Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Thank you, Katara.”

“I think I’m the one who should be thanking you.”

For what, exactly, Zuko isn’t entirely sure. It’s Katara who brought him back from the edge, Katara who coaxed her healing water over his blistering chest. It’s Katara who cradles his head now as he struggles to stand, who braces him as pain shoots through his abdomen and he stumbles forward—who somehow, miraculously, managed to stop his homicidal sister from finishing the job she started.

They watch as Azula thrashes against her chains, remnants of her blue fire scorching the ground in desperate bursts. Zuko knows this is the most he could’ve hoped for, the three of them more or less in one piece, yet it doesn’t feel anything like a victory. He wraps his arm tighter around his middle, whether to steel himself against the effects of his sister’s lighting or her keening wails, he can’t say.

“…Sir?”

The head Fire Sage strides across the courtyard towards them, the others following a few beats behind. Zuko tries to stand taller, tries to square his shoulders, and just barely suppresses a gasp as the slight motion sparks fresh heat in his chest.

Zuko sees the man’s eyes flit from Katara’s hand hovering defensively over her waterskin, to Azula’s crumpled form, back to him. Usually, the Fire Sages are stern, authoritative, self-assured, so much so that it takes him a moment to fully recognize the fear in the Sage’s eyes. The hesitancy holding the rest of them back.

“Sir,” he starts again. “Forgive me—Your Highness. By our law—by Fire Nation custom—you are the rightful winner of the Agni Kai.” With shaky hands, the Sage makes the symbol of the flame, bows so low that his pointed hat nearly falls off. “The throne is yours, Prince Zuko.”

“Thank you.” Zuko manages a nod and a smile, hoping it doesn’t look like a grimace. He tries not to lean too hard on Katara’s steadying hand at his back.

“Your Highness,” another Sage says as he steps forward, voice trembling. “What would you have us do with the princess?”

By now, Azula’s shrieks have died down to whimpers. Her body shivers like an injured animal, frail and helpless. He can’t remember his sister ever looking so small, not even in his mother’s arms as they played on the beaches of Ember Island—

“Shall we take her to the prison tower, your Highness?”

Zuko’s heart twists painfully in his chest. “No,” he says firmly, ignoring the way Katara’s hand tenses behind him. He tries for a deep, steadying breath. Too deep—he immediately regrets it as his lungs catch fire and he forces back a cough. “Not yet. Please. What she needs right now is a healer, not a prison cell.”

“As you wish.” The head Sage bows again, and the others move in unison toward Azula. “And—and you, your Highness?” he adds hesitantly.

“Me?”

“Will you be coming with us? To the infirmary?”

Zuko shakes his head, and the world starts spinning. He lets himself lean back against Katara, just until the spots clear from his vision. “No. Thank you.” He tries for another smile, easier this time. “I’m in good hands.”

“Very well,” the head Sage says with a final bow. “It is an honor to serve you, Prince Zuko.”

It’s only when the Fire Sages are completely out of sight, Azula in tow, that Zuko exhales. He slumps involuntarily into Katara and of course she’s ready to catch him, as if she’s been expecting this all along.

“I’m fine,” Zuko pants, even though his legs aren’t quite cooperating. “Sorry. Just dizzy. That’s all.”

Katara’s not buying it. “You really need to lie down.”

“Just—just for a few minutes,” he concedes, and maybe he should’ve put up more of a fight, because judging by Katara’s face, actually agreeing to rest might be the most worrying sign he could’ve given her.

They mean to head for the servants’ quarters—close by, Zuko reasons, and not where anyone still loyal to his father would expect to find them—but soon, it’s all too clear that they’re not making it past the courtyard. Katara is practically dragging him, with his arm slung over her shoulders and her hand wrapped around his waist, and yet within moments, Zuko’s brow is already slick with sweat, his legs shaking, his heart fluttering frantically.

By the time Katara manages to prop him up against a pillar at the courtyard’s edge, the agony in his chest has returned in full force, radiating out to his limbs with each pulse. Zuko tries to catch his breath but it’s coming in ragged gasps that set his lungs on fire. Carefully, gently, Katara peels back his tattered robes to reveal the angry, raw red splatter across his front. The all-too-familiar, acrid smell of burnt flesh hits him, makes his eyes water, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut.

He listens for the faint whirring of her healing water, its white-blue light shining through his eyelids. Coolness meets the burn and he waits for the relief, just like it came before…

“…There. Does that feel any better?”

“Uh.”

Is that it? He pries open his good eye to find Katara watching him, hopeful and expectant. He shifts as much as he dares, testing, and hides an ill-timed wince. “A—a little.”

Zuko’s always been a terrible liar.

Luckily, by now, Katara knows better than to trust him.

It isn’t a total lie, he thinks as she coats her hands in water again and gets back to work. The throbbing has definitely subsided, now only a lingering ache, but the first time Katara healed him, he could’ve sworn it had disappeared entirely. At any rate, he doesn’t think he could make himself stand again now, not even if the Sages came back to check on him.

Something is wrong. Something is wrong, but he can’t disappoint Katara, not when she’s hovering over him, determined to fix his irreparably broken body. She works wordlessly, her brow furrowed in concentration, and for a long time, the only sounds are the movement of her water and his shallow breaths.

Then, a third sound, at first so faint that Zuko thinks he must be imagining it. But no, it’s growing, that distinct mechanical thrumming that could only mean one thing, and when he looks up, sure enough—

An airship. Zuko’s heart stutters, enough for Katara to gasp. It’s still too far away to tell, but if it’s his father’s, if he’s already coming home after burning the Earth Kingdom to the ground—

He has to tell Katara to run, to leave the city while she still can, but the words die in his throat as he watches the single dot of the airship become two. The second dot hurtles towards them, taking shape, and if Zuko squints…

“Katara,” he rasps, “is that—?”

Her head snaps up, following his eye line, and then—

“AANG!”

