you?” Sokka says again in a small voice, it sounds like a question. Zuko sighs, sparing a glance up towards the sky, time is ticking, they need to move.

Zuko mentally assesses the damage to his body; his leg throbs, flames of agony licking up his calf. Barely able to support himself, his spine feels as though trapped in a crushing vice, and his head spins dangerously, threatening to send him toppling. He knows he is in no condition to fight, and if Sokka chooses to flee, Zuko will have no choice but to let him go.

Yet, despite it all, Sokka remains. "Keep your hands up, don't look back, and stay close," Zuko instructs, determination seeping into his words. "Come on, let's move." He gently nudges Sokka forward with the blunt side of his sword.

They walk slowly in the direction of the guard tower, with Sokka taking the lead by Zuko’s instructions.

The guard tower has stopped burning, its skeleton a crude black outline against the powdery blue of a virgin sky, blushing in the face of dawn. They are not going to make it, Zuko realizes, not before morning. “We need to take cover,” Zuko says, as something close to fear flutters in his chest.

“What?” Sokka asks, tilting his head.

“We’re not going to make it before the next change in shifts, by then the entire city will know about the explosion, and the port will be put under siege. We need to find cover and wait until nightfall,” Zuko says, gnawing at his bottom lip. He thinks of Iroh then, what will happen to his uncle if Zuko gets caught, or worse? He cannot risk it.

Sokka stops suddenly and Zuko nearly crashes into him, unaware that he let his sword down and quickly raises it again.

“What?” Zuko asks, a bit desperately. “I doubt you want to get caught any more than I do.” Sokka moves his head in the direction of the tower, his gaze distant and his jaw clenched as realization settles in. The ocean glitters dangerously, visible between the rows of containers like a carpet spread out into the unknown.

“There’s a container, three rows away from here, the Freedom Fighters have used it before as a safe house, we can spend the day there,” Sokka suggests.

“How do I know you’re not leading me straight into a trap?” Zuko asks. Sokka spins around slowly until they are facing each other.

“How do I know you won’t kill me the second we’re inside?” He asks. His gaze wide, their eyes meeting like the sun settling on troubled waters. Zuko curses under his breath.

“Fine,” he says. “Lead the way.”

Sokka maintains a deliberate pace, his steps measured and unhurried, as Zuko struggle to keep up. Zuko limps with a growing earnestness, his body showing signs of surrender as the adrenaline that had once fueled him begins to ebb away. The weight of the realization that they will not have to cross the harbour settles in, and Zuko's movements become increasingly laboured, but he still keeps his sword raised, pointed at Sokka’s back.

Sokka comes to a halt outside a blood-red container with one door already pushed slightly open, revealing a gap wide enough for someone to squeeze through. “How do you know this is the right one?” Zuko asks, hesitantly. “Everything around here looks the same.”

“I have a good memory,” Sokka informs him. “Are we getting in or not?” Zuko glares at the container. If Sokka gets in first he could wait and ambush Zuko, however, if Zuko gets in first Sokka could try and make a run for it. Zuko would have done both.

“Give me your hand,” Zuko says.

“Give you my what?” Sokka asks, his voice pinched.

“You heard me,” Zuko grits out, offering Sokka his free hand. “I’m entering first and I don’t trust you to not run off first chance you get.” Sokka’s gaze travels from his outstretched hand, up his arm and then settles on Zuko’s face. His blue eyes the same colour as sapphires sharpen with a polished sheen, he does not look happy but neither is Zuko.

“Fine.” Sokka reluctantly takes his hand, holding onto Zuko with the same enthusiasm as a vegetarian grabbing a piece of raw meat. His hand feels surprisingly callused, skin thick like leather and nearly as warm as Zuko’s own.

“Alright,” Zuko says, his voice harsh as he enters the container pulling Sokka behind him.

The container is nearly vacant. Puzzles left by spiders cling to the ceiling and the darkness that engulfs them is thick and musty. There is a small wooden crater pushed up against the far wall with an unlit candle held in the lips of an old bottle of rum. Zuko breathes life into it, painting the container in a small circle of yellow light.

“I’m going to let you go,” Zuko says, as he feels Sokka restlessly move next to him, shuffling his feet as if unsure of what to do with himself. “But any funny movements, any signs that you're going to start a fight this container will turn into a tomb, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Sokka responds, he sounds tired and a bit breathless. Zuko lets him go. Sokka snatches his hand back as if burnt but he stays quiet and unmoving next to Zuko. Zuko sighs.

“You can sit,” he says. “I’d prefer it if you sat down.” He adds in a firmer voice. Sokka nods and moves to the far corner, slowly sitting down on the right side of the crater with his back pushed up against the wall. He keeps his gaze levelled, his movements slow but certain like Zuko is a skittish cornered animal waiting to lash out.

Zuko waits until Sokka has settled before he slowly moves to the opposite corner, his free hand following the length of the wall, supporting his weight as sweat dusts his brow.

“Are you okay?” Sokka asks.

“I'm fine,” Zuko bites back, as he leans his back against the wall a couple of steps away from Sokka’s outstretched legs, slowly sliding down. His leg gives out before he manages to fully sit down, leaving him on the floor in a painful sprawl of aching limbs as pain shoots up from his tailbone and through his spine like a dangerous flash of lightning, he crumbles in on himself, biting back a sob of anger and frustration.

“Do you need h—”

“You’re my hostage,” Zuko reminds him, his anger like gasoline trying to burn the pity out of Sokka’s voice. “You’d do well remembering that.”

“Okay,” Sokka says, sending him a hesitant glance as Zuko tries to organize his limbs, pulling his undamaged leg up and pushing himself further back with his sword as a crutch.

“I’m not plotting an escape and I'm not going to try and overpower you,” Sokka says watching Zuko struggle to get comfortable. “I have no chance of escaping the harbour as is, and I'd rather not be trapped in here with a corpse.” His eyes roam over Zuko’s face, his outstretched leg and his awkward grip around his sword where it rests in his lap. “Even though you already look like one.”

“Could still kill you,” Zuko bites out, his head spinning. He swallows hard as nausea begins to bubble, unpleasant and threatening in the back of his throat.

“Are you going to be sick?” Sokka asks with little compassion but with slight worry as he shifts further away from Zuko. 

“No,” Zuko responds, clutching his chest, his fingers trembling around the fabric of his shirt. “Just— it’s nothing, just, a bit— a bit cold in here, that's all.” His inner fire flutters weakly like the heart of a small, wounded bird. He has used too much of it, stretched it too thin like an untrained muscle forced to carry a heavy weight.

“I thought Fire Benders never got cold?” Sokka says with furrowed brows, it sounds more like an accusation rather than a question. Zuko hums.

“Had a lot of experience with Fire Benders then?” Zuko asks. Sokka sends him a murderous glare.

“You could say that,” Sokka responds his voice tight like the stretch of a rope about to snap. “Can’t escape them. Not in the South Pole or the North Pole. Nowhere is safe anymore. Nowhere,” he whispers the last word like it is a painful confession, said with the sort of hard acceptance that has been beaten in after hope has been beaten out.

Zuko has nothing to say to that, so he stays quiet. Mulling the statement over.

“Are you from the North Pole?” Zuko cannot help but ask after an awkward stretch of silence. Remembering that night, nearly five months ago, when the moon had weeped red, and the sky had crumbled and shifted like a body shedding skin and bones.

His inner flame, weak as it is, had roared at him, seeping into his blood like poison, and Zuko had refused to answer its call as its voice had been an unfamiliar and greedy thing. The entire city had been put under siege as odd fires had started to bloom throughout the city like a poppy field meeting early spring lit by firebenders drunk on power.

“Wrong ,” Iroh had called it. “ Death ,” he had whispered as he had fought to regain his mind. “ Tu and La, the ocean and the moon. Push and Pull. Good and Evil .”

Iroh had nearly ripped his hair out, his breaths frustrating sobs of anguish as Zuko had sat with him throughout the night, gently stroking his back. As the moon split in half and the stars crumbled, falling like fireworks into the open sea. He thought he was witnessing the world fall apart. Until the wrongness had stopped, and the moon had resurfaced like a head breaching the surface of a lake with silvery curls. Arms spread wide, embracing the night like a long-lost friend.

“South,” Sokka responds flatly.

“Were you in the South Pole? On the night of The Red Moon?” Zuko asks, wondering what it must have felt like, the horror of losing one's spirit, water bender or not.

The rumours of what had happened in the North Pole spread like wildfire throughout Caldera City in the following days. Of General Zhao’s assassination attempt on the Moon Spirit, but little else is known about it, details lost across the stretch of an ocean.

“No,” Sokka responds, his voice surprisingly sombre as he pulls his legs up, resting his chin on top of his bent knees. His arms are held tightly around himself as he softly adds. “No, I wasn’t at the South Pool for that.” The silence that engulfs them is heavier than it was before and for some reason, Zuko feels the need to break it.

“It was wrong,” he says, staring at his hands resting on his lap, stained with his blood. “What Zhao did. Killing the Moon Spirit.” Because it had felt wrong, Zuko thinks, how his fire had roared like a living thing, untethered like the tide without the moon to guide it.

Sokka’s eyes flash with anger. “What do you know about it?” He asks, his voice clipped. “You firebenders are all the same. You kill, and you burn, and you leave nothing behind but ash. You think the world is yours to command, but it isn’t. I’m a person too, Yue was a person too.” Sokka shuts his mouth, biting off the end of his sentence in a frustrated huff of anger, his jaw clenched tight. “You know nothing.”

Zuko had told Admiral Ukano that the world could burn for all he cared, but he had been wrong, a world without a moon is a crime not even Zuko can attest to.

June was right, it has started to rain. Zuko can hear it smattering against the roof of the container, as it trickles in from the small gap between the doors. He hopes she got away and that she managed to make her way back to The Sink unharmed.

“How do you know Zhao anyways?” Sokka asks, sounding reluctant, like he would rather be anywhere but here, trapped with Zuko.

“He got promoted to Colonel Commandant of the Military Police after The Night Of The Red Moon,” Zuko responds. He knows there had been a battle at the North Pole and that the Fire Nation had suffered a great loss. Zuko is glad Zhao survived, his name is on his list, and his alone to claim. He wants to be the last thing Zhao sees before he takes his final breath.

“Typical,” Sokka mutters. “For the Fire Nation to reward an attempted genocide with a promotion.”

“Yeah,” Zuko agrees, wincing a smile. “Typical.” He thinks of a courtroom then, of a map spread out before him like like a game of Pai Sho, of red dots without names disregarded so easily like they had been nothing more than pawns. “ They are your people ,” Zuko had whispered, to the stalwart frame of his father’s back. “ You cannot possibly disregard them so easily .”

“In war sacrifice is a currency we often trade in, Zuko,” his father said, eyes gleaming golden like the crown he so proudly wears. “ It would do you well to remember that .” However, when Zuko had looked at the map he had seen more than pawns, he had seen people, hundreds of them, with families and lives of their own. So much heartbreak, so much pain so easily caused by the push of a finger.

“Yes father, ” Zuko had said, his eyes wide as he tasted blood. “ However, sometimes the price is not worth the costs. The means by which we achieve victory is as important as the victory itself. ” Three days later Zuko had been on his knees, pleading for his father’s mercy as two hundred men marched to their death.

Zuko shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the memory like it is a fog clouding his mind. It does not do well to dwell on what could have been. Zuko is no longer a whole person, a part of him died in the palace he grew up in, but the thing is, even if he could go back, he would not belong there anymore.

“I’m sorry,” Sokka speaks up suddenly, his voice barely an echo. Zuko lets his eyelids slip shut if only for a second, wishing he could keep his eyes closed and escape into numbing darkness.

“Sorry for what?” Zuko asks with a grunt. When Sokka does not answer Zuko slits an eye open, wincing from what can only be the brewing of a black eye. Sokka gnaws at his bottom lip as he taps his fingers against his bent knees.

“Jet,” Sokka responds meekly. “I don’t know...” He sighs, his gaze skittish as his eyes move back and forth between Zuko and the empty wall in front of him. “Just... The way he talked to you, it didn’t sit right with me. I understand we’re at war, I do get that, you don’t start a revolution by shaking people's hand saying ‘thank you, please— it’s just— I just want to be better, better than—than—”

“The Fire Nation,” Zuko offers with a huff. “It’s okay, you can say it. I’m not patriotic. I don’t care about the Fire Nation or the war. Do whatever you want,” he looks at Sokka from the corner of his eye, quickly adding. “And it’s not like I’m some damsel in distress, you’re my hostage, remember?”

