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The Wani was a truly perfect ship. Agile, roomy, and fitted with the latest security. Lieutenant Zhao couldn’t ask for a superior vessel. 

He’d thought a mere day ago that he couldn’t have asked for a better assignment. He’d congratulated himself on his promotion, obtained precisely at the opportune moment, just in time for him to tactically suggest his own name for this adventure. 

And it would have to be an adventure, with young Prince Ozai at the helm. The mission’s goals were admittedly vague, and the rumors behind it were admittedly alarming. But there had to be more to the story than Zhao had heard. Politically speaking, this posting was the perfect opening for him to ingratiate himself with the royal family.

Now maybe making people like him wasn’t exactly Zhao’s strong suit, given the number of libraries he’d gotten banished from as a child. But surely, surely he could hold his tongue and fake charm if he tried, with the heights of glory so close. A forcibly pleasant smile here, a dollop of superhuman competence there, and he’d have Prince Ozai wrapped around his little finger.

Zhao had a perfect ship and a perfect mission and a perfect plan for battle. He was invincible.

Now if only Prince Ozai would show his face for a minute.

*

His Highness had stormed onboard in a huff, uttering barely a word, sweeping immediately into his room and locking the door. That was the story Zhao got second-hand from his helmsman as they both stood down the hallway, staring at that exact door.

It didn’t open.

“Did he mention where we’re heading?” Zhao finally muttered to the helmsman, who shook his head. “North? South? Anything?”

Another head shake. “And the Fire Lord’s orders are just … out. He wants us out of Fire Nation waters by tomorrow at sunrise.”

That was … clear at least. Unmistakable. Certainly more helpful than Prince Ozai’s silence. Still Zhao reasoned there could be strategy behind the lack of communication. His Highness could still be pinning down his precise destination. Or he could be keeping it to himself until they were well away from port out of some peculiar royal paranoia.

Zhao lingered at port, waiting for further directions that never came. His crew reported that the prince was alive at least; he had cleared his dinner tray though the tea remained untouched. He was either fast asleep or steadfastly ignoring all attempts at communication from outside his door. Since he first barricaded himself no one had caught sight of his face.

For one treacherous second Zhao wondered if there was a reason. His unusual taste in literature had exposed him to the more factious ages of the Fire Nation’s history. As a result he knew that if Fire Lord Azulon really had grown disenchanted enough with his nineteen-year-old son to, say, burn off his face …

Well, he’d certainly have precedent on his side.

Zhao dismissed that image from mind, refocusing on the mission at hand. He had dallied near Caldera as long as he could but there was no justifying it anymore, not with a sunrise deadline to meet. “Full speed ahead,” he commanded, temporarily ignoring the fact that they had nowhere in particular to go. The initial flurry of activity died down by sunset, leaving the ship quiet, but for the clunking of the new state-of-the-art engine.

Zhao hadn’t put himself down for a night shift. All the better to perform a surprise inspection and confirm that none of these new crew members were nodding off at their posts. He’d hardly met any of these sailors before. He didn’t know them, not yet.

He uncovered no crises on his rounds and arrived back on the deck near midnight as the lights of Ember Island faded into darkness. They were nearing what would become the Great Gates of Azulon, if construction ever got finished. For now there was no magnificent flaming net, just two towering metal statues of the Fire Lord.

It occured to Zhao, not for the first time, that the Great Gates offered no protection from enemies who could slip under their net. If waterbenders ever aimed for their shores, they’d be practically naked …

There’s an underdressed man on his deck. 

Not quite naked.

Still decidedly underdressed.

It was a simple rule; every sailor in Zhao’s crew had to wear armor while on duty. Any sailor who was off-duty ought to have been down in their quarters, clearing their mind and obtaining the required sleep for another high-performing day tomorrow. Yet there was an underdressed man on Zhao’s deck, cloth fluttering openly around him, lounging near the prow like he belonged there. Zhao stalked forward, fully prepared to shout at him for disobeying his superior ...

The figure leapt into action, firing two glorious arcs of red fire through the air. Shooting right at the two statues of Fire Lord Azulon.

The power stole Zhao’s breath away. The precision, the reach, the flow all spoke to sheer majestic power, like the stuff of spirit legends. 

A few seconds later, Zhao noticed what should have struck him first: the treachery. There was no plausible justification for attacking statues of the Fire Lord, even if the metal couldn’t even be dented at this range.

Was it more or less treacherous when the culprit was the Fire Lord’s own son?

Zhao stayed frozen in the shadows, contemplating all this, until Prince Ozai disappeared once more.

*

Zhao’s goodwill towards the prince vanished. It was shortly followed out the door by his determination to play nice. By the fourth day at sea Zhao was weighing career advancement against the satisfaction of punching out the smug prince’s probably-perfect teeth.

Of course that’d involve meeting the prince.

Which he still hadn’t done, because Prince Ozai was avoiding him.

That wasn’t paranoia. It was in fact the only reasonable explanation for why everyone on the ship had met His Highness except Zhao. The cook had met him when he visited the galley to insist on getting high-quality tea or none at all. The quartermaster had met him the first, second and third time he showed up at the hold to demand candles, enough candles to supply a temple. The navigator had met him when he marched onto the bridge to declare that the Wani’s destination was nowhere. He had nothing for them to go to. Yet there was a long list of things to stay away from: the Earth Kingdom, the Water Tribe, pirates, combat, weather, and anything else that could possibly be of interest. 

Besides that, every other crew member Zhao spoke to had spotted him in the halls or in the washroom. Yet Zhao hadn’t seen more than the back of his head as he disappeared around a corner, ever since that first night on the deck. Therefore Zhao was not paranoid, and if he was he was thoroughly justified about it, because Prince Ozai was avoiding him like he had an active case of septapox.

