Cabin Boy Zuko

by Kaiyses

Summary:

Three days following Former Crown Prince Zuko’s banishment, a wooden ship named The Akhlut stumbles upon an unconscious body of a thirteen-year-old Fire Native.

Notes:

• Inspired by Cabin Boy Zuko (PLOTLINE) by Zenzen_Hana
• Inspired by Salvage by MuffinLance

A Plotline I (approvingly) adopted from Zenzen_Hana! With minor changes.

Some characters and ideas from MuffinLances fic, Salvage (Linked above!)

Chapter 1: Prologue

Notes:

Traditionally, circumpolar Inuit tribes (the culture that the Southern and Northern Water Tribes are based off of) would use boats called qayaq’s or umiak’s. Qayaqs are narrow, one-person vessels made of a wooden or bone frame covered with seal or walrus skin, designed for speed and stealth in hunting. Umiaks, larger and open, were used for transporting families and cargo, often paddled by several people and also made with skin-covered frames. That would not fit well with the Plotline of this story, so we’re going to say they likely were provided one from the Earth Kingdom (likely a Chinese treasure ship design seen in the Ming Dynasty—based on the timeline of ALTA.) The Earth Kingdom’s ships are large, sturdy wooden vessels modeled after traditional Chinese junks and treasure ships. Built for stability and endurance, they feature wide hulls, multiple decks, and square sails mounted on several masts. These ships are often used for trade, military transport, and diplomatic missions across long distances. Their design emphasizes practicality and strength, with reinforced hulls and ample storage for cargo, supplies, or soldiers. Elegant green and gold detailing often marks them as Earth Kingdom property, reflecting the kingdom’s wealth and cultural pride, within this tale there will either be interwoven details of the Water Tribes own colours and important figures on the ships hull alongside the Earth Kingdoms, or it will look less detailed/more plain in relation to the fact that (I think, correct me if I’m remembering incorrectly) the Fire Nation eventually did take control of the Earth Kingdom.

If you would like to search up pictures for any of these vessels to help you visualize (I know I need them sometimes lol) you can use these to help:

Ming dynasty treasure ship

Ancient Chinese naval ships

Chinese junk ship historical

And if you’re curious about the traditional tribes boats I mentioned:

Traditional Inuit umiak boat

Traditional Inuit qayak boat

Inuit qayak hunting boat

 

And, of course, if I got anything wrong in my research or I am saying anything offensive or anything of the like please correct me, I would much prefer to edit things a thousand times than be disrespectful or bigoted.

Also, considering all of this, there will be Earth Kingdom men featured as part of the crew within this story. It’s not exactly a huge part at this moment, but for the sake of realistic storytelling(?) they will be present. I’m bringing this up because I will be mixing the cultures between the two, such as items used and foods eaten in certain scenes. (This is mainly because I believe it’d be quite difficult to teach the Tribesmen how to work such a large, complicated vessel in such a short amount of time as it would’ve been when they first gifted it to them. I like to think it was gifted in a rush before the Earth Kingdom was taken under control by the Fire Nation, and the fact they were in a rush to get onto the waters to join the fray. Over time, and the progression of this story they will of course get better at running the boat as they learn and get better at it, but I wanted to add this little detail because… well, I wanted to.) I doubt I have many history buffs reading this little fanfic, but it makes me happy to add these details and I hope someone else will get a kick out of it too.

“Suffering shall be your teacher…”

Those few words, uttered to him before his a burning pain wrapped itself around the left side of his face, charring his pale skin, had traumatized him, the phrase repeating in his head as he shifted on his bed in discomfort. The bandages wrapping around his head, covering his left eye itched, rubbing against his unblemished skin achingly, though he repressed his urge to scratch at it, more terrified of the thought of infection than his own discomfort.

An arm wrapped quickly around his head, pulling him up and shoving a foul smelling cloth against his mouth and nose, restricting his breathing as he thrashed, legs tangling in the thick covers. His sense dulled by sleep and pain, body weak from weeks of bed rest aided him in no way as the intruder continued to hold him harshly around the chest, further restricting his breathing as the corresponding hand clutched around his small arm, squeezing much too tight.

Suddenly he was off the bed, the cloth falling away from his face and on to the ground as the intruder grasped him by the arms and lifted him, throwing him over their shoulder and quickly making their way from the infirmary room. Zuko, partially drugged, blinked blearily as he watched behind them, his hair barely falling over his forehead, the thin wisps tickling his brow line. It had been charred, catching fire the moment his fathers hand had lit, only being put out when his father had pulled away, but by then it was already too late, half his head being red, skin raw from where the flames had licked away the long black hair down to his scalp, the rest a tangled mess of sweat. It was ugly, in all sense of the word. He had begged his uncle to cut it, to fix what had been done, to relieve him of the burden. His uncle had refused at first, shaking his head as he explained and reexplained the importance of his hair, all things Zuko already knew. But he didn’t care, it was a painful reminder, the reflection that looked back at him from the water in his cups, foggy with crushed pills, handed to him by one of the doctors, in the view of the window, his pale, horrid reflection taunting him as it watched back from the closed window. He had cried, cried and cried until his uncle had finally relented, finally lowered his head in recognition and told Zuko to shut his eyes and turn away from him, already reaching for the small set of scissors the doctor previously had set on the little metal table beside his bed, still flecked with dried blood from where he had used them to cut a bloodied thread used to sew up a gash.

The intruder, now his captor, rounded a corner sharply, feet slipping on the freshly cleaned floors and knocking their shoulder into the wall, consequently slamming Zuko’s head into the corner of the doorway, stars exploding in his vision. He barely cried out, arms handing limply down the intruders back, no longer having any fight left.

He wanted his uncle, he wanted to go back to bed, he wanted his mother. Why was this happening? And why was no one coming to get him?

 

---

 

Chief Hakoda stood at the edge of his ship, The Akhlut, watching the horizon serenely as he relaxed into the soft breeze that brushed through his hair. His heart, light with relief of their won victory the evening prior, allowing him and his crew a little time of respite, relaxing their muscles and leaning against the railings, quietly drifting in and out of sleep or chatting, soft smiles adorning their faces as a rogue skeleton crew managed the most basic of tasks on the ship, keeping them on course as best they could.

Hakoda, now walking along the left side of his ship, letting his hand run over the rough wood of the railing, watched his pet isopuppy, Skuttles, skitter along the side, bypassing portholes and barking shrilly as he came upon any barnacles, happily scraping them from the hull and chowing down before continuing his happy reexploring of the side of the ship. He had made to smile, gentle laugh at his pets antics falling short as his eyes caught on something strange adrift in the water below. He leaned forward, squinting slightly against the spray as he tried to make out what it was. A boy, pale skinned and small, was floating through the waves, bobbing up and down with the pull of the currents. A small plume of red water surrounded him, a bandage seemingly belonging to somewhere on the boys head nearly completely strung out as it floated in one long, dark red line in the water.

He stepped back, looking around before he grabbed at a spare rope lying beside the mast pole, securely tying it around the railing before tugging on it to assure its security, twirling it around his wrist and vaulting himself over the side, landing with a splash in the chilly water and clawing his way to the surface, looking around briefly before he caught sight of the boy again. He threw himself against the waves, expertly making his way over to him before he wrapped and arm around the boys waist, shouting up to the crew that had gathered around the tied rope, staring down wide eyed at their captain, to pull them back up.

Once back up on the deck, he released the boy and allowed him to fall to the wooden floor, a mixture of blood and sea water immediately soaking it around the boys crumpled body. Hakoda took a minute to unravel the rope from around his wrist, a puckered red line wrapped up around where the rope had rubbed against his tanned skin. He brushed it off, moving over to the boy and crouching down, eyes running over the dull reds of his drenched clothing. The dark tousled hair, shaved down to a mere stubble on one side of the boys head nearly reminded him of his son, Sokka, the boys soft, round, boyish face, still half obscured by the bloodied bandages, reminding him that of his son when he was slightly younger, back when he’d still had Kya.

His hand brushed over the boys cheek, his skin frigid and clammy to the touch. He pursed his lips, shaking his head before he leaned over the boy, laying one hand over the other as he pressed down on the boys chest, starting compressions. It took a minute, the shallow, stuttered breaths only visible from the wheezing and barely there rise of his chest were the only things keeping Hakoda from stopping and calling the boy dead. Finally the boys eyes flung open, Hakoda quickly grabbing the boys shoulder and rolling him onto his side, facing his knees, as the boy began coughing, dispelling the copious amounts of water from his lungs. Hakoda paused, eyes widening as he caught sight of the molten gold of the boys gaze, one visible eye squinted in pain as he hunched and hacked, the sparkling gem of those that had ravaged the world he knew, bringing pain and distraction wherever they laid sight on. “Fire Nation,” he breathed.

Notes:

Tysm for reading, comments and kudos always appreciated!<3

Chapter 2: 1

Notes:

Hiii! Sorry for the wait on this chapter, finals week has been kicking me in the ass and I just didn’t have time to do any writing for a while. But I’m back now and I offer you a 4k+ chapter as an apology!!<3

The boy, had immediately fallen unconscious once he could get a full breath in, ragged and stuttering though it was. The Chief was silent, staring at the boy, fists clenched tightly at his side. The boy was young, that much was clear, cheeks still rounded with baby fat yet to fall away with age, limbs willowy and body thin, a clearly missing tooth in the boys mouth as it hung partially open, a lost baby tooth, a little white nub peaking its way through pink gums. Hakoda would guess 10, maybe, gauging from his slight size and even slighter voice. Right, his voice, the boy had done his best to sit up, still struggling for breath as he coughed, pale lips flickering as he tried to form words in between his hacking. He'd not done much more than senseless babbling, but the shrill, high pitched voice of a child made Hakoda flinch.

He sighed. "Toklo," he called, not taking his eyes from the shivering ball at his feet. Toklo bounded forward, standing at attention at his chief and captains side. "Take him below decks to Kustaa, he needs seen to before he catches something and infects our ship."

Toklo nodded stiffly, inching forward and stooping down to scoop the boy up, one arm snaking beneath the boys knees and the other supporting his neck. He was light, lighter than he should be at his seeming age, though, despite being the youngest of the crew, Toklo was capable enough, so it wasn't unlikely he was just underestimating his own strengths. The boy seemed to unconsciously curl into the hold, chasing the sudden warmth of the body now holding him. Toklo barely humored it, allowing the boy to tuck his head against his shoulder, his wet clothes soaking into his own and bringing a new cold chill to Toklo himself, though he didn't bother holding the boy any closer, as he normally would a cold child back home, tucking them ever closer to keep them warm. No, not for a Fire Nation monster-spawn, no matter how young he was.

---

He came to in the dark, his eyes trying to flick every which way, chasing any hope of light he could find. His fingers curled into something soft, nails scraping uncomfortably against what felt to be something similar to the material used to make potato sacks. He curled his fingers until they stopped moving, nails biting into his cold palm hard enough to draw blood, the little pinpricks beading under and around his nails before they began running down his arm.

"Ah, he lives." A voice sounded, distant and foggy, but growing closer if the footsteps that accompanied it was any tell. A hand wrapped around his wrist gently, he flinched, but the hold didn't loosen any. "Hush, I am no threat to you as of right now." The voice said, close enough that even the cotton balls stuffed in his ears couldn't muffle it. He let out a low whine, fingers curling and uncurling as he tried to adjust his position on the bed, a new feeling of his face rubbing against the pillow slowly bringing the rest of his senses back to his awareness.

 

 

Kustaa held two fingers against the dip in the boys wrist, searching out his pulse for a moment before gently letting his arm fall back down to the bed. The kid was squirming, but his eyes remained closed, screwed shut in pain, a shiny sheen of sweat dampening his forehead. Normally he'd take a wet rag, dipped in a bucket of clean, cool water that he kept stationed beside the two hammocks that were used for his patients. However, this boy was a Fire Nation child, born of the very people who had pillaged and murdered anything and anyone that stood in their way, bringing destruction, and pain, and terror. Maybe this boy, this child had never brought pain, or suffrage, or terror to anyone but his toys, whom he'd use as mimics of war, though the blood that ran through his veins, bright red and burning with the spirits of those his ancestors had murdered, that never found their way to Tui and La, that never found peace. No, he would not dab this boys forehead, clean his skin of the sweat that made it slick and shiny, provide a little bit of relief of the cool rag to his heated skin.

The door opened, two sets of footsteps broke him out of his thoughts, drawing his eyes to the intruders. Panuk and Toklo stumbled in, Toklo having his fingers grasped in the loose fabric of Panuk's shirt, as if he had been trying to pull the boy back. Kustaa, mad though he was, decided to humor them, sighing. "What is it?" He said, voice riddled with irritation.

Both boys stopped in their tracks, staring wide eyed at the healer, sheepish expressions mirrored on their faces. "Kustaa!" Toklo started. Panuk threw his arm back into Toklo's chest, drawing an oomph from him as it collided with his stomach. Kustaa raised an eyebrow, looking between the two boys with an unamused expression. "We just... we just wanted to check on the little sloth-bear cub. Make sure he was alright." Panuk said, grinning nervously as he straightened out his posture, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Is that right?"

Panuk nodded sheepishly, eyes flickering over to Toklo who had straightened up as well and was now leaned up against the doorframe. "I made the mistake of telling him the kid was pretty light when I picked him up." Toklo said, shrugging. 

"He's like, what, 10? He shouldn't be that easy to pick up Toklo! Especially for someone as small as you." Toklo shouted something intelligible, Kustaa choosing to ignore it and channel the screaming match out as he turned back towards the young fire native still curled up and feverish in the hammock. The boy wasn't shivering anymore, which could've been a good sign, could've been a bad one, it's hard to tell at the moment. 

"Hush, you'll wake the whole damn ship at this rate," Kustaa said, snapping his fingers behind his head at the two boys, "besides, he's not awake yet, you'll have to wait to meet him." Kustaa couldn't see Panuk from where he had his back to him, but he could almost feel the young mans deflated expression as he sighed and trudged from the room, Toklo throwing a quick apology over his own shoulder for the yelling before following his friend out.

Kustaa sighed, giving the boy one last glance before he retreated over to the little desk nestled in the corner of the room, a mortar and pestle still laid out, a bundle of dried Winter Green, tied with a string, sat beside it. He sat down, easing himself into the chair with a huff as he gathered up the herb bundle, snapping the tips of a few sprigs before dropping them into the dark stone bowl, quickly getting to work on grinding it into a powder with the pestle.

---

Hakoda rapped his knuckles on the door softly, calling out to Kustaa before he opened the door to the infirmary and walking in. The healer was sat at his desk, hunched over a small book, worn pages crusted and yellow from life on the sea, held delicately between his fingers. "Evening, Kustaa," Hakoda smiled to the man.

Kustaa grunted, taking a moment to finish the page he was on before he flipped it, grabbing at a small piece of worn leather scrap and placing it between the pages, closing the book to hold his place. He glanced up at Hakoda, offering him a respectful smile in return, though it dropped as soon as his head came back up from its little nod. "Chief," he said, voice rough, "did you need something or just come to check up on the little badger-viper like all the other little weasel-otters on this ship?" It was mildly humorous, his tone light—or as light as Kustaa could get when truly joking— but there was an undertone of annoyance and exhaustion that Hakoda took note of.

His smile softened. "Well, I won't lie to you, I did come to check on the boy." Kustaa shook his head, sighing like a bone weary old man, sick of being asked for stories by the village children. "However," Hakoda continued, "I also came to see how you were getting on. You've been cooped up here caring for the boy for, what, going on a week now?"

Kustaa shook his head. "No, six days, not yet a week." 

Hakoda chuckled, lifting his right hand in mock surrender. "Right, my apologies."

Kustaa's eyes softened, he didn't quite smile like one might when shown a kind gesture such as he has, though it was a notion nonetheless. He stood, resting his hand on the back of his wooden chair, bracing himself. "His fevers broke, luckily or unluckily, 's up to who you ask.

He's not exactly woken up completely yet, though I have had to put out a few minor fires here and there. Seems he opens his eyes, looks around, panics, lights a few fires beneath his fingertips, and then passes out again as I get closer." Kustaa walked over to the boy now, who by the looks of it was in the middle of a fitful sleep, face tucked into the pillow, an arm up to cover most of his face, fingers curling into the corner of the pillow. There was a thin sheen of sweat covering his forehead and any exposed skin along his body. Dark bags hung beneath his eyes, his complexion sallow and sickly. It's a wonder he's still alive, in Hakoda's professional opinion.

Kustaa rested a hand on the boys forehead, clicking his tongue when he pulled it away, wiping the stray condensation of sweat off on his pant leg. "Spoke too soon, it seems. The boy is still ill, no doubt, but it seems while his fever broke for a while it's back now. Not quite as harshly as before, but present nonetheless."

Hakoda looked the boy over, hands clenching at his sides. The boy was frail, his skin nearly a porcelain white, his veins a stark splash of colour running up his arms and through his hands, wrapping up around his fingers like delicate jewelry. He looked so, so young. Hakoda shifted, uncomfortable. The room was stuffy and the boys ragged panting was dragging up old memories, those of his children when they were young, ill and curled up in their beds, a rag stuffed with carefully shaved ice clippings resting on their foreheads or necks as Kanna gently coaxed a steaming tea into their mouths, whispering sweet, encouraging words as she instructed them in swallowing her remedy.

Something about a child, sick, alone, and—if the unconscious whimpering was anything to go by— frightened tugged at Hakoda's heartstrings. He pursed his lips, looking around, eyes finally landing on a small bucket that was sat between the legs of Kustaas desk, a rag hanging over the side. He spared another glance to the feverish child before he walked over to it, crouching down as he took the slightly salt stiff rag in his hands and dipped it into the off-cool water inside the bucket. When he was satisfied with it's soakedness he pulled it from the water, ringing out any excess water before he stood back up, making brief eye contact with the healer, an unusual, guarded expression on his face as he walked over to the boy. He gently nudged the boy back onto his back, brushing the sweat matted hair from his forehead before he just slightly twisted the rag to allow droplets of water to fall from it and onto the boys forehead. When they landed there was a light sizzling noise that startled Hakoda, making him look back at Kustaa who gave him nothing more than an unhelpful shrug. He’d heard rumors that Fire Nation natives blood boiled. He’d never have imagined it could possibly be true.

He had his hand halfway over the boys chest, hesitating slightly before he laid the rag over the boys neck, lifting it slightly and tucking the edges beneath themselves as to not make him feel suffocated with its water weight.

---

Zuko woke some time later, eyes opening and staring blankly at his hazy view before he blinked, clearing the fog away and examining where he was. His clothes stuck to him uncomfortably, a thick layer of sweat and likely grime coated his skin making him feel gross.

He sat up, or, tried to, the bed he was in was swaying with his movements, making him dizzy as he tried to grab the edges and steady himself, only the grasp onto a thick cloth rather than a solid surface bed frame. Suddenly there was a hand wrapping around his wrist, holding fast as he tugged it away fearfully, a croaky yelp making its way up his throat. Despite his best efforts—yanking his arm as hard as he could multiple times, barely registering the grunts that came from the hand around his wrist— he was unable to shake it, quickly loosing energy and growing tired, his movements going sluggish before eventually stopping. He kept his eyes determinedly staring at the edge of the moving bed, refusing to make eye contact with the person he knew was stood above him.

The person let him have his moment, standing there silently as they kept their same almost harsh hold on his wrist. Though, as they seemed to grow tired of the waiting game, a sigh fell past their lips, making Zuko flinch. "Are you done?" Was all the person said.

Zuko didn't say anything in return, fingers doing their best to curl in on themselves, only to jump back when his knuckles bumped into calloused, cold fingers of the persons hand.

"You fire bend?" The person asked, a man, if his deeper, tired sounding voice was anything to note.

Zuko didn't respond.

The man huffed. "Right, fine. I'll just have to have one of the boys go fetch the bindings then. Can't have a possible rogue fire bender wandering the ship." Despite all of this, he didn't release Zuko, waiting to see what kind of reaction he would get out of the boy, no doubt. Well, Zuko wasn't gonna give it to him. He stayed silent, eyes stubbornly focused on his other free hand, stuffed in his lap and hidden between his uncomfortably tangled legs. He felt like he was going to cry, a burning feeling was building behind his eyes and a lump, thick and painful, was logged in his throat, nearly making him choke every time he tried to swallow. Father would be so disappointed.

 Finally, the man released him, another sigh sounding above him as a pair of heavy footed footsteps trailed off to the other side of the room. He could still feel eyes on him, but as soon as his wrist was free he yanked it back against his chest so hard he almost knocked himself back with the force, tucking it as best he could beside his other hand between his thighs.

 

 

Not too long later, a knock sounded on the loose wooden door of the small cabin before it was opening and a man was stepping through. He was tall like his father, though he wasn't willowy and thin like those of the Fire Nation, he had broad shoulders and a thicker build, skin tanned and dark, speckled with freckles along the tops of his cheeks. The man looked a little surprised to see him awake and sitting up, eyes lingering on him for a moment before turning to the other man in the room, still seated at his little desk, crushing and grinding what looked to be herbs. Earlier, when he had mentioned telling, what Zuko assumed to be, some of the crew of this ship to go get bindings for him to prevent him from fire bending, it seems like he was bluffing, as he had not done anything of the sort. In fact, as soon as he had released Zuko and watched him practically throw his body away from him he had just looked at him resigned and returned to his post at the desk, dutifully grinding away at his task.

"He is awake," the big man stated, looking between him and the healers—he was probably the healer, considering the bitter scent of herb dust that permeated the air— turned back. The healer simply grunted in response, finishing up with his last few drags of the pestle before he eased his hand beneath the belly of the bowl and lifted it up, tipping it into a small leather pouch he had pulled over with his other hand.

Finally, the healer turned around and looked straight at the big man, ignoring Zuko. "Speak with him, if you'd like. He's said nothing to me, and my threats don't seem to perturb him," the man shrugged, motioning at Zuko with his hand.

Zuko braced himself as the big man turned to him and walked over, hands clenched at his sides as if he was ready to punch something. Probably Zuko himself. He clutched his hands against his chest, glaring out at the big man from beneath his eyelashes as best he could, trying to feign anger and confidence. He didn't really think he was doing all the good of a job, but they didn't need to know that.

Once the big man had gotten within a few feet of the hammock he stopped, looking Zuko over before he spoke. "You're rather angry, for such a small little sloth-bear cub," he seemed to be joking, a small smile barely upturning his lips, though it didn't seem to land with him either as the barely there smile dropped moments later. "Right, bad joke, sorry." He looked almost nervous now, which was odd, given his superior size and his obvious control over the situation compared to the little boy sat cowered in the hammock, staring at him with faux hatred.

Finally, he stepped forward, reaching out to the hammock to steady it as Zuko instinctively started shoving himself back, attempting to crawl away from the large man. "Sh, stop, calm down," the man tried, sounding less concerned now and more irritated. What a switch up. Zuko stilled, staring wide eyed at him, his facade long gone, no longer held on his face by wooden will. "What's your name, kid?"

Zuko eyed him. What a random question.

He shook his head, refusing to open his mouth and speak, not trusting his voice not to break and waver. He didn't want to sound weak in front of these people, and he didn't trust himself not to start spilling things that'd surely get him either killed or used as a bargaining chip, Agni knows how they'll decide to 'deal with him' if they find out he's a Fire Nation royal. The big man sighed, but he didn't push.

"Right, this is going to get us no where," he placed his hand on his hip, staring the boy down as he thought. Zuko was fucking terrified.

