Worship the Ashes - meregalaxiesandgods, patentpending (2024)

Chapter 1: you commit five (dozen) war crimes and suddenly you’re the bad guy

Chapter Text

They took away Azula’s hair pins when she tried to cut open her wrist with the sharp edge. They took away her bedsheets when she tried to twist them around her neck.

They didn’t take away her bending.

No matter how many times she held her skin to the flames, it refused to catch.

By and large, her days consist of prowling back and forth in her cell – and it is a cell, no matter what the plush bed and luxurious rug suggest – thirty steps across, twenty steps down. They’ve tried pawning her off on therapists, at dear Zuzu’s insistence no doubt, but she’s managed to scare them all off.

It’s almost fun, seeing how she can twist them around her fingers, stringing them along until they stupidly reveal a flash of weak, tender underbelly. Only then does she pounce, digging her claws in, tearing until she sees blood.

None of them have lasted more than a month. The weakest among them could only stand her for a matter of hours. Azula’s aiming for minutes, next time.

It’s been a year since Father was defeated. A year since Zuzu took the throne. A year since Azula knew what she was still alive for, knew what her purpose was if it wasn’t to fight and die in the service of the Fire Nation.

She’s stepping on sixteen now, can feel it in the arch of her cheekbones and purr of her voice, but somehow she feels younger than she ever did before.

“Hello, Azula,” Zuzu says, softly, hovering in the doorway. “Can I come in?”

“How kind of you, Zuzu,” she drawls, not turning her face from the window, “to grant me the illusion of choice.”

He sighs and gestures to the guards on either side of the door. They step back, sharply, and he comes in, ginger.

Behind him, two of those infernal, painted bodyguards file in, golden fans at the ready.

“How are you?” he asks, settling in his chair across the small wooden table. She resents him, for everything; but especially for having a regular place here, for having something she thinks of as his in this cell ( her cell), but it’s a futile endeavor. Everything here is his.

She is his, now.

“Bored.”

Her fingers tap against the table, soft and unsatisfying without the click click click of her long nails. A woman from one of the salons comes in once a week to clip them, hands trembling and eyes downcast. Azula had thought about burning her more than once, but there was no real point besides petty, short-lived satisfaction. She does miss her nails, though, if only for something to dig into her skin, sharp and grounding.

“Good job with that last therapist, Zuzu. She lasted a whole three weeks. Impressive.”

She doesn’t have to look at him to know disappointment floods his face. “It’d be good for you to actually try, Azula.”

“I am trying.” She stares out the window, at the placid, abandoned courtyard – empty save for a withered cherry-juniper tree. “It’s certainly not my fault if they can’t handle a little psychological torture between friends.”

Zuko barely has time to look disapproving before there’s a snort of laughter.

Suki, the head guard, hides her grin behind her golden fan. “Sorry, I–” She snorts again. “That was kinda funny.”

Azula doesn’t care to be amusing, least of all to the help. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you servants are to be seen and not heard?”

Suki raises an eyebrow, fan shuttering closed in her hand. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you not to piss people off when you’re outnumbered?”

“I’d never get anything done if that was the case.” Azula snorts, tuning back to the window. “Besides, what other fun do I get?”

“Suki isn’t a servant,” Zuzu scolds, like Mother used to when she saw the charred mess Azula left of a snippy server’s dress or of a toy that refused to please her. “The Fire Nation is blessed to have the Kyoshi warriors as allies.”

“Aren’t we all allies now, Fire Lord?” Azula continues the unsatisfying drum of her fingers against the table – useless but habitual. “Shouldn’t you be holding hands with some foreign trash and singing sweet harmonies?”

“No,” Zuko stammers, “well, I mean, yes we should – but we’re not actually, and reparations have been difficult, but we – you don’t need to know that.”

He always has been easy to fluster. “No, please, go on,” Azula drawls, lidded gaze lazily sliding his way, “each inelegant word from the mouth of our esteemed leader is such a gift to a poor prisoner like me. Please, fumble through another explanation on how you’re destroying all of Father’s work.”

He looks tired, suddenly; almost resigned. “He was wrong, Azula. You have to know that, right? He was going to destroy everything – the Fire Nation included.”

“A pretty way to tell me you’re a traitor, Zuzu.”

He sighs, rises from the table. He offers her a smile – an awkward, unsure thing.

“It was good to see you, Azula.”

“You need to work on your lying, Fire Lord.” She snorts, fingers still so infuriatingly soft against the table top. “You’ll never get anywhere in politics like that.”

He laughs, but it is a soft, bitter thing.

“Right,” he sighs, as if to himself, and sweeps from the room without another word, entourage in tow.

Azula doesn’t watch him go.

Siruk, the newest in a long line of therapists, has a rather unpleasant mole on her chin.

Azula tries to listen to what she’s saying, truly – it’s always good to know as much as possible about everyone relevant. Unfortunately, Azula’s standards of ‘relevant’ have dropped recently, but she does what she can.

The woman’s voice is a low drone of hum-drum in the background as that unpleasant mole quivers and shakes with her words, disgustingly liquid.

“That’s enough of that,” Azula says, and shoots off a very concentrated stream of fire.

“Really now,” Azula huffs, arms crossed, once the healers have been summoned and the crying has died down and Zuzu has worried himself into a fret and there is only the smell of burnt flesh and a newly-blank chin left to commemorate the occasion. “I don’t see what all the fuss is about. I did her a favor, truly.”

Azula wakes up.

Brushes her hair, long and elegant. It wraps around her throat and pulls tight when she sleeps, hangs heavy on her shoulders during the day, but she brushes and oils it regardless. It’s humiliating, having to do it herself, without the help of a trembling servant, but she does it anyway. A beautiful princess is a powerful one.

Sits by her window and watches the empty courtyard below.

Eats. Doesn’t taste a thing.

Rests her forehead against the window, ever-hot breath fogging the glass, despite the heat outside.

Watches tiny blue flames flicker at the tips of her fingers.

The sun goes down.

Azula sleeps.

Hoshi is the name of the new therapist Zuzu hoists her off onto. He’s a frail wisp of a man –slim-shouldered and adorned with a long, drooping mustache.

Azula’s generously kept him for three weeks; it’s their eighteenth session before she’s satisfied that she has everything she needs.

“Maybe that’s why I put so much energy into caring what others think,” she sighs, reclining against the velvet fainting couch. “Being the eldest is so much pressure, you know, and it’s so easy to mess up. I can just imagine how tempting it is for such a pathetic, weak-willed person to start caring about others, just to escape thinking of yourself; especially when dealing with feelings that have been illegal for over a hundred years–”

“Princess, I–” Hoshi blanches, throat bobbing. “Princess, I don’t believe that this is relevant to our discussion of your–”

“Wait, you’re right,” Azula drawls, pulling herself up to admire the way his face pales. “Oldest child, family disappointment, gender traitor – that’s you, isn’t it? Tell me, did your parents kick you out when they found you kissing a boy, or did you run away before they got the chance?”

“How– how did you know that–?” Hoshi stammers, knuckles going white around his clipboard. Small, hurt tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

Azula smiles, and it is all teeth.

Hoshi submits a letter of resignation that same day.

Azula wakes. Brushes her hair. Eats. Stares out the window. The sun goes down. She sleeps.

Zuzu visits, at least once a week, but they’re never left alone together.

Those painted body guards are always with him, Suki primary among them.

‘My favorite prisoner’, Azula had called her, so long ago that the memory aches. She was probably sickly satisfied with this role reversal –so pristine and gorgeous in her robes, in her power as one of Azula’s wardens. She was probably sneering those red-painted lips behind her fan at Azula’s still-uneven hair and drab clothing.

“Azula?” Zuko asks. “Are you listening to me?”

She hasn’t been; hadn’t even realized he was talking until her name was called.

“Oh, Zuzu, you’re here again?” She yawns, stretching. “That explains it. I think I’m even more bored when you’re here, if that’s possible.”

He sighs, as he always does when with her.

“There are plenty of things for you to do, Azula. Why don’t you read some of the scrolls we brought in for you–”

“That drivel?” Her lip curls. “Romance novels and Earth Kingdom propaganda and stories with lessons so hackneyed a toddler would find them dull? Zuzu, if you want to brainwash me, you could at least do me the courtesy of having some subtlety.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Azula sees Suki moving on mouse-quiet feet to inspect the scroll shelf.

“We’ve got a new therapist coming tomorrow,” Zuko sighs, and rises. “I swear, you’ve almost run through every one in the nations. Do me a favor and don’t burn this one, alright?”

“Oh, brother,” Azula coos. “Surely you know me better than that.”

Sun.

Hair.

Window.

Food.

Sunset.

Sleep.

Sun again.

As always, the sun comes up again.

As always, she has to wake up again.

The new therapist is a fat, matronly person, somewhere in their late fifties, dressed up in Water Tribe blues with a notescroll in their hand and a mild expression on their brow.

“Azula,” they say, “I’m Kallik. Thank you so much for joining me.”

“Yes, of course,” Azula simpers, wishing she could burn them, watch their skin shrivel and blacken; fat boiling and melting into oil. “I’m so sorry poor Hoshi had to resign, but once we’ve built up enough trust… I’m sure things will be very interesting with you.”

Azula is good at this, at threats masked as promises, at knives hidden under pretty grins. She’ll go after their size, perhaps? Or the infuriating way Azula can’t tell if they’re a man or not? There has to be something for her to dig her claws into. There always is.

Kallik smiles, and there’s a sharpness about it that sets Azula’s teeth on edge.

“Why don’t we start there,” they say, mildly. “It was very clever of you to figure out his inclinations.”

Azula blinks, just once, and molds her expression into one of innocence. “Was it wrong of me? I was just trying to make conversation.”

“Yes,” Kallik says, sounding almost amused. “Just like you ‘made conversation’ with Vakko about his crippling inability to maintain relationships, and with Shoshi about her survivor’s guilt from the war, and Fan about his social anxiety.”

Azula narrows her eyes. “You’ve certainly done your research.”

They smile. “At this point, Princess, I’m quite certain it’s the only way I’ll make it out of this with my dignity intact.”

They lean forward, dark eyes intent. “I don’t expect you to like me, Princess Azula. I don’t expect you to trust me, or confide in me, or work with me. You have been put into a situation where so much of your autonomy has been stripped away, you’ve had to resort to petty manipulations to feel any semblance of control. So, if you are to work with me, it will be entirely on your own terms.”

They lean back. Pick up a book. Start reading.

Azula stands in the silence, stunned. “Is… is that it?”

Kallik’s eyes dart up, briefly. “If you want it to be. The time you spend here is entirely your own.”

“You’re tricking me.” Azula shakes her head, lip curling back to reveal canines. “This is just a ploy because you want me to like you.”

“Of course I do.” Kallik shrugs. “I want you to get better, Princess. You’ve been through an incredible amount of trauma, and–”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Azula snaps, and she can feel sparks pressing against her skin, begging to escape. “There’s nothing wrong with me. There never has been, and there never will be.”

She turns to the door, arms crossed. “I’d like to leave now.”

Kallik’s voice is steady. “Feel free.”

As soon as she pushes through the door, there are guards around her, herding her back to the cell like a goat-sheep, but she doesn’t miss the looks of surprise on their faces. She’s out almost a full hour early.

Despite everything, it feels good.

Someone has been in her room.

She’d like to attribute the knowledge to her warrior’s instincts, sharp as ever despite her imprisonment, but even a mind far behind her own could discern what the book nestled calmly on her bed covers means.

Azula narrows her golden eyes, fingers flexing.

Poison, perhaps? A powdered toxin that will fly into her face and suffocate her as soon as she cracks open the thick tome’s leather-bound cover.

Or a distraction.

She whips around, heart racing, but there is nothing but her shadow on the wall behind her. Nothing but tiles on the ceiling. Nothing but scarce few clumps of dust beneath the bed.

She pulls the neck of her loose-fitting tunic over her nose and cautiously opens the book.

No powder flies at her, but a scrap of paper flutters out.

It’s just three lines, scribed in an unfamiliar hand – you were right. Those books are garbage. Hopefully this is more to your taste.

Azula flips it over, but there’s nothing more.

For lack of knowing what else to do, she holds it in her hand and watches it turn to ash.

Her grip leaves dark smudges of cinder when she picks the book up, smoothing her fingers over the worn-leather cover.

The Palace of Spirits

Well.

She did make a habit of lying to her brother, but this one thing was true: Azula really had nothing else to do.

She perches – posture always perfect, back always straight, neck sloping gracefully downwards like a swan-giraffe – on the edge of her bed, and Azula begins to read.

The protagonist is a Fire Nation girl –a bender, with a wicked sharp smile and a head hot as the flames she burns with. She finds a palace, long abandoned, filled with spirits, and she tries to drive them out.

They don’t go down without a fight, and strangely enough, Azula cannot decide who she is rooting for.

There’s always a right side, in every war, every fight, every interaction. Azula made a long and battle-scarred career out of being on the right side. It’s just… difficult to discern in this case.

The girl would be right, of course, to take the palace for the glory of the Fire Nation, but she is only doing it for herself. The spirits would be right, of course, if they were battling her off to prove their strength, but they’re doing it because they love their home. They don’t want to leave.

It’s diverting, at the least. The book gives her something to think about in the silent sun-drenched hours that seem to span lifetimes.

Azula falls asleep with it tucked against her chest, and for the first time in a very long time, she has something to open her eyes for the next morning.

She sits in stony silence across from Kallik, who will occasionally look up from their book and flash her a smile. It isn’t obvious from the tilt of their mouth, but Azula knows the world better than to think those smiles could be kind.

“Your time in here is your own,” they had said at the last session, and they seemed intent on tricking Azula into believing they meant it.

She’s spent the last fifteen minutes or so debating just getting up and leaving – the walk from her chambers to this makeshift office passes through the courtyard and therefore sunshine – but she doesn’t feel like finishing that walk.

“How much is my brother paying you, anyway?” She prods when the silence has grown unbearably dull, soft fingertips drumming against the armrest of her chair. “I imagine he’s raised the wages quite a bit to tempt any poor fool in.”

“Food, lodging, and expenses,” Kallik says, mildly.

“You are a fool, then.” Azula frowns. “You won’t be here long, of course, but surely you could’ve negotiated for more from him.”

“There wasn’t a negotiation process,” they respond in their placid, even voice. “I very much wanted to be able to speak with you, Azula.”

“I’m flattered,” she says, dryly, “But I think you’re a bit old for me.”

Kallik laughs. “I think my wife would agree.”

“You’re a man then!” She says it almost triumphantly, another piece of the newly scattered puzzle of her world slotting neatly into place.

Kallik just smiles. “No, I’m not.”

The triumphant look slowly slides off of Azula’s face. “But you… you said you have a wife.”

They chuckle, softly. “Why do you think it is, Princess Azula, that everything always has to be all one way or all the other, in your eyes? Nothing in this world is made of such clear divisions –not nations, not feelings” – they gesture to themself –“not people.”

Azula grits her teeth and crosses her arms, unspeaking.

“There are reasons to work beyond material wealth. If I was looking to get rich, Princess, I’d have better luck elsewhere.” They smile, gently. “I think that’s enough for today. Why don’t you have a nice, relaxing afternoon, and we’ll pick this conversation back up later?”

Before she leaves, she hesitates.

“Kallik,” she says, then shakes herself, drawing herself up and looking down her nose. “I require paper and ink. I’ll be acquiring yours.”

“Of course,” they say. “On two conditions.”

Azula narrows her eyes. “Being?”

“The first: you’ll ask more politely than that,” they say, wryly. “And the second: at our next meeting, I can ask you any one question, and you’ll answer honestly.”

“That was polite,” she snaps. “Impolite would’ve been snatching them off your desk and snapping your neck while I was at it.”

“Is that right?” They raise an eyebrow. “My, my, I must still be struggling with Fire Nation culture. You’ll have to indulge me.”

Azula takes a deep breath, feeling her flames flickering inside of her, scorching. Her breath is hot on her own skin. “I’d like paper and ink,” she grits out, then, after a moment: “please.”

They smile, gently. “Of course, Princess. I’d be happy to.”

She stalls, once she’s finally in her room.

Demands for this mysterious benefactor’s identity, a scathing review of the novel, praises for showing proper fealty for a true princess – here’s a multitude of things she could say. But none of them even begin to hint at what she truly wants to know.

Azula has been under the care of her brother’s chains for a year.

So why, now, has someone finally seen how they chafe?

If there were mirrors in the room, she would search them for her reflection, as if weakness could be spotted in the arch of her eyebrows or curve of her cheek. As is, Azula winds a lock of hair around her fingers until they ache, and she begins to write.

I suppose you’ll expect me to thank you. I won’t. The favor of a princess is a valuable thing, and I can’t bestow it on a whim. Still, the novel was… engaging. It took me away from here for a while, at least. If I were the sort to thank you for anything, that would be it.

– Agni’s Blessed, Princess Azula

She leaves the note tucked between two pages of the novel, and lays the book down near the entrance to her cell. If Zuko happens to trip over it on his next unannounced visit, all the better.

When she wakes the next morning, the book is gone.

Chapter 2: hey maybe azula needs just a little mental stability before pursuing a romantic relationship. like, just a smidge.

Chapter Text

Azula begins with a list.

She has, along with a healthy sense of paranoia, a near-perfect memory. Her visitors are few and far between, so it’s easy to account for every single guard, therapist, and errant boy-king that has entered her cell since the day she’d been locked in there herself. Her mysterious visitor can’t be a complete stranger, after all; they wouldn’t have been allowed into this wing of the palace.

She uses a scrap of leftover parchment to begin scrawling down names, dismissing some out of hand. Dear Zuko lacks the imagination required to pull off the scheme of slipping a secret note into her bed. Half her previous therapists lack the guts. (The other half have fled the Fire Nation in the hope of never seeing her face again.)

It’s easy to suspect Kallik, but at the same time – she doubts that it’s their style. If they wanted her to have something, they would simply give it to her. All blunt honesty and open smiles. Azula kind of hates them for it.

She’s not under any sort of illusion that this will be the type of mystery that’s easily solved. To slip past her, her adversary would have to be patient, and clever, and canny – but so is Azula.

Besides, Azula is no stranger to the long game. Half-destroyed cities scattered across the far-flung corners of the Earth Kingdom offer testament to her mastery.

The book might’ve been a gift, a warning, a condemnation. Azula isn’t sure. But it is, undeniably, a challenge. And it’s been so long since Azula’s had a challenge.

She feels something spark up her spine at the thought, a slow heat unfurling, licking along the column of her neck, her cheekbones, her palms. Ink dries quickly near the heat of her hands.

When she’s done, Azula folds the parchment into tiny pieces. She’s not such an idiot as to try and hide it under her pillow or anywhere on her person – that’s for plebians. She crouches next to her bed and unscrews one leg from the frame. Before they took away her hairpins, she’d dug them into the soft core of wood, hollowing out the center. The spare pages of parchment fit perfectly.

Azula lies back on her bed and smiles.

“Hello, Azula.”

Kallik’s voice is calm and dry as always, like there’s an air of humor about that they’re too professional to comment on.

“I’m glad to see you again. I hope you found the parchment and ink that you borrowed useful.”

“You could say that.” Azula stands, as she has taken to doing in this infernal room. Kallik is far better than the other morons her brother has thrown at her, granted, but that just puts her on edge, somehow. Like if she slips, she’ll crash to the ground, hard, before she’s even aware of what’s happened.

“That’s good. Feel free to borrow any more that you need” – a glint of mischief shines in their eyes – “provided we stay away from those Fire Nation methods of asking that you described.”

Azula grits her jaw and does her best not to look chagrined. “I suppose you’ll ask me to say ‘thank you’ next.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind, but I get the feeling we’d better start with smaller steps.”

The woven rug is soft under Azula’s sandals as she paces Kallik’s office – thirty-one steps across, twenty-two steps down. Bigger than her cell, but not by much.

They’ve already added their personal touches to the room, in a way Azula has never let any of the other therapists stay long enough for. A wolf-skin pelt is thrown across the back of the velvet fainting couch, a painted tapestry of endless white horizons hangs on the wall behind their desk, the woven carpet Azula paces on as she goes round and round the couch is one of several scattered throughout the room.

“You’ve certainly made yourself at home.” She kicks idly at the edge of a rug.

Kallik simply raises an eyebrow. “Is the Fire Nation not my home now? I work here. I live here.”

“I live in my cell,” Azula counters with a sneer. “I wouldn’t call that my home.”

“Perhaps not,” Kallik allows. “But if you had your tapestries, your incense, your ritual hearthstones – wouldn’t you feel a bit more comfortable?”

Azula has spent enough time as the Princess of the Fire Nation to know that their culture is leagues beyond what the other nations have produced – the Water Tribe wolf-skin pelts are gaudy, the woven white carpets a mess of so much clutter. In her mind’s eye, she overlays the room with familiar decor: red-and-black weapons racks. Potted plants. Paintings of Fire Lords long-dead. It’s not quite comforting, as Kallik suggests, but it settles something in the pit of her stomach.

“I suppose,” she concedes. “Even if your sense for interior design is abominable.”

“Azula,” Kallik says, after a small exhale that might’ve been a laugh. “If I may circle back to the ink and paper. Do you remember that deal that we made?”

Azula crosses her arms, meeting their eyes dead-on. “I’ve been training my mind my entire life. I have an excellent memory.”

“I see.” And there’s that note of dry amusem*nt in their voice again. “In that case, I’d like to ask if you’re comfortable with me asking that question of you.”

Azula blinks. “I thought you said you were going to do it.”

“That’s true.” They incline their head. “But it’s important for you to know that you have agency here, Azula. I’m willing to wait for however long you need to feel comfortable. If that’s today, wonderful. But if not, I want you to know I’ll wait however long you need.”

Lifting her chin, Azula snorts. “There’s nothing you could say that would make me feel uncomfortable.”

“Very well then. Can I go ahead?”

And, looking into their calm, dark eyes, Azula almost believes they’re really asking. For a moment, she wonders what will happen if she says no – a report to Zuzu, no doubt, admonishing her uncooperative conduct. Or maybe Kallik will push ahead regardless, that even voice prying, digging, insisting–

“No.”

The word rips out of her before she can stop it.

She has only a moment of surprise, her hand slapping over her mouth, to stand there before Kaillik speaks up.

“That’s alright.” Kallik smiles at her, and it looks more genuine than Azula knows what to do with. “I’m very glad you feel comfortable enough with me to share that. Maybe that’s something we can work on going forward: you setting boundaries with others, especially under your current circ*mstances.”

“Boundaries,” Azula says. She’s still rattled. The hair stands straight on the back of her neck. She can’t – she won’t – let this soft-speaking, sincere-eyed saboteur get to her. If she lets them get to her, if she lets them see weakness, it’s as good as admitting defeat. “Here’s this for boundaries: I’m going to leave now.”

Kallik nods. They wave at her genially as she goes.

The next note arrives tucked under the bowl of rice set out for her breakfast the following morning.

To Agni’s Blessed, the Esteemed Princess Azula–

Azula gets the sense she’s being teased. She doesn’t enjoy it.

Glad to hear the book didn’t bore you to death. A novel method of assassination, to be sure, but an unreliable one at best. Your thanks is unnecessary, though appreciated.

Although, I have to correct you in one instance, Princess. I’m not doing this for your favor.

A flare of anger leaves charred fingerprints on the parchment paper. She hadn’t thanked her erstwhile pen pal: that had been the whole point of the note! Did they not read a single word she wrote? She picks up her pen in a fury and turns the missive over.

Are you an imbecile, or simply illiterate? I did not say thank you. Perhaps you would benefit from doing some extracurricular reading yourself. You could clearly use the practice.

The note is taken away with Azula’s dirty dishes, wound into a ribbon around one of her (dulled) chopsticks. A scrap of paper slips under her door that same evening, followed by a slim leather-bound novel.

To Agni’s Blessed, The Indignant Princess Azula,

You might want to think your diatribles through a bit more closely. If I were illiterature, you’d have no one to send your charming notes to, now would you? And if I were an imbecile, wouldn’t you have figured out who I am by now? Judging by the thoroughly un-burned state of my entire being, I have to assume you haven’t.

Between the two of us, though, I’d assume you’d want the extra practice. I take it I should just return this copy of traditional Fire Nation fairy tales back to the palace library, then?

Azula’s face flames (literally), and she scrawls out a reply, her typically flawless calligraphy jumbled in her haste.

When I received your note, I had assumed that you were showing true, property fealty to a Princess of the Fire Nation. I see now that you simply meant to mock me. I’ve had quite enough of that for one lifetime, so feel free to go off and burn yourself. I refuse to sully my hands with your sort.

And, before you ask, that ‘sort’ is almost certainly moronic. If you’re not doing this for the favor of the true Heir to the throne of the Fire Nation, then there’s no reason to do it at all.

Also, no. I will be keeping the book.

Azula folds the note in half and blots over the back with dripping ink before wedging the parchment into the gap between the top of her door and the doorframe. No one will come back into her cell until the morning, so it's unlikely to fall, and from the outside, it’ll be unnoticeable, unless someone is looking for it.

With any luck, the ink will stain the fingers of whoever grabs it.

In the morning, however, the hands of her guards are clean, and when she sees a Kyoshi warrior pass by, she realizes their hands are gloved.

When Azula lifts her cup of tea, a scrap of paper is nestled neatly on the tray beneath it.

To Agni’s Blessed, the Fairy Tale Connoisseur Princess Azula,

It may shock you to hear, but there’s actually an entire spectrum between worship and mockery. While you may naturally gravitate towards the two ends, rest assured I remain firmly in the middle, where I’m doing neither.

My job would be pretty hard to do if half of my skin was melted off, so I’ll respectfully decline your suggestion, Princess. My weekend is all booked: no time for an impromptu trip to the Healers’.

Another fun revelation for you: most people don’t do every single thing for personal gain of some sort. But I can’t give everything away, now can I? My ulterior motives (if I have any) will remain my own for now.

I hope you liked the fairy tales, at least. I had to consult the Avatar to make sure they were accurate to what he remembered. Not many traditional novels survived past your grandfather’s reign, but hopefully we’ll find more that did.

P.S. – dyeing my fingers? Really? You’ll have to try harder than that, Princess.

Azula bites back a triumphant smile. A friend of the Avatar, then?

For a moment, she thinks this is the break she needs, until her memories of the Avatar – of a chatty, goofy child who thought even she could be reasoned with – return to her.

Damn.

To my Moronic Associate, the Thorn in my Side,

Do you ever intend to stop those infernal methods of address? I know you seem determined to shower me in the utmost disrespect, but you could stand to have some decorum.

You have a job at the palace, then? Good. I was beginning to suspect you were some vagabond with nothing better to do than tease the Royal Princess. What with the way my brother is running the palace, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the grounds are completely overrun by now.

The stories are nonsensical, but diverting, I suppose. I’ll admit I find the common themes quite dull after the first few repetitions. A Princess, eternally locked away in a tower seems… distasteful to me at this point. I’d wonder why it is that she never found a way to save herself, always waiting for some Prince to come to the rescue, but I suppose I’m in no position to judge. Besides, the only person I'd trust to rescue me is myself.

P.S. – Be as smug as you like, whatever your name may be, but rest assured I’ll figure you out. As I’ve been pinned up in this room for over a year now, I have quite a lot of energy left over to dedicate to other pursuits: sleuthing, namely. Stay secure in your anonymity for now. It won’t last.

P.P.S. – Do you have any idea what that thing at the base of the cherry-juniper tree in the west courtyard is? I can’t tell, and it’s been driving me out of my mind.

Azula finds herself jumpy the entire afternoon, periodically staring at her door or checking around for any place that a note could’ve been left when she wasn’t paying attention (which is never, but there’s no harm in checking).

She manages to get through a few more fairy tales, at least, and finds only half of them make her want to strangle someone. She wonders about her fellow trapped Princesses, speculating how they whiled away the hours awaiting rescue by some handsome young Lord or Prince. Probably shining with such pure goodness that the walls around them radiated dazzling light, or some other such nonsense. It doesn’t really matter.

Azula isn’t good. She isn’t nice, or radiantly noble, or anything else that this book would have her believe every other Princess in the world is.

Besides, Azula has never really cared for Princes.

To Her Holy Wise-Crack Dispenser, the Princess Azula, the next note, tacked smugly against the inside of her door overnight, reads.

Why, Princess, do my eyes deceive me, or was that a nickname? I know that you view our letters with the same amorous longing as I do, but please –you could stand to have some decorum.

Azula’s face flames in a way that she is quite unused to.

Does it reassure you to think you’re writing to someone with standing in the palace? For all you know, I could be the lowliest cook in the kitchen, or a simple page. I’m sure you’ll be pleased to know, however, that the palace isn’t overrun at all. Instead, your brother has any citizens who need aid or housing staying in spare rooms. It’s very efficient.

You’ve clearly been reading the wrong stories, Princess. My favorites are always about the impossible quests – traveling across the land to retrieve a magical talisman or seeking the elixir of eternal life. Although, to be fair, most are prompted by silly men seeking someone’s hand.

I’m not sure if that’s fair, is it? I’ve always found working with a team is better. Even someone as self-sufficient as you must need a hand on occasion. Still, if there’s anyone who really can rescue themself, I’m sure it’d be someone like you.

P.S. – oh, sure, let me just obviously hunt around for something in the direct line of sight of that window you stare out of all day. That’ll work out just fine.

Azula is so busy fighting back what is likely annoyance that she almost doesn’t register the newest piece of information her pen pal has let slip – they’ve been in her room, when she’s awake, or at least passed by outside enough times to realize that she spends most of her time looking out the window.

The knowledge is neatly filed away, for consideration at a later time, as Azula pens her response –the lines of her writing clear and firm, in contrast to the pit in her stomach.

I don’t appreciate your familiar tone. I have no interest in a boorish, rude man such as you.

She places the note in the inner cover of her book, and places it right before the door. This isn’t a coy message, or a game. It’s a statement.

When she’s escorted back from the bath house, there’s a scrap of paper, right on her pillow.

I’m no man, Princess.

The words haunt Azula for the rest of the day. I’m no man, Princess. So – her mysterious correspondent is a woman. Or like Kallik. This fact digs fish-hooks under her skin and pulls. She’s not sure why it matters so much, but it does. Oh, Agni, it does.

She digs out the list of possible suspects she made so many days ago, and scratches off half the remaining names. For some reason, it’s become ever more imperative that she discover the identity of her fellow conversationalist. And she will, she will succeed at this, because Azula has only ever failed at one thing in her life. She doesn’t intend to make it a habit.

Azula doesn’t believe in procrastination. It’s best to get the pain over as quickly as possible. Zuko sometimes cried, when Father punished him. She never did.

Maybe the reason she’s waited so long to see Kallik again is because she doesn’t know what form this punishment will take.

She marches into Kallik’s office like she’s going to war. It’s been three days since she – she won't say fled. Since she made a strategic retreat.

Kallik has made several requests to see her since, but she’s turned them down. Vaguely, she thinks that working on setting boundaries wasn’t their smartest move, if they really are trying to get in her head. Then again, nothing Kallik does ever quite makes sense. Case in point: they smile at her when she enters the room. Nobody in their right mind smiles when Azula enters the room. Fear, anger, wariness – these are all appropriate reactions to the Crown Princess Azula. Not satisfaction, and certainly not cheer.

“Hello, Azula.”

She stays standing – better to approach this conversation from a position of strength. She doesn’t bother responding with a greeting in kind, instead cutting straight to point, chin raised defiantly. “I’m here. Ask your question.”

Kallik shifts in their chair, crossing one leg over the other. How infuriating, for them to be so at ease, when Azula feels like an overexposed nerve, sensitive to every twitch of heat in the room. “I’m actually glad you’ve held off, Princess. It’s given me some time to think of something good.”

Most likely, she and Kallik have vastly differing definitions of the words something good. “Go ahead,” she says, as stiffly as she knows how.

“Alright then.” Kallik leans back, folding their hands over their ample stomach. “What is a small something that would make you, Princess Azula, happy?”

Azula is a tactician.

From the very beginning, Azula has been a tactician. How to steal sweets from the kitchen without anyone noticing. How to convince Ty-Lee and Mai to follow her so (she thought, at least) faithfully. How to shine bigger and brighter than her disappointment of her brother at each and every step.

How to fell the walls of the one place in the world they said could never be breached.

She’s given plenty of thought to the answers she could give Kallik, once they asked their oh-so important question. What half-answers she could spin, what cleverly-worded diatribes she could spit in their smug, round face.

She’d imagined any number of questions from them: why she had followed her father so faithfully for years, why she refused to just cooperate with her prodigal brother, if she’d had thoughts of overturning the throne, what she would do if she ever broke free, how she’d take over, if only given the chance.

But she’d never imagined anything so… simple. So personal.

“What… would make me happy?” Azula tosses her long, oiled hair over her shoulder with as much derision as she can muster, hiding the shake in her voice by pushing her words out as forcefully as possible. “My father returned to his position of power. Myself on the throne. The Fire Nation thriving in its true supremacy under our rule. That, you Water Tribe peasant, is what would make someone like me happy. Not that you could ever comprehend that.”

Kallik just raises an eyebrow as they take a sip of their tea, which smells suspiciously of sea prunes.

“For someone who prides herself on her memory, I wouldn’t have thought you’d misinterpret my question so severely. I asked for something small, Azula. It may be just my – what was it that you said? – my Water Tribe peasant-ness shining through, but I’d consider the upheaval of the world’s current system of governance quite a large thing indeed.”

Azula’s face flames just a bit warmer. “Well… yes, but you can’t honestly expect someone of my standing to be so satisfied with mundane–”

“Let me make it easier on you, then,” they interrupt smoothly. “What is something that you could have or do – and no, I don’t mean ruling the Fire Nation on high – right now that would bring you… satisfaction. If you were to have it.”

A muscle in Azula’s jaw jumps as she sinks down onto the plush couch. The fur of that awful wolf-skin pelt brushes against her back. It used to be a predator, prowling fearlessly, freely across its domain, but now it’s just as trapped, just as still as she is.

And, maybe, Azula doesn’t want to sit still anymore.

“A walk,” she says, quietly, stalwartly refusing to meet their gaze. “I want to go on a walk. For as long as I like. No set path, no being herded from one cell to the next. Just… just a walk.”

Her voice grows thick by the end of her confession, and she swallows hard, studying one of the woven rugs tossed on the ground.

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean ‘is that all?’” Azula snarls, head rearing back. “It’s perfectly respectable for a daughter of Agni to want to be outside, in His rays. Especially when she’s been trapped inside and cut off from the truest source of a firebender’s strength, wasting away in a damned tiny cell because everyone knows she could kill them in a heartbeat, because she f*cking tried, and she failed and all she wants to do is be in the sunshine for ten Agni-damned minutes without little boys playing at being guards holding swords to her back like she’s cattle because she’s tired and she’s cold and – I just want to go for a damn walk, alright?”

Azula is standing by the end of it, shoulders squared and flames flickering at the end of her fingertips. Kallik’s expression softens, and Azula doesn’t understand why until she realizes her cheeks are wet.

“I– I’m…” Azula swallows, turning from them. “Don’t… don’t you dare look at the Royal Princess of the Fire Nation like that. I don’t need your pity.”

“This isn’t pity, Princess. It’s empathy. Something else we can probably work on in our sessions together.”

Azula hiccups out a laugh, and she would move her hand to cover her mouth, but her eyes are still burning, and she’s crying for some reason, and she can’t stop, and–

“Princess,” Kallik says, with their soft voice, and they’re suddenly crouched in front of her. “I know you’re experiencing a lot right now, but it’s important you remember to breathe.”

“I know how to breathe,” she snaps hoarsely, trying vainly to conceal the way she is absolutely not breathing at all, not even a little bit.

“Follow my lead,” they coax, holding their hands up in a placating manner. “Ready? Inhale for one, two, three, four – now exhale for one, two, three, four–”

They guide her through what must be a dozen repetitions of this cycle, until Azula feels a little less like she’s dying. Whatever monstrous surge of emotion that had seized her has fled, leaving her feeling drained and sore, face hot and tight.

“I’m fine,” she insists, trying to put as much distance between herself and Kallik as she can. She nearly trips over one of those infernal rugs as she goes, all her usual poise and grace seemingly beyond her grasp.

Once she’s still, standing warily in the far corner, back pressed firmly against the wall, Kallik turns to her with those infuriatingly calm eyes. “Could you describe some of the feelings that you’re experiencing right now?”

“Why?” Azula snaps, wiping at her cheeks furiously. The tears sizzle against the heat of her skin, sending up steam. “So you can report back to my brother, tell him how weak I’ve become?”

“Emotions are not a weakness, Azula,” they say, gently. “But no. I haven’t told your brother anything that has been discussed between us. My first and foremost concern is you.”

Azula laughs, bitterly, tasting salt on the back of her tongue. “You can’t expect me to believe that.”

Kallik just flashes a small smile. “No, but I certainly hope you will, in time.”

Azula sleeps hard that night, exhausted and drained as she returns to her cell.

Her eyes snap open as soon as Agni’s first rays shine through her window, and her hand flies to her throat, convinced for a moment there is a hand around it, but it’s only her hair, hanging long and heavy around her.

She sits up and breathes a few times, just to convince herself that she still can. There’s a ragged edge to it, catching against the inside of her chest. She’s wet with sweat, slowly steaming away from the heat of her skin.

If her dreams had been bad, she doesn't remember them.

Zuko taps on her door when Azula’s halfway through another fairy tale –something inane about a fish giving a beautiful peasant girl a dress made of starlight so she can attend the Fire Lord’s ball. Azula startles before she can stop herself, but draws herself up and arches an eyebrow at him as he files into the room, his painted bodyguards fanning out behind him.

Suki stands to the left of the door, and Azula finds herself catching the Kyoshi warrior’s gaze. Her eyes are a startling cornflower blue.

“Hello, Azula,” Zuko rasps softly, settling into his regular chair and flashing an awkward half-smile at her. “You’re looking well.”

“Zuzu,” Azula coos, resting her cheek on her hand and sliding her half-lidded gaze to him. “Shouldn’t you know by now that flattery gets you nowhere? You look miserable, by the way.”

It’s only a half-lie – there are shadows under his eyes, but even now, even here, he holds himself more proudly than anything Azula could’ve imagined that scared little boy she used to know doing.

Zuko snorts. “What was that you were saying about flattery?”

“I’m merely being honest.”

“Well, practice your honesty with someone else, please – I’m getting rather tired of being insulted every time I walk in here.”

“Speaking of, you’ll have to submit a formal request next time you intend to visit, Zuzu,” Azula says, as breezily as she’s able. “Kallik and I have been discussing setting boundaries with others in this difficult time for me.”

“I’m sorry,” Zuko rasps, blinking. “You’ve been doing… what?”

He looks far too stunned for it to be fake; after all, Zuzu was never that good of a liar.

“Oh, they didn’t tell you?” Azula hides a smile behind her hand, something tense unraveling in her chest. “Yes, we’ve been discussing my treatment, and all the many ways it hasn’t been supporting me. You couldn’t think that just barging in here whenever you please and breaking my rest is good for me, now can you?”

“I… I suppose not.” Zuko blinks, then brightens, almost imperceptibly. “You… you like them, then?”

Azula’s short, blunt nails tap against the table. “I suppose you could say that. They’re certainly vastly better than the other leagues of morons you’ve set upon me.”

A real smile – small but genuine –curls Zuko’s lips.

“I’m glad to hear it, Azula.”

“Ugh.” She snorts, turning to look out her window. “Don’t look at me like that, Zuzu. I’m just not planning on boiling them alive any time soon. It’s not like we’re holding hands and singing sweet harmonies.”

“No, no, of course not,” he says, but he’s still smiling. “I guess it’s a good time to tell you what Kallik and I have been discussing, then.”

Something sours on the back of Azula’s tongue. “So you have been talking about me behind my back, then.”

Zuko holds up a placating hand. “Just for this, honestly. They think that incorporating regular exercise into your routine will get some of your energy out and help with your sleep schedule.”

“Exercise?” Azula asks, and manages to keep her voice steady.

“Not training, or anything like that,” Zuko says, in what he probably thinks is a stern tone. “Just a daily walk.”

The fire under Azula’s skin leaps.

She has to remove her hands from the table, afraid that she’ll scorch the wood, giving away what her face does not.

“I see.” She laces her hands together, twists her fingers until the knuckles turn white. “What’s it to be then, another lap around the courtyard when I go to their office?”

“A walk of an hour or so, every day, at a set time you decide on. You’ll have to stay in the courtyards on the east wing of the palace, but can go wherever within those boundaries.”

Azula nods, swallowing hard, and nearly doesn’t hear Zuko’s next words over the roaring in her ears.

“We’ll need to have a squadron of guards with you, of course, but–”

“Zuko,” Azula interrupts, more heat in her voice than she’d intended, “you can’t honestly expect a walk that’s nothing more than a bunch of half-trained boys prodding me along at sword-point to be what Kallik means.”

“We need to have guards on you, Azula,” Zuko says, voice even. “Even conceding this much is a risk.”

“Then have the guards around the perimeter of where I’m to walk,” Azula snaps. She can feel the desperation bleeding into her tone, but she can’t bring herself to care. “You can’t… you can’t just dangle this in front of me, then snatch it away.”

“Alright,” Zuko inclines his head, “but we’d still need at least one guard with you, and we don’t have anyone on-hand who’s highly-trained enough to–”

“I’ll do it,” Suki says, suddenly.

“What was that?” Zuko asks.

“What was that?” Azula demands.

“What was that?” The other Kyoshi warrior cries.

Suki shrugs off the weight of three pairs of eyes, suddenly trained on her. “I said I’d do it.” She casts a wry glance at Zuko. “I dare say I’m ‘highly-trained’ enough.”

“Right, yes, of course, but–” He sputters out some intelligible protest, and the other guard leans toward her, brow furrowed.

“Suki, are you sure about this?”

“Yes, Kiva,” she says, but her gaze is steadily meeting Azula’s. “I’m sure.”

“I suppose it’s settled then,” Azula says, cutting through her brother’s inane stammering. “I’ll see you tomorrow at noon.”

Suki smiles, and her lips are painted flame-red.

“As you wish, Princess.”

“Turn around,” Azula says as soon as she steps into Kallik’s office the next morning.

“Hello to you too, Princess Azula,” they say, half-smiling. “Is this another one of those fascinating Fire Nation customs you seem so intent on tutoring me in?”

“Just…” Azula clenches her jaw, waving a hand at them. “I need you to stand and turn around right now.”

“Alright, alright,” they chuckle, easily, and shuffle out from behind their desk, standing with their broad back to Azula. “Is this everything you wished for and more, your majesty?”

Azula isn’t sure if they’ve ever stood with their back to her. Can’t remember the last time someone intentionally put her out of their line of sight.

Flames flicker at the tips of Azula’s fingers. She lifts her hand.

She could burn them. She could end them right now, and they wouldn’t ever see it coming.

Instead, Azula crosses her arms and turns her own back to Kallik, staring intently at some hideous woven tapestry they have hung up on the wall.

“Thank you,” she mutters.

“Why, Princess Azula.” She doesn’t have to see them to hear the smile in their voice. “I dare say that’s a very big step indeed.”

“Whatever,” she says, gracelessly. She doesn’t care about their approval. She doesn’t. “Don’t get used to it.”

“I assure you, I will not.” She hears the creak of Kallik turning back around and sitting down. “Care to face me again, Princess?”

“No,” Azula says, turning around anyway. There’s a hint of what might be an amused grin on Kallik’s face.

“I figured we might speak of wants again today,” Kallik says easily. “Seeing as it worked so well for us last time.”

Azula does not consider being gripped in the throes of panic as ‘working well’. Graciously, she does not make this point to Kallik’s face. “I get to say something else that I want? Besides a walk?”

“Yes,” Kallik confirms. “And so do I. And then we both work to make sure the other gets what they want, within acceptable limits. Does that sound fair to you?”

Azula considers. The proposal is – in a tactician's view – reasonable enough. “Fine.”

Kallik beams. “Wonderful. I’ll go first, if you don’t mind.”

Before Azula can get the words out to say that she does mind, actually, Kallik is bulldozing cheerfully ahead. “Azula, my chosen desire is for you to work on being kinder to yourself.”

Out of all the possible wants that Kallik could’ve expressed – Azula, please stop threatening to kill me every other session; Azula, kindly stop subtly shifting the furniture over by two inches every time you’re in here so I keep running into it; Azula, be nicer to your brother – Azula had not even considered this as a possibility.

“What,” she says.

“Azula, my chosen desire for you–”

“I heard you the first time, you insufferable buffoon. I mean, why in the name of Agni would I do that?”

Kallik regards her implacably. “Because it’s what I want. And we have a deal, yes?”

“Yes,” Azula says wearily. The whole thing is a farce, but it costs her nothing. “Fine. The next time I find myself thinking ‘Azula, you are an incredible failure who should’ve died fighting rather than allowing yourself to get captured by a moon-eyed waterbender with hardly a lick of talent to her name,’ I will instead think ‘Azula, you are only a marginal failure who should’ve died fighting rather than allowing yourself to get captured by a moon-eyed waterbender with hardly a lick of talent to her name’. Is that acceptable?”

“That is – a start,” Kallik says. “We can work on it.”

We can work on it is rapidly becoming Azula’s least favorite sentence. She sniffs. “Fine.”

“And as for you – what do you want, Azula?”

Now is a time for consideration, strategizing, and far-eyed cunning. Azula hates herself for instead saying, like a gush of blood from a wound, “I want to see Father.” It's the shameful cry of an abandoned child. Not fitting for a prisoner of war. For a Princess. For whatever mix of the two that she’s become.

Kallik inclines their head. Whatever they think about the idea is concealed behind opaque eyes, so darkly brown they’re practically black. “Very well.”

Azula exits Kallik’s rooms with the inescapable and inexplicable feeling that no matter how much she’s won (a visit to Father, the rightful Fire Lord, on her own terms) she has, also, somehow, lost.

There’s no one she can confide this infuriating confusion of emotions to. She doesn’t quite trust Kallik enough for that. Zuzu is obviously out of the question – truly, she has only one recourse. When she reaches the dubious privacy of her own rooms, she sits, and begins to write.

To Mine Eternal Enemy,

I think I may have made a mistake. Ambition: ever my downfall, I suppose. Mother always did always say that I liked to bite off more than I could chew. Anyway, I’m to see Father tomorrow. Kallik has already made the arrangements with our least noble Fire Lord. I have no idea how he took it, but I’m not even sure if I should care at this point. Or if I even do. We’ll see how it goes, I suppose.

