Chapter Text
This was the most anxious Sokka had ever been in his life.
And that was saying something, considering he’d been nearly fried by firebenders, survived an encounter with a bloodbender, and hurled through the sky on the back of a temperamental flying bison. But none of those moments compared to this one: the first night he and Zuko would spend alone in the palace.
Well—not completely alone. Suki and the Kyoshi Warriors were stationed throughout the building like statues in elegant armor, shadows moving where he least expected them. Suki, in particular, had made a game out of scaring Sokka by jumping out from various corners of the palace when he least expected it. A handful of Fire Nation staff remained too—stewards, chambermaids, two nervous archivists who kept losing their scrolls—but the palace felt... half-empty. Haunted, almost, not by ghosts, but by what had been purged. The old regime, the stink of war, the fear that hung in tapestries and the cold echo in the halls.
And yet, the real source of Sokka’s anxiety wasn’t the looming weight of history or the yawning corridors echoing with silence. It was the bedchamber at the top of the tower. The one with the balcony that looked over the capital like a throne above the clouds. The one where Zuko was waiting.
Zuko. His husband. His mate.
He tugged at the collar of his new court robes—tailored in crimson and blue silk, the stitches still starchy—and tried not to sweat through the gold trim. The thing was beautiful. Impressive. A gift from Zuko. The same Zuko who, not two weeks ago, had bitten into his neck under the canopy of plum trees in the royal garden. Sokka had whispered that they would share everything from now on. Not just vows, not just bodies. Burdens. Fire Nation burdens. Whatever came their way.
And they had a lot of burdens.
First, the policy staff. Or the lack thereof. Every last one had fled the palace like rats abandoning a flaming ship during the final days of the war. Some had done worse—betrayed the throne, plotted coups, collaborated with the Ozai loyalists now festering in the colonies. Zuko had made it very clear that none of them would be returning.
Which meant they had to start from scratch.
No advisors. No finance ministers. No speechwriters or historians or tax officials. Just Sokka, Zuko, and a nation teetering on the brink.
Second—and far more urgent, in Sokka’s opinion—was the appalling lack of a cooking staff.
“You’d think we could find at least one decent chef lying around,” Sokka had said earlier, poking miserably at a plate of lukewarm rice and salted fish. “This is worse than camp food. And I’ve eaten mushrooms Aang made over a fire pit.”
Zuko hadn’t even flinched. “You’re free to cook something yourself.”
“I’ve moved up in the world,” Sokka said in mock haughty disdain. “Cooking is beneath my royal person.”
Zuko had laughed. The real kind. Soft. Eyes wrinkling. It was becoming more frequent. Sokka could only hope that Zuko kept that smile in the months and years ahead.
With Aang gone—off to Ba Sing Se to coordinate reconstruction—Katara and Hakoda back in the Southern Water Tribe, and the rest of their ragtag gang scattered across the world, the weight of the Fire Nation sat squarely on two very young, very tired, very mated shoulders.
And Sokka had meant it, what he said the night Zuko marked him. He’d offered more than just his neck. He’d offered everything. His insight. His love. His sense of strategy, his endless questions, even his sarcastic commentary during council meetings—assuming they ever managed to assemble a council again.
“Zuko?” he called softly, stepping past the double doors into the royal bedchamber. Moonlight streamed across the lacquered floor, spilling over sheets of red and gold silk. The air smelled like jasmine and soot. Warmth lingered in the stones, the way it always did near firebenders.
Zuko sat by the window, shirtless, the faint scar across his chest catching the light. His crown was gone. His hair loose. He turned slowly, and when his eyes met Sokka’s, the anxious thrum in Sokka’s chest didn’t vanish—but it did settle, the way storms settle over calm waters.
“You’re late,” Zuko said.
Sokka rolled his eyes. “Forgive me, your royal flamelordness. I was just thinking about the future, would you believe me if I said I was a little scared?” Sokka still found it difficult to be vulnerable around others, even close friends like Suki, but amazingly enough, that trepidation didn’t exist with Zuko.
