Chapter Text
Zuko woke up with the sun on his twenty-fifth birthday. He had his breakfast of congee and fried eggs and got through about half. In front of the mirror, he spread the ointment his physician gave him over his burn scars as he did every day. He was perfunctorily dressed in his ceremonial robes by two servants.
He watched himself in the mirror as they strapped on the vambraces, the pauldron. As he grew older, he was disturbed by how much he was coming to resemble his father, especially if he covered the scar. Even his robes used to be Ozai’s, tucked in by the tailors where they didn’t quite fit his body. With the reparations and recession, the accounts office had cracked down hard on wasteful spending; even now the economy was picking up again, frugal habits died hard. Then again, Zuko had outlasted his father’s reign by nearly three years; surely, by now he could call these robes his.
They fit the hairpiece into his topknot. He swept out and climbed onto the waiting palanquin.
The Fire Lord’s birthday was an annual celebration Zuko never quite figured out how to worm out of. Given the discontent in the earlier years of his reign, it had been important to project his public image. His friends used to make the journey over too, but in recent years everyone had become busier and busier. This year, Aang and Katara had sent their gift ahead with their apologies. It all made his birthday feel somewhat impersonal. Then again, he had given so much of himself to his nation already; what more was his birthday?
As he did every year, Zuko went to the square in front of the palace and read out something his speechwriter had put together, something about his achievements in the past year. It was much too self-aggrandising, nothing he could have ever put together himself; then again, he wasn’t a very good speechwriter. There was a whole set of festivities: street food stalls, acrobatic displays, firecrackers. He shook hands with as many people as he could and conjured little sparks for children, shadowed the whole time by his bodyguard-valet, Osha.
And as there were every year, practically during any national event, there were the protests.
By now, Zuko could write the book on dodging assassins. What he had come to discover was that assassination was the extreme end of protest. Today, beyond the phalanx of guards, it seemed two groups had chosen the same day to express their dissatisfaction. On one side, with some bearing the illegal black flame emblem, they shouted for Yu Dao and Cranefish Town to be returned to the Fire Nation. On the other, they were calling for Zuko to share his secret tricks and bring an end to the alteration in firebending. There were certainly more people protesting now than there had been in the last few years.
He beat as quick a retreat as he could.
By some stroke of luck, he had managed to convince the event planners to let him have a private dinner with his mother. As soon as the palanquin stopped outside the palace gates, he leapt out and ran to his private dining hall.
His mother was there already. “Happy birthday, my boy,” she said, reaching up to take his face in her hands, patting him on the cheek. He breathed deeply, feeling warmed by her jasmine and cinnamon scent. He hadn’t seen her in months.
His next greeting was for his stepfather, who clapped him on the back. Kiyi, approaching ten, had decided that she wasn’t into hugs but still waved before turning back to her novel.
Osha caught up, skittering to a halt as she clutched the doorframe to catch her breath. During the war, she had been a military defector, fending off the Fire Nation soldiers sent to recapture her. After her pardon and return to the Fire Nation, it had seemed natural for her to succeed the Kyoshi Warriors as his bodyguard. “Sorry,” said Zuko, not really sorry at all. “I should’ve waited.”
“Never thought you’d outrun me like that,” she wheezed. “Come over, you don’t need the pauldron and vambraces for dinner.”
Mother and Ikem gave him red packets, as they did every year; as he did every year, Zuko protested that he was too old, that he was the ruler of the country and didn’t need their money. “You can give out your own red packets when you get married,” said Mother, and that shut him up.
Ikem, ever chatty, regaled them with his tales about his coworkers at the local Hira’a bureaucracy as they sat around the table. During the recession, he and Mother had found it difficult to keep the theatre running and Ikem had switched careers. Zuko could only nod along.
The kitchens had insisted that Zuko needed to eat lobster-crab on his birthday, and it came out resting on a plate of noodles, red as a rhododendron bush. “For long life,” Mother noted with approval. The server dished it out; meaty chunks of lobster-crab, long saucy strands of noodles in individual bowls. The smell made Zuko’s stomach squeeze.
