Chapter Text
He could tell they were talking about him.
He could tell by their body language, the way they leaned into one another, foreheads almost touching, small smiles tugging at their mouths, eyes innocently straying to his direction. Just how stupid did they think he was?
Zuko breathed deeply, settling his sizzling anger in a corner of his head, averted his eyes from the two ambassadors and looked straight ahead, facing the doors of the council room. They were in the middle of a break after a heated discussion on war reparations. Most ambassadors and consultants had left the room with shaking fists and their angry voices boomed through the corridor the moment they stepped outside.
Zuko didn’t blame them for their intense reactions. After the end of the war, everyone felt hopeful again, for once, and with hope came ambition and eagerness for each nation to see their cities thrive rapidly, failing to understand the complications of recovering from the tremendous social and economic repercussions of a century of conflict. “You’re trying to run before you can walk”, Chieftain Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe had spitted, exasperated, after hearing the Earth Kingdom’s demands of astronomical compensations. Zuko was trying his best, but he was, ultimately, just a fugitive, a traitor to his nation, who found himself lucky at all the wrong times, with little skill and none of his predecessor’s competency. Everyone sitting inside this same room in which he sealed his fate at thirteen continued to hate and mock him. He’d never be a real leader, they all knew that, he knew that, and still, the thought that they were pointing a finger at him in scorn filled him with the same rage that festered inside him since he was a child. Not at the ambassadors, of course, no; at himself.
He fantasised about that day a lot; the last parental touch, a gentle caress and melting flesh. He missed that almost comforting sensation of pain numbing his head for the weeks to come, face always wet with puss and tears. When Aang had taken away his father’s bending, Zuko had grieved for the loss in secret at nights, because the flitting chance of feeling the rough palm on his face a second time was gone forever. He found himself longing, aching for it; the distress, the agony, the fear.
It took a few moments to register his title being addressed. He turned his head, facing one of his royal consultants. “Your Majesty, if I may speak freely”. He recognised him as a man named Yozo, who had been recommended to him as a consultant by his Uncle in the very beginning of his regency.
“Yes, of course”. His voice came out coarse.
“From what I’ve been hearing outside, maybe this is a good time to conclude the meeting. Everyone seems tired and upset”. He stopped and hesitated. “If I may, sir”.
“Yes, of course”.
“Yourself included, sir. I doubt we’ll reach a conclusion to the matter today. The sun is already setting”.
Zuko nodded. For Yozo to take the liberty to say this, there must have been significant complaints expressed outside. “Thank you, Yozo. If you would be kind enough to call everyone in”.
“At once, your Majesty”.
He concluded the summit with a few conciliatory words and shared the date and subject of discussion of their next meeting. They all plastered cold smiles on their faces and watched him with disdain. When he was done, the room emptied in a heartbeat, with few replies of good wishes.
As Zuko was carefully wrapping the map spread on top of the table, a familiar figure dressed in blue approached him. “Firelord Zuko”.
“Chief Hakoda”, he bowed to the man.
“Could I bother you for a few minutes?”. Seeing the boy’s hesitation, he motioned with a scroll he held in his hand. “It’s the accounts you requested. It won’t take long”.
Zuko very much wanted to bash his head against a wall to make the building pressure inside his head disappear. He needed a moment. “Meet me in the evening at my quarters. We can discuss this over a drink, if that’s okay with you”. Socialising with Chief Hakoda was the last thing he wanted to do, but he could think of few other ways to avoid it. At least he’d have the excuse to be drunk and it’d all fly over his head.
The man smiled warmly. “It would be my pleasure, Firelord Zuko”.
“Just tell the guards I’m expecting you”. He turned to a guard stationed in the corner of the room behind him and called him. “Please, inform the night shift in my rooms that Chief Hakoda is free to enter at any time tonight”. The woman left with a sharp nod.
“Until we meet again”, Hakoda waved and turned his back to follow the rest outside.
Zuko closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “You’re dismissed”, he called to the two bodyguards beside him, hearing their soft footsteps as they approached, expecting orders. “I’ll be out in the gardens and will report back to the night shift. Go”.
Out of the council room, he avoided the eyes of ambassador’s that lingered about for a few last words and walked quickly, feeling the outline of his body tingling and blurring into the high-ceilinged corridors. He was drifting away, pieces of him blended inside the red paint of the walls around him, the decorations, the portraits of his predecessors he had never felt brave enough to remove. Hard golden eyes watched him pass by, judgmental and jeering and spiteful, but at the same time regal, imposing, proud. His own portrait was a disgrace to his bloodline, the depiction of his scar like clown face paint.
