All right, so. Here we go.

I'm well aware this isn't the only "postfinale Azula" fanfic; it's a story that's been told time and time again, by a hundred different authors in a hundred different ways. Some of those authors, I'm sure, are better than I am. Some of their stories are better than mine. I'm not trying to write the best version of this story, or to tell anyone else theirs is wrong – in fact, soon enough we'll all have our little illusions shattered, when ALOK comes out and the comics come out and we find out what really happened, with any luck. So the most I can do – the most anyone can really do – is write my version, in hopes that a few of you will like it enough to come along for the ride.

I purposely set this story an ambiguous number of years after the ATLA finale, so you can picture these characters however old you'd like them to be. Azula's been in the asylum for awhile, at least a couple of years, but whether that's two years or ten years is up to you; I don't plan to include any specific references to age or the passage of time. No one's married or popping out babies, though, so it's not as if they're supposed to be middle-aged.

When Katara references Zuko coming to see Azula, she's referencing a oneshot I wrote last fall, and which is of course listed among the others on my profile. Circles is kinda-sorta the basis for this story, and Azula was indeed very loquacious in it, much more so than she'll be this time around. It's not at all necessary to read it, to understand this story, but it's fairly short and a glance couldn't hurt, if you're interested.

Oh, and one last thing: the title of this story comes from an Anna Nalick song, also titled Citadel (on Youtube as /watch?v=IQ2g4cAzyIE). Hopefully, if you listen to it as the story gets going, you'll see – or rather, hear – the same connection I do.

1. Azula and the Riptide

I really despise injections.

And it seems I get them all the time now, for one reason or another. There's always someone wielding a needle, some nervous hushed shadow that flits about awhile – dances and darts around me, ever cautious, like I'm a viper – and descends. Always that little prick somewhere along my thigh, since they can't get at my arms, and the cotton and the sticky tape. And the stupor that sets in soon after, the fog rolling in over my eyelids, the thumb smearing my thoughts into a long greasy streak. I can't ever think much after the shots, can't ever do much, or feel much, so I know I get them when something's going to happen. When I'm about to be fed, usually, or given a bath. When someone has to touch me.

I know I get them because they're scared. Because they don't want to push a spoon into my mouth and end up with third-degree burns. I wish they'd understand that they don't need to be, because I'm not dangerous; I wish they'd listen when I tell them that was a dream, back then when I was a dragon. When I was a thing that spat fire and held the sun in my hands. But they don't listen to me, they never listen to me, so they go on believing. Go on thinking I'm a monster, who'd kill them as soon as let them near. Let them think it. I don't care.

But I hate the injections. I hate being sleepy all the time. My mind is all I have, here in this place, and I hate that they steal it from me—but then again, what's there to do? Nothing but tell them stop, and they won't. Nothing but make a game out of counting the minutes, between when the needle nips my skin, and when my head starts to go heavy. Last time it was thirty-two.

In any case, I couldn't have known she was coming, because I get shots all the time. I didn't know it was for her. I didn't know until my door opened, with a tinny clink that just barely broke the trance; it was faint, like a mallet against chimes, but it made me look up. And when I did I saw her, standing there watching me, a different breed than the rest. A girl in a blue dress. I would've disliked her anyway, because blue is a bad color, but it was more than that—I didn't like her because she was familiar. Not in a good way. Familiar like I might drown just looking at her. Like she was a riptide, a ravening dark sea, and she had already dragged me down.

"Hey."

Hey? I'd never wanted to strike someone so much in my life. There I lay grappling for breath, and all she could say was hey? She looked at me a moment, as if waiting for a response – what in the world could I have said to hey? – and then shrugged, heading across the cell towards me. "Fine, don't answer me," she said. "Maybe this'll be easier that way."

This. What was this? The girl made no sense. She knelt beside me and leaned down, as if to catch my eye; I deliberately avoided hers. "Can you sit up?"

Well, it's not easy in a straitjacket, I wanted to tell her. Have you ever tried sitting up without your arms? It takes effort, and focus, and it helps if they don't give you a shot first. And a good reason never hurts. Why should I sit up for you, anyway? What have you done for me? I don't even know who you are. But I said nothing out loud. Sometimes the shots do that, make it hard to speak; sometimes afterwards it's like my mouth is full of gauze, dry and filmy and numb to the words in my head. I was too drowsy to answer her, too dizzy to sit up, and besides that I wouldn't have done it if I could. I didn't want her to have the satisfaction.

