Chapter 2: Hollow


Gone.

Gone gone gone.

He was so, so empty inside. Like his inner fire had been blown out, and he'd been left to wash away with the tide. All the colors had grown cold and lifeless, days passing without incident or memory. Blinking slowly, Zuko forced his eyes to focus, slowly growing aware of his surroundings. The dark canopy of his bed solidified above him.

He had no idea how long he'd been lying here. Or since he'd moved. Numbly, Zuko twitched his fingers, the slow prickle of blood starting to flow through his limbs again niggling at his nerves. That cold band of metal lying against his skin, still fastened around his neck with one of her hair ribbons, a constant reminder she was gone.

Gone and not coming back, and still he couldn't bear to take it off.

Why was he moving around anyway? There wasn't any point, she was gone and there was no more light and even the sun couldn't warm his frozen insides.

His left hand drifted to the band of silver, clutching desperately at that last piece of sanity. The most beautiful, and most horrible gift he'd ever received. His last piece of Mother.

A low keen made its way from his throat, and then there was something wet on his face and someone was sobbing, and it took him far too long to realize that it was him.

Why why why?

Emotion flooded through him like a flash flood, crashing through all that cold emptiness, and he could feel little pieces of himself washing away, and he just wanted it all to stop.

An eternity later, it did, and that awful nothingness slowly returned.

Can't think can't breathe can't feel.

There was a low knock; somewhere in the back of his mind he registered one of the servants entering with an armful of his clothes, pulling him to his feet and dressing him.

He couldn't find the will to move, or stop her, so he let her maneuver his body into his clothes.

"Fire Lord Ozai has ordered your presence at dinner this evening, my prince."

Father.

He'd barely seen him since the coronation, only glimpses and snatches as he wandered the castle in his mindless daze. To be honest, he had no idea what day it was or how long it had been since that night.

A strange thrumming of hurt and anger flitted along with the image of his father.

He didn't tell me I know he knows where did she go?

Slowly, Zuko looked down at his body, his pale, unmarred skin a stark contrast to the heavy darkness of his room.

The bruises are gone.

He always had bruises. He couldn't ever keep from angering Father. Where were the bruises?

Gone.

Nervously, he probed his legs and torso, searching for that telltale ache.

Nothing.

Why?

And why did their absence make him so panicky?

"What is today?" His voice was raspy, as though he hadn't spoken in an age. Maybe he hadn't.

"The sixteenth of May, your highness."

A month.

It's been a whole month.

Standing on shaky legs, he allowed her to lead him towards the banquet hall. Father never required his presence unless there was some sort of political function.

The murkiness of confusion and apprehension clouded his mind, and he walked forward numbly, eyes wandering but seeing nothing.


A whole year.

Bitterness throbbed in his chest, that slow boiling rage that had slowly kindled in the pit of his stomach over the last twelve months. One year, since Lu Ten died, since Grandfather died, since Mother-

Fists clenched, he bit down on the fury, forcing all that hate out through his fists as he threw himself into yet another drill. If it took him a hundred years, he would become a master. He wouldn't fail Father.

Not like I failed Mom.

His hands shook, and his flames flared higher, surprising his tutor, who looked pleased at the increased power, but displeased with the loss of control. Fire was precise and deadly. Not sloppy and wild. Not like Zuko.

A low growl filled his lungs as he forced his hands to steady.

My fault all my fault wasn't good enough wasn't strong enough couldn't stay why why why

And his teacher kicked his feet out from under him. His back slammed against the ground and a scream of fury erupted from his lungs.

"Again."

His eyes narrowed. If that sour old gasbag thought he couldn't hear the disdain in his voice, he was dead wrong. His fingers itched and he longed to just rush him and scream and punch and burn the condescension off the weasel-rat's face.

But instead he pushed himself to his feet, swallowed a ragged breath, and -

Father.

The Fire Lord's lip curled in obvious disgust at Zuko's performance, watching silently from across the training grounds. Watching, but not approaching. The only time they spent in each other's company was at meals, where any attempted conversation was met with stony silence or a harsh rebuke. So why was he here now? Ozai knew his tutors' schedules.

He came . . . to see me?

And I disappointed him.

Burning with shame, he swallowed the fear that always lumped in his throat whenever his father appeared, straightened, and focused.

That slight push of energy, and flames sprung to life in his palms, and Zuko twisted, determined. Have to get this right. Have to show him I'm good enough -

His feet were kicked out from under him again.

