Chapter Text
Ozai sat alone in his cell and stared at the wall. There wasn’t much else to do. There were three of them; walls, that was. He’d named them. North, east, and south. The names had been chosen at random though. Ozai had no sense of direction, not without his fire inside him. The sun could have been anywhere, or nowhere at all. A dull, blackened disk, just like the moon had been for all ten minutes Zhao had succeeded. But he had to call the walls something. They were, after all, all that remained of the Phoenix King’s empire. A good ruler always had a firm grasp of his borders.
The one thing Ozai did not do was look out of the bars.
Zuko, that little shit, had told him that his time in prison was to make him think. To reflect on what he’d done. So, he did. Ozai stared at the wall and thought about how he’d triumphed. He, Ozai, second born, had risen from obscurity to rule half the world. He’d defied all expectations, eclipsed his brother and his father both. Who among them had ever dared to do what he had done? Azulon had waged war on the Earth Kingdom and the Water Tribes for seventy years, but in the end had loved only the fight. He’d been content to colonize, to rape and pillage the world like some common pirate. Iroh hadn’t even had that; a fat, sad old man whose brief flush of glory had washed out like so much tea in the rain. The former Crown Prince was remembered more now for what he didn’t do than what he did. He hadn’t even had the guts to claim his place in the end.
Yet Ozai was Sozin reborn. Only he had had his grandfather’s ambition; only he had sought to see the Fire Nation bring their power, their culture, their leadership to the world. Only he had tasted the comet’s power, wielded the strongest fire imaginable on behalf of his people. And what glorious fire it had been. His had been an army such as the four nations had never seen before, nor would likely see again. History would remember though. Ozai may have been crowned the Phoenix King, but in that moment, that last glorious battle, he had been the true Dragon of the West.
Alas. Ozai had also been the only one to foresee the danger that the Avatar might bring. Sozin had known it, too. Sending Zuko had been a fool’s errand. Regain your honor, he’d said, with full expectation the prince would fail to find the Avatar just as he and countless others had done. Yet his chance success hadn’t led to honor at all. Instead his son the traitor had unsurprisingly turned out to be, well, a traitor. If there was one fault Ozai would admit to, it was mercy. He should have killed the boy and been done with it. Damn Ursa, and the way her eyes had haunted him. Every time he’d raised a hand to strike he’d seen her, staring out of Zuko’s face like a vengeful spirit.
Perhaps that was his second fault. In spite of everything, he’d loved her. Not a lot, but enough. Enough.
He should have killed her, too. Mercy had been his undoing indeed.
Ozai shuffled a bit to stare at the east wall instead. It was a rather ugly color, but a change of scene. He’d been here long enough that he recognized the patterns in the cracks. If he stared long enough, he could make them look like maps in his head. Rivers, roads, the faint bulges and dips of mountains. Faint islands in a sea of concrete.
He jerked as a door clanged at the end of the long hallway. It wasn’t time for a meal. Not that Ozai would call the swill they fed him meals, but after his first week of refusing to eat it he’d learned to be appreciative. Something was better than nothing. As was any interruption.
“Are you sure?” said a voice as footsteps drew closer. “You are under no obligation.”
“Yes, my lord. I understand. But I choose to. It has been long enough. I’ve realized I don’t know what to do with myself otherwise.”
Ozai stood and composed himself. He may not be a king in name, but he was a king nonetheless, and he wanted to look it. But his composure nearly faltered as two men strode into view.
Iroh had aged since the last time he’d seen him. He was still old and fat, but his hair now straddled the line between gray and white and the creases had deepened around his eyes. The only trace of the former powerful general was the broad set of his shoulders, and even then only if you were looking for it. For some bizarre reason he was dressed as an Earth Kingdom noble. It made Ozai want to spit. Zuko was, of course, hardly the only traitor in the family.
Next to him stood, of all people, Yao Li. Tall and thin, his brown hair had also faded to a soft iron gray over the years. His long face was lined and spotted with age. It had happened so gradually Ozai had hardly noticed; the same way his own father had changed, come to think of it. One day he had simply been old. The comparison suddenly struck him as odd. Why would he compare Yao Li to his father, of all people?
