Chapter Text
So, Zuko was not in Omashu. Or Ba Sing Se.
Thank Agni for that, he thought as he rifled through the sack that had appeared with him. His swords a change of clothes, some money, a bit of food to last him a few days and a few more blades he’d had on him.
His bending was bust, completely gone except for a few meagre sparks to light a fire. Nothing compared to the previous plumes of liquid gold that would unfurl like satin.
Zuko sighed heavily as he packed up and picked a direction to leave the shrubbery he was in. He needed to find Uncle and fast.
Wiping his forehead from sweat and pulling up his hood, he walked into a small dusty town. It was a neutral port Zuko could hardly remember, which was fine considering his purpose here was to look for news regarding the Fire Nation troops.
The streets were a patchwork of dry earth and shallow puddles from recent rain, though the dusty air hinted at long days without much water. Buildings leaned precariously, their wooden frames darkened from years of sea air and wear. Canvas tarps stretched between them, flapping in the wind, offering small respite from the drizzle now beginning to fall again.
Vendors lined the narrow paths, their goods spilling over ramshackle carts and crates. A fishmonger shouted about his "fresh catch" as a passing gull squawked its disagreement, diving to snag a scrap before scurrying children chased it off. The air smelled of salt, damp wood, and the faint but constant tang of something rotting.
Zuko kept his head low, his boots splashing through the mud as he weaved through the crowd. Voices rose and fell, fragments of conversation brushing against him.
"Fire Nation patrols been sniffin' around again..."
"Rebels, they say. Same ones helpin' that Avatar..."
"Quiet! You want trouble?"
He quickened, ignoring the wary glances of passing dockworkers and fishermen. The guards in patched uniforms didn’t seem to care much for the goings-on around them, their eyes heavy-lidded with boredom or weariness. Still, Zuko kept a safe distance, his hood shadowing his scar.
The rain began to fall harder, turning the ground beneath his feet slick and unsteady. He cursed his luck for the millionth time, pulling the hood tighter as cold droplets slid down the back of his neck.
Reaching the news board, he paused, his hand briefly brushing the edge of the worn wood. It was cluttered with faded notices, weathered posters promising rewards for wanted criminals, and hastily scrawled announcements of merchant arrivals. The parchment curled at the edges, water spots blurring ink in places. Yet, there it was.
A declaration of death and funeral.
Zuko’s heart froze.
There, in his father’s own writing, was his sentence of life. He’d been declared dead through no proof of body.
His chest felt hollow as his eyes traced the sharp, unforgiving strokes of ink. Only the royal family had ever been privy to Father’s handwriting. It was tradition for the members of the family to know each other. No one else could know, meaning Father had written this. Father must’ve known he’d survive. Father was calling him dead.
Father wanted him dead.
The realization hit him with the force of a lightning strike, a cold shock that froze his mind and body. He stood there, rain dripping from his hood, his hands clenched so tightly his nails bit into his palms. The world around him dimmed, the noise of the port town fading into nothing.
Father saw no further use for him. Father preferred him dead .
Zuko’s breath came in short gasps, each one clawing its way out of his throat. He tried to steady himself, but the thought clung to him, sharp and unrelenting. He wasn’t even worth killing in person. Just a piece of paper, a few lines of ink, and that was it. That was the value of his existence in Ozai’s eyes.
Static filled his mind, a suffocating hum of anger and pain he couldn’t escape. Memories surfaced unbidden—Father’s scornful glare as he declared him banished, the heat of flames licking his skin, the crushing weight of an agni kai he never stood a chance of winning. It all played over and over until Zuko couldn’t tell if it was the rain or his own tears soaking his face.
He had no home. No family. No purpose.
The words echoed in his mind, hollow and damning. For years, everything he had done—every desperate act, every moment of suffering—was to regain his honor. To be worthy of his father’s approval. And now it was all for nothing.
