Go (and Burn)

by TwinEnigma

Warnings/Codes: AU, spirits, possibly Avatar!Zuko - OR IS IT?, the spirits are judging you, look at your life look at your choices, ambiguous/open ending, phoenixes

Crossposting from my Ao3 : )

There is something in the young prince Zuko's manner that doesn't fit within the unrelenting mold of the royalty of Fire Nation. It is hard to place what and where exactly, but it is nonetheless apparent that he is not quite cut from the same cloth as Ozai or young Azula.

Perhaps, it is whispered, that it is the result of his mother's influence.

Perhaps not. He has always been a bit different.

And yet, he is loyal and honorable, eyes wide with faith in his nation and an innocence that has yet to be completely crushed. He longs to prove himself and serve with distinction.

His flame does not burn as cruelly hot as others, but it burns nonetheless – a warming, banked fire – and that is acceptable enough for now.

"But they'll die."

The words tumble from Zuko's lips like rocks, unwitting and careless, and they do not stop there.

"This is war, my prince," one of the generals tries to explain, desperate to staunch the flow of unwelcome words. "These things happen. Better to lose one inexperienced battalion than many."

"These soldiers trust in us! How can you sacrifice them so ruthlessly for a mere diversion? There is no honor or justice in that," Zuko continues heedlessly, unable to recognize the horror in the generals is not directed at him, but at their lord, smoldering in fury on the throne.

He is young and naïve, insolent in his ignorance, and that cannot be allowed.

He will be punished.

Zuko cries out in pain as the flame strikes him in his left eye, slumping to his knees.

This is a lesson.

The world is cruel, the world is harsh, and the Fire Lord cannot afford to be sentimental or weak. Zuko, as he was, cannot survive if he does not learn this. Zuko, as he was, innocent and naïve, will not survive this. What will walk away in the end, only time will tell.

Ozai will burn this ridiculous notion of compassion from him, if he must.

For a moment, there is an eerie silence, as if all the air has been sucked from the room.

Slowly, Zuko stirs.

"Why," Zuko croaks out, shaking as he tries to rise through what must be blistering pain. His frame shudders and the air around him shimmers with rising heat, sparks flaring as the air turns smothering hot. His voice wavers and then turns into a roar that shakes the very ground as he raises his head, both eyes blazing white: "Why can't you see there is no honor in this? This is not just!"

Tongues of flame lick the air, bursting from him in concentric waves that rapidly grow thicker, as if some great stopper has been removed. "This is not just!" he accuses, the conflagration growing, whirling around him and unfurling in great wing-like arcs towards the sky. In the flames, a crimson bird's head raises, eyes spirit-white, and with a terrible shrieking roar, the flames burst in a torrent for the sky, becoming a streak of fire against the stars.

Of Zuko, there is nothing remaining but ash on the wind.

"A spirit has taken my son."

That is the official explanation for the incident and, with it, all thought of the terrible duel and its instigation are swept away, covered by a blanket of a spirit's meddling. It is tragic and unfortunate, but these things happen sometimes, especially to the young. Spirits are not always kind and youth are more vulnerable than most.

It is not the truth.

"My brother, there is no one I trust more to retrieve my son and deliver him from this spirit's clutches."

Iroh, the Dragon of the West, feels the white lotus tile dig into the palm of his hand as he bows to his brother. He knows, of course, what was said by the Sages. In the back of his mind, he recalls distant, old legends of the fenghuang, spirit-birds that could peer into the souls of rulers and would flee if that ruler lost their heart to darkness and corruption. Could his nephew have been the incarnation of one such being? It is possible, but in his heart, he fears the truth is otherwise. He has heard the stories of spirit-white eyes, he saw the way the wind pulled inwards, felt the quaking ground and he knows what that means. He can only hope that his brother does not share his suspicions.

But when he meets his brother's distant, calculating gaze, he knows he is not so lucky.

Ozai's smile is terrifying.

Iroh follows rumors and stories, chasing the sightings of a comet trailing fire, and when he finally realizes where this path is taking him, he curses himself for not seeing it sooner.

The battlefield that would have been a battalion's grave is scorched, stone melted to slag, and the battalion itself is absent. He finds them meandering northwest, still covered in soot and dust. Many wear their shock on their faces still, the kind of distant gaze he knows all too well, and yet, in the cracks, he sees a fragile awe.

A miracle has happened here.

"What happened?" he asks.

They shake their heads and watch the fleet warily. "There was a spirit."

"Prince Iroh, are we expected to return?" one of them asks. The shaking boy half-hiding behind him, his left eye bandaged and bloody under his oversized helmet, is younger than his son had been – maybe Zuko's age. His armor is too big, awkward on a frame too small for it, and battered badly. It looks borrowed – it probably was.

He thinks of his brother, of the generals who were going to sacrifice these boys, and is quiet.

Finally, he asks them, "What form did the spirit take?"

"A great bird," they say and of it they will say no more.

Iroh sighs and decides to leave. If Zuko was once here, he is gone now, unrecognizable and lost in the grip of this ancient power.

He tries not to notice how the members of the battalion linger on the cliffs and the shore, watching him and his soldiers return to their ships. One by one, they vanish among the rocks, until it is only the wounded boy in that oversized, borrowed armor that remains. He watches them intently with his good eye and then he, too, turns away.

These soldiers will not return to his brother's armies, that much is certain.

On his ship, he thinks of his son, of the wounded boy-soldier, and of the words his nephew said before his flight. He thinks of those soldiers, of the soldiers who came before them, of the warriors of the Earth Kingdom, and the innocent caught in the crossfire of his family's and country's ambition.

The white lotus tile sits heavily in his palm.

"There is no justice in this," he agrees. "You were right to leave."

Notes:

I don't even go to this fandom, I have no idea what I'm doing, but chasing the plotbunny was a lot better than screaming at my idiot coworker, who continues to find new ways to absolutely flummox and aggravate everyone at work. Also, while I left this pretty ambiguous as to whether or not Zuko is or is not an Avatar in this or a really pissed reincarnated fenghuang, I actually came up with a related plotbunny as soon as I finished plotting this out (mostly, again, to cope with the Idiot), in which the gaang's all there and also, well, I guess I could say the general concept was "a burden shared" with destined friends and hilarity ensues as the chain gets all out of whack and in that one Zuko is definitely a phoenix. This one? Jury's still out.

Oh but they SUSPECT, tho.

also Zuko hides in plain sight with the entire battalion he just adopted while not totally himself. Dammit Zuko.