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They were strangers on the day of their marriage, a Prince and a Lady joined by the will of the Fire Lord.
Prince Ozai had bore the monotony, his eyes stiff and his back straight. The noble lady across from him had been much the same, with a poised and controlled posture. They exchanged their food as was custom, drank from the fragrant tea from their cups, and nary a word was spoken between them. What would be the point? Their union was neither celebration nor tragedy, and they felt little either way for each other as well. Such was the way of the royal family in most cases, Ozai wasn’t truly surprised to see his life come to this.
Azulon needed to make him useful somehow didn’t he?
"Lady Ursa," He told her when it was all over and they were alone in their now-shared chambers, "I think it would be best if we worked together from now on." Ozai had taken no steps to take a bride himself, but in order to win his father's favor, he knew that he would need one, so he could not reject it when his father announced the arrangement. And if nothing else, a woman like her would be worthy of him. Her history and pedigree burned like a star, and she was a truly fair lady. "Work with me, and I will see that your own goals come to fruition."
The woman had smiled at him, calm, but with a sharp glint in her eyes. Steel under silk. The Prince had scoffed in disinterest for so many noble women, seeing their empty smiles and shallow wants. They bored him. He couldn’t understand his brother’s laughter and flirting. But there was something special about this one. For the first time since this ordeal began, Ozai started to think that being married wouldn’t be a huge inconvenience to him after all.
They celebrated the tying of their bond that night with not yet loving, yet intense, sex. Something tight and dusty in him came back to life that night, drinking in Ursa’s noble beauty, tempered by her unsaid strength. She was worthy of this.
He was worthy of this, Ozai told himself fiercely.
He did not acknowledge the creeping thought in his brain, something that had no place there: that he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t been alone.
----
Ozai scuffed dirt unto the walls with the flat of his thumb, marking out another tick for how long he’d been trapped in that dreary place. He wasn’t sure why he bothered; keeping track of the days would only drive him mad quicker.
But then, what was he holding on to now?
If this was the sentence he was stuck with, maybe insanity was the better option.
The cell was cold.
He was cold.
When Ozai slapped a hand to his chest, he swore he could hear the hollow ringing in response. He could lie awake at night thinking of the traitors and enemies that put him there, but it wouldn’t warm the emptiness inside of him. It wouldn’t make him whole again.
What would break the monotony? Fire Lord Zuko wasn’t interested in making regular visits, not that that was a surprise. His brother was absent, like he’d always been for decades. And no one told him what happened to Azula. Maybe they had killed her. And maybe he shouldn’t be surprised at the notion; he was sure that they both hated the girl.
Loyalty had no place in the new Fire Nation after all.
The sound of clicking shoes from afar interrupted his thoughts, breaking a hole in the empty consistency of prison. Blinking slowly, Ozai turned to find his unexpected guest approaching down the winding hall, and found a familiar figure that he hadn’t seen in quite some time. “Ursa,” He said, voice scratchy from disuse, “I see you’ve returned.” He wasn’t expecting her to stay away at first, but after five years had passed, he’d given up on finding and seeing her again.
(At the time he had been upset and angry. Upset that she was gone in the night without a word. And angry that she’d poisoned Azulon--because his father deserved a far more painful end. Azulon had gone quietly, regretting nothing. An empty victory, and after that, Ozai was alone again.The crown was his balm.)
“Yes, I have,” Ursa said sharply, looking down at him with an unambiguous coldness in her gaze. Ah, so she hated him now. “But not for you.”
"I'm your husband," He said in a low voice, his whole body feeling tight like a coiled spring.
They had danced, arm in arm, content in the fact that no other couple in Fire Nation high society could compare to their glorious presence. ‘I will give you the world,’ Ozai had told her, fingers in her hair, aching for the day that the whole of the Nation bent before them. But that day never came.
Ursa shifted towards him, just as poised as she ever was, but her voice was colder than he remembered it, “We haven’t been truly husband and wife in a long, long time. And you’ve done a thorough job at ruining that yourself.”
