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Azula yanked his hand, and Zuko stumbled behind the deep red curtains. Mom walked away, the door swinging closed behind her, and Zuko tried not to gasp at the sharp nails digging into his wrist, or the crackling flames rising higher around his grandfather.

“What’re you-”

“Shut up, Dum Dum,” she shoved his head down, forcing him to his knees, and pulled the curtain apart so they could see.

“Say what it is you want,” Grandfather’s rough voice was barely audible over the flames.

“Revoke Iroh’s birthright. I am your humble servant,” Father knelt before the throne, “here to serve you, and our nation. Use me.”

Zuko felt his heart stutter. Father couldn’t be trying to steal Uncle’s position! That wasn’t how anything worked!

“You dare suggest I betray Iroh? My firstborn! Directly after the demise of his only beloved son?” The flames rose high, crackling and spitting across the throne room. “I think Iroh has suffered enough! But you? Your punishment has scarcely begun!”

Father kowtowed down, and Zuko tried to run, heart thudding and panic swirling in his head, but Azula grabbed his arm again, nails biting into his skin, and kept him still. Trembling, Zuko stayed down, trapped in his sister’s grip.

“Father, I-”

“Silence! You will know the pain of losing your firstborn, just as my beloved Iroh has known it!”

Zuko’s heart stopped thumping, stopped entirely, dizziness swirling the flames around him as Azula’s grip tightened.

“Of course, Father,” Father’s voice sounded the same as it did when Azula got a new kata right the first time, like he was happy and proud and all the things he never turned on Zuko, “if the boy’s life is the price I must pay to atone for my disrespect…”

He was going to die.

Father was going to kill him.

“And lose two out of three heirs in one week?” Grandfather shouted, louder than Zuko had ever heard him shout, “you go too far, child!”

“Then what-”

“You are correct that Iroh should not take the crown. But if you believe I will bestow the responsibility on you, you are sorely mistaken! Zuko will be Crown Prince. I hereby remove you from the line of succession, Ozai. Zuko will take the crown, and his children will take it after him.”

There was absolute silence in the throne room.

Azula’s grip on his wrist slackened.

Zuko’s head swam.

“No,” Azula hissed, “no way.”

“Father!” Father protested, “You cannot mean to-”

“That an eleven-year-old boy is more ready than you will ever be to accept this power should shame you to your core,” Grandfather snarled. “You will never be Fire Lord. You will never sit this throne. You will never wear this headpiece or light these flames. You are lucky I do not see fit to banish you from our shores for this attempt to usurp your brother’s position.”

“I-”

“I will have silence!” Grandfather shouted, flames spurting up again, almost to the ceiling. “Get out.”

Father stood, hands shaking with rage so clearly that Zuko could see it from the other side of the room, turned on his heel, and left without another word.

Azula stared down at him, shock painted clear on her face.

“You’re gonna be the worst Fire Lord in history,” she hissed, stomping down sharply on his fingers.

Zuko slapped a hand over his mouth to keep in the instinctive howl of pain, looking up at his little sister with horror-struck eyes.

“He can’t mean it,” he whispered back, once he had air in his lungs again, “he can’t mean to skip over Father.”

“Shut up,” Azula snapped, “you’re so stupid.”

Zuko didn’t respond. He’d never had much luck fighting her on that.

Zuko clambered into bed without changing his clothes and squeezed his eyes closed, trying not to cry. Only babies cried. But he couldn’t stop a couple of tears leaking out at the thought of Father’s rage.

Father would be so angry.

And Father always came to his room when he was angry.

This time, it was even Zuko’s fault.

Zuko was so tense he was shaking when his bedroom door opened.

He bit down hard on his lip, curling up into a tighter ball for a moment, before getting out of bed.

It was always worse if he made Father get him up. Father always yanked him out of bed by the hair, or burned fingerprints into his arms. It was easier to stand up on his own.

The door closed behind Father, plunging them into semidarkness, lit only by the candles on the walls.

“Fire Lord Azulon has decreed that you will be the Crown Prince.”

Zuko stared at the ground, hardly daring to breathe.

“You have done nothing, your entire, miserable life, but bring shame on this family. You are a pathetic bender. You are a stupid, cowardly, weak little boy. And yet, your Fire Lord has seen fit to elevate you in the line of succession.”

Zuko flinched a little with each condemnation.

“I’m sorry, Father,” he whispered.

“What use is sorry?” Father spat. “You failed to demonstrate a beginner kata when you were not even invited to do so. You spoke to your Fire Lord without permission or leave. You stammered and quaked and sniveled in your mother’s arms. You are a waste of my blood.”

“I… yes, sir.”

“You will be the most pathetic Fire Lord this nation has ever seen.”

“G-grandfather… he must have a reason… maybe he thinks I can do it?” Zuko shuddered as his father closed the small gap between them and towered over him.

“Fire Lord Azulon is an old man. You will never be good enough.”

Zuko swallowed hard, trying desperately not to cry.

“I’ll prove it, Father,” he whispered, “I’ll be strong. I’ll do whatever Fire Lord Azulon requires of me. I’ll… I’ll be good.”

“You’re good for nothing but warming the generals’ beds,” Father spat. Zuko frowned down at the floor, no idea what that meant. “He chose you out of pity, because he hopes to mold you into his bootlicking puppet. He sees how weak you are, and he will use it. A little boy at his right hand, stammering at nobles and barely able to light a spark.”

“I… I want to be good, Father, I do, I…” The first tear broke the tight hold Zuko was trying to keep on his emotions, and Father sneered down at him.

“I don’t know why Agni cursed me with a child like you as my firstborn,” he hissed, and Zuko panted out a hurt breath, “but you will learn. You will be nothing but respectful, and strong, and silent, around the Fire Lord. Do you understand me, boy?”

“Y-yes, sir,” Zuko whimpered, wiping the tears away with the back of his wrist.

Father snarled, an ugly, vicious expression creasing his face. Zuko’s heart sank. That expression was the one that usually appeared right before words turned to pain.

“Kneel,” Father snapped. Zuko dropped to his knees, trembling, knowing how much worse it always was if he didn’t obey instantly. Flashes of bruises and burns and harsh words flitted across his mind, never quite settling.

Father closed the gap between them, and reached down to cup Zuko’s cheek.

For a moment, Zuko had a wild, stupid thought that the pain wouldn’t come. That Father was going to embrace him, or say something calming and encouraging, or just let him lean his face into the warm, solid hand.

But his expression didn’t change, and Zuko shoved the hope away. He leaned into the hand anyway. Father never touched him. He was afraid. He would take what little was offered.

His hand closed on Zuko’s jaw. It was not the rough, punishing, bruising grab he sometimes used. It was steady. Almost gentle. But Zuko could no longer move his head.

“I… Father?” Zuko whispered, confusion and terror warring in his chest.

“You cry,” Father said. “You apologize. You tremble. What will the ministers do when they see you flinch? What will the generals whisper? Do you want your people to hang your portrait on the hearth and pity you as they plan their coup?”

“N-no?”

“You must not allow them to pity you, boy. You must appear strong and courageous to our citizens.”

“I… I can be strong. I’ll-”

Father looked down at Zuko with more contempt than he’d ever seen in his face before. It hurt worse than the tightening grip on his jaw. “You will learn in a way words can never teach. You will learn what it means to be feared. Let me teach you a lesson no tutor will ever impart. Be silent. Do not make a sound.”

Zuko swallowed hard, and then, there was pain.

He’d been burned before. Hundreds of times. His shoulders and arms and back and legs were scattered with little burn scars. From himself, from his tutors, from Azula, from Father.

But this was something else entirely.

His father’s hand caught fire, engulfing the left side of his face in searing, scorching heat.

He smacked his arm over his mouth, bruised fingers getting caught in the flames, biting deep into his forearm, to stop himself from screaming.

He had never felt pain like that before.

The fire burned through his face, and he could feel blisters forming and popping, could feel the flame deep in the back of his eye.

Then Father’s hand was gone, taking a slough of skin with it, and Zuko slumped down on the ground, blood filling his mouth from biting through his arm.

“Do not shame me, Zuko,” Father whispered, sounding like he came from the end of a long tunnel.

