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Recent census results show the most popular boy’s name in the year following the end of the war was—
“You can’t be serious.”
Azula laughs with her whole body, though she can’t laugh in many other ways with her arms bound across her chest. But she laughs, with amusement, almost with joy.
— Zuko. After the kind, generous, gentle, warm—
Smoke blows out his nose and the fires in the lanterns lining the hallway flare as Zuko stomps down it, robes billowing out in behind him that his servants are scrambling to collect and keep pace. He hardly notices them, otherwise, he’d stop and insist they go do other, more important tasks like fixing him a plate of food for lunch he’ll most definitely refuse in favor of working himself to a rather premature grave in his office. A fate for their dear newest ruler that no one, certainly not—
“Uncle!”
… Iroh would be pleased for him to meet. This is why when Iroh pokes his head up from where he’s enjoying a tea banquet with the turtleducks, he meets his nephew’s fury with a gentle smile.
“Firelord Zuko, what a pleasant surprise that my favorite nephew decided to join this old man on such a beautiful day.”
Zuko pinches his nose. “Uncle, I’m your only nephew.
Iroh winks. “And still my favorite!”
The banter is cut short, as usual, by Zuko shoving the census report in his uncle’s lap, then folding his legs and sitting across from him while tapping his knee anxiously as he waits for Iroh to finish reading. The turtleducks decide to make him their nest and climb into his lap in a pile of downy feathers and hard green shells. One manages to climb onto Zuko’s shoulder, nestling its beak beneath his chin.
“Are you even reading?” Zuko demands, voice snappy but posture completely still.
Iroh smiles because the fury these days is hardly ever fury or fear. Mostly youthful angst at everything. Iroh prefers it this way. “I have read this report. I didn’t see anything noteworthy.”
“My name—!” He freezes when one of the turtleducks in his lap shakes its head curiously at his yelling. Zuko takes a slow, deep breath and lowers his voice. “My name was the most popular boy's name last year.”
“Ah yes, how wonderful! Now no one will mispronounce your name.” Zuko pins him with a withering glare. Iroh laughs. “This is all very normal, there is often a surge in babies in the years following a large-scale war, and it’s only natural parents would want their children to embody the legacy attached to your name.”
Zuko turns bright red, his unburned eye opened wide as he turns and coughs into his hand.
“Still weird though,” Zuko grumbles, because he is still only just 17 and gets worked up over the smallest of praise and turtleducks find it easy to sleep in his lap.
—Firelord Zuko. Who, as of his 17th birthday that recently passed this winter—
They cheer happy birthday and Zuko screams. Toph throws cake at his face that Appa licks off and celebrations officially begin.
Katara is surprisingly not very good with the height of the precarious, ancient building that seems one stiff breeze away from toppling over. She avoids the windows of the tower they’re in for as long as possible, until Aang physically drags her to the one Zuko and Sokka are looking out at, brooding.
“What are you two all mopey about,” Aang teases, jutting Zuko’s side with his elbow.
Zuko glares while Sokka answers. “We aren’t mopey! We’re bonding over manly things.”
Katara snorts. “Yea? Like which hair gel will give you the best beach waves?”
“You promised not to mention that!”
Zuko laughs, low and quiet, but he laughs which he so rarely does. Aang swings himself around Zuko’s neck, still just short enough that he can hang there for a while, and rambles about how cool and awesome Zuko is and he’s sooooo glad that he turned not evil and helped them defeat his dad. Sokka says something similar later when he’s still being fueled by a sugar high that Toph quickly knocks out of him before whispering something in Zuko’s ear that makes him smile.
“Am I doing better?” They stand side by side at the window. Katara has a death grip on the windowsill and Zuko’s offered wrist.
“Isn’t the most popular boy’s name—“
“Do not bring that up.”
Katara cocks her head. “I hear they’re throwing a parade tonight in honor of you.”
He scoffs. “They always throw parades for the royal family. It’s tradition.”
“Well, where I’m from they only do that for people they like.”
“Last I checked, this isn’t a snowy tundra.”
“Right, it’s only the middle of a volcano.
That eases another laugh out of him. Katara thinks she’s doing good.
Zuko leaves to wrangle Toph from burying Sokka in the wall for fun, only after Katara insists she’ll be fine at the window. And she is, mostly, until a sudden sharp breeze pushes her back and she’s starting to think this whole high tower thing is overrated— somehow, Appa was far more stable and secure— until the entire Caldera lights up.
It starts slowly, with a few lanterns and dots of yellow closer to the edges of the city, then spreads inward. A trail of light leads up the streets, winding down different paths like a diverging stream that collects in the square a few streets down from the palace gates. She hears music, faintly riding on the wind, singing and instruments. And if she looks closer, very very close, she thinks she sees people dancing.
