Disclaimer: I hold no ties with Avatar: The Last Airbender. This work of fiction was created for, and only for, the sole purpose of entertainment. No profits were obtained from the makings of this story. Credits go out to Nickelodeon, Michael DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko respectively.

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Summary: A struggling prince tries to maintain order. Torn between civil war and personal resentment, Zuko attempts to lead a revolution against those that betrayed his people. Along the way, a life-changing meeting with a water healer sets him on his destiny.

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"A great civilization is not conquered from without until it has conquered itself from within." ~Ariel Durant

Chapter I– Wounds That Run Deeper Than Blood

Rain pattered on the cobblestones, sluicing through the dismal and grey darkness. Its falling covetousness drowned out the forms of elegantly slanting rooftops, its perturbed rhythm danced across the ground in a torrent of murkiness, cleansing the streets with a deep fog. A particularly broken piece of cobblestone-road withheld a small puddle of condensed water, retaining it in a small and shallow bowl of stillness, only agitated by the falling droplets that managed to make its way past the angled roof-like niche of its housing.

A leather boot splashed its way lithely in the puddle, before dashing off with its owner in a mad race. Two heartbeats later, a thundering troop of heavier footsteps followed in hot pursuit of the first.

The little pool of water rippled in a tense few waves, before slowly settling back into its quiet, peaceful pulse.

From the grey clouds above, lighting roared, falling through the air like a jagged spear. Such screeching blue matter lit the landscape for the sparsest of seconds, illuminating a figure clothed entirely in black sprinting away from eight armored soldiers. Their frantic and scraping footsteps were masked over the downpour.

The runner bolted around a corner of a house, down into another alleyway. The slap of his boots on the wet street brought up small splashes in his wake, a feeble noise compared to the thrum of thunder above. Over the fleeing man's right shoulder, a simple scabbard filled with a pair of Dao swords clinked with every hastened stride he took, with every pump of his arms. The harsh breathing of his pursuers rasped and mingled with the hammering of the rainstorm, far to close in his ears for comfort. He chanced a glance backwards.

Lighting crackled against the sky once more, and through his demonic and azure-colored mask with grinning fangs, Zuko saw one of his lead trailers stumble in shock.

"It's the Blue Spirit! Get him!"

Zuko dashed around the edge of the backstreet, veering off out into the open. Only mere meters ahead, a long and wide ascending set of stairs came into his sight. Having once lived in this city three years ago, the banished prince-turned-rogue's memory reminded him that he still had a long stretch ahead of him. If he managed to make it up the stairs without being caught, he had a lengthy trek down the muddy entrance ramp –latticed with watchtowers and garrisoned with more guards– before reaching Harbor City, where his safe house was located. Hypothetically speaking, if he made it that far, there was a chance Zuko could escape. Realistically speaking, that hypothetical chance was dwindling down rapidly.

Barely onto the tenth step, his heart plummeted when he saw more soldiers at the top of his escape route. From behind, the small entourage of guards chased him up the stairs, hoping to converge with the guards above. Shit! he thought wildly. They were going to trap him on both sides in a pincer movement. Thinking quickly, he came up with a split-second decision. Zuko spun back around to face his pursuers, one hand unsheathing his Dao swords in a simultaneous swing.

The leading chaser didn't even see the blow coming. Sharp steel bit into the iron scales of the man's armor, sliding past almost effortlessly. His body toppled to the ground; first one half, then the other. Taking advantage of his opponents' stunned shock, Zuko pressed the attack, hoping to dispatch of this group before he became helplessly outnumbered. With an intricate dance of footwork, the young assassin spun himself into a whirling form of steel, striking out at his foes. He managed to disarm another man and kick him down the stairs before the rest of the chasing party reacted.

Parrying a multitude of frantic slashes and ruby flames, he twisted to the side, sidestepping a punch laced with fire. Without a moment's hesitation, Zuko brought down one of his weapons upon the arm intended to maim him. An earsplitting shriek reverberated from the injured guard as he had a single moment to see his mangled arm upon the rouge spattered ground, before a second strike from the Blue Spirit snuffed him out of his misery.

Shifting from one foot to the other, Zuko attacked from all angles, never once slowing down. The style was effective, aggressive, and it managed to break the root of all of his attackers. Bloodlust seemed to have clouded his vision. All he could see was red.

