Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I said you would learn respect.”

Father’s voice echoed in the chamber, his greeting as Zuko was shoved, chains clanking around both his wrists and feet, to kneel before the dais, armed guards at his back.

“I said suffering would be your teacher.”

The flames parted, revealing Father in his full robes and regalia and making Zuko — clothed in a threadbare prison uniform that had seen far better days, his head a patch of unshaven fuzz that looked so out of place with his top-knot, greasy and unkept as it was — feel even more underdressed and out of place.

“And yet,” Father began to descend the steps, eyes narrowed and despite the warm color, the roaring flames, Zuko shivered, “you have learned nothing.” 

Before, Zuko knew he’d have said something in his defense.

Not now.

Because the last time he had tried, his own pitiful and tear-laced words floating in his mind — “Please, Father, I meant no disrespect. I am your loyal son.” — had been met with fire and pain and as much as Zuko had longed to believe, had made himself believe that Father’s own words and his punishment had been deserved and had been given to him as a chance to restore his honor…

He knew better now. 

Even telling himself that Azula always lies wasn’t enough because the truth was staring him in the face as Father drew closer, not a lick of kindness in his face, not a hint of love or pride or anything and everything that Zuko longed for.

And while Azula may have embellished the truth to lure him onto her ship — and he’d been such a fool, why had he not listened to Uncle? Where was Uncle? —  she had not outright lied.

Father did want him home.

Her ship after a three-week journey had brought him to the Fire Nation.

He was once more in the palace throne room.

Just…

As a prisoner, not as a prince.

In chains, rather than robes.

Here out of shame of embarrassment, not because Father actually missed him and loved him.

That last part Azula had gleefully told him and Zuko had clung to the hope that she was lying, that this was all some cruel, twisted joke to her.

But he could now see that it wasn’t true.

Father didn’t joke.

Father didn’t play games.

Which meant that…

For once…

Azula hadn’t lied.

Azula had told the truth.

And Zuko didn’t know what to do with this development.

Zuko licked dry lips as Father drew within a few feet of him and bowed his head, trying to show respect and deference and, also, and he tried not to flinch because that was pathetic and weak and Father did not tolerate weakness, because the last time he had seen Father, the last time he had bowed his head…

His scar pulsed at the memory.

But, and Zuko prayed, there had to be a reason Father had brought him here, not locked him up in some dungeon as Azula had taunted he would and her disappointment when they’d docked and there had been orders to, discretely, bring Zuko to the throne room rather than the prison had not been faked. 

So there was a chance.

If Zuko showed enough humility, enough apology, enough respect, then maybe…

“Fath—”

“Do not speak,” Father cut him off before Zuko could even start his apology and his lips pressed together, silent.

“I do not care to hear what excuses fall off your tongue,” Father continued and Zuko saw the hem of his robes stop barely inches from him. “There is nothing you can say that will make the dishonor you have brought upon the Fire Nation any less.”

Zuko flinched.

That was the last thing he’d wanted to do.

He’d gone out to restore his honor, to bring glory to the Fire Nation. 

“You were bested by a child,” Father continued, spitting the Avatar’s youth as though that meant anything when a prodigy was involved, “on more than one account despite all the resources offered to you.”

Zuko bit his tongue to that because he knew arguing that the supplies and crew the Wani had been provided, the (lack of) supplies he’d been allowed at even Fire Nation port would only make him look like a whining, petulant child. 

“And even worse,” without looking Zuko knew Father’s eyes had narrowed, “your pathetic attempts to capture the Avatar prevented more competent individuals from actually doing so.”

He didn’t mention the fact that any of those people were free to come and go from the Fire Nation as they pleased, not banished with a single, one-way ticket back in. 

Zuko was forever grateful that no one knew he had been the Blue Spirit and while he knew Zhao suspected such…

Well, Zhao was…

Zuko tried not to think about the man’s fate.

Zuko knew though pointing out such reasoning would gain him no favors or empathy and would only serve as another interruption. 

“You were given a generous opportunity to restore your honor, Zuko, and you failed. Just,” and Zuko could hear his sneer, “as you have failed at everything your entire life. You disgrace the Fire Nation Zuko. You disgrace me. And…”

Zuko’s gasp was swallowed as he bit down on his tongue as Father’s hand landed in his topknot and his head was yanked upwards.

Father’s molten gaze bore down upon him, meeting his head on.

“You are no son of mine.”

Zuko’s heart stopped beating. 

What?

No.

Father couldn’t.

He wouldn’t. 

He’d, he’d been banished.

Not disowned.

He could still find the Avatar. He could still restore his honor.

He just needed a chanc— 

There was a flicker in Father’s other hand and Zuko hated how he flinched, already bracing for flames even though this wasn’t an Agni Kai and Father shouldn’t mark him, but…

But that hadn’t stopped him before. 

It was no fire though.

It was a knife.

Its intention was clear.

He knew he was not supposed to speak, but…

But…

Nevermind that speaking out had cost him everything, if he said nothing now he would lose even more.

“Father,” he barely recognized his own voice, “please. I, I am your loyal s—”

Father sliced right through his top-knot, blade skimming against his scalp, and there was a dull, muffled thump as his hair, a symbol of his honor, struck the ground next to him and Zuko’s head snapped back without the tension.

Father’s hand gripped his chin, squeezing painfully and nails digging into his cheeks, preventing him from speaking even if he found the words and courage, and his gaze burned as it met Zuko’s.

“You are no son of mine,” he repeated. “You are hereby stripped of your titles and removed from both the line of succession and the family tree.”

Zuko felt faint.

This had to be a nightmare.

This couldn’t be real.

But it was.

Father had…

He had really…

He’d just wanted to come home. 

“And all that remains now is the question of what to do with you,” Father said. “There is death, of course,” and Zuko’s heart skipped a beat at not the concept but that so quickly, without even a blink of hesitation, Father would… “but death is honorable and you do not deserve such a quick, painless end.

“I had thought of imprisoning you,” Father continued, not even a pause, “for you to live out the rest of your days in the dark and squalor and descend into madness,” and Zuko knew that was what Azula had thought his fate was to be, but he could hear the but and he didn’t know how to feel, “but such a fate seems too kind. And besides,” his lips curled up, “there is another to whom that fate belongs.”

Zuko’s eyes widened.

Uncle.

He meant Uncle.

