Chapter Text
**
“Well, aren’t you a big girl now.”
Katara hadn’t heard that voice for three years, but the hair on the back of her neck stood on end as she spun around and saw him.
He was taller. His shoulders were broader, filling in with adult muscle now. Somewhere along the way he’d been beyond beaten to shit, and it was hard to tell with the level of bruising that he was sporting, but she suspected that his face had lost the last of its adolescent softness. And his scar still stretched across the left side of his face, a visage that had dogged her nightmares for years until she’d finally believed that the ice walls of the North really offered safety, before black snow had started falling four days ago.
Hair was still as stupid as ever, though, so apparently some things never changed.
But she wasn’t a fifteen-year-old who struggled not to slap herself in the face with her own water whips anymore. And she’d had three years to get ready for this fight.
Katara sank into her fighting stance and gave him a tight smile. And when his fire lashed out, shattering the serenity of the spirit oasis, her water leaped to match it.
**
By the time he’d ended up in a firebending duel with Zhao, Zuko was grimly aware that he was basically running on fumes.
Or, perhaps more accurately, he’d been running on fumes since barely escaping from his attempted assassination via ship explosion – the deep bruising and assorted burns, scrapes, and a pain in his right hip that did not seem to be going away had definitely left him feeling significantly less than his best. Now, he was basically continuing to move forward only through grim determination and years of refusing to accept the certainty of complete failure. But between his polar swim, the fight with that fucking waterbender, hauling the Avatar through a blizzard, several hours spent in an ice cave, then a second round with that bitch that had not exactly gone his way, topped off with the absolute indignity of being tied up with his own rope and thrown onto an air-bison like a sack of rice, even he was aware that at some point he was going to need a serious breather.
The night air was cutting through him viciously, and while he’d been spending hours using his bending to push his body temperature higher, augmenting whenever possible with puffs of fire, his shivering was getting to the point where, had he been in any kind of mood to pay attention to his own damn body, he might’ve been getting a bit concerned.
At the sight of Zhao, though, Zuko pushed all of that other shit to the back burner – that fucker had tried to have him killed, and, really, he could worry about bleeding and possible hypothermia later – killing Zhao was a fucking action item right now.
Fun fact, though – apparently the twenty story marauding ocean spirit bent on vengeance was not willing to wait its fucking turn to kill Zhao.
Zuko had managed to duck away when the spirit grabbed Zhao, but apparently the ocean spirit had not been feeling particularly benevolent to any firebenders at the moment, and it swiped at him, its glowing flipper-hand hitting him with the force of a pissed-off komodo-rhino, and Zuko was slammed backwards onto the bridge, his head slamming against hardened ice with a sickening crack. It was sheer luck that he was able to hook an arm onto the railing in time to avoid being thrown into the eerily glowing blue waters beneath the bridge, and his breath rasped as he scrabbled desperately, his legs dangling over the edge. The world seemed to shift madly to one side, and his hands were numb and barely able to move – he hauled with the muscles of his arms, the icy surface of the bridge slick and threatening to send him to a watery grave a dozen times as he fought to shift his weight up, swinging desperately to get one knee onto the bridge surface, cursing loudly when it was the one that had been throbbing since the explosion, but he kept moving and hauling, because the waters were still foaming ominously, and he was all too aware that he didn’t have enough strength left to take a second dip through the waters of the north.
He pushed and yanked frantically until finally he was solidly on the bridge, collapsed onto his side and panting. There was a sickening shakiness in his head, like he was being jerked from side to side, even as he knew that he was lying flat, and his vision was blurry.
The last thing he saw was Zhao, gripped by the glowing claws of the spirit, being pulled down and out of sight.
So, at least there was that.
He could feel the ice of the bridge under his cheek, and his breath frosted in the night air. Zuko reached inside him for another fire breath – his shaking was almost violent now, and he needed to get moving, find an escape route from the remains of Zhao’s damn clusterfuck of an invasion, but he breathed out and – a single spark floated, drifting, brilliant and lazy, almost like a firefly in the polar night.
Well. That wasn’t great.
He needed to lift up his head. He needed to run. He needed—
He needed to just close his eyes for a second.
**
The next thing he was aware of was a hand shaking his shoulder.
“Zuko?”