Zuko smirked, but it softened quickly into something quieter. He stood, walked over, and placed his hands gently on Sokka’s shoulders. “We made it through the war.”
“Yeah. Now we have to make it through taxes. Which might actually be worse.”
They both chuckled, but Zuko didn’t let go. “You don’t have to do this, you know. Not all of it. You could stay out of the politics. I wouldn’t blame you.”
Sokka’s voice dropped. “I bit you back, remember?”
Zuko’s gaze darkened, hungry and proud. “I remember.”
“I said I’d share your burden. That means sitting through boring policy meetings. That means budgeting for sewage systems and trade deals. That means—”
“Hiring chefs?”
“Exactly!” Sokka grinned. “Gourmet ones. With actual spices.”
Zuko pulled him into an embrace, pressing his forehead to Sokka’s. “You know, when I was a child, I would go out to the gardens around this hour of the night, sometimes with my mother, most times alone, but every time I was there, I would think of you,” he smiled at the look of confusion on Sokka’s face. “Not you specifically, but the future person I would love. I had so many ideas, how kind you would be, how smart, how pretty, all the things we would do together, all the ways you would make me forget everything that was happening to and around me.” He paused as if remembering a pleasant memory.
“And then…everything happened. I was banished, I was adrift literally and figuratively,” Zuko joked, but Sokka couldn’t quite find it in himself to laugh. “I was bitter, angry, confused, and I stopped thinking about you. All my thoughts were on reclaiming my honor and my victorious triumph home with the Avatar in chains. I gave up on the idea of anyone ever loving me. But,” He looked Sokka dead in his eyes. “Then I met you, I won’t lie and say it was love at first sight. We both know it wasn’t, even though you did look very cute in your makeup.”
“War paint.” Sokka corrected.
“Well, nobody wears war paint like you, or for that matter a dress. I’ll have to ask Suki to keep a uniform in reserve for you.” Zuko teased. “Joining your group was the best decision I made in my life, not only because I got to fight for a cause I believed in and afforded the opportunity to undo some past wrongs, but also because I got to know you. And Sokka to know you is to love you, your passion, your resilience, your kindness, and your loyalty.”
“And I’m the best swordsman in the world.” Sokka added.
“Second best,” Zuko corrected. “I guess what I’m trying to say is that you made me believe in love again. The night I walked into your tent and told you I love you is the surest I’ve been of anything in my life. Our reign is going to be one of challenge, and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t scared, too. But I know this, as long as we have each other, we’ll be okay.”
-
Sokka woke to warmth. Solid, radiating warmth that smelled faintly of smoke and sandalwood and something distinctly Zuko.
He shifted drowsily and realized he was curled deep into Zuko’s chest, legs tangled with his mate’s under the heavy silk sheets. Zuko’s arm was wrapped tight around his waist, possessive even in sleep, and Sokka’s face was pressed right where the steady thrum of Zuko’s heart echoed through bone and muscle.
For a moment, he just lay there, eyes half-lidded, the early dawn light bleeding through the tall windows of the royal bedchamber in soft gray ribbons. The city was quiet beneath them, civilians were still slowly but steadily moving back into their previously abandoned homes.
Just them.
A rare moment, Sokka knew, and likely a short one.
He tilted his head slightly to study Zuko’s face. His mate looked younger like this. The tension that always bracketed his mouth had faded in sleep.
Spirits, Sokka thought, how did I end up here?
“Sokka, Zuko—sorry, I know it’s early, but—”
Suki’s voice cut through the quiet like a spear.
Zuko groaned and tightened his grip around Sokka instinctively, voice rough with sleep. “Suki… it’s dawn.”
“Yes,” Suki said crisply, already in full Kyoshi armor, her green eyes sharp and unapologetic. “And both of you have full schedules starting now.”
