Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed; you have no idea how happy it's made me. ^_^ If every chapter could manage even half the number of comments on this last one, I would be more than satisfied. As I said in my author's note for Chapter Nine, inspiration comes much easier when I feel like I'm not writing in a void, and motivation along with it. I enjoy writing so much more when I hear from the people I'm writing for.

Responses, to those whose comments warranted them:

N3phyts: It'd be cheating to give away the nature of the ending, but unless all of my readers mysteriously abandon me somewhere along the line, this story will have one. Dead fics frustrate me as much as anyone else, and I don't intend to write one.

Amy Raine: As I'm sure you know, that's one of the challenges of writing a convincing postfinale Azula (if there is such a thing) – finding a balance between allowing her to recover, and retaining her character. At this point, I'm choosing not to focus on the "scheming" side of Azula's personality, since it's far from all there is to her and since, if Katara's doing her job right, it should be taking a back seat anyway. Oh, and in response to your (flattering?) review of Circles, I am not now nor have I ever been a psychologist or a patient. Though, being a college student, I am used to living in what amounts to a cell. =\

Aurelia le: I appreciate observant reading, but I hadn't considered that an error, since I figured the orderlies (AKA "shadow people") would simply work around the straitjacket. That is, they'd be washing everything below and above the torso. Which wouldn't be very thorough, and would leave our heroine considerably grimy, but that's a fact I had planned to deal with in Chapter Eleven, anyway. =P So…you know. Look forward to that?

Floria: Of course she did! Because Katara's JUST THAT AWESOME! _; By which I mean that I wasn't overly fond of Katara's Mary Sue tendencies in canon. I mean, in the context of this story, she could've easily ripped the technique off someone she met, or a book she read – but I feel like, if it were canon, she'd be inventing therapies all over the place. Because she's Katara. And she's naturally amazing. But honestly, I have no right to complain about it, since me writing her as Azula's personal Jesus doesn't exactly help.

To everyone else, and everyone in general: thanks again, sincerely. Keep reading, and of course, keep reviewing. ^_~

10. Azula Moves In

The world outside was real. She had told me so, again and again, but I'd never been sure until I saw it – until we left the cell, my hand stuck fast to hers, moving slow so I wouldn't stumble. Everything was new that day. The air smelled different in that corridor, the sun looked different through those windows, everything I saw and heard and touched outside was different than it had been before. At first, it was like walking through a dream. At first, I kept waiting to wake up, to slip through a gap in the floor and fall back into shackles; I wasn't sure if I wanted it, but for awhile I was sure it would happen.

But it didn't. The world was real. I could feel it, I could taste it, I could breathe it in—I could look out the windows and see it, the earth and water and sky. The buildings full of people who weren't she and I. And this place, too, this hall that housed my cell, pocked with rows of other doors just like mine. Like a great stone tree, one wing branched off into another, and another, and gave way to courtyards and anterooms; for a long time, we wandered them in near-silence, broken only by her occasional spurts of narration. She kept calling this place the asylum, as if I knew what that meant.

And she called the shadow-people the staff, when they passed us in the halls. Every now and then one would slink by, tight-faced, clutching a clipboard or pushing a cart. They would send her a smile – a pale, queasy sort of smile, with no teeth – and she'd wave, and smile back. But they never smiled at me. They seemed afraid to even look at me, glancing up from beneath knit brows, quailing when they met my eyes. They always gave us a wide berth. And maybe I should've been insulted, or at least dismayed—but for some reason, when the shadow-people cringed, all I could feel was pride.

So for awhile, I was distracted. There were too many new things to look at, too many strange thoughts to think; I didn't have the time, nor the breath, nor the presence of mind to ask what she'd meant, when she'd said we're not coming back. It barely even occurred to me. But then we turned down a new hall, far from the first. It was long, like the the first one, and quiet – but like everything else, it was different. The walls were smooth, the windows were glassed, and the floor under my feet was wood, not stone. This hall wasn't brick and mortar, but plaster and paint. And each door had a number.

