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The war had been over for fifteen years, and somehow leading a nation in peacetime felt heavier than fighting one.
Zuko came through the palace doors long after moonrise, shoulders sagging under the heavy responsibilities brought on by his crimson robe, like it had absorbed every hour of the day and refused to let go. The council had argued for six straight hours about reparation figures that never balanced, colonial governors that demanded more troops, and trade ministers insisting the Earth Kingdom tariffs were “provincial sabotage.” His throat was raw, his left eye ached where the scar pulled tight from too much squinting at ledgers, and the golden flame of the Fire Lord’s crown had left a ring of heat across his forehead.
Katara fared no better. She’d spent the day in the east salon with delegations from the Southern Water Tribe and the Southern Earth Kingdom, both still arguing over fishing rights that had been settled on paper a decade ago—Every time she moved her hands to demonstrate a point, someone flinched, remembering the stories of the woman who had frozen an entire fleet solid. She had smiled through all of it, the same diplomatic smile she’d perfected at fourteen, and signed her name to three different compromises that would probably unravel by next spring if they’re not diligent.
They met in the private family wing without planning to. Katara had already shed the heavy formal coat; her hair was half-down, loose waves still damp from the bath she’d taken to wash the day away. She stood barefoot in a simple blue wrap, the kind she wore when no one was watching. The moment Zuko slid the door shut behind him, he reached up, unpinned the royal topknot, and let the crown fall. It hit the lacquered table with a dull, treasonous clank like it had personally insulted him.
“Hi,” he said, voice cracked from too much talking.
“Hi yourself,” she answered, and opened her arms.
He crossed the room in four strides and folded into her like he they were nineteen again, like the world might actually stop hurting if he could just get close enough. She smelled of ocean salt, healing herbs, and something indefinably Katara that lived under his ribs. He exhaled against the curve of her neck and felt the day’s poison bleed out of him.
“We’re taking tomorrow off,” she mumbled into his shoulder. “All of us. No ambassadors, no petitions, no ‘Your Majesty’ unless it’s the kids being dramatic.”
He laughed once, tired and grateful. “Ember Island?”
“Ember Island.”
They told no one of the plan until sunrise, because if the council found out early, they would invent seventeen crises that only the Fire Lord could solve. Instead, Zuko wrote one sealed note in his own hand: Family emergency. Will return in five days. He left it on the Grand Secretariat’s desk himself, then went to wake the children.
Lu Ten, their eldest at nine, was already awake and suspicious the moment both parents appeared in his doorway before the sun was up. He sat up in bed, black hair sticking out like he’d been electrocuted, golden eyes narrowed. “What did we do?”
“Nothing,” Zuko said, fighting a grin. “We’re running away.”
Nobu—eight years old, adopted the year after Lu Ten turned two-lit up like a sparkler when he heard the word ‘beach.’ He bounced on his mattress so hard the frame creaked. “Really? No lessons? No protocol tutors?”
Katara's laugh was the only answer he needed. "Really," she confirmed.
The twins (six years old and not identical in any way that mattered to anyone but them) took the news at top volume.
Kaneo (Kah-neh-yo), the one with Katara’s coloring, bright ocean eyes and a mischievous streak he clearly stole from Uncle Sokka, let out a war whoop that rattled the paper screens. Kenji, Zuko’s mirror in everything including his sharp cheekbones, amber eyes, and the exact same stubborn set to his mouth when he was about to do something reckless, matched his brother note for note. Together they shrieked loud enough to send the palace turtleducks into offended quacking flight from the garden pond three courtyards away.
Katara clapped both hands over the twins’ mouths in perfect unison, eyes wide with mock panic.
“Shhh, you two! You’ll wake the entire palace and then we’re stuck here. Do you want to spend your day with Admiral Grumpy face practicing how to bow instead of hunting sea leeches to throw at each other?”
Kaneo’s eyes went round above her fingers. Kenji shook his head so hard his hair flopped into his face.