For almost an eternity, only a handful of things registered within Zuko's mind: One, the blood. The gory, crimson staining fluid seeped onto the steps like an endless deluge of red waterfalls. And it was all because of him. Two, the rain. Its endless patter flowed and washed away the incriminating scarlet, soaking into his clothes, his hair. It was almost as if the water wanted to rinse him of his dark deeds. And finally, that-

A sharp slice of silver across his left bicep, then his chest, interrupted his thoughts and caused him to hiss in pain. Now he was attacking on pure instinct and muscle-memory. With a snarl, he lunged forward in a deadly dance of death. The final soldier fell in a heavy heap of metal.

It took him a moment to realize there were no more oncoming attacks from the guards. His breath shook and his chest felt constricted. His arms felt numb, so numb. Like the nerves in his limbs had been shocked and strained into lethargy. Zuko swayed slightly on the spot, looking through vacant eyes up at the last remaining steps to the top. Wearily, he began the long and painful ascension, sword-blades dragging on the rocky stairs.

His dark musing began again. And it was then, finally, it hit him. That registered self-guilt of what he had committed. Patricide, treason against his nation, murder. They all fell under the same category. He had killed. For the first time in his life, Zuko had taken a life –had taken multiple lives.

He managed to make it up to the top before his swords clattered to the ground and the Blue Spirit fell to his knees, shoving off his mask. Behind him lay the corpses of all the guards he had slain. None of the bodies moved. His lips quivered, his breath hitched. And then, his stomach did a flip-flop; before he knew it, Zuko was on all fours, retching.

The rain managed to conceal the bitter tears leaking out of his unscarred eye, but did nothing to cover the stench of vile human upheaval.

Again and again, the banished prince vomited, until there was nothing left in his stomach. Dry pants soon encompassed his prior retching, shaking him while the acrid heaves dissipated all-together. When he was finally able to stand up, Zuko could still taste bile on his tongue and feel its acidic collateral lodged in his throat. His shoulders shuddered.

"I'm sorry." He whispered softly to the lifeless guards, "I'm so sorry."

The prince reached down and retrieved his Dao swords, sheathing them into their scabbard on his back. He then picked up his abandoned mask, and with trembling fingers, retied it onto his face. Without a backwards, Zuko took off at a run down the entrance ramp, trying to rid himself of the soul-searing shame stuck heavily in his conscience.

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Zuko awoke the next day to the pungent smell of coal fumes and fresh-caught fish. Pale sunlight streamed down from a dingy and battered window while sea gulls cawed shrilly overhead. Blinking open his eyes, Zuko sat up from his cot, threw on a hooded cloak, and slowly made his way out of the decrepit wooden shack he called home.

The streets were still muddy from last night's storm as the banished prince made his way out the door. Hanging above him, catwalks crisscrossed and dangled precariously from rooftop-to-rooftop. To a stranger of Harbor City, such teetering little bridges seemed nothing short of a safety hazard. But for a local dweller, it was the quickest, driest way to reach one's given destination.

Without a second thought on the matter, Zuko jumped onto a stack of crates nearby, scampering up one, two, three of them, before launching himself up to catch the edge of a second-level window. Fingers digging into the sill firmly, he planted both of his feet onto the wall and shoved off, releasing his grip. A quick tuck and roll later and he was back onto his feet, standing on the flats of a neighboring rooftop.

In well practiced ease the teen jumped from one rooftop to another, sometimes using the footbridges, other times forgoing them completely to leap lithely onwards. Barely five minutes had gone by until Zuko's quick way of travel brought him to the leg of his journey: a disheveled looking tavern named The Jasmine Dragon.

He landed heavily on ground, the force of gravity buckling him down into a crouch. People walking by gave no notice of the "unordinary" behavior. It happened all the time. Dusting himself off, the banished prince walked through the open doorway of the inn.

He took a stool by the counter, taking a few copper pieces from his money pouch and tossing it carelessly onto the countertop. "Firewhiskey," he said to the barman.

The barman, a portly elder with a grizzled grey beard and a simple topknot, peered skeptically at him, trying to gauge his age from beneath the black hood he wore. "Aren't you a little young to be drinking Firewhiskey, dear boy?" he asked.

Zuko snorted. "Business is business. What's it to you?"

"I suppose I cannot argue with that logic," said the bartender. His voice chuckled jovially, "Though, I do warn you, it's awful strong. Me, I would much rather prefer a nice steaming cup of jasmine tea!"