There had to be logic to it all. The Fire Lord wouldn’t go to all this trouble, wouldn’t waste a crew and a ship and a son if he didn’t have some remarkable goal in mind. It was fine for the prince to play his cards close to the chest at first. It could be strategic, even, to withhold sensitive information from the lower elements of the crew. But Zhao was the highest-ranking officer on this ship, and he couldn’t do his job if he didn’t know what job needed doing, and so this spoiled brat had no excuse for keeping secrets from him.

Gathering up the last dregs of his patience, Zhao recommitted himself to the original plan. A full-frontal assault was necessary under the circumstances. He checked the polish on his armor and he trimmed the stray hairs above his sideburns and he recentered the topknot on his head. Then he knocked delicately on Prince Ozai’s door. When he received no response he dispensed with the delicacy and knocked louder.

With a clank the door was unlocked. It opened to reveal the prince himself, dressed casually. “Yes?”

And Zhao’s well-memorized speech promptly fled from his mind. The prince wasn’t scarred in the slightest so far as he could tell. Zhao was more stunned by the beauty of his face. The striking angles. The fierce golden eyes. Royal portraits ordinarily edited their subjects to show them in a favorable light but for once, the painters hadn’t needed to lie. 

(The only departure was the hairstyle. Royals typically wore their hair down but for the top-knot; their flowing locks were famously long and free. The military required practical short styles, just enough for a top-knot though many skipped even that. Hair was a weakness in combat zones, given all the equipment it could catch on and the fire flying around. Prince Ozai had apparently gotten the memo that long hair was banned and ignored it, deigning only to bind all his hair up in a large bun of no particular style. It was sloppy and asymmetrical. He must’ve done it himself. Poor babe, forced to bother with the mundane.)

Ever-resilient, Zhao recovered his composure. “I … I wanted to introduce myself.”

“I know who you are, Lieutenant Zhao,” Prince Ozai drawled, opening the door only a few degrees. Though Zhao had dreamed of hearing such a sentiment from the lips of royalty, it didn’t sound like a compliment.

Zhao squared his shoulders, clasping his hands properly behind his back. “I hope to open communication lines between us.”

His Highness replied to that with a raised eyebrow.

Zhao once again disposed with delicacy; it had never suited him. “I understand you’ve acquainted yourself with the entire rest of my crew. Is there some reason you haven’t reached out to me?”

“I’ve had no use for you” came the rapid reply.

Of all the obnoxious insolent ...

“I’m the lieutenant,” Zhao stated, now stunned by disbelief.

“Apparently.” The word dripped both boredom and disdain.

Candlelight flickering on the wall behind the prince flared as Zhao seized a gigantic breath, grasping desperately at composure. 

“What are your goals?” he demanded.

Prince Ozai gave a lazy shrug, the very picture of insouciance. “You assume I’m allowed to have those.”

“I assume,” Zhao snapped without thinking, “that no son of the Fire Lord genuinely gets exiled. Either bad behavior gets handled in the palace or you’d be executed outright. Doing anything else would be utterly stupid, so this …” He waved at the ship behind him. “Is the cover for a top-secret mission no one’s talking about.”

The candles flared again. Not Zhao’s doing, this time.

“You want to know my secret mission,” the prince said after a few seconds of staring at Zhao like he wanted nothing more than to blow off his head.

The feeling was mutual. Zhao settled for smiling through gritted teeth and replying, “Yes.”

“My father’s waiting for me to capture the Avatar.”

Zhao laughed.

Then he caught sight of the prince’s narrowed eyes.

“... Wait, really?”

Zhao waited for an answer. For that fireball at his head. Instead the prince simply snorted to himself and fixed those golden eyes on Zhao’s. “You’re dismissed, lieutenant.”

He said it clearly but at surprisingly low volume. Zhao flirted with disobeying a direct order before sensibly leaving the prince to his sulking.

*

Zhao returned to the prince’s doorstep the next day.

He had never been easily deterred. As a child he’d once had a craving for platypus-bear egg and, finding the eggs unavailable at his local marketplace, traveled to five nearby villages in his quest. When that search failed too he tracked down a live platypus bear, following the tracks to its lair, where he used his firebending to scare it into laying an egg just for him.

And if he’d wound up lightly mauled, well, the omelette had been worth it.

Prince Ozai was only two times scarier than a raging platypus bear at most. Steadfastly Zhao clung to that thought as he knocked on the prince’s door again, this time with his foot. Both his hands were occupied by scrolls upon scrolls, carefully chosen as a peace offering.

Not that he knew why they were at war in the first place.

The door opened more quickly this time as if His Highness had recovered some semblance of sociability. But his expression soured the second he saw Zhao.

“What do you want?” he snapped in a tone that implied Zhao ought not want anything at all.

“I take rather a special interest in Spirit World myself,” Zhao replied, undaunted, “so I scoured my personal library for every mention of the Avatar. You’ll find several rare sources ...”

“No.”

“If you would just …”

“You should see the medic about your hearing,” the prince once again interrupted.

“Aren’t royals supposed to be trained in diplomacy?” countered Zhao.

Too late, he realized that Ozai was staring at him like he was some spirit monster himself, like a young prince had never been so overtly insulted before. Perhaps he never had. Courtiers in palaces had more training than Zhao after all.

And perhaps a better tuned sense of self-preservation. 

Suddenly reminded of the platypus-bear’s lair, Zhao confronted his options. He could flee and like a courtier in a palace sob with regret, heaping apologies upon the prince until he was fully buried. Or, having made his mistake, he could double down.

“I’m offering help,” Zhao declared, not taking a single step backwards. “You look like you need it.”

“You are out of line.”

“Then should I leave you to your meditating? I’m sure that’s more productive.” 

