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Chapter Text

Bile singed Zuko’s throat as he spat over the railing and into churning Earth Kingdom waters. He still wasn’t used to the sickening sway of his ship, much less to his newly warped depth perception, and his empty stomach continued to twist and groan. Zuko would like to say that he then gracefully sat down with his back to the bulwark, but it was more of an unsteady crumple to his knees as another wave broke his balance. He couldn’t help his moan of discomfort — this whole situation was, after all, discomforting.

“You will find your sea legs in time, Prince Zuko. You’re already becoming a fine sailor.”

“Uncle,” he groaned. “Don’t speak.”

It’s been four weeks, he thought, and I’m as close to a sailor as a flopping fucking fish. Everything ached: his stomach, his legs, his head, his eye — though, he should be grateful the pain had relegated itself from the sensation of a butcher’s knife carving into his face to the sensation of only a smaller knife carving into his face. Still, the pain throbbed from deep below his skin, where the fire had lapped up fat and tissue and with it, his eyesight. The left side of his head was still swaddled in thick bandages stained with leaking brown fluid, but he was vaguely aware that his ear was now shriveled, useless, and practically melted to his head, a fact he discovered while clawing at his face in a fever-driven stupor. 

“Perhaps some ginger tea might settle your stomach.”

“Uncle,” he repeated. “Please.”

“Would you like to return to your quarters, Prince Zuko?”

“UNCLE.”

Uncle Iroh shuffled into view and knelt to meet Zuko’s eyes. Eye. His round face was smiling, but Zuko could make out his deepening stress lines and purpling eye bags. He looked thinner, too. Weary. Zuko’s gut curled with hot shame — or maybe more seasickness — and he closed his eyes ( eye, damnit) to hide from Uncle’s worn face. Uncle had to share Zuko’s misery on this Spirits-forsaken ship because of him, and his cowardice and his childishness and his weakness, and suddenly, desperately, he yearned for Father to be the one kneeling in front of him with that pitiful expression. He yearned for Father to be the one to take his hands and gently guide him to his feet and towards the cabins. But Father wasn’t here now. It was only the failed Dragon of the West and the disgraced Fire Nation Prince. Zuko blinked away his pathetic tears.

The door to the cabins slammed open, Lieutenant Jee striding out with his helmet beneath his arm, and Zuko disguised his flinch by jumping to his feet and batting Uncle’s hands away. 

“Lieutenant Jee,” he greeted. The man kept walking. “Lieutenant Jee!”

Jee grimaced, stiffened, and turned on his heels to face Zuko. I’m your Prince, he thought indignantly. You could at least pretend to have respect. “Your Highness,” Jee replied through gritted teeth. “How can I be of service?” 

Shit. How could he be of service? What does a Lieutenant even do on a ship? “Erm. I order you to… tell me where we are headed next!” There. That sounded Prince-ly enough, if Jee missed the crack in his voice. The Lieutenant raised his eyebrows.

“Sho Ping Village to resupply, Your Highness. The place you ordered us to go to yesterday.” He did order that, didn’t he?

“Yes. Good. And when will we arrive?”

“Moonrise tonight.”

“And —”

“Thank you, Lieutenant Jee,” Uncle cut in. “You are doing a remarkable job. Prince Zuko and I greatly appreciate your steadfast efficiency.” Jee bowed his head.

“You honor me, General Iroh.”

Zuko and Jee continued to stare at each other until Zuko felt Uncle gently elbow his side. “You’re dismissed!” he blurted, and with another bow, Jee briskly walked away.

“Well done, Prince Zuko.”

“Don’t patronize me,” he grumbled and pushed past Uncle into the cabins. Yet, being within four enclosed walls did nothing to settle the sea or Zuko’s stomach, and after another stumble, he reluctantly let Uncle stabilize him with a hand to his shoulder. Inside his quarters, Zuko gently lay on his cot (i.e., collapsed) and sank into his pillow. He attempted to ignore the fabric hanging above him, a violent and terrible red; with a start, he realized this was the first time he was ever disturbed by his nation’s flag, and he shifted until it disappeared from view. 

“Leave me, Uncle,” he mumbled.

“I’m afraid it is time to redress your wound, Prince Zuko.” Uncle slid a hand behind Zuko’s head to prop him up, but Zuko once again swatted him away. 

“I can sit up myself, Uncle, I’m not an invalid.” 

“Of course not. Now, would you prefer Healer Yuzee or me to change your bandages?” Agni, Uncle was speaking to him like he was a toddler.

“I can do it myself!” 

Uncle nodded. “Very well,” he said. “I will go fetch a mirror.” Oh. A mirror. Zuko wasn’t arrogant enough to pretend like he’s ready to see his deformity yet.

“Wait! Don’t… don’t bother. You can do it.” Uncle beamed.

“If that is what you wish. I will have to brew a pot of ginger tea first.”

“I don’t want any damn ginger tea!”

“Of course not, Prince Zuko! An old man like myself gets thirsty quite easily, you know. I will be back shortly.” Zuko couldn’t hide his eyeroll. How Uncle nearly conquered Ba Sing Se with his lack of subtlety, he had no idea.

Salve applied, bandages replaced, and one Uncle thrown out of his room, Zuko was finally, blissfully alone. 

He hated it. He hated the single candle in the corner and its taunting shadow dances. He hated the rumble of the ship’s engine and the way his body shuddered with each rolling wave. He hated how these wretched bandages once again smothered the soothing touch of cool air against his wound. He hated the smell of the sea, he hated the firmness of his bed, he hated the way the poppy Uncle hid in his ginger tea kept his limbs heavy and his mind clouded. Most of all, he hated how he couldn’t stop watching that lone candle and its flickering flame with bated breath, as if it would lunge at him any moment. Pathetic, he thought. Frightened of a candle flame. What would Father say? (He could actually quite easily picture what Father would say, but forbade himself to repeat it.)

Blinking awake — when had he fallen asleep? — he vaguely became aware that the purr of the engine had ceased and the chatter above deck had quieted, replaced by muffled shouts from close outside his porthole. They must’ve docked at Sho Ping, only their second stop so far on Zuko’s quest for the Avatar. (Kitochu Island was a bust, unless the Avatar had perfected the art of turning into giant iguana parrots.) He sat up, shook out the poppy daze lingering in his head, and swung his legs over the side of his bed, prepared to march back onto the deck and give his Prince-ly orders. Realistically, he understood that there was little chance the Avatar would be hiding in a coastal Earth Kingdom village bordering Fire Nation colonies, but he couldn’t let himself grow negligent — he must leave no stone unturned, no peasant unquestioned, no hut unsearched. Except… Uncle probably wouldn’t let him explore tonight, not when the world outside his porthole was already an inky black. 