Despite the venom in her tone, Ozai had never felt ill for her, though he could hazard a guess at the reason. “I did what was necessary. For the country and the war.” He still remembered the days before she left, taking with her what remained of his temperance, because he couldn’t think so clearly with her gone. When Ursa left, he knew there was no one worthy enough to fill her space, so instead he spent his time with only his own fire for company. Even after what he had sacrificed for it (or maybe because of that), the throne couldn’t satisfy him; he hungered for more.
“You did it for yourself, for your ego,” She said coolly. “Self-satisfaction.” Her stance was still poised, controlled. He wondered if Ursa was like this when she killed Azulon. All it took was her constant babying of Zuko to stand up and do what he’s wanted to do for years.
It was simultaneously beautiful and infuriating.
“Oh don’t go getting self-righteous on me, my dear,” Ozai growled, eyes narrowing. “You were all too happy to live and flourish under my name. You accepted my pleasure and gifts, shared in my secrets, and danced in the gardens you loved. And you didn’t need to be a soldier to be a patriot.” If Ursa had wanted to kill him back then, she would have tried at the very least. He knew that for certain. “It only became a problem when your favorite was threatened.”
Her hands shook, looking away from a moment before facing him down again. “I am aware of my sins and what I’ll have to do for them, Ozai. But are you?” Ursa shook her head, regaining the confidence he had only temporarily managed to shake, “You don’t even know what you did. Or who you hurt. I can’t even begin to help you when you refuse to help yourself.”
She turned to leave, the click of her expensive heels on the tile loud in his ears. The sound an insult to his brain when he hadn’t even gotten her to see, still enjoying palace pleasures when she left him.
“Don’t you dare turn your back on me!” Ozai roared, hands tight around the bars of his cage. If he were still in peak condition, the man swore he’d be able to rip the metal clear from its hinges and shake her until she saw reason.
If he still had the will.
But he got what he wanted, almost.
Ursa whirled around, and with a snap of her fingers a flame came to life in her hand. His eyes were drawn to it, that little dancing pulse of light. It was all the former Fire Lord could do to resist the impulse to place his hand on his chest as the hollowness inside him rang louder than ever.
“This is what you want,” Ursa intoned, expression somber, “This is what you’ve always wanted.”
Ozai felt strangely faint, speaking quieter, “Be silent.”
The woman looked all around his cell, taking in every corner in a way that she hadn’t truly done before. Ozai wished she wouldn’t; he felt subconscious. She should only be looking at him right now. But her voice was merciless, leveled just as unhesitatingly as the many times she’d criticized a lesser noble for improper speaking, “You’re afraid of this place, aren’t you?” He couldn’t respond. “This darkness, this emptiness, not being warm, not being seen…”
Ozai slammed his fist against the bars, but still sounding too weak for his own ears, “Be silent.”
Ursa clenched her fist, extinguishing the flame, and Ozai foolishly wished for it back. Just so he could see it and appreciate its glow. His wife was not a fighter, but at the moment, it didn’t matter. A flame was a flame all the same. “You are,” She confirmed. “Here people will see you for what you’ve always been deep down inside: Small, lonely, and pathetic. This place will destroy you, Ozai. And you’ll deserve it when it does, because you did this to yourself.” She walked away, taking her warmth. Taking away the last piece of goodness he had to share.
He sat in utter silence, staring at the place where she once was until it became too much.
Ozai couldn’t handle this. He needed some kind of outlet. And if he couldn’t find another he could use, his pain would serve just fine. Ozai busted his knuckles against the stonework over and over until blood ran in rivulets down his skin. It felt good, hurt familiar like a long-lost friend, not that he knew much about those. Light-headed, he sighed in bliss, collapsing in a heap.
He wiped the blood off casually on his prison garb and let it dry there in dark splotches.
No one would know the difference anyway.
----
Once, Prince Ozai had admired his brother’s flame, and wanted to be like him. To be praised and cared about by his father. To be his equal in every way that really mattered. If he had that, then he’d be okay. It might not be all that bad to be second-best. All he had to do was work harder, be better. Be rewarded. Then it would all be worth the pain.
But as time passed and he was treated with contempt over again and again by his cold and brutal father, Ozai’s admiration soured into jealousy, pain, and then after that, hate. What did Iroh have that he didn’t? Why couldn’t he be admired, be praised? What was he worth?
