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Chapter Text

“What is your wish, Prince Ozai?”

Ozai glared at the spirit – a monstrous snake (not a weaselsnake, or a badgersnake, or a catsnake – just a snake). He had not introduced himself and had deliberately left anything marking him as royalty behind for this little excursion. The nondescript clothing and concealing cloak he wore were of exemplary quality of course (he would not lower himself to dress like a peasant even for the sake of a disguise), but nothing that couldn't conceivably be worn by any member of the upper nobility. And it had come to its conclusion remarkably quickly…

He shook himself (mentally at least – he wasn't about to show that he was rattled in any way). Spirits had knowledge and abilities far beyond mortal comprehension. That was precisely why he was here.

He drew himself to his full height. “I wish for my father to see my worth.”

A chuckle. “Is being a good son not enough?”

He was unable to prevent a snarl from escaping him. “No, it is not. I have stayed at his side, obeyed his commands, accepted the marriage he arranged for me with a woman who tolerates me at best, given him grandchildren. Yet all he sees is my brother, mighty hero of the Fire Nation.”

“If you think that things would be different if you were seen as a hero, perhaps you should do something heroic?” There was a mocking edge to its voice that he chose to ignore.

“You think that has not occurred to me? There’s just no opportunity to prove myself!”

Well, to be more accurate, there were plenty of opportunities to prove oneself in a nation at war with the rest of the world, but after almost a century, so many others had already claimed such opportunities, leaving his as one of many. In order to emerge from his brother’s shadow and truly gain his father’s respect, it needed to be something spectacular.

Conquering the Northern Water Tribe would be perfect, but he had absolutely no desire to live on a boat for months – or even years – on end, only to be inevitably outshone once more when Iroh finally won Ba Sing Se.

Omashu was another possibility, but still nothing next to the prize of the great walled city. (And if he was totally honest with himself, he wasn’t sure of the wisdom of taking on a king who was notoriously monkey-batshit insane for his first military command. Anticipating and countering his strategy would be a headache.)

He had done the best with the opportunities he had been given, and for years had hoped that his efforts to keep the nation running while his brother was gallivanting around the Earth Kingdom. But his efforts had all been seen as the least he could have done – if not outright disparaged. His acceptance of his marriage to a commoner was seen as only his duty. His providing an heir was unimportant next to the perfect grandson that was Lu Ten (whom Zuko could never measure up to, it seemed). Naming a child in his father’s honour had been met with a sneer at what was seen as blatant flattery, and her prodigious firebending talent was ignored.

There must be some other way…

“Well, if it’s an opportunity to be a hero that you are after, I can provide it.”

This was exactly what he’d hoped for when he came here, to this particular cave, on this particular island, on this particular night, even as he wondered if the scroll he had found wasn’t more of a fiction than those ridiculous plays his wife and son enjoyed.

“There is a price to be paid, of course, as with all things.”

A lifetime of dealing with court politics and incompetent social inferiors (and his own family) had given him extensive practice at not rolling his eyes at such an obvious statement.

Of course there was a price. There always was.

But he was a prince – wealthy, powerful, and the only thing he cared about was the very thing he was asking for. He could afford whatever the spirit might ask in return.

Well, almost anything.

“As long as the price is not my own life, or the disgrace of my nation, then I accept.”

The spirit smiled.

Chapter Text

Weeks had gone by, and still nothing had happened.

He was almost starting to wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.

But Prince Ozai, son of Firelord Azulon, grandson of the mighty Firelord Sozin (and future Firelord himself, if only he could get his father to give him a chance), did not hallucinate. And he had needed to present reports regarding the efficiency of the factory that he’d used as an excuse to travel to that remote part of the Fire Nation without raising any questions that he had no ready answers to.

So it must have happened.

Iroh considered himself something of an authority on spirits (the Fire Sages were probably ecstatic at the very idea of him becoming Firelord – at last somebody who would listen to their drivel) and he found himself (almost) wishing he’d bothered to listen to his brother’s rambling lectures. He was sure there’d been something about how spirits operated on their own time.

Dear Agni, he hoped that didn’t mean he’d be stuck waiting years.

Sighing, he rubbed his temples and forced his mind back to the task at hand, even though it was a task that was far beneath him. Really, the duty roster, scheduling, and deployment of the palace guard was something that was the business of its captains, with royal input only necessary in emergencies, or when extra privacy was desired.

This is what he got for volunteering for a routine inspection of such a minor facility; his father saw it as a sign that he was willing to do any menial task given to hi-

Something strange caught his eye and he frowned, then swore vehemently as he flicked through pages and put the picture together.

There’d been numerous changes made in the past few weeks – a change to the number of guards stationed in a corridor here, an alteration to patrols there, a decision to schedule a meal break a mere half an hour earlier… All were tiny and inconsequential in and of themselves, and all made for perfectly sensible reasons, but they all added up to one startling conclusion: Right now, the palace was lightly guarded and the Firelord himself was protected by a small number of guards.

He considered ignoring it and waiting until tomorrow to sort the mess out. It was late, and his father was probably getting ready for bed. The odds of an assassin just happening to show up tonight were a million to one, and the guards tasked with the Firelord’s protection, however few in number, were the best of the best.

But if his father were to notice something off about his protective detail, or if – Agni forbid – something were to happen, and the Firelord found out he had known…

Muttering more curses under his breath, he gathered up the relevant papers and swept out of the room.

He would receive no thanks for his warning, he knew. Still, while it didn’t present any potential opportunities for heroism, the worst thing that could happen to him tonight would be his father’s disapproval, and he was all too used to that.

⁂

He burst through the door to the Firelord’s bedchambers, papers left forgotten in the corridor, dropped when he caught sight of a guard, dead and stuffed into the small space between a statue and a column.

He allowed himself a sigh of relief at seeing his father alive (not out of any affection for the man, but simply because him dying before Ozai won his favour – or found some other way of altering the line of succession – meant that Iroh would take the throne, and then Lu Ten after him, as Ozai could only watch) and turned his attention to the assassin.

The plain, dark clothing, hood, and wrapped face hid any identifying featured beyond that it was a man of average height and build, but the important detail was the knife, the blade of which glistened in a way that suggested that even a small cut could be deadly.

Not that this was a problem for a firebender – even Zuko could have handled this – and he wondered why the assassin wasn’t a pile of ashes on the floor, when he caught sight of the substance spattering his father’s clothing and smeared across the floor and furnishings.

Blasting jelly. A single stray spark and this room would be a smoking crater. Firebenders had a natural resistance to their element, but even that had limits, and that went way past them.

But…

He was the one who was here, protecting his father. Not Iroh. This was his opportunity, right here.

A whisper in his mind, as if the spirit was standing right there next to him. “If it’s an opportunity to be a hero that you are after, I can provide it.”

This was it. His opportunity to prove himself worthier than his brother, and the spirit had promised that it would not cost him his life.

He grinned.

The assassin tensed, wary at an opponent looking so confident.

The balcony seemed like his best option – the windows were currently wide open, letting the night air in and any potential explosions out, and it looked like there was less blasting jelly over there. The problem was luring the assassin away from the tempting target of an old man trapped in a corner, in favour of a younger, fitter man with more room to manoeuvre.

Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps that whisper had not been imaginary and the spirit really was here guiding events. Whatever it was, a guard burst into the room right then.

“Get my father out of here!” There was a flicker of hesitation from the man, as he regarded the assassin in front of him, an obvious target…

But the clear authority in Ozai’s voice won out, and he began sidling along the wall towards Azulon, keeping the assassin in view as he did so.

The assassin could easily attack the guard, all he had to do was step forward, putting himself between the guard and his target. But the man wasn’t stupid, not when he’d come up with that trick with blasting jelly, and Ozai watched his eyes as he quickly weighed up his options.

His target was obviously the Firelord, but he was currently outnumbered three to one, his death a certainty. However, if he allowed the guard to remove the Firelord, that would even the odds of killing a prince.

A greater chance at a lesser (ugh) prize, versus complete failure…

His father put up a token resistance, but he waved it off. “Go! I can handle this.”

From there it was a matter of moving towards the windows, acting as if he was simply backing away from the assassin, as he watched for any potential openings that he could take advantage of, but nothing presented itself.

And then the man was diving at him, and he was out of options.

He twisted and ducked out of the path of the dagger, punching him in the stomach as he did so. Winded, the man bent over, and Ozai launched himself to his feet, using his momentum to propel his opponent over the edge of the balcony, far enough out into the air that he shouldn’t be able to land on the next balcony, which stuck out slightly further.

He allowed himself a moment to bask in his victory, before turning to leave. Only for his foot to slip in a patch of blasting jelly. He fell backward over the railing.

Luckily, the balcony below broke his fall.

Less luckily, that happened thanks to the railing slamming into his back, leaving him hanging bent almost double for a long-yet-all-too-quick moment before gravity called once more and he continued his journey downwards, now falling headfirst. Acting out of desperation and instinct, he blasted jets of flames from his hands. If he could push himself upright, he could use his bending to hover a little, long enough to either break his fall, or to grab a handhold on the wall…

His body tilted, beginning to right itself. Just a little more…

He slammed into the hard paving of the courtyard, knocking the breath from his body and extinguishing the flames.

Then, movement to one side. He managed to turn his head, expecting a guard coming to his aid, but the assassin was there and perfectly unharmed, slowly rising from his landing crouch and shaking out any aches. There was no sign of the dagger, but he almost certainly had other weapons.

This couldn’t be it. It couldn’t. He’d made a deal! Dying had not been part of it!

The assassin turned towards Ozai, smiling maliciously as he reached into his clothing to pull out another dagger, smaller than the first, but no less lethal.

He tried to get to his feet, but his body didn’t seem to want to obey him, and he didn’t think the darkness at the edges of his vision was entirely down to it being night. He managed to do was raise his arms, and even that small thing took superhuman effort.

That. He could work with that.

He closed his eyes, reaching for his certainty that this was his opportunity to shine, to show everyone what he was capable of, what he could achieve. This was merely a minor setback.

The swirling movements were awkward to perform while lying prone, but performing katas while under extreme duress was a standard part of his training that his father had insisted on to toughen him up, and the lightning responded easily to his command.

He didn’t waste time trying to focus for longer, in order to create a more spectacular blast. This was not a situation where he would be awarded points for style – even his father would concur.

Directing the bolt took what felt like every shred of strength he had left. As unconsciousness claimed him, he smiled in satisfaction. He’d done it. He had successfully defended his father, showing immense bravery and risking his own life in the process. It was perfect. His father would have to see him as the hero he knew himself to be.

⁂

He woke up in bed, feeling as if he’d been trampled by a herd of komodo rhinos, healers bustling around him.

“Your Highness! You’re awake!”

“Is my father safe?” he managed to croak out after several attempts.

The last thing he needed right now was for the old fool to have somehow died anyway after all that.

