Chapter Text
Three Years Ago
The end of the war began with a palace doctor.
Takahiro had been a doctor for many years. Under Firelord Azulon’s watchful eye, he had entered the palace as a bright-eyed apprentice, and two and a half decades later he was still there, considerably less young and less fanatical. Growing up in Caldera City, he had believed that the royal family, Sozin’s line, were the embodiment of Agni on earth. To be a healer for them was a privilege.
Like many of the palace staff, Takahiro was quick to learn. After all, those who couldn’t adjust were quick to find reassignments or visit sick relatives in the countryside. Takahiro rarely saw Firelord Azulon, and for the first few years of his employment, little occurred that Takahiro didn’t expect.
The palace was full of snakes, eager to speak to Takahiro and find out what ailed the Firelord, and Takahiro bit his tongue as his oaths bid him to do. He occasionally saw Prince Iroh, and Iroh’s young boy, who was quick to skin a knee playing with swords and fire. But things began to change after Prince Ozai found a bride.
The girl’s name was Ursa, a descendant of Roku, and she often came to Takahiro. Sometimes, it was for company’s sake, a taste of familiarity in a world so unlike her own small village. She had dabbled in herbalism and liked to watch Takahiro work. Other times, it was for small injuries, accidents, she said. She wanted tea, to help the ache after she twisted her ankle on the stairs. Or when she had bumped into a bookshelf.
Takahiro nodded and treated her and silently wished he had studied astronomy instead. He had helped deliver young Prince Zuko, had handed him to his father, who looked at the baby with thinly-veiled disappointment. Not much of a spark, he had said. Takahiro remained silent, and Ursa, fever-ridden and weak, twisted her hands in the bedsheets and said, Give him time. Please, Ozai. Please.
Prince Zuko, like his mother, came to Takahiro often. And still, Takahiro said nothing.
There were many moments that Takahiro regretted. He regretted saying nothing when Princess Azula was born, and Zuko’s injuries became more frequent. He regretted looking away when he found his herb closet unlocked and Firelord Azulon dead. He regretted his every decision when Lady Ursa vanished.
But the worst decision he had ever made was when Prince Zuko was eleven years old, a burn wound on his outer arm after an accident in his firebending training. Firelord Ozai had pulled him aside and told Takahiro in no uncertain terms that he was not to give anything to Zuko to dull the pain. The boy had to learn.
Takahiro swallowed his words and did as he was told.
Some would consider Takahiro lucky to be a healer in the palace. For many years, Takahiro had believed this as well. Most doctors were conscripted to the front lines to treat soldiers with blood-curdling injuries. Takahiro’s cousin was in one such position, and she had written to him about the smell of burnt flesh, the crushed limbs of boys as young as sixteen, and Takahiro had counted himself lucky.
But Takahiro was not lucky.
Prince Zuko, thirteen, was brought to him—dragged across the palace and unceremoniously dropped on his doorstep, and for a moment, Takahiro thought he might already be dead. Half of his face, his face —
The guards, thankfully, said nothing when Takahiro vomited into his sink. The burn was bad. Zuko had already slipped into a fever, and the wound was pulsing and oozing. It looked as though the skin had melted, black in some places and fused to the bone in others, and Takahiro couldn’t tell if the boy still had his eye. If the boy lived, he would suffer.
But Takahiro was a doctor, and this was his job. He treated him the best he could and knew that only Agni could save him. Takahiro peeled skin away as the boy screamed and thrashed and lost consciousness, and he dressed the wound for the better part of four hours before he felt like he could stop for a minute’s rest.
“What happened?” Takahiro asked the guards.
The guards hadn’t left their position at the door since they had arrived, and they had remained silent the entire time. They looked at each other.
“Agni kai,” said the one on the right. “The Firelord—”
“Shut the hell up, Chit Sang,” said the one on the left. She glared at him, and then looked to Takahiro apologetically. “Sorry. Gag order.”
Takahiro did not ask any more questions.
He barely paid attention to them, too busy fighting a budding infection, and distantly heard them tell Princess Azula that no one was to see Prince Zuko on the Firelord’s orders, prompting a royal tantrum when they didn’t let her in. He didn’t sleep at all that night.
The next morning, he was surprised to see Firelord Ozai approach the guards, who let him pass silently.
“Takahiro,” said Ozai. He didn’t spare a glance at the agonized form of his son. “You’ve been a loyal subject for many years now.”