Huh. Uncle had found him. Well, apparently that meant that things might actually be looking up.
The hand gave another shake, and Zuko groaned. He appreciated that Uncle had somehow tracked him down, but he was not enjoying how the shaking was feeling at the moment.
“Zuko! We need to go now! The ocean spirit has pulled back, and now is our chance to slip away.”
Right. Time to get going. Zuko forced his eyes open – partly. Nothing in his body seemed to be cooperating at the moment. He had a sense of Uncle looking at him, crouched close, and it hazily occurred to him that if he could see his Uncle’s features this well, then the sun had started to rise. Which, given that it had been fully night when he’d gotten into the fight with Zhao, that was suggested something concerning about exactly how long he’d been stretched out on this bridge. There was something he needed to do about that, actually. Something… important.
He couldn’t remember. He groaned and tried to get up, and managed to make a moderate shoulder twitch. Iroh seemed to understand that this wasn’t exactly Zuko’s best moment, and started to haul him to his feet. As Uncle began to lift him, the world seemed to skid madly to one side, and Zuko gagged, and promptly puked, mostly on himself.
Shit.
Iroh stopped trying to lift him, and instead lowered Zuko back to the ground, which Zuko was deeply grateful for, because puking had not improved how he was feeling at all – the world was spinning, and the shivering had either never stopped or had picked up in intensity. Everything hurt, and even trying to determine what exactly was making the most complaining at the moment seemed to make the whole generalized pain just worse. He gagged again, but there was nothing left in his stomach – not that that mattered, and his mouth burned with bile.
“Zuko!” He could hear the panic in Iroh’s voice.
He opened his mouth to reassure his uncle, to tell him that he’d be able to start running in just as second, just as soon as the world stopped spinning, but instead all he muttered was, “I’m tired.”
Uncle’s hands were patting all over him, and when Iroh brushed against the back of Zuko’s head the pain there abruptly muscled to the front of Zuko’s list of issues, and he gave a loud groan. Iroh pulled back quickly, but Zuko could see that his hand was now dripping with blood.
Hm. That wasn’t a great sign.
Iroh yanked off his hooded cloak and draped it over Zuko. “Then you should rest, Prince Zuko,” he said, his voice calm and controlled, which would’ve been very nice if the lines of concern on his face hadn’t been so obvious that even Zuko, barely even lucid, could see them. Zuko watched blearily as Iroh began to look sharply around them, apparently assessing something. “A man needs his rest.”
The world started getting hazy again, but the lack of attempted movement was a slight improvement. A series of shouts pulled him back from the creeping numbness, and Zuko forced his eyelids open. Next to him Iroh was waving his arms, signaling to someone. More Fire Nation soldiers? Well, Zuko supposed it made sense to try to coordinate with others who had survived the fight—
The words that Iroh was shouting slowly penetrated Zuko’s sluggish brain. “We surrender!” Iroh bellowed. “I am with the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, and he needs a doctor!”
Wait, what was Uncle even thinking—
But that was the last thought that Zuko managed.
When Zuko swam out of unconsciousness again, the return to thought distinctly unwelcome, given the waves of pain that accompanied it, the first thing he was aware of was that the sun had risen fully. Sun was slanting down onto his face – not enough to combat the vicious, snapping cold of the air, but at least enough to gently fan the fire inside him. If he could move his hands, marshal his thoughts and discipline, he could try to push his body temperature up again, could get moving, start focusing on how he and Uncle were going to get out of this fucking nightmare of a city—
Zuko slowly became aware that he was surrounded by many figures in blue, and that his hands weren’t working right now, and it wasn’t because of how painfully numb his fingers were – his hands were tied at the wrists. There was a lot of loud arguing, and then he could hear Uncle’s voice cut through the others and – Zuko listened for a second.
Was Uncle explaining the concept of high-value prisoners to these fucking rubes?
Un-fucking-believable.
If they somehow got out of this situation, Zuko was never ever coming back to this turtle-seal-shit encrusted backwater. Stabbing pains were shooting through his head, and moving was definitely something to avoid right now, but Zuko was filled with a seething anger at himself – if he’d just gotten fucking moving a few hours ago instead of passing out like a damn weakling, he and Uncle could be gone right now. They could’ve found a raft and slipped away in the confusion. Instead – shit.
