Time was a difficult thing to keep track of in the Capital City Prison, but with little else to occupy himself with, Ozai had managed to discern the guards' schedule in a matter of days. When the narrow strip of light that leaked into his cell fell on the third bar of his cage, the morning shift would arrive to replace their late-night counterparts. An hour later – he had actually counted the seconds, one day – a tray of food would be delivered. His next meal would not appear until the sun reached the opposite wall of his cell, at which point the evening round of guards would take over.
Every five days there was an inspection of sorts, during which a physician would examine him for signs of infection, illness, or injury. Following the inspection, a bucket of water and toiletries were provided for bathing, as well as a pair of freshly laundered prison garments. Cleanliness was a cornerstone of Fire Nation culture, but its significance went hand-in-hand with punishment. The long stretches of time between access to that meagre bucket of cold water were meant to induce shame, to remind the prisoners of their removal from dignity and grace. For Ozai, who had been fastidious to the point of obsession as a younger man, it was an aggravation rivalled only by his son's continued visits.
Zuko's comings and goings followed no reliable schedule, though the boy – young man, now, Ozai thought – was no longer as frequent a visitor as he had been. At first he had been motivated by the burning need to know the truth about his mother, Ursa. There had also been his need for political advice, the weight of his responsibilities as Fire Lord unexpectedly heavy. As time wore on, however, Zuko's reasons became less clear to his father. Sometimes he sat in perfect quiet, comparable to Ozai's smoldering silence, just long enough to drink a pot of tea.
Something had shifted in him, the galvanizing influence of the throne finally starting to show. Zuko had not succumbed to the pressures as Ozai had assumed he would, but had instead found a sense of conviction and resolve. The realization sent a pang of something unfamiliar through him.
The last time Zuko had visited, he brought strange news.
The Fire Lord had barely managed to sit down and hand his father the steaming cup of jasmine tea before blurting out: "I received a letter today from the Earth Kingdom."
Ozai had blown on his tea disinterestedly. "And?" he drawled.
"It seems a growing number of King Kuei's people have signed a petition asking for your execution."
The tea burned as it slipped down Ozai's throat. He made a noncommittal grunt, drawing himself up where he sat. "Would that not be in defiance of their precious Avatar's decree?"
Zuko considered his own tea before setting it down. He returned Ozai's gaze unflinchingly, his voice level. "Every Avatar in history has been defied. They do what they believe to be right, but not everyone is going to agree with those decisions. Nor are their decisions necessarily right for everyone, in the end. The Harmony Restoration Movement taught us that much."
Ozai nodded, trying to ignore the sound of his own pulse. "And where does this leave you?" he asked, voice taking on a steely edge. "Are the demands of a foreign people – a defeated people – all it takes for you to consider patricide?"
Illuminated by the steady, warm glow of the lanterns, Zuko's eyes took on the appearance of molten gold. He set his mouth in a hard line, then poured some fresh tea into his cup. The mug in Ozai's hand remained empty, his palm uncomfortably hot.
"I once advised Aang to kill you," the younger man finally admitted. "So no, it's not an unfamiliar thought."
A glowering silence settled between them, Ozai's lip curling into a snarl.
"Not that it should surprise you," Zuko continued with an uncharacteristically hard tone, "given what you did to grandfather."
"You mean what your mother did."
That got his son's attention. Zuko's head snapped up, his jaw clenched. He seethed, but then seemed to gain his composure.
"I meant what I said," he resumed, "back when you were first put in here. I had hoped you would find some part of yourself, maybe repent, get started down the right path." A bark of laughter almost escaped Ozai, but Zuko continued solemnly, "But now I see that was far too much to expect."
In Ozai's mind, the words conjured a mirror image. The Day of Black Sun. Him, resting atop a dais deep in the bowels of Caldera, his son standing before him. Banishment, too merciful. Redemption, too optimistic.
"When mother visited you, I had really hoped – "
"How dare you speak of her to me!" Ozai roared, his suddenly crushing grip splintering the ornate tea cup. He flung his arm, the shards scattering across the cell, a few finding their mark and landing against Zuko's frame. Ozai's eyes burned as they raked across his son.
"She found me no small man on our wedding night," he hissed.
A look of disgust transformed the younger man's face. "Don't be crude."
He stood, brushing the broken pieces of porcelain from his robe as he composed himself.
"You have given me advice as a Fire Lord over the last three years, and for that, I am grateful. But I believe now it is my turn to advise you." He stooped, picking up the tray on which the teapot sat, placing his own cup beside it. "I can change my mind, father. You would do well to remember it."
Ozai's brows knit together, comprehension momentarily clouded by his rage. As he caught up to the threat in his son's words he opened his mouth, but Zuko had already turned away.
Later that evening, Mai had trailed a manicured nail against Zuko's chest, admiring him beneath a thin sheen of sweat.
"You really said that to him?" she asked, incredulous. The smile that split Zuko's face was roguish, charming. The smile of someone who knew they had done something unprecedented, and possibly very stupid.
"But… you don't actually mean it…" she wavered. The smile vanished, replaced by all seriousness.
"No," Zuko replied, turning on his side to face her. "But it felt so incredibly good to say."
