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white_lotus2012-02-01 09:06 pm
whitelotusmods) wrote in white_lotus2012-02-01 09:06 pm
LNYE FIC: Moonflower, for fanficforensics
Title: Moonflower
By:gigerisgod
Recipient:unjapanologist
Rating: Teen
Characters/Ships: Zhao/Zuko, Iroh
Content Notes: Choose not to use content notes.
Just as Zhao predicted, General Iroh agrees to accompany him to the invasion of the Northern Water Tribe once his bratty little nephew is no longer part of the picture. He thinks he does a fair enough job of feigning sympathy for the man’s loss, though it probably helps the General is too distracted by his own grief to notice any lack of sincerity on his part.
When a heavy fist strikes the table, Zhao remembers General Iroh is not so old or incapacitated by his grief not to feel anger, listening as he blames pirates for Zuko’s untimely death.
He’s correct about the pirates though he has no idea Zhao is the one who put them up to it. The deed didn’t come cheap, but regicide rarely does. As far as he’s concerned it’s money well spent if it means ridding himself of the brat Prince and the Blue Spirit in one fair stroke.
Zuko. That little bastard. Somehow that inept little teenager managed to slip undetected into Ponghai Stronghold and single-handedly free the Avatar. Worse than that, he’d done it without fire bending.
Zhao automatically assumed it had to be a non-bender, naturally eliminating Zuko as a possible suspect. The boy had been clever, careful not to reveal anything that might identify him, down to the mask that hid his wretched, infamous face. But the moment Zhao spotted those Dao swords on the Prince’s cabin wall he knew he’d been tricked. He wasn’t buying any pathetic nonsense about Zuko’s swords being decorative antiques. Everything had suddenly begun to make sense.
Zuko had all the motivation to take the Avatar from him. He was the right height and build as the thief, and more importantly thanks to his blockade, Zhao could pinpoint the Prince’s location within easy traveling distance of Ponghai. Stalling Zuko’s progress by keeping his ship docked in port had been his goal. He just hadn’t anticipated provoking the little shit into a desperate rescue. There was no doubt in his mind that Prince Zuko was the Blue Spirit.
And while he couldn’t help but be a little impressed with the Prince’s tenacity and skill, neither could be indulged any further. Zuko’s already cost him the Avatar. Zhao’s reputation is on the line.
If Zuko had only stolen from Zhao, he might understand. Excuse, never, but understand…possibly. Zhao has made a pleasant sort of sport of antagonizing and humiliating the Prince, hindering his mission at every opportunity. He’s never really examined why tormenting Zuko is so immensely satisfying, though he has considered it a kind of obligation - to succeed where the Fire Lord failed; to knock some well-needed respect into Zuko’s spoiled, arrogant ass. The Avatar was the only thing standing between Zuko and lifelong exile; the perfect tool to put pressure just where Zhao saw fit. He knew just how badly the boy needed to regain his honor and go home. But what he can’t understand, can’t overlook is the fact that Prince Zuko and the Avatar escaped together and there is where his limited empathy ends.
It would have made sense if the Avatar had just run off that night, leaving his rescuer to his guards. There is no doubt he saw his Yu-Yan hit the thief. Zhao remembers smiling as he watched him go down. At the very least his guards should have returned with the Blue Spirit for him to unmask.
Naturally, he would have punished the Prince as severely as he could feasibly get away with. Zhao would have left him chained in his prison for a few days, stewing in his royal juices before sending a messenger hawk to General Iroh with a humiliating account of his actions…right before he sent word to the Fire Lord as well. It would have served the little brat right if his father packed him off to the Boiling Rock to rot with the worst of his nation’s dissidents and criminals for the rest of his days.
But as it turned out his men hadn’t returned with the Blue Spirit OR the Avatar. Both had gotten away. Zhao hadn’t known the Blue Spirit’s identity then, but it was obvious the two were working together.
Later that night, when he was able to think about the prison escape without igniting anything remotely flammable – Ponghai’s courtyard was not so lucky – he realized how well the Avatar and the Blue Spirit worked together. His men cornered them repeatedly, forcing them into more desperate and dangerous feats each time and yet their advances and defenses seemed almost intuitive of one another. Zhao has known men who have trained together for years to attain that level of balance and cooperation. Could he really toss such an observation off to mere coincidence and then ignore the young Avatar had risked recapture for his enemy? Why would he have done that if they were not allies?
Perhaps he’d been looking at things the wrong way. Perhaps Prince Zuko never had any intentions of bringing the Avatar home to his father at all. He may have sided with the master of all elements in order to put himself on the throne. It’s not as though Ozai hasn’t given the boy enough reasons to overthrow him. The Avatar might be a child now, but fully realized he will be unstoppable and Zuko would be an idiot if he didn’t recognize that potential and use it to his advantage.
So, of course he’s working with the little air-bending whelp.
But what of the Dragon of the West? Zhao doubts General Iroh has any clue about what his nephew gets up to when he isn’t around, blissfully ignorant of Zuko’s comings and goings so long as they don’t involve tea. And even if he did, there’s no way the old fool would ever do the proper thing and turn the boy in. He was too soft hearted after losing his son, Lu-Ten at Ba Sing Se. He’d protect his foolish nephew at any cost.
If Prince Zuko was still loyal to the Fire Nation then the Avatar would not be on his way to the Northern Water Tribe seeking a master to train him right now.
The Avatar and Prince Zuko had to be allies. In fact, it would help explain why he’s slipped through the Prince’s grasp on more than once occasion; first from the Southern Water Tribe, then Kyoshi Island and later Roku’s Temple. It’s all too convenient to dismiss.
He had little choice then. Zuko had to be dealt with. He was a collaborator and a traitor and Zhao could no longer afford to ignore him as an idle threat.
And though the Prince’s death undoubtedly spared his nation the embarrassment and unpleasantness of a royal scandal, he could not deny it served his own ends. Zhao is the only person who knows the identity of the Blue Spirit. No one need ever know a child infiltrated one of the Fire Nation’s most impenetrable fortresses and stole the Avatar away, especially since it happened on the eve of his promotion.
There is a small voice that insists his Agni Kai with prince Zuko might have influenced his decision the slightest bit - more than he wants to admit, but it doesn’t change anything.
He growls at the memory of their duel, suffering defeat and humiliation before his subordinates at the hands of a boy, a miserable youngster who could not fire bend his way out of a paper bag. And when Zuko dared spare him the killing blow, he wasn’t being merciful as much as he was denying him an honorable death. Zuko should have understood that much better than anyone, but then to turn his back on Zhao - the insult! The impulse for retribution had been impossible to repress. He kicked his foot out with flame before the thought had even fully processed.
Jeong Jeong would have raged at him for his loss of control. As it was the Dragon of the West had shamed him...
“So this is how the great Commander Zhao acts in defeat. Disgraceful. Even in exile my nephew is more honorable than you.”
In retrospect it may not have been one of his more shining moments. General Iroh’s reprimand still lingers in the back of his mind like a festering sore to his pride. He was supposed to teach the Prince a lesson in respect – not the other way around. Zuko was the disgrace not him!
Well, he finally got his chance at retribution, and Zhao’s satisfaction at news of the Prince’s death was sweet, though strangely hollow without the thrill of confrontation, denied the chance to goad the Prince one final time.
He unclenches his fists, interest immediately drawn back into the conversation at Iroh’s mention of revenge. He watches as Iroh pours the tea with delicate movements, letting the fragrant scent of ginseng wash over him.
In a traditional setting, proper etiquette would require that Zhao serve General Prince Iroh. He is here at Zhao’s invitation, but the old man insisted he brew and serve the tea as thanks for taking both him and his crew along. Refusing his offer would have been considered an insult.
Besides, no one brews a better cup of tea than General Iroh. Though, it is rather ironic the man is thanking him. It sweetens things considerably.
Warm tendrils of steam trail over his lips. The first taste is heavenly.
“Admiral Zhao, it would be my honor to host tea each day of our journey, that is if you don’t mind. I have more of this lovely ginseng if you enjoy it. Will you indulge an old man his daily ritual?”
“It would be my honor to General Iroh. And as you know, I love ginseng.”
Zuko may have gone abroad to find the Avatar, but sometimes Zhao thinks Iroh went along just to expand his tea drinking fetish.