But why did that matter? He was the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, banished or not! He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted! Except… he’d really rather not argue with Uncle tonight. In fact, he would be delighted if he didn’t have to see the old man until tomorrow afternoon (or ever), and if he did, Zuko was sure Uncle wouldn’t let him explore alone. Tch. Uncle just didn’t understand the delicateness of Zuko’s mission. If Zuko went stomping everywhere with the Dragon of the West at his side, word would surely reach the Avatar, and the man would flee like a coward. Or beg on his knees and refuse to fight. Like a coward.

Yes, it seemed that Zuko would have to take matters into his own hands and venture out into the night alone, like a spy or assassin from his theatre scrolls, to raise the least suspicion and maximize his element of surprise. Yes, this could work.

Step one: create an alibi. He stuck his head out his cabin door and shouted, “I’m going to sleep, Uncle! Don’t disturb me!” He paused. “And I’m going to sleep in!” He waited for a moment until a “Good night, Prince Zuko!” echoed back through the halls, then he shoved the door closed. Step two: mission preparation. Zuko gingerly pulled off his infirmary robes and slipped into black underclothes (just like a spy or assassin). He moved to attach his sheathed dao blades to his hip, but paused — spies and assassins must be inconspicuous, and dual swords were anything but. It was a good thing he didn’t need real weapons anyway; he had his fire. Probably. Step three: escape. He could fit through the porthole easily enough, but he still had to get to land somehow. Maybe…

Hanging from the deck by his fingertips and inching toward the dock was a pretty good idea in theory, and definitely would’ve worked if Uncle would just let him start training again to regain his strength, but instead, Zuko found himself slipping into the water almost immediately. He flailed around beneath the waves for a moment before snapping back together and kicking to the surface. Luckily, he was still a decent enough swimmer from his childhood days on Ember Island, and it was much easier swimming one-eyed than walking, so he made it to the pier edge having swallowed only a few gulps of seawater. 

He peeked over the pier wall, double-checking for Uncle or anyone else on his crew, then heaved himself out of the waves and practically flopped onto his back on the pier. Like a fucking fish. Agni, he really didn’t like the sea. He'd better find this Avatar quickly.

Unfortunately, he had somehow grown used to the push and pull of his ship underfoot and was even more unsteady walking on land than he was on deck. But, no matter. As a Prince spy/assassin, no one would see him anyway, and he proved this to himself by slinking through the shadows to the forest’s edge. At this hour with the moon high in the sky, the pier was mostly empty of sailors save for a couple of merchant ships unloading, but in the distance, Zuko could make out orange firelight emanating from the village proper. He’d start there, he decided. Sure, not many villagers might be out, but that just meant that those who were still out were shady characters and probably knew a lot of trade secrets and rumors, like if there had been an airbender spotted recently. 

Zuko began his stomp through the woods toward the orange glow, already regretting his method of escape. His spy/assassin clothing stuck uncomfortably to his skin, his shoes squished with each watery step, and he was pretty certain his bandages weren’t supposed to get wet, much less drenched in saltwater. No matter! He had his inner fire to warm his chest and dry his clothes. (He was just going to… wait a bit, and let the chill sink deeper into his bones and his blood, if only to remind himself of the consequences of weak firebending.) (He pretends he is not afraid that even if he tries, his fire still wouldn’t come.)

“How much longer we gotta stay out here? ‘M fuckin’ freezing.”

Zuko froze and ducked behind a shrub. Not 50 feet ahead of him on the main road, he saw two silhouettes cutting through the light. They weren’t very tall, he noted, but were rather burly. He couldn’t make out any weapons, but of course, he couldn’t rule out benders. A third figure carrying a torchlight walked into view and clapped the first speaker on his shoulder.

“Tough it out, Shi. It’s this or shovelin’ ostrich horse shit.”

“Shift changes in a couple hours,” the last figure added. Ah. Guards. Zuko put his facts together: there were three men, short but stocky, most likely part of a night watch, but they were unarmed. Earthbenders, then — at least one of them had to be. Zuko hadn’t met any earthbenders yet, much less anyone from the Earth Kingdom, but he knew from Uncle’s teachings that they were a strong, stubborn people, hard-set in their ways and wary of foreigners. Although Zuko mused, surely these earthbenders were used to foreigners, what with Sho Ping’s neutral port and proximity to the colonies. He was fairly confident they wouldn’t squish him at first sight; besides, if anyone were to know about strange activity in the area, it’d be the guards. Being a Prince means taking calculated risks for the sake of the people, Zuko reminded himself. This was too good an opportunity to pass up.

He stepped out from the bushes and onto the main road, facing the guards’ backs. He cleared his throat. “Excuse me!”

The three men startled and whipped around. Idiots. If Zuko were an Earth Kingdom guard, he certainly would not have let himself sneak up on himself.

“Spirits above, it’s just a kid,” the torchbearer breathed out. The other two chuckled. “You lost, kid?” Torch Bearer asked. Zuko wrinkled his nose and stepped forward.

“Certainly not. I require information.”

“Oh-ho-ho, he requires information,” said the shortest of the bunch, and the three started to approach. Zuko imagined his feet were stuck to the mud to avoid scrambling back. “What do you wanna know?” asked Shorty. 

“Directions to get back to daddy?” teased Torch Bearer. Kinda. 

“No, I just said — I’m not lost! I’m looking for someone. A fugitive.”

“A fugitive?” asked the third guard, tone hardened. In the encroaching torchlight, Zuko could make out a thick brown beard that fell to his collarbone, and bushy eyebrows like leech-a-pillars. Thank Agni Uncle keeps himself better groomed.

“Yes. He’s very elusive,” said Zuko, leaning back as the men grew closer and closer, “Very powerful, and probably over 100 years old. Most likely, he would be wearing —”

“Holy Shu, what happened to your face?” blurted Shorty, so abruptly and with such disbelief that Torch Bearer and Beardface paused for a moment, then continued to creep closer. Torch Bearer let out a low whistle. Zuko took a step back. For strategic purposes.

“Nothing,” he snapped.

“You just like half-blinding yourself for fun, huh?” Torch Bearer asked, and they all chuckled at his stupid joke. 

“You got a cute ostrich horsetail,” Shorty added. 