Someone assured him that the Firelord was fine, but that he himself had fallen (which he knew), was injured (which he doubted), and that he had been unconscious for a few days (which he found frustrating; he had things to do!), and he nodded in satisfaction. He had done it. Wanting to sit upright, he propped himself up on his elbows (ignoring the pleas for him to not move due to his injuries, and waving off those impertinent enough to attempt either helping him up or pushing him back down – he didn’t much care which) and attempted to push himself up and back so he could rest against the headboard…

Something was wrong. His arms felt fragile and resting on them was a strain, but they worked. His chest ached, and he could feel the tension in his muscles from holding this awkward position, but his breaths came easily.

But below the waist? Nothingness.

He looked down. His legs were definitely still there, but he couldn’t feel them. He tried to move his right foot. Nothing. He flexed his fingers, and his hand moved against the sheets. He prodded a leg; he may as well have jabbed at the mattress.

He looked up at the healers and, in a quiet voice that was most unlike him, asked, “Why can’t I feel my legs?”

In his ear, he heard the sound of the spirit’s laughter.

Chapter Text

There was a chance that he would walk again, they said.

Things might heal enough for him to regain some feeling, they said.

These things depended on so many factors such as the injury and how it was treated, and recovery could be hard to predict, they said.

He held on to those assurances, deliberately ignoring the doubt in their voices, the way they looked at each other as they spoke of miracles, of possibility.

⁂

He must have drifted off at some point, because he opened his eyes to find his wife next to his bed, fiddling anxiously with the sleeves of her robe.

Seeing he was awake, she leaned forward and grasped one of his hands in hers. “Ozai! I was so worried!”

She’d been worried? About him? He hadn’t thought she’d cared that much. Thought that she’d have been praying for his death.

He had tried to be a good husband to her. As insulted as he had been by his father’s choice for him, her lineage had been impeccable, however low it might have fallen. And she was attractive, and intelligent, with a pleasant personality. It could definitely have been worse. (Iroh had been matched to a woman as dull as ditch water and twice as plain, though his brother had seemed happy enough with her, so there was no accounting for taste.) He’d been fascinated with her since he first laid eyes on her. Commoner and descendant of a traitor or not, she was the perfect Fire Nation wife. Beautiful, graceful, intelligent. And despite being a non-bender, there was a fire in her that burned brightly, and he had thought that that was someone who could be truly his.

He had showered her with gifts, taken her on innumerable trips to tedious theatre productions, had even re-introduced turtleducks to the pond in their garden (all waterfowl having abandoned it sometime during his grandfather’s reign and never returned since) and had the fountain renovated, knowing that she enjoyed sitting in both those places.

And none of it had been enough. (He could never be enough for anyone, it seemed.)

Eventually he had come to the conclusion that her heart wasn’t his, and he could not figure out how to possess it. She cared little for his title or station, or the gifts he showered her with. In bed, she may as well have been on the other side of the Fire Nation (and in her mind, she probably was, with someone else).

There were so few things that he did not have. And as with the respect of his father, her love was far out of his reach.

But… she was here now. That was something, right?

But when he looked into her eyes, all he saw was pity, and he hated it. He snarled, determined to strike first. “So, come to mock?”

She frowned. “What? No! Ozai, what happened to you doesn’t matter to me.”

“Really, how can you say that this doesn’t matter?” He gestured at his legs, as if she didn’t know what he was referring to.

She sighed, as if he was being ridiculous. “You know what I mean! Don’t twist my words! You always do that, assume the worst of people!” she snapped. “I’m only saying that it doesn’t change how I see you.”

“It should.”

“Well, it doesn’t.”

Considering her (lack of) feelings towards him, claiming they hadn’t changed at all was hardly a positive endorsement.

Not that she’d ever admitted to anything.

His frustration boiled out of him. “Why won’t you just admit that you hate me?”

She frowned, sighing, which only made him angrier. How dare she be so patronising?

“I don’t hate you, Ozai. You are arrogant and conceited and don’t seem to love anyone aside from yourself. But somehow, I still do not hate you.”

He barked out a laugh. “Really? Because it certainly sounds like you do!”

“Because, as I said, you always assume the worst of everyone.” Her mouth twisted into a smile, one that carried no warmth. “The ironic thing is, the only person who truly seems to hate you is the exact person whose love you chase in vain.”

He froze. She couldn’t mean who he thought she did, surely? How dare she!

She stared at him, and her pity seemed to have turned to outright contempt.  

“You literally broke yourself to prove your devotion and he still won’t-”

“Get out.” When she didn’t move, he raised his voice, snarling. “Get out, now!”

She rose, quickly yet gracefully, and strode to the door, robes swirling around her, and swept out of the room.

The door closed behind her with a thud of finality.

⁂

Days passed in a haze. Occasionally, he wondered if they were drugging him.

He wasn’t sure it mattered if they were.

⁂

He was bored.

All he did was lie here, occasionally being poked and prodded and manhandled. And he couldn’t keep that up for any longer; father already doubted his worth as it was, and if he continued to be useless, he would have no chance of receiving respect.

He pulled on the cord to summon a servant.

“Can you bring me the-” He wracked his brain for a moment trying to recall what matters awaited his attention. “-the papers on rice yield projections from my desk.”

The servant bowed. “I’m sorry, Your Highness, but the Firelord has re-allocated that task to Minister Shang.”

He blinked. Well, his father probably wanted that looked at quickly. He hadn’t had a chance to look over the papers yet, so perhaps there was a deadline he was unaware of.

“Very well. I will have the report on the supply lines supporting the troops at Ba Sing Se.”

“I believe that one of the Generals is handling that matter.”

“The scroll on education policy?”

The servant simply bowed, not wishing to deny a member of the royal family a request, but nonetheless unable to give the desired answer.

“Is there anything awaiting my attention at all?”

“I’m afraid the Firelord had your office completely cleared out. He wishes for you to focus on your recovery.”

His whole body suddenly felt as numb as his legs.

His father hadn’t seen a sprained wrist as a valid excuse for skipping firebending practice as a child, and had even insisted on focusing on moves that required the most movement of his arms, to demonstrate that weakness was never an excuse. He surely wouldn’t reduce his son’s workload on account of him being (temporarily) bedridden?

Unless he didn’t believe that there would be a recovery…

No. He had shown his worth to his father in heroically saving his life. This was simply a rare show of generosity towards his injured son, a mark of respect for a hero.

“Please let the Firelord know that I am perfectly willing and able to assume my responsibilities, and would consider myself remiss in my duties as a son if I were to remain idle.”

The servant bowed in acknowledgement of the command. “Will there be anything else, Your Highness?”

He sighed. “Bring me a scroll from my personal library. Anything will do.”

He felt too exhausted to even attempt remembering what exactly was on his bookshelves, let alone make any kind of decision regarding which he might prefer.

⁂

The scroll he was brought was a treatise on the glory of the Fire Nation, and how all of its people had a duty to serve the will of the Firelord, that no cost was too high…

He threw it aside.

⁂

Dawn broke on yet another day as a useless invalid, needing help with even the simplest tasks. (As a prince, it was expected that servants should wait on him and carry out menial tasks – picking up items he dropped, brushing his hair, dressing him – but it was humiliating when even relieving himself was no longer in his control.)

And then his father visited.

Only, not really. He stood in the doorway, conferring with the healers and the Royal Physician. He barely glanced at Ozai, and when he did, it was with disappointment.

The one thing he said, before leaving, was, “Even when you do something right, you can’t do it properly.”

“Father, it was an accident!”

“You were an accident.”

⁂

Nobody else came. Nobody.

He frowned. “Where is my wife?”

Of course they’d fought, but that had been days ago. Surely she had cooled off by now? She was his wife, for Agni’s sake. She was supposed to support him. So why wasn’t she here? She couldn’t be that mad at him, could she?

It couldn’t be that she was looking after the children – Azula was away on wilderness survival training, while Zuko had gone off to learn sword fighting (at the suggestion of Iroh, who had clearly noticed what a failure the boy was at firebending), and would hopefully do Ozai a favour and stay there.

The servant he summoned told him that his wife had made daily trips to visit the Great Temple of Agni in the city in order to pray for his recovery. But she obviously wasn’t spending all day there.

He dispatched the servant to fetch her. She was no great conversationalist, and they tended to sit in silence more often than not, but even bland, stilted conversation was better than staring at the ceiling. Even if he had to endure her pity.

⁂

The servant returned with excuses.

Princess Ursa was regrettably busy. She had meetings with people at court and simply did not have time to visit.

How dare she? He’d had to endure a humiliating marriage to a commoner (and a non-bender at that!), and she’d repaid his sacrifice with resentment! Instead of being grateful for being raised far above her station, she seemed to crave a return to her humble life, and had sought to defy him by keeping in touch with a family that would only drag her down – and him along with her – and her lover, even though she was his, and no-one else’s!

But she’d never seemed to want to be his.

No, he told himself, exhaling, letting the flames in the lamps go back to their normal size. As annoying as her avoidance of him was, her choosing to socialise with the court was a good thing. She could argue in his interests while he was absent, correct any scurrilous gossip about how his injury was permanent (because it wasn’t!).

It was still a failure in her duties as a wife to not visit him even briefly, but at least her excuse wasn’t totally invalid.

And it reminded him of a more pressing issue than that of an absent wife – the necessity of maintaining his position at court and reminding his supporters that he wasn’t powerless.

He turned back to the servant, who stood awaiting either further orders or a dismissal. “I have messages that I need to send. I require a scribe.”

⁂

“You have correspondence, Your Highness.” It was pathetic how much he perked up at those words, and how eagerly he reached for the offered scrolls.

Alas, they were not the responses from allies that he had been awaiting. A letter from Iroh. Addressed specifically to him, which was unusual – he normally addressed his letters home to Ozai and his family, which Ozai ignored in favour of the official reports.

And a letter from Zuko. He threw that one aside.

Iroh’s letter began with condolences for his injury and sympathy at his currently being bedridden (Just how far had news of his humiliation spread?). And he expressed a belief that Ozai would be back on his feet soon enough (Thank you! At least someone had faith in him…), but that he should take his time and not push himself too hard (Never mind.).

His brother knew him well enough to not waste any further characters on sentiment, and instead launched into a report of the siege (albeit one with more proverbs and anecdotes about tea blends than appeared in the official reports, because his brother could never resist the opportunity to ramble given half an excuse).

It was dull, but it was better than nothing. He read it twice, then called for a scribe so he could send a reply.

The healers had suggested he might actually be permitted to sit up in the next day or so, if the Royal Physician gave his assent; at least then he’d be able to write his letters himself. He had never in his life thought twice about engaging the services of a scribe – or any other servant – but it was a different matter when he had no choice. Having to rely on others was a weakness, and he refused to be weak.

He pushed down the thoughts that tried to creep in, that pointed out that the only reason they would deem it allowable for him to move around at all was that they’d determined that he’d healed all he could. But he still couldn’t feel anything below his waist.