She sprints towards the Avatar as his glider swoops down into the courtyard. In one fluid motion, he lands and takes her into his arms, sweeps her off her feet, both of them laughing and crying and—uh, aren’t they a bit young for that? Even so, Zuko can hardly blame Katara. Not that he ever doubted Aang, but it’s still a relief to see the little monk here, alive and whole and well.

From this distance, Zuko can’t hear what Katara says, but by the way Aang’s gaze immediately meets his, he has a pretty good guess. Judging by the airbender’s face as he hurries towards him, maybe Zuko looks even worse than he feels.

“Hey, buddy,” Aang says as he kneels at Zuko’s side, Katara at the other. Both sets of eyes flicker briefly to the blistering chest wound.

“Knew you’d come back.” Zuko smiles weakly. “Did we…did we win?”

Aang nods. “We did. It’s over.”

Zuko exhales shakily. “And…the Fire Lord?”

“I took his bending away,” Aang says, and Zuko’s eyes widen. Could he really do that? “He won’t ever hurt anyone, ever again.”

Zuko huffs a laugh. Leave it to Aang to find the vegetarian way to end a hundred years of war.

“Like I said,” he says faintly, “you’re a talented kid.”

Aang preens at the compliment, though the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Are the others…?”

“Everyone’s okay,” Aang reassures him, “just landing the airship. When we saw you two down here, I flew ahead because, uh, I couldn’t wait,” he finishes sheepishly.

The hand he places Zuko’s shoulder is feather-light, as if afraid of hurting him. His eyes drop again to his chest and he knows Aang is thinking of the matching scar on his back, that firework mark that could only mean—

Katara’s eyes are brimming. Zuko shakes his head to stop her, and the world starts spinning again, and Agni, he has to remember not to do that. He tries to clear his head with a deep breath, only to set off a chain of coughs that rack his body.

By the time the coughs subside, something has steeled in Katara’s expression. “Let’s try to get you inside again,” she says matter-of-factly, the healer in her clearly taking over.

Without another word, the two wrap their arms under him and lift, and Zuko can’t even bring himself to try to protest. Katara keeps one glowing hand pressed to his middle in an attempt to mitigate the pain he’ll feel from the jostling. Even so, every movement sends ripples along the charred, jagged edges of his chi paths, and he has to grit his teeth to keep from crying out. They move silently through the halls, scanning for any sign of trouble, but it seems the entire palace is deserted.

Mercifully, the servants’ quarters are unlocked. The door hangs slightly ajar, as if its last occupants had left in a hurry. Katara and Aang lower him gently into the nearest of the four beds, propping him up against the pillows. Katara settles in to resume her healing as Aang moves to close the door behind them, but his hand freezes at the distant scuffle of approaching footsteps. He tenses, ready to defend at a moment’s notice, listening closely for who it could be—

Which turns out to be unnecessary, because these three voices aren’t even trying to be quiet.

“—whole place is a maze, I’m telling you, we’ve already been down this way—“

“We have not! My instincts tell me—“

“I told you noodle-brains, I can feel them! They’re right—“

“Over here!” Aang calls out, and then Toph, Sokka, and Suki are skidding to a halt in the doorway, sweaty and panting but beaming anyway.

They pile into the room, and Zuko can only watch helplessly as one by one, their eyes land on him and their smiles falter. Now it’s five of them crowded around his bed and suddenly he’s back in that group hug on Ember Island again, only days ago, and yet he hadn’t been sure if he’d ever see them again, but here they are, all in one piece—

Well, almost all of them.

“What happened to your leg?”

“Ugh!” Sokka rolls his eyes so hard, he might have seen his brain. He’s been using Suki’s shoulder for balance, but now he hops towards Zuko, leaning on the bed. “You’re the worst, you know that? Worried about my leg, when you’re…you’re…” He flails his arms about, coming up empty.

Toph steps forward to put her small hand on the bedframe. She frowns, no doubt sensing his erratic, disorganized heartbeat.

When she speaks, her voice is softer than he’s ever heard it. “Zuko, what happened?”

“Azula,” he says simply. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

Katara’s mouth opens in disapproval because clearly, that is not the entire story, but Sokka cuts in. “You can heal him, though, right?” he pleads.

“I’m not sure,” she says slowly. Once again, her hands assess the damage in his torso. In the few minutes since she last healed him, the ache has returned, pounding in his ears. “It’s…different. It’s not like last time.” Her voice trembles. “The damage is spreading. I can slow it down, but…”

She can’t stop it.

She looks at Zuko warily, gauging his reaction, but it’s nothing he didn’t already know.

“What are you saying?” Sokka demands. “Can’t you, I don’t know—?”

“I’m trying everything I can,” she whispers shakily.

Zuko nods his understanding, tries to reassure her, because of course she is. It’s unfair that she’s their only healer, unfair that they depend on her for so much. It’s not right, but he knows she’ll blame herself when he’s gone.

It probably shouldn’t be this easy to accept, his own fate, but if it had to be any one of them, then isn’t it only fair that it’s him? The one whose country, whose psychotic family started this entire spirits-damned war in the first place? If it had been anyone else—if it was Katara lying in the bed instead of him—he wouldn’t be able to live with himself, anyway.

“Spirit water!”

Everyone’s heads snap up to see Aang’s eyes wide, mid-epiphany.

“Spirit water,” he repeats when it’s clear no one is following him. “From the North Pole. Don’t you see? That’s what’s different than last time, Katara! You used spirit water when you saved me.” He’s talking faster with his growing excitement. “We need to get Zuko to the Spirit Oasis!”

He moves as if to pick Zuko up again, only for Katara to stop him with a firm grip on his arm. “We can’t move him.”

“Why not?” he asks, bewildered. “It’s his only chance!”

“Aang, you saw yourself how hard it was just to get him in here. If we try to take him halfway across the world? On Appa? He’s not going to make it.”