Outside, it was dark. Long shadows stretched on the ground, cast by the moon’s shy face. Zuko breathed in the brisk evening breeze, feet taking him to the edge of the pond, where he always found himself. He’d sit at the moist shore, looking for the reflection of his mother’s face on the clear waters, and when he’d locate a strand of her shiny black hair rippling softly on the surface, he’d pull up his left sleeve and burn himself with a flame lighting up the centre of his palm, laughing at her, and at what had become of him. “Are you proud of me now, mother?”, he wanted to ask. “Were you ever?”.
Now, lifting his gaze to the other side of the pond, he saw a lone figure perched by a tree and his breathing hitched. Was it Mother? She’d never reveal herself to him so blatantly, standing there, tangible, a few steps afar. Zuko’s chest clenched with a tempest of emotions exploding inside him.
But, no, it couldn’t be; Mother was tall and slender and graceful. He shook the thought away. This was the body of a man, slowly making his way around the pond, holding a heavy object in his hands Zuko couldn’t identify, hidden in the shadows as he was.
His instincts took hold and he jumped to his feet, into a fighting stance, heart beating like a drum. It was a stupid thing to wander the gardens alone, without his bodyguards, considering here he was the most vulnerable to assassins; an open, unilluminated space. In the councils, no weapons were allowed, so he stood here unarmed, with only his fists protecting him. (And his fire, yes, but he’d sworn to never use his bending again to harm another, even if it costed his life. The guttural screams and the acrid, sickly smell of burning meat still haunted his sleep every night).
“Who is this?”, he shouted at the figure, who froze, slowly turning to face him. Zuko couldn’t decipher his features in the dark. “What are you doing here?”.
No answer came; the figure just made a slow step backwards.
“Did they send you to kill me?”, he yelled, shortening the distance between them as he trod along the pond. The man wasn’t running, but was steadily retreating. Zuko’s blood was boiling again; he wasn’t seeing clealry or thinking coherently anymore. “You fucking coward! Come on then! Kill me!”. He was screaming now and the man was a few steps away, kneeling on the ground, head bowed and shoulders trembling, but not enough for the Firelord to notice in his frenzy. “Kill me and be done with it! That’s what everyone wants, isn’t it?”. He vaguely registered a tear slipping past his lips and tasted the salt on his tongue.
Sturdy hands grabbed his arms and dragged him back. With the corner of his eye, he recognised the familiar uniforms of the Kyoshi warriors. “Sir, it’s just the gardener. You’re safe. He’s only a gardener”.
Zuko panted against their hold. “Who hired him?”.
“You’re safe, sir. Let’s go back inside”.
“Who are you?”, he screeched, violently fighting against the two women until they hesitantly released him, upon which he immediately fell into a fighting stance.
“My name is Hina and this is Jun. You know us, your Majesty. We’ve been under your command for the past two months”.
His eyes darted from the green sleeves to the headpiece to the armour to the face paint and felt a pang of yearning so intense it physically hurt, an urge to fall inside the warm, welcoming embrace, feel the rough fabric on his fingers and cheek. But he couldn’t; these weren’t his friends and never would be. And never were, he thought. All these intense few months they spent together, tied to each other like knots, closer than siblings, were now over. They never visited anymore, and he couldn’t leave the Palace in the midst of all the chaos following the war. Zuko treasured their letters like they were something alive, like a baby. But he knew, deep down, that the loving words were not genuine. He was just the leader of a despised nation, someone to put up with, be polite and civil to, because who knows what’s going on inside Zuko’s head; he could start another war, his father’s blood runs in his veins. Besides, he was a terrible person. He wouldn’t be his own friend neither; he wasn’t.
“Where’s Suki?”, he asked now, stupidly, like a sulking child. Because, Agni, selfishly, he missed her, he missed them all, even though he knew he didn’t deserve their friendship.
The girls exchanged a look. “Back at the Kyoshi island from what I’ve heard, sir. She’s the leading member of our clan, she couldn’t possibly have stayed here”.
He wanted to scream. “I want that man thoroughly interrogated concerning his activity this evening. I expect a report by tomorrow morning”. Without saying anything further, and leaving the two warriors stunned, he turned and rushed to his quarters, paying no attention to the stationed guards, closed the doors, collapsed at the foot of his bed and broke down in tears.
