Zuko was his eleven-year-old self again. He was so tiny, so fragile, so unprepared for what was to come.

Azula was walking right beside him. Her already pale skin was now ashen, face flooded with terror. She looked as nauseated as he felt.

The ecstatic roars of hundreds of people gathered in a crowd echoed off the walls from beyond the crimson curtain-door at the end of the hallway. Zuko, trailing behind his father's tall, broad figure as Ozai strode through the curtain, peered curiously at a man in an all-black garb through the parted flaps.

He was looking out over the unseen crowd, his back turned to the young prince. In his gloved hand, he held not a sword, as he once had, but several needles, all of them long, slim, and lethal. Then the man, as if sensing he was being spied on, slowly twisted his neck around to stare at Zuko, all without turning his body, like a cat-owl.

Their eyes met, gold meeting depthless black without whites at the edges, and suddenly the marble ground beneath Zuko's shaking feet turned to liquid. He fell into the depths of the earth—fell and fell until he landed in a sea of pitch-black, eternal nothingness.

No. It wasn't pitch-black nor a matterless void. Not entirely. There was water all around him, dark and suffocating.

The murky waves rippled against Zuko's tiny form, skimmed against him with sharp claws before tearing through his clothes and skin. They froze him. Burned him. Peeled his skin from his bones.

Everything around him turned red with his blood. But no matter how much he thrashed left and right and screamed, the agony wouldn't ebb one bit. It only kept building.

His lungs filled with the water and blood around him. They consumed him. Drowned him.

The same, brutal waves whispered in his ear.

Liar. Traitor. Murderer.

Zuko knew that voice. Even as he was being ripped apart from inside out, he recognized it. It'd offered to heal his scar once. And it'd been haunting him ever since.

And then he saw her—right on the bottom of the sea. She looked the same as he'd seen her yesterday, features feeble and sickly—except her limbs, head, and torso laid severed from one another, spread out on the seabed.

Her unbound hair swayed in the waves above her decapitated head as she stared back at him, not a trace of emotion on her face. Her unblinking eyes gazed into his soul. Even in death, they shone a startling blue in the midst of blood.

Then Zuko heard someone else—a panicked, unfamiliar woman this time—calling for him from worlds away, shouting something. But as the last of his consciousness slipped from his grasp, eyes fluttering closed, it was only his mother's last words that he could hear.

Never forget who you are.

"YOUR HIGHNESS! WAKE UP!"

With a strangled gasp, Zuko bolted upright on his bed. His chest was heaving and sweat sucked his shirt onto him like a second skin. His knuckles were white as he clawed at the bedsheets, his entire body trembling, heart thumping a mile a minute beneath his chest bone. The midmorning sun reflected briskly off of the floor, blinding him.

He lifted his fingers up to his left eye—to his scar. He could still feel the ghost of the waterbender's touch brushing it, caressing the coarse dips and valleys he'd let no one before or since touch.

"Are you alright, Your Highness?"

Zuko yelped and jumped back on the bed. He only now noticed the two nude women sitting on the bed with him, one cowering behind the other, both staring at him with worried eyes. Brown eyes.

He felt bile rising in his throat.

Zuko wasn't even aware that he'd bolted down from the bed. He only knew that he was running—toward the bathroom, holding his mouth so he didn't puke all over the floor. He shot through the open doorway, pulling up the toilet seat, and then sank to his knees and heaved.

The vomit came out in an endless stream. He knelt there for countless minutes, hanging on to the bowl for dear life, waiting for the retching to subside, for the lingering tremors to fade.

Then he slumped next to the toilet, scooting back until he was sitting up against the wall, and propped his elbows on his bent knees, out of breath. He leaned his head back on the wall and gulped, trying to bring his heartbeat down to a reasonable rate, hoping to find some peace of mind—but the moment he closed his eyes, he saw those unblinking, sapphire-blue eyes staring right back at him, as if her image was seared permanently into his mind.