We stopped at number twelve. From her sash Katara produced a second key, engraved with the same number – and the second I saw it, I remembered. "What did you mean?" I said suddenly, before she could open the door. "When you said we weren't going back?"

She smiled. "You'll see."

She extracted her hand from mine, pulling free of the knot I'd made of our fingers. She unlocked the door – this one made of wood, not steel – and before I knew it, we were inside; whether I'd been steered or towed or gone of my own will, I wasn't sure, but one way or another I ended up in that room with her. Not that it was a bad room. It was small, which I suppose was nice, seeing as I'd gotten used to small spaces. There wasn't much in it – just a bed, pushed against one wall, and a chest of drawers and a small table – which was also nice, seeing as I don't know what I'd do with more. It was carpeted, and painted white. There was a little window above the bed. It was certainly nonthreatening, nondescript even—but still. Does she actually expect me to live here?

"Sit down," she said, and I assumed she didn't mean on the floor. Of course, I wasn't used to chairs, but she pulled one out from the table and sat; taking my cues from her, I did the same. "You're not stupid."

I raised an eyebrow. "Right."

"So I don't need to explain this." She sat back in her chair, her eyes knowing, her smile faded but still warm. "I know you like getting out of the straitjacket. You can't tell me you don't. And I figured if you can handle that – which you can, obviously, you have been for months now – you can handle this."

I didn't answer. There was a lot I could've said, in that moment – could've, should've, would've said, if I'd been sure enough to speak – but I didn't, because I wasn't. I didn't know how I felt. So I just shrugged, and looked down at my lap.

"All right." Somehow, even her sigh was gentle. I didn't look up, but I heard her push back the chair and stand up, twirling the key between her fingers. "I'm going to go for awhile. I need to take care of some things. But I'll be back, so—get some rest, okay? You must be tired."

I was. I'd never done so much in one day. But when she left, locking the door behind her – because of course, it locked from the outside – I just sat there. Still as stone in that chair. Feeling, petty though it was, that I'd taken enough orders from her.

She did come back, after awhile, and she brought dinner. Two bowls of rice, with chicken and peas. This time, though, she didn't sit at the table; instead, she set the tray on the bed and climbed up next to it, settling her back against the wall. Then she looked at me, and patted the space beside her, and really, what choice did I have? I gave in and joined her. And I'd never have said it out loud, not on my life, but it was almost nice to be close to her – to sit with her on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, in the calm of the falling sun. Nice to know I could still trust her, to come back when she said she would. Nice to know we'd stay the same, she and I, even when everything else had changed.

"So I'm just supposed to live here now?" I said to her eventually, when my bowl was almost empty. When our list of other topics had run dry.

"Yeah, pretty much," she answered, and glanced at me. "Is that okay?"

I gave another shrug, a sort of half-hearted bob of one shoulder. "It's fine, I guess," I said, spearing a pea with one of my chopsticks. "Just weird."

"I know." Setting her bowl aside, she pulled her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, like she'd done that second day in the cell. Like two little eggs placed side-by-side. "I knew it would be weird, at first. But you'll get used to it. And it'll be good for you, I think – good to start living like this, like people do in the real world. To get used to sleeping in a bed, eating at a table. Getting up and getting dressed every day." She turned her head to look at me, eyes lake-still. Didn't go on until I met them. "I know you. I didn't before, not really, but I do now. And I know that you're too brave, and too smart, and too strong to go on living like a rat—to waste everything you have, everything you are rotting in that cell. Maybe you think you come from the dirt, but you can't stay there forever. I'm not going to let you."

I didn't say anything. There was nothing I could say to that. I just swallowed the sand in my throat, and dropped my eyes – played with the peas and my chopsticks, pushing them around, squishing them into pulp. Nobody spoke for ages. "Are you still going to come?" I said at last, to my own surprise. "Every day?"

"Of course I am." She grinned. "You can't get rid of me."