He picked at the food, chewing up the noodles strand by strand. Mother was too observant to let it slip from her notice. “You’re eating so little.”
“It’s fine, Mama,” said Zuko. “I had a lot to eat at the festival.” That was a lie.
“I don’t think so. Look at your wrists, they’re so thin. Don’t you think he looks thin, Ikem?”
Ikem looked like he really didn’t want to supply an opinion on the Fire Lord’s wrists. “I… uh…”
“You haven’t been eating properly,” said Mother.
Zuko glared into his bowl, pushing the chunks of lobster-crab around with his chopsticks before spearing one and chewing it up to make a point. The exhaustion that he had felt at the festival was catching up to him. It was true, he hadn’t been eating properly. It wasn’t like he didn’t want to; he liked lobster-crab. But lately, he had developed stomach pains and every time he ate it hurt. Even with a cup of tea, he felt like he was going to burst open. “I’m just not that hungry.”
“Osha, have you noticed?” Behind him, Osha started, clearly not expecting to be addressed. “Can you make sure he goes to the physician tomorrow?”
The next dish to be served up was a medley of vegetables and mushrooms, and Mother made the servants give him a double helping of them. Then, spiced roast duck. For dessert, a red bean soup. Under her watchful eye, he ate every bite.
Before they left, Mother gripped him by the arm. “Look after yourself, son.”
Zuko looked at the floor.
Ikem clapped him on the shoulder again. “She’s just worried about you, kid,” he said in an undertone. “Don’t worry your mother, alright? Kiyi, say bye to your big brother.”
“Bye, Zuzu,” she said, and Zuko felt the pang of guilt that always came when he thought of Azula.
It wasn’t a charitable thing to feel about his own mother, especially since there was a period of about seven years in his life when he hadn’t even known whether she was dead or alive, but he was almost happy to see her go when she, Ikem, and Kiyi turned to their guest chambers. They would leave for Hira’a at the crack of dawn. Privately, he wondered whether his uncle might have been more forgiving about the situation.
Osha came behind him. “Are you feeling alright, Your Majesty?”
“Feel so disgusting.” Zuko felt his stomach, straining against his belt. “I’ll just be in my room, digesting.”
He gave her the evening off and made his way back to his chambers, flicking on the lamps with a swipe of the wrist. It was the hot-dry season and the nights were much cooler than the daytime. Without the pauldron, it was easier to undress himself; he shucked off robe after robe over a waiting rack. The red packets were left unopened on a tea stand, taels making a heavy clunk against the elm wood. The last thing to come off was his Fire Lord’s hairpiece; his hair fell around his face in straight sheets. He felt like he was going to vomit; he felt like the food would never come out. Just as he was about to climb into bed, a bird’s cry caught his attention.
It was coming from the window. There was a dark shape and an insistent tap against the wood. It was a messenger hawk.
Zuko approached slowly so as not to startle the bird. He read the name inscribed on the collar: Hawky. The bird ruffled its feathers with an aristocratic air, presenting the small package tied to its talon, then hopping to turn its back to him. Zuko took the package and slid the roll of paper out of the holder strapped onto its back, and the bird took off into the night.
Happy birthday, man, the letter opened.
I’m back in the neighbourhood. Finished up my degree at Ba Sing Se and decided to train again. Am now being coached in the literary and martial arts by one Master Piandao. He’s a friend of your uncle, I think you would’ve met him back when those White Lotus guys were recapturing Ba Sing Se.
Hope your birthday was nice. Congrats on passing the Cultural Revival Grant, read about it on the Yitpao on the way here. Piandao’s super excited about it, he wants to get a zither club going. Must be nice to have that done by today so you could get a break. Toph and your uncle send their best. Actually, Toph said you better come over so she can have a bending rematch soon. Said she’d squish you flat with a mountain. Her words.