Groaning, Zuko got up, washed his face and rinsed his mouth before heading out of the bathroom, a horrible headache pounding inside his head. He half walked, half hobbled over to the doors of his chambers and ordered the servants he knew would be waiting outside to bring him and the concubines breakfast—and more sake, too, as they'd gone through all three bottles in his room last night. Then he spun and wobbled back to the bathroom to take a quick, ice-cold shower, not sparing a glance at the concubines still seated on his bed, looking at him with concern.

He tried—and failed—to concentrate on the freezing water grazing his skin rather than the girl capable of bending it as he washed the sweat and other remnants of the previous night off of himself. By the time he'd dressed in a clean shirt and loincloth he'd grabbed from the adjacent dressing room and walked back to the bed chambers through another door, feeling slightly better, breakfast had arrived and the concubines were sitting around a round, low-lying table in front of his bed—also brought in by the servants.

Zuko sat down and ate with them—as much as his shrunken stomach would hold, anyway. None uttered a single word throughout, and once they were done, they moved back to the bed, grabbing a few of the renewed bottles on their way.

The sun rose and set as they went at it again and again, heedless of time passing, pausing only occasionally to rest and eat the lunch and dinner Zuko ordered for the concubines. Empty ceramic bottles laid abandoned on the floor and the bed.

Drunk out of his mind and watching the concubines make out with each other, Zuko felt lighter than he had in ages. Maybe it was the knowledge that he was adrift, that there was nothing tethering him to the earth anymore other than sex and alcohol. Or maybe it was the alcohol and lust circulating in his bloodstream, muddling his senses and reasoning.

Propping himself onto an elbow, he turned fully to the concubines, where they laid in their tangle of limbs beside him. He brushed his fingertips down the spine of the concubine that laid on top of the other, too burnt out to go on for the night himself. The woman opened her eyes and looked at him, then broke off her liplock, a haughty smile spreading on her bruised lips, and leaned down toward him to give him a long kiss.

Zuko buried his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer and deepening their connection. He got distracted, brows furrowing when a commotion of approaching footsteps sounded from beyond the doors of his chambers, but he disregarded them, thinking it a fuss the servants were making. Instead, he focused on the woman's lips and tongue.

But then, a few moments later, the doors slammed open so hard the walls rattled, and the concubines screamed and scrambled to cover themselves with the stained bedsheets. Zuko whipped toward the doors, ready to give the intruder hell—

But his blood froze, drunken numbness vanishing instantly when he saw his father standing in the doorway, his eyes locked on him, face contorted in a murderous rage—a rage unlike Zuko had ever seen before.

Ozai's fuming gaze flitted to the concubines, and he snarled through gritted teeth, "Out."

The women darted out of the bed right away and slipped into their discarded robes on the floor as fast as they could, while Zuko grabbed his loincloth atop the bed and put it on with shaky hands, his shirt still on. Once the concubines were dressed enough that they could go outside, they practically sprinted out of the chambers, pausing only for a fraction of a second to curtsy to their monarch and muttering a frightened "Your Majesty" before hurrying out.

The doors closed behind the Fire Lord. Zuko, finally done putting on his underwear, shot down to the ground before his bed and sank into a full kowtow.

"Your Maje—"

"Explain yourself," Ozai snarled. The unfiltered fury in his tone made Zuko straighten in his place, head still bowed low. His father was panting through his nose, nostrils flaring. The temperature inside the room rose rapidly. "Explain why you walked out of your lesson yesterday, disappeared, then skipped all of your lessons today to drink and whore around all day."

"Fathe—"

"Did you forget that you are the Crown Prince?! That whatever you do reflects upon me too?! Are you so witless that you cannot foresee what my subjects will think if they hear of this?!"

"I'm sorry—"

"YOU ARE SORRY!"

Fists clenched tight at his sides, the Fire Lord stepped closer to his kneeling son. "You've always been sorry! I would've left you to die on the day you were born had it not been for your mother!"

Every word, every insult that spilled from his father's lips was a poisoned arrow aimed at Zuko's heart, eating away at it and leaving nothing behind. His eyes and cheeks burned, his nails clawing into his knees, but he stayed silent. There was no saying what would happen if he angered his father any further.

