Disclaimer: Avatar: the Last Airbender belongs to Nickelodeon, not me.

A/N: You may notice some similarities between this and 'The First Airbender.' This is intentional, though the two are not in the same timeline.

This takes place in the same continuity as 'Death of an Avatar' as well as any upcoming Korra works, though obviously much earlier on…

Coals:Cold

"She tried to kill herself again."

Aang looked up at that, momentarily surprised.

"You mean she's not getting better." It wasn't a question.

"Aang… I'm not even sure what 'better' would look like." The Fire Lord stopped walking for a minute, and turned to face the Avatar. "I'm not sure she's ever been 'better,' really. Functional, yes. Sane… maybe. But not…well. I'm not sure what we're looking for."

Aang shook his head, and turned to keep walking down the corridor. "This is your decision, not mine. If you want to keep trying, we will. If not… make her as comfortable as you can. That's all you can do."

Zuko's face grew clouded as he walked again. "I don't know if it will do anything, but your way might... help."

Aang smiled, and turned to face the Fire Lord. "I'll do the best I can."

When they reached their destination, Aang felt the slight shift in air temperature. The room was sealed as tightly as it could be, but he could tell regardless. His jaw dropped. "You're keeping her cold?"

"I didn't know what else to do! She might try to kill herself again! And the physicians said she's in no danger from it."

Aang's voice was quiet. "Zuko, she's not in control of herself."

"And I'm not sure she should be, Aang. You remember what she was like."

"She's not in her right mind. If she regains herself, then she can be imprisoned. This is not justice."

This time Zuko shook his head. "Just look at her and tell me."

The guard bowed and opened the door, and the Avatar stepped in with the Fire Lord following. Aang shivered for a moment before shielding himself from the cold with a layer of warm air. Zuko rubbed his hands together and spat a few licks of flame. The room's third occupant did neither.

Azula was tied with chains in her seat, facing away from the door. Her head was fixed in place with a strap. She did not move. She might have been asleep, for all they could tell. Or dead.

"Azula," said Zuko. "Azula. Are you awake?" There was no reply.

"Oh, good. She's being quiet." Zuko walked over and stood in front of his sister. Aang joined him.

Azula looked terrible. Her hair was not the mess it had been, but was rather clipped short, almost to her scalp. Her cheeks were gaunt and her skin was blotchy and pale. Her eyes glittered in their sunken sockets, flicking from Aang to Zuko, Aang to Zuko and back.

"Spirits," whispered Aang. "What did you do to her?"

"She's done it to herself!" said Zuko, sounding angry. "She won't eat, won't take care of herself. The physicians tell me they have to force-feed her. She alternates between screaming fire and utter insensibility."

Pity showed itself in the Avatar's eyes. "And she tried to kill herself?"

"Yes." Fire Lord Zuko walked over to Azula, and carefully rolled up the left sleeve of her prisoner's uniform. She did not respond.

There, on her left arm, were clear burn marks, thin and wrapping around the limb like a serpent. "The first attempt might have actually been her trying to escape. She tried to melt her chains, and they burned her." Zuko shook his head. "She would have known that would happen, if she were in her right mind. As is, it isn't clear if she was trying to hurt herself, or if it was an accident."

Zuko then walked over to his sister's other side. This time, he didn't bother rolling up the sleeve. Her right hand was wrapped in bandages. "The second attempt was more obvious. She tried to perform self-immolation. The orderlies were able to put her out and prevent too much damage, except to the hand. She probably won't be able to use it again." Zuko took a deep breath, and looked up at Aang.

"Zuko… I can't change who she is. I can't make her… different."

The Fire Lord closed his eyes and nodded.

"But I don't believe that anyone is truly beyond forgiveness. I want to help." Aang closed his eyes and breathed. "I don't know if this would really help but… if it keeps her from hurting herself… it might. And it's better than the alternative."

Aang reached out with his arms, one going to Azula's heart, the other her brow. She said something then, something indistinct, but whatever it was soon was lost in the light.

Sometimes, in frighteningly brief moments of lucidity, she knew. She saw what she was, the thing she had become, and cursed it.

Disgusting, useless waste of space! Blot on the face of the earth! Scrounging, worthless failure! I hope you rot! I HOPE YOU ROT!

As if the thing she saw wasn't her.

As if it was him, instead. Or one the traitors.

Sometimes, what she saw was one of them. She was happy to give them a piece of her mind. After all, they might actually be there.

Scum! Foul perversion of the family line! If you were a limb on my body, I would cut it off!

You utter slime. You would be nothing without me. I hope your blood boils you alive from the inside out.

I don't care if you beg, or plead, or touch my face with your filthy hands. You are dead to me.

Sometimes it was her Father, and his words put her own insults to shame. Sometimes, he said nothing, only looked, and sneered, and turned away, as if she was a common beggar besmirching the royal grounds.

Sometimes it was her Mother. And these times, she was filled with so much hate and pain that she couldn't even speak, only snarl fire and try to burn the image to ashes. But Mother never burned.

This time, it was something different. Something huge, and overpowering, so much so that she almost lost herself in it. It looked like the Sun, and she almost relaxed, ready to join Agni, like the Sages said.

But then it seized her, and she realized that it wasn't the Sun at all.

She fought. She screamed and writhed and distorted and pressed outward with all her might. But she felt scattered, like she was a wooden puzzle that hadn't been assembled yet, or a pile of stones kicked over by a malicious child. She couldn't pull in the pieces, not without arms or legs or even a body…

It grasped her fully, insinuated itself into her every nook and cranny, teasing out her secrets. It saw her

Fear – Failure. It had always, always been failure. One as perfect as her could not be allowed to fail. It simply couldn't be done (yet it was. You see that it was. Accept that. Live with yourself as you are).

Guilt – She felt no guilt. Why should one be guilty for winning, for being better than anyone? (the lives of others matter. To win truly, do so with respect and grace).

Shame – I failed. I failed. I failed. (yes, you did. But you yet live. Find the will to go on.)

Grief – No. I hate you Mother. I hate you. I hate you I hate you I hate you I miss you… (you are worthy of being loved).

Lies – Lies are how one survives. Lies are a shield and a sword. Find the weak point and strike (but the truth is more powerful than lies. Accept the truth about your emotions and be free).

Illusions – They betrayed me. They are not worth me. I am superior (you are but one thread of life's tapestry. All are connected, and hierarchy is an illusion).

Attachment – My power is all I have (the world is grander and greater than your power will ever be. Let it go and be at peace).

Azula, be at peace.

Aang removed his hands from Azula's body, and groaned. It took him a moment to regain his senses.

"Well?" said Zuko, his expression somewhat drawn. Aang couldn't blame him. Spiritbending was rather disturbing to witness, or so he had been told.

"I removed her bending. And I tried to fix some other things too…" Aang looked at Azula. She still looked awful, but was making small, grunting noises, and her good hand was clenching and unclenching. "I don't know if it helped or not."

"Well at least she won't be able to burn herself again. Thank you, Aang."

The Avatar smiled. "Not a problem."

They left together, closing the door behind them. They would talk to the guards about moving Azula to a normal cell, not a cold one.

They missed the tears, hot tears, flowing down the prisoner's chin and dripping onto her shackles.