Katara’s right. On a good day, Zuko’s lucky if the turbulence doesn’t make him airsick, but now?

“Besides,” she continues, “even if he did make it there, I don’t know if…”

“The Northern Water Tribe might not be willing to help him,” Sokka finishes for her. He’s not looking at any of them, only gazing out the window at the cloudless night sky.

Sokka’s right, too, and they all know it. Zuko would hardly blame the Water Tribe, not after his country attacked them with an entire fleet of battleships. Saving the Fire Nation’s prince, after the death of their princess, with healing water from the oasis he himself invaded? Not likely.

“Aang.” Only now does he realize how long it’s been since he’s spoken. His voice is breathy and weak and he has to stifle the cough bubbling in his throat. “You have to go alone.”

The airbender frowns. “But if I go alone, it’ll take twice as long.” Off the top of his head, Zuko doesn’t know how far away the North Pole is, let alone what that distance translates to in flying bison travel time—hours? Days?

Does he have days?

Zuko strains to take hold of the hand hanging at Aang’s side. It takes considerable effort, sending a jolt through his shoulder, but it’s worth it for the small smile he gets in return. “You can do it,” he murmurs. “I trust you.”

Finally, after a resigned sigh, Aang nods. “I won’t let you down,” he says with one last squeeze of his hand. “I promise.” And then, with a gentle gust of wind, he’s gone.

Chapter Text

Zuko remembers a time, in the not-so-distant past, when Katara wanted absolutely nothing to do with him. A time when he would have given anything for her to sit next to him around the campfire at the Western Air Temple, for her to look at him with something other than those icy daggers. It’s almost funny, now, how reluctant she is now to take her eyes off him for a second, even as the dark circles steadily grow underneath them. Funny, considering how much convincing it takes for her to finally take a break from healing him and get some rest, yes he’ll be fine, yes he’s sure, yes he’ll wake her right away if anything changes.

She passes out the minute her head hits the pillow of the bed nearest him in their commandeered servants’ room. Suki and Toph, on the other hand, announce that they’re going to round up and interrogate the palace’s remaining guards—at least, the ones that Azula hasn’t banished—to determine which ones can be trusted. They offer to swing by the kitchens on their way out, but the thought of food turns Zuko’s stomach, so he politely declines.

Which leaves Sokka to keep an eye on Zuko. To everyone’s surprise, Sokka also turns down the prospect of dinner. Instead, he pulls up two chairs to his bedside, one for him and one for his splinted leg. Zuko drifts in and out of a fitful sleep, and each time he wakes, the Water Tribesman is hovering over him, wiping the sweat from his brow or coaxing sips of water into his mouth. Each time, the worry wrinkle between the boy’s eyebrows is deeper than before, and Zuko has the irrational urge to reach up and smooth it away. His arms are made of lead, though, so it’s out of the question for multiple reasons. The next time he’s awake for more than a few moments, he decides to try for the next best thing.

“Sokka?”

The boy immediately snaps to attention. “What hurts?”

“Noth—“ he says quickly, but the feeble lie dies in his throat at the unimpressed look Sokka gives him. “I mean, nothing new?”

Sokka snorts as he eases back into his chair. “Good save. Real convincing.”

Zuko tries again. “I mean, uh, it’s not that. I just…wanted to talk to you. About something.”

A curious look crosses Sokka’s expression, one Zuko can’t quite place. “What’s up?”

Zuko’s never been very good with words. The ideas always make sense in his head—at least, they’re grammatically correct, complete sentences—but once they come out of his mouth? Ugh. For what seems like the millionth time, Zuko tries to imagine what Uncle would say. Somehow, he doesn’t think his Silver Sandwich metaphor will make more sense the second time around.

Maybe this time, less is more. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Sokka quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? Since when were you an optimist?”

“I’m not.” Zuko tries to sit up straighter, but a familiar ache shoots through his shoulder. Immediately, Sokka is at his side again, bracing his arm as he settles back against the pillows. “If something happens to me—“

“Whoa, there.” Sokka’s grip on his arm tightens. “Pretty sure that’s like, the polar opposite of things being ‘okay,’ dude.”

“No, I know, just—“ He takes as deep a breath as he dares. Exhales carefully. “If. If something happens, my uncle—“

“Oh!” Sokka’s free hand smacks his forehead with a loud thwack! “Knew I was forgetting—when you woke up, I was supposed to—don’t tell Katara, okay?” He’s rambling now, voice ratcheting into that familiar, frantic octave. “We sent a hawk out to your uncle as soon as we could. He’s probably on his way here now! I mean, he was already on his way over, I think, but I’m not sure if—“

“Sokka.” Agni, does the boy ever stop talking?

He does, finally, with an apologetic smile.

“Listen.” Suddenly, the effort of stringing words together almost seems like too much. “If something happens, my uncle—I know he said he wouldn’t come back. But.” He has to stop to catch his breath again. “He would. If he needed to. So.”

“Why…what are you saying?”

“So…so you don’t have to worry,” he finishes plainly. “About… who will take the throne. It’ll be okay.”

He’d been expecting relief, but instead, Sokka’s face crumples into something unreadable. He waits for something, anything, and then his heart lurches, because—is Sokka crying? He didn’t mean to upset him, he wanted—

“Do you really think,” he says slowly, “that that’s what anyone’s worried about right now?”

“Uh.” For a moment, Zuko is a child again, squirming in front of his expectant tutors, scrambling for an answer and coming up empty. Hasn’t the entire point of, well, everything—the hundred-year war, that invasion during the eclipse, Aang mastering all the elements before the comet—hasn’t it all been to “defeat the Fire Lord?” Replace him with someone less genocidal? If not that, then what—?