“It’s not an ostrich horsetail! It’s a —” shut up, you idiot!

“A what?” Beardface asked. “We don’t see that style around here.”

“Duh! I’m not from around here!” That was not shutting up.

Shorty circled around him until Zuko was pinned between the three men in a triangle. They were much taller up close, he realized, at least a full head taller than Zuko, and their hands were calloused and cracked like dry mud flats. Zuko could make out a couple of burns, too — one like a starburst peeking out from beneath Beardface’s collar, and another like pink stripes criss-crossing Shorty’s left palm. Way to go, Dum-Dum, Azula whispered in his ear. You found Earth Kingdom soldiers. Zuko took a shuddering breath. He just had to play it cool and casual, and absolutely not flinch when Torch Bearer waved the flame close to his face. He tried to duck away, but the men continued to circle him, the flame remaining just inches from his bandages.

“Where are you from then, huh?” asked Beardface. 

“Nowhere! Just… around!”

“‘Nowhere, just around,’” Shorty echoed. “And why are you drenched?”

“That’s not important! I told you, I’m looking for a very dangerous fugitive who might have —”

Beardface then lurched forward until he was eye-to-eye with Zuko. Zuko could smell the rye whiskey on his breath, the type Father drank while Zuko and Azula reported their progress for the day. Zuko swallowed and took another step back, but Shorty grabbed his shoulder and kept him steady.

“Golden eye,” Beardface murmured. Zuko’s stomach dropped. Beardface glanced up at Shorty, nodded, and suddenly Zuko’s head was yanked backward by an unforgiving hand gripping his phoenix tail. He yelped and tried to twist around, grappling at Shorty’s hand, but Father wouldn’t let go, wouldn’t give him relief, just kept tugging, and tugging, and tugging, and Zuko knew there was only one way to get him off, and his chi grew hotter and hotter until it was coiling up and shooting from his fingertips onto the offending hand.

“Ashmaker!” Father shouted, and in an instant, Zuko was limp on the ground, clutching his bandaged face as the agony from the backhand radiated deep into his skin. He scrambled to rise to his feet but found that he was already sunk to his waist in the mud, and his hands bound in earth were suddenly wrenched behind his back. Something in his left shoulder popped from the force of the movement, and he cried out, but even in his confusion, he couldn’t help but think with sick relief, Not Father. Earthbenders. Not Father.

A glob of spit hit his forehead and trickled down his nose. Zuko tried to spit right back at the earthbenders, but it came out as a dry, pathetic pew. Shorty grabbed his phoenix tail again and tugged as if he was lifting Zuko, but with his body firmly encased in stone, it just felt like the man was trying to separate Zuko from his hair — and Zuko really liked his hair, or at least, what was left of it.

Torch Bearer and Beardface knelt in front of him, their already-wrinkled faces creased by scowls. 

“Get that torch away,” Beardface barked at Torch Bearer, who shuffled back until the flame was a couple feet from Zuko’s face. “They can use open flames.” Zuko felt a strange urge to thank Beardface, not only for pushing Torch Bearer away but also for the indirect compliment — recently, Zuko could hardly control a candleflame, much less a full torch — but he shoved it down and bared his teeth.

“Let me go!” he barked, wiggling uselessly in his restraints. “You have no right!”

“No right?” asked Beardface, voice low and grating. “What right do you have, ashmaker, trespassing on Earth Kingdom land?”

“Sho Ping is neutral, you meat head!”

“The port is,” Shorty agreed, tugging Zuko’s phoenix tail back until they were eye-to-eye, Shorty’s sneering face leering over Zuko’s. “You’re in the village now.”

“No, I’m not! The port is right —”

Another slap to his left side. Zuko could hardly contain his choked whimpers. 

“Shut it, fire rat,” said Beardface. “You have no authority here.”

Oh, you want authority?

“I am Zuko, son of Ursa and Firelord Ozai, Crown Prince of the Fire Nation! I demand you release me right now, and perhaps my father will spare your lives!”

The men were silent at last, instead exchanging glances. Shorty let go of Zuko’s phoenix tail, and Zuko shook his head like he was trying to rid his scalp of the tension, but Beardface quickly grabbed his chin and forced his gaze to meet his. 

“Careful, Mo,” said Torch Bearer. “The royal ones can spit fire like dragons.” (Again, Zuko felt a shiver of pride at Torch Bearer’s assumption.)

“Nah,” Beardface replied. “If this one were able, he’d have done it. Shi, keep his face steady.” 

Nope. Nope, nope, nope.

Zuko thrashed, ducking his head and wrenching his body around to avoid Shorty’s hands, but quickly the man was holding Zuko’s head in place with a hand on either side of his head, pressing hard. Can earthbenders crush bone? Zuko wondered deliriously. It certainly felt like the hand on his left side was concaving into his skull. Beardface leaned even closer and used his meaty, calloused fingers to pry open Zuko’s one good eye.

“Golden eye,” he repeated, the scent of rye whiskey again washing over Zuko. 

“The royal blood has golden eyes, don’t they,”  Torch Bearer murmured. “I wonder if the other one’s gold, too.”

“Let’s find out,” Beardface said, and suddenly the man was carelessly tearing away at Zuko’s bandages. Zuko whimpered as dirty fingers brushed against his burn, but very quickly his head was released as the guards took in the sight. “Oma and Shu,” Beardface breathed out.

“Spirits, it’s disgusting,” Shorty added, and Zuko’s chi curled with hot shame at the amusing lilt in his voice. “Can you even see out of that thing?” (No, but Zuko wasn’t about to reveal another weakness.)

Torch Bearer leaned forward to get a closer look, the torch once again waving dangerously close to Zuko’s face, and the men chuckled at his flinch. “You scared?” Torch Bearer taunted, slowly bringing the flame closer. 

“Shit, I’d be scared too with a burn like that,” said Shorty, huffing a laugh.

Zuko tried closing his eyes (because if he couldn’t see the fire, then the fire couldn’t hurt him, except he could still feel the heat, that oppressive, terrible heat), but Beardface slapped him again — this time, thankfully, on his right side. “Keep ‘em open,” he growled. “Now, you say you’re the ‘Crown Prince’, huh?”

“Yes,” Zuko grit out. “And my father will have your heads for this! And - and my uncle will burn your village to the ground!” 

The men chuckled again, and Zuko had a sinking, disgusting feeling that he was the most entertaining thing they’d had all night. Maybe all month. “Real scary,” Shorty said with a smirk, then looked to Beardface. “How do we know he’s not another lying ashmaker?”

