AN:

Hi and welcome :)

This fic is also on AO3, under my username "soopsiedaisies". It'll be four chapters and will likely have associated some associated fics. I figured I should post it here too. It's a Gen fic that's been rattling around in my brain for quite a while.

I sincerely hope you'll like reading it.

Characters, in order of importance: Zuko, Lieutenant Jee, Iroh, Azula, a variety of original members of Zuko's crew, Ozai

Additional tags: AU - Time Travel; Iroh is a Good Uncle; POV multiple

Warnings: (non-graphic) violence; mentions of genocide; maybe a tad OP!Zuko (he's 21 in power and spirit, just not in body)

Zuko wakes in his bedroom, which is normal. He wakes in a bed that is too big, which is not normal.

He is twenty-one years old. His official coronation is today. His friends are sleeping a few rooms over. His feet don't reach the floor and his face is smooth and unblemished and he has two eyebrows.

Zuko realises, in that instant, sudden way that makes him sick to his stomach, that something is very wrong.

"It's to the first burn," says Uncle, fretting.

Zuko tracks Uncle flitting through the chamber, fiddles absentmindedly with the clasp of the ceremonial cape flung over his bare shoulders. It's not exactly annoying — if anything, it's rather endearing — but it is, for this Zuko, quite unnecessary. This Zuko has fought around six Agni Kais, only three of which were official, and he's quite confident in his bending.

Uncle does not know that Zuko is this Zuko, however. He simply thinks Zuko is that Zuko. Thirteen-year-old Zuko, who was a decent firebender but not a great one, who was not yet a master, who often tripped over his own two feet when he was too focused on looking proficient. Uncle's nerves can be excused. They're expected, actually.

But that Zuko is not here. That Zuko has vanished, or merged, or done whatever it is that minds of the same body do when there's time travel involved. Who even knows, really.

Zuko thinks he may have stuck himself neatly on the remains of himself, in Zuko's brain. His inner fire still feels strong and experienced. He's still capable of summoning a flame that flickers in the white-hot multicolour of dragonfire he'd mastered about two years after the end of the war. It's just his body that is different.

It's a body not used to the tough, flexible training of an unconventional Fire Lord. It's a body used to the rigorous daily training of a Prince of Fire who does not command fire as well as is expected of him—moving through stiff and traditional katas, sneaking around the rafters and the rest of the palace, wielding dual blades slightly too large for him. His build is muscular if lean and young, still a few years away from his first true growth spurt that will allow him to tower over Uncle and later reach the height of his father.

He will be fine.

"You can still apologise," Uncle says, voice low and earnest. "You can still ask for forgiveness from the general. It would not be easy, but you can—"

"Do you have that little confidence in my bending, Uncle?" Zuko asks, vaguely amused.

"Of course not!" Uncle exclaims. "But you must forgive an old man for worrying, Prince Zuko. General Bujing may be old, but he is experienced, and a Master at that. I simply cannot stand the thought of you getting hurt."

He hadn't said so the last time they were in this exact position, at this exact point in time. Perhaps it's because Zuko replied to Uncle's worry with a gentler tone than annoyance and a kind of confidence that does not err on the wrong side of cocky.

Zuko knows that Uncle has no true idea — only a suspicion, but an uncertain one — that Zuko won't face General Bujing today. Nobody really did. Only General Bujing himself, and father. Only them.

"I'll be fine, Uncle," he says firmly. "I promise."

It's clear Uncle doesn't believe him, but that's okay. Zuko doesn't break promises.

It's awful, because he expected it—knew it would happen. But Zuko feels his whole body freeze when he turns to face his father, the ceremonial cape still fluttering to the floor.

Then he shakes himself loose, goes down on his knees, and projects the image of a terrified boy. His speech, however, won't agree.

"I beg your forgiveness," he says, voice calm and loud, without even a hint of a fearful tremble. "I am sorry, father. I only had our nation's best wishes at heart. I did not mean to insult you personally."

Father exhales plumes of smoke, like a dragon. "Rise and fight, Prince Zuko."

"No," he replies. "I doubt it would be a fair fight; you are the greatest firebender in the world, and I am far from that. I only wished to prevent meaningless death and grief for our subjects."

"You will learn," father hisses. "You will learn, and suffering will be your teacher."

Zuko looks up at his father's shadowed form, spots the cruel and gleeful gleam in eyes that are mirrors to his own. Father's hand reaches out as if to caress his face.

Zuko smiles, braces himself on his forearms, and swings his legs out with a wave of fire.

Father stumbles, nearly falls; and Zuko uses this body, weaker yet nimbler than the one he's used to, to jump to his feet and dance around Ozai like an airbender. A teacher can, after all, learn from their pupil.