Zuko couldn’t see, couldn’t hear properly, couldn’t breathe through the stench of charred meat. He gagged, and his face burned.

“You will stay here, in silence, for ten minutes. Then you will scream, as loud as you can, until the guards come. Tell them that masked men came in through the window and burned you while you slept. You fought them off. Do you understand me, boy?”

Zuko’s whole body shook with pain.

He nodded, whimpering like a fawn-puppy when the movement tugged at the ruined side of his face.

“If you tell anyone about this. Anyone. Your mother. Your pathetic uncle. Your sister. I will burn the other half of your face.”

Zuko nodded again, trying to breathe past the pain and the terror and the blood in his mouth.

“Wear this scar and endure,” Father whispered, bending down close to Zuko, “show them you will not be pitied. Pretend that you’re not a coward. Pretend you’re not a pathetic, weak little failure. Or you will answer to me.”

Zuko groaned, biting harder on his skin, screams building in his throat.

Then Father was gone, and only the agony and the taste of fear remained.

It took six weeks for the healers to allow him out of the infirmary. He spent most of that time in fever-induced delirium, dreaming of dragons and crumbling pillars and burning turtleducks and screaming and the impact of father’s hand.

Mom was allowed into the room for fifteen minutes, twice a day. He clutched at her hand, and she prayed over him.

Father came too, sometimes. He loomed over Zuko’s bed, silent and tall, and Zuko trembled, every muscle screaming to run, to hide, to curl up into a tiny ball and never be looked at with those burning gold eyes again.

Azula left little burns on his forearms, and whispered about Fire Lord Azulon reconsidering his position.

And the endless parade of healers debrided his burn, lanced pus-filled pockets of infection, and cleaned the wound faithfully, no matter how he cried.

Fire Lord Azulon didn’t come to see him once.

Zuko pulled on his shoes, fighting the remnants of dizziness. He was allowed to leave. He’d been given a long list of strict instructions, which included spending nights in the infirmary and having a healer check on him every hour, and not being allowed to train. The bandages were thick around his head. But he was allowed to leave.

And the Fire Lord had summoned him.

Mom didn’t come down to escort him to the throne room, so Zuko trudged over alone, followed by his new guards.

The man and the woman hadn’t spoken a single word to him yet, but they’d been positioned just inside his sickroom door the whole time he’d been in bed.

He’d learned to ignore them.

He got a little dizzy again as he put a hand out to open the throne room doors, and his guards dodged around to open them for him. 

His single eye didn’t allow him to see much past the wall of flames in front of the throne, but he saw the shadowy outline of his grandfather sitting there.

Zuko approached down the aisle, fists clenched.

He would be strong.

He would be respectful.

And he would take whatever criticism the Fire Lord had, any decision the Fire Lord made. After all. He’d allowed an assassin to burn him. That was the story. 

Zuko knelt down, stretching out his spine until it clicked, hands palm up on the floor on either side of his head.

The burns on his fingers had healed much better than his face. The fractures, too. The deep bite mark he’d left on his forearm had somehow been the hardest to explain away.

He kept his kowtow for a count of five before sitting up on his heels. He didn’t know what was appropriate anymore. Five seconds was standard for the royal family, except for the Crown Prince, who should hold for three, and the Fire Lord’s wife, who wasn’t supposed to bow at all.

“Zuko,” Fire Lord Azulon said from behind the flames, “I trust you are feeling better?”

“Yes, sir,” Zuko said, voice rough from smoke inhalation and shaking with nerves.

He had to be strong.

He had to obey.

“Good. You were very brave, to fight off your attackers. I’m proud of you.”

Zuko’s mouth fell open for a second before he snapped it shut.

No one had… ever said they were proud of him. He never did anything to be proud of.

And he hadn’t done what the Fire Lord thought.

He’d been on his knees before his father, terrified out of his mind. He hadn’t fought anyone.

“Yes, sir,” he managed to squeak out.

“Come here, my boy.”

A gap appeared in the wall of flames, and Zuko’s heart leapt in terror.

He hadn’t been near fire since the one his father shoved into his face. Slowly, trying desperately to contain the shaking in his hands, he stood up and made his way up to the throne.

At his moment of hesitation, Fire Lord Azulon widened the gap, and Zuko shoved himself through the wall.

“There is no shame in fear,” the Fire Lord said quietly. “You were badly burned. The healers told me there was a high chance you could die. I imagine you will be afraid for a while. But you must master your fear, Zuko.”

“Yes, sir,” Zuko whispered.

He’d never stood so close to his grandfather. Never spoken to him without the wall of flame between them.

The man was older, and smaller, than he looked from Zuko’s usual vantage point. His long hair was pale grey, his face deeply lined, and his thin fingers had swollen, knobby joints.

“Do you know any other words?” Fire Lord Azulon raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, sir,” Zuko bit his lip, “I mean… sorry. Sir.”

The Fire Lord’s mouth twitched in what might have turned into a smile on another man.

“Good. A Fire Lord must speak. On behalf of his family, his nation, and the world. You’ll learn.”

Zuko nodded, clutching his trembling hands together behind his back.

“You’ve been told, I assume? That your place in the royal family has been adjusted?”

“I… yes, sir. Father told me you… that you intend for me to be the c-crown prince.”

“Precisely. Although Iroh would be a more traditional direct heir, he is in mourning. I expect that he will never fully recover, child. His loss is immeasurable, and comes in a line of great losses.”

Zuko felt tears welling in his eyes, and stared at the shiny marble floor.

Fire Lord Azulon sighed.

“The loss of Prince Lu Ten will be felt by the entire Fire Nation. But, other than Iroh, I believe none will feel it quite as strongly as you and I. I understand that he was very fond of you.”

Zuko choked, throat tight, and did his very, very best not to cry.

Lu Ten had been his favorite person in the world. Maybe even more than Mom. Lu Ten taught him swords, and persuaded Father to let him go to Master Piandao, and fed the turtleducks with him, and brought him little presents, and let him ride on his shoulders, and took him on adventures. Lu Ten was his hero. Lu Ten was dead.

“I understand,” Fire Lord Azulon said softly. “You may never quite feel the same again, my boy. You will feel his loss for the rest of your life. But it will get easier. He lives on in the spirit world, watching over his little cousin. I know he loved you dearly.”

Zuko wrapped his arms around his chest, determined not to let the sob building in his chest come out of his mouth.

He could not cry in front of the Fire Lord.

“But. We must face reality. Lu Ten has left our world. Iroh may never fully recover. Your father is not fit to rule. So, we shall have you.”

Zuko’s head whipped up.

“Not fit to rule, sir?” He said, almost without thinking, “I thought you were just angry he wanted to overtake Uncle.”

“Ah. You were listening, then? I thought I heard you behind the curtain. Your sister, also?”

Zuko flushed red and nodded slowly, all his muscles tensing in anticipation of punishment.

“Children are such curious creatures,” the Fire Lord rolled his eyes. “Yes, Zuko, your father is unfit. He would be a cruel and merciless ruler. I hope that this war will come to an end within your lifetime. It certainly will not do so under Ozai.”

Zuko stared up at him.

“End the war?” He whispered.

“Of course. Iroh’s setback in Ba Sing Se is a blow. But there aren’t enough strongholds in the Earth Kingdom for their rebel forces to continue to hold for long. It won’t be long before they fall. Then the Northern Water Tribe will starve itself without Earth Kingdom trade. And then we will need a ruler who can hold three kingdoms. War is a very different game from governance, child. I hope that you will have the wisdom and strength to rule justly and kindly over the world.”

“I… I’ll do my best, sir, if you ask it of me,” Zuko said shakily.

“I know you will.”

Zuko’s ceremonial crowning was performed in the Sage’s catacombs, as was tradition. Only Fire Lord Azulon attended, which was not tradition at all.

General Iroh returned to the palace two weeks after Zuko was given his title. He trudged into the throne room unannounced, head bowed and looking twenty years older than he had when he’d last stood before the Fire Lord, barely two years ago.

Zuko sprang up from his chair next to the Fire Lord’s own, and waited for his grandfather to part the flames.

As soon as a gap appeared, he broke through.

He was wrapped around Uncle before the man had even bowed to the Fire Lord, legs wrapped around his middle and arms around his neck, face buried under his chin.