Why won’t they look?
Why won’t they look at me!?
With time and anger, it all eventually coalesced into a fearsome thought: They’d all regret it when Ozai surpassed them.
It didn’t matter that he didn’t have a mother. It didn’t matter that he was a mistake.
When he was the better firebender, the better Prince, they’d be begging for his attention. Iroh would wait on his word, and his father would plead for his forgiveness.
And if they wouldn’t, then he’d make them.
----
Ozai had given up on visitors.
Just like he had given up on the sunlight and warmth. On forgiveness and fine food, companionship and a comfortable bed. On love and the first spring breeze. On both completeness and the simplest of pleasures. Even if he would have escaped, there was nothing out there for him anymore. And maybe never was. The only things Ozai had in prison was the straw mat he slept on, and the clothes on his back. And it was a cold comfort to think that when he went insane one day in the distant future, he wouldn’t want for anything else.
Him not wanting; a funny thought that. Hilarious even.
Sometimes he hummed, tapping his fingers against his stomach with the distant hope that he might bring to life a spark alive somewhere deep inside.
Sometimes Ozai thought he’d do just about anything just to feel fire again.
He thought he’d finally got his chance one day when he heard approaching footsteps once again. Sharp, expensive heel clicks that couldn’t have been made by the guards. He considered who it might be, crossing Ursa off the mental list; she wouldn’t be coming back. If Azula went to his side, she would be faster, and Iroh would never come for him at all. That left one option.
Sure enough, Fire Lord Zuko turned the winding corridor into view, his head held high and eyes blazing bright. Ozai still held a distaste for his softness, his imploring nature that was unpleasant in the same way that one felt when looking into a mirror, only to find your reflection moving independently of yourself. But he could acknowledge that Zuko had won. He was Fire Lord now, and his word was law. He would be well within his rights to have Ozai killed.
The fact that Zuko hadn’t done that didn’t bring him any comfort.
“What do you want?” Ozai asked grimly, glancing only once at the young lord before fixing his stare back on the opposite corner. Had his son changed his mind? Would he come to kill him?
Ozai almost ached for it, the fire, the pain.
But he couldn’t give Zuko the satisfaction of knowing his need.
“My mother came here before,” The young man’s voice was harsh, “I need to know what she wanted. What she said to you.” How trite. It wasn’t really his business what was discussed between them was it? Not when it chiefly concerned himself. “Tell me what happened.”
Ozai’s hands came to rest on his lap, utterly disappointed with this line of questioning, “No.”
Zuko growled, casting sparks from his fists that danced along the ground at his feet before fizzling out. Ozai watched them idly as they moved, ignoring the Fire Lord’s attempts to look him in the eye. “She’s my mother. You have no right to keep information about her from me, not after everything you’ve done.” Zuko paced forward, his scowl practically dripping with disappointment, “Even after all this time here, you still haven’t learned anything, have you?”
Ozai’s brow twitched. How familiar.
“Then you have learned nothing.”
Except he had learned. Ozai had learned that the world meant absolutely nothing to him, and he should not count on what few bonds existed to see him to the end. Even if he had conquered the world, he wouldn’t have been satisfied; he wouldn’t have been happy. Without Ursa, there was only one thing left in the world that could make him happy. Zuko could offer him just a taste of it, if he was so inclined, but Ozai knew he wouldn’t, not if Ozai asked for it at least.
Thankfully he had a plan. “I have nothing to offer to a traitor,” He said coldly, giving the boy (because despite everything, that’s all he still was) his signature, imperiously arched brow.
Zuko fell for the ploy, surging forward with rage on his face, one hand grasping at a bar of his cell. “Traitor?” He spat, a single dark eyebrow tightly drawn. “The traitor here is you, father! The war wasn’t just destroying the other nations, it was wearing the Fire Nation to pieces too! In fact, I should have turned on you years ago when you put a fucking fire to my face!”
“Did it hurt?” Ozai asked him dully. Without mockery or seriousness, as straightforward and simply as if he were merely asking about the weather.