The crowd gasps, oh's and ah's like the brainless koala-sheep they are under father's reign of terror. A cheer goes up when Ozai regains his footing and twists around to face Zuko, bringing his fist out for a punch coated with orange flames, and Zuko swats the rush of heat away like a gnat.

"Ohh," he coos, and he's certain his grin looks mad, "how violent, father."

Father's eyes bulge out of his skull in outrage. He inhales deep and sharp, nostrils flaring, and brings on an attack of punches and kicks that Zuko manages to weave through smoothly. Father's fire is hot and ferocious, but so is Azula's, so is Zhao's, so is Aang's and Uncle's. Zuko hasn't burnt himself since his fight with Azula; fire doesn't need to burn, not if he doesn't want it to.

The next attack is just as easily avoided as the one before.

He dances over the arena's rough, tiled terrain, avoids kick after kick and punch after punch without expelling any fire of his own. Father's chest has finally started to heave just slightly, but he's still rooted: tiring him out is the wrong tactic, even though he's rarely seen father away from his throne. So Zuko begins to fight back, uncaring if his forms differ from the tight katas he's supposed to know; he throws in the muscle power of the earth, the quick-footedness of the air, the give-and-take of the water.

Uncle always says that studying the different forms of bending makes you a better bender. Uncle, as he is usually, is right in that respect.

He can tell when father starts to get just slightly desperate, caught by surprise. Father has never been outside of the Fire Nation, other than his month-long search for the Avatar that paused indefinitely when grandfather called him back to marry. He can probably count the amount of earthbenders he's fought on both hands; waterbenders, scarcely on one.

Father blasts a roaring wave of almost white fire at Zuko, and it's far too easy to take hold of the flames, swirl it around him, and pass it back like a comet. To follow that up with a whip aimed at the ankles, an arrow aimed at the eyes.

In any other Agni Kai, Zuko shall not hurt. In this one, he allows himself the sick, regretful pleasure.

Sweat has puddled on his skin, the heat within the covered arena almost unbearable. His breath is laboured but even. His muscles ache but are warm. The fire within him burns steady, unflickering; his mind is calm and eerily focused on father's every movement. There's a spark of white-blue beginning in the right hand.

Zuko jumps forward and sends a kick of flame to father's chest, then another, and yet another, and father stumbles like Zhao did, lightning puttering out at his fingertips before it could truly start. A whip sends him to his knees, sudden and unexpected, and Zuko does not allow himself the joy of breaking a root lest it is rebuilt again.

His hand hovers in front of father's face, and he looks father in the eyes, and he twists his mouth up into a bitter smile that lasts less than a second. Pushes every last bit of hatred and anger and hurt that he's felt towards Ozai since the day he's been born in a flame that sparks blazing hot, burns orange and yellow and red, green and blue and pink.

Dragonfire only harms when the intent is to harm.

The scream that tears from father's throat is not unlike the scream Zuko bellowed himself, back in another time, and perhaps it is the same: perhaps the betrayal is similar, perhaps the shock is mirrored, perhaps the pain of fire melting flesh is a copy. But perhaps it isn't, and perhaps it is mere fury of being defeated by a child who was lucky to be born—his own child, who felt horrible guilt for harming an insect when father wished him capable of killing grown men.

Father bears his weight on his forearms, and Zuko allows the flame to die.

"Have you learnt, Fire Lord Ozai?" he asks, as father pants out panicked, squeaking breaths of horror. "Has suffering taught you anything?"

Father says nothing, merely sputters a pained, agonised cough. Zuko grasps him by his top knot before he can truly fall and turns to the shocked-silent crowd.

"To the first burn," he tells them, "and that must be enough."

And he allows the Fire Lord to collapse at his feet, inclines his head in what can barely count as a bow, and leaves.

The bath takes care of the sweat. Takes care of the burnt bits of skin and fat that still cling to his palm. Zuko scrubs his body until it's raw, blushing red; he dunks his head under the hot water and stays there, staring up at the dark, vaulted ceiling of the washroom until his lungs run out of breath to use.

The oil of honeysuckle and opium and cinnamon, sweet and sharp and earthy, does not wash the stench of scorched flesh out of his nose.

"I can't believe that was you."

Azula's voice is still eleven, high and grating. Her fire is blue; she's practising lightning, but it blows up in her face far more than it doesn't. The number of successful lightning bolts count up to one.

Zuko turns and lifts both his eyebrows, catching the annoyed glint in Azula's eyes just before it disappears. Her gaze travels from the hair hanging past his shoulders to the neat top knot fastened with silk and the royal heir's pin, before locking, flint-sharp and fiery, with Zuko's own. She's undoubtedly annoyed that Zuko's ceased to wear the phoenix tail, as is standard for underage Fire Nation boys; but as Zuko won and Agni Kai against a master, he is now allowed to wear his hair as he wishes. Azula's opinion does not matter one bit.