Uncle, who had done nothing wrong.

Nothing except try to help Zuko.

“And so that leads me to the third option that seems most fitting for one such as you.” Father’s eyes glinted with what Zuko could almost call excitement and it made his stomach clench because it was not a kind version of the word. “You have shamed me, Zuko. And so shame shall be your new teacher.”

He leaned in, breath hot on Zuko’s face in contrast to the cold shiver rolling down his spine.

“You are now and forevermore the property of General Bujing, who will be free to do with you and to you whatever he likes. You will live out your days as he sees fit until he decides to end your miserable life. And I ,” his eyes narrowed with disgust, lighting upon the scar, the mark of shame that he had bestowed, “will never have to suffer the shame of seeing your face again.” 

Chapter Text

Zuko had thought the journey on Azula’s ship had been awful.

He was wrong.

This was worse.

It’s not that the accommodations were bad; they were actually better as Zuko wasn’t kept chained to the wall but instead allowed to freely walk about the small cell (although given the fact his hands were cuffed in metal behind him sort of negated it but at least he could move) and he’d been given a blanket for the metal cot jutting out of the wall and unlike Azula’s crew, whether terrified by her or getting some sick thrill by belittling and taunting Zuko, these guards had yet to raise a hand to him and were resolutely ignoring him where they were stationed down the hallway.

But aboard Azula’s ship he’d had hope. 

Now he had none. 

Father had…

Zuko squeezed his eyes shut against traitorous tears trying to make themselves known.

And for the first time in his life…

Zuko didn't know what to do.

Well, he often didn’t know what to do. He’d wandered the world for three years, growing more and more desperate with each failed location to find an Avatar who had been missing for almost one hundred years and how had he ever been expected to succeed in such an impossible mission?

The truth had been there the whole time but Zuko had been obstinately blind to it. He hadn’t wanted to see it.

Because if he did then it meant accepting that Father didn’t want him to come home. And that couldn’t be true.

Except…

Except it was. 

And then, even when he’d miraculously found the Avatar — and he’d foolishly thought that meant his luck was changing, that fate was finally being as kind to him as it had been to Father and Azula — he had constantly not known what exactly to do except track down the Avatar and capture him.

But he’d always had that. He’d always had a mission, a goal, a hope.

Now he didn’t.

He had nothing.

Nothing except a fate as some, some slave to a Fire Nation noble, all the way on the furthest east island — a three day trip from the Caldera — and worst of all…

Zuko knew this general.

He…

He was the one he’d originally thought he was going to fight an Agni Kai against.

He was the one who had ordered the subsequent slaughter of Fire Nation troops who had only hoped to serve their Nation.

Zuko had known, deep down, that Fath— he broke the thought off.

That wasn’t right.

He wasn’t… wasn’t Zuko’s father anymore.

He couldn’t be.

And Zuko hated that there was any part of him still torn about that, that still felt, felt loyal to him. 

That Zuko felt like he had failed him.

He’d always wanted to believe that Father only acted as he did because he wanted what was best for Zuko. That he wanted to see him succeed. That this was all done so Zuko could prove himself worthy one day of the title of Fire Lord.

That was a lie.

It was a lie that Zuko had swallowed willingly because he couldn’t bear the alternative.

Even now, even after all that had happened…

He still didn’t want to believe.

But he needed to.

He had to.

Ozai was not his father.

He had never wanted Zuko to succeed.

And Zuko…

Zuko had been a fool. 

And now he got to die as one.

A foolish slave. 

If…

If he’d only listened to Uncle and his heart twisted at the thought. Uncle was in prison because of him.

It could have been worse, he tried to console himself. Fath— Ozai could have ordered his execution. And, and unlike Zuko, Uncle was well respected in the Fire Nation. He had contacts. And surely they would not leave his uncle to rot and slowly go insane in isolation. 

Zuko prayed it so because he certainly wasn’t helping Uncle. 

He couldn’t even help himself.

He’d tried. But there were no portholes in the brig, the guards had been too strong and he too weak to physically overpower him and even now there were two armed guards stationed at the entrance to the brig should he somehow get out of his cell — and he’d tried; the door was locked and the walls were solid sheets of metal.

Not only that his wrists were bound in chains and Zuko knew (from experience and he still had healing burns to prove it) trying to use flames would only result in burning himself. The world thought water and cold were a firebender’s weakness and they weren’t entirely wrong but they they were missing the cruelest one.

Metal was.

Metal was a prison where they’d only burn and scorch themselves on cuffs and chains or turn a metal room into a furnace and while a firebender may be able to control heat and flame they could not stop it or take it away. Zuko would kill or disfigure himself before he ever got free and the illusion of freedom by movement was cruel.

Zuko knew it would only get worse.

The palace had servants, not slaves, as slaves could not be trusted, but he’d seen them before when he had been younger and toured the eastern and northern islands where they were common practice of generally former Earth Kingdom citizens. Mother had frowned and although she had said nothing Zuko had gotten the impression she did not approve.

He hadn’t been sure what to make of the concept — they were just like servants except they didn’t get paid, but they were fed and clothed and had a place to live so it couldn’t be all bad — until he’d witnessed an older slave — he was old enough to be Zuko’s grandpa — being beaten in plain sight in the market. Based on the screams of the woman lashing him with her staff he had dropped something and no one had done anything as he screamed and sobbed and blood and flesh flew in the air.

Azula had actually stopped to watch before Mother pulled her away.

And that’s where Zuko was now headed.

But…

His hands curled into fists behind him.

He would not be so easily cowed. He’d escape. 

Although…

He licked his lips.

He had no idea where he’d go. 

He…

He wasn’t welcome at home anymore. 

And while he might have been a fool he wasn’t so stupid as to return to the palace and beg Fath— Ozai’s forgiveness (although what, exactly, was there to forgive? The thought and the fact he didn’t know the answer or if there was one made Zuko’s stomach roll uncomfortably) because he knew he would receive none, receive no mercy and receive no further chance to prove himself.

Even trying to hide within the Fire Nation would be a failed attempt as his face — and he closed his eyes, bowing his head — was well known and while he may have been disowned and no longer a prince he had no doubt there would be some type of reward and someone would gladly turn him in.

So the only place to go, if he did manage to escape…

Would be the Earth Kingdom. He could head for Ba Sing Se where refugees flocked and he could become a faceless, nameless person among the masses where he’d live a miserable, lonely life always looking over his shoulder.

