.

.

When Sokka first stepped into that room, sliding the door closed and turning to take it all in, he couldn't help but feel a little underwhelmed by what what he saw.

There was no dramatic first meeting, sudden clash of wills, or thrown accusations for his trespassing. The (now teenaged) Prince of the Fire Nation was fast asleep in his bed, dead to the world and completely unaware of Sokka's presence in his abode. The hearth was dim with smoldering embers, and the candles extinguished but still leaking remnants of warmth; it hadn't been long since they'd gone out. And the Water Tribe warrior's padded boots were rendered practically silent on the red carpet, leaving him free to step inside further. Sokka removed the cumbersome helmet, setting it aside on the dresser as to see better.

The bedroom was luxuriant but simply furnished, and little more than the bed, dresser and end tables adorned with a dish for incense took up actual space in the room. A single window had its shutters cracked open on the adjacent wall, letting a cool breeze filter in.

The only thing that seemed to add a little life to the room were the handful of paintings hung across the walls. Most of them were scenery paintings that Sokka only glanced over. The exception was a somewhat larger painting on the far wall near the bed. It was a portrait of the very same Prince that Sokka had come to the palace to find. The colors on that one were more vibrant and eye-catching, and glancing once at the bed told him that it was a good likeness.

But a big painting of himself in his own room? That was maybe, a bit much. So Sokka could tell he was already off to a great start with this mission.

Inspection of the room complete, Sokka took a breath and finally turned towards the bed.

The man who he remembered as Fire Lord Ozai was younger looking than he expected, and in this time, he couldn't be any older than fifteen or sixteen. Long black hair. Relaxed brow. Looked familiar somehow. Hardly the visage of a terrifying destroyer; he wasn't scary in the slightest.

Sokka leaned back against the wall, watching him and considering.

Option One: Kill Ozai here and now, before he even woke up to confront him. It would be the easiest option, and by far the quickest. It would guarantee that the man would never grow up to unleash devastation on the Earth Kingdom, and Sokka would never have to watch the world burn and people he cared about die around him. There were downsides to that too, like the unknown vacuum of power that would rise up in his place. Sokka had been in the Fire Nation capital just long enough to glean some bits of information about Iroh, who was still a beloved general of the Fire Nation. If Ozai died here, would that man ever change to become the kinder man that existed in the future? Or would something worse happen instead? He had no idea.

But it was also the most tempting option. And Sokka couldn't deny he wanted that, even if he wasn't someone who made a habit to sate vengeful urges. He could envision it so clearly though, pulling his sword free in less than a second, bringing it down and–

Sokka's thoughts were abruptly cut off when said Prince shifted in his sleep, turning onto his side. The scant light from the partially open window moved across him, causing the shadows to shift so that they were darkening the left side of his face in a twist of fate that was as startlingly coincidental as it was enlightening. Because that one movement caused was to show him exactly what the source of that familiar feeling was.

The darkness gathered around that spot produced a similar effect as the scar on Zuko's face. And that made the resemblance absolutely undeniable, to the point that now he couldn't unsee it. It was the the lack of a scar that threw off his perception. Ozai looked like his son, so much so that the fantasy of striking him down crumbled instantly.

Oh, Zuko. Sokka almost groaned, pressing his palms into his face.

Option one wasn't actually an option at all. Because by killing Ozai, he'd also be killing his children. Every good or necessary evil committed by them lost forever in a single blow. Not to mention that Sokka would also be losing his friend. To be honest, he just couldn't sacrifice people he cared about most of all. He couldn't go through with that, knowing what would happen. And it was incredibly frustrating not to have seen that reasoning beforehand. He had considered killing the man early as an unpleasant but possibly necessary solution to his destroyed future, but the truth was the exact opposite: He needed Ozai alive.

Somehow, Sokka got the feeling that Yue knew the truth from the start. That, no matter how torn up he was about the loss he suffered, killing Ozai wouldn't help him to fix it. And it wouldn't help them either. She was just waiting for him to come to the same conclusion.

Which meant that his choices were actually more limited than he thought at first.

Which were to either wake Ozai up and talk to him, or…kidnap him.

Both plans had flaws and risks. One would give him more control over the situation but would turn the Prince against him from the outset. The other could have the opposite result. Neither was a particularly safe option. There had to be something else.

It was at that moment, as if Yue was still lending her power to him, that the clouds slowly started to part and the moonlight shone down. And illuminated by that glow, were people in dark clothing, scaling the palace just as Sokka had done not too long before. The warrior tensed up in an instant, creeping down low to the windowsill, unlatching it just slightly and leaning in close to catch the whispers on the wind. "You sure you know which room is the kid's?"

"Don't worry so much. My source has never led me wrong before. By this time tomorrow, we'll be sitting pretty with this ransom for the rest of our lives." Sokka stilled, mouthing the word ransom under his breath and glancing sideways at the still-sleeping Prince. 'Well, aren't you the popular one today,' He thought to himself, frustrated with this turn of events.

