It's easy, travelling by boat. Zuko can't remember it ever being so easy.

The Wanyi is familiar. More familiar than the Palace. It is good. His crew is fond of him, fonder than they had been when he was a shouting, furious, wounded, terrified boy who couldn't understand why his father burnt him banished him threw him away—and though he is glad he gets along with them in this time, he doesn't know how to feel about the disparity.

Uncle, at least, is largely the same. Uncle is consistent. Uncle loves him, has always loved him, even when Zuko was a confused, spoilt, horrible teenager who hated himself more than he hated his destiny. Uncle is a warm, dependable presence at his side, a kind teacher watching him bend, a jolly man of silliness when the atrocities of War get a bit too heavy.

Zuko misses his friends. But he's not too lonely.

The Northern Air Temple, as packed as it is with Earth Kingdom refugees, is nearly emptied in its entirety of Air Nomad remains.

Remains meaning bones, yes, bodies—but also scrolls and clothing and dolls, air bison brushes and prayer necklaces. They're invited inside after promising on their honour that they've come in peace, and then the refugees' leader, Sai — "I'd rather be called the Mechanist; everybody does!" — guides them through what was once a temple but is not now.

There are pulsing pipes sticking out from ancient and sacred murals like open fractures, walls and ceilings coated in a sludge of coal smoke. The refugees observe them behind dirty metal constructions and ancient, intricately carved pillars, sneering. The children look frightened.

Any attempt at communication with someone other than the Mechanist goes ignored. Junior-Lieutenant Sana waves once, and Zuko does too, but a particularly angry-looking woman pulls her child behind her before she can wave back. Resigned but understanding, Zuko, Uncle, and the crew who accompanied them up the mountain range keep to themselves. It's easier to peel information out of the Mechanist anyway.

He weaves them their background story: it's disjointed, and sometimes he gets distracted and stops mid-sentence to do a lot of gestures at some piping, but eventually Zuko can piece it together. There was a flood in their town, and many people, including the Mechanist's wife, lost their lives—and the Fire Nation already pushed so many people into becoming refugees that they had to look elsewhere for shelter. The Temple is high and dry and safe. It's perfect.

Helmsman Ichiro and Engineer Akito are mighty interested in the Mechanist's inventions, gushing quietly about the ingenuity and neat metalwork. It relaxes their guide, magics a small smile onto his face, and he talks about how he can weld without fire—pressure and a locking system keep the pipes together, and if necessary he'll use friction-induced heat to attach two ends. He won't stop chattering either, because he's made a Temple built for airbenders work for non-benders and a handful of earthbenders and he's very proud of that achievement.

"Oh, it's quite clever if me, if I may say so myself," he murmurs, to his enraptured audience of two. "It's all steam! Hot air is lighter than cold air, and it's cold here—we're even able to fly using gliders inspired by the remains of gliders we've found."

Back during Zuko's first go — a time he, curiously, does not remember all that much of — he'd been twitchy whilst visiting the Northern Air Temple. He'd been twitchy whilst visiting the Western and Southern Temples as well, considering how much these carcasses of culture prove that the Fire Nation is the aggressor in the War. And yes, The Northern Air Temple had no visible bodies and does not now either, but the Northern felt like—

Well, the refugees were here then as well, and Zuko's quite certain there are no acutely discernible differences.

It felt sacrilegious. It still does. It feels sacrilegious to view mechanical advancement tearing through a place of worship and to then say nothing. And Zuko could not, and still cannot, say anything, because it's not his place.

Aang accepted the change in another time, because the Temple would be empty without the refugees and the refugees need a home and that's what the Air Nomads were all about: they shared food and shelter and happiness, song and dance. Zuko can't say this is dishonourable because he's not an Air Nomad, because he's not a refugee, because he knows that the casual destruction of the home of people who ought to be remembered is not done maliciously.

But he stares at a mural of Avatar Yangchen. A pipe is drilled through her eye, another through her shoulder. The chalk paint has begun to fade.

"What about the bodies?" he asks, turning away from the desecration with a stiff back. He didn't ask that last time. He simply assumed.

"The bodies?" The Mechanist asks, patchy eyebrows quirked curiously.

"Of the Air Nomads," Zuko clarifies. "I'm assuming you must have found bones."

"Oh," says the Mechanist, and then he shakes his head. "No, we didn't find any bodies. We always figured that… well. We assumed the Nomads had time to flee."

"To flee," says Zuko slowly, "and pack?"

"Yes, exactly." The Mechanist nods and taps his wooden fingers against his jaw. "There were no toys left, except unfinished ones—like a few of the gliders we found. And some clothing was left in the laundry area, but nothing else."

"Scrolls?" he asks. "What about scrolls?"

"The library was nothing more than ashes," the Mechanist answers.

Of course it was. Zuko nods in lieu of a spoken answer and turns back to the drilled-through mural.

"Are you thankful for this place, Sir?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Are you thankful," Zuko says, "that you have a roof over your head?"

Jee hisses through his teeth from his place behind him. Ichiro and Akito shift in place, looking slightly ashamed. Uncle and the others do not say a word.

"Of course I am," says the Mechanist, audibly confused. "We… my people and I are so thankful."

Zuko nods again.

"I think it's wonderful that you've managed to adapt the Temple into a home traversable by people who cannot bend," Zuko says. "I think it's good that you've made the Temple a home again, that you've given it back the purpose it was constructed for."

"I'm glad to hear it," the Mechanist says quietly.

"And I know," Zuko continues, "that you likely will not take what I will say to heart—because I am the great-grandchild of the man who ordered this Temple to be burnt out. But, please—" he gestures at the mural, "—perhaps it would be kind and respectful to those who built this home if you respected this home as well."

The Mechanist looks at the mural of the Avatar, frowning, and Zuko can see the exact moment when it clicks. The man's eyes widen, and his nostrils flare as he inhales, and then his gaze lowers and stares at nothing as he thinks.

"Of course," he murmurs.

"The Air Nomads may not be here anymore, but they did exist." It's easier, saying this, now that he knows Aang. It's easier to put his discomfort into words. Aang will accept that refugees have made the Temple into their home, but it is still an Air Temple, and it should be respected. "This is as much as a monument to them and their culture as it is a home for you and your people. Whether the inhabitants got away, or their bodies were cleaned up before you came—they were driven out by violence and technological advancements. Remember them."

"Yes," says the Mechanist, after a moment of silence. "Yes, that makes—I understand. I…"

"Perhaps you can drill through the empty places of the murals instead," Uncle interrupts, smiling genially. "Keep everything clean. And we have information on Air Nomad philosophies and customs. I do believe it would be nice to share those… over a cup of tea?"

"And please do talk about steam engine care," Akito jumps in, to Ichiro's nodding. "I'm always looking for energy-efficient options! Our Prince said it—the way you've managed to adapt the place for people who cannot bend air is brilliant."

The Mechanist smiles another small, hesitantly bright smile.

"Tea," he says, "and food. Forgive us if it's mainly vegetable-based protein; the grounds are rather inconvenient for keeping cattle and poultry."

Aren't they?

"Why did you scold them, Prince Zuko?"

They're back on the Wanyi, having politely declined to stay the night in an attempt to not overstay their welcome. The Mechanist looked relieved anyway, which is just as well.