“Zuko,” Uncle whispered, “I missed you so much, my nephew.”

And that was all it took to force a sob from Zuko’s chest.

The Fire Lord clicked his fingers sharply, and the servants left, leaving behind a solitary guard at the door.

The flames before the throne parted once more, and the Fire Lord approached. One hand, wrinkled with age and spotted by Agni’s rays, closed around the back of Zuko’s neck, cupping his head gently. The other rested on Iroh’s shoulder.

“Welcome home, my son,” he said quietly. “A man needs his rest.”

Father came to his room every night.

No matter how good he’d been during the day. No matter how quietly he’d sat in every meeting, no matter how respectful he was to the Fire Lord, no matter how well he did his katas, Father still came.

The little burns on his arms were easily explained away. The accidents of an over-eager child, not the punishment of a stupid boy.

The bruises from falling, not from hard slaps and punches and kicks.

The dark bags under his unburned eye from reading his scrolls too late, not from being dragged out of bed by the hair and forced to listen to hours of whispered ranting.

The limp from overexerting himself in training, not from the force Father used.

Grandfather didn’t ask.

Uncle didn’t ask.

Mother only saw him once a week now.

Zuko sobbed into his pillow, and wished he weren’t the Crown Prince.

Father was no longer a prince, and had no military experience. So Zuko couldn’t understand why he was always at the war meetings.

Grandfather tolerated his contributions.

Grandfather waved him silent and asked for Zuko’s thoughts, and Zuko stuttered and stammered through arguments about crop rotation and salted earth policies and sacrifices of whole divisions of young, loyal fire nation soldiers.

Father clenched his fists and stared at him, promising retribution, and Zuko couldn’t choose between the fear of disappointing the Fire Lord and the terror of what Father would do to punish him once they were alone.

So he stayed tremblingly silent unless Grandfather asked him to speak, and then he spoke only to Grandfather, despite their audience.

Grandfather listened to him. Sometimes. Sometimes, Grandfather argued back, inviting him to debate in front of the generals. Sometimes, Zuko’s arguments were dismissed, and Grandfather explained later how he’d misunderstood, or how he could have expressed himself better. Sometimes, Zuko’s arguments changed the Fire Lord’s mind.

The generals were not permitted to debate their Fire Lord. That was a role granted only to the crown prince.

Ozai was not a prince or a general.

His attempts at debate were met with a cold, dismissive glance, before Grandfather turned back to Zuko.

Zuko could feel phantom handprint burns on his shoulders and hips and face.

Uncle taught him pai sho in the turtleduck gardens.

Uncle pushed endless cups of tea into his hands, and offered endless advice.

Some of his advice was more useful than the rest.

“Your sister is simply grieving, Prince Zuko. I’m certain she didn’t mean to burn your theater scrolls,” was not helpful.

“Your argument regarding the economic contributions of colony steel forging was excellent, Prince Zuko. Perhaps we should work on a more confident delivery?” was more helpful.

“That’s a nasty burn, Prince Zuko, perhaps we should practice the form so you are less likely to burn the back of your neck on the third twist?” was not helpful.

“Fire Lord Azulon requested that I assess your instructors, to ensure they are teaching you well. I certainly hope none of them subscribe to more barbaric methods of instruction,” was so helpful Zuko almost cried.

“Just ignore your father, Prince Zuko. He is simply jealous,” was not helpful at all.

Zuko’s new instructors didn’t burn or hit or yell when he screwed up, and his learning accelerated exponentially.

When he wasn’t terrified of his firebending instructor forcing him to hold his hands in ice water until they were numb, his flames grew hotter and more precise and more controlled.

When he wasn’t flinching away from his firebending instructor every time he missed a step, his footwork grew fluid and graceful, and his bending felt more and more like an extension of his body, like his swords did.

When he was allowed to write with his left hand, instead of having it strapped to the desk and smacked if he used it to even touch the quill, his calligraphy turned from blotchy messes to elegant scrawl.

When he was allowed to sit in the gardens and read his history books with no one standing behind him holding a long, thin stick, he got so absorbed in his lessons that he accidentally missed meals, and his personal attendants brought him bao and rice to eat with the turtleducks.

When Grandfather didn’t seem to care about comparing him to Azula, he mastered kata after kata. When Father wasn’t allowed to watch his examinations, he was granted his Master status three months before his sister. His flames burned white where hers were blue. The Sages were unable to determine which color was best when Ozai asked, even when his own yellow flames threatened the library.

There was time allotted on Zuko’s schedule for play, and he had no idea what to do with it.

Zuko’s days were long. But they were peaceful.

Zuko’s nights left deeper and deeper imprints in the bite mark on his forearm.

Fire Lord Azulon died two weeks before Zuko’s fifteenth birthday.

He became Fire Lord after the ten-day mourning period, changing his white robes for heavy, deep red and black.

Zuko, with his plentiful scars concealed, except for the lesson imprinted on his face, became the youngest Fire Lord in history.

Uncle Iroh stood behind him as his advisor.

He lifted the time limits imposed on his mother’s visits.

He tried to tell the guards who stood outside his bedroom that he didn’t want his father to be allowed in.

It was the closest he’d ever come to telling.

But Father came anyway.

Father used so much more force on the Fire Lord than he had on the Crown Prince.

Zuko hadn’t known it could be more painful than the first few times. But Father managed.

He staggered out of his bedchambers on his first full day as Fire Lord with streaky burns down his back and thighs and sticky blood between his legs that he couldn’t get to stop.

Uncle was good at advice. But he wasn’t as helpful as Zuko wished he was.

Zuko wished that Uncle would intercede on his behalf, when the generals tried to overrule his decisions at war councils.

Zuko wished that Uncle would level that same cold glare as Grandfather had when Father scoffed at his suggestions.

Zuko wished Uncle would back him up, when Father steamrolled him.

But Uncle didn’t.

And Zuko felt very alone.

Mother didn’t seem to have much time, even though she was allowed to see him for as long as she liked, now.

He waited at their spot by the turtleduck pond every day.

She came at the weekly time she’d always been allowed to see him, and stayed for twenty minutes.

Five minutes longer than she’d been allowed before.

Zuko sat alone with the turtleducks for as long as his responsibilities allowed.

The assassination attempts started in earnest when Zuko had been Fire Lord for two months.

Men stormed his bedroom minutes after his father left for the night, when he was at his weakest.

Poisonous plants and spices made their way into his food.

A routine inspection of new naval officers was disrupted by a massive explosion, which Zuko barely managed to suck the heat from before he was burned to a crisp. The blast still sent him flying into the wall.

More men stormed his bedroom.

Zuko hired new guards.

Zuko took his work down to the kitchens and set up a new desk there, so he could watch his food being prepared and take it straight from the chef.

Zuko stopped leaving the palace without Uncle.

Father got angrier. Zuko’s burns and bruises got worse. Father’s hissed insults pierced his soul. Father was rougher, and meaner, and held his face down harder on the mattress.

The whispers started.

For the first few months of Fire Lord Zuko’s reign, the people had been cautiously optimistic for their young Lord’s prospects.

After all, they said, the boy had General Iroh as his primary advisor.

After all, they said, Fire Lord Azulon chose him, above two older and more experienced heirs.

After all, they said, the boy’s fire was almost white it burned so hot, when he lit the ceremonial pyre at his coronation.

After all, they said, perhaps his youth would mean he would care, even a little, about sending boys and girls barely older than himself to the front lines.

But by the summer solstice, there were other whispers, too.

The boy lord was weak.

The boy lord stuttered over his words.

The boy lord wasn’t capable of making decisive decisions.

The boy lord dithered and contemplated while the Earth Kingdom still opposed them and crushed their hands and crushed their soldiers by the hundreds and crushed and crushed and crushed.

The boy lord’s face was scarred. Only those who Agni had forsaken could scar like that.

The boy lord limped, sometimes. The boy lord staggered down corridors through the palace, half asleep, muttering pleas until his guards guided him back to his rooms.

The boy lord burned himself. A sign of a weak bender, despite the scorching heat of his flames.

Zuko reassigned all soldiers who hadn’t reached the age of nineteen to non-combat roles, far from the front lines.