“Wonderful,” Iroh says, setting the earthen kettle down with the precise care of the aristocracy. “The company is appreciated. My nephew rarely had the patience for tea ceremonies.” He finishes and wipes at the mouth of his cup, sounding sad and wistful.
“You must miss him terribly.”
The General’s stony expression quickly reminds Zhao he is not always successful at conveying sympathy, though he’s usually much better than this. The sentiment sounded shamelessly phony.
General Iroh seems content to let it pass, quietly dropping his gaze and breathing out a heavy sigh. “Yes, Zhao, I miss Zuko very much. But I take comfort knowing that those who harmed him will pay dearly.”
Something about the General’s tone makes the hairs on the back of Zhao’s neck stand up on end, something uncharacteristically cold. He quickly swallows the last of his tea, focusing on that scalding heat instead.
“You know I will do everything in my power to help find the pirates responsible and bring them to justice.”
“Justice, Zhao, is all I can ask for.”
He accepts General Iroh’s invitation for tea each day they sail toward the Northern Water Tribe. Zhao in turn, indulges the older man’s palate with sweet cakes and other delicacies that exiled princes on doomed missions with limited budgets could rarely afford. The General talks endlessly, cheats almost as frequently at Pai Sho and brews the most exquisite tea Zhao has ever tasted. There are worse ways to pass the time.
The temperature plunges and traces of ice have begun to appear in the water. The fleet must reduce their speed soon to more carefully navigate the ice fields. He grows more anxious with each passing day, eager to launch the invasion that will etch his name into the history scrolls.
Zhao wakes from his bed one chill night to the sound of chains rattling. He puts on his robe and rises to investigate, following the sound along the smooth metal corridors of his ship until the echo changes its inflection. He realizes he is walking through the stone hallways deep within Ponghai Stronghold.
He feels like he is walking through a dream and yet the scent of lamp oil from the urns is cloying, intensifying as it mixes with the pungent scent of damp earth. He comes across two of his guards lying in slumped heaps upon the floor. Nearby another is strung up like cured meat, though he struggles and curses from behind his gag. Zhao ignores him and pushes past the iron doors now flung wide.
“You!”
From inside the chamber the Blue Spirit’s mask stares mutely back at him. For a moment Zhao is stunned enough to just stand and stare, but he gets his wits seconds later and closes the door behind him. He advances on the figure cloaked in black and the torches blaze higher, flaring with his temper. The thief is chained precisely where the Avatar had been. The Dao swords lay crossed at his feet.
Unease pricks at him, stopping Zhao dead in his tracks before he can get any closer. The white features of the Oni mask jump out of the darkness at him, tilting curiously like a bug studying him. Then he realizes the reason behind his hesitation.
“You. Are. Dead.”
The thief that is Zuko says nothing in response, though Zhao hears a boy’s laughter from somewhere very far off.
Mockery.
Zuko just tugs on the chains holding him, as if he’s deliberately reassuring Zhao of his presence, showing Zhao he’s restrained - toying with him no doubt, the little fool.
Zhao resists the urgent need to rush forward and throttle the brat until he begs for it to stop. He’s thinking back to all the scrolls he studied in the Spirit Library, the ones that described the thin veil between the living and the dead and wonders if ordering the boy’s murder gives him some kind of power over Prince Zuko’s spirit. He relishes that thought and steps closer to test the idea.
“You never fooled me, Prince Zuko,” he lies, stepping onto the platform and making a vicious grab for the boy’s masked head with one hand. His nails rake down, dragging the hood back, enough for his fingers to catch in a long tangle of dark hair. He wraps his fist in it, twisting and yanking until the thief’s head cranes back at a severe angle so Zhao can lean over him.
For a dead prince he feels real enough. He can hear strands of hair tearing loose in his grip, but the ragged panting breaths beneath the mask are better to savor, ripe with the scent of fear. He pulls the thief off balance, forcing him to the limits of the chains. And through it all is the heady pulse of Zuko’s heart beating against his body. The boy is his to punish. His palms heat dangerously without his consent.
Everything seems so real, but could it all be just another trick?
The heat flows unchecked into his fingertips and the stinking scent of burning hair assaults his senses. Still the brat says nothing. There are no sounds of pain or distress or anger, just stubborn silence. It’s like he’s using his stillness to provoke Zhao – and it’s working.
“I know it’s you!” He shouts.
Frustrated at the lack of reaction, he growls and rips the mask off, hearing the straps tear like old cloth. But in that instant the thief is gone - vanished like smoke, robbing Zhao of the heat and solidness of him. Metal cuffs and chain links fall empty against the pillars, making a jolting racket over the silence.
Zhao frantically looks about the room, but he is alone. He can hear that distant, youthful laughter echo again, mocking the ridiculous mask Zhao still holds in his hands. He seethes at the loss of the Prince and at the grinning demon face. He throws it down upon the stone floor where it bursts into flames.
“Did you sleep well, Admiral Zhao?”
“Very well, thank you,” he says, lying smoothly to General Iroh.
“You seem... ill at ease.”
Maybe Zhao’s not as convincing as he first thought.
“Perhaps you have concerns about the invasion?”
Zhao ponders a curt dismissal of General Iroh’s question. He is irritable this morning, but doesn’t need to advertise it, nor insult Iroh, at least not outwardly anyway.
“If you mean I have concerns about failure, then you’re mistaken. The Fire Nation will be victorious. My concerns regard the occupation of the city once we’ve conquered it.” He takes a sip of his tea, scalding hot just the way he loves it.
“Once we obtain a full surrender we can separate the benders. The Boiling Rock was our first consideration, but we have outposts in the Earth Kingdom’s Shi Wong Desert that would be better suited to water bender captivity. The climate does the work for us.”
Iroh grunts in agreement and busies himself arranging utensils on the mat. Zhao watches him heat the little clay kettle with the palm of his hand. A soft orange glow appears just beneath a delicate looking crane carved into the wide base.
“And what of the other citizens, Zhao?”
Zhao sighs. “Does it really matter?”
“Surely, the Fire lord must be eager to share our prosperous culture with its newest peoples.”
Zhao raises his cup just under his nose and inhales the delicious steam. “Indeed he is. And who better to indoctrinate the Water tribe than his brother, the famed Dragon of the West?”
General Iroh looks up sharply at him. The tea that he was pouring suddenly splashes over the side of his cup. “Oh dear, excuse me.” Zhao covers his smirk with his hand as the General quickly wipes the spill away.
“Had you not considered Fire lord Ozai would want you to establish our presence once those savages are defeated?”
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence that stretches out for several moments.
‘It had not.”
They finish their tea and sweet cakes in silence.
Oddly, Zhao has to blink repeatedly to clear the image of the crane moving its long, spindly legs over the rounded surface of the kettle. It must be some trick of the cabin’s lighting; a clever optical illusion created by the expert craftsmanship and mild eye strain.
He resolves to sleep better tonight.
Two of his officers are closing in on one another on the main deck. Agni Kai’s aren’t uncommon this close to battle. Emotions run high and tempers amongst fire benders flare dangerously. It’s best to let them settle their disagreement within the context of a fair contest for all to see. And it doesn’t hurt that it provides some rousing entertainment for the rest of the crew, something to break the monotony of long weeks spent at sea.
General Iroh stands with Zhao to watch the duel, close enough to feel a fleeting wave of heat dissipate in the cold, arctic air. The men are seasoned benders and a good match for one another.
“I tried to encourage my men to find other methods to settle their disputes.” His breath fogs with every word. Zhao gives the man a speculative look.
“What?” General Iroh asks, “I’ll have you know I can be very persuasive.”
“Oh, I’m sure you were, General Iroh. Were you successful, then?”
Two balls of flame come hurtling much too close to the General. Without sparing a glance he snuffs them out with a careless flick of his hand.
“Not always. Young men are often difficult to dissuade, as I’m sure you already know.”
“I see no reason to discourage healthy competition.” He turns to the General smiling congenially. “Fire flakes?” Zhao asks, and the General’s face brightens instantly at his offer.
The two benders launch an impressive volley of fire bending strikes. They’re competent, even a little flashy, but Zhao sees nothing that would present a challenge for his abilities.
He reminds himself that Zuko’s win was merely a fluke and nothing more.
