Chapter Text
The first thing Azula tried was screaming.
Admittedly, not her most foolproof plan, but it made sense at the time and she was just so angry. Furious. Full of righteous indignation. She yelled day and night until her throat was raw and painful, but it made no difference. No one came for her. Not even Zuzu, the traitor.
Where is he? That dunce.
It’s just like him to abandon, at the most critical moment, the most important things in his life. His hunt for the Avatar, his pathetic desperation for Father’s approval – the very two things she’s sure were what stirred him in the morning and roused him to face another bleak and unrewarding day, tossed aside without a second thought. Back then, Zuko’s search for the Avatar occupied him like a second soul, his obsession with finding the old relic of a monk almost as fervent and frenzied as a prophet chasing divine visions of Agni deep into the ravines. Over the hills and off the cliffs, never to be seen again. Only, Zuko’s devotion has now been re-allocated, his reverence for Father shed like a snakeskin into the dust. How interesting it was to find out he was actually capable of thinking about something other than Father’s acknowledgement. And how silly, too; the way he went about exacting his revenge on Father was shockingly unambitious. The advantage of defecting is always far more potent when one keeps to themselves and bides their time. Once the enemy allows you within their walls, you can take whatever you please.
Oh, that brother of hers, never able to tell where his loyalties (or the pretence of it) should lie. Given how he dedicated three worthless years of his life to a wild goose chase, one would think he would have learned a smidge of patience along the way. Whereas Azula practically invented playing the long game - it’s not as if second-born daughters were naturally predisposed to inheriting the crown. Yet she still managed to beat her brother to the punch, no matter how briefly, by virtue of waiting until he inevitably stumbled. And now he has deserted her too, his own flesh and blood, left to wither away in this poor excuse for a prison cell while his life is born anew.
How adorable, he does take after Mother so.
Every day, the sun rises outside and Azula receives none of it. One of the first things she was taught as a firebender was to rise with the sun, bright and early to catch the first rays of power flitting across the morning sky. But there are no windows in her dusty little cell, only a thick slab of iron for a wall and smaller strips of the same metal to bar her in. Pieces of grit sticks to her palms when she lifts them from the floor, the damp dark keeping her skin constantly clammy and cool with sweat. Living like this, a lowlife rolling around in her own dirt, makes her feel filthy and tainted. It’s humiliating, infuriating, and borderline unsanitary. She itches for the smooth silks and comforters of the palace, where the only metals she kept around were precious bits of jewellery and the gold lining of her windowpanes, glinting under the sun.
The sun.
In the first few days, she was feverish with panic in the absence of it. She yearns to feel the warmth of it on her skin once more, craving the hot wash of pure sunbeams that would surely obliterate the grime and prison musk contaminating her pores. If she closes her eyes she can picture the flat rays of light, shining through the pitch black like stripes of gold leaf decorating a painted emperor. Under the sun she felt invincible, immortal, an endless wealth of fire to keep the wick of her soul burning forever.
Though the thought, while soothing, cannot be allowed to linger for too long. Azula’s skin crawls at the presence of such overwhelming desire, the terrible sensation of knowing there was another thing just outside her grasp that she wanted (no, needed), the golden crown of the world that she couldn’t reach no matter how hard she tried. Sozin’s architects probably built the prison with that in mind, stroking their wiry old beards as they hummed and hawed over the best punishment for wayward firebenders: deprive them of their birthright! No gold for Azula.
Her family has been screwing her over since before she was even born.
Which, incidentally, brings her here. She hadn’t banked on Father’s regime imploding so spectacularly, at least not before she had stepped in to take his place. With all the regicide in her family, it was bound to happen one way or another. Well, with all the fratricide, to be more specific. Siblings in her family seem to have a history of crossing swords. But this time, it had been so close to her filling the space on that throne. So. Very. Close. She had done her time at the council table, had practically slept there since Father called for another attack on the Earth Kingdom. And for what? She knows how capital punishment works – the line of generals imprisoned by Fire Lords dates back almost as far as her own hereditary monarchy. She knows the Capital City Prison only holds prisoners for crimes against the state.
The state, which now means her brother, she supposes. Even though that’s not right. Because she was the rightful Fire Lord. Because they crowned her, because they needed her.