If I stop writing – well, you know what happened. You can have my stuff if I die, by the way, meager as it is. I can’t stand the thought of my bothersome brother getting it all, and…

Azula trails off for a moment. She’d have given it to Mai or Ty-Lee once upon a time, but. Well.

I suppose there’s no one else.

Azula leaves this letter on the floor in front of the door, within easy reach. If this is the last letter she ever writes, she wants to make sure it reaches its intended.

It’s later that night that Azula sits straight up in bed, heart beating hard and fast into her throat. It’s been such a long time since she’s had to use these instincts – they’re half-rusted. But it’s harder than you’d expect to lose that sense of the battlefield, the bone-deep knowledge that something’s in your blind spot.

There’s someone in her room.

Chapter 3: Local Princess Feels one Genuine Human Connection and Immediately Regrets it

Chapter Text

The shadowy figure crouches by the door, body low to the ground, and Azula smiles.

“You slipped up,” she says, and her voice is nearly sing-song. She feels – happy. Giddy, almost. “What with all the times you’ve been in here before, one would think you’re above such mistakes.”

Is that a compliment, your highness? she expects to hear – in a low, feminine tone. Or maybe: you can hardly expect me to keep going on like this, Princess. My puns are much more effective in person.

But the silhouette is silent as it draws up – taller and stockier than Azula expected.

“Come to rescue me from my tower, then?” Azula twists her long hair away from her neck, letting it cascade around her shoulders. “I know you’re not a Prince, but we’ll have to make do.”

The figure just tilts its head – presumably joined hands hidden beneath long sleeves.

“You’re starting to annoy me.” Azula rolls her eyes. “And I know that’s your favorite pastime, but I think the rules of etiquette dictate that since you’re the one barging in on a woman past her bedtime, I’m the one who gets to call the shots.”

Still, silence.

She scoffs, starting to stand. “So now you don’t feel like talking? I find that hard to bel–”

There’s a thump against the headboard.

Something warm trickles from Azula’s suddenly stinging cheek, and a low laugh winds its way out of the darkness.

“I think,” the figure says, and his voice is distinctly masculine, “you’ve misunderstood the situation, Princess.”

The soft moonlight shines on the blade, slipped from the man’s sleeves.

Azula’s out of the bed and firing a burst of flame at him before she can even think twice, but he cuts through the blaze with a kick of his leg, moving forward in the same gesture.

He flicks his wrist, and orange flame leaps down his curved knife, shining in his dark eyes.

“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” Azula hisses, and her flame – her glorious, blue flame – rushes down her arms, alighting every nerve ending and casting the room in a strange glow.

“Oh, but I do.”

Azula lunges, and the man blocks her, sneering.

“A traitor.” He swings his knife, and she ducks out of the way, trying to sweep his legs from beneath him. “A coward who didn’t stand with Fire Lord Ozai when she had the chance.”

“I never betrayed my father,” she snaps, kicking out at him. He barely dodges her, but takes a fireball to the chest, sending him staggering backwards.

“Then why do you have your bending, and he doesn’t?” The man snarls, shooting off a jet of fire. She twists through it, watching the orange swirl away around her. “Why are you here in the palace while your rightful Lord rots away in a cell?”

“You think I wanted this?” Azula’s voice is soft.

Heat spreads down her back, through her stomach, down her legs, and the stone floor burns blue.

The man gasps, falling backwards, and Azula walks, slowly, forward through her flames.

Distantly, she can hear a banging from the door, but something’s blocking it.

“You think I wanted to be defeated? Captured?”

He tries to raise his knife, but she easily kicks it out of his hand.

“I wasn’t made to sit idly by.”

He pushes out fire, but her own rises to meet it, and the orange rolls off her skin.

“Why don’t I show you what I was made for, then?”

When light from the hallway cracks in through the now-broken door, he’s down, and she’s on top of him, and his face is bloody and cracking with burns, and her skin is searing, and the room is awash in blue, blue, blue.

Someone’s saying her name, but he’s down, and she can’t let him get up, and she thought he was someone else, and it could’ve killed her, and everything is blue–

“Azula!”

She comes back to herself in flashes of heat and motion. Someone pries her away from the downed man. He’s unresponsive; she doesn’t care. Someone else presses a cloth into her hands. She sets it aside.

Her room is full, full to bursting with guards bristling with weaponry. There’s barely enough space for her to sit back on her bed, hands resting palm-up on her knees. It’s unclear whether the guards are there to keep others out, or to keep her in.

“Azula.” It’s the same voice that pulled her out of her bloody trance. She looks up and sees her brother.

She expects anger, disappointment, disapproval. After all, Azula was the one to let her guard down. Once again, Azula failed, and almost lost her life as a consequence. She presses her hands together in her lap until their shaking is only the smallest of tremors. Her nails dig bloody crescents into her palms. A request for him to save the inevitable lecture is on the tip of her tongue, but she swallows it down. Azula has never been a coward, and she’s not about to start acting like one now. Her pride is the only thing left to her.

But when yellow firelight washes across her brother’s face, throwing his features into sharp relief, it’s undeniably concern that twists his mouth. It’s fear – fear for her – that narrows his eyes.

“Zuko,” Azula says, for once startled into using his full name. Her limbs feel heavy. Her head’s stuffed with cotton. She’s not sure where to look.

“Azula,” he returns. There’s something in his tone that makes her want to hide. He crosses the room in a rush of robes and drops to his knees at her side.

“Get up,” she says, reflexively. The Fire Lord – weak and soft Zuko may be, but he is still the Fire Lord – kneels to nobody, especially not pariahs made of princesses.

Ignoring her, he takes one of her hands between his, his skin cool against hers. She can feel her bones shift under layers of muscle; delicate, fragile things. Her pulse is still wildly out of control. She snatches her hand away before he can notice.

“Are you alright?” And, Agni, he looks like he means it. He looks like he cares.

With a feeling like she’s trying to lift mountains, Azula drags her chin upwards. She forces a smirk onto her lips. “Of course I am. He was an amateur.”

His eyes track something on the side of her face: blood, she realizes, from that first thrown dagger.

“A lucky shot,” she says.

He does not smile. His eyes are so very dark. “You almost killed him.”

Her assailant hadn’t even gotten close enough to lay a hand on her, but she still feels that first sickening rush of panic, the stomach-dropping realization of what could’ve happened if he’d aimed his knife a few inches down.

“He was a supporter of Father’s, I believe.” The blood from where her cheek was sliced open has dried from the heat; it crackles under her touch when she reaches up absentmindedly to wipe it away. “He wanted to send me a message. I suppose the theatrics are better than immediate revenge. I didn’t…”

“A message?” Zuko’s gaze catches on the curved knife, still stuck in her headboard. “Wait, Azula, did he say something to you? Before he attacked?”

“No, I just–” Azula withdraws her hand, flicking at the specks of blood crusted beneath her nails. “I thought he was… someone else.”

“Someone else?” Zuko rears back. “Who else is visiting you in the middle of the night?”

“Don’t get yourself into a fret worrying about my honor on top of your own.” Azula pushes her hair back, averting her eyes. “I simply didn’t expect an assassin to strike now, when I've been quite miserable enough up to this point.”

She can feel each bob of her throat as she swallows down what feels suspiciously like panic. The skin there is so thin. So easily pierced.

There’s the feeling of eyes on her, and Azula looks to the side to see Suki, strong hands clamped down on the assassin’s wrists with a vice grip. He’s barely conscious, teetering on his feet like a stiff breeze would blow him over, but her blue eyes are steady on Azula.

“We’re taking him down to the cells,” she says, likely to Zuko, although she isn’t looking at him. “Top containment. I’ve already got the girls scouring every inch of the palace. It’s secure.”

“Thank you, Suki,” Zuko says, as Azula feels the sharpest edge of her anxiety ebb. “But I’d still like–”

“Double guards posted at either end of the hallway and beneath the Princess’ window?” Suki’s red lips press into a grim smile. “Already done.”

Zuko breathes out, the stiff set of his shoulders relenting. “Thank you, Suki. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Hopefully we’ll never find out,” Suki says in a flash of teeth.

It must be the shadows of the cell, or the lingering sense of almost–disaster, but Azula swears she detects some sort of – fracture in Suki’s face. The proud, confident facade wavers, just for a moment.

Before Azula can do anything more than take that in, Suki leaves, prodding the half-conscious man along in front of her, and there’s a brief flash of something like panic in Azula’s stomach.

You’re not supposed to let your enemy out of your sight. It had felt… safer. With Suki here, holding him.

“Get up,” Zuko says, shortly. “We’re taking you to see a Healer.”

“For a scratch, Zuzu? Don’t be ridiculous.” She does not say, I’ve had worse. She doesn’t need to. His hand rises to the scar on the side of his face like an afterthought.

She gets up.

Agni’s rays are pushing through the clouds when Azula finally returns to her cell, cheek bandaged.

It was a clean cut, the healer explained while Zuko hovered nearby, hands worrying at the edges of his robes. Azula hadn’t let herself fidget. She just sat there, every muscle coiled tight. No chance of infection, if she kept the salve on.

Some maid has changed the bloodied sheets, pried the knife from the headboard, but the rough-hewn floors are scorched, the wooden legs of her bed blackened.

Even the window is coated with ash, and Azula breathes out, letting her ever-hot breath steam up a few inches. She wipes it with her sleeve, and some of it smudges away, revealing the blurred courtyard below.

Every muscle in Azula’s body is screaming with exhaustion, but she can’t sleep with the sunlight slanting in like this. She collapses into her chair, leaning her head against the dirty window.

She looks out at the cherry-juniper tree below and wonders how long it will take to bloom.

“Azula.”

Kallik is up in a rush of blue robes as soon as she walks in, their round face fretful.

“I was so worried when I heard what happened. Are you alright? Physically, that is. I have the feeling we’re going to have to dedicate quite a few sessions going forward to what just happened.”

Azula almost smiles, despite herself. She drops into her now-familiar spot on that awful couch and breathes out, slowly.

“Nothing a healing salve won’t fix in a few days.” She touches her cheek, running her fingers over the tale-tale ridges of a forming scar. “Though I can’t exactly say I’m pleased with the cosmetic effects.”

They sigh, softly. “One of these days, we’re also going to have to have a conversation about how your physical appearance ties into your level of perceived power and influence.”

They shake themself and barrel on before Azula can even begin to formulate a response to that. “Well then, Princess. Where would you like to start today?”

It’s… nice, going over things with Kallik. Like boiling down events that had made her brain fog over and panic wrap around her throat into simple words that she can ruminate over somehow strips them of their influence. There, with guards standing outside – for her in more ways than one – and Kallik listening steadily, Azula runs over the events until they are just that – things she can think about and digest, that don’t form as big a pit in her stomach.

Her throat is dry by the time they wrap up, and she takes the cup of water Kallik offers with a short nod.

“If that’s all you wanted to discuss, Princess, I believe we can conclude there.” Kallik says, as she sips. “And I must say, I very much appreciate your willingness to share this session.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Azula snaps, realizing with a flush of heat up the back of her neck that she hadn’t even thought about refusing. She tacks on, adamantly: “peasant.”

“Good,” Kallik says, and smiles. “You deserve to do things for yourself.”

Azula dawdles as best she can on her walk back to her cell, soaking in what of Agni’s rays filter in through the trees lining the stone path.

“Get moving,” the gruff voice from one of the guards commands, the blunt edge of his sword prodding at her back.

“Did they tell you what happened to the man that broke into my cell?” She asks, mildly. “From what I’ve heard, the burns were so severe that he likely won’t be able to move any part of his body without excruciating pain for… oh, at least two seasons or so.”

She smiles. “My temper can be just so hard to control, sometimes.”

No one rushes her for the rest of the walk back.

In the end, killing is easy. Killing is a chemical reaction, burning from the heart through the veins all the way to the hands. Killing is a necessity.

But Azula hadn’t killed the assassin. She could’ve – easily. Her fingers had been around his throat, her fire lapping at his skin. She’s still not entirely sure why she didn’t.

It hadn’t been for Zuko’s sake, that she’d held back. And not for Kallik’s either. Not even for her father.

Maybe – just maybe – she hadn’t killed him, for her own sake. Because, deep down, she hadn’t wanted to.

She’s not sure whether this makes her a traitor. If she were truly loyal to her brother and the Fire Nation he represented, she should’ve extinguished the threat the assassin represented without a second thought. If she were truly loyal to her father, she should’ve let the assassin kill her in turn, if it was truly Ozai’s wish, as the assassin had seemed to imply.

Azula should have been ready to die at her father’s word. Any true soldier of the Fire Nation would be. But she hadn’t been ready. She didn’t know if she ever would be.

So few choices are left to her now, but Azula can’t deny the fact that she has chosen to live.

Sleeping has come harder and harder to Azula, as of late.

At first it was the lack of stimulation, the sheer lack of differentiation between night and day, but now…

Every time she begins to doze off, her body jolts, and she feels eyes on her. She refuses to call in the guards to check under her bed, like a scared child, so she’s left to her own vigil, as the bags under her eyes can attest.

She wonders if she’s scaring off her pen pal like this. She hasn’t heard from them since the attack.

Sentiment is beyond her, but they were… diverting. When she hopes that they’re alright, it’s only for self-serving interests.

Regardless of her sleepless nights, Azula’s whole body thrums with energy when Agni’s rays peek in, nearly a week after the attack.

The incident had derailed their plans, but Azula and Kallik wore Zuko down again, with some pointed words by Azula on how a Fire Lord shouldn’t go back on his promises and several speeches waxed by Kallik on how exercise was proven to improve the mood and help with severe insomnia.

So, finally, today is the day Azula gets to go on a walk.

She eats her breakfast in quick bites, tasting nothing as she stares outside and waits for the sun to reach its peak. She’s nearly ready to tear her hair out in impatience until a sharp, precise knock sounds.

“Are you ready, Princess?”

Suki’s here.

Metal scratches as the door is unbolted from the outside, and Azula flings it open.

“I take it that’s a yes.”

“I don’t waste my time standing around dawdling,” Azula says archly, although it feels like she’s going to buzz out of her skin any second. “Unlike some people.”

The guards posted outside her door shift awkwardly.

Suki’s red-painted mouth twitches, like she’s suppressing a smile. “Might as well get on our way, then. We wouldn’t want to use up your valuable time, Princess.”

Azula gets the sense she’s being teased. She doesn’t enjoy it.

Neglecting to dignify the Kyoshi warrior with a response, she turns up her nose and stalks past Suki.

“Just don’t bother me, and this should pass relatively painlessly for the both of us.”

For a moment, it’s just Azula, walking alone. No guards surrounding her, no cell locking her in, and she wonders how far and how fast she could run.

“Princess?” Suki calls. “The exit we prepared for you is the other way.”

Azula reminds herself it isn’t in her best interest to set anyone on fire today.

Suki strides carelessly into Agni’s rays, gait easy and loose-limbed, but Azula hesitates for a moment before she steps from the shadowed palace halls into the blinding light.

When she crosses the threshold, it’s with her eyes closed. She can feel Agni’s love, His blessing as the sunshine streams over her upturned face, trickling down her outstretched arms and gently ebbing away that chill that’s resided in her bones for over a year now.

Finally, there’s warmth and light, and the fire in Azula’s blood sings with it.

When she opens her eyes, sated in a way she can’t remember, Suki is looking at her, lips slightly parted, as if in realization.

“What?” Azula snaps, cheeks prickling with even more warmth as she draws herself up, smoothing down her plain tunic.

“Nothing!” Suki startles, clearing her throat. “You just looked… I… Nothing.”

Azula snorts, turning to stalk away. “I thought you were smarter than to take me for a fool, but I suppose I could be wrong this once.”

It takes a moment before Suki’s footsteps sound out, quick as she catches up with Azula before easily falling into stride.

“You have a very strange way of complimenting people.”

“That wasn’t a compliment,” Azula says, as scathingly as she can manage with the sunshine filling every cell of her body. “That was an assessment of the gaps in my tactical knowledge.”

“Ah, my apologies. However could I be so mistaken, Princess?”

There are guards, lining the edges of the courtyard, and presumably even more lining the next. The closest one is about thirty feet away, but even if Azula were to attack Suki now, she'd be outnumbered within a few moments.

That is, assuming Suki couldn’t take Azula down on her own. It’s a tactician’s gaze that takes in the strength of the taller girl, striding along so smoothly next to the pale and weakened Azula.

“Pay for your blunder then,” Azula snarks as they round the cherry-juniper tree. “You might as well tell me what that ‘nothing’ you were so fixated on earlier was anyway.”

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea.”

“Oh, who am I going to tell? Kallik? Sometimes I get the impression they already know everything anyway.”

Suki snorts. “If you think they’re bad, wait until you meet their wife.”

“Agni.” Azula groans, pinching her nose. “Don’t tell me there’s two of them.”

Suki actually laughs at that – a fleeting, melodious sound.

“It’s strange,” she says, after a few moments. “But I almost feel like I know you. Ty-Lee talks about you a lot, you know, and the things she says never really matched up with what I’ve seen. But just now, I realized that I’ve never seen you look… happy. And just then, I felt that I recognized the person she talks about.”

“I find that hard to believe.” Something on the back of Azula’s tongue sours. “I can’t imagine Ty-Lee tells very many happy stories, if I’m in them. Tales of my tyranny, no doubt.”

“Sometimes,” Suki allows, almost smiling. “But also some interesting things about how you’re very competitive when it comes to volleyball.”

“Competitive is the word losers use to describe winners,” Azula snaps. “It’s not a bad thing to be competitive.”

“I never said it was,” Suki says, and for the first time, she smiles at Azula.

Most things – most people – look better under the light of Agni’s rays. Suki is no exception. With His light and her smile, she glows. The sun burns her hair brown and gold and bronze. Her white makeup becomes a thing of genuine and startling artistry, drawing attention to the slope of her nose and the shadow of her cheek. Azula is possessed by the strangest urge to use her thumb to wipe some of it off. Deliberately, she curls her hands into fists and looks away.

Glancing down, Suki catches sight of this action and snorts. “Planning on punching somebody, Princess?”

“Maybe,” Azula says, noncommittal. “Maybe not. It’d never do to give away all my plans.”

“Guess I’d better be prepared, then.” Suki folds her fingers together and stretches them above her head, swaying briefly from side to side. There’s a certain grace to her movements that Azula can’t help but notice. She moves like a dancer. Like a warrior. She moves like there’s nothing to fear. Azula moved like that once, too. Now she feels the drag of chains at her feet, the pull of her hair like a noose across her throat.

With a shake of her head, Azula resolves to banish such thoughts. She’s outside; she’s walking, in the sun, for the first time in over a year. She’s not going to let anything ruin this for her. She’s going to enjoy herself, and even if she’s been stuck with a Kyoshi warrior as a babysitter – well, there could be worse companions.

If Azula’s first victory is the walk, her second is the visit to her father. Zuko disapproves, but he disapproves of most things that are in any manner exciting or fun – often with an indignant exclamation about ‘human rights’ or ‘basic decency’ – so Azula has resolved to ignore his opinion even more than she already does. The night before, she hardly sleeps for quite a different reason than usual. She tells herself it’s feverish anticipation tying her stomach in knots. It’s barely-contained delight that speeds her pulse until her heart feels like it’s trying to claw its way out from behind her ribs.

This time, it’s not Suki who comes to collect her from her cell. It’s four palace guards, all of them unsmiling. Their hands are white-knuckled around the hilts of their weapons. Azula, who naturally disdains being shepherded from place to place like a goat-sheep, for once allows herself to be surrounded. It makes her look more dangerous. It also puts a body between her and–

They keep the Fire Lord in a wing of the palace so desolate Azula can’t call it anything but abandoned. Her footsteps echo off cold stone. Azula thought her cell to be depressing, but there’s not even a window here to brighten the way, just yellow torches that barely pierce the gloom.

Azula walks down, and down, and down, spiral staircase after spiral staircase drawing her deeper into the earth. With every step, something in her dims. When they arrive in front of the cell, bracketed by its own set of guards and lined with so many lengths of chain it could’ve anchored a ship, she has begun to shiver.

“Daughter,” the former Fire Lord Ozai says, rising slowly from the floor of his prison cell. “It’s good to see you again.”

Chapter 4: single father tragically accosted by his only daughter (not clickbait) (emotional)

Chapter Text

“Father,” Azula says, nodding her head in some semblance of a bow.

Her nails are clipped now, but there’s still enough length left to them to dig into the flesh of her palms.

He’s thin. There should be something else she can focus on, some way to rationalize the acidic emotions that are clawing up her throat, but that’s all that she can think. He’s thin.

The cell they’ve stuck him in is clean enough, however dark and isolated it may be. His clothes are threadbare. He’s so terribly, awfully thin.

This is the man who taught Azula everything about war, about the world. About how the two are one and the same. He shouldn’t look fragile, like even if he could bend, the force of his own fire would send him staggering backwards.

“Tell me, Daughter,” Ozai says, and his voice, at least, is how she remembers it – raspy, deep. “Why is it, only now, that you come to see me?”

Azula startles and fourteen years of training kick in, her words coming before she knows what they’ll even be. “Forgive me, Father. It’s only recently that I was able to obtain enough… leverage against our dearest Zuzu to come here.”

“They took your bending as well, then?”

Azula’s head is bowed, and she stares blindly at the rough-hewn floor beneath her. “No, Father.”

“No?” And it’s that same tone that meant Zuko was going to spend the rest of the day at the healer’s. “Then tell me, Daughter. Has my disgraceful son bested you in combat?”

Azula swallows hard, not daring to look up. “No, father. He had a second at our Agni Kai.”

“Then tell me, child. What is stopping you from killing these pathetic men around you and freeing me?”

No one moves. Azula can hear her pulse roaring in her ears.

Her flame is motionless beneath her skin: quiescent, waiting.

The bright note of metal on metal rings out – every guard has their sword drawn, trained for Azula’s heart.

“Where will we go, Father?”

He scoffs. “You can hardly expect me to reveal my plans with all these traitors around us.”

“Didn’t you tell me to kill them? They won’t matter in a moment.” Finally, Azula looks up, staring into her father’s eyes. “Where will we go?”

“To my followers, to build our troops and take back the throne.”

“When half of them are rotting in island prisons far away? Do you have a plan for that, Father? Information on how Zuzu has secured them? On what measures he’s taken while you’ve been locked away?”

“I have loyal soldiers everywhere,” Ozai thunders, and he is so thin. “You will not question your father, your Fire Lord!”

Azula looks into the sunken, hard eyes of the man she had spent her entire life worshiping, just as much as she feared him, and something inside of her flickers out.

“I thought you were the Phoenix King now. Until you were bested by a twelve year old, that is.”

His voice is the same, his words. But that’s all he is now. Meaningless rhetoric that seeped into her for years, filling every empty orifice until she was drowning in it.

It’s so, so cold down here.

Deliberately, she turns to a nearby guard. His eyes are narrowed, but there’s no hiding the fear behind them.

“I’ll be leaving now.”

“Azula, do not walk away from me.” Her father’s voice – dark and dangerous – follows her as she climbs up, towards the light. “Azula, you will not disobey your father! Your Fire Lord!”

Azula shivers, and she keeps walking.

The stairs that lead up from the dungeons are endless, and Azula comes to certain conclusions while her feet move mechanically underneath her:

1. Fire Lord Ozai is a dead man breathing. He has been humbled, caught in chains of his own making. Agni’s light will not bless him again.
2. The Fire Nation has endured regardless.

Azula’s father is a prisoner in his own palace, yet that palace still stands. The sun spins on. Zuko, latest in a line that has remained unbroken for too many dawns to count, maintains order against all expectations.

A year ago, Azula would’ve called the concept of a Fire Nation without Fire Lord Ozai blasphemy. Her father, her father’s land, her father’s people: all one word, one seamless idea in her mind.

But it seems that the Fire Nation had never needed Ozai in order to prevail – the Fire Nation is an eternal flame, abiding, regardless of its master.

Azula hasn’t seen much of her brother’s rule, but what she has seen – the cherry-juniper tree slowly flowering outside her window, the servants’ laughter ringing through stone halls, the way the guards no longer shrink away in the Fire Lord’s presence – what she has seen thrives .

Azula learned the dictate of strength above all at her father’s knee. The lesson was drilled into her through countless cruel demonstrations: that power is the only principle worth pursuing. That the only thing that makes a man worth following is the amount of control he wields over others.

Azula isn’t sure whether or not Zuko is strong. Her brother has a sickeningly soft heart. But one thing she is sure of: whoever it is that deserves to sit upon Agni’s throne, it’s certainly not Ozai. That hollowed-out shell of a man isn’t fit for anything more than a cold cell and a slow death. Not anymore.

The guards don’t speak a word to Azula on their walk back to her cell. There’s something strange in their eyes, some unspoken communication in the way their bewildered gazes catch on each other.

Maybe she should just burn them now.

But she’s tired, drained from speaking with her father, from being so far from Agni’s rays, from the whole wretched ordeal. She just wants to curl up under several blankets and idly read, wishing for another letter to tuck itself under her door.

The scarce few rays that peak through the covered pathway are a balm to her still-chilled skin. She fights the urge to scream when she’s shuffled back into the stone palace hallways.

“Princess Azula,” a guard says, hesitantly, and the others look at him, startled.

“What,” Azula says, flatly.

“You…” He shakes his head, clears his throat. “Your brother will be informed of your show of loyalty to his throne.”

“‘Loyalty’?” Her lip curls. “Don’t make me laugh.”

He blinks, march faltering. “Then why–”

“Oh look: my cell,” Azula says, slithering between a few guards and unbolting the heavy door herself. “Do me a favor and leave me alone, hm?”

She shuts the door behind herself before any of them can protest.

Their confused murmurs permeate through the door as she sags against it, head heavy and cotton-stuffed.

It’s so Agni-damned cold inside.

The window is her first choice, but the filtered light doesn’t do much to warm her and the skin that isn’t lit feels even icier in comparison.

An early night then. Surely she’ll feel better in the morning.

But her sheets are thin-woven cotton, and not even doubling them up and burying her entire body beneath them can abate the chills that wrack her as soon as the sun slips beneath the earth. Sleep pulls at her eyes, but her body refuses to stay still – teeth chattering and skin rioting with moose-gooseflesh.

“That’s enough!” It’s far past the middle of the night when Azula flings herself up with a shout, wrestling the sheets onto the floor and practically spitting at them in disdain. “If you won’t warm me how you’re supposed to, you can warm me another way!”

Snarling with fury, she pushes out her hands to set them ablaze.

Nothing happens.

Azula blanches, then laughs – pretending she doesn’t hear the edge of nervousness to it.

“I must be more tired than I thought,” she mutters. Sliding from her bed and wincing as her bare feet hit the chilled stone floors, she gathers a handful of cotton in her hand and wills it to burn.

Nothing happens.

She laughs, again – high and frantic.

“Burn,” she says, and imagines pushing the fire from her stomach, from the burning core of her passions, her essence as her instructors always taught her.

Nothing happens.

“Burn!”

Straining until her face is red and tears are gathered in the corners of her eyes, Azula claws at the sheets frantically, shredding them so they’re easier to catch alight, holding them in her hands and willing willing willing, screaming until her throat is hoarse.

Not even a puff of smoke. Not even the smallest spark.

When the guards burst in, scanning around for another attacker, all they find is a girl of nearly sixteen, collapsed on shredded bedding, shivering and sobbing like someone tore out her very heart.

“So,” Kallik says, hands folded beneath their soft double chin. “I heard there was a bit of a commotion last night. Care to explain?”

Azula, curled up in a ball on their overstuffed couch, looks at them with dull, flat eyes. “I already told everything to Zuko last night. I’m sure the gossip mill has carried it far and wide by now.”

“Be that as it may,” they concede with a nod of their head. “It’s still valuable to hear your experiences in your own voice. You will always know yourself better than anyone else can, Azula, and as such, you will always be your own best representative. No matter what, your voice is still your own, and it deserves to be heard.”

“I saw my father and it brought up some nasty memories, that’s all.” Azula hums, listlessly, and tugs a fur pelt off of the back of the couch, draping it over her legs. “Or didn’t you hear how the great Princess Azula fell from grace and sanity on what should’ve been the day of her greatest triumph?”

“In that case, I’d say we need to work on some healthier coping mechanisms. Preferably ones that won’t leave you with such dreadful bags under your eyes.“ Kallik tilts their head and frowns at where Azula’s hand is buried deep in the fur. “Are you cold, Princess?”

“What?” Azula sits upright, eyes wide, and looks at the fur like she hasn’t realized it was there. “No!” She shoves it off. “I just… was attempting to experience some… Water Tribe culture.”

They stare at each other blankly for a long moment.

“I think we can both agree that you’re a much better liar when you’re well-rested.”

“That does seem to be the case, yes.”

Kallik smiles that dangerous smile – the one that promises understanding and compassion, no matter what.

“Azula, do you want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“No,” Azula says. “Yes. I… I highly doubt this is something you can talk me through, Kallik.”

“Well, Princess,” they say and smile. “I suppose you’ll just have to trust me.”

Azula has already lost everything. She risks nothing now by telling the truth.

“I need a piece of cotton,” she says. “Or any fluff, really.”

Kallik blinks but takes it in stride. “One moment.”

They pop their head into the hallway. “Hello, guard? Yes, everything’s fine, don’t worry. Could I just borrow that for a moment? Yes, the dagger. Let’s just say we’re doing a trust exercise. Don’t worry, I’m a professional.”

They return with a knife in their hand, and Azula raises an eyebrow. “Does that usually work for you?”

They smile, mischievous. “You’d be surprised.”

Lifting another pelt from a chair, they gently rake the sharpened edge across the fur, gathering a small amount of fluff into their large hand.

“May I sit?”

Once Azula nods, they settle onto the other side of the couch, palm outstretched.

“Not a word,” Azula spits. “Not a word of this to anyone, do you understand me?”

Kallik’s face is uncharacteristically solemn, their dark eyes serious and searching. “I understand, Princess.”

“There’s a test,” Azula says, voice clipped as she gathers the fluff into her hands, “performed on all children of the Fire Nation, to see if they have Agni’s blessing. Cotton or wool or some other flammable substance is given to them, and we see what they do with it.”

Azula takes a deep breath, and pulls. And pulls. And – nothing. Agni-damned nothing . She should be awash with flame right now, absolutely raging with it. She should be sitting at the center of her own personal inferno. But she doesn’t even steam; not even a little. The mass of fluff in her hands sits, undisturbed.

“Princess,” Kallik says cautiously. “Forgive me, but I’m not exactly seeing what the issue is. You haven’t set anything on fire.”

“That’s–” her voice breaks. “That’s the – I can’t – it’s gone.”

They catch on much quicker than she expected, and Azula hates them for the way their face softens, palms held outward in understanding.

“I don’t want your pity,” she snarls, even if the expression lacks half its usual bite. It’s as if something more than her fire was ripped away from her, something intrinsic and elemental. Whatever makes her… her. She’s tired. She’s cold. And she used to be a soldier, she’s been tired and cold before, but not like this , the way chill seeps into her bones and clutches at her lungs. It’s as if she’ll never be warm again.

She doesn’t realize she's crying until tears drip from her chin and onto her chest. That’s wrong, too: the liquid is temperate, even cool. It should’ve boiled away the instant it broke her lash line.

Everything is wrong and nothing is right and her sheets are in tatters and her father is a broken man and she’s babbling, and Azula knows this is his fault somehow, that he’s done as he always threatened he would and taken from her the one thing she’s ever truly loved – he’s taken her fire, because she betrayed him, because she turned her back on him down there in the dark.

“This is not your father’s doing.” Kallik’s voice breaks through the haze in her head, and she grasps onto their words as a drowning woman does to a piece of flotsam. Her hand closes around the torn bits of fur, knuckles white and strained.

“You don’t… you don’t know that.” They can’t know that, because otherwise – because otherwise this is Azula’s fault, and she did this to herself.

“I’m sorry.” Kallik’s tone is gentle. “I know this must be difficult for you.”

Difficult does not even begin to describe the situation, and Azula can’t do anything but laugh, the manic, high-pitched laugh of someone whose entire world has just fallen to pieces at her feet.

“Do you? Do you know? You’re not a bender, you don’t know what it’s like – to have it, and then to not, to have nothing, to be nothing–”

“You’re not nothing.” Azula can count on one hand the amount of times Kallik has interrupted her (they have some strange fascination with listening to her speak, allowing her to complete her sentences even if they don’t entirely make sense) but their brow is furrowed, their words stern.

“Azula, you are not nothing. You never have been nothing. You’re a human being.”

Azula has no reply. She is nothing, because without her bending she has no use. And in order to be something, to be someone, she must have use, purpose.

Kallik leans forward, and takes her hands between their own. Much less danger in that than there used to be, now. “Azula. I want you to do something for me.”

“What?” She thinks about putting up more of a fight, but there’s no point to it anymore. Her vision has gone dull, a gray film laid over everything in sight.

“I want you to think about what you are – who you are – outside of your identity as a firebender.”

Azula says the first thing that comes to mind, the title that has guided the burnt-out star of her life. “Ozai’s daughter.”

(Not Ursa’s daughter. Never Ursa’s daughter.)

“Ah,” Kallik says, with a deep sigh. “How about something else?”

She’s not a warrior anymore, and the appellation of princess is as fleeting and false as her flame. She has no friends, no responsibilities, no duties. She’s not quite so far gone as to call herself Zuko’s sister. “I… don’t know.”

Their hands enfold hers tightly, and for the first time in days, Azula’s frozen fingertips begin to thaw. “Then think about it. For me.”

Azula leaves Kallik’s office as if in a dream. She pays no mind to the guards surrounding her: why would she, when she can’t even snort smoke at them just to see them jump?

Kallik wants her to think about who she is. Who she is . As if it matters anymore, to a disgraced prisoner lacking even the most rudimentary gift of her people.

The word Ozai rips her from her bitter reverie. Typical of her father – not a word about him for over a year, and now the specter of him won’t leave her alone.

Two white-robed servants hurry past, arms loaded with baskets of laundry.

“–two villages near the coast, burnt to cinders. They’re saying the Fire Nation suffers under a false Lord, that Agni’s favor wanes–”

“After all this time? Might’ve had a better chance closer to coronation; now Fire Lord Zuko’s got a solid hold on the throne.”

“Right?”

One of the servants catches a glimpse of Azula and her retinue out of the corner of an eye. His steps falter, and with a muttered direction to his companion, both men duck into an adjacent corridor. Azula feels her lip curl away from her teeth. They’re fools, for discussing such things so openly. In her father’s time, talk like that would’ve gotten both of them killed.

First the assassination attempt; now this news of unrest. Imprisoned and weakened as he is, Azula can still detect Ozai’s legacy at work, plucking at strings and sending echoes out into the ether. It wasn’t just for his bending that her father was feared – it hadn’t just been bending that had razed the temples of the Air Nomads or toppled the great stone cities of the Earth Kingdom. It had been strategy.

Pathetic and diminished as Ozai is now, he was right about one thing: his supporters are still out there. And the idea of a man can be just as powerful as the real thing. Azula knows something is coming – now the question is what ?

(And the other, worse question; the question she desperately wants to ignore, the question that burns in the hollow place inside of her from where her fire was stolen – who to tell?)

“Don’t look at me, and don’t talk to me,” Azula snaps, pushing her way past Suki as soon as the other girl opens the door.

“Hello to you too,” the Kyoshi Warrior says, bemused. “Apologies, should I have canceled our plans? Apparently you could use a nap.”

“What did I just say?”

Suki just looks at her, an eyebrow raised.

Azula flushes under her scrutiny, suddenly aware of the bags under her eyes and the shapeless, unflattering cut of her tunic. “Well?”

“Oh, sorry,” Suki says, breezily, striding past her. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk to you.”

Azula stands, speechless, before snapping back into motion and catching up with Suki just as she rounds the corner of the hallway.

“Shouldn’t you be doing a better job of keeping an eye on your charge, Guard? I can’t say that I endorse such negligence when it happens in my palace.”

“Would you believe me if I told you I don’t think you’re that much of a flight risk?” Suki offers her a half-smile. “Word of what you said to your father’s gotten around.”

“Agni,” Azula mutters, nails digging into her palms. If word had already permeated all levels of the palace, it was no small jump of logic to think it had gone beyond. Whatever of the forces she might command under her father’s name, should the opportunity arise – gone just like that. “The last thing I need is servants gossiping about me.”

Suki laughs – warm like the heat Azula’s missing from beneath her skin. “Sometimes I think gossip’s all royalty’s good for.”

“Don’t let my brother hear you saying that.”

Suki opens the door to the courtyard for Azula with a quirk of her head. “Depending on how the council is behaving that day? I think he might agree.”

Azula breathes out, slowly, and steps into Agni’s rays.

It’s a scorching day out. The sun beats down relentlessly, and even the buds on the cherry-juniper tree look half-dead under the sheer force of heat.

Azula should be hot. Her skin is warm to the touch, sweat beading up on the back of her neck almost instantly, but the chill in her core where her fire should be is untouched.

Agni will have nothing to do with her now.

“Right,” Azula says and wonders how long she will take to decompose if she lays down right now and refuses to get up.

Maybe Suki misinterprets the look on her face (or maybe she interprets it far too well), but her next words are more gentle than they have a right to be.

“If it helps, this is hardly the worst possible outcome. It might even work out in your favor.”

“What?” Azula’s voice is distant; she snaps back into herself, shaking her head. “Oh, you were talking about… I… what?”

Suki shrugs, setting off down the gravel path. After a moment, Azula falls into step. Moving helps a little, at least.

“I can’t imagine it was easy, defying your own father like that,” Suki says and flashes her that red-painted smile. “You impressed me, at least.”

“Oh,” Azula says, and it feels like something in her chest gives a little leap. There’s a brief flash of warmth, but just as she looks away and up to the sky, it abates, leaving her more frozen than before.

Suki side-eyes her, red lips twisted. “Are you alright? You look cold.”

“I’m fine,” Azula snaps, like it’ll be true if she says it enough. “How could anyone be cold on a day like this?”

She pushes her arms down and shoulders back, just to prove it, ignoring the way she can feel her meager body heat leaching away.

“Right,” Suki says, like she doesn’t believe her at all.

For the rest of their walk, Azula doesn’t speak, even if it makes it harder to keep her teeth from chattering.

“Princess,” a guard says, eyeing her warily as she steps out of Kallik’s office the next day with a thick-woven rug rolled under her arm. “Does the Water Tribe therapist know you’ve got their rug?”

“Their name is Kallik,” Azula says, primly. “And I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

Hideous as the thing may be, it’s much better than the cold stone floor. When Kallik notices it’s gone, they just smile and send her back with a second one.

When she returns from Kallik’s office later that week, the fog in Azula’s head is so great that she almost doesn’t see the note, placed neatly on her pillow. It was another long session, another hour of Azula sitting in either frustrated silence or tearful rage while Kallik pushed, ever-so-gently, at seemingly every single one of Azula’s long-held beliefs. She doesn’t know how to make them understand – she was raised like this. She was raised to prize conflict, to abhor weakness, to hold herself up to an impossible standard, and to give it all up now feels like a defeat even more crushing than the one that got her locked away in the first place.

To Agni’s Blessed, the ever-dramatic Princess Azula, a familiar hand reads, and the force with which Azula snaps into herself is enough to clear her mind for the first time in over a week.

She dives for it, as if the paper will fade into her imagination if she dawdles for too long, nearly ripping the paper in her haste to unfold it.

I suppose you’ll ask where I’ve been and why I’ve finally decided to spare you my ‘charming’ company. Feel free! There’s two answers I plan on giving you, so you can go ahead and choose your favorite.

The first being that I finally decided to stop bothering such a high and mighty Princess and leave you to your own devices, only to be overcome with such longing that I – weak peasant that I am – had no choice but to write to you again.

The second being that I heard a… rumor. After the attempt on your life, someone in the room reported that you thought the assassin was ‘someone else’. And, unless you’re keeping me even further out of the loop than I thought, I don’t know anyone who would be prowling around that late at night.

I may not worship you, Azula, but… well. There’s a reason I keep writing.

And I don’t want to be the reason you get hurt, but it’s not fair to make that choice for you.

See how neat my trap is? Your pride will only let you accept the first answer, so we can continue on as always, and even if you do make that choice to never talk to me again, at least you’ll know that you have a friend here in the palace, Azula. Whether you know it or not.

– K

Azula doesn’t realize she’s smiling –grinning like a fool –until she puts the note down and collects herself. She forces her face into neutrality, massaging her cheeks. There’s a strange lightness in her chest, like when she was little and would see Ty-Lee and Mai at the Fire Nation Academy again, after weeks apart over break.

A… a friend. She hasn’t had one of those in a very long time.

Azula’s hands are weak with chill now – the lines of ink behind her pen are shaky, but she presses just a little bit firmer and digs her feet into one of Kallik’s thick rugs.

To my Dearly Detested, K,

Don’t worry –I can’t blame you for your weakness. Not all of us can be up to the level of a princess, after all. I suppose it’s… alright to hear from you again, though.

I’m not sure there’s anything I can update you on, truly. Whatever rank you may be within the palace, I’m sure you’ve heard that my encounter with my father didn’t go as anyone thought it would. I didn’t expect him to be–

he seemed so–

I don’t understand how I spent my whole life–

Suffice to say he didn’t look like the man I remembered.

The encounter left me… chilled. In more sense than one.

Everyone keeps asking me if I feel cold, and I can’t help but wonder how I’ve become so transparent. Kallik tells me it’s a… side-effect of what happened when I saw my father. Makes me wonder how to un– side-effect it.

Out of curiosity, you don’t think anyone would notice just one itty-bitty assassination, do you?

Agni’s blessed, the Princess

Azula stays her hand. No. Not anymore.

– Azula

P.S. I’m joking.

P.P.S. Mostly.

For some reason, the next day, Suki seems to dawdle in the sunlight, claiming she’s tired every time Azula asks why she’s loafing about. Azula would press her, but. Well. She’s never been one to turn down a tactical advantage.

Even if it doesn’t warm her to the core, she still loves the sun.

The following morning, when Azula returns from the bathhouse, there’s a small, cloth-wrapped package on her bed, a note with Agni’s Blessed, the frost-bitten Princess Azula scribed on the front.

Do you know anyone who might want this? It’s shrunk in the wash, and I hate to waste good material.

–K

Peeling back the wrapping, Azula finds a thick-knit garment of sheep-goat wool, dyed a vibrant, lush green, folded neatly. Her fingertips brush over it; it’s softer than she would’ve thought such a commoner’s material could be.

With a cursory glance around –as if someone is standing in the corner, waiting to see if she’ll demean herself with another nation’s colors –she pulls it over her head.

It’s warm, soft. There’s still ice in Azula’s core, but the chill on her skin abates.

For the first time in days, Azula doesn’t feel like she’s about to shiver out of her own skin. A tension she hadn’t even been aware of carrying drops from her shoulders, and she slumps onto her bed with a sigh. This is… nice. Absent-mindedly, she pulls the collar of the sweater up to her nose, breathing in. It smells of crushed grass, of clean soil, of sunlight. She lays her head down on the pillow, ducking her head so as not to lose any of the scent that is still wafting from the cloth.

Almost-warm, Azula finds herself asleep before she even knew she was falling.

She dreams of fresh-ground cinnamon, of laying in the gardens, of a warm, feminine voice purring lines from letters that she has memorized by now. She feels like she should recognize it, somehow, but the thought slides through her fingers like smoke.

So, Azula, that voice purrs, light and teasing. Aren’t you going to say thank you?

To someone like you? Azula says, and leans closer to that dreamed warmth. I think not.

Well then. And hands settle on her hips, a blurry face leaning closer. I wouldn’t mind you showing it.

Azula blinks awake with Agni’s light.

Oh, she thinks, and suddenly has the sinking feeling she’s in a whole new world of trouble.

Chapter 5: the chapter where azula falls in love and nothing bad happens whatsoever

Chapter Text

Once Azula starts thinking about it, she can’t stop thinking about it. It haunts her in the quiet moments, when the sun hasn’t yet broken above the horizon, and all Azula has is the darkness behind her eyelids to comfort her. It besieges her in the cluttered hallways of the palace, in the isolated familiarity of Kallik’s office.

I like a girl .

Like the refrain to a half-forgotten song, she runs it through her mind again and again, searching for the flaw.

I like a girl .

But the flaw will not materialize, because there isn’t one, because it’s true. Azula has turned her back on her father, rejected the rule of her Fire Lord, and with this, her betrayal will be complete.

I like a girl .

A faceless girl, moreover, one who Azula knows only through the words on a page. She can’t help but spend days at a time imagining the face behind the voice, sketching countless features of her mysterious correspondent out into infinite possibilities.

Is Azula’s crush tall or short? Dark or pale? Are her eyes green or brown or blue? Azula dedicates three hours to considering the arch of her nose.

Maybe freckles. Azula likes freckles.

The image Azula eventually settles on is vague. A girl with light eyes and dark hair, shoulder-length and sleek. She’s strong; a warrior.

(It’s only after this fully formed vision has come into being that Azula realizes – this dream of a woman, this mirage – it kind of looks a little bit like Suki.)

I like a girl .

Azula does not run to Kallik’s office. Running would suggest desperation, which is terribly unbecoming for a princess. She walks, quickly, and if her knock at Kallik’s door is slightly more urgent than usual, that’s nobody’s business but her own.

Kallik swings the door open in the next moment, and Azula doesn’t even let them complete their undoubtedly overly-cheerful greeting before she’s pushing past them into the room.

“Azula,” Kallik says, laughing a little. “In high spirits this morning, I see.”

For once, Azula doesn’t take the bait. What she has come to discuss is of significantly greater import than some light teasing.

The door to Kallik’s room locks from the inside. Months ago, Azula would’ve viewed being trapped with Kallik as a punishment – or an opportunity for some… minor intimidation – now she is forced to admit that this space is perhaps her only fortress. Azula flips the bolt and turns to seize the nearest chair, propping it up against the door handle. Then, for good measure, she stuffs one of Kallik’s wolf-pelt rugs into the gap between the door and the marble floor.

“Sound-proofing the room?” Kallik says, wryly. “Is this how the assassination attempt begins?”

“If I was going to assassinate you, you’d know by now,” Azula snaps. “Besides, you’re not even of a high enough ranking for it to be classified as such.”

There’s a window set into the opposite wall. Azula reaches for the latch, struggling to pull it closed. It’s just slightly too high for her to reach. She’s not surprised when another pair of hands overlaps hers, and she and Kallik shut the window together.

