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.