Okay, so about Katara's match-winning move – I cannot be the only one who absolutely hates that. I don't know why, but I do, and I'm fairly sure I'm not the only one.

10. Azula Spars

There was something hypnotic about waterbending, at least when she did it. I'd never have told her so. It was a peasant practice, one of the lesser arts, and it was below me even to watch it – but somehow, I couldn't look away.

I sat on the grass in the garden, near the pond. Above me, she swept through the steps of her form. It was a nice day, an unusually cool day, and she'd decided it was a good day for drills – nothing complex, nor difficult, but mesmerizing all the same. Thick with an opiate beauty. It was soothing, the way she moved, the dip and swell of her limbs like rivers; her forms were all grace and elegance, swirled wrists, open arms. I saw, when she called the water from the pond, that to her it was more a friend than a force. She made of it not a weapon but a partner, a living thing, an aery shining creature that spoke and sang and danced with her. Spread its wings alongside hers. Katara respected her element, like I never had my own, and to her it was more than a tool—more than a means to an end.

Two months into our—whatever it was, I had begun to notice things. Things about her, once I learned to read between her lines. I looked at her through a new lens, a prism, cut by the sharp sweet blade of her mouth against mine; sitting there, watching her, I saw more than I would have seen two months ago. More than the moving melody of her form. I saw the stitch in her brow with each misstep, minuscule though they were. I saw the bodice of her dress rise with each breath. More than anything, I saw her love for the art, as though it were written on her skin – this impossible, indefinable need to be nowhere else in the world, than right here doing exactly this. I saw the peace it brought her, the sense of solace she found only here. The identity. The safe place.

I wondered if she carried the same prism in her pocket, with her wherever she went. I wondered what she saw in me.

At length, she slung her arm loose from the last stance, cast the water back into the pond. The splash sort of woke me, brought me back from someplace in my head. "Well," she said with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms above her head, "that's enough of that." She sat down in the grass, legs folded like a pretzel, and threw me an expectant glance. "You want to give it a try?"

"Waterbending? I think I'll pass."

"Don't be obtuse." She rolled her eyes. "How's the lightning coming? Any better?"

"Yeah, actually." My fire had come back easy, outside the asylum; my lightning, not so much. It demanded a focus I had lost. But its makings were always there, twined in bright ropes around my bones—I still felt it all the time, breathing inside of me, and now it came to my fingertips almost on command. Had been for awhile, in fact. Ever since the night of the ball. "Hold on."

I hauled myself up from the ground – how did she always get me to do these things, without my even knowing it? – and stepped forward, away from the trees. To the bank of the pond where she'd stood. First I breathed in, deeply; I laced my fingers, cracked my knuckles, took my stance. Two fingers cocked, I swept one arm in an arc. Though it felt slow, while the current formed, I knew it didn't take but three seconds—a second to swing my arm through the air, breath walled up in my chest. A second for the energy to barrel through my blood. And a second for the bolt to burst free of my fingertips, rolling out in a wild white wave.

When the lightning vanished – quickly as it came – I let out my breath. A dying gasp of electricity clawed at my hand. I wet my lips, and tasted smoke. "Impressive," said Katara, looking as though she actually meant it. "You made good time."

"Not as good as before."

"But good still. You're getting there." She sat back, gazing up at me, a smile playing on her lips. "You remember that day in the garden, right? The one at the asylum? The first time I took you, when it stormed, and you wouldn't go in—when we just had to sit out there forever, so you could watch the lightning?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

"Oh, nothing. Just…reminiscing." Her voice was warm when she said it, knowing. Laughter bubbling up under the words. "You were so cute."

Instantly I blanched, scowled. I hadn't been called cute in years. "Was not."

"Were too."

"Shut up!"

Fuming, I swung an arm through the air, sent a lick of blue fire her way. Not to hurt her – never to hurt her – just to make her jump. But I didn't get so much as a flinch. The flame snapped to life, she flicked her wrist, and half a second later it was dead – swallowed up by a stripe of water, flashing past and plinking back into the pond. Her smile became a grin. "Nice try."

"Nice try nothing," I said, suddenly possessed of an idea. Planting my hands on my hips, I jerked my head towards the grass beside me, demanding, "Put that water where your mouth is. We'll see who's cute."

Her brow knit. "What? You want to spar?"

"Well, why not? If you insist upon mocking me, I might as well get a workout in the process." I rocked back and forth on my heels, already eager for the rush of combat. "Come on. What are you, scared?"

For a second, she eyed me quizically, head cocked to one side. Maybe she was scared – more likely, she was thinking about the last time we'd gone head to head, and how that had turned out – but eventually, she got to her feet. "Fine," she said slowly, "but just for fun. No lightning."

