Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The air is thick with the scent of smoke, the heat of fire and the bitter tang of toxic fumes. The ground rumbles beneath his body, the roar of solid fire pulsing against his feet. And yet he does not move, does not try to get away even though escape is well within his grasp.

 His presence does nothing and yet it means everything and more. He knows that he’s doing the right thing.

The heavy cloud of fire and earth devours all in its path. He feels it’s oppressive weight, only briefly. Everything goes still, the world goes dark and then bursts in a brilliant explosion of white. He sees everything, eternity stretched before him. 

And then there is silence .

And then there is nothing.

-------

Zuko springs awake in a haze of fear and confusion.Tremors wrack his body, and he shivers against the waves of nausea that assault his stomach. His throat constricts, his lungs begging for  fresh clean air to rid the taste of ash, heavy against his tongue.

The air around him is hot and the weight against his chest is too heavy. He can’t curl up against the horrible sensation, the momentary pressure pinning him to his bed.

He can't move! 

That fact alone is the only reason he doesn’t descend into a full blown panic. His arms can’t fail, his lungs can't constrict. The room around him grows smaller. 

The room. His room.

With great effort Zuko turns his head, blinks past the blurry film over eyes. 

The candle on his nightstand flickers back at him innocently.

He’s in his bed. He’s in his room. He’s on his ship.

He latches onto that small flickering candle. Soon his vision expands to include his  nightstand, his armour, his sword. More and more of his room comes back into contrast. The pressure on his chest eases, bit by bit.

 He can breathe. 

He can move.

Yet, it turns out that just because he can move doesn’t mean he should. Zuko flops back as soon as he attempts to sit up. Nausea bubbles in the pit of  his stomach, a byproduct of the pounding headache relentlessly assaulting his temples.

He buries a long groan against shaking palms, riding out the final aftershocks of his very rude awakening. A cold breeze wafts through the open window and for once Zuko finds himself appreciating the bitter sting.

It was one of those dreams again. The ones he couldn’t quite remember. The dreams that left him shaky and weak and wishing for and dreading the idea more sleep. The kind that instilled a sense of despair and yearning in equal measure. 

They’d been more frequent since they’d reached the Southern Waters, going from a monthly occurrence to a near nightly one. It was starting to become a real problem. Unfortunately, despite their frequency  they were never quite vivid enough for Zuko to recall. Just brief flashes of images that left him a pale and shivering wreck. 

Out of morbid curiosity Zuko tries to recall even the slightest detail from his dream

Flashes of red and brown dance across his mind. His headache increases in magnitude.

Zuko winces against the heightened onslot. He shouldn’t have done that. 

And now Zuko just wants to curl back into his pillows and let the waves rock him back to sleep.

But he can’t. He can't laze around in bed no matter how much he wants too, because despite the heavy scent of smoke wafting through the windows making his stomach churn, despite the pounding in his head reaching a crescendo, he is still a prince. 

He couldn’t afford to be lazy.

Getting dressed takes more effort than is strictly tolerable for Zuko’s pride. His fingers shake against the various luples and ties on his armour and his knees keep buckling, but he takes his time, stubbornly refusing to bow down to the angry tigerdillo rampaging in his head.

The hall is mercifully  empty when he pokes his head out to take a peek. He thanks Agni that his Uncle had not seen fit to wake him today. He would have made Zuko stay in bed and hovered at his side, forcing him to down various different brews of ‘healing tea’.

He wrinkles his nose at the mere thought. He hated it when his Uncle got fussy over him. He always looked older when he did. It made Zuko feel nervous and scared, like his Uncle knew something he didn’t. Not that his Uncle knew about his dreams. Zuko took great lengths to make sure his Uncle knew nothing about his dreams.

The mere thought of anyone, let alone his Uncle learning about his dreams is enough to send a sharp spike of fear through Zuko’s spine. He had enough going against him, he didn’t need anything else making things difficult.

But he knew that if he wanted to keep his dreams a secret, he needed to get out of the Southern Waters. Something about them was triggering his dreams. But he couldn’t leave yet,there were still too many areas that were unexplored, too many locations left untouched. He couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t search every inch of this frozen wasteland. 

He shakily  makes his way up the stairs to the deck, burning with a rekindled resolve.

 He wouldn’t be able to search from his quarters after all.

----

Prince Zuko was not well. 

