From danger, beauty; the hardest part passes.
After just two hours of active labour, the sharp cry of a newborn fills the room. Her pregnancy officially ends without any complications, and the birth of the newest addition to the royal family happens much quicker than anticipated. Soft exclamations of congratulations and reassurance fill the small space around her, but all Ursa can understand is the feeling of her first child curled over her stomach, so impossibly small against the swell of her breasts.
The moments pass by in a flurry. Distantly, she knows a physician's attendant wipes down her baby as they lay together, the fluffy towel leaving dark tufts of hair sticking out at odd angles. The physician herself notes the baby's colour, and confirms a healthy heart and lungs. Hands paw at the young mother, adjusting her blankets, wiping the sweat from her brow, and tucking stray pieces of hair behind her ears. She, a princess of the Fire Nation, receives nothing less than the finest treatment in the world, and yet she couldn't care less with her baby's soft skin so tender against her own. She almost doesn't notice the afterbirth passing through her, and she certainly doesn't feel the cord between her and her child being cut. Ursa can only watch as eyes the colour of molten gold gradually open, unable to focus on anything, but still searching their surroundings nonetheless. Tears continue to stream down her cheeks as she strokes her baby's back with an index finger, keeping the rest of the tiny, pink body close with her other arm. Her newborn smells like sweet, sweet milk, with a light and clean undertone. She can't help but gently press their foreheads together, desperate to commit that alluring scent to memory. It will fade with time, she's been told, but the bond between them never will.
Her heart swells and swells and does not stop, almost bursting with the intrinsic warmth of motherhood. Before today, she could never have imagined something so completely perfect, yet her baby is just that. Her baby is perfect. Ursa now knows with certainty that for as long as she lives, nothing will ever compare to the joy of being a mother.
She hardly notices the door quietly creaking open. Ursa is too busy trying to memorise the voice of her newborn, even as the strong wails die down. A figure in red quietly appears at her bedside, carefully examining the baby without attempting to separate them. After all, the bond between mother and child must be respected in absolution, else the spirits will look upon the intervening party with misfortune. So, the High Sage only stares intently at the baby from a respectful distance. When he finally decides to speak, his words barely register in Ursa's ears.
"She does not have The Spark," he says, somewhat subdued, as if he doesn't know how to deliver such news.
"She's beautiful," Ursa breathes, barely choking back a sob of glee. She exists somewhere on a plane of similar disbelief, but while the High Sage almost sounds disappointed, she grins in awe of the life she has brought into this world.
"She?" the father warily echoes, brow furrowing as an attendant escorts him into the room. Prince Ozai stalks to her bedside, proud chin lowered slightly to gaze down at their child.
"She's so, so beautiful," Ursa repeats, voice trembling as she traces the red, chubby cheeks just inches from her face.
"She does not have The Spark," Ozai grounds out in a low voice.
All five Fire Sages, having entered shortly after Ursa had been deemed acceptably covered, share glances of apprehension.
"I don't care," Ursa says without thinking, unable to look away from the topic of their conversation. "She's beautiful. Just look at her," she gushes, completely enthralled. She is gone, so completely gone, completely and utterly captivated by the life she has created.
"How shameful," Ozai says, voice hardening with revulsion, his fingers curling into a fist at his side. "A nonbender for a firstborn."
The room chills at the callous words, but no one dares contradict him. Having finally sensed the lack of enthusiasm from her husband, Ursa manages to tear her eyes from the infant long enough to gaze at the prince beside her. The gentle grip on her baby tightens almost imperceptibly when she sees the look on his face, not wanting to believe what her instincts are telling her. A taut frown sits on his impassive face, and Ursa cannot stop the slight shudder that runs up her spine.
"Ozai?" she whispers, eyes wide and watery.
"I am sorry, Ursa," he says, his voice low as he turns away from her. And despite his words, he doesn't sound sorry at all. "Women rarely become generals or admirals as it is, and this one will not even have the gift of the dragons to aid her." He shakes his head, every motion slow, as though any sudden movement may send her running. "This is a shame I will not bear. It looks as though we will simply have to try again."
He passes the Fire Sages, who look completely frozen by his declaration. Headed for the door, the prince throws one last order over his shoulder.