“It’s you, you idiot,” Sokka says with a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob. His gaze meets Zuko’s, so imploring and honest that he can’t look away. “We’re worried about you. And not as…as the ‘replacement Fire Lord,’ or ‘Aang’s firebending teacher,’ or…or anything. Just you.” Sokka takes his hand in both of his and squeezes. “We care about you, Zuko. I care about you.”

“Oh.” Zuko tries and fails to swallow the lump growing in his throat. “I, uh. Thanks.” Hot pricks form in his eyes, and the warmth of Sokka’s calloused hands makes him realize how cold his own have become. He squeezes back, hoping it’s strong enough for Sokka to feel. “Means a lot.”

“Jerk,” Sokka mutters, but Zuko knows he doesn’t mean it by the way he traces small, soothing circles into his hand, coaxing heat back to his fingertips.

How weird, he thinks, that even after everything, even after being shot full of lightning, this is the best Zuko has felt since…well. Maybe this is the best he’s ever felt. He allows himself to indulge in the feeling, eyes drooping as relaxation washes over him, and with Sokka at his side, he doesn’t even mind.

Just as he’s about to slip back into unconsciousness, though, a new wrinkle occurs to him. If finding a replacement Fire Lord had been the problem, Zuko had an easy fix. Problem solved.

Saving his own life? Not so simple.

Something is really, really wrong.

He’s on fire. He’s burning alive, but this time it’s not just his face, it’s his whole body and his chest searing white-hot and he needs help, he gasps but his lungs are exploding and the air doesn’t come because he’s drowning, pressure crushing him as he sinks down down down

Voices call his name from the surface, muffled by the water and the growing distance. Zuko opens his eyes and colorless, fuzzy shapes swim in his vision. Everything is too bright, too fast, he can just barely catch the fragments of the frantic sounds—

“Katara! His heart—“

“Do something, please, you have to—“

“—can’t—only one thing—don’t know if it would work—“

“—please, Katara, try—!”

“Hold on, Zuko—“

And then it’s over. He takes one greedy breath, then another, extinguishing the flames in his body as the waters slowly, mercifully recede, the roaring agony dulling to a thin whisper. He blinks until the figures before him take on the shape of the four friends crowded around him in various stages of panic.

“Zuko, can you hear us?”

He hums faintly, his brain too sluggish to form words.

It’s enough for the rest of them, though, their faces breaking into relief.

“You’re all right,” Sokka murmurs, brushing the hair out of Zuko’s eyes with a shaky hand. “Scared us there, buddy.”

“What…happened?”

“You had a heart attack.” By the waver in Toph’s voice, Zuko knows she must have been the one to notice it first, the deafening silence where his heartbeat should have been.

“But you’re okay now,” Sokka insists. “You did it.”

“Actually,” Suki says softly, “I think Katara’s the one we should be thanking.”

Only now does Zuko notice how uncharacteristically quiet the waterbender has been. Only now does he see the look on her face, focused and drawn, a tear falling from the corner of her eye. Only now does he realize that her hand is hovering over his chest, the fluid motion of her wrist in perfect sync with his own faint pulse.

He’s only seen her do it once before, on a Fire Nation soldier she thought had killed her mother. He knows she hated doing it, reaching inside someone to control them. He understands why she hates it, can’t say that he envies her that power, even if it is incredible.

So, he knows what it costs her to do this for him, to bend her will over his muscles and veins and keep his heart beating. For her to save his life, not for the first time today.

“Yeah! Proud of ya, baby sis,” Sokka says, beaming triumphantly. “Who knew that old Hama’s trick would save the day, eh?”

“Thank you,” he sighs, knowing it’s not nearly enough.

Katara smiles softly at him, but there’s an odd look behind her eyes, and Zuko knows why. He doesn’t dare voice it, though, not until the others relax and go back to their beds, the immediate crisis apparently over. He can’t say it out loud until it’s just the two of them again, and the truth has settled heavy in his stomach.

“You can’t keep this up forever.”

“I don’t have to,” she says firmly. “Aang will be back any minute.”

Time slips by in an undefined haze. Zuko halfheartedly tries to count the hours, only to realize it doesn’t really matter. If he wants, he’s sure he could ask one of them long it’s been since the comet passed. Even so, none of them knows how long a trip to and from the North Pole will take.

He finds other things to count instead. He counts the rises and falls of Sokka’s chest as he dozes. He counts the bowls of soup and rice Suki retrieves from the kitchen. He counts the different shapes Toph bends with her meteor bracelet.

Most of all, he counts the pulses of Katara’s hand over his chest, the artificial beats of his failing heart, because they’re numbered. He knows Katara can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t relax, not even for a moment, not if she wants to keep him alive. She’s the only one who can—for some reason, Zuko highly doubts her old bloodbending teacher, the one who kidnapped Fire Nation villagers, would be very willing to step in to save the future Fire Lord.

Now that Katara is keeping his heartbeat steady, the pain has subsided to nothing more than a dull ache. He still can’t do much on his own, the simplest movements seeming to sap all his energy, but if he just lies there, the discomfort is almost an afterthought. Instead, it’s pangs of guilt in his chest now, as he watches Katara refuse the food and water the others offer her. He watches as Katara’s hair grows frizzier and the dark circles under her eyes grow darker. She’s a master, she makes it look easy, but Zuko knows how draining it must be to bend for hours on end.

“He’ll be back,” she repeats whenever she catches Zuko’s concerned gaze. “Any minute now.”

If Katara has to stop, for any reason, it’s over. She’ll keep going until Aang comes back, or until she passes out from exhaustion. Whichever comes first.

He really, really hopes Aang comes first.

“Winter, spring, summer and fall. Four seasons, fo-o-or love!”

Zuko glares up at the rusted metal ceiling of his bedroom. Agni, he has to start limiting the number of times Uncle Iroh can declare a music night on his ship. There’s no time for foolishness! There are routes to plan, scrolls to study, if he wants to capture the Avatar.

