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N.
The crisply bound parchment should not have felt out of place, nor should the last-minute touches by the hairdresser make him feel as slighted, but the prince has felt uneasy since he’s gotten up this morning.
The prince didn’t let himself think about things that weren’t important, like the brief shiftings of the expression in his mirror’s reflection and the seemingly ever-rooted caution in the hairdresser’s fingers as he slowly snips his bangs and carefully doesn’t meet his gaze—he had no use for silly matters of the mind or of the heart, as easy as it seemed to give into the scalding hiss of his temper and the occasional hesitance of his hand. He had no use for either, when it was made clear that he was nothing more than a dagger; one forged beneath the swelling tears of magma and the measured chiseling of a hammer, shaped and polished with utmost care. Placed away when it’s no longer needed, left to collect dust until it was eventually time to brandish and wield. Better hidden than seen. He didn’t get angry when the scissors drifted centimeters closer than they should have, because control was key. He didn’t scowl or shout or even offer a menacing smirk, like his father usually favored. There is no reaction to the brief instance in which the hairdresser dropped the comb, because while his father would hold no qualms in kicking him while he was kneeling down, hemming and hawing about his apologies and excuses, the prince had nothing to gain from it. He didn’t care. He didn’t care for any of it.
No matter how tempting it was to grab the scissors.
…
What was he looking at?
The hairdresser moves his gaze towards the floors and he plucks the comb back into his hands, silent and pale as he finishes with his dead ends.
(He hasn’t let anyone touch his hair for a long time, when it was certain that perfection was to be expected with his father and his mother wasn’t really interested with the prospect of grooming a little monster potential usurper, but he knows from the contents of the dispatch and the worried glances towards his reflection were because his father expected nothing less than perfection in the type of mood he was in.
He supposes that’s what was to be expected with his father, who casted judgment upon his subjects with ease, but it was through special occasions and the near-constant fluctuations of his moods that made it certain to be avoidant of mistakes as much as possible, appearances included. So he sits still when they wash his hair and comb it back to place it into a topknot that feels comfortable, at first, before they cut it to a length that keeps it taut against his scalp. He allows it to happen, like he allows them to live—like the Fire Lord allows all of them to survive and exist under his breath and his eye.
They prepare him for a meeting—he watches his reflection and feels like a body being prepared for burning.)
The prince is led through the corridors and waits outside of the large doors, where the guards wait and stoically stand until they step aside and allow him to step through.
The Fire Lord’s chambers are sweltering. The flames crackle and climb idly in the pits that cradle festering coals.
The prince doesn’t let himself wonder how long the flames have been burning for. His steps are measured when he draws further into the room, but he is silent when he kneels, keeping his gaze low on the tiles.
(It was almost like a game: there were rules and winners; but more than anything, it was a stage play: there were roles to fill and masks to wear.)
“Iroh is a traitor,” the Fire Lord says suddenly, his voice cold; the flames climb higher and higher, until the shadows lift from his face and reveal the curve of his lips, “and your sister, Azula, is a failure. I have a task for you.”
(The prince wasn’t sure if the mask was chosen for him or if he was born with it on. Either way, his sister filled in as the wretched defect burnt doll and he seemed to fill in the role of a cruel monster weapon rather nicely.)
The prince lifts his gaze and smiles.
—
On the twenty third sunrise, the raft drifts onto sand. It takes the cry of the sea-crows and the shaking of a shoulder to rouse the private lotus old man from his slumber.
The banished princess scarred girl waits for him to wake up fully before she grumbles and hisses her dissent. She doesn’t stop even when he rises to his feet, fussing with her tangled hair and patches of sunburns as they leave their meager raft and their failed mission behind.
They don’t stop walking until they find a village, dipping through the shadows and watching the people wander until they come across a place of refuge. A place with food, water, and a moment to rest. They don’t ask for their names.
The scarred girl yanks a comb through the unshaven half of her scalp and ignores the occasional lapses in silence broken by her uncle’s attempts at a conversation with any attendant that drifts by and humors him.