The generals spat arguments at him in a way they would never have done to Fire Lord Azulon. Father smirked, and called him a coward. Uncle sipped his tea and let him handle the meeting alone.

Zuko ordered it anyway, and the children withdrew from the battle.

The Fire Nation lost control of three Earth Nation towns and a bridge across an important river. And thousands of young soldiers didn’t die.

The Fire Nation as a whole was happy that their children weren’t being sent into battle fields by the hundreds just to lead Earth Benders into traps.

The generals were so angry that Zuko’s wall of flames rose to the ceiling to protect him, roaring loud enough that Zuko could pretend they weren’t there.

Father broke three fingers, one for each colony he had childishly discarded. 

Fire Lord Zuko’s sixteenth birthday preparations were well underway when Zhao sent the first report of an Avatar sighting.

Zuko ran down corridors to find Uncle, uncaring of the guards who had to jog behind him or the maids who stared at him as he hiked up his robes and flashed too-skinny, bruised, scarred legs.

“Uncle! The Avatar has returned!” He burst into General Iroh’s chambers and immediately slammed his mouth shut.

Uncle was meditating at the little shrine he’d erected for Lu Ten.

Zuko whispered an apology and knelt beside him, giving his cousin a few long minutes of respect before Uncle turned to him.

“You were saying, Fire Lord?”

“I’m sorry, General Iroh,” Zuko repeated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I had no intention of interrupting your prayers.”

“An old man needs distraction, on occasion,” Uncle inclined his head to the scroll clutched in Zuko’s hand.

“Zhao says the Avatar’s been seen, near Kyoshi Island. Apparently, he’s a young Airbender, traveling with two teenagers from the Southern Water Tribes.”

“The Avatar hasn’t been seen in a hundred years,” Uncle silently beckoned for the scroll, and Zuko handed it to him.

“Isn’t it amazing?” Zuko gushed, eye bright with wonder, “all those spirit tales, and he’s actually real! We have to bring him to the palace! We have to show him all the things we’ve accomplished, and maybe he’ll even have advice on how to get the Earth Kingdom to surrender, so we can stop the war!”

“Nephew, I doubt very much that the last Airbender will have any interest in helping you finish the war,” Uncle said, almost sharply, and Zuko drew back, stung.

“But… his job is to create balance? Between all peoples. He’ll have to see that the most balanced way of life is a world order, with laws and progress and proper justice systems and systems to make sure everyone has enough to survive! He wouldn’t possibly think that the Earth Kingdom’s stubbornness is good for balance.”

“We decimated his culture, Fire Lord Zuko,” Uncle said, his voice colder than Zuko had ever heard it before, “we killed his people. Men, women and children, down to the last. I doubt very much that an Airbender Avatar will ever concede to your argument, no matter how much we practice your speech.”

Zuko flushed, heart sinking.

He was a terrible public speaker, and he knew it. He always lost the thread, or gave in to his stutter, or stood wrong.

Uncle had been helping him for years, and he was much better. But not good enough.

He was never good enough, not even for Uncle.

“But… but we have to try,” he said, quietly. “I’m sure he’ll understand, if we just explain-”

“Explain what, Fire Lord?” Uncle’s lip twitched in disgust, or anger, or something Zuko couldn’t name, but saw often enough on his father’s face to flinch, “that the march of civilization is a boon to the people of the whole world?”

“I… y-yes?” Zuko whispered, clutching his hands together in his lap. “I-I j-just think…”

Uncle sighed, in that way he did when Zuko lost his words, and Zuko bit his lip harshly.

“He will be heading north,” Uncle said flatly, “presumably to the Northern Water Tribe. If you wish to make diplomatic contact, I suggest you write a letter, and we have a hawk attempt to locate him.”

Zuko nodded.

Letters were good.

His words always came better with a quill than when he spoke.

The Fire Lord was a symbol. The Fire Lord wasn’t a person, wasn’t a person who could be hurt.

Zuko was the worst Fire Lord in the nation’s history.

Zuko hurt all the time.

Zuko’s fingertips burned through his sheets, and Father laughed.

Honored Avatar,

I write to you as the sovereign and steward of the Fire Nation. It has come to my attention that the Avatar has returned to the world, having been lost for a century. I extend my welcome, my admiration, and my hope that you will accept peaceful contact with the Fire Nation’s leadership.

Also, you are a figure of legend! I’ve eagerly studied the lives of your past incarnations, and the guidance and wisdom of the Avatar have shaped the world for generations. I trust that you, like them, value peace, order, and the long-term flourishing of humanity above all else.

The Fire Nation has spent the last hundred years attempting to build a new world, a more balanced, equal, ambitious world. We have brought technology, education, medicine, and industry to regions long neglected by their own governments. We have united divided peoples under one banner, and in doing so, we have created a shared culture of strength and efficiency.

But we’ve also faced resistance from those who do not understand, and the burden of leadership is heavy. Please accept my invitation to visit the Caldera, where you will be welcomed as an honored guest, so that we may peacefully discuss potential pathways to bring balance and progress to the world.

Yours faithfully, 

Fire Lord Zuko, son of Ursa, Grandson of Azulon, Great-grandson of Sozin and Avatar Roku

The Palace

Caldera

Fire Nation

Dear Loser Lord,

With all due respect, fuck off.

Sokka

I’m not telling any ashmakers where we are

It wasn’t that Zuko had been expecting an overwhelmingly positive response from the Avatar. But it still stung at something deep in his heart.

Even the Avatar, whom he’d read literally every scroll about, whom he’d even, shamefully, prayed to a few times, when he was hurting too badly to form coherent thought, dismissed him.

This Sokka, the last Airbender, must have a good reason to reject his offer of diplomacy. Maybe he should have let Uncle read his letter before he sent it.

Maybe he’d come across as too young, or too stupid, or weak, or pathetic, or too… anything. Zuko was always too much or not enough.

But… Zuko had tried. He’d written close to twenty drafts of the letter. He’d taken out long paragraphs explaining all the research he’d done as a child, enamored by the idea of reincarnation and balance and helping the world.

He’d taken out and added back and taken out again dozens of apologies for what happened to the Air Nomads.

He’d never been able to find a good justification for killing the non-combatants. Even though the Air Nation army had been terrifyingly formidable, that wasn’t a good reason to kill the children.

Uncle Iroh had been to a temple. He’d told Zuko about the hundreds of skeletons, almost all children, some infants, all cowering in rooms filled with cribs and disintegrating toys.

That wasn’t right.

Zuko had worked hard, ever since he’d been made Crown Prince, to stop similar plans for the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes. Generals suggested, over and over, taking whole towns and destroying their crops and killing every last person living there.

Zuko had persuaded Grandfather several dozen times, to leave small villages and towns alive. It was better, he always argued, to help them see the glory of the Fire Nation for themselves, rather than kill them all. What was the point of conquering if you ruled over ashes?

And now he was Fire Lord, barely a handful of civilians had been killed this year, as far as his Generals reported.

It was a significant change in policy.

Father had fought him every step of the way, in the council and late at night.

Zuko had almost given in, like he’d given in on so many things.

But he’d stood firm.

It was now a crime punishable by imprisonment to harm a non-combatant in battle. And a crime punishable by death to harm a child.

Zuko had even funded research, and the healers now had ways to prove paternity. The mothers of war children received the father’s full salary ten times over in compensation, taken directly from the man himself.

There had only been eight war children born since Zuko became Fire Lord, compared to over thirty the year before.

He had paid for all eight to attend the Royal Academy, should they choose to do so. 

He’d closed prisoner of war camps and moved prisoners into normal prisons, with proper meals and beds and exercise.

But he could understand why the Air Nomad wouldn’t care about any of that. After all, his people had been eliminated long before Zuko had even been born.

But to reject his diplomatic invitation so blatantly?

It was humiliating.

Father made it worse that night, mocking his tears as he was yanked around by the fist in his hair.

Azula got hold of the letter, somehow, and she laughed too.

The shame rotted in his stomach.

Admiral Zhao,

Your updated rank pins are enclosed, reflecting your promotion.

Your current orders are revoked.

Your new orders are to tail the Avatar. Do not engage, and do your best to avoid them discovering that you are following them.

