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(scars)
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On the first day of his exile, Zuko locks himself in his living quarters and tries not to howl with pent-up rage.
Later, he looks at his task with calmer eyes and tries not to panic.
Everything about the Avatar is an unknown quantity, except his age and heritage. The Earth Kingdom Avatar was killed twelve years ago, and according to their records, the Avatar passes from life to life at almost the moment of death.
The fact that the Avatar is a firebender raises a host of dangers. The home islands are forbidden to him, but any true son of Fire Nation soil would have turned himself in already, so the colonies are the only place worth searching anyway, Zuko tells himself.
As a prince of the Fire Nation, he knows he should take care of his people, but there's a chance that the Avatar won't want to come to the capital. He might resist.
His age is irrelevant. Azula's shown him exactly how dangerous a twelve-year-old can be.
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The colonial governor looks at his scar first.
The beginning of an instinctive smirk is quashed by the sudden presence of the Dragon of the West in his receiving room, though Zuko doesn't realize it until months later. He chalks it up to the glare he levels through mismatched eyes.
He directs them to the census office with strained politeness, where the archivers look at him with the same expression. The shelf of births twelve years ago has already been searched—in fact, it has an air of constant use.
"We let the students come here for class projects—every year there's an attempt to find the most likely Avatar," they say, hiding smiles, as Zuko grits his teeth and sweeps out of the room without looking back.
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Azula is winning, he thinks with every passing day, patiently building up his store of resentment.
Days pass. He trawls through every scroll he can lay hands on, though he never stoops to thanking Iroh for visiting the palace archives before they left. With resignation, Zuko takes in the legends of the Avatar's exploits—Roku's duel with the volcano, Kyoshi's decisive peace, Yangchen's suppression of Water Tribe piracy.
The details are sparse, and rarely focus on the Avatar's childhoods, except to mention useless things like "He was an earthbending master at eleven" and "She was a prodigy." The stories mean nothing to him.
Hundreds of years of the Avatar's lives lie in his hands, but he still can't find him.
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He's sick and tired of scouring the colonies. Of course the firebending schools have already searched their thirteen-year-olds for any sign. Of course the Fire Sages have made countless passes of the respectable families. Every petty colonial official he speaks to takes immense pleasure in informing him of facts he already knows. Every man on his ship looks at him with the same mildly amused expression.
Repetition doesn't make the sting go away.
Everyone knows the Avatar isn't in the colonies. At least, not the civilized ones.
Zuko leaves his troops behind to seek out the ones with reason to hide from the Fire Nation. Uncle worries enough to come with him, and Zuko's secretly glad to have him there as they saddle their armored ostrich-horses and head inland.
The gratitude vanishes the moment Iroh begins to sing.
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Recently-conquered territory is nothing like he expects. This close to the front, it's not worth sending officials to control the area—Fire Nation mercenaries and soldiers plunder the countryside at will.
After a year of veiled insults and subtle insubordination has taught him to notice the disdain on people's faces, the peasants' expressions on seeing his uniform is gratifying. The novelty wears off when he realizes it's not respect, it's terror. Nobody will give them the information they need when they look like royalty, as ridiculous as it sounds.
It's harder to let the armor go than he thought, but Zuko steels himself and tries not to imagine Azula's teasing. Iroh looks far more comfortable in the simple brown homespun than royalty should, but Zuko refuses to complain, even when the itchy fabric and relentless Earth Kingdom sun make every movement excruciating.
They look at his scar first, like everyone else, but out here, their faces brim with respect and sympathy. Something shrivels inside his chest.
Zuko almost prefers the people sharp enough to stare longer, taking in the color of his eyes and skin. Under their suspicious gazes, he remembers who he is.
He doesn't feel proud.
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"We're looking for a firebender around thirteen years old," Zuko says in what he thinks is a casual tone, only to hear the entire bar fall silent. Not even Iroh's uncanny friendliness can weasel them out of that situation, and they leave before the villagers decide to turn on them.
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Zuko learns, village after village, that sometimes it's better to listen and wait. After a while, no one pays any attention to a ragged pair of wanderers taking refuge from the sun, not even when shouts ring out and a thin boy stumbles into the light.
The Earth Kingdom soldiers laugh as they cut him off in the middle of the street. No one tries to stop them—some even smile with a thin, gleaming look in their faces that reminds him too much of Azula.
"No one wants you around here," the leader sneers, making as if to grab the boy's collar, but he ducks out of the way with a sharp motion and tries to run. The other two soldiers close in and grab his arms, twisting them painfully. He doesn't squirm once he sees he's caught. Something hardens in his golden eyes.
The leader leans in to taunt, "Why don't you beg, little boy? If you squeal loud enough, maybe your daddy'll come back to save your sorry hide!"
The boy looks back with a furious expression. He coughs something like a cloud of smoke and soot into his tormentor's face, then changes his mind and spits.
"You little Fire Nation bastard—"
With a single fluid motion, Zuko smashes his scabbard against the backs of one soldier's knees, pivots, and rams the hilt into the other's temple.
Before anyone can blink, he stands face to face with their outraged leader. Behind him, the boy stands cautiously, looking at the soldiers crumpled in the dust on either side of him.
The leader growls, "Don't stick your nose into the army's business, stranger."
"You're just a common thug," Zuko says coldly.