“Yes, your majesty,” said Takahiro. He did not look at Ozai’s hand.
Ozai watched him carefully, a glint in his eye that made Takahiro’s stomach churn. “You are a renowned doctor, but even you know that the fate of those in an Agni kai is decided only by Agni himself.”
“Yes, your majesty,” said Takahiro. It was the only reason Zuko was still alive. An Agni kai was fought only until the first burn, and had Ozai kept his hand upon Zuko’s face a minute longer, the boy would be dead. But Ozai withdrew too early, and the prince survived by Agni’s will alone. Had Ozai struck him again to finish the deed, it would have been considered an affront to Agni’s decision.
Firelord Ozai could do many things. He could claim a throne and bypass his older brother, he could send his wife and son to the infirmary time and time again, and he could, apparently, even light his child’s face on fire. But he could not be seen insulting Agni without losing the support of the Fire Sages. And if they withdrew their support and backed the claim of Prince Iroh, a civil war could break out. Perhaps, had Ozai been Firelord longer, his reign more secure — but, no.
Zuko’s fate would be determined by Agni alone.
Ozai was quiet for a long moment, studying Takahiro intently. “We are Agni’s subjects, here to carry out his will,” he said with a calm, chilling gaze. “Please ensure that Agni’s will is well established.”
Takahiro’s stomach dropped. After twenty-seven years at the palace, he knew what poison could lay behind honeyed words, and Ozai’s command, shrouded in religious piety, was unmistakable.
“Yes, your majesty,” he said, bowing deeply.
Ozai left him, and the guards followed, leaving Takahiro alone with Prince Zuko. Still, Takahiro remained in his bow for at least a minute, frozen to the spot and terrified that if he stood up, Ozai would still be there to see the tears glistening in his eyes.
It was true that Ozai could not kill the boy directly. But if Zuko were to succumb to his injuries despite the best efforts of his doctor, well. That would be Agni’s will alone.
Takahiro had done many things he regretted.
But this would not be one of them.
It was difficult, and Takahiro was well aware that if he was caught, then he would likely disappear, vanish into the night never to be seen again. He stepped outside the infirmary and called for a passing servant to bring Mari, a kitchen maid, to help him. Mari had steady hands, and as a firebender, she would boil the water more quickly than Takahiro could.
Mari was also a mother of three young boys, and she and Takahiro had spent many years in the palace together. Whether or not Mari would help… it was just a risk he had to take.
A few minutes later, she arrived at his door, dusting her hands on her apron. “Takahiro, what—” Her voice caught in her throat when she saw Zuko. “Agni above,” she whispered. “The kitchen staff were saying… But I didn’t think—”
“Mari,” said Takahiro, voice shaking. “Mari, you must take the corpse—”
“Corpse?” Mari repeated, watching Zuko’s chest rise and fall.
“Yes, corpse,” said Takahiro. “Quickly, to the docks—to somewhere far away. Please. Get him out of here.”
Mari looked at Zuko, and then at Takahiro’s wide-eyed frame, mouth moving but no words coming. Takahiro swallowed, pushing a hand through his hair. “Mari,” he said. “Get him to a ship. Do whatever must be done, but please. He’s just a—a child. I won’t… If they ask, I’ll say I got rid of the corpse myself—”
“Okay,” said Mari, shocking Takahiro into silence. At his flabbergasted expression, she gave him a tight, pained smile. “I’ll do what I can. For the corpse.”
Tears of relief flooded Takahiro’s eyes. “Thank you. Thank you.”
And when Mari left with Zuko on the rolling bed, still sleeping off his fever, Takahiro rolled an empty bed — two pillows under the blankets — to the palace cremator. While figureheads like Firelord Azulon might be cremated in a public funeral, the lower nobility usually ended up here. He had shut the cremator door and set it alight by the time the guards caught up to him.
“What are you doing?” someone shouted. “You don’t have the proper clearance to be down here!”
“Agni’s will be done,” Takahiro said. “Tell the Firelord that Prince Zuko has perished.”
*
Azula was eleven years old when she became an only child. No one would tell her what exactly her brother had said to infuriate their father so much, but she knew it must have been something especially terrible. Zuko had always opened his mouth before he thought through the consequences.
He never thinks about the consequences, she thinks, a scowl distorting her baby-round face. That was the biggest difference between the two of them. Zuko rushed into things, and Azula learned from his mistakes. She did not make mistakes.