Hawky’s bringing you your presents. Tea from your uncle (he’s predictable like that). Toph got into pottery lately. You can deduce which one’s mine.
You should visit us in Shu Jing sometime. Piandao won’t mind.
Toodles,
Sokka
Zuko ran his fingers over the characters, quietly touched. He hadn’t seen Sokka in ages, let alone heard from him. Generally, the whole group tried to get together each year, right after the New Year. That hadn’t always worked out: after she and Sokka had broken up, Suki skipped one of the get-togethers; another time, Aang had been called on some ultra-urgent Avatar business; Zuko himself had to give one a miss when an assassination attempt put the whole palace on lockdown. Sokka had begged off the last meeting, saying he had to finish his thesis. The last time everyone had been gathered together was probably during Katara and Aang’s wedding.
He opened the packages. Indeed, there was tea from his uncle, a rare first flush harvested from one of the islands off the east coast of the Earth Kingdom. Toph’s present was an exquisite clay cup, glazed a turtleduck egg blue that crept into brown towards the lip. A band of gold stretched around it, likely metalbent into place. Ignoring the full feeling in his belly, he shook a few leaves into the cup, filled it with water from a pitcher, and heated it. His uncle would be scandalised. He always made tea the ordinary way, boiling the water slowly over a fire, but Zuko couldn’t taste the difference and he wasn’t going to send for a teapot at this hour.
Sokka’s present was in a box the size of his palm. He tipped it out onto his bed and a little clay dragon fell out along with a strip of paper. Fill me with oil and light me :), it read. Zuko snuffed out the nearest lamp, tipped oil into the little dragon’s mouth, and touched a spark to it. A tiny flame leapt from its tongue.
Zuko settled back against the headboard, watching the flame as he sipped at the tea. It truly was delectable, with a deep, earthy tone in contrast to the lighter teas Uncle preferred. He missed them all, his Uncle, Toph, Sokka, and everyone else. Far away, the fireworks were starting up, crackling away in the night. Maybe he was imagining it, but his tummy didn’t hurt so much right now.
“You’re too heaty,” said the physician.
Zuko suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. Where had he heard that before? He was a firebender. Of course he was heaty.
The physician prattled on. “The heat is causing inflammation and giving you ulcers, which is affecting your digestion. You need to change your diet. What did you eat last night?”
“Lobster-crab. The kitchens insisted. I didn’t want to eat that much but my mother made me.”
The physician tutted. “I’ll be talking to them about it. Cooling foods for you only.”
Zuko tried not to groan. Cooling foods meant no to most spices, and he was Fire Nation bred through and through when it came to the tastebuds.
“What are the heaty and cooling foods? I can never keep track,” Osha piped up. “We’re setting off soon to Yu Dao, so I’m in charge of Fire Lord food for the next few days.”
Zuko wandered out into the corridor as the physician set about compiling his list. Osha came out after what seemed like too long of a while, flapping the open scroll of paper between her hands to dry the ink. “That’s a lot,” she said, grimacing. “He told me to remind you to keep using the ointment for your scars, too.”
“I do.”
They went to the airship port at the harbour. The water was thick with ships and the sun glinted a blinding white off the waves that peeked through. Zuko was bringing only a small retinue with him—Osha, Councillor Hara and her valet, a backup guard, and a secretary—and budget constraints meant that they had to take the public airship. In fact, much of the public transport system had been overhauled in the last few years, repurposing old warcraft. They boarded first, Fire Lord privileges, and were ushered into the small rooms on the top level. As the airship levitated, the secretary started to read from a brief detailing the latest situation in the former colonies. Zuko only half listened. He eyed the capital as it grew smaller and smaller from the window, red rooftops becoming a distant glitter in the caldera. He imagined Sozin a hundred years ago, making the same journey by sea, to survey his new colonies. He bit his knuckle.
“Damn that absolute bastard,” said Zuko on their return trip, and let out a huff of flame.