Jee had picked up on it the very instant the boy had stumbled on deck, his  face stark white  and  his legs wobbling like a newborn ostrich horse. 

If the Prince had been a mere Crewmate, Jee would have booted him back to bed and ordered him to stay there. As it stood however, Prince Zuko was not a regular crewmate, and Jee would not risk execution by throwing him over his shoulder and hauling him back to his quarters.

No matter how much he desperately wanted to.

Jee barely resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.The Prince had obviously had a fit, no doubt the culprit being the cold Arctic air. Jee is no Doctor, leave that profession to Yuten,but he  knows a coincidence when he sees one. The fact that the Prince’s fits had become an alarmingly frequent occurrence since they sailed into the  Southern Water Tribe’s territory was not a coincidence.

Unfortunately, Prince Zuko was determined to scour every inch of this frozen wasteland in the name of his glorified wild goosepigeon  chase.

Jee feels the familiar bubble of resentment stir in his gut at the stubbornness of the brat Prince. At his reckless zeal and selfish drive. It fades rather quickly when he sneaks a peak at that pale face once more. As much as he wanted too, it was hard to be angry at such a pitiful looking child.

Jee looks over at  the only person with the authority to send the Prince back to bed.  He notes General Iroh’s frown, which had appeared around the same time as the Prince, had grown deeper and his eyebrows had drawn tighter. He  knows it has nothing to do with his ongoing game.

His silent disapproval betrays his obvious worry. The General would never shame his nephew in front of the crew by forcing him back to bed. The Prince’s health may have been an open secret to the crew( and to anyone with eyes really) but it was something they never spoke about and never brought up.

But for Agni sake, the Prince honestly couldn’t think he was fooling anyone! Not when the boy looked like he’s about to pass out where he was standing, He had no business being on deck.

But he was just too damn stubborn to go back to his Cabin and rest .

“Lt. Jee!” Jee sighs. It would seem that the Prince had finally decided to honor Jee with his attention.

Fantastic.

Jee stands perfectly still as Prince Zuko shailky makes his way to him. He sees some of the other crewmates hurriedly avert their gazes from the Prince , more for Prince Zuko’s sake than their own. It was an unspoken agreement among the crew, an attempt to offer the Prince a little more dignity when he was feeling ill.

“Sir?”

”We need to change courses, “ Prince Zuko says absentmindedly. “We’re not going the right way.” 

There’s a faroff, dazed look in his eyes. He’s staring straight at Jee and yet, Jee feels like he’s looking right through him. It was a discerning experience, to say the least.The familiar sense of unease that occasionally came from dealing with the Prince rises in the pit of his gut. 

“Sir,”  Jee says slowly, willing himself not to put a little more distance between him and his Prince, “we are currently on course. The same course you set us on three days ago. We haven’t made any detours.”

“I didn’t say we were off course.” Prince says in the same dazed tone. “I said we were going the wrong way. We should be heading North.”

Jee stares at the Prince in disbelief. What does that even mean? Was the boy delirious, because the last time Jee checked being off course and going the wrong way literally meant the exact same thing! He must have let his gaze linger too long, however, because that unfocused gaze had sharpened into a fierce glare.

“Problem!?” Prince Zuko snaps.

‘Yes,’ Jee thinks angrily, ‘this is the third time you’ve set us off course, trusting us to go off in some random direction purely based on your fevered whims! We have maps for a reason!’

But Jee says none of this aloud. Not because he doesn't want to argue with the Prince. Sick or not there was a limit to how much Jee would put up with, but because there was something...unsettling about the Prince. Something that was becoming harder to ignore the longer the  Prince stood next to him. Something that made him want to end this conversation so he could get  as far away from the Prince as possible.

“It will be done.” Jee says bowing slightly. Prince Zuko nods stiffly and stalks over to the edge of the boat. Jee’s eyes follow him. He barely registers his shoulders dropping as the Prince gets further away.

Another reason he wanted out the Arctic waters that were causing these repeated bouts of  sickness. There was always something off about the Prince whenever he had his fits, something otherworldly.

Jee knows the perfect term to  describe the Prince in that moment but he doesn’t dare even think it, let alone speak it

He’d learned his lesson the last time.

------

“Can I tempt you with a nice cup of calming Jasmine tea, Prince Zuko?” 