Sokka cracked one eye open fully. “You are at serious risk of turning into Katara, you know that?”
Suki smirked. “I take that as a compliment, seeing how she kept you alive all these years .”
Zuko exhaled a sigh that sounded vaguely like a growl, but he was already sitting up, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Sokka reluctantly untangled himself, shivering as the cool air replaced Zuko’s warmth.
“Remind me,” Sokka mumbled, yawning, “what fresh horrors await us today?”
Suki folded her arms. “Zuko, you’re meeting with the final candidates for Chancellor and Finance Minister in one hour. These are critical appointments—you need people who can stabilize the treasury and get taxes flowing again.”
Zuko ran a hand through his hair, still mussed from sleep. “Right.”
“And you,” Suki continued, turning her gaze to Sokka, “are meeting with the military representatives who are still stationed in the Earth Kingdom, and with the council from the Fire Nation colonies.”
Sokka blinked. “Oh joy, meeting with people who wanted to kill me.”
“And probably still want to kill you,” Suki said bluntly. “But this is as good a time as any for you to start winning over the military.”
Zuko gave him a sideways glance, the barest flicker of concern in golden eyes. “If you don’t want to—”
Sokka squared his shoulders, heart thudding a little faster. “No. I said I’d carry this with you. I meant it.”
Zuko’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. Proud. Grateful.
Suki nodded approvingly. “Good. We need to get our people out of the Earth Kingdom as soon as possible; otherwise, the Earth army will try to do it for us.”
Sokka whistled. “That’s a lot for one morning.”
“Welcome to governing,” Suki said dryly. “Now get dressed. You’re both due downstairs in thirty minutes.”
As she left, the door clicking softly shut behind her, Sokka flopped back onto the bed for a moment, staring at the ornate ceiling.
“You know,” he said, “there was a time when ‘saving the world’ meant hitting bad guys with my boomerang. Now I have to negotiate with grumpy old generals and colonial governors.”
Zuko pulled a shirt over his shoulders, smirking faintly. “Well, look on the bright side, at least you don’t smell like Appa anymore.”
“True, now I just smell like a jerkbender.”
Zuko smirked. “Sokka, if anyone around here is a jerkbender… it's you.”
By the time Sokka arrived at the meeting chamber, he was already regretting everything.
The room was too warm and too quiet, the kind of quiet that made him itch to fill it with something, anything. A joke. A story. Even a coughing fit. But none of the stone-faced people seated around the polished table looked like they’d appreciate Sokka’s brand of ice-breaking charm.
Seven chairs were filled. Three by stern-faced military officials in crisp red uniforms, gold epaulets glinting in the morning light. Four more by representatives from the Fire Nation colonies, including one ancient woman who looked like she’d been alive since Sozin was in diapers. They all stood when he entered, but awkwardly. Some half-bowed. Others stiffened in place like they weren’t sure what was expected of them.
“Uh... morning,” Sokka offered, giving an awkward wave as he took the central seat at the head of the table.
A beat of silence.
One of the generals cleared his throat. “Fire Lady—”
“Nope,” Sokka cut in quickly, raising a hand. “Definitely not that.”
Another beat. Now they were really uncomfortable. One of the colonists murmured something under their breath.
“Zuko and I haven’t settled on my official title yet,” Sokka admitted, adjusting the betrothal necklace Zuko had carved for him around his throat. “I’m an omega, yes, but I’m also a guy. I’m not going to go by Fire Lady. I don’t know—maybe just ‘Sokka’ for now?”
Still silence. A slight nod here or there. Someone shifted in their seat. One general scratched at his collar like it was suddenly too tight.
This is going great, Sokka thought dryly.
He cleared his throat, flipping open a scroll. “Right. So. Today we’re here to talk about getting the troops and colonists back home as soon as we can. The war’s over. Or, well, mostly over. Kind of hanging in ‘paused’ mode. But we want to end it properly. We want to sign a fair and equitable peace treaty with the Earth King, but he isn’t going to want to negotiate while the Fire Nation still occupies large amounts of his kingdom.”