The shorter man moves in front of Zhao, his shirtless back facing him. This close he can smell the tang of sweat and salt and the unmistakable scent of sulphur.
A gout of flame licks dangerously over the man’s shoulder followed by his wide, shocked eyes.
The fire flares outward, tongues of yellow and orange racing at Zhao, heating the liquid moisture from his eyes. Zhao raises his hands and motions to quickly extinguish the rogue flame before it can harm him.
The officer is rooted to the spot, still looking over his shoulder at Zhao, but the expression on his face has changed. The face itself has changed into something more familiar. The eyes glitter dangerously at him, narrowing in threat and the left side…
…Even though the flames have banked…the left side begins to *burn*
It’s impossible, but no one could ever mistake that face.
Zhao remembers the smell of burning flesh and the pitch of the boy’s screams, wails of pain that silenced the rest of the royal arena to a hush. The only thing left to see was the Fire Lord turning his back on his only son.
How could Zuko have ever believed his father would want him after that? A world filled with gift-wrapped Avatars could not fix that plain truth.
Stupid, stupid boy.
“If your father really wanted you home, he'd have let you return by now, Avatar or no Avatar, but in his eyes you are a failure and a disgrace to the Fire Nation.”
“That's not true.”
“You have the scar to prove it.”
“Maybe you'd like one to match!”
He hears those words – the ones that precipitated their Agni Kai - watches them as they’re mouthed from Zuko’s smoking lips, pulled back into a feral snarl. Zuko is dead, but the sound of his voice plucks a vital chord deep within himself. It resonates along his spine, strung tight and ready to snap.
The side of the Prince’s face is smoldering, allowing him a glimpse at the horrible ruin beneath, the true mark of a master.
“Zhao.”
His stomach clenches at the rasp of his name. He’s never heard the Prince speak to him like that. Not with that inflection, that baffling…softness.
The image of the boy gets hazy and shimmers suddenly. It’s the kind of visual distortion that usually comes from an intense rush intense heat.
He’s completely unprepared for the fireball hurtling for his face.
“Admiral Zhao!”
General Iroh’s firm hand on his chest shoves him out of the line of fire. He feels disconnected from his own thoughts, dazed as he watches the fireball whiz past his head, breaking apart harmlessly.
The opponents and his entire crew are staring at him in mute shock. Which should affect him more than it is. He’s more acutely aware of the ship moving, feeling the waves break beneath the keel, hearing the sound of ocean birds high above. Tiny flakes of snow drift downward, everything around him slowing down with the delicate snowfall, returning to normal when they melt on contact with his skin.
Next to him the General chuckles awkwardly to break the silence. “Well, that was certainly a bracing competition.”
“Was?” He asks, hating the sound of syrupy confusion in his own voice. What the blazes is wrong with him?
“Yes,” General Iroh says much too loudly. “We have a draw, isn’t that right, gentleman?”
The officers facing each other look more perplexed than Zhao feels, but after a moment or two they nod in agreement and bow to one another, promptly ending the match.
“We should reach the North Pole very soon and we need every capable bender we can spare for the invasion. Don’t you agree, Admiral Zhao?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, that’s correct.” Zhao is struggling to quietly dispel Zuko’s furious afterimage from his sight. It lingers like he’d been staring directly into the sun.
“Alright,” Zhao manages with more force this time. “Everyone back to their stations.”
When his crew has dispersed, General Iroh touches his arm and looks at him with concern. “Are you alright, Admiral Zhao? Your attention was…somewhere else.”
Iroh is mistaken. Zhao’s attention never drifted from the Agni Kai. He had been as focused as humanly possible and yet his eyes had still deceived him. What he saw was some kind of a visual distortion, or a flashback of some sort. He doesn’t quite know how to describe what he just experienced, except that similar things have been happening to him and with greater frequency – greater intensity - over the past several days.
“I’m fine,” he answers gruffly, clearly annoyed. He is not the man’s nephew. He is a mast fire bender and an admiral of the fleet and does not need to be coddled or looked after.
Zhao already understands much about the spirit world. If Zuko’s spirit is trying to seek vengeance for ordering his death, then let him try. What Zhao is planning weighs far greater in importance. When the moon is his, nothing will stand in his way. He will banish Zuko’s pesky spirit from his consciousness the way his father had banished him from their nation.
“Perhaps…some tea, then?”
Zhao is about to protest, but sees it as a pointless exercise. He really could use a calming cup of tea right about now. “Oh,” he says, rolling his eyes on general principle. “Why not?”
General Iroh’s smile reminds him strangely of shark’s teeth.
Since the Agni Kai on deck, Zhao’s dreams have been unusually vivid and unsettling, nagging him long into the daytime hours. Sometimes a strange buzzing inside his head serves as a warning to the odd sights and sounds, but it’s there and gone before he can make sense of it.
At dinner last night he was half convinced General Iroh’s beard was made of fluffy white feathers. The man looked like he was turning into some enormous bloated sea bird. Zhao choked on his wine and almost spewed it across the table. It was all he could do to keep a straight face and make small talk when Iroh’s face looked like it was… molting.
Small inanimate things have inexplicably begun to animate themselves, like the little crane on Iroh’s tea kettle or Captain Moku’s dragon tattoo that seemingly came to life the other afternoon while he was discussing troop deployment in the navigation room. It was hideous when he’d gotten it in Guangzhou and it was hideous when it magically lifted from the Captain’s arm and flew down the corridor. Of course he blinked the hallucination away without making anyone the wiser. Things like that just didn’t happen, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from seeing them occur.
It does not feel like the spirits are at work here.
That had been his first thought, but he has to consider alternatives.
A likely cause could be simple exhaustion. He’s been working too many hours in preparation for the invasion. But that possibility does little to explain away the freakish potency of his little hallucinations.
Accounts of drinking water contamination have been known to induce visual disturbances and alter perception. But then why had no one else complained or reported similar incidents to the ship’s medic?
The answer is obvious. Zhao is an admiral and more than a little reluctant to report his own symptoms. Anyone else would have to have the same reservations about coming forward. Seeing things that aren’t really there – seeing and hearing from his dead Prince for example – isn’t something he wants to own up to. If handled incorrectly, it has the potential to end his career.
Maybe he contracted something nasty from that pretty little whore he visited when he was sailing around the Earth kingdom. If so, then perhaps he hadn’t been rough enough with her. Men pick up sexually transmitted diseases all the time in ports of call and if caught in time, the problem is easily treated.
To think he’s actually hoping for syphilis.
Regardless of the cause, a matter such as this requires discretion. He’ll have engineering check the purification system in the morning and arrange for the ships’ medic to conduct physical health checks of himself and the crew. The visual disturbances are harmless – more or less. He can distinguish between the real and the imaginary. ‘He can! He can!’ Zhao sees no reason to mention anything without further evidence to the contrary.
But no matter what, he vows to never, ever tell anyone about General Iroh and his bird feather face, not even under threat of torture. Zhao will take that one to the grave.
Zhao spends hours that night lying awake and looking up at the moon obscured behind passing clouds, too tired to sleep, too restless to dream. At least he assumes he cannot dream, but when the shadows begin to move strangely on the ceiling of his cabin, he begins to think that maybe he is. It’s becoming harder to tell lately.
Something in the darkest corner had moved. He’s certain of it.
The desire to summon a flame in his hand to cast light on the issue is immediate and compelling, but he is no coward. There are no demons hiding in the dark of his cabin.
Moonlight shutters across the room as the clouds billow past, giving definable shape to his apparition.
There, above, tucked neatly into the corner of his ceiling is his thief. He blends into the shadows like he was made from them, bracing himself between the walls and staring down at him with that hideous Oni mask.
Prince Zuko became the Blue Spirit, but Prince Zuko is dead, which means this can only be a dream.
“I know who you are. I’ve always known.”
His thief defies gravity, clinging to the ceiling and walls like an insect, never making so much as a sound. He extends his limbs with stunted, unnatural movements, a parody of the fluid, animated motion of the living. There is a nightmarish quality to everything here that makes Zhao shiver. He growls at his own weakness.
The Blue Spirit is on his hands and knees, now hovering directly above him, but the masked face grins down. It looks as though his head has twisted backwards. The wrongness of it seeps into Zhao’s skin, as cold and foreign as everything else about this place.