Repeat, do not engage.

Yours faithfully, 

Fire Lord Zuko, son of Ursa, Grandson of Azulon, Great-grandson of Sozin and Avatar Roku

The Palace

Caldera

Fire Nation

Loser Lord,

We set fire to your stupid stalker’s boats.

Stop following us.

Your cronies are no match for the Avatar.

Sokka

The burns always hurt worse on top of old ones. Father hardly ever burned his face. But Zuko had cried, real tears of sorrow and agony, at a particularly violent moment that tore something deep inside him. So his cheek burned.

The war council was in uproar.

The Avatar was gallivanting around the Earth Kingdom and the Northern Water Tribes, charting what seemed to be a random course through the world.

He left a trail of destruction in his wake.

A prison ship revolt that left six loyal soldiers drowned or irreparably injured from impact injuries.

An entire temple, a thousand years old and carved out of sacred ground, destroyed. Four Sages drowned in burning lava.

A dam blown up, destroying over a hundred homes and creating almost six hundred refugees with nowhere to go.

A troupe of soldiers’ attempts to reach their weapon manufacturer’s home thwarted. Zuko’s letters of apology to their families, with ten years of full pay as condolences, felt shallow and useless in the face of the soldiers’ deaths. They’d been far from the front lines. It was supposed to be good training, a chance to find their feet for a couple of years before heading into actual war. Zuko hadn’t been able to change the age of conscription yet, but he’d banned anyone under nineteen from actual battle.

And the Avatar had killed almost all of them.

Zuko ordered Zhao to retreat.

He heard the rib snap before he felt it.

He wouldn’t be able to breathe to firebend for days.

Six assassins came through his bedroom window, barely five minutes after Father left.

Zuko was defenseless.

Or he would have been, if his dual dao weren’t mounted right above his bed.

They were nice to look at when everything got too much and he had to spend half the night staring blankly at the wall, trying to breathe.

He woke the next day in the infirmary, his chest wrapped and the blood gone from his hair, burn paste covering half his body, and the healer kept sending him funny looks.

The healer didn’t say anything.

Zuko didn’t know if he wanted her to.

The whispers continued.

The boy lord survived dozens of assassinations.

The boy lord killed everyone who had ever broken into the palace.

The boy lord was vicious.

The boy lord was allowing the Avatar to run wild.

The boy lord refused to escalate attacks on the Earth Kingdom.

The boy lord refused to attack the Northern Water Tribe.

The boy lord was weak.

Father suggested that Azula should be sent to capture the Avatar, who must be declared an enemy of the Fire Nation.

Uncle raised an imperious eyebrow at his brother, and did not speak.

Zuko refused.

Precise, circular burns, perfectly spaced, dotted his spine.

Father suggested that Azula should be sent to capture the Avatar, who the Fire Sages reported had angered the spirit of knowledge so badly that his library was pulled back to the spirit world.

Uncle sighed, a deep, weary sound that made Zuko flinch at the threat of disappointment.

Zuko refused.

The punches to his stomach made it impossible to eat for almost a week.

Father suggested that Azula should be sent to capture the Avatar, who had deposed the Earth King in Ba Sing Se.

Uncle tapped his ever-present Pai Sho tile idly on the table instead of looking up at Zuko.

Zuko refused.

He had to have a servant bring a cushion for the throne.

Father suggested that Azula should be sent to capture the Avatar, who had been spotted in the Fire Nation itself.

Uncle sipped his tea, staring at the ceiling.

Zuko refused.

His torso was a mass of black and yellow and purple bruises. It hurt to breathe, and walk, and stand, and sit, and lie down.

Father suggested that Azula should be sent to capture the Avatar, who had been seen conversing with a water tribe chief, a bunch of swamp dwellers, and a small army of Earth Kingdom soldiers and civilians.

Uncle blinked at the generals as they shouted.

Zuko shook on the throne.

Zuko wanted to cry, wanted to scream, wanted to beg Uncle for help, wanted Father to stop shouting, please, please, just stop.

Zuko refused.

Father challenged him to an Agni Kai.

Uncle shook his head.

Ozai was not in the line of succession. He had no right to challenge Zuko.

Zuko refused.

The whispers came again.

The sun went out, and there was no fire.

The generals panicked.

Zuko breathed deeply and tried not to let his horror show as he tried and tried again to ignite his flame.

Ozai snuck up on him, in the dark, and the noise of the general’s shouting.

Ozai pulled him from the room, a hand over his mouth.

Zuko barely struggled.

He wasn’t allowed to struggle against his Father.

That impulse had been beaten out of him years ago.

The antechamber was usually filled with servants, waiting for their turn to perform some task in the council room.

It was empty.

Zuko didn’t think too hard about why it would be empty.

Zuko’s breath stuttered behind his Father’s heavy hand.

He landed hard when he was thrown to the ground.

The kick to the stomach didn’t shock him.

The hissed words about stupidity and weakness and complete lack of honor hurt no worse than they had every night for the last five years.

The kick to the head was a surprise.

The second kick in the same place was painful.

The third was the worst. He felt his nose shatter. He felt blood explode across his face.

Ozai ripped his hairpiece from his topknot.

Ozai bent over him and sliced through the hair with Zuko’s own knife, the one he kept strapped to his waist.

Ozai yanked his arms out of his robes, leaving him shivering in the cold of the dead sun in his cotton pants and wrap shirt.

Zuko stared at the ceiling, dazed and reeling.

And then Fire returned to the world.

He staggered to his feet, wreathing his hand in flame.

Ozai backed up, and for a moment, Zuko thought it was over.

That his father wouldn’t hurt him anymore.

Blood trickled into his eyes. Blood flowed freely from his nose. He wobbled on unsteady legs.

Ozai formed a familiar stance, and Zuko closed his eyes.

Centered his breath.

And remembered Uncle’s teachings.

He ran through the palace as fast as he could, staggering like a drunk on the marble floors.

Ozai had been catapulted back into the wall, but he was stirring.

The generals were still yelling in the council chambers.

He had to find the Avatar.

He had to warn the Avatar.

The Avatar wasn’t safe.

Zuko wasn’t safe.

The Fire Nation wasn’t safe.

Sokka stared around the council chamber, hidden behind a giant pillar.

Their informant had said the Fire Lord would be in here.

But there was just an old man sitting quietly at the head of the table, covering his eyes with a weary hand, and a bunch of army fanatics screaming at each other.

No one wore the black and red robes with the pointy shoulders the informant had described. No one with a fancy gold headpiece.

The Fire Lord wasn’t there.

His plan was dead in the water.

They had to leave.

Sokka ran headfirst into a boy covered in blood.

His golden eyes were blown wide with concussion, his face smothered in blood still flowing from his nose and a cut on his hairline.

His face was burned, horribly disfigured, his eye slitted closed, his ear shriveled, dark red skin leathery over half his face.

“Water tribe,” the boy whispered.

“Uh, yeah, buddy. Are you okay?”

Sokka slapped his own forehead. This kid was not okay. This kid was dressed in what looked like underclothes, his weirdly cut hair matted with blood.

Sokka looked closer.

This kid had layers and layers of bruises on his arms and neck, spreading under his sleeves and down his shirt.

This kid was breathing wrong, clutching at his side like his chest hurt.

This kid was about the furthest from okay.

Sokka grabbed his hand.

They ran.

Not everyone got out.

All the kids did.

Dad and Bato stayed behind, presumably to get captured.

Sokka should have thought through their retreat plans better.

How could he not have planned for retreat?

And now he had an unconscious fire nation boy, a jittering Avatar, a softly crying sister, and a group of half-strangers sitting on the saddle of a flying bison.

He kept one hand on the fire nation boy’s wrist, feeling his pulse flicker worryingly, and the other on Katara’s shoulder, rubbing soft circles and hoping she might realize there was a kid who could really, really use some magic glowy water right now.

Zuko woke up.

His head hurt.

He was lying on a soft blanket spread over a hard stone floor.

His chest hurt.

The sun was rising, like it should be. Except it was inside. Or he was outside. It was hard to tell. There was a ceiling. But no walls.

His whole body hurt.

But it hurt less than it often did, after a particularly harsh visit from Father.

