Chapter Text
The boy hadn’t seen the sun in almost three years. It took only three months for him to feel its power drain from his veins and there was no warmth left in his bones after that, no matter how hard he reached for it.
The boy had tried to escape three times before (and served the price), but had been on good behavior for the past five weeks and thus was granted an oil lamp to keep above his cot. He liked watching the flicker perform dragon dances for him along the walls, and if he reached his hand as high as it could go, he could feel the memory of fire pulsating against his fingertips. It reminded him of his mother’s breath on his cheek, or her hand caressing his forehead when he was sick with fever. (If he could think really hard and hold his breath for as long as he could, he could see her face in his mind. She was always smiling.)
But the false warmth of the oil lamp could not break through the chill of the icy bonds around his wrist, and he could only stretch for so long and yearn so hard before he slumped back into his cot. When this inevitably happened, he forced himself to punch the stone wall until his knuckles bled, and then worked his body until his muscles burned like some semblance of a flame. The pounding of his fist against the wall was a war drum echoing around his cell, but it did not play to the rhythm of his ancestors. It played only to his pain.
When he could stand, he would fight - fight the shadows on the walls, fight the figures the oil lamp’s flame gave life to, fight the spirits he could feel taunting him in the tight corners. Throughout the years, the boy had kept one promise to himself: to never let his body forget its way of bending. When he could not move, he traced katas along the wall and mumbled the steps under his breath. The stone around him became a bending scroll inscribed with invisible instructions, and yet - no matter how many times he wrote into his skin or reviewed the steps aloud while reaching out towards the flame above him, no warmth returned to his bones, and the bonds would only grow colder, and the blood around his knuckles would dry and his labored breath brought no comfort to frostbitten fingers.
(Fire is dangerous and painful, his mother told him, but it is also warmth and life, and it will always be here, it will always be in you, as long as Agni reigns above us all.)
(Agni is gone.)
(Agni abandoned him a long time ago.)
(The boy is alone.)
“Here ya go, kid. Don’t gobble it up at once.”
The scratchiness in the guard’s voice told Zuko it was Yaosen at his door. That, and the stubby pinky-finger attached to the hand poking through the slot with Zuko’s meal for the day. Zuko knew Yaosen’s name the first time it was beaten into him, but it was fun to continue to obnoxiously announce he had forgotten. Entertainment, one could say.
“Sorry, who is it?
Yaosen let the tray with his food drop and drew back his clenched hand. Three bowls of cold rice, cold porridge, and cold water clattered on the ground, spilling its contents nearly out of Zuko’s reach. He smirked. Picking grains off the ground was worth the indignation.
“You try that shit one more time I’m taking that lamp, boy,” snarled Yaosen, peeking through the slot. Zuko’s smirk faltered. “Now, what do you say. Hm?”
Fuck. He hated this. “I-I apologize.”
“What was that?”
He spoke louder. “I apologize, Yaosen, sir.”
“Good. Cut that shit out. You’re lucky it’s me today, boy. Taosen’s in a bad mood. Looking for somethin’ to get his anger out. ‘Fact, I’m pretty tired. I might take a break.”
“I’m very sorry, Yaosen, sir,” Zuko spit out, trying desperately to hold his tongue. “I meant no disrespect. Please forgive me. I much prefer you to Taosen.”
“You do, eh? Maybe I should go tell him that. See what he thinks about you playing favorites.”
(Zuko could feel his heartbeat.) “I-”
“Relax, kid,” and Yaosen let out a hearty laugh. “We’re just having a little fun. Laugh, a little, eh?”
Zuko had not laughed in a long, long time.
“Eat your porridge. It’ll help you grow big and strong.” He laughed, again. It was loud and ugly, but it was the only joy within these walls.
Zuko scooped up the remains of the rice and porridge with the edge of his bowl and absentmindedly picked bits of gravel out, scooting to the back wall beneath his lamp, but his fingers were shaking and his knuckles were bloody, so he drew a very basic kata along his forearm before eating. Maybe it was a way to center himself. Maybe he didn’t want to forget its familiarity. Maybe he did want to forget how he knew that it was laced with bending suppressants.