That cracked the surface.
“Unwise,” barked General Moru, a bull-necked man with fire-red streaks in his hair. “Most of our forces are still needed to maintain order. We’ve had minor uprisings in Gaoling and Saita. Parts of Ba Sing Se remain volatile.”
“Right,” Sokka said, nodding, “but your presence there is part of why it's volatile. The Earth Kingdom doesn't want Fire Nation soldiers marching through its cities anymore. We don’t want them there either.”
“I would remind you, Sokka. That you are married to the Fire Lord which means that your loyalty is to your husband and his nation. Redeploying our forces from the Earth Kingdom is a rather simple proposition, it would take an order from the Fire Lord. The colonies are another matter. Our people are civilians and have already begun building lives for themselves, starting families sometimes with the natives, and expanding beyond the existing colonial borders. We can’t just order them to pack and leave! Nor can we pull our troops out, unless you desire to abandon Fire Nation civilians at the mercy of bandits and killers?” asked Councilor Yezi, one of the colonial leaders, her lip curling. “I understand that Fire Lord Zuko wishes to negotiate an official peace treaty, but that treaty cannot come at the expense of the one million Fire Nation civilians living in the colonies.”
“We’re not abandoning anyone,” Sokka said, trying to keep his voice even. “But we can’t keep occupying Earth Kingdom land forever. It sends the wrong message. We're here to end an empire, not pretend we still run one.”
General Moru's chair scraped against the stone. “There is also the issue of the roughly 30,000 personnel who are still in Ba Sing Se. Being held prisoner by the Fire Lord’s uncle.”
Sokka narrowed his eyes. “General Iroh helped end this war, and from the letters that he’s written, the troops are being treated well. They aren’t even being kept in any kind of captivity.”
The general folded his arms, unimpressed. “Nonetheless, he led the charge against those soldiers, and they rightfully don’t trust him. They may be treated well now, but we already have reports of Earth Kingdom forces amassing outside the city. I suggest the Fire Lord order a rescue operation, immediately.”
Sokka’s hands tightened on the scroll. He wanted to argue. He really did. But Moru wasn’t wrong. Word from Ba Sing Se had already hinted at grumblings—soldiers ignoring Iroh’s orders, tensions rising in the barracks. It couldn’t last.
“All right,” Sokka conceded. “Then we have a conversation with Kuei and we request that our people, because yes, they are my people too, now are moved to one of our nearby colonies until we can sort this mess out.”
Silence again. Not quite agreement, but not protest either.
Next came the grain issue.
“Fire Nation grain shipments from the Earth Kingdom are still frozen,” said Councilor Yezi. “The bulk has already been moved here, but thirty percent is still in dispute.”
Sokka exhaled slowly. Here we go.
“That grain,” he said carefully, “was taken from Earth Kingdom reserves. Their people are starving. The fair thing to do is give it back.”
“Then our people could potentially face starvation,” snapped Councilor Naru, a portly man with sun-spotted hands. “In case you haven’t noticed, the Fire Nation has quite a large population with very little land suitable for farming. If we return the grain, the colonies will survive, but the mainland could collapse.”
Sokka looked at him. “You don’t know that for certain.”
“Actually, I do,” said Yezi, leaning forward, “The reality of the situation, regardless of the rights and wrongs of it, is clear. We stole massive amounts of grain from the Earth Kingdom, enough to feed the Fire Nation for five years. If we give the grain back, our people will starve. If we keep the grain, their people will starve. Either way, people are going to starve. Might as well be them.”
Sokka’s gut clenched. Of course, he wanted to give the grain back. Of course, he hated the fact that the Fire Nation had stolen food from people who had already lost everything. But...