"Look at you," Ozai spat. He sounded more composed, though he still breathed through his nose. "You reek of alcohol. You can't even sit still without swaying." He scrunched his nose in disgust. "Pathetic."

He then lifted his chin and clasped his hands behind him, calming himself with deep breaths, the temperature of the room cooling steadily with them. "Be grateful to your sister I'm sparing your worthless life. But do not, for a moment, think that I will allow you to stain my name and the reputation of this great family any further. I will die before I let you turn my palace into your whorehouse."

His voice was as smooth as the night when he spoke again, "From this moment forth, you are forbidden from drinking alcohol."

Zuko's head snapped up.

"No," he whimpered, but Ozai continued without care.

"You will get up at dawn, attend your lessons without fail—"

"Father, please—"

"—do as your tutors say, and be back in your chambers by sundown. One of my guards will follow you throughout the day to ensure it."

"Please don't—"

"You are not to leave the palace again until I deem you worthy."

"I beg you—"

"I will allow you to keep your harem out of necessity, but you may only summon one girl at a time, once a week. Is that clear?"

Zuko swallowed past the lump in his throat. The weight of the new order of his life crashed down on him, pressed down on his lungs, suffocated him.

A life without alcohol. He wasn't sure he could endure it. Endure the real world, the fallout of his past actions on a sober mind.

He couldn't breathe, couldn't speak. Could only hang his head even lower, shoulders slumping with defeat.

Ozai eyed him for a moment. "Do you remember what I did to your mother?"

And just like that, all the grief and sorrow in Zuko's heart turned to ice, sake and everything else forgotten.

Blood. That was all he could see—so much blood it could fill the oceans ten times over. Blood, and death.

Desperate, pleading screams echoed in his head. His mother's screams, begging Ozai to spare her children of the impending sight. Even on the cusp of death, she'd thought of them instead of herself.

Zuko lifted his head. His father's lips had curled into a small, serpentine leer. The pride in his eyes, the sharpness of his features revealed the true predator that lay within.

It made something in Zuko shatter—made his nails dig into his knees.

He felt fury roil within him. Felt it take over him. And for the first time in his life, he stared his father straight in the eye—not crying or pleading for mercy, but with simmering anger seeping from every fiber of him. With a burning desire to get his mother's revenge, to annihilate the man that had taken her from Zuko and inflicted so much pain upon her before her death.

Ozai's leer grew. "So you do remember," he amused proudly. Then his expression returned to its icy rage. "This is the last time I will warn you, boy. Disobey me again, step out of line one more time, and your mother's end will be merciful compared to what I will do to you."

With that, he spun on his heels and marched out the doors that opened for him. As he tramped down the hallway, he motioned sharply with his head to his personal guards—toward Zuko, who still knelt before his bed, trembling with suppressed fury.

Two of the guards, ominous and unnerving with their scarlet helmets and uniforms, marched into his chambers. Zuko looked up at them, eyes narrowing with suspicion as the doors closed behind them and they kept walking toward him.

He rose to his feet, garnering strength from the floor to not fall over, as he was still very much intoxicated, and stared at the faceless men. "What's going on?"

"Shut your mouth," the one on the left spat.

He stopped right in front of Zuko, and the other guard moved past and behind the Prince. Then, without warning, two hands looped under Zuko's armpits, lifting his arms above his head, rendering them useless, and pinned him in a headlock. Zuko struggled against the bone-crushing grip to no avail, too weakened by alcohol to make a dent.

"Let me g—"

The words caught in his throat when the fist of the guard in front of him collided with his stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs.

He tried to double over, but the grip around his throat didn't let him move an inch. Then another punch landed on him, this time to his chest, hard enough that he felt a few of his ribs crack on impact.

Zuko coughed and gasped for air. He could taste the copper of blood pooling in his mouth.

The punches kept coming and coming, striking his chest and stomach—never his face, never somewhere the bruises would be visible to the outside world.

But although they were vigorous, all he felt was the impact of the blows. The pain would come later—he knew from the previous times his father had beaten him—when his brain was clearer, of alcohol and adrenaline alike.