Suddenly, the thief turns and drops down on him. The unmistakable sound of steel pierces his ears and all too suddenly there is a body spread over him and twin broadswords crossed at his throat.
At least now he is finally able to move. He instinctively bends, wreathing his hands in flame and raising them protectively, holding them on either side of Prince Zuko’s face. He is looking into the boy’s face.
It is as distinctive as it always was. The scar is a horrible disfigurement, warping his features into a permanent scowl. Somehow it made Zuko all the more striking for it, like another act of defiance.
The swords press down and in - a clear warning. Zhao snarls and draws his hands closer, pushing greater heat into his fire as an answer.
Zuko’s smile is vicious as he leans further into him, pressing his weight as if it was some advantage. Physically he’s strong, but he’s no match for Zhao. But then his hips angle and shift just so in just the right-perfect-wrong place. He’s never wanted that from Zuko, but his body tells him otherwise.
To Zhao’s horror he can feel himself reacting, growing hard at the feel of him, heat exactly where he needs it. The arousal spikes deep within his belly and he shudders, unintentionally nudging the blades that much closer. One thick swallow is enough to nick his skin. The inherent threat should be intimidating, even to an experienced bender like himself. Instead his cock jerks hard against Zuko’s and the Prince’s smile grows wilder as if he’s approving, as if he’s always known.
It’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on Prince Zuko’s face, but it does remind him a little too much of General Iroh’s shark-toothed grin. It’s Iroh’s voice he hears when Zuko moves his lips.
“Even in exile my nephew is more honorable than you.”
He blanches. “Why you little…”
Zhao doesn’t get to finish that sentence.
Zuko wrenches the broadswords outward in one blindingly fast movement. Zhao’s violent reflexes never had a chance and now he’s probably been slit from ear to ear. Strangely enough his blood does not spurt and the white hot shock of pain never comes.
Zuko drops the Dao to the floor and grabs either side of his head, pulling him up and crushing his lips to his own in a brutal kiss. The boy tastes like the sea.
The sound that Zhao makes when his hips get pressed into the thin mattress is embarrassing.
Something inside him eases, all his anger replaced by relief and want.
The flames from his hands snuff out immediately. He puts them to better use and grabs Zuko’s hair. It’s just like he remembers from his dream and oh, the satisfaction he felt, how it all makes so much more sense to him now! This is what he wanted all along.
He takes it.
Zhao fists the boy’s hair and yanks it back to expose his young throat. He rises upward to taste that skin, groaning to suck the pulse into his own eager mouth, to claim it and Zuko as his own.
Why had he never seen this about himself before?
Very suddenly the moon disappears behind the clouds, taking all the light with it. And when the moonlight finally finds its way back, Zhao’s arms are empty and he is alone once again.
It shouldn’t be possible, not after understanding and not with Zuko’s taste so strong in his mouth. He is still hard, achingly so.
Sweat beads on his forehead, skin flushing red with the return of his anger. He’s up and out of his cabin, half-dressed and storming down the corridor before he can think clearly.
It’s late and there’s a crewman down at the next juncture. His focus is a hot, lethal thing. Zhao’s bare feet pound quickly on the steel as he approaches. He’s furious when he grabs the man and spins him around, as if he’s expecting some kind of explanation for why he’s not fucking the dead Prince of the Fire nation in his bed right now.
It also might be that he desperately needs to hit someone and this poor bastard is as good as the next.
Zhao slams his subordinate into the wall and promptly freezes.
The crewman staring back at him looks exactly like Prince Zuko. Only this version is wearing a standard set of armor and an expression that couldn’t look any more shell-shocked, that is, unless Zhao counts himself.
There’s a hysterical bubble of laughter clawing its way out of his throat that he has to clamp his jaw shut to keep from escaping. With the greatest of care he unlocks his hands from around the crewman’s arms and lets him slide down the wall.
“As you were,” Zhao grits out, but just barely. He turns and swipes a trembling hand down his sweaty face, putting conscious effort into walking steadily back to his room…
…Where he will drink enough alcohol to intoxicate a hippo-whale. Zhao’s had enough blue-balling hallucinations for one evening.
The door behind Iroh opens and shuts quickly. He turns to see his nephew leaning against it heavily, looking as pale as a ghost.
“What happened, my nephew? Are you alright?”
Zuko’s features crumble. “He saw me!”
“Who saw you?”
“Zhao!” Zuko hisses. “He grabbed me and threw me against a wall. I didn’t have my face shield down and he looked right at me! He had to have recognized me.”
“What did he do?”
“He just…let me go,” Zuko says, completely bewildered. “He said, ‘As you were,’ turned around and left. What kind of game is he playing at?”
The tightness in Iroh’s chest fades into grateful relief. Zuko has never been lucky, but he does have Iroh to look out for him.
“Well, I guess he must have mistaken you for someone else.”
The bewildered expression on Zuko’s face only intensifies to the point of absurdity. He makes an abortive gesture at his scar. “Are you serious?”
Iroh just smiles and sits back down on the floor of their hiding place to warm his kettle. After a rather loud and exasperated sigh, Zuko joins him.
‘Here,” he says, pushing a little packet of waxed paper toward Zuko. “I brought you some sweet cakes. You must be hungry.” Iroh has had to smuggle most of Zuko’s food and water during their voyage, but looking after his nephew is something he enjoys.
“They are delicious,” he croons.
Zuko looks doubtful, but after a moment’s hesitation he tears into the package and begins devouring the cakes. He’s too thin, even for a growing boy. Iroh wishes he would eat more.
As Iroh begins to pour the tea Zuko holds up another small package. Iroh hadn’t realized he’d left it out.
“What’s this? More tea, Uncle?”
“Oh, something like that.”
Zuko sniffs the package and makes a face. He reaches in to take a pinch of the leaves and Iroh’s expression hardens. He puts a firm hand out to stop him. “That tea is not for you, my nephew.”
Iroh moves to take the packet from him, but Zuko snatches it away, gazing at it curiously.
“Who is it for?”
Iroh can hear the suspicion in the boy’s voice; see it in his narrowed eyes.
“Someone…deserving.”
“Uncle, why didn’t Zhao put me in irons back there? What’s going on?”
“He did not put you in irons because he believes Prince Zuko is dead. Even when he looks upon you with his own eyes he will believe this to be true because he is an arrogant and foolish man.”
“And because you drugged him.”
He’s going to have to come up with a new traveling plan if Zhao catches on as quickly as Zuko.
“And because I drugged him, but only a little.”
Zuko finally relinquishes the little packet and Iroh places it into his pocket for safe keeping, patting it appreciatively.
“Not that I’m complaining, Uncle, but what did you possibly hope to accomplish by drugging Zhao?”
“Well, I was hoping for a confession to your murder, but aside from that, any information about the war and the Water Tribe invasion that would be helpful to us. Incidentally, we should arrive sometime tomorrow. You need to be ready.”
Zuko nods. “I will be.”
They go back to drinking their tea and cakes in relative silence.
“Uncle?”
“Yes, Zuko?”
“What is that stuff?”
“Moonflower. It is fabled as a powerful hallucinogenic, although it’s very easy to procure. Too much and you become a stark, raving lunatic, but just enough will rattle your sense of reality for a while. It is fairly safe when consumed as a tea, even if I did misjudge the dosage slightly. The ginseng masks the flavor, so long as you do not add too much.”
“So, you don’t think Zhao’s going to search his ship for me then?”
“No. Not with the invasion so close. And it’s a good thing, too. It’s not easy sharing company with the man that plotted to kill my nephew. He’s lucky all I did was spike his tea.”
Zuko bows his head to drink from his cup. “Thank you, Uncle, for looking out for me.”
“You are welcome, Prince Zuko.”
By:
gigerisgodRecipient:
unjapanologistRating: Teen
Characters/Ships: Zhao/Zuko, Iroh
Content Notes: Choose not to use content notes.
Just as Zhao predicted, General Iroh agrees to accompany him to the invasion of the Northern Water Tribe once his bratty little nephew is no longer part of the picture. He thinks he does a fair enough job of feigning sympathy for the man’s loss, though it probably helps the General is too distracted by his own grief to notice any lack of sincerity on his part.
When a heavy fist strikes the table, Zhao remembers General Iroh is not so old or incapacitated by his grief not to feel anger, listening as he blames pirates for Zuko’s untimely death.
