Chapter Text

The fire flickers in time with their breaths, and Jee's fingertips skate over strings that cut right through skin with his paused experience, without the callouses he'd built up over the years.

The company has grown during the day. Their Prince's acquiescence to a music night urged some to travel back down the mountain and fetch several other crew members; all who wished to join an evening of illegal song and dance, all who wished to lug instruments thousands of metres up into the sky. They lit a fire as dusk fell, ate a vegetarian curry with fluffy rice, and took out the instruments the moment the dishes had been washed.

"You lead first," Pathik said earlier, resting his veena on his lap. "Then I will."

Fire Nation music is, per tradition, rhythmic and steady, filled with dissonant tones that are – if Jee recalls correctly – meant to 'strike fear into the hearts of enemies', but then Akito starts up a quick, rolling beat, and Jee joins in, and so do the Guru and the General. Keiji blows air into his flute and Asami begins to sing, gentle and lilting.

And it doesn't sound dangerous. It sounds fun.

Jiro and Ichiro perform a quickstep, their height difference comical with Ichiro in the lead; Sana, who made the decision to come up the mountain, pulls the giggling Prince into a senseless dance of twirls and dips and jumps. The Prince's cheeks are red with exertion and laughter and when Sana twirls him so hard his feet lift from the ground, he expels an exuberant whoop that belies his age.

Jee thought yesterday, when the air was thin and the path steep, that he'd never climb up a mountain again in his life—orders be damned. But he can't do that, he thinks. Not when Prince Zuko has proven himself to be a reasonable leader. Not when he appears to care so much for them, for the people around him, polite and kind and firm in equal measures.

It is to the complete and utter horror of his past self that Jee has realised he actually rather likes and respects his royal brat. And he thinks, quite fondly, that he'd probably swim through the arctic if the Prince needed him to.

Judging by the gleaming faces around him, he is not alone in that sentiment.


Jee rouses before the sun has risen over the mountain range, before Taka has even climbed out of his bedroll to start breakfast, when the morning is still dark blue and painfully chilly and uncomfortably damp.

The majority of the crew is still sleeping, faces slack and most buried up to their necks in blankets. Jee blinks through the heaviness of his eyelids, reaches up to rub crusts away, and turns.

The bedrolls of the royals are empty.

Meditation, likely. Jee yawns and sits up, crawling out of his bedroll before stretching. He inhales and exhales harshly, spits out sparks, and waits for that inner flame to warm his extremities. Then he walks off to find a place to sit and meditate.

He finds a good spot in a courtyard surrounded by crumbling statues and teetering trees thinned through elevation. The Prince and the General are already there, as is the Guru. They're not meditating, not exactly—Prince Zuko is talking, leaning in as he gestures with one hand, whilst the Guru and the General listen with grave faces. Expressions that would be inappropriate when discussing a dream; Jee suspects the Prince may be seeking advice of sorts.

"—I'm unsure what to do," Prince Zuko says. "I could—well, perhaps it is time, but it may not be time yet. Is the trust sufficient, or not? And how—how did he know? Who has contacted him, or servants? Can I trust everybody to remain… so I'll still be able to see…"

He cuts himself off, obviously frustrated. Suddenly aware that he's eavesdropping, Jee quiets his breathing and shifts, as lightly and silently as possible, behind a statue of an avatar. He's not sure why he remains.

"Loyalty is odd," Pathik murmurs. "It is first and foremost to oneself, then who one considers family. But since the disaster… it's been so long…"

"My experience with the people is limited to the palace as much as yours is, nephew," General Iroh says, "even in—well, I was commonly separated from the masses throughout my life."

"I know." Prince Zuko sighs sharply, and a quick peek tells Jee that he's buried his head in his hands. "It's… do I tell all? Do I withhold some information for the time being?"

"The mightiest tree grows, too, from seed," says Pathik.

"One leaf makes barely one swallow of tea, but none make nothing but hot water," says the General.

A pause. Then:

"You made that one up on the fly," Prince Zuko grumbles accusingly.

"Well, yes," General Iroh says, likely waving it away all loftily, "but it gets the point across."

"It was really weak, Uncle." Some silence, then a groan. "Yes, just like a cup of tea made from one leaf—"

"You should polish it up a bit," says Pathik, audibly amused. "It'll be a hit with the club."

"I have no clue which club you are talking about, old fellow," the General proclaims, "but I somehow do feel inclined to agree!"

"This is horrible," says the Prince. "You both are horrible. I'm going to go stretch."

"Ah, yes, do!" Pathik calls out through the General's guffaws. "Those most flexible are the hardiest! Stiffness leads to shattering! Rot forms in that what is left alone!"

The Prince's footsteps are light but quick, and Jee scrambles to look like he stumbled upon the trio only just now and by pure chance. When he ultimately steps into the Prince's line of sight the arched brows are more than enough for Jee to deflate.

Thankfully, the Prince doesn't mention a thing: he simply nods in greeting as Jee sinks into a stiff bow, then clasps his hands behind his back.

"Good morning," he says.

"Good morning, Your Highness," Jee replies, very casual and not at all like he's been caught eavesdropping. "Finished meditating already?"

"Yes," the Prince says. "I'll be practising some katas soon." He pauses, mouth pursing. "Perhaps you could help me?"

"Help you?" Jee inquires.

"Help me, yes. Katas are often better when done together."

Jee blinks. Clears his throat, straightens. "I—yes, of course. I may be a touch out of practice, but—"

"Good," says Prince Zuko. "And don't worry, I'm only thirteen. I'm sure you can keep up."

"Thirteen already, my Prince," Jee replies, bowing once more.

The Prince's nose is wrinkled in amusement when he straightens back up, mouth twisted into a funny little smile. Like he knows something Jee doesn't.

"I haven't even had my growth spurt yet," he says.

