"You can't tell me you like staying here," he's back in this dank, humid cell, and Iroh stretches his arms across his head before laying back down.

"It is not too bad, Kazou."

"Are you not getting this? This will be so easy. I'll get the guards to give me the keys and let you go and that's it. Azula will never even know," he can't keep the relieved tone out of his voice. Iroh turns his head.

"You care an awful lot what Azula thinks."

Kaz crosses his arms and falls further into the ground, settling down on his outer robes. "She's my aunt."

Iroh raises an eyebrow. "Ah, and Zuko was her brother and I'm sure you know how many times she tried to kill him when they were children. She's crazy."

He opens his mouth and then closes it again. He supposes Iroh is right — but Azula's never indicated to him that she wants to kill his father. Sure, they faced each other down, but neither of them seemed rather murderous at the time. They technically worked together in Ba Sing Se. And he knows her and knows that if she really wanted him dead she would have killed him now. He knows about her murderous side but he can't quite reconcile that Azula with who raided a ship with him yesterday. He's sure, for whatever reason, that she wouldn't kill him.

But that doesn't mean that he's unaware of how crazy she is. She is headstrong and sharp most of the time, almost blaringly so to a point of concern. Something sits unsettled in the balance, like she's overshot her goals, like she's planning too far ahead. "She's fine now."

"I'm sure, I'm sure. Oh, and thank you for the meals," he rubs his stomach and sighs again. "It has been a long time since I have had such good meat. I have no idea what you've done but this old man is thankful."

"Then let me let you out!" He lashes again. Iroh still looks unperturbed. "Seriously! Why don't you want to go?"

"As I said, everything will be answered in time," the man waves his heightened sounds away. "Now, let's talk about you."

He groans and slides back against the earth door, the ground rough against the side of his face. But then he thinks again. "You went with my father when he was exiled, didn't you?"

He solemnly nods. "Those were Zuko's dark days. He was younger than you, almost, when his own father burned him," and then he almost seems ashamed. "I could not even look."

"W—wait?" he starts. "Dad was burned?"

Well, obviously Dad was burned. Dad has a gigantic mark on his face. Of course he was burned. But he thought that Dad was burned when fighting in the war. Whatever Iroh is saying —

"Oh, child. You don't know," Iroh looks mournful. "I am — still ashamed. My brother, Ozai, yes — he burned Zuko's face when he was thirteen."

He moves forwards until his face is pressed between the jail's bars again. "What? Why would — why would a father burn their own child?"

It makes a whole lot of sense now that he thinks about it. Thinks about everything. Mom's consoling of Dad, Azula saying that her father didn't let her do anything but train. Of course he didn't, he was evil, and he knows this . . . but —

"Fire Lord Ozai burned Dad. I —" Iroh stays silent as Kaz closes his eyes and falls back, red lines indented on his head. "Did he even have a reason?"

How can you justify burning your thirteen-year-old son's face? He can't imagine Dad ever doing something like that — his dad couldn't do something like that. His dad tells stories and is always kissing Mom and burns whatever he tries to cook. He couldn't do anything remotely evil. He's never harmed a hair on any of their heads. Because my grandfather burned his face.

Oh, Agni. All he can do is place his head in his hands and hope the pressure will calm his pounding heart. And even if Azula was powerful, Ozai being like that too — he feels so guilty. His father had that sort of father and grew up to be a good person and he had the perfect Dad, a role model, and he —

He hasn't done anything wrong. He's not evil. But he ran away from his parents and he —

"He spoke up against a general in a war council. He wanted to save some fresh troops that Ozai wanted to sacrifice," Iroh says quietly and Kaz can barely hear. He's not crying but his chest is tightening. Dad had that for a father and —

"What happened to my grandmother?"

And the second he looks up and sees Iroh's frown he cancels that question. He doesn't need to know. "Nevermind. I —" he's grasping for straws. "You said you knew my mother."

Iroh still looks worried about his mild hyperventilation but settles down again. "Yes, I did. Katara was — is, I suppose — a waterbending prodigy. She was equally matched to Azula. And firmly attached to the Avatar with that brother of hers," he sounds like he's reminiscing.

Kaz looks up, his eyes bright. "Mom had a brother?" of course she would. Who knows how many awful siblings and parents his parents are hiding? This one is probably also a megalomaniac. He's curious anyway.