Zuko’s knuckles, pale against the ship railing, grow even paler as his grip tihtens.

“I don't need any calming tea Uncle!” His retort is lacking most of its usual bite.

“Then perhaps a different brew is in order,” Iroh says, effortlessly switching courses, “ I believe a nice cup  of Ginger tea would be more appropriate. I hear it does wonders for headaches.”

He sees it then, the tiny flinch that ripples across his nephews shoulders. He probably hadn’t expected Iroh to outright call him out. Normally Iroh wouldn’t, content to allow Zuko his pride. They’d always been a problem for Zuko, the fits, but they’d become an even bigger problem the longer they traversed the Arctic waters. The Southern Waters, it seems, were clearly taking a toll on Zuko’s health and Zuko’s bullheaded determination to push forward in his search despite this was taking a toll on Iroh’s patience.

Yet, every inquiry made about his health ended with Zuko wiggling away from Iroh’s tender concern with faint murmurs of a simple headache.

It frustrating, to say the least.

“I’m fine, Uncle.” Zuko says. The fact that he’s yet to let go of the rail does little to convince Iroh.

“There’s nothing wrong with taking a bit of time to rest, nephew,”  Iroh says softly. He wills the boy  to respond to his gentle prodding, just this once.

“I SAID NO!”

Zuko turns to him then, color returning to his face in the form of an angry flush. Iroh holds his nephew’s gaze, before Zuko, apparently already out of steam, turns away with an angry huff. 

Iroh goes back to his game and his tea, neither of which look particularly appealing anymore.

---------

There’s a buzzing in his head, a ringing in his ears. Zuko ignores both. 

There’s something out there, something that was calling out to him. Zuko can't explain it, wouldn’t dare say it out loud if he could, but he knows he has to go to it .

He’s tried before, to explain it, the strange intuition he had that led him to command the ship to change course but he could just never get the words right. And so he’s stopped trying to explain, tired of the spooked looks and snide remarks. If no one would listen to his explanations he’d just change them to orders. Then they would have to have to take him seriously!

Blinking beyond the hazy corners of his vision, Zuko grips the rail tight,  never once taking his eyes off the endless white horizon. He knows what he must look like. Knows it from the earlier unease in Jee’s eyes and the quiet concern in his uncle’s.

The Mad Prince. The ill and inferior heir. That had been his reputation back at the Capitol, among the nobility, the servants, even his own family. 

‘It makes sense doesn’t it? The Mad Prince sent on a Mad Quest, doomed forever to chase after a Spirit tale. It’s poetic irony at its finest. Wouldn’t you agree, Zuko?’

Zuko’s grits his teeth against the sneering voice. It sounds so  much like his sister, that if Zuko hadn’t heard the same words repeated in a voice that sounded remarkably like his own  he might have been able to convince himself that she was the one who said them.

The buzzing grows stronger and with it Zuko’s determination to ignore it.

He Would show everyone that he wasn’t mad, that his quest wasn’t some cruel ironic punishment. He’d show the nobles , the fire sages, he’d show his crew, his uncle,  his sister.

He’d show them all. His father knew what he was doing when he sent Zuko to find the Avatar.

He just - He just had to find the Avatar and then they’d see. All the dreams and the hardships and embarrassments would be worth it. He’d regain his honor and earn his respect, but most importantly he’d prove to everyone once and for all that he wasn’t cursed ! 

As if in response to Zuko’s thoughts the buzzing in his head reaches a debilitating height. His vision erupts in stars as the world around bursts into a slew of frenzied activity.

Zuko barely hears the startled exclamations of the crew, or the once quiet tundra exploding in noise as the local wildlife awakens in surprise. The glowing white horizon glows even brighter, until it's utterly engulfed in a mini white sun.

The world around Zuko fades into nothing as he’s dragged into an endless sea of blue and white.

---------

He can’t see anything through the blurry film that covers his eyes. The air is thick, toxic and unbearable, the sores that bloom and fester on his lungs making it harder to breathe, harder to think. He inhales as deeply as he can and is rewarded with acid fire licking at the back of his throat. His knees dig deeper into the hot earth around him, his hands scraping against the ground, scrambling for purchase.

Around him the earth shakes and the volcano roars, but he can barely hear anything over the pounding in  his ears nor  can he feel anything but the ache in his heart..

He’s going to die. 