"They are well-meaning," he replies, "but ignorant."

Uncle does not appear disappointed, nor does he look proud or pleased. There's a careful neutrality in his face that, in all of Zuko's years of being around Uncle nearly every day, Zuko still is unable to decipher.

It's a look, Zuko thinks, that is usually paired with Zuko's Big Decisions of Destiny. A 'what do you think you're doing'-question that is not actually asked, simply implied to be asked through bushy eyebrows and a mouth hidden by a beard. Often, in the different time, this look was followed by a sigh and a glimmer of disappointment upon explanation; sometimes it was a proud or fond smile. And always, always, it incited a gut reaction of defensiveness that made Zuko huff and straighten.

Zuko is twenty-one and thirteen. Zuko huffs, and he straightens.

"I genuinely am happy for them that they've found a place to stay," he explains, "but I feel it was disrespectful to the Nomads — who left unwillingly — to start breaking the damn thing apart. I just reminded the Mechanist that the reason he and his people are in the Temple and able to make changes is because its previous inhabitants have been murdered."

Uncle still looks unreadable. "You were speaking in defence of… the Air Nomads."

"Obviously," says Zuko, only a little bit irate. He turns back to his wardrobe and starts removing bits and pieces of his stiff armour. "Their memory deserves to be respected. Not drilled through because of convenience."

Uncle is dreadfully quiet. Zuko continues to undress until he reaches his grey, long-sleeved under tunic, after which he tugs the heir's pin out of his top knot and loosens his hair. He rummages through the drawers in search of clean clothing.

He's not in the wrong here. Perhaps he was too harsh, but he's not in the wrong. The Uncle of his original time would understand—would have encouraged such beliefs, even. Probably. It's the type of direction that he would've tried to steer Zuko into during the banishment. The refugees belong in the Northern Air Temple; they should respect the lingering souls of the previous inhabitants.

"I'm not apologising for it, by the way," Zuko says, pulling an evening robe out of the drawers and draping it over his arm. "I was firm, but I was also polite. And the Mechanist understood—"

Warm arms catch him in a fierce embrace. Zuko is tucked against Uncle, cheek to cheek, because they're nearly the same height still; and he feels himself melt, muscles once tight with anxiety relaxing with every slow expansion of Uncle's chest. Zuko rests some of his weight against him, exhales shakily through his nose, and briefly closes his eyes.

"I am so, so proud of you, Prince Zuko," Uncle says thickly. "Your kindness and compassion… they have not been smothered under your father's violence, have they?"

"Father—" his voice cracks, and Zuko swallows with difficulty. "Father has enough violence and cruelty for a legion of soldiers. For the whole country."

"But not enough compassion for even himself," Uncle whispers. "Not enough kindness to consider others as human. Not enough of either to be a leader the world needs."

His arms tighten briefly before he pulls away, hands on Zuko's shoulders to look him in the eye. Uncle's own are shiny, and his mouth quirks into a wry smile.

"I am glad," he says, "that you are our future, Prince Zuko."

The crew doesn't speak of Zuko's gentle outburst to the leader of the refugees. Not in front of Zuko, anyway—though perhaps they discuss it in the mess when Zuko has retired to bed, or perhaps they whisper about it in their cabins.

But they don't speak of it by day. They continue to watch him carefully, keep their bows deep, and hold onto the respect that royalty requires. During Zuko's banishment, his crew would have slowly started to cut corners at this point; they do not now.

He must be doing something right. Uncle gleams with pride.

On their meandering journey down the Earth Kingdom coast, shortly before they pass Chameleon Bay, Zuko miscalculates his landing after his usual somersault off the navigation tower and hurts his ankle.

This should not be a big issue — especially considering Zuko neither felt nor heard anything snap — but it appears the crew treats it as such. He doesn't do much more than hiss and grab at his foot before he is surrounded by concerned veterans; they crowd him like clucking mother Komodo-hens.

It is dreadfully annoying yet, simultaneously, very endearing. Zuko would've cooed had he not wanted them to leave him alone.

"Your Highness!" somehow, Ensign Minato's voice comes out the clearest in the rumbling thunder of panicked voices. "Your Highness, are you alright?"

"Yes," says Zuko, because he is. Sort of. It hurts like a bitch, though. "I'm alright."

Jee spits sparks and some choice words. Or, Zuko assumes it's Jee—the sparks rise up from behind Jiro's massive stature, and only Jee would cuss at him. "I call bullshit."

Zuko peers at the approximate space his Lieutenant is occupying and wrinkles his nose. "Are you saying I'm lying? I, your Crown Prince, am lying?"

"Yes," Jee answers shortly, bodily pushing Jiro and Keiji out of the way to reach him. "You're a bitchass little liar, Your Highness."

"It's just a sprained ankle!" Zuko swats irritably at Jee's outstretched arms. "I'm fine."

Jee makes a tutting noise and evades Zuko's swats deftly, pushes his arms under Zuko's knees and below his shoulder blades. He is then lifted as though he weighs little more than a sack of sour potatoes.

Zuko flails in general protest, spitting out some sparks himself.

"Stop it," Jee hisses, tone promising chains and poppy milk if Zuko does not comply. Zuko goes limp. "Thank you."

It is probably one of the most embarrassing things that has ever happened to him. This is impressive, because Zuko has gone through many, many embarrassing moments in his life: he's practised speeches in front of Badger-Frogs and got caught, he's been slammed into a wall by a twelve-year-old pacifist monk, and he's ascertained he would win a fight against Katara at the North Pole during a blizzard, when the night was dark and the moon was full.

Being carried by his Lieutenant like some simpering maiden is quite high up the list. Especially because his crew follows them like confused, anxious polar bear pups.

"Can you not?" Zuko snaps, peeking past Jee's bicep to glare at the lot of them. "Don't you have things to do? Fires to start? Gossip to share? Hinges to oil?"

As if they're all limbs of one body, they halt.

"Right, Your Highness," Sana says, after a beat. There is a smile pulling at her mouth that she valiantly tries to get under control under Zuko's glare. "Of course. Run along, you fuckin' slackers."

The crew scatters nervously. Jee grumbles curses under his breath and hikes Zuko a little higher, squeezes through the narrow door opening with a scowl.

"I knew this would happen," he tells Zuko, in a tone of voice that Chief Hakoda has used on Zuko before. It is a dad-voice. Zuko, Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, is being dad-ed by his grumpy Lieutenant. "It went far too well for far too long."

"I could've pushed through," Zuko replies, not pouting. "It's only a sprained ankle—"

Jee offers him a withering glare. Zuko falls silent and slumps against Jee's armoured shoulder, remains that way until Jee comes to a standstill in front of their healer's treatment cabin and knocks by way of kicking against the steel. The door creaks and hisses as it's opened just a fraction—a weathered face appears in the sliver of space.

"Yes?"

"The Prince has hurt his ankle," Jee grunts, pushing the door open with his leg and easily making his way inside with Zuko limply swinging in his arms. "You should probably take a look at it."

"Oh," is the terse reply, "I should, should I?"