His secretary yelped and snatched the file out of his hand. Lately, everything he did with the Earth Kingdom seemed to end in disaster. Kuei hadn’t even bothered to show up this time, funnelling all his demands through the provincial governor, a stonefaced man who resisted all attempts at compromise.
Zuko flung himself onto the couch, rubbing at his temples. In addition to the growing discomfort in his belly, he had sported a dull headache since they had disembarked on Earth Kingdom territory. The Yu Dao business had been a constant thorn in his side since the armistice. In the third year of his reign, he had managed to negotiate for Yu Dao and its sister city Cranefish Town to enter an agreement of political autonomy and Earth Kingdom. For a long time, he had considered it a political triumph. Five years on, Cranefish Town localists were agitating for independence at the instigation of the charismatic Yee Kwan. The Earth Kingdom seemed more than happy to lose Cranefish Town, but not so much Yu Dao. Reports claimed that they were stacking the local legislature with loyalists, which would violate the agreement.
The airship announcer clicked on. “Currently disembarking for the Jang Hui River. Next stop, Shu Jing.”
“Shu Jing,” repeated Zuko. You should visit us in Shu Jing sometime, Sokka had written.
Osha blinked. “What is it, Your Majesty?”
“Change of plans,” said Zuko. “Tell the steward we’ll be disembarking at the next stop.”
Shu Jing was sunny and warm when he and Osha disembarked at the small airship port. The retinue was carrying on back to Caldera to pass the developments on; in any case, Zuko usually had the day blocked out to recover from the time difference in his travels. He strapped on a hat to cover his scar as they made their way through the town.
“Accounts is gonna be mad about this, boss,” said Osha. She had erected a small shadecloth with thin bamboo poles attached to her satchel, which Zuko didn’t have the luxury of using when he was trying to avoid notice.
“Trip’s on me,” he said.
“You know the way?”
“Yeah, it’s just up that hill.” He pointed towards the estate, sitting on the rocky outcrop that overlooked one of the best views on the island. “I learnt to wield the dual dao there.”
The journey wasn’t long and the sun beat heavily through their travelling clothes, burning off the remains of Zuko’s headache. They came to the gates emblazoned with the symbol of the White Lotus. The sight of it lit a flare of nostalgia in him. Zuko rapped the brass knocker.
“Who is it?” said a disgruntled male voice. The gate cracked open.
“Hello, Fat.”
The gate swung open wider, revealing the startled face of Piandao’s manservant. “Your Majesty,” he gulped, and threw himself to the ground.
“Come on, Fat,” said Zuko, twisting his fingers into the straps of his satchel. “You’ve known me since I was a kid, you don’t need to do that.”
Osha helped Fat off the ground as he grumbled and led them into the reception hall, then shuffled off to find the other inhabitants. Osha craned her neck, gawking at the woodwork, the ink paintings and porcelain displays, and peering at the view to the garden. “This is nice, real nice,” she stage-whispered to Zuko.
“Thank you,” came the smooth voice of an older man. Piandao himself strode into the room, hands clutched behind his back. Bands of grey adorned his hair. He knelt on the cushion before Zuko and kowtowed.
“Don’t do that, Sifu,” Zuko hurried to say. “I should be the one bowing to you.”
“It’s rare for my former students to become the Fire Lord. In fact, it has only happened once. Let an old man indulge. And milady, you are…?”
“This is Osha, my valet and bodyguard.” She made the sign of the flame and bowed low. “I hope we’re not encroaching. We brought you some egg tarts from Yu Dao as a gift.”
Osha dug the box of tarts, a local specialty of the city, out from her bag and handed it over.
“To what do I—” began Piandao, and was interrupted by the sound of loud, hurried footsteps. “Ah, there he is.”