"I didn't know you had issues with your sight, Lala," he says, after a moment of silence that drags on long enough for her blank expression to falter. "Perhaps the family physician can take a look. Best catch it before it gets truly bad."

He's on his way to Uncle's rooms, where there's undoubtedly tea and Pai Sho waiting. Uncle wasn't there to catch him when Zuko left the arena, but he received the missive just this morning—after a sleepless night, because he was expecting to be killed for harming the Fire Lord.

Azula sneers at him. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not," he says, and he puts a hand over his chest. "Cross my heart, baby sister. If you truly had trouble seeing us—"

She steps forward menacingly, looking paler than she does in his memories of this time: almost like the girl on the Island of cherry blossoms up north, stuck in a monastery for healing. But her hair is still perfect and her eyes are still bright, not wild. She's eleven, and her instability will emerge during puberty — an illness of the mind that is common in their family, so much so that it has been detailed extensively in the ancient records — so she's still just Lala now. Mean, cruel, too-smart Lala, but Lala nevertheless.

"Why did you burn father?" she asks.

Zuko tilts his head. "It's an Agni Kai. It's to the first burn. I didn't want to lose."

"No, I get that," she snaps, and her leg shakes as if she wished to stomp it like the child she still is. "Why did you burn him like that?"

"Because I didn't want to lose."

"A first degree burn on his arm or shoulder would've sufficed," says Azula, stepping towards him and grasping his wide sleeve in her small hands. "It would've been enough. But you burnt him over his eye, and you burnt him hard. Zuzu, the physicians say father may never regain sight in his eye!"

I did, Zuko thinks, sudden and sneering. Mine still gave me smudged images of the world, and I managed to work with it; if he can't adapt, what kind of power does he have?

"You burnt him badly," Azula continues, in that screechy tone she always refused to acknowledge. "Why? Tell me!"

Insistent and upset. She's never sounded her age to Zuko, always so adult, but she's eleven now. Truly, wholly—a child whose expectations weren't met. He's unsurprised to realise that Azula wanted him to burn.

"Are you implying," Zuko says quietly, "that you wished I showed father mercy, Azula?"

She stills. Her mouth is tight, pressed into a thin line. Her eyes are wide.

She looks like their mother.

"He does not deserve mercy," Zuko tells her. He laughs a bit. "He wished to burn me like that—didn't you see how he went to cup my face? I won't give a man mercy if he himself will not give it either, Azula. He's an adult. I'm sure he can handle it."

"Did you want to kill him?" she asks, voice low. "Did you, Zuzu?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he echoes her. "Killing father would just be dumb, Lala. No, I just gave him a lesson he won't ever be able to forget."

He tugs himself loose and walks on in the direction of Uncle's chambers.

Azula doesn't follow him.

"Quite the display of bending you did yesterday, nephew," says Uncle. He takes a sip of his tea, staring carefully at Zuko's face.

"Thank you, Uncle," he replies, pushing one of the tiles in a random direction. He's never been good at Pai Sho. "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to break his root."

"Were you, now?" Uncle hums, eyes flicking to the board. "Well, you managed eventually."

They're quiet, then. There was a tone of… something in Uncle's voice. Not quite disappointment, but something close to it. Grief, maybe.

"I didn't want to fight him, Uncle," he murmurs, leaning forward. Uncle meets his gaze with a frown. "And I—when I decided to, I did want to burn him, but I didn't like it. I just know he would've burnt me. Banished me, too. For not fighting back, and for losing." He pauses, tilts his head, tightens his jaw. "Do you understand?"

Uncle breathes in a slow breath through his nose, eyebrows still knitted together. He swallows, sighs.

"My little brother is in the royal infirmary, recovering from a burn that will likely take half of his eyesight," he says slowly, and he sets his teacup down. "But I… I understand it. I do believe that Ozai wishes he could have burnt our father like you burnt him. Azulon, too, would not have hesitated to burn and banish him had he spoken out of turn."

"Grandfather Azulon, may Agni hold him in eternal rest, ordered father to kill me as punishment for asking to take your throne," Zuko says bluntly. "I'm not surprised."

Uncle's frown deepens. "When did this happen?"

"A day or two before grandfather died and mother disappeared," he answers. "You were still in the Earth Kingdom. Grandfather said father ought to suffer the loss of a firstborn like you did, but he was dead before he could truly command it. Father was crowned Fire Lord a few days later, during the funeral."

"Do you think my brother wished to kill you?" Uncle asks sharply.

Zuko looks Uncle in the eye. "Yes. I'm not stupid."

"I never said you were, Prince Zuko—"

"You didn't," Zuko says. "You didn't even imply it. But it would be naive of me to think father would never hurt me, because he has already. Azula still thinks he'll never hurt her because she's not me. I think that's quite stupid of her."

"Prince Zuko," Uncle chides. It doesn't sound like he means it; it doesn't even sound like he caught the slight at all.