He‘s going to die without ever being able to fix the mistakes of his past.

He’s going to die, all alone.

And suddenly he hears it, the high piercing cry and through the flames and the heat and the smoke he sees him, circling frantically above. 

Golden eyes bore into his and for one brief, heart-stopping moment it feels as if  he’ll be abandoned once more and the childlike spike of fear that rushes through him steals the last of breath away. He doesn’t want to be alone.

He needn’t have worried. Red invades his vision as heat, safe and comforting, coils around him, a warm solid, useless barrier. 

 He hears the mountain shudder, feels the avalanche  of volcanic ash that rushes to meet him and in the brief moment he has left, he allows himself to indulge in that earlier spike of fear. He lunges forward and buries his face in that warm, comforting heat.

And then there is nothing.

He awakens to an endless expanse of blue. He can breathe easily, see clearly, the weight and pain of oozing festering lungs gone. 

But he’s alone. 

He shouldn’t be alone. Not here.

He calls, but no familiar shriek answers him. He looks, but he never once catches a glimpse  of the red and gold that had been his last living comfort. 

And so he wanders, a piece of him missing as he watches his homeland throw the world out of balance, and waits patiently on his successor.

And while he waits, he searches.

And searches and searches. 

Chapter Text

“The boy is a disgrace.”

Zuko flinches from his hiding place, a small alcove  far away from his trainers, the servants and Azula and her piercing blue fire. 

“He is not! Ozai, for Agni’s sake, he’s only 7-”

“And Azula is 5 and she has already outstripped him in every possible way-”

It’s one of those arguments he’s parents have that he’s not supposed to hear. The one where his soft-spoken mother raises her voice while his fathers’ own voice does this thing where it goes really low and soft. Zuko hates it when his father uses that voice, because he only ever seems to use it when he’s talking to or about Zuko.It makes him feel weird. Like he’s something icky and disgusting.

But it also makes him want to do better. Which is probably why his father uses it so much. Because he wants Zuko to be better.

And Zuko understood that, because he could be better.

Zuko learned he wasn’t quite normal around the time Azula learned to firebend. Or rather around the time Azula learned to firebend while he had yet to light a single spark.

It wasn’t that the fire wasn’t there. Zuko could feel it, could always feel it, swirling in the depths of his belly, a constant heady glow. It was just that he couldn’t call out to it, not the way his teachers wanted him too.Couldn’t manifest it in the form of the aggressive kicks and quick jabs his Fire-bending instructors constantly drilled him on. And his Instructors never understood the fact that he couldn’t call on his fire, never believed his claims that he could firebend if they taught him the right way. Many lessons were spent being beaten into the dirt for his glib. 

He never told anyone about the bruises, however. His instructors were told to go harder on him. Saying anything about it would be whining and Princes didn’t whine.

Though sometimes, when he was alone, away from his father's cold scary voice, and Azula’s smug smiles and his Instructors aggravated glares, he could feel the fire in his belly, dancing. Because there was no other word for it. 

Fire….. danced. 

It made Zuko want to dance. In the privacy of his own room, he flowed with the rhythm of the  flickering flames in his belly, moving through a nonsensical set of steps that Azula would absolutely make fun of if she ever saw them. It was during these times that he felt most in touch with his inner fire. 

It was when he finished his dance, that he came his closest to bending. His mouth would burn as fire bubbled in the back of his throat. He would feel it then, a wonderful feeling, a sense of euphoria, as if every nerve in his body was singing. If he focused hard, he could sometimes hear something deep inside, a  rumbling triumphant roar. And it would make Zuko feel ...good. Proud. Worthy.

 He would try, when that happened, to force the fire to  flow to his hands. The sense of wrongness that hit him when he did however made his stomach constrict and sapped the energy from his limbs. But most distressing was that it would cause the rumbling voice in his head to fade into  a stuttering whine.

‘Wrong .’The word would echo through his mind in an endless loop.

Everything about firebending as he knew it… was wrong.

Zuko didn’t understand why the way his instructors taught firebending was wrong. It just wasn’t the way he remembers it being. 

Which made even less sense because he’s only ever seen firebending done in the way his Instructors do it.

And yet….. 

“He’s your son!” His mother's voice is rising and Zuko is drawn back to his predicament. He wants to leave, run away from the fighting, but he can't move. “ He needs guidance and patience, not for you to throw him at fire and see if he’ll burn!”