"Only a matter of time," says Jee courteously, because Prince Zuko's sleeves are already looking a touch short. "Now come on, we ought to seek a good spot—unless you already have one in mind, of course."

"I do," the Prince replies, and he sets off. There's a bit of a skip to his step, youthful and very un-Princely. "It's just over there…"

Jee follows, feeling oddly light and hiding a smile in the stiff, upturned collar of his chest guard.


Cast-off emerges in the afternoon, when they've all awoken and eaten and ventured down to the dock, where the komodo-rhinos are being led back onto the ship and the eel-hounds are being coaxed out of the water. The sky is bright and Water Tribe-blue; the breeze is the kind of chilly that makes Jee's lungs tingle.

Pathik, who was invited to join them on the grounds of his music skills but refused to on the grounds of being vehemently against the current dealings of the Fire Nation Empire, waves them off with a grin and an insistence to come visit again.

"In a few years," he adds, as he piles copies of ancient scrolls in the Prince's arms, "and in larger company, child—or different."

"Child," the Prince echoes, perfect little nose wrinkling. But then he smiles. "Of course."

Pathik nods, and the tips of his fingers tap the Prince's chest, throat, and forehead in that order. "An easy promise, if you know."

Jee doesn't know what his Prince is supposed to know, but the kid's face goes briefly grave and uncomfortably adult with eyes befitting a retired soldier. He, too, nods, and then swiftly skedaddles up the gangplank to deposit the scrolls in what Jee assumes to be his quarters.

"Shame he won't come with," Jiro bemoans from Jee's left, and it doesn't sound like he really means it. Only a little bit. "He's a fantastic musician."

"Better than you," Jee snips, smirking when Jiro pounds his shoulder. "I'm sure we'll find others, Jiro. Besides, you heard the Prince; we'll return someday."

"With less climbing, I hope," Ichiro grumbles. "Why are the dragons extinct again? Prince Zuko should have one, and perhaps fly us next time…"

"Fire Lord Azulon," says Jee, and not a word more. The history of dragon hunting gets taught in increasing detail every single school year. Fifteen out of the fifty questions of Jee's final exams several decades ago were about dragon hunting, and the dragons weren't even extinct yet.

"A dragon's purpose should not be ferrying lazy crewmen to and fro!" Sana's voice rings out from somewhere on the deck.

"I'm not lazy!" Ichiro shrieks back, flailing. "I simply spend many hours standing or sitting, as is in my job description, and I also climb enough ladders daily to last me a lifetime!" and as Jiro starts snickering, he adds, "shut it!"

Jee shakes his head and looks over the crowd of crewmen, gathering everything they'd scattered about the shore during their day off. Further along, nearest to the edge of the crumbling dock, the Guru is handing the General a knapsack undoubtedly filled with tea leaves and blossoms; their cook, Take, is clutching scrolls of recipes and sacks of Air Island-only ingredients close to his chest, grinning maniacally.

It's been a good visit. A necessary one. The crew is tired from the climb and descent, but well-rested and pleased by music night, by the food, by the joy of the animals. Yet again has a visit to an abandoned temple fostered a kind of contemplation that encourages nuance. States the reality of war as plainly as it can. A tomb, a remembrance.

They were born and bred for war. All of them. None know a time of peace. The temple proves that it had been, once; proves that it no longer is. Scrolls upon scrolls of different philosophies than the one's they've been raised with have been gifted and will be read through. Music and dance brought cultures together.

Before he descends into unproductive thoughtfulness and unbecomingly emotional philosophising, Jee hurries onto the gangplank and into the darkness, checks the pens and their cargo, then pops by the engine room and tells Akito they'll be ready to set out soon. Proceeds to climb up until he's reached the deck; breathes in, gnaws on his lip, exhales some sparks.

The sea is calm as far as the eye reaches. And Jee allows himself to wonder where they'll go next.


If the rest of the crew is to be believed, nothing in the atmosphere has changed—except that, perhaps, it is lighter, easier to breathe through. None cut corners, but none are scared to cut corners either. The sheer empathy the Prince is capable of fosters a comfort that Jee has never once experienced on a warship.

But then, this isn't a warship, is it? The Wanyi is a floating bucket of rust sailing with the sole purpose of finding the Avatar, of teaching their Crown Prince worldly things. There is no true pressure. Prince Zuko will not find the Avatar, and everybody knows it, and nobody cares about it either.

Jee knows, however, and can read that there is a line of tension strung in the air. Where the others are ignorant of it, Jee's job is positioned too close to the royals for him not to notice the glances, the nods, the looks between the Prince and his uncle.

"Would you say all crewmembers are trustworthy, Lieutenant?"

Jee pauses in his stretch. Prince Zuko, who had been mirroring him, does not; goes further until his upper thigh is mere inches from the deck.

"In what way, my Prince?" he asks.

"That they are under my command only," the Prince clarifies. "Not also my father's."

Jee does not speak immediately, does not say 'yes, of course' as is his knee-jerk response. Because, are they? They likely are, but Ensign Asami's mother works in the palace; but Seaman Keiji's little brother is part of the royal guard; but Recruits Kazumi and Ohta are still, as of now, entranced by Fire Nation imperialism rather than disillusioned with all the death and rot.

"I'd say yes," he says slowly, thoughtfully, "but I cannot be sure they won't… talk, Your Highness. Things that can filter down—or up, if you will."

Prince Zuko's little face furrows in thought and consideration. He nods.

"Thank you for your honesty, Lieutenant," he says, and then he adds, "it's always been my favourite thing about you."

That says so much and so little. Jee is nevertheless flattered, and bows.

"Onto the katas then?"

"Yes." The Prince smiles at him, cheeks squishing into mochi. Jee kind of wants to ruffle the kid's neat hair and then kind of wants to slap himself for being so sappy. "Let's do it."


