Sunset Smiles

by RoseShower

Summary:

Sixteen-year-old Zuko doesn’t have much left: no honor, no throne, and no hope—only the burning need to capture the Avatar. So when a powerful, older version of himself crashes into his training session out of nowhere, Zuko figures his luck is finally turning.

Except... It's not.

Fire Lord Zuko, moments after a fatal lightning strike during his battle with Azula, wakes up years in the past—face-to-face with the angry, banished prince he used to be. Time travel was definitely not part of the plan.

Notes:

I'm going to continue posting my saved Drafts, just because I'm tired of having them hanging around in my personal folders. It's high time I clean it out. Also!

The Older Zuko is from the comic series Smoke and Shadow. If you guys haven't read it, I recommend it. It's pretty good, like all the other Avatar comics.

Chapter 1: Zuko's Typical, Terrible, No Good Time-Warp

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[. . .]

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"This is ridiculous."

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[. . .]

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Chapter 1

Zuko's Typical, Terrible, No Good Time-Warp

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[. . .]

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Lightning sizzles at the tips of his fingers, zapping through his bloodstream like a chanting omen. He bravely calms himself, rearranges his posture, and points directly at his sister, who smirks at him with an expectant glint in her eye.

Time suspends.

Lord Zuko of the Fire Nation, former revolutionist of the 100-Year War and teacher to Avatar Aang, stares down at his younger sister with a challenging fervor, laced with a cynical acceptance. His heart hisses as he sucks in his stomach, bracing himself for an inevitable breakthrough he knows he'll regret for the rest of his life—all for the greater good of his nation.

A nation that, despite the civil division and claims of his "weak" rule, he loves and will continue to fight for.

Even if it means hurting the one person he couldn’t save.

He has never seen Azula so expressive. She looks at him, feigning composure with a wicked smirk and wide-eyed malignancy, trying her best to appear as she once did. He knows she thinks her pretending is working; he must look serious. And while she revels in his grave equanimity, she doesn't realize he's about to break.

This is his sister.

His little sister.

And he didn't save her.

Never, not once, has he seen her like this. She looks tired. Dirty, though no less vain. Heavy eye bags stretch her skin, making her resemble some haunted figure from a child's cautionary tale, her once-gold irises burning nearly red in the dim light. The smirk she used to wield so easily has withered into something sinister, a lifeline of venom aimed solely at him as a flash of blue light crackles from her sharpened fingers.

Still, he braces himself, despite the misery twisting inside his chest.

All he ever wanted was for his family to be whole again. He had known it was impossible, had settled for the dream of reunion, the hope of healing old wounds. But things had only worsened when their mother returned.

Azula had never recovered. When she escaped into the forests months ago, he had no time for a thorough search—the nation demanded his attention. He had sent out soldiers, of course, but all they found was her topknot. A cruel memory that pierced his heart with the knowledge: I couldn’t save her.

In the end, his guilt was pointless. She had come back to him.

(Except, she had come to kill him.)

It seemed that no matter what he tried, nothing ever worked out as he wished. That had always been the way of his life. Still, he had hoped—at the very least—for half of her. A welcome. A brotherhood. She could hate him, she could mock him if it soothed her wounds, but he had wanted her to stay. To try. To mend the tattered scraps of what they had once been. Just a little.

(She had been hurt, too. And despite the anger curled like a fist in his gut, he loved her.)

But she seemed too far gone.

(His heart whispered otherwise. But he knew.

He knew all too well.)

Drawing a sharp breath, he flexes his core just as Uncle taught him. He lets the energy consume him, devours it, and bends it back, darting it at his sister with grim resignation.

He expects her to dodge, to conjure fresh lightning.

But he is mistaken.

(She doesn't want to dodge. She wants to destroy.)

Instead, she grabs hold of his redirected lightning and hurls it back at him with a harsh, wild cackle.

The force doubles—Azula never does anything halfway—and time lurches forward once more.

He isn't prepared for it.

In her stead, he's been hit instead.

And as the pain sears through him, memories flash in a useless, fleeting warning before everything goes black.

Time Resumes.

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[. . .]

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On a cold autumn morning across a vast, broken stretch of sea and ice, a small Fire Nation crew ship slices through a tundra of snow, mist, and something far stranger—destiny.

Inside the iron-clad ship, a well-drilled unit of guards, engineers, a cook, and a medical purser bustle around, each manning their role with practiced routine. But the ship carries more than a crew. It carries two men history won’t forget: Retired General Iroh, the Dragon of the West, and Prince Zuko, banished heir of the Fire Nation.

Today, as on countless days before, the two occupy themselves in training. A normal day in their three years of exile: Iroh humbling Zuko with "basics," and Zuko fuming that he hasn’t mastered more.

A breath of fire curls low across the floor in front of the seated general.

"You will teach me the advanced set," Zuko snarls, standing tall, frustration tight in his narrowed eyes after besting two of his guards in a sparring match. The soldiers quietly retreat to the outer decks, eager to avoid the next tantrum of their mercurial prince.