The healer behind the big man was shaking his head, looking more bored than he'd seen since he'd woken up. Well, he'd only been awake for a few hours, and in the time the healer had had his back to him the majority of the time... but that's beside the point. "Chief," the healer spoke, "why don't you just—"

"No, Kustaa." He cut the man off with a harsh tone, head flicking over just enough to look at the healer, Kustaa, over his shoulder from the corner of his eyes. Zuko flinched, the sudden movements startling him. Neither seemed to notice him though, as Kustaa just sighed and shook his head again, looking resigned as he ambled his way back over to the little corner desk and plopped down, resting his cheek on his hand as he watched the big man try and question him.

Zuko looked back at the most immediate threat. This man was a chief, Zuko may not know quite as much about tribal culture after his education was abruptly cut short by his banishment, though he knew enough to know that he was important. The equivalent to a Fire Lord. This man was dangerous.

---

Kustaa watched the chief and the boy quietly, an almost sour mood hanging over his head. The boy wouldn't speak to him, the seemingly less threatening of the two stature and, currently, aura wise, so he's not totally sure what the chief thinks is going to come of this. The boy looked scared shitless.

"What's your name?" Hakoda tried again, urging the small boy to speak with a rather unconvincing half smile.

Kustaa just shook his head; this was going to get them no where. He stood, pushing his chair back slightly with the backs of his knees, and walked out. Panuk and Toklo were stood out there, leaning against either wall of the small hallway, looking bored out of their minds as they let the thick ropes coiled together tightly, held by spare strips of cloth, hang by their sides. They both perked up when they noticed the healer exit the cabin, pushing themselves from the walls and turning to face him. He could hear their questions before they even made to open their mouths and ask them. "Yes, the boy is awake," he said, irritated, "no, you are not permitted to go in there and meet him yet." Both boys deflated slightly at that.

"What's the chief doing now?" Toklo asked, the seemingly more calm of the two. He'd already met the boy, or, met is the wrong word, he'd seen the boy, carried him to the healers cabin even, he hadn't quite met him awake yet though. 

"Attempting to get him to speak. Though he's only succeeding in scaring the shit out of him." Kustaa wasn't one to swear, finding it unbecoming and distasteful usually, but something about this situation was just bothering him. And besides, they had been at sea for a few years now, half the sailors swore every other word, surely it meant nothing to have one extra word thrown in there from time to time. Neither boy seemed quite perturbed by it, if anything they were amused by his obvious annoyance.

Kustaa spared them no more words as he made his way past them, walking down the corridor till he reached a set of stairs that led up to the deck. He made his way up them, pushing through the halfway unhinged door—they very much needed to get on fixing that— and squinted as the midday sun nearly blinded him, his eyes not yet adjusted to the lighting above deck. The hustle and bustle of the crew met his ears with a familiar and welcoming noise, dragging his mood ever so slightly up and away from where he was effectively stomping on it as he walked.

As soon as his eyes adjusted he took the final two steps up and walked along the deck, nodding here and there to the men as he passed the,, idly watching them work. There wasn’t much to do on a ship such as this one when you’re a healer, little work to do, no herbs to collect, not many injuries to fuss over—though that can change quickly, and he’d prefer if his workload stuck to splinters, sunburns a gnarly rope burn— and the lack of reading material was astounding. No matter how many ports they passed through, which truly wasn’t many these days given the violent expanse of the Fire Nations control over the port towns, he could never really find anything worthwhile to spend any pence on and take back with him to the ship to become sun stained and salt brittle along the edges.

He made it to the end of the deck, where the walls met at a point and paved through the swells of waves in an almost sickly jump and fall of the ships hull. He braced his hands on either side, watching the sun slowly begin to dip beneath the sea line and bring forth the night, stars already dotting the pale sky in dull spots, just waiting for the La to make their appearance and greet them. Seasickness had long sense left him, his many years on boats before this one and his now current placeholder as a on board medic left very little room for the swelling and dipping and swaying of the sea to bother him such as a fresh on the boat seaman.

The breeze was warm as it brushed against his sun bitten cheeks, and the sun was still high enough to be uncomfortable as he tried to stand there for more than a few minutes, listening to the men behind him work about and get the boat ready for the nighttime skelton crew. Eventually, he turned away, allowing his eyes to rest in the now shadowy deck, the sun warming the back of his neck until he could feel beads of sweat drip down the back of his shirt.

Hopefully tonight would be quiet.

Notes:

Tysm for reading, comments and kudos always appreciated<3

Chapter 3: 2

Notes:

Everyone thank ReheatThePasta for convincing me to post a new chapter of this after a year and a half of nothing.

TWs at the end, as always.

Kustaa had been working over-time, gently trying to coax the boy from out of his hammock hiding place, a hand firmly rested on his shoulder once he had, keeping the boy from toppling over. Unfortunately, the healers efforts were... mostly fruitless, as anytime he even so much as tried to approach the boy from either his left side or behind him, his blind spots—effectively scaring the shit out of him in the process—all of their progress was virtually lost. Any amount of previous approach of the boy no longer flinching when he was touched suddenly, when he could see the hand coming towards him, or the little one word sentences they'd managed to get out of him ceased, reverting back to his skittish, cornered polar-dog front, snapping at them whenever they so much looked at him.

It had been another one of these instances, Kustaa had approached him from behind, meaning to grab his attention with a firm hand on his shoulder, as he did with most of the younger sailors on the boat, only to be reminded rudely of the way he was not supposed to be doing that with this particular boy in the form of a fist to his abdomen. 

"Ooph!" He grunted, clutching at the impacted spot and stumbling back slightly.

The boy had spun around quickly, his face flashing through a multitude of emotions Kustaa couldn't catch until it landed on a mixture of two; fear and something akin to determination. His hands were up, palms out, knees spread and feet planted in a fire bending stance, and his face was contorted in an ugly mix of emotions Kustaa's not even sure the boy himself knew how to decipher. He braced himself, feet angling out, knees bending slightly, ready for a blast of fire to lick at his clothes and burn his skin. He wasn't a very accomplished water bender himself, having only recently converting his bending into healing forms with very little help from his wife, Siye, back in their Southern home just days before he was set to be joining a crew of Northern and Southern water tribesmen on the seas in assistance to the war efforts. Before that he'd been training his bending for battle, he wasn't necessarily a good fighter, but a fighter nonetheless.

Though, curiously, nothing happened.

Kustaa stayed still, eyeing the boy as he seemed surprised himself, eyes flickering down to his hands briefly, pupils dilated and eyes wide before they moved back up to meet Kustaa's, anything else forgotten as he stumbled back, stance forgotten. His back hit the corner, hammock beds to his left, Kustaa's desk to the right. His face fell briefly before it built back up into that of something similar to what a cornered polar-dog puppy would look like, teeth nervously bared, eyes squinted, and hackles raised, hands planted on the wood as if he were threatening to burn the ship down from his finger tips.

Admittedly it took Kustaa a minute to evaluate the situation, to swallow hard and straighten back out tentatively all while he watched the boy with a harsh, poorly masked nervous expression on his face. He was probably scaring him. But that thought didn't cross his mind until he was already half way across the room, beelining for his desk and grabbing at a little pouch of dried herbs, his back never facing the boy.

The child cowerd, hands coming up to protect his face and head as if he expected Kustaa to throw something at him. A sharp nauseous emotion bubbled up from his stomach, something lodging in his throat as he tried to swallow. "Calm down, boy," he tried, slowly approaching him again, his hands out placatingly.

 

The boy all but growled at him. Growled. Kustaa's experienced his fair share of violent and unwilling people in his life, though not once had he had such a difficult child refusing to even let him get close enough to talk to him without having to raise his voice. 

He sighed. "Why are you cowering?"

The boy didn't answer, instead, he pressed further into the corner, glaring half-heartedly at him through the cracks between his arms. Great. This was just great.

---

Hakoda, who was currently in his office and private quarters, sat at a desk slaving over a map as he tried going over the directions of which the currents were flowing and where his ship needed to go. A frantic pounding on the door jolted him from his thoughts, the charcoal tipped stick in his hands falling from his grasp, smudging the paper. He cursed, pressing his fist into the table as he stood and walked to the door, opening it to reveal an out of breath Toklo. 

"What is it boy?" His tone was clipped, but he wasn't quite annoyed. Most of the crew had learned quickly that Hakoda's voice often just... fluctuated. It wasn't that he never lost his temper, no, it was more of a fact that he struggled with matching his tone with his emotions, leaving it up for guess more often than not. Toklo didn't seem to catch on to it this time.

He winced, giving the chief an apologetic look. "Sorry, sir, but Kustaa needs you. It's the fire boy."

Hakoda didn't need to be told any more, already pushing out the door, not bothering to close it behind him as he passed the younger man and was down the hall in a flash. He could hear Toklo's stumbling steps as he followed, surprised at the suddenness of Hakoda's reaction. The ship wasn't that large, so it only took him a matter of seconds to reach the healers cabin and break in, eyes wide and searching as he looked over the room.

Despite what he'd thought would greet him as he opened the door to the comparatively small cabin, the room looked miraculously untouched. No fire licked at the walls, the beds were all in tacked, swaying lightly with the rocking of the ship that he'd long since got used to, nothing was knocked to the floor, and Kustaa was stood up right, seemingly unhurt, not even looking remotely panicked. "Kustaa?" Hakoda said with a questioning tone, he didn't think anything truly needed to be asked, especially when they'd all seen the urgency that he'd displayed when walking—sprinting—down the hall and into the room.

The man in question turned around, blinking blankly at him as if he was surprised at his sudden out of breath appearance. "Hello, Chief. Am I needed urgently somewhere or something?" He asked, eyes a little bit wide in an uncharacteristic look of shock.

Hakoda shook his head, leaning a hand against the wall of the doorframe. "Toklo said you needed me for something regarding the fire nation boy... I thought something had happened."

Kustaa seemed to take a minute to process this, his eyes flickering around Hakoda's face momentarily in thought before he cracked a small, amused smile. "I knew gossip traveled fast on ships, but I didn't know it moved that fast," he chuckled dryly, turning back to the boy who—now that Hakoda was paying attention—was all but cowering in the corner, hidden beneath one of the hammocks. His knees were pulled up tightly to his chest, face tucked in them so far only his eyes and up were visible, his irises seemed to glow like hot lava in the shadowed spot. It made Hakoda's spine shiver.

"What..." Hakoda stumbled a bit, eyes still lingering on the boy, "what's the issue?"

Kustaa was on his knees, something clutched tightly in his hand as he shifted a bit closer to the shivering bundle beneath the beds. When the large man had gotten situated, to Hakoda's surprise, he pushed his hand out, palm up and open, a small piece of meat cradled there. It looked like the man was trying to coax a stubborn polar-dog out of its bed on a particularly cold morning, the chief mused silently to himself.

When it didn't seem to be working, Kustaa pulled his hand back and rested it on his knee instead, still keeping his eyes on the boy, who was staring at him distrustfully. "He won’t eat,” he said simply, still holding the meat in his palm like he was trying to make it seem tantalizing.

Hakoda, with as much dignity as he could muster, gave the man a flat look. “He won’t eat.”

“He won’t eat,” Kustaa parroted back, nodding.

“And that needed my immediate attention because…?”

Kustaa sighed, that seemed to be all he did these days. “Because I want you to do something about it. I’m tired of sitting in here caring for a Fire Nation child like I’m some doting mother. It’s sickening.” Hakoda was a bit surprised at the venom that laced the healers words, and the little wince from the boy did not go unnoticed. He can’t say he blames Kustaa, he sort of gets how it feels, though maybe it’s the fact that this child reminds him achingly of his own children, the children whom he misses so desperately he’s willing to allow his paternal instincts bleed into sympathy for a scared, injured boy they’d pulled from the damn ocean. It sounds worse the longer Hakoda spreads the words out in his mind.

“Take a break,” he said finally. “Leave the cabin, eat something maybe. Just, something other than sitting in here.” Kustaa gave him a look, one that said things he wouldn’t dare repeat aloud. “I’ll try and get him to eat.”

It took a bit more convincing, and a few promises that he wouldn’t touch anything—Hakoda had given him a scandalized look for that, he wasn’t some unruly child—before the man even got up. When he walked past Hakoda on the way to the door he pressed the now cold strip of meat into the chiefs palm and gave him an almost smug smile.

“Have fun,” he called over his shoulder, letting the door fall shut behind him.

 

 

Zuko really wanted to go home.

The healer, Kustaa, he’d come to learn, was a very… unpolished man. He was callous in a way Zuko wasn’t used to, with the cowardly noblemen who fell to their knees at his fathers feet, the respectful servants, even the silent guards who seemed to be everywhere all at once. Kustaa was none of those things, he wasn’t silent, though not in a chatty way. He spoke more with his face, with the careful expressions he’d send his fellow sailors, when he was disappointed at the little shriek one would let out when he pulled a splinter from his finger, or the not-so-subtle pinch of his brow when Zuko bared his teeth at him like a wild panda-tiger. He wasn’t cowardly, in fact, it seemed like he ran this ship tighter than the supposed chief did. With his looks that spoke a thousand words, and his sharp tongue that sent even the oldest man out his door with his tail tucked between his legs. And he certainly wasn’t respectful—at least not to Zuko, that is. He was brash, and mean when he talked. He snatched things, and sent scathing looks when he’d move, harsh words ready on his tongue like a loaded bow.

When the chief had all but pushed him out, coaxing him like one would a child who didn’t want to leave his mothers side, until the healer finally stood, a familiar look of annoyance on his face, and walked out, Zuko was almost relieved. Almost.

The chief finally let his gaze fall back to Zuko, who hadn’t moved an inch, terrified as he watched the door shut behind the other man. The one thing Kustaa hadn’t done was strike him. He’d never lifted a hand to him, he’d never raised his voice, even when he was very clearly angry, he’d never made to throw anything at him. He was safe in that aspect. But the chief was a whole new territory. Zuko didn’t know what to expect with him, and that, was possibly the scariest thing he’d seen so far on this ship.

The large man moved forward, taking over Kustaa’s place on the floor, sitting criss-crossed in front of him. His face was carefully neutral, Zuko observed, the lines around his mouth and the crows feet at the pinch of his eyes betraying his age. He was big and imposing, but Zuko couldn’t help but seen even the slightest resemblance of his grandfather here, in the way the wrinkles moved and shaped with his facial muscles, the way his eyes squinted slightly when he attempted a gentle smile.

Zuko started a bit when the man spoke, lost in thought.

“I don’t think I ever properly introduced myself,” he paused briefly to see if Zuko would respond. When he gave nothing but a blank, guarded glare, he just continued like nothing happened. “My name is Hakoda, and I’m the chief of the Southern Water Tribe. What’s your name?”

Zuko recognized the quick flip back to him, the little bit of information willingly given to hopefully coax him into talking. Well, he wouldn’t. He won’t give this man anything, he didn’t owe him anything. Even if he did save him from the sea, he didn’t ask for the man to. He didn’t ask for him to instruct his healer to waste supplies on him. He didn’t ask the chief to allow him to lodge on his boat, nor eat his food. He didn’t ask for any of it, so he wouldn’t apologize for it either.

The silence dragged on for a while, occasionally filled with brief bursts of the chief speaking, divulging pointless information about himself, what his favorite colour was—pale blue, like the parkas his village wore when it was too cold to wear only their underclothes. What his favorite type of meat was to eat after a successful hunt—muktuk, when they’d been lucky enough to catch a walrus-whale. What he’d named his first polar-dog—Aput, which means ‘snow,’ because he often lost sight of her in the snow before he’d managed to teach her not to run of. Even his family—he has two children, a daughter named Katara and a son named Sokka, who was around his age.

And through it all, Zuko responded to nothing. At one point, he’d begun to nod off, his eyes dropping low until all he could see was the tops of his knees and his head would start to fall down, only to be startled when his body shifted too much. He was sure the chief noticed, the blue eyes hadn’t left him since the man had sat down and begun rambling. Damn him, damn him and his soothing voice that was throwing Zuko off guard, damn him and his stupidly unremarkable face that was making his mind turn to mush as he thought about his uncle telling him stories, damn him and- and his stupid dog!

Zuko scrunched up his nose, feeling the familiar pressure building up behind his eyes as his thoughts raced and his view went foggy with welling tears. He wouldn’t cry. He wouldn’t! Not in front of the enemy. Not when he could loose so much. Not when he could let his father down.

The final step that seemed to break the dam building behind Zuko’s eyelids—when had he shut them?—was when he felt a large, warm hand touch his knee, followed by soft cooing words and gentle strokes of a thumb against his boiling skin hidden under a linen pant leg. The tears that had built up finally squeezed their way out from between his eyelids, squeezed shut so desperately, clinging to his eyelashes and carving wet rivets down his cheeks, burning from the embarrassment of crying and his own racing heart.

His hands locked up, fingers tangling into his own hair at his nape and tugging, gently at first before it got progressively more rough, yanking and pulling like he wanted to rip the black strands out. His hair was still short, barely long enough to even tickle his ears, only just long enough to sift through with his fingers. It made him want to cry harder, the memories that rushed in of his mother gently stroking his head and brushing carefully through his long hair with a brush, tying it up in a traditional knot before she let him run off to go play in the gardens with his sister, or go into the large library for his lessons. The memories of his father grabbing onto the long strands and tugging harshly when he’d hide behind the tapestries in the war room, wanting to listen in on the meetings, pulling him out and all but throwing him on the floor where his uncle would be, ready to catch him and set him back on his feet. Of his sister, before they were torn apart by their father’s demands and manipulation—because that’s what it was, manipulation singling out his daughter, his “superior” child—who would braid his hair underneath the shade of a willow tree in the gardens as they watched the turtle-tucks, giggling and moving so he could braid her hair too after she was done. Of his uncle, gently combing through what was left of the inky strands, matted from tossing and turning on his back for a few days after the Agni-Kai, before he took a pair of scissors to it and cut it all off, whispering careful apologies in his good ear the entire time.

He barely even registered when the hand on his knee moved up to cup his cheek, the voice getting slightly closer as it continued to whisper comforting words and reassurances, that calloused thumb rubbing gentle lines at the base of his ear before it moved to take hold of one of his hands, the large fingers carefully working their way between his own much smaller, thin ones, detangling them from the vice they had on his hair.  He did the same with Zuko’s other hand, gently rubbing his small fingers and working them out of the mess he’d made of his head and guiding them down to where they sat, laced together, in his lap, two large hands nearly covering them completely, if to keep them from shooting back up and gripping at his burning scalp again.

“—some species have as many as thirteen stomach—“ Slowly, the ringing in Zuko’s ears lessened, the ambient sounds of the ship he’d grown so used to over the past week making their way back and filling in the cracks in his hearing. The gentle scratching of the hammocks as they swayed and brushed the walls and ropes that held them up as the ship rocked, the sloshing of the waves beyond the thick walls of the ships side, the sound of distant chatter and footsteps as the sailors worked. He focused on that for a minute, letting his breathing slow and his heart fall down from the rapid beetle-rabbit pace it had been at before to a more comfortable—albeit still a little too quick—one.

He only realized the chief was speaking when the warm, lulling words stopped.

 

 

Hakoda had his hands wrapped carefully around the child’s own, his thumbs rubbing absent circles on the pale skin. It felt like his blood was boiling in his veins, the heat radiating off his in droves enough to break a sweat on his brow as he got close enough to feel it. How did the Fire Natives live like this?

He’d been rambling on about anything he could think of for the better half of twenty minutes, things from the types of knots they used to keep the sails secured to the animals in the sea. He’d noticed the glazed over expression and the way his breathing started to pick up almost immediately, watching as the telltale signs of a panic attack began appearing, tumbling quickly into a full fledged melt down. He was, at first, content to let the boy ride it out on his own, as he’d seemed lost in thought and in no danger beyond maybe the lack of air and the way his skin went impossibly paler with the staccato beating of his heart. He didn’t think his touch would be welcomed, anyways. 

When the little hands had made their way into his hair, clutching and yanking like he intended to pull the strands out by the roots, Hakoda had had to make a split second decision: risk terrifying to the boy by getting closer and touching him, essentially crowding him against this corner and covering most methods of obvious escape—which were surely a comfort to him before—or allow him to hurt himself and just hope it didn’t get too bad before he snapped himself out of it. He’d, obviously, chosen the latter.

He knew he’d made the right choice when the tears that had been falling in rapid succession down the boys face, tugging harshly at his chest and adding to the building pit in his stomach, began to slow ever so slightly after his hand had made contact with his knee. When he’d finally managed to pry the boys hands away from his hair, his own breaths stuttered slightly at the sight of inky black hair tangled around some of his fingers and resting in his palms. He eventually guided them until they were both in a more comfortable position, the boys back moved away from the wall and out from under the hammock, side rested carefully against Hakoda’s own, pale little hands in his lap with one of Hakoda’s much bigger ones holding onto the gently, and his other arm wrapped around his back, rubbing careful circles into his forearm. 

The touch seemed to be grounding the boy well, his tears slowly stopped falling and his breathing returned to something a bit more normal. His eyes were drooping, at half mast and threatening to close entirely, no doubt from the exertion of the attack. Hakoda’s internal clock told him it’d been around an hour, his stomach beginning to rumble slightly, as it did when it was getting to the time he’d usually pause work and head over to the dining hall for lunch with his crew. That reminded him, Kustaa had said the boy hadn’t eaten anything. Hakoda wasn’t sure if that had meant today, or in general. With how thin he was, even compared to how small he was when they’d first rescued him from the turbulent waters, he could assume it’s been a bit too long.

He’d need to remedy that soon, though for now he allowed the little furnace to rest against him, head lulling onto his shoulder as his eyes finally slipped shut, sat on the floor of the healers cabin.

Notes:

Tysm for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated<3

TWs: Panic Attacks, briefs mentions of child abuse/physical abuse

You can pry these em dashes out of my cold dead hands.

If anything is incorrect PLEASE correct me in the comments, I would rather edit this a thousand times than accidentally be offensive or bigoted.

Stop it I forgot Zukos eye was injured. Ignore it please I’ll fix it next chapter I swear 😰

Words:
Aput, the Inuit word for ‘Snow’
Muktuk, traditional food of Inuit and other circumpolar peoples, consisting of whale skin and blubber.

I actually really enjoyed writing this chapter, so erm… you might be getting more sooner than expected. I hope you enjoyed it nevertheless.

It’s a bit difficult to write the switching povs, but I hope I’m doing the fact that Zuko has a very one sided narrative against the crew, plus the lingering tensions from the Water Tribesmen given the little offspring of their enemy literally just on board their ship casually justice. This story has so many sides to it, and it’s important to recognize that while yes, Zuko doesn’t really pose much of a threat, he’s still going to be perceived as one and treated as such given his lineage and supposed firebending abilities. On a wooden boat, I’d be afraid of someone who could make fire at will too. I also wouldn’t be too happy having the child of the nation that’s killed my loved ones and is aiming to basically take over the world in the most violent ways possible. There’s just so many angles to take into account and I’m loving the complexities it provides for characters and eventual world building, so I really hope I’m doing an ok job so far.

Chapter 4: 3

Notes:

A bit on the shorter end today unfortunately, but I plan to bring you some more quickly! I just don’t have much time to dedicate to writing atm with work and all, so I wanted to get you something so you know I haven’t disappeared 3

Anyways, PLEASE go back to my first ever chapter in this work and read what I’ve added to the notes at the beginning! It will provide some context that I think is rather important to the story and future aspects.