The Wanyi's medic, Lee, is one of Uncle's old friends and reminds Zuko strongly of both Pakku and Jeong-Jeong at the same time. Though he's a bit of a hermit — he takes tea and plays Pai Sho with Uncle, but only in Uncle's cabins, and he generally prefers to be left alone — he does have the air of someone who's good with people. Medic Lee is the type of man to command respect and speak through thinly veiled insults; he's honest and hardworking, on the older side, hair silver and face marred with age and stress.

He's also incredibly sarcastic and stubborn.

"Our Prince is hurt," Jee says, bristling. "You are our medic. Take a look at his fucking ankle."

The two men cross gazes—unstoppable force meets immovable object. And Zuko remains in Jee's arms, feeling really quite silly, because he's thirteen and he's twenty-one and he's being carried like an irate child.

Then again, at least Jee didn't rest him on his shoulder like the sack of sour potatoes that he is apparently the weight of. Small mercies.

"Just look at it," Jee grits out.

Medic Lee's brown eyes briefly glance at Zuko's unhurt ankle.

"There." He crosses his arms and purses his thin mouth. "I looked at it."

Zuko tries and fails to muffle a laugh with a cough. In hindsight, Medic Lee is quite similar to Jee as well. It's just that Jee's a sailor and Medic Lee's a field medic turned royal medic who deems himself above implementing a variety of curses in one's linguistic arsenal.

"That's the wrong fucking ankle," Jee snaps. Then he sighs and exhales sparks again. "Just… make sure it isn't broken. And maybe give him an ointment for the swelling, or whatever it is you do."

"I'll decide what I do," Medic Lee barks, but he gestures at the little raised cot in the medical cabin. "Deposit His Highness there."

Perhaps Zuko should protest at being 'deposited' like some sort of cargo — or sack of sour potatoes — but he doesn't, because after Jee gently sets him down on the rock-hard mattress, he pats Zuko on the head. Like a pet. Or a child.

He's too tongue-tied to bark an objection at the general state of things. Jee, like he's done nothing out of the ordinary, moves to stand vigil next to the cot.

Medic Lee shoots him a look.

"So I know for certain," says Jee, "that you'll treat his ankle."

"I'm a healer," Medic Lee points out, tone nasal and dry. "I'll decide whether His Highness' royal ankle needs to be treated."

"My ankle does not need to be treated," Zuko says. He is ignored.

Jee juts out his chin. "Still," he says.

The standoff goes on for about ten seconds before Medic Lee, with a derisive snort, reaches out to unbind Zuko's shin armour and discard it behind him.

"Whatever makes you happy, Lieutenant Jee."

The retort sounds an awful lot like 'I'm never happy', which would've made Zuko choke on his tongue—had he heard it, because Medic Lee takes that moment to tug off Zuko's boot.

The ankle protests. Loudly, in that way sprained ankles are wont to do. Zuko grunts, bites down on his cheeks hard enough to draw blood, and tries not to throttle the healer as he pokes at the rapidly swelling joint. Then his foot is taken hold of by two old, cold, calloused hands and twisted in this and that direction.

Zuko fists the cot so hard that its fabric begins to smoke.

"Does it hurt, Your Highness?" Jee asks lightly, placing himself on Zuko's 'must throttle someday'-list. "Spirits, I do wonder how that came about—"

"Wiggle your toes," Medic Lee orders.

Zuko does so. Politely. Calmly.

"Ankle doesn't appear to be broken," Medic Lee murmurs. He squeezes the top and bottom of Zuko's foot. "Does that hurt?"

"No," Zuko says, through gritted teeth.

"Foot isn't broken either," is the conclusion. "It's just a sprained ankle."

"I told you—"

Medic Lee walks over to one of his many drawers and pulls bandages out of one, a weird sack out of another, and a little ceramic jar out of the third. Then he walks back, opens the jar, and starts slathering a very pale cream all over Zuko's ankle.

"Ash-puma balm," he says, "to keep down the swelling and to prevent locking the joint. Then," he unravels the bandage and wraps it tight around the ankle, "stiff bandages for support and stability, and to keep down the swelling. Lastly," he plops the weird sack on Zuko's chest, "a cool compress, to also keep down the swelling. Try to prevent too much use of the affected foot before it's healed, lest you wish for chronic pain or increased risk of injury, or even arthritis. The recovery time before you can even attempt to walk normally will be two weeks."

"Two—"

"Heavy exercise," Medic Lee continues, thin-lipped, "will be at least four. Start stretching gently at the one-week mark, by simply rolling your foot carefully and moving it side to side without moving your leg. At week two you'll start putting weight on it. Keep up the exercises for as long as possible, even after healing, because the chance you'll sprain it again will be very high if you don't warm up."

Zuko gapes at the medic as Jee crows triumphantly about stubborn thirteen-year-old boy-princes and their general stupidity and how he knew it's a serious injury. Medic Lee stares back at Zuko, eyebrows raised as if daring him to protest.

"How am I supposed to get around?" Zuko's never rested longer than a handful of days after an injury. Even after Azula's lightning burnt him from the inside out, Zuko was up and at it after four days in spite of the pain and lingering shakiness, and also Katara's furious protests. "Am I just supposed to order Jee to carry me everywhere?"

Jee snorts derisively, as though he's in any way okay with that prospect. "Would be harder for you to get into trouble that way."

"I'll request Engineer Akito to fashion a crutch for you out of metal, Your Highness," Medic Lee says. "But that will take at least a day."

Zuko casts his eyes skywards.

"And," Medic Lee continues, sounding almost gleeful, "getting me to talk to Engineer Akito will also take a while."

"I can't fucking believe this."

Jee smugly pats Zuko on the head again. "That'll be a few days of sitting still, Your Highness. I can barely wait."

One of the perks of being rather… stuck in one place with a bandaged foot is that he is now entirely unable to procrastinate on things that warrant him sitting still.

His correspondence is one of the more prudent of his tasks, especially as it is the one he tends to put off. Azula can become quite violent if she believes she's being ignored, something that never bodes well for any living or material things in the palace; and preventing deaths and damage from the comfort of taking tea with Uncle isn't horrible, so Zuko doesn't really mind his injury and orders all that much.

Even if it means he needs to pee quite frequently, which is a hassle in general with a foot he needs to keep his weight off of and a crutch made of very heavy steel.

"You can piss over the side of the ship if you're in a pinch, Your Highness," Keiji says helpfully, when Zuko mentions this issue in the Seaman's hearing range. "When I'm on duty and I really need to go, that's what I—"

Lieutenant Jee walks up behind him and looms.

"—absolutely never do, even when my bladder is set to explode," Keiji finishes solemnly, lying through his teeth. "Obviously. But you could, my Prince. If you'd want to."

Zuko thanks him for his advice, trying not to smile. Keiji nods, briefly twists his hands into the formal flame, and skedaddles before he can get yelled at with much smoke and sparks.

Jee almost looks disappointed that there's no need to raise his voice. Comical in any other circumstance: in this one, it means he sets his eyes on another thing.

"Do you need me to carry you again, Sir?"

"No thank you, Lieutenant," Zuko answers. Before Akito finished the crutch, Jee — or Petty-Officer Jiro, if Jee was unavailable — did carry him basically everywhere, including to the loo. Zuko managed to convince him to switch to piggy back after the first two hours of the not-bridal carry, but it was still incredibly annoying. "I need to learn how to get around by myself."