Iroh eyes him with feigned disapproval and sighs heavily. "Fine," he says at last, as if granting a hard-won favor. "But first..." he grins, reaching for a bowl, "...I must finish my roast duck!"

Zuko recoils with a grimace as his uncle crams what looks like days-old food into his mouth.

Seething, Zuko spins on his heel.

(His uncle never takes him seriously. Never.)

He opens his mouth to bark new orders, but a searing sensation—like molten fire—halts him mid-breath.

He freezes. His Uncle chokes on his food. Something loud and sharp cracks the air apart.

The ship rattles to a stop.

Every crew member jolts back as burning, prickling cold needles their skin. Instinct drives them to scramble for safety.

Time seems to halt.

At the epicenter of the deck, energy ripples outward, bending the world around it. Zuko stumbles backward, hissing when it singes the scarred skin of his palm. He clutches his burned hand, staggering to his uncle’s side, both of them gaping at the thunderous anomaly unraveling before their eyes.

"What... What is that?!" Zuko demands. Fear claws up his throat, but he keeps his face hard. He is a prince. He is not afraid.

His uncle, so often foolish yet deeply spiritual, does not answer.

And that terrifies Zuko even more.

Before they can even comprehend it, fire explodes from the swirling darkness, a furious roar of flames screaming straight at them.

Zuko shouts commands; Iroh shields them with a deft redirect, sending the blast away without retaliation. The wave vanishes just as suddenly as it appears, leaving behind a swirling vortex, silent and deep.

Then—a grunt.

Zuko snaps his head toward the sound, pulse hammering. Someone—someone’s still out there. Ice lances his veins.

Across the deck, a body lies crumpled.

"Wait! There's a—" Zuko gasps, only to be thrown hard against the ship’s rail by another lash of energy. Dazed but burning with resolve, he shakes himself off.

No one else seems to have seen it—the body.

Good. He doesn’t want anyone else to risk their stupid life.

Without hesitation, Zuko bolts forward, anger sharp in his chest. Fools! How could someone be so reckless near something so obviously wrong? His legs pump harder even as the swirling force tugs at him, but he carves his path wide around it, eyes locked on the fallen figure.

Iroh’s voice calls after him, but Zuko doesn’t slow.

(They are his people. It is his duty to protect them.)

The gravity holding the world taut suddenly vanishes. Zuko trips, falls hard to his knees, but ignores the sting of humiliation.

Someone’s life is at stake.

He scrambles forward—and then stops dead.

He crouches over the body, gut twisting.

"Prince Zuko!" Iroh rushes up behind him, but even he falters, seeing what Zuko sees.

The ship falls into absolute silence. Even the ocean holds its breath.

Zuko stares at the steaming, scorched clothes—and recognizes them. Fire Nation royal silks. The deep red and gold stitching he’s worn since childhood and hasn't had the luxury to wear for the past three years.

Beneath the charred fabric, he glimpses a family crest. And then—the man's face.

A scar. Jagged. Too familiar.

His scar.

"This... this is..." Zuko croaks, unable to move his hand to touch him.

This isn't one of his crew.

This is—

"Prince Zuko," Iroh says, voice low and urgent. His calloused hand clasps Zuko’s shoulder, steadying him. He kneels too, staring at the impossible.

Alarm bells scream in Zuko’s mind, but he can’t tear his gaze away.

The man's body twitches with aftershocks, burnt and battered—but unmistakably alive.

And he looks like Zuko.

(Older. Worn. Scarred deeper by more than fire.)

How? How is this possible?!

"Medic!" Zuko yells, voice cracking. "Get the medic!" He staggers to his feet, still staring at the older reflection of himself.

He watches, unable to move, as Iroh gently turns the man over, exposing more ruined robes, more bruises, more... familiarity.

The medic sprints to them, but Zuko barely registers him.

Because the fallen man’s eyes flutter open.

They’re gold, dulled with pain.

He looks around, confused—and then, with a hoarse whisper, locks onto his Uncle and says:

"...Uncle?"

Chapter 2: Don't Believe It

Summary:

Prince Zuko has a bit of trouble processing the existence of Future Zuko.

Iroh is a dad at work.

Notes:

Hey... so... Sorry I forgot to update... I was having trouble writing this second chapter because I felt like it wasn't good enough... and yeah...

Here, have this hot garbage.

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"Honor, is that you?"

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[. . .]

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Chapter 2

Don't Believe It

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[. . .]

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Whatever was happening, Prince Zuko couldn't tell if it was real or not.

This double of his—whatever it was—sounded precisely like him, perhaps a little deeper. He seemed to recognize his Uncle, and Zuko felt the need to haul Uncle by his stubborn behind back at a safe distance because there was no way he was risking whether this damn... thing was hostile or not. He didn't know if it was a relieving declaration or a threatening one uttered with a whispering murmur because this imposter or spirit or whatever sounded distraught, too.

