In the large-ish mirror hanging in his palace apartment, Admiral Zhao expertly preened his sideburns with a fine-toothed turtle seal shell comb. Though not given to foppery, this powerful member of the Fire Nation navy did have a sensible amount of pride in his silky, black hair: enough to keep it in good order.
Taking up a small pair of shears, he clipped a wayward hair and smirked at his reflection. Such a sturdy, square jaw! Such piercing yellow eyes! And that nose! Here, Zhao turned his head to grace the mirror with the full effect of his profile. Strong! Aquiline! He had heard of women gasping with pleasure at the sight of such a well-formed nose.
Yes, Zhao thought, brushing the hair back from his temples, he had no doubt of his attractiveness. In his youth, as a mere seaman aboard the mighty Fire Nation ships, Zhao easily claimed a heart in every port they made. Women - blushing women - bathed in the glow of healthy fires, with perfume like lilies and eyes of amber, populated long, passionate nights. However, now his years advanced, and time creased small, barely discernable, wrinkles into his regal features. Even, he had to admit, his once sleek raven locks had begun to dull to a muted gray. Middle age, he frowned. Time to settle down, Zhao, his friends advised, find yourself a well-to-do wife with a hefty fortune.
The frown transformed into a smirk, the brand he reserved only for moments of cunning.
How fortunate, then, that the Fire Lord had decided to throw an impressive ball in honor of the young princess's fourteenth birthday. Every aristocrat who had ever looked down their nose at someone would be there . . . as well as their daughters - their rich, unmarried daughters. Lord Ozai had extended a special invitation to his treasured admiral, furnishing him with a palace compartment for his stay. (This invitation may have originated from the princess herself; he had always been a favorite of hers.)
Now, even in his lofty tower, Zhao could hear the first cheerful chattering of arriving guests, and the deep notes of sungi horns. Muffled by the door, the sweet bell-like laughter of young, sophisticated women reached his ears, bidding him down the stairs.
Though it meant a night of tedious pomp and circumstance, better spent aboard a ship laying siege to an Earth Kingdom port, Zhao resolved to milk the situation for all that it was worth. He would, with the well-trained eyes of a hunter, find a woman and woo her! He would melt her wealthy heart with flattery: mellifluous adulation, meant to win fair lady's hand.
Another smirk, he chuckled.
Stepping back, Zhao fit his entire robust figure in the mirror. His dress uniform gleamed from polishing, his black hair coifed in the traditional top knot, he felt he looked sufficiently handsome. Dare he use the term "lady killer"?
At fourteen, Princess Azula was already a formidable figure. With a poise and self-confidence that belied her youth, she had a cold, somewhat deadly turn to her pink mouth. A firebending prodigy, a calculating mastermind, she could crush masters five times her years with her deft control of the erratic blue fire. Stern, proud, mocking, Azula showed the early makings of a sociopath and a dangerous, powerful one at that.
Tonight, from the balcony above the ballroom, she gazed down at her birthday guests with a large degree of apathy. They trickled in by small groups, noble families adorned in fine silks and priceless jewels - sycophants all, barely an independent thought to individuate them, easily controlled.
Azula let a hand briefly toy with one of her ruby earrings. A white dress clung to her youthful curves, as a red bodice emphasized her pert bosom. Her maids had selected the outfit, under strict orders that she must look radiant this evening. Dropping her hand from her ear, Azula leaned further over the banister, spying the many party patrons, waiting for the perfect opportunity to make her grand entrance.
Fourteen. Such a small number to stamp upon all her accomplishments, all her abilities. It would be more suitable if she were twenty-five, well past the marrying age and more of a match physically for . . . for . . . (her eyes darted toward the strapping figure) . . .
Admiral Zhao strode in through the ornate, double doors that made up the ball room entrance. Stopping in the middle of the floor, he looked left, then right, then made way toward two women standing near the display of lilies.
A smile turned up the corners of her mouth, but it did not add pleasantness to Azula's sharp, cruel features. Her white, straight teeth looked oddly pointed as she peered down at the Admiral. She did not love him, for this emotion was impossible for such a treacherous example of womanhood. The look that corrupted her adolescent features was one of possession, dominance. Azula admired this epitome of masculinity - his toned physique, his severe stature - and saw in him desires and goals that matched her own. He was power-hungry (power mad, some might say), and his rank and status climbed with the ferocity of a malnourished animal.
She would claim such a specimen.
Turning from the balcony, she descended the stairs into the throng. Flashing manufactured smiles at the aristocracy as she cut a path through their numbers, she set her sights on the target, who stood chatting the two lithe maidens. As she neared, Azula heard his voice engaged in a tale about some sea battle or another. Zhao stared intently at the red-lipped, dark-haired figure on the left; her cheeks enflamed with a blush, she giggled.