No one needs you, Azula.
You’re not wanted here.
Of course, she tried all sorts of other methods of escape. It felt good to fall back on strategy. Comforting, even. A life of tactical plotting had always served her far better than any parental guidance, because just look at where trailing in Father’s footsteps has gotten her now. Azula had fought at the frontlines of the war, but this was somehow infinitely worse because she couldn’t just kill the panic, the fear of being left here to die alone. At least, not before it killed her first.
As if she would ever let that happen.
Which meant banging on the cell bars with the hands they had specially cuffed together so she wouldn’t torch them alive, and then banging her head. On everything. Walls, the bars, the bed. It hurt. A lot. But the guards stepped in before she could do any real damage, which is when she tried to throw herself through the unlocked door. She almost made it out but a third guard materialised out of nowhere, huge and muscular, and she had been thrown back to the dirt before the first threat even made it past her lips. Who knew the guards were so treasonous? Though everyone she’s ever met has been a traitor, so she honestly should’ve expected it. Not that it made the manhandling any more forgivable, mind. Laying hands on a royal body like that!
Ironically, that kind of misdeed under Father’s rule would have typically landed the guard in here to be tried for crimes against the Imperial Family. In fact, he'd probably be punted into the cell right next to hers. Of course, she suspects Zuzu is too soft to send anyone to prison just yet (except for her, the wretch). That guard should count himself lucky she wasn’t in any state to prosecute him herself. Ordinarily, Azula would have set every nerve ending in his body alight, but she was too weak to stop them from wrestling her back behind bars. She hadn’t eaten in a few days because of her…hunger strike. Which didn’t work either.
After that, it was back to screaming.
She figured the guards would come to their senses eventually, or would at least feel guilty they had imprisoned a little girl. That’s what she was, after all, a poor little girl, put on display for everyone to come and whisper pitifully at even though she could have them all banished in a heartbeat. Didn’t they know she could hear them as well as they could hear her? Shoving her behind twenty metal poles doesn’t exactly make for a soundproof chamber. She hears them shift nervously when she cries, hot tears sliding quietly into her arms at night and then violently, uncontrollably when she rips her cell apart during the day. It was all very humiliating, really. Shrieking at whichever incompetent worm was outside her cell to bring me my brother, erupting her cage with the blue flames that hatched out of the back of her throat every time she felt that crushing terror rising out of nowhere again, was more childish than she’d ever acted in her life. Turns out, it’s hard for the guards to see her as a poor a little girl, because poor little girls don’t just sidestep the Fire Nation’s seasoned lieutenants and conquer the Earth Kingdom’s stronghold city at fourteen. She’s too intelligent and far too skilled, and that makes her a high security risk before it makes her worthy of praise.
Not that they ever gave her much recognition for that, either. Even though it seemed like all anyone who came down here could talk about was their age. Admittedly, more so about her brother than her - Fire Lord at such a young age! Ha! So was she, but she never heard hide nor hair of any praise for how young she was when she was crowned. Well. Meant to be crowned, anyway. She was younger than Zuzu, obviously, and better. What was the difference, then, that they glorified one kid and stuck the other one away? And didn’t they feel so bad for her with a dead father and a deadbeat mother and a brother who had turned on her? But the guards refused to speak to her, not even a word. Especially not after the head-banging fiasco.
Father, dead. It took her a while to believe it, even longer to decide how she felt about it. In a way, it had been so much easier when Mother vanished; the choice was obvious if she wanted to keep Father’s favour. Sneer, forget, and move on. Besides, it always seemed the more logical and dignified choice to make. Azula doesn’t do brooding. To wallow and whine about a parent who preferred her children to be pitiful and mewling, unable to take what they wanted like a true heir? To rub her nose in the reasons Mother never even said goodbye to her? No, best just to forge onwards and forget the whole business. But the ceaseless, mind-numbingly boring days she spent alone in her cell gave it time to sink in. Perhaps this was how Zuzu felt back when Mother left. Thoughts buzzing around in her head and clashing against each other, throwing up a terrible racket and giving her a headache. Being loved. Being weak. Being used.
