Sorry it took so long to update; I've been busy IRL and with SQ week.

abusegemsofformenos: I won't spoil the ending :P but I do have a plan for it. And yeah, the tattoo does have a link to her accepting her scars, this chapter will go a bit more into it. She still has some trouble communicating with people but she's getting there. And thanks, I try to make sure the character development is believably gradual. Trust/distrust are very fun to work with, they are themes I associate with Azula. They can be a bit tricky, but I enjoy tackling them. As for the healing, she is definitely going to need a lot of time. And a thank you in regards to the twist, I was so thrilled to unveil that one. I'm so happy to hear that you liked the concept, I had yet to come across something grisley enough for my tastes so I kind of just thought of something and ran with it. Thank you so much for all of your reviews.

Death Fury: Thank you

Led Feynman: The wings are more or less a cosmetic thing. Their purpose will have more of a reveal in chapters to come. As of now the purpose I tried to subtly display was this; "Zirin helps her apply aloe to the scars and the skin around the wolf-bat bones. She decides to bring it up again. 'They ain't have to be ugly.' She motions to the jutting bones. 'They can be somethin' beautiful, you know.'" Basically it's a way to turn something awful into something amazing.


Zirin is asleep when Azula wakes. Now is as good of an opportunity as ever. She has had this idea in her head for a while now but not the will nor courage to act upon it. She wonders just when her bravado had left her. Slowly, she thinks, she is reacquainting herself with it. Perhaps this is what compels her to dress herself and head for the door.

Dressing isn't easy. She avoids her reflection if she can, but getting dressed requires seeing it. She gazes into the mirror. She still isn't used to the look of herself. Somehow, she still expects to see the perfect, unblemished princess she once was with an elegant sweep of thick black hair to run a brush through. Instead she finds a slew of scar tissue. She doesn't think that there is one place left without it. Mercifully the scarring on her face is faint, really it would only be noticed in close proximity during long conversations that left room for making more intimate observations. This doesn't console her, not even slightly. Because she knows that they are there and she thinks they are ugly. Even if they weren't, they are reminders.

Reminders of suffering

Reminders of dehumanization.

Reminders of a moment of weakness. Helplessness.
Reminders that she is human. She had always wanted to be more than that.

The scars on her neck and arms are much more prominent, the kind she knows will earn curious stares and pitying eyes. She doesn't want them, yet she can't seem to look at herself without pity. She finds that she hates her checkered skin and would almost rather see it ripped from her bones. She hates it too, how she no longer has her thick silky hair. She had been in a state of insecurity when she had chopped her bangs off—this? This was infinitely worse.

She runs her fingers over her head. Her hair has barely grown back at all. She decides that she needs to do something. Anything to make her feel strong again. To take the edge off of an appearance that suited her so little.

And so she acts upon her idea, this little thing that has been in her mind for some time now.

She pulls on a simple cloak and slips out and away from the house. Very briefly she thinks of telling Zirin and Okon where she is heading, but she is Azula and Azula does what she will. She needs no permission. She thinks for a moment that after all they've done for her she owes them at least an explanation for her sudden disappearance, that she doesn't particularly want to worry them. But she is already a decent few feet down the yard and doesn't want to go back inside. Besides, she will only be gone for an hour or so.

She tries to recall Zirin, she knows that she knew her in a time before her capture. But her time in the cellar had virtually driven all of those memories out. A place like that has no room for kinder memories. She keeps walking, maybe if she keeps walking she will remember. Maybe if she walks to the right spot the memory will come back. Right now, remembering isn't her goal though—it is more of a secondary mission. No, right now she has other desires. But Zirin, who has been so good to her and for no reason (as far as she knows), seems so dismayed at her lack of recollection. All at once, she considers that she doesn't deserve such kindness. She walks a little faster.

The town is just waking when she enters arrives, she sees only one or two people and not a single open shop. She frowns to herself but decides to try anyhow. She wanders nearer to the edge of the village, this time the dancing woman is absent and there are no strange wonders to marvel at. None except for the man with the rocks in his ear lobes.

It is just as well, she is looking for him.

He doesn't seem to be ready for a client, he is smoking from a pipe. She needs his talents now though, so she has no qualms about interrupting. It has been so long since someone has bent to Azula's will, she needs to make it happen. She needs to show dominance to someone. But this man, leaves her no room to do so. He is cool and compliant when she mutters, "I want one."

He points to his collection of tattoos and she nods. "Normally I don't open this early…"

"I can pay you extra." She hopes that he will take a debt offer.

He waves the offer off, "I don't need extra. What I do is an art, I enjoy it well." He pauses and beckons her into the shop. "What and where?"

It takes her a moment to decipher that he's asking what kind of ink she wants. Instead she mutters, "I can't pay right now."

He shrugs, "I'm no fool. I can recognize a royal. You lot have the same eyes. Very gold eyes. You'll get me the coins."

He is way too trusting. Not that she doesn't plan to make good on her word. He motions for her to sit and she does. "I want a dragon…"

"Let me guess, around the bicep."

She shakes her head.

"You have more originality than most people."

She points to her head, "here." She pauses. "I want it to have wolf-bat wings."

"An interesting choice." He notes as he arranges his needles and inks. "Any particular color?" Azula points to the blue ink and then the gold. "Blue scales?"