Behind the door Zhao could sense seven candles standing in a row for meditation, all burnt to different heights. Done properly, meditation melted candles calmly, evenly, and very very slowly. But according to the quartermaster Ozai had been going through candles faster than a komodo-rhino went through walls.

It was a low blow. And maybe Ozai was scowling at him as if contemplating an Agni Kai challenge. Zhao didn’t care about that. He’d spent barely a week on a ship with this man, yet a duel already seemed inevitable.

And right on cue Prince Ozai took a menacing step forward, getting right into Zhao’s face. “Who,” he spat, “do you think you are?”

Zhao didn’t flinch. He wouldn’t give him the pleasure. 

“I think I’m the youngest lieutenant serving our nation,” he answered, puffing out his chest. Though the brat might have had a few inches on him, height-wise, Zhao had the advantage in sheer bulk and intended to use it. “I got this rank at twenty-four for exceptional service …”

“Exactly.” He rolled right over Zhao like one of those tanks the army engineers kept dreaming about. “You are only a lieutenant, and you are the youngest, least experienced lieutenant in an entire navy. You are a walking insult. My father chose you only to drive home the depths of my shame.”

He looked pointedly down at Zhao’s scrolls. At scrolls which were now on fire. Zhao clenched his jaw shut, stopping the angry wayward sparks that had begun rolling off his tongue without permission, roused by sheer indignation, and the prince extinguished the fire before it really took hold. He did it with an eyeroll and a weary wave of his hand. Zhao had seen countless nurses do the same while managing newly bending toddlers.

“He would be pleased,” the prince added, “that you’re doing such an excellent job.”

This time he skipped the dismissal, efficiently slamming the door in Zhao’s face.

*

A walking insult.

What a pity they couldn’t return to Fire Nation waters anytime soon. Zhao wanted his own chance to smack fire at Azulon’s great statues.

*

Just as Zhao began worrying they’d need an early supply stop just to get more candles, His Highness deigned to properly leave his cabin. He barely spoke to anyone and never spoke to Zhao. Zhao lit his own candle for whatever spirit allowed him that good luck.

Zhao oversaw the crew’s firebending training every morning. It was thankless work. Though he hadn’t met these sailors long ago, it was long enough to realize there wasn’t a spark of real strength or style among them. They were serviceable, yes, but not great. He spent every morning running drills, shouting critiques that remained just on this side of abuse, and waiting for a miracle from Agni to grant them power. 

Then Prince Ozai showed up.

He didn’t join the exercises. He simply chose a place for himself at the edge of the deck, opposite Zhao, and looked down his nose at the proceedings. Suddenly every mistake Zhao’s crew made stung worse. Though Zhao had noticed every mistake before, now His Highness noticed them too, shaking his head or crossing his arms or curling his lip or simply turning away to enjoy the ocean view, as if none of this was worth watching. He radiated disapproval with the strength of a sun.

And Zhao, who had felt precisely the same rage every prior morning, felt a sudden urge to protect his crew instead. It was an unfamiliar feeling. On principle he hated it.

“If you think you can do so much better,” Zhao snapped, striding over the second practice finished and not waiting for him to speak first, “you’re welcome to prove it. We’re sparring tomorrow.”

He intended to goad the prince into joining so he could watch him with the focus of an eagle-vulture, looking for any sign of error. The first mistake he found, he’d declare it proudly and knock the prince down a few pegs with the whole ship watching… 

The brat simply sniffed. “It’s dangerous to spar with untrained incompetents.”

Smelling weakness, Zhao smirked. “You’re worried they might surprise you, catch you off guard?”

“I’m worried I might pick up their bad habits.”

He spun away, but not before Zhao’d caught him wearing a smirk of his own.

*

Zhao took part in sparring the next day, though usually he only oversaw the chaos. He pushed himself, blocking attacks impeccably, punching out one solid fireball after another. He wasn’t the most precise bender he’d met; that title went to his former master, though Jeong Jeong wasted all that precision on defense and “control.” But what Zhao lacked in finesse he made up for in will, passion and pure stamina, steadily fighting his way through round after round. Keenly aware of those golden eyes drilling into his back, Zhao took on all the other benders on the ship, laying them low one by one.

Then he took them all on at once.

He won that round too, sore and panting, every muscle glistening with sweat as he stole a subtle look around to check Prince Ozai’s reaction.

There was none. 

Though this wasn’t a full-fledged duel, etiquette still applied. Obviously a prince would know that etiquette. In an act of rudeness equivalent to exiting a musical performance after the first measure, Prince Ozai had vanished without the slightest warning. Without even a pretense of an excuse.

Worst of all, there were flashes of red glimmering from across the ship. The telltale sign of a rival performance.

Zhao stomped to the other side of the smoke stack and found the prince running a solo kata on his own. It was some fancy new exercise, no doubt invented by show-offs for other show-offs at court, made for exhibitions rather than any real battle. Though the prince had taken to braiding his hair before pinning it up, now wisps escaped from the exertion. His cheeks were flushed, blush creeping down his elegant neck and further. He’d removed his shirt too, his own muscles rippling as he went from form to impossible form, blasting fire in every direction, of landing jumps and flips and gratuitous spins with ease. It was an excessive, juvenile, ridiculous display of power …

And of flexibility Zhao hadn’t seen coming.

Zhao turned on his heel without comment and stalked inside, to see how he liked it.

*

It was said that Fire Nation royals began their social lessons at age two. Zhao could believe it. Prince Ozai must have had years of training to dance on Zhao’s nerves with such exquisite precision, all without saying a word.

Truly, it was truly a well-cultivated talent. He demolished Zhao’s training exercises with just a tilt of the head or a shrug of one shoulder. He cut Zhao down before his crew by diligently greeting every sailor but him, no matter how low their rank, no matter the fact that such polite words sounded less than natural on his tongue. He didn’t speak to Zhao if he could help it. He simply shot glances like fire jets his way, his expression solidly murderous with a side of ennui. On rare occasions his gaze would settle and he’d scan Zhao head to toe, scowl darkening the longer he looked. 