He slept for as long as he could and only woke, irritability, due to the conversation outside his cell. He didn’t recognize the voices, and they were obviously new, given they were foolishly speaking loud enough for Zuko to hear them.
“And I swear to Agni, I looked this guy up and down, and I was like, this guy’s not Fire Nation - he, he had those weird hair tails that the water tribes have, y’know? But he was dressed in Fire Nation garments, and -”
“Right, right, get on with it.”
“I am getting on with it, just don’t interrupt me. Spirits… okay, okay, so I was like, who do you think you are? And it obviously took this guy a minute before realizing he’d been caught or whatever, cause he was just standing there like a squirrel toad you caught snooping in your trash, and then he started blessing Agni or whatever -”
“He what?”
“I’m not kidding! I’m not kidding! Started talking like the Fire Sages themselves, so I asked him where he’s from and it took him a minute to say Flame City.”
“No way.”
“Yes, way. I’m totally serious. He claimed it’s a colony.”
“Y’know, I actually think my grandma’s from there.”
“Pshh, shut up. Anyway, enough about my own work. I heard you’re in the colonies. What’s that like? I’m sure that’s so very exciting.”
“It is exciting. And you’ll be even more excited to hear what I heard.”
Zuko leaned in.
“Rumor has it… the Avatar is back, and he’s somewhere in the Earth Kingdom.”
The other guard was silent. Zuko was also silent.
“You’re joking.”
“Were you joking about that water tribe fellow?”
“Well, I may have exaggerated a bit.”
“Ok, but I’m not. A buddy of mine even had a run-in with him.”
“No shit.”
“Yes, shit! He’s back, dude, and Zhao is pissed off. He’s sending like, all his resources into finding this kid.”
“He’s a kid?”
“Yeah, like basically a toddler! Or a pre-teen, or something. We think he’s traveling with two others. Watertribe, probably. They had a run-in with pirates where one of his companions stole a waterbending scroll.”
“A waterbender?”
“I know, right! Last I heard, they might be near Yu Dao.”
“Spirits, that really changes things. I thought that was just a children’s tale. How’d you end up in this shithole after working something like that?”
“Well, I wasn’t really working it, but… I pissed on my Captain’s bedroll.”
Zuko slumped against the back wall, not even flinching when the chains cut into his pinched skin. His heart was ramming against his chest. The little flame in his lamp was flickering madly as if it wanted to bust out of its glass enclosure. Zuko understood the feeling. He wanted to reach for it, to cup it in his hands, and smother the life out of it. He wanted it to forget the feeling of Agni’s fire like he had, and he wanted it to burn from the inside out and understand the experience of only knowing the cold.
But he didn’t reach for it, and the conversation pierced its way back into his consciousness.
“Damn, it’s freezing down here. Care to warm us up a bit?”
“Sorry, I’m not a bender.”
Zuko sat forward.
“Really? You were really giving me that vibe.”
“Of a bender? Thanks!.”
Zuko rolled his shoulders back. The flame sputtered and grew calmer. His heartbeat slowed with it.
“Ex-excuse me,” he started. “My - my throat. I need my medicine.”
“Who was that?”
“Uh, 00894, right ahead of us.”
“Right. What do you want, 00894?”
“Please,” Zuko said. “I need my medicine. My - my throat,” and he forced out a wet cough, “My throat is closing.”
“Shit. Are we allowed to let him die?”
“Uh…” A ruffling of papers. “Nope, not this one. Nothing about medicine, though.”
“Please,” Zuko tried again, “Help me.”
“Eh, it wouldn’t hurt to check in on him. C’mon, open the door.”
There was a CREAK of metal, a shuffling of feet, and his door slid open. Zuko let himself collapse onto the floor and flopped around like a fish starved for water.
“Help,” he rasped, “I can’t breathe.” He began to thrash around more violently, allowing his limbs to get tangled in the chains and dislocate his shoulder.
“Oh, spirits, uh, Toru, unlock his arms!”