A perk of being the highest-ranking marine on the ship, disregarding present royalty, is that Jee does not have to muck out the stables.

He does do it though. Prince Zuko dragged him along, down into the hull, claiming that it was good for morale or some dragon-shit like that. That it would help if the higher-ups proved they weren't too good for doing all the dirty work.

Fuck if it is. It's disgusting, first of all, and that's the only thing anyone needs to know.

The General is seated a little way off to the side, reading a letter by gaslight and taking sips of tea. He'll call out encouragement sometimes, which makes the Prince laugh and Jee scowl, but he stays out of the way like he's incapable of shovelling shit away. Ridiculous. Jee's seen the General bend; the guy's strong enough to wrestle one of the animals.

"Could we use it for fuel?"

Jee glances over to where the Prince is standing. He's emptying a wheelbarrow full of manure onto the large pile next to the leftmost stable, which naval vessels usually throw into the ocean or sell to farmers for reasonable prices. The expression on his face presents itself in a slight frown, a pursed mouth; thoughtful.

Then Jee's brain registers what Prince Zuko just said, and Jee spits, through the cloth around his mouth and nose to stave off the stench:

"Why the fuck—"

"It can be a good source of energy if we need to spare our coal supply," the Prince says, like he hasn't got the funds to stock up on coal wherever he goes. "For the off-chance that we can't purchase any, I mean."

The General makes a funny noise that's between a thoughtful hum and a derisive scoff. "Why do you think we'd ever be unable to purchase coal, nephew?"

"Well," says Prince Zuko, "you know," and he trails off, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. His cheeks flushed with exertion; he abandoned his armour half of a candle ago, claiming it's too stuffy in the hull.

He's not wrong. Jee shucked his own armour too, down to the regular cloth and wrappings he wears underneath the leather and metal. It's gone uncomfortably damp with sweat.

"I don't trust my father, is all," the Prince continues. "If he could diminish my coffers to slight me, he would. He only needs the smallest reason."

If Jee wasn't loyal to Prince Zuko and General Iroh, that sentence alone would be a reason. But he is loyal, so he locks it away to never emerge.

"My brother is unable to touch mine, Prince Zuko," the General informs him in a soothing rumble. He folds the letter back up and arches his bushy brows. "There'd be outrage if he did and I shared the news."

"You'd get killed, Uncle," says the Prince. He walks back to the unfinished stables and sets the wheelbarrow down. "He'd pay someone to poison your teacakes."

"Ah, well." The General takes a sip of tea, all casual, like a potential assassination is normal subject matter for him. "Even the highest tree can be felled by the axe. It would take only one skilled assassin for him to die as well—or one teenage boy, of course."

He glances at his nephew. Just glances. Jee watches, face kept as impassive and uninterested as possible, as the Prince flushes further.

"What I mean is that he could take away everything," is the snippy answer. The Prince shoulders into the stable, muck fork in hand, and scratches one of the komodo-rhinos behind the ears. "He'd probably let Captain Zhao take command of the Wanyi and leave us stranded in the Earth Kingdom."

Oh. Oh, Spirits.

"I'd rather die than serve under Zhao," Jee blurts, as honest as fire burns. A few months ago, he'd have chosen Zhao over Prince Zuko; today, the mere thought of answering to that guy may give him hives. "Perhaps jump into the sea before he can throw me overboard for perceived slights and assumed insubordination."

The General snorts. "Who wouldn't?"

"I've heard he doesn't even give credit to his crew for victories," Jee says. "He climbs up the ranks, but the ones serving under him don't."

"Father likes him," Prince Zuko remarks, patting the beast on her neck. "But I suppose that's not a compliment to his personality, if we're being frank."

The General snickers into his tea and Jee feels himself grin, upturning a forkful of manure in his own wheelbarrow. Yes, that's true.

"Regardless," the Prince continues, "father would give Zhao command of this ship if I do anything to displease him." He purses his mouth, head tilting. "And if he can catch me."

"You speak as though you will do something to displease him," says General Iroh, audibly amused. "Will you?"

"My mere existence displeases him, Uncle," the Prince says. "And he does love to be proven right."

And then he smiles, sharp white teeth in a face shiny with sweat and dirty with dust, like it's funny. Like it's amusing to him that his father will always be disappointed in him—wishes to ban him from comfort and happiness, searches feverishly for any excuse to do so.

The handle of the muck fork feels hot under Jee's palms and he breathes in, out, forces his inner flame to simmer down. He's not angry. He's a little bit furious.

Jee's father still loved him unconditionally when Jee would inevitably disappoint him. Why can't a royal do the same?

"So he does," the General acquiesces, calm as ever. Jee can't tell if it's for his nephew's benefit or his own. "So he does."

Prince Zuko turns back to his self-appointed task of shovelling shit, carefully shouldering the komodo-rhino out of the way when he needs her to move. He doesn't look unhappy, or uncomfortable; he's surprisingly loose-limbed, disregarding the exertion of work. Even his brow is relaxed.

"For what it's worth," Jee hears himself say, "if this ship ever falls under the command of Captain Zhao, we'd commit mutiny, throw him into the ocean, and drag the two of you back on board, Your Highnesses."

Not a word of it is a lie. He doesn't think it'd take any convincing for the rest of the crew to join him either.

The General beams. "Thank you, Lieutenant Jee."

"It's true," he says earnestly. "We'd much rather—that is to say, I am glad I joined you on this journey."

"Even when I inevitably twist my ankle?" the Prince asks lightly.

"Even then," says Jee. "Especially then."

When the Prince smiles again, shy and pleased, the warmth in Jee's chest does not come from his own fire at all.


The knowledge that the Fire Lord is a piece-of-shit father isn't necessarily surprising – the Agni Kai rather confirmed that for him already – but the feeling of responsibility Jee has around the Prince remains as such.