"It's true," Zuko says anyway. "The moment I'm out of the way, all of his disappointment will fall on her. I've just burnt him so he knows not to challenge me. Uncle," he says, and Uncle's attention slides back to him, "if I'd held on a second or two longer, he would've died."

Uncle's face is unreadable. "Is that mercy, Prince Zuko?"

"No, Uncle," says Zuko. "It's a promise."

Uncle nods slowly. Holds his gaze. Slides a tile across the board; White Lotus.

"Your move," he says.

Zuko smiles.

The ministers observe him as he walks through the palace. The servants observe him as he sits by the pond. They watch him with trepidation and fear. They freeze when he turns a corner, bow stiffly when he passes them. They stutter in stilted compliance when he requests grains to feed the turtleducks with.

He's never treated anyone with less than the respect they deserve. He is a child. Their fright discomforts him; their discomfort angers him.

But he has his father's face and burnt it.

Zuko understands.

Training with Masters has become laughably easy.

He breezes through the katas like he's practiced them hundreds of times. And he has, in another lifetime: on his ship with Uncle, in the Western Air Temple and on Ember Island with Aang, and later in Caldera with whoever wished to train with him. His guards, Aang, or the orphaned and cast-out firebending children from the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes: he'd taught the katas and more to boot, was a Master in his own right.

The fact that his teachers are shocked by his sudden progress is almost insulting, had he not been a somewhat shoddy firebender when he was young.

"Zhao lacked restraint," Aang once told him. "He had the power; he just couldn't control it."

"Neither could I," he'd replied. "But what I've learnt, what I know now, is that you do not control fire: you simply guide it, respect it, and it will work with you and for you. Fire is life, Aang, and you of all people should know you can't control life."

The flames twirl around him with ease and grace, licking at his fingers, at his surroundings, but never catching because he doesn't want it to. The movements are smooth and supple. He'll never be as perfect and stiff as Azula, but that's a good thing. His style is his own.

"We should move on to the next set, I believe," Master Shu says, after he's picked his jaw off the floor. "I—erm, do you know them, Your Highness? Have you studied the forms?"

"Of course I have, Master Shu," Zuko replies easily. "I've studied all up to, and including, the Forms of Mastery."

Master Shu somehow finds the gut to glower at him. "Then do them."

Zuko does so, moving from form to form. He's studied the kata-sets extensively in time gone by and disappeared; and he's done them too, which means his brain is able to stretch and curl his limbs just so without too much trouble. He'll be sore of course, but it's worth it.

There's nothing like showing off a little.

"Very well," Master Shu coughs, when Zuko has finished and takes a little bow. "Erm, yes. Yes, I suppose that we can work on the Mastery Set over the next week, and when you've managed those, we'll move on to more creative forms of bending."

Zuko does not roll his eyes. He bows again instead, and at Master Shu's nod, leaves for the benches to wipe his face and neck.

Azula pops out from behind the bush and scowls when he doesn't startle.

"You've improved," she says, suspicious in that way only little sisters can be. "You've improved a lot."

"Thank you, Azula," he replies. "How kind of you to compliment me. I was unaware that the chicken-hogs had begun to fly, but I'm pleased to know they have."

"Don't be dumb, Dum-Dum," she snaps. Her arms cross in front of her armoured chest defensively. "I'm just saying it."

"And I'm surprised you don't recognise sarcasm," he says, and when she huffs, he does roll his eyes. "Honestly Azula, you act like it's a big deal. I just got tired of being so behind all the time."

"You'll always be behind," she shoots back snippily. "I'll always be the best."

Zuko sighs. "Yes, Azula," he says honestly. "You will be."

He leaves her befuddled and, likely, very angry in her bush.

"I've heard you've been progressing quickly in your training, Prince Zuko."

It's not as much of a greeting as it's a simple statement, but Zuko does offer his uncle a smile.

"Yes, Uncle," he says. "I practiced by myself without bending, but tried to feel my chi pulsing as I went through the various forms. It's worked decently."

It worked in the Earth Kingdom, when he couldn't bend for fear of being discovered. Without fire a firebender only has the sun and the warmth it offers; the slivers of life Agni gives the earth. He warmed himself and the air around him, or pulled the energy from the heat of bone-dry wastelands. He meditated in Ba Sing Se, breathing in tandem with the flickering fires of their neighbours and inside their own home. If freshly hung laundry dried quicker when he was outside, the Earth Kingdom residents blamed it on the breeze catapulted over the walls.

"A fruitful endeavour, I see," Uncle says, audibly pleased. "I'm glad to hear it."

"I'm glad to experience it," Zuko replies. "It's as if I've gotten past a block that made firebending difficult for me."

Uncle's eyes twinkle behind his teacup. "Have you any theories, Prince Zuko?"