⁂

The following day began with good news – the ship carrying Azula home was making better time than expected, and she should arrive that afternoon.

And then the replies from his so-called supporters finally began trickling in, each one bearing a flimsier excuse than the last for being unable to meet with him (one man even informed him that he was washing his hair – and he was bald!). Only one expressed any interest in meeting with him, and he did not sound particularly enthusiastic.

Still, it was something, and an opportunity for Ozai to prove that he was still a player, no matter what some people (including his own father) seemed to think.

He had a reply sent, summoning the man for an immediate audience (it wouldn’t do for one of his enemies to find out and dissuade the man from going). Then he called for attendants to make him presentable – his hair was disgusting, the closest he’d come to a bath in days had been a damp cloth, and he couldn’t meet with a supporter in his sleepwear.

He could not afford to take anywhere near close to the time necessary to bring his appearance up to his usual standards, but a cursory examination in a mirror showed an acceptable result under the circumstances, and a servant was announcing that his guest had arrived, so it would have to do.

“That will be all,” he told the servants, as he shifted his position against the pillows he’d had someone pile behind him to support his back. “Please send Lord Sharo in.”

“Your Highness, are you-”

He snarled. How dare they disrespect him like this? “Did I stutter?”

“But, do-”

“Out!” He followed that with a burst of fire, and they finally obeyed. Later, when he had time, he’d have them self to the Boiling Rock as punishment for their disobedience.

He had forgotten something, he was sure of it, (probably many things) but so long as he at least appeared as he normally did, that would be sufficient.

The man bowed to the exact minimum angle and depth decorum dictated was acceptable to bow to a prince, and no more. He narrowed his eyes, but couldn’t fault the man for simply giving the appropriate degree of deference.

(Normally he would have, and indeed had, over far lesser slights. But this situation wasn’t exactly normal.)

This was nowhere near his first choice for an ally (he was so lowly in the palace hierarchy that he barely outranked the servants Ozai had just shooed out, and he was a slimy opportunist whose one talent was latching on to anyone able to benefit him and nodding along to whatever they said). But this was what he had to work with

(His brother would probably spout some inane proverb about the cultivation of bonzai trees here, while their father nodded at his supposed wisdom.)

“Greetings, Lord Sharo.”

His eyes raked over Ozai as he straightened, seeking out any deficiencies or weaknesses. Ozai squared his shoulders and raised his chin, and he dropped his eyes in deference.

“Your Highness, I am happy to see that you seem well, despite all the gossip suggesting otherwise.”

Ozai didn’t miss the use of ‘seem’. Or the slightly sceptical tone to his voice. He’d come here to satisfy his curiosity as much – if not more – than for political gain. Well, let him satisfy his curiosity. Then he could pass on what he’d seen, so the nobility knew that Prince Ozai was still a force to be reckoned with.

He wanted to ask for more details on this gossip, but he couldn’t risk looking ignorant. Better to let the man believe that he had other contacts, that he knew this already.

He waved a hand. “Yes, the fools at court will chatter about things they know nothing about.”

He made polite enquiries about small matters at first, trifling things that nobody could fault him too much for being unaware of, carefully trying to steer the conversation towards more important things, just letting his informant talk. He was doing an excellent job, and the man slowly relaxed and stopped focusing on every small movement Ozai made, no longer trying to spot any mistakes.

And then he suddenly stopped midsentence, wrinkling his nose in disgust. So focused on plotting his next move, it took Ozai another second to notice…

Oh no. No. No no no.

“Did you just… soil yourself?”

The tiny part of his brain not panicking and trying to come up with a way out of this noted the lack of title.

“No! I- If you’ll excuse me for just a moment, I’ll summon a servant-”

“No need. I will do so myself on my way out. There’s no reason for me to remain here any longer.”

And then he was gone.

⁂

Servants came, scurrying around with purpose. He was lifted out of bed, stripped, lowered into water, dried, carried again…

He found himself lying in bed, back in his nightclothes, with only vague flashes of how he’d got here.

For the first time in his life, he had no idea what to do.

There was no coming back from this. He would tell everyone. It didn’t matter if Ozai fully recovered (if that was even possible…), or how much he tried to prove his worth. It didn’t matter that it was an accident, that he was in recovery and still not used to his own damn body no longer being within his control. This one humiliating slip-up would be all he was ever known for.

The only factor that could mitigate the repercussions in any way was that his father would certainly forbid any discussion of the incident, to protect the royal family’s reputation. But he would never forgive Ozai for this. And it wouldn’t stop jokes spreading in private.

To his shame he found actual tears running down his face.

He wiped them away angrily on his sleeve. No. He would find a way to prove himself. This was a temporary setback. That was all. He would be back on his feet (in every sense of the phrase) in no time. Then his father would acknowledge his worth.

A movement at the door caught his attention. (How long had it been ajar?) Azula was there, staring at him with a speculative frown he wasn’t used to having her direct towards him.

She was gone before he could ask her what she wanted.

Chapter Text

He groaned as he came to wakefulness, sunlight streaming through his curtains. After spending the rest of yesterday in a stupor, and the night in fitful, broken sleep, it didn’t surprise him that he’d failed to rise with the dawn.

The grogginess immediately dissipated when he realised that someone was in the room, standing at the end of his bed. Panicking, he pushed himself upright, expecting to be faced with an assassin ready to strike, or a nosy servant.

It was his daughter. He almost relaxed…

Then he focused his attention properly on what she was doing. She’d pushed the covers out of the way of his lower legs and had a hand on his shin.

“Wow, so you really can’t feel anything, huh?”

With a roar, he directed a blast of fire at her. She dodged easily.

“What are you doing?” As if it wasn’t obvious…

“What’s going on in here?” Oh, so now his wife decided to make an appearance.

The moment her mother walked in, Azula had her face scrunched up in a perfect expression of terrified upset as she hunched over, hugging herself. She even managed a few tears.

“I- I just- I just wanted to s-s-say hi to dad! B-but he- he threw fire at m-me!” She pointed at the scorch mark on the wall, before rushing forward and pressing her face into her mother’s skirts, sobbing loudly and shaking.

Ursa glared at her husband. “What is wrong with you, Ozai?” He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. “I know what you can be rather demanding where our children are concerned. But this is a new low, even for you.”

He tried pointing at the very obvious red handprint left on his leg, but she wasn’t even looking at him any longer, concentrating on her daughter. “Now then, Azula. How about we get some mochi and go into the garden, and you can tell me all about your trip?”

Azula pulled away slightly, looking up at her mother with a cautious smile that was as fake as her tears. “That s-sounds lovely, mom. I’d really like that.”

She smirked over her shoulder as Ursa led her out of the room, as he could only watch, too shocked to protest.

He’d taught her to be ruthless above all else, to seek out weakness and attack it without mercy. But she wasn’t meant to do that to him!

And how could his own wife not believe him? Yes, she barely even bothered to pretend that he was the husband she wanted, but she had to accept that he had never lied to her (a courtesy she hadn’t returned).

The worst thing was that there was nothing that he himself could do about it without looking a fool. And Azula knew it. He could order the guards to keep her out, but the fact that he needed protection from a 9-year-old was humiliating.

Today wasn’t shaping up to be any better than yesterday.

⁂

It was like a fog had fallen over his mind. All he could do was lay in bed and stare at the ceiling.

(There were scorch marks on it. How long had they been there? Had he put them there?)

He couldn’t say how many days passed, but he knew it was at least one, because he recalled seeing moonlight shining through a gap in the curtains (why bother having them opened?). But how many? He couldn’t say. Time had lost all meaning.

He knew at one point, Azula returned, leaving another burn on his leg as he snarled for the guards to remove her at once. As she was dragged away, she laughed and taunted him. “The whole palace is laughing at you, you know? Everyone is talking about how pathetic you are!”

The fog returned.

⁂

Awake again.

He sighed, glancing round in the vain hope of something to distract him. Which was stupid because…

There was a scroll on his bedside table; he was certain he hadn’t put it there. Picking it up, he saw it was the letter from Zuko that he’d thrown across the room… how long ago had it been now? A servant must have found it and placed it there in a misguided effort to be helpful.

Well, he might as well read it. Not as if he had anything better to do.

A piece of paper fell out as he unrolled the letter. A landscape painting, amateurishly done. Had Zuko painted this? He was supposed to be learning to fight with swords, not wasting time with art.

Shaking his head, he proceeded to read the letter. It began with apologies (as everything did, with Zuko) that he had been too busy to write because he had been working hard both learning swords, and practicing firebending so he didn’t fall behind (a bit late for that), and he wasn’t sure how long it would take the letter to reach the palace, so he hoped it would arrive before he did.

Apparently, the painting was for an exercise the master had set for his student. He could only assume that Zuko had no skill with a blade, and Master Piandao was doing everything he could to find something else for him to do.

Well, at least he wasn’t using his time away as an excuse to neglect his firebending. (Although, he had to admit that shirking his duties had never been a fault of Zuko’s – he might be bad at whatever he was doing, but he’d keep at it.)

He rolled the letter back up as soon as he was done and dropped it back onto the table. He didn’t bother even considering a reply – he had nothing to say, and he had no idea how much longer the child would be there and didn’t care to find out. How long had that letter been sitting there?

As he moved to lay back down, something crinkled under his hand. Oh, the painting. He picked it up, meaning to crumple it up and burn it. But then he looked at it. Then he looked around the room, and at the view from his window (which from where he was sitting showed nothing but empty sky. Then back at the landscape.

He propped it up against the lamp on the table.

It was something to look at.

⁂

The next few days passed exactly the same. He read. He played games by himself. He attempted to practice some calligraphy but he’d never been much interested in writing just for the sake of writing, and he had nothing to say. He toyed with flames, but even that felt pointless.

Was this his life now?

“Father?” asked a small voice from the door.

Oh, perfect. It seemed the universe wasn’t yet done with tormenting him.

“What do you want, Zuko?” he snapped. Or, he meant to snap. It came out without any real emotion behind it, stripping all the bite from the words. (Why was he so tired, when all he did was lie in bed and not exert himself at all?)

The boy fidgeted nervously, eyes flicking to Ozai and then away again. How was he so scared all the time?

“Mom says that you got hurt fighting an assassin.” He swallowed, then continued. “That you can’t walk anymore.”

He didn’t say anything, but his son wasn’t a total idiot; he knew a lack of denial was an answer in itself.

Zuko walked cautiously into the room, but stopped at the end of the bed. “Forever?”

He thought of all the assurances he’d been given, how vague they’d been, the careful, reluctant tones they’d been spoken in.

“Possibly.”

The boy deflated slightly. Disappointment? Or pity? Or maybe even shame? His eyes strayed to Ozai’s legs, hidden by the sheets, and Ozai’s lip curled. He wasn’t going to put up with pity…

“Does it hurt?”