—-------------------------------------------------------
Hakoda didn’t particularly enjoy his stay at the Fire Nation. Not in the same way he had not enjoyed his stay in the Fire Nation prisons, no; the end of the war had made him admittedly soft. It was just unbearingly uneventful. He was, so to speak, bored out of his wits.
Hakoda was a practical man and expected the reconstructions to move in solid, methodical steps. Instead, what he got were hours of cant-filled speech and endless arguments, destined from their first word to lead to a dead end. The young Firelord had the supernatural ability to politely point out the obtuseness of some of the statements and patiently move through laws, accounts, agreements, plans, without getting sidetracked by this fruitless game of words, in which he still respectfully participated, as expected of him. Had Hakoda been him, he might have considered putting execution back into effect. With all due respect to his fellow chairmen.
Back in the South, he had been asked why he chose to be the one to represent the tribe, and not send an ambassador in his place, like the Northern Water Tribe and the Earth Kingdom had done. Sokka was deemed the official ambassador, and Hakoda had no doubts that his son would succeed in the task, much better than himself. The truth is, Hakoda was tired. The war had taken a great toll on him; the first few months of peace, he’d return with his men to the South and didn’t sleep a single night. He kept being awakened by gruesome nightmares, heart aching with anxiety, chest contracting in fear. What if it wasn’t over? What if the news reached them too late? Kya’s ghost visited him then more often than ever, almost like those early days of his grief.
Now, in the centre of it all, his trepidation was alleviated. Something in the easiness of his mundane routine, the warm climate soothing his weakened joints, the loud, animated voices echoing through corridors as servants and guards passed by, the young Firelord’s heartfelt apologies in every council, who carried responsibility for his nation’s deeds on his own shoulders, despite his age and little involvement in the war, despite nobody truly demanding an apology from him, it all made Hakoda slowly accept this new reality. It was over. They were safe. He needn’t worry for his children’s lives, hearing first hand every word that came out of the Firelord’s mouth.
Zuko had been managing everything with great efficiency, but his greatest accomplishment was the sense of trust he’d create in everyone in the council room. Despite their bickering and complaints about his age and inexperience, nobody could dispute that the new head of the Fire Nation was honest and kind, two words that nobody would have ever suggested in relation to his ancestors.
Besides, having temporarily passed down his responsibilities as a Chieftain to his son, it was a good opportunity for Sokka to prepare for leadership in his absence, without being burdened by the dread of another raid and surrounded by his fellow warriors as guides.
After today’s council, Hakoda walked back to his quarters, ate dinner and went over the scrolls he’d prepared for Firelord Zuko, a little absent-minded, slowly sipping a glass of sake. The boy had been avoiding him, admittedly, and the few conversations they had, aside from formalities and practicalities on their alliance, were about his children.
“How’s Katara?”.
“Very well, from what I gather from her letters. She’s teaching benders in the North”.
“Ah. Her students are very lucky”. Hakoda would smile politely. “And Sokka?”.
“In excellent health. I expect a little busy with his responsibilities in the tribe, but he’s managing very well”.
“I’m sure he’s a great leader; he always was”. A short hesitant silence. “Are they thinking of visiting?”. His eyes were bright with expectation.
“I haven’t asked them, really. Maybe in summer”.
Zuko was not very skilled in masking his emotions.
Now, deeming that sufficient time had passed for him to be welcome for their “evening drink”, as the Firelord had suggested, he gathered his papers, drank some water and headed to Zuko’s royal quarters. From what Hakoda had heard, these weren’t the rooms used by the former Firelord Ozai, but the same rooms Zuko lived in as a young prince, a little altered to accommodate his new duties.
When he got there, it was already dark and the corridors were lit up with torches casting long shadows on the carpeted floors.
“Good evening. I’ve been requested an audience with his Majesty”.
The guards bowed politely in confirmation and made way for him to enter the Firelord’s quarters.
Something in the eerie silence after the doors closed behind him made his muscles steel up. “Firelord Zuko?”, he called, blinking rapidly to accustom his eyes to the darkness inside the room. “I’ve brought the accounts”. A few steps forwards, he made out a shape underneath the large office desk, faintly illuminated by the moonlight coming in from the tall window on the wall, filtered through the silver voile curtains. The dark form shifted and gasped. Hakoda’s foot slipped on something wet. Oh, spirits.
The scrolls clattered on the stone floor, immediately soaking up gore. “Hey, hey, hey”. Hakoda rushed to the boy’s side, dropping down his knees in an instant beside him. Blood, so dark it looked almost black, was pooling around him. A body towel, soaked red, was discarded nearby, as if he’d tried to mop everything, with little success. Next to it, rolled an empty glass bottle. “I got you, son. Hey, look at me”. Zuko’s eyes were glazed, wide pupils struggling to focus on his surroundings. Evidently intoxicated.
