Chapter Text
He does not win his next fight.
His next opponent is way more controlled than his previous one, and has better aim and more power and know how to pack a punch. With the earth, obviously, because Zuko could turn it into a fistfight but the man’s hands are very big and solid looking and he doesn’t want to break his nose a second time.
The point is, he starts off strong, and it quickly goes all the way downhill. Trying to move more like an earth bender doesn’t help when the earth bender you’re fighting is better at moving than you. He can tell he’s had a lot of practice fighting fire benders, with the way he seems to predict his attacks, and it throws Zuko off balance.
Which is stupid, he thinks. Everyone must know how fire benders work by now. But it seems like every step he takes, every time he tries to ground himself or keep his stance steady, the ground is moving below him and fucking him right up.
He gets a few solid hits in. Grazes his arms and gets close enough to kick him in the chest before the earth bender picks him up like he weighs about as much as a few grapes and tosses him back so hard he scrapes up his knees when he falls. Zuko gets good practice in, cutting through earth with his fire, blocking the onslaught with his fists or his arms. He doesn’t scrape his elbow this time. He can’t feel as grounded so he tries moving lighter on his feet.
It works for a while — and by a while he means it works for a few minutes — but he doesn’t win the fight. He holds out as long as he can, because he never does know when to quit, but he winds up on his back, shot out of the ring and into the stands below.
One of the people watching gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder.
So much for beginner’s luck, he thinks, blood still pumping hard and fast. Another part of him thinks he should take what happened here as a learning experience and use it in the future. This part of him sounds an awful lot like Uncle.
He sits up, wiping the blood from his nose with the back of his forearm. It doesn’t feel good to lose, but it feels like something.
He wants to try again, he thinks. He wants to try again and win. He knows how the man attacks, now, from the ground up and on all sides. If he can find a way to limit his contact with the floor itself, he’ll force the man to adapt, and he can find the right moment to strike instead of attacking outright like he’s used to. He’s always preferred the direct approach — quick and harsh and over with, burning or punching or slicing straight through his obstacles. He’s always been a little slow on the uptake — spirits know Azula’s told him more than once — but even he knows that won’t work here.
He’s too tired to try again tonight, though, so he sits on the edge of a stream outside of town and splashes water in his face to clear off the dirt and blood, and thinks about the water he poured over the burn his father left on his arm when he told him to stop playing with his swords. He thinks about tilting his head back on the floor of the training room to stop the blood from dripping down his chin after a hard session, and how the blood tasted clotting in his throat.
It tastes the same now, iron in his mouth and nose, so he leans forwards and spits it into the river. He feels kind of bad, but decides that it’s just a few drops of blood. It’ll be washed away soon enough; it doesn’t matter in the long run.
He doesn’t even remember what he did, before he ended up on the floor tilting his head back in the empty training room. He remembers what he was doing before his father broke his arm in two places, but the little things all seem to blur together.
The fighting is familiar. There’s less burning than he’s used to, and no one’s been calling him weak lately, not since Zhao decided his pride was more important than his life and let the ocean drown him. But the fighting is familiar, in this little town he’s never been to in a nation that isn’t his. Familiar is good. The taste of iron clouds his senses and he hates the way it makes him feel, but it’s familiar, and that’s what matters.
Who he’s fighting isn’t familiar, but he’s learning. He doesn’t win his third fight, but he does win his fourth. He learns how to balance when the earth below him is trying keep him unsteady, and he learns how earth benders, at least the flashy fighty ones, move before they attack. Earth is a very physical element; you have to move your body to move the earth with it. If you’re watching, which he is, the body has to prepare to move before it does.
The point is, he wins his fourth match and only gets a twisted wrist in return. After that, he figures he’s stayed in this village for too long; people are starting to recognize him as that boy they saw the other day or that kid who keeps trying to beat earth benders at their own game, which isn’t good for him right now. So he packs up what meager things he has and takes the ostrich horse he stole and leaves.
There’s another underground fight club thing at the next town he ends up in, something a little fancier than the last one, but this one’s only for earthbending. Earth Tumble, or something. Rumble? Something about the ground moving, which he guesses is appropriate.