It’s a shame, she supposes, if anything at all. Father always seemed invincible; a living monument she had watched collect its accolades in real time. He wasn’t the nicest or cuddliest parent, obviously, but there’s always a price to pay for greatness. Azula knows all about sacrifice.
Actually, it’s more accurate to say her brother knows all about sacrifice. She merely benefitted from his fall, he who is intimately acquainted with the treacherous crevasse between personal and political agenda. Sacrifice looks like Father ripping into Zuzu’s face without hesitation, it feels like Uncle’s wizened old fingers digging into her shoulders, it sounds like Father telling Azula how so very proud he was of her after her brother was carried away. Sacrifice is the currency of their family. One of them in exchange for the other, her brother’s shiny honour the last dime on her king’s ransom for the throne. Zuzu should’ve learned, cut his losses and kept his mouth shut about the Avatar. They all would’ve been so much happier that way.
Azula bets Zuzu is happy now, though. She wonders who killed Father, the Avatar or her brother. Zuzu certainly had reason to. Like a little wounded animal left to die, growing and festering until it was old and strong enough to rip out its parent’s throat. He looked dead, back then. Limp at Father’s feet, clawing at his face but not begging anymore, not even breathing out loud. She saw him twitching, so she knew he wasn’t, but he really did look dead. Some part of him probably was. He came away with such an impressive scar. Watch carefully, Azula. See what happens when you step out of line. Oh, Zuzu must’ve been dying to get rid of Father.
And her, she supposes, but that was just how it worked between the two of them. They fought, she won, he would grump and sulk and yell Mother-did-you-see-Azula-did-this-and-that! and then he would just give up. Because he was the big brother, and that was his responsibility. Because no one ever won against Azula.
This was new, though. Zuko winning. Against her.
And now, he’ll leave me too.
Clearly, he's been spoiled by the victory. She doesn’t know exactly how long it took until he came down to see her. Two weeks since she had been locked up, perhaps, maybe even three. Long since growing bored of marking the days like a restless prisoner, she had taken to tormenting the guards instead. She isn’t crazy, not like they all said she was – she can hear them whispering all the time, so many people were going to be banished once she got out – but she plays the part well enough. And it made it…easier, when she heard things and saw people who weren’t there, to pretend it was just another one of her ploys to get out.
And it was just plain funny, to see how afraid the guards were of her when they brought her those measly trays of food. Every day they poked the metal slab into the cell before stumbling back, ridiculously anxious to get away, as if she were a rabid lion-dog rearing to bite. Which she had only ever threatened to do once, so there was really no need to be so jumpy.
“Your Highness.” Fourteen years of habitual bowing and carefully avoiding her gaze when she came calling with Father means the guards still call her that. Your Highness. Only, it doesn’t sound like they’re convinced she’s much higher than them anymore. Silly, silly. “You have a visitor.”
In the distance, a door swings shut, and Azula knows by the heavy stomping footsteps echoing down the hall exactly who it is. Finally.
She eagerly straightens her back, ready to face her brother for the first time since their Agni Kai.
“Azula.”
It’s taken him much longer to visit than she’d expected, if the lines scratched into the wall were anything to be believed, but she knew he would come nonetheless. Her big brother, so good, unable to leave her down here even after she’d levelled a lightning bolt straight into his heart.
Old habits die hard.
“Zuzu.” Azula grins up at him from where she sits cross-legged on the ground. He doesn’t grin back, but it’s not like she expected him to. Zuko doesn’t exactly smile anymore. “How nice of you to finally come see me. How long has it been since you ruined my coronation?”
Maybe, if she hadn’t been sitting in this cell for weeks and starved of both real conversation and general nutrients, she would’ve been able to do more than the feeble power play that was to…well, stay sitting. Because even though her big brother had somehow stumbled his way back into becoming Fire Lord, that didn’t mean she was going to stand on ceremony.
On the other hand, her brother has clearly made an effort to look as though he hadn’t just been crowned as ruler of the nation. Of her nation. In place of the Fire Lord’s traditional, suffocating layers of silk and colours of rank he wears his plain-Zuko robes, the heavy-set crown she’d only enjoyed the weight of once nowhere to be found on his head. She woke up here without it – they must have taken it from her while she slept, slumped and shivering against the damp metal grating outside the palace. Did her brother take it from her himself, or some foolish third-party offender she’d have to chop the hands off of later?