“I don’t lie! I am the honorable Crown Prince —”

“Shut it,” Beardface snapped. His hands once again reached for Zuko’s face and, using his left to hold Zuko’s trembling head in place, caressed the wound with his thumb. His touch was gentle. His touch burned. “Now that I think about it,” he began, voice low, “I do remember hearing something about a young Fire Nation royal banished from his own home. Fong sent messenger hawks warning the garrisons to be on the lookout for a fire rat like this one.”

“Lucky us,” said Torch Bearer, “We didn’t even have to look.”

Zuko wasn’t a Dum-Dum, despite Azula’s moniker for him, and he could tell this situation was rapidly spiraling out of his control. He combed desperately for his tutors’ lessons on the proper procedure for being kidnapped (was he seriously being kidnapped?): maintain composure, create a rapport with the captor(s), and establish your value. Well, it’s too late to remain calm, but Zuko’s already started a back-and-forth with the earthbenders, and it wouldn’t hurt to remind them of his influence.

“I am the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation,” he repeated, voice wavering but quiet. “My father will pay a hefty sum for my safe return, so you must release me at once.”

“A hefty sum?” Shorty echoed. “That sounds pretty nice.”

“Heh. Imagine Captain’s reaction when we show up with a half-drowned fire rat,” Torch Bearer added. “We’d get out of night watch for at least a couple weeks.”

Shit. This was going the opposite of what he had hoped. “I have a whole ship of soldiers at my command, including the Dragon of the West. They won’t waste a second to search once they realize I’m missing!”

Beardface rose and cracked his knuckles. “We’d better move you fast, then,” he said, and when the man’s fist connected, Zuko heard the crack of his nose breaking before he felt the blinding pain, and then he felt nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Prince Zuko. Wake, Prince Zuko.

Father knelt in front of him, his eyes warm and creased by a gentle smile. Mother sat beside him in a seiza, graceful as always, her hands folded in her lap and her face beaming. Azula, too, sat next to Mother, and her grin was joyful, not sinister. Uncle was holding Zuko’s hand, rubbing soft circles with his thumb into Zuko’s unscarred skin, and — could that be Lu Ten, right behind him? Alive and whole and smiling his kind, comforting smile that Zuko cherished so much? Zuko shifted and realized he was leaning against the willow tree that draped over the turtleduck pond in his courtyard garden sanctuary. The mama turtleduck was paddling in lazy circles, watching her chicks splash and dive.

Son.

Father took Zuko’s other hand in his own, and his grasp was warm and loving and delicate, and Zuko briefly wondered how his father’s touch could be anything but comforting.

You’re going to have to be strong, my son, Father said. There are those who seek to break you, but you cannot be broken. Do you understand? You are a Prince, a child of Agni.

Never forget where you come from, his mother added. Never forget that we are here waiting for you.

And don’t take too long to come home, Zuzu, said Azula. I’m already bored without you!

His family chuckled. Uncle released his hand and stroked Zuko’s head, tucking stray locks of hair behind his ear and gazing at him with a love so strong that Zuko couldn’t imagine ever feeling anything else for his uncle. Destiny is a funny thing, he said. You never know how things are going to work out. But if you keep an open mind and an open heart, I promise you will find your own destiny someday.

But your destiny better lead you back to us! added Lu Ten, and everyone laughed again. 

We are so proud of you, Prince Zuko, Father said. I am so proud of you. My strong, brave son.

My sweet loving boy, Mother said. 

My nephew, said Uncle. My beautiful, honorable nephew.

You cannot be broken, his father repeated. You are a child of Agni.

A child of Agni, echoed Mother and Uncle.

You’re the Prince of the Fire Nation, Zuzu. Remember that, and don’t let anyone forget it!

Never give up without a fight, got it?

Zuko opened his mouth to speak, or maybe to cry, but found that this blanket of love weighed so heavily around his shoulders that he was paralyzed to respond. All he could do was bask in this moment, in this space, among his family. All he could do was keep staring into his father’s gentle eyes and promise himself, I won’t. I won’t break. I won’t give up without a fight. I am your loyal son, Father, and I promise I will come home to you. 

And Father said: I love you.

When Zuko woke to a flat, chilling black, he accepted almost immediately that his eyesight was lost forever. Then he cursed himself. Don’t panic. Get over your dramatics. Figure out what you can. He knew his nose was splinted, but still it throbbed. He knew his left shoulder was set in place, but still it ached. He knew his burn was uncovered and that he was still dressed in his wet underclothes, and he knew his shame like an old friend, the shame of his carelessness and childishness — he wasn’t a spy, for Agni’s sake, he was a Prince! ( You are a child of Agni, his father said. He didn’t imagine that, right?) If Azula found out that he was captured the first time he went on a solo mission, Zuko would seriously never live it down. 

The facts. Focus on the facts. Picturing Azula’s twisted glee wouldn’t get him anywhere. Zuko felt around on the ground below him: he knew he sat on cool, smooth stone with a fine layer of dirt on top. He tried to sniff the air (and instantly regretted it), but smelled nothing but earth. Damp, cold earth. He knew that in a dirt pit like this, there was only one way to test his vision.

Breathe into the diaphragm, Uncle reminded. Let your chi gather in your belly. From there, let your breath guide your energy through your body, and remember that whatever is released is still a part of you, Prince Zuko. You are always in control.

Breathe in. Let his chi gather. Let his breath guide his fire. Remember that he is in control.

He held out his right palm and it ignited with the smallest, most pitiful of flames, but the strength of the fire didn’t matter to him because he could see, he could see, he could see and his fire wasn’t gone, he wasn’t useless, even though when he reached for Agni he felt nothing but earth. He released another trickle of chi and smiled at the growing orange glow — had fire ever looked so beautiful? — then very carefully shuffled to his feet, cupping his left hand around the flame as if a gust of wind might snatch his only light. He straightened up, then winced when his head struck the ceiling — the cell was at least a foot shorter than him. He relegated his posture to a crouch and crept forward, only to find there wasn’t much space to move anyway. 

The cell was just long enough that he could lie down with his head touching one end and his heels touching the other, but its width was at most half his height. So, he had room to sleep and room to pace (while crouched) the length, but not much else. There was no bed, no window, not even a chamber pot. How do they expect him to… do his business? They’d have to give him something — Stop it! Father ordered. Stop accepting this! You are a Prince, not some common dirt mole!