Zuko ignored the old man's antics. He watched quietly as the barman poured a thick dark amber liquid into a small wooden cup. As soon as his drink was within reach, Zuko tipped the contents down in single shot. The burning sensation in his throat left him coughing and slightly red in the face. Damn! He swallowed. That stuff is toxic.

The barman laughed quietly once more. "Another?" He asked.

Grimacing, Zuko nodded.

As his cup was filled up once more, the prince heard the older man begin talking again. "You know, this old inn brings in a lot of different customers. And a lot of them think that if they can drink their difficulties away, they won't ever have to worry about them anymore. It is a bit sad, I must say. Those poor souls have just a moment of bliss, before reality wakes them back up and they realize they're troubles never really left." The bartender peeked over at Zuko, amber eyes filled with aged wisdom and perception.

"What is it that troubles you, young man?"

He remained silent for a while, staring at the whisky, watching it lap from one side of the cup to the other. Internally, he debated the merits of talking with this stranger who seemed interested in him. Maybe it was the familiarity. Maybe it was the way the old man seemed so down to earth. Either way, Zuko found himself talking.

"My father died," he said quietly.

"Ahh . . . it is always a great sorrow to hear of a family members department from this world. Though, if you remember how the proverb goes–" the bartender began.

"He died because of me." Zuko interrupted, "my father died because of what I did . . . and what I didn't do." Sullenly, the banished prince returned to his drink, slapping down another shot.

Bushy grey eyebrows rose upwards. At loss for words, the barman simply waited for the cup, filling it up once more and handing it back to his quiet companion. "I am sorry," he said.

Zuko didn't speak.

Suddenly at the door, a trio of official looking soldiers appeared, thoroughly repulsed by all the mud on their feet. Zuko assessed them from the corner of his good eye. Light armor. Daggers in their belts. No helmets. Definitely peacekeepers.

Carelessly, they stomped toward the counter, shaking off excess debris and making the barman wince with each squelching step they took. One held an unraveled scroll in his hands, depicting a facial-shot of Fire Lord Ozai. The bartender squinted, trying to make out the black glyphs staining the parchment.

Nearby, Zuko sat rigidly in his stool.

"Three cups of your finest wine," one said.

Attempting to keep tabs on more potential customers, the old man rambled on good naturedly. "Oh! Well, I have a few different choices: there are the famous red wines in stock, grown straight from some of the best gardens here in the Fire Nation, and there are some different hybrid wines, with some of the recipes being my very own! Ah, and there's also–"

"Just shut your mouth and bring us something to drink, old man." Another snapped. "We're on a time crunch right now. If we don't get back to the capitol, it'll be your ass that pays."

Zuko watched the barman chuckle, unperturbed. "Of course, of course. My sincerest apologizes. Though . . . if you don't mind me asking," the man began fetching three cups and pouring red liquid out of a cask nearby. He handed out the drinks, and then pointed off-handedly to the scroll, "What exactly are you doing with that poster?"

Seemingly appeased that their liquor was finally available, the snappish officer, along with his fellow comrades, took a swig of their drinks. One smacked his lips appreciatively before pushing the parchment towards barman.

"Take a look for yourself," he said.

The hooded prince stared at the incredulous face of the bartender, as his aged eyes quickly deciphered the glyphs of Fire Nation manuscript. Shock latticed his features.

"Y– you mean to say that– that the Fire Lord is . . ."

"Deader than a doornail? No longer with the living? Yep, that's exactly what it says." Peacekeeper one said. "We just posted a few of these this morning, orders from some tight-ass admiral. Got more rounds to do back near some of the other outskirt cities. The capitol's already heard of the news, and let me tell you, it is spreading like wildfire." He took another drink of his wine. "The way I see it, we're going to have a lot of civil unrest on our hands very, very soon."

"How did my– how did the Fire Lord die?" The barman asked in a hushed tone. Immediately, Zuko's already high strung interest in the conversation piqued. Against his better instincts, he discreetly leaned in closer.

"No one really knows. Some say it was the Blue Spirit who killed him. Others think it might have been a planned hit from one of his political enemy. Either way, the morning retinue found him dead, along with nearly twenty other guards. Whoever did it sure knew how to kill." The man knocked back the rest of his wine.