He felt like he’d felt after a few weeks' rest in the infirmary, after his burn. Like everything ached, but he didn’t feel like he was actively on the edge of death anymore.

“Hi,” a voice came from just behind him.

With a roll he should have executed better, if his head wasn’t swimming, Zuko was on his feet, rooting himself for a fight but not lighting his hands.

The voice was soft, clearly trying not to spook him.

“Uh, yeah, so… I think I kidnapped you? I’m sorry,” the voice said. Zuko’s eyes finally managed to focus on a boy about his own age, wearing blue, his hair pulled up into a traditional warrior style.

Zuko felt an inexplicable spurt of jealousy from a wound he thought had healed years ago.

Fire Nation boys were supposed to transition from a phoenix tail to a top knot at eight. Father had deemed him too much of a baby to adopt the traditional style. Azula had tied her hair up for the first time at six. Zuko wasn’t allowed.

Grandfather said a Crown Prince couldn’t style his hair like a toddler. He’d summoned a servant and had Zuko’s hair brushed up into an adult’s style, even more grown up than Azula’s. And he’d put his hair up every day since. 

But the shame of not being allowed to acknowledge that he was growing in any way, not even in years, had stuck with him.

This boy was allowed to wear the warrior style of his nation. And Zuko’s hair was gone.

“Kidnapped me?” Zuko said slowly, blinking away the blurriness in his good eye.

“Yeah. You were all beat up, so I kinda just took you when we retreated.”

“You… you took me from the palace…”

Zuko looked around, and realized this was absolutely not the palace. It might not even be the Fire Nation. It was cold.

“You took me out of the Fire Nation?”

“Uh… yeah? Sorry. But you weren’t looking good, buddy. You were bleeding pretty bad, and you definitely got hit in the head.”

Zuko rubbed his temple.

“Kicked,” he said softly. “He kicked me in the face.”

The Water Tribe boy winced.

“My sister’s a decent healer,” he said after a moment. “She fixed up a lot of it. But concussions are tough, apparently. You should feel better tomorrow, though.”

“Your sister’s a healer?” Zuko said slowly. Hadn’t Zhao mentioned two Water Tribe children traveling with the Avatar? Hadn’t Zhao mentioned that none of the group seemed to have any injuries, not even the little scratches and bruises that inevitably came from a nomadic lifestyle? “You’re… you’re with the Avatar?”

The hope hadn’t died, despite the sporadic and rude replies to his letters, that the Avatar would join him on the Fire Nation’s mission to bring balance to the world.

“Yeah,” the boy shrugged, like it was no big deal.

“The Avatar,” Zuko whispered, wonderingly.

“Maybe you should sit back down?” The boy suggested. “You’re looking a little woozy there.”

Zuko slumped back onto the bedroll.

He felt awful.

“My name’s Sokka,” the boy said as he sat down next to him.

Zuko whipped his head up, and his vision swam.

“You’re the Avatar? I thought he was an Airbender?”

“No!” Sokka denied incredulously, “I’m not even a bender!”

Zuko stared.

Sokka was the one who’d answered his letters. Who’d rebuffed every offer of a diplomatic meeting or congress.

Sokka was the one who’d told him to fuck off.

He couldn’t decide if it was better or worse. If being told to fuck off by the Avatar was more humiliating and shameful and painful to the soft part of his heart, or if it was worse that the task had been delegated.

But he was friendly. He seemed kind enough. Honest, unlike the generals with their confusing words and their blank expressions.

“We’ve communicated before,” he said slowly. “Zuko.”

He put his arm out for the traditional Water Tribe clasp, and Sokka mirrored him.

Then he snatched his hand away.

“Zuko? As in… the Fire Lord?”

Zuko looked down at his stained underclothes.

“Father can’t usurp me legally,” he said quietly, “he’s not in the line of succession and I refused his Agni Kai. So yes. I should still be the Fire Lord.”

“B-but! What? You can’t be the Fire Lord! You’re just a kid!”

Zuko tilted his head at the other boy.

“I was crowned at fourteen,” he said calmly, trying not to think about how hard it had been.

Sokka just stared at him.

“How did you get all those bruises then?” He demanded, “Who beat up the Fire Lord before we could get to him?”

Sokka blushed slightly at Zuko’s crestfallen face.

“You weren’t coming on a diplomatic mission, then,” he said quietly. “Father was right.”

“I dunno what your Dad said, or why the fuck you’re Fire Lord if he’s still around, but no. My Dad and I led an invasion.”

Zuko sighed.

Maybe he should have sent Azula to capture the Avatar.

Night fell, and no one came to hurt him.

The other kids were weird.

No one seemed to quite believe he was the Fire Lord.

He could see their point. One of the Earth Kingdom boys had lent him some clothes, but they were a bit large on him, and he didn’t know if he loved the dark greens and browns.

Katara had smoothed out his haircut. He’d managed not to cry while her fingers were in his hair, but he’d gone off alone afterwards.

It was a mark of disgrace, to have been shorn. A mark of dishonor.

It went perfectly with the scar on his face.

Katara had managed to heal his broken nose, but she seemed hesitant to fix him up completely, which… he understood that, too. They clearly thought of him as the enemy.

They’d been breaking into his home to murder him, after all.

So he looked like a beaten Earth Kingdom vagrant, and not at all like the Fire Lord should.

He was used to not looking like the Fire Lord should.

They shared their meals with him. The food wasn’t poisoned. The food wasn’t dependent on his performance.

He met the Avatar.

The boy didn’t seem to appreciate Zuko’s kowtow of apology for the Fire Nation’s overreach in killing the non-combatants of his nation.

The boy did seem to appreciate how much Zuko knew about his past lives.

And Zuko knew a lot. There were stories and plays and journals, hidden in the parts of the palace library you could only get to if you were the Crown Prince or the Fire Lord, and you were really nice to the Sage.

He’d devoured every single one. It’d been one of the first things he’d done, once he could read again after his eye adjusted.

Those, and the ones about dragons, and water spirits.

He’d looked, once, to see if there were any books on making stutters go away, or making Father’s night time visits less agonizing. But the only book he’d found told him to use oil, and Father had bounced his head against the wall until he stopped talking for suggesting it. There were no books for Fire Lords on stuttering.

So Zuko spun tales of the Avatar’s past lives to an enraptured audience of one.

He wished he’d been able to do this half a year ago. He wished the Avatar had come to the palace for a meeting, instead of at the head of an invasion force. He wished the Avatar didn’t want him dead.

There were whispers at the Air Temple, too.

They whispered, and Zuko pretended not to hear, and pretended it didn’t hurt.

The biggest question seemed to be whether they should kill him.

Katara seemed to think it would end the war.

Sokka seemed to think he must be hiding superpowers, if he’d managed to persuade the old Fire Lord to make him first in line, skipping his father in the process.

Toph seemed to think his heart was out of whack. He could feel the arrhythmia sometimes, like lightning was still coursing through his veins.

Aang, at least, didn’t want to kill him.

“He thinks the Fire Nation is doing the world some kind of favor!” Katara spat, “he’s crazy!”

Zuko curled up tighter in his ball, and tried to focus on the fact that his nights brought no new horrors.

“I read that first letter you sent,” Sokka thumped down next to him by the cook fire he was using to heat breakfast. “I want to know why you think the Fire Nation is bringing balance.”

Zuko was silent for a long moment.

“I want to know why you told me to fuck off,” he said quietly.

Sokka groaned, flopping down onto his back and flinging an arm across his face.

“Buddy. I thought you were the Fire Lord.”

“I am the Fire Lord,” Zuko pointed out.

Sokka groaned again.

“Yeah. I didn’t know the Fire Lord was an awkward kid my age, though, did I? The Fire Lord is just… this evil figure, destroying everything in his way. He doesn’t let my little sister brush his hair or make animal shapes in the fire for the kids.”

“I… I’m always in charge of making the d-dragon at the Fire Festival,” Zuko said hesitantly, “that’s like… my main job that day.”

Sokka groaned again.

“Right,” he mumbled. “If I’d known you were… you, I might have responded differently. I’m… I’m sorry.”

Zuko nodded.

