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Chapter Text

– and Azula’s crackling bolt of lightning steadied, became still and straight, and was a beam of blue light thrusting from the horizon to the sky. The cold voltaic shock through his nerves was the sting of cold air damp with spray from the sea, the pressure of electrical charge the weight of armour on his shoulders, the harsh blue-white glow of lightning the grey-white-blue of sea and ice and sky.

…His scalp was cold.

Zuko slowly raised a hand to the back of his head, felt the smooth shaved skin, the ends of a phoenix tail brushing over his knuckles. He closed his eyes and let out a slow, shuddering breath.

The metal deck of the boat swayed with the waves and juddered with the engine; he could taste the soot flakes on the air.

Azula wasn’t here. He was not at the Fire Temple in Caldera. He was on a ship in cold polar waters, surrounded by icebergs.

He looked behind him. Uncle was there, sitting before a low table, element tiles laid out in front of him, a steaming teapot next to them.

Uncle was here. Uncle would help. Uncle would know what was going on.

“Uncle? Do you know what this means?”

Uncle sighed and put down a tile. “I won’t get to finish my game?”

This had happened before. Zuko recognised the fake pout for what it was, this time. Uncle was concerned, his lack of attention feigned.

This had happened before. Here in the polar waters where the light of the Avatar pierced the sky. Nine months before where he had just been.

He watched the pillar of blue light fade to white, to sky.

It was like waking from being awake. Was he dreaming now, or had he been dreaming before? Had any of that actually happened? Had he…?

“The Avatar…” he breathed. If somehow any of this was real, if any of his memories were real…

“Or it’s just the celestial lights,” came a reproving voice from behind him. “Prince Zuko, we have been down this road before. I don't want you to get too excited over nothing. Please, sit. Why don't you enjoy a cup of calming jasmine tea?”

Calming jasmine tea. Yes, he definitely needed some of that.

Whatever was going on, he needed to get to Aang. Who was it at the helm just now? – It didn’t matter. He pitched his voice for command. “Helmsman, set a course toward that light!”

Then Zuko turned towards his Uncle, with his card table and his tea. “Uncle,” he said, half fond, half desperate. “I would love some tea.”

That was not his nephew’s normal reaction.

Ever since that dreadful Agni Kai, Zuko had resisted showing any sort of care or fondness for anyone or anything. In a hopeless world, Iroh lived for those few moments when his nephew let his mask of rage slip, even though it was only exhaustion or despair that took its place.

And now?

There was a small, fond smile on his face, and he came over and sat quietly, cross-legged, on the hard deck on the opposite side of the table, and met his uncle’s eyes openly, unscowling, for the first time in years. It made him look so much younger, so much more like the boy he remembered.

The engines rumbled and the deck tilted against the waves as the Yosumi turned onto her new course.

Iroh didn’t actually have a second cup at the table.

He realised this at the same time as he saw Zuko’s smile twist into a wry grin. “Uncle,” he said, amused, and shaking his head. “I’ll get a cup. I’ll be back in a moment.”

He rose to his feet, apparently determined to fetch the cup himself, over Iroh’s protests, and headed aft, towards the galley, with a steady tread. Iroh watched after him, wondering.

When Zuko was out of sight, Iroh looked down at the game of Patience he’d been playing. The last Fire Cloud was under the Water Rock. If he could free it, he would be able to clear the Fire set…

…what had happened to his nephew? Had that light done something to him? The blue beam of spirit energy that clearly wasn’t the celestial lights, though Iroh had offered that as an excuse to discourage Zuko from going on some new quailgoose chase, to prepare him for the inevitable disappointment.

Or – Iroh felt a sudden chill at the thought – had Zuko been possessed by whatever spirit had set off that light? Was it  using Zuko’s body for some purpose, pretending affection in an attempt to keep Iroh off-guard?

Quiet, sure footsteps approached from behind. Zuko, or whatever was assuming his form now, rounded the table and placed a cup on the table before crossing his legs and dropping straight down into a seated position. The smile was gone from his face, but there was still that warmth in his eyes that Iroh really didn’t know what to do with.

Iroh carefully poured the tea. It would be a little strong by now, but still good. The cup Zuko had brought was red, matching the rest of the set. A curl of steam floated up into the cold air.

“Thank you, Uncle,” the boy murmured. He inhaled the steam and took a sip, and actually closed his eyes, visibly savoured it, letting his shoulders gently fall. “You do make good tea.”

Iroh blinked, and took a moment to consider his strategy.

“You have never complimented my tea before, Prince Zuko,” he eventually decided on.

“I should have,” his nephew said, with a frown at his cup. “I’m sorry.”

Where had this come from? All this responsiveness, this completely different range of emotions? Iroh watched him suspiciously. The boy was now nervously turning his cup round in his hand, frowning down at it. Then he looked up and around, apparently checking no-one was in earshot.

“Uncle, I’m going to need your help.” He took another sip of his tea, closed his eyes again, and let out a breath. Then he met Iroh’s gaze seriously. “I don’t know if I’ve dreamt the last nine months, or if I’m dreaming now, but…” he trailed off, averting his eyes.

Iroh hid his worry with a chuckle. “I can assure you, the last nine months have been entirely real.” Fraught though they had been, with what could have been the ship’s second mutiny only just averted by replacing a third of the crew, including the captain; that incident with the pirates; the spirit Zuko had annoyed that had pursued and haunted them for nearly a month; the debacle at Shu Cheng; the never-ending antagonism of Captain Zhao… “If you want, you can check on the komodo rhinos. The two you surprised us with at Kowan are growing nicely.”

Zuko was shaking his head. “Wait… that’s not what I meant. I mean, I might have dreamt the next nine months.” He paused. “Or I might be dead. That’s a possibility.”

Iroh stared at his nephew, trying to make his mind work past that horror.

“Or – is this the spirit world?” Zuko gently pursed his lips, let out the tiniest, most controlled huff of golden flame Iroh had ever seen from him. “Huh.” He breathed again, caught the flame on his fingertips, and stared at it for a moment before dissipating it with a spread of his fingers. “So… I’m alive, you’re alive…”

Something was very wrong. Iroh reached his hand out and touched the back of Zuko’s hand. Whether he was offering reassurance or seeking it, he wasn’t sure. But Zuko immediately turned his hand around to grasp Iroh’s, fingers desperately clambering their way to his wrist and grabbing on. He looked up, face suddenly anguished, eyes brimming, and Iroh abruptly realised that Zuko’s calm demeanour was hiding deep worry and fear.

“Uncle, I –”

Zuko could feel his Uncle’s hand in his, warm and soft and real, and the touch felt so familiar, so much like home, that he couldn’t breathe for a moment. All of a sudden his eyes were pricking and his tongue was heavy in his mouth because Uncle was here, Uncle was here and nothing seemed real at that moment but the warm plump hand he was gripping, like the hand he’d held in a dirty half-ruined house because Uncle had almost died from Azula’s fire and he couldn’t bear it, like the hand that stroked his brow and held his hand while he lay dizzy and disoriented in a shabby flat in Ba Sing Se, like the hand that grabbed him and pulled him close in a tent at dawn two days ago and nine months away, and maybe this was a dream now and he was really lying in the courtyard of the Fire Temple dying as the world burned around him, and maybe none of it had happened at all –

’Breathe, Prince Zuko,” came Uncle’s voice. “Breathe slowly. Breathe with me.”

Oh. Right. He was sitting on the deck. The Elements tiles were laid out on the table in front of him, Air over Fire, Water over Rock.  Zuko breathed the chill air, in, out, like meditating, watching Uncle’s exaggerated breaths and trying to follow them. That real, real hand was rubbing a thumb over Zuko’s knuckles, and Zuko leant towards it. There was a hesitation, and then a shuffling, and then the teacup he’d forgotten was plucked from his other hand and he was pulled into warm, comforting arms.

His shoulder guards rubbed against Uncle’s breastplate, leather squeaking, and Zuko wished they were both unarmored so he could sink properly into Uncle’s embrace. He closed his eyes, letting the tears spill down his cheeks, and his breath caught in a ragged sob.

“Prince Zuko – nephew –” came Uncle’s voice, rumbling through his chest where Zuko’s good ear was pressed. “Please. I am here for you. Whatever it is that is bothering you, I promise I will listen.”

He should tell him. He needed to tell him. But Zuko didn’t think he could even speak now. He just clung to Uncle, trying to smooth his breathing. He knew the lookout on the top deck was watching, and would probably tell everyone in the mess later on, but right now that didn’t matter. Uncle was here.

Uncle was warm.

Uncle was breathing steadily, in and out.

Zuko let his head rest on Uncle’s breastplate and allowed his arms to slowly loosen and relax.

Uncle was holding him.

Uncle was here.

He didn’t want to move.

“Come, Prince Zuko. Let me take you to your cabin.”

Zuko, with effort, lifted his head off Uncle’s shoulder guard and opened gummy eyes. He let Uncle haul him to his feet, and tried not to stumble as he walked alongside him towards the door into the tower. He’d been afire with the Comet’s light, chi leaping and fizzing with the flame in the sky, and now that was all gone. The weight of the last two nights without sleep before the Comet, searching for Aang, waiting for Uncle; the desperate effort of the Agni Kai, fighting against the sister he should have loved; the lightning he’d caught and, unrooted, pulled in; and now… whatever this was…

Maybe he was dying outside the dream, and that’s why he felt so heavy and tired. He didn’t complain when Uncle opened the door to his cabin and led him in by his elbow.

“You need to rest, Prince Zuko,” his uncle said gently. “I will help remove your armour.”

Zuko let him. Maybe if he slept, he would wake in real life.

Iroh gently unbuckled his nephew’s armour and laid each piece aside. Zuko stood passively, quietly, perhaps swaying slightly with the motion of the ship, and allowed Iroh to move around him. Iroh surreptitiously brushed his hand against Zuko’s forehead as he pulled the shoulder guard off over his head. He didn’t seem to be running hotter than usual. He was just… quiet.

He’d firebent, earlier, on the deck, so he probably wasn’t possessed by a spirit. That wasn’t much reassurance, though.

He got the leather skirt off while Zuko fumbled to untie his own bracers.

“’m sorry, Uncle,” he murmured to his hands. “I just– I can’t–”

“You are just tired, Prince Zuko. The constant sun here has been keeping us all awake.” Maybe that was true. Maybe the relief of finally having a lead had allowed him to relax enough to not fight his body’s needs any more. Maybe if he just reassured his nephew, this would go away. “You should rest. A man –”

“–Needs his rest. I know, Uncle.” His nephew gave him an exhausted smile. “I’ve missed you.”

Iroh almost pulled him back into his arms, but he resisted, and instead allowed himself a puzzled frown. “I’ve always been here.”

“I know, Uncle.” Zuko tensed and pulled in a breath. “But I haven’t.”

“When the pot has been moved, the leaves turn again to face the sun,” Iroh tried. It wasn’t his best, and he wasn’t sure how relevant it was, but really he was just stalling for time while he tried to work out what was wrong with his nephew. Perhaps Zuko would find more wisdom in the proverb than he could.

“I’m not a plant, Uncle! – Never mind,” his nephew said, dismissing it with a shake of his head. “I just– I need to tell you but…” He sighed. “Where do I start? I don’t even know if I’m dreaming or if I’m really here.”

“Does it matter?”

Gold eyes looked up at him, the one eyebrow scrunched in confusion. “Of course it matters, Uncle! If it’s real, if all of it happened, and now I’m back here, then –” he broke off, looked away, at the altar at the other end of the room, the mask of Agni in dim pink light, dark against the daylight from the window above. “Then I need to find the Avatar again.”

Iroh stopped himself from sighing. As if his nephew had stopped hunting the Avatar, ever, for one moment in the two and a half years since the moment he’d woken up after that awful day. “And if you are dreaming, then you will wake in the fulness of time, and search for the Avatar again then.”

Zuko scrunched up his face. “But –”

“Either way, what you need to do now is rest. For if you are dreaming that you are tired when you are already asleep, you must be tired indeed!” He chuckled warmly, and hoped it didn’t sound too false.

For a moment it looked like Zuko would concede. But then he shook his head again. “No, I need to – If this is real, you need to know.” He licked his lips. “That pillar of light… that was the Avatar. I – he’s a child, he didn’t know anything about the war, and I was…”  He sighed, bringing his hand up to his forehead and wiping it down his face. “Well, that’s not so important right now. The important thing is… the important thing is that I need to find him and do it right this time.”

’Prince Zuko, please. You must rest. We can talk more about this once you have slept.”

“But you have to know, Uncle! Sozin’s Comet is coming, and Father – he was going to burn down the Earth Kingdom, and we couldn’t find Aang, and, and Azula – oh Spirits, Azula, there’s something wrong with Azula…”

Iroh grasped his nephew’s shoulders to interrupt his increasingly delirious words. “You are too tired to talk sensibly now. I promise, once you have rested, I will listen to all you have to say. But now you must rest.” And in the morning, hopefully Zuko would realise that all these concerns were nightmares brought on by lack of sleep.

Zuko sighed again and slumped in a way that could be interpreted as a nod. “OK, Uncle. But… if there’s a distress flare sighted, cut the engines and come and get me. Don’t ram the village.”

“Certainly, Prince Zuko.” Iroh nodded and smiled reassuringly as if that request made any sense at all, and guided him gently down to lie on the bed. His nephew did not resist, and Iroh pulled the cover over his shoulders, resting his hand there.

“Uncle?” Zuko looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Even if this is a dream…” he turned onto his side, facing Iroh, huddling into the blanket, “’m glad I got to see you again.” His eyes closed, and Iroh sat there with his hand on his nephew’s shoulder, hoping that he would be back to himself when he woke up.

Chapter Text

Zuko gasped himself awake. He rolled onto his back and calmed his breathing, becoming aware of the swell of the waves, the vibration from the engine, the steady pink light from the wall lamps illuminating the brushed metal ceiling. He let the fragments of flame and terror fade. He was alone on his pallet in a cabin that was very familiar to him.

Yesterday… he’d fought Azula in Agni Kai under the Comet. She’d shot him with lightning, and then…

…He was still here. He’d slept and woken and he was still here.

It probably wasn’t a dream.

He really was here, back where it all began.

If it was real…

If it was real, then he had failed.

Aang must have failed, failed in his task as the Avatar, and it was Zuko’s failure, for not training him fully, for not helping him, for driving him away, for not finding him when he left, desperately seeking some solution other than killing the Fire Lord. It must be Zuko’s fault. For why else would the Spirits have sent Zuko, of all people, back to try again?

It was a gift.

It was a curse.

He sat up, rubbed his face. The sun was near its nadir, but climbing. When he’d… when Aang’s light had come it had been mid-afternoon. He’d slept longer than he’d expected to.

Though he’d mostly expected to wake back in the palace, if at all.

Azula’s crazed, desperate laughter, repeated in his dream, still rang in his ears.

He needed tea.

He padded out of his room in stockinged soles. He remembered now, when they started heading into polar waters he’d taken to going to bed with his socks on, the better to keep warm in the frigid air. Still, the metal deck in the passageway struck cold into his soles. He breathed out, pushing chi through to his extremities.

It was warmer in the narrow, dimly-lit galley, where the oil stove was always lit. In military time, this was still night, despite the sun, and no-one was in to start the rice for breakfast yet. Which was good, because he had to pull open several cupboards, clanging vast rice pots against large woks, before he found the teapots, bricks and caddies in the cupboard under the service hatch to the mess. He’d never needed to know where they were, before.

Sniffing a few caddies found him ginseng, oolong, and – ha! the jasmine; not the really nice stuff, with actual jasmine flowers, but still good, with a scent that felt like home. Whole green leaves, small and twisted in the drying; far better than the crumbled dreck Pao was serving before Uncle got his hands on the inventory.

He chose a small teapot – squat and plain, but it looked like it would be a good pourer – and pedalled the foot pump by the sink, bringing water from the tank up to the tap to fill the teapot. He stroked the teapot absently while he thought about what to do next. They would surely reach the Water Tribe camp soon. He should go in unarmoured, to be less threatening. Then… then he would have to convince Sokka to stand down, and Katara and Aang to accept his help.

A happy thought struck him. Maybe he wasn’t the only one who had been given this vision – who had been sent back.  Maybe he wasn’t alone. If Aang and the others had come back too, it would be so much easier.

Maybe it wasn’t his failure.

Maybe they had a chance.

Maybe he could do better this time. Not get his crew killed, not get his girlfriend killed, not almost get the Avatar killed –

The water in the teapot was nearly hot enough. He gave it just a little extra push of heat, to take it to a proper boil. That water had been in the ship’s tank for a while now. Once it was at a good rolling boil, he started gently pulling heat back out until it was just over the ideal temperature. Then he set the teapot back down and waited to let the water cool the rest of the way naturally.

