Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

the year after

It’s a year and a day after Zuko’s coronation that an assassin finally gets close enough to make an actual attempt on Zuko’s life.

Zuko’s body reacts before his mind does, his fingers slipping beneath the wire trying to close around his throat, his flames turning the thread of metal white-hot and molten. There’s a presence against Zuko’s back, and it takes a small shift of his weight and a heave to throw his attacker over his shoulder and onto the floor.

His chambers are unlit, but two bursts of flame from his fists let Zuko make out a lithe figure dressed in black. She scrambles to her feet, drawing a short blade that glints threateningly in the light of Zuko’s fire, but there’s uncertainty in her grip, and with four deft moves Zuko disarms her and knocks her out cold. He catches her and gently lowers her body to the carpet that is now—regrettably—slashed by fresh burn marks.

Zuko lights one of the wall sconces before poking his head outside of his chamber. “Someone just tried to assassinate me,” he tells the guards posted at the door.

“What?” one of them screeches.

It’s a whole flurry of activity after that, and while Zuko isn’t necessarily calm—his heart is still racing, his senses still alert for anything out of the ordinary—it all feels terribly familiar by now. The assassin is dressed down for more weapons (more garroting wire, and a short dagger concealed in her boot), Zuko reports what happened in his chambers to one of the scribes for his National Affairs committee, and the assassin is carried off to a holding cell. Tomorrow, Zuko knows, he’ll be paying her a visit to try to find out where she came from, why she wanted to kill him, and, finally, how she managed to sneak into the palace and Zuko’s private chambers without tripping any alarms.

The furor is winding down when Mai appears at the end of the long hall. “Zuko?” she calls, gliding smoothly toward him. Guards and palace attendants alike shift to give Mai a wide berth, a subtle wave bringing Zuko’s girlfriend closer to him. “I heard a commotion—what’s happening?”

Her hand cups his right cheek—always his right, never his left—and Zuko covers her hand with his own. “Just an assassin,” he tells her.

Mai arches an eyebrow. “Another one?”

“She made it further than any of the others have.”

Mai tsks, which could be disapproval of either Zuko’s casual tone or the quality of assassins that have been sent Zuko’s way since the end of the Hundred Year War. Zuko’s never really sure. 

Her hand begins to drop from his face, and Zuko reluctantly lets go of her fingers. “Do you want to,” he says, “Uh—”

He glances around, and no one’s really close enough to hear a whisper, but Mai’s shaking her head before Zuko can voice his question. “I need to be up early,” she explains. “My dad wants the family to meet the merchants visiting tomorrow.”

Zuko swallows. Only twice, on two otherwise ordinary nights, has Mai slept beside him in his chambers in the Fire Nation palace, but Zuko wishes he could have the company and comfort of another body in his overlarge bed every night. In the capital, however, especially when Zuko’s the still-fresh Firelord and they’re unmarried and only seventeen, there are eyes everywhere, and the demands of decorum are stringent.

“I understand,” Zuko says, and Mai’s lips twitch into the ghost of a smile.

She rises to her tip-toes to press a kiss to his cheek. “Good night,” she whispers in that one voice that she knows causes a tug in Zuko’s gut. He shivers, and Mai’s laugh ghosts over his skin.

“Good night, Mai,” Zuko says.

Mai turns back the way she came, stealing away with her characteristic deadly silence, and Zuko watches her until she rounds the corner. She glances over her shoulder at him once, and Zuko thinks she might smile again, but the flames in the hallway sconces are flickering low, so he’s not really sure.

Zuko’s never really sure.

This assassin is not that different from the last thirteen: she’s from the Fire Nation, she espouses much of the ideology that Sozin first sowed in Zuko’s homeland, and she’s operating alone from a sense of duty to the “greater nation.” The only thing that sets her apart is that she got to Zuko before the guards got to her, a feat that Zuko believes was possible due to her petite build. Flames create shadows, and the palace is full of both; taking advantage of a small and slight body in this landscape is exactly how Zuko and Azula got away with so many antics when they were children.

Zuko has been talking to her for two hours now, and she really isn’t showing any sign of backing down. “You are destroying our nation’s legacy,” she spits at him, glaring resentfully between the bars of the holding cell.

Zuko refuses to be fazed. “Our nation has spent a hundred years destroying the legacies of other nations and cultures,” he tells her. “I am trying to right those wrongs.”

“You’re spineless, and weak.”

There is a gentle rap on the door, and Zuko turns to see a guard gesturing for him to hurry up. If Zuko doesn’t leave soon, he will be late for the meeting with the merchants that Mai’s family met earlier in the morning. 

“I unfortunately have to go,” Zuko tells the assassin. They couldn’t get a name out of her, no matter how hard they tried. “I hope you think and reflect on this conversation during your journey back.”

For the first time, the assassin looks caught off guard, her green eyes flaring wide. “Back?”

Zuko rises from his seat on the floor. “Your dagger is a very specific make,” he replies. “We’ll be taking you to the village where it was made and posting your bail there.”

“You’re sending me home? After I tried to kill you?”

Zuko smiles. “Think, and reflect,” he repeats before he leaves.

When Zuko enters the main corridor of the holding block, Mai is waiting for him, leaning against the wall as she casually twirls a throwing star through and around her fingers. “Nice chat?” she asks drily.

Zuko bristles but tamps down the urge to defend himself in favor of continuing down the hall. Mai easily falls into step beside him, the folds of her formal clothing swishing with her strides. “Always,” Zuko says. He doesn’t miss Mai’s snort.

If Mai had it her way, there would be another whole committee to take care of the assassins. With the attempts being as lackluster as they are, Zuko doesn’t see the point in wasting resources on a nonissue. He can defend himself, and besides, he wants to speak to them, one-on-one and face-to-face. How can he lead a nation if he does not understand each and every one of its citizens?

What’s troubling Zuko more these days is that he’s a year and two days into being the Fire Lord, and he still doesn’t have a council he can fully trust.

Most days, Zuko wishes his uncle were here with him. His uncle has always had a superior understanding of people, and, having been a general, knew many of the military and political leaders of the Fire Nation on a more personal basis than Zuko never did. But Zuko knows his uncle is happier when he is far from these imposing halls of red and metal. Zuko also understands—as Sokka once casually remarked over breakfast some seven months ago, when he and Hakoda were visiting as Southern Water Tribe delegates during a grueling first round of war reparation talks—that if Iroh were living in the capital and advising him, it’d be more fodder for people who wanted to delegitimate Zuko’s position to the throne. He’s a boy puppet to the Dragon, they would say. He is the front for the old general, who took revenge on his brother by seducing his outcast son with promises of power.

If they’d say that, they clearly haven’t met Zuko’s uncle. But grains of truth can be distorted and warped into forms that fly fast.

“Zuko?”

Zuko blinks. They’re already at the double-doors of the receiving room, and Mai is frowning at him. “Did you get lost in there?” she asks.

In there means his thoughts, which Mai claims must be a labyrinth for him to constantly get stuck dwelling in them. “No,” he says, rolling his shoulders back.

Mai’s arm sneaks around his. “These guys aren’t as bad as the last two,” she tells him in an undertone.

The last two merchants Mai’s father had introduced to Zuko as representatives of the nation’s economic interests had used some very strong language to tell Zuko exactly what they thought about him and his reign. Not as bad is a rather low bar.

There’s an unusual tilt to Mai’s brow, however, that makes Zuko think his girlfriend is trying to be some sort of reassuring, so Zuko nods. “Let’s do this,” he says, and the attending guards open the doors for them.

Two weeks later, Zuko’s reading a play over his breakfast when a breathless page appears at the door of Zuko’s chamber. “Fire Lord Zuko,” he says between gasps, “There’s a flying bison in the courtyard.”

Zuko drops his book. “Aang?”

“With some others, my lord. Water tribe, by the looks of their clothes.”

A smile splits Zuko’s face, and he abandons his breakfast in favor of quickly dressing. He can’t quite put down the play, however, which is how he ends up reading right up until he walks outdoors and is hit with the stench of an Appa in need of a bath. “Aang,” Zuko calls, and when he finally rips his eyes from his page, “Katara! Sokka!”

Aang is all laughter and enthusiastic waving from atop Appa, as Katara nearly squeezes the life out of Zuko and Sokka thumps his back in an aggressive hug. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” Zuko asks, neatly tucking his book out of Momo’s curious reach.

“Can’t friends just say hi to a friend?” Katara shoots at him. Her voice has changed, since Zuko last saw her—was it really a full year ago?

“Why do you sound like you’re regurgitating a play?” Sokka asks.

It’s Aang who actually answers, floating down from Appa’s saddle as he says, “We heard you almost got killed by an assassin.”

“I did not,” Zuko protests. “Who told you?”

“Mai told Ty Lee, who told Suki, who told Sokka,” Katara says.

“And we figured we should say hi, before the next one really gets you,” Sokka adds.

Zuko shakes his head, which is spinning a bit. After living in the Fire Nation for a year straight without travel elsewhere, the quick, rambunctious energy of his friends is a revitalizing shock. Zuko has missed them, he realizes. “Come on in,” he says. “Anyone want a late breakfast?”

“Oh, would I,” Sokka says enthusiastically.

Over late breakfast, Zuko learns that his friends had been returning to the South Pole after copying several hundred scrolls about waterbending from the Northern Water Tribe’s archives, at Pakku’s personal request. The task took them about two months, and they were just about to depart when Sokka received Suki’s letter that contained grapevine information about the attempt on Zuko’s life.

“We had to take a detour,” Aang says, absentmindedly petting Momo as the flying lemur eats off of Aang’s plate.

“You really didn’t,” Zuko replies. “It’s not even exciting the fourteenth time around.”

Katara nearly spews her tea everywhere. “There’s been fourteen attempts?”

“They’re lame attempts,” Zuko insists. He wishes Mai would interject to back him up, but Mai pointedly refuses to talk to Katara as much as Katara refuses to converse with Mai, so his girlfriend dragged Sokka to the other end of the table and has been ignoring Zuko, Katara, and Aang since.

“Still, Zuko,” Aang says, “People want you dead. That’s a big deal.”

Zuko shrugs. “I’m handling it.”

A peal of feminine laughter floats through the air, and Zuko startles. Opposite him, Mai is actually laughing at whatever story Sokka is telling, though she tries to hide it behind her hand. Sokka barrels on, gesticulating as fast as the words leave his mouth, and he winks when he catches Zuko’s eye.

Zuko knows he’s no comedian, but he does like it when Mai laughs. It’s a sound he wishes he heard more often.

He tosses a slice of peach at Momo, who snatches it out of the air. “They’re not organized attempts,” Zuko tells Aang and Katara. “It’s all internal, too. People who want things to be the way my father had them.”

“It still feels wrong to not do anything,” Katara says.

Zuko leans back, propping himself up on one hand. The woven bamboo of the mat beneath him digs into his palm. “Like I said. I’m handling it.”

“Have you found any more advisors since we last talked?” Aang asks.

Zuko can’t help glancing at the floor. “Not really,” he admits.

Mai’s laugh rings again, and Zuko flicks a look at his girlfriend and Sokka. Why do they get to have fun when he’s talking about his shortcomings as a leader?

“We could stay here a while and help out,” Aang offers.

Zuko uses his chopsticks to rearrange the empty edamame pods in their bowl. Aang’s offer is compelling, but not a terribly realistic one. The Avatar has too many obligations to hang out in the Fire Nation and hold Zuko’s hand. “I appreciate it,” Zuko says graciously, “but I’ll be okay. Besides, you all have more important things to take care of.”

“The stability of the Fire Nation is one of those important things,” Sokka interjects.

Zuko whips his head up. He hadn’t realized Sokka was paying attention to what they were talking about. “And how would it look if the new Fire Lord needed the Avatar just to manage his own advisors?”

“Maybe it doesn’t have to be Aang,” Katara says.

“You think you could understand the nuances of Fire Nation politics?” Mai asks, eyes narrow. Katara’s no-holds-barred, sometimes blindingly bright personality has never sat well with Mai’s cool reservation, and it’s hard to keep the peace between the two of them. Zuko respects and likes Katara, though, so it’s something that Zuko thinks he and Mai should talk about, but there seems to always be something more pressing to occupy his time and energy. 

“I could,” Katara retorts, “But I wasn’t talking about me. I meant Sokka.”

Sokka chokes and splutters on his soup, and Mai gives his back a solid thump.

“I’ve committed to helping Pakku teach waterbending to the people in the South Pole,” Katara presses on, “but Sokka’s project with our dad is wrapping up, isn’t it?”

Sokka drinks some water, coughs, and drinks some more. “If they stayed on schedule, they should have finished construction yesterday,” he finally says.

“Well, what do you say?” Aang prompts. “Zuko? Sokka?”

Zuko and Sokka stare at each other. Sokka’s mirth has retreated behind a look of speculation and calculation, his dark blue eyes scrutinizing. The sudden, complete silence is a reprieve for Zuko’s concentration.

Sokka might seem laid back, but he’s actually an astute and incisive observer. In spite of being an involved figure with many highly influential connections, Sokka doesn’t have the reputation that Aang, Katara, and Toph do, which decreases the risk that his presence would lead to accusations of Zuko being a pawn to an outsider. He’s smart, inventive, does well under pressure, and—like Zuko’s uncle—innately gets people in a way that Zuko’s always struggled to do. Sokka could offer an opinion that is unbiased by past reputation or personal stake in the Fire Nation, and he’s always played it straight with Zuko. They work well together. And Sokka can make Mai laugh.

“Sokka?” Zuko asks.

Sokka sits back, mirroring Zuko’s casual lounge. “Do I have an invitation to stay in the Fire Nation, oh great and mighty Fire Lord?”

His tone is cocky, but he cracks a wide smile that reveals he’s teasing Zuko. Zuko grins back. “I am extending you an invitation, yes.”

“Count me in, then.”

The anticipation that had built up in the room dissipates, and Zuko can meet Aang and Katara’s approving smiles with ease. “Tell me more about your travels,” Zuko says. “How has the world fared since I was last in it?”

The rest of the day turns into a balancing act for Zuko, wherein he goes back and forth between the bare minimum of leader of the nation duties and helping Sokka get settled into one of the guest chambers in the palace. Zuko has attendants set up Sokka in one of the smaller chambers—only two rooms, one with a smaller bed than the rest in the guest quarters, the other an antechamber that serves as both eating and leisure space, depending on whether the tabletop is folded away or not—but it’s one of the only living quarters that gets natural sunlight most of the day. Between meetings and reading urgent correspondences, Zuko catches glimpses of Sokka unpacking his belongings, of Aang defusing a rising passive-aggressive sniping contest between Katara and Mai, of Mai bringing Sokka some of Zuko’s clothing that he recently outgrew. Not in height, regrettably, but in width; training with fire and swords alike has never been such a crucial outlet for frustration than after meetings with a war council that still can’t quite understand they’re no longer at war.

Zuko knows that Mai has a soft spot for Sokka when she even agrees to come to a play that evening that she’d declined to go to earlier in the week. Zuko blinks when Mai mentions in passing that she’d changed her mind. “Really?” he asks.

Mai shrugs. “I’d otherwise be playing games with Tom-Tom all night.”

The play is being put on by a traveling troupe of players whom Zuko has seen before. Originally, Zuko had planned to attend alone and incognito, but with a sudden group to join him, he last-minute requests that the royal box in the theatre to be prepared. They sprawl comfortably over benches that Zuko is certain came from Ursa’s chambers; he couldn’t not recognize the sun-faded varnish that bring memories of the first plays he ever heard, read in his mother’s melodic cadence.

Recovering the scattered pieces of his mother’s chambers is yet another project that Zuko has had to set aside for a less busy time.

“So, is this going to be better than the Ember Island players?” Sokka asks skeptically.

Zuko glances at the man sitting behind him. He’s already wearing one of Zuko’s old shirts, a well-worn maroon fabric with gold-thread needlework along the collar, cuffs, and hem. They had agreed during one of Zuko’s brief visits to Sokka’s new rooms that Sokka should leave off his water tribe garments for now, if only to allow Sokka to integrate himself into the palace more smoothly; no need to stick out like a sore thumb. While Zuko might have become thicker over the last year, Sokka has grown taller and lankier; the sleeves, which had once ended perfectly at Zuko’s palms, leave most of Sokka’s forearms exposed.

“This troupe did justice to The Mystery of Passang’s Light,” Zuko replies.

“That … means nothing to me.”

“Passang’s Light is one of the earlier plays by Xiaoyu, before he was exiled from his village. You can tell because the verses don’t yet have traces of the waka poetry—”

“Sokka, you don’t want to get him started,” Mai says.

“Why don’t you let him speak?” Katara asks.

“Do you want to hear about some dead poet?”

“A playwright, actually,” Zuko interjects.

“Still old and dead.”

Zuko shrugs. He’s long given up on Mai becoming interested in literature. “I guess so.”

“Hey, I think they’re starting!” Aang pipes up.

Zuko turns to the stage, and sure enough, the non-essential lanterns and wall sconces are slowly being extinguished, until only the stage is lit. Mai settles in next to him, leaning against him with her head on his shoulder; Zuko knows, from past experience, she’ll be subtly napping until intermission. 

“Are you comfortable?” he asks her in a whisper.

She makes a noise, which Zuko thinks means Yes. “Watch your play,” she murmurs, and Zuko obligingly focuses on the stage.

Aang and Katara depart for the South Pole a few days later, and Sokka slips into Zuko’s routine as if he’s always been there. At first, he simply shadows Zuko at any meeting or event that doesn’t require a specific rank or where Sokka’s presence wouldn’t raise any questions. The warrior observes Zuko and the others in the room with only occasional color commentary—commentary that does have Zuko stifling a grin now and then. Sycophantic might be Zuko’s new favorite word, particularly when Sokka’s grumbling it.

Sokka, however, is also curious by nature, so he’s soon exploring the palace and capital and getting to know people on his own whenever Zuko is occupied by something that Sokka can’t attend. Zuko learns about these adventures after dinner, when they sneak away from the palace to “play with their swords,” as Mai puts it, at the old training grounds. Zuko is forever frustrated that no one wants to risk offending him by beating him, even in a practice match, but he knows that Sokka has no such compunctions. Moreover, the old training grounds were abandoned early in Ozai’s reign when military training became an endeavor too large to fit in the densely packed capital. No one ever hangs around this part of the palace, so Zuko and Sokka can speak freely.

“Dude, I gotta say, the architecture of this place sucks,” Sokka pants out.

Zuko parries a thrust aimed at his thigh and uses the momentum to press forward, pushing Sokka closer to the wooden fence of their sparring ring. “How so?” he asks.

Zuko strikes at Sokka, but suddenly Sokka catches the flat of Zuko’s sword with the tip of his, and with a deft twist, disarms Zuko. Zuko backs up, the wooden edge of Sokka’s sparring blade pressed into his throat. “Where’d you learn that?” Zuko asks, because he knows he’s never seen Sokka use that move before. 

Sokka takes a moment to catch his breath before lowering his practice weapon. “Couple months ago, from some guys in the Earth Kingdom.”

“Water?”

“Please.”

They drift to the edge of the ring, Zuko picking up his practice blade, to where they left their outer layers and water. This close to the coast, and with summer reaching its end, the nights cool off quickly, and it’s asking for trouble to not carry extra clothing when going outdoors after dusk.

“You were criticizing the architecture of the palace?” Zuko prompts as he passes Sokka his water.

“Oh. Right. I know you’re the nation of firebenders and all, but that doesn’t mean fire has to be your only light source. Why isn’t there any sunlight inside ever? At all? It’s like you’re asking to be grouchy and in a bad mood all the time.”

Zuko can’t help the smile that curls his lips. It’s fun to listen to Sokka on a roll, especially when Zuko agrees with what Sokka is saying.

“Metal might be indestructible unless it’s met by mechanical force or Toph, but unless you’re building to survive a modern siege, it’s absolutely ridiculous as a primary building material. Especially inside. How do you not all die of heatstroke in the summer? Even this late in the season I’m sweating buckets, and I swear I’ll be sleeping naked in the winter if I stay here that long. But how will I even know for sure that it’s winter, without a single window to see the world outside? If it weren’t for the courtyards and what Yong does for them, I think this place could drive anyone insane.”

Zuko snorts. Even with the courtyards, insanity seems to have festered in his childhood home. “You met Yong?” he asks, opting for the safer conversational route.

Sokka nods, leaning against the fence of the practice ring. “You know her?”

Yong has tended to the palace courtyard gardens since before Zuko was born. “Only in passing. She’s always been kind,” Zuko says. Even when I wasn’t, he thinks but doesn’t add out of shame.

“Too kind to tell people when to buzz off,” Sokka says. “She says Admiral Eun’s wife comes by three times a week to complain about her husband’s complaining about shipping routes.”

Zuko frowns. “Shipping routes?”

Sokka shifts his weight. “Does that mean something to you?”

“It does when it’s mentioned with Admiral Eun.”

Sokka nods curtly, and Zuko realizes, with some surprise, that he can see in Sokka’s expression the moment he shifts from casual conversation to adding new information from Zuko to a larger network he’s been building about the Fire Nation capital. “Yong said she heard something about new shipping routes that aren’t being completed quickly enough.”

Admiral Eun has one order, right now, and that order—from Zuko himself—involves a single, one-way and pre-established shipping route from the Earth Kingdom to the Fire Nation. “We’re going to have to look into that,” Zuko intones.

“Save it for tomorrow,” Sokka says, pushing himself off the fence and setting down his water. “Ready for another round?” he asks.

Sokka’s already moving toward the center of the ring, and he gives Zuko’s shoulder two solid pats as he passes. Zuko’s first instinct is to freeze. He knows what Sokka—and Aang and Katara and Toph—are like with their affection. It’s casual, physical, and laid bare, and it’s a far cry from what Zuko has become re-acclimated to over the last year and change. Aside from Mai, the only contact Zuko has had with another person is the occasional, accidental brush of a hand of someone helping him dress in formal clothing.

“I’m ready,” Zuko says and forces himself to shake it off, drifting to join Sokka in the center of the ring.

Admiral Eun has been covertly running small transport ships between the mainland of the Earth Kingdom and an island off its coast for the last two months. The transports travel at night, dumping stockpiles of weaponry and armor that are taken from Admiral Eun’s main force, which is slowly traveling over land to the port from which it will depart for the Fire Nation. What was Admiral Eun going to do with the weapons and armor?

“Melt them down and sell the raw material to the highest Fire Nation bidder, while claiming it’s Earth Kingdom metal by doing the processing at a factory operated by Earth Kingdom nationals on the island,” Sokka explains. “It would in theory keep word from getting you, except…”

“My husband will work himself into the ground with this project,” Jingyi says.

Zuko picks up one of the several papers laid out next to him on the stone bench. The three of them are in one of the quieter palace courtyards; Zuko hadn’t wanted this meeting to be official in any capacity beyond him being present, and Sokka hadn’t found fault with the instinct. It’s been two weeks since Sokka mentioned his casual conversation with Yong, and Sokka did well on his promise to find out more. It certainly helped that Jingyi ended up being more than happy to tell Sokka all about her husband’s activities.

What Zuko finds interesting is Jingyi’s reason for turning over the correspondences Admiral Eun had left at their home in the capital city. It’s not about the subterfuge or exploitation in her husband’s scheme, nor it she trying to have her husband punished; she also doesn’t care, apparently, about the extra income her husband was hoping to make on the scheme, though Jingyi’s family has been well-off for so many generations that that’s almost a moot point. No, Jingyi has cooperated with Sokka—and intentionally been loud and talkative with Yong, apparently—in the hopes that her husband get caught so he can come home and stop being stressed by this latest endeavor.

Zuko isn’t sure how he feels about the whole thing. He doesn’t know what Sokka makes of it, either, but he hasn’t bothered to ask and Sokka hasn’t brought it up.

“I know my husband, Fire Lord Zuko,” Jingyi says. “He isn’t made for this kind of deceit. He was confused by the sudden end of the war and acted rashly when he received orders to return home. I’ve been convincing him to abandon this ridiculous project. You can see, in our most recent letters, that it’s working.”

She kneels on the grass to be eye level with Zuko’s bench, gently shuffling the papers until she finds the one she’s looking for. She slides it closer to Zuko, and he obligingly picks it up. The penmanship reminds Zuko of his mother’s: not refined from a childhood spent learning calligraphy in formal educational programs, but still neat and legible enough. The first paragraph seems to be a response to Jingyi relating some family drama, but then Zuko reaches the second, which reads:

My love, perhaps you were right. This whole endeavor is not worth the effort and the sleeplessness I’ve put into it. I just don’t see how I can put a stop to the motions that are now in place and are moving faster than I can think. Too many others are in the know; to abandon my efforts would be to bring more dishonor to our family than the original breaking of my orders, and you know how some of these families feel about the new Fire Lord, anyway. What I would give, though, to be home with you and our children again…

Zuko looks up at Jingyi. Her name had sounded familiar when Sokka first mentioned it, but it wasn’t until she came to the palace a half-hour ago that he realized why: Jingyi and Admiral Eun’s wedding was the first Fire Nation wedding Zuko had attended. That was five years ago, only a couple short months before his banishment; he had gone with his uncle, who was friendly with Admiral Eun. It hadn’t been the happiest event. Jingyi’s family, Fire Nation aristocrats since before Sozin’s time, were displeased about their eldest daughter, at age 20, marrying a 38-year-old country peasant who had to fight tooth and nail to earn his military rank. The wedding party tension, however, clearly didn’t dispel the infatuation between the newlyweds, and Zuko remembers deriding Iroh’s tearful sighs when the couple recited their vows. He regrets doing so; he’d only done it because it seemed like the kind of thing Azula would do.

“How do some of the families feel about the new Fire Lord?” Zuko asks Jingyi.

Jingyi doesn’t falter in holding his gaze as she says, “They doubt your legitimacy and ability, so they believe that disobeying your orders doesn’t count as treason. They’re upset that the war has ended.”

“And how does your husband feel?”

“He’s devoted his life to your military since he was your age, Fire Lord Zuko. He feels uncertain about what his life and the military will look like without a war. But I don’t think he ever fought for love of war; he fought to feel accepted somewhere.”

There’s an unwavering belief behind her steady voice and even expression. When Zuko glances at Sokka, who’s standing a couple paces behind Jingyi, Sokka nods shortly. Zuko wonders at Sokka’s uncharacteristic silence throughout this exchange, but it feels inappropriate to drag him into a conversation he hasn’t felt a need to participate in so far.

So  Zuko shuffles the letters on the bench into a neat pile, which he returns to Jingyi. “We have a plan,” Zuko says, “That I hope you find amenable.”

Later that night, when they’re sparring again, Zuko finds it him to say, “You were quiet during Jingyi’s visit.”

Sokka deflects his strike and turns Zuko’s momentum against him, forcing Zuko to dance away a couple steps. It’s another new move that Zuko doesn’t already have in his How Sokka Fights catalogue. “Wanted to see what you would say,” Sokka grunts out.

Zuko dodges another couple blows, feints, and goes for Sokka’s exposed side. “You were testing me?”

“I was curious!”

Zuko uses his elbow to knock Sokka off balance and then carries through the motion to pivot and disarm Sokka in a blink. They freeze with the point of Zuko’s practice weapon pressed into Sokka’s side. “Nice move,” Sokka says. 

Zuko backs away, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. “Curious about what?”

Sokka shrugs. “There are a lot of ways you could handle a military leader disobeying your orders.”

Yes, and Zuko and Sokka had spent days going through them before coming up with a plan that Jingyi agreed would work on Admiral Eun. “You already knew what the plan is,” Zuko says dumbly.

“Yeah, but it was just a plan,” Sokka replies, walking away to fetch his sparring blade. “You could’ve said anything to Jingyi.”

And then it hits Zuko: Sokka doesn’t see his role here in the way that Zuko sees Sokka’s role.

“Don’t you know that I trust you?” Zuko blurts.

“Of course,” Sokka says casually, straightening up and resting a fist on his hip. “I wouldn’t be hanging out in the Fire Nation capital and sitting in on meetings otherwise, would I?”

“Sokka, I didn’t invite you to stay to be another set of eyes and ears,” Zuko says, his incredulity building. “You’re brilliant, you get people, and you think in ways that I don’t. If we make a plan together, that’s the plan I’m going with, because I believe it’s the best idea that we can put forward.”

Sokka blinks, and Zuko sways where he’s standing. He doesn’t know where those words came from, but he does know that they’re true.

The silence holds for two breaths, and then Sokka looks at the ground, rubbing the back of his neck. “Um. Thanks,” he says. “Sorry for doubting you.”

Zuko shakes his head. “It’s my fault. I hadn’t realized …”

What—that Sokka didn’t know his worth to Zuko? That Zuko hadn’t made clear the trust he put in Sokka?

Before he can complete his awkwardly trailing thought, Sokka looks up again and bounces onto the balls of his feet. “Another round?” he asks, raising his practice blade.

And this is a language Zuko has always found easier to understand and speak, so he raises his own blade and surges forward.

Visiting his sister has, in excruciatingly small increments, become easier.

“So nice of you to come here and gloat, Zuzu,” Azula drawls from where she’s sprawled across several floor cushions.

She flips her wrist in a circle, drawing a flame out of the air to dance on the index and middle fingers she has pressed together, and Zuko’s guards stationed around the room react, readying their weapons. Zuko waves them off and continues to pour tea for him and his sister. 

Azula’s bending isn’t what it once was, after spending several months behind bars—months that Zuko doesn’t feel good about, but also recognizes kept many people from harm when she was losing herself. While Azula’s technique is still a notch above Zuko’s, her strength isn’t there, whereas Zuko’s has been growing since he and Aang met the dragons. Zuko can handle her; he’s proven he can handle her. If he counted every attempt Azula has made on his life during these monthly tea visits, he’d be much higher than fourteen on his assassination count.

“This tea is supposed to be very good,” Zuko tells his sister. “It came from a small farming village a few days away from Omashu.”

Azula lets the flame on her fingertips die. “New Ozai peasant tea? Exhilarating,” she says sarcastically, but she nonetheless picks up her mug and takes a sip. Her expression remains impassive.

It’s a marked improvement from last month, when Zuko left his visit dripping with a pot’s worth of tea water.

“Have you razed to the ground yet everything that Grandfather spent his life working towards?” Azula inquires.

“No,” Zuko answers. What he’s trying to do—what he wants to do—is a much more complicated answer, and the ideas are still developing, but Zuko knows that Azula isn’t remotely interested in that. Azula actually thinks Zuko is royally screwing up everything their family and nation has ever worked for, and she tries to remind him of that every time they talk. Zuko could point out that Sozin’s vision for their nation was only a hundred years old, a blip in the longer view of time itself. Zuko could argue that Azula’s championing some harmful and bigoted and violent worldviews.

But that’s not what these monthly teas are about. Azula’s ideology can be addressed later. First, Zuko needs his sister to know that he cares about her—cares in a way that Ozai and Ursa and even Iroh never did. And he dares to hope that it’s starting to get across; she hasn’t tried to kill him the last two times he visited.

“I like what you’ve done with your hair,” Zuko says.

Azula straightens up, carding her fingers through the bangs that just fall into her eyes. “I don’t,” she counters. “I need it to grow out so I can try something different.”

“It’s shorter in the back, too, isn’t it?”

“I didn’t know you were such a girl, Zuzu, paying attention to hair like that.”

Having spent enough time with Toph, Aang, and Sokka, Zuko is well aware that attention to hair isn’t a girl thing, but he simply adds that to the long mental list of things about which he should one day have a conversation with Azula. It’s a dauntingly long list, but Azula’s mentors at this center for spirituality and health assured Zuko that there is hope that one day, he and Azula will be able to have difficult conversations without lighting buildings on fire and attempting to kill each other.

“You’re my sister. I pay attention to you,” Zuko says instead.

Azula scoffs, as if that’s a ridiculous statement, but she sips her tea instead of offering a scathing retort.

They’re in Azula’s private dining room, a small square that feels much larger than it is with its floor to ceiling west-facing windows. Even though this room looks like every other room that Zuko has visited in this center, it doesn’t feel sterile, and Azula has even hung a few personalizations on the walls: a small painting sent by Mai, a beautiful embroidered illustration of Ember Island created by Ty Lee, and Azula’s own attempt at a tapestry that has several expletive characters amidst what appears to be a standard floral pattern.

“Did you ever go to a Fire Nation wedding?” Zuko asks.

Azula narrows her eyes at Zuko. “Are you going to propose to Mai?”

Zuko chokes on his tea, and Azula smirks. “Not now,” Zuko coughs out, pounding his chest. He clears his throat, takes a proper sip of tea, and settles again. “I met a woman whose wedding I attended. I realized it was the only one I had been to.” Before banishment. Before becoming the Fire Lord, who apparently is expected to be at certain wedding ceremonies.

“Mai would kill you if you proposed to her,” Azula observes.

“Did you ever go to a wedding?” Zuko pushes again. He knows Mai doesn’t want to get married now. He doesn’t exactly want to, either; they’re seventeen, and Zuko’s trying to lead a nation that seems less than excited about him as a person, much less a leader.

“One of Mai’s cousins got married after Father banished you,” Azula says. She loves to bring up Zuko’s banishment, at any opportunity; Zuko wonders when she’ll notice it no longer grates on his nerves the way it used to. “And one of Ty Lee’s sisters. I found the ceremonies vapid and a waste of time.”

Zuko doesn’t know why he expected any other kind of response from his sister. “Have you heard from Ty Lee recently?” he asks, deciding to divert to another topic.

“Why should I tell you if I have?”

The hour is the most peaceable tea that Zuko’s yet had with Azula, and he leaves in hopeful spirits. He’s about to depart the center when he runs into Hye, one of the women taking particular care of Azula.

“Hye,” he calls, striding across the entrance hall to bow to the healer in question.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” Hye acknowledges, bowing back. “It’s wonderful to see you.”

Hye looks old enough to be Zuko’s mother, with gray hair just starting to thread through the black, but she radiates a different type of strength than Ursa did. Something about it makes Zuko want to please her, even if he only has short chats with her in passing during his monthly visits.

“Azula seems to be doing better,” Zuko says.

Hye doesn’t smile like Zuko expected her to; she only nods. “This has been a good week for her.”

“I’m glad she’s making progress.”

“I am, too, Fire Lord Zuko,” Hye says, “but I caution you to remember: recovery is not a straight line.”

Hye says it often. Zuko admits he sometimes wants to shake her; he heard her the first time. But Zuko was raised to have and has finally made a practicing of exhibiting manners and restraint, so he says instead, “I’ll keep that in mind,” before bowing again and walking out the front doors of the spirituality and healing center.

When Admiral Eun walks into the throne room, he’s already sweating. His stride is even and his spine is ramrod straight—military straight—but from this high angle, Zuko can see the flickering light of the wall sconces reflected by the glistening rise of Admiral Eun’s forehead.

It’s the secondary throne room, technically, where Ursa used to receive less important guests and conduct less important business when Ozai was busy in the main throne room, but Zuko has poor memories of the main throne room. He didn’t want to inherit it. In fact, the day after his coronation, Zuko snuffed out Azulon’s ever-burning wall of flame, redistributed the furniture to different corners of the palace, disbanded Ozai’s council, and repurposed the grand hall of a room as a closet. The dim, echoing space is now stacked high with furniture, relics, art, and broken mechanical equipment that Zuko eventually has to deal with—wants to deal with—but he’s a bit preoccupied by more pressing things at the moment. Things like military leaders taking advantage of fragile Earth Kingdom village economies, flouting orders, and taking Zuko’s time and attention when there are a hundred other things that also want his time and attention.

Besides, Zuko doesn’t need a wall of flame to separate him from his citizens and guests; an ornately carved wooden throne on an elevated platform is enough of an architectural respect me, please, for Zuko’s liking.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” Admiral Eun says when he reaches the platform, kowtowing before Zuko.

“Please, stand,” Zuko says.

Admiral Eun returns to his feet. He’s an average height man with more gray than brown in his hair, but Ursa’s throne still puts Zuko well above the top of the admiral’s head. “Do you know why you are here?” Zuko asks.

Admiral Eun glances nervously at Sokka, who’s standing on the floor to Zuko’s side, before returning his gaze to Zuko’s feet. “I think so, my lord,” he confesses quietly.

Sokka takes that as his cue to move forward to the long, rectangular table that occupies the center of the room. “Admiral Eun, if you’d join me, please,” Sokka says, gesturing at the other side of the table.

The admiral glances at Zuko, and at Zuko’s nod, follows Sokka’s instruction.

Sokka lays bare everything they’ve learned about Admiral Eun’s diversion project, providing proof with correspondence and documentation that Sokka has collected since Zuko asked him to dig deeper, but without mentioning Jingyi. They agreed Sokka would do this part of the talking, in part because Sokka can describe the connections and logistics behind their findings more smoothly than Zuko can, and in part because they want Admiral Eun to sweat a little: the older man has to listen to a stranger detail everything he thought he was doing covertly while Zuko—not only the leader of his nation, but also the head of the military Admiral Eun is so devoted to—simply listens.

And there’s a third point, that Zuko didn’t disclose to Sokka: Zuko kind of enjoys watching Sokka talk a pointed and incisive circle around people. Spending the past year at court has given Zuko an appreciation for the art of speaking, particularly when it comes to politics, and Sokka is able to spin a narrative that ends in a dagger-sharp point with more skill and aplomb than most of the seasoned court politicians. The art of speaking isn’t that different from the art of swordplay or the art of bending; talent or lack thereof is recognizable, and sometimes, people just have a gift.

When Sokka finishes, he’s barely containing a smirk as he crosses his arms at Admiral Eun, who’s sweating even more. Admiral Eun turns to Zuko, brown eyes flared wide. “My lord,” he stammers, “I’m—I don’t—”

“You disobeyed a direct order, Admiral Eun,” Zuko says.

Admiral Eun hangs his head, staring once more at Zuko’s feet. “Yes, my lord.”

“Such disloyalty cannot pass without reprimand,” Zuko continues. “You will return to this island and return the land deeds to the Earth Kingdom citizens from which you purchased them. You will not receive your original payment back in exchange. Additionally, for anything you have added to the land since its purchase, you will communicate with the original deed holders regarding whether they want such additions removed. Any materials explicitly belonging to the Fire Nation military must be removed, at my order. And then you will follow your original orders as I issued them. Do you understand me?”

The admiral’s eyebrows knot, his mouth hanging open as he processes exactly what Zuko’s demanding of him. “Yes?” The admiral offers.

“I hear hesitation, Admiral Eun. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Admiral Eun says hastily.

“Good,” Zuko says.

He rises from his seat and goes down the steps of the elevated platform to stand directly in front of Admiral Eun. They’re nearly the same height, but the difference in their age is apparent in the lines of Admiral Eun’s face. Zuko finds it odd that he can strike fear in a man old enough to be his father. “Sokka will be going with you,” Zuko tells the admiral.

“Yes, my lord.”

“Carry out these orders quickly, Admiral Eun, so you may sooner return to your family.”

Zuko raises a hand, and before it lands on Admiral Eun’s upper arm, Zuko sees the older man flinch. He doesn’t comment on it, instead squeezing the admiral lightly before letting go. “You’re dismissed,” he says, and the admiral bows quickly to Zuko and Sokka before striding as fast as he can out of the room.

Zuko stares after him even when the doors are swung shut by the guards outside. Admiral Eun, a seasoned military leader, had flinched when Zuko raised his hand. He’d assumed that Zuko would—strike him? Burn him?

Zuko turns to Sokka, whose brow is knitted. “You saw that too?” Sokka asks.

Zuko nods. “I—is that what he thinks of me? Or is this another legacy from my father?”

There’s disgust in his tone that Zuko couldn’t hide if he wanted to. It seems like every day, he discovers something new about his father, something that others expect Zuko will inherit by nature of being Ozai’s son—forget the banishment, forget ending the war.

“Well,” Sokka says, drawing Zuko out of his thoughts, “I can try to figure that out during our field trip.”

“You’re sure you’re okay with going?” Zuko asks.

Sokka is the only person returning with Admiral Eun to his troops, which means if their plan and Jingyi’s judgement of her husband fail, Sokka could be alone against a fleet of Fire Nation soldiers. They feel good about their chances, though, and if they’re trying to establish that Zuko isn’t going to be just a different brand of distrusting tyrant, it wouldn’t look good to send Admiral Eun away from the capital with an armed escort or anything as dramatic.

Sokka gathers the papers he had spread on the table. “Come on, you know I’ll be good,” he says jocularly. “We’ve all thrown ourselves headfirst into worse things.”

Zuko grins. “I suppose so.”

Sokka tucks the papers into a satchel and comes around the corner of the table to clap a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. Is it lunch time yet? I feel like it could be lunch time.”

“We had breakfast two hours ago.”

“And I’m a growing young man! Like you aren’t hungry all the time, too.”

The days seem quieter without Sokka around. Zuko was in a meeting when Admiral Eun left, on the same day as the confrontation in the throne room, so he didn’t send off either the admiral or Sokka, but Mai had gone to say goodbye to Sokka. Zuko’s girlfriend had somehow managed to rope Sokka into consulting some of the work she’s doing on an education reform project at the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, and even though Sokka’s still unsure if Mai likes him or not, Zuko can tell she thinks that they’re friends.

Without Sokka to spar with after dinner, Zuko is restless and admittedly at a loss, so it’s a relief a few days later when Mai mentions she’s going to walk around the city one night. “Reading to Tom-Tom is so boring,” she says with a sigh.

“Can I come with you?” Zuko asks.

“Can I really say no?” Which is Mai for Yeah, sure.

So Zuko finds himself walking with Mai down the quiet streets of the capital city, their path lit by street lamps and starlight.

The streets didn’t always used to be this quiet. Zuko remembers when he was young and the weather permitted it, Ursa would take him and Azula to one of the upper balconies of the palace, where they could look down on the city sprawling below them. So long as it wasn’t raining, restaurant patrons would spill out onto the cobblestone streets, either chattering merrily or listening to a musical performer, and the streets that didn’t have restaurants or bars or tea joints would spark and glow with the fireworks of street performers and the sparklers of children.

As he grew older, however, the neighborhoods closest to the palace lost their spark and energy, and something had happened during the three years of Zuko’s banishment to muffle the entire city into silence, like a thick layer of snow blanketing a home from the entire world outside. It’s hard to believe that there’s life in this city.

“You’re lost again.”

Zuko blinks, coming back to the present. “I’m not lost,” he says, putting an arm around Mai’s shoulders. “I’m just … being quiet.”

Mai humphs noncommittally, but she adjusts her stride to better match Zuko’s. It makes his partial embrace easier to maintain. “Tom-Tom learned another word today.”

“What was it?”

“Rice.”

And that’s the end of that conversation. Zuko has known that Mai’s succinct, and has appreciated that her concision can make it easier to understand what she’s saying, but it sometimes leaves them with silences that Zuko doesn’t know how to fill. Part of his uncertainty is that he doesn’t think Mai always wants him to fill them.

They reach a small square with a garden in its center. Even though the planted flowers are not as bright as they would have been a few weeks ago, it’s a beautiful spot, and Zuko wonders why no one else is here. Mai adjusts their angle so they’re headed toward one of the low stone benches on the garden’s perimeter, and Zuko obligingly follows.

They sit down, and Zuko isn’t expecting Mai to grab him by the back of the neck, but that’s exactly what she does, tilting to her head to kiss him. His hands find her waist, and he honestly can’t remember the last time they kissed like this, continuous and open-mouthed in a way that warms Zuko’s insides. Mai hums against his lips, and a shiver that has nothing to do with the night air rolls down Zuko’s spine.

When Mai pulls away, Zuko’s lips feel tender. His eyes open, and in the faint lamp light, he can’t quite parse Mai’s expression. “Are you okay?” he asks.

It wasn’t the right thing to say; Mai’s hand slips away from his neck. “I’m fine,” she says, turning away from him and leaning into his side.

Her voice sounds normal, so Zuko slides an arm around her again. “What kind of flowers do you think those are?” he asks, nodding at a low-lying bush with orange-petaled blossoms on it.

Mai scoffs. “You think I know anything about flowers?”

She has a point. “Uncle would know,” Zuko says.

They lapse into silence. It persists until one of the lamps flickers out; it must have run out of oil. “It’s late,” Zuko says. “We should head back.”

Mai wordlessly stands, and for some reason, it takes Zuko an extra moment to rise from the bench and follow after her.

When Sokka returns, he has a new Earth Kingdom-made coin purse and a carving knife that Zuko recognizes as Fire Nation make, but cannot identify the specific region it’s from. “Look! It matches my satchel perfectly!” Sokka exclaims, holding up the coin purse against the fabric of his bag.

Mai laughs, and Zuko hides his grin behind his mug of tea. The three of them are in Sokka’s guest chambers, ostensibly to catch up, but so far it’s mostly been Sokka settling back in and waxing poetic about the two marketplaces he had the chance to wander around when Admiral Eun was docked and waiting at a port city.

Zuko re-sheathes the knife and passes it to Mai, who looks at it with interest. “This isn’t meant to be a weapon, is it?” she asks Sokka.

Sokka tucks his new coin purse into his satchel and finally comes over to the low table where Zuko and Mai are sitting. “It’s a carving knife,” Sokka says. “One of Eun’s own, actually. Did you know he comes from a family of butchers?”

Sokka hasn’t once referred to the admiral by his rank since Zuko and Mai arrived, and Zuko would wager money that Sokka somehow turned a low-key, oversee-and-guard role into an unlikely friendship.

“I bet I could turn this into a weapon,” Mai muses, tossing the knife in the air to test its weight.

“I bet you could, but that was a generous gift from the man’s personal collection,” Sokka says.

He tries to snatch the knife out of the air, but Mai’s faster. She sheathes the blade and passes it, handle-first, to Sokka on the other side of the table.

“You spent some time talking to Admiral Eun?” Zuko asks.

Sokka nods. “He was a bit suspicious at first that you were trying to pull something on him, since his ‘punishment’ is basically undo the trouble you started and then go home to your loving wife, but hey—I’m a persuasive guy.”
“You mean you pestered him into submission?” Mai suggests dryly.

“Pestering is a strategy and a choice,” Sokka shoots back, “which I did use in tasteful amounts this time around.”

A short laugh escapes Mai. Zuko pours a cup of tea for Sokka. “Did you find out anything about my father?”

Sokka nods, the mirth slipping out of his expression. “Not from Eun directly. I heard some of his soldiers say some things throughout the trip.” Sokka takes a sip of tea, his gaze focused on something invisible to the naked eye. When he speaks again, it’s as gentle as Zuko has ever heard him. “Ozai … would punish people. Physically. Not often, but enough that word would get around at every level of the military, it seems.”

Zuko sits back, staring at his hands in his lap. He’s not surprised, necessarily. He’s experienced his father’s brand of retribution firsthand, and he knows that the way that Ozai ruled was not dissimilar from the way he raised his children: instilling obedience through fear. But it still feels like a different thing to hear confirmation of it from someone else.

Mai’s fingertips land on Zuko’s knee. “You’re not him,” she tells Zuko.

“Our plan is working,” Sokka adds. “Eun already thinks you’re reasonable. The people who know about what he was doing will see that you’re not overzealous.”

“Or they’ll think I’m weak,” Zuko tells his hands.

“If that’s the case, we’ll deal with it when it comes.”

There’s such a nonchalance to Sokka’s tone that Zuko wonders if he’s possibly overthinking things again. He looks at Mai, who doesn’t say anything, but her hand is still resting on his leg, which feels like it counts for something. “I guess we will,” Zuko concedes.

Sokka grins broadly, returning to his animated self. “So. What did I miss when I was babysitting a Fire Nation admiral?”

Zuko, like most firebenders, has been a morning person since birth, so it’s in turns confusing and amusing to him when other people not only sleep through sunrise, but are also able to sleep in for hours.

Sokka is one such person, and while usually Zuko would let it slide—Sokka did just get back from an extended trip during which he had to constantly be on his guard—it’s almost midday and Zuko really wants Sokka to be at the meeting with the resettlement planing committee. Zuko thinks one of the engineers is full of it, but he wants Sokka to make his own judgment about the man before Zuko starts asking more pointed questions about a subject that admittedly isn’t his strong suit.

Ordinarily, Zuko would have sent someone to check on Sokka for him, but his last meeting ended early, and making the trip himself is an excuse to stretch his legs. Zuko knows he made the right choice when the walk itself improves his mood; more sunlight reaches this side of the palace, and there’s the actual occasional window to let it through.

When Zuko reaches Sokka’s chambers, he knocks on the outer door. “Sokka?” he calls.

There’s no answer, not even when he knocks several more times with increasing volume, so Zuko risks opening the outer door and sliding into the chambers. The multifunctional antechamber is pristine and empty, and the sliding door to the bedroom is shut. Zuko holds still, listening for anything, but he can only hear his own heartbeat.

He takes the two steps to bring himself close to the sliding door and raps his knuckles on the wooden frame. There’s the shuffle of bedsheets and a muffled groan; then silence.

Zuko knocks again. “Sokka?”

More shuffling, and then: “Wazzit?”

His words are slurred together as if he is still half-asleep, and Zuko kind of feels bad about bothering Sokka, now. “Uh. It’s me. We have that meeting, soon?”

“Oh!”

There’s a scrambling noise and a thunk, followed by cursing that rapidly approaches Zuko. Zuko backs away from the door in time for Sokka to slam it open, his eyes flaring as wide as Zuko’s are. “Are we going to be late?” Sokka asks.

Sokka’s disheveled, his hair loose and the waistband of his undergarment twisted halfway around his hips. There are crease marks on his cheek, undoubtedly from his pillow.

It takes Zuko a moment to find his voice. “It starts in about ten minutes.”

“Agh!”

Sokka turns away, diving back into the bedroom half of the chambers, and Zuko keeps his eyes carefully trained on whatever it is that’s outside of Sokka’s window. His cheeks feel warm; he doesn’t know what to think of that. It was the shock, maybe, of being unexpectedly confronted with so much skin. The people in the capital like to stay conservatively covered, even at the peak of summer, and Zuko knows he’s become re-accustomed to most aspects of life in this city. It’s almost alarming, how quickly his mind’s readjusting to consider capital life as the normal.

“Okay!” Sokka shouts, almost toppling out of the bedroom. He finishes tying his top knot and grins at Zuko with a piece of jerky held between his teeth. “Leggo!”

Zuko hurries to follow Sokka out of his chambers. “Do you want something to eat?” he asks. He recognizes Sokka’s sudden alertness as the reaction of a battle-hardened warrior, going from dead asleep to wide awake in an instant. But they’re not headed to a fight that will keep the blood flowing and the mind and body engaged; they’re headed to a drab meeting in a windowless room. Zuko thinks Sokka is liable to go back to sleep in the middle of it.

“This can tide me over.” Sokka waves the jerky.

“If you say so,” Zuko murmurs and then says, louder, “Sorry I woke you. I thought you’d be up by now—”

Sokka laughs. “Oh, man, no. If I have a real bed, I sleep like the dead.” They make a turn, and just like that, the tall hallway is devoid of sunlight again. “But,” Sokka continues, grinning and brandishing his jerky at Zuko, “The smell of food always gets me up.”

“So if I want you up at a reasonable hour, I should have breakfast in your room?”

“Define reasonable.”

Zuko’s lips twitch. He’s getting an idea for something that will make Sokka laugh. He thinks. “We’re here,” he says, stopping outside the doors of Ursa’s throne room.

Sokka’s momentum is still carrying him forward, and Zuko doesn’t think before he shoots out a hand to grab Sokka by the elbow and drag him in the right direction. Sokka yelps but catches himself before he falls over or crashes into Zuko. “Geez, hard pivot for a guy who was literally asleep ten minutes ago,” Sokka huffs.

Zuko lets go. “Sorry,” he says, without really meaning it. He swears he can still feel the warmth of Sokka’s skin on the pads of his fingers. “Ready?”

Sokka finishes his last bite of jerky and bares his teeth at Zuko. “Anything in my teeth?” he asks, voice distorted.

Zuko snorts. “You look ridiculous.”

“But is there?”

“No! Now come on. We’re starting soon.”

Sokka gives him a weird look, but gestures for Zuko to open the doors anyway.

It was meant to be a joke: Zuko would show up at Sokka’s chambers and settle in with a whole breakfast spread at the crack of dawn, to see if Sokka was telling the truth about the waking-to-food thing and, if so, to see how long it would take.

Sure enough, Sokka stumbles out of the bedroom minutes after Zuko has poured his tea, this time clothed but with his hair still down. He squints out the window at the rays of sunlight that are just reaching into the sky and scratches at his jaw. “You’re the worst,” he tells Zuko.

Zuko smiles to himself. With his voice pitched low from sleep and the once-shaven sides of his head grown out, Sokka bears an even stronger resemblance to Hakoda. “Would you like some tea?” Zuko asks.

Sokka drops down to the floor, taking a seat opposite Zuko. “Please,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair and wincing when he encounters knots.

It was meant to be a joke, but after a cup of tea and a bowl of pickled vegetables bring Sokka to full consciousness, Zuko finds himself enjoying a shared breakfast. He usually eats alone, either in his room or, if he has extra time in the morning, on one of the palace’s upper balconies, but it’s nice to have company. He supposes that one day, he’ll have Mai to share his morning meals with, but he doesn’t really let himself think about it—there’s no point in thinking about it when they’re still a ways off from getting married.

“I think I’ll be getting a letter from Suki soon,” Sokka says.

Zuko looks up from his fish. “Did she not know you were here all this time?” Now that the war is over, there’s far less reason for postal services to be slow or delayed.

“Sort of? I wrote to her the day we decided I’d stay, but the Kyoshi Warriors travel so much it can take a while to get in touch.” Sokka snorts. “Sometimes we end up routing stuff through Aang, which—well, you know Aang. Trustworthy, but highly distractible.”

“How is Suki?”

“She’s good. Really good. She likes all the traveling.”

There’s a hitch to his tone, and Zuko must give him a quizzical look, because Sokka sighs and shifts his weight. “I’m happy for her, I really am,” he says. “I know what it’s like to get to travel the world after being confined to the same village for almost your entire life. And she is happy. I just—I sometimes miss her, I guess.”

Zuko fiddles with the cloth napkin in his lap. “That’s rough,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

Sokka shrugs, straightening up and plastering on a smile, and it hits Zuko how often Sokka does this, reverting to a laidback, don’t-worry-about-me-I’m-always-doing-fine attitude. It’s remarkable because Zuko falls for it almost every time. “Is your thing starting soon?” Sokka asks.

Zuko nods. “I should leave. Thank you for eating with me.”

Sokka waves a hand. “If there’s food, I’m there,” he jokes.

Zuko departs, and then it’s another long day of meetings and consultations and trying to not tear his own hair out. They’re inane enough that there was no reason to drag Sokka into them, but that’s just making Zuko wish Sokka were here; then Zuko would at least have his entertaining, under-the-breath commentary. He finally gets a break in the late afternoon, and when the page who had told him so retreats from Ursa’s throne room, Zuko sighs deeply, sinks into a chair at the long table, and lets his forehead thunk against the thick wooden surface. He’s simultaneously mentally spent but physically twitchy, and he knows that practicing his bending would help with both of those things, but his break is only half an hour.

He doesn’t know how long he’s sitting there with his head resting on the table, but when a knock comes from the door, Zuko knows it can’t have been his entire break. He sits up properly and calls out, “Enter.”

The page pokes his head through the door. “Admiral Eun for you, Fire Lord.”

Zuko blinks. The admiral has only been back for a few shorts days, and Zuko hadn’t intended to check on him for some while, particularly now that Sokka seems to be on good terms with Admiral Eun. “Send him in,” Zuko says, and the page disappears.

When the admiral enters, Zuko immediately gestures at the chair across from him. “Please, sit.”

Admiral Eun bows before obeying Zuko’s request. “Fire Lord Zuko,” he says after he sits, “Thank you for accepting me on informal, short notice.”

“It’s my pleasure. How is being home?”

“An adjustment, my lord. I’ve been stationed in the colonies for the better part of the last ten years.”

Zuko nods in acknowledgement. For some reason, sitting at the same level as Admiral Eun makes Zuko much more aware of the man’s age—not in the lines in his face or the gray peppering his beard, but in the weight of experience that seems to settle comfortably on the admiral’s broad shoulders. “What is it that brought you to me today?” Zuko asks.

Admiral Eun clears his throat and breaks eye contact. “My wife thinks highly of you,” he begins, and Zuko has to bite back an Of course. He basically delivered Admiral Eun back to Jingyi with a direct order to stay at home with her for the indefinite future.

“In our conversations over the last few days, she’s encouraged me to consider why I’ve made the choices I’ve made in my life, and whether those motivations are still what drive me today. I have reflected, and it occurred to me …”

The admiral inhales deeply and leans forward, folding his hands on the table as he looks Zuko in the eye. “Fire Lord Zuko, I was born in a humble village where people were content to do what they’d always known, and my desire to see the world was seen as extraordinarily, dangerously strange. The first time I met a Fire Nation soldier, I decided that that would be my way out of my home. I would find acceptance amongst soldiers who had also seen more of the world than their own village and the farms that surround it.

“Acceptance was not easily earned by a poor son of a butcher from the country, so I became very devoted to it. I am proud of the rank I have earned. I still remember meeting your father for the first time.”

The mention of Ozai makes Zuko think of how Admiral Eun had flinched when Zuko had reached out to him at the end of their first meeting. A chill runs under Zuko’s skin.

“But Jingyi’s questions—and the end of the war—have made this aging man reflective. Yes, in the last 30 years, I have been far beyond the village where I was born. But I’ve begun to doubt that traveling to distant places to burn them down and build them anew counts as seeing the world.”

Zuko nods. There’s a part of him that understands what Admiral Eun went through. When Zuko was first banished, his single-minded pursuit of Aang blinded him to the very world he was traveling through; it wasn’t until he and his uncle became refugees in the Earth Kingdom that Zuko finally began to see.

Admiral Eun seems to take Zuko’s nod as encouragement. With a twist of his wrist, he pulls a small, hidden scroll out from underneath his forearm greave and places it between them on the table. “Jingyi believes you mean to see the world for what it is,” Admiral Eun says, “and she has always been a better judge of character than I am.”

Zuko picks up the scroll. The paper is fragile but remarkably smooth, so much so that Zuko thinks this must be a scroll made for miniature calligraphy. Instead of careful artistry, however, the scroll is covered in a tight writing recognizable as Admiral Eun’s hand.

“This is a list of names,” Zuko says aloud.

Admiral Eun nods. “These were the individuals and families who were committed to the—uh, enterprise I had started.”

Zuko stops reading. He lets the scroll roll into itself again and leaves it on the tabletop, returning his hands to his lap. For a moment, he studies Admiral Eun’s countenance, but there’s nothing there that Zuko can read into.

“Do you want something for these names?” Zuko asks. He feels like it isn’t the best question he could be asking right now—isn’t even sure if it’s a question he should be asking—but he can’t think of anything better, and it’s what he wants to know right now.

When Admiral Eun shakes his head, Zuko isn’t sure if he feels relief or increased suspicion. “While I’ve only heard the talk from the colonies, I imagine this has not been easy,” the admiral says. “This scroll is meant to be a repentance that will help you, and … my gratitude for letting me return to my family.”

Zuko studies the older man. He seems … genuine. It’s a weird impression to be having in the throne room where Zuko’s had to deal with more ridiculous politics than any other place in this palace.

“I was at your wedding, five years ago,” Zuko says.

The admiral’s brown eyes widen, and he’s not the only one surprised by what just came out of Zuko’s mouth. And, apparently, Zuko’s not even done yet:

“I’m glad that you and your wife continue to love each other, and continue to find growth in one another.”

The smile that graces Admiral Eun’s face is small, but gives his entire presence a softer edge. “You speak eloquently, Fire Lord Zuko, especially for a young man.”

A knock from the throne room doors echoes through the room, signaling the end of Zuko’s break. He palms the scroll, tucking it snugly into the thick sash around his waist, and stands. Admiral Eun does the same.

“Thank you, Admiral Eun,” Zuko says and bows.

“Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko.”

As Zuko watches the admiral retreat, the scroll presses into his side like the tip of a blade.

It was meant to be a joke.

But when Zuko wakes at sunrise the next day, the thought of eating a small breakfast in his windowless chambers is a cold one. So he instead goes to an upper balcony, spends an hour running through some firebending forms, and then goes to wake Sokka with a table full of food. 

And just like that, it becomes the new normal.

In the middle of autumn, when the flowers begin to lose their petals and the leaves on the trees turn a flaming orange and red, Zuko visits the Royal Fire Academy for Girls for the first time. He’s heard plenty about it before, of course, between Azula and Mai and even Ty Lee, and the academy has its reputation as the premier educational institute for girls in the Fire Nation. But he’s never had reason to visit, until now.

Mai’s leading him down one of the outdoor hallways that forms the first floor of the academy and surrounds a large, square courtyard that’s open to the sky. Though the sun’s heat should be strong on such a cloudless day, there’s an autumn wind that pinches Zuko’s cheeks and causes Mai’s hair and skirts to softly ride the air.

“The floors above are all classrooms?” Zuko asks.

“Mostly. Some of our teachers also live here.”

The academy feels strangely quiet, without any children running around. Classes are not in session, this week, following an old tradition of letting children have time off to help their families with the last of the harvest; now, none of the families who can afford to send their children to the academy are farmers.

Mai leads them up two staircases, down another hall, and then into a wide room with a long oval table in its center and large windows that look out over the north side of the city. “This is where we work,” Mai says.

Zuko looks around. More striking than the view outside are the sheer number of scrolls in this room, both hanging on the walls and organized in diamond-shaped shelves that stack four feet up from the ground. Of the hanging scrolls, most are covered in diagrams and notes too fine for him to see from a distance, but then he finds the corner he’s looking for: on the far end of the room, a series of hanging scrolls feature not densely packed text, but maps.

“Are those yours?” Zuko asks to confirm.

A smile twitches on Mai’s lips. “Who else’s?” she replies.

Zuko quickly crosses the room. When he’s close enough to reach out and touch the scrolls, he’s able to read the dates that have been written in the corner of the hand-drawn maps. Some are from before the end of the war; some are more recent.

Zuko turns to look at his girlfriend, who’s leaning against the table behind him with her arms loosely folded. “You did some of these from memory?” he asks, astounded.

Mai shrugs. “When I get bored, I study what’s around me. I never forget the geography or architecture of a place.”

Zuko leans in to peer at one of the scrolls. It's from about a year and a half ago,  this time labeled with a location, too: Ba Sing Se, Third City Circle.

“These are incredible,” Zuko says.

“Mai’s one of the best cartographers the Fire Nation’s ever had.”

Zuko whips around. There’s a stranger standing in the doorway, a young woman with black hair that hangs all the way to her hips and skin that’s as dark, if not darker, than Sokka’s. Mai doesn’t seem alarmed by her appearance, so Zuko bows. The woman returns the gesture, and before Zuko can introduce himself, she says, “Fire Lord. We were expecting you sooner.”

Zuko glances guiltily at Mai. They’ve been talking about his visit to see her work for a few weeks now; Mai hadn’t seemed bothered when it kept getting pushed off, and she seems no more bothered now. “I apologize for not coming until now,” Zuko says.

“Chenda, this is my boyfriend, who’s been pretty busy for the last year,” Mai says, and Zuko feels his cheeks heat at Mai’s casual defense. “Zuko, this is Chenda. She graduated from the academy four years before me.”

Chenda steps into the room and draws up to the table opposite of Mai. “As I was saying, Mai’s maps are more detailed and accurate than anything the archives have on the Air Temples and Water Tribes.”

During his banishment, Zuko had worked with some of the archived cartography materials, and, glancing at Mai’s work again, he agrees with Chenda. He wonders why he never knew about this part of Mai. “I hadn’t realized your reform research was using the archives,” he says to both women.

For all that Zuko’s father and his father before him had seen to destroying libraries and archives and documentation around the world, they were obsessed with keeping information in the Fire Nation—carefully locked away, of course. Militarily useful information, like maps, about other nations is supposed to be difficult to obtain, and Zuko has no doubt that Mai’s been using her father’s governmental clearances to access such things.

He isn’t bothered by this realization, either, because he’s excited about the reform work Mai, Chenda, and others on the committee are bringing to the curriculum of the Royal Fire Academy for Girls. It’s more worldly, and seeks to ask and encourage questions more than provide answers. If all goes well, Zuko hopes Mai can continue, or at least bring, this work to other schools in the Fire Nation.

“And not much else escapes you, hm?” Chenda asks.

There’s a leading edge to her voice that Zuko instantly recognizes only because he’s heard it before from Katara. “I’m sorry?” Zuko asks.

Mai sighs. “Do you really want to get into this?” she asks Chenda, voice flat with boredom.

Chenda’s dark brown eyes spark. “Would you care to explain why, Fire Lord, the war has been over for a year, but the military still hoards the best resources for healing and medicine?”

Hoarding seems like a strong word, but that hardly seems like the right thing to start with, so Zuko scrambles for whatever thought comes next, which is, “Were you in the military?”

“I’ve been working as a trained healer for seven years, three of which were for your military. Are those credentials enough for you?”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Sure, it wasn’t.”

Zuko glances at Mai, who’s inspecting her fingernails. She doesn’t notice his look.

“So, do you have a reason? Or even an excuse?” Chenda pushes.

Zuko’s rapidly developing the sense that no matter what he says, Chenda’s going to react negatively to it, so he might as well go with the truth. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with the conditions of non-military healing centers.”

“And you didn’t think to ask anyone? Civilians get sick and hurt, too.”

“I know! I—I’m still working on finding people I can trust.”

“More than a year after your coronation?”

A muscle in Zuko’s cheek twitches. He’s aware that he’s failing pretty badly on that front, and he doesn’t need a stranger scoffing at him about it when he’s kicking himself for the same reason every day—

“People are still trying to kill him,” Mai says. “He has reason to be careful.”

Mai’s tone is neutral, but it’s the second time she’s defended Zuko since Chenda walked in, and it feels like—a lot. Chenda grumbles under her breath, something that sounds suspiciously like just a child, and Zuko’s blood rises. He’s grown this past year and a half, and seventeen years isn’t the age of a child, thank you.

Chenda looks at Zuko again, raising a sharp eyebrow. “Something needs to be done about it,” she says, tossing her head to adjust how her hair falls. A more neutral expression comes over her features. “We at the Royal Fire Academy appreciate your visit.”

She bows, and leaves the room before Zuko has a chance to respond.

Zuko looks at Mai, who’s finally looking back at him. “She seems like fun,” he observes.

Mai’s lips curl with amusement. “She knows what she’s doing.”

“What is she doing for the project?”

“She’s developing a healing program. The academy hasn’t had one before.”

Zuko glances at the doorway. It’s been a while since someone has been so directly critical of him, he realizes. Katara prefers an aggressive brand of passive aggression, and before her, it was Azula. But Azula’s criticisms were always meant to (and often did) cut Zuko down; Chenda’s seem to be more of a demand to be better.

Then it also occurs to him: before Chenda even got into it, Mai had asked her if she really wanted to get into this. Mai knew exactly what Chenda was going to say—has known about this, and didn’t mention a word of it to Zuko.

He feels some sort of way about it, but doesn’t know what way, so he decides to ignore it for now. He drifts back toward the corner with Mai’s maps and asks, “Which one is your favorite?”

Hours later, they’re having dinner with Sokka, and Zuko feels frustrated that he can’t figure out why Mai’s silence regarding Chenda bothered him. He’s even quieter than Mai as he picks at his food, and he’s struggling to pay attention to Sokka’s recounting of his day. He caught the bit about Sokka getting pulled into a long conversation with Jingyi at the market, about Sokka sitting in on a meeting with agricultural advisors who have returned from the countryside, and about Sokka trying a new fusion fruit at lunch, but other than that …

“How was the visit to the academy?” Sokka asks.

When Zuko doesn’t respond, Mai eventually answers, “Fine.”

There’s a beat. Zuko sips his tea, and Mai crunches on a handful of fire flakes. Sokka glances between the two of them and then barrels on, asking Mai, “So what subject did you end up being assigned to?”

“World cultures and geography. When I went there, we only learned about the Fire Nation.”

“Wow. They really start the nationalism early, huh?”

“Upper class women also aren’t expected to travel.”

Sokka frowns but doesn’t dig further. “You’ve been around the Earth Kingdom,” he says, “So what’s being done for the Water and Air Nations?”

“The military archive is extensive.”

Sokka gives a derisive snort. “Because sourcing information from the perspective of a colonial power is much better than, I don’t know, talking to living citizens of those nations?”

“Do you know non-Fire Nation people who’d want to come here just to work on a curriculum for school girls?” Mai drawls.

“Not for that sole purpose. But there’s got to be people out there who could help as, like, a side gig or something.” Sokka turns to Zuko, expression brightening. “Hey, when’s Aang supposed to visit again?”

“Not until after the new year,” Zuko replies.

Sokka hums. “I bet Aang would love to see anything the archive has about the Air Nomads.”

“Certain clearances are required,” Mai points out.

“He’s the Avatar! Isn’t that clearance enough?”

Suddenly, realization hits Zuko, and he drops his head into his hands with a groan. He senses more than sees Sokka and Mai turn to him.

“I told you those kebabs at lunch were probably bad,” Mai says.

“No, that’s not it,” Zuko says, raising his head again. Some of his hair has dislodged from his bun, but he can’t be bothered to fix it. “I’m such an idiot.”

A smile tugs at Mai’s lips. “About what this time?” she asks.

The subtle movement and taunting question would usually make Zuko feel like he’s nearly made Mai laugh, but right now, they just send another wave of irritation over Zuko. “I have the highest clearance in the entire nation,” Zuko tells Sokka, “And I could just. Give everything back.”

“You could, and that’d be awesome,” Sokka agrees. “Why does that make you an idiot?”

“Because it didn’t occur to me until you mentioned Aang. I’ve been dumbly sitting on this for a year and a half!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Sokka says, and he’s not as subtle as he thinks he is when he nudges the plate of fried mochi closer to Zuko. “You’re one guy; you don’t need to come up with all of the ideas. That’s why we’re here for you.”

And finally, his hours of discontent make sense. Zuko whips his head toward Mai and brusquely asks, “Why didn’t you tell me about Chenda?”

He didn’t mean for it to come out so harshly, and Mai instantly bristles. “Excuse me?”

“You knew about Chenda’s complaints before she shared them with me. Why haven’t you brought them up before?”

“I didn’t know I was supposed to tell you about every single thing I hear and see,” Mai snaps.

Zuko exhales shortly through his nose. “That’s not—”

“Besides, it’s not like you even have someone you trust who could advise you on national health infrastructure.”

“So I could ask Chenda if she’d be willing to do that for me!”

Mai narrows her eyes at him, which is her version of a startled blink, and Zuko slumps as the burst of anger leaves him. His words had been moving faster than his thoughts, but now that there’s a moment of silence, he can catch up to himself. Yes, his heart confirms, he would like to speak to Chenda again.

The silence is broken by the scrape of ceramic on wood, and Zuko and Mai break eye contact to see Sokka nudging dishes in their direction: fried mochi again to Zuko, and dried apricots towards Mai. Sokka smiles broadly and yanks his hands back into his lap. “How about we take a break for a snack,” he says, “and then we figure out when I can sit down with this Chenda and learn some more from her?”

Zuko glances at Mai, who’s already reaching for a dried apricot. There’s a determined set to her jaw and a blankness in her eyes that feels like an elbow to Zuko’s gut. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, even though Sokka can surely still hear him in this small a room.

“Eat your mochi,” his girlfriend responds.

Zuko complies, and he avoids meeting Sokka’s searching gaze from across the table.

This month, when Zuko visits Azula, he comes bearing green tea from the region of the nation where Admiral Eun’s childhood village is located. Sokka had given it to him, saying that Jingyi had given Sokka more tea leaves than he knew what to do with. “You’re more of a tea guy than I am,” Sokka had said, lifting more and more tins out of his satchel and tucking them into the cradle of Zuko’s arms.

Zuko takes his time setting up the teapot and cups, making sure the flame is burning at the right intensity for these leaves. When he’s satisfied, he finally calls, “Azula? Hye told me you’re here.”

There’s no movement in the doorway that leads to the rest of Azula’s quarters, a bedroom and a bathroom and a study, but Zuko knows she heard him; his raised his voice, and the network of rooms isn’t that large. “Azula?” he repeats after a minute.

There’s a muffled crash, like pottery shattering a room over, and Zuko tenses as his guards reach for their weapons. “Would you like us to check the other room, my lord?” one of the guards asks.

Zuko shakes his head as he stands. “I’ll go.”

“My lord—”

Suddenly the air feels different, static dancing along Zuko’s skin, and he has just enough time to shout, “Get down!”

Lightning crackles a breath above Zuko’s head, and if he’d still been standing, it would have struck his chest. It’s a short and weak bolt, but it’s still lightning, and when did Azula begin to get some of her strength back?

There’s no time to follow that thought. The guards are advancing around either side of Zuko, but Azula is Zuko’s sister, not theirs, so he yanks them back by the belts around their waists (Design flaw, a voice in his head that sounds scarily like Sokka chides) and surges ahead of them. He stays low and rolls into the next room with a ball of protective fire around his body, keeping him safe until he lands on his feet.

He feels more than sees the fist flying towards face, and he redirects the blow with his forearm so Azula’s hand instead smashes through the delicate screen panel of the wall. “Azula, stop!” he shouts, pivoting so he’s closer to the middle of the bedroom.

“I’m finishing what Father couldn’t,” Azula sneers.

She begins the motion to draw more lightning, but there’s no static in the air and Zuko deflects the short burst of flame that shoots at him with his own wall of fire. The one lightning bolt must have sapped her, because her flames are red again, and her frustrated shriek confirms Zuko’s suspicion. 

“I don’t want to fight you,” Zuko tells his sister.

“You’ve always been weak in the face of conflict.”

Azula cuts her arms down to her sides, creating daggers of fire shooting off of each wrist, and she’s so fixated on Zuko that she doesn’t notice the guard lunge through the doorway—

“No!” Zuko shouts.

The guard tackles Azula around the waist, and she instinctively reaches around and drives a dagger of flames into his shoulder. He screams, because fire daggers aren’t dangerous for the ability to pierce flesh but to melt through metal to burn what’s beneath, and Zuko’s lunging forward to grab his sister even as she rolls out of the guard’s loosened grip. The reignited daggers arc toward him. Zuko grabs both of Azula’s wrists, forcing them out to the side and bringing the siblings nose to nose. Azula’s lips curl into a sharp grin, and when she inhales deeply, Zuko knows she’s ready to burn the rest of his face off, finishing what Father couldn’t, and he inhales himself as he thinks of the dragons and what they taught him—

Their breath meets, and upon contact with Zuko’s exhale, the flames from Azula’s mouth turn to smoke, thick and gray as it plumes into the air.

The flames cease, and the last of Zuko’s breath blows some of the smoke back into Azula’s face. When it clears, her golden eyes—the same eyes as Zuko, as Ozai, as Ursa—are wide with … shock. It’s the first time Zuko has ever caught her off guard.

Suddenly, Azula is yanked away, and Zuko’s cry of protest is met with an uninjured guard bodily forcing Zuko deeper into the room. Before he or Azula can do anything, an attendant from the facility is placing a cloth over Azula’s nose and mouth, and Azula instantly crumples, her knees saved from striking the floor by the attendant catching her.

Zuko suddenly feels exhausted.

It’s a familiar scene. The firebenders in his guard dispel the flames that have caught on any furniture, walls, floors, or ceilings, as Zuko and his other guards report to the attendants what happened. Azula is laid on her bed once the scorched duvet is removed, and she looks so small and young. There’s a part of Zuko that always wants to wait until she comes around, to apologize that his monthly visit ended like this, but Zuko knows it’s for the best if he waits to try again next month. He doesn’t want Azula to be knocked out twice in a day, even if he trusts that the substance on the cloth is harmless (which he hadn’t, until he convinced Hye to use it on him, and he came around a hour later with little more than a tingle in his nose), and he also doesn’t want to foot double the amount of property damage costs.

What’s different this time, though, is that Azula managed to burn one of them, and Zuko insists on following the guard to the military infirmary that’s a street away from the palace. The healers at the center had patched the burn the best they could, but there are more advanced resources to be found with the military, apparently.

“Really, Fire Lord Zuko, I’ll be fine,” the guard insists.

His name is Bishal. When his helmet comes off, a thick mane of dark brown hair appears, awkwardly matted down to the same contours of the helmet. It makes him look much younger, though Zuko learns that Bishal is actually a couple years older than him.

“I insist,” Zuko repeats for the fifth time, and Bishal sighs.

A healer comes in, bearing a small pot that contains a pungent salve. “A third-degree burn, I hear?” she says cheerily.

The healer is generous in applying the salve, and while the wound just looks more greased to Zuko’s eye, the relief in Bishal’s expression is unmistakable. “What does it feel like?” Zuko asks.

Bishal’s eyes flutter open. “Like a drop of collected rain that’s fallen from a tree and landed on your undershirt,” he says. “Cool and quickly spreading. A shock at first, but then soothing.”

Zuko blinks. He hadn’t expected such an eloquent answer, but it’s a pleasant surprise. “Is this salve widely known?” Zuko asks the healer.

“Oh, of course not, my lord,” she answers easily as she re-wraps Bishal’s shoulder. “It was developed two years ago, for military use.”

Of course not, Zuko’s mind echoes. He thinks of Chenda’s anger, of the burns he had seen on civilians and refugees alike in his travels abroad, and he adds another item to yet another mental list of things he needs to address.

A couple mornings later over breakfast, Sokka catches Zuko off guard by saying, “Check this out—Chenda taught me how the locals eat this on Ember Island.” He tears off a generous piece of naan, tosses it on top of its accompanying dip, and then pinches the bread in a way that encourages a generous lump of dip to rise into the fold he’s created in the bread. Sokka pops it into his mouth, chews, swallows, and grins broadly. “Try it!” he encourages. “You get so much more dip than when you try to make a spoon from the naan.”

Zuko obliges, frowning when the dip doesn’t cooperate with him. “I though your meeting with Chenda was at the end of the week,” he says.

“Oh, shoot—did I forget to tell you? I ran into her yesterday when I was out with Mai. We ended up eating lunch together.”

Zuko bets they all had a good time, too, without him there to sour the meal. “What did you think of her?”

“She’s like if you made another Katara, and then took away all of Katara’s patience for emotions,” Sokka immediately rattles off. “Like, if I broke my leg—again—Chenda would give me a flawless splint in a minute flat and have me walking again in a month, but she’d mad about it the entire time and would not offer to kiss the boo-boo to make the pain go away.”

Zuko snorts, trying to imagine Chenda using a baby voice to distract Sokka from an injury. “Would Katara even do that?” he asks.

“Not for me. But maybe for Aang. Definitely for the kids in the village.” Sokka perks up. “She asked about you, by the way.”

“Chenda?” Zuko asks, watching Sokka contort his body to rifle around his satchel without having to get up.

“No, Katara.” His voice is strained until he grabs what he’s looking for: a short, somewhat crinkled scroll. With a noise of triumph, Sokka sits back up and smooths out the paper. “Our dearest, most darling and noble friend Zuko,” Sokka begins.

“There’s no way she wrote that,” Zuko interjects.

Sokka winks and actually reads, “By the way, Aang wanted me to ask, is Zuko alive? Obviously, we would’ve heard news of assassination, but I’m sure the Fire Nation would cover it up if you’d annoyed him to death. If I don’t get a letter back in a week, I’m going to assume you’re guilty, and I will not help bail you out this time.”

Zuko can’t help smiling at Sokka’s impression of his sister. His pitch is too high, but he has her intonation spot-on. “Why does Aang want to know if I’m still alive?” he asks.

Sokka tosses the letter behind him. “Obviously, number one, he’s your friend. Friends care if their friends die,” Sokka explains, “and number two, I guess some friends of ‘Kuzon’ said they hadn’t seen or heard about you in a while.”

Zuko frowns. “Who’s Kuzon?”

Delight bursts across Sokka’s face. “Did we not tell you that story?” he asks, and barges on without waiting for an answer, “It’s the fake name Aang used when we were hiding-in-plain-sight because everyone thought he was dead. Aang got roped into attending a Fire Nation school for a couple days.” Sokka points at Zuko. “Also, I know Aang would be disappointed in me if I didn’t mention that the Fire Nation should really bring back its dance traditions. Has that come up since you became Fire Lord?”

A hundred thoughts and questions are swimming around Zuko’s head. “Not really,” he hears himself say. “People are more concerned with, you know, the war. Or how to get over being concerned with it.”

If Zuko feels something funny in his tone, Sokka doesn’t notice it; he just nods seriously, grabbing his chopsticks again. “That’s fair. I can start asking around.” He shovels some rice into his mouth and then says, “I can’t believe there’s still stuff from before you joined us that you don’t know about.”

“It’s not like we had time to sit around the fire and tell stories,” Zuko points out. “You guys don’t know everything about me.”

“I know. But we’ve also been seeing each other almost every day for—what, three months now?”

Three months, Zuko thinks. Time really just escapes notice, doesn’t it? And what has Zuko accomplished in three months? Nothing, it seems like. He supposes he survived Azula trying to kill him, again.

“Hey. What’s on your mind?”

Zuko blinks back to the present. Sokka has set down his food, leaning over the table to scrutinize Zuko. There’s an intensity in his blue eyes, the same look of concentrated attention that Zuko has seen during important meetings, while they spar, whenever Sokka comes across a particularly difficult-to-open pistachio shell.

“Nothing,” Zuko answers.

It’s not a lie, it’s a fib. He’s absolutely avoiding getting into this discussion over breakfast, but he’s also, truthfully, thinking about how he’s done nothing. He doesn’t want to lie to Sokka, so he’s not explicitly lying, Zuko tells himself.

It still doesn’t stop his chest from tightening when Sokka settle back again, his effortlessly casual and cool expression sliding into place. “Okay,” Sokka says easily, genuinely, and suddenly Zuko wants to leave, because he’s feeling too many things to process while also maintaining a normal conversation with Sokka.

“Hey, have you tried Jingyi’s tea, yet?” Sokka asks.

No, because my sister incinerated it when she was trying to kill me, Zuko doesn’t say. “Not yet. I need to go.”

He stands abruptly, and Sokka also rises but catches himself mid-crouch. “Is everything okay?” he asks, and there’s a hint of unsteadiness in his voice that makes Zuko’s stomach roll.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Zuko tells his hands, because with his heart hammering like this there’s no way he can handle looking Sokka in the eye. “I forgot I need to grab some stuff from my room before my first meeting.”

“Oh. Okay.”

Forget Sokka’s eyes; the uncertainty in his voice alone makes Zuko feel like a terrible person. He pauses in the open doorway and turns his head, just enough to look at the floor over his shoulder. “I’ll see you at the ring tonight,” he offers.

And then he doesn’t run away. He calmly walks back to his chambers, and then to Ursa’s throne room, where a long day of meetings is about to begin.

At least, he doesn’t encounter a single spirit the entire journey, so he’s the only witness to how difficult it is to breathe for a moment.

It’s been two weeks since Azula tried to kill him, but this time, her words stick in Zuko’s mind. Finishing what Father couldn’t, she’d said.

Her voice echoes in Zuko’s head not because of the death threat—he’s encountered more than enough of those for a lifetime, let alone to desensitize him to their utterance—but because as Zuko walks in circles around the palace and listens to various Fire Nation officials talk in circles around the issues, it’s beginning to hit him how close Ozai came to finishing what he had meant to do. And it’s on Zuko to fix all of that.

His head is so buried in reports and meetings that it takes him longer than it should for him to recognize the new guard posted at Ursa’s throne room doors most mornings. “Bishal,” Zuko exclaims the day he finally isn’t walking to the throne room with his eyes trained on a scroll in his hands. “You’re already back?”

Bishal bows respectfully, and the gesture suddenly feels weird when Zuko knows the man’s first name. “The salve worked wonders, Fire Lord Zuko,” he says, grinning. “There’s hardly even scarring.” Suddenly his eyes flare wide, and he scrambles to say, “Not that there’s anything wrong with scars, of course. I meant –”

Zuko shakes his head, lifting a hand to squeeze Bishal’s upper arm. “It’s okay,” he reassures the guard. “I understand. Scars can be reminders of moments and pain we would rather forget.”

Bishal nods hurriedly, but he no longer seems terrified. “Yes, Fire Lord Zuko.” He clears his throat uncomfortably. “Uh. Please don’t let me keep you from your meeting, my lord.”

Zuko reads reports about the drill outside of Ba Sing Se finally being dismantled; about Fire Nation troops being attacked by Earth Kingdom citizens and forced to keep moving through sleepless nights on their journey back to the Fire Nation; about warnings of further delays to housing development projects if capital merchants aren’t given more leeway with what shipping routes they are allowed to use. Sometimes, it feels like Ozai finished more things than he left unfinished. Zuko’s recalling thousands of propagandistic school materials, striking hundreds of edicts, ordering the removal of monuments to his father and grandfather and great-grandfather from places in the Fire Nation so remote, they only heard the war was over a couple months ago, and it still feels like Zuko has not even scratched the surface. People want to know whether he thinks they should still import seeds from flowers native to the Earth Kingdom, whether the navy will retain the bonus guaranteed to them by a document Ozai signed three years ago, whether a local textile producer should slightly alter the shade of red they use to make tapestries of the Fire Nation insignia, and it takes everything in him to not scream that he doesn’t care about most of these things, not even remotely. Who is he to have an opinion, especially on things that he doesn’t know anything about?

That night, after Bishal and another guard have escorted Zuko to his chambers, Zuko spends so long re-reading the same sentence of a missive from an ex-colony that he doesn’t notice that the wick of his candle’s getting short until his reading light suddenly snuffs out. The wall sconces are still lit, but they’re too dim for Zuko to make out this handwriting without giving himself a piercing headache. Zuko exhales bitterly and drops his chin to his chest, rubbing his brow with two fingers.

A knock comes at his door, and Zuko has to tamp down the urge to set his desk on fire. “What is it?” he calls, and only feels a bit bad about the roughness of his tone.

When the door opens instead of a voice replying, Zuko whips his head up to glare at the offending visitor. It’s Sokka, who meets Zuko’s glower with a squint. “Is now a bad time?” Sokka asks.

The fight goes out of Zuko, and he slides down in his chair. “It’s always a bad time, isn’t it?” he replies.

He can hear the footsteps approaching him, but the hand that lands on his shoulder is still unexpected. Sokka squeezes, digging his fingertips and thumb into the muscle of Zuko’s shoulder, and Zuko hisses when pain flares across his shoulder and neck in response.

“Yikes,” Sokka says, easing up his pressure to rub a soothing circle over the spot instead. “Maybe we should take a break from sparring.”

Sokka’s hand leaves, and Zuko stretches his neck from side to side. “I can always use more time for reading,” Zuko says glumly, warily watching Sokka to make sure he doesn’t knock over the inkwell when he turns around and leans against Zuko’s desk.

“Or you could, you know. Not,” Sokka suggests.

Zuko looks up at him. With the distance between the wall sconces, the flames catch only half of Sokka’s face; the rest is submerged in deep shadow. Zuko knows it’s the effect of the light, and of his slumped vantage point in his chair, but right now, Sokka looks more adult that Zuko’s ever seen him—even more mature than when he’s casually tearing apart some Fire Nation leaders in Ursa’s throne room or calling out the loopholes a contractor is trying to create in a new hiring agreement.

Zuko swallows. “What part of me being Fire Lord do you not understand?”

“I don’t understand the part where the Fire Lord just consumes my friend,” Sokka shoots back, crossing his arms.

“Friend?” Zuko echoes, incredulous. He pushes himself up in his seat, arguing, “I don’t have time for being a friend when there’s a hundred years of damage to be undone!”

“And what about damaging yourself in the process?”

“I’ve already been damaged by my father!”

“So don’t let him continue to do that!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Sokka sighs at the ceiling. “Look, man. Other than breakfast and sparring, I haven’t seen you in weeks. And that’s me, your advisor-guy, living in the palace. Out there?” Sokka flings an arm out, at what must be the city beyond the palace walls. “They haven’t seen you in months. Some people are saying that it doesn’t feel different from Ozai being Fire Lord.”

The blood drains from Zuko’s face, and Sokka is quick to lean forward and grab his shoulder. “You are not Ozai. Obviously. But to someone who doesn’t get to see the life- and nation-changing work you’re doing on the day-to-day … you’re just another guy holed up in his palace.”

Zuko closes his eyes and puts his hand over Sokka’s, keeping him in place. He doesn’t think Sokka realizes it, but he’s stumbled upon one of the things Zuko’s terrified of: becoming a watered-down version of his father. A man too consumed by his political goals to have a thought for family, for community, for anything that isn’t directly related to the future of the nation. A man who rules by forgetting to listen. But listening has become so hard, when there are so many things fighting for Zuko’s time and attention and consideration, and what even is there beyond the palace walls for Zuko?

“I don’t know what else to do,” Zuko admits. He hates that his voice comes out as a croak. “And my father came so close to finishing everything, that’s he everywhere. It’s not just the military—it’s the history books, the import taxes, what dyes are allowed to be used in textiles … even if nothing new happened for the next fifty years, I could spend a lifetime dealing with my father’s legacy alone. I could spend every day, sunrise to sunset, in meetings, and still not be done by the time I die.”

He opens his eyes. Sokka isn’t leaning as close as he was before, and his expression is caught somewhere between determined and pissed off when he says, “I know you think this is your responsibility. But you’re not going to be alone in this. This is why we’re building you a council.”

Zuko lets his hand slip from Sokka’s, and when Sokka lets go, Zuko sharply feels the loss of pressure. “I know,” he says.

“And the only way you’re going to die having done nothing but sit in meetings is if you let yourself do that. You’re not a bad leader if you take a break now and then.”

Zuko scowls. “What, so people can then say at least my father wasn’t lazy?”

Sokka tilts his head. “Don’t you think there’s a difference between laziness and, I don’t know, choosing life and happiness in spite of a terrible dad who tried to take both from you?”

There’s a glint in Sokka’s dark blue eyes that suddenly pins Zuko to his chair. He’s overwhelmed, not by the confrontation, but by the feeling behind it: be better, for yourself. Because what’s the point of this work if there’s no happiness to be gained? If he’s so afraid of letting the title and his responsibilities consume him, why he is living like those are the only things that the world has for him?

Something must change in his expression, because Sokka loosens up, his shoulders dropping as he leans back. “Yeah, there’s a ton of work left to do, and yeah, it’s kind of your dad’s fault that we have to deal with all of it. But sacrificing your sanity to it? It’s basically letting him win.”

It’s letting Ozai, and Azulon, and Sozin before him win. “I know,” Zuko says, but this time, there’s conviction in his tone.

Sokka breaks into a grin. “So what fun thing are we doing tonight?”

Something in Zuko’s chest tugs, even as he smiles back. He still doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve friends like Sokka.

They end up in the lower city, the farthest Zuko has traveled from the palace in far too long, past sundown. Sokka leads the way, mostly because he decided where they would go and wouldn’t tell Zuko their exact destination, but Zuko’s content to follow; it allows him to watch Sokka’s feet rather than the road ahead of him, which also means there’s even less chance that someone recognizes Zuko—they’d have to pull off the hood of his cloak if they wanted to see his identifying scar.

“I like this part of the city,” Sokka says over his shoulder.

Even though Zuko’s had clothes in Fire Nation fabrics and styles made for Sokka since he first arrived, tonight Sokka is wearing one of Zuko’s old outer layers. There’s a clean tear on the upper right arm that has been patched and sewn so neatly, it’s near impossible to spot unless it’s looked for. The cut had been caused by one of Mai’s throwing knives, when Mai had casually chucked one without realizing Zuko was about to emerge from the next room over in his chambers.

Zuko forces himself to look somewhere else. This part of the lower city is a bit rundown, but it more than makes up for it with how decorated it is: there’s art everywhere, from the posters glued to the walls to the unique, handmade lanterns that cross overhead between buildings on either side of the street. Based on the variety of colors in the works—not just reds, oranges, and golds common to the Fire Nation, but also greens and purples and so many blues—Zuko thinks this must be one of the new, budding arts districts that he’s heard murmurs about. He thinks he knows why Sokka likes it: there’s an energy in the air, even past sundown, that reminds Zuko of the city he knew as a child and finds himself missing now.

“This way,” Sokka beckons.

They turn down a smaller street that instantly turns more residential. The few businesses that are there reside in the half-basement lower levels of the buildings, and their warm lights and delicious smells curl out onto the street in a way that draws even Zuko in. He wonders how Sokka can keep walking when the smell of curry is wafting out on the breeze like this, but Sokka keeps a brisk pace, glancing back occasionally to check that Zuko’s still with him.

Sokka finally pulls up at a more dimly lit basement entrance. “We made it,” he says, and then jogs down the stairs and darts into the building before Zuko can ask anything. Zuko has no choice but to follow, so he does.

He’s met with a wave of soft chatter that fills the large, open room—much larger than Zuko would have expected from standing outside the building on the street level. Bamboo mats and floor cushions have been arranged in concentric half circles around a raised platform, and several layers of gauzy, dark red curtains are hung on either side of and behind the platform, hiding the back of the room from the gathered audience.

Because the people talking easily as they wait are an audience, and they’re sitting around a stage, and this is, no contest, the cheapest venue and production Zuko has ever encountered, but—

A hand wraps around his wrist and tugs. Zuko automatically follows Sokka around the edge of the crowd, to a spot by a column that leaves a clear view of stage left while blocking the majority of the audience. There’s a young woman with short-cropped brown hair sitting there, but when she sees Sokka, she bounces to her feet. “I still can’t believe you wanted to sit this far stage left, you utter weirdo,” the woman tells Sokka.

Sokka drops Zuko’s wrist and steps into the woman’s open arms, briefly returning her hug. “This is one of the optimal angles for figuring out how the stunts work!” Sokka argues.

The woman shakes her head, and a glint of metal makes Zuko realize she has a thin gold nose ring running through the flesh between her nostrils. “You’re not supposed to figure out how they work,” she counters. “Let us do our art, okay?”

She bounds away, and Zuko watches her until she slips behind one of the gauzy curtains. She hadn’t even looked at him, much less recognized him, and Zuko’s hit with an emotion he can’t identify but knows is strong.

“You can sit down, you know,” Sokka says from somewhere near his feet.

Zuko obliges. He feels out of sorts. “We’re going to see a play,” he says dumbly.

Sokka nods. “Mai said you liked theatre, and I noticed you haven’t seen a show in a while. Kanya—she’s the one who saved this spot for us—is a friend I met at a pai sho tournament a month ago. I ran into her a couple days ago at the meat market and remembered today that she’d mentioned her production group has a show up for this week.”

Sokka paints the short narrative so casually, gesticulating nonchalantly, while Zuko is staggered. Mai and Sokka talk about him? Sokka’s been in, or at least was at, a pai sho tournament? There’s a meat market in the city?

Before Zuko can land on which question to ask first, the flames in the wall sconces are being snuffed out, in the universal theatre language of quiet, please, the show is about to start. Zuko turns to the stage, but not before sneaking one last glance at Sokka, who’s already settled in against a mound of cushions.

The show is an original work on the shorter side of things, comfortably less than two hours. As Zuko suspected from the bare platform and floor-seating basement venue, there’s next to no money put into the show—some of the costumes really take some imagination—but there’s no mistaking the passion in the acting, and the sheer cleverness of the lighting and staging.

When the sconces are re-lit and the audience gives the performers a resounding round of applause, Zuko joins in as enthusiastically as he dares. Sokka whistles loudly next to him, and when the behind-the-scenes crew comes onto the stage with the actors, Sokka shouts, “Yeah, Kanya! Woo!”

They stumble out into the night with the rest of the theatre goers, and Zuko’s forgotten what it’s like to be jostled against other bodies, warms figures who mean no harm with the accidental brush of a hand or bump of a shoulder. Sokka’s better at weaving through the crowd, and when Zuko almost loses him twice, he gives up and just grabs a fistful of Sokka’s collar. In minutes, Sokka has navigated them to a less-populated street.

Zuko stops short, causing Sokka to jerk and pinwheel his arms when Zuko’s grip on him keeps him from continuing forward. “Sorry,” Zuko says, letting go. “I just—did you want to say congratulations to your friend?”

Sokka rubs at his throat with one hand as he waves the other. “Nah, it’s okay. I’ll see her at pai sho in a few days.”

Which, right—that’s a whole thing. “Since when did you play in pai sho tournaments?”

Sokka snorts. “Playing might be a generous word. The older folks are ridiculously good, so Kanya and I get knocked out early. But old people love to gossip and love to complain, so they’re a great source of information.”

Huh. Zuko supposes his uncle did always obtain an awful lot of information every time he sat down to a pai sho table.

Sokka takes a couple steps, and it already feels second nature to fall in with his motion. This time, though, Zuko stays even with him, and even dares to remove his hood. It’s late enough that no one’s out on the streets, and no one seems to be peering out of windows, either, at two young men wandering home.

“I know it wasn’t the royal theatre, or whatever,” Sokka says, “but what did you think?”

“It was smart,” Zuko immediately replies. “It really took advantage of what it had. It was like … art that understood its space and used it. Not like one of those shows where someone just poured a ton of money into it and expected that to make the play a good show.”

Sokka laughs. “Sounds like you’ve seen that before.”

“It seems like every run of Love Amongst the Dragons these days is like that. It’s not about how much precious gemstone you can get on the head of your dragon mask! It’s about love seeing beyond the physical form! The Dragon Emperor falls for the Empress in spite of her mortal form, not because she has sapphires hanging from her eyelashes.”

“You know, I think the Mr. Muscle-y Man could have used some sapphires hanging from his eyelashes.”

Zuko double takes. “Mr. Muscle-y Man?”

“Yeah! The guy tonight with the huge shoulders. Kinda like that guy at Ember Island who played Toph?”

A deliriously laugh hops out of Zuko’s throat. Mr. Muscle-y Man? “You mean Suchart? One of the lead characters?” Zuko asks.

“Was that his name?”

“Sokka, he was a main character! Were you even paying attention?”

“Excuse me, I was,” Sokka shoots back. “We just saw a lovely original play about Mr. Muscle-y Man discovering his long-lost sister, Lady Pinched Face, and how their choice to reconcile their lost relationship was made and sustained in spite of a society that wanted them to be enemies.”

Zuko blinks. “Society? It was their families.”

“Yeah, but did you notice how the loyalties actually lined up? Mama and Papa Snooty convinced Squirrel-Bat to betray Mr. Muscle-y Man because Squirrel-Bat’s ideal family image mapped onto the Snooty family’s, not his own.”

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

“What, do you think I’m wrong?”

“No, I agree, but—you got all of that but didn’t get a single character’s name?”

Sokka purses his lips, one of his fingers tapping against his chin. “One of them was named Anok?”

“Anong.”

“Oh, you’re right.”

“You amaze me.”

They reach a staircase that will carry them all the way to the upper ring of the city. It’s one of the longest staircases in the capital, but Zuko likes the burn that slowly builds in his thighs. In the relative silence, Zuko thinks about siblinghood and reconciliation. He thinks about the way Suchart must have slipped a candle out of his pocket and placed it in Anong’s headpiece as they embraced, and how a firebender off stage lit the candle from afar to make Anong’s headpiece flickeringly glow as she gave her final speech. He looks up at the half-moon and wonders if Sokka looks at the moon differently than Zuko does.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Sokka slings an arm around Zuko’s neck and slumps over. “Those … wind me … every time,” he pants.

Zuko grins. “Maybe we shouldn’t have skipped sparring,” he teases.

“Look, until I was fifteen, the tallest staircase I’d ever seen was ten steps high. I’d like to see you sprint on a sheet of ice.”

“You’ll have to take me home with you to see that.”

Zuko doesn’t realize until the words are out that they sound like he’s trying to invite himself over to Sokka’s village, but before he can scramble for an apology, Sokka’s saying, “Anytime, man.”

The sentiment makes Zuko feel warm, but there’s another part of him that knows it’s still a while out before he’ll be able to travel for leisure again. His whole life feels like a series of meetings that are designed to create more meetings. Tomorrow alone he has five different appointments between breakfast and dinner, and the day after that there will be more, and more …

But tonight, in this moment, Zuko feels at ease, and he doesn’t want to let go of that just yet. He doesn’t want to let go of this sense of life and happiness.

Zuko deliberately turns to look Sokka in the eye, even if he has to twist and crane his neck to do so in these close quarters. “Thank you,” he tells Sokka solemnly.

For a moment, they hold eye contact, and Zuko tries to convey the depth of his gratitude in a look. He doesn’t know if it works, but then Sokka’s grinning, briefly squeezing Zuko closer before letting him go. “Tell me, I was right,” Sokka says cockily.

“Katara says we shouldn’t feed your ‘insufferable ego.’”

“Since when did you actually listen to my sister?”

They keep walking. Zuko wishes the road would roll out into the dark forever.

In the blink of an eye, another month has gone, and Zuko becomes swept up in preparations for the new year celebrations. He’s never been more grateful to have Sokka by his side; Sokka’s taking on most of the decision-making responsibilities for the capital’s celebration, which is no small relief when Zuko still has his ordinary rotation of running the nation obligations to attend to.

They’re also, in the privacy of Sokka’s chambers over breakfast, figuring out how to formally begin Zuko’s council. A year and a half is decidedly too long for Zuko to be doing everything alone, and he’s finally beginning to feel like there are people he can trust to not only be honest with him, but to also make this nation a better place for its citizens and for the world at large.

“I know we’re not trying to be Ozai in any way,” Sokka says one morning, “but do you remember anything from how he formed his council?”

Zuko shakes his head. “It happened so quickly, and at the same time that my mother vanished. I was … distracted. And I’m not even sure I would have fully understood what was happening even if I had been paying attention.”

Sokka nods curtly. “So we’ll create that part from scratch, too.”

In the end, the only thing they preserve from Zuko’s memories is the size of the council: six people, seven including Zuko. They do away with the internal rankings by seniority, with the stringent travel restrictions, with the immunity from national law.

“You’re sure it’s okay to only start with three?” Zuko asks on a different morning.

“Given the circumstances, it’s better to start with three,” Sokka replies. “If you can’t fully trust your council, they won’t be able to fully trust and support you. Let it grow naturally. Don’t force it now.”

Zuko sifts through the papers sitting at the far end of the table. He’s searching for one of Sokka’s shortlists but stops short when he encounters an unfamiliar, ragged page. There are lines all over it, and they’re definitely not characters, but Zuko really can’t recognize it—

“Oh, sorry,” Sokka says, reaching out for the paper.

Zuko pulls it out of his reach. “What is it?” he asks, a smile rising to his lips, because he has a feeling he’s holding a Sokka original in his hand.

Sokka huffs. “It’s upside down.”

This time, Zuko lets Sokka take the paper to rotate it to the correct orientation. For a moment, the lines still just look like lines. But then— 

“It’s recognizable!” Zuko exclaims.

It’s a quick and sketchy doodle of the mountains that rise up to the west of the capital. A few small capital buildings sit in the foreground, some rather detailed, some a mere smudge, but there’s at least a sense of depth to it.

“Really?” Sokka asks excitedly.

Zuko nods, and Sokka squints at his drawing, as if trying to see it anew. “Do you like art?” Zuko asks.

“Oh, yeah. It’s fun. I’m not great, obviously, but I always thought it’d be cool to have paints. And the time for it.”

“I’m sure you could make time.”

Sokka shrugs. “Paint gets expensive. I’m fine with some spare charcoal.” He tucks away the drawing and goes back to the pile of papers on the table. “What was it you were looking for?”

An idea is building in Zuko, something similar to his breakfast prank. Zuko grins to himself and tucks the thought away for later.

“To the year of the Tiger!”

A tsungi horn blast cuts through the air, and that cues a succession of fireworks to rapidly explode in the night sky above the capital. As the colors burst to life and then reappear in flickering after-images in Zuko’s eyes, he can’t help but smile. This is the vitality and life he’s been sorely missing in these streets. 

An arm loops through his, and Zuko looks down at Mai. “Happy New Year, Zuko,” she says, something other than the fireworks glimmering in her eyes, and Zuko leans down to meet her kiss.

They’re on the roof of one of the most popular restaurants in the upper city. The building overlooks the largest courtyard in the capital, which is chock-full with vendors and performance artists where the surrounding businesses don’t already have guests spilling out into the open air.

Making sure this rooftop would be secure enough for Zuko and Mai was a hassle, but Zuko is glad Sokka recommended it. From here, Zuko can feel the spirit of the crowd below, and the happy shouts and laughter that float up into the winter night air remind Zuko why he endures the meetings and the politics and the headaches of leading a nation. He takes these burdens so others can laugh more loudly, dance more freely.

Well, there’s still not much dancing. But Sokka has made a formidable head-start on finding older generations of Fire Nation citizens that remember the dances that were outlawed when they were children and teenagers, and who want to help teach them again.

“Happy New Year,” he tells Mai and kisses her again.

A throat clears loudly to Zuko’s left, and he looks over to see Mai’s mother’s back, her robes swirling in a way that gives away that she only just turned around. Zuko feels his face flush, but when he glances at Mai, she doesn’t seem to have noticed anything. “Let’s go back downstairs,” he suggests.

Down in the restaurant, servers deftly maneuver carts of freshly prepared food between guests standing in groups and seated at tables. Zuko hadn’t wanted a guest list—in part because he dreaded how much energy it would take to create one, in part because it suggested the elitism that his father’s regime thrived on—but Mai, Sokka, and, of all people, Bishal had eventually convinced Zuko of the security concerns. They landed on Sokka’s proposed compromise of Sokka and Mai drawing up an initial list of names, from which Zuko would pick whom to invite.

As they wander through the crowd, Zuko takes care to greet everyone who makes eye contact with him. He’s been in this long enough that he doesn’t forget any names or titles or occupations, but it’s still a relief to have Mai at his side, her hand resting lightly in the crook of his elbow. When they near the end of the long seating area, Zuko finally spots Sokka sitting at one of the tables, talking animatedly with a woman whose back is turned to Zuko.

Zuko changes course without really thinking about it, and when he and Mai draw up to the table, Sokka smoothly ends his ramble with, “And that’s why we really should be investing more in the specialized local markets. Mai and Zuko, you’ve been there—please tell Jingyi that I’m not crazy for thinking the middle city meat market is the answer to this city’s future.”

The woman turns in her seat, and it’s indeed Jingyi, though her hair is styled much more flamboyantly than last time Zuko saw her. She bows as much as she can in her seated position and smiles. “Happy New Year,” she tells them.

Zuko and Mai return the sentiment. “May we sit here?” Zuko asks.

“Of course, please.”

“Sokka’s given you his meat market speech?” Mai asks drily.

“He has, and I must say, I’m almost convinced.”

“Almost?” Sokka squawks. “That’s unacceptable. When are you and Eun free? I’m taking you two to the market. Bring the kids, too! We’ll make a whole day of it.”

Sokka is positively lounging in his seat, his legs out in front of him and his lanky arms draped over the chairs on either side of him. His eyes are alight in a way that Zuko has only seen a couple times, but can already identify as a Sokka on his way to inebriation. Zuko hasn’t touched anything but tea tonight—no one needs to see an intoxicated Fire Lord—and a part of him wishes he, too, could relax a bit in a proper celebratory mood.

Jingyi smiles fondly at Sokka. “You know my husband is from a family of butchers,” she chides. “He’ll spend hours at a meat market, especially one he’s never been to before.”

“Hence, we’ll make a whole day of it.”

Mai subtly leans closer to Zuko. “My dad is beckoning me,” she grumbles under her breath. “I’m taking Sokka with me as a shield.”

“Get him some water while you’re at it?” Zuko replies.

Mai nods and rises smoothly to her seat. “Sokka, come with me,” she orders, flicking Sokka’s ear as she passes.

Sokka yelps and scrambles out of his chair. “Three days from now, Jingyi!” he calls over his shoulder as he chases after Mai. “Be there bright and early!”

The crowd quickly swallows Zuko’s girlfriend and Sokka, and only then does Zuko turn to Jingyi. “Have you enjoyed the festivities so far?” he asks politely.

“Oh, yes. I do enjoy parties, and your father never really had a knack for them.”

Zuko resists the urge to snort. His father and a good party? Ozai walking into a celebration instantly leeched the joy out of the event.

“Tell me, Fire Lord Zuko, what are your hopes for this new year?” Jingyi asks.

When she tilts her head, the light catches her light brown eyes in a way that make them look yellow. They’re piercing, and paired with her outsized hair, make Jingyi look, for a second, otherworldly. Confronted with the vision, Zuko’s mouth goes dry. What are his hopes for this year? Even with Sokka’s help, he’s spent so much energy worrying about the details of this celebration that he hasn’t spared a thought for its significance to him personally.

Zuko clears his throat. “To continue to reflect and grow,” he says slowly. “To better remember to live in the present, because the future is a nothingness that cannot be known, even if we have our own hopes for it.”

Jingyi’s lips spread in a smile so warm and motherly, she suddenly looks human again—knowable, easy to confront, understanding. Zuko remembers how to breathe. “Do you have aspirations?” he asks.

Jingyi nods. “I hope to navigate this changing world by my husband’s side, helping him as he has always supported me,” she says. She leans over the table and whispers behind a hand, “And, don’t let our families know, but we’re also hoping to bring another child to our family.”

Another child—birth. At least one person in this shaky nation led by an uncertain leader has hope for new life in the coming year and for nurturing it in those to follow. The thought is enough to make Zuko smile. “Congratulations,” he tells Jingyi.

“Thank you.”

Zuko looks around the large, open room again. Soon enough, people will tire of the politics and the required social niceties, and they’ll trickle out of this building into the streets outside in search of drinks, sweets, and entertainment. Zuko will return via a covert route to the palace. He’d like to see if Mai would come with him, but perhaps it won’t be too great a loss if she’s obtained by her parents; he’s already tired from this long day, and he wouldn’t say no to sleep, especially if he’ll wake at sunrise regardless of when he laid his head to rest.

“One day, I’d like for all of these celebrations to be in the courtyards and streets,” Zuko finds himself saying. “We’ve spent too long living separately. It’s one thing to say we are a nation; it’s another to live as a community of brothers and sisters. We shouldn’t be behind walls and under roofs when we celebrate something that’s universal.”

Jingyi tilts her head again. “Do you believe that no one wants these walls and roofs?” she asks.

Zuko looks her in the eye. Her gaze is steady—something he notices only because it’s so rare for a person to meet his gaze rather than stare at his scar. He tries to think about how his uncle would describe the sentiment that Zuko wants to convey right now. “If a flower has spent its life in a room with a single window,” Zuko tries, “why would it expect to prosper in the open under the full light of the sun?”

He thinks he got it. Or maybe he just made himself sound like a complete idiot.

Jingyi chuckles. “You are wise beyond your years, Fire Lord Zuko.” Her eye catches on something at the far side of the room. “I hope you know that that’s in part because of the company you keep.”

Zuko follows her gaze. A gap in the crowd has opened up, allowing Sokka and Mai to become visible. Zuko’s girlfriend is hiding a laugh behind her hand as Sokka gesticulates at a man Zuko recognizes to be the engineer from the resettlement project about whom Zuko had doubts. The engineer wasn’t full of it; some of his calculations had just been off due to a genuine error, which Sokka quickly identified and fixed. Shortly thereafter, he of course made friends with the older man.

“I know,” Zuko says. It took many hard, painful lessons for Zuko to learn that the people around him will help make him who he is. “Every day, I hope to be better for them. It makes me better for this nation. And that makes me better for you.”

Jingyi sits back, folding her hands over her stomach. “You’re something else, Fire Lord Zuko.”

The title feels so, terribly wrong for this honest conversation. “Please, just call me Zuko,” he requests.

The woman across from him double takes. “Really?”

“It would make me feel better, as long as you’re comfortable.”

There’s a startled yelp followed by a loud crash and then clear, high laughter. Zuko whips his head toward the noise and sees a small circle of guests ringed around Sokka, who’s on the floor and wearing a serving tray’s worth of tea. Mai cackles next to him, not a drop of drink on herself.

Zuko sighs—he’d been waiting for Sokka’s luck to catch up to him all night—and Jingyi laughs quietly. “It appears as though your friends might need you, Zuko,” she says.

Zuko pushes himself to his feet. If his friends need him for a moment, he’ll instantly answer the call; it’s the least he can do for what he anticipates will be a lifetime of him needing them. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening,” he tells Jingyi. “Please tell your husband I say hello.”

They bow to each other, and Zuko parts ways. As he draws closer to his friends, he’s met with Mai’s echo-of-a-laugh smile and Sokka’s unabashed grin, and Zuko thinks this year might just hold good things.

Chapter Text

two years after

Zuko admits that Sokka was right to recommend that he do this in his favorite courtyard.

A week into the new year, it’s still rather cold outside. The turtleducks aren’t due to migrate back for another couple months, the plants look pale and almost frosted, and no flowers are blooming, but the air nips at the skin of Zuko’s cheeks in a way that reminds him that he’s here and alive. The stone bench he sits upon is cold against his fingertips, so he lifts his hands into his lap and closes his eyes. He sees in his mind’s eye a swirl of fire in a hundred iridescent colors, and when he thinks of the sun inside of him as he inhales, he can feel the warmth spread like liquid through his veins.

He opens his eyes again. 

Movement in his peripheral makes Zuko turn to his right. Admiral Eun has risen from his own seat on a separate bench, where Mai is still sitting, to peer more closely at the bark of one of the trees that, when boasting branches full of leaves, casts a refreshingly cool shadow over this corner of the courtyard.

Admiral Eun notices Zuko looking. “This bark reminds me of a forest I saw while stationed off the southwest coast of the Earth Kingdom,” he says. “This can’t be a sapling of one of those giants, can it?”

“It could be,” Zuko responds. “My grandmother on my father’s side loved exotic plants, so he often brought back seeds after successful military campaigns.”

It’s a fact he learned from Sokka, who learned it from Yong. Zuko sometimes wonders if any aspect of this palace isn’t tied to a shameful history.

Mai sighs deeply, her breath fogging in the air. “It’s not like her to be late,” she observes.

A small, doubtful part of Zuko thinks they might all be stood up. But he doesn’t let himself dwell on it; besides, regardless of what might happen in the next ten or so minutes, he already has two more council members than he has had since he became Fire Lord.

Mai was the first person Zuko had asked. He had done it in his chambers after they had had dinner, letting Sokka subtly slip away to give them privacy. Mai had narrowed her eyes at Zuko’s question. “Why not ask my father?” she asked.

“You are not your father,” Zuko replied, “and I trust you.”

With Admiral Eun, Zuko had summoned him to Ursa’s throne room. Days before, Zuko had used the admiral’s list of names to strip a captain of his title and honors, having discovered that he was attempting to stockpile military weapons for use as weapons. Days before that, Sokka had returned from a day at the meat market with Admiral Eun’s family with a broad smile and another carving knife gifted to him from the admiral’s personal collection.

“Admiral Eun,” Zuko said once the man sat down across from him, “As I’ve come to know you and your family over these months, I’ve learned how conscientious and curious about life and the world you are. I admire the reflection and thought you put into the things you do; I appreciate your desire to be good and do good for this world. It is in the spirit of these thoughts that I would like to invite you to join my council.”

Admiral Eun bowed his head deeply, but not before Zuko could catch his smile. “It would be my honor, Fire Lord Zuko.”

And now, this.

There’s the distant sound of a heavy metal door opening, and Zuko follows it to see Chenda being escorted their way by a page. Even from this distance, Zuko can see the change that comes over her when she takes in the courtyard: her determined pace slows to something less deliberate, her mouth falling open as her entire frame softens.

A breeze floats through the courtyard, and Zuko brushes a short lock of hair out of his face at the same time that Chenda notices him.

She waits until she is standing across the pond from him and the page has departed before bowing. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she says and then nods respectfully at Mai and Admiral Eun.

“Chenda,” Zuko replies, “Thank you for agreeing to visit.”

This isn’t the first time Chenda’s come to the palace; since Zuko first met her, he’s asked Sokka to invite her to any meetings where her experiences and expertise could be of value. Zuko’s lucky that Chenda has taken to Sokka, as much as she takes to anyone; he otherwise doubts she would have agreed to come see him on this winter afternoon.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Chenda responds in a tone more guarded than thankful.

Admiral Eun returns to his seat, and suddenly it’s three seated people facing one standing person, and Zuko doesn’t like how this feels at all. “Please, take a seat,” Zuko says, gesturing to the other half of his bench.

Chenda complies, and when she crosses in front of him, Zuko catches the scent of something sharp but pleasant wafting off of her skin. When she is settled in, Zuko clears his throat and turns to face her.

“I know we haven’t spoken since we first met,” he begins, “but our conversation has stayed with me for these past months. It’s not often that someone speaks so directly to the Fire Lord—”

For a second, Chenda’s nose scrunches distastefully, and Zuko hurries to add, “But I appreciate that. I find that the only way I can guide this nation is through the guidance of others, particularly when they help me see the things I am blind to.”

Chenda narrows her eyes. “I did notice you obtaining my insight without having to speak to me.”

Sokka had warned him Chenda might not like the fact that Zuko never went to the meetings that Chenda was invited to. Zuko had responded that Chenda would probably find reason to dislike any decision he made and any action he did or did not take.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be happy to see me,” Zuko responds truthfully, “and there are unfortunately more meetings in a day than one man can attend.”