There…

There really was no escape.

But he wasn’t a quitter. He’d never given up before and he couldn’t, wouldn’t, allow himself to start n—

The entire ship lurched without warning beneath him and Zuko nearly faceplanted into the wall, catching himself painfully on his shoulder instead, but the pain was barely noticeable.

Because he knew from years of living on a ship what that particular lurch was.

They’d just stopped.

Which meant they’d pulled into port.

Which meant…

Zuko swallowed, nails digging into his palms. 

What did he do?

He, he refused to be intimidated or cowed but he also knew he no longer had any pedestal on which to stand and doing so would only make him look foolish and likely invite some sort of punishment.

What would Bujing punish him with? 

Zuko shoved the thought away because as he’d seen in his travels there were so, so many ways to hurt a person and he couldn’t start thinking of that now.

He had to concentrate on escaping. 

And he’d do whatever he had to reach that goal.

But even so, he refused to be seen as weak as Fath— Ozai always told him he was. He refused to cower.

He would be proud, but not arrogant.

He would be respectful, but not meek.

He would obey, but he would not give up.

The words carved into the knife Uncle had given him flashed through his mind.

Never give up without a fight. 

He wouldn’t.

He couldn’t.

And he wouldn’t.

And while it might seem impossible right now, Zuko also refused to give up on Uncle because Uncle…

Uncle had never given up on him. Even when Zuko had been cruel and lashed out and refused to accept Uncle’s kindness, Uncle had never shown him anything but love and patience and how could Zuko have ever thought he wanted to trade that in for Fath— Ozai’s love?

Uncle had been more of a father than his real one.

How had Zuko never noticed?

When…

When was the last time he’d told Uncle he loved him?

He didn’t know.

Agni, he didn’t know.

Zuko was almost grateful for the interruption of heavy metal boots in the hallway as it pulled him from that sick realization and he straightened up, lifting his chin with pride (but not too much) to meet the eyes of the guards. He said nothing as they unlocked his cell — unlike Azula he tended to talk himself into trouble rather than out of it — and ordered for him to come out, immediately flanking him as though Zuko was going to try to make a run for it.

As they exited the ship onto the dock Zuko almost wished he had, as useless as it would be.

Bujing hadn’t changed a bit since Zuko had last seen him in the war room; same pointed face, same long moustache and goatee that Zuko thought always looked like a dead cat-possum’s tail, and the same cold eyes that had sent so many young men and women to their deaths.

Except there was one difference.

Before, even when Zuko had been interrupting, Bujing had kept any of his own reservations to himself, respecting Zuko’s title and looking on indifferently.

Now he wore a wolf-shark smirk and it only grew as Zuko neared, staring Zuko down and he stared resolutely back because he refused to lower his gaze to this… this murderer. 

Even though…

There was not just something cruel to Bujing’s smirk there was something dangerous and Zuko felt a shiver go down his spine.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Prince Zuko all grown up,” Bujing smiled. “Oh, pardon me. Just Zuko now.”

Zuko said nothing to the taunt.

He knew what this man was capable of and the last time he’d spoken to him…

His burn tingled.

But more than that, Zuko was going to have to use every advantage he possessed to get out of this. And while those were all severely lacking in the current circumstances Zuko did have one.

Bujing didn’t know Zuko. Not anymore. He was not the same boy he’d been in the war room and he would not be so easily provoked, would not speak before he thought, and he would not allow his recklessness, his rashness and his temper take control.

That would not help him and it would not help Uncle. He needed Bujing to underestimate him, believe Zuko was no threat, and when his guard was lowered Zuko would escape. 

It might be a bit of a long game but Bujing would not expect it because that was not what anyone ever expected of Zuko. 

He would prove them wrong.

He would prove them all wrong.

Bujing hummed, tapping his chin in a gesture that wouldn’t look out of place on Azula. “You’re so quiet, Zuko. Not at all like what I remembered. Although your manners remain atrocious as ever.”

Zuko stayed quiet, never letting up on the shared eye contact.

He was not afraid.

He wasn’t.

“You will address me as Master,” Bujing continued, stepping forward, and Zuko tried not to bristle as that title belonged to those like Piando, masters of their craft and worthy of respect.

Here it just meant ownership. 

Bujing could say whatever he wanted to though; Zuko had no intention to ever call him anything except the fire-rat that he was. Silence may not be what Bujing was expecting of Zuko, but, as small as it was, it gave Zuko a small measure of control.

And if he said nothing then he couldn’t be punished for it.

“I see though,” Bujings’ eyes narrowed as Zuko had yet to break their eye contact, “that fire of yours is still intact.” 

His hand came to rest on Zuko’s cheek and it took all he had not to pull back, fingers brushing against his scar and he bit down the immediate retort to not touch him.

That would give Bujing power and Zuko refused to give it to him.

“But don’t you worry,” Bujing’s breath was hot on his face, his fingers still tracing against the bumps and ridges and sending more prickles down Zuko’s spine, “I’ll break that spirit of yours soon enough.”

His hand trailed away to rest around Zuko’s neck, his other hand rising up from within his large robe sleeve and there was a soft clinking noise and then something cold brushed against Zuko’s throat. 

He resisted the urge to swallow as he felt it encircling his neck even as his brain fired off what was happening.

It was a chain.

But not a necklace.

A collar.

Bujing had just put him in a collar like a mindless beast— 

It tightened and Zuko gagged and then gagged more as his head and body were jerked forward and his knees struck the dock with a thunk and he belatedly realized it was not just a collar.

There was a leash. 

He was on a leash.

“Come along, Zuko,” Bujing tugged on the chain, choking him more, “your new home awaits. And,” he let out a soft laugh, “everyone is so looking forward to meeting you.”

Chapter Text

Everyone, Zuko found, was not necessarily related to those living at Bujing’s house. Because to get to Bujing’s house they had to walk through the main part of the small but incredibly affluent island town.

And everyone had apparently come out to see them.

Zuko was finding it hard to hold his head up and it wasn’t just because Bujing kept slowing down and speeding up, constantly choking him as Zuko was forced to keep at his pace, especially as his balance was compromised with his arms still chained behind him.

The whispers that ran through the gathered crowd were the worst.