She had sat and watched, along with what seemed to be nearly everyone in Caldera city, as Zuko — that dum-dum — had turned to face the Firelord. She had remained perfectly calm as he knelt to the ground and begged for forgiveness. She had smiled, poised and vindictive, when Father gave him his due punishment.
Azula was the perfect princess. It simply would not be acceptable to allow that churning, slimy feeling in her stomach to show on her face. Her smile had faltered, briefly, when she realized that Ozai was not simply going to strike Zuko, as he had done before. But she froze it perfectly, a quirk of her lips that was decidedly not a grimace, when Ozai had cupped his cheek and Zuko had screamed.
Zuko had screamed for nearly ten minutes, Ozai gripping him by the ponytail when he jerked back. And then came that awful silence. The crowd held its breath, rooted to the spot, as Ozai finally released him.
Azula had not been able to look away as Ozai’s hand lifted, as a veneer of skin and fat came with it, the left side of Zuko’s face charred black and white and red. She remained in her seat, even as the others were leaving, Zuko curled up and abandoned on the floor of the Agni Kai arena. Spectators hovered, and it was nearly ten minutes after Ozai left that the guards finally grabbed her brother and dragged him off.
In total, the entire event took less than half a candle-mark.
Azula retired to her chambers, snapped at her servants, and slammed the door after snidely muttering something about her idiot brother.
She would not make any mistakes. She could not show any hesitation, any doubt, any weakness like Zuko’s cowardice. The servants would know that she was her father’s daughter, and that the Firelord’s will was justice, and Princess Azula knew better than to even think of suggesting otherwise.
The servants were not in her room when she finally let her hands shake, when she swallowed the vomit. She stripped off her clothes methodically and changed into something that smelled less like burning flesh. In front of her vanity, Azula imagined her crown. Surely, with Zuko dead or dying, she would now be named heir.
It was an hour later that she was notified that her brother, unlucky in life, had somehow managed to survive. They wouldn’t let her see him, no matter how much she yelled and threatened. “I’m the princess!” she screamed. “You will let me in!”
“Apologies, Princess,” said Guardsman Kikio. “The Firelord has decreed that no one is to see the boy while he’s in surgery.”
And, well. There wasn’t much she could do to get around that. She stomped her foot, huffed, and went back to her room. She would simply have to sneak in later, to see the damage for herself, and ask him what in the world he was thinking.
But Azula fell asleep, curled up in her bed in a crude parody of Zuko in the Agni Kai arena, before she could. When she woke, Zuko was dead and already cremated, and Azula was now both mother-less and brother-less. The Firelord’s messenger does not give condolences for her loss, merely informs her that her ceremony crowning of Crown Princess, heir to the throne, is to take place later that day.
When she met her father for the crowning, she knew better than to ask any questions. The crown was placed in her hair, and Azula lit the ceremonial candles herself. For the first time, her flames came out a hot, vicious blue. Father’s smile was genuine as she became the youngest wielder of blue flame—not to mention the only wielder within the last century.
Azula hadn’t cried when she realized Mother was gone and never coming back. She hadn’t even cried when she realized that Mother was gone because she loved Zuko more, and protecting him by leaving was more important to her than protecting her by staying.
She didn’t cry after her coronation either. But she did get up in the middle of night and wander, barefoot in her nightdress, to Zuko’s room. She wondered if Father would have it cleaned out, like he did for Mother, or if his collection of useless trinkets — play scrolls, and dried flowers from Lu Ten, and a collection of Azula’s childhood drawings — would be burnt to the ground like his memory. Either way, she knew that she would not be allowed back in this room.
On her way out, moonlight from Zuko’s window caught on something silver. She shuffled to his bedside dresser, where the dagger rested haphazardly on the polished chestnut wood. Sentimentality is a weakness, she could hear Father’s voice say, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from plucking the dagger and hiding it in her sleeve before she walked away. If only Zuko had been smart enough to actually take the dumb dagger’s advice.
She hid it under her bed, in a box that’s already full of gifted jewelry which she loathed. No one would look for it there.
Zuko was dead, burned to charcoaled flesh and ashes, and she was more alone than ever. She didn’t have anyone to make mistakes for her anymore.
Before finally falling asleep, Azula promised herself to be everything Zuko wasn’t: strong, intelligent, and alive .