Also, Azula is older in this AU. In the original show she is 14 while Zuko is 16, in this story, Zuko is currently 13 and Azula is 15. I don’t have a really important reason for this other than I just want to do it so…

Anyways, enjoy the story! Tws and Cws at the end as always.

Hakoda doesn't think he's ever lost feeling in so many parts of his body before.

He's been sitting on the floor of the medical room for the better half of the afternoon, a sleeping fire nation boy basically in his lap. Kustaa had come in at one point, talking quietly one of the older sailors, Nu, only to stop short when he saw what was happening on his floor. It'd taken less than five minutes for there to be a crowd at the door, pushing and climbing over each other to get a look at their captain on the ground with a child huddled in his lap. It wasn't exactly an uncommon sight for chief Hakoda, of course, but it'd been years since his children had been small enough to do it, and it wasn't often a child ever came into contact with him whilst on the ship. In fact, it'd never happened. A good half of these men had never met him before this, either, having been from their neighboring tribe anyways.

Safe to say, Hakoda was slightly embarrassed at the cooing and staring.

Kustaa had let him bask in the embarrassment of the crew for only so long, shooing them away with harsh looks and jabbing fingers, muttering about 'waking the boy' and 'he hasn't slept a wink in days, move you lug!'

It hadn't been an awfully long time, really, but the hard floor paired with the limp body sprawled over him wasn't an amazing combo. The boy had curled against his side the first hour or so, tucking his face beneath his own hands, knees drawn up and resting against Hakoda's leg. Despite himself, Hakoda had to stop himself from cooing like the others, gently brushing a few stray hairs away from the child's bandaged eye out of habit. Katara had never liked her hair touching her face, especially in the warmer months. Kya would braid it for her in the mornings, pinning it up with walrus-whale bone hair pins. Hakoda had learned how to braid after her passing after he watched his daughter struggling to do it her self one morning, frustrated tears building in her eyes as she watched her reflection in the ocean waters when it was calm and clear.

Kustaa returned not too much later after shoving everyone away, quietly slipping into the room with a cracked ceramic plate and a small walrus-whale bone bowl, sloshing with todays stew. A few pieces of dried meat, likely some type of fish by the looks of it, and some dried dates. 

"For me? Kustaa, you shouldn't have," Hakoda smiled playfully, reaching out for the plate as if he were going to snatch something off of it.

Kustaa pulled it out of his reach, a smile of his own making its way onto his face. "No, not you, the boy. He's skinny as a rail, and you cannot tell me his height is natural for the Fire Nation." The atmosphere seemed to sour slightly at the mention of the Fire Nation, Kustaa's smiling dropping by the end of his sentence. Hakoda had to admit, the boy was small, smaller than he reasonably should be. Given that they didn't exactly know his age, they were just guesstimating, it could be normal, but sure as hell didn't feel that way. 

All things considered, he seemed well enough taken care of, despite the obvious—his eye, and the fact they pulled him out of the sea like a half-drowned mink-rat. It doesn't seem likely that he was a commoner from his nation, a servant boy maybe, working in the galleys or at his masters call, or perhaps he was any apprentice of sorts. Hakoda had heard of them being brought along on voyages if their teachers were going, a mechanic for the ship or even a firebender. That would make sense, given his apparent affinity to the ability.

Hakoda was dragged from his thoughts at the feel of the boy in his lap stirring. His fingers uncurled from where they'd been shoved against his chin and cheek, leaving little red indentations in the pale skin, his droopy eyes blinking open slowly. Out of instinct, he began to rub gentle circles on the boys side where his arm had been resting, keeping the child from tumbling over in his sleep. It was a habit he'd picked up from his own mother, she'd rub patterns and shapes into his skin whenever he was anxious or ill as a child, crawling into her lap for comfort or just to take a nap. He'd done it for his own children as well, soothing Katara after she'd had a rough day, struggling with her bending training with some of the elders, or with Sokka, when he'd catch something after staying out far too long in the cold without properly covering up during a hunting trip he convinced someone to bring him on. La, Hakoda missed his kids. He'd been picking up little things here and there when they'd stop at ports—few and far between so they were—things he thought his kids would like. He couldn't wait to return home so he could give them to them.

He didn’t seem to recognize where he was at first, blinking blearily, just resting idly against Hakoda as he regained his bearings. Hakoda had half the mind to gently move the boy, just in case he panicked.

 

 

Zuko, for all his faults, had never been one to nap. Especially not in random places, nor on random people, where he could be caught vulnerable. This, of course, was courtesy of the fact that many people seemed not to like his father. He could count on two hands the amount of times he’d been ushered into his room by a guard or his mother, instructed to stay put and to stay quiet, sometimes being left there for hours at a time. He’d never heard anything, and nothing ever happened during those times. Sometimes his sister would sneak in through the servants passage attached to his room, she’d somehow manage to sneak out of her own room, past her guards—she’d never tell him how, even though he begged to be let in on the secret—and enter one of the servants passageways and sneak into his room. They talk, quiet and hushed, sometimes they’d play, but after they were caught once by an angry nobleman and punished, they tended to just hide behind Zuko’s bed, between the frame and the wall, and just talk.

One time, when Zuko and Azula were outside in the gardens, playing a game of hide-and-seek, Zuko had been hidden behind a small group of thick shrubs, a hand pressed against his mouth to muffle his giggles. He was maybe six at the time, Azula was likely seven or eight depending on the season. His sister was searching for him, he’d seen her go past at least twice by now, looking more frustrated by the second. Oddly, he’d noticed she hadn’t made a round in a while, which he’d chocked up to her either getting annoyed and sitting at the pond to wait him out, or maybe she’d started looking harder. Either way, Zuko was determined to win this time, she always found him when they played this game, and she’d hold it over his head for days after.

He’d stayed huddled in that spot for what felt like hours, progressively getting less giggly and more annoyed at the fact that she’d probably just stopped looking and went back inside. It was a hot day, the sun was at it’s peak, so it was noon, and they’d come out around nine that morning, so it’d been at least two hours by that point. Zuko was just about to step out of his hiding spot, sweaty and decently mad, ready to go find Azula and harp at her for just leaving him out there, when suddenly a hand grasped his arm tightly, yanking him off his feet and onto his butt in the dirt.

He yelped, trying to  pull his arm away from whoever had grabbed him, however they’d only sunk their fingers tighter into his skin. He didn’t get a good look at the person, but their footwear was not that of the typical palace staff or his family. He’d cried out, tears welling in his eyes and falling down his face in a rather pathetic manner, only serving to annoy his attacker further. A small dagger was pressed against the soft part beneath his chin, biting into the delicate skin but not with an intent to kill, it seemed the person only wanted him to shut up. 

Eventually, a group of palace guards had come storming out into the gardens, shoving through the plant life and stomping on the little wildflowers that had popped up in their search for him. When his attacker had realized that it was inevitable that they’d be found, he’d let go, pocketing his dagger and shoving Zuko forward and half out of the bushes before disappearing back whatever way he’d come in. Zuko had wailed, drawing the guards attentions quickly as he crawled out from beneath the bushes and was collected swiftly into the arms of one of the men. He could feel blood running down his neck and soaking the already dark red fabric on his chest, but truly it was worse than it looked. There was only a small nick right below his jawbone, shallow but bleeding quickly given its location. The healer had patched him up quickly, and his mother had taken him back to his room and coddled him for the rest of the day, canceling his lessons—much to the disdain of his father. He still sported a small, pale scar in the area to this day, though it was slowly fading and would likely be gone by adulthood.

When Zuko had finally woken up enough to realize where he was, and who it was he was lying on, he almost cursed himself out loud. He quickly pushed himself up and away from the large man, out of his lap—his lap!—pressing his back against the wall closest. He was sitting face to face with the chief, the healer standing behind him also watching the spectacle with an unreadable expression on his face. His breathing picked up quickly, dragging shallow breaths between his teeth as he stared, wide-eyed, willing one of them to speak first. How could he have been so stupid? He fell asleep on the chief for Agni knows how long.

The chief, Hakoda, he thinks he remembers him saying that earlier, lifted his hands slowly, leaving them beside his head in a universal sign of “I’m not a threat to you.” Zuko had yet to be convinced of that.

“Calm down, you had panicked and then passed out after,” Hakoda spoke, gentle. “Nothing happened while you were asleep, I promise. It’s only been about an hour.”

Despite himself, Zuko’s shoulders lost a little bit of their tension at that. It’d only been an hour—an hour too long—but just an hour. At least he hadn’t lost whole days to his own weakness. He bit into his bottom lip, teeth chewing quickly until he could feel a pop of hot blood coat his tongue. Over the years, Zuko had grown used to the temperatures within his own nation, so close to volcanic activity so it was. He’d found it uncomfortable when he was small, the constant heat, sweating through his thick royal garments, event the way his long hair clung to the back of his neck when his mother wouldn’t put it up for him. Azula had laughed at him when she saw how uncomfortable he was, sneering at him that he “didn’t share their boiling blood.” Most siblings tend to have the ‘you’re adopted’ thing said between them, but usually it was said on baseless statements. Azula and him were not that type of siblings. She’d tell him that he was probably some Earth Nation bastard, born to a common family who sold him because they didn’t love him, that he didn’t share the ‘boiling blood’ of the Fire Nation.

He’d cried at first, he cried a lot when he was small—perhaps that’s why his father despised him so much—and run to his mother. Whenever she’d ask him what was wrong, scooping him up into her lap and holding him against her chest gently, running her fingers over his back in a feather light touch that would send cool shivers down his spine, he’d calm down quickly, sniffling and choking out what Azula had said to him. She would huff a small laugh, pausing whatever she was doing to carry him over to a portrait in the main hall of the familial ward of the palace, holding him against her hip and pointing at a small child, bundled in red and gold linens, held securely in his mothers arms. “That’s you,” she’d say, pointing down at a small plaque beneath the painting that read the date and the names of who was in the painting. Next to Azula’s, Zuko’s would be there, fit perfectly spaced between his sisters and his mothers. It didn’t always stop the tears, and it certainly didn’t stop the teasing he faced from his sister, but it helped sooth the pain in his mind.

 

 

The boy seemed to calm down slightly when Hakoda had mentioned how long it had been, his shoulders loosing some of their tension, though he didn’t completely mellow out. He still stared at them like he expected them to throw something at him at any given moment. Something in Hakoda’s chest started aching at that thought.

“Here,” he said softly, reaching back for the plate Kustaa was holding. The man gave it to him without hesitation, letting Hakoda pull it from his grasp and turn back around to face the boy. “You must be hungry.” He set the plate down between them, pushing it closer to the child with the tips of his fingers. The boy didn’t move, just merely looked at the plate with an odd expression.

Suddenly, something clicked into place in Hakoda’s head. “Kustaa,” he muttered, not turning to look at said man. He could feel the healers eyes on him as he listened to his footsteps moving around behind him. Eventually, Kustaa came into view next to him, the chair from his desk pulled over so he could sit in it. “Do you think he can even understand us?”

Kustaa’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh shit, I didn’t even think about the possibility of him not knowing the common language,” he said, shutting his eyes and rubbing at the bridge of his nose with his thumb like he had a headache.

“It would explain why he’s not responding to us.” Hakoda shrugged. “That, or he’s just being difficult.”

He turned back when he heard a small noise, a huff from the boy. He hadn’t moved, but he did have an expression more akin to contempt on his face rather than straight fear. Hakoda would count that as progress.

“I can-“ the boy started, before cutting himself off and taking in a breath. “I understand the common language. I’m not stupid,” he muttered, voice a bit rough like he needed to cough.

Hakoda chuckled softly, a bit surprised at the volatile tone. “Really? Well, you’ve yet to speak to us, so how were we to know?”

The boy deflated a bit, sinking back into his shell as he glared at Hakoda. He could feel the burning glare Kustaa sent his way, and, honestly, he probably deserved it this time. Hey, nobody’s perfect…

“Ignore him,” Kustaa sighed, waving a hand like he was trying to usher Hakoda away. Hakoda just shot him a playfully annoyed look. “He’s not had a conversation with anyone over the age of 40 in the past several months. He’s lost his tact.”

“Hey!-“

“Would you like to tell us your name, child?” Kustaa ignored the squawking from the chief, keep his eyes on the small boy. He’d slowly melted away from the wall, his shoulders hunched over, elbows rested on his knees as he watched the two men interact. It wasn’t a lot, but it was better than him being pressed up against the wall like he intended to meld himself into it.

A look flashed across the boys face, his eyes going a bit wide before he school it again, glancing over at Kustaa. He couldn’t help but noticed the dark look in the child’s eyes, and the fact that he wouldn’t hold eye-contact with him, instead staring harshly at his chin. Manners, or fear? One couldn’t tell on just this interaction alone, but Kustaa had a decent idea based on this past week.

The boy hesitated slightly before he spoke again. “Reka, my na-name is Reka.”

Notes:

Tysm for reading! Comments and kudos always appreciated<3

Tws/Cws: Mentioned of child abuse/phyiscal abuse, relatively cannon typical violence, and foul language. If I missed anything please lmk!

I don’t have much to say today, but I do think it’s important to note the fact that I’ve been rather adding a lot of… babying, I guess, the Zuko’s character. He’s a bit of a crybaby in this fic, clearly, and he’s a lot less mature physically and emotionally. There is a reason for that, and I will be getting into that a little more deeply as the story progresses, (he’s also, like, 12 so..) but I’d just like to say that I’m mainly doing that because in this story I want to focus on less of Zuko’s redemption from where he was when we met him in the main storyline, and more so how he’s healing properly, and not getting to the point he did in the show. This is sort of a fix-it, I suppose in that aspect.

Also, if you read the plot-line, you'll notice that I’m deviating pretty hard from it atm. That’s not the full intention of this story, I’ll be writing it a bit differently and a little slower than the original Plotline, purely because this is just how my style is fitting rn. I do apologize for that, but I am trying my best to take everything from the Plotline and add it in at some point or another, even if it’s a little out of order or slower than in the Plotline. I hope you’re still enjoying it regardless!<3

Whoops, looks like I actually had quite a bit to say.

Chapter 5: 4

Summary:

Zuko and his terrible, no good, very bad days.

Notes:

Another impromptu history session for you all in relations to this fic:

The Fire Nation is based heavily off of Imperial Japan—primarily in the way their military is structured, expansionist nature, its powerful navy, and its archipelago setting are all reminiscent of Japan during its imperial period—and ancient asian cultures—including but not limited to Ancient China and various Southeast Asian cultures. The Fire Nation Royal Palace and the royal gardens are inspired by Chinese architecture, particularly the Forbidden City and classical Chinese gardens. The Fire Nation's attire also draws inspiration from historical Chinese clothing, like Zuko's shenyi. Southeastern Asian cultures are shown primarily in the art and resorts designs from the Ember Island episodes. It also incorporates ancient Mesoamerican culture—fore example, the Sun Warriors, who predated the Fire Nation, are inspired by ancient Mayan and Aztec cultures.

The food/eating habits I added into this at the beginning reflect primarily ancient Chinese culture and ancient Japanese culture. In ancient China, they used all sorts of utensils when eating, including but not limited to knives, forks, and spoons. Chopsticks were intitially used as a cooking tool, similar to how we use tongs in the present time. Spoons appeared in China around 8,000 years ago, forks and knives around 7,000 years ago, and chopsticks 3,000 years ago. In ancient Japan, chopsticks were primarily used for religious rituals and ceremonies, not eating, though it would later develop into a common eating utensil. They primarily used spoons, though small knives were present at the time, they were mostly for cooking. Forks were not commonly used.
ATLA (according to google) is set between 1852 and 1853, however most of the cultural information I am using and including is much much older than that. I'm taking the creative liberty to do this because ATLA is in essence MORE technologically advanced than we were at that time in real life, deploying ideas we wouldn't be seeing until the mid-19th century (for example: Real Life (1852-1853): Steamships were becoming more common, but sailing ships were still dominant. Trains were developing, but airships were still experimental.
ATLA: The Fire Nation possessed steam-powered warships and airships. The Mechanist, an Earth Kingdom inventor, developed hot air balloons and waterbending-powered submarines. The Earth Kingdom utilized earthbending-powered tanks and earthbending-operated trains. The Fire Nation was arguably further along with their industrialization than the real world was during its industrial revolution.

Real Life (1852-1853): While firearms were evolving, more advanced weapons like tanks were not yet developed.
ATLA: The Fire Nation developed advanced war technologies, like the massive drill designed to penetrate the walls of Ba Sing Se. Their ability to generate heat through firebending made it easier for them to smelt metal and power engines. They also employed tanks, airships, and jet skis for their military)

HOWEVER, their technological advancements are seen more in tuned to their magical abilities with bending, not so much technologies and whatnot like ours were, because, clearly, we do not have magical capabilities. I am making the choice to use more ancient forms of CULTURE, not technology. If anyone was even remotely bothered by that fact (which I highly doubt but I'm pouring more effort into my research for this fic than I have any of my school assignments because this fascinates me), this is why I'm choosing to do it like this. I am attempting to be as accurate as possible considering what research I've done, even though some of it is a bit surface level just for the sake of a single scene, so don't quote me too harshly.

Thank you for coming to my Ted Talk 😋

 

I encourage you to check the Tws and Cws at the end of this chapter before reading if you get queasy at all. It’s not that bad, but there are definitely some spots that are a bit… much.

 

I intended to post this about… twelve hours ago, but I got called into an emergency surgery so I’m very sorry for this being so late. It’s also a bit shorter than intended due to me introducing a few new characters and setting up some dynamics. I didn’t want to rush you guys with so much so fast, so instead we’ll be going back to our regular 7k+ chapters on the next update.
This chapters a little rough but we ball.

With all that said, enjoy! Tws and Cws are at the end, as always.

It had taken coaxing—lots and lots of coaxing—to get the boy, Reka, as they now knew him, to peel his back from the wall beneath the hammocks. At least he was talking to them now, holding up his end of the conversation surprisingly well, though Kustaa had noted it was with "obvious panic," and Hakoda suspected there might be some kind of vocal or lung damage from the prolonged exposure to salt water. No one really knew how long he'd been out there. He didn't know himself, and it was anyone's guess how long someone could reasonably survive in storm-tossed seas. It wasn't as cold this far south as the Tribesmen were used to, but still—not exactly normal for small children to be flung overboard and survive.

Hakoda watched with mild amusement as Reka now sat cross-legged on a stiff mat in front of a low table, bracketed by the chief himself and another sailor. They were at the back of the ship, in one of the spacious rooms set aside for meals. Hakoda had long since adjusted to the size of the vessel, though he'd been in awe of it at first. Earth Kingdom men he'd grown close with over their long time at sea had explained that the ship was originally meant to transport officials and merchants alongside its crew and cargo. So, technically, they were eating in a room built for noblemen. It had taken Hakoda a few days to feel comfortable with that.

The table was crowded with dishes—a mix of brown ceramic bowls and plates carved from walrus-whale bone, brought aboard at the start of the voyage. Supplies were holding steady, with plenty of opportunity to restock at ports or forage from the rogue islands they sometimes encountered, though that was often avoided due to the dangers. Still, there wasn't much laid out today: just strips of dried meat, salted and cool from storage deep in the ship's belly; pickled vegetables growing more sour by the day; and a pot of thick stew—probably fish, though no one was quite sure. The pot was rarely empty, always simmering, and whoever was on cooking duty simply tossed in whatever was on hand before serving.

Everyone had dug in quickly, plucking bites from communal dishes. Some used utensils, others cupped their hands beneath spoons or forks, and a few simply tore food apart with their fingers or scooped stew using flatbread. A couple used chopsticks to pull things from broth-filled bowls, setting it neatly on their plates before passing the communal pair on. It was a messy but familiar ritual.

Hakoda was no different, eating quietly from a small bowl of the rich, salty stew, his eyes staying on Reka. The boy looked even smaller now, seated among the towering men of the crew—barely reaching hip height on the tallest of them. Even when they sat, they had to look down to meet his eyes. Unsurprisingly, Reka looked tense, and Hakoda didn't blame him. He was surrounded by giants, all trying to talk to him at once and simultaneously teach him how to eat.

Toklo and Panuk had managed to bully their way to his side again, taking over the space beside him as soon as the other sailors had drifted off with only half-hearted glares. Amused more than irritated, they left the two boys to it. Toklo and Panuk immediately resumed offering things for Reka to try, monopolizing the chopsticks for the bamboo shoots and the strips of salmon-cod they'd caught that morning. They seemed mostly reined in after one of the older men snapped at them for piling food on the boy's plate—opting instead to just hold things out for him to take. Reka didn't seem too overwhelmed yet, though his eyes were wider than usual, flicking quickly between the two whenever they spoke. He was probably skittish because Panuk was sitting in his blind spot. Hakoda let it go for now, glancing over every so often to keep an eye on things.

Eventually, his attention was pulled away by a conversation with Ruhon and Tadi about one of the sails that needed replacing after the last storm had driven holes clean through the thick canvas. Hakoda hadn't even noticed the room had gone quiet until Tadi—seated across from him—suddenly looked off to the side, his expression going oddly slack.

Hakoda turned to follow his gaze just in time to see Reka jerk away from Panuk, eyes bright with something close to panic or anger. He batted the spoon from Panuk's hand, sending broth and a chunk of meat clattering to the floor.

Hakoda stood fast, crossing the room in a few strides and reaching gently for the boy's wrist, lifting him to his feet and guiding him away from the table—away from hot stew, sharp utensils, and the wide-eyed crew frozen around him. He only had a second to register the tightness in the boy's muscles before Reka went limp, his knees buckling and hitting the floor hard, anchoring them both.

Hakoda didn't want to drag him. He crouched beside him, one hand still light on the boy's arm.

"What the hell happened?" he asked, voice low but firm.

 

Zuko was overwhelmed. He couldn't keep track of everything—people talking from three directions at once, hands offering food, questions flying past him. He wasn't used to so much noise at the table. Meals back home had been quiet, sterile affairs: just him, his sister, his mother, and occasionally his uncle, each sitting so far apart he'd had to strain just to catch their soft-spoken words.

Now, he was boxed in on all sides by men easily four times his size, surrounded by unfamiliar dishes and dialects that barely registered in his ears. Most of it went in one ear and out the other, only a handful of words sticking.

To their credit, most of the crew had switched to the Common tongue quickly after noticing his confusion. Once one man changed, the rest followed suit, the entire conversation shifting to accommodate him. Whether it was for his benefit or everyone's, Zuko didn't know—and didn't particularly care.

He flinched when something warm and wet touched his cheek, snapping his head around to find the boy beside him looking sheepish. A chunk of some kind of vegetable rested in his palm, likely knocked loose from his chopsticks mid-air. Zuko didn't care about the logistics—he just glared, irritated and caught off guard.

Why was he so close?

"Sorry," the boy mumbled, popping the piece of food into his mouth and tipping his head back so it slid off his hand.

Zuko just stared at him, still tense, still confused—and still not sure what, exactly, he was doing here.

Zuko could feel the heat crawling up the back of his neck, a slow-burning flush that had nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with proximity. The boy beside him—Panuk, he thought his name was—was still too close. Everything was too close. The walls felt narrower than they had when he first stepped into the room, and the sound of chewing, slurping, bowls clinking, men laughing—it was starting to collapse in on itself, folding over like a breaking wave.

He hadn't wanted to sit here. He hadn't wanted any of this.

The food in front of him was unfamiliar, strong-smelling and tangled with textures he didn't recognize. The stew clung to his tongue in a way that made his stomach twist, and the pickled roots set his teeth on edge. But he'd eaten anyway, because they were watching him, all of them—smiling and nudging and offering like this was some kind of game. He thought if he didn't flinch, if he mimicked them well enough, they might stop. Maybe they'd think he was used to it. Maybe they'd believe that was his name.