They reminded him too much of the way Grandfather and Ozai used to converse as they stared at him, of the palace courtiers and their gossip that Zuko always had the feeling was about him, and even the whispers of his crew on the Wani. And then of course there were those that whispered and stared as they saw his scar all across the Earth Kingdom, some pitying, some derisive, but all unwanted.

The jeers though were almost as bad as they threw in his face what Zuko was still trying to come to terms with.

Disinherited.

Dishonored.

Shameful.

Disgrace. 

He made himself say nothing because what was there to say?

He had no defense. Not one they would understand.

Ozai’s power and control were absolute, his words not just law but revered. 

Zuko couldn’t blame them. Up until yesterday, even with all that had happened, he had longed to believe the same. 

He knew better.

They didn’t.

That knowledge didn’t really help as their words cut far sharper than any knife.

But worse than those?

The reminder that Zuko was no longer just a person.

He was a slave.

And slaves were not people. They were objects. Property. Things. 

And the things some of the people were suggesting Bujing do to him to put him in his place?

Zuko could feel his cheeks both heating and paling at the same time even more than when the Wani’s crew would talk about their escapades at port stops. He didn’t think that’s what Bujing’s intentions were in any shape or form, but Bujing’s laughter and nods did nothing to reassure him.

It was almost a relief to reach Bujing’s home — the largest in the town, situated up a rolling pathway on a hill — and leave the town behind. 

Unfortunately the two guards from the ship had not left during the entire walk and they were joined by two more of the six total standing at attention at the front gates and flanking Zuko as he was led from the immaculate courtyard and through the front door of the home and followed him through the hallways.

Zuko hadn’t really thought he’d be escaping immediately so that part was fine. But the sheer amount of guards Bujing had at his disposal — and at least five of the eight he’d seen Zuko could tell based on their lack of weapons were firebenders — was worrying.

He let out a shallow breath, made harder by the links still digging into his neck, to try to calm himself.

It would be all right.

He’d known his escape would take time to enact and he just had to have patience. 

Bujing entered what had to be his study, large ornate desk centered in the middle of the room, cabinets along the walls and…

Zuko’s breath caught.

And what could only be another slave.

He was an older man, hair turning gray although it had once been brown, and he was standing silently in the corner, arms laden with a tray and cloth — clothing? It was the same dark red as the simple belted tunic and pants he wore— piled atop it. Zuko might have thought he was a servant, save for the fact there were scars, thin white lines, visible on his arms and puckered burns and some of those…

Some of those were new. 

Zuko hurriedly averted his eyes, even though his own were cast down with his bowed head, and focused back on Bujing, who was turning to face Zuko although he still held onto the leash.

“Now,” Bujing smiled at him, “let’s get you settled. The first order of business is releasing you from your cuffs so you can best serve me. Would you like that, Zuko?”

A second later and Zuko realized that Bujing was expecting an answer.

He kept his lips a thin line, his stare impassive. 

Bujing gave a small nod of his head.

And Zuko gasped as fire-wreathed fingers from one of the guards landed on his upper arm, burning right through the thin prison garb and striking flesh, biting down on his tongue to avoid screaming.

He knew now why the other slave was covered in burn marks.

“I said,” Bujing repeated, not even flinching at the scent of burnt meat as Zuko’s eyes watered from both it and the pain “would you like for your cuffs to be removed?”

Zuko knew the logical thing to do was to say yes.

He also knew if he caved too quickly that Bujing would be suspicious and rather than relaxing his guard it would only go up. 

He said nothing and tried to brace himself.

His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ground against one another as the guard reapplied burning fingers.

He’d had worse.

This was nothing.

And then the fire-wreathed hand moved away from his shoulder and flickered in the limited vision he had in his left eye, heat warming his face.

And Zuko hated the jolt of fear that shot through him and he hated the gasping, “yes,” that was torn from his lips even though ultimately it would help him.

Or so he hoped.

“Yes, master,” Bujing prompted, lips pulled into a smirk.

Zuko’s stomach clenched.

The fingers came closer.

“Yes,” he repeated, pausing as though separating the words by more than a breath would help make him feel less sickened by them, “master.”

The flames disappeared and Bujing’s smile grew.

Zuko told himself this was part of the plan. 

His racing heart told him that wasn’t all it was. 

Zuko couldn’t help it though; any type of open flaming coming towards his face was cause for alarm. He’d gotten over the worst of it during combat situations because there he knew he could — and would — defend himself and he would never, ever, let anyone hurt him like that again.

But this wasn’t combat.

And Bujing could do whatever he wanted to him with no repercussion.

A second later there was a soft click and the tension keeping Zuko’s arms captive behind him was released, although the metal cuffs remained fully about both of his wrists. He slowly brought them forward, resisting the urge to rub at them or roll his shoulders.

“This is where you express your gratitude for the kindness I have shown you,” Bujing said. “Otherwise…”

Zuko swallowed, the words tasting like bile. “Thank you, master.”

“Oh, Zuko,” Bujing shook his head. “That did not sound very grateful at all.”

Zuko’s knees buckled as two burning hands landed on each of his biceps, searing lines into his flesh and only the grip keeping him somewhat on his feet.

He tasted blood as he bit through his tongue to hold in the scream and the sudden burst of hopelessness that this…

This wasn’t going to work.

Bujing was too quick to punish, too quick to inflict pain, and Zuko was not a good actor and an even worse liar. He could not fool Bujing with deference, with obedience and hope the man would buy it.

He’d been played the fool (again) without even knowing it. 

But more than that…

He’d failed. 

Bujing would not let him escape, would never give him the chance. 

He…

He wasn’t going to be able to save Uncle.

He wasn’t even going to be able to save himself. 

And the only thing left, the thing Zuko had clung to as the world threw everything it could at him…

Was his pride.

And he would not lose it here.

“Try again,” Bujing ordered. 

Zuko looked up, meeting Bujing’s cruel gaze.

“No.” 

He should regret it.

He didn’t at all.

There was no point in continuing to play the part when the audience had already pulled back the curtain before the show had even begun.

“Ah,” Bujing’s lips curled, amusement dancing in his eyes, “there he is. The proud, arrogant, foolish boy of before. You haven’t changed at all, have you, Zuko?”

He stepped forward, his hand coming once more to brush against Zuko’s scar and even though Zuko’s hands were now  free and the game over Zuko knew trying to attack Bujing right now would be a very, very, very bad idea. “You should know though, Zuko, that I absolutely despise lying. I do not tolerate insubordination.  And those that engage in either… they need punished.”