"It really is no issue, Sir," says Jee. "And I'm certain Jiro won't mind slinging you over his shoulder either—"

"I am not," Zuko says sternly, ignoring Uncle's sniggers, "a sack of sour-potatoes, Lieutenant."

Jee's mouth twitches. "Of course you aren't, Your Highness."

"Hm." Zuko sniffs and looks away.

"You weigh less, I believe," Jee adds. "I'd probably put you at half of a sack. Maybe a quarter."

"Lieutenant."

"Yes, Your Highness?" He sounds cheeky. Lieutenant Jee, the Grump of the Wanyi, should not sound cheeky. "I am always at your service."

The glare Zuko sends him is one of his fiercest—one that once made Ministers cower as Katara and Sokka grinned maniacally from over his shoulders, safe and protected by Zuko's status of technically being the Fire Lord despite not yet being of age. But Jee knows Zuko, and Zuko is a downed turtleduckling, and all that Jee does is raise his eyebrows whilst oozing unaffectedness.

Zuko wilts.

"Just… get back to work." Zuko flaps his hands limply, scowling. "Go… yell at people. Loom. Be intimidating. Scold Sana for sneaking the animals sugar cubes again. I dunno—"

"Of course, Your Highness." Jee does an exaggerated bow. "Anything for you, Your Highness."

Uncle hides his face in his collar, shoulders shaking.

The fiery breath singes his nose hair. "Skedaddle, Lieutenant."

"Skedaddling right now, Your Highness." Before he turns to walk off and frighten Hina into mopping the deck, Jee's mouth stretches into an unsettlingly smug smile. "I am but a call away, Your Highness. If you ever need to pee, that is."

Jee does skedaddle before Zuko can spit flame in his general direction. Zuko watches him go, squinting, and turns back to his letter to Azula with a pinched mouth.

"I do believe you've charmed the crew, nephew," Uncle muses, once he's recovered from his silent laughing fit. His eyes twinkle from over the rim of his teacup.

"I am very charming," Zuko retorts. He's not, not really, but perhaps he's endearing. Pretty, Sana called him. Mochi-cheeks. "And anyway, the crew already liked me. Lieutenant Jee's acceptance is a recent development."

"You give him high blood pressure," Uncle informs him.

Zuko raises one eyebrow. If Zuko gives Jee high blood pressure, Jee shouldn't ever meet Aang, or Katara, or Sokka, or — Agni forbid — Toph. Children who stop wars generally raise the blood pressure of the seasoned adult soldiers around them.

"Comes with the territory," he says eventually, swirling his calligraphy brush through the wet ink. "He'll get used to it."

Uncle laughs.

To Princess Azula—

The brush glides across the paper in perfect strokes, but hesitates in his hand.

—Dearest sister—

He doesn't actually know what to write. They've never really talked as much as Zuko assumes normal siblings do. Prior to the change, before his banishment—all they said were barbs and shallow utterances meant to project an image of fragile comradery. They didn't like each other, even if they acted like they did. Azula always lies.

—I have, rather idiotically, injured myself during my agility training—

Azula would talk to him, though. Even if her speech was stilted and her words were mean. Even when he yelled at her to just go away and leave him alone. Even when she'd burn him. They still reached out to one another.

—I can already hear you berating me for miscalculating and landing incorrectly, because surely you wouldn't ever make such a mistake—

She stopped talking, after their battle. After the War. All her conversation was caught in her head, her thoughts, and whatever the ghost of him told her would make her so incandescently furious that she never said a word during all his visits.

—and as such, I am giving you the opportunity to do so through our correspondence—

It will not happen again.

High blood pressure or not, Jee doesn't complain when Zuko stumbles off the ship with his crutch after they board in a small harbour town. It's been two weeks since the injury, but Zuko — to his complete and utter fury — still can't walk unassisted for a good amount of time, lest pain starts shooting up from his ankle all the way up to his fucking nose.

"Serves you right," Jee said just a few sunrises ago, as Zuko limped back to his cabin to fetch his crutch halfway through the day. "Jumping off towers and such—bloody mental."

The state of his ankle is the reason that Zuko acquiesced to using his crutch after docking. If he's going to walk around the town shopping, he'll need the support; leaning on one of his crewmembers simply won't do.

Said town, Milukku, has been built on the south-west coast of Shiitake Island, a fat mushroom-shaped slab of volcanic rock the size of the city of Ba Sing Se. About a week's journey by steamboat away from Chameleon Bay and a three-week journey from the Fire Nation, Shiitake Island is in that sweet spot of 'should be part of the Earth Kingdom, but isn't really' and 'could be a Fire Nation colony, but isn't at all'; its people are independent and have been mixed for centuries. If its bending children do not bend fire, they bend molten earth.

Milukku itself is a thriving town of diversity and reasonable equality that even the oldest Fire Nation colonies can only dream of having. No specific bending is superior: all that matters is money and goods. It's not ideal, Zuko thinks, but it's better than most areas in the world.

As the majority of the crew flounces off in search of supplies — coal, obviously, but also food and soap — Zuko initially stays near the Wanyi, flanked by Jee and Sana. Uncle, as he is Uncle, takes Medic Lee by the arm and goes to drag him off to the nearest pub.

"I am just aching for a good game of Pai Sho," he says innocently, when Zuko's eyebrows do much movement in his direction. "And Medic Lee is as well. Aren't you, Lee?"

Medic Lee looks about as enthusiastic as a plate of noodles is at the prospect of being eaten. "Right. Aching for it. Yes."

Uncle laughs as though Medic Lee just said something hilarious. "There's nothing like some varied competition. Do watch your purse, Prince Zuko! I shall join you shopping later."

"We are restocking," Zuko calls out, but Uncle waves him off.

He watches as Uncle and Medic Lee vanish through the wooden door, wondering how on earth the White Lotus has remained a secret society for so long if their members are so obvious. But Sana and Jee don't appear to have noticed a thing, so perhaps the ignorance and the act of being Odd and Weird does more than enough to curb suspicion. The sigh he sighs comes from deep inside his chest.

"Well, I suppose I should get something for Azula," he murmurs. It's her birthday in a few weeks—not that she's ever given him anything, but whatever. "Is there anything else?"

"The others have already got that down, Your Highness," Jee grunts. "No need to worry your royal little head over that."

"My royal little head—"

"Perhaps we can also shop for instruments," Sana interjects. She smiles kindly and pats Zuko's shoulder. "Your uncle mentioned you play the tsungi horn?"

Tsungi horn shmungi shorn. It's not for him; they want to start music night and do some illegal dances and consume all of their spiced brandy. Zuko leans on his crutch and pinches the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

"I've dabbled," he says. "I'm not as good as Uncle—"

"I want a pipa," Jee says gruffly. "I know how to play the pipa. There better fucking be pipas at the market."

He trots off with something that can almost be called a skip in his step, as excited as Jee possibly can be. Zuko watches him go with a slack mouth.

"I do believe Keiji is quite a good flutist," Sana says, like this turn of events is normal to her. "And Akito—he's fantastic at percussion. Asami's from a family of professional musicians. I've personally got a dab hand at the erhu, but my singing voice ain't that bad either…"

"I—" Zuko sighs again, shaking his head to rid himself of the surprise. The crew always enjoyed music night and he might even participate this time. It could be fun. Probably. "We'll buy some instruments. Whatever. Might improve morale."

