Chapter Text
When the tears run out, Zuko is left feeling dry and hollow. Tired. Spirits, he’s so tired.
Uncle is going to step up as regent and it’s a relief.
The announcement will be made the next morning. Zuko signs papers that his eyes read but his brain refuses to process. A week ago, the thought would have made him nauseous, would have left with fear squeezing his throat, would have left him reeling with the what ifs and potential consequences of not knowing exactly what he’s agreeing to. But now—
Now, he’s just exhausted. He is exhausted and he trusts Uncle not to lie about what’s on the paper.
A week ago, he would have been worried sick about the way people would react. His generals had hissed that he was too young to lead. His advisors had whispered that he was too weak for the weight of the crown. And they were right. Spirits damn them, they were right. He might have cried again if he had anything left in him other than exhaustion that's seeping into his bones.
(No, Uncle corrects, they made it impossible for you to handle. They never wanted you to succeed, nephew.
Zuko thinks he’s trying to make a point, because Uncle is using his wise proverb tone, but Zuko is just— too tired to try and pick it out. He stares and he nods. Uncle just pats his shoulder gently.)
Technically, Zuko is still the Firelord, but until he’s recovered— and recovered from what? he wants to scream. From the arrow or from his failure? —until he’s recovered, Uncle is the one making the decisions, signing the papers and sitting on the throne. With Uncle as the regent, Zuko doesn’t really have to do anything.
Which should be easy because all he wants to do is sleep. It should be easy, so he lies in his bed in the infirmary and stares at the white ceiling until his eyelids ache.
(It’s not easy.
There’s something restless and anxious itching under his skin, screaming at him to get up and get to work, maybe to beg Uncle to burn the papers and pretend today never happened. Screaming that there’s no time for him to pick up all the pieces of himself, but there’s still time to stop things from getting out of hand.)
Healer Ayumi arrives not long after Uncle leaves, only to find him trying to pull a shirt over his head with gritted teeth because he’s exhausted to the bone, but he can’t just lie there being useless and even though his shoulder hurts, everything else hurts too, he’s had worse—
She pulls the shirt from his hands, puts her hands on her hips and says firmly, “Get back into bed this instant. Your Majesty.”
It’s not a request and Ozai would have never stood for the disrespect, but Zuko isn’t Ozai and he’s not Azula. He doesn’t want to be them, not anymore, but Zuko isn’t even Uncle, with his quiet commanding presence and the one who now holds the power as Regent Firelord. It’s already too late to take back his choice even if he wanted to. He doesn’t know what he wants anymore.
Zuko gets back into bed.
Ayumi doesn’t scold him when she unpicks his stitches for what is apparently the second time, but her lips pinch into a firm line. Her hands are warm and steady when she rubs salve that stings but cools the inflamed wound.
“I’m going to have to cauterise this if you keep ripping your stitches. You’re lucky it hasn’t got infected,” she grumbles lightly, tying off the fresh bandages.
(You were lucky to be born, the fire echoes.
Lucky in that whatever hits him is never quite enough to kill him. Lucky in that he survives, and he keeps on surviving. Lightning strikes the same place twice and still, Zuko keeps on going. He can survive this. He has to because there’s not another option.)
“Sorry,” Zuko says.
She doesn’t say I don’t believe you.
Ayumi just raises a semi-amused eyebrow and his cheeks flush.
“I was—I was bored staying in bed,” Zuko defends, heat rising in his face under her scrutiny. He adds quietly, “I just wanted to feel useful now that—”
Now that I’m not the Firelord, he doesn’t say. Her eyes soften.
“You can be useful by healing,” Ayumi says more gently, and then tacks on the end, “Your Majesty.”
Zuko exhales a short laugh. “Don’t,” he says. “Just— You’ve known me since I was a baby. Just call me Zuko.”
It’s a desperate grasp for normality- or what had become his normality anyways. The formality of the palace has become smothering in a way it never used to be at thirteen.
(He wonders if he’s too used to the Wani and walking the tightrope between mutiny and lack of control. If he spent too long in the Earth Kingdom to rule the Fire Nation. If he spent too long following others to ever be able to lead.)