And Zhao, who had never cared overmuch about fashion before, found himself dawdling twice as long before the mirror, checking that his sideburns were strictly symmetrical and piling on twice the necessary amount of hair product, just to withstand His Highness’s inspection. He refused to buckle. He matched every look of Prince Ozai’s with a glare of his own, all the while fuming that he’d managed to lock himself into what might really have been a pointless mission with this surly wretch.

They danced around each other. The crew warily danced around them both, treating them much like a barrel of blasting jelly near a lit match. It seemed a fair assessment.

*

The stalemate reached its breaking point, when Prince Ozai broke into Zhao’s bedroom.

Zhao had finished his official duties for the day, retiring to his room and changing out of his uniform. After that he’d completed his self-assigned self-improvement reading for the week. After that he’d polished his armor; though he couldn’t see any spots on the metal there had to be some reason the prince kept staring. Finally, left with an odd unscheduled moment, he took down the old pipa hanging on his wall, a hand-me-down from an old commanding officer. Having neglected it for some time, he fiddled with the out-of-tune strings until they sounded right to his ear and began strumming out some simple folk songs.

There was a knock on the door. On the bottom of the door, as if it was kicked, with no respect for the ongoing music.

Zhao broke off mid-phrase with a grunt. “What?” 

And the next thing he knew his door was thrust wide open. Prince Ozai swanned inside without any invitation and planted himself squarely in the center of the room.

“Lieutenant, I want a stop to this racket,” he commanded, as imperious on Zhao’s carpet as a Fire Lord might be on the flame-veiled dais. “It’s unprofessional.”

Zhao paused his racket but didn’t let go of the pipa. “Actually, Music Nights are an honored part of Navy ‘professionalism.’”

That was how he picked up a pipa in the first place. He’d never danced at a Music Night, the way revelers supposedly did on the least reputable ships, but he’d played his pipa and belted his fair share of drinking songs around a hot fire. He didn’t care for the prince’s implication that sailors weren’t fit for fine culture …

“Sailors can dabble all they want in the arts,” Prince Ozai sneered, surprising him. “I wouldn’t mind some music myself. But your playing doesn’t deserve the name.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my playing!”

“You’ve doubled every tempo, have you never heard of patience?”

“Have you never heard of artistic license?!”

He sniffed and crossed his arms. “Then there’s the fact that you haven’t gotten a single pitch right all night.”

“That is a shameless lie!”

Accusing a royal of dishonesty could, according to precedent, be punished with death. But Zhao knew these songs like the back of his hand. His fingerings were impeccable. Prince Ozai was apparently deaf.

If this was how Zhao went down, so be it.

“You’ve mistuned the strings.” Though Prince Ozai didn’t execute him, his voice held near-lethal levels of condescension. 

“They sound perfect,” Zhao protested.

“Relative to each other perhaps. But you’ve tuned them all to pitches that aren’t even in Fire Nation music!”

Zhao began his comeback before realizing he didn’t have one and settling for a wordless snarl. Prince Ozai only narrowed his eyes, somehow finding an excuse to heighten his own disappointment. 

“You display your pipa on the wall, don’t you.” The way he phrased it, it wasn’t a question.

“So what if I do?” Zhao challenged. He had sensed the trap and decided to barrel into it.

“So this ship’s humidity will destroy it ten years before its time. The wood’s already damaged,” he replied, growing treacherously quiet. “Hand it over.”

“… Excuse me?”

“Here I thought “obeying your superiors” was part of Navy professionalism,” he taunted.

It was true. Superiors could confiscate their underlings’ property if it was a danger or even just a distraction. Zhao had never exercised that particular privilege. He’d only confiscate books and none of his crew had anything worth reading.

Growling through his teeth, Zhao uncurled his fingers and stiffly unbent his arms, handing over his instrument. “You know, if you want a pipa, Your Highness, you could buy a hundred with your monthly stipend.”

As he left Zhao’s room with Zhao’s pipa, a strange look softened his face. “I don’t play.”

*

He didn’t play.

He stole Zhao’s pipa, which he couldn’t play.

Zhao tossed and turned and raged all night at His Pettiness’s flair for melodrama, all the while imagining how pleasurable it’d be to take back that pipa just to bash it over his head. He couldn’t take it anymore. Like a pipa string drawn too tight, something was bound to snap.

He fell asleep in that state of unusual tension. Even the sunrise, calling to his inner flame, failed to wake him.

He snapped out of an unusually pleasant dream (shadows slipping away, leaving only flashes of red cloth and pale skin and gold) and scrambled to his feet, roused by the sound of explosions. There was a full-blown battle raging overhead. Cursing, he fumbled with his armor only to abandon it. He was late, he was too late, if there was an enemy attack someone should’ve warned him about it and there was no good reason for why no one could …

He stormed through the hallways, finding no sign of conflict. Finding no one, which was even more ominous. The attackers must’ve executed the crew. If they were smart they had left the prince alive and taken him as a hostage. (Zhao was tempted to let them keep him.)

The explosions got louder as he got closer to the deck, rattling the upper walls with truly alarming force. He made it to the door leading outside and found it blocked by his own crew, huddled against the wall in panic but with a surprising lack of restraints.

“Since you weren’t here to run practice,” one explained to him, “Prince Ozai took the whole deck for himself.”

Zhao scoffed. “What’s he doing?”

“He said he was going to bend lightning.”

Another ear-splitting explosion rang outside. It was offensively loud but nothing like thunder. Zhao scoffed.

Ignoring warnings and protests about his safety, he thrust the other sailors aside and shoved the door open. 