Besides, how many times can his crew stand to play the same four songs, especially that terrible one about the girls in Ba Sing Se? How many times can they bear to hear Uncle sing them?

A good leader wouldn’t let his men suffer like that. At least, not alone.

Besides. It’s a nice night.

“Ah, Prince Zuko!” Uncle calls as he emerges on deck. “We saved you a seat.”

He takes his place at Uncle’s right, where the tsungi horn waits for him. He presses his lips to the mouthpiece, but no matter how hard he tries, he can’t seem to make a sound. He blows until he’s seeing black spots, but it feels like there’s a ten-ton bison sitting on his chest, crushing his lungs.

It’s just as well, because now Uncle shifts into another song, one Zuko has never heard before. It’s a mournful tune, sad and slow, accompanied only by Lieutenant Jee’s solemn strumming. The music fills Zuko with a desperate kind of longing, though for what, he’s not sure.

Uncle’s voice cracks on one of the notes, and there are tears falling freely down his face. Something in the back of Zuko’s head tells him this is shameful weakness, that the crew will never respect such a man, but Zuko knows better. The song comes to a close, and he reaches out for his uncle.

As he wakes, the last vestiges of the dream song are still echoing in his head. For a fleeting moment, he tries to slip back into the dream, just to spend another few minutes on that deck. He must be crazy, to be missing that ship after three long years at sea, but now, what he wouldn’t give for just one more music night, one more chance to tell Uncle—

“—wish I could give you two more privacy, of course, but I can’t bloodbend his heart from more than a few feet away.”

“I understand, Miss Katara. For all you have done to help him, I am forever in your debt.” A low, rumbling voice, one he’d know anywhere—is he still dreaming?

He blinks slowly in the soft morning light. There’s the blue of Water Tribe robes, now a constant at his right side. To his left, there’s a new, familiar red.

“Uncle.”

Amber eyes meet his unfocused ones. “Zuko? Nephew, can you hear me?”

“Uncle.” He’s real, as if he stepped right out of the dream. “You…came.”

“I’m here. I’m here.” Strong, sure arms wrap around him, lifting his shoulders, pulling him close into the grizzled gray beard. He braces himself, but Uncle is so gentle with him, so careful, that the movement barely hurts at all. Zuko allows himself to be cradled like a child, to steadily soak the red robes with his tears.

“I’m sorry,” he sighs into Uncle’s shoulder.

Uncle lowers him back into the pillows, brushing hastily at his own glassy eyes. “You have nothing to be sorry for, my child.”

“No, I—“ He has to explain to Uncle, even though his breath is short and the words aren’t coming. “Tried to redirect it—like you taught me, but I failed.” Even after years of his uncle’s training, he’s once again fallen short, been bested by Azula, just like he had in front of his grandfather all those years ago—

“Zuko, you did wonderfully.” Uncle’s large, warm hands firmly grasp his own. “You saved your friend’s life. I am so proud of you.”

Part of him has known all along it had been irrational to fear Uncle’s disappointment, that his love was not conditioned on his abilities. The rest of him floods with relief.

“It hurts,” he confesses. Usually, he hates feeling like this—small, helpless, like a child—but he can’t bring himself to care anymore.

“I know, nephew, but you cannot give up now,” Uncle urges. “You must keep fighting.”

“Been fighting,” he says plaintively. “I’m tired.”

Uncle’s mouth presses firmly into a thin line as he runs fingers through Zuko’s hair gently, methodically. He’s quiet for a long time, so long that when he finally speaks again, Zuko is nearly asleep, and almost misses the whispered words.

“Then you should rest. A man needs his rest.”

She wipes the blood away quickly, but it’s a moment too late. Zuko’s seen the streak of red flowing from her nose, and he knows what he has to do.

“Katara,” he says softly.

Too softly. Her eyes don’t leave his chest, her trembling hand hovering over it.

“Katara,” he tries again.

When she meets his gaze, he realizes she heard him the first time. Her breaths are ragged now, her eyes glassy.

“I can’t let you do this,” he whispers.

“And I can’t let you die.”

He shakes his head as the others gather wordlessly around his bed. Sokka places a steadying arm on Katara’s shoulders, watching desperately. Of all people, Zuko hopes Sokka understands. Surely he wants his sister’s suffering to end, just as much as Zuko does.

“It’s okay,” he says. “You can let me go.”

Maybe, he thinks, he should say more in the way of goodbyes, but he’s never been very good with words. Even if he had the time, he could rehearse them over and over, and they still wouldn’t come out right. He hopes it’s enough to take one last, long look around at them all, lingering for an extra moment on a silently weeping Uncle, before he loses his nerve altogether.

With a monumental effort, Zuko reaches up to hold Katara’s bending hand steady in his own.

And he won’t pretend that it doesn’t hurt, as his vision blurs at the edges and his lungs deflate for the last time. But having his uncle cradling his head, his friends surrounding his bed, does make it just a bit easier for Zuko to finally, quietly, slip away.

Chapter Text

Zuko wakes up in a field.

At least, he thinks it’s a field. The grass around him is too tall and too thick to tell. Above him, the sky is the burnt yellow-orange of sunset. Perfectly clear, other than a light smattering of pretty clouds. Fluffy.

He has no idea where he is, and at the moment, he finds he doesn’t particularly care. Every muscle in his body is relaxed, as if he’s just woken up from a deep, restful sleep. He could lie here forever, if he wanted to. He just might.

He probably shouldn’t.

He props himself up on his elbows. He was partially right, at least. In one direction, a field stretches before him, rolling and dipping in gentle hills and valleys. In the other, though, is an entire, massive city, buildings and roadways and walls sprawled as far as he can see. Snaking through it all are the unmistakable arches of a monorail. It’s impossible, but if he didn’t know any better, he’d say he was in—

The memories of the last time he was here, of Earth Kingdom robes and crystal catacombs, hover just at the edge of his consciousness, threatening to bring with them the familiar pang of guilt. He wills the thoughts away, centering himself, scrubbing a hand over his face—

His smooth, unblemished face.

