Chapter Text
The sting of Nathaniel’s latest burn has faded to a dull yet persistent scratch, hissing at every movement of his shoulder despite the layers of bandaging and balm. The court officials avert their eyes as they pass him, arms overflowing with the paperwork of the war machine which spares them no time for little boys who can’t keep their firebending in check. Few still take his parents’ excuses at face value – that point passed six or seven “incidents” ago. Those who have made a connection between the Butcher’s volatile temperament and his son’s ever-evolving array of burns are not foolish enough to direct their accusations towards righthand man of the Fire Lord himself.
It is rare for Nathaniel to be left unattended in the inner courtyard, which is usually reserved for liaisons between high-ranking diplomats and generals. Today is not a usual day; the talks his father is holding with the Fire Lord concern Nathaniel directly. If all goes to plan, he will be sent to the Fire Nation’s most exclusive military school, the Raven Academy, where he will train with the future admirals and councilmen of the empire. Nathaniel doesn’t have much of an opinion on the subject beyond relief at escaping his father’s fiery temperament.
Failure to qualify for the Academy is not an option for the Butcher’s only son, and the Academy only accepts firebenders for students. As the years dragged Nathaniel closer to adolescence with no sign of bending abilities, his mother’s panic grew, and his father’s patience faded. Lola spent several fruitless months terrifying Nathaniel with crackling demonstrations which left Nathaniel’s skin raw and red. It was only after a weekend trip to Ember island, during which Nathaniel and his mother sat on the beach toying with a smouldering campfire until sunrise, that Nathaniel succeeded in summoning flickering sparks to his fingers for the first time. His father sent a messenger hawk to the capital to schedule his assessment as soon as they were home.
He stands before the central fountain, letting his mind fall into a deep, cooling blank carried away by the ripple of the water. Nathaniel’s assessment had been a grilling affair, watched by his mother (white-knuckled), father (stern-faced), the head of the Raven Academy, and a dozen other members of the Fire Lord’s inner circle that Nathaniel did not care to put names to. Two of the Academy’s current students, each marked with a tattoo denoting their place at the top of the Raven hierarchy, each watching his movements with a kind of hunger that Nathaniel would rather forget. The few moves Nathaniel knows are sloppy and self-taught, but he didn’t need to display expertise. Just potential. He gave them everything he had; all he can do now is await the verdict which will arrive at any moment.
Nathaniel hates firebending as much as he loves it. He loves the passion, the energy exploding through him, loves the heat and the intensity, but the power is as terrifying as it is invigorating. Nathaniel has spent too much time on the receiving end of that power, has seen the way his father’s face is transformed by it, as passion turns to fury and hatred and pure, white pain. Nathaniel hates to think of his own face doing the same.
The fear sends heat trickling through Nathaniel’s veins, and he banishes it the only way he knows how. His mother had been teaching him meditating techniques, ways of putting himself into a trance to keep the terror from setting his hands alight. He sways, matching his movement to the ripples of the fountain, his breathing falling into rhythm until he feels the pain and the panic dissolve like meltwater. The movement reminds him of the dancers that performed at the Fire Lord’s birthday celebrations, Southern Water Tribe captives forced to perform for the amusement of tipsy Fire Nation elites. His mother had watched the display with haunted, distant eyes. Nathaniel had been too afraid to ask whether she knew any of the prisoners from her homeland.
Still swaying, Nathaniel copies what he remembers of the movements, raising his arms and rolling them in time with his body. Faintly, he hears a gurgle of movement from the fountain at his back, but his eyes have slipped close of their own accord, so he doesn’t turn to look. A strangled noise snaps him from his trance.
He opens his eyes to see his mother standing before him, her eyes round and wild and burning with something between fear and fury. Nathaniel has seen that fear in his mother’s eyes many times, but never before has he been the source of it. He stops dead. The ball of water hovering over his head collapses, crashing down upon him.
“Mum, I don’t – I didn’t-!”
She slaps him so hard that Nathaniel swears he hears his teeth rattle. “You can’t – You didn’t - If anyone had seen-!”
The sound of approaching footsteps cuts her short, and she straightens, sliding seamlessly back into her public persona. “Silly boy fell in the fountain!” she says brightly, gesturing to Nathaniel’s plastered hair and sopping clothes. “I told him to leave those turtle-ducks alone. Can’t let this one out of my sight!”
The harried diplomat casts a disinterested eye over Nathaniel’s dripping form before turning back to his mother. “The master has accepted your proposition. Your son will be joining the Ravens from tomorrow.”
His mother nods, her lips pressing together into a tight smile as she grips Nathaniel’s shoulder. She has forgotten about Nathaniel’s burn, which feels like fire under the press of her fingers, but Nathaniel knows better than to react.
That night, his mother packs a bag, and they leave under cover of darkness. Nathaniel offers to create a flame to light their way, but his mother slaps his hands away.
“As long as I live,” she hisses through clenched teeth. “You will never firebend again. You hear me? No fire, no water, nothing. You are not a bender. Understand?”
He does. Nathaniel and his mother disappear into the dark, and they are not heard of again for a long, long time.