"I will send word to Fire Lord Azulon that the infant did not survive birth," he states, voice flat. "Dispose of the child immediately."
"Ozai!" Ursa all but shrieks, and the sound grates against his ears so badly that he stops at the doorway. "You will do no such thing!"
Before she can take in another breath to say more, the leader of the Fire Sages bows from her bedside. "Please, Prince Ozai, I strongly urge you to reconsider," he says, voice respectfully low. "Occasionally, The Spark of a firebender cannot be seen at birth. The child may still prove to have the ability."
"And the union of such strong bloodlines will be undoubtedly influential," another man offers. "Surely the spirits have blessed us all."
Still standing with his back to them all, Ozai does not move. He does, at the very least, listen. Ursa knows that Ozai has misheard the sage, and she can see it in the way his back straightens just the tiniest bit. The sage had said influence, but Ozai had heard power. And Ozai craves power.
The remaining Fire Sages look deeply bothered by Ozai's horrifying words, likely worried about how the spirits will react should the prince's orders be carried out. But they say nothing.
Ursa speaks up once more. She knows her husband is many things- conceited, bitter, and utterly ruthless. Crown Prince Iroh had warned her on the night of their wedding that he believed his younger brother to be a sociopath. Despite all the evidence supporting Iroh's claim, Ursa cannot help but see the best in people. Fire Lord Azulon may be a genocidal tyrant, yet he has also treated Ursa with nothing but respect since forcing her into the royal family. His late wife, Ilah, had been a sweet woman for the few months Ursa had known her. Iroh, while he had also inherited some delusions of conquering the world, still held honour in his heart. Surely the youngest son of the royal family couldn't be a monster in entirety, either.
"Please," she begs, her outrage dissolving into despair. She clutches the infant close to her chest, the tiny child beginning to shift and sigh with hunger. "Please, she's our daughter. I'm begging you! She'll learn the ways of the court. She'll be a perfect princess. She just needs a chance, please." He'll listen to her. He has to. He just has to-!
After a long, agonising minute of her groveling, Ozai huffs in annoyance before turning to one of the lesser Fire Sages. "There is a formal test, correct?" he intones. Without waiting for a reply, he continues, "Test my daughter for firebending."
Ursa has vaguely heard of this test before, in an old tale from her grandfather. Though she also remembers him saying that the test had fallen out of fashion long before even his days, as apparently, Avatar Kyoshi had famously failed it while being examined for Avatar capabilities. So, with The Spark so commonly seen at birth, the need for formal testing in the Fire Nation had simply faded.
She supposes desperate times call for desperate measures.
The Fire Sages hurriedly order the few insubordinates in the room to retrieve shredded birch bark and cotton, mixed with lamp oil- a difficult combination of items to find around the palace, but it's not as though anyone can simply deny the prince. The baby grows fussy as they all wait- a tiny mouth opens and closes, a pinched face tries to nuzzle into one of her breasts. It hurts her deeply, but she makes no move to uncover her chest. It's not the immodesty she fears. No, rather, she doesn't dare test her husband's patience.
And what a broken heart Ursa would have if she fed this baby- bonded with this baby- only to have the child ripped right from her arms.
Finally, the servants return, only to be promptly dismissed from the room. One of the sages prepares the little concoction as the baby quiets, now exhausted from hunger. With a trembling hand, Ursa holds a fluffed ball of tinder under the newborn's nose.
Little breaths. At first, nothing happens. They all wait, the silence growing heavier and heavier with every passing moment.
Ursa starts to cry. One tear, then two, and then she hiccups, and the dam breaks. She can't breathe. Her vision has blurred over with tears, and her throat is thick with fear. It feels as though her very chest has been torn open, every individual rib pulled apart to reveal her ruined heart. And her heart- her heart races, and it already feels as though it sits in her husband's unforgiving grip. Ursa has lost everything once already; her home, her family, her childhood love, all because nobody denies Fire Lord Azulon. And now she loses herself all over again, head splitting with grief at the thought of the precious gift she's going to lose.
Her sobs jolt the baby, whose fussing picks up again, hungry and agitated. Moments pass, where the Fire Sages whisper worriedly to one another while Ozai's gaze burns a hole through Ursa's forehead.