Zuko’s legs gave out beneath him, the wet ground soaking into his robes as he sat there, staring blankly at the declaration. He wanted to be angry, but the rage was buried under the crushing weight of failure. He wanted to scream, but his throat was too tight. He wanted to fight, but there was nothing left to fight for.
For the first time since his banishment, Zuko truly didn’t know what to do.
The knife in his hand felt heavy, its cool edge pressing against his palm. He didn’t even remember drawing it. A bitter laugh escaped his lips, low and humorless.
Even this—this final, desperate act of control—would mean nothing. Father wouldn’t care. He’d already written him off. He’d already moved on.
Zuko clenched his jaw, forcing himself to his feet. His limbs felt like lead, every step toward the river a battle against the crushing weight pressing down on him. He stared at the water’s surface, his own reflection distorted by the rain.
What was left for him now?
He stared.
Father wanted him dead. Uncle had been declared a traitor and helper of the Avatar.
Zuko could never go back home. Not while Father was alive and the Firelord. The Avatar would kill father.
The thought shot through him like lightning, fast enough to get him to drop his knife. He sat back on his heels as he stared at the water, feeling an unnatural pull toward the body.
Like something wanted him to grab it and pull.
He’d only ever felt that pull toward fire.
The sensation grew stronger the longer he stared. It wasn’t a command, but a request—quiet and persistent, like a whisper carried on the wind. His brow furrowed, his hand hovering over the stream as though drawn by a force he couldn’t name. He hesitated. Then, almost without thinking, he clenched his hand into a fist.
The water moved.
It lifted in a swirling arc, droplets shimmering in the muted gray light. The cold stung his fingertips, but it wasn’t unpleasant. The water gathered into a small, clear orb, suspended a few inches above the stream. Zuko’s breath hitched as his heart raced in his chest.
His hand shook as he held it there, his mind scrambling for an explanation. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But the water remained, defying his denial, defying gravity. It glistened like a second heartbeat, pulsing faintly in rhythm with his own.
And then panic overtook him. He stumbled back, his boots skidding on the wet grass as the water splashed back into the stream. The sound brought him crashing back into himself, his pulse roaring in his ears.
He was a pureblood Firebender through and through.
He was the son of Ozai and Ursa. Fire Nation citizens. He was from the line blessed of Agni. The rulers of the Fire Nation.
Why was he bending water?
The question stuck in his throat, its weight as cold and unyielding as the water itself. His chest felt tight, his thoughts spiralling. Dual bending wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. Not in all of history. Not in the Fire Nation. Not in him.
Zuko stared at his hands, expecting to see some mark, some sign of what had just happened, but they were as they always had been—scarred, calloused, and trembling. He clenched them into fists as though willing the memory away.
He really was a traitor.
Steeling his resolve, Zuko ignored the pull and clenched his fingers over the knife as he cut off his phoenix plume. Shaving his head clean. He stared at his reflection, hating it more and more.
Pale gold eyes stared back at him. A colour that had been a mystery to him all his life.
Mother had golden amber, the colour of pure honey. Something she and Azula had in common. Father and Lu Ten had the same eyes. A bronze that shone like gold in the right lighting. Uncle had eyes that reminded him of crystalized caramel. His favourite sweet. From what he remembered of Azulon, he too had bronze eyes.
Azulon used to stare at him when he’d been younger and naive. When Azula couldn’t bend yet. He told him that his father used to have gold eyes. “However not this pale.” He’d murmur, before stalking off to his duties. Not that Zuko ever met Sozin.
Then mother would whisper to him, on days when Azula had been just a bit too fast. A second to quick at the katas. A moment too precise. He’d cry into her arms, she’d whisper how her grandfather was supposed to have pale gold eyes. How he’d probably love him just as he was.
Zuko never understood. He still doesn’t, but they made him hate himself a bit less. He had a bit of mom in him.
Zuko let the remains of his phoenix plume drift in the water wondering what she’d think of him now if she knew where he was. What she’d do.
He ignored the pull of the water. Shoving that feeling of rightness , completion into a void box that he’d never have to look at again.
His mind must’ve been playing tricks with him.
