Chapter Text
They say the Prince of the Fire Nation went mad before he died. If you asked everyone on the Wani they’d wholeheartedly agree.
General Iroh did not.
Truthfully, Zuko’s transformation from a kind and soft spoken boy to an unpredictable and explosive young man was violent. After a few weeks of recovery, floating in and out of lucidity, Iroh had almost believed the Prince was still in the throes of his sickness and unable to think clearly. While that was partly true, Zuko seemed to be completely conscious, and angrier than anyone had ever seen before.
He’d stalk the halls of the Wani, pacing like an enraged Lion-Gator in a cage. He was quick to lose patience- the idea of him having any was debatable. He’d spit fire and breathe smoke constantly. He’d grip the railings of the ship with unimaginable force, so much so that it left dents in the metal. If he was angry enough, his face would twist into the expression of an animal being jabbed in the ribs with spears. His voice permanently choked by smoke and screams did nothing to silence him or make him any less threatening. If anything it only made it worse, his voice constantly coming out in hissing or low rasping. He had only just turned thirteen and he already had grown men nearly twice his size cowering.
Iroh could hardly blame him. Zuko had no real support save for him after Ursa’s disappearance, but for the past few years Iroh had been. . . absent, for lack of a better word. The death of his son left him wandering both the mortal and spirit world for two years before returning to Caldera.
Zuko’s future as the next Firelord was all he’d ever known. Both he and the Princess had been cultivated just so to become incredible benders and heirs to the throne. It was no secret that Zuko struggled to bend, but now he was not quite an heir to the throne either, and Iroh was confident Zuko felt nothing short of useless. He tried desperately to tell him otherwise, but his words made no difference to his nephew, and the Prince was tired of hearing them.
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When Zuko was born, the entire Fire Nation fell silent, as if holding its breath. Ozai was quick to refuse celebrating the birth of his son, claiming the baby was born without a spark- an unworthy heir. He demanded that another be born, as soon as possible.
Ursa was determined to keep her son, and cared tirelessly for him. Despite her efforts, the once healthy baby slowly became sick- refusing to nurse, and rarely crying. He only slept, occasionally interrupted by violent shuddering. Her baby was dying. He had a spark, she could see it, but it was slowly going out, like a dying ember.
Such events weren’t unheard of, except in the royal family; a direct line from Agni. Both Ozai’s and Ursa’s Sun Warrior Ancestry, Ozai’s relation to Sozin- the first to harness the power of a celestial body, and Ursa being the granddaughter of Roku, this was supposed to be impossible.
Ursa could feel her baby’s body cooling in her hands, his heartbeat having vanished only moments before. His lips blue and his complexion was a sickly grey. Still, she held him close, sure to support his head and refrain from shaking him as she ran down the corridors. Daylight was running out. At first, the nurses tried to stop her, insisting that it was too late, but Ursa had fought tooth and nail past them, her once flawless fingertips now scratched, chafed, and speckled with dried blood. She did not care how unbecoming she looked- she’d never wanted this life anyway- wearing simple sleep clothes, hiking her skirts above her knees as she sprinted barefoot through the palace.
She begged Agni to wait a few more minutes, to stay awake just a little longer. Her bare feet against the hard floors stung and bled. Her lungs burned and sweat stuck her hair to her skin, itching at her neck. But she remained stone faced and did not slow. Finally coming to view with the palace doors, she charged. Deciding she had no time to bother opening them she didn’t turn until last second, shoving her shoulder into the handle of the door and bursting out into the cool twilight breeze.
The sky’s pink hue had turned into a deep purple, the sun sinking behind the mountains. The ringing in Ursa’s ears stopped, she hadn’t noticed it in the first place. She stumbled into the dirt, skinning her knees and sitting back on her blistering feet as she begged the lowering sun to stay up just a little longer.
For the first time since her son was born, tears fell from her face. She’d been so strong. So perfect. She did everything right, so why did the infant in her arms not open his eyes? Did the seamstress of fate hate her?
Stick her in a palace with a family who hated her, a husband who forbade her to ever see her family again, a father in law and a groom who viewed her as nothing more than a broodmare, what had she done to deserve this? Could she not even keep her own baby?
Her silent pleas grew loud and shrill as she let out a bloodcurdling wail. Screaming up at the heavens, now convinced they could either not hear her, or chose not to listen. Snot and tears and spit soaked her face as she began to scream at no one in particular. Her eyes sealed themselves shut and her cries were so loud she did not hear the approaching of her brother in law and his son, both rushing to her sides and pulling a blanket around her shoulders. She could not see the tears in their eyes or the way the sun, just barely peeking out from behind the mountains, seemed to freeze and burn brighter.
Finally opening her eyes to the white-hot sky, she quieted and instead stared, her face still frozen in a silent wail. The trio watched in bewilderment as a heliochrome veil of impossible colors painted the sky, only for a moment, before flickering away to a dark night sky. Stunned and blinking away the blindness the light gave her, she let out a shaky breath.
From wrapped in her sleeves, she herd a small sob and stared down at the now squirming child in her arms, as his pale face grew flush with color and his serene expression broke into an upset cry. Ursa incredulously chuckled before breaking into a fit of laughter and sobs.