He blinked in surprise; the question was unexpected. Nobody had asked him how he felt about any of this, apart from the clinical questions from the medical personnel, trying to assess the extent of his injuries, and even that was more about trying to determine if he had any feeling below his waist.

“No. It did at the time, but now I can’t feel anything.” He hadn’t meant to be that honest, but Zuko didn’t comment.

The boy was definitely staring now though. “Stop that!”

This time there was a snap to his tone, and Zuko flinched. “Sorry, father.”

He made an effort to look at his father properly. “What happened to the assassin?”

“I killed him.” He had actually almost forgotten; nobody had commented on it.

That got a grin. “Really? How?”

So Ozai found himself explaining the whole incident, finally receiving some appreciation. Zuko perched on a small stool next to the bed, face alight, and clapping and cheering and gasping at all the right moments.

It wasn’t his father’s respect, or the worship of his nation. But he supposed it was at least something.

“Can you teach me to bend lightning?”

He resisted the urge to sigh. “It’s an extremely advanced technique, and I’ll remind you that you’re still on the basics.”

“I know, father. I’ll try, I promise I will.”

“Yes,” he sighed. “You always do.”

Zuko beamed, not spotting the implied criticism.

There was silence for a moment, and Ozai thought about dismissing him, but the only other person who had voluntarily sought out his company had been Azula, and, well…

Zuko caught sight of the picture still propped up on the side table, and his smile widened even further.

“You liked my painting?”

“It was… something to look at.”

He fidgeted, looking down. “I know it’s not very good. I had to paint it from memory and I only got a quick look. Master Piandao says that a warrior should be able to take every detail of a scene in from just a glance, because that’s how it is in battle.”

He looked up again, his hands twisting together nervously, as he asked, “I could paint something better for you? If you want?”

He opened his mouth to say no, that he could commission professional painters to give him far better things to look at…

And then Ursa swept in. “Zuko, what are you doing in here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”

Zuko grinned at her but made no move to stand. “Sorry, mom. I just wanted to see dad.”

Ursa looked around for any tell-tale scorch marks but found nothing. She pursed her lips and glared at her husband suspiciously. He glared back. Zuko was (unfortunately) his son. He had every right to spend time with him.

Not having any reason to challenge him, she opted to ignore him entirely, turning back to Zuko instead. “Look at you. You’re still in your travelling clothes. You’d better hurry now. You’ll have to be quick to change before dinner.”

“Sorry, mom.”

Why did this child apologise so much?

Zuko got up at that, but halfway to his mother, he stopped suddenly, then turned back and bowed, looking contrite. “I apologise for imposing, father. I must have been delaying you from getting ready yourself.”

Ursa stepped forward, reaching for him as if trying to pull him away from his father.

“Darling, you know your father can’t walk anywhere?”

He gritted his teeth. How dare she talk about him in such an obnoxiously gentle tone as if he wasn’t right here…

Zuko looked between them, confused at the sudden tension. “Yeah, but he can still sit down and eat, right?”

“Of course he can, but I really don’t think he wants to.” She grabbed him by the hand and began practically dragging him from the room. “Now, come on. Let’s leave your father in peace. He’s made it very clear that he doesn’t want any of us around.”

How dare she speak for him? And that doubt in her voice when she said ‘of course he can’, as if she didn’t believe he could, was downright insulting.

She didn’t want him to eat with them? Well then.

He summoned a servant. “I shall be eating with my family today. I will need to get dressed.” Then he grimaced. “I will also require some aid getting to the dining room…”

⁂

Being carried was deeply humiliating, but he wasn’t about to back down and continue hiding in his rooms. And why should he have to stay in bed?

At least he was the first there, so there was nobody to sneer as he was manhandled and arranged in position at the head of the table.

(As to how he would handle leaving once he was done eating… Well, that was a problem for later.)

He poured himself a cup of tea. (At least that was something he could do for himself.)

Ursa was the next to arrive, and stopped in the doorway for a long moment when she saw him, startled, before continuing into the room and seating herself opposite him with her usual grace.

She fixed him with a suspicious look. “Why are you here?”

He raised an eyebrow at her, smirking. “Why shouldn’t I be here? Can a man not simply choose to dine with his family?”

She snorted. “Not when the man is you.”

“It’s almost as if you don’t want me here.”

“I can’t imagine how you’d get that impression, husband dear.”

“I’m told you visited the Great Temple every day to pray for me. I wonder, was it for my recovery, or my death?”

A flicker of something passed over her face, but it was gone before he could identify it.

Before he could question it, the children rushed in. His daughter’s look of surprise quickly transformed into something more speculative, and he hastily indicated for Zuko to take the remaining spot next to him.

He was absolutely not scared of a child. He just… didn’t want to deal with spending the entire meal fending off yet more attempts to see how much injury she could cause without being noticed.

He wasn’t weak or powerless, no matter what his father or the court might think. He just needed a chance to prove it.

A lesson in respect was in order, but… not right now.

A small smirk that all-too-closely resembled the one he saw in the mirror suggested that she knew what he was doing, but she said nothing and quietly sat next to her mother.

The meal passed in silence; at least some things remained the same.

Chapter Text

While it was nice to get a change of scenery, and to feel the sun on his face, there was only so long that one could spend looking at some trees and grass, artful though the landscaping in the palace courtyards was. Fortunately, he had thought to bring a scroll to read, so he could focus on that, rather than having to endure conversation with his family.

Or he could, if he weren’t being constantly distracted by Zuko, sitting on the grass next to him, who kept jerking and looking around at something.

“What are you looking at?” he snapped, the fifth time it happened.

“Um, nothing!” he blurted out. Then he did it again.

Having had enough, Ozai turned to look.

One of Azula’s friends (Min? Mo? She was Lord Ukano’s daughter, he knew.) was sitting against a tree behind them, watching Azula and her other friend performing acrobatics. She glanced towards Zuko, spotted Ozai glaring at her, and paled, turning away hastily.

If he was interested in being a good father, he would tell the idiot boy to go talk to her.

He went back to his reading.

Only to be faced with yet another distraction, in the form of his wife, who had been standing and watching for the past few minutes, obviously concerned at his being in the vicinity of her precious son but not exactly being able to say anything about it.

“Zuko, darling. How about we go and feed the turtleducks together?”

Zuko smiled up at her. “I’d love to, mom. But I already fed them, just an hour ago. I don’t think they’ll be hungry again already.”

Whatever her next excuse for separating them, he never got to hear it, because Azula sauntered up to them. It seemed all of his family were determined to bother him.

“Mom, can you make Zuko play with us? We need equal teams to play a game.”

“I am not cart-wheeling!” snapped Zuko.

This earned him an eyeroll from his sister. “You won’t have to. Cart-wheeling’s not a game.”

She followed that up with what was no doubt an insult, but spoken too quietly to hear properly.

“I don’t care. I don’t want to play with you.”

Azula turned on the charm. “But, moooom! We are brother and sister. It’s important for us to spend time together, right?” She waved a hand dismissively. “And I’m lucky Mai and Ty Lee are even here!”

“What do you mean?” asked Zuko, frowning.

“Oh, well I guess because you only just got back, you haven’t noticed yet.” Her smile became more of a smirk, and she glanced at her father a moment before continuing. “I’m afraid our family just doesn’t command the respect it used to. Nobody wants to associate with us, and I had to beg for them to come, because dad is such a disgrace-”

Ozai snarled at her, which earned him a glare from his wife.

“Zuko, I think playing with your sister and her friends is an excellent idea.”

Azula smiled triumphantly.

It was transparently obvious that she had some plan or other in mind, but Ursa apparently took her request at face value. For someone who took every opportunity to visit the theatre, she seemed completely unable to spot obvious acting when she saw it.

Well, at least this got him some peace and quiet…

Or at least it did for a few minutes.

There was a loud splash from somewhere, followed by laughter.

Zuko stomped back over, muttering about girls being crazy.

Ursa approached them once more, and Ozai expected another intervention attempt, but instead she had a letter from his brother.

⁂

Zuko’s clothes were mostly dry as the family settled into a room off the courtyard to read the letter, though the occasional wisp of steam drifted off him.

The news was good (at least for Iroh and the Fire Nation as a whole – Ozai’s quest to earn his father’s favour would only be harder from here). Iroh’s troops had breached the outer wall, and while they’d not been able to press the advantage for fear of over-extending themselves, the Earth Kingdom forces were equally exhausted, and were unlikely to recover sufficiently in time to turn the tables when the attack resumed tomorrow (at least from the perspective of the letter – messenger hawks could only fly so fast and the battle would already be underway by now). Iroh was already anticipating his triumph, and reported that Lu Ten was eager to lead the charge.

The letter came with gifts. Which were met with varying degrees of gratitude. Zuko was thrilled with the knife, as any child would be. But…

Ozai sighed. This was his brother all round. He had an amazing ability to somehow see a person while simultaneously seeing right past them.

Yes, Azula had liked playing with dolls at the time her uncle had last seen her, but she was never interested in dressing them in ‘the latest fashions’ or similar nonsense – she enjoyed staging mock battles with them, or pretending she was ruling over a royal court. And she had grown out of even that by now. (After all, why settle for a ‘court’ or ‘battlefield’ of unreactive dolls, when you had the power of commanding actual people who would actually react to your commands?)

Did Iroh think she was still seven? Or that she had seen them as ‘friends’ while pitting them against each other in bloody scenarios?

How was this man a gifted strategist?

Then again, his strategy was largely dependent on the observations of experienced scouts and was discussed with other commanders before implementation, which probably helped considerably.

He wondered what disastrous gift Zuko would have received had Iroh not been literally handed something as a war prize? He’d probably have received something even worse.

Though he’d probably have done a better job at keeping his disappointment to himself. Whereas Azula…

“What’s the point of dolls?” She smiled. “They don’t even do anything, just sit there uselessly, can’t move by themselves…”

He glared at her.

“And so fragile too.” And then she snapped it in half.

“Azula!”

“Sorry, mom.” She shrugged, then turned to look right at Ozai. “I guess some things are just really easily broken.”

Enraged, Ozai launched himself at her.

And of course fell flat on his face.

Raising his head and pushing himself up on his hands, he snarled at her. “How dare you-”

Ursa stepped in front of him. “Ozai, she’s nine! She doesn’t know any better!” Behind her, Azula’s triumphant smirk at getting her way warred with an outraged scowl at being so insulted. “And you’re the one who encouraged her to play rough!”

She sighed, reaching down for him. “Come on…”

“Don’t touch me!”

The hand was snatched back. “Fine, be that way!”

She whirled around, skirts whirling around her. “Children, come along now. Leave your father to his tantrum.”

Azula followed, strutting out of the room, but Zuko hung back, hesitating.

“Here, dad. Let me help…”

Her glared, helpless in his frustration.

“Get out!” he roared.

Zuko ran. Like a coward.