“Hurt? Of course it hurt!” Zuko slapped the wall with the palm of his hand, looking like he’d rather be hitting Ozai instead, which was ideal. “But you knew that when you heard me–” Here he stopped, teeth snapping together, cutting the last word: scream. He was on the precipice.
Ozai looked at him, eyes narrowed, voice a heavy drawl, “Would you like to show me?”
Zuko had a double take, blinking twice, “What?”
“Show me then, if it really was that bad,” Ozai shrugged, casual on the outside, tense on inside. “You’ve got some guts, don’t you, Fire Lord Zuko? If I committed some truly heinous deed, then you should have no difficulty paying me back in kind. Crimes must be met with punishment, as they say.” It should have been easy to push him over the edge, lead Zuko into giving him what he truly wanted more than anything; he’d always been forthright. But something was wrong. There was a look in the boy’s eyes besides anger, confusion and...something else. No. He couldn’t back out now. “Well? Are you a coward, a weakling? Too pathetic for justice?”
Zuko straightened up, taking a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself down. There was an understanding in his eyes that made Ozai more furious with the boy than he ever had been. “No, I’m not going to give you what you want. I’m not going to burn you.”
Ozai stood, his every word a strike to the heart, “You’re weak, fragile. The country will crumble because of your weakness. You’re nothing but a slave to the Avatar, a puppet.”
“Stop,” Zuko backed away, looking down at his feet, shaking. Sad. “It’s over, father.”
But the fallen Phoenix had enough. He slammed his fists against the bars of his cage, making the metal ring with the force of his emotions. And his presence achieved the same greatness he once had but for a brief moment, voice rising in a roar, “Burn me, you worthless coward!”
“No!” Zuko bolted, fleeing down the corridor into darkness, robes billowing behind him.
The anger drained out of him the moment the Fire Lord left him behind, leaving Ozai once again alone in a dank cell and agonizingly empty.
Hollow as a drum.
Painfully cold.
Ozai dropped his arms to his sides and sat, pushing himself into a corner away from the locked gate. The truth was that he didn’t care if feeling the burn would hurt him. He didn’t even care if it killed him, not anymore. Ozai knew in that moment that he would do anything to have flames back in his hands, even if they consumed the flesh from his bones and tore him down to nothing. Zuko was his last hope, but now that was an option also up in smoke. Zuko wouldn’t fall to his anger now that he knew what Ozai really wanted.
Was it really over?
No.
An old adage popped into his head: If you want something done, do it yourself.
----
Ozai had never been a particularly patient man. It was a trait he struggled with since childhood, something that his brother had not hesitated to mock him for.
But now that he was stuck in a prison with nothing left but time, patience was something he was forced to learn.
Ozai now had a new target: the guard who brought his meals. He didn’t bother to learn the man’s name, or background, and didn’t feel like he needed to know. He bombarded the stranger with insults, goading him into making a stupid decision, despite how stubbornly the man tried to ignore him. Anything to get himself closer to what he wanted.
It took time. Patience.
But eventually, Ozai got what he wanted. The guard lost his temper, opened the cell, thoughts of violence in his eyes. Ozai smiled in response and rose to meet him.
Even without his fire, it turned out that firebending katas still had some use. When the other man crumbled before his feet, knocked out cold with a blow that had struck true, Ozai quickly knelt and stripped him of his armor. He donned it quickly, and searched the guard post to find his helm and white mask. Disguise complete, Ozai locked the guard in and marched out of prison for the first time in so long. The fresh air alone almost knocked him over with its intensity.
And the sun blinded him with its radiance when he saw it, almost stopping dead from awe.
“Keep going,” Ozai muttered. There was a specific place he wanted to be when he got his fire back for the last time, and it was best to get a move on before someone caught on.
He needed to catch a boat.
----
There was a time when they were happy, or if not that, then complete.
There was a time when Ursa smiled at him, when his children were innocent, and when his ambition for the throne had been dulled to the point where he could enjoy being the Second Prince. There was a time where he’d sat for a portrait with his family, a single hand on his young son’s shoulder, as close to gentle as he ever could be. There was a time when his son and daughter ran over rolling fields without a care, when he dug his toes into sandy beaches as the tide rolled in, he and Ursa eager for the next trip to the theatre.