The side of his head met smoothly paved stone, and blinding white lights danced across his eyes.

His vision cleared to see that scowl - the one that said worthless failure - deepen, and the Fire Lord swept away without a word.

If Zuko had had a heart left to break, he was sure it would have shattered.


The next day, Ozai was back. Silently observing. Never speaking. Leaving once Zuko had humiliated himself enough.

And the next.

And the next.

At first, Zuko was terrified at the audience. His father had never found anything but fault in his performance; and when he found fault, Zuko would usually wake up covered in bruises, but ever since he'd begun spectating, his father hadn't said a word about it. Granted, that meant that he never said anything ever, but that was his own fault. Father wouldn't ignore him if he didn't keep proving every moment there was nothing to ignore.

He failed and failed and failed again, but still his father came back every day. He was present. That was more than Zuko deserved. And it might have been a cold, unwelcoming presence, but it was enough to make him hope. And that hope made him struggle ever harder.

Struggle. Fail. Again and again. Every day.

As the time dragged by, he found himself so desperate for some sort of contact that he would have gladly taken the beatings over the emptiness and silence. But the Fire Lord said nothing.

But he still kept watching.

Maybe . . . maybe he wants to believe I could be great.

He wanted to believe it. So, so badly.

After all, he reasoned, I am heir to the throne now. It only makes sense that he would want his eventual successor to be worthy of the throne.

He clung to that desperate, logic-defying sentiment like a drowning man.


"Gah!"

Zuko kicked the frame of his bed, wincing as pain shot up his leg. Azula!

She'd stolen his homework again.

Without anyone to keep her in check, Azula tormented him constantly; sneaking into his room, stealing his belongings, and making full use of every opportunity to lord her superiority over him.

Damnit, he needed those.

Where's Uncle when you need him?

He swallowed that thought. Uncle still hadn't returned after the failed siege of Ba Sing Se. He hadn't seen the old man in well over three years, since before the beginning of the Six Hundred Day Siege. No one knew where the old man had gone; the last news they'd had was something about a spiritual quest.

Where did you go? Why does everyone go?

He swallowed the lump that rose in his throat, and marched down the hall to his sister's bedroom.


Six months, and he couldn't find any of his socks. And it was time for his bending practice.

Father continued to watch from the shadows, but it seemed to Zuko that his frowns weren't as deep as they were before. Things were better than they had been, sure, and he could almost pretend to be happy. Almost. All that strange rage and hate and bitterness still raged just beneath his skin. There were long gaps of nothing in his memory and he tried never to think of her or anything that'd happened the night before his father's coronation.

Still. Things were better. He could almost pretend.

But then everything went downhill when the news that General Iroh was finally returning from his long self - imposed exile reached the Palace.


"Took him long enough," Azula sniffed as the messenger retreated. "He probably got lost on a detour looking for some Earth Kingdom tea refinery."

Zuko slammed his cup down on the dinner table, clenching his fists. "You don't know anything about it."

Ozai's frown deepened.

"Neither do you, Zuzu," Azula returned, lifting an egg roll with her chopsticks and inspecting it critically before taking a dainty bite. "Everyone knows Uncle's just a delusional old man."

"Delusional?" Zuko cried, half - standing in indignation. "His son died! But you wouldn't understand that, would you?" Rage boiled through his veins, and words came tumbling from his lips. "You're not human enough to feel anything for anyone besides yourself, let alone to grieve. If anyone's delusional, it's you!"

In a blink of an eye, Ozai was standing over him, yanking him out of his chair. Zuko paled, stumbling as the back of his father's hand connected with his face. "You," hissed Ozai, lifting him into the air by the front of his tunic, and pressing him against the wall, "have no place to correct her. Princess Azula is a prodigy; everything you could never hope to be. She was born lucky."

He leaned close, so close Zuko trembled in fear. His voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "You were lucky to be born."

As suddenly as he had grabbed him, Ozai released his son. Zuko collapsed to the floor, white and trembling in shock. He pressed a shaking hand to his cheek, his jaw working silently. Azula's face mirrored his own; even her hands were unsteady.

Recovering swiftly; she lay her silverware primly down, covering the nervousness in her eyes with a triumphant smile directed at her older brother.

The Fire Lord walked away without another glance.


Not deigning to bother with the tediousness of greeting a brother for whom he'd never held any sort of affection, Ozai left Zuko and Azula to deal with the incoming ship. They stood side - by - side at the dock, dressed in full armour. Neither of them spoke.