“What in Koh’s name do you think you’re doing?” He marched onto the deck as Prince Ozai drew one hand in a circle and brought his hands together …

And blew himself back across the ship, spine cracking against the railing. Despite himself Zhao winced. Some part of him relaxed when Prince Ozai immediately pushed himself back up.

“I’m perfecting my lightning,” he called back with a scowl. “That might’ve worked if you hadn’t distracted me.”

Zhao strode towards him, coughing dramatically in the cloud of smoke generated by his last “lightning.” “I really doubt it.” 

“I’m getting close!”

“Close to blowing our ship apart, maybe!” Zhao hissed, tripping over a dent in the metal left by the heat. 

“What else do you suggest?” he growled back, stepping even closer. Now the sparks rolled off his tongue, sizzling and dangerous, though Zhao didn’t flinch. When he spoke again a strange raw edge cut through his voice. “I am trapped in the middle of nowhere, with no teachers, no masters, no worthwhile competition, I am useless! What would you have me do?!”

“Me!” Zhao snarled back.

He didn’t bother crossing their wrists in a formal Agni Kai challenge. No, he went straight for that twisted gorgeous face, reaching towards it with two hands full of fire …

They were slapped promptly away and then the two were off, going at it like wild animals. Prince Ozai traded his lightning for proper flame, thrashing him with one fireball after another, but Zhao blocked them and came back just as hard. The grunts of exertion as they chased each other around the deck were drowned out by the combined din of their blasts.

As the battle wore on it became clear Prince Ozai was the better bender. Smoother, faster, with raw grace matched only by his power. But he was holding himself back from lethal attacks (in a way Zhao wasn’t). Instead he was trying to wear Zhao down. And that was his great mistake. Zhao could outlast anyone in a contest of willpower. And with Ozai? He’d never felt more energized in his life.

Prince Ozai caught him with one swipe of the heel and sent him crashing onto a single knee. Before Zhao could right himself he gave up his half-measures and pounced, wielding a dazzling, truly dangerous ball of light in his hand. On instinct Zhao met it with fire of his own, before it could blow his head off his neck.

The resulting detonation beat all of the explosions from before, shoving Zhao back against hard metal, the impact rattling every bone in his body. He looked up and found the deck empty and let the thrill of victory run through him. He allowed himself this one glorious moment of triumph.

Then the realization set in that he’d won by throwing his opponent overboard. His opponent, the prince. A prince who had no formal naval training.

Koh’s claws, could he even swim?

With a groan of pain Zhao forced himself to his feet, cataloguing the aches in every bone he’d ever injured before and a few new places beside. There was blood on his pants. There was soot everywhere. 

Struck by pain in his leg, he collapsed back on the railing for one moment of weakness. That was the moment that Prince Ozai inevitably reappeared on the deck. 

No, over the deck.

Entirely dry but for a light sheen of sweat, because apparently he could use his fire jets to fly.

He surveyed Zhao with a smile he was putting no effort into suppressing. “You should get all that looked at by the medic.”

Then he spun around and went back inside with a spring in his step, his foul mood from before apparently banished. And despite protests from every inch of his frame, not to mention his bruised dignity, Zhao couldn’t help feeling cheered too.

*

The medic insisted on confining Zhao to the sickbay, muttering about the dangers of concussions. Really he had been overcome by an uncharacteristic daze after Prince Ozai had fluttered back onto the deck, light as a spirit and inordinately pleased with himself. Zhao was more than happy to chalk that up to a head injury.

He allowed her ministrations until his patience wore out. Late in the night he demanded that she discharge him, submitting to one final round of questioning.

“You’re sure you haven’t had any further symptoms? No dizziness, headaches, irritability …”

“Of course not,” Zhao barked.

So she cleared him for duty despite frowning the whole while. The day was effectively wasted. No more, he supposed, than any other day he’d spent on this worthless mission. With a heavy sigh he dragged himself to the showers to ready himself for bed. Given the Agni-damned hour, they were entirely empty.

Once Zhao finished undressing the door opened again. The prince himself walked through. He stopped upon seeing Zhao, as if he had somehow expected privacy on a navy ship. Maybe he’d claimed this hour for himself and scared everyone on the later shifts out of invading his domain.

Zhao wondered if the prince would attempt to forcibly remove him from the room, naked and thrashing. It took him a long while to realize that His Highness wasn’t looking at him with murder in his eyes. He was simply looking.

Looking everywhere.

He sized Zhao up, gaze skimming over every inch of him, eyes glowing with what Zhao could only interpret as amusement. His eyes completed their roving and met Zhao’s, waiting. For what, Zhao just couldn’t guess.

The prince’s lips thinned and he turned away with an entirely uncalled-for indignant huff. While Zhao began to wash he disrobed, fussily folding his clothes. Zhao didn’t look as one piece of clothing after another disappeared. Unlike some people he had some respect for privacy. And after his years in the navy the nude male form held very little mystique. Ozai didn’t have anything he hadn’t seen a thousand times before …

With one careless motion, Prince Ozai loosened his hair from its ties and shook it free. And in one sudden moment it fell, a gorgeous, glorious sheet that brushed his hips. It was longer than any hair Zhao had seen before, silky and improbably elegant after a day’s work. It shimmered like it was made to hold the Fire Lord’s crown. Suddenly Zhao wanted nothing more than to pile it in his hands and hold it carefully, preciously, like he might cradle solid gold.

Zhao tore his eyes away and banished that entire train of thought. He sent it off to go capture the Avatar.

… clearly he was still concussed.

*

He felt more like himself the next morning. Any hint of appreciation for the prince had disappeared, leaving him with twice the normal amount of irritation. He spent his days half in fury, constant awareness of Prince Ozai’s closeness simmering under his skin.

