Chapter 2

Zuko stared out at the ocean. The sharp tang of salt and fish filled his nose, almost suffocating him with the strong smell. Even after nearly three weeks of sailing, he still wasn't used to the funny little tingling sensation the smell caused in his nostrils. As if it knew what he was thinking about, he sniffed and took a deep breath, keeping the air trapped in his mouth as he contained the undignified urge to sneeze.

Because the universe hated him, his uncle took this moment to emerge from under the deck and come over to Zuko. Unfortunately, the urge to sneeze was still strong, so his uncle very predictably walked over and smiled, delighted. "Nephew! Look at your puffy cheeks, are you trying to imitate one of those animals we saw on the island?"

Zuko shook his head harshly and glared back at his uncle.

Uncle Iroh's hand fell on his back, patting it multiple times in quick succession before Zuko managed to tear himself away. "Now, now, don't be like that!"

Losing the battle, Zuko abruptly sneezed. Iroh looked startled for a moment before he burst out laughing. Zuko scowled and used his sleeve to rub at his nose, getting snot all over it. Disgusted, he clicked his tongue and turned away from his uncle. It had been a week since they left the last island and they were scheduled to make another pitstop to pick up more supplies soon. In the distance, Zuko could vaguely make out a formless mass over the horizon. His stomach squirmed unpleasantly at the idea of stopping there.

They were still technically in Fire Nation waters. It would take another few days to enter the colony waters. Though he wasn't really allowed there either, the punishment for getting caught was lighter there. And as the famed Dragon of the West, his uncle had plenty of contacts in the colonies.

"We can make it without getting more supplies," Zuko stated harshly.

His uncle scratched his neck and answered, "We could. But it would take a toll."

Zuko scowled. He shook his head and stalked off back to his room, settling himself down in front of the desk. The candles stood unlit and slowly, Zuko lit them one after one. Then he closed his eyes, sitting in the lotus position, and started breathing.

He could feel it when the candles started following his breaths.

Keeping his breathing steady, Zuko did his best to throw out all of his thoughts, calm his mind and just relax. But no matter how many times he breathed, or how many times he managed to force his thoughts into the kind of quiet numbness that Iroh insisted was meditation, he couldn't stop his mind from thinking. His thought went to his sister, to the palace maids and guards, to his mother, and lastly, to his father. It made his stomach churn unpleasantly, thoughts of what his father was doing right now.

The sun was starting to set; Zuko could feel it in his bones. His body got heavier as he could no longer rely on the sun for support, and he gave up on his mediation. Clearly, it was doing no-one any good. Opening his eyes, he saw the flames settle into the listless fluttering that came from a lack of control. He slowly moved his legs out of the straining position and pushed his way to his feet. A quick stumble as his legs got readjusted to having blood flowing through them, and he reluctantly admitted that he was hungry and he should go get something to eat.

Otherwise, his uncle would come bearing a tray full of food in the middle of the night, waking Zuko up and refusing to leave until Zuko had eaten every last bit of the meal. And that was annoying, so Zuko would simply make sure that his uncle had no chance to do that. By going to the mess hall and getting his meal himself.

Before he left his room, he took a moment to adjust his tail and make sure that it was sitting right. With most of his hair cut off, it was annoyingly thin and sometimes slipped out, just because his hair was so silky that there wasn't enough bulk to carry its weight. Uncle insisted that it was absolutely not the fault of the hair products he forced Zuko to use every time that he washed his hair, but Zuko was not so foolish as to believe him.

It was definitely his uncle's fault.

Nodding to himself, Zuko locked the door to his cabin behind him as he left the room, the candles put out because he wasn't an idiot and also he was sick of his uncle's lectures. So what if he left the candles burning while he went to the toilet? There were plenty of firebenders onboard who could deal with any potential fires, weren't there? And maybe it was the middle of the night and they were all asleep, but they're soldiers, getting up in the middle of the night to deal with a life-threatening event should be well within their training, right? So then what was the problem?

His uncle didn't agree.

Zuko sighed.

When he reached the kitchen, he stood uneasily by the door for a bit. He could hear the chef talking to himself, mumbling words under his breath. Zuko was a prince, he wasn't going to react to the words bordering on treason, because he was exiled — banished (was there even a difference?) — and he knew the importance of keeping quiet.

But his stomach was cramping and he had to announce his presence before it started growling with hunger, revealing his position and giving the cook the impression that Zuko had been eavesdropping. Zuko wasn't eavesdropping; this was hisship, he could go wherever he wanted! But he was aware that that wasn't how everyone saw it, and the illusion of privacy was important for the mental well-being of ones subordinates.

So Zuko scuffed his foot against the metal floor and the loud sound echoed in the limited space. The cook swore and Zuko counted to three before he barged into the kitchen, his feet heavy on the floor and with his back straight.