Ayumi smiles and simply says, “Okay.”
And then: “If you want to be useful, I have a few jobs you can help me with. Zuko.”
Jobs turns out to be preparing herbs to be dried for one of her creams. She sits cross legged on the bed with him, a bag of plants he doesn’t recognise between them, and patiently shows him to separate the leaves from the stems with a simple, clean movement.
(He ruins the first one and the second and then the third too. Ayumi assesses the fourth, smiles and says good work.
It makes something warm flicker in his chest.)
After that, it’s mind numbingly easy, but Ayumi keeps up a steady stream of one-sided conversation that he lets wash over him. When he’s halfway through the bag, his hand slips, accidentally shredding the stem; Zuko stares at the broken herb in his hand for a long moment.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now,” Zuko says and it feels like a confession.
He’s not talking about the herb, and Ayumi knows because she reaches across the bed to grab his hand, still clutching the ruined stem. She squeezes it gently and something sharp pricks in his eyes. “Now,” she says, “You get to decide. What do you want to do?”
What do you want to do? What do you want to do? What do you want to do?
What does he want now that the war is over? Now that he doesn’t have a nation to rule and negotiations to oversee? What does Zuko want?
“I—” the words are heavy and clumsy on his tongue. “I want to find my mom.”
“Princess Ursa?” Ayumi freezes, her hand going deadly still against his. They were close, he half-remembers; fragments of memories of Ayumi are dotted throughout his childhood. Her shoulders have gone tense. And then, she says quietly, looking ten years older, “Okay.”
“She’s alive,” Zuko says and he’s not entirely sure why he’s telling Ayumi this first out of everyone, but she’s staring at him with wide eyes and it's like a dam had been broken in his mind. The words won’t stop pouring out of him. “Fath- Ozai told me and I don’t think he was lying. Not this time.”
“Okay,” Ayumi says again, gently patting his wrist. She believes you, a relieved part of his brain notes and his eyes threaten to start prickling again. After a moment, Ayumi offers, “She’s from Hira'a. That might be a good place to start.”
“I didn’t know that,” his throat squeezes around the words. Thank you, he doesn't say.
Ayumi smiles, bittersweet. “Not many did.”
After that, they fall into companionable silence as if she hasn’t just offered him the closest thing to hope he’s had in months. By the time the bag is emptied, his fingertips are etched with green and have a sharp grassy smell. He’s tired again, but not hollow.
“Get some rest, Zuko,” Ayumi says, and he does.
(It’s easier this time.)
--
It’s three days until his birthday and Ayumi has finally given him permission to return to his own chambers when a sky bison lands in his courtyard. Through the window, he can see four familiar figures in the saddle and something light and bubbly rises in his chest. He ignores the pulling in his shoulder and the shouts of the guards and he runs.
The sunlight feels good on his skin and there’s a ridiculously large smile on his face when Toph barrels into him, her hug knocking the air out of his lungs. Aang airbends his way down from Appa’s back, a bright splash of yellow amongst the blue sky and red buildings. Sokka waves from the saddle.
(He remembers his anger at them leaving, at them defeating his father and throwing him to the vultures, but the moment he sees them here, without him needing to ask, without him telling them to come to the palace, it evaporates. Toph clings to him and Zuko just feels relieved.)
I missed you, he doesn’t say.
Instead, a little breathlessly he asks, “What are you doing here?”
“We were going to show up for your birthday,” Toph huffs, punching his arm affectionately. It’s his good shoulder and considerably lighter than usual, but it still sends a jolt of pain through the wound. Her voice wavers slightly when she says, “And then apparently you got shot. What the hell, Sparky?”
What the hell, he thinks, sums it up quite nicely.
“It’s been a few long months,” Zuko defends weakly.
Toph snorts derisively. “I’ll say. What’s this about Uncle becoming regent?”
“Ah.” His mouth goes dry and his heart skips a telling beat. “It’s a long story.”
“We have time, Sparky,” she says, and then grins. “So, I know he’s busy as the stand-in Firelord, but how about some of Uncle’s tea?”