Right. Of course. Focus. Someone must be nearby, right? Surely they wouldn’t let the Fire Nation’s Crown Prince suffocate to death without even attempting negotiation. Wait. Shit. Could he suffocate? There wasn’t any opening for airflow, as far as his shoddy vision could make out. The cell wasn’t huge, but it would still take hours for the oxygen to deplete, right? As long as he didn’t — shit. He snuffed out his flame and tried not to shudder at the sudden black. A Prince afraid of both fire and the dark. He really was a coward. Enough wallowing. I can’t give up without a fight.

“HELLO! HELLO, IS ANYONE OUT THERE?” Silence. “HELLOOOOO! I’M AWAKE, IF THAT’S WHAT YOU WERE WAITING FOR.” Silence. Establish your value, he remembered. “I AM ZUKO, SON OF URSA AND FIRE LORD OZAI, CROWN PRINCE OF THE FIRE NATION. SHOW YOUR FACES, COWARDS!” Just silence and still, cold darkness. Zuko cleared his throat (for volume, certainly not because he felt a growing lump, thick and hot and humiliating). Time to change tactics. “Hello!” he called, attempting to add a boyish lilt to his voice. “Is anyone listening? I’m — I’m thirsty!”

He kept up his shouts until his voice was hoarse and his lungs out of breath. He’d grown used to the pain at the bridge of his nose, but he could also tell that the poppy dampening his burn’s ache was also wearing off. He slid to the ground, his back pressed to the wall. If no one would respond to him, then he shouldn’t waste his breath. Uncle always said that meditation made time move quickly, right? So, he could just meditate until his captors were ready to face him. He could just close his eyes, cross his legs, and breathe, just like Uncle taught him. Just breathe.

Prince Zuko, said Father.

Zuko jolted awake and upright. Somehow, he’d been negligent enough to fall asleep in his meditation, like an inexperienced child. He wondered how much time had passed — five minutes, an hour, a moon rise and fall? Spirits, was he about to run out of oxygen?

He drew in a long breath and was pleased to find it wasn’t more difficult than it was before he fell asleep. Then maybe…

Let your breath guide your energy through your body.

His palm lit up again, and he startled at two new additions to his cage: a cup of water, and… a chamber pot. Wonderful. Were they in my cell while I was sleeping? His flame stuttered with his uneven breath at the image of strangers — earthbending strangers — leering over his unmoving, injured body. It’s no use speculating, he reminded himself. Just work with the facts. And the facts were: he was still stuck in this dirt box, but now he had water and a chamber pot. He wanted to remain vigilant and avoid consuming anything his captors gave him, but his tutors’ words flashed through his mind: Conserve as much strength and energy as possible. Don’t be arrogant enough to refuse food and water — the healthier you are, the greater your chances of survival. Well, that was permission enough, and Zuko quickly gulped down the entire cup.

Within minutes, his eyelids grew heavy and his brain fuzzy. Oh. Poppy. Perhaps he should be more concerned that his captors essentially just drugged him, but the sensation of his pain numbing into an afterthought was too tantalizing, and he let himself slump back into sleep.

Zuko’s routine continued like this: he’d wake from a poppy-induced slumber to find a fresh cup of water, an empty chamber pot, and an occasional bowl of rice waiting before him. Sometimes the water contained poppy concentrate, and sometimes not, but he was lucid enough to recognize that the water was drugged for the majority of the time.

So, he would avoid drinking for as long as he could, just to let his head clear and his pain ground him. He tried meditating frequently, though he found he was often too unsettled to quiet his mind in a place where there was no sound at all to begin with. The silent dark reminded him all too well of the hours he spent curled up in the servants’ closet in the East Wing of the Palace. He’d first discovered the haven after being occasionally locked inside it as punishment, but the solitude it gave eventually grew on him, and not even Azula thought to look for him there when he was hiding in need of peace and quiet. Now, though, this black stasis only worsened his bitter longing for home. So instead of wallowing in homesickness, he held a flame in his palm for as long as he could while replaying the memory of his father’s soothing words: I love you. I love you. I am so proud of you. I love you. He wondered if Father would still feel the same way, even after he found out about Zuko’s defeat. (Though, it wasn’t a real defeat, was it? He didn’t even fight back. Why didn’t he fight back?)

After he woke for the third time, he lit a flame at the top of his index finger and concentrated his chi into heating the flame as much as possible while keeping its size contained. He pressed his finger against the stone wall and marked off three black tallies for three sleeps. He had no idea how long the actual passage of time was while he slept — his innate feeling of every sunrise and sunset had abandoned him — but he knew he had to keep track somehow, or he’d go mad.

After the fifth sleep, he woke to find a small tincture of burn salve, which he gingerly spread onto his tender burn. The raw tissue was slowly but surely transforming into a leathery film covering nearly half his face, and he thanked the Spirits that if there was one positive thing about this experience, it was that he still didn’t have to look in a mirror.

It was only after that fifth sleep that he began mumbling to himself — only a few times, of course. It’s just that Father or Uncle would offer him whispered advice and reminders to stay strong and unbroken, and he’d respond with affirmations and promises of allegiance and I love you too ’s. He even tried using his index finger to draw black shapes onto the walls and floor for entertainment. Yet, he spent most of his time sleeping, faking meditation, and performing whatever exercises he could in the cramped space, including cold katas. After the sixth sleep, he finally received a change of clothes and replaced his crusty black outfit with a mud-brown tunic and trousers. Only later did he notice that his topknot had been crudely chopped off sometime in his slumber.

Then he woke for the ninth time and immediately felt that something had changed within him. It was like his chi had shuddered into submission; the warmth in his bones that he could usually depend on was now depleting into his gut with a dangerous chill. His flames were weaker, too — could his isolation from Agni be depleting his inner fire? How was that possible? He’d heard nightmare tales of firebenders imprisoned underground for years, only to emerge with no ability to bend at all, instead burdened by madness. But no way could happen to him — he was a Prince, a child of Agni, and soon enough, these dirt walls would fall away and he could run into his father’s arms, just like he had when… well, probably like when Zuko was much younger. 

Except this flicker of hope, this burning want for some illegible memory, was always accompanied by shame, thick and unforgiving. Agni, he was such a child for yearning to see his father’s face, for yearning to hear his mother’s soothing lullaby. There he was, sitting useless in a dirt cell, having not even attempted an escape or a negotiation. Yet, his wanting was so fierce, so real, that, after his eleventh sleep, he woke up crying. How utterly useless.