He’s correct about the pirates though he has no idea Zhao is the one who put them up to it. The deed didn’t come cheap, but regicide rarely does. As far as he’s concerned it’s money well spent if it means ridding himself of the brat Prince and the Blue Spirit in one fair stroke.
Zuko. That little bastard. Somehow that inept little teenager managed to slip undetected into Ponghai Stronghold and single-handedly free the Avatar. Worse than that, he’d done it without fire bending.
Zhao automatically assumed it had to be a non-bender, naturally eliminating Zuko as a possible suspect. The boy had been clever, careful not to reveal anything that might identify him, down to the mask that hid his wretched, infamous face. But the moment Zhao spotted those Dao swords on the Prince’s cabin wall he knew he’d been tricked. He wasn’t buying any pathetic nonsense about Zuko’s swords being decorative antiques. Everything had suddenly begun to make sense.
Zuko had all the motivation to take the Avatar from him. He was the right height and build as the thief, and more importantly thanks to his blockade, Zhao could pinpoint the Prince’s location within easy traveling distance of Ponghai. Stalling Zuko’s progress by keeping his ship docked in port had been his goal. He just hadn’t anticipated provoking the little shit into a desperate rescue. There was no doubt in his mind that Prince Zuko was the Blue Spirit.
And while he couldn’t help but be a little impressed with the Prince’s tenacity and skill, neither could be indulged any further. Zuko’s already cost him the Avatar. Zhao’s reputation is on the line.
If Zuko had only stolen from Zhao, he might understand. Excuse, never, but understand…possibly. Zhao has made a pleasant sort of sport of antagonizing and humiliating the Prince, hindering his mission at every opportunity. He’s never really examined why tormenting Zuko is so immensely satisfying, though he has considered it a kind of obligation - to succeed where the Fire Lord failed; to knock some well-needed respect into Zuko’s spoiled, arrogant ass. The Avatar was the only thing standing between Zuko and lifelong exile; the perfect tool to put pressure just where Zhao saw fit. He knew just how badly the boy needed to regain his honor and go home. But what he can’t understand, can’t overlook is the fact that Prince Zuko and the Avatar escaped together and there is where his limited empathy ends.
It would have made sense if the Avatar had just run off that night, leaving his rescuer to his guards. There is no doubt he saw his Yu-Yan hit the thief. Zhao remembers smiling as he watched him go down. At the very least his guards should have returned with the Blue Spirit for him to unmask.
Naturally, he would have punished the Prince as severely as he could feasibly get away with. Zhao would have left him chained in his prison for a few days, stewing in his royal juices before sending a messenger hawk to General Iroh with a humiliating account of his actions…right before he sent word to the Fire Lord as well. It would have served the little brat right if his father packed him off to the Boiling Rock to rot with the worst of his nation’s dissidents and criminals for the rest of his days.
But as it turned out his men hadn’t returned with the Blue Spirit OR the Avatar. Both had gotten away. Zhao hadn’t known the Blue Spirit’s identity then, but it was obvious the two were working together.
Later that night, when he was able to think about the prison escape without igniting anything remotely flammable – Ponghai’s courtyard was not so lucky – he realized how well the Avatar and the Blue Spirit worked together. His men cornered them repeatedly, forcing them into more desperate and dangerous feats each time and yet their advances and defenses seemed almost intuitive of one another. Zhao has known men who have trained together for years to attain that level of balance and cooperation. Could he really toss such an observation off to mere coincidence and then ignore the young Avatar had risked recapture for his enemy? Why would he have done that if they were not allies?
Perhaps he’d been looking at things the wrong way. Perhaps Prince Zuko never had any intentions of bringing the Avatar home to his father at all. He may have sided with the master of all elements in order to put himself on the throne. It’s not as though Ozai hasn’t given the boy enough reasons to overthrow him. The Avatar might be a child now, but fully realized he will be unstoppable and Zuko would be an idiot if he didn’t recognize that potential and use it to his advantage.
So, of course he’s working with the little air-bending whelp.
But what of the Dragon of the West? Zhao doubts General Iroh has any clue about what his nephew gets up to when he isn’t around, blissfully ignorant of Zuko’s comings and goings so long as they don’t involve tea. And even if he did, there’s no way the old fool would ever do the proper thing and turn the boy in. He was too soft hearted after losing his son, Lu-Ten at Ba Sing Se. He’d protect his foolish nephew at any cost.
If Prince Zuko was still loyal to the Fire Nation then the Avatar would not be on his way to the Northern Water Tribe seeking a master to train him right now.
The Avatar and Prince Zuko had to be allies. In fact, it would help explain why he’s slipped through the Prince’s grasp on more than once occasion; first from the Southern Water Tribe, then Kyoshi Island and later Roku’s Temple. It’s all too convenient to dismiss.
He had little choice then. Zuko had to be dealt with. He was a collaborator and a traitor and Zhao could no longer afford to ignore him as an idle threat.
And though the Prince’s death undoubtedly spared his nation the embarrassment and unpleasantness of a royal scandal, he could not deny it served his own ends. Zhao is the only person who knows the identity of the Blue Spirit. No one need ever know a child infiltrated one of the Fire Nation’s most impenetrable fortresses and stole the Avatar away, especially since it happened on the eve of his promotion.
There is a small voice that insists his Agni Kai with prince Zuko might have influenced his decision the slightest bit - more than he wants to admit, but it doesn’t change anything.
He growls at the memory of their duel, suffering defeat and humiliation before his subordinates at the hands of a boy, a miserable youngster who could not fire bend his way out of a paper bag. And when Zuko dared spare him the killing blow, he wasn’t being merciful as much as he was denying him an honorable death. Zuko should have understood that much better than anyone, but then to turn his back on Zhao - the insult! The impulse for retribution had been impossible to repress. He kicked his foot out with flame before the thought had even fully processed.
Jeong Jeong would have raged at him for his loss of control. As it was the Dragon of the West had shamed him...
“So this is how the great Commander Zhao acts in defeat. Disgraceful. Even in exile my nephew is more honorable than you.”
In retrospect it may not have been one of his more shining moments. General Iroh’s reprimand still lingers in the back of his mind like a festering sore to his pride. He was supposed to teach the Prince a lesson in respect – not the other way around. Zuko was the disgrace not him!
Well, he finally got his chance at retribution, and Zhao’s satisfaction at news of the Prince’s death was sweet, though strangely hollow without the thrill of confrontation, denied the chance to goad the Prince one final time.
He unclenches his fists, interest immediately drawn back into the conversation at Iroh’s mention of revenge. He watches as Iroh pours the tea with delicate movements, letting the fragrant scent of ginseng wash over him.
In a traditional setting, proper etiquette would require that Zhao serve General Prince Iroh. He is here at Zhao’s invitation, but the old man insisted he brew and serve the tea as thanks for taking both him and his crew along. Refusing his offer would have been considered an insult.
Besides, no one brews a better cup of tea than General Iroh. Though, it is rather ironic the man is thanking him. It sweetens things considerably.
Warm tendrils of steam trail over his lips. The first taste is heavenly.
“Admiral Zhao, it would be my honor to host tea each day of our journey, that is if you don’t mind. I have more of this lovely ginseng if you enjoy it. Will you indulge an old man his daily ritual?”
“It would be my honor to General Iroh. And as you know, I love ginseng.”
Zuko may have gone abroad to find the Avatar, but sometimes Zhao thinks Iroh went along just to expand his tea drinking fetish.
“Wonderful,” Iroh says, setting the earthen kettle down with the precise care of the aristocracy. “The company is appreciated. My nephew rarely had the patience for tea ceremonies.” He finishes and wipes at the mouth of his cup, sounding sad and wistful.
“You must miss him terribly.”
The General’s stony expression quickly reminds Zhao he is not always successful at conveying sympathy, though he’s usually much better than this. The sentiment sounded shamelessly phony.
General Iroh seems content to let it pass, quietly dropping his gaze and breathing out a heavy sigh. “Yes, Zhao, I miss Zuko very much. But I take comfort knowing that those who harmed him will pay dearly.”
Something about the General’s tone makes the hairs on the back of Zhao’s neck stand up on end, something uncharacteristically cold. He quickly swallows the last of his tea, focusing on that scalding heat instead.