“... Right, your hostage,” Sokka says slowly, not sounding convinced in the least before a frown takes hold of his features, his mouth thinning. “You do realize that hundreds of people are dying in this war every day? Right? From starvation, poverty... Soldiers trying to defend what little land they have left. Colonial corruption. I hardly think you can afford to be impartial. Considering that it’s your nation that started it.”

“It’s not that simple,” Zuko says, he does not sound angry, or defensive, just tired.

“Yes, it is!” Sokka nearly yells as he sits up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest, the candle flickering between them. “You can’t be impartial in war, you’re either for it or you’re against it! There’s no grey area, no wiggle room.” Sokka huffs an angry breath as if he wants to say more but stays quiet. Zuko arches an eyebrow.

“There’s a little wiggle room,” Zuko says.

“What the hell is your problem?” Sokka blurts out.

Zuko hums, ignoring the pounding between his temples like fists against a door trying to break in. “Deeply rooted misanthropy,” he says. “What’s your problem?”

“You,” Sokka says and it sounds like he genuinely means it. “You’re my problem! You’re acting as if the war has nothing to do with you! But it does!” Zuko winches from the sheer anger in Sokka’s voice. “Or are you so selfish! So out of touch with reality?! So ignorant! That you can sit here and claim not to care?!” Sokka’s eyes are blue like the ocean trapped in a storm. “Have you never lost anyone? Never had someone you cared for enough to want the world to be a better place?! Are you so deprived of love, of care, of just-just human fucking decency?!” Sokka asks, chest heaving like he just ran a mile.

Zuko’s mouth is dry, his hands twitching uselessly in his lap as if trying to hold onto something. It is so hard to forget pain, but it is even harder to remember sweetness. He has no scar to show for happiness like the scar over his eye.

But he had loved once. And cared once. Had loved and cared so deeply and with such conviction and ferocity that when it had been forcefully wrenched out of him, it had felt like someone had reached through his chest and pulled his heart out, roots and all. Leaving but a barren landscape behind with nothing to fill it but the ache of what once had been.

“Yes,” Zuko agrees his voice empty. “I am that deprived of human fucking decency.” Sokka looks at him with hatred in his eyes for the very first time and when he speaks his voice drips with it.

“Then I feel really fucking sorry for you.”

“You’d rather I run around West Port lighting things on fire? Blow up a guard tower? Make sure that the front line doesn’t get their rations in time. Starve the city?” Zuko grins and it feels too wide, somehow, a showing of teeth more than a smile. “A bunch of kids running around playing rebels.” Zuko scoffs. “At least I’m not passing judgement.”

“You’re a kid too,” Sokka says sounding defensive. “And what else can we do? But try and stall the Fire Nation’s advances? Aang is still—“ Sokka snaps his mouth close so quickly his jaw clicks unpleasantly. “Never mind,” he bites out between clenched teeth. “I don’t need to defend myself to a guy without morals, or purpose— apparently.”

“Oh, I never said I don’t have a purpose,” Zuko says, smile still intact. “Morals though,” he lifts a hand, palm flat, waving it from side to side. “There’s a little wiggle room.” Sokka’s laugh is dry and mocking, his eyes cold.

“I hate you,” he says flatly.

“And here I thought you liked me,” Zuko widens his smile for a split second before he lets it slip, like shadows into shade.

“Whatever,” Sokka mutters, curling in on himself, the small glow from the candle flame turning the sharp line of his brow and jaw golden.

Zuko closes his eyes again, resting his head against the wall of the container, grimacing when the movement sends slivers of pain through his body and causes white dots to spark behind his eyelids like a galaxy full of stars. He is so, so tired. His eyelids are heavy.

It feels like he is swimming, tumultuous waves engulfing him in a surprisingly gentle rocking.

He hears movement and forces his eyes open, it is a slow and painful thing, and when he does he is met by the image of Sokka taking his cloak off, and folding it in his lap.

“Did I wake you?” Sokka asks.

“I wasn't sleeping,” Zuko argues, crossing his arms over his chest, his limbs heavy, as his eyelids flutter.

“You can,” Sokka says. “Looks like you need it. And it's still hours left until sunrise.”

“I don't trust you,” Zuko whispers.

“You can trust that I'm not stupid enough to try my luck across the harbour during daylight, looking like a Water Bender hours after a massive explosion.”

“Terrorist attack,” Zuko mumbles.

“Shut up,” Sokka responds but there is no real bite to his words.

“If you try anything—”

“I won't,” Sokka says. “I wouldn’t leave without my boomerang, if you can’t trust me you can at least trust that.” He says, sending the boomerang still attached to Zuko’s belt a pointed look.

“I won’t sleep,” Zuko whispers, almost to himself as his lids fall shut like a slammed door. “I’m just... Going to close my eyes for a few seconds.”

“You do that,” Sokka says, his words spoken from afar as Zuko’s consciousness begins to drift like a lone boat out at sea taking in water. Sinking slowly, but safely, down below, and Zuko is too tired, too weak to fight it.

A tunnel, rounded and barren like the reflection of the moon stretching across the sea engulfs Zuko. Stone floors glimmer from a not-so-distant light, pale and translucent like reflective silver.

A fox, with blue eyes, bright and seemingly all-knowing appears in the corner of his eye, its fur a coppery orange chasing away some of the darkness. It brushes by his left shin like a warm and familiar fog and Zuko follows it down the tunnel like a compass finding true north.

The tunnel gets narrower before it opens up like the neck of a bottle to a rounded room with a ceiling so grand it is impossible to tell it apart from the sky. Shelves climb the walls, stuffed with books. Colourful spines pushed together like bricks building a house.

“Zuko,” a deep baritone voice echoes, colouring the air red. Zuko turns and nearly trips over his own feet as he stumbles back to the sight of his father’s ceremonial robes. Red and gold cascaded over a tall frame with a face obscured in light. “Remember.” The voice echoes, words rippling through the air. “Who you are—“

The light grows, spilling up and out from the neck of his father’s robes as it falls forward like a column, crumbling by Zuko’s feet and bleeding ink, blue like the colour of the sky in the shape of an arrow pointing at Zuko like the beckoning of a finger.

Zuko takes a couple of steps back until his back finds the far wall and the arrow twists and stretches into a snake, slithering around his feet and up his body like ropes, staining his skin, and smelling like the open sea. Zuko struggles against it, but the more he struggles the tighter the snake twists around him, hissing.

“Remember,” the voice says again, but this time it sounds like a young boy, soft and mellow like purling water. “Who you are.” And when Zuko looks back at the robe it is filled with his own body, his own eyes wide and unseeing. His lips parted, gurgling and spitting scarlet, spilling down over his cheeks and painting a red line across his neck. Zuko opens his mouth and screams.

Zuko’s scream dies on his lips as he topples over, his upper body hitting the floor hard, as he struggles against phantom touches. 

“Hey! It’s okay,” a voice hushes, as a firm hand helps him upright. “...You’re burning up.” Zuko groans, blinking hard against the clutches of sleep as his vision slowly comes back into focus. Sokka is only a couple of inches away from him, his eyebrows furrowed in something aching to worry, blue eyes bright and intent.

Zuko extracts his hands from the gentle embrace of a soft grey cloak, that Sokka must have draped around him as he slept, and he tilts his head back with a low, pained groan.

“I am going to be sick,” Zuko says, in the cautious, quiet tones of someone who very much means it, his back and shoulders flaring with pain.

“Okay,” Sokka whispers, as a callused hand comes up to gently rest against the nape of Zuko’s neck, guiding him to the side and away from the circle of his own body as he retches, coughing and spitting bile. Sokka’s hand is a firm yet secure weight, brushing softly over Zuko’s back as tears sting in his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Sokka mumbles. “You’ll be fine.”

“Get off me,” Zuko groans, swallowing hard against the burning lump in his throat. Sokka hushes him gently and keeps stroking his back like Zuko is a drenched, hissing cat he just saved from drowning.

“You’ll be fine, it’s okay,” Sokka whispers.

“You’re my hostage,” Zuko grunts, his words coming out mumbled and mushy, struggling on the tip of his tongue.

“I know,” Sokka mumbles as he slowly lets go.

“I don’t need your help,” Zuko says in a hoarse voice. Sokka’s smile is small and rueful.

“Call it trauma bonding, but the idea of you choking on your own vomit in front of me does not sound very appealing,” Sokka says, pulling back slightly, his eyes moving towards the gap in the container and the sliver of black peeking in through ashy red. “It’s dark outside, we should move, are you strong enough to stand up or do you need me to help you?” Zuko follows his gaze.

“I don’t need your help,” Zuko responds out of instinct his stomach twisting.

“I think we should cut straight across instead of going to the guard tower,” Sokka says. “There’s a small shipping tunnel for cargo between West Port and The Forge, few people know about, used to transport minerals, it will be a tight squeeze but we will get by unnoticed.” Sokka stands up, brushing his hands on his knees as he worries his bottom lip.

“I’ve never heard of such a tunnel,” Zuko says, reaching for his sword as he struggles to get his damaged leg underneath him, stiff after being still for so long. It wobbles under his weight, as he leans against his sword. Zuko bites down hard on the inside of his cheek but forces himself to stand up straight. His brow sleek with sweat.

“It’s not in frequent use anymore and was built before the war, and proper heating, most coal is sorted and distributed from Coal Drop Harbor, as it is in bigger demand,” Sokka says, sending Zuko a worried glance like he wants to offer him a helping hand but decides against it when Zuko glares at him from slanted eyes.

“How do you know that?” Zuko asks.

“It’s my job,” Sokka replies, offering a lopsided smile. “I’m the man with the plan.”

“I didn’t know being a terrorist came with a job description,” Zuko says, pushing himself away from the wall and taking a hesitant step forward.

“It’s complicated,” Sokka responds with a shrug. “Are you ready?”

“No,” Zuko says with a faint smile. “But those who are usually end up dead.”

They squeeze through the gap in the container, the night is quiet around them. A heavy blanket of clouds in shades of grey and muddy blue roll across the sky, turning the moon into a pinprick, offering little to no light. Sokka’s steps are measured as he keeps close to Zuko’s right, his profile an outline of sharp lines and his skin dark like burnt caramel.

“You doing alright?” Sokka asks as Zuko stumbles to keep up. “We need to be quick.”

“If it hadn’t been for your fucking explosions I’d be running, so shut up,” Zuko hisses.

“Wasn’t my explosion,” Sokka mumbles.

“You’re guilty by association,” Zuko says. The rain soaks through Zuko’s clothes and he realizes with something irking to frustration that he is still wearing Sokka’s cloak.

“You should take this,” Zuko says, as he starts to shrug it off, his fingers fiddling with the clasp.

“I don’t need it,” Sokka says.

“Take it!” Zuko growls, trying to wrench it off.

“No,” Sokka bites back with equal force. “You’re burning up, no doubt with a fever, so keep the wretched thing on before I decide to do something unpleasant.” Zuko grunts but stays quiet. Too tired to argue.

The harbour is eerily quiet, their steps dampened by the rain. The night is so dark that the guard tower is nothing more than a black skeleton clinging to the sky.

Zuko struggles with each step, his mind far away, forced out of the present by the aches of his body as he clutches greedily to consciousness. His damaged leg dragging awkwardly behind him.

“Are you ok—“

“Ask me one more time and I’ll cut your head straight off your shoulders,” Zuko bites out. Sokka stays quiet, even though Zuko can feel his eyes on him, searching. Zuko is not sure what he is hoping to find, but he must find something because he does not ask again.

It takes them nearly an hour to cross the harbour. Zuko keeps going out of pure spite. He counts the names on his list, over and over like a mantra or a distant prayer in the back of his mind. General Li, Admiral Ukano, Fire Sage Anwir, Coronal Zhao, Fire Lord Ozai, Crown Prince Zuko— over and over again. Two names already crossed over, and four more to go. When his leg nearly folds underneath him he counts them again. When his right side starts stinging with newfound vigour he whispers them quietly to himself. “General Li, Admiral Ukano, Coronal Zhao, Fire Lord Ozai—“ the last name though, the last name he keeps to himself.

“We’re here,” Sokka says, as he comes to a stop.

The tunnel is nearly an arm's length in width and barely a meter in height, clinging to the face of a grey brick wall that circles the harbor, checkpoint to checkpoint. A cargo box sits by its opening on a small railroad disappearing into its depth. Zuko glares at it swallowing hard.