⁂

Zuko showed up in his room the next day. Ozai had burned the stool, so he sat on the floor, and relayed things he’d seen and heard. Somehow he had a knack for finding and accessing hidden spots in the palace (even infiltrating areas of the palace he was not supposed have access to) and observing things.

He’d also painted Ozai another picture, as threatened promised.

“Do you want to see the swords I made?”

He would rather do literally anything else, but his entertainment and social options were limited.

“I suppose.”

⁂

Zuko ended up falling asleep on his bed. Ozai couldn’t be bothered to summon a servant to carry him away.

⁂

There was another letter.

Lu Ten was dead. Iroh had collapsed in grief and abandoned the seige he had spent two years on.

Ozai was incensed. How could Iroh give up, just like that? Yes, coming home for proper mourning was more than appropriate, and this was as good a reason as any for a change of command who could provide fresh perspective.

But to end the siege entirely? Retreat and drag the army with him? Humiliate his whole nation?

He wanted to demand an audience with his father, to insist he see his golden son’s flaws.

But all he could do was seethe.

⁂

“Father, look!”

Ozai lifted his gaze from the scroll he’d been reading and stared. Zuko had come accompanied by a servant, who was pushing a… chair. With wheels on.

Zuko grinned at him. “What do you think? I asked one of the palace artisans to make it for you!”

⁂

Now, at least Ozai was able to move around the palace under his own power once more.

Well, mostly.

He and Zuko looked at the flight of stairs.

“Uh. Well, it’s boring up there anyway, father. Why don’t we go feed the turtleducks instead?”

⁂

Ozai found himself spending more time with his family, now that he had the option of escaping leaving whenever he wished. He and Ursa mostly ignored each other, after the few times he tried to talk to her, to insist she apologise for her recent behaviour, were shot down.

She didn’t try sending him away, however.

Perhaps he should have left things alone, grasping onto the vague idea that things would back to normal for them once Iroh returned to the palace with Lu Ten’s remains, so the funeral could be held. But his brother was making slow progress.

But still, he persisted.

(Perhaps she was right when she said that Zuko got his stubbornness from him.)

“Interesting letter?” he asked, as she placed the correspondence she’d been reading onto the table next to her, to pour herself a fresh cup of tea. What could she have been reading that caused her eyes to light up with an expression he couldn’t read? Who could be writing to her anyway? It couldn’t be his brother with a report of his progress, as she’d have read it aloud to the children. And it wouldn’t put that sort of look on her face.

Ursa was so concerned about him, she forgot to watch her daughter, who darted forward and picked up the mysterious piece of paper.

“Azula!” her mother snapped, and there was more than a simple admonishment in her voice; there was fear. “We do not read other people’s letters!”

Azula ignored her mother. “Who’s Ikem?”

Ozai froze.

Zuko, sitting next to Ozai, paused in the act of cleaning his new knife, clearly confused at the sudden turn of the atmosphere in the room. “Azula, please…” Ursa’s hand jerked in an aborted motion, as if she’d thought to snatch it back, but knew she’d look weak. Of course, their daughter’s keen eyes missed nothing.

Azula smirked. “But mother, it’s interesting! Who is this mysterious friend who you write letters to every day?”

“Not… every day…” Ursa managed, as Azula continued reading.

She stopped, frowning at the paper as if trying to decipher a code. "What does 'lick you out' mean?"

Ursa's eyes widened, before she collected herself and took a sip of her tea. Then she fixed Ozai with a look.

"I would say to ask your father, but he's shown no sign of knowing what it means."

(What was that supposed to mean?!)

“Mom, who is Ikem?” Zuko asked, eyes flicking between them both.

“He’s… an old friend of mine, from home,” Ursa attempted.

“Yes,” sneered Ozai. “That certainly sounds like a very friendly letter!”

“Mom,” gasped Zuko. “Is he your boyfriend?”

“Ooh! He totally is!” crowed Azula in scandalised delight.

“But… you’re married to dad!”

“So she is, Zuko. And it’s not the first time she’s conveniently forgotten that fact.”

“If only I could forget I was married to you!”

“I’m sure that could be arranged!”

Zuko seemed on the verge of tears (then again he always did). “Mom, you don’t mean that!”

Ozai smiled, seeing an opportunity to twist the knife. “Oh, she does. And that’s not the only thing you wished in regards to that man, is it?” Ursa’s face was frozen in a perfect mix of rage and horror. “I seem to recall you trying to claim that Zuko was his, because you wished he wasn’t my son.”

Zuko gasped. 

Ursa’s eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you tell him what you said in response to that, hmm?”

“Tell me what?”

She fixed her son with such an intense look, that Zuko, who normally worshipped the ground that his mother walked upon, shrank back, huddling against Ozai.

“He vowed to treat you as if you weren’t his son from that point on.”

“No! You’re lying!” He turned and all but threw himself at Ozai. “You never said that, right, dad?”

Why did his son insist on hugging? He couldn't recall his own father ever hugging him. But Zuko seemed to expect it.

“Well, husband,” her eyes mocked. “Tell him.”

The obvious answer was that of course he hated Zuko. He wasn't the powerful son and heir that Ozai so obviously deserved, that he may as well be the son of a peasant. He could never do well enough. Never achieve enough. Never be enough.

But the words caught in his throat. They were surely true, but...

If he told Zuko that he hated him, there would go the last person who was still speaking to him. And the tears would be simply unbearable.

But declarations of love were not something he was good at. Those words were strangled out too.

He leaned forward, keeping eye contact with Ursa the whole time, and put his arms around Zuko. Who reacted by clinging even tighter. He fought back a sigh.

(It didn't feel completely awful.)

Ursa got to her feet and marched out of the door, snatching the letter our of her daughter’s hand as she went. Azula didn’t even attempt to dodge, apparently having forgotten she was holding it.

He glared at his wife. "You're supposed to love me!"

Why couldn’t he be enough for her? Why did she insist on looking elsewhere?

She just looked at him with something that could be pity, but was probably contempt (he wasn’t sure which was worse). "Do you even love yourself?"

And then she was gone.

Chapter Text

Ozai stared up at his father through the flames around the throne. They weren’t particularly high, but the fact that they were burning at all for a meeting with his son and daughter-in-law, made it all-too-clear that his father was not happy.

Their bickering had only increased since the reveal of Ursa’s unfaithfulness. He swore she was trying to bait him, but to what end?

Well, whatever motivation there was to their fights, some of them had been both loud and public.

He’d wanted his father’s attention, but not like this.

Ursa did most of the talking, after Ozai’s attempts to explain and assure his father that this would never happen again were brushed aside. Ordinarily he’d be fine with this. Talking was something she was good at and she had a gift for soothing the most fraught of tempers.

But…

How could she ask this of him?

⁂

What was going on?

Zuko had never before been called upon to attend his grandfather without his parents being present. Not once in his whole life. Neither had Azula, as far as he knew; even her talents weren't enough to earn her their grandfather's attention.

Was this about that argument mom and dad had? Was he going to be asked about that? He knew his mom wasn't supposed to be writing letters to other men while she was married to dad. And it hadn't been nice of her to say that dad wasn't his dad. But he didn't want her to get into trouble for any of it.

He went cold as he thought of something else.

What if grandfather had found out about that letter that mom had written about him? What if he'd believed it?

He wasn't a dumdum (no matter what Azula said!). He knew what it would mean if Firelord Azulon thought he was the son of some random peasant.

His tutors had taught him all about how important the Firelord was. He could recite his lineage practically in his sleep. The Royal Family was supposedly descended from Agni himself. (Zuko had received a beating for asking why he wasn't in the family tree then.)

Worse, what if it was true? Maybe it wasn't his lineage after all? Maybe that's why he was such a terrible firebender?

No, that couldn't be right. Dad had said it was a lie, that mom had just been trying to make him mad. And everyone said how he looked just like his father.

He was the son of Prince Ozai and Princess Ursa. He was.

He would just tell him that. It would be fine.

(He tried not to think about some of his darker history lessons, about conflicts in the line of succession, and how they'd been dealt with, and dealt with thoroughly.)

He tried to hide his nerves as he and Azula approached the throne and knelt before their grandfather.

(She looked perfectly calm, of course.)

They both waited.

"Rise, my dear grandchildren."

Slowly – at the exact speed dictated by their protocol teacher – they knelt upright. He almost looked up, but a quick glance out of the corner of his eye showed Azula with her gaze still lowered. It was usually safest to copy her, so he did.

That was a good sign, right? He'd greeted them as his grandchildren. "Dear grandchildren" too. And Zuko couldn't detect a trace of sarcasm or mockery.

Sure, so he was terrible at spotting stuff like that. But Azula wasn't, and she might be a good liar but she wasn't that good. She might look calm, but she was much tenser that she had been the few times that they'd met with grandfather with father present. He was pretty sure that even she would have twitched just a tiny bit if something seemed wrong.

He didn't allow himself to relax though. Whatever the reason for them being called here without their parents, it must be serious.

"I'm sure you're wondering why I asked you here."

It wasn't phrased as a question, and Azula didn't react, so he didn't either.

"Your mother has asked for a divorce from your father."

Forgetting himself completely, he raised his head to stare at the Firelord in shock. Fortunately, Azula was doing the same thing, so he was probably okay. Grandfather didn't seem mad either, he simply nodded, looking down at them.

"I see you are both surprised at this."

He wasn't sure if he was expected to say something here, but he couldn't. Mom wanted to leave dad? But, why?

Grandfather stood, stepping down from the throne, past the (low) line of flames, coming to stand in front of them.

"I should have her killed for such disrespect to the royal family." Zuko stopped breathing, and beside him his sister did the same. Azulon, pacing slowly in front of them, didn't seem to notice. "She knew what she was getting into when the marriage was arranged, and the pair of them have had more than a decade to learn to get along."

He paused, looking at them for a long moment.

"But since the point of the marriage was to produce children, she has fulfilled her contract."

Zuko breathed again. Mom was safe.

(Wait, but... Did that mean she was leaving?)

"I am sure you are both wondering what will happen to you."

Well... Yes. But... He looked at Azula for a clue for how to react to this, only to find her looking back at him, for once equally unsure.

They looked back at their grandfather and nodded.

"Your mother has asked to take both of you with her." Zuko stopped breathing yet again. A glance at Azula showed she looked horrified. He knew she’d snooped a little and read more of her letters – mom hadn’t even tried to hide them that well at all – so she probably knew something about where they'd probably go to live, where this man lived.

(Was Zuko going to have to call this man 'dad'? Because he didn't want to.)

The Firelord's pacing had brought him before them once more, and they both schooled their expressions into polite blankness.

"Naturally," he said, looking down at them with an unreadable expression. "I informed her that this was unacceptable. The marriage was arranged for the purpose of combining two different bloodlines, so discarding the results would render the whole exercise pointless. And after the tragic death of your honoured cousin, it would be utterly foolish of me to send away both remaining grandchildren, especially considering that your father is useless for producing any more, and I am not about to ask for Iroh to effectively replace his lost son before his ashes have even cooled."