And that time Zuko could not swallow down the scream as Bujing’s own flame-wreathed hand pressed into his scar just beneath his eye and the world lit up in bright yellow and orange.

Screams echoed in his head — his own, the crowd — and flames danced and his flesh burned and—

Zuko came back to Bujing’s study with a choking gasp, somehow sitting now on the ground and only upright due to the guard’s legs at his back and hands on his shoulders, tears blurring his vision and pain pain pain pounding in his skull.

“Now let us try again,” Bujing said, looming over him. “Say ‘thank you, master.’”

No.

He would not.

He’d lost almost everything. His pride was the one thing he had  left and no one, no one, was going to take it from him.

Pain was fleeting.

His heart had already been broken and trampled.

He would not let anyone take this.

“Fuck you,” Zuko snarled, the curse word feeling both strange (and Uncle would be horrified) and yet absolutely fitting.

And then he screamed as the hands flush against his back danced with fire.

“I can do this all day, Zuko,” Bujing said over the sound of his screams. “And you are only going to hurt yourself more.”

Zuko didn’t care.

Nothing hurt more than the feeling of failure.

“Then again,” Bujing said. 

And again.

And again and again, the guard’s hands burning away Zuko’s shirt in its entirety as they landed on his back and arms, drifting around to the more sensitive flesh of his stomach,  the sound of crackling fire and his screams and Bujing’s continued demands for him to express his gratitude and the world was speckled with bright flames and edged in darkness.

Zuko welcomed it; the only escape he could find here.

“You are stubborn, Zuko,” Bujing sounded, voice echoing, as the blackness began to take over, a pair of shoes blurring in front of Zuko’s eyes as they slowly closed. “And I will take such delight in breaking you.”

Chapter Text

Four days.

It had been four days since Zuko had become Bujing’s property.

He could only tell that amount of time had passed as he felt the sun rise and set each day even if he could not see it in this dark, windowless room that was even more cloying than the brig.

Colder too.

Because the room was a freezer, designed to keep food cold.

Now it just kept Zuko and his pools of blood chilled and Bujing had already told him he would be responsible for cleaning it all up.

Zuko didn’t have the energy to growl or retort now — four days of no food, no water, barely any sleep and constant pain between the whips and the daggers and the cold that was too cold to soothe even the burns — but he glared and tried as hard as he could not to scream as he was beaten and hurt and then tried not to whimper and shiver when he was left alone, curled up in one corner and trying to stay warm.

He wondered who would give in first.

He pledged it wouldn’t be him.

He knew what awaited him out there.

A lifetime of humiliation and servitude as Bujing had outlined Zuko’s new life in between the hiss of the whip.

Zuko would be his personal servant and attend to him in all regards while he was in the office, at meetings (barring ones at the palace as slaves were not allowed), and accompany him on visits to town. 

He would be required to do any and all tasks assigned to him, but, and Bujing had gripped his chin, he honestly wasn’t expecting much on that front.

Zuko was here for his face.

Despite everything Zuko had had a moment of panic, stomach clenching as he remembered what some of the townspeople had said, but apparently what Bujing meant was the status of his face.

Even a disowned prince had once been a prince and as such Zuko was considered a “high-quality” slave and he would add value to Bujing’s own appearances when he went to meetings or hosted dinners to have Zuko, obediently, and the word had been accompanied by a harsh squeeze of his chin, attending him.

And if Zuko failed in his duties?

Punishment.

Burns and whippings and knives and the freezer and no meals or water until he complied.

Zuko had yet to comply.

He had no plans to.

The moment he did he gave Bujing full power, full control, and Zuko…

Zuko became no one.

Bujing had been right about one thing: Zuko was stubborn. And there was nothing Bujing could do to him that would make him submit.

And speaking of…

Zuko heard the footsteps in the hallway, just enough warning for him to pull himself out of his childish, miserable looking ball and slump to a sit, before the door opened and Bujing entered. 

Something was different today though.

Bujing was smiling.

He’d stopped smiling, stopped being amused by the middle of the third day when he had yet to garner Zuko’s submission.

Despite the chill already in the air a new spike shivered down Zuko’s spine.

“I bring tidings from our esteemed Fire Lord Ozai,” Bujing smirked and Zuko’s breath caught.

What?

Bujing’s smirk grew. “Fire Lord Ozai has been made aware of your… insubordination. And as I told you, Zuko, such must be met with punishment. Perhaps though I have been punishing the wrong person.”

Zuko’s heart skipped a beat.

No.

No, he couldn't mean…

“Fire Lord Ozai needs but my word that you have continued to act in such a manner and your dear uncle’s life is forfeit.”

He did.

But, but Ozai wouldn’t…

He wouldn’t kill his own brother.

Just as he would never scar and disown his son.

Just as he would never assume the throne as the second born son.

Zuko felt faint in a way that had nothing to do with blood loss and lack of food and water.

He would.

Ozai absolutely would. 

And it would be something they could hold over Zuko’s head for the rest of his life.

He wondered if Uncle was being threatened with the same.

Was Zuko’s life preventing Uncle from enacting his own escape, from calling upon possible allies and loyalties?

Agni, that was…

This was…

“So it comes to this, Zuko,” Bujing pulled him from his thoughts.  “Which do you value more? Your pride? Or your traitorous Uncle Iroh?”

Zuko swallowed.

There was only one acceptable answer.

He bowed his head, surrendering.

“Master.”

xxx

Bujing had his household’s doctor tend to the worst of Zuko’s wounds to prevent infection from settling in, but otherwise they remained.

His first lesson, Bujing had told him.

He’d been stripped of what remained of his prison garb and clothed in the red sleeveless tunic (high quality, at least, although of course Bujing would have nothing less) and pants and thin, flat shoes he’d seen the other slaves wearing.

But Zuko had one further addition.

A thick gold band wrapped around his throat — another collar that Bujing had already demonstrated allowed for a leash to attach in addition to not allowing Zuko to take a full breath that would limit any firebending — and matching cuffs on his wrists and ankles that attached with thin chains to rings around his middle fingers and toes.

If he tried to firebend he’d melt the gold — one of the softest metals — and severely burn himself. 

They were useless precautions because Zuko would not try to firebend.