"Give it to me," he commands. And she knows he's not talking about the tinder.
This child means nothing to him.
Her grip tightens in response, the hold nearly crushing the squishy form in her arms as Ozai steps forward. The baby whines louder than before, then a spark flashes. A small wisp of smoke wafts through the air between mother and child. Part of the tinder smoulders, just barely, but it's enough.
It's enough.
Choking up again, Ursa drops the tinder altogether, cradling her baby closer against her covered chest. The child squirms in her tight grasp, cries rivaling her own in volume, but Ursa is so, so relieved. She looks to her husband, her heart still racing.
Ozai does not have time for this. With a dismissive wave of his hand, he allows the child to live.
Zuko enters the world just a week after the summer solstice, and a few weeks earlier than anticipated. Perhaps, with a little planning, another child can be born when the power of the sun spirit is approaching its fullest, and not waning. Now, Ozai doesn't particularly believe in any spiritual intervention nonsense like his brother does, but he theorises it wouldn't hurt if his next child was born under the height of Agni's power.
In the meantime, he watches his wife carefully as she recovers from birth. He spends more time with her, observing her quirks and habits. She thinks him odd, of course, because he has never shown much interest in her aside from the day they met and the day of their wedding. Finally, after nearly seven weeks, a servant brings him the good news.
The leftover blood and tissue from giving birth has stopped staining his wife's undergarments.
He doesn't think to ask for a physician's opinion. No, he takes his wife that very night, all too eager to set his latest plan into motion. Ursa is dry, and small spots of blood dot his erection as he pumps in and out of her. Despite her putting in very little effort, she tires quickly, sweat pouring down her temples as a frail wince crosses her face. Neither of them particularly enjoy it, but it's what must be done.
He at least has the decency to hold her afterwards, soft cock still half inside her. He spends his few moments of post-orgasmic clarity simply admiring her heavy breasts, her slender neck, and her soft lips.
As if sensing his gaze, she tilts her head up to look at him. She searches his eyes for a moment, hesitant, but when he runs a hand through her long, silky hair, she curls into his chest willingly, face firmly planted between his pecs. She cries against him, tears silent, but he can still feel the drops slide against his skin. He pretends not to notice.
The day before the next summer solstice, the prince finds himself outside the very same delivery room from the year prior. From the sound of it, he can only assume that this second birthing is much more typical than the first- longer and more painful. He has half a mind to blame what must surely be the incompetence of the medical staff, but right now the lives of his wife and second child depend on them. With a frown, he decides he will wait to unleash his scorn until after the baby has been safely delivered. He can banish them all after they clear Ursa from bedrest, when they will no longer have any use.
He absently thinks about returning to his study so he can finish working, but ultimately decides against it. With their first child, he did exactly that, catching up on paperwork until someone came to collect him. This time, though, he arrived early and of his own accord, impatient to find out if his spare heir will have The Spark. And he knows exactly what will have to happen should he suspect this new child of being a nonbender.
This time there will be no debate. He will not fail to produce a strong bloodline.
The scuffs of small feet interrupt his thoughts, and a toddler scuttles out from around the corner, a lopsided grin plastered to a round face.
"Dada!" comes the squeal, and soon after a cry of exasperation follows.
"No, please! Come back-"
The servant currently chasing his child stops short at the sight of the prince, frozen in terror. Ozai stands tall and unwavering, ignoring how 20 pounds of tiny human slams face-first into his shins.
"Da," says the creature drooling into his clothes.
"What is the meaning of this?" Ozai demands, voice sharper than any blade in existence, his ire fixed solely on the nanny before him.
The woman stutters and stammers through excuses and half-baked apologies.
"-she just started walking, my prince! I- she's not even a year old, and I only turned my back for a second- and she's not supposed to be able to walk-!"
Ozai grows furious. His wife is rather occupied with trying to push an entire infant from between her legs, and as a prince, he of course has better things to do than to make sure his own brat doesn't forget to breathe. Because apparently that's just a thing that happens.
"Guard," he snaps, and the single soldier posted at the end of the hallway immediately steps forward. "Take this imbecile somewhere I don't ever have to look at her again. Dismissed."