Zuko tugged at the end of his sleeve; stretching the fabric over the faint bruise on his wrist. He didn't tell her how he'd gotten it. She didn't ask. She didn't need to. She was Azula; she knew everything. There wasn't anything either of them could have done about it anyway.

She hadn't said anything then either, when she'd taken his wrists and pulled him to his feet, leading him to her rooms. Had pushed him down onto the bed and pressed ice against the swelling on his cheek without so much as a murmur. Only smirked a little as she applied the concealer, hiding the dark purple blotch with her makeup after the swelling had gone down. Had taken him back to his room and locked the door behind her as she left without even giving him her usual, unsettling "Goodnight, Zuko."

In the week since his outburst at the table, the bruise on his cheek had faded; only to be replaced with many darker ones. Zuko was only grateful that at least he could cover these ones without the assistance of various unmanly substances. Ozai had apparently overcome whatever conflict he'd had about domestic violence since Ursa's demise; he hit harder than ever. Or perhaps Zuko had merely forgotten just how bad it had been in the first place. The strangest thing of all was Azula. She always picked him up, after their father had gone. Always led him away quietly and played doctor, bandaging up the worst of him. She'd been less of a pain lately, too. If it was anyone other than his sister, he would have said it was because she actually did care about him. But this was Azula. He honestly had no idea why she was looking after him now.

Azula tsked irritably, tapping her foot. She was always so impatient; always indignant at having to wait on someone else's pleasure. Zuko ignored her, squinting at the horizon. If he looked very, very closely, he thought he could make out a tiny little smudge . . .

"There," he cried. "the ship's there."

His sister tossed her head, picked at her nails. "Well, it's about time."

Zuko rolled his eyes. Some things never change.


They knelt in unison as the deck lowered, one knee bent, heads inclined respectfully. The ship's crew filed out, forming two columns, between which General Iroh descended.

"Greetings, Prince Zuko and Princess Azula." Their uncle said, extending his hands. They rose, Zuko stepping forward to meet his embrace, while Azula stood back, looking peevish. Don't touch me, her entire stance screamed.

Azula wasn't fond of Uncle, or of hugs.

Iroh lay his hands on Zuko's shoulders, ignoring his niece's slight. "Look how you've grown!"

Zuko tried to smile; but he knew from his uncle's expression that the old man had seen past it. Straightening, he released his nephew. "We should go inside. I've been dying for a good cup of ginseng tea."

Iroh took him firmly by the arm, wrapping his other around Azula as he walked by. She stiffened, obviously unhappy, but didn't fight him as Uncle led them towards the Palace.

After all, it wouldn't do to show dysfunction - let alone weakness - before their subjects.


Zuko remembered the first time his father had seriously injured him. He'd been six. His mother had been away, making her annual appearance in the wounded clinics.

"It's important," she'd told him, "that the people see that we care about our soldiers. That the Royal Family suffers just as much as everyone else does in this war. That we suffer for them. Another reason," she continued, "is so that I can see the condition of the hospitals, and make a report to give to the Fire Lord. After all that our men do for us, it's our duty to see that they are properly cared for." She'd ruffled his hair, kissed his forehead.

"Can't I come with you, Mom?" he'd pleaded, unhappy with the idea of such a long separation. "I can help care for them!"

She'd laughed. "I'm sorry, love." Her expression darkened with sorrow. "But there are some things that you're just not ready to see."

He'd been confused, hadn't understood. But he'd nodded anyway, knew better than to question her when she had that look on her face. So she went away for two months, visiting every hospital within the Fire Nation's borders.

The night after she left, Zuko woke up with a nightmare. Shaking and white, he ran to his mother's room, panicking and terrified. He threw the door open, only to find his father looking up at him furiously. There were several already opened letters thrown onto the bed, and Ozai held another open in his hand.

"Father?" he'd gasped. "I - where's-" he cut off, taking in the scene before him.

Ozai growled, tossing the letter aside. Zuko backed away, paling further, but his father was faster. He slapped him across the face, the impact sending him sprawling. Zuko cried out in shock, and Ozai kicked him in the stomach. Zuko felt something snap inside him.

"You stay out of my business, understand?" he'd whispered, grabbing his son's skinny little bicep and lifting him up. Gasping in pain, Zuko managed a frightened nod. He whimpered and kicked, trying to break out of the bigger man's hold while clutching his free arm to his side. The pain was unbearable.