“Azula,” Kallik says softly, once Azula has stopped glaring around the room, imagining an eavesdropper behind every tapestry. “What’s going on?”

Azula slumps into what she’s begun to think of as “her” couch. It is, of course, the most comfortable one in the room, and also the one which allows her to see both the door and Kallik at the same time. Her feelings – if she can even call them that – are a tangled skein lodged somewhere under her ribs. Every breath is a labor.

“Your… wife,” Azula says abruptly. “How does that work?”

Kallik settles into the chair opposite hers, linking their fingers together over their comfortable stomach. The smile on their face is unlike any Azula has seen before: not the amused smirk Azula has become so familiar with, nor the welcoming grin that promises a friendly ear.

It’s soft. It’s wistful. It yearns. Azula wants to turn her face away from the honesty of it.

“Well,” Kallik says after a pause. “When two people like each other very much and mutually decide they want to spend the rest of their lives together, they can apply to the elders for a marriage license, and then–”

“I know that,” Azula hisses. The tips of her ears are burning; with shame or guilt, she can’t decide. She darts another uncomfortable glance over her shoulder. Once, when she was a child, she’d caught sight of a pair of guards standing a little too close to each other in the hollows of a dark hallway, their hands intertwined. It had unsettled her for the rest of the day, twisting her guts into knots. What had unsettled her more was that the next morning both of those guards had been gone.

Apparently, Azula wasn’t the only one who’d seen them.

It takes every last one of her nerves to spit out the following sentence. “You’re not a man. But you have a wife. How does that work ?”

“Ah.” For some reason, Kallik’s dark eyes shutter closed. “Princess, that part is actually very simple. I love her.”

Azula’s hands twist in her lap. “But it’s not allowed.” Her tone cants upwards at the end of the sentence, making what should’ve been a declarative statement into a question.

“Actually, it is.” Kallik raises an eyebrow. “You might not have heard in that cell of yours, but one of your brother’s first acts as Fire Lord was to repeal the ban on gay relationships.”

Repeal the –

And why would Zuko be so interested in such a thing? Had he – had he known, somehow, about her, even before she’d had the slightest inkling herself? Had he seen it in her, the treacherous longing for the forbidden?

Or: was he like her, too?

Of course, there was the very real possibility that neither of those options was true. Zuzu had already demonstrated a daunting lack of respect for tradition. He could’ve done it on a whim. He’d spent a year traveling the world with the Avatar; there was no knowing what strange sort of customs he’d been exposed to.

“Azula?” Kallik prompts.

She knows she’s been quiet for too long, but the words burn on the back of her tongue. All she can see are the empty posts at which certain guards once stood.

But Kallik is like her. Kallik is like her, and Kallik can be trusted.

“I,” Azula says. Tears prickle at the corners of her eyes, but she stubbornly swallows them back. She’s sick of crying in this office. She’s sick of feeling guilty, and ashamed, and sad. “I’m not a man.”

“Alright.” Kallik blinks, slowly. “Is that something you were considering?”

“What? No. I–” Azula takes a breath, flexing and unflexing her cold fingers. “I’m not a man. And I… I think I like someone who isn’t a man either.”

“Oh, Azula.” Kallik’s eyes are kind.

“Is that okay?” The words spill out of her with a child’s desperation.

“Of course it’s okay. It’s wonderful! It’s natural. I’m so sorry you were taught otherwise.”

Their words shouldn’t mean so much, but they do, they do , and something cracks open in Azula’s chest, flooding her with relief. She’s not wrong or bad or twisted. (For this, at least.)

It’s okay. She’s okay, and this secret will be hers and Kallik’s like every secret that she’s ever placed in their capable hands.

“Would you like to talk about it some more?” Kallik’s tone is inviting, but doesn’t push.

“Yes,” Azula says, and she does.

“You’re running me ragged, Princess.” Suki exaggerates the flapping of her fan, pulling a face as they wander through the few Azula-approved courtyards yet again.

Azula bites back a smile. “What? It’s barely been two hundred laps.”

Suki flops down on the grass, patting the ground next to her. An invitation. “Have mercy.”

“I get that a lot,” Azula says, wryly, relenting as she settles down.

Spring is in full bloom, everything tender and fresh with new life. Turtle-doves chirping as they flit to and fro, Agni’s rays setting ripples on the pond to sparking like jewels, the cherry-juniper blossoms slowly but steadily unfurling –it’s beautiful.

Suki’s hand is so close to her own. A twitch away.

Azula can feel the warmth of her, even with this short distance between them. Suki’s completely at-ease, smiling softly as she tilts her painted face up towards Agni’s rays.

Azula swallows hard and deliberately fists her hands together in her lap, averting her gaze.

Is it wrong to look at Suki like this when Azula has realized how she feels about K?

“I doubt my brother is paying you to loaf about,” Azula says, and her voice is as icy as the chill in her core. “Let’s get a move on, shall we?”

Suki’s smile slips away. “Everything alright?”

“I’m out here to exercise, aren’t I?” Azula strides away and doesn’t wait as Suki scrambles up to join her. “I’m told it’ll improve my health quite a bit.”

Suki blinks at her. “Have you been–”

Feeling cold lately, Princess? K writes. I certainly hope that sweater found a good home, at least.

You think you’re sly, don’t you, K? I’ll have you know that I bestowed the garment in question to an extremely grateful servant girl who went on to–

“Lavish praise upon me,” Azula says, sticking her nose in the air. “Admit within your small mind that I have accomplished the impossible.”

“Incredible,” Suki says, dryly. “You skipped a rock across the turtle-duck pond six times. No one in the history of the Fire Nation has ever–”

–Looked so incredibly cozy, I trust? K’s familiar, looping handwriting reads. I hope she liked it.

I’ll have you know, K, that fishing for compliments is not at all–

“–becoming of you,” Suki says as Azula opens her door. She’s adorned with a smile Azula can’t quite decipher.

“I beg your pardon?” Azula starts to ask before she realizes what she’s wearing.

Face flaming for reasons she doesn’t want to evaluate, Azula slams the door and wrestles the sweater off of herself.

“Don’t be embarrassed!” Suki calls through the door, laughingly. “You look lovely in green.”

Azula mutters a few choice swears under her breath. “Would you just leave me–”

–Alone, for the most part. I believe that’s the thing I’ve had the hardest time getting used to. When you command, as I once did, you’re used to people surrounding you, hanging off of your every word. Now, even when I scream, it’s like no one hears what I’m saying.

It’s the worst and the best part, I suppose. I have no one to perform for, no one to be strong for, but that just means no one sees me now, as I truly am.

I know what you mean, Azula. I’m a leader as well, and I always feel so much pressure to be an example for the other girls.

But it’s hard, especially when your heart isn’t in it. I had someone leave me, a little while back. He had his eye set elsewhere, and while I can’t deny that they’re a better match, it… I couldn’t help but wonder if it was my fault. If I had done something wrong.

But I had to be strong. I felt like I was breaking, and I couldn’t even show it.

Anyone who would give you up, my dear nemesis, is an–

“Absolute fool!” Azula fumes, stomping her foot.

“What?” Suki cajoles. She’s walking with her arms crossed behind her head, carelessly showing off the strength they possess. “I think it’d work. Sweet and spicy, come on!”

“You can’t just mash up fire flakes and put them on whatever!” Azula protests. “They’re an integral part of the theatre-going experience! Balling them up with your Earth Kingdom ‘marshed mallows’ would be utter–”

–chaos and destruction. Is that what you wish upon me? Is that why you have so cruelly, so rudely, given me a book which ends on a cliffhanger!? Unacceptable. I will take either the next novel or your head on a stick by tomorrow morning.

Chop chop.

Unfortunately, I'm quite attached to my head, so I suppose you’ll have to make do with this book. Besides, I’m not sure if you should know what I look like. I fear you’d be struck blind by my beauty, and I yours, and then neither of us could write to each other again!

On a more important note, do my eyes deceive me, Princess, or was that–

“Another pun?” Suki grins, cupping a hand around her ear as Azula groans. “Is that what you wanted from me?”

“One more and I swear I’m feeding you to the koi-sharks.” Azula levels a finger at Suki in what is quite an intimidating manner, given that only Kallik knows her fire has gone out.

Suki, however, doesn’t seem interested in being threatened.

“Zuko’s been feeding them regularly,” she says, flippantly. “I think he just keeps them around for the ambience, at this point. Besides…”

She smiles, and her lips are red and her eyes are corn-flower blue, and she’s awash in Agni’s rays, and…

She’s the most radiant person Azula has ever seen.

“Something tells me you’d miss me.”

A flush creeps up the back of Azula’s neck.

“You are absolutely–”

–as infuriating as ever. You know her, I suspect? Suki doesn’t seem like the type of person who could blend into the background. I think it’d be easier for me if I could dislike her as I once did, when she was just an obstacle in my way, but… well. She stops in the sunshine, sometimes, and I know it’s for me . She’s amusing in her own way, and I’d be blind not to see that she’s stunning a fit warrior, for someone with no–

Azula swallows hard and scribbles out that entire line, bleeding ink over and over until the words are a senseless mass beneath dripping black. She has no room to demean the bending ability of others now.

A ripple of cold slices through her, and Azula shivers, huddling into her – K’s – sweater. It almost makes her smile.

She’s amusing in her own way, and I can’t deny that she’s an incredible warrior. Not that I’d ever tell her that, of course. She’s smug enough as is.

Don’t worry though, K. You’re still my favorite.

For some reason, it takes nearly two full days for K to respond. The missive, when it finally comes, is short.

You can’t tell me about other girls, Princess. I’ll get jealous.

Azula reads it over and over and smiles more widely than she cares to admit.

“What’s that?” Suki asks one day, as Azula is just a tad too slow in hiding the latest letter under the corner of her blanket.

There’s an odd edge to her voice. Azula considers lying, but Suki has been indulgent with her lately. She’s the closest thing to a friend Azula can claim.

She tilts her nose into the air, smirking. “A princess has many admirers. Not that you would be familiar with the concept of an admirer, but we have been carrying on a… correspondence.”

“Mm.” In the semi-light of Azula’s cell, Suki’s eyes are dark and unfathomable. The straight line of her mouth is very still.

Azula reaches for the letter, the corner of her lip curling up in amusem*nt. “I know you have no appreciation for my witticisms, but my charming pen pal happens to think that I’m – here, listen to this – ‘delightfully amusing’–”

“Princess.” Suki’s voice is as blunt and cold as the flat side of a blade. And she has never spoken to Azula like that, not even in those first uncertain days of their acquaintance. Azula fights to keep from flinching, her teeth clicking closed on the rest of her sentence. “I don’t think this is something you should share with me.”

“What? Why not?” Azula narrows her eyes. “What concern is this of yours? Not planning on ratting me out to my brother, are you?”

“No.” Suki’s jaw works. “You’re right: it has nothing to do with me at all.”

Abruptly, she turns to the door. “I’ve just remembered. I have other duties today.”

The door not-quite-slams when she leaves.

“FINE,” Azula shouts after her, feeling stung and also a little bit like crying. “Not like I wanted to see you today, either!”

“So then she just storms out on me!” Azula, reclining on her couch in Kallik’s office, fumes. “No explanation! And she was weird on our walk today. She kept changing the subject like she was desperate to talk about anything else.”

“I see.” Kallik consults their notes. “And this is the same Suki who you’ve been describing as ‘unfairly buff’ and ‘so stupid pretty that I want to fight her’?”

“Yes, keep up, Kallik.” Azula huffs, then: “wait, why? You don’t think she’s jealous of K, do you?”

There’s a strange thrill in her stomach at the thought.

Kallik hides something that is either a smile or a sigh behind their notepad. “No reason.”

Screaming wakes Azula up just before dawn.

She barely has time to take in the stench of smoke –thick and heavy in the air – before two guards burst into her room, their faces grim and soot-stained.

“What’s going on?” She sits up, pulse spiking.

Outside her window, firelight flickers.

“You need to come with us,” one of them says, flanking her as she scrambles out of bed.

“What’s happening?!” She demands again, but they just grab her arms and herd her into the hallway.

They’re nearly trampled as soon as they emerge.

The hall is jam-packed with panicked people, rushing around in no discernable direction but away.

“They’ve breached the inner walls!” someone yells and the crowd wails.

Once again, Azula tries to shout, but her voice is swallowed in the chaos.

The guards strong-arm her though the crowd, but bodies slam against her– stamping on her feet, buffeting her about.

“Everyone, remain calm!” A strong, raspy voice cuts through the noise, and for a moment, Azula doesn’t recognize her brother.

He’s awash in the firelight, a bruise forming high on his cheek, but his back is straight and his gaze is unwavering.

“All non-fighters are being kept safe in the main ballroom. Those of you who are trained and wish to fight, follow me.”

As if by magic, the noise of the crowd is reduced to a murmur; a few people split off and chase after Zuko while Azula’s guards take the lead, guiding the rest of them through the palace’s twisting corridors until they emerge into the light of an enormous dance hall.

People are clustered against each other –parents rocking their sobbing children, medics tending to a few injured soldiers, and others staring with hollow-eyed fear at the doors as if waiting for an enemy to come rushing through.

“Stay here,” one of Azula’s guards says, and they sprint back through the doors, into the darkness and the sounds of war.

“What is happening?!” Azula shouts after them, but there’s no answer.

Until she glances around, beseeching, she doesn’t realize people have shrunk away from her; their glances at her are haunted, shocked.

Azula has been locked away from the world for a year now. She’s some stranger, wearing the face of a cruel princess they half-remember. (And a green sweater, oddly enough.)

They’re afraid of her, and it doesn’t feel as good as she remembers.

“You.” She turns to the servant who was slowest to creep away. He flinches. “Answer me. Who is attacking?”

“The… the New Ozai Society, your– Princess–” He stammers, fumbling for a prisoner’s title that won’t get his skin seared off. “The New Ozai Society, miss.”

A chill runs down Azula’s spine, but she just stares flatly until he babbles.

“They– they oppose your brother and think that he ruined the honor of the Fire Nation by making peace with the other nations. They want Ozai to retake the throne, to go back to the way things have been since Sozin’s rule.” He swallows hard, risking a glance up at her face before his eyes drop back to the floor. “But… you stood up to your father, didn’t you, miss?”

“By Agni, does everyone know about that?” Azula flexes her fingers, half-hoping a flame will spark to life between them.

The servant risks a smile up at her.

Azula narrows her eyes.

The smile disappears.

“Several of us were very impressed, miss. Of course, a bunch of people thought it was a ploy to get on your brother’s good side, since Ozai isn’t in power anymore and Fire Lord Zuko is” – Azula’s arms cross – “but of course I was very impressed! And moved! That you would show such loyalty to the throne!”

“Loyalty,” Azula mutters. Everyone seems to misinterpret her actions as just that. Meanwhile, the only person that has ever been deserving of Azula’s loyalty is herself.

The servant opens his mouth again, undoubtedly to spout something else inane, but he’s cut off by the absolutely massive explosion that rocks the stone beneath their feet, sending dust sifting down from the ceiling.

Azula would know that sound half-dead. That is the song of a firebender fighting at full force, superheated air expanding with enough power to blow through bone.

But which side is that firebender on? Her brother’s? Her father’s? That explosion had been uncomfortably close.

Azula grits her teeth. She’s not interested in dying surrounded by random citizens, pinned in like the prisoner she is. If she’s going to die, she’s going to do it fighting. There’s no guarantee Ozai’s people won’t come for her again, and in this crowded room, she doesn’t stand a chance in hell. Especially not without her own fire. It’ll have to be her fists and feet, and that requires space for her to maneuver.

Luckily, the guards seem more concerned with keeping others out than keeping her in.

… The guards seem more concerned with keeping others out than keeping her in.

Azula straightens, slowing her breath to a glacial crawl. Old instincts come roaring back, the ones of blood and steel and fire. If she had her flames, what she’s about to do would’ve taken her ten seconds. As she is, it’ll take her fifteen.

One.

Azula steps forward and wraps her left arm around the neck of the nearest guard from behind. With her right hand, she reaches for his knife belt.

Three.

Her left arm flexes, elbow contracting over the guard’s windpipe. He goes red and wheezes, fingers clawing, but she’s pushing into his pressure points and he slumps over.

Six.

She pulls the knife free and spins to face the room, putting the hapless guard between her and the others. The rest of the guards are too slow to react, hands dropping to weapons with a painful sluggishness.

Ten.

She takes three quick steps backwards until her shoulders bump against the closed door. Letting go of the unconscious guard with one hand, she uses it to fumble behind herself for the door latch. It’s locked from the inside and the work of a moment to throw open.

Thirteen.

“Don’t follow me,” Azula hisses, and her eyes shine with a deadly, nearly-forgotten fire.

The doors slam closed, and she sticks the blade in the handles, holding it fast.

Fifteen.

Pulse racing in her ears, she turns and races down the corridor, and she’s outside and there are no bars to cage her in, no blades at her back, no set schedule to her day–

She’s free.

She’ll start over, somewhere. A new life as a, a – goat-sheep herder on a mountain so remote that the only other people she’ll see are hermits like herself and the occasional lost traveler. Fresh, open air and a mountain top so close to Agni’s sun she’ll be able to reach out and touch him. No more of Fire Lords or of servants who can’t look her in the eye or of guards hemming in her every step. There’s nothing left for her here, nothing save a cold cell and a colder death.

(There’s nothing for her here but a girl who writes Azula letters with clockwork regularity; nothing but the first person Azula has ever trusted with a little piece of her heart. Nothing but walks with something like a friend and a brother who is all pitiful soft eyes and painful sincerity.

Nothing but a girl – maybe even two of them – who makes her forget about the ice in her chest.)

There’s a flash of light to her left – she lists right, slipping into the shadows wherever possible. Footsteps thunder down the path, and she throws herself to the side, hiding in an enclave until a group of red-robed invaders, faces covered by shrouds, swarm past.

Ozai’s army.

What could’ve been her army, now out for her blood.

“Don’t take a step closer.”

The voice is familiar, and Azula’s blood freezes.

She takes the two steps forward that are required to bring Suki into view almost involuntarily. She’s in the middle of the courtyard, dozens of people on both sides drawing blood, but she shines even among the ferocity. A kick sends an insurrectionist reeling backwards, right into the crosshairs of another Kyoshi Warrior. On her backswing, her fans lash out, taking down two men at once.

She’s moving so fluidly that it takes a moment for Azula to see an arm of her robes is torn clean off, the skin beneath lacerated. She’s bleeding, sluggishly, but her gaze is sharp as she stares down yet another red-robed rebel.

He sneers, lips curling beneath his veil. “You are a trespasser here on Agni’s lands, Earth Kingdom peon. Do not tell me where I can and cannot step in the palace of my Fire Lord.”

“Your Fire Lord?” Suki laughs. “Your Fire Lord is a mad old man locked away in the dark. His throne is gone. His power is broken. You follow a fool – worse, you follow a liar .”

The retaliatory strike comes so quickly Azula almost doesn’t see it happen. Suki is already swaying on her feet, and the insurgent slides inside her guard in a flurry of red robes. She’s quick enough to deflect his blade on the upswing, but he catches her with the hilt on the downstroke.

She falls back, slamming into the cobblestone. She doesn’t get up.

Azula starts to run.

The insurrectionist lifts his blade.

The muscle memory of a hundred prior fights kicks in and Azula throws herself forward on instinct, hand flying out.

A single, tiny spark fizzles between her fingertips.

She lands, hard, on the ground and the insurrectionist looms above her, eyes dark.

“I thought, for a moment, that you were Princess Azula.” He pulls a long, wicked knife from his robes; with a flick of his wrist, the metal is engulfed in bright yellow flame. He lowers it, and the flames lick against her crossed arms, painful and hot in a way she’s never known. “I must have been mistaken. She was a hero, a true warrior. She had a fire–”

Azula throws her weight to the side in a move she’s seen Ty-Lee do a million times before, sweeping his legs out from under him. He goes down, hard, and his head hits the cobblestone with a crack.

“I think,” she says hoarsely, “you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

“You didn’t bend?” The voice that comes from behind her is vague, slow, as if the words have to be strung together a syllable at a time. It’s nearly inaudible over the din of battle.

Suki lays in a heap on the ground, eyes unfocused on the sky, painted orange with the firelight of a dozen different battles.

Azula bites out a curse and drops to the ground next to her, hands fluttering uncertainly. Azula has never been a healer; her talents always tended towards destruction.

“What happened to you?” Suki slurs, those blue eyes drifting towards her.

“Don’t you dare,” Azula hisses, “be worried about me when you’re bleeding out!”

With two yanks, the hem of Azula’s nightgown rips away. It’s filthy with ash and soot, but it’ll do. Taking Suki’s arm, she wraps the makeshift bandage around it.

Suki looks up at her, as best she can. The Kyoshi Warrior’s eyes are glazed, her gaze unfocused. There’s blood streaming from one of her ears.

“Azula,” she says, softly, as if the name means something to her.

“Don’t you dare go to sleep,” Azula says, sharply, wrapping the bandage more tightly. “Stay alert.”

“Azula,” she just says again, and smiles that radiant smile. “You’re wearing my sweater again.”

Azula’s blood runs cold.

“This- this isn’t yours. It can’t be.”

Suki makes a small noise, as if in protest, but her eyes are sliding closed.

“Suki,” Azula says, sharply. “Suki!”

But the Kyoshi Warrior doesn’t stir.

Around them, the battle rages – lit in flashes of yellow and orange and red as Agni’s rays begin to burn the sky. People are screaming, fighting, dying, but all Azula can do is stare at Suki’s lax, unconscious face.

There’s a life Azula could live, far away from here. It isn’t too late.

“f*ck you,” Azula says, with all the sincerity in her heart, before gathering Suki in her arms and racing for the healers.

The battle is over by the time Agni has fully overtaken the sky.

Azula doesn’t run. She doesn’t fight.

She sits in a rickety chair in the healers’ wing, arms crossed over her chest, and mind buzzing so hard she’s completely numb.

Her brother is making rounds, checking on the wounded, shedding a tear for the dead, but he doesn’t even notice her until he’s nearly atop her.

“Azula?” Zuko’s face is lined with ash and worry. “Are you hurt?”

She flexes her hands, feeling the places where the insurrectionist’s flame scalded her skin. “Nothing severe.”

“Then why are…” Zuko’s gaze falls to Suki, fast asleep on the thin cotton cot. His amber eyes dart from her to Azula and back again, and his face does something strange. “Oh.”

“Your guard,” Azula says, with as much venom as she can muster, “and I are due for a little chat.”

“It’ll have to wait,” Zuko says, expression falling back into grim worry. “We’ve got a problem.”

Azula snorts. Zuko’s talent for stating the obvious has hardly depreciated over the years. “You’ll have to be more specific, Zuzu.”

Zuko stands from the crouch he’d dropped into, and the shadow he casts is endless.

“Father escaped.”

Chapter 6: In Which Azula Throws Herself Around Dramatically for Like a Week

Chapter Text

It’s harder than it should be, to leave Suki– K– to leave whoever she is, still asleep on the healers’ thin cotton cot, but some things take precedent. Namely, the dark tone in Zuko’s voice, the strange, fearful look in his eye when he told Azula the news.

Father escaped.

They’re whisked away by guards into the least-charred of Zuko’s council rooms, where grim-faced advisors and generals with long robes and fretful eyes are muttering to each other in low, hushed voices.

“Ladies, gentlemen.” Zuko’s raspy voice rings out, and they scamper into their places at the long discussion table. Zuko takes his seat at the head, Azula hovering at his elbow. “What do you have for me?”

“Lord Zuko,” a woman Azula doesn’t recognize says, casting a nervous glance her way. “Are you… are you certain your sister should be present for this conversation? Even without her bending, she’s–”

Whatever else the councilwoman says is drowned out by a sudden roaring in Azula’s ears.

“What did…” Azula blinks, swallowing down the sudden knot in her throat. “What did you say about my bending?”

“It’s… gone, isn’t it, Princess?” The woman glances around uncertainly, but the other council members nod in affirmation. “Several other warriors reported that you were unable to produce anything other than a spark on the battlefield.”

A cold pool of dread pours over Azula, the frozen center where her fire should be aching.

“Azula,” Zuko says, softly, turning to her. “Is this true?”

She’d only told Kallik, only vocalized what happened to her in a soundproofed room, with the one person she trusts to hide each and every one of her secrets away. Now, an entire room full of strangers stare at her, prying; an entire palace knows that Agni has turned his back on her.

Azula turns her head, her unruly hair falling in front of her face like a curtain. “They saw it, didn’t they?”

“You weren’t informed, Lord Zuko?” Another voice Azula doesn’t bother to track asks.

“I’ve been otherwise occupied,” Zuko says, tersely. “The damages to our people, our losses…” He shakes his head. “Ozai’s supporters have turned against the Fire Nation in every conceivable way.”

The room falls back into business, discussing how the insurrectionists got in – several guards manning the gate taken out by long-range archers – what their weaknesses in security were, where Ozai could’ve possibly gone.

Azula stands, quietly, eyes darting around the room as she takes in every word, every microscopic interaction between the members of her brother’s council.

Zuko doesn’t seem to notice how a General leans a bit too far into a councilwoman’s space, how two of the men on the far side of the table are exchanging glances whenever someone makes a particularly interesting point, how the two women nearest Zuko’s other side seem to rely on each other’s words more than anyone else’s.

It shocks her how much revulsion fills her chest as they discuss her father. How much she hates him – for taking her flame, for exposing her secret, for burning her world down and escaping in the swirl of ashes.

“There’s only one thing to do then, isn’t there?” Azula interrupts. Every eye in the room moves to her. “We track them down and kill them all.”

“That won’t solve the real issue here, Azula,” Zuko says. “They believe that the Fire Nation was better off under Ozai. There are people – my people – who aren’t happy under this rule. Even if we… eliminate them, there will be more.”

“They’re unhappy because they’re fanatics,” Azula snaps, the scalds on her hands and arms throbbing. “Because they believe the only way to be fulfilled is to burn everything down and worship the ashes of whatever’s left.”

“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you, Princess?” A councilman interjects.

“Governor Uzesu, hold your tongue.” Zuko’s jaw stiffens.

“But he’s right, Zuzu. I do know all about that.” Azula leans forward, drumming her fingers on the table. Her nails have grown slightly, digging shallow gorges into the soft wood. “Which is how I know that the only way to get rid of a monster… is to destroy it.”

“Enough,” Zuko says, lowly, then, turning to the room: “that’s enough for today. I have to arrange clean-up and a period of mourning. We’ll reconvene tomorrow.”

There’s muttering as the council begins to disband, Zuko standing and swirling from the room in his official robes, but Azula chases after him.

“What are you doing?” Azula hisses, grabbing onto her brother’s elbow. “Don’t be a fool, Zuzu. Father escaped. You need to have a plan!”

Zuko pulls away, shaking his head. “I do have a plan, Azula.”

His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but the hint of a smile curls it up. “I’m going to call in some old friends.”

The “punishment” for Azula’s escape attempt is delivered the following day. Azula doesn’t think it’s quite fair – the only people she’d seriously injured had been insurrectionists (and that one guard), as she’d been taking Zuko’s side , for Agni’s sake – but there are, apparently, certain rules.

Three days of isolation in her cell. No walks, with Suki, or with anyone else. Her sessions with Kallik remain uninterrupted, but the guards that escort her to and from the appointments cage her in closer than normal, loath to see her set even a toe out of line.

Most of Azula is furious and exasperated, and she makes her displeasure known in slamming doors and slow, unwilling compliance. She’d gotten used to sunshine and fresh air, to – companionship. Having it stolen away just as she was growing accustomed to a gentler mode of living seems crueler than never being given it in the first place.

The other part of Azula, the small, sad part that she keeps rigidly penned away because she knows that sorrow is weakness; that part is relieved. She doesn’t want to face Suki. She doesn’t want to face anybody, but especially not Suki. How the other girl must’ve thought her pathetic, duping her for so long. How she must’ve laughed, watching Azula make a fool out of herself searching for something right under her nose.

Was it all a lie? An elaborate ruse to gain the sympathy, the attention, the confidence of a princess?

Azula’s stomach twists at the thought, but she can’t ignore the possibility that this was Suki’s plan all along, to coax Azula’s heart into her hands until the time came to crush it. Before all else, Suki is a warrior of Kyoshi, and neither that Avatar nor her disciples are especially known for their mercy.

But.

But if it was just a role Suki was playing, she’d committed to the extreme. She’d shown Azula kindness when the situation had hardly demanded it. She’d lingered with Azula in Agni’s rays until the both of them had been sun-soaked and warm all the way through.

She can’t really believe that Suki had given her the sweater out of false sentiment. She doesn’t want to believe that Suki had given her the sweater out of false sentiment.

Even now, bitter and bereft of company and knowing that she’s been betrayed, Azula can’t quite bring herself to hate Suki.

“So,” Azula says. In the disarray of the fight, Kallik’s office had luckily remained untouched, and Azula takes comfort in the familiar blue-and-white decor, the rugs and the candles that she’d once found so irritatingly alien. Kallik, too, looks much the same as always: plump and genial, a vague air of satisfaction only amplified by the amusem*nt that turns their mouth up at one corner.

“So,” Kallik echoes. “It’s been quite… eventful around here recently, hasn’t it?”

Eventful is one term for it. Sheer, unadulterated chaos might be another.

“Just another day in the Fire Nation,” Azula drawls. “Insurrection, infighting, attempted murder – you know, the works. We’re nothing if not consistent, at least.”

She goes to fold her arms across her chest and winces when pain sparks from the tips of her fingers all the way into the base of her neck. The Healers told her she’d be in discomfort for a while, but that doesn’t mean she’s enjoying it. Kallik, catching her expression, raises an eyebrow.

“Are you in pain, Princess?”

“Just a little,” she lies. It’s not the pain that bothers her, not really. It’s that–

“They’ll probably scar,” she tells Kallik, looking down blankly at where her arms are swathed in long, cool linen bandages. “The insurrectionist I fought against held his flame there for quite a while.”

They listen in their calm, compassionate way. “And how do you feel about that?”

She swallows hard, trying not to let her eyes fog over. She’s always hated crying, but even more so now that the tears linger, rolling down her cheeks in fat, sticky lines instead of boiling away.

“I’ve had scars before.” It’s true, even. Blades have run against her shoulders, rocks have shorn skin from her ribs, sharpened hairpins have dug into her wrists – Azula is no stranger to pain and the scars that follow in its wake. But… “I just never thought I’d get burned.”

Her voice is thick, and she’s losing the battle between herself and her eyes.

“It’s alright to cry, Azula,” Kallik says, softly. “It’s a necessary outpouring of emotion. In the Water Tribe, we believe that it’s–”

“–cleansing,” Azula interrupts, quietly. “That the water washes away excess, leaving you clean and centered.”

She almost laughs at their surprised look. “I pay attention when you talk.”

“Will miracles never cease?” They say, wryly, and Azula really does laugh – soft and hiccuping through the tears. “But it doesn’t just matter if you remember something, Azula. It matters if you understand and internalize it. And I’ll repeat myself however many times it takes for that to happen.”

“Prepare yourself for a sore throat, then.”

They grin, but there’s a lingering awareness to their gaze that makes Azula want to turn her face away. “You’re in fine form today, Princess. If I didn’t know better I might think that you’re trying to distract me. Anything else you want to talk about?”

Azula presses her lips together until she can feel her teeth scraping the inside of her mouth, tearing at thin skin. Sometimes, Kallik’s ability to read her relieves her of the burden of finding the clearest words in which to express herself. Other times, Azula really wishes that Kallik’s eyes weren’t so keen, didn’t feel like they could see right through wherever feeble secrets she tried to keep hidden away.

“It’s Suki,” Azula admits, quietly. “Or K. Or – whatever. It doesn’t matter what I call her, if I’m talking about the same person in the end.”

Azula has told Kallik the worst things about herself. The neuroses and the dark, obsessive thoughts; the things that keep even her up at night. She’s told them about Father, and the way that pain was the only language the two of them shared. But it’s this, after all that, that forces the first expression of surprise from Kallik. For the span of a single second, they are speechless.

“Well,” Kallik says, and clears their throat. “That’s not ideal. I can’t imagine that was easy for you when you found out.”

And here come the tears again; Azula dashes them away with an impatient hand. “No, it wasn’t. During the fight, Suki almost – almost died in my arms, because she was being an idiot – and I, I could’ve just left, you know, I almost did, but she – she was lying there, so still, and she said that I was wearing her sweater.”

Kallik waits patiently for her to force the rest of the words past the lump in her throat.

Eventually, Azula manages, “I feel stupid. I feel used. And I feel like I’ve just lost my only friend.”

Kallik leans forward, earnestly catching Azula’s gaze. “It’s entirely valid for you to feel that way, Princess. Suki broke your trust, lying to you as she did. I’m sorry that she wasn’t honest with you from the beginning.”

“If she had been–”

But Azula can’t finish the sentence. If she had known, from the very start, that K and Suki were one and the same, she might have rejected K’s letters out of hand. She might’ve kept Suki at arm’s length, determined to continue enforcing her own self-imposed isolation. And then she would’ve lost Suki before she ever even got the chance to have her in the first place.

It might’ve been worth it, Azula thinks. Because then Suki would never have had the chance to betray her in the first place, and Azula wouldn’t be burning from the inside out, torn apart by the pathetic foolishness of falling for the wrong person.

“Do you want me to tell your brother that you’d rather not see her again?” Kallik asks. “I’m sure we could arrange that.”

Azula’s mouth goes dry. For all her anger, for all that she’s been deceived and misled, she doesn’t know which prospect is worse. Seeing Suki again – or not.

Azula expects her brother, when she hears the knock at her door –coming by with news or some empty platitudes. Or a guard, perhaps, letting her know that it’s time to go to the bathhouses.

She doesn’t expect Suki, arm wrapped tight with a bandage and bruises blossoming on her bare face. Without the makeup, she almost doesn’t recognize her.

Freckles is all she can think in the moment before reality crashes in. Suki has freckles.

In the moment after reality crashes in, she slams the door closed.

“Princess,” Suki says, plantatively, and Azula hates that she can hear all of K’s letters in that voice. “Please. We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you, guard.” Azula spits the title out like a curse. “Since you seem so delighted with hiding things from me, I don’t see why I shouldn’t do the same.”

“Azula, I…” A thump, as if Suki let her head rest against the door. “I never wanted to hide it from you. I just didn’t see any other way.”

Azula flings open the door, and Suki stumbles in.

She catches herself, looking up at Azula then down again, swallowing. Azula crosses her arms.

She’s cold, but she hasn’t put that sweater – filthy and burned and torn – on again.

“K,” Azula says, stiffly. “For Kyoshi. You must think I'm a fool.”

“Of course I don’t,” Suki protests. “You… you’re brilliant, Azula. But I couldn’t tell you who K was! You need a friend, and I wanted to be there for you, but how would you have reacted if you knew it was me? Your guard, your old enemy. And by the time you mentioned me to… me, I couldn’t let you tell me something that you weren’t ready to share, especially if it was about me. I didn’t know what to do.”

“I told you!” Azula cries. “I told you about yourself, and you lied to me. Suki said it had nothing to do with her, and K…” Azula turns her head, cheeks flaming as she remembers the butterfly-bees in her stomach.

You can’t tell me about other girls, Princess. I’ll get jealous.

“K distracted me with exactly what I wanted to hear.”

Isn’t it strange that anger and… everything else Azula feels for Suki both make her heart race.

“You knew,” Azula says, helplessly. “You had to know how much you meant to me. And I didn’t even get the truth from you. Just nonsense as I threw away my only chance to be free because I couldn’t leave you to bleed out.”

“I’m sorry,” Suki says, quietly. “I never meant for it to happen like that. But when you came to rescue me, I was so dazed, so in shock, that all I could think was how happy I was to see you. I didn’t know what I was saying.”

The words should have set Azula aglow, but they just sour something in her stomach. “So you weren’t going to tell me?”

“No! I mean, yes– I…” Suki slumps over, rubbing at her injured arm. “Maybe. But not like that.”

She looks as tired as Azula feels, and Azula turns away, deliberately. “I think you should leave now, guard.”

In her peripheral vision, Azula sees Suki look at her, but she can’t decipher the expression on her face as Suki slinks towards the door.

“I’m sorry,” she says, once more, and Azula laughs – bitter and breathy.

“You have no idea how much I wish I believed you.”

Then Suki is gone, and Azula is left with only the aching chill in her core.

It’s at Kallik’s suggestion that Azula’s security is loosened.

She’s not as much of a threat as she once was, they’d argued to Zuko. It’s public knowledge that she’s no longer a bender. She’s injured; she can’t even hold a blade properly with her sore and smarting hands.

Kallik had made her sound like a mewling kitten, but Azula can’t deny that she’s enjoying her newfound independence. She can leave her cell as she likes, now, as long as she takes a guard with her. It doesn’t have to be Suki, anymore. Everyone knows she’s weak now, and fewer people flinch when her golden gaze turns to them. The residential areas of the palace are still off limits, but she’s free to wander through the gardens and some of the wings that are given over to administrative work.

She feels a bit like a ghost of herself, haunting a place she once owned. She paces quietly through hallways that she used to thunder down, raging and flinging sparks. Scribes and servants who, years ago, would’ve cowered at her coming, now stare at her like she’s a circus attraction.

Consequently, Azula’s new favorite place is the roof.

It’s often empty of everyone but the odd meditator, turned to face the rising sun. Azula leaves her guard near the stairs and goes to sit by the lip of the building, staring out at the terraced levels to the palace that stretch towards a distant horizon. The city sprawls out below like the spilled contents of a child’s toy basket, bright and buzzing with life.

Under Ozai’s rule, all had been grey – the palace, the streets, the people.

Zuko’s Fire Nation, on the other hand, screams with color. Zuko’s councilors chatter in the hallways and shout greetings over each other’s heads. Zuko’s servants wear red and gold and green on the hems of their robes and are not afraid of drawing attention.

Zuko’s city hums and bustles and breathes. Azula knows it’s possible to stifle even the most promising of fires, using wet wood or a heavy hand. But if that fire is given some time, some attention – a clever steward – then that fire thrives.

“Do you like it here?” she asks one of her guards once, a young man who holds his spear like it’s a foreign object. Once, she’d seen boys not yet his age march off to war with hands already calloused.

“Of course I do, Princess,” he says, as if it’s a foregone conclusion.

“Why?”

He’s either incredibly stupid or incredibly brave, because he doesn’t take a step back at the snap in her voice.

“Well,” he says, and he can't be more than a handful of months older than she is, but he’s young, so young , in a way Azula can never remember being. “Lord Zuko is very kind, isn’t he?”

“Right,” Azula says, a bitter taste in her mouth. As if kindness is to be prized above cunning and ambition; above the ability to keep the lion-tiger-bear (oh my!) from the door. “Of course.”

Zuko’s city is bright and his palace is warm. His people are soft – but they are, undeniably, happy.

The more Azula wanders, the more she notices the changes, both small and sweeping, that Zuko has made to the palace during his reign.

It’s been nearly a week since the attack, and workers have already patched up the worst of the damage, so it’s much to her confusion that she sees sections of the palace walls being knocked back down, glass panels being erected in their stead.

“They’re a security hazard, you know, Zuzu,” she tells her brother as they walk down a hallway flooded with Agni’s rays.

He’s been popping up, unprompted, more and more often lately. If she were a different, weaker person, she’d be grateful for the company, but as is, she prickles in the awkward silence that stills the air between them –painted with sixteen years of pain.

He’s trying to ask her something, she knows, because he’s a fool who never bothered to hide that bleeding heart –letting every moment of hesitation and awkwardness shine on his face. She keeps their interactions short, as best she can.

She doesn’t want to talk about it.

“They’re only inside the palace,” he says. “The outer walls are secure.”

“I think,” she says icily, “we’ve found out that they very much are not.”

He winces. “It’s a work in progress.”

“Like the windows? There’s no advantage to them.”

He doesn’t meet her eyes. “But the sunlight helps, doesn’t it?”

By some miracle, her stride stays steady. “Speak clearly, Zuzu. Subterfuge only suits one of us.”

He snorts. “I just… I thought you might be cold. And I know sunlight always makes me feel stronger, so since you’re inside so often, and your flame…”

His voice falters. It’s too close to the thing they’re both tip-toeing around.

“You’re telling me,” Azula says, stopping and turning to face her brother. “You’re introducing a massive security hazard to a recently-attacked palace, paying what is likely a handsome price for so much glass, and permanently altering the structure of our ancestral home, just because you thought I might want a little more natural light?”

He smiles, a little sheepishly. “Well, when you put it like that…”

Azula swallows down the lump in her throat and turns to continue walking. “You’re a fool, Zuko.”

Her voice is thick.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “I know.”

He doesn’t try to hug her, and the thought of it doesn’t even cross her mind. But he shifts a little closer, until their sleeves nearly brush, and she doesn’t pull away.

The nightmares have returned with a vengeance.

While Azula’s days are placid, dull, her nights are spent in a chilly, sweat-soaked haze, horrible things that can only be defeated with fire advancing as she fails to make even a spark. Men with knives hidden in their sleeves standing above her bed and burning her.

She walks through the window-lined hallways nearly constantly, trying to wear herself out, but all it does is remind her how feeble she is now. Her arms – once solid and corded with muscle –feel thin and fragile; her instincts are sharp, but her ability to defend herself – to conquer – always depended on her flame.

She can’t forget how it felt, with her back pressed into the hard cobblestone, with the insurrectionist holding his flames to her arms as her skin scalded and burned.

“Would you like to learn to fight as a non-bender does?” Kallik asks, when she airs her frustrations to them.

She snorts. “Trying to cage me up again already, Kallik? They only just started leaving my door unlocked. If I could fight even a fraction of how well I used to, Zuko would just throw me in Father’s old cell. Not like he’s around to take up the space.”

“Your brother cares about you, Azula,” Kallik says, softly. “I know it isn’t apparent to you, but he is trying.”

“But he’s not just my brother.” Azula lays on her back, staring at the stone ceiling of Kallik’s office. “He’s the Fire Lord. He can’t care for me, even if I am his sister, when I’m…” She waves a hand, trying to incorporate years of crimes against humanity into a vague gesture. “Me.”

“What have we said about assuming others’ intentions?” Kallik clucks their tongue. “There’s no good in putting words in someone else’s mouth.”

“Not even when they’re very true and accurate words?” Azula hazards.

Kallik leans back in their chair and looks at the ceiling for a moment. Not for the first time, Azula is sure that whatever they’re being paid, it isn’t enough.

“Why don’t you ask Zuko if there’s someone willing to teach you to fight like a non-bender?” They say, eventually. “There’s no use in speculating on what he’ll say when you don’t know for sure.”

“It’s called strategizing for every possible outcome,” Azula grumbles, and their session is over.

To her surprise, Zuko looks relieved when Azula asks.

“I’ve been thinking the same thing,” he admits. “It… It would be reassuring, to know you can defend yourself.”

“That’s never been in question, Zuzu,” Azula snaps. The burns on her arms are nearly-healed – the skin fresh and shiny –but they still throb. “Or did you forget that I pushed you off the roof without a lick of flame.”

“When I was six,” he says, dryly. “Things have changed a bit since then.”

Azula looks away, rubbing her arms. They itch, abominably. “I suppose they have.”

She can feel his gaze on her and wants to still her hands, but the chill would just come back, twice as strong as before.

“We’ll have to talk about it eventually, Azula,” he says, softly.

“No, actually, I think avoidance has been splendid. Kallik keeps telling me repression is a bad thing, but I’m having a marvelous time.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he says, gently, like she’s one of those quivering turtle-ducks he’s so fond of. “I know what you’re going through.”

“How could you understand?” She snaps, and she doesn’t know if she’s disappointed or not when he doesn’t flinch.

His gaze is even. “I know more than you would think.”

“Oh?” she says, and scoffs. “Fine, then. Name one thing that I want. Actually want, not something stupid.”

It’s funny, how he looks so much like Father and so not at the same time. He’s got Father’s cheekbones, the proud line of his nose, but there’s a gentleness to Zuko’s face that Ozai was never capable of. Or never cared enough to achieve.

“A better room,” Zuko says eventually, after a maddeningly long period of silence. He walks off then, leaving her fuming – and, despite herself, just the slightest bit impressed. After all, he’s right .

He’s back the next morning with news he’s found her a teacher.

She looks away from her window, where the juniper-cherry tree is slowly wilting in the heat. “Where did you even find someone who was willing to teach me?”

“I asked around,” he says.

She levels him with a look.

“Asked around a few times,” he amends, “but there was only one person who was willing.”

“Don’t tell me,” Azula sighs, and Suki steps through the door.

A frosty silence accompanies them to the training grounds.

Zuko had apparently intended to come along, but halfway there – after several awkward attempts to strike up a conversation – he babbles something about expecting guests and setting up a tea tray and hastens away.

Azula’s bare arm accidentally brushes against Suki’s – the other girl’s gravity ever drawing her in, despite her best efforts – and she wrenches away with such violence that Suki shoots her a bemused look.

She parts her red-painted lips, as if to comment, but the force of Azula’s glare withers her words before they can sprout.

“We’ll go through the basic forms first,” is the first thing she says to Azula, once they’re barefoot on the practice mats.

The training grounds are an open, airy pavilion that sprawl out beneath a blue-pink sky. Racks full of swords and staffs and bows line the outer edges, leaving the center space clear. Azula shifts so Suki is the one with her back to the Palace. She doesn’t want to risk being snuck up on, and consequently accused of attempting to murder the Fire Lord’s personal guard.

“Fine,” Azula says flatly. She has no illusions that this is going to be enjoyable, in any way. After all, she’s never been very good at hand-to-hand. That was always more Ty Lee’s area of interest. (And what a bitter coincidence that is: Ty Lee betrayed her too.)

The fist swinging toward her face yanks her out of her thoughts with a hurry.

“Hey,” Azula snaps, dodging out of the way. “You could’ve hit me!”

Suki shrugs. “That’s rather the point. Now, pay attention, please.”

“You’ll be the one paying attention when I absolutely destroy you .”

Suki smiles. “If you can even lay a hand on me to begin with, Princess. Remember, I said we’ll start with the basics. You’ll try to try to attack me, and I’ll show you how it is that a Kyoshi warrior fights.”

“So I just… try and hit you?”

“Yup.”

This feels far too easy. There’s a trick – there has to be. But Azula’s not going to figure it out by just standing there, so she lets out a breath and swings.

And misses.

Like a reed in the wind, Suki has swayed aside. A small movement, not using up any more energy than necessary.