And it had. Just for that moment, he had allowed himself to indulge in the intimidation and fearmongering that had defined his childhood. Of course he would never consider executing his father. For one, it was exactly the kind of thing that Ozai himself was capable of – and Azulon too, for that matter – and Zuko wanted to divorce himself from those men as much as possible, even if requests for his father's death were more than reasonable. He was a different sort of Fire Lord, and peace and mercy were to be at the heart of his reign.
It was more than that, though. Aang had found an alternative to the violence expected of him in order to restore balance – a typical airbending maneuver if ever there was one – and Zuko not only respected this as an act of the Avatar, but the decision of a friend. He would not undo this manifestation of Aang's personal integrity, it was neither his right nor his destiny.
But Ozai didn't need to know that.
Mai nuzzled his shoulder, carving her nail further down Zuko's chest, his stomach, then lower. "Good," she purred simply. "That man has earned every bit of fear that comes his way."
Her touch coaxed a groan from deep in Zuko's throat. He brought his hand up to her face, pulling her in to a burning kiss.
"Let's talk about something else."
That had been nearly two weeks ago. At first Ozai had listened more intently whenever he caught snatches of the guards' gossip, but if news of the petition had reached them, they failed to let on. So the fallen Phoenix King resumed his routines of sleep, eating, meditation, and practice.
During his father's rule, Ozai devoted himself to the mastery of firebending. He had poured over every available scroll and tome detailing theory and form, studied under several prominent masters, and had balanced his theory with daily combat exercises. He even chose to practice almost exclusively at night, when the power of the sun would be largely inaccessible and his bending totally dependent on the strength of his own chi.
Neither he nor Iroh had been prodigies like their father, but they each had come into firebending renown. Iroh for his creativity and adoption of various other bending techniques, Ozai for his sheer power. And he had done it all without serving on the battlefield.
Imprisoned as he was within a cell that barely accommodated his height, Ozai had had to adjust his katas. In the early days of his sentence, the weekly physician visits had been marked by bandaged knuckles and bruised legs. Now though, he had come to develop a new form of restrained movement, a previously unexplored close-quarters style of fighting.
Kick. Kick. Shift. Sweep. Crouch. Punch. Lunge. Punch again. Pivot.
Ozai breathed deeply, feeling the path of air through his nostrils, down into his lungs. His veins, his muscles, the pit of his stomach, the soles of his feet, the suspended weight of his groin, he was in tune with it all. Before the Avatar had taken his bending, there would have been another awareness within the mix, sometimes little more than a warm pulse, at other times a searing presence. The flow of his chi was still there, but muted in its connection to his internal fire. Strangely, over the course of his exercises, Ozai had come to feel as though it was not entirely lost to him, but constrained. He still radiated heat, could still sense the burning volcanic power beneath the Capital City Prison. If he reached deep within himself, he could retrace the paths of energy necessary to call up lightning. It was a phantom pain, a teasing conviction that any moment, he might feel a familiar spark in his palm.
There was something sensual in the unfulfillment of it. He was hanging on the edge of the precipice, an unending denial of release, close, so close…
Ozai clenched his teeth and his eyes, letting out an agonized growl as his fist thrust forward into the air. Nothing.
He panted, easing himself down against the wall of his cell. Outside, he could hear the sharp sound of armor clapping together in salute. He glanced to where the ray of sunlight should fall against the stones to signal the arrival of his evening meal and the changing of his guards, but the sun had not traveled far enough yet. Its light still rested several bars away.
His mind wandered over the list of potential reasons for an early shift change. A guard may have taken ill, or a prisoner elsewhere in the tower of cells may have attempted to kill themselves – it did happen – and it would be necessary to replace the guards who witnessed it. Perhaps a family matter. Ozai searched his memory for who had been in command of the prison during his own rule, trying to recall whether the man had been prone to bureaucratic busywork. He pinched the bridge of his nose. Agni, what had that man's name been?
With a groan and a creak, the door to his cell opened. Ozai glanced once again to the corner of his cell, reassuring himself that the sun had indeed not made its usual circuit. A guard stepped in, his figure unfamiliar.
"So this is where the great and powerful Phoenix King spends his days," the guard sneered, face obscured by his helmet. Ozai settled himself more comfortably, cocking an eyebrow disdainfully. Gloating would never look as good on others as it did himself.
Another guard entered, holding a tray of food. Somehow the visual confirmation that the daily routine had not been completely betrayed made Ozai's shoulders relax, just a little. It was just a batch of new guards, early because they wanted the chance to harass him.
The tray of food was set before him, easily within reach from behind the bars. Ozai waited for the two to leave, but the first guard goaded him.
"Aren't you hungry? Better eat up!" The challenge in his voice was obvious. Ozai assessed the other man's posture, his proximity to the tray of food and his closeness to the cage. Then he turned his head, ignoring them both.
"Tch!" the new guard scoffed derisively, "Just as I thought." He wrapped his hand around one of the bars of Ozai's cage and leaned in close. "You're going to wish the Avatar had killed you by the time I'm done with you."
Pathetic, Ozai thought, a grin creeping onto his lips. "Please," he drawled, "if you're going to threaten me, at least be original."
The guard huffed and stood back. He and his companion exited the cell, the door falling closed behind them with a loud clank. Ozai let out a sigh, rolling his eyes over to survey the tray of food they had left behind. He made to reach for it, then paused. Unbidden, the hair on his arm rose up. He blinked, dropped the arm and ran his hand along the skin, smoothing the hairs down. The tray of food he left alone, untouched come morning.