“Your Flameyness!” said Sokka, bursting through the doorway. He jogged over to Zuko, lifted him by the armpits half out of the cushion, and squeezed him in a tight hug. Zuko barely had time to move his arms before he was dumped back on the floor and Sokka was heading for the cushion beside Piandao. “Sorry, I was practising my calligraphy. Happy birthday again. Hey, Osha. Let me introduce—”
“The Fire Lord was one of my students, when he was very young,” said Piandao. Fat came bustling back in with a tea set, which he set up between them. “Look at you now, with the eighth anniversary of your coronation approaching.”
“No way,” said Sokka. “We were both trained by Master Piandao? How come you never told me?”
“I wasn’t very good at firebending as a kid. My uncle pulled some favours.”
Piandao looked at him sharply. “And I saw great promise in you.”
Sokka took over the tea ceremony, insisting that Zuko’s uncle had taught him well in the last couple of years. Since moving to Ba Sing Se for his studies, he had grown out his wolf’s tail and braided it in the local fashion. He wasn’t wearing blue, instead matching Piandao’s long bruise-red changshan and loose black trousers. The only things that marked him out as a Water Tribesman were his shell necklace, peeking out from under the mandarin collar, and a single blue-beaded earring dangling from his right lobe. He looked cosmopolitan.
“I invited him,” Sokka told Piandao. “Sent him a letter saying he ought to come visit, since I’m living so close now.”
“It’s a three-hour flight by airship from the Capital,” said Zuko, rolling his eyes. He was sipping slowly at his tea, not wanting to bloat himself again. Sokka had prepared it well, almost a perfect copy of his uncle’s technique.
“It’s the same country.”
“I’m always happy to host the Fire Lord,” said Piandao. “Having young people around livens up a place so.”
“Did you pass through here from Yu Dao? Saw something about it in the Yitpao this morning.”
The throb behind Zuko’s left eye threatened to return. “It was. Uh. The usual.”
“Sokka, the Fire Lord may not want to talk business while retiring here. Come, Osha. Fat can show you to your rooms and we can let the two friends reconnect.”
“Of course.” Osha got to her feet. “Ah, Fat, I wanted to talk to you about the Fire Lord’s meals…”
“Come on,” said Sokka when they were alone. “I’ll show you the garden.”
The view was truly as amazing as Zuko remembered: the unobscured, cloudless sky arcing overhead, sunlight picking white sparks on the rushing falls below. The air here was clean, much cleaner than Caldera and Yu Dao, or even the town centre of Shu Jing. Zuko stepped out from the shade and breathed in, feeling his inner flame pulse.
“Good, eh? Piandao’s redecorated.” Sokka led them to a bench under a willow that overlooked a small pond of teeming peacock koi, which had to be a recent addition.
“Pretty,” Zuko remarked. “Thanks for the dragon, by the way. I love it.”
“It’s cool, right? I swear, you can get anything in those Ba Sing Se markets. Your uncle knows all the best places.”
“Yeah.” Zuko groped for a topic. “Sooo… uh, you finished your thesis?”
He knew vaguely that it was something to do with engineering techniques that had been developed by the Southern Water Tribe. But Sokka grimaced.
“Never ask a man about his thesis,” he groaned, slapping a hand over his forehead. “I’d pay money not to have to think about it again.”
Zuko blinked; he hadn’t realised the question would be so offensive. Sokka opened an eye. “Your face!” he said. “It’s a grad student thing. Every student has a love-hate relationship with their thesis. My marks were OK, actually, but I’m sick of thinking about it.”
If it were anything like the Yu Dao situation, Zuko could sympathise. “Why come to Shu Jing then?”
“Have you seen this place?” Sokka swept an arm across the vista. “I only spent a few days here with Piandao during the war, and I ought to finish my instruction. He said I could really do with some, uh, finessing of my skills. I do some odd jobs around town too, earn my keep. It was about time.”
The answer didn’t satisfy Zuko’s curiosity, which wanted to know: Why not use that degree you spend so long on? At Aang and Katara’s wedding, Sokka had spent most of the night chattering about wanting to revive Southern Water Tribe technologies that had been lost to the war, to put their cultural contribution on the map.
