Chapter Text
Li was indoors. That shouldn’t have felt so strange, but weeks spent under the sun and stars had made walls a strange sight.
He was sure that most walls did not warp or bend, nor did they change places with the floors so frequently, but the detail seemed insignificant compared to the blood red banners that dripped, melted, onto the floors; compared to the shackles around his wrists.
He felt a wet warmth seeping from where he had struggled against them.
Paintings stared at him, eyes judging, hands tight around weapons. Golden chandeliers held hundreds of candles, growing wider and grander the longer he watched them, like shining sprouting trees. Guards lined the endless corridor at inconsistent intervals, faceless beneath their visors, still as corpses.
The building was fancy and fine, and the building was fire. But, beyond that, the building was familiar. He was in the Palace.
He was home.
(Was he home?)
The men holding him, dragging him, turned him to face a door; broad and tall, it beckoned him into a room filled with flames. They forced him into the war room, forced him to kneel before the flaming dais.
He heard the three thumps of his friends falling behind him. He wondered why they hadn’t spoken, how he had forgotten they were there, and looked back to see them gagged.
Smellerbee watched everything with wide eyes, darting around to take everything in. She met Li’s eyes with sudden intensity; gave him a reassuring nod. She looked smaller than usual, curled up and scared, her armour missing.
Longshot was frail without his hat and bow. They hadn’t bothered to gag him, but he offered Li no whistle of comfort or anger. His eyes were dark and huge and small and light and so incredibly old.
Jet’s head was bowed with some emotion; his shoulders shook with it. Three guards were needed to keep him on his knees.
A guard forced his head forwards again, cutting out his silent companions.
A figure, impossibly tall, stepped out of the flames. His shadow cut across the room, falling onto Li.
Li blinked; and he was stood in front of him. Straining upwards against the guards, Li just barely came up to his knees.
Braziers around the room lit themselves, and the figure’s face was thrown into sharp relief.
Father.
The Firelord crouched to better examine the Prince. Even doubled over, he was twice his height.
“My son,” he whispered and boomed, “I have missed you.”
A hand reached for his face, wiping away an unexpected tear. The caress was soft and gentle and affectionate. His expression was the same.
Li felt no pain at the touch.
“I am so sorry,” the man said, drinking in his face like a starving man at a banquet. “I had only wanted to make you stronger, but I see now how wrong I was to treat you so. I know I don’t deserve it now, but I hope that you will forgive me one day.”
Li shook. Another tear spilt over, and again the hand reached out to wipe it away. Again he took comfort from his father’s hand.
“Zuko,” his father said, and he revelled in hearing his name. He’d missed the sound of it. “My son, Zuko.”
The hand came again and rested on his chin. It was soft and warm, the thumb rubbing slow circles on his cheek.
(He had burned this man. He had watched the branch burn and wished it were the man before him.
But he hadn’t known that he regretted it, that he wanted him back, that he was sorry and willing to make things right.
He hadn’t burned this; how could he have, when he hadn’t known it existed?
And it wasn’t as though the burning did anything – Azula was proof of that.)
Zuko choked, leaning into the touch. Comforting hands wrapped around him; his hands suddenly free, he clutched at his robes. They fell over him, dark and warm and protecting.
“Father.”
“My son.”
The hands held him almost too tight. He was swallowed by the shadows of his black robes, curled up tight in the dark.
“My son,” Father repeated, hands carding through his long hair, untangling the tresses, “You have fallen prey to the worst that the Earth Kingdom has to offer, and that is my fault. I should have brought you home before it got this far. They got in your head, but it will be okay.”
Zuko pulled back a little, but was held fast.
“We will make this okay,” he promised, crooning into his hair. “I have one thing I need you to do, and then everything can be as it was.”
Zuko was standing, his swords in his hands. Father turned him around to face the trio of travellers.
“They got inside your head,” Father whispered, rubbing his shoulders, “We need to get them out again.”
A hand moved down his arm to rest on his wrist, raising it to face them. His sword was inches from Jet’s throat. The boy didn’t look up, biting hard into the gag, shaking almost imperceptibly on his knees. He looked small.
Zuko looked between the sword and Jet. He felt Father’s presence behind him.
He had already made his decision. But… he could have been wrong.
He hadn’t been able to kill Azula. Could he really disobey Father, even if he wanted to?
The swords in his hands caught the firelight.
***
He woke up.