Behind her, Katara has her arms folded and an unreadable expression on her face. And—
Zuko is more than a little worried about that conversation, but he doesn’t want to argue with his friends the moment that they arrive, and he really doesn’t want to argue in the courtyard, in front of the dozen guards that follow him the moment he steps outside his bedroom.
(It’s for your own safety, Uncle had promised, but Zuko hates the feeling of them breathing down his neck, hates the eyes watching him.
They don’t make him feel safer, but until his shoulder is healed enough to firebend or carry his swords again, he doesn’t think anything will. Except— except maybe, having his friends here again. Even if they are a little angry with him, even if he’s a little angry with them, they have his back. They always have.
It’s a relief.)
“I’ll see about the tea,” Zuko says.
Sokka slides up to him as Zuko leads them into the palace. “I can’t believe someone tried to kill you with a bow and arrow,” he says, shaking his head, “I suppose it was worth a shot.”
Zuko nods and then— wait—
“That’s awful,” Zuko says but he’s laughing. It catches him off guard and hurts his shoulder— it’s not even that funny, spirits damnit— but it’s the first time he’s laughed properly months and suddenly he can’t stop. Sokka grins, looking so proud of himself and Zuko laughs harder. “I’ve missed you so much.”
“We’ve missed you too, buddy,” Sokka says, smile softening. He nudges Zuko with his elbow, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”
Zuko huffs a quieter laugh. His cheeks flush slightly. “Yeah. Me too.”
And he thinks that this time, he means it.
--
“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about,” Zuko grits out.
They make it into one of the cosier palace tearooms, favoured by Uncle and used for informal meetings before the argument breaks out. Toph pats his arm before the enter as if to say good luck. Aang and Sokka have made themselves at home on the thick cushions in a very deliberate display of staying out of the way.
If Katara was a firebender, she would have been steaming. Instead, the temperature of the room drops a few notable degrees. Ice crawls up the windows even though the sun is high in the sky.
“I’m upset,” she snaps, “because you’ve nearly been assassinated. And we had to find out from gossip that the Firelord had been shot. During an Agni Kai.”
“It’s not as if he succeeded,” Zuko says, the candles in the room rising higher with his temper. “Besides, it’s not like this is the first time this has happened.”
“Oh, there’s been more?” Katara says, tone acidic and it takes him a moment to realise what a horrible mistake he’s made. Oh no, he thinks.
“Not that many,” he jumps to correct. “Only— about a dozen, I think? Mostly if someone wanted to kill me, they just challenged me to an Agni Kai. And Uncle is drafting laws against unfounded challenges now, so it’s fine. Really. And this is only time I’ve actually been shot.”
Katara stares at him for a long moment. A long, long moment. Zuko shifts from foot to foot and realises he’s not made anything better. “You—” her voice shakes and breaks off. The room floods back to its normal temperature. “—You are such an idiot.”
And well—
That’s probably fair. He smiles awkwardly and then Katara is hugging him, clutching him tightly as if to make sure that he’s still alive. He thinks they might both be crying. The other continue to stay very deliberately uninvolved.
“I worry about you,” she says into his shoulder. “I don’t want to lose you, Zuko.”
And—
A lot of people have been saying that recently. He’s starting to believe them. “You won’t,” he promises. He’s surprised to find he means that too.
(She insists on healing his shoulder later, popping the cork on her waterskin. The glowing water feels good against his skin as it knits the ruined flesh back together.
“It’s going to leave a scar,” Katara says quietly, hands falling away from his shoulder.
She’s not crying again, but it’s close. He says, “It’s okay. It’ll remind me not to get shot again.”
And Katara laughs a laugh that’s closer to a sob and says something like Tui and La, you had better not.)
--
The servants have prepared rooms for them, but when night falls, they all plough into his bedroom, carrying as many blankets as they can hold. They set them out on the floor under Sokka’s direction, chatting and laughing and making his too-large room feel full of life.
