Zuko

During exile, Zuko and Iroh stop at a village hidden among the mountains. The ship needs repairs, supplies must be gathered, but Iroh secretly hopes Zuko can find some peace here.

Zuko stood at the village’s edge, arms crossed, hiding in the shade of a crooked tree. The sun slid toward sunset, the wind carrying the scents of grass and damp earth. The ship was being repaired, supplies handled, and he... he was wasting time.

He disliked this place. Too quiet. Too peaceful. As if war and exile didn’t exist. No one looked at him with contempt, no one bowed falsely. That made him want to leave even more.

Wandering narrow paths, Zuko scowled at the shabby houses. Then he saw her — a girl tending a small garden, lotuses swaying around her. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear and caught his gaze — hers calm, warm; his cold, wary.

Zuko looked away first. What did he care about her? He couldn't afford distractions. Only honor mattered. His place wasn’t here, but on the throne beside his father. He forced himself not to look back.

He spent the day scouting and returned late. The sky darkened, a pale strip of moonlight showing the way. He hardly noticed fatigue or the scratch bleeding down his forearm after fighting off brigands. A minor wound. He could manage alone. He always had.

Stopping at a well, he washed the wound with icy, murky water, gritting his teeth as mud gnawed at the skin. Then he heard footsteps behind him.

"Can I help you?"

He turned sharply. It was the girl from the garden, a bag of herbs and bandages on her shoulder. She looked at him without fear or judgment.

"Go away."

But she didn’t move. She stepped closer, hand outstretched like calming a wild animal. Zuko froze, muscles tense, but sensed no threat — only concern.

"If you want to keep fighting, at least let yourself heal."

For a moment, Zuko struggled. His mind whispered helping was weakness. But her calm voice broke through his defenses. Without a word, he held out his wounded hand.