A/N: Okay, so… this. It's… different. I'm not gonna lie, I'm really proud of it, I'm just not sure how to describe it. I'm not gonna do a whole backstory thing for it, you'll find all that out as you read. Next chapter comes after I get three reviews, so… review! Please? Enjoy!
His hands and feet are numb. It feels like he's walking on pillows. Fierce wind stings his eyes, his left… it's unbearable. His face… he can't possibly describe the pain. Blood streams down his face, his neck, onto his tunic.
He treks through the snow in a daze. How he got here, he's certain he remembers… he just can't worry about that right now.
His phoenix tail trails behind him, loose tresses whipping in front of his face and blinding him.
He has to find… somewhere. But where is there? In the middle of the southern tundra? He doesn't know where he's going, he just… has to find something.
His knees ache, his neck burns, he's not sure how long he can continue. He can't keep going.
His legs fall underneath him. They're met with the piercing snow, and he can't feel anything below his waist. Snowflakes are bullets in his side, forcing him back. He lowers to the frozen ground, desperate to avoid the cold. He cups his head in his dead hands and curls his torso inwards in attempt to regulate his body heat.
He channels his inner fire, weak in this temperature, but coursing through his veins nonetheless. He inhales deeply. Control yourself. Stay calm. Steady yourself. He feels the steam in his lungs, the inferno of a heart in deep in his chest, clawing its way out. He exhales, ribbons of flame dancing in front of his face, warming his nose, almost distracting him from the stabbing pain of his cheek, the needles behind his eye. Blood pools under his face, melting the snow beneath his cheek.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Remember what Uncle told you.
He stays like that. Slowly warming, though not enough to really matter. Acceptance sets in; he's going to die out here. There's no point. Even the world's most talented firebenders, even—he feels a pit in his stomach at the realization—his father would surely perish in this environment. Firebenders aren't made for this.
The last thing he remembers is red-stained snow and the muffled sound of men yelling, coming closer. The crunch under their feet. But then nothing. His vision blurs, his eyes fill with pins, and he buries his face into the ground, crystals of ice pricking at his sensitive cheek, singing his nose and ears.
He's startled awake by the sound of barking and yelling. It rings in his ears, racking his brain and bubbling up behind eyes.
"Better do away with him, Chief."
He hears the rustling of cloth and sees heavy winter boots under his tear-frozen eyelashes. He lifts an arm from his head, revealing his face to whomever is standing over him. His teeth chatter comically and he can clearly picture the paleness of his young face.
He panics. There are men surrounding him, though he can't tell how many through his hazed sight. He assumes the worst, that they're going to do… something to him. A Fire Nation boy intruding on their land? Easy target.
He strains to move his left hand, tries to lift himself up, but feels nothing underneath him. He's been lying atop that arm for Agni knows how long. He moves his free hand into the hardened ice in front of him and pushes down. He manages to raise a few inches from the ground, then recoils in pain, collapsing to the ground. His breathing quickens and his eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. He can't hide the frightened noise that escapes from the back of his throat.
"He's just a boy," a man's deep voice mumbles inside his numb ears. A spear drops to the ground, the expected thud muffled by the heavy snow. The man most in front of him drops to his knees.
What?
"Chief—"
"His injured. Someone get me the bandages."
He's lifted from the ground, and, to weak to fight back, is placed upon the man's knee. His ribs twinge at the movement. The man's meaty hands are placed on his back and chest, holding him upright, his head resting on his broad shoulder. His eyes dart back and forth under his half opened lids, his breath visible in the freezing air. The harsh wind burns the open flesh of his neck.
From behind him, he hears the crunch of snow, it fades, then grows louder and stops. There are noises all around him, half of which he can't identify. It scares him.
He can barely render a hand moving dangerously close to his face, then flinches. The hand graces his bloodied face, lingering at the soft flesh, them moves upwards to the top of his head. It's a strange sensation; rough clothes strips lace around the left of his head, over a side of his crown and covering an entire half of his face. He whines, the rigid texture scratching his skin.
"Hush," the man soothes, continuing.
There's a tearing sound near his ear, and then all around him goes silent. The man holding him sighs, then begins loosely wrapping bandage around his neck, tingling the fresh wound stretching across it.
He coughs; a strained, subtle noise that escapes his lungs. He feels the corner of his mouth wetten, and his throat feels fuzzy.
"Bring me the spare parka."
There are more footsteps, then one of the man's hands leave him, bringing something into his wide lap beside him. It brushes against his chest. It's soft. He hears more noises, closer to him now. Against his face, this time. Everything goes black, his head engulfed in something soft and coarse all at once; he can't fairly describe it. He struggles to breathe, his lungs feel tight and warm, his chest rises up and down faster and faster. His breath bounces back onto his cheeks and his face feels heated. Then, it's all over. He feels a chill of fresh air hit his face and he relaxes. His eyes are almost entirely shut, but he can feel the light on him. A soft, unknown material covers his torso, warming him and calming him ask at once. He curls inward, against the man's chest. He can feel him stiffen, then wrap his strong arms under his legs and back. He's lifted up, and feels the cold of the South against his uncovered cheeks as he's carried away. He buries his face in the soft fur, he assumes, around his neck and drifts off.
His eyes flutter open, sensitive to the piercing wind slicing his face. He steadies himself, hand on… something. He doesn't know where he is. He's warmer, though. That's all that really matters to him right now. Maybe he's going to make it after all. He groans, raising himself up entirely, the wind hitting him even harder.
"Hush, child. We're almost there." A man, whose voice is different than the one who had bandaged him, lays a large hand on his shoulder, and against his every instinct, it relaxes him.
He settles back down in his still unidentified seat, hiding his face in the strange fluff around his head. He feels his warm breath on his cheek, against his neck, and it's soothing. Sleep overwhelms him. After all that's happened, some of it he doesn't entirely remember, he deserves a good rest.
His silk bedsheets brush against his thighs. He tosses and turns, his covers entangling him. His breathing is labored, shallow.
Dad would never do that to me.
He rolls onto his back, hands clenching his blanket to his chest, heating the material through his anger.
Azula always lies.
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