Perhaps it was this that got to him—this knowledge that he'd be in so much pain tomorrow that it would drown out his sorrows. That made him lift his eyes to the guard before him and bare his teeth in an insolent grin.

"Is that all you got?" he choked out, his voice barely above a whisper. "My grandmother can do better than that."

The man paused. Went deathly still.

Then waves of hot air wafted above his uniform.

"You little shit," he spat and punched the Prince right across the face, sending him flying to the floor.

Zuko slumped to the floor, the headlock around his throat finally slackening to allow him mobility. The impact against the marble ground throbbed through his body. The arm he fell on would bloom purple later.

His vision became blurry. Ears rang. His head began spinning and his stomach churned from all the blows it'd taken.

Blood gushed from his nose, and he knew that his lips had busted open, but at least he'd been hit on his scarred cheek—there wouldn't be much swelling.

The guard began kicking Zuko in the stomach repeatedly, cursing him out with every strike. Zuko coughed up the blood in his mouth and throat, reflexively curling into a fetal position.

Then, for no reason at all, he burst out laughing.

He laughed like there was nothing funnier in the world. Like getting beaten to a pulp was the most fun he'd ever had in his life.

He winced at every kick, but didn't stop roaring with laughter as the beating got more intense, or when it fizzled out when the other guard grabbed his colleague's arm and said, "That's enough. Let's go."

Zuko couldn't look up at the men towering above him as he clutched his aching stomach with both arms, his shoulders shaking uncontrollably with laughter. He only heard the man that had beaten him grumble a "Fucking maniac" under his breath before he and the other guard left the chambers, shutting the doors behind them.

Zuko kept laughing long after they'd left, unable to stop—only pausing every few seconds to cough up more blood and breathe. Blood continued streaming from his nose, chin, and the sides of his mouth, coating his teeth and the seams of his already crimson shirt in red.

He couldn't stop laughing as he felt tears prickling his eyes. And he couldn't stop when the tears began running down his cheeks, his lungs hollowing out.

The shake of his shoulders soon turned to sobs. And he cried. For what, he didn't know.

He cried, coiling up further as the tears poured out of him. And he laid there on the floor, sobbing—beaten and scarred in more ways than one.

-o-

Everything hurt.

Every breath he took burned. Every minuscule motion sent shockwaves of agony up his spine.

The knock on his doors pounded through his skull like thunder. The opening of said doors was an avalanche, the noise making him cringe in pain. Before he could moisten his dry mouth and attempt to speak, a group of servants swarmed him and lifted him by the arms from where he'd cried himself to sleep on the ground last night.

A royal guard, one belonging to the Fire Lord's procession, followed them in—tracked Zuko's every move as the servants corralled him into his bathing chambers and readied him for the day. Zuko winced at the tight grip around his bruised arm, but didn't say a word as they silently stripped him off of his loincloth and bloodied shirt.

He didn't miss their haste, sidelong glances at each other as they washed his battered face and body, the aged and new scars and bruises smeared across his torso plain and clear for all to see. Zuko told himself he didn't mind their pitiful looks—after all, these were far from the first scars his father had given him. And there wasn't much he could do about it, anyway.

Once rinsed and dressed up by the servants, he forced himself along to the dining hall—to have breakfast and start off the day just the way his father had ordered him to. He didn't take his eyes off of the ground as he trekked the hallways, the royal guard ever on his heels. But when he arrived at the dining hall, his sister was nowhere to be found.

She was late. Azula was never late to anything. Ever.

Zuko didn't give much thought to it, however, as he took his seat at the head of the long table and waited for her. One of the servants standing by the walls brought him plates of gruel and salted vegetables, and filled his golden goblet with water. But he didn't eat, didn't even bother to pick up his chopsticks—he only sat there, gazing down at the steam wafting from his food.

After getting punched in the face last night, he doubted he could've opened his mouth wide enough to allow food in even if he had the appetite to.

He reached for the metal flask he always kept attached to his belt—only to find nothing but air occupying its space. It wouldn't help to ask for sake from the servants either. They'd been ordered not to serve him a drop of alcohol, and none would dare defy a direct order from the Fire Lord.