Sana beams at him and seems to suppress the urge to squeeze his shoulders or ruffle his hair. Instead, she folds her hands into the flame and bows at the waist.

"A brilliant idea, Your Highness," she says. "Perhaps purchasing some Earth Kingdom instruments as well won't be amiss; I believe it would be a fun challenge to figure out how to play them."

"Music is music," Zuko agrees tiredly, and together they venture out to the market.

It's a lively thing, the market. Sailors, travellers, and townspeople alike stroll and barter, laughter being interspersed with harsh tones of arguing. The stalls shelter the goods from the sun and sea wind by a myriad of brightly coloured fabrics, some new and some so threadbare slivers of light make the bits and bobs shine golden. A nearby food vendor announces she's got the freshest noodles on this side of the capital and that her dumplings are six for the cost of four; her competitor sears his sateh on a coal-powered grill and wafts the smell of cooked meat all over the market with the help of a kipas. A little further away, a group of foul-mouthed sailors complain to a smiling cloth merchant about something or the other.

The wide arrange of things for purchase is impressive. It's not just food and clothing, but also pottery, woodwork and smithery in a variety of quality and sizes. There are stalls selling useful everyday items and stalls selling only decorations, there are stalls selling services and stalls selling finery, and there are stalls that seem to exist with the express purpose of conning people out of their coins.

It's busy and loud and will likely give him a mighty headache if he stays here for longer than an hour. Sokka would be in his element.

"I think I see a djembe, for Akito," Sana murmurs from his left. "But we could also buy a regular drum if it's cheaper…"

Zuko is about to tell her that there's no need to worry about money because he's still the Crown Prince, which means that this entire venture is funded by Ozai and there's no need to limit purchases—when something bright and oddly familiar catches his eye.

The stall itself appears to be for metalwork alone, set up in front of a smithy with a sizable shop. It sells not only weapons and tools, but also decorations and jewellery; basic pots and pans made of a shiny bronze, ornate knives made of a reflective silver, expertly forged earrings made of a rich gold. Zuko lingers, staring wide eyed at the object that made him stop in the first place: a thin, white-gold dagger on velvet, glinting in the slivers of sun that manage to sneak through the gaps between the protective fabrics covering the stalls.

It's a pin, technically, for securing a sash. Common in both the Earth Kingdom and the Fire Nation. It also being a dagger isn't particularly rare in both nations either, especially if it's been made for a woman. But the decoration on the top—

"Your Highness?"

Zuko jerks, blinking at his Junior-Lieutenant. "Yes?"

"Something dangerous and sharp caught your eye, didn't it?" Sana is smiling indulgently, again looking like she's resisting the urge to fondly squeeze his shoulders. "Honestly, My Prince, your fondness for knives…"

"We all have our vices," he retorts. "Ichiro has sake, my uncle has tea, Jee has his grumpiness… you spoil animals—"

"They're being so good in the stables, and deserve to be spoiled from time to time," she replies, as if 'time to time' doesn't mean 'all the time' in her world. "And it wasn't an insult, you know. No need to be so testy."

"I'm not," he says petulantly. He turns back to the pin, frowning. "It just looks familiar, is all."

"Familiar…?" Sana steps closer until she hovers just behind him, looking over his shoulder at the object. "Oh."

"Yes, oh."

"Lovely object, isn't it?"

One of the smiths has inched towards them with a large smile on her face. Her teeth are a bit yellow, even with the soot caked on her cheeks—the rolled stick of tobacco behind her ear suggests why that is.

"Yes," Zuko answers carefully. His free hand drifts a bit closer to the pin. "It's beautifully made."

"Oh, absolutely," says the smith. "We didn't make it, sadly—it's been sold to us, in exchange for a bag of coins and a decent cooking pot. Wanted to throw in a knife too, but the lady said she already had one."

"A Fire Nation lady?" Sana asks. She gestures at the pin. "The design doesn't look very Earth Kingdom to me."

The smith shrugs. "Fire Nation, Earth Kingdom—we're all mixed here, so she didn't stand out enough for me to remember. I mean, my wife's a firebender but she ain't Fire Nation."

"The decorative back of the pin is shaped like a flaming phoenix," Zuko says.

Another shrug. "Then she was Fire Nation. Who cares? It's pretty, yeah?"

Sana murmurs in agreement, but Zuko refrains from replying. His eyes won't stray from the pin for too long; something about it itches at him, like he knows the pin. A memory that refuses to be remembered.

"How much?" he asks.

"Present for a special someone, boy?" the smith asks, grinning widely. "Aren't you a bit young for big declarations of romance?"

"It's for my little sister," he corrects. It can be Azula's present. "She likes to stab things."

"Inanimate," Sana snorts, "or living?"

Zuko does not deign that with a reaction. It's a valid question, even if it's brought scathingly.

"What's a bit of violence for kids," the smith scoffs. "But since that thing's white gold, it'll be seventy gold coins."

Sana gapes. "That's six months' worth of my wages."

"I'm a reseller," is the reply. "Gotta make a profit somehow."

"You just said you got it in exchange for a cooking pot and a small bag of coins!"

"I never said it was a small—"

"Deal," Zuko interjects, ignoring the way Sana instantly huffs and puffs with muttered 'Prince Zuko's. It's not like his father will miss the expense—or be surprised by frivolous princely purchases. He takes out his coin purse and weighs it in his hand. "Have you got a bag to deposit the money into?"

They reach the Eastern Air Temple three weeks after the market trip, a time that Zuko suspects to be quicker because of their lightened purses.

Though, that diminished amount of gold could be compensated in weight by the amount of stuff that has been carried onto the ship. Apart from the supplies they came for, instruments, alcohol, and decorative bits and bobs now populate the Wanyi as well. Jee especially seems ecstatic with his brand-new pipa, and Sana and Ichiro — who usually have a drink with Jee every evening — have told Zuko that Jee keeps staring longingly at his instrument without touching it. Why he hasn't just strummed a funny little jingle yet, Zuko doesn't know.

Regardless, they dock the Wanyi in an old, abandoned harbour attached to an abandoned Air Acolyte village. They're in luck that the dock itself is made of stone; Zuko doesn't even want to think of letting his entire crew march over one hundred-year-old, untreated, water-logged wood.

"Are you sure we should make the climb up, Sir?" Jiro asks hesitantly. They turned their back on the village a few minutes ago, and all that's left is the treacherous mountain path up to the Temple's grounds. "I'm not sure how safe this path is…"

He also spares a glance at Zuko's ankle, bandaged tightly beneath his boot and shin armour. Zuko doesn't need to use the crutch anymore, and has been able to do some basic firebending and sword fighting steps without any trouble this past week; he'll be fine.

"You're free to return to the ship, Jiro," Zuko answers. "All of you who do not want to climb with me can. I'd like it if you did join me, though."

If anything, he thinks, a certain guru would find it a blast.