“The Fire Nation has the lowest rate of disease and famine in the world,” he said quietly. “We provide free education to every child, including apprenticeship stipends. In the Earth Kingdom, only nobles are allowed to learn to read. In the Northern Water Tribe, women aren’t permitted to speak at council, or own property, or even keep any money they’re allowed to earn. The Air Nomads separated children from their parents at birth. They were kept sequestered in orphanages in the temples, never allowed to even know who their parents were. And for the last eight thousand years, there’s been fighting. Between nations, between different Earth Kingdoms, between the North and South poles, between different islands in the Fire Nation. The world has been at war for most of history. Avatar Szeto settled the war inside the Fire Nation by uniting the island tribes under a central authority. He created structure and bureaucracy to ensure that all citizens were well taken care of. We haven’t had a civil war since. My Great Grandfather, Fire Lord Sozin, saw the strife that other nations’ populations faced, and sought to unify the whole world under a central authority, so that the Fire Nation’s prosperity could spread to everyone. That’s what balance means. Making sure that there’s order, and structure, and that everyone who’s able to contribute contributes, and everyone gets what they need. Under the Fire Nation, no children would lose their parents, all people would have access to healthcare and education, and to the food they need. No one would have more or less power based solely on their sex. We’d be able to build transportation links around the world, so all cultures could communicate and travel freely. We’d have peace, Sokka.”

Sokka was silent for a long, long moment, and Zuko stared into the fire, picking at the scarred tips of his fingers.

“I believe you believe that,” Sokka said gently. “But Zuko… this war… so many people have died. My mother died. Aang’s whole people, everyone he ever knew. All dead. How can you call that balance?”

“So what’s the plan, then?” Zuko sounded hollow, even to himself. “Murder me? My whole family? My little sister, my mother, my f-father, and uncle? All the guards and soldiers whose job it is to protect us? Did you pick your favorite execution method yet? Will you kill everyone in the capital? Will you break apart the mixed families living in the colonies, and separate the nations again? Have everyone live like the Northern Water Tribe, in total isolation? Who will you put in charge of the Fire Nation? One of the war generals? A random citizen? The Earth King? The Avatar? Or will you just kill us all?”

Sokka sighed.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “It seemed a lot simpler when I knew you were evil.”

On the third night, no one came to hurt him.

His bruises were fading, leaving behind yellowing splotches and aches.

It was the longest he’d gone without new pains since he was eleven.

“I need to go back to the palace,” Zuko said on the fourth day.

“Not happening,” Katara clenched her fists. “First off, we’re not going to let you go back and tell all your war mongers any information about us! Second, I worked hard healing you, and you’re not going to waste that going back there.”

She’d seen more of his body than anyone ever had.

She’d seen the layers on layers on layers of bruises. The fractures in his bones. The bite marks, in small and large imprints. Small on his forearms and large on his back.

She’d seen the burn scars, all over, in hand prints and finger marks and deliberate patterns.

She’d murmured, quietly, about internal injuries before he felt the glowing water go deeper into his gut, and he’d felt something heal deep inside, felt an ache that had been constant in its ebb and flow for years, disappear.

Zuko looked away, ashamed.

What kind of Fire Lord allowed that to happen?

 “But I need to know what’s happening. My f-father… we can’t let him vie for power. He’s been arguing for using the comet to raze the Earth Kingdom, and if Uncle doesn’t override him, no one will. Technically, neither of them are in the line of succession anymore, but there’s no one else, either! I’m the only one, and I’ve been trying for years to make sure the war does minimal damage, but Father doesn’t care! If he can get the generals to listen, there’ll be a massacre.”

The faces around him were pale. The Avatar’s most of all.

“Clear that up for me, Sparky,” Toph picked a piece of dirt from between her toes and flicked it at him. “How come your uncle or your dad aren’t Fire Lord? I thought it was supposed to go to the oldest?”

Zuko bit his lip.

“I… Grandfather decided… Uncle lost his son, at Ba Sing Se.” Toph nodded. She was the child of Earth Kingdom nobility, she presumably knew all sorts of things. “And Father petitioned Grandfather to take Uncle’s place in the line of succession. Because his children - me and my sister - weren’t dead. But Grandfather said he wasn’t going to punish Uncle, but Father needed to be punished for disrespecting him, so he’d have to sacrifice his firstborn son. I think he meant he wanted Uncle to adopt me, but then Father agreed and said he’d be fine with letting me die, so Grandfather decided I should be Crown Prince instead of Uncle or Father.”

There was a long moment of silence.

“You’re… not a good storyteller, Zuko,” Sokka said. Zuko hung his head.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “I guess I’m Fire Lord because the last Fire Lord decided I should be.”

“And your father,” Toph said, “Ozai, right?”

Zuko nodded.

“He’s worse than you.”

Zuko scowled.

“His suggestions are often disturbing, yes,” he said, as diplomatically as he could when faced with a twelve-year-old essentially calling him evil.

“Right. So, it sounds like we need to break into the palace, make sure Ozai doesn’t get to be in charge, and help Sparky stop the war.”

There was another long silence.

“How do you intend to stop the war, Aang?” Zuko clenched his fists.

“I… the plan was just… to kill the Fire Lord…” Aang whispered, staring out over the cliff edge. “But I guess, we didn’t think about after?”

“Well, we don’t need to kill the Fire Lord,” Sokka said firmly, shifting a little closer to Zuko when Katara scowled.

“Ideally not,” Zuko scowled back at her. “I want what you want,” he said to Aang, “I want a peaceful world, balanced and equal and happy. Grandfather wanted the war to end within my lifetime. If we can just persuade the Earth Kingdom and the Northern Water Tribe to surrender, then we can help! We can rebuild everything, and make sure things get fixed!”

“No one is surrendering to ashmakers!” Katara snapped, “No one wants their cultures eradicated or their benders murdered or their people to starve!”

Zuko shook his head.

“Centralized government-”

“No one wants you in charge!” Katara yelled.

Zuko stopped.

That had always been a problem. No one wanted a scarred, stuttering, stupid little boy in charge of their nation.

“Sparky…” Toph said quietly, putting a hand on his wrist.

“No, I… I understand. I’ve never been… the generals don’t think I’m a good Fire Lord either.”

“That’s not what she means,” Toph frowned at Katara. “She means that the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes don’t want to be under Fire Nation rule. It actually seems like you’re a great Fire Lord, for the Fire Nation.”

“I… but…”

“What if you just retreated? Stopped attacking the Earth Nation, promised not to do any more raids on the Water Tribes?”

“I’ve been trying,” Zuko snapped, “I’ve been able to change the laws involving war crimes, to make sure that towns don’t get destroyed, and non-combatants are never harmed. I’ve been able to make sure that no soldiers father war children. I’m doing the best I can!”

“You’re not doing enough!” Katara yelled, standing up and clenching her fists, one hovering over her water skin.

Zuko stood too, unwilling to be on the ground while someone yelled at him.

“When was the last raid on the South, huh?” He yelled back. “More than five years ago! I persuaded Grandfather to stop the raids! I made the generals stop sinking your warriors’ ships on sight! I moved the Water Bender prisoners out of prison camps and into comfortable accommodations!”

“Wow, you’re so amazing,” Katara spat, “while you were having servants wipe your ass and being hand-fed delicacies, we were mourning our mother! We were releasing prisoners from your horrid ships, and rescuing little children from your soldiers!”

“You displaced and killed more non-combatants this year than the Fire Nation did,” Zuko spat back.

There was silence.

Aang was so pale his skin almost glowed.

“W-what?” The Avatar whispered.

Zuko turned to him.

“The Fire Nation hasn’t killed a single non-combatant since I took the throne,” he said coolly. “Your little adventures through the world killed four Sages, all sworn to non-violence, destroyed a thousand-year-old holy temple, and displaced hundreds of families. Thirty-four teenagers going through their first year of military training died at the Northern Air Temple. The engineer and two kitchen boys burned to death on Zhao’s ships.”

“But… but we… I haven’t killed anyone,” he whispered again.

Sokka shifted guiltily, and Katara looked away. Toph said nothing.

“Right? Guys?”

“I’m sorry, Aang,” Zuko said, the anger draining from him. “That shouldn’t have been hidden from you. But it’s your responsibility to understand.”