"Increased confidence, perhaps," he muses. "Less fear of failure, of getting left behind. I was my own worst enemy."

A change in philosophy. Experience.

"The pressure of being the oldest with a prodigal younger sibling." Uncle sighs, as though he's ever been upstaged in bending by Ozai. "I am glad my dear Lu Ten never had any siblings."

"He was my brother in the ways that counted," Zuko says.

There's a smile, sad and tight but altogether lovely. Uncle puts down his cup and rests his hands on his lap.

"I suppose he was," he says quietly. "You must know that your cousin adored you and Princess Azula."

"I adored him."

He'd idolised Lu Ten. Azula had idolised Lu Ten. Lu Ten was everything they were not: caring and kind, gentle and patient. Lu Ten made mother chuckle through her bouts of sadness and father laugh through his simmering envy. He was grandfather's favourite, Uncle's pride and joy.

Zuko's wondered before, wonders still, what kind of Fire Lord Lu Ten would have been. Would he have stopped the War, the bloodshed? Would he have been able to begin the talks of peace? Would he have sucked the war machine dry of funds, to strategically scatter gold around the world as reparations?

Probably. Uncle and Zuko did—will, Agni willing. Lu Ten likely would have been no different.

Uncle's face looks gentle and fond. "Do you remember him teaching you a… form, that allows you to use fire as projectiles used to knock the breath out of an opponent?"

"Yes." He'd called it 'The Baboon', for some ridiculous reason. Something about throwing shit around. "It took me a while before I got the amount of force down."

"Because it is an earthbending move," Uncle clarifies. "It requires a different kind of strength."

"Oh," says Zuko. Of course. He knew some of Toph's forms looked familiar.

Uncle exhales an amused breath through his nose. "I've always told him, 'Lu Ten, a truly powerful bender draws inspiration from the other elements'. He always called it ridiculous; but then he showed me that, and I knew he'd heeded my advice."

"It's creativity," Zuko murmurs. "Right?"

"Yes," Uncle says. "He was such a creative young man." And then he pauses, catches Zuko's gaze with his own. His eyes narrow in thought. "But then, so are you, Prince Zuko."

Zuko quirks his brow. "Oh?"

"You used fire like an earthbender manipulates earth, during the Agni Kai." Uncle hums. "You used it like water too; turned your father's fire against him. And you moved… well, I believe no one has seen movement like that in over a century."

His heart thunders, loud and forceful, in the juncture between his jaw and neck. Zuko doesn't dare break eye-contact.

"Did I?"

Uncle smiles again. "Did you?"

Zuko holds Uncle's gaze for just a moment longer before he breaks, twists his fingers. "Perhaps I did."

"You know what you're doing."

It's not a question. Zuko expels a shaky breath and picks up his own cup of tea, brings it to his lips. The sweet, floral jasmine floods his mouth and makes his eyes prick.

Two working, unscarred eyes. The burn may as well still be there—but it's not. He gave it to another.

"Yes," he says honestly. "Though I'm making it up as I go along."

Uncle chuckles and refills his own cup.

"We cannot predict the shape of the clouds of the next dawn, Prince Zuko," he says. "But dawn itself? That, we are certain will come."

Dawns come and go.

Every night, sleep is restless. Zuko rises before Agni touches the horizon and lies down long after they have made way for Tui. He goes through the motions of the day and faces the distrust head-on. He takes breakfast with Azula and impresses his teachers, takes tea with Uncle and impresses his teachers once more.

It is easy to live in the palace. It is uncomfortable.

Zuko wishes for campfires and nights spent under the stars, in the comfort of those he'd lay down his life for. He wishes for bison fur on his clothing and a purring lemur on his chest.

He wishes for his friends. They do not come. Dawn does.

Father emerges from the infirmary two weeks after the Agni Kai. Three days after that, he calls Zuko in for an audience.

Zuko is not nervous. The fluttering in his stomach is not nerves, not fear. It is excitement.

The throne room has not changed. Father still sits behind a wall of flames, a little lower than usual, than grandfather had it. Zuko, on the few occasions Uncle was unavailable as regent, only allowed the flames to fly high at the sides: he enjoyed making direct eye-contact with the ministers.

Father looks awful, drawn and pale. A bandage is wrapped tight around his head, covering his left eye. His hair is, curiously, untouched, implying he did not truly lose the Agni Kai.

Zuko refrains from pointing out the slight. Zhao did not cut his hair either.

"Father," Zuko utters, bowing shallowly. The wall of fire flares. "You wished to see me?"

"Prince Zuko," father rasps. His voice sounds broken and torn, the way Zuko's had been for months after his banishment. It sounds painful to speak. "My son."

Zuko waits, head tilted down.

"Meet my gaze," father murmurs, and when Zuko does, the hatred burning in father's visible eye nearly causes him to stagger back. Nearly, because Zuko remains where he is, steady like a rock.

