Avatar: The Book Of The Phoenix

Father And Son

Morning painted the sky in hues of orange and pink, casting long shadows across the bustling war camp of Xanadu. Yet, the vibrant colors of the stronghold failed to dispel the gloom that clung to Rokkun. He shambled through the tents, his mind replaying the venomous words exchanged with Azula the night before. Sleep had eluded him, and the hours before dawn had been spent wandering the nearby forest, the bitter taste of fire whiskey a constant companion.

"Give up the crown?" He scoffed, the memory of Azula's voice, sharp as a viper's strike, still echoing in his ears. "How dare she..." He spat the words into the dust, his anger simmering beneath the surface. "Why can't you forgive Zuko for his mistakes?" he mimicked her condescending tone, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Rokkun finally reached his father's tent, a sturdy structure of woven fire silk that stood apart from the other dwellings. He and General Shoka had not spoken since his arrival.

He hesitated, his hand hovering over the entrance, but the weight of his anxieties proved too heavy to bear. He burst through the doors, his arrival as unexpected as a sudden gust of wind.

Inside, General Shoka, his father, was pouring himself a cup of steaming tea. The air within the tent was thick with the scent of jasmine and sandalwood.

"Ah, my son," Shoka greeted him, his voice calm and measured. "Care for some tea?"

Rokkun slumped into the chair opposite his father, his head pounding.

"Sure." he mumbled, his voice raspy.

Shoka, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow. "Long night?" he inquired, his gaze lingering on Rokkun's disheveled appearance.

Rokkun chugged his tea, the acrid taste of fire whiskey still lingering on his tongue. "I don't care to talk about it." he replied curtly, avoiding his father's gaze.

Shoka nodded, letting silence settle, heavy with unspoken tension. He knew his son too well—the strain with Azula was a spark ready to ignite.

"Why are you here, Father?" Rokkun broke the quiet, irritation lacing his voice. "I didn't summon you."

Shoka poured himself more tea, his movements deliberate. "Your invasion of our homeland is underway," he said, his voice chillingly calm, sending a shiver down Rokkun's spine. "If you aim to be Fire Lord, your mind must be clear. No distractions."

"Distractions?" Rokkun scoffed, anger flaring. "You mean my sons? My wife?"

"Take it as you will, boy," Shoka said, eyes fixed on his tea's swirling surface. "But do your father a favor—don't let your domestic ties derail your destiny."

Rokkun's fist slammed the table, the crack echoing. He staggered to his feet, voice a roar. "You stay away from my family, you old serpent! You're an exile here, tolerated only because I allow it. Be grateful for my mercy!"

Shoka's eyes hardened, meeting Rokkun's with cold intensity. "Mercy? From the son who exiled me, who stripped my title?"

"You were unhinged!" Rokkun shouted, voice trembling with rage and fear. "You put your ambitions above our people, above everything!"

Shoka's laugh was sharp, bitter. "Unhinged? Nothing's changed in six years, boy. You still blame others, dodging accountability. You wear a warrior's armor, but beneath it, you're a spoiled child chasing foolish dreams and childish loves."

Rokkun's face twisted, Shoka's words cutting deeper than any blade. With a final, searing glare, he stormed out, leaving his father alone, the soft clink of Shoka's teacup against the table the only sound in the heavy silence.

The rift between father and son had widened to a chasm. Shoka, once a revered general, now an exile, nursed wounded pride and thwarted ambitions. Rokkun, burdened by his own drive for power and haunted by past betrayals, struggled to forge his path as a leader, torn between duty and the ghosts of his father's legacy.