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Ever since they’d returned from the Boiling Rock, Zuko hadn’t been able to make himself stop shaking.
At first, he told himself it was just aftershocks from the cooler. Zuko knew from experience that prolonged shivering wasn’t uncommon in firebenders who had been exposed to extreme cold for an extended period of time. After his dive through the arctic waters of the North Pole, Zuko hadn’t stopped shaking until two days into their journey on the raft, which he had spent laying on his back, face steadily turned towards the sun’s blazing light.
Therefore, it was only logical to assume that this was a similar situation. The cooler had been freezing even with his breath of fire, and he had been decidedly less prepared for the cold than he had been in his koala-sheep parka during the northern siege.
However, the theory didn’t hold up, because when he got up after several hours of sunlight meditation his legs felt just as unsteady beneath him as they did before, and during his training sessions with Aang, his firebending came out just as strong as it had ever since they’d visited the masters.
At this point, some far-back alarm bells in his brain had started to ring, but Zuko was nothing if not stubborn. Scowling down at the shaking hands holding his teacup, he convinced himself that it must be fatigue. Neither food nor sleep had been his top priorities during their prison break, and now that his veins were no longer brimming with adrenaline, it would make sense for his body to react to that.
But by now, he had enjoyed two (relatively) good night’s rests and five hot meals courtesy of a very disgruntled Katara, and his hands were still trembling. Zuko wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed or worried.
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t matter. He was fine. The movement was barely noticeable anyways, Zuko doubted the others could even see it. Truthfully, he himself couldn’t either, at least not really. It just made him feel unsteady whenever he was walking without a hand against the wall, or made him worry his fingers would suddenly give way and drop Katara’s pot. Sometimes, it made his head swim uncomfortably when he stood up.
It was fine though. He hadn’t stumbled, hadn’t dropped anything, and the Avatar’s training wasn’t affected. It didn’t matter.
I was just that he would feel slightly better if he could get all his defenses up, and wasn’t constantly occupied with trying to make his limbs stop shaking.
Over the past few weeks, he had gotten used to the members of the Avatar’s group. He knew their patterns and habits and he could recognize their steps when they came up to him from his left. By now, he understood their values and principles, and could estimate how they would react in a certain situation. Though Katara still very much hated him, and even if his shoulders still stiffened when he caught her glaring his way, he knew what to expect from her.
She had made it pretty clear, after all.
But Chit Sang, Suki and Chief Hakoda were new, and he didn’t know how to act around them. He didn’t know their intentions, and that irritated him. It made his skin crawl and his face slip into a familiar scowl, shoulders constantly raised on high alert. The resulting ache in his back only made him scowl harder.
When he noticed Chit Sang in his periphery, his jaw clenched. When Suki came to watch him train with the Avatar, his heart rate ticked up. When he heard Hakoda’s booming laugh echo through the temple, he felt his breath get stuck in his throat.
Suffice to say, Zuko was frustrated to no end. He was a firebender, for Agni’s sake, he was supposed to have perfect control over his body. If any of his childhood tutors could see him now, they would laugh in his face and declare him a failure. And they wouldn’t even be wrong.
Zuko tried everything, all the methods his uncle had taught him, but even in deep meditation, soaking up Agni’s rays like a happy catador and focusing on nothing but the flickering flame rising and falling in his chest, he just would not. Stop. Shaking.
It didn’t matter though. He was fine.
Right now, on the evening on their third day back at the Western Air Temple, they were having dinner around the campfire like they did every evening. Chit Sang had already left to make sure Haru, Teo and the Duke wouldn’t fall off the cliffside, and it made the ever-present tightness in Zuko’s chest loosen just the tiniest bit.
The others, including Suki and Hakoda, were in the middle of a heated discussion about… something. To be honest, Zuko wasn’t really paying attention. For the past three minutes, he had been debating whether he should interrupt their conversation to ask Katara for another bowl of stew, which would undoubtedly attract a multitude of death glares and way more attention than he felt like having on himself right now.