At the very least, he could start by not destroying the ice village this time. Not manhandle Sokka and Katara’s grandmother. Maybe even make a good impression. Perhaps they would be there to meet him. His friends.

Perhaps Aang would know what had gone wrong; perhaps Sokka would already have a plan.

Cool enough. He poured out the tea leaves into one hand and lifted the teapot lid with the other, and gently tilted them in, and gave the teapot a quick swirl – not for long, that was one of the things Uncle had been strict about: move the water just enough to sink the leaves, don’t keep swirling the pot. He held the teapot still, keeping it from cooling further, and waited for the fragrance to begin to fill the galley.

Footsteps. The wheel of the galley door turned, and the door opened. Zuko put the teapot down and stepped back to give whoever was coming in more space.

“– Prince Zuko?”

It was Uncle. Of course it was. He probably had some sort of extra sense that detected that tea was being brewed. “It’s not quite ready yet. It needs to steep a little longer.”

Uncle eyed the steaming teapot. “You made tea?”

Zuko nodded. “I woke up, and… I needed something to do.” He stepped back from Uncle and turned away to the cupboard he’d found earlier where dishes were stacked in frames to prevent them smashing into each other during storms. He pulled out a tray and two cups, white with gold rims, and set them on the countertop above. They weren’t altogether unlike the ones at the Jasmine Dragon.

“I find myself unable to sleep also,” Uncle countered with a smile, stepping where Zuko had just been standing. “I was coming to make myself a cup of tea, but I see you are already ahead of me.” He reached for the teapot.

“Patience, Uncle,” said Zuko, letting the corner of his mouth tick upwards teasingly. (So often Uncle had counselled patience to him.) He put his own hand on the cooling teapot, infusing just a little more warmth into it.

Uncle raised his eyebrows up at him. “I only thought to check on the brew,” he near-whined.

“Just a little longer,” Zuko insisted. It had taken him so long to learn to time the tea – either he’d get impatient and pour while the water was still barely tinted, or he’d get frustrated and lose control, overheating it to foulness. “Why don’t you go and sit down?” He motioned at the tables in the mess hall beyond the serving hatch. “I’ll bring it out in just a moment.”

Uncle looked at him oddly, and Zuko realised he’d used his Customer Service voice. To cover his embarrassment, he flapped his hand at Uncle and said “Go on!”, which just made Uncle look at him even more oddly. But he did back off and head through the other door, into the mess, where he sat at the nearest table and watched Zuko intently through the service hatch as though there was some incredible puzzle about setting out two cups on a tea tray.

It was time. Zuko poured the tea and placed the teapot on the tray next to the cups. He couldn’t be bothered walking through the door and back round, so he just vaulted the counter through the service hatch (Pao would have had sixteen fits) and picked up the tea tray from the other side to take it to Uncle.

This was the first time he’d actually served Uncle tea since Ba Sing Se. And he hadn’t exactly been expecting him when he started brewing it. He hoped it was all right.

It was odd enough to find Prince Zuko in the galley in his night clothes. To find him peacefully brewing tea… well, that was unheard of. And to be told patience and shooed out so Zuko could serve him was so far beyond strange that Iroh found himself entertaining again the notion that the boy had been possessed.

He had tried to teach his nephew tea exactly three times in the past. Once, when he was thirteen with a scar still raw, still flinching from flame. Iroh had thought to encourage his bending by teaching him to use it to warm the water. Once, after the first mutiny, hoping a new skill would bring him comfort in his loneliness. Once, quite recently, teaching him varieties and tastes; an attempt to encourage him to find purpose in something other than this Spirits-damned impossible mission.

All had been disastrous, the tea undrinkable; in the worst case, the teapot cracked and ruined with angry overheating.

Now, he sat at the nearest table and watched his nephew gather the tea set on the tray. Zuko picked up each cup in turn and held it in both hands for a moment, with the smooth exhale that indicated a gentle, controlled pushing out of heat, before setting it on the tray. When had he realised that Iroh preheated the cups when he served tea? How did he know it was necessary? How had he finally internalised that fire comes from the breath?

He poured the tea expertly, with a little flick of the wrist forwards to stop the pour without a dribble. Iroh couldn’t see for sure from this angle, but it looked like he had poured exactly the same amount into each cup, without having to go back and top either up.

Zuko set the teapot gently down in the centre of the tray. Then he stepped a pace down to the other end of the serving hatch, placed a hand on the counter, and leapt casually through it.

Ah, there was his nephew.

Prince Zuko picked up the tray and crossed the short distance from the service hatch to the table with a smooth and sure tread. instead of just placing the tray down on the table, he moved unobtrusively around to Iroh’s right side and, holding the tray balanced on one hand, gently placed a steaming teacup in front of him. Like a servant, or a waiter. And quite unlike the boy Iroh knew, the one who was deeply aware of his degradation and dishonour, and desperate to deny it by insisting on every last courtesy owed to him while refusing to humble himself to show any to others.

He walked round the table and put the other cup opposite, and then the teapot in the middle. He hovered for a moment, and Iroh thought he might say something, but instead he turned and returned the tray to the serving hatch, then took his place opposite Iroh, folding himself down to sit seiza. He gestured at the cup in front of Iroh, nervousness clear on his face. “Please, Uncle, enjoy this tea.”

He braced himself as he brought the cup to his lip, but…

The tea smelt good.

The tea tasted good.

There was a slight flatness about it from the ship’s tank water. Even Iroh’s tea had that, here on the ship. But it felt warm and smooth on the tongue. The green tea was pleasantly tangy without being bitter, and the sweet, delicate floral notes lingered in the aftertaste. He couldn’t help but let the surprise show on his face.

“This is most excellent tea, Prince Zuko,” he complimented, and did not miss the blush or the apparently involuntary smile that quirked the corner of his nephew’s lips. He set down his cup. “Who taught you to brew like this?”

“You did, Uncle,” he said, still smiling fondly. “In Ba Sing Se.”

What.

The name Ba Sing Se brought back a whole host of sensations and Iroh had to close his eyes against them. Jasmine had been Lu Ten’s favourite, as it was Zuko’s. He’d brewed and poured many a cup in a tent outside the walls; when he could, he shared them with Lu Ten.

What if…?

“…When were you at Ba Sing Se, Prince Zuko?”

Zuko tilted his head and darted his eyes up towards the corner of the room. “Uh… from a bit after the equinox, I think. We were there for a bit over two months. Until Azula came.”

The wild and stupid hope that had reared its head died, to Iroh’s – on the whole – relief. For a moment he had thought, had feared… but Lu Ten had been with him at the walls for a lot longer than two months, and in any case he had taught Lu Ten a long time before he ever set out with him on the campaign trail.

But… he’d said ‘in Ba Sing Se’, not ‘at Ba Sing Se’.

It made no sense.

Zuko took another sip of his tea, sighed, and put his teacup down. “After the Siege of the North, we were declared traitors, you and I, and you got us false papers through the White Lotus to get us into Ba Sing Se as refugees. We got jobs in a tea shop in the Lower Ring, and I… I wasn’t the best company for a while, but you, Uncle, you stuck with me, as you always have, and…” he picked his teacup up again, took another sip, “…I learned.”

Iroh blinked.

There was too much to unpack. Start at the beginning.

“Siege of the North…?”

“Admiral Zhao” – Zuko’s face twisted in disgust, and he put down his teacup hard – “thought it would be a good idea to kill the Moon. He nearly succeeded, too.” He shook his head. “I was an idiot and probably made things worse… though if I hadn’t taken the Avatar, Zhao might have killed him while he was vulnerable…” he trailed off, gazing distantly past Iroh’s left ear. He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. “A lot of people died, Uncle. I don’t want to let that happen again.”

Admiral Zhao. The Avatar. The White Lotus.

“…The next nine months…” he breathed.

Prince Zuko nodded. “The next nine months,” he confirmed. “All the way up to the day of Sozin’s Comet.”

“And then?”

His nephew shrugged. “I don’t know… I died, I guess? And now… now I’m back here. I don’t know how. But… I’m going to do better this time. I’m going to do it right.”

Iroh took a large gulp of his tea, and leant forward. “Tell me everything.”

Chapter Text

‘Are you sure about this, Prince Zuko?” asked Uncle.

Zuko looked down dubiously at the floating ice shelf. It was cracked in places, melting with the summer sun, and rose and fell slightly with the waves. Further in, it rose smoothly, thick and firm and steady. Along a little way, the snow wall of the Water Tribe camp rose, the little tower at the corner and the dome of the large igloo behind it.

He’d stood on the lookout deck and watched the flare erupt and fall. He had thought Aang might not release it again, if he too remembered. Maybe he didn’t remember. But perhaps Aang thought he’d need it, as a guide to find them? Perhaps he wanted to make sure, not knowing if Zuko remembered?

He could drive the little tugboat perhaps a little further in, but it wouldn’t break the ice shelf the way the ship would. And he’d insisted on leaving the ship well out in the mists, away from the ice wall. He wanted to avoid the appearance of aggression, as best he could anyway. He’d ordered the crew to hold position and he’d had them launch the tug. He’d ignored their bemused looks. It was hard enough holding back his relief at seeing them all alive.

Uncle had insisted on coming, of course. And Zuko was grateful. He knew he’d screw up somehow and Uncle, with his knack of pouring tea on troubled waters, would surely help him smooth the path.

He huffed a little golden flame to keep warm. Uncle had objected to the lack of armour, but Zuko had been firm. If his friends remembered him, he wouldn’t need armour, and the difference in his clothing would show them that he was different, that he had the future memories too. And if they didn’t remember him, the lack of armour would make them look less threatening. Uncle nodded with that frown and that stroke of the beard that meant “I disagree with your choice, nephew, but I will allow you your head.”

So here he was in grey wool, with his red and overlarge beizi robe over the top for extra warmth, and Uncle in a brown woollen robe, looking down at the rocking ice. Zuko nodded firmly. “Yes, Uncle, I’m sure.”

And he leapt.

The ice rocked underfoot but did not tip him, and he sprinted lightly across to firmer, thicker ice. Then he turned to watch Uncle descend more slowly down the side of the boat, and test the surface carefully before committing his weight to it. Uncle proceeded cautiously across the cracked ice, with the balance that came from many years of firebending katas, until he joined him on the main shelf.

Zuko turned without a word and crunched through the snow, veering further away from the edge to approach the camp from the side furthest from the water. If he remembered correctly, that was where the break in the wall was. He could feel the warmth of Uncle following behind.

They were treading noticeably uphill as the ice thickened, and as they circled round they had to jump down a small drop. Defenders would be able to corral attackers in this little ravine.

Someone was standing in the gap in the wall, waiting for them. Wearing a thick blue fur-trimmed anorak and wielding a white balled club. And with a grey and blue face.

Sokka.

He was standing, alert, tense, never taking his eyes off them, holding his club ready.

Sokka.

Zuko couldn’t have described the feeling of relief at seeing him again. He hurried forward, leaving Uncle behind. Then he pulled himself up short, and waved.

Now was the moment of truth.

“Hello… Zuko here.”

Sokka had been right. That signal had summoned a Fire Navy ship! That kid was in league with the Fire Nation!

Sokka hated being right.

He stood on the wall and watched its approach through the mist.

He knew what the Fire Nation did. They’d killed Mum. They’d killed Unik and Pittaq and Grandma Sinu whom he didn’t even remember but Dad and Bato talked about sometimes and – and Mum. And now they were coming back to kill again. And they’d find Katara.

He’d promised Dad he would protect the tribe, would protect her.

And of course he knew it was hopeless, but he was going to do his duty for as long as he could.

Would you be proud of me, Dad?

And then the ship just… stopped, still a long way away, just a black shape almost hidden in the mist. A long series of clanking noises carried clearly over the calm sea. His eyes on the ship, he almost missed the smaller steamship emerging from behind it and trundling to the ice shelf a little way down the coast.

Two scouts dropped down from the boat. A short fat one and a taller one, both wrapped in long coats, probably hiding weapons of some sort underneath. Sokka couldn’t see much more than that from here.

And they made their way round towards the back of the village.

A feint! These two would head for the landward side, and while the warriors engaged them at the gateway, the main force would attack from the larger ship!

…Or were they supposed to be taking them by surprise from the rear while they were waiting for the main ship to approach?

Either way, it was a two-pronged attack. And they couldn’t split their forces. Their forces were Sokka. And he’d been desperately training the boys, but the oldest was only six and could barely make a mark in the ice with his spear.

The two men were getting closer. The ship wasn’t yet coming forward.

Maybe they had miscalculated. And left him with a chance.

“Everyone!” he yelled. “To the south wall! Stand along the walls, away from the gateway!”

The mothers and the children and the old people and even Gran-Gran – even Katara! – obeyed him without question, for the first time ever. He was going to be so smug about this, if he got through it. He was going to protect the tribe.

The attackers’ timing was out. That meant that if he defeated the two coming in from the rear, the tribe had a chance to escape while he held off the reinforcements coming from the ship.

He’d have to take them both down fast, and hard, if the tribe was to survive this.

He waved at his tribe, his family, to signal them to stay back from the gateway and to keep quiet. The firebenders (they had to be firebenders) would melt through the walls if they knew the people were there. Then they would look for the waterbender. They would find Katara.

He stood in the gateway, alert and primed, watching them approach.

The taller one suddenly pulled ahead of the short one. He had a horrible scar on his face, red on the cheek and brown around the twisted eye, and a shaven head with a high ponytail sticking up from the crown. It looked kind of intimidating.

Sokka stood his ground.

The tall one stopped, and raised his hand to cast flame. He said something, some stupid taunting hello, but Sokka didn’t process it, because he was too busy launching his attack.

He yelled as he charged with his club, and saw the man’s smug smile evaporate into surprise. This was going to be easy!

…and then it wasn’t. The young man simply stepped back and let the club slice harmlessly into the air. Sokka staggered forward, steadied himself, and went again. This time the man sidestepped to avoid the blow, stupid long coat flapping around his ankles. “Sokka!” he yelled. “Sokka, stop! It’s me! Stop!”

He knew his name.

He knew his name!

And there was only one way that was possible. Only one way.

Sokka raised his club again, shrieking, “What have you done with my dad?”

“What?” asked the man – no, the teenager. The boy. His mouth opened stupidly. That’s good. Keep him off-balance.

He swung his club again.

This time his enemy grabbed his club in his hand and stopped it mid-swing, not even grunting with the effort. Wow he was strong.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the fat man step forward. The other guy saw him see and half-turned his head. “No, Uncle! Stay back!”

Sokka tugged his club back from him while he was distracted.

Uncle, huh?

Sokka leapt back, pulled his boomerang from its sheath, checked the angle, and threw.

The boy leant easily away from it on its way out. And then stepped smartly into where it had just been. As if he knew how the thing would travel. It wouldn’t hit him on the way back. “Sokka, you have to listen to me!” he yelled, rough-voiced. “I don’t want to hurt you!” But his hands were still raised, and Sokka had a whole tribe to protect. He knew what Fire Nation soldiers did. What they’d done to Mum. And –

“My father! Chief Hakoda!” Sokka screamed, waving his club. “What did you do to him?”

“I haven’t done anything to –!” But then he broke off, watching Sokka’s face as Sokka tracked his boomerang on its return. And then he wheeled, turning his back on him – “Uncle! DROP!”

And Sokka seized his one chance, and swung his club hard into the back of his opponent’s stupid bald head.

And the boy fell.

Iroh’s battlefield instincts had him diving forward the instant Zuko commanded it. Something whizzed over his head. And then –

And then –

– then Zuko, his nephew, his son, buckled at the knees and collapsed into the snow, revealing the blue-clad warrior behind him lowering his club and holding up his hand to catch the spinning flying weapon as it returned to him.

And Iroh was suddenly in that place he’d visited a thousand times in fantasy and never once in reality. If only he’d been there that day, if only he’d been with Lu Ten, he could have driven the earth benders back, grabbed Lu Ten and got him out of there. If only he could have saved his son…

But now. Here he was with his son – his nephew – now. He could protect him. He could save him.

Mixed terror and rage at the man who had dared hurt his child powered his flame as he sprang upright. 

And unleashed an inferno.

His flames roared high and he pushed them out hard to the warrior standing over the crumpled form of his son. They caught his enemy in the chest and arm, blasting him back forcefully, away from Zuko. The man screamed as the fire caught on his hand and sleeve, burning hot with the energy of Iroh’s own pain and fear, forcing him to drop his weapons. Iroh advanced threateningly with all the might of the old Dragon of the West, even as the warrior rolled himself back up to his knees, still clutching his arm.

Iroh reached his nephew, lying prone in the little depression his body had created in the snow. And glanced back at the warrior, who, despite the charred sleeve and the red blistering skin, was glaring at him, reaching for his club with his good hand.