Like taking off the crown made a difference, in the end. Like it would change the fact that he’d abandoned her just like everyone else, like it would mean he hadn’t swooped in and stolen everything Azula had built up since she was ten despite having actively worked against the Fire Nation. Once again, it’s like people just don’t care about treason anymore.
Her brother’s face is stony as he looks at her, teeth gritted as if holding back a retort. Mother always said constantly grinding his teeth was bad for him, it would wear down the tooth enamel and then he wouldn’t be able to eat sweets anymore. Looks like someone didn’t listen. But it’s not too far a cry from what he usually looks like, and Zuzu also has dark rings under his eyes and his topknot is slightly askew. Wispy little strands of hair fall over his forehead like turtleduck-down, as if he had tied the rest of it up while half-asleep. Zuzu, that’s what the servants are for.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” Azula goads him just for the sake of it, narrowing her eyes when he stays silent. He has his thinking face on, the slightly pained I don’t know what to say but I need to say something expression he wore back when Mother received Uncle’s letter about Lu Ten. She doesn’t want that, she wants him to be angry, to fight back, to be something. “Haven’t you come to gloat? It’s about time, Zuzu, you know the Fire Lord should always pay his dues to those he stepped on to get to where he is now.”
This gets a rise out of him, and he scowls. The scar Father gave him scrunches a little. “I didn’t–”
But he cuts himself off before he can finish, because if he was going to say I didn’t want to be Fire Lord it would be a lie. I didn't step on you wouldn't have much more truth to it either, Zuzu’s discomfited expression suggests. Azula’s grin widens. Her brother has never been scared of her, but years of experience has taught him what not to say if he wants to keep her in a good mood.
How nice to know that some things never change.
With a heavy sigh, Zuko lowers himself to the ground and sits facing Azula’s cell. Mouth still twisted into a frown, he draws his knees up to his chest in a very un-Fire-Lord-like way, because having come close to killing each other multiple times over the past few years leaves no room for formalities. The title of sibling has long ranked far beneath soldier since they began vying for Father’s attention. It’s difficult to pinpoint exactly when that started; maybe it doesn’t matter that she can’t. Azula can’t see how the two terms can be separated now, not when they’ve spent so long at each other’s throats.
The guards behind Zuzu exchange a comical glance, confused as to why the young lord would willingly sully his clothes on the grimy prison floor. As if they hadn’t beaten down their princess, the real Fire Lord, to the very same floor mere days ago. Another sigh, then he tries again.
“How have you been, Azula?”
“Oh, you know. Beaten. Tortured. Underfed. The guards down here really know how to throw a punch. Courtesy of you, I can only assume.”
The nearest guard blanches, horrified. “Your Highness, I swear we don’t beat her, we might’ve tackled her once but you know how she tried to escape–”
Zuko holds up a weary hand – I believe you, my sister always lies, blah blah blah – and the stupid guard shuts his mouth. “I heard you refused to eat. And, yeah, that you tried to break out. A lot.”
“You don’t seriously expect me to just sit here and wait for you to let me out, brother. Even you’re not that stupid. And Uncle broke out of prison too, didn’t he? It’s not like I’m the first one to try. But, now that you mention it– do you mind?” She glares at the hovering guard because this is a private conversation, not for the ears of underlings, and oh it grates her that the useless thing doesn’t move until Zuzu gives him a nod. At his command, both guards scuttle reluctantly back into the shadows; far enough away that they can’t hear what’s being said, close enough for her to catch the dual don’t you try anything looks they’re shooting at her. Azula rolls her eyes before continuing.
“As I was saying. What’s it going to take to get me out?” Azula had tried her very best to be (somewhat) pleasant up until now, so he would know she was serious. Her voice grows instinctively lower, taking on the persuasive hiss she had learned from growing up at the head of the war table. In her humble opinion, she had always been far more conducive of the war efforts than any of Father’s right-hand men, though for some reason it took a lot more than obvious competence to convince those stodgy old generals she knew better than their painfully predictable strategies.
“Look at you, Zuzu. You look awful. You can’t look like that when you’re Fire Lord. These people, this country, they’re all about being the strongest. I’m sure you’re doing…what you can, but you’re just filling in for me until I get out.”