“He needs to be Prince!” His father’s voice snapped against Zuko’s back like a flaming whip. “ He needs you to stop coddling and to stop being so disgustingly weak.  As it stands now, he is a failure and I will not tolerate a failure in this family!”

A failure. Zuko was a Failure. Because Zuko was slow. That's just what he was. Slow to learn to walk. Slow to learn to talk. Slow in wit and slow in mind.

And slow to call his fire. Except that last part didn't bother him so much. He didn't want to call fire the way his instructors and family did, because their fire was stiff, and controlled and fueled by nasty feelings.

And that was wrong.

Because Fire was fluid.  Fire danced and swirled and jumped and weaved. Fire was… free.

Zuko’s sure his father would understand, if he just told him. He’s sure he’d get him instructors who would understand, if Zuko explained how fire was supposed to work.  Then he’d finally be able to call on his fire!

And then if Zuko was finally able to call on his fire, he wouldn’t be a failure anymore!

He just had to let his father know.

Zuko hears his mother’s disgusted huff, a sign that the argument was finished. He waits until her angry footsteps fade, before he deems it safe to step out of his hiding stop. 

His father’s back is to him, his stride slow and his form tense. It would be better to wait until his father was in a better mood, but Zuko wants to start firebending soon, as soon as possible, so he could stop being such a disappointment. And so he had to tell him now.

“Um, Father?” His father stops, his tense back going rigid at the sound of Zuko’s voice. He turns slightly, looking down his nose at Zuko as he stops just a few inches away from him and drops into a bow.

“Prince Zuko.” It’s the tone again. Zuko fights to keep his voice from wavering as he straightens out of his bow, his eyes glued to his feet.

“I-I just wanted  to talk to you about my progress in my Fire-bending lessons,sir.”

“Really? And tell me boy, why ever would I be interested in hearing about nothing?” Zuko’s ears burn in embarrassment. But it’s not like his father is wrong, and that's why Zuko has to let him know.

“It’s just that… I think I know why I might be having… t-trouble.”

“Oh?”

‘Danger!’ The rumbling voice in his head roars.  Zuko ignores it because he has to make his father see. He has to make him understand. And so he pushes past the sick feeling that’s starting to bubble in his gut.

“I-I just think my instructors are...teaching me wrong.” Zuko rushes to explain, desperate to make it not sound like an excuse. “ I just the way they’re teaching me, I can't, it’s not how fire works father , I think, that's why I can't seem to get it, and I know if they taught it to me differently, I’d be able to get it and then I could firebend. I just know I could.” 

In the sudden hush that falls over the two of them , Zuko feels the heat from the lantern flame against his skin. He sees them glow brighter out of the corner of his eye, before they fade into a small flicker.

“I see.” His father finally says, his voice softer than Zuko’s ever heard it. “Perhaps then, we should have a talk. I’m eager to learn more about your sudden proficiency in firebending theory.” 

He steps closer to Zuko, closes the last remaining distance between them, forcing Zuko to look up at him. In the dying light of the corridor, Zuko can't make out the expression on his father’s  shadowed face, but from how tightly his father grips his arm as he drags Zuko down the hallway ,Zuko could only assume that he must have said the wrong thing.

It was only afterwards, when his mother’s fury has calmed, when his cheek has healed enough for him to talk again, and the burns have faded from his skin under the healer’s careful tending, that Zuko is allowed out of his room. 

No questions are asked about his absence.

‘Another spell.’ the servants whisper as he glides through the hallways, as pale and as quiet as a spirit.

‘Such a weak little thing, he is.’

‘A pity, that he’s Prince Ozai’s firstborn.’

‘I wonder when he’ll finally waste away.’

Zuko returns to his Fire-bending lessons with a whole new zest for learning. 

The right way. 

Because he had been the one who was wrong. 

Just like always.

Zuko’s father was wise. He was smart and clever. He knew more than Zuko ever would. The way his teacher taught him worked for his father. It worked for Azula. It would work for Zuko as well. He had been stupid to think that he knew more than his instructors, and he was thankful his father had made him see that before he embarrassed his family by repeating what he told him.