“I can’t do it,” he says, as darkness licks the corner of his vision. He can hear the sigh of an ocean from the mouth of the tunnel, and feel the rocking of a ship underneath his feet.

“What do you mean you can’t do it?” Sokka asks bewildered. “We don’t have a choice.”

“I can’t,” Zuko breathes. “I just can’t.” He settles on, as the sweet, sickening scent of burnt skin enters his mind. “Go without me.”

“I won’t,” Sokka hisses. “We made it this far, and you kidnapped me remember? You’re technically responsible for my survival.” Zuko takes a small step back, swallowing hard as bile shimmers in the back of his throat.

“No,” he says. Sokka sighs in exasperation, rounding on Zuko with blue, angry eyes.

“Why?” Sokka asks, hands on his hips. “It’s just a tunnel. You made it across the harbour just fine—“

“I don’t do well with small spaces, okay?” Zuko hisses in a bitter confession. “I’ll find another way.”

“There is no other way!” Sokka nearly screams, throwing his arms up. “It’s either this tunnel—“ he points at it roughly with an open palm. “Or an express ticket to the Boiling Rock, your choice.”

“I can’t do it,” Zuko says. “I told you I can’t do it, I’m not forcing you to stay with me!” He stumbles back. “I am now releasing you from my custody, you are no longer my prisoner.” He paints a cross in the air with a shaky hand in Sokka’s direction like the cutting of a ribbon. “You can leave.”

“Oh, get off it,” Sokka sighs. “I’m not leaving without you.”

“Why?” Zuko hisses through clenched teeth, pointing at his own chest. “You don’t even like me, and I’m not going, you’re free.” Sokka glares at him, the lines of his face hard and eyes searching before something soft settles in his gaze. He sighs.

“We made it this far,” Sokka reminds him again. “You survived an explosion and an altercation with Jet, you took me hostage,” the corner of his mouth tugs upwards. “Are you really going to give up now?”

“No,” Zuko says because giving up has always been a foreign concept to him, and if Sokka thinks Zuko refusing to enter the tunnel is ‘ giving up ’, then he must simply refuse. “I’m not.” Sokka’s smile widens slightly.

“Good,” Sokka says with a firm nod.

“I don’t think I’ll be able to crouch for very long though,” Zuko admits as they make their way towards the entrance of the tunnel. “I might have to crawl.” Sokka sighs.

“Or you can lean on me.”

“No,” Zuko says.

“Does everything have to be a struggle with you?” Sokka asks.

“Only the things that matter.”

“And why does this matter? You’ll never see me again, your leg is oozing blood, you probably have a high fever and god knows what else. I won’t think you’re weak just because you lean on me.” Zuko has never leaned on anyone before, at least not what he can remember, it was simply not allowed. Or perhaps his mother once, thinking about it, as they stood on the steps of the great palace facing Gallows Hill, with the sun high in the sky. Zuko thinks he might have leaned against her then, that she might have taken a hold of his hand when he had tried to cover his eyes, as feet dangled in the air.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine.” He confirms as Sokka closes the distance between them, wrapping a sturdy arm around Zuko’s waist.

“I can’t do this by myself, you know,” Sokka says as Zuko groans, wrapping a reluctant arm around Sokka’s shoulders.

Sokka is cold against him, his bare skin clammy from rain and sticky with salt from the wind carried across from the open sea. Zuko can feel his heartbeat against his side like a distant drum and fights a sigh of relief when some weight shifts from his damaged leg and onto Sokka.

“You’re burning,” Sokka mumbles as they enter the tunnel nearly bent in half. Zuko closes his eyes as darkness engulfs him. The tunnel smells like old minerals, like ozone and burnt coal. It is slightly lowered into the ground, sloping upwards. Rain trickles in ankle-deep, offering Zuko a near comfort as it reminds him of the streets belonging to The Sink. If he keeps his eyes closed he can pretend he is there, that The Pot is just around the corner. That June will be standing on the porch, cigarette in hand, waiting for him with the promise of a snarky joke and a slight jab of worry.

“You know,” Sokka muses. “If we hadn’t met like this I think we could have been friends.”

“What?” Zuko asks. “You mean if your friend hadn’t attacked me and later threatened to have me gagged? Or if I hadn’t taken you hostage?” Sokka winches slightly or he might have stumbled, it is hard to tell in the dark.

“Yeah, that,” Sokka says, his voice strained. “Don’t get me wrong. I don’t trust you, I don’t really like you all that much either. You’re a fire bender and besides that, I think you're pretty selfish and stubborn—“

“Wow. Thanks,” Zuko interrupts dryly.

“But maybe if we’d met during a different time, in a different life we could have become friends. You’re kinda funny in a strange, maybe not so funny way.”

“Aren’t you just full of compliments?” Zuko asks. Zuko is not sure how he knows Sokka is smiling, but he does, can hear it in his voice.

“Maybe you deserve the compliment of rational opposition,” Sokka suggests.

“Perhaps,” Zuko agrees, fighting a smile of his own.

Zuko cannot help but think of Jet then, how his eyes had blazed with hunger like a marksman claiming prey, his voice fueled by hatred. “ I’ll find you, and gag you, and leave you somewhere to rot.”

Jet knows Zuko is a part of The Sink. He doubts Sokka would ever come looking for him but Jet might. Probably will.

“If your friend ever decides to come chasing after me I won’t hesitate to kill him,” Zuko says with meaning. “There won’t be a body left to find, The Pyre will have him, do you understand?”

“He won’t,” Sokka says but he sounds hesitant, tired even.

“He might,” Zuko insisted.

“Yeah, he might,” Sokka agrees.

Zuko can hear the echo of footsteps as the tunnel narrows and opens up. Light floods in from lampposts crowding a narrow street. The Forge is rarely busy at night but never empty as it is a working-class district filled with metal workshops, housing silver smiths and cobblers. There are a couple of well-known pubs and Inns, visited by workers and merchants alike that Zuko sometimes used to entertain when he still lived on the streets as they had been lucrative spots for pickpocketing.

“The Widow’s Son is just around the corner from here,” Zuko breathes out with a sigh of relief mixed with wonder.

“The what?” Sokka asks.

“The Widow’s Son, it’s a famous Inn. I can’t believe I never knew about this tunnel before, it would have served me well back in the day,” Zuko muses as he untangles himself from Sokka’s hold. Zuko stumbles against a curved wall, peaking his head out just as he spots a flash of red. Zuko grabs Sokka by the collar of his shirt pulling him against himself and nearly smacking their heads together as a red coattail sweeps by the small opening.

“What—“

“Shh,” Zuko hisses. “City Watch,” he mouthes. Sokka’s breath is warm against his skin, his ridiculously long eyelashes fluttering against Zuko’s chin like the wings of a butterfly.

Zuko slowly lets go of Sokka’s shirt, his eyes towards the mouth of the tunnel. “I think the coast is clear,” he whispers but Sokka stays dormant against him, his hands braised on each side of Zuko’s head.

“Sokka?” Zuko asks, facing him. Sokka’s eyes are sapphire whirlpools of deep, wild waters with unknown, unexplored depths. He smells like rich spices, and the wind out at sea, like foreign lands and thawing snow. Their noses brush together, breaths mingling in the small space between them.

“You know my name,” Sokka says, it sounds like an accusation.

“So?” Zuko asks, quirking an eyebrow. “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“A secret for a secret then?” Sokka says, and the smile that graces his lips is nearly shy, border-lining on boyish.

“Unfortunately,” Zuko whispers, offering the barest edge of a smile. “I’m better at keeping secrets than you.” He pushes against the wall, forcing Sokka to take a step back.

“Hey,” Sokka breathes. “That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair,” Zuko says, pulling Sokka’s cloak tighter around himself. “Thanks,” he grins. “You’ve been a wonderful hostage.”

“I’m not your hostage!” Sokka yells as Zuko rounds the corner of the tunnel, and disappears down the narrow street, barely escaping two Red Coats.

Zuko keeps his head down. A scar might be overlooked in The Sink but he is not in The Sink anymore, not yet. He keeps close to buildings, his shoulder scraping against the jagged edges of brick walls and rounded stone as he moves between streets in sharp, stumbling turns. He makes his way to a plaza with a fire burning in its centre, flames flickering around a big, golden coin. It looks different during the day, usually filled with stalls and trading boots with red flags billowing in the wind. Merchants Square, Zuko smiles.

He spots a wagon filled with coal, tethered to two horses standing still by the edge of the square, outside an inn with big windows gaping golden light, a sign hangs over the door, The Luck Of the Draw it reads etched into the face of an old clock still ticking. It is nearly four in the morning. Zuko makes his way towards it.

Two men stand leaning against the Inn, sharing a pint of ale. Their faces are dusted in soot, white aprons nearly back. One of the men is as wide as he is tall with a fraying goat beard and a plump face. His friend is much shorter, with a spindly build, his brown beady eyes fixed on Zuko.

“Who goes there?” The man asks, in a heavy accent.

“My name is Lee, I’m a soldier on leave visiting my sister. I was wondering if you could help me with safe passage to Coal Drop Harbor,” Zuko says once he gets close enough to be heard over the rain.

“Coal drop Harbor?” The taller merchant asks with a booming laugh. “Nothing holy open there at this time of night. Only brothels and whorehouses, boy. Maybe it’s better if you leave that sister of yours alone.”

“I only have a couple of days before I’m shipped off to The Emerald Islands, I promised my sister I’d pay her a visit. She’s not from town either, she’s saying at a tavern, The Emperor’s Head, you might have heard of it?” Zuko says, making his voice sound small and hesitant. “Please? I’d pay you in kind, I haven’t seen her in three years, you see.”

“Ah well, why didn’t you say so, boy,” the short man says. “The military Police closed off most roads leading to West Port, and down the harbours,” his smile widens slightly. “But we could drop you off at the outskirts of The Sink and you can walk down to the harbour from there, not a pretty place, but it’s the only road you got.”

“Even better,” Zuko says. He reaches into his tunic and holds out the pouch he stole earlier from the smuggler. “I’ll give you ten golden coins for your troubles and an extra if you have a cigarette to spare.”

“The deal is the deal,” the short merchant says.

“The deal is the deal,” Zuko grins.

The merchants drop him off only a couple of hundred meters away from The Pot at the North outskirts of The Sink, keeping up a distracting but no less welcoming banter between themselves.

“My cousin came back from the front with a limp like that,” one of them says as he helps Zuko down from the back of the wagon.

“Women love a war story or two, you’re close to good company in case you get bored of that sister of yours,” the other grins, accepting Zuko’s payment with the tip of a hat. “You look too young to smoke but if you can hold a gun you should also be able to hold a cigarette. This one's on me, thank you for your services.” He says, holding out a cigarette that Zuko accepts with a half-hearted soldier's salute. They wave as he leaves.

Zuko struggles to walk through the murky water drowning The Sink, his mind a distant fog and his thoughts far away. As time moves slowly, uncaring of his aching limbs. He blinks slowly, humming in relief once he finally spots it, and the sight of it feels a little bit like coming home. 

It sits like a snaggle tooth, squeezed in between a tobacco shop and a rundown whorehouse, separated by an alley slim like a ribbon. A single window, boarded shut, like an eye patch worn over a damaged eye, faces the street. ‘The Pot’ a rusty sign reads over a closed door. Zuko smiles, wide and dangerous. 

Zuko crashes face-first into the door of The Pot with a groan. Golden light, warm and welcoming like the gentle smile of an old friend seeps out between wooden boards and shut windows. He brushed his hand against its frame in a near caress, over splinters and crooked lines, every angle slightly obscured or on the edge where boards meet weather-bitten stones. He slides down against it, his back arching unpleasantly as his leg gives out while his fingers fumble for the handle, cold and familiar in the palm of his hand.

He can hear muffled voices from inside, a smoke-drenched bark fighting for dominance over hushed, angry whispers. Zuko wrenches the door open, as gravity gives way and he falls face-first like a spring uncoiling. His cheek sliding against the floor.

“Patch! We can’t just—“

“—You don’t know—“

“—It’s my choice!”

“— Zuko!” He can hear the thundering of footsteps, and the thud of knees kissing the ground next to his head as someone rolls him onto his back. He groans, trying to curl in on himself as shivers wreck through his body like the aftershocks of an explosion.

“Oh, Agni, oh— Zuko.”

“June,” Zuko whispers, fluttering his eyes open. June’s face is only inches away from his own, her face pale and dark eyes wide. Zuko smiles at the sight of her. He fumbles for control over his trembling fingers, as he holds up the cigarette he had been given by the merchant, his hand stained with blood. “Whoever makes it back last owes a cigarette,” he mumbles. June laughs wetly, accepting it with a shaky hand.