He's given a peaceful smile. "Ah yes, your nonbender uncle. He was a great warrior, of the style of the Water Tribes and the Earth Kingdoms and even the Fire Nation. Amazing with a sword," he gestures to the blade lined up against the back wall. "You didn't just get that trait from your father. He was the first to fight with Zuko, if I recall correctly," he laughs.

"What happened? When Mom and Dad first met? Were you there?" at Iroh's nod he sighs. "They told me that Dad got hurt in the war and Mom healed him and they met and fell in love."

There is one thing he hasn't heard from Iroh yet, and that's laughter. The old man is suddenly doubled over on his bed, cackling into his thin prisoner's garb. Kaz watches, stunned, for a moment, until the bursts turn into hacks. Then he coughs into his arm rather obviously. "Uh. So that didn't happen?"

"Oh, no," Iroh . . . is that a smirk? "I believe . . . the first time they saw each other Zuko and your uncle got into a fight, at the South Pole. And then shortly after that he fought your mother again. And then again," he tilts his head. "They fought for quite some time, didn't they?"

"Like . . . physically?"

"Oh, of course. There was that time on the ship, then some others, then the North Pole and then that time in Ba Sing Se . . ." that quiets him. "And then when your father put his head on straight and decided to join the Avatar I believe your mother was angry at him for quite some time. With that history I'm . . . actually a little surprised they managed to have any semblance of a relationship, although I know they were well-matched. Equals."

So now he's a little more mind blown. "Mom and Dad don't really fight. Ever," he runs his hand over the back of his head again, messing with his topknot. "They're like, attached to each other. I think when they're mad at each other they just kiss and make it up."

It's strange to be mentally complaining about his parents being freaky again. It feels all too normal, like that day he'd left. But they're always touching, always together, and he can't imagine them being his age and constantly fighting each other. Especially physically. He knows his dad's bursts of fire and the way his mother had blown up an entire building's plumbing system that day . . . they're powerful. He can't imagine what they would have been like against each other.

"What was Dad doing at the South Pole?"

"You see, he was banished to . . ."

It's much too late. Azula trusts him, a bit, and she won't think twice about his night travels out into the town. She loves the concept of freedom. But with the amount of servants he has in his wing and his utter lack of privacy, he's sure this excursion will be on everyone's lips tomorrow. He groans at that. He hadn't even left properly with soldiers or anything; he snuck out and he's sneaking back in.

His conversation with Iroh had lasted rather long even if the wise man still refused to tell him exactly why he didn't want to leave his cell; but it's not as though Kaz is going to release him against his own will, twisted as that seems. And that thought distracted him long enough to move his foot over the wrong part of the gate. He holds in an undignified squeal. This is the guard's blank spot, right at this angle of the fence, underneath a thick-branched tree; he doesn't want to be caught because of his lack of focus of all things.

With a silent grunt he hoists himself to the ground, tugging his robes behind him. They're torn and covered in dirt anyway. His knee twinges and he reaches a hand down to grab it. It's bleeding even if he can't feel it, blood against his skin. The substance is all over his hands now, and he hastily wipes himself off on his robes before running behind the kitchen entrance in this corner, footsteps thudding on the grass. They sound heavier than normal and he's scared he's going to be caught — he supposes he won't get in trouble, exactly, but it's a matter of principle — and after a few moments of no sounds he sighs and moves further in, sneaking through the side door. It should be empty at this time of night, but he's only done this once or twice before so he's not really certain exactly what the schedule is.

It's an open corridor and pitch black, nobody inside. The kitchen hall, the one which leads to all the preparation rooms, is rather long. This palace is full of excess even if he and Azula don't abuse it. He sniffs at one door and smells something sweet. The next is doughy and fried.

Yeah, Kaz is a little bit hungry. He skipped dinner to keep talking with Iroh, learning about the Avatar and the way his parents had fought at the North Pole. And what had happened at the North Pole. He'd learnt about his father's impossible mission and how he'd grasped any chances at redemption with both hands. There are stories in the middle too but Iroh hadn't mentioned those, claiming they would take too long. He'd left when his great-uncle talked about the Princess of the Northern Water Tribe, who'd kissed his nameless uncle, turning into the moon.

His mother had told him some story about the moon being a princess when he was younger. He thinks he's heard her tell it to Zuya several times since, but he'd always zoned out at the word 'princess'. He hadn't cared about it. He hadn't realized it was . . . real.

But anyway. His stomach is grumbling and all the doors are closed here. He's about to cut his losses and just stalk into a produce room — maybe he can eat fruit or something — when he sees a faint light coming out of one of the rooms at the end of the hall. Eyes narrowing, he makes his way towards it. It's right next to the entrance — perhaps some last minute cleaning up?

