The bandages on Zuko's arms are stained red. His son's eyes are empty and expressionless and the sterile room is blindingly white.

Zuko doesn't respond to his presence, drugged to the gills with sedatives and other drugs Ozai doesn't want to think off.

He stands at the end of the bed, not daring to sit on the chair placed next to it. The child psychologist usually sitting there has yet to come through to Zuko but it's difficult.

"It's like he's erected a wall," she told him before. "Like he doesn't want to take notice."

Ozai doesn't know what to think or to say. The psychologist tells him to speak to Zuko, but no words come forward. He can't even stand to look at his son (but he doesn't turn away).

The child breathes evenly, calmly. The more he stares at the empty eyes set into a face looking so much like his own (yet so much like hers), the angrier he becomes. It's all he can do: stand by the bed and become angry.

He doesn't know that his angry grimaces haunt his son in his sleep, is unaware of how much his son can take notice of if he wants to.

What Ozai does know is that seeing Zuko like this, eyes vacant, body heavily bandaged and arms strapped down makes him feel sick to his stomach.

Years later he will admit that the only right decision he made back then was to refuse to let Azula see her brother like this, but that's about it.