“Chief Hakoda”, he slurred, sounds stuck together like through thick honey. “Just an accident. Don’t call the guards”.
“I know. I’ll just take a look, alright?”. Hakoda carefully raised the soaked left sleeve of his tunic, to find a pair of gashes spread along his wrist, oozing with blood, so deep he could see intact veins running over the tissue of fat unfolding from inside the severed skin.
“I forgot our appointment”, he mumbled. “I’m sorry”.
“It’s alright, Zuko”. He kept his voice levelled as he picked up the bloody towel and pressed against the wounds. Upon hearing his name, without the added titles, all tension left his body and he slackened on Hakoda’s arms.
He helped the teen to his bed, laying more towels beneath him to not stain the bed covers, then rushed outside again, instructing the guards to not allow anyone to enter. He returned with a jug full of water and medical supplies.
When he was finally done stitching and bandaging up, Hakoda climbed off the bed, sat cross-legged on the floor and lowered his head onto his hands. For a short time in the past, he had witnessed first-hand the Prince's self-destructive behaviour. But he'd thought it'd be over now. Time had passed, his father was out of the picture, in jail, posing no harm to him, he'd grown to be so close with his friends, his uncle, his nation, or so Hakoda had thought. So how could it have grown worse instead? Because blistering his own skin, yes, it was shocking and absurd and terrifying, but taking a blade and digging under his flesh until it opened like a river, like a mouth before him, exposing parts of his body that should never be exposed, that was unthinkable. He couldn't handle the knowledge that a boy his son's age felt the need to do such things, instead of reaching out and forming whatever dreadful thoughts created these urges into words, instead of leaning in for a hug and crying on somebody's shoulder.
Hakoda retreated the dagger he’d used from the floor. It was a beautifully crafted blade, in Earth Kingdom style. He washed the blood off in the bathroom sink and read the inscription on the silver surface, eyes burning with emotion. Never give up without a fight. He let it drop in the basin to return back to the bed, while bile rose in his throat.
Zuko stirred, opened his eyes and leaned his head to the side as vomit spilled out of lax lips.
“Can you sit up for a moment?”. But he could barely keep his head straight. Hakoda pulled back the stained covers, cleaned his mouth with a wet towel and got up to erase the residue of what looked like a slaughter. He cleaned the blood off all the fabrics inside the bathtub, giving Zuko a chance to avoid unwanted gossip emerging among the Palace staff.
Come morning, the Firelord awoke with a jolt. “Chief Hakoda”, he gasped hoarsely.
Hakoda blinked the tiredness away and leaned on his knees, seated as he was on a chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling, my Lord?”.
“I’m so sorry”. His fingers moved quickly to his bandaged arm, pressing down gently on the dressings with a grimace on his pale face. “It was an accident, I swear”.
The man tried to meet his frenzied gaze, but Zuko was avoiding his eyes. “You need help”.
“It won’t happen again”.
"I don't care to hear it. You're unwell. If you care about your nation at all, ensure you're competent to rule it". The words came out harsh and unforgiving. Hakoda had spent the night thinking about it, trying to come up with a way to address it. Zuko was evidently indifferent to his personal wellbeing, so he had to at least persuade him that it was a responsibility to his people.
"You can propose my dethronement in the next council", he replied quietly.
“You know very well this is not what I meant”.
He climbed off the bed and stood before Hakoda, then with a swift motion that made the man’s heart drop, kneeled down, palms on the floor. “I can’t properly thank you for your assistance, then and now. You’ve shown great tolerance for my humiliating behaviour”.
Hakoda’s mouth formed a hard line. “Get up, Zuko”.
“I know what you think of me, but I swear, I swear I’m trying”.
He grasped the boy’s shoulder, crouching next to him. “No, you don’t know what I think of you. I can see that you’re trying and I’m so proud of you, Zuko, we all are. But you’ve made such an enemy of yourself in the process and it pains me to watch”.
“I can't function otherwise!”. His voice came out shriek.
“This cannot continue”.
He took a shaky breath. “I know. People have the right to know of my incompetence. I will admit to it in the next council”.
“To hell with the damned council!”, Hakoda snapped, bringing his hands to his face. He breathed out, keeping his eyes closed to avoid the boy's expression. He grounded himself. “Is there any way we can help you?”.