“The basic dodge,” she says.

Azula, retreats, regroups, and tries again. This time, Suki folds backwards into a spine-bending arch.

“That’s a backbend.”

“Shut up,” Azula says, and kicks out with a leg, only for Suki to seize it and pull as her foot whistles past. She keeps her balance with a desperate lunge sideways.

“We use the opponent’s momentum against them. It’s easier to tire someone out than it will ever be to overpower them.”

Suki dodges left, and Azula tries to track the motion, but Suki is suddenly on her right, gently tapping the back of her skull with a closed fan as Azula sails on by.

“Side feint.”

Azula turns around and tries to act like she’s going to throw a punch, but Suki steps neatly out of the way of her low kick.

Azula tries to copy that same feint, but she ends up too far into Suki’s space and is disoriented with the nearness of her for a moment. K smiles at her, and suddenly there are hands on her shoulders, and she’s leaning closer –the world spins, and Azula finds herself on her back, looking up at the placid sky.

“And that,” Suki says, with that radiant smile, “is what I like to call a side flip.”

With a growl, Azula charges forward at full force. Normally, this is when she’d shoot out a jet of fire, but surely an entire body’s worth of momentum will work just as well.

Suki ducks neatly, and Azula goes flying over her. She lands, sprawled, on her stomach and scrambles to turn over, but freezes when a fan taps gently against her nose.

“Benders can afford to make mistakes, to be flashy,” Suki says, standing above her. “But we can’t. We have to stay grounded, connected to the Earth – disciplined no matter what.”

Azula – hair glued to her face and neck with sweat, chest heaving with exertion, so many things she can’t say pressed against the back of her teeth – glares up at her.

“Come on,” Suki says, softly. She holds a hand out, and Azula is frozen, palms pressed into the bamboo mats of the training grounds.

Suki doesn’t waver, doesn’t move.

Azula raises a hand, and the sky splits open with a vast bellow.

The wind howls around them, and Agni’s rays wink out for a moment. She looks towards Suki, but the Kyoshi Warrior is beaming at the beast swooping down out of the sky.

“Appa!” She calls, waving a hand, and that flying bison Azula had once captured lands with a solid thud in the clearing next to the training grounds.

The Avatar, taller than she remembers, floats gracefully from between the creature’s horns, alighting on the ground in a rush of wind.

“Oh!” He says, beaming when he sees them. “Hi, Suki! Hi, Ms. war criminal princess!”

He turns back to the beast, calling to the people in the saddle. “Guys, Suki’s here!”

The gAang had arrived in the Fire Nation.

Chapter 7: If You Give an Azula a Sticky Bun...

Chapter Text

“Get me down already,” the rude earthbender grouses, clinging to the side of the saddle. “If we’re going to fight, my feet need to see what’s happening.”

“No one’s fighting anyone,” Suki laughs, then casts a sidelong glance Azula’s way. “Anymore, that is.”

Her smile invites Azula’s own, but she looks away, gritting her teeth.

Azula is a trained warrior. She knows what a f*cking feint is, Suki. She just–

A rush of wind, and the Avatar is before them, beaming as he literally sweeps Suki off her feet and into a hug. He’s shot up like a weed, and Azula has to tilt her head back to see his face.

“Aang!” Suki half-scolds, half-laughs as they twirl off the ground.

“Sweetie,” a familiar voice says, and Azula’s hackles raise. “I think most people prefer to keep their feet on the ground.”

The water tribe girl has crept up on mouse-quiet feet, and her eyes narrow. “Azula,” she says through a tight smile. “Your brother has been saying so much about you that I’m starting to wonder if any of it is true.”

Azula pulls back her lips, letting her teeth gleam in the light. “Only the bad stuff.”

“I heard you weren’t as murder-y now,” the Earth bender child says, her bare toes wriggling like pale worms in the soft-packed dirt. “That true?”

Before Azula can respond, the Water Tribe boy approaches, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Next to her, Suki goes stock-still.

“Hey, Suki,” the Water Tribe boy says, smiling in a soft, uncertain way. “Those, uh. Those forms looked good.”

“Hi, Sokka.” The answering tilt of Suki’s mouth is just as unsure, just as sweet. “Thanks.”

Azula swallows hard, tilting her head towards the Earth bender. “It varies from moment to moment.”

“You’re here!”

Azula can’t believe she’s almost grateful to see Zuko, sweeping across the training grounds in his Lordly robes.

“Sparkles!” The Earth bender shouts, and the rest of the Avatar’s crew rush to him.

“Azula?” Suki stops halfway there, turning back as her brother is swarmed. “Did you…”

She trails off, like she doesn’t know what she’s trying to say either.

“Go on.” Condescension drips from every syllable. “Have fun with your little friends.”

“I wasn’t expecting you until later,” Zuko says warmly.

“Well, we could always just leave and come back,” the Water Tribe boy teases, flicking the pointed edge of Zuko’s sleeve.

“And make me miss you all over again?” Zuko slides his shoulder until it rests against Sokka’s. Suki looks away, busies herself unwrapping the sparring tape from her arms. “Don’t you dare.”

Katara fake-gags, and Zuko turns bright red, and Sokka rounds on her with a ‘hey, if I have to see you and Aang giving me the oogies’, and Toph complains about how she was promised snacks, and Suki isn’t looking at where Zuko and Sokka’s arms are pressed together, and Aang is asking where some hay is for Appa, and somehow Zuko manages to start herding them towards the tea room.

Zuko turns back, smiling. “Azula, did you want to join–”

But she’s already gone.

When he finds her, later, she’s sitting on the edge of the roof, watching as Agni slowly falls from the sky, setting the city on fire.

“Careful.” He settles down, not too close. “It’s a long way down.”

He looks at her like he still expects her to jump.

Azula rests her chin on her knees, and if her eyes water, it’s only from staring at the setting sun. “I don’t plan on falling.”

“I couldn’t hit her,” Azula says, flat on her back and staring at the ceiling of Kallik’s office. “I… I was clumsy. It felt like I had no control over myself.”

“What about training previously?” Kallik asks, soft voice accompanied by the scratch, scratch, scratch of a quill against their ever-present notepad. “What are some things that you associate with that space you were in again?”

Her small back, aching after hours standing in one position after the other. She isn’t quite ten yet. Her teacher’s sharp smack against any baby-fatted limbs that dare tremble. A prisoner, thrice her age but wide-eyed with fear as she advances, hands blazing with blue flame.

He had been put on death row, but…

A lunge behind him, sharp and quick as lightning. One blast after the other into his back. He falls. He doesn’t get up.

...there was no need for that.

“Azula,” Father says, but when she turns to him, his eyes are glowing with pride. “Don’t waste your resources. Make it last.”

“Yes, Father.” She bows low, trying to hide her joy.

When the next one comes, she makes him scream and doesn’t stop until Father smiles.

Azula stares at the ceiling of Kallik’s office and flexes her hands. Phantom heat flickers between her fingers, but when she looks down, nothing’s there.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” she tells them.

The Avatar is in the eastern courtyard the next morning, fists pressed against each other as he lifts his head to the sun. Slowly –he exhales, breathing out clean, light smoke. His eyes are closed, body perfectly still as Azula passes by, on her way to Kallik’s office, but before she can hasten away, he speaks.

“Would you like to join me?”

Azula startles, looking around even though there’s no one else nearby. “Pardon?”

“Would you like to join my meditation, Princess Azula?” He opens his strange, gray eyes –a shade that hasn’t been seen in a hundred years. “The monks always said every dawn is a new beginning.” He laughs, softly. “I didn’t like it when I had to wake up early and meditate before even eating any fruit pies, but…”

He unfurls his palms, revealing a small, yellow flame. “I think I understand what they meant a little better now.”

She doesn’t like his eyes. Not the color –so close yet so different from Ty-Lee’s, bringing up the sour taste of betrayal in the back of her throat. Not their set –gentle and deep in his face. Not their age –too old for someone of his scant years. Or maybe just old enough, counting iceberg years.

“I heard you the first time,” she says, lowly. “I was just giving you a chance to reconsider. Don’t try making friends where there are only enemies, Avatar.”

He fully laughs at that –a bright, lilting sound. “That’s kind of my whole thing.”

Azula scoffs, turning away from The Avatar, the boy who extinguished her empire before it could even blossom, the boy who took her father’s bending–

Azula’s steps slow, then stop.

The Avatar can take bending away.

Who’s to say he can’t give it back?

His strange, gray eyes are already closed when she turns around again, but his head tilts, almost inquisitively when she settles beside him, trying to copy the way his legs fold.

“I suppose I should apologize,” she says, making her voice soft and rough. “I… I haven’t been myself lately.”

He smiles, exaggerating the rise and fall of his chest until her breathing lines up with his own. “I’ve heard.”

She mimics the way his fists press against each other and closes her eyes. Agni’s rays slowly intensifying against her skin, Azula breathes –in and out, in and out –against the icy core that’s still in her chest.

“Did Zuzu spill all my secrets already? A girl needs some privacy, you know.”

Jovial, vulnerable yet light-hearted.

He just laughs. “I used to do this with my friend Kuzon. Did your style of meditation get chattier in the last hundred years?”

Azula’s lip curls, but she forces it back down. Her nails dig into her palms.

She sits there in silence with the boy she once killed, the boy who took her glorious future from her, just breathing – in and out, in and out – as Agni becomes comfortably housed in the blue sky and midmorning light streams around them.

After a while, strangely enough, it almost becomes peaceful. Azula’s thoughts swirl, then settle, like embers in a slowly smouldering bonfire. Nothing to do, nothing keeping her there, nowhere else she has to be. She can just sit with her maybe-enemy and… breathe.

But eventually the Avatar rises to his feet, stretching and swaying like a willow in the breeze that constantly surrounds him.

“I am sorry,” he says, eventually. “If I ever lost my airbending, my connection to them…” His monk’s robes flutter in the sudden eddy. “I don’t know what I’d do.”

“Avatar,” she says, rising. “Why didn’t you take my bending as well?”

Aang opens his eyes, staring into Agni’s rising rays. His gaze is steady when it turns on her, and her neck prickles – predator recognizing predator.

“Zuko told me not to.”

The next time she exits Kallik’s office, the guards take a left out of the door instead of a right. Azula stops in the middle of the hallway and crosses her arms. “And where, exactly, are you taking me?”

They exchange glances under their helms. “... Your new lodgings, Princess?”

“My what?”

Has Zuko finally tired of keeping her in a cage of relative opulence, afforded a room with such few luxuries as a cot and a window? Will she be shifted into a cell like her father’s, so far below ground that not even the barest traces of Agni’s rays will reach her?

Ice rimes across Azula’s lungs. If Zuko thinks she’s going to go quietly, then he’s sorely mistaken. She follows the guards down the nearby corridor, already preparing the storm of an argument in her head.

Most of the wind is taken out of her sails in the next moment, though, as she rounds a corner and finds large, elegant double doors.

“What,” says Azula flatly.

The lead guard opens the door and bows her in. Azula takes one hesitant step, and then another, past the threshold. The room – the first room – is dominated by a large table, surrounded by a handful of plush, high-backed chairs. A stick of incense, sweet and heavy, smokes lazily from a vase resting in the center of the wood. A massive window slants in yellow sunshine. In the corner of the room stands a bookshelf. It’s already populated with some familiar titles, some intriguingly foreign, but most of the shelves remain invitingly empty.

The second room, connected to the first by way of a sliding door, is a bedroom. Azula presses a hesitant hand down into the mattress and almost gasps when her fingers sink in a good half inch.

When she turns around to demand what kind of trick it is, exactly, that the guards think they’re pulling, she nearly bumps noses with Zuko.

“Whoa,” he exclaims, almost-but-not-quite seizing her elbow as she skitters backward. His hand hovers there, uncertain, until she glares it back down by his side.

She sweeps an arm behind her, at the sprawling bed, and the tapestry on the wall, and the rugs on the floor. “What are you doing, Zuko?”

There aren’t even bars set into the high windows.

He shrugs, the robes of office draped over his shoulders whispering against each other with the movement. “I’m doing what a Fire Lord should.”

“Showing mercy to a war criminal? A defeated prisoner?”

The tailor-made opulence of the rooms closes in around her. The kindness in Zuko’s eyes makes her want to burn. Azula has never been made for love like this.

“I don’t deserve this, Zuko. Put me back in my damn cell where I belong.”

She goes to move past him, but is brought up short by his next comment. They are shoulder to shoulder now, him facing one way and her another. Ever each other’s reflection, except the glass was warped and shattered when they were but children, by their mother’s disappearance and their father’s cruelty and their uncle’s capricious favor in choosing to save one sibling and not the other.

“I’m doing what a brother should, Azula.”

He turns to face her, golden eyes grave in a thinning face. He’s been looking so much older lately. “I didn’t keep you as a prisoner. And I never considered you a war criminal. I locked you away because you were a danger to yourself, Azula, and I couldn’t bear to lose a father and a sister both to the aftermath of one battle. But over the past year, you’ve proven to me that you can take care of yourself. You’ve proven that you want to. You’re getting better. I want you to be happy, which means that I want you to live with all the comforts you’re accustomed to. I want you to have the incense and the tapestries and the nice sheets, now that I’m sure you won’t try and hang yourself with them.”

Azula smiles thinly, to conceal the way water has begun to line her lower lashes. “Don’t be silly, Zuzu. I would never hang myself. Bleeding out is a far more regal exit.”

He snorts, rolling his eyes. “That’s not nearly as funny as you think it is.”

“If my humor is simply too advanced for your tiny pea brain, you could just say so.”

“I understand your humor, Azula. We’re more alike than you think.”

His gaze skids across and down her still-bandaged arms, to the chilled tips of her fingers.

“About your bending–”

“No,” she says immediately, overriding the rest of his sentence. She doesn’t want to talk about it. Kallik had said she didn’t have to talk about it.

“I’m trying to tell you you’re not alone. I lost my bending, too, after I joined Aang and the rest. Without all that rage powering me, it was like Agni went dark. I couldn’t think; I could hardly feel–”

She turns her back, pointedly. It’s a remarkable demonstration of self-control that she doesn’t reach to put her hands over her ears, too.

Zuko falls quiet with a sigh. “Very well.”

She hears him turn to leave. He’s almost at the door before she says, very quietly, “Hey, Zuko.”

His footsteps pause.

“Thanks.”

It’s impossible to miss the commotion that descends over the palace in the next few days. Every time Azula steps out of her (new) rooms, she’s almost bowled over by some servant or other rushing this way or that, arms full of tapestries or incense or platters of drinks. The kitchens are working overtime, and her guards show up to their shifts late and munching guiltily on sticky buns.

The third time this happens, and the guard – despite significant pressure – refuses to share, Azula demands, “Okay. What is going on?”

“Formal reception for the Avatar, Princess,” the guard responds through a full mouth, holding the bun out of Azula’s reach. “The Fire Lord’s pulling out all the stops. No expense spared, or whatever.”

Typical. What a bleeding heart her brother has. He should be focusing on hunting down their father, not throwing parties for his friends. She snarls and slams her door shut behind her, pretending that at least fifty percent of her irritation isn't due to the fact that nobody has been giving her any sticky buns.

Azula thinks that’s the end of the issue, at least until Zuko shows up that evening wearing the full robes of office. His hair is done up, slicked back with oil and tied into an intricate topknot. He’s also trying to give her something, if the awkward way he’s been standing with his arms outstretched is any clue.

Azula glances down at the pile of fabric draped over his forearms. “What is that?”

He shifts from foot to foot. “It’s… for you.”

“Is it my birthday already?”

She snorts, but takes the fabric anyways. It unravels into a short tunic belted at the waist, red fabric accentuated with fine gold stitching. Cut for ease of movement, the skirt falls to just above the knees. The collar is high and snug, in the style she’d always preferred. It looks like it’d keep most of her meager warmth in.

Azula looks up, to find that Zuko has also somehow managed to acquire a matching pair of boots and is brandishing them in her face.

“Seriously, Zuko,” she says, and takes the boots so she can look him in the eyes. “What is all of this for? Don’t tell me it’s more rewards for good behavior.”

“No. It’s for the reception this evening. I want you to attend as my guest.”

It’s such an unexpected appearance of her brother’s rare sense of humor that Azula actually laughs. “Funny, Zuzu. Now what is it really for?”

But he’s not laughing: he looks bewildered, and also a little hurt. “I’m being serious, Azula.”

“Oh.” Her laughter dies. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Not yet. Think, Azula. This is the perfect opportunity to present a united front. With Father… gone, we need to project as much strength as possible. We need to show our allies that they can still have faith in us. In me, as Fire Lord.”

“And you think bringing your famously unstable sister along will help you accomplish that?”

“Yes, I do.” He deflates a little, and mutters, “And I want you to meet my friends.”

She arches an eyebrow. “I’ve met them, Zuko. On the other end of a firebending blast, most often.”

He smiles, and she can see in his eyes that he’s thinking of his own time throwing firebending blasts after the Avatar and company. “What’s a few murder attempts between allies?”

Azula looks back down at the tunic. It’s pretty, in a way so little of her clothing has been recently. And it’s been such a long time since Azula’s been to a party.

She did so used to love parties.

By the time she’s shrugged herself into the tunic – it’s well-made, but not perfect, loose around the hips – secured her hair in a low ponytail with a blunted blade, and smudged the barest edges of makeup into her skin, Zuko’s entourage has gathered in preparation at her door. He leads her down the hallway and Azula decides, two steps in, that she’s keeping these boots no matter what happens.

Entering the grand ballroom where Zuko has decided to host his reception is a fever dream. She’s done this a thousand times before, but never like this, with her brother on her arm. She’d always entered alone. The assorted council members and guards behind them are jocular, nudging each other and whispering about so-and-so’s outfit: “That headdress? With those earrings? Please.”

When the seneschal announces them, her voice hardly falters over The Princess Azula. And when Zuko swings open the double doors, it’s to a riot of cheers.

Zuko is almost instantly swamped by partygoers, people pressing in on all sides. Beyond the initial shies away and narrow eyes, none of them spare a second glance for her.

In the crush, Azula slips away, as quietly as she can, and slinks towards the platter of sticky buns at the far end of the grand hall, ignoring the whispers of ‘lost her bending’, ‘gone entirely mad’, and ‘can’t really have changed’ following in her wake.

“Zuko says you’re doing better.”

Agni damn it.

It’s the Water Tribe girl, who’s managed to detach herself from the Avatar’s arm (or, more accurately, detach the Avatar from her arm). If hard-pressed, Azula still wouldn’t admit that she looks lovely –hair braided and studded with blue beads – because Azula has endured worse situations than anyone who’s bothering to interrogate her about a peasant’s beauty would know how to inflict.

Anyway.

“Depends on your definition of better,” Azula drawls, leaning against one of the tall marble columns dotting the room’s perimeter. Her great-grandfather had possessed quite the eye for gaudy decor. “Less likely to harm myself or others, but far more likely to be a nuisance in public.”

The other girl’s blue eyes are narrowed, sharp. “I trust Zuko. I love him. But I don’t trust you.”

“You love him?” Azula feigns a yawn. “Oh dear. Whoever will break the news to the Avatar.”

“You- I–” She sputters, stamping her foot. “That’s not what I meant! He… he’s family to me.”

“I’m his family,” Azula says, archly. “The only family he has left, in fact.”

Her hands flex. “Family isn’t blood, Azula. And when you mess up, when he needs help and you aren’t there… his real family is going to be there for him. Not you.”

Azula bares her teeth in a poor facsimile of a smile. This girl took everything from her, once; now she wants to take Azula’s brother from her, too?

“We’ll see about that,” she sneers, and spins around in an appropriately dramatic fashion, the hem of her tunic flaring out around her legs. She gets all of three steps before someone else steps into her path: the other Water Tribe sibling, the boy. Sokko, or something.

“Azula, hey!”

He looks – not happy, to see her, but more pleased than anyone else has been so far. It brings Azula up short in surprise.

“You,” she says.

“I like your boots,” he says, gesturing downward. “Very functional.”

And they are. Azula’s feet haven’t so much as started to ache. She scans his outfit up and down, noting the slim silver headpiece that gently cradles his temples, framing the topknot his dark hair has been pulled into.

“I like your… tiara.”

“It’s a warrior’s circlet, but thanks.”

He just stands there, smiling at her. “What?” Azula snaps, after he hasn’t said anything for a moment too long.

“Nothing, nothing! You just look well, that’s all. Zuko said so, of course, but it’s something different to see you in person.”

Her eyebrows prod at her hairline. Zuko writes about her? Zuko writes to this man about her?

“I always look well,” Azula says, choosing to ignore the rest of his implications.

“I’m sure.”

He’s still smiling when Azula turns her back and walks away.

She skirts around a group of people who have already tapped into the plum wine, and is skirted around by a group of noble’s children; she’s probably seen them a dozen times before, in Ozai’s kingdom, but their faces are strange and downturned. They know her from before and aren’t sure if they should still be scared or not.

Most infuriatingly, several of them are eating dessert.

If Azula doesn’t get those sticky buns in the next five minutes, she’s going to get her bending back and burn this whole place down out of sheer spite.

“Azula!”

If she had a sword, this would’ve been the moment she started slashing.

She turns, and her ire fades when she sees Kallik’s round, cheerful face. On their arm is a tall, bearded person dressed up in water tribe blues.

“I’m glad to see you’re here,” they smile. “Increased social stimulation is a vital part of your path to recovery.”

“I’m just here for the food,” she says, dryly.

“I’m not on the clock right now, but we will be unpacking that later.” They just sigh in that slightly-fond way they’ve perfected before brightening and gesturing to their companion. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife? Her name is Tapeesa.”

Tapeesa is dark and broad-shouldered, with lovely charcoal-rimmed eyes and a playful demeanor. Her dress flows down her long legs and trails like water on the stone floor behind her.

Azula offers a polite bow. “It’s a pleasure.”

To her surprise, she means it.

“For me as well.” The woman’s smile is just as bright as her vibrant dress. “I would love to say I’ve heard all about you, but…” She turns to Kallik, mock-glaring.

They mime locking their lips. “I’m afraid it’s all confidential, love.”

“I’ve heard about you, too,” Azula says. Kallik doesn’t mention their wife often, preferring to remain engaged on the topic of Azula’s love life, but when they do, it’s all soft sighs and sickeningly sweet praise.

“All horrid things, I hope.”

Despite herself, Azula smiles. “Oh, simply the wickedest.”

“Slandering my name, darling?” She winks at Kallik. “You flatter me.”

Tapeesa doesn’t carry the same calm aura that Kallik does – she’s far too lively – and Azula finds it difficult to believe that she’s involved in the same line of work as her spouse. Which begs the question:

“How, exactly, did you two meet?”

“Oh, it was terribly romantic,” Tapeesa gushes, reaching down for Kallik’s hand. “There we were, in that Earth Kingdom prison–”

“Sharing a cell,” Kallik says dreamily.

“We got arrested at the same protest, if you’d believe it.”

“But there wasn’t enough space to hold us all individually, so we were placed together overnight.”

“We had the most wonderful conversation–”

“And by the time they let us go in the morning, I knew I’d found my one and only.” Kallik turns toward Tapeesa fully, taking her face gently between two palms. They have to stretch on their tiptoes to do so. “As you remain, my love.”

The way they look at her is so tender that Azula feels she’s intruding.

“I think my brother was looking for me,” she says, ignoring the way Kallik can definitely tell that she’s lying. Their raised eyebrow advises her she’s going to hear about it in their next session.

With one last bow towards Tapeesa, Azula slips around the sickeningly happy couple and finally, finally takes the last few steps necessary to bring her to the dessert table. She browses past the giant slices of cake, the chocolate-smothered strawberries, the fondant that had been shaped into a replica of Zuko’s palace. Too soon, she thinks: the pieces torn out of the fondant are just a little too reminiscent of the actual palace’s recently demolished walls.

But where are those damn–

The silver platters that once bore the sticky buns are empty. A few crumbs and lines of icing map out where the buns once were, but there’s nothing left for her.

Azula weighs the pros and cons of throwing herself out of the closest window.

“Looking for something?”

Agni. f*cking. Damn it.

Azula turns… and there’s Suki.

Her lips are painted red, but her white foundation is missing, revealing her sand-stone complexion. Her heart-breakingly blue eyes look sparkling and jeweled, smudged with charcoal. Her green silk dress hugs her waist and spills in an emerald waterfall to the floor. Her shoulders are bare and freckled and broad, and Azula wants to scream.

In her hands is a cloth napkin, wrapped around something.

She smiles, almost shyly, at Azula – white peeking through red. “You look nice.”

“Amazing what basic human rights will do for you at the salon,” Azula deadpans, trying to suss out what the Kyoshi Warrior is holding. Her nose twitches. “It’s been so long I think I forgot what eyeliner is.”

Suki snorts. “I wouldn’t have guessed. Did you do all this” –she waves a long-fingered hand at Azula’s ensemble – “by yourself?”

“Just the makeup,” Azula replies before she can stop herself. When Suki’s around, so many things happen before Azula can stop herself. “Zuko played dress-up with the rest.”

“That theatre kid?” Suki laughs, and the sound is so familiar that Azula almost relaxes. “Why am I not surprised.”

“Don’t tell me he’s dragged you all to a play?” The golden sands of Ember Island, Zuko triumphantly shouting the lines to Love Amongst the Dragons as they sparred – playfully, for once –to reenact the final duel.

“Just… just the one.” Suki winces. “I think we were equally appalled.”

As tempted as Azula is to pry, there’s something more crucial at stake.

“Stop distracting me.” Azula clicks her tongue. “You have critical information, guard. And there’s only one reason I’ve tolerated you this long.”

“My devastating charm and finely sculpted arms?”

“What? No, I–” A sudden and mysterious coughing fit descends over Azula.

Suki waits, idily tapping her foot. Several noblemen whisper to each other, wondering if the Princess has taken ill. Across the room, Toph has sculpted two of the marble pillars into statues of herself.

“Do you,” Azula manages when she recovers, “or do you not, guard, have the last sticky bun?”

“What?” Suki blinks, looking at the platter. “Oh, no. I have something much better.”

She lifts a fold in the napkin, revealing a flash of red. “You remember our conversation about sweet and spicy, don’t you?”

Azula shoots her a horrified look. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, but I did.” Suki’s grin is practically wolfish as she fully unwraps the napkin to reveal a brick of fire flakes, held together with marshedmallow.

“I know you’re the head guard, but I’m pretty sure that as Princess, I can still exile you.”

Laughing, Suki breaks it in half, and hands Azula the bigger side.

“Come on then, Princess,” she coaxes. “Why don’t you see what I’m getting kicked out of the nation for?”

When Suki lifts her half to her mouth, Azula mirrors her.

At first, all she tastes is the overwhelming, furious heat of the fire flakes, all she feels is their sharp crunch under her teeth, but it's quickly undercut by the smooth, sweet Earth Kingdom marshedmallows. She takes another bite, and the flavors chase each other across her tongue, again and again, until, much to her surprise, she’s swallowed the last piece.

“Well then,” Suki says, and her face is flushed with the spice, but she’s smiling so brightly Azula has to look away. “Still want to exile me?”

If this were one of the fairy tales K used to give her, Azula would say no, and this would be where they started that famed happily ever after.

And wouldn’t that be lovely? If this was all it took. If Azula was a good person like the Avatar, like her brother, like any of the other people who could just forgive so easily. If she could smile at Suki and take her hand and dance with her until they were both dizzy with it. If she could know when someone meant an apology and if she could know when people she loved were going to turn their backs on her again.

“Maybe,” Azula says, “but for entirely unrelated reasons.”

“Oh.” The line of her mouth falls into something melancholy. “It won’t do me any good to apologize again, will it?”

And as much as Azula wished it would… “No.”

“I didn’t think so.” Suki doesn’t look surprised. “I’ll make my rounds, then. Probably not a good idea for the head guard to spend all of her time so distracted.”

She steps back and bows low. “Good night, Princess. I hope you enjoy the party.”

By the time Azula manages a soft “good night, Suki”, the other girl has already disappeared.

She turns around just in time to see two noblewomen far too obviously averting their gazes.

“What are you looking at?” She demands, voice soft and deadly as ever, and is almost gratified when they scamper away.

Later, when the party has devolved into, well… a party, and most of the remaining guests are occupied on the dance floor, Azula finds an abandoned platter tucked halfway behind a pair of drapes, resting on a windowsill. The platter boasts a single, lone sticky bun.

She picks it up with two careful fingers and shoves half of it into her mouth in one go.

“Mmmph,” Azula says. She chews. She swallows. The flavor is subtle, honey and cinnamon mixing with undertones of sugared icing and delicate almond. Any chef would be proud to call this their creation.

It's good, Azula decides. It’s… good.

But there’s something lacking. It tastes almost stale in her mouth. Where’s the zest, the flavor? Azula puts the half-eaten sticky bun back down on the plate, her stomach turning. Moments ago, she was ravenous, and now she’s certain she won’t be able to tolerate another bite.

It’s just not the same. It’s not as good as–

As Suki’s ridiculous, utterly absurd, laughable, delicious, delectable Spiced Krispy Treat.

The rest of the sticky bun turns to ash in Azula’s mouth, and she swallows awkwardly. She doesn’t want to examine what that means, that the snack she remembered so fondly has now paled in comparison to a creation slapped together by a guard who has certainly never actually practiced the culinary arts in her life.

Azula wipes her now-tacky fingers on the drapes, and leaves.

Chapter 8: Everyone Else is Very Uncomfortable With the Energy Azula and Suki Have Created in the Studio Today

Chapter Text

Another dawn finds Azula sitting beside the Avatar, meditating (or making a passable sham of it) as Agni’s rays creep into the sky.

It’s a beautiful day, but she’s unbearably cold. Her bed would be so warm right now, so cozy, smothered with thick-woven blankets and Water Tribe furs, but…

Something is broken, disconnected deep inside her. And the Avatar just might be the only one who can reach into her frozen core and pull it back together again.

If she can convince him, that is.

There’s a flame flickering in his upturned palms – rising and falling with his slow, even breath. Her eyes keep slitting open, dissecting his placid features, but his eyes remain closed, the motion of his chest so even she could set a clock by it.

“Something on your mind, Princess?”

Although his strange gray eyes haven’t opened, the Avatar’s head tilts towards her.

Azula jolts, eyes snapping shut automatically.

“You’d be harder-pressed to find something that isn’t, Avatar.”

He laughs, a surprisingly solid sound for someone whose principal element is air.

“It’s just…” Azula hesitates, as if the Avatar is pulling the words from her; it’s so hard, keeping her voice in soft, even vulnerability. “I’m worried that having all of you here will make things… harder, between me and Zuko.”

Harder to bite his head off when he inevitably does something stupid again, that is.

“We’ve been getting better lately– I’ve been doing better, but…” She shrugs, looking off to hide a twitch of a smile. “You’re his friends. I’m sure he trusts you a lot more than me. And… well. Katara at least doesn’t seem to believe I am.”

“I know, but Zuko says you’re trying.” He shrugs. “And I trust his judgement on most things.”

“Most things?” Are there gaps in this friendship? Faults she can dig her fingers into? It’d do her well to be the Fire Lord’s closest confidant.

“He has a bad habit of touching glowing eggs.”

Or not. “Right.”

“For what it’s worth though” – his hand rests gently on her shoulder – “I think you’re trying too.”

“If only your girlfriend shared the sentiment,” Azula mutters, more heat creeping into her voice than she intended.

“She’s…” He trails off, mouth twitching into a smile. “Protective. She’s had to be.”

He flutters to his feet in a gust of wind. “Give it some time, Princess. She didn’t like Zuko when he first joined us, either.”

“How’d that change?”

“He helped her almost kill the man who took her mother.”

“Huh.”

“Well, Azula,” Kallik says, looking very much like they have an oncoming headache. “I don’t think that killing Katara’s father, framing someone for it, and helping her get revenge is a very healthy or honest foundation for a friendship.”

Morning dawns bright and hot on the Fire Nation’s palace.

Azula’s heavy hair has wrapped around her neck in her sleep, but she dashes it aside with an impatient hand, rolling from her bed and brushing it flat with quick, mechanical strokes. She stares at her hands until they stop shaking with her eternal-chill, then ties her sheet of hair up into a tight topknot.

In the mirror, her eyes are hard and her face colorless, but she pinches color into her cheeks and bites it into her lips. With the last dregs of makeup Zuzu gave her for the party, she swipes a long, fluid line across each of her eyes.

A beautiful princess is a powerful princess, after all.

She cinches a loose tunic tight around her waist, slides her feet into sandals, and stands before her shatter-proof mirror. She looks like she could fell the walls of Ba Sing Se all over again.

Azula watches her lips curl into a bloodless smile.

It’s time for a rematch.

She’s early to the training grounds, but she sinks onto her haunches on the bamboo mats before leaning languidly back. Before she realizes what she’s doing, she falls back into her basic sets, letting her muscles take her through the positions she’d run a million times before in this room.

She can almost feel the echo of herself, so much younger –moving in sync with her steps.

Crouched low, one fist outstretched, hands together, other hand thrust forward –nothing where there should be fire.

Straight and tall as a tree, foot planted firmly, leg and fist rising at the same time – nothing where there should be fire.

Center balanced, one foot stomping, leg arching high and landing in exactly the same position – nothing where there should be fire.

“Impressive,” says that voice Azula used to dream about, and there’s Suki. “I can see you’re getting your stamina back.”

Azula should have a flaming comment; she would’ve only a few months ago. But Suki’s face is painted and her smile is bright in Agni’s rays… and there’s nothing where there should be fire.

“I brought in a friend to help us today, by the way,” Suki says; there’s another, vaguely familiar Kyoshi Warrior trailing her, and Azula snaps to attention.

“A friend?” She says, archly. “I didn’t know you were good at those.”

To her credit, Suki barely winces, although the other girl suddenly looks extremely awkward. “Uhh… Suki? Is this a good time to–”

“You remember Kiva, don’t you?” Suki says blithely. “I thought I'd watch the two of you spar today. I think we got a bit too… up close and personal, last time, for me to critique your fighting style.”

Azula’s body goes hot and cold(er than usual) at the exact same time. What happened to K not even wanting her to talk about other girls?

Kiva smiles, a little uncertainty, and bows low. “Hello, Princess. I’m- ah. Pleased I can help.”

Well. It’s worth seeing if that jealous streak, at least, was real.

“The pleasure,” Azula purrs, “is all mine.”

She sweeps into a graceful half-bow before rising and fixing Kiva with intense eyes.

Kiva swallows, hard. “Let’s keep the limb loss to a minimum, huh?”

She makes a show of running her eyes over each of Kiva’s vulnerable areas – the soft expanse of her neck, the curve of her eyes, the nip where her waist is cinched by her robes. “No promises.”

“Kiva, you’re familiar with this exercise.” Suki’s voice is flat, and when Azula risks a glance beneath her eyelashes towards Suki, the Kyoshi Warrior’s face is still, shuttered closed and tight as her fans, clutched in her white-knuckeled hands.

“Three rounds, pinning to the mattress or forcing your opponent outside of the ring counts as a point. The first person to get two points wins. I’ll be watching and give you both a debrief afterwards, on how you can improve.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Kiva sheds her shoes and joins Azula in the large, marked circle.

They orbit each other for a moment –Kiva favors her left hand, her right leg. Her steps are small and firm, each foot landing like it plans on sprouting roots.

Azula, as always, strikes first.

Her first jab is blocked by Kiva’s forearm; the other girl leans into the momentum, sending Azula barreling past her. She nearly manages to clip Azula with her fan, but Azula catches the hand in her own, closing the distance so Kiva has no room to strike.

“Well, aren’t you strong,” Azula purrs, and Kiva’s focus breaks for a moment, her face flushing –

Azula’s wrist snaps up, and one of Kiva’s fans goes flying.

She wants to laugh, suddenly, as a flush of viscous victory climbs up her throat. She remembers when she used to fight to kill, and in the haze of adrenaline it feels so damn good. For a moment, she’s sure that if she turns her head, she’ll see Father, watching with dark eyes from the shadows like he always does –

Kiva strikes while she’s still five years away.

There’s an open fan to her face, filling her vision with gold, and a knee in the middle of her back, and Azula’s on the ground.

She struggles, but three seconds pass, and the point is Kiva’s.

The Kyoshi Warrior eases up, to let Azula stand, but Azula just flips onto her back, looking up.

“You’re even prettier from this angle,” she sighs, and kicks her solidly in the chest.

Kiva goes reeling backwards, and Azula rises, eyes flashing.

Kiva is good –there’s no doubt of that.

But the one thing Azula has always had to be is better.

Kiva is on her feet and on the offensive as Azula closes the gap, full of the narrow-eyed determination of a fighter.

A jab at her torso – Azula wisps away, insubstantial as smoke. A low kick, but she stays rooted, planting her hands on the earth and twisting around until she’s behind Kiva.

“Surprise,” she murmurs in her ear, before striking.

Kiva goes sprawling out of the ring.

“Point to Azula,” Suki says, eyes flickering between their faces. “One each.”

Azula falls back into her basic form, feet dragging across the soft-woven mats as she and Kiva orbit each other once more.

A weak right hand. An unfavored left leg.

Azula fents, one blow coming directly behind the other, and Kiva falls for it, twisting out of the way of Azula’s fist only for a strike to hit her left thigh. She winces, swinging her leg defensively behind her.

Crouched low, one fist outstretched, hands together, other hand thrust forward. Kiva leans back to avoid it, but Azula has timed everything right, and Kiva lands on her left foot, and Azula interrupts her midstride, and there’s a lunge and a dodge and –

Kiva’s feet are outside of the ring.

Azula’s fist is a hair's width away from her nose,

“Years ago,” she says, with a voice like smoke. “This is when I would’ve burned you alive.”

“Azula.” Suki’s voice is sharp, and Azula pulls back, smiling bloodlessly.

“Luckily for you, I’ve grown.” Her voice drops, and she leans in. “And developed a bit of a fondness for Kyoshi Warriors.”

“Final point to the Princess Azula,” Suki says, voice soft. “I think that’s it for today. Kiva, I’ll give you your assessment later.”

“Thank you, Captain. And, I, um…” Kiva looks flushed beneath her white foundation, hands fiddling with her fan. “I’d be more than happy to assist you in practice, Princess, whenever you need.”

Azula’s lips part, flashing her teeth in something like a smile. “Aren’t you just the sweetest,” she purrs. “I’d love to take you up on that–”

And then she catches a glimpse of Suki’s face. This would be easy if Suki looked mad, upset, jealous. But her eyes are downcast, her brow slightly knit. She looks small and sad, and all of the sudden, several things slot into place.

The way K told her that someone left her for a better match. The awkward, soft way Suki and the Water Tribe boy had smiled at each other. The way her brother’s eyes gravitate towards Sokka, like it’s an inevitable thing.

“–but I already have a partner,” Azula amends, and Suki’s spine stiffens, her shocked eyes – blue as Agni’s sky –turning onto Azula. “And she’s rather good at what she does, questionable as it may be.”

“I… see.” Kiva looks uncertainly back and forth between the two of them, but doesn’t find whatever answer she was looking for. “In that case…” She bows again, low to Azula and with a respectful dip of the head to Suki. “Thank you, for allowing me to join you, Princess, Captain.”

The Kyoshi Warrior disappears around the corner, and the training grounds suddenly feel so large, with miles of empty space between Azula and Suki.

“I thought you were mad at me,” Suki says, softly.

“I am,” Azula says. “But you can’t seriously think that you can get rid of me that easily, can you?”

“I…” Suki turns her face, her short bob of auburn hair falling like a curtain. “I feel like I keep trapping you. Like I’m making myself your only option. It’s not… it’s not fair for me to decide things for you like that.”

“So your solution is to throw people at me to see if I made any little friends?” Azula says, archly. “Do me the dignity of choosing who I keep around. Mine is not a mind that’s so easily swayed.”

“You don’t have to be near me, Azula,” Suki says. “It looks like you fight better then, anyway.”

“Kallik’s been talking to me a lot about self-destructive behavior, lately,” Azula says, softly padding towards Suki. “Denying yourself, sabotaging yourself –two of my favorite pastimes. They’re easier to do than you’d think. But if you want something, you have to hold onto it, even if your mind tries to trick you.”

Suki laughs, softly. “How am I supposed to hold onto you?”

“Don’t worry,” Azula says. She’s standing so close to Suki, close enough to count her thick eyelashes. “I can’t burn you, anymore.”

“You’d be surprised.” Suki shakes her head and steps back. “I should let you get back to your quarters.”

She’s already started to stride away by the time Azula finds the words she’s looking for. “Aren’t you going to escort me to my room, guard?”

Suki turns, blinking, and Azula’s tongue feels unwieldy in her mouth.

“You haven’t taken me on a walk in a while.”

Suki swallows, then holds out an arm; “If I may, Princess?” Her tone is light, but her eyes are heavy with uncertainty.

Azula takes her arm.

There’s a map, studded with black flags in Zuko’s war room.

He refuses to call it that, of course, but Zuko should know better. Even if Azula knows now that not all peace is forged in flame and ash and war, when it comes to their father…

There’s no way to call this anything but a war.

The Avatar sits Zuko’s right hand – the rest of their friends trailing after him – and Azula is to his left, looking at the ridges of his scar and his nearly-blind eye as he studies the map spread out on the table.

“The highest concentration of sightings have come on the eastern coast,” a general says, pointing at a dense cluster of black. “But we’ve had reports scattered all across the nation, even some in the Earth Kingdom.”

“We need to eliminate any reward associated with information,” Azula says, firmly. “No matter what we’re offering, it isn’t enough for a fanatic to cross Ozai, and people are getting greedy.”

“People are scared,” Katara counters, blue eyes compassionate. “Everyone’s been on edge since Ozai escaped. We all want him secured again.”

“Clearly,” Azula says, archly. “Not everyone.”

The silence is heavy as their eyes sweep the mass of black.

“Did we get the census reports back?” Sokka asks. “If anyone is missing…”

“Obstinately, everyone is where they should be,” a council woman reports. “But around five hundred citizens were accounted for by family members instead of in person, and at least two hundred them have connections to Ozai’s previous supporters.”

“Is there a place where they’re more concentrated?” The Avatar asks, leaning forward.

She nods, tapping on the map. “The southern coast of Shuhon Island.”

“Send a small force to investigate,” Zuko instructs. “We want discretion and intelligence, not force.”

Toph boos, and Zuko nearly cracks a smile, shooting it down as Katara and Sokka swat at her.

The councilwoman nods, hiding a smile of her own. “Yes, Fire Lord.”

Zuko continues. “The Princess Azula is right. Effective immediately, we’ll be eliminating rewards for information. We can spare ourselves the headache and the resources.”

Azula startles, sitting up straighter as eyes turn onto her. A flush of pride rises on her cheeks.

“However” – Zuko nods to Katara –”let it be known that we’re offering full protection for anyone who feels they may be threatened by betraying Ozai. Lord Con–”

Zuko chokes on nothing, suddenly and frantically diving for his glass of water. Katara and Azula forget themselves for a moment, exchanging bewildered glances, as Sokka sits stock-still and Toph grins, like she’s in on something.

Zuko spills some water on his robes, and Katara bends it out before anyone can comment.

“Sokka has been consorting– assisting our guards to increase the palace’s defense system.”

Sokka nods, giving a brief rundown of the improvements he’s made. “If any attacks come, we’ll be ready, and anyone within these walls will be safe.”

“That just leaves everyone else,” The Avatar says, so softly Azula doubts anyone else heard.

Zuko lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. “That will be all for today.”

The council members file out, and Zuko, his friends, and Azula are left, tension hanging heavy in the air.

“Do you really think he could have an army like that?” Katara says, softly. “So many people…”

“So what if he does?” Toph says, cracking her knuckles. “I’ll just have to invent bone-bending.”

Azula stares at her for a long moment, unblinking. As if sensing it, the Earth bender smirks in her direction.

“Zuko,” Azula says. “I want to keep the small one.”

Toph grins, and it’s all teeth. “You couldn’t afford me, zappy.”

Azula wants to protest that the Fire Nation coffers are filled with grand treasures and gold from all corners of the nations, but she’s pretty sure Zuko has been returning them, and more importantly…

“Zappy?” Her voice is meticulously lofty, careless. “Not sure if you missed the memo, but I'm decidedly not, nowadays.”

Impossibly, Katara’s eyes soften, and Azula glares until she starts to look annoyed again. There, much better.

“Nah,” Toph snorts. “Have you heard yourself speak? Zappy as hell.”

“Toph!” Katara squawks, indignant, even as Azula turns away, trying to hide a smile.

“Zuko,” Azula says, some time later, picking at her bedspread with the sharp edges of her nails. She’s sitting cross legged on top of her sheets, watching dyed purple cotton wisp away in her palms. Her nails are growing: slowly, but surely, and now the white tips peek over the blunt, rounded mounds of her fingers. “Do you ever get the feeling that maybe the way we grew up wasn't – well. That it could have been… better?”

She’s not entirely sure what prompts the question, only that it’s been one hovering on her lips for a while now. So much of Zuko’s Fire Nation is gentler than Ozai’s ever dared to be; she wonders if that includes its parents.

Zuko’s fingers still their careful movement. He’s taken up knitting, recently, and prefers to do it in the relative quiet of Azula’s chambers, away from the pressure and hustle of his responsibilities as Fire Lord. She can’t tell exactly what it is he’s making, and she doubts he knows either. From her perspective, it all looks like an uneven lump of sheep-goat wool, stirred and knotted into smaller piles by a shaky hand.

She tilts her head. Is it a single mitten, perhaps?

He doesn’t look at her when he says, in a voice so carefully devoid of emotion that it sounds like a stranger’s: “I do. Father was – he was horrible, Azula. To both of us.”

“He–” Azula chokes down the defensive prickly retort that springs to her tongue as easily as a blade slips into the hand, the reflexive response that would have seen her spitting out a pointed contradiction. He was a good leader. He was only as strict as he had to be. It was my fault he had to discipline me so often, because I was bad.

It’s second nature at this point. She’d lived so long in an intolerable situation that the only way to survive was to make it tolerable, through any means necessary. Azula knew very well that what did not resist the flame of the Imperial Court burned away to ashes.

So she’d lied. To Father, that she had everything under control – her bending, her friends, her brother. She never delivered anything less than perfection. She never, ever failed.

She’d lied to Zuko, that she was the better sibling, the more skilled Fire bender. And above all, she’d lied to herself, that what was happening was acceptable; was right; was imperative.