Azula did not know jealousy. She got what she wanted too much to feel the intense, hopeless longing for that which she could not have. Reaching her destination, she stood behind the Admiral, realizing that at full height she only came to the middle of his broad, muscular back. Never mind height, she struck an imperial pose and spoke.
"Admiral Zhao."
Zhao turned, smiled, and bowed.
"Princess Azula. Fondest birthday greetings."
Nodding, she darted a glance at the females, and then cocked her head to one side in an arrogant gesture.
"I was wondering if you would like to have the honor of the first dance?" she asked in a way that a way that was not a question. The orchestra, taking their cue, trilled the opening notes of a waltz.
"Of course, Your Majesty," he bowed again and took her offered hand, leading her onto the dance floor. The woman he had been talking to, Azula noticed, looked somewhat distraught.
In the center of the ballroom, they stopped, and positioned themselves for the waltz: one of his hands resting on the curve of her waist. With a sudden spasm from Zhao, he pushed her into the first steps and whirled her to the music. It took great effort to conceal her disappointment behind an encouraging smile; the man danced worse than Zuko. His footing missed the steady beat; he impatiently sped through intricate moves where precision was demanded. More than once, she barely saved her shoe from a severe stomping.
Undaunted, however, Azula chose to see instead that his face held no sign of shame or nervousness for his mistakes. He danced how he pleased - how he wanted - and she could not begrudge him for that. In fact, his disregard for the tempo that held so many other dancers in chains struck Azula has rather admirable.
Also, a curiously exciting sensation to her developing body, she elicited unrivaled pleasure from the feel of his strong hand as it guided her waist, or the general warmth the closeness to him delivered.
But the dance ended, the music stopped. Zhao let go of her, bowed, and made a move to rejoin the ladies he had left lonely by the lilies.
"I would like to speak with you, Admiral, in private," she said before he could get too far, then turned and walked away, confident he would follow.
"As you wish, Princess," he murmured, reluctantly, and fell in behind her.
She lead him into the gardens; the moon shone brilliantly upon the still waters of the turtle duck pond.
Knowing how the grey moonlight highlighted her figure, Azula moved to edge of the water and took a seat on a small stone bench. She arranged the folds of her dress perfectly, but her age still hindered her sexual attractiveness. This would be much easier if she were twenty-five, but at least it could be considered a challenge. She always did know how to make the best of a situation.
Zhao did not sit, but stood still and straight, arms behind his back. How he itched to go back to those pretty young creatures! She chuckled a little. His impatience grew.
"Won't you sit, Admiral?" Azula had practiced the art of seduction with the palace guards. It was at this point that they began to look uncomfortable, but it would take a lot to put Zhao ill at ease.
He moved toward the bench, "Thank you, Princess. Are you enjoying the ball?"
Frowning at this platitude, Azula waved a manicured hand, "Dull. Very dull. As a man of action, I expect you found it the same?"
The corner of his rugged mouth curved into a smirk, "Yes, but it is as much my duty to attend balls as it is to fight wars."
"True," Azula sighed in her boredom. She shifted slightly, letting the plunging neckline of her gown expose even more of her breasts. Seeing this, Zhao averted his gaze skyward, admiring the pale, white moon.
This was tedious, Azula had always hated beating around the bush. She rose and strode a distance before stopping. Speaking with her back to him, she announced:
"I have a proposition for you, Admiral."
"Proposition?" he asked, standing.
"Yes," a dramatic turn, a sweeping of the gown, "A marriage proposition."
He collapsed back onto the bench, voice no where to be found. Even the turtle ducks felt his surprise, for at once they fell silent. Uncertainty and shock shined in the whites of his eyes; Zhao's mouth gaped and he forgot to breathe.
Watching this display with mild amusement, Azula tossed her hair carelessly. The situation, she knew, must be handled delicately or her beautiful plan would die before its hatching. She added a dash of flippancy to her voice, easing him off his guard.
"Age, I would think, is your sole concern. Fear not, Zhao. Our marriage will not be immediate. A few years, perhaps. Long enough for me to reach physical maturity and your triumphant victory over the Water Tribes. Then, you and I will truly be a formidable pair."
He still said nothing. Still more work. Very well. . . .
"The world at our fingertips, Zhao," she urged, appealing to his finest quality: his ambition.
"Princess, I am more than twenty years you senior," his voice found at last, he swept his hand in an appeal to reason, "Though I greatly appreciate the honor, surely one nearer your age - "
Yes, the most anticipated obstacle. It would take a lot to heave her admiral over this cumbersome boulder. Azula let her eyes narrow in a glare.
"Don't patronize me, Zhao," she snapped, "I chose you because I admire you. Who better for my mate then the great Admiral? Conqueror of the Water Tribes?"