“Ozai, you have a visitor,” Iroh said.
Yao Li pressed his fist to his flattened palm and bowed deeply. It was the first time someone had showed Ozai an ounce of respect in years.
“My lord,” he said softly. “It has come to my attention that you are to be allowed certain privileges. If you are willing, I hope that my services may be one of them.”
Ozai just stared at him. Was Yao Li really offering what he thought he was?
“The Fire Nation has a long and proud tradition in the wearing of our hair,” said Iroh. “Firelord Zuko believes that you will be more comfortable, and therefore more likely to be rehabilitated, if this small thing is restored to you.” He narrowed his eyes. “I myself have doubts.”
Yao Li bowed again, then lightly touched the bag hanging at his side. “If you are willing, my lord, we can begin immediately. I have come prepared.” His eyes traveled up to Ozai’s matted locks, and he frowned. “Agni knows it may take a while.”
Ozai hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Iroh dutifully pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the cell. “You understand, brother, that this is a reward for good behavior. Any… lapses… will not be tolerated.”
Ozai did not dignify that with a response. Instead he stepped aside as Yao Li entered. He would not yield for any man, but there was only so much space inside the cell. Yao Li gestured to the stone pallet built into the east wall, for all the world as if he was showing him to the chair in his outer chambers. And, just as if it were any other day, Ozai sat.
“I’ll leave you to it, then,” said Iroh. He slid the bars of the cell shut with a clang. “Yao Li, please call when you are ready to leave. Ta Ming or another of the guards stationed by the door will hear you.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Without another word Yao Li grasped the ragged ends of his hair. He made a soft tutting noise as Iroh’s heavy footsteps faded. “My, what have you done?”
“Funny. My son asks me the same question.”
Yao Li cracked a smile as he pulled an old battered ostrich horsehair brush from the pouch at his side, followed by a shining silver blade. He began working the brush slowly through Ozai’s hair; a little rough, but it felt good. There was something soothing about it, familiar, that relaxed him almost against his will.
“He always was just like you,” Yao Li said.
Ozai started. “What?”
“Of course. The neglected son triumphs over his domineering father and clearly more powerful sibling to ultimately rule the Fire Nation. Surely you see it?”
Ozai saw no such thing. Zuko was weak, and besides he hadn’t won anything. The Avatar had been the one to defeat him, and even then only using tricks. Zuko was nothing; and he most certainly wasn’t Ozai.
“Ah well,” Yao Li continued, for all the world as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud, “perhaps not. He does have his mother’s hair, after all. Shame. I hope his children take after Mai.”
They sat in silence after that, Yao Li making little tsking noises every so often as he worked the snarls and knots from Ozai’s hair. Once he could brush it through he used his blade to trim the ends to their old length, followed by a shave that reduced the tangled beard to a long, sleek goatee. Finally he gathered half the hair in a twist, binding it back with a golden ribbon he pulled from the pouch.
“There,” Yao Li said with satisfaction. He wiped his damp hands against his pants and surveyed his work. “A distinct improvement.” With that, he handed Ozai his silver blade. “I didn’t bring a mirror, my lord, but you can see yourself a little in this.”
He took the fine razor and tipped it to the light. The face staring back at him was thin but regal, with hair as fine as any king. Against his will, he felt the prick of tears. He turned away at that, and held the blade out for Yao Li to take.
The man only smiled at him. “Keep it,” he said quietly.
Ozai blinked. “You would give me a weapon? Why?”
“Because I know what it is to lose one’s life,” he said. “To have your home, your family, your livelihood and your future all ripped away. I know what it is to be sent to a prison, and to have nothing but long years ahead. You have been good to me. You are the closest thing to family that I have, Ozai. So in turn I offer you what I can. Take the blade. Use it, if you like. Take the path that I could not.” With that the old man turned to the bars. “Guard!” he shouted. “I am done here.”
Ozai hurriedly stuffed the cutting blade into his sleeve. You are the closest thing to family that I have. Take the path that I could not.
Yao Li bowed again as a young woman slid open the bars of the cell. “Think it over, my lord,” he said. “I trust Prince Iroh to tell me if I am needed tomorrow.”