But they – her violent father, her absent mother, her pandering uncle and every sycophantic guard and advisor and general; every person who ever witnessed the damage done to the child Azula used to be and did nothing – she knows now that they do not deserve her excuses. They do not deserve her protection. And they do not need her defense.

It’s taken interminable months of work with Kallik, but Azula has come to the nettling, bitter realization that she didn’t deserve the way she was treated. She should’ve been allowed to be a child, not a soldier. She shouldn’t have been a weapon in her father’s war.

“Why?” She’s almost ashamed of the question, recognizing it for the child’s cry that it is. “Why did Father treat us like that? I did everything he asked. I would have done more, if he’d–”

If he’d been kinder. Or not even kinder – if he’d looked her way with anything other than derision and disappointment and cruel pride (what what she was, never for who). She knows there’s no place for kindness in the wasp-snake dens that masquerade as Fire Nation politics.

Mai and Ty Lee used to complain about their parents in the way one might complain about the weather, or a piece of torn clothing. A minor inconvenience, impeding on one’s freedom. But there was always an undercurrent of affection there, an affection Azula could never bring herself to understand. Mai and Ty Lee were not afraid of their parents, and Azula had felt then for the first time what it was to want something you could never have.

Zuko stands, setting his knitting to one side. Despite her own internal best efforts, there’s now a chair that she refers to (if only in her own head) as Zuko’s chair . He paces across the room to lean on her windowsill, gazing out across an internal courtyard. Agni’s rays filter over the bottom half of his face, throwing the sharp lines of his nose and cheek into brutal relief. He looks timeless, a Sage of old. It’s a bare two years that separates them, but sometimes Azula feels like that gap spans eons.

“I don’t know, Azula,” he says quietly, and something inside her fractures. If he doesn’t have the answer, then nobody does. Then Azula will have to live the rest of her life never knowing why, never understanding what it was inside of her that made Father look at her like she was a tool and nothing more.

“Azula.”

Azula reluctantly turns to face Zuko, folding her knees into her chest and resting her chin atop them. Her feet are bare, and she tucks them under her thighs, disturbed by their odd vulnerability.

“It’s okay to hate him. It’s okay to love him. Whatever else he was, he was our Father first.”

It’s so similar to the phrases Kallik has been spouting at her for weeks that she narrows her eyes in suspicion. “Have you been talking to Kallik?”

He huffs out a breath. “No, but if they’re saying the same thing I am, it’s pretty safe to assume that I’m right.”

Azula hesitates, but she wants to know, she needs to know– “Do you hate Father?”

The corner of his mouth curls into a small, weary smile. “It’s complicated.”

His grin pulls at the edges of his scar, and she remembers as if it was yesterday the scent of burning flesh, the way his screams had risen into the air. If she squints, she can still make out the shape of Father’s fingers branded across Zuko’s skin.

He has more of a reason than almost anyone to hate Father, and yet–

He’s not certain either, what he should feel for the man that dominated so much of their shared childhood. If it makes Azula feel just that much better about the muddled knot of feelings in her own chest, well – that’s her business.

The next time Azula shows up for a sparring session, Kiva is nowhere to be found. Something horribly smug and a tiny bit tender curls under Azula’s sternum, making her stand straighter as she saunters into the ring.

Suki’s waiting for her. Azula makes her approach on deliberately silent feet, but Suki senses her anyway, turning towards the entrance with an expectant grin. Azula almost grins in return before she catches herself, schooling her face back into neutrality.

“Come here often?” Suki coos, and Azula shakes her head.

“I see your conversational skills are as poor as ever.”

“Oh, but you did so use to love talking to me, Princess. One might ask what that says about your conversational skills.”

“Only that I took pity on you by stooping to your level,” Azula says loftily. The instant her toe crosses the chalk line that demarks the ring, Suki moves.

It’s a combination Azula hasn’t seen before, blindingly fast high kicks paired with sideways shuffling evasive maneuvers.

“You look like a crab,” Azula says, chopping down at Suki’s foot with the side of her hand. The blow misses, but only by a hairsbreadth.

“An awesome, cool, handsome crab?” Suki says hopefully.

“An awesomely stupid one.”

Suki pants out a breath that might have been a laugh, and Azula viciously strangles the satisfaction that rises in her in response.

No.

No, she has not forgiven Suki, she does not find Suki amusing, she is not engaging in fond, witty banter with Suki.

(Azula wants her here, right with Azula, more than anything, but...)

She is mad at Suki.

Her next strike is a bit more pointed than usual, elbow thrown into the ribs with near bone-breaking force, and Suki’s eyebrows twitch. “Rough morning, Princess?”

“Only because you’re here.”

Azula doesn’t want to, but it’s easy, so easy, to fall back into old, familiar patterns. Suki is the only true friend Azula has ever had, and Azula misses her like flame misses the wick.

Mai and Ty Lee’s betrayal hurt. Azula had not been prepared for Suki’s to hurt so much more.

“Careful.” Suki’s eyes glitter the color of the sea under ice, a blue so unfathomable it steals the breath. “Some might take that as a compliment.”

Azula is opening her mouth to respond when Suki’s attention jerks to the side as if tugged there by an invisible string. Following her gaze, Azula catches a flash of robes: one set Fire Nation red, and the other Water Tribe blue.

On the other side of the practice rings, Zuko is walking so very close to Sokka, their heads bent together in murmured conversation. Zuko says something, fondness creasing the corners of his eyes, and – Sokka laughs. Sokka laughs . The sound cuts through the clear morning air, high and bright and full.

And Suki stumbles. It’s no more than a slip of the foot, but for a warrior of her caliber it’s as noticeable as smoke against the sky.

Azula twists, but she’s distracted too, and the movement comes too late. They’re both off balance, and Azula knows even as she takes a hurried step back that they’re both going down. Some half-buried fondness sees her reaching for Suki in hopes that she can at least break the other girl’s fall.

Except that Suki apparently has the same idea.

Azula lands flat on her face, with Suki kneeling at her back. Suki’s hand wraps around her wrist, and her hands are small and cool, not hot and broad, and it’s not more than a moment, but–

Azula is eleven.

Azula is eleven, and she’s good, but she’s not good enough. Master Jiko is her Father’s general, and he has been entrusted with ensuring the Princess’s firebending skills are progressing at an acceptable pace.

They’ve been at it for hours already, and Azula would rather die than admit weakness, but sweat from exertion has stuck her robes to her body. Her arms, from the blades of her shoulders down to the clawed tips of her fingernails, are wracked with minute tremors. She’s already shot one blast awry, flame veering out and away from her control. There cannot – there will not – be another.

“Again,” Master Jiko barks, and Azula sets herself back into the proper form. His frame dwarfs hers, but that’s nothing new. They used to pit her against other children, at least until she sent them all back screaming.

He strikes without warning, and Azula matches him step for step. He’s big, but she’s quick, and she’s spent the past hour baiting him into believing she’s more tired than she actually is.

He shifts to keep her in sight, but his eyes dart to a point somewhere over her left shoulder. He’s already planning out his next movement.

Azula smiles, and strikes.

It’s a perfect blow. Azula feels Agni’s flame boil out from her core through the hot rush of her veins. Fire curls around Azula’s fists, red-orange heat licking around pale fingers – pale fingers that, just for the barest instant – shake.

The blast jumps to the left. The margin of error is minute, but it’s a gaping hole in her defense to an expert like Master Jiko. Swatting her next blow aside disdainfully, he barrels through the shield she throws up in a panic, and then he’s on her.

She hits the ground too fast to make sense of much, except for the liquid sharp pain of the ground pressed against the proud curve of her cheek. There will be a bruise there in the morning.

“Sloppy,” Master Jiko says, and seizes her hand in his own. She fights, but all she can summon is a pitiful spit of sparks. Her nails carve bloody gouges into her own palms.

He presses her arm further up her back, until her muscles scream protest. Something wrenches in her shoulder, and she knows that it will break in another few inches.

It’s going to break, and it’s going to hurt, and Azula is forged of iron but even iron shatters and she opens her mouth to yell, to demand that he stop, stop –

The voice that answers is not Master Jiko’s. The pitch is too high, the cadence too calming. The pressure vanishes – was it ever even there at all?

Azula is sixteen.

Azula is sixteen, and she is scrambling away from a girl whose hands were never raised against her in earnest, pale as death under white makeup; from a boy who can’t meet her eyes; from her brother.

The first instinct is still to strike out. The blow lacks heat and strength, but Zuko doesn’t try to block or even evade it. Her fist lands against his chest with a solid thump.

And then stays there, knuckles pressed to the rough silk of his robes. His eyes don’t leave hers as he, achingly slowly, lifts his hand to wrap his fingers around the small knot of her fist. She can feel his calluses rasp against the thin skin of the back of her hand.

“It’s okay,” he says, and the last vestiges of her – episode – shred away with his words. “It’s okay.”

Azula’s fire has been cold for months now, but she’s unprepared for the depths of ice into which she’s plunged. The only warm spot is Zuko’s hand encasing hers.

What was that? What was that? Is she finally losing her mind, like they all said she would?

She rips her fist from Zuko’s grasp. “Don’t touch me.”

“Okay.” His mouth is a flat line, but she hates that she can detect the worry haunting the corners of his lips.

“I’m fine.”

“I know.”

“I’m – I’m leaving.”

She’s not running away, she tells herself. It’s a strategic retreat. A good warrior knows when she’s overmatched.

Azula gathers both her robes and what remains of her dignity around her, and flees. She pretends like she can’t feel the gazes pinned to her back: one blue like the sky glimpsed between clouds, and the other gold as the heart of a flame.

It’s dark by the time Azula emerges from the bath houses. She still has her private space within, and she filled the bath with salts and juniper-cherry leaves, until the sweet, hot smell of them filled the air. She boiled away the residual soreness from her spar and didn’t think about it as well as she could and sat until the bath water went cold.

When the water is scalding hot, she can slide her face beneath the surface and hold her breath until her lungs burn, and she almost feels warm again.

But when she has to rise up and breathe in great, aching lungfuls of air, her frozen core is always there.

Her hair is dry and she’s wrapped in her thickest robes as she hastens through the star-studded dark, back to her room, with its massive fireplace and cozy bed. Beautiful as the night is, the face of the moon makes Agni’s absence glaring.

Slipping through the hallways, she stops short as she sees a small plate and a note before her door.

I’m so sorry, a familiar hand reads, and Azula’s heart stills for a quiet moment. I hope you’re okay. Let me know if I can do anything for you. Something else has been scribbled out, blotted with dark ink until Azula can’t even begin to guess at what it was, then: Sweet dreams, Princess.

It isn’t signed, but if the handwriting isn’t damning evidence, the spice krispy treat at her door is.

Despite herself, Azula smiles. She almost wishes Suki was here, so she could split the damn thing in half and give some to her, but the hall is quiet, and Azula curls up in a plush armchair to eat.

She’s nodding off over a book – the taste of spice still on her tongue –when the knock at her door comes.

“Who is it?” She calls, too cozy to get up.

“Me and Aang,” Zuko says, and Azula bolts upright, pulse spiking. “Can we come in?”

Together? Why would the two of them come here, together? Unless…

Azula wets her suddenly dry lips. “Of course, Zuzu.”

She sits back down, heavily in her chair, as the door swings open.

The Avatar is apparently as cheerful at night as in the morning. He bounds in, steps light, and looks around with unabashed curiosity, smiling at her Water Tribe furs.

Zuko is on edge –his fingers tap against his leg relentlessly, and he can’t look Azula in the eye.

“So, Avatar,” Azula says. “To what do I owe this dubious honor?”

He smiles, strange gray eyes casting Zuko’s way. “You know, Azula, we’ve really gotten to know each other lately.”

“You could say that.” Azula has to fist her hands together in her lap to keep them from shaking.

“Aang and I have been talking, and…” Zuko pushes a hand through his hair, completely ruining his top knot. “Azula, it’s a long shot. I don’t want to get your hopes up.”

“What are you even talking about, Zuzu?” Her pulse roars in her ears.

“I know things have been really hard for you lately, and I want to help, and I don’t know if this will, but I–”

“Zuko,” she interrupts, heart in her throat. “What are you talking about?”

“Azula,” Aang says, softly, kneeling down to her side. “Do you want me to give you your bending back?”

Azula’s heart lurches from its frozen cradle, and she rearranges her features, letting that anticipation show. “Can you even do that?”

“I took Ozai’s bending away,” he says, flexing his hands. “If energy bending can do that, then maybe…”

“Yes,” Azula says, and she doesn’t even need to fake the hoarse desperation bleeding into her voice. “Please.”

“Okay.”

He rises, and she starts to lift herself, but he shakes his head.

“Just…” He lays a hand on her forehead. “Relax.”

Her heart feels like it’s going to hammer out from behind her ribs, but she stays still, looking up at the Avatar. Below him should be a humiliating position, but her blood is roaring with the nearly-forgotten feeling of victory. Her breaths come short and fast.

“Aang,” she says, catching his other hand just before it touches her sternum and waiting until his strange gray eyes are looking into hers. “Thank you.”

And for once, she means it.

He smiles, looking every bit the nearly-fourteen year old he is. “Ready?”

“Ready,” she breathes.

And her world goes awash in blue.

Chapter 9: Area Woman Loses Last, Additional Shred of Hope She Didn’t Know She Still Had

Chapter Text

Azula plunges down, and down, and down, into a place so deep within herself that all lies, all pretense fall away. She’s not alone – there’s a hand in hers, a presence at her back. If Azula is a single spit of flame cutting through the darkness that makes up her soul, then Aang is a gust of spring wind.

They hit the ‘ground’ together, a knot of darkness deeper than the rest. It takes Azula a minute to peel a body that is not a body up into a standing position, and by that time Aang is already on his feet, flitting around.

He does – something – Azula feels as a wash of blue light. It’s not the shattering blast Azula remembers from her bending first coming in; it’s gentler. It’s the sense of being cleansed, opened up, released. Warmth flares around her, and Azula reaches eager hands out for the source, grasping, reaching.

Her fingers meet only unforgiving ice.

She tries again, grabbing great handfuls, hugging it to herself. This time, she feels heat begin to bleed through her nails and skin, seeping in slow trickles from her limbs to her core. It leeches away as quickly as it comes, but Azula doesn’t care, diving headfirst into the pool of warmth.

Strangely enough, though flame presses down all around her, Azula could swear the source of the unrelenting chill is radiating out from within. She casts the fleeting thought aside, instead choosing to wallow within what feels like an astounding decadence of heat, a princess’ birthright.

Even as it flees from her grasp, it’s still the full glory of Agni’s rays at midday, the scorch of a perfect set of firebending roaring across the battlefield, the enveloping comfort of a hearth–

A hand takes hers, yanking her to her feet. Azula follows the Avatar back up towards a hazy light, piecing herself back together on the way.

And just when she thinks she can’t go any further, that there’s nowhere left to push towards, Azula’s eyes snap open.

The Avatar’s –Aang’s –hands fly off of her, like she scalded him, and he’s grinning.

“How do you feel?”

She can’t tell. She’s still trembling too hard to assess anything.

“I…” She tries to stand, but can't. “Zuko? I need cotton. Anything flammable.”

He’s there in a second, eyes anxious and hopeful all at once as he presses loose, fine-spun fluff into her hands.

She holds it there, staring at the tiny puffs –airy and dry. Begging for flame.

She closes her eyes and remembers the heat she felt in that strange void, the power, the rage of Agni flowing through her.

Her palms warm, and she opens her eyes with a triumphant cry –

But the cotton remains undisturbed.

Zuko goes still and quiet.

“No,” she says, swallowing. “No, I can do it, just let me try again.”

She stares at the cotton.

She had felt it. Had felt her flame, her power, just at the tips of her fingers–

“Azula,” Zuko says, softly.

“I can do it,” she snaps.

She can. She can. It’s just that there’s–

Nothing.

She’s trembling too hard to tell if she’s cold or not.

Azula whirls on Aang. “Did you mess something up?”

“Your chakras are unblocked,” Aang frets. “I felt them all open.”

“You must have missed something.”

“I promise I didn’t.” He puts a hand back on her forehead, frowning, and shakes his head. “Everything is fine. You should be able to–”

“You must have,” Azula hisses. “Because if you didn’t, then–”

Then the problem is her. The only thing that’s wrong with Azula, the only thing that’s ever been wrong is Azula.

“Azula,” Aang says, heartbreakingly gentle as he lays a hand on her shoulder. “I’m so sorry. But sometimes there’s a deeper spiritual problem that not even I can see, let alone help with.”

She’s not cold anymore. She’s just empty.

“You were going to fix it!” Azula snaps, smacking his placating hand away as she rises. “You were supposed to–” she breaks off, swallowing down the sob that threatens to bubble out of her throat.

“Supposed to…” Understanding breaks on the Avatar’s face, but Azula can’t bring herself to care.

“Azula,” Aang says softly, and for some reason, he sounds like he’s the one who has any right to be heartbroken. “Did… how long did you plan on getting me to bring back your bending?”

“Oh, I forget,” she says, and she wants to rip him and his sad, strange gray eyes apart, wants to make him scream the way she’s dying to. “How long has it been since I knew you were coming? Since I woke up every day and dragged myself into the freezing morning to sit next to you and fight the urge to rip my ears off every time you started up another inane lecture?”

“Azula,” Zuko breathes, and he’s hovering between his sister and his best friend, like he doesn’t know which of them to comfort, which of them to hold back.

The Avatar’s eyes go cold. “I thought you had changed, Azula. I thought we could be friends.”

“Then I guess you were wrong,” she spits.

He laughs, bitterly. “I think that might be the first honest thing you’ve told me.”

And he whirls like a hurricane from the room.

“Azula,” Zuko says, like he doesn’t know if it's a reprimand or not. “He would have helped you. If you had just asked–”

“Is that right, Zuzu?” She turns on him, hands shaking. “Are you telling me The Avatar would’ve saved the girl who toppled Ba Sing Se on merit alone? That he would’ve helped me after I nearly killed him, and all of his friends, too?”

“All you had to do was be honest,” Zuko finally snaps. “Aang is a good person. He would understand.”

Azula just shakes her head and turns, suffocating hair falling in front of her face. “Get out, Zuko.”

The tears that have been threatening to fall bead up in her eyes, heavy.

“Azula–”

“I don’t need you right now, Zuzu. I never do.”

“I’ll come check on you tomorrow morning,” he says, softly. “Maybe you can join me for breakfas–”

“I said get out!”

He pulls the door shut behind him, and Azula is left alone with her useless, shaking hands.

It’s just one tear at first –rolling fat and sticky down her cheek. Then another, not boiling and sizzling off of her skin like it should, then Azula’s nose is prickling and running and she’s on the ground with her forehead pressed against the carpet and one hand clutching her chest as she sobbs and gasps for air.

It’s her fault. It’s her Agni-damned fault. It’s her.

She’s going to vibrate out of her skin if she doesn’t move, and she does, stumbling into her bookshelves and knocking half a dozen books and scrolls to the ground, and for some reason it feels good, and she does it again– digging her claws into the leather-bound covers and tearing them from the shelves and ripping pages out indiscriminately until her fingers bleed from a thousand tiny paper cuts; her bed is next and she hurls the pillows onto the ground, rips her bed cover off of the mattress –and there’s a voice in the back of her head that sounds suspiciously like Kallik telling her to stop, that she’s hurting herself, that she needs to calm down, to breathe, but she can’t she can’t she can’t – and she pounds her fists against the mattress, dripping tears and snot and spit as she screams, and she’s pulling everything out of her closet, shredding fabric with her bare hands and begging it to light burn turn to ash and her books are strewn across the floor, pages creased and ripped and spines cracked, and she claws at her freezing arms and screams and she’s sobbing and her closet is almost empty and–

There’s a sweater at the bottom of her wardrobe.

It’s worn, dirty. The hems are burned and fraying, the sleeves are slashed open.

Gingerly, Azula bends down to pick it up, and her eyes well again for an entirely different reason.

She collapses, slowly, like the torn pages fluttering to the floor around her, and bundles the sweater against her mouth, her nose. It still smells like crushed grass, like clean soil, like sunlight.

It still smells like Suki.

Azula drags herself across the floor and onto her torn, rumpled bedding, where she collapses with a low, exhausted moan –a wild animal in its nest. Her eyes are swollen and sticky, and she aches all over, but she doesn’t have the energy to pull herself onto her bare mattress. She curls up with the sweater clutched to her chest, like the stuffed animals she never let herself have. (Attachments meant weakness, attachments meant the things you loved could be turned against you.)

Azula cries, shaking and cold, into the sweater, until she finally falls into a dreamless sleep.

Zuko comes by the next morning, knocking softly at her door.

Azula refuses to let him in.

As she does the next day. And the next. And the next.

She only leaves her room to reluctantly attend her sessions with Kallik, curled up in a pitifully small ball on their couch. It was worse, she’s realizing, to have entertained the hope of getting her bending back and then having it torn away so violently, than to never have had that hope at all.

Kallik taps their pen against their ever-present pad of paper. It’s not pity in their eyes, thank Agni, never pity, but an unaccountable sadness.

“It’s never wrong to hope, Princess,” they say quietly. “Hope is what heals us.”

“A lot of good it’s done me,” Azula says bitterly. “I hoped I would escape this stupid palace and my stupid brother. I hoped I would get my bending back. I hoped Suki–”

She breaks off, and drops her head into her knees. How long will she carry Suki around like a chain at her neck? How long will that wound bleed and bleed and bleed but never mend?

Why can’t she do anything right?

She doesn’t realize she’s muttered that last part aloud until she feels Kallik’s hand brush across hers, long fingers taking her palm in a comforting grip.

“Azula, you can’t blame yourself for what happened with your bending. You tried as hard as you could. In fact–”

They break off, frowning, eyes pinned to the place where their hands overlap.

“What?” She’s too tired to even snap the word out.

“Azula, you’re – you’re warm.”

Azula knits her brow together. “You must be sick or something.” Because she’s not warm, she’s freezing, she’s ice all the way through. She’s a glacier masquerading in the shape of a woman.

“No, I’m not. Your skin is warm.”

Azula snatches her hand back and presses her palms together, but she can’t feel a difference. Her fingertips pulse with a chilled beat.

“I promise,” Kallik says, eyes steady on hers. “I promise. Have I ever lied to you?”

Azula hesitates. “No,” she admits. They never have. Not since the very beginning.

Kallik grins, wide and true. “Maybe,” they say, “maybe it isn’t all as lost as you thought.”

Maybe it isn’t all as lost as you thought.

The words ring in Azula’s skull as she returns to her rooms. She can’t bring herself to reach again for her bending, still smarting from the previous failure, but there is something she can do. A step she can take.

Her rooms are still in disarray, evidence of her fit of emotion littered over the floor and the bed. The sweater sits alone in a corner.

Slowly, Azula sits down against the wall and pulls the sweater into her lap. With the other hand, she seizes a scrap piece of paper and her overturned ink pot. There’s still a small pool of ink left at the bottom.

With Suki’s sweater warming her legs, Azula bends over the paper and begins to write.

To Suki,

Her quill stills, blotting dark ink against the creamy parchment. It was so easy to tell K anything, when the other girl wasn’t real, not really. But now she can picture Suki in aching clarity in her mind, can imagine the way her nose will wrinkle or her eyebrows knit when she reads Azula’s words.

(but… but she can also picture Suki’s smile, bright and brilliant as Agni’s rays on the hottest days of Summer. And just maybe her letter will let that smile shine through.)

I think I made a mistake.

I thought that if the Avatar could take away my father’s– Ozai’s bending, that maybe he could give it back. That he could give me my flame back. But he tried, and I’m still cold. My chest is still frozen.

And I let my hopes, my lies slip, and now he’s angry and I don’t know how to face my brother, and…

Something splashes on the paper, and Azula wipes at her cheek with an impatient hand.

I miss you. I see you often, but I don't know how to trust you, how to feel around you, but I miss you so much that sometimes it feels like I can’t even breathe. I could rely on you when I couldn’t even rely on myself, but now–

Azula blots out her words with black ink. Her hands shake on the paper, but she swallows, presses on.

I don’t know how to face my brother. I don’t know much right now. But I know that writing to you, confiding in you felt… right. So I suppose I’ll indulge you a little longer. So, Suki, here’s a letter from your Princess. If you don’t respond, I’ll understand that you were too overwrought with emotion and gratitude at my words.

But I think I’d like it if you did.

– Azula

It’s late when she’s done, and the moon – Tui, she’s heard Kallik call it – sails high in the sky, casting everything below in silver shadows.

She doesn’t know where she’s going when she slips, shivering, from her room, but the servants used to be housed in the Western corridors. Surely the Kyoshi warriors are stationed somewhere nearby.

Her teeth chatter as she slips from shadow to shadow, feet mouse-moose-quiet, towards the guard’s quarters. They’re brightly lit, and when she peers through, Kyoshi warriors – some in uniform, some out – congregate in small groups, flowing easily around the large room, laughing, talking, some on the verge of sleep. Suki is in the heart of the room, as if all of her warriors are subconsciously orbiting around her radiance, looking to their captain for guidance.

Azula swallows hard and slinks back, gently laying her letter – Suki written in broad, clear script on the front –at the doorstep.

Revenge for everytime Suki snuck one to her, perhaps.

Maybe Suki will ignore it out of hand. Maybe she’ll read it aloud to all her friends. Maybe she’ll trace the lines of Azula’s writing with those long, fighter’s fingers. Maybe she’ll rush to Azula’s door, eyes still smudged with kohl and lips still smeared red and –

Azula turns over in bed. Those thoughts aren’t very productive for going to sleep.

She’s distracted all day, fidgeting through her session with Kallik, vague when Zuko knocks at her door, barely remembering to glare at Katara when they pass each other in the halls.

When Azula returns to her rooms after coming from the bathhouses, steam on her skin and ice in her core, she’s so distracted she nearly passes by the single sheet of parchment, neatly placed outside her door.

When she picks it up, her pulse is thudding in her ears, her throat dry.

To Agni’s Blessed, the Forlorn Princess Azula,

Aang is too kind for his own good, and your brother loves you. Be honest, and they can’t stay mad at you for long.

Then, beneath, after lines scribbled out so many times Azula can’t begin to decipher what they were: And I missed you too.

Yours, Suki

Suki. With the K underlined.

And despite everything, Azula feels something in her chest begin to glow.

“I talked to Katara, recently,” Zuzu says later that day, when she’s finally let him in, and he’s settled in his chair in her room, intermittently drinking a cup of tea and knitting. “She said she’d be willing to teach you to sew.”

“Sew?” Azula – still thinking of Suki’s letter –blinks herself alert. “Why in Agni’s name would I need to do that?”

Zuko takes another sip of tea. She should slip a sedative into his drink one day, just to remind him to be cautious of poison. Besides, he could do with the rest.

“We need to be an example, Azula. We can’t waste resources. Besides” –he shrugs at her still-torn bedding and clothes – “you’re the one who ruined them.”

Or maybe she’ll slip him a laxative.

“Are you punishing me for something?”

Zuko levels her with a look.

She heaves a sigh. “Okay, fair.”

He cracks one of those rare, faint smiles. “Thank you.”

They sit in silence for a while longer, Azula nursing her tea as Zuko makes another clumsy row of stitches.

“Well then,” she says, finally. “Anything interesting happening in the world of our esteemed Fire Lord?”

“Your strategy worked,” he admits. “We stopped getting as many false reports on Ozai after we eliminated the reward.”

She barely has time to preen before he swallows, suddenly setting his craft aside.

“And I’ve… I’ve been working on something.”

She snorts. “I hope it’s better than that… mitten?”

He looks morosely at the mound of tangled yarn. “Hat,” he says, but shakes himself and pulls a smooth, carved stone out of his pocket. “How does this look?”

She squints. “Is that… a boomerang?”

His smile glows. “Yeah.”

“What’s it for?”

He flushes bright red and clams up, no matter how much she needles him.

When she tells Kallik, they laugh until they can’t breathe.

Azula’s getting pretty damn sick of sleeping on torn bedding. So, in the end, she hunts Katara down – like she did in her iron machine, traversing across the Earth kingdom so long ago it aches like a dream – and asks, through gritted teeth, when their first lesson will be.

“I’m busy right now,” Katara muses, although all she’s doing is laying in the grass and playing with that bug-eyed lemur, who chases and snaps at the strands of water twining around the girl’s fingers. “After dinner tonight, maybe? If that fits your busy schedule, Your Majesty.”

“Perfect,” Azula says, vaguely worried she’s going to grind her teeth down to chalk. “I’m busy as well, actually.”

Katara just looks at her, an eyebrow arched, and Azula stalks off as purposefully as she can in the vague direction of away.

She winds up in the royal library and spends half an hour or so perusing old, dusty, dull books, doing her best to look busy.

When dinner time passes –and she’s refused Zuko’s offer to join him and his friends, only slightly out of apprehension of the Avatar –she paces her room, starting and discarding letters to Suki.

She spends half an hour tidying her suite, hiding the Water Tribe furs, before deciding a peasant can’t dictate how a princess’ personal space looks and bringing them back out and throwing a few clothes around for good measure, before realizing that she shouldn’t let essentially Water Tribe royalty know that the Fire Nation princess appreciates their culture and rushing to hide the furs and the rugs again, when a knock comes at the door.

“Azula?”

“Just a moment!” Azula stuffs a wolf pelt in her armoire and slams the door shut.

“Come in,” she calls, throwing herself onto an armchair and looking disinterestedly at the flame constantly blazing in the fireplace. Wait, should she have grabbed a book?

Too late –the door swings open and the girl steps through, wincing in the heat that everyone but Azula can feel.

“Hello,” she says, vaguely, stepping in and looking around. A white flash of rug peeks out from where Azula’s bed curtain wasn’t long enough to hide it. She snorts. “Nice rug.”

A muscle twitches in Azula’s eye. “It was a gift.”

“Right.” Katara drops into the chair across from Azula, a heavy canvas bag thudding onto the ground beside her.

“Please,” Azula says dryly, distinctly aware that this was the first time they’ve been truly alone together since Katara won the Agni Kai for Zuko. “Make yourself at home.”

“I will, thank you. I assume you know what a needle is?”

“I prefer them in more stabby contexts, but I think I can adjust.”

“Charming. Here, catch.”

Azula snatches the thread out of the air, unimpressed. “What, are you throwing needles at me next?”

“Zuko was pretty adamantly against that.”

“He doesn’t know how to have fun.”

Katara nearly laughs before she catches herself, mouth settling into a thin line.

“Aang is really upset, you know. He kept trying to convince me that you had changed, that you were better now, but…”

Azula bares her teeth. “Feels good to be right, doesn’t it?”

“Not always.” Katara shakes her head, loops of hair swaying. “Anyway, there are two main types of stitches you can use…”

Katara guides her, surprisingly competently, through the basics, and after Azula nearly screams in frustration trying to thread a needle, she finds herself attempting to stitch together two pieces of her bedcover.

“Why did you even learn to do this?” Azula grumbles, when she’s pricked her fingers sore and is five seconds away from throwing the whole mess into the blazing fireplace. “You were pretty high up in your village, weren’t you? You couldn’t get someone else to do it?”

Katara’s jaw works, her hand flying to the necklace resting at the base of her neck. “My mother taught me.”

“Oh, the dead one, right?”

“The one your father’s regime slaughtered, yes.” Katara’s stitches go sharp and tight, grip practically strangling the shirt she’s working on. “Not that you care.”

“I wish he hadn’t.”

Azula looks studiously down at her bedding, making her stitches as tiny and even as possible.

“What?”

“I know it doesn’t mean anything from me, but I know what it’s like to lose a mother. Granted, I didn’t care about her and she didn’t care about me the way you seemed to, but…”

Azula clears her throat, cutting her thread with her teeth and tying it off as neatly as she can. “I imagine that wasn’t pleasant for you. And… despite what you may think, I’m not my father. Not anymore.”

The row of stitches is clumsy at best, uneven and crooked, but when Azula tugs on the strips of fabric, they hold fast together.

“That’s not half bad,” Katara says, and almost smiles at her.

Azula rolls her eyes, stabbing the needle back into another rip in her purple bedspread and pulling the torn cloth back to her face, hiding an almost-smile of her own. “Would it kill you to compliment me?”

“Probably.”

“I could say the same.”

And for a moment, everything feels alright.

As often as Zuko invades her chambers – always knocking beforehand, and always with verbal consent to enter, of course – Azula soon finds herself pulled into his spaces with increasingly worrying frequency.

He practices alongside her at the training yard in the mornings; he bullies her into sitting in his bedroom and “discussing” (gossiping about) the newest love triangle forming amongst his staff; and he drags her into his war room and lets her stew quietly in the corner.

For the most part, Azula approves of Zuko’s councillors’ battle strategy. What she doesn’t approve of, she murmurs into Zuko’s ear after the meeting, pointing out the flaws in his logic. Typically, he tends not to be aggressive enough in his maneuvers.

Sometimes he implements her suggestions, and sometimes he does not. Azula tries not to let it annoy her: after all, she’s right , she’s always been right in matters of war, and now she doesn’t even get to take credit for her victories.

However, neither of them are fool enough to tip off the councilors as to whose suggestions, exactly, Zuko has been taking. They already don’t like Azula’s presence in the room – she’s too focused, they complain, and it’s frightening – and Azula wouldn’t put it past them to reject every idea she comes up with simply because the words have touched her tongue.

So she bites her lip to keep quiet, and glares viciously at anyone who even looks in her direction, and keeps her hands in fists at her sides.

She’s imagining the lead general’s intricate hairdo going up in flames (no, she’s not very creative, sue her) when a stir at the table pulls her attention away. A messenger in a blue uniform sprints in and slams a missive down on the wood, scattering papers and elbowing two high-ranking nobles out of the way in the process.

“ Excuse me–” one starts, but Zuko takes one look at the gasping messenger and reaches over to silence him.

“From the front,” the messenger forces out between breaths. Another minor general barely manages to get a chair underneath her before her legs give out.

Zuko takes the envelope (he thanks her by name, and of course he knows her name), opening it in the sudden silence. He doesn’t do anything as graceless or inelegant as pale, but his lips thin out.

“The scouting mission to Shuhon Island,” he says eventually. “Missing, presumed dead. All seven of them.”

A hiss ripples through the room like a snake through grass. An aide on the far side of the room covers his face with his hands, and Azula wonders who it was that he had loved and lost. A sibling? A lover? A friend?

Azula straightens from her slouch against the back wall, and carefully asks, “What scouting mission?”

That same minor general gets halfway through answering: “The one looking for–” before his eyes widen and his mouth closes with a snap.

“Oh come on,” Azula snarls. She’s hit her limit, she decides. These people are so unbearably stupid . “If I was selling secrets, you’d all be dead by now. Obviously.”

“Azula,” Zuko says wearily, and she rounds on him, ready to pry the answer out of him if she must, but he sighs and offers up, “the one looking for Ozai.”

A scouting mission in Shuhon. And seven people dead. It’s not a coincidence; it can’t be.

She opens her mouth to say so – screw staying silent – but the lead general beats her to the punch, leaning over the table on her elbows.

“This can’t be simple bad luck, Your Majesty. Ozai must’ve known we were coming. He’s outplayed us, somehow. Forgive me, but most of our best people were lost in the wars. If we only had–”

Zuko holds up a hand. “You don’t have to convince me, General. I’ll see what I can do in the personnel department; there might be a few . . . old friends I can call on. And meanwhile – looks like I’ll be taking my vacation a bit early this year, huh?”

“I want to go.”

Azula corners her brother in the hallway as soon as the council meeting is over, eyes blazing with intensity. His guards shift around, looking restless, but none of them actually reach for a weapon. It’s an improvement.

He stops and looks down at her. “What?”

Azula hates, absolutely hates , how tall he’s getting.

“I said I want to go. On this stupid vacation, or whatever. You’re just gonna hunt down Father, and I want to go.”

She needs this. She needs it like flame needs open air. He was her Father, too, and he hurt her, too , and it’s not fair – she needs to see him behind bars with her own eyes, or she’ll never sleep soundly again.

“That’s fine,” Zuko says, and Azula swallows the rant poised on the tip of her tongue.

“Wha–huh?”

He starts walking again, and she hurries to catch up.

“That’s fine. I was going to ask if you wanted to come, anyway. I’ve been talking with Kallik, and they say your recovery is progressing well enough that the next step is letting you out of the palace grounds entirely.”

A sunset. A real sunset, one viewed across open land with her own two eyes, not half-glimpsed from the ledge of an open window. A run that isn’t constrained by high walls, driving her in circular laps until she loses her mind. And an unobstructed breeze, one that cuts clean and swift across her face, sweeping the curtain she’s made of her hair off her back–

She’s stopped dead in the middle of the corridor. Zuko halts, looks over his shoulder, and doubles back to her. The frown line between his brows makes him seem five years younger than he actually is.

“What is it?”

“Nothing,” she says breathlessly, and bites down on the grin she feels tipping the corners of her mouth upwards. “Nothing at all.”

“No escape attempts.”

“I know.”

“No jokes about escape attempts.”

“I know.”

“No ‘accidental’ escape attempts, no wandering off and getting lost, no knives, no tripping people and then blaming it on me–”

“I know, Zuzu, ugh. Why do you always have to suck the fun out of everything?”

Zuko folds his arms across his chest. His singular bag is packed and lies neatly at his feet. Across the courtyard, Sokka and Katara are arguing over three bulging packs. Katara holds up a large sack of what looks like sea prunes, waving it in Sokka’s face. Sokka snatches it away and stuffs it back into the pack.

“And I don’t see why you had to invite them .”

Zuko looks amused as he bends over and hefts his bag onto his shoulder, taking Azula’s as well without her even having to ask. “They’re my friends, Azula. This is supposed to be a vacation. Well, kind of. And, in case you forgot, they are some of the finest warriors I know. Perfect for a scouting mission.”

“Maybe the little one is,” Azula mumbles. Sitting on a low wall off to the side, Toph doesn’t have a bag to speak of. But, then again, not like she needs one. She could probably survive on a deserted island with nothing but her own two hands.

“Where are the ostrich-horses?” Azula wants to know.

Zuko grins, and for some reason it sends a shiver of apprehension down Azula’s spine. “You think we’re going to take ostrich-horses ?”

“Oh no,” Azula says. “Zuko, no. You don’t mean–”

A whoop from above drowns her out, and then the Avatar’s huge, furry, stinky flying bison settles down right in the middle of the courtyard, blowing Azula’s bangs back from her face in a wave of hot wind.

“Eugh,” says Azula, but Zuko is already striding ahead of her, calling out a greeting to the rider perched happily on its back. Azula averts her eyes. She and Aang haven’t spoken since the Incident. She doesn’t want to speak to him. She doesn’t even want to look in his direction, if she’s being honest, and now she’s going to be stuck on the equivalent of a sentient airship with him for several hours. Great.

“Appa!”

Azula doesn’t do anything as obvious as whip her head around, but she does shift in Suki’s direction at a pace that some might call ‘quick.’

Suki dashes by with a rucksack clutched in one hand, which she drops carelessly on the ground as soon as she gets into petting range of Appa.

“Who’s a good boy?” she coos, burying her face in the soft fur of Appa’s underbelly, and Azula is mortified at the spike of envy that jolts through her at the sight.

No. No, she is not jealous of some – some stupid, stinking, dumb, animal –

Suki pets her hand through Appa’s pelt, still murmuring nonsense words. The animal rumbles, obviously pleased as he leans into her. Azula lets out a wordless scream through her teeth and turns away.

When Azula finally swallows her pride and allows herself to be helped up onto Appa’s back – Suki’s grip strong –, it’s apparent that there has been some internal politicking going on. Aang, seated at the front of the bison’s long body, only turns around to tell her to remember to strap herself in. She does so with shaking hands. Katara flanks Aang, pointedly. Sokka and Suki both keep shooting her unsure glances, though, she suspects, for entirely different reasons. Zuko is busy trying to secure everyone’s luggage. That leaves her with Toph, who is unconcerned as she wedges herself into the space next to Azula.

Azula slants a sideways glance at her. Her heart is still beating much too hard. She dips one hand into a pocket, and pulls out the card deck she stole off some hapless guard last week. Each card has bumps scratched into the corner, delineating number and suit. “Want to play War?”

Appa shifts and moves under them in preparation for takeoff, sending Azula’s stomach up into her throat. The sky is blue and endless, and somehow it’s too open, unsettlingly open, like anything could come at her from any direction, and she’s not safe. She’s never safe.

Toph snatches the cards from her with a toothy grin. “Thought you’d never ask, Zappy.”

When they land on Shuhon’s green shores, Azula is poorer by six buttons, pried one by one off her coat and grudgingly surrendered into Toph’s victorious hands. She’s sure the other girl cheated, but couldn’t ever quite catch her at it. The unsettled feeling is still there, scratching at the back of her mind, but it’s subsided for now. Her legs ache when she slides down off Appa’s back and lands on solid ground, but she shoves that away too. There are more interesting things to focus on: they’ve come down nearly on top of their lodgings.

Azula wrinkles her nose, looking around the dirty, if elegant, accommodations. The house is done up in the traditional Fire Nation style, a pale echo of the palace, with a curving roof and light bamboo doors.

When she pushes through them, the entryway is nothing new.

“I’m starving,” Sokka groans, laying down his inane plethora of bags – and is that a Fire Nation robe peeking out of a straining duffle? –”Where’s the kitchen?”

“Down the hall to the right,” Azula says, absently, digging through her own bag. Kallik had given her homework –a journal, written in their neat hand, for her to document her emotions, and daily letters between them. “Your feather-brained bird knows how to get back to the palace, correct?”

“Hawky is a brilliant navigator, I’ll have you know,” Sokka sniffs. “He’s delivered tons of letters to the place.”

“And he means tons,” Katara says wearily, clinging to her satchel. “Bedrooms?”

“Hallway on the other side of the parlor.” Azula fishes out the leather journal before she looks up, blinking. “Wait, why were you writing so many letters to the palace?”

“Oh! Uh. Politics… stuff.” Sokka pedals backwards, smacking into a wall before readjusting and disappearing down the hallway. “Boring boring politics!”

Aang breezes through the entryway without looking at Azula, vanishing after Katara.

Dinner is held in the dusty, long-empty kitchen, members of the group trickling in one by one to rifle through supplies and construct their own meals. Toph bites into an enormous sandwich piled high with pickles with a worrying amount of gusto, making Aang and Sokka laugh.

Out of sheer curiosity, Azula takes advantage of his distraction to snag one of his sea prunes. It’s small, purple, and – as she soon finds once she bites into it – absolutely rancid. She spits it back out into her hand, glaring at the offending object.

Katara watches her tip it into the fire they’ve built to serve as kindling, and almost, almost smiles.

“Zuko,” Azula says, hands flexing on the wooden balcony. Her belly is full from dinner, and she feels nearly sated. “Why does this place feel familiar?”

“You don’t know?”

“Would I ask if I did?”

He worries with the end of his hair, nearly as long as Azula’s own now. (It suits him better, not that she’d admit that.)

“It was – is – Mai’s. I think you came here a few times when we were little.”

And suddenly the ghosts of almost-memories make sense. “Oh.”

He laughs, a little awkwardly. “Probably the sort of thing you’d want to forget.”

“It is.” Azula gathers her thick robes tighter around herself, fighting a shiver.

“Cold?”

“What gave me away?”

Zuko winces, turning. “Sorry.”

“No, I didn’t – I didn’t mean it like that.” It’s amazing how quickly the man who rules the Fire Nation can turn into the brother she tore down so many times. “It’s actually gotten better since the Avatar’s little romp inside my head.”

He lights up, turning to her. “Yeah?”

“Sometimes I… forget to be cold.” Another chill ripples through her, and she fights back a wince. “The reminders are frequent, though.”

He hums, quietly, and they stare at the moon’s reflection, fragmented over and over again in the crashing waves. Somewhere below, she can hear the Water Tribe siblings laughing so easily as they run along the sand.

“Can I try something?”

When Azula turns, Zuko’s already sitting on the balcony’s wooden planks, legs folded neatly beneath him.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Testing a theory.” He gestures, and she copies him, eyebrow arched.

“Zuko?”

“I need you to trust me, Azula,” he says, soft. “Can you do that?”

One breath in, then another, and the word comes tumbling out before it can change its mind: “Yes.”

He nods, effortlessly summoning a tiny flame in one cupped hand. It’s the same brilliant gold hue his fire has been ever since he joined Team Avatar, flickering with streaks of white and orange. She flinches for a moment when he reaches for her with the other hand –the burn scars on her arms chafing against her thick robes –but she swallows her apprehension down, letting her brother take both her hands in one of his own.

He presses one of her hands to the underside of his own, holding the flame. Silently, they repeat the action until Azula’s hands are molded around her brother’s. The fire flickers slowly, in time with Zuko’s breathing, and Azula’s breaths fall in sync.

“Try to hold it,” he says, and she flinches.

“Zuko, I can’t.”

“Trust me,” he implores, and slowly, she slides her hands into Zuko’s palms, until the flame is centimeters from her flesh.

She doesn’t know if the flames flicker in time to her breathing or Zuko’s, but it doesn’t matter when their breaths are in sync like this, and for a moment, Azula can almost pretend it’s her own flame, her own energy that shines so golden in the silvery night.

“When I lost my bending,” Zuko says, and Azula is too busy with the spark to cut him off. “It was because I joined Aang. I didn't have the rage that I used to. All that hate that I had carried with me, every single day, just to never excell the way you did, just to be burned… It did nothing for me. But without it, I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t as… completely gone as yours, but my flames were the weakest they had ever been. I burned through everything inside me, and I was just lost.”

“So what did you do?” Azula says, softly, staring into the golden flame.

He shrugs, a little apologetic. “I’m sworn to secrecy on the details, but suffice it to say I met some real masters. Our whole lives, Father just saw fire as a weapon, as a way to destroy, but that isn’t what it is. It’s warmth and joy and life.”

“So what?” Azula says. “You met some crazy old men and they taught you that all your problems could be solved with enough love and friendship?”

“No,” he says. “I realized that anger and revenge aren’t infinite supplies. And if I refused to find something else to feed my fire – to feed me –I’d end up nothing but ashes.”

Azula snorts, blinking back the wetness in her eyes. “You sound just like Uncle.”

He laughs. “That’s probably the best compliment you’ve ever given me.”

“It wasn’t one.”

“I know.” He says, and pulls his hands away.

A lightning-bolt of panic hits her. “Zuko, no–”

But the fire stays right where it is, hovering gently above her palms, flickering with her pulse.

“Oh,” she says, and something prickles in her eyes. “Oh.”