He would not try to escape.

He would obey every command given to him.

Because otherwise…

The risk was too great.

He could not, would not, get Uncle killed. He’d already ruined Uncle’s life, at the very least he could make sure Uncle got to keep it.

And Zuko’s first assignment?

Standing at attention next to Bujing’s desk and holding a tray for the man’s tea as he read through missives.

No talking, Bujing had told him, not unless he was responding directly to Bujing’s orders. Otherwise, Bujing had sneered, he never wished to hear Zuko’s voice again. And he’d be more than happy to cut his tongue out if he felt such a task would be too difficult.

No moving; not a single rattle to the tea cup, not a single side step or sway. 

Keep his head bowed, his eyes down, and be respectful. 

Be obedient.

Be a good slave.

It was what Zuko had hoped to masquerade as.

But now…

Now it was what he actually was.

And for the next three hours, fighting exhaustion and vertigo and pain and the churning feeling of failure, Zuko held the tea tray.

xxx

Eight lashes.

That was his punishment for the number of times he had either swayed, shifted and the one time the teacup had rattled in its saucer as his grip had slipped on the tray.

The punishment, unlike before where it had been delivered where Zuko was locked in the freezer, was carried out in the back garden.

And the entire household — consisting of Bujing’s wife, adult son who was a captain in the Fire Nation Army and currently at home for several weeks, three other slaves — the older man Zuko had seen before and two middle-aged woman — a total of eight guards and a small contingent of what Zuko could only guess were current visitors of the son’s dressed in finery — was present to watch. 

Zuko was ordered to strip off his own tunic and secure his hands in the straps hanging off of the gilded metal pole. 

And Bujing had cracked the whip himself.

He had delivered far more than eight strikes.

Zuko knew.

He’d counted.

He passed out when they hit twenty-six.

xxx

“Sit up straight, Zuko,” Bujing commanded. “Poor posture is most unbecoming.”

Zuko tried, vision wavering as his flayed back protested the movement, but not at least trying had more immediate consequences than passing out from pain. At least when he’d woken up in his apparent new quarters —- a small room no larger than a closet that held only a slab for a bed, a blanket, pillow, and a small chest that Zuko could only imagine held a change of clothes — it had been with his entire back and chest swaddled in bandages and there had been a cup of water within reach.

“Do you feel your punishment was unfair?” Bujing asked, voice pleasant as though they were discussing the weather.

Yes, Zuko wanted to say. Eight lashes more than tripled.

Being punished in the first place.

Being someone’s property.

None of this was right. 

“No, master,” he said instead, voice a rasp and eyes lowered to where gold-ringed hands were curled on his thighs.

“Correct,” Bujing’s silverware scraped on his plate. “For you wasted four days of my time and so your punishment needed to reflect the same.”

Zuko tensed.

By that logic he still had six more lashes to go. 

“But I am not a cruel man,” Bujing continued, “and I am satisfied with your punishment as it stands. Unless of course you feel that you deserve more.”

It was a trick question.

No matter what he said he would be wrong.

Not speaking was also wrong.

But there had to be a right answer.

It was a test, a game.

What did Bujing want of him?

Obedience. Submission. 

Zuko’s eyes widened. 

He…

He knew the answer.

It tasted like bile.

“Whatever you feel is best, master.”

Bujing hummed, pleased.

And Zuko avoided the whip.

But there was no avoiding the fact the pride he’d held onto all this time…

It was no more.

xxx

Every day was different depending on Bujing’s schedule, but Zuko had the morning routine figured out.

He woke up with the sun every day and was released from his room and allowed to wash up in the small slave quarters bathroom, and every fourth day he was allotted time to use the bath. Zuko both appreciated and dreaded those days as the water was freezing cold — and any attempts to heat it were met with the taste of the whip (heating it with his breath) or with the potential to burn his hands and feet from melting gold so Zuko refrained) and it stung open wounds and made the burns ache with a new fire. 

Following the bathroom he was escorted by a guard to the kitchen where he and the other slaves — none of them spoke but Zuko had determined based on appearance the two woman were sisters formerly of the Earth Kingdom and the man looked to be Fire Nation — were fed a simple meal but it was at least filling and not table scraps. He supposed Bujing needed his slaves, no matter what abuse he put them through, to be able to not just survive but look presentable.

Especially Zuko.

Because Zuko was Bujing’s new favorite status symbol.

And Zuko was finding he was less of a servant and more of a…

A display. 

It was humiliating.

At least when he was doing something — cleaning or sorting office supplies, assisting one of the sisters in the kitchen when Bujing had no appointments or need of him, even holding the damn tea tray — he felt like he was doing something, at least had something to concentrate on.

But most times…

Most times Bujing just wanted him visible as he did business and held meetings and would find every opportunity for Zuko to call him master and bow to him. 

Look at his ex-prince, he’d smirk, showing him off with his hands often landing on Zuko’s shoulders or face and…

And his scar.

He loved to touch Zuko’s scar, to grip his chin and angle his face so it was in clear view.

The mark of Zuko’s greatest shame.

He even let his visitors touch Zuko too, trailing fingers over his scar, over the stubble of his hair, sometimes down now scarred arms and, Zuko flushed in remembrance, the one middle-aged woman who had slid her hands down his tunic and over his stomach.

Bujing hadn’t stopped her and Zuko hadn’t dared to try as he’d seen the more he reacted negatively to something the more likely Bujing was to employ it again.

But as much as Bujing liked to show Zuko off he seemed to like one thing even more.

Punishing him. 

The only part of Zuko that remained untouched was his face — luckily for Zuko it was too valuable to ruin, Bujing told him — other than occasionally pressing heated fingers to his scar that did no lasting damage.

But those touches…

Zuko was more terrified of them than any other punishment because pain, no matter how intense, was fleeting.

Fear was not.

No matter how hard he tried he always flinched away from the sight of an open flame by his face, dancing in the corner of his eye and sometimes he could hear phantom screams of the past echoing in his head when the flames brushed against skin, singed newly-growing hair, and Bujing would not release him until he’d begged.

Zuko did.

He hated himself every time.

He hated how, how weak he sounded. 

It was why he tried his best not to scream, to not give Bujing any further satisfaction.

But… 

But he wasn’t entirely sure that’s all it was.

And that scared him too.