Iroh would have to put him down. Secure the area so he could rescue his boy. He thrust out his arm, the warrior boy flinched back, and –

– someone was coming in fast from the side. He readied his other arm to take on the new foe, pivoting so he could keep them both in sight, and –

– he was blown back, as strongly as if blasting jelly had gone off nearby. His shoulder hit the snow, the flaming jets he’d let loose suddenly dissipated and gone. He rolled instantly to his feet again, to take stock, to defend his unconscious nephew –

It was a child. A boy with orange clothes and a bald head, the blue arrow clear in the low sunlight, and stormy eyes, and he said, “Stop!”, and he said, “I won’t let you hurt my friend any more!”

This. This was the child Zuko had described. This was the Avatar.

These were Zuko’s friends.

Iroh faltered, drooped. Stepped back.

Bowed.

“Avatar,” he began. And then stopped. What could he say, what could he do that would mend this disaster?

The Avatar’s eyes widened. The warrior boy with his burnt arm – and he was a boy, Iroh could see that now – got to his feet, trembling, and the Avatar rushed to his good side and supported him. “Leave,” he said, voice unsteady, breath coming in pained pants. “…don’t… come back.”

“Please,” said Iroh, dropping to his knees. “I will go. Just let me take my nephew. He is –” Iroh choked. My hope. All I have left. The only good thing.

”Take him,” gasped the injured boy, somehow standing straight and holding his club ready. ’Take… your ship… and go.”

“Yeah, what he said,” said the Avatar, like a child. “This village is under the protection of the Avatar. That’s me. So go, and don’t come back.”

Iroh scrambled ignominiously to his nephew’s side and lifted him into his arms. He was vaguely aware of movement behind him, a girl’s gasp – “Sokka!” – but he didn’t pay attention to any of it. His entire being was focused on his injured and unconscious boy. He would carry him back to the ship and they would sail away from this place and Zuko would awaken and recover.

He had to.

Chapter Text

– and the charge flared widely, heat and plasma filling the air with a jagged blue glow, and earthed itself on the target at the other side of the training arena. The metal ring sparked and glowed briefly as it took the charge, then was still.

The sky was grey.

Where was Zuko?

“Again.”

Azula whirled, hands already flaming. How had he got behind her? She turned her whirl into a spinning kick and drove blue flame from both hands and feet towards him, flipping herself backwards with the reverse thrust.

But her flame was smaller and lower and cooler than she expected and her brother simply stepped back, already wearing the Fire Lord’s robe and the five-pointed crown.

How dare he?

She would not let him have this victory. “No!” she cried, throwing out another jet of flame, narrower and more focused. “The throne is mine!”

There were gasps, and Zuko looked absolutely shocked for a moment. Then he stepped into stance, textbook-perfect, and snapped out a fast burst of orange flame and she dodged, stumbling slightly, expecting a surge of energy to her limbs that wasn’t there.

The sky was grey.

So the comet had abandoned her.

Like Mother. Like Zuko. Like Mai and Ty Lee.

Like Father.

She blocked and dodged a quick succession of sharp, direct fire punches, leaping between them, looking for an opening. No more lightning. That had been a trap. She had to taunt her brother, as he had tried to do to her. He was emotional, he had no control. It wouldn’t take much.

“Is that all you’ve got, brother?” she half-laughed, leaping lightly between red fireballs and sending her own blue ones back in turn, and noted the widening of his eyes and the twitch of his beard. He was pretending to be Father, but she knew better.

She jumped up and threw down a line of blue fire along the ground to him to break his root. He dispersed it with a low sweep of his leg and threw a fireball from each hand, curving round to hit her from the sides. She leapt back and shot from both feet, more to propel herself than to try to hit him. She had to weaken him more. “You can’t win, Zuzu. Do you really think Father will let you keep the throne if you defeat me?”

“Azula, no!” Someone was trying to distract her. She ignored them.

But it reminded her. “Where’s your water tribe girlfriend now, Zuzu? Scared she’ll get hurt?”

He didn’t look around, but he did frown. She leapt forward – sweep of blue flame with the left foot – land – leap – sweep of blue flame with the right foot. Push forward, don’t let him take the advantage. Pretend you’re not exhausted. Sweep of flame with the right foot. Block with the forearms. She expected the firewhips, or those terrifying swirling flame-dragons again, but instead he shot fireball after fireball directly at her face. She zigzagged to dodge them, snapping precise jets of blue flame at him from one side, then the other. The fireballs kept coming, and her brother kept grinning.

“My Lord! Stop, please!”

“She’s clearly not well!”

Two identical elderly voices. What were Li and Lo doing there? “Didn’t I banish you? Go away!”

“No,” said Zuko, still with that awful grin, the grin like Father. “She’s crazy and she needs to go down.”

“Azula, darling, you don’t have to do this.”

She turned her head to scream “You stay out of this, Mother!” and had to stumble out of the way of another concentrated blast of fire. It wasn’t just Mother. There was a whole host of people watching. Watching her lose. Traitors, all of them.

Keep taunting. Never mind that you’re panting for breath. Don’t let him see your weakness. Don’t let anyone see your weakness. “So this is your gratitude, brother.” Leap, dodge, fireblast, “I protected you!” Spin, kick, dive, “I brought you home!” Roll up, shield, return fire, don’t stagger, “I gave you back your honour!” Fireball, that one was more yellowish white than blue, ash ash ash drown it, “Why did you turn on me?!”

Scream, fireball, dodge, ash that one was too close, don’t sob, keep going, you have to keep going, he was grinning, why was he grinning –

Blast after blast she dodged and blocked and tried to reciprocate, her fire getting smaller and weaker and cooler, breath coming in harsh uncontrolled pants, until in the end she could only stand there, wrists crossed over her bowed head to block the continuous stream of orange fire that swept over her, that drove her back, drove her to one knee, she couldn’t stop it, it hurt, it hurt, it hurt –

– and the flames had stopped but still her hands and wrists and forearms flared in agony, the charred bracers still holding the heat against her skin and she could smell her own singed hair, oh cinders her hair, she couldn’t do more than gasp for breath and collapse her other knee and hold out her red and blistered hands in front of her…

She felt him step towards her, slow and steady, hand aflame.

Zuko had beaten her after all. She laughed wetly. She hadn’t thought he had it in him.

She had failed.

He loomed over her and she finally looked up. And suddenly something twisted and slotted into place and she realised, recognised –

“Father?”

Instinctively she dropped forward into a kowtow. Onto her hands.

It felt like they were being flayed all over again, and she gasped and her elbows buckled and she fell forward into –

No-one dared move.

Good.

Ozai nudged his daughter’s prone body with his foot. He had put a lot of work into his second child, training her, honing her into the perfect tool, the perfect weapon. Even after her first purpose, currying his father’s favour, was over, he had continued to work on her. He had had hopes for the glory and honour she could bring him.

And now his perfect tool was cracked, his work wasted. She was, it seemed, not as strong as he had expected.

But… there was an advantage to this.

His daughter, always the prodigy, had been growing steadily more powerful. Her flames weren’t as fast or as large as his, but they were more controlled and certainly hotter. She was his daughter, and her performance reflected on his, but at some point certain people might start remarking that she was surpassing him.

Until this moment she had always been loyal to him – he had made sure of that – but he was nevertheless aware of the threat she posed if she should ever stray from his grasp. He had been planning to send her into the field in the next few months: some mission that would reward her loyalty and prove his trust in her… and take her away from the court. To keep her far away from anyone who might think to whisper in her ear, to suggest that she could supplant him.

But now. Now she had shown herself to be unstable, insane. No-one in the court or the military would trust her to take his power from him. She had defanged herself. No matter how hot or powerful her flames became, she would never be viewed as a better candidate for Fire Lord than him.

He still had heirs and the legitimacy they granted him. But neither of them would ever be in a position to gain enough support to challenge him.

This was good.

“Take her to the infirmary,” he ordered, and the guards scrambled to obey.

But if she were too badly cracked, if she were too weak, then that too would damage his standing. Her actions reflected on him, after all. He could not let her madness be anything more than persistent rumour.

He nodded Li and Lo over, and they scurried to his side, wrinkled eyes wide.

“Princess Azula has lost her mind,” he told them. “She cannot stay here while she is a threat to herself and others. She will need to rest and recover. Holy Mountain retreat would be a good place for her until she comes back to herself.” And a nice secure place to keep her contained, until she was usable again. If she ever was. “You will go with her, and ensure she is comfortable. Resume her drills, as soon as she is able, and keep me informed. Tell her that when I consider that she is well and fit to resume her duty, I will call her home.”

That would make sure Azula knew she was being watched. He could trust Li and Lo to report truthfully. They knew their position here, as his mother’s sisters, was on his sufferance alone. 

As would Azula’s return be. If her betrayal stemmed from more than just a momentary madness, if she could never be useful to him again, if she was truly disloyal… 

Well then, that could be dealt with permanently.

His two old aunts bowed in unison. “It will be as you wish, my lord,” they replied, and backed away to a respectful distance before turning and following the stretcher carrying his broken weapon away.

And in the meantime he needed to have at least one healthy heir around, until Azula recovered and proved herself to him once again, or he could make some better heirs. All the reports he’d heard were that Zuko was still desperately, satisfyingly loyal. And if he were not sufficiently cowed… well, Ozai could quickly change that. Again.

And yet… there were the other things Azula had said. Things about restoring Zuko’s honour and bringing him home. Things that, even if she were mad, might perhaps have some basis in reality.

Had his offspring been plotting together behind his back? Was Azula planning to depose him and recall her brother to serve her? Had her madness warned him of their plans?

Or it could be delusion in its entirety.

But a water tribe girlfriend? That seemed rather too specific and strange an idea to have arisen solely from her delirium.

What treason were his disgraced son and brother hiding from him?

Rain began to fall, fat, heavy drops of it, splashing on his crown and soaking into his robes. Warm, like tea.

Yes. Either way, it was time to call his son home.

Chapter Text

Katara felt so helpless!

She shouldn’t help, she mustn’t help, Sokka was out there facing the Fire Nation to protect her, and she wanted to fight, and there was nothing she could do because she could barely even lift water and if they knew they would take her, they would kill her like they killed Mum, and Sokka was alone out there because Dad had left them, and she couldn’t help, and –

– and Sokka screamed, just like Nanurjuk had screamed on that day when the soldiers came with their fire, burning tents, burning people, she had to help him –

Nanurjuk hadn’t survived, and Karata hadn’t been able to spare any grief at the time because Mum –

Gran-Gran was gripping her shoulder hard with her fingers, sharp points pressing through the mitten and the parka. “No! Katara. You mustn’t! They’ll see!”

And Katara knew she mustn’t but she also knew that she absolutely must, and so she tugged herself out of Gran-Gran’s hold and raced to the gateway –

– in time to feel the backwash from a massive blast of air and –

Aang! Aang was back! And standing against the Fire Nation man, making him bow to him, and supporting Sokka –

– Sokka whose sleeve was charred rags, his glove gone entirely, and the skin bubbled and red and raw, but still standing, still bringing his club to bear against the old man, voice firm despite the pain –

Katara had never been more proud of her brother in her life. And so, so grateful to Aang. For coming back, for helping Sokka, for protecting them all. “The Avatar, that’s me!” he said, and Katara believed it.

The old man in his rust-brown gown turned and picked up the body of the other man, the one Sokka must have taken down before Aang arrived. And as soon as he had his back to them and was trudging away, Aang’s shoulders slumped and Sokka slid down him to the ground.

“Sokka!” she yelled, and rushed to him, taking him off Aang, laying him down in the watery slush the roaring flames had made of the snow. It was a little unstable, now, the ice thinner, but it was strong enough for now, for this, she could sense it. And she needed to get Sokka’s burn cooled as quickly as possible.

“Katara?” said her brother, with effort. “…Ow.”

“Don’t talk, Sokka, just lie flat,” said Katara quickly, holding his arm by the sleeve as much as she could and laying it into the puddle of slush. The sleeve was burnt off in strips; the thumb and the back of the hand all the way up beyond the elbow was already puffing up in big yellow blisters surrounded by raw, tender-looking skin. Get it soaked in cool water as quickly as possible, Gran-Gran had always said for burns, and she scooped the water up in her hands to cover the burnt flesh, to soak into the charred remains of the caribou-hare skin sticking to the burn.

“What are you doing?” demanded Sokka, biting off the words in pain.

“I’m helping you, idiot! – Aang, go and get us some bandages, Gran-gran knows where they are.”

She didn’t look to see him go, just scooped up some more water and drizzled it over his arm. Then she realised she was being absolutely stupid. Was she a waterbender or not?

She pulled up a whole sphere of water from the slushy puddle – this was the one thing she could almost reliably do, and she had to get it right now – and bent it around the whole of Sokka’s hand and arm, and held it there with her hands and her will, desperate for it to soothe him, to take that grimace of pain from her brother’s face, her brother who’d always been so proud and fierce, who’d stood between the tribe and the Fire Nation, who was so badly hurt now and she needed to make it better –

– and the water glowed.

Bandages. He needed to get bandages. Sokka was hurt! Aang might not know how to do Avatar things, but he was fast and he could get the bandages quicker than anyone else.

Well, he could if he knew where they were.

He whirlwinded into the big igloo and looked to the left as Gran-gran had directed. There were shelves here, little alcoves hollowed out into the ice. All sorts of things were piled in them and Aang scattered them heedlessly, looking for an orca-sealskin bag like the one Gran-gran had described.

“Here.”

The bag was thrust into his face. It was a woman with a few streaks of grey in her hair – one of the mothers, who’d come in after him while he’d been hunting through the bags.

“Thanks!” Aang said shortly, trying to remember to smile at her – he was just so worried! He grabbed the bag – the sooner he got these to Katara, the better she could help Sokka.

“Wait!” The woman called him back. “You’ll need these too.” She shoved a second bag at him with a desperate look. “Now go – hurry!”

Back through the break in the wall, and he held out the bandages to –

But Sokka wasn’t lying on the ground any more. He was sitting up in the slush, arms around both Katara and Gran-gran, and his right arm still had a scorched part-sleeve but the flesh sticking out from it was firm and whole, and they were all laughing and crying, and Sokka was saying “I’ll never insult your magic water powers again!” and Katara was poking him and saying “It’s called bending, meatbrain!” but she was smiling, and…

“What happened?”

Katara looked up, and the joy in her face was indescribable. “I healed him! Aang, I can heal ! With waterbending!”

That was so cool! “Wow, that’s amazing! How did you do that?”

“I… I don’t know,” she said with wonder. “I just wanted to take the pain away, I just wanted him to be better, and then I just sort of –” she gestured vaguely with her hands.

“Not many waterbenders have the gift to be healers,” said Gran-gran.

Katara paused in the act of reaching for Aang’s bags to turn a puzzled frown on Gran-gran. “You knew about this?”

Gran-gran nodded. “I saw it before, both here and in the north. I didn’t want to get your hopes up. Like I said, not every bender can do it – and you’ve never shown signs of it before. And in any case, I had no way of training you.”

“In the north?” Sokka tore his gaze from his arm – closer up Aang could see that it was still wet, and large blotchy patches of it were reddened, even if the skin was whole – to stare at his grandmother. His make-up was smeared half off, and it made his face look funny. “You mean in the Northern Water Tribe? When were you in the north?”

“I came from there, originally. I know they can teach you healing, if you go.”

“I can take you on Appa!” volunteered Aang eagerly, over Sokka and Katara’s chorus of “You did?!” and demands for explanations. This was going to be so good! Him and Katara, maybe Sokka too if he wanted to come, travelling the world. He could show them the Air Temple! They could go ride the elephant koi and the hopping llamas! It would be just like the time Kuzon’s parents had let him go on a trip with him! Of course, the parents had been under the impression Gyatso and the rest of the nomad group would be with them the whole time, but what they didn’t know hadn’t hurt them!

Gran-gran had somehow diverted them while Aang was imagining all the cool stuff they could get into, and Katara was opening the not-bandages bag and taking out a white jar. She held it up to Gran-gran, who examined it and nodded. “That’s the one.” Then Gran-gran turned on Aang. “And you,” she accused.

Aang didn’t know what he’d done wrong here, but he tried to look innocent.

“Did I hear you say you were the Avatar?”

Oh. Yeah. He had. He grimaced, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ehhh… yeah,” he muttered.

“You mean you weren’t bluffing? That was true?” cried Sokka, his voice cracking to a squeak at the end. Then he said a bad word, and Katara shoved his shoulder – though Aang noticed she did so very carefully. “Sokka! ”

“What? ” said Sokka in exactly the same tone. Katara sighed and handed him the jar. “Put that on, all over the burns. No, thicker than that.”

Once she was satisfied with what he was doing, she turned back to Aang. “Why didn’t you tell us you were the Avatar?” she asked with a frown.

Aang closed his eyes and hunched into himself. “Because… I didn’t want to be.”