"Yes, Prince Ozai."
Ursa's hoarse yells quickly drown out the caretaker's tears, and soon Ozai finds himself alone in the hall once more.
Well, not completely alone. He glances down, unamused to see a small figure nearly bent over backwards trying to look up at him. He should have told the guard to take the kid as well, because this thing is clearly about to fall over and bust its head open.
But of course his child is walking earlier than expected. With Ozai as the father, this child should be a damn prodigy.
"And what are you looking at?" Ozai sneers.
"Da," Zuko repeats, as if that one word answers everything.
His second child comes into the world right then, the newborn protesting rather loudly even as Ursa's cries die down. However, Ozai does not move for the door. His focus lies elsewhere, even as he tries to ignore the small hands grasping at his robes. With a disgusted sigh, the prince reluctantly bends to pick the toddler up, holding it out in front of him, as though the kid carries some infectious disease. He huffs as it tries to squirm closer, as though seeking warmth. But when golden eyes meet his own- the same exact shade his mother Ilah once bore- he startles ever so slightly, and the child stills, as though in response to his shock.
An unnamed something in his chest thrums a little at the connection. Before he realises it, he's settling the toddler on his hip, as he's seen Ursa do a hundred times before. Tentatively, as though approaching a stray cat, Ozai reaches up with his free hand to poke at the child's cheek. It's soft, impossibly soft, and a little squishy with fat. A round, round face, with bright golden eyes. Bright, golden eyes just like Ozai's mother.
With a soft noise, the baby looks away first, burrowing into the man's neck. Inky strands of hair brush against his jaw, and… it's not unpleasant.
It's the first time he ever holds Zuko. Years later, he almost regrets that it will also be the last.
A light thump against the marbled floor wakes him. His body thrums with energy, alert despite the stunning lack of sunrise. A quick glance behind him reveals that Ursa is still fast asleep, expression undisturbed by whoever just entered their room.
Ozai silently rolls out of bed, still nude from their romp earlier in the night, but he doesn't care. He has nothing to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of- his body is built for strength and fire, a mere weapon to be honed by his mind. When the next scuff of feet reaches his ears, he leaps across the giant bed to place himself between his wife and the perpetrator. Fist ablaze, he brings his arm down-
And his flame promptly cools as a familiar shade of gold blink at him.
"Daddy?" Zuko whispers, rubbing one sleepy eye with a fist. By the time the toddler looks up, Ozai has quelled his killing instinct, hand only held out as a makeshift night light. Zuko glances down, clearly questioning the man's lack of clothes, but Ozai makes no move to cover himself.
He almost burned his own child.
Zuko would have never even seen it coming- would never have been able to fight it. Zuko is still so small, without the reflexes to dodge, and without the strength to disperse flames.
Imagine: His firstborn, disfigured by his own hand.
The very thought revolts him.
Ozai doesn't pretend to be a good person. He knows he is cruel, selfish, and ruthless- just a few of the many traits that make him such a strong and commanding leader. Yet, he has no reason to harm his flesh and blood. Every single thing Ozai does has purpose. Every word is calculated, and every action is performed with the sole intention of advancing his desires. He lives for himself, and his ambitions only.
His oldest child may be needy and annoying, but Zuko is his. His children are a reflection of himself. Nothing good would come from hurting Zuko.
And yet, he- he almost-
The unfinished thought makes him tremble with anger. Before he can lash out at Zuko for being in harm's way, another voice reaches him.
"What's going on?"
Ursa sits up in bed, a sheet slipping around her bare shoulders as she attempts to cover herself. She looks to Ozai for answers, but the moment she spots their 2-year-old, her expression thaws. She sags a little in relief, cooing, "Oh, it's just you, baby." She wraps the silk sheet around her chest, tucking it down the front to stay in place, much like she does with her bath towel.
"Mommy!"
"What's wrong? Did you have a bad dream?" she asks, brow furrowed in concern.
Zuko, eager to see her, nods furiously. "Really bad."
"Oh, come here, baby," Ursa murmurs, and she easily pulls their child into bed, who hums happily.
"She is not sleeping here," Ozai declares, snatching his pants from the floor. He throws them on, grumbling, "We don't even let the other girl sleep in here."