Her brow twitches on hearing the word man, and seriously, what is it about her that insists that Zuko’s a child? But he can’t get annoyed now. This is bigger than his own sense of being slighted.

So he pushes on. “I am an imperfect leader,” he says, “of an imperfect nation. And even if perfection is unattainable, I do believe we can become better. But I can’t do it alone; I can’t do it without the guidance and insight of those who would encourage me to be better everyday.”

Zuko reaches into the pouch that’s tucked into the sash tied around his waist. He pulls out one of the remaining four brooches and sets it on the bench between him and Chenda. The thin gold-leaf metal glints in the sunlight, as though the small four-tongued flame it’s shaped as has come to life. “Chenda,” Zuko says, “I would like to invite you to join my council.”

For a moment, Chenda is speechless. She stares at the brooch, which is no longer than Zuko’s thumb, with wide eyes. “Me?” she eventually asks, a hesitant finger pointing at her own chest.

“Yes, you.”

“I’m not going to be nice to you,” she blurts.

A grin lifts the corner of Zuko’s mouth. “I anticipate that.”

She reaches out and brushes the brooch with her fingertips. Zuko risks glancing at Mai and Admiral Eun; his girlfriend watches with a detached expression, and the admiral’s thick brows are knotted.

Chenda looks up again, and Zuko meets her gaze. Her eyes flicker to his scar for a moment before returning to meet his look. “I accept your invitation,” she says.

Relief washes through Zuko, and he knows he’s grinning like a fool, but he can’t help it. The sky is clear, the air promises life, and Zuko has a council. A small council, but still—he has found three people whom he trusts. It feels monumental.

“I’m honored,” Zuko says, and he swears he sees Chenda crack a brief smile to herself as she pins the brooch to her cloak.

Zuko gestures for Admiral Eun and Mai to join them. “You already know Mai,” he tells Chenda, “So let me introduce you to Admiral Eun …”

“Pour me another one, will you?”

Zuko snickers even as he unstoppers the bottle of sake to pour Sokka another shot. “You’re going to regret this tomorrow,” he chides, as if Zuko won’t also regret this tomorrow.

“Why live your now in fear of a mild consequence tomorrow?” Sokka asks and smoothly throws the shot back. “Whoo! That burns.”

They’re in Zuko’s chambers, sitting on opposite sides of a table laden with the remains of a rather large dinner. The idea had been to forgo their evening sparring in favor of a large, celebratory dinner with Mai, but then Zuko had asked for a quick bout anyway—he was far too full of energy after a dull tea with some of Iroh’s old “friends,” otherwise known as people who thought that knowing Iroh and knowing Zuko liked his uncle could be enough to curry favor with the new Fire Lord—and Mai had to last-minute watch Tom-Tom for the night. Zuko misses his girlfriend, but he knows he has many more evenings with her in the near future.

Sokka, on the other hand.

“How does it feel to be three flashy brooches lighter, oh Lordliness?” Sokka asks.

“They’re not flashy,” Zuko retorts. He’d spent time figuring out how he wanted to distinguish his council, and then picking a design. A flame, of course, for his nation, but four tongues of it for the four nations. Fire need not be a demand for deference for fear of being burned; fire can be world-sustaining life.

“Okay, glinty brooches,” Sokka amends.

“That’s not a real word,” Zuko shoots back, “but fine. It feels … good.”

Sokka clumsily drops an elbow onto the table and props his head sideways on his hand, his lips curled in a wide, teasing grin. “Our lover of literature has nothing to say but ‘good’?”

Zuko must have had more to drink than he thought; his entire face feels hot. “Lost my words to this,” he says, lifting the sake bottle.

Sokka chortles, even though Zuko’s comment wasn’t really that funny. “It’s a relief,” Zuko adds when Sokka’s laughter dies down.

And it’s exciting, and also terrifying. Zuko has a feeling he’s going to be disappointing everyone on his council, but he wants the vigor of high expectations. He has hope that, as the years go on and he better learns how to be a leader, there’ll be fewer disappointments and failures.

“You did it, man,” Sokka says.

“We did it.”

Sokka pops a fried mochi into his mouth and then offers the last one on the dish to Zuko. “It’s your council, Zuko. Only you can make it.”

“And I couldn’t have done it without your help.”

Sokka waves a hand. “You would’ve made it there one way or another. Especially with the whole inspiring, idealistic leader thing you got going on.”

Zuko doesn’t know how Sokka can say that after witnessing, for months, the true behind-the-scenes disaster of Zuko trying to run a nation, but his tone is too casual and his countenance too relaxed for Sokka to possibly be lying. Sokka plays it straight with Zuko; he’d tell Zuko if something wasn’t working.

Zuko takes the last fried mochi. “I’m looking forward to being able to meet in a room that has sunlight,” he says.

They picked an upper-floor room on the same side of the palace as Sokka’s guest chambers, meaning the new council room will also get more natural light than most parts of the palace. It also has an attached balcony, which Zuko hopes to take advantage of when the weather warms up.

Sokka perks up. “Have you thought about how you’re going to decorate it?”

“Decorate? It’s a meeting room.”

“And the vibes mean everything,” Sokka replies incredulously. “You haven’t even thought about what chairs you’d like? What kind of table? Tapestries? Awesome-looking weapons you can display on the walls?”

Zuko snorts. “We’re post-war, Sokka. I don’t think weapons on the walls would create the right vibes.”

“Hm. Fair point.”

“I was thinking about flower vases,” Zuko concedes.

Sokka beams. “Yes! I’ve seen some of those massive floor pots at the markets. And we could get some smaller ones that work for some end tables.”

We, Zuko’s mind snags on. “We could,” he agrees. “I think I know where some of the decorative tables from my mother’s chambers are. Those could work.”

“And what about outside?”

“You’re thinking about the outside, too?”

“You need the vibes to flow,” Sokka argues. “How wide is that balcony?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s check it out!”

Sokka bounds to his feet more smoothly than Zuko would have expected after how much Sokka has had to drink. “Right now?” Zuko asks.

“Yeah! I want to see the sky. The moon. C’mon!”

Again, Sokka moves more quickly than expected, and Zuko has to jog to catch up with him at the end of the hall. The guards posted at Zuko’s doorway move to follow, but Zuko waves them off; there are plenty of other guards throughout the palace, and Zuko will be returning soon anyway.

When they cross the threshold of the newly designated council room, Zuko feels a shiver roll down his spine. The room is still empty, even barren, but Zuko doesn’t mind; it feels like a blank canvas, and he’s had so few of those in his life and now as the Fire Lord.

Zuko stands just inside the threshold, but Sokka ambles in a circle around the room, his limbs loose and his blue eyes sparking with ideas. “You can definitely fit the table from your mom’s throne room in here,” he says, “but you might want to consider different chairs. Hers are kind of on their last legs. Legs—hah, get it?”

“All chairs have legs, Sokka.” It’s only after the words have left his mouth that Zuko realizes it’s a nonsensical response to a nonsensical joke.

But Sokka only winks at him before looping back to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. It takes him a second, but he manages to undo the latch, push the door open, and slip out into the night.

The room hasn’t changed, but Zuko feels its emptiness differently. He steps forward to follow Sokka.

The evening breeze is revitalizing after a day spent primarily indoors. The cold on Zuko’s skin makes him more aware of how hot his face is; he realizes he must have drunk enough for a flush to have risen on his skin. The city below them is still awake, lights flickering from house windows and smoke curling sinuously into the night sky, and Zuko smiles when the distant cheer of a happy dinner party floats up to reach his ears.

Sokka draws up to Zuko’s right side. “Moon looks great tonight,” he says.

Zuko looks up at the waxing gibbous. He’s never felt an innate connection to the moon like he has to the sun, but he can agree that it looks beautiful as it softly glows against the stars. He still can’t quite wrap his mind around the fact that Sokka dated the moon spirit. “Do you think about her often?” he asks quietly.

Sokka shifts his weight. “I used to think about her every night,” he says, “even during the new moon. I was supposed to protect her, but I didn’t. I failed the one, important task entrusted to me.”

There’s a regret in Sokka’s furrowed brow that melts into a smooth forehead and a soft, private smile. “But I’ve realized that it was also Yue’s choice. I didn’t have the right to take that from her. And now … well, she’ll live a longer, more spirit-y life than any of us, I guess.”

Zuko averts his gaze. Watching Sokka look at the moon feels like he’s intruding on an intimate exchange not meant for him. 

Suddenly, Sokka shivers so violently that Zuko swears he can feel the air vibrate between them. “Man, the heat of that sake is leaving quickly,” Sokka quips.

“Don’t you live in an igloo?” Zuko asks, raising his eyebrow.

“Igloos don’t have wind in them, and maybe I’ve acclimated to this boiler of a city,” Sokka shoots back. “Aren’t you cold?”

Zuko holds out his exposed forearms. “No,” he says simply. He doesn’t think anyone knows about the breath of fire technique that his uncle taught him.

He’s not expecting Sokka to reach out and touch Zuko’s arm. “What?” Sokka yelps. “You’re on fire.”

Zuko grins. “Want to see me actually on fire?”

“Shut up, not literally,” Sokka grumbles and slides along the balcony railing until he’s smushed into Zuko’s side. For a second, Zuko freezes, but Sokka doesn’t notice; he only sighs contentedly as his shivers subside. “Good to know firebenders run hot,” Sokka jokes.

They don’t, Zuko thinks, but something about him really doesn’t want to explain anything further.

It’s quiet for a moment. When Zuko concentrates on the sensation of Sokka’s weight pressing deliberately against his arm and shoulder, something in his chest feels steadied. He closes his eyes to better focus on the feeling, and he’s caught off guard when Sokka says, “I’m thinking about leaving a week from now.”

His eyes flare open. Zuko scrambles for something to say, panics when his mild inebriation doesn’t help him, and lands on, “Oh?”

Sokka nods. “If I leave at the right time, I’ll be able to see Suki and the rest of the Kyoshi warriors on their way to meeting Aang in Ba Sing Se. And … well, you have your council now, don’t you? The start of it, anyway.”

Zuko does. And that was the entire reason for Sokka being here, wasn’t it? Helping Zuko create a council. Sokka’s done his job; now it’s Zuko’s job to work with this council to make things better. Zuko knew this was coming.

So Zuko agrees, “I do.” He doesn’t think about the weird sense of loss shifting in his gut because he hasn’t lost anything. His friend is still standing by his side, his arm a solid line against Zuko’s own. “We can start working on your travel plans whenever you’d like.”

Sokka grins, the smiling crinkles around his eyes just visible in the light of the moon, and Zuko is helpless to smiling back.

The week passes in the blink of an eye. 

Zuko knows, at some point, he had reserved a morning in his schedule for one last breakfast with Sokka. He knows that he spoke to Admiral Eun about possibly chartering a Fire Nation ship to take Sokka home, though Sokka declined the offer because—as he rightly pointed out—his tribe wouldn’t appreciate seeing a Fire Nation ship bearing straight down on them. Zuko knows that he asks several pages to see to Sokka’s packing, and to collect more than enough supplies for his journey (with extra personal items for delivering to Katara, Ty Lee, and Suki). Zuko logically knows all of this.

But at the end of the week, none of it feels real. The small logistics are lost in a mire of attending back-to-back meetings, of trying to settle in a council whose expertise in their areas outweighs Zuko’s, of answering to other’s reactions to his choice of council members. He even catches himself reading a meeting summary that Admiral Eun wrote during one of his last breakfasts with Sokka, and he has to tuck the scroll away out of sight in order to give the meal and his friend his undivided attention.

The only thing grounding this small event, grounding Sokka’s departure as something real, is Zuko’s last little prank: Zuko sneaks out at lunch one day to go to a market, where he buys an elegant but lightweight scroll canister, a small ream of paper, and a dozen small tubes of paint. He packages them together tightly, wraps them all in one of the shirts Zuko had lent to Sokka, and convinces a page to tuck the bundle amongst Sokka’s already packed belongings.

Zuko tries not to feel too smug about being so clever.

But then he blinks, and he’s saying thank you and goodbye at their last breakfast, and sometime during Zuko’s second meeting of the day, Sokka leaves the Fire Nation for the first time in five months.

Two weeks later, Zuko finds himself stealing away from the palace in a heavy-hooded cloak and descending to the lower city. He finds the half-basement theatre venue again with ease, but there’s no show to be found; the lights are off, and the door, unlike last time, does not bear a flyer advertising the night’s performance.

When Zuko slips back into his chambers via the vent that leads to a partial balcony whose support columns are a comfortable leap away from the walls that separate the back end of the main palace from the rest of the city, it’s clear that no one noticed his absence. The thought makes something loosen in Zuko’s chest; he finds it easier to breathe for the rest of the night.

His council settles into their new roles more easily than Zuko ever dared to hope for. Mai continues to be Mai, working quietly and steadily without much interaction with Zuko; he knows his girlfriend operates well without his help, and if they ever end up attending the same meeting, she won’t waste her breath discussing it afterwards unless she thinks there’s an important point to be made. Zuko has her input on things pertaining to education and to industry, where the knowledge she has gleaned from her father over the years help the two of them sniff out the hippo cow-crap that merchants and self-proclaimed economists try to throw their way.

Chenda is a force of nature. She began planning projects the day after Zuko gave her her council person’s brooch, apparently, and Zuko’s astounded by how quickly she has pulled together an advisory committee, broken up into smaller subcommittees, that reports to her and to Zuko. Every couple days, Chenda receives reports from people who had been sent across the Fire Nation to assess the state of all things related to healing work, and at the end of every week, Zuko receives a neatly written summary that updates him on the action taken, progress made, and next steps to be taken by Chenda’s committee.

Zuko also discovers that he’s not the sole recipient of Chenda’s sharp judgement; as often as he’s at the receiving end of her raised eyebrows and pointed questions, so too are others who fall short of whatever standard Chenda has created for them in her mind. Her harshest words are usually saved for the leaders of the military’s healing program, but Zuko senses it isn’t an anti-military bias. For one, Chenda and Admiral Eun forged an instant bond of deep respect and understanding—Zuko doesn’t know when or why it happened, but it makes it kind of incredible to watch them work together—and for another, the leaders do seem rather incompetent. Trust Ozai to not truly care about the health of his soldiers; if Chenda weren’t already busy with council responsibilities and her project with the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, Zuko would immediately recommend her as a replacement for the current military health leadership.

Admiral Eun perhaps has the most difficult time acclimating to his role, but Zuko knows it has nothing to do with the man and everything to do with the people he has to deal with. Today, they’re meeting in Ursa’s throne room with a captain who’s recently returned from an ex-colony, where she was overseeing the safe withdrawal and passage of Fire Nation troops back to the Fire Nation. Admiral Eun is leading the meeting with gracious command, but there’s still a shiftiness in the air that Zuko doesn’t like.

“We’re pleased with your results,” Admiral Eun is saying. “This has been the lowest casualty withdrawal from a former colony that we’ve had so far.”

The captain’s lips are pursed. They have been since she walked in. “I’m adept at my job,” she says stiffly.

Admiral Eun doesn’t bat an eyelid. “Given these results, we’re changing your orders,” he pushes on. “You’ll be heading northeast at the end of the week to relieve Captain Taek of his post. We anticipate that you’ll be better equipped to handle the removal of troops than he currently is.”

The captain scoffs under her breath, and Admiral Eun finally drops the pretense that he hasn’t been picking up on her attitude this entire time. “Are you dissatisfied with these orders?” he asks.

“I’m a captain in the greatest military in the world. Do you expect me to be satisfied with  facilitating personnel relocations that negate the progress we’ve made in the last five years, and that also work to our economic disadvantage?”

Admiral Eun’s brows settle heavily over his eyes. “The war is over,” he says firmly. “And war will not come again soon, if ever.”

The captain tilts her head. “Is that so? What did you think all those Fire Nation nobles wanted to do with the metal you were planning to melt down for them, Admiral?”

Zuko doesn’t miss the way Admiral Eun glances at him; he hasn’t quite let go of his betrayal of Zuko’s trust all those months ago, even if Zuko has long forgiven him. 

“That endeavor was a mistake,” Admiral Eun says.

“Removing our nation’s presence from economically advantageous geographies is a mistake,” the captain replies. “Your event was an embarrassment.”

“Sacrificing a small economic gain matters little when our project is peace.”

“Peace?” The captain repeats. “You’d think a country peasant would salivate at the chance to obtain a fortune,” she sneers, “but—oh. Is there fortune to be gained in becoming the Fire Princeling’s lapdog?”

“Enough,” Zuko snaps.

The two military leaders look to where Zuko is sitting on Ursa’s throne. The captain seems to have forgotten the actual Fire Lord was even here; her military posture snaps back into place, and she can’t quite meet his eye. The Fire Princeling, Zuko thinks. He wonders if people are actually calling him that, or if it’s just this particular captain with her stiff, intellectual vocabulary. It’s meant to be diminutive for sure, but it sounds … too lame for Zuko to feel insulted.

He does feel insulted on Admiral Eun’s behalf, though.

“I won’t listen to any more disparagement of my advisor,” Zuko says. “Address your complaints directly to me.”

“My lord,” the captains begins, her tone suddenly changing to one much more obsequious, “There’s nothing to be gained from leaving territories where our settlements haven’t been meeting resistance.”

“Not for us, perhaps,” Zuko replies, “but certainly for the people who are actually from those territories.”

The captain looks taken aback by Zuko’s immediate dismissal, but moves on nonetheless. “I know my value and worth, my lord,” she continues. “I’m equipped to lead operations more sophisticated and more important than overseeing a pre-established sea route home.”

She’s smiling politely, as though Zuko must agree with her if she just phrases things a certain way and in a certain tone, and suddenly Zuko is viscerally reminded of a Ba Sing Se socialite who once tried to convince him that he could somehow make tea without steeping any tea leaves because she just wanted it that way. “She’s completely missing the point of tea!” his uncle later protested, when Zuko had related the incident to him while they were closing the shop.

“I hear your complaint,” Zuko tells the captain’s falsely smiling face, “and I now understand that this reassignment is inappropriate.”

She begins nodding, and Zuko knows he’s going in for an unexpected kill when he continues, “To me, there is nothing more important than bringing the world into an age of peace and kindness. Withdrawing our nation’s military and settlements from places that do not rightfully belong to us is part of this work.”

For the first time since she entered Ursa’s throne room, the captain looks unnerved, but the last of Zuko’s patience ran out two meetings ago. “We will find someone else to assist Captain Taek,” he continues, “And your orders to remain in the capital until further notice will remain unchanged.”

The captain’s jaw tightens, but Zuko knows that she will not disobey orders, no matter her displeasure; Admiral Eun told him as much, having gotten to know her when he was a captain himself. “Yes, my lord,” she says coldly.

“You are dismissed.”

The captain is quick to leave, and when the door shuts behind her, Zuko slouches in his seat. 

Admiral Eun looks as worn as Zuko feels, and it’s with a deep sigh that he eventually says, “I’ll draw up another list for people to help Taek.”

“Tomorrow,” Zuko replies. “You deserve some rest.”

Admiral Eun smiles tiredly. “You, too, Fire Lord Zuko.”

Admiral Eun and Jingyi’s home is at the outer edge of the upper city ring, but it’s by no means any less indulgent than the houses of the nobility who live closer to the palace. It’s several stories high, spotlessly clean, and smells impeccably of fresh-cut flowers, even in the children’s rooms. Zuko watches the soft smile that lifts Jingyi’s cheeks as they peek in on her sleeping children, and his heart tugs in spite of himself. His family was far from perfect, but it’s people like Jingyi who make Zuko desperately yearn for a family of his own making.

But he’s seventeen, and Mai’s eighteen, and he can’t possibly think about being a father when he’s barely getting through his daily obligations to his nation.

“They’ll rise with the sun, screaming with energy, and demand that Eun and I awake at the same time as them,” Jingyi whispers to Zuko. Her smile is still there.

“Kids,” Zuko says wryly, because he isn’t sure what else might slip out if he speaks more.

Jingyi laughs and slides the door to the children’s room shut. “Come. We’ll have desserts and tea in the sun room.”

The sun room is the only room on the uppermost floor, where there’s no furniture save a low table to distract from the windows that open up three of the four walls of the room to the world outside. Admiral Eun is already seated on a cushion, drinking a glass of makgeolli. “Did you wake the children?” he asks Jingyi.

“Of course not,” she responds, using her husband’s shoulder for support as she lowers herself to the floor. She looks at Zuko and gestures at the cushion across the table, and Zuko obligingly sits down.

It’s Admiral Eun who performs the tea ceremony, and Jingyi who then reveals a small but exquisite dessert spread by lifting the tops off of the wicker baskets scattered across the table. Zuko can’t help the noise of surprise that escapes him when the last basket is full of fried mochi, and his cheeks flush when Jingyi laughs knowingly.

“I was surprised to learn that our Fire Lord’s favorite dessert is a modest, widespread home bake,” Jingyi says, “but Sokka insisted it was true.”

Zuko lifts his plate and dips his head gratefully when Jingyi loads it up. “He was right,” Zuko agrees.

Admiral Eun smiles kindly. “My parents always used to say that you can trust a man who prefers home cooking to the glamor and the show.”

“Are you sure they weren’t just keeping you from purchasing the more exotic foods at the monthly trade market?” Jingyi teases.

“If they were, it didn’t work out for them.”

They tuck into their meal, and it’s several minutes of chewing and sipping in silence. Zuko might be incompetent when it comes to making food, but he can appreciate the quality of someone else’s craft, and after a long week of meetings and visits and missives, he’s content to not have any active thoughts for a while. These days, it’s rarely peaceful to be in his own head.

Jingyi is the first to speak after pouring herself another cup of tea. “How is Mai doing, Zuko? I was sad to hear she couldn’t make it.”

“She’s doing well. Between being on the council and working on the reform project at the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, she’s been very busy.”

Not so busy that she couldn’t have joined Zuko tonight, but even if Zuko’s girlfriend has gained some respect for Admiral Eun, she does not like spending more time than she absolutely has to with Jingyi. “She’s such a mother,” Mai once commented to Zuko, but refused to elaborate on exactly what she meant by that.

“The Royal Fire Academy?” Jingyi echoes. “I went there for several years! It’s where I first discovered my love for calligraphy.”

Love might be too gentle a word; Jingyi’s calligraphy is hung on every available wall in this house. Admiral Eun must be of the same mind as Zuko, because he snorts into his drink and only smiles at Jingyi jabbing his side with a pointed finger.

“What did you think of your education while you were there?” Zuko asks.

“It was good. The teachers were well disciplined, and that passed on to the students. Of course, it was nothing compared to the education that the boys in my neighborhood got, but I can still hold my own in any conversation.”

Zuko frowns. He never attended the Royal Fire Academy for Boys, having been schooled by Ursa and a series of tutors prior to his banishment and mentored by his uncle after, but he hasn’t heard about any glaring disparities between the two Royal Fire Academies. “Are the academies not run to the same standard of education?” Zuko asks.

“Oh, I believe they are,” Jingyi says, looking to her husband.

Admiral Eun nods. “Several of the men under my command attended the Royal Fire Academy. They’re good men, and I haven’t heard anything bad about the Academy.”

“The neighborhood boys didn’t go there, though,” Jingyi explains. “They had private lessons.”

Zuko blinks. “All of them?” he asks. “Private lessons in—what?”

His shock seems to have confused the couple, who exchange a few looks and have what appears to be a full conversation with their eyebrows. They turn back to Zuko in unison. “I forget that royalty might have had different childhoods and educational paths than other children,” Jingyi says. “It’s been common custom since my grandparents’ time for girls to attend academies, while boys receive private lessons at home. I suppose they range from subjects covered in school to other skills—I believe one of my cousins learned firebending from a live-in tutor.”

“Common custom among wealthy families,” Admiral Eun amends. “I never had a formal education, and most people I’ve met who’ve had an education went to academies or community schoolhouses.”

Zuko’s mind is whirling. He never thought his private lessons, as opposed to Azula’s academy attendance, was a broader pattern; he’d always assumed the lessons were Ozai and Azulon’s response to Zuko’s general ineptitude.

“That feels wrong,” Zuko says.

The admiral is giving him a curious look, while Jingyi tilts her head in her challengingly inquisitive way. “Perhaps,” she says. “But it can be difficult to change tradition, no?”

“It’s impossible if I don’t try,” Zuko responds. “But if I sow seeds now, they’ll eventually bear fruit for someone in the future.”

Zuko knows he’s kind of bad at letting things go, and especially when a particular thing is wrapped up in something having to do with his family. His realization at Admiral Eun and Jingyi’s house rattles around his head for an entire week before it finally slips out during his tea with Azula.

“Did you think it was weird that you went to the Academy, but I didn’t, when we were kids?” Zuko asks his sister.

Azula scoffs and doesn’t even look up from the small loom she’s been working on since before Zuko arrived today; it looks like Azula’s making another flower-patterned tapestry with less savory characters scattered throughout the blossoms. “Girls attend academies while boys receive lessons at home,” she says. “Everyone knows that.”

“I didn’t.” He watches the rapid, accurate little movements of Azula’s fingers, and of course his sister perfected how to execute a leisurely pastime in a quick and precise manner. She’s added a thumb’s length of tapestry since Zuko poured their tea—tea which she hasn’t touched so far. “How did you feel about it?”

He finally receives a brief, cutting glance before she’s back to glaring at her loom. “I didn’t feel anything about it,” she answers. “That’s how things were. If I had to excel with lesser resources—well, it didn’t matter, because I was still the more successful child.”

Azula always says it like a statement of fact, but at least her claims of success and paternal preference are no longer followed by excessive derision of Zuko. Sometimes, Zuko wonders if aggressive detachment is any better than open vitriol. On days when he’s more tired, he considers that it’s just nice to not have an attempt on his life when he’s simply trying to chat and drink tea.

“Would you have wanted private lessons, too?” Zuko asks. “Or did you like having classmates?”

“Why are you bothering with all these questions about the past?” Azula shoots back. “It doesn’t change anything. And besides, Mother didn’t mind having you hanging around. I was the one she wanted out of her sight.”

Zuko’s chest tightens. “She didn’t want you out of her sight.”

Azula ties off the knot of a golden thread and starts on a new section with dark red. “She did.”

“You’re her child,” Zuko argues. “I don’t believe that she could—”

Static crackles in the air, and Zuko instinctively leans back when Azula whips her head up to narrow her eyes at him. “Please, Zuzu,” she says scathingly. “Don’t act like you know our mother better than I do. We’re only two years apart. Neither of us really knew Mother by the time she left—all we know is how she treated us. And she thought I was a monster, while you were the soft little emotional child she really wanted.”

Zuko’s heart rises into his throat, threatening to gag him. Ursa didn’t—have favorites. Sure, she may have spent more time with Zuko, but that was only because she saw how Ozai preferred Azula. And because he had lessons at home.

“I can see you don’t believe me,” Azula drawls.

There’s a shift in her tone and her body language, from defensive to feigned nonchalance, and Zuko feels his shoulders rise. He knows what it looks and sounds like when Azula’s about to destroy him—

“Mother refused to be alone with me after I turned seven,” Azula says. “She always had a guard or an attendant in sight. I suppose that was a compliment to me, wasn’t it? She might have been weak and spineless, but it takes something else to be terrified of a seven-year-old.” She grins sharply. “Something like talent, and a killer instinct.”

Killer, Zuko’s mind snags on, and he shoots to his feet. It’s impossible—Azula couldn’t have—

“You didn’t,” Zuko whispers. He’s horrified that it sounds more like a question than a statement, but he doesn’t know, and—and—

Azula laughs, loudly and intentionally bright. “Of course I didn’t kill our dear mother, Zuzu,” she says condescendingly, and despite her tone, Zuko believes her. Azula always lies, but she doesn’t lie as much as she used to, and anyway, Zuko’s mind is already twisting into further knots. Did he really not know Ursa?

He remembers curling in his mother’s lap as her fingers ran through his hair, late nights listening to her read plays by candlelight, surprise trips to the middle city merchant markets when they’d wear matching plain and overlarge cloaks so they wouldn’t be recognized and his mother could keep slipping him sweets. Where was Azula during all of this? At the academy? Could a mother who showed so much love to Zuko really be incapable of loving Azula?

There’s a soft click as Azula adjusts her loom to start weaving a new row on the tapestry. “If you pass out, everyone will think it’s my fault,” she says, eyes trained on her threads.

Zuko slowly sits down. “Sorry,” he says. 

He feels like he should add something more, but before he can come up with the words, Azula says, “I’m going to give myself bangs.”

It’s as if they hadn’t just had a near argument that’s sent Zuko’s world askew. Zuko blinks and tries to adjust to where his sister’s at. “Again?”

“It’s not again if I’ll do them correctly this time.”

Between the meetings and the revelations and the attempts to reevaluate his childhood whenever he has a spare moment, there are little things Zuko does to keep from going insane. It’s still winter, so there’s not as much comfort to be drawn from the courtyards, but he’s discovered there’s just as much release to be found in stealing away from the palace at night and traveling around the city as if he were any other citizen.

Zuko is shocked when, six weeks into his illicit weekly visits, he one night finds the half-basement door in the lower city exuding warm light. His heart rises in his throat as he scampers down the stairs, slips through the door, and sidles his way to an open spot against the wall in the back right corner of the room. For a brief, dizzying moment, his sudden stillness overwhelms him with the fear that he’ll be caught and found out for who he is, but then—what? In the worst case, someone will try to kill him. In the other worst case, they’ll try to give him the best seat in the house as a makeshift royal box, and he’ll have to make excuses with embarrassment and leave before the play has even begun.

Nothing happens. The wall scones are snuffed out, and this time, the original play is a plucky satire of one of Xiaoyu’s canon works that, secretly, Zuko thinks is not written by Xiaoyu. But the only person he’s met who would possibly entertain that conversation is his mother, and he still has no idea what happened to her all those years ago, and he’s no longer sure what to even think of her …

So he ignores it, and he tells himself to enjoy the show. He recognizes most of the actors from last time and also a couple of re-purposed costume pieces. The rest of the audience is loving the comedy as much as he does, if not more, so he doesn’t feel self-conscious about laughing now and then. He feels good, for the first time in an honest while, and it’s definitely this feeling that convinces him to linger when the show ends, the lights come up, and most of the audience begins to leave.

It’s easy to find Kanya, with her short stature and her short-cropped hair. Zuko waits until she’s alone, sweeping up ashes from a stunt in Act II to the side of the stage, before taking a step out of the shadows and adjusting his hood so she can at least sort of see his face. “Congratulations,” he says. “The show was great.”

“Thank you!” Kanya says, brightly but a bit absently, still concentrating on her task on hand. “What did you like about it? This is our first time trying a satire since our last one completely fell flat two years ago.”

“I didn’t see that one,” Zuko says. “My friend brought me to my first show a few months ago.”

Kanya finally looks at him, and maybe Zuko misjudged just how different a vantage point a shorter person has, because her eyes flare wide the instant she sees his face. “Fire Lord Zuko?” she quietly chokes out.

“Sokka brought me to your show,” Zuko blurts.

Kanya blinks. “Sokka’s only been to, like, two shows. I mean, I guess there was that one time—” She gets that gobsmacked look again. “That was you! You were incognito!”

“I didn’t want to distract from your show,” Zuko says. He also didn’t want to be seen or perceived by anyone but Sokka that night, but Kanya doesn’t need to know that.

Kanya dusts off her hands on her pants and straightens her tunic. “Oh, look at me—I mean—my lord, we thank you for blessing our show with your attendance—”

It’s abundantly clear that Kanya has never interacted with royalty, or even seen anyone else interact with royalty, and Zuko is ready to smack himself. He didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable, but he’s not just another guy the way he was in the Earth Kingdom, or when he was traveling with the Avatar, and he should do better to remember that. “Call me Zuko,” he says hurriedly, holding up a placating hand.

Kanya freezes in her tracks, looks him in the eye again, and lets out a sigh of relief. “Sorry,” she says. “I was just unprepared to meet someone so—you, tonight. At my show.”

“Speaking of shows,” Zuko begins, because he’s never been great at seamlessly changing topics, “I was wondering if your production group would be interested in performing at the royal theatre.”

An actual squeak escapes Kanya’s mouth. “Why?” she whispers.

“You’re good at what you do, and the royal theatre hasn’t been used as much as I’d like it to be.”

Kanya looks around the basement, her wide eyes assessing every nook and cranny, and something in Zuko imagines that she’s envisioning what their performance would look like in the royal theatre—if she’s even seen the royal theatre before. “This show?” Kanya asks.

“Yes, if you want to,” Zuko says, even though he’s not sure the average royal theatre attendee would be knowledgable enough to understand every nuance of this satire. “I’d also set aside funds for a grant that would help you develop a new show, if that’s preferred.”

At the word funds, Kanya’s gaze snaps back to him. “What do you want?” she asks and then slaps a hand over her mouth. “I mean—um—what’s in it for you?”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says. “I …”

What is in it for Zuko? What does Zuko want from this on-a-whim offer?

“This nation has lost much of its art and creativity in the last hundred years,” he says. “I want it to encourage those things to grow.”

He thinks that must be the reason why he’s invented this grant on the spot to offer to Kanya and her theatre group. And even if it isn’t, he’s still relieved to see her smile at his answer and give a little nod. 

“I’ll talk to my friends—the group—about it,” Kanya says. “Thank you … Zuko.”

Zuko nods and then pulls his hood low again so he can slip away unnoticed by anyone else. He can feel Kanya’s eyes on him until he exits into the night.

The week that the turtleducks migrate back to their pond in Zuko’s favorite courtyard, Zuko’s impromptu evening stroll is interrupted by a messenger hawk. When he unrolls the scroll tucked into the hawk’s carrier, he squints in confusion, and then almost drops it in surprise when he realizes what it is.

It’s a not very good painting of Suki and Ty Lee in their full uniforms posing in front of Full Moon Bay in the Earth Kingdom. Zuko can only identify his friends from Suki and Ty Lee’s signatures labeling themselves, and the location from the familiar script in the lower righthand corner.

Zuko considers sending a letter back to Sokka, but there’s no telling when this piece was painted; for all he knows, Sokka and the Kyoshi Warriors left Full Moon Bay a month ago. So he rolls up the scroll, tucks it into his shirt, and keeps it close until he stores it in a desk drawer in his room before going to sleep that night.

Spring comes, and it’s the first time in a while that Zuko has felt the season in the way it is meant to be felt: birth, rejuvenation, a strengthening sun. This time last year, he was trapped indoors by a schedule of endless and unproductive meetings, and in the years before that, he was too fixated on redeeming himself in Ozai’s eyes to notice anything that wasn’t related to the Avatar. Now, as he tries to remind himself to choose life and happiness, he lets himself give into some of his small urges: to hold a council meeting outside. To stop and smell a bush of flowers. To make friends with the new, baby turtleducks.

Today, Zuko’s chosen happiness is a picnic lunch with Mai. They spread a blanket in the smallest courtyard of the palace, hidden away from people who would drag Zuko away to another conversation or meeting, or from Admiral Eun, who can sniff out well-cooked meet even better than Sokka. It’s nice to be alone with his girlfriend, soaking in the sunlight and letting the fresh spring breeze do most of the talking.

Or, almost alone.

“Get me more dried apricots,” Mai tells the attendant standing a respectable distance away from their blanket.

“Yes, my lady,” the attendant immediately replies and scurries off.

Mai snuggles deeper into Zuko’s side, and Zuko offers her a lychee berry. She accepts it, letting Zuko drop the fruit onto her tongue. “Still like ordering people around, huh?” he asks.

He can hear the smile in her voice when she replies, “It never gets old.”

Slowly but steadily, the sound of conversation approaches, and Zuko feels Mai tense in the same way that he does. He’d thought they’d be well hidden for at least an hour with no one but the one attendant knowing where they were, but …

He isn’t expecting, of all people, for Yong and Bishal to round the corner. Bishal has his guard’s helmet informally tucked under one of his arms, and his conversation with Yong is easy and agreeable. It’s Yong who notices Zuko and Mai first, immediately stopping in her tracks to bow. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she says.

Bishal stumbles over his own feet, hurries to shove his helmet back on, and ends up whacking the rim against his own skull. “Ow,” he says, “I mean—”

“It’s okay, Bishal,” Zuko says.

Bishal gives up on his helmet, smiling sheepishly, and Mai sighs. “Can they leave?” she asks Zuko in an undertone.

“I should at least say hello,” Zuko replies.

Yong and Bishal approach their picnic, and Mai huffs before rearranging herself so she and Zuko and no longer touching. Zuko knows it’s not about decorum; Mai’s upset with him, but for what reason, Zuko has no clue. He also has no clue how Yong and Bishal know one another; he’s never seen Bishal in a courtyard unless he’s attending Zuko, and Yong’s work is exclusively in the courtyards, even in the winter.

“How are you both?” Zuko asks when the odd pair have stopped a few paces away from their blanket.

“Good, thank you, my lord,” Bishal says. Yong nods her agreement.

Zuko glances at Yong. “How is your family?” he asks, and then he remembers—Bishal is twenty, and Yong has a son around the same age. “Your son—is that how you know Bishal?”

It’s impossible to miss the way Bishal’s eyes turn into tea saucers and Yong’s jaw tightens. “Her name is Erhi, now,” Yong says.

And there’s that tension again that Zuko seems to inadvertently bring to every interaction these days. Her. Erhi. “I’m sorry—Erhi,” he says, in what he hopes is a reassuring tone. “How is she?”

The apprehension floods out of Bishal, and Yong loses some of the hardness in her eyes. In fact, there’s a hint of a smile in her lips when she says, “She’s doing very well—there’s a handsome young man who’s been keen on spending time with her.”

For a second, Zuko almost asks Who? but then Bishal flushes a mortified red. “Yong,” he whines, and Yong turns to give him a real smile. The twist of her neck causes the collar of her overcoat to shift, and suddenly Zuko can’t tear his eyes away from the revealed scar.

Zuko’s known about the burn scar on Yong’s neck for as long as he’s known her. He remembers someone—probably Ursa—telling him it was from Yong’s first husband, who was a very bad man, but he was just a curious kid then. He hasn’t seen Yong since he received his own extremely intentional burn, and seeing hers now, all these years later … it’s arresting. He feels guilty for staring, because he’s been on the other end far too many times, but …

But it’s rare to see large burns among the upper classes, and it’s even rarer to know that that burn, too, came from an act that meant to twist life-giving fire into an instrument of violence and suffering. Zuko feels an unfamiliar, sorrowful sense of understanding pang in his chest, and when Yong turns again and meets his eyes, he can’t imagine what expression he must be wearing.

“Zuko.”

Zuko flinches. Mai looks as annoyed as she ever gets, which means there’s a small kink in her brow. “The guard asked you something,” she tells him.

Zuko turns to Bishal. “I’m sorry. What was that?”

“Are you enjoying your picnic?” Bishal asks.

“It can be nice to get away,” Zuko admits. He looks at his girlfriend, whose warmth he misses at his side. “And I have good company.”

The kink in Mai’s brow disappears, and something settles in Zuko’s stomach when Mai shifts her weight to lean closer to him. Bishal smiles brightly, and Yong’s eyes twinkle knowingly.

“We’ll leave you to it,” Yong says. She turns to Bishal and asks, “Shall we?”

Her scar peeks out again, and Zuko lets himself glance at it one last time. Maybe he should talk to her about it. Maybe he shouldn’t. Yong is a grown woman, older than his mother would be, and Zuko’s—what, a kid who crossed his father’s line?

Bishal offers his elbow to Yong, and the two walk away, leaving the courtyard through the doorway opposite the side they entered. Mai tucks herself right back into Zuko’s side, and it’s like she was never even annoyed with him in the first place.

“Do you know anyone with burn scars?” Zuko asks.

Mai takes a moment to consider before answering, “You. The palace gardener. My uncle’s told stories of pretty bad ones.”

Her uncle, the Boiling Rock warden. “Right,” Zuko says.

Mai leans away so she can nudge under his chin with her finger and force him to look her in the eye. When he does, Zuko thinks he sees something like concern, or maybe something like love, in the unusual openness of her expression. “Why are you thinking about that?” Mai asks. “I don’t care about your scar, and neither should anyone else. That’s not who you are.”

Her hand cups his right cheek, and Zuko lets himself lean into it and fall into a kiss. 

Mai’s lips are chapped and taste like something sugary, surely from the delicate sticky cakes that had been part of their picnic, and when Zuko wraps an arm around her waist, Mai sighs against his lips. His nose fills with the sweet, floral scent of honey, and he thinks, Yes, this must be a moment of chosen happiness.

Kanya is so ecstatic when Zuko finds her after the latest show he’s snuck into that she repeatedly bounces on the balls of her feet until he’s close enough for her to whisper, “We’re in! We’re so, so in!”

She squeals, with excitement rather than nerves, and Zuko can’t hold back the grin that breaks across his face. “I’m thrilled to hear that,” he says genuinely, reaching out a hand to Kanya.

He’s expecting a brief clasp of hands, but Kanya takes his hand as an invitation to pull him into a hug so tight Zuko feels his ribs shift. “Oof,” he chokes out, trying to return the hug when Kanya has one of his arms pinned to his side.

“Oh!”

With her gasp, Kanya shoots backwards. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I’m just super affectionate, and really excited, and I forget that you’re—“ Her eyes dart around nervously. “You know, the Fire—”

“It’s okay!” Zuko reassures. He’s beginning to learn it’s rather easy to get Kanya to vibrate like a struck gong, and he reasons that that’s not a him thing. “I, uh. I like hugs. In spite of the, uh—don’t talk to, touch, or look at me outfit.”

He plucks at his own dark, nondescript cloak, and Kanya laughs, tension relieved. “I can’t wait to tell Ashok,” she says. “The restaurant he was working at got shut down, but he said it’s fine because he now has time to write all day and night.”

“Why did the restaurant shut down?”

Kanya shrugs. “Something about some imported foods being too expensive? I don’t really know.”

Imported foods—it rings an semi-important bell in the back of Zuko’s head, but he can’t identify exactly why right now. “Please tell Ashok I look forward to meeting him,” he says instead.

“Of course. Thank you for coming tonight!”

Zuko finds himself still smiling long after he’s left the half-basement, feeling a joy that’s part excitement, part a sense of accomplishment. He fought with his council to establish this art grant. Well, with part of his council—Mai tuned out as soon as he said the word theatre, and the moment Chenda’s eyes started blazing, Admiral Eun made a sensible retreat to the far end of the council room, where they keep a table of refreshments.

“Where are you going to get the money for this?” Chenda asked.

“This nation profited off of the war a ridiculous amount,” Zuko replied, trying to keep his voice level. “I’m sure we can find something in our amassed wealth to spare for supporting some art and culture.”

“I’m sure?” Chenda echoed. “Is a vague belief supposed to hold up against strictly drawn budget and allocations for this country’s coffers?”

“Don’t we ultimately draw that budget?”

“Didn’t we follow a strict plan in creating that budget so that funds would go where they were needed most urgently?”

“Our nation’s arts have been dying for the last hundred years.”

“And people are dying every day, Fire Lord Zuko.”

They argued for an hour, but by the end of it, Admiral Eun had a neatly written redrafting of their budget, Mai wandered back in from doing her work on the balcony, and Zuko had secured a grant, though smaller than he’d initially imagined, for the theatre production group. It’s to become a recurring grant, in fact, offered twice yearly and meant to support local artists across a variety of disciplines.

So Zuko feels good. He’s done something, achieved something, even if it’s a little thing, and he’s so lost in reminiscing that he almost misses the sound of a blade being unsheathed behind him.

Almost.

He throws himself down onto the street, hears the whoosh of a weapon slicing the air where he’d just been, and quickly twists his torso to kick his legs out and shoot fire at his assailant as his hands support his weight. The attacker has already moved, though, and this stupid cloak hood is blocking Zuko’s peripheral vision—

Something slams into his left side, and Zuko goes with his assailant’s momentum and forces them to keep rolling until Zuko ends up on top. He scrabbles to pin down the person below him, first catching the wrist of the hand wielding the knife and forcing it away from him, but the person’s big. Zuko’s strong, but he still hasn’t had a real growth spurt, and this attacker is much taller than him—

A fist plows into Zuko’s gut, and with the wind knocked out of him, it’s all he can do to roll away when he accidentally lets go of the attacker’s wrist and the blade comes whistling down at him again. It’s a dagger, Zuko registers, with some sort of crest on the guard. He shoots a burst of flame from his fist to prevent the attacker from getting closer to him, but when Zuko tries to stand, it’s evident his left ankle won’t take his weight right now. 

He breathes deep to brace for the pain because he’s going to try to walk or preferably run anyway, but he takes a moment too long. A large hand clamps around his bad ankle and drags, and Zuko can’t help the shout of pain the escapes him. He flexes his captive calf, sending angry flames billowing out from his heel, but the grip doesn’t loosen and the grit of the road slices into the flesh of Zuko’s face as he’s hauled across the ground—

He pushes himself up the best he can with his hands and tries to flip onto his back. His ankle shrieks with pain, and he begins punching out flames from his fists, but his captor wrenches his ankle and Zuko screams—

Suddenly his body is jerked closer to his attacker—

The blade glints in the moonlight—

“Hey! Leave the kid alone!”

A brilliant wall of flame bursts from somewhere off to the left, and when the assailant’s grip on Zuko’s ankle loosens a fraction, Zuko takes the opportunity to snap his leg down, breaking the assailant’s hold, heel striking the pavement ouch, and he crunches upright to throw more fire from his hands at the figure that’s already retreating—

Retreating.

“Yeah, run away, you cowardly street scum!”

Zuko pants, clumsily attempting to pull his hood up again until he realizes most of the fabric has been ripped to shreds. His ankle hurts, and he knows he’ll be feeling his face and much more once the blood stops thundering through his veins. What was that—a petty mugger? But then why attack Zuko, instead of just threatening him with the dagger?

“Hey, kid. You okay?”

The man who just saved Zuko is so pale his skin seems to reflect the moonlight, until he blocks it out by leaning over to peer at Zuko. “Criminals these days are just crazy,” he says, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. “This is excessive for trying to take a few coins from a kid. Oh, look at your ankle—will you be able to walk? Where are you from, kid?”

The man is in his sleepwear, Zuko realizes, at the same time that it occurs to him that this man has no idea who Zuko is. Standing the way he is, the man’s shadow falls right over Zuko’s face.

For a moment, Zuko considers lying. It’s embarrassing to be laying, injured, in a grimy street before a man in his sleep clothes, and it’s even more embarrassing that he’s doing it as this man’s national leader. But the palace is still far from here, even without injuries, and Zuko …  Zuko just survived an assassination attempt, he realizes. Why else the violent force; why else run away, if not to avoid being identified by a witness? 

Zuko tentatively flexes his ankle and quietly hisses at the pain. Maybe, just this once, he actually needs some help. “What’s your name?” Zuko asks.

“Li Bai,” the man responds, “but that doesn’t answer my question, kid. Where’re you from? What are you doing alone in the streets this late?”

Zuko pushes himself up on an arm, until the tatters of the hood fall away and the moonlight reaches his face again. He sees the exact moment Li Bai notices his scar and recognizes it for who it identifies. “Fire Lord Zuko,” Li Bai says shakily, dropping to his knee.

Zuko grimaces. “Li Bai, I’m afraid I have to ask you to be of further aid tonight.”

In addition to his screwed up ankle, scratches on his face and palms from the road grit, and bruises of various shapes and sizes scattered across his body, Zuko also has a fresh gash underneath his chin from falling a bit short on the leap between the outer palace wall and the partial balcony that lets him escape from the palace unseen. When he finally pulls himself out of bed the next morning, dresses, and leaves his room with an admittedly poorly disguised hobble, he doesn’t miss the way the guards stationed at his door double-take at his appearance. “Fire Lord Zuko—” one of them starts.

“I’m fine,” Zuko dismisses.

He goes straight to the council rooms. He wants to minimize the amount of walking he has to do the next few days, and if he starts today in the council rooms, he can redirect most of his business for the day there. When he arrives, there are already refreshments on the side table and a stack of unread reports, so Zuko grabs a bowl of fruit and the top scroll. If he’s reading, he can’t think about the pain, and he can’t think about the fact that last night’s assassin got away.

The sun has properly crested over the horizon by the time Zuko hears voices. He recognizes Bishal’s genial chatter, but it’s harder to tell who’s responding to him in short, attentive listening noises. Zuko hopes against hope that it’s Mai, because he knows how she’ll react to seeing him in this state, but he has no idea how the rest of his council will respond.

The spirits aren’t helping him this morning. Bishal opens the door to reveal Chenda, who immediately latches onto Zuko’s—everything, he supposes. Her dark eyes flare wide, her eyebrows doing their best to touch her hairline. “What is this?” she demands.

“I’m fine,” Zuko says, but Chenda’s already shoved her armful of scrolls into Bishal’s chest. She strides across the room, pulls Zuko’s chair away from the long wooden table, and leans down to peer closely at the wounds on his face. 

“This is road burn,” Chenda says, “And the gash must have been something metal, or a forceful impact—what happened?” She turns to Bishal, eyes narrowing. “Where did he go last night?”

Bishal blinks and suddenly comes back to life. “Spirits, I—last I heard, he turned into his rooms early!”

The full force of Chenda’s hard gaze returns to Zuko. “What did you do?”

“Nothing!” Zuko automatically blurts.

“My lord,” Chenda says, voice dangerously sharp.

Zuko glances at Bishal, who looks equally worried and horrified. “I might have … snuck out last night,” Zuko admits quietly. “And an assassin tried to hit me on the way back. But I’m alive, so it’s fine.”

“You—ugh!”

Chenda straightens up on her explosive groan and stalks over to the refreshments. Zuko turns toward Bishal, searching for some sort of reassurance, he realizes, but Bishal now looks equal parts betrayed and angry. “Fire Lord Zuko,” he says, “Your guard—we exist for a reason. We’re supposed to be there for you to stop these things from happening!”

“Yes, and I appreciate everything you do, but I can also take care of myself.”

“Evidently not,” Chenda snaps, returning to Zuko’s side, and he has no idea where she grabbed a set of healing supplies from. “Did you even try to clean this laceration properly?”

“Yes,” Zuko lies.

“Don’t scream,” Chenda instructs and then presses a cloth soaked in alcohol to Zuko’s cheek.

He can’t help his flinch and yelp of pain, but Chenda has a firm grip on his jaw with the hand that isn’t holding the cloth. The anger in her countenance morphs into an expression of concentration, and Zuko exhales with relief for the temporary reprieve from Chenda’s ire.

“What is happening?”

Zuko lets his eyes close. His girlfriend has perfect timing.

“He hasn’t told us anything beyond sneaking out and an assassination attempt,” Bishal says worriedly.

There’s the rapid swish of skirts, and suddenly Mai is by his side, her hand gripping his right forearm tightly. Luckily, it’s one of the few parts of his body that isn’t bruised. Zuko opens his eyes to smile at his girlfriend, who looks ready to murder in cold blood—though there’s no telling whether he or his anonymous assailant would be her first target.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to go down to the holding cells and try to reason with the person who did this to you,” Mai spits.

If only he could, actually. “I can’t. They got away.”

Mai’s eyes widen, and Zuko knows she’s reached the conclusion that he has taken a night of restless tossing and turning to come to terms with: this assassination attempt was real.

“Would you like to assemble a task force to find the assassin?” Bishal asks.

“It’s fine,” Zuko says with a shake of his head as Mai says, “Yes.”

They stare at each other, until Chenda cleans a particularly deep cut, and Zuko flinches with a hiss. “I didn’t get a good enough look at the attacker to be able to identify them,” Zuko tells Mai.

“Were there any witnesses?”

“One, technically, but—”

“Send guards to find the witness.”

“We don’t have time to deal with this kind of distraction,” Zuko snaps.

All eyes in the room instantly turn to him. “An attempt on your life is a not a distraction,” Chenda says, voice oddly soft.

“An attempt on your life is the primary concern of my job,” Bishal adds.

“Something needs to be done, Zuko,” Mai says.

“No,” Zuko insists.

He tries to stand and forgets about his injured ankle until he puts weight on it, and it’s embarrassing how quickly he crumples against the table. There are shouts around him that he ignores until Mai and Chenda ease him back into his chair. His ankle throbs angrily.

“—can’t even stand, and you don’t want us to do anything about it?” Mai’s saying.

“My lord, she has a point,” Bishal adds trepidatiously.

Chenda, lips pursed, lifts Zuko’s leg by the calf and begins applying pressure along his lower leg. She nods to herself every time a press causes Zuko to hiss in pain.

“Mai, we’ve been over this,” Zuko argues. “There’s no point to wasting resources, time, and energy when they’re not serious threats—”

“You can’t walk.”

“But I’m still alive!”

“So we’re supposed to wait until you’re dead to finally take action?”

Chenda gently lowers Zuko’s leg and orders, “Everyone, out!”

Mai’s eyes flash, and Bishal is frozen with shock at Chenda’s sharp tone, but neither of them can get in a word before Chenda continues, “I can’t concentrate with all this arguing. Mai, I need fresh long bandages. Bishal, help her.”

“Get a servant to do it—”

“Mai. Please leave.”

Zuko sees Mai’s finger twitch, and he knows she’s itching to whip out a throwing star that will imbed itself a hair from Chenda’s cheek to give her a warning, but a hair from Chenda’s cheek is Zuko’s thigh, and generally Mai tries to avoid causing undue harm to bystanders. Instead, Mai turns stiffly and grabs Bishal by the cuff of his uniform to drag him with her.

When the door shuts behind them, the council room is deafeningly quiet. Zuko can hear his own breathing, more labored than it should be for just sitting down.

“Are there any wounds beside the cuts and the ankle?”

“Bruises, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

Chenda levels him with one of her signature unimpressed looks. “Will I find you dead tomorrow morning because one of your bruises was actually internal bleeding?”

“No.”

She returns to handling his ankle, testing what angles cause most pain, and she’s so expressionless and quiet as she does it that something young and childish and forever seeking assurance twists uncomfortably in Zuko’s gut. Before he fully realizes what he’s doing, he timidly asks, “Are you still mad at me?”

Chenda pauses to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry?”

“From our argument a few days ago. About the budget for the grant.”

Chenda’s brows furrow, and no matter that Zuko’s seated and Chenda’s the one kneeling at his feet—Zuko feels like the child Chenda is constantly muttering that he is. For the first time, though, Zuko gets the sense that she’s never meant it to be an aspersion on his character; if anything, it’s a statement of fact. Zuko’s young. Sometimes he misses his mom, or at least the one he remembers. He’s spending his days arguing about taxes and ordering military maneuvers and overseeing government budgets instead of—Zuko doesn’t even know. Seeing plays? Falling in love? Drinking too much soju and not regretting it the next morning because the balance of the world isn’t in the palm of his shaky hand?

Zuko doesn’t want to give up being Fire Lord. He knows it’s his destiny. But he thinks he understands, now, what it looks like from the outside.

“I wasn’t mad at you,” Chenda says.

Zuko blinks back to the present.

“I haven’t been mad, since the first time we met,” Chenda continues. She shakes out and refolds the alcohol-soaked rag that has been sitting in her lap since she used it to clean Zuko’s wounds. “I argue with you because I think it helps you be a better leader, and to make better decisions.”

“You and Mai and Admiral Eun still allowed the grant to be passed.”

Chenda smiles wryly at the ground. “Because arguing does the same for me. I know I think that I could create the world anew more perfect than it is now, but … sometimes, I need to be reminded that that’s not exactly the case.”

She looks him in the eye, and Zuko can count on one hand the number of times she’s smiled directly at him. “You help make me a better person, too, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“Call me Zuko, please,” Zuko says. “It’s what my friends call me.”

Chenda raises an eyebrow. “Are we friends?”

This conversation suddenly feels like an echo of one that Zuko once had with Aang, years ago in a boggy forest after Zuko had broken into the Yuyan archer’s training grounds with nothing but a whim and a mask. Of course, Chenda isn’t trying to capture or kill Zuko, but …

“If we aren’t now,” Zuko tells her, “I hope one day we can be.”

Four days later, things have mostly calmed down again.

Mai’s paranoia has gotten to Admiral Eun, who has taken to carrying several knives on his person at all times—only one of which is for cutting and carving meat. Chenda checks on his healing wounds every morning, shakes her head anytime a bandage has shifted a hair out of place, and orders him to rest his ankle more. Mai’s let up on her direct arguments about taking action, but Zuko can no longer spend time alone with his girlfriend without it ending in a fight over something completely unimportant. Every night, the guards posted outside his room sweep Zuko’s chambers, though Zuko’s convinced that whenever Bishal is one of them, he’s looking more for how Zuko could have snuck out and less for potential hiding assassins.

And Zuko’s getting tired. He doesn’t want to think about how someone out there, wanting him dead, without Zuko getting the chance to talk to them first, and it feels as though the tension of his council is held in Zuko’s shoulders. He doesn’t like being responsible for all this strain, and if he can’t convince everyone else to forget about it, he can at least hope a good distraction will arise.

In this spirit, he’s more than happy to have their council lunch fall on this day. 

Of course, the council and Zuko happen to have lunch together every now and then, but this is an intentional, monthly event, carried over from Admiral Eun’s practice with the captains under his command. It’s a time set aside to intentionally interact with each other, over things not specifically related to their roles on the council, and to have a proper meal rather than endless snacking from the constantly replenished refreshments table.

“And now, a warm spring soup with berry garnish,” an attendant announces.

Four servers step forward and deliver personal bowls of thick, dark red soup with a small cluster of whole berries resting in the center. Zuko already has a spoon in hand. He’s been hungry since he woke this morning, and the pickled vegetable starter had hardly been filling—

“Wait!”

Chenda smacks Zuko’s hand away, and he hisses when she strikes a bruise. “Was that necessary?” Zuko complains. “Hey!”

Chenda has dipped her own spoon into Zuko’s bowl to scoop out the berries in the center. She brings them close to squint at them, and a second later she jerks back and whips the spoon away. “This is ratti!”

“What?” Mai asks.

“Ratti. Love pea.”

The room bursts into motion. Mai yanks Zuko’s bowl away from him and whips a throwing star past his shoulder to pin the kitchen attendant to the wall by his shirtsleeve. Admiral Eun is up and barking orders, while Bishal and the other guards have the servers pinned down. Amidst the chaos, Zuko locks in on Chenda, who’s carefully fishing into the other bowls for the bunches of berries.

“Put the palace on lockdown,” Admiral Eun orders Bishal. “And keep a close eye on the kitchens—no one in or out.” Bishal bows shortly before hightailing out of the room.

“Chenda?” Zuko asks. He tries to stand, but Mai’s immediately there, pushing him into his chair and standing defensively in front of him.

Chenda looks up at him, and Zuko’s heart crawls into his throat. “The rest of these are fine,” she says. “And ratti is rare these days.”

In other words: this was another attempt at Zuko’s life, and another professional job.

Mai’s fingers twitch for another throwing star, even if there’s no one to strike in this room. Zuko reaches out to touch her elbow lightly. “I’m still alive,” he reassures her quietly.

Mai throws a cutting glare over her shoulder. “For now,” she intones.

Zuko knows it wasn’t meant to sound like a threat against him, but when he catches sight of the berries in abandoned Chenda’s spoon tipping out onto the table, Mai’s words sink deep in his gut. There’ll be no avoiding a reinvigorated argument from her, and he’s less certain, this time, that he’ll be able to win it.

She arrives at his chambers that night as soon as the guards are finishing the sweep of his rooms. “We need to talk,” Mai tells Zuko.

Zuko grimaces but nods. The last guard hovers uncertainly on the threshold between Mai and Zuko until Zuko levels a hard look at him. “You’re dismissed,” he says.

The guard glances at Mai, who isn’t trying very hard to look less threatening. “My lord, I must—”

“I said, you’re dismissed,” Zuko repeats, irritation rising.

“Do you trust her with your life?”

If only he could scream right now in the way he wants to. “She’s my girlfriend,” he snaps.

The guard finally takes the hint to scram, and Mai immediately glides into the room. Zuko takes care to shut the door behind her.

“You’ve almost died twice this week,” Mai begins.

She’s standing in the middle of the carpet that dominates the bedroom’s antechamber, and Zuko would like to sit down to give his healing ankle a break, but he can’t very well do that if Mai’s going to remain on her feet. He instead pinches his nose. “You make it sound like I was on the brink of death,” Zuko says. “I’m alive, I’m breathing, I didn’t even bleed this time.”

“Last time was only five days ago. If Chenda hadn’t been from Ember Island, you would be dead.”

After the initial chaos of the afternoon, they’d learned that Chenda could recognize the ratti—more commonly known as love peas—because they were native to and all over Ember Island. “We have to teach the children at a young age how to recognize them,” she recounted. “They look so innocuous, it’s easy to mistake them for something non-poisonous.”

Zuko subtly shifts weight off of his bad ankle. “But I’m not dead,” he tells Mai, feeling like a weak echo of himself. “What’s the point in being so hung up on the past?”

Mai scowls. “Aren’t you always talking about learning from the mistakes of the past? So learn. Make a committee and counteract this thing before it gets you.”

“As I’ve said,” Zuko says through gritted teeth, “It’s a waste of resources. And if all signs point to this being an inside job, how can I even trust anyone to lead some sort of task force?”

That was the other major, disheartening realization of the afternoon: when the palace lockdown and search revealed nothing, it became apparent that, if there was no way for one person to attempt this and escape alone, there must be a large enough network of people inside the capital and palace walls who want—or at least wouldn’t mind—Zuko being dead.

Mai exhales, short and sharp, which is as much of a concession as Zuko will get. “At least have someone tasting your food.”

“What? No.”

“Then what good does a palace full of servants do for you?”

“I don’t value my life as more important than anyone else’s!”

“Fine,” Mai snaps. “You want to be stubborn? I’m going to be your dedicated guard.”

“Fine,” Zuko retorts.

“Fine.”

For a moment, they stare at each other, a strain hanging in the air between them. Mai is preternaturally still, and Zuko feels the need to be just as motionless. A dedicated guard? He already, technically has a dedicated guard. Does Mai mean that she’ll be with him at all times?

It’s Mai who breaks the silence with a sigh. “Go to bed,” she says, her tone dispassionate once more.

“What are you—”

“Go.”

Zuko obeys.

He’s in his sleep clothes, lying in his bed and staring at the ceiling when the door to his bedchambers slides open. Mai enters, still wearing her wide-legged pants but now with one of Zuko’s tunics as her top. His sleeves reach the top of Mai’s knuckles. She won’t look at him as she approaches, but when it becomes impossible to deny that she’s about to climb into the opposite side of his bed, Zuko’s heart starts beating faster. He’s yearned for company at night for so long; it’s taken this for Mai to willingly sleep at his side again?

“You’re staying?” he asks.

His girlfriend slides under the covers and turns so her back is to him. “If I can’t trust anyone to watch over you, I’ll do it myself,” she says to the wall.

Something twists in Zuko’s gut. His shadowy room already feels less lonely, and he wants to slip into that feeling of comfort, but he can’t—not when their argument still crackles like static between them. Mai only argues with him because she cares about him, right? She loves him. Zuko knows this.

The thought makes him scoot across the mattress until he can reach out and press a gentle kiss to Mai’s shoulder. “I love you,” he murmurs against the soft fabric.

He feels some of the tension melt away from her shoulders, and he, too, relaxes in turn. He can just hear her whisper in response, “I love you, too.” 

It’s a deep and restive sleep that finally takes Zuko away.

Mai becomes his shadow, and it’s unexpectedly comforting—less so because Zuko is concerned about the assassins (he isn’t, he thinks, not when he can take care of himself and everyone around him is on another level of alert), but because Zuko has her company, from the moment he wakes to the moment he falls asleep. The last time Zuko had companionship this constant, it was with his uncle in banishment, and Zuko hadn’t realized he missed the steadiness and reassurance of it.

The time together also, somehow, lessens the friction between them. Maybe it’s in the way Zuko will catch Mai’s eye at the exact moment in a meeting when she thinks someone’s talking point is particularly idiotic. Maybe it’s because every night, if he wants a sense of comfort, Zuko can sneak an arm around Mai’s waist and press his forehead between her shoulder blades. Maybe it’s both of them wordlessly acknowledging that if they start fighting, this thing won’t be survivable. Maybe it’s all of that, and then some.

Whatever it is, Zuko doesn’t question it, and he takes advantage of it in little ways when he can—such as now.

He hadn’t been expecting Li Bai to walk into Ursa’s throne room as a representative of the capital’s middle city merchants, but that’s what happened about an hour ago, and Li Bai hasn’t been able to stop sneaking glances at Zuko since then. Zuko is surprised that Mai hasn’t appeared to notice from where she’s hanging out in the shadowy corner of the room, but then again, maybe she assumes that Li Bai is among the many who do a poor job of resisting the urge to stare at Zuko’s scar.

But it’s not the burn that Li Bai’s looking at; it’s the gash on Zuko’s chin, the only superficial wound from the night of the first real assassination attempt that has yet to heal. That night, Zuko had very pointedly sent Li Bai away once the man helped Zuko reach the palace walls; Zuko didn’t want to risk Li Bai witnessing Zuko utterly fail to reenter his own palace surreptitiously.

Zuko can only imagine what Li Bai must be thinking, right now.

When the page finishes reading the summary of what was accomplished in this meeting and the next steps forward—a practice that Sokka introduced to Zuko’s political life, though Sokka never had to rely on written notes to outline everything perfectly, if a bit wordily—Zuko gestures for Li Bai to remain seated and for Mai to come to him. “Can I have a few minutes with him?” Zuko asks quietly.

Mai crosses her arms, taking her time assessing Li Bai, and the older man visibly gulps. Zuko already knows she’s leaning in Zuko’s favor; if she weren’t in an agreeable mood, and if they hadn’t been agreeable these past few days, she wouldn’t even entertain his request. 

Eventually, she snorts at Li Bai and uncrosses her arms. “I’ll be outside. Don’t be stupid.”

When the door is shut behind Mai, Li Bai immediately breaks. “I’m so sorry I left that night,” he says. “I should have stayed—you were hurt, more, after I left.”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says, raising a placating hand. He then points at his chin and grins. “This was self-inflicted. Accidentally.”

Li Bai’s thin eyebrows still haven’t dropped out of their triangle of concern. “If I had known it was you, Fire Lord Zuko, and that that man was trying to take your life, I would have—chased him down, or—or something. I wanted to know that you were okay, but I could have found out more—”

“Li Bai, please,” Zuko says. “It’s okay. If anything, it’s your instinct to help the fallen rather than chase a villain that I admire.”

Li Bai blinks and then flushes a dark red. “Those are very kind words, my lord. Thank you.”

Zuko nods. “You said it was a man?”

“Yes.” Regret tinges Li Bai’s features. “That’s all I can say confidently.”

“It’s more than I’ve known so far.”

There’s a brief pause. Zuko experimentally rolls his healing ankle and is pleased to only feel a mild twinge of discomfort. “I’d love to visit your market stalls, one day,” he says.

The relief in Li Bai’s demeanor is palpable; it’s obvious that merchant talk is more comfortable territory for him. “I’d love for you to visit,” he replies. “I have a few specialty items coming in that I think could pique your interest.”

His tone is simultaneously hawkish and smooth, and Zuko’s struck by the thought that he should never allow Sokka to be alone with Li Bai and his goods. “Sounds intriguing,” Zuko says instead. “I’ll be sure to visit soon.”

They’d been so good about it this past month—about Zuko being watched, about Zuko accompanying Mai to trips to her house, about the two of them being nearly inseparable—yet all it takes is five minutes. Two minutes for Mai to walk from the public square to her house, one minute for her to grab her purse, two minutes for her to walk back.

An arrow whizzes by Zuko’s right ear, and he realizes he doesn’t have time to reflect when someone’s trying to kill him. Again.

The square is surrounded by homes that have dramatic eaves on their roofs—eaves that Zuko usually finds to be gorgeous and representative of what he calls home, but are in this moment extremely inconvenient. He thinks there must be at least three archers, but that last shot came from an angle that doesn’t make sense if the archers are hiding where he thinks they’re hiding—

Thwip!

Zuko dives to the side and blasts a protective arc of fire from his fists as he rolls. His flames catch one of the arrows, incinerating it instantly, and Zuko holds his breath when something putrid immediately fills the air. The arrows are soaked in some sort of poison, and Zuko doesn’t know whether the airborne ash alone could kill him.

He punches a flame at a pointed eave where he thinks one of the assassins is hiding, but being offensive is more difficult when he’s also trying to not destroy property. He doesn’t know when, exactly, he started caring about property damage, but Azula’s voice in his head laughs scornfully each time he restrains his bending to prevent a roof from catching fire.

Another two arrows come whistling at him, and Zuko bounces just out of reach. “Show yourselves!” he shouts. Not because he thinks it’ll work, but five minutes must have passed now, and as long as Mai hasn’t been grabbed—did they grab his girlfriend?—she’ll know something is wrong if Zuko makes a ruckus.

He dashes from one corner of the square to another, and the three arrows that nip at his heels come from the spots where Zuko guessed the archers are hiding. He launches a volley of flames at them, hoping to scare them into giving themselves away, and lets his fire burn high into the sky. Someone must see it and realize something is wrong.

A flash in his peripheral—

Zuko throws himself to the ground, and an arrow embeds itself between two cobblestones inches from Zuko’s left ear. Right—the fourth archer. Zuko leaps to his feet and throws more flames—

“Agh!”

Zuko whips his head up and around. There’s Mai, sprinting along the top of a roof, and then a commotion of voices and running footfalls behind Zuko—

“Get down!”

Zuko raises a warding hand to the group of guards sprinting towards him. “I’m fine—”

One of them literally scoops Zuko into his arms, and Zuko’s so caught off guard that he freezes for a second before coming back to himself. “Put me down!” he shouts, squirming.

“My lord—” The guard pants, running away from the square while trying to tighten his hold on Zuko.

“As your Fire Lord, I order you to put me down!”

The guard stops, and Zuko only feels a little bad about elbowing him in the gut in order to be released. He lands on his feet and begins sprinting back to the square. Two more guards appear, bearing down at Zuko, and Zuko makes the split decision to leap to the side, grab the ledge of a window, hoist himself up, and start scaling the side of the house. He thinks he startles a scream out of an inhabitant of the house, but there isn’t time to worry about that.

On reaching the rooftop, he immediately spots four archers and Mai, and the visibility alone sends surety rushing through him. With a running start, he leaps to a neighboring roof and uses the momentum of his landing to barrel into one of the archers. The archer shouts in alarm, but Zuko’s already sent her sliding down the slanted roof toward the square, so it doesn’t really matter that the other assailants are alerted to Zuko’s location. He throws flames at them, and his attack is joined by the glint of Mai’s throwing stars in the sunlight and more firepower from the guards below.

From the corner of his eye, Zuko sees three guards approach the archer who rolled off of Zuko’s rooftop. The archer has lost her bow, and she whips her head around before suddenly pulling a cloth over her nose and mouth—

There’s a triple twang of arrows being released—

Zuko instinctively drops onto his stomach—

But the arrows weren’t shot at him. Three small explosions go off near simultaneously, and smoke plumes thick and sudden from where the fallen archer was once standing. Zuko bounces to his feet—did the archers just take out of their own?—and when he looks around the rooftops again, the only other figure he can see is Mai.

Zuko scrambles to the edge of the roof and leaps for a window sill on a lower level of the adjacent house. He continues to quickly descend, but by the time he reaches the cobblestones, the smoke has cleared enough to reveal no one standing in the square aside from the three guards, who are coughing and attempting to wave away the smoke screen.

“Is everyone okay?” Zuko asks.

Two of the guards try their best to straighten into military posture, and Zuko opens his mouth to dismiss the formality—who knows what smoke they’d just been inhaling—when Mai’s voice calls from high above. “Zuko!”

Mai’s still standing on one of the roofs, leaning down to peer at something on an eave that Zuko can’t see from his vantage point. He spots a stack of crates against the outer wall of a house with a mid-level eave, and it’s easy work to scramble up to the rooftops again, in spite of the shouts of protest from his guard.

“What did you find?” Zuko asks when he reaches the same roof as his girlfriend.

Mai crosses her arms, her back still turned to Zuko. “Nothing,” she says, bitterness souring her tone.

Zuko puts a hand on her shoulder to lean forward and study what Mai’s glaring at.

It’s an outer layer shirt, loose and lightweight and brown, and otherwise completely nondescript. The fabric is pinned to the eave by one of Mai’s throwing stars, but from the lack of blood on the shirt, it’s easy to follow that the one person they managed to pin snuck away by slipping out of their outer layer.

Under Zuko’s hand, Mai’s shoulder is tense. Zuko gives it a soft squeeze. “Thank you,” he says, for more than just showing him the shirt.

Mai finally turns to glower at him. “I can’t leave you alone for five minutes?” she says incredulously.

Zuko takes a step back. “It’s not my fault!”

Mai’s eyes flash dangerously, and Zuko takes another instinctive step back. “Five minutes, Zuko,” she repeats. “Don’t you see what this means? They know where we go, they know where we are. How many more five-minute incidents do you need before you do something?”

“I’m—”

“Don’t you dare tell me you’re alive.” Mai jabs a finger into Zuko’s chest. “You need a full personal guard. Not just me.”

Zuko swallows. A breeze comes from the north, blowing Mai’s hair into his face, but neither of them moves—neither backs down. Mai’s chin quivers, and she blinks rapidly before staring hard at him again.

Zuko breaks their eye contact, looking at the roof beneath his feet. “I’ll think about it,” he says. His voice is rough, he realizes. Perhaps he should grab one of the arrows and have a healer look at its poisonous coating.

A small exhale escapes Mai. “You also need to form a committee to investigate this.”

Zuko rolls his head back to stare at the sky. He doesn’t have the energy to fight with Mai right now. “I don’t,” he says wearily, and before Mai can reply, he jumps to the side to slide down the slanted roof and leap to one of the taller trees in the courtyard.

He gets a sliver in his right palm, and the guards are still in a panic after seeing their charge scale and descend several buildings in order to directly engage with a threat, but Zuko, in this moment, would take both of those things over a rehashing a tired argument with his girlfriend.

Later that night, Bishal finds Zuko on the council balcony. Zuko had meant to read several missives from an Earth Kingdom province about import taxes, but then he happened to glance up and became enthralled by the sunset. The sky is just so full of color—not as much as the fires that the dragons had shown him and Aang, but it feels like a near thing.

“Fire Lord Zuko?”

Zuko jumps and looks at the doorway. Bishal bows before stepping forward. “Am I interrupting?” he asks.

“No, not really.”

Zuko gestures for Bishal to sit on the chair next to his, and after a second of hesitation, Bishal complies. “How are you feeling, my lord?” Bishal asks.

Zuko experimentally flexes his ankle. Chenda would be furious to find out he’d been running and jumping on it earlier today, but it feels fine, even if it is a little sore. He’s tired, but that’s hardly anything new. Mai’s frustrated with him, so she’s lingering inside the council rooms, though she does come outside every so often to survey the surrounding area—not that anyone could reach Zuko without his notice, unless they came from the roof behind him.

There’s a soft clang of metal on metal, and Zuko looks over to see Bishal removing his helmet. He’s again struck by how young Bishal looks without most of his face being obscured by armor. Does Zuko look that young to the people around him? Is a face that young really being put between Zuko and death?

“Would it make your job easier or harder if an assassin got me?” Zuko asks.

Bishal double takes. “My lord?”

“If I were to die, it’s not like the palace would stop needing guards,” Zuko reasons. “And knowing that people are trying to kill me is probably stressful.”

Bishal grins. “It isn’t stressful for you?”

“Not really.” Zuko isn’t sure whether or not his words taste like a lie.

Bishal sits back and adjusts a forearm guard. “If an assassin did get you, we technically failed our job,” he says. “but, yeah, there are other things we would be assigned to.”

Other things, or other people, Zuko considers. Would the throne go to Azula? Or would his uncle be called back from the Earth Kingdom? Or, perhaps more likely, there’d be a power vacuum and then a coup, and who knows how that would turn out.

“I suppose that’s what happened with my father,” Zuko says. “The Avatar took his bending, he was locked up, and you became assigned to me.”

Bishal nods, and something twinges in Zuko’s gut. “I don’t know if it means anything to you,” Bishal says, “but when Fire Lord Ozai was in power, being a guard just felt like a job. It’s a way to help put food on the table, you know?”

Zuko realizes he actually knows nothing about Bishal’s home life, aside from his courting Erhi.

“But now it feels—” Bishal cuts himself off with a chuckle. “It’s crazy, but. It feels like more than that.” For a second, Bishal meets Zuko’s eye; then he looks to the side with an awkward laugh. “We talk about it, sometimes, in the mess. Things feel different.”

Zuko’s heart suddenly pounds in his chest. “Do they feel … better?”

Bishal shrugs. “Maybe. I’m not sure. But definitely different.”

Different, Zuko thinks. Not like Ozai.

All of a sudden, Bishal shifts in his seat to more fully face Zuko. “Fire Lord Zuko, I—I came out here to ask you something.”

Zuko sets the long-abandoned missives on the small table at his side. “What is it?”

“Can you teach me how to climb buildings?”

Zuko blinks. “What?”

“I know you know how,” Bishal pushes, “And—well, one, it looks incredibly cool, and I want to know how you do it so quickly on, like, nearly flat surfaces. And while everyone else is trying to figure out a way to get you to agree to stop doing things like scaling buildings and running after your attackers, I think I know you well enough to know that that’s not going to work. So … it’d be useful if at least one of us could try to keep up with you.”

Zuko blinks again. 

Bishal smiles sheepishly. “Did I mention that it looks pretty cool?”

“Yeah,” Zuko says absently, head still spinning. Teach—how did he even learn to climb a building? He’s never really thought of it as climbing a building. More like buildings and walls and roofs are sometimes obstacles that need to be overcome in a given moment.

Zuko refocuses on Bishal, who’s biting his lip. On the one hand, Bishal would be able to follow Zuko, and Zuko knows Bishal is tenacious. On the other hand, maybe everyone will stop having a break down every time Zuko reacts the way he should in a fight situation.

“Sure,” Zuko says, rising from his seat. “Want to start now?”

A wide smile breaks across Bishal’s face. “Now?” he echoes excitedly.

Zuko feels his lips spread into a grin of his own. “Yes, now,” he replies, and jumps onto his chair to springboard off of Bishal’s shoulder onto the roof.

Zuko sits in the center of a bed that isn’t his. It’s familiar, though. He runs a hand over the bedding, and the soft ridges of finely worked embroidery bump against the pads of his fingertips. It’s his mother’s bed. Is she back? Did she come back to the palace?

A shadow shifts behind the bed canopy. Zuko scrambles away, his arms tangling in blankets, his heart thud thud thudding—

The silk fabric parts to reveal Admiral Eun, wearing full military regalia. “Zuko,” he says, “You mustn’t forget—”

Admiral Eun coughs. Zuko looks down at his hands and screams. There’s red on his palms, red on the blankets, red that wasn’t there before—deep laughter—

He looks up and sees his father forcing a carving knife into the admiral’s back. “Impudent brat,” Ozai snarls through a horrific grin, stretching wider and wider. Admiral Eun smiles his red smile alongside his killer. “Let me finish—”

“No!”

Zuko dives away, feels the lick of flames across the back of his neck, tumbles off his mother’s bed and lands on the floor—a floor that’s now cobblestone. A road?

“Zuzu?”

Zuko is standing.

“Zuzu?”

Zuko turns. Mai is waiting, her gaze cast to the cobblestones. “Mai?” Zuko asks, stepping forward and reaching a hand out.

“Zuzu?” she says. Her voice is wrong.

“I’m here,” Zuko says.

She looks up, and her eyes are golden. Azula golden; Ozai golden; Zuko golden. “Why did you kill Mom, Zuzu?”

It’s his daughter, Zuko realizes. He kneels and is still taller than her. “I didn’t kill Mai,” he tells her. He puts his clean hands on her shoulders. Her frame feels small. “Why do you think I killed Mom?”

His daughter looks at her feet. “She told me that’s what happened to your mom.”

Zuko’s mouth goes dry. He tries to answer, but his mouth won’t open. He lifts a hand to his face, pulling at his own chin, then squeezing his own cheeks. His daughter walks away. His cheeks are smooth. Both of his cheeks are smooth?

“Whaddya think of his new look?”

Zuko whirls around. They’re in the tea shop in Ba Sing Se. Sokka’s leaning back in a chair, his feet propped on a table, and he’s staring at Zuko but talking to Aang. Momo spins in circles on top of Aang’s head. Aang leans forward, tapping a thoughtful finger to his lips.“It’s new,” Aang declares.

“What’s new?” Zuko asks, still squishing his own cheeks.

“Your look,” Sokka says.

“You said that already!” Zuko shouts.

“Is this what you expect to see in a mirror?” Aang asks.

“Is what what I expect to see?”

The tea shop door explodes, and Zuko curls into a ball. Scraps of wood rain down. Momo’s screeching. Through the dust of the explosion, Ozai emerges, too tall for the room, Admiral Eun and Zuko’s daughter thrown over each shoulder. “Let me finish!” Ozai thunders. He inhales and breathes out flames, catching the floor on fire, turning his dragon’s breath onto Aang and Sokka. Zuko shouts, trying to get up, but there’s something sitting on his back, forcing him into the ground. He sees talons from the corner of his eye and turns his head to see FLAMES—

Zuko screams himself awake, sitting bolt upright and gasping for breath. It’s dark—the blankets strangle his legs—he needs light—

He punches out a flame at the wall and somehow manages to hit the sconce. Fire flickers to life, shadows dancing like impressions behind Zuko’s eyes. A hand brushes his side, and Zuko flinches away.

“Zuko?”

It’s Mai. It’s just Mai, with her light brown eyes, her voice low and the hand of her abandoned gesture of comfort resting on the bed between them.

Zuko struggles to breathe. “Fine,” he chokes out.

Mai tilts her head, like she doesn’t believe him, and something cracks inside Zuko’s chest. He half crawls, half slides across the bed until he can press his face into Mai’s stomach and wrap his arms tight around her waist. Her body is warmer than her sleep-addled expression had been, and Zuko’s going to be embarrassed about this clinging later, but right now, he doesn’t care. He can still feel the unbearable heat of intense flame on defenseless skin, and it’s been so long since he’s had a nightmare like this. He thought it was better. He thought he was fine.

Aside from her breathing, Mai is preternaturally still in Zuko’s arms. It’s a short while before she drifts back to sleep, but Zuko can’t follow her, no matter how tightly he shuts his eyes or how perfectly he controls his breathing. When he senses the sun rise, he reluctantly forces himself to let go of Mai and prepare himself for an exhausted day ahead.

The nightmares keep coming, and Zuko can’t sleep. They find toxic flowers in bouquets that appear on either side of the throne in Ursa’s throne room. Bishal notices a new guard in his rotation, and when he begins asking her probing questions after seeing her sneak into Zuko’s chambers, she knocks him out, escapes, and is never seen again. Chenda intercepts another poisoned dish from reaching Zuko, at which point she and Admiral Eun begin taking turns preparing or overseeing the cooks prepare anything Zuko might eat. At night, Zuko is plagued by visions of Ozai pursuing him, of the people he trusts being killed, of each of the fourteen assassins from the previous year coming back and finishing what they had started. He lays awake most of the night, Mai peacefully asleep beside him, and he once again feels intensely alone.

It becomes hard to concentrate during the day. He tries to center himself by practicing his bending, but the forms feel wrong in his body and his fire feels as uncertain as he is. He’s lucky that his council is doing better than he is in all of this, and they cover for him in meetings when he stumbles. He tries to come to terms with the idea that he might die before he turns eighteen—Lu Ten was nineteen when he passed, Zuko’s memory unhelpfully reminds him—but something inside him violently resists any acceptance of such a fate. Zuko wonders if he should be ashamed.

Thinking of Lu Ten makes him think of his uncle, and Zuko misses him. He wishes his uncle were here, but Zuko doesn’t want to worry him. Besides, it would reflect poorly on him: the little boy Fire Princeling, too delicate to rule on his own, in the perfect position to be usurped by the bitter old Dragon of the West.

When his windowless chambers become unbearable, Zuko goes out onto the council balcony. He spends more time than he ever has before staring at the moon, searching for something in the luminescent beauty of her face, and he feels foolish doing it, but he occasionally whispers: Please. I know I don’t deserve help, but please.

This time, Zuko doesn’t get forewarning: one minute, he’s debating where to assign Captain Taek next, and the next minute there’s a window-rattling low and a wall of fur blocks out the sun from the balcony. Zuko freezes, staring at the sky bison that really shouldn’t be on such an old wooden balcony, and his mind still hasn’t fully processed what’s happening until he hears a familiar, irate voice from outside: “Zuko, you idiot, get out here right now!”

Zuko turns to Mai, who’s sketching maps at the opposite end of the table. “You told Katara?” he asks, more surprised than upset.

Mai doesn’t even look up from her work when she replies, “No, I told Ty Lee.” 

The sliding door to the balcony slams opens, and Katara storms in. Aang is quick to follow her—when did Aang get so much taller?—and his eyes are wide as he says, “Katara, I don’t think—”

Katara smacks her palms on the council table, leaning over to glower at Zuko. “I thought you said these were lame assassination attempts and that you were handling it.”

“I thought you told me to come outside,” Zuko tries with a smile.

“This is a not a time for jokes!”

Zuko looks at Aang and is relieved that he’s smiling, at least, at Zuko’s lame attempt at levity. “It’s good to see you, Zuko,” Aang says. “Katara, I’m sure Zuko has an explanation for why we didn’t hear anything from him for months.”

Aang is smiling brightly, Katara’s still glaring like she wants to dunk a wave over Zuko’s head, and Zuko hasn’t felt this put on the spot in a while. “Um,” he says.

There must be something in his face, because Katara softens when she asks, “Why did you tell us they weren’t real?”

“Sometimes … not real things … become real?” Zuko attempts.

She looks unimpressed again, and Mai, from across the table, pinches the bridge of her nose with a sigh.

“Remember, we thought all the dragons were dead?” Zuko presses. “But it turns out that they weren’t, and they’re real. So the not-real dragons became real.”

Aang nods encouragingly, and Katara still looks judgmental, but she at least drops her aggressive stance and steps forward to wrap Zuko in a hug that’s somehow not awkward even though he’s still sitting down. “We’re glad you’re alive,” she says, her cool cheek pressed against Zuko’s, “and with the Avatar here, anyone would be really stupid to try something.”

She lets go of him, and Zuko looks between her and Aang. “You want to stay?” he asks.

“If you don’t mind!” Aang says.

Mai looks up, a hint of alarm in her expression, but Aang and Katara are smiling broadly, so Zuko feels okay about replying, “Of course. You’re welcome any time.”

There’s an ominous creak of wood, and they all whip their heads around to look at the balcony. One of Appa’s eyes blinks at Zuko, and Zuko waves hesitantly. “Uh, maybe we can find a better place for Appa?”

They find a courtyard large enough for Appa to be comfortable, and after taking Aang and Katara to rooms in the north wing of the palace, Zuko rushes through the rest of his afternoon so he can sooner spend time with his friends. As soon as he’s gone through the last report of the day with Chenda, he packs away the day’s work and quickly heads to his chambers.

Mai materializes at his side the instant he slips away from the council room. “In a rush?” she asks.

“I want to be able to show Aang and Katara around when it’s still light out.”

“Your guards won’t be happy about a last-minute trip.”

“Katara’s right—no one’s going to try to kill me when Aang’s here.”

“So you don’t need me to come.”

Her voice is no flatter than usual, but Zuko feels his train of thought stumble regardless. “That’s not what I said.”

“My parents asked me to look after Tom-Tom, anyway.”

The hallway ends, and when Mai turns in the opposite direction of where Zuko’s headed, he cries, “Wait!”

He’s half expecting her to continue on her way, but his girlfriend does pause, turning enough for him to see one cheek. She doesn’t say anything, so Zuko swallows around his dry throat and asks, “I’ll see you tonight?”

Mai dips her chin once. “Have fun with your friends.”

And then she’s gliding away, disappearing around a corner, and it’s only after she’s long gone that it occurs to Zuko that he should have instead asked her to join—even if she would’ve probably said no.

“Katara, look! Check this out!”

Zuko and Katara stop in their tracks; they’re at one of the middle city markets, and they’ve left behind Aang, apparently. “What is it, Aang?” Katara asks as she turns.

It’s Aang and Momo wearing matching spirit masks. “Wooooo!” Aang exclaims, waving his arms above his head, and a tight circle of air rises up around him to make street dust fly and Aang’s clothing flutter. A nearby pedestrian shrieks and scurries away with his friend, and Momo chitters at them from his perch on Aang’s shoulder. Katara hides a giggle behind her hand.

The merchant behind the booth with the masks looks distressed, so Zuko pulls a handful of coins from his purse and gives it to the man. “We’ll take those two,” Zuko says, gesturing at one man, one flying lemur show.

“Aw, thanks, Zuko!” Aang says.

Momo, suddenly fed up with the mask, scrabbles at his head until he knocks the offending piece of carved wood off. Zuko catches it before it hits the street and holds it out to Katara. “It’s not good enough for Momo, but is it good enough for you?” he asks.

Katara raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you implying I have lower standards than a flying lemur?”

Zuko blanches. “No! I—”

Katara laughs and takes the proffered mask. “It’s beautiful,” she says, studying the artistry as she and Zuko follow after Aang, who’s now several stalls ahead of them and talking animatedly to a woman selling candles. “Does it have a special meaning?”

“Sort of,” Zuko says. “It’s a fairly typical festival mask, but this type is specifically meant to represent the spirits who live in or like to hide in fires.”

“It reminds me of the masks we saw at the Fire Days Festival a couple summers ago.”

A couple summers ago—before the Hundred Year War had ended? “You went to a Fire Days Festival?”

“Well … sort of. Aang kind of revealed himself as the Avatar, so we had to leave early.”

Zuko finds himself staring at the mask in Katara’s hands. Bold eyebrows, painted bright orange, stand in high relief against the white forehead of the spirit. “That makes sense,” he says. “You were in the colonies, right? It’s been years since we’ve celebrated the festival in the capital. That merchant probably sourced these from artisans outside the city.”

“Why hasn’t it been celebrated here?”

“I actually don’t know,” Zuko realizes. He thinks of all of the lights and fireworks and festivals that began disappearing even before his banishment. “Maybe my father thought happiness itself needed to be eradicated from the world.”

Katara tilts her head and hums. “The festival we went to was happy,” she says. “Pretty pro-Fire Nation, though. Your dad’s Fire Nation, anyway.”

Aang comes looping back to them, his eyes bright with wonder. “That vendor has candles that smell like fruit tarts!” he exclaims. His expression falters when he takes in Zuko and Katara’s serious faces. “What are you guys talking about?”

“My father,” Zuko intones at the same time Katara says, “That Fire Days Festival we went to.”

“Those fireworks that Chey set off were so cool!”

“It was hard to enjoy them while running away from Fire Nation soldiers,” Katara says wryly.

Aang turns to Zuko. “What does the festival have to do with your dad?”

Zuko shrugs uncomfortably. “We haven’t celebrated Fire Days in the capital since I was a young kid,” he says. “And it sounds like the version in the colonies was propaganda for my father.”

Aang’s expression turns reflective. “I’ve never been to a Fire Days festival here, but Kuzon took me to one in the village where he lived,” he says. “For him and his family, the festival was about celebrating the light and life and mischief that comes from fire and the spirits that attend to it. Without them, our lives would be much harder.”

Mischief—Zuko can’t imagine his father or his grandfather ever celebrating mischief. Maybe his uncle would. Would his uncle have ever seen a festival like the one Aang has described?

They reach the end of the market, and Zuko takes the left turn that will head them back to the palace. From here, only the top half of its red metal walls can be seen; the rest is hidden behind the stone outer defense walls. “How has the rest of the world been faring?” Zuko asks.

“It’s incredible, how much some parts of the world have already changed since the war ended,” Katara says. “Aang and I were just at the Serpent’s Pass, and before that Whale Tail Island. Without the threat of an enemy presence, these places are really blossoming when they get the support they need.”

“I was visiting Bumi in Omashu before that,” Aang adds. “The city is doing great, so Bumi is sending resources and aid north of the strait.”

Zuko nods. He’d received reports of Omashu aiding the Earth Nation citizens living in former colonies in the restoration of their homes. He wonders if there’s an appropriate gesture of gratitude he can send to King Bumi without it being misconstrued as a political move; Zuko’s grateful and feels almost indebted to the king for providing help in ways that Zuko cannot.

“Are you ever going to leave the Fire Nation again in your life, Zuko?” Katara teases.

Something pinches in Zuko’s chest. “I know I should,” he says. “There’s just always so much that needs to get done here. I don’t know when I’ll be able to get away.”

A gentle hand lands on his forearm, and Zuko looks at his side to see Katara’s soft look. “You will, one day,” she reassures him. “And if it comes down to it, we’ll tie you up and toss you onto Appa’s saddle, so you’re forced to go wherever Aang and I are going.”

“Momo’s learning to tie knots,” Aang adds.

Zuko cuts a look at Momo, who’s flying in tight figure-eights above their heads. “Really?” he asks.

“Really! Momo, show Zuko what you can do!”

Zuko catches Katara’s eye. She’s shaking her head and holding back a laugh, and when Momo lands on Aang’s shoulder to stare blankly at the length of string Aang’s offering to him, Zuko also can’t help an entertained smile.

Katara is right, and when there have been no assassinations attempts a week into Zuko’s friends staying at the palace, Zuko dares to take excursions farther into the city. He brings Aang and Katara to Kanya’s theatre venue, and while there isn’t a show running that night, his friends get to meet Kanya and Zuko finally gets to meet Ashok, a lanky young man with hip-length black hair who’s been writing an original play for the royal theatre. Another evening, they take dinner packed in a wicker basket to a square in the middle city, where a few children are bold enough to run around after sundown with colorful sparklers. Zuko introduces Aang and Katara to Admiral Eun, Jingyi, and Chenda. He’s relieved that they all get along, and admittedly surprised that Katara and Chenda instantly become friends, trading knowledge and stories from their experiences as very different types of healers. Between hosting his guests and staying on top of his usual duties, Zuko rarely has time to see Mai outside of attending the same meetings and sleeping in the same bed at night.

They’re at one such meeting now, and though it’s only been a few minutes in, Zuko already feels off balance.

He supposes it’s because Mai’s father, Ukano, is here, and he’s behaving very differently than he usually does in such meetings. Zuko has become accustomed to a silent Ukano, who only speaks when called upon by another merchant to support a point being made. This is the first time Zuko’s been in a meeting that Ukano is essentially leading, and the contrast is tangible.

“We have therefore determined that we need to increase tariffs on spices coming in from other nations,” Ukano says in his low, steady tone that carries and somehow fills the room. “Since damage already done cannot be remedied, this increase needs to happen immediately.”

Zuko and Mai share a glance. They’d lowered the tariffs on foreign spices only a month ago, at a meeting that had far more merchant representatives present than this meeting currently does, and there hadn’t been any unreasonable complaints at the time of that proposal. It was also a proposal that Zuko had made clear would not be subject to change for at least a year.

“We’re not going to do that, as we’ve already said,” Mai says.

Ukano does not look at his daughter across from him, but addresses Zuko when he replies, “It is imperative that we raise the tariff in order to protect the interests of the Fire Nation spice trade.”

“There isn’t even an overlap in the kind of spices the Fire Nation provides versus the spices other nations are selling,” Mai counters, “So there’s no direct competition—”

“Our sales are still being cut into,” Ukano interrupts.

“Moreover,” Mai grits out, “We’re trying to encourage trade between the nations right now—”

Ukano fully turns his shoulders to squarely face Zuko, who’s seated on Ursa’s throne. “Fire Lord Zuko, it’s a disservice and a political slight—”

Mai’s fingers twitch where they’re resting on the table, and Zuko knows that look on her face, even if he’s never seen it directed at her father. “Ukano, if you would please listen to my councilor when she’s making a point,” Zuko says.

“Will you not budge on the tariff?” Ukano persists.

Zuko darts a look at Mai before confirming to Ukano, “The tariff is not up for discussion right now.”

For a moment, Ukano purses his lips, but then he continues. “Then, at least increase our naval presence on open waters again. The pirates have been awful since the seasons turned.”

“I can’t,” Zuko replies. “It would not do well to re-escalate military presence when we’re attempting to build peace, on land and in the water.”

Ukano’s jaw tightens. “Such decisions are wrecking business. We need guaranteed protection from—”

“Don’t you already have insurance clauses in your deals with your distributors?” Mai cuts in.

Ukano snaps his head around to stare angrily at his daughter. Zuko’s breath catches in his chest; in fact, the entire room is taut as a bowstring. Zuko can see the sweat suddenly collect on the forehead of the merchant next to Ukano. 

When Ukano speaks again, there’s a tremor underneath this voice that raises the hair on the back of Zuko’s neck. “Regardless of such a clause,” he says icily, “piracy disrupts and damages business. I should think this should be cause for concern.”

Ukano’s gaze still hasn’t drifted from Mai’s stony face, and Zuko decides it’d be best if this all ended now. “Thank you for your time and your thoughts,” he tells the room at large. “We’ll look into the suggestions regarding lumber and return to the issue at our next meeting.”

The two merchants beside Ukano take the implied dismissal and hurry out of the room. Neither Ukano nor Mai so much as flinches, so Zuko doesn’t move, either, from Ursa’s throne.

As soon as the heavy door shuts behind the other merchants, Ukano snaps, “Where did my daughter learn to be so disgraceful?”

“Dad—”

“Haven’t we told you enough times that it discredits and dishonors our family when you speak out of turn?”

“I wasn’t speaking out of turn. I had a response to your comment.”

“A woman should be seen, not heard,” Ukano retorts, “And the lady of the Fire Lord is the last woman who should be expressing opinions, especially in matters that ultimately will not concern her.”

Mai sinks down in her chair, her arms crossed, and something hot rises in Zuko’s stomach. He forces his tone to remain steady when he says, “Ukano, in these meetings, Mai is present as a member of my council—a member of the Fire Lord’s council. She deserves respect—”

“My lord,” Ukano says sharply, “this is a conversation between me and my daughter.”

Looking away feels like backing down, but Zuko can’t not look at Mai—and he finds that she’d glaring at him as hard as her father is. If there's anything Zuko has finally learned to notice, it’s times when he’s unwanted.

He stands up from Ursa’s throne, considers touching Mai’s shoulder as he passes by her, but then decides not to when he feels the watchful eye of Ukano. It’s hard to dismiss the feeling that he’s somehow betraying Mai, but he’s at a loss for what else he could possibly do—so he leaves.

At the end of the day, he finds himself in Ursa’s old chambers. The series of three rooms have been neglected since Ursa’s disappearance, Zuko’s fairly sure; aside from reclaiming and redistributing most of the furniture and decorations, Ozai left the chambers untouched, as did Zuko. A thick layer of dust coats the wooden floor. The only thing that remains unchanged from Zuko’s memory is the large, canopied bed with its hand-embroidered top blanket.

Zuko crosses the bedroom and carefully sits down on the bed. He reaches out a hand to brush his fingers over the embroidery; it feels the same as it had in his nightmare from not long ago. Growing up, Zuko had loved the nights he was allowed to cuddle with his mother in this bed, and he had grown to love this blanket, too, with its gold-flecked red thread creating images that sank into and rose out of the base red fabric, depending on how the light hit the dips and folds of the blanket. Ursa would read aloud from whatever play she was reading at the time, inhabiting the characters with her voice alone, a gentle hand carding through Zuko’s hair.

If Zuko ever accidentally fall asleep, Azula would make fun of him the next morning for being a baby that still needed bedtime stories. Back then, Zuko would blush and stammer out a lame retort; now, Zuko wonders if a part of Azula wanted to be included. Zuko wonders if Ursa ever encouraged Azula to seek her out for comfort.

Zuko wonders where his mother went, all those years ago, and if Ozai will ever tell him exactly what he did to Ursa.

His movements have unsettled the dust collected on the bed, and Zuko suddenly sneezes. The noise is deafening in this silent, hollow chamber, and it’s incredible that Zuko ever felt any warmth in this room. Perhaps memory isn’t the same as reality. Azula’s words come back to echo in his head: Neither of us really knew Mother by the time she left—all we know is how she treated us. 

Something harder than thread bumps against Zuko’s finger, and he looks down to find his hand has encountered an embroidered dragon with beaded orange eyes. “I realized that Father never loved me,” Zuko tells the dragon. “Did you never love Azula?”

The dragon doesn’t answer. Zuko wets his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “Did you really think Azula was a monster?”

It’s a question Zuko’s been grappling with for months. He thinks that he’s called his sister a monster, before, and he feels ashamed. Getting to know her since the war ended has broken open something in his chest, something that’s raw and angry and indignant. If people say he’s still a child, what does that make his younger sister? What was it that made her so closed to the world, and what was it that made Zuko believe, for years, that his sister was incapable of feeling anything at all?

Suddenly, the image of Mai’s stony expression in the face of Ukano’s ire flashes in Zuko’s mind. “Maybe we’re all just screwed up by our parents,” Zuko says. He runs the tip of his middle finger down the ridge of the dragon’s jaw. “Maybe I shouldn’t have children. Who’s to say that I’d be any better than either of you.”

The dragon still doesn’t speak; nothing speaks in this room, and Zuko’s tired of listening for echoes of a memory. He strokes the blanket one last time before rising and leaving Ursa’s chambers.

That night, Mai reaches his bed before he does, lying perfectly flat on her back with her hands folded over her stomach as she stares at the ceiling. Zuko crawls under the covers and tries to mimic her position; it’s only a moment before he gives up, turning onto his side to face her. She’s still staring at the ceiling, almost unblinking. Zuko wants to—to help, to do something, but he’s never known what to do when his girlfriend gets like this.

So he tries to imagine what he would want, if his father had just chewed him up and spit him out again, and he lands on, “Can I hold you?”

Mai blinks once, slowly, at the ceiling, and exhales steadily through her nose. “No,” she says quietly.

Zuko swallows. It’s not about him; he can’t make the barbed feeling radiating from Mai’s stillness go away. “Okay,” he replies before rolling onto his back again.

He doesn’t know how he falls asleep, but he’s grateful that his night is dreamless. When he rises with the sun, Mai is staring at the ceiling, and a part of Zuko wouldn’t surprised if she’d laid awake in the exact same position all night long.

Summer arrives with a wave of heat and a curtain of ash carried over the city by the east wind. The volcano near Azulon’s gates erupted in the middle of the night, and Zuko is thanking every spirit that it was a small eruption, a minor belch at best, on the larger scale of what volcanoes are capable of. His council had reacted quickly and appropriately, and with Admiral Eun’s emergency fleet reacting as fast as it did, the first response team of healers, led by Chenda, only had to tend to a few minor scrapes and one twisted ankle among the scant hundred people who were evacuated. Katara and Aang had insisted on helping, too, so they were all up until an early hour in the morning. Among them, Zuko was the only one who could sense the sun hiding on just the other side of the horizon as the boat carried them back to the capital’s harbor; among them, Zuko is the only one incapable of sleeping in, and if he can’t sleep, he might as well be early to his first commitment of the day.

Mai is with him, this early morning as he walks to his monthly meeting with Azula. Mai’s been sleeping less since the off-putting meeting with her father, but there’s always an edge to her air that keeps Zuko from asking about it, so they remain silent as they go. Behind them, two guards follow, the clink of their armor the only real sound that reaches Zuko’s ears besides his breathing.

When they reach the healing center, Hye isn’t waiting in the front room as she usually is; it’s not entirely unexpected, since Zuko is fairly early. He’s content to sit and wait in the lobby as he has on a few previous occasions, but the front desk attendant recognizes him and stands at Zuko’s arrival. “Fire Lord Zuko,” the attendant says, bowing low enough for his glasses to slip down his nose. “Hye is already with Princess Azula. You may wait for Hye outside of the princess’s rooms.”

They can hear voices by the time they round the corner to the hall where Azula’s room is. “Don’t make me do this,” Azula snaps, her authoritative tone bouncing off the walls.

Hye’s response is more level, quiet enough that Zuko has to pull up just outside of Azula’s door to catch the end of what she’s saying. “… because he wants to see you. Your brother cares very much for you.”

“No!” Azula screams.

There’s a shattering sound, and Zuko tenses, but Mai’s hand on his arm keeps him from moving forward.

“Azula—” Hye tries.

“I am a princess, and you will address me as such!”

Zuko looks pleadingly at Mai. “She hasn’t been this harsh in months,” he whispers.

“You won’t help,” Mai replies.

“Your brother will be here soon,” Hye says steadily. “Your conversations mean so much to him—”

“No! You can’t let him see me—”

“If you’d like, I can—”

“You can’t! I can’t see him!” There’s an edge of desperation in her voice, a tone Zuko hasn’t heard since their Agni Kai at the time of Sozin’s Comet, and Zuko feels hollow and helpless at the same time.

Mai squeezes Zuko’s forearm. “We should go.”

Zuko shakes his head, and Azula outright screams, “If I see him, I’ll try to hurt him! You can’t let him see me!”

The scream turns into a sob, and it feels as though a wave has slammed into Zuko. He stumbles back as Azula’s cries fill the hallway, and his eyes burn. His body aches to wrap around his little sister, but if she doesn’t want him there—if he can’t—if—

“Let’s go.”

Someone pulls him away from Azula’s door, and Zuko’s feet obey. Azula is weeping, pained howls instead of words, and who did this to her? Ozai? Ursa? Zuko?

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until they’re outside, the ashy sky distorting the color of the sun, though Zuko can sense it somewhere out there. Mai pulls him into the passage between the healing center and the next building over. She only stops walking when they’re deep enough into the passage that no one could see them by glancing between the buildings as they walk by. “Zuko,” she says quietly, and it almost sounds like a question.

“It’s my fault,” Zuko blurts, even if it doesn’t really make sense. It’s not his fault, but it is his fault. “I’m no better than my father. Or my mother. I’m not giving her enough time, I’m not giving anyone enough time—”

“Hey,” Mai interrupts. She reaches up to cup his right cheek in her hand, and when did Zuko get that much taller than his girlfriend? His own physical growth has escaped his notice. His lungs constrict, and he feels trapped in a way he never has before—

“I’m no better than them,” Zuko shouts.

Mai tilts her head at him, her brows creased, and Zuko suddenly realizes he doesn’t have the capacity to deal with anything right now. He reaches out, wraps his arms around Mai, pulls her tight to his body, and presses his face hard into her shoulder to just let himself cry.

One of Mai’s arms is awkwardly trapped over Zuko’s right shoulder, but her hand finds a way to curl around and rest on the top of Zuko’s head, while the other pats Zuko’s back. They stand like that for several minutes, Zuko’s thoughts a blank wash of misery and failure, until Mai eventually says again, “Hey. She was screaming because she didn’t want to hurt you.”

Zuko exhales deeply. “I know,” he says into Mai’s shoulder. “I wish … I could be there for her, more than I am.”

“You’re doing what you can.”

“I’m not doing enough.”

He lets go of Mai, stepping back until his back hits the wall, and subtly wipes the tears from his cheeks on his shoulders. He needs to collect himself. He doesn’t want to go back out on the street looking like this.

The wind shifts. The sulfurous stench of volcano suddenly fills Zuko’s nose; Mai sneezes thrice, in her small and quiet way. “We should go,” she says with a sniff.

“Can I have a few minutes?”

Mai glances at the sky. “Two minutes,” she says and then glides away to where the guards are waiting at the entrance of the passage.

So for two minutes, Zuko hunches over in the shadows, his arms wrapped around himself, and tries to remember how to breathe normally.

Zuko makes it through his day without remembering any of it. After his last meeting, he retreats to his chambers to take dinner alone, and the most he can manage is a bowl of rice before his appetite disappears again. Sitting still doesn’t feel right, either, and it’s not long before he gives up and decides to go for a walk.

He thinks he’s going to go to the council balcony again, to seek comfort from a moon who doesn’t even know who he is, but he zones out early in his journey and doesn’t come to until he’s standing in the courtyard that’s become Appa’s temporary home. The air bison notices Zuko first, though, and Zuko’s too slow to dodge an enthusiastic lick from Appa’s massive tongue. “Thanks, Appa,” Zuko grumbles, trying to wipe his face dry with an equally wet sleeve.

“Zuko?”

Zuko looks up to see Aang sit up on Appa’s back. “I didn’t know you were here,” Zuko says, even as a sense of clarity settles on his shoulders. He realizes Aang is exactly the person he wants to see right now.

“Appa doesn’t like the ash and smog from the volcano,” Aang replies. “I figured I’d sleep out here with him for a few nights, so I can keep the worst of it away from him.”

“Can I join you for a bit?”

Aang smiles and gestures for Zuko to climb up Appa’s side. “Of course. You’re welcome anytime.”

As Zuko mounts Appa’s side, Aang turns his face up to study the sky. He frowns and uses his breath and arms to create a funnel of wind that rises up; for a moment, Zuko looses track of it, but he finds it again when the sky directly above them becomes less hazy. The stars become visible again, and when Zuko sits down next to Aang, he finds that he’s smiling in the same way that Aang is. Appa lows contentedly, and Aang pats his air bison’s side.

“Is there something on your mind?” Aang asks.

Zuko slumps his shoulders. “How did you know?” he asks.

“I’m used to a Zuko who’s single-minded about—well, kind of everything. You seem to be more lost in your thoughts, these days.”

Are you lost in there? Zuko hears Mai’s voice ask in his head. “I guess you’re right,” he admits.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Zuko flops onto his back with a sigh. Appa’s fur is soft against the skin of his neck. “Did you have a good relationship with your parents?”

“I don’t know. The monks took me from my parents when I was really young. I never saw them again.”

Zuko twists so he can fully look at Aang. “Really?”

Aang nods. “Family among the Air Nomads isn’t as much about blood as it is in the other nations. It’s more about the relationships that we develop and nurture throughout our lives.”

“But then … how do you know where you came from? How do you know what your children will become?”

“I know where I come from the same way you know where you come from.”

Zuko frowns. “I thought you just said Air Nomads don’t care about blood.”

“We do care. But that’s not the only place we come from, and it’s not the only place where you come from, either.”

Aang tucks one of his legs against his chest so he can rest his cheek on his knee as he observes Zuko. There’s a comforting, nonjudgmental wisdom embedded in Aang’s countenance, and Zuko wonders whether Aang sometimes feels more like 114 than 14 years old.

Zuko knows he comes from Ozai and Ursa, but from where else? His uncle, surely—but that’s still blood, in a way. And what about Azula? His sister doesn’t have his uncle in her life the way that Zuko does.

“I’m worried about Azula,” Zuko says.

“What are you worried about?”

“I just …” Zuko sighs and looks up at the sky. On the edge where the ash and Aang’s patch of clarity meet, the moon shines, half-obscured. Zuko wishes her well. “I feel like it would help her more if I could be with her every day,” he tells Aang. “But every minute I’m there for her is a minute I’m not there for my nation. I don’t know how to choose between them. I don’t want to have to choose between them.”

“Hmm.”

There’s silence, after that, and Zuko sits with it for as long as he can bear before turning to his friend. “You think I should choose the Fire Nation,” he says. “To better keep the world in balance.”

Aang brings his other leg into himself and tucks his chin between his knees. The movement causes his robe to slip down his spine, and Zuko sees the upper edge of the lightning-wound scar that sits above one of Aang’s chakras. Zuko’s seen the scar in full, before, in the days before Sozin’s comet when they were training for what felt like their deaths; now, Zuko has a scar on his chest to match. They’ve both been hurt and tormented by his sister, Zuko realizes. Aang has no reason to care for Azula.

“I don’t know if there’s a right choice,” Aang eventually says. “But I hope that there will be a day when you don’t have to choose anymore.”

“Me, too,” Zuko murmurs.

Appa grumbles, and it’s oddly pleasing to feel the sound vibrate through Zuko’s entire body. “Sorry, buddy,” Aang says, unfolding himself to blast the sky clear again.

There’s a peaceful concentration to Aang’s expression when he bends. Zuko wonders if Aang’s as tranquil on the inside as he appears from the outside; he wonders if he himself will ever feel that kind of calm again. If he ever felt that kind of calm in the first place.

With the ash and clouds at bay again, the entire moon becomes visible, and suddenly, Zuko’s exhausted. He could fall asleep right here, just spend the night with Aang and Appa, but … 

“I should get back,” he says. “Mai will be worried if I’m not in bed soon.”

He forces himself to sit up, brushing off the Appa fur, and catches Aang smilingly knowingly at him. “What?” Zuko asks.

“Are you going to marry her?”

Aang sounds so happy as he asks the question, as if he’s not thinking about Zuko and Mai as much as he is about himself and Katara, so there are no real stakes in Zuko’s answer—none at all. And yet, even as Zuko thinks, Yes, it’s what I’ve wanted for years, his mouth listens to something else hiding inside him as it says, “I don’t know.”

Unfortunately, Ukano was right about the pirates.

“Another trade ship has been taken by pirates while it was en route to the north pole,” a merchant representative reads from her report. “This is the fourth ship seized since the start of the summer and brings the total count of ships lost or damaged to twelve.”

Zuko wishes he could groan with frustration, but that’s not exactly a becoming look on an eighteen-year-old Fire Lord. At least Ukano is absent from this meeting; at least the merchants decided to bring this up at the end of the meeting instead of the beginning.

“Was there insurance taken out on the ship?” Mai asks.

“Yes, my lady.”

“Good,” Zuko says. The last stolen ship hadn’t been insured by anyone, much less the royal purse, and that had been a nightmare. “File the appropriate paperwork as soon as you can, and we’ll see that you’re reimbursed.”

A second merchant turns to Zuko, who’s sitting at the head of the table in the council room. “Fire Lord Zuko, please,” he says, “We all know the navy has the personnel and the ships to spare. We just need protection.”

I know, Zuko thinks, his chest tight. “As I’ve already said, I will not be deploying any part of our military at this time.”

The merchant flits a glance at Admiral Eun, who shakes his head with a grimace. “Our stance on this is firm.”

Someone emits a small, resigned sigh, and Zuko feels a headache start to build in his temples. He, Admiral Eun, and Mai have spent weeks, now, racking their brains for a solution, and the longer they go without coming up with anything, the more tense Zuko—and the rest of his council, to be fair—becomes about the whole thing.

Zuko nods shortly at Admiral Eun, and his council member obliges and wraps up the meeting. The dissatisfaction in the air is coming from all parties, and it’s palpable; Zuko isn’t looking forward to the next half-hour of talking in circles in search of a solution, either. He lets his eyes slide shut as the merchants pack up and file out of the council room.

“Fire Lord Zuko? If I may?”

Zuko opens his eyes. “Li Bai,” he says, straightening up. He hadn’t realized the older man was lingering, hovering behind the chair where he was once seated. Mai and Admiral Eun are still present, too; Zuko gestures at them and asks Li Bai, “Is it okay—”

“Yes, of course,” Li Bai says quickly. “I have an idea, actually, for how to deal with the pirates. I didn’t voice it earlier because it’s not a method most … established merchants around here would warmly welcome.”

Zuko meets the eyes of his council members. It’s not the most encouraging preface, but he can see in their faces that they’re thinking the same thing that he is: they really don’t have any ideas, so they might as well hear Li Bai out. “We’d appreciate your thoughts,” Zuko says.

Li Bai clears his throat. “You know my business rotates through speciality items from both at home and abroad,” he begins.

Zuko nods. He’s stopped by Li Bai’s shop a couple times; each visit, the selection of wares was drastically different, but of high quality and craftsmanship.

“When it comes to foreign products, I mostly source from the Earth Kingdom, which … has posed its series of challenges. But I managed to work out a deal with some shippers in the Earth Kingdom four years ago, and we worked together to develop several crews of combined Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom nationals that could operate ships that ran courses to discourage pirates from engaging with shipping boats.”

Admiral Eun leans forward in his seat. “A crew of both Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom citizens, working together, during the war?”

Li Bai glances at Zuko—nervously?—before addressing Admiral Eun. “Yes. There were … those in the Fire Nation that weren’t necessarily sympathetic to the war. We found others in the Earth Kingdom who were willing to set aside differences.”

“What ships do you use? Only our navy has ships truly capable of deterring the worst of the pirates on the seas these days.”

“Yes, of course. We were using retired naval ships until the war ended.” Li Bai glances at Zuko again. “With the post-war decision to drastically draw back the military’s presence on the water, my business partners and I deemed it prudent to switch to ships that look more like an Earth Kingdom make, but they’re honestly more of a hybrid—Fire Nation engineers worked with Earth Kingdom carpenters to design and build them.”

Finally, Li Bai makes and holds eye contact with Zuko. Zuko understands the preface, now. Established merchants means merchants who have been at the top of the business for years, if not generations, and many of them were deeply sympathetic to Azulon’s reign—in other words, they would be appalled by the notion of working collaboratively with foreigners deemed inferior to Fire Nation citizens.

But that was then; now, Zuko’s the one making decisions from the throne. “How many of these ships do you have?” Zuko asks.

“Two, my lord, with a third due to be finished in two weeks.”

A high number for one man, but not nearly enough to cover several seas of roving pirates. But it’s the idea that counts for the most, in Zuko’s opinion, and when he looks at his present council members, he can see the spark of energy he feels reflected in their eyes.

“Thank you, Li Bai, for sharing this with us,” Zuko says.