For a moment, his hand is frozen in place. Then his feet are under him and he’s tripping through the knee-high grass and barely registering where he’s going or what he’s looking for until he’s stumbling to the edge of a pond and dropping to his knees because it can’t be—

And yet, there it is, staring back at him. The face he hasn’t seen since he was thirteen. His fingers tremble as they take in the pale of his cheek, the curvature of his ear, his eyebrow, hardly letting himself believe it until he feels his own touch matching the reflection. The face is his— bewildered, confused, frightened, but his. Whole. Without a trace of the old scar, or the man who gave it to him.

If this is a dream, it’s the weirdest one he’s had in a long time.

If this is a dream, he doesn’t want to wake up.

He cups the cool pond water in his hands, flinching as he splashes himself. Looks back down to see the face still there, through the ripples. Smiling now, half in relief and half at his own silliness.

As he wipes his face dry with a sleeve, another thought comes to him, only half-formed. If this isn’t a dream, then what is it? Definitely not a nightmare—he’s had enough of those to know the difference. But if not, then what—

With a jolt, he remembers. He gasps as it all comes flooding back—the crackle of Azula’s lightning, the whirring of Katara’s healing water. Tentatively, he pulls away the front of his robes, and sure enough, the firework splatter is gone, too, leaving no sign that he’d burned from the inside out.

Definitely not a dream, then.

As Zuko rises to survey his surroundings, he finds himself once again wishing that he’d paid more attention to Uncle’s ramblings over the years. If he had, maybe he’d know why the Spirit World looks just like the Earth Kingdom capital. Maybe he’d know how to tell the difference between a friendly spirit and an evil one. Which would be convenient right about now, considering he’s just spotted one.

It stands at the top of a nearby hill, in the shade of a large tree, and Zuko has the unshakable feeling that it’s watching him. From this distance, it looks like a person, but he can’t tell much more than that. Curiosity getting the better of him, he takes one hesitant step toward the figure, then another. Even if it is an evil spirit, what’s it gonna do? Kill him?

As he approaches, Zuko can just make out the broad shoulders of a Fire Nation soldier’s uniform. He stops at what seems like a safe distance, just in case he needs to run. Can spirits run?

“Who’s there?” he says in what he hopes is a commanding voice.

The spirit’s laugh, warm and genuine, rings out across the field. “You mean you don’t recognize me?”

Zuko’s breath catches in his throat, because he knows that laugh. He hasn’t heard it in years, had resigned himself to never hearing it again. He walks again, faster now, until he’s sure, and then he’s running, he’s sprinting up the hill towards him and his feet can’t carry him fast enough as he cries, “Lu Ten!”

The force of Zuko’s hug knocks them both to the ground in an undignified, unprincely heap. Later on, Zuko will find it in himself to be embarrassed, but for now, they just lie there, sprawled out in the grass, the way they hadn’t since they were both kids, half laughing, half crying.

Eventually, Lu Ten is the first to gather himself. He rises, brushing himself off with one hand and offering Zuko the other.

“Is it really you?” Zuko says as he takes it, and almost immediately regrets asking. If it’s not—if this is just a figment of his imagination, or a trick of the Spirit World—

Lu Ten nods, smiling. “It’s good to see you, cousin. Although,” he adds, the smile turning sad, “I didn’t expect to see you here quite so soon.”

“Yeah, me neither,” he says wryly.

Lu Ten is hardly one to talk about dying young, though. Since his death, Zuko’s come to imagine him as a full-grown man, almost larger than life, the brave Crown Prince of the Fire Nation leading his troops into battle. To be fair, he does look just like the poster Uncle Iroh kept in their apartment above the teashop, right down to the sideburns and topknot. But only now, face-to-face with him once again, does Zuko realize that Lu Ten is no more than a few years older than him. Under the broad wings of his soldier’s uniform, he’s just barely taller than Zuko. Hardly more than a teenager.

How old had Lu Ten been when he was sent off to war? Eighteen? Twenty, maybe?

“Sorry for tackling you,” he says, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “We just missed you so much.”

“All of you?” Lu Ten says skeptically.

It occurs to Zuko that never did speak to his father about Lu Ten’s death, not really. Considering it cleared his path to the throne, he can’t imagine Ozai mourned for too long. Azula, on the other hand, had made her feelings clear. “Uh…mainly me and Uncle.”

“I’m just teasing,” Lu Ten grins easily, and the tension melts away. He ribs Zuko with a friendly, pointy elbow. “Really, though—I want to thank you for taking care of my father.”

Zuko cringes, praying inwardly that Lu Ten isn’t, like, omniscient or something. How much does he know? If he could see the way Zuko has treated his father—every sneer, every insult, Ba Sing Se—he’ll die from embarrassment. Is it possible to die twice?

“Ah—I don’t know if ‘taking care’ is the wording I’d use,” he says self-consciously.

“No?” Lu Ten raises an eyebrow. “It seems to me like you gave him someone to play pai sho with, to drink tea with, to fuss over, to tell proverbs—“

“—so many proverbs—“

“—in other words,” Lu Ten finishes, “someone to parent. Knowing my father, I think he must have missed that.”

“I definitely kept him busy.” It’s almost nice, thinking of it that way, if not for the fact that it’s no longer true. Because of him, Iroh’s lost two sons now. Why is it that no matter what he does, he’s always making Uncle’s life harder?

Thankfully, Lu Ten pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts with the sweep of a hand. “Would you like a cup of tea?” He gestures to a table set out under the tree, where a pleasantly steaming pot awaits them. “It’s jasmine—your favorite.”

“How did you know?”

“Well,” Lu Ten smiles knowingly, “it’s not called the ‘Ginseng Dragon,’ now, is it?”

