The Fire Nation Prince

Chapter 33: A Timeless Appetite

The town of Gansu wasn’t much to look at, especially through the eyes of a being who had last walked mortal streets when they were little more than mud tracks between wooden huts, and the greatest delicacy was roasted vole. But after ten thousand years of… absence… Mun Lao had to admit, the improvements were not entirely unwelcome.

The main thoroughfare was a river of noise, color, and life. Lanterns painted with symbols of peace and prosperity (crudely done, in his opinion) hung between buildings of sturdy timber and plaster. The air was thick with the smells of a hundred different foods, spices that made his ancient palate tingle with curiosity, sizzling meats that spoke of husbandry on a scale his era couldn’t fathom, and the yeasty, promising scent of fermented grains. And the people! So many of them. Dressed in rough-spun Earth Kingdom greens and browns, they moved with a bustling, chaotic energy that was utterly foreign. No quiet reverence for the spirits of the hearth-fire here. Just loud, messy, vibrant living.

Mun Lao, draped in his simple, dusty red traveler’s robes, moved through the crowd like a shark through a coral reef, smooth, observing, predatorial. His primary objective thrummed in his veins, a biological imperative older than the stones beneath his feet: Find a vessel. Secure the future.

But a close second, one his long imprisonment had sharpened to a razor’s edge, was: Eat. Drink. Enjoy.

His eyes, a faded gold that had once burned with the heat of a Lion Turtle’s gift, scanned the crowd. They passed over men, useless, for his purposes. They lingered on women. His criteria, refined over an eternity of contemplation, were specific. Youth was preferable, for vitality. Health was non-negotiable. Hips for bearing. And… well, certain other attributes. A man could appreciate the aesthetics of a form, even on a holy mission. The Fire Sages of his day had been such prudes.

He spotted a young woman selling fruit from a cart, her blouse straining commendably against the weight of her wares. Promising, he thought, giving her an appreciative nod as he passed. She blushed and looked away. Ah, some things never changed.

A group of laughing girls, their hair adorned with cheap paper flowers, jostled past him. One, a buxom lass with a laugh like a bell, caught his eye. She met his gaze for a second, her smile faltering at the strange, ancient hunger in his look, before she was swept away by her friends.

“Tsk. Flighty,” Mun Lao muttered to himself, his voice a dry rustle. “In my day, a woman knew how to hold a man’s gaze. And her back was straighter.”

His stomach grumbled, a sound like shifting pebbles. The food. By the great, slumbering Vumala, the food. He paused at a stall where a man was shaving thin slices of meat from a vertical spit onto flatbread, adding pickled vegetables and a fiery-looking sauce. The aroma was divine aggression.

“One,” Mun Lao said, holding up a single finger. He’d acquired some of the local coinage from a… discouraged… traveler on the road. The vendor handed him the wrapped bundle. Mun Lao took a bite.

Flavor exploded in his mouth. Complex, layered, violent flavors. The meat was tender, the sauce a symphony of heat and tang, the vegetables crisp and biting. He chewed slowly, his eyes closing in near-spiritual ecstasy.

“Ten thousand years,” he breathed, sauce dripping onto his beard. “For this. They lost the art of respectful silence, but by the embers, they learned to cook.”

He finished the meal in four huge, rapturous bites, licking his fingers clean. The base hunger sated, a deeper thirst rose. Not just for liquid, but for atmosphere, for information, for the simple, sweaty press of humanity.

His eyes landed on the perfect place: a tavern. It wasn’t called The Patient Badgermole like the one in Gaoling; this one had a sign depicting a laughing badger-mole holding a foaming tankard. The Chuckling Mole. How… quaint.

Pushing open the heavy wooden door, he was hit by a wall of sound, heat, and smell that was even more concentrated than the street. The place was packed. Earth Kingdom soldiers off-duty, merchants with dust on their boots, farmers in town for the market, all celebrating. The end of a century of war was apparently a splendid reason to get very, very drunk.

Mun Lao’s ancient heart gave a little leap of something almost like joy. This was it. The pulse of the age.

He shouldered his way to the bar, his red robes drawing a few curious glances but mostly ignored in the general revelry. His eyes were already scanning the room, performing a rapid, instinctual inventory.

Too old. Too thin. Ah… there. The barmaid carrying three tankards in each hand. She was a vision of earthy practicality, round-faced, strong-armed, with a laugh that boomed over the din and a chest that strained the laces of her jerkin in a frankly heroic manner. Mun Lao felt a surge of… professional appreciation.

He also noted a group of women near the hearth, one of whom had the kind of child-bearing shoulders and robust build that spoke of good, sturdy peasant stock. Excellent constitution.

But first, refreshment.

The barkeep, a bald man with a magnificent mustache, slid over. “What’ll it be, grandfather? We’ve got pale ale, dark stout, rice wine, and something the brewer calls ‘Dragon’s Kiss’ that’ll put hair on your teeth.”

“Ale,” Mun Lao said. “The one that smells of hops and poor decisions.”

