Chapter Text
Zuko is sixteen when he takes the crown— the small piece of metal burns a hole through his flesh and leaves him feeling dirty and marred in a way not even his fathers hand ever could.
He stares at the ceiling every single, insufferable night, unable to sleep on a bed that is softer than his soul has become over the years of his exile, and traitorous tendencies.
It’s not treason though, he tells himself for each count of the silky red thread that presses against his bare back— it was a means to the end, and he is ushering in an era of peace.
Zuko is sixteen, and he has as many scars as he has years from the challenges of Agni Kai battles where he always reigns victorious— he has far more scars from his past, and sometimes he wonders: how can his body possibly contain so many multitudes at once.
(Zuko is not unique, Zuko is good and bad— constantly fighting for the dominance of his battered soul).
He is sixteen, he tells himself when he slips, and he has survived this long despite his father— to spite his father. He is sixteen, and he dedicates every breath he takes— every meditation to someone who has left.
(They all leave him eventually).
But Zuko is sixteen.
And it’s easy to read between the lines, to connect every scar and think of it as freckles. It’s so dreadfully simple to forget that these are warriors marks and that despite everything he’s gone through—
Despite all the times he righted his wrongs. Despite every kind word, every thoughtful action, every all nighter, every shared cup of tea, every assassination attempt, every bated breath— despite it all.
They forget that he is sixteen, and that he has done more for his people than Ozai had ever done for another human being throughout his reign— nay, his entire life.
Because Zuko is sixteen when he takes the crown, and sixteen when his nation decides he’s too much a traitor to be trusted, and sixteen when those who need him decide he’s not enough of a traitor to be the person they need him to be.
Zuko is sixteen, when unbeknownst to him, everyone who has ever cared for him begins to worry.
Lieutenant Jee is fifty-six when he learns about the exiled prince’s scar, he is fifty six when he realises that maybe— he doesn’t know this kid at all.
Lieutenant Jee hears of the new Fire Lord’s crowning— and he thinks, maybe this kid will leave little fires everywhere... that mutiny will cower when it lays eyes on him. He is, more than anything, proud of the full sized shit this kid has grown to be.
Lieutenant Jee is fifty-seven when his favourite little headache stops sending his monthly letters— Lieutenant Jee is fifty-eight when he final decides to talk to the twat.
Lieutenant Jee sighs when he realises, that this once banished child— now finely maturing young adult— this Fire Lord (Edge Lord, he thinks, belatedly), has more honour and respect in his pinky finger than most men have in their entire lives.
After managing to shove his way through the royal guards, he finds the little shit— his favourite little shit— sound asleep on some scrolls.
The fire has long since gone out, and the chill in the room is enough to make him wonder if Zhao haunts Zuko even in death. He settles it quickly, fixing the fires and even managing to draft a few letters to the people he knows his majesty will listen too.
His majesty, Jee struggles to suppress a snort, thinking of the times the slumbering brat would shout and screech and stomp over his honour.
(That was before Jee knew about the forty-first division— that’s before it became personal).
Jee signs heavily, stepping to the side of the snoozing kid, “Good-morning, Sunshine. Caldera says, hello.”
The sixteen year old shoots upright, a snort dipping from his lips as he looks at Jee with half-lidded eyes, “I was awake. The Northern Water Tribe customarily greets nobleman with the basic—“
Jee watches the kid ramble in silence— soon, to his mild horror, he realises, the kid may have mastered the art of book bending and the practice of simple diffusion.
Even worse, he realises the brat’s eyes aren’t even fully open— and the circles lining them would suggest that the kid hadn’t been getting as early of a start as he thought.
(Distantly he wonders if Zuko even tries to sleep anymore).
There’s ink on his hands, and exhaustion in his eyes and suddenly Jee takes it upon himself to be one of the father figures Zuko never had.
“Kid- hey,” The teen snaps out of it, somewhere between talking about the practices and misogyny of the Northern Water Tribe and how both are being reviewed and improved for the good of the whole, “let’s get you to bed.”
“You said good-morning,” he whispers, words lilting with a vulnerable, and exhausted lisp that Jee thought he’d never hear again, “I rise with the sun.”
Jee only lets out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head, “I know, but a Fire Lord needs his rest. Come on.”
Zuko rises to his feet slowly, and honestly, a bit wobbly at the knees. Inky strands of hair fall in his eyes, a cow-lick on the side of his head.
But somehow— his crown stays steady.
Jee has never been one for symbolism— but maybe, this one time he’ll allow himself to read between the lines.
There’s something even more telling about the way the servants and employees of the palace look concerned with Zuko’s current state of half-asleep-zombie-shuffle-type-beat.
They all look worried about him— and it occurs to Jee that the young ruler has never been one to show any type of weakness.
“Lord Zuko,” one asks, softly, shaking Zuko from his exhausted stupor.
In a matter of moments, he’s back to being a compassionate leader, eyebrows wrinkling as they come together, “Akasuki, is everything alright?”
Jee isn’t startled by Zuko knowing that everyone by name, in fact, it seems incredibly fitting.
“Yes! Yes, of course,” she pauses, eyes softening as she takes in the sight of the exhausted teen, “I was... are you alright? Would you like tea sent to your chambers?”
“I’m...” he sighs, scratching the back of his neck before letting out a chuckle. “A bit tired... if Kaori— it is Thursday— excellent, if Kaori isn’t too overwhelmed I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”
“Of course, sir,” and like she’s off, and the weariness seeps back into Zuko’s bones with every passing moment.
After her footsteps can no longer be heard, the twat takes a few of his own— sluggishly and full of what tips precariously into lethargy, but steady.
When Jee pulls back the covers for his favourite angsty teen, Zuko just sends him a short hlare that reads, don’t treat me like a child.
But he doesn’t say a word, kicking off his shoes and tossing the top layers of his robes onto the floor before crashing down onto the bed.
He still sleeps on his side, Jee considers for a moment. Some things never change.
Zuko is sixteen when his former crewmate tells him that he is to sleep for as long as he can, and Zuko is sixteen when he is told that this surly old man who has slowly become a friend will sit watch on one of the chairs as he rests.
Zuko is sixteen when he realises he’s not as alone as he thought, and finally drifts to sleep.
Jee watches in silence as Zuko drifts off, muscles relaxing and breaths slowing down.
He’s a mess still, Jee suppresses a snort, but he’s going to be doing great things in no time at all— he already has.
The door cracks open, and the servant from earlier startles slightly at the weight of dark eyes settled on her.
“Lieutenant,” she greets, setting the tea tray down as she begins to prepare a mug. She hesitates, however when she sees the kid knocked out— eyes softening, “oh. I’ll leave this here.”
With one last stolen glance, the girl turns on her heels and leaves the room as quietly as possible.
Jee is pretty sure that he hears her mumble, “he actually looks his age when he sleeps.”
His suspicions are confirmed with chuckles and mumbles of agreements from the guards outside.
It’s weird to think that this once angry, little brat, is tirelessly trying to change everything around him— even more so to realise that he’s succeeding.
Zuko is sixteen, he thinks, and so much more than his father ever was.
Zuko is sixteen when Jee sends quiet letters to Zuko’s friends and Iroh, telling them that the kid needs them. That he’s exhausted but never lets it show.
The day Zuko turns seventeen, his uncle wakes him with Jasmine tea— and instead of anger, he’s met with a warm heart and a suspiciously wet laugh.
Zuko is seventeen, when everyone remembers that even Fire Lords get by with a little help from their friends.
Even stupid cute boomerang boys, and little monks with arrows split across his asscheeks.
(Who knew monks mooning him didn’t go against their pacifist code of conduct?).