Some of his crew shrugs and bows, saying they'll return to the Wanyi to keep the remaining soldiers and the animals company. And Zuko, as he is kind and nice and all of that nonsense, tells them that in that case—they should let the Komodo-Rhinos and Eel-Hounds enjoy a bit of fresh air. Sana, who'd previously stood right behind him, zooms off before he can even finish his sentence.

"No hard feelings!" he calls after her, through the quiet guffaws of his crew. "But don't spoil them too much!"

It is shortly after that that they set off climbing the path, sticking to the rock walls and pacing onward. They're not with many — there's Jee and Jiro, Hina and Keiji, Minato and Asami, Kazami and Ohta, and of course there's Uncle — and half of them stayed behind, but that doesn't matter. Zuko knows the Temple will be clean, will be inhabited by one person who took his time in putting things away and putting people to rest, and there's no need for additional manpower.

Birdsong diminishes the higher they climb. The air thins, and breathing grows more laboured. When they're halfway, Uncle calls for a moment of rest; and Zuko, whose drive is not the all-encompassing need to go that it used to be, acquiesces.

"Do you truly think there will be hints of the Avatar there, Your Highness?" Asami asks. She's glued herself against the rock-face, very bravely avoiding the treacherous, crumbling edge of the path. She's a tad pale. "Is the climb, erm, worth it?"

Ohta and Minato hiss in tandem and turn red.

"Maybe," Zuko says, smiling, "maybe not. If anything, the view will be worth it."

"Wiser words have never been spoken, nephew," Uncle calls. "The journey is half the beauty of travel, and one's destination the other!"

Zuko grins, and Jiro clumsily pats his shoulder. They continue the climb shortly after, shuffling up the ancient path with care. Years of neglect have covered it in bush and vine, sand and mountain rubble leaving the steps precarious and unsteady. Hina slips once, clamping herself to Jee with a low squeal; whatever rock she kicked away from her in her struggle careens over the edge and falls down into the clouded valley below.

The moment Zuko spots gnarled, low hanging tree branches curling in their way, he knows they're mere metres away. He hastens his steps, ducks under the branch, and half-crawls up to the base of the complex.

It's breathtaking and clean.

Zuko inhales the thin, chilly air until his lungs ache and lets it go slowly, pushing his aching legs to approach the empty square. The nuns of the Eastern Temple preferred openness, similar to the monks of the South: the flattened mountaintops are scattered with few buildings, all connected with stone bridges to make traversing the Temple easier.

A crumbling statue of an Air Nomad stands in the centre of the square, hands poised in open prayer. And there, in the shadowed outbuildings at the edge, is a flash of white fur.

The flash of excitement diminishes quickly, because he knows the lemur hiding here isn't Momo—Momo came from the Southern Temple. But some of the glee remains, because a flying lemur here means that there are still flying lemurs around, and possibly air bison as well. Perhaps on undiscovered islands to the east.

"By Agni's hand—"

Zuko turns to see Uncle and the crew standing at the edge of the square, gaping unashamedly. It's understandable: the entire Temple is a sprawling, magnificent feat of architecture, pale stone meticulously carved into organic shapes and teeteringly high towers that hold up safely through the mere thickness of rock and the pull of the earth itself. He can't even think of suppressing the bright smile that pulls at his mouth.

"The Air Nomads were known for their beautiful architecture," he says loudly, spreading his arms. "Quite deserved, isn't it?"

"Oh," says Uncle, walking up to Zuko with a spring in his step. "Oh, imagine seeing it in its hey-day! It must've been… well…"

"This would've been the entrance for travellers who weren't Air Nomads, I believe," Zuko says. "If you look over there and down, I think you can still see the remnants of the Air Bison stables… and over there, their fruit and vegetable gardens. I'm not sure where their bedrooms are… I know the Air Nomads slept communally, but I remember reading that the nuns of the Eastern Temple slept alone; their acolytes didn't. And—"

"Right, kid," Jee interrupts. "Not to halt you in your information dump, but I don't suppose there would be any scrolls in the receiving square, yeah?"

To his horror, Zuko feels himself flush. "Yeah. Yeah, that makes sense. Erm—let's just go up, I guess."

He ignores the sniggering and marches in the direction of one of the bridges. It still looks sturdy, clean; yes, Zuko thinks, Pathik lives here.

"It's very tidy," Asami remarks, when they've reached another flattened mountaintop. They've gotten a bit closer to the main complex. "No… you know. Overgrowth. Or bodies. But there's also no signs that a community lives here, like in the Northern Temple."

"Not all the Nomads who lived in the Eastern and Northern Temples were airbenders," Zuko says. He looks up a tree full of ripening moon-peaches, squinting. "There also were Nomads of only the spiritual kind, who came from all over. I believe all of the Temples," he gestures around him, "were constructed with the help of earthbending Nomads and some Air Nomad avatars."

"Sir," says Hina, "are you saying that some spiritual nomads survived and cleaned up? But the Western Air Temple—"

"—Is secluded and difficult to reach without an Air Bison. The Southern Temple is the same—I expect that that Temple will be in a similar state as the Western one. North and East are far more accessible."

"Oh," Hina says, and there's a brief pause before she adds, a bit shakily, "I'm glad."

They climb on, passing spots that must've been used for meditation and lemur-grooming, then what Zuko suspects to have been a kitchen—the massive, copper bowl under a crumbling awning has oxidised and is rotting away, but there is still ash beneath it.

They're nearly at the main building. Zuko's ankle has gone hot and achy. His crew whispers behind him, likely pointing out the entrancing and magnificent sights around them with an appropriate amount of awe. And when they finally, finally reach the largest mountain top, an intimidating feat of human ingenuity, he hops to the middle of the square, stares up at the Temple, and flops on his arse.

It's a testament to the altitude and the harshness of the climb that Uncle and the crew follow suit, all collapsing onto the rough stone with relieved sighs. Jee, who's elected to sit near Zuko, clips his waterskin off his belt and does much gesturing at Zuko to do the same.

"Worrywart," Zuko grumbles, already unscrewing his own waterskin. The first mouthful flooding his mouth makes him realise how parched he is; he drinks greedily, wipes his mouth when he's done, and hands the skin to Uncle. "I have to say, I'm pleasantly surprised."

"By our lack of complaints, Sir?" Jiro calls out, sending Hina and Keiji into a round of muffled sniggering.

"Yes," he replies, and Uncle grunts out an admonishing, "Prince Zuko…"

"He's right, though, General Iroh," Jee says, casually clipping his waterskin back onto his belt. "If anything, I'm almost proud these lazy sons of bitches—"

"Lieutenant Jee!"

"What?" Jee asks, gesturing at the crewmen. "It's true! I can barely get 'em to swipe the deck on a good day, let alone put them through drills without extensive complaining and whining."

"Well," says Uncle slowly, after a moment, "when you put it that way…"

There is complaining and whining about offence.

"Regardless," Zuko interrupts, "I'm also surprised about the Temple."

"Because of the lack of bodies, Sir?"

"And the lack of wilderness," he says. "The low bushes at the edges there—they should've spread everywhere already, without people to tend to them for a century. The old stables are still visible too."

There is silence, contemplative and tired. The breeze is chilly and the sun is warm. It smells like rock and vegetation here, like nature—the chilly kind, the kind Zuko remembers smelling in the Temples he's visited that first time 'round. Back then, it'd been nothing more than a reminder that he wasn't home, that he was banished and sent on a fool's errand, hurting and shouting and absolutely terrified.