Whatever. He can ask whoever's inside, likely a head maid or cook or something, where he can get something to eat. Or maybe he'll ask them to make him something. He can do that, right? He's princely and powerful and all that. And yesterday was his birthday. They would have to pity him a bit anyway.

His footsteps are still light as he makes his way to the dim-lighted room. He slows down near it, tossing his robes and sword on the ground. He can't hear a lot of sound inside, not the rustle and bustle of dishes, the clanking he hasn't heard since he left home. But there is something else there —

He opens the door to a small lamp in the corner and a girl on the floor, a towel in her hand as she mops up something liquid — probably water — which is floating over the kitchen tiles. There's a small puddle of it on the ground, like something has been tipped over. The room is littered with empty metal tables full of appliances, most of which look fine, if a bit dented. He frowns at her back when he sees several pitchers rolling around on the ground as well, parts of them broken, glass pieces together in the corner.

Whoever it is hasn't noticed him come back. "Uh — what are you doing here?" that doesn't sound right. "So late?"

After a moment of silence something like a squeak comes out of the person in front of him. When he turns around he's faced by dark Fire Nation hair like his own framing a face with fresh green eyes, once which looks rather worn and maybe even younger than him. It looks familiar. He frowns for a minute and things about where he's seen it before realizing that this girl is a servant and he's probably glanced at her a hundred times.

She's dressed in a regular brown and red tunic, wet at the bottom where she's sitting in the puddle. But then she's hastily up, clambering on top of her robes to acknowledge him. "Prince Kazou," she bows her head, and he just gives her a confused look when she faces him again. He's normally intimidating with the staff, he thinks, but right now he's hungry and wondering why a young girl is in the kitchens alone at night. She can't be older than him.

"So, why are you here?" he repeats after she stands back up and freezes again, staring at him.

For however flustered she seems she is still more composed than he is when she speaks. "It was my turn to clean up the kitchen tonight, sir, but I accidentally pushed over a few items and am staying late to clean up my mess. I'm so sorry, sir. I didn't mean to —"

As always, she's speaking artificially. "You were left alone this late at night?"

Because that's what's grating on his sensibilities a little. There are strange people in the palace, nobles and advisors that he barely knows, and there are quite a few reasons why she shouldn't be here alone. One of them being the clause in the palace rules he'd been forced to read this morning that stated that servants should always be found in pairs in order to not dishonor the royal house. He'd like to think that the previous Fire Lords who created that rule were more noble. "Someone should be with you."

She doesn't answer him, not even with his staunch eye contact. She's almost brave. "Is there anything you want, Prince? I can find the remnants of — I can make something for you — I'm not the best cook but —"

And now she sounds more like a slightly cowed servant, even if her posture is still straight. He's still hungry but he shrugs, slightly intrigued. "I'm fine."

Her mouth slams back together and she stares at him, the bottom of her tunic dripping. She's still holding a towel. This is a rather strange situation. Kaz should leave, maybe go to another room to eat tea cakes or something. But he just heard tales about his mother trying to do good things, right things, when she was fourteen —

He misses her and she would slap him upside the head if he didn't — "Do you need any help?"

He blushes as her face shifts up and her hair, lank and dark, falls into her face. "With . . . this?" She holds up the towel and he nods. "I . . ."

She doesn't finish that thought so he moves forward to help her. Only he's been standing in that position for too long and the ripped skin at his knee objects the movement. "Ouch," he hisses, and when he looks down he winces at the river of blood flowing down it. It doesn't feel as bad as it looks. The girl winces inaudibly.

"You should sit down," she says authoritatively, and he doesn't take orders but he listens. She runs over to the side, the wet edges of her tunic swinging, and grabs what looks like a makeshift stool; likely what some of the maids who work here use. He staggers onto it and holds his knee up as she bends down on the floor, looking at the scrape with a calculated gaze. "That's deep."

"Is it?"

"Yes, I — sir," she steps away from him and drops her towel on the floor. "I'll go get another towel to wipe it down, Prince."

Now his leg is starting to throb. That barbed gate isn't exactly a joke; he actually takes in his wound and wants to look away. If Mom was here she would heal it, but she's not, and he's scraped from his knee to the center of his calf. And the wound is decently deep, digging much past his skin. It's starting to burn. Hopefully it won't stop him from training — he thinks the pain is what made him fall back from stepping, not the wound itself. He puts a hand down on his bleeding skin before leaning away. His hands are calloused and covered in dirt right now, not ideal for touching mending wounds.