Dual benders were not a thing. And there was no way he’d just magically become a water bender after years of being a fire bender. That was impossible.
Refilling his water, he slung his sack over his shoulders and left the town, his identity and his previous life behind.
A signboard said he was a few hours away from Wan Ming. A farming village, if he remembered right. Glancing at his supplies, he dearly hoped he could find some food.
Tossing and tumbling, he grunted in his sleep. His night visions were plagued with a man in sparkling midnight blue and white shimmer. The man whispered, his eyes pure white and crackling like a storm.
“You will face many crossroads. Yet, I believe in you, Zuko. ‘Blessed of Agni and Chosen of the Midnight Wrath.’”
The words echoed, each syllable heavy with a meaning Zuko couldn’t grasp, as though the man’s voice was etched into the fabric of the dream itself.
Zuko woke up with a gasp, sweat dripping down his back. His chest heaved as he blinked rapidly, placing a trembling hand over his face. The room was dark, lit only by the pale glow of the moon at its apex. Rolling his shoulders, Zuko tried to shake off the dream, but the man’s words clung to him like soot. His heart pounded as if he’d run miles, and the phrase "Chosen of the Midnight Wrath" sent a chill down his spine.
What did it mean? Who was that figure? And why did his words feel as though they carried a weight heavier than Zuko could bear?
He’d been staying with a healer in Wa Ming, a lady called Song. She reminded him of Lu Ten in the most bizarre of ways. It wasn’t her face or voice, but the way she carried herself—calm, steady, and full of quiet kindness. It was disarming. For a moment, Zuko could almost imagine Lu Ten standing over him, cracking a wry joke about how Zuko always seemed to find himself in trouble.
But Lu Ten had been dead for almost five years now.
Song had taken one look at him when he asked for directions to the nearest port city near Ba Sing Se and decided he wasn’t to leave her sight until he’d been “cured and treated.” He’d hesitated at first, but the promise of food had lured him in. Before he knew it, she’d seated him by a fire and administered medicine. He’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
Zuko sighed, flopping back on the cot. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the pattering rain. Song had been kind to him—too kind. He hated it. Comfort felt foreign, like something he didn’t deserve. Yet, it had also been… safe. A fleeting glimpse of what life might have been if things had been different.
Waterbending could mean an endless supply of ice blades.
The thought came unbidden, sharp and unwelcome. Zuko froze, his mind immediately rejecting it. No . He chided himself, forcing the insane notion away. It was just another way his mind was trying to drive him into greater peril. He still had his inner flame; he could still feel the sun. He was a firebender.
That was the lie he told himself on repeat, especially on nights like this, when the quiet made it impossible to ignore the truth.
On the fourth day, he disappeared from Wa Ming. No more than a specter in the wind. The town had been too comfortable, too much like home—like the Wani. He left behind nothing, not even a farewell.
Now, sitting under the faint glow of a makeshift campfire, Zuko glared at the brittle paper in his hands. The document claimed the existence of Wan Shi Tong’s library—a mythical repository of knowledge. If it existed, it could finally provide him some insight into his condition.
His fingers hovered over the edges of his map, tracing the faint lines of the Earth Kingdom. The desert where the library was said to be hidden stretched vast and unforgiving between Gaoling and Ba Sing Se. Zuko breathed deeply, considering his options. According to reports, the Avatar was near Omashu. That meant—
He shook his head sharply. He wasn’t after the Avatar. Not anymore. The thought of pursuing him felt distant, like something from another life.
He just needed to survive.
The idea of the library pulled at him like the moon pulled the tides, a faint glimmer of hope amidst the chaos of his thoughts. If he could find answers—anything to explain the changes in him—he might finally understand who he was.
Zuko snapped the map closed and got to his feet. The rain had stopped, leaving the night air cool and damp. He glanced at the distant outline of the mountains on the horizon. Wan Ming had been kind, but kindness couldn’t save him.
His journey to the library would be dangerous, but he’d faced worse. Or so he told himself.