Wait.

Sokka turned back toward the window, gears in his brain spinning into motion. He could use this. Something better than any of his other plans. The perfect opportunity to both accomplish his mission and deal with this new problem just fell into his lap.

Option Four.

.

Ozai never had any high expectations for the respect of his wake up calls, he didn't expect to be suddenly awoken in the earliest hours of the morning either to heavy thumps on his door. Groggy and frustrated, Ozai shrugged off the sheets, intending on giving whoever was bothering him so late at night the anger they deserved.

But he didn't expect to see the someone standing in his room wearing full armor and holding a drawn sword. The blade gleamed like shiny obsidian, and looked sharp as could be. Not just that, but he wasn't wearing a helmet, exposing his face.

It was the swordsman Ozai saw on the streets the other day.

There was no way to mistake those blue eyes and dark tone in the Fire Nation.

Thankfully, the stranger wasn't preparing to attack him, but instead was bracing himself against the closed door. He wasn't even looking at the Prince, appearing to be too distracted with whoever or whatever was currently trying to slam their way inside. The wooden barrier creaked dangerously with every strike, and the frame was on the verge of buckling under the strain.

That didn't stop Ozai from jumping to his feet and assuming a firebending stance, burning heat gathering in his knuckles, prepared to strike in a moment's notice. "Who are you? How'd you get up here?" The Prince demanded, projecting as much intimidation despite just waking up.

The swordsman glanced his way for a moment before turning back to the door, "Good, you're awake. Mind lending me a hand with this?" He shifted back when a knife tore a hole in the wood.

"Answer me! Who are you and what do you want here?"

The stranger–he had to be a foreigner–shot him an irritated look and gestured at the door, which was barely in one piece, as if to say 'is this the time?' "What am I doing? I'm saving your life, Prince Ozai. The guys on the other side, knocking as loud as they are, they came here for you! Now, would you help a little or do I have to do this by myself?" Ozai didn't reply. He eyed the door, expression dark and skeptical, but didn't make a move more than that. "Fine, suit yourself," and with a sharp, fluid motion, the young man pulled his sword up and sliced cleanly through the wood before him.

Ozai stared as the swordsman launched himself into the hall, clashing with a group of black-clad individuals that definitely were not supposed to be in the palace. Was he actually telling the truth? And if that were true, he was clearly outnumbered.

"Out of the way, Water Tribe!" One of the intruders snarled, drawing a jagged blade out of its sheath, "After today, we're going to be set for life! And I won't let some insignificant interloper like you get in my way!" He struck at the black sword's raised guard in a shower of sparks.

"What are you still doing there?" The young man yelled to Ozai, "Get out of here!"

But in that moment, Ozai found himself struck with a realization, one that prevented him from bolting no matter what the swordsman said.

This was his moment.

He had been denied, over and over again. By his father, by Iroh, and his latest efforts to strike out were just as useless as any other. To bring glory to his name and his country was a simple enough desire, to let him test his limits, but he was never given the chance. Opportunity was finally knocking, literally in some respects. So when the Prince took in the sight of the intruders' fight, his expression was one of a self-important determination, 'No, I'm no coward.'

The attackers weren't expecting it. They had surely thought he was some fragile, royal child who never dreamed of war. Underestimating him. So when the Prince ran into the fray, the first gout of flame crashed from his clenched fist and struck the closest man across the chest, where he went down yelling. One down. The others backed up warily at the blow, clearing a space for Ozai and the swordsman, who was staring at him curiously. "What, are you happy now? I'll see these interlopers out of my home myself," He snapped, hands burning with heat and energy.

Ozai had never been in an actual battle before, so his training sessions had to suffice. When the enemies launched themselves in the fray once more, the advantage of surprise was lost, but that wasn't going to stop them from being defeated. Sooner or later. Ozai didn't know the more complicated sets, relying on the basic movements, simple and direct.

The swordsman was surprisingly capable; Ozai had honestly expected him to be overwhelmed early on into the fight. One look at him and anyone would assume he was an amateur. At least, no one in the capital would take the time to impart sword skills on a foreigner, he was sure of it. The Prince didn't know much about swordsmanship in actuality, but the young man was holding his own regardless.

(In reality, Sokka had his hands full compensating for the holes in Ozai's defense, all the while silently regretting asking him to step in and help.)

As it was, Ozai was caught up in the energy, baring his teeth as the adrenaline took over. As it was, it was only a matter of time until he made a mistake.

And when that moment happened, the Prince quite nearly lost his life. The closest and final kidnapper raised his blade at a vital time, intending on killing his mark if he could no longer capture him alive. Ozai saw the knife coming, but was off guard to be able to stop it. But at the last second, the swordsman's foot caught him in the knee and tripped him, sending the blade veering wide over Ozai's head. Without missing a beat, not even giving the man time to react, the young man pivoted, burying his sword in the would-be killer's chest.