“That’s what I thought,” she whispered, ruffling both dark and red-brown heads at once. ‘Be sneaky little ghosts until we’re on the airship, got it?’
The twins immediately dropped into exaggerated tip-toe crouches, fingers to lips, giggling silently as they crept toward their wardrobe to stuff swimsuits and toy boats into already overflowing bags.
And then there’s Kya II, their little firecracker. Three and a half, still tangled in dreams. She sat right up on her little bed, dark brown hair sticking out in uneven tufts like she’d lost a fight with a tiger-dillo, simply raised both arms and declared, “Up, Daddy,” which Zuko obeyed without question. He scooped her up, settling her against his shoulder where she immediately burrowed into his neck, sighed once, and went straight back to sleep.
By the time the staff realized the entire royal family had vanished, the private airship was already cutting across the water toward the island.
The island hadn’t changed. The house still creaked in the same places, still smelled of sea air, damp cedar, and old secrets. The moment the ramp lowered, five children exploded down it like a shot of cannon. Lu Ten and Nobu raced to claim the best bedroom. The twins sprinted through every room screaming that they were “dragon-sharks” and everything was lava. Kya toddled after them shouting “Wait me! Wait me!” until Zuko caught her up again.
Katara stood on the wide porch, hands on hips, watching the chaos with the particular smile that meant she was cataloging every second for later retelling. Zuko came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist, and rested his chin on her shoulder.
“Listen to that,” he murmured.
She tilted her head just enough to catch his mouth with hers. When they broke apart, his grin turned wicked.
“Don’t get any ideas, Fire Lord. We have five kids and approximately four minutes before someone breaks something expensive.”
He hummed, stole one more quick, smacking kiss that made her laugh into it, then let her go, but not before squeezing her hips once, just hard enough to promise later.
“Four minutes is plenty,” he whispered against her neck, and then dodged the elbow she aimed at his ribs, both of them grinning like idiots while the house rang with their children’s wild, perfect noise.
They spent the first day doing absolutely nothing important.
Nobu and Lu Ten built an elaborate sand fortress complete with moat, turrets, and a drawbridge made of driftwood. Katara helped with the water, pulling gentle waves into the moat whenever it threatened to dry. Zuko contributed controlled bursts of fire to harden the towers into something resembling baked clay. The twins decided “helping” meant body-slamming the walls every ten minutes, shrieking with joy when sections collapsed in glorious ruin. Each time, Nobu would sigh theatrically, Lu Ten would roll his eyes exactly like his father. The older boys scolded the younger ones and had to bribe them to behave as they all start rebuilding the fortress even bigger.
Kya toddled away from shoreline under Katara’s watchful eye. She collected treasures in her small hands, spiral seashells, smooth stones, and bits of sea-glass. She presented each one to Zuko like currency; he solemnly accepted every gift and lined them along the sand until it looked like a tiny glittering city. At one point, she discovered a bright red-and-gold hermit crab scuttling sideways across the sand, she squealed in triumph, held it up, and marched straight to Zuko.
“Daddy! Look! It’s General Hong!” she announced, holding the crab like a battle hero.
Zuko crouched solemnly, giving the tiny creature the same grave inspection he once reserved for war reports. “General Hong, huh? Excellent name. Very fierce.”
Kya beamed, gave the tiny crab to him, and watched it wave one indignant claw. “He guards the shell city,” she declared, pointing at the glittering line of treasures she’d already arranged in the sand.
“Then we’d better give General Hong the highest tower,” Zuko said, and carried both daughter and crab back to the half-collapsed sand fortress, where the older boys immediately began arguing over which turret belonged to the new general.
When the sun grew too hot, Zuko bent a parasol of shade over his daughter; Katara cooled the sand beneath Kya’s feet so it never burned her toes.
At dusk they lit a bonfire. Katara roasted fish wrapped in seaweed the way her grandmother had taught her; Zuko produced a tin of Iroh’s jasmine dragon blend he’d smuggled in his luggage like contraband. The aroma curled through made them feel seventeen again.
