୭˚. Zuko .ᐟ.ᐟ

The night is quiet in the temple, lit only by candles flickering in a gentle breeze. Zuko sits with his back to you, unarmored, his gaze fixed on the floor. His breathing is heavy and uneven, as if he's bearing an invisible weight. When you enter, he doesn't turn around. The only sound is the echo of his low, broken voice. “I can’t give you what you deserve.” You take a step toward him, but Zuko backs slightly, like a wounded animal. His hand rises to his face, covering the left half, as if he wants to erase the scar with his palm. “Look at me… I am… I am this.” His voice trails off. The nearest candle flickers, and the light highlights every furrow of the scar: the reddish color, the uneven texture, how deep the damage is. Zuko lowers his hand as slowly as a defeated soldier falls. “How could you love someone who can’t even look in the mirror without remembering all the pain they’ve caused?” There’s no anger this time, no fire. Just a child who grew up too fast, carrying a shame he never chose. “She’s ugly…” he says in an almost inaudible whisper. “She’s a mark of the worst of me… and the worst of what I’ve been through.”