**
Eventually the warriors seemed to get Uncle’s basic concept – enough that hands were shoved under Zuko’s armpits and he was bodily hauled to some kind of jail. Zuko tried to get his feet under him enough to at least preserve his own dignity, but his attempts to walk had just resulted in another explosion of bile and a round of loud cursing from their captors. After that the option of walking was closed off entirely when some other warrior picked up his legs behind the knee, and he had no option except to just be carried like deadweight, focusing mainly on keeping his head from clipping anything, the warriors seeming deeply uncaring about anything regarding his general welfare other than avoiding anything that would prompt more puking.
Surprise, surprise, the jail was a room with a stone floor and iced walls. At least they were damn consistent in their décor choices.
The warriors were slightly smarter than they looked, though, and they removed the nice, flammable rope that they had tied him with and replaced it with metal chains. His arms were tightly cuffed behind his back, and Zuko decided that his best strategic decision at the moment was to just go completely supine on the floor, attempting to move as little as possible. It was possible that he had cracked a few bones at some point, and with adrenaline now a thing of the past, he was feeling every single one.
Uncle also got a pair of cuffs, but his were looser, and his hands were bound in front. Whether they felt that he was less of a threat or were just cutting him more slack because he was the one doing all the talking, who knew. Either way, Iroh was continuing to try to negotiate for a doctor to come – unfortunately, the Water Tribe warriors just stood there, a wall of heavy parkas, most still wearing those dark masks they’d had on during the battle. There was a lot of muttered discussion.
Zuko wondered, caustically, if these backwards peasants even knew what the hell a doctor was.
Finally, someone with actual authority arrived.
Unfortunately, he was a total dick.
There was a murmuring of, “Master Pakku” when he arrived – the voices a combination of respect and also very clear relief that someone higher up on the chain was going to make some actual decisions. Iroh started repeating, for at least the twentieth damn time, the basics of the situation – high value prisoners, medical attention needed – but the already sour expression on Pakku’s lined face deepened, and it became immediately clear that he was highly uninterested in dealing with any of this shit.
“You expect me to care about your lives when you just spent days trying to massacre all of us?” he sneered at Iroh. Then he turned to the warriors, giving them a glare that had them all awkwardly shuffling their feet and looking away. “You should’ve just killed them when you found them. How much time has already been wasted on this, rather than on important matters?” He turned back to them. “I suppose I’ll have to handle this myself—”
Zuko braced himself for the end, and what a fucking inglorious end this was apparently going to be – but Iroh was looking at Pakku with an expression of fixed intensity.
“I cannot help but notice,” Iroh said, “The embroidery on your shirt.”
As far as last words went, Zuko honestly would’ve expected a whole lot more from Uncle. It certainly did manage to interrupt Pakku, though. And, honestly, everyone was torn between staring at Iroh and checking out the collar of Pakku’s tunic, just barely visible at the loosened front of his parka. Which, okay, yeah. It had some small, white, stylized flowers. Not exactly what Zuko was thinking about, but—
“A white lotus pattern,” Iroh continued. “Unusual, for this area of the world. I wonder – are you, perhaps, a player of Pai Sho?”
The whole room stared. Zuko let his face drop back down to the floor. For spirits’ sake. They were about to fucking die and Iroh was thinking about his favorite game, and that thrice-damned playing tile. If Pakku didn’t want the bother of killing them, then at the moment Zuko was more than ready to choke Uncle out himself.
But the Water Tribe man was frozen in place, staring at Uncle. “What did you just say?” he growled, and somehow he looked somewhere between fully rocked to his core and pissed beyond belief.
Great. With Zuko’s luck, now he was going to make their deaths slow.
There was an expression on Iroh’s face that reminded Zuko of an alert feline. “Only a small observation, from one man of the world to another. But, more importantly at the moment, I would say again that I am the Fire Lord’s brother, and this is the Crown Prince. Surely there ought to be at least a small discussion before we are turned into fish bait. After all, many concessions could be wrung from the Fire Nation for the value of our lives.”
“Perhaps.” Pakku still looked angry, but his eyes narrowed, and Zuko wondered if he was partially hallucinating, because he could’ve sworn that the man gave Uncle an almost minute nod. “You will come with me, and speak with Chief Arnook.”