It's ridiculous—the Prince has General Iroh, it seems. He does not need other people worrying about him. But Jee does, indeed, worry about him, does occupy himself with the Prince's well-being and happiness, and does suffer through millions of little heart attacks when the Prince, now that his ankle has fully healed, begins to do his death-defying stunts again.

In the weeks leading up to their arrival at the Southern Air Territories, the relatively innocent, if advanced, katas Prince Zuko practises together with Jee slowly morph into full-blown battles of stealth. He'll run up walls and send a kick of fire at the victim of the day, twisting in the air like a puma-cat and landing on his toes as he smoothly shifts into the next attack form. He'll drop out of the air like a spider-koala in front of any person appearing not to be too busy with tasks, yelling something about sparring, and somehow always succeeds in convincing his target to participate in a small practice match.

It's not until Ensign Minato accidentally burns off his own (admittedly wispy and unimpressive) moustache that Jee puts his foot down. Prince Zuko seems more amused than chastised by his scolding – "Surprise matches are not the way any respectable firebender trains, Your Highness, we're not bloody Zhao and his miserable underlings!" – but seems to acquiesce to Jee's demands, especially when General Iroh ends up agreeing.

This does not signal the end of the mischief, of course. Prince Zuko is still a thirteen-year-old boy, and thirteen-year-old boys attract mischief and shenanigans like honey attracts scorpion-bees—and if they do not attract it, they create it, much like the scorpion-bees again.

It starts with the pranks of stealth, similar to his game a few months back: he steals pastries and makes people startle, though this time he demands others join in on the fun. They do, and Jee now finds his tea made with salt water more often than not.

Then it's the other things, like the knife-juggling competitions during dinner (Jiro ended up cutting himself) and the balancing acts (Recruit Ohta fell in the ocean and had to be fished out). Or even worse: the heat-resistance challenges that Akito indulges Prince Zuko in, because those can only be held in the engine room. Healer Lee grumbles extensively about emptying out his burn cream supply.

It's stressful to keep his stress low, at this point. Jee allows the rabble only because it makes the crew and Prince Zuko laugh, and they don't laugh enough; it's all innocent enjoyment, good for fostering camaraderie. What's the worst that could happen?

Then he walks into the mess one evening, long after Prince Zuko's usual bedtime, and he thinks—that's it. That's the worst that can happen.

Because there is alcohol. On the table. Between Seaman Hina and Helmsman Ichiro and Prince Zuko. A bottle of sake.

Sake.

Prince Zuko is bringing a choko to his mouth, grinning at some undoubtedly horrible and childish joke Hina is telling him. His pale, royal, teenage cheeks are slightly flushed.

Prince Zuko. Is taking a sip from a choko. Filled with sake.

Prince Zuko is a boy.

Jee waltzes over in an instant. If the General doesn't kill him for letting Prince Zuko drink alcohol at the age of thirteen, then Jee will likely jump overboard himself. His blood-pressure has skyrocketed to tremendous heights, worse than the time the Prince put a scorpion-spider on Jee's pillow.

"Prince Zuko!"

The Prince blinks at him innocently, the cursed sake-filled cup still cradled in his hand. "Yes, Lieutenant?"

Jee inhales deeply. "No," he says.

"No, what, Lieutenant?" Prince Zuko tilts back his head and shoots the sake unflinchingly. "Please clarify."

"You—" Jee starts, spluttering, and he snatches the bottle of sake off the table. "Alcohol… you…? Thirteen…!"

"Almost fourteen, actually," Prince Zuko points out.

"Almost fourteen…!" Jee will have heart attacks. Many heart attacks. He will crumple into a useless husk of a man with high blood-pressure and a thousand heart attacks. Thirteen-year-old boys should not drink alcohol. They should not act coy about being caught drinking alcohol. Because they should not be drinking alcohol. And the Prince does not turn fourteen for a few months yet. "Your Highness—"

"Do you not want me to have any sake, Lieutenant?"

"Thirteen!" Jee repeats, sparks flying from his mouth like spittle. "Thirteen!"

The brat is smiling at him. Seaman Hina is resting her head on the table, shoulders shaking, and Helmsman Ichiro is red with silent laughter.

"Lieutenant?"

Jee gets himself together, clutches the bottle close to his chest, points. "No."

"No?" asks the Prince.

"No," Jee confirms. "Absolutely not." He swivels around and marches off, ignoring the peals of laughter behind him. "Almost fourteen my fucking arse…"


General Iroh is in Jee's quarters. In the doorway. His hands are hidden by his sleeves; he's smiling, chin tilted ever-so-slightly down.

"I wish to thank you," he says.

"For what?" Jee asks.

"My nephew… is difficult to corral," the General muses. His head tilts. "But you do so anyway. And you manage."

Jee stares at his superior and thinks that he wants to say that it's fine. That it's his job. That it's what he signed up for, what he gets paid for. The Prince is a boy with a father who hates him and he's happy now, and sometimes he's too exuberant and sometimes he doesn't think things through, and Jee is an old soldier tasked with keeping the kid safe.

But he doesn't say that. He just says, "I do it gladly," and he means it too. Then he remembers himself and fashions his hands into the flame of respect, bowing.

The General waves his hand through the air, rather limply. Sighs through a tight smile, brows drawn together, and takes a step closer.

"A child will seek warmth by setting himself on fire," he says. "An adult… will burn it down. I myself have always been to absent; my father, too unreachable. And my brother keeps the flame away from his children just to spite them for existing. And my nephew—he'll be fine despite it. I know he will be. Because of you. What you let him do and what you prevent him from doing. So I'll say this again: thank you, Lieutenant."

He leaves with another nod, whistling as he walks down the hall. And Jee is left sitting on his cot and feeling like the breath just got punched out of him.


Jee has known for a while he'd do anything for the Prince.

