Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. And I didn't write the Bible, either, so... nope. None of it's mine except for the scenario itself.
Super Long AN: Let it be forever known that I conceived the idea for this within a half hour of writing the previous scenario, which was during a long spell of successive nights of insomnia, before two major tests (both of which I did surprisingly well on, thank you very much) and shortly after The Awakening first aired. It came to me as I was looking through my scriptures for a verse or two that would make a good epithet for the previous scenario (Past Midnight)… and the one I'd initially thought of turned out to be a poor fit. Subsequently I stumbled onto Job 3:4-9… and I must say it blew me away how much it applied. The next day (technically, as I did not actually sleep) during school I began writing this scenario. And I must say that it did make me exceedingly happy.
(Ironically enough, a part of this was quoted by Davy Jones in PotC, when he summons the Kraken. Small world, huh?)
Seriously, kids, read your scriptures, whatever they may be. They rock out loud.
By the way, I have reached a bit of a sore point with Zuko. I'm still his fan, I accept him for who he is, but he definitely needs to be beaten within an inch of his life with a rubber hose. I'll let a lot of things slide, but YOU DO NOT MAKE IROH CRY AND GET AWAY WITH IT! Iroh was, after all, the first and founding member of the Zuko Fan Mob.
Okay, enough backstory, explanations and apologies. On with the story.
Let that day be darkness; let not God regard it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Let darkness and the shadow of death stain it; let a cloud dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it. As for that night, let darkness seize upon it; let it not be joined unto the days of the year, let it not come into the number of the months. Lo, let that night be solitary, let no joyful voice come therein. Let them curse it that curse the day, who are ready to raise up their mourning. Let the stars of the twilight thereof be dark; let it look for light, but have none; neither let it see the dawning of the day.
He should have known that he would be caught. He had guessed, after all—that was why he'd apologized to his uncle in advance, set his affairs in order, written a quick farewell to the woman he might have loved—but he should have known. Because that's just what happens when you betray our people. He knew it, he'd expected it. He'd done it anyway.
Smart, Zuko. But then, he'd never been praised for being particularly brilliant.
This was, though in a far more grim, bloodthirsty way. Azula never did spare any expense, especially not when eliminating a threat. The parade was spectacular, complete with brazen banners declaring his treason, criers announcing the same fact to anyone who couldn't read. All sorts of things were hurled at him from the surrounding crowds, and he could only hope that the wetness he felt was nothing but spittle. Whatever it was clung unpleasantly in his crudely shorn hair and dripped into his eyes; the chains that bound him had long since chafed his skin raw.
The morning's march had almost ended, and noon approached. The procession slowed to a crawl as they approached a raised tier—the place of his execution. Upon it crouched the steel cage, an abomination of bars and spines, the floor beneath it already covered with wood and tar.
His father stepped forward to announce his crimes, as though every one of those million people wasn't intimately aware already. Zuko ignored his scornful eulogy and allowed himself to be shoved roughly into the little cage, still bound and chained to a ridiculous degree. Escape was impossible. Death was certain. At least a million people now mocked and jeered at him. And yet, absurdly enough, he felt neither frightened nor ashamed. He gazed out into that crowd with imperial dignity, undoubting, unflinching. Now he sought out the faces that he recognized: there was Azula, grinning like a snake; and Mai, who looked away, her posture screaming a distress that her stoic face couldn't show. And there was Iroh. Now Zuko felt pain, a stab of regret. The old man was almost cocooned in heavy iron chains, surrounded by a private faction of guards whose spears were trained for his throat. He would have no choice but to watch his nephew's death.
More than the procession, more than the pyre, more than all the shame and agony they had tried to force upon the now ruined prince, this was cruel. He steadied himself again—he had to prove to Uncle that it would be all right. That he wasn't afraid. He met Iroh's eyes with all the courage he possessed and raised his face to the heavens.
Maybe nobody else saw—maybe they were all too busy laughing or averting their eyes. Maybe he was the only one who had thought to seek out Agnii in his final moments. Or maybe those who had seen chose to keep their silence as the pale sphere rose in the sky. It wasn't until his sentence was declared and celebrated that the heavens began to darken—and even then, the thought was brushed away as a passing cloud, a flock of birds—and then the Moon had already begun to obscure the Sun.
"Do it now!" Azula shrieked, lunging forward to ignite his pyre.
Zuko didn't look down, didn't even spare her a glance. His eyes were squeezed shut against the brilliance of the eclipse, and he felt the warmth leave his face as Agnii turned away from an unjust murder.
Around and below him, people screamed in panic and outrage. Other shouts joined them—battle cries, the splash of living water and cracking ice, the howl of wind, the groan and crunch of shifting earth. The sounds were lost, and he could only feel the bars of his cage crumble around him, the sudden lightness as his chains fell away.
In chaos the city fell. In a single hour the morbid glee of his execution had broken, shifted, and was finally transfigured. Now he stood, proud and free, awaiting only that last request—
"Come on, Zuko," the young Avatar called out, offering him the swords he had once been so fond of. He looked up, to where Agnii still shunned his errant children.
The twin hilts were firm in his hands before he was even aware of taking them, still drunken from the sweet taste of his own expired life.
"Are you coming?" another warrior beckoned as he struggled to fend off the now panicking throng.
Zuko didn't utter a word in reply—he only leaped from his ruined pyre, blades readied, and plunged into the throes of his nation's rebirth.