*

As supplies dwindled it became clear the ship bound for nowhere needed to take a detour somewhere. On the bridge Zhao bent over his map, ranking possible supply stops …

“I set the course already.” Prince Ozai broke the silence, slipping into the room and approaching the map. Though his tone and expression might have seemed neutral, Zhao couldn’t ignore the air of smugness clinging to him like noxious perfume. “Whale Tail Island’s safely under our control, we’ll restock at the naval outpost and head west again.”

“What’s to the west?”

“Nothing.”

 Zhao frowned. “Kyoshi Island’s not far. Neither is the Southern Air Temple.”

“So?”

“So we might learn something there.” He jabbed another coastal spot nearby. “And I’ve read about Chin Village. Their records must be worth examining, they’ve got an entire festival commemorating the Avatar …”

“It doesn’t matter how hard you try.” He interrupted, infuriatingly calm, the second Zhao said “Avatar.” “You can die trying to prove yourself, Fire Lord Azulon won’t care.”

After a moment he straightened and left the room, his usual grace replaced by an uncharacteristic stiffness. The other sailors on the bridge looked pointedly away, doing their best to ignore a princely tantrum. Zhao considered letting him go. 

He chased him down instead.

“You’re treating it like it’s a hopeless mission,” he called, following him through the ship. “And you’re right! It’ll have to be hopeless if you refuse to even try!”

In lieu of replying Prince Ozai hastened his pace, footsteps clanking down the halls. Zhao wasn’t sure where he was going. In all likelihood he wasn’t sure either. Still he charged forward, his glare sending crew members scuttling out of his path. The temperature dropped rapidly as they plunged into the Wani’s depths but Zhao barely felt it, between the fury flooding his limbs and the heat radiating off the prince. His fists were literally steaming.

“Do something,” Zhao roared through the pursuit. “You have everything you need to look for the Avatar. You have always had everything and you are wasting it! Why won’t you do anything?”

“Everything,” he parroted back with an indignant scoff, now approaching a dead end and throwing open a random door just before it. “You mean I have a doomed mission with the least sensible lieutenant in the navy and a tiny ship that sends up signal flares in enemy territory if you look at it wrong!”

Zhao took issue with all three of those points. But the last was the most quickly dismantled. 

“This is one of the newest ships in the navy,” he spat. Though the prince tried to push the door shut he stopped it with one hand and shoved himself inside too. It was a dark, empty space: the utterly unused brig. “The booby traps are a brilliant security system and if you treated this mission with a hint of seriousness you’d know exactly how they work!”

It was at that moment that Zhao stepped on a wire, strung across the floor. A metal cage door shot out of the ceiling. It slammed downwards, efficiently locking them both in the same cell.

Zhao gaped, struck dumb by mortification. For a few merciful seconds Prince Ozai was likewise silent.

Then he began to laugh.

“Thank you for proving my argument.” His gloating was evident in every word. “I couldn’t have done it better myself.”

He kept laughing, a warm sizzling sound. It was infectious. Zhao might’ve been in danger of joining in if he wasn’t the target.

He flung fire at the door instead. He battered the metal with fire and then he battered every available hinge, calling for his subordinates to help him. Because this was a brand-new ship with exceptional engineering, nothing gave and no one seemed to hear his pleas. Eventually he gave up, panting, exhausted and mortified. His cellmate continued snickering away.

“I can get us out,” he finally admitted.

Zhao spun around, hands balled into fists. “You could’ve mentioned that.”

“And deny you your fun?” He shook his head and began musing. “In a genuine crisis I’d try lightning and just blow the room apart. Of course there’s the risk I’d pierce the hull too …”

“Don’t you dare!”

He snorted. “I won’t unless I’m given reason to.”

Bristling at the implicit threat Zhao retorted, “Have you got any ideas that won’t kill us both?”

He nodded. “Heating the metal will weaken it, even if it can’t be melted.”

Zhao frowned. “This metal can’t be affected by firebending. The navy knows better than that.”

“Not by ordinary firebending, no.”

He reached out with one hand, into one of the holes of the grid-patterned door, and struck up a flame. It was a small and concentrated flame, a remarkable sustained yellow. He creased his brow and narrowed his golden eyes in concentration. Eventually he broke away with a gasp. Though it might not have been a large flamboyant show of bending, it required discipline and strength all its own.

In a medal-worthy show of self restraint Zhao didn’t mock his moment of weakness, simply sighing. “We’re stuck for a while, aren’t we?”

In response Prince Ozai let out an equally weary sigh.

Zhao didn’t embarrass himself further by attempting to help; he couldn’t manage the kind of heat that’d matter here. He simply watched in silence as Prince Ozai worked in short bursts, methodically heating one stretch of metal at a time. Zhao eventually decided to make himself useful, sparking up an easy red flame between two hands. It might not have been hot but it warmed the cell effectively. It was a matter of strategy; down this far under the waterline, the temperature almost rivaled one of those coolers where traitors ended up. It wouldn’t do for His Highness to freeze to death before he’d gotten Zhao out of here.

“I’m doing what I’m supposed to,” the prince said abruptly. “You accused me of doing nothing, but in fact this is exactly what Fire Lord Azulon intended.”

“… What did you do?”

He threw Zhao an exasperated look, unevenly lit by their flickering fires. “I made a joke.”

“… And?”

He shrugged. “And I was banished for it.”

His hand twitched and touched hot metal. With a hiss he jerked it away, blowing on the burnt spot as Zhao winced in accidental sympathy. For a moment Prince Ozai left the work, only cradling the injury.

“Was it a funny joke?” Zhao asked. He really couldn’t control his curiosity. It bubbled over as the silence lengthened. Prince Ozai seemed less than keen on answering him.