The thirteenth time he blinked awake from his poppy-induced stupor, his vision immediately burned in a strange assault of light. He winced and scrunched his eyes shut, thinking for one delirious moment that he must be back in Father’s throne room, or sitting in the dining hall with Mother and Azula — until he tried to move. Yep. Still in earthbending prison. Spirits, this was still so embarrassing.

“Hello, Zuko.”

Zuko peeked his one eye open and let it adjust to the brightness before allowing himself to take in his new circumstances. He was sitting in a grand dining hall, almost as large as the one at the palace, at the end of a long, marble table, the other side laden with meat and rice and bread. The torches that adorned all four walls couldn’t quite illuminate the entirety of the great stone room, but he could easily make out the guards stationed at each one, numbering perhaps two dozen. At the end of the table was the speaker: an impressively large man with a thick brown beard, a strange topknot, and fully clad in Earth Kingdom armor. Obviously, a man of high status. Finally, Zuko thought, A peer. 

“Who —” Zuko coughed to clear his throat, then put as much bite into his tone as he could muster, “are you? Where am I?” He didn’t expect the man to respond; after all, doing so would give up his only advantage: mystery. Zuko would have to —

“My name is General Fong,” the man said, “and you are in my fortress.” Hm. Easier than expected.

“Well, I… am Crown Prince Zuko, son of —”

“Yes, yes, I know who you are, Zuko. Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, son of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai, et cetera, et cetera.” Fong smirked, like Zuko’s birthright was some joke. Zuko fumed.

“So you understand the consequences of your actions,” he spat. “My father will —”

“You must have more questions,” Fong interrupted. “Why don’t we start there first, before we get into politics.”

Establish a rapport, he reminded himself. “Fine. How long have I been here?”

“Approximately ten nights and nine days. I apologize for the cramped accommodations, but they are only temporary.”

“Of course they’re temporary!” Zuko snapped. “You have no right to hold me here! Once my father —”

“Really? That was the only question you had?” Ugh, this ASSHOLE! “Don’t you want to know what your ‘father’ has said regarding your stay here?”

Zuko perked up at the news that his father was aware of his predicament, and then his stomach sank at the realization that his father was aware of his predicament. He was going to be so disappointed. No, not even disappointed — Uncle would be disappointed, but Father would be furious. Spirits, he didn’t even try to escape! At least if he was killed in his effort, then his memory might be held with some modicum of respect: the Fire Lord’s firstborn son, killed by savage earthbenders in his valiant escape from their savage earthbending jail. He wondered if Fong knew how long he had cried in that cell. He wondered if he had told Father. But, instead of asking this, he said: “Of course I do, you imbecile! In fact, I DEMAND you tell me!”

Fong chuckled. “No need for demands, Zuko.”

“It’s PRINCE Zuko.”

Fong quirked an eyebrow but continued without acknowledgement. “Let me read to you my latest correspondence with your father, the Fire Lord.” He gestured to a guard stationed at his right, who then presented Fong with a tightly bound scroll. Fong unfurled it and read in monotone: “‘These frivolous negotiations are over. Release the boy or don’t; it is of no matter to me unless he has completed his mission, which I am certain he has not.’”

Immediately, Zuko felt a cold that he had never felt before, like Fong’s words snuffed out any warmth that still lingered within him. He opened his mouth, closed it, then tried again. “You’re lying.”

“Would you like to read it yourself?” Fong asked. “There are several more letters, but this one does a fine job in summing them all up.” He nodded to the guard, who then took the scroll and unfurled it in front of Zuko. It wasn’t Father’s handwriting, he knew that — he wasn’t even sure what his father’s handwriting looked like — but it was his scribe’s. Most definitely, it was his scribe’s. Zuko stared at the indentation of Father’s ring in the melted wax, his only signature. He swallowed and read it again. 

These frivolous negotiations are over. Release the boy or don’t; it is of no matter to me unless he has completed his mission, which I am certain he has not. These frivolous negotiations are over. Release the boy or don’t; it is of no matter to me unless he has completed his mission, which I am certain he has not. These frivolous negotiations are over. Release the boy or don’t; it is of no matter to me unless he has completed his mission, which I am certain he has not.

He didn’t even call me by name, Zuko realized. Why wouldn’t he call me by name?

“You see, Zuko,” Fong continued, “I am aware of your status as a banished prince.” Zuko bit back a retort — there was nothing to say, not when Fong was right. “Still, I attempted to make correspondence with the Fire Lord to initiate negotiations — yourself for some Earth Kingdom prisoners and the like, or maybe a small colony town. Things certainly worth much less than a Crown Prince such as yourself. Alas, Ozai refused to continue, citing this mysterious ‘mission’ of yours. And what is that, if I may ask?”

Even if Zuko wanted to respond, he couldn’t. He sat paralyzed, his eyes retracing the letter over and over and over again. These frivolous negotiations are over. Release the boy or don’t; it is of no matter to me unless he has completed his mission, which I am certain he has not. Fong accepted the silence as an answer.

“I empathize with your predicament, Zuko, I really do,” Fong said. “You’re young — what, fourteen? Fifteen?”

“Thirteen,” Zuko whispered.

“Mm. Thirteen. A young man trained by the best of Fire Nation tutors and masters, growing into the prime of his life. It would be such a shame to cut that short, would it not?”

Zuko’s head jerked up, frantically searching Fong’s face for maliciousness, but Fong remained impassive and calm. “Cut it short?” he repeated, voice cracking. Fong nodded then frowned, feigning great sorrow.

“Indeed. Because, as you see, if your father does not want you, why should we?”

His words echoed through the dining hall, and again, Zuko had no response. He knew Fong was wrong — of course, Father wanted him; Father wanted him so badly that he entrusted the Fire Nation’s most important quest to him. Of course, he wanted Zuko. He just wanted the best version of Zuko. 

“But like I said,” Fong continued, “you’re a strong young man. A strong firebender.” (Zuko didn’t dare correct him.) “So, in the spirit of good faith, I want to offer you a choice.” He paused for a beat, waiting for Zuko to say something, anything, but still, Zuko was silent. “We could kill you,” said Fong, “which is the last thing I want to do. I hate to dispose of children. We could, instead, crush your hands and feet and keep you in that cell of yours for the rest of your life —” 

Zuko shuddered at the phantom sensation; several years ago, he and Azula watched a despondent Uncle Iroh return from Ba Sing Se, followed by a procession of badly injured firebenders, many of whom were returning without their hands. He heard that crushed hands were so terribly painful that most soldiers, if conscious, chose to cut them off, leaving behind two cauterized stumps. Those who kept their hands often hid their mangled appearance from view, as crushed or missing hands were the ultimate display of weakness and defeat. Many times, Zuko wondered why those soldiers didn’t choose death over dishonor, but sitting trapped at this table, listening to a man with all the power in the world casually mention murdering him, he began to understand. As if Fong heard his thoughts, he added, “Or, we could use you.”