Aang looked horror-struck. Like he’d never considered that throwing someone against a wall from thirty feet away could shatter a spine. Like he’d never considered what happened after he flooded a whole town, even if he’d got the people out.

“Killing the Fire Lord won’t end the war,” Aang said quietly. “You’ve been trying. Really trying, to achieve your goals without hurting people.”

Zuko nodded.

“But some of your goals need some work. And the war needs to end,” Sokka said. “So… what are the obstacles you’ve faced?”

Zuko sat back down, ignoring Katara’s still clenched fists, and told them.

About the generals trying to argue in favor of scorched-earth policies.

About the whispers of weakness.

About his father’s desire to watch the world burn.

“Okay,” Sokka said, staring into the blue sky and thinking. “Okay. So you need backup, basically. What if we actually did your diplomacy idea? Got Aang and some representatives of the other nations, and made some kind of council? Maybe we could come to an agreement, where we open up those trade routes you suggested, and support any rebuilding that needs to be done? Maybe everyone agrees to release their prisoners of war. The rest of the world doesn’t want to be ruled by the Fire Nation, but that doesn’t mean the Fire Nation doesn’t have anything to offer.”

Zuko felt hope unfurl in his chest for the first time since Father started visiting his room.

They landed in the Caldera just before sunset, in case they had to fight.

Uncle was waiting outside the palace, hands folded in front of him to show his peace.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” he bowed. “I’m afraid your father will not be joining us.”

“General Iroh,” Zuko bowed back, raising an eyebrow in question.

“He attempted to seize the crown. He claimed you’d been killed in the invasion attempt led by your… new friends.”

Aang rubbed the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly.

“He threw lightning at me,” Zuko confessed. The Avatar’s group stared at him, Sokka rounding on him fully, mouth open.

“You never told me that!”

Zuko shrugged.

“So what happened?”

“Your father has been remanded into custody,” Uncle explained, “he’s currently awaiting sentencing in the cells below the palace. I took on your responsibilities in your absence, but I am, of course, ready to cede them back to you.”

“Thank you, Uncle.”

Uncle handed Zuko the five-pointed crown, and Zuko pinned it into his barely-large-enough top knot.

If Uncle’s touch lingered as he passed it over, warm fingers which had never burned him clasping soothingly against his, Zuko didn’t draw attention to it.

They built a council. And with the Avatar standing at his shoulder, the generals hardly even opposed him.

The Fire Nation withdrew.

The colonies were divided among the Fire Nation and the Earth Kingdom, and permanent rights of residency were established.

Treaties were signed, promising non-retaliation and reparations and trade agreements.

All prisoners of war, on all sides, were released back to their homelands.

Sixteen Southern Water Benders were loaded into a ship and returned to the poles, with large bags of coin to ease their transition.

Fire Benders with mutilated hands and feet and cold inner flames were given full military pensions and housing.

Earth Benders were returned home with stipends to rebuild their towns.

Weapon factories were closed, and fresh water flowed.

Uncle smiled proudly at him at the end of each meeting.

Zuko slept in his bedroom, and no one came to hurt him.

His sheets smelled like blood and sweat and terror.

The whispers started again.

The Fire Lord had ended the war.

The Fire Lord had reversed a hundred years of progress.

The Fire Lord had saved a new generation from growing up as soldiers.

The Fire Lord had bowed down to the Avatar.

The Fire Lord had brokered peace.

The Fire Lord had locked up his own father.

The Fire Lord didn’t limp anymore.

The Fire Lord appeared in public with no new burns for the first time in his reign.

The Fire Lord grew two inches in barely six months.

The Fire Lord was seen walking the streets in normal clothes, buying street food with teenagers from all the nations.

The Fire Lord was smiling.

Sokka needed to share his idea for extending the Ba Sing Se monorail all the way to Merchant’s Pier for easier access to Fire Nation trading posts.

It was weird having his own room in the palace, since he couldn’t just roll over and poke Zuko awake.

Now he had to walk what seemed like half a mile and smile appealingly at his guards before he could go in the Fire Lord’s bedroom.

Zuko scrambled off his massive bed and slammed down onto his knees before Sokka had fully closed the door behind him.

Both boys went still.

“Zuko…” Sokka said quietly, confused, and with a pit of anxiety opening up in his chest, “Buddy?”

Zuko shook on the floor, fingers digging into his thighs, head bowed.

“Zuko?”

Zuko looked up, and his eyes were glassy in the moonlight.

“I-I’m sorry,” he whispered. He looked less like the Fire Lord in that moment than he had when Sokka had thrown him, barely conscious, onto Appa’s saddle and kidnapped him. “I’m sorry… please…”

Sokka’s heart clenched.

No one should be begging like that.

No one should throw themselves off their bed and prostrate themselves and beg just because someone opened their door.

“… Zuko? What’s… what’s wrong?”

Zuko heaved a ragged breath, and his eyes locked onto Sokka’s.

After a second or two, they seemed to clear, and Zuko slumped forward, twisting his legs so he was sitting, and cradling his head in his hands.

“He’s not coming anymore,” Zuko whispered, almost too low for Sokka to hear, “he’s gone. He’s gone. He can’t get here anymore. He’s gone.”

Sokka closed the gap between them in slow, quiet steps and knelt an arm's length away.

“Who, buddy?” He asked softly.

Zuko shook his head, digging his fingers into his forehead now, shoulders rigid and shaking from the adrenaline crash.

“He can’t come here anymore, right?” Zuko whispered, voice raw and aching.

“You’re safe here,” Sokka whispered back, “you’re in your bedroom.”

“He always came,” Zuko spoke so quietly Sokka had to shift closer, “he came every night.”

Sokka’s heart sank.

“Why?”

“To punish me,” tears were dripping down Zuko’s wrists, marking shiny trails in the old burns. “For being a bad Crown Prince, or a bad Fire Lord, or a bad son.”

Sokka’s heart stopped entirely for a moment.

“Y-your dad?” He gritted out, chest aching. Zuko flinched. And then nodded.

“He hurt you?”

Another tiny nod, and more tears dripped down the slender, burned wrists.

Katara had healed a dozen tiny, old, poorly healed fractures in those wrists.

“Zuko…” Sokka wanted to ask why, wanted to know why Zuko had never told anyone, had never simply had his father arrested for daring to touch the Fire Lord without permission. He wanted to know exactly what happened, exactly how his friend had suffered, so he could go down to the dungeons below the palace and inflict the same punishment on Ozai. He wanted to know why Zuko had slammed onto his knees and waited in abject supplication for the punishment to begin.

He didn’t ask.

He knew none of it would be fair.

“He hurt me,” Zuko choked a little on a sob. “I tried so, so hard, and he hurt me anyway.”

Sokka couldn’t hold himself back. He reached across the gap and tugged the Fire Lord to him, cradling the back of his head against his shoulder.

And Zuko cried.

Sokka tried not to listen too hard to the sobbed-out, hoarse confessions.

He didn’t think Zuko really wanted him to know about the burns and the bruises and the broken bones and the tearing. Oh spirits.

Sokka couldn’t imagine the pain of a grown man hurting an eleven-year-old version of his friend like that.

Zuko whispered about blood between his thighs and infections on his face and fingers too fragile to hold a quill.

Zuko whispered about biting through the skin of his arm until his mouth was filled with blood, trying to muffle the screaming.

Zuko whispered about not being allowed to tell anyone anything, ever, on pain of losing the other half of his face. On pain of his mother’s life.

Zuko whispered about the terror of seeing him, every day, of standing his ground over battle plans and social aid and salaries and lives in the balance, and then going to bed and waiting for his punishment.

Zuko sobbed into his shoulder, and Sokka held him tight.

Zuko wrapped his arms around Sokka’s waist, and Sokka schemed, seething with rage.

Ozai survived Sokka finding out.

He did not survive Sokka telling Iroh.

The world was at peace.

Zuko slept without nightmares, wrapped around Sokka.

His heart slowly recovered its rhythm.

His bruises faded, and he didn’t get new ones.

His burn scars smoothed, but didn’t disappear.

He was reminded, every time he looked in the mirror, every time he had sex, every time he allowed the council debate.

But Azulon had been right. About some things.

Zuko had the wisdom and strength to rule justly and kindly. Just not over the world.