But Panuk kept talking. Kept leaning in. Kept nudging things toward him like they were friends.

Zuko's eye twitched. He hated that he could only see the boy with a turn of his head, hated the lopsidedness of it all, like his whole body was angled wrong for the room.

He picked at the edge of the mat beneath him, fingers worrying a loose thread until it snapped. The boy said something else—words lost under the buzz in his ears—and lifted the spoon again.

Too close. Too much.

Zuko's hand moved before he could think. He slapped the spoon aside, hard, sending broth and meat flying to the floor. The crash was louder than he expected, and silence followed fast—sharp, ringing.

His breath caught.

For a second, no one moved.

Then—

Hands, large and warm, caught his wrist.

He flinched violently, twisting, but the grip wasn't cruel. It was firm, guiding—pulling him to his feet and away from the table, away from all the staring eyes and confused voices that were starting to rise.

Zuko barely registered the man holding him. Just the pressure. The heat of it. The panic it sparked in his chest.

And then his body shut down.

Just—shut down.

His knees gave out, legs folding beneath him like paper soaked through. He sagged against the grip still holding his wrist, too heavy to lift, too frozen to move. The floor hit him hard. He barely felt it.

The man—Hakoda, the one they called Chief—crouched with him, the grip on his arm loosening but not releasing.

"What the hell happened?" Hakoda asked, voice low but close.

Zuko stared ahead, past the bowls and broken silence, and said nothing.

He couldn't remember how to speak.

Zuko didn't move.

The room went on without him—murmurs sparking and dying around the edges of his hearing like rain tapping on glass. Someone cursed quietly. Someone else muttered his name—Reka, he reminded himself dully, still half-curled on the floor like a discarded rag. His chest was tight, breath sticking somewhere between his ribs and his throat. The air felt syrupy. Slow.

He stared at a pale shred of pickled something near his hand, blinking at it without really seeing.

He knew this feeling. The fuzz of it. Like being underwater. Like being seven and wrong and so, so small. His palms were cold and damp. The floor had an odd give beneath his knees—mat or cloth or skin, he couldn't tell. His face felt hot.

No one touched him again—not right away. They were talking, but he couldn't sort any of it.

Then, suddenly, hands again.

This time softer. Calmer.

"Easy," someone murmured, and it was a different voice than before. A little older. A little raspier.

Zuko didn't resist. Couldn't.

He was pulled upright slowly, carefully—his legs not doing any of the work, dangling beneath him like useless limbs. Someone slipped under one of his arms, another took the other side, and the warmth of their bodies bracketing his own was suffocating and grounding all at once.

Hakoda's voice, low and steady, reached him then. Not the words, just the cadence of it. He spoke with authority, not anger, and Zuko tried to listen, but the words blurred into dull shapes and warmth against his ears. He felt the shift of movement before he registered they were walking.

The clamor of the meal space faded behind them.

Corridor. Door. Cool air. Shadows. The scent of paper and salt and worn fabric.

They'd taken him not to the healer's cabin, but to what he quickly realized was Hakoda's private quarters. The walls were wood-paneled and darker here, layered with scrolls and maps. A low desk sat against one side, a modest bunk against the other, made up neatly with a heavy woolen blanket folded at the foot. There was a carved bone lantern in the corner, casting soft gold across the floor.

Tadi—yes, it was Tadi, he recognized dully, the man the Chief had introduced him to the moment they'd stepped into the eating quarters—closed the door behind them and stayed nearby, arms folded but relaxed.

Hakoda didn't speak right away. He guided Zuko to the bunk with a hand at his back and helped him sit, crouching in front of him like one would before a spooked animal. Not reaching for him. Just watching.

Zuko let himself be placed like a piece of cargo. His hands rested in his lap, fingers twitching slightly, too cold. His knees were still bent, his spine curved, body drawn in like he could shrink himself smaller and smaller until he vanished into the cracks in the floorboards.

He didn't look up.

Couldn't.

Not yet.

Something ached behind his eyes, but he wasn't crying.

Just tired.

Just gone.

Just... away.

Someone said his name again—his fake name.

He didn't answer.

 

Tadi watched the scene quietly, eyes flickering from Hakoda to the little boy curled in on himself on the chiefs bed. He was small, a lot smaller than Hakoda had initially let on. But then again, everyone had said some variation of that. 

'He's tiny,' 

'A little polar-pup,' 

'Did they even try to feed him? He's so little.'

He'd been there, like nearly everyone had been, leaning over the edge of the ship as far as they dared, looking into the dark waters and trying to see whatever the watchers had managed to spot. Tadi would never admit it, but he hadn't actually seen anything at first. The water was too dark, the waves too vicious, the night too late in for him to bother doing much more than squinting at what might or might not have really been there. 

Then they'd pulled up the body.

He'd been one of the few to help grapple with the rope, keeping it from unraveling from the railing at first before they'd had to yank Hakoda back up, a little bundle shivering in water logged, red robes. When the man had dropped him unceremoniously onto the deck Tadi had winced, leaning over the back of the chiefs back to get a better look at the little thing. And, like he'd been saying, he was tiny. His face slack and pale, lips nearly purple in hue, and his face— fuck, his face. You could tell there used to be a bandage there, something wrapped tightly around his entire head just to encompass the whole mass of the wound. At least, he hoped there was. The kids eye looked like it was gone, completely gouged out, or melted in some way, like wax burned too hot. His skin was flushed and bubbling with yellow, pus filled bubbles, the edges looked like they were supposed to be crisp and hard, blackened at least a centimeter over what used to be porcelain skin. The burn itself was white in the middle, he couldn't even tell if it was bone he was seeing or skin scorched so badly it'd surpassed the usual bloody red.

Several people had turned away, looking greener than they had the first few days of being on the boat, dragged by sea-sickness. The crowd thinned significantly, many pulling others away before they could get a good look at the child and see the ghastly mess of his face. It was truly horrific, one of the worst things Tadi thinks he's ever seen. Disgusting, and the fact that the boy looked no older than 10, little and curled in on himself, face contorted in a way that had to be painful, made him want to puke.

He crouched down next to the little body, nudging Hakoda to the side as he stared at him for a moment, eyes glossy and a bit unreadable, before he carefully removed one of the wrappings from around his arms—covering old scars, things already long healed but ugly as they pulled his skin taut and lumpy—to wrap around the boys head carefully. The wound looked fresh, much too fresh for it to be anywhere out from under its wrappings, let alone at the mercy of ocean water and water ever else he'd come into contact with. There was a genuine concern for infection setting in, if it hadn't already, the wound looked ugly and inflamed already. And the boy wasn't shivering anymore—which was never a good sign.

Tadi jerked slightly when a hand landed on his shoulder, drawing him quickly from his spiraling thoughts. He glanced up, making eye contact with Chief Hakoda. The man gave him a soft look, something understanding and gentle, like he was looking at some injured animal. Tabi hated it, but he didn't say anything, just nodding to him and looking back to the boy on the bed. "What happened? I hadn't been paying attention until after he was stumbling up," he asked instead.

Hakoda shrugged noncommittally, following his gaze to Reka, curled on the bed, shivering in his fitful sleep. "I'm not sure, I saw even less than you did."

Tadi hummed, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, head tilted slightly to the side. "We could ask the boys. They had the guiltiest looks I've ever seen on their faces when you'd gotten up."

Hakoda nodded. He'd gotten that glazed over look in his eyes again, staring at the boy in his bed, curled up beneath the thick cotton blanket, shivering like it wasn't hot enough to draw sweat on the back of Tadi's neck, the sun shining in from a small port window in the wall, landing directly on the child, lighting him in a rather ethereal yellow glow. His colour had regained steadily over the few weeks they'd had him on their boat, going from stark white—a pallor Tadi honestly didn't know could even happen to someone who wasn't already dead—to a slightly more familiar pale peach, the boys cheeks flushed with what was likely a residual fever and sunburn. Kustaa had worked genuine magic keeping the burn on his face clean, scraping away at the dead, burnt flesh with a sterilized cooking knife before he flushed it with a gentle pool of water from his bending. Thank La that the boy never woke up during the process.

"He's fire nation, you know." It was a stupid thing to say. Like pointing at a fish and saying it was aquatic. Hakoda knew, Tadi knew, Kustaa knew, the whole damn crew knew. The boys hair, short though it was, was a deep black, his face bearing the familiar features of the nations people, and the accented common tongue he spoke in was a dead giveaway.

Hakoda looked over at him, the sheen of memories he had been lost in before gone from his eyes. "Yes, Tadi, he is. I thought we were aware of this."

It was harsh, but deserved, he supposes. He winced anyways, less out of actual concern and more contractual obligation to saying something stupid and insensitive. "Right, sorry. Stupid thing to say. What I meant was; what do you want to do with him? I mean, clearly something... happened," he stumbled over his words slightly, cringing inwardly at the poor articulation, "there's no way no one's looking for him. He's a little boy, he probably fell overboard during that storm, or maybe his boat was intercepted. What happens if someone comes looking and finds him here." It wasn't phrased as a question, but his point got across anyways.

Hakoda exhaled slowly through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes flicked to the sleeping boy again—Reka—small and bundled in his blanket like a hatchling trying to retreat back into its shell. The firelight caught the edges of his hair and his damaged face, casting deep shadows across the hollow of his cheek and the smooth, untouched half of his brow. Even asleep, his body didn't relax fully. One hand was fisted tight in the blanket, knuckles pale with tension, and his legs remained curled close to his chest, like he couldn't bear to stretch out.

"I don't know," Hakoda said finally, voice low. "I've been asking myself the same thing since we pulled him from the water."

Tadi tilted his head toward him, arms still folded. "You think he's military?"

"No," Hakoda said instantly, but then hesitated, lips pressed together. "Or... not anymore. Not like we know it."

"You think he ran?"

"I think someone hurt him." Hakoda's tone was grim, final. "And I think it was someone his people wouldn't want us asking questions about."

That made Tadi go quiet.

For a while, the only sound in the room was the faint creak of the ship and the whisper of wind through the narrow window. Reka's breathing had evened out, but he still looked as if he might bolt at any sudden noise. Hakoda had seen animals do the same thing—creatures that were hurt so badly they couldn't trust the quiet either.

Eventually, Tadi spoke again, softer this time. "He's not gonna make it if we toss him to port. You know that, right? Whether someone's looking for him or not."

Hakoda nodded slowly. "I know."

Another silence stretched between them, but this one was easier. Weighted, but not suffocating.

Tadi pushed off the wall after a minute and knelt down beside the bed. He reached out with a rough hand, calloused fingers brushing against the boy's forehead—checking for fever more than anything else. Reka stirred slightly at the contact but didn't wake, a faint twitch pulling at the corner of his mouth. It might have been a grimace. Or something worse.

"Hot," Tadi muttered, retracting his hand. "But not as bad as before. He'll need more of the salve soon."

"I'll have Kustaa bring it up," Hakoda said, already moving toward the door.

But before he could reach for the latch, Tadi stopped him with a quiet word.

"Wait."

Hakoda turned.

Tadi's expression had shifted. Something cautious, something new edging his voice.

"You think he knows?" he asked. "That we know what he is?"

Hakoda paused. Thought. Then shook his head. "I don't think he knows what we are yet."

Tadi didn't ask what that meant. He didn't have to. There was enough weight in the look they exchanged to carry the rest of the sentence unsaid.

They were Water Tribe and Earth Kingdom Soldiers. They were warriors. And they were tired.

And the boy in their care—this burned, broken, half-starved scrap of a firebender—wasn't ready to know what that might mean.

Hakoda stepped back toward the bed and crouched again, this time letting his hand rest briefly on the boy's arm, just above the elbow. He didn't press or shake or try to wake him. Just a touch. A presence.

"I'm not going to ask you any questions tonight," he said, voice low, speaking more to the boy's subconscious than to any alert mind. "And I'm not going to send you away. Not yet. Not until I know you can stand."

Reka didn't respond. His eyes didn't even twitch beneath their lids.

But his fingers, still clenched in the blanket, loosened just a little.

Hakoda straightened and nodded to Tadi. "Stay with him. I'll find Kustaa."

Tadi nodded once and sat beside the bed in Hakoda's old chair, elbows on his knees.

Hakoda left without another word, the door whispering shut behind him.

In the quiet that followed, Tadi leaned back and let his head thump softly against the wall behind him. He glanced at the boy one last time.

"Sleep it off, little spark," he muttered. "We'll deal with the rest later."

 

The blanket beneath him was coarse wool, scratchy against his palms. It smelled faintly of salt and age and smoke—sweat, too, the lingering kind that soaked into fabric after long nights of labor. Zuko sat still in it, hunched slightly forward on the edge of the cot, his elbows resting on his knees. His fingers flexed unconsciously against the rough weave, though he didn't seem to feel it. His eyes had lost focus some time ago, gaze sunken into the wooden floorboards beneath his boots, tracking the seams between the planks without truly seeing them.

It wasn't cold, but his skin was clammy. His spine was damp beneath his tunic, his face slick with the kind of sweat that came after a crash rather than exertion. He didn't shiver. Not really. But his breath was shallow and tight in his chest, barely audible even in the quiet of the room.

Somewhere beyond the door, voices moved—muffled and indistinct. One of the men from earlier, maybe. Kustaa, he thought, though the name barely landed in his head. Someone else, too. It didn't matter. Their words were a distant, irrelevant murmur that might as well have been waves lapping at the underside of a ship.

The only other person in the room besides him was the man who had brought him there—Hakoda—and Tadi, still lingering near the doorway like a statue. Neither of them had spoken in some time. They'd offered him water once. A chair, too. He'd declined both. Or at least, he thought he had. Maybe he'd only looked away.

And still, they didn't press him.

That was the worst part.

Zuko wanted something to push back against. A demand. A raised voice. Someone to grab him by the collar and shake him until all the buzzing thoughts in his skull spilled out like gravel. That would be easier. He could take that. He was built for it. But this quiet... this patience—it left him weightless. Like he could just float away.

He didn't know how long he sat like that. A minute? Five? It could've been longer. The clock had stopped somewhere behind his eyes.

Then something changed.

A shift in the room—quiet, but distinct. Hakoda moved again, the floor creaking faintly beneath his steps as he crouched closer, no longer across the room but beside the cot. The sound barely registered, but Zuko's body reacted anyway. His shoulders tensed, the cords of his neck tightening instinctively as his head tilted just a little, like a dog tracking something it didn't trust.

But there was no threat. Just presence.

Hakoda didn't reach for him right away. He didn't fill the silence with questions. He waited. Then, finally, his voice came low and level, softened with something Zuko didn't have a name for.

"You're not alright," he said.

It wasn't a question.

Zuko didn't answer.

His fingers tightened against the blanket, gripping harder now without realizing it.

"I'm not going to force you to talk," Hakoda continued, gently. "But I need to know something."

Zuko didn't look at him. His eyes had begun to burn, a slow ache building behind them, but the tears never came. He swallowed, throat dry and thick.

Then Hakoda said the name again. Not Zuko. Not Prince. Not boy.

"Reka."

The sound of it felt strange in his ears—too familiar now, somehow, like something worn in rather than borrowed. Something people had said to him more often in the past few weeks than his own name had been used in years. It was a false name. A thin skin. But when Hakoda said it like that—steady, quiet, not pitying—it still struck something inside him.

"Reka," he said again, and this time he placed a hand on Zuko's arm.

The contact wasn't forceful. It wasn't even particularly warm. But it was real. It grounded him. The weight of it pulled Zuko out of the fog like a rope tossed into water.

He flinched—not away, but inward. His breath hitched, and for the first time since sitting down, he looked up. His gaze met Hakoda's, and the rest of the room blurred away.

The man's eyes were dark, warm brown. Clear. Watchful. Not judgmental. Not angry. Just steady.

Zuko's lips parted slightly. His throat worked around a word that refused to come. Beneath him, the blanket twisted in his hands, damp from the sweat on his palms.

"I'm..." he tried, and then stopped, biting the inside of his cheek. His voice felt foreign in his mouth, brittle and raw. He tried again. "I didn't mean to—"

Hakoda shook his head slowly, calm.

"You don't have to explain," he said, and his voice was even softer now. "Not right now."

Behind them, Tadi shifted—just enough to remind Zuko that he was still there—but said nothing. He hadn't spoken once since they entered the room. A sentinel. A silent shield.

"I just need to know," Hakoda said, his voice a low thread. "Are you hurt?"

Zuko blinked at him, confused for a moment by the simplicity of the question. Was he hurt?

He glanced down at his body like he expected the answer to be written there. His legs ached. His ribs throbbed faintly from something earlier—he couldn't even remember what. His arms were scraped. His skin was too hot. But none of it felt like pain. None of it felt real.

"I don't..." He struggled, the words sticking in his teeth. "I don't know."

Hakoda gave a small nod, accepting it.

"Alright."

A pause followed, longer this time. Then, with the same quiet patience, Hakoda spoke again.

"Will you let us take care of you for a little while?"

The question should have felt heavy. Zuko should have recoiled from it, resisted the implication. But he didn't. His hands trembled now, openly. His jaw clenched, not from defiance, but the effort of staying still.

He didn't say yes.

But he didn't say no, either.

Hakoda watched him for another breath, then rose without a word. He looked to Tadi and gave him a small nod—an unspoken cue. Tadi moved to open the door.

Through the narrow gap, Hakoda said something low, quiet enough that Zuko didn't catch the words. Not long after, a familiar voice came floatingup from the hallway—Kustaa's, faint and concerned.

Zuko let his eyes close.

He didn't speak.

He didn't run.

And for the first time in a very long time, no one made him.

Notes:

Tysm for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated<3

Tws/Cws: Graphic depictions/descriptions of a nearly 4th degree burn wound, wound cleaning, minimally foul language
If I missed anything please lmk!

 

I looked up what fourth degree burns looked like for this. Guys. Don't do it. I thought I'd seen it all in my line of work. Holy fucking shit, I might be being dramatic but I don't think I ever want to see that again. Zuko had every right to crash out the way he did.

Also, fun fact, eyeballs cannot melt. They're made of organic matter and water mostly so whilst your corneal nerve can "melt" in a way, but the eyeball will more likely dry up and "explode" rather than melt like wax. (Yes, I looked this up. No, I am not alright.)

Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! I love seeing all of your comments, so a big shout out and thank you to everyone who’s taken the time to say something nice and for those of you that have been following this fic since it started! I do my best to respond to everyone. It’s a big project for me, and honestly it’s a miracle I haven’t given up on it yet, but the inner history nerd in me is squealing<3

Can y’all tell if Zuko is small yet? I don’t know if I got it across enough.

 

Quick little roster on our new faces:
Water Tribes: Panuk, Toklo, Kustaa, Tadi, and Hakoda
Earth Kingdom Soldiers: Ruhon
Fire Nation: Zuko (fake name: Reka)

Tadi is from the Water Tribes, sorry, I mixed him up with a future character who’s from the Earth Kingdom (they’ve got very similar names). I don’t think it says too much about him being from either culture, but in case people got confused I wanted to preface here.

Chapter 6: 5

Summary:

A small interlude where we find out Zuko still has some… issues.

Thank you so much for 310 kudos!! 🫶

Notes:

Beauty standards of the ancient Chinese Ming Dynasty and ancient Japan!!
(Sort of an explanation as to why I’m really pushing the whole “Zuko is very small” thing)

While there were distinct differences in the specific markers of beauty in Ming Dynasty China and Muromachi Period Japan (around the same time as the Ming Dynasty), a common thread was a tendency towards idealizing a more delicate or refined aesthetic for princes and young male royals, contrasting with the more overtly masculine ideals that might be expected for military leaders or warriors. In China, this involved an emphasis on slender figures, fair complexions, and features that conveyed refinement rather than ruggedness. Young princes were trained in calligraphy, poetry, and other scholarly arts, skills that were seen to embody this more "gentle" ideal of masculinity. Similarly, in Japan, while men were admired for their martial prowess, the aristocratic aesthetic, particularly within the court, valued a graceful appearance, according to Wikipedia. This could involve using cosmetics like the white face powder (oshiroi), and even the teeth-blackening practice of ohaguro, normally associated with women, to enhance a refined look, especially for younger princes and nobles. This suggests that in both cultures, for those holding positions of power and privilege, a degree of physical delicacy or a refined presentation wasn't necessarily at odds with their status, but rather a cultivated symbol of their upbringing and position within the court.

 

Across cultures and continents, hair ornaments have transcended simple adornment to become powerful symbols of identity, status, and belief systems. In ancient China, hairpins (zan and chai) were integral to daily wear for both men and women, serving to secure hair buns while simultaneously signifying the wearer's social standing. Commoners often wore hairpins made of materials like thorns, while the elite donned intricate pieces crafted from precious materials such as gold, silver, and jade. The Ji Li ceremony, where women wore hairpins and styled their hair into buns upon turning fifteen, marked their transition into adulthood and marriageability. Hairpins were also imbued with sentimental meaning, acting as tokens of love and commitment, sometimes split between lovers as a pledge of reunion. Crowns (guan) served a similar purpose for men, denoting status and participating in a corresponding coming-of-age ritual.
Similarly, in ancient Japan, kanzashi encompassed a diverse range of hair ornaments, including pins, combs (kushi), and decorative elements like fabric flowers. Their origins trace back to the Jomon period, where simple wooden hairpins were believed to ward off evil. Over time, influenced by Chinese culture, more elaborate kanzashi made of metals like gold and silver emerged in the 8th century. The Edo period saw a surge in kanzashi popularity, becoming intricate reflections of social status and changing hairstyles, particularly amongst women. For maiko (apprentice geisha) and geisha, the style and quantity of kanzashi indicated their seniority and position within the geisha district. Kanzashi also carried symbolic weight, with specific colors and motifs conveying meanings related to marital status, age, or occupation. Red and gold, for instance, were associated with brides or married women, while flowers like the cherry blossom symbolized beauty, and chrysanthemums represented longevity. These motifs, alongside Dragons representing power, further enrich the symbolic language of kanzashi.
While both Chinese and Japanese cultures utilized hair ornaments for social distinction, personal expression, and as tokens in relationships, some notable distinctions exist. Chinese hairpins, especially the more elaborate buyao, often featured dangling elements and elaborate carvings on materials like jade and ivory. Wikipedia states that the buyao's movement, or "shake as you go," is a key characteristic. In contrast, Japanese kanzashi became renowned for their exquisite silk flower artistry (tsumami kanzashi) and seasonal variations. Additionally, while Chinese hairpins were primarily used for securing styles, the Japanese also integrated kanzashi into rituals and formal ceremonies, aligning them with seasonal changes. Despite these differences, the common thread running through these traditions is the deep cultural significance placed on hair ornaments as extensions of identity and expressions of cultural values.

(Fair note, Wikipedia is not always a reliable source for information, however most of the historically led pages are monitored heavily by actual historians and scientists, so it is usually accurate. I also cross reference with several other sources to not only bring in more information, but to also fact check. Stay aware and continue your researching!!)

 

Tws/Cws will be at the end, as always. Enjoy! (Please read the end notes)

Kustaa was sat in his desk chair, a nearly suffocating heat enveloping the room as he tried to rewrap the bandages on Tadi's arms. The cotton fabric had been chafing and collecting sweat like a sponge in the heat recently and it had been causing problems to the delicate skin. Burn wounds are dangerous, especially on a boat like this, the skin barrier wasn't able to retain water very well, which made the constant sweating from work in the hot sun especially dangerous for him.