But Zuko was already under scrutiny. Already doubted. Already viewed as a traitor to his bloodline. Now he was married to a Water Tribesman, an omega no less, and half the nobility whispered that he was under foreign influence.
Ordering the return of the grain now—unilaterally—would destroy the fragile faith Zuko was clinging to among his people.
“I...” Sokka swallowed, hating how the words tasted. “The grain in the Fire Nation will stay. For now.”
Naru and Yezi exchanged satisfied glances.
“But,” Sokka added quickly, “the colonies have plenty of farms, I’ve seen some of them myself. You will begin phasing out your use of Earth Kingdom grain and transition to relying on your own. As soon as that is done, you are to return the grain in the colonies to the Earth Kingdom. You got me?”
Yezi raised a brow. “And if we refuse?”
Sokka’s voice dropped. “Then I’ll call in the Kyoshi Warriors. And trust me, they’re very good at enforcing things.”
A few chuckled nervously. It wasn't exactly a diplomatic masterstroke. But it was enough.
When the meeting finally ended, Sokka felt wrung out, like he’d been twisted inside a polar bear-dog’s jaw and tossed in a snowdrift. As the representatives filed out, offering half-bows and cautious nods, he sat back and rubbed his face.
His first day as... whatever he was... and he’d already compromised his ideals. Already stepped into the grey.
This is what it means to rule, he thought grimly. Not always winning. Just choosing which losses hurt less.
Still, he stood. Shoulders square. Head high.
He’d report to Zuko. Tell him everything. The setbacks. The near-miss on the grain. The Iroh situation. They’d figure it out. Together.
Chapter Text
I had never heard the capital so loud in its silence.
In the week after the attack and the Fire Lord’s fall, the city breathed on the off‑beat. People spoke in low, urgent voices, as if the walls had ears—the old habit of a century. Then someone laughed too loudly in a teahouse and the whole room flinched before relaxing, and the conversation resumed, faster now, braided with rumors and prayers. In the markets, fishmongers wrapped sea‑silver mackerel in sheets of propaganda that yesterday had declared our inevitable triumph. Children made boats of those same broadsides, floating them in the gutters as if to see how far the old words would sail before sinking.
Everywhere I went—restaurants, libraries, the tram stops, the porches where old men played pai‑sho—the talk was the same: How had it happened? Could an empire end on a single afternoon? Was the comet a blessing or a curse? And this boy—this new Fire Lord—what would he make of us, and we of him?
At home the arguments were less abstract.
“My department had ten‑year plans,” Mother said, pinching the bridge of her nose as if she could push away a headache by force of will. She had worked her way across bureaus and sub‑ministries for twenty‑five years, a master of memos and survival. “We were this close to finishing the rail artery to Zeisho. Do you understand what that would have meant for fisheries? For grain movements? For—”
“For boys,” Father said, soft but steady, “it would have meant coffins.”
He spoke like he taught—plainly, without ornament. Hideki of the West Terrace School, who made stubborn students sit nearest to him so they could not avoid learning, and who, when the inspectors came with their little red pens and long checklists, bowed the proper bow and then set his chalk down beside the truth and never once flinched.
“We were not ‘this close’ to anything except another year of death,” he added, and glanced at me before returning to his tea. “My seniors are already measuring themselves for uniforms in their heads. Some have younger brothers. One boy has no parents at all. I am pleased—no, relieved—that the fighting is over.”
I watched the steam rise between them like a veil and said nothing for a moment. Silence was the privilege of a beta son in a beta household; I had learned to listen before I spoke. When I did, I kept my voice even.
“I am glad the fighting is over,” I said, “and I am worried about the peace.”
Mother arched a brow. “Who speaks right now—my son or the historian?”
“The same one,” I said, and tried to smile.
I am twenty‑six and carry a little too much pride about it; I know this. To graduate top of my class at the Imperial University was to be told, again and again, that my pen mattered as much as any general’s sword. That is a dangerous thing to believe. Still, the books I had written—biographies of Fire Lord's Yosor and Gonryu had won many awards and made me quite a bit of money.