Unconsciously, Zuko slipped one hand into his sleeve and scratched the inside of his forearm. It was a small, pointless gesture, raking his nails up and down his tender skin, but it helped quell his thirst for alcohol a tiny bit, and that was better than nothing.

Azula walked in more than ten minutes later, face grave. To a foreign eye, she would've seemed as perfect as ever, maybe a little tenser than usual, but Zuko saw through her act—saw the faint purple bags under her weary eyes, concealed with cosmetics, and the stiffness in her back and shoulders. He saw how she limped slightly as she walked to the other head of the table, how she struggled to sit down and sit upright on her chair.

She didn't glance at him once as a servant set her food before her and she timidly picked up her chopsticks. And as she brought her food to her mouth, Zuko noticed a bruise on her neck, showing from just under the collar of her regalia that was identical to his—one that looked like purple fingers wrapped around her throat.

He could guess whose work it was, and why. Ozai had insinuated that she'd talked him out of killing Zuko. There had to be some sort of repercussion for her insubordination, and Zuko would rather not know what it was. He already had enough on his conscience.

They sat there for long minutes, Azula quietly chewing her food and Zuko just sitting there, scratching his arm, staring at nowhere in particular. Neither brought up what had happened last night. They didn't speak at all.

Maybe he should've thanked her for sticking her neck out for him, bearing the brunt of their father's wrath, but she had to have an ulterior motive for it. She'd never do something that wouldn't benefit her in the long run.

But before he could make up his mind, she'd finished her meal, so they both got up and left the hall in silence. Zuko went to his private lessons afterward, but they all flashed by in a blur, even though every minute that passed felt like an eternity at the time.

Between the craving of a good, stiff sake burning at the back of his throat threatening to overtake him, the overwhelming pain that lingered from his father's punishment, and the constant nagging of his tutors on how he should be behaving, nothing that he'd been taught had sunk in.

He barely even remembered the walk back to his room. He just found himself sitting on his bed, the guard that'd been following him around all day having left him alone for the night. The words and faces of everyone he'd failed circled his thoughts, taunting and tormenting him, making everything seem hopeless and empty.

Bittersweet memories of his childhood played behind his shut eyelids. Memories of sitting by the turtleduck pond with his mother, hugging and laughing with her merrily—of him, his sister, and Lu Ten stealing food from the palace kitchens and feasting on them in the gardens until they were sick.

They seemed so long ago now. A lifetime ago. That had been a different life, a different Zuko.

This Zuko now was worthless—a worthless, vile, cowardly piece of shit whose existence only hurt the people he cared the most about.

He was a parasite, cursed to ravage anyone and everyone that strayed too close to him.

A sudden, sharp sting on his arm lanced through him, ripping him out of his brooding, like small knives tearing through the tender skin. He hissed, and when he looked down, drops of blood were trickling from narrow cuts stretching across the inside of his right forearm, and more blood coated the nails on his left hand.

How long he'd been scratching himself, or how hard he would've had to do it to draw blood, Zuko didn't know—and frankly, he didn't care.

Cursing under his breath, he got up and made his way to his bathroom to clean and bind up the newest addition to his wounds. And as he finished wrapping the bandage he'd found in the first-aid cupboard, he lifted his gaze from his arm to the gilded mirror hung above the sink.

For a fleeting moment, he saw a young boy smiling warmly at him in the reflection. He wore the same regalia Zuko used to wear when he'd been little, his jet-black hair tied above his head, his molten gold eyes shining brightly, full of life—no sign of a scar maiming his left eye.

Then Zuko blinked, and the child vanished.

Now, without any illusions to mask the bitter reality, he was left to stare at what had become of him. A perpetual scowl was etched onto his split lips, lines of scarring nicked across his nose, and bruises had bloomed below his scarred cheek. Only utter emptiness remained in his dreary eyes. It was a crestfallen boy standing in the shoes of the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation. A mere shadow of the person he used to be.

Zuko braced his hands on the porcelain sink, hanging his head, closing his eyes.