“Use me?” Zuko whispered.

“Use you,” Fong confirmed, then flicked his hand. Zuko fell suddenly to the ground, whatever seat he had been molded to now sunken into the earth, and he had just a moment to orient himself before half a dozen guards rushed from their posts, straight toward him. In an instant, any fears or apprehension toward his fire disappeared as his bone-deep, blood-warming instinct took over his body, and he shifted into the first defensive kata.

He was still so woozy from the poppy and Fong’s reveal, and so stiff from sleeping on hard stone for over a week, that he was hardly aware of what happened next. It was as if he was right outside his body watching himself twist and duck and fumble and kick, his eyes buffering just a second behind his actions. He had never fought earthbenders, but the principles of defense were essentially the same: protect the head, protect the hands, protect the heart. He was weak from weeks of bed rest, but he was smaller and faster than these men, who were slow and clunky in their movements. Use your opponents’ weakness against them, said Uncle.

He watched a slab of rock hurtle toward his center, and he watched as he split it with an explosive kick that sent him tumbling backward. He watched a barrage of rocks zip through the air toward his face, and he watched as he generated some seemingly impossible amount of chi and shot it out in front of him, and he watched as the fireball cut through the rocks and burned their benders. Two more guards advanced on his right, but he ducked and swept both their legs out from under them, then did the same to another advancing from behind. Break their stances. Break their foundations. They are nothing without their concrete connection to the earth.

But the Earth Kingdom guards kept getting up, over and over again. Zuko watched himself sag and slow, he watched the earthbenders press in closer and closer, he watched his fire begin to sputter out because, after all, he had been without it for over a month, and he watched as he was a second too late in reacting to a stone whirling toward his left side. It clipped his previously injured shoulder and sent him sprawling to the ground, brutally knocking the wind from his lungs and with it, his fire.

“Enough!” Fong barked.

Zuko wheezed on the ground, mouth gaping and black spots scattered across his vision. The whole fight must’ve only lasted for two minutes or less, but he was already close to unconsciousness. What a pathetic display. He laid there until two large, crushing hands lifted him by his upper arms, and then he was face-to-face with General Fong, only the tips of his toes brushing the ground. Fong was grinning. Zuko couldn’t think of a time he ever saw Father make that expression. Earthbenders were so weird. 

“Fantastic!” he exclaimed. “What a fantastic display!”

“I,” Zuko gasped out, “l-lost.”

“Nonsense. Look what you did to my men.” And Fong turned him until he could see those six Earth Kingdom guards sitting on the ground and panting. Several of their hands were ripe with first or second-degree burns. A few beards were singed almost to the chin. They looked about as exhausted as Zuko felt. Fong spun him around again and shook him, but not violently — no, it was as if he was excited. 

“Fantastic!” he said again. He took Zuko by the elbow and practically dragged him to the other end of the table, then sat him down in front of the platter of food. Zuko felt his feet sink into stone, but his hands were kept free. “Eat, eat,” Fong encouraged, still grinning as he retook his place at the head of the table. Zuko stared at him, incredulous. “Go on, eat. You need your strength.” The man even slid a plate of roasted poultry to Zuko, then heaped on a pile of rice and vegetables. Still, Zuko didn’t touch it. Fong rolled his eyes. “Oh, please, it isn’t poisoned.” He tore off a chunk of the meat and plopped it in his mouth, chewing contentedly.

“I don’t… understand,” Zuko rasped. Fong grabbed Zuko’s chin, not unkindly, and maneuvered Zuko’s face until they were eye-to-eye again.

“This is the third option,” he said. “To use you. You, an ailing thirteen-year-old boy, managed to nearly take out six of my men! A fantastic display, fantastic.” Zuko scowled; surely, the General was making fun of him. “You see, the front is very far from here, and my men have never properly faced firebenders, just the occasional deserters. They need a powerful bender like you to train with, to learn.” 

Wow. The Earth Kingdom really was dumber than he realized. “You fool,” Zuko spat, baring his teeth. “You think I would ever help you injure my people? I’d rather die." For Spirits’ sake, the only reason he was in this situation to begin with was because he didn’t want his people to hurt! 

Fong’s bright smile disappeared so quickly, it was as if it had never been there. His lips pressed in a taut line, his dark eyes scanned Zuko’s face, then his body. “I see,” he murmured. “Well, I did give you a choice. You will be executed at sunrise tomorrow. Perhaps we will send your head to your father, and maybe your hands, as well.”

Zuko had felt dread before — he felt it after he messed up his katas in front of Grandfather; he felt it when Father found him lazing about in the turtleduck courtyard; he felt it when he watched Mother turn her back on him for the first and last time. Yet, dread had never felt quite so real, so… final. Maybe he had known from the moment he woke in the dark for the first time that he would never make it out of this prison alive. He toyed with the thought, rolling it over and over in his mind: I am going to die. I am going to die. Tomorrow, I will be dead.

Azula and his father were right about him all along. He really was useless, and slow, and pitiful. Going into an Earth Kingdom village all by himself — Agni, Uncle always told him he never thought things through enough, and now his worst vice was his downfall. He truly had been a terrible prince all his life. The least he could do for his country was die for it. 

Zuko stilled his trembling form, bit his tongue to school his face, and met Fong’s eyes. “Very well,” he replied, quite proud of his steady voice. “I’m sure my father will appreciate the courtesy.”

Fong stared at him for a few more minutes, then shrugged. “Alright, then. Corporal Baowei, escort our prisoner back to his cell. Corporal Qian, bring out the next contenders.”

“Wait!” Zuko blurted. “What next contenders?”

“Oh, they’re of no importance to you,” said Fong. “Now, Qian!”

Corporal Baowei encased Zuko’s arms in stone, all the way up to his elbows, unbound his feet, and started to drag him quite harshly to the exit. They were nearly out of the room when Zuko saw Corporal Qian return with four other prisoners varying in height, their heads bagged. Qian lined them up against the back wall, and a dozen earthbenders stood opposite, already in their offensive stances. Qian pulled the hoods off. Zuko gasped. These were Fire Nation prisoners! 