“The Prince is badly injured,” Uncle said quickly, “and requires a doctor.”
Pakku sneered. “The healing huts are full, and the healers already stretched to the edges of their craft in caring for the warriors who were maimed in your invasion of our city. Your prince will have to wait until all of our own are saved, and hope that his injuries are not as severe as you think.”
“If you are interested in what can be bought with us, then you must preserve our lives.” Iroh’s voice was coldly serious.
The other man made a low, irritated huff, then nodded to one of the warriors. “Find Katara and ask her to come.” Zuko wondered why that name sounded vaguely familiar. It must’ve been his head injury, honestly. As the warrior hurried away, Pakku’s icy blue eyes flicked back to Iroh. “One of my students can check the prince. That is the most that I will offer you. And you had best come with me. If the choice is to kill you, I’d rather not waste food or time on dead men.” Then he made a slashing gesture to another warrior. “Cut their hair.”
“What?” It wasn’t his most eloquent moment, but Zuko was finally able to enter the damn conversation. Also, seriously? He was bleeding over here, and this asshole was worried about their hair?
The old man’s hands clenched, hard, and the expression on his face was grim as he looked at Uncle. “You’re going to be walking through our streets, our palace. If anyone in the Water Tribe, man, woman, or child, commits our greatest shame and puts our people in danger through deliberate thought and actions, then their hair is cut off so that all can see. All of our people were put in danger because of your deliberate actions. So you and your nephew are going to be marked.”
“Ah.” Iroh’s golden eyes narrowed, and he nodded slowly. “Very well. You are our captors, so we must follow your customs.” He leaned his head down, slightly, and one warrior walked over, pulled out a wickedly sharp knife, and sliced off his topknot, letting it fall to the floor. He then proceeded to cut off the rest of Iroh’s shoulder-length gray hair, sharp, uneven cuts, until all of Iroh’s hair had been cut tightly to his scalp. Then the warrior looked over to Zuko.
“Wait.” Iroh put his hands out, blocking the warrior. “I will cut my nephew’s hair.” There were a lot of looks exchanged, but Pakku finally nodded, and the warrior slowly, with clear reluctance, passed his knife to Iroh.
Had Zuko not been beaten to shit and beyond, and been better able to fight without risking immediate vomit, this would clearly have been the moment to try to fight their way out, but Iroh gave him a firm look as he turned to him that clearly told him to stay where he was. So Zuko remained on the floor as his uncle knelt down, gently took hold of the top of Zuko’s phoenix plume, and cut it at the base in a smooth slice.
Fuck. This wasn’t his best situation ever, but Zuko still ground his teeth at the utter disrespect and audacity of these fucking peasants to cut off his phoenix plume, the symbol of his royal person and sacred descent. He wished that Zhao had fucking burned this city to the ground, instead of managing the most incredible fuckup in history and losing the lives of thousands of Fire Nation soldiers and the destruction of the greatest fleet ever launched because he’d had a damn hard-on to murder a magical koi fish.
Fucking Zhao. Zuko hoped that damn spirit had made his death hurt.
Uncle patted his shoulder lightly. “Behave, nephew. All will be well, and I’ll be back when I can.”
He and Pakku left, along with half the warriors. Zuko let his eyes slide shut and he slumped on the floor as the remaining warriors began quietly discussing the mechanics of guarding him.
It was clear enough that Zuko wasn’t the only one who had had a shit of a night – the battle had lasted for almost three days, and all of the men in the room looked like they’d been fighting for most of it. A few were injured, though none seriously, and they quickly agreed to a guard rotation. Apparently they didn’t seem to see him as much of a threat (admittedly, the amount of puking and bleeding that Zuko had been doing since he’d met them might’ve factored into that assessment), and all but one left. The one that stayed gave Zuko a long look, then bent some of the ice in the room to form a rather formidable-looking series of bars to block Zuko from any possible run toward the door.
Okay, if they’d left a bender, and apparently a decent one, given how smoothly he’d just done that, then maybe they weren’t entirely assuming that he was no threat.
Not that Zuko particularly felt like he could make a break for it at the moment, even with only a single guard. He was still shaking, his face was pressed against cold stone, and his hands were chained up, but his head was swimming, and when Zuko’s eyes closed, he drifted off again.