disgrace --
The bandage was sticky, that was his first thought. He wasn't entirely sure why it would be sticky -- blood, maybe? Or pus? He'd never experienced this, a burn left to its own devices, just the ointment placed on it immediately after, and then hidden underneath a bandage for a week, until he was prepared to face it.
He had half a mind to leave the bandage on for another night. But a voice in the back of his head condemned him for it -- would you be a coward, unable to look at your own reflection in the eye?
No.
Gingerly, wincing at the pain but refusing to cry out, he peeled the bandage off the left side of his face, eyes closed. The cool air struck the area, but the nerves hadn't had time to grow back, thus he felt nothing. A dull ache on the edges of the burn, a scratchy dryness in the eye that told him -- thank all the gods that may or may not exist -- that it was still intact. Would he be able to see? The healer hadn't been able to answer him, counting it a grace that he still even had a left eye to be blind in.
Maybe -- they had told him, with as much delicacy as possible -- maybe the scar wouldn't be so bad.
Tentatively, he opened his right eye and looked himself full in the mirror.
The urge to retch was immediate and powerful. He swallowed hard, refusing to break eye contact with his reflection. The skin was puckered, alternating patches of red and yellow and charcoal gray, a trail of livid, putrid blisters spreading back to his ear, which was swollen and blackened around the edges. In the center, his eye was ringed with a patch of black, leathery skin. Ignoring the pain, he touched his eye, noting that there were no eyelashes left -- would they ever grow back? -- nor was there an eyebrow. Gently, he pried open the eyelid.
His left eye was bloodshot, veins threading out in like a bull's-eye from the iris. He closed his right eye, and everything hazed over. He could see, but barely, little more than shadows and splashes of color. He would have to learn to fight with the handicap, and more than that, to fight so that his opponent didn't think he had one -- a tall mountain to climb.
He took a deep breath, and cast his gaze to the knife on the bedside table.
It would be easy, that voice in the back of his head whispered. He imagined a demon, the color of burnt skin, leaning into his ear, it would be honorable. One so disgraced had little chance of gaining back his honor; the search for the Avatar was a well-known snipe hunt, one he wasn't expected -- wasn't supposed -- to return from. It would be the graceful exit. He wouldn't have to re-learn firebending. He wouldn't have to learn to ignore the horror and revulsion at his appearance. He wouldn't have to face his father. He wouldn't have to face Mai.
It would be simple -- a quick jab, straight under the ribcage, puncture the heart. Lots of blood, but little pain. The rest of the soldiers on the ship would be able to return to their homes, their families. The ship itself could be put to use invading some other country. And Uncle --
What would Uncle do?
Uncle would -- he would get over it, eventually, just like he got over Lu Ten, or, well, enough to get by. He would go back to the palace and play Pai Sho and drink a lot of tea and discuss politics or war or weather, and he would be just fine. Just --
No, he thought suddenly, no, if Zuko's life ended on this ship, Uncle would probably follow. Iroh was known for being a strong man, but Zuko was well aware that he was -- quite literally -- all that the old man had left. He had given up everything he had at the palace to crawl around on the oceans with an outcast Prince, chasing a ghost around the world, all for him. All for Zuko.
No, he owed Iroh more than that knife.
He looked at himself in the reflection once again, trying to imagine what he would look like once the burn had healed, but it proved impossible. Suddenly, a knock sounded at the door.
"Nephew?" Iroh walked in, and looked straight at him. Without blinking, he held up the tray in his hands. "I brought tea. And ointment."
Zuko couldn't quite smile.
A/N: Son of a -- What the frick is this? Is this Avatar fanfiction? Hoshit, it is.