His heart strains with how much he missed them when they fall asleep like that, in a tangled mess curled around him because sleeping next to a firebender is like sleeping next to a heat-pack. Toph is using his stomach as a pillow, lying on her back, knees bent so that her feet are still flat on the ground. Aang is snoring, curled into his side and Sokka has both of legs tossed over Zuko’s. Katara is lying with her head against Aang, strands of dark hair falling in her face.
His heart strains and he wonders, how, by the flame, he had managed to convince himself that he could have hated them. How he convinced himself they hated him.
(He never even told them when his birthday was, he realises later and the warm feeling in his chest glows like the sun itself.
This is why he has to survive, he thinks with sudden clarity. For them, if for nothing else.
Slowly, he’s picking up the pieces of himself.)
--
“I’m going to Hira'a,” he tells Toph the next morning. “To look for my mom.”
There’s a long moment of silence before a slow grin spreads across her face. “Sparky, are you offering me a life changing field trip?”
“I don’t know about life-changing, but yeah. Sure,” he says, rubbing the back of neck awkwardly, “If you want to come with me.”
“What kind of question is that?” Toph demands, “Obviously, I’m coming with you.”
(Thank you, he doesn’t say, but Toph punches him arm affectionately as if she heard him anyway.)
--
They find his mom in Hira'a.
They find her and she looks happier than she ever did in the palace. Her dark hair is threaded with grey and tied back in a casual topknot with loose strands framing her face, her skin more tanned and sprinkled with freckles from time under Agni’s rays. There are crinkles around her golden eyes from smiling. And Zuko wants to be angry with her, wants to be angry at her for leaving him, for leaving Azula, when he notices it’s the first time that he’s seen her wearing short sleeves.
Around her wrist is a faded, flaming handprint. A near match for the one on his face. His anger dies on his tongue.
They find his mom in Hira'a and the first thing she does is take him into her arms like he’s a child and hold him tight, whispering my son, my son, my son into his hair. She’s crying, leaving a damp patch on his shoulder and shaking like a leaf.
He wants to be angry and just as quickly, he doesn’t.
(Later, he thinks. The difficult conversations will come later.)
She takes them both back to her house— a small thing compared to the palace, but with a small garden out the front, lush and green. Zuko recognises some of the herbs as ones he’d prepared with Ayumi. When they’re both sat down with tea to rival Uncle Iroh’s, she tells them about the ultimatum Ozai offered her that night when he was eleven years old and waiting for his father to murder him in his bed, convinced that this was when he was going to die.
(After my father is dead, if you step one foot back in the capital, Ozai had said with razor calmness, I’ll kill Azula. And then I’ll kill Zuko. I might even kill that healer that’s always fawning over you, and I’ll make you watch. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll disappear.
And Ursa did. Spirits, help her, she had disappeared and left her children to that monster but not a day went by when she wished she had found another way.)
“I hate him,” Toph says furiously. “I wish Aang had done worse to him.”
The venom in Toph’s voice starts a laugh out of Ursa despite the shaking of her hands, and she looks so painfully like Azula that his heart clenches. Zuko reaches out to hold her trembling hand in his.
“I’m just glad that you’re alive,” he says, and finds that he means it, “I’m— I thought you were dead.”
(There’s still more left unsaid, still so much unspoken between them, but there’ll be time later. When he’s ready. She says as much at the door on the way out, with a tearful smile and a careful hug.
And then she says, hesitantly, “If you see Ayumi, tell her— tell her I’m sorry. And that, it’s another lifetime if she’ll still have me.”)
--
In another lifetime, Ayumi had dreamt of running away with Ursa.
In this one, she does.
--
Against all odds, it’s his birthday.
Zuko rises with the sun, carefully picking his way out of the warm pile of bodies surrounding him and slips out his bedroom.
He takes a detour through the kitchens to swipe some stale bread and goes to feed the turtle-ducks under first rays of the dawn. The sun feels warm on his skin. He rips of a chunk of the crust and watches it float in the water, before one of the turtle-ducklings claims it.
Somehow, he’s made it to seventeen.
Zuko laughs quietly and thinks that he just might make it after all.