He'd jump in lava for the kid. Swim through the polar seas. He genuinely would. As long as the command makes sense, or if it protects the boy, Jee will do anything the Prince asks of him.

But—

"If we climb a mountain," Jee wheezes, flat on his back, "one more time—"

His feet ache. His calves ache. His thighs ache and his back aches and his lungs hurt, they really do, and his shoulders are still stinging from the weight of the pack and his waist feels rubbed raw from the rope around it, and everything just aches and hurts and is generally awful.

"It was not that bad," says the Prince, audibly amused and only a little bit winded. "Just a light workout."

"A light—"

When Prince Zuko announced yesterday that they'd be visiting the Southern Air Temple, Jee had high hopes for a comfortable hike up. Without too much luggage, much like last time. A precarious and terrifying path, yes, but all together a good hike; nothing bad, nothing extreme.

"I've heard it's quite the climb," the Prince said. "But I do really wish to visit it."

'Quite the climb' is, well, quite an understatement. The crew fastened themselves to one another with ropes so none would plummet to their deaths if the rock below their feet crumbled, and they had to pause frequently to catch their breaths in the thin air. At the end of the summer the place is as dry as a bone, even this far south; the water they'd taken with was nearly gone when they still had a couple hundred metres to go.

The temple is beautiful of course, all towering towers and domed roofs, sprawling nature and endless, breathtaking sights. The tree branches are heavy with thick, juicy peaches and the paving is, if neglected, still traversable.

But it's so high up.

This time, the Prince had made the decision that the vast majority of the crew would come with. If the temple was cleaned up like the Northern and Western have been, then that's just as well; "But," he said, "I read that the climb is too difficult to do more than twice in one day, and possibly even more than once. If we need to stay longer, I'd rather we just take supplies."

So up they went, packed and ready, hauling pounds upon pounds of supplies up with them. Jee doesn't yet know if the struggle was worth it. He's still recovering.

Of course, he'd be stupid to think that the sole purpose of this visit is to find clues to the Avatar's whereabouts. The other temples — save for maybe the Western one, but even that is now doubtful — they'd visited to give corpses a proper burial and protect artefacts left to the mercy of the elements, even if it was a moot point for the Northern and Eastern one.

Prince Zuko does not care about finding the Avatar. He cares about preserving memory and giving respect.

"Let's search the temple and reconvene when you've found something," the Prince announces, and he does need to clarify what that 'something' is, for they all know. "As soon as you can stand without keeling over, of course."

Jee produces an agreeable groan and sits up, muscles shaking in exhaustion. Some of the younger crewmembers are already stumbling off, stretching and rolling their shoulders; they've left their own packs in a pile.

"Am I on library duty again?" he asks.

The infernal brat gives him a funny smile. "If you want to be, Lieutenant."

He does, provided it does not include too much climbing. He does climb to his feet though, gritting his teeth, and walks forward. Kicks Jiro in the arm and says, "Go find us a place to sleep and cook."

Jiro just groans pathetically, like the slacker he is. Jee snorts and staggers off, walking swiftly to keep his balance.

The Southern Air Temple is a sprawling structure of inter-connected buildings, with pathways that seem to have been built with non-airbenders in mind. It's nice, inasmuch as his tired muscles appreciate it, and it actually only takes a few sets of stairs for him to find the library: in the main building, hidden behind crumbling wood structures that must've been closets once upon a time, shoved haphazardly but neatly in rows to never be found.

Jee's heart stutters.

The wood crumbles into rotten, devoured dust the moment he begins to shove it out the way. He flinches at the onslaught, blames the sudden burn in his eyes on the cloud. Beats at the short wooden door until the lock splinters and it opens with an unnerving creak.

It's whole, still; unburnt, bathed in stripes of yellow sunlight spilling through slatted, stone windows. There are scrolls upon scrolls neatly stacked in bookcases reaching easily for the sweeping start of the impossibly high, vaulted ceiling. There are dark wooden desks and stone brushes with what he assumes to be bison hair, rolls of paper and inkpads open and still closed.

And there are bodies.

Because as Jee gazes upon the centre of the room, a child's skull stares back at him.

Multiple. Nine in total, when he counts: nine bodies, huddled together in foetal positions. Their robes are tattered but still orange and yellow and brown. Upon closer, horrifying inspection, he spots that at least seven of the skulls still have their baby teeth embedded firmly above and below their adult teeth. For two of the bodies, their entire set is made up out of milk teeth.

There's no sign of fire. No remnants of century-old congealed blood, dark stains soaked into sandstone. Just nine children's corpses, hidden away. To stay safe. And if it would never be safe, to die.

Which they did.

Died terrified, he thinks, vaguely registering he's begun to tremble. These children died terrified and alone and little, so little, so small. And they did not burn to death. They did not bleed out.

I am so sorry, said the characters on the back of a scroll in the Western Air Temple, written in blood, hidden in a closed-off room with only bones for company. One adult; several children. The Fire Nation army keeps waiting for us to emerge.

I do not want them to be burnt alive.

They suffocated.

They are children.

The oldest skull can't be older than thirteen. Not at that size. He can see… imagine, if that little boy was laid out flat, he would not be much bigger than Prince Zuko.

Children .

They suffocated. Jee realises, jaw tensing, that the oldest must have had to—had to pull the air—just to not be—

Jee closes his blurring eyes. Squats down. Presses his palms into his sockets until it aches.

Gags upon the horror he expected to encounter.


It's just as horrific as the Western Air Temple.

They build pyres. Gather the bodies. Solemn, silent, agonising work—even more so after the tidiness of the other two temples, where these victims had been put to rest. But here, they lie in clusters or alone, so alone, sprawled over steps and steps of distance, torn apart by time and wind and scavengers, and perhaps by soldiers.

Jee has never felt more disillusioned with his own country.