Father's mouth twists into something ugly. "You fought well in our Agni Kai."

"Thank you, father."

"Striking when one's opponent least expects it is a decent strategy."

"Yes, father."

"But, do not see your ability to burn me as proof of your prowess," father continues. Disdain drips from every syllable. "I've heard you've been improving swiftly in training, and for that I am… pleased. But this burn, it is a fluke."

"Of course, father," says Zuko.

"You understand me, don't you? The only reason you burnt me is because I let you."

The only reason you're alive is because I let you live, Zuko thinks. He does not say this. He says: "Of course, father."

"I am interested in why you decided on burning my face."

Zuko doesn't blink. He simply stands, hands behind his back and legs straight and steady, like a soldier.

"You are curious about the placement, or the severity, father?"

"Both," he barks. "Answer me, Prince Zuko."

"It is simple," he says. "Your face was within reach, so I chose to burn you there; and to burn you lightly would be a mercy, and we do not offer mercy, father."

The wall of fire surrounding the throne trembles, grows, diminishes.

"Leave my sight."

"Yes father," Zuko says, and he smiles. "I do so hope you agree with my reasoning. After all, you were the one who taught me all I know."

As Zuko leaves the throne room, he feels the fire flare high; and he extinguishes it all with a quiet huff of breath.

Father does not scream. He knows better.

The order comes within the next week.

It is not banishment. Father would not dare to banish his Crown Prince. Not now, after a defeat witnessed by all of the Court. It would be seen as a weakness and a Fire Lord does not show weakness.

But Zuko does need to get out of the way.

"You're a man now," Azula says, when he shares his new task over their shared breakfast. She eyes his top knot again with barely veiled contempt. "Father must wish you to act like it."

Father, Zuko knows, can't stand to look at his face while knowing his own is marked. Zuko is the living, breathing reminder of failure. He once had father's face and doesn't now; the wound likely aches.

"He must," Zuko agrees.

"It's for the best, anyway," she adds. "You have to be sleeping horribly, knowing you've harmed the Fire Lord."

"To be sure," he says. He hasn't caught any assassins just yet. He's sleeping with one eye open anyway.

Azula lifts a piece of fried tofu to her mouth, eyes narrowed. "And you will come back."

Zuko tilts his head and allows his mouth to form the smile it's been wanting to form since he heard the news. "Don't tell me you'll miss me, Lala."

"Don't be ridiculous," she snaps. Her chin tilts up, and she sniffs. "You simply ought to witness my superiority to you after a few months have passed."

Zuko smiles again and quietly takes a bite of his omelette. It will not be a few months, if he has anything to do with it. Princes are allowed to search for however long they want: they can only be ordered to return when the country is under great stress, or when they ought to marry. Zuko may be considered a man, but he is not yet of marriageable age. He'll wait for Aang.

A servant quietly enters the breakfast room and clears her throat. "His Highness, General Iroh, wishes to join you."

Azula's nose wrinkles, but Zuko straightens and nods at the young woman.

"Send him in, please."

The servant bows and vanishes through the door, then reemerges with Uncle. She waits until he's taken a seat before bowing once more and leaving.

"My dearest niece and nephew." Uncle beams. "How kind of you to let your old uncle join you."

"Always, Uncle," Zuko says warmly.

Azula doesn't do much more than nod with a sour mouth, but Uncle laughs anyway. He helps himself to the tea first.

"So, Princess Azula," Uncle says, "how is your lightning coming along?"

Azula straightens suddenly, resting her hands primly in her lap. "Is that breakfast talk?"

"Perhaps for any family other than ours," Uncle muses, taking a sip of his tea. "But we know better, do we not?"

The first true smile of Azula's day seems to pull at her lips. "I suppose. Well, it's going… decently. I've managed one bolt thus far."

She doesn't say the other attempts have resulted on her being blasted back.

"Most impressive!" Uncle crows. "Ah, I remember when I first started… I was two years older than your brother. It kept blowing up in my face for the first couple of years; I did not have the mindset down pat yet."

"Fifteen?" Azula perks up. "But that is…"

"Far later than you, dear niece," says Uncle. "I did not manage consistency until I reached the age of seventeen. My frustration with my lack of success certainly did not help. And your father… why, I recall he reached consistency shortly after his eighteenth birthday; I'd rarely seen him so excited."

"You were back from the front?" Zuko asks.

Uncle nods. "Yes. My father had granted me leave to attend Ozai's birthday. We've never been particularly close — the age difference and my role in the army did not allow for us to truly communicate like the two of you do, you understand — but I wished to be there. And how wonderful it was," he murmurs, "to properly express my pride for his success."

"Do you know who the youngest person was to successfully and consistently generate lightning, Uncle?" Azula asks eagerly. Her eyes are bright with the need to prove herself. "I am… curious."