“Zuko! Look, the parade! It’s for—“
But he’s already asleep, piled onto Appa’s side with Aang and Toph on both sides of him. Sokka blinks awake from where he’s half splayed on the floor, half on Appa, and Toph’s footrest. He waves Katara over.
She huffs, looks out the window to ingrain the picture of the parade in her mind, and then joins them.
I’ll tell him about it in the morning, she thinks as she falls asleep.
—is capturing more and more of the heart of the Fire Nation every day. A poet…
“You know I like you. A lot.”
“Yes.”
“And you, hopefully, like me too. A lot. Hopefully?”
“…sure.”
“Well, yeah. I was wondering if you, maybe, wanted to go out? On a date.”
“You’re asking me out.”
“On a date.”
“I gathered. After you dumped me.”
“Um.”
“Through letter.”
“Yes. Sorry. Do you—“
“Do I?”
“Date?”
“I date.”
“So?”
“So.”
“What’s your answer?!”
“Don’t yell.”
“I’m not yelling!”
“…”
“…”
“Ask me in the morning, I’m tired.”
“Wha—“
Mai closes the door and listens to the boy she loves—
(the boy whose face could be found on a wanted poster in every city in the Fire Nation, whose face now hangs in the hall to replace the previous portrait, whose face she holds between her palms while her thumb traces the outline of a scar she knows he’s learned to hate, who’s face somehow makes an appearance in the streets of the Caldera to pick up some random knick-knack or spice and makes the crowds cheer or, much to Mai’s displeasure, the girls swoon.
The scar the people have grown to recognize, the scar she’s never hated on the face of the boy who she hopes can learn to love himself the same way she loves him.)
—groan in frustration, kick the floor, then mumble a quiet but heartfelt goodbye before shuffling away.
She wakes up to a knock at her door and a repeated question, this time that gets answered.
… a bender…
It’s a little funny, showing up to these free outdoor theater performances and getting stared at. Whenever a set of eyes is particularly nosey, Toph will spin and stare straight at them with the biggest smile she can muster. That always seems to do the trick.
Despite the annoyances, she still makes it her duty to go to these every time she’s in the city, which is more than half the year because she’d endure Sparky’s boring economy meetings if it meant she gets to spend the rest of the day with him. The play changes every time, last week it was a musical and this week is a drama, and so is the cast with a revolving door of lead actors and actresses. But the one thing that never changes is the enigmatic member of the theater troupe, the Blue Spirit.
Rumor is, not even the people who recruited him know his true identity, and some say he isn’t even human. A spirit with a love for theater, who blesses whatever performance he’s in with his dragonsent firebending. It is truly the mystery of the century.
Except it isn’t, because everyone knows.
Toph grins as the announcer yells out the arrival of the Spirit, who leaps onto the stage in a flurry of fire and dance blended with kata that would make any bender impressed. She feels the familiar quick patter of his heart, the cadence of footsteps, the memorized vibrations that ripple from every move.
It’s easy for her to figure out who it is when he’s got this many tells. Toph is only suspicious how everyone else in the entire Fire Nation seems to have figured it out.
“Woah, he’s got a rainbow in his fire!” a little girl sitting atop her father's shoulders exclaims. “Just like Firelord Zuko!”
She’s quickly hushed (and quickly told that yes it’s Firelord Zuko, everyone knows but he can’t know that everyone knows or he’ll get too nervous to come perform and we don’t want that because he loves it so much) just as the Blue Spirit freezes for a second on stage at the sudden outburst of his name, then quickly continues. The show must go on.
Toph wonders what the hell is a rainbow.
…and the Firelord, he is proving himself to be Agni’s blessing to this nation. After being banished for 3 years, Firelord Zuko trained the Avatar to master the art of firebending and end the 100-Year War that had claimed the lives of too many Fire Nation citizens. Though he is still young, he will lead us to a future of balance and peace, perhaps for the first time in a century. Is there anything our leader can’t do?
“Yes.”
“Yes?”
“No.” The Firelord squints, holds the paper closer to his face, then shakes his head. “Yeah, I mean no. No, I mean— ugh, no!”
Ignoring the Firelord’s self-inflicted irritation, Aki takes the draft off his desk and glares at his handwriting like it personally offended him. Which it did. If the Firelord is saying no, he might as well throw himself in the dungeons. No need for a trial, not that he's expecting one anyway, and forget an Agni Kai against the Avatar's literal firebending master. He knew he should’ve listened to his sister, never followed his dreams and taken this insane reporting job to interview and write on the latest on a long line of crazy Firelords—
“Sorry,” the Firelord— the guy who’s about to order Aki’s execution— apologizes. “I meant, yes there’s things I can’t do. A lot, actually, but uh, no to like the article. Not that it’s bad!” He exclaims, throwing out his hands haphazardly. Then he does the strangest thing.