“Are you sure?”
“Look, he’s gonna fucking break his arms! Unlock them!”
The manacles broke free, and Zuko, still on the ground, propped himself up on an elbow and swept his legs out from under the two guards.
“Shit!” Toru hissed. Zuko grabbed his own chains and threw them around Toru’s neck, tearing off his helmet and holding him against the wall with his foot while pulling the chain back against his windpipe. The other guard scrambled back to his feet and lunged for Zuko; he grabbed the guard’s collar and smashed his face into the stone, once, twice, three times, until he crumpled. Toru went limp. Zuko held on for a few more seconds for good measure. The flame in his lamp jumped with energy and Zuko watched, for just a moment, as its shadows performed on the wall. He liked to think they were showing off their dances then, just for him.
He let Toru fall and grabbed the keys, unlocking the manacles from his ankles. Quickly, he slammed his shoulder against the wall to pop it back into place and stripped of his rags to don Toru’s garments and helmet. He closed the door and stepped out into the corridor -- the three other prisoners in this lane were silent, even if they heard the struggle. There was enough respect in this place for us vermin to stick together, Zuko pondered.
He flexed his aching shoulders and pressed on, slipping past other guards on the floor. They were all too drunk to ask to see his face when he flashed them Toru’s identification, and opened the wide gates for him to pass without question.
The first time Zuko stepped foot outside in many months, it was cloudy and unusually cold for the Fire Nation’s tropic climate. He nearly laughed at the wickedness of it. The betrayal of Agni to not grant him a glimmer of his light and power struck deep in Zuko’s bones and stayed with him as he walked on, aching and sore. He forgot the greatness of the world, its size, the stretch of the sky. The earth was damp and cool beneath his clothed feet and a whisper of wind sent a chill down his spine. (The clouds wouldn’t budge, and Zuko could feel the suppressants still pumping through his blood, and he did not try to conjure a flame or warm himself against the wind chill. Still, he moved to shield his eyes from the dim, yet harsh light.)
Men were working through training drills in the courtyard as he stepped out. They threw fire fists and swept fire arcs into the sky. Zuko flinched away from the flames and a small voice inside of him said, you want this. Go, be warm. He sneered back, their flames are like ice to me. He turned his back to the soldiers and slipped through the prison gates, nodding to a man stationed on the guardpost as he passed. They would soon ring the alarm that he had escaped. (He hoped that man on the guardpost would remember seeing a bootless man hurry past. He hoped never to see the man on the guardpost again.) (But for some strange unknown, he believed he would. His hopes had never played out in his favor before.)
The underground prison was on an island outpost populated with soldiers living in and near the only village, whose merchants sold mainly military gear and snacks to feed the hungry guard. He would not look strange in the armor, milling through stalls, face hidden beneath a helmet, but as soon as he could he discarded the bulky pieces for a cloak, left out to dry in someone’s yard, and kept the hood over his head. Zuko didn’t suppose any commoners would recognize him, but his scar alone would sure raise questions. (He’d never seen it on his face before. He’d only felt its roughness. Its creases and dips and flaky skin.)
Toku, poor idiot that he was, did have a fair amount of copper and silver pieces in a deerskin pouch with his armor, and Zuko quickly bought strips of jerky to pack away, along with a small hunting knife. (As he went, he slipped a map into his cloak. This land was strange to him and he did not like unknowns.)
He pushed through the market, nibbling as best he could on the tough jerky (his teeth had grown weak from eating only stale rice and chunky porridge), headed for the harbor. A voice stopped him.
“My one weekend off and Agni curses us with clouds!”
The voice laughed.
“Just my luck, eh?”
“Gee, Taosen, you can’t go blaming all your misfortunes on Agni! Blame the Commander!”
Zuko blinked, and he was curled up in the corner of his cell, the left half of his face covered gauze. The smell of infection, pus, and blood clogged his sinuses as he gasped for clean air and blinked, rapidly with his right eye, searching for any source of light. Searching for the sun in this pit.