He goes to watch it anyways, even though he can’t participate. Uncle always said sometimes it’s best to watch and learn, study through observation. He wonders if he’d be proud of him for finally taking his advice, but pushes the thought out of his head because he’d probably just be disappointed he’s been doing this kind of thing in the first place. Whatever.
He picks a seat somewhere in the middle, close enough that he can see it but far enough away that he won’t be noticed, and he sits and he watches and he tries to learn.
This one’s a little different from the other tournament. It’s more showy, more flashy, more dramatized. He thinks that maybe Uncle would actually enjoy this one a little bit; he can picture him laughing at the flair of it all. He pushes that thought from his mind, too, because it makes him feel lonely.
Even though there’s more acting involved — they have their own special costumes and stage names — there’s still something to be learned from it. Each fighter has their own style. One of them uses his brute strength to shake the earth underneath him, barely using his arm at all. Another one stays low to the ground, scooping the earth up with the curve of his hands and launching them like small projectiles. One of them stays almost exclusively underground, tunneling through it like a prairie dog gopher.
During each round, Zuko imagines what it would be like to fight each of them—how he would do it, what advantages and disadvantages he would have, how he could use their tactics against them or incorporate them in the future. Use a wider stance to keep himself steady on the shaking earth. Keep low to the ground and prepare to defend himself. Set the earth itself on fire, keep him from coming up at all—but he’d have to watch for anything directly underneath him; he doubts the tunnel guy has to be above ground to attack, but if he stays light on his feet he can keep him from knowing exactly where he is. He wants to try it out— he wishes it wasn’t earthbenders only.
He’s about two thirds of the way through when he catches someone looking at him. He’s immediately on alert. He’s been trying to snatch any wanted posters he’s seen of himself, but he knows people have probably seen them already. He keeps very still, and waits. The person keeps on glancing at him, like they’re trying to get a better look at him.
Time to leave, then. He wishes he could stay till the end, but he’d rather not be caught and put to death or something. Or turned over to Azula. Spirits know he’d rather be executed than dragged home in chains by his sister.
He’s had enough practice stealing and hiding and shit to slip out quickly and quietly and make sure he’s not followed. He’s kind of annoyed—he wanted to see if he could catch one of the earthbenders after the tournament and ask them some questions, maybe ask them to spar. He thinks, unfortunately, that he has to get out of town. Again.
He wishes he at least got to watch one more match. Whatever, he thinks, it doesn’t matter.
That’s when he almost starves to death in the dry stretch of the earth kingdom.
He gets through the sand by reminding himself that he swam through ice cold water in the north and then survived a snowstorm. This should be nothing. This shouldn’t be shit. Except that the difference is, there’s no water here, and he’s so thirsty he almost wishes he was back in that snowstorm with the Avatar on his back because at least then he could pick up some damn snow from the ground. He can’t eat dirt.
Then he meets Li. Li makes him very sad. Maybe he reminds him of himself, or something stupid and sappy like that. He talks more than Zuko ever did, and he’s naive in that way Azula never was, and he takes Zuko’s swords to practice even though he doesn’t know how to use them. I think my brother would like you , he says, and Zuko wishes so desperately that it could be true.
He gives him his knife which is a bad idea, because just cause he’s been handling blades since he was ten doesn’t mean this small town earth kingdom boy has. And it’s fucked up because the soldiers are supposed to be the ones protecting the people, but they’re just sick bullies who abuse their power over people who can’t afford to fight back. Their own damn people, like the war they’re fighting isn’t the thing that put them in this position of power in the first place. It’s pathetic, and dishonorable, and his father always likes to call the earth kingdom a kingdom of savages. Zuko thinks that maybe it’s not the earth that makes these soldiers savage, but the power. Power always fucks you up. Just look at Zhao.
The blades he never put down for long probably weren’t a good idea at all, because here he is fighting for a kid he doesn’t know, in a town he doesn’t belong in, in a nation that hates him. He’s been all fucked up lately—without his uncle here he’s been thinking about his mother instead. He stands solid against the soldiers like he’s learned over the past few weeks, and decides to say fuck it to his blades and use his fire instead.
It’s not a good idea. I hate you, Li says.
It’s all so fucked up. The war is our way of sharing our greatness with the world, his professor said to him. He doesn’t see any greatness here. He sees a poor village with all the young people off fighting and dying for nothing, and he sees hatred that his own people caused.
