AN: If armadillo-tigers are a thing, you can pry pangolin-lions from my cold, dead hands.
Zuko's hand shakes around the missive he's holding, but he doesn't crumple the paper in his fist. He'd done that before, the first few times, unable to control himself.
He'd spent hours smoothing them out in his room afterward. Slow, careful, controlled motions.
He takes a breath and doesn't set the missive on fire. He'd done that, too, at first.
He'd requisitioned copies, after.
Now he's used to the terrible hitch in his breathing before he forces it to steady. The sharp pain in his chest and the way every fire source on the ship flickers for just a moment.
Slowly, with careful, practiced motions, he flattens the missive, memorizes the name it holds, and puts it in a drawer with all the (many, many, many) others.
Casualty reports.
He gets up, turns away from everything in his room, and screams.
Fire roars.
And roars and roars. Roars like a tigerdillo, like an entire pride of pangolions, like dragons. Roars until the steel in front of him glows bright yellow and dull, sullen red.
When he stops screaming (stops roaring), he collapses to his knees and presses his forehead to the floor.
The last of the 41st division is dead.
Zuko will have to write to his family. Like he's written to all the others.
(He cries.)