It was tense, he could tell, and Zuko felt sick whenever he saw flashes of something travel around its body. Hurt, if the grimace on its features gave anything away. Sparks were prevalent, dwindling and causing rough exhales from the creature that looked... like him.

It's like staring in a distorted mirror.

This had to be a trick.

(But he looked so wounded.)

While his thoughts ran a mile a minute as to whether to regret calling for the medic or not, he couldn't move.

His shock was leaving him breathless, and he was absurdly confused beyond imagination.

How?

What the hell was it?

"Azula," The Zuko impersonator abruptly croaked, reaching for his Uncle who hesitantly grasped the hand seeking him out (his Uncle, always the kind, stupid one, going against his hissing cautions), "She's... She's in the palace. Get the—" Its breath hitched and it coughed, its face contorting into pain as the other hand seized its abdomen.

It looked too pale, almost sick. Dying.

Was it?

Prince Zuko watched, absolutely flabbergasted while his mind struggled to compartmentalize what it just said. Azula? What was he—it talking about? In the palace? Shouldn't she be? But how did it know his sister—

This is you.

His heart thudded dangerously when a voice emitted a broken promise. His crimson burbling in his veins became like a thousand cold needles picking under his skin.

There was no way. It... It couldn't be.

He has your scar.

The medic hesitantly walked past him and stared at him for orders, but Zuko didn't deliver. He just pointed at it, and Uncle took charge and motioned the medic over. Zuko had no words to say. There wasn't anything he could say.

What's going on?

Reluctantly and with overwhelming dread, Zuko scrutinized it as best as he could manage while in his state of delirium.

He—It looked older, more put together. The robes, while slightly charred, were made of the utmost high-quality silk. There was no mistaking the luster of the material. There was even... a crown on top of the... was it a spirit? Gah, he didn't know. The point overall was that this wasn't him. This... This just wasn't him! It couldn't be, because it wasn't possible he would ever wear that and ruin it, and there couldn't exist two of the same person because he was Prince Zuko, and this apparition was...

"Spirit work," He heard his Uncle murmur as the medic of the ship quickly approached the fallen... spirit? Could it really be?

"What is it?" Zuko snapped. His hands shook and he clenched them to keep them still. He wasn't a damn coward. He would get to the bottom of this even if it killed him.

(Looking at himself...

A bad omen?)

Crouching, the medic suspended his hands over the body, scrunching his eyebrows. "He's feverish," He informed, putting a hand over its forehead.

"What?" The imposter murmured, narrowing his eyes. "What is... Uncle, why is he here? Where's...?" He attempted to sit up but he cringed, falling back with a suppressed gasp. Zuko could almost feel it. The burn, nearly. "I can't... move..." Came the breathless confusion from it, sluggish. "I got shot with lightning." The voice was terrifyingly quiet.

Uncle widened his eyes. "What?" He breathed, fast and baffled.

Zuko straightened, thinking that his Uncle finally figured out what it was. He awaited to be addressed, but he was momentarily ignored as the imposter let out a hiss of discomfort when the medic boldly removed his arm over the abdomen. The revealing wound was livid with scorched skin. Unsightly, ghastly. The sight of it made his stomach roll with empathetic fear.

His scarred eye twitched.

"Fetch the aloe balm," Iroh said urgently, nodding sternly at the medic who reached into his bag to search for the correct item. His uncle returned his undivided attention to the spirit. "What happened, Prince Zuko?" There was a calculated look on his aged face.

For a second, Zuko was about to bark to his Uncle that he couldn't possibly know—he stopped. It wasn't him being called upon. It was the spirit.

Zuko waited with bated breath.

The crew stood a few feet away much the same.

The medic slowly took out the designated cream, one Zuko had used many times and foregoed altogether because he couldn't stand looking at the permanent mark of disgrace on his face. Looking at it from the angle he stood to the spirit that mimicked his appearance was a cruel perspective. It was... ironically, eye-opening.

He hated that he felt nauseous.

"Tried to stop Azula," The spirit let out a choked cry when the medic administered the medicine. The hand Uncle held was squeezed tight from pain.

Zuko felt... off. His weak side was fighting his rationale like always; a gut-scooping sympathy turned empathy faced off with the unwelcome promise of the Unknown, and that, if he was right, he was feeling the frailty of concern for the thing that could be there to bring damnation to the ship.

Even if this wasn't supposed to be him, or it was, or whatever—being hurt was not fun. He could empathize. His teeth were gnashing from apprehension or the reality that he understood the pain of an unjust burn, neither, or both, he didn't know.

"Kidnapped kids," The spirit persisted, grinding his teeth.

"What?" Zuko barked, incredulous. Kidnapping? Children?

Was he here to do that?

To... take him?

But he was a teenager. Not a kid.

He was safe, no?

Zuko was not going to be taken against his will.

As soon as he spoke, he felt a gelid sensation run down his spine when the spirit's eyes met his.