“Of course.”

“Would you mind if we send someone to the harbor to see your operation in person?” Admiral Eun asks.

“Not at all.”

There’s a pause, and when no one else moves to say anything, Zuko smiles at Li Bai. “We’ll be in touch with you soon.”

Li Bai smiles back, bows, and exits.

When the door shuts behind the merchant, Zuko turns to Admiral Eun and Mai. “I feel like this could work,” he says, trying to reign in the excitement in his voice.

“It’d be a costly enterprise, assuming we’d need to purchase or build ships,” Admiral Eun says.

“We can make it work. There must be a way to repurpose parts of old ships.”

“I want to go to the harbor,” Mai says.

Zuko blinks. His girlfriend doesn’t usually volunteer for tasks that could very well be delegated to someone else. “Really?”

She nods and turns to Admiral Eun. “Is there a naval engineer you trust?”

He thinks on it before nodding. “I can think of a couple.”

“Okay.”

Mai stands up, headed for the table of refreshments, and Admiral Eun sends Zuko a perplexed look. Zuko shrugs. Mai does her thing, and Zuko doesn’t get involved; it’s how they work best.

The season flies by as fast as a raven eagle. There are two more minor volcanic eruptions, each with no fatalities, which makes Zuko wonder if they’re getting off easy or if his father was doing something really wrong. He visits Azula again, and she doesn’t say a word to him the entire time, but at least she allows him to sit in the same room as she crochets, and no one’s life is threatened. For the first time, Bishal keeps pace with Zuko when scaling the side of a building. Zuko also increasingly finds ways to spend more time with Katara and Aang, namely in the form of abandoning his evening training sessions in favor of exploring various parts of the capital and the immediately surrounding wildlife spaces.

Today, they visited a part of the arts district in the lower city they haven’t yet walked through, and now they’re eating an informal dinner in the turtleduck courtyard with their painted body art still on. Aang has the face of a flying bison painted on each cheek, and it’s funny to watch them shift and distort as he speaks and eats. Katara has a school of stylized flying dolphin fish swimming up her bare arm, and Zuko was enthusiastically pressured into getting a hippo cow. Katara had wanted it on his forehead, but Zuko at least managed to convince her that the back of his hand was a more appropriate place for a Fire Lord wandering amongst his public.

That doesn’t stopped Mai from spotting it as soon as she joins them for dinner, Chenda in tow. “Feeling like a kid?” she asks as she settles on the blanket next to Zuko. Chenda sits down between Katara and Aang, already engaging them in conversation as she reaches for a peach.

Zuko holds out his fist, twisting it back and forth to study the hippo cow. “It’s cute,” he says.

Mai hums noncommittally, filching one of the fried mochi from Zuko’s plate.

Their meal is pleasant—Mai and Katara are even civil, for once—and Zuko feels a warmth that doesn’t just have to do with the slowly setting sun. Closing his eyes, he wishes all the people he cares for could be here, right now, enjoying this tranquil summer night, and he swears he can almost hear voices calling his name. Mai leans into the shoulder he dropped behind her back, and the warmth of her body makes the heat in Zuko’s chest flare.

Suddenly, Katara excitedly shouts, “Suki?”

Zuko opens his eyes and looks in the direction of Katara’s shout to see Ty Lee laughing at him. “Someone drifted off! I’ve been calling your name, silly.”

It’s not just Ty Lee, but also Suki, and more of the Kyoshi warriors, all in uniform, and Zuko breaks into a smile. “Friends,” he says, nudging Mai until she shifts enough that he can stand. He approaches the warriors, bows deeply, and is immediately swept into a tight hug between Ty Lee and Suki. They used to all be close enough in height; now, his friends’ heads only reach his shoulders.

Something catches in Zuko’s throat. “It’s been too long,” he says.

“Two years!” Ty Lee agrees.

“Stop hogging Suki, Zuko,” Katara scolds from somewhere behind them.

The warriors lets go of Zuko, and then it becomes a whole round of greetings and hugs and introductions. Zuko meets several new Kyoshi warriors, and it eventually occurs to him that the numbers don’t add up. “Didn’t there used to be more of you?” he asks Suki.

Suki’s bright expression drops into something more serious. “A few of our warriors did decide, after the war, to return to their homes and families. We’ve added far more than lost, though; we just thought it best, for what we’re doing here, to split in half.”

Of course; Zuko was so excited at the unexpected arrival of his friends that he forgot that the Kyoshi warriors usually only travel for a specific purpose. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “I mean, you’re always welcome—”

“Aw, thanks, Zuko!” Ty Lee says, coming out of nowhere to throw an arm around Zuko’s neck. It’s a little awkward with their difference in height, but Ty Lee doesn’t seem to notice. “We’re here because Mai said you need our help.”

Zuko looks around for his girlfriend to find her already looking at him from across the pond. Something in his face must tell her what he’s just learned from Ty Lee, but there’s no regret or apology in Mai’s expression as she stares back at him.

“I appreciate it,” he begins to tell Ty Lee and Suki, “but—”

“Nuh-uh, mister,” Suki interrupts, poking Zuko’s chest. “We’re friends, and you need our help. End of story.”

“But—”

“We know the situation, Zuko. Your life is in danger, and Aang being here won’t deter people forever. The Kyoshi warriors can guard you while also figuring out who’s behind this. And you can trust us.”

Ty Lee clasps her hands together and holds them against her chest, her imploring expression juxtaposed to the adamant hardness of Suki’s gray-blue eyes. “You can’t say no to us, can you?” Ty Lee asks.

Zuko knows that voice. It’s the tone Ty Lee gets whenever she wants a man to do something, a tone that Zuko’s never understood the appeal of but has seen work hundreds of times, sometimes for truly insane requests. It’s a tone that Zuko’s immune to, not that that’s ever stopped Ty Lee from trying.

But it’s been such a wonderful evening, one that Zuko doesn’t want to taint with argumentation and fights, and he’s not going to turn away his friends when they just got here. They can work this out later; for now, they can be happy in each other’s company.

“How many of you are there?” Zuko asks. “We’ll try to find some rooms that can accommodate all of you.”

Ty Lee squeals excitedly, throwing her arms around Zuko to kiss his cheek, and then flies off to talk to Mai. Zuko is left with Suki, who’s smiling in spite of her crossed her arms. “That’s not an answer,” Suki says.

Zuko smiles back, even if it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ll think on it—I promise.”

Ursa’s chambers, plus the adjoining rooms where her attendants used to sleep, end up being the most communal-feeling space that can accommodate all the Kyoshi warriors who are in uniform, and Zuko supposes this is as good a reason as any to finally clean up and rework his mother’s rooms. The warriors insist on helping move around and bring in furniture, and the whole ordeal is sorted away much quicker than Zuko anticipated. The rest of the warriors, who aren’t in uniform and who didn’t come to the palace, have found temporary lodging somewhere in the lower city; Zuko plans to find them a more permanent place as soon as possible. They are, in his opinion, also his guests, and deserve lodging that meets his standards.

While Aang and Katara helped with the moving, Chenda had to return home, and Mai had disappeared as soon as they left the courtyard. Zuko doesn’t see her again until he returns to his rooms, and she’s already there in the antechamber: standing with her feet planted firmly, she’s facing the door, as if she’s ready and waiting for the dispute to come.

The door swings shut behind him, and Zuko’s shoulders rise. “You went behind my back,” he says.

“You wouldn’t listen.”

“You never brought up the Kyoshi warriors—”

“You wouldn’t even listen when I just said you need help!”

There’s a tension in Zuko’s scalp that’s becoming unbearable, and he reaches up to remove his headpiece and rip out the tie that’s holding his topknot. “There hasn’t been an attempt all summer,” he says, even though he knows what Mai’s going to rebut with.

“Because the Avatar is here,” she says. “Do you want the Avatar babysitting you for the rest of your life?”

No, he doesn’t, and he already feels bad about how long Aang and Katara have stuck around, but the alternative— “Don’t I look weak, if I need such a large, highly talented band of warriors to stay alive in my own home?”

“No, actually,” Mai snaps. “The world loves the Kyoshi warriors. Them choosing to help protect you is basically them giving your reign their active and extremely public approval.”

“But—”

Zuko stops mid-retort when Mai’s words fully sink in. She’s … right, actually. Since the war, the Kyoshi warriors have been making themselves known across the world as protectors of the underserved and the deserving; the only people who consistently dislike them are Zuko’s own subjects, the part of his nation that remains faithful to Azulon's vision. Suddenly, his mind recalls the conviction in Suki’s countenance when she said And you can trust us. She’s right, too—if Zuko’s been arguing with Mai that he couldn’t trust a committee because the assassination attempts seem like an inside job, the answer would be to find someone trusted from the outside.

He drags his gaze up to meet Mai’s eye. Tension radiates off of her in waves, and for the first time, Zuko notices the shadows under her eyes. They’re too dark and deep to have been from one night’s worth of bad sleep. “Okay,” Zuko says.

“Okay, what?”

“I’ll talk to Suki tomorrow to make it official. I’m accepting the Kyoshi warriors’ offer.”

It’s inordinately strange to see the relief wash across his girlfriend’s face, and has Zuko really been putting Mai under that much strain? They’ve always been prone to arguing, but usually Zuko is the one who gets worn down. Mai is as unstoppable, as unrelenting as they come.

“Let’s go to bed,” Zuko suggests.

He finds himself under the covers first, and when Mai sinks into the softness next to him, it feels like release. Maybe the Kyoshi warriors being here will make things easy between them again, easy in a way it hasn’t been since Aang and Katara arrived—or maybe since the first real assassination attempt.

Zuko reaches across the space between them to grab one of Mai’s hands. She uses her other hand to pull the bedding up to her shoulders and frowns when she notices the top blanket has changed. “This is different,” she says.

“It was my mother’s.”

Mai hums and then rolls onto her side, dragging Zuko’s arm around her waist with the movement. Suddenly, her warmth and his warmth are colliding, and Zuko has a face-full of Mai’s silky black tresses, the thinner version of his thick and heavy hair. It’s been so long since she’s invited him to be this intimate, and Zuko desperately chases the sense of being wanted. He wishes he could linger in this moment, but his dreams carry him away sooner than he’d like.

“This floor, here, is my favorite part of this home,” Jingyi says.

She’s climbing the stairs before Zuko and Ty Lee, and Zuko witnesses the smile spread across Jingyi’s lips before he himself is confronted by the third-floor view of this home in the middle city. He reaches the landing, and he’s in agreement with Ty Lee’s gasp of delight. “It’s gorgeous, Jingyi!”

Gorgeous, yes, as a lounging space with wide windows—wider than most other homes in this section of the middle city. What Zuko’s more interested in, though, is that the windows have a direct line of sight to the palace, and specifically to the council balcony. They should be able to devise a subtle way of communicating between this house and the palace.

“Oh, Zuko, look at these cushions! Aren’t they just adorable?”

Zuko looks to where Ty Lee is lifting a floor cushion with both hands in order for Zuko to see the painted fabric better. “They are,” he agrees, and Ty Lee fluffs the cushion with a happy noise before returning it to its place.

He turns to Jingyi, who has a glimmer in her eye. “This is the one, isn’t it?” she asks.

This is the third home Jingyi has shown them today. When Zuko had mentioned to his council that finding lodgings for the non-uniformed Kyoshi warriors was at the top of the council priority list, Admiral Eun had said his wife knew several families who had second homes outside of the city, and therefore would rent out their city dwellings when unoccupied. Suki had agreed to the cover story that the Kyoshi warriors had picked up a band of Fire Nation refugees in ex-colonies on their way to guard the Fire Lord; it’s nearly the truth, anyway, with most of the non-uniformed warriors being newer members from the colonies, though they are a mix of Earth Kingdom, Fire Nation, or combined backgrounds.

“I think it is,” Zuko tells Jingyi.

Jingyi nods, her earrings jangling lightly. “This place belongs to a friend of mine who’s very discreet,” she says. “She and her husband, and their four children, are living on Ember Island right now, and I don’t think they plan to come back to the city for a while.”

“Four children,” Zuko echoes. He knows there’ll be about ten warriors living in this place, but ten young adults seem more suited to this space than four young children.

A smirk dances on Jingyi’s lips. “Does that sound like a good number of children to you, Zuko?”

“I don’t think I even have time for one child right now,” Zuko mutters.

Jingyi pats his shoulder consolingly. “You’ll figure it out,” she says, and while her tone doesn’t sound condescending, the words are frighteningly vague.

Ty Lee bounds across the room to join them at the top of the stairs. “I love this,” she declares. “Is there anywhere nearby where we could grab some snacks?”

“There’s a sweet shop around the corner,” Jingyi offers.

“Oh, good! I’m so hungry.”

Ty Lee floats down the stairs, nimble and graceful as ever in spite of the large skirt and billowing pants of her uniform, and Zuko waits for Jingyi’s slower descent. He offers her his elbow, which she gladly takes, her other hand ghosting over the railing.

“Zuko,” Jingyi says quietly, “I have news to share with you.”

There’s nothing in her tone to give away what kind of news, so Zuko schools his expression into something more appropriately somber. “What is it?”

“Eun and I are expecting another child.”

Zuko almost stumbles on the next step; Jingyi’s suddenly tight grip is the only thing keeping him upright. “Oh?” he chokes out, righting himself and turning to look at Jingyi.

And then he sees it: the elated smile spreading across Jingyi’s face, the shine in her eyes, the serenity and optimism of it all. There’s a certitude that suddenly has Zuko’s heart beating faster, panic rising in his throat. What if the baby is born, and then an assassin finally finishes off Zuko, and his sister tries to take the throne, but then she dies in her precarious state, and suddenly there’s a coup and then a civil war and then what? What happens to Jingyi and Eun’s baby then?

“I can’t believe it,” Zuko blurts.

Jingyi laughs, nudging Zuko to continue their descent. “I won’t start really showing for another couple of weeks.”

“I meant—your husband, of anyone, knows how quickly this can all fall apart. If I die, then—”

Jingyi tsks and shakes her head. “Does it do well to think like that, Zuko?” she chides. “You have to believe that things will work themselves out.”

“You’re not worried?”

“I am worried. But I told myself long ago I wouldn’t let worry keep me from continuing to live life as fully as I want to live it.”

They reach the second floor, which consists of a hallway and three bedrooms separated by thin walls constructed of bamboo lattice frames and paper. Everything in this home is neat and contained, which Zuko appreciates; he wonders when he began to appreciate containment. It doesn’t feel like something that’s always been with him. He rolls his shoulders against the discomfort that settles on them. “Congratulations,” he tells Jingyi, which is the first thing he should have said. “I’m happy for you and Admiral Eun.”

They begin going down the last set of stairs as Jingyi scoffs. “Zuko, I don’t even address you as the Fire Lord, anymore,” she says. “You hardly need to call my husband by his rank.”

Zuko’s cheeks flush. “It hasn’t come up,” he mumbles. “And I know he’s proud of his rank.”

Jingyi stops at the base of the stairs, the look in her light brown eyes suddenly arresting. “Yes,” she says, “but he’s more proud of being your advisor and your friend.”

And now his entire face is flaming. “Likewise,” Zuko says, then rushes to amend, “Not that I’m his advisor. But—”

“Aw, did you embarrass Zuko?”

Zuko jumps. Ty Lee’s leaning against the front doorway, her eyes glinting mischievously. “Stop it, Ty Lee,” he complains, like the teenager he is not.

“Stop what?”

“Yes, Ty Lee, I was embarrassing him,” Jingyi confirms, sweeping away from Zuko to latch onto Ty Lee’s arm. “What’s your favorite kind of sweet?”

“Hey!” Zuko splutters, at a loss. He feels—betrayed?

They’re already walking out the door, Ty Lee giggling mercilessly. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you some friend mochi, too!” Jingyi tosses over her shoulder.

“I’m paying for everything!” Zuko shouts, chasing down the two women.

He does pay for everything, but when they reach the gates of the palace at the end of their trip, Jingyi produces a box of sweets that Zuko somehow didn’t see her purchase. She holds them out to Zuko, smiling when his brows furrow. He asks, “When did you—?”

“I have my ways,” Jingyi answers. She bows to him and Ty Lee before leaving in the direction of her home.

Ty Lee sighs happily and leans against Zuko. “I like her.”

The box in Zuko’s hands is still warm. “I like her, too,” he says.

The very next day, the non-uniformed Kyoshi warriors move into the middle city house, and while the process is again quicker than Zuko expected, the event still pushes back everything else Zuko had planned to get done in the day. He finds himself hunched over his desk and reading late into the night—so late that Mai is asleep by the time he remembers that he, too, should get some rest, and when he rises with the sun, it feels like he’d only shut his eyes a moment ago. The day ahead of him is still long, though, so he dresses himself and makes his way to the council rooms, now shadowed by two Kyoshi warriors instead of two palace guards.

He isn’t expecting Bishal to already be there, standing inside the council room and posted against the wall instead of waiting outside the door of the room with his fellow guard, where the Kyoshi warriors now also stand. “Everything okay?” Zuko asks, grabbing a peach.

“Yes,” Bishal replies easily. “There’s just—”

He doesn’t complete the sentence, just tilts his head towards the balcony, and for a moment Zuko thinks he’s hallucinating when he eyes latch onto a swatch of blue fabric visible above the backrest of one of the chairs. He blinks; his eyes aren’t deceiving him.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, he’s pulling open the door to the balcony, an eagerness in his stride that must come from the sudden, unexplainable bloom of energy in his chest. “Sokka!” he calls, because he recognizes that hair with its blue beads, even if it’s grown a little longer and the skin of his bare arms has grown darker—

Sokka lifts his face from where he’s curled over his own lap with his elbows balanced on his knees. The dejection in his dark blue eyes makes Zuko feel like he’s been doused with a bucket of arctic water. “Hey,” Sokka says, and he’s not even trying to sound upbeat.

Zuko approaches with more restraint, sinking into the seat next to Sokka’s. It’s been almost a year since Zuko’s seen his friend in his water-tribe blue. He wants to know what’s wrong, because something must be wrong, but he also wants Sokka to smile, because he doesn’t like seeing Sokka like this—he doesn’t know if he’s ever seen Sokka this down. And Zuko knows he’s no comedian, he really isn’t, but he tries for levity anyway: “You didn’t crash-land a sky bison in my courtyard, this time.”

Sokka snorts, leaning back and scrubbing a hand over his face. “I considered hijacking a war balloon and crashing that, just to make a statement,” he jokes, though his tone sounds off. Or has his voice just gotten deeper? He’s clean shaven, but with emphasis on shaven; Zuko’s jaw is clean because he still can’t really grow anything.

“How are you?” Zuko asks.

“What?” Sokka squawks, and that’s more familiar. “I should be asking you that. What’s this with the assassinations getting real? Whose heads do I need to bash together?”

Zuko rolls his eyes. “No one,” he says, “Because we don’t know who’s responsible.”

“The Kyoshi warriors will figure it out,” Sokka says.

There’s conviction in his voice, but it’s also lost its edge of liveliness again, and it makes Zuko uneasy. “Really, Sokka,” he presses. “What’s wrong?”

Sokka huffs and rolls his head back against his chair. The movement throws the rise of his throat into sharp relief against the rising sun. “I was going to propose to Suki.”

Zuko blinks. He’s older than Sokka (Barely, Sokka would complain) with no intentions for him and Mai beyond not arguing today, and Sokka’s already thinking seriously about marriage? And then, Zuko realizes: “Was?”

Sokka nods. “We were supposed to meet up in the Earth Kingdom, north of the strait—it’d be the first time we’d seen each other since the winter. But then the warriors were called here.” He turns to Zuko, eyes wide. “Which, I’m glad they’re here! You deserve their help! But …” Sokka sinks in his seat again. “I miss Suki. We both travel so much.”

“And you want her to travel with you,” Zuko says.

“I mean … I do. But she likes traveling because she’s with the warriors. I don’t know if she’d like traveling if she’s just stuck with me.” 

“I think you’d be a great person to get stuck traveling with.”

Sokka waves a dismissive hand. “In any case, I can’t ask her, out of the blue, to decide between me and the warriors.”

Zuko sits with Sokka’s words for a moment. He thought marriage was about choosing a partner, not a life. Ozai and Ursa chose each other. He and Mai will choose each other. Right? And Sokka does often fail to see how incredible and admired he is. “You think she would say no?” Zuko asks cautiously.

“That doesn’t matter,” Sokka responds. “What I’m saying is, I don’t want to put her in a position where she even has to answer that kind of question. She likes me, and she loves the warriors. If it makes her happy, she should have both for as long as she wants.”

“Are you happy?”

And Sokka does that thing, where he sits up and inhales sharp and quick and a whole different mood rolls over him. He grins at Zuko, and Zuko automatically grins back, even as he thinks, You don’t have to pretend around me. “Yeah, I’m happy,” Sokka says. “I’m going to see my girlfriend for the first time in months. Bishal and I are going to check out a weapons auction that claims to be selling Piandao originals, my plot for getting Eun to the meat market this afternoon is already working, and you’re still alive.”

Sokka ends with a gentle punch to Zuko’s shoulder, and Zuko belatedly bats his hand away. “Why does everyone expect me to be dead?” Zuko protests. “I’ve dealt with assassins before.”

“Hmm, true. You’ve even hired them before. Oh, right, to take out Aang and Katara and Toph and me—”

“I apologized!”

“And Appa and Momo!”

“I didn’t tell him to go after Appa and Momo!”

“That’s just cruel, Zuko.”

Zuko groans, dropping his head into his hands, and Sokka cackles.

“Sokka? Is that you?”

Zuko and Sokka turn at the same time to see Chenda in the doorway to the balcony. “Chenda!” Sokka cries, rising from his seat and approaching with open arms. “Can I tell you how great it is to see you? Your letters are wonderful, but just not the same.”

“Why didn’t you reply to any of them?” Chenda scolds, wrapping Sokka in a hug.

“You sound like my sister.”

“Katara and I have talked plenty about your inability to send a single letter.”

They start chattering over one another, drifting back into the council room, and Zuko feels something unnamable tighten in his chest.

The morning quickly devolves from getting work done to everyone catching up with Sokka, and it’s a bitter relief when Bishal reappears around lunchtime, out of uniform, to take Sokka down to the auction. Mai also disappears around that time, and soon it’s just Zuko and Chenda in the council rooms, quietly moving through stacks of reports in between meetings held in other parts of the palace.

It’s almost evening when Zuko comes back from one meeting to find Mai and a stranger in military uniform also in the council room. The stranger is a tall woman with a wide face who jabbers excitedly as she gestures at several different papers laid out in front of her and Mai. Mai makes eye contact with him but makes no further acknowledgement, so Zuko coughs lightly when he reaches their end of the table. “Hello,” he says.

The stranger stops mid-sentence and gasps when she sees Zuko. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she says, her words tumbling over each other as she bows. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Zuko returns her gesture. “Likewise. What’s your name?”

“Tuya, my lord, second engineer of the tender ship division,” she answers, pushing her glasses up her nose with the heel of her palm.

Zuko looks at Mai. “You were at the harbor?”

His girlfriend nods. “We think Li Bai’s suggestion could work for us.”

Zuko takes a seat and gestures for Mai and Tuya to do the same. “Tell me more,” he requests.

Their argument is compelling—not that it had to be, as Zuko was already leaning in favor of trying Li Bai’s approach—and they’re only occasionally sidetracked by Tuya going on a tangent in admiration of the design of Li Bai’s boats. “They didn’t think of using Earth Kingdom materials as a disadvantage, but founds ways to make them advantageous,” she gushes, green eyes sparkling. “Our nation’s naval engineering is unparalleled, but their solutions were creative.”

At the end of the discussion, Zuko’s added this venture as a topic for their next council meeting, and Tuya has already volunteered to be reassigned to the project should it go forward.  She leaves the room with her head so buried in her notes, she walks into the door frame on her way out.

Mai laughs under her breath, and Zuko can’t help smiling, also. Tuya looks to be several years older than him, but her unbridled energy rivals Aang’s when he gets excited about something.

“We need to push this through,” Mai says, rising from her seat. She comes around the corner of the table to push back Zuko’s chair and sit sideways on his lap, her arms looping around his neck.

Zuko grins, wrapping an arm around Mai’s waist. “I agree,” he says.

Mai pressed their foreheads together. “You should also invite Li Bai to join the council.”

“Hmm?” Zuko’s more occupied by the way Mai’s finger is running back and forth over the shell of his ear.

“I asked around when I was down at the harbor. He’s a more recently established merchant involved in multiple industries, and he’s quickly figured out how to make his business thrive without relying on an ongoing war.”

“He knows how to think in ways the older merchants can’t,” Zuko says.

“He’ll be an asset. Eun and you and I only know so much.”

They know enough to get by, Zuko agrees. Li Bai would bring enough to help make change.

“Also,” Mai says, “I want to focus more on education.”

Zuko tilts his head. “Really?” He hasn’t heard anything about the topic aside from the occasional update regarding the reform project at the Royal Fire Academy for Girls, which is almost finished, anyway.

Mai shrugs, her expression indifferent. “I talked to Ty Lee about it.”

That doesn’t really explain anything to Zuko, but there’s no need to dig for answers that don’t matter when Mai’s in a good mood. “Sounds like a plan,” Zuko says, stretching up to capture his girlfriend’s lips.

They don’t get much else done that afternoon.

For the first time since his coronation, Zuko takes dinner in a formal dining room. It’s not the large hall designed for larger meals and festivities, but there are still too many people at this table tonight to fit into an informal dining setting—an inconvenience that draws an involuntary smile out of Zuko any time he thinks about it for more than a second.

It’s fun to watch his friends and his council finally interact with each other as a large group. Katara and Mai still can’t speak to each other without superficial conversation devolving into a sniping contest, but they’re both fond of Chenda and Sokka, who distract and diffuse like it’s second nature to them. Ty Lee and Jingyi gossip up a storm at their corner of the table, occasionally breaking into uproarious laughter that has Momo shrieking and flying straight down the back of Aang’s shirt. Eun is awestruck by the Avatar, and it’s only with ample conversational encouragement from Suki that the admiral finds it in himself to talk to Aang. Zuko overhears Suki tells Chenda the story of how she and Sokka met, and Chenda spends the next half-hour digging for more embarrassing anecdotes about Sokka. 

And Sokka … seems fine. He has his arm around Suki, they pick from each other’s plates as if that’s how they eat every meal together, and there’s nothing in his banter or his easy smiles to suggest that he’s as despondent as he was this morning. But there’s no way he’s not still feeling that way; even if Zuko can’t see it, he just knows that Sokka’s thoughts must linger there.

A thin, furry arm sneaks out from under the table and pats the tabletop, in search of something tasty, and Zuko snorts. He nudges a date towards Momo’s hand, and the lemur snatches up the fruit and skitters deeper underneath the table. 

Zuko looks up to see Aang watching him kindly, and it suddenly occurs to Zuko to ask, “Is this a place where I come from?”

Aang looks around the table, and Zuko takes the moment to let himself be immersed in an atmosphere that he can only describe as rambunctious goodwill. When he looks at Aang again, there’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. “It’s a place where I come from,” Aang says. “I think it can be one of yours, too.”

He doesn’t realize how tall Sokka’s grown since the winter until they’re sparring and Sokka trips and falls over his own limbs for the third time this session. “Agh!” Sokka shouts, flopping over onto his back and panting furiously at the sky.

Zuko snickers, and he thinks he hears laughter from the two Kyoshi warriors who are guarding him from afar on the other side of the old training grounds. “Didn’t you say you know how to do all of this on snow and ice? Now some plain old dirt is messing you up?” Zuko teases.

“My center of gravity keeps changing,” Sokka whines.

Zuko offers him a hand, and Sokka takes it to pull himself up. When they’re both upright, Zuko’s eyes are at Sokka’s chin, which Zuko feels like he’ll never get used to. He’s counting on his ability to keep growing. “Then adapt to it,” Zuko says.

“You think I’m not trying to?”

Zuko darts in close to whap Sokka’s thigh with the flat of his practice blade, and Sokka contorts to ward off the blow and spin away. “I just got up!”

“Can’t expect an opponent to wait for you—”

Sokka lunges forward, and Zuko shuts up to concentrate on defending himself.

They exchange blows for another few minutes, until the ache in his arms and the dryness of his mouth start to get to Zuko. “Want a drink?” Zuko asks, smacking away Sokka’s sword.

Sokka immediately stops attacking, bending over to brace himself on his knees. “Please.”

They drift to the side of the ring together, and Zuko sneaks several glances at Sokka. Sokka had sat in on a few of Zuko’s meetings today, and Zuko hadn’t realized how much he missed Sokka. As good as Zuko and his council are, there’s a unique twist to Sokka’s sharp observations and under-the-breath commentary that still leaves Zuko breathless, both from awe and from trying not to laugh at inappropriate times. More than one meeting today ended in laughter and invitations to tea or pai sho, and Zuko knows that wasn’t at all a reflection of him—it had to have been Sokka, who responded with genial ribbing and smiles for all.

Zuko would be more than happy to relish in this moment—it can’t possibly last long, not when there’s no real reason for Sokka to stay in the Fire Nation—yet sometimes, when Sokka thought no one was looking at him, Zuko caught him staring contemplatively in the distance, blue eyes searching for something that had nothing to do with the conversation at hand. Zuko tried, between meetings, to ask how Sokka was doing, but every time he only got that genuine smile and a friendly arm thrown around his shoulders.

So Zuko’s going for a different tactic.

They reach the fence, and while Zuko nimbly hops over it, Sokka opts to drape himself over the wooden rail. “I think I’ll just die right here,” Sokka says, voice muffled.

Zuko pokes Sokka’s shoulder with his flask until Sokka’s hand reaches up to grab it. “If you die here, your father’s going to have to declare war on me.”

Sokka props himself up so he can drink properly. “Nah,” he says. “Katara will tell him it was my own fault, and you’ll get off the hook.”

Zuko pushes the ball of his right foot against a fence post and digs his heel into the ground, relishing the stretch of his calf. “How were you going to propose?” he throws out before he can overthink it.

Sokka blinks and then holds out his flask. Zuko takes it and watches attentively as Sokka unties the sash around his waist, unwrapping the first layer around his torso and sliding off something small and gold that appears on the second layer. The piece disappears into his palm, and Zuko finds he’s hardly breathing as Sokka re-wraps and ties his sash before opening his palm to Zuko.

It’s a gold ring, a delicate and unadorned band meant, Zuko thinks, for a finger. “It’s pretty,” he says, because he’s not sure how else he’s supposed to respond.

Sokka’s staring at the ring with a reserved smile. “It’s a betrothal and marriage marker traditional to the part of the Earth Kingdom where Suki is from,” he explains. He uses his other hand to trace the circle with a fingertip, and a frown comes over his face. “It’d never work  at the South Pole.”

“Why?”

“Jewelry on fingers can be dangerous. Your hands and fingers swell when they warm up too quickly, and next thing you know, you’re losing a finger.”

“Oh.” Zuko looks at his hands. Does he need all of his fingers? Some of them would be very inconvenient to lose. “What are your tribe’s traditions?”

Sokka begins the process of securing and hiding the ring on his sash again. “Each person in a union uses leather or cloth to create a band of some sort,” he explains. “It used to just be necklaces, but my dad says since his parents were kids, people have worn them in more places. He and Mom made each other wristbands. They start simple, but for every year spent together, you handcraft an element to be added to the band.”

“An element?”

“Not, like, elements,” Sokka says, wiggling his fingers in the air. “But some sort of—I don’t know, trinket, usually made from bone or wood, sometimes feathers or fur. Katara says the ‘cumulative nature’ is supposed to represent that marriage isn’t ‘an event at one moment in time’ but ‘a relationship that grows and builds over the years.’ Or something.”

There’s a cynical note to his tone that Zuko doesn’t understand. “That’s kind of beautiful,” he says, and he means it.

“It’s exactly the mushy fairytale mush that Katara drinks right up.”

Zuko frowns. “You don’t think that kind of commitment is possible?”

“Maybe. Probably not. The universe always seems to have other ideas.”

At that, Sokka flips his practice blade up in the air, catches it, and taps the flat of the blade against Zuko’s shoulder. “Come on. If we chit-chat any longer, my muscles are going to lock up.”

Zuko knocks away the sword with the back of his hand. “Stop hitting me. I’m not even in the ring.”

“Can’t expect an opponent to wait for—”

Zuko vaults over the fence and yanks the sword out of Sokka’s hand. “Hey!” Sokka protests.

Zuko pivots to face Sokka again, experimenting with the weight of the two practice blades. They’re a far cry from his dao, but he thinks he can make it work. “Think fast,” he says, grinning, and darts forward.

It isn’t until much later, when Zuko and his guards are walking back to his rooms, that Zuko realizes there had been another question on the tip of his tongue when Sokka changed the subject: Do you want that type of commitment to be possible?

A chill runs down Zuko’s spine, something tinged with a guilty yearning, and Zuko doesn’t let himself chase the feeling.

“We’ve smoothed out the full formal guard rotation schedule, and it’ll go into effect as soon as the Avatar leaves. For those not in the guard rotation, we have three warriors in the palace kitchen, two working as pages, and the remaining five will find work throughout the city as we narrow in on places we’d like to focus our attention on.”

Zuko studies the sheet of paper Suki has given him and tries to commit to memory the names of the women who have vouched to protect him. There are twenty-seven of them, and while Zuko is grateful for their help, he’s already stressed. If any of them so much as sprains a wrist, Zuko will be beside himself with guilt. It’s one thing if a palace-employed, Fire Nation guard puts herself between Zuko and a threat; it feels like another thing if a stranger who likely fought against his nation only two years ago does the same.

“Zuko?”

Zuko returns to his present. Suki’s giving him a concerned look, hovering near his bench beside the turtleduck pond. “I’m fine,” he says.

Suki takes a seat next to him and covers one of his hands with her own. The glove of her uniform is a sturdy, supple leather. “You can talk to me, about anything, Zuko,” she says gently. “I—” She hesitates, conflicted, and then sighs. “Look. Sokka told me you’ve been getting in your head, recently, and that that only makes you more stressed.”

“Sokka only just got here.”

“Yes, but he lived with you for five whole months,” Suki replies. “He knows you, Zuko, and he cares about you, like we all do.”

Annoyance flashes at the edge of Zuko’s thoughts. So Sokka knows him, but Sokka won’t even talk to Zuko about what’s getting to him? Unfair. But then Zuko catches Suki’s earnest gray-blue eyes, and the fight goes out of him. Fine—Sokka knows him. And Suki doesn’t deserve Zuko’s petty frustrations that have nothing to do with her.

“Did you also think the end of the war meant we wouldn’t have to worry about dying anymore?” he asks.

Suki blinks. Evidently, that wasn’t a question she was expecting to hear. “Are you worried?” she asks.

There’s tension in his scalp, and Zuko slides his hand out from under Suki’s to adjust his topknot. “When I have the time, I guess,” he says. “And I keep wondering at how young the people around me are. Why is someone my age still being asked to risk their life to protect me?”

Suki’s eyebrows crease. “Why do you assume they’re not making that choice on their own?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your palace guards,” Suki says, “Are they part of a mandatory conscription?”

“No.” Ozai, actually, had abolished mandatory military service shortly after taking the throne. Zuko never found out exactly why that was the case.

“Can they leave their post anytime they wish? And do they know this?”

“Yes. I mean, they should.” Zuko adds the thought to his mental list of policies to check on.

“Then they’re choosing this path,” Suki says. “Whether for the money, or for the nation, or for you.”

Zuko chokes on a laugh. “No one in their right mind should be willing to die for me.”

“But maybe we’re willing to put our lives on the line for what you believe in.”

Zuko looks up, and there’s a fierceness in Suki’s expression that makes his heart stop. “I believe in peace,” she continues. “I believe in the balance that you can help bring to this world. I believe in my duty as a Kyoshi warrior to protect those who need protection as we try to restore harmony.”

Something twinges in her expression, and Suki averts her eyes, turning to the turtleduck pond. “I also believe in a day when I’ll return to Kyoshi Island, and I won’t think about death,” she confesses. “I’ll settle down and live with my family again, and I’ll get to build a home.”

Zuko swallows. There’s a longing in her voice that resonates with the feeling that he’s tucked away into a corner of his chest. “You will,” he says softly.

“I will, in the same way that we’re all going to continue to live.” And then she smiles at him brilliantly—not in Sokka’s way of covering up everything that’s just been said with a veneer of conviviality, but as if to acknowledge what’s in the air and to say that it’ll be okay, regardless. “Sokka and I are going to a pai sho tournament later today. Do you want to join us?” she asks.

“I wish I could. If you see Kanya, please tell her I say hello.”

“For sure. Do you have any questions or concerns about our plan?”

Zuko shakes his head. “I trust you.”

The summer is in its last days when Aang finds Zuko and tells him that they’ll be departing soon. “Thank you for staying as long as you have,” Zuko says.

“Of course,” Aang replies. “It was great to travel around the Fire Nation, too.”

Zuko knew Aang and Katara had been flitting around the archipelago, and the stories from their brief trips have been informative. Zuko continues to be frustrated that his days are too busy for him to venture outside of the capital, but it’s a comfort to know that the rest of his nation isn’t going up in flame and smoke, even if there’s still a ways to go before a comfortable peace settles.

“Where are you going next?” Zuko asks.

“We’re headed towards the Northern Air Temple, where we’ll meet up with Teo and the Mechanist, and then make our way back to the South Pole for winter.”

It’s a loose plan, but Zuko’s learned that Aang’s travel plans are always loose. “Can I send you with anything, to help you journey?”

“You could join us!”

“I meant food or luggage, Aang.”

And then, two days later, Zuko and his council are sending off Aang, Katara, and Sokka. Suki is one of Zuko’s guards, at the time, and for some reason Zuko is hyperaware of the long, tight embrace she and Sokka hold, even as Zuko’s ostensibly listening to Aang and Chenda. Zuko hugs Katara, and then Aang, and by then Suki has returned to Zuko’s side.

Sokka follows shortly behind her and raises one arm to clap Zuko on the shoulder. “Stay alive in that ugly little house of yours, all right?” Sokka jokes.

“Only if the architecture doesn’t kill me first.”

Sokka grins, and Zuko thinks his friend is going to pull him in for a hug, but then he lets go of Zuko’s shoulder. “Take care of the Kyoshi warriors, too.”

“We don’t need taking care of,” Suki pipes up.

Sokka ducks down and kisses his girlfriend. “I know,” he says brightly. “Take care of the Fire Lord. I’ve heard he’s a handful.”

“I am not!” Zuko protests.

But Sokka’s already jogging backwards with a wide grin, turning at the last moment to climb up Appa’s side, and then everyone is waving and calling goodbyes until Aang says, “Yip yip!” Appa takes off with a building-rattling low, and in moments, they’re all just a speck in the sky.

Suki sniffs, and Zuko averts his gaze to give her a semblance of privacy. He doesn’t look up from the ground until she speaks again. “We should go. Your next meeting is soon.”

Walking back up to the palace, Zuko sees with fresh eyes the imposing, burnt red walls and the narrow black slits for windows. The sky is a cloudless blue, but once he’s inside, Zuko will be none the wiser to the weather; as far as his childhood home is concerned, there isn’t even such a thing as a sky.

Fall arrives. The leaves begin to change color, and Zuko feels like a rat viper shedding its skin.

He’s itching, and he swears that’s the only reason why he lets Ty Lee convince him to skip his last meeting of the day and leave it to Eun and Chenda to take care of. Zuko’s unceremoniously dragged outside, and that’s how he finds himself wandering down a near-empty street in the lower city in the early evening, Ty Lee and his other Kyoshi warrior guard as his only company.

“You seriously haven’t been to Ember Island since you’ve become Fire Lord?” Ty Lee asks, incredulous.

“I’ve been busy,” Zuko replies.

Ty Lee gives him wide, sad eyes. “It really can’t be good for you, staying all cooped up in the palace.”

Zuko gestures all around them. It’s admittedly not that impressive of a view; most of these buildings appear to be boarded up storefronts and unoccupied homes.“I’m outside right now,” he says.

“Because I made you! No wonder your aura is so muddled. You’ve got to deserve a vacation by now.”

“If I take a vacation, then my council has to cover for me, and the work is sometimes too much for even the four of us to handle together.”

“Mai also says you work too hard.”

Zuko double takes. “She’s never told me that.”

Ty Lee shrugs, looking away from Zuko for a moment to scan their surroundings. Zuko fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. He’s technically outgrown the clothes that were made for him a year and a half ago, but the hems aren’t so off and the cuts aren’t so tight that he wants a new set. If he keeps growing taller—he hopes he does—he’ll just need more alterations within a few months, anyway.

He’s also still itching, in a way that has nothing to do with his clothes. “Ty Lee,” he says, “Does Mai—”

“Lord Zuko!”

Even as Zuko hears the warning shout of the other Kyoshi warrior, he feels the tremor in the ground beneath his feet, and he leaps to the side of the road as blocks of earth rupture through the cobblestones where Zuko was just standing. His blood roars in his ears, and his eyes dart between the buildings around them, trying to figure out where the earthbender could be hiding—

Three more prongs of rising earth curve towards Zuko and his guards, forcing them to leap further apart from each other. Zuko’s never seen earth curve like that, like it could be water, but he doesn’t have time to dwell on that. Tracing the lines in reverse, their attacker must be around the corner of the building at the coming intersection, and even as Zuko surges forward, the other Kyoshi warrior moves in the same direction and Ty Lee springboards off an abandoned cart to land on a roof top.

More earth shoots at them, pointed rocks flying through the air, and Zuko swipes his open palm across the air in front of him, sending out a wall of flame that protects him and the other warrior from the first volley. His legs keep getting caught in the flowing fabric of his formal robes, and how do the Kyoshi warriors deal with their skirts every day? From his peripheral, Zuko sees Ty Lee jump the gap between two buildings. A column of earth shoots out at her, but she adjusts her angle to use the attack to launch herself even closer to where the assailant must be hiding—

Their attacker steps out, a mountain of rippling muscle, and where did someone in the capital find this guy, but suddenly Zuko has to do a flip off of the wall that spontaneously rises up in front of him, and this guy thought Zuko would knock himself out by running headfirst into a wall?

He’s offended, and then he wants to laugh, because the chances of a random Earth Kingdom citizen showing up to kill Zuko only days after the Avatar left is slim to none, so this must be another assassin, and Zuko’s not even offended that someone wants to kill him; he’s offended by their tactics.

Zuko punches out flames from his fist to blow down the wall, and when it’s short enough for him to leap over, he has fire ready and waiting in his palms only to see Ty Lee jab two more points on the man’s already half-limp body. At that, he drops like a sack of taro root.

Ty Lee waits to make sure he’s down and then beams up at Zuko and the other Kyoshi warrior, who ended up on a roof on the other side of the street. “That was fun,” Ty Lee says. “It’s been so long since I’ve fought an earthbender!”

The other Kyoshi warrior audibly sighs and descends from her roof.

They put the man in a holding cell in the palace that’s heavily guarded—not so much because he could escape, but more so because Suki is worried that some else might come to break him out. 

“Do you see his tattoos?” Suki asks Zuko and Mai quietly. The three of them are watching from a distance as a palace guards secure several wooden planks over the metal bars of the cell. “Those patterns belong to a group of mercenaries who operate south of the strait. They’re effective fighters and innovative benders, but they have a tendency to open their mouths for money.”

“We’re not bribing him to talk,” Zuko immediately says.

“I only mean that the person who hired him, if they know his band’s reputation, has reason to try to release or silence him.”

“You know you can’t just talk to him and let him go, either,” Mai says.

She says it like a non-question question, like she knows it’s not up for debate, and Zuko hates it when someone’s acting like an argument with him has already been won. Azula does it to him all the time. This time, though, Zuko has to concede that Mai is right. This man isn’t like the assassins of his first year, who held deep convictions but were inexperienced and alone. Releasing this man poses an actual threat to Zuko’s life and, more importantly, makes it that much hard for the Kyoshi warriors to do what they’re trying to do.

That doesn’t stop Zuko from trying to meet the man’s eyes, but the assassin has curled himself in a corner of the cell and looks, for all intents and purposes, like he’s about to take a nap. “I know,” Zuko tells Mai.

His girlfriend reaches out to tuck a hand into the crook of Zuko’s elbow, and he finds himself watching her as she stares at the assassin. He wonders how they spend so much of the day and every night together, and yet she hasn’t, for whatever reason, told him that she thinks he works too much. Did he push his side too far with this whole assassination thing, and now she doesn’t trust him to listen to her? Is her father’s voice in her head, telling her that women shouldn’t be heard?

“I’ll let you know if we learn anything,” Suki says, “but … I wouldn’t expect anything soon.”

The assassin is indeed sleeping, snoring softly with his large shoulder as his pillow.

After he and Mai leave the holding cells, they take a simple dinner in Zuko’s chambers. They eat in silence, each looking over a stack of council-related reports, until Zuko asks, “Is there anything you want to talk to me about?”

Mai pauses mid-bite to meet his eyes. Her eyebrows lower, and she chews and swallows before saying, in a baffled tone, “No.”

Zuko fidgets. Mai remains silent, watching him inquisitively with her chopsticks hovering above her bowl. “Okay,” Zuko eventually says, and Mai tucks back into her meal, expression impassive once again.

Later, long after Mai’s fallen asleep, Zuko slips out of bed and goes down to the holding cells with his Kyoshi guards. To his disappointment, the assassin is still sleeping when Zuko arrives, his head now on his other shoulder and his snores rattling off the walls.

One of his guards clears her throat softly. “You should be sleeping, too, Lord Zuko.”

Zuko tucks his hair behind his ear. It’s really starting to get long. “You’re right,” he says, and he lets himself be escorted back through the sconce-lit halls to his rooms.

It’s two weeks later, when Zuko and his council are sitting in the royal box of the upper city theatre that isn’t part of the palace but is still considered the royal theatre, that Ty Lee arrives out of uniform, fashionable, and late. “They’re about to start,” Zuko says anxiously, because it’s the debut of Kanya’s production group’s play, so even though he’s not performing, he’s beside himself with nerves.

His words wake Mai from her half-doze, and she sits up to accept Ty Lee’s brief hug. “Sorry!” Ty Lee whispers loudly. The wall sconces start getting snuffed out, and the dark falls as Ty Lee leans over Mai’s lap to tell Zuko, “We have news.”

Zuko’s heart plummets. We can only mean the Kyoshi warriors, which then means—

A tsungi horn blasts through the air, and Zuko whips around to look at the stage. There’s an entire band sitting on a platform that’s suspended from the rafters above the stage, and when Zuko hears Eun gasp behind him, Zuko can’t help but agree. The royal theatre has always used the pit below the stage for musical ensembles, so of course Kanya and her friends decided to throw that tradition to the wind. Zuko sits forward, grins, and tells himself to forget that people are trying to kill him.

He forgets until intermission, at least. When half of the audience lights come back, Mai slips away for a snack, taking Chenda with her, and Ty Lee moves into Mai’s unoccupied seat. “They’re funny,” Ty Lee says, scooting close to Zuko.

Zuko nods his agreement. “News?” he asks under his breath.

Ty Lee laughs as if he’s just said something funny and loops an arm around his neck. They’re in the privacy of the royal box, sure, but there are palace guards here with them, and they can never be too careful in public. “Have you heard of the Dragon Guard?” she whispers.

Zuko wishes Ty Lee were sitting on his other side; his left ear isn’t as sharp as his right. “I don’t think so,” he replies.

“It’s what they call themselves. Nisha has an in.”

“Already?”

Ty Lee pulls back with a giggle. “It involves a boy.”

“What?”

“I’ll fill you in later.” She pats Zuko’s thigh and then twists to beam at Eun. “What do you think of the play?” she asks, and Eun is more than happy to engage.

Zuko spends the rest of intermission wracking his mind for the Dragon Guard, but when the lights come down again, he’s immediately absorbed once more. He laughs and tears up and breaks into an uncontrollable grin when a particularly dazzling sequences of firebending and dancing causes Chenda to sigh, “Oh, wow.” When the show is over, Zuko’s on his feet to clap, and his heart swells when he sees most of the rest of the audience also standing. He’s happy for Kanya’s production group, but he’s also happy about the larger significance of this.

Zuko insists that they all go down to congratulate the group in person, and he wraps Ashok in a tight hug that catches the much taller playwright by surprise. “A strong choice, Pakpao,” Zuko says.

Because that’s what this play was, a fantastical comedy based on a fifteen-verse poem by Pakpao, and Zuko appreciates the hint of rebellion in Ashok’s choice of source material. Sozin had infamously banned all study and performance of Pakpao’s work only a few years into the Hundred Year War, on the grounds that the work contained unpatriotic themes. The decree never made it beyond the capital, though, and Pakpao remained a celebrated Fire Nation poet throughout the rest of the nation. Zuko first encountered Pakpao when he was seven, through the small book of poems painstakingly hand-copied by Ursa and hidden in her dresser. “This will be our little secret,” she told Zuko as he nestled into the curve of her shoulder, and Pakpao became a special treat for days when his father was particularly cruel and Zuko would run to Ursa for comfort.

Ashok grins, wide enough for Zuko to see the gap between his front teeth. “If you have a chance to cause a sensation and rile people up, why not take it?” he says. “I’m glad people liked it.”

What a chaotic way to look at things, Zuko thinks, but he finds himself smiling anyway. He catches sight of Kanya bouncing as she talks to Ty Lee, and he gives Ashok one more congratulations before drifting over to them.

Kanya looks utterly relieved to see him approach, and Zuko gives her an equally tight hug when he reaches her. “Congratulations,” he tells the top of her head.

“Zuko, you never told me how cute Kanya is!” Ty Lee says.

When Zuko and Kanya part, the shorter woman looks both embarrassed and pleased. “Um, it’s okay,” she stammers.

“Seriously, look at you! I love your nose piercing.”

“I like your hair, too.”

Zuko looks between the two of them. He has no idea what’s going on here. “The show was incredible, Kanya,” he says, because that’s safe.

“Thank you, and thank you for having faith in us,” Kanya replies. “And to think that we’re here for the next two months!”

“You deserve it,” Zuko replies kindly.

Kanya levels him with an unusually serious look. “This entire thing was possible because of you,” she emphasizes. “None of us will forget that, ever.”

Zuko looks around, at his friends and his council mingling with the theatre group, and certainty suddenly floods through him. He hasn’t felt a sense of conviction like this in so long, and he means and feels so much more than the simple words when he replies, “It was my pleasure.”

There are meetings, and endless missives, and more attempts on Zuko’s life. A Kyoshi warrior who’s working in the kitchens intercepts a poisoned dish from reaching Zuko. Kyoshi warriors and palace guards working at the palace gates apprehend a woman wearing more knives than Mai did during the war, and they’re in unspoken agreement that they were lucky that the woman was sick and therefore out of sorts enough to break her own cover. A few days later, when the first cold front rolls in and Zuko starts sniffling, Bishal wonders if the woman with the knives somehow infected Zuko on purpose, and Yong chases Zuko out of a courtyard with her spade. “It’s too cold, and you’re sick!” she scolds him.

“I’m not sick,” Zuko insists and then has to talk down a Kyoshi warrior from confiscating Yong’s gardening tools.

His nightmares come back. He tells himself he’s fine, but he struggles to hide the tremor in his hands and the way he sometimes forgets what point he’s trying to make in the middle of speaking. Chenda offers to obtain a sleeping draught from an herbalist she knows and trusts on Ember Island; Zuko declines, for fear that he might be attacked in the middle of the night, and the draught would make him none the wiser to his and Mai’s deaths.

Kanya and Ashok’s play—formally titled The Cavehopper Ballad— becomes the buzz of the capital, and the royal theatre sends Zuko glowing reports of audience attendance and engagement, numbers that haven’t been achieved since early in Azulon’s reign. Ty Lee takes a handful of off-duty warriors to see the show, and when she comes back she tells Zuko that Kanya says hello.

“Do you think Jingyi would like to see it?” Ty Lee asks before Mai tells her to get out of the council room and stop being a distraction.

Zuko watches Ty Lee skip away. “She keeps asking about Kanya,” he realizes.

Suki snorts from her station at the door. “Have you never seen Ty Lee when she has a crush on someone?”

There’s a shattering noise, and Zuko leaps out of his seat and snatches his papers away from the spreading puddle of Mai’s tea. Chenda does the same for the scrolls in front of Mai. “I guess not,” Zuko says, watching his girlfriend carefully uncurl her fingers from around the shards of her porcelain mug—or what remains of it, anyway. “Are you okay?”

“Ow,” Mai says impassively, pulling a small shard out of the flesh of her palm.

Chenda leans over to look at the wound and clucks her tongue. “I’ll grab some bandages.”

Zuko recovers from being under the weather, if not his inability to get a full night’s rest, but then Mai actually gets sick, and she spends the next week holed up in Zuko’s chambers; Mai really doesn’t do well with being ill. She refuses to get out of bed, but she also refuses to be useless, so Zuko lets her take over sorting through his and the council’s incoming mail. It’s late one evening, when Zuko’s reading a summary from Chenda’s committee in the north and Mai’s using his lap as a pillow, that Mai opens a scroll and actually laughs out loud.

Zuko startles. “What?”

“Someone sent you their toddler’s homework.”

Zuko ducks and tilts his head to look at the scroll. “It’s from Sokka,” he says, feeling defensive, and Mai laughs again but lets Zuko take the painting from her hands.

“He’s got some real talent, doesn’t he?”

It’s of Appa and Momo in a forest that lacks enough detail to be identifiable. There are pink and yellow circular smudges in a circlet around Appa’s head, and Momo looks more like a discolored wolfbat than a flying lemur.

“You couldn’t recognize them?” Zuko asks.

“They’re blobs of color.”

“It’s Appa and Momo.”

He holds the scroll open over her face again, and Mai squints. “I guess.”

She sounds bored once more, so Zuko gives up, rolling the scroll and tucking it against his thigh. He waits until Mai falls asleep before carefully getting up from bed and storing the scroll in the desk drawer that has the other painting that Sokka sent him, what feels like forever ago, in the spring.

“They call themselves the Dragon Guard, because they want to bring back the days, during Azulon’s rule, when most every military and political leader had earned the title of Dragon,” Nisha explains.

“But the dragons are dead,” Ty Lee says.

Zuko’s careful to blink normally. It’s just him and the Kyoshi warriors in Ursa’s chambers, right now; he doesn’t know if any of them know the actual truth, but he also doesn’t want to give anything away.

“It’s the ideology behind the Dragon title,” Suki says. “They believe the Fire Nation had found its purpose under Azulon, to ascend to a level of greatness unattainable by the other nations. They want the war to return, and they’re angry that Zuko’s been undoing so much of what Azulon and Ozai did.”

It mostly makes sense to Zuko. While Sozin started the war, for a twisted notion of sharing the accomplishments and prosperity of the Fire Nation with the rest of the world, after Azulon inherited the throne, he made the war about achieving the divine destiny of the Fire Nation to rule the physical world. It’s Azulon’s mindset that still echoes strongly in pockets of Zuko’s nation today. But his father also took that mantle from Azulon.

“Why Azulon’s rule, and not my father’s?” Zuko asks.

Fifteen heads turn at the same time to regard Zuko, where he’s sitting on a floor cushion. He’s grateful that only some of the warriors are in uniform; even with only half of the present warriors wearing their face paint, the sensation of being watched by multiple echos of Avatar Kyoshi is unnerving.

Suki looks at Nisha, and Zuko follows her gaze. “That’s part of it,” Nisha says. Her face paint is stark against her dark skin, and her voice is as smooth and rich as the special dark honey Zuko’s uncle keeps in stock at the Jasmine Dragon. “The Dragon Guard is only united by the shared interest of deposing you. Beyond that, they’re very divided. Some of them want to return Ozai to power, and some of them really don’t want Ozai to retake the throne—they want someone else, and they’re arguing about who that should be.”

“It explains why the assassination attempts have been sporadic and disorderly,” Suki says. “They’ve been competing amongst each other to claim credit for removing you, so their actions are uncoordinated.”

“Some of them don’t want my father back,” Zuko repeats, still wrapping his mind around the thought.

Nisha nods. “Ozai lost his bending,” she says simply, “And even before that, some of the older members of the guard thought he was too motivated by personal power and glory. They argue that he lost sight of the divine reasons for the war.”

Zuko’s right temple starts throbbing. If his father had lost sight, then had his uncle and Lu Ten, who were Azulon and the nation’s favorites, not lost it? He tries to remember what his father and his uncle were like when Zuko was young, before his banishment. He remembers his father complaining, often enough, that Zuko’s uncle was too wrapped up in spirit nonsense; Zuko supposes he assumed that his father was referring to his uncle’s love of folklore tales and legends, not his entire mindset toward and justification for the war.

He rubs his temple and tries to keep his mind from flying off in a hundred different directions. “Names,” he says, grasping onto what Ty Lee told him earlier today. “I heard you have names.”

“They’re not very secretive, for a secret society,” Ty Lee observes.

Suki nods at Nisha again, and Zuko holds Nisha’s dark-eyed gaze as she calmly rattles off a list of names.

They’re mostly families, Zuko realizes. Half of Ozai’s old council, plus several members of Azulon’s council, or their sons and widows. Families who only keep to high society, but still have enough power and connections to control the actions and lives of many others, particularly those living and working in the capital.

It dawns on Zuko that these assassinations are an inside job, but an inside job that he can handle. It’s not all of his people out to get him; it’s a handful of old families that have cloistered themselves from the world and are clinging to their old ways.

He turns to his side to find Suki’s eyes. “Are you ready to take action?”

Suki surveys the room, and as she’s met with smirks and nods and determined looks, a grim smile spreads across her own lips. “We’re ready,” she confirms.

Their plan is finalized in the first week of winter, at which point Zuko finally brings it to his council. They’re on the council balcony in the early evening when he talks through it, just the four of them and Suki and Ty Lee, and his explanation is first met with silence. Ty Lee shifts her weight at Zuko’s side, but he and Suki are as still as the dragon statues that watch over the palace’s main entrance.

Mai is the first to speak. “I don’t like it.”

“If something goes wrong, you’re playing right into their hands,” Eun adds.

“Nothing will go wrong,” Zuko reassures.

“It’s for evidence, isn’t it?” Chenda asks.

Mai and Eun turn to her, but Chenda only has eyes for Zuko. “Yes,” he says.

“Incontrovertible evidence, so even if this guard has strings to pull in the courts, their complicity would be undeniable.”

“As close to undeniable as we can get,” Suki clarifies.

Chenda purses her lips. “I’m not fond of it,” she says, eyes flitting to Suki and Ty Lee, “but I trust the Kyoshi warriors.”

Eun inhales deeply. “I know the warden, and I can try to transfer people we trust to guard the prison, so we’ll have more support on the day.”

Suki nods. “If it can be done without raising suspicion, it’d definitely help.”

Zuko looks between Mai, Eun, and Chenda. They don’t look happy, and Zuko isn’t necessarily happy, either, but he’s … energized. There’s something thrumming under his skin, something telling him to go go go, to take action when he’s spent so many months just waiting—for what, he doesn’t know. But that hardly matters, now that he’s made his decision. He’s doing something.

“Thank you,” Zuko says. “I need your support in this, so thank you.”

Chenda nods, and Eun claps him on the shoulder before they return inside. Mai remains still and silent, and it becomes apparent that she won’t do anything until she and Zuko are alone.

“Can I have a moment with Mai?” Zuko asks quietly, and Suki and Ty Lee obligingly follow his other councilors.

When they’re alone, Mai finally looks up. There’s just enough light spilling out from the council room to let him see the color of her eyes. “Let me go with you,” she says, jaw set.

“We can’t.”

“After I’ve spent months by you, you don’t—”

“It’d raise suspicion if you came when you were supposed to be elsewhere,” Zuko cuts in. “You know that.”

Mai inhales deeply and closes her eyes. “Are you trying to die?”

Something in Zuko feels attacked by the question. “No,” he says. “This isn’t me giving up. I’m doing something about it, like you’re always telling me to.”

Mai opens her eyes to find a chair and sit down. Zuko follows her. “I’m going to be so mad at you if this doesn’t work,” she tells the ground.

“It will work,” Zuko insists. “We have to believe.”

He reaches out to take her hand, and his girlfriend finally looks at him. He can’t read the emotion that’s held in her eyes. “I have something important to ask of you,” he says. It’s not part of the official plan, but it’s one of the details that matters most to Zuko. “I’d like you and Ty Lee to be with Azula when this happens. We don’t know exactly how everything will go, but I want to be sure nothing happens to her.” Mai glances behind her, presumably at Ty Lee, and Zuko adds, “Ty Lee knows.”

“She agreed to it?”

“Yes.”

“We haven’t spoken to Azula in years.”

There’s something in her voice, like guilt or anger or regret or hesitation, and Zuko understands. It’s been difficult for him to parse whether moments from him and his sister’s past were the consequence of their screwed-up upbringing, or intentional cruelty on Azula’s part, or both at the same time; he imagines Mai and Ty Lee, as Azula’s childhood friends, have encountered similar questions. So he tries to put as much understanding and as little pressure in his tone as he says, “I think she misses you, as much as she lets herself miss anyone.”

Mai sighs. “I’ll think about it.”

Zuko squeezes her hand. “Thank you.”

She goes silent, staring out over the city, and Zuko takes it as a hint to leave. When he slides open the door to the council room, Ty Lee immediately comes up to him, biting the inside of her cheek. “Is she okay?” she asks.

Zuko shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“I’ll go talk to her.”

Zuko isn’t sure what talking to Mai’s going to do, but he watches anyway as Ty Lee slips outside and approaches her friend. They exchange a few words, and then Ty Lee’s ducking down to hug Mai, and something twists in Zuko’s stomach when his girlfriend stands up to cling tightly to her friend, tucking her face into Ty Lee’s neck and holding her closer than she’s ever held Zuko.

The plan starts like this:

The council is hosting a meeting in its rooms regarding the preliminary plans for this year’s new year celebrations. Present at the meeting are four identified members of the Dragon Guard: two of Ozai’s councilors, the widow of one of Azulon’s councilors, and the son of another. The meeting runs as usual—they do actually have to plan the celebration—until the midnight welcome and fireworks are mentioned. “I’d like Councilwoman Mai to make the speech,” Zuko declares. “I want to welcome the new year with my father.”

The room is startled into silence. “My lord,” the widow eventually says, her tone stiff, “It’s customary that the Fire Lord gives the speech and signals the display.”

Zuko shrugs. He’s let himself become more casual in these meetings, in the hope that it really grates on the Dragon Guard’s nerves—according to Nisha, it’s working. Why not rile people up when possible, indeed. “I trust Mai to do it. Besides, most people will be too drunk to notice the difference.”

The widow looks offended by the direct reference to public intoxication, but she doesn’t press further.

And so Zuko keeps dropping details in front of different members of the Dragon Guard at different times and settings, sometimes even engaging in a fake conversation with members of his council. Yes, he’s sure he wants to speak to his father; the New Year is about new beginnings, and maybe Ozai will have come around. Of course he’s taking his guard with him, he’s not an idiot. He doesn’t know exactly when he’ll get there, because he wants to see some of the celebrations, but he absolutely will see midnight through with his father.

The days drag on but the weeks fly quickly, and it’s a week out from the new year when Zuko’s struck by the realization that he’s going to see his father again, for the first time in over a year. In fact, he hasn’t seen Ozai since a few months after Zuko’s coronation, when Azula was really unwell and Zuko was scared and desperate, enough to foolishly go to his father in search of advice. Ozai, curled in the corner of his cell and leering through the metal bars, had chuckled and then laughed and then cackled, until the cackling turned to spitting, and then that turned to spewing vitriol. “Your sister lost it,” Ozai spat. “She gets that from your mother, you know. Your mother’s whole family just went crazy, they were deranged, insane, and you know that’s why you’ll crack, too, you pathetic maggot slug.”

Zuko decided to never see his father again, if he could help it. And, he supposes, it turns out he can’t.

The day of the festival arrives, and the celebration is even larger and warmer than the year before. Once again, Zuko’s confined to a single building open only to those on an exclusive guest list, and now there are Kyoshi warriors everywhere—all seventeen who have been in uniform and living in the palace over the last several months, as well as the ten undercover in the middle city. Zuko doesn’t dare eat or drink anything that isn’t handed to him by one of the warriors who have been working in the kitchen, and he’d feel the emptiness of his stomach more if he wasn’t blazing on the inside. The piece of the sun living inside of him is pushing at his limits, and throughout the night he keeps manually snuffing out candles just so he can let the flames escape a bit to relight them.

Eventually, the time comes. Zuko finds Mai, who’s standing with Ty Lee and Eun at the back of the large hall. “Thank you,” he tells her again.

She grabs his hand and squeezes tightly, her nails digging into his skin. “Be safe,” she says, and that’s how Zuko knows that she’s really worried.

He gives her the best smile he can muster and promises, “I won’t be stupid.”

Her lips twitch, the closest thing to a laugh he’s drawn out of her in a while, and she lets him go.

The prison is just outside the walls of the lower city, and though this is Zuko’s first journey outside the outer limits of the capital since his last visit to Ozai, the path he walks with his combined party of Kyoshi warrior and palace guards is familiar: this is the prison where his uncle was held after Zuko betrayed him in Ba Sing Se. Zuko journeys in silence, grateful that he has a reason to look contemplative right now. Suki and Nisha are by his side, and Bishal is one of the four palace guards with him, but Zuko can’t be sure of the other guards—not when the Dragon Guard’s influence and money run so deep and so selfishly, to the very real danger of others with less means and stature.

Over the months, Zuko has found more and more reasons to be furious with the Dragon Guard, the attempts on his life dropping increasingly lower on his list of whys.

They reach the bridge that crosses the short but deep chasm that isolates the mountain into which the prison is built. Part of Zuko wants to stop and observe the surroundings, as being on the bridge will put him in a vulnerable position, but he can’t give away now that he’s ready for an attack. He forces himself to walk on, listening intently and ignoring the itch in his palms that want to hold a flame at the ready. The wood creaks beneath his feet, and his breath catches, but the bridge doesn’t give out. Wind whistles in the gorge. In the near distance, small fireworks burst above the heart of the capital, their popping nowhere near as loud as the midnight display will be, but audible nonetheless.

They all cross safely. Zuko’s heart starts beating faster.

Two guards stand at the entrance to the prison, and they bow when Zuko’s face becomes visible from the light of the torches hung high on the walls. “Fire Lord Zuko,” the elder guard says.

“I’m here to see my father,” he says.

His voice wavers slightly, at the end of his sentence, but no one seems to notice. The guards bow again and then pull open the large, wooden double doors. The sconces in the entrance hall are lit low, so Zuko lets a flame burst to life in his palm as he enters. Bishal and another palace guard who can bend do the same, and when the doors shut behind them, the blue light of the moon is replaced by flickering orange and red.

Zuko’s just made the first turn when he hears the muffled, solid thud he was dreading and expecting: the guards outside have dropped a heavy wooden beam across the doors, a beam only meant to be used in the case of an escape attempt. Their entrance was their only exit, and now they’re sealed inside.

Suki coughs, but Zuko ignores her. They don’t need to drop their pretenses yet. They accounted for the beam in their planning, having several Kyoshi warriors follow them a few minutes behind from the festivities in the capital, and besides, they have yet to be attacked.

Bishal leads their descent down the first set of narrow stairs, which open up onto a block of cells. Three guards patrol this hall, and aside from short bows to Zuko, they don’t bother the party. Zuko replaces Bishal at the front and walks steadily, surreptitiously taking in his surroundings. At the end of the next cell block is the entrance to the only stairs that descend to the deepest level of this building, where Ozai and only a few other criminals—people twisted enough that even Ozai and Azulon wanted them locked away—are held.

The figures in these cells stay to the shadows, huddling close to the back walls of their cells, and Zuko swallows. Discomfort writhes up his spine, and it doesn’t have much to do with the fact that someone might try to kill him any moment now. There are more inmates that he expected, or maybe he didn’t realize what a number on a piece of paper would translate to in real life—

“Ah!”

Zuko whirls around, the flame in his palm bursting to life for better visibility, and chaos erupts.

Bishal is pinned against the bars of a cell by the other firebending palace guard, but Nisha darts in and strikes his neck. The guard crumples to the floor, and then Suki shouts, “Zuko!” and Zuko hears and feels the roar of flame at his back—

He drops to the floor and kicks up a protective wall of fire as the rattle of cell doors sliding open fills the hall, and Zuko’s imagination wasn’t wrong—some of these inmates aren’t inmates. Zuko lets his flames die, and Suki leaps in front of him to fend off the prison guard who attacked Zuko, redirecting blows until she can get close and strike him until his fire no longer responds to him. 

There’s a prison guard at Zuko’s back, but she’s cursing out the released inmates who are actually members of the Dragon Guard, because of course. It’s a smart ambush, Zuko acknowledges, and when a figure lunges out of a nearby cell to grab Zuko, Zuko flips his assailant over his shoulder, tosses him back into the cell, flinches as something sharp slices into his arm, and slams the door shut again. He wraps his hand around the overlapping bars of the door and the wall and recalls the purity of the heat that the dragons showed him, and the metal against his palm glows and then melts and then fuses, and he feels more than sees Nisha kick away another Dragon Guard who comes for Zuko’s back.

The attacker Zuko has trapped throws himself at the bars, dancing firelight reflected in his eyes. Zuko recognizes him as one of Ozai’s councilors. “Just because a fire has died, that doesn’t mean the coal and embers aren’t hot enough to burn,” he barks at Zuko, spittle hitting Zuko’s face. “They’ll bring back the roaring flames that burned high, the great wall of fire before the throne rekindled—”

Zuko breathes deep from his belly and exhales flames. They don’t even cross the bars, but the ex-councilor yelps and stumbles away.

“Zuko!”

Zuko ducks beneath the punch of the son of one of Azulon’s councilors, lands a solid kick in his gut, and falls back to Suki’s voice.

“Our only way is down!” Zuko shouts, punching out flames to cover their retreat. His left arm throbs and feels worryingly wet. It’s him, Nisha, Suki, Bishal, and the prison guardswoman, and he doesn’t have time to wonder if the other palace guards fell trying to attack or defend him.

“What if more are hiding in the cells down there?” Nisha shoots back.

“We can’t exactly move up right now,” Bishal says.

“And we’re not being attacked from behind,” Suki adds.

“There’s no one down there,” the prison guard confirms. “The transferred inmates only came to this block—Fire Lord Zuko, I’m so sorry—”

A whip of flame snaps toward them, and Zuko steps forward to meet it and redirect it up, a spout of fire splashing up to the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” Zuko tells the guard, because it’s hardly fair that they knew what was coming tonight and she didn’t—

“Duck!”

Zuko drops to the floor, and Nisha’s metal fan flashes out to deflect a throwing star into an empty cell. “Stop chatting,” Nisha snaps, and Zuko scrambles to grab the prison guard and bring them to the stairs.

The lowest floor starts as a narrow hallway that opens up to a small block of cells, narrows again, and then ends at Ozai’s cell. Bishal leads the way forward, pushing extra life into the widely spaced sconces mounted high on the walls, but it does little to dispel the deep shadows. These hallways were never meant to be bright, and the ragged black stone is cold enough to make the palace Zuko so dislikes seem like a welcoming place.

They stop in the first block. Zuko impatiently rips off the sleeves of his formal robe, tying one of them around the wound on his arm, as Nisha and Bishal check the cells. Of the four, only three are occupied. A wheezing laugh comes from a dark corner. “Prince Zuko?” says a scratchy, reedy voice.

“They didn’t think this through,” Suki says.

Zuko glances at her before focusing again on the hallway they just came from. Voices and the clatter of footsteps grow louder. “What?”

“There’s one hallway. We’ll have to pick them off one at a time.”

“I told you they weren’t the brightest,” Nisha mutters. “Just rich.”

Zuko’s about to agree when something glints in the middle of the dark hallway. “Watch it!” he shouts, lunging low to the side, and then he catches a second flash, too late, because if he moves it’ll strike worse—

He isn’t expected to be knocked over by the force of impact, but he is, and he shouts when pain shoots out from the softer flesh between his shoulder and his chest. He moves his arm and oh, why did he do that, whatever it is has twisted further into his body—

He reaches with his opposite hand to yank out the source of the pain, but the prison guard is suddenly there to knock his hand back and drag Zuko away from the mouth of the hallway. “Don’t,” she says urgently. “It’s barbed. Taking it out will only make you bleed faster.”

Zuko twists his neck to look at the wound and wishes he hadn’t. It doesn’t look any more natural than it feels.

Shouts come from the hall, and Zuko pushes himself up with his good arm. “What—”

“Stay down, Lord Zuko,” Nisha instructs, eyes trained on the hallway and metal fans held out defensively. Suki and Bishal are no where to be seen, and they must have gone back to engage the attackers.

Zuko staggers to his feet and grabs his second torn sleeve off the ground. “Help me make a sling,” he tells the prison guard.

Her eyes flare wide. “My lord—”

“Do it.”

She obliges, and with his arm incapacitated by the throwing star now tucked safely against his chest, Zuko bounces on his feet, summoning fire to his left palm. A body comes tumbling out of the hallway, and before the person can right herself, Nisha clips her temple with a fan and tosses her to the side. It’s the widow of one of Azulon’s councilors, the one who was disgruntled with Mai giving the speech to welcome the new year. When she falls, her outer layer falls open to reveal an array of knives, some of which match the one that’s lodged in Zuko’s shoulder. “Pull back!” Suki shouts, and then she and Bishal burst out of the hall, followed by a spout of flame.

A prison guard springs forward, followed by another of Ozai’s council. Bishal grabs the guard by a loose shoulder strap, hauling him to the center of the cell block, and Zuko takes the opening to kick a flame into the councilor’s face. With an arm trapped against his torso, Zuko’s balance is wildly off, and he has to turn his back on the councilor to land on his feet. He feels heat on the back of his neck, and then flames appear at his side from the guardswoman, but then he locks eyes with the other prison guard, who slams his helmet against Bishal’s and charges for Zuko—

Zuko ducks into a forward roll, grunting against the scream of his shoulder and the pain of his hairpiece suddenly stabbing into his scalp, and comes up to see his attacker barrel into the prison guard. “No!” Zuko shouts, but the guardswoman shoves off the wall while driving an elbow into the other guard’s jaw. He instantly drops to the ground, and the hallways explodes with flame again—

They throw themselves to the sides of the room, and Zuko ends up pressed against the bars of an occupied cell. He catches sight of teeth chattering gleefully, and a shiver rolls down his spine. He recognizes the sound—it’s the tic of a man who Azulon threw behind bars for life, for luring teenagers into his home and committing unspeakable horrors, but not so unspeakable that Ozai wouldn’t detail them with fascinated glee when contemplating what punishment to dole out for perceived disloyalty—

“How many more?” Nisha shouts.

“Can’t be more than four!” Suki replies.

Four people, five of them.

It’s simple.

Zuko runs to the center of the cell block, staring down Ozai’s councilor, whose robes are singed from whoever had just attacked from the hallway. “Come on!” he shouts, at the councilor and whoever else is lurking in the shadows. “What are you waiting for? FINISH me!”

The councilor laughs, fire bursting to life in his hands. “You think you can best a dragon?” he jeers.

“I am a dragon,” Zuko snarls.

A golden fan strikes the councilor’s temple, and three walls of flame hurtle down the hall towards Zuko.

He drops into a sideways stance and summons flames to his good hand, moving his open palm in a tight circle, remembering how the dragons surrounded him and Aang in a brilliant tunnel of color, remembering how Aang cleared the ashy night sky for Appa, and he breathes energy and life into the revolving memories—revolution. The vortex of flame spiraling out of his palm grows with his breath and grows as it absorbs the fire being thrown at him. The world around him becomes wavy with the heat, and he can just make out three figures emerging from the hall, doing their best to resist Zuko, but they only ever killed and never sought to understand. His fire keeps swelling, and it’s only when sweat drips down his temple that he realizes he needs to stop if he doesn’t want to harm everyone here, including himself.

His flames dissipate, and the last attackers of the Dragon Guard suddenly fall forward with nothing pushing against them. They struggle over one another to get up, but Suki and Nisha leap forward, and in a blink they’re reduced to a chi-blocked pile of groans.

Zuko’s trembling. For a moment, there’s only ragged breathing, and the wheezing giggling still coming from the corner of one cell. 

And then, from far down the hall, footfalls and the brush of fabric.

Suki holds up a hand, inhales to steady herself, and then whistles a four-note tune. The footfalls stop—Zuko’s heart stutters—

An answering four-note whistle.

Relief washes over Suki, but she doesn’t relax her alert posture. “We’re okay!” she calls, and torches flicker to life, held by approaching Kyoshi warriors.

Zuko drops his head, gathering himself. His wounds pulse in time with his heart, smaller pains thumping to life, and his clothing is damp and heavy against his skin. His topknot is askew, and though his headpiece is in danger of falling out of his hair, he can’t be bothered to fix it. The only comfort is the warmth that’s still nestled in his chest, an internal flame that flares with each inhale.

“Fire Lord Zuko?”

Zuko looks up. Bishal approaches, sporting a busted lip and several burns on his exposed forearms. He reaches out, as if to support Zuko, and Zuko shakes his head. There’s something he needs to do. He turns and slips into the narrow, lightless hallway behind him.

“Zuko!”

He ignores Bishal’s shout, ignores that it’s the first time Bishal has dropped the title that always rang funnily in Zuko’s ears anyway, ignores that Bishal follows him down the hallway. He reaches the last cell block, the block that always has sconces burning, because without his bending anymore, Ozai could die from the cold down here.

Ozai’s waiting for him, sitting on the stone floor with his back leaned against the bars of the cell. He looks at Zuko from over his shoulder and between the strands of his jet black hair, the thick and straight locks that Zuko inherited from him. “It’s the best trait you got from your father,” Ursa used to tell him when Zuko would complain about how knotted and heavy his hair was, and how much care it required.

Zuko pushes aside the memory. “Father,” he says evenly.

“Son,” Ozai replies, his tone scathing enough that the single word almost frightens Zuko.

Almost.

Zuko wraps his good hand around a bar of the cell, and his palm begins to heat the metal without him realizing it. “It’s a new year,” he intones, staring down his father. “Where’s my mother?”

There are injuries, but there are no dead, and Zuko breathes easier for it.

The Dragon Guard had fallen for the tantalizing bait of reaching Zuko and Ozai at the same time, and with few of the members actually trusting each other, most of them had showed up to participate in the ill-planned trap they set. There are enough witnesses who weren’t in the know from the start, like Bishal and the prison guardswoman, Ming, that Zuko has plenty of evidence to prove the wrongdoings of the Dragon Guard. He finds out from a messenger sent by Ty Lee that absolutely nothing happened at the healing center, and knowing that Azula is safe steadies Zuko. He’s still alive, and he can still make sure that nothing happens to her.

Several dragon moose carriages are sent to help bring the injured and the weary back to the palace and, if needed, the military infirmary. Zuko refuses to get into a carriage until everyone else is taken care of, and he ends up with Bishal, Nisha, and Suki. Nisha’s ankle is swelling something fierce, so Suki opts to sit with the driver to allow Nisha to prop her leg up.

That doesn’t stop Nisha from leaning across the carriage to peer at Zuko’s wounds. The throwing star is still in his shoulder, but at least the gash has stopped bleeding. His right side looks like the overenthusiastic effects of a war drama play.

“I don’t think you’ll want anyone but Chenda to deal with that,” Nisha says.

Zuko laughs, only because he thinks the exhaustion is getting to him. “Chenda probably won’t let anyone deal with it but her.”

He catches sight of Bishal’s burns again, and Bishal gives him a reassuring smile when he notices. “It’s fine,” he says. “I’ve had worse burns.”

Zuko barely stops himself from asking if they were from his sister. “It’s been a while,” he says instead. “Will the salve from the infirmary still be able to prevent scarring?”

Bishal studies his forearms and shrugs. “I don’t think I’ll mind the scars, actually.”

Zuko nods absently, using his good hand to scratch at some of the blood that has dried on and started to itch his skin.

They ride in silence for several minutes. It’s funny to see smaller firework shows still bursting over different parts of the capital, the festivities having drifted beyond the upper city. Zuko’s eyelids are growing heavy, and he almost dozes off when Bishal starts giggling.

Zuko and Nisha stare at him. He won’t stop.

“What’s so funny?” Nisha asks.

The giggling erupts into full laughter, and Zuko spots a tear leaking out of Bishal’s eye. “Are you okay?” Zuko asks, thrown for a loop.

Bishal turns to him, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and struggling to control his breath. “I—“ he wheezes. “’I am a dragon,’” he finally quotes.

Nisha bursts into laughter, which sets Bishal off again, and Zuko’s entire face grows hot. He sinks in his seat and drops his head into his hands with a moan.

“‘I am a dragon.’”

“No, ‘I am a dragon.’”

“You’re making me sound so lame,” Zuko whines, but he realizes he’s smiling, uncontrollably so.

“But you’re a dragon.”

“You are a dragon.”

“I’m gonna die.”

“Not after all the work we just did to keep you alive,” Nisha says.

“I’m going to yank this thing out of my shoulder and bleed out and die.”

Bishal giggles again, the sound so high and delirious that Zuko starts laughing, even as his ribs ache with the movement. “I am a dragon,” Zuko growls, and Nisha shrieks with hilarity.

Zuko leans his head back against the carriage window, still shuddering from a full body snicker. The moon shines bright in the winter sky, and Zuko smiles at her, soaking in the sounds of joy and happiness and life all around him.

Chapter Text

three years after

“I’m going to start pushing up again, okay? Tell me if it’s too much.”

Zuko inhales deeply as Chenda applies pressure with the heel of her palms to the underside of his extended forearms. There’s a strain in his right shoulder as his arms rise in front of him, and he grits his teeth as the wound he received on the night of the Dragon Guard trap begins to throb a familiar pain. Sweat breaks on his brow, and when a noise escapes his lips, Chenda relaxes. 

Zuko’s arms drop with hers. “Why’d you stop?”

Chenda frowns disapprovingly. “Healing can’t be rushed, Zuko.” She steps closer to probe his wound, digging into the muscle and the harder scarring beneath his skin. “It’s getting better. If we keep with this, you’ll be able to regain near full range of motion.”

Zuko grunts noncommittally. He knows Chenda’s right, but he’s never had the patience for recovery. Sometimes, the only way he can get through Chenda’s exercises is the reminder that his injury could have been much worse: three weeks ago, when Zuko woke again after he’d passed out from the pain of the throwing star being removed, Chenda had looked visibly shaken. “You’re lucky,” she told him. “You could have bled much worse. You could’ve lost all use of this arm.”

He’s never thought of himself as lucky, before, and it’s hard to feel that way now.

Zuko grabs his shirt from where it’s draped over the railing and pulls it back on. He isn’t cold, in spite of the winter weather—he never really gets cold, anymore, with the knowledge that his uncle and the dragons have shared with him—but it does feel odd to be unclothed on the council balcony. As he tucks in his shirt, he asks Chenda, “Am I allowed to fight today?”

She nods, and Zuko grins.

“Bishal!”

Bishal picks up on the excitement in Zuko’s voice, and he proffers Zuko one of his two short practice blades as he crosses the balcony. They’ve pushed all the furniture to the side, leaving them a space suitably large for the partial-intensity fights that Zuko insisted be incorporated into his recovery. Zuko had been thrilled to find out Bishal was as adept with sword as he was with fire; none of Bishal’s four siblings are benders, so, growing up, his parents had prohibited him from fighting with his siblings using means unavailable to them.

Bishal isn’t in uniform today, instead wearing simple but durable clothes that were made in a home rather than a tailor’s shop, which means he’ll be quicker on his feet and Zuko will have to be faster. Zuko tosses his sword between his hands, testing the grip of his right side. It feels easy and sure, in a way that it hadn’t a week ago. 

“Are you ready, or what?”

Zuko looks up at Bishal. His guard is light on the balls of his feet, his practice blade at the ready and his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, revealing the red and white scars that spiderweb up his arms. Bishal feints a jab, even though Zuko’s nowhere near him.

Zuko grins. “I’m ready,” he says and explodes forward.

The web of power, prestige, and influence that the Dragon Guard once had crumbles quickly.

Every day, Zuko spends at least a couple hours working with the Kyoshi warriors, and occasionally members of his council, to gather and sort and cross reference testimonies that keep coming to them. It had started as a trickle, then grew to a flood, and only recently has subsided again. Zuko pardons those who were coerced into cooperation with the Dragon Guard, and demotes or fines or fires the few of those in the palace who were actively working with the Guard—some in exchange for bribes so high that even Mai, who comes from wealth and has no qualms about spending it in grand amounts, raises an eyebrow. When it comes to the actual members of the guard, it’s Nisha who introduces to Zuko the idea of a public hearing and sentencing. 

“It’s what the current leader of my home province did, when she first came to power,” Nisha says. “We were used to corrupt and self-serving leaders who would announce criminal sentences with no explanation, no justification. But from the start, she would take important cases to the public.”

“It worked for her?” Zuko asks.

Nisha shrugs. “People don’t always agree with her decisions, but she’s earned a reputation for honesty. I think, personally, we’ve become more trusting as a community on the whole.”

It’s a far cry from what surrounded Zuko when he was growing up, with people going missing in the night and Fire Nation soldiers appearing at homes with no warning to seize property as restitution for unspecified losses. His own mother disappeared with no warning. And Zuko’s hardly going to extend the offer of an Agni Kai to all nineteen people who endorsed the idea of ambushing Zuko in the dark of a prison on a holiday when he was, supposedly, going to make amends with his father.

So he looks around the room, at his council and a handful of the Kyoshi warriors, and when they all watch him back, Zuko nods. “Let’s do it.”

It takes fives days to get through all nineteen members of the Dragon Guard. They hold court in the plaza where Zuko was coronated, because he wants this to happen somewhere outdoors and obvious and easy to reach for everyone; he doesn’t anticipate the gallery to fill with curious citizens, but it does, every day. Throughout, Zuko has Mai at his right and Suki at his left, and when no one fires an arrow or throws a cabbage at his head after he’s finished reading the first sentence, Zuko remembers how to breathe. 

He survives it, as he’s survived many other, worse things before, and he doesn’t realize how relieved he is to put this all behind him until Eun squeezes Zuko’s upper arm, the same gesture that had caused Eun to flinch at their first meeting. “We’re proud of you, Zuko,” Eun says. “You can rest now.”

Something hot pricks behind Zuko’s eyes, and he throws his arms around Eun so he can hide his face from the world.

The Kyoshi warriors depart three days after the last sentencing, and Zuko’s far from the only one seeing them off. There’s a whole crowd of people from the palace and the capital gathered in front of the palace gates. He hadn’t realized how quickly the Kyoshi warriors have woven themselves into their temporary home, and as Zuko sees his people exchange laughs and smiles and hugs with warriors who have come to represent so many backgrounds and different parts of the world, he feels a lightness bloom in his chest.

“You know, you can write anytime, Zuko,” Suki says. “If even Sokka manages to get his letters to me, you must have no trouble with that.”

“He just has trouble asking for help,” Ty Lee says, suddenly appearing to sling an arm around Zuko’s neck.

Zuko yelps and stumbles as he’s yanked down to Ty Lee’s level. “Are you trying to break my neck?”

“Stop pretending you don’t like a good cuddle, Zuko.”

Zuko pouts at Suki, who laughs. “You can also write to just say hi,” she says.

“If you write to us, you’ll stop being surprised when we find out stuff from Mai,” Ty Lee adds.

“Okay, I get it,” Zuko says. He’s never been one to write letters. Growing up, he never had friends outside of the capital—or any friends, for that matter, who weren’t Azula’s friends first—and then there was his banishment, and then the war, and suddenly, as Zuko’s life now seems to revolve around letters and missives, correspondence with his friends constantly drops back to the bottom of the priority list.

If he had all the freedom in the world, he’s rather meet his friends in person, but there are some liberties he gave up when he took this title and throne.

“Oh!” Ty Lee exclaims from Zuko’s side. She rises on her toes to wrap both of her arms around his neck, and Zuko returns the hug with a painfully hunched spine. It’s like Ty Lee hasn’t noticed that she’s no longer the tallest among them—or maybe she’s doing it on purpose, because she’s always liked to needle Zuko. Regardless, he squeezes her tight when she says, “We love you, Zuko. And I’ll miss you! I miss you already!”

“I’ll try to write,” Zuko promises.

She hightails off, an eagerness in her step, and Zuko watches Ty Lee’s swinging braid until she disappears into the crowd. 

“She probably saw Kanya,” Suki says.

“I guess so,” Zuko agrees.

He turns back to Suki in time to see her smirk morph into something more serious. “Are you sure you don’t want us to search for your mother?”

Zuko presses his lips together, and Suki puts a comforting hand on his forearm.

The night of the trap, Suki had followed Bishal, who had chased after Zuko when he went to Ozai. Ozai hadn’t answered Zuko’s question, of course, equivocating and contradicting himself until he eventually spit at Zuko’s feet and turned away. But Suki had heard enough that, when she brought it up later, Zuko told her about Ursa: how she’d disappeared the same day that Azula said Ozai was going to kill Zuko, how he assumed she had died—because that’s how Ozai often dealt with people he no longer wanted—and how his father had taunted him on the eclipse about his mother possibly being alive. How he had wanted to find her, but now he’s no longer sure if he does.

“Thank you, but I’m sure,” Zuko says.

Suki nods. “If you ever change your mind, we’re only a letter away.”

“Suki.”

She laughs, and Zuko opens his arms, welcoming Suki to tuck herself against him. Her hair is soft against the bottom of his chin, her arms solid around his back, and Zuko’s never felt so protected by a single hug.

“Okay—time to get these girls moving.”

Seamlessly, she slips into leadership mode, and Zuko watches with awe and a hint of envy. There’s no questioning that Suki is a leader; she might be short and still look young, but there’s a self-confident authority in her voice that’s indisputable. Zuko’s voice catches on his words and rasps and, sometimes, still cracks. He asked her, once, how she does it, and she was caught off guard by the question. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I just know that things need to get done.”

The warriors begin to separate themselves from the crowd, a cloud of green and gold drifting together. Zuko sees Nisha release Bishal from a headlock, and they bump knuckles before Nisha drifts to join her fellow warriors. Another glint of gold catches Zuko’s eye, and he turns to see Ty Lee and Mai.

They’re hugging, and Zuko smiles to see that Mai also has been pulled down to accommodate Ty Lee’s arms around her neck. He can discern Ty Lee’s lips moving quickly, and it isn’t until Suki shouts, “Ty Lee! We’re going!” that the childhood friends let go of each other. Ty Lee begins to bound off, spins around once more to blow Mai a kiss, and then turns for real.

The two crowds call their last goodbyes to each other, and Zuko waves to the warriors as he weaves his way toward Mai. She’s staring at the ground, a hand hidden in her sleeve pressed over her mouth, but even as Zuko watches, she blinks rapidly and raises her head to watch the warriors descend the cobblestone road that will carry them to the harbor.

He reaches her side. “Are you okay?” he asks.

“Fine.” 

She passes her sleeve over her cheek and then turns to him. There’s smudged make-up under her right eye; Zuko can’t remember if it was like that when he last saw her at a meeting this morning. He’s then wondering how he went almost an entire day without seeing his girlfriend, who’s also on his council, when Mai abruptly says, “I’m staying at home tonight.”

Zuko blinks. “At home?” he echoes.

“My parents have someone coming over. I guess it’s going to be late night entertainment.”

“Oh. Okay.” She won’t quite look at him. “You know you’re welcome any night? I mean, anytime.”

“I know.”

He wraps an arm around her shoulder, and she lets him pull her into his side. They watch the Kyoshi warriors depart in silence, and when the last warrior turns into the curve of the road that disappears behind a building, Mai ducks out of Zuko’s embrace and heads back to the palace.

Zuko almost cries when he meets the baby.

“Are you okay?” Eun asks, alarmed.

Zuko clears his throat, staring up at the ceiling of Eun and Jingyi’s sun room as his eyes burn. If he looks at the chubby little bundle in Jingyi’s arms right now, he’s certain he will lose it, though he doesn’t know why. “I don’t know what’s happening,” he tells the ceiling.

Jingyi laughs. “Do you want to hold him?”

Zuko clears his throat again. It’s just a baby. He can do this. “Please.”

And then, next thing he knows, he’s quite literally holding a life in his hands. The child sleeps soundly, wrapped snugly in several blankets. As Zuko watches, the baby snuffles and smacks his little lips, and a profound longing bursts in Zuko’s chest. He can’t tear his eyes away from the child, even as he says, “He’s going to have Eun’s eyebrows.”

“Hey—”

“I told you, honey,” Jingyi says teasingly.

“Can I sit down with him?” Zuko asks.

“Of course.”

They settle on the floor cushions surrounding a low table, and Zuko doesn’t even look at the after-dinner treats that are laid out. There’s something mesmerizing about the baby’s already thick eyelashes, the roundness of his cheeks and chin. He’s defenseless, with no choice but to trust the hands that hold him, and Zuko’s terrified for him. He can’t imagine ever trusting someone enough to put his complete vulnerability in their care, and he knows the baby is a baby, and therefore doesn’t have much say in the matter, but—but—

“I used to be this small?” he asks the room.

Jingyi laughs, and Eun answers, “Everyone used to be that small.”

Zuko finally looks up at the couple. They both have shadows under their eyes; the baby is only a few weeks old, and has them up at all hours in the night, apparently. “I don’t know how you do it,” he says. “How is being a parent not terrifying?”

“The first is the most terrifying,” Jingyi says. “After that, it’s only the childbirth that’s scary.”

“Says you,” Eun says. He looks at Zuko. “Zuko, my wife is unflappable. After our first, nothing can shake her, but I’m still triple-checking that I swaddled the third correctly.”

Jingyi pats Eun’s shoulder consolingly. “And my husband worries too much. Kids know how to bounce back. As long as they have care and guidance, they’ll end up okay.”

The baby coughs, and Zuko looks down with alarm, but a moment later, he settles, and Zuko breathes again. “I wish Mai could be here.”

Regardless of her feelings towards Jingyi, Mai actually couldn’t join Zuko tonight; her parents needed her home again. She hasn’t spent the night with Zuko since the Kyoshi warriors left, and Zuko has to remind himself that she’d only started staying with him because of the threat of assassination. With the Dragon Guard gone, and with Zuko now able to put full trust in his palace guards, there’s no need for Mai to be with him at all times. Need and want are separate things.

“I’m shocked by how many hours her parents have been able to book Aunt Hana,” Jingyi says.

“Who’s Aunt Hana?” Zuko asks.

“Your sister might have had lessons from her. Aunt Hana is the most in-demand etiquette tutoress in the capital, so it’s hard to book many hours with her in a week.”

“Ukano’s always had a way of turning situations in his favor,” Eun grumbles.

Zuko puts two and two together. “Mai’s been having etiquette lessons?”

“We assume so,” Jingyi says. “Her brother is far too young, and a boy.”

“Mai didn’t tell me that,” Zuko says. It explains why Mai’s been prompt to leave the palace each evening, but he can’t fathom why Mai would be taking such lessons. It doesn’t seem like his girlfriend.

The baby starts to whimper in Zuko’s arms, and Zuko stiffens. “What did I do?” he asks.

“He probably just needs to eat,” Jingyi consoles.

He really starts crying then, waking with a squall and a reddening face, and Zuko reluctantly gives up the child to Jingyi. He wants to soothe the baby, but he doesn’t exactly have a way to feed him.

Once Jingyi and the baby have disappeared down the stairs, Eun passes Zuko a glass of makgeolli. “Do you like being a father?” Zuko asks.

He isn’t expecting Eun to smile ruefully. “I do, though I daresay I haven’t been around enough to feel like I’m being the best father I could be. Jingyi reminds me that the work I do on the council will ultimately make life better for our children, but…” Eun sighs heavily. “That doesn’t change that there are moments I miss—the moment they learn to walk, the first tooth they lose, the first words they say.”

Who cares about teeth, Zuko thinks, and he can hear Azula’s voice scoff the same rhetorical question. It makes Zuko pause and wonder, “Do parents normally want to see those things?”

Eun fixes him with an inquiring look, an expression that Zuko’s been seeing on the admiral’s face more and more. “I can’t speak to normal,” he says, “but I know my father and mother were always there when my siblings and I were growing up. They still tell those stories, to this day.” He takes a long pull of his drink. “I guess that’s the difference of living and working from your home.”

If the palace counts as a home, then that’s not it.

“Bishal tells me you took him to the meat market,” Zuko says.

Immediately, the admiral launches into a detailed account of the hour-long trip he and Bishal had taken the other day, and Zuko quietly promises to himself that he’ll find a way for Eun to spend more time with his family.

Even in the winter, the students at the Royal Fire Academy for Girls spill into the courtyard with laughter and shouts of delight for their free period of play. Zuko, Chenda, and Mai have seen two different age groups come and go already, watching from the outdoor hall that sits opposite of the academy’s entrance.

Five minutes before the class period ends, the twelve-year-olds are rounded up to return, in an orderly fashion, to their classroom. With them goes the instructor who had just been speaking to Zuko and his councilors; five minutes later, the next class of children tumbles into the courtyard, their excited chatter blooming in the cold air as delicate clouds.

“It’s the seven-year-olds,” Chenda says, rising from her lean against the back wall, “which means I get to shadow the elevens for their weekly healing lesson.”

She has to cross the courtyard to reach the main stairs, and the students swarm around her as soon as Chenda steps foot outside the covered walkways. Chenda is of average height, but surrounded by so many children, she looks giant, an otherworldly being benevolently touching shoulders, stroking back hair, gently redirecting students who stumble directly into her path. Her care has a very different shape than when she’s dealing with adults, and Zuko laughs quietly at the thought.

“What?” Mai asks.

Zuko shakes his head. He doesn’t know how to explain the notion without feeling foolish in front of her.

Chenda reaches the stairs at the same time that the instructor for the sevens emerges with two students clinging to her legs. They exchange words, Chenda gesturing towards Zuko and Mai, and the instructor bows in their direction as best she can with two children hanging off of her before waving sheepishly. Zuko waves back, hoping he’s conveying Take your time, it’s okay, and Mai snorts next to him.

“Excuse me?”

Zuko looks down to see one of the students has snuck up on him. She’s a small little thing, with bright eyes peering out from beneath a furrowed brow.

“Yes?” Zuko asks.

“Are you really the Fire Lord?”

Mai chokes down a laugh behind her hand, and Zuko also has to fight a smile. He squats down to be eye-level with the girl, dipping his chin and pointing at his headpiece. “This here,” he says, “It’s the headpiece that the Fire Lord wears. It’s the only one like it in the world.”

She looks a little less skeptical. “Really?”

“Do you want to see it?”

She looks hesitant, so Zuko reaches up to remove his headpiece and, to relieve the tension that’s been building in his scalp, undo his topknot. His hair falls in curtains down his back and shoulders, pinprick tension transforming into a heaviness against his neck. He tucks a wayward lock behind his right ear. 

With his other hand, he holds out the headpiece to the girl. It isn’t that heavy, but its edges and tips are fairly sharp, so he softly warns, “Both hands.”

The girl immediately sticks out her second hand, and Zuko’s breath catches as she gingerly takes the headpiece. “It’s cold!” she exclaims.

“That’s because it’s a cold day.”

A ray of sunlight catches the edge of the headpiece, and the girl gasps. For a moment, she tilts the headpiece back and forth, lifting it up and down to watch how the sun plays off of the precious metal. Then she looks at Zuko, really staring at his face with a sudden intensity that almost knocks Zuko backwards. “Your eyes are the same color as this,” she says.

“They are.”

“Do you need your bun to wear it?”

“I do.” At that, Zuko ties up his hair again, mindful to leave the topknot looser than it was before. “Can you put it back in for me?”

The girl nods, and Zuko lets a knee drop to the ground so he can bend over more fully. She pins the piece into his hair, careful but certain. Its weight feels a little crooked on Zuko’s head, but placed solidly enough, so Zuko lifts his chest again and smiles at the student. “Thank you,” he says. “What’s your name?”

She suddenly stands straighter, her hands folding into the position of a formal bow. “My name is Sovanna,” she says, hinging at the hips, “I’m from the Fire Nation and I have a baby brother and a mom and dad and a pet cat.”

“Just … a cat?”

“Yes.”

Zuko’s only ever seen cat cats in the Earth Kingdom; he wonders if this girl’s family is involved in military or trade. “It’s nice to meet you, Sovanna,” Zuko says, returning her bow.

Sovanna’s eyes dart around his face. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

She glances at Mai, who’s on Zuko’s right, and then leans closer, cupping a hand around her mouth. She whispers into Zuko’s left ear, “Who did that to your face?”

The words are blunt, but the worry in her tone makes Zuko want to break. How does he relate a traumatizing story to a child, a story that Zuko himself has never actually had to tell anyone?

Sovanna stands straight again, and Zuko struggles to control his expression. He searches for a truth, one that this child could understand without becoming too frightened of the horrors that the world can hold. “A person who was very mean to me,” he says slowly—clearly. “But I’ve learned he wasn’t right to do it.”

She nods gravely. “Does it hurt?”

“It hasn’t in a long time. Sometimes it itches.”

“My dad says a kiss makes anything hurt less.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. I can show you!”

Her tone is still so serious that Zuko can’t not indulge her. “Okay,” he agrees.

He stays extraordinarily still as Sovanna rises on her toes to smack an exaggerated mwah! on his scarred brow ridge. There’s the vaguest sense of pressure, nothing more or less, but Zuko makes a show of exhaling contentedly. “That feels much better,” he says.

Sovanna crosses her arms proudly. “I told you it would.”

“Sovanna!”

Someone from the courtyard has called her name, and Sovanna scampers away without so much as a wave goodbye.

Zuko rises, watching the girl join a group of her classmates who are hopping on and off a stone bench. A quick glance shows the instructor is still occupied by a student, so Zuko leans back against the wall like Mai.

“I didn’t know you could be patient,” Mai drawls.

Zuko shrugs. He doesn’t consider himself patient, either, but … “Kids need time and attention.” He’s reminded of Eun and his sad smile from the other night. “If you had kids, would you want time off from your work on the council?” Zuko asks.

Mai whips her head around to him. “No,” she says fervently.

“Would you want live-in child care, then?”

“You’re eighteen. You can’t seriously be thinking about having kids.”

Zuko blinks at Mai’s sudden harshness. He doesn’t get what his hypothetical questions have to do with him having kids, but—but there is a part of him that wants to have a family in that way, and besides, being of the royal family means he’s expected to have children. “Why not?” he asks.

“Because you’re eighteen!”

She’s getting louder, like she can drown out Zuko’s opinion with volume alone. “Is it that weird to think about having kids?” Zuko argues. “Don’t you ever think about having a family?”

“I don’t—”

She cuts herself off, schooling her expression into something more stoic, and Zuko’s irritation is about to flare at her disengaging out of now where when he realizes the instructor, child-free, is making her way toward them. “I was just asking,” Zuko says petulantly.

“Well, stop, because she’s—”

“Okay! Fine.”

Each day, the sun lingers in the sky for a bit longer. Zuko manages to raise his right arm straight over his head without Chenda’s help, and with the distractions of the Dragon Guard finally over with, Zuko’s council is whipping through projects and work at a pace that sometimes leaves Zuko’s head spinning.

In spite of initial resistance to working with members of the Fire Nation navy, Mai convinces a couple western Earth Kingdom leaders to contribute to the ship-building project that Tuya has come to lead—Earth Kingdom lumber, textiles, and rope in exchange for protection provided by the boats and a say in their operations. Admiral Eun finally settles a grueling, year-long reparations agreement with an Earth Kingdom province southwest of the Si Wong Desert, and the ink of Zuko’s signature has barely dried on the accord before Eun’s diving headfirst into the mess that’s the former colonies in the Hong Forest immediately north of the strait. Chenda celebrates the opening of the first free healing clinic in the capital, and while Zuko does attend the ceremony in the lower city, he makes sure the moment is about Chenda and her committee.

Zuko explores the upper city estates forfeited by the Dragon Guard and begins to consider how he can turn these opulent, once-private homes into something useful and worthwhile for more of his people. He meets with military engineers to discuss their work on transforming air ships and war balloons into modes of civilian transport that can be operated by non-firebenders. Applications for the arts grant come flooding in for the spring, in a way they hadn’t in the fall, because the success of The Cavehopper Ballad has suddenly made the grant seem viable. He ends his long days of sitting and listening and reading with evenings alone at the old training grounds, where he runs himself ragged until the moon is high in the sky. He meditates; then he retreats to his empty bed, where he dares not stretch out too far for fear that he’ll encounter loneliness.

It’s long and hard work. Zuko rarely has an afternoon free of meetings, but when he miraculously has one on a warm day that hints at the fast-approaching spring, he takes the opportunity to bring his stack of reading to one of the smaller palace courtyards.

He isn’t expecting Mai to already be there, kneeling at the edge of the small pond in the corner beneath the silver wisteria tree. Zuko smiles. He barely got the chance to talk to his girlfriend when he first saw her this morning, and there’s nothing in his pile of missives that couldn’t spare a few minutes’ conversation.

“Mai,” he calls, pinning his papers beneath a rock before moving forward.

She doesn’t respond. From behind, it looks as though she’s rubbing at her face, though something tells Zuko she’s not crying. “Mai?” he tries again.

“What.”

It’s not a question. Zuko takes the last step that will bring him to her side. She’s leaning over the pond, intentionally dipping the corner of her sleeve into the water, and he can’t see her face. Zuko starts to ask, “What are you—”

Mai looks at him, and Zuko double takes. The black of her eye make-up has been scrubbed at, streaking gray across the irritated red of her cheeks. “I forgot my father’s at my next meeting,” she says bitterly. She turns back to the pond and, looking at her reflection, uses her dampened sleeve to rub at her make-up.

Zuko frowns. “Does he care if you’re wearing make-up?”

“He does now. The more expensive an opinion, the more correct he thinks it is.”

Realization strikes Zuko. “Oh,” he says, his mouth for once behind his brain. “Aunt Hana?”

“No. Aunt Lan.” Mai tenses and whips her head up. “You know about Aunt Hana?”

Something is off about her voice, and it makes Zuko want to apologize, even though he doesn’t know what he’s said to throw Mai off. “Eun and Jingyi told me,” he says.

She snorts abrasively, soaking her sleeve again. “Nice to know.”

Zuko kneels next to her. He catches a glimpse of a face in the pond, and he startles until he realizes it’s him. In the dark of the water, his scarred and unscarred cheeks are hardly distinguishable, and his face is overpowered, anyway, by the thick frame of heavy hair that falls almost to the bottom of his ribs. 

He pushes his hair behind his shoulders with the back of his hands. “They care about your make-up?” he asks.

“They care about everything,” Mai says. “And they think everything is wrong. The way I dress, the way I walk, the food I eat—” She sits straighter, tilting her head side to side as she mocks, in a higher, brighter tone that sounds startlingly like Jingyi, “The way I sit, my voice, and how I enunciate, and how much I speak—because, you hate it when I speak, don’t you, Zuko?”

“I don’t!”

She slumps. Her voice is low and crackling again when she says, “I know.”

“I don’t understand,” Zuko says. “I thought they were etiquette lessons. I also don’t get why you’d be taking those, but—”

“Of course you don’t understand,” Mai snaps. “You’ve never had to listen to anyone telling you what to do or not do. Why should you understand?” She scrubs furiously at her face, slips, and pokes her own eye. “Ow!”

Zuko reaches out, and Mai turns her shoulders away. “I’m fine,” she says. She presses her damp sleeve against her hurt eye.

He withdraws his hand. “You don’t … seem fine,” he says cautiously.

She sighs. It’s a moment before she says, “They’re lessons for the Fire Lord’s future wife.”

There’s no mistaking the loathing in her voice. A vice wraps around Zuko’s ribs, his heart thudding loudly as a voice in the back of his head whispers, with the twisted glee of a horrible suspicion being confirmed, Unwanted, unwanted, unwanted.

“You don’t have to do them,” Zuko says, fighting to keep his voice steady. “I’m not asking that.”

“Asking and expecting are different things.”

“I’m not—”

“You are, Zuko, even if you think you aren’t,” Mai pushes, “And if you didn’t have expectations, everyone else would. My parents, or the council, or the palace staff, or the capital, and I don’t want it. I don’t want any of this.”

His knees are pressed into solid ground, but Zuko still feels like the earth is being yanked out from under him. “So forget about them,” Zuko blurts. “Who cares what they think?”

“We do, apparently!”

She shoots to her feet, stalking a few paces away, but before Zuko can reply she’s whirled back towards him. “I thought we were supposed to move on from the type of world the Dragon Guard wanted, but look at where we are.” She flings a hand out at Zuko. “You waste so much of your time politely listening to people whose opinions you’ve hated since we were twelve, you’re wearing that stupid hairstyle that you don’t like, and you don’t even have to listen to anything that people say!”

I do have to listen, Zuko thinks, because he’s trying not to make the same mistakes that his forefathers did, but Mai’s speaking faster than his thoughts can keep up. 

She crosses her arms as she rants, “So here I am, learning to attend to the thousand and one idiotic things that are supposed to take up the time of a royal wife, and I’m agreeing to lessons on household management and dining etiquette and child rearing just so I can forget that I can’t be with the person I—”

Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes focusing on him. Zuko’s throat tightens. “With the person what?” he asks.

She shakes her head, mute. The person she wants to be with, his mind whispers, and he presses his lips together.

Slowly, Mai lowers her hand. “You’re the Fire Lord, Zuko. You can do whatever you want. And it’s driving me crazy that you don’t.”

His palms feel clammy. “If you could do whatever you want, what would you do?” he asks.

Her jaw tightens. “I don’t want any of this. Lessons, expectations, a title, kids—”

“But what do you want?”

He sounds angry, he realizes, and he forces himself to unclench his fists. He’s not mad at Mai. He’s mad at himself for not realizing how out of step he was with his girlfriend, but he can be upset about that and figure out why later. Mai needs him, right now, and if Zuko hasn’t been supportive in these last months, he can start making up for it now.

She’s staring at the silver wisteria tree as she replies, “I want to leave.”

“Okay,” Zuko agrees.

A breeze picks up. Zuko’s hair whips over his shoulder, covering his mouth, and he pulls it out of the way. When Mai looks at him again, her eyebrows are drawn together. “You’ll let me go?” she asks.

He can’t remember the last time Mai’s asked for his approval; it occurs to him that she’s not just asking about leaving the capital. “You shouldn’t have to ask,” he says, “But yes. You can go right now, if you want to.”

She nods, the movement still uncertain, and Zuko stands, his feet somehow steady beneath him. He approaches Mai with his palms offered to her, and she takes his hands, squeezing back when Zuko grips her fingers tightly.

The gesture is less intimate than any number of embraces they’ve shared, but an untethered part of Zuko grasps that this is the first time in a while that they’ve met each other at the same place. Her calloused fingers are warm, matching the understanding in her eyes. You can do whatever you want, Zuko thinks fiercely.

Determination rises in his chest, from the place that feels raw with his love for Mai. “Before you go,” he says, “can you cut my hair?”

Mai raises their joint hands to her lips, and Zuko catches her smile before she presses a kiss against the heel of his palm. “Let’s find a mirror.”

The first one Zuko can think of is the three-paneled mirror that sits on top of the vanity in Ursa’s chambers. The rooms haven’t changed much since the Kyoshi warriors left. They find a stool tucked underneath a desk, and Mai drags it to the vanity and forces Zuko to sit down.

He doesn’t keep mirrors in his chambers, and it’s been a while since he’s been confronted with his own clear image, much less three at once. He looks pale in a way he hasn’t since before his banishment, and there’s a hint of wrinkle lines along his forehead and underneath his good eye. Most striking is his hair. Its heaviness demands to be acknowledged, obscuring the shape of his face and weighing down his entire frame.

Shifting his weight to sit more upright, Zuko removes his headpiece and unravels the ribbon holding his topknot. Mai appears behind him, a knife held comfortably in her hand. “How short do you want it?” she asks.

Zuko considers. The headpiece flashes in his hands. “Long enough to still make a topknot,” he says. From the corner of his eye, he sees Mai’s reflection nod.

She picks up the ribbon he discarded and uses it to bind all of his hair in a singular, long ponytail. When she’s satisfied, she nudges the corner of his jaw with her hand. “You need to look straight when I do this,” she says.

He obeys. Their eyes meet in the center mirror. It occurs to him to ask, “Have you done this before?”

A short laugh escapes her, and Zuko grins. He’s made her laugh; he’s missed her laugh. “No,” Mai says. She lifts the ponytail to position the knife, the edge of the blade resting just above the ribbon. “Ready?” she asks.

He closes his eyes. “Yes.”

With a single deft motion, a weight lifts from Zuko. Mai exhales shakily behind him, her breath tickling the top of his head.

Zuko opens his eyes.

He looks younger, his cheeks rounder and his jaw clearly defined, and when he shakes his head, it feels light. Tilting his head to the side, the ends of his hair tickle the skin of his shoulders. 

Giddiness bubbles inside him, escaping as a laugh, and Mai grins. “It’s not the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” she says.

She sets the knife on the vanity to muss Zuko’s hair, and Zuko goes boneless at the sensation of fingers against his scalp. He can’t remember the last time someone has touched his hair like this. “I love it,” he tells Mai.

“You’re going to make people lose their minds.”

Her hand slips from his hair, leaving it an absolute wreck. Zuko grins. “They’ll have to get used to it.”

Zuko spends the night packing. Mai returned to her home after dinner, submitting to her lesson with Aunt Lan without complaint; she’ll come back to the palace early tomorrow morning, with a few of her belongings filched from home. In the meantime, Zuko puts together maps, food, money, anything that could help Mai on her travels without weighing her down. As he packs, he also thinks, turning the memory of the courtyard this afternoon over and over in his head. Unwanted, his mind tries to whisper again, but he shoves it aside to wrestle with the more important things Mai yelled about. The longer he dwells with it, the more he thinks she might be right.

She arrives at his chambers just after dawn. Zuko’s been up for an hour already, fretting over the travel bags that he knows are well-stocked and optimally packed. “You’re sure you want to go alone?” he asks as soon as she walks in.

Mai nods. “I’m going to visit schools around the nation. I’ll send reports about them as I go.”

Zuko jumps up from his seat on the floor. “Let me get you some ink and—”

“I already grabbed some.”

So he lifts the travel packs, instead, and helps Mai put them on. He’s incredibly aware of her body, of the physical space it takes up, of how he used to be in relation to it and how that’s changed, now. He wonders if she feels the same; he can’t tell from her expression when she looks at him.

They walk to the palace gates in silence. There’s a fair number of people already out, but no one pays much attention to the Fire Lord and his councilor. When they reach the gates, Zuko stops first, and Mai twists to face him. “Thank you,” she says evenly.

Zuko opens his arms, and his chest aches when Mai steps right into his embrace to hold him tightly. He presses his face into her hair. “This is our goodbye, isn’t it?” he asks.

“Yes.”

He screws his eyes shut for two breaths before letting Mai go. She’s smiling hopefully, and it finally settles in Zuko’s chest that this is the right decision. They’re going to be better for it, even if it will hurt for a while. They have to be.

“Write to me, and I’ll write back,” he says.

Mai laughs shortly. “Sure you will.”

She takes a step backward, and Zuko sways toward her before he can stop himself. “I’ll do it,” he promises.

“I’ll believe it when I’m holding a letter in my own two hands.”

And then she turns, gliding steadily away over the cobblestone road, her head held high and her spine straight.

Zuko returns to his chambers. He cries for unidentifiable reasons into a bowl of noodles, eats said noodles, and then drags himself to the council room.

His entrance is met with the shattering of porcelain, and Zuko springs into a defensive stance. He quickly surveys the room and, once he realizes the sound was from Eun dropping a plate on the floor, lowers his guard. “Everything okay?” he asks.

Across the table, Chenda and Eun stare at him in shock. “Are you okay?” Chenda demands.

“Your hair,” Eun says, voice trembling. “Do you think you’ve lost your honor?”

It shouldn’t be funny—long hair has been a sign of honor among men in the Fire Nation for generations, way before Sozin inherited the throne—but Zuko can’t help the grin tugging at his lips. “No, I don’t,” he says.

He crosses the room and rounds the corner of the table. Eun and Chenda watch him warily as he goes. “Your hair,” Eun repeats. Zuko wonders if he’s gone into shock.

“Mai helped me cut it,” Zuko says. “She’s gone, by the way, on a trip to survey schools across the nation.”

He kneels at Eun’s feet to begin gathering shards of pottery. A strangled noise escapes Eun, and he drops to the ground to help Zuko. “Zuko—” the admiral begins.

Zuko grabs Eun’s hand and holds it until he looks up at Zuko. “A person’s honor isn’t found in their hair,” Zuko says firmly. “It’s found in their actions.”

He lets go but doesn’t break his stare. Eun’s brown eyes shine wetly, and Zuko watches the uneasy acceptance settle on the admiral’s shoulders. “If you say so,” he says, voice rough.

“Okay, stop,” Chenda cuts in, stepping forward to push Eun and Zuko away from the mess on the floor. “You’ll get a sliver trying to pick up pieces any smaller, and we do have brooms.”

Zuko stands, cradling the shards in his hand with care. Chenda is searching his face, and whatever she finds makes her nod shortly. “Do you know where Mai’s headed first?” she asks.