His pride stroked, Zhao grinned. Perfect, but there was still more work to be done. She played to his vanity again.
"And, given my weakling brother, you must realize that your progeny, through me, will sit on the throne of the Fire Nation?"
That had done it! His entire face lit up like a bonfire. Leaning forward, his head tilted in a conspiring fashion, "What has Lord Ozai told you?"
Relaxing a little, but prudently holding off the triumphant smirk, Azula moved closer. Her fish had sighted the bait and he watched it with hungry eyes, but the hook had not yet set.
"That Zuko will never regain the throne. In the event of my father's death, I will rule as Regent until I can produce a male heir. You, my dear Admiral, will be the father of that heir."
His leaned back, face grim. Watching him intently, the hook within inches of its goal, Azula saw him weigh the situation in his mind. The pros and cons sat heavy on his brow: power and glory, the two things Zhao desired above all others. Azula was handing them to him almost on a silver platter. He would be a fool to let this opportunity slip through his fingers and yet . . . .
A loveless marriage? A girl young enough to be his daughter? Repellant circumstances all. But still. . . .
He looked at Azula with his yellow eyes and she held his gaze. In her airs she embodied everything: power, prestige, glory, wealth. His head buzzed and his heart pounded. The moment come at last, the hook nearly there, all Zhao had to do now was decide.
With a tilt of her head, the ruby earrings swayed in the soft breeze.
Zhao grinned.
"Very well, I accept."
The hook set deep.
"Good, now . . . ," Azula approached him, moonlight and shadow flitting across her body as she neared, her white gown swaying to the rhythm of her forceful strides. "There's only one thing left to do."
Her face hovered above the Admiral's, the proximity to such a powerful figure almost intoxicating. Experience and maturity shaped his robust looks. Amusingly, his discomfiture was evident. She cupped his chin in her hand.
"Kiss me."
"What?"
"A proper engagement is sealed with a kiss." It was not a flirtatious suggestion, but an inflexible demand. Zhao would kiss her, no other option. His breath rattled with a sudden shock of inevitability. He had to.
Tentatively, he slid his hand behind her head and he pulled her lips into his.
At first he was cautious, fully aware that not only was he kissing a fourteen-year-old girl, but the fourteen-year-old daughter of the most powerful man in the world. Fear choked him, but Azula's demanding mouth broke through. He forgot himself in that instant, letting that passionate, dominating presence control him in her supremacy.
Breaking off with a victorious little laugh, Azula departed, leaving the Admiral alone beneath the moon.
He felt a sudden chill. He felt sick.
When a messenger arrived ashen and shaking, Azula paid the sufficient amount of interest warranted by bad news. Though, as the sizzling cow pig bacon on her plate suggested, her attention was more currently engaged in the consummation of her breakfast. She smiled at the sniveling soldier in a disarming way, and beckoned him further into the room.
The early morning light did nothing for the dull, rusted metal of the messenger's armor; Azula frowned at such slovenliness. But, turning from him to pour some jasmine tea into an ornate cup, she chose not to berate him for his disrespect. Surprisingly, Azula had attained a somewhat forgiving nature over the past few weeks. Though, as she inspected the young man shuddering in shoddy armor, she felt that it would soon draw to a close. Perhaps a few lashes in punishment? She would consider it.
"My Princess Azula, I come bearing ill tidings," the messenger squeaked between frantic obeisances. She acknowledged him by lifting the tea cup to her lips.
"The siege at the North Pole has failed, Milady. The Avatar, I don't know how he did it, but he created some sort of huge fish, water beast," he cringed here, perhaps in remembrance of the fantastic behemoth, or, in Azula's opinion, in disgust of his own ineloquence.
"This same creature, Princess . . . took Admiral Zhao's life . . . ."
Azula finished drinking her tea and sat it gently down on the table. Taking a silk napkin from her lap, she gently dabbed the lips Zhao had kissed and nodded.
"Thank you, you may go," Azula intoned to the soldier as she took up a mango slice from one of the many delicate dishes at her breakfast table. He did not budge, at first, unsure, but made a swift exit as she took the first bite.
"Yes, Milady," slipping out the door, closing it behind him.
So, Azula thought with a chuckle, Zhao lost both the battle and his life. How extremely disappointing of him. Here she had invested so much faith in him - offering him one of the greatest honors a man could achieve - and he goes and gets himself killed. No matter, Azula brushed a loose hair back into place. Though Zhao had succeeded in spoiling one of her finest plans, the princess of the Fire Nation did not let the failure shadow her meal for too long. Men could be replaced. She could do much better.
She took another bite. It was an exceptionally good mango.
Thanks for reading.
Second draft, everyone! Added quite a bit: namely, the dancing part and Azula's breakfast. I like to think it improved, but it's hard to say anymore.