"The other girl has a name, too, you know," Ursa huffs, pulling Zuko closer. "Maybe you should use it once in a while." Their oldest child automatically uses Ursa's breasts as a pillow, laying sprawled out across her entire torso.
That's Ozai's spot, and he says as much.
"Don't say things like that in front of her!" Ursa whisper-shouts, as if the child would understand what Ozai even meant. "Now, are you coming back to bed or not?"
Rolling his eyes quite clearly, Ozai walks back around to his side of the bed, returning to his place under the covers. As of late, he can't seem to deny Ursa anything. Anything trivial, anyways.
"Goodnight, baby," Ursa murmurs, placing kisses all across the giggling toddler's face. "Daddy and I will protect you from the bad dreams, okay?"
"Daddy?"
The man freezes when a small form shifts closer to him, the plush mattress easily dipping under the slight weight.
With Zuko sliding off of her, Ursa shifts as well. "Actually, watch her for a second, will you? I should really throw some clothes on first if she's staying," she decides, slipping out of bed with the sheet still around her.
Ozai feels something wiggling closer to him, crawling across the bed with graceless determination.
"Ursa," he snaps, watching her curvy figure retreat into the bathroom. "Ursa. Get back here!" He doesn't want to be alone with-
"Goodnight, Daddy."
He tries to discreetly pluck the leech from his crisp pillowcase. He peels Zuko off, chubby finger by chubby finger, only for the child to latch on again and again with renewed strength, shifting closer to the sole source of body heat in the bed. "Daddy," comes the sad whine. The prince turns, intending to glare, but stops short.
With their noses just inches apart, Ozai notices how much his oldest child already looks like his wife. He decides it's both something he likes and dislikes. The rounded chin. The same straight, slightly-upturned nose.
The most notable difference is in eye colour. While Ursa's eyes are a medium amber, Zuko's shine like molten gold. He wonders what else this heir has inherited from him. Will the child look more like him in a few years- act anything like him? The passing thought almost pleases him.
When Ursa returns, he doesn't say anything. She's dressed in a loose sleeping robe, modest shirt and trousers peeking out from beneath. She spots how close Zuko has cuddled up to him, and she smiles before climbing back into bed, leaving the sheet forgotten at the foot of the bed.
It's more than a smile, really- Ursa has been looking at him with a new tenderness since their journey into parenthood first began. He shrugs off the urge to glance at their toddler, because that same prodding also wants his gaze on Ursa. Even with the extra weight lingering from her back-to-back pregnancies, she practically glows, and it only further enhances her natural beauty. He ponders how he came to be almost fond of his match in an arranged marriage. He lusts for her, certainly, but the air between them has definitely changed, and he knows she can feel it, too.
Her anger at him almost casting out their first child has all but evaporated. She pours all of her heart into the lives of their kids, and as the kids' co-creator, those feelings seem to leak into her perception of him as well.
He listens to the girls drift off into slumber, innocent puffs of kid-breath ghosting against his cheek.
He sleeps surprisingly well that night.
As the months pass, Ozai makes more of an effort to be present with his children.
On the private beachfront of his family's Ember Island home, he soaks in his element with his beautiful wife perched at his side. They watch their 3-year-old stumble around a few feet away, only vaguely understanding when Ursa very sternly explains why eating sand isn't a good idea. Thankfully, Azula is sound asleep in the care of servants back at the beach house. Ozai doesn't know what he'd do if he had to watch over two tiny morons at once. When Ursa's light scolding comes to an end, Zuko loses interest in the sand, instead catching sight of a hawk chasing a turtle crab on the frothy shore. With an indignant yell, the child sets off after the creature, with Ursa calling out a warning.
Ozai turns to his wife. When Ursa turns her soft gaze on him, a kind smile still on her lips, Ozai feels his chest tighten. There's something so natural between them these days. Something that wasn't there before. Something he can't quite figure out how to label. Something deep, deep in his chest, that he just doesn't have the words for.
First it was power- the thought of her bloodline joining with his to create the optimal heir. And when they do join their bodies, oh, the sex is exhilarating. He doesn't know quite what the nature of their relationship is now, but he knows it is strong.