She sighed. "I should've known we'd be doing this the hard way." And then, of all the outrageous things—she actually slid an arm around me, and lifted me herself! I could've killed her. I swear, I could've killed her right then. I could feel my brow cave in on itself, gouging a trench between my eyes. I glared at her, fiercely enough to bend steel, but in the end she had me braced against the wall – and to make matters worse, she cracked a grin. "Now there's a look I haven't seen in awhile," she said dryly, unhooking a pouch from her side. "Can't say I've missed it."

Evidently, the pouch was a waterskin. I watched her, scowling, as she uncorked it, and—she did something—I don't know what, but she just flicked her wrist, and the water inside slid out. Sort of floated, in a loose, shimmering bubble. I saw it engulf her hands, still moving, pulsing all the time. And it should have been calming, I guess, but there was something ominous about it – something about it that unsettled me, like she had coming in. My throat closed up again. Watching the water flash, I couldn't escape the sense that something bad was about to happen, and a chill crawled down my spine.

The girl didn't appear to notice. My eyes stayed on her hands, too wide to maintain a frown, but she seemed too busy talking to care. "I can't be sure this will work," she said. "I mean, I'm not sure how well healing works when it's…you know, healing the mind." What? Whose mind? Is she talking about me? "But I've tried it before, on—on my friend. When he was brainwashed in Ba Sing Se. And I know it's not the same, what happened to him and—um—whatever's wrong with you—but it's worth a shot, right? There must be something I can do."

Whatever's wrong with me? I hated her more all the time. And I couldn't make heads or tails of anything she said, or did – before I knew it her hands, sheathed in liquid gloves, had risen to my temples. She let them rest there, the water rippling softly in my ears. It was like silk, almost, warm but not slick, not wet like water ought to be. Strange. I kept my gaze away from hers, still searching for contact.

"I guess this'd be less awkward if I were behind you. That's how I'd usually do it, too." I could hear the smirk in her voice, irritatingly gentle even then. "But until you decide to sit up, this is how it's got to be."

She kept referencing this. But what, exactly, was this? I would've asked her if I hadn't despised her so. I didn't know what she meant by healing, or what the water had to do with it; I didn't know if it was meant to feel good, what she was doing, or if the pressure in my chest was there for a reason. If I was supposed to choke on each breath. The water was warm, but with each minute I got colder, as though ice floes were forming on my skin—I tried to blink it away, but soon my vision was swimming, as though I were inside a fishbowl.

"Not that I'm complaining," she started again, "but I have to say I'm surprised you won't talk to me. When Zuko came to see you, he said you wouldn't shut up." Her shoulders rose in a little shrug. "I don't know if I should be insulted or relieved. Or neither one. That was a long time ago – maybe it's not personal, huh?"

By then, her voice was nothing but white noise, an echo thinned by the sound of surf. If this was healing, she was doing it wrong. I was frozen and breathless, adrift in invisible waves, and I'd never tell her as much but I was scared – scared of this girl, this strange smiling girl, this blue-eyed riptide that could drown me in floating water. She spoke like she knew me, like she wanted to help me, but—my every last instinct said enemy.

And then finally—finally—she let her hands drop. Too slow for my liking. With a twirl of her finger, the water sailed back into its skin, drop by drop until she replaced the cork. Then she looked at me again, for what felt like a long time – looked at me and really saw me, maybe, for the first time since she'd come in. Maybe she saw how scared I was, much as I hate the thought. Maybe I was as pale as I felt. "Look," she said at last, the word low and short and somehow sharp, "I don't…exactly know why I'm here. I don't know—why I want to help you, and there are a million reasons I shouldn't. Believe me, I've been through them all. You're not my friend, you're not my—responsibility, and honestly, in the end I thought I'd be glad to be rid of you. I thought I would enjoy it, seeing you like this. I don't know why I can't." She sighed and seemed to steel herself, face set with new resolve. "But there are two things I do know. I know you weren't letting me in today. And I know if you would, I could help you."

The girl got to her feet, pouch at her side. And she left. And I watched her go, between the bars of my cell – watched her back, as it vanished into the hallway, and counted each step she took. Until they faded. Until I could breathe.