"Outlined in gold." Azula adds. She watches infuse the needle with blue. It dawns on her that this will probably hurt, but she can't imagine that it will be worse than what she has endured before. At least this will bring her some strange, exotic beauty. She thinks to request turning her scar tissue into jagged lines of lightning. But she decides that it is a job for another day. She does her best to hold still as the needle graces her head. She shudders, it brings back unsavory memories and she has to remind herself that it is okay. That she wants this, she had asked for it.

The artist, she notes, is a man of good work. He seems to put very much care into it. Into each detail. She realizes that this might take more than an hour or so. "In one session." He informs her after she asks, "it will probably take the whole day."

She thinks of requesting multiple sessions but doesn't care to make the journey into town more than once, the people make her nervous, she doesn't want recognition. She doesn't want questions. She also wants the ink to be on in full, should Zirin vocalize any complaints.

Azula tries to let her mind wander as the artist does his work, but she finds that it has nowhere to go. No memories worth focusing on. Mostly her mind leads her back into that cellar and under the hog-monkey head and she doesn't desire to stay. Everything seems to remind her of it, she tries not to think about the ink-filled needle because the reminders it brings are very potent. She tries to think of Zirin but she has few memories to fill her own head with; the ones she does have are played over and over until they are no longer special. Even so they are all relatively recent, to the point where she doesn't think that they count. So she makes an even more forceful attempt to recall her pleasant days before her capture. But she feels almost blocked. She wishes she can repress the memories of her capture with just as much success. But those seem to haunt her.

.oOo.

Her head is pulsing and stinging unpleasantly by the time she gets home. The tattooist looked at her as though she were some kind of rarity, a spectacle he'd never seen. Apparently, she was one of the first who hadn't passed out after hours of tattoo work on her head. She had silently taken the compliment, he didn't realize that she has already gone through the worst of it. That the tattoo is more or less a mild annoyance.

She is greeted by the fragrance of goldenrod and firelily and she knows that she is almost at the porch. The scents are kind to her and she has come to associate them with pleasant sensations. Azula decides that she likes firelily and goldenrod. Quietly she pushes the door open but Zirin has been sitting their waiting for her. She believes that this is how it would have been with she and Ursa if her mother had actually cared. It doesn't register to her that she is still wearing her hood until the first fireball whizzes past. She moves out of its path and pulls the hood away from her head. She cannot tell if Zirin is angry or relieved. Azula concludes that it is a mixture of both. She doesn't see the reason for her distress. Anyways, she is tired. As she moves to get around Zirin she finds herself wondering which position would be best to sleep in so that she won't agitate her fresh ink. Her musing is cut short by a hand snaking around the bend of her arm. She fights the instinct telling her to throw a good burst of fire. Zirin doesn't seem to take any notice of the reaction she induced, instead she mutters, "I hate you." She didn't expect to feel a shove, but she can't bring herself to be bothered by it. She is so sleepy and if she does let herself feel—even slightly—she knows that she will lose herself in the most unpleasant way. So she lets Zirin repeat herself and throw a punch for each word. None of them hurt in a physical sense but Azula doesn't want to lose the only person who could be bothered with her.

To help her.

To take care of her.

Even still, Azula could feel a prickle of annoyance. The need to throw back. But she walks quietly down the hall. "You ain't gonna leave, again are you?" She hears Zirin spit.

Azula turns and tilts her head some.

"It ain't a hard question."

It isn't. So she answers immediately with an affirmative head nod. Azula goes where she pleases.

Azula goes there when she pleases.

She has been caged for far too long by doctors or sadists. Sometimes she believes that they are one and the same.

"Well, can you at least tell me when yer gonna go into town for…for a tattoo?" Zirin sputters.

Azula can tell her yes, that she will let her know when she is leaving. But she doesn't like to make promises. She crawls into bed, she still savors the feeling of a soft mattress. Of blankets and pillows and warmth. Of comfort. She wants more comfort but doesn't know how to ask for it. She doesn't know if she should. She doesn't think she has earned it after running off without a word, even if she had intended on coming back.

"Can I sleep next to you?"

Azula makes room. She feels safer with someone else there. Zirin makes her feel safe. She wants to ask Zirin about the relationship they used to have, but she isn't sure that it's worth it. She doesn't think that they can get back there. She is tired, but these thoughts and questions keep her awake—this she is sure has always been a problem. Her mind is too loud, she thinks too much. She is glad Zirin is there, this time she is not alone in her unease. She rolls onto her side, and tries to get comfortable. This side happens to face Zirin. She meets her eyes, they are a deep and pretty brown. A kind brown, she can see hints of sorrow in them and she is almost certain that she is the cause of it. Perhaps she'll tell her the next time she leaves. For once she lets her mind turn off, she knows if she thinks about it she will draw back. She is still weary of touch because so far touch has only brought her pain. She thought back to the night when Zirin worked on the wolf-bat wings. She holds onto the feelings that came with laying against her. And clings tighter to the feelings brought to her when she felt a soft kiss on her head. And from there, mustered up the courage took Zirin's hand. It felt natural, she gets a vague sense that she has done it before because the sensation is familiar.

She sees Zirin's lips curve up and then her hand is on Azula's cheek. She hovers her pointer above the fresh tattoo and then pulls back, probably remembering that it would sting if she touched it. But Azula takes her hand and carefully guides her fingers over the new ink.

"It's pretty. Suits you well, Azula."

Azula is glad that she likes the tattoo after all. It makes her feel better, it makes her feel stronger. It makes her feel more like herself. Azula squeezes the hand she holds. For the first time in a while she doesn't dream of Li and her son.

She dreams of magma mounds.