He expected thrashing. Maybe an accusation, or... laughter. Something, anything, but the dawning confusion swimming in its orbs.

"Uncle... Why is...?" The spirit squinted, lurching slightly as he squinted at Uncle, and Zuko didn't know whether to burn it or step back, "Uncle... why do you look so much younger...?"

The elder blinked back his surprise. "Whatever do you mean, Prince Zuko?"

The spirit flinched away from the medic's touch, clutching its throbbing abdomen with an inhale of fear. "What the fuck?" He looked at him, Zuko, with horror.

Zuko felt put in place.

There was nothing but exhaustion. Cruel, derealizing, shock.

(The eyes.

They were pure gold.

They were his own eyes.)

"...Is this... a dream...?"

Before Zuko could detect the incomparable emotion behind its golden iris it passed out.

The silence on the ship detonated into alarm.

Uncle stood abruptly. "Men," He commanded, and several of the coherent soldiers on his ship arranged in front of his Uncle at attention. Zuko had never seen such a grave expression on his family's face. "Help me take Zuko to my quarters," Iroh gestured to the legs of the unconscious spirit as he lowered to grab hold of its upper body.

Zuko??

He was Prince Zuko. Zu-ko.

This spirit was not him.

It couldn't be.

The soldiers followed his command, though only two bravely reached for the legs with slight hesitation.

"Prince Zuko."

Zuko looked at his Uncle, bewildered.

Iroh's mouth was a grim line. "Follow me."

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[. . .]

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Zuko clenched and unclenched his fist as he shouldered past the exiting Soldiers to take a peek at the spirit lying corpse-like still on his Uncle's bed.

"Sit, my child," Iroh pulled out a stool directly beside the bed and Zuko reluctantly followed, resisting the urge to high-tail and run or nip at his Uncle's dumb oration. He lifted his chin with resolve as he settled down, dismissing the cowardness at seeing a face just like his. Seeing it more after the shocks of confusion decreased made him notice the deep eyebags and the sunken cheeks that lacked fat. The jaw was chiseled and there were more scars, printed silver on sickly porcelain.

Was it dying?

Zuko wouldn't know what he'd do if he saw something that looked like him die.

"Quickly," Iroh snapped him at attention with his gentle but pressing voice, concentrating on something directly over the throbbing wound. Zuko allowed his Uncle to pull out his shaking hands and lower them over the rising and falling chest of the being he couldn't possibly name his title. "I need you to produce a small flame, Prince Zuko."

Zuko listened. "Why?" He croaked, unable to remove his curdling gaze from the creature. What if it sprung from that state and attacked him? He had heard stories from his mother when he misbehaved; of the doppelgangers that came and went, tricking the children and eating them alive. 'A bad act brings them out,' She'd tell him with a painless pull at his ear. It became awful when Azula overheard them. She had gotten the bright idea of telling him she'd meet one and he'd die a slow and painful death.

He wondered if this was what she was warning him about.

(He missed his mom.

Would she know what to do?)

He shook his head and exhaled roughly as the flame in his palm flickered.

"Good," Iroh stated and turned, "You are dismissed."

The soldiers still in the room bowed and out Zuko heard their metal footsteps go. He hadn't even noticed they were still there.

Now it was just him, the spirit, and his Uncle.

"Why am I doing this?" Zuko asked again, waiting for the improbable being to kill them. Not knowing what would happen if he didn't or just what his look-alike would do if it woke up was causing tremendous anxiety that was being keenly hidden beneath waves of developing anger.

"I need to draw on your Chi and pass it on," His Uncle said as he hovered his hand over the flame, cupping it. His other hand clenched and he stuck out his index and middle finger, touching the head of the slumbering spirit. A small glow that looked like fire emerged, and for a second, Zuko wondered if he was going to burn him.

Zuko watched on, confused. "How will that help?" He demanded, anxious to let go and leave. He wanted nothing to do with this. It was impossible. Unheard of. How his Uncle was of level mind was beyond him; he was touching the skin like it was just any other normal human. Was he being brave or stupid?

And how did his Uncle know what to do? How did he know how to pass on Chi? Was this part of his studies he missed in these long, draining years of being banished??

Zuko just didn't know.

"His Chi is weak and I must give him yours," His Uncle confessed, closing his eyes. Zuko switched his sights from his Uncle to the spirit with rapt attention.

Silence became of the room, and the 16-year-old was finding it difficult to concentrate when it descended into a hush so quiet there was a ringing in his ears.

His bad eye, though somewhat blurred, began to notice the remarkable return of peach to the pale skin when the flame decreased. He had to put more juice in it.

(Was it human, instead?

Was he judging it too harshly?)

As one minute became two and two became three, Zuko inhaled and exhaled in rhythmic syllables, copying his Uncle's breathing movements. At some point, likely ten to fifteen minutes in, Zuko faltered and the flame flickered, but his Uncle didn't say anything. He corrected himself by force, quickly returning to the sync that was keeping the spirit alive.