“There was a war council,” he eventually murmured, keeping his voice quiet though they were entirely alone. “We keep losing forces at Ba Sing Se and it’s stupid, and most of their defense is a wall that a few trebuchets should be able to down. It’s possible that this ‘Dai Li’ team we hear about is more competent than expected… but more likely we’ve been sending weak soldiers with halfwit leadership.” He shook his head and resumed his escape attempt. “I sat in on a useless six-hour meeting on the subject, with every general throwing blame at every other general and putting great care into not proposing any useful solutions, which is when I gave my plan.”

“And what’s that?”

“My brother isn’t exactly large or handsome or memorable in any physical way,” he muttered bitterly. “So I said we should shave his forehead, give him some green rags and a big ugly hat, have him sneak up as a refugee and throw lightning at the wall. There. I solved Ba Sing Se.”

Zhao laughed. It was obviously a less than serious plan; the wall could be rapidly repaired and the prince could rapidly “disappear,” like so many people seemed to do around there. In practice the prince would need extensive backup to pull off any stunt like that. Still the central concept struck Zhao as absurd and more than a little funny.

“That’s delightful,” he said frankly.

“That’s treasonous,” Prince Ozai countered, “according to my father.”

“Mother-of-Faces, what’s wrong with him?”

Zhao did not mean to say that. Zhao’s tongue said that, loosened by too many years around swearing sailors, in direct defiance of his brain and self-preservation and all common sense. He was tempted to cut the organ out for his treachery. Prince Ozai whipped his head around to stare at him. As the shadows flickered across his face his features shifted rapidly, twisting between horror and pain and …

Morbid glee.

Eventually he tossed his head with a scoff and kindled the fire again, now colored by streaks of blue. “He declared that if I was joking, I had profaned the sanctity of the council and the honorable service of our military, and if I wasn’t joking, I had disrespected my brother and his importance to the monarchy.”

“How, by both of May-Jim’s heads, does that justify exiling a prince?!”

The answer came back warped with sarcasm; Zhao could almost hear his crooked cutting smile. “He said my punishment needed to fit the crime.”

“And he came up with banishment? Does the Fire Lord take cactus juice with his tea?”

Far from smiting him for treacherous talk, Ozai cackled, flooding Zhao with strange new delight. “His thinking was that I needed to understand the pain of true service.”

He sounded like he wanted to roll his eyes. Zhao did it for him.

“But why not do something with your exile?” Zhao then asked. “Your Ba Sing Se idea’s not totally unworkable; refugee disguises could get a small force into the city. And I’ve got this guess about sneaking into the Northern Water Tribe too …”

“But the point was to render me pointless,” said Ozai, “and hopeless. My father believes deeply in the educational power of suffering.”

That fact was well-known. Fire Lord Azulon had cracked down on more Earth Kingdom villages than Zhao could count, depriving them of basic supplies until they cooperated with their new Fire Nation leaders. It seemed an effective strategy for war. But Zhao had never considered that the Fire Lord might extend it to his own family.

“If he believes in suffering,” Zhao said, “shouldn’t he be proud if you take your suffering and you find something good in it?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“If you left the Avatar for military glory, how would he even know?”

“I know I’m being watched on this ship. There are daily reports on my activities, addressed directly to my father.” When Zhao flinched he snorted. “I’m not accusing you of being our spy. If my father was in contact with you, with your tongue … you’d have been executed by now.”

“Then who?”

He shrugged again, apparently unaffected by invasions of privacy. “This ship is nothing and its crew, present company not excepted, is nothing. But if I begin making use of it then he’ll think I want it … And then he’ll take it away the moment it serves him.”

That parenthetical, the snide “present company not excepted,” rankled worse than Zhao would admit. But the implication that he was merely a piece on the pai sho table of royal family politics, to be moved by the Fire Lord against his own son, felt even more degrading.

“It makes sense,” the prince said as he jammed one fist into the red-hot metal he’d just weakened, attempting to break open one small portion of the cage. It held and left him shaking a burnt, battered hand, gritting his teeth. With remarkable speed he renewed his focused bending. “If an enemy village depends on trade we cut off their roads. If they depend on their crops we set their harvest on fire. The only place with any real chance is Ba Sing Se because it’s got everything it needs behind walls where we can’t get to it. It’s safe because it wants for nothing.”

“Can you live like that?” Zhao said, suddenly exhausted by metaphor. “Do you really want nothing?”

The prince lifted his head ever so slightly, eyes huge and intense in the darkness. He stared at Zhao with some unspeakable hunger. An insatiable hunger that threatened ever so slightly to destroy them both.

Then he turned back to his work without a word.

*

It was late by the time Prince Ozai broke out of the cell, completing the rest of his work in relative silence. But it was not quite dark yet, given how far south they were.

Zhao blinked as he emerged from the darkness, eyes readjusting to the light at an embarrassingly slow pace. He just barely managed to catch up to the prince, striding ahead towards the upper levels.

“We got stuck in one of those damn booby traps,” Zhao declared, storming onto the deck. “Didn’t any of you notice your two highest-ranking commanders disappearing? We called for assistance plenty of times!”

“We … we did notice,” his helmsman stammered out. “And Kazuko thought there were noises from below, but … we thought maybe you didn’t want to be found?”

“Why on earth would we not want to be found?” he demanded.

Cowering like ferret-mice, his sailors didn’t reply. Instead they subjected him to most peculiar stares, perfectly balanced between terror and disbelief. Prince Ozai turned on his heel and left, emitting a noise of disgust. 

*

Nothing changed that day in the cell. Zhao remained stuck on a pointless mission. The prince remained insufferable.

Nothing changed in any quantifiable fashion. Yet as the rest of his crew turned jumpy and snappish from spending too long at sea, Zhao found himself smiling when he couldn’t explain it, afflicted by fragile, inexplicable optimism. And though he still didn’t agree with the prince’s inaction he could now somewhat understand it. 

