Last Roll of the Dice
Disclaimer: I do not own Avatar: The Last Airbender, or any of its respective characters/terms/settings.
Notes:
This started out as a drabble and turned into a 2500-plus word juggernaut. I really enjoy getting into the characters' heads like this, especially Azula, since she's already such an interesting character. Also, first person and present tense are quite a challenge to write, but once you get into it, man, is it fun. :) Hopefully there will be more installments to this. It takes place three or four years after the war.
Stone is an unyielding ally, and thus makes for an unyielding enemy.
It is the only thing holding me to the ground right now, but I've underestimated earthen treachery before, I've studied its stoic history. All I know is, that undersized Earthbender makes a damned fine prison. I'd commend her for it if I didn't much prefer a chance to gouge out those unseeing green eyes.
Or get someone to do it for me. Imagine, what a sticky mess. The one problem is, no one will rise to meet my command anymore.
Even Ty Lee, even sickeningly devoted, simpering little Ty Lee, doesn't have the desire - or the gall - to stand before me now. Not two hours ago, she stood inches from me, her index fingers deftly prodding my vulnerable joints with far too swift a hand, removing my Bending power. I suppose I should have expected this betrayal. Ty Lee's never been one for political passion. Her transfer to the other side is more out of concern for her own self-preservation than any strong moral slant. She moves only to whatever camp will shield her from repercussions.
She left me powerless, unable to do anything aside from purposely staring her down with flat, golden coin eyes that I know remind her too much of my late father's. Intimidation always was the way to gently - what am I saying? Silly me. - influence her into tasks. That and flattery, but what in the world would I know about that. Flattery was Ty Lee's area of expertise.
At least until the war ended. When she finished shutting down my ability to Firebend, she took one look at my narrowed gaze - just one - and, instead of smiling idiotically and launching into some barrage about my fantastically brilliant aura and how it overshadowed her ever-so-meek pink one, she cast down her eyes and bit her lip attractively.
Then tiptoed silently out of the cell. No doubt to pay a visit to the tall Earthbender with excessive facial hair. Spoiling the national heritage with foreign dalliance is evidently a vice that has become popular over the last couple years.
It is a practice my own brother now follows. He always has been quite the turncoat.
He is standing right behind me. I can't see him, of course, but from a young age my ears have been trained to listen with the intensity of one who is blind. I hear the shuffle of his robes, the heavy mantle of the Fire Lord weighing down his steps. His long, drawn-out intake of breath at the sight of my shackled limbs. In this locked-in position, however, I stand erect, rib cage thrust forward as if in preparation to meet the traitorous plunge of arrows that awaits me outside.
For several moments he does nothing but stand there. Then the inevitable, shaky first breath of speech.
"You're eighteen today, Azula."
Ever the intellectual, I see.
"I must say, I wasn't expecting you to begin by being sentimental, Zuzu," I said, shifting my head to side as I stared at the wall, imagining dear brother Zuko's blank expression mirrored in it. "Although I admit I'm rather proud of you for retaining your ability to calculate numbers in the midst of becoming a complete pansy."
Normally I would stick to far more dignified insults, but what can I say? The opportunity presented itself.
"You are eighteen. Years. Old." Instead of his usual snarl, Zuko's chosen to reply in quick bursts of speech, I suppose. "In less than four years you have caused more agony and disruption, and...and murder than most men care to commit their entire lives."
A smile bends the corner of my mouth. "And?"
The only sound is an indignant, disbelieving scoff. I can just imagine the familiar shadow of anger falling across the planes of his face, his mouth lifted in a hateful sneer. I've been imitating this ratlike visage of his ever since we were children. Zuko throws back the folds of his robe and shoves past the barrel-like mound of rock encasing my body. He stands before me, his face indicating that he has seemingly transformed once again into a ten-year-old boy, fists balled and mouth pursed as he angrily, vainly, defends himself against me.
He would find it alarming to know that he, for the most part, has become the very image of our father. The shape of his face is hardened by years worn out by war and innumerable pressures he never fails to recount, but it is Father's angular shape nonetheless. The nose and chin jut sharply from his face, his cheekbones hollowed out - handsomely, I suppose. Father's impressive shoulder guards sit surprisingly well on his frame, giving him an authority I never believed him capable of, even when he pretended it in exile. I would have thought it to be too heavy for him. He seems to built back the musculature he lost during that turbulent time beginning in Ba Sing Se, as well.