Coming from Chenda, business as usual is basically the same thing as resounding support. “I’m not sure,” he says.

“I’ll have my committee draw up a list of contacts who’d be happy to house her on her travels.”

Eun finally rises, using the back of a chair to pull himself up. “Likewise,” he says.

There’s still some uncertainty in his expression, and as Zuko looks between his two councilors, Mai’s absence suddenly pulses and aches like a bruise freshly blossoming on his side. But he doesn’t feel any doubt; he’s decided he doesn’t have room for doubt, not since Mai rightly yelled at him, Look at where we are.

“Thank you,” Zuko says. “Do you both have a minute? I’d like to talk about the future of this council.”

They sit, and they talk, and Zuko wonders if this is what an eagle hawk feels like when it first begins to stretch its wings.

Mai has been gone for three full days when Zuko visits Azula. His sister is waiting for him in her dining room, working on a crochet project that’s in stages too early for Zuko to tell what it could possibly be once it’s finished. “Hi,” he says, sitting on the opposite side of the table and igniting a flame underneath the teapot that’s already been set out.

Azula flicks a glance at him. “You changed your hair,” she says.

“You changed yours, too.”

Her hair has layers, now, that flip out like cresting waves. “I cut and styled my hair,” she says. “You look like you attacked yourself with a knife.”

“Mai did it, actually.”

“Hmph. She did only ever go to professional salons.”

Zuko refrains from pointing out that, until a few years ago, Azula was taken care of by an entire personal staff at the palace spa. “What are you making?” he asks instead.

“It’s appalling how inept everyone is. The imbecile at the front desk keeps complaining about scratched lenses when clearly the problem is the rough fiber of that cheaply made satchel he uses. You need to protect glasses with a soft casing.”

Zuko blinks. “You’re making a case for someone else’s glasses?”

Azula rolls her eyes without faltering in her crocheting. “Honestly, Zuzu, you’re as bad as the rest of them. Have I ever worn glasses?”

“No,” Zuko replies. He’s also never witnessed his sister do something for someone else’s sake—not without a benefit to herself.

“Someone has to do things right around here,” Azula says.

Steam begins spouting out of the teapot. Zuko prepares their tea in silence. He wonders if he should try pushing for more information about this glasses thing, or if he should ask more generally about how she’s been; he could also just start talking, about his week or the council, and hope it eventually leads to him telling her about Mai. He should tell her about him and Mai—

“I wouldn’t have wanted private lessons.”

Zuko blinks. “What?”

“I made friends, at the academy, and I know you didn’t have any friends.”

Azula’s answering a question that Zuko asked her a year ago. He scrambles to catch up. “I had friends,” he says.

“Your friends were my friends.”

“Yes, but—”

He has no argument, and Azula flashes him a taunting smile. “Besides, I would have made you look terrible in your lessons, and then Mother would have hated me more.”

“She didn’t hate—”

“She hated anything that threatened you.”

“You never threatened me in front of her.” Not seriously, anyway.

Azula sighs. “What’s that dumb thing Grandfather used to say?”

“Stoke well, and you’ll only need a flame once?”

“No. The trees. You’re always fussing over a dead stump or a feeble sapling that wouldn’t even survive a heavy rainfall. I see the forest.”

Zuko forgot that Azulon used to speak in those analogies. Maybe that’s where his uncle got it from. “Then what’s the forest?” he asks.

Azula sets down her crocheting. “You know what Father’s like,” she says. “Your worth came from how useful you were. Become useless, and you become disposable.”

She takes a sip of tea, and Zuko sits with her words. He wonders when Ozai made Azula feel disposable; he’s experienced that plenty. He traces back their conversation, and it dawns on him: “So you’re saying … you’re glad you didn’t have private lessons, because it would have ultimately been bad for me.”

“No,” Azula shoots back. “Glad? No. That’s ridiculous.”

She picks up her needle and yarn again, working with renewed vigor, and Zuko hides a smile behind his mug of tea. “Speaking of the academy,” he says, “The reformed curriculum is doing really well. Mai’s gone to visit other schools across the nation.”

“It’s weird that she cares.”

“Mai can be caring.”

“Ty Lee was always more interested in school, and she dropped out of the academy anyway, for that circus.”

They’re talking about Mai; it’s the perfect opportunity to bring them up. The no-longer-them, that is. He promised himself, the night that Mai cut his hair, that he would start being more honest with himself, and that’s an honesty that he means to extend to others. Zuko wets his lips. “Also—” he tries. 

His voices catches in his throat. Of course that makes Azula look up, fingers still. “What?” she asks, a tinge of annoyance in her voice, like it’s a major inconvenience to her that she has to check on Zuko.

“Mai—” He coughs. “We broke up. She broke up with me.”

Something twitches in Azula’s face, softening her brow for a moment; then she makes a noise in the back of her throat and resumes crocheting. “Good. I never understood what she saw in you, anyway.”

It hurts more than it should, when he’s had his entire life to get used to Azula bullying him. “I’m not sure,” Zuko agrees faintly, because. Well. It’s not like he hasn’t wondered that himself, over the last few days.

She shoots him another weird look, but she doesn’t say anything. Zuko sips his tea. There’s nothing more to say. So … “I’m inviting another person to the council.”

“So Mai leaving made you wake up to how behind you are.”

She’s taunting him, doing her best to sound condescending, but strip that away, and she’s right, in a way. Look at where we are, Zuko hears Mai say in his head.

“Yeah,” Zuko says. “It did.”

Zuko clears an entire day to begin dealing with the throne room.

He’s neglected this project for long enough. Most everything sitting in this daunting space has a layer of dust on it, and there are more than a few sneezing frenzies when he and the palace staff assisting him first start moving things around. Zuko quickly ends up shedding his layers and rolling up his sleeves. By capital standards, he’s nearly naked, and he receives a startled double-take for each new person who sees the newly short-haired Fire Lord sweating amongst his staff members in little more than an undershirt, but he forces himself to ignore it. He doesn’t care what people will think of seeing his bare forearms; he should start acting like it.

They start with the artwork, sorting what will remain in the room versus what will not. Zuko designates some pieces to be sent to the lower city healing clinic, because he finally convinced Chenda that while the building was designed for optimal efficiency, it could still use some art and beauty for the sake of warmth. Mid-morning, Tuya and two other engineers visit, and they help Zuko determine which mechanical equipment can be salvaged and which should be broken down and repurposed. By lunch, the space is already much less crowded, and Zuko sends the staff away on an hour-long break.

He takes a turn around the room, trailing a hand along the wall as he goes. This room is one of the few in the palace that has wooden walls; they absorb sound better than the metal, an important feature for a place where secrets are born. He’s just reached the elevated platform where the throne sits and flames used to burn when a cough echoes through the space.

Zuko turns. In the entrance to the room, standing between the heavy curtains that have been parted and tied to the doorframe, are a page and Li Bai. “Li Bai, my lord,” the page announces.

“Thank you,” Zuko says, and the page bows before scurrying away. “Li Bai—thank you for coming. Please, join me.”

Li Bai bows before moving forward. He tries to be subtle about taking in the throne room as he approaches Zuko, but there’s a natural animation to his movements that makes it impossible to disguise his curiosity. “This is my first time in the throne room, my lord,” Li Bai says when he reaches Zuko.

Zuko smiles, holding in an I can tell. “Walk with me,” he requests.

They begin another turn around the room. “I decided that I no longer want this to be the throne room,” Zuko says.

“Oh. Okay.”

“I’m removing the throne,” Zuko continues. It’ll be relocated; he doesn’t know where, yet. “I’m also searching for a painter who can redo the mural above the platform. I had a vision—” A vision, Zuko laughs to himself, “—of two dragons, circling, entwined. Spirits of vitality and life, not divine fury.”

They reach the end of the platform, and Zuko gestures to the wall they now walk along. “I want this space to become a gallery,” he explains, “for art and relics and history. There’s plenty of space for hanging, and for pedestals and displays. And between those, we’ll be putting lounge furniture. I hope it encourages people to feel welcome here.”

He falls into silence, sneaking only a glance or two at Li Bai as they walk. The man appears contemplative; Zuko lets him think. He takes the rest of the lap to identify a couple more homes for specific art he has in mind.

When they reach their starting point, Zuko climbs halfway up the platform to the throne and takes a seat on the stairs. The higher vantage point makes it easier to look Li Bai in the eye.

Li Bai’s fingers twist together. “Ah—Fire Lord Zuko, I’m not an interior designer. Or a painter.”

“I know.”

“Oh.”

Zuko reaches for the pouch tucked into his waist sash. “I wanted to speak with you, and I just happened to be here today,” he says. He pulls out a brooch, drops it into the palm of his opposite hand, and holds it out to Li Bai. “I’d like to invite you to join my council.”

Li Bai stumbles back a step. His jaw works for a moment before he manages to get out, “My lord, I’m—honored, but … am I really the person you want? I don’t nearly have as many friends, or even contacts, as others in the city—I know your other councilors are well connected.”

“They are,” Zuko agrees, “but that’s not why I seek their guidance.”

His palm still waits in the air. Li Bai hesitates, then edges closer and takes the brooch. He studies it closely, squinting and holding the piece close to his face.

“You think differently than most people I engage with every day,” Zuko says. “I’ve heard of how passionately you work, and I admire your character. I always appreciate your input when you’ve shared it, and I’d be grateful to hear your thoughts on many more things.”

Even in the low light of the room, the flush spreading across Li Bai’s face is visible. “You’re kind, my lord,” he says. He clears his throat. “Would I have to give up my business?”

“No. Chenda and Mai maintain their own projects outside of the council, and Admiral Eun still answers to some military responsibilities.”

Li Bai’s hand closes around the brooch. He looks around the throne room again before regarding Zuko, eyes flitting from his scar to his hair to his headpiece before meeting Zuko’s gaze. “You mean to be different, too,” Li Bai concludes.

And it feels so good, to not have to half-hide his intent, even from himself, anymore. “I do.”

Li Bai peers down at his hand, uncurling his fingers to see the brooch. He nods to himself, careful and then sure, and faces Zuko, a smile growing on his lips. “Yes,” he says, “Yes, I would like to join your council, Fire Lord Zuko.”

Zuko grins back. “Call me Zuko.”

He climbs down the stairs to hug Li Bai, and warmth flares in his chest when his newest councilor returns the gesture wholeheartedly.

That night, taking tea alone in his chambers, there’s an unusually small scroll in his stack of missives. Zuko doesn’t think much of it, releasing the ribbon that holds it shut, but then he catches a flash of color instead of script, and his heart starts pounding. He hurries to unroll it without damaging the paper and finds there are actually two sheets rolled into a scroll.

A startled laugh leaps from his chest when he immediately recognizes the first one. Amidst a sky of white and gray clouds, the Northern Air Temple rises, an odd blend of ancient Air Nomad architecture and modern modifications by Earth Kingdom refugees. Several small dots of color circle the island; air gliders, Zuko realizes, brushing them with a fingertip, and yes, there’s a thin stroke of brown paint on each dot to resemble the spine of the gliders.

The second is overwhelmingly blue. There are only three shades of the color, plus a few spots of white, and it takes Zuko a moment before he makes out a bridge over a walkway, and then the blue-scale Momo sitting on the bridge. The shape of the structures look familiar; why did Sokka choose blue? Blue is water—but no, it’s also—

“Ice,” Zuko whispers. It’s from somewhere in the Northern Water Tribe. 

It’s been nearly four years since Zuko saw the North Pole with his own two eyes; he was a different man, then, driven by a rage that slavered for honor when really, his heart just ached for love. He wonders what the Northern Water Tribe would look like to his eyes, now; he wishes he could travel.

Lightning strikes. Zuko’s hands drop to his lap as his mouth falls open. “I can travel,” he realizes. This whole time, he’s the only one who’s been stopping himself; he can cut it out and make it possible to just do what he wants.

Zuko shoots to his feet, stashes Sokka’s paintings in his desk, and sprints to the council room. No matter that most of the palace is asleep; Zuko’s blindingly awake, vibrating with potential, and he’s done with waiting.

The decision was easy, but the logistics prove to be harder. Part of Zuko wants to make a run for the palace gates; another part of him respects his relationship with his council and the concerns of his staff enough to not cave to his impulses.

The council works out a plan for steady communication with little fuss, including contingency plans in case of any emergencies. They agree that he’ll leave on the third day of spring: not so far out that Zuko will snap and slip away in the middle of the night, but enough time to wrap up more pressing projects, fit in a few more important meetings, and help settle Li Bai into his council role.

It’s the head of the palace guard whom Zuko butts heads with the most. Zuko himself had appointed her at the beginning of the year, when the Kyoshi warriors had found that the man previously in the position had been accepting exorbitant bribes from the Dragon Guard. Zuko doesn’t regret his decision; he’s just annoyed that it’s not working in his favor, right now.

“With all respect, you’re the Fire Lord,” the head says, “and you plan to travel into foreign territory. You need a full guard; anything less would be irresponsible.”

“I appreciate your concern, but, as I’ve said and as I’ve proven, I can handle myself. I don’t want to be conspicuous.”

“You’re the Fire Lord. You can’t not be—con—consipic—conspicuous.”

“A twenty-person entourage attracts more attention than one person!”

A startled noise catches in the back of her throat. “At the very least, you’re not traveling on your own, my lord!”

They finally reach an agreement the day before spring: four guards total, of which one must always be with Zuko. “I’d like it if Bishal were that one,” Zuko says, rubbing his right temple against his subsiding headache.

The head of the guard sighs with relief. “I was ready to insist that it had to Bishal, or else this agreement is off.”

Bishal, for his part, is excited. “I’ll miss my family and friends and Erhi,” he admits, when Zuko asks about it, “but, Zuko, I’ve never been outside of the Fire Nation. When will I get the chance again?”

“You’ll have other chances.”

“Not necessarily with you, I won’t.”

And then, in the blink of an eye, it’s the third day of spring. When morning comes, Zuko doesn’t rise with the sun. Instead, he meets it at the horizon, watching its colors bloom like cherry blossoms over the ocean. 

They’re convening at the harbor, but they won’t travel by water just yet. Zuko has chosen a land route along the north half of the Fire Nation archipelago, which they’ll follow to Ember Island before setting sail for the Stone Fingers. From there, they’ll see if they can make it to Ba Sing Se in the time allotted for this trip—Zuko desperately wants to see his uncle—and then they’ll make their way back.

It’s a vague plan. It leaves room for improvising, for making decisions on the fly.

It’s what Zuko wants.

He hears footsteps behind him, and when he turns, it isn’t any of the four people he’s expecting. “Eun,” Zuko says, “Why are you here?”

Eun reaches him and pats him soundly on the shoulder. “I’m here because you’re here, of course,” he replies, as if Zuko’s question were silly instead of totally reasonable. “Did you remember the balm and medicines Chenda packed for you?”

“Yes.”

Eun leans back to look over Zuko’s shoulder; Zuko is taller than him, now. “You’re bringing dao?”

“I’ve always travelled with them.”

“What about the list of Li Bai’s friends in the Earth Kingdom?”

“Yes, I have it.”

Eun keeps it up until all of Zuko’s guard has arrived. Zuko’s both irritated and amused—he knows how to pack, but he’s never seen Eun fret, and it’s surprisingly entertaining.

“Okay,” Eun says when the last guard has arrived, clapping his hands together. “You’re all well rested? You’ve eaten a good breakfast?”

“We’re ready, Eun,” Zuko says.

Eun glances at Bishal. Something must pass between them, because Bishal suddenly herds the other guards to the saddled mongoose lizards, leaving Eun and Zuko alone.

“We’ll be fine,” Zuko emphasizes.

Eun inhales deeply and exhales explosively out of his nose. “I know,” he says. “I just—I have something, for you.”

He reaches into his sleeve and pulls out something small that he presses into Zuko’s palm. The object is smooth against Zuko’s skin, and when he looks down, there’s an ornately carved wooden tiger monkey grinning up at him.

“When I decided to leave my family to join the military,” Eun says, “my father was very upset, at first. No one ever left home, in my family, and he refused to speak to me for days. But the night before I set out, he came to the room I shared with my siblings, and he gave me this. ‘It’s a small token, but it will protect you,’ he told me.”

Zuko rubs the pad of his thumb over the animal’s head. “The tiger monkey is a trickster in classical opera.”

Eun grins. “A trickster hero, Jingyi tells me. So its protection might come at you sideways.”

A lump rises in Zuko’s throat. “This should go to one of your children.”

Eun reaches out and folds Zuko’s fingers over the ornament. “I already gave it to my eldest,” he says, “but she wanted her Uncle Zuko to have it for his trip.”

Uncle. “Thank you,” Zuko whispers.

He lets himself be drawn into a solid hug, returning it tightly. When he lets go, Bishal has drifted back towards them. “Ready?” Bishal asks.

Zuko squeezes the tiger monkey in his palm. “Ready,” he agrees.

And with that, for the first time since his coronation, Zuko leaves the capital of his nation.

The northern half of the archipelago is the less populated half of the Fire Nation, composed largely of mountains and volcanoes that do not yield well to the type of plant and animal life needed to sustain communities of significant size. There’s only one main road to follow, and they move swiftly, encountering few others in the early morning.

Zuko tries to get to know the other guards. He’s met them all before—Ji-Hun has been a part of the palace guard since before Zuko’s banishment, Yawen was one of the first to bring testimony against the Dragon Guard to Zuko, and Manu is often posted outside of Zuko’s chambers—but they’re all quiet, answering Zuko’s questions when he asks them but offering no more detail than necessary. He wants to tell them that it’s okay for them to talk normally, to him or to each other, but he doesn’t know how to bring it up without sounding and feeling terribly awkward.

So he settles for chatting with Bishal. Bishal has never seen Zuko’s dao, so he’s full of questions and explodes with even more when he learns Zuko forged them himself while studying under Piandao. “I’m so right-hand dominant,” Bishal says. “I don’t know if I could fight with a blade in each hand.”

Zuko’s about to say mastering dual swords is about thinking of body and blade as one, not as halves and parts, when Bishal suddenly twists in his saddle to look behind him. “Yawen, you’ve studied with dao before, haven’t you?”

Zuko turns to catch Yawen’s startled look. “Yes, I have,” she says.

“Did you start in childhood, like Zuko? Or do I have a chance at picking it up?”

He doesn’t know if Bishal has done it on purpose, but the conversation that follows begins with Yawen, and then draws in Manu and Ji-Hun, until they’re all speaking freely. By the time Zuko makes a contribution again, Manu doesn’t hesitate to counter Zuko’s point, and Ji-Hun jumps to Zuko’s defense with a strong rebuttal and a wink at Zuko. The tension of over-formality dissipates, and Zuko rides more easily in his saddle.

Suddenly, time passes quickly, and it’s mid-afternoon when they arrive at their first real village. A respectable spread of wood and stone buildings line the inlet that’s home to a small fleet of sailboats, and where the inlet ends, there’s a road that zigzags up the side of the mountain where the bulk of Fire Nation quarrying is done.

Unlike the main roadway, there are plenty of people here. At first, everyone is too occupied by their own activities to take note of the five mongoose lizard riders; then, Zuko makes eye contact with a woman working a produce stall at the entrance of the market street. Her eyes blow wide, and Zuko knows that he’s been recognized. It’s only a matter of time before a village leader approaches them, he figures.

Sure enough, when Zuko and his guards find the inn where they plan to stay the night, Zuko has just dismounted when a nervous, gray-haired man rushes up to him. “Fire Lord Zuko,” he says breathlessly, bowing low enough for Zuko to feel uncomfortable, “Our sincerest apologies—we knew not of your visit, else we would have prepared the governor’s house for your stay.”

“Please, don’t apologize,” Zuko says, bowing. “We didn’t send word ahead, and we want to stay at the inn.” He takes note of the gold brooch pinned to the man’s cap. “Are you the governor of this village?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“It’s an honor to meet you. Are you busy right now, or would you be able to walk with me?”

The governor leads Zuko and Bishal down the banks of the inlet, throughout the town, and into the mountains. As time passes, the nervous tremor in the governor’s voice diminishes and then disappears. By the time they’re climbing down the mountain again, amidst the quarry workers also headed home as the sun sets, he can look Zuko in the eye without fear. 

“We were worried, when trade with the Earth Kingdom opened up after the war, that our business would disappear,” the governor says. “But we’ve still had plenty of business with the capital, and our community is doing well for it.”

Zuko smiles. “I’m glad to hear that.”

They’re dropped off outside of the inn, and when Zuko and Bishal reach the joint rooms they’re sharing, there’s a spread of food awaiting them, as well as the other guards. “How was your tour?” Yawen asks.

“It was so interesting,” Bishal says, reaching for a bowl of fire flakes as he dives into a recount of their day.

Zuko drifts to the window. The main street is down below, awash with the warm glow of street lanterns, and Zuko easily spots the governor: he struggles to make progress up the street towards his home because so many people keep cycling up to speak with him. This is a village, Zuko thinks, who treats their leader like one of them. He wonders, if he tries hard enough, whether his nation could believe he’s also just one of them.

When he drifts to sleep that night, he dreams of streets full of people who play with sparklers, dance without a care, and brush against his shoulders with a caress that feels like belonging.

It becomes the prevailing pattern as they pass through towns: Zuko’s unexpected appearance is met with fear and panic, but he leaves behind mostly assuaged spirits while dearly hoping that word of mouth will soon travel faster than him and his guard. It’s only by the time they reach the port where they sell their mongoose lizards and charter a boat to Ember Island that people finally seem to expect the Fire Lord’s arrival, even if they don’t know exactly when it will happen.

The sail to Ember Island is a short one. Zuko rediscovers his sea legs instantly, but Bishal isn’t so lucky—he clings to rope and railing alike when attempting to move anywhere, and Manu has to stop him from pitching overboard twice. “I’ve never been on the ocean before!” Bishal protests when Ji-Hun poorly disguises his laughter with a coughing fit. There’s a smile in Bishal’s voice, though, and Zuko is gentle when he elbows his friend in the ribs.

They land just before midday, and with the weather being so nice, they opt to walk to the house where Zuko’s family used to spend their summers. Zuko thinks it technically belongs to him, now; he hasn’t thought about it much since Aang and the rest of that group from the final days of the war left it behind to fight Ozai.

That was years ago, though. The house looks as though it’s been abandoned. Plants that were once meticulously pruned now overpower the front walk and the facade; inside, there’s a blanket of dust on every surface. The further they venture into the house, the more Zuko’s hair stands on end. Last time he was here, he was only haunted by the voices and happy giggles of a childhood that, for a few years, didn’t seem completely awful. Now, they mingle with laughter trying too hard to prove its mirth, and conversations more somber than any teenager should have. Forget teenagers; Aang and Toph were twelve when they were here.

Zuko’s glad they’re only going to be here for one night. He doesn’t wish to linger.

They drop their bags, and Zuko hustles everyone out of the house. It’s still early spring, but Ember Island has always had a way of feeling like summer. Zuko’s guards bask in the sun. They amble through a market, following Ji-Hun as he crosses from stall to stall to replenish some of their provisions, and when the market starts morphing into one of the many tourist-oriented streets branching off from the main business thoroughfare, no one suggests turning around to go back to that gloomy home. Yawen resolves to find the sappiest miniature painting to send home to her sister, and Bishal determinedly drags Zuko from stall to stall of Ember Island themed knickknacks.

“Look, Zuko! There’s a local theatre troupe—the Ember Island Players. Do you think—”

“Walk faster,” Zuko urges, jerking Bishal away by the arm.

Inevitably, the sun begins to set. They return and eat dinner in the open-air courtyard where Zuko and Aang once trained together. Bishal is attempting to cajole Manu into a race to the uppermost eave of the main building of the house when Zuko excuses himself to use the bathroom.

He doesn’t plan on visiting his old bedroom after he’s relieved himself, but that’s where he ends up.

The room feels small and bare. Last time he was here, they’d pulled the blankets from most every bed to create a nest of sorts in a living room downstairs; without the vibrant red splash of color here now, the muted browns of the walls and the furniture feel silencing.

Zuko crosses the room to push open the shuttered window. Silk threads of abandoned webs float into the night air and then fall away, leaving nothing for Zuko to contemplate other than the stars and the moon. She’s waxing, tonight, only a couple days away from being full. “Hi,” Zuko says and immediately feels foolish.

His fingers bump over an irregularity on the window sill. He looks down and is struck to see Mai’s name clumsily carved into the wood, and is struck again with the sudden remembrance of him being the one to have carved that. He was twelve, he recalls, and Mai was thirteen, the first summer that Ursa was gone and Ozai had sent him and Azula to Ember Island under the watchful eyes of Lo and Li. Mai’s family came to visit for a week. One night, Mai snuck into Zuko’s room through this window and kissed him. He was caught by surprise, and didn’t kiss her back—didn’t realize he should have kissed her back until she was slipping out the window again. But he did get out of bed to carve her name into the window sill, excitedly shivering all the while with thoughts of forever and happy ever after, as if that moment had irrevocably decided everything.

Zuko snorts. That was his problem, wasn’t it? He never knew that love meant work.

There’s a knock at the door.

Zuko turns to see Bishal. His dark hair is a tousled mess, and his shirt has been twisted out of place, revealing the stark difference between the tanned and untanned skin where the fabric usually falls. “Hey,” Bishal says. “You good?”

Zuko nods, walking a step back to sit heavily on his old bed. “Just thinking.”

Bishal crosses the threshold, and suddenly, the room is even smaller. Zuko feels warm. Part of him wants to blurt stop, anything to keep Bishal from getting closer, but curiosity suddenly pokes its head over Zuko’s shoulder and holds him back. The bed sinks as Bishal sits next to him, and Zuko swallows against his dry throat.

“Is it hard to be back here?” Bishal asks.

Zuko can’t look him in the eyes, his serious and kind brown eyes that most certainly don’t hold the same heat that’s spreading outwards from Zuko’s chest and making his own body feel foreign. He averts his gaze to the floor, then to the sliver of night sky he can see from his angle. “No harder than being in the palace,” he replies.

Something flits across the light of the moon—a toucan puffin, perhaps, but an oddly fast one. “You seemed to be in a better mood, the last couple of days,” Bishal agrees.

He was, and the memory of it is incongruous with the confusion of sadness and want that tumbles in Zuko’s gut right now. “Mai broke up with me,” he says, because that’s a solid reality that still makes sense to him.

“Oh.” Bishal pats Zuko’s shoulder. “How are you feeling about it?”

The point of contact feels like fire ripping underneath Zuko’s skin, a near unbearable discomfort that’s somehow also enticing. It’s still a struggle to be more honest with himself, but he’s been winning those fights more recently, so he’s able to acknowledge the startled part of him that wants to lean into the touch, to encourage the heat to build, to chase something inside of him that feels like it’s been ignored for years—

But there’s a difference between being honest with himself and exercising judgement.

Zuko needs space.

“I don’t know,” Zuko says. He stands and goes to the window, wishing for a cool breeze to whisk away the sensation grappling to take control of his body. “Even when I was banished, I was sure about us. But she wasn’t, I guess, and now…” He presses his fingers against the tension that’s building in his right temple. “I think that I was thinking of her as an answer that kept me from having to ask more questions.”

And that sounds right, doesn’t it? Since becoming the Fire Lord, he’s spent near every day questioning everything around him and everything that came before him. Failing to ask questions about Mai—to ask Mai questions—was the dishonorable, coward’s way out. “She was right to leave,” he says. “I assumed so much. I assumed she wanted me, and forgot that I’ll always be more than just myself.”

A gust of wind tickles the tip of Zuko’s nose. He closes his eyes.

“Well … we’re all more than ourselves. Aren’t we?”

Zuko dares to glance over his shoulder at Bishal, and he’s relieved to find that whatever was just coursing through his body has subsided. His friend is frowning thoughtfully at the wall. 

“What do you mean?”

“I mean—I’m sure you’re talking about being the Fire Lord, and that’s a very obvious thing that you have. But we all have our own circumstances, right? I have a job that sometimes puts me in danger, and I’ve four siblings and a dozen cousins who never understand what privacy means, but Erhi knows that. And when I choose her, I know that also means I’m choosing her unique upbringing, and the family that’s ostracized her and Yong, and any number of other things that make Erhi’s life what it is. Mai probably had her things, too.”

Zuko considers Bishal’s words. It lessens the sting, to think of their break-up that way—Zuko may be unwanted, but at least he isn’t the only thing to blame. But then the question that follows is, who would want the everything that surrounds Zuko? The politics from dawn to dusk, the attempts on his life, the constant scrutiny from a thousand mouthless voices, from a thousand faceless eyes …. He recalls with guilt the shadows beneath Mai’s eyes, the infinite inane fights they’d get into just to avoid the arguing about deeper issues, and suddenly Mai’s leaving makes all the sense in the world. It seems insanity, to choose such a thing as Zuko.

And it occurs to Zuko that he’ll never get to have a family in the way that he’s imagined. Not if there’s no one who’ll choose him, and if he only wants someone who would choose him. “Oh,” he says weakly.

Bishal smiles encouragingly. “You might be unique, Zuko, but you’re not alone.”

Zuko snorts. He is alone, he just decided. Which will cause problems, down the line, if he isn’t to have children, but maybe Azula would be better by then, and maybe she’ll have had children …

But Bishal doesn’t have to know any of that. “Thank you,” Zuko says.

An animal screech cuts through the night, and Zuko looks up in time to see a messenger hawk beelining for him. Zuko steps away from the window, and the hawk lands on the sill, tilting its head and regarding Zuko with beady eyes. The harness around its body bears the royal insignia.

Zuko pulls the scroll from the hawk’s canister and grins when he recognizes the handwriting. His girlfriend—no, his friend, as always, has perfect timing. “It’s from Mai,” he says. She did say she would send him updates about her visits to schools around the nation, but there might be more than just that, and part of Zuko hesitates to open the scroll until he’s by himself. 

He must be projecting that in his body language, because Bishal rises. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says. He starts to leave and then catches himself. “Oh—almost forgot.”

He contorts to pull something out of the sash wrapped around his waist, and when he holds out his palm to Zuko, his expression is somber. “It’s you,” Bishal says.

Sitting in his hand is a miniature dragon painted purple.

Zuko takes the figurine, fighting a smile. “Get out,” he says.

“I think you should name it. Zuko II, maybe—”

“Get out!”

Bishal guffaws and heads for the door. “I’ll let the others know you’re writing, so no one will bother you for a bit. Okay?”

Zuko lifts the dragon to his face and wags it to make it say, “Thanks, Bishal.”

He can hear Bishal chortling down the hall, even after the door swings shut.

Zuko cradles the figurine. It has two inlaid yellow jewels for eyes. There’s a soft shuffle of feathers to his left, and he looks up to meet the beady eyes of the messenger hawk. “I will write,” he tells it. “I promised her I would.”

Her letter is mostly about the schools, but every so often she alludes to something only the two of them would understand, and it forcefully reminds Zuko that he hasn’t lost anything. They still have their shared history, even if their future no longer matches the naive vision Zuko’s twelve-year-old self had. And Mai writes beautifully, too, with a richer language than she uses for speaking. He understands it more clearly, and for the first time in a while, he feels like he clearly understands her.

He spends most of the evening writing. He restarts four different times, but at the end of it, he feels like he’s said what he wants to say, and he signs off with the last words he said to her in person: Write to me, and I’ll write back.

In the morning, he rereads his letter twice, and it’s as they board the ship that will take them to the Earth Kingdom that Zuko finally tucks the scroll into the canister of the waiting messenger hawk. “Tell her I’m happy for her,” Zuko tells the creature.

It takes off with a screech, and in moments, it’s no more than a dot in the sky.

When the call for land sighting rings through the air, Zuko rushes to the bow of the boat. Bishal follows him, still unsteady on the waves, and Zuko vaguely registers Yawen leaving her pai sho match with Ji-Hun to help Bishal.

Sure enough, in moments, Zuko can make out shadows on the bright horizon. It’s another couple minutes before the shadows resolve into the spindling reach of the Stone Fingers, but as soon as he’s certain, Zuko’s heart skips a beat. Soon, he’ll have his first step on Earth Kingdom soil since he betrayed his uncle in Ba Sing Se.

Bishal and Yawen draw up next to Zuko. “Oh, land,” Bishal says with relief. This waterway trip has been much longer than the quick jaunt to Ember Island; by the time they dock, there’ll only be an hour or so more of sun.

“Are the mountains growing?” Zuko asks. “They look taller than I remember.”

Yawen coughs lightly. “There used to be a forest at their feet, Fire Lord Zuko. They might appear shorter without the old trees there.”

And then Zuko remembers a story he’s heard only once, when he was bedridden during his recovery from his Agni Kai with Azula. “It was incredible in the worst way,” Sokka told him. “The entire forest was flaming, but seeing it was nothing like feeling it. The heat rolled up in waves, like—like a second sun was emerging from the earth. I kept thinking the walkway beneath us would melt away.”

“Did you have to watch it burn out?” Zuko asked. 

“Nah. Aang did his Avatar state thing and moved half an ocean to douse it.” A pause. “I don’t know if they’ll ever regrow.”

From Sokka’s story, Zuko had imagined something similar to the aftermath of a volcanic eruption: molten earth cooled and hardened into dark rock, the absence of green, a sense of ash that lingers even long after the volcano falls asleep again.

He isn’t expecting, as they draw closer to port, to see skeletons. They stand oddly spaced apart from one another, gray and blackened and unmistakably dead, but beneath the tress’ gnarled fingers that rise into the sky, there’s a thick blanket of wild green and yellow grasses that shiver and dance in the wind coming off of the sea.

Zuko can’t tear his eyes away from the tableau of stillness and motion. It isn’t until they’re getting off the ship that he realizes, far from the coast and at the base of the Stone Fingers, there are signs of temporary encampment.

What could people possibly be doing, living in a grown-over graveyard?

“Fire Lord Zuko? Are you ready?”

Zuko abruptly turns to his guards. “I want to see what’s over there.”

They agree on Ji-Hun and Yawen searching for overnight lodgings nearby, while Manu and Bishal follow Zuko. The camp is not as close as it appears, and without any footpaths worn through the grasses, Zuko and his guards have to pick their way through the green and gray. Sweat begins to collect on Zuko’s back where his travel pack makes it impossible for his skin to breathe. He doesn’t mind it. He’s too distracted by seeking out signs of life, from scorpion bees humming in the air to the occasional sparrowkeet poking out from a nest in the hollow trunk of a dead tree.

With no coverage from tree foliage, it’s not long before they’re spotted by members of the camp. Two men dressed in Earth Kingdom brown-and-green and wearing large-brimmed hats appear among the trees and head straight for Zuko, Bishal, and Manu. “Let us go ahead of you, Fire Lord Zuko,” Manu says.

Zuko shakes his head. “I’ll face them myself.”

Before they’re in shouting distance of the men, signs of other people become visible between the trees. They’re all dressed like Earth Kingdom, and they work in pairs on something to do with the ground—digging, Zuko eventually figures out. But before he can parse what that’s about, one of the men intercepting them calls out, “What brings you here, Fire Nation?”

“We’re traveling,” Zuko answers, “and we were curious to know what those camps at the base of the Stone Fingers are.”

Each party halts ten paces apart. The interceptors exchange a look. “There’s no market, out in those camps,” one of them says.

“We’re not traders,” Zuko replies. “What is it that you’re digging up in here?”

“We’re not digging up, we’re planting,” the other scoffs. “We’re helping the forest recover from what your Fire Lord’s army did to it.”

Manu tenses at Zuko’s side, but Zuko shakes his head. Planting, Zuko thinks. Healing the wounds that his nation so recklessly left on the earth.

“Could you use some more helping hands?” he asks.

A shocked noise escapes Manu, and Bishal shifts his stance. The more caustic of their interceptors laughs. “And why would some random, drifting Fire Nation citizens want to plant trees here?”

“Because I’m not a random citizen,” Zuko says. “I’m the Fire Lord, and it’s because of my forefathers that this destruction occurred.”

The man barks another laugh, until his partner’s eyes flare wide and he gasps. “Vibol, it’s really him,” he hisses, smacking the laughing man. “The kid king. Zuko.”

They’re permitted to sleep on the packed dirt twenty paces away from the rest of the encampment, which consists of about thirty people, Zuko estimates. They’re not allowed to eat dinner with the rest of the forest rehabilitators or even speak to them—aside from Vibol, who begrudgingly submits to being a liaison.

“Can’t work when it’s dark out,” Vibol explains, “so we’ll have to wait until morning to see if you’re legitimate.”

Zuko nods, holding back a stubborn, We are legitimate.

Vibol narrows his green eyes. “We’re going to set a guard out.”

“A reasonable decision,” Zuko replies.

Vibol casts one last suspicious look over them before leaving, his shoulders hunched.

Manu steps closer to Zuko. “Fire Lord Zuko … do you know what you’re doing, here?”

A gust of wind tosses Zuko’s hair in ten directions at once. It’ll be getting cold, soon; they should lay out their mats and start a fire. “What feels right,” he answers Manu.

The next morning, it’s not just the firebenders who wake at dawn; the camp also gives signs of motion, and Manu rouses soon after. By the time they’ve repacked their camp from the night, Vibol is trudging out to them with his partner from before. “Ready to get some dirt beneath your fingernails?” Vibol asks.

Zuko doesn’t miss the condescension in his tone, but he can’t rise to it. “Yes.”

They venture back into the skeletal forest. The grass is wet with dew, and the lower half of Zuko’s pants are quickly soaked; he understands why Vibol and his partner are wearing shorter pairs that end at the knee, in spite of the morning chill. The two men don’t speak, even to each other, and Zuko dares not interrupt the sounds of nature around them with his own voice.

It’s difficult to ascertain how the men leading them pick their spots, but Zuko watches carefully, trying to anticipate each pause before it comes. When they do halt, the men work quickly and carefully, digging into the solid earth with hardier versions of Yong’s gardening tools, and Zuko watches that intently, too. He has a feeling that, when his turn comes, he won’t be offered much guidance. The men dig, scatter seeds, and then fill the hole with the dirt and grass they just displaced.

At their fourth stop, instead of dropping to the ground, Vibol turns and holds out his bag of tools. “Now you,” he says.

Zuko takes the bag with a nod. “Bishal?” he prompts and then kneels.

Bishal’s eyes widen, but he takes the bag from Vibol’s partner. He joins Zuko, lips parting to ask a question, and Zuko shakes his head. He doesn’t want to look uncertain under their guides’ watchful eyes. And, besides, he thinks he’s caught on well enough.

The earth gives way more easily than Zuko expected, and when he falls into a rhythm of digging in alteration with Bishal, a sense of concentrated peace rolls through his being. It’s a different form of meditation, this steady work, one that resonates and settles deeply into Zuko more easily than silent and still meditation ever did; it took the better part of his banishment, and plenty of his uncle’s guidance, to master the latter.

Before he knows it, their work is finished. Dirt is trapped under his nails and dusted across his arms. Bishal looks more or less the same as him, and he smiles at Zuko when their eyes meet.

Zuko looks up at Vibol. His expression is impassive, and as the silence drags on, Zuko’s worried they’ve messed something up terribly, but then Vibol grunts and turns to walk away. If they’ve made mistakes, none are so large that they need to be fixed—but then Vibol’s partner nods at them, the shadow of a smile curving his lips, and Zuko’s reassured.

And so their day goes. They’re led to a spot, where Zuko gets down in the dirt with Bishal or Manu, and then they move again. Zuko begins to vaguely recognize a pattern of tree density, ground hardness, and grass coverage, enough so that he can predict—by nothing more than a feeling—where Vibol will stop next. He also catches on that testing Zuko and his guards’ legitimacy is less about ability to do the work, and more about their willingness. He frequently feels Vibol’s hard stare on him, as if he’s waiting for the kid king to snap and throw a tantrum about toiling in the muck beneath the sun.

But Zuko’s not going to do that. He doesn’t mind the monotony, even as his muscles begin to feel a strain. He actually kind of enjoys it, because he can sit with his thoughts. Not in the way he usually does, his mind flitting from wondering if Azula’s doing okay today to preparations for his next meeting to playing out a conversation in which he asks Suki to help look for his mother to suddenly remembering that he meant to follow up on something from two weeks ago. No, right now, he’s marveling at the coolness of the earth beneath his fingers. He’s lingering on how the sunlight reveals the intricate veins in each seed that falls from his hand; he’s listening to the song of sparrowkeets and the shush of grass in the wind.

They nibble on snacks between planting stops, and when the sun is sinking for the horizon, they turn around and make their way back to the encampment. Zuko, Bishal, and Manu are returned to the spot of dirt from last night, where their borrowed tools are reclaimed by their owners.

Vibol looks over the three of them with less hostility than last night. “Had enough?” he finally asks.

Zuko clears his throat. He hasn’t used his voice all day; it feels rougher than usual. “I’d still like to stay a while, if we’re welcome.”

Without hesitation, Vibol nods his assent, and then he and his partner return to their camp.

Zuko lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. From behind him, Manu echoes, “A while?”

Zuko doesn’t know how many trees he planted today. Multiple seeds went into each hole; it’s unknown how many will actually take, or when they’ll finally breech the soil to visibly sprout. He wonders how many trees it would take to make up for the losses created by his father, and Ozai’s father and grandfather before him.

There’s probably no easy equivalency to answer that thought.

Zuko turns to Manu and Bishal. “We need to tell Ji-Hun and Yawen.”

The next morning, Manu packs to trek back to the harbor town, and Vibol provides Zuko and Bishal with their own bags of tools and seeds. “We’ll still be watching,” Vibol warns, and Zuko just nods. It hardly matters; as far as he’s concerned, he’s no longer the Fire Lord. He’s now a gardener.

Zuko and Bishal set out on their own. The morning passes in silence again, but by afternoon, they have the occasional quiet conversation. Zuko learns from Bishal that Yong and Erhi keep a greenhouse of plants in their home; Bishal tentatively asks about Zuko’s last trip around the Earth Kingdom, and Zuko finds himself recounting stories and memories he forgot he had.

The days continue to pass. Zuko and Bishal still keep away from the camp—Vibol and his partner are the only people they interact with—but other pairs of rehabilitators increasingly dare to come closer to the Fire Nation citizens. New callouses form on Zuko’s fingers, and when the knees of Zuko’s pants begin to wear thin, he and Bishal spend one evening clumsily patching them by the light of the flames in their hands. When Bishal accidentally stabs himself with the needle for the third time, he hisses sharply and grouses, “Do dragons even need pants?”

Zuko bursts out laughing so hard he falls over, the flame in his palm sputtering out. “Zuko!” Bishal shouts at the sudden darkness. “You made me drop the needle!”

It takes them far longer than it should to find it. Zuko’s punishment is Bishal becoming the light while Zuko finishes the sewing, which is absolutely not a skill he works at, but at the end of it, Zuko has a pair of wearable pants, and he’s still happy.

To think, that dirty fingernails and a sore back and poorly mended pants in a graveyard forest is one of the greatest happinesses that Zuko’s had in a while. He goes to sleep that night with a grin and the contentment that tomorrow, he can again pretend to be nothing more than a gardener.

His dreams aren’t so untroubled.

He wakes with a start to the sense memory of flames boring through skin and flesh, of sharp metal teeth hooking into his body, and it takes a moment for him to register Bishal’s worried voice. “Zuko? Breathe, Zuko. Everything’s fine. It’s fine. What happened?”

Zuko gropes blindly in the dark until he finds what feels like an arm, and sure enough, when he drops his searching fingers lower, he encounters a hand, one that he holds tightly as he fights to regain control of his breath. Open your lungs, Prince Zuko, he hears his uncle encourage, and Zuko forces himself to sit straighter, lifting his other arm—his right shoulder twinges—to drop his hand on top of his head.

A flame appears, flickering softly in Bishal’s free palm, and the dancing light calms Zuko. He realizes there’s a layer of sweat on his skin that’s making him cold. Reaching for the sun inside of him, he breathes deeply, with intent, and warmth flares within him.

“What happened?” Bishal asks again.

Zuko loosens his grip on Bishal’s hand and feels a surge of gratitude when Bishal doesn’t try to slip out of his grasp. “Just a nightmare,” he replies. His throat is raw. Was he screaming?

“Just?”

The skepticism in Bishal’s tone leads Zuko to think that he was screaming. He hopes they didn’t hear it in the encampment. “I get them, sometimes.”

“… Do you want to talk about it?”

Zuko shakes his head. “No.”

He tilts his head back, and his breath catches in his chest to be confronted by so many stars. The moon is there too, of course, waning from the peak of her fullness, and Zuko remembers the other sleepless nights he spent in her company, from when the assassination attempts kept coming and coming. He and Mai never talked about his nightmares, then, even though she knew he was having them. Did Mai also avoid asking questions she probably should have, like Zuko did? Or was Zuko so gemsbok-bullheaded that she knew the fighting wouldn’t be worth it?

Thinking of Mai makes his chest hurt. Zuko swallows and lets go of Bishal’s hand. “Do you remember how it felt, when Azula burned you?”

“I do.” His tone is neutral.

Zuko coughs. “I felt that on my face. He pinned me down, too. Was much larger than me, and I was alone out there, so … he decided when it was over.”

He glances at Bishal and immediately wishes he hadn’t. Too many conflicting expressions flit across Bishal’s face, and Zuko’s stomach roils at the thought of trying to process them all. He hangs his head and closes his eyes. “I feel it again, in my worst dreams.”

“I’m … sorry, Zuko. I hope that guy paid for it.”

A dry laugh escapes Zuko. Paid for it? No—that guy? Bishal doesn’t know how he got his scar, Zuko realizes.

He opens his eyes again and searches for his flask. The water is refreshing as it slides down his throat. “For every day that I stay alive, he continues to pay for it,” he eventually says. “Or at least that’s how I want to think.”

“We’d better keep you alive, then.”

Zuko traces with his gaze the silhouettes of the Stone Fingers against the starry sky. “Is this what you imagined, when you knew you’d be coming on this trip?” he asks Bishal. “Planting trees and getting woken up by other people’s nightmares?”

“Probably not. But I don’t mind it.”

When Zuko looks at him, Bishal grins encouragingly, and it does reassure Zuko. He’s not driving anyone crazy, yet. Then Bishal’s countenance morphs into something more serious. “We still have some ways to go until Ba Sing Se,” he says.

They do. And it’s a good reminder that, as much as Zuko’s enjoyed this escape—this opportunity to pretend to be a gardener invested in nothing more than cultivating life in a young forest—there’s an uncle out there who loves him and whom he loves and has missed dearly for almost three years, now. “Yeah,” Zuko agrees.

They should go back to sleep, but for another few moments, Zuko sits with the warmth in his chest flickering in tandem with the fire in Bishal’s hand.

They work in the recovering forest for one more day, and then, the next morning, they return their borrowed supplies to Vibol. “Thank you for your kindness and your guidance,” Zuko tells him, and he means it.

“There’s always more to be done here,” Vibol replies archly, as though he’s irritated to be losing four hands, but Zuko also thinks it’s an implied, open invitation to return.

At the harbor, they run into Yawen almost immediately. Ji-Hun and Manu are back at the inn, an hour’s walk away; they’ve been taking turns visiting the harbor during the day, waiting for Zuko and Bishal’s eventual return. “How was the work in the forest?” she asks kindly.

“Good,” Zuko replies. “We’re still far from Ba Sing Se.”

They hit the road.

They travel by ostrich horse, and though they attract wary looks by the colors of their clothing the farther into the Earth Kingdom they go, no one seems to recognize that Zuko’s the Fire Lord. Zuko’s glad they’re untroubled; it allows them to move quickly and mostly unobtrusively. Navigating northeast along the coast, they pass through towns that are flourishing in the wake of the war, now that their denizens can focus on things other than threats to the security of their lives and livelihoods.

The same can’t be said, however, once they round the northernmost point of the bay and start dipping south again. They’re approaching regions where Azulon first struck and began to conquer. Wary looks at Zuko’s traveling band are exchanged for outright hatred or naked cowering; Zuko comes to prefer the hatred, as the latter fills him with outraged grief for the lives his family has destroyed so thoroughly that their very ability to stand tall has been broken. He finds himself recording his observations each night, by the light of a candle or someone else’s fire, and every couple days he sends his reports back to the capital, addressed to his council.

It’s the best he can do, Zuko reasons with himself. There’s only so much lasting change he can make from the saddle of an ostrich horse.

At the base of the mountains north of the Hong Forest, they arrive in the first village since leaving the Fire Nation that has been expecting them.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” says the woman in bright red robes. Her eyes flit from his scar to his unadorned topknot and then scan him up and down. “What an incredible honor it is to have you visiting my village.”

Bishal nudges his ostrich horse to take a step closer to Zuko’s. “The honor is mine,” Zuko automatically says. “What’s your name?”

“Natsuko, my lord. Please, let me show you through my village. I am so proud of it, and I feel blessed to have you here.” She turns and begins to walk without waiting for an affirmative from Zuko. “As you can see, the travelers’ pass turns right into our main road, where we have a variety of business that simply flourish. But first, I must note this archway, which we finished constructing this fall …”

There’s something strange about the town, but Zuko can’t put his finger on it. He starts collecting little details. There are no vendors on the streets. One building that’s little more than a charred skeleton is being torn down, and after that Zuko notices doors and windows that look to be new replacements on much older structures. Everyone, aside from Natsuko, is wearing brown, which only feels strange in the Earth Kingdom when there isn’t a splash of green in sight—not even from the trees, which are a vibrant mess of pink and red and orange year-round. Come to think of it, where did Natsuko get her robes? Zuko’s only ever seen red cloth that vibrant in the Fire Nation—

“You son of a weasel snake, get your—agh!”

Zuko whips around to see the door of a shop they just passed burst open. Two burly men emerge with an older woman held between them, her gray hair half-pulled out of her updo. The men begin marching down the street, dragging the still cursing woman, and Zuko gapes as they pass him without so much as a glance. Faces briefly appear in windows to watch the spectacle before dipping out of sight once more.

Natsuko continues to glide forward, unbothered, waxing about the full spring bloom to come. Zuko urges his ostrich horse forward to catch up to her. “What was that?” he demands.

Her hazel eyes flit to the thugs and the woman, who disappear around a bend in the road. “That old crone?” she says placidly. “Just a dissenter. I’m sure you’ve seen plenty of those before, my lord. Don’t worry; she won’t disturb us any further today.”

“A dissenter?” Zuko repeats. What is going on in this village?

Natsuko’s eyes slide over to Zuko, and there’s something in her gaze that reminds him of Lu Ten: a sense of cunning as sharp as Azula’s, but content to lazily sun itself on a warm rock instead of striking out with each barbed word. “We can discuss it further once we reach my home,” she says.

Her home, it turns out, is the tallest and broadest building in the village, and sits directly across from a derelict temple. The men from before now stand on either side of the door, and they bow their heads at Natsuko and Zuko when they pass them. Bishal is close behind Zuko, and when his guard steps forward to subtly bump into Zuko, he nods in understanding. They need to be careful.

“What are people dissenting against?” Zuko asks.

They’re led to what looks like an imitation of the formal receiving room that many upperclass Fire Nation homes have across the archipelago. Natsuko drapes herself neatly into a high-backed chair that reminds Zuko of a throne. “Me,” she answers simply, a soft smile curling her lips.

Zuko sits on a low couch to Natsuko’s side, and Bishal and Yawen take positions that allow them to cover both Zuko and the entrances to the room. There’s no sign of Manu and Ji-Hun; Zuko hopes they’ve stayed near the thugs at the door.

“What have you done?” Zuko asks.

“I haven’t done anything. This village, for all its happy success, unfortunately has a few lost ones who haven’t yet learned that things have changed for the better.”

Her robes must be from the Fire Nation, Zuko decides; so must the delicately worked metal statues on display in this room. “For how long have the changes been around?”

“Change is always happening, my lord, as we’re always seeking to better ourselves. But I’ve been here for almost three years, now.”

Natsuko must be the change, and he bets that the thugs and the lack of green and the burnt shell of a house are related to that change. “That woman,” Zuko says, “the—dissenter. Was she brought here?”

“I’m the best at convincing those who are troubled to accept the truth. So, naturally, yes.”

Zuko darts a look at Bishal, who understands and immediately runs for an exit, but a moment later he’s corralled back into the room by the door thugs, along with Ji-Hun and Manu. Zuko’s not concerned about them—he doesn’t doubt that he and his guards are capable of taking on these two men and Natsuko—but they can’t just run off when there are spirits-know how many people held in this large home against their will. “She’s here right now?” he asks Natsuko.

Natsuko gestures at the couch opposite of Zuko, and her men herd Zuko’s guards to sit there. “I told you, my lord, there’s nothing to worry about.”

“I’m worried you’re taking people against their will and forcing them to—to—submit to your changes!”

He can’t put more specific words to it, but there’s something deep in his stomach that knows this whole situation is wrong. His nation never even had colonies in this region of the Hong Forest, there’s a sense of desperate self-assurance each time Natsuko says my village, and beyond any of that, it’s tyrannical to abduct those who dissent.

Natsuko is unruffled by Zuko’s raised voice. “My lord, wouldn’t you do the same, if you had dissenters threatening you?”

“No!” he cries, aghast. He’s not his father, and his heart hammers with the thought that Natsuko wants him to be his father. “Never. I make sure no one’s about to die, and then I have a civil conversation with them before letting them go home!”

She tilts her head and asks, “Does that work for you?”

The civility in her tone makes Zuko’s blood boil. She won’t be convinced by him, won’t even rise to an argument—Zuko knows all too well the look of a person who’s dismissed him as an empty-headed symbol not worth listening to. If she won’t respond to his words, would she respond to the force of the Fire Nation military?

Zuko doesn’t want that. He’s adamant about not sending any military back into foreign territory, and besides, in the months it would take to communicate and mobilize, who knows how many other people will be dragged screaming from their houses by Natsuko’s thugs? Once they’re taken, do they ever reappear? Did the faces peeking over window sills from earlier once fall victim to Natsuko? Aside from the two thugs, Natsuko appears to be working alone—how did she manage to take over an entire village?

Sending for his military isn’t a realistic option, right now. So he’ll have to go with his second thought.

He lifts his head to meet Natsuko’s serene gaze. “It hasn’t,” he finally answers. “Tell me, how do you do it?”

He’s never been able to lie like Azula, but Zuko makes it through the afternoon and evening without Natsuko seeming to catch on that Zuko’s only pretending to be invested in the ways and means she uses to control the village. He learns that she grew up in a Fire Nation colony as the only child of a governor. When news came that Ozai had been defeated, her father had sent Natsuko away with his strongest guards for fear of a revolt. Natsuko hasn’t heard from her father since. Zuko wonders if that’s in part due to a lack of trying; she seems very pleased to rule over this village on her own.

After dinner, they’re told that lodgings have been made available to them just down the road. As soon as Zuko walks through the front door of the wooden family home, it’s evident that people have been forced out only an hour ago: there’s condensation underneath the lid of a pot of still-warm rice.

When Natsuko’s men leave—two different men, but equally as thuggish looking—Zuko drops his face into his hands. “Don’t unpack the ostrich horses,” he says. “Just … don’t unpack much.”

There’s silence around him. Zuko lifts his head to confront his guards regarding him with varying degrees of concern. It’s Ji-Hun who finally speaks up. “Fire Lord Zuko, do you … have you taken to heart the things she said?”

“No,” Zuko snaps and pushes deeper into the house. He instantly feels bad about his harsh tone, but he needs to think. He can’t think with four pairs of expectant eyes watching him. Watching, his mind repeats, and he realizes he’s also going to have to break his promise to the head of his guard.

He can make peace with that.

He turns in for the night early, choosing a narrow bed in the small room at the end of the second floor. The room’s too small to fit more than one person, and it also has a window that sits alongside the downspout of the roof’s gutter. Down below, a river glitters in the moonlight. 

Resting on the bed, Zuko closes his eyes to better listen to the movement of his guards through the house. When he hears no more, he quietly rises, tips open the window, and steals into the night.

Crossing the stream would be the most direct path to Natsuko’s house, and Zuko’s thinking he’s lucky that its banks are dry when he suddenly catches his own reflection in the water.

He didn’t expect this rush of nostalgia at seeing himself wearing the mask of the Blue Spirit. The feeling crashes over him, and his body fills with energy as though he’s just been knocked off balance by an actual wave. His lips twitch against the urge to smile, and he makes quick work of crossing the stream before darting into the thin wood that surrounds the back of his destination. His gait is something between a jog and a scamper, and the shifting presence of his dao against his back sends small thrills down his spine. He’s older and taller and stronger than he was when he last wore this disguise, and Zuko knows he’s capable of doing so much more.

The back of the house has a deep, covered porch, where one of the large men from earlier dozes in a chair. It’s uncertain whether the man is on guard duty or not, and for a moment, Zuko considers leaving him be, but if the back door is the least attended entrance, it’ll also be his best exit. One sharp strike to the junction of his neck and shoulder, and the man drops from dozing to unconsciousness.

Inside, Zuko steals noiselessly from one darkened room to another. He encounters and incapacitates one more person on the ground floor and then climbs the stairs to check if anyone is awake there. Only a few rooms are occupied, no one stirring in them. If Natsuko is not on this level, she must be on the top floor, Zuko reasons, so he slips back down and finds the entrance to the basement. When he opens the door, a cool draft pushes against him, a rancid scent filling his nose. His hair stands on end.

He plunges into the dark.

The stench gets worse the further he descends, and after two turns, light appears again, a flickering orange that illuminates the end of the stair case. Zuko scrambles down, comes face-to-face with a large man wearing Fire Nation red, and suddenly there’s no time to think, just duck, block, strike, dodge strike flip punch roll kick strike feint strike—

He’s left standing in a circle of knocked-out men and staring back at a dozen shocked faces.

His eyes land on the gray-haired woman he had seen earlier that day, and he’s relieved to see no sign of injury—on her, or anyone else. He looks around, finds a heavy set of keys hanging on the wall, and grabs them on his way to the woman.

She watches him with steady brown eyes as Zuko tests the keys against the chains wrapped around her wrists. “How did you get away?” she asks him.

For a second, Zuko freezes, wondering how this woman possibly identified him as a Fire Lord who’d have to sneak away from his guards to get away with this; then he remembers he’s wearing a mask. He’s the Blue Spirit. And her question makes no sense.

With a click, the woman’s restraints fall away, and Zuko wordlessly presses the key ring into her palm. He moves to the next closest person, a young man, and shatters his chains with a decisive strike of his dao. The man rubs his wrists, nods his wide-eyed gratitude at Zuko, and then scurries after the woman, who’d gone straight to the poorly lit back corner of the basement.

Zuko keeps breaking chains, and before long, he understands the significance of that back corner: a middle-aged man with a full beard emerges, cheeks gaunt but posture still strong, and everyone in the room who is free to move flocks toward him. A town leader, before Natsuko came along, Zuko figures, and once no one is bound, he pauses and meets the man’s somber, green-eyed gaze. He’s taller than Zuko—taller than anyone else in this room—but even if he didn’t have his height, Zuko thinks he’d still radiate the gravitas that Zuko feels.

The man opens his mouth, and even as a whisper, his voice rumbles. “We thank the spirits for answering our calls with you, Blue Spirit.”

Zuko nods shortly and then gestures for the stairs.

When he reaches the ground floor and turns for the back door, however, he finds that no one has followed him. He turns to see the townspeople gathered loosely behind the bearded man, who waits at the base of the staircase to the next floor up.

Zuko tilts his head to their way out, and the man shakes his head. “We must end this now,” he says. “There are more of us than there are her, and we’re inside the house she has guarded jealously. It would be foolish not to take advantage now.”

Zuko wavers. Across the dozen or so faces in front of them, not many look to be fighters—not in the way that Natsuko’s thugs are. He knows if he were to stay, he could help. Not just help: he’d be the assurance that the townspeople succeed.

But if an overthrow were to take place right now, what would happen to his obviously Fire Nation guards? And if something woke them before Zuko returned, and he were discovered to be missing—what then? They’d never let him out of their sight again. They’d insist on someone sleeping in the same room as him, and even accompanying him when he stopped along the road to relieve himself. Zuko appreciates their dedication, but he can’t be stifled. Not when he’s just begun to rediscover what it means to feel unbound.

So he nods at the man and his townspeople and slips out the back door.

He runs a circuitous route, in case anyone from that grand home is watching him, and has just crossed the stream again when the first sounds of conflict break the silence of the night. Shimmying up the downspout is only a bit more difficult than descending it, and as soon as Zuko’s inside his room, he whips off his mask, stuffs it deep into his travel pack, and scrambles to change his pants for a dry pair. A loud crash booms from not so far off. He slings on his travel pack, hastily yanks the sheets back up on the bed, and pulls the window shut before cracking open his door.

He immediately runs into Ji-Hun in the hall, who’s in his sleeping garments but looking wide awake. “Fire Lord Zuko?” he asks.

“We need to leave,” Zuko says and pushes past him to find and wake the other guards.

They’re on their ostrich horses in minutes, keeping to the edges of the road and moving quickly. Zuko looks back at Natsuko’s stolen home one last time; with the distance and only a few candles flickering in a handful of windows, it’s impossible to tell how things transpired.

Zuko turns his back on the village, touches his dao for comfort, and presses on.

Over the next few days, Zuko tries to figure out if they know. Ji-Hun and Yawen confirm that they both woke at the same time, to a loud crash from somewhere not far off; Zuko says nothing, and he thinks they assume that he also woke around then. The pants he wore that night are unmuddied, and his mask remains hidden in the bottom of his pack, lodged next to the box that contains his headpiece, the tiger monkey from Eun, and the dragon from Bishal.

On the third day, the story catches up to the town they’re pausing in for a midday meal: the Blue Spirit has reappeared, after being gone for several years, to return a colonist-occupied Earth Kingdom village to its people. The barkeeper’s eyes are alight as he tells the story, full of embellishments that only Zuko can identify as such, and he tells the same story to every patron that comes in.

Yawen squints at the barkeeper’s back as he regales a party at the opposite side of the bar. “Is the Blue Spirit a spirit or a man?”

“It didn’t sound like he was talking about an actual spirit,” Manu says. “When’s the last time you heard of a spirit wielding a sword?”

“I’ve never heard of the Blue Spirit,” Ji-Hun grumbles. “Must be some local legend.”

Bishal nudges Zuko’s side, and Zuko pushes aside the instinct to squirm. “Have you heard of it?” Bishal asks.

“What?”

“Of the Blue Spirit. You’ve been around these parts before, haven’t you?”

Zuko shrugs. “Not exactly.” He stuffs his mouth with noodles, so no one else will expect him to speak.

They leave the town, and Zuko thanks the moon that someone along the gossip chain couldn’t recognize or remember his swords for dao.

They’re less than a day’s ride from the ferry to Ba Sing Se when they arrive at another village that’s expecting them. The red and orange trees give way to a small but highly developed town that engulfs the main road. On the road, there’s a crowd of people wearing Earth Kingdom green, and Zuko realizes at the same time as his guards that the contingent is waiting for them. It’s a barricade of live bodies, a wall that shifts and adjusts its placement but does not waver in its purpose. A step in front of the wall is a tall man in dark green robes with gold jewels glinting in his ears. “Stop!” he commands.

Zuko halts his ostrich horse, and Yawen and Manu draw even with him and Bishal before doing the same. Ji-Hun stays behind, as he’s the most proficient among them with a bow. “What’s going on?” Zuko asks.

Discontented murmurs rise from the wall. The man at their front subtly sneers. “We knew this day would come,” he says, “and we won’t let you take him. He has no wish to return, and he’s under our protection.”

“What’s he talking about?” Bishal mutters.

“I don’t know,” Zuko says. He raises his voice to reply, “We only wish to pass through. We’re on our way to the ferry; we don’t want to take any of yours.”

“Do you take us to be fools? We know his arrest warrant has been out for years.”

Zuko’s mind reels, scrambling to remember all the arrests that still haven’t been made on behalf of his throne. He’d pardoned the unreasonable arrests leftover from Ozai, and the only new warrants issued are for Fire Nation military leaders who’ve refused to leave the colonies. Zuko knows several of them were in and around the Hong Forest, but why would a strong Earth Kingdom village be defending a colonist?

“I promise, we’re only traveling,” Zuko says. “We don’t mean to arrest anyone.”

“You’re a nation of liars,” the man snarls.

He drops low to drive a foot into the ground, and suddenly half of the human barricade bends earth up from the road and holds it at the ready for striking. Flames spring to life in Bishal’s palms as Yawen and Manu draw their blades, and how does Zuko stop this from becoming a fight—

“Stand down, Hao!”

The rough voice comes from behind the crowd, and though no one drops their guard, bodies shift and move until a short, gray-haired man with hunched shoulders emerges to stand next to the leader of the group. He leans heavily on an elegantly carved wooden cane. “Hao,” the old man repeats, and with a dissatisfied grunt, the leader—Hao—relaxes his stance. So do the other benders, earth falling to the road.

Zuko gestures to his guards, and Bishal’s fire sputters out. Yawen and Manu lower their weapons, even if they don’t sheath them. The five of them watch as Hao and the old man have a brief, quiet argument; then, the old man turns to them, squinting at Zuko.

They make eye contact, and Zuko freezes. The man’s eyes are golden, in a way that Zuko’s only ever seen in the Fire Nation, and even then rarely outside his own family. “Do you know who I am?” the man asks.

“I don’t,” Zuko says.

He makes a horrible, wet noise in the back of his throat and spits to the side. “Iroh says you’re an honest kid.”

Zuko’s heart leaps in his chest. “You know my uncle?” he asks, unable to disguise his eagerness.

The old man raises a hairy eyebrow at Hao. “I told you.” He turns back into the crowd, swallowed by people much taller than his stooped frame.

“Wait!” Zuko cries, scrambling off of his ostrich horse. He vaguely registers Bishal doing the same, following him as he runs to toward the crowd.

Hao steps forward, a large palm held up to Zuko, and Zuko begrudgingly stops. “Please!” he calls into the horde. “Please, if you know my uncle—I’d just like to speak with you.”

“Shohei does not wish to speak to you,” Hao says.

Shohei, Zuko thinks, and he startles with sudden recognition of the name. A military deserter, who dropped off the face of the earth years ago—but there must be more to this story, something to explain the protectiveness of Hao and the townspeople. And how does Shohei know his uncle?

“Shohei,” Zuko cries, “the Fire Nation forgives you!”

Everyone freezes. He’s hyperaware of his own heartbeat. This hadn’t been the plan. They’d planned on moving quickly, on boarding the ferry to Ba Sing Se before sundown, but now the need for answers claws at Zuko’s back. “The call for your arrest was repealed after the war,” he continues. “You’re welcome back home.”

One person shifts, and then the crowd is moving again until a channel appears, leading from Zuko to Shohei. The old man turns painstakingly, leaning heavily on his cane. “You think I want to go back?”

He looks ready to end this conversation again. “Please,” Zuko blurts, dropping to his knees and bowing low. Someone gasps. “Let me serve you tea.”

He hangs his head and waits with bated breath. Two dull thumps, of the cane striking the ground, and then:

“If you insist, Fire Lord.”

Zuko and his guards are led by Hao and Shohei to a pergola that sits on the northern edge of a stone-laid central square. As they walk to their destination, the people that once were a barricade melt back into their ordinary lives as shopkeepers, parents, tradespeople; a boy who can’t be more than eight years runs up to Hao, and Hao easily lifts the child onto his hip. Zuko’s thoughts flit from one question to the next, but his burning curiosity falters as he notices the town rising up around him. There’s a special flow to the roads and the buildings that makes Zuko somehow feel both guided and protected, and compared to the typical mess of crisscrossing foot traffic in any significantly populated setting, the townspeople here move smoothly, a human current shaped perfectly to its banks.

He isn’t oblivious to the significance of being brought to an outdoor square rather than a private home for their tea, but he performs the ceremony as it should be done and then pours tea for the five of them: Shohei, Hao, the child, Bishal, and then himself. He thinks he catches Hao looking pleased at his first sip, but Shohei is inscrutable. It’s agony to wait for him to say anything, and Zuko’s on the verge of blurting an exasperated please when Shohei finally raises his eyes from his tea and fixes Zuko with hard, golden eyes. “You will never atone for everything you’ve done, Fire Lord.”

The title feels heavy, intentionally so, in the air. “And so I’ll never stop working,” Zuko replies. “How do you know my uncle? What brought you to this town?”

“The war brought me, of course. What else?”

“How have you stayed here all this time? Was it something to do with my uncle?”

Hao sets down his tea with force. “Has no one ever taught you patience?”

“Hao,” Shohei reprimands.

“This is a waste of time, Shohei.”

“And who’s fault is it that we’re here, hm? I told you they could’ve passed through with no fuss. You just had to get everyone all riled up.”

“We won’t let them take you!”

Shohei scoffs. “As though I’d let them take me. Go take your boy on a walk.”

Hao remains seated, glaring, until Shohei flings a bony wrist at him. He watches Hao lead the boy to the opposite side of the square before turning back to Zuko. “Iroh travels through here, sometimes,” he says. “That’s how I know him.”

It’s a woefully inadequate explanation, in Zuko’s opinion, but he senses that he doesn’t have much time. He can ask his uncle more about it in Ba Sing Se. “How did you become a part of this community?” he asks.

“You sent me to the Hong Forest to develop colonies.”

It wasn’t him, of course, but Zuko shoves that detail aside. “And … they welcomed you, for that?”

The old man humphs. “Hao’s father locked me up for a year before he believed me when I said I’d deserted. It took some of my best designs to get that freedom.”

“Designs?”

Shohei’s spine straightens, a glimmer coming to his eye. “Yes. How to make a town a fortress for earthbenders, and a devastating trap for firebenders. How to build a community to be stronger through brick and mortar, even in the midst of a disgraceful war.”

It’s pride in his look, Zuko realizes, and as he looks around him again, recalling the streets they’ve already walked through, it dawns on him: “You designed this entire village?”

“Yes. And I did not build it for you.”

Zuko ignores the jab. His imagination tears into twenty directions at once, bringing up memories of the broken villages he’s passed through in the last month, of the sprawling mess of his capital’s lower city streets, of the grand, empty estates in the upper city. A sense of potential explodes bright like the tang of citrus on this tongue, and he finds himself saying, “If every place functioned as well as this town, it could make so much of a difference. You could—”

Shohei cuts him short. “That’s not my problem. That’s your burden to bear.”

Zuko blinks back to reality. Shohei’s expression is unyielding again, and Zuko grasps for the moment he’s lost. “But you could help so many people,” he pushes. “In other parts of the Earth Kingdom, where our war destroyed lives, even in your own nation—”

“That was not my war, and that disgrace is not my nation!”

Suddenly, he’s hacking, violent and wet, and Zuko catches himself with hands stretched out to the old man. The moment passes, and Shohei takes a sip of his tea. Zuko retreats to his side of the table. 

“The proudest moment of my life was turning my back on your nation,” Shohei croaks defiantly.

From the corner of his eye, Zuko notices Hao and the boy approaching again. A thundercloud seems to be hanging over Hao’s head; this meeting will be ending soon.

“You have a gift, Shohei,” Zuko says.

Shohei finishes his tea. “That’s what I was told when I was first sent here.”

With great effort and help from his cane, Shohei stands. Zuko rises, as does Bishal, and then Hao and the child arrive, leaving the five of them standing around an abandoned tea setting.

“You’re sure you don’t want to arrest me, now?” Shohei asks. Hao makes a displeased noise in the back of his throat.

“I don’t,” Zuko says. “And please know, if you ever change your mind, you’re still welcome in the Fire Nation.”

Shohei snorts. “Don’t count on it.”

He shuffles away, Hao standing protectively at his back, the child chattering up at Shohei with the occasional glance back at Zuko. Zuko’s fists clench, and he forces himself to relax them. He feels like something life- and nation-changing is walking away from him, but he can’t compel the will of an individual to change.

They reach the ferry station an hour before dusk and sell their ostrich horses to a stable nearby; they won’t be needing those mounts in Ba Sing Se. On the ferry, Zuko climbs to one of the upper decks, soaking up the last rays of sun. His skin has become darker, he observes, since he’s left the palace. The hint of color is soothing. It makes him feel more alive.

Bishal finds him, finally on a large enough seafaring vessel to be steady on his feet. “What an awful old man,” he says, drawing up next to Zuko.

He doesn’t need to clarify that Bishal’s referring to Shohei. “I don’t think so.”

“He yelled at you! For things you didn’t even do.”

Zuko shrugs. The ferry’s horn blasts through the air, and then engines rumble to life, the sound of churning water creating a different roar. Zuko feels the movement in his bones. “It doesn’t matter who did them,” he says. “What matters is that I make up for them.”

“What?” Bishal shouts.

“Nothing!”

Night creeps in as they cut through the waters of Full Moon Bay.

Ba Sing Se, within the Inner Wall, is remarkably unchanged from the last time Zuko saw it.

Sure, some of the buildings are different, and from their rail car, Zuko spots the silhouette of an impossibly high stack of destroyed Fire Nation crawler tanks, but the rest is familiar: overcrowded buildings, even more overcrowded people regardless of the hour, and the nagging sense that he could slip into a throng of pedestrians and then never be heard from or recognized again. Zuko knows he’s from a city—his brief time as a refugee proved he’s as far from provincial as possible—but his capital feels nothing like the sprawl of the Earth Kingdom capital. What’s familiar to him, though, is brand new to his guards, and he spends the ride listening to the gasps and whispers of the four Fire Nation natives around him, answering the occasional question that comes up.

It’s a shock, when they get off at their stop, how instantly his feet remember the way to the Jasmine Dragon. Wearing their Fire Nation reds, they should be conspicuous on these streets, but most couples and groups they pass are too occupied with themselves, laughter and bright voices shimmering through the temperate spring night. There’s a new noodle bar at the corner of his uncle’s road, and across from that an open-front building where late-night pai sho is being played, but a step beyond that, Zuko no longer knows what’s around him: he only has eyes for the Jasmine Dragon sign.

The front doors are closed, but it’s light inside and the apartment above shows no signs of life. Zuko bolts up the stairs and catches himself at the last moment, raising a fist to knock rather than burst into the shop—he’s seen, first hand, how his uncle reacts to unexpected intruders after hours.

A moment later, the door opens. A jovial voice: “Now, who is calling on me so late—”

“Uncle!” Zuko blurts.

And there he is, Uncle, his beard grown longer and in the Earth Kingdom style, the lines of his forehead deeper, and the warmth in his eyes as reassuring and unwavering as always. “Nephew!” he cries, and Zuko flings his arms around him.

They’re ushered inside, and Zuko’s immediately prodded and assessed even as Uncle prepares tea for everyone. “You do not eat enough!” Uncle says, pinching Zuko’s right cheek, “And look at your clothes!” He plucks Zuko’s shirt, lowering his hairy eyebrows at the sleeve that ends above the knob of Zuko’s wrist. “Have you not noticed how much you’ve grown? You have excellent tailors at the palace. You might offer them the compliment of taking advantage of their talents.”

“I can’t ask for new clothes every time I grow a knuckle.”

Uncle gives a skeptical grunt. “Help me bring these out to your companions.”

They bring the tea to one of the low tables near the middle of the shop. Introductions are made, and Zuko almost snorts tea out of his nose when Bishal babbles, “Thank you, Dragon Iroh. I mean, General Dragon—General Iroh.”

Uncle smiles kindly. “The pleasure is mine. You may call me Uncle, if that’s easier.”

“Thank you, but General Iroh is okay, sir. General.”

“So,” Uncle says, addressing the table at large. “Tell me about your travels! Did none of you think to buy clothes in the Earth Kingdom? Hasn’t your journey been hindered by our nation’s reds?”

“Uncle, I don’t want to hide,” Zuko says. “The difficulties that come with these uniforms are deserved.”

Zuko thinks he sees sadness flicker across his uncle’s expression, but a blink later, he’s smiling again. “I know an excellent seamster two streets down,” he says. “We can all take a trip there tomorrow!”

When the tea is finished, Uncle leads them upstairs and shows them to adjacent spare rooms. The apartment didn’t use to be laid out this way; Zuko wonders what visitors prompted his uncle to take the time and expense to change it. “I regret that I cannot help you settle in,” his uncle says. “I must finish closing the shop.”

“I’ll help you,” Zuko volunteers.

Closing the shop is steady, quiet work that springs naturally from Zuko’s hands, as if he never left behind his life as Lee from the teashop. Uncle sings quietly as he ambles around, straightening chairs and wiping down surfaces, while Zuko sweeps thoroughly, mindful to dust in spots that would be harder for his uncle to reach. He’d thought that as soon as he saw Uncle again, he’d be spouting questions endlessly—it’s impossible to count the number of times he’s wished for his uncle’s counsel over the years—but in this moment, he’s happy with this companionable quiet.

When they’re done, Uncle manually extinguishes the last of the candles and then deliberately puts his hands on Zuko’s shoulders. He has to reach up to do so; tears suddenly burn in Zuko’s eyes. “Nephew, it is so good to see you,” Uncle says.

Zuko swallows hard. “It’s good to see you, too, Uncle.”

Over the next several days, Zuko comes to know what his uncle’s life in Ba Sing Se looks like.

The Jasmine Dragon is open seven days a week, and Uncle works everyday. He has five full-time employees and six young teenagers who work part-time; it doesn’t take long for Zuko to realize the teens all carry a streak of rebellion and anger, rough undercurrents that occasionally rise to the surface and are easily quelled by a word or two from Uncle. They’re initially hostile towards Zuko’s presence behind the bar and in the kitchen, but once it becomes clear that he won’t interfere with the overall flow of work in the shop, they relax into a begrudging acceptance. He tells them his name is Lee. None of them question it, but Zuko thinks that’s mostly because they’re indifferent.

On the third evening, Uncle surprises Zuko and his guards with tickets to see a play being put on in King Kuei’s favorite non-palace theatre. It’s the most blatantly erotic thing Zuko’s ever seen on a stage, and while he in theory doesn’t have a problem with that, he’s sitting next to Uncle. He spends half of the performance hiding his face in his hands, listening to Bishal and Manu’s scandalized gasps and Uncle and Yawen’s thoughtful murmurs. Ji-Hun is utterly silent.

“What did you think, nephew?” Uncle asks as they walk back to the teashop. “I had heard this was very popular among the people, and I think it was rather smart!”

“Did no one tell you what it was about?”

“Of course they did. Did it surprise you? When I was your age, affairs were a shocking thing to talk about so openly, but Ba Sing Se seems fond of promiscuous things in the arts.”

That’s not exactly what Zuko means. “Fire Nation playwrights have also written about affairs,” he counters. But he stops, then, because he doesn’t want to drag this conversation closer to what he’s actually thinking.

It was the partial nudity, is the thing he can’t say to Uncle. Twice tonight, he saw a man’s bared bottom, and even now his heart races at the memory of the experience. He felt shock, for sure, because there are parts of the body that are never unclothed in the Fire Nation; an itching desire to keep looking at the butt, because his first question was Is it a nice butt? and he thought he could answer it for himself; a panicked guilt for wanting to look at a stranger’s bottom; and then the mortifying realization that he was having these thoughts next to his uncle. And then the butt came back a second time, at which point Zuko realized if he weren’t surrounded by people he knew, he would be openly staring.

It brings him back to when he was thirteen, stalking angrily down the halls of the navy ship he was confined to for the duration of his banishment, and he happened to glance into one of the crew’s barracks as a shipmate slipped out the door. He saw inside for only a second, but he remembers the scene vividly: off-duty men relaxing and chatting, at ease in a way they never were while in uniform, and most of them extremely unclothed, by the standards Zuko was accustomed to. One man, stark naked with his back to the door, was in the process of pulling on a pair of pants, as if changing in front of other people was an ordinary thing to do.

There’d been nothing erotic about that moment—nothing remotely like this play—but Zuko thought about it for days after, wondering what it meant to have a body, for that body to be hidden behind heavy garments and closed doors for some notion of protecting station, to want to see another body and, in turn, to want to be seen, laid bare.

Then he finally healed enough to train again, and the rage at Uncle starting him anew with basic firebending forms consumed any other preoccupations Zuko’d had in the early days of his banishment.

Uncle is looking at him, brown eyes patient, as if he knows Zuko just needs a moment to gather his thoughts. “It was smart,” Zuko agrees, because in spite of the distraction of bodies and intimacy, there was a complicated yet coherent narrative driving the play.

“I don’t get,” Bishal pipes up from Zuko’s side, “why there were so many scenes with the cousin. He was just moping, all the time.”

“Ah,” Uncle says. “A thoughtful question. What do you think, Fire Lord Zuko?”

He doesn’t mind when Uncle uses his proper title; in fact, it’s only when Uncle says it that Zuko doesn’t feel the sudden weight of preconceptions, expectations, and sometimes uncomfortable deference. It feels like a part of him, not something laid on him.

“His role makes more sense when you consider it with the prince’s story,” Zuko says. “They’re both grappling with conflicts of duty and passion, but the consequences of their choices are inflected by their different positions in society.”

Uncle hums in agreement. “A play can be seen as a forest: it is what it is only because of each tree, each creature, each stone that makes it.”

A memory of Azula’s voice nudges the back of Zuko’s mind: I see the forest. He finds himself saying, “See the forest for the trees. Grandfather used to say that.”

His uncle starts. “Yes. He did.”

It occurs to Zuko that he and Uncle have never really spoken about Azulon; he doesn’t know how Uncle feels about the man who once favored him, and then cast him aside so easily after Lu Ten’s death.

They reach the Jasmine Dragon, and while everyone else heads upstairs, Uncle goes for the kitchen. Zuko lingers, watching Uncle brew a pot of chamomile, and sits across the table from him when invited to do so.

The ceramic cup is warm against Zuko’s palms, comforting in the face of a tide of the thousand and one questions that are finally demanding to be asked. He starts with something simple and recent. “I met a Fire Nation deserter named Shohei. He said he knows you.”

Uncle nods, inhaling the steam of his tea deeply before taking a sip. “I sometimes leave Ba Sing Se to search for new teas. We play pai sho whenever I pass through his village.”

“How did you meet him?”

Uncle closes his eyes, his chin drifting towards his chest. “It was by chance,” he says. “After Lu Ten’s death, I … was inconsolable in my grief. I decided going home would be best, but I knew the other generals would want me to stay on the front. So I ran away.”

Zuko sits up, startled into looking at his uncle, whose eyes are still closed. No one ever told him Uncle had run away.

“I’d traveled alone before, but I’d never had a journey as difficult as that one. It wasn’t just a heavy heart; I felt as though I were haunted. Inexplicable things happened around me, and I was seeing things that were frightening and unfamiliar—animals distorted into otherworldly forms, voices in tongues I couldn’t understand but spoke to me even if I covered my ears. And then, one day … I woke in the Spirit World.”

For a second time, Zuko is floored. “The Spirit World? How?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think I could go back, before my time comes, even if I tried.” His eyes finally open, grave and piercing. “Even though I’d always believed in the spirits, walking among them made me newly understand them. When it was time to leave, I was returned to our world in the Hong Forest, miles farther away from home than I had been when I left. I was very disoriented when I stumbled upon Shohei, who was cutting firewood. He knew me immediately, as I knew him to be from the Fire Nation, and he said he’d surrender to arrest. But I would not take him. So we parted ways.”

“When we met Shohei, the entire village was ready to fight against his arrest. He wouldn’t allow for it, either.”

Uncle chuckles. “He has changed since I first met him.”

“The town he built was beautiful, Uncle.” Zuko rotates the cup in his hands. “I keep wondering what he could do with the capital.”

Uncle’s voice is gentle when he asks, “What is it like, living in the capital again?”

“It’s familiar, but also not. I remember running around the palace with Azula, or walking down the street with my mother, but when I look around those places now, I don’t know if I was really seeing them. I don’t know if that much changed during my banishment, or if I was just that blind before.”

“Mmm.”

“And the palace—” Zuko snorts. “Sokka called it ugly.”

“Ugly!”

“He was kind of joking, when he said ugly, but we’ve talked about it before, and I don’t think he was wrong. It’s—it’s large and imposing and there’s no sunlight in it, ever. What was grandfather thinking when he renovated it?”

“He was thinking as the leader of a nation that was waging a war against the world.”

“A war that’s over, and a war that was wrong.”

Uncle doesn’t say anything, right away. He’s staring pensively into a distance that Zuko cannot see. “History has a way of seeping into things,” he eventually says. He meets Zuko’s gaze. “But we can always choose our homes.”

Zuko’s brow furrows. Uncle might be able to up and move to Ba Sing Se; Zuko can’t do that, as long as he’s the Fire Lord. He’s also not planning on abdicating anytime soon. Is Uncle suggesting he move the Fire Nation capital? That’s just unreasonable. The capital has been the capital since the oldest texts can remember; there’s no place in the nation that’s better suited.

He finishes his tea, and Uncle refills his cup. “Do not give up on Shohei,” he advises. “He is a reflective man who is still changing, even as he grows old. Like your uncle!”

He chortles. Zuko wishes he could join, but there’s another thought gnawing at the back of his skull. “Do you think Azula can change?” he asks.

A sudden chill replaces the mirth in his uncle’s air. “Azula was deep in your father’s well, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“So was I.”

“Not in the same way.”

“She was still just a child,” Zuko argues. “We were both children.”

His uncle exhales deeply. “I do not know what I could have done. She never liked me, or your mother.”

“She liked Lu Ten.”

“He could not have given her what she needed, either.”

“Love? He couldn’t give her love?” Zuko asks. “Father was the closest thing she had to love, and that wasn’t what he actually gave us!”

The kitchen rings in the following silence. The blood slows in his veins, and as Zuko watches Uncle’s placid expression, he realizes he’s just yelled at his uncle. He hasn’t done that in years. “I’m sorry,” he says, head hanging.

Uncle’s hand slides across the table to pat Zuko’s forearm. Zuko swallows and tells that hand, “I think your love, and my mother’s love, saved me from myself. And I’m afraid that my love now won’t be enough for Azula.”

“There is honor in trying, nephew.”

Zuko glances up. There’s still something hard in Uncle’s face; Zuko’s heart quails. “Do you think my mother is alive?” he asks quietly.

Uncle squeezes Zuko’s forearm before letting go. “I do not know,” he says. “But if your sister got her deception and tricks from someone, it was from your mother.”

When Zuko thinks of Ursa, he recalls sincerity and warmth, not cunning. But then again, they had their secrets, too—venturing through the markets undercover and without guards, reading poetry that had been banned from the capital.

Pressure builds in his right temple, a pain he hasn’t felt since leaving the palace at the start of spring.

In the middle of the afternoon rush on the sixth day, Zuko remembers that he hates the Ba Sing Se socialites.

“Are you sure you don’t have the Flying Bison Berry Blend? It’s my absolute favorite, and I told my friend we had to try it.”

Zuko hopes his smile isn’t sliding into the bared teeth he’s actually feeling. The woman blinks at him sweetly, an equally fake simper plastered on her face. Since Zuko was last in Ba Sing Se, apparently, Azula’s winged eye makeup has become the trend here. “As I explained,” Zuko says, “We don’t have the Flying Bison Berry Blend because it’s an autumn seasonal tea. It’s still spring.”

The customer laughs, sounding like she’s seconds from asking for the owner. “I’d feel much better if you at least checked the back.”

He can’t keep this up anymore. He gives the stiffest of bows before retreating to the kitchen.

Once there, he does not check the store room for a tea he knows they don’t have; instead, he tackles the growing stack of dirty dishes, so they’re not ridiculously backlogged after the rush. He’s hardly made a dent when one of the teenagers pokes his head into the kitchen. “Lee, someone’s asking for you.”

“Is it about the Bison Blend? I’m not going back to that table for five more minutes.”

“No. Different party, near the front.”

Zuko dries his hands and follows the teen out past the bar. The teen splits off, and Zuko’s about to demand he come back and show him where he’s supposed to go when a fist suddenly plows into his gut. 

Zuko doubles over, wheezing, and is about to lash out when he hears, “Holy Shu, Sifu Hotman. You got thick.”

He looks up through watering eyes and breaks into a grin. “Toph!”

Surely, she must have grown taller in the last three years, but when she pulls him into a too-tight hug, her head only reaches Zuko’s chest. “Seriously, if I hadn’t heard you talking to those stuffy girls, I wouldn’t have believed Haru when he said the giant stomping around Iroh’s shop was you.”

At that, Zuko realizes there’s someone behind Toph. Haru’s grown a beard that makes his mustache look much less out of place, and there’s a new, thin white scar cutting across his right cheek. “I didn’t know you two were in Ba Sing Se,” Zuko says.

“We’ve only been here for half a year,” Haru says.

“What are you doing here?”

Toph grins. “Come with us and see it for yourself!”

“I’d love to,” Zuko says. “We close at nine today, so after that—”

A hand lands on Zuko’s shoulder, and he turns to see his uncle. “Go, and have fun, nephew,” he says. “Your companions are waiting for you.”

Zuko looks to the door. His guards are there, wearing the Earth Kingdom clothes that Uncle insisted on getting for them. “You knew about this?” he asks. “You knew Toph and Haru were here?”

“Toph and Haru come every week! They are very loyal customers.”

“Your uncle is the baddest old guy I know,” Toph adds.

Zuko grins, tugging free the knot on his apron.

Their destination is in the Middle Ring, and they’re traveling on foot. Zuko tries to figure out where they’re going, but Toph threatens Haru with bodily harm to keep quiet, and his guards are as clueless as he is. He eventually gives up, and only because he’s just as eager to know what Toph’s been doing since the end of the war.

Her attempt at reconciling with her parents only lasted a few months, and when they’d found out she’d been going to Earth Rumble events again, they had a blowout fight that resulted in Toph running away a second time. She spent about a year living in the Swamp, then left on a whim for Omashu, where she ran into Aang and Sokka. The three of them traveled together until they came across Haru and his father, and Toph decided to stick with them.

“And that’s all I can tell you!” Toph declares. “I’m not spoiling the surprise.”

“There’s nothing from the last year and a half that you can tell me?”

“I don’t trust Haru to not ruin it.”

“Hey!”

“Your face gives everything away, Haru.”

“You can’t even see my face.”

“Suki told me, and Suki doesn’t lie.” Suddenly, Toph stops. “Okay. This is close enough.”

Zuko looks around. They’re in the middle of a generic residential street. “Close enough to—”

Suddenly the ground beneath his feet plummets down. Someone grabs his arm for stability, and Zuko braces his legs, muscle memory preparing him for the impact landing of an earthbender transporting him by moving the very ground itself. They land, the street above them already one piece again, and Zuko blinks as his eyes adjust to the underground. 

They’re in a tunnel, one that looks similar to the tunnel network Zuko broke into the last time he was in this city. Here, the sconces hold orange light, not green. Nonetheless: “You’re not taking us to Lake Laogai, are you?” 

Toph cackles. “I’m totally about to brainwash all of you.”

“I don’t know if that’s funny,” Zuko says.

“Of course it is. Lighten up, buddy—it could be Haru brainwashing you, instead.”

“I would not do that.”

The hand on Zuko’s arm lets go. He looks over to see Yawen’s pinched eyebrows. “What’s Lake Laogai?” she asks.

“Ancient underground city ruins where Ba Sing Se secret police used to brainwash people,” Toph explains.

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, the Dai Li have been reformed since the Fire Princess took them in the coup,” Haru reassures.

“Your sister what?” Bishal asks Zuko.

Zuko sighs. “My sister is highly accomplished, if not for the best reasons.”

Toph confidently leads them through the tunnel network, and it’s not long before they come upon a metal door. “Are you kids ready?” Toph asks.

Zuko snorts. “Sure.”

She strikes the heel of her palm where the double doors meet, and the heavy metal flies open. Light floods the tunnel, and Zuko’s blinking rapidly as Toph shouts, “Welcome to Earth Rumble II: Ba Sing Se, The Kuei Way!”

The doorway opens onto a set of stairs that descend into a stadium that’s illuminated by a single small opening in the ground above and a complex mirror system. Zuko’s jaw drops as he takes it all in: an enthusiastic crowd shouting from the stands cut from gray rock, an invisible commentator whose voice fills the cavern, two earthbenders dueling it out with panache on an elevated platform at the center of it all.

“What is this?” he asks.

Toph punches his arm. “I just told you. Earth Rumble II: Ba Sing Se, The Kuei Way.”

“Did Sokka name this thing?”

“We named it together.”

He meets Haru’s eye. Haru shrugs. “I just call it Earth Rumble II.”

Bishal dashes down the first couple steps, then turns to ask, “Can we sit anywhere?”

“Assigned seating is for losers,” Toph replies.

Bishal whoops and dashes forward, Manu and Ji-Hun quick on his heels.

Zuko’s thrown. “What’s gotten into them?” he asks Yawen.

“I’d be with them, Fire Lord Zuko, if I wasn’t the only who remembered that someone is supposed to be with you at all times.”

The crowd collectively roars, and Zuko looks at the fighting platform to see one of the contestants hanging off its edge with one hand. “Move it, Hotman,” Toph says. “We’re missing the action.”

On the way down, Haru explains how Toph convinced him that Ba Sing Se could use its own Earth Rumble; it only took a month and some change after that for Toph to persuade Haru’s father and then King Kuei of the same. The Earth King comes to larger tournaments, apparently, and they even erect a special box for him and Bosco.

“Does my Uncle come?” Zuko asks. He has yet to find a way to sit comfortably in these stands; his guards don’t seem to care, as they’re all on the edge of their seats, yelling and throwing peanuts from the bucket that Zuko bought from a vendor at Toph’s demand.

“Once a month, at least,” Haru says.

“You should’ve been here when King Bumi was competing,” Toph adds. “Iroh was going nuts.”

Zuko’s about to go nuts. “The King of Omashu competes in Earth Rumble II: Ba Sing Se?”

“The Kuei Way,” Toph finishes. “He’s in disguise, obviously.”

Zuko drops his head in his hands.

The benders are talented, of course—Zuko gives them that. There seems to be more flash than substance to most of their moves, though, and their actions are calculated to generate the largest audience reaction, rather than the quickest incapacitation of their opponent. That doesn’t stop Bishal and Yawen from screaming excitedly at a big collisions, or Ji-Hun from chuckling merrily at a landed hit that makes Zuko’s bones ache.

When the fight ends—a large man who speaks in the third person and calls himself The Boulder is deemed the winner—his guards finally settle down. Bishal wipes sweat from his brow. Ji-Hun turns to Toph and asks, “Is that the end of it?”

She grins, leaning against the stone behind her with her hands linked behind her head. “You think I’d really bring you down on a day that only had one fight?”

Bishal crows excitedly, and Manu says, “I can’t believe we went to an erotic play when this was an option.”

Toph bursts out laughing. “You took them to an erotic play?”

“It wasn’t just erotic!” Zuko protests.

“He was hiding his face the entire time,” Bishal tells Toph.

“There were things to think about in that play! This is—people throwing rocks at each other.”

“Yeah, and it’s still fun.”

“I’ll throw a rock at your head,” Toph warns.

At that, the commentator’s voice floods the arena. “Rrrrrrrumble rousers, are you ready for more rrrrumble?” 

The audience loses it, including Zuko’s friends, and he shakes his head. This is ridiculous, and he doesn’t really get it, but at least they’re enjoying it. “How long does this last?” he asks Toph.

“We’ve got matches lined up through midnight.”

It’s going to be a long night.

A vendor approaches from further below. Zuko lifts a hand, waving for his attention. “Hi—uh. Can we get seven of whatever you have?”

Softly, a pattern emerges. Zuko spends the days helping around the Jasmine Dragon; at night, he lets himself be dragged by his uncle to events he suggests, from plays to poetry nights to concerts, or dragged by Toph and his guards to a night of Earth Rumble II matches. Occasionally, he begs off to catch up on the letters he’s been receiving from Mai and his council; on those nights, Uncle stays in with him, and they end their evenings with quiet conversation over tea. They don’t talk about Azula or Ursa again, but there are other things Zuko wants to know about, and he absorbs as many of his uncle’s impromptu, metaphorical lessons as he can.

One evening, Toph shows up with Haru and surprises Zuko by declaring they’re splitting off. “Hotman and I are going to hang out here,” Toph tells Zuko’s guards, and it doesn’t take much to convince them to go with Haru to Earth Rumble II.

When they’ve left, Zuko asks, “Why do you want to hang out here?”

Toph blows a raspberry. “I don’t, and we’re not. I lied.”

Zuko follows her onto the street. The sun is sinking behind the Outer Wall; Zuko will stop feeling its presence in half an hour. They walk through a closing market, where Toph tells Zuko to buy some food from the few stalls that are still open; they then slip down an alley and make a turn that has them walking past the backside of buildings that vary drastically in style but are still built one side against another, so each block looks crammed to its limit.

Toph comes to a stop behind a building that’s taller than the others around it and, from the outside, appears to be empty. “Up here,” she says, then uses her bending to launch herself onto the roof. Zuko’s left to climb up himself, laden with bags from their market purchases that sway as he flings himself from one ledge to another.

When he reaches the roof, he’s amazed by how much he can see. The building must be on the rise of a hill; the other rings of Ba Sing Se sprawl out below them, and Zuko can just make out the glimmer of Full Moon Bay over the edge of the Outer Wall. “How did you know about this?” Zuko asks. Toph definitely didn’t discover this place for the sights.

She’s sitting on the edge of the roof, bare feet swinging in the open air. “When Sokka came to visit, he used to sneak away at night,” she says. “I followed him because I thought he’d become a member of the White Lotus. Turns out he was just coming here to ‘think.’”

She pats the spot beside her, and Zuko joins her, folding his legs in front of himself. “It’s an incredible view,” Zuko says.

“That’s what Sokka said.”

She holds out a small flask to him, one he hadn’t noticed her carrying before. “What’s this?”

“Water.”

He takes a sip and nearly chokes at the harsh flavor of a dark alcohol. Toph laughs at his spluttering. “That was not water,” Zuko shouts.

“It’s baijiu.”

“Strong baijiu,” Zuko mutters.

He takes another swig before passing the liquor back to Toph. “You brought me here to get me drunk?” he asks, unwrapping the bread and cheese they grabbed from the market.

“Give me the cherries,” she says, then answers, “I brought you here to give you some freedom.”

“This trip is me having some freedom.”

“Maybe it’s just me, but being dogged by guards every hour of the day doesn’t feel like freedom.”

Zuko takes a bite of his torn-off cheese and bread. They taste good against the alcohol still coating his tongue. “Agreeing to some rules for others’ peace of mind is the least I can do.”

“I’m glad you’re still a rule breaker, then.”

Zuko smiles at his lap. “Do you like living in Ba Sing Se?”

“Yeah. I’ve got the Rumble going with Haru, and there’s a thousand ways to scam rich idiots in the Upper Ring. Most of my friends end up visiting once or twice a year.” She spits a cherry pit down into the street; Zuko hopes no one will walk by anytime soon. “Do you like living at home again?”

“No.”

He forgot, until now, how easy it is to be honest with Toph. She never dances around what she means, she never judges, and she rarely presses for details, either.

Like now—she spits another cherry pit, takes a sip of baijiu, and says, “That sucks.”

Zuko snorts and takes the flask offered to him. “Sometimes I wonder if this trip is actually an excuse to run away.”

“Are you planning on going back?”

“Yes.”

“Then take it from me, the runaway queen—you’re not running away.”

Now that he’s expecting it, the baijiu feels indulgent in its intentional bitterness. “Do you ever feel like you know what your life is going to look like—your future—but then something happens and everything you believed in turns to ash?”

“That sounds dramatic,” she teases. “I don’t usually think beyond the next week. Unless I’m about to die. Then I think about the fact that I won’t be having a future pretty soon.”

Zuko turns to her, alarmed. “Has that happened recently?”

She sticks her hand out to him, and he gives back the flask. “No. During the war, though. That was sometimes actually scary.”

Zuko folds the cloth that once wrapped their cheese into increasingly smaller halves. “I know I was the reason for some of those moments,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

“Combustion Man? We’re over that, Zuko,” she dismisses. “That’s not the one I dream about, anyway.”

Zuko’s fingers still. “You have nightmares, too?”

“We all do. We’re kids who grew up in a war—that’s gotta mess us up for a while.”

He feels like an idiot. Mai never had nightmares, so he thought he was the only one who got them—but maybe she did have nightmares, and he never woke up for them, or she never told him. Does Aang, who always seems so at peace, have nightmares? Or Suki, who always seems in command of herself?

“What do you dream about?” he asks hesitantly.

She’s quiet for a moment. “Being foot-blind,” she says. “I was knocked off the catwalk of a war balloon. Sokka caught me. His hand was the only thing keeping me tied to the world, but it was so hot, and the sweat made everything harder to hold…”

Breath caught in his lungs, Zuko impulsively reaches out and touches Toph’s wrist. She tilts her head toward him, an amused note in her voice when she asks, “Are you trying to hold my hand?”

Even if she can’t see his burning cheeks, she can probably sense his racing pulse. “Only if you want to?”

She snorts. “Just ask for what you want, Zuko,” she says and laces their fingers together.

Her hand is small, but each of her fingers is strong and calloused. They’re hands that can bend metal to their will; of course they’d be the most solid thing Zuko’s held in a while. “What happened then?” he asks.

“Suki came.”

And that’s it.

They pass the flask twice, eating cherries from the carton balanced on Toph’s lap, before either of them speaks again. “Is Bishal cute?” Toph asks.

“What?”

“I’m working on a list of reasons why Haru should be interested in Bishal. I obviously can’t figure out if he’s cute or not. All I know is that he sounds about the right age, and none of your other guards are.”

“Bishal is very committed to his girlfriend.”

“Hmm. Too bad.” She chews pensively, spits out a pit, and asks, “Is Haru cute?”

Zuko splutters. “Why are you asking—have you asked anyone else?”

“I’m not going to ask his dad, Sokka wouldn’t make up his mind, Suki liked the mustache that everyone else hated, Katara said he wasn’t as cute as Aang, and Aang said he wasn’t as cute as Katara. None of that answers the question.”

Zuko grabs the flask from Toph and takes a drink. “Does Haru know you’re doing this?”

“He knows he can’t stop me.”

Zuko looks at their entwined fingers and sniffs. “He’s tall.”

Toph groans. “That’s not an answer!”

“It is! Tall can be cute.”

“You’re all determined that Haru stays single forever.”

“Wouldn’t you want someone to want you for more than just being cute?”

“Cute gets your foot in the door.”

His mind pulls up a hundred memories of Ty Lee tilting her head and lifting her chest just so, two small movements that allow her to get away with things Zuko would never dream of. “You’re right,” he tells Toph.

“I know. Give me back my liquor, you hog monkey.”

They stay on the roof until all the food and the baijiu is gone. Zuko’s impressed they get back to the ground without so much as a scrape. His mind is floating somewhere a little outside of his body, and he’d be shocked if Toph were completely sober. On their walk back, they encounter the remains of a bar fight, so Zuko carries Toph on his back until broken glass no longer poses a threat; Toph then insists on carrying Zuko for the next few blocks. He imagines what his capital would think, if they saw the greatest earthbender in the world giving their Fire Lord a ride through the streets, and he laughs so hard he falls off of Toph’s back.

When they reach the Jasmine Dragon, it’s just after midnight. The last Earth Rumble II fight of the evening is slated to start at midnight, so there’s no chance that Zuko’s guards got back before him. Zuko puts a hand on Toph’s shoulder, and she drags him into a signature, rib-crushing hug.

“Thank you,” Zuko tells the top of his friend’s head.

“One day, I’m gonna show up at your house, uninvited.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She squeezes him one last time before shoving him toward Uncle’s front door, and Zuko waves after her retreating form, grinning like a fool, until she rounds a corner and he can’t see her anymore.

The cherry trees blossom the day that Zuko wakes up to a letter from Mai. She ran into Ty Lee on her travels, apparently, separate from the Kyoshi Warriors, who’ve temporarily disbanded to allow the warriors to return to their families around the world. The letter is otherwise sparse and hurried, mostly just responding to the few questions that Zuko last wrote.

A week later, when the branches and roofs and streets are covered in the pink of peak bloom, Zuko receives a large scroll of updates from his council. Eun is still making little headway with the Fire Nation citizens refusing to leave ex-colonies along the southern border of the Hong Forest; he advises Zuko to stay away from those town when traveling back from Ba Sing Se, for the benefit of his guards. Li Bai sends a status report on the joint ship project with the Earth Kingdom, and Chenda passes along rumors of a salve for scar reduction being developed in women’s beauty salons.

Three days after that, a large crate is dropped outside the Jasmine Dragon with Zuko’s name on it. He opens it to discover 1,362 applications for the fall arts and culture grant.

Bishal double-takes when Zuko says the number out loud. “Do you want help with those?” he asks, peering nervously into the crate.

Zuko grimaces. “Yes,” he admits.

The next several nights, he, his guards, and Uncle read through the applications. It should be monotonous work, if his companions’ occasional sighs give any indication, but the more Zuko reads, the more he recalls what he loves about the capital and his nation. Life in the palace grows mind-numbingly repetitive when no one’s trying to kill him, but that’s hardly representative of the spark and creativity that live and breathe among his people. It’s that spirit of mischief and vitality that Ozai tried so hard to snuff out, and that Zuko wants to coax back to life. By the end of the week, they’ve culled the pool to a short list of a 112 proposals, and Zuko finds himself looking west, again and again. 

It’s time to head home, he realizes.

He tells Uncle that night, as they’re closing up the Jasmine Dragon, and Uncle sets aside his broom to gather Zuko into his arms. “It is time,” he agrees. “It has been so wonderful to be with you, nephew.”

“You too, Uncle,” Zuko says, voice muffled by Uncle’s shoulder.

They all go to one more night of Earth Rumble II, spend the next morning packing and restocking travel provisions, and then are guided by Uncle to the station. He gives each of them a unique box of tea, chosen with care from the Jasmine Dragon stores.

“I know you love your life here,” Zuko tells his uncle, “but please visit, anytime you’d like.”

Uncle smiles, warm as ever, but there’s a familiar tinge to his eye that Zuko finally knows to recognize as sadness. “Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko,” he says.

They bow to each other, then hug; a moment later, Zuko’s on a rail car that carries him back out of Ba Sing Se.

On the other side of Full Moon Bay, they take Eun’s advice and veer north, skirting the worst of the ex-colonies. Moving quickly on ostrich horse through the ever-red and orange Hong Forest, Zuko feels like a coward; then he looks at the four people traveling with him and knows he wouldn’t ask them to take on entire towns of ex-military Azulon and Ozai supporters for the sake of Zuko’s self-esteem. They avoid using the main roads for as long as possible, even if it adds a couple days to their journey, but when they’re finally forced onto a popular thoroughfare again, they’re already at the foot of the mountains that create the forest’s western border. 

They’ve gone through most of the provisions they bought in Ba Sing Se, so breakfast is sparse on the morning they start plodding through a mountain pass. Zuko’s thinking more about lunch than his surroundings, and before he’s noted the exchange of vibrant reds and pinks for more familiar greens, they’re already deep in a valley of verdure.

His stomach is beginning to grumble when they finally, in the late afternoon, come across the first town in this mountain pass. Nestled between the rises of several lush hills that quickly ascend into high peaks, the place looks like a dream, where the vegetation is vibrant and the people walking about seem healthy and well-cared for, even if quiet and hesitant to look at Zuko and his guards. From the main road, smaller paths split off and wind up the hills, leading to what looks like private residences and the occasional inn.

“Food?” Manu asks hopefully.

“Yes,” Zuko says.

They find a noodle bar, and Bishal volunteers to take care of their ostrich horses. When Zuko walks in, he catches the person tending the bar slipping out a back door, and the only reason he doesn’t mind this delay in eating is the delicious smell of this entire place.

Bishal comes in before the shopkeeper is back, and Zuko gestures at the open seat beside him before registering the grim set to Bishal’s jaw. “Everything okay?” Zuko asks.

Bishal shakes his head and leans close to whisper, “Nisha works here, but we have to pretend to not know her.”

Zuko straightens in his seat, but his excitement is dashed when he comprehends the rest of Bishal’s sentence. “What?”

He shrugs, aiming for casual and missing the mark. “I’m meeting her later. She said she’d explain more.”

As Bishal goes to inform the other guards, Zuko takes more careful stock of his surroundings. The shop is fairly empty for the approaching dinner hour. Though this area was never a colony, plenty of Fire Nation military, citizens, and colonists traveled—and continue to travel—through this pass, so he isn’t completely surprised to see other guests wearing clothing of Fire Nation pink and red. But it does seem like there’s an awful lot more red than green represented, even without considering his guards.

Are the rest of the Kyoshi warriors also in town?

He looks back to the bar, and that’s when he sees it: a small gold Fire Nation insignia, mounted on a wooden rafter high in the shadows of the ceiling. The indiscrete symbol in a discrete location gives him the beginning of a notion for why a Kyoshi warrior would be working at a noodle bar.

At that, Nisha bustles in through the back door, a detached smile on her face. “Welcome to the Flying Tigerdillo,” she says. “Some house noodles for the traveling party?”

“Please,” Zuko says, trying not to stare too hard at Nisha.

He must fail, since she levels a stink eye at him, but in a blink she’s placid again. “Coming right up.”

Bishal starts shoveling down his noodles as soon as they’re in front of him, and Zuko takes it as his cue to also eat quickly. Bishal’s the only one talking to Nisha, chattering about the weather and asking for inn recommendations. As soon as they’re done and paid, they return to their ostrich horses to follow Nisha’s directions to an inn—all save Bishal, who’ll leisurely stock up some provisions in town until he can meet covertly with Nisha. 

When they reach the inn, one of the several that’s on a side road that winds up the hillside, something doesn’t sit right in Zuko’s stomach. “We should wait,” he says, and no one argues.

The sun is sinking when Manu spots Bishal approaching them. Bishal hardly slows his ostrich horse as he passes by Zuko. “Let’s ride a bit further,” he suggests tightly.

He takes the lead, his pace increasing once dark falls, and when he suddenly turns down a path obscured by foliage, Zuko realizes he must be following further directions from Nisha.

They eventually come upon a modest house nestled into the side of the thickly forested hill. “Don’t light anything for longer than needed,” Bishal advises as he pulls out a key from a cord around his neck. “It’d be best if no one knew we were here.”

“Are we breaking into someone’s home?” Ji-Hun asks.

“He has a key,” Zuko points out.

Though the house is of modest size, the furniture and decor within are lavish. Zuko can dwell on that later; the tension between his shoulders has been increasing since they first sat down at the bar. He turns to Bishal, who’s locking the door behind them. “What’s going on?”

Bishal shakes his head. “You won’t like it.”

It goes like this: a few months ago, the Kyoshi warriors temporarily disbanded to spend time with their families around the world. But when a friend of Ty Lee’s sent her a letter mentioning some strange auctions happening near her home, Suki decided the few warriors she had near her would be enough to unobtrusively poke around. They packed lightly, only expecting to be gone for a week at most.

Two months later, they’re deeply entangled in an underground trade ring of Sozin- and Azulon-era Fire Nation memorabilia.

“They’re been collecting information for a while now, because they’re still uncertain how deep this thing runs,” Bishal says. “But about a week ago, Sokka was taken.”

Zuko double-takes. “Sokka?”

“He convinced Suki to let him tag along, and he was undercover like the rest of them. But an ex-military leader at an auction recognized his knife as Southern Water Tribe make. He was ambushed later that day and thrown into the jailhouse before the warriors even realized he was missing.”

Zuko can’t understand how they’ve left Sokka there for this long. “Where’s Suki?” he asks. “And Ty Lee?”

“In the Fire Nation. The northeast point of the archipelago.”

Probably near Ember Island, then, right where there’s a strong pocket of loyal traditionalists. “Is Nisha the only warrior on this side of the ocean?”

“There are two others, but they’re acting as live-in maids to prominent families in this valley.”

Zuko drops onto a low couch. Sokka’s been held captive for a week. “We have to get him out,” he says. These people, like the Dragon Guard, are clinging to the past, and Zuko’s heard too many accounts to number of the awful things the Dragon Guard did in Azulon and Ozai’s names. If they have Sokka …

He can’t let himself think about what the worst of his citizens might do for the sake of information, or for paranoia of being found out.

“Nisha thinks, with our help, that we can make it happen without compromising their mission,” Bishal says.

Zuko’s mind whirls. There’s no we about this—the solution that poses the least risk to anyone is a one-person extraction, an easy in-and-out under the cover of darkness.

He can’t keep planning, however, with his guard looking at him expectantly. “Go to bed,” he says. “We’ll figure this out tomorrow and find a way to get it to Nisha.”

The journey back into town takes much longer by foot. By the time he’s close enough to have to mind street lanterns catching his shadow, most everyone else seems to be off the street and tucked safely into their beds.

It’s not difficult to find the jailhouse. At first, the building seems more like a lone holding cell for the drunk and disorderly, but then Zuko spots from his perch on the roof next door that there’s a dark staircase tunneling underground. There’s only one visible guard, sleeping on a chair just inside the front door. 

If it all goes well, Zuko won’t have to use his dao on him.

The nails bolting the crossbar frame over the window of the unoccupied holding cell are easy to pry off with a knife, and with a jump and a pull up, Zuko slithers into the building. He lands quietly—not silently—but the guard at the door doesn’t stir.

Zuko checks the knot on the ribbon holding his mask in place and then unsheathes his dao.

The stairs are narrow and unlit, and Zuko is grateful, when he turns on a landing, to see flickering light await him. He listens carefully and hears a murmur of a voice, though not in a timbre he recognizes. It only sounds like one, but regardless of what might be ahead of him, he has no choice but to go forward.

The base of the stairs opens into a musty room with a single cell built against the back wall.

The murmuring is coming from an older man, who’s sitting on the ground next to a lit candle. There’s a book in his lap, and Zuko’s chest twinges when he realizes the guard is reading aloud to his two companions, but then the other guards notice Zuko, and instead of thinking there’s only acting—

Flames shoot over his head as he slides low and takes out the legs of one of the guards, and he flips the unbalanced man over his head before bouncing to his feet in his new position between the guards and the cell. He leans back to avoid a flaming kick to his face and slashes his blades to force his opponents back, but they’re benders, and he can’t bend right now, so the space only works to their advantage.

He dodges a burst of fire and spins forward with his blades whirling, quickly bearing down on the bender who seems more experienced, and Zuko recognizes the panic on the man’s face when he realizes it’s an actual blade arcing toward him—

In a breath, Zuko has him in a headlock. There’s a fist trying to punch its way through Zuko’s abdomen, but that’s less pressing than the other guard stupidly charging toward Zuko and his captive. A shift of weight and a brace for impact, and the guards’ heads collide, their helmets clanging horribly. The weight hanging off Zuko’s arm suddenly increases tenfold, and Zuko drops his captive, leaps over the other unconscious guard, and disarms the old man who’s finally abandoned his book to raise a short blade. His lips have just parted into a startled oh when Zuko strikes the juncture of his neck and shoulder.

The man sinks to the floor, out cold, and the sudden silence is deafening.

Zuko listens toward the stairs, but it doesn’t sound like the guard at the door is coming down to investigate. He turns to the cell door, finds the lock, and shatters it with a well-placed kick. The door swings opens to a familiar whisper-shriek. “Did you just—?”

He holds up a gloved finger to his masked lips, and Sokka falls silent. A Sokka that Zuko almost wouldn’t recognize, if it weren’t for the blue eye shining out from the darkness, reflecting the light of the lone candle still flickering behind Zuko. He’s covered in grime and could use a wash, but under that, his hair has grown longer and, how annoying, he’s grown a beard—

Zuko pushes the thought away. As soon as he’s witnessed that Sokka can stand on his own feet, Zuko heads back upstairs.

He climbs with his swords at the ready, listening for Sokka following him and potential threats before him. When he reaches the ground floor again, though, the guard at the door still slumbers obliviously, and Zuko thanks the spirits for this small favor. If this guard manages to sleep until morning, and no one down below wakes too soon, Sokka will be well out of reach by the time an alarm is sounded.

Sokka isn’t behind him, Zuko realizes.

He turns in time to see Sokka stagger up the last of the stairs, leaning against one of the walls and squinting, and Zuko freezes. So does Sokka, part of him vaguely registers, but Zuko’s more distracted by a patch over one of Sokka’s eyes. Did he get too deep into the theatrics of being undercover, or did he—?

Is that why Sokka’s struggling to walk?

He is struggling, and Zuko glances at the door—which leads to a well-lit street—then at the window he broke into, and then at Sokka. Sokka catches on, and though he winces, he pushes off of the wall and shuffles toward the window. He’s not injured, Zuko realizes as his eyes rake down Sokka’s body and find no signs of swelling or blood. He’s lost his sense of balance.

Zuko grabs Sokka’s arm, looking meaningfully at the door again, but Sokka just sets his jaw and grabs an empty crate to set below the window. Zuko glances between the sleeping guard and the stairs one last time before sheathing his dao.

Sokka boosts himself through, and when there’s no shout of pain, Zuko assumes Sokka made it. In fact, when Zuko lands on the grass outside, Sokka’s already headed into the dark, careening in the wrong direction. Zuko grabs him by the collar of the drab brown shirt that does nothing for his skin.

“Ow!” Sokka whispers, and Zuko’s stomach lurches when, even with Zuko’s support, Sokka takes a second to find his feet under him. His mouth is steady where his legs aren’t, though. “Look, Mister Blue Spirit, thanks for busting me out, but—”

Feeling like an ass but also feeling very right, Zuko lets go of Sokka. Sokka reels on his own feet for a moment and almost tips over before Zuko grabs him tightly again. “Okay, fine,” Sokka huffs. “But I’m going to be so betrayed if you just deliver me to Taka, or something.”