"I'm sure you are, Princess Azula," Uncle says, mouth twitching behind his beard. "It was your namesake. My father was fourteen when he mastered lightning. Fire Lord Sozin, may Agni hold him in eternal rest, did not manage until after he was of age… twenty-one, I believe."

"That is… late, is it not?"

"Only members of the Royal Family and some Avatars have managed to bend lightning," Uncle informs them, calmly. "My grandfather was not a prodigy, but he was a hard worker. I assume being best friends with Avatar Roku would have emboldened him to train relentlessly. Both of you must know—a true master never stops learning."

Azula leans back, thoughtful yet brimming with excitement. "Of course," she agrees. "I don't plan on stopping, Uncle."

"Me neither," Zuko says quietly.

Uncle smiles at them both and takes a sip of his tea.

"Have you heard of Zuzu's new task, Uncle?"

"Yes," he replies drily. "Searching for the Avatar; the rite of passage for every prince. I've spent some months at sea myself."

"Just a few months?" Azula asks.

Uncle's eyebrows jump up. "Longer than your father."

"Father had to marry," Zuko cuts in. "Grandfather called him back, Azula."

"I know that," she snaps. "I know that better than you. Was it truly only a few months, Uncle? Is that normal?"

"Six months is, as far as I'm aware, common practice for princes, but there is no set time," Uncle answers. "It is not as much as a search for the Avatar as it is a Grand Tour, though. An effort to become worldly, so to speak."

"Six months," Azula repeats, brow furrowed. Then she meets Zuko's gaze. "I will have mastered lightning when you come back," she announces. "I'll be the youngest ever to do so. You'll never catch up."

"Of course, Azula," Zuko says. "But your brother can dream, can't he?"

As she turns her nose up, Zuko turns back to his food with a smile. Azula will have mastered lightning when he returns; it will not be in six months.

Zuko listens, this time around.

The servants know. They always know. And Zuko has been a servant, for a time: has learnt to be quiet, to listen, to gain information that way. The servants always know. They do not exist, not to those whose words matter.

But a servant's words matter as well. And a servant's words, well… a servant's words are how Zuko learns that Fire Lord Ozai — first of his name, Agni's prime descendant, holder of the Dragon Throne — has learnt to be frightened.

Of what, you ask?

Why, of fire itself.

Zuko refuses the brand-new, Royal navy vessel father has oh-so-graciously offered him.

"I don't need a large ship," he says, levelling a pointed look at the slack-jawed courtiers until they close their mouths. "I need one that is swift and nimble. A small crew is preferable; some experienced, some not. Perhaps ask my uncle if he has any suggestions."

"Your Highness," the highest ranking one says, hesitant, "you wish to decline His Majesty's gift?"

"It is not a gift. It is a courtesy." Zuko meets the courtier's defiant, terrified gaze and softens his expression. "If he'd offered me less, it would be a slight—and a slight will be seen as a weakness. You understand, don't you?"

The trio of men nod.

"Good," he says. "Please do ask General Iroh for advice. He will be happy to give it."

They nod again, then bow, and take their leave after a carefully enunciated, "Of course, Your Highness". The moment the courtiers are gone Zuko expels a breath to relieve the tension in his shoulders and rolls his neck.

"You should've just accepted the ship, Dum-Dum."

"I see the art of sneaking hasn't been lost on you," he mutters, twisting to send his little sister a half-hearted glare. "They ought to put a bell on you."

"I'd kill them before they even managed to come close," Azula announces. She deftly climbs down from the small alcove, nearly sending an ancient vase to the floor, and peers at him like he's the key to the secrets of the universe. "Why did you refuse the gift?"

"It's not a gift," Zuko stresses, sighing, "it's a courtesy."

"Same difference."

"No," he says. "No, it's not. You of all people should know that."

Her smirk is as annoying as it is endearing. Being eleven is not helping her scare-factor one bit. "Just checking if you did."

Zuko feels his eyebrows jump up before he wrestles them into a frown, rolls his eyes. "Of course you were."

He walks off swiftly and Azula, as though she's still six, scampers after him. His long legs are Agni-sent; she needs to jog lightly to keep up, and he can barely keep the smile from forming when she snags his sleeve and yanks to slow him down.

"Zuzu!"

"Lala."

"You really ought to accept the vessel," she says, huffing in a manner almost uncouth. "With your luck, father will assign you some rotten, rusted thing that should have been sold for scraps decades ago."

"If it's quick and seaworthy, I won't mind a spot of rust."

"But the crew will be small too!"

"That's a good thing," he says. "I don't like people."

He continues walking, Azula tottering after him like a furious, feral wolf-cat on a lead. Eventually she yanks his sleeve again, aggressive, pulling him to a stop—she sneers at his blank expression.