“But Aang!” Katara turned hopeful eyes on him. “The world’s been waiting for the Avatar to return and finally put an end to this war. You saw what those Fire Nation soldiers did to Sokka. They’ve been terrorising the whole world for so long, Aang. A hundred years! Now you’re here, you can restore balance to the world!”

That was scary. It was even worse than what the elders had been telling him before. “But how can I do that?”

Gran-gran put her hand on his shoulder. “You will need to learn all four elements. You already have Air. Now you need the others. First water, then earth, then fire.” Aang nodded. The elders had told him the same. “The waterbenders of the Northern Water Tribe will teach you, too.” She nodded at him, holding his gaze until he nodded back. “You can do this. You are the Avatar, and you are the world’s only chance. And you won’t be alone.” She reached out her other arm to draw Katara in.

Sokka, with his glistening smeared arm, looked between them, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.

“I know,” Gran-gran smiled. “You want to go too.”

Sokka shook his head. “No! I mean, yes, I do, but… not…” He looked down and swallowed. “Gran-gran…” he looked up at her again, “the nephew – the younger one. He knew who I was. He knew my name.”

Gran-gran gasped and her mittened hands flew to her mouth. Katara’s eyes widened.

Aang didn’t understand. “But you’ve never met them before, have you? Could someone have told them about you?”

Sokka gripped his boomerang with his unburnt hand. “Someone did.”

Katara was bowing her head, eyes closed, tears coming from the corners of them. She turned suddenly and grabbed at her grandmother, who enfolded her in her arms, resting her cheek on her head.

Aang turned to Sokka for an explanation. Sokka wiped his greasy ointmenty left hand on his trousers and sighed. “After the last Fire Nation raid, all the men of the tribe left to join the war against the Fire Nation. Including Dad.” He looked up, and north. “That was two years ago. We haven’t heard from them since. But… now this battleship comes here, right to our winter camp, and they know who I am…” His eyes hardened. “Someone talked. They’ve captured some of our men. Tortured them, probably. Maybe even,” he swallowed. “Maybe even Dad.”

He squared his shoulders. “But I can’t leave. Even if Dad’s in trouble. They know where we are now. We may have driven them off for now, but they’ll be back. If they knew about me, they’ll know about Katara.”

“Which is why Katara has to leave,” said Gran-gran solemnly. “And you should go with her.”

Sokka bit his lip. Aang could see the conflict on his face.

“But if they come back here –”

“There won’t be a here,” Gran-gran pointed out. “Summer is on us, and the rest of this ice won’t last much longer.” She stamped the ice sheet beneath them with her booted foot. “You know we were moving to the summer grounds before the new moon anyway.” She smiled reassuringly at Sokka. “Us women aren’t completely helpless, you know. Believe me, we’ll be fine. Besides,” she took one arm from Katara’s back to grasp Aang by the shoulder, “our best hope is the Avatar. If he can master the four elements and restore peace, then we will all be safe.”

Aang swallowed his guilt for his resentment as Gran-gran pulled him in for the hug proper. This was just the sort of thing he’d wanted to get away from. Avatar. Responsibility. The weight of the world.

All right. He would get Katara to the North Pole to learn waterbending, like he’d promised. But he was absolutely going to take them to ride the elephant koi on the way. Anyway, they needed some cheering up.

Sokka tried to turn his relieved grin into a grimace. “Huh. I guess someone has to go with you two and keep you on track. I bet I’m the only one of us who can read a map.”

“Hey! I can read a map!” Katara protested immediately.

Aang wasn’t going to be left out. “Me too!” he agreed cheerfully.

Sokka scowled, but it softened when Gran-gran invited him in to the group with a tilt of the head, releasing Aang to give Sokka a gentle side-hug that avoided his burnt arm. “The three of you need to stick together now, and look after each other,” she said. “You have a long journey ahead of you. It's been so long since I've had hope. But you brought it back to life, my little waterbender.” She leant towards Katara as her arm tightened around her again, then did the same for Sokka. “And you, my brave warrior, be nice to your sister.”

Aang was feeling a little left out, but Gran-gran reached round Katara to grasp his shoulder again. She gave them all a last squeeze and released them. “Come on. Let’s get that bandaged up, and then I’ll help you pack.”

But once his hand and arm were wrapped, Sokka took up his club and his boomerang and headed for the top of the wall. Aang and Katara followed him, and they stood there together and watched as the Fire Nation battleship steamed away into the mist.

Chapter Text

When Zuko started truly taking an interest in things again, the ship was chugging at low power through flat waters. He could hear, distantly through the glass of his cabin window, the cry of cormorant-gulls and the clanging of a bell on a buoy, and, briefly, the horn of another ship.

They were coming into a port somewhere.

He sat up – slowly – and poked at his memories. He still had a gap in them that started when they’d left the tug to meet his friends, and unclear snatches after that. He remembered Uncle serving him tea and soup in bed, and he remembered asking him then what had happened, but he didn’t know what, if anything, Uncle had said in reply. He thought he remembered Uncle reading him a story, with dried tears streaking his cheeks… but that might have been part of another, much older, memory.

He didn’t recall ordering a port stop.

Zuko tamped down his first instinct to panic. It had been over a year since the mutiny – getting on for two if you counted the months that hadn’t happened yet – but he still didn’t cope well with being on a ship on a course he hadn’t been involved in plotting. (Or, it turned out, a sky bison, but Sokka always seemed happy to have someone to talk over his maps with.)

But Uncle was here. And this time, he knew for sure he could trust Uncle. There had to be a good reason.

Had the ship been damaged again, somehow? Obviously something had gone wrong – he wasn’t supposed to get knocked out.

Was Aang on board? Did they need supplies for him? – Was Appa on the deck? His headache grew with his worry. If they were coming into port, and someone saw a sky bison – no, Uncle would have thought of that.

But more tellingly, he’d been sleeping, off and on, recovering, for the past… couple of days? That felt right… And he didn’t – he racked his few and hazy memories again – he didn’t have a single memory of any of them coming to visit him.

He couldn’t imagine that compassionate, friendly, rule-breaking Aang could possibly have been persuaded to stay away for that long. Nor Katara, if there was healing to be done. And Sokka would have definitely come with them, for protection if for no other reason.

They weren’t here.

Which meant they didn’t remember. And didn’t have any reason to trust him.

He was on his own.

It was just him.

Well, he could still do this. It wasn’t like he’d ever had it easy.

His head didn’t like him standing up, but he did so anyway. He pulled his beizi from where it had been left, folded, at the end of his bed (Uncle? Shen Liu?) and shrugged it on over his shoulders, over the night wraps he’d been wearing. He had, yes, a vague memory of Uncle helping him into them.

When he turned the wheel of his door and opened it, it was to see the stoic figure of Sub-Lieutenant Minato on the other side, waiting until the door was open fully before he gave a swift but respectful bow. “Sir,” he said, and Zuko could recognise actual concern in his face. Minato was one of their longest-serving crew members; he’d been with them since the start, so he’d seen Zuko in much worse shape than this.

“Sub-Lieutenant Minato,” Zuko acknowledged with a nod, which was not good for his headache. Instead of telling him he wouldn’t let Zhao steal him and get him killed this time, he just asked, “Is my uncle on the bridge?”

“Yes, Sir,” Minato responded, seeming slightly surprised for some reason. “I will go and tell him you’re awake. You should – you would be best off continuing to rest… while you wait for him?”

Zuko noted the hesitation and the slight pre-emptive cringing of the man. Yikes. Had he really been that bad?

…Yes, yes he had. He could feel his face flushing with his guilt.

He would try to do better.

“Did my uncle tell you to say that?” he asked. Minato’s eyes widened, and Zuko snorted. It was a fairly safe assumption. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell him you couldn’t stop me.” He started down the passageway, and Minato fell in behind him.

“What port is this?” he tossed over his shoulder as they reached the end of the passageway.

“Naval Supply Base Shishen, Sir.”

Drown it, drown it, La drown it, “Scorch it to ash!”

He flung himself onto the ladder and scrambled up it, swearing heavily, ignoring the pounding in his head, hoping he could get to the bridge before they docked.

He really hadn’t wanted to come here.

The Yosumi was at full stop, as confirmed from the engine room, and Jee nodded to Chuanchen at the helm to stand by. The tugs were signalling ready to hook up, so Jee gave the order down to the deck to stand by to receive the tow lines and make them fast. They would dock soon. 

Nice and smooth, and blessedly, blessedly peaceful. As it had been for the past couple of days. Even with the worried fretting of the uncle and the longer-serving crew. They all gave that spoilt little arsewipe far too much leeway. It was about flaming time he had some consequences for his actions.

Whatever those had been, this time. The General had been unusually tight-lipped.

“Deck crew standing by to receive tow lines, sir,” came the response through the voice pipe. Jee acknowledged, and signalled the tugs to send the lines.

Besides, the Prince would be fine. And if he wasn’t… would that be such a bad thing, really? This stupid mission would be over, the General would give them honourable discharge, or a good reference, and they could all get better jobs on better ships than this one. Ships made some time in the last sixty years. Ships with a full complement of crew. Ships where you didn’t discover just when you needed them that your flaming signal flags had rotted clear through because water had got in and no-one had had time to check them in months. Ships that had a reasonable repair schedule. Ships without an entitled royal knobhead yelling stupid orders at the top of his voice.

(Jangyin said that Prince Zuko had come through the mess the other day, bowed at the serving hatch, and asked nicely for a red teacup.

Jangyin was widely agreed to be a liar.)

He should never have taken this fucking assignment. Of course, with his disgrace, he hadn’t had a lot of choice. But he’d been taken in by the General’s pitch, that had made it seem like some sort of holiday cruise. Yes, she’s a small ship and rather old, but you’ll be free from the standard chain of command, he’d said. We answer only to ourselves, he’d said.

What they answered to, it turned out, was a loud, rude shitstain of a brat who expected his every whim to be obeyed and who didn’t trust anyone to do their jobs. He threw a screaming tantrum if they so much as made a minor course correction without consulting him.

He should have asked why they needed a new captain.

“Towing lines made fast, Sir,” Seaman Ji-Ren reported from the deck through the voice pipe.

“Acknowledged, towing lines are fast; stand clear. Signalling tugs now.”

“Standing clear, sir.”

He made the mistake of catching General Iroh’s eye as he pulled the cable to sound the ship’s horn. The man had been agitated and distracted, the past couple of days, when he’d been around at all. Now he was watching the docking process from the bridge with an air of worried relief.

They’d skipped Music Night last night, in favour of stoking the boiler harder to get here faster.

Maybe the Prince’s recovery would be worth it to get the General back to normal again.

Then again –

A loud stomping rang the metal floor, and the wheel of the hatch turned with an aggressive squeak.

Fuck. He took it all back. Here we go.

A rather dishevelled Prince Zuko stomped onto the bridge, in fine yelling form. “Uncle! Why are we docking at Shishen?!”

Jee chanced another look at General Iroh for a moment of shared irritation. After they had pushed themselves to get here for him. But Iroh wasn’t looking at him. He was staring at the Prince, and he looked, just for a moment, absolutely stricken.

Then the General plastered on a jolly smile. “Nephew!” He moved forward, arms open and smile wide. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, Uncle,” the boy growled, not responding to the gesture. “Why are we docking here?”

“Oh, I thought we could use some fresh tea,” said the General, faux-casual, but Jee could tell there was grave concern in his eye.

“Fresh t– No we don’t need any more tea, Uncle!” He paused, and eyed the General with marked suspicion. “Why are we really here?” he asked more calmly. “Are you here to – play Pai Sho?”

For some reason this made the General sag and close his eyes, the fake smile relaxing from his face along with a tenseness Jee hadn’t noticed until it was gone. This, Jee definitely didn’t understand. The brat had made his dislike of Pai Sho known, very loudly.

(The morning after the teacup incident – shortly before the… whatever the boy had done to himself – Prince Zuko had spent over two hours in his uncle’s cabin playing Pai Sho with him.

That’s what Liang had said they were doing, anyway. Liang had had to bring them fresh water for tea.)

And for once even the little snot noticed something other than himself. “Uncle?”

“Oh my nephew. For a moment I thought –” The old man actually looked like he was on the verge of tears, and the Prince actually stepped forward and took both his hands in his own. “I’m fine, Uncle,” he said again, this time more gently.

He wasn’t fine. Two days’ worth of scalp stubble cast a dark shadow over his head and made his face look all the paler. His phoenix tail was half unwrapped and sagging to one side, and his housecoat had been flung on hurriedly over his night wraps.

Prince Zuko would normally never let his crew see him in such disarray.

“I get that you need to play Pai Sho. But did it have to be here?” His voice conveyed what Jee thought was unwarranted disdain for a perfectly respectable, if small and utilitarian, Navy supply port.

“It was the closest port, Prince Zuko,” the General said calmly. “Is… there a problem with Shishen?”

“Yes there’s a problem!” The Prince flung down his hands in frustration. Aaand he was back to yelling again. “Zhao is here!”

Arsebiscuits. Jee hoped that wasn’t true. He glanced at Chuanchen, who had gone quite pale. Zhao was a mean bastard and a slimy one, always ready with a hint of how many important people he had the favour of, and how easily he could ruin your life even more than it already was, if you didn’t do what he wanted.

(There wasn’t much more Zhao could do to Jee. But Chuanchen and Shen Liu had families.)

“Captain Zhao,” Iroh was saying reprovingly.

“Commodore Zhao,” corrected the brat. “He’s been promoted.” Though where he’d got that from Jee didn’t know. “He now has eight captains at his command, who all outrank everyone on the crew.”

Jee doubly hoped that wasn’t true. And yet… looking out of the window as the tugs pulled them towards their berth, he did see a Commodore’s pennant flying from one of the battleships.

“Well, we can’t leave now,” the General pointed out, very reasonably. “We’ve only just docked. And we might as well restock while we’re here.”

Why didn’t he just tell the idiot boy the real reason? Jee almost intervened, against protocol, but the docking process wasn’t complete yet. He still had a ship to run.

The Prince looked suspiciously at his uncle. “How hard have you been pushing the engines? Do we need to refuel?”

Hard, and yes, yes they did.

“You are right, Prince Zuko,” said General Iroh, as if he’d only just realised it. “We are low on coal.”

“Argh! Fine! But I’m staying on the ship!”

Now he would have to tell him, surely.

“Oh but Prince Zuko! Surely a nice walk in the fresh air would do you some good!”

Or… maybe not.

“What’s he playing at?” Chuanchen whispered to Jee. Jee had no fucking idea.

“No, Uncle! I’m staying on the ship! I’m not letting Zhao threaten my crew!”

What.

He was trying to protect… them?

Was that actually Prince Zuko, speaking in defence of his people for once in his life?

Jee looked again at the Prince, whose one eyebrow was scrunched up in pain or determination. And in that moment, the Prince turned his face and his gaze accidentally brushed onto Jee’s.

He quickly looked away again, and he rather thought the boy did too.

Honk, honk, went the tugs, telling each other to turn the Yosumi eighty degrees to port. Jee looked through the window and confirmed that this was correct: the ship was ready to be turned to face into the berth. “All clear,” reported Chuanchen, and Jee pulled the cable to honk back at them. Eighty degrees port confirmed. Proceed.

“Nephew…” The General took the Prince’s hands again and spoke lowly, but he hadn’t accounted for the engines being idle, and Jee could clearly hear him now the honking had stopped. “You are still not recovered. I will admit…” he sighed and looked down. “I will admit I did rather rush us to get here, so that we could find you a medic – no, Zuko,” for the boy had, of course, begun to protest again, “I am glad to see you on your feet again, but I wish to see that you are properly healed. There is a small military hospital here. Please, Prince Zuko. Accompany me there.”

Finally the General had divulged the real reason for this stop, but one look at the Prince’s face and Jee knew instantly that it was hopeless.

“How many times do I have to tell you, Uncle? I’m fine! I’m staying with the ship and that’s final!”

The poor General tried once more. “But Prince Zuko, your health –”

“The safety of the crew is more important!” He himself seemed taken aback by what he had said, and flicked his eyes over at Jee. But that was fine, because Jee’s brain had completely stalled. The safety of the crew? from Zhao? was even a factor? and more important than the Prince’s health? He barely heard Zuko continue, “Zhao and his lackeys are not welcome on this ship, and someone who still outranks them has to be here to stop him!”

This brat, who for the three months Jee had been on this ship had done nothing but yell and stomp and breathe fire and berate everyone for so much as looking funny at him; this juvenile menace, who had insolently told Jee that he was the captain of this ship, no matter the job Jee had been hired to do; this pure snotarse, who sparred his benders into the deck and then forced them to do it again – this child had just declared the crew’s safety more important than his own health. And was setting himself against Zhao, rising star of the Navy, who had the favour of the Fire Lord himself. For the sake of his crew.

“Then I will –”

“No, Uncle. You need to go buy your tea and play your Pai Sho.”

And what a turnaround from the boy who not five days ago had been berating his uncle for laziness, for only caring about, yes, specifically, tea and Pai Sho.