Thirty minutes passed eventually.

"How long are we going to do this?" He hissed. At the rate this was going, his Chi was going to be drained dry.

"Another thirty minutes, Prince Zuko," Iroh returned. Sweat formed on his brow and Zuko was scared. So much for this imposter of his.

Zuko bit the inside of his cheek.

He was growing tired.

Irritated, even. The prior fear was replacing itself with fatigue, which in turn made him vexed because he was pretty sure his energy was being input into something that might kill them when it woke or recovered.

The only thing stopping him from acting out was his Uncle and...

And the unparalleled empathy he felt gazing at the ghastly scar copying his own.

Zuko hated it.

At last, a minute over in the count he had going on for an hour, Iroh removed himself slowly from both of them. "It is done," He said softly, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand.

Zuko pulled away immediately and dropped his arms to his lap, shocked at how tired they were. It felt foreign, weak. Like blood-loss.

"What now?" Zuko demanded, scowling with nervousness. He hated this sensation. He hated not knowing. Would he need to do that again?

Why was this happening?

Why did a mirror of himself, but older, but different, but something, exist?

Is this a divine sign of Agni? He thought to himself with no sense of sanity. Does the Avatar have anything to do with this?

Would he, indeed?

Zuko bit his lip in dawning, twisted, hope.

His Uncle sighed. "We wait," He murmured.

Zuko raised himself and left the room.

If waiting was all they could do, he'd damn well wait where he pleased.

Still, when he stepped out of the room, Zuko leaned against the wall by the door with a deep suspiration.

Fat chance he'd leave his Uncle with whatever that thing was.

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Hours later, Zuko rose from his accidental doze by his Uncle's door. There were the hurried sounds of footsteps leaving the elongated noise of the metal door opening, and the 16-year-old boy startled awake, snorting with alarm when he tidied himself and saw his Uncle quickly making his way to the deck.

Zuko, disturbed by his Uncle's haste that he was sure didn't exist before because he was a fat, lazy old coot, made it his abrupt mission to go after him and see what it was that caused the man to finally get off his slothful bum but he arrested in place upon hearing a groan from within the room.

His heart stopped.

That's right, He remembered, grabbing the handle and throwing the door open as he stalked his way inside with his fists at the ready, The imposter of me—

Zuko froze.

The spirit froze.

In par, it mimicked his expression with a pained fault.

Looking at it felt like a curse.

"...He wasn't lying," The spirit rasped, disbelieving. A profound ache laced its tone.

Zuko couldn't speak.

His blood felt like the freezing tundras of the unapproachable North and his skin must've been as vacant as the chilling South they rode in.

Whatever it may have been, Zuko was staring down at the sickly, mocking apparition of his.

He was not dead yet.

Zuko felt the oncoming question stick to the roof of his mouth. Desperate to be said, terrorized to be moved.

Instead, the spirit spoke for him again.

"I think—" The good eye squinted and the bad eye shut firmly, lips drawn back with a dry and hoarse timber drawn from within, "I think I'm going to pass out again."

And Zuko, for the life of him, watched it do just that.

Notes:

How Zuko thinks Future!FireLord Zuko is going to talk to him:

Chapter 3: A Good Kid

Summary:

Prince Zuko is told kind things.

It is cruel.

Notes:

is this... is this real? Have I finally, finally updated this story after so long...?

Oh my god, yeah, hi guys. To whoever may be here, still, LOL. Thank you for waiting and for reading. I am TERRIBLY sorry this took FOREVER. Honestly I had a major writer's block for this one. But! It's back! Maybe. I'm rewatching Avatar so that I remember what the hell I'm about to be putting more angst into next. Zuko is my child, y'all. So that's why he's probably going to go through several existential crises. Sorry about the constant delirium and short chapters, it's a plot point but also a way for me to get my groove back!

TW: Illness, Injury, Burn Injury, Violence, Brief Mentioning of Kidnapped Children, etc.

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"Estás... adentro de mi, te estoy esperando."

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[. . .]

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Chapter 3

A Good Kid

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[. . .]

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Azula's crazed expression seared through his mind. "This is how it ends, brother!" She snarled with delight, slithering her arms in the air in a dance he knew all too well.

On top of the palace and under the lenient glare of the moon, his sister motioned for the heavens to condemn his soul in more ways than one. Light of another kind traversed through her under the command of her fingertips. They bled, nails cracked and broken, dripping onto the roofing that sucked the drench of sanguine through.

Zuko braced himself, choking in his despair as the air around him began to prick at his skin. He was below her, looking up.

His lungs labored.

His chest ached.

His arms shook, lifting to catch whatever she was aiming at him.

His golden eyes ignited with desperation. "Don't," He wished, locking eyes.

Her pulsating blue didn't relent.

She stilled, shot out her arm, and poured her unhealed anathema onto him.

He couldn't catch it.

He couldn't—

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[. . .]

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"Azula!"