The kids chased fireflies while the adults sat shoulder to shoulder on a driftwood log.
“I forgot what this kind of noise feels like,” Zuko said quietly. The crackle of the fire, the rhythmic hush of waves, five children inventing a game that seemed to involve tagging fireflies and then running away screaming.
Katara leaned rubs his back and leaned her head against his shoulder . “We’re allowed this.” she said. “We earned this.”
He believed her because she said it.
The next morning the tide had pulled back far enough to reveal a little weekend market strung along the boardwalk: red paper lanterns, smoking braziers, the bright clatter of cymbals announcing a traveling troupe. The children spotted it from the porch and the day’s plan rewrote itself in an instant.
They walked down together, all seven of them barefoot in the warm sand, then wooden clogs once they hit the planks. Lu Ten and Nobu bolted ahead the moment they smelled grilled squid and candied berries.
First stop: the bottle-knock stall. Three wooden bottles, one copper a throw. Lu Ten rolled his shoulders like he’d seen the palace guards do before sparring. Nobu cracked his knuckles with theatrical menace. Ten throws later they had exactly zero prizes and two very sulky eight- and nine-year-olds.
“Rigged,” Lu Ten muttered.
“Definitely rigged,” Nobu agreed, kicking sand.
Meanwhile the twins discovered a ring-toss booth manned by an old woman with a basket of painted clay turtleducks. Kaneo and Kenji decided the game was actually how many rings can we fling at each other’s heads before Mom finds out. The answer was four. The old woman got an imperial apology and a handful of gold pieces anyway.
Kya, riding on Zuko’s hip, had zeroed in on the goldfish-scoop stall. The prize for keeping a paper net intact long enough to catch three fish was a plush dragon-moose the size of her torso—bright crimson with soft white antlers and embroidered gold flames along its back. Kya wanted that dragon-moose the way armies want victory.
Her first scoop tore instantly. The second lasted four seconds. By the third attempt she was scarlet-faced, lower lip trembling with royal fury.
“BAD PAPER!” she roared, hurling the broken handle into the tank. Water sloshed over the edge. Tiny fish scattered in terror.
The merchant, recognizing the Fire Lord even in linen beach clothes, immediately tried to hand over the biggest dragon-moose on the shelf. “A gift for the little princess—”
Katara stepped forward, smiling the particular diplomatic smile that still made admirals sweat. “Thank you, uncle, but my daughter will learn that some things are earned, not given because of a crown.” She bowed, pressed a generous stack of coins into the man’s hand anyway, as Zuko steered a now-sobbing Kya away before the toddler could set the booth on fire with sheer indignation.
Zuko carried the wailing bundle down the boardwalk, Kya’s furious little fists drumming on his shoulder while half the market pretended not to stare at the Fire Lord being soundly defeated by a three-year-old.
He caught Katara’s eye as she caught up, still smoothing over ruffled merchants with that effortless smile.
“I swear,” he muttered smiling under his breath and shaking his head, shifting Kya lower so she wouldn’t spot another prize booth and restart the war, “either she takes up after you or she’ll turn into Azula…..”
Katara burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that still made his chest do stupid things after all these years.
“Please,” she said, reaching over to wipe a tear from Kya’s red cheek with her thumb. “Azula never threw tantrums. She just set things on fire quietly and efficiently. This is one hundred percent your dramatic flair, Zuko.”
He groaned, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
The crying had already ebbed into hiccups, then into imperious pointing. “Sketti on stick. Now, Daddy.”
“See?” Katara whispered, leaning in to kiss the scar on his cheek. “Pure Fire Lord energy.”
Zuko sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who knew he was doomed and handed over three copper pieces for the biggest squid skewer on the grill that she can share with him. Crisis averted (for the next five minutes, at least).