That’s true, isn’t it? Azula presses closer to the bars, hoping Zuzu’s face will change in some form of affirmation. It’s moments like these where her battle instinct takes over mechanically, surveying her opponent for instruction on how to act next. Father always needed to be watched closely in case she set him off, quickly reading displeasure in the crease of his brow or approval in a minute nod. Even under the heavily shadowed prison cell, it would take a blind person to miss anything Zuzu was feeling. All she needs is a little twitch, some kind of reactionary cue to grant her relief, that he’s only a temporary fix to fill the gaping hole she left in court. But all he does is meet her gaze apprehensively, shadows cutting across the contours of his face and magnifying the sunken quality to his eyes.
That’s it. Nothing. Nothing. Great. She can always count on him to look sulky and malnourished, but clearly little else.
Azula clears her throat, trying to prevent the slowly rising desperation from bleeding into her voice. “Listen, we both know I’d do a better job anyway, and you don’t even want it. Not like I do. And you won’t last long. Being Fire Lord takes a cutthroat, and everyone knows that’s just not you. You want to make the Fire Nation a better place? Fine. I’ll listen. I’m not exactly like Father, you know. Let me out and I’ll let all of this slide, I promise. I won’t even banish the guards. Well, maybe just one. I can be Fire Lord again, and you can go back to being…whatever it is you want. A prince. That bald kid’s lackey. Whatever.”
She conveniently skirts around the outcome of the Agni Kai, because she wasn’t at her best but she couldn’t say that because it would be admitting there had been something wrong with her, that she had seen Mother in the mirror and saw how disappointed she looked and that it meant something to her.
Her brother is silent again, and it’s beginning to annoy her. Say something! She slams her hands against the bars, just to get the words flowing, but the guards step forward as if ready to defend her brother. Oh, please. As if they could do anything to her, she could kill them if she wanted to, she will kill them when she gets out. Still, Zuko doesn’t do anything except take a loud, slow breath through his nose, sitting so motionless the shaking bars make his face look blurry from behind them. Apparently, two weeks of being Fire Lord has taught him to school his temper.
“Azula,” he says again, much quieter this time, and she wants to grab him and shake him, shock him with a thousand volts of electricity to force him into speaking faster. The conference room must be unbearably dull if this was how he conducted meetings, word by slow and irritating word. He pinches the bridge of his nose, exhausted, and even though she’s never seen him do it before the motion suddenly seems as natural as breathing. It’s infuriating. As if he’s the one who has it hard, as if he’s not the one going out and ruling the Fire Nation while she sits here and rots. And Zuzu needs to sit straighter if he ever wants anyone to respect him, his posture is abysmal. “You’re not going to be let out. Not…anytime soon, at least.”
“And why not?” She spits, abandoning the pleasantries, because what did she really do that was so wrong? Everything she ever did was for Father, was for the Fire Nation, and if the people of this ridiculous country couldn’t see that it shouldn’t even exist, even her brother knows she was the reason they were winning the war and not starving to death like those commoners in the Earth Kingdom, he should be grateful, he should be…
“Is this because of the Water Tribe girl?” Azula laughs incredulously, cocking her head to the side to get a clearer view of her brother through the bars. Really now! Hasn’t he ever heard of blood being thicker than water? “Because I attacked her? Zuzu, you can’t be serious, it was an Agni Kai, I can apologise to her but honestly she had it coming–”
“They wanted you executed.”
It blurts out of Zuzu’s mouth in a rush, accompanied by an expression that looks like he’s going to be sick. Azula’s smile dies promptly on her lips, no he wouldn’t they can’t they need me they need me they-
“Who’s they?”
“The privy council.” Zuko drags a tired hand across his face, the tip of his forefinger unintentionally snagging a few more hairs out of his topknot. Azula stares while he stumbles over his words, trailing off in the middle of his sentences and starting over as he phrases and rephrases the condemnation. It's obvious he's upset, at least. Or just hasn’t been sleeping. It really isn’t clear. “They asked me what I intended to do with you once I was crowned. Both of you, actually. General Uran suggested execution. I knew it was an option but I didn’t think he would propose it, because you’re, well. But you remember him, from Father’s council. Execution to put a stop to any potential coups, because I’m still so young and my history with the Fire Nation is…yeah. You know. His words. Not mine.”
