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Zuko learns his first lesson on being a Fire Lord even before his coronation.
It’s a pleasant morning and he’s out for a walk in the imperial garden half an hour outside the palace. The family’s tea trees grow here, all five of them, producing what is by far the most expensive tea in the entire Fire Nation. Zuko knows, because his uncle complained about missing it a lot during their travels. Without access to the royal allocation it was impossible to get hold of it. He’s sitting under their shade on the low surrounding stonewall, a backpack perched next to him. It’ll be a busy day before the eclipse tomorrow but for now, he rests.
The trees are called the Five Red Silks. Half of their tea is allocated to the royal family, the other half is sold. When Zuko’s parents wed, Master Lin created a small portion just for his mother, fragranced with plum blossoms from the same garden. He’s never quite gotten his uncle’s fixation on tea, but drinking the Plum Blossom Red Silk with his mother every fortnight is something he misses dearly, if only because she looked forward to it so much. The empty caddy now sits in Zuko’s suite, next to a few other nostalgic belongings his sister would call him weak for.
He hasn’t come here today for the tea trees, though. He fishes out a small leather bound book from his backpack and flips through it. It’s his mother’s gardening notebook, filled with carefully inked annotated drawings of various native herbs and flowers. He knows most of the content by heart, although it didn’t help him one bit in the wilderness of the Earth Kingdom.
He can see his mother Ursa in his mind’s eye sitting at the desk with her watercolors. After she disappeared, he kept it hidden under a lose tile in his bedroom, and the relief he felt upon returning from his banishment and seeing it was still there was immeasurable.
He puts the book back, puts on gardening gloves, shoulders his bundle and stands up. He cannot dawdle too long, because the Fire Lord, his father, wishes to see him in the afternoon. A pointless obligation if he ever had one. He walks slowly through the magnificent garden, looking for suitable plants to catch his eye. The air is full of birdsong and humming bees and sweet, heavy fragrances. His mother often talked to Master Lin about the challenge of designing, no, composing, a garden that looks and smells good all year round.
It’s clear his father still detests him, but now that he is allowed to be in respectable society again his father has taken to straightening him out, making sure he’ll make an adequate Fire Lord one day. Mystifyingly, the current approach does not contain violence nor threats. Yet.
There – a patch of dragon sage. A holy plant, burnt in the temple. Pale red leaves, the inside green. Only the royal family may drink an infusion prepared with dragon sage; it is said to improve fertility and make sure the offspring is a strong bender. There’s a self-deprecating joke in here somewhere, but Zuko doesn’t feel like pondering it. Not today.
Zuko steps onto the flower bed, careful not to tread down any plants, and bends down to cut off a few branches. Were he not a prince, this would be an offense punishable by death. He rubs a leaf to inhale the earthy scent as he returns to the path.
No, his father has decided that what Zuko really needs is meeting him for tea every three days, where he would sit down for an agonizing hour while his father stood up and walked across the room, or stared out the window – anything but actually look at his son – and talked about the value of strong leadership, and how they were liberating the world. It would be comical if it didn’t manage to somehow, despite the absence of corporal punishment or yelling, feel torturous. He thinks his father might be scheduling these meetings solely to signal to the court gossipers that he is raising a strong heir; he certainly hasn’t displayed any interest in his son’s opinions so far, or even his presence beyond it being a required formality.
Zuko kicks a stone at the side of the path as far as he can. Where the stone lands, a rustling and scurrying informs him that he’s startled some small critter woefully unaware of his father’s inadequacies both as a parent and as a leader. “Sorry,” he mutters.
His sister, he was informed, has left the palace for the day, no doubt plotting something. He’s heard rumors that scattered rebel forces might try to attack the Capital; the whole palace has been atwitter the last few days. No matter; come next morning, even before the sun dawns, they will be moved to a secret underground location to wait until the eclipse passes and their bending powers return.