There're the toys again, and pieces of art, and scrolls of lost knowledge. They save all of it, put it in chests and boxes to lock behind doors that cannot be opened by anyone but an airbender. And the corpses…

Endless. They're endless. The General chokes when he sees the contents of the library and has to take quite a few breaths to collect himself before he can even attempt to help Jee carry the children to their final resting place. Jiro snotters over scorched robes and blackened bones before he manages to gather them with his clumsy, too-big hands, whispering apologies and prayers. Sana and Hina are stone-faced when they return with several victims cradled in the sheet between them, but Hina's lips are bitten bloody and Sana's eyes are distant and her movements automatic.

Asami and Minato, Kazami and Ohta—they're so young still, but they do not throw up again. They work quietly and respectfully and if one of them needs to take a moment, nobody blames it on their youth, because nobody doesn't take moments.

Stomaching dinner is an impossible task, but they all choke it down anyway. Sleeping seems out of the question, but they crawl into their bedrolls anyway. And Jee lies awake until deep in the night, incapable of resting, eyes closed but ears alert.

The rustle of blankets and silent footsteps is what makes him decide he's done trying.

He finds the Prince in a small, half-collapsed outbuilding overtaken by vines, a little way north. Here there are Fire Nation bodies: imperial firebenders, judging by the ragged armour and half-rotten leather, the shape and size of the helmets. They lie in a half-circle, piled atop one another. At least a dozen died a murderer's death here, and it takes everything in Jee not to spit on the skeletal remains for their betrayal to the balance of the world. For their active participation in something so horrific, so atrocious, unspeakably monstrous it cannot be anything but human inhumanity.

Prince Zuko is kneeling in front of one airbender skeleton, on a section of stone flooring free of debris. The corpse is wearing a yellow robe and wooden, beaded necklace with a pendant bearing the insignia of Air. Its grimace would have looked tired and resigned had skulls been capable of emotion.

"The Air Nomads were pacifists," Prince Zuko murmurs, without even looking Jee's way. "But they were protectors as well."

A protector indeed. A last stand, it looks like. Jee presses his mouth together and curls his hands into fists, stomach contracting into a nauseating tightness.

"At least he took out a bunch of those bastards with him," he manages. He does not think of how he might've been one of those bastards, had he been born at that time. Thinks he would've rather drowned himself instead. "Must have been some bender."

"A master of the highest calibre," the Prince says, "and an Elder of this temple. He's wearing a threngwa, see?"

Ah. "The necklace."

"Yes. They are—were worn by the Elders of the monasteries and nunneries. Prayer beads, for mantras." A pause. "Gifted upon reaching Elder status."

A flood of information, brought solemnly rather than gushingly like it'd been brought in the Eastern temple. It cannot be brought differently with what's in front of them, gazing at them accusingly with empty eye sockets.

"Let me guess," Jee says, "you read about it."

The Prince's head dips. "You could say that."

They fall silent. The wind whistles through the gaps in the ceiling. Jee walks forward and sinks to his knees, bows his head, grimaces at the cold seeping through his knee-guards and into his bones.

Then Prince Zuko starts to whisper. Prayers—of respect, of guidance, of grief. It's lilting yet staggers haltingly across the Prince's tongue, a dialect long forgotten, spoken fluently only by those who are now nothing but dust and calcium.

For a moment, Jee wonders, why now? Why not later, when the pyres have been built and this corpse, too, has been put to rest? But then he remembers—the details hidden within the funeral scrolls have faded in the months since he'd read them, but they're clear enough.

This monk killed more than in mere self-defence. This man, this master, he died a warrior's death; sits vigil, forever on guard long after his last breath has been expelled. And he cannot be moved from his spot by someone who isn't an Air Nomad. Cannot be cremated by those who do not belong.

A grave of a fighter, surrounded by his victims—the very aggressors who pushed this man to desperation and fury.

So, Jee joins in.

He cannot properly pronounce the words, familiar yet foreign as they are. He trips over the syllables again. But the prayers are repetitive: loop back to the start, reiterate certain lines, spoken in a cadence not unlike a song. It's beautiful in its bitterness. It lasts for hours upon hours.

Jee remains seated, though his body hurts. He stays seated until the prayers are finished. Until dawn has broken, and then after. Eventually, the Prince bows down until his forehead touches the stone and Jee follows suit.

I am sorry, he thinks. I am sorry. I am so sorry.

When they stand, Prince Zuko is swaying on his feet. Teetering, exhausted, red-eyed. He looks every bit his age.

Jee's arm moves before he can think better of it, but when he thinks better of it he thinks this is not something he should refrain from his hand lands on Prince Zuko's shoulder, squeezes; then tugs, gently, until the boy goes willingly. Until he sags against him like a doll with its strings cut.

He is a child too. And Jee's—so damn proud, he realises through gritted teeth. Agni strike him if he lies, he's so proud.

"You're a good kid," Jee whispers gruffly, thinking of how he would not have been capable of this at thirteen. "You really are. You're doing well."

Prince Zuko nods into Jee's shoulder, and lets himself be led back and away.


It takes three days to gather bones, copy scrolls, and find artefacts and icons and more fucking toys, abandoned and scorched. Each hour it gets harder not to cry—because none of them get to cry. Not here.

The pyres burn easily. The prayer and vigil are exhausting and painful and every single member of the crew grits their teeth against their tiredness and aching bodies—because they don't get to complain in a place where their ancestors and countrymen had massacred so many innocents, pursued them until they'd become like cattle driven to jump off cliffs. And when it is finished, when the ashes scatter through gusts of sudden wind and not a scorch mark remains, they stay for one more day to punt Fire Nation helmets down into the valley below. Ichiro caves to his urges and spits on a firebender's Agni-bleached skull.

"Wish it was Sozin," he mutters, scowling. "Is that treasonous to say?"

