You thought you knew what it was to fear.
Six years old, running, running from a sister whose sparking fingertips had shifted the world into those who have and those who have not. You thought that learning to run at the crackle of popping embers and jumping at the sight of one meant to be your truest ally was fear.
Eleven years old, a mother's desperate touch, words whispered in the night, then gone, gone, gone. You learned then that fear must be absence, the cold brought by the reality of being left with no one to stand between you and the flames.
Thirteen years old, finally standing, finally being heard, finally showing you were worthy to lead, worthy to be called son. You learned then that fear was fire. Pleading, crying, on your knees, fear was a father demanding respect and the knowledge that nothing short of impossibility could take that fear away.
Sixteen years old, hope spluttered into your heart and dared to take fear's hard worn place. You chased, you schemed, you fought, and impossible became possible. Perhaps this was how fear died.
But you did not know fear.
Sixteen years old, a twelve year old child running through the trees away from a stronghold you'd risked everything to save him from. Anger, you expected. Frustration, disappointment, the chorus of failure, failure, failure that never quite ended. But what you did not expect was the earth to move beneath your fist as you smacked the ground in frustration, the shifting of rock as if it were no more than water beneath your fingers.
But the water too betrayed you, as you ran back to the ship, back toward normalcy and the everyday sort of fear you thought you knew. Perhaps it was the anger, the frustration, the disappointment, but as you tried to loose the rowboat you'd so carefully hidden, the waves rather than the ropes responded to your touch.
It wasn't until you were alone in your room that you finally began to understand that you had never known anything at all about fear. Perhaps it was the delusion brought about by lack of sleep, irritation, or a hundred other things, but in that fateful moment you looked at the space between your fingertips and tried the impossible.
A faulty hatch was easy to blame for the gust of wind that roared through your room, ripping open doors and scattering your careful collection of scrolls across the room. But it could not be blamed for what grew inside your heart as you began to wonder.
Sixteen years old, sitting shell shocked between the remains of your honor, your purpose, your sense of self. Somehow, you had gotten it wrong, everyone had gotten it wrong, and now here you were, with the earth sliding at your feet, the water pulling at your arms, the air dancing between your fingertips, and the fire dying inside your heart.
Fear was not sisters or fathers, not failure or duty, not even a burned face and its shattered honor.
Sixteen years old, and now Zuko knew that fear was hope. And hope might be the one thing that finally shattered him.
Oh hey ya'll- just a lil Zuko is the Avatar story I've been working on that I of course had to draw! Let me know what you think? Should I write it all out (an outline does exist 🙃)?
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