Is it her imagination, or is the end of the flame nearly indigo?

Something rolls down her cheek, and Azula pulls the flame protectively to her chest. It’s so warm. Heart in her throat, she tries to feed it, to let it grow, but it cheerfully flickers, as small and precious as ever.

“I can’t.” Her voice breaks. “I still can’t.”

“That’s okay. You just need something to feed yourself,” he says, putting his hands back around hers. “And I’ll help until you find it.”

“You’re a better brother than I deserve,” she says, soft enough that they can ignore it.

“No,” he says as the golden flame flickers between them. “I’m not.”

The night is so unrelentingly dark that their flame might as well be the only source of light for miles and miles. Somewhere out there in that pitch black, their father lies in wait. But for a moment, as golden light fills Azula’s vision, she finds it hard to remember to be afraid.

Aang’s gray eyes fix on her, then quickly dart to Zuko when they reenter the house. “Were you meditating?”

It’s obvious who the question is addressed to, but Azula answers anyway.

“We were,” and if she’s smiling, she can’t help it. “I think I was wrong. I like meditation quite a bit, actually.”

Azula assumes she’ll have the room to herself. She’s already settled her bedding in a pile in the corner, layers upon layers of blankets between her and cold stone. Sleeping in the bed – Mai’s bed? – seems… wrong, somehow.

So when the door creaks open and a shadow darkens the entrance, Azula reacts as any rational person who had recently survived a number of assassination attempts would: with extreme prejudice. She’s snatched a heavy iron candlestick off the dresser and is halfway across the room before the shadow resolves itself into Suki.

“Whoa,” Suki says bemusedly, holding her hands up in defense. “You should work on your hospitality, Princess.”

“I wasn’t expecting a visitor,” Azula snaps. She knows some of the others are sharing a room – Sokka and Zuko had talked themselves into knots trying to explain their decision, until Aang had put an end to their (and her) misery by asking brightly “for strategic purposes, right?” – but she hadn’t anticipated anyone wanting to share a room with her . Suki even has a pillow clutched in one hand.

“I can go,” Suki says, voice small, and something like panic wells up in Azula’s chest.

“No!”

Suki’s eyebrows raise. They’re less… bold, without the stark white contrast of her makeup. It gives her a softer, more inquisitive air.

“I mean. You can stay. If you want.”

“Really?” Suki wavers. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“Just…” Azula clears her throat, turning away. “Just stay to your side of the room.”

Suki’s smile is soft and brilliant. “As you wish.”

Mai’s old house is drafty, creaking. Even with the furs and blankets Azula stuffed her bag with, her teeth chatter. Suki drops off quickly and soundlessly – the way someone does in the brief moments of calm in battle. Moonlight cuts through the blinds, decorating her. Azula swallows. The bed looks big, soft. It doesn’t seem to carry the weight it did earlier, now that Suki’s in it.

She’ll blame the exhaustion later, the way her nose feels like ice, but Azula knows what she’s doing when she slowly pads across the open floor and nudges Suki.

The other girl’s eyes are open and alert in half an instant, and something sharp settles into confusion when she sees Azula.

“Everything okay?”

“I don’t…” Azula shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest and hugging what little warmth she has left. “I don’t want to be cold tonight.”

Suki’s whole face softens. It’s intolerable. Azula turns away, flushing, but Suki just silently shifts over, and they lay down beside each other like they’ve done it every night of their lives.

Azula runs into a brief problem when she discovers that her blankets are, apparently, too short to accommodate them both – “Why are your legs so damn long?” – until they figure out that the issue can be resolved if they just scoot slightly closer to one another.

Suki drops back off into sleep almost immediately, the soft, even sound of her breathing lulling Azula into a peaceful reverie. It’s… nice. This is nice. Her hands still tingle from her and Zuko’s earlier meditation, and the heat seeping off Suki’s sleeping body is slowly sinking deep, deep into Azula’s bones. She’s more relaxed than she has been in a long time. It’s not perfect, of course: she’s strangely anxious knowing that Kallik is no longer a short hike away, most of her brother’s friends are still wary of her, and something about the unbroken horizon is making her breath catch in her chest, but.

But.

There are people here, in this house, that have wrapped Azula in stolen warmth. There is one person, back at the palace, who is waiting for her letter, and will send one back in turn.

It’s enough.

Chapter 10: oh this binch gay as hell

Chapter Text

At first, Azula thinks she’s woken up bathed in sunshine.

Agni’s rays slant through the thin blinds of the bedroom, painting the floor with yellow, but the light doesn’t pry her eyes open, as the children of Agni so often experience. There’s no urgency in her, no urge to spring up, tie her hair – still prone to choking her in her sleep –and confront whatever new and exciting horror this day decides to throw at her.

Instead, Azula stretches, luxuriously, and turns over, seeking the unflattened edge of her pillow.

But her hand is stayed; Azula opens her eyes and sees Suki.

The other girl is lax with sleep, her face smushing into the pillow and body sprawling however she sees fit; her hand is tight in Azula’s own.

Not so long ago, Azula could’ve seared the flesh off of Suki’s palm as a reflex. She would have, not so long ago.

Azula brushes Suki’s bangs out of disarray, and the other girl’s hand twitches in her own.

Suki shifts, a small hum rising in her throat, and Azula snatches her hand back.

“Go back to sleep,” she says, trying to keep her voice softer than the sound of waves crashing against the beach and koi-doves bubbling their watery notes outside.

And as Suki shifts closer, until their legs touch and Azula can feel her steady, even breath on their joined hands, she closes her eyes, and decides to take her own advice.

It takes that great horned beast bellowing as he lands on the beach to rouse either of them.

They both jump to full awareness at the slightest hint of danger –golden and blue eyes meeting.

“What was–”

“I’m not sure.”

Laughter and unmistakably cheery voices drift up.

“Ah,” Azula lets her shoulders sink back into the plush mattress. “Just my brother being foolish, as always.”

“In that case,” Suki says, voice rough with sleep. “Morning, Princess.”

Azula swallows. “Good morning, Suki.”

“Sleep okay?”

The best she had in years. “I would have, if not for the great lumbering giant snoring in my ear.”

“Funny,” Suki laughs and sits up, stretching. “I was going to say the same thing about a pointy little gremlin kicking me all night.”

“You think you’re hilarious, don’t you.” Azula sits, glaring.

“I seem to recall you think so too.”

“Lies and deceit.”

“You implied it.”

“I’ve done no such thing, I assure you.”

“Whatever you say, Princess.” Suki’s leaning into her, those achingly blue eyes gentle. “Whatever you say.”

Whatever Azula is about to say is cut off by her Agni-damned brother, racing to the door and knocking like fire panthers are on his heels.

“Azula,” he calls, and the grin is so painfully evident in his voice. “Come on out. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

There’s a flash of confusion on his face when the door slides open and both Suki and Azula, still in their sleep clothes, stroll out, but it’s overtaken by that unsettlingly wide grin as Zuko takes Azula’s arm, tugging her forward.

“Remind me which of us is supposed to be the ‘big’ sibling here?” Azula drawls. “What’s with the kid in a sweets shop face, Zuzu?”

“Sorry,” he babbles, releasing her, and she resists the urge to tell him Fire Lords should never babble or apologize. “I’m just excited.”

Suki laughs. “Seriously, did we catch a golden koi that's going to grant us three wishes? What’s going on?”

Zuko beams. “See for yourself.”

He slides back the door to the kitchen, and there’s a familiar, nearly forgotten voice, and Azula has a flash of premonition –more of a dreadful thought, the type that pops into her head and dwells until she and Kallik can shoo it out. No, Zuko wouldn’t–

The door opens completely. Azula stares inside. Five faces, gathered around a teapot, stare back. There’s three extra places, already laid out.

Wordlessly, Azula turns on her heel and marches back down the hallway.

Suki and Zuko rush after her, Zuko following her into the room and Suki hovering in the doorway. She catches Azula’s gaze. Do you need me to stay?

Azula shakes her head wordlessly, sitting down before the vanity and grabbing her brush. It’s alright. Family matters.

With a last, searching glance, Suki nods, disappearing back down the hall.

“Azula,” Zuko says beseechingly, “what’s wrong?”

“You didn’t think you should have warned me about Iroh visiting?” Azula doesn’t look at him, aggressively beating her hair into flat sheets with the brush, even as he comes to hover over her shoulder.

“It was a surprise. It was supposed to be a good one.”

“Why would seeing that doddering old man be a good surprise?”

Zuko, the fool, has the audacity to look confused. “But… it’s Uncle.”

“I’m aware of our lineage,” Azula snips, starting a braid at the back of her head. “What I fail to recognize is how that’s relevant to me.”

“Because it’s… Uncle.”

She doesn’t even dignify that with a response.

“Azula, he’s really excited to see you.”

“You put too much trust in that batty old fool. The only thing he’s excited to see is how much weaker I’ve become. Maybe he’ll finally be able to put his dozen contingency plans to rest.”

“He only had like five,” Zuko protests. “Azula, I know you two had your differences in the past, but we did too! And we’re doing so much better. Can’t you at least give him a chance?”

“He never gave me one,” Azula snaps. She yanks her hair into place a bit too hard, winces. “If he’s excited, it’s to see his ‘favorite nephew’.” She pitches her voice low and mocking, an echo of Iroh’s deep rumble.

“Azula,” Zuko pleads. “It’s really not like that. Every time I write, he’s always so interested to hear about how you’re getting better! He really–”

“Do you talk about me to everyone?” Azula demands. “Agni, Zuko, you put so much f*cking attention on how ‘oh, Azula’s getting better’, ‘oh, she didn’t even attack anyone today’, ‘oh, everyone, look at the miraculious reformed princess, courtesy of your very own Fire Lord’! Did you ever think about just letting me be? I am getting better, Zuzu, and I’m glad I am, and I’m glad you’re helping me, but that doesn’t mean I have to give the man who never saw me as anything other than Ozai Junior a chance, who hated me when–”

When he loved you so much. When he and Mother both did.

“f*ck,” Azula mutters, giving up on her braid. When she catches Zuko’s gaze in the mirror, he’s stricken.

“Azula, I didn’t… I didn’t mean…”

“Just… get out, Zuzu. I’m not going back out there in my pajamas again.”

As soon as he leaves, she grabs her parchment and starts a very lengthy letter to Kallik, resigning herself to batting strands of hair away.

She finds him the next day in one of the open, sun-bathed courtyards that sweep around the front of the house. Despite his advancing age, Iroh looks as hale and as healthy as ever – muscled along the sloping angle of his shoulders, a knowing twinkle in his eyes.

Azula watches him for several long minutes, examining the exercises that he paces himself through. They are as wrenchingly familiar to her as her own heartbeat: traditional Fire Nation forms. Zuko, she knows, learned them at his side. If things had been different, perhaps–

She shakes her head and stalks out into the courtyard. There’s no use mourning maybes, when she has so many other things to focus on. She spent the last night sleeping at Suki’s side again, and it’s that stolen warmth she wraps around herself when she comes to a precise halt. Not so close to him that it could be interpreted as either threat or familiarity; not so far away as to give the appearance of fear.

“Iroh,” she says, chin held high. She will not call him Uncle.

His lack of startlement tells her he probably has known she was there since the beginning. He finishes the movement he’s in the middle of, one fist punching towards the sky, before turning to face her. “Azula,” he says, and the avuncular kindness in his tone makes her want to scream.

Since when, she thinks viciously. Since when have you talked to me like that?

Azula could’ve held this conversation anywhere. In the war room, where Zuko is beginning to lay out the first seeds of a plan; in the kitchen over one of Iroh’s stupid pots of tea. But she has taken this first step here, for a reason. In the light of Agni’s rays.

“You look well,” she says coolly. Kallik’s reply letter had distinctly suggested she at least attempt civility.

His eyes have lost that gentle light, replaced with a careful blankness. “So do you.”

She smiles; allows for a hint of the unsettled rage she’s feeling to curl her lip. “Do I, now?”

“Compared to the last time I saw you,” he says, and stops. Azula shakes her head. She knows how Iroh saw her last: half-crazed, locked in a cell for her own protection. The poor, poor, Princess Azula, who followed in her monster of a father’s footsteps until she became a monster herself.

She is what Zuko could have been. What Zuko would have been, if not for the intervention of this man here – if not for the way he spirited Zuko to safety, teaching him lessons of patience and clarity instead of ones of pain and hate.

What Azula can’t understand, what she can’t forgive, is–

“Why?” The word rips out of her with such force that she’s shocked not to taste blood against the insides of her teeth. “Why Zuko and not me? Why did you–”

Was there something so terribly wrong with her, even at nine, ten, eleven years old, that Iroh looked at her and knew she could never be redeemed? What flame lurked inside her even as a child that the Dragon of the West turned his face away in horror and in sorrow? Had he ever tried to see her as anything more than her father’s daughter – Zuko, after all, gets to be their mother’s son.

He doesn’t pretend not to know what she’s talking about; he is clever still. “Azula,” he says, and sighs. “You must understand. It was a very delicate situation at the time. The court was in disarray, pitfalls at every turn. To take a special interest in both of you – it would have been looked on with great suspicion. There were already some members of the nobility who accused me of trying to win back the throne when I began to mentor Zuko. If I had taken a hand in your education as well–”

Azula laughs, high-pitched and manic. “Very nice words, Iroh. I suppose you hoped I wouldn’t notice that you’re not answering the question. Why him and not me?”

She says the words with a child’s pain, because it is a child’s hurt at heart. The wound of being passed over, time and again, for being too much, or too little, too female, too young. Too smart. Too frightening.

Too terrible.

All he does is look her in the eye. “I’m sorry,” he says, eventually. “I should’ve found a way to save you both.”

And the apology should soothe some aching part of Azula, but all it does is fan the flames of her rage. “That’s all?” she breathes. “That’s all you have to say? That you’re f*cking sorry?”

You left me, she does not scream, because that is too much, too vulnerable, exposing her soft underbelly. You left me but you didn’t leave him and it ruined my life.

Now she’s angry at herself, too, for thinking that this conversation would do her any help. Of course it wouldn’t; when has Iroh ever helped her?

She turns to go, shaking in every limb. Distantly, she’s proud of herself: months ago, anger like this would’ve propelled her into movement, fingernails like claws aimed at Iroh’s face. Now, all she does is snarl and spit and leave.

“Azula,” Iroh says again, and Azula closes her eyes. Maybe she does deserve to have a fit. Just a little one. As a treat.

She turns around and says, through her teeth, “What.”

Even now, he doesn’t look afraid of her. His clear eyes fasten on the fists she’s made of her hands.

“I really am sorry, you know. I am an old man, with an old man’s regrets. I taught Zuko that he should always own up to his mistakes. What kind of mentor would I be if I didn’t do the same?”

Somehow, being referred to as Iroh’s mistake is not any better than being his enemy. “Whatever. I don’t care.”

“Azula,” and gods, Azula can tell who had the most influence in raising Zuko, because neither of them are capable of letting anything go. “Just wait, please. I think we have an opportunity here.”

Despite herself, Azula waits. Sentimental. Stupid.

“I’d like to re-teach you Firebending.”

It’s the most absurd sentence yet in a conversation that has been nothing but doomed from the beginning; Azula is laughing even before she turns to face him again.

“Haven’t you heard,” she says, with an ugly smile. “Haven’t you heard from Zuzu yet? You can’t teach me Firebending, because I’m not capable of it anymore.” She spreads her hands and lifts her shoulders in a careless shrug. “It’s gone.”

He steeples his hands under his chin, pinning her with his gaze. “Often, gone is simply another word for… hidden.”

Hidden. It certainly doesn’t feel like her fire is hidden – it feels like it’s been torn away from her forever. But she was willing to risk her freedom on the off chance that the Avatar would be able to restore her bending. She can risk her pride on whatever it is Iroh thinks he can teach her.

“Fine,” she snaps, short. “I’ll give your mystical mumbo-jumbo a chance. When do we start?”

He smiles, eyes disappearing into the wrinkles of his face. “Why, Princess Azula. There’s no time like the present.”

Azula lasts all of fifteen minutes. There are only so many times she can listen to an old man’s counsels on patience before she loses hers entirely.

On the third repetition of “You must listen carefully to your inner fire, Princess Azula,” Azula drops her hands to her sides and stomps out of the courtyard without a backward glance. She’d told him already: there was no inner fire. How was she supposed to listen to something that wasn’t there? All her effort has gained her is a new, stinging defeat.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” Iroh calls out cheerfully behind her, and Azula shakes her head. Maybe. Maybe she’ll show up again, if only for the chance to see how far she can push her dear, beloved uncle before even he starts spewing flames.

She’s halfway back to the house before she stops and turns around, heading in the other direction. It’s late enough that Suki will be out doing her morning exercises. She’d promised to teach Azula a new weapon today – the meteor hammer, two heavy weights connected by a length of chain. Suki’d handled the unfamiliar device with ease, swinging the weights around in a deadly waltz that drew attention to the delicate bones of her hands and the corded strength of her arms.

Azula quickens her steps. Suki is a much better instructor than Iroh.

It’s Toph and Katara who pinpoint the first sign of trouble. Despite the… distractions of the past few days, Azula at least has not forgotten their purpose here on Shuhon Island. They’re here to find Ozai: to destroy him before the threat he represents rages out of control.

It already has, in Azula’s opinion – if only Zuko had listened to her about pursuing a more aggressive strategy where Father was concerned – but there’s no time to agonize over what might have been. The tactician in Azula tells her it’s time to cut their losses and move forward.

And move forward they do. Zuko has them on a rotating schedule for reconnaissance, wherein pairs of two go out to scout every four hours. There are at least four people remaining in the highly defensible house at all times, and nobody ever goes out alone. Reluctantly, Azula is almost impressed with the plan’s durability. Zuzu’s even scrounged up a map from somewhere, and divided the island into neat gridlock squares.

“I see you’ve paired yourself up with Sokka again,” Azula drawls, peering over his shoulder at the map and at the neatly inked list of names that he’s scrawled onto the parchment.

Zuko flushes, tugging the map closer to himself protectively. “No, I haven’t! And even if I have, that’s – that’s coincidence! We have – complementary strengths, you know, for scouting.”

“Do you?” Azula says flatly. Imperiously, she puts a finger to the paper. “Pair me up with Suki next time. She’s the only one of you I trust not to step on some stick and announce our presence to the entire island.”

“... No?”

Azula bares her teeth. “What do you mean ‘no’? Oh, so you get to hang around with your super special ‘best friend’, but I can’t go do some spying with my actual guard?”

Zuko squints at her. “Didn’t you fire her at some point?”

“That’s not important, Zuko. And I’ve un-fired her, or whatever. Try and keep up.”

“Right,” Zuko sighs. “But Azula, I can’t pair you with Suki, because Suki’s paired with Aang. And since I’m paired with Sokka, and Katara and Toph are due back any moment now, I’ve put you with–”

Azula doesn’t get to find out who Zuko’s paired her with, because at that moment the door to the hall opens and a grim-looking Katara and Toph stride in.

“What is it?” Zuko’s out of his chair even before the sound of the door closing behind them fades away. “Are you both alright?”

“We’re fine, Sparky,” Toph sighs, blowing at the bangs that flop over onto her face. “Give us a minute, yeah?”

Azula crosses her arms. They both look like they’ve dragged backwards through a bush – several bushes, if Azula’s being honest. Even Katara’s typically impeccably neat dress and leggings are dirty and torn.

“What is it?”

Katara ignores her entirely, side-stepping Zuko to point at the map still left idling on the desk. “This one.” She taps at one of the grid squares, to the north and east of the island.

“This one what?” Zuko asks, but Azula already knows. The area Katara has identified sits in the cradle of a natural cove, providing both an easily accessible escape route and shelter from storms and prying eyes. The surrounding geography is harsh but bare: rocky crags that make an approach difficult, and do little to shield any sort of spy or scout.

It’s the perfect place for the encampment of a deranged former Fire Lord and his equally deranged followers. Azula feels her stomach flip over, and smiles bitterly. Mad he might be, but Father was never stupid.

“I felt a large disturbance through the ground,” Toph explains. “Like a lot of people moving around. Many footsteps, the feeling of carts and other supplies being dragged around. There’s something there. We tried to get a better look, but–”

“It’s almost impossible to get close without giving ourselves away,” Katara continues, tugging at her braid and frowning. “And our four hours were almost up anyway, and we knew if we took any longer that you’d send someone out after us. But now that we know where they are, and you know where we are, you can–”

“It’s my turn to go,” Azula interrupts sharply. “Isn’t it?’

She knows it is. She’s the only one who hasn’t gone out yet. Zuko and Sokka went first, then Aang and Suki, and now Toph and Katara. It’s Azula’s turn, and she needs to do this, she needs to help. It’s not absolution, or atonement, it just – needs to be done.

And Azula is certain she’s the best person to bring Father in, dead or alive. Bending or no bending. Out of all of them, Azula understands him best. Whatever monster lurks under Ozai’s skin, Azula knows its name, because it had lived coiled tightly around her own ribcage for so long.

It’s unfair, but she leverages the words just as she would a blade, aimed oh-so-carefully for Zuko’s heart. “Or don’t you trust me?”

“I – of course I trust you,” Zuko splutters out.

“I don’t,” Katara mutters.

“But, Azula, you’ll have to be careful. If Toph and Katara couldn’t even get close–”

Azula grins, a lightness expanding through her chest. It’s been a long time since she’s felt competent at something, but this? She knows how to do this, and she knows how to do it well. “Don’t worry, Zuzu, I won’t get myself caught and betray all your dirty little secrets.”

Zuko stares at her, and Azula does her best to meet that golden-eyed gaze. It still shocks her, sometimes, the contrast between the boy Azula knows him to be and the man she can see him becoming.

“Four hours,” Zuko says eventually. “No more. Don’t take any risks. If something even seems slightly off, turn around and come back.”

“Yes, oh great Fire Lord.”

“Don’t joke, Azula. This is serious.”

“I know,” Azula snipes back. “Buzzkill.” But she can’t help the clench of her fists, held ready at her side. Finally. Finally.

“One more thing,” Zuko says, and Azula had known that he gave in too easily, that there had to be a catch, but there’s nothing he can say to dampen the excitement she feels spreading through her veins in a hot rush, nothing he can say to take this away from her–

“You’re going with Uncle.”

The jungle is screaming.

Iridescent beetles taking off in a flash of lightning, macaw-macaques swinging through the lush leaves with their red tails swishing behind them, constant pitter-patter of water rolling off waterproof greenery and splashing onto the ground – everywhere, there is life and movement. It almost makes it easy to ignore the doddering old man huffing along behind Azula.

Almost.

“Are you sure we should not stop for a break?” He calls ahead, and Azula ignores him, as she’s been doing for the last hour and a half. “My old bones cannot keep up with such a sprightly young woman.”

Liar. Azula dares a glance back towards him. Despite his huffing, his face isn’t flushed, his brow clear of sweat.

“I have a lovely selection of tea I brought with us as well!” He cajoles, waving a clay pot, and is that really what he packed in his vital supplies only pack?

“If you get caught because that thing was weighing you down, I’m not saving you,” Azula snaps.

“Ah, she speaks!” He says, beaming. “I was beginning to worry that the charming niece I remember was nowhere to be found.”

Azula flashes her teeth. “I have never been charming.”

“Come now, you possessed your own unique set of… attributes.”

“Yes,” Azula snarls, “and if you don’t quit nattering on, I’ll remind you.”

It’s infuriating, the way the threat slides off him like water. Then again, he spent years traveling around with a pubescent Zuko – and Azula knows her brother’s tongue was once nearly as sharp as her own.

She gets a few Agni-blessed moments of silence before he starts in again.

“So, Princess Azula” – and she hates how the title sounds in his mouth – “what is your plan for when we stumble upon my brother’s encampment?”

Azula rolls her eyes. “Get in. Look around. Destroy as much sh*t as possible. Get out.”

She hears him come to a stop behind her, the rustle of grass dying off into pointed silence. “You know,” he rumbles, “your grandfather taught me an adage once: that you can catch more horse-flies with honey than vinegar.”

It’s typical of him: mealy-mouthed words of wisdom that amount to so many ashes in the end. Azula whips around to confront him directly, crossing arms shaking with tension over her chest. “That’s soft,” she spits out. “It’s weak. It’s the same sort of philosophy that let Father escape in the first place, that will allow him to remain free and consolidate his power base. We need to act. We need to be decisive. We need–”

His face is as placid as ever. “There are many ways to act. We must choose the most prudent one.”

“I don’t care about your–”

“Quiet, my niece,” Iroh rumbles, holding up a hand.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do,” Azula snaps. “Especially when–”

“Listen,” he insists, “what do you hear?”

Azula pauses, tilting her head, and her blood runs cold.

“Nothing,” she says, grimly.

The roar of the jungle has gone deathly-silent.

Azula drops onto her haunches, eyes narrowing as she prowls forward. It’s quiet as a grave, and she glances behind her to see her uncle doing the same, moving noiselessly through the still-same branches and under foliage he’d been trundling loudly, carelessly through this entire time. She recognizes the expression on his face –has seen the blank coolness and razor sharp gaze a million times in the mirror.

And, for a moment, she hates him more than she ever has, for the way he looks like Father.

For the way he looks like her.

The trees thin out, giving away to progressively larger gray rocks, devoid of life. Azula and Iroh flow among them like whispers of smoke. From ahead, she can start to hear the rumble of things scraping against the ground, the rise-and-fall of voices in conversation. Her next step is too eager, and a stone skids out from under her shoe, skittering across the rough terrain. The soft sound is echoed a thousand times over against the rocks, crashing away from them.

They freeze, scarcely daring to breathe.

The noises from the camp continue. No alarms ring out.

Azula swallows her heart down from her throat, avoiding Iroh’s eyes.

She doesn’t want to know what he thinks of her now.

There’s a shallow crest, over which the noises of the camp crash like a tsunami. Azula’s hands shake, her ever-present chill gnawing on her bones. Father could be just feet away.

She flattens herself to the ground, slinking to the apex. Her uncle follows, and Azula wants to snap that his belly will poke up and give them away, but she bites her tongue as her eyes finally peer over the edge.

Her stomach drops out of her body.

Hundreds, maybe even thousands of tents span the arch of the cove, done up in neat militaristic lines, as far as she can see. Countless men swarm between them, carrying crates and weapons and scrolls. In the center, at least twenty quadrants of fifty men each run through their Katas, smoke and ash and flame blazing.

Beside her, Iroh sucks in his breath.

“I knew my brother’s influence was strong,” he murmurs, “but I had no idea so many still followed his crazed doctrine.”

Azula works her jaw. “It’s harder to break than you’d expect.”

His eyes dart to her, inscrutable, before following the pull of gravity back to the massive encampment.

Azula skims her gaze over the lines of tents, trying to calculate troop numbers and corresponding supply demands. An army marches on its stomach – Ozai must be pulling the food and munitions from somewhere, but where? Who is aiding him? Have some of Zuko’s lords turned traitor?

She pushes herself to her hands and knees. If she can just circle this ridge, she might be able to sneak down closer to the camp. Maybe then she’ll recognize a face, a name, anything, and she can return to the house with some real information.

But just as she begins to move slowly into position, a hand fastens around her wrist. Iroh. He shakes his head at her in warning.

Azula yanks herself out of his grip. There’s no way he knows what she’s planning, and even if he does, he should let her be. Warfare is in Azula’s blood, same as his, and she may have failed at listening to her inner fire but she will not fail at this.

He grasps her again, more urgently.

She jerks away, rocking onto her free hand. And that is her mistake. The ledge they are perched on is more shale and scree than solid rock, and the shift of weight proves to be more than the delicate lip of the small cliff can handle. It gives way, just a handful of dirt and loose stone at first, but building rapidly until a boulder’s worth of material crashes down the slope with a sound like thunder.

Down below, a sentry’s head swivels in their direction, and Azula knows immediately that they’ve been spotted. A horn rings out, low and ominous.

“Up,” she snaps at Iroh – there’s no point in stealth now – and they both scramble to their feet. He’s surprisingly agile for an old man, but Azula is still faster, and she finds herself outpacing him as they beat a hasty retreat. There’s no question of trying to stand and fight; even Azula knows they’d be annihilated by the overwhelming numbers and fanaticism of Ozai’s men. She can only hope that the others are ready for an abrupt departure when they come flying back into the base.

“Princess Azula,” Iroh gasps out. Azula grits her teeth, preparing for a lecture, but all he says is, “A little to the right, I believe.”

Azula veers right, and they run.

Their departure is swift. Zuko collects the maps and scrolls and plans, and Katara collects everything and everyone else.

“Leave it,” she snaps at Sokka, who’s trying to cram his assorted paraphernalia back into his bags.

“But–”

“I said leave it.”

Sokka makes a face but obeys, snatching one last handful of jerky before running off. Appa hardly looks happy when they all pile on, but Aang is insistent, cooing to the beast from his place crouched near his great horns.

“Here we go!”

Azula reaches out for the nearest stable object – which happens to be Suki’s arm – as they lurch into the air. Down below, the first of Ozai’s men come pouring into the courtyard. A few stray Firebending blasts chase them into the sky, fizzling out against Katara’s Waterbending.

Azula scans the diminishing faces of the forces below. Hard-eyed men and women, the flame of madness in their features.

But no Father.

Even so, she doesn’t relax until they touch down back at the palace, an ocean between them and Shuhon Island.

Azula kicks open a familiar door, dropping with relief onto a soft, plush couch, lined with Water Tribe furs.

“Kallik,” she sighs. “Holy f*ck.”

They just laugh. “I missed you too, Princess.”

They have a meeting that very evening, gathered around in Zuko’s war room.

Azula knows that Zuko doesn’t blame her for blowing their cover, but it’s much harder to remember that with Katara’s glare like a blade on her, and her own guilt burrowing into her gut.

“We need to confront him on our terms,” Sokka insists, slapping his hand down flat on the table. “Any more attempts to challenge Ozai in his stronghold will just result in a disaster.”

“And how do you propose we do that, oh master strategist?” Azula shoots back. “I know my father. The only thing that can pull him from his plans is his pride.”

“It has always been my brother’s fatal flaw,” Iroh rumbles, nodding gravely. “A man who spends his time staring in the mirror will never fully understand what transpires outside of himself.”

“Well,” Katara chimes. “Unless we make giant statues that say ‘Ozai sucks’ in front of the palace” –

“I’m down,” Toph says, pulling up a miniature replica from the cobblestone floor. Aang fist bumps her under the table.

– “we have no way to guarantee he’ll come until he wants to, catching us off guard.”

“Then we have to do something so huge, so against everything he is, that he’ll have no choice but to come,” Aang says.

“Like what?” Suki demands. “What could be so important that he’d throw away all of his plans to stop it?”

“Well,” Zuko says, and his cheeks turn an interesting shade of red as everyone turns to him. “There’s always…” He clears his throat, staring with great interest at the ground. “We could, um. I mean, maybe if we. You know. Held a, um. A…”

“By all means, Zuzu,” Azula drawls, “feel free to elaborate.”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, exchanging a glance with Katara, who starts to grin for some reason. “I’d love to hear what you have in mind.”

Azula’s pretty sure someone could firebend the heat on Zuko’s face at this point, but the pained expression fades away when he purposefully turns towards Sokka, Zuko’s hand sliding into a pocket in his red robes.

“Well,” Zuko says, looking up into Sokka’s eyes. “We could always have a royal wedding.”

Next to Azula, Suki goes tense, and Azula’s face flames. “It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?” Azula babbles, “I mean we really haven’t even…”

She trails off as everyone but Sokka stares at her.

Zuko blinks owlishly. “What are you talking about?”

Azula stares back. “What are you talking about?”

“Well,” Sokka says, thickly, gaze never straying from Zuko. “I think he just proposed.”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, almost shyly. “I did.”

He withdraws his hand, revealing that same stone he’d shown Azula forever ago, now bound on a gorgeous leather-and-silk braided cord –black and blue and red.

Wordlessly, Sokka bends down, and with shaking hands, Zuko fastens it around his neck. The stone settles perfectly in the hollow of his neck, a boomerang and flame etched into the surface.

Katara’s hands fly to her grinning mouth, tears beading in her eyes.

“Well?” Zuko says, and if his voice trembles, Azula can let it slide, just this once.

“I do,” Sokka says, and kisses him.

Once Azula gets over the mental trauma of seeing her brother kiss anyone – ew. just. ew. – and her ears have stopped ringing from the congratulatory cheers, she realizes something is wrong.

Suki had cheered louder than anyone, had hugged them tighter and beamed wider – like she had something to prove. Like she was hiding something. And now, as Toph and Aang tease Zuzu until Azula’s nearly certain he’s going to pop a blood vessel, and as Katara and Iroh admire a beaming Sokka’s new necklace, a certain Kyoshi warrior is nowhere to be found.

I had someone leave me, a little while back, Suki had written what seemed like forever ago. And here Sokka was, blushing and glowing with the affection he had for – ew ew ew –Zuko.

She makes to slip away, but pauses. There’s something she has to do first.

“You know you weren’t fooling anyone, right?” Toph grins devilishly. “Especially my feet. For a while there, I was worried you were getting spontaneous heart attacks every time he stood too close to you.”

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were going to propose!” Aang complains good-naturedly. “Maybe I’ll be his best man now instead of yours.”

“Yes, Aang!” Sokka calls across the room, pumping his fist.

Katara echos him, grinning. “Join the dark side!”

“You can fight me for him,” Zuko shoots back, unable to tamp down his grin.

“Swords at dawn, darling,” Sokka says, and Zuko has to hide his face in his hands.

“Morons,” Azula mutters to herself, snagging her brother’s sleeve. “Zuzu, a word?”

Zuko nods to his friends, Toph giving a lazy salute and Aang wrapping him up in another quick hug.

The Fire siblings retire onto the adjacent balcony, and Azula leans against the railing, looking out over the hot, bright lights of Caldera city.

Zuko steps forward to join her. “Is everything alright?”

“No– I mean yes! I just…” Azula clears her throat, impatiently shoving her stupid hair back. “I wanted to. Um.”

She takes a deep breath, turning to her brother and glaring stalwartly at something over his shoulder. “I am. Very. H-happy for you. And I’m glad,” she forces out, patting his arm stiffly. “That you are going to be. Happy.”

She nods and steps quickly away, but suddenly there’s a gentle hand on her shoulder, and when she spins around, Zuko envelops her in a hug.

“Let go of me, moron,” she mutters, sinking into it as his arms go tight around her. He just laughs, tucking his chin on top of her head.

“If he ever hurts you, there’ll be hell to pay,” Azula says, and what she means is I’m sorry. I love you.

“I know,” Zuko says, then: “maybe I’ll let him win the fight tomorrow. I have a pretty good idea of who I want my best man to be anyway.” And what he means is I forgive you. I love you too.

And if her eyes mist over and salt water stains Zuko’s robes, and if she feels something wet roll onto her head, well. That can be just another one of the secrets they share.

Suki isn’t in her barracks, isn’t in the training grounds, isn’t in the library. Azula’s nearly stumped, until a bolt of inspiration strikes her.

And there Suki is, knees tucked to her chest and head tilted to catch the stars in her eyes at the base of the juniper-cherry tree. Soft, reflective tracks shine on her cheeks.

“Feeling nostalgic?”

Suki jumps as Azula drops to sit in the grass next to her. Her hands fly up to wipe her cheeks and rub at her nose, avoiding Azula’s gaze.

“Hm? Oh, no. I’m fine, I just– just wanted some air.”

“Funny,” Azula says, leaning her head against the tree’s rough bark and wincing when her hair catches in it. “How you used to be more honest with me.”

“That wasn’t– I’m not–” Suki hisses out a breath between her teeth, shoulders slumping. “Things were different back then.”

“Old wounds made fresh, hm?”

“I’m not in love with him,” Suki says, flatly. “Not like that, anyway. This doesn’t… affect anything. I’m just–”

She shakes her head, fingers tightening on her arm. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You don’t have to,” Azula says, softly, leaning against her. Her ever-present goosebumps fade where Suki presses back against her, even through Azula’s layers and layers of thick robes. “Sometimes it’s easier to let the past lay. But sometimes you have to–” She winces again as she tries to sway forward and her hair snags in the rough bark “–cut it off.”

“Don’t hurt yourself,” Suki chides, gently untangling Azula.

“I don’t want to, anymore,” Azula murmurs, then: “Suki? I think I need your help with something.”

The metal is cool and gleaming in Suki’s hands, shining softly in the torchlight. Azula settles herself on her knees in front of the floor-length mirror spanning the edge of her bathroom. One of Kallik’s rugs keeps the chill from sapping even further into her, but she’s still shivering –excitement or fear, she can’t tell. Both, more likely than not.

“Are you sure about this?” Suki pads up to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Positive.” Azula holds out her hand, and Suki lays the scissors in her palm.

“Isn’t hair important in the Fire Nation, though?” Suki hovers, a fold of anxiety lining her forehead.

“It’s a symbol of our honor.” Azula brushes it behind her shoulders, throat bobbing. “Of pride.”

Silently, Suki grabs the silver handled brush on Azula’s dresser, pulling the boar-bear bristles gently through her hair. The glide seems easier, more tender than anything Azula could manage herself.

“I hate it,” Azula admits, so softly; it’s something she’s never dared say aloud. “I didn’t always. When I was younger, Mother would brush and style it for me. She’d tell me that my topknot was a sign that I was a princess. Her princess. But… she stopped quickly enough.”

Suki, eyes tight, finishes the first section, draping it over Azula’s left shoulder.

“And Father… the less said about him, the better. He was insistent that I wear it with pride. He said it showed our power, our superiority over the other nations and our people.” She swallows, and Suki drops a gentle hand to her shoulder, squeezes. “It’s funny how I never thought that was strange. I thought it was so natural that a leader should be superior to their people instead of equal to them.”

She risks a smile, catching Suki’s eye in the mirror. “You showed me otherwise better than anyone.”

Suki drops the second third over Azula’s other shoulder, brushing with long strokes down her back.

“But after everything – the war, the battle, the way I fell –I still had to care for my stupid hair. Because I’m a princess, and that’s what princesses do. And even when I could barely open my eyes in the morning, even when they took away my bedsheets and anything sharp… even when I woke up and felt its weight across my neck and thought I was hanging from the ceiling again–” She breaks off into a shuddering breath, and Suki kneels down behind her, wrapping her arms tight around Azula.

“I still brushed and oiled my Agni-damned hair,” Azula whispers. “Because that’s who I was. Who I’d always been. And there was no way anyone would ever let me be anyone else.”

Suki sighs, resting her forehead against Azula’s back. “Why are you telling me this, Azula?”

“Because,” she says. “This is the most honest I’ve ever been with anyone. You are the only person I’ve ever wanted to be this honest with.”

She turns, looking at Suki. “I don’t know what’s wrong. But I know what it’s like to have the past weigh you down. To feel it wrap around your neck and pull.”

“You can trust me, Suki.” She takes Suki’s hand, pressing it to her chest. “You can tell me.”

Suki swallows hard, looking away. “It… it seems stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“I haven’t… I’ve never… I’ve never been anyone’s first choice, ever,” she manages, haltingly. “I never had a best friend growing up. Friends, sure. I was social, and I was skilled, and I knew people respected me, but whenever people paired up I knew I was going to be the one left over. The first time I met Sokka, I kissed him, and the second time, he’d already fallen in love and lost someone else. He never forgot her, and I knew that if she was still around, he wouldn’t look twice at me. And even when I had him, when I was with him and friends with his friends… I felt like just that. An extra. And when he told me that he couldn’t stay with me because he’d fallen in love with someone else, I wasn’t even surprised. Because in the back of my mind, I knew he wasn’t going to stay with me. I knew that there was always someone better. And it still… it’s hard to think that I’m still someone who… who could even be anyone’s first choice.”

“Suki,” Azula says, softly, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” She clears her throat and stands, looking vaguely embarrassed. “It’s just how it is.”

“No,” Azula insists. “I’m sorry. The one thing I’ve always had, always been proud of is my devotion. And if I have you, and you don’t think you’re my first choice, if you don’t know that now, all of my devotion is for you, I’ve been doing everything wrong.”

Suki goes quiet, still. “Do you have me?”

“If you’ll let me.” On her knees, Azula takes Suki’s hand and kisses it, softly, just atop her knuckles. “I can’t take away all the ways you’ve hurt, but I can do everything to make sure they never happen again, as long as you’ll let me.”

And longer, she thinks privately, because no matter what Suki says now, Azula knows she could never let go of trying to make her happy.

But Suki just laughs, a little helplessly, and there are tears in her eyes, and she falls into Azula, their arms around each other. “Okay,” she says, her face buried into the crook of Azula’s neck. “Okay.”

In the flickering light of torches, Azula holds her even closer. “Good.”

“Now,” Suki pulls back with a sniffle, laughing a little. “I believe there was something about cutting your hair.”

“Well now it’s just anticlimactic,” Azula complains, biting back her smile as she shuffles back into place. She picks up the scissors again, looking for one last time into the mirror, into the eyes of the girl she used to be.

“Help me?”

Suki gathers her hair behind her, holds it out as Azula weighs the heavy stretch of it. She reaches up, eyes shut.

Snip.

And suddenly she’s lighter than she’s ever been.

Suki takes over after the initial chop, trimming the edges into something passingly polished. (Free from her ancestors’ standards Azula may be, but she still wants to look good. She has a certain guard to impress.) It’s soothing, feeling Suki’s hands run through her shortened locks, checking the length and smoothing everything into place. The soft snip, snip, snip of the scissors and the waves of incremental lightness they bring are hypnotic, and Azula sits in a trance, eyes shut as she savors it all.

“Alright,” Suki says, eventually, gently running her hands through Azula’s hair a final time. “What do you think?”

Azula opens her eyes.

She doesn’t recognize the girl in the mirror at first. Her hair is short and fluffy, skimming the tops of her ears and swooping down along her high cheekbones. Her neck is long and unencumbered, shoulders free. Her eyes are drowsy and content, severe lines of her eyebrows softened by bangs. She’s smiling.

She looks happy. She looks hopelessly, terribly smitten.

She looks the way Azula’s never let herself feel.

“Perfect,” Azula says, and the girl in the mirror mouths along. “It’s perfect.”

“You look beautiful,” Suki says, and presses a kiss to the back of Azula’s neck.

Azula and her reflection turn bright red.

“Come on, Princess,” Suki says, reaching down and helping her up like she didn’t just make Azula’s brain melt out of her ears. “It’s late. We need to get ready tomorrow.”

“Ready,” Azula repeats, nonsensically, then blinks. “Ready for what?”

“Oh, nothing special,” Suki laughs. “Just a war and a royal wedding.”

When Suki leaves, Azula creeps over to her wardrobe and pulls out a lumpy, worn green sweater. Not every tear is entirely fixed, the hem frayed and the sleeves burnt, but it settles over her like a second skin, and when she looks in the mirror, that stranger is radiant with happiness.

“Hello, Azula,” she greets her, softly. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Chapter 11: the gAang plays let's yeet Azula

Chapter Text

Azula barely manages to set one foot outside her door before she’s bowled over and swept away.

“Zappy! There you are.” Toph chirps, holding tight to her left elbow. “f*ck, we thought you were going to sleep all day. Why do you feel lighter, by the way?”

“Chopping off a few pounds of hair will do that,” Katara, arm linked like a shackle on her other side, comments. “But seriously, why are you up so late? There’s so much to do today!”

“It isn’t even sunrise yet,” Azula points out, wearily. Outside the glass hallways, the sky is barely streaked with the first blush-pink of Agni’s fingers pushing away the darkness. “What are you two so excited about?”

“The wedding, of course!” Katara chirps, just as Toph grins wickedly and chimes in “the war, of course!”

Katara glances over as Toph smirks in her direction. “That too,” they both concede, then laugh.

“Wonderful,” Azula announces, trying to twist away. They crowd in on either side, mischievous grins never slipping.

“Oh no you don’t.” Toph clucks her tongue. “We’ve got plans for you.”

“Am I being kidnapped?” Azula asks, vaguely bemused. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting a successful attempt anytime soon.”

“As opposed to unsuccessful ones?” Katara asks, lifting her eyebrows as the trio turns into a still mostly dark courtyard. A mostly dark, familiar courtyard.

“I’m always expecting those,” Azula responds, distracted.

“Right,” Katara says, and looks like she’s barely holding back from rolling her eyes.

“Could your kidnapping attempt wait an hour or so?” Azula hedges, glancing towards the rapidly-rising sun. “I’ve… I’ve got something important to do first.”

Toph tilts her head. “Unsteady heartbeat. What’s got you rattled?”

“You’ll find out if it goes well.” Azula untangles herself gracelessly, meeting Katara’s narrowed gaze. “Trust me.”

Katara weighs her silently, eyes darting between Azula’s own.

“We’ll be back in an hour,” she says, and it sounds like not yet. Someday, but not yet.

Azula inclines her head. “I can do that.”

“See ya later, Zappy!” Toph calls over her shoulder as the girls whisk each other away, chattering something about either flower or battalion arrangements.

Azula offers a two-fingered salute, knowing Toph will feel it. “Later.”

And she climbs towards the roof, looking towards the rising face of Agni.

“I have to say I’m surprised to see you here, Azula.” The voice behind her is as soft as the wind through rushes, but has a wary core of icy steel. “Also, cutting your hair and meditating? Trying to steal all my things now?”

There’s a hint of a joke in his voice, and Azula sighs, straightening from her slouch and turning around. He steps lightly up next to her, staring out at the rising sun. His feet are bare but the chill of the stone beneath them hardly seems to touch him. Ageless and eternal: the Avatar. The warrior who bested her father.

“Why?” Azula says, turning her nose up with a sniff. “It’s hardly your roof, after all.”

Aang lets a single chuckle slip free, more like a forceful exhale than anything else. “Neither is it yours.”

“Zuko always let me play with his toys when we were younger. Bleeding heart.” Once, she would have said the words derisively. Now there’s an undercurrent of fondness that even she can’t deny.

He sits, cross-legged, and she follows suit. Her right knee almost touches his left; he doesn’t flinch away.

“If–” He catches her eye, half-smiles. “You know, if you’d been honest from the beginning, I’d still have wanted to help you get your bending back.”

Azula breathes in and out, counting beats in the way Kallik taught her. “I know that now. But then–” She swallows, shaking her head. “I didn’t feel like I had anything , you understand? It had all been taken from me. My freedom, my self. I needed my bending so badly, to feel like me again. I would’ve done anything to get it back.”

