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The days passed him by in a dreamy, awful haze of smoke and flame, the scent of saltwater and the bite of the sea winds. He paced the confines of his ship, day and night. The men stared at him, muttering rumors out of the corners of their mouths. His uncle, fallen Dragon of the West, brooded over endless games of Pai Sho and cups of steaming tea. Zuko could not waste time for him. Time could only be spared for the hunt.
It did take time, though, time that he resented, to become used to the way his face looked now. The pain of the burn and the rawness of the skin faded after a few weeks. The new skin was fragile, frustratingly so. He found that no matter how he tried, he could not fully open his left eye. He felt off-balance with the reduction in his peripheral vision. To make up for it he trained vigorously, ferociously. He would never be burned like this again. He would never fail like this again.
At times, he still forgot. Late at night, or early in the morning, when sleep was still heavy on him, he would stagger to the washroom and then jerk backwards at the face in the mirror. The scar, shiny in some places, thickened and scaly in others. The narrowed eye leering back at him was accusing, a constant reminder of his dishonor. The scar and the glaring eye belonged to some other boy, a boy worthy only of scorn. So he told himself.
The world stretched out before them as the days fell away. Even a banished prince of the Fire Nation was enough to frighten commoners, but interrogation after interrogation, investigation after investigation, proved fruitless. The days became weeks, the weeks, months.
One morning Zuko pulled on his uniform, and realized with a flash of rage and embarrassment that the sleeves only brushed the edges of his wrists. He glanced down and saw that the pants, normally covered by boots, barely reached to his ankles. The clothing pulled uncomfortably across his shoulders.
How long has it been? part of him wondered. Another part of him answered instantly that it had been two years, three months, eleven days. The uniform he had taken had been large for him when first he left, but even so, he had outgrown it. He wondered how long the men had been laughing at him behind their hands, seeing a gangling youth in a stretched-out, too-small uniform.
Fire flared at his fingertips and with great effort he extinguished it. The anger was always close to the surface, coiled like a dragon in his chest.
He did not go to breakfast that morning. His uncle found him. ”Prince Zuko,” said Uncle, a hint of worry in his eyes. ”Do you feel well today?”
"It’s not that," said Zuko. He hesitated. "I need a new uniform. I’ve — I’ve outgrown this."
Uncle nodded slowly. ”I thought it was looking too small on you. Luckily, I prepared for this.” Zuko followed him back to his quarters warily. His uncle opened the wardrobe at the back of his cabin, and pulled out a bundle of cloth. He pressed it into Zuko’s hands.
Zuko examined it. It was the right size. ”Uncle,” he said, his voice faltering. ”You had this ready before I needed it. You must have brought it from home when we left.”
Uncle Iroh looked steadily at him. ”Yes, Prince Zuko.”
"You… expected we would still be here. Two years later. Enough time for me to grow taller." Zuko thought, but did not say, You expected I would fail to find the Avatar, and restore my honor. "You expected we would still be banished."
His uncle sighed, reaching out to touch Zuko’s shoulder. “I expected that your father would not ch--” Before he could say anything further, Zuko shoved past him, hurrying out of the room. He ran down the hall to his own cabin, elbowing one of the guards out of the way. When he had reached his own quarters he slammed the door shut and threw the new clothing to the ground.
He did not come out of his room all day. He sat with his back against the door, staring at the wall. More than once he let gouts of flame peel from his hands into the air, his anger taking hold of him, but always he fell back into sitting slumped on the floor. Not even Uncle Iroh had believed he would succeed, and the thought hurt him more than he had expected. He sat there until the lights in his cabin dimmed, until deep shadows of blue and black pooled against the walls.
The next day Zuko rose before the rest of the men, and he pulled on the new clothing Uncle had given him. The fit was much better. It was a man’s uniform, not a boy’s.
He carried the old clothing with him to the ship’s edge, and let the fabric flutter downward on the wind. Before it reached the water, two quick forms sent fire tearing after it. Engulfed in flame, it sank beneath the waves.
He did not say anything further about it to his uncle. But that day, as he dueled the men in practice, as he pored over maps and histories, as he felt the heft of twin swords in his hands, he decided he would no longer let the days drift past him. No. He would redouble his efforts, treble them. He was Crown Prince of the Fire Nation, a man come into his own, and he would retake his honor.