The baby’s deep amber eyes had turned a kaleidoscopic gold- reflecting those same colors in the sky, as a pair of marquise-shaped pupils stared at Ursa.
”A child of Agni,” the General mused, “he has the eyes of a dragon.”
Ursa decided that conversation was for another day.
For now, she was just fine holding her baby.
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Iroh would not forget that day. Obviously he loved the boy like his own when he first laid eyes on him weeks prior, and yet, a blessing from Agni herself was almost unheard of. Iroh knew Agni was infuriated by what people had twisted her gift into, and what they had done to their brethren- the dragons- and when Zuko stood up in that War room months ago, Iroh became convinced she’d chosen him to bring about the tides of change.
It hurt though, seeing how he began to embody the image Agni had sent him to cleanse, using his anger to fuel his flames; but Iroh was confident she understood. He was afraid and trying to protect himself. Agni would no doubtedly forgive him.
Only when Iroh had finally gotten used to the new Zuko, did he take on another violent change. It was at the Southern Air Temple, where the last known avatar had been born.
The Wani’s crew had become eerily silent, no longer cracking jokes or complaining under their breath, and so had Zuko. He produced no flames, and his threats had no real danger behind them. His glares and insults had lost their venom, and he had insisted he needed to pay some kind of respect to the bodies- but couldn’t care less if the crew followed suit. They had. Iroh was not excluded, his jolly demeanor dissipated and everyone had sat in solemn quiet as they wished the dead a peaceful rest.
Zuko was no stranger to war. He could see that those bones, some of children, some of babies held close to their caregivers, all fleeing. Wherever there was a large congregation on skeletons, there was the corner they were backed into, and the footprints and few corpses of Fire Nation soldiers surrounding them. The largest amount of bodies belonging to soldiers surrounded the body of a grown monk, who, despite the gruesome fate he’d certainly suffered, looked peaceful, sitting in a position akin to meditation. There were a substantial amount of soldiers surrounding him, all clearly on the offense.
Zuko had refused to believe it at first, he- like every child in the Fire Nation- had been taught that airbenders were an army of sadistic killers, who would steal the breath from one’s lungs, or drop them from fatal heights. But every text he scoured over spoke only of a reverence for all life, and the pacifist values of the Air Nomads. Iroh could only watch on as Zuko fought with the lies he’d been fed his whole life, having to come to terms with the bitter truth about the Fire Nation.
The Prince’s silence lingered longer than the rest of the crew’s. Still no flames. He continued to pace through the creaking hull of the ship, but rather than an angry wild beast, all anyone saw now was a child grappling with the ugly truth about his home.
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Iroh had never felt so sad and so happy at the same time. He knew better than to believe his nephew was dead. He stood in the Prince’s unoccupied quarters, nothing out of place. Nothing except the dual swords mounted on the wall- they were gone. Iroh also found his armor was still there, save for a few pieces.
“General.” A man’s voice snapped Iroh out of his thoughts. He turned and looked at his new companion, today, he would not bother to offer a smile.
”Lieutenant Jee, what brings you below deck?” He asked, trying to keep the mild irritation out his voice.
”I have… a few questions. Regarding the Prince.” Jee was stepping around his words carefully, but Iroh raised an eyebrow.
“Why don’t we discuss over tea?”
Did he sound threatening? Iroh certainly hoped not.
”Tea? Pardon me, sir, but is now a good time for tea?” Jee seemed almost afraid, but held himself steady.
“There is never a bad time for tea, Lieutenant. Now come, let’s discuss.”
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Having finished pouring Jee’s cup, Iroh poured jasmine tea into his cup.
Zuko’s favorite.
“Tell me, Lieutenant, what questions do you have for me?”
Jee hadn’t touched the tea, which Iroh was admittedly butt-hurt about, and was instead anxiously fiddling with the cup, tracing his fingers over the patterns on the porcelain.
”This may come across as outlandish and insensitive…” Jee trailed off, deciding the floor was more interesting to talk to.
“To not ask a question is to deny your nature, Lieutenant. You cannot live your life knowing you haven’t tried looking for the answer.” Iroh mentally prepared himself, focusing on the sensation of cool air in his lungs as he breathed.
“He’s not really dead, is he?” Jee’s voice came out meek. Iroh could hardly believe his ears.
They both knew who Jee was referring to.
”No. He’s not dead. Just… given up.” Iroh said grimly, no longer caring for his tea.
“Given up?” Jee echoed, his voice regaining its confidence.
”On the Fire Nation. On his father. Prince Zuko, despite what you’ve seen of him, could never stand for injustice.” Iroh chose to ignore the small scoff Jee failed to hold back. “He was burned and sent out to sea for standing up against it, Lieutenant, he knows now without a doubt how ruthless the Fire Nation can be, even to their own. To stay would mean driving himself mad. I am confident, that if we see him again soon, it will be on opposite sides of the war.” Jee’s brow furrowed, his eyes flicking across the grooves of the table he sat at, contemplating Iroh’s words.
“Regardless,” Iroh sighed before letting his voice take on a grave tone, “for his safety… and yours, I suggest you pretend this conversation never happened.”