If I am honest, though, my opposition to the war had less to do with arguments about justice than with a small, stubborn piece of selfishness. My older brother, Kōnoe, upon graduating from Imperial University, had chosen a career in the army. At 23, he had bid us all goodbye, departing for war to serve as a junior staff officer. From his most recent letter, he was serving as Quartermaster General of all Fire Nation forces in the Earth Kingdom. Five years. Five years of Mother keeping a lamp in the window and Father setting a fifth bowl on the table out of sheer habit and then moving it aside when the food came. In the libraries I read casualty reports with my throat dry, as if the paper dust had lodged there.
War turns a family into a ledger—debits of absence, credits of rumor—and the arithmetic never balances. I wanted the arithmetic to end.
The city agreed in its complicated way. Zuko—Fire Lord Zuko—was either a savior or a traitor, depending on which street you walked and which teahouse you chose. Some spoke of him in near‑religious terms: a prince who had seen the pit and closed it; others called him the foreigner’s champion, a soft‑hearted boy with a scar that made mothers nervous. Few dared say those things loudly; fewer still used his name without the title. Most people, I thought, simply wanted their lives to ease. Titles matter most to those who have too many of them.
As for his omega—our new Fire Lady—the streets were cruel. Outsider, tribal, savage. The words spat like sparks. I did not spit. I winced. It was not my way to hate someone I had never met, nor did I share my countrymen's belief in superiority over all others. However, I did not know how a village boy from the Southern Water Tribe who presumably had no formal education could survive the current political climate, let alone hold his own under what would come. I told myself I was not prejudiced; I was practical. The line between those two can be invisible to the speaker and obvious to everyone else.
The invitation arrived on a Thursday, just as the afternoon light turned the lacquered floors of my study into a shallow river.
A red seal, the fire crest pressed deep, the cover marked with my name.
Inside: a summons. Courteous, severe. The Fire Lord desired an audience the following morning at the Hour of the Dragon. No purpose was listed, but there were few reasons why the Fire Lord would summon one of the most prominent historians in the country.
That night I slept little, far too concerned about tomorrow and the implications that it would hold for me.
At dawn, I dressed in my finest clothes that had been washed the night before by my mother who, while not a supporter of Zuko, was a strong believer in the monarchy and determined that I should make a good impression.
Reaching the gates of the palace was an odd thing. I had never before been granted audience with anyone of high rank in the palace until this day, but in the course of writing my books, I had come to the palace many times to access the royal library for research. This visit was far different from all the others. The palace itself was devoid of activity, save for the painted faces and green dress of the Kyoshi Warriors.
I had not taken the Fire Lord's desire for a new era seriously enough; none of the royal guard, court officials, staff, or even servants that I had seen only a year ago appeared to have kept their jobs.
“Renzo of the Imperial University,” a Kyoshi Warrior intoned, consulting a slate. “Historian.”
“Historian and author," I corrected.
The palace had been scrubbed and was still not clean. Banners of the short-lived Phoenix Empire had come down, leaving ghost rectangles of unfaded paint. On a landing an empty nail marked where a portrait had hung for a hundred years, an old Fire Lord staring off into eternity with the serene conviction that his children would conquer it. We climbed stairs that smelled of lemon oil and ash. At the corner of a corridor I nearly collided with a woman whose green lacquered armor moved like water when she moved, the air around her cool and sharp as winter. The Kyoshi Warriors had a reputation for being wherever one did not expect them. I bowed; she inclined her head with the smallest smile, then went on.
When the doors opened, I entered alone.
He did not turn at once. It is difficult to describe silence when it belongs to someone else; it feels impolite to notice it. He stood there with his hands behind him, gazing out the window, and I wondered what he saw. Did he see the lands of his inheritance, the lands which his family had cultivated longer than any could remember, or did he see further beyond the water, to the other nations? The nations that the Fire Nation had ravaged.