There’s not really any new strategy or attack or move he can learn from this. Advanced set number twelve didn’t help at all, and he’s not a very good person anyways so they’re probably right to kick him out. He thinks that maybe the war isn’t what he thought it was, and that maybe his professors have been wrong this whole goddamn time. He thinks about his mother telling him to never forget who he is, and feels bad, because he doesn’t think he knows shit anymore.
He fights one more time before he finds his uncle again and watches him get shot full of lightning and almost die.
It’s in some backwater, worn out little town that reminds him of Li’s. And it’s not so much a tournament as just a group of people taking turns beating the shit out of each other for "training's sake." It’s pretty weird, actually, but he’s not really in any place to judge.
It’s not strictly for bending. You can use bending or blades or your fists if you want. You decide and get paired up with someone who decides the same. It seems more like a training exercise than anything, which is fine with him.
After his last experience firebending in a small, war torn earth kingdom town, he decides to go with the other two options. The first round he uses his dao. He’s up against a lady with a long sword he’s only seen earth kingdom mercenaries use, which is pretty cool. She’s good with it. Has a style he’s never seen, moves he never taught himself. It’s kind of fun, trying to counter and counter attack. She knocks one of the blades from his hand, so he kicks dirt up into her face and she laughs even as she has to squeeze her eyes shut. He wins, eventually, but just barely.
“You’ve got fire, kid,” she says, and slaps him on the back so hard it stings.
If only she knew.
His next round, he tries his fists. He gets matched up against a guy a solid foot taller than him and much broader. The guy looks down at him and smiles apologetically, like he knows exactly how much he’s about to kick the shit out of him.
And he does. Zuko’s not super good at direct hand to hand. He has quick reflexes from years of sword fighting, but he’s not great at hitting hard. He does land some solid hits. He tries to use the dirt trick again, but the guy was watching his other match and sees it coming—gets Zuko’s leg out from underneath him and knock him to the ground. Zuko barely rolls out of the way of his kick, catching his ankle and yanking. It doesn’t bring him to his knees, but it does knock him off balance long enough to scramble back to his feet again.
He doesn’t really get any further than that. The guy hits him hard and he goes toppling down again, land hard on his back and knocks his head back against the solid ground. His vision spins but he gets back up. If there’s anything his father has taught him more than to keep quiet and show some spirits-damned respect, it’s never to stay down unless you physically can’t get up anymore. Not to surrender unless you have to, unless your arm is broken in two places or half your face just got charred off.
He feels his nose break clean in two, and he gets back up. He scrapes his knees hard against he dirt, and he gets back up. He hears his father saying get up and fight, you coward, and he thinks about that stupid knife he tried to give to Li, and he gets back up until he really just can’t anymore.
“Hey,” someone says, suddenly at his back; he jumps at the feeling of a warm hand on his shoulder, “You’re good, kid. You fought good. Take it easy, okay?”
Zuko takes it easy. Someone hands him a cup of water and props him against the wall of the house they’ve been fighting in front of.
“You really beat the shit out of that kid, huh,” he hears.
“He just kept on getting up. It felt kinda wrong to just stop. I had to see how many times he could do it.”
“Crazy kid doesn’t know when to give up. That’ll get him killed.”
He closes his eyes against the way that makes him feel. He doesn’t know how it makes him feel. They might have a point, he thinks vaguely. Not giving up got his ship blown up and his dumb ass trapped in a cave in a snowstorm. It also found him the avatar. All giving up ever got him was kicked out of his nation with half his face burned off. He could do without the blood in his throat and the pounding in his head, though. It’s familiar, but in the bad way this time. He focuses on the wood of the wall against his temple, and the sound of skin on skin.
Someone sits next to him and pats him on the back. He wonders how some people can be so nice but others can be so horrible. He wonders if these people would hate him if they found out who he is. He finds that he doesn’t want them to. He's never cared before. Some of his own men have looked at with contempt and he said to them: get over it, or get out. Zhao treated him like the enemy and he looked up at him and told him: fuck off and stay out of my way. The world tried to kill him and he just didn't let it. But, inexplicably, he doesn't want these random earth kingdom citizens to hate him. He doesn't want them to know who he is.
Spirits, he thinks, sighing long and deep into the hot air. Yeah. Maybe he really is a traitor.