To Zuko’s embarrassment, it turns out that Lu Ten is, in fact, pretty close to omniscient. Still, that doesn’t stop him from insisting that Zuko fill him in on every detail of his life since they last saw each other five years ago. He’s never been the best storyteller, stumbling through and doubling back when he’s forgotten an important part, but Lu Ten doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he just patiently sips his tea, asking the right questions at the right times. Zuko loses track of how many times he refills their cups, yet somehow, as if by magic, the pot never seems to empty, and the tea never seems to cool.

Zuko’s halfway through telling him about the giant-koi-fish-ocean-spirit, Lu Ten listening in rapt attention, when it occurs to him how much of the world he’s seen. He’s been to the North Pole and the South, the Air Temples and the Earth Kingdom palace. How much did Lu Ten get to see, beyond the Fire Nation? From what he’s heard, soldiers didn’t get much time to travel for leisure.

“So, have you seen a lot of the Spirit World?” he asks, eager to get the attention off himself.

Lu Ten shrugs. “Not much, really. I think I stay around here because it’s where I feel the most connected to the physical world. To my father, and to you.”

“We could explore it together,” Zuko offers. They have all the time in the world now, to do whatever they want. “Who knows? Maybe that giant koi fish is around here somewhere.”

“I don’t know about a koi fish,” Lu Ten says, looking at something over Zuko’s shoulder, “but how about a giant panda?”

Zuko turns to follow Lu Ten’s gaze, and sure enough, there’s a black and white bear bounding toward them. This time, it doesn’t even cross Zuko’s mind that the spirit might not be friendly. He’s too focused on the figure perched on the animal’s back, because he’d know that blue arrow anywhere.

“Aang!”

The airbender launches himself off the panda’s back to close the last few yards between them, slamming into Zuko so hard that he nearly topples over again. Aang squeezes tight, burying his face in Zuko’s sleeve, the apologies spilling out of his mouth so fast that Zuko only catches half of them. Zuko tries to reassure him, offering awkward pats on the back and insisting it’s okay, he’s fine, everything’s all right. Even so, the boy is stuck to him as if by gluebending until eventually, Zuko chuckles, “That’s enough, buddy.”

“Whoa.” As Aang pulls away, his gray eyes lock on the left side of Zuko’s face. It’s a sensation he’s used to, of course, albeit for entirely different reasons. “Zuko, you look…happy.”

With a bemused smile, he nods, realizing that it’s true. He is happy. And he’s never happy. “How are you here?” he asks incredulously.

Aang flashes a grin. “Hello? Great bridge between the worlds, remember?”

“If you say so.” It rings the faintest of bells. In another life, he locked himself away in his room to pore over mountains of scrolls, researching how he might defeat the world’s most powerful bender, the Fire Nation’s greatest threat. Now, that life is all but forgotten.

From behind him, there’s the subtle clearing of a throat, and Zuko snaps back to his senses. “Oh! Right. Aang, this is my cousin, Lu Ten, my uncle Iroh’s son. Lu Ten, this is Aang. The, uh, Avatar.”

“It’s an honor to meet you, Your Highness.” Aang bows with perfect form, his hands making the symbol of the flame.

Lu Ten returns the gesture with an amused look. “You still use the h-word, huh?”

Aang dissolves into giggles, and Zuko can’t even pretend to be annoyed. Honestly, he’s still processing the fact that he’s introducing Lu Ten and the Avatar. And, they’re getting along, even if it is at his expense. It has to be the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to him—apart from dying, of course.

“Can I offer you some tea?” Lu Ten asks, already conjuring a third cup seemingly out of thin air. Zuko makes a mental note to ask how he does that. If he’s going to be here a while, he may as well learn how Spirit World magic works.

To Zuko’s surprise, though, Aang shakes his head. “Thank you, but I think we’d better head back soon.”

Zuko pauses. Plays the words back in his mind, because surely he’s heard wrong. “’We?’”

“Uh, yeah? You and me?”

When he sees that Zuko’s confused expression remains unchanged, Aang smacks his own forehead. “Sorry—I thought I explained earlier, but I guess I wasn’t making a whole lot of sense, huh?” He smiles apologetically. “I’m here to bring you back.”

“Bring me back,” he repeats blankly.

“Yeah! I got the water from the oasis at the North Pole. Katara’s healing you now. She thinks your body will make a full recovery, but she said your spirit needed help finding its way back.”

Back. He can go back. Aang’s here to bring him back. To life. The words rattle around Zuko’s head, and individually, they make enough sense, but together—?

“That’s—that’s great.”

It is great. Right? It’s good news. It’s a miracle. It’s what they’d been hoping for, all that time in the servants’ quarters, with every beat Katara forced into his heart. Aang’s returned to save his life. Zuko should be happy. Grateful. He can go home.

So why does the idea fill him with so much dread?

“Zuko?” Lu Ten’s face is full of concern, and Zuko’s guilt multiplies. Lu Ten would’ve gone back in an instant, like the dutiful son and crown prince he was. He wouldn’t have thought twice. He’s the one that should be getting a second chance.

“I just…need a minute to think.”

“About what?” Aang squawks.

“It’s just.” Zuko starts to pace, one hand on his chin. “If I go back—“

“’If’—!”

“—there’s so much to do,” he finishes. “It’s not going to be easy.”

When he was a child, Zuko used to imagined himself someday ruling his country. Of course, that was before he’d known that would involve peace, not war. Before he somehow managed to personally invade or attack or wrong every one of the four nations. Before his father declared him a traitor, before he heard his own people cheer at his death in a play. Off the top of his head, Zuko can name about five people in the physical world who don’t actively want him dead, and his father and sister aren’t even in that count.

“You’re right. It won’t.” Lu Ten’s hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm, grinds Zuko’s pacing to a halt. “But it seems to me that you won’t have to do it alone.”

“He’s right,” Aang adds earnestly. “I’ll be with you, every step of the way.”