He had to blink away tears at the mention of Lu Ten.

"She responded by suggesting a compromise. She could take one child, and only one, on the condition that, were it to become necessary, that child would be returned to the palace."

 At this rate Zuko was going to pass out. Mother did her best to spend time with both of them, but Azula often spurned her for the sake of spending more time with father, and if she absolutely totally had to chose… She would choose him. And father would definitely pick Azula, without question. Yes, she'd been pretty disrespectful towards him since he'd been injured, and he had been spending more time with Zuko, but that didn't change the fact that Azula was the heir he so obviously wanted.

From what seemed like far away, his grandfather continued. "I asked both of them to name the child they wanted to keep."

Zuko wanted to cry. He loved his mother, he did. But the palace was his home. And going with her would mean leaving his father and his sister and the turtleducks and...

Beside him, Azula shifted, anticipating the answer that would effectively make her an only child.

"However, your parents failed to come to a satisfactory agreement."

His thoughts came to a halt at the annoyed tone in his grandfather's voice. He cautiously looked up, Azula mirroring him, the smirk falling from her face. "They saw fit to bicker like children. So instead I thought I would ask actual children, in the hope that you are capable of acting with more maturity."

He fixed them with a significant look.

As always, Azula knew what to do. She gave a perfect bow, and spoke in a clear, confident voice, "Please, grandfather. I wish to remain at the palace, with my dear family."

He nodded and turned to Zuko. Oh. He needed to answer. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He swallowed and tried again.

"I- I also want to stay. My home is here."

Was that good enough? He hoped so. But somehow no matter how hard he tried, his best was never good enough...

"Very well," he said eventually, and Zuko let out a breath of relief. Grandfather didn't seem to notice, but Azula rolled her eyes. "I told her it would be your choice. She cannot complain at leaving empty-handed."

Zuko felt a stab of guilt. What would mom think? It wasn't that he didn't love her, but what about dad? And he didn't want to go live somewhere else.

"She did, of course make one further suggestion, regarding what to do with the child - in this case, children, I suppose - who chose to remain."

This time not only did his lungs stop working but he was pretty sure so did his heart. Beside him Azula looked as terrified as he felt, not even pretending to look in control of the situation like normal.

He smiled at them, though there was little warmth in it. "From now on, you will both be in the care of your uncle, Crown Prince Iroh."

"No," came a small voice, but still loud in the echoing chamber.

His grandfather was looking down at him, anger sweeping across his features.

Oh, wait. It was him. He'd said that.

"Did you just interrupt me?"

"No! Well, yes. I'm sorry! But... I just... I want to stay with my father. Please."

He threw himself onto the floor in a deep kowtow, not sure if he was begging forgiveness for his behaviour or hiding.

"Look at me, boy."

Trying not to shake, and failing, he pushed himself back upright to face the Firelord.

Taking a deep breath, he tried again. It was too late to stop talking, but he was sure if he just explained himself properly...

"Please, I love my uncle very much, b-but I want to stay with my father."

His grandfather sneered at him. "How can he possibly be a suitable father in the state he's in?"

But, what did his injury have to do with anything? He had trouble getting around now. But he could still talk to Zuko and spend time with him and he was learning so much.

"But, didn't he get hurt saving your life?" he blurted out without thinking.

Azula subtly shuffled away from him.

"How dare you be so disrespectful!" The Firelord was livid with rage now, and the fires around the throne surged behind him.

"Please!" he begged. "I'm sorry, grandfather. B-but he's my father. I'm- I'm his loyal son..."

Chapter Text

In the shadows of the throne room, Ozai seethed with humiliation at his father mocking him to his children, but he knew better than to emerge from the dark corner that the Firelord had banished him and Ursa to. And as humiliating as this was, there was a chance that his father would be happy with this little show (he couldn’t believe that the man would really allow a prince or princess in the line of succession to leave the palace, even under condition that they hide their identity and would be constantly surveilled to ensure their anonymity remained intact, so surely it was a show…).

Ursa let out a disappointed breath beside him as both children announced their unwillingness to go with her. Really, what had she expected? Perhaps if she had been allowed to make a sales pitch to the children, she might have been able to spin some romantic story about peasant life that Zuko at least might have bought into enough to give a hesitant ‘Yes’. But as it was, they were being asked to pick between familiarity and the unknown.

And then Zuko just had to open his mouth. It was gratifying to be defended, yes. But what did it say about Ozai’s ability to discipline his children that his son dared to show such disrespect?

The Firelord moved towards Zuko, flames forming in his hand, Ursa shifted beside him. He knew she was getting ready to throw herself at Azulon in a futile attempt to stop what was happening, and he grabbed her to stop her, knowing that intervening would only make whatever came next even worse. He didn't have the leverage to keep her there without being able to brace himself with his legs, so he used his weight instead, clinging onto her and dragging her down as agonised screams broke out behind him.

She fought him at first, but as the screaming went on, she buried her face in his neck to try and block it out.

As they finally faded, and Zuko's body fell to the floor, he could hear her muttering over and over, "I am going to kill him. I am going to kill him. I swear it by all the spirits. I am going to kill him."

He pulled her closer, scared Azulon would hear.

As the screams finally ceased, and Zuko's body fell to the floor, he relaxed his hold a little, and she used the opportunity to shove him off her, sending him sprawling.

"Ursa, get my chair." The damned thing had rolled away when he’d thrown himself out of it.

She glared at him. "Get it yourself, you fucking coward."

He wondered what it said about him that he was more shocked by her language than he was about what had just happened.

⁂

Ozai insisted on Zuko being brought to his rooms to recover, rather than his own, certain that if the boy was out of his sight for even a second, he would be poached by his brother. There wasn’t much he could do about Azula (and oh, how it burned to know that), but he was determined to keep at least one of his children. It would be some time yet before Iroh arrived home, so he would have plenty of opportunity yet to find a way to reestablish his authority over his wayward daughter.

(He refused to think about what he would even be able to do if they came for Zuko anyway.)

⁂

It also meant he was able to speak with Ursa before she left (he doubted he would have gotten that privilege if he had not been in physical proximity to one of her children).

Not that it got him anywhere.

“I gave you everything!” he snarled.

Her laughter was bitter and mocking; he wasn’t sure how much of that was directed at him, and how much was down to her being unable to feel anything close to genuine amusement with her son lying burned and unresponsive in the bed next to him.

“Not everything.” Her lips twisted. “Not the one thing I wished for.”

She stroked a hand down her son’s unbandaged cheek, and then spun away and marched to the door.

She paused a moment, one hand resting on the frame, throwing one last look over her shoulder. “But then again, you cannot give what you do not possess.”

And then she was gone before he could demand to know what she meant.

⁂

All his life he had been alone. People had deemed him a problem – one who should be somebody else's problem. His mother had opted to die the moment he was born, so unconcerned with her child. His father had never shown any interest in a son who had such an ill-omened start in life, only able to see Iroh, his golden child, no matter how much he'd striven to be the son he wanted. Iroh had given every indication he found his much younger brother to be an annoying inconvenience (it said a lot that he seemed much more willing to bond with Zuko and Azula).

But Ozai had refused to allow back down from the challenges thrown his way. He built support with powerful allies at court. He had acquired a wife, two children. All the while striving to prove himself to his father.

But it had all come to naught. His allies had cut ties with him. His wife had walked out. His daughter had disdained him. And now it seemed his son would leave him too. The boy whimpered as he shook with fever.

"No," he snarled, grabbing a cloth, dousing it in a bowl of water and mopping his forehead. "You do not get to leave me!"

Water soaked into the pillow. Too much. This didn't seem right. He tried to remember what sort of things healers did for patients with fevers. But he'd always avoided people who were sick. And though he had sometimes been sick as a child, he had no clear memories other than that nobody had come.

Wringing it out, perhaps?

That seemed to work better.

⁂

The time dragged with nothing to do but think. What would happen when Iroh arrived home? Would his father really follow through on his announcement to give his children to Iroh, or had that been a twist of the knife, to remind his youngest once again that he was replaceable? Would his brother accept? Would this end his daughter’s recent rebellious streak? Or make it worse?

And…

Why had Zuko shown him such loyalty? He didn't understand it. Iroh had been far too lenient with mistakes Lu Ten, in Ozai's not-so-humble opinion. Zuko, as a failure, would undoubtedly have an easier time with him. And the Firelord had commanded it. The choice made sense.

But Zuko had refused. Not only that, had persisted when Azulon had questioned him, refusing to give in.

("You fucking coward.")

Suddenly enraged, he pushed himself up, leaning over Zuko. He lit a hand on fire and moved it towards the unconscious boy. The boy who had already burned for him. ("I'm his loyal son.") He stopped, hand inches from the unburned side of his face.

He slumped, fire both literally and figuratively gone.

What did it matter? Ursa was gone. Azula was no longer his – even if his father reversed his decision, even if his words had initially been a mere threat, she had realised she could get away with testing him. Zuko probably too, as soon as he recovered.

(If he recovered.)

He began to weep uncontrollably.

"Dad?" a small voice said.

Oh, great. He didn't wake up when Ozai tried to set him on fire, but he woke up for this.

"Go back to sleep, Zuko." He managed to keep his voice level. Mostly.

"I'm sorry, dad."

"What for?"

"I embarrassed you in front of grandfather." A hesitation. "Is that why you're upset?"

“No.”

“I know I said the wrong thing, dad.”

Ozai gritted his teeth. “Then why did you say it?”

“I don’t know!” He winced in pain, but continued, in a feeble voice that was practically a whisper. “I’m-”

Ozai grabbed him by the shoulder, tilting his body slightly, demanding his son look him in the face. “Zuko, what are you?”

He sighed, eyes cast downward. “A failure.”

Ozai snarled. “No! A prince of the Fire Nation!”

Zuko looked up.

“Tell me who you are!”

He swallowed nervously, but his voice wavered only slightly in hesitation. “I am Prince Zuko, son of Prince Ozai and Princess Ursa, grandson of Firelord Azulon, great-grandson of Firelord Sozin!”

“And does a prince apologise?”

Zuko frowned. “Maybe he should if he said something wrong.”

Ozai managed to resist sighing. Just. “And have you done anything wrong?”

“Well… I don’t think I’ve done good enough. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been punished, right?”

“Then focus on doing better. Don’t waste your breath on apologies; save it for your firebending.”

Zuko tried to nod, open his mouth to say something, but whatever it was came out as a whimper, and his face screwed up in pain. He attempted to claw at his bandages, but Ozai managed to grab his arm.

“Here,” he snapped, grabbing a glass of medicine that a servant had brought earlier. “Drink this.”

It had a soporific effect, according to the healer, so hopefully it would spare him from further conversation on this topic.