Back then, even when he was bitter towards his brother, held hatred for his father, he could be satisfied with this circle of family. When the world outside it didn’t matter.
Then something crawled into his brain like a snake and strangled his chance at happiness.
He hadn’t realized it at the time, but Ozai knew now that there was something deeply, intrinsically wrong with him.
He was broken inside, and had been for a very long time.
Why else would he sabotage his own happiness?
Why else would he ruin his own life, and that of everyone around him?
Why else could he be nothing more but the vile ‘disaster’ that Azulon named him?
----
Ember Island hadn’t changed. It was the same as the last time Ozai had been there.
The place had that timeless air to it, frozen in history like an airbender frozen in ice.
Ozai walked along the sandy beaches, silently taking it all in, the weight of years of memories washing over him as he wandered. He was unable to not remember, and the recollection brought him pain and surprisingly, regret. Because he knew that Ember Island was the place where he had as close as he had ever been to happiness, only to let it slip through his fingers as darkness and hate sunk into his soul instead, corrupting every good thing he ever felt.
He was...unwell, Ozai knew that.
It didn’t make anything any better, but he could understand that now, knew that the thoughts that were swimming around in his brain were poison. Something had happened when he was young. Something broke him and that couldn’t be denied. But he also knew that he was far beyond fixing. It would take too much time, too much effort. And there was no one who would bother.
Ursa left. Azula was probably gone forever. Zuko hated him, for more than enough reason.
And Iroh? No, his brother had chosen to cut ties with him a long time ago.
Ozai was on his own.
He still remembered where their summer home was, the path to it outlined in some dusty memory floating around inside of him. When Ozai stood before that old entryway, he stripped out of the guard’s armor, stepping into the resort house in the same tattered prison garb he’d worn since escaping. The place was still intact, missing some portraits here and there, but altogether still the escape away from the palace life that he recalled from so long ago. Dust was caked on every surface, a canvas by which Ozai left his footprints through the mess.
He peeked into every room, remembering what had transpired in every single one, reasserting himself in every recollection. He knew he didn’t have much time; someone would track him to this place. But he didn’t need that much time. It would be too late for them to stop him.
When he was finally ready, Ozai returned to the lounge and pulled two precious tools from his pocket, obtained from the trip over: flint and a tinderbox. These would bring his fire back to him.
If only for a moment.
The silence was deafening as Ozai numbly clicked the flint against his rock and tinder, his entire being thrumming with energy. Strike. Strike. And then some light feeling soared in adulation when sparks flew from his flint, splashing like water droplets against the creaking floorboards.
‘I’m still a firebender. I can still make fire,’ Ozai thought, a small, twisted sense of happiness curling around in his gut. ‘I can still make my own fire.’
It only took a few more tries for the embers to catch, lighting the rot and dust clinging to the floorboards, growing steadily into a blaze. When Ozai saw it grow, saw what he did, he smiled in a way he hadn’t in years. Smiled like he had when he was younger, when his wife embraced him, and he was just a Prince with children who loved him. Ozai smiled like he had before he was taken with the urge to ruin everyone’s lives, including his very own.
He didn’t even realize that he was also crying.
The fire was beautiful as it grew bigger and bigger. It was beautiful as it crawled up the walls and ate the furniture down to nothing. It was beautiful as Ozai feet burned with agony wandering dazedly across the burning wood beneath, even as the tongues of fire belched out dark smoke that filtered slowly out the airy windows. Like little, seeking hands, it grabbed at his dull red clothes and started to eat them away, finding purchase on his bare skin.
Ozai was blind to his own red-rimmed eyes as he grinned, spreading his arms out to the blaze and covered his entire field of view. “Take me,” He offered, standing amid utter pain and disturbed pleasure, the fire wrapping around him, consuming him.
‘This is what I want,’ He thought, thinking of Ursa holding aloft her flame to him as she said those exact same words. ‘This is what I wanted all along.’