He’s silent for a long time, before he nods. “I know what that’s like. When I woke from my, ah, hundred-year nap to find that your grandfather had murdered my people, I felt like my entire identity had been stolen from me. It was hardly a comfortable position to be in.”

Azula winces. He says it so cavalierly, like the genocide of the Air Kingdom is ancient history. Which it is – but not for him. For him, the tragedy is a few short years removed. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugs, leaning back on his palms. “Not your fault.”

“I’m still sorry.” She feels her face heating, but resolutely turns to face him. This is what Kallik calls ‘accountability.’ “And, um. For. Lying to you. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Perhaps not,” he says. “But, I guess you didn’t know that I’d be willing to help you even if you told me the truth. I had a conversation with Zuko – he said that you were afraid that I wouldn’t want to cooperate on account of our… past.”

Azula raises an eyebrow. “Speaking from personal experience, it’s hard to move past a murder attempt or two.”

Mischief curls Aang’s mouth up into a grin. “Zuko and I are doing just fine in the friendship department, thank you very much.”

She startles herself with the laugh that bursts from her chest, and claps a hand over her mouth to contain it. “Well, Zuko and I are very different people. He’s easy to get along with, once you get past the atrocious fashion sense.”

“You’re not, though.”

“What?”

“You’re not very different people.”

Azula’s jaw trembles. “Of course we are.”

“No, really.” He shakes his head. “You’ve ultimately made the same choices, I think. To do better. To be better. It’s quite incredible.”

Entirely against her will, Azula’s eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” she whispers. And she hadn’t needed the external validation to tell her that she’s improved, but it still feels nice, sometimes. To know the effort she’s made isn’t just a thing in her own head.

He laughs for real this time, the clear call of songbirds in the morning. “Friends?”

Azula takes the offered hand. It’s warm against her ever-chilled skin. “Friends.”

Before them, Agni rises, casting the sky in shades of amber and bronze and agate. She hears the palace begin to wake: ovens heating, animals stirring, the change of the guard.

Aang closes his eyes. Azula lets her own drift shut to the slowing beat of her heart.

They sit in comfortable silence.

“Azula,” Zuko gasps, face pale and haggard. “They’re going to kill me– Wait, what happened to your hair?”

“Don’t be a baby,” an itchingly familiar voice says, and Katara reaches up and hauls Zuko back by his collar. “Now did you want fire-chrysanthemum or fire-lily decorations?”

‘Save me,’ Zuko mouths, and Azula bites back a snort.

The main ballroom is a beaver-bee hive-dam of activity. Toph pulls the marble floors into neat rows of pews, pretending to listen to Sokka as he tells her to move them ‘back an inch. Okay now forward a half inch. Maybe another one? Okay, perfect!’ The table Zuko and Katara are hunched over creaks under the weight of so many scrolls, scrawled with ‘bouquet toss??’ and ‘more cannons??’ Countless strategists and advisors murmur to each other in corners, filling the air with susurrations and the shuffle of paper. In the far corner, Tapeesa waves, teetering on top of a ladder as she hangs silk banners, inscribed with both Fire Nation and Water Tribe symbols.

Azula waves back, making to join her until –

“Azula, there you are!” Katara shoots her a pleasantly surprised glance. “I was about to send out the search brigades.”

“I think she means me,” a beautifully, wonderfully, perfectly familiar voice says.

Suki is half buried under stacks of scrolls, but Azula could never miss those eyes.

“Hi, Suki,” Azula says, intestines doing all sorts of aerobatic maneuvers. “Good, ah. Good morning.”

Suki smiles that kiss-red smile. “It is.”

“By the way, water girl.” Turning away before her face combusts, Azula clears her throat. “I just got done talking to the Avatar. I think he was looking for you? Something about that flying rat getting into the lychee berries.”

Katara blanches. “Oh, not again!”

She rushes from the room, and Azula grabs Zuko with one hand and Suki with the other. “Run.”

They bolt, zooming past a startled Sokka – “Sorry, Turtleduck!” Zuko calls, and Azula gags –and a grinning Toph, a laughing Tapeesa and countless scandalized advisors, until they’re sprinting down the halls of the palace, so much brighter now; running down the halls Azula and Zuko had to walk primly and properly down, oh so long ago; laughing and sprinting as they veer around the corners of the home they made, all on their own, until they dart into a side room and collapse against the walls, panting and giggling.

“Oh, Agni,” Zuko laughs, leaning his head against the wall as it turns into a groan. “Remind me why I can’t just elope.”

“Oh, and defeat the whole purpose of this endeavor?” Azula snips, rendered somewhat ineffective by the way she’s sprawled gracelessly on the floor. “By all means.”

Suki laughs breathlessly. “I think there’s something to be said for true love.”

Zuko turns, hiding his smile. “I’d say so.”

“Gag,” Azula deadpans. “Spare me the gorey details, Zuzu.”

“I barely said anything!”

“And yet it was already too much. You’re so talented.”

“Hilarious.” Zuko rolls his eyes, bemused. “But genuinely, what happened to your hair, Azula? Did somebody–”

“Nobody did anything, Zuzu.” Azula waves a dismissive hand. “Well, Suki helped me cut it. I just… I thought a change was a bit overdue.”

Confusion, curiosity, understanding –expressions flicker across Zuko’s face like the lilting of a flame before settling into a quiet sort of wonder. “It suits you.”

Hiding her smile in her sleeve, Azula mutters something awfully similar to ‘thank you.’

“That it does,” Suki says, and the back of her hand presses against Azula’s.

Zuko’s eyes dart down, taking in where their skin brushes together, and Azula links her little finger with Suki’s, grinning wickedly at the high blush forming on Zuko’s cheeks.

“So you two…” He coughs, waving a hand awkwardly. “You uh. You… cut… hair?”

“How eloquently put, Zuzu.” Azula snickers.

“Just gals being pals,” Suki deadpans, though the corners of her lips twitch with a repressed smile.

“Well, I’m happy for you. For you both,” Zuko says, with a hesitant half-smile, golden gaze shifting to Suki. “I know all of this has probably been… strange.”

Eyes darting aside, Suki swallows. “You could say that.”

“Glad to receive your blessings, brother dear,” Azula drawls with as much ire as she can muster, until the darkness clouding Suki’s vision lightens into humor. “It’s nice to know you’re so open minded about such things.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Well, most people would find their sister consorting with their fiance’s ex to be strange. Good to know you’re above such trivialities.”

The color drains from Zuko’s face. “Right…” he says, faintly.

“I mean, anyone else would be simply overcome with all the strange and intimate things I could know about that Water Tribe boy at any moment.”

“Yup,” Zuko says, strangled, and looks to the ceiling, as if asking Agni to send a meteorite straight through the roof.

Suki’s lip trembles with the effort of biting back her laugh, and Azula presses on.

“And if you consider the transitive property, things get even more complicated, really–”

“Ithinkihearsomeonecallingmeokaybye,” Zuko blurts, and whips out of the room like the koalalligators are on his heels.

Azula breaks as soon as the door slams shut, laughing until she wheezes, pressing her forehead into Suki’s shaking shoulder.

“You’re a terror, you know,” Suki says between fits of mirth, and kisses her hand, right where their fingers are linked.

Two days of endless preparations and plans later, Azula decides she’s had enough with people ambushing her in hallways and dragging her places.

“Zuko,” she huffs. “Really? What's all the rush about? I promise, if it’s something to do with the wedding again, Katara has it well in hand. That woman is a tyrant. And I would know.”

Azula has been – hiding is the wrong word, but she certainly has been strategically avoiding certain sections of the palace in an effort not to encounter the Water Tribe girl. As far as Katara is concerned, anyone who falls into her crosshairs is apparently fair prey to be pressed into one of her seemingly unending wedding preparation tasks. Azula would be impressed by the militant organization if she weren’t so intent on dodging the work herself.

“It’s not about the wedding,” Zuko says distractedly, tugging her down the nearest staircase. She tries to pry his hand from her upper arm, but all he does is shift his grip so he’s holding her wrist instead.

“Hey!”

“We’re going to be late,” he groans. “And Councilor Watanabe already yelled at me once this morning, and I’m not looking forward to a repeat performance.”

Azula arches an eyebrow. Councilor Watanabe has a spine of steel paired with an almost frightening lung capacity, and Azula has no desire to cross her either. “Late for what?”

“Your appointment, of course.”

She can tell by the distracted, pinched look on Zuko’s face that he has no idea that she has no idea what he’s talking about. This time, when she tries to slow them to a stop, she digs her heels in and hooks her free hand around a nearby doorframe to grind their combined forward momentum to a halt.

“Azula!” Zuko says, looking frazzled.

“Zuko!” she barks right back. “ What appointment ?”

He’s looking at her like she’s the one who’s lost her mind. “I told you. I know I told you. The Auxiliary Strategist position on my advising committee… ?”

Oh, for the love of Agni.

“Do you think,” Azula grits out, “that maybe, just maybe, between the wedding and the war and you being head over heels in true love and trying to bait Father, that it’s possible that this little detail slipped your mind, and you did not, in fact, inform your beloved sister about whatever the f*ck an Auxiliary Strategist is?”

Zuko blanches. “Oh. Oh, no.”

“‘Oh, no’ is right.” Azula crosses her arms over her chest, shaking her head. It’s still bizarre, the almost weightless feel of her head and neck. Where once there was the heavy swing of her hair, now there’s just… air. Air and light and freedom.

Backed by Agni’s golden rays streaming in through a window behind him, Zuko turns to face her. It’s a near-unnoticeable change, when he stops being just Zuko and starts being Fire Lord Zuko, but Azula spots it all the same. It’s in the eyes, she thinks. Solemn as twin suns.

“Princess Azula,” he says formally, with a shallow, respectful bow. “Would you do me the honor of joining my advising committee as an Auxiliary Strategist? In this position, you will serve as a consultant in times of war, contributing your, ah, considerable expertise in the area to the good of the Fire Nation. In war and peace, you will advise my generals in matters of tactics, receiving a compensation of–”

“Yes,” Azula says.

Zuko blinks, forging onward. “A compensation of–”

“I said yes,” Azula snaps. “Didn’t you hear me?”

“Well,” Zuko says uncertainly. “Don’t you want to know what I’m paying you?”

Azula shrugs. “Not particularly.” She already has almost everything she’s ever wanted, doesn’t she? That, and things she’d never even imagined she could want in the first place, too.

“Okay, then.” Zuko grins at her and yanks open a nearby door. When he shepherds her into the small meeting room, she’s not surprised to see Councilor Watanabe sitting at the head of the round wooden table, wrinkled hands folded forbiddingly in front of her. Nor is she shocked by the presence of a court scribe, whose ready quill and parchment will make this appointment official.

But she hadn’t expected Suki. Or Kallik, leaning against the wall and waving at her jovially.

“Zuko–” Azula twists, searching for her brother.

He smiles down at her, softly. “Congratulations, Azula. I’m so proud of you. And so are they.”

Somehow, Azula keeps it together while Councilor Watanabe reads out the descriptions of her duties in a voice as dry and aged as the ancient scroll in front of her. She keeps it together when the scribe presents a freshly notarized record to Zuko, and when Zuko signs the bottom of the document with a flourish.

But then Suki approaches her, bearing a plush down pillow in both hands, and Azula feels the tears she’s been doing such a good job suppressing finally spill over the barriers of her lash lines.

“For you,” Suki says softly. Her eyes, blue as the phantom lights that sometimes shimmer over the city in the dead of winter, gleam with satisfaction, and with an emotion that Azula recognizes but doesn’t dare name, because she’s feeling it too.

Azula glances down at the pin on the pillow that will signify her official position as Auxiliary Strategist, that will proudly claim her a member of Zuko’s inner circle. It’s forged of iron and accented with silver, a simple circle of metal.

What Azula is more interested in is the ribbon. A deep, beautiful dyed purple, the ribbon wraps the pin in a complicated series of knots and ties. Her favorite color.

“You did this,” Azula whispers to Suki. A statement instead of a question, because she’s certain. Who else knows Azula’s favorite color, down to the shade? Who else cares that she wears something that she likes and thinks is beautiful?

“Of course.” Suki smiles and steps to the side, the sleeves of her deep green official robes brushing Azula’s bare arm and drawing shuddering gooseflesh to the surface of her skin. Almost unconsciously, Azula leans into the warmth.

Then it’s Kallik’s turn to advance. They pick the pin off Suki’s pillow with one large, careful hand, and hold it up. Lamplight sparks from the metal, and it’s the same light Azula sees kindling in Kallik’s eyes, so fiercely happy for her that it takes Azula’s breath away.

She deserves this.

The thought hits her with the force of a blow, but it doesn’t rock her as it once might have. A position in the Fire Lord’s employ, as her brother’s confidant –she’s earned it.

She sees her own joy reflected in these three people – in Azula’s closest confidants. She’s so grateful for them that for a moment it transcends her, shaping her into a being of overwhelming wonder and awe.

Kallik offers her the pin, and Azula forgets all about Councilor Watanabe and the scribe in the corner. All she can see is the pride in Zuko’s face as he announces, “Welcome to the advisory committee, Auxiliary Strategist Azula.”

Suki pinches a portion of Azula’s tunic in between two long fingers, bunching the fabric. The closeness of her spreads through Azula like sun on a shadowed day. Kallik slides the pin through the offered cloth with ease, their smirk gentling into something softer but no less pleased.

The pin settles into place with an audible click , and it feels–

It feels a bit like coming home.

In Caldera city, Auxiliary Strategist Azula knows, and far beyond, the news of the wedding has spread like wildfire.

There isn’t a street corner that isn’t plastered with the official portraits of Fire Lord Zuko and the future Lord Consort Sokka –sitting close on a plush seat, their smiles soft and eyes only for each other. In front of them, a table is spread with official-looking documents, and in their laps rest their weapons. They look powerful. They look like love itself.

Maybe that’s the point.

There isn’t a mouth in the Fire Nation, in the whole world, maybe, that hasn’t spread the news – part scandal, part rumor, part joy.

She hasn’t gone into the city herself, doesn't know what she’d do if someone saw her face peeking out from beneath a dark hood and screamed. Or maybe they would smile. She isn’t quite sure which would be worse.

She hasn’t gone into the city, but the new Azula is very good at keeping her mouth shut, at hiding in quiet, dark corners and listening to what the people are saying. Everyone who works in the palace, those who don’t know the plan to lure Ozai out, is overjoyed, bragging about how they always knew there was something going on, how they knew it was only a matter of time from the way the betrothed look at each other. They whisper to each other about how the people are torn – some shocked, some ecstatic, some curious. They gossip and chitter and speculate, and Azula sits quietly, staring with her amber eyes, and absorbing everything.

She hasn’t gone into the city, but Azula knows there’s no way Ozai doesn’t know. There’s no way he isn’t seething, isn’t scheming, isn’t letting the pride that nearly got him killed once draw him into their trap.

And – Azula thinks as she swings her meteor hammer like an extension of her arm in a perfect, deadly arch, sweat dripping from her brow and chest heaving but form perfect, katas flawless – there’s no way she won’t be ready.

One way or another, this is where it ends.

The wedding is in just over fourteen hours, and Azula can’t sleep.

She tosses and turns, gathering her stitched-up purple bedspread to her chest, tangling her legs in the sheets, counts sheep-salamanders well into the thousands, but nothing helps.

She’s used to the restlessness of a night before war, used to wrestling her body into perfect compliance, forcing her heart rate to slow and her eyes to snap shut and not open again until she wills it, but there’s something different now.

Azula has always fought at her father’s side. This will be the first time she’s ever had to slide a blade into it.

The door to her room whispers open.

Azula’s up, a knife in her hand, before the figure even steps fully through the door. It flinches, sending up a flare of flame, and Azula relaxes.

“Way to give a girl a heart attack, Zuzu,” she grumbles, dropping back into her bed, a hand pressed to her chest.

“Sorry,” he mutters, feet shuffling. “I just… I couldn’t sleep.”

She snorts, falling back. “Welcome to the club.”

Silently, he crosses the room, sitting beside her when she lazily waves him down.

“I should be ready for this, shouldn’t I?” In the quiet darkness, she can barely make out the edges of his face –the ridges of his scar and the slope of his nose. “I did it once, I should… It should be easier this time around.”

“You got married once? Didn’t think you had it in you,” she deadpans, then tugs his sleeve. “Lay down, you’re making yourself nervous.”

“I almost miss when you didn’t have a sense of humor.” Zuko rolls his eyes, laying back.

“It was just too advanced for your simple mind to comprehend.”

“I’m sure.”

An arc of moonlight traces its way across her ceiling.

“We talked about it before, you know,” Zuko says, voice rough. “But… I thought it would be Aang facing him. I was…”

“Coming after me,” Azula says, softly. “I know.”

“I don’t know if I can do it.” Zuko’s hand tightens into a fist. “He’s done so much to me, to us, but I don’t…”

“I know,” Azula repeats. She stares at the billowing fabric of her bed’s canopy without seeing it. “I don’t know if I can either.”

In the dark, his hand presses against hers.

“Promise me we’ll be okay,” he says. “Promise me in two days we’re going to be sneaking down into the kitchen for all the cake we can eat and hiding from those stuffy royal advisors.”

Azula swallows hard. “I promise.”

But Zuko said it himself, oh so long ago. Azula always lies.

“Come on,” Zuko says, when the minutes have dragged away like eons and neither of them are any closer to falling asleep. “I have an idea.”

They slip like twin shadows towards the other side of the residential wing, and the door swings open before they can even knock.

“Took you long enough,” Toph grumbles.

“We had some things to discuss first,” Zuko says, half-apologetically.

“Yeah, yeah,” Toph yawns, strolling past them, down the stone hallways. “Come on, they’re this way,” she says, feet firm and flat against the ground. “We gotta get this bachelor party going somehow.”

They find Suki on the training grounds, robes slicked with sweat to her back and arms, gaze steely as she runs though her sets again and again, even as her limbs tremble.

“We were looking for you,” Azula says. “I wanted to find you first.”

They find Katara and Sokka by the turtle-duck pond, their necklaces splayed out on the ground between them.

“She would’ve been so proud of you,” Katara is saying, hand over his, and neither of them are bothering to hide their tears. “She would’ve loved him.”

“I know,” Sokka hiccups. “I know.”

They find Aang sitting by himself, levitating about half a foot off the ground as his eyes and tattoos glow an otherworldly white.

Katara lays a hand on his shoulder, and his eyes open –so bright at first everyone but Katara flinches, before they fade back into that strange gray.

“Come on,” she says, gently, and takes him by the hand.

And when they’re all together, arms loaded down with spare blankets and pillows, they spread piles of softness down on the cold stone floors and tumble down until they overlap in every way possible.

It’s still strange being with Zuko and his friends. There’s a world of history there, a secret language in the way Suki jokes and Katara fusses and Sokka quips and Aang laughs and Toph snarks and her brother smiles, in a way she once never would’ve thought possible. There’s a language she doesn’t speak there, and it’s exhausting.

But… but when Toph clamors for her to pass the marshed-mallows, and Sokka and Zuko say something sappy only for her and Katara to gag at the same time, when Aang catches her eye and flashes a conspiratorial smile, when Suki leans against her shoulder, eyes fluttering closed…

She’s far from fluent, but already, she’s learned far more than she once ever dreamed.

Azula, Aang, and Zuko wake just as the sun rises.

“Come on,” Aang whispers to Zuko, grinning, as Azula untangles herself gently from Suki, then inelegantly flings Toph’s legs off. “We gotta get you ready.”

“Don’t look so nervous, Zuzu,” Azula chimes in, smiling wickedly. “It’s supposed to be the best day of your life, after all.”

He rolls his eyes, stooping to press a kiss to Sokka’s forehead, before following his best friend and his sister into the hallway.

Outside, a swarm of royal assistants stand, mouths twisted and arms crossed.

“Do you know,” one of them says, shrill, “how it looked when we couldn’t find The Fire Lord, his betrothed, the Princess, the two most powerful benders in the world, or the Avatar?”

Azula’s eyes narrow, and she steps forward, but stops mid-stride at Zuko’s soft laugh.

“Forgive me, Mojaoh,” he says, inclining his head, voice light. “I’m afraid we were overcome with nerves.”

She rolls her eyes and clucks before whisking them off to the royal spa.

“You know,” Zuko says several hours later, once every inch of his skin has been scrubbed sore, his nails have been buffed to a startling shine, and his hair has been brushed and oiled into a flawless sheet. “I’m not convinced that was strictly necessary.”

“A powerful Fire Lord takes pride in his appearance,” Azula says, admiring her purple nail lacquer. “Besides, we need you in fighting shape.”

Aang, mesmerized by the blue sparkles painted on his nails, hums in vague agreement.

Agni sits at his highest point in the sky, and Zuko turns from the window, releasing a shuddering breath.

“I don’t know if I’m more nervous about getting married, or… or anything else.”

“He’s going to say ‘I do’, idiot.” Azula rolls her eyes, grabbing a brush off the side table and sectioning her brother’s hair off. “He’s head over heels, the poor fool.”

“I know, I just…” Zuko’s mouth twists. “We don’t know when Ozai will attack. I just… I want to actually get married, you know?”

“Oh, is that all?” Azula hums, pulling Zuko’s hair through a metal band before securing it with the Fire Lord’s headpiece. “Sokka and I already thought of that. You’re getting married now.”

“Sorry,” Zuko says. “What?”

There’s a small pavilion near the turtleduck pond, its ancient beams hanging heavy with wisteria and honeysuckle. In the center, Sokka stands, awash in Water Tribe blues. To his left, Katara beams and on his right, an older man who shares his eyes clasps a hand on his shoulder.

“Took you long enough,” Toph yawns, toes wiggling into the soft earth. Beside her, Suki waves, and Azula has to school her face before a sickening smile takes over.

Zuko lets out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “What… what is all this?”

“We don’t have weddings, not like you do,” Sokka explains. “But what we do have is this.”

“You’ve done so much, Nephew,” Iroh rumbles, guiding him forward. “You deserve something for yourself.”

The Water Tribe man strides forward, clasping Zuko’s forearm.

“I am Hadoka, Chief of the Southern Water Tribe. Son of Kanna, husband of Kya, and father of Sokka and Katara. And I welcome you, Zuko, nephew of Iroh and brother of Azula, into our family.”

Zuko’s eyes threaten tears, and he nods, shaky. “Thank you.”

He steps forward, and Katara greets him. “I am Katara, only Water Bender of the Southern Water Tribe. Granddaughter of Kanna, child of Kya and Hadoka, and sister of Sokka. And I welcome you, Zuko, nephew of Iroh and brother of Azula, into our family.”

He nods, and she winks, pulling him into a hug. “You got this.”

Then, at last, there is Sokka.

Zuko is frozen, eyes shining so bright as he looks at him. Azula prods him, gently.

Finally, he steps forward, and Sokka smiles.

“I am Sokka,” he says. “Strategist and inventor of the Southern Water Tribe. Grandson of Kanna, son of Kya and Hadoka, and Brother of Katara. And I give myself to you, Zuko, nephew of Iroh and Brother of Azula, as your husband, as long as you’ll have me.”

“I am Zuko,” he says, and his voice trips and stutters even as it shines. “Lord of the Fire Nation. Brother of Azula, nephew of Iroh, and son of Ursa. And I am yours, Sokka. I have always been yours.” He laughs a little. “I can’t believe you did all this for me.”

“Hey,” Sokka protests, holding up his hands. “You got to surprise me already. Figured it was my turn. I thought we might as well have a little something, just in case Ozai’s sense of dramatic timing is too good for us to say ‘I do’.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do you?”

“I love you,” Sokka says, softly, and it sounds like a prayer. “Of course I do.”

“ Oh ,” Zuko says, and kisses him.

With a flick of her wrist, Katara sends up a glistening cloud, and water droplets fall around them like so many diamonds, dripping off their joined form.

“Gross,” Azula whispers to Suki, and squeezes her hand.

“Disgusting,” Suki agrees, and squeezes back.

“You know this makes us sisters now,” Katara says, and Azula very adamantly pretends not to hear her.

The official wedding, the for-show wedding, is almost anticlimactic after that.

Azula stands at her brother’s side, holding a velvet bag, and wondering if the guests are confused by the number of guards that line the walls, how the grooms’ robes are cut for movement, not fashion. Her own red robes are too light –she needs to move at a blink – and she fights back a shiver in the marble hall.

Aang officiates, so apparently the dawn duel was in vain, but she can’t deny the entire ceremony has an air of gravitas, presided over by the most spiritual person there ever was. “A blessed wedding,” she heard a noblewoman, dripping with pearls, whisper to the girl sitting at her side; privately, Azula thinks it would’ve been perfect, no matter what, as long as it was for Zuko and Sokka.

The grooms bow four times –once to their gods, once to their ancestors, once to their parents (although Zuko murmurs ‘Ursa’ under his breath for that one), and, at last, to each other.

Aang passes them a cup, and they both drink from it, before Sokka speaks.

“You are my husband. My feet dance because of you. My heart beats because of you. My eyes see because of you. My mind thinks because of you. And I shall love because of you.”

Zuko responds. “Sokka, I want to marry you as your husband, in sacred marriage together for life. Whether you have sickness or health, poverty or wealth, beauty or not, in good times and in bad, I want to love you, to comfort you, to respect you, and protect you. I want to be forever loyal to you.”

Aang gestures, and Katara hands Sokka a pair of elegant golden shears. “Yours forever, I am bound,” he says, and cuts off a twist of his hair.

“Yours forever, I am bound,” Zuko echoes, slicing off a lock of his own.

Together, they tie the locks into a knot, then gently slide it into the bag Azula holds out for them. And just like that, it’s over.

“Congrats, Mr. Fire Lord Consort,” Zuko says, grinning.

“Congrats yourself, Mr. of the Southern Water Tribe,” Sokka volleys back, but no one can hear them over the cheering of the crowd.

“ Psst .”

Azula starts, one arm dropping to the ceremonial dagger belted at her waist. She melts in the next second, though, peering through the shadows of the hall’s back corner. It’s Suki’s face grinning out at her from behind the sturdy shape of a marble pillar; Suki’s hand that gestures for her to follow.

Casting one last glance at the ballroom floor and the couples dancing their hearts out upon it, Azula stealthily fades out of direct eyesight. Zuko has no more need of her – he’s too caught up with Sokka, the both of them swaying back and forth with their arms wrapped around each other’s waists. They’re looking at each other like there’s no one else in the world, like neither of them would so much as bat an eyelash if the castle itself were to start burning down around them. If she squints, Azula fancies she can see Agni’s glow gathering around them, a soft radiance that lights them both from within.

Farther out, she spots Kallik spinning Tapeesa around in dizzying revolutions, and Toph and Katara gathered with Aang near the buffet tables. Azula smiles, and slips away.

Suki catches her hand as soon as they’re out of sight, fingers lacing together like puzzle pieces. She’s so beautiful that Azula can hardly stand to look at her directly: a warrior born, the legend of Kyoshi come again, a woman against which all the evils of the world will shatter.

Azula adores her.

“This way,” Suki whispers, tugging her along a darkened hallway. Stones sweep by on either side, lit periodically by candles resting in metal sconces.

Giggling, Azula picks up her pace, aiming for the door at the end of the hallway that she knows will spit them onto a high balcony overlooking the palace grounds. “Race you!”

“That’s cheating!” Suki protests as Azula sprints into an early lead, but runs to catch her anyway. They chase each other down the hallway, first one leading and then the next, but Azula never releases Suki’s hand. They reach the door in the same moment, shoving their way out into the fresh air side by side.

“So,” Azula says after they’ve both gotten their breath back. “What was so urgent that you needed to pull me right from my dear brother’s wedding to talk to me about it?”

She smiles as she says it, so Suki knows it’s a joke. There’s nowhere else she’d rather be than here, under the last dying rays of Agni’s sun. Dusk is falling gently, painting the palace grounds and the city beyond with curious fingers coated in soft shades of blue and orange and purple. Far above, the first stars are winking into existence, distant and cold – but tonight, tonight they are in reach. Tonight, Azula feels she could reach right up and pluck one from the sky.

Tipping her head back, Azula twists to recline against the balcony rail. Cool, ridged metal digs into her back, but she hardly feels it. All she is aware of is Suki, Suki’s earthy scent and clear eyes and her red, red mouth that is shaping around the word, “You.”

“What?” Azula says, shaking herself from her daze.

“You asked me what’s so important,” Suki says simply. She’s looking at Azula with an impossible fondness. “It’s you.”

Azula sucks in a sharp breath. The sentiment is dangerously close to the feeling that has been unfurling in her own chest, the tender bloom of possibility eclipsing everything else. Suki is – important to Azula, too. Azula wants to spend time with her. To hold her close. To drag her out of parties just because she can.

But she can’t say any of that. Not right now. It’s Zuko’s wedding, and Azula has taken enough from him. She’ll let him have this one magical night, to be his and his alone.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she’ll say something.

Her hand is still pressed into Suki’s. They are palm to palm, and Azula can feel the comforting beat of Suki’s pulse point against her own.

And maybe she can’t confess everything, but Azula can open her mouth and say, “You remind me that I’m alive.”

Suki’s eyes soften, gleam with something more than the fading light. “Good. Because being your guard is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Azula’s heart swells, mouth curving up into a helpless grin, and she’s just decided f*ck it, just started to lean in, just started to let her eyes flutter closed, when Suki stiffens.

Azula’s back is still to the railing, but Suki is facing her and therefore has a perfect, unobstructed view of the palace grounds. Her lips tighten, face flushing pale. Then she meets Azula’s eyes. And Azula knows what she’ll see even before she spins around, because–

Because things have been too good for too long. Because the grounds have gone silent, not a peep from one of the spider-swallows that roost in the cherry-juniper trees and nest in their branches. Because Suki looks afraid, and the list of things that can make Suki afraid number on one hand.

Azula turns to face her Father.

Ozai’s army spreads across the land like a red stain. They move in eerie silence, dying light glancing off the metal of unsheathed blades. Fire flares from the fingertips of hundreds of benders, and dances in the hungry faces of the men and women who have come to take Azula’s happiness from her.

It’s one thing, Azula thinks, to set up an entire wedding as a ploy to tempt your power-crazed father to come try and reclaim his throne; it’s quite another thing for said power-crazed father to actually fall for it.

“Suki,” Azula says quietly. “Go sound the alarm.”

“Our sentries on the outer walls–”

“Dead,” Azula says grimly. Without even a sound. She swallows heavily. “It’s the only explanation.”

Suki’s face hardens, the mask of a Kyoshi warrior settling over her as easily as a cloak. “Very well. Come with me?”

Azula wants to, more than anything, but she glances back out at the army Ozai has amassed, the army whose ranks she once gladly would have joined, and she knows. “I can’t.”

To Azula’s relief, Suki doesn’t fight her on it, only nods. “What will you do?”

“What I need to.” It’s a mad plan Azula’s hatching, but she doesn’t see that she has any other options. Once she might have welcomed the chance to run screaming into death, but now–

She grabs Suki by the shoulders. “I need you to come find me, afterwards. Promise?”

“Anything,” Suki says, and on her lips it is a vow, it is the pledge of a queen.

Azula smiles at her, perhaps for the last time, and shoves her towards the door. “Then go.”

Faster than flame leaping the banks of a river, Suki whips around, and is gone.

Azula’s robes are already cut for ease of motion, so it’s the work of a moment to tuck her shirt into the loose waistband of her pants. Her shoes, she discards. Too flimsy.

The balcony she’s on now is slightly to the right of the one protruding from the floor below her. Before the insanity of the act can settle in fully, she swings her legs over the rail and jumps. She lands hard on the lower balcony, impact shivering up through her ankles, but leans into the fall, fetching up in an ungainly heap against the wood-and-metal of the floor. Then she’s on her feet again and scanning the area.

No more conveniently placed balconies, but there is a rose trellis attached to the palace walls just to the left. Not the sturdiest looking thing in the world, but it will probably hold her weight long enough to take her to the ground.

Grimacing, Azula tears strips from her shirt and wraps them around her hands. If Zuko makes her stitch it back together herself, she’s cutting all his dress robes to pieces in retaliation.

It’s a precarious jump from the balcony’s edge to the trellis, but Azula does it anyway, because she has no choice. Her cloth-wrapped hands catch the rusting metal and hold; her bare feet aren’t so lucky. She feels the skin begin to shred from the bottom of them as she struggles for purchase.

But there’s no time for a controlled descent – Azula sends up a prayer to Agni and loosens her grip. The slide down is over in seconds, leaving her to dangle those last few feet over the ground. When she lets go, she sees the smears of blood she’s left behind on the metal and winces.

Again, she doesn’t have the time to worry about that. It’s a mad, painful dash across the palace grounds, tearing through Zuko’s beautifully curated gardens and sweeping stone walkways. Everything he worked so hard to build, and Ozai would doubtlessly see it all burnt to cinders.

Azula whips around a tree, interrupting the couple kissing lazily in its shade. Two servants – they break apart as Azula dashes past, hands wiping at mouths. “P–princess?” the man stutters.

“You’re bleeding,” the woman says, pointing at Azula’s bare feet.

“Not important,” Azula pants out. “We’re under attack. Ozai.” She can’t slow, even for this, but she still hears their brief, muttered conference – and then the shouting, as the woman races one direction and the man the other, each calling at the top of their lungs for weapons , for help , fire, fire!

Azula grins nastily. If Ozai thinks he can just march in here uninvited and take what he wants without question, like he always has, then he’s sorely mistaken. Zuko’s people love him, and they will fight for him; for that love.

One more corner, and she makes it. There they are. Ozai’s rabid army, a scar on the land and on her honor, and Azula will not abide it.

Some of the insurrectionists spot her and begin to shout, a low-voiced murmur that grows to a roar. It might have been intimidating, if Azula hadn’t marched at the head of legions before. She knows what an army sounds like – and this one can hardly claim the name. It’s a mob of fanatics, at best. No discipline. And, if she has anything to say about it, no victory.

The crowd surges forward, but Azula moves with deliberate slowness. She leaves the dagger at her side. It’s a close-range weapon, and if she lets them get that near, she’s already lost.

The meteor hammer unwinds from around her waist with a silken hiss of metal on stone. It had been a nice-looking belt, but Azula is more interested in its other function. With a grim smile, she seizes it by one end and starts to swing the far side around, building speed and momentum. Left and right and left again, until Azula waits at the center of a blurring storm of metal and death.

It’s an absurd thing to do. To stand, one against an army, with the full conviction of not only her survival, but her triumph.

Absurd, but not arrogant. Because Azula has trained her whole life for this; because she is the best there is, and this time when she raises her weapons it will be against an enemy she chose.

Besides. She doesn't have to kill them all herself. She just has to hold out long enough for Suki to reach her.

Ozai’s mob approaches.

Azula raises her chin, and stands her ground.

It’s a frenzied five minutes before the reinforcements arrive.

Azula has put down so many of the rebels she’s half convinced the blood will never wash from her skin, and she’s beginning to stumble in sheer exhaustion when the insurgent about to drive his knife through her left eye suddenly goes still and slumps to the side. The servant woman from before stands above him, a pitchfork braced in both hands and a wild light in her eyes.

“Thanks,” Azula pants, and the woman nods before racing off, spitting a war cry. Guards and servants and wedding guests alike stream past her, brandishing weapons.

Someone with their skirts tied up around their waist stops to haul Azula to her feet and she accepts the hand gratefully, wiping sweat from her eyes. Small fires are breaking out all over the courtyard she’d retreated into, as Fire Benders from both sides clash in deceptively graceful battles.

Azula launches herself at the nearest insurgent, using the chain of her hammer to seize an ankle and yank them off their feet. Then it’s a kick to the solar plexus, the brutal snap of a bone breaking in the wrist, and Azula leaps over their fallen body–

Right into a new knot of enemy benders. They’re obviously wising up, identifying the greatest threat on the battlefield and aiming to take her out, and Azula almost laughs aloud. It’s a compliment, if eyed sideways.

Juking the dagger out from her belt with her left hand, she switches the hammer to a one-handed grip. A spurt of flesh-searing flame jets over her shoulder and she ducks into a roll, coming up facing the opposite direction. The dagger finds a home in the chest of the nearest bender, sending him slumping to the ground.

But for every one she kills, three more spring up in their place. Azula grits her teeth, backpedaling. She can’t keep this up for long, not without flame of her own.

But – Azula catches a glimpse of the twinned shadows approaching up the path, one of them wreathed in the full fury of Agni’s light, and smiles. She won’t need to.

Azula’s skin erupts in gooseflesh in warning, and she closes her eyes just in time to avoid being blinded by the first surge of the massive conflagration that roars through the courtyard. The fire is exceedingly well-controlled, leaving the palace’s defenders untouched. One of the attackers who managed to escape the flames goes down in the next moment, knocked unconscious by a black-and-silver blur that resolves itself into Sokka’s boomerang once back in the man’s hand.

“Took you long enough,” Azula pants, swinging her meteor hammer in a high arch, smacking into skin and cracking bone.

“I figured something was up when my best man couldn’t be bothered to show up to the champagne toasts.” Zuko grunts, twisting his hands and sending up a perfect tornado of flame around them, a brief reprise. Sokka matches him in a perfect pirouette, keeping his back to his husband’s. “Have you seen him yet?”

“No.”

“Azula, we have to figure out what we’re going to do–”

“I know,” she snaps, and breaks through the barrier of flame.

She sees Ozai everywhere. The cruel curve of his cheek on the face of a man she sends flying into the moat. The gleam of his eye on a woman whose head she bashes into the cobblestone.

She knows Zuko sees it too – can read it in his slight hesitation every time he lifts his hand for a final blow. She wants to scream at him that they can’t afford any distractions, that their enemy will take advantage of every perceived weakness, and if she’s noticed, then others have too–

“Please,” one of Zuko’s opponents croaks out, trembling arms shielding his head. “Please, I don’t want to be here, he made us, have mercy, my family, please.”

And Azula loves her brother, she loves him for his kindness and his gentleness and his unwavering belief that people can be better, but not when he is bending down to aid a man who has a hidden knife clutched in one fist.

“ No ,” Azula screams, meteor hammer whipping out, but it’s not quite long enough, why did she throw her dagger away, Sokka is spinning around but even he won’t make it in time–

A booted foot comes down on the man’s wrist, pressing the knife back to the cobblestone.

“Ah, ah, ah,” says Iroh, somehow still managing to project avuncular disappointment in the middle of a firefight. “Is that any way to treat someone who has accepted your surrender? My nephew, you must be careful.”

“Right,” Zuko says, clearly shaken, and Azula meets Iroh’s eyes over his head.

“I still don’t like you,” she mutters into his ear as they pass each other on the way to the next courtyard. “But. Thanks for that, I guess.”

“I would never let any harm come to Zuko,” Iroh says, and there’s enough sincerity shining in his eyes that Azula feels comfortable taking a few steps back from the group. Zuko will be fine, he will be safe, guarded by the uncle that always loved him best and the husband who would do anything for him.

“Watch out!”

Azula barely manages to skirt around a boulder twice her size before her hand is seized and she’s pulled onto a slab of rock moving faster than she would’ve ever thought possible.

“I tag ‘em, you bag ‘em,” Toph barks. “Got it, Princess?”

“It would be my pleasure.”

Once she finds her footing on the slab, she and Toph veer wildly around the battlefield, her meteor hammer flying out with crushing precision and Toph’s rocks flying out with crushing… everything. The grind of stone on stone, the roar of Earth fills Azula’s ears, and she doesn’t realize she’s screaming with exhilaration, eyes tearing with the force of the wind in her face until Toph starts laughing along.

“Not bad, Zappy,” Toph cackles, with unholy glee.

“Not bad yourself.”

Countless insurrectionists flee from the women howling like hyena-sikas, but just as many more take their place, hands overflowing with fire. They start pushing closer and closer, until not even Toph can smack them all away in time.

She grunts. “Time for me to go under. You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

“I beg your pardo-!?” Azula’s words cut off in a gasp as the ground under her heaves, launching her into the sky as it swallows Toph and half of their opponents whole. Azula screams, flailing in the air until a gust of wind carries her into a curved wall of ice.

“Hi, Azula!” Aang calls from atop an air scooter, skating around as the insurrectionists try fruitlessly to lay even a finger on him, blundering into each other and knocking themselves out in the process or giving up and laying on the ground, panting. “Wow, you’ve really gotten good with that hammer thing! Maybe don’t hit them so hard though?”

“Nice of you to join us,” Katara says, manipulating a dozen watery tentacles at once, grabbing anyone who even looks like they’re getting too close to Aang by the ankle and throwing them in the water below. Her voice drops as she leans closer. “And feel free to hit them as hard as you like.”

“I was planning on it.” Azula takes her proffered hand, heaving herself up. “Is Suki” –she flicks her hammer out and knocks a man with a sword aimed straight at Katara’s back out cold –”around?”

“She and the girls were guarding the Eastern gate.” A thin sheen of sweat breaks out on Katara’s brow as she and Azula go back-to-back, and the Water Tribe girl is radiating with the heat of exertion. “Is there something… up with you two by the way?”

Azula’s stomach goes up in butterfly-bees as she crushes in a man’s skull. “Oh, um… did she say something or…?”

“No,” Katara says, freezing a row of insurrectionists and sending them crashing into the swarms behind them. “Well, I mean she talks about you a lot, but like nothing explicit. I was just wondering.”

“You can tell?” Lightness fills Azula, strengthening her burning arms as she wraps the weapon’s chain around a woman’s legs, pulling her down hard.

“I have eyes,” Katara says, dryly.

Everyone can tell Suki is mine, Azula thinks dreamily, and kicks a man between the legs so hard even his living offspring blip out of existence.

“Oh, hey, you and Suki?” Aang cheers, literally dropping in between the two girls. “That’s awesome, congrats!”

“Thanks,” Azula says demurely, then stabs someone in the stomach when he isn’t looking. “Oh, Aang, any chance you can get me to the Eastern gate?”

The Airbender grins and hits the ground with his staff. Two sets of wings pop out, and he jumps atop the glider effortlessly. “Thought you’d never ask.”

“Don’t you dare drop me,” Azula grumbles, stepping gingerly into the glider’s frame.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“I don’t think I like the way you said that–”

They’re launched into the air without preamble, Aang’s wild laughter echoing all around them. From a bird’s eye view, Azula can see the ugly swarm of Ozai’s army, crowding in like so many insects to a picnic. Aang swoops them low, sending a few insurrectionists high into the air and blowing them far down to the beach below. Azula lashes out with her meteor hammer when she can, but mainly focuses on not losing her dinner.

They circle over the Eastern gate twice, and Azula sees a swarm of green, burning through the masses of red like flame through paper, and despite herself, she smiles.

“That’s my girl.”

“Ready?” Aang calls.

“For–? Wait. No. Aang, don’t you dare–”

But Azula is already tumbling downwards, the cushion of air beneath her and the wild laughter above her doing nothing to stop her stomach from trying to escape through her mouth.

Somehow, she lands on her feet behind a group of unsuspecting insurrectionists; Aang’s wind buffets them around long enough for her hammer to crack mercilessly. Most drop hard and don’t rise again, but one only staggers, then turns around with a bloody snarl.

He lunges and Azula doesn’t have enough momentum, her hammer is stuck wrapped around a prone body, and she stumbles backwards and –

Crack.

He drops.

A red-painted smile greets her. “Hello, Princess.”

“Suki,” Azula says, untangling her weapon. “Nice save.”

She winks. “What’s a guard for?”

Behind them, the Kyoshi Warriors coo.

“Back to work, ladies! We need reinforcements to the west.” Suki calls, rolling her eyes, then bows low. “May I have this dance, Princess?”

Azula places a hand in Suki’s. “Why, I thought you’d never ask.”

Suki twirls her around, and Azula kicks out, getting a woman in the jaw. She turns back in, meteor hammer flicking out to wrap around the legs of a man coming up behind Suki, pulling hard and sending him tumbling down. Suki dips her low, a fan coming up to block an incoming arrow, and Azula grabs it, using their momentum to fling it back and catching a man in the throat.

They dance, movements sharp and precise and deadly. They dance for their home, for their friends and their family. They dance for themselves, for the sheer joy of fighting, the way girls like them have always been born to do.

And around them, their enemies crumble.

Finally, Suki pulls them low, pushing Azula away as a massive fireball crashes into the stone wall behind them.

Azula rolls as she hits the ground, and a familiar hand helps her up.

“Where’s your husband?”

Zuko smiles bashfully, a high red tint on his cheeks. “Making a cannon.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Azula says, taking a man’s legs out from under him.

“You think they’d at least have the decency to wait until the honeymoon was over,” Suki jokes, coming to flank them.

“I don’t think decency and my father have ever met,” Zuko grumbles.

They attack as a perfect trifecta, Zuko blasting and cutting his way through the middle of the seemingly endless swarm with Suki and Azula effortlessly dispatching those who manage to dodge him. They fight together as if they’ve been doing it all their lives, gradually carving a swathe towards the moat, where most of Ozai’s forces are concentrated.

“What the hell is that?” Azula squints at the other end of the moat, where a seemingly perfect square of black marches steadily forwards.

Zuko sets his jaw. “Nothing good.”

He sends a blast at it, but it’s dispersed effortlessly, fading into nothing but embers.

It comes closer, closer, until Azula can hear perfect, synchronized steps.

“My army.” The tone is soft, but the voice is anything but. The pit of cold inside Azula yawns open, threatening to devour her, and Azula can’t breathe, she can’t breathe she can’t breathe–

Ozai’s cruel golden eyes – her eyes, Zuko’s eyes– shine out from the middle of a crush of soldiers, armed to the teeth and dressed head-to-toe in shining black armor, staring at the frozen forms of Azula and her brother, Suki unwavering at their side.

“My army,” that cold, oily voice repeats. “Kill the boy and the peasant. Leave the former princess for me.”

As one, the soldiers fall into a picture perfect kata, and they fire.

Zuko throws his arms up, and Suki screams for Azula to move.

But Azula has already moved, has allowed nothing but instinct and a love more fearsome than anything she’s known to propel her forward. She steps in front of her brother and Suki, and her vision goes up in flames.

Not a single sound exists past the roaring in Azula’s ears, and she realizes, faintly, that she’s dead.

Her arms still ache, legs still tremble with exhaustion in the afterlife, but at least she isn’t cold anymore. When Azula opens her eyes, it’s the same battlefield, but warped and flickering nearly beyond recognition. Every face is turned towards her, every face but one with the same expression –eyes huge and jaw agape; only Suki doesn’t look surprised. Her eyes are shining, hand clasped over her mouth like she doesn’t know if she wants to cry or laugh.