“You know I will do everything in my power to help find the pirates responsible and bring them to justice.”
“Justice, Zhao, is all I can ask for.”
He accepts General Iroh’s invitation for tea each day they sail toward the Northern Water Tribe. Zhao in turn, indulges the older man’s palate with sweet cakes and other delicacies that exiled princes on doomed missions with limited budgets could rarely afford. The General talks endlessly, cheats almost as frequently at Pai Sho and brews the most exquisite tea Zhao has ever tasted. There are worse ways to pass the time.
The temperature plunges and traces of ice have begun to appear in the water. The fleet must reduce their speed soon to more carefully navigate the ice fields. He grows more anxious with each passing day, eager to launch the invasion that will etch his name into the history scrolls.
Zhao wakes from his bed one chill night to the sound of chains rattling. He puts on his robe and rises to investigate, following the sound along the smooth metal corridors of his ship until the echo changes its inflection. He realizes he is walking through the stone hallways deep within Ponghai Stronghold.
He feels like he is walking through a dream and yet the scent of lamp oil from the urns is cloying, intensifying as it mixes with the pungent scent of damp earth. He comes across two of his guards lying in slumped heaps upon the floor. Nearby another is strung up like cured meat, though he struggles and curses from behind his gag. Zhao ignores him and pushes past the iron doors now flung wide.
“You!”
From inside the chamber the Blue Spirit’s mask stares mutely back at him. For a moment Zhao is stunned enough to just stand and stare, but he gets his wits seconds later and closes the door behind him. He advances on the figure cloaked in black and the torches blaze higher, flaring with his temper. The thief is chained precisely where the Avatar had been. The Dao swords lay crossed at his feet.
Unease pricks at him, stopping Zhao dead in his tracks before he can get any closer. The white features of the Oni mask jump out of the darkness at him, tilting curiously like a bug studying him. Then he realizes the reason behind his hesitation.
“You. Are. Dead.”
The thief that is Zuko says nothing in response, though Zhao hears a boy’s laughter from somewhere very far off.
Mockery.
Zuko just tugs on the chains holding him, as if he’s deliberately reassuring Zhao of his presence, showing Zhao he’s restrained - toying with him no doubt, the little fool.
Zhao resists the urgent need to rush forward and throttle the brat until he begs for it to stop. He’s thinking back to all the scrolls he studied in the Spirit Library, the ones that described the thin veil between the living and the dead and wonders if ordering the boy’s murder gives him some kind of power over Prince Zuko’s spirit. He relishes that thought and steps closer to test the idea.
“You never fooled me, Prince Zuko,” he lies, stepping onto the platform and making a vicious grab for the boy’s masked head with one hand. His nails rake down, dragging the hood back, enough for his fingers to catch in a long tangle of dark hair. He wraps his fist in it, twisting and yanking until the thief’s head cranes back at a severe angle so Zhao can lean over him.
For a dead prince he feels real enough. He can hear strands of hair tearing loose in his grip, but the ragged panting breaths beneath the mask are better to savor, ripe with the scent of fear. He pulls the thief off balance, forcing him to the limits of the chains. And through it all is the heady pulse of Zuko’s heart beating against his body. The boy is his to punish. His palms heat dangerously without his consent.
Everything seems so real, but could it all be just another trick?
The heat flows unchecked into his fingertips and the stinking scent of burning hair assaults his senses. Still the brat says nothing. There are no sounds of pain or distress or anger, just stubborn silence. It’s like he’s using his stillness to provoke Zhao – and it’s working.
“I know it’s you!” He shouts.
Frustrated at the lack of reaction, he growls and rips the mask off, hearing the straps tear like old cloth. But in that instant the thief is gone - vanished like smoke, robbing Zhao of the heat and solidness of him. Metal cuffs and chain links fall empty against the pillars, making a jolting racket over the silence.
Zhao frantically looks about the room, but he is alone. He can hear that distant, youthful laughter echo again, mocking the ridiculous mask Zhao still holds in his hands. He seethes at the loss of the Prince and at the grinning demon face. He throws it down upon the stone floor where it bursts into flames.
“Did you sleep well, Admiral Zhao?”
“Very well, thank you,” he says, lying smoothly to General Iroh.
“You seem... ill at ease.”
Maybe Zhao’s not as convincing as he first thought.
“Perhaps you have concerns about the invasion?”
Zhao ponders a curt dismissal of General Iroh’s question. He is irritable this morning, but doesn’t need to advertise it, nor insult Iroh, at least not outwardly anyway.
“If you mean I have concerns about failure, then you’re mistaken. The Fire Nation will be victorious. My concerns regard the occupation of the city once we’ve conquered it.” He takes a sip of his tea, scalding hot just the way he loves it.
“Once we obtain a full surrender we can separate the benders. The Boiling Rock was our first consideration, but we have outposts in the Earth Kingdom’s Shi Wong Desert that would be better suited to water bender captivity. The climate does the work for us.”
Iroh grunts in agreement and busies himself arranging utensils on the mat. Zhao watches him heat the little clay kettle with the palm of his hand. A soft orange glow appears just beneath a delicate looking crane carved into the wide base.
“And what of the other citizens, Zhao?”
Zhao sighs. “Does it really matter?”
“Surely, the Fire lord must be eager to share our prosperous culture with its newest peoples.”
Zhao raises his cup just under his nose and inhales the delicious steam. “Indeed he is. And who better to indoctrinate the Water tribe than his brother, the famed Dragon of the West?”
General Iroh looks up sharply at him. The tea that he was pouring suddenly splashes over the side of his cup. “Oh dear, excuse me.” Zhao covers his smirk with his hand as the General quickly wipes the spill away.
“Had you not considered Fire lord Ozai would want you to establish our presence once those savages are defeated?”
There’s a long, uncomfortable silence that stretches out for several moments.
‘It had not.”
They finish their tea and sweet cakes in silence.
Oddly, Zhao has to blink repeatedly to clear the image of the crane moving its long, spindly legs over the rounded surface of the kettle. It must be some trick of the cabin’s lighting; a clever optical illusion created by the expert craftsmanship and mild eye strain.
He resolves to sleep better tonight.
Two of his officers are closing in on one another on the main deck. Agni Kai’s aren’t uncommon this close to battle. Emotions run high and tempers amongst fire benders flare dangerously. It’s best to let them settle their disagreement within the context of a fair contest for all to see. And it doesn’t hurt that it provides some rousing entertainment for the rest of the crew, something to break the monotony of long weeks spent at sea.
General Iroh stands with Zhao to watch the duel, close enough to feel a fleeting wave of heat dissipate in the cold, arctic air. The men are seasoned benders and a good match for one another.
“I tried to encourage my men to find other methods to settle their disputes.” His breath fogs with every word. Zhao gives the man a speculative look.
“What?” General Iroh asks, “I’ll have you know I can be very persuasive.”
“Oh, I’m sure you were, General Iroh. Were you successful, then?”
Two balls of flame come hurtling much too close to the General. Without sparing a glance he snuffs them out with a careless flick of his hand.
“Not always. Young men are often difficult to dissuade, as I’m sure you already know.”
“I see no reason to discourage healthy competition.” He turns to the General smiling congenially. “Fire flakes?” Zhao asks, and the General’s face brightens instantly at his offer.
The two benders launch an impressive volley of fire bending strikes. They’re competent, even a little flashy, but Zhao sees nothing that would present a challenge for his abilities.
He reminds himself that Zuko’s win was merely a fluke and nothing more.
The shorter man moves in front of Zhao, his shirtless back facing him. This close he can smell the tang of sweat and salt and the unmistakable scent of sulphur.
A gout of flame licks dangerously over the man’s shoulder followed by his wide, shocked eyes.
The fire flares outward, tongues of yellow and orange racing at Zhao, heating the liquid moisture from his eyes. Zhao raises his hands and motions to quickly extinguish the rogue flame before it can harm him.
The officer is rooted to the spot, still looking over his shoulder at Zhao, but the expression on his face has changed. The face itself has changed into something more familiar. The eyes glitter dangerously at him, narrowing in threat and the left side…
…Even though the flames have banked…the left side begins to *burn*
It’s impossible, but no one could ever mistake that face.