The elder prince scowled. Wrenching his wrist, he threw Zuko across the room. Zuko gasped as he collided with the wall, his vision going red as he lay stunned, twitching in pain.

His father was long gone by the time he regained his senses, the first glimmers of the morning light peeking through the curtains.

Zuko moaned, trying to sit up. A sharp twinge of pain in his ribs elicited another involuntary cry, he gasped and coughed, pressing his shaky hands against his sides. The coppery tang of blood filled his mouth, his stomach heaved.

He vaguely recalled crying for help, could remember hands lifting him up off the floor, the faces nothing more than a blur. And then he remembered the while walls and sterile scent of the royal physician's quarters.


He was lying face up on the bed, white sheets draped over his body like he was a corpse. Slowly, he sat up, wincing at the pain in his torso. The doctor looked up from his chair in the corner, and quickly got up, coming over to his bedside.

"Easy, now. Don't want to risk making that any worse."

The doctor was a sharp - looking man, well into his forties. His black hair was streaked with grey, the lines in his face grim and set; but despite his stern appearance and sometimes gruff tone, he was generally a very kind, understanding man. Zuko looked up at him, exhaustion plain on his little face.

The doctor gave him a grim smile and peeled the sheet back, exposing his bare chest. Zuko shivered at the sudden rush of cool air. He looked down at his body, stared in silence at the large, foot - shaped bruise that began underneath his tiny nipples and extended down his abdomen.

"You've got three cracked ribs, some heavy bruising on your stomach, shoulders, and the back of your head; and you've had a nasty concussion; but it seems like you'll recover quickly." The doctor sat on the edge of the bed, looking him in the eyes. "You want to tell me how you got them?"

Zuko swallowed, grimacing at how dry his mouth was. He looked down at himself again, nervous. The doctor sighed, laying a hand on his skinny shoulder. "It's okay. You can tell me."

"I had a bad dream. I was looking for my mom," he said, biting his lip. "And I ran into Father, he was looking at some letters, and he was angry . . ." Trailing off, he looked at the old man searchingly.

"Ah." The doctor frowned, fixing his gaze on his withering old hands. "Well, then."

"What do I do?" Zuko whispered. "What did I do?"

"Nothing," he replied. "There's nothing either of us can do." The doctor took his little fingers in his own, squeezing them comfortingly. "If it were anyone else, if you were anyone else, I would report him to the authorities for child abuse. I've seen the marks on you more than enough times to account for it; but Prince Ozai is just that: a prince. The public wouldn't stand for it, the Fire Lord wouldn't stand for it. It'd be my word against his. Your father's crafty enough to come up with a plausible excuse for all the bruises."

Zuko's brow furrowed. "But it's not just your word. You'd have me, too."

The doctor laughed, a mirthless expression. "Prince Zuko, I hate to break it to you, but that's not how things work around here. Everyone with any connection to the Palace knows that your father doesn't care for you. Any advantage that might have given us is lost with the fact that everyone doesn't like you."

"Why?" Zuko cried, grabbing his arm. "Why does everyone hate me?"

"Because, well . . . " the doctor trailed off, at a loss. "It begins with the nobility, I guess. They all have this superiority complex; think they have some divine right to their status because the spirits made them better, more powerful, than normal people. And you," he continued, "are just . . . normal. There's nothing inherently special about you. You're not a great firebender or a political genius. You're just you. And that rubs them the wrong way. And because the nobility are the ones passing information along to the people, that prejudice gets handed down the ladder; and that's why the majority of the people have very negative opinions of you."

"That's not fair," the prince protested. "I'm only six."

"Life isn't fair, your highness."

"They don't even know me."

He sighed. "Look, that's beside the point. The fact of the matter is, if Ozai denied the charges; then with no other witnesses - and maybe not even then - people will automatically assume that you're just being the spoiled brat everyone thinks you are, looking for attention." He held up his hands as Zuko's lips parted in protest. "And while you know, and I know, that that's not true; if nobody believes us, it'll just make things even worse for both of us. Your father would destroy me, and hurt you -" he glanced at his patient , "- well, more - if we dared to meddle in his affairs, let alone drag him into a disgraceful court scandal. I'm sorry; but there's nothing anyone can do for you."

They sat in silence for awhile, Zuko looking downcast, the doctor shaking his head regretfully. The old man ruffled Zuko's dark hair. "Listen, your highness-"

"It's Zuko," Zuko said, tiredly.