“Zuko,” the man in front of him mused. He was a faceless shadow standing above the boy. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“Father,” Zuko rasped, reaching a trembling hand out. “Father, please.”
The shadow grabbed his wrist and twisted it backward, sending numb bolts of pain up his arm. The boy cried out, weakly, and grunted as the shadow picked him up by the neck, warm fingers pressed against the skin, only to slam him back against hard rock. Fire needs oxygen to breathe, Zuko reminded himself.
“I am not your father,” the shadow hissed. “You have no father now. Fire Lord Ozai has no son, boy. You are no longer a prince.” He eased the pressure on Zuko’s neck. “The real Prince Zuko tried to assassinate his father the night after the Agni Kai,” the shadow said casually, “And thus, has been imprisoned for the rest of his days. He will never see Agni’s light again.”
“I -”
His head whipped to the right. The shadow man had backhanded his wounded side. “You do not speak, boy,” the man snarled. “There is nothing for you here but the dark and the cold.” He stood up, and spoke in a cool tone, “My name is Taosen. We will become very close, you and I.”
“Five silver pieces for this leather sack? Are you kidding me?”
“Oh, come on Taosen, you just got a raise!”
Zuko blinked. The world was not bathed in black anymore. He was staring at the pair of guards three or four stalls down from him, checking out its collection of knapsacks and intricate weapon sheaths, and as Taosen moved his head in Zuko’s direction, the boy looked away. He hurried for the harbor.
Zuko spent two nights on ferry set for Yu Dao, huddled in the corner of the packed cargo hold. The sway of the boat reminded him of the infrequent dreams he had of riding the last living dragon, high high high into the sky, only to drift through the clouds aimlessly, without purpose. The sun was always shining in those dreams, but its warmth never seemed to reach him in his sleep.
The ferry arrived at dawn, yet there was no stirring of inner fire within his gut as the sun rose, and the sky was gray and dismal. He got the message and stumbled onto shore. He was not dreaming anymore.
Fire Lord Ozai has no son, boy. You are no longer a prince.
“And where are you headed to, young man?”
Zuko turned so fast he felt his neck crack, only to be confronted with a hunch-backed old man with a sagging beard, pulling a cart stuffed with theatrical masks. The man’s eyes were shut to the extent that Zuko assumed he was blind, but he tracked Zuko as the boy apprehensively moved backward.
“I’m - I’m not sure,” he said. “I’m here to find the Avatar.”
The man’s bushy eyebrows raised. His eyes did not open. “The Avatar, eh? Is that so? Why?”
“I’m…” I don’t know. “None of your business. Do you know where I can find him?”
The old man smiled wide, his wrinkles creasing into canyons in his skin. He turned, slowly, and raised his hand. One gnarly finger pointed to the dense green in the distance and the peaks etched into the horizon, tops blurred with the clouds.
“The Pohuai Stronghold is not too far from here,” the old man said, turning his head back. He was still smiling. “You could try there.”
Zuko faltered and bowed, his back aching with the action’s unfamiliarity. “Thank you, sir.”
“That’s a nasty looking scar on your face, young man,” said the other. His eyes had not seemed to open. “I wonder how that came to be.”
Perhaps involuntarily, Zuko’s fingers fluttered to the edge of his scar. He pulled his hood over his head. “Yes,” he said.
“I heard they’re looking for an escaped prisoner with a scar just like that.”
His blood ran cold. His clothes provided no warmth. Agni had abandoned him.
“Is that so?” he asked, slowly, carefully. The old man’s grin widened and he leaned in as if to tell Zuko a secret.
“Don’t worry,” he whispered. “I won’t tell.” He leaned back and stretched, yawning towards the sky and announced his departure loudly. “Well, I must be off. Best of luck finding the Avatar, young man! May Agni be with you!”
Zuko stood still as the man trotted off, pulling the cart behind him, and after a split second hesitation (he could not let his actions be weighed down with guilt, this was survival ), he swiped a monstrous blue mask off the back and slipped it into his coat. He supposed it was probably a spirit, but the spirits were gone, and Zuko didn’t feel much like honoring them.