“I don’t need any help”. Zuko turned his back, fixed his hair with unsteady hands and walked to his desk, to pull the curtains closer, dimming the natural light of the early morning creeping inside the room. “We can discuss the accounts tomorrow morning, if it’s alright with you, Chief Hakoda. You are free to leave”.
The overwhelming urge to break something made his skin tingle. “Good day to you, Firelord Zuko”. Outside, the guards didn’t utter a word.
—------------------------------------------------
A month later, Chief Hakoda had been summoned to the Firelord’s private quarters to hand him over an updated map of the South he’d been delivered by one of their cartographers. He found Zuko standing beside a tall bookcase in the corner of his office, slender fingers trailing over book spines. His long hair, tied in a top-knot, fell gracefully over his shoulders and his face looked serene and beautiful in his youth, as he kept his scarred face hidden in profile. In front of the desk sat an elderly royal consultant -Tian, Hakoda recalled- with hands folded on his lap.
“Chief Hakoda, welcome. Have a seat and help yourself to a refreshment”. There was a tea set on top of the desk surface, next to piling stacks of papers and tomes.
Hakoda bowed politely and joined the consultant on an armchair facing him, eyes still lingering on the young Firelord’s form.
“Here it is”, Zuko murmured a few moments later, stretching to reach a book on the highest shelf. With the movement, the sleeve of his robe slipped down to his elbow, exposing a grisly wound. Along the length of his wrist, the skin was deformed by a deep burn, not yet fully healed, in an angry red colour, scarred at the edges but still raw in the centre. The outline of a long bumping scar Hakoda recognised too well was visible on the pink surface of open flesh.
“Merciful Agni!”, the consultant exclaimed, hands grabbing the arms of his seat. “What happened to your arm, your Majesty?”.
Zuko lowered his hand in a swift motion, the sleeve falling back into place. “I burned it”, he said simply, bringing the book to the desk and leafing through its contents, nonchalantly.
The man let out a nervous chuckle. “Burned it! Didn’t know firebenders burned themselves!”.
“I do”.
Hakoda’s blood ran cold. Tian, the consultant, searched for his gaze, nervous, but the water tribe chief kept his eyes lowered. “What, deliberately?”.
Zuko nodded once, sharp, fingertips white on the edges of the book.
“Sir, if I may speak freely”.
“Of course”.
“That is a- a very immature and attention seeking thing to do. You’re not a child anymore. You’re the head of the nation. How can anyone put their trust in a person who is- I mean- does it, what, give you relief?”. There was a pause, indicating he was expecting an answer.
Zuko looked up, indifferent. “No”.
“Does it relieve the tension? Calms you down?”.
“No”.
There was another silence. The man looked deeply uncomfortable. “I can’t understand why you’d do that, your Majesty”.
“Then ask”.
“Is it because of stress?”. Zuko said nothing. “Can I look?”.
“No”.
“I’d like to look, to see if it’s infected, sir”.
“No”.
Another silence. Zuko resumed his writing on a paper underneath the book. “You know, it doesn’t surprise me. For a child to get into that position, it must be very stressful for you. It’d make sense that you’d do this. It relieves the tension”.
“Have you ever done it?”, Zuko snapped. Silence. “No. Far too fucking sane and sensible. I don’t know where you heard that, but it does not relieve the tension”. He scribbles something in the paper underneath his fingers. Hakoda, looking more closely at his writing, came to the uncomfortable realisation that the words were no longer legible. “So why don't you ask me why? Why did I burn my arm?”.
“Would you like to tell me?”.
“Yes”.
“Then tell me”.
“Ask me why!”, he screamed at his face, agitated.
The old man’s face darkened. “Why did you burn yourself, Firelord Zuko?”.
“Because it feels fucking great. Because it feels fucking amazing”.
Hakoda breathed in shakily, pressing his knuckles against his mouth. The consultant fell silent. “And you don’t think you’re ill?”, he asked, now, more gently.
“No”.
“I do. It’s not your fault. But you have to take responsibility for your own actions. Please don’t do it again. Or do you want to end up like your sister?”.
Hakoda thought Zuko would react at that moment, shout, throw all his precious documents off the desk and light them on fire. But he only kept his eyes on Tian, face a blank, unreadable mask.
“Your Majesty”, the consultant added, sat up and left. The doors’ thud as they slammed after him echoed in the quiet room.
The quivering hand was quickly hidden under the desk. “I believe you’ve brought me the map, Chief Hakoda?”.
A claw had crawled inside Hakoda’s chest and carved him out clean.