*
Half a world away, in a ship that smelled like rotting fruit and sewage, a boy’s fever broke for the first time in two days.
“Still might not survive,” said Mamoru callously. He hadn’t been allowed to see the kid, much like the rest of the crew. Captain Lee had agreed to ferry the child to the nearest Earth Kingdom port as a favor for his sister-in-law, apparently. “Y’think it’s actually his kid?”
“What are you on about?” said Zu-Li, wringly the laundry in her hands. Her knuckles were white from the force of it.
Mamoru shrugged. “Why else would he agree to take the kid?”
Zu-Li sent him a cold look. “It’s not our business, Mamoru. We’re here to do a job, so do it. ”
Any other man might have been intimidated by the way Zu-Li returned to the laundry, but Mamoru’s mother always said he didn’t have much sense. “Just saying,” he muttered. “How’s a kid end up that injured? Maybe Lee’s brother found out that his wife and him had—”
Thwack.
One of the undershirts, soaking wet, stuck firmly to Mamoru’s face, before it finally slid down with a plop.
“Shut the hell up,” Zu-Li said.
Mamoru did.
They dropped their last-minute guest off when they reached port the next week. If the kid was Captain Lee’s, then Lee did a good job pretending otherwise. The boy had been stumbling, probably delirious from the pain, when Lee gave him a firm shove toward town.
“Make your way toward Goaling,” Captain Lee said, handing the kid a small pack of rations. “It’s a nice city. Lots of people. Or, hell, go to Ba Sing Se for all I care. Just… get lost.”
The kid hadn’t responded, numbly looking at the pack in his hands as if he didn’t know what it was.
Captain Lee turned his back on the kid, facing his ship again. The crew suddenly jolted back to work, pretending as if they hadn’t been listening in. Lee’s mustache twisted. Sighing, he turned back to the kid one last time. “Hey. Hey.”
The kid, half of his face covered in yellowing bandages, finally looked at him.
“If you’re smart,” said Lee. “You’ll keep your head down, alright? Don’t get in any trouble. There’s a healer a few blocks down. You might stop by there.”
Lee’s nephew — or maybe son, if you believed Mamoru — nodded silently. The captain sighed again and walked back to his ship. It would take several weeks for news of Prince Zuko’s death to reach the crew of the Water Dragon. By then, the injured boy who Captain Lee had ferried free of charge had mostly been forgotten by the crew.
*
News of the Fire Prince’s death reaches the island of Kyoshi with little fanfare. The people there stand firm in their dedication to neutrality, an attitude which Iroh had found refreshing, and perhaps even a relief. In the two years since his son’s death, Iroh had stretched his grieving period — traditionally, six months — into a spiritual seclusion with Azulon’s blessing. He had grieved when his father died, but was not surprised when Ozai was crowned Fire Lord.
After Lu Ten, Iroh did not want the throne anyway, and Ozai did not seem eager to rush Iroh back to the convoluted politics of Caldera city.
Iroh traveled, occasionally sent letters to his niece and nephew, and very rarely sent reports to his brother. In doing so, he had made many friends and seen many old ones. It had been Jeong Jeong the deserter who had talked Iroh into his first game of Pai Sho since his son’s death, and it had been Jeong Jeong who had welcomed him into a community of other grieving people who longed for change.
The quiet anonymity of Kyoshi had allowed Iroh to gather his bearings and collect the knowledge and supplies he would need when he returned to the Fire Nation. He had been negotiating travel on a merchant’s ship when he heard the news of Zuko’s death, spoken casually between crew mates and islanders as idle gossip.
“Excuse me,” Iroh said gently. “I believe I must have misheard you. Did you say Prince Zuko is dead?”
“Yeah,” said the sailor. “Apparently it was a couple of weeks ago—”
The sailor continued talking, but Iroh did not hear him over the blood rushing in his ears. He blinked, tears gathering in his eyes.
“Are you okay, sir?” said the sailor.
Iroh swallowed. “It is always sad,” he said, nearly biting his tongue to keep himself steady, “when a child dies.”
“Sad?” muttered the islander. “It’s barbaric, is what it is. Kyoshi might be neutral, but if it’s true—”
“It is,” said the sailor. “My friend’s captain’s sister-in-law’s cousin was there when it happened. Or…maybe it was his cousin’s cousin?”
The islander shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. What did the Prince even do?”