Sharp, ugly laughter bubbles deep beneath Azula’s chest, but she swallows it back down. The comment about the both of you slides past her for the most part because she doesn’t know which to address first, the fact that the privy council wanted her executed, or that her execution was the entirely wrong way to go about setting an example for the nation. How could she be the only one that understands this? Killing Azula wouldn’t make her brother look stronger, it would make their whole family look weak. Agni’s purest line of descendants, picked off one by one like apples from a tree. Poison, that’s what the laughter tastes like, the little traces of cyanide in every apple seed. And the privy council certainly wasn’t allowed to suggest things like that. Treason, treason, treason again. Besides, it wasn’t her fault Zuko was such a hopeless Fire Lord that they had to try and kill her to make up for it.
The obvious solution? Reinstate her to the throne, damn it.
But a smaller question prevails, a tiny and fearful one that worms its way up to the surface when she thinks about which sibling is on which side of the prison cell.
“And what did you say?”
“I said of course not,” Zuko snaps, temper suddenly flaring. “I’m not going to have my sister killed just because the council is afraid of a coup, that’s ridiculous. Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I’m not– I’m still the Fire Lord. My authority still counts for something.” Actually, it should count for everything. “And I made it clear that on no uncertain terms are we executing anyone.”
“Don’t be coy, Zuzu, it’s unbecoming of the Fire Lord. Everyone knows you hate my guts. No wonder they’re using you as an excuse to get rid of me.” Azula scoffs but deep down it stings, because she knows that no one would bat an eyelash if there was a coup and she was on the throne. And no one would ever suggest beheading Zuko to keep her safe, not that she would’ve even brought it up in the first place. And they think I’m a tyrant. She is shivering, with white-hot fury and laughter and something else that’s scared and upset, but she shoves her fists into the fold where her calf connects to her thigh to stop the cuffs from rattling. “Father’s already dead, why not do the same to me?”
Zuko blinks. “Oh.” He opens his mouth, then closes it. Azula can practically see the energy wasted by the gormless motion, drifting off into the air like smoke. “Father isn’t dead.”
Father isn’t…dead?
He keeps going, raw-voiced, uncomfortable. Zuzu must be the worst diplomat in the entire world; when Father took away half of his face, he must have taken the half that knew how to lie about his feelings. Then again, he’s always been a natural-born tattle-tale, squirming away to tell on her when she pushed him a little too hard or singed an inch of his precious hair playing Enemy Invasion. Maybe that’s why Mother liked him so much, she always knew what he was thinking. “The Avatar defeated him, but he’s still alive. He’s in one of the other cells. Not on this floor, he’s a little…further downstairs. I haven’t seen him. I um, don’t think I can. I don’t want to.” He looks up at the crumbling ceiling, flicks the end of his statement like a question. “Not yet, at least.”
Azula closes her eyes. “Stop talking before your guards find out how pathetic you are.” Father isn’t dead. Well, isn’t that something. He missed her coronation because he was getting breathed on by a twelve-year-old monk. “You should just kill him.”
“No.”
“Why not? You could finally get your own back.”
“Stop it, Azula.”
“Just trying to help.”
“Well, you’re not. I already told you, I’m not going to execute anyone.”
“Whatever. Suit yourself.”
She shrugs, rocking back and forth over her crossed legs, leaning back all the way until she hits the dusty cell floor with a thud. The chains connecting her cuffs clink together softly. Her brother is out of sight now but she splays her hands in front of her face and examines the fingers, slender and elegant, five perfect lightning rods on each hand. It’s undignified, being the Fire Lord and speaking with her hair all messy over the ground like this, but no one can see her except Zuzu and the white-hot fury has stopped for now, dimmed into the constant spark that waits to flare when she needs to protect herself against her. “Father would’ve executed you, you know.”
For once, the comment isn’t intended to be a barb. Zuko knows Azula speaks truthfully. Father’s judgement of him had always been swift and final, as unforgiving of the blood they shared as though it were spittle running through his veins instead.