“I can show you the calligraphy I’ve been working on,” Sokka continued. He stood up and led them back inside. “You know, the last time I was here, I just slathered ink on my face and smooshed it onto the paper. Fat was so mad.”
As it turned out, Sokka had been drilling characters when Zuko arrived. The wonky letters sat half-complete on the sheet spread on the desk.
“Oh,” said Zuko, who had walls full of the best antique calligraphy produced in the Fire Nation. He didn’t recall Sokka’s letter looking this childlike.
Sokka sighed, tilting his head critically. “It’s not great, you can say that. I’m super rusty. I’m left-handed too, and Piandao insists that calligraphy has to be done right-handed.”
“It’s not that bad,” said Zuko, and with this context it certainly wasn’t.
“I’ll send you some when I get halfway decent,” Sokka said. “How’s your calligraphy?”
Zuko shrugged. He’d learnt some basics from Piandao but truth be told, he had terrible fine motor skills that only worsened after his eye was burned. As a ruler now, he had a whole cadre of scribes who could write in perfect clerical script, and no one asked to see his personal reams of notes scrawled in the middle of the night.
Sokka egged him into demonstrating. He knelt at the table and tried to assume the pose as correctly as he could recall, cupping the sleeve under his right hand and keeping his back straight. The brush dropped a large blotch of ink onto the paper as he hovered, and Sokka snorted.
“Shove off,” said Zuko, and wrote his own name.
“It’s neat?”
Zuko sighed. “Yeah, I can’t do any of those fancy flourishes.” He gestured to the walls, where Piandao had hung up his own artfully illegible reproductions of ancient poetry. “Now show me yours.”
Sokka plucked the brush out of his hand, skimming over Zuko’s skin as he did. He wrote his own name in slow, jittering strokes. Zuko watched his face while he did it, frowning focus zeroed in on the moving tail of the brush. Then he hung the brush back onto the stand. “Alright, I’m not embarrassing myself anymore today. Let’s see if Fat has food ready.”
The rest of the day with Sokka and Piandao took his mind off the disastrous Yu Dao trip. The next morning, Zuko went to say goodbye to Sokka but he was nowhere to be found. Thinking he might still be asleep, he knocked on Sokka’s door and found him sitting inside at the vanity table.
“This looks kinda dumb, right?” Sokka was holding his long braid up, inspecting his reflection.
Zuko didn’t really think so, but he said, “You’d probably look worse if you shaved the front as well.”
“You’re right. My head has enough bits shaved, anyway, otherwise I might’ve done it.” Sokka rolled his eyes. “To fit in and everything, ha ha.”
Zuko was surprised at the bitterness that had crept into his voice, but it was gone as quickly as it had come.
“Anyway, I think I want my old hair back.” Sokka opened a drawer and pulled out his old Water Tribe hunting knife, pressing the blade below where he was holding a fistful of the braid.
“Wait,” said Zuko. “Let me do it for you.”
“Oh it’s no bother, I used to cut my own hair all the time.”
“No… here.” Zuko pried his fingers off the knife and moulded his hand around the handle. He gripped the braid where Sokka was holding it and pulled taut. “Here?”
“Yeah,” said Sokka, and there was a flash, and then the braid was loose in Zuko’s hand. The rest of the hair slipped out and slid over his cheekbones in waves. Sokka whooped.
“Thanks, man,” he said, taking the braid and clapping him on the shoulder. “Hey, safe travels. You should come again soon.”
Zuko thought about all the Council meetings that awaited him, the piles of work that increased whenever he turned his back. “I’ll try.”
“Try? Try? Come on, you can take breaks. You’re the Fire Lord, you can do whatever you want.”
Increasingly, it felt like this wasn’t the case. “Thanks for inviting me, I enjoyed coming back.” Then, he blurted, “I missed hanging out. Having friends around.”
Sokka watched him carefully. “Really? Well that sounds to me a good enough reason for you to come back soon.”