Azula blinks again, and this time she sees the perfect halo of vivid purple flame, orbiting neatly around her.

“Zu- Zuko?” She manages. “Are you…?”

He shakes his head, laughs a little. “Purple was always more your color than mine.”

“Oh,” she says and raises a hand. The ring rises and falls with her movements, and when she laughs, it swirls around her, faster and faster until she is the glowing center of a bonfire. And when tears slip past her lash line, they boil off the heat of her skin.

“But…” Ozai sputters. “You’re powerless now! The Avatar took your bending!”

“No,” Azula says, flame licking along her arms, within her eyes. “You took it from me. Like you tried to take everything else. But this has never been yours to steal.”

Azula flings one fist forward, and a portion of the fire breaks off, slamming into the middle of her father’s guard. The man in front tries to block, but the force of it sends him flying backwards, and the others behind him go sprawling.

The spell is broken, and everyone snaps into action, dispatching individual guards left and right. With their formation broken, the guards are no longer so formidable. They’re marginally better benders than the majority of Ozai’s insurrectionists –likely made of farmers and merchants, yearning to feel some sort of superiority, now that Azula considers it –but they’re no match for a Princess, a Fire Lord, and the heir of Kyoshi.

Azula’s fire burns, fiercer and brighter than she’s ever known. Her punches send out individual spurts of flame, and the halo shrinks around her. With a twist of something painful, she realizes she still can’t make the flames grow.

“Zuko!” She cries instead, and he sends a sheet of fire her way. It fades into violet, wrapping around her, and with a wicked smile, she turns her attention on the stragglers that remain.

Punching isn’t effective, then. But what about…

Azula swings her chain, letting purple flames flick down along its length. Swinging it above her head, she urges the flames to flow further, spreading them thinner and longer. The flame unfurls into a whip, flickering out with devastating accuracy.

The last guard drops, and Ozai, hands shaking around a pathetically small dagger, stands, trembling.

Azula lashes out without mercy, and her hammer smacks into his jaw, sending him to his knees. She’d told Zuko she didn’t know what to do, but now, blood on her hands and flames in her soul, she doesn’t hesitate to snatch a dagger from a fallen soldier and stalk forward.

Ozai cries out, his hands flying up, but Azula doesn’t hesitate, swinging down –

She’s stopped midair.

“Azula,” Suki says, softly, both of her hands clutched around Azula’s trembling forearm. “Azula, don’t.”

“I have to,” she hisses, hand tightening around the hilt of her dagger. “He took everything from me.”

“No,” Suki says, and her lips are painted red, and her eyes are forget-me-not blue, and she’s the first person Azula ever learned to love selflessly. “Darling, he didn’t.”

“He–”

Suki shakes her head. “Azula, you have Zuko. You have Kallik and Tapeesa. You have Aang and Katara and Sokka and Toph. You’re an advisor to your Fire Lord. You’re healing. And – and you have me. You don’t need to do this.”

Doesn’t she? Isn’t this payback, retribution, for every wrong Ozai ever did to her? For what he did to her mother and to Zuko?

She might need to do this. She might not. But, deep down, Azula finds that she doesn’t really want to.

She hates her Father, and she will never forgive him. But she doesn’t want to kill him. And it’s not about him, not at all. It’s about her.

She doesn’t want to be the daughter who killed her Father. She doesn’t want that blood on her hands. It never has been, and never will be, her responsibility to make up for the monster he became.

The cycle ends here.

Azula drops her dagger.

“Thank you,” Suki breathes, wrapping her arms around Azula’s waist. “Thank you, I’m so proud of you, it’s going to be okay, I promise .”

Azula is just beginning to believe her when Suki goes stiff in her arms.

“Suki?” Azula tries to pull away, but Suki simply holds her tighter.

Behind them, Zuko screams.

“Suki!”

The stiffness is giving way to limpness, and Azula wrenches the other girl away from her, frantic. For a long, terrible second, Azula can’t even make sense of what she’s seeing. There’s something – something protruding from Suki’s abdomen, long and gleaming, silver stained red.

Suki gives a small, almost polite, cough. Blood bubbles on her lips.

“Katara,” Zuko says, but his voice is hoarse, and Azula has no idea what he’s talking about. “Toph! Katara! Aang! Someone, please.”

“Suki?” Azula says, voice tripping and breaking. “Suki, stop it.”

There’s a soft, self-satisfied chuckle, and the silver thing retracts.

On the ground, Ozai casually wipes his bloodied dagger.

Chapter 12: mwah mwah mwah and they're both girls who murder

Chapter Text

There’s hands on Azula’s shoulders, someone gently prying her away from Suki, but she fights, she struggles against the arms wrapping around her waist and the voice in her ear, because they can’t take Suki away from her, they can’t, she won’t let them–

“Azula, calm down. We’re not taking her anywhere. See?”

The voice is her brother’s; for him and him alone she stops fighting. He would not lie to her.

Overhead, a great rush of wind fills the sky with the fury of ten thousand storm walls breaking at once. There’s no possible way Aang heard Zuko’s call for help, halfway across the battlefield with the screams of the wounded drowning out every rational thought in Azula’s skull, but she stops questioning the miracle, because Aang has brought Katara.

Katara is little more than a flash of blue robes as she rushes to Suki’s side. In the dirt and swirling dust that has risen to shroud the drawbridge, she gleams like a fresh-cut gemstone, the water already gathering into a mist around her hands the first clean thing Azula has seen in hours.

She can’t look at Suki. She can’t look at Suki’s outflung arm, slack as if in sleep, or the pallor of her skin that goes beyond what any chalk-white warrior’s makeup could ever give her. She can’t look at the woman who’s come to mean more to her than perhaps anyone else, the girl who drew the smothering curtains from around Azula’s heart and then gleefully flung open every window to the waiting sun.

“Azula,” Aang says quietly, one hand braced on Katara’s shoulder. To give her strength, or to draw it, Azula isn’t sure. “She’s going to live. It looks bad, but she’s going to be okay.”

“Ah,” says Azula faintly. She barely gets the words out past the gaping chasm that’s opened somewhere between her ribcage and her tongue, a chasm into which she is falling, falling, falling… just waiting for the impact that will crush her.

“Azula,” Aang says again. His clear gray eyes are steady on hers, and for a blink, an intelligence much older and more fearsome than a fourteen-year-old boy stares out at her. Some Avatar of eons past resonates with Azula’s pain, and stands aside. Zuko too, only lifts an arm, and lets it drop, and Azula realizes that she has their approval for what happens next, tacit as it may be.

She turns, and strides toward Ozai. She readies herself, bracing hands still stained with Suki’s blood. Katara gives her a short, sharp nod as she passes, and Azula smiles, grimly amused that it is in this that they are united.

She still can’t look at Suki, but she feels her, is as aware of her as Azula’s own breath, her own limbs.

“Get up,” Azula tells the man who ruined her life, “and fight me.”

He’s grinning like he’s won as he levers himself to standing, and Azula feels only icy satisfaction at his misplaced confidence. She’s going to enjoy this, a lot more than she’ll ever tell another soul.

She doesn’t wait for him to gain his feet before she strikes. She doesn’t have a weapon but she doesn’t need one; the first blow from her fist misses, but the second, a knee strike that drives into the center of his chest, connects with a viciousness that leaves even her gasping.

He stumbles back a few steps, but the cruel smile on his face never wavers. “Picked up a few new tricks, daughter mine? Foreign filth. It won’t help you now.”

“I don’t need it to,” she says simply. She will best him with Suki’s heavy-handed techniques, rooted in the strength of the earth, and she will best him with what little of the wind-dancing Aang has taught her, all dreamy movements and deceptive speed, but she will best him as herself, too. He will lose to the weapon he himself crafted, perfectly brutal Fire Nation strength incarnate.

He stabs at her with the dagger; Azula dodges with ease. Left, right, he swipes at her, and Azula allows him to drive her back a pace, and then dives abruptly to one side. She comes out of her roll with her discarded meteor hammer clutched in one hand.

“A child’s toy,” he sneers, and she doesn’t bother to correct him.

He lunges straight at her, an onrushing and unending strike of steel that threatens to shear the skin from her bones, but she is already moving, feet skipping across the ground as light as a stone across water. The meteor hammer sings through the air, lashing straight through his hasty defense and colliding with Ozai’s exposed, vulnerable flank.

He gasps and stumbles backward, gazing with disbelief at the blood beginning to seep out from between the chinks in his armor. For the first time when he looks at her, there is a hint of fear on his face. The same fear she spent her whole life tending, as one does a banked hearth.

Azula presses forward.

The next blow he aims her way catches her in the shoulder, sending her spinning to the ground with its momentum. At the last second, she turns the uncontrolled fall into something slightly more graceful. Just like Suki taught her, she slaps the earth upon impact to distribute the force.

Just like Suki taught her–

And it’s like she’s back on the training ground again, simmering, joyful, free; she moves into one of the Kyoshi Warrior katas with hardly a thought, her palms turned inwards and fingers set and strong. She strikes; once, twice, through the heel of her foot, knowing Suki would’ve been able to turn that blow.

But Ozai is no Suki. Azula switches the meteor hammer from a grip in her right hand to a grip in her left and swings at the same time she ducks under an elbow jab.

The meteor hammer connects with the side of Ozai’s skull with a sickening crack.

Ozai finally falls, and goes still.

Her Father is heavy as she lifts him by the hair from the stone on which he lays, but he’s a burden she’s carried all her life, and at this point she’s accustomed to standing under his weight. Disdainfully, she kicks the dagger from his hands. She’s determined that he dies as he lived: a coward.

But not before she tears everything that he ever valued away from his grasping hands, starting with the respect of his so-called “army.”

“Azula,” Ozai pants, scrabbling with both hands to grasp onto the stone of the drawbridge, blunt nails cracking with the pressure. “What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

She doesn’t reply, dragging him across the moat and towards the palace proper. A dread hush has descended, and at the sight of their fallen leader, Ozai’s army has laid down their weapons. They’re transfixed by the woman who used to be their princess, lording over the man who used to be their god.

“Is this him?” Azula roars. “Is this the man you worshiped? Is this the man you left your families behind for? Your lives for? Is this the man who took you to kill the Avatar, to kill Fire Lord Zuko, who would’ve done anything to you and not a thing for you, if it didn’t suit him?”

It’s quiet, so achingly quiet beyond the roar in Azula’s ears, the rush of ash on the wind in her short hair.

Nobody provides her with an answer, because there isn’t one.

“Repent,” Azula hisses. “In the name of Agni, look at what you have done, at your brothers and sisters and siblings who you have harmed, and repent.” Some of them do, dropping to their knees in the churned-up mud of the battlefield and rising bloodied faces to the sky. Some run. Azula lets them go; they are no longer her concern.

At her feet, Ozai whimpers.

She speaks only to him with her next words. “See how very little hold you had on them, Father? Fanaticism is a brittle tool. It shatters so easily.”

Behind her, she is vaguely aware of Zuko helping Katara lift Suki into Aang’s arms. The Avatar is airborne in the next moment, and Suki is gone.

The coldness in Azula’s chest freezes her expression, ices over her words.

“Azula,” Ozai breathes, his useless hands shaking in the dirt. His eyes are unfocused; pleading. “Azula, my daughter, my princess. Forgive me. You know I love you, Azula.”

“Don’t say my name,” Azula hisses. “I don’t want to hear you say my name ever again.”

“Azul–” But she grinds her foot down, into his wound, and he cuts himself off with a scream.

“I could end you, right now,” she says, coldly. “I should. I’d be doing the entire Fire Nation a favor.”

He pants, curling himself around his wound. Ash-flecked dust rises hazily into the air. “You don’t understand. You’ve never understood. I made the necessary sacrifices, for the glory of our great Nation–”

“Great Nations,” Azula says, ice riming her every word, “do not treat their children like cannon fodder.”

In a perfect world, she’d kill him with fire. She’d burn him alive the way he did to Zuko, to countless others. She would turn the weapon he so loved against him. She stretches a hand out to him before she remembers: she’ll need someone else’s flame for the spark.

She can’t ask Zuko. She won’t, not for this. Her brother’s heart is soft, for all he pretends it’s gone to steel.

But who else–

“Azula.”

Azula closes her eyes. “I’m not in the mood for one of your pedantic lessons on morality, Iroh.”

“Not even this one?” He steps up next to her, smelling faintly and impossibly of jasmine. His eyes are weary. She hadn’t realized it before, but he’s short – he stands but a few scant inches taller than she does.

“Sometimes,” Iroh says, and lifts one blazing hand towards his brother. “Sometimes you must prune the branch for the tree to heal. I couldn’t protect you before, Azula. Let me do this for you now.”

“No,” Ozai pants, and he’s shaking, he’s pathetic on his knees in front of Azula, his brother’s flame licking at his cheek. “No, you wouldn’t. You can’t.”

(That could have been her, Azula thinks. If things had gone differently – if Zuko had been a shade less merciful or herself a shade more ruthless. Her face; Zuko’s hand. Two siblings torn apart by power and by pain. But that’s not how their story ends, because she made a different choice.)

Thinly, Azula smiles.

“I have a better idea,” she says, and guides her uncle’s hand to her father’s mouth.

His lips can’t even open to scream.

There is much work to do in the days following the battle. Katara spends every one of her free hours in the infirmary, sitting at bedsides and soothing burns with cool water and comforting words. Azula goes with her sometimes, when she can stand it, but mostly she is stationed at Suki’s side.

Aang organizes a clean-up of the palace grounds, scrubbing blood and ash from ancient marbled stone with scouring gusts of wind. He restores the curated gardens with Toph’s help, coaxing green shoots from fresh soil, and Azula laughs when she walks by the turtle-duck pond to find the surrounding shrubbery all shaped into the Blind Bandit’s likeness.

Sokka manages all the administrative tasks. He assuages the various diplomats and renegotiates trade deals, presenting a united and formidable front for the Fire Nation. When he needs an extra intimidation factor, he asks her to come along. (Azula takes great joy in standing three feet behind his left shoulder and grinning wide enough to show every one of her teeth.)

Zuko speaks to his people. He speaks to them from his throne, from the balcony of the palace, from the streets of the city. He talks to them of hope and of rebuilding; of the dawn of a better day under Agni’s watchful gaze. He promises them prosperity and a Nation in which all are welcome regardless of creed. He paints for them a lovely image of peace.

He speaks, and his people listen, and Azula watches them flower with a joy that has been denied from them for too long. Zuko talks until his throat goes hoarse and his voice fails him, and then he gets up in the morning and does it anew.

Ozai, for his part, never speaks again.

“Can you slow down?”

“Old woman,” Azula teases, but shortens her stride. “See how it feels? Think about this next time you try and outpace me with those giant legs of yours.”

Suki huffs. There’s a dark strand of hair falling loose from her braid and over her forehead. It softens her, somehow, as do the relaxed purple silks she’s wearing.

Agni’s rays filter down through the canopy above, casting them both in a gentle green glow. Shadows of leaves dapple over Suki’s face, shifting with each gust of blossom-scented wind and making her blink long lashes against sudden rushes of light.

Yes, Azula can’t deny that the gardens are gorgeous, but they’re far from the most beautiful sight around. That honor goes to her… to her whatever. Her Suki.

It’s a curious reversal of their situation a few months ago, with Suki the exasperated chaperone and Azula the disgruntled prisoner. Now it’s Suki who reaches out to lean on Azula, and Azula who keeps a watchful eye on her companion lest she trip and fall.

Suki’s wound is near-healed, but the damage done to her body lingers: some of the muscle has wasted away from her bones, and she grows short of breath after taking only a single flight up the palace steps. Instead of growing irritated (like she would with almost anyone else), Azula is content to wait as long as it takes for Suki to heal, and proud to keep pace with her in the meantime. She’d seen the scar, once, when Suki shrugged a robe on over her shirt and the bottom edge of the fabric had lifted away from her stomach. It’s a pale, twisted thing, and smaller than Azula had expected. For something that almost tore away one of the most important things in Azula’s life, she’s still shocked by the mundanity of the coin-sized patch of tissue.

“Azula,” Suki sing-songs, throwing one hand over her face dramatically. “I grow weary.”

Azula is at her side in an instant, hovering over her shoulder and scowling. She scans the nearby gardens: the stone benches haven’t been re-installed yet, but there is a willow-oak tree close at hand, and some of the roots that protrude from the mulch are flat (or flat-ish) enough to make suitable seats. “Do you want to sit down?”

“No,” Suki says, and slants a glance at her between two of her fingers. Her lambent blue eyes glitter with mischief.

Azula squints. “Do you want to stop here and take a break standing up?”

“No,” Suki says again. Her free arm drifts up from her side, seemingly innocently, until she flips it palm-up and points it expectantly in Azula’s direction.

“Oh,” Azula says. “Is this a thinly-veiled ploy to get me to hold your hand?”

Suki snorts. “I didn’t think it was veiled at all.”

Azula takes Suki’s fingers between her own. The other girl’s hand is warm with the heat of the distant sun, calloused and broad and strong even now. “You know,” Azula murmurs, so close to Suki she watches the down-soft hair on the back of her neck stir and rise in response, “you could just ask.”

Suki’s smile is a revelation. “Where’s the fun in that?”

“Indeed,” Azula says. Suddenly she’s the one short of breath. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Above them, a spider-swallow croons out its afternoon song. Azula tugs Suki that much closer to herself, and walks on.

“We need to decide what we’re going to do with Ozai’s army.”

It’s the millionth time Zuko has said it, Agni’s fading rays shining down on his pensive form as he hunches over his desk, and the millionth time Azula has looked up from the window seat where she’s snapping her fingers, trying for a spark, and rolled her eyes.

“I told you what we’re going to do with them, Zuzu. Keep them locked up on the Boiling Rock until they sweat out their delusions.”

“We’re not going to do that, Azula,” The Fire Lord sighs, with only a hint of wistfulness. “However much easier that would make our lives.”

“And why not?” Azula snaps again, heart momentarily leaping as she thinks she sees a spark of purple –but, no, it’s just the fading light reflecting off her golden nail lacquer. “Give it a rest, brother, and give me a boost.”

With only token protest, Zuko stands, every joint in his back popping, and crosses the room to her. She withdraws from her sprawl and they sit cross-legged, knees touching, as Zuko kindles a flame in his hands, and Azula scoops it up, the tip turning a vivid violet.

In, out, in, out –they breathe, quietly, watching their little flame. Azula’s brow furrows, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out on her forehead.

“You got it,” he murmurs. “Just stay calm.”

She takes an even deeper breath, matching his rhythm, and the flame momentarily flickers up, almost an inch taller.

Joy flashes, hot and bright across her face. “That’s higher than last time, isn’t it?”

“I think so.”

She pushes away the urge to pump her fist in triumph, settling for a self-satisfied smile. “Watch out, Zuzu. I’ll be back to bending lightning before you know it.”

He just laughs, low and warm. “I don’t doubt it.”

“You can laugh about it all you like,” she says archly. “But I’d hate to be those insurrectionists when I’m back in full fighting shape.”

Zuko sighs, flame flickering low. “You’re not going to bend lightning at the prisoners, Azula.”

“Why not? They followed him.” Her voice drips venom. “They deserve to be punished for it.”

“They were brainwashed, Azula. They’ve been lied to their whole lives.”

“It’s no excuse.”

“Doesn’t everyone deserve a second chance?”

“Of course not. In a perfect world, maybe. But not everyone is as good as you’d have them be, Zuzu.”

“Azula,” he says, and the flame flickers, catching the shadows of both their burns. “Why are you still angry with yourself?”

Her skin prickles. “That– that’s not– don’t be ridiculous, Zuko. That’s not what this is about.”

He says nothing, and she rambles on, voice growing thicker. “I… I know I did bad things, to you, to Suki, to everyone, but I didn’t… I wasn’t… He was in my head, he’d always been in my head and I couldn’t get him out and I did everything perfectly, I had to be perfect to him for him, and I hurt you so badly, and I nearly killed Aang, but I wouldn’t now, but I was so awful and terrible and I hurt you, and I never, I never–”

Water splashes down on their joined hands.

The flame flickers out.

“I never apologized,” she breathes, voice ragged. “For any of it. To any of you.”

Zuko shakes his head. “I never needed your apologies, Azula. You know that. The only person you need to apologize for is yourself. You’re proof. That anyone can get better. That anyone can learn better.”

“So what?” She demands, more sharply than she intends.

He smiles.

“So teach them better.”

Azula’s apology cake for the gAang is more of a half-undercooked, half-burned mass of cocoa powder and pink frosting, Suki’s intervention being the only thing that saved it from complete ruin. The misshapen message on top – sorry for being a war criminal :) – goes over about how you would expect.

“What will you do now?” The question is sleepy, syrupy in the pale dawn light. They’re sitting on what Azula has begun to think of as ‘their’ roof. “You know, now that there’s a lack of egomaniacal Fire Lords running around.”

“Hmmm. I’ve been thinking.” Aang’s voice is as chipper as always. For some reason, it no longer annoys her as it once did. “I’ve always wanted to travel. It’s what we were meant to do. Without being on the run, I mean. It might be fun. Take Appa. Take Katara. Just… go. Disappear.”

“That sounds nice, I suppose.”

Aang’s smile is so broad it crinkles the corners of his eyes into joyful slits. “Yeah. It’ll be wonderful. New experiences, new friends… have you ever wanted to travel, Azula?”

She casts her mind back. “Not particularly. And right now – I’m content where I am. Maybe one day, though.”

“Maybe one day,” he echoes. There’s something of the sky about him, wanderlust tugging at him like wind. She’s always known he wouldn’t stay in one place for very long.

She realizes: she’ll miss him, when he’s gone.

“Just make sure you come back,” she says, softly.

“Oh Azula.” His laugh whips away into open air, and her heart lifts along with it. “I always will.”

“You know, Azula,” Kallik says one sunny afternoon. “Today marks a year since we’ve met.”

It’s Spring again, barren trees threatening life; verdant buds pushing themselves out of unyielding wood. The windows to Kallik’s office are open in a way Azula would’ve never once allowed, Agni’s rays spilling in a golden puddle over the white fur rugs on the floor.

Azula, sprawled comfortably in her usual spot, throws her head back with an exaggerated groan. “No! You stole my line.”

They blink, a smile threatening to crack their nonplussed facade. “Oh? I do apologize.”

“I had it all planned out,” she complains, good-naturedly. “I was going to be all ‘hey, Kallik, I noticed it’s been a year’, and you were going to go ‘I haven’t noticed such a thing, Azula. Time is a human construct and the only thing we need to pay attention to is the internal melodies of our minds’” – “is that what I sound like to you?” –”and I was going to go ‘wow so true, Kallik, but regardless’...” Azula slides out of her chair, bending down to rummage under it. “‘I have something for you’.”

“Azula,” Kallik says, with a hint of disapproval. “I do appreciate the thought, but gifts are generally discouraged within the clinician-patient alliance.”

Azula waves a hand. “Consider it your one-year bonus, since I know for a fact whatever my brother is paying you isn’t enough –there we go.”

She pulls out a small, rectangular box, wrapped in silver paper and tied with a haphazard blue bow. “Besides,” she continues, sliding it across Kallik’s lacquered desk. “I promise you it’s really for my benefit.”

They look up at her, then sigh, shaking their head with a small smile. “Alright then.”

With a quick move of their thick fingers, the bow comes undone, and they’re sliding open the lid. A thick badger-moleskine notebook rests neatly inside. Quietly, Kallik lifts it, running their fingers over the satiny cover and cracking it open to reveal sheets and sheets of perfect, thick parchment.

“I noticed you already ran through a few others,” Azula says, leg bouncing. “I just thought… well. I get the feeling we’ve got a lot more work to do. Might as well make sure you have what you need to do it.”

“I… thank you, Azula.” They close it carefully, pressing it to their chest. “I’ll take good care of it.”

“Well don’t be too careful with it,” she says archly, settling back with a self-satisfied smirk. “I get the feeling we’ll be filling quite a few more.”

“Oh, you don’t have to tell me that.” They laugh. “Well then, what do you say we get started?”

“I’m not going,” Azula says, and Toph throws up her hands.

“You can’t stay locked up forever, Zappy!” She snorts, flopping back as the stone floor shapes into a chair, just her size.

“You’re going to put that back, right?”

Toph makes a contemplative noise, then huffs dismissively. “Maybe I'll consider it, if you go to the festival with me.”

“For what, disgusting street food and a million peasants breathing on me? Pass.”

“First of all, I didn’t hear you complaining about ‘disgusting street food’ last week when you stole half my fried fire flakes at dinner” – “I have no idea what you’re talking about” – “hush. And it’ll be fun! Aang’s been teaching people all those weird fancy dances you guys used to do a hundred years ago, and they’re going to have all sorts of merchants, and elephant-camel rides!”

“Oh, so I get a million quadrupeds breathing all over me instead? Well, count me in.” Azula rolls her eyes, sprawling on her purple bedspread.

Toph tilts her head, feet shifting on the floor. “Okay, spill. Why are you being weird?”

Azula bristles, sitting up. “I am not being–”

Toph raises an eyebrow in a manner so decidedly unimpressed Azula quickly shuts herself up.

“Look, I… besides Shuhon Island, I haven’t really…” She waves a hand vaguely. “Left the palace much. The people here are used to me, for the most part, and I’m used to them, but…” She worries at the end of her short hair. “Well. I think it’s safe to say legends of the wicked princess haven't quite left everyone's minds yet.”

“Hey.” The stony lines of Toph’s face soften as she lays a gentle hand on Azula’s shoulder. “Don’t be a f*cking baby.”

“Your charm and empathy are unparalleled, as always.”

“So what if people are scared of you? They’re scared of me, half the time. At least the smart ones are.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.” Azula snorts. “But at least they know you’ve always been one of the good guys. If I go down there, it’ll sour the mood for everyone. And by everyone, I mean most importantly me.”

“Come on!” Toph bounces. “My feet will be able to tell if anyone’s talking sh*t. Then I’ll just beat them up for you!”

“I don’t think Zuzu would appreciate the world’s greatest earthbender assaulting his citizens on a whim.”

“I honestly don’t think he expects any better by now.”

Azula laughs, despite herself, and lays backwards. She finds herself in Toph’s company more and more often these days. There’s something about her –solid, unyielding, firm –that’s more of a comfort than Azula would care to admit.

“I don’t want all those people looking at me and thinking about who I used to be,” she says. “Especially when I’ve just stopped doing the same thing.”

Toph sits next to her and punches her shoulder with far too much force. “What did I say about being a f*cking baby?”

Azula slowly sits, rubbing her bruising shoulder, and narrows her eyes. “You asked for this.”

“Asked for wha–”

But Azula’s already pushed her off the bed, Toph landing with an oof on the floor.

She grins wickedly. “You’re just putting me in my element, Zappy.”

Stone hands reach up and yank Azula off the foot of the bed, but she rolls with the force, dodging and jumping lightly onto the armchair, off the stone ground. She keeps moving, airily moving from platform to platform, occasionally pelting Toph with knick knacks as the other girl lobs pebbles her way, ripping up Azula’s bedroom floor.

“Stay still so my rocks can hit you,” Toph shouts.

“Hit me yourself, coward,” Azula volleys back, and tackles her with a flying leap.

Toph barely manages to yelp in surprise before she’s tussling, laughing as she and Azula grapple. Rock flies everywhere around them, and in the mantle place, unseen by either of them, the fire flares brighter and higher than ever –its tip glowing violet.

Eventually, bruised and sore and grinning, they collapse next to each other, breathless.

“Fix my floors.”

“Not unless you go to the festival.”

Azula laughs and lets her head loll against the cool stone. “Deal.”

“Stay still,” Katara hisses.

Azula’s eye twitches. “The last time someone got this close to me with an instrument of torture, I killed him. Slowly.”

Katara pulls back to stare at her. The thin stick of kohl in her hand looks much smaller from this distance. “It’s not an instrument of torture, Azula. It’s eyeliner.”

“Same thing.”

“Not at all, actually.”

Azula doesn’t have time to yelp before Katara’s hands are back on her face, one finger braced on her forehead and another on her cheekbone. A line of pressure traces her eye from the inside corner to the duct on the outside.

“See? Not that bad.”

Entirely against her will, a single tear slips from Azula’s waterline and trails down her cheek. She dashes it away with an impatient scowl. “I can’t see anything. Your devil stick has blinded me.”

Katara sighs. “Blink a few times.”

Azula does, sullenly realizing that her vision is just fine. “Whatever.”

“We’re finished with makeup, by the way. Now about your outfit for the festival–”

Azula groans, throwing herself backward on her bed. She seizes a pillow and is inches away from pressing it over her face to let out a long, healthy scream when Katara catches her by the wrist, glaring murderously. “Do not. Mess it up.”

“Fine. Killjoy.” Azula sets the pillow aside and turns over onto her stomach. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

Katara gestures at the overflowing closet in the corner. “What is all that, then?”

Azula’s feeling more stubborn than usual. “I don’t have anything good to wear.”

“Unbelievable,” Katara mutters, and stalks over to the heaping pile of fabric. The first article she extracts is a lovely rose-pink number, short in the front but with a long train in the back. “How about this?”

“No.”

Katara holds up a blue jumpsuit, patterned with sequins. “This is nice.”

“No.”

Now a red two-piece tunic that would leave some of her midriff bare.

“Absolutely not.”

“Azula,” Katara sighs, and braces her hands on her hips. “Suki will think you look beautiful whatever you wear.”

Azula sits up sharply. “That’s not–!”

“So you don’t want to look nice in front of Suki?”

“I never said that either,” Azula sulks. “I just…”

“Listen.” Katara’s big-sister mode is firmly engaged. “Suki likes you. She’d like you if you showed up in rags. But if you really want to stun her…”

She proffers a fourth and final option. Gold silk falls softly over Azula’s palms. It’s technically a dress, but with a pair of shorts cut into the fabric. In Katara’s other hand is a matching pair of dangling gold earrings, fashioned into the shape of snakes.

Azula swallows. “Fine.”

Gently, Katara spins her around so she can begin unbuttoning the back of Azula’s shirt. She’s been in her own dress for hours, a flowing blue tunic cinched at the waist with a broad belt. The pair of heels strapped to her feet make her–infuriatingly–even taller than usual.

Her hands are soft and sure as they move down Azula’s spine. This woman is now Azula’s sister-in-law. Privately, in the back of Azula’s mind, she drops the ‘in-law.’

The noise of the festival presses in on Azula as soon as she and Katara enter the heart of Caldera city. All around them, people bustle –bargaining and eating and arguing –but she doesn’t miss the wide berth they give her, the sideways glances sent her way.

“You mind if I steal her for a moment?”

Azula turns, an unbidden smile already on her lips. Suki, shining in the firelight, bows low.

“Princess,” she says, and when she catches Azula’s eyes, Azula suddenly remembers every fairy tale of runaway royalty meeting beautiful strangers she and Suki had bonded over, oh-so long ago. But Suki is so much better than any of those strangers, because she’s Azula’s rival, Azula’s best friend, Azula’s in every way that matters.

Just as Azula is Suki’s, in every conceivable way.

Katara snorts, waving them off. “You’d be doing us both a favor.”

“Are we still on for the spa Tuesday?” Azula asks as Suki takes her arm and begins to whisk her away.

“Oh, you wish you could get away from me that easily!” Katara calls, but she’s laughing.

The walk with Suki is much like so many of their others have been, just with new sounds, dazzling sights. Azula buys them both fried dough, sprinkled with fire powder, and pretends not to hear when Suki mentions how good they’d be stuffed with marshedmallow fluff. They wander through the festival, and whenever eyes linger on the disgraced princess for too long, whenever someone turns away too quickly or jumps aside too abruptly, Suki is there with a hand on her arm and something new to draw the princess’s attention.

“It’s lovely out, isn’t it?” Suki brings them to a stop atop one of the many foot bridges, strung with lights. Azula brushes a hand over the red-painted wood, leaning over the railing to watch the koi-sharks drifting in lazy circles below, lantern light flickering off their scales. Suki leans next to her, bumping her hip into Azula’s.

“Come on, admit you’re having fun.”

Azula rolls her eyes, but the corner of her mouth turns up against her will as she casts a side-long look the other girl’s way. “Thanks only to the present company.”

Suki flushes, and everything in Azula thrills at the sight.

“Yeah,” Suki agrees, softly, and her hand flexes on the rail. “Everything’s better when it’s us.”

She brushes a lock of hair off her shoulder, looks at Azula with those blue, blue eyes, leans closer. “It’s kind of romantic, isn’t it?”

Azula’s heart lurches, pin-pricks forming in her limbs. “I suppose you could say that.” She clears her throat, babble forcing itself out regardless. “The decorating committee Zuzu elected certainly did their job. I don’t know why he put counselor Watanabe in at the head though; she has the delicate sensibilities of a rhinoceros-panda, and honestly, I could’ve done without all the garish fountains–”

“Azula,” Suki interrupts, softly. “I’m trying to get you to kiss me.”

“Oh,” Azula says. “Oh!” Her throat goes dry, her palms wet.

She’s only ever kissed one person, one boy, nearly three years ago now. And he’d run away immediately after, then she’d demolished his house, so… her track record wasn’t exactly stellar.

She looks at Suki like a gazellelephant in the path of a tank, unsure which emotion takes up more space in her trembling lungs –want or fear.

“Suki,” she says, timorously. “I…”

But she’s interrupted by an arc of fire, heading straight for them.

She’s pushed Suki behind her in the space between one heartbeat and the next, hands wrapping around the flame, twisting it, turning it a searing violet, nestled quietly in the palm of her hand.

Behind her Suki has struck the bamboo lamp it fell from in half with one blow, disposing of the pieces in the river below.

A gaggle of children who had careened into the lamp, are quiet, still before them.

“Watch it, twerps,” Azula snaps, but when she looks down, the kids are starry-eyed, staring at her flame.

“It’s purple!?” One girl shrieks, and that sets the others off, chattering excitedly, high voices overlapping. “How did you make it–” “–Momma said only Fire Lord Zuko could make his–” “–I didn’t know that you could–” “–it’s so pretty–” “–but his is just red and yellow and I think sometimes green–” “–teach me!? Purple is my whole most favorite color–” “–and when I tried, they didn’t let me back into the garden, ‘cuz all the marigolds were gone–” “–in the whole entire world!!”

She’s so lost in their chatter, she can’t even protest as they shuttle her along, grubby hands clinging to her robes, a small palm wrapped around her finger and tugging her along.

“–gotta show Momma, she won’t believe it–” “–but my brother can! And he’s only two–” “–and I like purple flowers and purple trees and purple clouds–”

Azula looks to Suki, helplessly (she’s still new at civilian life, despite it all, but she’s pretty sure fighting children is a no-no), but the Kyoshi Warrior just grins at her, blue eyes lit with amusem*nt.

“Traitor,” Azula mouths, and Suki throws her head back and laughs.

The gaggle of children corral her into the center of the festival, and Azula averts her eyes, cheeks burning, as curious gazes track her.

“Hey, twerps.” An over-amused voice interrupts as the cluster comes to an unsteady halt in the very heart of the festival. “What are you kidnapping my sister-in-law for?”

Sokka, a giant bag loaded down with stuff he definitely doesn’t need slung over his shoulder and an ostentatious hat perched on his head, surveys the group. “This isn’t an active hostage situation, is it? Because I’m afraid I left my negotiation strategies at home.”

“She can do purple fire!” The smallest, grubbiest girl exclaims, pointing at Azula and bouncing on her toes.

“She can?” Sokka crouches down, smiling. “How do you know?”

“I saw her,” the girl says with great pride. “‘Cuz Momoko knocked over a lantern and it was gonna hit the grumpy lady and the pretty lady”– Suki muffles a laugh in her sleeve – “but the grumpy lady caught it and it was purple and that’s my mostest favorite color!”

“Well then,” Sokka leans back, a sh*t-eating grin plastered on. “By all means, grumpy lady, show us!”

“Sokka,” Azula hisses, cheeks flaming. A chill shivers up her spine, and she tightens her thick robes. “You know I can’t.”

“Sure you can!” He gestures broadly at the bonfires all around them, the lit lanterns, the candles scattered about . “Plenty of flame to go around.”

Helpless, she turns to Suki, only to see her with a hand on her hip, eyebrow raised. “What’s wrong, Princess? I never thought I’d see you miss the chance to show off for me.”

It’s infuriating, how much Azula loves her, sometimes.

Gracelessly, she tropes over to the nearest bonfire, sticks a hand in, and pulls out a small palmful, its color a brilliant violet. “Taa-daa.”

There’s a surprised murmuring from the people surrounding her, but Sokka and Suki jeer, making exaggerated pouts.

“You can do better than that!” Suki calls, and Azula sighs dramatically, pulling the fire apart in her hands like she’s fanning out a deck of cards, flickers dancing from one palm to the other.

The murmuring grows louder, and Azula can nearly swear she hears appreciative cries mixed in among the cantankerous ones. Emboldened, she sends out a whip-thin stream, flicking it at different bonfires around her, lighting each of them violet for just an instant. She goes faster, lighting the night with intermittent flashes of purple, then drawing the fires into her control, until a massive cord of purple weaves through the air around her in dizzying curls and spirals.

The crowd gasps, but Azula can see the small, grimy girl from earlier, clutching her mother’s hand, huge eyes shining purple with joy, and she pushes herself further, her fire twisting into fantastical shapes against the dark night. And just when the fire has all been taken up, when she’s ready to let her flames dissipate into darkness –there’s a stream of gold.

Azula stumbles for a moment, concentration wavering, but a presence as familiar as her heartbeat stabilizes the flame, and, across the field, Zuko stands, an unspoken question in the quirk of his brow.

With a twist of her wrist and a shower of sparks, she answers.

They fall into step easily, effortlessly, even with the distance between them. And even as their fire glows brighter and hotter than either of them could’ve managed alone, even as the murmurs of the crowd erupt into cheers, even as Azula’s pulse roars in her ears and her blood thrums with power, and her eyes shine with fire, even as she roars with glee, she nearly feels like crying.

Because there was a time, so long ago that it aches like a broken bone, not healed quite right, that they had faced each other like this. When Zuko’s face was set hard with pain, and Azula’s lungs burned with the force of her screams, head swimming in madness. Flame spirals into the air, just as it had then, massive and beautiful and powerful, but this time there’s an audience gasping in appreciation around them, this time the fire is a blinding gold and soothing purple. This time, there aren’t two separate fires, clashing against each other like tsunamis. This time, there is one flame, flowing and spiraling and warm with life, between them, and it is theirs.

There was a time Zuko and Azula had faced each other, across a courtyard, and neither of them had ever recovered. Except this time, the fire is something they share.

Except this time, they both win.

A final tornado of flame spirals into the sky –gold and purple and yellow and violet – and for a moment, anyone would believe it is Agni’s day.

Azula’s arms fall to her sides, just as Zuko’s do, and they bow to each other, low. Azula doesn’t have to look up to know that he’s smiling.

The crowd around them bursts into cheers, a massive wave of joyful noise breaking over them, and when Azula looks up, they’re smiling. At her, for her.

She waves, grin awkward and hesitant, but the applause just increases, a few brave souls clustering closer before the whole audience surrounds her and Zuko, pelting them with praise and questions.

“How long have you–” “–did you always–” “–I can’t believe–” “–so beautiful–” “–always said you weren’t as bad as people say–” “–absolutely amazing–” “–don’t believe those were traditional forms–” “–why’s it purple, though?”

She shrinks back, but Zuko grabs her hand and squeezes. She breathes out, slowly, squeezes his hand back, and squares her shoulders.

“Well,” she says, clearing her throat and fixing her amber eyes on the girl she’s pretty sure asked the most recent question. “You can’t expect your princess to have ordinary fire, now can you?”

The crowd bursts into laughter, and Zuko nudges her gently.

“I’ll take care of them,” he murmurs, just for her ears, and she nods.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she says, chin tilted up just-so, and she manages to hold herself steady as she parts the masses, despite the adrenaline jumping in her veins.

Suki runs up to her, beaming, and Azula catches her in a hug.

“You were amazing!” she laughs as they come to a spinning halt.

“Oh, that?” Azula sniffs, affecting innocence. “You know I can never miss an opportunity to show off for you.”

Suki laughs. “You’re incredible, you know that?”

The edge of Azula’s mouth curls up. “I start to believe it, when you look at me like that.”

“Look at you, how?” Suki smiles softly and brushes Azula’s sweat-dampened bangs back into place. “Like I love you?”

For a moment, Azula forgets how to breathe.

“Because I do,” Suki says, and her hand is on the curve of Azula’s cheek. “I love you, Azula.”

And for a moment, all Azula can feel is an overwhelming, riotous joy, as a shocked smile curls her lips and tears prick at her eyes, but–

“Suki,” Azula says, helplessly. “I’ve never– I–”

Because she’s never said that to anyone, not as long as she’s lived.

“It’s okay,” Suki says, and her eyes are just as warm, just as gentle as they were a moment ago. “I know.” She kisses Azula’s forehead, and Azula closes her eyes, leaning into her. “I’ll wait.”

It’s quiet in Kallik’s office.

That’s one of the things Azula likes about it, now. The noise from the outside world is muffled by layers of fur and white-woven rugs, any harsh impacts deadened by overstuffed furniture. The noise of Azula’s voice, the constant scritch scritch scritch of Kallik’s pen are typically the only things filling the sunlight-stained air.

Today, however, the soft thud of a small leather ball, stuffed with rice, on skin permeates the air as Azula tosses it up and down, up and down, meditatively. It’s a new method they’ve been trying out, a physical outlet for when the antsy jittering in her limbs is too much to handle.

“I think I’m… frustrated,” she admits, slowly. Up, down, up, down.

“Let’s look into that, then,” they say, evenly. “What are some things causing you frustration, as of late?”

“My bending,” she says immediately. “I thought I was getting stronger, but I… I still can’t even produce my own flame.”

“And that’s a very real source of discomfort,” they assure her. “What steps have you taken to mediate it?”

She runs her tongue over her teeth, leather ball falling and rising, falling and rising. “I’ve been returning to the basic katas. Sometimes with Zuko, sometimes by myself… Iroh tried to help one time, but… well.”

“‘But well’, indeed.” They chuckle. “But let’s circle back to that later. Didn’t you say Avatar Aang was helping you explore some sources of your inner flame?”

She groans, head lolling back. “For all the good that’s doing me. He keeps harping on about how my flame comes from my emotions, how it’ll only come with inner peace and harmony.”

“And do you?” Kallik’s pen taps against their ever-present notepad, a rhythm now so dear, so familiar to Azula. “Feel at peace, that is.”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “It’s… hard to recognize something you’ve never had before. Sometimes… I still feel like I used to. I just think that because I have burned everything down before, that I can again. That I will again.”

“Old thought patterns are hard to break,” they assure her. “What’s important is how we respond to those thoughts –with acceptance and the knowledge that these things we think don’t determine who we are. You’re the only person who determines who you are, what you want to be.”

“Is that it then?”

“No,” they chuckle softly. “That’s just the question: who do you want to become?”

Slowly, meditatively, Azula taps her nails –longer than they used to be, shorter than they ever were before –against the side of her armchair. “I think… I think for the first time, I’m happy just being Azula.”

To the Most Beautiful and Snarkiest Girl in the Fire Nation, The Princess Azula,

Are you busy this afternoon? I’ve got a picnic blanket with our names on it, and I have it on reasonably good authority that security around the bakery is lax around a quarter after three. It’s almost as if the head of the guard scheduled rounds around that exact time, or something. Peculiar.

Yours,

Suki

To the Loveliest and Most Infuriating Girl to ever Exist, Suki,

The Princess and Chief Auxiliary Strategist of the Fire Nation is always busy, but I suppose I can designate some of my valuable time to your company. You’re welcome.

I’ll have you know that letting such an important figure in the royal family know of a plot to steal from the palace is akin to treason, but I suppose you can be forgiven, provided I’m supplied with proper motivation to turn a blind eye.

Yours,

Azula

P.S. don’t forget we need to actually get forks this time.

She finds Suki beneath the old cherry-juniper tree, in the Easternmost courtyard.

“Feeling sentimental?” She teases, settling beside the other girl and smoothing out a familiar green sweater.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Suki volleys back. “I don’t think anyone else would begrudge me remembering a story like ours.”

“Oh?” Azula raises an eyebrow. “And what story is that?”

“One of epic proportions.” Suki grins. “A story of a lost princess, more powerful and beautiful than anyone’s ever known. And some guard she picked up along the way.”

“I’m not sure you’re remembering correctly, poor dear,” Azula snarks. “I seem to recall it was the tale of a disgraced heir, thrust into a world of political intrigue and war, and a brilliant warrior, the only girl she could trust.”

Suki laughs, bright as sunlight and twice as warm in Azula’s veins. “Now I’m not sure either of us got it right.”

“I think,” Azula says, softly. “It’s the sort of story that would take two to tell.”

“How does it go, then? How does it end?”

“Oh, that’s the best part,” Azula says, and her hand finds Suki’s. “It doesn’t.”

“So they all live happily ever after?”

Azula snorts. “You make it sound like those fairy tales you used to give me.”

“It’s not.” Suki shakes her head. “You didn’t need me to save you from your tower. You saved yourself, Azula.”

“I don’t think I’m done saving myself.”

“So maybe that’s how it goes, then.” Suki rests her head on Azula’s shoulder. “Maybe they just… live.”

Living seemed impossible to Azula, once upon a time. She still doesn’t know how to forget the feeling of hair-pins digging into her wrists, the weight of her missing hair across her neck like a noose. But now… now she has her brother, her friends. She has a purpose, a way to serve her nation, her people. She has a fire, somewhere inside her, just waiting for the day she finds it. And now she has a girl who means more than she ever would have imagined anyone could.

And, suddenly, it’s so easy to say what Azula has known for a very long time.

“I love you,” Azula murmurs into the warmth of Suki’s hair. The other woman is dozing, eyes lulled closed under Agni’s gaze, and Azula almost doesn’t even know if she hears it.

But Suki’s hand squeezes hers – soft.

“Took you long enough,” she says, and kisses Azula’s knuckles.

“What happened to waiting for me?”

Suki pulls back, smiling, and presses their foreheads together. “I never said that was a bad thing.”

“You’re infuriating, you know that?”

“I don’t know if you believe that.”

“No,” Azula sighs, just before she kisses her. “I don’t know if I do either.”

Suki falls asleep on her shoulder, and under the light of Agni’s rays, Azula rests her cheek against the other girl’s soft hair, warm.

Above them, the cherry-juniper tree blossoms.