Zuko wishes he could appreciate the snark, but he still has to get Sokka away from here. It’s clear, now, that Sokka’s been rattled, but Zuko has no idea if it was one decisive hit or several blows to the head. Mercifully, Sokka shuts up for the rest of their sneaking out of town. The first time he stumbles dangerously, Zuko grabs Sokka by the upper arm, and Sokka doesn’t protest.

They’re moving at a pace that’s slower than Zuko would like, but once they’re five minutes up the side road to their borrowed house—away from the street lanterns—Sokka places a hand over Zuko’s. “I can’t—” he starts.

Zuko immediately stops, and Sokka leans against him, breathing measuredly through his nose. It’s strangely reassuring, to feel Sokka’s heat and weight against his side.

“You know,” Sokka says, “I can’t believe you’re alive, dude. No one’s seen you since the war.”

Zuko checks behind them. There’s no sign of pursuit, or of other humans up and about.

“Most people think the Dai Li got you in Ba Sing Se,” Sokka continues, “and they’ve been sticking you in increasingly complicated traps to learn how you break into things. I thought you peaced out to one of the Air Temples, because a guy knows when he’s earned a break—”

Zuko slips the knot out of the ribbon holding his mask and shakes out his hair.

“Zuko?”

How nice for his skin to breathe again. “Keep your voice down,” Zuko says.

He’s blindsided by Sokka’s hug, and they almost topple over, Zuko’s nose smashed against Sokka’s collarbone. “You’re the Blue Spirit?”

“Yeah.”

Sokka pulls back—not far, because Zuko’s still supporting his weight, but enough to see his huge grin by the light of the moon. “You have a secret identity. Like Toph!”

“I’m an enemy of the state.”

“I’m pretty sure the Blind Bandit is also the enemy of multiple states.”

If he’s recovered enough to joke around, Zuko reasons that Sokka’s recovered enough to begin moving again, and he’ll be happier about being reunited with his friend once they’re safe in the house, away from potential witnesses. He grasps Sokka’s arm again, and Sokka immediately falls in step with him. “You cut your hair,” Sokka says.

“You haven’t cut yours.” Or shaved your beard, Zuko could add, and Sokka’s grown taller and broader, too. He wonders what other changes he’ll notice under sunlight.

Sokka ducks close to whisper, “It’s part of the disguise. A good beard and a mustache make all the difference.”

“Did something happen to your eye?”

“Nah, that’s also part of it. I actually got the idea from that play I snuck you into. Remember Squirrel-Bat?”

An indignant noise leaps from Zuko’s throat. “You remember the fake name you gave a character two years ago, but not the actual name on the night of?”

“What?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Hey. Where are we going?”

Zuko’s mind goes blank. He doesn’t know how Sokka feels about breaking and entering. “Uh. A place.”

When Zuko ducks into the hidden path, Sokka makes a sound of relief; he must recognize where they are. “You’re not alone, right?” he asks. “Mai told Ty Lee that you had to take some guards.”

“Yes,” Zuko says. The house finally comes into view, and he slides the key he’d stolen from Bishal’s pack out from under his shirt. “But be quiet. They don’t know I left.”

“This wasn’t part of a plan?”

“I had a plan.”

He manages to unlock and open the door, even with Sokka leaning heavily on him; the escape has really taken something out of him. As quickly and gently as he can, Zuko leads him to the room he’d claimed for himself, helping ease Sokka onto the bed. He lights the candle sitting on the side table, and Sokka winces.

“Were you rattled?” Zuko asks.

“What?”

“Rattled. Hit on the head? Or did you fall and knock your head?”

“Rattled,” Sokka repeats, as if testing the word in his mouth. “We call it flurries, at home. ‘Cause it feels like your head is full of really fluffy snow.”

Zuko crouches in front of Sokka. “Do you want to take off the eye patch?”

At the question, Sokka’s eye focuses on him; doing so doesn’t seem to cause him pain, which marginally eases Zuko’s anxiety. “You’re right,” Sokka says. “I can do that now.”

“So you’re—flurried?”

“Have the flurries, not flurried,” Sokka says. “And yeah, I think so.”

He pulls off the eye patch, and Zuko watches as his pupil shrinks until it matches his other eye. “Whoa,” Sokka says, a hand shooting out to catch himself when he tips sideways. “That was weird.”

Spirits, Zuko wishes Chenda were here right now. Zuko’s never been badly rattled before; how’s he supposed to know how to take care of Sokka? “Do you need something to drink?” he asks. “Or food?”

“I think I need to lay down.”

He still doesn’t look entirely steady, so Zuko half-rises to help Sokka get his legs on the bed and lay back against he pillows. Once he’s supine, he exhales with relief, eyes already sliding shut. “Thanks,” he mumbles.

Zuko’s chest feels tight. He finds a spare blanket, covers Sokka with it, and then curls up in the chair in the corner of the room to watch Sokka until he’s too tired to keep his eyes open.

When Zuko wakes at daybreak, Sokka is snoring softly. Zuko wishes he could be sleeping just as soundly, for at least a couple more hours, but the sun is calling him, so he slips out of the room to search for food and, hopefully, some energizing tea.

Bishal finds him in the kitchen as he’s brewing a pot of ginseng. “Zuko,” he begins, his voice sounding strange. “Why isn’t the key where I left it last night?”

Zuko stares intently at the pot held above the flames in his left palm. He knew the secret wouldn’t last long, so pretenses are pointless. “Sokka’s here,” he says casually. “He has the flurries.”

Bishal breathes deeply through his nose, pressing two fingers to the center of his forehead. “You snuck out last night.”

“That’s what they call being rattled, in the Southern Water Tribe.”

Bishal looks up, and Zuko isn’t expecting the anger in his expression. “Do our duties as your guards mean nothing to you? Do I mean nothing to you?”

What? “No!”

“Then why did you sneak out?”

“Sending in only one person was the least risky thing to do!”

“One of us could have gone today, after we’d talked about—”

“He’d been there for weeks!”

Bishal smacks the kitchen table with an open palm, turning away, and the fire in Zuko’s hand threatens to grow hotter. He takes a steadying breath; Uncle would be disappointed if he ever scorched tea again.

“If you even think about doing that again,” Bishal says, “I’ll tie one of your legs to mine.”

“You’d never get anywhere.”

“But neither would you.”

Ji-Hun enters the kitchen, graying eyebrows knitting together when he looks between them. “Good morning,” he says.

Bishal pushes past him, muttering darkly as he disappears into the house. Ji-Hun frowns at Zuko.

Zuko sighs. “We should sit down to breakfast.”

In another hour, everyone but Sokka is up, and none of them are happy with Zuko when he explains what he did. “I won’t apologize for doing what felt right,” Zuko insists. Bishal responds by getting up and leaving the room. The only thing the rest of them agree upon is that they can’t do anything else until Sokka wakes up.

So Zuko retreats to the bedroom and watches.

The sun has risen enough for light to streak through the window and spill across the room. It makes it easier to see how much dirt has accumulated on Sokka’s skin, how oily and tangled his loose hair is. Zuko wonders if he should get a bowl of warm water and a cloth, to clean some of it away; he decides he should hide from his guards for a while longer. Besides, he doesn’t want to risk disturbing Sokka’s peace. His chest rises and falls in a deep and steady rhythm, and his expression is truly relaxed, instead of the veneer of ease he so often seems to wear.

Around noon, his breathing changes; Zuko’s out of his seat and hovering at the edge of the bed when Sokka cracks open his eyes. “Hi,” Zuko says gently.

Sokka moans, pressing his face into the pillow. He mumbles something that Zuko can’t hear, muffled by the pillow.

“What?”

Sokka rolls his head to the side. “I feel gross.”

“Like … you’re about to be sick?”

“No. I haven’t thrown up. There’s just gunk where there shouldn’t be.”

It’s a good sign, Zuko thinks, that Sokka hasn’t thrown up. “Want to wash up?”

“Ugh. Yes.”

It feels strange, how easily Sokka accepts Zuko’s guiding hands and steady shoulder for leaning. He’d expected more of an argument about it; maybe sleep-addled Sokka is more pliable. They shuffle toward the bathroom together, Sokka half-draped over him, until Bishal appears at the other end of the hall.

Sokka straightens, making an effort to look steady on his own. “Bishal,” he says, and Zuko can hear the easy grin in his voice. “Fancy seeing you around here.”

Bishal smiles, and Zuko’s glad that he isn’t misdirecting his anger at Zuko onto Sokka. “Heard you hit your head,” he says conversationally.

“Someone else hit my head, actually. And I haven’t had a wash in a couple weeks, now, so—”

“I won’t get in your way.”

Bishal steps to the side. Zuko gives him a grateful nod as they pass; he receives a stony face in return.

The walls and floor of the bathroom are covered in matching green tiles, and while that choice had seemed strange when Zuko saw it last night, it now, in the light of day, is breathtaking: the window opposite the door opens up onto the verdant world outside, and the boundary between inside and outside becomes blurred. It’s a sight meant to be indulged in, and it explains the luxury of a deep sitting tub to the right of the door, one just wider than Zuko’s shoulders and built into the floor. 

Zuko crouches to turn on the tap, letting fresh spring water rush into the tub, and the splattering sound fills the room. He glances at Sokka, discovers he’s already stripping out of his clothes, and jerks his gaze back to the water.

When the tub is full, he turns off the tap, pushes up his sleeves, and plunges his forearms into the water. His hands begin to heat, until the water is hot and steam rises off its surface, coating his cheeks with a damp heat.

“Whoa,” Sokka says. 

Zuko unthinkingly looks at him, and spirits above, he’s glad Sokka at least kept his undergarment on. Zuko stands and backs away, deliberately staring at the floor. There’s movement from Sokka’s corner, unsteady feet shuffling across tile, and then water lapping against the walls.

Sokka sighs, and only then does Zuko dare look up again. “This is the most incredible bath I’ve had in my life,” he says, sliding down as far as he can. It’s not much; his shoulders are still above the water, but at least he can tip his head back to rest it against the lip of the tub.

Zuko snorts. He grabs the basin tucked on top of a tall cabinet and throws Sokka’s soiled clothing into it. “Put some water in here,” he says.

“Don’t worry about those,” Sokka dismisses.

“I might as well deal with them when I’m stuck here making sure you don’t drown.”

“I’m from the Water Tribe!” Sokka protests. “If I’m going to drown, I’ll do it in the ocean, like my whale walrus-hunting ancestors before me. Not in a bathtub.”

Regardless, he’s taken the basin from Zuko’s hands, so Zuko just hums in response.

It’s familiar, methodical work, scouring the grime from clothing, and Zuko’s hung the garments on a line near the ceiling before Sokka’s finished scrubbing his body. Being so crammed can’t help, and the occasional wince and pause in his movements makes Zuko think his head is bothering him.

When Zuko sits on the floor behind Sokka, his back resting against the wall, Sokka asks, “So what’s the plan?”

“The plan was to get you out of jail.”

“And … that’s it?”

Annoyance twinges in the back of Zuko’s neck. “You needed to get out, so I got you out,” he says, feeling like an echo of himself from this morning.

Sokka turns, fixing him with a look that makes Zuko think dad, even though his father has never worn that expression. “And what now?” Sokka asks. “They know I’m hurt! They know I won’t be able to travel quickly, whether alone or with help, so they’re going to be swarming the valley and the pass for days.”

Obviously, Zuko understands that now. His indignation swells. “How was I supposed to know you were rattled?”

“Did you even think of the possible consequences?”

“I’m good at figuring things out!”

“But you can’t—” Sokka cuts himself off, closing his eyes and touching his head gingerly. 

Guilt sweeps through Zuko. “I’m sorry,” he says, quieter. “We shouldn’t argue. It’s not good for you.”

Sokka sighs, and just like that, the tension in the air dissipates. “How did you even know where I was?” he asks.

“We ran into Nisha when we first got here. She told Bishal about everything.”

Sokka’s eyes are open again, his teeth worrying at his lower lip. “I … I can’t think, right now,” he eventually admits. “You should send Bishal to talk to Nisha.”

He’s right, but Zuko still isn’t ready to talk to Bishal. “Mm.”

Sokka sighs again. “Hair time,” he grumbles. 

He leans forward to sink completely beneath the water, and when he comes back up, he looks utterly disgruntled. “This is going to take forever,” he moans, reaching for his scalp and trying to drag his fingers through from the root. He immediately hits a snarl and hisses with pain. “Monkey feathers,” he curses, eyes screwing tight. “Double monkey feathers, that hurt.”

Zuko shifts forward before he’s fully aware of what he’s doing. “Do you want me to help?”

“Ugh, it’s fine. It gets really annoying to deal with.”

“Can’t get as bad as mine,” Zuko says. “I don’t think your hair’s as thick.”

Sokka tips his head back, until his hair is creating puddles on the floor and he can look at Zuko’s face. “Your hair is thick?”

“My mother used to say it’s the best trait I got from my father.”

Zuko freezes. He hadn’t—it’d slipped out of him, that comment. He hadn’t meant to say it, because if he had meant to, it’d probably come out more bitterly, less like a joke.

But there’s no sudden change in Sokka, just his gleaming blue eyes and his familiar jocularity as he says, “Well, if you say you have magic fingers…”

“I did not say I have magic fingers.”

He’s extremely careful, as he pulls apart the knots in Sokka’s hair, starting at the tips and working his way to the roots. Sokka chatters, at first, but when Zuko’s too intent on his task to fully participate in a conversation, he eventually slows down and then stops, until they’re enveloped in a serene silence.

When he’s finished, he pushes Sokka’s back off the side of the tub. “Tilt your head back,” he says, and then, with cupped hands, he pours water at the crown of Sokka’s forehead to let it fall back through his hair. He repeats the motion several times, mindful to reach the spaces behind Sokka’s ears.

Sokka’s eyes are still closed, and Zuko’s noticing a bead of water clinging to Sokka’s eyelashes when he suddenly realizes how close they are. His pants are soaked from kneeling this close to the tub, and he’s half-curled over Sokka, who’s drifted so his back is resting against the side again. His shoulder, solid and capped, could accidentally brush Zuko’s thigh with a single shift, and—

Zuko backs away. “All set,” he says, climbing to his feet. “I’ll get you some dry clothes.”

The solution, in the end, is to hunker down for a while, which Zuko would argue isn’t a terrible consequence to his jailbreak; everyone around him was blowing things out of proportion. Staying put now gives Sokka time to heal in a safe place, and the rest of them can enjoy a rather beautiful setting and even help Nisha uncover more leads in the underground trade ring. It’s rough, that Zuko isn’t allowed to leave the house again (“Nisha says people are bound to recognize you as the Fire Lord,” Bishal says, and Zuko swears there’s vindication in his tone), but it’s a nice house. He’s here with people he likes. There are worse things.

Like Bishal pointedly vacating his room, ostensibly so Zuko can take it now that Sokka’s in the other one, but there are other makeshift bed options beside the loveseat right next to the front door.

Zuko ignores Bishal’s simmering anger, even if ignoring it doesn’t make him feel better, and instead spends his time with Sokka, the only other person under strict house arrest.

It’s Sokka who explains that this house belongs to Ty Lee’s estranged uncle. “Partially estranged,” he amends. “He married a man, and they don’t have kids, so there’s no one to directly inherit this place. He has fun dangling it over his nieces and nephews, and it drives his siblings insane, apparently.”

“Why did they take a home in the Earth Kingdom?”

“His husband is an Earth Kingdom citizen.”

For some reason, the phrase his husband rattles around Zuko’s head for the next couple days.

Sokka also tells him that he let himself get ambushed, because he knew he’d been made and didn’t want to risk tying any of the Kyoshi warriors to him, which reminds Zuko that this whole mess began with Sokka keeping a Southern Water Tribe knife on him in plain sight. “You should’ve been carrying one of the knives Eun gave you,” he says.

“Yeah, well, a carving knife isn’t going to hold up well in hand-to-hand, is it?” Sokka replies with a lazy shrug that shows he’s not trying to argue with Zuko.

On the fourth day, Yawen returns from town with a bundle of Sokka’s belongings, which were filched by Nisha from the store room of an herbalist who’s part of the trade ring. Among them are the paints that Zuko gave him over a year ago; Zuko notices there are fewer colors than before, and that they’re all running low. He wonders where else Sokka’s paintings have ended up.

He gets to watch Sokka paint, then, as it’s one of the few things Sokka can do for hours on end without getting a headache. Even talking for too long does him in, but he can still listen—something Zuko assumed he couldn’t do comfortably, until one night when Sokka says, “You know, that one guard at the jail who’d read to the other guards—he actually had a nice reading voice.”

Zuko finds a bookcase in the bedroom Ji-Hun and Manu have been sharing, and he takes to reading aloud to Sokka after lunch to lull him into an afternoon nap, and again at night before sleep. Sokka still can’t remember characters’ real names, even though he’ll notice a throwaway line from Act I reappearing in the climax of Act III.

They’re a few days out from two weeks in hiding when Sokka comes to breakfast with his jaw clean and the sides of his hair shaved down to a thin layer that looks like it’d be incredibly soft, if Zuko were allowed to touch it. “I’m good to go,” Sokka declares. “We probably shouldn’t stay here much longer, anyway.”

Zuko’s guards turn to him—even Bishal, who’s gradually cooled down, though there still isn’t anything easy between them—and Zuko sets down his tea. “If you say you’re ready,” he tells Sokka.

Sokka sets his jaw. “I am.”

They steal away that night under the light of the full moon, Sokka riding behind Yawen on her ostrich horse. They don’t encounter a single person until the break of day, when the sun peeks over the horizon as they leave the mountain pass for the last stretch of land before the sea. An hour later, they’re selling their ostrich horses and buying tickets for an Earth Kingdom boat to take them to Crescent Island, and only then does Zuko dare thank the moon for the easy journey. 

She’s long disappeared below the horizon; only the sea lies ahead.

Being on a boat really doesn’t agree with Sokka’s condition.

He gets ill the instant they leave the protection of the port’s harbor, and he at least makes it to the side of the deck before getting sick. Zuko and Manu stand on either side of him, making sure he doesn’t accidentally pitch himself over the railing, too. “Do you get seasick?” Manu asks sympathetically.

Sokka holds it together long enough to give Manu a withering look before he’s losing the rest of his breakfast.

When the first wave passes, they take Sokka to a bench near the bow of the ship, where he folds himself in half and hides his face between his knees. Zuko kneels before him, at a loss for what to do. “How are you feeling?”

Sokka moans shortly. “Sloshy outside not good for sloshy inside.”

Zuko glances at his guards. “We should have stopped for a healer after the pass,” he says guiltily.

Yawen puts a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “We all agreed that crossing the sea was more important,” she says. “Including Sokka.”

Sokka’s hands slide over his skull, fingers splayed wide as if to contain his own head. The movement unsettles his tied-up hair; thinking of how his topknot sometimes pulls at his scalp, Zuko slips the band out of Sokka’s hair and cards his fingers through the brown locks to ease any tension. He’s not sure if he imagines Sokka’s shoulders relaxing in response. “We’ll get you to Chenda as soon as possible,” he promises.

Sokka gets sick twice more on the journey, leaving his skin clammy and his fingers shaking. It seems like an eternity passes between the call for landing sighting and actually arriving at port; the process of docking then also takes inordinately long, to the point that Zuko’s about to start yelling at someone when the gangplank finally lowers. 

Their group is the first off the boat, and Zuko sends Ji-Hun and Bishal ahead to find an inn and a healer. Sokka stubbornly won’t let anyone help him walk, even if it slows him to little more than a shuffle, and he keeps at it until Ji-Hun returns and redirects them toward an inn. Only then is Yawen able to sneak her arm around Sokka’s without him protesting it.

Zuko is hovering unhelpfully where Sokka’s sitting on the bed, feet flat on the floor and head once again between his legs, when Bishal arrives with a healer behind him. The healer dashes straight past all of them to close the shutters on the windows, sinking the room into near darkness. “You must keep him in the dark,” he instructs and then freezes when he turns and recognizes, by the scant sunlight that still slips its way into the room, Zuko’s scar. “My apologies, Fire Lord Zuko,” he says, bowing low. “I hadn’t—”

“I’m not the one who needs attention,” Zuko interrupts.

He hadn’t meant to sound so snappish, but it at least turns the healer right back to Sokka.

He confirms that Sokka’s been rattled, and the only advice he can offer is drinking tea, to recover from the sickness on the ship, and getting rest away from light and sounds. By the time the healer leaves, Sokka’s asleep, and the room is so dark Zuko struggles to discern the rise and fall of his chest.

“I need to go outside,” Zuko says.

He leaves without waiting for a guard to join him, and he’s surprised to see that Yawen is the one sent after him until he remembers that he and Bishal aren’t exactly speaking, right now. There’s the beginning of a packed-dirt walking path behind the inn, and Zuko starts down it on a whim. The sun is starting to set. He dimly recognizes he should eat something, but he doesn’t feel hungry.

He and Yawen don’t speak until the path starts climbing up, following a cliff that rises high above a long stretch of sandy beach. “One of my cousins was in the navy,” Yawen says. “He got rattled in an accident—a crate wasn’t tied down well, and during a storm it came loose and fell on his head.”

Zuko winces. During his banishment, living amongst men who’d spent most of their careers, if not lives, at sea, he overheard plenty of horrific stories of the accidents, injuries, and even deaths that came from the most innocuous of things not being properly secured on a ship. He kept his quarters barren because of those stories. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“He’s healthy now. But he had to leave the navy. He spent months confined to a darkened room, and he felt ill for a long time.”

His mind flits to the dark room where they’ve just left Sokka. He’d hoped that in a day or two of rest, they’d be back on their journey, but he thinks of the tremor in Sokka’s hands on the ship, of the determination setting his jaw the morning before. And while they did need to leave the mountain pass sooner rather than later, they easily could have stayed on the coast of the Earth Kingdom—the port city was large, and there was enough traffic of people from all the nations that they could remain anonymous, so long as Zuko was careful with showing his face. 

It occurs to him that Sokka’s pushing himself out of the concern that he’s holding the rest of them back. That’s a stupid concern, Zuko thinks. They could stay here for a while, and wait for Sokka to feel well enough for water travel again. When they reach the capital, Chenda can see to him.

The path turns, still hugging the cliff face, and suddenly Zuko’s facing west. In the distance, he can see the hazy, sunset-pink peaks of the closest islands of his nation’s archipelago. Home is still some ways away, yet he feels it calling to him, stronger than he could’ve ever expected from a place he so often does not love. He could wait a week or two, maybe, and his capital and council could also wait that long.

None of them could wait months.

He looks back to see Yawen watching him as she climbs. It’s hard to tell her age; she has two thick streaks of gray in her brown hair, starting at the crown of her head and cutting stark lines into a ponytail that then billows out into loose waves, but she moves with the limber grace of someone closer to Zuko’s age. Her skin is smooth, but the lack of wrinkles might have to do with the fact that she never appears distressed.

“Do you want to be home again?” Zuko asks.

Her expression is perfectly neutral as she replies, “I don’t think that’s what really counts, here, my lord.”

She’s right. He can’t deflect questions he should be asking himself to other people, especially if he’s just scared of his truthful answer.

He looks west again, and maybe there’s something in his face, because Yawen says, “Ji-hun says the healer on your council must know someone on Crescent Island.”

He’s thought about it, too—the list of names and towns that Li Bai, Eun, and Chenda gave him before he left the capital. “She probably does.”

They keep climbing.

When they get back to the inn, Sokka’s awake, drinking tea and eating chilled noodles in the dark. “Hungry?” he asks Zuko.

He sounds more like himself, and it reassures Zuko. He joins Sokka at the low table by the shuttered window and starts on the meal that someone has thoughtfully left him. “How are you feeling?”

Sokka pauses and then deliberately sets down his chopsticks. “I don’t—” He clears his throat. “I don’t think I can do another boat, right now.”

It sounds like he’s forcing the sentence out of himself, and Zuko realizes that, for all of Sokka’s self-deprecating jokes, he doesn’t often seriously admit to weakness. Zuko saw it a few times, during the war, but that was during the war. All of them were worn down to their barest selves more than a few times.

He really must be less well than he led them to believe, if he’s confessing to Zuko now.

“Chenda has a friend on the other side of the island,” Zuko says. “They met when working as healers for the military. She said she has a spare room, where you can stay for as long as you need. Would you do that?”

Sokka wraps his hands around his cup of tea. “I need to tell Suki I’m okay.”

“We can help you with that. We can ask Katara to come, too—she could help, right?”

Sokka shakes his head and then winces at the movement. “She’ll get all worked up about nothing. I’m basically fine.”

Zuko frowns. “You’re not fine.”

Sokka sighs, pushing his tea away from himself. “I’ll be fine.”

On impulse, Zuko takes Sokka’s cup and draws upon the sun inside of him. Warming the cup isn’t as effective as warming the tea directly, but it’ll have to do. He passes it back to Sokka and says, “I know you will. But please let me help.” I’ll feel awful about leaving you behind otherwise.

A moment. Then: “She knows the warriors wouldn’t mislead her. But I know she’ll want to hear it from me, too.”

“I’ll write her something, and you can sign it. Okay?”

Zuko can hear Sokka swallow. “Okay.”

In the morning, before Sokka wakes, Zuko writes a short letter to Suki, telling her where they are and where Sokka will be staying. He wonders if they use the term rattled in the Earth Kingdom; he settles on saying Sokka hit his head badly. He then goes into town with Manu to buy a few things for Sokka, and by the time he returns, Sokka is awake and talking to Chenda’s friend.

They pack and straighten up the rooms they stayed in, and before Zuko knows it, they’re standing in the street, about to split off in opposite directions. He scrutinizes Sokka’s face and only encounters bright eyes and a familiar smile. “Happy travels, Sailor Lord,” Sokka says.

He caves to the urge to hug Sokka, and he’s glad that Sokka responds in kind, his forearms a solid line against Zuko’s back. Sokka feels and looks like health; it’s a cruel trick, that his friend is actually unwell. “Listen to everything she tells you,” he says, “or I’ll send Katara and Chenda after you.”

“Threatening an injured man with death? That’s low, buddy.”

He lets go, and Zuko reluctantly does the same. He rejoins his guards, and when he glances over his shoulder, Sokka and Chenda’s friend are already walking away.

On the ship that takes them from Crescent Island to the Black Cliffs, Bishal joins Zuko where he’s standing at the railing. It’s a windy day, sea spray spitting up the sides of the boat as it cuts through the water; when Zuko licks his lips, he can taste the salt.

“Was that the first time you snuck out?” Bishal asks.

Staring at the island they’re passing is easier than looking at Bishal. He can just make out Shu Jing village, crawling up the side of the mountain. Somewhere amid those higher trees is Piandao’s estate, where Zuko lived for almost a full year, starting the fall after his mother disappeared. Since it was Ozai who sent him, Zuko half-expected something like a prison camp; with retrospect, Zuko recognizes that working through his confusion and grief as best he could under Piandao’s instruction was probably one of the better things to happen to him in those dizzying years before his banishment.

“On this trip, or in general?” Zuko asks. Bishal makes a noise of frustration, and irritation flares in Zuko’s chest. “How would you feel if you had to get permission to go anywhere or do anything? I feel watched, all the time, if not trapped, and I know it’s your job—”

“It’s not that—”

“—but if something happened to me, it would have been my fault, not—”

“I thought you trusted me!”

There’s a real hurt in Bishal’s tone that makes Zuko stop short, the fight in him sputtering out. “What?”

“I thought we were friends,” he says, quieter. “When I realized you’d left without telling any of us—without telling me—I felt like you didn’t trust me.”

Zuko blinks. “We are friends. I do trust you.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

Zuko picks at a loose thread on the cuff of his sleeve. Why didn’t he tell Bishal? It hadn’t occurred to him, he supposes. Or he assumed Bishal might try to stop him, or tell the other guards, who would definitely try to stop him.

Bishal turns to him, and Zuko’s caught in his serious brown eyes. “Zuko, I’m the one who convinced the head of the guard we should adapt to what you need as a person. You’re not just some protectee who’ll be gone in a week or a month. We’re serving you for your life, and none of us are thick enough to actually believe that chaining you to your throne will keep you from doing what you want.”

“That’s—”

“I learned how to climb buildings for you, and I’ll learn any other skill it takes to keep up with you. But none of that makes a difference if you don’t tell me when you’re going to run off somewhere.”

They hit a large wave, the bow of the ship rocking up and crashing back down. Zuko grabs the railing and lets his body ride the motion, used to weathering rougher conditions than this, and he’s surprised to see Bishal easily do the same as him. In fact, he realizes, Bishal’s been fine this entire voyage, a marked difference from their first leg on the water at the beginning of spring, and that’s followed by the notion that he shouldn’t be surprised. Didn’t he witness Bishal observing how the crews of their varying transports carried themselves; didn’t he himself explain, when asked, how moving across an unstable deck felt to him, and how it was different from walking on land?

“You wouldn’t try to stop me?” Zuko asks.

“If I think what you want to do is insanely stupid, maybe.” He puts a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “I’m saying all of this as your friend, Zuko. Not your guard. I want to help you, not stifle you.”

The problem is, it’s not like Zuko really plans these things. He’s struck in a moment, he throws together a few first steps to get him going, and then he wings it from there. The first time he disguised himself behind the mask of the Blue Spirit, he didn’t really think beyond getting Aang out of Zhao’s hands as soon as he could. When he began sneaking out of the palace two winters ago, he just wanted to breathe. It was wrong for Natsuko to trap people in her house, and he couldn’t let Sokka spend another minute held captive by a black market trade ring.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t try, for the sake of this friendship. “I can warn you if I think I’m about to—” How had Bishal put it? “—run off somewhere.”

“And you won’t get mad if I decide to follow you?”

Zuko snorts. “I can’t promise that. But I won’t try to stop you.”

Bishal breathes a sigh of relief, a grin spreading across his face—the first smile he’s directed at Zuko in weeks. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Zuko replies. “For this. For coming on this trip. I’m not sure I would have been allowed, if you hadn’t agreed come.”

“I think you would’ve found a way. The rest of us would just be out of our minds trying to find you.”

He’s teasing, and that’s how Zuko knows things really are okay again between them.

When he steps foot on solid ground in the capital harbor, he can’t recall ever seeing his city this alive. The late spring breeze carries the smell of blooming flowers, of harbor salt, of grilling spices all at once, and something warm swells in his chest when he inhales deeply and immediately thinks home. He touches his topknot—he’s wearing his headpiece for the first time since he left the capital—and then plunges into the harbor crowd.

People are busy enough with their own business that, at first, he moves unobtrusively, but then the glint of the sun off his headpiece flashes across a taller man’s face, and he stops in his tracks with a heavy sack over his shoulder. “Fire Lord Zuko!” he exclaims.

At that, heads begin to turn, and Zuko self-consciously waves, continuing to move forward. “Please, carry on,” he says when a few people attempt to bow. “Really, it’s fine.”

Word travels faster than him and his guards, and when they reach the palace gates, Chenda, Eun, and Li Bai are all there. “Welcome home,” Eun says, beaming, and Zuko abandons any sense of decorum to hug his council enthusiastically.

“Your skin is so dark,” Li Bai exclaims.

“You grew,” Chenda says, aghast. “It hasn’t even been a full season.”

The wave of energy he felt at the harbor only lasts as long as the walk to his rooms. They’re as dark and sunless as ever, which would be sadder to return to if Zuko wasn’t suddenly too tired to care. He drops his travel pack in the antechamber and considers whether he should go back out and catch-up with his council, or give into this uncharacteristic desire to sleep in the middle of the afternoon.

“Post-travel weariness hitting you?”

Eun’s in the doorway, an understanding look on his face. “I think so,” Zuko says.

He grabs from the top of his pack the box where his headpiece rests when he isn’t wearing it; from it, he removes Bishal’s dragon and Eun’s tiger monkey.

He presents the tiger monkey to Eun. “Thank you,” he says. “It kept me from harm.”

Eun closes his heavy palm around the token. “It’s good to have you back, Zuko.”

It feels like nothing but truth when he replies, “It’s good to be back.”

Azula’s hair is chopped to chin-length and explodes out in waves as voluminous as Yawen’s ponytail. She sits straighter the moment Zuko enters the room, her golden eyes sharp in an unfamiliar way—more attentive than guarded or calculating. It’s been months since he lasted visited Azula, and since he has no idea what to expect, he decides to act, for now, like nothing has changed.

“Hi,” Zuko says, sitting across from her and beginning to prepare their tea. “You’re curling your hair?”

“I stopped using the straightening cream that the palace spa attendants forced on me and mother.”

Zuko blinks. He and his sister both got their color from Ozai; he thought she also got his heavy, straight locks. He hadn’t even known Ursa’s hair wasn’t naturally straight. “It looks nice,” he tells her.

Azula fidgets. Zuko keeps measuring out tea leaves until he realizes that Azula fidgeted. The box of tea goes clattering out of his hand, and he stands to see his sister better. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Is something wrong?”

Her bottom lip trembles; then she scoots back from the table and curls over her own lap, bowing so low her forehead almost touches the ground. “I’m sorry, Zuko,” she whispers.

Every nerve in Zuko’s body tightens, his feelings whirling too fast to turn them into comprehensible thoughts. He barely garbles, “What?”

“I missed you, the first month when you didn’t visit,” she says, voice still quiet, uncertain—afraid? “And it didn’t make sense, because I didn’t care. But—but you made me care, and I started thinking—”

He stares at his sister, and he’s suddenly struck by a hundred remembrances of himself groveling before his father like this, putting himself as low as possible, as if that would stop him from being hurt, and horror seizes him around the middle, squeezing his gut and cutting off his air. “Azula,” he chokes, rushing around the table to join his sister on the floor, pulling at her arms until she’s half upright again.

Her eyes are glimmering strangely. “I started thinking,” she repeats, “And I think—” She takes a shaky inhale. “I think I’ve done some wrong things. Really wrong. And I—” A hiccup. “Zuko. Am I a monster?”

“No,” Zuko says, immediately, fervently. “You’re not. You’re my sister.”

She drags the back of her hand across her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, and there’s the bite that sounds more like Azula.

“It means…” Zuko says, grasping desperately for the right words, because he has to get it right—he can’t fail his sister where so many others have failed her. “That we grew up in a place where we weren’t loved like we should have been. But that doesn’t mean we don’t deserve love.”

Her chin quivers again, and Zuko gathers Azula into his chest so she can fall to pieces somewhere safe.

She cries with breathy, ugly sobs, her sharp fingernails clawing into Zuko’s shoulders, and Zuko lets her. He barely registers his own eyes growing wet, too intent on holding steady the shaking body in his embrace, and it takes him a minute to realize he’s saying, over and over again, into Azula’s revived curls, I love you, I’m sorry, I love you.

A week later, with Hye’s approval, Azula moves back into the palace.

It’s chaotic, to deal with resettling his sister at the same time that he’s still getting back into the swing of palace life, but he doesn’t want to keep her waiting when they both want this. Freshening up her rooms is no real problem, but it’s harder to find palace staff who are willing to attend to her. Even those who came to the palace after the war have heard stories about the Fire Princess, apparently, and Zuko doesn’t blame them for wanting to stay away. He’s experienced his sister’s nightmarish behavior and wrath firsthand; he can’t imagine what she’s like to people she’s long perceived as her inferiors. Eventually, two women, Sarnai and Jae, and one man, Amit, agree to devote most of their time to Azula. They’re all young, newer faces to the palace, and Zuko makes sure they know that, if they decide they no longer want to attend to Azula, they can still keep their position in the palace.

The first couple days Azula is back, Zuko spends all of his time with her, from breakfast at daybreak through the hour after dinner, when she crochets or weaves on her miniature loom and Zuko catches up on the missives and letters and reports that he’s let pile up all day. On the third morning, when they’re finishing breakfast and Zuko asks, “What do you want to do now?” he gets an eye roll in response.

“I know my stint as the Fire Lord was brief and unusual, but I still had to attend a meeting or two every day. The nation surely can’t be that self-sufficient already.”

She’s right, but that doesn’t prevent the twinge of guilt Zuko feels at the thought of leaving her. “You know Hye’s coming to visit you later today?” he checks.

“Yes, Zuzu. As she will two days from now. And as she will twice a week, every week, for the rest of time.”

So he leaves her, and he’s relieved that, come dinner, both they and the palace are still intact.

Summer arrives quietly, not a whisper different from the last day of spring that preceded it, and its stealthy return is all the more fitting when Zuko drops by the council room between meetings to see Mai munching on dried apricots as she listens to Chenda talk. “Mai!” he blurts, torn between wanting to rush forward to greet Mai and not knowing if he’s allowed to do that.

Mai makes the decision for him, leaving Chenda’s side to wind her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. She smells different, he notices, a scent to her hair that’s new but that feels right, somehow. Her waist seems thinner in his hands, and before he can stop himself, he asks, “Did you eat enough when you were traveling?”

She snorts, breath exploding against his collar as she squeezes him. “Who are you, my mother?”

There’s an easiness to her taunting, like the echo of a laugh lives in her words, and Zuko’s lungs suddenly feel too small, inadequate to support all the things he feels and wants to say. He still loves her. He missed her. “Have dinner with me,” he says.

Her lip twitches. “Okay.”

Hours later, they take a picnic dinner to the smallest courtyard, where they used to steal time together away from the everything that demanded Zuko’s attention. He wonders, now, if Mai was also hiding from something during all those visits.

She sits on his right side, as she always does when they share a meal outside like this, and he’s intensely aware of her body, of the curve of her thigh arcing towards his, of the graceful arch of her fingers as she picks through a carton of lychee for the brightest berries.

“Zuko.”

He jerks his eyes back to her face. “Sorry?”

She smiles. “Back in your labyrinth?”

This—the time spent together, the back and forth of their conversation—it feels so easy, so right. Like coming home should feel. He smiles back. “I’m sorry,” he repeats. “What were you saying?”

“Ty Lee and Suki wrapped up that thing they were doing in the northeast.”

“Oh.” For some reason, he thought that one of the Kyoshi warriors would tell him when their operation ended, but it’s an unfounded assumption. Other than jailbreaking and abducting Sokka, he wasn’t all that involved. And if the warriors notified him every time they interfered on unsavory things done by his citizens …

There’s still so much work he has to do.

“Where are they headed next?” he asks.

“Kyoshi. They’ve been disbanded for longer than Suki had intended.”

He wonders if they’ll stop by Crescent Island to see Sokka, or if it’s too out of their way. He hopes, for Sokka’s sake, they find a way to pass through.

Mai’s already moved on from the topic. “The lychees are good,” she says.

“Can I have one before you finish them?”

“Sure.”

She doesn’t move the carton, so Zuko has to reach across her to grab one of the berries. The motion puts him closer to her than he has been all evening, and he catches her new scent again. His face isn’t so far from her cheek, and if he just turned his head and leaned a bit …

He wants to kiss her. He’s craving the feeling of heat curling in his gut, a heat that has nothing to do with his inner sun, a heat that rises up when Mai kisses him a certain way. Her lips are tinted red, either from the lychee berries or from the small fruit tart she had earlier, and Zuko wonders what her tongue tastes like right now—

“Is there something on my face?”

He blinks. “Yeah,” he says.

He reaches up to brush an imaginary something off her cheek. She holds still, not leaning into his touch, and she doesn’t chase it, either, when he lets his hand drop. His fingers hit the empty space between them, and something inside him also falls, landing with a whisper that sounds like Unwanted.

He returns to where he started, still missing that heat, but at least he has a lychee that bursts, both sweet as pure sugar and tart as a pear, across his tongue when he bites down. “That girls’ school in the south,” he says, grasping for the first distraction he comes across. “Did you hear back from the headmistress?”

Mai’s the one to suggest, when Zuko brings it up, that he come at Azula sideways when asking her for something. “She hates incompetence,” Mai says. “If it’s not beneath her to do it, she’d rather do a thing correctly herself than wait for someone else to do it less correctly and take twice as long.”

“You don’t just ask her directly?”

“Do you? It’s an almost guaranteed no.”

So, over dinner with his sister in her rooms, Zuko mentions, “We’re also going to commemorate the festival with a tapestry that’ll eventually be hung in the gallery.”

Azula doesn’t appear to react, expertly peeling apart her grilled salmon, layer by layer, with her chopsticks.

“I liked some of the work around the Royal Fire Academy for girls, so Chenda said she could find out from the head of school who made those.”

Azula takes a sip of the jasmine tea Zuko brewed for her. “I hated the color schemes of those.”

“Then how about the tapestries that used to hang in Mother’s room?”

“Ugh, please. You could see the warps in those.”

Zuko sighs. Just because he intended for this exchange to happen doesn’t mean his sister’s criticism isn’t tiring. He’s also dreading that Azula won’t be interested in this project at all—he thought she would be. “I’ll start a formal search, then.”

Azula humphs and finally begins eating her salmon. Disappointed, Zuko starts on his pickled vegetables.

The next morning, he arrives at the council room to see Sarnai and Amit arranging a massive loom at the wall opposite the refreshments table. Azula catches his eye from where she’s standing with her back to the balcony. “I’ll do it,” she says decisively.

His heart soars, and he tries to contain his elation in replying, “You will?”

“I can’t spend every day sitting around and terrifying my attendants by breathing.” Her eyes flick to the loom, and she snaps, “No, not that far left.”

Amit’s hold wavers, and Zuko rushes forward to help him. “Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko,” he breathes out, perspiration beading on his smooth brown forehead. He’s young and short, short enough that Zuko could probably tuck him under his arm, if he wanted to, but now isn’t the time to dwell on that intrusive notion.

They get the loom situated to Azula’s satisfaction, and by the time the first of his councilors drift into the room, she’s already seated and stringing the warps. They’ve all met Azula since she’s returned to the palace, so she receives little more than a glance or a greeting and is left to her work. Only Mai double-takes, halting in the door and staring. Azula notices after a moment; she returns Mai’s stare, then goes back to sorting her spools of thread.

At that, Mai turns her gaze to Zuko, who’s been watching with bated breath. He doesn’t know how things are between Azula and Mai; he’s not sure Mai’s seen her since the New Year, and he hasn’t discussed with either woman what that was like. There’s a set to Mai’s chin that makes Zuko think they’re going to fight about this, later, but then Mai inhales measuredly, relaxes, and gives Zuko a nod before taking her seat next to Eun. 

And just like that, suddenly everything seems to become related to the Fire Days Festival that will be held in the capital for the first time in a decade.

There are vendor permits to approve, zoning ordinances to wrestle, residents to advise regarding the upcoming increase in foot traffic outside their homes, security plans to devise and implement. An innocuous question asked by a troupe of street performs leads to the unearthing of a hundred more of Ozai’s decrees, mostly petty and useless things that have hardly ever been enforced, but Zuko still loses half a day to formally striking them. Entertainers from across the nation start arriving to the capital, and while Zuko and his council aren’t responsible for their lodgings, the sudden, ever-growing influx of people puts pressure on other aspects of the city that then need attending to.

Meanwhile, he spends his evenings drafting letters to world leaders, inquiring whether he might visit in the coming year. It’s presumptuous to invite himself to their homes, he knows, but he’s not ignorant; there are myriad reasons why leaders from other nations would not want to come to the Fire Nation anytime soon, no matter how welcome they are to Zuko. He’s willing to go to them, to offer up his own vulnerable person as proof that he’s committed to the world harmony he’s been speaking of since his coronation.

One evening, when he’s struggling to come up with the words adequate to address the chief of the Northern Water Tribe, he gives in to the nagging feeling that he needs to give his mind a break, so he turns to his stack of correspondence instead. On top of the pile is a small scroll that looks familiar, and when he picks it up, he’s momentarily transported to an artist’s market on Crescent Island. He bought this, originally, choosing it for the quality and weight of the paper.

He opens the scroll and finds an absolute mess of green, multiple shades applied in short, thick strokes. In the middle of the green, there’s the outline of a rectangle in black, and within that rectangle, thin streaks of gold shimmer through more of the green, this time dabbed in blotchy circles instead of brushed as fat lines.

He looks around the painting more carefully, scouring for any hints, like a place or a date or even a label, but he doesn’t find any. On a whim, he flips the scroll around, and that’s when he sees it: small, tight characters in an unfamiliar hand. Thanks for the new paint, it reads, and beneath that, a more familiar sight—Sokka’s signature.

Zuko’s lip twitches. He turns the scroll over again and uses a candle and an inkwell to prop it open on the desk beside him. The green is a shock, in his room full of red and dark brown and gold, but it’s also some sort of comfort as he returns to drafting letters.

That night, his dreams are a memory: pants with soaked knees, water clinging to long eyelashes, fingertips tangling and tugging through dark, wet hair.

The first of his friends to arrive for the festival are Aang and Katara, brought by Appa straight to the courtyard where the sky bison spent most of his time during his previous stay in the Fire Nation. Even though most of this courtyard is empty, expressly for Appa’s benefit, Zuko arrives to see that Appa’s crushed a crate of melons with his landing. He and Momo are enthusiastically consuming the mess, while Aang laughs his head off and Katara half-heartedly attempts to reassemble the crate. “Zuko!” Aang shouts and then laughs so hard he falls off of Appa’s back.

Katara abandons the pile of splintered wood to hug Zuko; Aang picks himself off the ground and puts his arms around both of them. “Your hair!” Katara says when she pulls away.

His hair brushes the top of his shoulders again; he had a woman working in the spa trim what length had grown since he left, and though her eyes were wide and she bit her lip nervously, her hands were steady as she did what he asked. “What about it?” he asks Katara.

She tilts her head and squints, assessing. “I can’t tell if it suits you.”

“I think it looks great,” Aang says, slinging an arm around Zuko’s neck. He doesn’t even have to reach up to do so; in fact, they’re the same height, which is utterly unfair. Aang’s fifteen; how tall will he be by the time he’s Zuko’s age?

“Thanks, Aang,” he says. “Come inside—I’ve had lunch sent to your rooms.”

Two days later, Zuko comes back from sparring with Bishal to see his council taking a late dinner on their balcony with Aang and Katara, as well as three newly arrived, paint-free faces. “You’re early!” he cries, and suddenly he’s being squished between Suki and Ty Lee as Nisha ruffles his sweaty hair.

“Ty Lee flirted our way onto the fastest boats in the nation,” Suki says.

“We missed you!” Ty Lee shouts into his ear.

“Spirits, Ty Lee, do you want me to lose my hearing?”

Space is made for him between Aang and Chenda, and Zuko’s happy to sip tea and snack on sliced mango as his friends talk over and to one another. Katara waxes rhapsodic about the community learning center that’s construction was finished mid-spring, and now that she and her waterbendering students are comfortable with the facility, she has more time to take trips with Aang to find and bring back pieces of Southern Water Tribe culture, history, and knowledge to her home. Li Bai offers the names of a few merchants who have a collection of Water Tribe-related relics, and one name has Nisha choking on her mochi. “Jai?” she echos. “He was one of the only regulars I could tolerate at the noodle bar.”

Zuko sits forward. “Please tell me about all of your worst customers.”

“Does my pain amuse you?”

“No! It’s cathartic. I work at a teashop in Ba Sing Se’s Upper Ring.”

“Work, present tense?” Chenda asks.

“It’s a long story,” Katara says dryly.

Nisha is full of stories, even some that Suki and Ty Lee haven’t heard yet, and by the time she winds down, the moon shines high in the sky. If it weren’t for his inner sun, his bare arms would be cold; he can tell from the way Katara has tucked herself into Aang’s side and the three Kyoshi warriors have inched their way closer to each other, limbs overlapping.

“Zuko,” Ty Lee says from across the circle, her head resting on Nisha’s shoulder. “How’s Azula?”

Zuko swallows. It was inevitable his sister would come up, but even with the weeks he’s had to come to terms with his friends walking the same halls at the same time as Azula, he has no idea how his friends will react—friends to whom Azula has intentionally and repeatedly brought pain. “She’s actually living in the palace, again,” he says.

Katara sits up, alarm in her voice. “She’s what?”

Even Aang is uncertain, frowning as he says, “You didn’t mention that before.”

Zuko swallows again. “I wasn’t sure how to.”

“She’s doing better?” Ty Lee asks.

“Yes.”

Katara, again barbed: “Has she apologized for anything?”

Zuko shifts his weight. Perhaps Azula foresaw all of this, and that’s why she’s been keeping to her chambers since the Avatar arrived. He thought it strange, his sister hiding from something, but maybe that’s another sign of her changing. “She’s figuring it out.”

“So she has free range of the palace and the city while she’s figuring it out?”

An indignant protectiveness rears its head. “I’m not going to trap and confine her!”

Katara opens her mouth to retort when Mai’s soft interjection cuts her off: “She apologized to me.”

Mai’s looking steadily at Katara, and for once, she doesn’t glare or look bored out of her mind. “The war took from all of us.”

“You didn’t have entire generations of your nation wiped out—”

“No, we didn’t,” she agrees. “But that doesn’t mean we weren’t screwed up in our own ways, too. Azula’s making the effort. She grew up in a family where being wrong was the worst thing you could be, and doing the wrong thing meant being severely punished. Now everyone’s expecting her to admit she was wrong, over and over, to the people she wronged.”

Zuko sways where he sits. He and Mai never really talked about what his childhood was like, but there’s nothing but truth to her words. Have Mai and Azula talked about Ozai and Ursa? Or has Mai seen and understood much more than she ever let on?

“You don’t have to forgive her,” Zuko hears himself say. “You never have to forgive any of us. But please—please, at least, give my nation the chance to change.”

The fire in Katara’s eyes has abated, and she looks down at her lap with a small frown. Aang meets Zuko’s gaze, and there’s an agelessness to his moonlit face. “We can only live in harmony by opening our hearts to those we were once closed to,” he says.

The air is heavy around them, in a way that demands to be shattered by an alleviating quip, but when Zuko looks around him, he can’t find the blind green or dark blue eyes he instinctually seeks.

He’s not the only one thinking it. “Where’s Sokka when you need a bad joke?” Ty Lee asks.

“Or even one of Toph’s timely burps,” Katara grumbles.

A childish giggle escapes Aang, and it’s what the moment needed—in seconds, they’re all laughing, even Eun with his fatherly chuckle. Tension seeps away, and when Chenda  shoulders Zuko’s elbow, the small smile she gives him makes him yearn for Azula to feel this too, one day.

It must be after midnight when Zuko goes to Azula’s room. He nods at the guards standing outside her door, and when he knocks, he’s received by Sarnai. Her long black hair is braided away from her face, and for the first time, Zuko realizes she has freckles.

“Fire Lord Zuko,” she says with a bow. “Princess Azula just went to bed. Would you like me to wake her?”

His heart falls a little. “No, thank you,” he says. He didn’t see Azula much today—hasn’t seen her much at all, in fact, since Aang and Katara arrived.

Sarnai’s countenance softens. “She said it makes her happy to see you have so many friends.”

Zuko’s nose scrunches. That doesn’t sound like Azula. “Did she?”

“Um. Her exact words were something closer to ‘Finally, I don’t have to be responsible for his social life.’ But we’ve learned to understand what she really means, under the words she chooses.”

A smile lifts the corner of his lips. “She has a roundabout way of showing care.”

“Yes. But she does show it.”

There’s an undercurrent of defensiveness to her tone. It’s unexpected, but it reassures Zuko. He dares to ask, “She shows care for you, and Jae and Amit?”

“In glimpses.”

It’s not nothing, he tells himself. “Thank you, Sarnai.”

“Sleep well, Fire Lord Zuko.”

They bow to each other. The walk back to his room feels longer than it should; he wonders how this much distance between him and Azula, when they were growing up, didn’t feel wrong.

The day before the festival is a long series of meetings with increasingly stressed people, which means the importance and productivity of each meeting had decreased as the day went on. In spite of his efforts, Zuko lets the tension bleed into himself, but he doesn’t realize it until twenty minutes after Chenda walks away from him in the middle of a heated argument over who requested the pot of hibiscus tea that no one claimed or wanted after its arrival.

He could use some centering.

So once he’s eaten a small, lonesome dinner and night has fallen, he brings a couple candles from his room to his favorite courtyard and settles on the still sun-warm ground to meditate. The turtleducks are dozing in their leaf litter underneath a tree, and when he lights the candles, their flames flicker in the light breeze.

Eyes closed, he inhales slowly and deeply through his nose, feeling the fire before him swell with his breath. A steady exhale follows, and the candles drop to the lowest of burns without going out. He repeats the process, again … and again … and—

“Fire Lord Zuko?”

His eyes snap open, and the candles briefly spike before he regains control. “What?” he asks, aggrieved, and turns to the voice. He sees right past the page and locks on Sokka.

Sokka beams. “Surprise!”

Shock reverberates through him like a struck gong. “What?” Zuko repeats dumbly. He shakes his head. “You’re here?”

The page must have melted away, because suddenly there’s nothing in the way when Zuko scrambles forward and gives Sokka a hug. He feels solid, and his laugh is full, his breath warm against the rise of Zuko’s right ear, but Zuko remembers how deceived he’d been on Crescent Island. “You traveled by boat?” he asks, words half-muffled by Sokka’s shoulder. “Do you feel okay?”

“Yeah, man. Living with a healer really helped.”

“You’re not just saying that?”

Sokka gently pushes Zuko away, so he can put his hands on Zuko’s shoulders and look him in the eye. “I’m okay,” he repeats. “I’m better. As long as I don’t read or write for too long, I’m fine, and even that’s getting easier.”

Zuko recalls the unfamiliar handwriting on the back of the last painting; he supposes Chenda’s friend wrote it. “No one said you were coming.”

Sokka looks sheepish, letting go of Zuko to rub the back of his neck. “Uh, I didn’t tell anyone. That’s not a problem for you, is it? I know you have a bunch of people—”

“No,” Zuko says vehemently. “You’re always welcome.”

They head to Aang and Katara’s rooms, and Katara’s shouts—first of joy, then of consternation, when Sokka admits just how badly he’d been rattled—attract the notice of the Kyoshi warriors, who come with Mai. Suddenly, Sokka and Suki are kissing enthusiastically in the middle of all of them, and Nisha rolls her eyes, as if this is completely normal; Zuko’s frozen, stuck watching, until Suki’s hand squeezes Sokka’s bottom, and then the floor becomes the most fascinating thing Zuko’s seen in a long while.

Eventually, everyone settles, and once Zuko’s sure Sokka’s all right, he retreats to his room with his candles, the happy chatter of his friends growing quieter with each step he takes. He’s now jittery in an entirely different way, a way that he instinctively knows will not be quelled by meditation, so he resigns himself to bed, crawling beneath his mother’s embroidered blanket and hoping he’ll catch at least a wink.

He wakes, still restless in his skin, to a loud knock on his bedroom door. He groans into his pillow. “What is it?” he calls.

A hesitant page’s voice: “You asked to be woken, my lord, an hour before the sun.”

That’s why he feels terrible. “Thank you,” he says and drags himself out of bed.

He watches the sun rise while taking breakfast on the council balcony, and then he’s thrust into the first Fire Days Festival his capital has seen in ten years.

The moment he steps into the public streets, tailed by Bishal and Yawen, energy courses through him. Merchants and vendors are setting up stalls with bright decorations and even brighter wares; several are offering edible treats, and the smell of spice and sugar in the air makes Zuko’s mouth water, even though he just ate. He finds Li Bai helping an older couple raise a canvas roof over their stall as Ty Lee arranges the wooden baskets of produce to catch the eye. She spots him and waves with a dragonfruit. “Good morning, Zuko!”

Zuko buys the dragonfruit and shares it with his guards right there.

By the time the last of the vendors officially open, the streets are already crowded with citizens. For each person decked out in capital fashion, there’s another who wears clothing or a hairstyle that, while still Fire Nation, is distinctly not from the city, and it lifts Zuko to know that so many people have come together for this event. As he passes from street to street, event to event—a comedic sketch here, an opera recital there, a bending display here—he also catches moments with his friends. Mai teaches Chenda how to throw knives at a mini contest stall;  Aang shows off his spinning marbles to Eun and Jingyi’s children. Katara and Sokka are drawn into a firebending display, and Sokka’s improv has the crowd laughing as much as the entertainer’s script. Zuko’s roped into a game of pai sho against Kanya as Suki and Ty Lee watch, offering Zuko completely wrong, nonsensical advice.

Around dinner, when there’s a lull in the activities for people to eat, Zuko returns to the palace. He lets Bishal and Yawen go for the rest of the day—he wants them to be able to enjoy the festival with their loved ones, too—and goes in search of his sister.

He finds her on the council balcony, her loom arranged so she can look out over the city as she weaves. Jae is seated near her; Zuko asks if she can tell the kitchen to send dinner for them and then takes the chair she once occupied.

Azula glances at him. “Enjoying the tomfoolery, brother?” she asks.

“Yes. Are—” He looks at her loom, and whatever question he had vanishes.

He hasn’t seen the tapestry since Aang’s arrival, when Azula took her loom back to her rooms. She’s three-quarters of the way done, now, and it’s stunning. Within a red and gold border, a likeness of the capital climbs up in the way city actually does, the main road winding from the harbor, through the lower and middle city, up to the in-progress upper city and palace. Throughout the buildings are stalls and stages populated by miniature people partaking in the revelries; half-hidden around corners and behind roofs are spirits of fire and mischief.

It’s not just the gorgeous artistry that makes Zuko pause—it’s the likeness that sits at the start of the upper city. It’s him, the length of his hair exaggerated a bit, perhaps, but otherwise him: round cheeks, face-altering scar, the headpiece that sits proudly in his thick topknot. His portrait isn’t exactly smiling, but it doesn’t look stern, either, like most of Ozai’s did. His shoulders, adorned in a red robe with gold accents, drop and then unrealistically flow out to the sides, until they meet the sections of warps that are still exposed and yet to be concealed by wefts.

Azula must be following his gaze. “The color of your robe matches the border. The ends trailing off your shoulders will rise to the upper corners and flow into the border, so the festival lives within you.”

Zuko’s throat tightens. “The festival wasn’t just me.”

“It’s been brought back because of you. Its meaning lives within you.”

She glances at him again, a hint of color on her cheeks, and Zuko rises from his seat to hug her, kissing the top of her head. “Zuko,” she protests, disgust in her tone, but her arms are hesitantly coming around him, too.

“It’s incredible, Azula,” he says. “Thank you. I can’t wait to see it when it’s done.”

“It’s a triptych.”

She pokes his ribs with a hard finger, and Zuko lets go. “A what?”

“A triptych. Three tapestries meant to be hung together.”

“This is the first?”

She scoffs. “How slow do you think I work? This is the third.”

They share their dinner, watching the sun set, the blue of the sky morphing into pink and orange. Lanterns, hung on strings that crisscross over the streets, start coming to life, and a shiver rolls down Zuko’s spine. How he’s missed a city of life and light. He wonders if he’ll get the chance to run down the cobblestones with a sparkler in his hand, and if it will feel the same as when he was a child. He supposes it’s an immature activity for the Fire Lord to partake in.

When he finishes his tea, he asks Azula, “Do you want to come back down with me?”

He can see her seriously contemplate, a pinch to her brow as she studies her nails where her hands are laid flat on the table. “No,” she eventually answers.

Zuko nods. There’ll be other festivals, and nothing, when it comes to Azula, needs to be rushed.

This time, when he descends into the city, Manu and Nisha follow him. He’d tried to politely decline Nisha’s offer to tag him late into the night, but she got Bishal on her side, and they wore him down. “Even dragons need to have fun,” Nisha teased, and Zuko hid his face in his hands as Bishal snickered pitilessly.

Their first stop is the coronation plaza, where Zuko stands on a platform, gives a short speech as the last rays of sun slip beneath the horizon, and then sets off the first round of fireworks that explode over the city. The cheer from the gathered crowd is deafening, and Zuko caves to the desire to laugh. Musicians break into a jaunty tune, and Zuko can sense the crowd’s focus shifting away from him and toward their own dancing merriment.

He was supposed to leave the platform by now, but the explosions burst so dazzlingly across the inky sky that he’s held captive, craning his neck to take it all in. Other displays, peppered throughout the city, fire in response to his, and Zuko feels the pop and boom in his bones.

Hands grab him by the arms, and Zuko returns to earth to Aang and Katara tugging him off the platform. “Come on, Zuko—let’s dance!” Aang shouts.

It’s a whirlwind of light feet and swinging arms and laughter being swept away on a self-created wind. He’s never been taught to dance, so he can’t possibly be any good at it, but a bubbling joy animates his body and refuses to be contained. He’s vaguely aware that they travel as they dance, moving away from the packed plaza and heading to the streets that are just as filled with revelers, yet he has no mind for buildings and stalls when he’s being passed between friends and passing others along—there’s Aang and Katara, and Ty Lee, Chenda, Sokka, Suki, Kanya, Mai, Nisha, Li Bai, even Manu, and briefly Ashok and Tuya, and Eun and Jingyi and their children, including the baby wrapped tight against Eun’s chest—

The music becomes too distant to hear, and their feet settle into a walk, but the laughter stays. Mai is half-stooped with Ty Lee hanging off her neck, and Zuko’s arms are trapped in Aang and Suki’s. Li Bai and Sokka walk in front, moving with purpose, and before Zuko’s aware of what’s happening, Katara’s pressing one of many small baskets of fried mochi into Zuko’s hands. 

“Happy Fire Days,” she says, lantern light glinting in her eyes, and Zuko—arms still trapped by his friends— leans down and kisses Katara’s forehead. She giggles madly and stuffs a piece of mochi into his mouth.

They walk as they eat, wandering until they come across a less crowded square. Light from surrounding restaurants and homes illuminates the edges of the square; in the middle, where a small garden patch with several tall, thin trees create a sparse canopy of green and white, it’s near as dark as the sky above.

Aang and Suki deposit Zuko on a bench, where he can peaceably eat his snack and indulge in the strong thrum of his heart. Sokka and Suki have hightailed off to the other side of the plaza, disappearing into the shadows; Katara and Aang demonstrate a dance move, and attempt to teach Ty Lee and Mai how to do it. Mai looks how Zuko feels when dancing, and he’s never seen her look as flustered as when Ty Lee corrects the position of her arms and hips.

Li Bai sinks onto the bench next to him, breathing heavily with exertion. “I’m not as young as I once was,” he says, stretching a long leg out in front of him and digging his fingers into his calf.

Zuko grins. “Want to start training with me?”

“Oh, please, no. I’ve seen what you do to poor Bishal.”

Sokka and Suki return, each carrying a crate, and with them are Sarnai and Amit, also with boxes. Zuko straightens, alert. “Did something happen?” he asks. “I thought you both had the night off.”

Sarnai smiles reassuringly. “Jae just needed help with one thing.”

“Princess Azula wanted us to bring these to you and your friends,” Amit says.

Sokka thunks his crate down next to Zuko. “We were told to keep ‘em dry, but also away from flames.”

Zuko looks into the box and jerks back so quickly he almost pitches backward off the bench. “Sparklers?” he chokes out.

The others set down their crates, and they are sparklers, of varying sizes and colors. Laughter bubbles out of Zuko’s throat, and he’s just glad it’s not tears—with the emotions flipping around his stomach, either was just as likely. He didn’t say a thing about sparklers over dinner, or anytime these last couple weeks of preparations. Does Azula remember the sparklers from when they were young? Are they a spot of joy amidst a confusing fog of childhood for her as well?

“Thank you,” he manages to get out.

“How do they work?” Sokka asks.

Amit kneels on the ground and picks through a box until he finds two that he likes. “Hold it from this end,” he instructs Sokka and Suki.

They obey, and then Amit brings a flame to life on a fingertip. With it, he lights the sparklers and then quickly leans away. Sokka shrieks, holding his away from his body. “What now?” he asks frantically.

“Have fun!” Amit says.

“C’mon, scaredy-cat,” Suki teases and tugs Sokka away.

They take off running, disrupting the dance lesson among the trees. Amit hands Sarnai and Li Bai handfuls of sparklers, and then Aang’s dragging everyone else over so they can all partake. As soon as they have some, they’re racing in circles through the trees and around the square—even Li Bai and Manu, who encourage Sarnai to use a hint of bending to create fantastical shapes out of flame and sparks.

With the air filled by his friends’ gasps of awe and shrieks of excitement, they soon attract the attention of other children and teenagers around the square. When the first of them—a young boy missing his front teeth—hesitantly approaches Zuko and Amit, Zuko tells Amit to give the boy two at once, and it unleashes a flood. Before long, the dark middle of the square fizzles and bursts with crackling light, a version of the night sky reborn on this patch of packed dirt and cobblestone.

Fingers gently brush the back of Zuko’s hand. He meets Amit’s eye, where the young man is still kneeling at Zuko’s feet. “Shall I light one for you, Fire Lord Zuko?” he asks.

His golden eyes are large and framed by thick lashes, and when he smiles, his cheek rounds out in a way that makes Zuko want to caress it. A wave of heat ripples under his skin, and Zuko digs his fingers into his thigh. This isn’t appropriate, he thinks. Aloud, he says, “I’m not sure if the Fire Lord should be seen running around with sparklers.”

“Why not? The princess herself sent them.”

He can’t keep his eyes from roving over Amit’s face again, from the soft slant of his cheekbones to the cresting wave of his dark brown hair. It looks soft, possibly as soft as Sokka’s had been on the boat to Crescent Island.

Thinking of Sokka, an unbidden memory rises up: life and happiness, Sokka once said to him, leaning against Zuko’s desk and piercing him with those sharp, too-knowing eyes. Ozai never would have run with sparklers; Ozai stopped letting anyone run with sparklers.

“You can light one for me,” Zuko says, “Only if I can light one for you.”

Amit’s smile grows. “Sounds fair to me.”

They stand and light each other’s sparklers. When his starts burning, Zuko swears he can feel each crackle and burst in the tips of his fingers; he watches the sparks fly, lasting for less than a breath but burning oh-so-bright.

Tearing his gaze away, he looks up at the flight of bodies carrying light through the night, flitting and flickering like manifestations of the mischievous fire spirits themselves. A peal of Mai’s bell-like laughter floats through the air, and with a jaw-achingly wide smile, Zuko plunges into the dark to become a spirit, too.

When the festive candles lighting the streets begin to sputter out of their own accord, Zuko and his friends make their way back to the palace, ambling lazily through the growing dark. As they carry along, their shadows shrink and stretch, over and over, to kiss the darkness beyond the pools of yellow-orange warmth that emanate from the street lanterns. With Nisha’s arm around him, Zuko’s shadow is a misshapen lump. Ostensibly, she’s keeping his stumbling feet on a straight path to home; really, she’s also leaning on him, but Zuko lets the secret stay between them.

Li Bai and Chenda split off earlier than the rest of them, headed in different directions, with heartfelt farewells that would probably last longer if they weren’t all heavy with sleep. The rest of the group will pass Mai’s house on their journey, and then everyone else will be returning to the palace.

Zuko knows Mai has never enjoyed goodbyes, so he’s not surprised that she shakes her head when Sokka slows down in front of her home. “I’m seeing you again in a few hours,” she says. “Go to bed.”

They listen, carrying on, and Mai smiles at Zuko when he passes. It’s a reflex to return the gesture; it’s funny, he thinks, how they’re happier with each other even though they’re no longer with each other.

It’s also a reflex to look back, one last time, and that’s when he sees something only the shadows were meant to witness: Mai, her face tilted down, the whites of her wide eyes visible even in the night, as Ty Lee, standing on tiptoe, kisses her.

Zuko quickly twists forward again. He wasn’t meant to see that; he won’t spoil the moment more by drawing attention to it.

A moment later, Ty Lee catches up to them, her step as light and untroubled as ever as she bounds forward and slips her hand through the arm that Sokka doesn’t have around Suki’s waist. She says something to the couple that Zuko can’t hear over the beat of his heart, a rhythm that’s confused and happy and lonely all at once.

The feelings follow him through the palace, in the motions of changing for what little is left of the night, and into bed. Beneath the blankets, he curls into himself, wrapping his arms around his chest, his fingers tugging at the skin of his ribs. When he breathes, the living heat that’s nestled around his heart flares. It reminds him that he isn’t empty.

Holding himself, he’s comforted. He reminds himself that that’s enough.

Three days after the Fire Days Festival, as the last of the city clean up is wrapping up, Zuko is stuck in a dull meeting in his mother’s throne room when the doors suddenly burst open, a half-dozen guards pouring inside and then barricading the door. Zuko jumps out of his mother’s throne, his feet already carrying him off the dais. “What’s happening?”

The resettlement planners in this meeting with Zuko are pulled to their feet by guards and patted down for weapons; two guards approach Zuko, and he backs away, not wanting to be restrained, but apparently all they want is for him to back into the throne again. “What is going on?” he demands again.

“There was an attempt on the Avatar’s life, my lord,” a guard by the door says.

He surges to his feet and is blocked on either side. “I can’t sit by while my friend’s in danger!” he protests.

“The Avatar is secure, Fire Lord Zuko,” the woman to his right says, “but the assailant is still loose. We need to keep important persons accounted for.”

“My council?”

“Safe in the council room, my lord.”

His body is involuntarily jerking, energy for a fight pushing at his hands but with no where to go. “I can’t sit,” he says.

“Please, my lord—”

“Can you at least let me pace?”

It’s allowed, and it’s an eternity of prowling from one end of the dais to the other before a rhythmic knock raps against the door. The barricade is removed, and Manu enters, opening his mouth to say something.

Zuko doesn’t care—if the barricade is down, it must be over, and he surges out the door and almost smacks right into Yawen. “Where’s Aang?” he asks.

“The spa—”

He can’t think of a single reason why Aang would be in the spa, but he races there nonetheless, vaguely aware of the footsteps racing after him. When he arrives at the entrance, the tall double doors are cracked open, and he follows the sound of voices to the salon room with the long waterway. Water, he realizes, at the same time that an otherworldly blue glow comes to life and spills across the room’s threshold. He enters.

Aang is slumped, his eyes screwed shut in pain, on the chair where Zuko used to sit to have his hair washed and perfumed. Behind his right shoulder is Katara, holding glowing water against Aang’s exposed back, and at Aang’s other shoulder is Chenda, who presses blood-soaked bandages against what Zuko can only assume is a wound. 

Zuko rushes forward, falling to his knees in front of Aang and grabbing his hand. Aang squeezes back so tightly, Zuko swears he can feel his bones creak. “What happened?” he asks. There’s blood on the chair, too, dripping off the armrest and onto the floor.

“I got shot,” Aang says evenly in spite of his gritted teeth. He suddenly hisses, gripping Zuko’s hand again, and Zuko has to bite down a shout.

“I’m sorry,” Katara says, voice wavering. “I’m almost there.”

“Steady,” Chenda murmurs.

Katara pulls more water from the constructed stream, adding it to the glowing pool against Aang’s back. Her hair is wild, eyes tight with focus, and Zuko remembers her expression with sharp clarity from the weeks in which she helped him heal from his Agni Kai against Azula.

“I’m sorry,” he says, to Aang, to Katara, to anyone who can hear. They’re all too preoccupied to respond.

He can’t tell how long it takes, but at some point, Aang’s eyelids flutter, a sigh passing his lips. The blue light subsides as Katara drops her hands, now red-tinted water dropping to the floor. Chenda nods shortly when she pulls the soiled bandages away from Aang’s back; she then pulls clean wrappings from the bag slung across her torso and begins dressing Aang’s wound.

Katara shifts to Aang’s side, and when blue eyes find dark gray, it’s like they’re the only two in the room. Katara searches Aang’s face; he smiles tiredly at her, and that’s enough for her to duck down and kiss him.

Zuko lets go of Aang’s hand. 

There’s a clatter of footfalls, and Sokka and Eun appear. “Aang!” Sokka shouts.

Zuko stands and backs away. Katara’s standing straight, again, her arm around Aang, who has his forehead pressed against her chest. He turns his head at Sokka’s voice and smiles. “I’m okay,” he says.

Eun coughs, and Zuko looks over to see his councilor beckoning him. Pulling Zuko away from his friends, he says, “We have the attacker in a holding cell.”

Zuko glances behind him. Sokka stands where Zuko once knelt, and Aang’s still slouched comfortably into Katara, who looks like she’s just weathered a storm. He wonders how many times she’s had to witness someone try to kill Aang, and how many times she’s walked him back from death. “I’ll talk to them tonight,” Zuko says.

“I’d advise against waiting.”

There’s a dark worry to Eun’s knotted brow. “Why?” Zuko asks.

“He—he keeps trying to hurt himself.”

A chill sweeps through Zuko, and his feet carry him to the door before he’s consciously made his decision.

The attacker looks younger than Azula, and he thrashes against the guards who hold him by the arms until he notices Zuko. “Fire Lord,” he says, his voice cracking.

Zuko tries to imagine this teenager firing an arrow at Aang. The image doesn’t fit. “Please let him go,” Zuko tells the guards.

“He was throwing himself at the walls, my lord.”

Zuko levels the boy with a hard stare. “Do you promise not to harm yourself?”

He seems to shrink beneath Zuko’s gaze. “I promise.”

The guards unhand him, but they don’t drift far. “What’s your name?” Zuko asks.

“Tuan.”

Between the style of his clothes and the lack of over-the-top self-humbling, Zuko’s pretty sure Tuan is from the southern-most provinces of the archipelago, not far from where Eun’s from. It’s a long way for someone to travel on their own. “How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

So young—but then again, Zuko was trying to capture Aang at that age, too. Azula tried—and almost succeeded in—killing Aang at fourteen. His right temple pinches. “Why did you shoot the Avatar?”

“I have to regain my family’s honor.”

Oh.

“Sit with me,” Zuko says, arranging his robes so he can comfortably lower himself to the floor.

Tuan stares down at him with wide eyes. “What?”

“I find it more comfortable to sit than stand for extended conversations.”

The teen bites his lip. “Are you interrogating me?”

“No.”

“Are you going to lecture me?”

“No.”

Tuan’s eyes dart around the holding cell; then he carefully sits down, mirroring Zuko’s cross-legged seat. He stares brazenly at Zuko, his expression curious more than scrutinizing. “You’re young,” he finally says.

“I’m nineteen.”

“I thought you were supposed to be thirty, or something.”

Zuko holds back a snort. Sometimes, it’s hard to even imagine himself at thirty. He then realizes Tuan’s possible confusion: “My cousin, had he lived, would be twenty-eight. My grandfather changed the heir of the throne from my uncle to my father after Lu Ten died.”

“Why?”

Why, indeed. Zuko shifts his weight to truly get comfortable.

Their conversation sprawls, so Zuko has to piece together what brought Tuan here with a bow and a full quiver at the same time as he’s asking questions and encouraging serious thought about what honor and filial duty mean. Tuan’s father was in a navy regiment that lost crucial sea territory to a fleet of Southern Water Tribe warriors, and the war ended before his father could redeem himself in a winning battle; his father seems to have been railing about family honor ever since, from what Zuko understands. The way Tuan saw it, if the Avatar died in the Fire Nation, other world leaders would have to declare war on Zuko. The military would become active again; both Tuan and his father would have the chance to restore and raise the family’s honor.

Zuko doesn’t know how much time has passed by the time he hears footsteps coming from down the hall. He ignores them until Tuan glances away from Zuko and suddenly stops talking, fear splashing across his features.

Behind Zuko, Aang is standing between Katara and Sokka. Right now, of the three of them, Aang by far looks the most approachable, even with his lips pressed tightly. “How are you feeling?” Zuko asks.

“Like I could use some target practice for my ice daggers,” Katara says darkly.

“Katara,” Aang warns.

“I don’t know, Aang,” Sokka says, eyebrows slanted as dangerously as his sister’s. “I’d hate for her aim to get rusty.”

“That’s not happening,” Zuko says at the same time Aang says, exasperated, “Sokka.”

Tuan has shifted, hugging his knees to his chest. Zuko gives him a small smile as he stands. “Aang would like to talk to you,” he tells Tuan. “I’ll be back shortly. Okay?”

He receives a tight nod in response.

Aang takes his spot, folding neatly into lotus position, and Zuko pulls Katara and Sokka away with him.

When they reach the hall, Katara stubbornly plants herself right outside the door. “I don’t understand the way you and Aang are about assassins,” she says. “If someone specifically went out of their way to kill me, I wouldn’t invite them to have tea with me.”

“We weren’t having tea,” Zuko says.

“Sorry—making friendship bracelets,” she snarks.

“Zuko, you’ve never made us friendship bracelets,” Sokka pouts.

The joke eases the crease in Katara’s brow, and Zuko lets himself smile briefly. “I can’t speak for Aang,” he says, “but it’s important for me to understand their perspectives, especially if they’re one of my people. I can’t help change a nation without knowing where their minds currently lie.”

For a moment, his words hang in the air. Then Sokka clears his throat. “Sounds like a lot of energy to put into people who hate you.”

Zuko shrugs. “Hate isn’t permanent. I hated you, once.”

Katara whirls on him. “Well, I hated you, too,” she retorts.

“Which is my point!”

“I never hated you,” Sokka says.

Zuko and Katara look at him. “Of course you did,” Katara says.

“You didn’t?” Zuko asks.

Sokka leans back against the wall and crosses his arms. “I thought you were annoying, with the way you’d keep popping up, and you were a pretty big jerk back then, too. But I didn’t, like, hate you.”

“Are you kidding me?” Katara asks, incredulous.

“What?” Sokka protests. “Does it even matter anymore? We’re friends with Zuko, now!”

Katara slides down into a squat, dropping her face into her hands with a groan. “You’d make a friendship bracelet for someone who tried to assassinate you, wouldn’t you?”

“No! You think I’d waste a good friendship bracelet on that when I haven’t even made one for Suki?”

“That’s different. She’s your girlfriend.”

“Yeah, girlfriend. It’s in the word.”

Katara tips her head back until it thunks against the wall. “Tui’s gills,” she tells the ceiling, “I’m this close to losing it.”

“I didn’t see that—how close?”

She cuts a wits-end, wide-eyed look at Sokka, and Zuko inserts himself between the siblings, sitting down next to Katara. “You look like you could use some rest,” he says gently. “I can send some chamomile to your room, and we can let Aang know where you’ve gone.”

She shakes her head. Her hair is still the mess it was when she was healing Aang. “I’m waiting for him,” she says, and there’s no arguing with that tone.

Zuko nods. She looks as tired as Zuko often feels. “If it makes you feel any better,” Zuko offers, “I’m pretty sure Toph wouldn’t try to make friends with an assassin.”

She snorts. “It’s super reassuring when Toph is the most reasonable member of Team Avatar.” She tips sideways, though, to lean against Zuko, and he thinks that means she appreciates him trying to comfort her.

Sokka finds him on the council balcony late that night. It’s a pleasantly warm evening, so Zuko had been trying to read some final festival expense reports by the light of a candle, but he gave up in favor in watching the stars and the moon some while ago. When Sokka drops into the chair next to Zuko, he slides down so far his knees end up higher than his stomach. 

“You okay?” Zuko asks.

“I’m fine,” he grumbles. “Katara and Suki got into a fight.”

Zuko blinks. He’s seen Katara in plenty of arguments, but he can’t recall ever seeing Suki get into a fight that wasn’t physical and ultimately about saving someone’s life. “They fought?”

“Suki made an entirely valid point about Katara’s tendency to mother Aang, but Katara’s neeever wrong when it comes to her boyfriend, so. She blew up.”

“And Suki doesn’t back down from a fight.”

“Suki never runs from a fight.” An impish grin curls Sokka’s lips. “The fights usually run from Suki.”

Zuko settles back into his seat. Another reason why he abandoned his reports was because his mind kept going through the events of the day, from the salon to the holding cell to the hallway outside it. He’s known, since the first time it happened, that he doesn’t like talking about attempts on his life; it just makes everyone paranoid and overbearingly protective. But reflecting on today made him realize that his unwillingness to talk about it means he never asks his friends about their experiences, and that doesn’t feel right.

“How’s Aang?” he asks.

“Tuckered out like a polar bear pup. He’ll be fine—this is far from the worst he’s dealt with.”

Zuko curls his fingers. “Have there been many assassination attempts?”

Sokka kicks his legs out, stacking his ankles. “Some. I don’t know the exact number. Katara’s been with him for more than I have.”

There’s something in his tone that Zuko can’t quite parse. He isn’t sure how to probe at it, either, without inadvertently bringing too much attention to his own history with assassination. “How does Katara stand it?”

“The power of love, or something like that,” Sokka says flippantly.

It must be something more than that. He remembers the conversation he had with Bishal, those many months ago, about choosing a person, in spite of the everything around them. Knowing what he does of Katara and Aang’s relationship, it doesn’t necessarily seem easy, but he’s never doubted the strength of their affection and of their individual selves. The world as they knew it imploded as a result of Katara and Aang finding each other. Who could deny that as strength?

“Mai broke up with me,” Zuko says.

It’s out before he realized he was going to say it, and he wishes he could shove the words back inside himself, but Sokka doesn’t react large and dramatically like Zuko thought he might have. “I know,” Sokka says. “You seem okay with her—has it been okay?”

He knew? The image of Ty Lee kissing Mai flashes in Zuko’s mind; maybe Sokka’s seen something, too. “You knew?”

“Yeah. There’s—I don’t know. Something different between you two. Not bad, or anything, just …” He shrugs. “Different.”

“Oh.”

Sokka shimmies himself into a more upright position, reaching across the space between them to put a solid hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “You doing okay with it?”

“I think so.” Sokka’s hand squeezes, as if asking, You sure? Zuko sighs. “I miss it. But looking back, I wasn’t seeing our relationship fully. I didn’t know what it was doing to her. And … I don’t think she’d ever want to go back to it.”

Sokka’s thumb drags across a small patch of Zuko’s shoulder, and it’s embarrassing how hyperaware he is of the touch, even through his layers of clothing. Do other people crave contact the way Zuko does, in a way that makes him seriously unbalanced if he’s gone too long without it? This can’t be normal.

“Zuko,” Sokka begins, and there’s now a hint of bass to his voice, an authority that demands full attention. “You’re one of the most reflective people I know—”

“Yeah,” Zuko interjects sarcastically. “Not enough, apparently.”

Another squeeze of his shoulder, sharper this time. “Dude, we’re still learning. We can’t all be wise 115-year-olds like Aang.”

“He’s basically 15.”

Sokka waves his other hand. “Yeah, with his hundreds of past selves also giving him advice on how to be a person, or whatever. Look—whoever you end up building relationships with? They’ll be the luckiest people I know. You don’t just reflect, Zuko. You see how you want to change and then you change on purpose. And that’s wild! How many people do you know do that? One day, when the rest of us are stubborn and crotchety old sun-dried sea prunes, you’re going to be some sort of infinitely superior enlightened guru of, like, perfecting the self. It’s going to be so annoying.”

Zuko laughs, the suddenness of his amusement surprising himself. “You’ve called both past me and future me annoying today,” he says. “Are you trying to tell me that I’m annoying?”

Sokka grins broadly. “Absolutely insufferable.”

His palm flexes against Zuko’s shoulder one last time, and then Sokka withdraws the touch, leaving Zuko bereft. “Did anyone win the fight?” Zuko asks.

“Suki won before the fight was a even fight because she’s right. But—I mean, you know Katara. Won’t back down when she thinks she’s correct, has this freaky ability to rouse the masses in her favor.”

Zuko’s lips curl. “So it was a draw.”

Sokka huffs, cushioning his head on his hands as he looks up at the sky. The moonlight catches the ridges and lines of his face, the ever-increasing sharpness of his cheekbone, the rise of his throat. “I guess so.”

When Aang’s mostly healed, Zuko’s friends depart, scattering to different ends of the world: Sokka to the South Pole, Katara and Aang to the Eastern Air Temple, the Kyoshi warriors to the Si Wong Desert. The final week of summer, there’s a volcanic explosion near the Black Cliffs; there are only a few casualties, people who were living higher up on the mountain and became trapped when lava flow wiped out the old evacuation road, but Zuko feels their loss acutely, particularly when he visits their surviving relatives and attends the funerals along with most of the local community. He asks Eun to assemble a team to assess volcano-related evacuation procedures and structures around the archipelago, and his stomach twists bitterly at recalling Shohei’s town in the Earth Kingdom. He wishes he could have Shohei’s consultation on this; he knows a letter would go unanswered.

His conversation with Tuan also sits heavy at the back of his mind, and when autumn comes, he starts clearing two days of the week of any meetings so he can travel and, with intentionality, be among his people. He starts with the palace, exploring the rooms and halls that have been tucked away for palace staff, learning names and pitching in where he can. He learns how to mix the solution for polishing the floors and spends an entire afternoon helping some staff scrub and polish the old throne room, where renovations are going steadily, in spite of not yet having an artist to redo the dragon mural. One day, Azula stumbles upon him kneeling in a bed of soil as he helps Yong replant a section of a courtyard that started to contract a disease; his sister stares disconcertingly at them for a long while before she takes up a spare trowel and wordlessly helps them plant.

As time goes on, he ventures further and further out, descending through the rings of the capital and then into the harbor and nearby cities and towns. Realistically, in a single day, he can’t reach beyond the island that the capital resides on; it’s Mai who points out the very simple solution of pushing his two meeting-less days together so he can spend a night elsewhere.

After taking a trip, whether for a day or overnight, Zuko’s left even more tired than he is after a day of back-to-back meetings. He doesn’t thrive on endlessly introducing himself to and getting to know strangers—not in the way Aang or Ty Lee do—but those days do feel more fulfilling than almost any one in the palace. Usually, on these excursions, he’s accompanied by two of the four guards who were with him in the spring, but when he takes his first trip deeper south, Eun asks to come along. “I can introduce you to people I know,” he says. “And there’s a fantastic noodle bar that can only be found by locals.”

“You don’t need to convince me, Eun,” Zuko replies. “If you want to come, you’re always welcome.”

Leaving the capital early in the morning, they finish crossing the Twin Mountains Pass by noon. They eat at Eun’s noodle bar for lunch, and then Eun leads Zuko and Bishal to the marketplace.

The marketplace is in a single large hall, its high triangular ceiling supported by regularly spaced wooden columns. Upon first walking through the doors, the place seems like pure disorder, a wave of incongruous sounds and smells assaulting Zuko, but once he adjusts, he can make out a pattern to the chaos. There’s a purpose and a flow, and virtually everyone seems to cycle through the exact middle of the hall, where a short woman standing on a stack of crates seems to be conducting it all.

Eun continues to guide them, occasionally introducing Zuko to someone he knows or has corresponded with when consulting on some matters related to his home region, and just as often Zuko stops to engage someone in conversation, so long as they don’t look too busy. Even with their slow progress, it’s clear that the three of them, like all else, are headed for the person on the crates in the center.

As they draw closer, Zuko begins to hear an authoritative, clear voice ringing through the madness. Eun doesn’t wait to begin introducing her. “She might not have time for a proper introduction,” he explains. “Her name’s Kimiko. She’s been in this role for about two years, now, ever since she moved in with her uncle, who owns the stable down the road. From what I understand, she built the marketplace’s system from the ground up, and she’s the primary consultant on what goods go where.”

“What does that entail?”

“An incredible amount. Recognizing on sight every single good that comes through here and, if they’re perishable—as most of these are—what the goods look like in different stages of ripeness, or how close they might be to spoilage or rot. Based on that information, she recommends where different harvests should be sent, and that requires knowledge of the markets, both on land and at the ports, and how those change in accordance with the seasons and other events, like volcanic eruptions or trade embargoes.”

Bishal whistles low. “That’s absurd.”

The flow of the market-goers puts them at Kimiko’s back when they reach the center; all Zuko can see is twin brown braids hanging the length of her back. “Kimiko,” Eun calls, “Would you have a moment for an introduction?”

“Admiral!” she replies, twisting around without lifting her face from the board she’s cradling in her left arm. “Buy me lunch?” She makes a few marks on her board and then looks up. “I’m taking a break in fif—”

She freezes, green eyes blown wide, and Zuko also stumbles back. He recognizes her. “Your name’s Kimiko,” he blurts, incredulous.

Kimiko hugs her board to her chest. “Are you here to arrest me?”

“What? No, I—why would I arrest you now if I didn’t arrest you before?”

He can feel Eun and Bishal looking between them. “You’ve met before?” Eun asks.

Zuko chokes on a laugh. Have they met. “She tried to kill me two years ago,” he says. “She was the one who made it into my rooms.”

Kimiko startles back into action. “Aparna!” she shouts, and a dark-skinned woman some paces away comes running up to the crate stack. “I’m taking lunch,” Kimiko says, shoving the board into Aparna’s hands. “Don’t mess up.”

“Kimiko!” Aparna protests.

Kimiko, ignoring her, hops off the crates and lands steadily. On the same level as Zuko and his companions, the top of her head barely reaches Eun’s shoulders; she might even be shorter than Kanya. To think, that two years ago, she almost got to him with garroting wire. Could she even reach his neck now? “Someone’s buying me lunch,” she announces.

“I will,” Zuko says.

Her eyes flit over his face, assessing, before she nods. “Let’s go,” she says. “These guys are like turtle crabs. You need to keep moving if you don’t want them to latch on.”

She takes them to a street vendor selling gua bao, not far from the marketplace, and she eats while they stand on the side of the road. Zuko has no idea how she manages to scarf down three bao in quick succession while still engaging Eun in a full conversation. “I’m training Aparna to be my deputy,” she says, “because it’d be really nice to not run the market at least one day a week.”

“Have you been doing this seven days a week for two years straight?” Zuko asks.

“For a year and nine months, yes.”

“How much has the market changed, since you started?”

She shrugs. “About 300 percent increase in daily traffic. Changes with the seasons, of course, but we can even run steady through the winter, now. Aparna’s still working on an official report, but word of mouth from our farmers is that there’s a noticeable decrease in the amount of goods that spoil away before they’re sold, so they’ve been seeing more profit.”

Zuko doesn’t remember requesting a report about this region, or hearing that someone else asked for one. “When the report’s finished, where is it going?”

“Nowhere. It’s for myself.”

Eun puts up a finger. “I’d like to see a copy, too.”

Kimiko grins. “Guess it’ll also be going to your capital, then.”

She catches Zuko’s eye, and for a moment, her smile is easy, but then she seems to catch herself—again. It’s been happening since they left the marketplace. She stuffs half of another bao in her mouth, chewing rapidly.

“We’ve been hearing praises sung to Kimiko’s name in ports halfway across the archipelago,” Eun tells Zuko. Kimiko grumbles through her full mouth, shaking her head, but Eun pushes on. “I’m certain that her work, and her mental capacity, is unparalleled in our nation.”

“You flatter me,” Kimiko gripes. “I like analyzing, and I like systems.”

“Do you have plans for what you’d like to do, once Aparna is fully trained?” Zuko asks.

She shrugs. “I’ll find something. I don’t do well with sitting still.”

The large bell above the marketplace begins ringing; Kimiko stretches her arms up, arching her back and rolling her neck. “I need to go back,” she says. “Can I speak with you, first, Fire Lord?”

Bishal meets Zuko’s eye, and with a nod, he and Eun step away, drifting back towards the marketplace.

Kimiko smooths down the front of her tunic. “I owe you an apology, Fire Lord Zuko, and my gratitude.”

“It seems that the good work you’ve done here is already more than enough.”

She shakes her head. “This is just work. Streamlining and standardizing systems and procedures, making things more efficient—I’ve always been good at that. I don’t need to think about it. What I needed to think about was—I don’t know. The intangibles. What it means to be a great nation, a great people. What a legacy is, and who has legacies.”

Her green eyes are steady and serious when she looks up at him. “I didn’t want to see your side,” she says. “But when I was sent here, and my uncle volunteered me to the marketplace—working there forced me to see that there were benefits to not being at war. Our farmers were so relieved that their crops weren’t being seized to feed the military. People outside the cities could start prospering again. And I’ve become close with many people who think the war was some straight up hippo-cow crap—I mean. They thought there wasn’t much sense behind the reasons for it.”

Zuko’s lip quirks. “It was straight up hippo-cow crap,” he confirms.

Kimiko smiles, and this time, she lets the expression linger. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you,” she says. “You’re probably what this nation needs, if we don’t want the rest of the world to invade us because we were being awful to them for a hundred years.”

He remembers so clearly the stubborn disdain of Kimiko’s expression when they sat, conversing, in the palace holding cell two years ago; there’s no trace of it now in Kimiko’s crinkled eyes and dimpled cheeks. Growth, his mind whispers, and in his chest a happiness cries out in exhausted relief.

“Thank you, for the apology,” he says. “Once Aparna is fully trained—and if you’re interested—I’d love to have your consultation on a few different projects my council has been working on around the archipelago. I think your mind and your dedication is also what this nation needs.”

She stands taller, confidence swelling her chest. “If it’s not sitting still,” she says, “I’d say I’m interested.”

When Azula’s triptych is relocated from the palace’s entry hall to the art gallery, Eun joins the royal siblings to oversee its move. He stands out of the way, observing the siblings more than the progress of the tapestries; to be fair, Zuko also spends more time watching Azula than her art. When the triple-paneled screen is arranged in its alcove to Azula’s liking, the staff who helped with the move leave; only Amit remains with them, standing a polite distance away.

Azula’s assessing the middle tapestry, the one with Zuko’s likeness sitting at the foundations of the upper city. Behind his floating head, the palace still manages to look vaguely threatening with its deep shadows, in spite of the fireworks that explode above it. His sister has a real talent, he recognizes.

“What are you thinking?” he asks her.

She slides her scrutinizing, golden gaze to Zuko. “You haven’t had your official portrait done yet.”

Zuko shifts uncomfortably. He spent so much of his first year on the throne getting rid of the excessive number of likenesses that Ozai and Azulon had spread throughout the nation; he didn’t like the idea of replacing them with his face. He still doesn’t care much for his countenance being recreated without real purpose. “It hasn’t seemed that important,” he says.

“Is it because of your scar?” she asks bluntly. “I can easily not include it.”

Zuko doubles takes. “I—you want to do my portrait?” At a word, he could have his scar erased from his image?

“Obviously, I’m doing it.”

The Azula-logic she’s operating on actually isn’t obvious to Zuko, but there isn’t anyone else he’d rather have. “Thank you,” he says.

Azula rolls her eyes, as she does whenever he expresses gratitude. “Scar or no scar?” she persists.

He’s never told anyone that, in his dreams, he often doesn’t have a scar. In his sleep, he doesn’t feel the now-familiar phantom shadow of sensation where there should be actual sense, that strange absence where he should be able to tell that a breeze is lightly tripping by, or that he’s walking through a sticky summer day. In his dreams, he doesn’t think twice at the imagined touch of fingertips against both his cheeks; it’s only when he wakes that he remembers that present absence. It’s rare to go through a day without being reminded of its existence, whether from a rising itch or someone’s look lingering a moment too long.

Who would he be if he didn’t live each day with an ever-present reminder of where he’s come from and everything he’s survived?

“I think I need to keep it,” he says.

Azula nods, as if this were any normal conversation, like she’s asked him if he prefers scented or unscented candles, or whether he’d like to take dinner inside or outside tonight. “Hye’s expecting me,” she says.

“Please tell her I say hello.”

She’s already walking away, Amit on her heels. “She’s here for me, Zuzu, not you.”

Once they’ve turned the corner out of the hall, Eun draws up to Zuko’s side. “Your sister is quite skilled,” he says, nodding at the triptych.

The left and right tapestries are more abstract, an intricate interweaving of the flowers and fruits of fire lilies, camellias, peonies, silver wisteria, and cherries—plants that bloom at different times in the year, but all resemble the Fire Nation in one way or another. Hidden in the shadows of petals and leaves are fire spirits, grinning merrily and mischievously in turns.

“She is,” Zuko agrees. “I’m glad she’s discovered—” something to distract her hands, to help keep her own thoughts manageable as she works through difficult experiences and truths “—art.”

Eun clears his throat. “Zuko—forgive me, I …” He coughs, and Zuko turns to him. Deep worry lines crease his forehead, his jaw working uncertainly until he lands on, “I hadn’t known about your Agni Kai with your father.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Zuko automatically says.

“I feel the need to apologize. I … had to ask around, to understand what Mai meant when she said that doing the wrong thing meant being punished. It wasn’t wrong, Zuko, what you did, and—”

“I know,” Zuko says quietly.

Eun inhales deeply. “I’m sorry. I realized you must have had reason to not say anything—to avoid conversations like this, probably. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

It’s Zuko’s turn to cough and shuffle his feet. “I don’t intentionally keep it from people,” he tells the floor. “I just haven’t found a reason to talk about it.”

“If you ever find you do want to talk about it, please know that Jingyi and I are always here for you.” His brown eyes are sad, the heaviness of his graying brow reminding Zuko briefly of Uncle. “Your sister, too. Would you—would you bring her along, the next time you have tea with us?”

He tries to imagine Azula in the warm sun room where he’s passed so many contented nights with Eun and Jingyi. His mind’s eye has been learning, since the start of summer, to see his sister in new lights: sitting with calm concentration at her loom, smirking at him from across a shared dinner table, giving volume to the waves of her short hair with an easy, thoughtless scrunch of her fingers.

“I think I can convince her,” Zuko says. “Thank you, Eun.”

Eun pulls him into a hug. He isn’t expecting the deep sense of comfort to settle in his bones, but he welcomes it regardless, closing his eyes and imagining Azula’s fingers smoothly weaving yarn through the warps on her loom.

The last month of fall brings a letter from Aang, who informs Zuko that he’s at the Southern Air Temple and that he’ll be there for some time: he, Teo, and Sokka have begun the cultural and architectural rehabilitation project they’ve been talking about for some years now. Zuko immediately works with Mai to create a temporary committee devoted to searching the Fire Nation archives for information that could be useful to the project, and then ultimately returned to the cultural home it originated from. He writes back to Aang, telling him as much; Aang’s response is so elated, Zuko becomes excited himself and starts setting aside time to root around the archives.

The primary archive sits right where the middle and upper city meet on the main road that winds from the harbor to the palace. From the outside, the building is unremarkable, just another red-painted wooden facade that hardly looks different from the potter’s shop or stationary store on either side of it; it’s the sprawling underground network of poorly lit rooms, filled with tightly packed rows of meticulously labeled documents and artifacts that make the archive feel like a step into another world.

The archivists are dedicated to their work, and Zuko knows that the only reason they let him walk out of the building each day with a bag full of materials to study later in the night is that he’s the Fire Lord. He does his best not to test their patience; in return, they minimize the mistrustful glances that follow him out the doors and up the road.

As the materials to-be-shipped to the Southern Air Temple accumulate in neat stacks against a side wall of the council room, an itch grows stronger beneath Zuko’s skin. He tries to ignore it—there are reasons he should stay put in the capital, right now, and there are plenty of other people who can help carry out this project—but no matter what he tells himself, something in his chest keeps nudging him to look to the southeast, straining to see beyond the islands of his archipelago.

The last of his self-restraint snaps when he receives a scroll with an illustration of Teo and Aang racing Momo through the air in front of fingerlike mountains capped with snow.

Zuko stores the painting in his desk and pokes his head outside his door. “Where’s Bishal?” he asks the guards stationed there.

He’s directed to the courtyard with the turtleduck pond, where he finds Bishal helping Yong pull weeds from a flowerbed. He waits quietly until Bishal catches his eye; his friend excuses himself from Yong and then comes to Zuko. “Everything okay?” he asks.

There’s a smear of dirt on Bishal’s chin. “I’m about to run off somewhere. Meet me at the council balcony late tonight?”

Bishal breaks into a wide grin that has Zuko smiling, too.

Their appropriated mini air ship is smoother to navigate and easier to control than the war balloon Zuko once stole several years ago; he’s impressed by the improvements the capital’s engineers have made, and he reminds himself to check with Li Bai where he is with drafting proposals to other provinces and nations regarding a worldwide air-travel system. He and Bishal take turns operating the coal-fired engine of the ship; the conversation between them is easy, and with clear skies, it’s incredible to see their nation pass by down below.

“Did you tell anyone where you were going?” Zuko asks.

“I didn’t know where we were going,” Bishal replies, “but no. Told my family and Erhi I’d be gone for some time, but not to worry.” He tosses another fire flake into the air and catches it in his mouth. “Did you?”

“I left a note where the air ship was docked.”

Bishal chuckles. “You’re going to get yelled at when we get back.”

“It’ll be worth it.”

When the sun starts setting, they decide to land and spend a night at Roku’s Island. It puts them in a decent enough place to reach the Southern Air Temple by sundown tomorrow; it’s also an incredibly unpopulated island, so they’ll remain unbothered.

Roku’s Island used to be known by another name, but no one has called it by such since the volcanic eruption that took Avatar Roku’s life; similarly, none attempted to rebuild the island after the ash settled and the lava cooled to rock, an abandonment that was undoubtedly encouraged by Zuko’s father and forefathers. From the stories he’s heard whispered since childhood, Zuko assumed the island would be barren, covered in sheets of glossy black rock and teeming with hollow spirits.

He wasn’t expecting this, these magnificent autumnal specters that promise they once were a robust summer verdure. Over the years, trees have found ways to pierce through rock, creating ambitious figures that reach gnarled limbs toward the sky from cracks in the stone; their roots also rise and fall until stones became pebbles became dust, and space was made for grasses and other plants to take root.

The further up the side of the island, the forest becomes younger and shorter. The increasing sparseness of trunks and branches means the view goes uninterrupted; Zuko wonders at how breathtaking the sea must be from a point high up the mountainside. He’s pretty sure, from up there, he would be able to see every wave and star for as far as the horizon extended.

For now, though, he and Bishal settle on soft grass beneath a tree that appears to have grown straight out of a boulder. Insects sing as night animals begin to rouse, and Zuko shivers where he lays, a voice in his chest murmuring yes yes yes—though he knows not what question it answers.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Bishal asks.

Zuko thinks of ghost stories, of his family’s voices rising in him without being bidden, of the phantom sensations that touch his skin and his body where others have once caused him so much pain he can no longer feel. Which of these are truly ghosts? Can they all be ghosts?

“I think most things live on, in one way or another, for longer than we’d ever think they could exist,” he says. “Do you?”

Bishal hums. “I don’t know.” There’s a contemplative pause. “This seems like a lovely place to haunt.”

They’re greeted at the Southern Air Temple before they even land by Momo, who glides straight into Zuko’s chest and bounces off to land on a bundle of well-wrapped archival material. The flying lemur chitters at Bishal, pokes around a few piles of packaged scrolls and travel supplies, and then screams at Zuko before launching out of the air ship again.

“What does that mean?” Bishal asks, amused.

“He’ll probably give Aang a heads-up.”

Sure enough, when the city built into the sides of a steep mountain suddenly emerges from a bank of clouds, Aang’s watching for them in a wide, empty courtyard made of thick sheets of white stone. He waves when he spots them, and Zuko waves back.

The air ship just fits between the barriers made of stone arches, and as soon as it comes to a stable stop, Zuko leaves Bishal to deal with the deflating balloon and leaps over the side of the ship to meet Aang’s embrace.

“What brings you here?” Aang asks, the smile evident in his tone.

“I promised you materials from the archive,” Zuko replies. “Is it okay if Bishal and I stay for a few days?”

“You’re always welcome, Zuko, and so are any of your friends.”

Zuko and Bishal grab their travel packs and then follow Aang deeper into the temple. “Teo brought some friends from the Northern Air Temple, and we’ve been cleaning and clearing from sunrise to sunset everyday since we’ve arrived,” Aang says. “After dinner, Sokka, Teo, and I spend a couple hours planning the restoration that’ll start as soon as we’re done tidying up.”

He brings them to an open-air corridor that on one side overlooks a steep drop with a view of the ocean, and on the other is lined with identical doors. “We used to host visitors here,” Aang explains, “and we decided to camp out here because it sustained the least structural damage across the whole temple. All the useable rooms are claimed right now, but we can shift some people around if you two would like to stay together.”

“Please, don’t make anyone move for us,” Zuko says. “If anyone’s willing, we can double-up—”

There’s a shout and a crash, and suddenly a door down the hall flies open. Momo sprints out, screeching terribly, and then Sokka stumbles through the entry. He looks down the hall right at them and shouts, “Zuko!”

“And Bishal,” Bishal says, amused.

Sokka runs forward and sweeps all three of them into a hug. “You’re here! Why are you here?”

“Thought I could drop off some things in person,” Zuko says.

“I’m the babysitter,” Bishal adds.

Sokka lets them go, and when they all take a step apart, his wide grin is infectious. Aang tells him, “Zuko was just saying he and Bishal could double-up in the rooms, so no one has to shuffle around.”

“Makes sense.” His dark blue eyes shift to Zuko.

Zuko nods. “I’ll go with Aang,” he says at the same time as Sokka tells him, “You can crash with me.”

Zuko blinks; Sokka blinks. Aang and Bishal don’t bat an eyelid. Momo returns from wherever he scampered off to, gliding onto Sokka’s shoulder and staring at Zuko with unsettling intensity.

“Well, as long as we all have a patch of floor,” Bishal says cheerfully.

It breaks that offbeat moment, and Sokka slings an arm around Bishal’s neck. “I can guarantee you, I have the most spick-and-span floor in all of the temple,” Sokka boasts, already dragging Bishal back down the corridor.

“I’m right here, actually,” Aang says from next to Zuko.

Zuko tears his gaze away to look at the door to which Aang’s gesturing. “Great,” he says. “Can I leave my bag? And then we can get to unloading the stuff from the archive.”

Once the air ship is unloaded and covered, Zuko’s effortlessly swept into the rhythm of the restoration team at the temple. They’ve made impressive progress so far in clearing rubble, which is greatly aided by the earthbending of a few of the Northern Air Temple refugees, and Aang’s airbending can clean in a minute a room that would’ve taken Zuko half an hour to dust manually. By sundown, they’ve finished sorting the last and largest of the temple’s meditation halls, which means they can start on the west wing of the middle temple tomorrow.

“It’s been easier as we descend the levels of the temple,” Teo tells Zuko over dinner. “The large rubble has less distance to travel to be removed, and the rooms become bigger and easier to navigate.”

Rubble has been sorted into two large heaps in a grassy landing that sits below the lower levels of the temple: salvageable parts and unlikely to be recovered. “What’s going to happen with the refuse, when this is over?” Zuko asks.

“We’ll do our best to find ways to reuse it—Aang says it’s really important we don’t create undue waste with this project. At the end of the day, if there’s really nothing else that can be done for something, we can try to turn it into kindling.”

Zuko nods, taking a sip from his bowl of soup. They’ve all been eating vegetarian, apparently, since stepping foot on the temple grounds—not because Aang required it, but because Sokka suggested it, to respect the culture they’re trying to rehabilitate. Zuko has no idea what’s in this broth, but that doesn’t keep him from appreciating the way it warms him to the bone.

After dinner, Zuko convinces Bishal to spar with him. “Aren’t you sore from lifting heavy things all afternoon?” Bishal complains.

“We spent the last two days trapped on a small air ship,” Zuko replies. “Are you not feeling restless?”

They find a stone courtyard bordered on all sides by overgrown gardens. Standing taller than the bushes are lanterns that, Zuko’s surprised to note, are a Fire Nation design from a century ago. Once they’re lit, there’s enough light to spar by.

He and Bishal seldom spar with actual weapons, and he’s accordingly even more focused on the movement of his dao and Bishal’s sword as they fight. Their blades whistle through the air, cutting through the scrape of their feet, and Zuko’s so concentrated that he doesn’t realize until he’s disarmed Bishal that they’re no longer alone. Slow clapping comes from the side of the courtyard; Sokka’s been watching them for who knows how long, half-hidden in the shadow of the overgrowth.

Bishal staggers a step back. “I fall for that feint every time,” he grouses.

“That’s why I keep doing it,” Zuko says, relaxing and lowering his dao. “How else will you learn?”

Sokka comes forward, and as more light reaches him, Zuko thinks he sees an unusual glint at the side of Sokka’s face; he draws closer, and Zuko’s eyes confirm that that’s jewelry in Sokka’s ear, two small silver hoops piercing the lobe of his right ear.

“Fancy footwork, friends,” Sokka says. “Pick that up from some dance lessons?”

Bishal, completely earnestly, says, “Erhi and I have been meaning to go to some of the revival studios around the capital.”

“I’d like to see you be light-footed,” Zuko challenges.

“Hey! I am of the lightest feet! I’m from a proud hunting tradition. We don’t have those froufrou restaurants and meat markets you city guys rely on.”

“You like the froufrou restaurants,” Bishal says.

“You love the meat market.”

Sokka sticks his nose up, mock-insulted. “I’m multi-faceted.”

Bishal, snickering, hands Sokka his sword, and Sokka steps back and gives it a few experimental swings. It’s shorter than ideal for someone of Sokka’s size. “Care if I go a round with this?”

“Please. Zuko’s killing me.”

They trade places, and even as Zuko raises his dao, putting a total of three real blades between him and Sokka, he can’t stop darting looks at Sokka’s piercings. He never thought Sokka would get piercings, but now that they’re there, they look so right. He looks good. Or, the piercings look good. On Sokka. Who looks good.

A blade flashes in the lantern-warmed moonlight, and Zuko almost trips backward over his own feet. Caught off-guard—embarrassing. “You got your ears pierced!” he blurts, deflecting Sokka’s attack.

Sokka presses forward until he misjudges the length of Bishal’s sword and leaves Zuko an opening to cut to the right. Zuko jabs, but Sokka dances away in time—he is light on his feet, as Zuko knew even when he taunted him about it. It’s possibly one of the first things Zuko ever learned about Sokka, even before his name: a warrior light on his feet and resolute in his will, no matter the circumstance.

“Some of the Northern Water Tribe delegates had ‘em,” Sokka replies, casually, even as he cuts at Zuko’s legs. “They were excited I asked about it—guess it’s a northern Earth Kingdom fashion the young people at the North Pole are getting into.”

The shorter sword throws off Sokka’s angle again, and Zuko darts into the space left undefended. He catches Sokka’s weapon between his, twists, and then has a blade beneath Sokka’s chin before the sword has even clattered to the ground. “I like them,” Zuko says.

Sokka smiles. “Thanks,” he says, voice strained from the way he’s carefully leaning away from Zuko’s dao.

Zuko swallows and steps down.

Sokka retrieves his borrowed weapon from the ground and returns it to Bishal. “I like how this is weighted,” he says.

“Did you end up getting a new sword?” Bishal asks. “Or are you waiting until you stop growing?”

“I was trying to wait, but a very gentle and compassionate spirit guided me to a shop on my way home from the Fire Days Festival, and it was love-at-first-sight with Moony.”

Zuko’s lip twitches. “You named your sword Moony?”

“Yes, I did. It’s what Yue deserves—I never would have found Jiahao’s shop if I hadn’t been chasing her around a cloud bank.”

How do you outrun a cloud bank? Zuko wonders as Bishal says, “Wait—Jiahao?”

“Yeah! He’s super friendly—he invited me to dinner after only, like, two conversations.”

Bishal gawks. “Invited you to dinner?”

“I had to say no, because I had a ferry to catch—” Bishal bursts out laughing. “What?”

“Only you, Sokka,” Bishal gasps through tears. “One of Piandao’s lovers asked you out, and that wasn’t the first thing you told us when we got here?”

One of Piandao’s—? “What?” Zuko asks.

“Like, Piandao Piandao?” Sokka asks. “Master-swordsman-liberator-of-Ba-Sing-Se Piandao?”

Bishal wipes his eyes, still wheezing. “Aw, man—you guys don’t know about Piandao’s lovers?”

He keeps saying it like there’s something significant to the phrase. “Why would I know anything about his personal—love life?” Zuko blusters.

“You don’t get out enough,” Bishal tells Zuko and then explains to Sokka, “It’s known across the nation that since Piandao built his estate in Shu Jing, he’s taken lovers into his home. Usually, no one’s ever heard of them before, but as soon as they move to Shu Jing, we find out that they’re ridiculously talented in some skill or profession. They live with Piandao for however long, master their craft, and when they move out, they’re the most desirable person in the nation, whether for their particular talent or, uh, more intimate relations.”

Zuko drops into a squat. He remembers, in the year he trained under Piandao, being intrigued by the man who sang opera and always joined them for breakfast; after he left, there were a few months of just him, Piandao, and the butler, before a woman who carved massive wooden statues moved into the estate. “How do people know they’re his—lovers?”

Bishal shrugs. “People talk.”

“Who wouldn’t talk, if they were the lover of that man?” Sokka quips, even though he, too, looks a bit wide-eyed and dazed.

Bishal looks between the two of them. “Looks like we’re done sparring for the night.”

Sokka shifts his weight, putting a fist against his hip. “A guy who once was with Piandao asked me out?”

“Rumor says a dinner invite from Jiahao is usually an invitation to much more.”

Zuko tips back and falls onto his butt.

“Flattering, but I’m a happily taken man.”

“Does he have one now?” Zuko hears himself ask.

Bishal frowns thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I think the last person I heard about was a woman, like a year ago. I think her name began with a B?”

A hand appears in front of Zuko’s face, and he follows its wrist and arm and shoulder up to Sokka’s face. Sokka isn’t just tall, Zuko registers—he’s solid, with strong legs that support a compact torso capped with shoulders that look like they could carry the weight of the world.

“I think it’s time for you to get some sleep,” Sokka teases.

Zuko takes his hand and lets Sokka take most of his weight in pulling him to his feet. “I’m not tired.”

“Tell me that again when your head hits Aang’s floor.”

He’s reminded of the strange beat in their conversation earlier today. He wonders if he should say something about it—Sorry for being awkward? I don’t want you to think I wouldn’t sleep on your floor, because I would?—but then Sokka’s slinging an arm around Zuko’s neck and guiding him out of the courtyard, tucking Bishal under his other arm on the way. Bishal asks, “Think we can meet Moony tomorrow?”

“You’re asking to get your butt kicked?”

They start arguing, in that fond banter that most of Sokka’s arguments with friends sound like, and Zuko listens quietly, wondering when the night got so warm.

After an actual full day of clearing the temple and sparring at night, a familiar soreness settles into Zuko’s body, the satisfying ache of a long day’s work making each movement feel like a strain. This night, he does sleep soundly, regardless of the hard floor beneath his sleeping pack, and when he wakes with the sun, he has to run through a series of bending forms to encourage warmth into the far reaches of his limbs.

He’s up early enough to see the first snowflakes float down from the sky; by the time most of the others wake, the rapidly falling fat flakes reduce visibility and make walking through uncovered passageways and courtyards a chilly experience.

“Could we safely build a fire in whichever room we’re working in?” Zuko asks. “Bishal and I could maintain it.”

Aang raises his eyebrows. “It’s an idea,” he agrees.

“If this snow doesn’t let up, it’s going to be freezing tonight, and we don’t know yet how cold the rooms get,” Sokka points out. “It might be better for you to save your energy, in case we need to keep a fire going overnight.”

Zuko frowns. “You don’t have a second place to sleep in inclement weather?”

“There’s a large hall in the lower levels which still has an intact heating system,” Teo says. “We’ll be fine once it’s cleared.”

“It doesn’t usually snow this early,” Aang adds.

“So … what should we do?” Zuko asks.

Aang beams. “It’s a day off!”

The rehabilitation team quickly splits off, some retreating into parts of the temple deeper in the mountainside, others venturing into the snow. Zuko and Bishal, as well as some of the Northern Air Temple refugees, pile onto Appa and get an aerial tour of the temple, featuring a brief stop at the peak of a mountain for an impromptu snowball fight. They return to the temple for lunch, after which Aang goes out for a second trip with a different group of people.

While some of the other rehabilitators have brought things to entertain themselves in down time—cards, books, games of chance—Zuko and Bishal packed so light, they have little aside from spare clothes and some preserved snacks for their air travel. Zuko hates to just sit around, and with the heavy snow, he doesn’t relish the idea of sparring either with sword or flame. “I know Aang said day off,” he tells Bishal, “but I’m going to start organizing some of the archive materials.”

“I’ll join.”

To his surprise, Teo and Sokka are already in the large storage room where they’d haphazardly dumped the content from the archive on the first day. A large wood table dominates the center of the room, and neat stacks of scrolls are arranged in groups across its surface. Zuko’s certain the table was empty when he and Aang dropped things here the first day.

“Aang said to take a day off,” Zuko tells the room at large.

Sokka raises an eyebrow. “You’re here, too, aren’t you?”

They’ve begun by developing a labeling system, and once it’s explained to Zuko and Bishal, they set to work, tagging different scrolls with thin strips of colored fabric. It’s work that takes concentration, and Zuko soon forgets about the world outside; he isn’t reminded of the reason he’s in here instead of out there until Sokka, brushing against him when walking by, makes a noise of pleasure.

“What is it?” Zuko asks as Sokka pivots and returns to him.

Sokka plants himself directly to his right, their upper arms pressed together, and Zuko has to grab the edge of the table. “I forgot you’re hotter than a bonfire,” Sokka croons.

Zuko feels his face flush. “Again, you live in an igloo,” he retorts.

He’s not really mad, though, just weirdly embarrassed, and Sokka must know that—he simply grins and leans harder into Zuko’s side. “I’m multi-faceted,” he jokes.

Zuko gives him the flattest look he can manage.

Sokka stays plastered against his side for the rest of the day, until they’re finished with archive labeling and Zuko’s neck is protesting from being bent over for so many hours straight. Dinner is at the same covered, open-air courtyard as the last two nights, but Zuko and Bishal help build a small bonfire in the middle of them all, so everyone stays warm.