And so Zuko pushes against the intense feeling of wrongness as he stumbles through his katas. He ignores the voice that urges him to resist his teaching. Day in and Day out he works as hard as he can, not just in his lessons, but in suppressing that horrible feeling and the deep rumbling voice that had been his only sense of comfort. 

In time, the voice eventually fades into a near constant but quiet buzz. 

It is only then that Zuko makes his first spark.

A new feeling develops that day. 

A feeling that rips at the very essence of his soul.

It’s a feeling he never learns to suppress.

----------------------

Zuko awakens to a sea of endlessness. 

A horizon of smokey white greets him when he opens his eyes, globs of fluffy dense mist rising from the endless plane.

His head throbs in tandem with his short rapid breaths,  a bone deep exhaustion, the kind he’s no stranger too, settling deep in his joints, making the very act of moving a finger a strenuous effort. 

He lays there for a while, in this sea of unending mist, almost content to lose himself in the foggy haze of his mind and wait for his vision to stop spinning. Unfortunately, Zuko was never one to allow himself to rest for too long. The sense of urgency that needles at the corner of his mind is enough to overpower his headache and prompts him into action before his body has a chance to recover.

His head spins as he pushes himself into a sitting position, his arms nearly failing under the strain. He grits his teeth, grounds himself against the anticipated waves of nausea with an iron tight grip on his thigh. His body feels wrung out, beaten down and yet floaty, detached from himself, like he’s there but not actually there. It is a rather unsettling feeling, not unlike the aftermath of one of his dreams.

The similarities alight a searing flame of fear deep in the pit of his stomach. But he can't take the time to dwell on it.  He pushes down the panic bubbling in the pit of his stomach and focuses on moving. 

The buzzing in his ears returns. Zuko ignores that too.

Once he’s successfully able to push back against the vertigo, he musters the strength to shakily push himself to his feet. His legs immediately buckle beneath him but he just barely manages to steady himself.

In the neverending expansion of white stretched out before him..

The buzzing at the very edge of his conscious shifts into a low hum. The panic he felt before vanishes completely, leaving behind a pleasant feeling of warmth.

Headless of everything else, Zuko leans forwards, hand grasping at empty air

The mist rises to meet him, soft and wispy, yet solid enough that as it wraps around his arms, loops through his  legs, it could almost mimic an embrace.

His eyes lid, his body sagging forward, chasing that quiet, that warmth, that peace…..

His skin tingles, his back throbs, flames dance across the roof of his mouth. The low hum caresses the inside of his ear.

“Fa……...” 

Zuko jolts violently, shock nearly threatening to drive him back to the ground. Awareness returns in the form of panic, and he flails against the tendrils of mist entangling his body, crawling up his neck, brushing against his face. 

The mist retreats and with it goes any sense of calmness.

Zuko whips around, his heart beating wildly, hoping to catch a glimpse of the source of that hauntingly faint whisper. 

“Who's there?!”  

His question echoes endlessly into the empty abyss. An eternal reverberation. Gooseflesh prickles against the skin of his arms as he’s greeted by an infinite expansion of nothingness. 

Only Zuko’s heavy breathing permeates the endless silence. Zuko mentally counts his heartbreaks as the time passes and still there is no answer from the endless stretch of nothingness. He tries not to panic, tries not to lose himself in that oppressive silence as he waits for a response.

A thrill of terror races through his spine as he catches the faintest ripple in the neverending mist. Immediately, his arms are up and he is in a defensive stance but his fire does not not heed his command, does not rise to his call. Zuko tries again but nothing happens. His fire does not burn.

Zuko is hit with a wave of terrified realization..

He has no bending. He has no swords. He can barely stand, and his body is not listening to him. 

He’s helpless.

He tenses, rooted to the spot as a shadowed figure, tall and imposing,  comes into clearer contrast, emerging  slowly from the abyss with a near divine grace. Zuko finds that he can't move, terror rendering his body frozen, as the figure draws closer,

And closer…

And closer….

Before suddenly stopping  just mere feet away from him.

In the still silence, there’s only him and whoever stands before him. If he squints, he can just barely see the figure through the dense film of fog separating them. A flash of rich red, a shimmer of gold, a glimpse of gray.  As he looks on, something pulls deep at the bottom of his soul, something that compels Zuko to walk closer, deeper into the mist, but a louder, stronger voice warns him away, urging him to turn around, to run.

