Chapter Text
The first memory Zuko has of his childhood is his mother’s hands--her soft, cool hands, brushing the hair off his forehead, cradling his cheeks, tenderly holding his own hands, plump and sticky from youth. His early childhood was steeped in love, despite the tumultuous nature of the kingdom in which he was reared; days spent by the turtleduck pond in his expansive yard, clinging to his mother’s robes and skipping rocks under the shade of his favorite tree. However, as all good things do, these days came to an end.
The first thing Zuko remembers his father saying to him was that he was the rightful prince of his nation. Zuko was merely a toddler, not more than three years old, and was unaware of the Great War and the royalty it displaced; all he knew was that his father--his cold, unrelenting, snide father--was always mad at someone, at something having to with the large castle that loomed over their kingdom. As Zuko grew older, his understanding of the world around him expanded, and he learned that he and his family were outcasts in society, ostracized for contesting the unrightful usurping of the true king, Grandfather Azulon. They were the true royalty, not those savages who had captured their palace and taken their throne. Thus, Father exclusively referred to Zuko and his little sister Azula as “Prince” and “Princess” when addressing them, and he poured all of his effort into training his two children to become strategic, ruthless heirs, ready to aid him in his long-awaited goal of seizing the throne.
Azula thrived under these conditions--she was a cruel and calculated child, the perfect mirror of her father, a prodigy at all things royalty-related. Zuko, on the other hand, struggled immensely--he was a gentle spirit, a boy who tried his best but whose heart and humanity caused him to fall short of his father's colossal expectations. Azula was simply better, stronger, and smarter than him in all regards, and as his father’s pride for his beloved daughter grew, his patience for Zuko waned. However, after each long, grueling day under his father’s watchful eye, Zuko would retreat to his mother’s room, and his dejected heart would find comfort in her soft, supportive arms. He would press himself into her breast as she stroked his hair, spinning soothing tales of dragon princes and kind warriors that always seemed to lift Zuko’s spirits; she painted pictures of idyllic days in their future palace, where Zuko would be the rightful heir and she a loving queen. She promised long days of happiness, turtleduck ponds and rolling fields, crowns and galas and a country to rule over once more. So Zuko persevered on, quelling each failure, each jab from his father or taunt from Azula with dreams of his future palace. He could survive his father and sister’s cruelty, he reasoned, for he had the love and support of his mother at the end of each day.
Until he didn’t.
Zuko’s mother fell ill suddenly, and her health deteriorated quickly. No physician or healer would agree to see her--no one dared to make the trek to the ostracized noble’s mansion on the outskirts of the kingdom, for providing aid to Ozai’s wife would be nothing more than career suicide. Despite this clearly unjust misfortune, Ozai himself seemed wholly indifferent to his wife’s failing health, as if her illness was nothing more than a bothersome distraction to his grand plans for the family. Zuko, on the other hand, was devastated, and kept nightly vigil by his mother’s bedside, spoon-feeding her broth and tea, praying to Agni and any spirit that would listen for his mother to recover. However, his prayers fell on deaf ears, and by the summer of Zuko’s eleventh year, his beloved mother was on death’s doorstep. Zuko was there in her final moments, curled against her pale form as she drew her last few rattling breaths. He held her limp hand as tightly as he could, just like she had done for him all those years ago, and looked at her with tear-lined eyes as she uttered her last words to him. And when his father removed her body swiftly and without emotion, Zuko stayed in that room for hours afterward, staring at the indent in the mattress where his beloved mother had just rested, her final words echoing through his head:
“Remember this Zuko--no matter how things may seem to change, never forget who you are.Have courage, and be kind.”
Things changed quickly after Zuko’s mother died. Ozai had always held disdain for his eldest son, but now with his tender-hearted wife out of the way, he was free to let his hatred for Zuko be shown. Zuko had always been too weak, too soft for his father’s liking--to Ozai, Zuko’s disappointing performance was the one thing hindering his ability to retake the throne. He could never successfully rule his kingdom with Zuko as an heir--no, he would much rather prefer Azula, his beloved, perfect child, be his true heir. It was at this moment that Ozai realized that he could make this dream a reality; after all, Zuko was no more than a pawn, another figure in his arsenal that would bolster his legitimacy to the throne. He didn’t actually need Zuko to rule--that important task could be saved for his sister. And so, Ozai began the tedious yet effective process of diminishing Zuko’s role in the family; not even three days after Ursa’s death, Ozai seized all of Zuko’s treasured belongings and cast them aside--the paintings he and his mother had created, the theater scrolls he’d so meticulously collected, and the toy soldiers he’d whittled himself became no more than kindling in their family hearth. Ozai banned Zuko from sleeping in his childhood room any longer, offering it to Azula as a space to train and relegating Zuko to the attic, where a bare mattress and endless cobwebs were the only items he could call his own. Zuko’s father claimed that Zuko’s incompetence in all things royal had soiled his worth in the family, that he no longer deserved to be called “Prince”, but rather must serve his family in some other manner. Zuko accepted these harsh words from his father with little resistance, for they were only another drop in the vast pool of grief that his mother had left in her wake.
Perhaps this is why Ozai found it so easy to manipulate his eldest son into accepting more and more shameful work around their family’s estate. Where Zuko’s days were once filled with turtleduck visits and history lessons, they were now filled with scrubbing floors and serving tea. Ozai beat his son down until he was no more than a glorified servant, a fallen prince whose only concerns involved keeping the house clean and his father happy. With each day after Zuko’s mother’s passing, his list of chores grew longer, his sister’s taunts grew sharper, and his father’s hands grew harsher. By the time Zuko turned eighteen, he barely remembered what it felt like to be loved, what it felt like to be treated as an equal--he only knew an existence of never-ending work and abuse. However, as he endured endless cruelty at the hands of his father and sister, Zuko never lost his kind heart and perseverance; as the years drew on, Zuko kept his mother’s parting words close to his chest, and continued to work with the hope that he would one day feel the love, support, and joy that his mother had promised laid within the castle’s grand walls.