Is it? Is it treasonous? Is it truly treasonous if they all remain quiet, put it behind lock and key, and silently agree?

The General clasps Ichiro's shoulder. And he does not say a thing.


The sole bright spot is that the Prince, who'd been so silent the entire time, so grave and pale and quiet, wakes the half-slumbering with a delighted giggle on their last morning in the temple.

Jee drags his crusty eyes open and twists onto his other side to look. Does a double take. Sits up.

"What the hell is that?"

"A flying lemur," Prince Zuko replies. The winged rat-thing on his lap is purring and chattering, rubbing itself all against the Prince's princely palms. "One of the last of his kind."

It's got massive, pointed, white ears and bulbous green eyes, Jee notes with some degree of hysterics. Its face is a brown-toned grey; its limbs, the dorsal stripe trailing over its spine, and a large part of its smooth tail is the same colour. Its wings extend from its front arms like those of a bat.

The creature looks quite terrifying, frankly speaking. Rather nightmarish.

Nobody except Jiro, who's gone quite pale, seems to agree with that perfectly sane sentiment.

The General coos and extends a hand, letting the thing sniff at his fingers before it allows him to scratch it under its hairy chin. Ichiro and Sana aww in tandem.

"How fascinating," says the General. "What a wonderful little fellow."

"I thought I saw a glimpse of one in the Western Temple." The Prince pats the thing on its little head and smiles brightly when it lowers its ears, eyes closing. "And I saw an odd tail earlier too, but was… too preoccupied to investigate. Maybe he noticed we weren't being horrible to the temple and decided to investigate himself."

"He's beautiful," Asami murmurs. "Maybe he wants to join us?"

"Do you?" Prince Zuko asks. "Would you like to come with us for now?"

Like it is considering the offer, the lemur blinks up at the Prince with its big eyes and tilts its little head unnervingly. And then – and Jiro has to suppress a shiver there, which Jee relates to – it climbs up and settles around Prince Zuko's neck like a living scarf.

"That looks like an agreement," Sana whispers, and she squeals in Ichiro's shoulder. "Oh, I love animals…"

They are aware. Everybody present is more than aware of Sana's habit of doting on even the most dangerous of creatures. Jee doesn't doubt she'd scratch a moose-lion between its dangerous antlers and love on its toe pads, which she would deem 'beans'. Because all of Sana's impressive amount of positive rationality goes out the window the moment she sees a creature to spoil.

"I'll call him Momo," the Prince decides, and 'Momo' chitters in what everybody decides is agreement but Jee thinks rather sounds like normal dumb animal noise. "Sounds good, Momo, doesn't it?"

The crew gathers around the Prince and his new pet like this is something to be happy about. Jee pulls a face and leans towards Jiro, who also has been keeping his distance. As Jiro is a normal person.

"I can't believe this," he mutters.

"I think I'm allergic," Jiro agrees. He sneezes exaggeratedly, which means he isn't allergic really, but Jee isn't going to call him out on it. Not when the guy's in his corner on this.

"What, to happiness?" Sana shoots over her shoulder. "To joy? To adorable tiny little lemurs with the most beautiful wings in the entire world? Yes, you are so handsome, little guy. Does Momo want a peach?"

"Oh, come on." Jee watches on as all the marines join in on the cooing, the General included. "It's a just flying monkey."

"What's next?" Jiro says, sniffling through an unblocked nose, "a dragon?"

"Don't give him any ideas."

And the Prince just laughs, light and carefree, grinning as the creature bumps its little head against his cheek.

And—well. It's not like Jee's got any power to say no. Nor can he scrounge up the energy to do so.


The Fire Nation insignia is a blight against the summer sky, a dot of poisoned blood and dirt flying from the highest point.

Jee stands, dressed in white, among his men. The General called them over mere minutes ago, had them gather and stand at attention. It's the afternoon after they returned from the temple, and the sky is clear and the weather is good, and all hands on deck is unnecessary because the Wanyi will continue sailing onwards without so much of a stutter—old reliable block of scrap metal that she is. So the entire grew stands, shuffling only slightly in confusion, as the General clears his throat and gestures for the Prince to step forward.

He does, still slightly shorter than the General, still shorter than most men on board. Thirteen winter solstices old and he's standing like a soldier. His shoulders are straight and his hands are clasped behind his back, and his chin is tilted slightly upwards: not arrogance, as Jee may have interpreted it at the beginning of their journey, but mere nervousness. The lemur is draped over his shoulders like some banner of protection, but it only accentuates how young he actually is.

"As you all may know," the Prince starts, "some months ago, I fought my father in an Agni Kai. And I won."

Jee allows himself to nod. Agreeable and speculative muttering rises up like hissing bushfires.

"I fought because of a perceived insult," the Prince continues. "I fought because I spoke out against cruelty when it wasn't my place to speak. I fought because General Bujing wished to sacrifice the 41st Division to the enemy, to sacrifice new recruits for experienced troops to place an ambush, to allow the slaughter of young, bright citizens for no more than a handful of enemy deaths—"

Something in Jee's chest seizes all of a sudden, breath shallow and sharp, because back in his day—back in Azulon's time, may Agni hold him in eternal rest, they could not afford the deaths of new recruits. They would not have risked it. They would not have stood for it, back then, but—

"I won," says Prince Zuko, and he begins to smile all bright and pleased and a bit sad, "and a letter from my father informed me three weeks ago that the 41st Division shall not be used as cannon fodder. The strategy as a whole shall, in fact, not be equipped at all in the near future."

Blood thuds in Jee's ears, behind his eyes, in his tongue and throat and further down. His fingers feel swollen.

"It is a courtesy," the Prince says. "It is not a gift. It is only an acknowledgement to me and my victory alone. Do not see it as a kindness; our Lord, our highest Generals, they do not care for us, for you, for your lives. Had I lost," he says, voice loud and carrying, even as it wavers, "the 41st Division would have been slaughtered. The Divisions of recruits after would have been slaughtered. And I know my father would have sent me lists of every casualty just to punish me further for my misconduct.