"I've come for dinner, cook!" he announced in a strong voice, commanding the chef to make dinner for him through his mere presence. The cook, a short, bald man with a long white beard that reminded Zuko of his uncle, swerved around on his heel to face Zuko. He's eyes shot between Zuko and the door, obviously wondering if Zuko had heard his idle comments, before he tried to smile. Try, being the keyword. Zuko had lived with Azula for years; he didn't trust that smile for a second.

"Dinner's not for an hour, Prince Zuko," the cook said.

Zuko's eyebrow twitched. "I am the Prince," he said, "if I want to eat my dinner now, I can."

"Ehm, well, you see, the esteemed Dragon of the West, that is, your honorable uncle, has, uhm, declaredthatyou'lleatwiththecrewinthemesshall," the cook said the last few words so quickly that it took Zuko a minute to parse through them and decode what he was saying. When he did, his whole body twitched and he scowled fiercely, a feeling of betrayal curling in his belly.

"Did he?" Zuko spat out. Smoke drifted around his hands.

The cook nodded and took a weary step back, his eyes stuck on Zuko's smoldering hands. "That's right. It was, uhm, his decision."

Zuko clenched his hands together and smothered the smoke. He took a controlling breath—it felt like that was all he ever did—and took a step toward the cook. Frowning, he said, "Well, I'm telling you to make my dinner now. I'll eat it in my room."

The cook held his breath, his face quickly turning red. Then he shook his head harshly with his eyes clenched shut and squeezed out, "No, sir. Prince Iroh, ehm, outranks you."

Zuko glared at him. He took another step toward him and held up his hands. "Are you saying you won't feed me?" he demanded. His hands trembled as he held them up in front of himself, in between them, and he viciously ignored it.

Zuko was weak. He was weak and stupid and impulsive and that was what had gotten him stuck on this ship in the first place. With a crew that was made up of the least valuable, of the most disposable, of the most useless and troublesome people. Because of this, his uncle had been dragged into banishment with him, because Zuko had to stand up for those soldiers. Because he hadn't been able to just do as he should; shut up and obey the Fire Lord.

Bile threatened to creep up his throat and he dragged in a ragged breath. Flames formed around his palms and he grimaced, "You will do as I say. I am the Captain of this ship."

The cook stumbled back, almost tripping over his own feet. "Pri-Prince Zuko," he said and held up his hands by his head. It didn't look like he was going to change his mind. Zuko moved his weight to the heels of his feet and prepared to—

"Prince Zuko!" Iroh yelled.

Zuko's flames spluttered out. He turned around and saw his uncle standing in the doorway, a devastated look on his face. "What are you doing, nephew?" Iroh asked, his hand on the doorframe like he needed its support.

Zuko took an automatic step back. He shook his head, "He said he won't give me food," he defended himself.

Iroh let go of the doorframe and stepped into the kitchen, his feet heavy on the floor. It felt like Zuko could hear the steps all the way to his bones. He angled his head down and stared stubbornly at the ground, keeping himself still and ready to make a move. He would defend himself. He would. If his uncle tried to hurt him, Zuko wouldn't react like during the—he wouldn't just stay still and wait for it. Better to stand his ground.

"Prince Zuko," Iroh's hands landed on Zuko's shoulders and squeezed them tightly. Zuko flinched. He waited, breathlessly, for his uncle to— "Nephew. I am not going to hurt you. I simply want to know why you felt it necessary to resort to force."

"He said he won't give me dinner," Zuko said again.

His uncle sighed. "I am sure that he said he will feed you with the rest of the crew, in the mess hall. Right?"

After a moment of silence, Zuko gave a single sharp nod. He... did hear that. But what prince would eat with the crew? What prince would eat in the mess hall with the peasants? Peasants who were honored to be on the same ship as Zuko, honored to be in the crew of a prince. It was a life-time opportunity for them, a chance to serve their nation with diligence and a sense of duty. They were on the hunt for the Avatar.

"Then why did you want to attack him?" Iroh asked, his voice soft and so full of disappointment Zuko felt nauseous.

Zuko steeled his nerves and said, "A prince can't eat together with the crew." He peeked up through his eyelashes and saw Iroh frown, like he didn't understand. Zuko said, "Azula would never do that."

He was being hugged. Zuko's eyes widened and he held his breath out of reflex. When nothing hurt, he furrowed his brows and looked over Iroh's shoulder. The cook was trying to sneak out the door, and had seemingly been just as startled as Zuko, staring at them fixedly. Zuko glared at him the best he could with his whole body locked in his uncle's warm embrace. The cook started and backed away again, successfully leaving the kitchen this time.

"It's alright, Zuko," his uncle whispered into Zuko's shoulder. "I am not mad."

