(Apologies, a few liberties with the intent, but this one’s been dyin’ to get out)
It is said, in the days after his defeat and Firelord Zuko’s ascension to the throne, that Ozai lay in a stupor of despair and could not be comforted, even were anyone to try. The man had been strong and proud, standing at last atop the whole of the world, as none had ever done before him, lord of his own fate and beholden to none lesser. And now all, all was in ashes around him.
Zuko did not have time to attend his father- he had a country to put to rights and a war to restructure into an age of peace and healing. He had found his own two feet and was not willing to be suckered into the game of ‘you bite, I snatch away’ again for love and approval.
It did come to his attention one day, that the guards had noticed their former lord putting on weight that could not be explained away by simple inactivity, nor extra meals bought with bribery for he had nothing to bargain with. Zuko didn’t want to think anything of it, but things had been entirely too quiet from those quarters and he might as well check it out now.
It wasn’t a formal visit. Late in the evening, he walked up the path to the cliffside dungeon, clad in a heavy cloak that signaled, much like stagehands’ black clothing at a play, that he was to be acknowledged but ignored. Guards made way for him and ushered him where they knew he wished to go.
The Firelord’s personal prison wasn’t as empty as he would have liked, but there was still space enough that Ozai’s cell was far away from any that might speak or conspire with him.
As Zuko and his guards approached, he could swear he heard- humming. A deep, resonant sound that idled across some tuneless air, and he would swear he could never remember, could not even imagine his father making that sort of sound ever in his life.
Oh, something was up, and he meant to find out what and snuff it out before it had a chance to spread.
The door clanged open and Firelord Zuko stepped through. There was no party of conspirators to break up, no sorcerous devilry about to whisk his father away with a flash and an evil laugh.
There was just Ozai, lounging in the corner of his cell, hair draggled without the topknot keeping it in order, humming as if he were lazing about in a sunlit field. He wore the same simple prison uniform, hands and feet bare, and did not look up or stop when his son entered the room.
Zuko paused, almost disappointed that the man could still get him worked into a paranoid frenzy without even a fraction of the power he’d thought Ozai wielded as a boy, through the sheer enigmatic mystery of fatherhood.
The fallen Phoenix King brought his nameless song to an end and glanced sidelong at his son, neither smiling nor grimacing but somehow giving the impression that behind the mask of his face he was grinning like a fox, with many teeth.
“To what do I owe this honor?”
“You’re not moping anymore. What are you up to?”
Ozai shrugged, perhaps the most informal gesture Zuko had ever seen him make, and did not uncross his arms. “I? I am doing nothing. Perhaps I have merely found peace in a simple life. The sun sets, and rises, and the world moves on.”
“You’re starting to sound like Azula. I thought you were above her sorts of games- or at least better at them.” Now the gold eyes narrowed, and the smile grew a little tighter. Ozai flicked his gaze to the guards at Zuko’s sides, and he dismissed them with a curt gesture.
The door shut, and Zuko strode forward. He glowered through the bars, watched as his father got lazily to his feet and stood an equal distance away, neither trusting the other to get within arm’s length.
Ozai/Zuko, This Shouldn't Happen (1/however many it needs)
It is said, in the days after his defeat and Firelord Zuko’s ascension to the throne, that Ozai lay in a stupor of despair and could not be comforted, even were anyone to try. The man had been strong and proud, standing at last atop the whole of the world, as none had ever done before him, lord of his own fate and beholden to none lesser. And now all, all was in ashes around him.
Zuko did not have time to attend his father- he had a country to put to rights and a war to restructure into an age of peace and healing. He had found his own two feet and was not willing to be suckered into the game of ‘you bite, I snatch away’ again for love and approval.
It did come to his attention one day, that the guards had noticed their former lord putting on weight that could not be explained away by simple inactivity, nor extra meals bought with bribery for he had nothing to bargain with. Zuko didn’t want to think anything of it, but things had been entirely too quiet from those quarters and he might as well check it out now.
It wasn’t a formal visit. Late in the evening, he walked up the path to the cliffside dungeon, clad in a heavy cloak that signaled, much like stagehands’ black clothing at a play, that he was to be acknowledged but ignored. Guards made way for him and ushered him where they knew he wished to go.
The Firelord’s personal prison wasn’t as empty as he would have liked, but there was still space enough that Ozai’s cell was far away from any that might speak or conspire with him.
As Zuko and his guards approached, he could swear he heard- humming. A deep, resonant sound that idled across some tuneless air, and he would swear he could never remember, could not even imagine his father making that sort of sound ever in his life.
Oh, something was up, and he meant to find out what and snuff it out before it had a chance to spread.
The door clanged open and Firelord Zuko stepped through. There was no party of conspirators to break up, no sorcerous devilry about to whisk his father away with a flash and an evil laugh.
There was just Ozai, lounging in the corner of his cell, hair draggled without the topknot keeping it in order, humming as if he were lazing about in a sunlit field. He wore the same simple prison uniform, hands and feet bare, and did not look up or stop when his son entered the room.
Zuko paused, almost disappointed that the man could still get him worked into a paranoid frenzy without even a fraction of the power he’d thought Ozai wielded as a boy, through the sheer enigmatic mystery of fatherhood.
The fallen Phoenix King brought his nameless song to an end and glanced sidelong at his son, neither smiling nor grimacing but somehow giving the impression that behind the mask of his face he was grinning like a fox, with many teeth.
“To what do I owe this honor?”
“You’re not moping anymore. What are you up to?”
Ozai shrugged, perhaps the most informal gesture Zuko had ever seen him make, and did not uncross his arms. “I? I am doing nothing. Perhaps I have merely found peace in a simple life. The sun sets, and rises, and the world moves on.”
“You’re starting to sound like Azula. I thought you were above her sorts of games- or at least better at them.” Now the gold eyes narrowed, and the smile grew a little tighter. Ozai flicked his gaze to the guards at Zuko’s sides, and he dismissed them with a curt gesture.
The door shut, and Zuko strode forward. He glowered through the bars, watched as his father got lazily to his feet and stood an equal distance away, neither trusting the other to get within arm’s length.