It’s still not warm enough for Sokka, apparently, who drops to the ground next to Zuko and scoots over until their legs are pressed together from knee to hip and their arms knock with every movement. More than once, it causes Zuko to almost spill his soup in his lap, and he keeps elbowing Sokka away until Sokka solves the problem by switching his bowl to his opposite hand and planting his newly freed hand on the ground behind Zuko.

“Does this mean you want me and Bishal to keep up a fire all night?” Zuko asks at one point.

“Nah,” Sokka says. “I’m just taking advantage while I can.”

It also means Zuko is dragged to the after-dinner meeting with Teo and Aang, where he watches with awe as the three of them draw up plans from Aang’s memory, Sokka’s penchant for design, and Teo’s detailed study of the still-standing temple and archive materials. There’s a sense of deep purpose to all of this, and it draws Zuko in. He wishes he could stay, become involved in any way that would help, but he knows it’s not necessarily his place to do so. Besides, he has a nation to get back to—his council and the head of the guard will only wait so long before they send search parties out after him and Bishal.

When they’ve gone through all the things they wanted to talk about—Sokka has a detailed schedule that determines how they’ll spend their evening meetings for the next month—Aang goes to say hi to Appa, and the rest of them head back to their rooms. Teo’s the first in the hall, and once they say goodnight, Zuko walks Sokka to his room.

“You’re leaving tomorrow, right?” Sokka asks.

Zuko nods. So long as the snow lets up—which Aang says it should—they’ll be departing around midday. Already, the storm is but a few flurries, and the intense winds from earlier have died down. “I wish I could stay longer. I’m amazed by what you’ve accomplished so far, and what you plan to do.”

“It’s really something, to see Aang devoting himself to this.”

It’s also incredible to see Teo and Sokka’s dedication, but Zuko knows what Sokka’s getting at—no one in the world could have the same relationship with this project that Aang does. It’s awe-inspiring and sobering all at once, as most of Aang’s feats are, and this one—like so many others—is necessary only because of the atrocities Zuko’s forefathers committed.

They stop outside Sokka’s door. It’s dark enough that Zuko can’t really make out Sokka’s expression, and he therefore has no idea what Sokka’s thinking when he says, “You ever think about what a room is like before you walk into it?”

Zuko glances at Sokka’s door. “Are you wondering if Bishal’s in there?”

“No, like—do you ever wonder what a room of people looks like when you’re not there?”

No matter how he squints, his eyes won’t adjust to the dim light of the shadowed corridor. “I guess,” he answers. “I left my council without telling them, but I trust that they’re doing okay.”

Sokka makes a soft, frustrated sound. “I—never mind.”

Half-blindly, Zuko reaches into the dark, grabbing Sokka’s arm when he finds it. “Tell me. I want to understand.”

He feels Sokka’s sigh as much as he hears it. “Wherever you go, you bring this … conviction with you. Like, it’s you, but it’s also outside of you, like you walk into a room and you just fill the space and everyone else with it. We got stuff done when you weren’t here, obviously, but … I don’t know. I can feel the change, when you’re there and when you’re not.”

There’s a hesitation in Sokka’s voice, like he’s admitting to something he’s not supposed to, and it can’t be because he’s talking about Zuko; he’s always proud and effusive in complimenting his friends. Zuko’s only ever known him to be reluctant when talking about— oh. When talking about himself.

“Whenever you’re near, I can’t not think about you,” Zuko blurts. 

Sokka freezes, and Zuko quickly lets go of his arm. What was that? The truth, of course, because Zuko’s mouth hardly ever lies when it speaks before he’s had a chance to think, but Spirits, what a truth to discover now, when he’s just trying to have a conversation with Sokka.

He needs to qualify what he just said, narrow it down to something manageable and understandable and less daunting. “I mean—I know the difference between a day in the capital with you, and a day without you. When you’re around, everything feels easier, because it is. You keep people focused without forcing them, and they know to not bother tossing around hippo cow-crap, because you see through it faster than anyone I know.” He grins. “My council would take having you over me in a meeting any day.”

“That can’t be true.”

“Chenda specifically told me that, once.”

He hears Sokka shift his weight and can just perceive his silhouette shiver. “Is it bad that it feels good to hear that?”

Another truth, desperate to assuage the uncertainty in Sokka’s voice, immediately spilling from Zuko’s lips: “No. Not at all.”

He senses, a moment before contact, Sokka moving forward, and then he’s engulfed in a fiercely tight hug. 

The bridge of his nose presses hard against some part of Sokka’s chest, and his arms instinctively wrap around Sokka’s middle as his eyes fall closed. Sokka’s breath, exploding softly against his neck, is so warmly distracting that Zuko doesn’t notice his hands are moving until gloved fingers wrap around the nape of Zuko’s neck and lightly squeeze. He stifles a gasp, warmth rolling through him, and if Sokka weren’t holding him so close, he’d surely fall with the sudden weakness in his legs. Something bright flares in his gut, and Zuko screws his eyes tighter, adamantly ignoring the feeling. He’s had enough of self-honesty tonight.

Sokka’s hand on his neck squeezes once more, and then he lets Zuko go. Zuko opens his eyes, blinking, but the sun hasn’t magically risen in the middle of the night; he still can’t see Sokka’s expression. He waits for Sokka to say something, because Sokka always has something to say, but nothing comes.

The silence becomes frightening, the longer it lasts, so Zuko tries to speak. He has to clear his throat before he can manage to say, his voice still rough, “Good night, Sokka.”

He turns, and he’s halfway back up the hall before he hears the quiet response: “Good night, Zuko.”

Zuko’s sweeping a newly cleared meditation hall in the middle temple’s west wing when he hears her voice and, for a brief moment, thinks a spirit has decided to screw around him. “Where is Zuko?” she snaps. “I know he’s here; you can’t hide him from me forever.”

He drops his broom and races to the corridor, where his sister is leaning threateningly into the space of a Northern Air Temple refugee. “Azula!” he cries, hoping the man takes the opportunity to slip away, which he does. “What are you doing here?”

Azula drags a scrutinizing eye up and down his body. “What are you doing here?” 

“Helping my friends.” He realizes, if no one warned him that Azula was coming, she must not have traveled by air. “How did you get here?”

She ignores him, knocking past him to walk into the hall. Peering around, she asks, “Are your friends imaginary?”

“No. They’re working on the next room.”

At the end of the corridor, Aang appears, waving at Zuko when they make eye contact. “Lunch is ready!” he calls, smiling and none the wiser to what’s going on.

Zuko’s mind reels, scrambling for how to tell Aang that Azula’s here, but then Azula marches out of the hall. “I’m starving,” she says, breezing right past a wide-eyed Aang and disappearing around the corner.

Zuko raises his hands helplessly at Aang. “I have no idea how she even got here.”

When he and Aang reach the courtyard, Azula’s already eating, sitting far from the rest of the rehabilitators but watching everyone intently. Zuko hates for her to be alone, so he joins her after grabbing his food. He assumes they’ll be left alone—if he ever thinks he’s an outcast, his sister’s undoubtedly a pariah—but, to his surprise, Aang joins them, which means Sokka and Bishal also end up in their small circle. Azula stares at each new person to join them and doesn’t say a word; Zuko decides to leave her be, and the others follow his suit.

Until Sokka ends his conversation with Bishal and suddenly turns on Azula. “Why are you here?” he asks, not harshly, but not unguardedly, either.

She tilts her head at Sokka and then casually inspects her nails. “I don’t trust Zuzu to take care of himself without a retinue of attendants. He could die, cold and alone, from starvation.”

Zuko chokes on his soup, and Aang whacks his back soundly. “Excuse me?” he splutters.

She raises an eyebrow at him. “You’ve lived a sheltered life, brother. Running off to the middle of nowhere doesn’t bode well for your health.”

Sokka snickers, and indignation rises in Zuko. “What do you think I was doing when I was a wanted traitor to the Fire Nation?”

“I gotta admit, you have a point,” Sokka tells Azula.

Zuko’s never felt such an intense, instant sense of betrayal. “What?”

“Zuko doesn’t know how to cook or fish.”

“I can cook!”

“If you count burning everything to a crisp, which most people don’t.”

Aang laughs until Zuko gives him a look. He sits straighter and enters Avatar-bringer-of-harmony mode. “Whether or not he’s capable of cooking, we’re looking out for your brother,” he tells Azula.

Azula and Aang lock eyes for a moment; it’s impossible for Zuko to tell what passes between them. Then Azula drops her gaze. “He’ll burden you no longer,” she says. “He’s needed back home.”

When they’re finished eating, Zuko and Bishal head for their air ship as originally planned; Azula joining them is the only difference, but without the archive materials taking up space, it’s an easy adjustment. She waits in the basket as Zuko and Bishal say their goodbyes, and not long after, they’re rising into the sky, Aang and Sokka soon no more than a blotch of orange and a blotch of blue in the middle of a snowy expanse.

“You really can’t cook, can you?” Bishal asks, pushing a burst of flame into the air ship’s coal box. Zuko groans. “I’ve been thinking about it, and I can’t remember you cooking even once during the trips we’ve been on. We either got food somewhere or you were collecting firewood.”

“I know enough to get by,” Zuko argues. “Uncle and I were refugees for a while. We had to provide for ourselves with the little we had.”

“Must have been a life-changing field trip,” Azula drawls.

She’s standing at the opposite end of the air ship, her loose hair flipping around like it has a mind of its own in the wind, and the pointedness of presenting her back to Zuko makes him think there’s a more serious thought behind her barb.

“It wasn’t a field trip,” he says. “But it did change my life. It was the first time I began seeing what the world could look like from a perspective that wasn’t Father’s.” It’s not just Ozai who warped Azula’s world, though, was it? “Or Mother’s.”

Her shoulders rise to her ears. He can’t tell if it’s an involuntary reaction, or a warning that she’s done with this conversation. “Is that your plan?” she asks, mockery in her tone. “Send every Fire Nation citizen off into the Earth Kingdom with a knapsack and two coins to their name?”

“There are many things that bring people to change. And not everyone supported the war, anyway.”

She turns around, expression flat as she drawls an unconvinced, “Really?”

“Yes. Do you remember meeting Kimiko?”

“The short one who chews loudly.”

It’s not how Zuko would describe Kimiko, but it’s not inaccurate, either. “She tried to kill me, a couple years ago, for destroying our nation’s legacy by seeking peace and harmony.”

Azula raises an eyebrow. “And now you’re setting her up to become one of your councilors.”

He has been inviting Kimiko to the capital with increasing frequency to consult on projects, and he supposes that, yes, he wanted to see how the rest of his council got on with her. Trust Azula to read his intent before he’s uttered it aloud to anyone, much less himself. “Yes.”

Azula scoffs. “Your self-preservation instincts are dismal.”

“She’s changed, and she’s apologized,” Zuko counters. He crosses his arms. “Change for us is going to require apologies. Many of them. I had to apologize so much, even after I’d realized the truth about the war and about Father and Grandfather. And I’m still apologizing to this day.”

Her gaze drops to her feet, her cheek pinching where she’s biting it from the inside. “How does it feel to be the perfect child in this new world you've created?”

Zuko’s chest tightens. He’s not perfect, and besides, they no longer have parents whose attentions they’re forced to vie for. Quietly, he says, “We don’t have to compete anymore, Azula.”

Their eyes meet. Azula’s chin spasms. Her voice stays hard when she asks, “What happens if I fail?”

He remembers Mai defending Azula to their friends on the council balcony in the days before the Fire Days Festival. He remembers Azula’s horror, that first visit at the healing center when Zuko returned in the late spring. “You will fail, many times, before you get it right. But that’s okay.”

She purses her lips. A gust of wind sends her hair billowing wildly; a strand of Zuko’s own hair plasters across his mouth, and he pulls it away. His movement unfreezes Azula, and she turns around again, staring out at the archipelago passing slowly below as the silence stretches between them.

For a long while, the only sound breaking the wind is the open and close of the engine door as Bishal tends the flames.

It’s late in the night, when they make it back to the palace on the second day of travel, but that doesn’t keep Zuko from getting a stern talking-to by the head of the guard. Bishal gets no such reprimand, just a curt nod, and when the head of the guard finally leaves to spread the news that the vanished Fire Lord has returned, Bishal gives Zuko a massive grin. “Worth it?” he asks.

Zuko frowns. “You knew you wouldn’t get scolded.”

“Because, by running away with you, I actually was doing my job.”

Once the air ship is returned to a pair of engineers—one of whom is upset about Zuko “borrowing” without permission, the other eager to ask questions about its performance on a long-distance trip—Bishal leaves the palace to return home, and Zuko walks Azula to her rooms. He’s surprised to see Sarnai, Jae, and Amit all waiting for her, and as soon as Azula pushes open her door, her attendants are on their feet and fretting over her. Not out of an unspoken expectation on her part, Zuko senses, but with a genuine concern to where she’s been and whether she’s well. Zuko makes eye contact with his sister and gives her a smile before slipping away to his chambers.

There are guards outside his door, and they bow when Zuko passes them, but there’s otherwise no one waiting for him. Even though it’s late, Zuko takes his time unpacking his travel bag. Alone for the first time in a week, he lets his thoughts absorb him, assuming they’ll barrel forward to what he needs to do in the coming days to make up for his time away; instead, he finds them circling back and back again, recalling the pensive furrow in Aang’s brow as he and Azula stared at one another, the strange sensation that rolled through him when Sokka squeezed the nape of his neck, the choir of nightlife underneath the trees on Roku’s Island. He wishes, briefly, they could have stopped at Roku’s Island again on their trip back, but takes the thought back when he imagines Azula scrunching her nose at the autumn-barren landscape of craggy rock and gnarled trees.

Eventually, he crawls into bed, where his dreams take him back to the snowy tops of the fingerlike mountains around the Southern Air Temple. Aang is with him, and they search on hands and knees for something beneath the snow that drifts down and covers their footprints as soon as they’re made. Zuko’s fingers turn bright red, tingling with cold, but he doesn’t stop searching.

He doesn’t realize, until he wakes, he doesn’t know what they were searching for.

His day starts off with various reactions from his council for his disappearing without warning; funnily, it’s Mai who seems to care the least, merely leveling him with an unimpressed look before informing him that she’s taking him to the Royal Fire Academy for Boys later in the afternoon. He sits through a couple meetings, goes with Bishal to visit the engineers and discuss their journey with the improved airships, and puts down a quick lunch before Mai’s dragging him out of the palace.

The Royal Fire Academy for Boys is in the northernmost curve of the upper city, caught between the shadows of the tall privacy walls around the private residences that make up the rest of the neighborhood. The building itself is about as tall as its sister school for girls, but its inner courtyard is larger and much shadier in spite of its lack of trees or gardens, like the girls academy has.

Upon their arrival, they’re met by the head of the school, who’s falling over himself in his eagerness to please them. Mai takes advantage by wringing every last drop of information out of him that she can, her questions ranging from curriculum to financing to student culture; Zuko keeps quiet, oscillating between observing the school and its students and imagining himself as one of them.

Jingyi had told him, once, that the academies offered an education at the same standard, but Zuko doesn’t think he agrees. At first, he’s distracted by his physical surroundings—the girls academy is in a nicer quarter of the upper city, situated in a way that guarantees sunlight reaching at least part of the grounds at any given time of day—but as he listens to Mai’s conversation and puts it together with his knowledge of her work from the last few years, he picks up on differences. The curriculum reform at the girls academy finally developed lessons for topics that the boys academy has been addressing for decades already; more physically oriented subjects are considered supplementary classes for girls, arranged by their families, whereas the boys academy has physical education built into the daily schedule. 

The head of school is particularly proud of this last curriculum. They watch the elevens, split into half based on whether they can bend, run drills in the inner courtyard under the watchful eye of two instructors.

“The lessons start when our students are fives,” the head of school says, “presented as a series of games that test our student’s smarts, bravery, and ability to follow rules. As students advance in years, the games are modified into drills, and eventually they become competitions. It’s quite a gift, to watch these young men grow in such a way. And our curriculum is always up-to-date—every other year, our consultants return to observe and improve upon it.”

Zuko watches as one student demonstrates a basic firebending form. His back ankle roots into the ground at too sharp an angle, hindering his ability to glide into his next movement and thereby interrupting the flow of energy that’s so important for this form. 

“Who are your consultants?” Mai asks.

“Leaders in military recruitment. We’re proud to say that a majority of our fifteens, once they finish their lessons, find roles in the military or navy.”

Zuko frowns. Eun had said that many of the men he’s commanded came from the Royal Fire Academy, but what are these boys training for now? They’re not at war; if Zuko can help it, they won’t ever be at war again. “Are you proud of your students who don’t end up in the military?” he asks.

It’s the first direct question he’s asked on this tour, and the head of school clearly startles. “Of—of course, Fire Lord Zuko,” he says, eyes widening apologetically. “I’m afraid I don’t have much detail regarding those students. They’re harder to keep track of, since they depart in so many directions.”

In the courtyard, the instructor asks the other students what the demonstrator could have done better; they offer several opinions regarding the size of his flame, the sharpness of his strike. No one mentions the ankle, much less the internal flow of energy.

“How long have you worked with the same consultants?” Mai asks.

“For almost twenty years, now.”

“I’d like to send some other consultants your way,” Mai says. “There are a few academies in the north whose approaches could enhance what you have going on here.”

Zuko bites back a grin, pleased that he and Mai are of the same mind, right now—she’d discovered that the academies in the northern half of the archipelago, aside from the easternmost point near Ember Island, had stuck to older teachings that are closer to the lessons Zuko received from the dragons. Firebending instruction there was as much about dance and internal energy as about preparing for battle; its balance could temper the regimented tone of the lessons here.

They leave the lessons in the courtyard, and soon, they’re finishing their tour and exchanging goodbyes and thank yous. “We appreciate everything your academy has done for our nation’s young generations,” Zuko tells the head of school. “I would like to see your students equally prepared for a future that doesn’t anticipate only the discipline of war.”

The head of school bows deeply. “We look forward to working with Councilwoman Mai on the matter.”

They exit from a different door than they entered, and Zuko’s about to ask Mai what she thinks when he looks up from the ground and the question dies in his throat. He freezes, and Mai has to stop and look back at him. “What?” she asks.

Before him, on one of the privacy walls of a family residence, is a sprawling mural. It reminds Zuko of the side panels of the triptych Azula wove in commemoration of the first Fire Days Festival under Zuko, a tangle of blossoms and fruits and vines that don’t bloom together in real life, but burst full in unison on this wall. In the middle of the wall of flowers, the white outline of a dragon’s head emerges, taller than Zuko, and standing in front of the dragon with a paintbrush and palette is a tall woman with gray-streaked black hair.

He wavers, not wanting to interrupt her, but he tastes citrus on his tongue, a sudden bright flare of future illuminating his mind, as he had when he learned of Shohei’s talent. He can’t resist the sweet tang. “Excuse me?” he calls.

The woman adds a precise stroke that draws out a sharpness in the dragon’s jaw. Then, she turns, and Zuko’s confronted with a pale face dotted with several moles. Recognition brightens her dark eyes, but she doesn’t startle. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she says evenly with a smooth bow.

He bows in return and senses Mai come to his side to do the same. “This is beautiful,” he says, roving over the mural again before forcing himself to look at the artist. “Can I ask who this is for? And what’s your name?”

She turns to her work and stares intensely, as if trying to see what is now beneath her mural. “The family who lives in this home commissioned me to replace an old tribute to the Phoenix King,” she eventually says. Her gaze slides back to Zuko. “I’m Bulan.” 

“It’s an honor to meet you, Bulan.”

“Is there something I can do for you, Fire Lord?”

Even though her expression remains complacent, he senses that his interruption of her work won’t be tolerated for much longer. “Yes,” he says. “There’s a mural in my home, too, that I would like to have redone. Is that something you’d be interested in doing?”

She hums, her eyes shifting to focus on something Zuko can’t see. “I would have to see the scale of the project.”

“Of course.”

“I also am not from the city.”

“I can provide you a place to stay.”

She shakes her head. “I’m sorry—you misunderstand me. I would need to speak with my partner about it. I’ve been away for some months, now, and I’ve been meaning to return to him.”

Zuko’s never heard of painting partners, before, but then again, he’s always known more about theatre and performance art rather than visual. “Your partner is also welcome to join the project.”

“Zuko,” Mai whispers, an urgent edge to her voice.

He glances sideways at her, frowning when he can’t read her expression, and Bulan chuckles. “He is not that kind of partner,” she says. “His talent lies with the sword.”

Not that kind of—? What is a partner, if not someone who shares your work? Mai tugs at his sleeve, but he’s still not getting it—

“I believe you know him, Fire Lord,” Bulan continues. “His name is Piandao.”

Suddenly, Bishal’s voice fills his head: I think the last person I heard about was a woman, like a year ago. I think her name began with a B?

Partners—lovers?

Sharp fingers pinch into his side, and Zuko jumps. “Piandao taught Zuko the art of swordfighting,” Mai says, covering for Zuko’s empty head. He can tell from the tilt of her mouth that she’s going to make fun of him about this later.

“Yes,” Zuko blurts, forcing himself to look at Bulan and not blush. He at least succeeds with the former. “I had the honor of training with him.”

Bulan graciously takes Zuko’s blundering in stride. “I should return to Shu Jing by the end of the week.”

“If you’d like to stop by the palace before then to see the space, you’re more than welcome.”

She bows, a not-so-subtle but still polite signal that this interruption in her work is over. “Thank you, Fire Lord Zuko.”

Zuko bows. “Thank you, Bulan.”

She’s already back at her wall before Zuko and Mai have fully turned away.

Mai only lasts until the end of the block before her hand covers her mouth, doing absolutely nothing to quiet her laughter. “Your face,” she says.

“I didn’t know!” Zuko protests, cheeks burning.

She loops an arm through his, leaning against him, and he can feel her shaking with amusement. “You looked mortified.”

“I didn’t know that meaning of partner!”

“You didn’t?”

“No! But you did?”

They turn onto a wider road. Mai stops leaning against him. “Yeah,” she says, and her voice is recollected, subdued. “It’s mostly used like that … between women. Or between men.”

The memory of Ty Lee rising on her toes to kiss Mai floats up in Zuko’s mind. He glances at Mai at the same time as she looks up at him; their eyes meet, and Zuko quickly looks away.  He knows he recently promised himself to ask Mai more questions, but he feels like now isn’t one of those times.

When they reach the palace again, they go to the council room to find a spread of warm sweets that fill the room with the scent of cinnamon and cardamom. Zuko’s surprised to see Azula and Sarnai sitting next to Eun at the council table, each with a plate of assorted, half-eaten treats in front of them. When Eun sees them, he leaps to his feet, preparing a plate each for Zuko and Mai.

“These were made with the last of the apples that Kimiko sent,” he says. He presses a plate into Zuko’s hand. “Please—take a moment out of your day to enjoy.”

Without hesitation, Mai takes the seat across the table from Azula, and Zuko’s left feeling like he’s watching the room from outside of his body. Azula’s head is bent close to Sarnai’s, but she soon turns to Mai, and a civil conversation begins. Eun rejoins the table, smiling fondly at the young women in front of them, as if they could all be his daughters or nieces. Through the windows beyond the council room, Zuko can see Chenda and Li Bai sharing a pot of tea on the balcony, as a uniformed Bishal regales them with a story.

He blinks, and he returns to his body. He sits next to Mai and across from Sarnai, who smiles shyly at him before returning her attention to Azula. When he takes a bite of one of the delicate, flaky things Eun put on his plate, warmth and sweetness explodes on his tongue and then spreads through his body, finding the sun inside his chest and encouraging it to glow warmer, too. When did this become his life? Did he miss something, the week he spent away at the Southern Air Temple? Or has he been too caught up in other things to notice the changes developing around him?

He takes another bite and savors the spices of home.

The first week of winter brings a letter from Shu Jing village, addressed to Zuko in an elegant hand that he’d recognize anywhere. He immediately abandons his lunch to slip open the scroll, heart pounding, and skims the letter until he reaches an answer.

Bulan has agreed to take on your commission, but with one condition, made on my behalf: you must come visit Shu Jing.

An uncontrollable smile spreads across his lips as his hands search for any scrap of paper large enough to reply, Yes.

More letters are exchanged, and soon it’s settled that Zuko will visit Piandao shortly after the New Year passes. Between his excitement about the trip and the escalating preparations for the New Year, winter passes quickly, until one day Zuko blinks and there’s only a couple weeks left in the year of the Rabbit.

That evening, he decides to take dinner in his rooms; he knows if he has to travel any significant distance between his meal and his desk, his warm stomach will lull him to sleep while walking, and he doesn’t have time to go to bed early. By this point, he’s been running on tea and willpower for some weeks, and he doesn’t want to know what will happen if he abandons that course now.

He’s hunched over his desk, buried in festival expense projections, when he hears the door to his chambers open. His concentration immediately breaks. There are only three people who could come in without knocking. Mai already went home, Sokka’s not in the Fire Nation—at least, Zuko’s pretty sure he’s still at the Southern Air Temple—which leaves Bishal, though he usually knocks out of courtesy—

“You’ll ruin your eyesight like this.”

Zuko twists in his chair. “Azula?”

There’s two bursts of flame, and the wall sconces come to life, illuminating his sister. She’s wearing a night robe, and her face is free of make-up. “Are you going to bed?” he asks. 

“I was in bed.”

“That’s earl—what time is it?”

“Near midnight.”

Zuko stretches his spine, and yes, the corresponding strain feels as though he’s been bent over papers for several hours, now. He wonders, briefly, if he should be worried that time constantly seems to escape him. “Why did you get out of bed?”

“I want to travel.”

Zuko blinks. Azula’s expression remains the same, a veneer of impatience almost masking the tension held in her jaw. “Travel?” he echoes dumbly.

He gets an eye roll for his efforts. “You’re too young to go deaf and blind. Or do you forget what the word means?”

“Sorry, I just—I wasn’t expecting you to say that.” He wasn’t expecting her to come to him in the middle of the night in the first place, but he recognizes that he is glad that their relationship has reached this point—whatever that point may be.

“I’ve already talked to Hye about it, and she said I should tell you before I go.”

She’s making it sound like she’s going to leave tomorrow. “Have you made plans?” he asks. “When did you decide? I can see if Bishal and Yawen—”

“No. I’m taking my attendants.”

Zuko trusts them, obviously, but they’re all so young, and he assumes not nearly as well-traveled as upper class Fire Nation citizens are. “Are you sure—”

“Mai also said she’d come with me.”

“Really?”

Azula huffs. “When I said I would try to lie less, I wasn’t lying about that.”

“No! I didn’t think—” He sighs and sinks back in his seat, digging the heel of his palm into his right eye. His scar itches; he wishes he could scratch it. “It feels like I keep missing things, and then I’m caught off guard.”

“Because you’re looking to the future.” 

He opens and eyes and twists to look at her again. She’s idly inspecting her nails. “You need to do that, if you want to be a passable leader,” she continues.

When she isn’t wearing make-up, he realizes, it’s possible to see the faint shadows beneath her eyes. He wonders if they’re from a particularly long day, or if she’s yet another person he knows whose nightmares don’t let her sleep peacefully. “Do you think more about the future or the present?” he asks.

“The past.” She shifts her weight, standing straighter and pushing her wavy hair back from her forehead. It falls back into almost the exact same place. “We’re leaving at the end of the week,” she declares. 

“Can I help you prepare?”

“Stop fretting,” she says preemptively. “I’ll be taking more than a knapsack and two coins.”

His eyes flash up to hers, and in seeing her expression, he knows her reference is deliberate. She’s traveling not to escape, or to fill idle hours; she wants to leave to better see the world.

The sudden lump in his throat renders him unable to speak, so he stands and crosses the space between them to wrap his sister in a hug. Her initial noise of protest is muffled by his shoulder, and after a moment, she returns the embrace. “I love you,” he reminds her, and she squeezes his middle so tightly Zuko feels his ribs are shifting—to accommodate her arms, but also the emotions swelling in his heart.

And then, it’s the new year.

He welcomes the year of the Dragon with a speech made from the rooftop of an upper city building, and once he’s finished and lit the fireworks that signal the myriad other shows around the city to also begin, he’s allowed, for the first time, to descend to the streets and be among his people.

He’s far from inconspicuous, with six guards buffering him on all sides, but the revelry around him is so caught up in itself that he’s allowed to pass with minimal fanfare; he’s allowed to observe those around him freely. He watches children chase each other with sparklers, groups of young adults clink shots over mountains of food, an older couple perform a traditional dance for an awed crowd of bystanders. 

He turns a corner into a larger plaza, and he’s suddenly struck by how many people there are out here, celebrating, laughing, smiling. The tableau before him is mesmerizing, an endless tide of warmth and energy washing over him and out into the city, and when he thinks of where he was on this night two years ago, he wants to drop to his knees on these very cobblestones and cry. Tonight is a future that he could’ve only wistfully longed for when he was seventeen.

He doesn’t have time to break down, though; even now the future tugs at him, drawing his mind in directions no one else can see. He moves slowly through the crowd, now carefully searching through its faces, hoping the one he’s looking for is willing to be found.

And then, between the heads of two drunk friends trying to juggle tangerines, he spots her perched on the window counter of a sweets shop, her twin brown braids swaying across her back in time to the beat of music that he can’t yet hear but already feels. He maneuvers around the jugglers, his hand teasing open the pouch on his waist that once held six brooches and now only holds two.

“Kimiko!” he calls when he’s closer.

She hears him and twists in his direction, cheeks dimpling and green eyes turning into crescent moons when she spots him. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she replies, dipping her head respectfully.

Zuko squeezes the brooch nestled in his palm. A breath, a step forward, and he dares again to chase the future.

Chapter Text

four years after

When Zuko reaches his chambers at the end of yet another long day of meetings, Kimiko’s waiting for him in his antechamber. This time, instead of hiding in the shadows with garroting wire, she’s standing next to a low table piled high with correspondence.

Zuko groans. “Please, no.”

Kimiko sets her jaw. “Yes. You’re the last member of the council to do this.”

Zuko would rather take the garroting wire, right now. It’s a challenge that gets his blood pumping and requires no real thoughts, unlike the task Kimiko’s literally laid out for him. “I’m the Fire Lord,” he says petulantly.

“And the Fire Lord is a member of the council. The member who receives the most correspondence, I might add.”

Zuko sighs deeply and sits down at the table.

Since he first established his council, he’s been continually awed by how much they’ve accomplished with each passing month, but nothing could have prepared them for the rate at which Kimiko plows through projects. She isn’t quick for the sake of being quick, either; she’s just that efficient and that adept at multitasking, to the point that if she’s feeling bored, she’ll poke around the palace and find something else to streamline to her liking.

This week, she’s attacking the council’s correspondence system. 

“This is everything you’ve received in the last three days alone,” Kimiko says as she seats herself opposite Zuko. “Would you say this is the typical amount you’d receive in that time, more than usual, or less?”

“A little less, I think.”

Her eyebrows shoot to her hairline. “I can’t believe you’ve been without a prioritization system for this long,” she says, her hands already moving quickly to start sorting Zuko’s correspondence according to a categorization he doesn’t immediately see. “Didn’t your father have something in place?”

Kimiko’s the only member of his council who refers to Ozai without a half-bitten hesitation, without an extra softness meant to ease any pain or discomfort his presence might bring about. When Kimiko says your father or Ozai, it’s perfunctory, simply a relevant specificity that helps get her point across. He’s not the Phoenix King or a bogeyman; he’s just a mortal man whose existence still happens to bear on the matters of today.

Some days, the way Kimiko treats Ozai feels like a breath of fresh air; other days, it throws Zuko off, and he’s suddenly left disoriented and three beats behind in the conversation.

Tonight, he’s floundering, and Kimiko has to shake the half-opened scroll she’s shoved at his face before he blinks back to the present. “I’m sorry,” he says, “Did you ask something?”

“What’s this?”

His eyes finally catch on the paint, and he takes the scroll from her, a smile already curling his lips before he’s fully opened it. “It’s one of the meditation halls in the Southern Air Temple.”

“I meant, what kind of correspondence is this?”

Zuko brushes his finger over the strong line that forms the arch of the entryway. There’s a surety to Sokka’s strokes that wasn’t there when he first started sketching on scratch paper when he was helping Zuko build his council. “From my friend, Sokka.”

He tears his eyes away from the painting to see Kimiko frown. “Sokka?” she echoes, testing the sound of his name. “Is that the unofficial advisor guy Eun’s mentioned?”

Zuko gawks. “What?” he asks. Unofficial advisor guy? Sokka—Sokka’s his political confidant, he supposes, but he’s so much more than that. Sokka played a major role in ending the war. Sokka, with Suki and Toph’s help, took out an entire military air fleet. Sokka kept the Avatar alive and free when Zuko’s entire nation was trying to hunt him down. Sokka’s the voice that’s been speaking more and more often to Zuko from the back of his mind whenever Zuko’s feeling frustrated or exhausted or sometimes, inexplicably, a bit lonely.

“Water tribe, right?” Kimiko prompts.

“Southern Water Tribe,” Zuko’s mouth automatically answers for him.

Kimiko nods shortly, her frown disappearing, as though her question has been satisfactorily answered, though Zuko still thinks that hardly covers it. “I like the traders from the south,” she comments absently. “Their ships never run late.” She juts her chin at the scroll in Zuko’s lap. “Do you want that categorized as council-related, personal, or to-be-delegated?”

“Personal.”

She holds her hand out for it, and he doesn’t know why he instinctively leans away. “You’ll get it back,” she says, unbothered. “The sorting team just needs to learn what to look for. They’ll be going through these tomorrow morning.”

It’s just a scroll; Zuko can’t already be attached to it. Yet it still takes a moment to return it to Kimiko, who takes a second glance at his face and then rolls it again with an unusual care.

It takes an hour to reach the bottom of his correspondence stack. He’s stifling yawns by the end of it; Kimiko, on the other hand, looks more energized. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asks him, half-joking as she transfers the piles into stacking crates.

Zuko shakes his head. “I’m going to sleep for two days straight.”

She snorts. “Yeah. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She takes up her crates and says goodbye, and then Zuko’s left staring at the lone candle steadily burning on his table.

The last time he stepped foot on Shu Jing, he was eleven years old and still woke every morning with the fragile hope that his mother would be waiting for him at the breakfast table. Then he’d inhale the pungent scent of the village’s early autumn flowers, he’d remember that he wasn’t at home or at Ember Island, and his heart would fall a little more as he slid out from under his blankets to roll up and tuck away his sleeping mat for the day.

The memories are stronger than Zuko expected, so it helps whenever he notices a change to the estate as Piandao and Bulan lead him, Bishal, and Manu through its grounds. The bamboo garden is less uniform than it was, a meandering path of shorter, leafy canes winding through the taller stalks. The dining room where Zuko used to share meals with the opera singer and the wood sculptor has been renovated to accommodate an updated cooling and heating system that Zuko recognizes from upper city homes renovated within the last five years. To the east of the main house, there’s a new meditation gazebo that has a mural by Bulan on the underside of its roof.

“We’ve prepared rooms in the guest house,” Piandao says as their group approaches one of the few buildings on the estate that Zuko never got to step foot in during his year-long stay; when he lived here, he had a small room in the guest quarters of the main house.

Inside the guest house, the wood is a lighter color than most native Fire Nation lumber, and it does wonders for making the rooms feel brighter. Gauzy maroon curtains frame windows that have been shuttered for the winter; the sheets and blankets on the beds are a pale coral with fruit and blossom patterns lightly embroidered along their borders.

“Wow,” Bishal mutters from next to Zuko. “Erhi would love this.”

Zuko glances at his friend. He brings up Erhi more and more often, these days. “Yeah?”

“You know how Yong’s great with landscaping? Erhi does the same for interiors.”

They settle in, and then it’s time for dinner, which they take in the renovated dining room. Unintentionally, Zuko finds himself watching Piandao and Bulan, noting every time their hands brush, or when Bulan meets Piandao’s eye and raises her eyebrows in a way that has Piandao smiling in response, as though a joke has passed between them without a single word being uttered. He tries to pay attention to the conversation around him, but his eye keeps being drawn to the graceful lines of Bulan’s fingers, to the texture of Piandao’s gray-peppered beard.

“Zuko,” Piandao says, and Zuko jumps to attention. “Join me on a walk after dinner.”

“Yes, Master.”

The sun sank some time ago; Piandao hands Zuko a lantern before they depart the house. He leads them along a gravel path that snakes past the guest house and then slowly winds up the hilly sides of Shu Jing. For a while, the only sound is of their feet and Piandao’s walking stick on the stones. Then, Piandao says, “I hear that many things are different in the capital.”

“Do you?” Zuko asks, struggling to keep up with Piandao’s long strides. He knows that Piandao keeps to himself on Shu Jing, but there are plenty of travelers that pass through the village and specifically Piandao’s estate; he’s sure that news finds its way here easily.

“Bulan confirmed many of the things we heard to be true.”

Strangely, Zuko’s reminded of one of the first honest conversations he had with Bishal, on the evening of that day two years ago when several archers tried to assassinate him. Things feel different, Bishal had said of the capital. Back then, Zuko could only hope that different meant better than Ozai.

Now, he believes he is—or at least his people are—doing some measure of good.

“I am proud of the people in our capital,” Zuko says. “They’ve warmed to change in a way I almost didn’t dare to dream of when the war first ended.”

“Without your dream, these things would not have come about.” Piandao glances over his shoulder, the shadows of his sharp cheekbones made even more prominent by the flickering lantern light. “A single drop from the lotus leaf still ripples out.”

He looks forward again, not a change to his stride, and Zuko wonders if the mention of a lotus was meant to be something more. The Order of the White Lotus revealed itself in the finals days of the Hundred Year War, but since Zuko’s coronation, they’ve quietly returned to hiding—as hidden as they can be, anyway, with their faces and names now known. For a brief time, Uncle would tell Zuko about the order, but that was when Zuko was a banished prince; now, as the leader of the Fire Nation, Zuko’s not sure if explicit ties to him would break the vows of a White Lotus member to transcend politics and nations.

They reach a sharp turn in the path, and at the end of a short but steep climb, there’s a grassy plateau that overlooks the east side of the island. Piandao comes to a stop, turning to contemplate the flickering lights in his estate down below; Zuko joins him at the ledge.

A wind rises, nipping at Zuko’s nose and tossing his half-loose hair. “Is there something you’d like to tell me?” he asks.

“Hmph.”

It sounds more contemplative than dismissive, so Zuko waits. He inhales steadily to stoke the living flame inside his chest.

“You will not be loved by everyone.”

Zuko blinks. For a confusing moment, his mind scrambles to connect Mai and unwanted and partner and Piandao?, and then he realizes his old master must be referring to a different love. A neighborly love; a community love. “You wanted me to visit,” he says, “so you could tell me that?”

“No. I wondered if you had changed since I last spent time with you.”

Piandao was briefly in the capital around Zuko’s coronation, but he hardly spent any time with Zuko then. Does he mean from when Zuko last lived here? Zuko hopes he’s changed since he was eleven. Before Zuko can ask, Piandao tosses back at him, “Is there something you’d like to tell me?”

“There’s something I want to ask, actually.”

Piandao turns his head enough to slide his gaze down at Zuko, and Zuko’s heart quickens. There’s no taking this back, now. “Yes?” Piandao prompts.

“Bulan … said you were partners.” It’s a word that once bounced strangely off of Zuko’s tongue, but the more he’s poked and prodded at it, the more comfortable it is in his mouth.

“Yes,” Piandao says. His tone betrays nothing, which actually puts Zuko more at ease; he isn’t being deflected yet.

“The opera singer and the wood sculptor, when I was here. They were also your …?”

“Partners. Yes.”

Piandao’s still watching him, and Zuko has to avert his eyes from such a burning, calculating gaze. Something within him feels like it’s unfurling, shimmering loose and sending shivers through him. “I see,” he mumbles, for lack of something better to say.

“Does that upset you?”

He’s startled into looking up again. “No!” he says quickly. “I’m…”

He trails off, suddenly distracted by the thought of Piandao being with a man in the way he’s been with women. Zuko guesses he always knew, to an extent, that sometimes men loved men and women loved women, but it was always other people—those people—people a step or more removed from his life. Not people he personally knew; not someone who trained and also cared for Zuko at the height of his grief for his mother.

He remembers what the opera singer looked like. What he can’t remember is whether the singer ever looked at Piandao the way that Bulan did tonight.

“When the Fire Nation tells a tale about love, it is often about a man and a woman.”

Zuko returns to the present. Piandao is looking out over the side of the island again. “It was not always this way,” he continues. “For most of the physical world as we know it, it was not this way.”

“Really?”

“Living memory is shortsighted. It is easy to forget that those who came before us lived lives just as complex and puzzling as ours." He nods to himself shortly. “For a man to know himself, he must look out, and look in, and question both.”

“Do you know yourself?”

“Better than I once did. But not as well as I will years from now.”

A large hand lands on Zuko’s shoulder, and Zuko has to swallow against the sting in his eyes. He doesn’t know exactly how old Piandao is, but his master’s hair is streaked gray and the lines of his face are deeper than Zuko remembered—yet this man, a figure larger than Zuko’s life, is still searching to know himself?

Zuko feels young.

“Let’s return,” Piandao says. “Bulan plans to leave early in the morning.”

They follow the path back down the side of the island, and Zuko says goodnight when they reach the guest house. Bishal and Manu are already asleep—at least, there’s no light coming from beneath their doors—and Zuko replays in his head the conversation from the plateau as he prepares for bed.

When he sleeps, he dreams: he walks steadily up the gravel hillside path. Hands keep brushing against him, fleeting touches to his arms, his neck, his waist and back, but he never turns quickly enough to see who did it. The path crawls up, and up, and he wakes before he catches sight of its end.

Bulan leaves with the first ship departing from Shu Jing for the capital, and then they ease into a day that sets the tone for the next several. After a light breakfast in the main house, Zuko settles in front of the window of an office that overlooks the courtyard. As he pushes steadily through correspondence and paperwork, he sneaks glances at Piandao instructing Bishal and Manu in a whole number of things, from calligraphy to swordsmanship to meditation. Lunch comes and goes, and Zuko squeezes in as many more tasks as he can before his resolve gives out and he dashes down to join the courtyard lessons.

He discovers a patience and love for calligraphy that he never had when he was eleven and grieving and angry with the world, and when he duels with Bishal, Piandao points out the ways in which Zuko’s subconsciously changed how he wields his dao in order to accommodate his newer scars—not just on his right shoulder, but also the lightning burn on his chest. “You don’t open your chest as much as you used to,” Piandao says, gesturing to demonstrate, “which means your movements are tighter. But be aware that this means you must also engage in closer quarters.”

They take dinner together again in the main house, and then they alternate evenings taking after-dark walks around the village and listening to Piandao tell stories around tea. The walks are quieter than the first night’s, and the stories are often tales about people and spirits who came long before them.

It’s a routine that Zuko quickly finds comfort in, and when the last days of their stay arrive, it feels far too soon. His frustration is doubled by the particularly large crate of correspondence he receives on the third-to-last morning, and he resigns himself to working further away from the window in the office in order to minimize his distractions. He ties back half of his hair, rolls his shoulders, and then settles into his work.

Some several hours later, his stomach is just starting to pinch in hunger when he hears the door to the office open. “I’ll join in a minute,” Zuko says, flicking through the remaining pages of this report. It’ll probably be more like five minutes, honestly, but lunch is more casual than their other shared meals.

“Join what?”

Zuko jumps, winces at his spine protesting, and spins in his chair. “Sokka?”

Sokka wanders into the office, as if he’s totally supposed to be here and not at the Southern Air Temple. “It’s me,” he confirms, something lightly teasing in his tone. He draws up to Zuko’s desk. “Are you writing a book?”

Zuko sits back in his chair, taking Sokka in. He’s still clean shaven, with the hair on the sides of his head also cut close, but his face looks leaner than Zuko remembers. He has the same piercings as when Zuko last saw him at the Southern Air Temple, but he still isn’t used to the glint of metal that catches the light whenever Sokka shifts.

He watches as Sokka lifts one of the reports Zuko’s already read through—a series of proposed amendments to an Azulon-era military immunity law—and skims it. “You’re working?” Sokka asks, and Zuko realizes he forgot to answer his first question. “Aren’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

“I don’t think I get vacations, anymore,” Zuko replies. “What are you doing here?”

“Taking a vacation.”

Zuko snorts. “Really.”

Sokka returns the report to its stack with a sheepish you got me grin. “I’ve been helping Piandao design an amphitheater for the village, so I visit a couple times every season to see how the light changes on the hill where he wants to build.”

“Did you already see Piandao?”

“Yeah. And Bishal and Manu.” He cracks a wry smile, which—Sokka doesn’t usually do wry, does he? “They said you usually watch them. Was kinda disappointed when you didn’t come bursting out of the house to give me a hug.”

“You could go back outside,” Zuko offers, wondering if that is how he would have reacted to spotting Sokka. “I can still do that.”

Sokka laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, it’s okay.”

But it’s now occurring to Zuko that Sokka might’ve brought this up because that’s what he wanted, maybe, and— and—

He sets aside his report, pushes back his chair, and wraps Sokka in a hug. 

Sokka makes a noise of surprise, but when Zuko’s hand brushes his side, he melts forward, embracing Zuko with an unexpected strength. The fur lining the collar of his coat tickles Zuko’s nose, but there’s no chance of pulling back when Sokka’s fingers are splayed wide and firm against Zuko’s back. Another sound escapes Sokka’s lips, something like a sigh, and Zuko feels it to his core. “I missed you, too,” Zuko says quietly.

His words get a brief squeeze in response, and then Sokka’s withdrawing, his signature grin splitting his cheeks when Zuko can see his face again. “I think I smelled lunch on my way up,” he says. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Lunch flies by, and then the afternoon crawls as Zuko shuts himself in the office again and resists the urge to peek out the window every few minutes. He does’t get much done, and when dinner comes, he resigns himself to an evening full of work with dread of what the next morning’s ships will bring. His crate of unaddressed correspondence follows him to dinner and then to the guest house while everyone else goes for an evening stroll.

He’s just finished lighting the candles on the small desk in his room when knuckles rap against his door. “Yes?” Zuko calls.

Sokka slips inside, two ceramic cups and a bottle of something tucked precariously between his chest and arm. “I brought help,” he says, nudging the door shut with his hip.

“Help?”

“I’m not going to leave to you be buried alive in an avalanche of scrolls.”

Sokka sets the cups down on Zuko’s desk, deftly unstoppers the bottle, and pours a clear liquid that can’t possibly be water into the cups. “Drinking is supposed to help get through all of this?” Zuko asks.

“Hey, maybe the drink’s for me. I’m just kind enough to invite you to the party.”

He holds out one of the cups to Zuko, and Zuko warily accepts it. “I can’t finish this in one go.”

Sokka lifts his drink. “We can sip. Like adults.”

He tips his head back to take a hearty swig, and Zuko watches the bob of his throat as he takes his own small sip. The shochu is light and flowery, slipping smoothly over Zuko’s tongue and down his throat without the trace of a burn.

He still feels something sparking beneath his skin, though. He feels it with the same hyperawareness that he feels Sokka’s dark blue eyes boring into him.

Zuko clears his throat. “It’s good,” he says, gesturing with his cup.

Sokka nods with a sniff, turning to the corner of the room where Zuko dumped his crate of work. “Where can I start?”

They end up with Zuko writing response letters at the desk as Sokka sprawls across the floor and sorts Zuko’s correspondence into stacks of varying importance. It’s not long before Sokka’s done categorizing, and then he starts in on a pile that contains messages that Sokka himself can answer with minimal input from Zuko.

“Remember Jang Hui?” Sokka asks at one point.

“Yes,” Zuko says, because how could he forget Jang Hui? In the half-year when he helped Zuko create his council, Sokka had befriended the engineers working on restoring the factory, and he was as passionate about restoring the building as he was about reinventing its systems to make it kinder to the surrounding water. It wasn’t until a month into the collaboration that Zuko learned that Katara had blown up the factory in the first place.

“I think the Twin Mountains could use those guys for this.”

Zuko turns to discover Sokka’s flat on his back with both arms in the air to hold a scroll open above his face. “How can you see that?” Zuko asks, turning in his seat. “What is it?”

“New rock formations from the last volcano eruption are redirecting factory runoff into several towns.”

Right—another volcano-related headache that Zuko’s sure he never saw his father bat an eye over. He sinks back against his chair. The engineers from the Jang Hui project were great, but … “Jang Hui is river water—”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, dropping one arm to grope for his cup of shochu. He clumsily props himself up to take a sip while still holding the scroll above him. “There’s more brackish water in these towns, so I’m going to—”

“Recommend Tuya?”

“Recommend Tuya to join them,” Sokka agrees and then burps. He rolls onto his side just enough to scrawl something on a scroll filled with cramped script and then closes the Twin Mountains report to toss it onto the growing pile near his feet. “Done! Quicker than a polar bear dog snaps up a koala otter.”

He reaches for another scroll, and it hits Zuko how much they’ve already gone through in the last hour. It’s almost as much as he accomplished in the entire afternoon, and Sokka hasn’t even lived in the Fire Nation for years, now, and yet…

“You’re one of my advisors,” Zuko says.

Sokka tilts his head back to look him in the eye. “Not really. I’m not Fire Nation. And I just give you my thoughts when you ask for them.”

“No, you’re definitely an advisor,” Zuko insists, because Sokka really is. Kimiko wasn’t that far off when she called him an unofficial advisor guy. Sokka snorts, contorting weirdly to take another drink, and Zuko’s not letting him brush this off. “Literal national policy has been created based on your recommendations,” he says. “You’re shaping my nation.”

“I’m—augh!”

Sokka’s elbow slips from propping him up, and suddenly papers, limbs, and shochu go everywhere. Zuko lunges out of his seat, hands outstretched, but Sokka’s dramatic sigh tells Zuko that he’s not hurt, so he instead shifts some papers away from the spreading shochu puddle and takes off his outer layer to soak up the liquid.

Sokka’s staring at something beyond the ceiling, and it takes him a moment to notice Zuko. “Wait, wait,” he says, rolling sideways, “let me do that—”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says, gently batting away the hand that’s sneaking towards his now-wet outer garment. “Are you okay?”

“This is not the first time I’ve been bruised and soaked in alcohol.”

“What?”

Sokka flops onto his back, slinging an arm over his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I never mean to be a mess, you know?”

Zuko sets aside his garment and sits at Sokka’s side to pull the now-empty cup from his hand. “I don’t think you’re a mess.”

Sokka laughs. “You’ve got a rosy outlook on life, buddy.”

With a grunt, he propels himself up to sit, and suddenly he’s much closer than Zuko was ready for. His eyes are lucid as he claps a hand onto Zuko’s left shoulder, his thumb pressing against the base of Zuko’s neck, and Zuko swallows against his suddenly dry throat. Sokka’s gaze flits to his neck— but, no, Zuko must have imagined it. His friend’s eyes don’t waver from his as he says, “I admire that about you. You know that?”

Zuko clears his throat. Sokka’s hand slips away, and Zuko feels both relieved and bereft. “I didn’t,” he replies, and why did his voice come out as a rasp?

He clears his throat again, and at that, Sokka breaks his stare to look around, standing when his eyes land on Zuko’s cup. He passes what’s left of Zuko’s shochu to him, and Zuko finishes it far too quickly, the drink doing nothing to abate the flames burning beneath his skin. He watches Sokka poke around the papers on Zuko’s desk, the candle light hollowing out his cheeks in a way that makes Zuko want to break into the kitchen.

“Hey — the Earth Kingdom wants to work with Li Bai’s people again?”

Sokka’s voice is normal, and Zuko has to shut his eyes. This thing that he’s feeling, it doesn’t feel normal, or at least he’s never felt anything like this— this blaze that leaves him stranded in some ashy wasteland in his own body—

Suddenly, a once-forgotten memory rises as his mother’s voice, in a whisper both conspiratorial and comforting: Sage Agni knows the single torch dies / but birth comes again from full blaze / Scorch not with your fingertips, lover / Rip through me with razing flame.

It’s a verse from a Pakpao poem, from a collection written largely about the Five Year Fire that tore through Pakpao’s hometown in his youth. Ursa only had a few poems from that collection transcribed in her book, but she read them to Zuko often. He wonders if that meant she was fond of them; if so, was it because it reminded her of her lover? A shudder ripples down his spine, first at the thought of his mother feeling such a love for Ozai, then at the thought that Ozai only razed with flame and never raised with flame, as Ursa once explained Pakpao meant the line to be understood—

“Zuko?”

Zuko startles, jerking his head up to meet Sokka’s crinkled brow. “Sorry. What?”

“We can finish the rest of this thing tomorrow,” Sokka offers. “I’m not checking out the hillside until later in the morning.”

Zuko shakes his head. The motion makes him feel the shochu for the first time. “I’ll receive more by breakfast.”

“We really need to get you a vacation.”

Somehow, Zuko finds it within himself to stand with a laugh, grabbing his sodden outer layer as he does. “Talk to my council about it,” he suggests, going to the dresser at the other end of the room to hang the garment.

“I will,” Sokka replies. It sounds like a promise.

Zuko coughs, and it doesn’t dispel the ash in his chest.

They’re in the courtyard after lunch, catching their breath as they watch Piandao preside over Bishal and Manu’s bout of sparring, when Zuko’s mouth opens and blurts a question without permission: “Do you think my mother loved Ozai?”

For a second, Sokka’s eyes slide over to him; then he turns back to the duel and scratches the scruff along his jaw. “Your dad kind of sucks.”

“I know.”

“Do you think your mom knew?”

He thought about it last night, after they finished his work and Sokka ambled off to his guest room. He thought about how much time Ursa spent staying away from his father, ushering him and Azula away from the palace whenever possible, until they became too old and lessons or school filled their days. After that, Zuko remembers that she was always at Ozai’s side when she had to be—festivals and important dinners with important guests—but even those became less frequent as the years went by. The only other time Zuko saw her in those later years was when he was upset and would go running to her rooms, or late at night when she would visit him before he went to sleep.

Zuko supposes that he assumed that that was what love is: careful avoidance of potential eruptions. He’s pretty sure now, though, that it’s something different. “When Azula and I got older, I think she did,” he answers. “I don’t know about before. I took a while to realize he was wrong. And an awful father.”

“Okay, but you were his kid,” Sokka counters.

Bishal shifts too much weight to his back foot, and Zuko sees how Manu will disarm him a moment before it happens. Manu shouts triumphantly, and Piandao nods his approval; Bishal scrambles for his sword again. 

“And she was his wife,” Zuko replies. “I remember her being happy. I remember him happy.” He really does, in the strangest moments. He’ll be looking out the window when a breeze lifts the curtain and he’ll suddenly recall Ozai’s merry laughter echoing through the Ember Island house as his mother impersonated a shopkeeper they’d encountered earlier in the day. An off-tune pipa brings him back to when he was six in a teahouse and couldn’t understand why his parents kept looking at each other and stifling laughs until Azula loudly demanded, “Why does that pipa player sound bad?” and Ursa had lost it.

The memories are distant and hard to recall. But they’re there.

“Sometimes good things don’t work out,” Sokka says.

Zuko looks at him, and there’s a distance in Sokka’s eyes that makes Zuko pause. He gets a sense that Sokka isn’t really thinking of Ursa and Ozai anymore—could they ever have been called a good thing?—but before he can articulate the question struggling to form in his head, Sokka comes back to himself. “Why are you thinking about your parents?”

Zuko frowns. “I—I don’t know. I guess being here makes me think of them.”

“Did you all use to visit Piandao?”

“No. I came here the summer that Ozai made my mother disappear.”

Manu takes advantage of a misstep by Bishal again, and this time, Bishal bows his head in defeat. “I need to think about that sequence,” Bishal apologizes to Piandao.

“Visualize it before it happens,” Piandao agrees and then looks toward Zuko and Sokka. “Sokka, would you let Bishal take a rest?”

“Yes, Master,” Sokka says. He plants a hand on Zuko’s shoulder, squeezes, and then uses it to push himself to his feet.

Bishal comes over, sweat dripping from his brow despite the cooler winter air. “I hope you and Sokka were figuring out whatever trick Manu’s pulling,” he says, bending to brace his hands above his knees.

“We were talking about my mother.”

The ease immediately leaves Bishal’s expression, something taut and serious taking over, and Zuko regrets being so bluntly honest. This stay in Shu Jing has been a breath of fresh air for all of them; Zuko doesn’t want to ruin that. “When you put too much weight back, you leave your side exposed,” he says.

“Oh,” Bishal says before lowering himself to a seat next to Zuko. They watch as Sokka and Manu bow to each other, and then Sokka immediately springs forward to attack. “Does Sokka know she might still be alive?”

“Yes.”

“What does he think, about trying to find her?”

There’s a shhhhing! of metal on metal, and suddenly Manu’s sword is halfway across the courtyard. “What?” Manu demands, and Sokka laughs good-naturedly.

“We haven’t really talked about it,” Zuko answers.

“What do you think?”

Zuko closes his eyes. He doesn’t know what he thinks, because this, too, is a place where he tries not to think. He spent sixteen years loving his mother deeply, and now that the world is becoming a better, more peaceful place, is he not allowed to keep his affection untroubled and pure?

In any case, he has a nation that’s vying for his attention in a hundred different ways for his every waking moment. As Azula said, he needs to think of the future; the headpiece that usually weighs so heavily on his head demands it of him. He doesn’t have enough daylight for the ghosts that wind around his neck to whisper in his ear, or for the molten feeling in his chest that rises and churns and swells at the strangest moments.

“Excellent!” Piandao shouts.

Zuko opens his eyes to see Manu, swordless again, and Sokka bow to each other. Manu retrieves his blade and then heads for Zuko and Bishal.

“I am not ready to go again,” Bishal intones.

“I can go,” Zuko volunteers.

He can feel Sokka’s eyes on him as he gets to his feet and goes to where he left his dao. The skin on the back of his neck prickles, and he feels like he’s already sweating anew; in a sudden burst of frustration, he yanks off his shirt and tosses it aside before taking up his dao.

Sokka whistles, and Zuko’s grateful for the hair that falls in front of his face, obscuring the heat that rises to his cheeks. “Okay, Mr. Flamey-o, we get it!” Sokka teases, raising his sword and bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You don’t get cold!”

“Do not let the physical attributes of your opponent distract you,” Piandao warns.

Sokka squawks, his ready stance lowering as he gives Piandao an indignant look. “Distracted? I’m not —”

Zuko springs forward, and Sokka barely throws up his blade to block Zuko’s strike. “Hey!” he protests, even as he contorts in a way that somehow puts Zuko on the defensive. 

Zuko redirects his slash and dances out of reach, eyes catching on the swell of Sokka’s shoulder, the glisten of sweat pooling at the hollow of his throat. “Hey,” he croaks, feeling suddenly delirious, because watching Sokka this closely as Sokka focuses so intently on him is causing flames to eat at the edges of his very being, and he —

Shhhing!

One of his dao goes spinning out of his hand, and it’s all he can do to divert Sokka’s momentum against him and push forward again. For a moment, they’re close enough to breathe the same air. Sokka’s eyes are boring a hole somewhere in Zuko’s torso, and it’s here that it strikes Zuko, with the clarity and inescapable destruction of a lightening bolt, that the entirety of one of his favorite people in the world is somehow contained by this ordinary body of mortal flesh before him. How can something so mundane house a spirit as vast and powerful and layered as Sokka?

Before he’s realized it’s happened, his other dao is knocked out of his grip, and he’s left, defenseless, at the end of Sokka’s gaze. They can’t have fought for long, but Zuko finds he’s gasping for breath, wheezing for air that crackles like live embers in his lungs.

Sokka lowers his sword, relaxing his stance as he tilts his head. “You okay?” he asks, his brow crinkling.

Zuko wants to smooth out that crease with his thumb. He wants to fight without weapons, just bare hands and feet, because he wants to know intimately what the flex of a body resisting his feels like. He wants to run to the edge of this island and fling himself into the ocean because maybe then he’ll finally remember what it is to be cool and calm and balanced.

“I’m fine,” he snaps.

Sokka doesn’t flinch, but he stays quiet as he watches Zuko retrieve his dao. Zuko’s never realized until now how much Sokka just looks at him. People in the capital don’t look at him like that. In the capital, such a sustained, direct gaze is aggressive. It’s asking for something.

“Zuko.”

At the sound of his old master’s gravelly voice, Zuko straightens his spine. Piandao’s dark eyes pin Zuko where he stands, and while Piandao can’t possibly know the thoughts that are rushing through Zuko’s head, it feels like he does. Regret and shame rise in Zuko’s throat, and he turns to Sokka. “I’m sorry,” he says. “My mind was somewhere else. I am okay.”

Sokka nods with a smile, easy as anything, even if there’s something in his expression still scrutinizing Zuko. “It happens,” he says and reaches out to lay his hand on top of Zuko’s head.

The touch is brief, but there’s weight behind the contact. Blood rushes in Zuko’s ears. “Again,” he says roughly, taking a step back and raising his dao.

For the rest of the afternoon, Sokka isn’t able to disarm Zuko, and when they cease their practice for dinner, the four of them eat ravenously as Piandao tells a series of old stories from Crescent Island. Zuko sleeps deeply, and when he wakes at dawn, his entire body aches pleasantly.

Packing doesn’t take long. As he, Bishal, and Manu are tying the last of their packs to the roof of a dragon-moose carriage, Piandao emerges from the main house, watching them quietly. He doesn’t speak until they finish and line up before him to bow deeply, a gesture that he returns.

“Thank you for having us,” Zuko says. “We apologize for the burden of our stay.”

“It was no burden,” Piandao replies. “Zuko, I’d like—”

“Zuko!”

Zuko looks back up the estate path to see Sokka running down, his crooked topknot bouncing. Zuko glances at Piandao, but he’s already shifted aside to address Manu and Bishal, and then Zuko has only a second to brace himself for Sokka’s impact.

They stumble a few steps anyway, Sokka’s arms wrapping around him tightly as Zuko’s body absorbs the momentum of his downhill run. “Zuko,” Sokka says again—why, Zuko has no idea—and Zuko inhales deeply to fill his nose with a scent he belatedly recognizes as Sokka. He suppresses a shiver at Sokka murmuring, “When will I see you again?”

The question makes him pause as much as the quiet of Sokka’s voice. When it comes to Sokka, Zuko associates quiet with admission, but he can’t figure out what lies below the surface of this question. He also can’t figure out the answer — yes, he’ll be visiting the Southern Water Tribe later in the spring, but he doesn’t know where in the world Sokka will be at that time.

“I don’t know,” Zuko says.

He gets a squeeze in response, and then Sokka pulls back to put his hands on Zuko’s shoulders. “Guess it’s up to the universe,” he says wryly, crooked smile rounding one cheek in a way that makes Zuko almost forget how thin they’ve looked for these past couple days.

“You’re always welcome to the capital,” Zuko offers. “Come whenever you want.”

“If you say that a couple more times, I’m never leaving your home.”

Zuko smiles, because it’s a joke, and his attention is drawn to Piandao’s turning back to him. “Sorry,” Zuko says. “You wanted to tell me something?”

There’s something gaunt about Piandao’s face as he shakes his head. “I wished to speak with your guards,” he says. “I’ve already conveyed my message.”

Zuko glances at Bishal and Manu, who’ve already headed for their carriage. “Oh.”

Piandao dips his head again. “Travel safely, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“Don’t get lost in your own palace,” Sokka quips.

Again, it’s a joke, but Zuko wonders if Sokka understands just how much the palace feels like a maze of old memories and traps to him.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it; he comes home to a council room at each other’s throats because resistance from Fire Nation citizens in ex-colonies has turned into an embargo on direct trade with key ports in the archipelago, and everyone is suffering from it.

“We should have just removed them, months ago,” Chenda snaps at the table.

“It’s not possible with the treaties that we signed with the Earth King,” Eun replies.

“Besides, what are you going to do with thousands of displaced citizens? We don’t have infrastructure in place for that,” Kimiko adds.

“So we’re allowing the colonies now?” Chenda says, pitch rising with derision.

“What’s your plan for a capital so screwed up we have more empty homes than babies being born?” Kimiko retorts. “Do you have an answer for that?”

“There’d be more children being born if people stopped getting sick and dying from extremely preventable illnesses, but we can’t help anyone if medicines aren’t reaching ports—”

Zuko’s head throbs. He clears his throat, and the room falls silent, faces turning to where he is in the door frame. “Think they timed the embargo for when I was stuck on the water?” he asks lightly.

“Possibly, though I doubt they’d have the smarts to—”

“It’s a joke, Kimiko,” Li Bai murmurs.

“Zuko’s funny?”

Zuko suppresses a snort as he comes to stand by the table. He makes eye contact with each of his councilors and nods a hello. “The last of those who cling to the former colonies will return to the archipelago by the end of the summer,” he says.

Four pairs of eyes blink at him. He wishes Mai were here. “How do you know?” Eun asks cautiously.

“Because I said so,” Zuko replies. He doesn’t know how to explain this calm that’s washed over him; he just knows that it’s time, it’s been more than time, and he can uphold this promise. He has to. “We’ll work on it,” he tells Eun. “Chenda, send a letter to the Kyoshi warriors about the medicinal goods you’re worried about losing access to; they were based out of Hong Forest territories that seem to be the root of the embargo, and they might have ways to help you work around it.”

Chenda nods, already pulling a small scroll from the neat stack beside her.

“Kimiko, I saw your report on housing in the capital—did Sokka’s response reach you already?”

She nods, green eyes alight. “Is this Sokka the Sokka?”

Zuko frowns. As far as he knows, there’s only one Sokka. “Yes,” he says, and she looks satisfied. “Li Bai, take a look at Sokka’s recommendation, and let me and Kimiko know if you know anyone who can help us think in new ways about how to address the space issue.”

“Yes. Kimiko, do you—?”

“Right here,” Kimiko says, already passing the scroll to Li Bai.

Satisfied that everything has been smoothed out, Zuko turns to the new shelving unit on the wall opposite the balcony. It’s another one of Kimiko’s additions, and Zuko has to admit it’s easier to keep his head on straight when his council correspondence is neatly organized by priority, rather than him having to wade through it all every day.

As he pulls a stack of scrolls from one of his shelves, he feels movement behind him, and Chenda appears at his elbow to grab something from one of her boxes. “It’s good to have you back,” she says.

It’s casual, but no less genuine, and not what he’d expect to hear first from Chenda. “I know the progress with the ex-colonies is slow,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “You say it’ll get done, so it’ll get done,” she replies, sifting through her pile of reports.

Zuko pauses. When he first met Chenda, she would have fought him for hours about the vague statement he just made to the council, but she’s calm right now—usually, there’s a certain hitch to her brow when she’s building an argument, but Zuko can’t see any sign of it. “It will,” he echoes.

She looks up at him, dark eyes deep and steady. “You’re a man of your word, Zuko. You always keep your promises.”

She touches his arm lightly—the briefest press of her fingertips against his skin—and then returns to the table.

Something sparks along his forearm, and Zuko swallows against the sensation.

Ukano isn’t at this meeting.

He hasn’t been at the last two meetings, either, where his standoffish presence is usually expected, and Zuko wonders if Ukano has become ill until he realizes that Michi would have written to Mai, and, as much as she detests her father, Mai would have told Zuko about it if that had been the case.

“Do I send someone for him?” Zuko asks.

It’s just him and Eun left in his mother’s throne room, Eun wrapped in a thick outer layer against the late winter chill that unexpectedly snuck into the palace overnight.

“It’s within your grounds to do so,” Eun says.

“He’s always been invited to these meetings. I’ve never demanded him to come.”

“You could send a messenger before you send an armed guard for collection.”

Zuko snorts and then sighs, rolling his head back to stretch his neck. “Wrangling a grown man into meetings he’s not interested in can’t possibly be worth the time.”

Eun chuckles. “I’m inclined to agree.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Zuko straightens in his mother’s chair. “Come in.”

A page opens the door. “Shohei and Hao to see you, Fire Lord.”

“Shohei?” he splutters, but the page is already stepping aside to let his guests into the room.

Shohei narrows his eyes at Zuko as he shuffles inside, his cane thumping loudly against the wooden floor. Hao is close behind him, scanning the room thoroughly before gazing cooly at Zuko, and it isn’t until Eun prompts, “Zuko?” that Zuko unfreezes.

He rises from his mother’s throne and descends the platform to meet Shohei. “It’s wonderful to see you again,” he says, bowing deeply. 

Shohei grunts, but after a moment, he bows in return. Zuko’s heart skips a beat. He gestures back at Eun, who’s also risen from his seat. “This is Admiral Eun, one of my councilors. Eun, this is Shohei and Hao. I met them while traveling across the Earth Kingdom last spring.”

“Eun,” Shohei repeats. His voice is more gravelly than Zuko remembered. “Was your father in the military?”

“I’m afraid not.”

A laugh erupts from Shohei’s mouth, jagged and unrestrained, and Zuko exchanges a bewildered look with Eun and even Hao. “What is it?” Zuko asks.

It takes him a moment to collect himself; when he does, there’s a devious glint to his golden eyes. “Eun,” he says, “Your wife is one of my nieces.”

“What?” Eun and Zuko blurt.

An hour later, they’re sitting around the table in the antechamber of Shohei and Hao’s guest rooms. Jingyi has joined them, bouncing her and Eun’s youngest on her lap, and Zuko keeps glancing between her and Shohei as he pours everyone tea. He looks for similarities between their faces but can’t find any. Shohei stares intently at the baby, who’s almost one and really does have Eun’s eyebrows already.

Zuko finishes his task and sits back on his cushion. “Please,” he says, gesturing to the table, and everyone respectfully drinks.

Shohei’s eyes fall closed, a pleased hum rumbling in his throat. “Ah,” he says, opening his eyes to look cheekily at Hao. “As much as I love our village, no one does tea like the Fire Nation.”

It’s the first positive thing Shohei’s ever said about Zuko’s nation in front of him. Hao looks displeased, and Shohei chuckles until his eyes slide to Jingyi again. “How is Ni?” he asks.

Jingyi’s eyes flare. “You’re fourth uncle!” she exclaims.

Shohei bows his head, and Jingyi laughs, to everyone else’s confusion. “Jingyi?” Eun asks his wife.

“I forgot about him,” Jingyi explains, wiping away a tear with the side of her hand, “because Ni’s second husband has been fourth uncle for so long.”

Zuko looks at Shohei, wondering if he’ll be offended, but he’s smiling down at his tea. “You forgot?” Zuko asks Jingyi, because … really?

Jingyi lifts a shoulder. “I have seven disgraced uncles. There’s no point in keeping track when there’s still another seven in the family.”

Eun turns a guarded look onto Shohei. “You left my wife’s aunt, you deserted the military, and you’ve spent decades living comfortably in the Earth Kingdom … why are you returning now?”

Jingyi lays a hand on Eun’s shoulder, but Shohei meets Eun’s eye steadily. “I was told I could return,” he says, “and in the last month, I’ve felt compelled to take that invitation.”

“What compelled you?” Zuko asks.

“That’s what I asked,” Hao mutters.

Shohei takes a long sip from his tea. “A feeling,” he says shortly. His golden eyes fix on Zuko. “Hao insisted on escorting me, but he’ll be returning home.”

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like,” Zuko quickly says. He looks at Hao. “Both of you.”

Shohei grunts. “I hear your council is busy with many projects.”

A small, hopeful thing flutters in Zuko’s chest. “Yes. I’d love to hear what you think of some of them, actually—if you’d share your wisdom?” Shohei’s eyes glint, and Zuko can’t contain his grin. “Let me introduce you to the rest of my council,” he says, and Shohei inclines his head.

There’s no reason for Zuko to be chasing after grown men stuck in old ways when potential and future are coming to his table.

The archipelago continues to thaw, and Zuko prepares to travel.

Funnily, most of the preparation entails throwing himself even deeper into his work and the capital. With Mai still gone with Azula — he tries not to worry about where they are, and how his sister is doing, because Mai writes to him and never says anything concerning — Zuko ends up running around the city and meeting with people that Mai directs him to, checking in on programs and getting dragged into playing pretend with toddlers until Bishal clears his throat to remind him that he’s the Fire Lord, not a water spirit who’s exploring the spirit world with a panda-rabbit spirit and a dragon.

When he’s not making trips for Mai, he’s bound to the palace, enduring meeting after meeting with various combinations of his council members. Shohei slowly starts joining meetings, too, and the day he finally speaks to offer an alternate solution to a problem some engineers are facing in the middle city, it takes everything in Zuko to not shout triumphantly on the spot. After the conversation ends and everyone else has left, Zuko turns to Bishal with an uncontrollable smile. “He said something.”

Bishal shakes his head. “I don’t know how you do it.”

“What? I didn’t do anything.”

“Not just now, maybe. But you got into his head when we first met him.”

Zuko frowns. “People can change on their own.”

“And the desire to change can be inspired by others.”

Every other day, there’s also a meeting with Eun and several other military leaders, where updates on Fire Nation citizens in the ex-colonies are gone over in excruciating detail. Many citizens in the western territories of the Hong Forest and the mountain range along the coast refuse to leave the places their families have occupied for two generations; many of the treaties Zuko signed shortly after becoming Fire Lord prevent him from sending any Fire Nation troops to force them to leave.

He doesn’t want to force them, either, but the change that has spread through the capital and the archipelago hasn’t yet crossed the water to reach the ex-colonies. It limits their options, but …

“An incentive,” Li Bai says one night.

He and Zuko are out on the council balcony, steam lazily curling up from their tea as they sit back in their chairs. Eun returned home hours ago, and Chenda and Kimiko left to find some noodles. The sudden quiet in their absence settles gently.

“What about it?” Zuko asks.

Li Bai scratches his chin. “I went by the old throne room today and saw the in-progress mural. It made me think of when you asked me to join the council.”

“Mm.”

“You said you were clearing out the room and renovating it so that people would find it more inviting. A place where people feel welcome, you said.”

“I did.”

“I think you need to do the same for the people from the colonies.”

Zuko blinks. “Clear out a section of the capital and rebuild it?”

“More or less.” Li Bai shifts, twisting to face Zuko more directly. “Think about it, Zuko. Most of these people never had a home in the Fire Nation. To them, the Earth Kingdom is home. To ask them to leave that … it’s a big deal.”

It wasn’t their home to take, Zuko thinks, in his own and Katara and Iroh and Aang’s voice, but … but Li Bai’s right. They do think of it as their home. What if someone demanded that Zuko leave the capital, never to return? It’d be different from his banishment, when he had a condition—however difficult to achieve—that would allow him to come back. Even with his complicated relationship with the capital and the palace, he feels distraught at the thought of being pulled from it forever.

“So, incentives,” Zuko says.

Li Bai nods. “It could help. To give them something.”

A screech of laughter echoes off the metal hallway walls, and Zuko and Li Bai turn to see Chenda and Kimiko return with trays of steaming noodles, Kimiko almost doubled over with laughter. When she catches Zuko’s eye, she starts howling, and Zuko groans even as a smile tugs at his lips. “What did Chenda tell you?” he asks when the women emerge onto the patio.

“About how completely unsubtle you were in courting her council membership,” Kimiko giggles.

“Subtlety will never be one of your strong points, Zuko,” Chenda says.

“Hey! I can be subtle.”

“You can be sneaky. Subtlety would require you to not always bare your heart to the entire world.”

“I think Zuko’s openheartedness is one of his strengths,” Li Bai says. “It takes courage to live honestly.”

Zuko’s face flames, in part from embarrassment, in part because a voice in the back of his head is whispering that he maybe hasn’t been living honestly, actually. “Who were you able to find this late to make noodles?” he asks.

“See? Not subtle,” Chenda says.

“I made these noodles, thank you,” Kimiko retorts. She raises an eyebrow at Zuko and then Chenda. “Some of us know how to cook.”

“Hey,” they protest in unison, and Li Bai bursts out laughing.

“I’m at least better than Zuko,” Chenda says.

“You haven’t even seen me cook!”

“Bishal and Sokka have told me plenty.”

“Sokka?”

Kimiko snorts so hard she starts choking on a mouthful of noodles, and Chenda thumps her back. “Of course, Sokka,” Chenda says. “He sees you fully.”

“You just told me I let the entire world see me.”

“A heart at the surface is still only at the surface,” Li Bai muses.

He’s right, Zuko recognizes, something in him automatically connecting Li Bai’s tone to Uncle’s way of roundabout mentoring. He hums in agreement right as Kimiko flatly asks through a bite of noodles, “What’ve you been smoking?”

Laughter bubbles out of Zuko’s chest and joins the chorus of joyful ribbing that bounces among his friends.

Zuko is sitting in the center of a bed that was once his own. He doesn't know what he’s supposed to do with it. He crawls to its edge, stands, walks around, looking at it from different angles—like that’ll help him remember.

Voices rise from the courtyard, one undoubtedly his father’s, and the other … Zuko goes to the window, presses his thumb against where it says ‘Mai,’ and leans out.

His eyes land on her, first, her dark brown hair hanging straight down her back in a glossy sheet. She’s ranting, anger in the sharp movements of her jaw, but Zuko can’t hear with the wind so loud. “Mother?” he calls, a gust carrying his voice away from him.

She doesn’t notice, but Ozai does, his gaze snapping up to Zuko and his nostrils flaring. “Give it BACK,” he demands, as clear as if he were right next to Zuko. He’s talking about the headpiece.

Zuko touches it and leans further out the window. “It’s not yours!” he shouts.

In two fantastic bounds, Ozai’s at the window, reaching impossibly high to pull Zuko out of it. Zuko screams, and his mother turns, a wordless shriek tearing from her throat. Zuko falls, seeing hard cobblestone rushing up to great him —

he falls —

he falls —

Water catches him, not gentle but survivable, salty on his tongue and harsh on his eyes. He plummets until he doesn’t, and then he swims, lungs starting to burn. He needs air—he sees red glint at the surface—he needs—

A swell of water pushes Zuko from behind, and he gasps, inhaling water, losing his senses to the knowledge that he’s going to die, die before saying goodbye to Azula, die before—

The ocean spits him onto something hard, grit scraping against his cheeks. Zuko coughs, chokes, coughs—then breathes. He’s alive. He’s fine. He got away.

He pushes himself up. Before him, Roku’s Island rises, all spindly trees and pink-red sunrise and glossy dark rock. He drags himself forward, pulling his legs out of the surf, and staggers to his feet.

Trepidatiously, determinedly, he walks.

It’s his second extended trip since his coronation, and once again, he finds Eun waiting for him down at the docks, hovering at the end of gangplank to the ship that Zuko will be using to travel around the world. “Did you sleep well?” Eun asks.

“Yes,” Zuko says, even though he can still recall the feeling of sand scraping his cheeks, of water running in rivulets down the back of his neck. “Keep me informed about the former colonies.”

“Of course.”

“And … how things are with Shohei.”

Eun snorts at the mention of his newly returned relative. “I certainly will.”

Bishal appears, knocking an elbow against Zuko’s arm. “Can’t believe we’re doing this again,” he says with a grin.

“Erhi isn’t upset that you’re going away for another spring?” Eun asks.

Bishal’s smile widens. “Nope. She says it’s actually better that I’ll be gone while she’s planning our wedding.”

Zuko whips his head up to stare at Bishal. “Your what?”

“Congratulations!” Eun cries.

Bishal flushes. “I didn’t want to say anything until she said yes,” he says. “And she did. Last night.”

“Congratulations, Bishal,” Yawen says, coming up from behind Zuko. “You must be so happy.”

“I am. Thank you.”

“Congratulations,” Zuko blurts belatedly.

“You all should be off now,” Eun says with a look at the crew running around the ship.

They say their goodbyes, and as Zuko follows Bishal up the gangplank, he catches Yawen staring at him. When their eyes meet, she gives him a smile that, inexplicably, seems both knowing and sad.

Once they reach the tip of the northern half of the archipelago, they head north, and they don’t stop until they reach a small port at the base of the mountains that separate the Sea of the Dragons from the Stone Fingers. It’s an opportunity to replenish supplies, particularly in preparation for heading even further north, and to stretch their legs.

The last thing he expects, as he and Bishal and Yawen wander in search of a noodle bar, is a familiar, raspy voice to call, “Zuko!”

He whirls around and his eyes confirm what his ears heard: it’s Mai, waving easily from down the street, Azula smirking by her side. “Mai! Azula!” he calls and runs toward them.

He throws his arms around both of them, and while Azula responds with an annoyed “Zuzu,” Mai hugs him back tightly. “What are you doing here?” Mai asks.

She lets go, and Zuko steps back, still grinning uncontrollably. “We’re stopping for supplies on our way to the Northern Water Tribe. I had no idea you’d be here.”

“We didn’t expect to be here, either,” Azula says pointedly.

Mai coughs. “Are you looking for lunch?”

They find a noodle bar, where the frazzled barkeep sends them to a table in the back corner with an impatient fling of the wrist. Zuko’s extremely aware of how casually Azula takes the seat next to his at the end of the table, how she tucks a curling strand of her hair behind her ear. His watching eyes, of course, don’t escape her. “Did you miss me?” she asks drily.

“Yes.” He doesn’t dare ask the same question back. “How have you been? Where have you been traveling recently?”

“We’ve been going south.” She flicks a look at Mai, who’s listening intently to the story Bishal is telling. “Mai’s been receiving some letters.”

Zuko frowns. There hasn’t been anything deeply urgent coming out of the capital for Mai. “What kind of letters?”

“The kind you should have been sending if you’d wanted to keep her around.”

Is she implying—is there someone courting Mai?

He shouldn’t be surprised, and there’s a part of him that truly isn’t—he loves Mai, after all, and even if a person didn’t know her like he does, she comes from a rich and powerful family and is extraordinarily beautiful by classical standards: pin-straight and glossy black hair, a heart-shaped face, slender limbs that give her every movement elegance. 

Zuko coughs. “I didn’t know she was being courted,” he says quietly.

Azula scoffs. “You know it only counts as courtship if it’s a man.”

Zuko stares, his mind emptying of words as the memory of Ty Lee’s happy cry of Mai! rings in his ears.

The barkeep suddenly swoops in, balancing a massive tray on one shoulder, and slides five bowls of steaming buckwheat noodles in broth across the table. Zuko takes the pair of chopsticks that Yawen passes to him and hides a grin when Azula pulls her personal pair of metal chopsticks from somewhere.

“You look terrible, by the way,” Azula says, rudely. “What have you been tormenting yourself over?”

“Thanks for noticing,” Zuko replies dryly. The broth is light but flavorful, the noodles perfectly cooked. “The former colonies are resistant to coming home.”

“Obviously.”

“I’ve been dreaming of mother, too.”

Azula rolls her eyes. “Mother is dead, Zuko. She’s the last person you should be losing sleep over.”

Zuko pauses. His sister keeps eating, unaware of his eyes on her. “Azula,” he says, quietly, not completely sure he should be saying this now. “I don’t think she’s dead.”

If he wasn’t staring at her, he would have missed the way Azula falters before picking up another mouthful of noodles. “Wishful thinking is a waste of time.”

“It’s not wishful.” He swallows. “Father told me she’s alive.”

“Well, if she were alive, it’s been nine years. We clearly don’t need her.”

Zuko doesn’t need her, maybe, but he does want her—but he supposes Azula has no reason to want her back. “I guess not,” he concedes weakly.

“Your noodles are getting cold.”

He blinks, remembering a hundred family dinners at once: their mother, urging Zuko and Azula to finish their noodles or soup before they stopped steaming; their father ridiculing her for her peasant ways, letting his own bowl turn cold and then snapping at the staff to take it back to the kitchen and bring it back boiling, because he wanted it hot, now.

Mommy, why does Daddy say you’re a peasant? Azula asked once—or something like that.

We aren’t peasants, their mother said. You finish your food before it gets cold to respect the person who made it for you. And you don’t want cold, slimy noodles, do you?

Zuko picks up his chopsticks and eats.

After lunch, there’s still some time before they embark again, so Zuko and his guards follow Mai and Azula to the inn where they stayed last night. There, they find Sarnai, Amit, and Jae playing some sort of card game—Zuko doesn’t recognize the green and brown deck or the formation of the cards spread across the table, but Azula immediately goes to Sarnai’s side, looking with narrowed eyes at the table and then the fan of cards in Sarnai’s hand. 

Wordlessly, Azula taps four of Sarnai’s cards, then looks up at her; Sarnai nods, a glint appearing in her dark brown eyes. When it’s her turn, she plays the cards Azula had tapped, and Jae and Amit immediately explode with frustration.

“I didn’t even see that,” Amit whines.

“You always win, Azula,” Jae says, shaking her head fondly.

“It was only twelve points,” Azula dismisses.

“You mean Sarnai always wins, because she’s Azula’s favorite,” Amit corrects.

Azula smirks. “And whining about it will make you a smarter player?”

Mai comes up to Zuko, arms loosely crossed. “They’ve been addicted to that game for a month.”

“You’re not?”

“It’s a card game.” Her fingers graze his forearm. “Come with me.”

They leave Bishal and Yawen at the card game and go to the adjoining room where sleeping mats have been laid out. Mai points at one of them, and Zuko sits down, watching Mai dip into a travel pack resting against the far wall. “How has traveling been?” Zuko asks.

“Not easy.” She joins him at the mat with a small pot of dried apricots, which she sets between them. Their knees knock together as she settles; Zuko takes a piece and bites. “But it’s fine. We’re learning to understand each other.”

“Who?”

“Me and Azula.”

Zuko frowns. “Weren’t you best friends? All of you, with Ty Lee?”

Mai smoothes the hem of her pants, studying the pattern of the thread. “Azula really didn’t let anyone in,” she eventually says. “And I only knew her as well as she knew herself.” Her brown eyes flick up to Zuko’s. “It’s not as if we knew ourselves at fourteen.”

There’s a precise crinkle to her brow that makes Zuko think of the way Azula sometimes purses her lips and avoids his gaze, of the way that Sokka’s voice can become unexpectedly reserved. He remembers a large hand resting heavy on his shoulder, Piandao rumbling, Better than I once did. “You’re headed south to see Ty Lee?” he asks.

Mai blinks, and blinks again. “I thought you’d be too dense.”

Too dense to what, he almost asks, but he realizes he probably knows Mai’s answer already. It’s not the conversation he cares about right now, either. “Azula knows?” he asks, because if Zuko once bought into almost everything Ozai and Azulon said, Azula clung to their every word, and their forefathers were very clear on what exactly they thought a deviant was.

“She does.”

Zuko nods and wonders why it doesn’t feel like the earth is shattering beneath him. He feels like it should be. “Tell her that I say hi, and I hope she’s well,” he says, then clarifies, “Ty Lee, I mean.” Mai rolls her eyes. “And Suki and Nisha.”

“Suki will appreciate it,” Mai murmurs.

There’s a shout from the other room. Zuko jumps, but Mai just snorts. “Amit loses passionately,” she comments dryly.

“I guess that matches how Azula wins ruthlessly.”

Mai replaces the lid on the apricots and rises to her feet. “They’re really good.”

“They should be, if they’ve been playing it that intensely for a month.” Zuko also stands, following Mai to the door.

“No. Her attendants. They’re good for her.”

She pushes aside the short curtains hanging from the door frame, and Zuko peeks around Mai just in time to see Amit and Sarnai lunge for Azula, wrapping their arms tightly around her as they collapse to the floor in a pile of laughter. Azula’s protests hold no weight when they’re cut off by her own giggles, and a vice suddenly squeezes around Zuko’s chest. He hasn’t heard Azula giggle since … since before Ursa disappeared, he thinks.

“Zuko?”

Zuko jumps and turns to Bishal, who’s standing with Yawen by the door. He looks regretful, but Zuko knows he’s only nudging him to go because they have a long journey ahead of them.

“Travel safely,” Zuko tells Mai.

She smiles at him and pats his right cheek.

When he says goodbye to his sister, he’s still the one to initiate the hug, but she settles against his body in a way she never has before. Her curls tickle the side of his jaw. “Take a bath before you reach the North Pole,” she says, the disdain in her voice belied by the gentleness of her arms against his back. “You smell like a heap of hippo-cow crap.”

“I will,” Zuko says. “Thanks.”

She digs her nails into his spine, and he yelps, letting her go. When she pulls back, she’s smirking, a teasing glint in her eye that suddenly makes her look so much like their mother. “Don’t miss me too much, Zuzu.”

Zuko grins. “Only if you don’t miss me.”

They depart as the sun starts crawling down to the horizon. The waves turn dark and liquid as ink, and though the stars wink valiantly through the night, Zuko aches for the moon.

Inside the capital, she’s everywhere.

Zuko knows the people of the Northern Water Tribe have always been highly spiritual, but he’s still staggered by how many more places he sees the moon than he did the last time he was at the North Pole: she’s carved in relief on the sides of buildings, depicted in ink on leather pouches, dangling as finely shaped pieces of bone hanging from necklaces and earrings. It’s breathtaking, and moving, and it’s devastating when Zuko remembers that at the age he was coronated, Yue was giving her life save her people from Zuko and his nation.

Zuko, his guards, and an assortment of attendants are ferried directly to the palace, as well as the offerings that Zuko hopes will soften a reception that’s sure to be icy. He rehearses in his head what he’ll say to Chief Arnook and what he thinks the conversation will look like, and all too soon, their boat is pulling up to the grand ice sculpture-lined walkway that leads to the palace.

“Ready?” Zuko asks Bishal.

Bishal grins. It lacks humor. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”

It’s been a while since he’s walked on snow-covered ice, but he stays confident on his feet. The reds of their clothes and uniforms attract stares and whispers as Water Tribe citizens pass by; more than a few people double-take at Zuko’s scar, which is fully visible with his hair pulled back like this. He keeps his chin steady through the discomfort and his eyes trained on the palace doors.

He doesn’t expect, when the doors are opened, to immediately be in what feels like the throne room. There’s no raised dais or platform like he’s familiar with from back home, but at the end of the room there is a trio of impressive, overlarge chairs built against the icy wall. The man sitting in the middle chair must be Chief Arnook, Zuko reasons; he doesn’t know the women who occupy the other two thrones.

“Fire Lord,” Chief Arnook says. There’s no reading his uncrackable expression.

“Chief Arnook,” Zuko acknowledges with a bow; then, he drops to his knees, inhaling sharply at the sudden cold of the icy floor through the thinner material of his pants. Around and behind him, Zuko senses the others from his nation also kneel. “We humbly thank you for inviting us to your home. Your kindness and hospitality are not taken for granted, and we’ll do our best to prove that we are fully committed to peace. I hope you join me in seeking to restore harmony and balance to the world.”

For a long moment, Zuko keeps his head bowed, his eyes trained on the floor; then Chief Arnook says, “We welcome you, and we appreciate you taking the trip to us.” Zuko lifts his gaze and encounters a still-reserved countenance. “I have a question for you, Fire Lord.”

Anxiety shoots through Zuko’s veins. “Yes?”

Slowly, Chief Arnook’s lips twist into a crooked smile. “Is it true that your skin turns red when you drink?”

Relief and confusion crash over him simultaneously. “How—how did you know?” he stumbles.

A half-stifled laugh escapes the woman to Chief Arnook’s left, and then all three of them are grinning. “A Southern tribesman told us we’d reach the day when we’d share a drink with you sooner than we’d think,” Chief Arnook says, “and not to worry when you turned as scarlet as sunset.”

Sokka, Zuko thinks, and oh, what else has Sokka said about him? “Then I suppose we must share a drink.”

Chief Arnook rises, and before he realizes what’s happening, Zuko’s being pulled into a strong hug. He’s surprised to find that he and the chief are the same height. “My daughter knew the pressure and burden of duty well,” he says into Zuko’s ear. “I admire the conviction and strength it must have taken for you to reject the expectations that your father laid on you.”

Zuko’s throat tightens. He doesn’t deserve this warmth and praise; he’s done nothing to earn it. Whether Sokka knows it or not, Sokka’s given Zuko a gift. “You speak too kindly,” Zuko murmurs.

Chief Arnook lets him go, and Zuko swallows the lump in his throat. “We come to you with gifts,” Zuko says, “as well as things that were wrongfully seized during the Hundred Year War…”

After presenting the offerings on behalf of his nation, Zuko and his attendants are shown their quarters and then whisked off for a tour of the capital—which is also the Northern Water Tribe’s main port—with Chief Arnook and the women who were seated beside him. Zuko learns they are Sigvuan, Chief Arnook’s wife, and Chikuk, his twin sister. Sigvaun is quiet with watchful blue eyes; Chikuk is talkative, keeping up an unhurried and ceaseless stream of chatter. She asks questions about their trip and the Fire Nation as much as she talks about the city they pass through, and during their winding stroll, Zuko releases the last of his anxious anticipation from his shoulders.

The sun sets earlier here than it does further south, and they soon return to the palace for dinner. They take their meal in a low-ceilinged room with a large fire pit at its center; it’s the warmest room Zuko’s encountered so far in this place. More of Chief Arnook’s family joins them, as well as other significant people from the Northern Water Tribe capital. Zuko’s head quickly becomes crammed with the names of sister’s husband’s brother’s aunt and herald to the Spirit Wood tribe and cousin’s second cousin’s wife. 

He starts to envy the younger children who, having finished eating, are playing a game along the wall behind him. He has to remind himself most of the people here are being far kinder than his nation’s actions warrant, and that the stew in his bowl is rich and satisfying like nothing he’s ever tasted before.

“Fire Lord, this is Taqulik, Sigvaun's eldest second cousin on her father’s side,” Chief Arnook says, nodding at the woman who’s just kneeled next to where he and Zuko are sitting. “Taqulik, meet the Fire Lord.”

“Welcome, Fire Lord Zuko,” Taqulik says.

Zuko bows his head. “Thank you for—”

“Zuko!”

He jumps at the sound of a child’s voice shouting his name, and he twists toward the sound just in time get a face-full of fur as someone jumps onto him. There are gasps and shocked cries from all around, but the sudden weight on his back and shoulder is too light to be anything but a child, and he’s more worried about his headpiece stabbing the kid or his stew tipping into Chief Arnook’s lap than himself.

“Siasi!” Zuko hears Chikuk cry. “Gentle, please!”

Two short arms loosen their grip on Zuko, and with a furry hood no longer in his face, Zuko can open his eyes to see a girl beaming up at him, her brown eyes alight in a way that has nothing to do with the fire’s flames reflecting in them. Her arms are still wrapped halfway around his torso. “Zuko,” she repeats, her smile revealing a missing tooth. She can’t be more than ten years of age. “You’re really here!”

Chikuk appears, crouching behind the girl. “Fire Lord, this is my daughter, Siasi,” she says. “Siasi, did you ask if you could hug the Fire Lord?”

Siasi presses her cheek against Zuko’s shoulder and tightens her grip. “But Zuko’s one of Yue’s friends,” she explains happily.

Chikuk meets Zuko’s eye with a sheepish smile; from his peripheral, he can see other adults nearby sharing sad, strained looks. “Siasi says she still talks to Yue,” Chikuk explains in a tone that says they’re playing along with Siasi—for what reason, Zuko can only guess.

Siasi lifts her head again to look Zuko in the eye. “Yue says you became friends last last spring, when you were in trouble and asked for her help.”

Zuko blinks. Two springs ago? Last spring, he was traveling, and the spring before that— the Dragon Guard assassination attempts. “We did,” he tells Siasi, because he’ll play along if Chikuk asks, and because it must be a coincidence, that that spring was the first time sleeplessness drove him to balconies that would let him talk to the moon.

“She says I should be your friend,” Siasi continues, “because you’re lonely, like the way she was lonely sometimes when she was still the princess.”

Something wraps icy fingers around his heart, and his mouth falls open. He’s never told anyone he feels lonely. His loneliness is his, something he’s chosen for himself, and how did Yue know? But no— Yue can’t actually be talking to her cousin, about him of all things, from the Spirit World—

“She also says you’re brave, and if we’re friends, you’ll help no matter what the trouble is,” Siasi adds. “Like how when Sokka was hurt, and in jail, but you got him out as soon as you heard.”

Blood rushes through Zuko’s veins, and he suddenly loses all of his strength.

For a dizzying moment, there’s nothing but blackness before his eyes and the thunder of his blood, but then he comes back to himself. Urgent voices rise around him and hands lift him off of Siasi, whom he would’ve knocked to the ground if Chikuk hadn’t supported her. “Sorry,” Zuko murmurs, his vision swimming and his hands feeling weirdly disconnected from his body. “I’m so sorry—”

A small hand touches his forearm. He looks up, dazed and still not fully able to focus, to find Siasi studying him, eyebrows pinched. “Don’t be hurt,” she pleads. “Yue is sad whenever you hurt.”

Tears well in his eyes and immediately fall. “Zuko, are you okay?” an urgent voice asks quietly from behind him. It must be Bishal whom Zuko’s leaning so heavily against.

“I’m not hurt,” Zuko reassures, mostly addressing Siasi. “I— I’m touched that Yue thinks of me.”

“She watches you,” Siasi clarifies.

Zuko swallows down a delirious laugh. “She watches after me,” he amends. “It makes her a very good friend.” He sniffs, brushing his wet cheeks with the sleeve that Siasi isn’t clutching. “Do you really want to be friends?”

Siasi nods. “I don’t make up that kind of stuff.”

Zuko smiles. “Then let’s be friends.”

The rest of the meal is spent with Siasi glued to his side. Chief Arnook tries to keep making introductions, but Siasi, like her mother, is a ceaseless talker: she asks Zuko if he has friends, and then asks about them, as well as what he does as the Fire Lord and what his home is like. Eventually, Chief Arnook gives up, and Siasi becomes Zuko’s main conversation partner. It occurs to him, at some point, that Yue didn’t have any siblings, and Siasi seems to be Chikuk’s only child—which means he has the next chief of the Water Tribe leaning against his side. Yue, like Sokka, has given Zuko a gift that he doesn’t deserve and won’t ever take for granted.

Things become less peaceful when Siasi is sent to bed, and the room empties of almost everyone else. The fire burns low, and Chikuk turns on Zuko with suddenly sharp eyes. “What have you been doing to get to my daughter?” she demands.

“Nothing,” Zuko answers hurriedly. “I promise, I didn’t know who she was until now. I didn’t even know Chief Arnook had a sister, or a niece.”

The twins exchange a look; next to Zuko, Bishal shifts to a less relaxed stance. “Siasi looked up to Yue so much,” Chief Arnook eventually says. “We thought she would tell stories about talking to Yue because … because her loss…”

His mouth works, but no words come out, his eyes shimmering. Sigvaun reaches out to hold his hand. She nods when her husband turns to her and then tells Zuko, “Yue’s sacrifice was hard for all of us, but we think, for Siasi … she didn’t really understand what happened.”

Zuko swallows thickly. He was eleven when Lu Ten died and hardly understood it; if Siasi is not even that age now, she could’ve been as young as five when Yue passed. And Yue’s passing wasn’t as simple as death, either. 

“You fainted,” Chikuk says. “Why?”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says, embarrassed. “I don’t know. I don’t faint often — at all, really. But …” He clears his throat. “I think your daughter is telling the truth.”

“How?”

“Two years ago, in the spring, is the first time I … I sought solace in Yue.” He wants to glance at Bishal, but he keeps his gaze steady on Chikuk. “I was facing threats from within my own palace, and I felt like I didn’t have anyone to turn to. One of my friends speaks highly of Yue, so I — I guess I turned to her. I never thought she’d really listen to me.”

“Which friend?”

“Sokka.”

Chikuk’s eyebrows slant dangerously. “You used Sokka to get to my daughter?”

“No!” Zuko blurts, too loudly. The thought of using Sokka for anything makes revulsion rise in his throat. “Sokka doesn’t know that I …” That he’s lonely. That he’s asked Yue many times over whether he’d die before he turned nineteen. “… that I talk to her.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Chief Arnook says weakly.

Zuko shakes his head. “Siasi said that I saved Sokka when he was injured,” he says. “Sokka was under disguise, as was I. The only people who knew what happened that night and who was really involved were the two of us, my four guards, and a few of the Kyoshi Warriors.”

“And none of those people had loose lips?” Chikuk asks.

“None,” Bishal answers quietly. Zuko glances at him; he doesn’t think Bishal’s ever spoken up in a conversation like this. “The consequences of the truth getting out are too high.”

He meets Zuko’s eye, and Zuko has a feeling that Bishal’s figured something out.

“La’s fins,” Sigvaun murmurs. Her eyes are wide and intent on Zuko, as if she’s trying to take in every detail about him. “Siasi hasn’t been making it up.”

Chief Arnook’s expression crumples, and Zuko instinctively reaches out a comforting hand before stopping himself. “Why?” Chief Arnook asks, voice low and wet. “If she can speak from— why hasn’t she— to us—?”

Sigvaun pulls his face into her shoulder. He takes large, rattling inhales, but they don’t mask the quieter sobs in between, and Zuko feels like fleeing—but he can’t, so he turns his gaze to his hands, holding perfectly still as if that will make him fade into nothingness. Sorrow is meant for barren mountaintops, for quiet release in a darkened room. It isn’t meant for shared spaces. It isn’t meant to be witnessed.

… Is it?

He lets his gaze rise without moving his head, and he watches as Sigvaun strokes her husband’s hair, tears tracking quietly down her own cheeks. Chikuk is crying, too, sniffling as she rubs circles over her twin’s shoulder blade. And then Zuko sees it: Chief Arnook’s hands, joined with each woman’s free hand, gripping tightly. Comfortingly.

Suddenly, he feels his own eyes burn. It’s more than he can bear; he closes his eyes and waits.

The last thing he sees is Admiral Zhao’s face, sadistic grin stretching his lips wide, as flame rips through Zuko’s scales. There was a twilight omniscience to his scales, but it’s all fading so rapidly, curling like paper set ablaze and disintegrating into smoke, knowledge too ancient to comprehend dissipating into nothing …

Zhao lets go, and he’s falling, falling —

Until he’s not. He’s in the sky. It’s been millennia since he reached into the sky; he’d grown tired of the world, and decided to shrink his perception of it down to the pond that he shared with his lover.

This? This is what the world looks like, now?

But even as he asks the question, a new consciousness emanates from within, one that nods its head and confirms that this is what the world looks like, now. The temples and valleys and mountaintops, where his kin used to prosper, now rearranged or warped or dimmed. The four corners of the world, which once sang so brightly, now but a whisper of a thread crossing from physical to spirit.

When did this happen? he asks, and immediately knows the answer: the Avatar had died.

Did his lover know?

He reaches down with slender fingers and is glad that tonight, he is full: he can just brush against his lover’s crests, trailing his fingers through the foam. He calls for him, not with words, but with a tug of his heart.

His lover comes, and oh, it’s horrible: he’s bloated and lit through in bright blue, his fins pushed out into ghastly limbs, his wrath given a shape less natural and more horrifying than a great wave. La, Zuko calls in a mouthless voice that doesn’t sound like his. La, what happened?

I gorged, La answers. I ate men and women. I cannot remember the last time I consumed a human spirit.

Why, La? Zuko cries.

They killed you, La answers. I thought you were gone.

Zuko remembers the flame, remembers struggling to breathe when a fist held him high in air that his physical form could not inspire. But I’m not gone, Zuko says. I’m here, in the sky.

You consumed, tonight, too.

The new consciousness within him pushes to the front again, nodding, and — oh. Oh, Zuko recognizes it. It used to be a part of himself; then he gave it to a human child, who gave that part the shape of a girl.

Yue, he says, and that self that’s isn’t fully his self resonates with recognition. And oh—Oh, why did he consume her? He’s never consumed a human spirit before! He kept his distance up in the sky, he listened when La told him stories of the heartaches and miseries and bitterness that he ate alongside their spirits with each catastrophic wave that buried a ship or wiped out a village— La’s stories are what convinced him to turn away from the awfulness, to instead circle endlessly in their pond in the oasis—

Tui, La says. You did not take her. She gave herself to you.

Zuko searches the part of him that remembers what it feels like to be shaped like a human girl, and it’s true. Her will— his will— their will is steadfast and pure.

If you’d like, La tells Zuko, You can wear her face.

It’s the least he can do, isn’t it?

Over breakfast, Zuko pauses when Yawen passes him a dish laden with whole grilled fish. “I think I dreamt I was a fish last night,” he says.

Bishal snorts. His hair is holding a funny shape from the way he slept. “Do you remember what kind of fish you were?” he asks.

Zuko shakes his head. He usually remembers his more vivid dreams, but this feels like a memory of a memory: his body recalls the impressions more than his mind remembers what happened. He thinks he might have been in the sky. He definitely touched the ocean—or the ocean touched him.

“Does that mean you won’t eat fish now?” Yawen asks.

Zuko blinks. “Sorry.” He takes the dish and lifts one of the fish into his bowl.

It’s a day of politics in earnest, and while Zuko sits beside Chief Arnook at a low table for almost the entire day, at least a hundred people must cycle through their room in that amount of time. With the last of war reparations being paid out this year, most of their conversations are about trade, treaties, hopes they have for their nations’ futures.

Just after lunch, the next person to speak with Zuko and Chief Arnook is a familiar face: Taqulik nods kindly at Zuko, their interrupted introduction apparently not lessening her opinion of Zuko. “Fire Lord Zuko — as you know, our tribe actually consists of several tribes located across the North Pole,” she begins. “Communicating and supporting one another throughout the war was difficult at best, but the war also did not leave us opportunity to try new approaches to intertribal cooperation.

“After the war ended, and our borders reopened and we found stability in peace, we were able to reassess how our tribes communicated with one another. Much thought and consideration was put into it, and we decided to test the effectiveness of envoys.”

“Are you familiar, Fire Lord?” Chief Arnook asks.

In the Fire Nation, an envoy used to refer to the palace servant dedicated to exclusively conveying the Fire Lord’s messages, whether one room or several continents away, but the distinction became obsolete around the start of Sozin’s reign; at that point, one servant was not enough to carry all of the Fire Lord’s messages. A page is a page, now.

Also, Zuko doesn’t think that’s what Taqulik means. “I don’t think so.”

“Essentially, a member of a tribe is selected to live with another tribe for a period of time, during which they are an advocate and spokesperson for their own tribe,” Taqulik explains. “They bring their family with them, if they’d like, and effectively live as one of the tribe even as they speak for their own. We began this initiative two years ago, and with some adjustments, it’s been going well.”

She turns to Chief Arnook. “We heard back from the last of the tribes last week. We’re all ready to vote at summer solstice.”

Chief Arnook hums deeply with pleasure. “We’re pleased to hear so.” He looks at Zuko. “We’ve been seeing whether envoys work for our tribes, but you should know, Fire Lord, that Sokka thinks it can also work internationally.”

Zuko sits up. “Sokka?”

“A Southern tribesman,” Taqulik explains. “He’s the one who came up with the concept of envoys.”

Chief Arnook chuckles. “The Fire Lord and Sokka are good friends.” He glances at Zuko. “Or so Sokka says— ”

“Yes,” Zuko blurts. “We are.”

He doesn’t miss the curiosity in Taqulik’s eyes before she hides it, and oh, Zuko can feel his cheeks starting to flame. He didn’t mean to raise his voice or interrupt the chief, but his mind stumbled for a moment there, because— because Sokka’s shaping more than just his own tribe and Zuko’s nation, apparently. But why should Zuko be surprised? It’s Sokka, and it’s foolish to think that Sokka’s ever been his, or anything, and —

His? Where did that come from? He meant his nation’s. And that’s still foolish, since the Fire Nation is probably the last place Sokka would ever want to claim —

“Zuko!”

Zuko jumps only a moment before Siasi collides with his side, giving him a flying hug that nearly bowls him into Chief Arnook. “Siasi, gentle,” Chikuk emphasizes, hurrying into the room after her daughter.

“Hello, Siasi,” Zuko says, gingerly returning her hug with the arm that isn’t pinned to his side by her body. He meets Taqulik’s eye; he’s relieved to see she just looks amused at being interrupted again by the young princess. “I’d love to hear how the envoys continue to do,” he says. “And I think Sokka’s suggestion is sound. We should discuss it further.”

“Zuko, I want to show you the tiger seal pups,” Siasi says. She lets go of him to bounce excitedly. “They’re finally here, and they’re so cute! You’re gonna think they’re the cutest.”

Zuko glances at Chikuk over Siasi’s head; there’s some tension in the set of her jaw, but she still nods. “I’d love to see them,” Zuko says. “I’ll have to ask your uncle if we have the time.”

Siasi leans around Zuko to give Chief Arnook round, pleading eyes. “Uncle, will you come see the tiger seal pups with me and Zuko?”

Chief Arnook smiles. “There’s always time for the tiger seals.”

The baby tiger seals are adorable, and so is the way that Siasi chatters at them as if they can understand one another. Who knows? Maybe they do. Siasi’s been speaking with the moon, after all.

He stands further back from the edge of the canal, Chief Arnook and Chikuk on either side of him. Sivgaun also joined them, but she lingers with Zuko’s guards further away — her curiosity had been piqued by the weapons Yawen wore, and she’s been quietly questioning Yawen about women in the Fire Nation army ever since.

“She’s my only child,” Chikuk says sternly.

Zuko turns to her. Her arms are crossed, and when she senses Zuko looking, she levels a glare at him. They’re nearly the same height, and there’s white-hot heat in her gaze; Zuko forces himself to stand firm against the shiver in his spine. “She’s my only child,” Chikuk repeats, “and I will go to war again if you try to take advantage of her.”

“Chikuk,” Chief Arnook warns, but Zuko almost doesn’t hear him with the alarms suddenly ringing in his own head.

“I promise you, I will never take advantage,” he swears. “I know what it feels like, to be a child and have adults play with the power they wield over you. If I ever do the same …” He swallows. For once, his tongue isn’t ahead of his thoughts, but that only means he knows that what he wants to say is brash and ill-advised and likely plain stupid: “I want you to go to war with me.”

Chikuk blinks, slow and precise like one of those Earth Kingdom cats that used to sun themselves on Zuko’s window sill at the Jasmine Dragon. “Okay,” she eventually says.

“Mom! Mom, come here!”

Siasi twists back from where she’s kneeling at the side of the canal, grinning widely, and Chikuk’s expression slips into something softer. “What is it?” she calls, stepping forward to join her daughter.

Zuko’s lips twitch when Chikuk kneels next to Siasi, a hand coming to rest on top of her head. He senses Chief Arnook shift his weight. “I think you know, by now, that your father was cruel to much of the world,” Chief Arnook says. “Was he cruel to his family, too?”

Cruelty. Zuko rolls the word around his mouth, presses it against the inside of his teeth with his tongue. “I didn’t realize that what he showed us wasn’t love,” he says, “until it was almost too late to stop him.”

“Mmm.”

Siasi suddenly springs up and tackles her mother with a sideways hug, but Chikuk is expecting it, twisting her body to absorb the impact painlessly and roll them safely away from the water’s edge. Both of them are giggling, and with a pang, Zuko feels that familiar, impossible yearning for something shaped like this.

“My wife …” 

Chief Arnook trails off. Zuko looks at him, but he’s staring at Sigvaun, who’s delicately holding Yawen’s knife like it might bite her. “Her parents were colder than most,” he eventually continues. “It made Sigvaun’s siblings cold people, too. Even colder than their parents. But somehow, she found a way to become warm. To embrace it.”

He looks at Zuko, then, with sorrowful blue eyes. “I’ve always admired her for that, among other things. We might never fully escape the ties that nature creates between us, but that does not mean we are immutably bound.”

“Auntie!” Siasi shouts.

Sigvaun almost drops the knife and laughs with relief when Yawen steadies her hand and then takes it back.

“Siasi,” Chikuk says, from where she’s lying on the snow and her back is serving as Siasi’s seat. “Do we yell at our elders?”

“Sorry, Auntie,” Siasi says as Sigvaun comes over.

“It’s forgiven,” Sigvaun replies. “What is it?”

Siasi points at one of the pups as Sigvaun kneels in the snow next to Chikuk, and something in Zuko’s chest swells at the sight of the three dark heads leaning close to each other. It’s an intimacy of ease, of comfort and trust.

Siasi suddenly gasps. “Zuko! There’s a new one, and it looks like you!”

Zuko leaves Chief Arnook’s side. “Does it?” he asks, wondering how he could possibly look like a tiger seal.

“Yes! It has your face.”

When he reaches the edge of the canal, Siasi grabs onto his sleeve and points with her other, gloved hand. “Do you see it?” she asks. “It’s got a splotch around its eye.”

Another tiger seal pup has appeared with its mother, and as the creatures drift to the surface, Zuko immediately sees what Siasi means: around one of the pup’s shining eyes, there’s a large patch of darker fur that’s the same color as the stripes along the rest of its body. “Wow,” Zuko says. “That is me.”

Siasi nods. “I bet you eat lots of fish,” she says. “Tiger seal you looks big and strong.”

Chikuk snorts softly, and Zuko can’t help grinning. “I do,” he agrees. “I bet it’s because my mom helps me find the best fish and teaches me how to catch them.”

Siasi giggles. “Does your human mom teach you how to catch fish, too?”

Zuko’s heart jumps into his throat. “She would if she could.”

“My human mom knows how to catch fish.”

“Is she good at it?”

“She’s the best.”

Sigvaun laughs quietly, and when the tiger seal pup snorts with its nose skimming the top of the water, Zuko likes to think it feels the amusement, too.

They stay for two more full days, and then Zuko and the others from his nation are packing their things again and piling into boats in the canal that will ferry them to their ship that’s docked in the open waters of the port. When Zuko goes to say goodbye to their hosts, his formal bows are cut off by hands pulling him into warm hugs—even Chikuk, though it might just because Siasi is there, too, and she sees everything.

He crouches before Siasi last, the knees of his pants instantly soaking in the snow. “I’m happy we met,” he tells her. “I hope we’ll see each other again soon.”

Siasi hugs him with gusto, which seems like the only way she knows how to hug. “Yue told me to tell you to be careful,” she whispers, loud enough that Chikuk and even Bishal definitely can hear. “She said— um. ‘People move like’ — um — no. She said, ‘People like to move in the night.’”

She lets go of him, and Zuko blinks. Her expression is open and honest in a way that tells Zuko there’s no use in asking more about that cryptic statement: there’s no way she’s withholding anything from him. “I’ll be careful,” he promises. “Tell Yue thank you.”

They board the small boats, and then they board their larger boat, and within an hour, they’re traveling away from the Northern Water Tribe. Zuko stands against the rail at the stern of the ship, watching the port city gradually become smaller and smaller.

Despite the gentle wind and skin-kissing sun, the deck soon empties of all people. He doesn’t really take note of it until Bishal and Yawen approach him and Bishal very purposely clears his throat.

“Yes?” Zuko asks.

Bishal glances at Yawen, who nods, her lips a pressed line. “Are you the Blue Spirit?”

Zuko stares at his friend, waiting for the surprise to pop in his chest, but … it doesn’t. Maybe a part of Zuko was expecting this all along. “Yes.”

Bishal laughs dryly, turning to brace his forearms against the rail and thunk his head onto them.

Yawen frowns at Bishal. “Who else knows?” she asks.

“Uncle, Aang. Sokka.” Bishal snorts. “Both of you, now.”

Bishal straightens up. “You do recognize that this could be very bad in the long run. Right?”

“I guess.”

“It’d be one thing if you only did Blue Spirit things during the war. Then it’d be — it’d be —”

“What you had to do, since you couldn’t openly oppose Fire Lord Ozai,” Yawen offers.

“That,” Bishal emphasizes. “But you didn’t leave it behind with the war.”

Zuko shrugs. He doesn’t regret freeing those people from Natsuko’s basement or breaking out Sokka. He’d make the same choice again and again. “You know long-term isn’t how I think.”

Yawen shoots him a concerned look, but Bishal just sighs. “You’re right. Fine.” He narrows his eyes at Zuko. “And you’ll do it again, won’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Probably,” Yawen says.

"And you’ll tell us?” Bishal presses.

Zuko’s lower lip pushes out. “I promised I would warn you if I was running off somewhere.”

Bishal’s shoulders drop out of their defensive rise. “Okay,” he says. “What do you think Princess Siasi meant by ‘People like to move in the night?’”

Zuko looks back at the shrinking Northern Water Tribe. “I don’t know,” he replies. “Yue knows something we don’t.”

Traveling by sea this far north is a punishingly cold affair, and everyone takes refuge below deck. Zuko braves the chill once as they round the Northern Air Temple, just to watch the colorful gliders flip through the air and the smoke rise from stacks among the temple’s higher reaches, but otherwise he keeps to his room, reading reports from home alongside notes for the next stops of this journey and writing enough missives each day to make his hand cramp.

When they reach land again, it’s snowing. Zuko hadn’t realized Ba Sing Se’s outer walls reached this far north; he’s always entered the city from the south. More than a few of the attendants, who’ve never left the Fire Nation before, stare in awe as the flakes dance through the air. Bishal sticks out his tongue to catch one, the way Aang taught them.

Zuko smiles and happens to catch Yawen’s eye. He’s taken aback by the gleam in her eye. “Can we go to Earth Rumble II: Ba Sing Se?” she asks.

“The King Kuei Way!” Bishal cries.

Zuko sighs. “We can probably get Uncle to take you.”

As had been arranged, they’re met at the Outer Wall railcar station by a palace escort; what Zuko didn’t expect was the train.

“Ba Sing Se has grown so much in the last fifty years that the rail cars and monorail were no longer sufficient to support the lives of our citizens,” the head of the escort explains as they’re led onto a tall and narrow train car made of dark stone and metal. Green lights, like those of Lake Laogai, are attached high on the walls inside the car. “One of the king’s close advisors directed this express line project himself, and it commenced and was completed within the last year.”