Zuko sighed exaggeratedly and muttered, "I didn't think you were."

His uncle let out a bark of laughter. His arms tightened briefly around Zuko's body before he eased up and stepped back. His hands shifted back to Zuko's shoulders and he stared Zuko right in the eyes. "There is nothing wrong with a prince eating in the mess hall together with their crew. In fact, I can argue it's good. It fosters a sense of camaraderie and gives the crew a chance to see that you're human too. It'll make them like you more, Zuko," Iroh said the last with a teasing grin.

Zuko frowned. He pushed his uncle's hands off of him and stepped back. Scowling, he looked at the wall beside his uncle and said, "I don't need them to like me."

"Don't you think it would make things easier, if they did?" uncle asked. "For example, if Umu likes you, he might agree to let you eat in your room."

"Who's Umu?"

"The cook."

"Whatever," Zuko said. He shrugged his shoulders. "Fine," he spat out. "I'll eat there. But only once."

"Thank you, nephew. I'll let the others now to expect you," Iroh beamed at him and immediately left, humming as he went. Zuko looked after him until his uncle's back disappeared into the darkness. Then he sighed and lifted his hands, pressing them over his eyes. He closed his eyes and winced.

(He was so stupid.)

(Why didn't he have any self-control? Why did he keep disappointing his uncle?)

Fine then. Zuko would go the mess hall in an hour and eat his dinner with the crew. Then uncle would see why it was obviously a bad idea and he could give up on this ludicrous plan of his. He would get definitive proof that Zuko didn't fit with these people and stop badgering him to socialize with them, like that was something royalty just did. Just because uncle liked music nights and playing games with them and asking about their families, didn't mean that Zuko had a place here. His place was at the Fire Nation capital, where his sister was, where his father was. not on some rusted ship sailing out of Fire Nation waters.

His fist fell on the workbench. It made a loud bang and flinched from the sudden noise, even though he had been the one to cause it. Scowling harshly, he pulled on his high ponytail and left the kitchen. Stalking through the hallways, his feet hit the floor with heavy thuds. He threw open the door to his room and banged it shut behind himself, locking it smoothly. This way, he would be alone until this dinner he had let his uncle talk him into.

Throwing himself on the bed, Zuko groaned into the disordered covers. The sheets weren't even soft, they were rough and scratchy, the mass-produced stuff that got sent to the ships with no important people. Zuko had thought that at least his uncle would have the soft silky ones, but when he snuck into his uncle's room and felt the sheets, they were as rough as Zuko's own. Groaning louder, he rolled around on the bed and flopped his limbs out as far as they could go, spreading out like starfish. He stared up at the ceiling and the candles along the wall lit up all at once.

With a breath, he took control of the flames. Then he let it go. The flames quickly settled down into small, flickering lights that didn't light up much by his bed. His eye stared up at the ceiling again, and he pressed his left hand over the gauze around his head and over his eye. Pressing down harshly, he was rewarded with a stinging sensation, and he cursed. Quickly, he removed his hand and instead pressed it against his stomach.

Closing his eyes, he attempted to rest.

If he fell asleep and accidentally missed the dinner, it would be a blessing in disguise. Uncle probably wouldn't even blame him for it. He might force Zuko to go to another dinner another evening, but Zuko would leave that problem to an older, more experienced version of himself.

Future Zuko could deal with it.

Regulating his breathing, Zuko kept his eyes closed and his hands crossed over his stomach as he drifted off to sleep.

Damn you, Past Zuko.

Bolting up on his bed, Zuko stared with wild eyes at the door. His uncle's voice came from the other side, "Nephew, it's time for dinner! I thought I'd remind you, so you're not late."

Cursing to himself, Zuko rolled out of the bed and landed on his feet by its side. He stalked across the room and pulled the door open, scowling up at his uncle. Iroh beamed back at him, not the least bit discouraged by Zuko's attitude. Zuko scuffed his foot abasing the doorframe and shrugged his shoulders. There was really no getting out of this, was there? His uncle was too prepared, too well-used to Zuko's habits. "Let's go, then," Zuko growled out.

Iroh stepped back so that Zuko could exit his room and together, they walked through the ship to the mess hall. The dark hallways and the echoes of their steps together with the flickering light of the lamps combined to form an atmosphere that reminded Zuko of the spirit tales his mother would tell him.

He bit down on his lip and determinedly stopped thinking about it.

It was of no consequence.

When they reached the mess hall, Iroh moved so that he stood behind Zuko, preventing Zuko from running away. Scowling all the while, Zuko stepped in through the doorway and ignored all the looks that he immediately received from the crew members in attendance. For a tense moment, they stopped whatever they were doing, talking, eating, or just sitting in the corner. Because he was a prince and he was above this—this—this weakness that made him freeze when they all looked at him, like they could see the scar under his bandages, even though none of them had ever so much as caught a glimpse of it before, Zuko walked over to a table in the corner and sat down.