Zuko sat up, gasping for breath with tears in his eyes.

He collapsed a second later with a cut-off whine stuck in the back of his throat, convulsing as a throbbing pain ruptured his abdomen. He drank a lungful of air, gripping the sheets as the sharp pain processed via his spinal nerves from the root of his stomach to the tip of his toes. His head throbbed, and he felt the need to thrash around, but didn't. Instead, he sent a desperate prayer to Agni, beseeching the God to give him clarity in this agony.

As all twisted dialects towards their Sun God, it was granted.

After the misery of his pruning skin settled to a persistent throb three minutes later, he tried to focus.

Sweating in unhealthy rivulets, he exhaled, forcing himself to unclench the muscles of his stomach that were making the burning ache worse.

It did little help, but Zuko knew this sensation all too well. Now that he was allowed a minute of decreasing reprieve, there was no mistaking the sting. This was a burn. Somehow, in some place, he had gotten burned. Again.

Mistaking the red for his room, he ignored the scent of corroding metal and sea salt, shifting his legs. He placed them on the ground as he grunted, hissing sharply when he made to sit up again. His abdomen rolled, appalled by the relentless ache making a return, but Zuko stood. He stood and then leaned against the wall, clenching and unclenching his free hand that itched to hold the wound.

He didn't touch it lest he make it worse.

In a heated haze, he looked past his damp locks draped over his face for the door.

What caught his eye instead was the salve he had asked his mother to bring a few days ago. He remembered it somewhat; he had been perfecting his kickfire technique when his suspended stress on his mother's situation caused him to lose focus and burn himself. At least, that's what he remembered. For the life of him, he couldn't understand why it was his abdomen that throbbed now instead.

She'd been getting better at adapting to the castle again and figuring out where things go. His mother, he meant. With Ikem, she appeared happier. Free. The situation with Kiyi wasn't getting any better, but it wasn't getting any worse, so that was the best he could ask for at the moment.

The swift image of Kiyi burning down the door that the children were held prisoner in flashed in his mind.

His heart dropped.

Kiyi.

He forgot!

An anxious chatter commenced in his clenched jaw.

Now he's very confused. His eyes tried adjusting, squinting through his fevered haze, trying to understand where he was. He wasn't in chains nor being interrogated for torture, so he deduced that Azula hadn't managed to capture him. But then, who would? This wasn't a prison. Honestly, Zuko couldn't tell—and he hardly cared. The pain in his abdomen was far too consuming.

With a new goal in mind and a wayward, distorted prayer that he was able to stop Azula before she took the children with her, he reached for the salve as fast as he could. There was no use being careful. The injury screeched like metal on a chalkboard when he bent the skin, forcing Zuko to hasten his attempt and quickly swipe the item off the too-tiny nightstand.

He lay himself back onto the cot inch by inch, gasping and cursing when he made a wrong turn too many.

Once on his back, he sat for a few seconds to process and then uncovered the salve.

He got to work.

With passive speed and a cautious hesitancy, he coated his two digits and rubbed them onto the vicious red on his stomach.

It hurt.

A lot.

But he went through it, biting his lip and craning his neck.

The more he applied, the better he felt, so his pain became a dull vibration by the time he had lathered the medicine.

He breathed out.

It was done.

Dropping his arms to his side with the salve hanging on by a thread, he attempted to relax. The torn muscles of his abdomen still rippled at the minimal movement of his chest rising at each breath he took, but it became a muted, tolerable throb. The sensation was so much better that Zuko nearly had the edge to cry. But he didn't. His eyes couldn't form tears.

They were too occupied looking up in confusion at the metal lodgings, making the room stuffy.

With a resolved heart, his vision honed in with confoundment. He inched his head both ways, narrowing his eyes on the large Fire Nation Insignia to his right, and the vacant assortment of furniture contrasting the expansive piles of scrolls on his left, by the door. The door, he realized, that looked far too similar to the same one he used to open and close for three years straight.

What?

This... this looked like The Wani.

Was he dreaming?

It wouldn't be the first time. It was a common misconception that one didn't feel pain during dreams, but for Zuko, it was different. He felt pain often in them, recently, even. His nightmares hadn't waned in the slightest, not since he decided to turn sides and save the world.

Zuko carefully lifted the salve to eye level. The metal glint wasn't changing. The distortion wasn't fuzzy at all. It was vivid. Clear.

His hand tightened.

It can't be a dream, he argued. Everything looked far too real to be one. By now, he would've woken up.

But.

He felt this was a dream. He knew it was.

And nothing looked wrong.

Usually, his father accompanied his fitful visions of slumber. Recently, it had been Azula.

So then?

Zuko's hand shook.

This couldn't be. He was in the Wani.

This had to be a dream.

"You... You're awake."