Zuko cuts off a few carnations. Deep red shades with a beautiful white rim. Back when he would walk the gardens with his mother they’d always bring back two hand-tied bouquets, one for her rooms and one for his. This time he only makes one.
A familiar sweet scent reaches him. Agni’s feet. A fruit tree that when in bloom is covered in white blossoms with a strong fragrance that can help against headaches. The curiously shaped fruit which gives the plant its name is bright orange, and tastes like a cross between citrus and banana. If cut in summer it might bloom again.
He cuts off two twigs of Agni’s feet and adds them to the rest.
A small brush of monkberry is in full bloom. The blossoms are yellow, with what might look like a blue arrow in the middle if you squint. That this brush is still alive and well is a true testament to the fact his father never visits this garden. A smile plays on Zuko’s lips, but he can’t bring himself to add a branch to his bouquet. He continues on.
And Agni knows the young avatar doesn’t deserve it, but right now, all Zuko can feel is resentment for how easily black and white the world must look to Aang. Zuko is convinced he’s alive like his father’s monkberry bush, fighting the good fight against the bad Fire Nation. Somehow, the young boy always had an answer what the right thing to do was. And isn’t that terribly infuriating and unfair? Sometimes you have to make awful decisions. Choose the lesser of two evils. Life just isn’t that simple.
Zuko bends down to clip a single fire lily, an especially splendid example. No, the avatar certainly never had his honor in question. Never had to question if he himself was still on the right path. Zuko’s shoulders tense while he gently sorts the flowers in his hands. One more, he thinks, and then the special shrub he’s propagating in his rooms.
He takes a deep breath and tries to take in the beauty around him. He fails, unsurprisingly. It’s the avatar’s fate to bring down the Fire Lord and restore balance to the world. What a curious concept, fate. Zuko heard so many lies about fate, about what his own destiny as a crown prince was that he’s not sure he can believe any of it anymore. What he does believe though is that his father must be stopped.
Moonweed. A creeping plant with light blue flowers. The blossoms will close over the course of the day and open again at night. If there are water droplets on the petals, don’t touch them, they are phototoxic.
The tiny drops of blue color do make him smile and he adds a few, just to annoy his father.
It’s time to go. He ties the bouquet with a good piece of string and tucks it safely into his backpack, just the stems, the blossoms peaking out. It’s good to feel the sun’s warmth on his skin as he returns to the palace.
During the last days, his anger has died down and with it the flame that has been burning inside him. He can feel that there’s mostly bitterness left. His steps grow heavier the closer he gets home.
It’s not quite the same as anger, but among the bitterness there’s tinge of indignation at the hand he’s been dealt. If he has to draw from his bad temper to fan the flames in a fight, this’ll have to do. Would his father want Azula to follow into his footsteps as Fire Lord, or Zuko, his firstborn? She hasn’t been named crown princess yet. Perhaps Ozai is just toying with her, too.
The servants don’t bat an eye when he re-enters the palace and heads to his suite with the flowers peaking out on his back. It’s been established a long time ago that he’s the soft one.
Inkbrush. A thorny shrub, all parts poisonous. The new, pink leaves turn purple over the summer and are almost black by autumn. When macerating the leaves in alcohol, they lose their vibrant color. The resulting poison is a strong nauseant and though dangerous can be useful in the hands of a skilled healer.
He’s back in his suite, the flowers laid down carefully on a dresser next to the vase with inkbrush cuttings. The brush is as beautiful as it was deadly, and almost exclusively grows on Ember Island. His mother planted one near the turtle duck pond when they were little, but his father had it removed after she was gone.
The glass vase is mostly empty now. On his recent visit to the island, Zuko has taken several cuttings. They’ve taken root in the vase, and yesterday he has planted two of them near the pond. He takes another three out, careful not to let the water drip everywhere. He cuts off the young roots and adds the cuttings to his bouquet, moving everything around for a while until he’s satisfied with the result.
It occurs to him that he hasn’t thought about Mai at all today.
There’s no time.
