A/N: This is a short fic, based of the requested prompt 'hell.' It's been a while since I've written Azula, and seeing as this is Azula after the finale... yeah. I hope the characterization and whatnot is okay. Enjoy, everyone!

Hellfire

"You know, Zuzu?" Her voice is loose, the range swaying more with each word.

Firelord Zuko sits across from her, legs folded and hands resting in his lap. He keeps a straight face, simply watching. He's not afraid of her anymore. "Yes, Azula?"

She laughs, a broken and shuddering tone all at once. A hand presses to her forehead as tears stream down her face. She's amused and tired and sore and upset and oh, she wants to just sleep in a good bed, but part of her thinks that she will never even see the outside world again. "That outfit is not very becoming of you," she quips through her giggles.

"You're one of the few who thinks that," is his short response.

The floor is cold, but she falls back to lay on the inviting stone. Her world is so very much different, and she is still unsure of what to do. What happened, anyway? Where is the world her father had craved for? Why is no one running from the fires of hell? From her fires? Her hand clenches just a little. "I would look much better in that."

His lip twitches. She does not notice; she has calmed and begun to stare at the ceiling. "Azula, you--"

"Why did things have to change…? It's so lonely here." She closes her eyes and exhales. Her body is stiff as she props her legs against the wall. "People used to practically worship me, you know."

There is a slight shifting sound as the firelord turns his head. "They feared you."

"Fear, worship--it's basically the same thing, Zuzu." A small smirk spreads across her lips, and she leans her head back to give him a good look. "You used to fear me, too. Oh--" And she lets out a sigh. "--the good old days."

He grunts softly as he stands, brushing off his royal robes and giving her one last glance. "I will be back in a few days," he says.

Her hand waves at him dismissively. The words almost fall from her lips, but she holds them back, opting to start counting the bars of her cell quietly to herself. When he is gone, she makes to sit up, her long and uneven locks spilling over her shoulders, shrouding her pale face.

To the closed door, she mutters, "Don't visit me out of pity. I don't want it from you."

(Proud, even in hell.)