But he was hungry, and he knew he still had to compensate for all the meals he had skipped (or not been given) in prison. In the end, his stomach made the decision for him.
The growl was loud enough to be heard over the consistent chatter of the other’s. Six heads turned to stare at him, and Zuko could feel his face flush in embarrassment. Great. Toph, sprawled on her self-made rock-chair to his right, barked a laugh.
“Sounds like someone is still hungry.”
Zuko grimaced, his blush spreading over his ears. But Katara was already glaring at him now, so he might as well get it over with.
“Um. Could I get another bowl of stew? Please?”
Katara opened her mouth, probably ready to snap at him or give him a lecture about rationing their food, but to his surprise, she didn’t. It might have been the way her dad had pointedly looked between her and the cauldron, or maybe just the fact that there was more than enough stew left.
Katara scowled, but when Zuko got up to hand her his bowl, she grudgingly took it and filled it with two big scoops. It was more than he would have expected, but then again, it wasn’t that surprising. He knew that, as much as Katara hated him, she was still a good person.
Zuko smiled in gratitude, reaching out to take his bowl back, but Katara didn't move. She was still scowling down at the bowl, clasping it in her hands and working her jaw. He didn’t think much of it when she finally handed it to him, right until he touched the clay and found it smooth and icy cold beneath his hands.
Of course, he thought. As much as Katara was a good person, she was also annoyingly petty. He wasn’t about to mention it though - he didn’t have that much of a death wish.
Zuko kept his face carefully polite as a shiver ran down his spine. Behind his ribs, his heart was thumping for no discernable reason.
(Cold and smooth beneath his hands.)
“Thank you, Katara.”
The words came out quieter than he would have liked, losing their momentum in the sudden dryness of his mouth, but they were at least loud enough for Katara to hear. She turned away with an annoyed roll of her eyes, focusing back on her brother. Zuko would just take that as a “you’re welcome”.
Shrugging to himself, Zuko moved back to his spot next to Toph and knelt, once more facing the fire. They would have to add more wood soon. It was slowly getting smaller and smaller, no longer strong enough to fight off the cool evening air. Zuko could feel the cold of the smooth tile floor against his knees, noticeable even through his pants.
((The ground at the Western Air Temple was littered with dust and cracks, running through the stone after years and years of steady erosion.))
He arranged the bowl in his lap, inconspicuously wiping a hand on his tunic. It was shaking, cold with sweat. Zuko scowled, trying his best to keep it steady as he wrapped it back around his bowl. If he spilled his stew, he was sure he would never hear the end of it, and he certainly wouldn't get a refill.
As far as he could tell, none of the others were looking at him. Although he was never quite sure where Toph’s attention was. Going by her confused frown, she was probably listening to Sokka’s ramblings about - triangles? Zuko honestly didn’t know. But her eyes were closed, so she might as well be sleeping.
More or less certain that no one was paying him any attention, Zuko brought his bowl up just slightly, breathing a focused jet of steam right into the stew. Uncle Iroh had used this particular technique more times than he could count to heat his tea (on one memorable occasion almost getting them killed by doing so), and Zuko considered himself to be quite good at it.
The bowl remained cold.
(Cold, and smooth. Cold, like the dread rapidly pooling in his stomach.)
Huh. Zuko frowned, blinking at the bowl. He usually had this trick down. It wasn’t even that hard, just breathing out a bit of hot steam. The Breath of Fire was way more complicated, and he hadn’t had any problems with that, either, at least not since he and Aang had visited the masters.
Maybe he had just breathed wrong? Now that he thought about it, he was breathing a bit shallower than usual. All in all he felt kind of unsteady, actually, but he supposed he ought to be used to that by now.
With a glance to check that the others still weren’t looking (architecture, Sokka was talking about architecture), he repeated the move.
Still nothing. He could swear that when he squinted, he could see steam curling above the broth, but in his hands, the bowl remained cold.