He tied a loose knot with the tails of the bandage for the fourth time, leaving enough slack for it to be untied easily should he need to wrap it once more. "I don't want it too loose, I can see your skin going taut and that's not good. I shouldn't be able to see that," he said bluntly, looking up from his work into the tired eyes of the sailor.

Tadi sighed, sinking back into the hammock he was on, resting his head against the wall. A thin sheen of sweat was already beading onto his forehead, despite having swiped it away not two minutes ago. "It feels fine, Kustaa."

Kustaa scoffed, carefully snatching his wrist and pulling until Tadi came forward again, allowing him to get a better view of the limb. He prodded carefully at the junction of his elbow, using his other hand to adjust the position of the arm as he poked around, testing the movement. "Any tightness when I move your arm like this?" He asked without looking up.

Tadi shook his head, but a barely there wince had Kustaa looking up at him with a blank expression.

"Just a little on my forearm..."

Kustaa clicked his tongue, resuming his inspections, ending at the mans fingers. He carefully manipulated them back and forth, paying special attention to the digits that seemed to curl in on themselves more or stick stiff when he tried to straighten them out.

"Kustaa..."

He hummed, not glancing up.

Is it gonna stay like this?"

The healer didn't answer immediately. Instead, he rotated Tadi's wrist once more and gently tapped the pads of his fingers. "Grip my hand," he instructed, offering his own, calloused and warm.

Tadi obeyed. His grip was weak, unbalanced—the last two fingers hardly moved.

Kustaa exhaled slowly through his nose. "If it does... you'll adapt. I've seen worse hands make knots tighter than yours ever did before." He gave the man a small, dry smile, a poor attempt at comfort, and released his hand.

Tadi didn't look at him. He turned his face toward the wall again, breathing slow and heavy like he was bracing for something. Maybe he was. Kustaa didn't press.

Instead, he stood and moved to the sideboard where his salves were kept. He opened a ceramic jar of thick white paste and stirred it with two fingers. The moment he turned, he froze. 

Tadi hadn't sat up, he hadn't even looked away from the spot on the wall he was trying to stare at hole into. "The boy... he's not a commoners son."

Kustaa exhaled through his nose, observing the slow rise and fall of Tadi's chest, the sharp curve of tension in his shoulders. The man still hadn't looked at him, hadn't moved—just kept staring at that one blank stretch of wall like it might offer absolution or a different outcome if he glared hard enough.

"He said his name was Reka." Kustaa kept his voice even, low.

Tadi nodded faintly. "Doesn't matter what name he gives. I've seen boys like that. Watched them walk into rooms like they'd already memorized every exit. Always looking, always listening. His hands aren't soft, but they've held more metal than rope. And he doesn't speak like he was raised anywhere near salt or sweat. Not really."

Kustaa wiped his fingers off on a clean cloth and returned to the hammock, lowering himself into the chair beside it with a slow groan. He stared for a moment at the bandaged arms he'd just tended, then let his gaze shift back to Tadi's profile. The man's jaw was set in stone. Whatever had prompted this moment—it had been brewing for a while.

"Then what is he?" Kustaa asked, quietly.

Tadi's mouth pulled into something grim. "Highborn. Or was. You don't learn how to use silence like that unless you've been punished for speaking wrong." He finally turned his head, gaze pinning Kustaa's like a weight. "And he's hiding. Not running. There's a difference."

The room went still. Even the oppressive heat seemed to stall.

Kustaa studied him a long time, brow furrowing in the quiet. "So what do you want me to do?"

Tadi shook his head slowly. "Nothing. Just..." He looked down at his ruined hands. "Just don't treat him like you treat the rest of us. He's dangerous. Not in the way Hakoda thinks. Not with a knife or fists."

Kustaa leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees. His voice dropped even lower. "You think he's going to hurt someone?"

Tadi finally met his eyes again. "I think he already has."

Kustaa's jaw tightened, but he didn't speak.

"I think whatever he's run from, it's worse than anything we've done." Tadi's voice was like stone smoothed down by wind—quiet, but implacable. "And I think if he's still alive, it's not because someone let him go."

There was nothing left to say. The heat pressed down on them both, making the silence dense.

Kustaa eventually stood again, stretching out the stiffness in his back as he gave a final glance toward the door. "Then I'll keep my eye on him."

Tadi didn't reply.

Kustaa left him there in the sweltering heat, arms bandaged and face turned to the wall, and stepped out into the corridor. The boy—Reka, or whatever his name really was—was trouble. Not because of what he'd done. But because of what still might come looking for him, if what Tadi said was true.

 

"No, like this, don't wrap it like that or it'll come loose the moment you let go."

Zuko was crowded between two bodies, jostled around as he involuntarily moved with them. They were along the back edge of the boat, not close enough to the side walls to pose a danger of falling overboard, but they were close enough he could still feel the spray of the waves crashing into the wood splash onto his face. Toklo and Panuk, the same two boys who had been tormenting him in the dining hall, had swiped him up the second Hakoda had taken his eyes off him, ushering him away and up to the deck of the ship where they practically hid him behind some barrels as they "worked." Mostly, they were just trying to teach him how to tie a knot for the masts.

Zuko grimaced as the rough material rubbed a red patch onto his wrist, letting it slide just loose enough that it slipped into his palm instead. Toklo had his hand wrapped around Zuko's elbow, tugging faintly as he tried to keep the boys attention. Panuk just kept nudging him with his hip, which almost knocked him over more often than not considering their difference in heights and weight.

He didn't want to do this anymore. It was hot, and his was sweating bullets beneath the thin shirt he'd been lended by Kustaa. Sweat and grime stuck to his skin in a tacky layer, the salty, humid air making his lungs ache every time in inhaled. He really wanted to go back down into the belly of the ship, somewhere beneath the water level so it'd at least be a little bit cooler. He'd even tried slipping away a few times, but the older boys had tugged him back when they saw someone coming, hushing him and saying they'd get in trouble if they were found. He didn't really believe them, but he'd stayed anyways, feigning what might've been fear, might've been apprehension, but it came off more as irritation than anything. If either of them noticed, they didn't seem to care.

Finally, Toklo took the rope away from him, letting his hands fall to his sides as he watched the older boy manipulate the rope quickly into a solid looking knot, wrapping it around a metal bar that was stuck on the wall. "This isn't getting anywhere," he mused, turning back to Zuko and Panuk when he was done.

Zuko let out a small breath, relieved at the fact that they were finally done tormenting him and he'd be able to slip back down into the ship and lay down somewhere. Maybe Kustaa would let him stay in his cabin if he said he wasn't feeling well? It wouldn't exactly be a lie, his head was beginning to ache and his stomach was rolling with the movements of the ship.

Toklo didn't move out of the way, though. Neither did Panuk. In fact, both of them just sort of... lingered, glancing at each other with some silent exchange Zuko didn't have the energy—or the desire—to interpret. The wind tugged at his hair, blowing it into his eyes, and he raised a hand to push it back with a tight, breathless exhale. Maybe if he didn't say anything, they'd finally scatter. Maybe—

"You don't know how to do this kind of thing, do you?" Toklo said suddenly, though his voice lacked the mocking edge Zuko had started to associate with it. His tone wasn't soft, but it was quieter now, curious instead of cruel.

Zuko didn't answer. He just blinked at him.

Panuk snorted. "Reka's never tied a sail in his life. Bet he's never even used sinew string, not proper anyway."

Zuko's gaze flicked to him, and then back down to his hands. They were red across the knuckles, chapped from the salty air and the scratch of rope fibers. He wanted to say something—something sharp, something defensive—but nothing came. He was too tired to lie, and he didn't want to give them the satisfaction of trying.

"Guess we gotta start small, huh?" Toklo grinned, but not unkindly. He turned away, digging into the small woven pouch at his hip, and emerged with a curled length of twine, stained a dull brown-red. Alongside it, in his other palm, were a few small carved beads, their surface smoothed with wear, some colored with faded paint, others etched with lines or symbols Zuko didn't recognize.

Panuk crouched beside a nearby crate and fished out something similar from his own belt. "Don't roll your eyes, this is important," he warned as he saw the way Zuko's face twitched, already halfway to a grimace. "They're not just for looks. These're for—y'know. Showing who your people are. Your family. What you been through."

Toklo sat cross-legged and motioned to the space between them. "Sit. Don't be stiff about it. You keep lookin' like that and the elders'll think we've been picking on you again."

Zuko hesitated, torn between annoyance and something warier, something deeper. But his legs were already aching from standing, and honestly, what was the worst that could happen? Another few beads? A lecture? He sat.

"See this one?" Panuk leaned over, holding up a rounded bead, almost flat, with three diagonal lines running across the center. "That's for when I killed my first seal. My uncle carved it."

"And this," Toklo said, threading a pale yellow bead onto the twine, "is from when my sister gave birth. All of us kids got one. Means we're part of that line now. Not blood, but... still."

Zuko's brows drew inward slightly. He stared at the beads as they moved—clicking softly, catching the light in dull glints of bone and ivory and old paint. They were worn smooth with age and touch, with stories that ran deeper than color or shape. They were more than just decoration.

He thought, suddenly and with a pang so quick it felt like nausea, of the hairpins his mother used to slide into his bun when he was young.

Not the ornate ones—they had those, too. Golden dragons with red jade eyes, phoenixes with moving wings. They had been for ceremony, for performance, for visibility. They marked him as a prince, and he had worn them like armor once. But those weren't the ones that lingered.

It was the simpler ones he remembered. The bone or horn pins shaped like clouds or cranes. The delicate wooden kanzashi-style pieces his mother had ordered from far provinces, carved into flower petals and dyed with natural pigments—cherry blossoms in spring, plum in winter. Sometimes, she would place a single one in his topknot before court, murmuring that he looked too serious for his age and needed softening.

He hadn't thought of those in a long time.

Hairpins, like these beads, had carried meaning where he came from, too. In the Fire Nation, a child's first ornament marked their status and place in the family. At fifteen, boys would be granted their guan—elaborate headpieces or pins made of jade or gold, to signal their coming of age. For girls, it was the Ji Li, the hairpin ceremony, where their locks were twisted up for the first time and fixed with a zan, marking their eligibility for courtship and adulthood. These things mattered. They held stories. They defined status, lineage, history—identity.

He'd lost all of his.

Some to fire, some to politics, most to time. The last hairpin he remembered wearing was one his mother had tucked into his hair the night before she disappeared. It had been small, curved like a crescent moon, smooth and plain. He couldn't recall what she'd said, only that her hands had trembled.

Now his hair was tied with rough twine. No jade. No ivory. No place to come from, no place to return to.

But here, on this ship full of strangers who didn't even know his name, someone was handing him a bead. A piece of bone with no markings. A beginning, not a conclusion.

"We make 'em for all sorts of things," Toklo added. "Hunts. Journeys. First storms. Sometimes even when someone dies, if they were important. You carve, you color, you tell the story. Then you wear it, or give it to someone who should remember it too."

Panuk reached into the pouch again and pulled out another—dark, almost black, with what looked like burn marks on one side. "Got this after a storm capsized our kayak. My cousin drowned. I was twelve."

Zuko's throat bobbed. He looked down at his own wrists—bare, save for the raw scrape of rope burn and the fine scar lines he'd long since stopped trying to hide. He'd never worn beads. Not like this. Not with meaning.

Toklo nudged him, holding out one of the plain ones—just a sliver of bone, cleanly carved, with no markings on its face.

"Here," he said. "You don't gotta tell us anything. Just carve something later. Whatever matters. If it doesn't mean anything, don't keep it."

Panuk shrugged beside him. "Doesn't have to be big. Could be your first day on a boat, or your first punch thrown, or—" he grinned, "—your first time getting tied into a knot by two better sailors."

Zuko didn't take it at first. He stared at the bead resting in Toklo's palm like it was fragile—like it would shatter if he touched it wrong. But then, slowly, he reached out and took it, turning it over once between his fingers. It was small. Light. Nothing special to look at.

But it was real.

And they had given it to him.

 

Later that evening, Zuko was huddled against the corner, tucked beneath the swaying hammocks in Kustaa's cabin, rolling the little bone bead around in his fingers, letting it drop into his palm occasionally before he plucked it back up to observe the smooth, blank surface. Panuk had told him to carve something into it for himself, something meaningful to him, something that mattered.

He could think of a few things that mattered to him; his mother, his sister back when she cared more about what they'd play in the garden that day than what their father had said about him, the palace tiger-wolfs that followed after the guards stationed at the front gates, the messenger hawks up in the aviary, the turtle-ducks from the pond in the garden. He liked all of these things, the way the tiger-wolfs soft fur felt between his fingers when the guard turned a blind eye to Zuko petting it, the funny noises the turtle-ducks would make when he got too close to their nests, the flowery scent of his mothers perfume when he sat on her lap.

But what did they mean to him?

Toklo said that the beads had to have meaning, otherwise he should just throw the bead away. Zuko, despite himself, really wanted to keep it. He wanted it to have meaning, he wanted to have a reason to keep it.

He looked up at the sound of the door opening, the swollen wood scraping against the floor of the cabin and the hinges squeaking from the salty air. Kustaa walked in, a small bowl clutched in his hand as he pushed the door close behind him. He gave Zuko a brief look, no more than a second, before he turned and made his way over to his desk, setting the bowl down and sitting in the chair sitting lopsided against the wall.

The light in the cabin had dimmed considerably with the setting sun, and only the flickering of a single oil lamp lit the cramped space now, throwing long, jerky shadows along the planked walls. Zuko kept the bead nestled in his palm, his fingers curled around it protectively, like it might disappear if he let it go too long. Kustaa didn't say anything right away—just rolled his sleeves to the elbows and reached for a spoon he kept tucked into a drawer beneath a stack of rolled charts.

The smell from the bowl was strong: salted fish, mashed roots, maybe some wild greens they'd gathered onshore days ago. Zuko's stomach curled—not from disgust but from hunger—and he sat up a little straighter, blinking against the heaviness pulling at his limbs.

Kustaa stirred the bowl slowly, methodically, like he was waiting for something to come to him. After a beat, he said, "You're still holding onto that thing, huh?"

Zuko flinched slightly, though he didn't know why. He looked down at the bead in his hand, then back up at the man. "Panuk said I should carve something in it. But I don't know what." His voice was rough, scratchy and quiet in the near silence of the room.

Kustaa nodded slowly, letting the spoon clink against the rim of the bowl as he leaned back in his chair. The legs creaked, and the back thudded softly against the wall. "Don't rush it. You'll know when you know. That's the point of it, I think."

Zuko frowned. "But what if I don't ever know? Toklo said if it doesn't mean anything, I shouldn't keep it."

Kustaa's eyes flicked to him, steady and unreadable. "Toklo talks too much."

Zuko snorted softly, then went quiet again. He stared at the bead, turning it slowly. The blank surface caught the low light, gleaming like the inside of a shell. "What did you carve into yours?"

Kustaa didn't answer right away. Instead, he stood, walked over to the shelf near the door, and pulled down a strip of thick cord. He turned it over in his hands before stepping back into the center of the room. With a small grunt, he crouched beside where Zuko was sitting.

The beads on Kustaa's necklace were weathered and uneven, strung with little care for symmetry. Some had cracks through the middle, others had dark stains or chips along the edges. He turned one between his fingers—a square-ish one with a jagged carving etched into the surface. It looked like a wave, though a rough one, as if the sea had been drawn in anger.

"This one's for my brother," he said simply. "He drowned when I was still young. Thought I'd forget him. Carved this the day I realized I hadn't."

Zuko's fingers closed tighter around the bead in his own hand. "And the others?"

"Some are people. Some are places." He shrugged. "One's for the first ship I ever sailed on. Sank like a rock in a storm two months later. Still, it mattered."

They sat in silence for a moment. The boat rocked gently beneath them, and somewhere up above, Zuko could hear the soft clatter of footsteps across the deck and the distant creak of ropes shifting. The bead in his hand suddenly felt heavier, as if it were already full of something—of memory, maybe, or longing.

"Do you think it's stupid?" he asked after a while. "Wanting it to mean something even if I don't know what yet?"

Kustaa snorted. "You think anyone carves these knowing what anything means when they start? No one knows anything, Reka. Not really. We just... try. And if you're trying, that's reason enough to keep it."

Zuko nodded slowly, eyes drifting down to the pale little bead again. His fingers twitched.

Maybe he didn't know what to carve into it yet. Maybe it wasn't time. But he was sure, now, that he would know. Eventually.

And when he did, he'd still be holding onto it.

 

Hakoda felt rushed.

They'd been nearing a port for days now, somewhere they could theoretically dock safely—had before—and exit landwards to scour the markets, selling, trading, buying, whatever they needed to do. La knows they needed to, the men were getting restless, egging on the arguments until they developed into full on fights that Hakoda had to diffuse because no one else felt like bothering anymore. The ship also needed repairs. They needed to pick up more needles, the ones they'd brought were starting to chip and break, dried out from the salty air and dull with overuse, they had nearly three sails now with holes that were growing steadily bigger.

The only issue with stopping is the fact that they have no idea if the port town is secure anymore. They hadn't kept contact with anyone there like they usually did with the larger ones, hadn't bothered at the time because they were naive and thought it was too small for the Fire Nation to bother with. It was stupid, looking back on it, anything close to the water would be valuable to their troops.

There were a few small islands scattered between them and the next port over, but they were sparse and barely notable enough to even make it onto the map itself. The next port after was guaranteed to be safe at the moment, but it was at least a three weeks journey. It would be another poorly constructed gamble if the crew would make it long enough to get there.

He ran his hand through his hair, straightening slightly when he heard a quick knock at his door.

Ruhon walked in, not waiting for Hakoda to say anything before he did so. "The port," he said, no question following.

"The port," Hakoda parroted.

Ruhon sighed, a small smile made its way onto his face, belying any irritation that might've been there. "Are we stopping? It's all the others are talking about, it's driving me crazy. You can't get through a single conversation without someone brining it up." Ruhon walked forward as he spoke, hoisting himself onto the edge of the desk and crossing his ankles, his shoulders hunched up close to his ears as he braced himself on the desk.

Hakoda smiled at the familiar scene, leaning his head against his fist. Ruhon had been one of his closest friends since he could remember—that was a lie, they'd known each other for maybe four years at this point. They'd met during a diplomatic meeting between the ambassador of the Earth Kingdom at the time and the Southern Water Tribe. The meeting itself had been anything but stiff, so within the four days leading to them departing again many of the Earth Kingdomer's and the Tribes people had mingled together. Ruhon had been a pain in Hakoda's ass even then—loud, too forward, nosy in a way that wasn't quite rude, just relentless. But in a strange way, Hakoda had come to rely on it. Especially now.

He exhaled heavily and let the smile drop, rubbing at the side of his face. "I don't know," he admitted, voice low. "It's a risk either way. You know the state of the sails, the needles, the—hell, the men, for that matter. But if the Fire Nation's taken that port, or even just sniffed around recently..."

"Then we walk into a trap," Ruhon finished for him. "Yeah. I figured."

They sat in silence for a moment. The ship creaked faintly around them, the low groan of wood shifting beneath wind and waves. Through the open window, the sea stretched wide and sunlit—beautiful, if you didn't know how cruel it could be.

Ruhon shifted, leaned forward to fold his arms over his knees. "You remember that village a few months back? Little fishing dock off the west cape?"

Hakoda nodded. He remembered. They'd been welcomed like heroes there—fed, given fresh water, even traded a few pelts and beads for properly dyed cloth and some kind of fruit liquor. And then a week later, the village had been reduced to ash. Scouts had seen the smoke from miles out.

"Same gamble," Ruhon said. "Could be safe. Could be dust by now."

"But we can't afford to keep floating like this," Hakoda muttered. "We're almost out of salt-dried meat. Spirits, some of the younger ones are patching their shoes with sail cloth. Sail cloth, Ruhon."

The other man let out a soft laugh. "Resourceful."

"Desperate," Hakoda corrected, dragging his hand down his face. Hakoda's smile faded slowly, thoughts tugging him back down into the weight of the present.

Ruhon's presence always steadied him. Something about his calm, dry humor and the way he was unbothered by the tides of others' moods—it made him easier to be around than most of the men on board lately. Especially now. The air on the ship felt like it might spark from tension alone. Even Hakoda found himself short with the crew more than he liked, and he wasn't sure how much of it was the looming port, or the boy still tucked away in the back of his mind like a pebble in his boot. He'd been quiet since they'd pulled him in. Too quiet. Kustaa said he needed rest, but something about the silence felt unnatural. Unsettling.

"We could wait," Ruhon offered, still perched on the edge of the desk, fingers idly drumming against the wood. "Double back, take the long route around. Safer. Less chance of getting caught with our pants down."

Hakoda gave a short huff of a laugh, low and humorless. "We'd run out of food before we made it halfway. Half the crew is down to two changes of clothes, and we've got enough thread left to stitch one man's shirt. Maybe. Not to mention the sails, or the ropes, or the cracked hull, or the kid with the busted face and ribs who Kustaa thinks is gonna keel over before nightfall if we don't make port and let him do his job properly."

That silenced Ruhon for a moment. His brows furrowed, fingers pausing mid-tap.

"The Fire Nation's probably already razed the place."

"Probably."

Another silence.

Then Ruhon exhaled, rubbing the heel of one hand over his face. "Shit. Alright. So we gamble."

"We gamble," Hakoda confirmed quietly. He reached for the map on the table between them, spreading it out again, tracing their course with his finger. "We head in slow. Eyes sharp. If it looks like they've taken it, we veer off. If not..." He let the sentence trail.

Ruhon nodded, unfolding himself from the desk and clapping Hakoda once on the shoulder. "I'll tell the others."

But before he could reach the door, another knock sounded—sharper this time. A beat, then the door cracked open and one of the younger crew members poked his head in. He looked jittery, hands wringing at the hem of his shirt.

"Sorry, sir, but... it's the kid. Reka. Kustaa's askin' for you."

Hakoda stood instantly. "What happened?"

"He's awake, I think. But not really... there. Kustaa says he's not responding right. Might be fevered."

Ruhon was already moving out the door, Hakoda behind him in a blur of footfalls and rising tension. They made their way down the corridor quickly, passing crewmen who turned to glance at them but didn't speak. Word always traveled fast on a ship, especially about the strange boy with the scarred face and sullen silence.

Kustaa's makeshift infirmary was little more than a cleaned-out side cabin, but the healer had made it his own with meticulous organization and a few herbs strung up to dry near the ceiling. It smelled faintly of sea salt, old wood, and medicinal bark.

Reka was lying on the cot in the corner, eyes half-lidded but open. He didn't flinch when they entered, didn't track them with his gaze, just stared through the space where the wooden wall met the floor. His brow was slick with sweat, hair damp and sticking to his temples. His chest rose and fell shallowly beneath the too-thin blanket.

"He's burning up," Kustaa said from where he stood by the water basin, wringing out a cloth. "And he's not speaking anymore. Stopped talking to me randomly about an hour ago, I thought he'd just gotten tired or he didn't want to speak anymore. I don't know if it's shock or fever, but something's not right."

Hakoda stepped closer, crouching beside the cot. "Reka?"

Nothing.

"Reka, can you hear me?"

Still nothing. But his fingers twitched—just once. A flicker of something passing behind those half-shut eyes.

Hakoda exhaled, steadying his own nerves. Then, gently, he reached beneath the boy's shoulders and knees, lifting him carefully. He weighed less than he should've—bone and heat and silence bundled in rough blankets and old clothes.

