Author's Note: This will perhaps be one relatively OOC oneshot, but such is intended. I thought this would be an interesting concept, so I tried it out…

This is a fourteen-year-old Azula, a teen that still has her flaws as a firebender. I would classify the timeline here as pre-series, so I am going to imply little from the show itself.

Yes, the song 'When the Children Cry' by White Lion influenced me. The whole concept of childhood and youthful comfort inspired me to write this.

When the Children Cry

By: Passionworks

"Little child,

Dry your crying eyes.

How can I explain

The fear you feel inside?"

-When the Children Cry

(White Lion: From the 1987 album, 'Pride')

Sweat coated Princess Azula's temple. It wetted her hair like dew, and stuck the stray stands to her face the way pungent glue would.

She was in her bedroom, in a spacious area, and the door was open a crack, letting just a sliver of light inside the shaded chamber. It was past midnight, for sure, maybe around three hours past; the moon was waning this date in the month, and the stars were like sprinkles on a cake, but they failed to offer her the true luminosity they were admired for.

She was awake past the bedtime hour practicing a difficult kata, one that had troubled her over many training sessions. She had taken on the move at the start with the confidence that she alone would be able to master it with ease, but instead, it had proved rather difficult. Her body was incredibly supple; it shamed her to realize that she was seemingly incapable of maneuvering through the stance despite this undeniable fact.

And so, over and over she stretched her burning muscles, teeth gritting in the pain. Her hands slithered past her sheathed frame robed in crimson, shot out like tree branches beyond her height. Her spine twisted in every possible direction, as if the successive line of bones was manipulative as a series of string figures. The soles of her bare feet left the comfort of the soft, pleasing red carpet as she began the trickier aerial sections of the motion; this was where she often met her defeat.

Within moments, she managed to bend her way through the first consecutive stretch (there were three in all), similar to the fashion of which a musician finishes a first stanza in her music, but it was maintaining the balance throughout that demonstrated the strength and passion required. Once she reached the second portion, she was already fatigued, but she had a persistent heart, one that pumped blood with the vivacity of a racehorse. She kept going, though her tender flesh beckoned her to rest.

Perfect. The completion of the final segment was now within reach; so close it was, Azula could almost taste it on her thirsty tongue. It was as touchable as the cursed fruit of temptation dangling from a twig…

It was then that the noise started. It was a piercing sound, high-pitched, knife-like, and intense, but distant. Distracted, the princess tumbled from her stance, landing on her tipping heel rather than her toes. Instead of preventing her fall, she slipped and allowed gravity to take its natural course.

She lifted herself off the floor with a heavy grumble. Disgruntled at her apathy for her collapse, she shook her head and pulled a strand of hair behind her ear. She listened briefly; the racket had persisted. It had grown in both intensity and pitch; she was certain it came from the adjacent wing. Instead of immediately responding, she made a valiant attempt to overlook it, turning to a more soothing practice: meditation. The young firebender sat Indian-style on the mat, the backs of her hands raised just above her knees. She closed her drooping eyes and hummed, sensing the energy in her body flow to her source of fire…

But fruitless was Azula's effort. There was no blocking it. The only way to assure her peace was to solve the problem herself, since no one else had the energy to at this hour. She opened her door the rest of the way and peeked out, hoping to see a servant jump to alleviate the infernal noise, or its maker, but great expectations were in short supply. Snarling to herself, the princess shut the door, and ambled over to the next wing.

………

Azula came closer and closer to the foundation of her dilemma; almost instantly realizing she was in the guest wing, where the servants resided at night. She presumed most were asleep and incapable of hearing the sound, though, in her opinion, it was as loud as an alarm bell. As annoying as one too, believe it or not.

At last, she discovered an open door, wide and inviting as a smile on a lover's face. She peered inside. As she had initially hypothesized, there was no one present, but she was certain this was her destination. She cautiously stepped forward, looking every which way. The place was a mess: clothes strewn on the floor, bed unmade and wrinkled like a saggy visage, but amidst this hellish scene, a noisy wooden rocking crib stood alone.