“I need a sword.”
The merchant cocked one eyebrow and glanced up from the book he was skimming. “Excuse me?” he drawled. Zuko shifted his feet.
“I need a sword. I have 5 copper and 3 silver pieces. And -” he withdrew the hunting knife from his cloak and slapped it onto the stall counter- “I can trade you this knife. Never used. And I also have jerky. I… did eat some of it.” He put the jerky next to the knife.
The merchant scoffed. “Keep your jerky, kid, you look like a damn stick. As for your sword… what’ll you use it for?”
“I'm going to the Pohuai Stronghold, I think.”
The man didn’t question it. “That’s up there in thick swamplands. I got these dual Dao swords, perfect for slashin’ and cuttin’ and killin’ and whatever else you wanna do with them. Can you handle those?”
“Yes, I can handle them.”
“Fantastic. Highly recommend if yer going up in the wilderness and such. Give me all yer coins and that knife and we’ll call it a deal.”
Zuko bristled. “But that’s… all my money. The knife is worth four copper pieces.”
“And the swords are worth nearly 9 silver pieces,” the merchant shot back. “C’mon, hand it over. Y’know what, take this complimentary bag o’ jerky.”
“Th-that was mine, to begin with!”
“You want your swords or not?” the man snapped. He pushed back from his stool and rummaged around behind the counter before pulling them out: two gleaming, silver blades, curved into their tip. They looked very much like the ones Lu Ten used to train Zuko. He swallowed.
“Fine. Here.”
The coins jingled as they hit the counter haphazardly, sending the merchant into a scramble to collect them. Zuko grabbed the dual daos and swiped the jerky back into his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, turning away.
“Get outta here.”
The underside of the komodo rhino stunk of dung and dirt as it trotted down the dirt forest passes, and Zuko’s fingers ached from latching onto the wooden planks below the carriage. It stopped, suddenly. A flicker of torchlight moved around the carriage.
“All clear,” the guard said. Zuko could hear his feet crunch the gravel as he made his way to the side, and winced as he heard him kneel down. He swiftly launched himself into the belly of the cart and pressed himself to the wood. “Yep, all clear.”
The sewers beneath the stronghold were cold. He ran faster.
Four guards stood at the entrance to the Avatar’s holding cell. They did not see him in the shadows. They did not last.
The Avatar… the boy was in the center of this large room, larger than any holding cell Zuko’s ever seen, with his arms stretched out in chains. Zuko’s own arms winced in sympathy. The boy gasped upon seeing him and for a second, Zuko forgot he was wearing the mask, and then rationalized that if the Avatar had seen his true face he would probably still gasp. (He saw his reflection in a pool of water while trekking through the woods. He had looked away.)
In probably an unnecessary display of showmanship, he sliced the chains and walked away.
“Who are you?” the Avatar called back. “What’s going on? Are you here to rescue me?”
Zuko motioned for him to follow. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
The boy was distracted easily -- Zuko had to pull him away from snatching up half-frozen frogs (??), but they continued through the stronghold and crept into the sewers.
Halfway up the wall, the alarm sounded, painfully loudly, reminding Zuko of the times he’d tried to escape. Zuko drew his swords.
“The Avatar has escaped! Close all gates immediately!”
“Stay close to me!”
Zuko wanted to scoff at the boy’s foolish braveness, but his own muscles were weak from fatigue and his blades could only hold off so many firebenders at once. With a single gust of wind, the line of guards was thrown to the sides, undoubtedly breaking a few necks. The gates were still closing. Shit - he was caught in the middle of the lot of them. Another gust of wind from the boy. He planted his feet to stay grounded, but for a second he wished to tumble into the air with the rest of them. (Maybe then he could rest.)
Then he was - then he was high, in the air, on the back of a dragon, soaring into the bright, kind sky, touching the sun -
No, he was being carried by a young boy known as the Avatar, and the sky was black and dismal and sad, and he hadn’t slept in many hours, and arrows were still coming at him and he was swinging violently to keep them from landing their marks. The pair fell with a sickening thud onto the top of the gates, and the Avatar was being attacked by an armored man, and Zuko grabbed the man’s neck like what he did with Toku and sent him over the side. This guard could not fly.
