Chapter Two

That very same night, the Fire Lord himself was retiring to his chamber, having just finished a lovely banquet with the High Chancellor. Discussing political matters was of the utmost importance these days, now that the war was finally over. Aang had done what his father had always deserved. Now the man himself lived like nothing more than a hog monkey, locked away for the rest of his days. It was a wonder that Zuko himself even went to visit the former dictator, it wasn't as if he had provided any useful information or insight. Nothing. Not even a 'good-bye' or 'I love you.'

But his father had never truly loved him, Zuko understood that now. Before he had always hoped, a part of him had constantly believed that his father would love him. That he'd want Zuko back, when his honor was regained. When he captured the Avatar. But he now knew that all his father had truly adored was power, destruction, hate. Not his own children, his own wife. No, never. Zuko's own mother had been banished, for nothing more than trying to save her only son's life. He had not been killed, astoundingly. No, he had not. But now he was forced to wear a mark that was not his. One which never let that memory die, a constant reminder of the reason his mother was banished, his own suffering: for the rest of his life.

But then he remembered how Katara had offered to heal this seemingly permanent wound, which had stained him since childhood. How she had gained his trust, told him of the Spirit Water, that there truly was a cure. Before then Zuko had always thought the girl hated him, never wanted to see him again. She had told him so, that day in the crystal prison.

'You're a terrible person, you know that?! Always following us, hunting the Avatar, trying to capture the world's last hope for peace! But what do you care? You're the Fire Lord's son! Spreading war and violence and hatred is in your blood!' After that time, he had begun to believe it.

'It's just that for so long now, whenever I would imagine the face of the enemy, it was your face. . .'

My face. . .

Zuko felt his heart burn in anger and shame. His face. To Katara, his had been the face of the enemy. Not his father, not Azula, him. Zuko felt sorrow welling in his chest, his anger quickly overwhelming him. Breathing hard, face constricted, he let out a bellow of rage, nearly burning the dresser to ashes. But then he put down his fist, crumpling into a frustrated heap on the cold marble at his feet. No. No, no, no. Why must I always get so angry? I cannot not behave like this. It . . . it isn't what's expected of me. What . . . what Katara had found in me to believe in.

The weather here was entirely different. He was unused to such warmth and light, having been banished from his home for years too numerous to count. Cool wind whispered through the trees, and the night was warm, refreshing. A light breeze flowed in through open window, playing with his dark hair. Zuko pulled it free of his people's traditional symbol, letting out a deep sigh of contentment as the weight was lifted. In that moment, he remembered why he was here. It was late, and he had a big day ahead of him. Meetings, teas, banquets, all with the most esteemed of political figures and Kings, one from every Nation no less. He sighed. Being Fire Lord came with its prices. Just as Zuko had begun to pull on a black and red silk pajama shirt, however, the wind became much stronger, the torches around him doused in seconds. He gave a small gasp of surprise, quickly pulling the garment over his head. The newly-crowned Fire Lord glanced around him in unease for signs of an intruder. But he needn't look far, however. For in the light created by Zuko's bending, he saw the outline of a figure, the face hidden behind a blue and white mask which was eerily familiar. The shiny iridescence of a sword glinted in each hand.

"Hello, Zuko."