Two men, one close to the conscription age and the other a couple of decades older, were half-stripped and sagging from untreated injuries; the younger man’s shoulder was visibly dangling out of its socket, while the older man favored the leg with a strangely bent knee. Beside them stood a young woman, a peasant, her red clothes ragged and torn, and her face bruised, and next to her was — a child. A little boy, maybe Azula’s age or younger. Fat, silent tears slid down his reddened face. They all looked scared. So, so scared. Was this an execution?

Zuko saw Fong start to raise his hand, and instinct took over once again. He jumped up and kicked his feet back into Baowei’s stomach as hard as he could. The man grunted, his grip loosened, and Zuko tore across the hall and threw himself in front of the prisoners. “Stop!” he cried. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

Fong stepped out from behind the line of earthbenders, his face blank, impassive. “They’re the other contenders,” he said, like it was obvious. “Well, four of the many.”

“Contenders? ”

“That’s right. You think you’re the only firebender we’ve come across fleeing through the woods?”

“I wasn’t — you can’t do this! You can’t ‘train’ with them, they’re civilians!”

Fong laughed then, a hearty, terrible noise. He stepped through the guards and pressed in toward Zuko. This time, Zuko did not back away. “Civilians? Please. That young man is a Private who deserted his division in the heat of battle. The old-timer is an ex-Captain who’s been hiding in an Earth Kingdom village for years. The woman is colony trash who was caught sabotaging Earth Kingdom supply lines.”

“And the child,” Zuko gritted. “The little boy. Is he guilty, too?”

Fong glanced at the boy like he noticed him for the first time. “Oh, him. No, the poor half-breed was fleeing from his village after his mother was killed. We took him in and gave him the same choice we give all our firebending prisoners: death, disfigurement, or to serve a new country. The same choice we gave to you. Evidently, most choose to serve. You’re quite the outlier, Prince Zuko.”

Gasps from behind him. “Prince Zuko?” the old man croaked. Zuko didn’t dare turn around and look them in the eyes. He didn’t dare witness their terror close-up.

“Unfortunately for my men training,” Fong continued, “Most can hardly be considered firebenders at all.”

Zuko took a step forward. His foot sank into stone, but he did not falter. “You use them,” he growled. “You use them like dogs and livestock so your men, who are so ‘very far from the front’, can have a chance to beat on firebenders. Where is your honor? What have these people ever done to you? How could they possibly be threats?”

Fong strode forward until he was leering down at Zuko, his breath hot and face glowering. Zuko’s heart pounded, but still, he did not flinch. “You ask what they’ve done? You ask why they’re threats? Their very existence is a threat. Your existence is a threat. You understand that your great-grandfather ordered your people to wipe out an entire people? You understand that your father is continuing his mission in the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes? You can’t possibly expect us not to defend ourselves.”

“Torture is not defense!”

“Then maybe,” Fong seethed, “we’re just settling the score.” Zuko couldn’t believe this. Were these people really that cruel and savage? “If you’re so concerned about ‘torture,’ then you should ask your father what the Fire Nation does in their prisons.” Fong stepped back, a sort of calm settling over him, and his posture relaxed. “Too bad you’ll be dead by the morning.”

Baowei grabbed Zuko again and started to haul him away while the earthbenders retook their stances. Zuko twisted around and watched the four prisoners, bodies shaking from exhaustion and pain, settle into rudimentary defensive katas. The little boy’s form was terrible, even worse than Zuko’s at that age. He’d fall first. 

Zuko couldn’t do this. He couldn’t stand by, helpless, as his people were beaten to death in front of his eyes. He tried to tug away from Baowei again, but the man held firm. Shit. Shit, shit, shit. 

“Wait!” Zuko blurted, “Hold on!”

Fong let out a heavy sigh and turned to Zuko, face pinched in annoyance. “What now.”

“You said that — that they’re no match for your men, right? But I was, right? So what if — if I could…”

“Spit it out, Prince Zuko.”

“Your men are far from the front, correct?”

“Indeed. Most will probably never see proper battle with firebenders.” So, Zuko wouldn’t really be training them to hurt Fire Nation citizens… right?

“If I were to… agree, agree to train with your men, would these prisoners — could you keep them from fighting?” Fong tapped his chin, head tilted up. Deep in his gut, Zuko realized that this ruse was likely his plan all along, but it didn’t matter. Not when his people’s lives were at stake.

“I suppose we could configure an agreement of sorts,” Fong eventually said. “Though you alone can’t possibly take over for all of them.”

“I can!” he shouted. “I swear, I can! But you have to promise, on your honor, that you leave these people be. Don’t kill them, don’t cut off their hands, and I’ll… serve you.”

“My Prince, you can’t,” said the young man, while the boy started to cry harder. Fong approached Zuko again, eyebrow quirked.

“Is that a promise?” he asked. Zuko scowled.

“You first.”

Fong smirked and raised his right hand. “I promise,” he began, “on my 'honor,' to leave the ashmakers alone while their Prince serves us in his full capacity. Happy?” Zuko nodded his head once, and for the first time since he stood up in that war room, he knew with complete confidence that what he was doing was right. Father would be horrified if he heard of this, but Zuko would take his father’s anger tenfold to protect just one Fire Nation citizen. That’s what being a prince was about.

“And I swear on my honor that I will train with your men in my full capacity.”

Fong immediately grinned and clapped his hands once, sharp and loud. Qian went to bag the prisoners’ heads again. “I’m so glad we were able to work out an arrangement,” he said. “Prince Zuko, meet your handler.” 

A hand grabbed Zuko’s left shoulder, and he jumped, cursing himself for his stupid inattention, before twisting to face the newcomer. He looked about as old and as tall as Fong but leaner, yet Zuko could make out hardened muscles bulging beneath his scarce armor. He had a short, trimmed beard, nothing at all like the other unkempt Earth Kingdom savages, and eyes so dark Zuko could hardly distinguish his pupils. Unlike Fong, he was not smiling; rather, his expression was so cold that Zuko briefly thought he saw Father’s face instead. The man had no visible scars, but Zuko knew in an instant by demeanor alone that he knew combat and pain and suffering.

“This is Captain Taosen.” 

The man glared down at Zuko, and the grip on his shoulder tightened. “You will address me as Sir, boy.” And in that moment, that warm and comforting and humiliating moment, Zuko felt right at home.