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Being a child of war is different when you are winning. You have the privelege of comfort, of having food in your stomach and being able to pass a night soundly, with no fear of being snatched from your bed. You are surrounded by family, and even if your father leaves to fight, he will always come back. Your fall asleep to the stories of success and triumph. And you are too naive to even consider that, maybe, you are the bad guys.
The royal children of the Fire Nation were beautiful. In truth, if anyone said otherwise the Fire Lord would have you executed, but no one ever had need to, because they truly were. Zuko and Azula were small, nimble children with hypnotic eyes. When they were very young, people thought they could be twins, and twin sisters at that: Zuko’s red mouth and long, dark hair made him appear female at first glance.
They were stunning, and assured in it from a very young age. They were trained in every skill that could aid them in their later years. They were both incredibly gifted fire-benders, and intelligent and politically-minded. Zuko’s femininity was of his whole body: his arms and stomach were gently muscular, but overall he was slim and flexible, the body of a ninja, not a warrior. And even his lessons, the indoctrination of his father, could not remove the fairness and gentleness of Zuko’s mind. When he spoke up in his father’s war room, he had spoken from his heart, of justice. He had spoken with the heart of his mother: and this the Fire Lord despised.
Zuko had never been told outright that beauty was of any important. But he knew that he had been dressed in the finest of materials all his life, and he had heard the compliments on his appearance, and seen the time and effort that went into his sister’s hair and delicate make up. A part of Zuko had always been assured that he was beautiful, and that this was good. So when Zuko lost his honour, his throne, his people; he lost his beauty too. His father took it away: for who wanted a pretty, girlish, weak-minded prince upon the throne of such a ferocious nation?
For months afterwards, Zuko cried himself to sleep. He longed to cry and cry and never stop, but he knew he couldn’t let his uncle or his men see, so he only wept silently in the dead of night. The salt tears made his wound sting, and reminded him of his inadequacy. He couldn’t look in any reflective surface without going into a fit of sadness and rage, he hated himself so strongly that it made him feel ill. Until one night, Zuko collapsed to his knees in front of his mirror, scraping his nails down the glass, and decided that he was not a foolish boy anymore.
He shaved his head bare apart from his ponytail. He cut his nails short and let them get blackened and grubby. He trained ceaselessly, lost baby fat and gained muscle until he was lean and strong, a body of war. He worked himself to exhaustion, until he threw up. He remembers one night half-waking on the floor, being scooped up into his uncle’s arms and carried to bed like a baby. He wanted to fight, scream that he wasn’t a little child: but the exhaustion washed over him and he blacked out.
Zuko knows he cannot be beautiful. But he can be strong. He can capture the Avatar, and get back his honour. His throne. His people. He has hope that this, in itself, will be beautiful.