"No lightning. No ice." I raised an eyebrow. "No fishbowls this time."

She flashed a smile, turned out her palms. "No chains."

"No—" I cut myself short with a sudden strike, flung out a swipe that nearly singed her before she dodged. Actually caught her off guard, that time. She blinked at me, slack-jawed, and I smiled—and thus the match begun.

We made of the garden an arena, the trees ramparts, the shrubs trenches. The pond was her base, of course, since she hadn't brought her skins. That was good, I figured. Gave me the advantage. Knowing better than to come at her head-on, I availed myself of the landscape, slinging blows from behind boulders and trees; sometimes they grazed her, blackened the hem of her dress. More often, she caught them in midair. Since I wasn't trying to hurt her – only get her to give up, admit I wasn't so cute after all – I had to pull a few punches, but that was all right. This match wasn't about brute force. The aim wasn't to do the most damage, but to devise the best strategy—not to charge like a bull, but prowl like a panther, too fast to be seen through the brush. To breathe softly, watch closely, wait for the right moment to strike. When she'd least expect it. When she'd lowered her hands, glanced away from the trees – and had only a second to duck.

After awhile, I'd lured her close to the pavilion, a ways from the edge of the pond. Scaling its roof, I perched behind a tier and cast fire-whips from both hands, slapping the water from hers before she struck; she drew up another globe and I sliced it clean through. With whips like extensions of my arms – flames snapping at her heels – I drove her into the pavilion. Then I swung down from the tier, leapt onto the steps. Should've had her trapped, there with no water on hand—but she had disappeared.

The pavilion was empty. I found myself glaring at nothing. "Nice try," I snapped as I went inside, eyes darting up into domed ceiling, circling the pillars. "You don't really think I'm going to—"

Suddenly, my voice became a breathless squeak. An embarrassing noise, like a mouse. But I couldn't help it—I didn't know where she'd come from, or how she'd managed to hide, but out of the blue she was behind me and I felt her fingers on my neck. Not as if she meant to choke me. Just a firm, gentle grasp, fingers pressed to either side, about an inch beneath my ears – but that was enough. "Actually," she said very sweetly, into my ear, "I do."

I grit my teeth, clutched at her hand with mine. She wouldn't let go. Were she anyone else, I'd have turned those fingers to ash. "Let me go!"

"Not until you admit I won."

"That's not fair! You're cheating!"

I could hear the smile on her face, almost a smirk. "You said put that water where your mouth is," she informed me. "You never said it was all I could use."

It wasn't that I didn't want to argue. I did. And it wasn't that I didn't feel quite fiercely put out. It was just that I couldn't stand that feeling, her hand clasping the nape of my neck – there was something thin about the skin there, something cripplingly sensitive – and at that point I would've said just about anything, to get her off. "Fine. Fine. You win. Now let me go."

Mercifully, she did. But before I could turn on her, ream her out for cheating, I felt the pressure of her hand replaced by her mouth. She slid her arms around me and, maybe by way of apology, set to kissing my neck; just soft light pecks at first, like raindrops, links of a chain. Measured so that I stiffened, almost pulled loose between each one. She'd lay her forehead on my shoulder, breathe against my skin, and then when I stirred kiss me again – each time a little longer, a little warmer, a little sweeter. Each time sending flutters through my stomach, tingles down my spine. Melting me like sugar on her tongue.

Soon enough, she had me pinned against a pillar, kissing me for real. Honeyed, open-mouthed. Waxing-moon slow. It was easy to get lost in her, forget the match, forget my anger; after five minutes, sparring was the last thing on my mind. Ten and I wasn't sure I had a mind at all. I wound my arms around her shoulders, pulled her as close as I could—felt her heart pound against mine. It was always like getting a fix, with her. Like her scent, her breath, the taste of her tongue was a drug, and every second I spent without it, I spent in withdrawal

After a long time – maybe ten minutes, maybe ten years – she broke off gently, looked me in the eyes. Pressed her forehead to mine. "Azula," she said softly, in that knee-weakening way she had. "I didn't mean to mock you. When I…when I said you were cute."

I leaned in and kissed her again. "Whatever."

"No, I mean it. I want you to know." She smoothed my hair back from my face. "When I thought about that day in the garden, I…thought about how happy you were, then. It was…the first time I'd seen you so happy, in a long time. That was why I sat out there so long." I saw the memory in her eyes, sparkling like prisms. The faintest smile tugged at her lips. "And—I don't think it was the first time I saw it, in the asylum. I know it wasn't the first time ever. But I remember, that day—watching the lightning—you had the most beautiful smile."