The princess positioned herself in front of it, cocking her head at what was held inside.

A petite, shrieking child, a newborn child, no more than three days old, was flat on his naked back in the mouth of the contraption, arms flailing as if the image of the reddish ceiling was too frightening to tolerate. The young thing had barely a hair on his head; one single strand black as a raven's feather rested limply against his round skull. He continued on with his rant, oblivious to Azula's ominous shadow above him.

Her first impulse was to wonder where the baby's mother was, but, considering that the woman was a maid, the answer was well within reach. However, the heir apparent found it difficult to believe the poor matriarch was working this late into the night, not to mention just days after birthing the child, but that was the woman's selfless sacrifice for the royal family…

The babe's bawling strengthened, and whatever Azula was previously thinking about was swallowed by the deafening madness.

The exhausted teenager leaned over the top of the crib, and she took one look down by the newborn's toes, only to find that his faded red blanket had been kicked out of his reach, leaving him terribly cold. Perhaps this was what had irked him. Emitting an uncomfortable sigh and rolling her weighty, tawny orbs, she pulled the thin sheet up to his chest, tightly, but gently tucking the corners under him.

Realizing then that he was not alone, the nameless infant's thunderous, anxious squeals turned into muffled, pitiful whimpers. He lowered his upper limbs, reducing his jerky movements to stillness so subtle that he appeared almost immobile in the vast darkness of his mother's small bedroom. His tiny, pale eyes met hers, and neither diverted the gaze as one of his soft hands suddenly reached and tapped the female's flaccid wrist that hung over the railing of the crib. However, once her tangled mind registered this innocent touch, she flinched and turned away, scrambling toward the door she had entered just minutes before.

Exiting was almost immediately out of the question, though. Offended by her hurried leave, the baby erupted into a fit. The poor little child just yearned for company, is all…

Azula moaned but made no other effort to escape the predicament unscathed. Both trapped and fraught, she, for the second time, stood over the crib, just to see how the little boy would react. Being that Azula was again in his field of vision, he was calmed by her presence, and he quieted his fearful, lonely wails to precious coos.

The princess took a moment to ponder the time. Well, she supposed the mother was not coming back anytime soon…

So, leaving would do the princess no good now; the babe would not have it. With only the affirmation of sleep in mind, she bent over, scooped him up, and cradled his frame next to her chest, his head resting on her shoulder, face pressing squarely against the crook of her neck, breath teasing her skin. Pacified in the compounds of her heated outfit, he curved his back and snuggled tight like a ball of yarn. Those diminutive fingers of his clutched the gold lace of her gown; the little thing's grip was stronger than she expected, stronger than muddied roots in the ground or hair on a head. He held on for dear life, similar to a baby slothmonkey attached to its mother's abdomen.

At least the newborn is silent now, Azula thought. But just to be sure, she paced the floor, rocking him fluidly until that sleepy, bobbing head sat still on her shoulder, and his airy snores filled in for his wordless voice.

However, something within her beckoned her to keep him still. Sleep was great, but this new urge was dominant, more influential too.

It seems the child needs me now, Azula contemplated, but most assuredly the mother would return…

"My Princess, shouldn't you be at rest this hour?"

And there stood the raggedy mother, with bloodshot whites and an ugly grimace.

"I should be asking you the same thing," the tired princess retorted, but quietly, as not to wake the slumbering baby boy she was cradling. "There is hardly an errand in need of running this late into the night."

The slave matriarch's eyes wandered to her sleepy son.

"His cries awakened me," Azula lied, "and I did nothing to hurt him, if that is what you are implying. May I ask where you were, and why I had to be the one to console your child?"

"I apologize, my Princess," she answered, dodging the heir's question. "I do thank you for soothing my son tonight. I was… busy."

Azula dropped the maid's son off into his crib and folded the blanket over his body. She discreetly caressed his unblemished cheek with her index finger, but stared right back at the woman.

A yawn. "I shall be off. You reveal nothing of this event to anyone. Are we clear, servant?"

"Yes, Princess, we are…"