Jee met Chuanchen’s raised eyebrows. That must have been quite a knock to the head.

A series of sharp toots from the tugs and a squawk from the voice tube pulled Jee back to command. He checked that the Yosumi was well placed, and, watching through the windows and getting confirmation from Chuanchen, gave the orders in turn to release the tow cables, throw the heaving lines, shut down the boilers, and stand by to drop anchor.

And by the time he’d done all that, the Prince and the General appeared to have reached some sort of agreement.

Iroh lowered his voice more, so as not to be heard over the honking of the tugs and Jee’s orders down the voice tubes. “Is Commodore Zhao really such a threat?”

“He got them all killed, Uncle,” Zuko whispered. “He took them for his siege. And – well, I told you what happened then.” The boy’s face went distant with horror, and Iroh’s heart broke for him. He had seen so much, so much. And Iroh hadn’t been there for him.

Well, apparently he had. But Iroh himself, as he was now, had not been through that with Zuko, did not have those memories, could not relate in the same way.

He considered himself blessed that his nephew treated him as if he was that man.

And selfish, for the fear which had gripped him when Zuko barged onto the bridge in exactly the way he always had. If his sudden transformation had only been temporary, if the head injury had thrown him back to his old self, Iroh should be grateful for the knowledge that he had been given and that Zuko would be spared the memory of disasters that could now be avoided.

Not desperate to hang on to the version of his nephew who had already done the hard work, the one who was potential realised and promise fulfilled.

“I won’t let him do that this time,” his nephew declared, determined despite the tightness around his eyes that told Iroh he was fighting off pain.

“But is he a threat to them here, now?” Iroh insisted, trying to pull Zuko back to this present moment.

“We came here for repairs after Aang broke the ship. Zhao took us to the harbourmaster’s office for tea and then sent some of his captains onto the Yosumi behind our backs.” Iroh glanced over at Jee and Chuanchen, who were currently arguing with the voice tube over something. “They interrogated all the crew until they gave up the information on the Avatar. Then Zhao tried to have us held here while he took over the search.”

“Hmm.” Iroh considered for a moment, running his hand over his beard. “What sort of tea?”

“Uncle…! ”

“I am sorry, Prince Zuko.” Though tea would be nice. “You did not mention this before.” He wondered what else his nephew had forgotten to mention. “But I do not think there is cause for concern. I have not told the crew of anything that happened while we were gone from the ship.”

Zuko frowned. “It’s not just about them telling Zhao.” And he blinked hard, screwing up his eyes. Yes, Iroh definitely needed to get him to the hospital. “He’d authorised his captains to use force, and to make threats against their families.”

He paused to take another heavy breath. “I was livid, you know, after. I was going to have them put ashore, the ones who told, but you spoke to them and then you told me that Chuanchen’s grandson” – his eyes flicked over to the command station – “was on one of Zhao’s ships and – I forget who else, but there were more, and I, I just – they’re a good crew, Uncle, and Zhao has already been on their tails so much because of me – I mean even in the actual past, and –”

“Stop, Prince Zuko.” Iroh glanced up to the command station, but both Lieutenant and Able-Seaman were still embroiled in managing the final stages of docking. “You have convinced me. There are other ports. I do not need to play Pai Sho here.”

He urgently needed to mobilise the White Lotus, and he was pretty sure there was an agent here. Zuko’s information, if true – and every indication said that it was – needed to be acted on as soon as possible. But Iroh was not, was not, going to stand in the way of Zuko trying to protect his people. It could wait a few days.

“Good. Then let’s leave.”

Zuko started to turn towards the command station, but Iroh halted him with a gentle hand on his elbow. “No.”

His nephew looked betrayed, and Iroh hastened to explain. “I will not ask your forgiveness, Prince Zuko. Head injuries need proper medical treatment. I will stay on the ship and prevent Commodore Zhao and his captains from interacting with the crew, if you agree to one of the crew members taking you to the hospital.” Because the medics weren’t going to be waiting for them on the dock, and Iroh had almost – almost – channelled his nephew’s worst displays of temper when he’d found out why. It was just fortunate that Zuko was awake and on his feet now.

“But I was hurt far worse than this after Zhao blew up my ship, and I didn’t go to hospital then!”

A rush of horror whelmed him, cold washing from his jaw all the way down his spine. “You – you were on the ship?”

“Yes?” Zuko’s tone said isn’t that obvious? while his body language said I shouldn’t have said that.

Iroh reimagined everything his nephew had told him about his adventures at the North Pole, but now with Zuko injured worse than this. And without getting properly treated.

“Well – you should have.” said Iroh rather weakly, and he held up his hands to forestall Zuko’s immediate protest. “In any case, we are here now, and there is a hospital where you can be treated. You may have a hard skull, but you were unconscious for nearly three hours and have been sleeping for much of the time since.” He kept his voice steady, remembering the guilt and terror in those hours, as he waited for him to regain consciousness, feared that he might not. “I will protect the crew while you are treated. Please, Prince Zuko. Let me help.”

Iroh could see Zuko considering this. It wasn’t ideal, from the point of view of avoiding Zhao. Not letting him or his underlings on the ship at all would look very suspicious. And he would probably turn all his attentions on Zuko and whoever went with him to the hospital. In Zuko’s current state there would be no hiding the visit, or the injury.

Zuko closed his eyes for a moment too long for Iroh’s comfort. Finally he nodded, carefully. “All right, Uncle… Thank you.”

“I suggest Sub-Lieutenant Minato be the one to accompany you.” Minato was one of only four crew members left who had been with them since the beginning. He was relatively young, in his late twenties, but he was one of their few officers, and had, as far as Iroh knew, no close family in the military. Most importantly, he had been appropriately horrified at what had happened to Zuko.

Zuko shook his head, and winced. “No, not Minato. Jee.” He looked over at the Lieutenant and met his gaze as he turned from the voice tube. “I want Lieutenant Jee with me.”

Chapter Text

…taken to the infirmary for treatment of her wounds. The burns are deep, but they were treated promptly and we hope she will keep the use of her hands…

Lo put down her brush for a moment and cracked her thumb knuckle.

The wooden cabin swayed up and down, the beam of sunlight through the window plying forward and back across the painted hangings on the wall, scenes of mountains and trees and tigers. There was a bark from the pilot sealions, and the motion increased. The waves were getting larger; the boat was pulling out of the inner lagoon.

The child lay in the bunk, silent and unmoving.

Lo ran a gentle hand over the lank hair, trimmed short where it had scorched and shrivelled in the heat, stroking it away from the face scrubbed naked and looking so young.

The few times Azula had stirred since… since her collapse, Doctor Kasumi had dripped more salty coco-melon juice, laced with sedative, into her mouth. It had kept her lax and unknowing as the dirt and sand were washed from the weeping burns on hands and wrists, as sloughing flesh was shorn away and swathes of bandages applied. As the closed palanquin bore her to the marina and onto the boat. Princess Azula was going on a meditative retreat, was the official story.

A feeble story, not strong enough to stand against the rumours that were already flying wildly through the Caldera.

Was it this bad, when it happened to Zuko? Had Iroh sat by his side the way she was doing for Azula now?

She hoped he had. The boy needed someone on his side.

Lo re-inked her brush, and continued her letter.

We have now left Caldera and are headed to the star temple on Holy Mountain. Doctor Kasumi is with us to treat her on the journey. The Fire Lord has instructed us to continue her training as soon as she is recovered, but we feel it will be some considerable time before she is ready in body and mind…

The door opened.

“I’m writing to Iroh,” Lo said, before Li could ask.

Li made a moue, reaching for the paper. “Is that safe?”

Lo slapped her hand away. “I’m not done!” The ink wasn’t dry. “No, of course it’s not safe. I’ve had enough of being safe. This is what safe has brought us.”

She waved a hand over the child lying in the bed, breathing gently in drugged sleep. Both arms ended in thick layers of white burn wraps, resting on a sort of platform on top of the thin bedcover, keeping them raised to lessen the swelling. In places, fluid was starting to seep through.

Li looked away with a wince. “What do you think he can do about it? He is so far away.”

Lo said, “Not for long. Prince Zuko has been recalled and restored to his honour. Iroh will not let him return alone.”

Li glanced over what Lo had already written. “Then why risk writing? He will learn soon enough what happened.”

“Not from us. Not from someone who was there.” Not from someone who cares about Azula.

Li thinned her lips. “He has never been fond of her.”

Lo paused her brush to correct her. “He has never known her.”

Azula had been five, and Zuko just turned eight, when Iroh had left for Ba Sing Se, on a journey that should have taken three months and took five, for a siege that was supposed to be all over by the solstice and that stretched on until his son’s death. He had not seen her grow into an intelligent, driven child, not seen her race around the palace with her friends and her brother, not seen her learn to sing and draw and study the stars and then, later, lose them all to Fire Lord Ozai’s insatiable demand for firebending perfection, to the lessons of cruelty and fear.

And when he came back, crumbled into grief, a pale and passive remnant of the joyful young man he had once been, he had had no attention to spare for Azula, and she had had no time to spare for him.

They should have done more then.

“Do you think he would help?”

Lo matched Li’s quiet tone. “I think he could be persuaded. When he hears what Ozai has done to her. And what more he could still do. If he is not… removed.”

She was not such a fool as to explicitly ask it of him, and certainly not in writing. But if the knowledge of Ozai’s latest cruelty – that it could be turned even on his favourite – was not enough to bring the Dragon roaring back to the West, he was barely better than his brother.

“That’s treason!” Li hissed, glancing around the small cabin as if there was any chance someone was there to hear.

Lo continued writing and didn’t look up. “Are you going to turn me in?”

Li shook her head, as Lo knew she would. “We promised to stick together. You know that.”

She did know it. They’d sworn not to follow the example of their other sisters. Ilu and Ilah had never recovered their relationship after their two so disparate marriages. Ilu had carried that resentment for the rest of her life, spilling over to Li and Lo too, and passed it on to her own son.

So instead, Lo and her twin had become inseparable, indistinguishable. It had protected them through the first years as the incomers at court, and over the years had become increasingly useful.

When everyone expected to see them together, no-one recognised them when they saw them apart.

“So, you stand with me on treason?” she asked her sister, a glint in her eye.

“He has renounced the throne.”

Which wasn’t a no.

“He did not dispute Ozai’s claim, true. But he never officially renounced his own.”

Li ignored her point. “It’s not safe,” repeated. She gestured at the unfinished letter. “If this falls into the wrong hands…”

“I shan’t send it until we are well clear of the main islands,” Lo offered.

“Even so. You know it will be handled at the hawk offices. How many stations will it have to pass through?”

“I’ve brought a hawk for Fenkuang Port. The last report had them heading south from Whaletail Island, to explore the polar waters.” Notices of the Yosumi’s location in the Navy reports were few, and Ozai ignored them, but Li and Lo scanned every dispatch for them, the only contact with their remaining grand-nephew they could have. “I’ll send three copies to be forwarded on to our most southerly ports.”

“Shishen, Leng Dao, and… Three Cliffs Harbour? With Fenkuang, that makes four chances for it to be read.”

“Let it be read,” snapped Lo. “She’s his niece. He should be informed that she is injured. There is no treachery in that. And rumours that Ozai does not care for his heirs will do us no harm.”

Li shook her head. “It will shame her, if the rumours of her breakdown are confirmed.”

The rumour mill would see to that anyway. Gossip didn’t much care for truth. “The shame is on him. Not her,” she insisted.

They needed to turn that shame on him, where it belonged.

“The court will see weakness.”

Some of them, at least. Ozai had been filling the royal councils with his sympathisers even before Azulon’s death. Men (and it was all men) who revelled in cruelty and power, men who supported Ozai for the titles and rewards he gave. Ozai could be very generous with his honour, to those who pleased him.

There were plenty who did not, but they had the example of his son to teach them to keep their mouths shut.

As Lo and Li had.

“Azula is not weak. She’s stronger than anyone could ever expect her to be! She has struggled for years under his cruelty.” Lo glared at her sister. “And we helped him! You must see that this has gone far enough. We should have taken a stand before.”

“And have him burn both us and her? What could we have done?”

“We could have tried!”

“He burned his son! You know he will not hesitate to kill us if we step out of line.”

“Then what would you have us do?”

Li drew a breath, then paused, and continued in a lower voice. “Keep our heads down. Wait for the sparks to die down. Give Azula a chance to recover. We will be away from the palace – away from him. We shouldn’t push it.”

Lo felt her temper flare again. “And when the sparks have died down? When he decides it’s time for her to return? Or when he decides to punish Zuko for something else?”

“Maybe we can argue that she should stay in retreat for ever?”

“That would be no better than a prison for her. And still would not help Zuko.”

“But she would be away from him. She wouldn’t get burnt again!”

Lo brought out her boldest, most unrealistic idea. “We could always… not go to Holy Mountain.”

They could go rogue. Take Azula and run. Hide out somewhere in the Earth Kingdom.

“It’s still not safe. He expects us to send regular reports on her progress. And you can be sure that he will require them from the sages too. If there is even a hint that we are not following his commands…” Li closed her eyes, hunched her shoulders –

“I know,” Lo snapped. His son was proof enough of that, and as much demonstration to the court and councils as they could ever need.

They had been away when Prince Zuko had been – had been banished, and Prince Iroh so tidily removed from the board. They had returned from Ember Island to a subdued and uneasy court, a council far too cowed to speak any word against the Fire Lord, and a quiet eleven-year-old who could not truly hide her terror.

They had not gone to Ember Island again since.

But hiding and keeping their heads down, deferring to their nephew, obeying the Fire Lord, keeping themselves safe, was no longer enough. They had tried that, tried to teach Azula that, and he had burnt her anyway.

She just had to persuade her sister.

There was a small sound from the bed.

Both of them turned instantly to the bunk. The child in the bed was frowning, her breathing turning to irregular gasps. Her eyes blinked open, vague and glassy. “Hhhuh,” she croaked.

“It’s all right,” said Li. She would have held her hand, but that was impossible. She put out a hand to rest on her shoulder, to offer a small comfort, but the child inched away with a whimper, deeper into the pillow.

“You’re safe,” added Lo. It didn’t help. Azula just blinked confusedly, suspiciously, at them, then tried to sit up –

– and her arm fell off the support frame and onto the bed and she yelped.

Li wrapped her arm around her shoulder and steadied her, but she flinched away, gasping, raising her arms only to stiffen and cry out again, louder.

“Hush, hush, it’s all right, keep still –”

Azula glowered at her, some life coming into her eyes. Lo tucked an extra pillow behind her, and Li let her back down onto it, and Azula transferred her gaze to her arms with their seeping bandages. She frowned, blinked.

She slowly raised her hands a minuscule amount, and gingerly laid them down again. Hissed and closed her eyes. Panted for two quick breaths, then some slower ones.

“Rhupt,” she said, and coughed.

“I’m sorry, Princess Azula,” Li began.

Lo finished for her. “What did you say?”

Azula swallowed, and licked her lips, blinking and working her jaw against the remnants of the drugs. “Re. Port,” she said, deliberately, with a glare.

Li floundered for a moment, and it was Lo who found the place to start. “We’re on a boat – the Fangsong – heading out from Caldera Harbour.”

“We’ve been sailing for four hours now. We’ll stop on Huanhue Island to rest the sealions,” said Li.

“Then we’ll continue to Liondog Island and stay at the Holy Mountain priory, until you have recovered,” said Lo.

Azula had been looking around as they spoke – at Li, at Lo, at the small cabin with its delicate watercolour paper wallhangings and its lacquered furniture, at the beam of sunlight plying up and down, up and down, with the motion of the waves.

“So. S’tb–” she stopped. Scowled. “It’s. To. Be exile, then.”

“Oh no,” they both chorused, in the perfect synchrony of years of practice. They needed to show a united front now more than ever.

“This is not exile,” said Li, lying.

“It’s a chance to recover in quiet and solitude,” said Lo.

“A chance to heal and to find yourself,” said Li.

Azula scowled.

“The Fire Lord has ordered us to bring you back to the Palace once you have recovered,” said Lo.

“Once you are well again,” said Li.

Azula tried to raise an arm again. “The Fire Lord,” she said, with a grimace that might have been intended to be some other expression. “Remind. Me. Who that is, now?”

Li felt a hot flash of worry thread through her. “Why, your father, Princess Azula. Fire Lord Ozai.” Azula had said strange, mad things in the training grounds. But Li hadn’t thought about the possibility that Azula would still be confused when she woke up.

Azula’s eyes widened in shock for a moment. “Father –? But he said… he said I was –” she broke off again, staring down at her bandaged hands. “Who did this to me?”

Maybe she had intended to snarl it, but it just came out lost.

Li hesitated, the words ‘your father’ souring on her tongue. She glanced at Lo, who looked back heavily.