“I know.” Without even looking, she knows Zuko has dropped his face into his knees. Everything he does is so loud, he has no grace at all. And he should know not to do that in sight of the guards. “I know he would’ve. I don’t care what Father would’ve done, he was a bad parent anyway. As far as the other nations’ representatives are concerned, he doesn’t deserve to live. But I…I really considered it. Well, I still am, kind of. Considering it, that is. You should know that. You uh, probably already did, actually, who am I kidding. And Father does deserve to suffer, it’s not that I don’t think he doesn’t. I resent him, so much.” He lifts his head – a rush of air, the rasp of silk against skin. Unexpectedly, it occurs to Azula how unfortunate it is, that he looks so much like Father now. Unfortunate for Zuzu, of course. For her? Hilarious. “Not just for what he did to me. I’ve seen what the war has done to the rest of the world, the damage he’s done without even being there, all while I was chasing the Avatar halfway around the world for him. And I know I’m not completely blameless, either. I’ve done my fair share of damage, I know I have so much to make up for. I want to make it right. I will make it right. But I need more time to think about it, to…” Her brother trails off, unsure of how to continue. Everything has always been that much more complicated for him, even speaking.
“I’m not a coward.” He finishes lamely. No one ever accused him of being a coward. All the more important things are left unsaid.
Typical.
But it’s not as if Azula isn’t competent enough to fill in the gaps. She’s been doing it since she could comprehend words, having to decode his incoherent tirades and fits of teary-eyed rage just to extract even the tiniest bit of information from him about his clashes with Father and scrapes with Mai. Watching him flounder is amusing enough but Azula knows he means that it’s just not possible. Now that she thinks about it, the implication that Zuzu of all people could put Father to death is almost laughable. No amount of rejection or reared fists has ever been able to truly rid him of his hero-worship.
“No,” Azula agrees. “If you were a coward, you would still have the rest of your face.”
Her brother snorts.
Oh, Zuzu, it’s not cowardice that’s wrong with you. Definitely, definitely not. If Father asked him to, he probably would’ve lit himself on fire and said thank you while he burned. No, it’s the ridiculously stubborn, deep-rooted loyalty that runs through his veins, devouring everything in its path the way pure lava flows thick and untempered from the mouth of a volcano. She can’t imagine how it got there. Not even dear old Mother was as unreasonably faithful as her big brother, because while she played favourites with Zuzu, she still left both of them just the same. And yet, there he was, devoted to the point of stupidity. “So, brother. What will you do to us, if not execution?”
Us means me because obviously she’s the more important one, Father can go hang. She toys anxiously with the links of her cuffs, the rusted metal cool and pleasant beneath her burning fingertips. Whatever happens to dear old Dad, she’s not spending another night in this cell if she can help it.
She just…can’t.
Zuko makes that pained expression again. “We’re– I’m still figuring that out.” He sighs again, but rearranges himself so he’s sitting with crossed legs, like Azula. “I argued your case with the privy council. You will have to stand trial, of course, but the penalty can be negotiated. There’s not many alternatives but I would never…execution isn’t an option. It just isn’t. Which means it’s either banishment or imprisonment, and I won’t banish you, so that just leaves imprisonment. And for how long, but I don’t know that yet, it’s still being decided.”
“Oh, that’s nice. You won’t kill me, but you’ll have me out of the way for the rest of your life so you can keep on being Fire Lord.” Azula’s eyes flash dangerously. “You’re so compassionate, Zuzu.”
Zuko frowns. “That’s not what this is. You know it isn’t.”
“Oh, really? Then get. Me. Out.”
“I’m trying-”
“Not hard enough, clearly, I should’ve known you would be so useless-”
“I am trying!” Her brother explodes, volume quickly rising in frustration. In the distance, the guards start forward with surprise, but he ignores them. “I’ve been trying but I don’t know what to do, everything is so messed up and I don’t even know how to be Fire Lord yet without making things worse. I was Crown Prince before I was anything else but I can barely remember all those politics lessons Father made me take and that was four years ago, I’ve been trying to figure everything out and stop them from killing you so would you please just give me some time?”