“Renzo,” he said. The voice did not reach for grandeur. “Thank you for coming.”
“I am always at the service of the Fire Lord,” I said.
Young. That was my first thought when I had a good look at his face. Yes, there was the scar, but everyone talked about the scar none talked about how young he was. Here was a boy not yet old enough to have finshed his schooling and yet he was already a veteran, Fire Lord, and married. My father if he were in the room with us would have shaken his head and used it as another example of how the war had stolen the innocene of the country and I could not disgaree with such a sentiment.
He did not smile. He did not make me suffer for the words, either. “Walk with me?” he asked, and I found myself grateful that he had chosen, of all possible verbs, the one that meant movement.
We walked.
He spoke without preamble about the treasury—how conscripts had been paid in Ban notes that no one would had thought out how to honor in the event they lost the war. He spoke about the colonies, about the reluctance of colonists to leave the homes they had made for themselves. He spoke about industry and what the industrialist whose factories had fed the war effort would do now that they could no longer count on free shipments of stolen natural resources from the Earth Kingdom.
“There are so many problems I'm not sure where to start,” he said quietly. I found myself shocked by the statement; never would his father have presented himself as anything but infallible. Yet here he was admitting that he and the country that he now led were in a rather precarious position.
We had passed a window and the light fell across him, and I watched dust spin in it like the seeds of arguments, scattering. I didn't quite know how to respond, and I certainly didn't feel that I had the necessary qualifications to even begin to offer him advice.
“I feel confident in saying that of all the reigns of your esteemed ancestors, yours will be the most consequential,” I said.
"It will," he replied and I found myself stunned by the determination in his eyes.
“You have plans,” I said, and it was not a question.
“Yes,” he said, and then he did smile, a small, tired fold of the mouth that looked like a habit he was trying to teach himself in secret. “I know what I want to do, but I need a team. A chancellor who tells me what I need to hear, not what I want to hear. A finance minister who can say no to me. Generals who are determined to defend the Fire Nation, not conquer our neighbors.” He glanced at me. “And a court historian.”
Ah, I thought. Here is the purpose.
“You wish for me to chronicle the events of your reign,” I said carefully.
He looked at me long enough that my pulse began to count the seconds for me. “I do,” he said at last. “I've read your book on Yosor and was pleasantly surprised by how objective you were. A very rare trait among the literary class since the war era began.”
It was true. I had endured the quizzical looks of his colleagues when his first book was published. Some had labeled the book too critical of Fire Nation history and ideals. But I didn't agree with such criticisms; ours was the most technologically advanced and politically stable society in the world. What shame was there in pointing out our mistakes and setbacks? My contention then and now was that far more was gained by giving future generations the means to avoid the mistakes of the past, than to paper over or cover up said mistakes in the vain of presenting the Fire Nation as perfect.
We halted before the portrait nail I had counted on my way in. It sat like a wound in the white plaster. He reached up and touched the hole with his forefinger, the way one tests whether a tooth still aches.
“We took down the likenesses,” he said, “and the walls are uglier for it. I do not want to replace them with new ones. I do not want my face where his face was.”
“I would encourage you to reconsider,” I said softly, “people need good role models, Majesty.”
He turned to me then with a look that was so nakedly, simply young that I almost felt the impulse to step forward and shield him, the way one shields a candle from a draught. He did not need my shielding; he was an alpha and a monarch and my feelings were irrelevant. Still—the impulse was there, and that told me something about him.
“I would like you to write the story of my reign,” he said. "I want the record kept as we make it. We will collect the old records, too, before the loyalists can burn them or the new men can rewrite them. You will have access to the secret archives. You will write what I do and what I fail to do.”
He paused. “I want people to understand why this country needs to be reformed so that all the pain and misery of the last hundred years is never repeated.”