He flinches. At himself. Aki watches his hands extend across the table, covering half the distance, cold. Not a lick of fire or heat coloring his palms. Nothing. Then, they’re pulled back, close to his chest. The Firelord— the most powerful person in the world second to the Avatar— looks at him with wide eyes. Like he did something wrong.
“Um,” he scratches his head, voice teetering with boyish embarrassment and something strange like guilt, “it’s good so far. The article. You’re a talented writer and your strokes are wonderful.” He takes a breath, holds it, and lets it go slowly. If it’s flecked with sparks, Aki doesn’t mention it. “What I meant by no is that it reads kind of like, I don’t know fiction?”
…Does it? Aki scans over the text he wrote, trying to understand what he means like that. But he doesn’t get it. His editor had said it was great. Even his annoying sister gave it some praise. The Avatar, whom he just happened to run into on his way to the Firelord’s office (what even is her life) said it was great.
“I— I apologize, Firelord Zuko, but I do not understand what you mean.”
If he didn’t guarantee his imprisonment before, he did now. He questioned the Firelord, who’s already apologized to him. The limits of his stupidity are being pushed.
The door opens and a servant enters, placing two cups of tea and snacks on the table between them. The servant firmly tells the Firelord to eat, and the two have a staring contest before the Firelord concedes and ears one (1) strip of fire jerky.
The servant turns to Aki and says, “Please make sure he eats it all.” Then whips their head to the Firelord and states, “I will be bringing more, Firelord Zuko.”
The Firelord— the frustrated boy whom Aki has come to realize hates talking about himself for more than 3 seconds— crosses his arms and looks away. Once the servant is gone, they resume their conversation.
“What I mean is,” the Firelord says between tiny bites, “it kinda sounds exaggerated.”
“Which part?”
“The whole thing?” The Firelord waves his hand around vaguely. “I’m sure people don’t like me that much.”
Aki blinks, bewildered. “Um, Firelord Zuko, if I may be frank—“
“Sure, and,” he grimaces, “please just call me Zuko, at least in here, the Firelord part doesn’t sound right.”
“…right.” Aki will not be calling the Firelord just Zuko. “The most popular boy’s name in the recent census was—“
“I’m well aware, can we please not mention that?”
“The annual Firelord Festival received ten times the turnout compared to previous years.”
“It’s easier to have outdoor events in the winter when it’s cooler.”
“They’re renaming a city after you.”
“There’s only about 10 Port of Azulons, though.”
Aki rubs his temples. He is very much aware that he is dealing with a teenager who is half Aki’s age and, last he’d heard about the current Firelord he was being banished after losing an Agni Kai. To his father. Then he pops up years later with the Avatar in tow and an inability to accept that maybe not everyone hates him like he seems so intent on thinking.
Agni guide him. Aki came into this meeting thinking, best case scenario he’ll get a few years in the dungeon before he sees the light of day. Now he’s trying to figure out how to convince the Firelord- Zuko, because it doesn’t feel quite right calling the boy who forgets to eat so often his servants have to remind him too, that he’s not his father.
“I think,” Aki starts slowly, letting Zuko’s attention slowly fall back on him from wherever it’d wandered off to, “you have done more good for this nation than anyone has in a long, long time. I think,” he inhales, “you are loved for a reason.”
Then, it’s silent. Zuko stares at Aki, expression indescribable. Aki holds his breath.
Then, Zuko smiles. Small, warm, sweet.
“I hope,” Zuko begins, “you are right.”
…And who knows? Maybe one day, one of those baby Zukos will meet the real deal!
When the war is a scabbed-over wound and the article has long since been published to critical acclaim, Zuko finds himself in front of a boy in the market on the outer ring of the city.
“My name is Zuko and you got a funny scar mister!” The boy, no older than 8, says brightly.
Zuko reels back, then laughs. “I’ve been told it’s kind of shaped like a flame fruit.”
“Woah, hey it is! That’s so cool!”
A voice calls for him and the boy says he has to go. Zuko gives him a small turtleduck carving he’d made the other day.
“Isn’t this the Firelord’s favorite animal?” The boy asks.
“It is, so make sure to take good care of it. And help your mom.”
“I always help mom.”
“Then you’re already doing a lot better than I did.”
Now the boy really has to go. “What’s your name mister? I told you mine so you have to tell me yours.”
“Would you believe me if I told you it’s the same as yours?”
The boy named Zuko freezes, tilts his head, and looks between the carving and Zuko. Then he smiles and waves. “Nice to meet ya, mister Firelord!”
Zuko stands, baffled, before shaking his head with a grin and carrying on.