The two of them glare at each other for a beat, before Azula sits back on her heels with a thump.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Zuzu. Honestly. It’s not like you’re the one stuck in here.” She lifts her chin imperiously, giving a long-suffering sigh. So many mistakes, all the time. Her brother’s habit of simply dissolving into shouts whenever he gets frustrated is another one of the many reasons why he isn’t suited for the throne. Narrowing her eyes, she paints on a smile. No mistakes for her; princesses are always gracious, always perfect. “I don’t care what it takes, brother. If you’re not executing me, you’re getting me out of here.”
She wants to see what the new nation is like, the world shaped by her brother’s clumsy hands, before she takes it back. It’s hers. Not Father’s, not Zuko’s. From the second she was born, she had been worked for the throne. Being crowned was her prize for serving as Father’s vessel all these years, the unforgiving task she automatically assumed once Zuko proved to be a dud prince.
No one could take this away from her.
“Your Highness? Is there a problem?” One of the guards call out nervously from behind.
Azula smirks. With an enormous effort, Fire Lord Dum-Dum exhales heavily. “No, no. There’s no problem.”
“I don’t know about that, Zuzu. Incompetence on the throne is certainly a problem, don’t you think?”
But Zuko runs another hand across his face, collecting himself. “Look, I know you’re frustrated–”
“Little understatement there, brother.”
“I know you’re frustrated,” Zuzu repeats, ignoring her, “but I’m really trying. To do this right. You don’t have to believe me, but I am. And I’m…I’m sorry.” He reaches up to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, clearly fighting not to avoid her gaze. Stupid. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m trying to stop that. I didn’t want things to turn out like this. I know this isn’t, uh, what you wanted.”
Azula pointedly studies her fingernails again, a fresh glance which reveals that all of them are either torn or bitten down to the quick. When did that happen? Her cuticles are uneven and jagged, unlike how they used to be when she was on top of the world. Sharp, manicured. Perfect. Not perfect anymore. “That’s putting it mildly, but yes. I suppose you could say that this isn’t what I wanted.”
“…Yeah.”
But she does believe him. Zuzu is a lot of things, but a liar isn’t one of them. It’s just that. A princess always smiles, Azula. Mother taught her to be a liar, but Zuzu was allowed to be as honest and stupid as he liked. It pleased Father, too, when he told the two of them that Mother was gone and Azula smiled. She turned to Zuzu to make sure he was doing the same but of course he wasn’t, moron, he was yelling and carrying on like he always does. Yet here he is. Fire Lord Zuko.
“Do you need anything? If there’s anything you want, anything that’ll um, make this easier?” Zuko offers earnestly, trying trying trying like he always did. “Whatever it is, I can get it for you. Or, you could tell the guards and they could tell me, if you want to do that instead…”
I want to be let out, Azula wants to spit, but seeing her older brother struggle to make things right is supremely irritating. Mother’s voice is starting to creep up on her, gnawing at the edges of her mind. Be kinder to your brother, Azula. He’s trying. So what? She was trying too. No one ever cared about that.
“I want you to leave.” Clouds of dust motes spill into the air as she flops back down to the ground, rolling onto her side so she doesn’t have to look at Zuzu anymore. Conversation over.
Don't go.
“Oh.” A pause. “Right. Yeah, of course.”
Out of sight, her brother begins to clatter to his feet. For a split second, Azula imagines the national hymns that will be written for their new baby-faced leader: Our Fire Lord Zuko, graceless as a platypus bear and as loud as the rivers rushing through the creek! Ha, what she wouldn’t give to hear a performance of that.
It’s all highly amusing until she has to reassure herself that there is no way Zuko will be on the throne long enough for the royal choirs to compose anything of the sort, unless it is post-abdication and children are being taught about all the Fire Lords that failed to measure up to Azula’s magnificent regime.
Another burst of movement beyond her peripheral signals the guards shuffling around, presumably returning to their usual post by her cell. She knows the routine, predicts they are bowing to her brother in an undeserved show of respect before he stomps away again. Only, Zuko clears his throat to deliver a parting message, one that was clearly meant well but was delivered with such naivety and goodwill it had all the effect of a stinging slap to the face.
“I’ll be back soon. Maybe in another couple of days? And I can let you know what’s, uh, happening.”
With that, he leaves her in the cell.
Alone.
Again.
That night, Azula screamed again, the entire time. She didn’t stop until the sun came up.
The sun she couldn’t see.