She's back with a fresh towel in her hand — she'd moved to the side of the room, where he now sees there's a small closet. Deliberating, she holds it in her hand before stepping away from him again, looking around. Her hair is in a loose braid, looking like it's almost completely fallen out, an artificial version of how Aunt Ty wears hers. He's confused as to why she hasn't just given him the towel yet but then he hears her mumble under her breath. "Not every pitcher . . ."

So she's looking for water to help clean up the wound. It's almost thoughtful. He should just get up and make it to his rooms and deal with this in the morning, but she's here, and she's found the water pitcher. When she walks up to him and holds out both items they both tentatively smile. "Here —"

He grabs the towel and places it in the water before slowly mopping at his leg, letting the coolness of the liquid distract from his pain. It doesn't feel quite like his mother's waterbending, but it's fine. She's holding the pitcher and he reaches out to clean the wound again, muttering something he shouldn't when a couple of drops of it splash onto the floor and her soaked feet. And then she laughs.

Kaz thinks about that sound for a moment before leaving the towel against his knee and tilting his head up at her. "You're the girl who laughed at me outside of the courtyard the other day. You and your friend."

He doesn't know how to feel about that. That had been a humiliating day, a terrible breakdown, and to be laughed at over something as utterly stupid as his topknot not looking great? He looks down and sheepishly runs his hand through his hair again, realizing that he'd placed his crown in his shirt pocket in order not to be recognized by its glint. Still, his hair's a mess. And she'd been carrying his laundry. He's lucky he doesn't have his father's genes — his mother's skin hides the sheer crimson his face is turning.

She'd been the quiet one. "I'm sorry about that, Prince. I just —"

"Yeah, whatever," he snarks. She thinks he's stuck-up and gross then. Everyone here does. "I can just . . ." he stands up and once again underplays the sharp pain in his leg, collapsing back down on it. The girl grabs his arm, a little shorter than him, and moves him back up. She's rather strong, he notices, and he feels helpless as she puts him back into that sitting position, her hand on his shoulder.

He breathes in heavily again and she removes it after a few seconds. "I'm sorry, Prince. I didn't mean to do that."

"I'm fine," he grumbles, slowly standing up again, putting more pressure on his other knee.

"Can you make it back to your . . ." the girl starts, but he's already picked up the towel she'd discarded a few seconds ago and is letting himself sit down on the edge of the puddle, soaking up some of the liquid. He has no idea how all the pitchers fell to the ground in such a haphazard function. And it's late and he should be going back to bed, but he's thinking about his mom in his mind again, and honor, and the fact that he feels a little bad about how he snapped at this girl those days ago. And now.

"Prince, you really don't have to —"

He ignores her and watches the water turn the towel damp. It soaks to his pointed shoes and feels familiar, comfortable. "You don't have to do that," he grunts.

"Do what?"

Kaz looks away even as he realizes that she's going to the closet and getting out more towels to solve this mess. "Call me Prince, or Sir, or whatever."

"Um, okay." She sounds surprised and he feels her lean down next to him. He intently focuses on collecting the moisture, letting her take the towel from his hand. "So. My name's Rini."

He nods and keeps going. Nice to meet you.

Okay. Yes, I'm adding another OC into this story — she's not a major part of the plot but I need someone else here Kaz's age to help him with his character development. I know OCs are not for everyone and I apologize for doing this. That said, at this point the plot of 'we walk a fragile line' does revolve around an OC, so I'm going to assume you're here for it. And if you're not, well, I'm sorry.

I've been developing Rini for a while now and she's not going to be a major player in the action or come up that often (according to my outline so far). But just as you're getting pissed off by Kazou and liking Zuya, I hope you won't mind her either. I write fanfic for fun and also for practice and I love that I can do some original character development while writing this. It's what makes this great and drives me to write these chapters every day. That said, I am doing this for me — it's a self-indulgent story.

Thank you as always for reading. It's hard to figure out interaction on FFN vs AO3, because there are no kudos and I don't get very many reviews here, but I do see hits so I can see that I've got a few hundred people reading. Thanks guys. I do cross-post and I know a lot of people prefer AO3, so feel free to check me out there. It's much more interactive with comments and things, and I have the same username: antarcticas. My tumblr is still antarcticasx if you want to have a conversation with me. Updates will likely be staying about daily for now, and we're planned for fifty chapters.

— Dee