“You fucking idiot. We thought the red coats took you,” June breathes, her mouth slightly parted around the words as if speaking them into existence would make them real.

“Get out of the way,” Patch grunts, pushing June away as he crouches down. His scarred hand is rough as it brushes over Zuko’s forehead, his eyes unreadable behind the black pools of his glasses. “He’s burning up,” Patch says in a rough voice, smoke curling from his split lip from a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. “Hitch!” He barks at the crow's nest of coppery hair by Zuko’s left shoulder.

“Bring a bucket of water, and a rag,” Patch orders. “Now,” he grunts, as Hitch stays unmoving, his blue eyes wide with something aching to fear. Patch shoves him roughly, making him stumble. “I said now, boy, and you better pray to that mother of yours that you’re half the healer you pretend to be.”

Zuko coughs, his eyes watering, his fingers clutching against the wooden floors, as his back arches with the force of it. He shudders, falling back down with a painful gasp, chest heaving. “Did—did, everyone m-make it back?” He asks, his words cut into small, messy pieces by the bluntness of his tongue.

“Everyone's back. Rest, kid,” Patch says. “You did well.” Zuko shivers, and the last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is the sharp edge of a blue boomerang gleaming like the sun dancing on rippling waves.

Chapter Text

When Zuko was nine years old, his sister, Azula, had the deviltry idea – to test if he could fly. It was a hot summer day at their family's grand dacha on Emerald Island, where they sought refuge from the oppressive heat of the bustling metropolitan and grand palace during the warmer months of the year.

Zuko sat perched on the roof of the mansion with a forbidden book splayed open in his lap, the sun hanging high, casting long, lazy brush strokes with every passing shadow as birds soared lazily above.

Within the forbidden book, vivid depictions of children, adorned with blue arrows and dressed in rich saffron orange garments danced across the spreads. Their small figures soared with outstretched arms, embracing kites that floated amidst the cotton swirls of clouds. It was a captivating world that beckoned Zuko, a stark contrast to the constrained life he knew within the palace. A world without titles or hidden schemes with flying bisons’ and soaring towers reaching with gentle fingers up towards an endless blue.

“Father would cut your hand off if he found you with that,” Azula said, as she leaned forward, gazing over his shoulder with a small, unpleasant smile. “You know it is forbidden, Zuzu. Rebellion does not suit you.”

Zuko hurriedly closed the book, startled by his sisters' sudden presence. "It's just a book," he replied, his curiosity about its banishment still gnawing at him.

He knew all too well that those his father, the crown, and the High Temple considered 'dangerous' faced two ominous fates. Some found themselves incarcerated in the Boiling Rock, while others met their end at Gallows Hill, the place of public hangings. His father had once said to him, 'They are heretics, anarchists, and there's nothing more dangerous in this world than those who believe in nothing, Zuko. Always remember that.' When Zuko asked about their crimes.

However, the book he cradled in his hands believed in something Zuko thought, it believed in flying people and cakes adorned with cream whipped by the gentle caress of the wind's helping hand. What could be so dangerous about that? What could be so wrong that the Fire Sages had deemed it too dangerous to exist, too dangerous to be read?

Zuko had found it in the ashes of the last royal book burning outside the High Temple, yellow like the sun in early spring and cracked open like a window to another world. So he had taken it. Had brushed his fingers over burnt edges and a title lost to fire, had opened it late at night and marvelled at the magic it contained.

His mother discovered it a week later while they were packing for their trip to Emerald Island. Kneeling beside his open trunk, surrounded by busy maids folding robes and fluffing pillows, and softly asked, "What is this?

Zuko's complexion, usually pale, had taken on an ashen sheen. "I'm sorry," he managed, wringing his fingers together in a self-calming ritual, a habit his father had once tried to beat out of him with little to no success. "Please, don't tell father," he whispered. 

His mother's fingers caressed the book's cover with the tenderness one might use to stroke the crown on top of a newborn’s head. "Come here," she whispered, her eyes filled with warmth as she extended an arm in a welcoming gesture. Zuko embraced her, his head finding a comfortable spot on her shoulder while her robe-clad arm enveloped him, cradling him like a protective wing. “This book,” his mother said, her voice melodic and soft like a lullaby. “Do you know what it is?”

Zuko shook his head, his gaze filled with apprehension as he stole a peek at the book resting atop the exquisite patterns of his mother's skirt, draped over her bent knees. "When I was a young girl, my parents used to take me to a cottage, sometimes during the winter, in a colony very far from here. I was a frail child, and they wished for me to explore the world. I yearned to witness the beauty of snow,” she said as she opened the book with slender fingers, a faint smile gracing her lips.

“You were sick?” Zuko asked as he snuggled closer. “Are you better now?”

“Of course my little sun, right as rain,” his mother said, kissing the tip of his nose. “The cold weather and fresh air helped me feel better, I loved it there, yet what I loved the most was the library.” Her eyes sparkled as she said it, full of mischief echoing the memory of the girl she once had been. “It pains me to say it, but the cottage had not been in my family for very long, I did not know it then, not as I do now. I think it used to belong to a family of researchers and nomads from the earth kingdom, as they had books from all over the world.”

“They had this one,” Zuko guessed with a broad smile. “You’ve seen it before.”

“I have,” his mother confirmed, laughing softly. “Topden, The Boy Who Danced With The Wind.” Zuko reached out and put a gentle hand on top of a funny-looking animal, that appeared to be neither a cat nor a mouse but something in between.

"What happened?" he asked, curiosity lacing his words. "To your book?" His mother fell silent for a prolonged moment, her gaze distant, lost in memories. When she finally spoke, her voice was somehow both happy and sad.

“It is the most beautiful things that gets destroyed in war. Museums ransacked. Knowledge burned. The book was taken from me,” she said as she looked at Zuko, treading a warm hand through his hair. “But it has now made its way to you, and I’ll tell you a secret.”

“A secret?” Zuko echoed as his mother leaned their foreheads together. She hummed softly.

“A secret,” she confirmed. “That knowledge we have been bestowed can never completely be taken away. Books live forever in the minds of whoever reads them, once a story has been told it can never be untold like a stamp on your heart,” she whispered, pointing at Zuko’s chest.

"I don't want Father to take it," Zuko declared with unwavering conviction. "I want to learn how to fly." His mother hummed thoughtfully, the sound resembling the gentle tinkling of wind chimes as she smiled a full smile, her eyes dancing with mirth, looking more like a mother than a queen despite the crown in her hair.

"One more secret then," she whispered, closing the book and carefully returning it to Zuko's trunk. "But remember, do not let your father see it. Not everyone wants to fly, my little sun."

And so, Zuko held onto the book, safeguarding it as they settled on the island. After the maids had unpacked and they had greeted the estate manager, the main servant and the housekeepers, Zuko had quietly ascended to the attic. He had climbed through the sky window and gazed up at the expanse of pale blue overhead. There, he allowed his imagination to take flight, envisioning himself soaring through the boundless sky.

“They’re air nomads,” Azula said as she crouched down next to him. “Father had them all killed. Every last one of them,” she grinned. “Fancy yourself an Airbender, Zuzu?”

Zuko closed the book like he wanted to protect the laughing children from his sister and said with a near fierce protectiveness. “Father would never do such a thing. Mother would never let him.”

“You honestly think Mother would be able to stand in Father’s way?” Azula said with a cold laugh devoid of any real humour. “Zuzu, do pay attention. Father could send you marching straight to Gallows Hill, and have you hanged before sunrise,” she said as she stood up, spinning on the tip of her toes. “And mother would cry, and uncle would cry, but they would still be sitting in the front row and applaud your dangling feet.”

Zuko pushed to his feet, Azula was taller than him and had been for nearly two years. His mother said it was common for girls to hit their growth spurt quicker yet Zuko saw it as just one more thing he needed to catch up on. “You’re a liar, Azula,” Zuko said, as he stared up at his sister. “All you do is lie.”

Azula’s smile was sharp enough to cut. “Just because you don't like the truth, Zuzu doesn't mean it’s a lie.”

“No,” Zuko said, shaking his head until he could hear the wind whistle. “No,” he said again more determined. “I don’t believe you.” Azula tiptoed around him, her chin held high and her eyes glittering golden.

“You can believe whatever you want,” she said as she came to a stop behind Zuko, her fingers snaking around his shoulders as she leaned forward. “Doesn’t change the fact that they’re all dead.”

Zuko closed his eyes as his mother’s words came back to him like a haunted echo, “It is the most beautiful things that gets destroyed in war.” He thought about the flying children painted with arrows like a compass pointing north, how quiet laughter seemed to fill each page and his heart ached so much at the thought of it all being gone, that he physically flinched.

“No,” he said, shaken, surely not even his father could attest to such cruelty.

Azula laughed softly. “Maybe you’re right, Zuzu, maybe there’s still Airbenders left in this world,” she said as her grip grew firmer. “I know, why don’t we find out?” She said as her fingers found the small of his back and pushed hard.

Zuko clung tightly to his book, his fingers trembling as the ground rushed up to meet him. A fierce wind tugged at his clothes and tousled his hair, but he refused to release his grip.

He was still holding it when he hit the ground, hard, as his body bounced on the little stony path circling the estate, dislocating his hip and fracturing his elbow.

It was clutched close to his chest when a maid, alarmed by his scream found him and carried him inside, Zuko in her arms and the book in his. When he woke up it was gone, and it was never spoken about again. However, just like his mother had told him stories live on like a stamp on your heart, unseen but felt, unseen but known.

Zuko never forgot about the children laughing with the wind, never forgot about how it felt to fall, and even through the pain, the fear, and the loss of his book for a split second he had closed his eyes and pretended he could fly.

And he thinks a part of him never truly hit the ground.

Zuko awakens with the sensation of descending and crashes into consciousness with a sharp intake of breath, tainted by the touch of agony. The world exists as a harsh paradox, simultaneously frigid and burning. His skin blazes with searing heat, while his joints and bones are gripped by an icy vice, causing his teeth to chatter.

His body feels distant, yet too near, akin to a searing brand as his mind valiantly grapples to retain its hold. His leg throbs with pain, an ominous pool thick with venom coursing through his veins, seeping from his pores like a scalding kiss against his forehead.

“Zuko,” someone whispers with the gentleness of a breath painted on glass. “Zuko stay with me—“

He attempts to remain, he genuinely tries. For a brief handful of seconds, he believes he can discern the sensation of someone pressing on his hand, or perhaps it is his wrist. His body feels fragmented, and his vision is veiled in a deep, brooding orange with splotches of tainted red. It feels as though an intruder has traipsed through his mind with a war club, shattering everything in sight, leaving dirty footprints across the floor, and setting it all ablaze.

“Stay,” someone pleads in his mother’s voice. “Stay with me, my little sun.” Zuko takes a deep breath and feels his lungs expand with it, keeping it trapped in the cage of his lungs.

“Breathe,” someone commands and the voice sounds like his father this time, cruel and cold and distant. “Breathe,” it urges. Zuko would rather die than give in to his father’s whims. So he keeps his chest locked, throws away the key, and keeps falling, down, down, down.

The second time he lands the descent is gradual but remains a torment. A faint whisper reaches his ears, a voice like a distant echo, akin to a guiding light beckoning him back to consciousness. "Zuko," it murmurs, filled with a sense of familiarity and care. "Zuko..."

Zuko blinks his eyes open with a gasp before he promptly shut them again, unaccustomed to the faint, flickering light emanating from a nearby candle. His head aches and his face feels wrong somehow, he thinks, as he lifts a trembling hand letting the tip of his fingers trace the outline of his jaw, up his nose and his left eye, nearly swollen shut.

His face feels puffy, a landscape of raised skin, hills and unknown terrain. He loses the strength to hold his hand up, dropping it over his eyes like a curtain as a sob wrangles its way out his lips. “It’s okay,” a gentle voice mumbles, taking hold of his hand and guiding it away, into the embrace of another. “You have been so strong, Zuko, the worst is over.”

For a moment, Zuko believes he is back on the ship that occasionally sails through his nightmares as his uncle's words reach him like a mirror reflecting a different time. Yet when Zuko cautiously peels his eyes open as tears escape from the clasp of his heavy lids like a door being slowly pushed ajar. He is met with Iroh's searching gaze— clearer than it has been in months— in the face of the man his illness has rendered him into; thin faced and hollowed out. "My nephew, welcome back," Iroh says, his words accompanied by the faintest suggestion of a troubled smile.