I see one difference that only serves to agitate me. He may have inherited the rest of Father's build, but his eyes are the deep-set, murky golden brown of our mother. Brimming with internal thought and conflict, as usual, but the similarity is striking. And unnerving.
"'And,' indeed." He draws himself up to his full height, a refractory movement probably meant to shrink me down even farther past my humiliating pose. "You're not much more than a child with blood on her hands."
"I see. Must I remind you of your three years on your little ship with Uncle, mucking about in everything? Didn't you cause a good deal of mayhem, yourself? Come, Zuzu, don't tell me you've come out pure and white and innocent. I know for a fact you helped to dabble in whatever activity you think counts as 'agony,' and 'destruction'..." I smirk lightly at the look on his face. "You've become as self-righteous as that Waterbender. I should have taken a shot at her when I had the chance to save you this embarrassing spew of morality."
It's only for the space of one second, probably involuntary, but Zuko's stony glare breaks long enough to show a hint of concern as he glances behind me. Immediately he catches his mistake and tries to remedy the loss of concentration. I can already tell what was going on. The sarcastic grin on my face lengthens considerably.
"Oh, how sweet. You brought her with you, didn't you. Well, isn't that just precious." I turn my body as much as the stone restraints will allow, and find the expected result - the peasant girl from the Water Tribe, that annoying twat of a Bender, the one who likes to spout off like a cannon about her people and 'the right thing to do' and predictions of my eventual descent to hell. Lovely girl, really.
From where I stand I can't pinpoint details, considering how far she's standing back in the corridor to the cells, but those depthless blue eyes, narrowed at the sight of my turned head, stick out from the glaring scarlet fabric of her robes like twinkling night stars reflected in a glass of red wine. Normally I am not so poetic, but while I can't stand the girl - alright, she looks more a woman now, I suppose - she does inspire a fanciful quality in the onlooker. Tanned skin, as it turns out, embraces warmly-colored threads easier than pale skin. Her lips are thinning in dislike as she stares right back.
Glancing at Zuko, who seems to be waiting for some kind of explosion between us, I can't help but cock my head at him slyly. "Fire Nation clothing on her already. She's overflown the family coop a bit, hasn't she?"
Before he can respond, I incline my head back in the direction of the Water peasant, sure to be loud enough for her pretty ears. "What, no more room in the igloo?"
Who can resist a jab at the Water Tribe? Not I.
My answer from her is an audible gasp of indignation and irritation. It wasn't even much of an insult, but I do tend to adopt a snide tone around the girl. I can see her feet inching away from each other in the beginnings of a defensive Bending stance, her bejeweled hands flexing to rid herself of some inner strife inspired by my comment. Even anchored to the earth as I am, she still thinks me a capable tyrant. I'd feel more flattered, but the Water peasant has always been suspicious, has always seen double-crossers behind every screen. No wonder, considering her people were so easy to enslave in ignominy and terror. Fear of domination is in her blood. Diluted, cheap strain that it is.
It makes me cringe to think that such a menial bloodline will soon be merging with my own. I still wonder how it happened. I never did understand the girls' fascination with Zuko, let alone hers. I mean, he was such a scrawny thing - at least, he used to be. Unless they were looking for a quick lay and a boost up the ladder rungs, he probably wasn't worth the time.
"Azula."
I say nothing yet. I'm too busy chuckling quietly to myself at the thought of the little Waterbender fumbling with the unfamiliar, complicated clasps of the Fire Nation royal regalia, half-naked herself and cursing all the way. Serves her right, doesn't it. One strip of red finery is too good for her to touch.
"Azula, look at me."
Yet here we are, in a new age where a baseborn Water Tribe girl can fuck the Fire Prince whenever she feels like it.
"Azula!"
"So," I respond immediately, as if the past thirty seconds or so hadn't resulted in me permanently pissing off my future sister-in-law. Oh, damn. Sister-in-law. The thought itself reeks. "I have to wonder why you're really in here. Surely you haven't popped in just to wish me many more prosperous years."