"This War will end in nothing but blood and rot. This War will end the world as we know it. My father will rule over corpses and ashes, if only to prove," he spits, "if only to claim, that he alone is Agni's Chosen—as though our Great Spirit is only good for destruction. My father is wrong."

Briefly, momentarily, the air pauses like the eye of the storm, crashing waves and whistling wind sounding distant.

"I will not ask you to desert; I cannot ask you that," The Prince says. "I will not. Not ever. All I wish is for you to think and remember. Remember the 41st Division; remember the Temples and its corpses; remember the burn on my father's face. Remember your fallen friends and ancestors, remember your pain. And remember," he adds, "that our enemies are as human as we are."

His voice halts then, as if it's caught in his throat and twisted in his tongue. And it's okay, because not one person shifts uncomfortably; because the General is smiling; because the Prince is thirteen winter solstices old and he stands like a soldier and a speaks like a leader.

Jee remembers urging himself to believe the shrieks and screaming of earthbenders were the sounds of malicious spirits. He remembers listening to the groan of ships going under, the death knell, the gurgling wails of drowning sailors obscured by the violence of the sea. He thinks that perhaps, inhumanity is born from a willingness to believe others are inhuman.

Agni damn it all, Jee is old. He's old and he's tired, and sometimes his joints protest when he moves without warming up, and the Prince is so young—and maybe naive too, and overly hopeful, and sick to his stomach at the thought of death and senseless violence.

But Prince Zuko did not grow ill when faced with the remains of the genocide, only solemn and respectful. Prince Zuko defeated his father in an Agni Kai, damn the propaganda.

Prince Zuko has eyes too old for his face. Prince Zuko is a boy Jee wishes to protect with his life, but who'll jump in front of Jee instead.

Jee takes a breath, closes his eyes, and tilts his face towards the sky. The little flame in his chest flickers, grows and tempers itself with the power of the sun.

Remember the corpses. Remember the deaths. Remember the pain, the senselessness, the atrocity.

He takes another breath, and he drops down to his knees in the most respectful bow he's ever learnt. No less than half a second later muffled thuds tell him that the others have decided to do the exact same thing.


Jee gathers the entire crew in the mess that night, save for the royals, and stands atop one of the tables to project the appropriate amount of authority. His hands are clasped behind his back and he glares at the lot of them, mouth thin and pinched, eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

Sana looks incredibly unimpressed, but she's never impressed by him, curse her. The others look unsure and vaguely chastised and that's what matters.

As the curious murmuring swiftly dies down under Jee's look and sheer power of authority, he straightens further; inhales deep.

"After today, I expect all of you to know what to do."

All the breaths in the room hold, synchronised.

"We follow," he says. "We follow, we guard, and we keep silent. Do not tell your families of the injustice he prevented just yet. Do not tell them of what he spoke of, what he implied. Not until we are ready. Not until our Prince is ready.

"If it had been anyone else," he says, and he inhales again, "if our leader had been anyone else, I am unsure if I would have stood in line. But I am older than most of you gathered here. I am tired. I am disillusioned. I want this war to end."

Agreement rises, quiet and muttered. Jee cannot spot disagreeing or unhappy faces. Everybody is staring or nodding.

"Treason is not what our Prince asked of us, nor will I ask you to do so. Desertion is not what he asked of us, and I won't command you to do so. Changing your mind," he says, "about nationalism, about our country, about the goal we have been born and bred to reach—he only asked you to consider it all, so I will ask it too. I want you to know that I am old, and I changed my mind. I learnt. And I agree with our Prince."

Sana, Jiro, Hina and Keiji, Ichiro and Akito… they're smiling. The oldest of the crew and they're smiling. Even that old goat, Healer Lee, has his mouth twisted into something appreciative—and he hasn't even seen the corpses.

Jee clears his throat, feeling oddly flustered. "If any of you endanger him, let information slip, be it purposeful or accidental—you will experience the appropriate consequences. If you harm him in the name of our country, you will experience the appropriate consequences. From me—"

"And from me," Sana announces. She turns to face them all, hands in her side; Jiro joins her with his arms crossed. "You will face us. You hear?"

"This is—" Jee clears his throat, not emotional at all, "—this is not up for debate. If you burn yourself you'll sit on the blisters. Is that clear?"

Once more, there is muttered agreement.

"I said, is that clear?"

The crew, as one, calls out, "Yes, Lieutenant", and Jee nods. Relishes in the relief coursing through his veins. Lets himself smile, for once.

Feels hopeful for the future, for the first time since he was conscripted at sixteen.


"Where to next, Your Highness?"

Standing at the Prince's side, half a step behind, has become comfortable. More so now that his trust feels full and unwavering. Jee thinks he may stand at the Prince's shoulder for the rest of his life and be satisfied.

"I don't know," the Prince admits. "The South Pole? Kyoshi Island? Do we moor in the Earth Kingdom, or somewhere else?"

Jee shifts, glances at out at the ocean. The water is nearly the same colour as the sky. Another clear day. They've been lucky lately.

"I believe it would be smooth sailing to anywhere, Your Highness."

"Why don't you decide, Lieutenant," says the Prince. He turns and grins cheekily, chin resting on Momo's little head, face framed by the lemur's ears. "I trust you to make a good decision."

Yes, Jee thinks, satisfied, my choice is sound, and he bows his head in respect.

When he straightens he squints up to the navigation tower. Smoke bellows from the chimney in a dark, swirling plume, like that of a dragon. Ichiro has taken the Fire Nation flag down to half-mast.

And the sea is calm as far as the sun reaches, silence beyond even the horizon.

"I'll make it a good surprise, my Prince."