"Please excuse my nephew," Iroh says, finally standing to join Zuko. His tone is rigidly polite. "He simply meant to prevent the injustice of the strong preying on the weak."
Iroh sounds like every disappointed teacher and parent. The soldier bares a snarl as he sees the crowd turn self-consciously against him.
"I better not see you in town anymore," he says, leveling a hammer at the travelers before walking away. The gathered villagers disperse nervously, trying not to look anyone in the eye.
Behind them, the boy is gone.
It's easy enough to track him to the dilapidated hut where he lives. The woman who answers the door has a sleepless look in her face, and wrinkles that speak of long sorrow. Her face pales as she whispers, "What do you want?"
Zuko's blood turns to ice when he sees the livid scar on her cheek, like a red hand print.
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For once, he lets his uncle do the talking.
"So how old are you, son?" Iroh says with fake lightness. The boy glowers silently and lets the words fall like dead leaves.
Iroh glances at his nephew with a strange expression. His words begin, "You know, you aren't the only one—"
With an uncharacteristic flash of insight, Zuko knows what he's about to say and turns red. "Don't you dare slander my mother!" he shouts, and storms out of the mud hut before the barely-controlled sparks leaping from his hands can damage any of the peasants' meager possessions. He's intensely aware of the boy's suddenly interested eyes on his back as he leaves.
Later that evening, Iroh says quietly, "He's too young by a year. Let's not impose on their hospitality any longer."
Zuko rises and walks away without another word.
Under the stars, Uncle says, "I am sorry."
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In the scattered villages on the border, there are too many haunted-looking Earth Kingdom mothers, living far away from neighbors who won't look at them on the street. They flinch away from sudden movements, and don't like to look too long at the fire beneath the cook-pot. Their skin is broken by mottled red scars.
Zuko tries to talk to the sullen children who look in his golden eyes and see a monster, or themselves. They hate him almost instinctively.
With a few soft words, though, Uncle manages to coax a bit of bending from them—a self-conscious spark or flame. As he watches, Zuko starts to realize that they're ashamed and afraid of their gift, and wonders if this was such a good idea after all.
Too many times, he's ended up protecting his targets from vigilantes trying to wipe every last drop of Fire Nation blood from their soil, to gain nothing but curses for his efforts. More rarely, he catches a strange look in the eyes of their mothers.
Every passing day of searching makes the disgust in his stomach grow stronger. He's almost relieved when Uncle Iroh suggests they take a—well, he doesn't quite use the word "break", but a "training retreat" by the ocean sounds perfect. Anything to escape this place, still bearing the scorch marks of war in its soil and its people.
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When his crew rejoins them in a small port city, Zuko realizes suddenly that it wasn't necessary to leave them behind to find the Avatar. He might hide, might even be able to evade a troop of Fire Nation soldiers—but in the end, he would never be able to escape his heritage. There would be uncountable villagers all too eager to rid themselves of their dishonor.
All he would need to do is post a bounty for firebenders of a certain age, and the Avatar's family and neighbors would jump at the chance to turn him in, even to their enemies. They would hate and betray him, an exile from his birthplace.
(In the garden she loved, he tries to demand, "Where is she?" in a shaky voice, but Father doesn't seem to hear.)
(He kneels, paralyzed with fear, under the lights and the stares of the entire Court, and looks up into a face without compassion.)
Zuko doesn't know what bothers him so much about the thought. He keeps it to himself while they train, even though the turmoil makes his flames splutter weakly and disrupts every attempt at meditation.
A couple months shy of the three-year anniversary, Admiral Zhao barges into camp on a komodo rhino. Zuko welcomes the distraction, at least until he snidely informs him that the search for the Avatar is far less important than crippling the Northern Water Tribe, only fit for useless banished children.
Then Zhao steals his crew and tries to assassinate him.
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Zuko lies on the beach, exhausted, trying to take in the sun forever.
No amount of warmth will be enough to drive off the cold, or forget the eyes of the Ocean—a feeling like fathoms-deep, crushing, sunless water. He starts to shake every time he remembers how it turned deliberately away to seize Zhao instead. But nothing could be worse than drifting on that same Ocean for weeks, staring at bloated bodies among the remnants of once-proud Fire Nation regalia.
And then, the anniversary. Zuko decides to forget the way the peasants looked at the gold-eyed children, and do whatever it takes to go home and reclaim his rightful place at Father's side. They'll be happier, he thinks, away from family and neighbors who will only betray them.
Besides, he can't let Azula win.
"Your uncle said I'd find you here," says a familiar voice that electrifies him to the core. He sits up abruptly, looking over his shoulder, half-unbelieving.
She's really here.
Mai doesn't try to hide her smile. "Hey."
Zuko stumbles to his feet, suddenly aware of his ragged appearance against the fineness of her robes. "Mai! What are you doing here—I haven't seen you in—mph!"
She steps back, blushing, as he touches his lips in bewilderment. "Mai?"
"You're coming back," Mai says, light dancing in her usually hooded eyes. "Your father sent me. He said he regrets what he's done. Apparently the Court's been getting ambitious and family are the only ones he can trust. He wants you home."
"Father ... regrets?" Zuko wonders, touching the skin beneath his eye. A shivery hope passes over him. "He wants me ... back home?"
Mai embraces him, seemingly unaffected by the sand and the salt dirtying her robes. "I want you back," she says, silencing his protests with another kiss.
A guilty weight vanishes from his chest.
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