Subaru71077: If you can give feedback and Power Stones, I'd really appreciate it!
******
The room he was in was small and austere, lit only by the flickering light of four candles that cast dancing shadows on the metal walls. The air smelled of salt, rust, and medicinal ointment—a constant reminder of the wound that was impossible to ignore.
Zuko was sitting in front of a mirror, the distorted reflection staring back at him. White bandages covered half of his face, wrapping around his head and covering his left eye, the rough gauze rubbing against the raw, burned skin. Every breath made the wound throb, a sharp pain mixed with a relentless burning, as if the embers were still touching his flesh. The ointments the ship's doctor applied didn't help—they eased the pain for a few moments, but it always returned, stronger and more intense.
He clenched his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His only visible eye, golden and burning, was fixed on the bandages—but it wasn't the injury he saw. It was his father's face, with that cold and merciless expression as the flame left his hand, burning not only his flesh, but his honor, his place in the family, his life.
Betrayed.
The word echoed in his mind, feeding the hatred that bubbled in his chest. He had been betrayed by the father he had always admired. Exiled like a traitor and sent on a mission that might very well lead to his death.
Sadness, anger, despair, humiliation, hopelessness, and disillusionment—all of it swirled together in a storm he couldn't control, as overwhelming as the pain on his face.
Zuko touched the bandages with trembling fingers, the contact sending a wave of burning that made him clench his teeth. Why? Why had his father done this? Where had he gone wrong? Did he deserve all of this? Why was he never enough? Why, even now, did part of him still want to prove himself, to regain his honor, to return home?
He wanted to scream, to shatter the mirror, to set the room on fire—but all he did was stare at the reflection of a disfigured, broken, and lost prince.
The door creaked behind him, the sound breaking the oppressive silence. Zuko didn't turn, but he saw his uncle's reflection in the mirror. Iroh's face, usually warm, was marked by deep lines of worry and regret. He held a tray with a steaming teapot and a cup of tea, the soft scent of jasmine spreading.
"Prince Zuko," his uncle said, his voice gentle and filled with care. "How is the pain?"
Zuko tensed, his jaw clenched. He hated how everyone on that ship saw him as a pitiful thing. "It's fine. You don't need to come in here all the time and treat me like a child," Zuko replied harshly, turning his face away to hide the bandages from Iroh's gaze—but the movement only made the wound burn more, drawing a low hiss from his lips.
Iroh stepped forward, placing the tray on a small table. "I'm not treating you like a child, my nephew," he said, his tone firm but kind. "You've suffered a lot and—"
Zuko clenched his fists tighter, nails digging into his palms. "I'm fine!" he cut him off, voice full of anger. "I don't need your tea, or your pity. I just need…" He stopped, voice breaking, his golden eye shining with a mix of fury and despair.
Iroh sighed and stepped closer. "Zuko, pain in the body can be treated, but the pain in the heart… that takes time. A long time." He paused, his eyes fixed on his nephew, full of a compassion Zuko didn't want to accept—much less feel—at that moment. "You don't have to carry this alone."
"Leave me," Zuko muttered, turning back to the mirror, the distorted reflection seeming to mock him. "I don't want to talk about it. About anything."
Iroh remained silent for a moment, the weight of his unspoken words filling the room. He placed a gentle hand on Zuko's shoulder, but the boy pulled away, the sudden movement sending another wave of pain through his face. "Go away!" Zuko ordered, his voice almost a growl.
Iroh stepped back but didn't leave right away. "The tea will be here when you want it. And so will I." He turned slowly, leaving the door slightly ajar as he left.
Zuko remained still, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Then, his eyes dropped to the desk in front of him, focusing on a crumpled scroll. He opened it, revealing the drawing of a boy's face.
His mission. His goal. The path to reclaiming his honor, his place, his home.
Ikari, the last airbender.
The person he must kill.
*********
Liked it? Then you might enjoy my other stories too: Stranger Things: Worlds Collide and BNHA: God of Explosions.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, images or songs featured in this fic. Additionally, I do not claim ownership of any products or properties mentioned in this novel. This work is entirely fanfic.