There’s a slight tremble in his hands when he puts the flowers into another vase, right under a picture of his mother. The tea caddy is standing next to it, and a jade dragon statue he nicked from his uncle’s rooms when he was nine. He wanted to be as daring and ruthless as his sister. An hour later, his bad conscience plagued him so deeply he brought it back, meekly, thoroughly unbecoming of a royal child, and with an almost inaudible apology on his lips. When Uncle Iroh scooped him up in a big hug, he could feel the suppressed laughter rocking through the man’s body. Iroh insisted his nephew kept the statue.
Zuko takes off his gloves and sits down in front of the portrait to meditate until his afternoon tea. He has foolishly thought that when he made a decision, his inner turmoil would cease. Maybe tomorrow. Or the day after.
Is it really treason if he’s doing it, among other things, for the good of his country?
There’s a finality to his decision that he really truly hates. Because it means that his father is irredeemable.
His mother told him that to be a Fire Lord meant to lock your heart away. And that was why his father yelled at him so often. Perhaps he could never be Fire Lord, because despite his best intentions, a tear rolls down his motionless face.
When it’s time to leave for his father’s suite, he puts on his nice robes and steps in front of the mirror for a few last preparations. His belt is tied immaculately, his hairpiece perfectly centered. One last deep breath.
The meeting goes as expected. Zuko sits still at the table, his father barely looks at him before standing up and walking to the window. He rambles on about yesterday’s war meeting, and not for the first time Zuko thinks his father’s mental faculties might be decaying. With the life he has lived, something has to give sooner or later.
Zuko shifts uncomfortably and his robes rustle. Would Mai be horrified or proud if she knew about his change of hearts? The porcelain gives a faint clatter as he takes the cup to his lips. Ozai drones on, but his son barely hears any of it.
Zuko idly wonders if he can convince the old Master Lin, stooped and half deaf these days but still with swift hands and a glint in his eyes, to make him another portion of Plum Blossom Red Silk next harvest. He doesn’t quite know how old the tea master is, but he assumes that even blind and lame the man will let himself be carried to his trees and instinctively know what they need.
“More tea, father?” Zuko asks politely, although the cup is still over half full, and pours it without waiting for a reply. Ozai sits down brusquely and knocks back the tea.
Master Lin is one of the few servants they were allowed to engage with, and Zuko remembers extended walks through the gardens where they’d get lengthy explanations on the various plants grown here, and how the master would slip Azula and him some candy when their mother wasn’t looking. Eventually, Azula grew bored of their excursions and then it was just him and his mother.
The monologue is coming to an end; Zuko can hear it in his father’s cadence.
“I expect you listened closely and learn from my words,” says Ozai. “Soon I will have conquered the Earth Kingdom, and my children will stand by my side in my greatest triumph. It is imperative you know your role by then.”
“Yes, father,” Zuko replies dutifully.
His steps, though not entirely unburdened, are a little lighter as he leaves.
And when the night falls, sleep won’t find him. He’s laying with his eyes wide open when a servant knocks to inform him that his father has fallen ill. He’s been sick all over the marble floor of his suite’s antechamber.
Zuko dutifully rushes to his fathers side in the sleeping chamber.
Ozai’s sunken, ashen face is a shock and Zuko tells the servants to leave them alone. His father suddenly looks very small laying in his huge bed.
“Where’s Azula?,” he demands to know.
Azula hasn’t returned yet from her excursion.
Zuko gets a chair to sit by his father’s side. Another tear rolls down his face. Weak. Zuko brushes it away before Ozai can catch sight of it.
A rustling of Zuko’s robes.
“Here, father. Let me pour you another cup of tea. You’re strong, you’ll get through this.”
He sits by his father’s side the entire night, feeding him as he gets progressively weaker. He wipes the tea cup with a handkerchief hidden in his robes, just in case. The servants go in and out, and a healer appears who fails to do anything useful.
Ozai has a few fits of rage, but he can barely lift his torso from the mattress. It’s an empty ire.
