It's been a long voyage, and the men are tired and grumbling. They've been stuck out these doldrums, avoiding this fleet and that for weeks and constantly being told to push off, this is no place for toy soldiers.

Zuko knows that if he were the right sort of captain, the right sort of leader, he'd have a speech all lined up about how they can't give up and there'll be wine and pay and our loved ones waiting for us in port.

But there is no port to welcome them, and no pay worth the name, and the wine's practically recycled at this point. The sort of men who are assigned to his ship are at the rank they will die in- there is no advancement from here on out.

He doesn't know what home means for them. A wife and children and candles in the windows? An aging grandfather, living off what's sent home from the war and wishing to hear of the sea again? Does it mean the smell of fire-lilies, the shape of the coast, the sometimes-rumble on the littler islands when new land is being born?

Does it mean medals and honor, and proud smiles? Is home where they have to take you back, or where they want you?

He doesn't know. All he can do is hope, and keep going.