How had his life come to this point? When had he failed in his promise to his mother? Forgotten who he was?

When had he become… this?

He supposed that, deep down, he already knew the answer—he just didn't have the courage to admit it.

His mother had died for him. He'd been humiliated before the entire world during his Agni Kai, then gotten burned and banished from his home—bound to complete an impossible mission as his only way of return. His uncle and the Water Tribe girl were as good as dead because of him. And Azula… His heart ached at what Ozai had done to her, what he'd turned her into.

Their father had done this to her. Their own father.

But, really, Zuko wasn't surprised. Ozai had never been one to hold back on his cruelty. Had never shown anyone but himself the slightest bit of affection.

This was the same man that had beaten his wife for as long as Zuko could remember. The same man that had then murdered her the first chance he got, and hadn't had the civility to treat her death with respect. The same man that had held his burning fist in his own child's eye while he'd screamed and writhed beneath him—held it there until he'd passed out from the agony.

What else could be expected from this man than beating his daughter as well, simply because she'd protected her brother?

And it was possible he hadn't stopped at just beating her. A couple of times in his childhood, Zuko had walked in on Ozai standing behind a young maid or concubine bent over a desk or something else, the girl crying and clutching whatever was in her grasp. He hadn't understood what that had meant at the time, but to think that Ozai would do the same to Azula… The possibility alone made Zuko's blood boil. The possibility that not only had he let that happen, but it'd happened because of him.

His fingers curled at where he still held on to the sink. Scorching anger stormed within him—anger at his father for all that he'd done, to everyone, and at himself for only now owning up to the truth, after having put everybody around him through so much suffering.

Ozai was a monster. He was a sadistic monster that thrived on weaker people's misery. He lived off of it. Their fear and blood were his lifeblood. Always had been.

His father was a monster, and Zuko had been too blinded by his unconditional love and loyalty for him to take notice of it.

No.

Zuko had tasted real fatherhood with Iroh. Ozai was none of that. He was no father.

Zuko's grasp on the sink tightened to the point that pain shot from all over his body, but he didn't slacken his grip one bit.

This was the man he'd been trying to impress his whole life. This was the man he'd betrayed his uncle and the waterbender for.

Zuko lifted his head and looked in the mirror again.

He was a parasite.

And one had to root a parasite out, lest it carried on sucking the life of everything it came in contact with. Put a permanent end to it, so that it may never hurt anything ever again.

Zuko's eyes sharpened. He saw the emptiness behind them fill with purpose and determination as he made his decision.

Without a second thought, he pushed himself off of the sink and marched toward his dressing chambers, never minding the stinging and throbbing that engulfed his limbs with every step. Waist-high, wooden wardrobes lined the walls of the chambers, luxurious accessories sitting atop them. Zuko went to the nearest wardrobe and began rifling through the drawers full of neatly folded crimson robes inside one by one, searching for the right clothes to honor tradition.

If he was going to die, he would do it according to custom.

A world without him, without the carnage and suffering he brought… It'd be a better place. A happier place.

There was no point in leaving a note—it would never leave this room, or be seen by anyone he cared about. And it wasn't like anyone would care why he'd killed himself, anyway. Every damn soul on this planet hated him.

The public would be told that he'd died in a tragic accident. There'd be a mandatory, seven-day mourning period across the nation and a big, ceremonial funeral after that—but after the last of his ashes would dissipate in the wind, no one would think of him again. No one that would mourn him, grieve for him, care that he was gone.

His name would soon join those who have been lost to history. He'd be forgotten, as though he'd never walked the earth.

And that was just what he deserved.

Zuko pulled open one final drawer, and there they were—an all-white set of robes and pants with gold linings, preserved to be worn during a funeral. Moving swiftly despite his pain, he took off his regalia and put on his new clothes, then grabbed a spare shirt before heading out of the room to his bed chambers. He went straight to the desk in the corner and yanked the second drawer open.

Inside laid stacks of blank scrolls and writing brushes, and underneath them, hidden in a secret compartment, was a knife resting idly in its sheath. The knife Uncle had given him all those years ago as a gift.

