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weirdletTitle: Hatchings, or, A Boy And His Dragon
Show: Avatar: the Last Airbender
Genre: AU Weirdness, in which Ozai is assigned an impossible task.
When Farmer Ling found the dragon eggs, he knew it was beyond him to deal with such a spectacle. That, and he didn’t want the things anywhere on his land when their mother came to call; everyone knew the last wild dragon had been hunted down by the glorious General Iroh, Dragon of the West- but then again, what everyone knew was ten years out of date and the legend of dragon-mothers and their wroth was not something to be forgotten lightly.
So the word passed to the headman and the headman passed it to the magistrate and from him to the local lord and on up until a very official and discrete-looking cohort turned up and quietly carted the eggs away. Ling went on about his business, and if he didn’t have a sudden wash of gold coins to fill his hands, certainly the no-taxes-for-life scroll hung up by his door was worth more than its weight in the same.
The discretely appointed wagon, meanwhile, made its way across the island to the bay and was then briefly ferried across the strait; from there, a second set of guards joined the expedition and the whole company stopped for lunch at the local university as the scholars did their work. In short order, the train was on the move again, marching several miles North and West and finally up, and up, and up, stopping at checkpoints every few lengths. All the while the cargo rocked gently, silently, muffled in its earthen packing.
At last, the whole lot was unveiled in a dark room lined with polished wood that gleamed like satin, reflecting back the light of a flickering curtain of flames, and the eyes of an old and wary man.
.........
“What is that?”
“Ozai.” The word was quiet- Azulon didn’t bother to raise his voice much, but it carried a weight of exasperation, irritation, and a curious lack of passion that was more disquieting than anger would have been.
The younger prince hid a grimace behind a floor-touching bow.
“In a word? Your summer training regimen,” the Firelord continued, and observed the puzzled frown that crossed his last son’s face. The young man had enough control to direct it at the eggs and not at him, at least.
The sturdy cart that had brought them into the capital had been traded in for something equally substantial, but with more lacquer-work and less mud on the wheels- appropriate for being trundled through the wide palace corridors. Inside the rails, rough pine boards that had been hammered together around their burden supported a man’s-length square of cool earthen clay, and within that- half a dozen rounded shapes in varying tones of green and black and white lay imbedded, dull and speckled and looking like stones only half-polished.
Ozai did not look impressed.
The leader of the scholarly delegation, however, was almost dancing in place as if he were about to wet himself. Azulon plowed on regardless.
“We have been given a gift, surely by Agni himself- the last known clutch of eggs was located many long years ago, when I was a young man- and they were too unsound to risk the efforts required of a hatching. You, my son-“ and Ozai flicked his eyes up from where he crouched in obeisance- “-have been honored with the privilege to fulfill a rite of passage that has not been seen in over a hundred years.
“You will hatch these dragons’ eggs.”
The snort of laughter didn’t take him by surprise.
“My lord- Father- do I look like a hen? How could I possibly conjure life out of a- a heap of old stones-“
The Imperial flame roared to the ceiling.
When the audience hall had suitably quieted, Azulon continued, every word ringing finality like a hammer on the anvil.
“These scholars will show you the ways in which you shall proceed- they will be working closely with your firebending masters, and they shall report directly to me. You will be given the shed in the old stables in which to work; your effects, such as will be needed, will be moved there this evening. You have one day in which to laggard about- then you will belong to your task, and if you shirk, on your head it will be. Master Zey will brief you as to the particulars of your efforts, and you will respect him as you do not me.”
That set his eyes a-widening, and Azulon hid an upward twitch of his lip behind his mustache.
“You are dismissed.”
.........
Ozai was seething by the time he got back to his chambers. The explanation that the skinny fool of a scholar had given him did not suffice to brighten his mood. In essence- his entire summer was being hijacked in order that he sweat and meditate over a bunch of fossilized rocks.
If Father meant this as a punishment, it was surely effective. No living dragon had been sighted within the shores of the Fire islands in nearly a century, and with his elder brother credited with the death of the last of them over on the mainland continent, he found the whole idea a cruel sort of joke. Iroh was hatefully effective, for all he wreathed his superiority in smiles and the steam of fragrant tea.
He resisted the urge to shatter the tea set a servant had left waiting for him at his hearth, along with his dinner.
Taunting him with the promise of false glory, though, that sounded more like Azulon’s style. Give him a task where he succeeded, and it wasn’t important. Give him a task where he excelled, and it was as if he had trod on someone’s dress, a stumble that no one dared remark upon, but simply turned their faces away to allow someone to escape their faux pas.
