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Zuko can barely remember the way. It's been so many years. Or maybe not so many years, but so many people, faces, tears, changes. It feels like centuries. And, yes, he supposes, it has been almost half a lifetime ago, so measuring in years is accurate.
He reaches the top of the mountain with a relieved sigh and wipes the sweat gathering on his forehead as he surveys the vaguely familiar landscape.
"Infected… Can't stop the scarring… Too late."
The structure stands hunkered against the very peak of the mountain, and if Zuko remembers correctly, it simply covers the opening of a labyrinth of caves, though it looks like a simple, lonely hut on the plateau. Really a pile of mud and sticks crowned with a bale of battered straw.
The wind whistles hollowly past his ears, and he frowns.
"Hello?" he calls, pushing stray strands of hair out of his face as he warily approaches the house. "Anyone home?"
There are no sounds from within, and barely any sounds outside, save for the bitter rush of the wind over the bald plateau, and the occasional shriek from a hawk above.
He makes it to the front of the house and raises a fist to knock. Still nothing.
The door opens easily. Too easily for a structure that looks abandoned. Zuko feels a forgotten but not unfamiliar prickle of nervousness up his back, and silently slips his traveling pack from his shoulders. He leaves it propped by the door as he continues into the hut a little ways, elbows close to his sides and palms facing outward, ready to strike.
When his eyes begin to strain for light, Zuko turns one palm over and produces a small flame. A quick glance around reveals a lantern in one corner, a half-melted candle inside. He carefully picks it up and lights the wick. Though not as bright as the flame in his palm, it suffices, and Zuko cautiously moves into the cave, his memory working in vain to reproduce for him a mental map of some sort.
It might be the darkness creeping in, casting alien shadows on what he might otherwise have remembered, or it may be that Zuko had never actually remembered, but every twist and turn through the man-carved caverns feels undiscovered to him. The deeper he wanders, the more vigorously his skin hums with the instinct to turn around and leave.
He presses onward.
---
Probably an hour he spends in the twisting tunnels that extend deeply into the mountain before he decides that he should leave and set up his camp. He brought a small tent with him for his journey and had originally anticipated staying in the caves once he reached his destination, but something feels wrong, and so he would rather just make camp outside, where his skin doesn't crawl and his palms didn't itch.
He nearly puts the lantern out before he sees that the door to the hut has been left open, his pack sitting enticingly out on the plateau. A trap. Zuko can feel it in his bones, even if it wasn't laid plainly out in front of him.
With no more than a blink, the candlelight dies, and Zuko steps back, away from the feeble stream of light crawling in the door.
That proves to be his downfall.
A swift blow, from what feels like the blunt edge of a blade, to the back of his leg takes Zuko to his knees, a hand taking hold of his topknot and jerking him back as he falls, preventing him from turning his descent into any kind of useful attack. A heartbeat later, a blade touches his throat, and he holds up his hands. He can get out of this if he needs to, but he doesn't want to do anything desperate before the situation calls for it.
"I'm not here to hurt you."
Whoever it is who holds him sharply tugs his head back further. Zuko lets out a controlled breath through his nose, shifting his weight on his knees imperceptibly. He can still bend with his feet, and he really only needs one good shot.
A second sword plants itself against Zuko's calf, cutting off that route of attack. Not that Zuko can't come up with another, but that was the most convenient method.
"Don't even think about it." Sharp. Insistent. Familiar.
"Do I… Do I know you?" Zuko asks, gritting his teeth as the sword seems to come closer to his throat.
"Doubt it. I didn't used to know any pompous Fire Nation brats. At least, not any that I didn't deal with."
Zuko wracks his mind, struggling to put a face to the voice, and he knows that he'll have it in just a moment. He just needs to keep the other man talking.
"The war is over," he says simply. Even now, five years later, Zuko can still hear the relief in his own voice whenever he says it. Can still feel the lightness upon his shoulders.
"But you're still the same, aren't you? Dressed up like a Fire Prince—"
"Fire Lord, actually," Zuko interjects, still trying to process the voice. He's so close.
"Excuse me?" The sword to his throat seems to wobble dangerously, and Zuko instinctively tries to stretch his neck up and lean away from it. Surprisingly, his assailant allows it.
"I'm dressed up like a Fire Lord."
"Fire Lord? But… here? Why?"
And then Zuko has it, the name, the face, the voice, all fresh in his mind like it was yesterday, and the first time he tries to say it, it comes out as nothing but air.
"What?"
"Jet," Zuko repeats, voice quiet, and then there's a splitting pain rippling across his skull. He loses consciousness before his body touches the ground.