"Where are you taking him?" Kustaa asked, not accusing, just curious.

"My quarters. I want to keep an eye on him."

Ruhon raised a brow but said nothing.

Hakoda didn't wait for further conversation. He nodded once, adjusting his grip on the boy, and stepped out of the infirmary, heading down the narrow hall toward his cabin with careful, steady steps.

 

They'd sat around fire pits in the open air, drank the fermented palm wine the Earth Kingdomers had brought with them in great clay jugs, swapping stories and laughing at poorly translated jokes until their cheeks hurt. Ruhon had been one of the youngest among them, a wiry man with a sharp tongue and a perpetual sunburn that he claimed was part of his "uniform." He hadn't been meant to attend at all—he'd been a scribe's apprentice who got pulled along last-minute when someone fell sick. By the time they left, Hakoda had shared a tent with him twice and gotten into an impromptu wrestling match that ended with them both in the ocean.

Now, years later, they moved like currents around each other. Easy. Familiar. Trusted.

Hakoda sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose, letting the silence settle between them like salt mist.

"We have to stop," he said finally.

Ruhon didn't move, but something in the line of his shoulders eased. "You're sure?"

"No," Hakoda admitted. "But it's either three weeks of sailing with half a crew fit to kill each other, or two days of uncertainty on land." He paused for a second, eyes wandering over to the little bundle curled up on his cot. “And I’m not sure how long he can make it if we don’t.

Ruhon nodded slowly, rubbing his palms on the knees of his trousers, glancing at the small boy as well. "We'll keep watch, same as usual. No uniforms, no water tribe colors. No speaking unless spoken to. We'll treat it like it's hostile until we know it isn't."

Hakoda's mouth twisted into something close to a smile. "You've been paying attention."

"I like my skin unburned, thanks." Ruhon hopped down from the desk. "I'll tell the others. Quietly."

He made it halfway to the door before Hakoda spoke again, quieter this time. "Bring Tualik. I want her eyes on the eastern cliffs as we approach. She sees things we miss."

Ruhon paused only a second before nodding. "Done."

And then the door shut behind him with a soft click, and Hakoda was left alone in his office once again, surrounded by maps and tide charts and the low creak of a ship growing older by the minute.

Notes:

Tysm for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated<3

Tws/Cws: Minor swearing
I think that’s it, if I missed anything please lmk!

The next chapter will be much longer than the last few, I promise, I just decided to use this as a smaller work through chapter before we got into the meat of it!
Poor Zuko, he can never catch a break…

Circumpolar Inuit tribes beadwork
Historically, Inuit tribes adorned their hair with beads made from a variety of natural materials readily available in the Arctic environment. These included carved bones and stones, shells, animal teeth, fish vertebrae and even parts of fish skeletons. With the advent of trade with European and Asian merchants, new materials were introduced, including vibrant glass beads, known as sungaujait. The Inuit Art Foundation notes that glass sungaujait were seamlessly integrated into Inuit artistic and cultural practices, becoming popular not only for hair adornment but also for embellishing clothing like amautiit (parkas) and creating items like beaded bags.

Beyond their aesthetic appeal, these beads held significant cultural and spiritual meaning. They were a form of self-expression and cultural identity, reflecting familial beliefs and community affiliation. Some sources suggest that beading patterns on clothing, particularly on amautiit, may have even referenced traditional Inuit tattooing practices. Furthermore, beads were believed to possess spiritual importance, providing protection, guidance, and good fortune, while simultaneously warding off negative energies or evil spirits. While information about specific social status indicators associated with hair adornments is limited, it is plausible that these ornaments could have played a role in signifying an individual's standing or role within the community. The practice of braiding and adorning hair with beads was a cherished tradition, representing beauty, power, and resilience, and serving as a tangible connection to ancestors and cultural heritage.

Beadwork in the ALTA Water Tribes:
Beyond mere adornment, the colors and designs in Inuit-inspired beadwork carry significant cultural meaning. The predominant colors in Water Tribe-influenced beadwork, blue and white, reflect their intimate connection to their environment. Blue can symbolize the vastness of the water and sky, while also representing wisdom, intuition, and even a nurturing, gentle strength. White, reminiscent of snow and ice, can signify purity, peace, and new beginnings. Yellow, if incorporated, could represent the warmth and hope associated with the sun, light, and traditional knowledge.

Geometric patterns commonly found in beadwork are not simply decorative, they often represent elements of the natural world and spiritual beliefs. Circles, for instance, can symbolize the interconnectedness of life, community, and the cyclical nature of existence. Zigzag patterns may represent the flow of water, lightning, or the journey of life itself. Animal motifs, particularly if carved from natural materials like bone or stone, also hold profound meaning. The polar bear, for example, represents strength, resilience, and survival in the harsh Arctic environment, reflecting the Water Tribe's enduring spirit. The raven, a creature often seen as a messenger and a figure of transformation in Indigenous cultures, could also be a potent symbol in beadwork. These elements, from the choice of colors to the intricate designs, are interwoven with the cultural fabric and values of the Water Tribes, creating a meaningful language of their own within their adornment practices.

 

I did a lot of research to attempt to write this chapter in a way that was not only historically accurate to the time and location, but also to just be respectful of the culture. If I got anything incorrect, or I said anything that was disrespectful please correct me in the comments, and if you can, tell me how I can fix it. I am not apart of either of these cultures and I want to be respectful and honest about everything I am writing about.
I recognize that I might not be suited to speak about some things regarding culture in this fic, so if there is anything I shouldn't be writing about or bringing up (whether it be in my little ted talks about cultural things I put at the beginning of some chapters or the story itself) please let me know so I can work it out of this fic. I love learning about these things, and I'm striving to keep it accurate, respectful, and well developed so that I am not being bigoted or wrong about anything I write about.

Chapter 7: 6

Summary:

The port Pt. 1

Notes:

Hiii! Sorry I took so long to get this out, but it’s nearly 9k words and I ended up splitting the port scene over a few chapters so I could focus in more on certain characters at certain points, so I hope that’ll make up for the wait!

Now, your regularly scheduled history buff ted talk:
Ancient Chinese port towns were bustling centers of trade and cultural exchange, strategically located at river mouths or along the coast, and featuring a distinctive blend of architectural and urban characteristics. Typically, these towns were protected by imposing city walls, made of materials like tamped earth or brick, and fortified with elaborate gateways and towers. City planning often adhered to a grid pattern, reflecting traditional beliefs, with a north-south axis guiding the layout of streets and important buildings. Within the city walls, vibrant markets facilitated the exchange of goods between merchants from various regions, creating a cosmopolitan atmosphere. Structures often integrated commercial, residential, and even productive functions, with examples including roof-covered corridors along rivers in some waterfront towns, according to the UNESCO World Heritage Centre. Religious structures, like Buddhist temples, Taoist temples, and mosques, played a significant role in the community life of port towns and reflected the diverse cultural landscape shaped by trade interactions. Quanzhou, a major port on China's southeast coast, exemplifies such a town, known for its shipbuilding industry, thriving trade along the Maritime Silk Roads, and its vibrant coexistence of various ethnic and religious groups.

In times of war, ancient Chinese port towns transformed dramatically from bustling hubs of trade into fortified settlements grappling with various impacts. Their strategic importance meant they were often targets, leading to the bolstering of their formidable defenses, including city walls and other fortifications, to withstand sieges and land-based threats. Naval engagements and blockades could also be key features of wartime, as control of the seas directly affected a port city's ability to trade and communicate. Economically, the disruption of trade caused by conflicts or blockades could lead to severe hardship, with shortages of goods, rising prices, and shifts in trade patterns. Wartime conditions could also result in population displacement, infrastructure damage from battles and sieges, and a noticeable military presence affecting daily life, according to the International Committee of the Red Cross (ICRC). In some instances, foreign conflicts and power dynamics could lead to foreign influences, such as the imposition of foreign legal frameworks or altered trade relations, Office of the Historian (.gov).

A ship from an allied nation docking in a small ancient Chinese port town for supplies or a brief stay would likely be welcomed with a mixture of established diplomatic protocols and local customs. Ideally, the ship's arrival would be preceded by formal notification through diplomatic channels, allowing port authorities to prepare for the visit. Even for allied vessels, some level of inspection would likely be necessary to ensure compliance with local regulations and address any potential security concerns. Port towns often had designated docking areas, and allied ships might be allocated specific berths. While a formal reception might not be as grand as for a larger port or a more significant delegation, local officials could still greet the ship's captain and key personnel, perhaps with a small ceremony or exchange of greetings. Beyond official procedures, local hospitality would be evident in the townspeople's interactions with the sailors, with merchants readily providing necessary supplies and the community perhaps engaging in cultural exchange. Respect for local traditions and customs, including religious practices and social etiquette, would be expected from the visiting sailors, says China Culture Tour. In instances of minor repairs or maintenance, local artisans and craftsmen might offer their services, further reflecting the welcoming spirit of the port town.

 

I’ve started adding my sources in there, as I realized I hadn’t been before, in case you’re interested in where I get it from! I’ll probably end up putting a works cited page at the end if this if I’m being so honest with you all. It’s fascinating, and I’d love to be able to help anyone who’s interested in these topics research them!

Anywho, enjoy!! CWs and TWs are at the end, as always!<3

They had decided it was worth the risk to stop. Supplies were running low, and more than that, they desperately needed a night apart from one another. Hakoda had broken up three fights in the past two days—not unusual in itself—but never had tempers flared so quickly, so violently. Twice, he'd barely managed to pry the men apart before they tore into each other like wolves.

With a weary sigh, he pushed back from the desk, taking the half-folded paper with him. The walk to the aviary was a short one, though the thought of such a place aboard a ship still felt strange to him. The Earth Kingdom crew they'd joined forces with had brought four carrier birds—pigeon-hawks, small and quick, their plumage marked with speckled bands of green and brown. They were trained to carry messages across great distances, to return no matter the weather.

He stepped into the aviary, the warm scent of grain and feathers meeting him at once. One of the Earth Kingdom sailors was bent over a low perch, carefully wrapping the wing of one of the smaller birds in a splint fine enough to fit a doll. The bird shifted restlessly, clicking its beak, but did not fight the man's hands. They didn't send messages often—there were few worth sending—but from time to time, they set the birds free to stretch their wings. This one had been let out just days ago and had come back limping, battered by some misadventure above the waves.

Hakoda lingered for a moment, watching the sailor's careful work. The man murmured softly to the pigeon-hawk in his native tongue, the rhythm of it steady and calm. Outside the narrow porthole, the sea flashed in quick bursts of silver under the late afternoon sun, the swells growing higher as they neared land.

He adjusted the paper in his hand, scanning it again before crossing to the far end of the aviary where a weathered message tube lay coiled on the counter. The note wasn't long—just a cautious inquiry to an old political contact about the state of the port—but it might be the difference between a safe stop and walking straight into a Fire Nation patrol. He slipped it into the tube, sealed it, and selected one of the uninjured birds. The pigeon-hawk blinked up at him, feathers sleek and ready, and he fastened the message to its leg before carrying it to the small, circular hatch that opened to the open air.

The wind caught immediately, ruffling both his hair and the bird's wings. For a moment, Hakoda hesitated—once the bird left, there would be nothing to do but wait. Then he let it go. The pigeon-hawk shot into the bright expanse, swallowed by the horizon.

As he turned back, he heard the low rumble of voices somewhere above deck—shouts mingled with laughter, the kind that was just a shade too sharp. Trouble brewing again. Hakoda exhaled through his nose and made for the ladder, already knowing he wouldn't get far before someone pulled him into it.

 

The response came surprisingly quick, the same bird that he'd sent out just a day prior returned with a small slip of crinkled, yellowing paper. It was brief, barely enough words to form a full three sentences, but the curling short-hand was just enough to promise a safe docking and visit from the ship and it's crew, so long as they agreed to a brief look over their ship and it's contents. It was a slight reprieve on Hakoda's nerves, all considering, however it drew light to a few new problems they now had; their ship was going to be checked.

That in and of itself was not necessarily a bad thing, they never had anything to hide, not from allies—except, now they did. He let his eyes wander over to Reka, still curled up on the chiefs bed, his small hands fisting the thin blanket barely doing anything to hide his shivering. It was far to hot to give him anything heavier, the sheen of sweat on his brow and dripping down his neck to soak his shirt collar was enough evidence of that, and had he not actively tried to bite the man when Hakoda had attempted to coax the boy into letting the blanket go so he could cool down a bit he would be a little less... clothed.

Most of the sailors tended to sleep scantily, if not completely exposed in the summer months, the heat being enough to ruin even a lizard-snakes day. They'd all grown used to it and out of the initial shyness within the first couple weeks at sea. Now, nearly three years later, it's like they'd all shared a womb.

Theoretically, they could probably play off the boys presence, one of the younger crewmen that'd made his way onto the boat all that time ago, not quite yet grown into his own skin yet like the others. Lanky and thin like a little bird, but not fuzzy like a fledgling. But, a little nagging part of the chiefs brain kept reminding him about how different he was from them all. He was small, his hands and feet soft and unblemished by thick callouses and scars that came with the rough life of their jobs, his eyes large like a does, his skin still rather fair and pale from lack of sunlight. Some of it could be attributed to the fact that he'd spent most of the past few weeks beneath the deck, hidden away in the shadowy, cool belly of the ship rather than the sun that would surely leave him burnt up and red like a richly dyed cloth.

Nothing like the the warmer complexions of the Earth Kingdomer's, nor the deep chestnut of the tribesman. He'd stick out like a sore thumb.

While they might be able to brush it off, if the person searching the boat cared at all at the port anyways, it'd still be noticeable that they had what was likely a Fire Kingdom child on their boat, and a small, sick Fire Kingdom child at that. It was a bad situation to be in, all around.

Hakoda sighed, leaning back against his chair and resting his head on the wall behind him, closing his eyes as he resisted the urge to rub the bridge of his nose to relieve what bound to be an on coming headache. He could hear the sheets rustling as Reka moved around, not conscious but still alive—thankfully, it was a close call for a while.

Hakoda let the quiet linger, the muted roll of the waves beneath the hull and the occasional creak of the wood settling into the silence of the cabin. His eyes stayed closed, but his mind refused to follow. The words from the returned message replayed again and again, brief as they were. Safe docking. A routine inspection. Nothing to fear—at least not for most captains.

But Hakoda was not most captains.

His hand fell absently to his belt, fingers brushing the worn edge of his knife sheath. A habit, grounding and steadying, though it did little to ease the unease prickling up his spine. They had been careful—spiriting the boy away below deck in case rogue ships looked too closely, rationing what little food he could stomach, tending him when his fever spiked. The men hadn't asked questions, not directly, though he'd seen their glances, their sidelong looks when they passed by the curtained-off corner where Reka slept. They knew better than to speak of it, but silence was only as strong as the loyalty that bound them.

The boy shifted again, a thin, ragged sound catching in his throat. Hakoda opened his eyes. Reka had thrown the blanket halfway off, one arm flung out, bony wrist pale against the furs. His breathing was shallow but steady, his lips chapped. There was something heartbreakingly fragile about him, as though he might dissolve at the touch, and Hakoda felt that same hollow pang he always did when he looked at him.

Reka was no sailor. No orphan pressed into work on a ship for a chance at food and safety. He was something else entirely—something dangerous, if the wrong pair of eyes noticed.

Hakoda rose, moving quietly toward the small porthole. Beyond it, the coastline was little more than a smear on the horizon, jagged peaks rising faintly above the haze. The port they aimed for lay tucked within those mountains, a precarious haven carved from the cliffs. He trusted his contact well enough to believe the message was genuine. But trust only went so far, especially in a world where allegiances shifted as easily as the tide.

He rested a hand on the wooden frame, fingers drumming. They would need a plan. Something simple, something that made sense if anyone asked why a strange child was hidden among their crew. Too young to be a stowaway. Too soft to pass as one of theirs. And yet, they couldn't risk leaving him. Not here. Not anywhere.

The steps outside groaned as boots descended, and a moment later one of his men appeared in the doorway, sweat darkening the collar of his tunic.

"Chief," the sailor said, voice low, though his eyes flicked briefly toward the sleeping boy. "We're less than an hour from shore. Thought you'd want to know."

Hakoda gave a curt nod. "Thank you. Keep the men busy until then. I don't want anyone loose when we dock."

The man hesitated, as though weighing something on his tongue, then swallowed it back and ducked out without another word.

Hakoda exhaled slowly. One hour. One hour to decide how to keep Reka from undoing everything.

 

Hakoda sat for a while longer, listening to the faint creak of wood as the ship shifted with the tide. Reka let out a faint cough, curling tighter into the blanket. Hakoda stood, finally, and slipped out the door. He needed other eyes on this.

Bato was the first he found, leaning against the railing above deck, arms crossed as he watched a knot of sailors throwing dice in the shade of a sail. He straightened when Hakoda approached, quiet understanding passing between them the way it always had.

"Word from the port?" Bato asked, low enough that the dice-players wouldn't hear.

Hakoda gave a short nod. "They'll let us dock. But they want to inspect the ship."

Bato's brow creased. He didn't need to say more—Hakoda knew his friend's thoughts. Instead, Hakoda gestured for him to follow, and they crossed to a quieter stretch of deck where Tadi and Kustaa were oiling spearheads. Tadi's gaze flicked up at once, sharp and suspicious in a way Hakoda hadn't recognized in a long time, while Kustaa finished with one careful sweep of cloth before setting the weapon aside.

"There's something we need to talk through," Hakoda began, folding his arms. "The port's safe—on paper. But their men will be coming aboard. We've got to decide what we do about the boy."

Tadi's jaw tightened. "Throw him over."

Bato's head snapped toward him. "Tadi—"

"It's what we should've done weeks ago," Tadi pressed, voice hard. "Every day we keep him, the risk grows. Now? With Earth Kingdom eyes crawling over the ship? They'll see him for what he is. And then what? You think they'll just let us sail on with a Fire Nation brat tucked in our hold?"

The words settled like stones, heavy and ugly. Hakoda let them hang there, though his stomach turned. When had Tadi gotten so volatile towards the boy? He hadn't been here but a few weeks, and by all accounts Hakoda thought his integration into the life on the ship had gone as well as it possibly could have. Sure, when Hakoda had first introduced him to the Water Tribesman he'd been hesitant, eyes flashing with an emotion Hakoda couldn't recognize fast enough before it was gone again, but he'd been nothing but cordial to the child's face. Perhaps that was the problem.

Kustaa spoke next, quiet and even, though his pale eyes never left the spear he was cleaning. "We're not murderers. If we were, we'd have left him to die floating in the storm instead of jumping over to retrieve him. The question is not whether he stays alive. It's whether we can make him invisible."

Hakoda nodded slowly, grateful for the man's steadiness. He turned then as another figure approached from the starboard side: Husha, the Earth Kingdom sailor who had mended the bird's wing earlier. His hands still bore faint flecks of seed dust, and his brow was damp with sweat from the heat. He looked at the small circle of men and gave a shallow bow of respect. They'd picked him up several ports ago, before they'd gotten Reka by just a few weeks. All considering, he was still a rather new addition to the crew; a castaway from his own battalion and sent via a personal request from an informant on one of their Earth Kingdom coast cities.

"You're worried about the child," Husha said. His voice was calm, almost too calm for someone not yet seasoned to their crew and speaking so forwardly to the captain. "I heard enough to know what you're speaking of."

Hakoda's chest tightened—he didn't like being overheard. But Husha met his eyes squarely, no malice in them. Just the steady patience Hakoda had seen when he worked with the birds, he was gentle and kind, but firm when they were being bratty. A stern look seemed to work on the animals similarly to how it'd work on a misbehaving child. It was almost impressive.

"You'll never pass him for one of your own," Husha continued, simply stating a fact. "His skin, his hands—they give him away. But... he is small. Sick. I've seen children vanish in plain sight when people don't want to see them. If you'll let me, I might know how to hide him."

Tadi scoffed. "And what, you'll paint him green and call him an Earth Kingdom babe?"

Husha did not flinch. "Not green. But there are ways. Wrapping, posture, powder on the skin to dull the shine. A pale child can look sickly, a refugee clinging to whoever will feed him. If your story is that he belongs to you, then I can make others believe it."

The silence stretched, broken only by the gulls and the slap of water against the hull. Hakoda felt Bato's eyes on him, steady as ever, waiting for his choice.

They didn't have time for much, that was obvious, the shoreline already coming into enough focus he could nearly see the tiny outlines of people milling about the docks. They could linger for a bit, close the sails and let the boat drift along for maybe thirty minutes, tops, say they had things to prep before docking, but they'd still be pressed for time.

Hakoda rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, gaze fixed on the bright strip of land ahead. "An hour at most. That's all the space we've got."

Bato nodded beside him. "Enough to try something, if we keep our heads down."

Kustaa said nothing, but he set his spear aside and leaned forward on his knees, watching Hakoda expectantly. His calm was steadying, though it made Hakoda feel the weight of command all the more.

Tadi, by contrast, let out a sharp breath. "An hour buys us nothing. He's still Fire Nation. They'll see it in his face no matter how you wrap him up." His eyes flicked toward Husha. "Your tricks won't change that."

Husha didn't bristle. He folded his hands in front of him, bowing his head slightly. "I can't change his blood, no. But I can change what strangers think when they look at him. If they see a weak child, clinging to his people for survival... that's what their minds will hold onto." He raised his gaze again, steady and patient. "If you'd rather risk leaving him to the mercy of dock guards, then decide it now. But if you'd keep him, let me show you how."

Hakoda let the words hang, eyes still on the docks drawing ever closer. The gulls wheeled and cried overhead, the smell of salt sharper now as the tide carried them in. He thought of the boy below deck, curled under his blanket, still coughing fitfully in his sleep. A frail scrap of life, caught between men who couldn't even agree if he deserved to live.

He looked at Bato first. His friend met his gaze with quiet steadiness. "I trust you to choose," Bato said simply.

Kustaa inclined his head in agreement. Tadi looked away, jaw tight, arms crossed like he was holding himself back from spitting in the sea.

Finally Hakoda's eyes found Husha again. "An hour," he said at last. "Show me what you can do."

Husha bowed again, though there was nothing servile in it—only the same calm resolve as before. "Then let us begin. Bring him up. I'll need to see how he carries himself."

Hakoda drew a long breath, shoulders heavy. "Bato, with me. The rest of you—hold the sails, keep her steady."

As they turned toward the hatch, Hakoda felt the clock already pressing against his ribs, each heartbeat another grain of sand slipping through. One hour to make a Fire Nation child look like anything but what he was.

 

They'd managed to get him up and into Kustaa's cabin, laying him down in the hammock with his back leaned up against the wall, Hakoda's arm having to stay in place against his side to keep him from falling over and curling up. Husha took one look at him and decided he didn't need to see the boy standing, it was obvious enough by his sickly pallor and shivering limbs it wouldn't matter anyways.

"I sent for some of the boys to make a rice powder for us," Bato said as he finally stepped into the cabin, having disappeared right after the boy was situated. "It won't be nearly as fine as rice flour, but it's all we have time for. I'm even having them dry it quickly over the hearth instead of sun drying like it's supposed to."

Husha inclined his head, crouching closer to the hammock. His hands hovered just above the boy's face, not touching—measuring the angles, the lines of cheekbone and jaw. "It will do. The goal isn't perfection. Only misdirection." His voice was low, carrying a steady rhythm, as though he'd spoken the words countless times before.