"- Zuko, I know this is a lot to ask of anyone, especially someone as young as you; but you can't ever tell anyone about what your father does to you."

He looked up, worriedly. "Not even my mom?"

"I don't know how much you'd be able to keep from her. She looks after you like a buzzard - hawk after its chicks." He sighed. "At the very least, I wouldn't tell her about your little visit here. If she finds out on her own, that's all well and good, nothing to be done. But the last thing you need is for Prince Ozai to suspect that you're telling tales."

"Why can't I tell anyone?"

The doctor sighed, squeezing his hand again. "Listen; there are some things that you just can't understand at your age, no matter how hard you try. There's a lot of politics involved; for example, if perhaps one of your father's political enemies - and he has a number if them - found out, they might try to use that knowledge as a weapon against him. And if he figured that out, again, his most likely course of action is to take it out on you. Maybe even to take you out of the equation. Prince Ozai has a reputable temper; and some very harsh notions about justice. You're a sweet kid, Zuko. I don't want to have to live to see your name on a gravestone."

Zuko stared at him, white as a sheet. After a long moment, he nodded dejectedly.

"I'm sorry, kid. But it's your best option. Your father's usually smart enough to to limit himself to hurting you in ways that other people can't see; so just do whatever you have to do to cover up those bruises and hope for the best. Trust me; at this point the worst thing that could happen is for this to become public knowledge."

Zuko jerked his head unhappily. The doctor rubbed a hand in his hair again, giving him a sad little smile. "Good kid." Standing, he pressed a sweet into the prince's hand. "Get better quick. The sooner you're out of here, the better off you'll be."

"Thank you," Zuko whispered.

"Don't mention it." The doctor smiled, walking towards the exit. "After all, it is my job to make you feel better."


The doctor's words echoed in Zuko's mind as Iroh caught his arm at the entrance to the dining room. You can't ever tell anyone about what your father does to you. He looked at Iroh inquisitively, even though he already knew what his uncle was about to ask.

"Zuko. Are you . . . alright?" Zuko could hear the underlying worry in his voice.

"What do you mean? Of course I'm fine," he heard himself say. Felt himself smile reassuringly. Knew he looked strained.

The General studied him carefully for a long moment; then released him. They stepped into the dining room; Zuko silently wishing Uncle would have pressed him about it. Wishing he didn't have to lie.

You can't ever tell anyone about what your father does to you.

Steeling himself, he took his seat across from Azula as Fire Lord Ozai entered the room.

The meal passed mostly in silence; Iroh's quiet questions about his niece and nephew's well - being and the general state of affairs being met with concise, pointed answers. Zuko kept his mouth shut, pushing his food around his plate, his gaze fastened to the table in front of him. Internally, he begged for the awkward gathering to be dismissed without incident; he doubted his father would make a scene in front of Iroh, but he was not going to find out if he could help it.

Finally, Azula stood. "Excuse me, Father, but I believe it's past time for me to retire."

Relief flooded him. He quickly shoved his chair back, bowing to his father and uncle. "Good night."

Zuko fled the room on Azula's heels.


It had been many years since Iroh had last seen his nephew, but he couldn't help but notice how skittish and reluctant the prince had become; always hiding in the shadows and nearly jumping out of his skin whenever anyone approached him. The concern the General had felt when he'd first arrived grew steadily more and more with every encounter he had with his nephew. The boy obviously wouldn't be made to talk about it; always averted his eyes and insisted that everything was fine whenever Iroh even brushed the subject. Prince Zuko was a terrible liar. Iroh could see in his nephew's wide golden eyes that something was very, very wrong. And he knew that he couldn't help him, so long as he refused to help himself.

He's obviously afraid of something, or someone. But who, and why? Who could possibly touch him? Iroh paused, realization hitting him. Unless Ozai is somehow involved.

Iroh hadn't missed the fact that Zuko had never once spoken or looked at his father during the one meal they'd shared. He'd practically run from the room.

The old man sighed, shaking his head. Empty speculation wouldn't help either of them. Until Zuko opened up to him, Iroh's best course of action was to let the matter rest. He didn't want to risk making the situation any worse than it already was.

Looking around, Iroh swallowed the lump that rose in his throat as the memories stirred in his chest, the painful ache of separation driving his nephew's troubles from his mind. When he closed his eyes he could just see them, his wife and son, walking down these very corridors. Living in these very rooms.

Iroh lowered his lids, letting the ghosts come to life one more time.


Updated 08/20/15