“It’s very impressive,” Zuko says.

A whistle cuts through the air outside their car, and that’s all the warning they get before the train starts flying down the tracks.

Zuko’s thrown against the wall, and he instinctively throws out an arm to catch Bishal before he crashes to the floor. Bishal curses, scrabbling at Zuko until he can grab hold of a handle mounted on the wall. Yawen laughs at them until a sudden curve in the tracks jolts her against the side of the car. 

The head of the escort twitches. “Their speed takes some adjusting to,” he says serenely.

“Thanks for the warning,” Bishal mutters for Zuko’s benefit.

In a blink, the snow-covered hills just within the northern Outer Wall are replaced by darkness. When Zuko’s eyes adjust, everything inside the train is washed in green, but outside remains dark, wind whipping harshly against his cheeks.

“The trains mostly run underground,” the head of the escort explains. “They only breech the surface when approaching stops.”

Sure enough, the next time they see sunlight, they’re already inside the Upper Ring and headed straight for the palace. There’s hardly time for Zuko to process the changes in the city, beyond an instinctive sense of different, and as soon as he steps out of the train car, wobbling for a second on his feet, his ears are assaulted by a bright voice: “Fire Lord Zuko! So lovely to see you again!”

King Kuei bows enthusiastically, glasses sitting crookedly on his nose, and Zuko inhales deeply as he bows steadily in return. He’s only met King Kuei a few times, and he still doesn’t know how to interact with the man. He’s unlike anyone Zuko’s ever met; he wonders how he’s possibly run a kingdom for this long. “Likewise, King Kuei.”

“Welcome to Ba Sing Se, friend — but you already know my city well, don’t you?”

He hooks his arm around one of Zuko’s, and Zuko suddenly finds himself being pulled long to King Kuei’s retinue. Zuko’s accustomed to being dragged around this way by Ty Lee, but she’s his childhood friend; this is King Kuei, ruler of a nation and easily a decade older than Zuko. “Parts of it,” Zuko answers when he finds his tongue.

“What’s your favorite place in my city?” Before Zuko can respond, King Kuei suddenly locks on the tall man standing at the front of the king’s retinue. “Fire Lord Zuko, you must meet Lord Thuyet. He’s my dearest advisor, and he’s helped Ba Sing Se recover from the war in immeasurable bounds!”

Lord Thuyet has a strong, wide jaw and deep golden skin that makes King Kuei look like a ghost standing next to him. He takes a half-step forward to bow, and when Zuko rises again from his own bow, he’s struck by the intensity with which King Kuei’s staring at Lord Thuyet. 

If Lord Thuyet notices this, he doesn’t show it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Fire Lord Zuko.”

King Kuei seems to remember Zuko’s there. “What did you say your favorite part of the city is?”

“There’s a tea shop in the Upper Ring called the Jasmine Dragon that I like.”

“Let’s go!” King Kuei cries.

Lord Thuyet raises an eyebrow. “Your Majesty, remember that you have afternoon appointments.”

“Oh, but he said it’s his favorite place!”

Tension gathers at the back of Zuko’s neck. He really does’t understand the dynamic playing out before him, but he knows they definitely don’t have to go to the Jasmine Dragon right now. He’d prefer to reunite with Uncle without King Kuei around, but …

Lord Thuyet opens his mouth to respond, but King Kuei interrupts, laying a hand on his forearm. “The appointments aren’t so important, are they?” he presses. “Could you take care of them for me?”

Lord Thuyet purses his lips. “If you insist,” he says, and the king beams. Lord Thuyet turns to Zuko. “Fire Lord Zuko, I will see to your company being settled. Are there any refreshments you would like sent to your rooms?”

“Thank you, but I’m okay,” Zuko says.

“Make sure he has plenty of those little cakes,” King Kuei says. “The ones I like.”

Lord Thuyet nods. “I’ll send for your carriage.”

Which is how, only an hour after he’s stepped foot in Ba Sing Se, Zuko finds himself sliding out of an over-stuffed carriage to land behind King Kuei at his uncle’s door.

The Jasmine Dragon isn’t terribly busy, which is almost worse: as soon as King Kuei enters, every eye in the shop is trained on them. Zuko’s sure his own formal dress and headpiece don’t help. “Ah, I’ve been here before!” King Kuei exclaims. “It’s run by such a nice man! He used to be a general in the Fire Nation army, you know.”

Zuko blinks. “I do,” he says. “He’s my uncle.”

King Kuei’s mouth falls open; then he brightens. “Oh! I think I remember him saying that.”

The server who had dashed to the kitchen as soon they entered reemerges, a distrusting tension to her jaw. She’s followed by Uncle, and Zuko’s chest tightens to see that in only a year, the lines of his forehead have deepened and there’s a new sunspot on his right temple. His eyes twinkle as soon as they land on Zuko; it’s only for propriety’s sake that Uncle addresses King Kuei first with a low bow. “Welcome back, King Kuei,” Uncle rumbles. “It’s quite an honor to have both you and the Fire Lord in my humble shop.”

“Fire Lord Zuko insisted!” King Kuei replies. 

Zuko’s neck burns. No, he did not insist, but he’s not going to refute the king, and besides, Uncle’s pulling him in for a hug that immediately makes Zuko feel like he’s settled down to his bones. “I’ve missed you, Uncle.”

“I’ve missed you too, nephew.”

They settle in for tea, and Zuko’s wondering if they’re really going to talk international politics in a public setting when King Kuei waves Uncle over. He quickly realizes that politics is the last thing they’re going to talk about; in fact, most of the conversation is just King Kuei and Uncle exchanging thoughts on the latest plays and operas they’ve seen. Zuko is content to sip his tea and listen to his elders, in no small part because he still doesn’t get King Kuei. When does he have time to see all these shows and gossip about the casts when he’s supposed to be running the largest kingdom in the nation?

The rest of the shop’s customers have become completely new parties twice before King Kuei suddenly perks up. “Iroh, will you be joining us at the Rumble tonight?”

Zuko looks up at King Kuei. They hadn’t discussed Earth Rumble II: Ba Sing Se once in the last several hours. Bishal and Yawen also perk up, but Zuko’s certain they’re just excited about the prospect of going to the Rumble on their first night in the city. 

Uncle smiles. “How could I say no to an invitation from a good friend?”

King Kuei claps with excitement. “Excellent! This will be such fun. Now, if you’ll excuse me — I need to freshen up.”

Uncle bows his head, and King Kuei rises to head for the bathroom, his guards peeling off in his wake.

Zuko’s not going to question why King Kuei needs such an escort to relieve himself; he’s grateful that he and his guards have essentially been left alone with his uncle. “What’s his deal?” Zuko whispers, his voice coming out harsher than expected.

Uncle loses the genial expression he’s held constant since King Kuei entered the shop. He gestures for Zuko to quiet down. “The leader of the Dai Li had been running Ba Sing Se since the king was a young boy, so he never learned how to be a true leader. He has a different advisor now who makes the decisions for him.”

Zuko frowns. Since becoming the Fire Lord, the few interactions he’s had with King Kuei marked him as prone to nervous and laughter-filled rambling, but still a well-meaning leader trying to figure out what’s best for his nation. This King Kuei, however, doesn’t hesitate at all with his words — and also doesn’t appear to talk about his kingdom at all.

“When did this start?” he asks.

A glint enters Uncle’s eyes. “Do you remember, nephew, what I’ve always told you about pai sho?”

“Don’t eat the tiles.”

Uncle charitably ignores Zuko’s sarcasm. “The average pai sho player only sees his opponent’s pattern once it’s nearly complete. But his opponent knew from the first piece he laid what art he would create by his final turn.”

“Someone put the advisor near King Kuei a while ago,” Zuko translates.

Uncle nods.

And if Uncle used pai sho for his analogy … Uncle would never confirm it, but Zuko has a feeling the Order of the White Lotus was involved. “Lord Thuyet?” he asks.

Uncle lifts his mug of tea. With his hands blocking most of his face, only Zuko can see his wink.

King Kuei returns like a whirlwind, and before Zuko knows it, they’re crammed into the carriage again — this time even more crowded, since Uncle is with them — and headed for the Middle Ring. King Kuei has his own, not-so-hidden entrance to the Rumble, and when they finally arrive at a high-ceilinged underground room decorated with lavish tapestries, Zuko is not surprised that an entire dinner has already been laid out for him, the king, and Uncle. 

Zuko looks at Bishal and Yawen. He’s always taken his meals with his guards when traveling, and it feels wrong to not have seats for them at the table, but Yawen subtly shakes her head while Bishal mimes something incomprehensible. “Roasted nuts,” Bishal eventually whispers, and oh. Zuko forgot about the concession food.

The conversation turns to past Rumble matches, and Zuko’s once again at a loss for how to contribute. At least the plays and operas were interesting to hear about. Impatience writhes underneath his skin, making his fingers twitch and legs bounce with the need to do something. He hopes they don’t stay long at the Rumble — as soon as they return to King Kuei’s estate, he’s dragging Bishal and Yawen to a place where they can spar. Is this how King Kuei goes about his days? Drinking and eating and chatting about the different types of body oil that Rumble contenders have started using —?

BOOM.

Zuko jumps out of his seat, whipping around to the stone door that suddenly swung out of the wall, and Toph cackles. “Scared ya, did I?”

“Hello, Toph!” King Kuei sings, unfazed.

Zuko sighs, dropping his shoulders as the burst of energy in his limbs dissipates. “Wasn’t scared,” he says, wondering if he should ask Toph if they could do a round in the ring. Is Earth Rumble just for earthbenders?

Toph reaches his side and punches his arm before pulling him into an equally bruising hug. “You know I can tell when people are lying,” she says into his ear before letting him go.

Her voice has changed in the last year, dropping and rounding out its timbre in a way that makes Zuko think that, while she isn’t quite an adult yet, Toph isn’t a kid anymore, either. “I really wasn’t scared,” he says, and she just socks him again.

“You guys are gonna miss the fight if you keep sitting around and stuffing your faces.”

“Yes!” King Kuei agrees, shooting to his feet. “Let’s go!”

Zuko doesn’t miss Toph grabbing a plate of seared elephant koi as she heads back to the door she created, so he doesn’t feel bad about snagging two handfuls of meat and vegetable skewers to pass to Bishal and Yawen.

The arena is at least half-full, and Zuko’s certain it’ll be packed by the last few matches of the night. They don’t use King Kuei’s box — “Bosco will be very upset if I watch from our box without him,” King Kuei explains — but they’re still centered on the action. Zuko keeps an eye peeled for passing vendors; only after he’s bought a pouch of roasted nuts for his guards and Uncle does he resign himself to watching the match.

“Where’s Haru?” he asks Toph at one point.

“Dealing with his heartbreak,” Toph answers dismissively.

“His what?”

“He— Holy Shu!” She grabs a handful of Uncle’s sleeve, yanking on it excitedly. “Iroh, that move was insane!”

She’s not the only one in the crowd getting excited; Zuko glances at the ring, but he obviously missed the moment, both opponents returned to their feet and circling each other warily.

Uncle laughs heartily. “That was a clever move. Sakura is more of a fox every time she enters the ring.”

“Heartbreak?” Zuko tries again.

Toph nods, tossing a piece of elephant koi into her mouth. “Yeah. Some girl stomped on his feelings, like I told him she was gonna, and now he’s sad.”

“Oh.”

“Don’t worry, I’m taking him out again once he’s done crying, and he’ll see that he’s not missing anything. Wanna come with us?”

Zuko picks up a piece of elephant koi. It feels strange to not use chopsticks for seared seafood. “I’m supposed to be here for international peace and world harmony,” he grumbles.

She elbows him, and he almost chokes on his bite. “Live a little, Hotman.”

“I am living.”

“Geez, are you moping too? Did you also get your heart broken?”

“What? No.” He’s not moping. He’s just extremely annoyed to be here, when he and King Kuei should be — somewhere else. Anywhere else, doing things more useful than this, as their duty binds them to.

Toph tsks, shaking her head. “First Sokka, then Haru, now you … if you guys keep this up, I’m gonna start getting sad.”

Zuko blinks. “What do you mean, Sokka?”

Her nonchalant expression slips into something more somber. “He was in Ba Sing Se maybe a couple months after Suki ended things? Haru and I got him to go out with us, but I think he was still pretty sad when he left.”

Zuko frowns. “What did Suki en—” Oh. Get your heart broken, Toph had said. “Suki broke up with Sokka,” he realizes.

“Yeah. Just after the new year.” Toph tilts her head. “Didja not know?”

“No.” 

It feels like he still doesn’t know. When he thinks of Sokka and Suki, he thinks of Suki’s bright laughter and how Sokka always found a way to touch her, an arm around her back or a finger curled around a sash on her uniform. They never fought like Zuko and Mai did; they were elated to encounter each other and sad to part ways. How could that possibly be over?

“OHH!!” Toph screeches.

Zuko jolts, and suddenly everyone around him is screaming excitedly. Toph’s shout turns into delighted laughter, and she pounds Zuko’s thigh with a fist. “Ow,” Zuko protests.

“She caught him!” Toph says gleefully.

“Zuko, did you see that?” Bishal urges.

Down in the ring, a massive wall of rock rises from the competition floor, fanned and curling like a tempest's wave. Where a wave would crest, though, one of the contenders is hanging by his ankles, suspended above the ground. As Zuko watches, he writhes and flails in the air — from irritation, it seems, and not pain. His opponent pays him no mind, flexing her large and well-oiled arms to the approval of the crowd.

Uncle chuckles merrily, recovered from his initial surprise. “That was a risky move. She could have broken his ankles.”

“That punk would be lucky to have his ankles broken by Sakura,” Toph replies, grinding her fist into her opposite hand.

“Zuko, did you miss it?” Bishal asks.

Zuko misses so many things, he realizes, that it’s a wonder he catches anything at all. He didn’t visit Shu Jing until a few weeks into the new year — how did he miss a heartbreak so fresh? His memories fit together differently now: the brittleness behind Sokka’s smiles, the hollowness of his cheeks. Sometimes good things don’t work out.

“I’m seeing it now,” Zuko says.

To his great relief, King Kuei deigns to have actual kingdom-related conversations the next day.

It helps that Zuko dragged Bishal out of bed as soon as the sun woke him, for an hour of sparring followed by meditation; the tension and nerves built up from yesterday are lowered to manageable levels. He’s also able to take his first meal of the day with his guards and attendants before meeting King Kuei in Bosco’s quarters.

Zuko can’t say he’s shocked that the bear — just a bear — has an entire set of well-maintained rooms within King Kuei’s residence. It makes sense in the same way that most things about King Kuei don’t make sense. But as they take the bear on a walk through the estate and King Kuei starts discussing developments in Ba Sing Se over the last couple years, the king finally starts speaking in a language that Zuko can understand: governance and bureaucracy and pride in a capital that’s recovering from many horrid years.

Lord Thuyet’s name comes up frequently as King Kuei speaks, so much so that Zuko doesn’t notice the exact moment when the man himself appears, shadowing the king with his hands clasped behind his back. “Lord Thuyet,” Zuko acknowledges when he catches his eye, and the king’s advisor nods.

“Thuyet!” Lord Thuyet doesn’t blink at the familiar address. “You’re early.”

“My morning appointments were quick. Shall we return Bosco to his rooms and bring the Fire Lord to the reception hall?”

The reception hall is as large as the Fire Nation’s old throne room, but it’s no where near as empty as when Ozai sat on the throne: government officials, advisors, and palace staff constantly pass through the room. Harried clerks staff a whole bank of desks on the southern half of the hall.

The three of them sit at a grander table at the northern half of the room, where their discussions are frequently interrupted by people dashing up to consult with the king, who defers most everything, Zuko notices, to Lord Thuyet. Lord Thuyet listens calmly and then gives answers that don’t contain a single excess word. He doesn’t appear to notice the way King Kuei intently watches him all the while.

Around noon, the next person to scurry up to their table bows hurriedly and presents a scroll to Lord Thuyet. “News from the Hong Forest,” he tells King Kuei. “A port has been— ”

“Let’s have lunch,” King Kuei interrupts, standing abruptly.

The messenger blinks. “Your Majesty— ”

King Kuei turns to Zuko and smiles. “Fire Lord Zuko, you must be hungry. Come with me.”

Zuko glances at the messenger, but Lord Thuyet has already turned him aside, speaking in a low tone that Zuko can’t parse. 

Through a long lunch, Zuko fails to figure out why King Kuei abruptly interrupted the messenger. The Earth Kingdom has ports all around its borders, but there’s a good chance that any Hong Forest port faces the Fire Nation first and foremost. In any other court, Zuko’s suspicion would be aroused, but King Kuei doesn’t seem capable of deception. He didn’t seem to be hiding something from Zuko; it felt more like he wanted to escape.

So he tries again, once they’ve returned to the reception hall, to bring it up. “What happened in the Hong Forest?”

King Kuei’s eyes dart nervously. “Weren’t we talking about — ah, about the — the um. Yes! The trains?”

Zuko holds his ground. “What happened to the port?”

The king abruptly stands up. “I forgot I told Bosco I would take him out this afternoon,” he announces. “Thuyet, will you be —”

Lord Thuyet dips his head. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

Zuko watches King Kuei leave, his head held high and several guards peeling away from the walls to follow him.

“You’ll have to excuse the king, Fire Lord Zuko,” Lord Thuyet says.

Zuko regards the man sitting across from him. His expression is placid, his hands folded calmly on the table. “He became king when he was only five, so Long Feng, the head of the Dai Li, actually ran Ba Sing Se until the Fire Princess usurped him.”

“Does he have an aversion to ports?”

Something sharp flashes in Lord Thuyet’s eyes, and Zuko bites his tongue. He’s letting his irritation get to him in front of someone he should not offend. “King Kuei doesn’t have experience with more complicated conversations,” Lord Thuyet explains, “and he does not enjoy them. We don’t want to push him past his limits.”

Limits? What kind of ruler has time to think about limits, the luxury to retreat when things are difficult or disagreeable?

Lord Thuyet refolds his hands. “The port you’re asking about is one of the ports at the base of the Hong Forest mountains. It’s been seized and its activities shut down by Fire Nation colonizers.”

He takes a scroll from the pile beside him and slides it to Zuko. The missive within is short and to the point; it’s worrisome, but not, unfortunately, unexpected. “My council has been monitoring the situation in the Hong Forest,” Zuko says. “We’re aware of escalating tension in the former colonies.”

Lord Thuyet’s eyebrows lift at aware. “How does awareness help the Earth Kingdom citizens who’ve had their homes occupied for generations?”

“We’re actively building the infrastructure to support Fire Nation citizens returning to the archipelago, and devising an incentive structure—”

“There cannot be an incentive seductive enough to entice your citizens to leave a village under their control. We need your action, Fire Lord Zuko.”

Zuko’s jaw tightens. “You might not have been there, Lord Thuyet, but your king and I signed a treaty forbidding my nation from sending forces into Earth Kingdom territory. We ceded the Hong Forest the year that the war ended. I am not going to break that treaty.”

“That treaty is meant to prevent war, not prolong the Earth Kingdom’s suffering.”

“I will not break it.”

“Then how am I supposed to help our people?” Lord Thuyet demands. “This will not be the first port your people seize, and our kingdom has no navy.”

Zuko blinks. The Earth Kingdom has been saying for years, ever since naval power proved to be vital in combatting the Fire Nation, that they’re developing their navy. “What happened to the plans for strengthening your navy?”

For the first time, Lord Thuyet’s composure breaks, bitterness twisting his lips. “The engineer we hoped would help expand our fleet rejected our request for his further involvement.” 

He doesn’t elaborate, so Zuko pushes on. “I promised my council that the citizens of our nation will return to the archipelago by the end of the summer,” Zuko says. “I make that same promise to you and King Kuei.”

Lord Thuyet purses his lips. “You’ll have to forgive me, Fire Lord Zuko, if I don’t trust words alone.”

Zuko wants to give more than his word, but even as his mind flips through the most recent missives he’s exchanged with Eun and Li Bai and Kimiko, there’s nothing yet that Zuko can offer and trust that it will come to fruition. 

Apparently, Lord Thuyet doesn’t expect a response; he takes the scroll back from Zuko and then pulls a different one from his stack. “I wanted to discuss your councilor’s latest proposal for international air travel,” he says. “There are provisions I’d like added if we are to move forward.”

Ba Sing Se is much more exhausting than the Northern Water Tribe had been.

Though they do make progress in the days of ceaseless conversations, particularly when King Kuei is absent, Zuko feels like he spends as much energy thinking and speaking as he does attempting to understand the king and his advisor. At home, he’d have the chance in the evening to rest his mind and appease his agitated body by practicing his bending forms or sparring, but here, his nights are taken up by elaborate dinners or the Rumble.

He’s aware that his mood is souring, and he hates that he feels helpless to spiraling in it. He knows Bishal and Yawen have caught on, but there isn’t much they can do — Zuko chose these packed days for himself, and he’s determined to see them through.

On the fourth night, when they’re once again at the Rumble with King Kuei and a retinue of his attendants, Toph greets Zuko by ruffling his hair. Zuko bats her hand away before thinking and immediately regrets it. He’s lucky King Kuei is totally absorbed in conversation with an attendant. “I’m sorry— ”

Toph grins, smacking his back so hard the air shoots out of his lungs. “Finally, feisty Zuko is back.”

Zuko glowers as he wheezes. “Fire Lords don’t get to be feisty.”

“That’s boring. You need to let off some steam.”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.” She leans closer to him, dropping her voice. “Remember that market we went to last time you were here?”

“What about it?”

“Ditch your guards and meet me there tomorrow night.”

Zuko glances at his guards. Bishal’s desperately trying to flag down a vendor as Yawen smirks at his increasingly dramatic antics. “I can’t,” he tells Toph.

“Pfft. You’re so lame, Zuko.”

“I’m not lame— ”

“You’re the lamest. The biggest loser I know.”

“Hey!”

“Even Haru is cooler than you are.”

Zuko glares at her. Even if she can’t see it, maybe she can still feel it. “You’re doing this on purpose,” he accuses.

“Duh, Sifu Hotman.”

He crosses his arms and petulantly refuses to talk to her for the rest of the night. But the idea is there, turning over and over in his mind and worsening his agitation.

Toph happily ignores him until the matches are over. As they all part ways, she slings an arm around his neck, pulling him down to her level, and says quietly, “I’ll be waiting for you, right when the first match starts.”

He can’t help, as he’s walking with Bishal and Yawen to the reception hall the next morning, cataloging guard stations and blind spots on roofs. It’s good information to have, he reasons. He doesn’t need to use it. He’s not going to use it.

They arrive at the hall to discover that Lord Thuyet is still tied up in appointments from the early morning; the next hours are wasted to King Kuei planning Bosco’s birthday celebration. By the time Lord Thuyet finally joins them, Zuko’s wrist is tight from repeatedly clenching his fist in his lap, and his temples throb from his repressed frustration.

Lunch is no reprieve: they dine with the cast of an opera that King Kuei loves, and Zuko can barely eat between making polite conversation with a room full of strangers and fielding ceaseless questions from an actress who is, apparently, playing a Fire Nation noblewoman for her next role. “It’s quite a romantic piece,” she reassures him. “She falls for this general from the Earth Kingdom, and though their passion is tempestuous, the general can’t forget the girl who used to serve him tea at the shop next to his family’s home.”

“What does he decide in the end?”

“Oh, he chooses the girl, of course.” The actress smiles coyly. “The exotic is only exciting for so long, isn’t it?”

Zuko sets down his chopsticks, something in his belly twinging strangely. “What happens to the noblewoman?”

“She confesses to her husband that the general is her true love, so her husband kills her.” She sighs dreamily. “I love when my roles are unabashedly themselves.”

Zuko takes a long pull of his tea so he doesn’t have to respond.

Lord Thuyet returns by the afternoon, but King Kuei is resolute in planning for Bosco. Zuko wonders where Lord Thuyet draws his patience from. If Zuko were a worse version of himself, he would’ve been shouting at King Kuei hours ago.

As it is, when King Kuei suggests they attend the Rumble again, Zuko forcibly arranges his face into a regretful smile and says he has letters to catch up on. He really does, too, and he tries to start mentally drafting a response to Mai’s most recent correspondence as he returns to their guest quarters, but his eyes keep catching on how the shadows have shifted since the morning, on which guards are moving to what position.

“Should we call for dinner?” Bishal asks as they near their rooms.

“Please, no. I just want something simple.”

“Are you sure you don’t want fried sweet potato? Some bean curd puffs?”

“You want bean curd puffs,” Yawen says.

The thought of Rumble concessions exhausts Zuko. “You two should still go to the Rumble,” he says. “Just because I’m tired— ”

“We don’t mind staying in,” Bishal says.

“I’m going to eat some noodles and then write letters while surrounded by twenty attendants and the guards of Kuei’s estate,” Zuko insists. “Go. I know you want to.”

He slides open the rice paper door to their quarters and is met with a murmured chorus of Good evening, Fire Lord, from the attendants in the main room. It’s the usual greeting, but tonight, it sends his skin crawling.

Bishal leans closer as he follows Zuko to his room, a genuine worry in his undertone. “It feels wrong to entertain ourselves when you’re not having a good time.”

Finally, Zuko’s able to remove his headpiece and yank out the ribbon holding his topknot. A strand of his hair lands on his cheek; he blows it out of the way. “We’re only stuck here for a few more days,” he tells Bishal. “I’ll feel better if I know at least some people are able to have fun.”

Yawen appears in the doorway. “Noodles will be here soon.”

Zuko nods his thanks to her. “Seriously, both of you. Go to the Jasmine Dragon, borrow some Earth Kingdom clothes from my uncle, and enjoy the Rumble. You’ve also been working without a break — you more than deserve a night.”

Yawen smiles, but Bishal still hesitates. “We could find a playhouse,” he suggests.

Before Zuko opens his mouth, Yawen says, “Bean curd puffs, Bishal. Come on.”

Bishal twists to look at her, and Zuko secretly shoots Yawen a grateful smile. When Bishal turns back, he claps a hand on Zuko’s arm. “Get to bed early, okay?”

Zuko nods. Rest will do him some good. “Tell my uncle I’m sorry to miss him.”

He watches his guards leave the room, Yawen shutting the door behind them, and a tension knotted in his gut finally relaxes.

He does eat the noodles, and he does write his reply to Mai’s letter, as well as respond to a short memo from Kimiko. He blows out the candles in his room hours before he usually does and crawls into bed with the determination to fall sleep. 

Determination, apparently, isn’t enough.

The deep-hooded cloak that he’d buried deep in his travel pack, next to the balm for his shoulder that he never really uses and a book of one-act plays that he accidentally took from Ty Lee’s uncle’s house, is easy enough to dig out. And it’s all too simple to shimmy out of his window and steal across the roofs until he can drop onto a carriage departing from King Kuei’s estate. Within the time it takes to brew a pot of ginger tea, Zuko’s freely traversing the cobblestone streets of the Upper Ring, the lone thump of his footsteps reassuring him of his solitude.

With each full stride, the stretch in his legs soothes the jagged energy that’s been mounting beneath his skin for days. Guilt flares in the back of his mind every so often — he knows, all too well, what Bishal’s betrayed anger looks and feels like — but each time it’s snuffed out by the instinctual knowledge that this choice was the right one. He feels it in his lungs and his veins.

Besides, he won’t be alone for long. Surely the company of the greatest earthbender in the world more than makes up for his lack of guards.

The Rumble started some time ago, and the market’s fully closed, but Toph’s still standing on the corner where he bought bread and cheese and cherries the last time that she convinced him to sneak out. Unexpectedly, Haru is also with her, patiently prying open pistachios and handing every other to Toph. “Finally,” Toph says. “We were about to leave, you know.”

The affectionate punch to his arm makes him feel like she’s bluffing. “Where are we going?”

She loops an arm around Zuko’s, and they take off, Haru falling in step with them. “There’s a cool spot in the Middle Ring that Haru and I found recently. It’s chill — people don’t care who you are.”

“We’re going there?” Haru asks.

“Yeah, Haru, because you need to get back out there.”

Zuko’s still stuck on don’t care who you are. “They’re going to know I’m — from the Fire Nation?”

“Relax, Hotman. You’re just Zuko right now.” She tugs on the sleeve of his cloak. “And I meant that they won’t care about whatever disguise you got going on right now.”

Unlike the Upper Ring, where most nighttime activities happen indoors at specific venues, the Middle Ring’s streets have life. Eateries open their windows wide to the streets, and groups of people drink in storefronts or play games while sitting on stoops. No one gives Zuko and his companions a second glance.

Zuko, however, keeps stealing glances at Haru. He doesn’t know Haru as well as he knows Sokka, but he can see the sadness Haru’s carrying, from the slouch of his gait to the glum set of his mouth. He wonders, not for the first time, how Sokka hid his broken heart and why. Why didn’t he say anything to Zuko about his break-up?

But Sokka isn’t here, right now, and there’s no telling where in the world he is. “Hey,” Zuko says in Haru’s direction. “How’ve you been?”

Haru startles. “Uh. I’ve been okay.”

“Geez,” Toph says, “you’re calling your recent state okay?”

“Hey.”

“He’s been burying himself in the Rumble and then drinking until he cries,” Toph informs Zuko.

“Toph!”

“Am I lying?”

“You could say it more tactfully.”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko says. “Endings are hard.”

They take a turn, and suddenly the streets turn darker and quieter. Cobblestones give way to packed dirt that was probably once covered in gravel. “It actually didn’t even start for Haru,” Toph says.

“Toph,” Haru whines.

“I told you she wasn’t looking for anything serious!” Toph retorts. Their back and forth sounds like a well-tread conversation. “She wasn’t cool enough for you anyway. We’re gonna make sure you meet some fun people tonight who can remind you that there are much cooler people in this stupid city than Binna, and who actually want to hang out with you.”

Zuko blanches. “We’re meeting strangers?”

“Haru’s meeting strangers. You and I are gonna drink.”

Their destination, it turns out, is a bar. It looks as quiet and unassuming as the rest of the street, the lit yellow lanterns on either side of its entrance the only indication that it’s open. Curiosity pricks the back of Zuko’s neck; he’s pretty sure that Toph’s idea of fun is usually synonymous with loud. “Here?” he asks when she drags him and Haru up to the entrance.

Toph smiles. “Just wait.”

She lets go of Zuko to shove Haru inside. Zuko adjusts his hood and follows.

Immediately, he’s overwhelmed by the thick scent of liquor and bodies, followed by a gentler wave of murmured conversations and muted laughter. Candles are few and far in between, just enough to give a sense of space and to make everyone’s skin glow warmly when it catches the light. Toph has marched Haru straight to the bar, where the barkeep exchanges familiar greetings with them as he prepares drinks.

Someone jostles into him, and Zuko unfreezes, weaving through the patrons until he reaches his friends. Sweat is already beading on his neck and back; he hopes they can find a less-crowded corner, because it’s not like he can take his hood off.

“What do you want, honey?”

It takes Zuko a moment to realize that he’s the honey that the barkeep addressed. “Give him some of the local sake,” Toph’s already answering for him. “Something dry.”

The barkeep winks at Zuko and turns to prepare his drink. 

Zuko leans closer to Toph. “This is calmer than I expected.”

“Yeah. It’s a pretty mellow night.” She sighs heavily. “Ba Sing Se is so boring.”

“What? I thought you liked it here.”

Zuko’s carafe of sake appears at his elbow with a small porcelain cup. As soon as they hit the bar, Toph’s tugging on Zuko’s sleeve. “Let’s go up.”

He didn’t notice the stairs when they first walked in; they hug the wall opposite the bar and lead to an open space full of low tables and benches loosely screened by translucent curtains. Toph pauses at the top of the stairs and then beelines for a smaller table in the back corner, where the light doesn’t reach as well and there’s a clear view of the rest of the floor. He doesn’t know why Toph chose it, but Zuko’s relieved — it’s the spot he would have chosen, too.

Before Zuko’s even fully settled in the corner, Toph asks, “Any cuties, Haru?”

Haru slouches onto the bench opposite Zuko. “No.”

“C’mon, Haru, you didn’t even look.”

“How do you know I didn’t look?”

“Because your voice.”

Haru glances at Zuko, something pleading in his expression. Zuko pours himself a shot as an excuse to look away. “What if Binna’s here?” Haru asks.

“Then I’ll kick her butt.”

As Haru and Toph continue to squabble, Zuko observes his surroundings. There are less people on this floor, but there’s a greater sense of intimacy: people stand closer than they need to, angle their shoulders toward one another while seated. It feels markedly different from the few bars Zuko has been to in the Fire Nation, where lights blaze everywhere so the endless supply of fried foods is easy to see, where drinking is as much about the food as the drinks. If hunger drove someone to this bar, Zuko muses, what they’re craving probably isn’t food.

The clarity of his own thought startles him. He downs his shot and pours another.

A peal of chiming laughter cuts through the air, and Zuko perks up, Mai! at the tip of his tongue before he remembers there’s no way Mai could be in Ba Sing Se right now. He finds the source of the coy laughter: on a pile of cushions near the stairs, a young woman with elaborately braided hair giggles at the short man who’s leaning over her. She doesn’t look anything like Mai, but Zuko’s chest still twinges, Azula’s voice sneering in the back of his head, I never understood what she saw in you, anyway.

He lifts his sake right as the man twists to grab the carafe sitting before him, and oh. She’s actually a woman with a man’s hair and dress. Or is she?

The person turns back to the woman with Mai’s laugh, saying something that makes a lovely smile bloom on her face, and Zuko realizes: it hardly matters. The warmth between and around the two of them is beautiful in a way that makes Zuko’s gut ache, and … what would it feel like, to be inside that instead of without?

Something knocks into Zuko’s frozen arm, sending sake splashing across the table. “Hey!” Zuko protests.

“Don’t finish all of that without me,” Toph says, sliding out from their table.

Zuko drinks what’s left of his shot, swiping his tongue over the back of his thumb where some of the drink splashed. “Where are you going?”

She’s already got a fistful of Haru’s shirt, dragging him to his feet. “Making sure this guy talks to someone other than us,” she says. 

“Toph,” Haru whines, again.

She grins. “You know, you might learn a thing or two from watching us,” she tells Zuko, pushing Haru toward the center of the room. “I heard you haven’t gotten a girl since Mai dumped you.”

Indignation flares. Who did she hear that from? “I’m trying to run a nation,” Zuko hisses.

“Call me Sifu,” Toph tosses over her shoulder.

Grumpily, Zuko pours a shot and downs it.

He ends up watching his friends, though, because what else is there to do? He doesn’t know how they choose where to go, but they end up standing at a crowded table on the other side of the room and then sitting when, somehow, room is made for them. From there, they’re absorbed into the group with an ease that makes Zuko feel unbalanced. Can he recall ever walking up to a group of strangers and being immediately welcomed? If it wasn’t his status that forced people to keep distance from him, it was the scar on his face, or the pinched brow that used to be born of his anger and now surfaces with his exhaustion.

For all of Haru’s pouting, it doesn’t take long for the man sitting next to him to get Haru to smile; on the other side of the table, Toph’s new friends keep challenging her to arm wrestle. Toph’s cackle, when she wins, turns heads from halfway across the room. Haru’s companion wipes something from the corner of Haru’s lip, and the grin Haru gives him in response is nothing like any of Haru’s expressions that Zuko’s seen before.

Zuko shifts his weight, pouring himself another shot. He catches movement in the corner of his eye, and that’s all the warning he has before a stranger is leaning across half of his table, smiling at Zuko like they know each other. “Hi, mister with the gorgeous shoulders,” the stranger says. “Can you help me out, for a moment?”

“What?” Zuko stutters. What makes shoulders gorgeous?

His smile slips into something more apologetic, his narrow brown eyes pinning Zuko against his seat. “I might’ve made up a little lie to get out of a tricky situation,” he admits. “I was hoping you could help me sell the story.”

Zuko’s fingers flex around his carafe. There’s unmistakeable intent rolling off of the stranger, but at the same time, Zuko doesn’t feel like he’s in danger. It’s a strange sensation. “What’s the story?”

The stranger takes his question as an invitation to slide onto Zuko’s bench, settling near Zuko with his torso twisted to face him. “A not-very-cute man wasn’t taking the hint,” he explains, “and I happened to notice that a certain someone was staring in my direction.”

One of the stranger’s arms lands behind Zuko’s shoulders, a finger pressing lightly against Zuko’s back. A chill ghosts over Zuko’s skin. He swallows. “Who was it?”

The stranger’s eyes slide to the side. “Mm. See the one with the ponytail, wearing light green?”

It takes a moment for Zuko to find him. He looks like a very ordinary person, maybe a bit older than Zuko. He’d be unmemorable if not for the intensity with which he’s watching Zuko and this stranger.

Zuko glances at the stranger; his gaze is also fixed on Zuko. 

He looks down at his drink, wondering if he’d be giving himself away by downing his shot. A direct gaze is asking for something. The back of his neck feels sticky beneath his hood. “And who was staring at you?”

The stranger laughs, the sound low and rich and curling through Zuko’s ears and into his stomach. “You, of course. What’s your name?”

“Lee.”

“I’m Kodai.” 

A finger nudges under Zuko’s chin, bumping Zuko’s gaze higher until he’s trapped in dark, intent eyes. They’re close, Zuko realizes, Kodai somehow having drifted further into his space without Zuko noticing. He waits for an alarm to toll through his body and return him to himself, for any sense of danger to reach him, but it doesn’t come. Has he drunk too much?

“I hope you don’t mind, Lee,” Kodai says, “that I told him you’re my boyfriend.”

No, Zuko realizes. He hasn’t drunk too much. It’s the hand splayed across his back, the fingers resting lightly on his thigh, that’s making him feel like this. His voice sounds like it’s being dragged across the rocky shores of Roku’s Island when he tells Kodai, “I don’t mind.”

“Kiss me,” Kodai murmurs, tipping his head to the side.

The hand on Zuko’s leg squeezes, and Zuko closes the space between them. It’s been over a year, he thinks, and then —

Warmth, pressure, and softness, the lips against his gentle and exploratory until they’re suddenly not, hungry and demanding something from Zuko that he tries to give with his hands. They roam over a thin chest, narrow hips, learning by touch shapes and lines that feel unfamiliar — a foreignness that makes his heart beat faster, not with fear but with excitement. He wants to know.

The hand on his back rises to squeeze the base of his neck, and Zuko inhales sharply, his reaction eliciting laughter that breaks against his lips. He tries to drag the waist in his hands closer to him, to get the heat inside him to rise higher, but he’s met with resistance. He’s kissed once more, and then Kodai pulls away enough to say something, whispering what sounds like a half-bitten word. Let go? Leave?

“Lee.”

Zuko’s eyes fly open. Kodai thinks he’s talking to Lee.

Kodai’s looking at him with those intense eyes, the tilt of his grin almost stirring the dropped fever in Zuko’s veins. “Ready to go, are we?”

“Huh?”

Kodai’s hand slides up Zuko’s thigh, and Zuko hisses, jolting against the broad palm that presses against a hardness that Zuko hadn’t realized had sprung up. Kodai chuckles, leaning in to press his lips against the edge of Zuko’s chin. “Do you feed the king’s bear?” he murmurs.

What is he— “What?” Zuko asks. His hood’s still on. And how could he know who Zuko really is, anyway? He said Lee. Lee. “How would I know Bosco?” he bluffs.

The teasing fingers dancing across Zuko’s skin freeze. Kodai fully pulls away. “Who’s Bosco?”

Zuko is so lost. “The bear?”

Kodai blinks. For the first time, Zuko wonders how much Kodai can actually see of his face between the low light and the deep hood. He’s having trouble parsing the man’s expression, and he doesn’t expecting the tweak of his nose. “Baby,” Kodai says simply. 

He looks over his shoulder, and Zuko follows his gaze to see that the man from earlier is gone. Beyond the unoccupied space, Haru’s staring at Zuko, shock clear in his features even from across the room.

Zuko drops his eyes. This was the opposite of inconspicuous.

A hand squeezes Zuko’s forearm. Kodai’s looking kindly at him. “Thanks for helping put on a little show.”

He slides back out of the bench, and Zuko’s hand briefly chases him before his mind catches up. This little lie is over, now; he doesn’t have a right to take or ask for anything more. “I—” he blurts.

Kodai pauses, tilting his head. Zuko’s heart quickens, but neither words nor thoughts come to him, and after a moment, Kodai taps his knuckles against the table. “Stay safe out there, baby. People aren’t always gentle with naive young things.”

He doesn’t remember how he left the bar or how he snuck back into King Kuei’s estate. The only thing he can recall, when the sun pulls him from sleep in the morning, is baby, honey, baby, ringing over and over in his head.

The Rumble, he learns, had several long and exciting matches last night. He wonders if he should be thanking Toph and Haru for that — he’s grateful that Bishal and Yawen are a touch too tired to notice that Zuko’s lost in his own exhausted mind. He’s also grateful, now, for King Kuei’s ceaseless prattling and the ridiculous meals that go late into the evenings. They allow him to drift through the current moment, keeping at bay the memory of hot breath bursting against his lips, of fingers working up his thigh.

Dinner is long but not endless. When Zuko retreats to his room and retires to sleep, he finds that his drowsy mind from the day has been replaced by thoughts that flit like lightening bugs, flaring again in the dark each time he thinks he’ll finally drift off. Baby and honey are joined by Bosco? and Ready to go, are we? He revisits, first by accident and then with purpose, the sense memory of his lips catching on stubble, of fingers digging into his neck, of pressure against his arousal. It’s enough to stir the embers still smoldering within him, and he’s alarmed to feel himself responding, his blood thickening from memory alone.

He’s depraved. He’s lonely. So lonely that the brief touch of a strange man had him breathless and aching in a room full of people when he was supposed to be fast asleep in this very bed.

Zuko rolls onto his side, curling in on himself and reciting the rest of this trip’s itinerary in his head until he loses himself to unconsciousness.

Their last full day in Ba Sing Se is spent at the Jasmine Dragon. 

This day was planned solely for Zuko’s happiness, but he senses that King Kuei doesn’t mind that their ceaseless run of meetings has concluded earlier than it could have — last night, after thanking Zuko profusely for his visit, he fled their meal to make up the quality time he’s apparently lost with Bosco. Lord Thuyet gave Zuko a perfunctory bow before taking off, at a more controlled pace, after the king.

Wearing Earth Kingdom browns underneath his apron and wielding a familiar broom, Zuko feels more grounded than he has in days, even when the morning rush of customers is busier than usual. He flinches the first few times he’s called Lee, but it helps that his fake name is being barked by sulky teenagers instead of caressed by the tongue of a man. 

When the rush finally calms, he’s actually able to speak with his Uncle as they tidy the back of the shop. He tells Uncle about Kimiko and the astounding number of things she accomplished in just her first season on the council; he relays small anecdotes that Li Bai and Eun have shared about Shohei. Uncle paints the plots of the latest shows he’s seen and recounts stories from when Aang lasted visited and from when Sokka last crashed a local pai sho tournament.

With lunch comes another uptick in customers, so many that the staff has to take turns to eat their own meals. Zuko lets Uncle and the teenagers take their breaks before he and his guards retreat upstairs, where Zuko scarfs down congee as Bishal tries to describe to Yawen why it’s so challenging to brew the perfect pot of tea using bending.

“Basically, sustained control and concentration,” Yawen summarizes.

“Basically,” Bishal agrees.

“So if I ever want tea, I should ask Zuko instead of you.”

“What? No!”

Zuko laughs and starts choking on a slice of ginger. Bishal whacks his back, protesting, “I can brew tea just as well as Zuko.”

Zuko bats Bishal’s hand away, coughing harshly. 

A voice comes from the top of the stairs. “What’s going on here?”

Through watering eyes, Zuko sees Toph crossing her arms, Haru hovering a few steps below her. “Bishal thinks he can brew tea as well as Zuko,” Yawen says.

“No way.”

“What? Toph!” Bishal turns to Zuko. “Zuko, what’s the most difficult tea to brew?”

“Sencha.”

“Does the General have sencha here?”

“Yeah. It’s pretty popular.”

Bishal abruptly stands. “Yawen, I’m going to make you a flawless cup of sencha.”

Yawen raises an amused eyebrow. “Are you?”

“Yes! Get up!” He points at Toph and Haru. “You two, don’t let Zuko out of your sight for the next fifteen minutes.”

“That’s way longer than sencha takes,” Zuko notes. Yawen snorts as she gets to her feet.

“I know that! But it might be busy down there. I don’t want to get in the way.”

“Sure, Bishal,” Yawen says, pushing Bishal forward.

Toph and Haru settle in where Zuko’s guards once sat, Bishal’s tirade getting quieter as they go down the stairs and disappear into the shop. “That was easier than I thought it’d be,” Toph says.

“What was?” Zuko asks.

Toph punches his shoulder. “You disappeared the other night! Where did you go? Did you leave with that dude? And since when were you part of the club?”

Oh. She wanted to get rid of Bishal and Yawen. Zuko’s neck burns at the reminder that he apparently did, more or less, run off without warning his friends, but not before they caught him getting intimate with a stranger. “I went back,” he says, and then, in favor of pretending he never interacted with Kodai: “What club?”

“Our club.” Toph slings an arm around Haru’s neck, dragging him halfway to the floor. “Haru likes to kiss men and women. I like to kiss men and women. It seems like you like to kiss men and women.”

Zuko looks at Haru, who seems apologetic from what Zuko can see of him behind Toph’s arm and the hair that’s fallen in his face. “I — he said he needed help,” Zuko stumbles.

Toph snorts, releasing Haru. “Help with what?”

“There was a guy he didn’t like, so he pretended that I was his boyfriend, and—” He shuts his mouth, something acrid rising in his throat. It sounds ridiculous, Zuko realizes. Pretend boyfriend? And why did Kodai have to kiss him? Why did Zuko listen when Kodai told him kiss him? “I don’t know,” he blurts. “I just — he was there, and then he said something about Bosco, and then he left, and I—”

His throat closes up again, and he pushes away what’s left of his congee. For some reason, the fingers of his right hand are shaking.

“Hey,” Toph says, surprisingly gentle, unsurprisingly steady. “It’s okay if the excuse was flimsy. You can kiss a guy just because you want to.”

“I didn’t—” He cuts himself off again. He doesn’t want to lie to Toph, and he would be lying if he told her that he didn’t want …

Oh, Zuko realizes.

He buries his face in his hands, screwing his eyes shut. He feels feverish and cold all at once, his skin suddenly clammy when it wasn’t a moment before. He tries to reach for the sun inside of him, but his concentration is shot, and he can’t feel his own intrinsic flame at all, and oh, Spirits, did he lose everything that the dragons taught him? Panic bubbles up in his throat as he considers that yes, taking back their knowledge probably is the price the universe wants him to pay for succumbing, like the weak man he is, to the urges that he was once so good at ignoring.

“Zuko, you gotta breathe.”

A hand tugs at his wrist, too gentle to really pull him palms from his cheeks, but it’s enough: he stops seeing fireworks bursting against his eyelids, and his ribs creak open as air finds its way back into his lungs. His right cheek feels wet. He can sense his own fire again, burning low in his chest.

When he opens his eyes again, Toph still has her hand on his arm, and Haru’s crouched near Zuko with an empty basin. “What’s that for?” Zuko croaks.

“Uh. You looked like you might throw up, for a moment there.”

He rubs his face dry on his shoulder. “I’m okay.”

“You sure?” Toph asks skeptically. Her dry tone is belied by the furrow of her brow.

He has to be okay — Bishal and Yawen could come back any moment. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything,” Haru says.

Zuko shakes his head, saying again, “I’m sorry.”

Toph scoffs. “What do you think you’re apologizing for?” she demands.

Everything, he thinks nonsensically. “I’m sorry. Please, can we not …”

A door bangs open downstairs, and Zuko jumps, ducking his head and scrubbing away any lingering tears. He can hear only one set of footfalls, and it’s not Bishal or Yawen who finally appears — one of the teenagers, a girl with short hair who always looks deeply unimpressed, frowns coldly at Zuko. “Come help downstairs,” she says.

“I’ll be down in a minute.”

She stomps away, and Zuko uses the table to heave himself to his feet.

Toph tilts her head, also standing. “Zuko —”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re so bad at lying.”

It’s a call out, but the way she tucks her hand inside his elbow and briefly leans against him makes him feel like she, too, is apologizing in her own way.

Hours later, when the Jasmine Dragon has closed and the sun has fallen, it’s just him and Uncle left in the shop. Bishal and Yawen are playing pai sho out front; Toph and Haru left some time ago for the Rumble. Finally hanging up his apron, Zuko sighs as he sinks into a seat opposite his uncle at the table where they usually prepare tea settings. There’s a cup of jasmine waiting for him, and the smooth ceramic is warm against his palms as he takes his first sip.

“Ah, nephew,” Uncle says. “Is something weighing on your mind?”

Zuko almost spits his tea. Uncle can’t know, can he? He can’t. He’s probably just asking, and yeah, Zuko’s supposed to have many different things on his mind, always, and none of them to do with soft lips or a hot palm. “The reports Eun’s been receiving from the former colonies are lacking in substance,” he says. “Eun wants to send more people to be our eyes, but I don’t want to send more ships toward the Hong Forest.”

Uncle grumbles low in his chest. “The admiral’s instinct is right,” he says. “But remember, Fire Lord Zuko. The world does not have four corners so that the winds may only blow from one.”

Zuko frowns. He’s become better, over the years, at interpreting the things his uncle says, but what do the corners of the world have to do with the former colonies?

It does, however, make him think of Azula — Mai said in her last letter that they parted ways near Omashu, from where Mai went to Kyoshi Island and Azula and her attendants headed north again. Zuko has no idea where his sister could be. “I’m worried about Azula,” he says.

For a moment, Uncle’s eyes narrow, and Zuko’s shoulders immediately rise. “Do you feel she’s a threat to your safety?”

“No,” Zuko refutes. “I’m worried for her.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t know where she is, and she doesn’t write.”

“You must trust her very much.”

There’s something in Uncle’s voice that doesn’t sit right. “Do you think you know her better than I do?”

Uncle blinks calmly, as he always does when Zuko raises his voice, and Zuko’s surprised to find that he doesn’t feel chastised. He knows he understands Azula now better than Uncle does. How can Uncle’s opinion matter more than Zuko’s, when Uncle hasn’t even seen Azula in five years?

He sets his jaw and looks down at his tea, wondering if they’re about to argue, but when Uncle speaks next, he moves on as if Azula had never come up in the first place. “Master Piandao says you paid him a visit early in the year.”

“Did you see him recently?”

Uncle nods. “He came to Ba Sing Se to see an old friend perform in a traveling opera.”

Zuko hums, but then it occurs to him — how many people in opera could Piandao know, and for how many would he be willing to travel so far? “An old friend? Or an old partner?”

Uncle’s face darkens. “Ah. You’ve learned about Piandao’s ways, have you?” Zuko opens his mouth to protest — what, exactly, he doesn’t know — but Uncle presses on. “There are many things to respect about your old master, but he is far too quick and fickle with his attachments. You will not find love, Fire Lord Zuko, by flitting to every bright flower your path crosses.”

“I know I have a duty to the lineage,” Zuko reassures, even as guilt springs in his gut at the certainty of his eternal lonesomeness.

Uncle’s eyes widen. “I was not speaking of bloodlines! I am speaking for your heart, nephew.”

Zuko swallows. “Did you love Aunt?”

Uncle has never spoken much about his wife; she caught an illness before Zuko was born and eventually passed when he was an infant. After her death, Uncle devoted what time he had outside of the duties of a military leader and crown prince to raising his son, and then after Lu Ten died, Uncle perhaps spoke more freely about women, but he never did remarry.

Uncle takes a long sip of tea before answering. “Yes. Why do you ask?”

Zuko rotates his mug with the tips of his fingers. “I don’t know. I’ve been thinking about my parents. I don’t know if Father loved Mother, and I wonder how she ever could have loved him.” He sits back, suddenly aware of how noisy the ceramic is against the tabletop. “But then I remember times when they were happy, too.”

“Your parents had a very special marriage.”

“What does that mean?”

Uncle finishes his tea and rises, rounding the side of the table to rest a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “You are not your father, Fire Lord Zuko. It is not in your nature to make the demands of your wife that my brother made of his.”

Your wife. He used to be so sure of that phrase, and even now, his mind goes to Mai — the grace in her fingers as she reaches to caress his jaw, the glint in her eyes when she’s amused by some stupidly sincere thing Zuko’s said.

“You have some long days of travel ahead,” Uncle says, patting his shoulder. “You’d best get rest tonight, nephew.”

He picks up Zuko’s mug and shuffles to the basin, leaving Zuko with a throbbing temple and a craving for dried apricots.

The several days of traversing the Earth Kingdom to rejoin their ship on the western border of the kingdom pass in a blur, and the names and promises made to Earth Kingdom dignitaries along the way are lost to the ridiculous things that Zuko’s mind latches onto instead. He can recall only the shape of hands and lips, the way his hair would stand at a gaze that felt like it lingered too long, how his heart jolted in the same way at the accidental brush of the hand by the young man drawing his bath at one village and by the woman serving his dinner at the next.

By the time they’re on open water again, he feels like he’s drowning in his own sensitivity. He should be in his room, chipping away at the stack of correspondence that he’s been neglecting since they left Ba Sing Se, but the unpredictable sparks along his limbs drive him to the deck, where he paces in order to resist the urge to fling himself into the sea.

When Roku’s Island becomes visible on the horizon, something in him snaps. “Tell the captain to change course and dock at the beach,” Zuko tells the first attendant he sees.

The wind shifts with their altered course; Bishal finds him not long after. “What’s happening?”

“I need to see the island. Come with me.”

Once they land, they set out alone, following the rising tide along the rocky shore. Bishal attempts conversation twice before giving up and silently keeping Zuko’s urgent pace, which is a relief — Zuko’s certain if he opened his mouth now, he’d be utterly incoherent. His mind is a circle of honey baby because you want to baby baby ready to go are we gorgeous kiss me baby, and even as he curls his fingers in the fabric of his deep sleeves, what he feels instead is skin, lips, laughter, heat. Away, his heart thuds which each quickening step, away away, the cry more desperate each time Zuko glances back and can still see his ship, until —

Finally —

“Can you see the ship?” Zuko asks.

They’ve rounded the tip of the bay where they docked. It’s windier on this side, the waves louder in their rush to meet the land. Bishal stops next to Zuko, shielding his eyes with his hand as he strains in the direction they came from. “Not anymo—”

Zuko pivots and strides into the water.

He thinks he hears Bishal shout, but he ignores the yell, fighting the waves and his own swirling clothes to plunge deeper into the surf. The water is colder than he expected, the chill raising his flesh as it swallows his body, and when the next wave strikes his ribs, it knocks the air out of Zuko as a gasp. Struggling, he finally breaches the boundary where the ocean crests, the water parting around his chest, and with a deep inhale, Zuko screws his eyes shut and drops straight down.

Quiet.

It settles over him as he settles against the ocean floor. The slow pulse of the sea flows past his ears, pulling along his hair. Before the tug on his scalp becomes too much, the ebb responds, a rush that Zuko hears as much as he feels. The sound is muted and intimate at once. It pushes into him, gentle and unyielding, insisting he empty himself in order to make room for the inevitability of the motion around him.

Zuko remembers, in the caress of the water, that he is his body and his body is him.

Why, for so many years, has he been fighting himself?

The flow returns. Zuko parts his lips, feels the bubbles escape his mouth; then he’s grabbed from underneath the arms and dragged to the surface.

Eyes stinging from the salt, he sags boneless in Bishal’s grip, who’s coughing and shouting at the back of Zuko’s head. “Have you lost your mind?”

The sky is a brighter blue that he remembered it being. “I ran away,” Zuko confesses.

“You what?”

“I ran away, while in Ba Sing Se. I’m sorry.”

“You —” Bishal breaks off in a coughing fit. “We can talk on dry land!”

He yanks Zuko back, and Zuko lets himself be manhandled toward the shore. When the water reaches his hips, he shrugs off Bishal to walk on his own. “If you go diving back out there—” Bishal threatens.

“I won’t.”

He does stop, though, when the water’s still swirling around his knees and sits down. Bishal stares at him, eyes narrowing; when he decides Zuko’s staying put, he drops down next to Zuko, his chest heaving. “What is going on?”

Zuko forgot how heavy wet clothing is. He leans back, putting his weight on his palms where they sink into the sand and closing his eyes again as he tilts his face toward the sun.

“What do you mean, you ran away?” Bishal prompts, aggravation creeping into his voice.

“I snuck out and met Toph and Haru at a bar, where a guy — ” The next word catches in his throat.

“What?” Bishal yelps, making Zuko jump and open his eyes. Any irritation in Bishal’s face has been overwhelmed by concern. “What happened? What did he do?”

“It’s okay!” Zuko reassures. “It was just a kiss, I’m fine.”

“Are you? You just threw yourself in the ocean! Did he even ask? If you didn’t want to —”

“I wanted to.”

He watches as Bishal’s expression transforms from shocked and frantic to absorbing, his brows lowering and his brown eyes darting over Zuko’s face. Zuko swallows nervously. He’s pretty sure Bishal’s duty-bound to not hurt him, but part of him is still waiting to be struck, for a volcano to erupt or for the ocean to swallow him whole like an elephant koi catching its dinner.

When Bishal finally speaks, it’s to ask, “Is that why you’ve been so distracted lately?”

“You noticed?”

“You’re not very good at hiding it.”

Zuko snorts, dropping his chin to his chest. He watches his robes shift back and forth in the current. “It — I don’t get why it felt good.”

“What, the — the kissing?”

“Yeah. With a man.” The back of his neck heats up. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

Bishal shifts his weight, one of his hands falling into the water with a sploosh! “Zuko. Did it occur to you that if it feels good, that probably means it’s right for you, not that you’re wrong?”

Zuko blinks.

He’s spent most of his life believing he or his body was wrong: he never learned his firebending forms quickly enough, he always cried too easily, his instinct to seek comfort from Ursa was babyish and unbecoming for a prince. As he grew older, he became better at correcting himself before Ozai had the chance to notice and correct him — though he didn’t master that quickly enough, either, as the scar on his face proves.

And he knows that he’s become wiser, since he was thirteen and hurting and doomed to eternal disgrace, but he feels as simple as a kid again. Of course he’s been fighting himself, fighting the knowledge of his very body, because that’s all Ozai ever really taught him, isn’t it? To deny and push himself down before anyone else could, and hope he brought himself low enough that no one would bother to make sure he was actually driven into the ground.

He raises his hand and feels around his chest until he finds his heartbeat with his palm. It thuds steadily, entirely his own, and Zuko’s breath catches. How did he ever convince himself that this rhythm would ever betray him? It is him. He is his body. 

If he’s promised to be honest with himself, he can’t keep lying and pretend that he’s been betrayed. “I’m not wrong,” Zuko says slowly, straightening up.

“You’re not,” Bishal agrees.

Something inexpressible bubbles up inside him. With a wordless shout at the sun, he flops back into the waves.

They spend the rest of the afternoon diving into the waves, taking the occasional break to sun themselves on the rocks where their clothes are laid out to dry in the sun. Bishal isn’t as strong a swimmer as Zuko, but that doesn’t keep him from leaping on Zuko and dunking his head underwater until Zuko’s spluttering for air. “You ran off,” Bishal scolds when Zuko protests the third time it happens.

“I was safe! I was with Toph!”

“I knew I shouldn’t trust her.”

“Haru knew where I was, too!”

“As if Haru could —”

And then an undertow knocks Bishal’s feet out from under him, and Zuko becomes the one dragging Bishal back to shallower water.

Eventually, as Zuko’s skin starts to turn red, the sun dips toward the horizon. His clothes are stiff with salt, but they’re at least lighter than they were when wet; Bishal grimaces as he tries to fight his hair back into its topknot. Zuko watches him covertly, eyes catching on the muscles that flex in his wrist, his nose full of sea air and sunshine.

The trip back to the ship is serene. Walking along the strip of rocky beach that divides the glittering sea and the verdant mountainside, Zuko feels balanced, fundamentally steady. He finds himself wishing he had more reasons to visit Roku’s Island.

When they reach the top of the gangplank, the captain startles at their appearance but quickly recovers. “Shall we dock for the night, Fire Lord Zuko, or continue as we were?”

Zuko glances back. He feels the island tugging on his arms, wrapping around his ankles and asking him to stay. But he has duties and obligations, and he’s already abandoned them for the better part of the day. “We can go,” he tells the captain, who bows and then turns heel to start barking orders.

He promises himself, as they pull away from the beach and return to deeper waters, that he’ll be back.

“No meat?” Yawen repeats, aghast.

“None,” Zuko affirms. “It’s a show of respect.”

Even with the impromptu excursion to Roku’s Island, they’ve reached the Southern Air Temple exactly when expected. Drifting up to the makeshift harbor on the north side of the island, Zuko’s already amazed by the progress he can see from the restoration. It hasn’t even been two full seasons since Zuko was last here; how is it that the temple already looks so different?

As soon as they land, they’re met by members of the restoration team, who work quickly with Zuko’s attendants to unload crates of materials from the Fire Nation archives as well as day to day supplies for the restoration and the people making it happen. Zuko’s deep in the organized chaos when a voice suddenly shouts, “Sifu Hotman!”

Zuko turns, a grin already splitting his cheeks. “Aang!” he replies and then freezes.

Aang?

The gangly adolescent in front of him smiles down at Zuko. “Hey! Did you get shorter?” Aang teases.

“What are you eating?” Zuko asks.

Aang laughs, throwing his arms around Zuko in a tight hug that Zuko only half-heartedly resists. “You’re fifteen,” Zuko complains into Aang’s shoulder.

“I just turned sixteen, actually!”

There’s a different rumble to Aang’s voice that wasn’t there just last fall, and spirits, how is this kid growing up so quickly?

“Grab your things,” Aang encourages. “I can start the tour as I bring you to where you’re staying.”

After Zuko says his thank yous and farewells to the attendants who’ve been with him since the start of the season — they and the ship will return to the Fire Nation once they’re done unloading, and Zuko and his guards will complete the rest of their trip themselves — he, Bishal, and Yawen follow Aang up into the middle temple. “The guest lodgings where you stayed last time are still an option, but it feels strange to have you there when the rest of us are staying in the actual residences now,” Aang explains.

The restoration team has been divided into two groups: those starting the actual restoration work, and a smaller group finishing the remaining cleaning and clearing. Zuko had assumed that restoration would start with the largest halls and the most difficult engineering and architecture challenges, but they’ve actually put more focus on the gardens, baths, kitchens, and daily living spaces.

They’re crossing a small grove of trees that’ll bear fruit in the fall when Momo appears, gliding to a perch on Aang’s shoulder and chittering at Zuko. “Hey, buddy,” Aang says.

Zuko double-takes at a pale slash cutting across Momo’s right flank. “Is that a scar?”

“What? Oh, yeah.” Aang smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “There are a bunch of other flying lemurs around the temple, but they didn’t grow up with the monks like their ancestors did. We’re all still learning how to live together again.”

Momo leaps from Aang’s shoulder to Zuko’s, snuffling loudly around Zuko’s ear. He imagines it’d feel ticklish if Momo were on his right side. “He seems to be okay,” Zuko notes.

“Oh, yeah! Momo’s friends with them again. After all, he’s from this temple! Some of them are probably his family.”

From the grove, they follow a couple corridors to an open-aired courtyard that’s bustling with activity. There has to be at least a dozen people working here, stationed at looms and wash basins and work benches and chatting loudly to be heard over the bubble of a fountain that gurgles happily at the center of it all.

Zuko’s shocked still. Life and happiness, he thinks, and he can only imagine what his face must be doing — Aang takes one look at him and bursts out laughing, radiating joy. “Sokka got the fountain to work the day before he left. This is everyone’s favorite spot when the sun’s out.”

“There are so many people,” Yawen breathes. “Bishal made it sound like there weren’t that many people here.”

“There weren’t,” Aang agrees, moving forward again. They cut a wide path around the edge of the courtyard, keeping out of activity’s way. “As we started sending out for the things we needed for the restoration, people started finding their way to the temple, too.”

Finally, they reach a set of four small, contained rooms with simple beds arranged around a larger shared space. “I didn’t realize so many strangers would want to help this project,” Zuko says. Momo suddenly lifts his head, ears swiveling, and then takes off from Zuko’s shoulder.

“I didn’t, either,” Aang says. “When we first started, I was worried this whole idea might have been too selfish.” His jaw hardens. “But as more people keep arriving, with generosity and curiosity, and sometimes with family stories about Air Nomads that have been passed down for generations … the more I believe the world does need this.”

Out in the corridor, Momo chitters and then screeches, setting off a ruckus of flapping and struggle. “Momo?” Aang calls, darting back outside.

Zuko follows and finds Aang holding Momo by the scruff of his neck as his skinny limbs whirl in the direction of a disgruntled-looking messenger hawk. Zuko stifles a laugh, going to the hawk and pulling a scroll from its canister as Aang chides, “Momo, that’s not Hawky.”

It’s a short memo from Li Bai, dashed off in an uncharacteristically hurried script. Seodang port closed, it reads. Seemed voluntary but friends warning of coercion. Investigating further.

Seodang, Zuko traces with his finger. The last he heard of the village was in a missive from Kimiko, who’d reported that the return incentives were readily convincing Fire Nation citizens in Seodang to come back to the archipelago. They anticipated the port closing as one of the consequences of the flux of people in the village, but — coercion?

“Is everything okay?”

Zuko meets Aang’s concerned gaze. Even Momo has stopped trying to annoy the messenger hawk, tilting his head at Zuko. “We have some things to discuss,” Zuko says grimly.

The next day, they start in the lower levels, helping the small group that’s clearing out the last of the rubble and debris. Aang begins the day with them but is soon called to address other matters across the temple, and then during lunch, Bishal gets pulled into a conversation about grafting — “My mother-in-law grafts fruit trees as a hobby,” he explains to his perplexed companions, looking bashful at the term mother-in-law — that leads to him working in the gardens, instead. Zuko and Yawen are left sweating in a series of dusty rooms. By sundown, he feels grimy and sore, and the sunburn across the top of his shoulders from the afternoon on Roku’s Island is peeling in large flakes.

Over dinner, they listen to a woman newer to the restoration team tell a family story about a great-grandfather who was orphaned as a child when he was the only survivor of a shipwreck. When the boat didn’t arrive at the expected port the next day, a monk set out with his flying bison to search for it, but all he found was a child clinging to a piece of driftwood. The monk took the child to the Eastern Air Temple, where he was raised by the Air Nomads for ten years; and when he came of age, he decided to return to the peninsula he remembered as home. He never found any relatives, as he had hoped, but he did meet the love of his life, with whom he had seven children, all but one taking up his practice of meditation and vegetarianism.

“To this day,” she concludes, “despite the years and wars and changes since Great-Grandfather’s time, you can go anywhere in our province, and if you ask for the family that was raised by the Air Nomads, you’ll be sent to the door of the house that Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother built.”

The story follows Zuko from dinner to the communal bath to the cot where he finally lays down to sleep. He realizes he’s glad — relieved, even — that his forefathers, for all their efforts, were never so powerful that they could eradicate memory itself. But he also wonders, as he finally drifts off, whether stories like this make Aang feel less or more alone.

He’s surprised to learn that the temple does actually have a port. It’s small and half-tucked inside a cavern that’s the closest thing the temple has to an underbelly.

“Most travel was by air,” Teo explains over lunch, “and while the Air Nomads are remembered for their hospitality, Aang said that large groups of visitors were really rare. Not much was ever imported to the temple, either — anything the monks really needed could fit in a sky bison’s saddle.”

When he finally sees the port after lunch, his thighs burn just looking at the steep, narrow stairs carved right into the cavern wall and mountain side. “Wow,” Yawen says from beside him, the word almost lost beneath the echo of waves washing up against the walls of the cavern.

“I’m glad we didn’t dock here,” Zuko admits.

“I don’t think modern ships could even fit in here.”

She’s right, Zuko realizes, looking more closely at the dimensions of the port, of the way the currents move. No Fire Nation ship built in the last thirty years could fit in this space. The boats of other nations could possibly fit, though, and would probably be more welcome than Fire Nation ships anyway —

Zuko freezes at the stop of the stairs. Yawen inhales sharply, catching herself before she topples him over. “What is it?”

“The world does not have four corners so that the winds may only blow from one,” Zuko realizes.

“What?”

“I need to find Aang!”

By the time Zuko reaches one of the courtyards halfway up the western side of the temple, Aang finds him first, swooping in with his glider. Zuko stops running, sticking out an arm to steady himself against a pillar. Yawen, also winded, sinks to a squat in the middle of the courtyard walkway.

He’s glad the word that the Fire Lord was dashing through the temple reached the uppermost towers faster than he could. 

“Zuko, what’s going on?” Aang asks.

“The former colonies,” he pants. “I promised my citizens would leave by the end of the summer, but it’s —” He huffs. “It hasn’t been easy. But Uncle told me the world doesn’t have four corners so that the winds may only blow from one.”

Aang frowns thoughtfully. “Okay.” He drifts to north side of the courtyard, where the mountains open up to a wide view of the sea.

“He meant that — I can’t send ships, or any part of the military, because of the treaties I signed. But I have friends from all corners of the world. And you’re the Avatar.”

Aang’s shoulders stiffen.

“Aang,” Zuko implores. “We know those regions have been tense ever since the war. If I can’t send ships, if the Earth Kingdom has no navy, if the Water Tribes are too far and don’t even want to get involved — I’ll go myself to bring them back to the archipelago. But I could really use your help.”

Aang puffs out his cheeks before exhaling forcefully. “I didn’t want to use force. I thought we wouldn’t have to after the war ended.”

“I don’t want to, either,” Zuko says, “and my council is trying everything we can think of. But it’ll be four years, by the end of the summer …”

He watches as Aang leans against the courtyard wall, looking down at the levels of the temple below. “Four years,” he repeats. “Five years ago, if I looked down from here, I’d be able to see the younger kids learning to use their first gliders.”

Five years? Zuko thinks, and then, when Aang turns back around, it hits Zuko. Aang doesn’t have the memory of a 116-year-old any more than he has the face of one.

Zuko swallows. “Please.”

Aang meets his gaze with calm gray eyes. “The end of summer,” he agrees.

Relief washes through him. At least, if all else fails, there’s this. “Thank you.”

Appa greets Zuko with a faceful of sky bison tongue. “Hi, Appa,” Zuko grumbles once he’s wiped the worst of the saliva from his face.

“That means he likes you!” Aang calls from atop Appa.

Bishal snickers from behind Zuko.

Zuko can’t recall when he last took a trip on Appa; he forgot how much more steady and serene flight by sky bison rather than air ship feels. Yawen relaxes before they’ve even lost sight of the Southern Air Temple, but Bishal keeps an iron grip on Appa’s saddle for a while.

“If you fall off, Appa will catch you,” Zuko tells him.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

They spend most of the trip chatting idly about their travels and pulling on more layers as the air gradually grows colder. When the South Pole finally becomes visible, Yawen and Bishal are as covered up as they were at the North Pole, and Yawen’s squinting at Aang, who slipped into something with longer sleeves but otherwise hasn’t bundled up. “How are you not cold?” she finally asks.

“I can use my airbending to regulate the temperature of the air around me!”

She eyes Zuko, whose outer layer is somewhere between the heaviness of Aang’s and hers. “Aren’t you cold?”

“Zuko runs as hot as a dragon,” Bishal chirps.

At first, as they get closer to their destination, Zuko thinks the sun reflecting off of the snow and ice must be playing tricks on him — even if he’s never seen it from the sky, he doesn’t recall the village being very large. But as more details become clear, he realizes that his memory is fine, and it’s the village that’s grown. The number of domed homes must have at least doubled, expanding beyond the boundaries of where the snowy defense walls use to stand, and there are many new buildings and towers that emulate the style of architecture seen in the Northern Water Tribe.

“It changed so much,” Zuko says.

Aang nods. “Katara says her dad and Sokka work really well with the people who’ve come from their sister tribe.”

Zuko wonders if he’ll see Sokka. He hasn’t received any paintings from him since the very start of the year, and the last word he heard of his friend’s travels was when Toph mentioned he’d been to Ba Sing Se. He wonders if he’s still heart broken.

It’s impossible to land unobtrusively when they’re riding a sky bison, and as soon as Appa settles down, Katara’s already running up to greet them. “Aang!” she calls, happiness lifting her voice.

“Sweetie pie!” Aang shouts back, jumping off of Appa.

Before he’s even fully floated to the ground, Katara leaps on him; Aang catches her and they kiss sweetly as they settle gently on the snow.

Zuko averts his gaze, turning to collect their travel bags and pass them down to Bishal and Yawen. By the time he’s also standing on the snow, Katara and Aang have loosened their hold on one another, linked only by the hand. “How was the trip?” Katara asks, eyes bright.

“It was good,” Zuko replies. “I’ve missed Appa.”

“Let me take you to Dad. He’s excited to see you.”

They head straight for the heart of the village, Zuko and his guard’s red clothes quickly picking up cold looks. He’s sure word of their arrival will reach every person in the village by dinner. Aang, on the other hand, is sent many warm smiles that he returns in kind, and Katara beams up at him with a squeeze of his hand more than once.

Their destination is the council assembly, a building made of ice that stands out against the other nearby structures for its height and its northern-style sharp angles. It sits in the center of what seems to be a main thoroughfare of the village, people crisscrossing before it as they go about a number of activities. As their group is walking up, the double doors of the assembly open and Chief Hakoda emerges, chatting seriously with a few other people whom Zuko doesn’t recognize.

“Dad!” Katara calls.

Chief Hakoda breaks into a warm smile when he sees who’s with his daughter. He sends his companions off and then meets their group, nodding at Zuko in particular. “Welcome, Zuko,” he says. “Aang, it’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you for having us, Chief Hakoda,” Zuko says with a bow. “I’d like to introduce you to Bishal and Yawen, who’ve been traveling with me.”

They exchange greetings and then Chief Hakoda dives into many of the same questions Katara already asked about their journey and the progress on the restoration. Aang’s just starting to describe, again, the oven they finished patching just before their departure, when Zuko’s ear suddenly catches a familiar laugh.

He turns, craning his neck to see around Aang, and his heart gives a surprised stutter when his gaze lands on Sokka.

He’s walking up the thoroughfare with another man, a lopsided smile on his face as he gestures through some story. Despite the relaxed slope of his shoulders, his eyes are constantly surveying around and ahead of him, which is how Zuko sees the exact moment that Sokka spots him. “Zuko!” he shouts, lifting a hand.

His name in Sokka’s mouth makes Zuko think, He’s really here, as he instinctively steps out from behind Aang. He lifts his arms and immediately regrets it. How embarrassing, if Sokka isn’t going to hug him, because why would Sokka touch him in plain sight of a village that has every right to revile Zuko and everything his headpiece stands for —

Before he can disguise his aborted movement as something else, Sokka’s here, engulfing Zuko in his embrace as he whispers, “Missed ya,” into the side of Zuko’s hair. His voice is full and warm, nothing like the sullen defeat that colored Haru’s tone in Ba Sing Se, and Zuko keeps his returning squeeze brief so he can pull back and study Sokka’s face. It takes a second for Sokka to let go enough to let Zuko do just that.

“How are you?” Zuko asks, watching Sokka intently.

His dark blue eyes are animated, but his cheeks still seem more hollow than they should be, the stubble on his face unkempt and a couple days old. He has a new piercing, a wider silver band that loops around the upper curl of his left ear. Zuko squashes a strange urge to touch it, to hold Sokka’s chin and tilt his head this way and that so he can watch how the jewelry reflects the sunlight.

“Same old stuff,” Sokka says. “But how are you? You’ve been traveling the world!”

“You travel more than I do.”

“So your trips are even more special,” Sokka argues. 

Katara’s voice cuts in. “Are you not even going to say hi to Aang?”

Zuko turns and finds that everyone’s been watching their conversation. “Aang!” Sokka exclaims, clapping his shoulder. “Yawen, Bishal, good to see ya. Chief Dad.”

Chief Hakoda snorts. “Are you going to join us for the tour, or are you and Aivaaq busy?”

Chief Hakoda must be referring to the man Sokka was walking with — when Zuko glances at him, he double-takes at the hard stare Aivaaq’s leveling at him. Against the dense, dark freckles across his face, his light blue eyes seem even more intense.

“Nah, I can join the tour,” Sokka says. “Aivaaq, wanna come?”

Those light blue eyes slide to Sokka. “Sure.”

“All right,” Chief Hakoda says. “Let’s move.”

An hour later, when they’re still on the tour, it dawns on Zuko that the village is too large to really be called a village, anymore. It’s not just the sheer number of buildings, both communal and familial, that have sprung up in the last four years, but also the new systems and endeavors that have been woven into everyday life now that there are enough people to support such developments.

“This is the community hall,” Sokka introduces, pulling open a heavy ice door. “It’s actually the second one we’ve built since rebuilding started, because the hearth in the first one ended up working a little too well and melted through some crucial support beams.”

“Your hearth design was adapted for use in the watch towers, though,” Aivaaq says.

Zuko glances at him. He’s been mostly quiet throughout the tour, but whenever he opens his mouth, it’s to point out something Sokka’s contributed to the village.

Sokka shrugs. “Yeah … well.” He meets Zuko’s eye and tilts his head toward the inside of the hall. “Take a look. You’ll probably eat here a few times during your stay.”

The inside of the building is larger than Zuko expected. The hearth that Sokka mentioned is the focal point of the single room, burning low and steady; a few people are gathered around its edges, preparing food for dinner. Further out from the fire, others do work while sitting on blankets spread over the packed-snow floor. More furs, neatly folded, are stacked along the left wall, and the far wall appears to have another door.

“Everyone can fit in here at once?” Zuko asks.

“If some men are out on a hunting trip, yeah,” Sokka answers. His voice comes from closer than Zuko expected; when he turns, Sokka’s just behind his shoulder, also peering in. “It’s a tighter squeeze when everyone’s in the village.”

“Sokka, is that you keeping the door from closing?”

Zuko looks inside again to see one of the gray-haired women squinting from next to the hearth. “Sorry, Gran Gran,” Sokka calls even as Katara asks, “Is that Gran Gran?”

There’s a gentle push at Zuko’s waist, startling him, but Sokka doesn’t withdraw his hand. Zuko obligingly steps inside and follows the pressure of Sokka’s hand as he guides him to the elderly woman, whose lined face morphs into a smile when she sees Sokka. “Her eyesight’s not as good as it used to be,” Sokka murmurs to Zuko, and then raises his voice to say, “Gran Gran, this is —”

“Is this your friend from the Fire Nation?”

Zuko knows he’s wearing his headpiece and his nation’s reds, but she said friend, and Zuko’s again struck by the now-undeniable fact that Sokka talks about him. “Gran Gran, this is Zuko,” Sokka says. “Zuko, this is our grandmother.”

Remembering what Sokka said about her eyes, Zuko gets to his knees and bows. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

Her blue gaze is watery but lucid as she studies Zuko closely. “I remember you,” she says steadily.

For a second, he thinks that it’s impossible — he hasn’t visited the Southern Water Tribe since becoming the Fire Lord — but then he recalls that he has been to this village before, and that Sokka and Katara’s grandmother was likely there when he crashed into their village in pursuit of a strange light that might have been the Avatar.

He lowers his head again, an apology on his lips, when she continues, “You’re much more suited to a full head of hair, aren’t you?”

His looks up, startled, and Sokka snickers behind him. “I — I think so?” he stumbles, and the smirk that tilts Gran Gran’s mouth looks exactly like her grandchildren’s.

“You really think that ponytail did anything for you?” Sokka teases.

He places a hand on Zuko’s shoulder, and then Zuko’s supporting his weight as Sokka carefully lowers himself to the ground. “It was symbolic of my loss of honor,” Zuko explains, all too aware of the way Sokka’s fingers drag down his back before falling away.

Katara joins them, dropping next to Sokka. “Is your knee bothering you?”

She gives it a poke, and Sokka hisses. “It does when you do that!”

Aang comes to Zuko’s other side. “Hi, Gran Gran,” he says with a grin, and she leans forward to pat his shoulder fondly.

“Didn’t I tell you to give it a rest for a few days?” Katara says.

“I have been resting!”

Gran Gran’s eyes shine mischievously. “It’s hard to rest with that one around, isn’t it?”

She points her lips at someone behind them; Zuko turns as Sokka coughs and Katara yelps, “Gran Gran!” to see Aivaaq, Chief Hakoda, and his guards standing a few steps behind them. Chief Hakoda glances at Aivaaq, who ducks his head to smile at the ground.

Zuko wonders if Aivaaq’s involved in running the village, somehow. He hasn’t given that impression so far.

“Zuko still isn’t done with his tour,” Sokka declares, using Zuko’s shoulder again to push himself to his feet. “And you should get settled in your rooms before dinner.”

It feels rude to leave Sokka’s grandmother so abruptly, but Katara and Aang are also rising again, so Zuko dips his head once more before standing. He’s half-turned to the door when Gran Gran calls, “You.”

He glances back, but she’s looking past Zuko, at Aivaaq. “Stay and help me. We need some young muscle for dinner tonight.”

Aivaaq passes between Zuko and Sokka, readily accepting the stone bowl that Gran Gran hands to him. She looks up at her grandson and adds, with a grin, “And Sokka can’t keep you all to himself.”

“Gran Gran,” Katara protests again.

“He’s all yours,” Sokka replies nonchalantly, nudging Zuko forward.

The last thing Zuko sees before he fully turns is the small smile that tugs on Aivaaq’s lips as he settles in next to Sokka’s grandmother.

They’re staying in a northern-style building near the council assembly. “Usually, Aang just stays with us, but four more people is too tight for our home,” Katara explains. “You’ll be more comfortable here.”

Here is a set of two rooms that feel like a smaller version of where they stayed in the North Pole. The ceilings aren’t nearly as high, either, which makes Zuko think it might be marginally warmer at night than their stay up North. He watches as Sokka does a lap around the room, running his gloved hand along walls and narrowing his eyes at corners of the room. 

“This is great,” Zuko says. “Thank you.”

“Katara, could you check on this support?” Sokka asks, tapping against a column of ice.

“I checked it yesterday, and the day before,” she gripes, but she’s already crossing to join her brother. “I’m not even an architect.”

Zuko feels a presence at his shoulder; he glances to the side to see Chief Hakoda. “Sokka helped designed most of this building,” he says. “He tends to it like a newborn.”

“It’s impressive,” Zuko replies. He’s surprised by how easy it is to imagine Sokka cradling a newborn, watching them with that intent gaze of his.

Katara taps her knuckles against the column and tsks. “Bad news,” she announces. “Everyone in this building’s going to be buried alive tonight.”

“Katara —”

“Why don’t we give our guests some time to settle in?” Chief Hakoda suggests, pointed and loud in a way clearly meant to keep his children from escalating their back-and-forth.

After promises that the building won’t collapse and that someone will come by later to bring them to dinner, the room becomes quiet with just the four of them. Zuko pulls out a candle and a canister of memos that have fallen by the wayside over the last several weeks. As he arranges himself at a table — made of wood, thankfully, not ice — he hears Bishal and Yawen start a round of a card game they picked up in the Earth Kingdom.

He’s only part way through rereading a proposal from the northern archipelago when Aang sits down across from him, unrolling a soft pouch that appears to be full of beads and some sort of thick ribbon. “Whatcha working on?” Aang asks.

“Some of the northern archipelago villages put together a proposal for establishing region-specific art grants. I’ve been too busy to give it proper thought until now.” Zuko stares at the metal needle that Aang pulls from his pouch.

“Ooh. You like that kind of stuff, right?”

“Yeah.” With slow but steady fingers, Aang threads the needle. “What are you doing?”

Aang’s bashful grin is immediate. He unravels the ribbon — Zuko realizes the material is probably too thick, too sturdy to really be considered a ribbon — to reveal sections adorned with shaky patterns of beads. “I’m practicing my needle skills, for when I make a betrothal band for Katara.”

Zuko blinks. “You’re getting married?”

“Not now,” Aang replies, smiling as if Zuko’s question is a little silly. “Probably not this year. But we’ve talked about it, and I know I want to marry her. And we both want kids.”

You’re sixteen, Zuko thinks and then suddenly remembers Mai’s incredulous expression as she shouted, You’re eighteen! Instead, he says, “You’re serious about each other.”

Aang nods, calm as anything, as he threads a bead. “We make each other happy.”

Is that really all it takes? He and Mai made each other happy — at least sometimes, anyway. Suki and Sokka seemed to make each other happy, but that didn’t last, either. Is it something about them, or something about Aang and Katara?

Aang shifts his weight, his attention turning fully to his needlework. Zuko swallows his questions and returns to the proposal before him, the characters swimming across the paper.

The next day is ambulatory: Zuko follows Chief Hakoda through his usual sunlight hour rounds, crossing the village several times over as he attends to everything needed of the chief. It’s also an incredibly effective way for Zuko to quickly learn names — the rapidly growing list of new acquaintances is easier to manage when he remembers where he met them and what they were doing.

They have lunch at the community hall, where Sokka and Aivaaq happen across them. The meal passes mostly by Sokka and Bishal and occasionally Yawen exchanging travel stories, particularly about the Rumble; Zuko’s distracted and increasingly aware of Aivaaq’s eyes following him, seemingly uncaring whether Zuko notices it or not. It’s intentional but without intent, and Zuko has no idea what to make of it.

After lunch, Sokka joins Zuko, his guards, and Chief Hakoda. He’s as knowledgable as his father when it comes to what’s happening in the village. When Zuko says as much while they’re walking through the mostly-empty port, Sokka shrugs. “I’ve been here for a bit,” he explains.

Chief Hakoda puts a proud hand on his son’s shoulder. “Sokka’s had a hand in most things across the village. Even if he’s away every now and again, he knows our village as well as any of us.”

Sokka glances at his father before looking back out at the ocean. Chief Hakoda can’t see what Zuko does: the way Sokka blinks rapidly before he squares his shoulders and that second skin rolls over him, an easy smile splitting his cheeks. “Hey, see that ice floe?” he asks Zuko, pointing. “Dad and I helped a tiger seal give birth there earlier this spring.”

“I saw some tiger seal pups at the Northern Water Tribe,” Zuko replies.

“Really? I didn’t know they had them up there, too.”

“I also had a really warm welcome,” Zuko continues, “by Chief Arnook and his family. I think I have you to thank for that.”

Sokka blinks. “Me? I don’t — I haven’t visited since last year. I can’t have helped with that.”

“You did,” Zuko promises. “Thank you.”

When the sun begins to fall, they return to the community hall, where almost everyone gathers for dinner. Sokka’s called over to where his grandmother, Katara, Aang, Aivaaq, and several young children are eating, but Chief Hakoda leads Zuko and his guards to where the village council — those who aren’t on a hunting trip, anyway — is gathered.

Their conversation is casual, more of an end-of-day catch-up that Zuko listens to rather than participates in. It lets his mind and eyes wander purposelessly, which is why it takes him a minute to realize what he’s looking at.

Halfway across the hall, Sokka’s talking to Aang about something. Just behind him, Aivaaq sits with his chin resting on Sokka’s shoulder, and as Zuko watches, Sokka says something that makes everyone laugh and has Aivaaq pressing his face into the side of Sokka’s neck.

By habit, Zuko averts his eyes from the quiet intimacy, his chest tightening in a strange way. Sokka and Aivaaq, he thinks. He hadn’t realized— hadn’t even wondered about the nature of their relationship, because … he supposes he thought Sokka would still be sad about Suki. That Sokka liked women. And hasn’t Sokka always been the first to be vocal and bare-faced about who he’s with? Zuko hasn’t seen him run up to Aivaaq, shouting Aivaaq’s name as he hugged him tightly. Maybe they’re keeping it quiet.

He sneaks another look, and no, there’s nothing subtle about the way Aivaaq’s leaning into Sokka, watching him intently as Sokka debates Katara about something. So — so there’s something different about Sokka. He should ask him about Suki, Zuko decides, catching again on the hollowness of Sokka’s cheeks, the way his eyes don’t crinkle as much when he smiles.

The opportunity comes sooner than Zuko expected: they’ve been back in their guest chambers for only a minute when a knock comes on the door. Bishal opens it to Sokka, who smiles quickly at him before meeting Zuko’s gaze over Bishal’s shoulder. “Wanna take a walk?”

Zuko follows him half-blind in the dark — the stars and moon are just enough to see the shape of the village, but Sokka’s sense of direction is far surer than his. Bishal and Yawen are several paces behind them, their quiet conversation and the crunch of snow under boots the only sign that they’re there.

“This is one of my favorite times to walk around,” Sokka says. “It’s one of the only times I get to be with myself.”

“So you brought me along?”

“I like your company, always.”

He winks at Zuko, teasing, and Zuko can’t fight his own smile. “How long have you been home for?”

“From about when you were in Ba Sing Se.”

Zuko blinks. “How do you know that?”

“Your council keeps me updated.”

“Did you ask them to?”

“Didn’t have to.” The start of a frown puckers between his eyebrows. “Does it bother you that they do? I can— ”

“No, not at all,” Zuko says before his brain catches up and wonders if that’s technically a threat to national security, or something. Even if it is, he doesn’t really care — it’s Sokka. “I didn’t know you kept in touch with them.”

“If we’re being honest, it’s mostly them keeping in touch with me.”

They reach a still-standing section of the old defense wall. Sokka touches it lightly before stepping over a shorter, collapsed part of it. He turns back and holds a hand out to help Zuko, and then Bishal and Yawen, through.

“Have they mentioned anything about the former colonies?” Zuko asks.

“Mmm, Chenda said something about the upper city renovations recently.”

“King Kuei’s advisor was angry when we talked about it,” Zuko admits. “Not the renovations. The former colonies.”

“I figured.”

“He says we’re not doing enough, and he’s right.”

“Your treaties put you in a tight bind.”

“He’s still right. Especially when the Earth Kingdom hasn’t been able to work on their navy. He said the engineer they were talking to didn’t want to get involved further.”

Sokka sucks in a breath. “That’s kind of my bad.”

“What?”

“I’m the engineer who turned down the project.”

Zuko double takes. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard of Sokka flat-out rejecting a project. “Why?”

They’re plodding up a snow-covered hill that crests towards the water. It’s not steep, but Zuko’s unaccustomed to walking on snow; he feels the strain in his thighs and calves not even halfway to the top. The silence extends for so long that Zuko thinks Sokka’s not going to answer, but when Zuko joins him at the rise of the hill, his labored breath fogging the air with each exhale, Sokka says, “Aang was with me, when I received the proposal. We talked about it, and …”

He halfheartedly kicks the snow, sending a soft spray arcing through the air. “I dunno. I know I invented a bunch of war game stuff during the war, but it feels like there are better things to focus on. Now that it’s over.”

He looks up at the moon, his brow furrowed — a pensive expression that Zuko’s familiar with. “That makes sense,” Zuko pants, bracing his hands on his thighs. “Why devote ourselves to instruments of destruction when our aim is peace?”

“Everyone’s got different ideas on how to keep the peace.”

“I don’t … don’t think you chose wrong.”

Sokka looks down at him, an amused grin tilting his lips. “You good there, buddy?”

“Snow’s a workout.”

“Now you know how I feel about your city’s stairs.”

The stairs? There are stairs everywhere in the capital —

And then Zuko remembers. A different moonlit night, wandering back home from a low-budget but thought-provoking play, hours after Sokka casually reoriented everything Zuko thought he knew about what it meant to be a good Fire Lord. Moments before Zuko, awkward and seventeen and prone to speaking before thinking, asked Sokka to invite him to his home.

Visiting the South Pole had felt so far away back then. But he’s here now, and Sokka’s looking at him with that smile that makes Zuko feel like they’re in on something together. But — are they? Does Sokka let Zuko in? 

He straightens up and asks, “How are you feeling?”

Sokka scoffs. “Please, as if a snowy hill could take me out.”

Right. Sokka can’t actually read the thoughts in his head. “I meant about Suki,” he amends. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize, when we were on Shu Jing.”

Sokka’s shoulders rise, and a sudden panic wells in Zuko’s throat — they’re going to roll back and he’ll put on a smile and lie through his teeth and he doesn’t let me in, really — but then they drop again, pulling Sokka into a slouch. “It’s okay,” he says, subdued.

“It doesn’t have to be.”

“It is what it is.”

“How’s Aivaaq?”

“He’s good.”

Zuko swallows. “Does he make you happy?”

“You’re sounding like Katara.”

The way Sokka says it, that’s not a good thing — and the way he says it hurts. “I didn’t— ” Zuko starts, then stops. Why did he ask that? He only wanted to know — “I only wanted to know if you’re okay.”

Sokka comes around to stand in front of Zuko, looking at him with a neutral expression. For a moment, they stare at each other. Zuko forces himself to breathe steadily against his rising heartbeat.

Finally, Sokka breaks the silence. “Does it seem like I’m okay?”

He has to be honest, if he expects honesty in return. “No,” Zuko answers. “Something’s different. I don’t know if it’s about Suki, or something else, but — I don’t think you’re okay. And I wish you would tell me about it.”

Sokka smiles wryly. “Don’t you have more important things to worry about?”

“Maybe. But I’ll think about you anyway.”

Sokka blinks; then he snorts, dropping his gaze and returning to Zuko’s side. “I forgot,” he says mostly to himself, quietly amused.

“Forgot what?”

“How you draw people in.” He claps a hand on Zuko’s shoulder. “We should head back. You have a full day tomorrow.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Which is why I’m looking out for ya.”

Sokka slings an arm around Zuko’s neck, pulling him close as they head down the hill. It helps soothe the hurt that’s still thudding in Zuko’s chest. Please, he thinks, pressing into Sokka’s side as if he can lend Sokka some of his warmth and strength. Let me look out for you, too.

A couple mornings later, his day with Katara starts with her complaining about Sokka. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, bustling into the community learning center. “Someone over-exerted himself yesterday and woke up with a stiff knee, but oh, how convenient that his sister is a healer!”

Zuko heard that a hunting party returned last evening and that most of the young men in the village were helping them store what they caught until late into the night. Sokka was probably one of them. “Is he okay?” Zuko asks.

“Of course he is.” With deft fingers, Katara redoes the bottom half of her braid. “I swear, he’s less careful when I’m around since he knows I’ll help him,” she grumbles. “I should stop being so nice.” She secures her hair and nods sharply. “Let’s go.”

The mornings is when Katara helps Pakku train the youngest of the waterbenders. The oldest is only six years old, and Zuko feels soft at the sight of a pair of twins clumsily tossing a glob of water to one another. He is also, once again, fiercely glad that his father — in this respect — was a failure.

No one talks to Zuko throughout the lesson, but it’s nice to just observe. After, once the children are picked up by adults or teenage relatives, Katara dashes into the building to grab her pack and then hustles to the community hall. Zuko easily keeps paces with her, but he’s surprised by her speed. “We’re early for lunch, aren’t we?” he asks.

“Exactly,” Katara says. “Most of the elders eat at the community hall, so they don’t have to make a separate trip to see me, or I don’t have to go to each of them individually.”

When they arrive, there’s a small crowd waiting for Katara. Unlike the toddlers, who mostly just didn’t notice Zuko, the elders give Zuko and his guards cold looks or cold shoulders. He takes the hint and settles in farther away — close enough to hear Katara’s clear tone, far enough to not overhear the less enunciated uttering of the seniors.

At a point, Zuko realizes that most of what Katara’s addressing aren’t recent injuries: they’re old wounds or lingering ailments for which the most she can do is provide some relief. No matter how long she’s at it, though, her voice stays welcoming and her smile cheery. The community hall gets louder, as other villagers come in to start preparing lunch, and by the time a clear-broth soup is being ladled into bowls and passed around, Katara’s speaking with the last of her patients.

Zuko makes sure to request a bowl of soup for her, which he brings over as soon as the last elder shuffles away from her spot. “Thanks,” Katara says, grabbing the bowl with two hands and immediately tucking in.

When she resurfaces, a third of the soup is gone. “Sorry we haven’t been able to talk much so far,” she says. “I know I promised to tell you about what I do around the village.”

“It’s okay,” Zuko quickly reassures. In his eyes, everything Katara’s done today is much more important than her chatting with him. “I’m already learning from you.”

She smiles, relieved. “I’m glad.”

“Is it just you and Pakku teaching waterbending?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t make sense to ask more teachers from the north to come here, when we still have so few students.”

“And you’re the only healer?”

A shadows crosses her face. “There was another, for the first year after the war. But she and her family couldn’t handle living here, so they moved back to the North Pole.”

Zuko’s heard, from both Chief Arnook and Chief Hakoda, that the sister tribes often don’t get along, but he supposes he never fully believed it since their leaders have cooperated with one another for the past several years. “I’m sorry,” he says. Katara shrugs and takes a sip from her soup. “Do you teach any of your students how to heal with waterbending?”

Katara scowls so deeply she could rival Azula at her meanest. “I refuse to teach anyone until Pakku stops insisting only the girls could take my lessons.”

Zuko blinks. “He what?”

“He used to be all, Girls aren’t strong enough to learn how to fight with their waterbending,” Katara complains, mockery thick in her tone, “until I took him down in a fight. But now it’s all, Men don’t have the delicate touch that women do, so they can’t learn to heal. Mlehh!”

Behind Zuko, Bishal poorly disguises a laugh as a cough. “Oh,” Zuko says.

Katara sighs, the rage melting out of her. “Yeah.”

She looks tired, Zuko realizes, when she doesn’t have compassion or anger animating her features. “It must be exhausting, being the only healer,” he says.

“I’d rather be exhausted than not help when I can.”

“I didn’t mean —”

She smiles wryly, elbowing Zuko’s arm. “I know.”

“I was thinking about it last year, too. When you and Aang came to the capital and that assassin came for Aang.”

There’s a curiosity in her expression that suddenly makes Zuko feel embarrassed. “What about that?”

He watches his fingers curl and uncurl around his empty bowl. “I can only imagine how many times you’ve seen him almost die, and how many times you’ve saved him after. I don’t …” He swallows. “I wonder how you can stand it.”

“I love him.”

The fierceness in her tone surprises him into looking up. “I love him,” Katara says again, staring down Zuko, “so much that I don’t care if it hurts me one day. We grew up as children of war, Zuko, and I will grasp tight with stubborn hands any happiness that comes my way.”

“Even with the whole — being the Avatar thing?”

“Of course. Why should that stop me from —” She cuts herself off with a gasp, a hand flying to cover her mouth. “Zuko. Do you think being what you are makes you impossible to love?”

He blinks, barely catching the Yes that almost slips off his tongue, but it’s too late. “Zuko!” Katara reprimands, smacking his arm with enough force to rival Toph. “You idiot. It’ll only be impossible for you to be loved if you refuse to choose love for yourself!”

Her eyes are wide and starry, and Zuko is bewildered. “I— huh?”

“How long have you been down on yourself about this? Since you split up with Mai?” She shakes her head pityingly, reaching out to soothe Zuko’s arm where she hit him. “You deserve someone better than her anyway.”

Something hitches in Zuko’s throat. “I think she deserves better than —”

Another smack, thankfully lighter than the first. “Don’t say that.”

Katara sets aside her bowl, and for a fleeting moment Zuko thinks she’s really about to fight him. Instead, she shifts to fully face him and takes his hands in hers. Her blue eyes are piercing when they lock on his gaze. “One day, Zuko, you’re going to meet the most amazing woman,” she promises, “and she’ll love you so much.”

He doubts it, but he still nods weakly.

“No matter how stupid you are,” Katara adds.

“Okay.”

She pats his hand consolingly, like the grandmother that Zuko never really had, and with that, she lets go of him and tucks back into her soup. “You know,” she says, “Aang and I know this fortuneteller, if you want to know more —”

“No, thank you.”

The smile that splits her lips is possibly the most terrifying expression Zuko’s ever seen her make, and she’s literally tried to kill him before. “Just let me know!” she sings.

This conversation, Zuko thinks, is probably going to haunt him.

The sky’s a blinding blue on the day when Chief Hakoda takes Zuko to visit one of the watch towers.

As with so many other things around the village, the watch tower is one of the structures that Sokka built and improved on after the war. This watch tower is more of a communication beacon now, in these times of peace, and Zuko learns that it’s part of a larger network of twelve towers, with plans for more as the tribes across the South Pole continue to grow.

Inside the tower, Zuko’s eye can’t help being drawn to the hearth at its center. He adds it to his mental collection of things that Sokka touched and unintentionally gave second life to. “There are three other villages, to the west?” Zuko asks.

Chief Hakoda nods. “They were the first to reinforce their towers, with my son’s help.”

“Is it usual for the tower to be empty?”

“These days, it is.”

They walk around the tower one more time, Chief Hakoda pointing out geographical features in the distance that Zuko certainly could not pick out again on his own — the expansive white all around them is indifferentiable to his unaccustomed eye. It does, however, make it exceptionally easy to spot someone else approaching the watch tower from the village.

The single spot of brown-and-blue eventually resolves into two people, at which point Chief Hakoda nods shortly. “Sokka and Angaluuk. Angaluuk’s older than him, but Sokka’s been teaching him how to maintain the newer structures around the village.”

Zuko stares at the two figures, but from this far, he can’t yet tell which is Sokka. He looks for signs that one of them might be more animated than the other, but he doesn’t find any — and besides, Sokka’s been more subdued than usual lately. “You all must miss Sokka when he’s gone.”

Chief Hakoda doesn’t respond immediately. When Zuko turns back to him, there’s a familiar, pensive slant to his brows. “He hasn’t been himself this year,” the chief eventually says, looking past Zuko at the approaching tribesmen. “I know it’s probably got something to do with that Kyoshi Warrior, but this is also the longest he’s stayed in the village since the war.” He sighs, a sadness seeping into his dark blue eyes. “My son needs to travel. I’m worried that he feels tied down.”

Zuko’s suddenly very aware of his hands and how much he wants to fidget them. He’s always assumed Chief Hakoda loved his children the way that parents were supposed to love their children. But … “You want him to leave?”

“I would be lying if I said yes. But what I want more is for him to be happy and himself again.”

His gaze shifts from the window back to Zuko, and then the chief suddenly clears his throat, looking askance. “We can wait for Sokka and Angaluuk, so you can hear what Sokka has to say about the tower,” he says, voice brusque. “But in the meantime — you wanted to return to our conversation about envoys?”

They do talk about the envoy proposal that Chief Arnook sent some weeks ago, but half of Zuko’s mind is stuck turning over the idea that Chief Hakoda loves his son but also wants to send him away. It’s the contradiction that Zuko spent so much of his adolescence trying to reconcile, until he grew up and realized that Ozai never really loved him. But he’s seen the affection Chief Hakoda shares with Sokka and Katara. He’s seen the way Sokka shines with pride when he talks about his father.

When Sokka and Angaluuk reach the top of the tower, Sokka’s grinning the moment he catches Zuko’s eye. “Bishal’s trying to convince Yawen he could climb up the side of this tower,” he reports.

“He’s not going to try to prove it, is he?”

“His manners are too good for that, which Yawen also knows.”

Zuko’s introduced to Angaluuk, who has a quiet but steady demeanor, and then Zuko observes as Sokka explains various aspects of the tower to him. He also notices the way that Chief Hakoda watches his son, his faint smile proud but a watchful concern tightening the corners of his eyes.

It’s as efficient an explanation as any other time when Sokka knows, inside and out, a particular topic, and before long they’re returning to the village together. Sokka and Angaluuk take the lead, Sokka now explaining how different towers have site-specific variations based on the angle of the sun and wind patterns throughout the corse of the year, and Chief Hakoda, Zuko, and his guards fall in after them.

“When Sokka stayed with you a few years ago, you didn’t make him leave, did you?” Chief Hakoda asks.

Zuko shakes his head. He still remembers how caught off guard he felt when Sokka announced his plans for leaving. “He said the time was right.”

“And he’s visited since then, hasn’t he?”

The first time, he was really in the Fire Nation for Suki, and their run-in early this year on Shu Jing was by accident, but … “Yes.”

Chief Hakoda nods. Zuko’s not sure who it’s meant for. “Whatever it is that drives him to go, there’s something just as strong that makes him come back.”

His eyes find his son, his lips curling into a quiet smile, and it finally hits Zuko: it’s not for lack of love, that Chief Hakoda wants Sokka to leave. It’s because he understands him.

Later that evening, Zuko’s answering letters from home in their guest rooms when the door cracks open. “Zuko?”

He sits up at the sound of his name, wincing against the sudden soreness of his neck. “Sokka?”

The crack widens enough for Sokka to slip inside. He shuts the door and comes to lean against the table where Zuko’s working, folding his arms as he glances at Zuko’s missives. “They don’t stop, huh?”

“No.” He doesn’t mind that fact so long as he doesn’t think about it. “Did something come up?”

“What?”

“You’re here. Do I need to — be somewhere? Or …?”

“Oh. Nah, wrapped up what I was doing and decided to find you.” He rotates the letter Zuko’s reading toward himself, scanning its contents briefly. “Akamura … that’s the family that Jingyi knows, right? The one that lent their place to the Kyoshi Warriors?”

How on earth does Sokka’s mind work? “How do you remember that?”

“Mai and Ty Lee ended up staying at their summer home, too. Said the floor cushions were exact same as their house in the capital.”

“You’re incredible.”

It slips out before Zuko’s aware he’s thought it; he feels as surprised as Sokka looks. “Huh?”

“You —” Sokka remembers the details of things that happened years ago, even if it didn’t involve him directly, and he makes connections and develops relationships, all while traveling the world and counseling world leaders and building communities, and yet he still looks like this when Zuko compliments him? Like he’s skeptical — like he doubts his worthiness. How can Zuko show him that’s the opposite of the truth? That he trusts how capable Sokka is, that he trusts Sokka?

And suddenly, it hits him. “Come back to the Fire Nation with me,” Zuko blurts. “I’m building something on Roku’s Island. And I want your help.”

Sokka’s brows furrow. “What are you building?”

“Summer house,” Zuko decides. He’s never really liked Ember Island, and Roku’s Island … he recalls standing on its shores, salt filling his nose and waves crashing in his ears, and imagines Sokka walking its coast with him. If there’s anyone who could sense the potential that Zuko feels when on that island, who can breathe second life into it …

Sokka snorts. “I don’t think I’m qualified for that.”

Zuko narrows his eyes at him. “Seriously? Look around, Sokka. You helped build almost everything I’ve seen in this village.”

He watches Sokka’s gaze rove around the room that Zuko knows, for sure, he helped design. “That’s an exaggeration.”

“I don’t think it is.” Zuko swallows. “I want it to be you.”

For a moment, Sokka’s eyes catch his; then he looks down at this fingers as they absently tap out a rhythm on Akamura’s letter. Zuko waits with bated breath. Should he say more? He doesn’t want to push Sokka, but if Chief Hakoda’s right and Sokka feels tied down by something —

A loud knock on the door makes him jump; he turns to see Bishal entering. “Zuko, we should go to din— ” Bishal stops short at seeing Sokka. “Sorry. I didn’t …”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says. He looks at Sokka again, at his fingers drumming on the table, and puts a hand over them to still their motion. Sokka’s expression is frustratingly unreadable. “Think about it. We don’t leave for a couple more days.”

“I know.”

One of his fingers twitches against Zuko’s palm, and Zuko reflexively tightens his hold. Whatever other impulse he feels building beneath his skin, it’s kept from brimming over by his awareness of Bishal waiting in the doorway. “Dinner?” he asks.

Sokka looks down at their hands and swallows. Then he nods, his mask of a smile taking over as he pulls his fingers out from Zuko’s grasp. “Dinner!” he agrees, pulling Zuko’s chair back from the desk. “Let’s go — I’m starving.”

Three mornings later, Zuko and his guards are at work before dawn, helping load the trading ship that’ll also take them part of the way back to the Fire Nation. Their breath fogs in the deep morning-blue air, and the dregs of sleep tug at Zuko’s muscles as he strains to move loaded crates and bags.

It must be the twentieth time he’s emerging from the hold when the first streaks of purple and pink begin to spindle their way above the horizon. The colorful signs of light stoke the flame in his chest, and Zuko takes a moment to drift further down the deck, tracing the nebulous streaks with his eye. There’s a comfort in the rocking of the boat beneath his feet, a ceaseless motion that’s easy to absorb yet promises more. What is it, that drives Sokka to travel? Zuko wonders. He thinks it must feel something like this.

“What’s on your mind?”

Zuko turns to find Sokka, standing closer than Zuko expected. His hood is pulled up, his eyes squinting and puffy in a way that makes Zuko think he’s not fully awake yet. “The sunrise,” he answers. “It’s pretty.”

Sokka drifts forward until he runs half into the railing, half into Zuko’s side. “Mm.”

Zuko bites back a smile. “Are you still asleep?” 

“No.”

“You didn’t need to see us off.”
His head lolls onto Zuko’s shoulder. “‘M not seeing you off.”

He’s suddenly very aware of how much taller Sokka is; his neck can’t be comfortable like this. “Then what are you doing here?”

“Gonna build you a house or something.”

Zuko’s heart skips a beat. “What?”

With a groan, Sokka lifts his head. “I said, I’m gonna build you a house.”

He fixes his squint on Zuko, somehow looking both drowsy and completely lucid, and Zuko’s breath catches in his throat; then, his chest explodes, a sensation like he’s soaring making him throw his arms around Sokka. “Whoa!” Sokka shouts.

But his arms are already looping around Zuko in turn, engulfing him with a consuming warmth, and Zuko —

He can breathe a quiet sigh of relief.

Summer arrives on a gentle breeze. It settles on the archipelago lightly, and the air is almost too easy to breathe.

He’s at the meat market when Zuko finally realizes what’s been bothering him since he returned to the capital two weeks ago. “Do you not like Kimiko?”

Mai rips off a piece of yakitori with her teeth and stares impassively at Zuko as she chews. She swallows, dabs a fingertip against the corner of her lips, and then rips off another bite before answering, “No.”

“Why not?”

Mai doesn’t reply, seemingly engrossed by her food.

Zuko looks at the skewers that have been losing warmth in his hands. The return from the Southern Water Tribe had been easy: they made it to the archipelago a day earlier than planned, spent a day and a night on Roku’s Island, and then continued to the capital without a hitch. As soon as they landed, Zuko was pulled in a hundred different directions at once, and at some point during the five days it took to resettle the rhythms of the palace and the capital with Zuko returned, Sokka managed to slip away to Roku’s Island with a few different specialists and a promise to send for Zuko when he was needed.

Mai’s been back for about a month already — Zuko didn’t expect her to be in the council room, let alone the capital, when he stopped by on the afternoon he returned. He learns from Eun that Shohei works alongside Li Bai and Kimiko daily, but has never stepped foot in the council room. The head of the guard informs Zuko that Chenda recently left for Ember Island to attend her brother’s wedding. No one knows exactly where Azula is, but Amit’s mother recently received a letter from him, and their small traveling group seems to be fine. Upper city renovations are moving as quickly as Kimiko predicted, and no volcanoes have erupted.

He looks at Mai again and still can’t see anything brewing beneath her skin. “Why not?” he asks again.

Finished with her portion, Mai steals one of Zuko’s skewers. “She tried to kill you.”

Oh. “She doesn’t want to kill me anymore.”

“I don’t care.”

“But she’s on my council now.”

“And I would’ve convinced you to not do that if I’d been here when you invited her.”

She tries going for Zuko’s last skewer, but he yanks it out of her reach. He is actually hungry. “Do you think she isn’t doing well as a member of the council?” he asks before taking a bite. Spices bloom across his tongue, and oh, did he miss the taste of home these last few months.

“I don’t like her.”

“I know. But do you think she’s a bad councilor?”

“ … No.”

Zuko stuffs his mouth to hide his smile.

Their walk back to the palace is meandering, Mai drifting into a few shops along the way to purchase whatever catches her eye. She ends up with more than a few boxes and bags, which Zuko ends up carrying all the way to Mai’s family’s residence.

“Will anyone be home?” Zuko asks as they slip around the side of the house to the back garden.

“Probably just Tom-Tom and his tutor.”

Entering through the back door puts them directly in the kitchen, where Mai tosses a nonchalant hand at a low table against the far wall that’s too narrow to be anything other than decorative. “You can put those there,” she says. “The staff will take care of them.”

“Okay.”

“Wait here. I need to get something.”

She disappears deeper into the house, and Zuko’s left alone.

He realizes this is the first time he’s been here since he and Mai broke up, and that it’s been even longer since he was in the kitchen specifically. It’s one of the more strictly practical rooms in the residence, its dark wood elegant but not adorned like it is in the rooms where Ukano and Michi entertain guests. 

He, Azula, Ty Lee, and Mai used to escape here whenever Ozai and Ukano would have one of their long dinners. Those dinners would make Ursa’s face quite pink and Ozai’s eye less watchful of his children. Michi would becoming uncharacteristically doting of other children, cooing as she fixed Azula’s hair or pinched Zuko’s cheek. He can still vividly remember the sweetness of Michi’s perfume as she’d lean close and simper over his round cheeks and golden eyes. “The eyes of a Fire Nation boy!” she’d croon.

Ukano’s behavior never seemed to change, and it still hasn’t, after all these years.

There’s the sound of soft knuckles on wood, and Zuko startles to see Michi standing in the doorway. “Fire Lord,” she says politely with a short bow. “What a lovely surprise.”

Zuko bows, wondering if Michi’s called him lovely since he turned eight. “Apologies for the intrusion,” he says. “I was helping Mai carry some things. We won’t bother you much longer.”

Michi glances over her shoulder before coming further into the kitchen. “I had a funny thought recently.”

Zuko blinks. Once he and Mai began dating, Michi stopped speaking to him directly, tolerant of his relationship with her daughter but apparently less tolerant of him. This straightforwardness now feels strange. “What was it?”

“My husband said that the navy used to sail during the night, too. And I just couldn’t believe it! How could you direct a boat, much less navigate the waters during a war, when it was dark out?”

“Every ship in our fleet is trained for nighttime navigation,” Zuko says. “They’re supported by our cartographers, who are among the best in the world at star mapping.”

She tilts her head. “So you don’t need to see, to sail a ship?”

“Only a bit. It helps when the moonlight is strong.”

“Fascinating.”

Her light brown eyes are wide, and Zuko’s wondering if Michi has ever expressed interest in boats before when Mai returns, her brow furrowed at her mother. “Why are you home?” she asks.

Michi turns to her daughter and smiles. It’s still startling to Zuko, how similar they look when they smile — not that Mai ever really does so around her mother. “Did you find anything beautiful while shopping?”

Mai’s cheek twitches. “Don’t bother Zuko when he’s not here officially.”

“I wasn’t bothered,” Zuko reassures.

Mai ignores him, grabbing his sleeve and pulling him to the back door. “Let’s go.”

Awkwardly, Zuko bows to Michi as he’s being dragged out; the last thing he sees, before the door shuts after him, is her retreating deeper into the house, slipping into the shadows as gracefully as her daughter has always moved.

Zuko’s been told there’s a total of two people in the entire capital that Shohei has warmed up to, and one of them is, apparently, Yong.

It’s a sticky day to be lingering in a courtyard, but Shohei’s out here and chatting with Yong as she prunes some bushes, so Zuko sheds his outer layers — which had already been uncomfortable to wear inside — and braves the damp heat to join them. Yong smiles in greeting when she notices him approaching, but Shohei simply continues his story, his golden eyes cutting to Zuko once before returning to Yong. “Ever since, Xun’s been too afraid to even go near the boats. It’s not good. Kids who are too cautious don’t learn.”

“Children can also have a short memory,” Yong replies. “I’m sure Little Xun will be racing back to the water sooner than you think.”

“And then Hao will panic all over again.”

Yong shakes her head fondly. “Good afternoon, Fire Lord Zuko. What brings you here?”

“The gardens,” he says, casually sitting on the opposite end of Shohei’s bench. “How are you?”

“Ahh, busy. Erhi’s even more frenzied about the wedding now that Bishal is back.”

It’s only a few weeks away, and Bishal’s mentioned as much. “From what Bishal’s told me, it’s going to be a beautiful ceremony.” He looks at Shohei. “And how are you?”

“Well,” Shohei grunts, sounding far from it.

Yong picks up on his tone as well; she pauses in her pruning to level a judgmental stare at him. To Zuko’s surprise, Shohei sighs and shifts his weight, angling more towards Zuko just a bit. “I stay busy with Li Bai and Kimiko.”

“Do they give you too much work?”

He scoffs, which Zuko takes as a no. “Kimiko’s got her head on right.”

The second person Shohei’s become friendly with in the capital. “And Li Bai?”

“He’s too afraid of his own creative intellect.”

It’s sort of a compliment, Zuko supposes. “I’m appreciative of all the aid you give them.”

Shohei purses his lips, but not quickly enough to completely hide a pleased smile. “There’s work to be done.”

Zuko nods, suppressing his own grin. Shohei’s prickliness isn’t so dissimilar from Mai or Azula’s, he realizes. “Yong, is there anything I can to do to help with the wedding?”

“Thank you for asking. I’ll tell Erhi you’ve inquired.”

“Zuko!”