That same something flashes, fierce and unexpected, and the content atmosphere shatters. The feeling seizes Ozai completely, compelling him to whip around and see the tide sweeping Zuko away. He's on his feet in the blink of an eye, heart pounding as he closes the few feet of distance between them, legs burning with the force he throws behind them. Scrambling to her feet, Ursa screams in terror, but the sound quickly dissolves as Ozai plunges into the shallow water, not even sparing a thought for his actions. Blue swirls around him, and for a painstakingly long moment, he searches for any glimpse of fair skin, too-big eyes, and a chubby torso. Finally, a glimpse of ruby red fabric, painted a dark maroon underwater, demands his attention. Gripping the back of the cloth diaper, he flings them both to the surface, gasping for air as he stumbles across the sand. He didn't inhale any water, and yet Ozai cannot seem to fill his lungs. His limbs shake, not with exertion, but with that same something from earlier, sending his usually-stoic demeanour spiralling out of control.
The body tucked under his arm doesn't move.
For the first time in his life, Ozai is terrified.
Ursa comes out of nowhere, taking Zuko with jittery hands. The kid finally spasms when she slaps a hand against his back. There is coughing and sputtering, with salt water dribbling out of a wailing mouth. The prince can only observe as his young family collectively exhales with relief.
Ozai watches as Ursa frets over their eldest child.
This is his family. Not only are they in a time of war, but anything could happen, at any given time. And that's the last thing he wants- for something to happen to them.
He needs to try harder.
One by one, his fingers stop trembling.
Months later, a high-pitched sneeze interrupts his thoughts. Glancing up from his desk, Ozai sees Zuko rubbing a runny nose, eyes red and dazed. Sighing, the man braces himself to ignore the next sneeze, because he knows Zuko always sneezes in pairs. Putting his brush down, Ozai waits, simply rereading the document before him. The next sneeze, though tiny and admittedly almost cute, spouts a weak tongue of flame, which Ozai extinguishes with a twitch of his finger. He looks to the child, who stares back with guilty eyes.
"Sorry, Daddy," comes the stuffy reply.
Taking another deep breath, Ozai resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, a habit he'd unwittingly picked up from his mother in his formative years. Much of the palace has congregated in the central ballroom for Fire Lord Azulon's birthday celebration, leaving the halls rather empty and quiet, just the way Ozai prefers. He'd initially been overjoyed to discover that his 4-year-old had come down with a particularly bad case of the sniffles, as it had given him a rather gracious excuse to skip the festivities.
He had never cared for his father, and though Ozai of course strives to stay in the elder man's good graces, his time is better spent elsewhere. As of this morning, word has reached the palace that the long-awaited line of newer, lighter trebuchets had completed production earlier than anticipated. Instead of the massively heavy machinery typically found only in strongholds and warships, these trebuchets are supposedly light enough to mount on cavalry or to be moved with infantrymen, and possibly even taken on smaller vessels. This could all be done without sacrificing power or firing range.
This could be Ozai's chance to make his mark. Before becoming a married man, he had scoured the world for the missing Avatar, much like his father had decades earlier, but with as little success. These new trebuchets, however… perhaps he could convince the Fire Lord to allow him the first out of the factories. He could set off again, perhaps back to the poles and finish off the Water Savages, since the Avatar us obviously never coming back. He could finally prove himself to be a more worthy heir than-
Another sneeze breaks his concentration, and Ozai grimaces. Then another, the second sneeze so vicious that Zuko actually starts crying from the force of it.
Sensing the man's glare on him, Zuko looks up, face red with tears and shame. "Sorry-"
"Stop apologising," Ozai snaps. He supposes this is his fault. He had wanted to use caring for Zuko as an excuse to lock himself away and work on his scheme, but he clearly underestimated just how annoying a sick child could be. Admittedly, he also feels a little guilty. The kid should probably be in the care of a nanny or another servant, actually resting. But Ozai can't exactly dump the child on anyone else now. That would just make him look bad, and leave him without an excuse for missing the rest of his father's party. However, he also doesn't see himself getting any more work done tonight, as the whimpers only grow harder to ignore.
