Disclaimer: Not mine not mine not mine not mine. Viacom's Viacom's Viacom's Viacom's. Enough?

A/N: Why do I like writing about Azula so much? Is it some kind of disease? Should I seek treatment?

This is a bit of a crackship, but hopefully I've presented it in a way that makes some kind of sense…

Ashes

Princess Azula was packing her things. Not, of course, that such menial tasks were fitting for one of her position. Most of the things she needed were being taken care of by the servants. Enough food, clothing, and supplies for a platoon of soldiers from the royal guard, a dozen komodo rhinos and mongoose dragons, a crew of sailors and mechanics, her two elderly tutors, and of course for the princess herself, were all being loaded into the top-quality warship generously provided by her father for the occasion. But when it came to her most valuable possessions she trusted none but her own hands.

So, Princess Azula was packing. She didn't expect her mission to take her too terribly long, so there was very little she needed. Her royal seal, a few of her rarer firebending scrolls, an extra hairpiece… most everything else was extraneous. As she moved aside the various priceless heirlooms tucked away in her chest, she noticed an odd scrap of parchment tucked into a corner.

Thinking it garbage, she reached forward to grab it and was taken aback for a moment by the pocket-sized portrait of a navy officer, staring out confidently over impressive sideburns, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

Oh. That.

The truth was, she didn't even know she still possessed that portrait. It had been commissioned and printed a few years ago, when the then-Captain it depicted had been spending much of his leave time in the capital. He had been a master at playing the political strings, managing to get himself invited to every council meeting and event that mattered, impressing his betters and even the Fire Lord himself with his ruthless cunning and creative military strategies. It was clear to all that he was on his way up.

She had been there too, of course. She was the Princess; she was invited to everything. And it was at one of those meetings that she first saw him. She saw the way he spoke, his animated gestures, the gleam in his eyes when he spoke of victory. There, she saw, was someone who really got it, someone who truly understood how the world turned to favor the strong. There was someone who could command, who would not shirk from power or squander it. Azula found herself with the odd urge to watch him, to see him in action, to see if his deeds matched his words.

So she would watch him practice on the training grounds, and saw for herself that though he was driven and strong like she imagined, by all means he wasn't exceptional. He was good, but he wasn't her.

And yet, she found herself coming back, again and again every morning he was out, just to look. It was utterly ridiculous for one of her stature to be acting so unreasonably, but she did it anyway, and despite herself, watching the Captain practice soon became a regular pastime.

And when he left again and went to war, she was puzzled at the sinking disappointment growing in her chest. She couldn't possibly miss him, she barely even knew him! Ridiculous…

She didn't see him again until several months later, when he returned amongst the celebration of their latest victory. And there was no mistaking it this time: the fluttering excitement she felt when she saw his face, her inability to look away, the heat under her skin that had nothing whatsoever to do with fire.

She told no one, and only indulged her impulse when she gave a commission to create a small portrait of the Captain for her personal use. Even the Captain didn't know who exactly had requested a picture of his face, only that it was someone very important indeed, to have it done by the court painter himself.

It was during that time that her brother decided that he wanted to be included in military meetings as well, and it was that day she finally spoke to the object of her strange obsession. Everything was going her way, so why not risk the scandal?

"I have a place in the front row," she announced, looking directly into his face with a grin. "You may join me if you wish."

So what if her uncle was in the way? So what if it wasn't a moonlight serenade or a long walk on the beach? She didn't need that. The flames flared and her heart soared and the scream filled the arena sweeter than any song and she only barely swallowed her laughter and she knew without looking that his expression was the same as hers and that was enough.

"It is a pity," he said later, false sympathy dripping from every syllable, "That the royal line has such a weak link."

"You shouldn't worry," she replied, her heart beating in her ears. "It is a weakness that is easily gotten rid of."

And then he left, and came back less and less often. He became a Commander and then an Admiral and spent more time away and though she followed his career with interest she began to forget, as these things go. The portrait was tucked away.

Until now.

Azula fingered the parchment's worn edges. He had led the siege on the North Pole. He had not returned. The casualties were massive. She knew all this. The rising star had fallen, and he had failed.

Zhao had failed, and all the energy, all the feeling, that had been invested in him was wasted. Something cold and unpleasant clenched in Azula's stomach, and she was pretty sure what it was. To achieve perfection, weakness always needs to be eliminated, no matter where it surfaces.

Azula leaned out her window, holding the portrait aloft, and let its ashes blow away on the breeze.

(A/N): Really, I wrote the whole thing just for the ending.