Sometimes he wondered if the old man was afraid of him. But then he took a bite of his supper and good sense returned, along with a flood of aromatic spice and tender meat over rice.
Azulon did not fear his younger son, and with every right- the old man was smarter, stronger, and far more up on his game in the ways of strength and treachery. If he did not have love, he had respect, and that was far more than Ozai, even as prince of the realm, could seem to earn.
Ozai finished his evening with his chin resting on his crossed arms, staring into the hearth from his bed.
.........
Master Zey was dithering about, putting the final touches on his preparations in the new-dawn light- he didn’t dare go to sleep, not until this most vital project of his entire career was off to its best possible start-
“Let’s get this over with.” The prince’s voice bordered on a growl, and Zey stifled a yelp as he turned to see the young man shadowed in the door.
“Ah- greetings, your highness,” the professor bowed low, almost scraping the ground in what wanted to be relief but couldn’t quite delude itself that much. “I trust that you are ready to embark on this noblest of tasks-?”
The young man was framed in the doorway by two older men, both bearing grey hair and scars. Prince Ozai himself was a sight to behold, already shirtless and displaying lean muscle and a harsh hawk’s glower, just sixteen and all the best and worst of a sulky teenager with a second-hand crown.
“As I said, let’s complete this farce to its final act- I’ll step in and light the fires, you all can watch as I heat up the rocks, they’ll explode, I’ll have a few new scars, and then we can all go about our business, hmm?”
That was pretty much that. Zey bowed and stood aside to let the prince step into the hastily refurbished shed, once a storage-building in the palace’s older stables, stone and sturdy. Banks of wood and coal stood in orderly heaps next to their grates, racks of stones and buckets of water awaiting use.
Ozai snorted quietly, but grew silent as he caught the glare of one of his masters, a short man with a tightly wound topknot and a grim expression. With a wry twist of his lips, the young prince knelt at his appointed place, settling into an easy, exact posture with the grace of practice and a slow, clearing breath.
The first flames leapt up, flickered, danced in place, and Zey cleared his throat, eager to see the work done but so afraid of every little step that could go wrong-
“Slowly, now- don’t just flare up everything at once, we need a gradual change in temperature and humidity-“ The young man’s back tensed visibly, and he hastened to explain again exactly why everything had to be as it was-
“Professor,” one of the older men rumbled, this one sporting a full beard and the half-robes of the more active sages. A calloused hand clapped his shoulder in as friendly a fashion that could still bruise. “I believe we can handle it from here. Best you stay where your scrolls won’t get singed.”
“We will call you, if your advice is needed,” the shorter one added.
Zey nodded, weakly, and left.
.........
Two days later, not that he could see the sun in this pathetic little shack, and the place was blazing, all the stoves glowing merrily and the various embankments of hot stones steaming. Ozai paused in his breathing exercises and stepped back into the (somewhat) cooler foyer for a dipper of water, pouring a second one over his hair.
This whole exercise had been futile from the beginning, he knew. Whether his father was trying to kill him discreetly or just give him a dose of the ascetic life, here he remained, maintaining the temperature at an even climb through sheer will and chi for the comfort of a bunch of dead rocks…
Too soon, he had to abandon the relief of the cooler spot and step back into the full heat of the improvised hatchery. The room was small and smoky despite well-maintained chimneys, the glow of coals washing the heap in soft reddish light. Ozai had counted six of them embedded in the muck, stony, vaguely ovoid shapes bigger than his two hands spread. They had been colder than the clay they were stuck in when he’d first begun his meditations, guided firmly by the hands of his sage teachers- solid, lifeless, a testament to the impossible task that spirits will assign a great man or a condemned one. Now they were just as warm as the rest of the improvised sauna, but he was still hard-put to imagine them as anything that had once been living…
Clearing his head and his lungs, the prince settled into his rhythm again, breathing deep and slow as he reached out for the ambient air. Heat and steam curled together in drifts, swirling headily as he pushed the flames to their sticking-place- there to rest and re-acclimate the so-called eggs to their current environs, and then, to push just a little further…
In.
The whole world drew its breath in, every bit that mattered in the moment-
Out.
Slow- strong. Heat built, grudging, the essence of earthblood brought up into air and swirling in whirlpools of vapor. He could feel it in the moldering earth that surrounded his charges- slowly crumbling away into mud, easing from the surface of the shells.
In.
Another dipperful of water hit the stones, instructions echoing in his head. See if they could blame him if he’d done it all exactly by their rules.