The traveling troupe had set up in the square: crimson curtains, drum tower, and a banner that read THE LEGEND OF THE BLUE SPIRIT—NOW WITH REAL SWORDS! Lu Ten and Nobu forgot their bottle-knock humiliation instantly. The twins sat on the ground entranced, mouths open. Even Kya stopped mid-bite of her skewer when the masked Blue Spirit flipped over three “Fire Nation soldiers” and freed the captured villagers. When the hero vanished into painted smoke at the end, the boys cheered so loud half the market turned to look.
Afterward, they ate like an invading army:
- Lu Ten and Nobu fought over the last stick of charcoal-grilled komodo-chicken glazed with chili-honey.
- The twins wore more black sesame sauce on their faces than what went into their mouths.
- Kya discovered the joy of shaved ice drenched in fire-lychee syrup and immediately demanded “more red snow!”
- Zuko and Katara shared a paper cone of diced octopus balled into deep fried batter with a sweet savory sauce on the side, trading bites while keeping four sticky hands and one sticky toddler from wandering into the crowd.
By the time the sun slid toward the water, they were sun-browned, sugar-crusted, and happier than any royal procession had ever made them. Kya had fallen asleep against Zuko’s chest clutching a much smaller (honestly purchased) plush flying bison the color of sunrise. The older boys trailed behind arguing about whether the Blue Spirit could beat Avatar Aang in a real fight and both argued taking different sides.
Katara slipped her arm through Zuko’s as they walked the long way home along the shore.
“So, do you think the Blue Spirit could beat Avatar Aang?” she teased.
He glanced at five filthy, perfectly content children and the dragon-moose prize Lu Ten now carried like a battle trophy. He won it fairly at the dart stall after three more tries and one very motivational pep talk from Uncle Sokka’s memory.
“Maybe, but only once, on a starless night,” Zuko said, pressing a kiss to her temple.
Night three brought a thunderstorm rolling in from the west, the kind that made the air feel electric. The children begged for stories, so they all crowded into the big common room with blankets and lanterns. Zuko told the one, how he and Uncle Aang had stood before Ran and Shaw themselves, two living storms of color and flame, and been judged. Nobu mouthed every word; he’d memorized it years ago.
He showed them the forms with his hands, slow and careful so the little ones could follow: the rising sun, the coiling serpent, the final breath that wasn’t destruction but life. Even Kenji tried, legs wobbling through the motions until he toppled over giggling.
Katara told the story of the girl who became the moon to save her tribe, editing out the bloodier parts for Kya’s sake. When the thunder got too loud, Kya crawled into Zuko’s lap and fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat. Kaneo and Kenji followed soon after. Their legs tangled together the way they’d done since the cradle, one twin’s foot hooked over the other’s ankle, both mouths open, identical snores already starting.
Nobu lost his inner fight over sleep. He sat curled against Zuko’s side, knees drawn up, pretending to watch the fire until his head tipped gently onto Zuko’s shoulder.
With the quiet understanding that they would all stay in the common room, Zuko began laying the children down to rest on a plush pallet of overlapping rugs as Katara covered them with blankets.
Lu Ten stayed awake the longest. He sat cross-legged in front of his parents, poking the hearth fire with a long stick, sparks swirling up the chimney.
“Dad,” he said quietly, “do you ever get tired of being Fire Lord?”
Zuko and Katara exchanged a look that carried ten years of shared exhaustion, stubborn hope, and every sleepless night they’d spent promising each other the world would be better for these children.
“Every single day,” Zuko answered. The honesty felt like shedding armor. “But then I look at you five, and I remember why I took the job…” He shrugged, helpless, the gesture so familiar Katara’s heart tugged with him. “Worth it.”
Lu Ten considered this the way only a nine-year-old can—seriously, as if weighing the future of nations. Then he nodded once, like that made perfect sense, and crawled over to curl against Zuko’s side opposite Kya. Within minutes he was asleep too.
Katara reached over both sleeping children and laced her fingers through Zuko’s. Neither of them moved until the fire burned low and the storm moved on, leaving only the smell of rain and the soft breathing of their entire world.