Pushing the body off his sword, the stranger turned to watch Ozai grumbling as he picked himself up off the floor, dusting off the silk sleepwear with a huff. His life was just saved. The realization was a little numbing. The full force of it would sink in later surely, when the Prince really had time to think about it, but at the moment… "Wow, you must have really upset them to have come in numbers like that," The swordsman commented lightly, cleaning his sword and resheathing it.

Ozai wasn't having it; the rush of battle was ruined by his near-death experience and the smell of death, and the unwanted comments weren't helping.

"I didn't do anything," Ozai growled, ignoring the faintly strained expression he received. Instead he vented his frustrations by kicking one of the dead men, only to jump back with a hiss of pain when his bare foot struck hard leather. "Who are you, anyway? You never told me your name."

"…It's Sokka," The swordsman said, sounding a little distracted.

'That does sound foreign,' Ozai thought. But it doesn't explain how he knew about the intruders or how he managed to get inside the palace. As much as he owed him (and that alone was an irritation to think about), Ozai still needed more answers than that.

But before he could speak, they caught the sound of a ruckus down the hallway–the sound of guardsmans' heavy boots charging fast. The sound of the small battle had drawn more than a little attention. Sokka glanced behind them, but they were all but cornered at the far end of the hall. There was nowhere to go, except into Ozai's open room, the sliced door creaking and hanging off its hinges. There was nothing else to see other than a sturdy window that only that unnaturally sharp sword could probably get through, and an ornamental painted vase sitting just beneath it. Not many options for him to escape.

There was no time left.

A group of over half a dozen soldiers rounded the corner to see them, and leading them at the head–far more dangerous the entire rest of the group combined, was General Iroh himself.

"Ozai, we heard about the break-in and came as fast as we could," The Crown Prince stated, a flame springing to life in his open palms. "Have you been harmed?" Despite the appearance of outward concern in his words, Iroh's gaze remained fixed on Sokka warily, the latter of whom had his hand raised halfway to the handle of his sheathed sword. The foreigner's face was frozen, wide eyes betraying how much he did not want to be fighting these odds.

Ozai didn't like it either.

Iroh would kill Sokka. Easily.

As much as his brother infuriated him, Ozai knew full-well what he was capable of. There was no possibility of Iroh losing here. In any other situation he wouldn't care about the execution of a stranger, but the young man saved his life. The honor of the royal family and his status demanded that he repay that debt somehow, or else it would stain him for time to come. And there were still questions he had to answer.

"I'm fine," Ozai grumbled taking a few steps back, his hand curling around the rim of the rounded vase. "You're late, Iroh."

"My deepest apologies, brother. But now that we're here, you can step back into your room and let us take care of this."

Ozai frowned, eyeing the space between them getting smaller as the the guards slowly started moving forward, soon to get into striking range to put an end to things. He only had one idea that might work, just off the top of his head. Ozai glanced at Sokka, who was–luckily–not paying attention to him at the moment. His hand tightened on the vase's rim. The young Prince didn't give his older brother the dignity of a proper response, and instead seized up the vase in hands and brought it down on his rescuer.

Sokka only managed a surprised noise when he collapsed, out cold in an instant.

Ozai set the vase down awkwardly, unable to admit he expected it to shatter.

Iroh and his escort moved forward immediately, the older Prince rushing over to check if the swordsman was really unconscious, pulling the scabbard from his shoulder while the guards started to deal with the rest of the bodies. Straightening up, Iroh turned toward his brother, who wasn't bothering to meet his gaze, "What were you thinking? That was unnecessarily reckless, Ozai. What did you think you were going to accomplish?"

"It worked, didn't it?" Ozai replied. "Also, that's mine," He said, grabbing the scabbard out of his brother's hands.

"Ozai–"

"No, I'm not interested in hearing one of your lectures right now. I was woken up in the middle of the night by a gang of traitors…and him. I'm the one that defeated him, so I get first say, I know what I'm talking about." When one of the guards edged near the fallen swordsman, hand on his belt as if about to draw his blade to finish him off, Ozai rounded on him, commanding him to stop. "Not that one! I'm calling Conqueror's Law."

Whether it was the early hour in the morning or just the subject matter, Iroh didn't seem inclined to hide his frustration with Ozai this time, "Father isn't going to be happy about this. The Fire Lord isn't the fondest of…his kind. You know that, right, little brother?"

"Smoothing things over with father is your job," Ozai said, dismissively. "I'm not doing anything against the law. He can't punish me for that."

Iroh just sighed, stifling a yawn, "Well, I'm not responsible for whatever trouble you get yourself into this time."

He turned away, marching back down the hall.

Two of the soldiers dragged Sokka upright and around the corner, where in accordance with Conqueror's Law, they would deposit the young man in a cell until Ozai decided what he wanted done with him.

The Prince watched them leave and then paced back into his room, ignoring the shattered doorway, turning the sheathed black sword over and over in his hands.

That afternoon, he would make plans to see him again, to deal with his debt, and his questions.