"Damn honorless bastards who did it ought to be strung up, drawn and quartered, if you ask me. Hell, I'd like to see a recap of the Fire Lord's infamous Agni Kai. Burn all their faces just like that little bitch of a son he had. That'd teach 'em a less–"

Somehow, Zuko's grip had managed to split his cup, cracks flowing along its edges. The dribbling essence of whisky, accompanied by the sparks flitting in between his fingertips, proved a lethal combination. Fire spurted up from the veins and splits, catching the attention of the conversationalists.

"Looks like he doesn't agree with you, Poon," the third man remarked snidely. "What's the matter boy? Do you think that the Fire Lord wasn't justified when he taught his son a lesson?"

"I do not think fighting a child can ever be justified." Zuko seethed.

"Ha! Just goes to show what you know, you dirty peasant. Maybe if your father taught you some respect, you'd have a respectable job and you wouldn't be in this hell-hole for the rest of your insignificant little life–"

Simmering silently, Zuko's jaw clenched with the effort of not rising to the taunting soldier's bait. All the while, the elderly barman had remained mysteriously silent in his spot behind the counter.

"–Just think! Maybe mama wouldn't have to be a whore for a living, then, huh? Tch, I bet that would–"

Screw being silent. Zuko's fist knocked the man out cold. "Don't ever talk about my mother like that." His voice was murder.

"Hey!" Two pairs of daggers were drawn out quickly from their owners' belts. "Striking an officer is a criminal offence! You're going to the– AH!"

With lightning speed, the prince leapt onto the nearby peacekeeper and both of them toppled to the ground, their drinks and stools crashing with them. Zuko scrabbled on top of the man, squeezing his knees together to prevent the officer from overturning him.

The man slashed upward with his dagger, aiming for Zuko's unprotected stomach. Quickly, the hooded prince blocked the blow with his left forearm, catching the peacekeeper's wrist before he could deliver the blow. Zuko drew his other hand back and smashed his fist into the man's face; once, then twice, both in rapid succession. The hits caused the man to drop his blade in a feeble attempt to cover up. Before the disorientated official could regain his bearings, Zuko unleashed a combination of hook shots to the sides of each temple. Left, right, left, right.

The man's entire body slackened as his eyes rolled upwards.

Now the peacekeeper called Poon was upon the prince. Before he could duck, Zuko felt a searing cut clip him along the edge of his neck. He flipped back off the unconscious body, hissing in pain. As he rolled, his hood fell down.

Recognition danced across Peacekeeper Poon's features as he took in the violet scar beneath the long black bangs. His mouth fell open–

–and Zuko promptly landed a spinning back kick to Poon's jaw, knocking him out cold. Grasping the side of his neck, he quickly threw on his hood before the old barman, who had a look of utter shock on his face, could see the scar. It appeared that he was not swift enough. Faster than the wind, Zuko fled the bar and darted out off into the street. His expression unchanging, the bartender seemed completely stupefied.

"Nephew?" he whispered.

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Blood trickled in an endless diminutive stream between Zuko's fingertips. The dagger had just barely nicked his jugular vein, but it seemed that barely mattered little. The world was swimming around him. It was really a feat that he was still alive, given the significance of where he had been struck.

Nearly four minutes had passed by since his incident in the bar. Four measly, tiny, long, and painfully enduring minutes.

He stumbled across the doorstep of the little household, the one with the sign his barely coherent mind read as "Apothecary" and knocked heavily on its door. Seeing black spots swim across his vision, the prince acquiesced to his body's need to be supported on something other than his feet. His form slumped onto the door, back leaning on it like a crutch, causing most of his weight to shift from his legs to the un-opening fixture.

Of course, that was when said thing decided to open. Zuko fell flat onto his back in an undignified heap. He groaned pathetically.

The last thing he saw was a pair of brilliant, wide sapphire eyes staring down at him with concern.

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Then the darkness overtook him.

A/N: Of course Zuko won't die . . . yet. *dodges projectiles*. Haha. Sorry for the long wait, though. I wanted to hammer this out perfectly –it being the first chapter and all (Prologue not included)–. This story is going to have a lot of twists in it, or at least, that's my plan. Hopefully, those of you reading it will be happily enticed each chapter: I want to keep it exciting!

Special thanks to the following:

–TrixTR314

–PastaSentient

–KJun (and)

–Mallyce

For being the first (awesome!) reviewers! Special, special thanks to TrixTR314 for all the help she has given me –about you know what! – .

See you all in Chapter II.