They had tried to protect her as best they could, after Zuko and Iroh left. With no authority and a tenuous position, there was not much they could offer. The only thing they could do was try to help her protect herself.

Ozai wanted perfection? They made sure he got it. They had worked hard to help Azula to become ready for the field, to become perfect, to be valuable to Ozai. To never even think rebellion. Helping Azula meet his standards, encouraging, even bullying her, until she reached the next accomplishment, perfected the next set, proving herself useful to him.

They had made her loyal.

And in the end, it was all for nothing, because the pressure had broken her, and he had burnt her anyway.

How could they start to teach her anything different now?

They’d hesitated too long. “Was it Zuko?” Azula asked, almost desperately.

“No!” “Of course not!”

They were out of sync.

Li recovered first. “Your brother is far away still.” Better not mention yet that he was on his way back, or would be when the news reached him.

“Liars. Of course it was Zuko. He’s the only one who would dare.”

“No, Princess Azula. It wasn’t Zuko.”

Li shared another look with Lo. They didn’t know how she would take the news. But they couldn’t not tell her.

“You had a – a moment on the training ground. With your father.”

“You were confused.”

“You – accidentally – fired at your father.”

“And he… well,”

“He retaliated.”

Azula stared straight ahead, sinking weakly back into the pillow.

Li glanced at Lo and saw her own worry reflected on her sister’s face. Healing her mind could take even longer than healing her hands.

Her sister was right.

Ozai had to go.

Li and Lo were lying to her. They didn’t fear her. She couldn’t trust them.

Father had pushed her aside. Ty Lee and Mai had turned on her. Zuko had betrayed her…

Her hands hurt.

There was a constant line of agonising fire running down the outside of both forearms, ending in a numbing blaze on the outside edge of her hands and her little fingers.

The headache was, at best, a minor distraction from it.

Patience. Take stock.

If they wanted to kill her they would already have done so.

She’d banished Lo. Li. One or both of them.

Now they were both here.

They were here with her, on a boat, sailing to… they said it was Liondog Island. Into exile.

What was their angle? What did they get out of this?

She was missing vital pieces. How long had they kept her drugged and docile?

They had drugged her.

And some things she did remember could not have happened. Mother had not been there. There had not been a crowd of people jeering at her. Zuko –

That was where it got really confusing. Was it Zuko she had fought, or Father?

She tried to steady her breathing. It was hard to think, when all she could concentrate on was how much her hands hurt.

“Hush, Princess Azula. I know it hurts.” Lo or Li. She couldn’t spare the energy to work out which.

Drown it, she needed to be better than that.

A stupid whine escaped her throat.

“We’ve called for the doctor.”

“She’ll be here soon.”

So.

Zuko and the waterbender had turned up at her coronation, under the red sky of the comet. She had –

Ash. She had challenged him, hadn’t she? And she’d been losing… and then Father…

Li and Lo said Father was Fire Lord. If he had taken the title from her, that meant she had failed him.

She had failed him. Failed Father. And Father –

Sharp, fresh agony seared up her arms, almost whiting her out for a moment – she’d moved her hands. And now Li and Lo were in her space again, fussing and fretting.

And ow.

They backed off in the end, when the door opened. A short woman in grey and pink doctor’s robes strode in noisily with a small bag and a slight stumble. It looked like she wasn’t used to the motion of this small boat.

She bowed with the Flame. “I’m glad you’ve woken up, Princess Azula. I need to check your bandages and see how you’re doing, and we need to get some fluids down you. If you’re feeling up to it, we can get you something to eat. Now how does that sound?”

Words, words, words. Spoken so boldly – too boldly. Azula narrowed her eyes. “You, are, one of. The palace doctors, aren’t you?”

It took more concentration than she would have liked to keep her diction clear. Whatever they had drugged her with was still affecting her. She could fight it off, though.

She had to fight it off.

Her hands hurt.

“Doctor Kasumi, at your service and the Fire Lord’s,” the healer said with another, rather perfunctory, bow. Azula pressed her lips together. The Fire Lord’s agent, set to watch her.

Father’s, or Zuko’s?

Li and Lo said it was Father, but could she believe them?

She couldn’t trust anything. Not even her own body, just now. She couldn’t even move her hands.

“Can you tell me how your hands are feeling?”

“Sore,” said Azula shortly.

They were burnt. How did she think they were feeling?

“That’s good,” said the doctor briskly. “It means the nerves haven’t been completely destroyed.” She turned and called back through the door. “Rin? Bring the tray in.”

A girl, young and surefooted, came in carrying a tray with a jug and a cup and a bowl. She placed it on the table beside the bed, and poured a pinkish liquid into the cup.

“You’re probably thirsty, and you need to keep your fluids up,” said the doctor, holding the cup to her face. “This is coconut-melon juice – it may taste a little salty, but –”

“No.” That wasn’t happening. “No drugs.”

“No, Princess Azula, it’s just juice.” That was the girl, bowing as she spoke. At least she seemed nervous.

Azula pinned her with her fiercest glare. “Don’t think I don’t know,” she said, and stopped to breathe out her pain, “that you’re lying to me.”

They wanted to put her to sleep again. She’d wake up somewhere else and have to start all over again figuring out what was going on.

“There’s nothing in the drink but fresh coco-melon juice,” confirmed the doctor, pushing the cup at her face again. For what her word was worth. She was just not frightened enough. (How was Azula supposed to handle her if she wasn’t scared of her?) “But I would like you to take a painkiller as well, if you need one now, and certainly before we begin work on your bandages.”

Azula couldn’t move her arms, couldn’t fight, probably wouldn’t get far if she tried to get out of bed. She had nothing here, not unless she wanted to breathe fire in their faces. And they were in a wooden cabin with wooden furniture on a wooden ship.

They had chosen their prison well. She had no choice.

She let the doctor tip the juice into her mouth.

It was cool, and tasty, and refreshing. She hadn’t realised how much she needed it.

It was almost as if they were just trying to help.

But that couldn’t be right.

Chapter Text

Zhao smiled.

He’d spent a lot of time watching Fire Lords Azulon and Ozai and developing a smile based on theirs, all teeth and threat and insinuation, like a crocomander. He was proud of his smile.

But right now he was smiling for himself. Because everything was coming together. Because not a day after he’d got his new collar and taken charge of the eight ships in his new flotilla, not a day after Admiral Hinawa of the Western Fleet had presented him with orders from Fire Lord Ozai himself to inform Prince Zuko that his presence was requested in the Royal Caldera and to escort him home with honour, and a sealed briefing which said mostly the same thing, but with a few extra details, and Zhao knew a hint when he saw one – not a day after that, on the very next tide, the Yosumi itself, Prince Zuko’s own ship, was pulling in right to this very port.

It was like the spirits themselves were smiling on him.

But Zhao knew better. His fortune came not from spirits but from being in the right place at the right time, with the favour of the right people and the right people owing favours to him. The spirits were irrelevant. He had not been born into favour, unlike some. He had worked hard to get where he was, and his hard work was paying off.

It was always a pleasure to taunt the little prince, of course. He reacted so beautifully, with frustrated helpless anger at every reminder of his banishment, of his dishonour, of all the ways in which he was unwanted, unworthy of his birth. Zhao could drive the actual prince to infuriated, uncontrolled smoke and fire, could play him like a tsungi horn, and the Fire Lord not only allowed it but encouraged it.

And now he was suspected of treason. This was too delicious. It didn’t matter if it was true or not. He could read between the lines; he could see what Ozai wanted. If evidence was needed, he would find it, or create it.

And that could lead to the promotion he’d been angling for for years. Admiral of the Northern Fleet.

Zhao knew that Admiral Zhen was on low coals with Fire Lord Ozai for his reluctance to take the fight directly to the Water Tribe, and, more importantly, his apparent lack of fear for his Fire Lord.

With this achievement – bringing in the royal traitors – Zhao might finally prove himself enough to get Zhen’s job. As Ozai had been hinting could be his, if his loyalty and his drive were sufficient.

And once the Northern Admiralty was his, well…

…well, then he could start putting in place the plan he’d had in mind since he was a young man, and found a certain library. A plan that would bring him the glory his birth had denied him. A plan that would ensure he was remembered forever.

Fire was ambition, and Zhao had it in spades.

Zuko knew he looked a mess. He ought to shave, no matter that he didn’t want to, no matter how much he missed his hair and wanted to start growing it out again. He ought to get out of his beizi and night wraps and get armoured up. He needed to look normal – well, normal for how he used to be – for Zhao.

He couldn’t face any of it.

Zhao would pounce on and pursue any sign of weakness. But Zuko’s head was pounding and he just wanted to lie down and go back to sleep.

He couldn’t. Not yet.

He pulled on his boots and retied his phoenix tail – he could do that, at least – and went to stand by Jee and Uncle at the lowering of the prow. Jee’s perpetually sour countenance had an air of thoughtfulness to it that Zuko couldn’t spare the energy to speculate about.

They had barely dropped the ramp when Zuko spotted Zhao sliming his way out from the harbourmaster’s office.

The last time Zuko had seen Zhao –

“Take my hand!”

– the glowing wave of spirit water reaching down the chilling brush of it against his ankle as he rolled aside the corpses floating in the water –

No. The sun was rising in the bronze sky. The air was mild, the deck was grey, the cormorant-gulls were keening. This was Shishen. This was not Admiral Zhao striding up the ramp.

“Commodore,” said Zuko shortly.

Zhao smugly inclined his head. If he was surprised Zuko got his rank right, he hid it well.

“What, no congratulations?” he returned, as usual forgoing the civilities just for Zuko. “You just missed the ceremony yesterday.” He looked him over deliberately, eyes lingering first on the casual garb under his beizi, then on his fuzzy scalp. “A shame you couldn’t make it. I’m sure everyone would have admired your… very fine hairstyle.”

Zuko cudgelled his sluggish brain for a retort, but to his gratitude Uncle picked up for him. “Congratulations on your promotion, Commodore Zhao,” he began. “We saw your new pennant as we came into the harbour. And you must forgive my nephew. Sadly he sustained a head injury a few days ago” – Zuko whirled on his uncle, and regretted it – “and we are here for him to receive treatment. We thought it best for him to avoid shaving lest he risk further injury.”

“Uncle!” Zuko tried to hiss, but it came out as a whisper.

Because of course Zhao’s smug grin morphed into an expression of triumphant sympathy. “Oh, I am sorry to hear that. How did it happen, Prince Zuko?”

This was a problem. Zuko didn’t know how it had happened. He hadn’t had a chance to ask what had happened, let alone put together a story of how it hadn’t happened.

And Uncle was no help this time. “Oh! Er, that’s an… interesting tale actually,” Uncle began –

“I slipped,” Zuko interrupted hurriedly, before Uncle could make them look any more suspicious.

“Yes! He slipped!” cried Uncle eagerly. “On ice!”

Zuko resisted the urge to facepalm only because he did not have the energy.

“I see…” Zhao gave that sinister smile of his, the one that said he knew something Zuko didn’t. “And what, exactly, were you doing on ice?”

Zuko took in a breath. He had to say something that would keep Zhao off-track.

He had no idea what. He breathed out again, pushing his headache back.

Jee shifted beside him. “With respect, sirs, we are here for medical treatment for Prince Zuko. Perhaps the debriefing can wait till later?”

And that was why Zuko wanted Jee with him.

One of the reasons, anyway.

“Of course, of course,” smarmed Zhao, his calculating eyes uncomfortably fixed on Zuko. “I will, of course, escort the Prince to the hospital myself. It would be my honour.”

Uncle moved to protest, but Zhao’s eyes were on Zuko, and Zuko bowed shallowly in acceptance, despite the heaviness of his head. “Thank you, Commodore.” If Zhao were with Zuko, then he wouldn’t be messing with Zuko’s crew. Zuko only needed to bear him long enough to get to the hospital.

Then he could get checked over, or whatever it was they wanted to do to him, and then he could come back and finally go back to bed.

He didn’t know why Uncle was bothering with this. Everyone knew there wasn’t much you could do with a bang on the head other than sleep it off. He didn’t need a doctor to tell him that.

“There is one thing, though.” Oh here it came. Zhao just couldn’t stop trying to mess with him, could he? “Prince Zuko would never forgive me if I delayed in delivering” – Zhao held up a small, but ornate, scroll case, with gilded edges and a large red seal – “this.”

It was Uncle’s gasp, more than its appearance, that clued Zuko in to what it must be. He took it from Zhao almost in a daze. A letter from the Fire Palace. A decree from the Fire Lord.

Addressed to Crown Prince Zuko.

He broke the Fire Lord’s seal and unrolled the scroll in silence, aware of his uncle’s expectant breathing and Jee’s impatient stillness, and Zhao’s eyes, watching closely for his reaction.

The characters swam and rippled on the page. He blinked hard, screwing up his eyes, trying to make them stay put, and managed to bring a few phrases into focus. Phrases like shown great loyalty in exile and to be welcomed with all honour and resume all ranks and privileges and…

…and my son.

He had been dreaming all along. This was a nightmare.

His brain was pressing against his skull, and his father had just called him home.

Zuko wanted to close his eyes and make all this go away. But Zhao was here. He couldn’t pass out in front of Zhao.

He looked up and met Uncle’s cautiously concerned gaze. “This didn’t happen before,” he said desperately. Uncle had to believe him, this was new. “And I haven’t – I haven’t captured the Avatar.” Another throb of his head reminded him again that he didn’t actually know what had happened. Maybe Aang was hiding somewhere in the ship. He blinked at Uncle. “Have I?”

Jee was staring at him judgementally again.

“No, you have not,” Uncle said reassuringly, eyes full of worry. He turned to Zhao. “Prince Zuko has a point,” he said, taking the letter gently from Zuko’s hand and casually supporting Zuko’s elbow to keep him steady. “The Fire Lord has not once contacted us in over two years of exile. Why should he” – he scanned the document, and continued in obvious shock – “revoke his banishment?!” He read on, to the end of the letter, and looked up. “Why should he recall Prince Zuko now?”

“Oh, come now, General Iroh. Surely you understand the desire of a father to see his son again.”

Zuko felt his uncle tense beside him, the hand on his elbow gripping a little harder. That was a low blow.

Zhao specialised in those, of course.

“And I believe it may also have to do with the rumours I have heard of Princess Azula’s sudden illness,” Zhao added.

Azula, hair ragged, smile manic, eyes too bright, you and me, brother, the Agni Kai that was always meant to be –

“What – what’s wrong with Azula?” Zuko managed.

Zhao raised his eyebrows. “I couldn’t say. It’s only a rumour, after all.”

Jee shifted uncomfortably again beside him. “Sirs. Head injury.” He left then, unpermitted and uncommanded, and disappeared into the upper hold and the rhino stables. It was criminally disrespectful, and Zuko didn’t give a flying fuck.

There was a low bellow behind them and the swearing of Seaman Ji-Ren.

Oh thank fuck, he didn’t have to walk. Bless Jee. Honour Jee forever.

Jee led Camellia forward, already harnessed and saddled. Uncle was saying something about discuss this further after, and Zhao was looking lemon-grape sour. He’d obviously realised that he would have to walk while Zuko rode.

He patted Camellia on her warm, rough neck, and she huffed fondly at him, hot moist breath wafting by his face. It took him a couple of goes to pull himself up into the saddle – the effort hurt his head – and Uncle had to boost him, which was embarrassing.

Uncle patted his leg fondly, which was also embarrassing, but nice. “I will take care of the crew, as I promised,” he reassured quietly. “Please,” his face had a desperate fear on it. “Don’t do anything rash.”

Zuko swallowed a touch of resentment that Uncle still didn’t trust him. It wasn’t like he hadn’t betrayed him. “Don’t worry, Uncle. I’ll be back soon.” And then he could finally go back to sleep.

He wasn’t going to think about Azula. Or… the other thing.

He nodded at Jee, who clicked his tongue to lead Camellia forward. They both ignored Zhao, but Zuko knew he had to follow. After all, he had promised to escort him to the hospital.

Camellia was the oldest of their rhinos and the steadiest, but even so Jee could see, from his position by her head and holding the leading rein, that the Prince was gripping the pommel hard, frowning at his hands.

He was trying to hide it, but he was definitely not right.

Jee saw him relax a little as they waited for Zhao to give quiet orders to three captains hovering outside the offices, but when they got going again it wasn’t long before he was swallowing and glaring tensely downwards again.

And it seemed that Zhao wanted to be fucking chatty.

Glorious triumph this, might of the Fire Nation that, and Zuko looking paler and sicker every time Jee glanced back at him, “…and by the year’s end, the Earth Kingdom capital will be under our rule. The Fire Lord will finally claim victory in the war.”

“Victory,” muttered the Prince. Then, louder, “My father would see the entire Earth Kingdom burn to ash!”

“Exactly,” grinned Zhao with that tiger-shark smile. “And you will be at his right hand, Prince Zuko. Recalled with all honours. My congratulations. How does it feel to be finally restored to your rightful place? For your father to finally see your worth?”