“I’m sorry,” said Iroh, heart hammering in his chest. “Would you mind catching this old man up on what exactly happened? I’m afraid I have been occupied for some time now with other business.”
“Oh, jeez,” said the sailor. “You haven’t heard? I thought everybody must know by now.”
“They burned him,” said the woman, voice grim. “The Firelord set him on fire. Everyone’s talking about it. Some of the Kyoshi warriors are even petitioning to join the war because of it.”
When Iroh had lost Lu Ten, it felt like the world was suddenly devoid of color. When they had been unable to retrieve his body, he had wept and done a bastardized version of the funeral rites himself. Without the body, without the ashes, Lu Ten’s spirit would never be at peace, and now, neither would Iroh’s.
For the second time in his life, Iroh felt the world give way.
Iroh boarded the next ship, on route to the Fire Nation, a Pai Sho tile clenched in his hand and fire in his breath.
*
Zuko stayed at the harbor for three weeks. For three weeks, he starved and sat on the streets and waited. He ignored the Earth peasants when they threw coins at his feet, and for at least three days, he refused to eat. It was only once the nausea had him shaking and staying awake at night that he finally gave in to the pitiful charity of day-old bread.
Zuko waited. It’s a test, he thought. His father was testing him, seeing how he could survive on his own. Soon, maybe in a day or so, his father would send a ship to come get him and he would go home. Maybe this was how he made up for his disgraceful actions in the Agni Kai.
It’s a mistake, he thought, when the ship hadn’t come and Zuko’s eye was starting to burn all the time. Father had sent a ship, but it had got lost. Or maybe Father didn’t even know he was here. Maybe the men from the ship had kidnapped him and dropped him off here because they were traitors. It would make sense, he supposed. Although he didn’t understand why they wouldn’t just kill him. They hadn’t said much, nor had he been cognizant enough to really figure out what was happening.
It’s a punishment, he thought, two weeks later. His cough was getting worse, and he spent more time asleep than he did awake. He was always thirsty. Soon, he’ll forgive me. He’ll see what a loyal son I am, when he comes and I’ve been waiting all this time.
In the throes of his infection, Zuko hadn’t been strong enough to fight off the Earth woman who picked him up fron the street as if he were an infant. She brought him back to her house, put him in bed and fed him broth.
“They’re coming back,” Zuko said feebly, sweating and shivering at the same time. “They’re—my father’s going to come get me. It’s a mistake.”
“Hush, child,” said the woman, pressing a gentle kiss into his hairline. “I’m so sorry they did this to you.”
Zuko didn’t bother correcting her assumption, slipping deep in unconsciousness. He tried, once, to leave the woman’s house, but she had caught him as he stumbled and fell from the bed. He couldn’t even walk.
Still, the woman — Yen — took care of him. “My son is dead,” she explained. “He died fighting the men who did this to you.”
Her son was an enemy, who died fighting good Fire Nation soldiers.
“You poor thing,” she said. “They’re monsters, all of them.”
Zuko said nothing. A bitter thought rose in him — that of course, now , he would know how to be silent. His father was right after all. He was learning his lesson.
“But good news,” said Yen, wiping his brow with a wet cloth. “Apparently, the Fire Prince is dead. From infection, said the official report. But everyone knows that’s a lie. The Fire Nation kills their own children.”
At Zuko’s sudden tears, Yen clucked her tongue and left the room for more medicine. Zuko was surprised to realize that both of his eyes could cry, and the salty tears stung as they met his blistering wound.
It hit him like a boulder to the chest: his father did not want him back. Father had decreed that he was dead. Perhaps as an act of mercy, he had let Zuko live in the Earth Kingdom, disinherited and dishonored.
Or maybe, a voice in his head said, one which sounded a lot like Azula, he decided you weren’t even worthy of death. Not by his hand, at least. Maybe he had intended for Zuko to die a slow, agonizing death in the Earth Kingdom. If the infection didn’t kill him, surely the enemy would when they realized who he was.
Zuko cried himself to sleep, even as Yen tried in vain to comfort him. Nobody was coming to get him. Not father, not Uncle, and certainly—although a part of him hoped—not Mother.
Prince Zuko was dead.
His ghost — a boy with a half-burnt face, sickly and starving after weeks of being abandoned — was all that was left.
The next day, Yen woke up to an empty house. She sighed when she saw the missing bag of rice, but couldn’t find it in herself to fault the boy. It was hard, being a war child. She knew that well.