"Do you think…" Asami starts, quiet at first but then gathering her nerve, "do you think that someone lives here, Your Highness?"

Zuko breathes in deep, squinting at a sky that's waterbender blue. It smells like freedom, now.

"Only one way to find out."

Prince Zuko,

Courtesy to your admirable conduct during our Agni Kai on the second day after the sixth waning moon, Year of the Boar-Ox, the 41st Division shall not take part in General Bujin's plan. Another strategy shall be implemented.

Please be reminded you are welcome to return home at any time, though I do expect you, as my honourable Prince of Fire, to be successful in this task.

May Agni guide you and light your path.

Regards,

His Esteemed Majesty Fire Lord Ozai, First of his Name

Agni's Prime Descendant, Holder of the Dragon Throne

—Your Father

The hawk, somehow, made it up the mountain like it knew where to go.

It's a magnificent, intelligent, well-trained creature—and why wouldn't it be, with that crest burned into its harness? The royal hawkery only has the best of the best's bests, its birds noble and clever. The hawk landed on Zuko's shoulder, ensured its claws did not puncture the thick leather of his upper body's guards, and pecked irritably at his ear when he first just stared at it in surprise. Azula's hawks like to scratch him, but this one seems to have some begrudging respect.

However, the letter it carried to him is more surprising than the hawk's apparent kindness. Because the letter — a thick, high-quality paper, glossy wax, and scentless ink — is not what Zuko expected. It's not what Zuko ever could've expected.

Father wrote it himself.

With his own fingers smoothly guiding the calligraphy brush, his own hand holding down the curling paper. And he once wrote things himself: he wrote missives to Zuko and Azula during their years at respective boarding schools, prior to becoming the Heirs; love letters to mother, long gone performative and unfeeling. He wrote pages upon pages of thoughts in the journals he burnt to ashes every second moon cycle. He wrote orders to the army branches he was in charge of, back when grandfather was still alive and father was no more than a prince.

But shortly after his ascension to Fire Lord, this practice stopped. It is apparently beneath a war-mongering Fire Lord to write things personally. It is the duty of the second and third sons of average nobility who still need to work to feed themselves, to surround themselves with the opulence they grew up with.

As his crew putters about the Temple, as Uncle regales the youngest of the sailors with tales of childhood, Zuko experiences something that he hasn't experienced in a few weeks. A sinking feeling, one that he felt during the War as his direction changed, one that he felt after the War as his ceremonial robes hung heavy from his body, one that he felt when he woke up small and unscarred in his childhood bedroom, all alone.

Writing his correspondence with his own hand — however demeaning, however hateful — makes father decidedly, unsettlingly, undoubtedly human. Human. And Zuko doesn't—

Well.

He doesn't know how to feel about it. Doesn't, initially, want to think of father as human rather than a monster in a human suit. The handwritten missive-letter reminds him of the painting Katara managed to find on Ember Island, in another life—the happy toddler, grinning with two baby teeth peeking out of his gums, a small tuft of black hair on his head and chubby fists digging up sand.

"Baby Zuko," she'd said, beaming and red-cheeked and unknowingly wrong. "Isn't he cute?"

Zuko realises, with wisdom acquired through being too old for his body in both his lives, that father's humanity perhaps never left him but his kindness did: squashed before it had the time to take root in his limbs and nerves by a mother who left this plane too early and a father who expressed his grief through fury and cruelty and a brother who mindlessly charged through enemy territory like a machine. Thinks that perhaps it could've been different, father could've been different, if he'd been properly taken care of like a child should.

It's however pointless to mull on what ifs, and father is just a man. A human is a human is a human, good or evil, cruel or kind. Zuko has seen father as a towering, powerful shadow only capable of harming, as a weak man simmering with malice and unable to wield fire, and as a dad who rested his hand on his son's shoulder and squeezed.

The moment mother disappeared, and perhaps before, perhaps mother's disappearance had nothing to do with it—from that point on Zuko hadn't been treated the way a child should, and neither had Azula. Too old and too young, half a nod for a job well done. Like father had been raised, probably; an adult not yet worthy of being respected like one, fostering festering envy and hunger for unmatched power.

But Zuko turned out fine, eventually. But Zuko had and has Uncle, had Katara and Aang and Sokka and Toph.

But father is human.

Ozai the Usurper, First of his Name. The failing Fire Lord, defeated by the Avatar after six years of rule—defeated by the one he hadn't believed in, the son he'd marked a failure, the enemies he'd disregarded as weak. Ozai, the Fire Lord, the one frightened of flames near his face, sitting down and personally writing a letter to the son who could have taken his life but didn't. Personally writing a weak attempt at intimidation to the thirteen-year-old child who cupped his cheek and smiled as he melted it. Personally writing 'you won, this time', and 'don't think there will be a next' between the lines of stiff, informative formality, instead of ordering his army of scribes to brush on the ink whilst he dictated.

Ozai, his father, whose image has just been further solidified as that of a person rather than of a looming, untouchable threat.

Zuko rolls the scroll back up. Squeezes it. Digs the nail of his thumb into the wax, hisses when he accidentally melts it. He scratches the chittering hawk beneath its chin, lets it preen his hair, and watches Keiji and Ohta emerge from the Temple with excited shouts. Tries, very hard, to twist his mouth into a smile.

He doesn't know what he's smiling for. And his fingers spark multicolour.

Guru Pathik is a tall, spindly, brown-skinned man with a curly beard and kind eyes, who pops out of a room with a smile and a wave and scares the living dragon-shit out of Jiro—causing him to nearly get burnt to a crisp by a variety of terrified firebenders.

Zuko hasn't actually ever met Pathik before. He never visited the Eastern Air Temple in his prior life — Uncle put his foot down and said 'no', refusing to budge no matter how much Zuko ranted and whined and was a general brat — so they'd actually avoided him.

Aang had divulged some information on Pathik when he finally realised he had to work on his Avatar State-problems, about a year after the War and about a week after a somewhat catastrophic, mutual, but altogether friendly breakup with Katara. He'd told Zuko that the Guru was a bit of an odd duck only to people who weren't Air Nomads, but ultimately just a very good man. Great sense of humour, big fan of onion-banana juice, shocking amount of knowledge on the body and chi-paths and chakras and the like.

Zuko thinks, as he watches Guru Pathik jovially explain to anyone who is willing to listen that spiritual enlightenment really isn't all that it's cracked up to be, that his Aang of the past was right.

He's kind, is the thing. There's no judgement on his face as Jee soundly refuses to get his "fuckin' arse shark, or whatever the fuck" unblocked; he says that most people cannot manage to live free of guilt, and that it's perfectly understandable. Very few people managed to unblock all their chakras because a lot of the blocks are mere human nature. A soldier, he says, often carries a burden so large that it would take a lifetime for them to relieve themselves of it.

Jee tells him it sounds like a whole lot of Sagely rubbish.

"In your ears," says Pathik, grinning so wide his eyes are nearly closed. "Let's put it this way: an Ostrich-Horse does not fly, but it is still a bird, is it not?"