(So, so cold.)
Zuko’s frown deepened, and he shook out his arm in annoyance. It made his spoon clink against the rim of the bowl, which somehow only served to irritate him further. A cold pressure had settled against his biceps, curling around his arm like it belonged there, though Zuko could have sworn it hadn’t been there just a moment ago. In the points where it pressed against his skin, Zuko could feel his heart racing.
He blinked up at the campfire, confused. Shaking his shoulder made the fabric of his tunic rustle, but the pressure remained steady. What was that?
Toph had turned her head towards him, her cloudy eyes now open and still pulled into a frown. The others had gone quiet. Their eyes were on him, making his skin tingle and crawl like a thousand bugs were trying to scratch their way out from underneath.
(Everyone was staring. Hundreds and hundreds of eyes, looking, judging, saying nothing.)
Zuko noticed, of course he did, but his mind was otherwise occupied. He moved his hand to check his upper arm, and felt… nothing? Just the fabric of his tunic. What the fuck? The cold pressure was still there, circling his arm, and his hand was warm around it. Warm, like a firebender’s hand ought to be.
(Cold against his hands and knees. He was kneeling.)
Putting his bowl down, he moved his hand to check his other arm. The pressure there was identical, like a thin band of cool metal circling his biceps. It felt almost like-
Zuko’s thoughts came to a screeching halt, freezing along with his body and blood. Oh, he thought. I see what’s happening here.
(Golden ceremonial bands digging into his arms as he knelt on the smooth tile floor.)
All at once, the sensations came together to paint one single, terrifying picture.
The smooth, cold tiles pressing into his hands and knees. ((The floor at the Air Temple wasn’t smooth.))
The cool pressure around his biceps. (The ceremonial bands, slightly too big on his too skinny arms.)
The sensation of eyes burning into his skin. (Everyone had come. Everyone had come to watch him fail.)
His pounding heart, his too-fast breathing, the searing white panic beginning to blur his vision.
(“Please, father.”)
((How had he not noticed sooner?))
“Sparky? You okay?”
“Spirits, is he crying?!”
“What happened?!”
The shouts registered in some far back part of his brain, but at the moment, the words held no meaning. The only thing that mattered was that Zuko had to do something, damn it, stop it stop it make it STOP-
He needed to get up. He needed to get up, because kneeling was then, but he wasn’t kneeling now ((he was)), he needed to stop kneeling. He needed to get his feet on the floor, ground himself both literally and metaphorically, just like uncle had told him time and time again during those first weeks at sea.
But his legs wouldn’t cooperate. They were locked, frozen to the cold, smooth ground ((rough, it was rough)), muscles pulled so tense he was afraid the bone might snap and just. Not. Moving.
Right, then. Desperate times.
“My name is Zuko. I’m- I’m sixteen. I’m at the Western Air Temple.”
((He knew that already. He knew that, because he could still see the rough, dusty ground beneath his knees.))
“Huh? Yeah buddy, we know that.”
(Tears. There were tears on his cheeks, flowing down, down, down. They were begging, but tears were silent. Useless.)
“I’m at- I’m at the Western Air Temple. With the Avatar. I am safe.”
((Was he, though?))
“Zuko, what’s going on? You’re kinda scaring us.”
(Heart beating against his ribcage. Thumpthumpthumpthump-)
“I am safe,” he could hear his own voice crack as the words reached his ears, just like it had then.
(“I meant you no disrespect.”))
“I am safe.” It sounded desperate even to his own ears. Desperate, weak, pathetic- No. “The ground isn’t- it’s not smooth. There’s- there’s a- there’s a pebble. It’s right below my knee. The ground is not smooth. I’m not wearing- I’m not- I’m-” ((“your loyal son.”))
(A hand on his face. Soft and gentle and burning.)
It took everything in Zuko not to scream.