A Crown Prince of the Fire Nation taking his own life with the blade of a surrendered Earth Kingdom general… How poetic.

Zuko snatched the knife and closed the drawer as he made toward the windows by the bed. He knelt down on the exact spot where he'd held his mother for the last time, where he'd spent months laying curled up after her death, weeping.

He gazed absently around his room, raking his eyes over the bed, the desk, the decorations bathed in the dim moonlight. These would be the last things he'd ever see.

Zuko then turned his attention to the wooden floorboards beneath him—right where his mother had knelt right before all hell had broken loose. He unsheathed the knife and tossed the sheath aside.

Never give up without a fight, the inscription read. This was a fight. Against himself, against his father. And he'd damn well prevail.

He'd been too weak and scared to stand up to Ozai when he'd ordered his mother dead, or when he had turned up in the Agni Kai arena instead of the general Zuko had spoken out against. But those days were no more. Zuko would take away the only leverage Ozai had left on him—his life.

He didn't care what they'd do with his body afterward, didn't care that they may not respect it like his mother's. He only cared that he'd be robbing that monster of the satisfaction of killing Zuko himself.

He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of his mother one last time, as he put the shirt he was holding into his mouth and bit down into the fabric to stifle the cries of agony to come. Then he pressed the sharp end of the knife against his clothed stomach, gripping the hilt tightly.

He would be with her again soon. Her, and his cousin, Lu Ten. They would spend all of eternity together, away from the misery of the mortal world.

It'd all be worth it. The floors of this wretched palace would be drenched with royal blood again, and it'd be excruciating, gutting himself, but he'd be in control of his life for the first time in a long, long time—maybe for the first time ever. He would do something for himself for once. Be selfish. And he wouldn't live long enough to suffer the consequences.

In a way, he'd be getting revenge on himself on behalf of his uncle and the waterbender as well.

And it was this thought that got Zuko's eyes to fly open.

The waterbender.

There was no way on earth she could get out of the harem on her own—even if she fought at full strength during a full moon. She was probably counting on the aid of her allies to free herself when they'd invade the capitol in less than two weeks—counting on aid that would never reach the palace, if the traps the high council set in place had something to say about it.

She could maybe get past the palace walls if she used the solar eclipse to her advantage, but she didn't know about the labyrinth of tunnels that weaved through the mouth of the caldera the city was built on. She'd try to climb over the mouth and waste too much time.

Perhaps Uncle could break out of his prison, simply due to his sheer experience in combat and knowledge of the terrain—though it'd be challenging even for him, especially in his old age. But the waterbender… She'd be a mouse caught in a trap. The city guards would hunt her down effortlessly—swarm her like vultures around a carcass before she could make it halfway up the mountain.

Zuko lowered the knife and read the inscription again, his grip on the hilt loosening slightly.

Never give up without a fight.

No. He wouldn't give up. He'd fight for those he'd wronged—for Uncle and the waterbender. Break them out of their prisons and get them to safety, even if they loathed him or tried to kill him. He'd be strong for them.

This was his fight now. A new fight.

Only after getting them far away from these lands would he return to his old fight. Only after he was absolutely certain they were safe and sound would he finish it.

Only then would he pick up this knife again and relieve the mortal world of his existence.

A/N

I'm sorry for the late upload—I had some health problems and couldn't lift a finger for an entire week, but I'm fine now, so no worries.

I know the contents of this chapter are very sensitive topics, but I did my best to do them justice. I hope I didn't upset anybody. Also, Zuko's nightmare and the story behind Ursa's death will make more sense as the story progresses.

Quick historical fact: You may have noticed that Zuko was about to commit a form of Japanese ritualistic suicide called seppuku (or hara-kiri). It's not really practiced anymore, but it was very common among military men (aka samurai) back in the day, where they would dress in ceremonial, all-white robes and quite literally spill their guts out to preserve their honor after a defeat, or because they were ordered to by their lord, and there'd usually be someone with a katana next to them cut off their heads right after to spare them the agony.

I'll leave you on that very fun note for now hehe. Thank you so much for reading, and I'll see you soon!