Zhao remembers the smell of burning flesh and the pitch of the boy’s screams, wails of pain that silenced the rest of the royal arena to a hush. The only thing left to see was the Fire Lord turning his back on his only son.
How could Zuko have ever believed his father would want him after that? A world filled with gift-wrapped Avatars could not fix that plain truth.
Stupid, stupid boy.
“If your father really wanted you home, he'd have let you return by now, Avatar or no Avatar, but in his eyes you are a failure and a disgrace to the Fire Nation.”
“That's not true.”
“You have the scar to prove it.”
“Maybe you'd like one to match!”
He hears those words – the ones that precipitated their Agni Kai - watches them as they’re mouthed from Zuko’s smoking lips, pulled back into a feral snarl. Zuko is dead, but the sound of his voice plucks a vital chord deep within himself. It resonates along his spine, strung tight and ready to snap.
The side of the Prince’s face is smoldering, allowing him a glimpse at the horrible ruin beneath, the true mark of a master.
“Zhao.”
His stomach clenches at the rasp of his name. He’s never heard the Prince speak to him like that. Not with that inflection, that baffling…softness.
The image of the boy gets hazy and shimmers suddenly. It’s the kind of visual distortion that usually comes from an intense rush intense heat.
He’s completely unprepared for the fireball hurtling for his face.
“Admiral Zhao!”
General Iroh’s firm hand on his chest shoves him out of the line of fire. He feels disconnected from his own thoughts, dazed as he watches the fireball whiz past his head, breaking apart harmlessly.
The opponents and his entire crew are staring at him in mute shock. Which should affect him more than it is. He’s more acutely aware of the ship moving, feeling the waves break beneath the keel, hearing the sound of ocean birds high above. Tiny flakes of snow drift downward, everything around him slowing down with the delicate snowfall, returning to normal when they melt on contact with his skin.
Next to him the General chuckles awkwardly to break the silence. “Well, that was certainly a bracing competition.”
“Was?” He asks, hating the sound of syrupy confusion in his own voice. What the blazes is wrong with him?
“Yes,” General Iroh says much too loudly. “We have a draw, isn’t that right, gentleman?”
The officers facing each other look more perplexed than Zhao feels, but after a moment or two they nod in agreement and bow to one another, promptly ending the match.
“We should reach the North Pole very soon and we need every capable bender we can spare for the invasion. Don’t you agree, Admiral Zhao?”
“Uh, yes. Yes, that’s correct.” Zhao is struggling to quietly dispel Zuko’s furious afterimage from his sight. It lingers like he’d been staring directly into the sun.
“Alright,” Zhao manages with more force this time. “Everyone back to their stations.”
When his crew has dispersed, General Iroh touches his arm and looks at him with concern. “Are you alright, Admiral Zhao? Your attention was…somewhere else.”
Iroh is mistaken. Zhao’s attention never drifted from the Agni Kai. He had been as focused as humanly possible and yet his eyes had still deceived him. What he saw was some kind of a visual distortion, or a flashback of some sort. He doesn’t quite know how to describe what he just experienced, except that similar things have been happening to him and with greater frequency – greater intensity - over the past several days.
“I’m fine,” he answers gruffly, clearly annoyed. He is not the man’s nephew. He is a mast fire bender and an admiral of the fleet and does not need to be coddled or looked after.
Zhao already understands much about the spirit world. If Zuko’s spirit is trying to seek vengeance for ordering his death, then let him try. What Zhao is planning weighs far greater in importance. When the moon is his, nothing will stand in his way. He will banish Zuko’s pesky spirit from his consciousness the way his father had banished him from their nation.
“Perhaps…some tea, then?”
Zhao is about to protest, but sees it as a pointless exercise. He really could use a calming cup of tea right about now. “Oh,” he says, rolling his eyes on general principle. “Why not?”
General Iroh’s smile reminds him strangely of shark’s teeth.
Since the Agni Kai on deck, Zhao’s dreams have been unusually vivid and unsettling, nagging him long into the daytime hours. Sometimes a strange buzzing inside his head serves as a warning to the odd sights and sounds, but it’s there and gone before he can make sense of it.
At dinner last night he was half convinced General Iroh’s beard was made of fluffy white feathers. The man looked like he was turning into some enormous bloated sea bird. Zhao choked on his wine and almost spewed it across the table. It was all he could do to keep a straight face and make small talk when Iroh’s face looked like it was… molting.
Small inanimate things have inexplicably begun to animate themselves, like the little crane on Iroh’s tea kettle or Captain Moku’s dragon tattoo that seemingly came to life the other afternoon while he was discussing troop deployment in the navigation room. It was hideous when he’d gotten it in Guangzhou and it was hideous when it magically lifted from the Captain’s arm and flew down the corridor. Of course he blinked the hallucination away without making anyone the wiser. Things like that just didn’t happen, but that doesn’t seem to stop him from seeing them occur.
It does not feel like the spirits are at work here.
That had been his first thought, but he has to consider alternatives.
A likely cause could be simple exhaustion. He’s been working too many hours in preparation for the invasion. But that possibility does little to explain away the freakish potency of his little hallucinations.
Accounts of drinking water contamination have been known to induce visual disturbances and alter perception. But then why had no one else complained or reported similar incidents to the ship’s medic?
The answer is obvious. Zhao is an admiral and more than a little reluctant to report his own symptoms. Anyone else would have to have the same reservations about coming forward. Seeing things that aren’t really there – seeing and hearing from his dead Prince for example – isn’t something he wants to own up to. If handled incorrectly, it has the potential to end his career.
Maybe he contracted something nasty from that pretty little whore he visited when he was sailing around the Earth kingdom. If so, then perhaps he hadn’t been rough enough with her. Men pick up sexually transmitted diseases all the time in ports of call and if caught in time, the problem is easily treated.
To think he’s actually hoping for syphilis.
Regardless of the cause, a matter such as this requires discretion. He’ll have engineering check the purification system in the morning and arrange for the ships’ medic to conduct physical health checks of himself and the crew. The visual disturbances are harmless – more or less. He can distinguish between the real and the imaginary. ‘He can! He can!’ Zhao sees no reason to mention anything without further evidence to the contrary.
But no matter what, he vows to never, ever tell anyone about General Iroh and his bird feather face, not even under threat of torture. Zhao will take that one to the grave.
Zhao spends hours that night lying awake and looking up at the moon obscured behind passing clouds, too tired to sleep, too restless to dream. At least he assumes he cannot dream, but when the shadows begin to move strangely on the ceiling of his cabin, he begins to think that maybe he is. It’s becoming harder to tell lately.
Something in the darkest corner had moved. He’s certain of it.
The desire to summon a flame in his hand to cast light on the issue is immediate and compelling, but he is no coward. There are no demons hiding in the dark of his cabin.
Moonlight shutters across the room as the clouds billow past, giving definable shape to his apparition.
There, above, tucked neatly into the corner of his ceiling is his thief. He blends into the shadows like he was made from them, bracing himself between the walls and staring down at him with that hideous Oni mask.
Prince Zuko became the Blue Spirit, but Prince Zuko is dead, which means this can only be a dream.
“I know who you are. I’ve always known.”
His thief defies gravity, clinging to the ceiling and walls like an insect, never making so much as a sound. He extends his limbs with stunted, unnatural movements, a parody of the fluid, animated motion of the living. There is a nightmarish quality to everything here that makes Zhao shiver. He growls at his own weakness.
The Blue Spirit is on his hands and knees, now hovering directly above him, but the masked face grins down. It looks as though his head has twisted backwards. The wrongness of it seeps into Zhao’s skin, as cold and foreign as everything else about this place.
Suddenly, the thief turns and drops down on him. The unmistakable sound of steel pierces his ears and all too suddenly there is a body spread over him and twin broadswords crossed at his throat.
At least now he is finally able to move. He instinctively bends, wreathing his hands in flame and raising them protectively, holding them on either side of Prince Zuko’s face. He is looking into the boy’s face.
It is as distinctive as it always was. The scar is a horrible disfigurement, warping his features into a permanent scowl. Somehow it made Zuko all the more striking for it, like another act of defiance.
The swords press down and in - a clear warning. Zhao snarls and draws his hands closer, pushing greater heat into his fire as an answer.