Because even when he was alone in his quarters…

He did not speak.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d spoken that wasn’t a scream, wasn’t a ragged sob he couldn’t hold back, and wasn’t a “yes, master,” “as you wish, master,” “please, master,” “I’m sorry, master,” or any words Bujing requested he speak as he held flames to his face.

It had been by his count at most three weeks and already…

Already he was losing himself.

And adding to that  Zuko knew was the fact he had not firebended, not really outside of some hot breaths and expanding the barest trickle of warmth from his fingertips, now in almost  two months, between being a prisoner on Azula’s ship and his time here.

He could feel his inner flame flickering.

He could feel his strength fading day over day that no amount of sunlight could fix, not with the constant trips to the freezer (Bujing’s wife’s, or as he was ordered to call her Mistress, favorite punishment). 

And it terrified him.

They had taken his future.

His freedom.

His pride.

And now...

Apparently they could take his firebending too.

And eventually…

They would take his life.

And the fact he wasn’t terrified by that…

Was perhaps the most terrifying thing of all.

Chapter Text

Zuko hated trips into town.

They didn’t scare him like some of Bujing’s punishments did, but…

They did cement his position as being viewed as an object at every turn.

And the objectification only grew as his hair did.

The amount of people — women and men — that would come up to him, pet his hair, cup his face, make lewd comments either to him or to Bujing about Zuko’s appearance, how even as an ex-prince he must be so endowed, made his face flame no matter how many times it happened.

And he hated how… how grateful he was to the fact that Bujing nor his wife or their son had ever acted upon any of those comments.

It didn’t make them any easier to hear.

It didn’t make him feel any less small.

And pulling away only made them more aggressive, more forceful, and he could always expect punishment.

Sometimes Bujing even punished him at the market.

And that was mortifying as he would be whipped or beaten in plain view, sometimes other townspeople being invited to do so, held down, hair yanked and twisted, and flames dancing in front of his face.

And even on the days that there were no punishments, no touches…

He was on the leash.

Always on the leash, pulled along behind Bujing like a beast and sometimes laden down with packages and purchases like a rhino-mule and Zuko knew not to drop them. 

Bujing enjoyed taking both tea and dinner at various establishments, but slaves were not allowed inside of them.

So Zuko’s leash was hooked on a peg — one he could so so easily reach up and take off and then flee but he didn’t — outside and he was forced to stand there, sometimes for hours.

On nice days it wasn’t terrible as other than catcalls and snide comments no one actually touched him without Bujing’s allowance and the sun felt good, but on the rainy, cold days?

It was miserable.

And the fact that freedom was right there and Zuko didn’t a least take a chance on it?

Pathetic.

He was pathetic.

Uncle, he always reminded himself. He stayed for Uncle.

Anything for Uncle.

He had to keep Uncle safe.

xxx

Uncle was dead.

Zuko wasn’t supposed to know. 

But he had overheard one of the townspeople talking about the execution of the Dragon of the West as he waited outside the teashop for Bujing.

Uncle was dead.

Uncle was dead.

Uncle was dead. 

Uncle had been dead.

He’d apparently been executed a week ago for treason.

And Bujing…

He hadn’t told Zuko.

He never would have.

Because Zuko obeyed with the threat of Uncle’s life.

But Uncle was dead.

And Zuko…

Zuko had nothing left to lose.

His eyes lifted to the hook his leash was attached to.

His heart roared in his ears.

He lifted a trembling hand. 

He pulled the chain free.

And he ran. 

xxx

Zuko screamed. 

The fire didn’t lift away, scorching the bottoms of already flayed open feet, two guards holding him down as Bujing applied the torch. 

He thought he could run away? Bujing had sneered. He thought he could escape the island?

He was wrong.

And Bujing…

He was right.

There was nowhere for Zuko to run.

Nowhere he could escape.

Because there was nowhere he could go that would let him escape the pain of failure.

Of how because of him Uncle was dead.

He’d failed Uncle.

And now Uncle was dead.

And Zuko…

He didn’t know what he was living for.

xxx

Zuko didn’t try to run away again.

He did try to escape.

It was the honorable thing to do. 

A life for a life.

And, selfishly, the only way Zuko would ever be free again.

One of the guards had stopped him before Zuko could even do much more than cut a hair-thin line across his throat, a blast of fire scorching his fingers wrapped around the knife hilt.

It wouldn’t have mattered.

Because as soon as Zuko had felt the blade taste blood he’d stopped.

He couldn’t do it.

He had nothing left to live for and yet…

He was a coward.

He was a failure.

And now everyone truly knew how weak he was.

xxx

Zuko stopped trying to count the days.

What was a day in a lifetime of servitude?

What did it matter?

He went through the motions expected of him.

He did everything asked of him.

He did not speak.

He did not move until commanded.

He thought at the very least such might help him avoid pain as while he didn’t fear it he didn’t like it.

It didn’t.

For some reason his obedience seemed to make Bujing angry.

It made him punish Zuko even when he hadn’t done anything wrong.

It was confusing.

Zuko couldn’t summon the energy figure out why.

He couldn’t summon the energy to be embarrassed at the touches, at the comments both at the household and in town.

He couldn’t even summon up fear as flames danced in front of his eyes, as he felt the faint flickers that were left of his inner fire fade.

He was just…

He was tired.

And he just wanted to sleep.

Sleep was the only escape he had. 

No pain. Too tired to dream.

Just nothingness.

And Zuko welcomed it with open arms.

xxx

“—fresh from the ocean, only ten—”

“— Ju-Li, hurry! Our reservation at—”

“—stupid, worthless, excuse for a slave!—” 

“—are exquisite, I love the turquoise—”

The sounds of the market washed over Zuko as he waited for Bujing to finish his discussion with one of the jewelry vendors; people talking, wares and money being exchanged, the occasional beating and, if he really listened hard sometimes the soft crash of the waves slapping against the docks on the outskirts.

He kept his head bowed and concentrated on the sensation of the sun. It was both comforting and painful, lighting up new burns up and down his arms from that morning.

Zuko focused on the positive sensation, the gentle warmth, one of the few good ones he felt these days.

He went back to listening to the random snatches of conversation and sounds.

“—need two pounds of—” 

“—mommy, please, I need it!”

“— this isn’t right.”   

The last snippet had him straightening as it sounded…

Different.

Hushed, he placed.

The female’s voice was hushed.

