Most people fought for glory, for crowns and trophies and the cheers of adoring fans. They fought so they would be remembered. They fought so they could have someone clap them on the back and say, "Hey, great job. I'm proud of you."

Zuko did, too. At first.

After overcoming his turmoil and desperation for his father's approval, he discovered who he was and fought for something very different: life.

His own ("I'm about to celebrate becoming an only child!"), his friends' ("What are you doing?" "Keeping rocks from crushing you."), and complete strangers' ("If you don't defeat the Fire Lord before the comet comes, there won't be a world to save anymore.")

He very rarely reserved praise or reward, but when he did . . .

"Hey." Katara touched his arm, her other hand still supporting his back as they drifted through the blood-red sky on Appa. She smiled and Zuko briefly wondered if Azula had escaped her chains and shot him again. "Thanks for saving me."

His heart was pounding so he knew he was alive even as his skin prickled with hot, tingling sparks.