Zuko's face puckers, visibly straining to contain noisier sobs. "Please, Daddy," comes the small whine. "Have to go again."
Ozai frowns. "You may use the washroom across the hall, in the servants' passage, but do not go wandering off. Return immediately when you are done. Do you understand me?" he presses, voice stern as usual.
The kid's mouth opens, as if to answer, but then quickly shuts again. Face draining of colour, fat tears once again leak from Zuko's eyes. Little hands clench tightly to a pair of loose crimson pants, knuckles almost white.
"What are you waiting for?" Ozai demands, his already thin patience quickly diminishing. "Go!"
"Um," Zuko whispers, lower lip trembling. "I did."
The room is silent as Ozai just stares at the child, not wanting to believe what he's just heard. After a few moments, the stench starts to permeate Zuko's clothes, and Ozai gives in. He closes his eyes, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "You relieved yourself in your pants," he more so states than asks.
"I don't feel good, Daddy," Zuko cries, the emotional dam cracking once more. Ozai's shoulders droop. The kid is clearly miserable.
Ozai told himself he would try. He would try to be a good father.
After a long pause, he rises to his feet and quietly orders, "Follow me."
He leaves his study, head turning to try and catch a glimpse of any servants wandering the halls, but he doesn't see anyone. They're likely still in the vicinity of the ballroom. The pair walk in silence, past the servants' passage and back to his chambers, where his valet is also mysteriously absent. Even if Ozai had indeed threatened to burn the man to a crisp should the servant dare show his face, it shouldn't have been taken quite so literally. Worthless, Ozai thinks. It's so hard to find good help these days. Now he will indeed have to burn his valet, even if only to serve as a warning to his other servants.
"Get in the tub," he tells Zuko, who promptly groans at the sight of the tall, porcelain sides. Rolling his eyes, Ozai holds out a hand, stiffly helping the child over the edge.
"Clothes off," he says, leaning over to turn the water on. He heats the pipe a little while he's there, letting a warmer stream of water slowly fill the tub.
Zuko struggles with the thin sash at first, but manages to shed the light sleep shirt without help. When Zuko is down to just a soiled pair of undershorts, Ozai flings the now-soggy pile of clothes behind him and out of sight. Reminding himself that the worst is yet to come, the man carefully peels the wet underwear down short legs, grimacing at the smell. He throws that garment in a different corner of the tiled room, opting instead to set it on fire. The fabric crumbles and burns to a crisp in mere seconds, the light smoky scent covering the smell of urine completely.
"You can wash yourself, correct?" Ozai says, more of a statement than a question. He has already been very generous thus far, but he doesn't actually know the first thing about childcare. That's what Ursa and the nannies are for.
Looking down in embarrassment, Zuko sits in the almost-full tub, mumbling, "Mommy still helps me. She says I don't reach my back good."
"Do what you can," Ozai sighs, turning the water off. The kid looked pitiful before, but now naked and shivering, the sight makes that secret-something in his chest hurt a little. He knows he's not exactly a great father, but he is genuinely doing his best. He is trying. And surely it would be irresponsible for him to leave Zuko alone right now.
"I'll... stay here. If you wish."
Golden eyes blink stupidly at his statement, but after a moment of comprehension, Zuko gives him a grateful, but watery smile. "Really?"
Does the kid think so little of him? He really can't leave, regardless of what the kid wants, because Ozai very clearly remembers having to save Zuko from drowning just last year. And the memory heats the blood in his veins, a pounding unease rippling through his bones.
This is his daughter. He… cares for her. Zuko is small; useless, and fairly unremarkable. And yet, Ozai finds himself thinking of her more and more often. "I promise," he says, and strangely enough, the words feel heavy on his lips. He extends an arm, placing a tentative hand in the child's sweaty hair. Zuko smiles.
In later years, his touch will not be as innocent or as hesitant. No, the later years will be rough; fire, both hot and cold, will leave dark marks on fair skin. Harsh words, mindful neglect, and overt violence will consume their relationship. But right now, Ozai has very little hate in his heart, and Zuko, young as the kid is, can sense that. Things may not be perfect, but they are okay.
For now, this is all Zuko knows. For now, this is enough.
"I love you, Daddy."
Ozai looks away.