Shatter
Flip, flip.
swoosh, clang.
smash.
It wasn't as dramatic as it sounded, the end of the prince's weapon catching on a wryly placed mirror and clattering from his belt, the mirror shattering in front of him and leaving Zuko standing stranded on his own, blinking.
He stared at those shards of glass, so beautiful and strange, all so different - different pieces, different shapes, different glows.
But one thing marred it, and he leaned closer to see what vision could possibly be killing the beauty of them,looking ever closer and never recognising what it could be, so pale and yet so dark. Surely it was some trick, a new power from some hidden entity, designed to distract and confuse until they could strike.
But there was nothing in his back, no bloody dagger, no sharp arrow or even string at his throat. The air around him did not tighten, and no water appeared from cracks in the leaking floorboards. Not even a glimmer of the earth, improbable as it was. Not even a flame.
Nothing.
But the vision continued, widening as he leaned closer and yet avoided touching the pretty surface.
He reached out one hand, desperate to eradicate the scar with perhaps a blast, a small one from his index finger, the one that always aimed.
He fired, and the shard simply broke into more separate pieces, spreading further across his path. The ugliness grew, spread out between thousands of pieces.
Maybe it was one of those things, as Iroh had said once about his favourite tea, that he could never hope to understand.
Shaking his head, the prince Zuko walked on, shaking his head and almost laughing at how pathetic the image had looked. Such hopelessness shouldn't be displayed on a mere blemish, surely?
You know you're deluded when you don't recognise your own reflection.
Crunch.