“H-how long have I been gone?” Zuko asks, his voice rough and his words so far apart you could jump between them.

“Near a week,” Iroh says as Zuko closes his eyes and takes a deep, strained breath that makes something in his chest rattle.

“W-what happened?” He asks.

Iroh emits a soft hum, his thumbs tenderly caressing Zuko's hand, as though attempting to breathe life back into him. "Your wound became infected," his uncle expounds. "It was quite severe. You were on the brink of death when they brought you here." The lines around Iroh's eyes crease as his smile expands with a touch of amusement, chasing away some of the worry in his voice.

"You've gathered quite a peculiar group of friends, my nephew. The young Earth Kingdom girl refused to leave your side during those initial days, resorting to all sorts of threats to coax you into recovery," Iroh chuckles. "And the Water Tribe boy spent the first couple of nights attempting to bend the poison out of your wound. He still comes by daily to monitor your progress."

“June and Hitch,” Zuko whispers, swallowing thickly. He does not remember anything after he had fallen face-first through the doors of The Pot. “Are they okay?” He asks hesitantly, meeting his Uncle’s steady gaze.

“They are well but worried, as am I. You had an episode on the third night, your fever came back full force and nearly took you, but you fought through it.”

“I dreamt about the book,” he whispers, wetting his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. “Do you remember?” He asks turning his head to look at his uncle, his gaze blurry with pain. “About the boy who played with the wind?”

Iroh chuckles softly. “The children’s book about the Air Nomads? How could I forget?” He asks, humming thoughtfully. “You refused to part with it.”

“What happened to it?” Zuko asks, for some reason desperate to find out. “It was gone, when I woke up after I— after Azula pushed me off the roof.” He smiles grimly at the memory, wincing as it pulls on his split lip.

Iroh sighs and closes his eyes briefly. Zuko watches with trepidation, afraid that when Iroh opens his eyes again, they will return to that cloudy, ailing stare he has gotten so used to over the past three years. However, when Iroh finally does open them, they are bright but darkened with old pain.

"Your father had it burned," he reveals gently, reaching out to adjust the cool compress on Zuko's forehead. "But why? I don’t think you've ever asked before." There's a hint of uncertainty in his voice, a recognition that so much of their time together remains shrouded in the fog of his mind.

“I haven’t,” Zuko confirms, blinking tiredly trying to clear his mind with little success. “But I had an odd dream, I-I saw an arrow, blue... It reminded me of the book.”

"A blue arrow," Iroh echoes, inclining back slightly. He occupies a stool next to the bed he typically uses, their roles reversed, as has been the case many times before. Iroh caring for Zuko, Zuko caring for Iroh, and then the cycle repeats. Somehow, they always find the strength to be there for each other, if not for themselves.

“You know,” his uncle says carefully like he is treading dangerous waters. “The last avatar was meant to be born an Airbender. That’s why Fire Lord Sozin carried out a genocide on their people, and why your father is trying to finish so desperately what he started.”

“So not all of them are gone?” Zuko whispers as he shivers. His body is heavy with pain, his eyelids drooping. He will not be able to stay awake for much longer.

"The spirits," Iroh asserts, his voice a steady undercurrent in the dimly lit chamber. "They'd never permit such a transgression. I've crossed paths with groups of Airbenders twice in my lifetime. They're good at concealment, just like their element, they know how to adapt. The first encounter, it was within the confines of an Earth Kingdom outpost, years ago, after the death of my son. As for the second... well, it’s not my story to tell. But be assured, they exist, as real as the very mysteries that shroud them."

“You think the Avatar is still alive,” Zuko whispers, stumbling over the words as he groans. “My head feels groggy.”

“That must be the tea,” his uncle says. “White willow’s bark, great for pain, not so great for a clear mind. You are due another dosage soon. Is the pain too great?”

“Dislocating my hip hurts more,” Zuko mumbles. “So did the scar.” He smiles weakly. “It feels like I got punched in the face.”

“By the looks of it, you did, my nephew.”

"You didn't provide an answer to my inquiry," Zuko mumbles as he shuts his eyes. The room gradually encroaches upon him as he embarks on another descent. It is slower this time, but just as resolute, a descent into darkness. "If you believe the Avatar still exists," he questions, unsure if the words ever fully materialize or escape his lips. His uncle's response remains concealed as the darkness rushes up to claim him.

The third time Zuko resurfaces to consciousness, it is as though he barely grazes the shores of reality. His thoughts meander at a leisurely pace, devoid of the pressing urgency of pain, flowing like thick, unhurried syrup.

With a gradual, cautious effort, Zuko peels open his eyes, half-expecting the reassuring sight of his uncle beside him. However, the chair remains vacant.

A soft, contemplative hum escapes him as he eases himself onto his elbows, mindful of the twinge along his side. He braces for the anticipated pain, but it barely brushes against him, resembling a distant echo, easily brushed aside. A faint, almost bewildered giggle escapes his lips.

Zuko discovers Iroh, seated by the small window at the far end of the room. Moonlight bathes Iroh's pale face while a gentle breeze stirs his silver hair. "Uncle?" Zuko calls out, but Iroh remains motionless. "Uncle Iroh?" he repeats, although deep down, he senses the inevitable. His uncle is no longer here.

Zuko's breath escapes in a weary sigh as he leans forward, discarding the enveloping covers like a moth breaking free from a cocoon. He wears black linen trousers, his upper body left bare, only adorned with a patchwork of white bandages that reveal slivers of skin, resembling a messy watercolor canvas of deep greens, vivid blues, and raw purples.

"Huh," he remarks, laughter softly dancing from his lips as he swings his legs off the bed in a single fluid motion. His feet meet the floor like a pendant in full swing. "Ouch," he says, almost as a reflex, for it should hurt, yet all he perceives is a gentle tingle. His vision bathes in a soothing, serene glow, unrelated to the moon or the flickering candle by his bedside.

“Uncle,” Zuko whispers. “I think I’m flying.” Iroh does not answer him.

He pushes himself upright, swaying as his left leg buckles beneath him, forcing him to lurch forward. With great effort, he manages to regain his balance against the doorframe of his uncle's bedroom. "How theatric," Zuko mutters in annoyance to his rebellious leg.

The hallway, guiding the way to the compact sitting room, remains enshrouded in darkness, and he proceeds with caution in that direction. His shoulder lightly brushes against the wall as he inches forward, the effort to maintain his balance almost precarious.

Zuko enters the sitting room, where a pervasive warmth envelops him. Abruptly, he comes to a halt, his focus fixated on the stark, slanting slits of a blue-painted visage, its snarl carrying a sinister edge. "I've always despised you," Zuko mutters, taking an unsettling step closer, his frown darkening. "You're relentless," he confides in the blue spirit mask dangling from the handle of his front door. His frown morphs into a twisted grin as he chuckles, shaking his head with a malevolent delight.

Zuko extends his hand, fingers curling around the door handle. He eases it open with deliberate care, inviting a gentle breeze that sweeps in, its cool touch a soft caress against his warmed skin. The scent that fills the air is unmistakably "The Sink" – a fusion of rain-drenched coal, damp earth, and a tantalizing hint of something sweet, lingering in the atmosphere like the ghostly essence of seduction.

"Home," Zuko muses with a grin. He confidently steps onto the railing, observing that the back entrance to The Pot is slightly ajar, emitting a soft yellow radiance into the night. A sign that the proprietor must still be awake.

Zuko descends the metal staircase deliberately, leaping between steps with a childlike playfulness as he clings to the railing. He cannot help but chuckle at how absurd he must appear if anyone were to stumble upon him, and winces as his bare feet make contact with the murky water stagnating in The Sink.

He waddles to the opened door, the light cutting his silhouette in half before he pushes it open, bathing himself in light. He enters through the kitchen, the scent of Jasmine Tea lingering in the air. The hob on the oven still glowing a faint red.

A soft, melodious voice drifted through the open archway, leading into the tea room. Zuko recognized it instantly, as though it were a poignant step back in time. The voice belonged to Xiang Beifong, a singer born in the heart of Ba Sing Se. Her songs had been banned years ago, but Zuko vividly remembered Iroh listening to her during his own childhood. They would stand on the balcony of the Royal Datcha, with the vast expanse of the black ocean stretching out before them.

"In the end, grief is the price we pay for love. As a world, we've all shared the incommunicable experience of war," his uncle reflected, his voice heavy with the weight of his own sorrows. "And no one sings about grief quite like Xiang Beifong." It was a year after the loss of his son, and despite the very real risk that commoners might face harsh consequences for lesser offenses, Iroh allowed her voice to wash over them, letting the breeze carry her poignant lyrics out to the vast, boundless sea.

“Leaves from the vine, falling so slow-“Drawn by the voice, Zuko moves closer, taking refuge behind a beaded curtain raining down from the doorframe like a red waterfall.

“Like fragile tiny shells. Drifting in the foam.” He enters face first, letting the beads wash over his face like the patter of rain, it feels nice against his skin. He hums softly. “Little soldier boy. Come Marching Home.”

He passes through with his arms spread wide, leaning his weight on his left leg as he turns towards the voice. “Brave Soldier Boy. Comes Marching Home.”

“Under the moon's gentle light, In the darkest of night.” Patch claims his usual seat at a battered table, his eyes locked in a fierce stare upon a deck of cards. Nimble fingers hover near a sleek, blue object. Across from him, a radio remains in tranquil repose, akin to a slumbering confidant. Round spectacles rest upon his nose, the lenses casting a weary crimson gleam in the gentle glow of the lantern suspended above the bar occupied by a slumbering Hitch.“We will remember you shining, shining so bright.”

Hitch sits slouched in his seat, head buried in his arms, with only the gingerly mop of his hair visible. Beside his elbow, a bottle of Fire Whiskey stands accompanied by a bowl of murky water. The curve of his back moved rhythmically with the cadence of drunken snores. “Little soldier boy. You've found your way.”

Zuko moves slowly over to Patch, dragging his leg behind him like a dog with a big stick. Sweat clings to his skin as he all but falls by the radio in a clumsy heap. “Brave soldier boy in lands so far away, please come marching home, brave little soldier boy forever here you’ll stay.”

Patch keeps his head tilted down as he presses his lips to a cigarette and takes a long deep drag. "You should be in bed, kid," he drawls, exhaling a cloud of smoke that hangs heavy in the air.

Zuko offers a dopey smile. “And you should be asleep, old man.”

"Sleep isn't a coin worth parting with," Patch says with the shrewdness of a seasoned businessman. "You're high as a kite, kid. I'm not even sure how you made it down here. That stubbornness of yours is both a boon and a curse."

“A kite,” Zuko sighs, closing his eyes once more as he dreams about flying, something soft fluttering in his chest. “Yeah, I wish I was,” he admits wistfully. “I think I might be.”

Patch scoffs, shaking his head, and lifts a glass filled with a golden liquid to his lips, taking a hearty swig. "With the dose Hitch gave you, you should be out cold," he remarks with a wry chuckle. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think he's trying to keep you knocked out long enough to patch up that miserable leg of yours." He sets the glass down with a muffled clang. "Lucky for him I always know better."

"That's... mine," Zuko mumbles, furrowing his brows as he gestures toward the boomerang resting between Patch's elbows. "Or, well, it's someone's. I... I promised to return it," he explains, reaching for the object. But his aim falters, and instead of the boomerang, he smacks the back of the radio, prompting an unpleasant screech before it falls silent.

"That... thing," Zuko tries again, using a crooked finger to point towards the boomerang, squinting through the hazy borders of his vision. "It's Sokka's," he mumbles incoherently. "It belonged to his dad. Maybe that's why he stayed... I would've never stayed." He sighs.

“Sokka’s boomerang?” Patch echoes with raised eyebrows, biting down on his cigarette as he lifts it to catch the light. “White tiger bone sharpened and coated with iron. Southern Water Nation inscriptions, a quote, along its right wing here—“ he mumbles with the tap of a finger, catching Zuko’s gaze over the arch of its back. “ Like hair around the bone.” He smiles knowingly.

“Wing?” Zuko asks as he leans forward, resting his elbow on the table and his chin against his closed fist, swaying softly.

“Two wings joining in the middle,” Patch says, letting his finger slide across its spine. “A boomerang is built like a span of wings.”

Zuko hums dreamily, his voice taking on a near-nostalgic tone. "A pair of wings, arched in mid-flight," he murmurs. "And the quote?"