"Well," he said when nothing happened. "Where's the food?"

"Ehm, Prince Zuko, sir, you get the food, uhm, yourself," the cook meekly said, his voice getting lower with every word. Feeling warmth flood his cheeks, Zuko swiftly stood and headed over to a table that had been on his blind-side when he first entered; there were pots of food on it and plates sitting in a pile at the corner.

Carelessly grabbing a plate, he lugged it over to the closest pot and started heaving food on the plate without putting much thought into what he was getting himself into. There wouldn't be poison or anything in there, right? No, there wouldn't be. No matter how dissatisfied they were to serve aboard the ship of a banished prince that couldn't return to his country until he found the Avatar, and as such neither could they, they wouldn't poison him. Even banished, killing him would still beget punishment.

Wouldn't it?

Walking back to the table, he sat down his plate on it with more force than was necessary. Sitting down, he scowled out at the rest of the people in the mess hall. His uncle was hauntingly in the middle of getting food and sauntered happily over to Zuko's table, sitting down across from him with a wave to the crew. They startled and finally turned away from just staring at Zuko.

Biting down on his food, Zuko ignored them. He pretended like he couldn't hear his uncle singing the cook's praises, and acted like he had no idea of the crew gossiping about him. Determinedly, he shut out all of the comments and speculations being made about his scar and why he was banished—why he was stuck here and unable to go home.

When he was finally done, he pushed the plate away from himself and stood from his seat. For a second, he breathed out a gust of smoke as he stared at his uncle, who was still happily eating, then he shook his head and turned. He stalked toward the door and it was only his good manners—that had been taught to him by his mother, and he couldn't disappoint her—that made him stop in front of the cook. The cook was sittin at a table in the in middle of the mess hall, together with two other guys were staring increasingly blatantly at Zuko as he got closer. Zuko shot them a glare, then ignored them and faced the cook. "Thank you for the meal," he growled out, his hands itching for his swords.

The swords were stolen, but they were still his. If there was anything he'd learned from Azula and her games, it was that stealing wasn't stealing as long as you were the first person to announce it was yours.

The cook started and leaned back from him. He gulped and looked to his two crew-mates for help. When no such help came, he turned his body toward Zuko and bowed formally. "Thank you for your, uhm, kind words, Prince Zuko, ehm, sir."

Zuko's eyes twitched, but he let it pass.

"I'll eat in my room from now on," Zuko stated. He glared down at the sitting cook and waited for the old man to say something. The man's eyes went to the floor and he wrung his hands in front of himself, obviously not sure what to say. Zuko scowled and took a threatening step forward, the idea of being forced to eat here—with everyone staring at him the whole time—every day making his skin crawl.

"Uhm, but, ehm," the cook took a deep breath and the crew mate sitting next to him patted him gently on the shoulder. The old cook finally squeezed out, "Orders are orders!"

Zuko glared harshly at him, smoke curling around his clenched hands, his shoulders tense and drawn up, his heart beating a mile minute, his breath trembling in his lungs as he was filled with the urge to—he couldn't eat here. He couldn't. They were all staring at him. Maybe they didn't know everything, but they knew enough. They knew that he was banished, forbidden from returning home. They knew that his only hope was to find the Avatar, a person that hadn't been so much as seen in one-hundred years. They knew that they ship was the worst one in the navy. They knew that the crew was made up of the worst of worst, that being here was a punishment because they weren't useful or loyal enough.

Hearing his uncle's footsteps approaching, Zuko took a step back but continued, stubbornly, to stare at the disobedient cook. His uncle stepped up next to him and his mere presence diffused the situation, the tension seeping out of Zuko's shoulders. He took another step back.

"I'm sure we can come to an agreement," Iroh said genially. "How about this, why don't Zuko eat here with the rest of the crew two evenings of the week, and the rest of the time, he can eat in his room?"

"Uncle—"

"Nephew, it is a compromise. Any good leader needs to know how and when to compromise."

Zuko scoffed and turned his head away, grimacing at the rest of the crew that was once again back to staring at him. Didn't they have anything else to do? Weren't they here to eat?

The cook said, "That, that's fine, uhm, sir."

"See, nephew?" Uncle's arm bumped against Zuko's and Zuko twitched, turning his back and staring at the old man that his uncle had somehow become. "This is fine, right?"

Zuko turned his head away. He gave one short nod and then he started walking, leaving the kitchen as quickly as he could. He ignored his uncle's calls behind him and returned to his room, locking the door behind himself. Sliding down to the floor, he rested his head on his hands.