Part of Ozai wondered if things would have been better if his father had simply tossed him to flames when he’d been born, just like Azulon wanted. Ozai was just a mistake after all. It would just be the universe balancing everything out the way it was meant to. At least then, he would have that moment of being accepted by that beautiful fire before he managed to ruin anything else. The fire was the one thing in the world that would never reject him, it would never hate him. He couldn’t betray it, and no matter what the Avatar did, it would never truly leave him.
Losing his balance, unable to stand, Ozai crumbled to the floor, striking his head on the way down. He smiled emptily at what he’d wrought, his tears drying from the heat before they could even roll down his cheeks.
Finally, all was right with the world. Ozai felt complete, one with the flames once again. And if he died that day, it would be fine. And things were better this way. The world would be better off without him.
As his vision faded to black, the man thought to himself:
‘Truly, this is the ideal way to die.’
.
.
.
.
Ozai would likely never wake up.
That was what the doctor had said when Iroh showed up with his brother’s broken body in tow.
Somehow, when the news broke that Ozai had escaped from prison, Iroh had understood–instinctively–where the former Fire Lord would go, when everyone else was still reeling from the realization. Iroh hadn’t told anyone else; he felt confident he could handle Ozai by himself, without bringing further distress to his nephew or his friends. But he hadn’t been prepared for what he would find when he got there.
Ozai’s former resort home, up in flames, clouds of black smoke billowing into the sky. A few other residents of the island had gathered nearby, mouths agape in shock.
He searched for Ozai among the crowd, expecting him to be watching the blaze, but when he was nowhere to be found, a cold feeling sank into Iroh’s gut as he made for the house. Not enough time had passed since the fire began, surely he had to still be alive. He had to be. Iroh extinguished the flames as he went, stepping delicately over crumbling timber and scorched stone. The stench of burned meat and hair had him on the edge of throwing up his lunch with every moment. And then, in the center of what used to be a grand home, Iroh found him.
Somehow, Iroh had made it time; his brother was still alive. But only just. He wasn’t conscious and wouldn’t respond, and it wasn’t hard for anyone to see why. Most of his body was covered in serious, deep red burns, and very little of Ozai’s once voluminous hair was remaining, burned away down to the scalp. His legs were ruined; even if by some distant miracle he’d ever wake up, the man would never walk again.
As Iroh gingerly tried to carry him out, green in the face and shaking, he noticed the flint and melting tin tinderbox. A confirmation of what he already knew: this was all intentional.
Iroh hadn’t known where else to take him, so he took him to the palace, the doctor he brought from Ember Island, and another taken from the palace staff in tow. They dealt with Ozai as best they could, wrapped him in bandages and treated what injuries could be treated, but nothing would change the fact that he was comatose, and it was probably permanent.
The family’s reaction was splintered.
Ursa had the hurt, yet painfully resigned behavior of a woman who had known this was coming; as though spooked, she fled the capital within days, only keeping in contact with them through letters. When she found out what became of him, Azula had fled as well, no institution capable of holding her once she learned her father’s fate; this time though, Iroh had the distinct feeling that she had no intention of returning. Confused and distressed, Zuko had burned portraits and tapestries of his father, grandfather, and himself, and locked himself in the Fire Lord’s chambers, refusing to see even Iroh in person until he was able to calm down.
And Iroh himself? He buried his head in his hands at his brother’s bedside, trying to think of where everything had gone so wrong. What he could have done to stop this.
The answer was that he should have done anything at all.
He should have protected Zuko from Ozai.
He should have done anything for Azula.
He should have guided Lu Ten away from the war.
He should have safe-guarded Ozai from their father.
Iroh should have looked after the world because of the twisted den of monsters that was his family. But he didn’t, and this was the result.
Maybe one day, Ozai would wake up, but in the state the man was in now, it might be a mercy if he didn’t. And Iroh was wracked with the same flaw that had plagued him and others who knew him for so many years: indecision. “I’m so sorry, little brother,” Iroh breathed shakily, grasping at Ozai’s mostly intact hand, “I should have helped you when I had the chance… Or stopped you when I didn’t. I’m sorry that you saw no other option but this.”
It was the only thing he could offer to the dreadful room, and silence was his only response.