The figure is shifting now, it’s movements more animated, borderline agitated. It’s enough to give Zuko pause. Hesitantly, he takes a step closer...

“F------a------ng.”

He stops, heart stuttering, completely unprepared for the barrage of feelings, both foriegn and familiar, that voice incites. Because he swears he knows that voice. Swears he’s heard it, many, many times, on the very edges of his dreams, in the quiet moments when he’s lost in his thoughts, in those dark moments when the line between the natural and the unnatural blurs and Zuko feels like he is floating, suspended between both, the weight of that voice his only anchor.

“Fa------- ng.” the voice calls again, it’s voice clearer, crisper, dripping in a sort of awed reverence that Zuko would never even dream to have directed his way.

Deep inside, Zuko feels a familiar spark, a stirring so dormant he almost can’t connect it with a conscious feeling.  It bubbles against the surface of his skin, near enough that he feels close to bursting from the power of it.

He takes another step closer. Every nerve in his body alights.  

“I----- fou------ why-------can't -------closer?”

There’s a deep, painful sort of yearning in that disembodied echo. He doesn't understand what it is that overtakes him at the raw vulnerability in that voice, but everything in him compels him to walk closer, to close that distance, to ease that naked sorrow.

Instinctively, he takes another step forward.

“ARGH!”

The pain hits out of nowhere, piercing through Zuko like an arrow. It steals aways his breath, robbing him of his sense, driving down, down to his knees. 

He digs his fingers deep into his skull, his nails leaving shallow cuts along his scalp as he tries and fails to find an anchor against the never ending waves of agony.

Images race through his mind, too fast for him to fully latch on. He retches, bringing up nothing but a familiar burning hole in his abdomen. Fire dances in the back of his throat as the bitter taste of ash and brimstone coat his tongue. 

And then he is no longer him. 

He is no longer anything.

And just as suddenly as it started it just …..stops.

Zuko’s left gasping, curled on his sight, chest heaving and head full to bursting. 

Through the  haze of pain and mist, his eyes instinctively seek out that figure, and oh, how  his heart screams at him, screams at him to keep moving forward, closer towards that comforting presence. He groans in pain when his body gives a painful jolt at even the thought of moving.

“Forces----- separated--- can’t---.” Zuko jolts weakly at the voice’s return. He squints into the shifting mist, his head spinning as it weaves and warps, turning from something soft and comforting to a threatening maelstrom as flames flicker to life and lick against the edges of the rapiding growing sphere. 

“Wha-” he doesn't understand. Can't comprehend what is going on. All he can do is hang on to whatever it is the figure is telling him.

“Follow -------- light!”

There’s a twang of urgency now as the inferno grows stronger, a finality that spurs Zuko to his knees.

“N-no!” Don't go.

“------ see---- soon----- old------ friend-----.”

 “WAIT!” Zuko calls out, fighting against the blazing inferno and throbbing pain. He squints against the harsh malstrom, his hands coming up to shield his face as the heat of the blaze engulfs him. Through his watery vision, he catches the sight of two blue eyes, glowing brilliantly  through the mist.

And then he's falling, tumbling head first into darkness.

------

Aang awakens to a blue sky and bluer eyes. 

His world is a blurry mess of sensation, a conflicting kaleidoscope of conflicting emotions.  He remembers a storm, he remembers fire. He remembers thunder. He remembers smoke. His clothes are soaking wet and yet the smell of ash clings to his nose. 

His head throbs as images twist and shift, the stormy sky of his fading memory raining down a mix of fire and water. The air screams, the earth trembles. High-pitched shrieks of panic merge with deep guttural roars of fear.

There are hands on his shoulders, cold against his back and a painful ache deep in his heart. A soft, pretty face made even prettier by an expression of gentle concern hovers inches above his.

“Are you okay?”

Is he okay? He doesn’t really know. His face stings from the cold, the water dripping down his face freezing against his cheeks. His head feels stuffy, like there’s a dense fog surrounding it making it harder to concentrate on anything beyond the yearning in his heart. His memories are a jumbled mess of conflicting images, switching rapidly between stormy grey and a fiery black.

Instead of answering he turns away, glances across the beautiful backdrop of endless snow.

‘He is on his way.’  

It’s a promise that  echoes across distances, that cuts through time itself. 

Aang smiles, sinks deeper into the arms that hold him.

“He’s on his way.”