“But I don’t even know what I’m doing,” he confesses. What if he messes up? Agni, he’s only sixteen. He’s only been to a handful of meetings, and one in particular didn’t end very well. His fingers ghost over the smooth expanse of his left cheek. How is he supposed to heal the world when it’s been scarred by a hundred years of fighting? Maybe it would be better if he just—

“Zuko.” Aang fixes him with a solemn gaze, and he’s suddenly reminded of how wise the twelve-year-old kid can be. “It’s up to you, and I’ll respect your decision either way.” He pauses, and Zuko knows that he means it, despite the pained look in his eyes. “I just hope you know how much we all care about you.”

His chest warms as he remembers those five people that don’t want him dead. Their little found family. He thinks of Toph clinging to his arm on a sandy beach, of Sokka and Suki fighting alongside him above a boiling lake, of Katara embracing him on a sunset dock.

And he thinks of Uncle.

Uncle once told him that destiny is a funny thing. That you never know how things are going to work out, but if you keep an open mind and an open heart…

Zuko knows his own destiny. And he knows it’s not over.

But even as his resolve solidifies, even as he opens his mouth to tell Aang, he hesitates. There’s a nagging thought at the back of his mind, and he can’t leave without asking.

Zuko just wishes he could say it without sounding like a lost baby turtleduck.

“Have you seen my mother here?”

“Aunt Ursa?” Lu Ten says, his brow furrowing in confusion. “No, I haven’t. Did something happen to her?”

“I’m not sure.” The tiny spark of hope in his chest, the one ignited during the eclipse, glows just a bit brighter. “But you’d know if she was here?”

“I think so, yes.”

So she’s alive. His mother is out there, somewhere, in the physical world. Maybe she’s waiting for him.

“Okay,” Zuko finally says, nodding to Aang. “Let’s go.”

Aang visibly sags with relief. At his call, the giant panda materializes before them again, and he wastes no time in clambering aboard. He offers a hand up, and Zuko’s about to take it, when he pauses.

From the shade of the tree, Lu Ten looks on with a wistful smile. Behind him, their two teacups are still steaming on the table where they left them, and a lump forms in Zuko’s throat. Going back is the right thing to do, he knows that now, he’s known it all along, but—

“Why does it feel like I’m losing you all over again?”

Lu Ten closes the distance between them easily, placing steadying hands on Zuko’s shoulders. “I’ll be right here, waiting for you,” he reassures him. "Although, I do hope I won’t see you again for a long, long time.”

“I’ll try,” Zuko laughs weakly. “And I’ll take care of Uncle, I promise.”

With that, he lets Aang pull him up onto the panda’s back, and doesn’t stop waving until Lu Ten’s hill is no more than a blip on the horizon.

As they bound through the Spirit World, through fields and swamps and valleys, Zuko realizes that Aang makes panda-riding look much easier than it actually is. He perches on its neck, nearly motionless, while Zuko clings to the spirit’s fur with a white-knuckled grip, sliding left and right across its back. He swears he’ll never, ever complain about riding in Appa’s saddle again.

“Hey, Aang?” he says when he’s reasonably sure he won’t go flying off entirely.

Aang looks over his shoulder effortlessly. “Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a favor?” You know, on top of saving his life?

“Anything.”

Zuko bites his lip. “Do you think we could…keep this between us? That I wasn’t sure about coming back? I don’t want the others to think—”

“Don’t worry,” Aang says with a comforting smile. “I won’t tell anyone.”

He relaxes, at least as much as he can without slipping off. “Thank you. For, you know. Everything.”

“Of course. You’re my friend.” Something crosses Aang’s face then, and he turns away. “You had me really worried for a minute, there.”

“Sorry about that,” Zuko mumbles.

“No, no, it’s just—“ He gives a long sigh, staring at some point in the distance. “I wasn’t there the last time my friends needed me. When my people needed me. When I got back to the palace, and I saw you lying there…I thought I was too late again.” When he looks back again, his eyes are shining. “I just wanted to make a difference this time.”

“You did,” Zuko says softly. “You saved me. And we’ll keep making a difference. Together. Right?”

“Right.”

Zuko wakes up in a bed.

It’s not his bed, judging by the sheets. He’d been a little preoccupied last time, but Agni, they’re itchy. He makes a mental note to get the servants better sheets.

He thinks he knows where he is, but there’s only one way to be sure. With eyes still closed, he reaches up and finds the old scar, with its ridges and bumps, exactly where it should be.

Cracking one eye open, he finds the room bathed in the soft light of sunrise. Everyone is fast asleep, although hardly any of them are in actual beds. Instead, they’re slumped over in chairs, against tables, even on the ground, all huddled around his bedside. Zuko realizes they might very well be in the same positions as when he left them. As if they’d fallen asleep waiting.

Well, maybe not all of them.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Toph suddenly sit bolt upright, her feet pressed intently to the ground, listening. “Zuko?” she breathes.

“Hey.”

And then the room erupts in a flurry of sound and motion, of cheering and crying and laughing, arms reaching out to hold him and hug him (and, in one case, punch him)—

“Zuko, thank goodness you’re all right—“

“—knew you were too stubborn to die, you stupid jerkbender—“

“If you ever pull anything like that again, I swear I’ll kill you myself—“

Zuko takes it all in, letting the warmth wash over him. He throws in an obligatory, halfhearted scowl at all the attention, but he lets Sokka ruffle his hair and Toph punch his arm again (“Stop that,” Katara admonishes, “he’s still healing!”). When the commotion finally settles, he lets himself lean back into Uncle, half because he refuses to remove the arm he’s wrapped around Zuko’s shoulders, and half because it just feels nice. How he ever could’ve imagined giving all of this up, he’ll never know.

From the foot of the bed, Aang looks on fondly. “Welcome back.”

Zuko smiles. “It’s good to be back.”