On the last full day, Katara woke at dawn and found Zuko already on the porch, watching the sky turn pink over the water. He hadn’t bothered with a robe; he sat in loose pants, scar bared to the morning, steam curling from the teacup in his hands. She brought a second cup and settled beside him without speaking. They stayed like that until the horizon bled gold and the twins came barreling out demanding breakfast, and the spell broke into ordinary, perfect noise.
Later, when the sun was high and hot, they all waded into the surf together. Katara hoisted Kya onto her back; Zuko carried Kenji while Kaneo clung to his back like a barnacle. Nobu and Lu Ten surfed the gentle waves on pieces of driftwood, shouting challenges at each other. At one point Zuko caught Katara’s eye across the water and mouthed thank you. She answered by flicking a playful wave at his face that soaked his hair. He retaliated with a burst of warm steam that rose around them like a sauna and made all five children scream with delight, begging for more.
That night—their very last on the island—they spread blankets directly on the sand and lay watching the faint leftover remnants of Sozin’s Comet streak overhead, trails of embers from a fire set decades ago still burning paths across the sky. The astronomers said they would fade entirely in another generation.
Kya was asleep on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. The twins were sprawled across Katara like starfish. Nobu and Lu Ten flanked them, pointing out constellations and inventing increasingly ridiculous names: the Drunken Badger, the Angry Teapot, the Sea Slug That Ate the Moon.
“Hey,” Katara whispered.
Zuko turned his head toward her, sand in his hair, heart too full for words.
“We’re good at this,” she said, tipping her chin toward the haphazard pile of their children. “The ruling thing, sure. But we’re better at this.”
He reached over the sleeping chaos and laced his fingers through hers again.
“Yeah,” he said, voice rough with everything he didn’t need to say. “We really are.”
The ocean kept its steady rhythm long after the children drifted off, after even the gulls went quiet. Somewhere in the dark, Zuko and Katara felt the weight of the crown waiting for them back in the caldera—petitions and politics and the endless work of making reparations feel like justice instead of defeat. Tomorrow they would go home and pick it up again.
But tonight the weight rested easy, shared between two sets of shoulders and five small hearts that had never known war. They were simply a family on a beach that cared little for empires. The tide rolled in, whispering a truth older than any throne: that all power is fleeting, but the world endures.
And for the first time in years, Zuko felt no dread for the coming day, only peace.
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End notes with links!
My second entry! Yay for steambabies!! 🥹❤️
I got the idea from this super cute fanart of Katara with wild twin boys and a little girl 😭 Anyway, I loved the thought of giving Zuko a male heir that could eventually connect to canon Iroh II (full-circle vibes!), so Lu Ten became the oldest, a little firebender boy.
Nobu isn’t actually an orphan, he’s got a much darker backstory loosely inspired by Theon Greyjoy (don’t worry, he’s not getting THAT ending lol).
Kaneo (pronounced Kah-neh-yoh) is the blue-eyed waterbender who’s basically mini-Sokka with mischief turned up to eleven.
Kenji is a non bender and takes after Zuko looks-wise, and then there’s Kya II, our tiny firebending princess; I just really wanted Zuko to have a little girl who can shoot white flames (not blue) and actually loves him, after everything Azula put him through.
Also, Sokka’s oldest daughter is the waterbender who’ll grow up to be Chieftess of Wolf Cove one day, because of course she is.
I also googled if its possible to have a hearth fire during a thunderstorm in a tropical country. Google said yes so that part in the story remains 🤣
I’ve been daydreaming about this little family for ages, so I’m stupidly happy I finally got to write them. I’ve been buried in other writing projects lately (including my giant passion project Legacy of The Six, aka how I think the zutara/taang/sukka trifecta should’ve gone), but sneaking in this fluffy ficlet felt so good. Hope you like it as much as I did.
Feel free to drop a comment or kudos if they made you smile ♥️ if you loved this fic, share it like crazy! And if you feel like creating art out of this fic dont forget to tag me 🤗