“Element that I am, I bend but the sum of my parts, like hair around the bone.” Patch says as he puts the boomerang down and slides it across the table towards Zuko. “It's a shortening of an old proverb used by non-benders,” Patch explains, taking another long drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing a dull orange.

“What does it mean?” Zuko asks a bit breathlessly.

Patch quirks an eyebrow as he scratches the top of his head with a clawed hand, making the tabby white and grey of his hair stand up on edge, cut short like spikes around his crown. “I’m not a philosopher or a poet,” he says, lowering his hand. “I’m a businessman. Never understood the point in saying one thing and then meaning another.” He shrugs and leaves it at that.

“My uncle would know,” Zuko sighs, closing his eyes and opening them again in an uncoordinated blink. “Too late to ask now.”

Patch takes another swig from his glass, it winks at Zuko when it catches the light. “That uncle of yours,” Patch says, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. “Is an interesting man...”

Zuko bares his teeth. “I don’t talk about him,” he says. Patch holds his gaze for a handful of seconds before he nods slowly, a small smile on his lips.

“Then we don’t talk about him,” Patch responds with a one-sided shrug. “There is something I want to ask you though,” he says, tilting his head as he studies Zuko, his gaze shielded behind the wall of his glasses, his thoughts safely tucked away. “You’re a damn sight, you know that? More black and blue than skin.”

Zuko lets out a chuckle, which transforms into a raspy cough. "You should see the other guy," he quips, his grin contorted by the discomfort. "Well, on second thought, don't bother. I definitely look way worse..." He grimaces, as if he's tasted something foul. "He called me a princess," Zuko scoffs. "Me."

Patch hums thoughtfully. “Suits you,” he says.

“Mean,” Zuko complains.

"One of the freedom fighters?" Patch guesses, though Zuko is aware that Patch seldom resorts to mere guesswork. "None of the reports mentioned Water Nation folks. Just a bunch of teenage rebels, non-benders, possibly Earth Kingdom."

"Must have new recruits then; your information is outdated," Zuko responds. "I saw two, three in total. One of them was a bender. The third is a piece of shit." He attempts not to laugh but fails.

Patch remains silent for nearly a minute, during which Zuko imagines him cataloging this new information, adding it to his collection of details, scribbling notes in the margins and reorganizing pages. "Three people," Patch confirms, and there's a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "How did you manage to escape?"

“Took a hostage. Greatness in numbers, sure, but always to a fault, it’s not so great when the numbers count the number of people you care about. Rookie mistake,” Zuko grins a bit too widely. “He knew about a tunnel, between West Port and....” Dark, the tunnel had been dark, and cramped, and smelled like old minerals, and Zuko had been weak, weak with pain, even as Sokka had leaned in and—

“—Hey,” Patch says, snapping his fingers in front of Zuko’s face. “Stay with me, kid. Between West Port and..?”

Zuko hums, “Oh?” He asks. “Oh, yeah,” he adds unhelpfully. “Wait, what?”

“You escaped the harbour through a tunnel, do you remember where it led?” Patch asks with the patience of a slightly intoxicated monk.

“The Forge,” Zuko responds. “You know the pub A Widow’s Son?” He asks. Patch nods. “Just down the street from there, in the wall enclosing the harbour.”

"Would you be able to point it out on a map?" Patch inquires.

"Right now?" Zuko questions.

"No, not now," Patch replies, ashing his cigarette and lighting a new one. The spark of his lighter gleams in his glasses with a sly intent. "I doubt you could even spell out your own name correctly right now if I asked..." Zuko starts to speak when Patch stops him with a slight shake of his head, the scar over his mouth stretching with his smile. "It's alright," Patch reassures. "I believe you."

"You don't think Zuko is my real name," Zuko realizes, his head rolling forward on top of his knuckles, his grin hollow. "How kind," he mocks, the world tilting slightly. "Trying to protect my secrets, Patch? That's not like you."

Patch breathes out a cloud of smoke. “I never accept a drunk or high man’s gamble,” he says. “I was setting you up. I shouldn’t have done that.” He nearly looks apologetic, nearly.

“What happened to in The Sink we have to live by code or else we would start robbing each other blind?” Zuko asks with feigned hurt. “That one really got to me.”

Patch surprises him by saying, “You’re right.” As he takes another sip of his glass, emptying it. “Your name is your own business.”

“Good,” Zuko says, enjoying the fact that despite Patch’s wide grasp of knowledge he remains a mystery to the old man, if Patch cannot figure out who he is then no one can. He closes his eyes and hums softly.

“Will they come looking for you?” Patch asks. “The freedom fighters?”

Zuko slowly peels his eyelids open. “No,” he lies. His gaze traces the curve of a boomerang. “It’s the only memorabilia I have left of my father,” Sokka said, desperately. “If you don’t trust me, trust that I won’t leave it behind.” Zuko groans, rubbing a closed fist over an aching eye.

“Don’t do that,” Patch says. “You’ll pull a stitch.”

"Oh no," Zuko exclaims in mock horror. "What if it scars?" he asks, feigning a gasp. He folds his elbows and lowers his head into his crossed arms, attempting to catch Patch's gaze behind his glasses, but all he sees is his reflection. With a mischievous smile, he continues, "I have a question for you."

“That's so?” Patch asks.

“Yeah,” Zuko breathes before his smile tightens. “You know everything,” he says, it sounds like an accusation.

“An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest,” Patch says. “Knowing things is a part of my trade, but I still have to trade in it, I’m far from pansophical.”

“You knew the Freedom Fighters were going to be there,” Zuko says, because Patch must have known, he always knows.

“I did know that,” Patch admits, his voice gruff.

“Why?” Zuko asks, too tired to care about the near-quiet hurt clinging to his words. “You used us as bait. Why?”

“There’s a leak,” Patch says. “I needed to find it. I heard rumours of the Freedom Fighters taking in a large shipment of fur. Thought they wouldn’t risk losing it, so I made sure my shipment came with the same boat.” He says, brushing ash off his sleeve. “Told some people about it, thought I’d see what would happen. My stuff keeps getting targeted, once is an accident, and twice is a pattern. I wanted to know why, and by who.”

“You risked our lives,” Zuko hisses.

Patch tilts his head down. “I didn’t know about the explosion—“Zuko lifts his chin and slams his fist into the table hard enough for it to shake, the whiskey glass jumping between them.

“An investment in knowledge always pays the best interest,” Zuko echoes. “Next time you want to make a bet,” he growls. “Bet your own life, not mine.”

Zuko is accustomed to Patch's silences, having learned to decipher their nuances over time. He knows that Patch prefers to keep them veiled in the enigma that his reputation affords him. Yet, this particular silence feels different, less composed.

"Okay," Patch finally says. "I'll add it to my list of principles."

“Was it worth it?” Zuko asks.

Patch pushes the bud of his cigarette into his empty glass. “No,” he says, surprising Zuko. “No, it wasn’t worth it.”

Zuko lowers his head against the table, closing his eyes. “Should I feel touched?” He mumbles, grimacing as a stab of pain shoots through his temples.

Zuko does not expect Patch to respond but he does. “No,” he says. “You are right to feel betrayed. You’re my patron. The least I owe you is my protection.”

Zuko emits a noncommittal sound from the back of his throat, keeping his eyes closed as Patch administers a soft strike to the radio, coaxing a melodious note from it.

"I need to get this fixed," Patch mutters or at least Zuko believes he does. His thoughts feel fragmented like water slipping through cupped hands. The persistent aches in his body have resurfaced, seeping through the diminishing effects of the medicine.

Squinting through blurry eyes, he spots Sokka's boomerang by his bent elbow. "A boomerang is built like a span of wings," he muses.

"You must know," Zuko mumbles, brushing a heavy hand against the tabletop. "What it feels like to soar." A wide yawn escapes him, causing a wince as it tugs at his split lip. He cannot help but wonder if Sokka ever throws it with envy. Zuko would. "Will you teach me," he asks softly, "How to fly?"

As he begins to slip back into unconsciousness, Zuko hears the soft rustle of fabric as something warm is draped across his slouched shoulders. A voice, tinged with the scent of smoke, whispers, "Before you ask someone to teach you how to fly, perhaps you should ask them to teach you how to land."

"Absolutely not, you're out of your mind," Zuko retorts sharply. It has been nearly two weeks since the incident at the harbour, and his fever has finally broken completely. June, being June, decided to celebrate in the only way she knew how: by bringing him a pack of cigarettes and much to Zuko’s horror— a cane.

Zuko sits on the railing that leads up to his apartment in the small alley by the back entrance to The Sink. June stands beside him, leaning against the door and supporting herself with a sleek black cane like she is a nobleman dealing business in Red Square as she takes a drag of her cigarette, her chin held high. “If you want the cigarettes,” she says, exhaling smoke through a sharp smile flashing a row of white teeth. “You’ll accept the cane, it’s a one-for-two deal. No negotiations.”

Zuko glares. “No,” he says, folding his arms over his chest. “No deal.”

“I thought a near-death experience is meant to have a positive effect on people,” she says, levelling Zuko with an unimpressed look. “Not make them even more stubborn. It’s only temporary, or would you rather stay inside for another week moping?”

“I haven’t been moping,” Zuko is quick to defend himself. His thoughts have just been occupied.

He dreamt of the tunnel again last night, awakening in a cold sweat with a headache so intense it felt as if he had been skewered from temple to temple by a powdery blue arrow whistling like the wind.

It must hold meaning, he believes. It is far too peculiar, the oddity of its individual parts, to amount to nothing when assembled. Thoughts of Ukano, his uncle, and the Avatar crowd Zuko's mind like uninvited guests. Yet, he possesses too few pieces of the puzzle to craft a coherent image, leaving him with a jumble of random colours and incoherent shapes.

"Because the Avatar alone cannot accomplish what must be done," Ukano said, as if Zuko had already been cast in his elaborate scheme, assigned a role like an actor preparing for a new theatre season on Emerald Island. "You need to teach him fire. You need to show him that our people are worth saving."

“Hey,” June says, blowing smoke into his face. “Are you even listening to me?”

“Huh?” Zuko asks, blinking. “Did you say something?”

June groans in frustration. “To devoid yourself of simple needs is not a sign of strength, Zuko, but a sign of absolute stupidity,” she says, hitting his bent knee with the cane.  “Life doesn’t have to be this hard.”

The sky stretches overhead in a murky shade of grey, casting a long, muted line across the wall, cutting June in half. The sun, in its early descent, brushes the horizon with gentle hues, ushering in the approaching twilight. “Please, Zuko,” June says. “Just take it? Patch had it made especially for you.” She smiles hesitantly, before adding another unfair, “Please?”

Zuko has told her the general details of what transpired in West Port after their parting – from the ambush by Jet to using Sokka as a hostage and the discovery of the hidden tunnel. However, he has kept one crucial detail to himself – Patch using them as bait.

Zuko knows that June holds Patch in high regard and she thinks he is a good man. "The world has taken so many," she had said. Zuko does not have it in him to take another good man away from her.

Zuko drops his head into the cradle of his palms and utters a loud undignified groan. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. Give it here.” He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers impatiently.

June’s grin is victorious as she hands it to him. “My kind, sir,” she says with a little bow of her head.

The cane is slim, metal coated a dull black, with a handle bent upward. Zuko tests its weight, turning it this way and that, from one hand to the other, following its length until his fingers find what feels like a small scratch on the back of its neck. He scoffs, inspecting it and realizes it is not a scratch— Patch would never be so careless— but an inscription, his name, the letters a punctuation apart spelling out: Z.U.K.O.

“What are you smiling for?” June asks as Zuko stands up, twirling the cane in his hand like he would a sword.

“A long overdue apology,” Zuko says, swinging the cane and letting it smack against the wall to test its strength. “An expensive apology.”

"Hey, watch out! You'll break it!" June exclaims, playfully tossing the pack of cigarettes at Zuko's head. It strikes him right between the eyes, and he barely manages to snatch it out of the air before it can tumble to the ground.

“Deal me one,” he says, tossing it back to her. She opens the package and shakes one free, holding it out towards him. Zuko leans forward and accepts it between his lips.

“Gross,” she says.

“Hold onto them for me, or else they’ll be gone by tomorrow,” he says as he leans back on his cane. Lighting his cigarette with the snap of his fingers, and breathing in a cloud of smoke that tastes like absolute heaven. “Oh sweet relief,” he says on an exhale, sighing.

June helps herself to a cigarette and Zuko lights it for her. “I’ve missed you,” she says.

Zuko coughs, hitting his chest with a closed fist. “Gross. Don’t say shit like that,” he says with a hoarse voice.