They both struck down the men scaling the walls and suddenly they were crawling through the sky over the gates, the bamboo ladders their legs. They were back on the ground and Zuko positioned himself in front of the boy, but then there was a sweep of the leg, and there was fire -
The Avatar pushed him back and extinguished the living flames with his wind.
“Hold your fire! The Avatar must be captured alive!”
Zhao. The man had laughed when Ozai struck his blow.
Zuko grabbed the Avatar and held the dual Dao blades to his throat. He looked into Zhao’s eyes. Zhao looked into his.
“Open the gate.”
“Admiral, what are you doing?”
“Let them out. Now!”
The metal creaked and Zuko slunk back, the Avatar still in his arms, into the shadows.
Far above, an archer notched his arrow.
Far above, a spirit hummed. Agni, shall it run true?
The sun responded. The boy needs time. The Avatar must continue his journey without him, for now.
There was a ping, and his head was ripped backward, and he was on the ground, the mask torn off his face. There the Avatar was, staring into him, gray eyes wide.
“Go,” Zuko managed. He cursed, stumbled to his feet with his blades, and swung one of them wildly at the Avatar. The boy stepped back. “Go,” he repeated, jaw clenched.
“I’m sorry,” the boy said, and it looked like he meant it. He disappeared behind a wall of dust.
Zuko readied his stance against the oncoming admiral, mask be damned. For a moment, his blades seemed light, and the chill deep in his bones lessened, and the fire burning from torches seemed to reach his skin.
“Prince Zuko,” the admiral mused, stepping forward. If the guards behind him were confused, they didn’t show it. He grew cold and heavy again. “I heard you had escaped. Didn’t think you’d be coming to save the Avatar.”
Zuko did not respond.
“Whose side are you on, anyway?”
“My own.”
Zhao laughed. “How noble, Prince Zuko.”
“I am no longer a prince.”
He laughed again. “Oh, come now. I’m sure your father would be very pleased to hear you had the resources to break out of that little cell of yours. Without firebending too, right? I heard the suppressants there are just awful. You must have been keeping in shape.”
Zuko squirmed. “You let the Avatar getaway. Why.”
“Why did you try to save him?”
A pause. “I know what it is to be imprisoned unjustly.”
Another laugh. Deep and hearty. “Please, little Zuko. You know nothing of real imprisonment.” His voice softened. “There is nothing out here for you, Zuko. Surrender now. You will never know peace as a refugee.”
“I will never know peace in prison.”
“Do not be a coward,” Zhao said, slowly. “Face your punishment like a man. Like a prince. You just killed several of my men. I will not let you escape after that. Come with me now, Prince Zuko. Come honorably.” He extended a hand. “All will be forgiven soon.”
The blades lowered, perhaps involuntarily. Zuko’s hands were shaking. He was very, very tired.
“Please don’t tell my father,” he mumbled.
A rough boot slammed against his back and he fell to the ground, face smashing against the dirt with a grunt. A knee pressed his neck flat against the gravel. Zhao leaned in close, grinning with his crooked teeth. He spat into Zuko’s face. “You will soon know real imprisonment, my prince.”
Many sunrises and sunsets later, a boy raised his head. His arms were twisted behind him, shackled above his head. He was on his knees. His eyes were open, because someone had placed a burning lamp in front of him.
“Remember your forefathers,” this someone said. They walked away.
The boy swallowed. The little flame was close to his skin - dangerously close, and for the first time in a long time, he felt its burning warmth.
Remember us.
You are the Prince of Fire.
Do not forget us.
The little flame rose and fell with his heartbeat. His heart beat to his breath. The little flame dug its way into his bones, and for the first time in a long time, something in his gut stirred.
Be with me, please, Agni. Your blood is my blood.
While the Avatar and his friends fought their way through Ba Sing Se, Zuko let his skin melt his bonds, and his breath of fire tore the way to his freedom.