Chapter Text
They say it’s one of the 41st.
A soldier who stood no chance against the plain slaughter of their entire division, dying to gain a piece of land for a person whose face they had never seen. A piece of land that would do nothing for the war. They say it rose again from the dust and ashes—the specks that mix together and are far more similar to each other than many would be comfortable with—from its rage at this injustice. Its painful, useless, meaningless death.
Others say that it was not rage, but quiet. Quiet pain, and an empty pit inside, hoping to prevent the way history loops in on itself, over and over.
There are those that have seen it, and speak of silence, moving with the shadows, apart from the world as though it is something blatantly other, as though it is an old memory. There are those who face it, and they face the injustice that they have wrought on others. Some survive, and others don’t.
But there are more that are those that see a hand outstretched to them, finding those that cannot be found and bringing them home, or simply a place to rest and breathe. Many are wary of this supposed spirit’s flames, but others say that it is warm, and comforting. It does not burn, they call out, it is kind and it is a campfire or a hearth at home.
A blue mask, face contorted in an expression that some deem as glee, hate, pain, or a reflection of yourself. Looking into an empty face, people see whatever they want to believe.
Some connect it to the banished prince of the Fire Nation—disappearing to hunt the Avatar shortly after his supposed ‘accident’. The palace staff whisper so carefully of a boy, a child who should not have had to stand against their father, but did so anyway. Who burned for it, some say. Who turned to see their father, but only stood, oddly silent and with no expression. As if he had expected it.
How painful it is to realize that a child that shouldn’t have had to experience the fear of a raised hand, expected it?
But the rumors of the banished prince are just that—rumors. They cannot be trusted. After all, it would be foolish to loudly speak of something that could get you executed for treason.
In the end, the spirit, named by many as the Blue Spirit, is known for finding those that are lost and bringing them home, and of repaying injustice to those that believed they were above everyone else.
When news spreads that this supposed spirit had attacked the Avatar, the last airbender, not many are surprised.
Many believe that it is trying to bring the Avatar home.
A home that is gone. Maybe the Avatar’s home is a teacher, one who has passed on. Maybe the spirit believes that it must bring the Avatar home, that he is lost somehow.
One specific person, with a scar stretching over half their face that is in no way related to this and is almost certainly not the prince of the Fire Nation, will argue quite vehemently that it was because the child had jumpscared them, and after years of fending for themselves, had chucked a fireball at him.
It was self-defense, they argue.
It is the first option that is widely believed.
However, the Avatar strongly believes that it is the second option, and has taken after hunting down this spirit every chance he gets, determined to gain a firebending teacher.
A firebending teacher, that is a spirit.
According to overhearing wanderers, his Water Tribe companions protest against this.
The spirit begins to receive prayers that are not quite actual prayers, but simply people telling them good luck. Those who meet the Avatar very quickly realize that he is not one to give up.
Unfortunately for the bald twelve-year old with tattoos, which gives quite a few adults heart attacks, the mask-wearing maybe-a-spirit figure is violently against the idea of giving up, as it is a key piece of their identity and much of what they do is centered around this idea—never give up without a fight.
Which is how the Blue Spirit finds itself running away from a child, scaling walls and sending bursts of harmless multicolored flames at its pursuer, trying to scare him away.
“Wait! I just want to talk!” The Avatar cries out, flinging themselves forward at rapid speeds with bursts of air.
Absolutely not, the spirit wants to reply, you kidnapped me once and I’m not getting close enough to let you do it again!
But the Blue Spirit doesn’t talk. So unfortunately, they must remain silent in their pain as they try to escape.
The kid keeps up concerningly well, and truthfully, they should be used to this—the thrill of the chase. They had been the one chasing the Avatar at one point, even if nobody remembers it. Because they chose differently, this time.
“I need a firebending teacher to stop the war!” The extremely fast oh-spirits-how-is-he-catching-up Avatar says, “Don’t—Don’t you want to stop the war? You want to stop the war, right? I bet I could convince you to want to stop it if you’d just—stop—running!”
The spirit rolls their eyes, launching themselves over a short barrier. Hopefully, hopefully, they can lose Aang—the Avatar before they reach the ship. As that would bring up many concerns, such as their Uncle asking what they were doing.
…The Blue Spirit does not have a ship, and does not have an Uncle. Neither the Blue Spirit or the person wearing the mask should know what the Avatar’s actual name is, but they ignore this fact.
They simply need to evade the Avatar until the Avatar learns waterbending and earthbending. Attempting to learn firebending before either would be disastrous.
Easier said than done, as the Avatar’s fingertips nearly grab onto the back of their shirt.