The boy blinked sluggishly at him, half-lidded, lips parted around shallow breaths. His skin looked thinner than parchment, stretched pale over the bones of his face. Husha studied him without expression, but Hakoda felt a twist in his gut just watching. How had he gotten so bad so fast? He hadn't even noticed the change until the boy was basically collapsed in his arms.

Kustaa shifted in the corner, arms folded, leaning against the wall. "He doesn't look like he'll last the night, let alone a disguise."

Hakoda shot him a look. "He'll last." The firmness in his tone came out sharper than he'd meant, but no one corrected him.

Bato set a small bundle of cloth on the desk, the faint smell of toasted grain already clinging to it. "The boys are still grinding. This is just the first handful."

"Good." Husha opened the cloth, pinched some of the powder between his fingers, and rubbed it. It clung faintly, coarse, uneven. "Rough, but workable." He glanced at the boy again. "He has Fire Nation eyes. That's the hardest thing to hide. The powder will dull the shine in his skin, make him appear more wan. As for the rest—clothing, posture, manner—he'll need to lean into weakness. Let them look past him."

Tadi had slipped in at some point, silent until now, but he let out a sharp laugh from the doorway. "Weakness won't hide the truth. The moment someone looks close, they'll see what he is. And when they do, it's our heads they'll take."

Hakoda's jaw worked, though he didn't answer. Husha, on the other hand, didn't so much as flinch. He dipped his fingers back into the powder, dusted them lightly across the boy's temple, as if testing the tone. "Then we must make sure no one looks close."

The boy stirred faintly at the touch, letting out a rasp of a cough. Hakoda steadied him again, hand firm against his side. He could feel how light he was, how fragile beneath the layers of cloth and bone.

Husha spoke without looking away from his work. "He needs water. And... something to color his lips. Do you have berries, or wine?"

"Wine," Bato said. "We keep a skin in the galley."

"Fetch it." Husha's tone was still calm, still level. "If he looks half-dead, he'll draw attention. If he looks like a sick child clinging to his people, they'll ignore him."

Hakoda exchanged a glance with Bato. It wasn't trust—not yet—but it was something close to hope, faint as a candle flame.

 

Tadi had to bite his lip to keep his mouth shut, sharp teeth working at the chapped chunk of skin until he felt a pop of warm blood drizzle onto his tongue. He swiped it away with a closed fist, not bothering to wipe the blood off his skin as he turned to remove himself from the cabin.

He was being harsh, he knew that, and by the looks Hakoda had been throwing him since he walked up to him and Kustaa nearly an hour ago the chief knew it as well. He could blame it on the heat, in fact, he was going to if anyone cared to ask him about it. He'd say the hot, muggy air and the crisp bite of salted wind that did little to nothing in actually cooling his tender, sun reddened skin was souring his mood and making him irritable. It was a plausible excuse, barely an excuse at all really, the heat was making everybody short and a bit prickly with each other.

But none of the others had directly threatened a sick child's life.

It made his skin crawl just thinking about it, the fact that he'd said those things at all—the fact that he'd genuinely thought those things. He wasn't a violent person, far from it. He'd always been gentle, quiet, his mother on more than one occasion begging him to leave the polar-dog puppies alone and go play with his siblings or the other village children, that he needed to learn to hunt and to fight like the other boys. 

And, really, he did do all of those things. He went and played with his little sisters when it was warm out and the prickly grass poked through the melting snow, and he'd hunt little rodents with his older brother when he agreed to take Tadi out with him, and he learned to fight with his bending—meager so it was—with all of the other boys under one of the teachers. But he'd also sat curled against one of the polar-dogs fluffy sides, two little carved toys in his hands, and if there were puppies during that time of season he'd have a few draped over his lap and curled against whatever part of him they could reach, searching for the warmth his body gave off. He'd sit in the healer's huts with the women, learning to dress wounds carefully with wrappings and how to apply his bending to soothe a burn or help a cut stitch itself back together faster. He'd help the elders dye cloths and mend holes in the men's clothing, or over the warm pots of stew and the tables where they'd stand for hours cutting meat up to cook.

So, when Kustaa had shot him a scolding look after he'd told the chief to throw the Fire Nation boy over board, he'd felt rather chastised. He wasn't violent, nor aggressive. He would never be a prolific fighter, and he was ok with that. He was ok with cooking, and mending clothing, and caring for the animals, and healing, and doing every little mundane thing nobody else wanted to. So why was it that he was so worked up over this little child— this sick little child, who had done virtually nothing wrong up to this point that he was aware of.

Maybe that was it, actually. Maybe it was the fact that he didn't know. That they had no idea who this child was, who he belonged to, why he was out in that storm, supposedly thrown overboard.

The not knowing gnawed at him worse than the heat ever could. It was one thing to patch up a fisherman's hand when the hook slipped, or a hunter's ribs after a bad fall on the ice. He knew those men, their families, their stories. They were part of his world—woven into it like thread in the seam of a parka. But this boy? This stranger with Fire Nation blood and Fire Nation clothes, thin as driftwood and just as waterlogged? He was a hole in the fabric, dark and frayed, tugging at everything around him.

Tadi lingered in the narrow hall, leaning his shoulder against the cool wall, breathing in deep through his nose. Grain, salt, wet feathers—smells that clung to every part of the ship. It grounded him a little, but not enough. He could still hear the muffled voices inside the cabin: Hakoda's calm, steady tone, Bato's quieter one with that undercurrent of worry he never quite managed to hide, Husha's accent thickening when he spoke too fast. Even Kustaa, low and gruff, like the boy's sickness had reached into his throat as well.

Tadi closed his eyes, pressing the heel of his hand against his brow. They were all bending around this child, giving him space, patience, food, medicine that should have been saved for their own. And Tadi couldn't help but see it—the possibility that they'd nurtured a spark they'd later regret. That someday this boy might grow strong and remember only that he belonged to the Fire Nation.

He exhaled sharply, opening his eyes. No—spirits, he was doing it again. That bitterness crawling back into his chest, souring everything. It didn't feel like him, not the way he understood himself. And yet, it had come so easily in the cabin. The words had slipped out sharp as an icicle breaking loose from the roof, cutting before he could stop them.

He thought of his mother, her voice soft and tired, telling him once: "Your anger isn't the same as other people's, Tadi. You hold it in too long, and when it comes out, it's jagged."

He hated how right she always seemed to be.

With a long breath, Tadi pushed off the wall and made his way toward the deck. The air would do him better than standing here like some restless ghost. Above, he could already hear the shuffle of feet and the caw of gulls, the shore still drawing nearer. He wondered, not for the first time, if the boy would even last long enough for them to find a healer ashore.

And more than that—what it would mean for all of them if he did.

 

In the end, they'd made it to shore with few hiccups. The boat pulled into the harbor easily, the hull knocking gently into the dockside with the sway of the waves, helpful dock workers taking the ends of the ropes the crew through over the side to tether the ship to land and allowing the crew to drop the side plank to exit the vessel.

Men were gathered, anxiously moving and chattering amongst themselves, at the mouth of the ramp that lead onto the wooden dock, waiting for the ok to descend and disperse into the bustling market and do whatever it was they wished to do. Normally, a crew of this size would be kept on the boat, only a few select men being allowed off with specific missions, required to return to the boat before nightfall. However, Hakoda had never been one to enforce such rules—it wasn't his style. Besides, who was he to deny his crewmates the right to a warm, solid bed, still with the steadiness of solid ground and not the swaying lull of the waves. It was peaceful to some, sure, but sickening to others. Even after nearly four years out at sea some just never quite got used to it.

Kustaa was amongst them, a small leather satchel bumping against his side as he held onto the strap slung over his chest, less for fear of it being nicked from him and more as a subconscious act of soothing for his running thoughts. He was never really anxious at ports, at least not in a terror sort of way. He was always on alert, of course, for any faces he recognized—which was something to be said when you're at a random port in seemingly nowhere—or for danger that could pop out at any moment. He's not paranoid, at least not in any extravagant, dramatic way, though depending on who you ask the story might change a little. No, Kustaa was just unsteady. His feet wouldn't stay on the ground for longer than a few seconds, his hands wringing the furred leather of his satchels strap, his tongue clicking and pressing between his teeth as he tried to regulate himself.

He could feel the eyes of his crewmates lingering on him briefly, but many of them were acting similar—excited to get off this stinking boat and do their own things. Find a bed to sleep in away from the slumbering bodies of men they had seen every day for four years, for solid, unmoving ground, for goodies and unsalted, fresh meats and vegetables in the market stalls, hell, even a warm body for the night. They were one and the same, just for their own various reasons.

And Kustaa's? He was after medical supplies. A few small things, mostly, they didn't quite have the coin for much but between selling their catch over the last few days and various bartering skills—and maybe a well placed item or two—he's sure he can get a good mix of things.

Oh, and also keep the boy out of the eyes of the dock Foreman.

He wasn't sure how much he could get away with today—coin was limited, always limited, and what they did have was stretched thin between feeding a crew this size and maintaining a ship that never seemed satisfied no matter how much time and work was poured into her bones. Still, he'd make do. He always did.

The boy clung to his side, leaning heavily against him, shaky fingers curled tightly into the loose fitting shirt and Kustaa's free hand. A small part of him shivered, a curling sort of irritation dragging its way out of the darkest pits of his chest, the part that still resented this child for being a Fire Native. But, when the boy was bumped by one of the crewmen, drawing a pitiful little sound from him and driving him further into the healers side, face pressed flush with the dip of his waist, he couldn't help but press the feeling down—to squish it like some annoying bug buzzing around his head. This was a child, a very very sick child. And that always came first.

Medical supplies, he reminded himself, pressing his thumb against the lip of the satchel until the nail dug into the worn leather. Nothing fancy, nothing extravagant. He'd settle for herbs and salves, needles, clean wrappings. If he could get a small vial of dried poppy or willow bark, he'd count it as a blessing. Spirits knew someone would need it sooner rather than later.

He didn't even notice when Hakoda made his way onto the deck, waving his hand finally after a few last muttered words with his chosen men, his runners for the day. The crowd of excitable crewmen surged forward, dragging both him and the boy with them for a few feet before he re-gathered himself and dug his heels in, forcing them the make a split and start streaming around them instead of pushing them forward. He could feel the way Reka curled into him impossibly tighter, nearly burrowing beneath the healer's shirt like he wanted to hide from their surroundings. He can't say he blames him, the ports were messy and loud, overcrowded and overwhelming if you didn't know where you were going, and something tells Kustaa that the boy doesn't know how most ports feel.

He wrapped an arm gently around the small child's shoulders, pulling him forward as they began walking, falling in step behind the last of the group as they made their way slowly off the ship and onto the bustling dock.

The wood of the dock groaned under the weight of so many boots, the smell of brine and fish guts hitting them before they'd even stepped fully off the plank. The market noise carried on the sea breeze—bartering voices sharp, hawkers calling their wares, gulls shrieking as they circled overhead.

Kustaa moved carefully, step by step, mindful of the boy pressed close to him. Reka's weight was awkward, throwing his balance a half-shade off, but Kustaa held him firm, one broad hand splayed across the boy's back as if he could will his trembling body into stillness. He could feel the fever still radiating from him—though the ocean winds cooled his own skin, the child might as well have been walking wrapped in fire.

"Stay close," Kustaa muttered, though it was hardly necessary; Reka was practically clinging to his ribs. The boy didn't answer, only ducked his head lower, black hair falling forward to curtain his face from the strangers crowding around them.

The dock workers hardly gave them a glance, too busy rolling barrels or tallying crates, but Kustaa's eyes still flicked toward every man in a vest with papers in his hand. Dock foremen were sharp-eyed bastards, and the last thing he needed was for one to notice a pale, trembling Fire boy clinging to a Water Tribe healer. He'd seen men hauled off for less suspicious company.

Ahead, the rest of the crew had already begun scattering into the town proper—two of the younger ones rushing toward the promise of tavern signs, a pair of older hunters already haggling with a fishmonger at the far stall. Hakoda lingered longer, watching the dispersal with that calm authority he wore so naturally, before finally catching Kustaa's eye. A small nod, nothing more. Permission. Or maybe reassurance.

Kustaa exhaled slowly, pulling the boy with him off the last plank and onto stone. The ground here was uneven, cobbles damp from sea-spray, but steady enough. He crouched briefly, tugging at the satchel's strap to loosen it, the leather creaking with the shift of weight. "Just the apothecary, maybe one or two stalls," he murmured low, as though saying it aloud would keep him from straying. "Nothing more."

Reka's head lifted only slightly, his eyes glassy but watching him with a kind of mute, desperate trust that made Kustaa's stomach twist. Spirits help him, he wasn't used to that kind of look.

He straightened, jaw set. "Come on, boy. Let's get you out of the wind."

And with that, he began guiding them both into the swell of the marketplace, where the colors of banners and the calls of merchants rose like another tide.

 

Hakoda lingered on the dock until the last of his men had filed off, watching them spill into the noise and color of the market. He wasn't blind to the temptation there—half of them would come back poorer and more hungover than they'd left—but he trusted them enough to handle themselves. Trust went a long way, and it was one of the few currencies he still had in abundance. 

The dock foreman came striding up before long, a thickset man with a sun-beaten face and arms corded from hauling lines most of his life. He gave Hakoda the quick, practiced look of a man assessing risk and profit in the same breath, then jabbed his thumb toward the deck. 

"Inspection team'll be aboard in a moment. Standard procedure." Hakoda nodded smoothly, keeping the faintest of smiles on his face. "Of course. We've nothing to hide." That was half a lie, and both of them probably knew it. But the trick was to look like you believed it yourself, and Hakoda had gotten very good at that over the years. The foreman barked for his men, and soon three dock guards came trudging up the ramp, heavy boots clanging against the planks. They carried short spears, more ceremonial than threatening, and one had a ledger tucked beneath his arm. 

Hakoda fell into step with them as they boarded, hands loose at his sides, posture casual but attentive. They moved below deck first, poking their heads into the crew quarters. One wrinkled his nose at the smell of salt, sweat, and old wood, but didn't linger. Another tapped along a beam with the butt of his spear, as if he thought treasure might fall out. Hakoda forced himself not to bristle. Their eyes lingered too long on the weapons stacked neatly in a rack, the fishing nets piled in a corner, the barrels that held smoked seal meat. He knew what they were looking for: contraband, stowaways, anything Fire Nation. Everyone was on edge from the war, especially untaken ports. 

When they reached the hold, one of the guards gestured sharply. "Open it." 

Hakoda's jaw tightened, but he waved a hand to one of the younger crewmates left aboard. The boy hurried to pull the lid off the nearest barrel, showing neat stacks of dried fish. Another barrel revealed water casks. A third—pickled roots. Mundane, all of it, and deliberately so. Still, Hakoda felt the weight of each lid lifted like a hammer to the chest. Because it only took one wrong turn of luck—one cough from below the wrong floorboards, one careless hand forgetting to shut something properly—and the whole thing could come crashing down. 

"Looks in order," one of the guards muttered, scribbling in his ledger. But the foreman wasn't satisfied yet. He motioned them toward the stern, where spare rope and sailcloth were stacked high. He started rifling through it himself, with the kind of thoroughness that spoke of long practice. Hakoda kept his expression carefully neutral, even as his thoughts turned sharp. Because the wrong eyes, in the wrong place, might find what Kustaa had carried off the ship just minutes before. 

The guards worked with the dull persistence of barnacles. Hakoda stayed a step behind them, arms folded loosely across his chest, his face arranged in an easy mask. But inside, each rattle of a barrel and scrape of a lid twisted his gut tighter. 

One of the men stopped by the stern, squatting low to prod through the tangle of spare rope. He pulled free a coil and tossed it aside, then another. Hakoda felt the muscle in his jaw twitch—beneath those coils had been the boy's resting place for most of the voyage inland, cramped between hull and canvas as they tried to keep him out of the line of sight of the passing boats leaving and entering the port like them, too close to keep him below deck, but not enough to warrant forcing him upright and leaned against someone's side, shielded by nothing but shadows and Hakoda's prayers. 

But Kustaa had moved him before the dock came into sight. There'd be nothing there now but a faint impression in the boards, a shallow dent in the ropes where weight had pressed. Hakoda found his hand tightening on the rail. Would they notice? The guard frowned, shoved the rest of the rope aside, and leaned low. 

For a breath, Hakoda thought he saw his eyes narrow—lingering too long on that dent, that slight unevenness in the pile. His stomach dropped. "Problem?" Hakoda asked, keeping his tone mild, as though he'd merely noticed the man dawdling. 

The guard grunted, sat back on his haunches. "Looks like someone's been sleeping here." 

Hakoda let himself chuckle, low and easy, though his pulse hammered in his throat. "A long sail from the Northern waters, friend. You spend a month at sea and tell me you wouldn't stretch out on the ropes for a nap." 

The man considered, then shrugged, standing. He gave the pile one last glance, but only spat to the side before moving on. They finished their search with little more than cursory pokes at the sailcloth and casks, and finally the one with the ledger snapped it shut. "Cargo's clean enough. You can unload." 

Hakoda inclined his head, keeping his exhale shallow so it didn't sound too much like relief. "Generous of you." 

The foreman only grunted, but Hakoda didn't miss the way his eyes lingered on him, sharp and weighing. Suspicion wasn't gone; it was only quiet, for now. When the guards finally tramped back down the gangplank, Hakoda stayed behind on the deck, letting his shoulders relax by degrees. The ropes lay undisturbed once more, silent as if nothing had ever been there.

 

The apothecary's door swung inward with a groan, and Kustaa ducked through first, his shoulder bowed under more than his own weight. Reka clung to him like a shadow, one trembling hand locked in a death grip on the healer's belt, the other draped around Kustaa's back for balance. His face was colorless, lips parted with shallow, ragged breaths, his eyes half-lidded but restless, darting across the cluttered shelves as though even in fever he couldn't keep them still. The air inside was thick with the sharp bite of dried roots and resin; bundles of herbs dangled overhead, twitching in the draft from the open door.

Behind the counter, a stocky Earth Kingdomer straightened from his pestle. Mortar dust clung to the creases of his strong hands, sleeves shoved up past his elbows. His gaze swept over Kustaa, then caught on the boy pressed tight against his side. His mouth tightened, though he said nothing.

Kustaa eased Reka down onto a stool against the counter, bracing him with one arm as the boy sagged heavily into him. When he spoke, his voice was controlled, even—though it carried a note of iron underneath. "We need willow bark, ginger, clean cloth for binding. And if you've got anything stronger for fever, I'll trade fair for it."

Reka's head tipped sideways until it rested against Kustaa's arm. His fingers stayed white-knuckled where they dug into the leather belt at his waist, as though letting go would drop him through the floorboards.

The apothecary's eyes narrowed, measuring both the request and the boy who could barely hold himself upright. At last he extended his hand across the counter, palm open.

Kustaa fumbled his pouch, laying out what he had carried all this way: strips of dried fish, a twist of seal fat, a scatter of smoked salt. "It's not much," he admitted, "but it's clean. Caught fresh before we sailed."

Silence stretched. The man studied the offerings, then glanced again at Reka. The boy coughed weakly, his breath catching sharp in his chest before he burrowed closer into Kustaa's ribs. Something in the apothecary's expression shifted—just faintly, softening at the edges. Without a word, he swept the food into his satchel and disappeared into the crooked door behind the counter.

Kustaa's shoulders eased fractionally. He reached down, running a calloused hand over Reka's damp hair. "Just hold on," he murmured. The boy stirred faintly, gave the smallest shake of his head—whether protest or pride Kustaa couldn't tell—but his grip didn't ease.

When the apothecary returned, his arms were full: jars, bundles, folded cloth. He set them down with more force than necessary, bracing his palms against the counter instead of sliding the goods forward. His eyes flicked from Kustaa to the boy and back again.

"You won't make it back to your ship like that," he said bluntly. "Sit him on the cot in the back. I'll see to him."

Kustaa stiffened, his arm tightening protectively. "I can tend him myself. That was all I needed—supplies."

Reka stirred, only to hunch tighter against his side, breath rasping shallow and fast.

The apothecary snorted. "Your boy won't last the walk back down the docks. Fever's got him hollow. You think to haul him through the street like baggage?" He jabbed a thick finger toward the rear curtain. "Back room. Cot. Now."

Kustaa bristled, his voice clipped. "I don't make a habit of letting strangers handle my patients."

"And I don't make a habit of letting children die on my floor when I could've done something," the apothecary shot back, voice low and hard. "You can glower like a guard dog all you like, but the boy's not leaving until that fever breaks."

The silence between them stretched taut. Only the thin rattle of Reka's breathing broke it. Finally, Kustaa exhaled, sharp through his nose, and slid an arm beneath the boy's knees, lifting him clean off the stool. "Fine," he muttered. "But I stay with him."

The apothecary nodded once, curt, and swept aside the curtain. The back room was narrow but clean, shelves stacked with vials and bandages, the air pungent with sage and camphor. A cot waited in the corner, quilt thin but neat. Kustaa lowered Reka carefully onto it, prying his hands away from his belt one finger at a time. The boy curled instinctively onto his side, shivering.

The apothecary moved quickly—water steaming on the hearth, herbs crushed in a mortar, willow bark steeping in a cup. He pressed the rim gently to Reka's lips, his broad hands surprisingly careful. The boy coughed on the first swallow, nearly spilling it, until Kustaa leaned close and murmured, "I'm here. Just a little more." His voice carried a warmth he hadn't meant to let slip. Reka's lashes fluttered, eyes half-open, searching blindly for him before he forced down another sip.

The apothecary didn't comment, only set the cup aside once enough was taken. His gaze shifted to the boy's face, and for the first time he reached toward the injured side, peeling back a strand of sweat-dark hair, nudging the loosely wrapped bandage away from his face. His hand stilled.

The eye was worse in the lamplight: the lid half gone, edges charred and cracked, the skin raw and seeping where scabs hadn't yet formed. The sour tang of infection clung faintly to it. "Spirits above," the man murmured, not to them but to the wound. "Fourth degree, near enough."

Kustaa's hand twitched, almost shoving his wrist away, but the apothecary spoke first, calm as stone. "Steady. If I can't look, I can't help."

Grinding his teeth, Kustaa gave a reluctant nod.

The man sniffed faintly, confirming what his eyes already told him: infection lingering deep. "Couple weeks?"

Kustaa's reply was clipped. "Yes." Nothing more.

The apothecary didn't pry. He simply reached for a jar of pale ash salve, uncapped it, and scooped a measure. "This will keep the rot from spreading further. Sight's gone if it was ever there, but the flesh can still be saved."

Kustaa hesitated, instinctively recoiling from charity, but before he could refuse the boy stirred again, head lolling against his arm with a soft, pained sound. That was enough. He gave a curt nod, allowing it.

The salve was applied gently, swabbed along the cracked rim of the wound. Reka hissed faintly, but didn't fight. His grip tightened on Kustaa's sleeve, and Kustaa bent low, murmuring soft syllables in his own tongue until the boy eased again.

When it was done, the apothecary pressed the sealed jar into his hand. "Use it morning and night. The fever—whether from sickness or wound—it makes no difference. The cure is the same: keep him warm, keep him clean, keep him fed. He's young. He's got a chance."

Kustaa's mouth tightened, his instinct to push the jar back plain in the set of his jaw. But the man's hand stayed firm. "Don't insult me. Not for you—" his gaze softened just briefly toward the boy, "—for him."

A silence hung. Then, finally, Kustaa tucked the jar into his satchel with a grunt that might have been thanks, or just surrender.