"You know you are supposed to come back, right?"

"Obviously," he retorts. She looks like she might bite him. "What brought this on, Azula?"

Azula stares at him, nostrils flared and eyes like white-hot embers. Her mouth is tight and sour again.

"You can't die at sea," she says. "It would be an embarrassment to the Royal Family. And I need you to wallow in the fact that you'll never be better than me."

Zuko's chest loosens and his face relaxes further. He breathes out through his nose. "Ah."

"What, 'Ah'?"

"I will return," he says. He pushes her shoulder gently. Her fingers uncurl from his sleeve. "I'll fail at finding the Avatar, and I'll return. I won't die, Azula. I promise."

"You better not," she snarls, and she pushes at his chest, snarling more when she can't quite get him to move. "You'd just be another stain on our legacy otherwise."

He catches her shoulders. She stills, still dangerous, still poised for attack.

"I'll write to you," he promises. "While I'm at sea. I'll tell you extensively about my various and numerous failures, and you can write back about all your successes. It'll be like I'm right next to you to ridicule."

"I don't care." Azula swivels around and stalks off. "I won't even care that you're gone. Good riddance, if you ask me. Father should've done it years earlier!"

Zuko watches her go and huffs out an amused breath. That's his sister in a nutshell: every single word has layers.

He just needs to pick at them to uncover the secrets.

"I am coming with you."

Zuko doesn't turn away from the chest he's packing clothes and valuables into. He sent the servants assigned to do it for him away earlier; they will return to carry it onto the ship, but he preferred to pack his things himself.

"Are you, Uncle?"

"Yes," says Uncle, and there's a brief pause. "But you knew that already, didn't you?"

The precious silk of the night robe is heavy in his hands. It's redder than blood. He places it atop a tunic, smoothes it out. Then he straightens back up and faces his uncle.

"Whyever would you think that, Uncle?"

Uncle's eyes are twinkling. The rest of his face remains blank. "I had an inkling."

"As is your speciality," Zuko replies. He walks over to his wardrobe and rifles through the various sets of armour left. He won't need much: both because there is no need for pomp and glamour, and because he's due his first big growth spurt in just a few months. The majority of his clothes will no longer fit then.

"Courtier Hao mentioned you wished for a small, swift vessel," Uncle continues. "He told me you ordered him to ask me for advice on the crew."

"I trust your judgement."

"You would not be dissatisfied if I tell you the crew is largely made up out of old navy men and women, and a handful of severely inexperienced recruits?"

"No," says Zuko. "To reiterate, I trust your judgement."

"And you would not be unhappy when I tell you that the ship your father offered you in the Royal vessel's place was due to be decommissioned in the next month?"

"Is it swift?"

Uncle hums in the affirmative. "It was built for speed."

"Then it shall do just fine." He piles a variety of bladed weapons on top of his possessions. His Dao blades go in last; the chest closes easily. "You are certain you wish to join me, Uncle?"

"Ah, Prince Zuko," Uncle says, and he grasps Zuko's shoulders, turns him around, smiles a smile of pure warmth. "I'd go to the ends of the earth with you, my boy."

The ship is old and small, likely built years before Uncle's birth, rusted and cranky from her years at sea. She's quick and trustworthy. She holds Komodo-Rhinos and two Eel-Hounds; a crew of eighteen marines and two royals. Her name is Wanyi.

She's perfect. She's his again.

Caldera is an insignificant dot on the horizon. Zuko breathes, trails his gaze over familiar faces—the discomfort is still present on many, but it'll wane soon.

"Where to, Your Highness?"

Lieutenant Jee's serious, dark eyes look resigned. Oh, to serve under a spoilt Prince—what a job. He'll complain about it the whole time. At length. There is no doubt about it

Zuko's missed the chronically annoyed fellow sorely.

"The Western Air Temple first," he says. "Perhaps we'll find something previously missed. Who knows."

Jee nods and turns, calls out directions to Helmsman Ichiro. Seamen Keiji and Hina play Earth, Fire, Water, Air to push deck-sweeping duty off on one another. Junior Lieutenant Sana is already smuggling several young recruits down to the stables to coddle the animals.

Zuko takes a seat at Uncle's table to have some tea, feeling oddly settled.

"It's a beautiful day," Uncle says, as he pours the jasmine.

The sky is waterbender-blue, dotted with fluffed clouds. Agni shines down upon them and the sea is calm. Coal-smoke plumes from the chimney, like a dragon.

"Yes," says Zuko. He accepts the cup, thanks Uncle with a nod and a smile. "It is."

End Note:

The Wanyi is the 'new' fanon name thought of by muffinlance and tuktukpodfics. Chinese for 'one in ten thousand', 'perchance'; also 'what if' or 'just in case'.

Hope you enjoyed! Feel free to leave a review, but please don't be too harsh :)