AN: This is a 3-5-part thing I guess. I'm still working out a few things, which I hope won't take nearly as long as it's been taking with my other fics. Nonetheless, enjoy (:

The Fire Lord

His thoughts are a little more blank today then he'd like. The general's lips move, a mechanic open and close, though the sound doesn't seem to ever meet his ears. It's one of those days that the elongated map, carefully painted into the platform on the floor, becomes nothing but a game to clear his boredom.

Zuko traces lines across mountains, through oceans and around locations he's been. Some days it's the trade routes he's gone over dozens of times, or trips he's set to make. Today it's just a painful review of his ventures as an adolescent.

Finally hearing the man's soft blare come to a halt, his eyes flick upward, his eyebrow quirking as he tries to recall anything he's said. Nothing is drawn forward, so he gives up, carving out a sigh, "We'll hear your proposal another time. I'll review whatever I have here—consider this meeting suspended until tomorrow." There's a small bit of hesitation before they all bow, and he slowly raises a hand before walking down the few steps from the throne.

The air feels more brisk than he remembers. Even if it is the the beginning of winter, it takes at least another few weeks before the frigid air fully trickles in. Indifferent to the feeling, he inhales, raising heat in chest, and exhaling, spreading to his extremities, and feeling the flames eager to dispel from his fingertips.

He decides on dinner, and the closer he gets to the commons the more the servants bow and utter their formalities, asking what he'd like, or what he would refuse. He only gives nods, occasionally flicking his gaze down the corridor for his fiance.

He hasn't seen Mai since morning. Ink black strands that shone in the morning light, and a tired smile. The only exchange and farewell for the day, a feather kiss dragging from her lips and down her jaw, then back upward. It's a wonder how she looks so baffling when disheveled, cheeks red, half lidded eyes, rosy parted lips. The feel of them linger on his mouth, and mindlessly he smiles.

He'd like to think the next thing was just a memory as well, just a bad one—and he'd give anything to wake up.

It seems to slither in. Masked by adrenaline, drenched in a dragged out daze. The servants are covering their ears, and he hasn't even noticed his sight's gotten hazy, and his own hearing has been reduced to a nauseating hum. His eyes shut tight with each blink, but every time they open he continues to see doubles. The ringing dies down, and he can make out words, the distorted image of lips moving and yelling for him to give his orders. There's a servant on his left, and a guard on his right, forcing him to his feet, though he can't remember when knelt.

"Wh—"

"Sir, it's the entire north wing."

"Hn—" a sharp inhale and his brow furrows trying piece it together, "…what happened?"

"We're assuming it's another attempt on your life, sir."

"Where's, Mai?" His voice is hoarse, and he tries to figure out directions. North, east, south, west, the ringing continues but he manages. "That's…the rear, my chambers."

"Yes."

Without a word or order he stumbles, his fingers occasionally crashing into the pillars as he finds his balance. Gradually, as his sight and hearing come in, he breaks into a run. The presence is still there, coiling and dancing, etching an anxious pain into his psyche. Grey billows upward, and there's a faint glow down the hall.

He seemed to only be allowed a trembled breath, his fingers refusing to go steady as they swiveled, his arms careful yet frantic and they bend and turn, the flames hardly stifle with his movements. It's difficult, and the darkness pools, clouding gold that is growing with it's moistened glint. The flames dispel wherever his boots land, and he can almost tune out the crash and creak of all the rubble.

Rasped, he calls her name. The coughs breathlessly carved through his own paled lips are his only response, before a pillar cracks and falls, and he can see the maroon of her robes.

It's finally seeped in. Despair's made a home in a tattered mind, clouded by failed suppression, and obscured by fear. Her eyes are glazed over, open—afraid. Blood cakes her skin, and her hair sticks to her face, leaving trails of crimson as the breeze blows them away. It drips, along the stone, along the ornate gold pillars in which she's draped, head down, slightly tilted, where he can see.

Once he sees the burns he remembers he's forgotten to breathe. They swirl, charred and bloody, licking at her skin. His inhale is gasped, and instead he's met with the sting of smoke, it tears at the back of his throat and constricts his lungs as his fingers curl around the debris that cages her. Desperately pulling.

He recalls voices, muffled things, and hands pulling at his robes, the black pools and before he knows it he's in bed, hands rested on his abdomen, watching the workers bustle about the infirmary.

Every blink bring him there and back, clean sheets, then blood stained silk, until he sees his bruised fingers, purple deepening and fading around his knuckles, and fanning out into his palms. He wonders what he should have said that morning—

Goodbye, I love you, be back soon.

"I'm sorry, my lord. Your hands.."

"Nevermind that, where's Mai?"

"Your majesty…"

"Answer me."

"Lady Mai, she—"

"It was an order, answer me!"

His eyes have grown blurred, and the tears quickly stain his cheeks.

It's been weeks, her funeral procession was slow, a crimson and gold coffin carried around the main street, where he followed behind the bearers, head hung low. He refuses to remember much after that.

There's a guard, younger than most, his lip quivers though his face is hidden through his helmet. "My lord, we found the leader…the one who planned the coup…"

Before he can finish his briefing he's already turned on his heel, moments later pressing his hands into the wood of the door. The man is bowed, head bent and pushing hard into the back of his hands as he kneels. Zuko holds his glare with eyes he has yet to meet.

For once, the flames before the throne are lit, and his hands clench as he sits.

"As loyal as you are to my father, I almost thought you wouldn't give me the respect of bowing." Teeth bared, his eyes are reduced to slits, "get up, and explain to me what this New Ozai Society is."

The man rises, and the pallid shade of topaz meets his own. Immediately, his expression contorts, hints of confusion and disbelief. The man before him being none other than the father of the woman he's killed.