The gruff stutter caused Zuko's heart to drop and his breathing to quicken. He snapped his head toward the voice coming from his left, transfixed instantly on the cold breeze hitting his face and the picturesque of his younger self staring at him like he was some sort of monster waiting to attack. He dropped the salve in alarm and watched in dissociative shock as the spirit wearing his young face scrunched his nose in distaste at the clatter of sound. The same image, one he used to loathe in the mirror, trembled his senses beyond coherence.

He hadn't heard him.

How was this possible?

"I'm dreaming," He mumbled. Because that had to be it. There was no other way.

His younger self didn't say anything in response. A typical one, and Zuko reached to rub his face.

So. This was a dream, then.

"Wani, again," He mumbled, shaking his head. "Makes sense."

Prince Zuko eyed him warily.

Zuko looked away, off to the walls. Still vivid, and it was startlingly terrifying that it was. But he understood that this was a dream now. Any moment, the scene would change to a worse time in his life that he would dread to wake up to in the morning. Except, he couldn't, for the life of him, figure out why this exact room was playing again. He hadn't seen this in years. He would have expected his mother's old village, or the rotting cell of his father—anything else, besides this.

He hadn't processed the trauma yet, according to Katara. She hadn't either. The Hundred-Year War had taken most of their childhood, after all.

It was frustrating. Zuko didn't have time to deal with this. His Nation needed him. And he—

Zuko had been losing his mind. He still was.

Uncle had been giving him that look, nowadays. You know the one? Where Uncle thought he was overworking himself, and kept saying, "No, Prince Zuko," because he would be a little baby prince to him forever, a fond nickname that Zuko dreaded would never be heard again after so long? "You need to rest," and his Uncle knew he needed it, so he led him by the hand to tuck him into bed when he couldn't? Even if Zuko felt mortified that his staff talked about it, but loved all the same because Uncle had been the father he had always wanted and had?

Zuko breathed out carefully.

His Uncle. He missed his Uncle. Where was he, again?

"You have an infection."

The voice of his younger self broke the suffocating silence.

Zuko didn't look over at the warily approaching steps of his memory. "Probably," He mumbled, dizzy. This dream was getting more and more confusing. How was it that he felt the effects of a fever build-up in here? Oh, Agni. It was going to be worse when he returned to the land of the living, wouldn't it?

"Did you—you put the salve on yourself?"

"Pain was unbearable," Zuko managed out through gritted teeth. He felt nauseous, and extremely thirsty. There was a rumbling hole where his stomach should be.

This dream sucked.

"...Makes sense..."

Zuko finally chanced a look at his younger self.

He was peering down at him, looking angry, fearful, and defiant all the same. It ached deep inside his ribcage, that look. He'd felt and worn it all too often in his entire life. It was as though his younger self gazed down at him from above, seeing not the peace they had longed for, but only a foe standing in its place. Zuko wasn't sure whether he was sad that his younger self would be stuck this way forever in his head, or that he felt judged that his younger self saw that he got what he always wanted, just for it to go bad, like everything always did in his life.

Zuko hated himself. He always had, and an insecure part of him always will.

But looking at himself now—at the angry boy he'd been—all he felt was a curdling loneliness.

He had always been alone in this anger, he felt. Not alone in general, because he had Uncle. Uncle had always been there.

But.

When a boy who longed for home felt constantly constrained against it, it was hard to find mutual understanding in others who made it look so easy.

Zuko never truly had proper friends. Not until he threw away his pride and surrendered to the pain of realizing that he had been hurting himself in the image of his father's conditional love. Not until he reached for Aang's offered hand, not with malice, but with hope. Until he finally nurtured the piece of himself he'd wanted to kill for so long.

Gold on gold, and Zuko saw it for what it was.

"You're... a good kid," He mumbled, hazy.

He saw his younger self stiffen.

Zuko blinked once, twice, lethargic. "You... won't be," He took a rattling breath, closing his eyes, tired. He was so, so tired. "...won't be angry, forever."

"What?" The voice of his younger self whispered. It sounded almost... broken.

Zuko wished he could change that.

Zuko wished he loved himself.

"Aang, Katara, Sokka," He prattled on, not making sense. But Zuko thought it made sense. He had to tell his younger self, at least. He needed to know, even if it was just a memory. "Toph. Suki. Friends," He slurred. Colorful circles coiled in lurches behind the darkness of his eyelids. It made him impossibly woozy, but he swallowed down the bile threatening to come up. It tasted bitter, like his mother's kindness.

There was no response.

Zuko didn't mind. Maybe his dream would change to something softer. Zuko didn't want himself to suffer anymore.

He was just.

So tired.

"Good kid," He managed one final time.

Darkness found him again.

---

[. . .]

---

16-year-old Prince Zuko gazed down at the passed-out spirit of himself he was slowly coming to acknowledge wasn't a spirit at all.

In his hands, he fiddled with the dropped salve his older self once possessed, his mind reeling with the words that had been uttered past chapped, delirious lips. The words replayed over and over, piercing the meat of his brain that was trying to banish them away and believe them to be nothing as he watched the rise and fall of his chest.

Friends.