"I'm serious," June insists, her expression etched in sharp lines, her brown gaze unwavering. "You scared the ever-living shit out of me. Never pull a stunt like that again.”

Zuko averts his gaze, unable to meet her eyes, and runs a hand through his hair. "I wasn’t really planning to," he says, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. After a pause, he musters the courage to look back at her, offering a hesitant smile.

"Feel like taking this cripple for a walk down Coal Drop Harbor?" he proposes, his eyes finally locking onto hers. "We can sit outside The Devil’s Hand and watch people get kicked out. I know how much you love that."

“Don’t do that,” June warns.

“Do what?” Zuko asks with a quirked eyebrow.

June presses her lips together. "Referring to yourself as a cripple," she remarks, her voice laced with disappointment.

"Nothing wrong with being a cripple," he says, throwing the cane up into the air and catching it deftly with his other hand. "You can carry a weapon in broad daylight, and people will still offer you a helping hand down the stairs." He grins mischievously.

“Fine,” she says fighting a small smile as she flicks the bud of her cigarette against the opposite wall. “Let’s go and watch drunks get thrown around.”

“Lead the way, my lady,” he says with a low bow as he makes a sweeping gesture towards the mouth of the alley with the cane. “To heckle the drunk and the misfortunate.”

They walk slowly down the narrow streets leading like crooked, flooded corridors down to the harbour, chatting idly. Keeping to back alleys and side streets to escape the wagons bustling coal and crowds of people swarming the main roads.

As they draw near Coal Drop Harbor and The Devil's Hand, a gambling establishment owned by one of Patch's rivals, Fenriz Dice—a man with a diminutive stature and an even shorter temper—Zuko makes a conscious effort to avoid The Ruby.

“Have you seen Daisy recently?” Zuko asks. Daisy is a brothel owner that Patch keeps in his wages in exchange for information. She is a robust woman, close to Patch in age, and is known for her bad temper but surprisingly kind heart.

“Ran into her a couple of days ago,” June says. “Thanks to the Freedom Fighters and the siege people have been struggling with getting goods in and out of West Port. Her stocks are running low, but otherwise, she’s fine.”

"Has she caught wind of anything?" Zuko inquires, his voice tinged with a hint of breathlessness. This marks the first occasion in over two weeks he has ventured beyond the sanctuary of The Pot. His leg strained from the effort despite the help of his cane.

June taps her chin, her expression pensive. "Oh, right," she says with a snap of her fingers, a soft chuckle escaping her lips. "I almost forgot to mention. There's been an anonymous request circulating through the Black Market. Someone is on the hunt for a blue boomerang adorned with Southern Water Tribe markings along the left side. Ringing any bells?”

“Sokka’s boomerang,” Zuko says, his eyebrows knitting together. “It's either a trap, or they're banking on me trying to pawn it off to someone. Either way, it's a high-risk move for such a meagre payoff."

June emits a contemplative hum. "Or perhaps he simply wants it back," she suggests. "Given that it once belonged to his father, people can be remarkably sentimental about such things. Not that you'd necessarily understand, you're as sentimental as an old pile of bricks." She shakes her head. "No, scratch that. At least a pile of bricks can reminisce about the joys of once being part of a house or a chimney. You’re as sentimental as a whore about to retire.”

Zuko scoffs. “Always call a whore a lady, June. Their life is difficult enough as it is and it never hurts to be polite,” he says as the narrow street opens up towards Coal Drop Square.

Coal Drop Square, a name that belies its true nature, is far from a conventional square. Instead, it forms a circular enclave, where casinos, brothels, and inns embrace a central plaza like the seductive arms of a woman up to no good. Spindly buildings and soot-covered chimneys cast a damp grey hue over the sky as if mirroring the shadowy dealings below. Bridges and scaffolding climb the weary facades, steadfast crutches that defy decay and maintain their upright stance.

An intricate network of wires binds the bustling district together, much like steel arteries that carry the weight of coal-laden carts through its heart. At its core, The Devil's Hand stands proudly but not shamelessly, marking the road leading to the main harbour. Here, a substantial wooden sign, crafted in the shape of a horned devil, proclaims the house's motto for all to see: 'Idle Hands Is The Devil's Play.'

The square pulsates with life, a vivid tableau of activity. Coal workers load wagons, patrons savour their drinks, beggars beseech passersby, merchants peddle their wares, while refugees, in cautious groups, navigate the scene, evading the watchful eye of the Military Police. In unity, they craft a mosaic of vibrant colours and faces etched with soot.

"It's more crowded than usual," Zuko observes.

“West Port is still under siege, bigger shipments outside of the military’s jurisdiction have been coming through Coal Drop Harbor,” June says. “It’s caused quite the tension between the Military Police and the Trading Council.”

"Figures," Zuko remarks as they thread their way through the bustling crowd. "Small boats won't be able to navigate past The Pyre. This could turn into a problem."

"I wonder if that's what the Freedom Fighters were aiming for," June ponders. "To sow discord between the Military Police and the Trading Council."

Zuko scoffs, thoughts drifting to Jet. "I doubt their plan is as elaborate as that," he replies, shaking his head. “Besides, West Port is closed off for them as well. I bet Patch isn’t happy.”

June rolls her eyes. "When is Patch ever happy?" she retorts, narrowly avoiding getting run down by a wagon laden with coal. "Oi! Watch it!" She yells, delivering a sharp rap to the side of the wagon with a closed fist before returning her attention to Zuko. "But yeah, Patch is furious."

As they approach the steps of The Devil's Hand, Zuko suddenly comes to a halt. "Who's the man Fenriz Dice is speaking to?" June inquires.

Fenriz Dice is a figure impossible to miss, his presence commanding attention as he stands near the entrance to the gambling establishment. He is adorned in extravagant red and gold attire, reminiscent of royalty rather than a casino owner. A saffron-dyed Woolf coat cascades down to his ankles, an audacious fashion statement for the sweltering heat. His outfit sparkles with a profusion of jewels, rivaling the opulence of a courtesan's attire. Standing regally, he takes a drag from a thick cigar, flanked by two other men.

Among the men surrounding Fenriz Dice, the first is clearly an accountant, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit. Thin spectacles sit low on his crooked nose as he maintains a pale countenance, discreetly concealing a leather briefcase behind his back. The second man, despite having part of his face obscured by a cloak, is unmistakable to Zuko. His imposing presence exudes authority, evident in his towering stature, taut shoulders, and the way his hand hovers near the the hilt of his sword, poised but still. His movements, precise and abrupt, betray the demeanor of a battle-hardened general.

"Zhao," Zuko whispers, his voice barely audible.

"Zhao?" June echoes. "Commandant Zhao of the Military Police? What's he doing in Coal Drop Square?" Zuko grabs June's upper arm, spinning her around, his eyes filled with urgency as he spots a nearby wagon.

"Hey, let me go—" June protests, but she still complies, allowing Zuko to guide her behind him through the bustling crowd and behind the wagon, forcing her to crouch down as he leans nearly bent double over his cane. "What's happening?" June asks, her gaze wide as she scans their surroundings for any potential threats. "Zuko?"

Zuko holds his hand out. “I need a dagger.”

“What?!” June exclaims. “I’m not—“

Zuko's gaze must be betraying him as Zhao’s words echo in his mind: "Be quiet, boy, or I'll make this hurt."

"Please," he says, the words emerging harsher than he intended. "June, please.”

“Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers as she hands him one of her daggers.

Zuko clutches the hilt tightly as he gets to his feet and swiftly vanishes behind the wagon. The sound of his name lingers on June's lips, following him as he snatches a cloth draped over a crate filled with coal and flings it over his head like a makeshift cloak. With a grubby hand, he smears coal dust across the scar on his face, down his chin, and over his split lip. He exaggerates his limp, hunching his back and making the sound of his cane resonate against the wet cobblestone street.

His breath grows ragged in the back of his throat, and his heart beats like a war drum in his chest. "I've been waiting for this. You have no idea, boy, how long I've yearned to put you in your place."

Zuko clenches his teeth, his fingers gripping the dagger's hilt with a vice-like intensity, causing his knuckles to whiten as he approaches the Devil’s Hand. His vision is tinged with a fiery red as he envisions the blade sliding smoothly into the soft flesh between Zhao's ribs, like a knife through warm butter. He can almost feel the warmth of blood on his cold hands and anticipates the spark of recognition in the old general's eyes as Zuko becomes the last thing he sees. One more name crossed out from his list— it would be so easy. The desire is overwhelming, and he can already taste the metallic tang of blood on the tip of his tongue. Zuko longs for it, his yearning to end Zhao nearly becoming a tangible, unrelenting force as he pushes forward—

Zuko stumbles into the accountant, his dagger, shielded by the dirty cloth cuts through the strap of his briefcase as Zuko falls forward, taking the suitcase with him as he goes tumbling down the steps with the accountant in tow. White documents and files spill over the ground.

"Oi!" Fenriz bellows, his heavy footfalls resonating on the steps. Zuko groans and keeps his head bowed low. "Damn cripple, watch where you're going!" Fenriz scolds, delivering a hard kick to Zuko's stomach, causing him to double over.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm so sorry," Zuko pleads, shielding his face with his hands, disguising the simmering rage in his voice with a quiver of fear. "I'm so sorry."

"Mr. Dice, leave him be; he's just a boy," Zhao interjects, while the accountant rushes to gather the scattered documents into his briefcase.

"Oh my, oh my," the accountant stammers, his face turning ashen. "I'm so sorry, gentlemen."

Fenriz spits in Zuko's direction. "Damn beggars," he mutters before taking a step back and helping the accountant to his feet. "Mr. Young, perhaps it's time to invest in a new briefcase."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dice," the accountant stutters.

Zuko makes a show of struggling to his feet and swaying unsteadily as he slurs his words. "So sorry, I'm so sorry, sir. Please, forgive me."

"Perhaps it's better if we continue our meeting inside," Zhao suggests. Zuko remains silent, his shoulders hunched.

He can hear the sound of footsteps and cautiously lifts his head just enough to see Fenriz and the accountant making their way into the Devil's Hand.

"Here—" a voice, so chillingly familiar it clenches Zuko's stomach like a vice, says as the owner grabs his wrist and presses something cold into his palm. "For a new cloak."

"Thank you, sir, thank you kindly," Zuko whispers as Zhao releases his hand. His skin crawls from the touch as he forces out another, "Thank you," barely escaping his tightly clenched lips. Their eyes lock. Gold meeting gold. Zhao has aged since Zuko last saw him, silver growing from his temples as wrinkles that were not there nearly five years ago sharpen his face. 

Zuko cannot breathe. For a haunting second, he thinks Zhao must recognize him as his mouth twists into a crude smile, however, his eyes remain cold and distant. “You’re welcome,” Zhao says, before he takes a step back, turning on his heel before he follows Fenriz up the stairs and into the Devil’s hand.

Zuko stands dazed, blinking without really seeing as June takes hold of his shoulder and roughly shoves him down the street. He keeps quiet as she pushes him into a narrow alley. He knows she is talking to him, asking him questions but he cannot make himself answer them. He is not sure if he is breathing or not, the world is at a standstill except for Zhao’s cold, ember eyes mirroring the colour of his own.

Zhao had not recognized him, he had looked Zuko square in the eyes and walked away. His hand folds around the coin Zhao had given him until its face burns like a sigil into the palm of his hand. Zuko wants to scream, wants to turn the world ablaze and watch it burn, he wants to—

June slaps him hard across the face, the sharp sting of her palm making his head snap to the side. Zuko inhales deeply, drawing in a rush of air.

"What the hell, Zuko!" June yells.

"What?" He croaks, his voice raw.

June raises her hand again as if to deliver another blow, but Zuko intercepts her by grabbing her wrist. "I'm okay. You don't need to do that again," he says. She jerks her hand free, taking a step back and crossing her arms.

"What the hell was that?" She demands.

"I—" Zuko begins but stops, shaking his head. He reaches into his cloak and retrieves a small envelope. They both stare at it.

"You swiped it from the accountant," June remarks. "I didn't even see you take it."

Zuko manages a faint smile. "I thought we had already established that I'm a great thief."

"That was way too dangerous," June chides, eyeing the envelope with apprehension. Zuko waves it like a peace offering between them.

"Are you not even a little curious about why the Commandant of the Military Police is meeting Fenriz Dice while in disguise, accompanied by an accountant?" he asks.

"I suppose," June concedes, a crease forming between her delicate brows. "Do you think Fenriz is paying off the Military Police?" she inquires.