The barkeep grinned and drew a huge tankard from a barrel, setting it before him with a foam-topped thud. Mun Lao dropped a coin on the bar, lifted the tankard, and took a long, deep pull.

It was… sublime. Cold, bitter, refreshing, with a subtle sweetness and a kick that warmed his belly. It was a thousand times better than the weak, sour beers of his youth.

“They’ve perfected it,” he announced to no one in particular, wiping his mouth. “The one thing this diminished age has truly improved upon. The art of getting gloriously, magnificently sloshed.”

He took another drink, letting the noise and the warmth soak into his bones. It was so easy to forget his purpose here, to just be a tired traveler enjoying the fruits of a peaceful world.

Peaceful. The thought was like a sip of vinegar in his sweet ale.

His gaze drifted to a group of off-duty Earth Kingdom guards, their green armor discarded in a pile, singing a raucous, off-key song about “burying fire in the dirt.” Their faces were flushed with victory and alcohol.

Weaklings.

The word formed in his mind, cold and sharp. He looked at them, soft, celebrating, undisciplined. This was what the mighty Fire Nation, the people who had once mastered the gift of the great turtles, had failed to conquer? A bunch of dirt-fondlers who sang when they should be training?

A wave of profound, bitter sadness washed over him, so deep it almost made him put his tankard down. His people. His glorious, fierce, ambitious people. Reduced to… what? A nation that sued for peace? That lost to this? He’d felt the shift in the world’s spiritual fabric, the sudden cessation of the war’s aggressive energy. He’d assumed it was Fire Nation victory. To learn it was their surrender… it was an insult to everything he and Wan had fought for ten millennia ago.

But the sadness passed, burned away by the older, hotter fire in his core. It didn’t matter. The Fire Nation was a tool that had gone dull. Vumala’s return would make such trivialities irrelevant. New world. New order. No nations, just the storyless, perfect silence.

He needed to know the details, however. The “why” of this sudden, infuriating peace.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the busty barmaid, her name was Lien, he heard a patron call her, swept past to collect empty mugs. Mun Lao seized his moment.

“Another, my dear!” he boomed, his voice taking on a practiced, jovial tone. He tapped his empty tankard and gave her what he hoped was a charming, avuncular smile.

Lien laughed, a sound that made the tankards on her tray shiver. “You’ll float away, old-timer!” But she took his mug and began refilling it from the barrel.

“A celebration such as this demands a certain buoyancy!” Mun Lao said, leaning on the bar. He let his eyes twinkle. “Though the true beauty in this room is enough to make any man’s head spin more than the ale.”

Lien rolled her eyes good-naturedly as she slid the fresh tankard back. “Save your silver tongue, grandfather. It’s the end of the war that’s got everyone tipsy, not my face.”

“The end of the war!” Mun Lao echoed, feigning the same jovial disbelief as the rest of the room. “Astonishing news. I’ve been traveling in the mountains, you see. Out of touch. One day, the world’s at each other’s throats, the next… this.” He gestured to the revelry. “What happened? Did the Earth King finally develop a spine of steel?”

Lien leaned on the bar opposite him, glad for a moment’s respite. “Nah, nothing like that. It’s the Fire Nation. Their old Fire Lord, got beaten in an Agni Kai by his own nephew. Or is he the Fire Lord now? I get confused. Anyway, the new one declared the war over. Just like that. Ordered all the troops home.”

Mun Lao’s interest was now fully, keenly engaged. A familial power struggle. That he understood. It was the oldest story.

“A nephew defeats an uncle…” he mused. “A classic tale. And this nephew, he simply… gave up the conquest? After a century?” He took a sip, watching her over the rim of his tankard.

“That’s the word,” Lien said, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Some say he’s weak. Others say he’s clever, that he’s consolidating power at home. There’s even a wild rumor that Prince Zuko, the banished prince, the one who was hunting the Avatar, is still out there somewhere, causing trouble. But who knows?” She shrugged, a magnificent gesture. “All I know is my brother gets to come home from the front. And business is good.” She winked and bustled off to another customer.

Mun Lao sipped his ale, his mind churning. Names, he needed names. Mortal names for mortal squabbles. But the timing… the sudden cessation of aggressive energy right as the walls of Vumala’s prison grew thin… it was a coincidence that prickled his ancient instincts.

And this “Prince Zuko”… the banished one. A disgraced prince was often a desperate prince. A man outside the system, seeking power by any means. He would bear investigating. A man like that might make a useful distraction… or a potential obstacle.

But first things first. He finished his ale, his eyes once again roaming the room, performing calculations of hip-to-waist ratio, assessing the glow of health in cheeks, the strength in carrying trays.

The mission was paramount. But as he caught the eye of the robust woman by the hearth, who smiled back with a gap-toothed, friendly grin, Mun Lao allowed himself a small, private smile.

The vessel would be found. Vumala’s story would be written.

But in the meantime, the ale was truly excellent, and the view was even better. Some pleasures, after ten thousand years, were worth savoring.