It is to the surprise of exactly no-one that he and Uncle take to one another like fish to water. Uncle takes out his tea set — of course he's taken that thing with him — and starts to talk to Pathik about tea. Fire Nation tea, and Earth Kingdom tea, and Water Tribe medicinal brews and also about the alleged beauty for the tastebuds that was Air Nomad moon-blossom tea. And Pathik, somehow, as though he has watched it be prepared hundreds of times by a nun's trained hands, begins to describe the process of cultivation and drying and brewing.

"How fascinating," Uncle breathes, wide-eyed and damn near vibrating with excitement. "Have you ever tasted it?"

"Hmm," Pathik's eyes flutter closed, mouth puckering. "Yes, I have. Earthy, with a mild sweetness reminiscent of the fruit. It calms the mind, it does. Lightens you."

"Oh, Agni knows I need that," says Uncle, gesturing at his sizable retirement belly, and the two men burst out in laughter.

"There's two of them," Jiro whispers, sidling up to Zuko with an impressive amount of stealth.

Zuko hums in agreement, mouth pulling into an amused little smile.

There's a brief pause before Jiro speaks again. "You reckon the Guru knows how to play a raunchy little tune, Your Highness?"

Zuko slowly turns to face him. Jiro, in spite of being so tall that Zuko would still easily fit twice in him, shrinks.

"Just askin'," he mutters.

"The Air Nomads liked music," Zuko says stiffly. He looks around at his crew and tries to spot suspicious shapes in their packs. "I'm sure he'll be halfway decent at an instrument, Jiro."

Jiro's face lights up with a massive grin, very suddenly, and he claps Zuko on the shoulder. Zuko feels his knees buckle.

"We'll have to invite him to music night then," he says, as if music night is already an established fact and recurring activity. "Not that we took any instruments with us, but you know—we can get them soon, and invite some of our musically inclined to come back up, and we'll have a fun little party. Blow some life back into this place!"

It's not a horrible idea, if Zuko's being honest. It sounds like something the Air Nomads would've enjoyed, depending on how serious the nuns here were. But the Air Nomads were known for their great sense of humour, Uncle said, so perhaps—

"That would be lovely," Pathik calls out, a ceramic cup of steaming leaf juice cradled carefully in his large, bony hands. "I'm quite good at the veena, actually!"

Jee perks up from where he's been glooming and looming in his usual Jee way across the square.

"String instruments do that to him," Jiro tells Zuko. "He's a big fan of strumming."

"Tsungi horn for me," Uncle says loudly. "But I'm not half-bad at the pipa either! And neither is our Lieutenant, for that matter."

Pathik turns and waves. Jee nods stiffly, shifting in place, and then says loudly: "Taught myself, not great!"

"He's being too humble," says Uncle. "There's talent in that boy. I had teachers, you know. A whole slew of stuffy classically trained ones. Of course, my father fired most of them—"

"Your Lieutenant had a handful too, I'm sure," Pathik muses. "One learns by example. Though for him it was probably more watching and listening than genuine guidance."

"And hard work," Uncle says, nodding. "That's the foundation of a true master."

"Know your element," Pathik says gravely. "And to know, one must first dig deep—lest the shallows dry up, and you are left with none."

Huh, Zuko thinks, that's sounds a bit like—

"Say, Pathik," Uncle muses, nudging his new best friend. "What do you think of Pai Sho?"

Pathik, without blinking, answers with: "Ah, I favour the old ways."

Uncle's eyes light up like little gems. "It seems we've come to an agreement."

And—oh. Oh, you can't be fucking serious—

"You are thirteen, Prince," Pathik murmurs, before they settle down for the night. They will go down in the morning. "Thirteen, but you are not."

It jolts, the statement—almost hurts. Zuko takes hold of his heart and stomach and forces them into submission, shoves the anxiety and shock deep down, then just looks at the Guru.

"There is wisdom in you that suggests a life twice lived," Pathik tells him. He reaches out, presses the tips of his fingers against Zuko's chest, then Adam's apple, then forehead. "Grief, lies, illusion. Open, but muddled. They've been closed before. You could have opened them on your own, but you are too young and from a Nation that no longer practises this philosophy."

"I had help," Zuko croaks eventually.

"Oh, I don't doubt it." Guru Pathik nods, then splays his fingers. "We all need help. We all need guidance. Usually, it comes in the form of flesh and blood. But sometimes, the wind gives us a push in the right direction—or the sun, or tides, or the dust that you kick up with your feet."

Zuko's mouth is dry. He can't stop staring, and his hands shake, and when Pathik spots it his face visibly softens.

"Suspicions are all I have, young Prince. But I do know: see it as a gift, not as a courtesy." He smiles again, winks, and taps his temple. "I will be waiting; I'm quite good at that, you know."

Those damn knowledgeable and spiritual old tarts.

Some rambly notes:

- Mechanist's name, Sai, is from the live action. I'm terrible at naming towns—but Milikku is Bahasa Indonesia for 'mine', basically (the possessive pronoun). It's on that lone island next to the claw-shaped extension of the Earth Kingdom, surrounding Chameleon Bay.

- I did actually call the island Shiitake because it looks like a mushroom :/

- I didn't mention this in the notes of the previous chapter, but tempeh is an Indonesian staple food very popular on Java that's made out of fermented soybeans. The culturing and careful fermentation process basically attaches the soybeans together, making it form a cake. It has a very mild taste, slightly bitter and vaguely earthy but altogether neutral, and it's a fantastic source of protein and fibre (you may use it as a meat replacement). I grew up with a side-dish made by marinating and deep frying the tempeh and it is Delicious I promise.

- The pipa is the lute-like instrument Jee plays during the music night in book 1, and is also played by Iroh on their way to Ba Sing Se + played by one of the kids in the band during The Headband. It's Chinese in origin. An erhu is a Chinese string instrument that is known as a "Chinese violin" in the Western world; it has a long, thin neck with two strings, and there's a drum-shaped sound box at the bottom. It uses a bow (hence 'violin'). It also sounds really pretty.

- A kipas is a handheld, rectangular bamboo fan of Indonesian origin, used during cooking to waft air at burning coals and raise their temperature. You might use something similar when you're hosting a basic barbecue—hence me making a sateh vendor use it.

- Also sateh (also written as sate, satè, or satay) is a SEA-type kebab lol

- A veena/vina is an umbrella term for a variety of string instruments that originate from the Indian subcontinent. The varieties can range from stick zithers (needing a separate resonator), or a type of lute. I think the type of veena Pathik plays in one of Aang's dreams (which is the one I'm referencing) is a Saraswati veena. The one he's playing has four strings while the Saraswati veena has seven, but the Saraswati veena does have four main strings. Additionally, considering the Indian subcontinent is only referenced and does not actually exist within the ATLA-verse (and considering Pathik seems to be the ONLY genuine desi rep and is commonly regarded as nothing more than a stereotype), the particular type of veena Pathik plays in Aang's dream may simply be some sort of mashup of multiple lute-types. That being said, I hope Pathik just came across as a wild old man kind of like Iroh, rather than an all-knowing entity or whatever. He's just a guy (… acolyte ;)), after all.

Anyway. Next chapter will be in Jee's POV again! Hope you enjoyed the chapter, and I promise I read and love all of your reviews 3 xx