The rest came quick: a poultice bound snug across Reka's chest to ease his breathing, a cool cloth pressed to his brow—this last passed to Kustaa, the apothecary insisting he lay it himself. And when the boy finally eased into softer, steadier breaths, the apothecary bundled a pouch of herbs and set it on the counter. "Thin tea. Three sips, no more, or it'll do him harm."

He waved away Kustaa's hand when he reached for payment. "I won't take coin. No sense charging luckless boys for what little I can give."

Kustaa's jaw worked, an argument poised on his tongue—but the boy stirred again against his chest, whimpering faintly. The fight went out of him. "Very well. But I'll remember."

The apothecary only nodded. "Then we're even."

By the time Kustaa gathered Reka back into his arms, swaddled in his coat, the boy was half-conscious but breathing easier, the fever's edge dulled. He sagged against Kustaa's chest, light as kindling. He wouldn’t make the pitifully little thing walk back, he just couldn’t bring himself to.

Kustaa glanced once more at the apothecary as he stepped through the curtain. Their eyes met—two men bound only by this night and this boy—and then he turned, carrying Reka back out into the lamplight of the street.

The words lingered like a drumbeat in his mind as he walked.

Keep him warm.

Keep him clean.

Keep him fed.

Three things, all that lay between the boy and the abyss. Three things Kustaa knew, and had been doing for the past few weeks. Who was this man to tell him things he already knew, like he was some invalid?

A sigh brushed past his lips, shoulders lowering slightly from where they’d been hiked up close to his ears. The man who’d helped nurse him, when Kustaa himself was having trouble. What a terrible healer he was.

Notes:

Tysm for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated<3

Tws: Brief in depth descriptions of Zuko’s burn wound, minor swearing, period typical words that may be offensive, and minorly racist remarks
I think that’s it, if I missed anything please lmk!

Also, I’ve updated the tags because I realized it might not be clear exactly where this fic is headed, so hopefully you can tell now!

I KNOW I got a bit heated with Tadi this chapter… I’m sorry… I love him, and I hope you all love him too, but the man has some problems, and just because Zuko is an adorable little kid doesn’t mean that he’s not still the literal embodiment of everything these people hate. To put it simply, that is.
I tried to explain a bit in the chapter, but I’m always happy to answer any questions you guys have in the comments! Tadi will be getting a “redemption” soon, I promise<33

This chapter is a little less character driven compared to how I usually write, more so focused on what’s happening rather than how the characters are experiencing things. If you like this style, please lmk, so I know how to continue writing, but otherwise we’ll probably be dipping back into more character driven writing soon!

I fought for my life trying to find all the typos in this, if you see one no you didn’t.

Chapter 8: 7

Summary:

I’m bringing you more quickly as a small apology for the fact that I’m going to disappear for a while whilst I write up the next chapter. It’ll be a long one, I promise!!

Notes:

Hi! I’m back so soon.. but this chapter isn’t too long. So, apologies for that, but it’s a sort of filler chapter and an apology because it’ll take a while to write up the next one. I hope you enjoy nonetheless!

 

Not much to say in my Ted talk today, but I thought this was mildly interesting.

Nan guan (男倌) refers to a male prostitute in ancient China. This term is similar to ji (妓) or courtesan for female prostitutes, but specifically for men. Within this profession, male sex workers were often assigned distinct ranks. These rankings determined their status and the types of services they provided. Historically, their roles could be found in various settings, including brothels, taverns, or even as personal companions to wealthy individuals.

In a more fantastical setting like this fic, a port town where the primary clientele are foreign sailors, a nan guan could plausibly speak a rough, functional version of the common language out of sheer necessity for their livelihood. This acquisition would not come from a formal education but rather from informal, practical immersion, as they constantly interact with individuals from various lands. Furthermore, since their customers are often common sailors, they would not expect perfect or eloquent speech, and the nan guan could get by with simple, transactional vocabulary and supplementary non-verbal cues.

 

Tws and Cws will be at the end!

The market streets had been a blur of motion and noise, the kind that pressed in from every side and made him wish for open water. Fishmongers shouted prices, women in pale green wraps bartered over bolts of fabric, children darted like sparrow-doves between wooden stalls, laughing with their mouths full of stolen fruit. Tadi drifted through it all with his hands tucked into his sleeves, eyes lowered, the weight of his thoughts making him slower than usual.

The talk on the ship earlier hadn't left him. Every word seemed to snag like a hook in his chest. Reka, Kustaa, Hakoda, Bato, even Husha—all pulling in different directions, all expecting him to stand steady somewhere in between. He hated the way he never knew if he was a man trusted, or just a pair of hands too useful to discard.

A low whistle drew his attention. At first, he thought it was for someone else, but when he looked up, a man leaned lazily against a post near the edge of the wharf, his hair bound in a loose knot, his eyes dark and steady. The clothes marked him as local, though there was something practiced in his stance, the tilt of his head, the faint smile that lingered even as he said nothing.

Tadi blinked, confused—then realized what the man was.

Nan guan.

The word floated into his mind, carried on the accent of one of the older Earth Kingdom sailors. He'd seen them before, at a distance, slipping into taverns or laughing on balconies that overlooked the piers. Always half-glimpsed, never up close.

The man straightened a little, caught Tadi's gaze, then tipped his chin toward the water. Simple as that. No elaborate offer, no string of words—just an invitation.

Tadi hesitated. He shouldn't. He knew he shouldn't. He thought of Bato, of Hakoda, of all the men who would sneer if they caught him wandering off into one of the floating brothels. But his feet carried him anyway, steps heavy, as if drawn forward by something he couldn't name.

The nan guan spoke when he came closer, his voice low and accented, the words halting but clear enough in the patched-together common tongue sailors and merchants used.

"You want...float-house? Quiet. Good. Come."

Tadi almost laughed at how blunt it was. He only nodded. The man's eyes crinkled faintly, relief or amusement, then he gestured for him to follow.

The vessel was moored a little away from the rest of the pier—a broad, low barge with lanterns strung across its deck. Painted wood gleamed despite the salt air, the red and gold trim catching what little sun remained. Laughter and faint music drifted from within, the scent of incense trying—and failing—to cover smoke and sweat.

Tadi's thoughts tangled tighter the nearer they came. He told himself he wasn't nervous, only tired, but his pulse betrayed him, quick and uneven. It wasn't the act that gnawed at him. He'd seen enough of life to know men took their comfort where they found it. What unsettled him was the quiet hunger in his own chest, the way it sharpened when the nan guan looked back at him with that half-smile, patient and certain.

Inside, the light was dim and warm. They passed through curtains of dyed silk, into a small room rocking gently with the tide. The man pushed the door closed behind them, and in that hush, Tadi felt the last of the market's noise fall away.

The words spoken between them were few—half-gestures, a question in the tilt of a head, an answer in a nod. It didn't need more.

What he thought about, as the minutes stretched, was not the man's hands or the creak of the boat, but the odd sense of being seen. Not as a soldier, not as Hakoda's second, not as the one meant to smooth over what others could not—but as someone standing on a pier, tired and alone, answering a simple offer.

For once, he let himself stay in that thought, instead of pushing it away.

The boat rocked gently beneath them, a motion Tadi knew in his bones, though here it was different—soft, not the restless heave of a ship at sea, but a cradle against the pier. The nan guan lit a stick of incense, set it into a shallow bowl, and for a while the only sound was the faint hiss as smoke unfurled into the warm, lantern-lit air.

Tadi let himself sit back, watching the smoke coil. His thoughts ran faster than his tongue, faster than he cared to admit. It was easier to stay quiet than fill the silence with something clumsy. The man didn't seem to mind. He moved with practiced patience, every gesture unhurried, every glance steady, as if there were all the time in the world.

It unsettled Tadi—this patience. He was used to rough laughter in taverns, to hands quick and thoughtless, to the world demanding more of him than he had the strength to give. Here, there was no demand, only presence. That alone made his chest tighten with something that felt dangerously close to want.

His mind betrayed him, turning over the faces of the men back on the ship. Kustaa with his silences, Hakoda with his impossible steadiness, even Reka in his damnable fragility, Panuk and Toklo with their boyish personalities, always bolstering up beside him when they weren’t busy with their own tasks—how would they look at him if they knew where he was now, what he was allowing? He pressed the thought down, hard, until it no longer had words, only a dull ache in his chest. They wouldn’t care. He knows they wouldn’t. It was an obvious choice that many of the crew made when docking anywhere for longer than a day, longing for the touch of someone who wasn’t just a quick fuck in some deserted cabin that smelled of old fish a salt. It was normal.

So why were his thoughts rabbiting so much?

The nan guan spoke at last, his accent soft, the words brief "You think...too much."

Tadi startled, then gave a crooked smile despite himself. "Aye. That's a fair truth."

The man didn't push for more, only leaned close enough that the incense smoke carried between them. And for a time, Tadi allowed himself to stop thinking, to sink into the rocking hush of the floating house.

Later, when he left, the lanterns still burned warm against the dusk. The air outside was cooler, salted with the tide, and the noise of the market had dwindled to a few vendors calling the last of their wares. He walked slower than he meant to, his hands empty at his sides.

Regret didn't bite him—at least, not in the way he expected. What sat heavy was stranger than that, a mix of relief and shame that refused to settle into one or the other. He had gone in hungry, though for what he still wasn't sure, and left... less hollow. That was the truth of it. And truths had a way of catching up with him.

When the ship came into sight, rocking at its moorings, Tadi's shoulders stiffened. The floating house already felt like another world, the smoke and lantern-light sinking beneath the weight of duty waiting ahead. He paused at the end of the pier, staring out over the darkening water, and wondered—just briefly—if anyone would notice if he turned back.

 

He didn't end staying overnight in the ship, turning around at the last moment and pretending he didn't see Hakoda's eyes on him as he retreated. They still had two and a half days in the port town, he had plenty of time to think about what to say when he got back. This is fine.

The thought rang hollow the further he walked, boots thudding against the boards of the pier. Lanterns flickered on either side, their flames fluttering in the wind off the bay, catching his shadow and stretching it thin. The streets were quieter now, though not silent—soft laughter from a tavern, a dog barking somewhere farther inland, the rustle of cloth from a stall-owner covering his wares for the night.

Tadi's stomach felt like stone. He had no plan for where he was going, only that his body refused the idea of climbing the gangplank and facing the others. He pictured Bato asking where he'd been, the edge of suspicion behind a friendly grin. He pictured Kustaa's sharp glance, Reka's hollow-eyed stare, Hakoda's silence that cut deeper than words. He would rather wander all night than answer those eyes.

The town opened up in layers as he drifted. The market stalls gave way to narrow alleys, the alleys to wider streets paved in dark stone. He found himself following the smell of dumplings frying, his hunger rising only now that the smoke and incense of the floating house had fully faded. He bought one with the last of his coin, chewing slowly as he walked, barely tasting it.

It wasn't the act itself that haunted him—it was the quiet, the way the nan guan had said nothing, asked nothing, and still managed to leave him feeling stripped bare. For once, he hadn't been anyone's second, anyone's soldier, anyone's shield. He'd just been a man who thought too much. And maybe that was worse.

He stopped at the edge of a square where a well sat half-covered in ivy, the stones damp and moss-bitten. A few women knelt nearby, filling their jars, laughing low among themselves. Tadi lowered himself onto the steps beside the well, hands hanging loose between his knees. The night pressed cool against his skin, and he let it.

Two and a half days. He could vanish into this city for that long, lose himself in its streets, its noise, its faces that didn't know him. He could come back when the ship was ready to sail, step on board like nothing had shifted inside him. He almost convinced himself.

But Hakoda's eyes followed him still, even in memory, steady as the tide. They'd always had a way of dragging him back, no matter how far he tried to drift.

Tadi leaned back against the well wall, closed his eyes, and told himself he would only rest a moment before finding a bed somewhere cheap and quiet. But his thoughts moved restlessly, never still, never kind.

And though he tried, he could not quite shake the echo of smoke, the lantern light, and the voice that had said, with patient certainty—you think too much.

---

The creak of rope and the snap of sails was a cleaner sound than any crowd, and Kustaa found himself breathing easier once the shoreline dwindled to nothing but a jagged gray seam. The wind smelled sharper out here, salted foam and wet wood, none of the sweet rot of the harbor.

He stood a long time at the rail, one hand hooked lazily in the corded rope, watching the water churn past. Behind him, the rest of the crew shifted into their rhythms—Hakoda's quiet commands, the shouts back, the thrum of boots across deck. All familiar. All safe enough, for now.

When he turned, his eyes went unerringly to the dark bundle tucked near the cabin hatch. Reka hadn't stirred much since they'd hauled everything aboard. He was slumped sideways against the wood, a blanket drawn up over his chest, skin a shade too pale to belong at sea. In sleep he looked worse than he did awake; the burn around his eye glistened raw even in the dim light, the bandages having slipped slightly to reveal charred edges that refused to heal clean.

Kustaa hesitated. He didn't like hesitating.

He crossed the deck, boots muffled on the planks, and crouched beside him. Reka cracked one eye open at the shift of shadow. The other—the ruined one—remained sealed in a dark welt.

"You should be below," Kustaa said low, keeping his voice neutral. The boys fever had broken sometime in the last day, still leaving him shivery and weak, but conscious and lucid. He'd gotten up on his own very few times, letting Kustaa care for him as if he were some kind of doting mother, and, despite himself, the man couldn't actually bring himself to care too much about the implications. What a horrific thought.

Reka gave something that might have been a laugh, though it dissolved into a shallow cough. "Below smells worse."

"You're letting the wind eat you alive."

"Better than rotting where no one sees."

Kustaa's mouth pressed thin. He reached to tug the blanket tighter, his hands careful despite the roughness of his voice. "You're not rotting."

Reka didn't answer, but his head leaned fractionally against the bulkhead, the movement small but telling. He was tired. Always tired now.

The apothecary's vials clinked faintly in the satchel Kustaa still carried. He'd agreed to the man's meddling against his better judgment, and part of him itched to toss half the medicines overboard. But he'd seen the way Reka had swayed on his feet, the way the fever sweated through his shirt, the way infection seemed to coil like a snake beneath his skin.

Kustaa didn't trust strangers with Reka. He barely trusted himself. But he trusted what his own eyes told him—that the illness wasn't lifting, and will alone wasn't enough to keep Reka upright.

The boat lurched slightly as it found a new current. Kustaa braced one hand against the wall above Reka's shoulder, steadying both of them.

"You're taking the draught tonight," he said finally.

A flicker of something in Reka's good eye—resistance, weariness, maybe both. "If it puts me to sleep too deep, you'll have to drag me around. That'll be your punishment."

Kustaa huffed. "I've carried heavier than you."

He meant it as dismissal, but the words settled strangely between them. Reka gave no answer, only let his eyelids slip lower, his breath rasping faintly.

Kustaa stayed a moment longer, hand still braced over his shoulder, before he pushed back and stood. The sea spread endless ahead of them, no harbor lights to cling to, no easy refuge. Just the water, and whatever would come next.

And though he would never admit it aloud, he found himself glancing back toward the still figure by the hatch more often than the horizon.

 

The lantern swung on its hook with each roll of the ship, throwing the healer's cabin into restless light and shadow. The air smelled of salt-stained timber, damp wool, and the bitter bite of boiled herbs. Kustaa leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, though his eyes hadn't left the cot in the far corner since they brought Reka down.

The boy looked smaller here, swallowed by thick blankets that clung with sweat. His chest rose unevenly, every breath scraping faint. The fresh salves glistened over his ruined eye, but the infection ran deeper than the surface. Kustaa could see it—how it hollowed him out, how it made even stillness look labored.

Hakoda sat on the stool beside the cot, his weight balanced forward, elbows on his knees. His tone was careful, a voice honed for coaxing half-drowned sailors back to shore.

"You'll burn yourself out fighting it this way, kid," Hakoda said, softer than Kustaa was used to hearing. "You've got to let the fever run its course. Let us help."

Reka's good eye blinked, sluggish but sharp for a moment, and Kustaa recognized the instinct—measuring the worth of words, the safety of answers. He saw him do it in every port, every crowded street. But fever blurred the lines; hesitation turned to slip. He'd been fighting them, refusing food, refusing drink, even when they'd got desperate enough to offer him a silken skin of a sour wine, wanting something in him so he'd stop gagging, his stomach too empty to bring anything up but acidic bile.

"You don't understand," Reka rasped, the words catching in his throat. His hand twitched weakly toward the edge of the blanket, as if looking for an anchor. "I can't just... I'm not supposed to be here."

Hakoda frowned. "Where should you be, then?"

Kustaa shifted at the wall, jaw tightening. He remembered what Tadi had said all those days ago, no matter if he'd truly agreed with the man or not, it was a fact none of them really paid much attention to: they didn't actually know this boy, beyond what little he'd shown them. The cornered polar-dog attitude, the soft, unblemished skin, callous free hands and feet, fair skin like he'd spent his whole life in doors, pampered beyond belief. Kustaa hadn't wanted to put words in the boys mouth, nor had he really wanted to believe what he'd been guessing at ever since the boy had begun talking to him, but it was getting harder and harder every day to convince himself otherwise.

"The Fire Nation doesn't want me." His voice cracked on the word. "My father—he... he sent me away. Banished. I'm nothing without it, nothing but a mark to hunt."

Hakoda's brow furrowed, recognition slow but sharp. His gaze flicked once toward Kustaa, searching, measuring. Kustaa gave nothing back but stone, but his eyes flickered slightly, like he was fighting some sort of inner battle.

Reka swallowed, as if the taste of the words soured even as they left him. "Prince Zuko," he whispered, barely audible. "That's who I was. That's what they burned out of me."

The lantern flame guttered as the ship dipped, shadow cutting across his face. The ruined eye caught the light in a sickly sheen, the burn stretching cruel across skin too young to carry it.

Hakoda sat back slightly, lips pressing thin, but there was no judgment in his eyes—only weight. Understanding, maybe. Or pity.

Kustaa pushed off the wall, crossing the space in three long strides. He crouched beside the cot, his broad frame blocking Hakoda's view of Reka. He'd been afraid of this, but a part of him wasn't surprised now that it'd come to light. It was almost obvious, really. This conversation could wait until the boy—the crowned prince?—wasn't delirious with a fever.

"Enough," he said flat, but not unkind. "You'll cook your brain with that fever if you keep spilling ghosts."

Reka's good eye flicked toward him, unfocused, trying to decide if Kustaa was scolding or shielding. Maybe both. His mouth opened like he might argue, but the words dissolved into a hoarse cough.

Kustaa reached up, wringing the cloth in the basin before pressing it firm to his brow, his hand large and steady against trembling skin. "Rest. That's all you need to do right now."

The boy sagged beneath his palm, too weak to resist, and the cabin fell into a hush save for the rhythm of the waves against the hull.

Hakoda lingered, watching the way Kustaa bent over him—gruff, guarded, but unwilling to leave. After a moment he rose from his stool and set a hand on Kustaa's shoulder, heavy and brief. The implication was clear, they’d need to speak about this later, but it could wait for a time.

"Whatever name he carries," Hakoda said low, "he's just a sick boy on my ship now. We'll keep him alive."

Kustaa didn't look up, didn't trust the sharpness in his throat. His only answer was to keep wringing the cloth cool, again and again, until Reka's breathing eased.

 

Panuk sucked in a sharp breath, eyes wide as he stared at the half shut door to Kustaa's cabin. He'd had a small ceramic bowl in his hands, the glaze smooth and warmed against his palms from the stew he'd scooped into it, intending to bring for the healer, whom hadn't seen in the dining hall for long enough to draw attention.

He was frozen where he stood, the thin steam from the stew curling up into his face, blurring his expression in the lantern-glow. His heart drummed hard against his ribs. Prince Zuko. The words still seemed to crackle in the air, even though the cabin had quieted again, leaving only the muted lap of waves and the low rasp of Reka's fevered breathing.

He leaned slightly, careful as a thief, peering through the narrow break of the door. Kustaa's broad shoulders filled most of his view, the man bent over the cot like a rock planted against the storm. Hakoda's back was turned now, his frame squared in the corner as though carrying the weight of what he'd just heard. Reka—or Zuko, if Panuk dared let himself think it—lay sunken in the blankets, face too pale beneath the angry burn stretched across his temple.

It was a strange thing to witness, given what he'd just overheard. Kustaa had always been one of the harsher voices aboard when it came to the Fire Nation—his face pinched whenever the subject of the war rose in the dining hall, his scowl only half-hidden beneath that practiced, stony mask. Panuk hadn't lived through the worst of it; being among the youngest on the ship meant most of what he knew came from gossip, or from listening where he shouldn't. But everyone knew the story of Kustaa's wife.

She'd been taken—dragged off in a raid like the rest of the waterbenders. Some had been herded onto those vast iron ships, vanishing to La only knew where. The ones who resisted never came back at all.

Panuk's throat tightened. He should back away, leave the bowl at the door and pretend he'd never heard. That would be the honorable thing, the loyal thing. But his fingers clenched tighter around the ceramic, the stew threatening to spill. A crown prince of the Fire Nation, here, on their ship, on the run, banished. His father would want to know. His people would need to know.

But then his gaze caught on Kustaa again. The man's hand moved with surprising gentleness, wringing out the cloth, pressing it back to the boy's brow. Not a soldier shielding a prisoner, not a mercenary guarding a bounty—but a man keeping a boy alive because it was the only thing to do.

Panuk stepped back, heel knocking lightly against the bulkhead. The small noise carried, enough to draw Kustaa's head up. His eyes met Panuk's through the crack, dark and sharp as iron.

For a heartbeat Panuk couldn't breathe. The stew weighed heavy in his hands, suddenly ridiculous, and he thought of bolting. But Kustaa didn't move, didn't bark or snarl—he just stared, steady, daring him to make the next choice.

Panuk swallowed, lifted the bowl slightly in mute offering, and whispered hoarsely. "I thought... you hadn't eaten."

The silence stretched, thick as tar. Then Kustaa rose, crossing to the door in two strides. He didn't open it wider, didn't let Panuk see more than the faint shadow of the sick boy on the cot. He only took the bowl, his fingers brushing Panuk's as he did, grip rough but careful.

"Keep your ears shut, boy," Kustaa said low, the words heavy as an oath. "What you think you heard—dies here. Understood?"

Panuk nodded quickly, chest tight, and stepped back as the door eased closed again, the lantern's glow narrowing to a seam of gold before vanishing.

He stood in the corridor long after, hands empty, pulse hammering. He wasn't sure if he'd just been trusted with something sacred—or threatened into silence.

Notes:

Tysm for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated, and I try to respond to everyone!<3

Tws: Non-explicit/fade to black sex scene, prostitution, soliciting, a teensy bit of internalize homophobia (but it’s not exactly noticeable)
I think that’s all, if I missed anything please lmk!

We’ve all heard of Dadkoda, but is anyone interested in Momustaa? (That is a terrible name, I’m working on it…)

I did as much research as I could on this little topic, and I tried to keep it as respectful as I could, as sex work is nothing to be ashamed about, despite it’s “taboo” industry. If I was incorrect or disrespectful in any way during this chapter, please correct me so I can fix it!

We might be seeing an opening for a new perspective, and some new characters soon 👀

This chapter is a bit.. messy, I think, cause I was trying to get a few things across very quickly so I can move on, as I didn’t want to linger too long on some stuff, but I promise we’ll be getting more in depth port scenes later on, and we WILL be focusing on the fact that Zuko literally just doomed himself here, but I have a very specific way I want to go about it, and unfortunately that requires a little bit of pre-info before we can get there. I don’t love this chapter, so I hope it doesn’t suck as much as I think it does.