“But what can I do to be better?” he asked, words slightly slurred, because Agni hated him and was in no mood to be merciful. “I know I shouldn’t have conta-tra- contradicted grandfather. But I don’t get how it’s wrong to defffend you?” My tutors keep saying how fl- fi-” He paused, then tried again, enunciating the word carefully with a determined expression on his face. “Fil-i-al pi-et-y is super important. So I’m s'posed to defend you. And you got hurt de-defending grandfather. You’re super brave, dad! But he was being mean ‘bout it and I don’t know why?

("You're super brave, dad."

"You fucking coward." )

Which was correct?

He did not want to talk about this. "Because somehow I never seem to be able to please my father, no matter what I do," he snapped.

"Yeah. I know that feeling," came a barely audible murmur. Which- wait, what?

"That is totally different. My whole life I've tried to impress my father, but he isn't interested!"

"Sure sounds the same to me."

Ozai was about to snarl a question whether Zuko wanted another facial burn, but what was the use? Zuko barely seemed aware of what was going on; even less likely to remember it later.

(And what would burning him achieve anyway? It didn't seem to stop him talking out of turn.)

"You just need to try harder."

"But I'm trying as hard as I can. Maybe you need to try harder."

"I am trying as-" Fuck. "Go to sleep, Zuko."

"'m not sleepy," muttered Zuko, sleepily.

⁂

“Where’s mom? Is she coming?”

“No. She’s gone.” He can’t possibly have forgotten.

“Oh. That was really real?”

“Yes.”

“So she’s really gone?”

“Yes.”

“You and mom aren’t married anymore?”

“It seems not.”

“But she must have chosen to marry you at first? How come she changed her mind?”

"Our marriage was arranged by my father, as is proper. So our choices never came into it."

"But, you loved each other a lot, right?"

He didn't wish to answer that. "She didn't love me. I know that much."

Zuko looked disappointed. “Really?”

"I tried to win her heart, but nothing worked."

"Maybe... Maybe you just weren't trying the right things?"

He snorted. “What would you know?”

No response, of course.

“She was mine. I made that perfectly clear. It was hardly my fault that she failed to reciprocate.”

"If I told Mai she was mine because I wanted her to like me, she would stab me. Not that I do want her to like me or anything. It- It's just an example. But she would definitely stab me."

“I bought her all the gifts she could possibly want!”

“Did she actually want them though?”

He ignored this.

After a long silence…

“Dad?”

What now?

“What did grandfather mean when he talked about you and mom getting married because of bloodlines?” He frowned, then winced when that pulled on his burned skin. "He said that like it was supposed to mean something."

"Your mother is the granddaughter of Avatar Roku," he explained. "That makes you and your sister the great-grandchildren of both him, and of Firelord Sozin."

"Wow."

He sighed. "I thought it was finally a sign of favour from my father. Why would he establish a might lineage through a second son, unless there was a chance that son might rise to inherit? But no. He obviously didn't see it as that important." He laughed bitterly. "No matter what I do, it's never enough for my father!"

"But what more can you do?" asked Zuko, frowning. "You're already the best firebender in the whole world."

"It's impossible."

He expected Zuko to respond, and when he didn't, he looked down to see the boy frowning even harder now.

"I'm nowhere near as good as you. I try really hard, I do! But I keep messing up. And if there's nothing more you can do, and grandfather still doesn't notice you, then does that mean that I'll never be good enough, either?"

No, it was completely different! He succeeded at every challenge, while Zuko kept failing to meet standards a Fire Nation royal should meet. They were not the same.

But...

But what did those standards even matter, if Ozai and his line was continually sidelined? And... He found himself resenting his father for ignoring him. Would Zuko end up resenting him for forcing him to be something he could never be? (Even though Ozai was just doing what was best for him!) Would he end up alone, as the last person loyal to him left?

⁂

“Ah, brother! It’s good to see you!”

He looked up from the scroll he was reading to see his brother standing in the doorway.

“Ah, so you have returned.”

He wanted to add a dig regarding how long his brother had taken to return from Ba Sing Se, or about how he had failed to conquer the city. But couldn’t decide which to go with, so passed up the opportunity for an insult.

In truth, it felt like overkill. Iroh looked so... diminished… compared to how Ozai had last seen him, departing triumphantly to take on the great walled city, his son standing tall and proud at his side.

“I spoke with father.”

Oh, good for you, brother. And probably without having to make an appointment, too. Wonder what that must be like.

“I understand you feel that you can no longer adequately raise your children, so have-”

What?!

“How dare you! Ursa is the one who abandoned them! And this insane plan to give them to you as some kind of consolation prize is certainly not my idea!”

Iroh settled into a seat without waiting for an invitation, and a servant slipped in to place a tea set on the table. It looked as if he was to endure all the company and conversation that he’d been craving for months all in one go, and then some. You’d have thought he’d already learned to be careful what he wished for.

“I see. I have been misinformed then.” He began pouring the tea.

“You have indeed.”

He picked up his cup and took a sip; as always, it almost made up for the poor company it came with. Almost.

“But Azula seemed amenable to the idea.”

He looked up at that, not able to hide his surprise. “You’ve seen her?”

“Yes, she was with father when he welcomed me home.”

Ozai swore that his teacup creaked from how his hand clenched around it.

He’d done his best to seek his daughter out these past weeks, hoping that now her mother was no longer around, and with the prospect of being given over to the uncle she had sneered at, her recent rebellious streak would end. But she had skilfully evaded him. Not wanting to look desperate, or like he could not control his own children, he had chosen to give her space. She would have no choice but to come to him when she needed something. After all, who else was there?

Her grandfather, apparently. Who had not paid any particular attention to her before, but it seemed that she had taken advantage of the family’s recent upheavals to worm her way into his inner circle.

“And Zuko?” He was not worried. Zuko was incapable of subterfuge; he would not visit his father every day to chatter at him, smiling and laughing as he planned to stab him in the back like this. (Or would he?)

“He was not present, and I did not encounter him on my way here.” He smiled. “I’m sure you’ll be glad to get him off your hands.”

Ozai snarled. “And what is that supposed to mean?”

Iroh blinked, daring to look innocent. “Well, you know how rambunctious boys are at that age.” He gave a thin smile, as Ozai seethed at the obvious mockery. “And you have expressed disappointment at his progress before; I’m sure that I can help.”

How dare he insult his son like that?

“Actually, I am perfectly satisfied with my son’s progress, and would thank you not to interfere.”

“Very well. Ah, let me refill your cup!”

As he did so, he began wittering over the tea blend, sounding more like he was reciting love poetry than describing a beverage. But at least that particular topic was closed (for now), and the conversation could only improve from here.

Or so he thought.

“I was saddened to learn of Ursa’s departure. Brother, whatever happened between you two?”

“What does it matter?” he snapped. “She’s gone, and good riddance!”

"I seem to recall you were quite taken with her when your marriage was first arranged. What changed?"

"She never forgot that idiot peasant!" he snapped. "She even wrote to him! It was as if she was trying to make me jealous!"

"And what did you do to prove that you were better for her than him?"

“I shouldn't have needed to! I am a prince!"

"I don't think she cared about that sort of thing, brother."

"It doesn't matter anyway. And I don't care that she's gone. Not as if I could do anything anyway." He gestured at his lower half.

Iroh gave him an unimpressed look. "You know women are good for more than just that one thing? You can make conversation."

He snorted. "That's rich, coming from you. And she hardly liked conversing with me."

This got him another Look. "I wonder why."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

A sigh. "Tell me, brother. Does anyone seek out your company when they have nothing to gain from it, or because of your station?"

He opened his mouth to answer... Only to be unable to come up with a single name. He'd always socialised a lot with courtiers, and more than a few women had tried to gain his attention before his marriage (though he'd always carefully kept them at arm's length, holding out such favour as a prize). But all of them had sought favours or political alliances, or simply wished to bask in being part of a prince's social circle.

Nobody sought out his company now. Except...

"Zuko! Zuko does!"

An eyebrow raised. "And nobody else?"

"You?" It wasn't meant to come out as a question, but it did, and he hated himself for it.

"So that's two."

(That absolutely was not relief that he was experiencing at that implied confirmation.)

"Now tell me, why do you think it might be that people avoid you?"

"They're fools," he snapped.

"Is that your only guess?"

“What else is there?”

Iroh merely sighed, and sipped his tea.

Chapter Text

"Look at this."

He handed the document to Zuko, and waited while he read it.

The tutors he'd assigned to his son had always reported that the boy was slow and stupid, but after working with him for the past few years, he'd found that Zuko was perfectly capable. The trick had been, ironically, giving up. Left to his own devices instead of being put on the spot, he would come to the correct conclusion on his own.

The boy frowned. "I'm not sure..."

Of course, he did sometimes need some prompting.

"Remember that report I showed you last week?"

The frown twisted into a more thoughtful expression as he tried to recall the details of what he'd read, before transforming into understanding. "The amount given was completely different!" he announced triumphantly.

"And what does that tell us?"

"That this Lord Umusu is skimming off the tax money he’s collecting."

"Correct."

Zuko beamed.

Of course, it wasn't actually the conclusion he was hoping for. Yes, spotting this discrepancy would be something to show to his father, though he didn't dare hope for it gaining him anything above disdain.

No, his reasons were something that, in theory at least, should be much more achievable.

He’d spent the past few years slowly attempting to rebuild his power and reputation with the limited tools left available to him. Zuko had been surprisingly useful – the boy was gifted at sneaking around and getting into places he shouldn’t, returning from the errands Ozai dispatched him on with gossip and documents.

His brother had returned from war with a faraway look and a desperate desire to connect with the family he still had, and Ozai was not above exploiting that, joining his brother for tea on occasion, while doing his best to tune out the worst of his ramblings. His hints at how much free time he had available had gotten Iroh to intercede for him to father, so he was at least being invited to the occasional important meeting (or, to be more accurate, they didn’t stop him from entering the meeting room, but nobody actually told him about the meetings and he usually had to learn about them from one of Zuko’s fact-finding missions about the palace). And he was being given work to do once more. All tedious stuff that nobody else wanted to do, but it was at least something.

But he’d made no significant progress, and he felt that if he could persuade Ursa to return, then everything would surely go back to the way things had been.

The letter he’d written had been a frustrating experience to write.

He had sat staring at the blank parchment, brush in hand, for what felt like hours. He refused to beg her to come home. It was too late. Far too late. He wanted her back so badly. She belonged to him. But he wasn't going to lower himself to begging, and he had balked at putting down in black and white that his wife hated him enough to abandon him, even though Ursa had surely painted a horrific picture of him for her parents.

After some thought, he eventually settled on, 'As you surely know, your daughter, Ursa, has chosen to return home. I would appreciate it if you could confirm that she has arrived safely.' There. Concerned, but not overly-emotional. He had sent it via one of the fastest messenger hawks they had.

