"For though I'm a young man and able,
Here I'm stuck, a-rocking the cradle..."
Iroh sings and plays his harp, and the other sailors harmonize with him, their rough voices lifting and falling with the merry folk tune. Zuko scowls at the sound. He stands stiff and straight backed at the starboard rail, glaring at the calm black water that surrounds the ship on all sides. It is their seventh week at sea. He hates living like this, the cool scent of salt embedding itself into every fabric, meal, and breath. He is an heir of the great Fire Nation - he is accostomed to heat: spices and fire, smoke and electricity are his elements, not this cold, damp nightmare that he has been exiled to. Righteous anger rises in his chest and he clings to it, burying his aching lonesomeness beneath burning rage. Zuko should be keeping company with cultured nobles and beautiful concubines, not seadogs and his brain-addled uncle.
He looks pointedly over his shoulder at the aging man, eyes narrowing when Iroh pauses mid-verse to give him a sage smile. "Old fool," he mutters, turning back to the dark sea. His guardian's face darkens.
Iroh's harp picks up again, but the melody is devoid of his scratchy tenor when it carries to the young prince. Though Zuko sneers and tosses his hair, the words make his stomach coil and contract sharply. The boy squares his still-narrow shoulders and holds himself taller, hating his father for abandoning him, his nation for forgetting him, and his uncle especially, for understanding him.
"I'm nevermore going to roam,
I'm packing my things to go home."