As was the male one answering it.

“I know, Katara, but there’s nothing we can do right now.”

A sigh.

“I know. It’s just… that man… And everyone was just watching. ”

Ah.

Zuko knew who these people were now.

Visitors.

They didn’t get too many as the town survived on its wealthy inhabitants and only had imports, not exports, but for anyone coming from the central or colonized parts of the Fire Nation where slaves did not exist he knew it could be jarring, especially if they’d just witnessed a beating.

“Come on,” the male’s voice sounded again, closer. “We need to finish getting the supplies and hurry back before Toph goes and does something—”

The male cut off with a sharp gasp.

“Sokka, what is—?”

The female broke off with a sort of choking noise.

“No way,” the male muttered. “It’s not… It can’t be…”

“Tui and La,” the female whispered, her voice wavering. “Zuko ?”

Zuko’s head jerked up at the sound of his name.

Standing a few feet away were a fellow teenage boy and girl; siblings, he’d gather, given their matching dark skin and brown hair and…

His own breath hitched.

Blue eyes.

And even though it had been… been so long (how long? How long ago had been the invasion of the Northern Water Tribe?) and he’d only ever seen them in blue clothes, not red, hair pulled back, not thick and long, he knew these people.

They traveled with the Avatar.

The waterbender and her brother. 

“Zuko,” the waterbender repeated, taking a step forward, hand extended — and it was shaking — and Zuko…

He took one back, heart thudding and pulse roaring in his ears.

No.

What…

What were they doing here?

How were they here?

What did they—?

“Zuko!” Bujing’s voice was sharp and accompanied by a yank on his leash, tightening the collar, and Zuko was jerked forward, choking. “Where do you—?”

He interrupted himself as he exited the stall and caught sight of the two Water Tribe siblings, still staring and the girl’s hand still extended that she was slowly lowering back down.

To a pouch on her hip.

Danger, Zuko’s brain yelled.

And yet…

His pulse continued to thud.

Bujing’s hands descended from behind on Zuko’s shoulders, squeezing deceptively gently. “My my,” he said, voice soft, and tickling the back of Zuko’s ear, “and who might you be?”

“Who are you?” the boy fired back, rudely, but Bujing just chuckled.

“General Bujing,” he introduced himself. “And I am quite interested to know how it is you know my slave. It has been quite some time since,” one of his hands rose, cupping the side of Zuko’s cheek and Zuko was alarmed to feel it heating both beneath the touch and the way the siblings’ eyes widened, “I’ve seen this sort of reaction from him.”

“We don’t,” the girl said quickly. 

Too quickly.

“What my sister means is,” the boy said, “is we’re not really supposed to know him. Our parents were, er, cooks at the palace and we saw Zuko a few times there. Kind of a pompous jerk,” his lips quirked into a smirk that didn’t meet his eyes. “Prince Ponytail we called him. But you know,” he gave an easy natured shrug, “colonials and royalty don’t really mix, so…”

Zuko felt some of Bujing’s tension leave at the response even if his confusion only grew. They obviously couldn’t say they were with the Avatar but they weren’t…

They weren’t acting like they were the enemy.

...were they?

“We’re definitely surprised to see him here though,” the boy continued and despite the casual tone there was something calculating in his eyes. 

It reminded Zuko of Uncle.

The pang that shot through his chest had him sucking in another breath.

He hadn’t thought of Uncle in forever either.

What was happening? 

“Apparently news moves rather slowly in the colonies,” Bujing sniffed, his disdain clear but his suspicion gone. “Our esteemed Fire Lord Ozai gifted me his disowned son nearly six months ago to use as my personal slave. It took a little work, but,” his hand tightened on Zuko’s shoulder, “he has been properly yoked. With of course,” his fingers ghosted down Zuko’s arm to one of his most recent burns, “a little encouragement.”

“Of course,” the boy echoed, voice curtly polite and Zuko wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, nor the girl’s eyes tracing the burns and welts visible on his arms and her expression narrowing with each one.

His chest twinged again.

It scared him.

Because he had become used to the numbness, the nothingness. He’d found what little comfort he could in it.

And these two… they couldn’t just come in here and take that from him. 

They couldn’t…

They couldn’t give him hope. 

“What exactly did Zuko do to become a slave?” the girl asked. “It must have been something terrible for Fire Lord Ozai to,” her voice caught, “disown him.”

“Our esteemed Fire Lord does not tolerate failure,” Bujing said. “And this boy is the embodiment of it. Isn’t that right, Zuko?”

The hand tightened on his shoulder, an indication he was to respond.

Zuko cast his eyes down, feeling pink restrain his cheeks as he whispered, “Yes, master.”

The girl made another choking noise. 

Zuko’s cheeks flamed more.

“Well, um,” the boy spoke, “we’d best be going. It was—”

“Oh no,” Bujing interrupted him. “I must insist you accompany me home for tea. Mister…”

“Wang Fire,” the boy said and Zuko knew without a doubt that was not his real name. “And my sister, Sapphire Fire. And that’s very generous of you, General, but we don’t wish to impose.”

“Nonsense. I insist.”

It was clear it was not a request.

Zuko lifted his eyes to see the siblings exchanging a glance before the girl nodded and then the boy.

“We accept your generous invitation,” the girl said, bowing her head. “But…”

“But?” Bujing said, voice deceptively light.

“My brother didn’t want to overstep, General, given our own status, but… would he be able to…?” she inclined her head towards the leash wrapped around Bujing’s hand on Zuko’s shoulder.

Bujing chuckled and just like that the tension left him again. “Of course. Here you are, young man.”

He held out Zuko’s lead.

Not-Wang took it in his hand and immediately gave a sharp jerk on it, dragging Zuko forward and choking him as he crashed into the other boy.

A hot breath ghosted over his ear, audible over Zuko’s wheeze.

“Hold on.”

Zuko’s breath hitched for a different reason.

What?

What did that…?

Louder he said, “How do you like that, Prince Ponytail?” and gave another yank on the lead before he turned with a wide grin to Bujing. “I believe you said something about tea?”

Zuko had no idea what exactly was going on, what the whispered words had meant, as they all began to make for Bujing’s house.

But while he knew it was dangerous, knew hope could be the cruelest torture…

For the first time in forever, deep inside he felt...

He felt a spark.

And a spark was all it took to light a fire.