That was what the spirit—himself—said. Before name-dropping four, no five, individuals: Aang, Katara, Sokka, Toph, and Suki.

Five people.

Five allies.

Prince Zuko didn't know what to think. Not of the revelation that he wouldn't be as alone as he wanted, nor of the lacking confirmation that he would one day rise as Fire Lord and be acknowledged with his father's love that he had been hoping to hear when he'd walked in here to check up on the spirit after a week of silence. Instead, his mind kept replaying words that couldn't possibly be true: You're a good kid.

Prince Zuko swallowed.

He wasn't stupid. His first thought was to scoff, before he withheld it and considered. Properly, what he was being told.

This... wasn't a spirit like his Uncle believed. Why would a great spirit get sick? Why would a great spirit even talk to someone like himself?

And not only that, but the spirit ate, relieved itself, slept, just as any other human would. His existence was extremely auspicious, yes, but Zuko knew good and well when it was a human he was talking to. There wasn't that aura of justice he had always imagined. Just that riddled exhaustion that he hadn't known he would dread, because looking at himself in an older body struggling to live was just... sad.

That being said, Prince Zuko didn't know what to feel. About acknowledging that he was actually staring at the future, a future that told him the exact words he had always wanted to hear since before he had a sense of self.

A good kid.

That's what his older self said.

It was stupid. It made no sense.

Prince Zuko wasn't good.

He was bad, as childish as that was to think.

His father thought so. His sister did too. And his mom...

Prince Zuko didn't like thinking about her too much. But the wretched, caustic part of him knew that she'd left because of him. Maybe not because she didn't like him, exactly, but why else would she disappear, if not for the reason that she got tired of him? Why leave her son behind, if not for the reason that she'd found he had been nothing but a nuisance, after all?

It hurts. The thought hurts. Anything and everything about his mother hurts.

But she had told him he was good before.

That he was a good child. Kind and sincere and determined.

Prince Zuko stopped believing that long before she'd left. He didn't matter. Not to his father. So he continued to prove himself, again and again, desperately, just as he was doing now.

He finally had the Avatar. Not in his clutches just yet, but it was invigorating to say suck it to everyone who had ever doubted him. He'd found the avatar, and he was going to go home. He was going home.

And then... this happened. The spirit, or not a spirit, anymore. Not to Zuko.

Now, Prince Zuko was thinking, wondering, asking himself if this was a sign. If what his older self said was an acknowledgement that this was the path he was always meant to take. That he had to suffer to get what he wanted. That... that maybe, if he accomplished this, he would be a good kid.

But.

Prince Zuko wasn't stupid.

His older self didn't need to say that. He didn't need to say anything. He probably didn't even know what the hell he was saying.

He was sick. And according to the medic, very close to death.

Prince Zuko's eyes drooped, and his shoulders sagged with the weight of others he wished he didn't feel.

Whoever this older self was—man, spirit, shadow—he would not last. The infection was spreading, and whenever he surfaced from fevered sleep, it was only to ramble about the palace or Uncle. Uncle had scarcely left the room, tending to him day after day, while Zuko was left to channel what chi he could to ease the pain. But it was never enough. Each morning, the man looked worse. Pale, hollow, withering away from the lack of sun, the lack of strength, the lack of time.

"It's only a matter of time," the medic said.

Prince Zuko didn't know how to feel. Every sentiment felt pathetic to him. Why care about something improbable? Why care about something that wasn't meant to happen in the first place?

Why care at all, for his own face?

His older self felt like the universe was mocking him all over again.

Because.

He breathed in, setting the salve back on the nightstand. He briefly turned away, back to the door, to his crew.

Because.

His older self had been kind for saying that. He had been nothing but kind this whole time. It didn't seem fathomable for the likes of him. Not for someone like him.

It was cruel.

His older self was cruel for saying that to him. For, for acting this way.

Because.

Prince Zuko opened the door. He walked out.

The night was still unbearably cold.

Because.

It seemed he was still that stupid little boy, after all this time.

And Prince Zuko knew that this couldn't be real. It couldn't be. To be the Fire Lord meant to be like his father.

But...

Zuko, himself, his older self, wasn't like his father at all.

Not at all.

Notes:

Let me know if Zuko is OOC over here. I'm trying to incorporate some realism, and older Zuko seems like just a tired dude to me. I mean, he was, in the comic. Also very sleep-deprived and maybe losing his fucking marbles, since, ya know. The whole comic thing.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed!

--

Fire Lord Zuko: you're a good kid buddy

Prince Zuko: The fuck

--

Medic: I'm afraid this spirit is going to die

Uncle Iroh's sneaky ass: see, about that

--

Prince Zuko, after being told he's a going to have friends: bro is delusional

End of Series Prince Zuko: wait a minute

--

Fire Lord Zuko looking at his younger self: you know what. I'll take care of you, fuck it everybody is dying

Prince Zuko, confused as shit: I just wanted a fucking sandwich?