Prince Zuko sat stiffly. “It was…” he glanced down. “Unexpected.”

“But you have shown your father such loyalty, pursuing the quest he gave you so assiduously, even when you must have known there was no hope. After all, the Avatar is just a legend.”

“He’s not just a legend,” muttered the Prince, but exhaustedly, without the heat he usually showed whenever anyone called his mission into question. “He’s real.”

“Oh, come now, Prince Zuko. We no longer need to pretend, do we? There’s no Avatar. He died a hundred years ago, with the rest of the airbenders. There was never any chance of your coming home on your own merit. It’s only by your father’s favour that you’re getting to go home now.”

If there was any talk more calculated to make Prince Zuko burst into aggravated raging fuck-you flame, Jee had yet to hear it. But even now he did not break into an impassioned defence of his quest and his honour. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to look down at his hands again.

Perhaps the Prince was brain-damaged.

And Jee realised, now that it was an actual possibility, that he didn’t really wish that on him. Not on anyone, really. The kid was a brash, rude little prick, but… his orders weren’t unreasonable, nor were the courses and schedules he plotted for them unrealistic. And he did do his best to rein in the General’s scorcher of a spending habit. It was just that attitude, the arsey belligerence, that got everyone’s flames up. He could be a lot worse.

He could be like Zhao.

And Camellia continued to plod up the hill.

Zhao, of course, tried again. “Are you not feeling well, Prince Zuko? That must have been quite the injury. You never did finish telling me how it happened.”

“I slipped,” growled the boy.

“Yes, I heard. On ice, I gather. But what were you doing on the ice in the first place?” he asked, with sickly sweet curiosity.

“Slipping.”

“Hmm. I do hope you aren’t hiding anything, Prince Zuko. It would be a shame to jeopardise your honour again now.”

Zuko was silent.

No, the Prince was definitely not all right.

The reception hall of the hospital was large and chilly and high-ceilinged, with cold rough terracotta tiles underfoot. It had high, south-facing windows: daylight but no sunbeams. There was a reception desk at the front, staffed by a bored-looking middle-aged woman in the red-trimmed grey uniform of the Navy medics.

“I’m here to get checked over,” Zuko said. He received a pointed nudge from Jee. “Er, following a minor head injury. It shouldn’t take long.” Then he could get back to the ship, back home.

“Name?” asked the woman boredly, inking her brush.

“Zuko.”

“Rank?”

That shouldn’t have been as hard a question as it was.

Nine months ago – subjectively – he would have declared himself Captain without question. But that was a lie. Technically he and Uncle were supernumeraries. Lieutenant Jee was the Captain. Zuko had unofficially – and rudely – taken his title from him. He wasn’t going to do that any more.

But whatever he said, he’d have to say it in front of Zhao as well as Jee.

(And it wasn’t even really a rank, it was a job title. Even if he’d insisted otherwise, at the time.)

As Crown Prince he – technically – held the honorary Naval rank of Rear Admiral. That had been in abeyance during his banishment, at least he assumed so. Nobody had ever said, but his armour just had a standard collar with no rank insignia.

If he’d truly held that rank then he shouldn’t have had to fight Zhao in Agni Kai.

But now – resume all ranks and privileges – he could presumably claim it again. Assuming he wanted to. Assuming his restoration was genuine, and Zuko had his doubts about that.

Prince, of course, was always true; Father hadn’t been able to go that far… Maybe that was the safest, even if it wasn’t a Naval rank.

But he’d considered it for too long and now the woman was leaning forward, bored look replaced with a keen glare. “Today’s date?”

Another trick question. He couldn’t remember what exact date it had been when Aang first emerged from the iceberg. It was too long ago, and too much daylight, and he hadn’t thought to ask the date when he came back either.

And even if he had known it, he didn’t know if the journey here had taken one day or three. He’d spent a lot of time sleeping.

It was either the end of Luyue or the beginning of Dongyue. Around six weeks before the solstice, anyway.

“Uhh…”

Was it better to say nothing, to be vague, or to guess wrong? He’d already missed one question. Blast this headache.

She flicked a look at Zhao and Jee on either side of him – ash, he’d taken too long again –

“Who is the Fire Lord?”

A question he could answer. “Father. – I mean, Ozai.”

The woman gave him a frown, then a sour nod. “I’m calling the medics now to take a look at you.”

Then she slapped her hand down on the bell on her desk, which sliced sharply through Zuko’s head, and leant forward to a voice tube hanging above it. “Surgeon Commander Teiko to reception. That’s Commander Teiko to reception.”

“How and when did the injury happen? Did he lose consciousness at all?” She wasn’t talking to him any more, she was talking to Zhao and Jee, which was good because Zuko was still trying to put the two halves of his head back together.

“I was not present for the injury, but it occurred approximately thirty-eight hours ago –” began Jee.

“Thirty-eight hours?!”

Then everything got very busy.

“Sir. I’m Petty Officer Achari, I’m one of the medics here, and this is Able-seaman Chai. What’s your name? … Zuko? Good. Can you sit down here for me please, sir?”

“– wait, that’s true? He really is –?”

– a long wheelchair appeared and Zuko was manhandled into it and down to a half-reclining position, oh thank Agni –

“– took a tug to investigate the distress flare –”

“Can you tell me how much pain you are in right now? …I’m sorry, sir, I’m going to have to ask you to be honest so we can assess the damage…”

“– in full sunlight?”

“No, the mist –”

“Right then. I’m just going to have a quick look at your head and see where the damage is. Can you tilt your head to the left? …OK –”

“– regained consciousness by the sixth bell, though he –”

“…aaand to the right now? …Good –”

“– continuous observation during the –”

“– and lean forward? Ouch, that’s a nasty bump. Right then, just let me –”

“– proceeded north-north-west at two marks past standard full speed for –”

“Just lean forward again a little for me?” A sort of roll of padded cloth was arranged around his shoulders. “There we go, that should take the strain off your neck –”

“– A komodo rhino? Why the flameo didn’t you fly the –”

“– and any injuries elsewhere that you’re aware of? …OK, that’s good. Chai, can you –”

“– we have stretcher-bearers for a reason –”

“Right, I’m just going to check your vision. Can you just keep your eyes on my finger? Yes, like that –”

– Zuko had to blink a few times as the finger moved around in front of his face and then round to the side where he couldn’t see it any more –

“– hawks?”

“None for Shishen. Our last port –”

“And how many fingers am I holding up now? …Good –”

“Surgeon Commander, ma’am. Thank you. This young man –”

“Could you look at my finger again please?” – a bright and harsh flame flared from a fingertip, couldn’t they stop doing things that hurt his head –

“– still showing signs of confusion after nearly –”

“– can I see your tongue? …Nothing the matter with it, put it away please –”

“– his responses to the basic orientation questions –”

“Now I’d like to check your bending. Just tell me when you can feel the flame.”

…Which one? There were lanterns burning on the walls and hanging from each pillar, and warm bodies – Zhao, and Jee, and others; further away, down and to his left, a furnace.

“– you know the protocols, Commodore, why you allowed –”

But then there was a small prayer candle sparking to life, glowing and friendly, a couple of feet behind him on his right –

“Good, and could you take control of it for me now, sir?” – it liked him, eagerly matching his breath, taking some of the pressure off his head –

“– really didn’t seem that bad –”

“Aaand let it go…” – That was harder, and made his head hurt. He didn’t want to leave the little flame, but he did it – “Excellent… Thank you, Zuko, you’ve done very well.”

“– unless you disagree, Commodore? –”

“– bending fully competent.”

“Thank you, Able-seaman. –Prince Zuko, sir? I’m Surgeon Commander Teiko, I’m the head trauma specialist here. We’re taking you to a private room now to look you over properly.”

“Wait, he’s the Prince?!”

The arguing voices faded, and there were corridors and double doors.

One door opened, and he was parked in a sunbeam.

Ahhh.

The room he’d been wheeled into was warm and bright, with swathes of soft welcoming sunlight falling in through the two tall windows and pooling on the floor. There was a bed and a table and some cushions and a smell of antiseptic.

“When did you last have something to eat, sir – your highness?”

Zuko had no idea. There’d been soup, at some point, but. He’d been asleep.

He just wanted them to leave him alone.

More voices, and then a door closing that would have made him wince if that wouldn’t have hurt more.

“Now then…” Surgeon Teiko’s face swam into view. “Prince Zuko? Sir? I’m going to examine your head, which might be a bit unpleasant. So we’re going to give you some painkiller first.” She held out a little brown… bottle, probably.

“I’m fine,” said Zuko reflexively. He didn’t want to be drugged.

The Surgeon sighed. It was one of the medics – the young able-seaman, Zuko couldn’t remember either of their names now – who said, “Look, um, Highness? Sir. This will probably be quite uncomfortable, and the medicine will help. I bet you have a horrid headache, don’t you, sir? This will make it go away.”

It was so tempting. But he needed to stay focussed. To stop Zhao from getting at – “Jee!” He looked around wildly, head pounding and little prickles appearing in his vision. “Where’s Lieutenant Jee?”

“The lieutenant who brought you in, sir? He’s waiting just outside the door.”

The prickles subsided. Ah yes, he was. “And Zhao?”

“I think Commodore Zhao is still at the front desk, sir. Minaru had some words for him.”

Zhao would probably take that out on him later, but it was nice to think of him getting raked over the coals. Even if he didn’t know exactly what for.

And he wasn’t with Jee, so that was good.

“Sir, I really do recommend you take this. It might make you feel a bit woozy, but it should relax you and get rid of the pain.”

Zhao was accounted for, for now, so… all right.

“Here you go, sir. Drink it all up. I’m afraid it doesn’t taste very good.”

Before he could change his mind, he took the open vial and tipped it into his mouth. And promptly tried to scrape it off his tongue with his teeth. Pfegh. Oily and so, so bitter.

“Sorry about the taste, sir.” She didn’t sound very sorry. “Here, wash it down with this.” A cup of green tea, weak but hot. Also bitter – it had been brewed just now, too fast and too hot and too many leaves – but much better than the horrible solution he’d just drunk.

“Now, while we wait for that to kick in…” He was helped out of the wheelchair and into a kneeling position in front of the table, which had gained a fat pillow. “This is just to help us get a good look at your head, sir,” said the petty officer – Akira? Achira? – as she got him to fold his arms on the pillow and rest his head on them.

More questions. “Can you remember getting the injury?” …Zuko couldn’t be bothered to try to lie any more. “Don’t worry, that’s not unusual. And can you tell me where you are now? … yes, good.”

One of the medics was sitting ready with paper and brush. The Surgeon… Commander, it was? was standing behind him now. “I’m going to take a look at your head now. I’m not going to touch it. This is a visual inspection only for now. Hmm. Very colourful bruise, circular, diameter, hmm, two point five. Swelling at… I’m going to say a three…”

As she rambled on, using terms like ‘occipital’ and ‘contracoup’, and the other one wrote it all down, Zuko felt the pain in his head begin to lift, as promised. He relaxed into the cushion in relief. He hadn’t realised how much it was weighing him down until it was gone. Almost gone. Not quite. But so less much.

Now he was so much lighter. Almost like he could just float away.

Was this how it felt to be an airbender? He’d have to ask Aang, next time he saw him.

“OK, sir, now I’m going to touch your head, very gently, to try to feel for any deeper damage. Is that all right?”

Sure. Whatever. “Yeh,” he mumbled into the pillow.

Cool fingers started gently, lightly probing his scalp, and he gave a little grunt. It was a little uncomfortable, as promised, when they moved to the back of his head, but it was fine.

He was comfy, and floaty, and it was all good.

Chapter Text

Aang knew exactly how to open this door, though he’d never done it himself before.

Inside, Gyatso had said, he would be able to speak to someone who could help him, when he was ready.

Well, he still didn’t feel ready. But there was no-one else here. The courtyards were silent, the air still and sullen, and he needed answers.

He stood in the right stance and gently gathered the air from around them, then threw it forward and up into the wide mouths of the horns. He could hear it echo through the tubes, feel it compress as it pushed all the way round the curves, pushing open the stoppers and flipping the round panels, until the latches were puffed out of their slots and the doors slowly opened.

It was dark beyond, dark and still and empty, and Aang swallowed his fear. He wasn’t really allowed in here. He told himself it was fine. It wasn’t like there was anyone here to stop him.

Where were they all?

(He pushed away the memory of the old man and his furious stream of fire, Sokka flung back with his arm and hand in ruins. That couldn’t have happened to his friends, his people.)

He crept inside, nervously. “Hello? Anyone home?”

The light from the doorway spilled into the enormous room. In the gloom ahead, someone was standing. Someone who looked very familiar.

Some three people.

No, five.

No, wait.

Hundreds and hundreds of people, very evenly spaced, standing very straight and very still.

Aang walked slowly towards the statues, eyes wide in awe. He knew these people!

“Statues?” Sokka sounded actually offended. “That’s it? Where’s the meat?”

Did Sokka really expect this place to have meat? He was joking, right?

Katara caught up with him. “Who are all these people?”

Aang hesitated, staring at a tall fellow with arrows on his chi lines and a long, thin moustache that he liked to smooth between his fingers. He could feel how the long hairs had felt, rubbing against each other. “I think… I think they’re… me.”

Katara gasped. “Of course! These must be the past Avatars! Look!” She pointed at statues. “Air, water, fire, earth!”

“The Avatar cycle!” Aang agreed. “Wow! There are so many of them!” He wandered further in, darting from one familiar figure to the next.

And slowed. There was one in particular… someone he needed to find. As if he was being called…

He stopped in front of Avatar Roku.

– Without you, all my plans are suddenly possible – you've been training for this since the day we met – do you really think friendships can last more than one lifetime? – what about this situation makes you think they want us to dance? –

“Aang? Aang, snap out of it!”

Aang blinked. Roku was staring blankly ahead. “Huh?”

“Who is this one?”

“That’s Avatar Roku,” Aang said, distractedly, trying to make sense of the disjointed images that had just flit through his head. “He was the Avatar before me.”

“Wait, you were a fire bender?” Sokka stepped up from behind. “No wonder I didn’t trust you!”

Aang wasn’t sure how serious he was. Everyone knew about the Avatar cycle, didn’t they?

“How did you know that?” asked Katara, eyes wide. “There’s no writing on the statue.”

– Make sense of our past, Aang, and you will bring peace and restore balance in the world. –

Aang shook away the odd fragment. “I don’t – I don’t know. I just… know…”

He didn’t know anything about being the Avatar. He didn’t know what was normal and what wasn’t. Was he supposed to recognise his past lives? Were they supposed to come with… what was that? memories? messages? visions?

He was supposed to have gone to the Eastern Air Temple to get taught about these things. Instead he had… he had…

– Without you, all my plans are suddenly possible –

Chasing the lemur was a good distraction. Until it wasn’t.

Sokka pulled back the curtain. “Hey Aang? You find my – oh.”

A mess of snow-covered bones in rusty armour, lit by sunlight from the hole in the cloth roof above. One ray falling straight onto a grinning, decaying skeleton in the tattered remains of orange robes and a long wooden necklace, raised above the Fire Nation bodies…

…and a young boy, kneeling in front of the corpse, sobbing heartbrokenly.

“Oh man…”

He remembered the days of despair after Mum had… after the Fire Nation had… after. He knew what this was. And he knew no better how to comfort Aang now than he had known how to comfort Dad and Katara and Bato then.

It couldn’t do him any good though to stay here, with the remains of – that was the same necklace that had been on the statue outside, wasn’t it? With the remains of someone Aang had been close to, with the remains of the soldiers who had killed his people.

Sokka tried distraction. “Come on, Aang, everything will be all right,” he lied. “Let's get out of here.” He reached for Aang’s hand. But the boy didn’t react, just continued to sob, and Sokka converted the movement to an awkward patting on Aang’s shoulder. Aang didn’t move away, so Sokka stayed with him.

Where was Katara? She would be better at this than him.

“He’s dead… they’re all – all de-ead.” Aang wailed eventually through hiccoughing sobs. “Aren’t they?”

Sokka tried comfort. “I’m sorry, Aang,” he said. And he was. Sorry for not breaking the news to Aang gently, sorry for letting him run off and encounter this horror alone, sorry for this whole stupid mess of a war that they’d been born into.

“I didn’t – believe it, when you said the Fire Nation attacked,” Aang said eventually, in a rush between sobs, voice giving way at the end. “But – but now –”

“It’s what they do,” said Sokka grimly. Like the soldiers who killed his mum, like that man who’d burnt his arm…

“They killed them all, didn’t they? My friends – everyone I – everyone…”

Sokka tried cheer. “Well, at least your Gyatso made a good showing before they got him. Look at all the Fire Nation guys he took out!”

Aang looked. And gave a shuddering gasp, and stumbled to his feet. “NO!” he screamed, and flung out a hand, and Sokka staggered backwards and fell on his rear before he could brace himself against the sudden gale swirling at him.