"How much do you reckon it costs to have the Commandant himself in your pocket?" Zuko counters. June contemplates this for a moment, a glint of intrigue sparking in her eyes.

"Smells like corruption to me," she observes, her smile sharp. "Sounds dangerous."

"First the explosion, then the siege in West Port. The growing divide between the Trade Council and the Military Police..." Zuko adds, returning her smile with one of his own. "Sounds more like things are getting interesting."

Zuko awakens with a silent scream, his body convulsing as he hastily retreats, desperate to disentangle himself from the haunting remnants of his dream. His head collides with his uncle's bedside with a painful jolt.

He curls into a tight ball, pressing his palm flat against his mouth in a frantic attempt to smother a rising sob within his chest. When that proves futile, he clenches his fist and bites down hard, tormented by the chilling image of his own lifeless eyes.

For two weeks straight, he has been haunted by the same dream, the one that first visited him inside the cramped confines of the container, with Sokka's cloak tightly draped around his shoulders.

The dream does not fade upon waking; instead, it clings to his mind like a vivid memory, etched as clearly as the night he first dreamt it. There are nights when he resists sleep, fully aware of the haunting path his dreams will tread. But when exhaustion inevitably overwhelms him, and he finally surrenders to the need for rest, he always, without fail, awakens in that eerie tunnel.

“It’s just a dream,” he scolds himself as he wipes at his eyes with the back of a shaky hand. “Stop being so weak. It’s just a dream.”

Reaching for the cane at his futon's side, Zuko uses it to steady himself on unsteady legs. The cool handle offers a soothing touch to his sweaty palm. He half-anticipates finding Iroh peacefully dozing in the bed, but instead, his uncle occupies a small chair beside the window, which is propped open to invite a breeze carrying the scent of salt. Iroh's eyes remain open, but his gaze seems far-off and introspective, bathed in the gentle, silvery embrace of the moonlight.

“Uncle,” Zuko says as he moves closer, his cane making a clink, clink, clinking sound as he walks across the wooden floor, stopping next to Iroh’s slightly curled form. “Uncle,” he tries again, hunching down and grimacing as he places weight on his injured leg. “Please, uncle, I need your guidance.”

Zuko’s eyes searched Iroh’s face for any sign of recognition, for any sign that he might be present rather than missing somewhere in the cage of his mind. “I asked you if you think the Avatar is alive,” he whispers. “And I never heard your answer.” He bites down hard on his bottom lip. “Please, Uncle. I need to know.”

Iroh stays quiet. Zuko sighs, lowering his head in defeat. "Please," he tries one last time, a hint of desperation seeping into his voice, but is met with nothing but silence and the steady thump of his own heart. He slowly stands back up, his uncle’s silence seeping into his frayed nerves like oil on fire as he exits the hallway and enters the small sitting room.

He pushes the front door wide open before he limps over to the small, worn couch pressed against the opposite wall and sits down, reaching for the pack of cigarettes that June gifted him. It rests on a stack of books he uses as a makeshift table. He lights it, taking in a long drag before he hunches forward, nearly bending in half as his hand fumbles for something wooden, he finds it nearly immediately, lifting it and positioning it in his lap. A box, the size of his forearm, its lid smooth and red like blood burned with the crest of the royal family. He peels it open. 

A comb, silver, with thin teeth, engraved with roses, kept as a promise from a queen that had always been a mother first.
A list, with names, crossed out, written on board a now sunken ship by a boy long gone. 
A coin, pushed into the palm of his hand, from a commandant to a crippled beggar, from a man he wants dead to a prince meant to be dead.
A boomerang, blue like the open sea.

“Like hair around the bone,” he whispers, tipping his head back as he breathes out a cloud of smoke brushing his fingers over the sharp edge of a curve. “Element that I am, I bend but the sum of my parts.”

He takes another drag, and breathes out, as he counts the names on his list. “ General Li, Admiral Ukano, Fire Sage Anwir, Coronal Zhao, Fire Lord Osai, Crown Prince Zuko—“ Like a hair around the bone. He thinks as he closes his eyes, and waits for sleep.

Patch is the type of man who prides himself on the mystery his reputation is shrouded in, from the colour of his eyes to the story behind his scars.

Who keeps secrets like gemstones used for trade and holds onto information like a gambler with a handful of cards in an ongoing game of poker, however, despite the enigma that surrounds him like a set of armour, he has never been a difficult man for Zuko to track down. Perhaps there is a simple enough reason for it, an explanation that should be obvious to anyone except for the two of them; they know each other.

Zuko would not call Patch a friend. They are not friends. It seems too simple too inadequate of a word to describe their relationship. Zuko knows what bars, gambling houses and nooks Patch frequents because more often than not he comes with him. He knows that every Sunday he goes to see Daisy, orders the house special, and then spends the rest of the evening in his study, sorting out the week's current affairs, and that is also where Zuko finds him.

Stranded by his desk, and surrounded by a smaller mountain of documents and files as if he is playing a corporate version of Jenga. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up to his elbows in a messy fashion while the buttons of his collar are loosened, showing a sliver of scarred skin.

However, there are creases in the fabric of his shirt that are not normally there, and the shadows under his eyes are layered and deepened from the shade of his glasses. A single green lantern flickers inside the room, bathing the study in shades of emerald and jade, making his skin take on a sickly hue.

“Zuko,” Patch says once he spots him leaning against the doorframe. “Now is not the time.”

“I haven’t even told you why I’m here,” Zuko scoffs, entering the room and sitting down in the black leather armchair facing the desk. He sinks into it, the leather already known to the shape of his body after all the nights he has spent with the older man smoking cigarettes, playing Pai Sho, and mulling over documents until night grows to early morning.

“I know that look on your face kid, and it never ends well for me,” Patch responds with a weighted sigh filled with tobacco smoke. “So tell me, since I know you won’t leave until you’ve spoken your peace, what have I done wrong this time?”

“Nothing,” Zuko says, with the barest hint of a smile. “Why? Something you want to confess to?”

Patch chuckles softly. “A confession indicates remorse and regret, and I’ve never believed much in either,” he says, ashing his cigarette over a loose document. “So if you’re not here to yell at me, then why are you here? I’m busy so make it quick.”

“You trade in information,” Zuko says, his hands idle around the curve of his cane. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

Patch tears his eyes away from the document in front of him, putting his pen down with a clink. "I'm not making deals with you, kid," he says with unwavering resolve. "It would be in your best interest not to ask me again." There's a finality to his words, like a roadblock at the end of his sentence, leaving no room for further argument. A wiser person might know not to push, but Zuko has always had the self-preservation of a man who has already knocked twice on death's door.

He leans forward. “I’m not asking you,” Zuko says with a firm voice. "I'm letting you know that I have concrete evidence – documents proving that Fenriz Dice has paid a considerable sum to the Military Police to keep them in his pockets."

Patch seems to be fighting with himself, his eyebrows twitching as he takes a drag from his cigarette. “So he paid off a couple of Red Coats? So what? Everyone on this side of the harbour knows that Fenriz Dice is up to no good. He’s a swindler.”

“And you’re not?” Zuko asks.

“I’m a businessman.”

“You’re a thief, Patch.”

Patch's smile is wide as he says, “Isn’t that what I just said?”

Zuko leans back in his chair. "He's not just bribing a few red coats to turn a blind eye. He's been greasing Commandant Zhao's palm for years,” he says, slowly, letting the words hang between them like bait on a hook knowing that Patch will not be able to resist its lure.

“Impossible,” Patch grunts, taking it. “Zhao is not a man you can buy. His morals have morals. He only cares about one thing, and that’s his own reputation. He’s as squeaky clean as they come.”

“Possible,” Zuko argues. “I told you, I can prove it. You’ve been wanting to have something to hold over Fenriz for years. I know you have. Well...” Zuko smiles coldly. “Here’s your leverage.”

Patch keeps quiet, the tip of his cigarette burning low, heavy with ash. “Name your price,” he finally says, but he does not sound happy about it.

“I need information, old information,” Zuko says, knowing that he is already giving too much away, too many pieces of his puzzle.

“And what kind of information is that?” Patch asks, his nostrils flaring like he can taste Zuko’s apprehension in the back of his throat.

“Old secrets, documents. Information the Fire Nation wouldn’t want the public to know about.”

Patch lets out a weary sigh, running a tired hand over his eyes and nearly dislodging his glasses. He adjusts them once more, as if fortifying a shield. “Classified information is kept by the High Temple, in an archive. I can’t grant you access to that.”

Zuko has a cursory understanding of the High Temple, home to the Great Library Of Gonryu. This library, once celebrated as one of the world's most ancient and vast, has sadly dwindled due to the annual book burnings. The Fire Sages, donning the roles of scholars and protectors, bear the dual duty of preserving the meagre remnants of the library and safeguarding the Royal archives, which contain a valuable trove of paper documents, scrolls, records, and maps.

“No, you can’t,” Zuko agrees. “Only the Fire Sages can do that.  And last time I checked you’re far from a Saint.”

“I’d much rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints,” Patch says, with an awful smile. “So, if you already know as much, then what do you want from me?”

“I need a map,” Zuko says. “Of the High Temple.”

“No,” Patch says.

“What do you mean, no,” Zuko asks, his voice thick with frustration.

"I won't assist you in robbing the High Temple. It's a suicide mission," Patch states with an unexpected edge of anger in his voice. "There's a reason why the Military Police leaves me alone, why they permit me to bribe a few red coats and smuggle goods out of the harbour. Why they overlook illegal gambling and the like. It's because my jurisdiction is The Sink.” He says, pointing with a crooked finger at the surface of his desk. “As long as I remain within its boundaries, they look the other way. Robbing the High Temple is just a slogan away from turning into a political statement, and frankly, it's a statement I'd rather avoid making."

"I won't get you directly involved. It's a simple trade of information, a map for the Zhao and Fenriz Dice documents," Zuko says, his voice tinged with effort to keep his composure. "Plus, you do owe me"

Patch's face is a stony mask, his hand idle around a dead cigarette. “You live your life like a man that’s already stood by his own grave and liked what he saw,” he says like it is a matter of fact. A breeze slips in through the open window, pulling at the documents on Patch’s desk. “I hope that whatever it is you’re looking for is well worth the cost.”

“It is,” Zuko says. It has to be.

"Very well," Patch says as he stands up, pushing himself upright with his palms flat against the desk. Patch has always moved like a man fallen from grace, in the literal sense of the word. His movements are fluid but cut short, constrained, as he rummages through a drawer in the bookcase behind his desk. He grunts once he finds what he is looking for, turning around as he flicks open a map and spreads it across the surface of the desk like a waiter would a tablecloth at a fancy restaurant.

Zuko leans in, his eyebrows nearly touching his hairline once he fully grasps the significance of what lies before him. "It's a map... of Caldera City," he murmurs in amazement, his lips parting as he traces a finger from Coal Drop Harbor, up to The Sink, and diagonally across Merchants Point, The Palace, Clifton Court, and The High Temple. The map intricately depicts plumbing and gas pipes, a dense network within the inner city, resembling a spider's web, while just barely extending to the outskirts, where the less affluent areas still rely on coal transported through the wires system and stocked via wagons.

Zuko lifts his gaze so he can look at Patch. “How did you get this?”

Patch's smile is a rare and mischievous thing, shaving years off his appearance as he lights a cigarette with his trusty Zippo lighter, letting out a soft chuckle. "Knowledge is the only god I've ever cared to worship," Patch says. "And I pray with the greed of other men. This map is my altar, upon which I've sacrificed more than my fair share.” He breathes out a cloud of smoke. “Do you remember when I asked if you could point out the tunnel you escaped through? Between West Port and the Forge?”

Zuko nods, leaning forward to scrutinize the map. His finger traces the wall between the harbour and the Forge, his brows furrowing in thought. "It's not here," he observes.

"Exactly," Patch confirms. "This map displays every alley, corridor, checkpoint, and tunnel still in use. It's nearly fifty years old, drafted when the new gas piping was installed."

"That means—"

"That means," Patch interjects, "that the Freedom Fighters must possess a map even older than this one, showing the closed-off tunnels that once ran beneath the city during the coal heating era."

Zuko inhales sharply. "You think there's an old coal tunnel leading to the temple?"

"There must be," Patch insists. "Find your Water Nation boy, and you'll find your way into the High Temple."

“June mentioned someone circulated a request on the black market for a boomerang. Sokka's boomerang...” Zuko says slowly, as he can see Patch’s plan take shape in front of him.

“Indeed,” Patch grins. “And I think it’s due time we take the bait.”