Out.
In.
Out.
In.
He shook his head, wondering if a spark had just flicked past his nose. Disquieted, Ozai frowned at the eggs and concentrated once more, bored and angry and determined to get it right, if it could be done.
Out.
And it was in just such a moment, between one breath and the next- like muscles suddenly gone from straining-tense to liquid in the warmth. Something-
-something had changed in the stack of useless stones before him.
Leaning forward, Ozai tried something he had not bothered with so far. The stones- the eggs- were no longer as stone beneath his fingertips. The shells, hot as boiled leather fresh from the pot, gave slightly under his touch before he had to snatch them away. And beneath it, in the fluids that had finally thawed from solidity-
Heat.
Or at least its potential. Raw and unformed- only just brought back to the world of the living from its rocky tomb. Ozai went over the blur of instructions and half-heard history the zoologist had tried to stuff between his ears before embarking on this mad quest, a rush of something like terror and something like triumph filling his ears with his own heart’s pounding.
That mud should be boiling.
.........
When next his instructors came to check on him he threw them out, demanding only that more fuel be sent, and water. And that he be left alone with his task.
Speculation ran rampant, of course. The prince had been said to be singularly unenthusiastic about his task- now he spent every day meditating upon the dragons’ eggs, and was even said to sleep amongst them. Food, salt and water went in, as well as fuel; waste went out, and that was all. Young Ozai had become zealously devoted to his task, and many feared it might kill him.
One night, the fires dimmed. Maids who had seen him at the portal said that the prince had grown thin, that he was lank with sweat and rank with the heat. Surely he must be dying, they said- no one could sustain the heat needed to hatch dragon’s eggs for so long.
His teachers overheard his cries, it was said- though if asked directly they would never confirm it. But one maid, for as long as she lived, would swear she heard it this way-
“If I cannot have them all, I will have the best!”
And from then on, it was said, Ozai slept curled around one shell alone, the rest pushed to the edge of the nest in despair.
.........
in
out
in
out
His eyes were gummy. He moved to rub at them with the back of one hand, the other curled protectively around the last, the best, the only egg he could keep up with. His fingers were blistered and his heart weary.
His mouth was like leather, and he reached blearily for the bucket he’d left nearest to where he slept. Lucky- it hadn’t all steamed off in the night (day?), although what was left was lukewarm and flat.
The egg still cradled against his chest, Ozai took his stance, settled his mind, and breathed. The air warmed again, and he tried to focus, feel if it was just right or too cold or (was it even possible anymore?) too hot. The flutters against the shell grew momentarily, settling again as they always did, and he tried to measure it against his heartbeats, pushing warmth through his hands and his heart and every bit of skin that touched the surface of his egg-
It shattered in his hands, and he was left fighting with a squealing, scrabbling mess of wet scales and leather and bloody tracks in his chest and belly, staring breathless into the goggle-eyes of an infant dragon.
They finally managed to come to a pause in their struggle, his arms wrapped around the finely-scaled back, infant talons latched into his hips and shoulders for support. Ozai stared, unable to look away. She was short-snouted, snub-horned- the wings were miniscule, yet at the same time oversized flaps of wet leather that flopped limply along a body that was all mis-matched, undersized parts coming to overlarge joints that buckled and swayed.
She was perfect.
He leaned closer, keeping eye to eye, hoping that this was her folding to a classic predatory technique and not the other way around. Closer, closer still- now he was practically nose to nostrils with her, and he could feel her ribs expand like a bellows-
He struck first, pushing his breath into her- not full-fire, but just a touch, his scent and heat and chi, his voice and breath. The infant snorted, shaking her head, and then- just so cautiously- nudged closer and returned the gesture. He took it in- hot, searing, and hopeful, and laughed as she cheeped.
He laughed still as the door creaked open, daylight and cold spilling in from the outside. His masters, that-fool-Zey, the servants that were there to take away today’s waste and possibly his dead body- they all stared at the mad prince and his new friend, his best friend, the one that would be with him for the rest of his life.
.........
Later, he would know that she was even more a miracle- the old tradition had cadres of young men working together to hatch their clutches, devoting themselves to their dragons and to each other over the course of weeks and forging friendships that would last lifetimes. To have hatched even one, by himself, even with the loss of the other five, was a feat that had not been seen in recorded history.
Ozai didn’t care. Or if he did, he hid it well, preening more as he fed little Spark gobbets of meat than as Firelord Azulon gave him a few public words of formal congratulations.
He had more important things.
