Chapter Text
A month after Zuko is banished.
Iroh slipped into Zuko’s quarters, careful to keep the whining of the heavy metal door to a minimum. Zuko lay still on his mattress, turned away from him, clearly trying to pretend to be asleep. But the unsteady and turbulent flickering of the candle in his hand on an otherwise quiet night gave his nephew up. His shoulders shook slightly under the covers, and Iroh sighed. His nephew had been crying at night for the last week when he wasn’t waking up screaming from nightmares. Iroh had tried speaking with him, giving him reassurance and gentle care that it would get better. That this wasn’t his fault. That fire wasn’t meant as a weapon, and especially not as a method of punishment from a father to a son. He could see in Zuko's eyes whenever he came around, that he didn't believe him. So Iroh resigned himself to sleeping on a chair outside of his nephew's room, just in case he needed him. Just in case it would be the moment Zuko would let him in and allow him to help.
But Zuko wouldn’t speak, he hadn't since the moment his father loosed his flames on him. He wouldn’t look Iroh in the eye and flinched whenever he came too close. Iroh knew that his nephew was grieving the life he had been forced to leave behind and the person he had once been before his father had stolen that from him. That Zuko was struggling to process everything that happened that led him to this moment. It didn’t make it easier, though. Watching Zuko suffer and being unable to do anything to help kept him awake late into the nights that seemed to blend together the longer they were at sea.
Iroh took a heavy breath and held back from reaching for his Nephew.
“I know there is a war going on inside you, Zuko. I will be here to listen whenever you are ready.” He said, then pulled out a small, leather-bound journal and placed it gently on his bedside table. “Perhaps this will help, until then.”
Zuko laid still, staring at the wall across from him with wide eyes, desperately trying to calm his racing heart. He bit his lip, curling into a ball and trying to hold back tears. This was his Uncle. His Uncle wouldn't hurt him, so his reaction didn't make sense. But he had believed that about his father, too. So really, what did Zuko know about people and their intentions? Though if Uncle was going to hurt him, he would've by now. And Uncle had never been like his father. So, at least for now, he was ok. As ok as he could be.
He didn't move an inch till he'd long stopped hearing his Uncle's footsteps in the hall. He waited even longer, hoping the curiosity would subside and he could go back to sleep. But it burned at him the longer he waited. So, ever so slowly to avoid pulling his bandages, he sat up to look at what Iroh had left him. He had to twist to the side to see it through his good eye and ignored the ache in his gut that accompanied having to do that instead of just being able to look without effort and thought put into it.
There, on the table was a dark, leather-bound journal. It didn't have ornate designs carved into the leather, like most books and journals within the palace walls or reputable circles did, and it didn't have the fire nation insignia on the first page, like any educational or important material would. It wasn't something Uncle had gotten from anywhere notable. It was entirely ordinary. The first entirely ordinary thing Zuko had ever touched. But it had to have a purpose. All things did. He flipped through the pages for some kind of instructions or notes. Something to tell him why Uncle had given it to him, or how it might help. But every single page was blank. It was as mysterious and hard to understand as his Uncle was when he was really in the mood for philosophy. He wasn't sure why his Uncle enjoyed it so much, and in turn why his Uncle had given him this entirely plain, and unhelpful journal.
Zuko huffed, then threw the journal across the room, relishing a little in the thud it made when it hit the wall.
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Zuko woke the next morning to a tray with a bowl of rice porridge on the side table. And the journal was placed next to it, perfectly, and intentionally lined up with the tray. He rolled his eyes and turned away from them, slowly feeling the heat from his breakfast dissipate, till he could no longer feel it, or smell it, left only with the light coming in through the thin window in the corner of the room.
The physician came in a couple of hours later, and Zuko held his breath, hoping that if she thought Zuko was asleep she would go away. Not that she ever really did, but he could try.
“Good morning, Prince Zuko.” She said, placing her supplies on a tray beside her. She gestured for him to sit up, and, begrudgingly, he pushed himself up, staring pointedly at the wall behind her. His back ached with the pressure to sit up so straight and tall, and he tried not to grimace when she peeled off his bandage.
“I see you haven’t finished your breakfast again, sire.” She clucked her tongue, then began smearing the green pain-relieving salve across his face. She had a hand as gentle as a flying boar, but the salve acted quickly and it turned from a sharp sting to a dull ache within seconds. “Even banished Princes must eat.” She said, promptly gathering her supplies and left his room with a final shake of her head.
And he was alone with himself again.
He quickly realized that while he was alone, he was getting absolutely no peace. He tried to sleep, to read, hell, even to daydream about a life that wasn't his anymore, but he couldn't ignore it. The journal bore holes in him the whole day. It seemed to take up all the space within his room, and none at all. It occupied a corner of his brain that was always aware of it. He began to understand the purpose of that journal, and he resented it. Writing on pages about his own mistakes would do nothing to fix them. The only thing they would do was give a physical weakness to any enemies that found it.
The days passed the same as each one before, but he felt quietly watched by that journal day-in and day-out. Uncle would come in during the evenings to talk to him, though it was more accurate to say that he talked at him, and his eyes grazed the journal each time, briefly scanning him as well. Zuko felt quietly watched by his uncle, too.
It was on the fifth day, under a bright, full moon, that Zuko finally decided he’d had enough.
He dragged himself out of bed, pulled out his brush and ink, and began to write.