“You take that back!” Aang demanded fiercely.

Which didn’t make sense, because it was just a fact. Sokka couldn’t take back a fact.

“Gyatso would never – He’s not a murderer!” The brief whip of wind Aang had invoked blew out, and Sokka could feel the last rush of it flapping the curtains behind him and the tarpaulin above them. Aang’s shoulders shuddered. “He’s not.”

“Hey, hey,” Sokka murmured, clambering to his feet again and approaching Aang cautiously. “He just did what he had to do, you know? It’s not murder if they’re trying to kill you.”

Aang hardly seemed to hear him. “No! He didn’t kill them, he can’t have killed them. We don’t kill.” He shook his head, fast, as if he were trying to rid himself of the thought the way a polar bear dog shook water from its fur. “They must have – it must have been the firebenders…”

“Aang.” Sokka understood, he did, but he’d started now, and he might as well pull down the whole curtain in one go. They’d already put this off long enough. “There’s no soot. None of these guys are burnt. Not even Gyatso.”

Aang stared at him, horrified and pale, for a long moment. Sokka swallowed his guilt. Better Aang found out now, all at once, that this was how the world worked. The Fire Nation attacked, and you had to be decisive. You had to be prepared to kill.

Katara would know how to help him.

“I should never have left,” Aang said, harshly, as if the words were a knife he were twisting into his flesh. “It’s… it’s my fault.”

Sokka tried reason. “It can’t be your fault. You weren’t even here.”

Aang’s face crumpled, and he rocked back onto his heels as the air began to whirl around him. “It’s MY FAULT!”

“No, it’s not!” began Sokka, but –

Aang threw back his head and screamed, and the wind that followed tore the rotting canvas awning off the strings entirely and flung it in pieces into the sky. Aang stood, panting, as small shreds of tarpaulin floated down around them.

Then he turned scared eyes on Sokka, and before Sokka could draw breath he shouldered him out of the way and ran through the curtain, billowing it out of the way ahead of him.

“No, wait!” Sokka called, and set off after him.

Drown it, where was Katara?

There were so many statues! So many different faces and bodies and clothes and styles of carving; thousands of years’ worth of Avatars. Had these all been carved from life? Would there be a statue of Aang eventually, and who would make it now that the Air Nomads were all gone?

Katara let her eyes drift from figure to figure, and waited for something to happen.

Something was supposed to happen, wasn’t it?

Nothing happened.

The statues stood, still and silent in the thin, sere air, and it had been a while now. Sokka and Aang still hadn’t come back.

What had they got stuck on now?

Katara huffed. Of course she would have to go and find them.

So she hurried down wide, open hallways, through carved courtyards and over bridges, looking out from balconies over snowy rooves, and getting distinctly fed up of all these different levels and stairs, and steadily more worried. Eventually her calls – “Sokka? Aang?” – were answered with a faint call from her brother. “Katara? Katara!”

She rushed down yet another flight of stairs to see her brother running towards her across a flat yard. “Have you seen Aang?” he demanded, out of breath, before he’d even reached her.

“No? He was supposed to be with you!” Katara felt a rush of irritation. “Have you lost him?”

“He – he ran,” Sokka panted, forehead scrunched with worry. He took a couple of slower breaths, misting in the cold dry air. “He found out firebenders killed Gyatso. He… saw the bodies.”

Katara closed her eyes in sympathy. Oh Aang…

“We should find him,” she decided.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do!” Sokka’s voice rose to a near squeak in his outrage.

“Well you haven’t done a very good job of it, have you?” she snapped. Aang was out there somewhere, feeling so alone…

“I’ve looked all down here, and – which way did you come from?” – Katara pointed wordlessly behind her – “and you didn’t see him there…” Sokka pursed his lips in obvious thought, finger on his chin. It was something he did to make himself look cleverer, but Katara thought that this time he wasn’t aware he was doing it. “He’s an airbender, he likes to be up high. Let’s try…” he pointed at a tower jutting up from the steep mountainside – “over there.”

Some twenty flights of stairs later and Sokka was muttering between puffs of air about carping airbenders and their carping heights, and Katara didn’t have the breath to tell him to shut up.

They spotted Aang, eventually, sitting on the blue-tiled roof of one of the smaller towers, hugging his knees and staring out at the distant mountains. It wasn’t hard to get to. The tower was built half into the hillside and it was a short leap onto the roof. It was like Aang wanted them to be able to reach him.

Katara walked hesitantly out to him, testing each step of the steep and slightly wobbly tiles as if they were thin ice.

“Aang?” she called before she got close, trying to make sure he knew she was there. “Are you all right?”

Aang didn’t answer, just hugged his knees tighter.

“Aang?”

Aang took a breath, still not looking at her. “I keep hoping I’ll wake up in my room and find this was all a horrible dream,” he told the mountains. “I want to go back to the way it was. We’d go out on our bisons, you know, me and Gyatso and Medo and the others, travelling all over the world, but we’d always come back to the temples for the festivals and to train with the elders, and there’d be friends to meet and we’d share stories of where we’d been, and… and it was always like coming home, every time, and… and now it’s all gone. There’s no-one here. Just – just bones. There’s no-one left but me.”

He turned into her and buried his head into her chest.

Katara tightened her arms around him protectively. “Aang?” she said softly. The boy sniffed into her anorak, and she could feel the tears soaking in. “Aang, I know how hard it is to lose the people you love. I went through the same thing when I lost my mum.”

Aang mumbled something.

“Monk Gyatso and the other airbenders may be gone, but you still have a family. Sokka and I, we're your family now.”

Sokka stepped forward and rested his hand on Aang’s shoulders in confirmation. “Katara and I aren't going to let anything happen to you. Promise.”

Aang let out a shuddering breath and slowly pulled back, straightening his back into Sokka’s hand, and met Katara’s eyes. “Thank you,” he said with a weak smile. “I… I guess I just didn’t want to believe it, not till I saw it for myself.” He blinked, a little too fast. “And if the firebenders came here, they must have got to the other temples too. I guess… I guess I really am the last airbender.”

Katara and Sokka drew closer around him.

“Is there…” Katara began hesitantly. “You found Gyatso’s… body, right?”

Aang nodded miserably.

“Is there something… a prayer, or a ceremony, or something we can do for him? To remember him, and to send him off?”

After Mum was killed by the Fire Nation, after the battle was over and the warships had gone, they had wrapped her charred body in caribou-hare hide and went out in their canoes and let her carefully down into the water with chants and drumming. Then they came back and lit a fire and sang songs of Mum, of their family, of the spirits and the old stories, until Katara fell asleep on Gran-gran’s lap, with Sokka on Bato’s.

It had helped.

Aang looked down at the ruined walls below. “Maybe?” he said in a small voice. Then he nodded. “Yes,” he decided. “Yes, I think there is.”

Chapter Text

Standing guard outside the Prince’s hospital room probably counted as a relaxing break, but it was soon ended by Surgeon Commander Taiko emerging from the room, closely followed by the two medics.

“Well, it looks like the skull might be cracked, but if it is, it’s not bad. There’s a bit of swelling in the brain still, but I think we can bring it down without needing to operate. It’s unusual for a patient to still be confused so long after the initial injury, but we can still hope there won’t be any permanent damage. You can tell your officers we’ll keep him here for at least a couple of days for observation. If we do need to operate, we will send a message.”

She nodded at him in a clear dismissal. 

Jee gave her his best resting bitch face. “My orders are to stay with Prince Zuko, Ma'am.”

She raised her eyebrows and inclined her head in the kind of military shrug he himself had long mastered. “Very well, Lieutenant. Carry on,” she said, and marched off in a my-time-is-valuable way.

The petty officer followed her, but the other one, the really young one, paused by Jee. “Sir. He’s in bed. I’ll be back at forenoon with some food and more painkiller if he needs it. There’s a bell on the table – ring it if you need anything, sir.” He made to leave, then turned back. “Is he really the – is he really the Prince?”

Jee nodded, still in bitch face. It came in handy.

“Erk – er, sorry, sir,” bowed the able-seaman, backing away. “We will do our best to make him comfortable, I’m sure, sir.”

He turned, and Jee was sure he heard him whisper “Agni’s ballsack,” as he scurried away.

Jee had the door half-open when Zhao came smarming out from the other direction.

Agni’s flaming arse. Had he been lying in wait?

“So, the Prince gets to go home, his disgrace forgotten?” he said in a low voice, flicking his eyes to the bed to check that Zuko was asleep. “How fortunate for him.”

“Sir,” acknowledged Jee. But he didn’t say more than that. Didn’t say anything about a fucking cracked skull not being exactly fortunate, restored honour or no. He blazing well wasn’t going to let Zhao rile him up.

But he couldn’t fucking get away, either.

“It’s hardly fair, is it?” Zhao’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, following him – pressing him – into the room. “He gets forgiven, while you… you will be working off your dishonour for many years to come. What commission can you get? What other ship will take you, once the Prince returns home?”

“Sir,” Jee grunted again. Let him insult him. He didn’t give a flying fuck what Zhao thought of him.

Even though it was true.

“Unless, of course, you know of some reason Prince Zuko shouldn’t return home? Some reason he doesn’t deserve to regain his honour?”

Oh.

Oh shit.

“I’m sure the Fire Lord would be very grateful to hear about any… unsanctioned activities or attitudes the Prince has displayed during your time on his ship.” Zhao smiled with his teeth. “Perhaps, grateful enough to forgive certain other indiscretions.”

In the three months Jee had been on board the Yosumi, the little brat had been nothing but trouble. He’d commandeered (stolen) two half-grown komodo rhinos from a sergeant in Kowan because he ‘didn’t deserve to keep them’ (and hadn’t that played merry buggering cinders with the budget); he’d started a flaming brawl in Shu Cheng because some pisshead had insulted his stupid Avatar quest. And that was only the stuff Jee’d been there for.

Zhao was right, the little pisspot didn’t deserve this. And if it got his own favour restored, well… what was the harm?

The safety of the crew is more important!

He’d worked them to the bone, yelled at them and insulted them daily, argued with their course choices and schedules and refused to back down, treated every offer of advice as an affront, and driven them into the deck with his ‘training’. But… Jee looked down at the boy reclining propped up in the low, military-grey bed, head sunk into an elaborate nest of pillows, eyes closed. With the scarred side of his head mostly hidden in the pillow and his face clear and relaxed, he looked like the boy he was, not yet fully out of childhood.

And… they weren’t bad orders.

(The words ‘permanent damage’ were still lurching horribly around his head.)

“You don’t have to say anything now, of course,” said Zhao, finally stepping out of Jee’s personal space. “I and my fleet have been given the honour of escorting the Prince home. So I’ll be around for a while yet. But of course, you will have to leave before we enter Fire Nation waters. You don’t have forever.”

He put one hand on the door handle and saluted casually with the other. “I’ll see you around, Lieutenant.”

Finally – flaming finally! – he left, and slid the door closed behind him, and Jee let himself collapse down to sit on the mat by the bed, out of the sunbeam lying diagonally half on the sheets, half on the floor. He cast his gaze over the bed, taking in the Prince’s relaxed, still form propped up on the grey pillows, the dark fuzz on his head, the one golden eye staring straight at him –

“Zhao’s a dick,” said the Crown Prince clearly.

Jee was suddenly very glad he hadn’t given in to his momentary temptation. “You should be resting, sir,” he said to cover the rush of fear.

The Prince gave a small, incongruous grin. “Wasn’ gonna sleep with that arseweasel still hanging round, was I?”

Jee had never before heard the Prince swear like – like he was one of them.

“S’alright,” the Prince went on, not turning his head. “You c’n tell him I’m an arsehole. S’not like it’s not true. Trying too hard t’be like Father. Heh.”

A corner of his mouth turned up again. “Wanted to be the sorta person he’d’pprove of. Wan’d’him to love me. Flaming idiot. Bastard never loved anyone.”

Fuck. Jee really shouldn’t be listening to this.

“ ’F’e wants me, I’m doing it wrong. S’funny,” he went on, though it really fucking wasn’t. This was pure balls-out arsebending treason, and Jee already had plenty to tell Zhao if he wanted to.

If he wanted to.

“Three years desp’rate to get my honour back. Took till I had it to realise. Wasn’ what I wanted. Not the honour he c’n give me.”

He paused thoughtfully. “Won’ make any difference anyway, what you tell him. ’S’a trick.” He sighed. “ ’F I was really honoured. Zhao’d be so far up my arse he’d be swallowing turds. ’S’all rhinoshit.”

He shouldn’t ask, he shouldn’t even be hearing this, but… “You think the letter was forged?”

“Nah.” He huffed. “ ’S’from Father all right. But’s fake piece o’ shit. Du’n’t want me back. Never did.”

His eye gazed past Jee, towards the window full of late morning sunlight. “Seen it b’fore. ‘Father forgives’,” he huffed. “Then next thing y’know, s’all ‘Secure the prisoners!’ and lightning inna face. Not gonna be taken in like that again.”

What the blazes he was going to do with this information he didn’t know. “You plan to refuse the summons?”

Zuko gave a small one-shouldered shrug in the pillows.

“Not like Zhao’ll give me a choice. Man’s a twatmaggot. Twatmaggot,” he repeated with drugged relish. “Blew up my ship once, did you know? Don’ worry, you weren’t on it,” as if that wasn’t obvious. “Jus’ me. N’all my stuff.” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then smiled. “Got it back now, huh. Didn’ expect that. Ash, didn’ ’spect any o’this, but hey, m’life’s always shit, should be used to it by now.”

He drew another breath, with a small inappropriate smile. “You know the worst of it? S’my hair. Was all set to grow it out. Like, I’m making my own honour. But. Now. Got this stupid fake honour. Don’t wanna cut my hair again.”

His eye travelled over Jee’s own short-shorn head. “Din’t realise you were banished too,” he mumbled. “Whass yours for?”

And even for the brat Prince, that level of offensiveness could only be put down to the drugs. “I was offered the choice between dishonourable discharge and demotion with exile,” he said stiffly. “With good service, I may gain the opportunity to lift my disgrace.”

“Why? Wha’d’you do?”

Prince Zuko blinked slowly as he spoke, and Jee reminded himself the boy was high as balls, in no state to yell right now, and probably wouldn’t even remember this later. Still, he braced himself for the shame. “I interfered with a Bujing Manoeuvre.”

Prince Zuko blinked again. “A Bujing Manoeuvre.”

Of course he wouldn’t know what a Bujing Manoeuvre was. “It’s a –”

“Fuck. Him.” said the Prince deliberately from his pillow. “With a rusty piston-rod. Sideways.”

Jee was confused. “Who?”

“Bujing. Fresh meat guy.”

It occurred to Jee that Prince Zuko had grown up in Royal Caldera being groomed to be Fire Lord, and might not only know what a Bujing Manoeuvre was but have met General Bujing himself.

But did he know what the Bujing Manoeuvre meant? How it was used?

The Prince closed his eyes for a moment. “D’you – did they live?”

And that was what the honour-obsessed Prince homed in on. Jee felt his tension unknot, just a little. He had asked the only question that really mattered.

“They did.” Most of them, anyway.

“Y’doin’ better ’n me then,” he said seriously. “Mine all died. ’Fore I even woke up. Knew’ would be bad. Didn’t wanna ask. But Zhao told me, first time he saw me after. Came on board juss t’tell me. Eight hunder kids. My age, now. Fresh meat, he said. Huh. He liked telling me that. But yours lived. S’good.” He smiled vaguely to the room at large. “And y’still got y’face. Win-win.”

…And you’ve still got your face.

His face.

His fucking face.

Monkeyfucking ashbending shitburning flamedrowning La.

Not a flaming training accident – and come to think of it, what sort of arsebending training accident could have caused a burn like that on a firebender anyway? Why the holy fucking coals had he ever believed that tale in the first place?

He’d got his scar – and his exile – opposing the Bujing Manoeuvre.

Eight hundred kids.

Even for the La-drowned shitfest that the Fire Nation military had become, that was a flaming lot of bodies to spend on reinforcing the hierarchy.

But even now, this kid was too scorching young to be a Bujing Manoeuvre target. And this had happened years ago.

Jee abruptly remembered that this boy was the Crown Prince.

Agni’s scorching cunt.

Suddenly the things the boy had just said about his father made a lot more sense.

Prince Zuko suddenly freed a floppy arm from the blanket. It landed heavily on Jee’s shoulder and then slipped down into his lap. “Y’ra good man, ’tenant,” he mumbled. “When I can, ’ll honour you prop’ly…”

His eye closed, and did not open again.

The last sliver of sunbeam dropped off the bed and puddled on the floor. Jee was left to sit beside his sleeping Prince, and think about the Bujing Manoeuvre, and what it was used for, and what opposing it cost. About honour, and duty, and compassion.

He left the hand where it was.