They thrust a frantically-made fire blast back, careful not to let it burn anything as the Avatar flings their arms into making an air shield.
The Avatar stops in their tracks, and they see their chance.
The Blue Spirit ducks away as the Avatar is briefly stunned, dashing around a corner and weaving through the crowd of the mid-day busy market.
Even though they’d love to take off the mask, they’d still be recognizable by their oddly dark clothes—and it would be beyond nightmarish if the Avatar or anyone else realized their true identity.
So it kept its head low, and tried to avoid anyone that had a familiar face.
Most people on the streets thankfully ignore them, and the Blue Spirit is able to disappear.
Zuko takes off the mask once he’s sure he’s close enough that they can reach the ship without trouble.
They take extra care to hide it. If the mask was discovered… it wouldn’t just be the end of their stunts as the Blue Spirit, he would be killed for treason.
He cannot afford to take any risks, even with his Uncle.
…Zuko is mostly sure that Uncle would be okay with it. However, he would have to explain why they were committing rather treasonous acts at practically every port they went to—and why that behavior was so misaligned against how he acted normally.
It… it was less of an act, and more of a reality. A fact.
Instead of anger, it was a deadened sadness. Instead of yelling, it was barely a whisper as they slid further and further back into the comforting silence of never being expected to respond—nobody would expect the Blue Spirit to speak, after all.
The mask felt almost painful, at times. It reminded him of everything he had done wrong.
None of those things have happened yet, and they won’t. But those memories are a tether to that reality that only Zuko knows.
Maybe one day he’d repaint it. Make it his own, a reflection of the person they are now, and not the person that… that nobody remembers.
Sometimes it felt so achingly lonely to watch Uncle and know that he doesn’t know Zuko. He doesn’t know how Zuko tried to make tea because of him, his forgiveness, and… it hurts, sometimes.
But as they sneak onto the ship, careful to avoid any of the crew members, he feels the warmth of the sun on his skin, and just maybe, it’ll all be fine.
He knows the crew doesn’t like him. Hates him, probably.
He also knows that they expected anger, yelling, the things that he was known for. When the crew was instead met with near silence except for the occasional word because sometimes it was just too difficult to speak—they had looked so deeply confused Zuko would’ve laughed if he didn’t know that it would cause the pain in his—his scar that wasn’t a scar at that point, but a blistering burn, and—
…He was getting off track.
He was doing that more and more often lately, lost in their own thoughts.
Like being lost in a blizzard.
Zuko snorted. Not a laugh, they were sure that if they laughed it would be some broken thing because he just—he just really wished that he could have a hug.
From someone who knows him, knows who he is and all that he’s done and still forgiven him because as it is, it feels as though he’s an imposter. That they don’t know what he’s done, and they will hate him for it.
That terrifies him more than anything else.
That even though they might’ve forgiven Zuko in his own time, they may hate him in this one.
So he keeps his mouth shut. As he and Uncle drink tea every morning, he is silent except for the rare occasional sound—and he sees Uncle light up every time he shows any kind of interest in anything, and it pains Zuko to know that he’s hurting Uncle with his silence.
But the words are too hard to get out, like thorns, and every time he almost speaks all he can think about is how every time he opened his mouth, he always messed it up.
Stupid Zuko, Azula would say, Can’t even manage one conversation.
He misses the little sister that cautiously and carefully watched Zuko draw on a piece of paper he had found littered on the ground. He misses the little sister that eventually joined in, drawing some kind of monster and then a childish depiction of herself throwing a fireball at it.
He colored the fire in blue later on.
Zuko had always thought that Azula’s fire was beautiful. He had been jealous when he first saw little Azula holding a blue flame in her hands, but it had all melted away as he saw how happy she was.
He used to think that—that Ozai would never hurt her, that she was good enough.
He knows now that they were both hurt, awfully and horribly hurt, just in different ways.
Zuko shook his head, trying to push away the swarm of memories that threatened to overwhelm at every moment. They walked as fast as they could to his room, shutting the door and collapsing onto the bed.
…Today wasn’t a good day, was it?
Good days were already rare, when he was truly present, at least the majority of the time. The particularly bad days were awful, when he could barely get himself to get out of bed, and Uncle would just look at them with those sad eyes that made something inside Zuko curl up and burn.
It’s not your fault, he wants to tell him.
I’ve been like this for a while. I suppose you know that, having to deal with me for the past three years, but it’s not your fault. I’m remembering people that don’t exist anymore and I think I’m trying to grieve but I can’t, he wants to cry.
But Zuko can’t talk, and all Iroh can do is brew another cup of tea and wait.
At least he’s able to help people when he can.
Truly, it’s the least he can do, after all he’s done.