Dead? Whatever gave you that idea?
He was drowning and drowning – why was this new information – don't be stupid! Think! and the blue thing around pulled him down with the water pressing at his face and into his mouth as he opened it to kick and shout his way free and there was ice above – his hands melted through it, a simple heat that gave him back his life.
Zhao pulled up til his head was free of the surface, coughing and retching, the residue freezing on his skin already. He concentrated on breathing again, now; he couldn't see a thing, anyway. The place he had come up was blue-black and huge – he could tell from the way his shuddering breathes echoed and the breeze that was pulling on his hair.
It was freezing in here, but he could breathe again.
Zhao stayed where he was for a moment, regaining strength and thought as he half-floated, half-held himself in place. Then he punched hard at the ice around him and the thin crust re-covering the hole he'd opened, and, finding a place thick enough for balance, he pulled himself the rest of the way out.
The admiral choked on what was left at the back of his throat and spat, clambering – clambering! An idiotic, graceless verb! – away from the hole until he felt ice-washed rock beneath him. He held up a hand, lighting the view for a split second with the minimal amount he could get away with, then dropped his hand and expended all the energy he could spare heating himself.
A duct.
The great Admiral Zhao, commander of all the ships in the Fire Nation's fleet, appointed by the Fire Lord himself, was huddled in a duct.
He shook his head and gave a disgusted "Ha," matching his face to the sound. Folly to fall asleep, and so the admiral turned his back to the wall and breathed into his hands, staring at the dark in front of him.