“This isn’t real,” he sobbed, moaned, pressed his knee against his burning eye ((scar)). The silk was soft against the numb skin, and it was burning.
(The ceremonial bands were scorching hot against his skin. His tears had turned to steam on his face. The ground was no longer cold.)
Zuko needed this to stop. He needed this to stop, because it wasn’t real, but the smell of cooking flesh was making him gag and the pressure of his knee against his scar was doing nothing to relieve the agony.
“This isn’t real. This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn't real.”
The shout echoed through the temple, bouncing off ancient walls and scattering in the wind. In another world, Zuko might have cared, might have been embarrassed. In another world, he might not have been praying to the spirits to have mercy and kill him.
Why couldn’t he just die? Anything would be better than this, anything to make it stop, please, it hurts so bad. Just make it stop.
“Hey. Hey Sparky, look at me.” That was Toph. She was kneeling in front of him, hands hovering but not daring to touch. Her words almost didn’t get drowned out by the rush of blood in his ears and the guttural groans in his throat.
“C’mon Sparky, talk to me. I don’t really know what’s happening right now, so I need you to help me out a bit. What isn’t real? What are you talking about?”
“It’s not real. It’s- It’s not real.”
“Hmm, I think we got that. But what is it? C’mon, I need you to talk to me. You need to come back and talk to me.”
She sounded scared. Toph shouldn’t sound scared, and Zuko wanted to fix it, but he couldn’t because he was still burning.
((Why wasn’t he passing out? Shouldn’t this be the point where he passed out?))
“It’s not real. It’s not real, it can’t be real. Please, it can’t be real, it can’t, it- it can’t be real.”
“Why can’t it be real?”
((Why? Think, Zuko, think.))
“Because it- because- because it already happened. It’s over. It’s not real.”
The pain on his eye flared. Zuko screamed, a broken, grating sound that ripped through his throat. Then, all at once, it stopped.
Everything was left coated in oppressive silence. It was pressing against his head, but Zuko couldn't hear it over the ringing in his ears. He couldn’t hear anything, actually. Not his panting breaths, not his heaving sobs. Not even Toph, though he was sure she was saying something.
But it was over.
Thank the spirits.
Like cutting the strings of a marionette, Zuko’s muscles loosened their unforgiving hold on him all at one. If Toph hadn’t caught him, he would’ve fallen flat on his face, because his body was floppy and drained, his mind was foggy and definitely wouldn’t have been able to catch himself.
The little earthbender moved Zuko to lay on his back. His limbs were shaking so badly he wasn’t sure he would be able to move, and he didn’t think he had enough energy left to form a coherent sentence. He couldn’t even move his face. If he could, he would have scowled.
Small, calloused fingers reached to wipe the tears of his face. It was nice. It also didn’t matter, because new ones were still flowing down his cheeks. Zuko didn’t care enough to stop them.
The person attached to the hand (Toph, it’s just Toph) moved to his left, where she settled with her head on his shoulder. Normally he would have protested, would have grumbled at the blatant invasion of his personal space, but it was fine. Nice, even. It was just Toph. Toph was safe.
“What are all you dunderheads looking at?”
“I- How did you even- Never mind. What was that?!”
“Sokka… I don’t think now is a great moment.”
“Exactly. Does Sparky look like he’s up for answering questions right now? No. So mind your business, Snoozles. Now shut up and bring him a blanket.”
There was some grumbling, some shuffling around. Then, a dark shadow moving into his blurry vision from the left. Zuko almost flinched, but Toph’s head was still laying on his shoulder. Toph was safe.
A thin blanket was settled on top of him, soft and generating a comforting sort of warmth. It was nice, and Zuko was thankful, but he hadn’t gained back enough energy to express his gratitude, yet. The person (Sokka, probably) didn’t seem to mind though, because soon the steps moved away again, and after a few seconds a quiet conversation picked back up around the campfire.
Zuko closed his eyes, dragging a shaky arm up to cover his face. Ugh, he thought. That was embarrassing.