(The Fire Lord was playing with fire in Zhao’s opinion. With all that power and style and charisma, Young Prince Ozai was born to get what he wanted. He was as potent and dangerous as blasting jelly. Zhao wondered how long Azulon could handle him before it blew up in his face.)

One night, there was pipa music room coming from the prince’s quarters as Zhao passed them by. He stopped. Then he knocked on the door without throwing a lick of fire, thanks to his current good mood.

“Yes?”

Trying the door, Zhao found it unlocked. “Your Highness, you’re a magnificent liar.”

“Excuse me?”

Standing on the threshold of the prince’s bedroom, Zhao gestured at the instrument lying on his lap. “You said you didn’t play.”

“I don’t.” And then he plucked out a phrase from a classic folk song, from the very one Zhao played the other night. Yet in the prince’s hand the tune was nearly unrecognizable, every pitch perfect, the melody ornamented with virtuosic flourishes. Ozai was coaxing lovelier strains than Zhao ever had from Zhao’s own pipa.

“Shall I add deception to your list of skills,” Zhao blustered, shying away from that peculiar realization, “behind shameless theft?”

“I don’t play the pipa,” he replied with a slick pleasant smile he couldn’t truly mean. “I haven’t touched one since reducing mine to ashes a decade back.“

“I hope you’re not planning on a repeat performance.”

He lit one playful flame far too close to the fingerboard and smirked at Zhao’s horror before putting it out. “No, the last spectacle was at my father’s orders. He’d decided I needed to ‘know the pain of losing what I held dearest,’ as a lesson.”

“And how’d you earn that lesson in the first place?”

His eyes flicked up and then his brow furrowed. “Would you believe I don’t remember?”

Zhao did believe him, strangely enough. 

Prince Ozai returned to his flashy strumming. Zhao stayed to listen …

And to appreciate the unusual look softening Ozai’s face as he looked down at the pipa, fond and full of care.

*

Zhao was losing his mind. Prolonged exposure to Prince Ozai in a confined space could do it to anyone. He’d gotten sick of gray walls and cramped hallways and crew members who kept throwing him curious glances. Zhao might have called them all out for impertinence if he could guess what they were curious about in the first place.

They threw similar glances at Prince Ozai and scuttled away from the resulting glares. They had a collective death wish.

The entire ship breathed a sigh of relief as the green of Whaletail Island came into sight. Even Prince Ozai mentioned to Zhao that he’d been longing for a walk on solid land. (He’d checked that the hallway was otherwise empty first before confessing to anything as human as want.)

They got within sight of Whaletail Island and then couldn’t make it there. Internally seething over the rotten timing, Zhao headed to Prince Ozai’s room to inform him of the news. “We can’t make port today. The tides won’t let us.”

With a clank Ozai flung his door open, expression stormy. “You told me we’d land today.”

“Now I’m telling you tomorrow.”

“That is not nearly a good enough answer, Lieutenant.”

Zhao threw up his hands. “What does it matter?”

“Do the tides control this ship?”

“What?”

“Do the tides control this ship or do I?”

Zhao waited several seconds before bursting into laughter. “Why do you even care?”

“The texts say ‘peace and balance’ are needed for lightning,” he hissed back, “which may mean I need stable solid ground, at least to learn it.”

“That is not what the texts mean.”

“They also mean inner peace.” Ozai gave him a searing scowl and waved towards eight meditation candles behind him. “Which is why I’ve spent the past twelve hours meditating. That’s twelve hours wasted if you don’t get us to shore!”

Behind him eight meditation candles exploded to make his point.

“Right,” Zhao said, old anger flaring. Without thinking he took a menacing step forward, into the prince’s private quarters. “I can see it’s made you very stable.”

Despite backing up to let him in, he scoffed haughtily. “We’d have made it if you spent half the time commanding your ship that you do on your sideburns!”

“I'm sorry, would you like me to go and shoot the moon for you, Your Highness?” Zhao didn’t know when he’d gotten right into Ozai’s face, the door falling shut behind him. “Get rid of tides for good?!”

“Why did I expect better?” Ozai snarled back, golden eyes wild and hungry, “from an infant lieutenant so busy with spirit tales you can’t even dock a ship right!”

“Is that a challenge?” Zhao roared. 

He’d had enough. Any sailor could run into the same tidal problem. It wasn’t fair to smear Zhao’s whole career. To make him feel inferior for a record-speed promotion. To doubt his competence as a top-notch member of the Navy.

Prince Ozai goggled at him, apparently dumbstruck by his sheer audacity.

But it was inevitable, wasn’t it? Zhao had known it from the moment they met or even before. There was no other ending for the two of them, either they’d flay each other alive in a proper Agni Kai or …

Ozai ambushed him then and there, lunging forth to shove him against the door. He went for the face. Of course he went for the face.

Of course Ozai went for his mouth, pressing their mouths together, tongues battling with just a hint of sparks.

*

Zhao woke up with a smile on his face the next morning. He could explain it too, if pressed.

Silken sheets rustled as Ozai shifted beside him. He’d propped himself up on one elbow to watch Zhao, his own golden eyes still soft from sleep.

“Good morning,” Zhao hummed.

“It is good,” he replied. “I feel like I might pull off the lightning today.”

“… Have you got any plans after that?”

Ozai contemplated that for a long time. His expression was still sufficiently unguarded that Zhao could spot real uncertainty.

He could hear it too, when Ozai spoke again. “Do you really think there’s a chance of finding the Avatar?”

“I can find him. And you can capture him and make him do whatever you need him to. If you need him to spend the rest of his years in the Boiling Rock …”

Or if you need him to overthrow your father, Zhao didn’t say. As Ozai watched him he wondered if he heard it anyway.

“Why don’t you get out those maps and books you like so much,” his prince finally said. “I’m in the mood to go somewhere.”