“I won’t die,” says Ozai.
“You are Agni’s Chosen, father,” Zuko replies dutifully.
His father’s eyes are glossy and protrude in a way that tells you his hours are numbered. When the breathing breaks start Zuko dares to take his hand. It feels unfamiliar. He wipes the free hand over his own wet face.
It’s too late now. Too late to lay his heart bare to his father. Too late to foolishly hope his father might change, that they might have something akin to a family. And that’s the worst part; not the life that ends, but the confirmation that there has never been a chance for them.
Ozai seems barely conscious now and when his manservant comes in and asks him if he needs anything, it becomes obvious his hearing is almost gone by his disoriented gaze and his inability to answer. He falls into an uneasy sleep.
The next time a servant enters, Zuko tells her to get the flower bouquet from his suite.
The flowers sit on Ozai’s nightstand in dim light, filling the room with their sweet scent. He rouses, stretching his head with great effort to eye them carefully.
“Your mother had a shrub like that in the palace garden,” Ozai says weakly, every word causing him pain. The implication until I had it removed after she was gone hangs in the air. He freezes for a second in recognition, before he schools his features and then allows for a smile to creep onto his face.
“You take after your mother”, he says almost inaudibly and laughs – a dry laugh that might have been a coughing fit just as well. His eyes protrude even further, and he stops, a familiar smug expression on his face that he could make one last joke at his son’s expense. That he has the last laugh in the end.
The roots are the most poisonous part of the inkbrush, especially from freshly propagated cuttings. Dried and ground to a fine powder it goes undetected by taste and smell and a pinch of it can kill a grown man.
There are no more fits of rage. Ozai stays quiet, his breathing getting worse and worse. You take after your mother are his last words when he dies in the early hours of the new day, just before the sun can set sight onto His Chosen one last time.
Zuko is dimly aware that the frequency of servants entering and leaving has increased now that his father is dead. He’s still sitting in a haze holding his father’s hand. Some time is passing; the curtains are drawn back and bright light fills the room. Someone opens the windows – to let the soul leave, his mother once said.
Lock your heart away. They cannot see in his face the slightest hint of his betrayal. No one can ever share the burden of that knowledge with him.
One servant informs him that he needs to relocate to the underground facility soon. What about his father, he hears himself ask.
“He’ll be kept in a cooling chamber,” someone replies. It is Xu, a Fire Sage, Zuko realizes belatedly. “Now is not the time to inform our nation what great tragedy has befallen us. Not right as our weakest hour is upon us.”
“And Azula?”
“My apologies, my prince. We have not been able to locate her. It is possible she already relocated,” Ozai’s manservant says. No worry in his voice, because unlike Zuko, Azula is someone who always lands on her feet. Zuko lets go of his father’s hand and stands up. His legs are shaky – has it really been so long since he sat down here?
“I suggest your sister is informed only after the eclipse has passed. It seems unwise to burden her with these tragic news in an – uncontrolled environment.”
It appears the Fire Sages have a realistic impression of Azula’s mental stability.
“Yes, that’s a good idea.”
“A terribly tragic day for the Fire Nation indeed.” Xu shoots him an inquisitive glance, without speculating further. Zuko has a sneaking suspicion that no one might ever use the word ‘poison’ in his presence. Lock your heart away.
They stare at each other for a considerable time, an island of silence amidst the bustle that is his father’s death. Xu dips his head.
“Your coronation shall take place tomorrow at noon, my prince.”
And there, Zuko learns his first lesson on being a Fire Lord. Because as Xu turns and leaves he realizes that the man truly does not care. Not beyond a basic amount of curiosity. It doesn’t matter whether he killed his father to these people; perhaps the probability he did so even makes him a more suitable candidate than previously assumed.
The servants lead him away, their steps echoing through the hallways of the emptying palace. The first thing he’ll do as a Fire Lord, Zuko thinks, is getting his uncle out of prison.