A week later a servant had handed him a reply. Excitement had gripped him as he broke the seal and unrolled the scroll... Only to see a message from a complete stranger, telling him that the old couple who had lived in the house before them had died, and nobody had come by looking for them.

He gave a brief thought to it being a lie. But a check of tax records confirmed that the house was indeed home to new residents.

It had been almost physically painful to write the next letter, but there was no other option. The hawk he had sent was much slower; he needed to know where his wife was, but the prospect of reading about how happy she was with some worthless peasant was not pleasant.

The reply came two weeks later and claimed to be from someone named Noren (who had suspiciously similar handwriting to that of his wife's former paramour) saying that there was no such person as Ikem and he had never even heard of Ursa, but that Ozai was a monster for taking her away anyway.

The letter had been treasonous and Ozai considered having the man executed, but then he'd have to show his wife's correspondence with this peasant.

Then he remembered that he was a prince and didn't need proof to accuse someone of treason, so he sent the execution order anyway. Though that gave him a brief flash of satisfaction, he was no closer to finding his wife. She had vanished, apparently into thin air. Servants he’d questioned reported that she’d expressed her intentions to return to her hometown, and Zuko had managed to find a report from one of the agents that the Firelord had sent to follow her, which stated that they’d managed to lose her.

He took advantage of the tedious work he was assigned, combing through reports on the condition of the Fire Nation, in the hopes of some sort of clue regarding the location of his missing wife. But there was no sign of her.

It didn’t matter; he would find her.

⁂

“I have heard that my nephew has been making great strides in his firebending again, now that he has recovered from his aversion to flame.” His brother’s tone would seem light to those who didn’t know him well, but Ozai detected the hint of judgement buried deep within.

Father had claimed that Ozai was to blame for the state of Zuko’s face, and Ozai’s denials meant nothing. He suspected that the only reason that Iroh was willing to tolerate his company was down to grief at the loss of his son, and Ozai’s own pathetic state.

“Yes, he’s doing very well now.” He was doing considerably less well than Ozai would have liked, even without taking the effects of his injury into account, but at least he was making progress, and he had demonstrated a willingness to incorporate moves he’d learned in swordfighting lessons, which Ozai was willing to tolerate as they made him unpredictable to an opponent.

Zuko beamed, happily basking in the praise.

“I’m sure you will be happy to know that Azula is excelling at all her lessons.”

“As expected.”

His daughter glared across the table at him as though he’d deeply insulted her. There didn't seem to be any hope of regaining her loyalty. Now that she was Iroh's heir, she no longer had any use for him. Through Iroh, she was invited to important meetings, had regular audiences with the Firelord, who seemed to dote on her. He should be proud of her – she’d gained the favour of his father, something he'd striven for his whole life without success.

He had sometimes caught her looking at him with disappointment in her expression whether he praised Zuko in her presence, though whenever he looked at her properly, or made any attempt to include her, she quickly turned away.

She clearly saw the two of them as beneath her notice now.

“Naturally, I have the guidance of my new father to thank.” She barely hid her smirk with her teacup. “How could I possibly fail?”

"You used to call uncle 'His royal tea-loving kookiness'," Zuko pointed out.

Azula glared at her brother, but Iroh simply laughed. "That does describe me rather well!"

⁂

“No.”

“But, father-!”

"We are not searching for the Avatar," he snapped. "A few statues glow a little and the Fire Sages decide that the Avatar must be back. Ridiculous! He's been dead for decades!"

"You're really sure?"

"Yes! Firelord Sozin led the assault on the Air Nation himself, and he was thorough." Then he glared and shook his head. "But he still couldn't be sure. And the Fire Sages swore that there was no indication of the appearance of a new Avatar incarnation, which would happen if the previous Avatar died."

"Because the Avatar always reincarnates?"

"Correct. It is a cycle, one following the other. Fire, then Air, then Water, then Earth." He shook his head. "But the Fire Sages must have been wrong. My grandfather had people searching for the rest of his life, my father went on a quest to find him, as did I. But there was no trace."

"Maybe he's just really good at hiding."

He glared. "I just told you that I searched. Do you think if he was anywhere to be found, then I would have failed to find him?"

"Of course not, father," Zuko responded, dutifully.

"Besides, if he was hiding, then he should have surfaced by now."

"Maybe he's just waiting for the right moment?"

Ozai laughed. "It's been 97 years since he was heard of. The man would be 109 years old. What's he waiting for - a fight from his deathbed?"

Zuko seemed about to answer, then frowned. Ozai could practically see gears turning in his head. His eyes widened with horror. "So... He was a child, when Great-grandfather Sozin attacked the Air Nation strongholds?"

"Yes."

"So... To be sure he'd killed the Avatar, he would have had to kill all the children. All of them."

He began shaking. Ozai reached out and grabbed him by the shoulders, fixing him with a look. "Zuko, look at me." The boy still, though still looked ill. "These things are sometimes necessary. The Avatar is a threat to the Fire Nation, and sometimes you have to make hard choices in order to stop a threat. Do you understand."

Zuko nodded. "Yes, father."

But Ozai saw him touching the edge of his scar, expression thoughtful.

⁂

Except it turned out the Avatar had returned, and according to all reports was a 12 year old boy with full Air Nation tattoos.

People sneered that Ozai had clearly not searched hard enough, when he had gone to hunt for the Avatar, completely ignoring the fact that the Firelord had also failed to find a trace.

Azula demanded to be the one to bring him to justice, but Iroh, usually more than willing to indulge her, for once put his foot down, insisting he was not willing to send another child out to die.

The only thing that took the edge off her rage was learning that Zuko’s pleas to be the one sent out had also fallen upon deaf ears.

In the end, the task was given to Captain Zhao, a man who had accumulated enough victories that he evidently had some capability, but hadn’t distinguished himself enough that he was considered indispensable in his current post.

Ozai didn’t care; he had his own missing person to deal with.

⁂

Time marched on, and Zhao managed to fuck up catastrophically, using the resources assigned to him for the purposes of hunting the Avatar to attack the well-defended and strategically useless Northern Water Tribe. While they had been hosting the fugitive, the smart thing would have been to wait until he left the safety of its walls and journeyed to the Earth Kingdom to stir up trouble there. Instead he had decided to attack a bunch of Waterbenders during the full moon.

Fortunately, the losses were nowhere near as bad as they could have been. Zhao had apparently tried to commandeer the entire Northern Fleet for his mad enterprise, but its admiral had been unimpressed by his reasoning. He was able to muster the ships under his command, and somehow managed to persuade a few other commanders to join him by being extremely vague about his plan while assuring them that he had the Firelord’s blessing. (Technically that was true in the sense that he had the Firelord’s blessing to capture the Avatar. However he only had the authority to “request the use of Fire Nation resources so far as is reasonable and practical”, and this considerably stretched the definition of ‘reasonable’ and ‘practical’ to the point of absurdity.)

The loss of lives and vessels was hardly ideal, but not significant enough to matter considering their control of the seas was contested only by what remained of the Earth Kingdom’s pathetic excuse of a navy, and a handful of Southern Water Tribe ships who were more a nuisance than an actual threat.

Iroh had since taken command of the Avatar hunt, much to Azula’s delight, and they had departed the Fire Nation with great fanfare to hunt down the threat once and for all.

(Iroh had insisted that Azula would be kept out of any and all danger, and was to merely observe and learn. Ozai wished him luck with that particular endeavour.)

⁂

Ozai listened as the meeting dragged on, making the occasional note, sometimes because was said the was worthy of knowing, or of investigating further to see if the information might lead to something worth knowing. But mostly it was simply to help him look busy. He had nothing to contribute, and if he sat idle too much, father might decide to bar him from future meetings.

The main purpose of this one was to discuss matters relating to the justice system – county magistrate assignments, important disputes that might require the Firelord’s personal attention, allocation of the funds necessary to run the court system, updates on the progress of various major investigations, and so on. There was a great potential for useful information if you happened to be searching for a missing woman. But it did mean that most of the participants were people who would never dream of merely using one word when they could use ten instead.

Slowly and tediously, they reached the final item on the agenda: Updates on the hunt for various fugitives on the Most Wanted list, such as the Avatar and the disgraced Admiral Jeong Jeong. It said a lot about how tedious the meeting had been that this part would be the shortest, given that it would involve a report written by his brother, as the person in charge of the hunt for one of those fugitives.

Ozai listened to the latest update on Iroh’s glorious Avatar hunt (To summarise: They hadn’t caught him yet.) but tuned out the rest, not expecting anything of interest. Some murderer on one of the southern islands had been caught. A mole had been placed within a gang of saboteurs operating in a colony port and the local garrison were preparing a trap at their next intended target in order to catch the whole gang red-handed, Jeong Jeong continued to be an annoyance that somehow managed to evade capture. A smuggling group that had been thought disbanded was believed to be back in operation. And so on.

"The Red Spirit's identity is unknown, Your Majesty,” the guard captain was saying. “They're of slim build, average height, and seem to have dark hair, but beyond that, we have nothing."

"Your report mentioned the suspect had dropped one of their weapons?"

The soldier nodded, before gesturing to a subordinate, who stepped forward, placed a dagger on the table, and backed away again.

The weapon was a thing of beauty – pearl-handled and decorated with gold and jewels.

"Unfortunately, Your Majesty, I doubt it will be of much help, as it was most likely stolen from one of their previous victims. As you can see, the craftsmanship is exquisite, and it bears a maker's mark from a weaponsmith who operated in Caldera City itself. However, the man who made it died last year, and none of his family is of any help in identifying any of his clients, so we cannot say who their victim was. But it's safe to say that it was someone from the nobility."

Ozai stared at the dagger in shock. He knew exactly who had commissioned it.

He had.

It had been a gift to Ursa in the early days of their marriage. She was a non-bender, and while the guards were good, so were the assassins that occasionally tried their luck against the royal family (as Ozai well knew), and he'd wanted to ensure she had some means of protecting herself if something went wrong.

Had Ursa been waylaid by the Red Spirit? If this man had dared lay hands on her, he swore to Agni that he would-

He looked again at the wanted poster, taking a proper look this time. That mask had been worn by Ursa's favourite character in her favourite play. And the description matched her perfectly.

No.

No, there was no way. 

Of course his wife was on the Fire Nation's Most Wanted list. Of course.

⁂

At the end of the meeting, the dagger was left abandoned. What was the point? It was useless as evidence, a clearly stolen item that had been used in a crime and then abandoned, not remotely helpful for tracking down the criminal. At best it might be a way of linking the Red Spirit to an incident of theft if the supposed owner could be traced. But the Red Spirit already had a long list of crimes attached to them – what was one more or less? Even the most thorough detective would see little point in investigating a crime worthy of a year’s prison time at the most, when that person had already committed multiple acts of treason worthy of execution.

Ozai quietly picked it up and slid it into his sleeve (can’t risk someone tying it to him), and began to consider his next move. It seemed as if there was an investigation he needed to take charge of.