A stiffened look on his face, before a twitch of his right eyelid. He's clearly trying to keep himself in check, trying to keep from betraying himself and looking back at the Water peasant again. "Well, you're right about that. I'm not here to wish you anything."
"Too bad. I would hope that the day of my birth would still hold a few perks, but I suppose not. Why are you here, Zuzu? Come to ask for my blessing on your glorious boundary-breaching union with the Water peasants? To ask what shade of red goes best with your girlfriend's skin tone? Really, that's more a question to ask yourself, you've seen more of her than I have." The snide grin on my face is broadening. "I could go on all day, you know."
Surprisingly, nothing I've just said has incited a new shade of angry red on my brother's face yet. He's remained steadfastly stoic-looking. "You don't have time to."
Zuko always has been a mood-killer.
"Then either say what you have to say or get out of my sight. I would like a few moments to meditate with myself and I must say, you're a very distracting person. Not to mention Little Miss--"
"Say one more thing about her and I will not hesitate to further brutalize your execution." So Zuzu's grown some backbone after all. He's taken a half-step toward me to emphasize his point, but other than the vinegar in his voice, he doesn't intimidate me.
But still I hold my tongue. I'd rather die as humanely as possible, thanks. Less mess at the memorial, if I still qualify for one.
Zuko's started massaging the bridge of his nose, an old habit he's retained over the years from the irritation of his scar (and of people he dislikes, as well). "I don't - I don't know why I'm here. Perhaps just for propriety. I can't say I've come to say goodbye to a beloved relative." He seems as though he's reasoning with himself more than me. He falters, throws his arm out as though inviting me to chime in. "I can't even say that a small part of me has always loved you as a brother should, because you can't be loved, Azula."
I open my mouth, mostly to ask him if that is such a bad thing, but I guess in some ways, it is. I am someone who cannot be loved. I am someone whose mother cast her eyes down at her own daughter because I frightened her so. I am someone whose father praised her for her cold eyes and even colder hand in battle. I am someone who put her brother, the heir apparent, down to a lower pedestal than herself. I am someone who could have led a nation, though the nation would embrace me out of fear rather than love, And if the crowd does not love you, it is in their power to lynch you.
I am also someone who doesn't care about these things. A crowd can be rallied into a force to be reckoned with, if you only have the power to make them forget about loving you and instead think only of believing you.
And a mother and brother? They are expendable.
"That's true," I finally answer offhandedly. "But I can be feared. That counts for something."
He looks at me the way Mother once looked at me, as though it says, How did I ever come to share blood with you? This time, however, there was pity in it.
Pity? For me? Have I sunk so low?
"I'm just sorry you never had it in you to love, Azula." His face, though still hardened, speaks everything everything else for him. He wants so much to rage at me, to break years of silencing just how how angry he was with me, how long he feared me before he grew braver. But he does not voice these things, though he can now do so without fear of reprisals; either it is not long before my execution begins, or his face says enough. I hate how he pities me.
I want to say something now; a snide retort to his sentimentality, an invitation to worsen my death, a question of what love is, a final goodbye to my brother, anything, but I'm too lost in my own thoughts, too busy smoldering in the remnants of fury at this unfair ending. The brilliant golden threads in a tapestry of my life now unraveled. What a twist in the folds it has become. To now be executed for crimes once considered heroic deeds. To be lynched by my father's people, my father who once told me he was proud of me for these things I'd done.
And how the roles have changed too. I, once 'born lucky,' am now the failure while my brother basks in the glow of a grateful nation. How the tides have turned on me.
I hear him leaving, saying some sort of strangled, awkward goodbye, made so not by tears but by an inability to express anything remotely close to affection for me. I do not turn around to see Zuko leave, but I hear the red robes trailing behind him, the soft padding of the Water peasant's feet as she joins him in stride, and I can imagine him wrapping an arm around her waist as she whispers whatever unbiased consolations to him she can manage.
All this I see in my mind's eye as I stare at the bare wall of the earthen prison, my last holding fortress. Lady Luck's dice fall silent to the gambling table.
"Happy birthday, Azula," I whisper aloud, and smile.
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