It’s Li Bai calling his name. He bows hurriedly at Yong and Shohei as he approaches; Zuko hears Shohei grunt quietly. “Sorry for interrupting,” Li Bai says. “I was actually looking for you — ” He nods at Shohei, who lifts a hairy brow. “ — but I’ve been wanting to show this to you, Zuko.”

He hands over what looks like an ordinary proof of shipment. It’s for some teas, dated to have arrived in the capital’s port today. “Was it delivered to the wrong place?” Zuko asks.

“No. But isn’t it strange?” He taps the left side of the proof with a long finger. “Look at the route it took, and the taxes it accumulated. I’ve never seen a route like this before.”

At a second glance, there are an unusual number of stops for a shipment that originated in the western Earth Kingdom. “I don’t recognize some of these names,” Zuko says. “Are they smaller ports?”

“Perhaps. There’s been much change in the area, since the embargoes began.”

Shohei leans towards Zuko, and he holds the proof out to him. His brows furrow, but he says nothing, returning to his former seat.

Zuko returns the proof to Li Bai. “Have the port authority keep an eye out for any other proof of shipments with these names or unusual taxes,” he decides. “At the least, we should send some cartographers to record newly opened ports.”

Li Bai nods. “Shohei, I’m speaking with the renovation architects again now. Would you like to join?”

Shohei’s eyes alight. “I have some words for them,” he says, getting to his feet with the help of his cane.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” Zuko says.

Shohei waves a hand and then takes off at a clip, Li Bai trailing after him.

“Fire Lord Zuko? Are you worried?”

Zuko blinks, turning to Yong. “Why do you ask?”

“You look worried.” She removes her glove to pull out a handkerchief and dab at her brow. Even in this weather, she wears a collar high enough to hide most of her burn scar. “He might not ever say it, but Shohei’s satisfied with where he is and what he does right now.”

It’s the impression that Zuko got from anecdotes, but it still warms him to hear it directly from Yong, who seems to know Shohei better than any of them. “Thank you,” he says. “I’m glad to hear it.”

She smiles at him. “You do well, Fire Lord Zuko. You’re making this city a proper home again.”

And suddenly, somehow, the wedding is a mere week away. Zuko’s running through his bending forms at the old trainings grounds when Sokka returns to the capital, and the evening turns into a long bout of sparring that leaves Zuko’s muscles aching as much as his cheeks from the way Sokka won’t let him stop laughing. He walks Sokka to his guest chambers and sleeps dreamlessly through the night.

The next morning, after waking Sokka with breakfast, they’re the first to arrive to the council rooms. “Wow,” Sokka says as soon as he steps inside, eyes roving across the room. “It’s changed so much.”

“When’s the last time you were in this room?”

“Uh … Tui’s gills, was it really last summer?”

Sokka wanders over to the correspondence shelves as Zuko searches his memory. It really was almost a year ago, when Sokka was last here. Then, he was wearing Water Tribe blue; today, he’s in Fire Nation colors, though Zuko’s pretty sure his pants must be from somewhere in the Earth Kingdom based on the way they’re cut.

“Whoa — this is a prioritization system, isn’t it?”

Zuko joins Sokka, rising on his toes to peek over Sokka’s shoulder. “Yeah. Kimiko designed it.”

“You’re so lucky she tried to kill you.”

Zuko snorts. “I am. She —”

Bang!

Zuko startles and unbalances, falling into Sokka, who flings out an arm to catch himself against the shelf. “Monkey feathers,” Sokka curses, as Zuko realizes, The door.

“Oh, spirits, I didn’t —”

There’s another clatter, and Zuko straightens with a careful hand on Sokka’s shoulder, his cheeks heating. Kimiko’s on her knees by the door, collecting a pile of dropped scrolls. He glances up at Sokka. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, nodding towards Kimiko.

They go to help her, which is how the three of them end up crouching at the entrance of the council room, staring at each other over a sorted stack of scrolls. “Hi! I’m Sokka,” Sokka says brightly, breaking the silence.

Kimiko’s eyes widen at Zuko. “The Sokka?”

“Yeah. Sokka, this is Kimiko.”

Kimiko’s eyes dart between them. She’s wearing the same expression as when she’s first presented a new challenge and her mind’s flying in a hundred directions at once; Zuko supposes she’s trying to figure out how a Southern tribesman ended up in the Fire Nation capital wearing what he is. 

Soon enough, she arrives at a conclusion, and she bows as much as she can when seated on the ground with an armful of scrolls. “Nice to meet you,” she says hurriedly. “I can find somewhere else to take these.”

“What? We don’t need the whole room,” Zuko says.

“Really, it’s okay —”

“Nonsense,” Sokka cuts in, rising and holding a hand out to Kimiko. “Zuko’s been telling me so much about you, and I gotta ask — how did you get those fishers from Crescent Island to agree to the seaweed harvesting regulations?”

Kimiko shoots another wide-eyed look at Zuko. He nods encouragingly, and only then does she hesitantly take Sokka’s hand. She lets go as soon as she’s upright and follows Sokka to the table as he continues, “Seriously, those geezers are so stubborn. And that’s with me! I get living off the sea — we should be able to get along!”

Like everyone else, Kimiko doesn’t take long to warm to Sokka, and by the time the rest of the council is also present, the mood is high. Sokka’s hello hug to Chenda is so enthusiastic he lifts her right off the floor, he immediately teams up with Eun to convince everyone to take an afternoon trip to the meat market, and he even gets Mai to break into a fit of laughter by recounting an evening at the Southern Air Temple when Momo got him to eat some strange berries that made them both hallucinate.

It’s not until they’re walking to the meat market that Sokka speaks to him and him alone, jogging to catch up and fall in step with Zuko. “I could down an entire komodo chicken right now.”

His eyes are bright, his lips curved on the brink of a smile, and a relieved happiness blooms in Zuko’s chest. He’s glad that, at the least, coming to the Fire Nation hasn’t worsened the gloominess that seems to be following Sokka this year. And on a more selfish note, he’s also glad that Sokka is always able to make friends with the people that Zuko introduces him to. 

Of course, Zuko loves all of his friends, but most of them tend to be … particular. It’s hard for him to know whether they’ll get along with everyone else in his life. But with Sokka, it seems like he never has to worry.

“What’s that smile for?”

Zuko blinks back to the present as Sokka’s hand lands on the nape of his neck. His palm is warm, and in spite of the heat of the day, Zuko doesn’t mind it. It feels good, actually, especially when he squeezes, his fingers pressing into Zuko’s flesh. “Everyone likes you,” he says.

Sokka scoffs. “Not everyone.”

“Everyone I care about.”

“What can I say? I’m a lovable dude.” Suddenly, he perks up, lifting his nose to sniff deeply. “Ooh! I smell fried komodo chicken!” He turns, and in the same movement his hand falls away, glancing halfway down Zuko’s back before losing contact. Something shivers down Zuko’s spine. “Hey!” Sokka calls. “How does fried komodo chicken sound?”

Later, as they’re crowded around the fried komodo chicken stall and Eun and Mai are competing for the last drumstick with some children’s game that Sokka’s dramatically commentating, it hits Zuko that there’s truth in what Sokka had said jokingly: he is lovable. He’s infectious and easygoing and clever. Who couldn’t love him at least a little?

He doesn’t expect, halfway through the ceremony, to start crying, but then the Fire Sage prompts Bishal and Erhi to kneel and receive the looped red thread from Bishal’s parents, and Zuko gets his first look at Bishal’s radiant, absolutely adoring expression as he sneaks a glance at Erhi, and suddenly —

Suddenly his eyes are burning and tears are pooling and then spilling down his cheeks and there’s nothing he can do about it when he has Bishal’s six-year-old brother dozing against his chest.

He’s just — he’s happy for his friend, he’s elated, but he’s also … jealous? That’s not quite the word. He’s felt jealousy before, and there’s always been an underlying sense of entitlement to it: I am jealous, because I know I should have that, too. But he can’t even imagine having what Bishal and Erhi have — it seems like impossibility. Yet part of him, inexplicably, still aches.

The rest of the ceremony is literally a blur. When it ends, he’s eventually saved by Yong, who lifts the sleeping child off of his lap and stands close to make a shield with her body. Zuko quickly scrubs the tears from his face, hoping his eyes aren’t terribly red. At the least, he can see Yong clearly when she gives him a sad smile. “It’s their celebration,” she says quietly, and Zuko hears the reprimand hidden in the words.

The reception is hosted by Bishal’s family. Usually, Zuko skips the reception of any wedding he’s invited to — his presence as the Fire Lord would be too much of an imposition. But Bishal had insisted, so Zuko first detours by the palace to pick up Nisha and Sokka, and then the three of them return to the middle city. 

It’s already the early afternoon, which would usually mean sweat-inducing heat by this hour, but that refreshing breeze that seems to visit more frequently this summer is back again, lifting Zuko’s freshly cut hair off his neck. On either side of him, Sokka and Nisha keep pace, their eyes roving over the people and places they pass. Their vigilance on a calm day feels silly, but he doesn’t mind that their closeness means their shoulders and arms occasionally brush against his.

They reach a narrow flight of stairs, where Sokka goes first. His gait is even, his voice chipper as he tosses over his shoulder, “How was the ceremony?”

At Nisha’s nod, Zuko follows after Sokka. “It was really nice. I think it might have been the most traditional wedding I’ve been to.”

“What do you mean?” Nisha asks behind him.

“Most of the weddings I go to involve deeply established capital families— ”

“Rich families,” Nisha interjects.

“Basically. And a huge part of the ceremony is the gift exchange. The future husband and wife are supposed to commission a gift that’s both beautiful and useful. They present them during the ceremony to their future spouse, with their parents looking on.”

He can see Sokka’s spine straighten with curiosity before the question comes. “Commission?” he echoes. “So it’s showing off not just ingenuity, but also money.”

“I think it’s mostly money,” Zuko admits. “It’s now pretty standard for a man to give a piece of jewelry that has a second use, and for a woman to give a weapon that has a second use.”

“What did your parents give each other?” Nisha asks.

He opens his mouth to answer before he realizes he doesn’t actually know, which is strange. If the wedding gift isn’t something used frequently, it’s typically displayed in a prominent place in the family home. He’s seen, in the art gallery, the gifts that Azulon and Sozin their spouses gave each other; even the bejeweled hair piece of Uncle’s late wife, which hides a small brush and ink, is in the gallery. But he’s never seen or even heard about his parents’ gifts.

Sokka reaches the bottom of the stairs and pauses to look back. “East or west?” he asks.

There must be something in Zuko’s expression; he knows that Sokka’s been to Bishal’s family home before, and he’s never known Sokka to forget how to reach a place after being there once. “East, and then turn south at the seamster’s.”

When they arrive, all of Bishal’s extended family is already there, which means the house feels quite full. It takes a while for them to finally reach the newlyweds. Zuko first congratulates Erhi, who returns his bow so deeply he feels embarrassed. “Thank you for attending our ceremony,” she says, her golden eyes piercing. “My mother always spoke so well of you as the prince, and now Bishal sings your praises as the Fire Lord.”

“Thank you for letting me attend.” He was one of only a handful of ceremony guests not in the family. “If I’m worthy of such praise, it’s only because people like your mother and Bishal bring the best out of me.”

There’s a tug on his sleeve, and then Zuko’s being pulled into Bishal’s tight embrace. “Congratulations,” Zuko says into his ear — they, at least, are of a similar height — and Bishal squeezes before pulling back enough to see Zuko’s face.

There’s a concern in Bishal’s eyes that isn’t quite covered by his smile. “Yong told me,” he says quietly, and he could only be talking about one thing. “Are you okay?”

Zuko grins. Of course he’s okay. One of his close friends just married the love of his life. “The relationship and love you and Erhi share means a lot to me.”

Bishal looks at Erhi, who’s showing Sokka the variety of bracelets stacked along her wrists. A besotted grin spreads across his lips. “We’re married,” he says.

“You are.”

More and more people arrive — neighbors, friends from the palace, friends from Erhi’s arts community — and they somehow manage to fit everyone in the house and feed them as well. Zuko ends up in a tucked away corner with Nisha, which is admittedly nice: less attention reaches him, intentionally or accidentally, but he can still watch the people he knows and others of the capital shower their affection on the new couple and celebrate with one another. From the council, Eun, Li Bai, and Chenda all visit the reception, if only briefly; each time they’ve finished speaking with the newlyweds, Sokka brings them by Zuko and Nisha.

In fact, that’s all Sokka’s been doing since they arrived: making endless circles, connecting people to others and others, creating bubbles of laughter that dissipate and reform as naturally as when a stream babbles down a hill.

The next time he comes to Zuko’s corner, he drops a plate of sliced plums onto Zuko’s lap and then taps Nisha’s shoulder. “Can I introduce you to a friend?”

Nisha glances at Zuko. “Will you be okay for five minutes?”

“Yes.”

Sokka pats the top of Zuko’s head before pulling Nisha away.

He watches them go. As they disappear across the threshold into an adjoining room, a throat softly clears next to Zuko.

He finds Michi standing off to his side, and he’s startled into bluntly asking, “What are you doing here?”

Michi ignores his rudeness. “I know the celebrating families. It would be impolite to not give my congratulations.” 

Mai hasn’t even come to the reception; it feels strange that Michi should. Perhaps she knows Yong, or someone in Bishal’s extended family. “I see,” he says and then pauses, unsure how to continue the conversation. Michi maintains her polite smile, a gentle yet detached thing. What does he possibly have in common with Michi? He knows so much more about her husband than her, and he doesn’t have the energy to initiate a discussion about her garden, which will surely trap him for the next hour if he did. He settles on: “How’s Mai?”

“She works very hard. She was up early this morning, answering letters from Kyoshi Island.”

Zuko imagines those letters were not very related to anything she does for the council — but Michi doesn’t need to know that. “I’m proud to have her on my council.”

“I didn’t know until she told me that Kyoshi Island used to be called Yoyoka.”

“Did it?”

Michi nods sagely, as if the information were terribly profound. “I find that I can understand it. If they wished to cut ties with the nation they once came from, claiming a new name seems important.”

“But Kyoshi Island is still considered part of the Earth Kingdom.”

She hums lightly, her gaze flitting back to the room at large. “I suppose you’re right.”

Following her gaze, Zuko spots Sokka working his way back to him, though without Nisha. Upon catching Zuko looking, he grins; Zuko quickly smiles back before turning to Michi.

She’s already mid-bow, and Zuko hastens to return the gesture. “Thank you for your ear, Fire Lord,” she says. “My congratulations to the couple.”

“Congratulations to them.”

In a blink, she’s swallowed by the crowd; a moment later, Sokka reaches him, his hand briefly touching Zuko’s elbow. “Was that Michi?”

“Yes.”

“What were you talking about?”

He catches Kyoshi Island on the tip of his tongue before it can slip out. Sokka’s been in a good mood, these days — he doesn’t want to risk ruining it by bringing up something that could remind him of Suki. “Mai,” he says instead.

Sokka plucks a slice from the forgotten plate of plums still in Zuko’s hands. “Funny how she talks to you more now that you aren’t dating her daughter.”

“She’s always been protective of Mai, I think.”

A wide grin splits Sokka’s face. “What, because you’re so threatening?”

Zuko blinks. “You don’t think I’m threatening?”

“So, so scary. Just look at this face.”

With one hand, he grabs Zuko’s jaw, his fingers squishing Zuko’s cheeks toward his lips, and Zuko nearly flings his plums in his desperate squirm away. “My cheeks are normal-sized!” he protests against Sokka’s laughter, backing further into the corner.

“Very round. Extremely frightening.”

Embarrassed by Sokka’s teasing and the light feeling bubbling in his chest, Zuko shoves a plum slice into Sokka’s mouth. “Shut up,” he grumbles. “Where did you leave Nisha?”

“Mm mph mr mn—”

“Spirits, Sokka, finish chewing first.”

The next day, he arrives at the council room in the early morning to find that everyone else is already there. “What happened?” he asks, the flame in his chest flaring.

“Nothing happened,” Eun reassures.

“Yet,” Mai intones.

“You’re taking a vacation,” Chenda explains.

Zuko blinks. “Vacation?” he echoes.

Immediately, his mind is racing with everything that he’s juggling right now, from calendars to projects to the ever-present backlog of overdue letters and proposals demanding his attention. “I can’t —”

“You can,” Kimiko interrupts, waving the unfurled scroll in her hands. “I have a record of everything you’re doing right now and what needs attention now versus what can wait until you return.”

Zuko reaches for the scroll and skims. She really has covered everything, which is impressive and terrifying when Zuko hasn’t explicitly spoken to her about half of what’s on this list. “When was this decided? And without me?”

“It was strongly recommended to us,” Li Bai says.

Mai rolls her eyes. “Sokka pestered us.”

Sokka. Of course. “I haven’t packed.”

“Taken care of,” Kimiko says.

Their answers are coming faster than Zuko can think of questions, and when he pauses to really take a look at their faces, he realizes: nothing will make them back down.

Ozai’s council never had such spine, he thinks, and the relief that slams through him makes him want to cry.

Mai must recognize something in his face. “You’re running late,” she says brusquely and moves forward, grabbing Zuko’s arm as she reaches him and pulling him along to the door.

They keep a fast pace through the palace; only once they cross the gates does Mai slow to a normal walk. Zuko’s in control of his emotions again, and besides, it’s far too humid out to cry. “Thanks,” he says.

If his voice crackles even more than usual, Mai doesn’t comment on it. She squeezes his arm lightly before releasing him. “What are you worried about?”

“I don’t have time. I’ll miss something. Azula will come back and I won’t be here to welcome her home.” And speaking of welcome home — panic flares in his chest. Bishal and Erhi left for their honeymoon last night. “Does Bishal know —?”

“He knows.” 

They take the turn that will eventually deliver them to the harbor. How far away is Zuko being sent? “The representatives from the north —”

“They agreed to postpone their trip.”

“The committee for the Fire Days festival —”

“Zuko,” Mai cuts in. “Everything has been taken care of.” 

Zuko bites his tongue. He did see Kimiko’s list.

As if reading his mind, Mai grumbles, “If that assassin’s good for anything, it’s knowing everyone’s business.”

Silence settles comfortably between them, and for the rest of the walk to the harbor, Zuko tries to imagine what a vacation would look like. The only memories he can reference are from before his banishment, when he and Azula were children being lovingly menaced by Li and Lo. Now, he’s without Azula and his parents, and he certainly hopes Li and Lo won’t be there.

It’s still early enough for the harbor to be busy. Mai’s steps are confident as she weaves through the crowd, and soon Zuko realizes her intended destination: a small ship made of wood and sails, run by a tight veteran crew.

She stops at the end of the gangplank, lifting a hand to shield her eyes from the glare off the ocean. “You’ll listen, and actually take a break?” she asks, squinting at him.

“I assume you didn’t let any work get packed along with my clothes.”

She shrugs. “I didn’t pack your things.”

“Fire Lord Zuko!”

One of the sailors pauses at the top of the gangplank, arms full of a heavy rope that he holds effortlessly. “Anchor’s up soon, yeah?”

“Yes, sir.” Zuko turns back to Mai. “Thank you,” he says. “Can you tell the others I say thank you, too?”

She nods. When Zuko steps forward to hug her, she rises on her toes to tuck her chin over his shoulder. “Take a break,” she says again, and Zuko squeezes her waist. When he lets her go, she steps back without another word, as averse to goodbyes as always.

He walks up the gangplank, and right as he steps onto the deck, a familiar brown top knot pops up from the hold. Zuko turns to ask Mai, Was this part of the plan, too? but she’s already halfway up the dock, slipping elegantly between sailors and dock workers.

He looks back, and Sokka’s already spotted him. He beams when their eyes meet. “Ready?”

The gangplank is hauled up and the deck becomes a flurry of movement, the familiar shouts of sailor readying for departure filling the air. Zuko still doesn’t know where they’re going, but the wind is picking up, wicking away the stickiness of the day, and Sokka’s doing some ridiculous dance as he makes his way across the deck to Zuko, and Zuko — he has to laugh. “Ready!”

Catching lobster kani is more difficult than Zuko expected.

The shelled sea critters, no larger than his outstretched hand, look like miniature versions of lobster crabs and taste similar, too — just a touch sweeter. They’re abundant in the rocky tide pools on the south side of Roku’s Island, and over the last few days, Zuko’s watched Sokka scramble effortlessly across the shore to snatch them up with his bare hands. He showed Zuko how to grab them to avoid getting nipped by their pinchers, how to anticipate their sudden changes in direction by the way their legs moved. It never took them more than an hour to fill a wicker basket with enough lobster kani to feed their small group staying on the island.

Zuko glances at the same basket where it’s currently balanced against his hip. He’s been alone out here for at least two hours, and he should probably catch five more to make sure everyone can eat properly. Maybe three, if they’re particularly large.

He takes a moment to squint at the horizon. The sun that’s been beating on his bare neck and back is finally setting; he has maybe half an hour before he should head back, if he wants to catch some of Sokka’s work before daylight is completely gone.

Setting his shoulders, he goes to the next tide pool, wedges his basket into a shallow nook, and crouches once more to peer for lobster kani.

He’s able to catch four more with only one pinch and two wipeouts, which he’ll deem a successful conclusion to his afternoon hunt since there are no witnesses to counter him. He double checks that the lid on his basket is secure before he slings it over his shoulder and begins the trek back to their campsite.

Linh already has a pot of spices and vegetables boiling over a fire when Zuko arrives. The smell is mouthwatering, but Zuko holds his tongue as he sets his basket next to the dark-haired man; he learned on his first day to not disturb the builder when he’s tending to dinner. Linh doesn’t even look at Zuko, either, dexterously unlatching the basket with one hand to inspect Zuko’s catch.

Their campsite is halfway up the hill that levels out to a grassy plateau where Sokka recommended the summer house should be built. Walking up the incline, Zuko marvels again at how great a spot Sokka choose: a gentle wind coming off the ocean keeps the south side of the island cool, while the plateau extends far enough past the rise of the mountainside to remain sunlit from dawn to dusk. There are two fresh water streams nearby, one from a spring and another from mountain runoff — though the latter is thinning to a trickle, it’ll be fuller in the winter and spring.

The house itself will consist of a central two-story building that branches into two wings: one for residents, another for guests and staff. Most of the conversations about the resident wing seem foolish to Zuko — he really doesn’t anticipate having a spouse or children, anymore — but explaining that to Sokka seems impossible, so Zuko defaults to asking Sokka’s preferences whenever questions arise about them. If anything, the resident quarters can house guests, too.

They broke ground a couple weeks ago, and when Zuko reaches the site, there’s no one to be found until he peers into the hole that’s been dug for the foundation. Only Sokka and two others of the crew are left, debating something with mechanical terms that Zuko only half understands as they dig away at the northeast corner.

One of the crew, a stout woman named Khulan, spots Zuko and nudges Sokka. Sokka glances over his shoulder; when he sees Zuko, he pats his companions on the back and sets aside his shovel to jog over to Zuko. There’s dirt smeared across his forehead, his arms lined with rivulets where sweat has dripped through the dust coating his skin. 

Zuko stops where the dirt falls away, and Sokka meets him at the edge, tilting his head back to squint up at him. “We gonna have dinner tonight?” he teases.

Zuko snorts. “Wouldn’t it also be a poor reflection of your teaching if we didn’t?”

“Good thing I’m a good teacher.” He frowns at Zuko’s right leg. “You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?”

Zuko twists to look at his calf, and he is bleeding — scrapes too shallow for him to notice before now drip down to his ankle. “I slipped,” he admits.

“Turn around?”

Zuko obliges, and Sokka whistles. “Got your arm and back, too,” he says. “We should clean those.”

Zuko turns again, shifting so his shadow blocks the sun from Sokka’s eyes. “Come with me?”

The spring-fed stream is refreshingly cold. Zuko is careful to remain still as Sokka helps clean the wound on his back; he’s able to take care of his calf and his left forearm himself. As he squats at the edge of the water and rubs the rust from his arm, Sokka strips to his undergarment and wades directly into the stream to scrub the day’s dirt from his skin. “Ahh, that feels good,” he sighs.

Zuko watches as he splashes water on his face and then stands tall, reaching his arms to the sky to stretch his back. In the dying sunlight, the shadows that hug the curve of his arms and the cut of his shoulder blades are dramatic and deep; how they twist and morph with Sokka’s motion is almost breathtaking.

Hurt zings up Zuko’s arm, and he hisses, yanking his hand away from his wound. 

“You okay?”

The cuts on his outer forearm are deeper than those on his back or leg; he touches the skin near the angry red lines carefully, testing the edges of his pain. “I’m fine.”

There’s the slosh of water, and then Sokka’s crouching in front of him, a hand cupping Zuko’s elbow to raise his forearm closer to Sokka’s sightline. He hums thoughtfully. “There’s still some grit in there.”

With his free hand, he cups water from the stream and pours it over Zuko’s arm. Zuko can’t help his flinch, and Sokka murmurs Sorry, sorry, until he’s finished. He lowers Zuko’s arm but doesn’t let go of his elbow, his thumb massaging the inside of the joint. “Might actually get a scar from that one.”

“I don’t mind.” It’s a scar with a funny story, at least.

Sokka nods seriously. “A hunter should always be proud of his scars.”

Zuko snorts, and Sokka breaks into laughter, dropping his elbow and flopping back into the stream. He legs end up resting perpendicular to Zuko’s; on impulse, Zuko hooks the back of his ankles on Sokka’s shin.

The two of them are silent. It leaves room for Zuko to be even more aware of how the island becomes more alive at dusk, insects and creatures alike growing louder as the sun sets. Over the steady babbling of the stream against the rocks, cicada crickets sing in the tall grass and toucan puffins squawk in the trees. The natural symphony is somnolent; Zuko thinks he could fall asleep here.

Sokka’s stomach grumbles.

He groans, and Zuko shakes himself awake, pulling his feet from the stream to stand on its banks. “Let’s go to dinner.”

“Seductive suggestion.”

By the time they reach the campsite, it’s properly dark. Densely packed stars wink from the clear navy sky, and the moon is brilliant in her waxing form. Zuko stares at her for a moment. Do you see me? he wonders. Is Siasi well?

If Yue hears him, she doesn’t give any sign of it.

“Okay catch today.”

Zuko looks back to earth. Linh stands before him, holding a bowl of spice-boiled lobster kani and vegetables out to him. “They weren’t as fresh,” Linh elaborates. “Lobster kani, they don’t like being in the basket for too long. They get stressed if they’re cramped for long, and when they’re stressed, they don’t taste as good.”

Zuko accepts the bowl with a nod. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

Linh breaks into a crooked smile. “Good kid,” he says, patting Zuko’s arm before returning to the cooking fire.

It’s small praise for what amounts to no more than a promise to try again. But a shy happiness still blooms in Zuko’s chest, as comforting as the flames that live inside him always.

Helping with the summer house is the one exception to no work that Zuko’s been allowed. He’s grateful for it. The longer his vacation carries on, the more Zuko admits to himself that he needed this, and also that he’s only able to break his habit of spending nearly every waking moment thinking about his nation by distracting himself with construction and design. He spends the mornings and afternoons helping build; the hot noon hour is for lunch and napping, and since Zuko’s body tires sooner than anyone else’s, he’s now sent away the hour before dusk to catch their dinner. They all eat together just after sunset, and by the time the stars are glittering alongside the moon, they’ve all bedded down in their tents.

It’s a routine that Zuko quickly grows fond of — especially the lunch hour, which at first belonged to him since he’s incapable of napping, but that he now shares with Sokka ever since he discovered that Zuko can’t doze off while the sun’s up. They’ll find a shaded spot that’s far enough to keep from disturbing anyone, or sometimes slip down to the beach to dip into the ocean, and converse idly about anything under the sun.

They’re down by the shore on the day that Sokka asks, “Why do married couples keep separate rooms in the Fire Nation?”

Zuko adjusts his hat so the gaping hole in the brim doesn’t shine directly into his eye. Khulan’s attempts to teach Sokka how to weave a sunhat did not go well, and this particular one was so pathetic and wonky Zuko had to take it. “Not all homes are like that. It’s mostly just nobles and some upperclass families who do it.”

“So why do they do it?”

“I don’t really know. Probably some sense of decorum?”

“Hmm.” Sokka selects another rock from his side and hucks it into the sea. “The Fire Nation does tend to be more conservative than other places.”

“I think it’s the capital specifically.”

“I can see that.”

“It doesn’t make much sense to me, either. The rooms being separate.”

“Yeah?”

“I’d want to be close to the person I love.”

Sokka looks up from investigating rocks, and Zuko is suddenly very aware of the space between them. “Just — it’s nice, to not fall asleep alone. Like when Mai was staying with me, when the assassination attempts became more serious. It was … stressful, I guess, during that time. But I also kind of liked that it meant Mai would be there.”

“Your summer home doesn’t have to have separate rooms, you know. We can still change that part of the design.”

Zuko shakes his head. His quarters won’t actually need to be large enough to accommodate two, and more rooms means more space for visitors, which he thinks he’d like. “Separate rooms might be important to them.”

“I guess so.”

A few days later, they’re lying on their backs beneath a flowering tree that Zuko can’t name, and Sokka asks, “Have you heard of the Paranoid Lord from Luang Yamai Mountain?”

“I haven’t.”

“He was this lord in the central north of the Earth Kingdom, maybe 600 years ago? This really rich guy, but he was, like, irrationally terrified of assassins.”

Zuko finds his lips curling at Sokka’s tone. “Uh-huh.”

“And I think he generally had trust issues, because the first thing he did when his father passed and he became Luang Yamai’s lord was build a house for himself high up on the mountain. And Luang Yamai has this crazy mountain, right? It sucks to get anything up or down, so no one really bothers.”

“Except for the Paranoid Lord.”

“Yeah. And now anyone who wants to see the house. No one lives there anymore, but it is really beautiful, so the family maintains it.”

“Have you visited it?”

“Yeah. And I brought it up because — I said he was really worried about being assassinated, yeah?”

“You did.”

“It was actually really cool, because they built the floors so that they would always creak, no matter where or how lightly a person stepped.”

A breeze shimmers above them, sending a few loose petals down from the tree. One drifts towards Zuko’s face; he catches it in his palm before it can land. “A built-in warning for approaching people.”

“Exactly! I don’t know how he slept. Maybe he didn’t? Or maybe the house was empty aside from himself.”

Zuko reaches over and places the petal on Sokka’s nose. “Or maybe he was a deep sleeper like you.”

Sokka snorts. The petal drops onto his cheek. “He sounds too paranoid to be a deep sleeper.”

“True.”

“Anyway. I was thinking about how you’ve had to worry about actual assassins, and then remembered this guy, and I thought we could try to create those same floors.”

Zuko holds back a laugh. “You think someone’s going to try to assassinate me again?”

“No!” Sokka says, shooting upright. “Of course, best-case scenario, no one ever tries to kill you ever again. But — just in case. Would it help you sleep at night?”

“I thought the point of the floors is to wake you up.”

Sokka waves a hand. “You know what I mean. I also wouldn’t make all the floors like that. Like, just the halls around your room, or leading to it.”

Zuko’s seen Sokka work as an architect before, and he’s always been impressed by his friend, but it’s only been since this trip that Zuko realized the depth of care Sokka puts into his considerations. “Let’s do it.”

And on another day, clouds that seem more silver than gray intermittently scatter rain across the island. It doesn’t completely stop their work, but during the lunch hour, they take refuge under the tents, water drops beating a rhythmic pattern above their heads.

Zuko huddles close to Sokka, in part to better hear his hushed voice and in part to share his warmth — Sokka’s arms have pebbled in the cold air that’s blowing across this side of the island. He’s shuffling through his stack of correspondence as Zuko looks on without really reading anything, instead content to listen to the rain and feel each shift of Sokka’s thigh where it brushes against his.

“From Aang,” Sokka says, passing a small scroll to Zuko.

He sent it from Makapu Village, and he plans to visit Roku’s Island on his way back to the Southern Air Temple. Most of the letter is spent summarizing the stops he made along his journey to Makapu Village, and it ends with a lengthy tangent about summer seasonal fruit pies.

Suddenly, Sokka jumps in his seat. “Wait. What did Aang say about Xiaowuji?”

Zuko skims the first half of Aang’s letter. “It was renamed. Xinzhai?”

Sokka’s brow furrows. “That’s —”

He cuts himself off and darts away, headed for one of the other tents.

Zuko blinks, wondering if he should follow, but before he’s made a decision Sokka’s already back, a bundle of papers tucked against his chest as he hunches to protect them from the rain. “What’s that?”

“I think I saw Xinzhai recently on a proof of shipment,” Sokka says, dropping next to Zuko again. “I hadn’t heard of it, but if Xinzhai is just Xiaowuji —” He hands Zuko half of the papers. “Set aside anything with a name that seems unfamiliar or newer.”

Quickly, a pattern emerges: any shipments from the southern half of the Earth Kingdom have at least one unfamiliar stop, if not several, along their route. Zuko finds the proof of shipment that lists Xinzhai, and when he hands it to Sokka, he skims it once and curses.

Anxiety quivers beneath Zuko’s skin. “What’s wrong?”

“The routes haven’t changed.”

“What?”

Sokka lays the proof of shipment flat on Zuko’s thigh. “The thought was that new ports were appearing because of the embargoes, right? And that might be true in some cases, but it’s kind of unbelievable, how many of them have emerged in a short time and with such high taxes. But what if —”

“They’re not new,” Zuko realizes.

Sokka nods, tapping as he explains, “The most sensible shipping route will always be the most sensible shipping route. This one is from Koempai, and it says it stopped at Xiaowuji, Gonjil, and Kamoenai before Jang Hui and then arriving here. But what if it actually stopped at Xinzhai, Munamjin, and Seodang?”

“But Seodang’s port closed in the spring.”

“You don’t think it could have reopened with a different name?”

Zuko’s head is spinning. Why would someone reopen a port in an unstable region from which hundreds of Fire Nation citizens were emigrating? And then go through the trouble of renaming it, when the port was still the same port? Suddenly, he hears Michi’s light voice in his head. If they wished to cut ties with the nation they once came from, claiming a new name seems important.

He turns to Sokka. “Do you think parts of the Earth Kingdom are trying to become independent?”

Sokka scoffs. “Zuko.”

“What?”

“Really?”

“Michi was telling me, Kyoshi Island was called Yoyoka until it split —”

“These are all areas that still have a strong Fire Nation presence. This could be coming from your nation’s influence, too.”

Zuko’s head feels like a struck gong. “Oh.”

In his mind, the Hong Forest and the mountains and coast to its southwest undoubtedly belong to the Earth Kingdom. But Michi’s story is from another time, before his forefathers developed an imperial appetite.

Sokka picks up a few other proofs. “Most of these have the same number of stops as their old routes, but the new names tend to come with higher taxes. You said Li Bai was looking into this, right?”

“Yeah. We should write to him.” Zuko bites his lip. “Do you think this is a coordinated effort?”

“It’d be a series of real freaky coincidences it if isn’t.”

They’d sent a few cartographers to where they thought the new ports were, but hadn’t heard back from any of them. Their silence hadn’t bothered Zuko — they hadn’t been away for that long — but he’s certainly worried now.

A hand lands on his back, rubbing comfortingly. “I’ll get you something to write with,” Sokka says, concern knitting his eyebrows together.

Zuko swallows, and Sokka leaves for the other tent again. He watches water drip along the rope that holds up the canvas protecting him from the rain. Seasons have passed since the first embargo was enacted. If Fire Nation citizens are to blame — and Zuko recognizes that Sokka’s probably right about that — does that not mean that, really, Zuko’s the one to blame?

The scabs on Zuko’s forearm have just begun to flake when the setting sun is blotted out by a sky bison. “Aang!” Zuko shouts, even though there’s no way Aang could hear him.

Sokka twists to follow Zuko’s line of sight. “That was quick.”

“Is that an air bison?” Linh asks, finally speaking again now that everyone’s eating dinner.

“I’ve never seen one,” Khulan says.

It’s possibly the first time Zuko’s ever seen Appa get more attention than Aang from a group of strangers, but Aang doesn’t seem to mind, hugging Zuko and Sokka tightly as everyone else fawns over the sky bison. “Hi, friends!” he says. “Sorry for interrupting your meal!”

“We didn’t expect you to be here so soon,” Zuko says. 

“We would have made dinner vegetarian if we knew,” Sokka adds.

“That’s okay! I have some food. Oh, and I brought those tile samples for you, Sokka.”

Zuko glances at Sokka. “Tile samples?”

“I forgot to tell you! There’s this artist shop on Crescent Island that does hand-painted tiles. They can get this amazing gold color from saffron and gold leaf — kind of reminds me of your eyes, actually — and I thought they’d be great for —”

Skreeeeeeee!

Zuko whips around. His eyes immediately catch the messenger hawk cutting through the fading light. It screeches as it barrels through their campsite, making everyone but Zuko, Aang, and Sokka scatter. When it lands on Zuko’s shoulder, it shrieks again, beady yellow eyes boring in Zuko’s.

His blood runs cold.

“What is that?” Linh shouts.

Sokka reaches for the hawk’s canister, then jerks back when the hawk tries to nip him. “Nothing good.”

Zuko’s able to open the latch, but he fumbles with the scroll, and he forces himself to take a deep breath before attempting to open it again. He brings a small flame to his palm to read the message within. Written in a hand Zuko can’t recognize, it’s brief and terrible: Fire Nation citizens declared independence on Earth Kingdom land. Battle erupting across islands. Need aid.

“Tui and La,” Sokka swears.

Zuko catches Aang’s eye. The mirth has disappeared from his face, a grim determination sinking into his brow. “It’s time?” Aang asks.

The flame in his chest swells higher. “Can Appa fly again now?” Aang nods. “Let’s go.”

He surges forward and is caught by a hand around his elbow. “Whoa,” Sokka says, tugging Zuko back. “Wait a minute —”

“I’ve already waited too long!”

“I’m coming with you,” Sokka says.

Zuko’s taken aback. Sokka wasn’t part of the agreement he made with Aang. “You don’t ha—”

“I’m coming,” he says firmly, squeezing Zuko’s arm. “Let me grab Moony.”

In the precious minutes it takes for Sokka to grab his sword, Zuko and Aang unload anything from Appa’s saddle that would weigh them down. Zuko realizes he should change into sturdier clothes, too, and when he’s at his tent he also grabs the box that stores the Fire Lord’s headpiece. He wishes he had his dao.

He dashes back and finds Sokka giving the builders a curt explanation and quick instructions. Zuko taps his arm as he passes on his way to climb into Appa’s saddle, and Sokka wraps up with, “If a decision needs to be made, listen to Khulan!”

Zuko offers a hand to haul him up, and Sokka’s barely in the saddle before Aang tells Appa, “Yip, yip!”

Their sudden airborne surge sends Sokka rolling into Zuko, Moony smacking against his knee. “Sorry,” Sokka says, righting himself as Appa eases his climb. “You okay?”

A familiar shriek cuts through the sky, and the messenger hawk alights on Zuko’s shoulder again. Right — he needs to respond. “Do we have —?”

Already, Sokka’s digging paper and ink out of his pack. “Is there enough light?” he asks. “Or I can write, and you —”

“Yeah. I’ll sign.”

He brings a flame to his palm and shifts his hand around until it illuminates the scroll between Sokka’s legs without burning Sokka. “One to the council, authorizing Eun to send the navy.” He hesitates. How large of a force would they be facing? By how many ships can he breach his treaties for the sake of an emergency?

“One battle group and two tender ships,” Sokka says.

Zuko looks at him. He’s sure he didn’t voice those questions aloud. “That’s not too much?”

Sokka shakes his head. “It’s the most you can send without crowding the waters, anyway.”

Right. There’s not much open water in the region, and the seceders can’t possibly have that much of a navy. “If Eun isn’t there, Li Bai and then Chenda have authority.”

“Mai?”

“No.”

Sokka’s eyebrow twitches, but his hand doesn’t stop writing. “Anything else?”

“The three of us are headed there on Appa.”

Sokka finishes the message and then passes the brush to Zuko, who signs quickly. His hand is steadier than he expected. “Can you write one more?”

“‘Course.”

“To Mai. Tell her to stay away from the fight and find Azula.”

Sokka pauses; ink drips from the brush onto the paper. “Are you sure?”

Zuko nods. He needs Mai to stay safe. If something happened to him, he trusts that any combination of his councilors could keep the nation together, but his sister needs someone who gets her — who can support her if she’s left alone in this world. “I’m sure.”

Again, he signs once Sokka is finished writing; it’s only after the messages are tightly rolled, addressed, and sent that Zuko’s hands start to tremble. What happens to Azula if he dies? Her only family left in this world would be Uncle, and Zuko’s bitterly accepted that Uncle will never love Azula the way that Zuko does. That Azula needs.

Steady palms cover his own, stilling his tremors; Zuko’s eyes trace the dim outline of the strips of cloth that wrap around and around Sokka’s hands. “Talk to me,” Sokka says.

Zuko swallows. “Have I ever talked about Lu Ten?”

“Your cousin?” Zuko nods. “I’ve heard about him.”

“Azula adored him. He never spent much time with us, since Uncle and my grandfather kept him so busy, but he was really good to Azula. And she was the easiest to be around, when she was with him.”

He sneaks a glance, and Sokka’s staring at him, leaning close to hear his voice over the wind. “I didn’t realize it then, but I think she actually took his death hard.”

Sokka hums thoughtfully. “It’s hard to imagine your sister being voluntarily emotionally vulnerable.”

A dry laugh leaps out of Zuko. “Lu Ten was my age, when he died.”

“Do you know how many people don’t die when they’re nineteen?”

“No. Do you?”

Sokka shrugs. “Probably a lot.” He moves one of his hands to the top of Zuko’s head, patting a couple times before resting. “You’ll be one of them.”

Zuko shuts his eyes, letting the weight of Sokka’s touch settle over him completely. He lets time slip away.

It could be days or minutes later when Aang calls over his shoulder, “I see it.”

Zuko sits up, shaking Sokka’s arm; he immediately opens his eyes, apparently meditating instead of fully sleeping. Zuko scrambles to the front of the saddle, and Aang spares him a glance. “How are we supposed to tell who’s who?”

Zuko looks out, and his heart stops.

There’s no missing the fires that burn against the pitch of the night, scattered across the coast at the base of the Hong Mountains and the islands that dot the sea between the Earth Kingdom and Crescent Island. By the light of the full moon, he can make out the silhouettes of ships on the water, many more ships than he anticipated — and there’s no way his navy has already arrived with reinforcements. 

“La’s fins,” Sokka says beside him.

“Fire Nation ships look different from Earth Kingdom boats,” Zuko says. He can hear how detached he sounds, and it’s frightening. Battle usually wakes him up, and he can’t — he can’t — “I don’t know what it’ll look like on the ground.”

How many are already lost because of me?

Something pushes into his lap; he looks down to see Sokka pressing the box with his headpiece against his thighs. “We’ll be able to tell when we’re closer,” Sokka says. “Aang, can we try to reach the coast first?”

“We can try.”

Sokka pushes the box again, its edge digging insistently into Zuko’s legs, and right. Sokka’s right. Before anything else, he needs to be, right now, the Fire Lord.

Resolutely, he unravels the ribbon around his wrist and begins to pull up his hair.

When Zuko finally catches a glimpse of the flag whipping at the top of a beached and burning ship on the coast, indignant rage flashes through him, exploding out in a barked laugh.

Another ball of flame comes careening toward them, and Zuko destroys it with his own burst of fire.

“You good?” Sokka shouts from where he’s holding Appa’s reins.

“Did you notice the flag?”

From the corner of his eye, he catches Aang returning to them on his glider, his expression grim as he lands on Appa’s saddle. “Turn south,” he tells Sokka. “Earth Kingdom citizens are storming the house where the new government set itself up.”

Appa turns, and Zuko knows Sokka’s seen the flag when he curses violently. “He just added a phoenix!”

Zuko wards off another fire ball. Through the shower of sparks that rain down, he catches an even larger flag, blowing from the mast of an intact ship.

The seceders’ symbol is, literally, the crest of Ukano’s company encircled by a phoenix that’s curving to snatch up unseen prey. Zuko isn’t sure if it’s a stupidly recognizable symbol for a want-to-be nation, or if it’s cleverly allowed Ukano — because how can Ukano not be behind this, with his absences since the new year and Michi’s now glaringly unsubtle hints — to remain undetected until he was ready.

“Hold on!” Sokka cries.

Zuko lunges to grab the side of the saddle, and Appa suddenly pitches up, narrowly avoiding some projectile that isn’t aflame and hides better in the night. Zuko’s side rams against the saddle wall, knocking the breath out of him, and he has to gasp twice before he can shout, “Straight down! Drop me there!”

“In the water?” Aang asks.

“It’s one of my ships!”

Instantly, they’re circling back and down. Aang says, “I don’t think there’s anywhere for Appa to land —”

“I know,” Zuko says.

“Get ready!” Sokka calls.

Zuko scrambles to his feet. There’s a pile of canvas tacked down with thick rope near the stern. It’s not the softest, but it’ll have to do —

“Go!”

He’s leaping as Sokka shouts. For a thrilling moment, he free-falls through the night, but suddenly the canvases rush up to meet him —

Whump!

The impact is jarring, and he rolls to absorb the brunt of it. Shouts come from across the deck, and Zuko immediately dodges a burst of flame sent his way. “I’m a friend!” he shouts, right as several voices cry, “Fire Lord Zuko!”

The boat pitches, and Zuko staggers to his feet. “Where’s your captain?”

“Starboard —”

He finds Captain Taek, who jumps when he first sees Zuko and then rushes to bow. “Captain,” Zuko says. “I’m sorry you were caught up, but I thank you for —”

“Of course, Fire Lord Zuko,” the captain says quickly. “I couldn’t just stand by.”

“What’s happening?”

The resistance to the secession was immediate, though Captain Taek didn’t know that at the time — his ship had departed from Crescent Island around midday, and when his crew discovered conflict on the Earth Kingdom coast, they abandoned their route to investigate. Almost immediately, one of Ukano’s ships set upon them, attacking before exchanging a word. Since then, they’ve been crisscrossing the sea between the nations, supporting the Earth Nation resistance where possible without running risk of being destroyed at Ukano’s hands.

“We weren’t able to contact any other navy ships,” Captain Taek concludes. “Ukano likely waited until his port records showed Fire Nation presence was diminished.”

“I’ve authorized my council to send the navy,” Zuko says. An entire battle group wouldn’t be able to fit in these waters, not when it’s already so full of vessels. He’s already seen two of Ukano’s ships crash, and a third narrowly miss their wreckage. “How are things on the coast?”

“Unclear. We don’t know who to communicate with.”

Suddenly, Aang appears, landing neatly on the deck and snapping shut his glider. “Sokka and I scouted the coast,” Aang says. “He’s joined the land battle and says you, me, and Appa should take out as many ships as we can.”

“They don’t need more help?”

“He said you wouldn’t want anyone to get away.”

I don’t? Zuko wonders, and then realizes no, he doesn’t. These are people responsible for fear and suffering and — he eyes catch on a shape floating in the waves, one he knows but doesn’t want to name right now — death.

“Captain,” Zuko says, and Captain Taek snaps to attention. “Your first order is to make sure none of their ships leave these waters. Help any of the islands if you’re able, but don’t stray far from the south sea until our reinforcements come.”

“Yes, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“When they do, listen to the general. Those will be your new orders.”

“Yes!”

Zuko looks at Aang. There’s soot smeared across the right side of his forehead. “Can Appa drop me at the next ship?”

Aang nods, flicking open his glider. “I’ll join you.”

This time, dangling from Appa’s front paws, Zuko drops to the ship deck from less of a height, and he doesn’t even have time to think about his impact because he’s immediately set upon by bodies. They’re wearing various shades of Fire Nation reds, some clad in older versions of military uniforms, and Zuko sheds all thought to become raw instinct. 

He fights and defends and fights, taking up as much space and attention as he can. For a second, he thinks of the panache of Earth Rumble II and almost gets his kneecap shattered by a spear for his distraction; then frantic shouts rise from the opposite end of the ship, and Appa swoops in to grab Zuko, lifting him out of the fray that now cares more about the damaged ship than a lone Fire Lord whirling in their midst.

From the sky, Zuko gets an unobstructed view of the massive ice pick that Aang speared through the hull of the ship, bent straight from the water around it. It glints white in the moonlight, and suddenly, Zuko feels like he’s being watched.

“You okay?”

Zuko looks to his left; it’s just Aang, observing him carefully from his glider. “Yeah. You?”

Aang breaks their locked gazes without answering, jaw hardening as he surveys the choppy water ahead of them.

“Do you know where Ukano is?” Zuko asks.

“Not yet.”

Aang pierces through three more ships before anyone catches on that they should be looking out for him rather than Zuko. Despite being much taller than when Zuko last saw Aang in battle, he still evades the increased attacks with an elegance that seems to defy reality. But even if he isn’t getting hit, he also isn’t able to reach his own target. 

If Aang’s drawing attention now, can Zuko be the one who incapacitates the boat?

An uncoordinated man rushes at Zuko with an awkwardly held sword — a step, a feint, a twist, and Zuko now holds the weapon, shouldering the man hard enough that he tumbles back and nearly flips over the side of the ship. Zuko’s only element is fire, which can of course be destructive but not nearly with swiftness of Aang’s waterbending. If Toph were here, she could just bend the ship right out of shape. Where can he borrow some force? Something —

Flames shoot at him, and he’s a split second late, his right sleeve catching fire. He throws the sword at his attacker and uses the moment to rip off his sleeve. The pads of his last two fingers scream when they touch the flames, but Zuko ignores the pain and surges forward. No thoughts, he reminds himself and throws himself into the brawl.

Finally, those bothering him have fled or are slumped on the deck. Zuko charges for the helm. This ship, he realizes, is a force.

When he bursts into the room, the two people inside look terrified; one throws his hands into the air. “Get out,” Zuko pants, and they immediately scamper past him. 

He wonders, briefly, if their willingness to scram has to do with him, the state of the battle, or their degree of commitment to begin with. Then he scans the surrounding water for the nearest ship and double checks its course before turning the helm.

There’s nothing in the room that can jam the helm in its current position, so Zuko simply waits. He bets Aang is too distracting for anyone to notice their course has altered, and with these ships as large as they are, it’s near impossible to quickly change direction.

Sure enough, when they cross the point of no return, no one’s come to stop Zuko. He slips out of the room and scrambles for the highest point he can reach. 

Clinging to the maintenance ladder of the ship’s funnel, he can see when the other ship starts to panic about their approach; moments later, they blare a siren that a few people on the deck below Zuko actually notice, and then the panic spreads to them, too.

Zuko lifts his gaze to search the sky. “Appa!” he shouts.

He hears an answering low from behind him, and as he turns, a dark splotch flits in the corner of his eye —

He whips around. There’s a mini air ship flying toward the battle, moving faster than any that Zuko’s seen before. He knows his engineers are the only in the world working on the technology, so whoever’s on it isn’t coming for Ukano, but …

Appa lows again, and Zuko has only a second to prepare to be grabbed by his paws. His foot pads are rough against the now-bare skin of Zuko’s right arm. “Appa,” Zuko calls, wondering if he’s heard or will even be understood. “Can you take me to the air ship?”

With a grunt, Appa flicks his tail, and they shoot up and away from the water.

Zuko sees them before he can hear them: two women, one tall with hunched shoulders, the other with large hair and a slender neck. Angry heat shoots through him. “What are you doing here?” he shouts, even though he knows Mai can’t hear him.

Soon, they’re close enough that he realizes Mai’s also screaming, her words whipped away by the wind until Appa’s right next to the balloon. “— what’s wrong with you?” Mai shouts, voice raw as if she’s been yelling the entire trip here.

“I told you to stay away!”

“That’s stupid!”

“What about finding Azula!”

“Who knows where she is, Zuko? I sent a letter!”

“A letter?!”

Mai turns to Tuya and says something Zuko can’t hear; suddenly, their air ship shoots up. Appa makes an irritated sound, and then the air ship is back in Zuko’s line of sight but peeling away, no longer aiming for the battle.

Before Zuko can register what just happened, he hears Mai’s voice from somewhere above him. “You’re insane!”

He cranes his neck to see her and his heart almost stops. “What are you doing?” he shrieks.

She’s dangling off the side of Appa’s head, clinging to the reins that she’s wrapped around her hips and thighs. “We need to talk!”

“Now?!”

They’re fast approaching the edges of the battle. He can’t find Aang — he hopes he’s still nimble and in the air on his glider.

“Where’s my father?”

Zuko whips his head up. He’s at the wrong angle to see Mai’s expression. “You knew?”

“I’m seeing these stupid flags!”

Right — Mai wouldn’t keep something like that from him. How did Michi keep it from Mai? Did Ukano even tell Michi, or did his wife figure it out on her own? “We haven’t found him yet.”

Orange and red illuminate the sky, and Appa pivots. Zuko’s legs swing like uncooked la mian, and Mai yelps above him. “Can you please stop dangling?” Zuko shouts.

“Don’t tell me what to do!”

When he glances up again, though, she’s using the reins to haul herself back to Appa’s saddle. The tension in his chest lessens by a bit.

Suddenly, there’s the unearthly shriek of metal on metal. The ships Zuko set on a crash course have collided, and it’s terrible, watching metal slowly and inevitably shred metal. People on board leap from the deck into the waters below, bobbing away from the growing wreck.

How did it all come to this?

Appa keeps flying north, and when it becomes apparent that he’s going to deposit Zuko on another ship’s deck, Zuko leans back and shouts, “Don’t do anything dangerous!”

Mai yells something back, but Zuko’s already falling. The ship tilts right as he lands, and a dull pain shoots up his right leg at the changed angle. He still hasn’t seen Aang, so there’s no point in attempting to be a distraction — he sprints straight for the helm.

Or tries to: the surprise of the crew wears off, a dozen charging him at once. Zuko slips back into instinct, strike dodge dodge block kick dodge strike —

“Stand back!”

The crowd of old merchants and ex-military parts, leaving Zuko to stare down Ukano. Zuko’s panting with exertion, dripping sweat and soot and probably some blood, while Ukano looks as groomed as always, his beard shaped into perfect points and his expression neutral. There’s a long staff strapped to his back, and Zuko’s sure he has other, smaller weapons concealed on him.

“Ukano,” Zuko says. “Call it off. This isn’t right.”

“Right is a matter of perspective,” Ukano replies.

“What makes you think that you’re right?”

Ukano slowly approaches Zuko. The path cleared for him is nearly the length of the deck; Zuko still isn’t within reach of his staff, which isn’t even out. “You must also recognize that there’s a rift in our nation. We believe in the long traditions of our forefathers. You believe in …” His lip curls subtly. “… something else.”

“What traditions?” Zuko retorts. “Those of Azulon? Sozin? Their traditions mean nothing to the full reach of time.”

Ukano shakes his head. “As I said: our nation has two minds. It’s time to admit they cannot coexist.”

It’s not that simple. “You’re wrong.”

“Two-headed hippo-calves never survive.”

What is Ukano saying? “And you think the answer is to rip off one head and stake it in another land?”

“This is for both of our survival, Fire Lord Zuko.”

“And what about the Earth Kingdom citizens, whose lives and homes you continue to destroy?”

Ukano’s eyes narrow. “This was always where you failed,” he says, a new edge in his tone. “Your softness for the weak.”

His hand flies to his staff, and the flame in Zuko’s chest explodes.

Ukano is as fast as someone half his age. The staff blurs in his skilled hands, and Zuko’s mind is ablaze, taking in everything and responding and anticipating before he can form a full thought: duck dodge twist block ow duck jump dodge dodge Mai twist dodge Mai —

“Mai?”

Thwack!

Pain explodes across Zuko’s ribs, and he crashes to the deck, rolling away from another strike. He expects another blow, but instead Ukano shouts in pain. A clamor rises and then cuts short at Ukano yelling, “Silence!”

With one hand holding his side, Zuko pushes himself upright, shaking loose hair from his eyes.

There’s a throwing star embedded in the back of Ukano’s shoulder, glinting in the moonlight. Zuko can see it because Ukano’s turned his back on him to face Mai.

Mai, who’s absolutely sodden, her hair spilling like ink over her shoulders and her makeup running ashy streams down her face. Seawater drips from her sleeves onto the deck. “You don’t touch him,” she swears.

“I said, silence —”

Two knives fly from Mai’s sleeves, and the crowd ducks and scatters. One blade, deflected, skitters across the deck. The other is lodged in Ukano’s staff.

Zuko struggles to his feet. He gives Ukano a wide berth, but Ukano doesn’t even glance at him, his angry eyes fixated on his daughter. “How did you turn out so wrong?” Ukano spits. “Did I not feed you? Did I not pay for the best tutors for you? Did I not tolerate the stupid affection you had for this princeling —”

“I don’t care, Dad!”

Boom!

On the nearest ship, a ball of fire balloons on the deck, making the boat rock and sending waves. Zuko grabs the railing as their own ships tips, and Mai grabs him, the blade in between her fingers accidentally slicing the back of his wrist. “Ukano!” Zuko shouts. “Stop this now!”

Ukano flicks his staff to dislodge the throwing star. “Do you think you’re in the position to make demands?”

He lashes out, and Mai’s forced to dive away from Zuko. Before Zuko can summon flames, the staff whirls, smacking the railing where Zuko’s hand was a moment before.

Metal glints, and Zuko drops to the deck. “Mai!” he scolds and rolls to avoid the staff.

Ukano roars with pain, and Zuko hops to his feet, stumbling back out of the staff’s reach. There’s another star in Ukano’s arm; he rips it out as he whirls on Mai. “Don’t get involved,” he barks.

“That’s rich, from you,” Mai spits.

Zuko shifts into Ukano’s blind spot. Another explosion from the next ship rocks their boat; he almost stumbles at the sudden slant, but Ukano does, and Zuko leaps —

He catches Ukano’s waist with his legs, slinging an arm around his neck. Ukano flails at him blindly, but his shoulder guards keep him from reaching Zuko, and Zuko needs him to surrender. Position to make demands, Zuko thinks, and with his free hand, he twists the throwing star in Ukano’s back.

Ukano screams, staggering sideways, and Zuko tightens his legs. The blood spurting over his fingers is warm. “Yield,” Zuko growls.

Ukano thrusts backward, and Zuko shouts, pain striking across his lower back. The railing, he realizes, and Ukano’s throwing himself back again, abusing Zuko between his body and the side of the ship.

Zuko presses his forearm into Ukano’s neck. “Yield!” he repeats. The backside of the throwing star bites into his fingers.

Ukano grunts, raising his staff — 

“Zuko!” Mai shrieks.

Crack!

Agony, a pain so sharp his entire body seizes and then goes limp. His head throbs, wetness dripping down his neck, and something grabs his arm to move it, and then the weight against his chest disappears. His spine slips over something hard, and wind — wind, all around —

You’re falling.

He gulps an inhale, remembering the water, but the impact smacks the air out of him anyway, and he’s plunging deep, deep down. Air, his chest begs, but his head hurts …

Bubbles trail in his wake, a flurry that shimmers with moonlight. They look like faces, hundreds of little faces, like a girl with an oval-shaped face is watching him sink a hundred thousand times over. He can’t sink. He needs air — he can move his arms, a little bit —

Lover, please.

Numbly, Zuko turns his head, searching for the source of the woman’s voice. It was so clear. It had to have come from nearby …

A cold current swells beneath Zuko, carrying a different voice, gritted and sonorous as if rumbling up from the ocean trenches. What difference is another body? My domain is already blighted.

I promised to protect him.

His ribs feel tighter. Spots dance in his vision. 

His spirit will outlast this body.

Have you forgotten the joy of having a body?

Finally, through the darkness creeping in, Zuko sees her: white hair, brown skin, blue eyes set in a face that will forever look sixteen. “Yue,” he says, her name floating out of him as a bubble.

He feels something against his legs and looks down. A massive school of fish with scales as black as volcanic rock weaves circles around him, nudging him closer to the moon. The moon. The moon says he’s brave. The moon says they’re friends, and if they’re friends …

Orange and red bloom on the surface above, dark shrapnel shooting from the sudden light. He needs to move, but his head, and his arms and legs, and …

“Please,” Zuko asks, and the water rushes into his lungs, and everything turns a brilliant, lunar white.

The ocean moves, yet he settles in a hollow peace.

His lips, when he remembers that he has them, taste like salt. He smacks them, and immediately:

“Zuko?”

Something narrow and smooth is fitted between his lips. Water — fresh, no brininess — drips into his mouth, and he swallows, suddenly aware of how parched he is. The water stops before he wants it to, and he frowns. “Mor—”

The word catches in his throat, and he starts coughing. Hands help him sit up, rubbing careful circles over his back.

Zuko pries open a sleep-crusted eye.

Bishal’s face hovers above him, a tentative smile curving his mouth. “Okay?”

Zuko blinks, his other eye opening. He’s in his room. In the palace. In the capital of his nation.

“What happened?” he croaks.

Bishal’s smile slips away. “What do you remember?”

“… Fish.”

A frown puckers Bishal’s brow. “Fish?”

He’s certain there were fish. And he remembers Appa … the ships on fire … Ukano, blood. Aang, and Mai — Mai. “Where’s Mai?”

“At her family home.”

There’s a knock on the door to the antechamber; it slides open, and Aang steps in. “Zuko,” he says, relief palpable in his voice. He comes to stand behind Bishal at Zuko’s bedside. “You’re up.”

One of his arms is tucked to his chest with a sling; when he sees Zuko eyeing it, he says, “I sprained my wrist. But that’s nothing compared to you, huh?”

Zuko blinks. “What?”

“I don’t think he remembers much, yet,” Bishal says.

“What happened to Ukano?”

Bishal and Aang exchange a look; then Aang coughs. “Uh. We think a big spirit fish ate him.”

Zuko blinks, again. “We think a big spirit fish ate him,” he echoes.

Aang shrugs uncertainly. “I wasn’t there,” he says. “I noticed when the moon got really bright, but I only heard about the rest. Do you remember falling in the water?”

Zuko nods. That’s where he saw the fish.

“A massive wave rose from the sea and engulfed Ukano’s ship. When the water washed away, you were on the deck — out of it, I guess. Ukano tried to attack you, but a girl in white appeared from the air and pushed him overboard. People said they could hear him, at first, but then …”

“A big spirit fish ate him,” Zuko repeats.

“Most people described it as a dark shape, as large as a boat. And it came from the water, so …”

“Fish.”

“Is that the fish you remember?” Bishal asks.

Zuko shakes his head. Something pinches the side of his head, and he winces. “They were normal-sized.”

“Careful,” Bishal warns, a hand half-extended toward his head. “Your head’s still healing.”

Gingerly, Zuko presses the tips of his fingers to where the pinch came from. His head feels tender, and he inhales sharply when he puts too much pressure and pain flares. Ukano’s staff, he recalls.

Ukano is dead.

“How many died?”

Aang hesitates. “It’s — it’s only been four days.”

Meaning, they’re still searching. Still collecting bodies. “And?”

“It crossed a hundred, yesterday.”

A hundred people. Already, a hundred people whose fates were doomed by Zuko’s indecision. His inaction.

His right temple starts throbbing in time with the side of his head, and he shuts his eyes. He’s responsible for those lost lives, and he’ll be responsible, too, for those who survived but contributed to this suffering and destruction. 

“I think we should let him rest,” Bishal says.

Aang makes a noise of agreement, and then something gentle pats his shin over the blankets. “Feel better, Zuko,” Aang says.

Footsteps retreat. He does feel tired. Why didn’t Zuko die, too? He should have drowned. At least Azula —

His eyes fly open. “My sister,” he says. “Where is she?”

Aang pauses at the door. “She was in Gongyimin, when Mai’s letter reached her.”

Gongyimin? That doesn’t sound familiar. “Where’s that?”

“In the Earth Kingdom. It’s really far north — just below the Northern Air Temple’s mountain range.”

He has no idea why Azula went to a part of the Earth Kingdom that he’s sure even King Kuei or Lord Thuyet have never been, but it at least means she was far off from the chaos. A small relief sighs from his chest, and Bishal fusses with his blanket. “You should sleep,” he says. “You need rest.”

Zuko nods, sinking down his pillows. Aang sends him a small, encouraging smile, and Zuko lets his eyes fall shut again, his mind soon slipping into a watery dark.

Over the next few days, as Zuko is able to stay awake for longer, he has more visitors.

The first time that he wakes up to someone other than Bishal at his side, it’s Jingyi holding his hand, working a soothing oil into the skin of his arms. “Jingyi,” he croaks.

She jumps, her eyes rounding. “Zuko,” she says, squeezing his hands. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Zuko?”

Eun swoops in, crouching on the floor next to his wife. “Your knees,” Zuko reminds him, but Eun ignores the comment, laying his hands over Jingyi’s, which still hold Zuko’s.

“Zuko,” he says again, taking a rattling breath. “We — you —”

He inhales shakily, but he’s unable to form a complete thought. Jingyi works one of her hands free to stroke the back of her husband’s head. “Are you hungry?” she asks Zuko. “You should eat something. Some congee should be good, hm?”

She busies herself with getting someone to get food and water for him, and Eun does his best to hold himself together at Zuko’s side, clutching Zuko’s hands so tightly Zuko thinks he might bruise. They stay to watch him eat, and when he feels sleepy again after finishing his meal, Eun’s finally able to choke out, “We’re glad you’re okay,” before patting the top of his head and following Jingyi out.

The next day, he’s waiting for the breakfast he just requested when his sliding door slams opens and Chenda storms in. “Did you think you could take on an entire army on your own?”

Li Bai runs in after her, grabbing her shoulder and trying to pull her back. She shrugs him off and plants herself on the stool at Zuko’s bedside, her glare withering. “Explain yourself,” she demands.

“Chenda,” Li Bai says gently, “Zuko needs rest —”

“I know exactly how much rest he needs. He needs to start engaging his mind more.”

Her gaze doesn’t leave Zuko’s face. He wishes he had an answer that could satisfy her, but he doesn’t think there is one. “I had to do something.”

“Don’t ever try anything like this ever again,” she scolds. “You cannot be that thickheaded.”

“So I am somewhat thickheaded?” Zuko jokes weakly.

Li Bai smiles, but Chenda doesn’t crack. “Let me see your head,” she says, already reaching out.

Zuko rolls his head until his right cheek smushes against his pillow. With careful fingers, Chenda parts his hair to see where Ukano’s staff had split Zuko’s skin; Zuko’s heard, from Bishal, that it’s an impressively sized wound.

Whatever she finds, it satisfies Chenda, and her rage simmers down to an ire that manifests as the occasional huff as Li Bai gives Zuko a brief summary of recovery the efforts. Most of their navy ships have returned to the Fire Nation, but the tender ships docked on Crescent Island to stay accessible to the restoration efforts. Aang has also left the capital to support the Earth Kingdom.

By the time his meal arrives, Chenda’s glare has eased up by half, and Li Bai promises they’ll come back the next day for tea.

When Kimiko first visits, it takes Zuko half an hour after waking from his nap to even realize she’s in the room. “Kimiko,” he exclaims, a hand going to his heart.

She startles just as badly, dropping the scroll in her hands and almost falling off the stool that she dragged into the corner of the room. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she whispers, green eyes wide.

“How long have you been here?”

She nods. Zuko waits, but apparently, that’s her answer. “How are you? How’s your council work?”

Even from this distance, he can see her swallow. “Are you okay?” she asks.

She’s shaken, Zuko realizes. “I’m getting better,” he says. “I think I want some tea. Would you like some, too?”

It takes several days and many cups of tea before Kimiko stops jumping whenever Zuko so much as twitches.

Another day, Yong follows her son-in-law to his shift outside Zuko’s rooms, and she brings a basket of fresh cut flowers and Shohei with her. “I’m so glad to hear you’re recovering well,” Yong says as she arranges the flowers on Zuko’s bedside table. They smell like sun and honey, and they make Zuko yearn for the outdoors. “Bishal was so worried, when he first heard, and so was Erhi. And so was I! You’re so important to all of us.”

Satisfied with the flowers, Yong looks back at Shohei, who’s lingering by the door. “We were just saying, we wish you could walk around the city right now,” she says. “Everyone’s wishing you well. I’ve never seen so many paper cranefish in my life!”

Zuko blinks. “Paper … for me?”

Shohei grunts affirmatively, and Yong nods. “The display outside the primary archive is absolutely stunning. They must have folded at least 8,000 cranefish!”

She spends several minutes describing her favorite paper cranefish from throughout the capital, and the gratitude in Zuko’s chest swells until he thinks he might cry. Luckily — or maybe because Zuko’s blinking rapidly — Yong says she has to leave. “Rest well, so you can take a walk soon,” she urges with a smile before departing his side.

Shohei moves to leave when she does, but he pauses before crossing the threshold, turning back to meet Zuko’s eyes. “This nation would be at a loss without you,” he says.

Zuko bows his head, his heart in his throat.

On the ninth day since he returned to consciousness, instead of a palace attendant bringing his dinner, it’s Sokka sliding open the door with a tray balanced on his hip.

“Sokka?” Zuko asks, pushing himself up to sit straighter.

Sokka grins. “Mind if I join you for dinner?”

“Please.”

He’s already approaching the bed, setting the tray down before Yong’s flowers and arranging two bowls of rice porridge with side dishes like it’s second nature. “I didn’t realize you were here,” Zuko says. He assumed he’d stay to help the Earth Kingdom, or go back to Roku’s Island or even the South Pole. “Have you been here this entire time?”

“Yeah. I’ve been helping out your council.” He dips a spoon into one of the bowls and then holds it out to Zuko. “Say ahh.”

Zuko huffs. “I can at least feed myself.”

“Ahhhhhh.”

There’s a glint in Sokka’s eye that matches his encouraging smile. Begrudgingly, Zuko opens his mouth.

The congee is perfectly warm on his tongue, ginger heating his cheeks as sesame hits the back of his throat to fill his nose. “Mmph,” he grunts.

Sokka slips the spoon from between his lips, watching Zuko closely. “Taste good?” he asks. “Missing anything?”

Zuko shakes his head and swallows. At this point, the kitchen knows exactly how he prefers his congee; the only thing left is for Chenda to allow red meat back into his diet. “It’s good,” he says. “I can feed myself. You should eat yours before it gets cold.”

Sokka ignores him, spooning another mouthful for him. “These stone bowls are so good, it takes forever for food to get cold.” As Zuko chews, Sokka pats his knee over the blanket. “How are you?”

“I’m recovering well.”

Sokka’s hand stills. “I didn’t ask how your recovery is. How are you?”

Zuko swipes the back of his wrist across his lips. He’s been trying to rest and recover, and Chenda’s reminded him many times over that stress would hinder that. So it’s intentional but not by choice, exactly, that he’s been pushing away the thoughts that might spill into feelings that could make him unravel.

Sokka tilts his head, his dark eyes incisive. “Talk to me,” he says, his thumb digging into the flesh of Zuko’s thigh. “It’s just me.”

There’s a new scar on Sokka’s neck, Zuko realizes, a thin white line that probably wasn’t much worse than a scratch. It reminds Zuko that while he was incapacitating boats and drowning and communing with fish, Sokka was directing a land battle that resulted, according to the reports he’s been allowed to read in the last few days, in the detainment of several key seceders and the decimation of their stronghold. And since then, apparently, he’s been helping Zuko’s council run the nation while Zuko’s bedridden, and now he’s here, spoon-feeding Zuko and asking after Zuko’s feelings with that scrutinizing gaze that sometimes makes Zuko weak. 

There’s no just about Sokka. Zuko trusts him with his life and would trust him with more, so — so —

Let me look out for you.

If he wants to look out for Sokka …

“I have a new scar,” he blurts. Sokka’s eyes flick to the side of his head. “Not that — there’s a burn, on my right side.” He touches where it sits low on his ribs. “It’s actually really mild, compared to my chest and face, but it won’t stop bothering me.”

Sokka frowns. “You don’t think it’s infected, do you?”

“No. I mean, like … it keeps creeping into my thoughts. Because I don’t know how I got it.”

“Ah.”

“I mean, I know it was sometime after Ukano threw me off the …”

His voice dies on him. Ukano. Who nearly killed Zuko. Who once carried a nine-year-old Zuko on his back to a healer when Zuko tripped while running around Michi’s garden with Mai and Azula and his ankle immediately swelled to the size of a mango. Who tried to rip Zuko’s nation into two. Who’s one among many who are now dead.

“127 people died, and 31 are still missing.” The report had come in yesterday. Zuko thinks he stared at the 158 lines for the entire afternoon, his temple throbbing and his chest feeling tighter and tighter. He never thought inaction could be quantified, before. He knows it acutely now, and like yesterday, his lungs start to feel too small. “I keep wondering how I could have saved 158 people from suffering.”

Sokka squeezes his knee. “That’s not on you, Zuko.”

“It’s on the Fire Lord.”

“Sure, and you may be the Fire Lord. But you’re also Zuko.” His tone is gentle, but there’s a firm undercurrent to his voice that matches the intensity of his eyes. “That’s who I see right now.”

Zuko drops his gaze, watching his own fingers play with the spine of one of the embroidered dragons on the blanket. Who is he, if not the Fire Lord? A young man trapped in his rooms by his broken body, struggling to express the things he’s become so accustomed to cramming in the corners of his mind and heart. He must be such a disappointment. No — he is a disappointment, he realizes.

His eyes start to burn, and he curls his fingers in the blanket, inhaling shakily.

“Zuko?”

He meets Sokka’s eyes again. “I haven’t seen Mai,” he says, voice thick. “I know she’s mad at me, but —” 

But it’s been nine days. Nine days, and she still hasn’t come to yell at him until they’re both hoarse, and when the voice in the back of Zuko’s mind whispers, What if she never comes?, his blood runs cold and his hands go numb and he dreads that it’s right.

A sob catches in his throat, and he starts coughing. Sokka shifts closer, helping him sit up, and his hands on Zuko’s arms are too much, branding Zuko with the faintest touch. “She’s never been this mad,” Zuko croaks. “I think I ruined — I ruined —”

Sokka presses a cup of tea into Zuko’s hands. “Drink some.”

He doesn’t let go, as Zuko drinks, his fingers supporting both of Zuko’s hands as he lifts the mug to his lips. It’s jasmine tea, which reminds him of Uncle, and …

Sokka takes back the cup, setting it lightly on the tray. “I don’t think you’ve ruined anything,” he says. “She has a lot she has to take care of at home.”

Zuko knows this, yet the thought of her being kept away, of Uncle not being here, of Azula being so far, of showing everyone every day that he’s recovering and okay when really he wants to curl up on himself so tight that he can nestle into someone’s palm — 

Oh. He’s a fool. “I’ve been feeling alone.”

Tears come so fast that Sokka’s face blurs, and Zuko turns into his sleeve. He’s fraying, he’s unmoored, his sense of self flying past the limits of his skin. And beyond it, he encounters nothing but air, thinning out and out and out —

A hand grabs his shoulder, warmth blossoming with the contact. Zuko lets the heat guide him back into his body. He uncurls enough to look at Sokka, who’s leaning closer, a soft furrow in his brow. “You have me,” he says, soothing his thumb across Zuko’s collarbone. Suddenly, his lips quirk into a grin. “Think loneliness can keep up with me?”

It’s such a stupid, Sokka thing to say that amusement and fondness flow into Zuko’s gut, whirlpooling with the loneliness and sadness already there, and oh, didn’t Zuko already drown once this month? He gasps, no longer aware if he’s laughing or crying. The sea of his troubles stretches endlessly, salt on his lips and tongue, and he just wants — he just needs —

Half-blind, he reaches out and yanks, grabbing and pulling until he traps Sokka against his chest. Sokka yelps in surprise but doesn’t move away, so Zuko grips his back and presses his face into Sokka’s shoulder until it’s difficult to breathe. He feels Sokka’s heartbeat against his tender, still-healing ribs. He feels Sokka’s exhale breaking against his unscarred ear. His nose fills with Sokka’s scent, something rich that brings to mind ink and musk.

He’s clinging so tightly that when Sokka starts to lift up, Zuko comes with him. An embarrassingly childish protest rises to Zuko’s lips, but then he senses the arms circling around his back. When Sokka lays them down again, his forearms dig into Zuko’s spine, his broad chest crushing Zuko’s torso, and finally —

Finally, Zuko can cry.

Somehow, Sokka’s poorly crafted sunhat made its way from Roku’s Island to the capital. Zuko wears it whenever he’s allowed out for his allotted courtyard time, which is a twice daily event now. He feels only a little silly about how excited he is each time for his small venture.

This afternoon, he’s also been permitted to review various council missives during his courtyard time, but he abandoned the work a while ago to sit at the edge of the pond instead. The fish lost interest in him when it became apparent that he didn’t have any food for them, but the young turtleducks come his way every so often, less graceful in the water than their parents.

He’s so absorbed in his watching that he almost falls over when Mai says from behind him, “That hat looks stupid.”

Zuko spins around on his bottom, tilting his head back to see her face fully. “Mai!” he cries, unable and unwilling to hide the relief in his tone.

Her expression is neutral, as unreadable as Zuko’s ever seen, and his heart starts racing. For a brief moment, overwhelmed by the joy of hearing her voice, he forgot that she’s very angry with him.

She crosses her arms loosely, staying on her feet despite Zuko’s position on the ground. “I’m back,” she says flatly.

Zuko’s fingers curl in his robes. She has deep bruises under her eyes. “How’s your family?”

“Dealt with.”

“What do you mean?”

She exhales, sharp and impatient. “We had my dad’s funeral, my mother’s moving to the estate on Ember Island, Tom-Tom won’t stop crying, and I’m the problem for wanting to stay here.”

She steps closer to the water’s edge and drops into a squat, tucking her chin behind her knees. Wrapped up in herself, she looks small, like her proud edges have been ground away. Zuko’s chest tightens. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You’re not staying alone, are you? You can move into the palace.”

Her glare is sharper than any of her throwing knives. “Do you ever think?”

Zuko bristles. “I’m thinking! You would be less alone if you lived —”

“People are going to think I’m your wife.”

“But you’re not.”

Mai buries her face in her knees and screams.

It’s short and muffled, but it still makes the turtleducks scatter and Zuko freeze. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m sorry I asked.” She says something, but her voice is lost in her thighs. “I’m sorry, I — I can’t hear you.”

With a huff, Mai rests her chin on her knees again, glowering at the pond. “I’m so mad,” she enunciates, “That I kind of don’t even want to look at you right now.”

His heart inches up his throat. “You don’t have to.”

“I only came to see you because I know you’re tearing yourself up about me not having visited.”

“Did Sokka say something?”

She scoffs. “No. I know you, too.”

“Oh.”

“You’ve got to stop throwing yourself headfirst and alone into dangerous situations.”

“I —”

“Or if you refuse to think about anyone other than yourself, at least tell me, so I can cover your sorry —”

“I was!”

Mai cuts a brief glare at him, but it doesn’t quell the indignant anger rising in his chest. He’ll let her accuse him of almost anything, right now, but not self-centeredness. “I went to the Earth Kingdom as soon as I heard about the secession attempt for the Earth Kingdom,” he insists. “The wrongs of this nation mean that the Fire Lord owes consideration to more than just Fire Nation citizens —”

“What about me?”

“I did think about you,” Zuko argues. “I asked you to stay away, which you didn’t do —”

“Why would I sit back and let you chase your own death —”

“If we both die, who’s Azula going to come home to?”

“You wanted me to stay for Azula?”

“Yes!”

“Then why didn’t you just tell me that?”

Zuko balks. It just … didn’t occur to him. But it seems obvious, now that she’s asked.

She glances at him again, and whatever she sees in his face makes her scowl. “You can’t expect people to read your mind,” she says, abruptly standing.

Zuko scrambles to his feet. “I don’t expect that.”

“You act like it.” She finally meets his gaze and holds it. “It’s infuriating, to be treated like an afterthought by someone you love.”

Zuko’s stomach drops. You’re wrong, he thinks, because of course Mai isn’t an afterthought to him, but if that’s how she feels —

She turns on her heel and glides away.

“Mai!”

Her stride doesn’t break. He doesn’t want to let her go, not when she’s convinced that he thinks so little of her, but his heart’s pounding so loudly in his ears that he can’t find the words that’ll make her stay and listen. “Mai,” he pleads again. She’s so mad at me.

He watches her silent figure grow distant, until she turns into the shadows of the covered walkway and disappears completely.

When Lord Thuyet arrives in the Fire Nation with a small retinue from Ba Sing Se, Zuko’s selfishly glad that his recovering injuries excuse him from carrying out the full fanfare typically expected for the visits of foreign dignitaries.

He senses that Lord Thuyet feels similarly. When the council first receives King Kuei’s delegation, Lord Thuyet’s disposition is politely neutral at best, and when he notices Sokka standing to the side with some other Fire Nation representatives, his expression becomes outright stony.

Lord Thuyet bows, and Zuko returns the gesture. Through stiff lips, Lord Thuyet says, “King Kuei and the Earth Kingdom thank you, Fire Lord Zuko, for swiftly coming to our aid after crisis struck.”

His wording is so intentional that Zuko hears accusations more than gratitude. He doesn’t blame him. “We regret the hardship and loss the Earth Kingdom has suffered. I’ll do everything in my power to support the recovery of the communities that were hurt in the attempted secession.”

And so begins the several days of negotiations and planning. They have sessions in the morning and afternoon; Zuko spends the break in between lying in his darkened bedroom to let his pounding headaches abate. His evening are also solitary and quiet for his recovery, his only contact with other people being the palace staff who bring his dinner and check on his healing wounds.

Buried in this cycle, it’s easy to lose track of the days. One night, when there’s a knock on his door after he’s finished his dinner, he’s taken off guard and mildly concerned by the departure from his routine; when he opens it to see Sokka holding a small basket of fried mochi, he becomes flat-out confused. “Sokka?”

Sokka lifts the basket to him. “This is not making a fuss,” he declares. “Fact: you’re twenty years old.”

Zuko blinks. “It’s my birthday,” he says dumbly.

He’d known that his birthday would fall within Lord Thuyet’s visit, so he’d ordered everyone to ignore it this year. Eun had protested, but Zuko insisted on no fuss. It’d be inappropriate, he thought, to celebrate his life in these circumstances. And all day, apparently, everyone had obeyed so thoroughly that Zuko forget it’s his birthday.

Sokka’s nodding. “Can I come in?”

Zuko steps aside, and Sokka goes straight to the tray table that’s folded and tucked beside Zuko’s desk. He manages to unfold it with one hand before Zuko catches up and pulls out his floor cushions, completing their makeshift dining set-up.

When Sokka sets the fried mochi in front of Zuko, Zuko looks up at him. In the past, if Sokka’s been with him around his birthday, Sokka’s never done anything for it. Was this because Zuko insisted the day pass without notice this year? “When did you decide to do this?” he asks.

With a grunt, Sokka lowers himself onto the other floor cushion. “Couple days ago.”

The better question, Zuko realizes, would have been why. “Will you share with me?”

“‘Course.”

The crispy-gooey contrast, underlaid by the earthiness of sweetened adzuki, makes Zuko wriggle happily in his seat. Across from him, Sokka hums appreciatively. “Actually,” he says, voice muffled by the food in his mouth, “I decided on fried mochi a couple days ago. But I’ve known for a while that I wanted to do something for when you turned twenty.”

A while. “Why?”

“You seemed worried you wouldn’t make it past nineteen. So, you know.” Sokka gestures at the mochi. “Congrats, twenty.”

Zuko almost bites the inside of his cheek. Their conversation about Lu Ten, while racing to the former colonies — this has been on Sokka’s mind. It’s the furthest thing from an afterthought.

“Hey. What’s bugging you?”

Zuko startles, meeting Sokka’s eyes. “Sorry — I didn’t mean for my mind to wander.” He raises the half-finished fried mochi in his hand with a smile. “Thank you.”

Sokka frowns. “Something’s bothering you.”

He sighs. Nothing gets by Sokka. “Mai told me something, when she came back. She said I treat her like an afterthought.”

She hasn’t been avoiding him, exactly, since that afternoon in the courtyard, but she only engages him when she strictly has to for something related to the council. Zuko learned that she’s staying with Chenda for the time being, so he’s no longer worried about that, but he’s still concerned by the exhaustion that hangs from her limbs, by the anger that radiates from her when Zuko gets too close.

An anger that is, he realizes, justified. When he lays in the dark and can’t succumb to sleep, he finds himself casting his mind back through the years he’s known Mai, the decisions he’s made and things he’s said and done, and he tries to remember if he’d considered Mai alongside them. “I thought I was always thinking about her. But I — I guess I wasn’t thinking enough?”

He frowns. That doesn’t feel right, either. He knows he used to live by his impulses, but since he’s become the Fire Lord, he’s made an effort to think more, to consider more. He actually overthinks now, sometimes, and even Mai’s accused him of that.

When he looks up, Sokka’s waiting intently, his gaze unwavering. Zuko wets his lips. “Do you think I treat her like an afterthought?”

“Mmm. Not like an afterthought. But maybe you don’t always treat her like a priority.”

Zuko winces. “Isn’t that the same thing?”

“No — and I don’t mean it in a bad way. I mean it neutrally.” At Zuko’s confused expression, he shifts his weight and continues, “Like, with the secession attempt. You wanted to help the Earth Kingdom immediately, which mean putting yourself in danger, so you also wanted to arrange for the safety of your nation and your sister in the case that you died. It makes sense that you’d think of Mai — she’s on your council, and she understands Azula better than most people. But what Mai wanted most was to keep you safe.” He tilts his head. “I guess what I really mean is you don’t always treat what Mai wants like a priority.”

Zuko stares at his hands. Had he explained any of his thoughts to Sokka, when he was dictating his urgent letters to him? It sounds like he did. And he did think of Mai, but not of what Mai would want — 

He whips his head up. “Did you know?” he blurts. “That Mai would be angry that I didn’t bring her?”

Sokka lifts a shoulder. “I didn’t, like, know. But she’s always cared much more about you than her nation.”

What about me? Mai had demanded when he’d been explaining what the Fire Nation and Earth Kingdom expected of him, and oh. She hadn’t been asking if Zuko had thought about what she could do for the nation. She’d been asking if Zuko had thought about her — about what she wanted.

A finger taps Zuko’s wrist. “They won’t stay gooey if they get cold,” Sokka says.

Zuko stuffs the half-finished mochi into his mouth. When’s the last time he seriously considered what Mai wants? Was it … when they broke up? Oh, he’s awful. He almost chokes in his rush to swallow. Between coughs, he manages to ask, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

He gets caught in another coughing fit; Sokka fetches the cup of tea from Zuko’s bedside and presses it into Zuko’s hand. That, Zuko thinks. When he can speak again, he clarifies, “You always seem to know what people want, or need. You understand people.” I wish I were more like you.

Sokka settles back onto his cushion. “I dunno.” He plucks another fried mochi from the basket and offers it to Zuko. “Or — I realized, recently, it’s important to me to feel useful. I can, uh. Kinda spiral if I start feeling like I’m useless.” He scratches his jaw. “I think I’ve always been like that.”

Zuko chews, considering Sokka’s answer. It’s possible to feel useful by just doing what’s asked, but it seems like often Sokka isn’t asked. He looks and listens, he anticipates, and then he doesn’t wait. That’s so much more than just being useful.

He’s always so humble, when Zuko thinks he should be boasting from mountaintops.

He nudges the basket toward Sokka, who takes another piece and asks, “Are you going to keep giving Mai space?”

Zuko nods. She still doesn’t really look at him. Once she can endure the sight of him for longer than a glance, he thinks, she’ll maybe have calmed enough for him to attempt to make amends. “Do you know how she is?” he asks.

“Chenda says she keeps to herself and doesn’t sleep much. But Ty Lee’s going to stay with them when she visits for the Fire Days Festival, so that’ll probably help.”

The memory from last year’s Fire Days Festival, of Ty Lee kissing Mai when she thought no one would see, appears in his mind’s eye, and he feels his cheeks heat. He hopes Ty Lee is better at understanding what Mai wants than he is. “I hope so.”

He completes two and a half laps of the palace grounds, gritting his teeth through the last half lap, before he concedes to his quivering legs and panting lungs that he isn’t ready for this. Unceremoniously, he plops straight down to the ground, slumping over to rest his upper body against his bent left leg.

Above him, the head of the guard sighs. “It takes more than your legs to walk, Fire Lord Zuko,” she scolds gently.

The head of the guard has been shadowing him since the start of his test — the test she threw at him when they were arguing about his participation in the Fire Day Festival — and he appreciates that, with difficulty, she managed to hold her tongue until now.

Bishal steps around her to crouch by Zuko, holding out a flask of water. Zuko waves him off. He should catch his breath before he tries to drink.

He didn’t realize his rest and recovery would leave his body so weakened.

When he doesn’t respond or attempt to get to his feet for a minute, the head of the guard eventually says, “We’ll up the training for the palanquin bearers.” She bows and steps back to confer quietly with Bishal.

He made it as far as the back entrance of the outer walls. There’s considerably less traffic here than at the main entrance, but that doesn’t mean it’s deserted. A few passerby double-take at the Fire Lord sweating on his butt in the dirt, but Zuko doesn’t really care.

Bishal returns. This time, Zuko takes the offered flask. “You’ll regain strength with time,” Bishal reassures.

Zuko wipes the back of his wrist across his forehead; his arm comes away smeared with sweat. It’s not even that hot out. “Doesn’t make it any less frustrating now.”

“I know.” Bishal glances at the sky. “We should head back inside soon.”

“Five minutes?”

Bishal grimaces but agrees, “Five minutes.”

Zuko uncurls his spine and lies flat on the ground, shutting his eyes.

Even if the sun is unforgiving in a cloudless sky, being horizontal helps Zuko regroup his energy. When he relaxes, the faint sound of late summer in the capital reaches his ears. Every now and then, Bishal gives a quiet greeting to a passerby. Zuko can imagine the half-sheepish, half-reassuring smile he delivers with it; he’ll thank him later for enduring the awkwardness of hovering over a sacked-out Fire Lord in the middle of an entry road in broad daylight.

Suddenly, for one greeting, Bishal’s voice shifts, more casual and openly amused. “Hey.”

“Someone trying out life as a moo-sow?”

Zuko lifts his head. “Sokka?”

Sokka snickers. He’s not alone, either: a well-built man with golden skin stands next to him, his strong eyebrows creased as he looks at Zuko.

Zuko scrambles to at least sit up, trying to blow a strand of hair out of his eyes and failing because it’s sticky with his sweat. “What are you doing here?”

Sokka looks down at the man next to him. “Jiahao wants to see the old training grounds, and we came from the west, so this entrance was closer.”

Jiahao. The name sounds familiar, but when Zuko takes a closer look at his face — large, dark brown eyes and stunningly symmetrical features — he can’t recognize him. It’s hard to tell how old he is, too. “They’re pretty defunct,” Zuko says apologetically.

Jiahao inclines his head. “It’ll be an honor to see them regardless. And it’s a honor to meet you, Fire Lord Zuko.”

Whoops. Apparently Zuko hasn’t met him before. “You as well.”

“What are you doing here?” Sokka asks.

Zuko sours at the reminder. “Endurance test. I failed.”

Sokka turns his gaze to Jiahao. “You must have some kind of endurance training for injury recovery, yeah?”

There’s something in the intent way that Jiahao returns Sokka’s attention that makes Zuko want absolutely nothing from this stupidly handsome man. “I’m going to ask Chenda about it.”

“Huh. That’s a good idea, too.” Sokka’s eyes return to Jiahao too soon. “Chenda’s on the council. She’s a healer, and she spent a few years in the military’s healing unit.”

“She sounds more qualified than I would be.”

“You know, I actually think you two would get along! I’ll introduce you if we run into her.”

“I appreciate it.”

Zuko catches motion in his peripheral. Bishal’s gesturing for him to get going. “I have somewhere to be,” Zuko says, clambering to his feet. His calves already feel tight; maybe he shouldn’t have laid on the ground immediately after walking farther in one go than he has in the last several weeks.

“Oh! Sorry to hold you up,” Sokka says.

“You weren’t a hold up,” Zuko reassures. “Enjoy the training grounds.”

As soon as they’re out of earshot, Bishal laughs with disbelief. “I can’t believe that was Jiahao.”

Zuko pushes his hair out of his face, grimacing at how damp and matted it is. He feels gross. “Who is he? His name sounded familiar.”

“He’s that swordsmith. Remember, the one who made Moony? And he was one of Piandao’s — ”

“Right,” Zuko blurts. Oh, does he remember now, falling on his butt in overgrown courtyard in the Southern Air Temple, being utterly discomposed by the thought of Piandao being a famous lover, being dazed at the thought of a man coming on to Sokka. Being overwhelmed by the glint of jewelry in Sokka’s ears, by the solidity of his body.

Suddenly, Bishal yanks Zuko sideways by his arm. Zuko startles and apologetically bows to —

A vase?

Bishal peers closely at his face. “Are you okay? Did you exert yourself too much?”

Zuko shakes his head. “I’m fine. Just — hot.”

They continue walking toward the spa. “I assumed he would be strong, because of his profession,” Bishal says. “But the rumors were not exaggerating his beauty.”

Zuko’s desperation to bathe increases with each step. “Rumors?”

“I mean, when you hear that some well-known person is one of the most handsome men in the capital, you don’t really believe it, do you?”

Zuko was acting like a moo-sow in front of the one of the most handsome men in the capital. Great. “I think I don’t hear the same rumors that you do.”

Bishal laughs. “I guess the Fire Lord would hear less degenerate gossip.”

When they reach the spa, a bath has already been drawn. Bishal steps out to send for some tea; the attendants start helping Zuko disrobe. 

It’s frustrating that he has to hold their hands for balance as he lowers himself into the bath. Jiahao wouldn’t need help getting into a bath, he thinks bitterly and then wonders why the thought even occurred to him.

He’s petulant and pouting for the rest of the day, and he lets everyone assume that it’s because he failed the head of the guard’s test.

When the Fire Days Festival arrives, the city is still full of paper cranefish.

Though Zuko’s no longer at risk of dying from the injuries he sustained in the secession attempt, no one seems to have taken down their displays. Even from the confines of the palanquin, Zuko’s awed by the beauty of the folded paper art that blooms in arrangements in seemingly every doorway. If he thinks too long about the sheer volume of paper cranefish, and what it says about the care and concern the people of the capital felt for him, he has to blink rapidly and quickly distract himself.

Since Zuko isn’t allowed to wander on foot, this year his day is organized around a destination itinerary that starts in the upper city in the late morning and ends in the lower city in the early evening. The palanquin feels ostentatious in a way it never did before he was the Fire Lord, but when he’s starting to feel strained by just the first few stops on his journey, he quietly acknowledges that he really does need it to get through this day.

With the limitations of his palanquin and itinerary, he waved off any offers from friends to spend the day with him; only Bishal will stay by his side, and that’s because Bishal insisted on working as his daytime festival guard.

And he’s not the only stubborn one. Throughout the day, his slow meander through the city is punctuated by visitors. Eun and Jingyi are the first to say hello early in the morning, their baby’s face already sticky with dragonfruit juice as their other children pile into Zuko’s lap and chatter excitedly about their plans for the day. When they’re finally pried away from their Uncle Zuko, Chenda appears right after, scooping a handful of rambutan from her basket and passing them into the palanquin.

When his journey reaches the middle city around noon, Kimiko and Kanya drag him out of his palanquin and to a noodle bar, where a spice challenge ends with Kimiko snot-faced and crying so hard that Kanya almost chokes on her noodles from laughing at her. As they’re about to leave, Yong and Shohei happen to walk in, and Zuko listens to Shohei ramble on for at least ten minutes about the firebending he saw as part of a traditional dance revival performance. Zuko’s never seen him this animated or talkative, and it takes everything in him to keep from throwing his arms around the old man.

It’s right around the hour after lunch when Zuko feels like he could fall asleep that Li Bai finds him. “Zuko!” he exclaims, dark eyes dancing. “Try this!”

He holds out a tall cup that has a cloth fastened over its top; Zuko’s surprised that the cup is cold against his fingers. “What is this?”

“Sujeonggwa. It’s mostly enjoyed in the north of the Earth Kingdom, but some people claim the drink came from the Air Nomads.”

Carefully, Zuko removes the cloth and squints inside at the dark liquid. “Ice?” he exclaims. Ice, in the middle of the day during a summer festival, should be impossible.

Li Bai grins. “The seller’s brother-in-law is visiting, and he’s apparently a waterbender.”

Zuko takes a sip and immediately sits straighter. The sweetness balanced by the spice of cinnamon and ginger, followed by a hint of some sort of stone fruit, with the fresh chill of the ice … “This is perfect.”

“I had a feeling you’d like it,” Li Bai says with a wink.

Zuko doesn’t get a visit from Mai — he didn’t expect one — but at one point he does see her from afar, her arm linked through Ty Lee’s as they stroll down the street. Shortly after, his retinue happens to cross paths with Tuya and Ashok, who pass baskets of sweets to him.

The sun is starting to set when they reach Bishal’s family home, where his daytime guards will be relieved by Manu and Yawen. Another shift of palanquin bearers is also waiting to take over, and in the brief period when the exchange happens, Erhi beckons Zuko inside to ply him with cut fruit.

“Are you enjoying the festival?” Erhi asks, staring at him with round, golden eyes. “Bishal mentioned you were disappointed to take a palanquin.”

“It’s not the same as walking through it myself, but I’m still enjoying it.” He smiles. “Honestly, even with the palanquin, I’m starting to feel tired. It’s nice to briefly rest, right now.”

Bishal enters the room, changed out of his uniform with a helmet dent still in his hair, and Zuko gets to witness the way that Bishal’s presence transforms Erhi, a smile immediately curving her lips and her face turning toward him like he’s the sun. “Handsome,” she says, her voice low.

Bishal sits down next to her and kisses her cheek. “Gorgeous,” he replies and then shoots a bashful smile at Zuko. “Look out for yourself tonight, okay? If you feel like you should rest, turn the palanquin right around and go to bed.”

Erhi raises an eyebrow. “Are you his caregiver?”

“It sometimes feels like it,” Zuko jokes, and then promises to Bishal, “I’ll head back before it gets to be too much.”

He gives his well wishes and goodbyes to Bishal and Erhi, and then his escort is off again, soon crossing into the lower city. There are fewer stops in the lower city, and his dinner consists of a dozen meat and vegetable skewers, purchased on the go from grill carts and passed into the palanquin by Yawen or Manu.

The final visit on his itinerary is at a woodworking shop that does ordinary commissions by day but extravagant set pieces for playhouses by night. Zuko’s come to know the shop through the various acting groups he’s encountered through the arts grant, and he hasn’t had the chance to visit since last year.

He’s mid-conversation when he hears another person enter the shop, and suddenly an arm slings around his shoulders, a weight leaning into his back. “Zukooooooo,” Sokka says right into his ear.

The shopkeeper’s mouth is hanging, and Zuko tries to subtly squirm Sokka off. Sokka doesn’t budge. “What are you doing here?” Zuko asks. “How did you find me?”

“I know your itinerary, and I’m here to take you to the next thing.”

“There is no next thing.”

Sokka laughs, and Zuko gets a strong whiff of the sake on his breath. “Surprise,” he whispers, then straightens up and lets go.

The sudden change of plans and loss of pressure leave Zuko spinning. “What?” he asks, twisting in his seat to look at Sokka.

But Sokka only has eyes for the shopkeeper, who makes a short noise of comprehension and then scuttles to the back of the shop. He returns with four dark brown cloaks; Sokka takes the bundle and then offers one to Zuko. “You might want to remove the headpiece. Kinda harder to hide under a hood with it, don’t ya think?”

“Why do you have four?” Zuko asks, automatically pulling the headpiece from his topknot and slipping out the ribbon keeping his hair in place.

“You, me, Yawen, and Manu.” Sokka grins. “This is a sanctioned Fire-Lord-napping.”

Within minutes, they’re sneaking out the back of the woodworking shop, and a newfound burst of energy explodes through Zuko. He’s on his feet, experiencing the festival anonymously, and Sokka — yet again — has put together something without Zuko knowing a thing about it.

“What have you been doing all day?” Zuko asks.

Sokka shrugs. “Just kind of floated around!”

He then proceeds to rattle off seemingly every notable spot in the city and three times as many names. Zuko tries to keep a mental map of Sokka’s path through the day but gives up on the seventh switchback that brought Sokka from the lower city to the upper city again. “And then I came to the shop to meet you!” Sokka finally concludes.

By now, Zuko’s figured out that they’re likely headed for the basement theatre where he first met Kanya; he walks next to Sokka instead of half a step behind. “Seems like you were everywhere with everyone today.”

Sokka grins. “I’m yours for the rest of the night.”

When they reach the door, there isn’t a flyer for the show on the door, but Sokka pulls it open regardless. Zuko follows him down the stairs and is surprised to find that the basement is already packed, despite there being nothing to indicate that there is a show tonight. “Is there room for us?” Zuko asks.

“Of course,” Sokka says. He reaches back to grab Zuko’s hand and plunges straight into the crowd.

Instinctively, Zuko threads their fingers together to tighten his grip. Their path forward is crooked, but Sokka seems to have a destination; when Kanya’s face appears in the crowd, brightening when she spots Sokka, Zuko feels like he should have known. 

Kanya tsks at Sokka. “Cutting it close.”

“I know, I know,” Sokka says.

He tugs his hand free from Zuko’s to give Kanya a hug so enthusiastic her feet leave the floor. Zuko looks away, shuffling in place until he realizes he could sit on one of the cushions saved for him and Sokka.

Not long after Kanya departs and Sokka settles next to him, the audience torches are snuffed out and the show begins. It’s a comedy about a young noblewoman who falls into the Spirit World and accidentally binds a foulmouthed fire spirit to her body on her way back to the physical world. It’s light and mischievous and joyful, like the Fire Days Festival itself, and at times Zuko finds himself laughing so hard tears leak from his eyes. Sokka’s guffawing loudly next to him, slapping Zuko’s thigh whenever he finds something particularly funny.

At intermission, Zuko immediately turns on Sokka. “Who’s the protagonist?”

Sokka adjusts Zuko’s hood to better conceal his face. “The lady with the fire spirit issue.”

“I meant what’s her name, Sokka.”

Sokka grins awkwardly, all teeth, and then busts out laughing at Zuko’s defeated sigh. “But hey!” he defends, “I know her love interest is named Dong Min!”

“His name’s Dong Bin.”

“Oops.”

Partway through the second act, Zuko becomes aware of Sokka repeatedly shifting. It’s unlike Sokka to be restless, especially in a setting like this and after he’s been drinking; when he doesn’t settle after a few more minutes, Zuko leans in to whisper, “You okay?”

Sokka nods. This close, Zuko can smell the day’s worth of sweat and sake and sun on him. “‘M good. Stiff knee. Just gotta stretch after.”

Zuko looks around them. Yes, the audience is tightly packed, but there should be enough room …

He uncrosses his legs and then tugs at Sokka until he’s partly turned toward Zuko. Carefully, Zuko helps straighten Sokka’s leg across his own cushion; his foot just brushes the cushion of the person to the left of Zuko’s front.

Satisfied, Zuko sets his feet down on the other side of Sokka’s extended leg, mindful to only contact his thigh and not his knee. “Better?” he asks.

Sokka blinks. “You sure?”

Someone turns around to shush them, so Zuko just smiles in affirmation.

And the more time that passes, the more they settle into one another. Sokka’s extended leg pushes into the back of Zuko’s thighs, and Zuko finds himself leaning back on an arm tucked behind Sokka, his shoulder pressing against Sokka’s bicep. It feels nice. At first, he thinks it’s because of the warmth, but the longer he lets it dwell in the back of his mind, the more readily he can name other feelings: ease, comfort. A casual intimacy.

When the show ends to an uproarious round of applause, Zuko goes to stand; Sokka stops him with a hand on his knee. “Let’s wait,” Sokka says.

It makes sense — lingering lets them talk to Kanya, if she’s free, and lets the crowd mostly disperse before Zuko attempts to travel undetected. He nods in agreement and pretends to watch the stage crew cleaning up when all he can really focus on is the steady back-and-forth glide of Sokka’s thumb over his calf.

Eventually, they’re able to congratulate Kanya, and by the time they emerge from the basement, the streets are near-empty and the stars are bright. “How’s your knee?” Zuko asks.

Sokka bends it a few times. “Good enough.”

“Maybe you’ll be taking the palanquin instead of me.”

“Who do you take me for? We’d share the palanquin.”

He seems to have sobered up over the course of the play; his stride is balanced and even next to Zuko.

It suddenly occurs to Zuko that this surprise jaunt is the closest he’s come to enjoying the festival in the way that he wanted to enjoy it, and that this is yet another instance of Sokka just knowing what Zuko wants or needs and then making it happen. He could be half a world away, but he’d still find a way to look out for Zuko.

He reaches out and tugs Sokka’s sleeve. Sokka slows, turning to look him in the eye. “What’s up?”

“Thank you for doing this.”

Sokka glances away, laughing a bit. “It wasn’t anything big.”

“Sokka.”

This time, he properly grabs Sokka’s arm, stopping them both in the middle of the cobblestone street. “It might not seem big to you, but it means so much to me. You’re — you’re incredible, you know? With how thoughtful you are. I don’t think anyone else could have thought of this, and then make it happen, and —”

His mind catches up with his words, and spirits, there really isn’t anyone in his life like Sokka, is there? Yes, he knows he has people who care about him, but — but there’s something different about Sokka.

A hand lands on top of his head; he looks up to see Sokka grinning. “You have a lot of people around you, now, who are Team Fire Lord. So I figure I can be Team Zuko.”

That’s what it is.

They’re standing so close that Zuko recalls, nonsensically, the way he felt in the playhouse, and — is it so bad, that he craves it again already?

Hesitantly, he reaches out, and as always, Sokka understands: before Zuko’s even touched him, Sokka’s arms are wrapping around him, pulling Zuko into the solid warmth of his chest.

Tonight, Zuko lets himself sink into it.

A few weeks after the season turns, Sokka’s called back to the South Pole — something about Pakku getting himself into some trouble that Gran Gran refuses to help dig him out of. When Zuko asks if everything’s okay with them, Sokka just snorts dismissively. “Pakku does this every few months. It might even be over by the time I get there.”

Since the Fire Days Festival, Sokka’s mostly been on Roku’s Island more than in the capital, where Zuko’s been trapped, so it’s strange that Zuko feels his absence when Sokka leaves.

Zuko's progress with Chenda’s recovery routine is slow, and while he understands that the slowness is natural, that doesn’t mean it isn’t in turns boring and frustrating. He gets bored enough that one evening, he impulsively decides to organize the accumulated disaster that is his desk; when clearing out every drawer, he rediscovers the small collection of paintings that Sokka’s sent him over the last few years, from the portrait of Suki and Ty Lee to the still-unidentifiable geometric blend of greens and gold.

Carefully, he unrolls them until all six are spread across his bedroom floor. It’s comforting, he realizes, to see people and places he cares about through the artistic eye of yet another person he cares about. Why has he left them tucked away all this time?

He asks an attendant to bring him a hammer, some nails, and string, and when he finally goes to bed much later than he intended, there’s a small gallery on the wall above his desk.

It’s been a quiet afternoon when the door to the council room flies open and a voice booms, “There’s the big boy!”

Zuko whips his head up. “Toph?”

She cackles gleefully, and Zuko breaks into a grin, rising from the table to give her a welcoming hug.“I can’t believe you’re here,” Zuko tells the top of her head.

She squeezes him until his ribs creak. “Told ya I’d come crash your party without warning.”

“She gave the front gate quite the shock.”

Zuko realizes Bishal’s behind her and looking uncharacteristically frazzled. “Toph, did you terrorize the guards?”

“Maybe a little bit.” She grins. “I wanna go to the hot spring Iroh’s always talking about.”

“Now?”

“Yeah!”

Zuko shifts his weight. He wouldn’t mind spending an afternoon at the hot springs, but … “I have obligations.”

Toph shrugs and walks past him to take a seat at the council table, propping her feet up on the side of Li Bai’s chair. Li Bai jumps and scoots to the opposite end of his seat. “I can wait.”

So Zuko ends up shuffling around his afternoon and then finds himself free a few hours earlier than he’d planned, riding in a dragon-moose carriage with Toph, Bishal, and Yawen to the mountains west of the palace. There’s a footpath off a side-road that Uncle showed him once, many, many years before; he assumes he spoke of the same with Toph.

He looks at her now. She’s humming a melody Zuko doesn’t recognize, her eyes closed and her face angled toward the carriage window to catch the sun. “Did you come from Ba Sing Se?” he asks.

“I was hopping around and heard you almost died.” She punches his arm without opening her eyes — not that that would make a difference, Zuko realizes, rubbing his bicep. “Figured I should crash while this is still your place, instead of your sister’s.” 

Zuko stiffens, pushing down his instinctive defense of Azula and her disinterest in ever ruling, but Toph senses his tension anyway. “Nothing against your sister. You’re the one who gave me a come-any-time invitation.”

Zuko swallows. “It’s okay, if you have something against her.”

Toph shrugs. “Suki says she’s chill, and I trust what Suki thinks.”

Suki’s spent time with his sister? Then again, it did seem like she and Mai had spent some time with the Kyoshi warriors. “I didn’t know Azula could be chill.”

He gets another punch. “You know what I mean.”

They reach the footpath, where Zuko moves forward to lead the way, but he’s stopped by Toph’s hand on his arm. “Let me try this,” she says.

She centers herself and then strikes out with her foot, driving into the ground so hard that Zuko swears he can feel it through the earth beneath his own feet. For a moment, she’s quiet; then she jerks her head to the left. “This way.”

She marches off, and Zuko hesitates a moment before following. “The path’s that way, though.”

“The path that you can see.”

Sure enough, after fighting through some underbrush, they come upon a path that’s much more direct than Zuko remembers the other being. “You did that from one stomp?” Yawen asks Toph, amazed.

“Impressive, right?” Toph tosses over her shoulder.

Even in late summer, the hot spring is steaming. Once Bishal and Yawen take up stations a bit removed from the pool, Toph’s immediately stripping to her undergarments. “I think it’s been two weeks since I took a bath,” she says gleefully.

“Seriously?”

“You know I hate bathing,” she replies, then gulps a breath and dunks her head.

Zuko’s sweating from the moment he sinks into the pool, but even with the heat of the day, the steam feels good, opening his skin and releasing more than just sweat and dirt that’s been accumulating on him.

Across from him, Toph sighs contentedly. She smoothes her damp hair away from her face and turns her face toward the sun again. “This is what life’s about.”

Zuko grins. “It’s not about the Rumble?”

“Like, two years ago, maybe. Get with the times, Zuko.”

“Are you really done with the Rumble?”

“Yeah. For a bit, anyway. It hasn’t been that exciting for a while, and Haru’s got it covered.”

“So … you’ve been traveling?”

“Yup. Just doing what I want when I want it.” She halfheartedly kicks water in his direction. “Don’t always have to have a plan, ya know.”

“I know.” He’s spent a good part of his life being accused of not having a plan. But even if he didn’t have a plan, he’s always had something to drive him: being the son his parents wanted, being the son his father wanted, hunting Aang. Now, being a Fire Lord that’s better than those that the world has known for the past hundred years. It’s hard for him to fathom what life looks like without a guiding star that burns so brightly, so consistently, that he sometimes feels blinded by it.

“You seem moody.”

Zuko blinks to the present. “Moody? I’m not moody.”

“Like, extra in your thoughts or something.”

He sinks deeper into the pool, letting the water come up to his chin. “I guess I’ve been feeling off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“That sucks.”

He lets his arms float to the surface of the water, watching how sunlight scissors across the fine hair on his arms. “I thought it was just recovering from … everything that happened. But I’ve been getting better, while the weirdness stays.”

“Do you think you hit your head really hard?”

“No.” His thoughts are clear when he’s working; it’s only early in the morning, or late at night — when he’s allowed space to himself — that the fog of unease rolls in. “I feel like I’m missing something, but I can’t figure out what.”

“Haru says that all the time, but it usually ends up just being his shaving kit.”

Zuko frowns. “Doesn’t he have a mustache?”

“Yeah, but without a beard.” She snickers. “Aren’t you a dude? Shouldn’t you know these things?”

He can feel his face getting red. “I don’t actually have to shave yet,” he grumbles.

“What! Really? Can I feel your face?”

Zuko splutters. “What?”

“Pleeeeaaaaaase.” 

She comes closer to him, holding her hands out in the space between them and smiling widely. He looks at her wet palms skeptically. “Promise not to pinch my cheeks?”

“Are they really pinchable?”

“I’m not answering that.”

Gently, he takes her hands and guides them to his face. Her fingers are hard and calloused, but her palms are unexpectedly soft against his jaw. “Whoa,” she says. “You do have a baby face.”

“I don’t have a baby face! I just can’t grow a beard. Yet.”

She lightly drums her fingers against his cheeks before letting him go, returning to her side of the hot spring. “Baby baby,” she sings, unfazed.

Baby, Zuko’s mind repeats, and then he hears it again in Kodai’s voice, the memory of sake and a searing kiss sharp on his tongue. And before he can think it through, his mouth asks: “What does feeding the king’s bear mean?”

Toph freezes. “What?”

“Do you feed the king’s bear?”

She bursts into laughter. “Holy Shu, that is what you said! Where’d you hear that?”

“Toph,” Zuko whines. He didn’t think it was possible for his face to get warmer in a hot spring. “What does it mean?”

“It means, Do you give it?”

“Give what?”

She cocks her head. “In sex. Do you prefer giving it, or receiving it?”

Oh. “That’s … a question?”

“Uh, yeah.”

He never thought that could even be a question. When he was with Mai, since Mai was a girl, it was obvious who would — right. But if that’s what Kodai had meant … “Wait. What does that have to do with Bosco?”

Toph grins. “Kuei’s known to invite people to meet Bosco and feed him. But when he receives them …”

Kuei? Who — “King Kuei?!”

Toph waggles her eyebrows. “He receives them.”

Zuko slaps his hands over his eyes, but that doesn’t block out the mental image of King Kuei, a foreign dignitary and leader of a nation, doing — “I wish I never asked,” Zuko moans.

Toph cackles, and suddenly water splashes across his face, making Zuko yelp. “Who asked you if you feed the king’s bear?”

He shakes out his hair and splashes water back at Toph. She doesn’t even flinch. “That guy from the bar you and Haru took me to.”

“Makes sense. I’d be impressed if the phrase had made it to the Fire Nation.” She settles back into her seat. “How are you feeling, about all that stuff?”

“What do you mean, that stuff?”

“You know. Kissing dudes.” She digs into her ear with a finger. “You were a bit freaked about it, last time I saw you. But you seem okay now.”

“Oh.” He recalls the water off the shore of Roku’s Island in the spring, his body seamlessly joining its ebb and flow. “I realized that I think … that it was there, all along. But I’d pretended it wasn’t there for so long that I forgot about it.”

“Man. You’re so zen about life-changing realizations after they happen, huh?”

“Zen? No.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

He just hasn’t really had time to think about it, since he remembered how to recognize it. He was traveling, and then he was worried about Sokka, and then he was worried about the secession, and then, and then … There’s always so much that needs his attention. It’s easy to ignore the things that are personal to him.

He glances at Toph, who’s basking in the sun again, and it strikes Zuko: this is someone who lives her in moment. She chases not her future but her now, and is she suffering for it? It doesn’t seem like it.

Tentatively, he sinks deeper into the spring and tilts his head back, seeking sunlight by feel alone. At first, it feels harsh against his closed eyelids, but then the heat settles into a gentle glow. If he lets the silence stretch between them, lets the bubble of the spring and the rustle of the leaves grow sharper, for how long can they settle in this calm? He wills his body to relax, for his muscles to loosen and become one with the water.

“Hey. Zuko?”

“Mm?”

“Whatcha wanna eat for dinner?”

A few days later, while Zuko’s eating breakfast with Toph in her guest chambers, Toph stops in the middle of her story about mud wrestling in the Southern Earth Kingdom to press her palm against the floor. “You have an exciting announcement arriving soon.”

Zuko blinks. “What?”

She slurps up another dumpling from her soup. “A bunch of people running around usually means bad news, but one person running is usually okay.”

A moment later, there’s a knock at the door, and then a breathless page enters, bowing quickly. “Fire Lord Zuko,” he pants. “The artist in residence requests you visit the throne room at noon.”

Zuko drops his spoon. His heart’s suddenly hammering. “She’s finished?” At the page’s nod, he turns to Toph. “I know we were thinking about the lower city,” he starts, “but —”

Toph waves a hand. “I can handle myself.”

All morning, he feels like he’s vibrating with nerves and excitement. It must emanate off him and permeate the room, because by the appointed hour, his council is just as restless; even Shohei, who poked his head into the room when following Li Bai back from a meeting, decides to join their visit, muttering about how it’s rare that all six of them are making a fuss about the same thing. Zuko hopes Bulan isn’t disturbed by a small group appearing when she’d only asked for him.

She’s waiting at the closed doors of the old throne room, her expression as placid as ever. “Fire Lord Zuko,” she says, bowing.

Zuko returns the gesture. “I apologize for the unexpected company. Is it okay if they join us?”

“However you’d prefer.”

He looks around him, from Eun to Chenda to Li Bai to Kimiko to Shohei. Even Mai meets his eyes; it’s the first time in weeks that she hasn’t scowled when forced to look at him.

He takes a steadying breath and nods at Bulan. “Together,” he confirms.

Bulan opens the doors, and they step inside.

Zuko’s heart stops.