“And if the truth injures you?” I asked, not to be provocative, but because the question was the cornerstone of whether my pen could stay mine.
“Then it injures me,” he said. “Injury is not always injustice.”
It is a strange thing to feel your life tilt and keep standing upright. I thought of Kōnoe, of letters that might one day be archived and read by boys who would mock our handwriting and never once comprehend our pain. I thought of my students, of the day one of them had stayed back after lecture to ask if history could be kind without being soft. I thought of the tram stops and the teahouses and the market where I could buy sea‑silver mackerel wrapped in yesterday’s promises.
“I have heard poor things about your Fire Lady,” I said, and I do not know why I said it, except that if I was to be honest in my writings there could be no subject off imits. I was also curious.
“Not Fire Lady,” he said, and this time his smile was not tired; it was flint. “He hates it. We're working on a new title for him. As far as what people say about Sokka, they will be proven wrong. He has a habit of exceeding expectations."
“He is a warrior?” I asked.
“A warrior, strategist, comedian, food critic,” Zuko said. “He's the one who planned the invasion; without him, it's difficult to see how my father falls. He will be a great asset to the Fire Nation, of this I have no doubt.”
Something in me moved, a chair scraped back, an old assumption rising to leave the room.
As if summoned by his name, the door opened without ceremony and a man stepped in with a scroll tucked under one arm. The scent of milk & honey permeated the room. His top-knot was half undone so that strands of his black hair swayed over his left eye. It was not difficult to see what had won the affections of the Fire Lord, his omega was beautiful. But his beauty was not the feminine variety of the previous holders of his office, no, he was beautiful in the way a proud wolf is beautiful in snow. He took in the scene with a flick of those ice blue eyes that would have missed nothing if he had tried, which he did not. I had never seen Water Tribe men before, and now I wanted to do nothing more than travel to his village to test whether they were all as stunning as this fine specimen.
“Zuko,” he said. “What are you doing? I thought we were taking a break today. Last night, you were so tired that I had to practically carry you into bed, and your heavy Zuko.” He glanced at me, unembarrassed by the interruption. “Hi. I'm Sokka.”
“Renzo, Majesty,” I said, and executed the hand‑bow and a little more than the hand‑bow, because I was still a bit off-kilter.
He flashed something like a grin—quick, real, unroyal—and turned back to Zuko. “My apologies, Renzo, but my husband is supposed to be relaxing today. And last time I checked, meetings are not relaxing.”
Zuko’s mouth twitched. “We’re nearly finished here,” he said. “Five more minutes?”
An alpha asking permission to do anything was a foreign concept, especially in a country like the Fire Nation, where secondary gender was everything.
Sokka nodded and slipped back out.
“He is my partner,” Zuko said, and in the word there was nothing less practical than a blueprint.
We returned to the window. The caldera was a blue bowl. Smoke rose in thin strands from the far kilns. The city pushed sound up the hill in waves—the clatter of carts, a woman’s laugh, a hawker selling sesame cakes in a voice that made me think of childhood.
“I will do it,” I said, before I could overthink the shape of the sentence. “I will be your historian.”
He did not exhale as if relieved; he nodded as if making a note to follow.
“But we must have rules so that I have the access that I need to be as accurate as possible,” I said. “I must attend every meeting of importance, and if I cannot attend, then I am allowed to read the meeting minutes and interview those who did attend.”
“Agreed,” Zuko said.
"I would like to interview you and Sokka once per week, I warn you now. The questions I ask will be personal but that is the only way, I and the readers will be able to undertsand what manner of men will be ruling our country."
For the first time, he looked unsure, taking a few seconds to form a reply. "I will make the time, but I will not speak for Sokka; I will bring the matter up with him and inform you of his decision."
I had expected as much. "How many volumes will depend on how many years you reign. I will wait to publish them until 5 years after your death or the event that I should go before you; I shall make arrangements to ensure that they will be published.”