Zuko’s smile is vicious as he leans further into him, pressing his weight as if it was some advantage. Physically he’s strong, but he’s no match for Zhao. But then his hips angle and shift just so in just the right-perfect-wrong place. He’s never wanted that from Zuko, but his body tells him otherwise.
To Zhao’s horror he can feel himself reacting, growing hard at the feel of him, heat exactly where he needs it. The arousal spikes deep within his belly and he shudders, unintentionally nudging the blades that much closer. One thick swallow is enough to nick his skin. The inherent threat should be intimidating, even to an experienced bender like himself. Instead his cock jerks hard against Zuko’s and the Prince’s smile grows wilder as if he’s approving, as if he’s always known.
It’s not an expression he’s used to seeing on Prince Zuko’s face, but it does remind him a little too much of General Iroh’s shark-toothed grin. It’s Iroh’s voice he hears when Zuko moves his lips.
“Even in exile my nephew is more honorable than you.”
He blanches. “Why you little…”
Zhao doesn’t get to finish that sentence.
Zuko wrenches the broadswords outward in one blindingly fast movement. Zhao’s violent reflexes never had a chance and now he’s probably been slit from ear to ear. Strangely enough his blood does not spurt and the white hot shock of pain never comes.
Zuko drops the Dao to the floor and grabs either side of his head, pulling him up and crushing his lips to his own in a brutal kiss. The boy tastes like the sea.
The sound that Zhao makes when his hips get pressed into the thin mattress is embarrassing.
Something inside him eases, all his anger replaced by relief and want.
The flames from his hands snuff out immediately. He puts them to better use and grabs Zuko’s hair. It’s just like he remembers from his dream and oh, the satisfaction he felt, how it all makes so much more sense to him now! This is what he wanted all along.
He takes it.
Zhao fists the boy’s hair and yanks it back to expose his young throat. He rises upward to taste that skin, groaning to suck the pulse into his own eager mouth, to claim it and Zuko as his own.
Why had he never seen this about himself before?
Very suddenly the moon disappears behind the clouds, taking all the light with it. And when the moonlight finally finds its way back, Zhao’s arms are empty and he is alone once again.
It shouldn’t be possible, not after understanding and not with Zuko’s taste so strong in his mouth. He is still hard, achingly so.
Sweat beads on his forehead, skin flushing red with the return of his anger. He’s up and out of his cabin, half-dressed and storming down the corridor before he can think clearly.
It’s late and there’s a crewman down at the next juncture. His focus is a hot, lethal thing. Zhao’s bare feet pound quickly on the steel as he approaches. He’s furious when he grabs the man and spins him around, as if he’s expecting some kind of explanation for why he’s not fucking the dead Prince of the Fire nation in his bed right now.
It also might be that he desperately needs to hit someone and this poor bastard is as good as the next.
Zhao slams his subordinate into the wall and promptly freezes.
The crewman staring back at him looks exactly like Prince Zuko. Only this version is wearing a standard set of armor and an expression that couldn’t look any more shell-shocked, that is, unless Zhao counts himself.
There’s a hysterical bubble of laughter clawing its way out of his throat that he has to clamp his jaw shut to keep from escaping. With the greatest of care he unlocks his hands from around the crewman’s arms and lets him slide down the wall.
“As you were,” Zhao grits out, but just barely. He turns and swipes a trembling hand down his sweaty face, putting conscious effort into walking steadily back to his room…
…Where he will drink enough alcohol to intoxicate a hippo-whale. Zhao’s had enough blue-balling hallucinations for one evening.
The door behind Iroh opens and shuts quickly. He turns to see his nephew leaning against it heavily, looking as pale as a ghost.
“What happened, my nephew? Are you alright?”
Zuko’s features crumble. “He saw me!”
“Who saw you?”
“Zhao!” Zuko hisses. “He grabbed me and threw me against a wall. I didn’t have my face shield down and he looked right at me! He had to have recognized me.”
“What did he do?”
“He just…let me go,” Zuko says, completely bewildered. “He said, ‘As you were,’ turned around and left. What kind of game is he playing at?”
The tightness in Iroh’s chest fades into grateful relief. Zuko has never been lucky, but he does have Iroh to look out for him.
“Well, I guess he must have mistaken you for someone else.”
The bewildered expression on Zuko’s face only intensifies to the point of absurdity. He makes an abortive gesture at his scar. “Are you serious?”
Iroh just smiles and sits back down on the floor of their hiding place to warm his kettle. After a rather loud and exasperated sigh, Zuko joins him.
‘Here,” he says, pushing a little packet of waxed paper toward Zuko. “I brought you some sweet cakes. You must be hungry.” Iroh has had to smuggle most of Zuko’s food and water during their voyage, but looking after his nephew is something he enjoys.
“They are delicious,” he croons.
Zuko looks doubtful, but after a moment’s hesitation he tears into the package and begins devouring the cakes. He’s too thin, even for a growing boy. Iroh wishes he would eat more.
As Iroh begins to pour the tea Zuko holds up another small package. Iroh hadn’t realized he’d left it out.
“What’s this? More tea, Uncle?”
“Oh, something like that.”
Zuko sniffs the package and makes a face. He reaches in to take a pinch of the leaves and Iroh’s expression hardens. He puts a firm hand out to stop him. “That tea is not for you, my nephew.”
Iroh moves to take the packet from him, but Zuko snatches it away, gazing at it curiously.
“Who is it for?”
Iroh can hear the suspicion in the boy’s voice; see it in his narrowed eyes.
“Someone…deserving.”
“Uncle, why didn’t Zhao put me in irons back there? What’s going on?”
“He did not put you in irons because he believes Prince Zuko is dead. Even when he looks upon you with his own eyes he will believe this to be true because he is an arrogant and foolish man.”
“And because you drugged him.”
He’s going to have to come up with a new traveling plan if Zhao catches on as quickly as Zuko.
“And because I drugged him, but only a little.”
Zuko finally relinquishes the little packet and Iroh places it into his pocket for safe keeping, patting it appreciatively.
“Not that I’m complaining, Uncle, but what did you possibly hope to accomplish by drugging Zhao?”
“Well, I was hoping for a confession to your murder, but aside from that, any information about the war and the Water Tribe invasion that would be helpful to us. Incidentally, we should arrive sometime tomorrow. You need to be ready.”
Zuko nods. “I will be.”
They go back to drinking their tea and cakes in relative silence.
“Uncle?”
“Yes, Zuko?”
“What is that stuff?”
“Moonflower. It is fabled as a powerful hallucinogenic, although it’s very easy to procure. Too much and you become a stark, raving lunatic, but just enough will rattle your sense of reality for a while. It is fairly safe when consumed as a tea, even if I did misjudge the dosage slightly. The ginseng masks the flavor, so long as you do not add too much.”
“So, you don’t think Zhao’s going to search his ship for me then?”
“No. Not with the invasion so close. And it’s a good thing, too. It’s not easy sharing company with the man that plotted to kill my nephew. He’s lucky all I did was spike his tea.”
Zuko bows his head to drink from his cup. “Thank you, Uncle, for looking out for me.”
“You are welcome, Prince Zuko.”
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Your descriptions are wonderful -Zhao seeing Zuko's face in the agni kai, the way the Blue Spirit moves across the ceiling, the moment where they actually do meet and look each other straight in the eyes, brrr. I love the glimpses of ship life. And every Iroh moment, you write a wonderful Iroh. Did I mention the tea-based revenge?
Zhao's slide into not-quite-madness-but-getting-there is slow but oh so fine. With him being as, well, strangely attuned to spirit doings as he is, I can see him being quite susceptible to this sort of manipulation.
He’s thinking back to all the scrolls he studied in the Spirit Library, the ones that described the thin veil between the living and the dead and wonders if ordering the boy’s murder gives him some kind of power over Prince Zuko’s spirit. He relishes that thought and steps closer to test the idea.
This might be my favorite idea in this whole lovely fic. He would believe that, he really would. Maybe Iroh would have cut back on the moonflower a bit if he knew Zhao was using his hallucinations for lewd purposes :P
I love this, thank you so much!
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i wanted to write something a little different and i just could not imagine Iroh having to sail with Zhao to the northern water tribe knowing he paid pirates to murder his very much loved nephew and just being all zen about it. he'd want to find out as much as he could and i rly think he'd play with Zhao a bit by tormenting him. everything's better with tea, right?
thank you so much for the nice words.
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