Demented Noodles: I admire your dedication to commenting. =P Thanks for all the support. But I think you're confused about the doors and windows – I said the blue room (AKA the throne room, for anyone who hasn't figured it out) from Azula's dream didn't have any, not that her cell didn't have any. When she wakes up from the dream and sees the girl in armor, she's back in her cell, and as I believe was first mentioned in Chapter Three, her cell does have a window.

As I recall, more than a few people have mentioned wanting to see Zuko et al. show up at some point. And I had hoped to sneak Zuko into this story, both because I love him as much as I love Azula and because I thought he might be a useful expository tool. I wanted him to show up at the asylum, so that, either through eavesdropping or direct confrontation, Azula could learn what I decided to have Katara tell her in this chapter. But I figured Katara wouldn't be stupid enough to engage in an argument with Zuko right outside of Azula's door, and I also figured Azula wouldn't be dense enough to look her only sibling – not just her only sibling, but a sibling with an exceedingly noticeable and presumably memorable facial deformity – in the eyes and have no idea who he was. She'd have to at least be bothered, and that just wasn't something I thought would fit into the story. Thus, Azula finds out about the politics of her situation secondhand.

12. Azula Listens

"Hey."

She tossed out her standard greeting. Pulled out a chair and sat down. But something was different this time, something was wrong – I could see it on her face. "Hey," I said warily, from my seat across the table. "What's up?"

"Not much." She made an attempt at a smile, spreading thin and weak over her lips. Her voice was weary, sort of hoarse, and the blue in her eyes had dulled to grey; for a minute, I thought she was sick. Or she hadn't slept. But there was worry on her face, too, etched there as with a pick – worry and something like anger, brewing resentment, the signs of patience stretched thin. This wasn't a missed night's sleep. Something was bothering her. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." I cocked my head at her, walking an odd edge between unease and awe. Not that I was enjoying it, but—I had to admit, the whole idea was kind of fascinating. I'd never seen her less than cheerful before. "What's wrong with you?"

She waved a hand, brushing the question off. "Oh, nothing."

"Don't lie to me."

I sent her a frown and she returned it, watered down. As if that half-hearted mirror of my own brow, creased in confusion, would dissuade me from the issue at hand. "Look, I told you nothing's wrong. I just…I didn't have the best morning, okay?"

I considered that. Eyeing her, I sat back in my chair, and steepled my hands in my lap. "Tell me about your morning."

In those words, I could hear her voice, like an echo trailing mine. So could she. At first she just blinked at me, vaguely indignant, as if to say hey, that's my job; I just smiled. "Well, I know I've never told you," she said finally, still a little skeptical in tone, "but there's a lot of politics in what we're doing here. People are…pretty invested in it. Some of them think it's good, this arrangement, and some of them don't; either way, everyone's got an opinion." She sighed and laid her head in her hands, elbows on the table. "This morning, I had a little run-in with the latter group. It wasn't fun."

The frown returned. I didn't know why anyone minded her coming here, but I instantly disliked the thought. "So tell them to bug off," I said. "It's none of their business anyway."

She raised her eyebrows. "For one thing, it kind of is – I'm not going to explain it to you, because you wouldn't believe me, but there are at least a few people with a decent stake in what happens to you – and for another, I can't. Maybe you don't realize this, but in the real world, people don't just tell each other to bug off. That's not how it works."

"Why? Because they could stop you?"

"Well…yes, they could stop me, but that's not why. I have to listen to them because they're my friends. You know—they care about me, I care about them? We compromise? Friends?" I rolled my eyes. "Anyway, this morning was a disaster. And the worst part is it was my fault, because I didn't—well, because I was stupid, and I wasn't entirely truthful. I told them I'd keep them updated, back when I first started coming here, and I have been this whole time but—but I didn't tell them when I moved you. I knew they wouldn't like it, so I didn't tell them. I thought it would be easier that way." Her hands slid up to her forehead, like the mere memory of it all made her head ache. "But I was stupid. They found out – I mean come on, of course they found out – and not only did they not like it, but they were mad at me, because I was stupid enough to lie. Mad at me, and…and also scared for me, now that they know. They didn't want me to come back."

I felt my frown narrow into a glare, not at her, but at these nameless, faceless "friends" pushing her to abandon me. The very idea upset me much more than it should have. "That's ridiculous. Why wouldn't they want you to come back?"

"I already told you. They're afraid for me." She looked away. "They've always been…a little concerned about me coming here. But they could handle it, before; they thought I'd be safe so long as we stayed in the cell. So long as you were in the jacket. And obviously when I took it off they weren't happy, and they were scared, and they said they wished I wouldn't but I guess—I don't know, I guess this was the last straw. They say I have too much faith in you. They say I'm asking for trouble, putting us on equal ground. They say I've gotten too close to you, and it's clouding my judgment; they can't believe you've come this far." I heard a long, low breath escape her, another sigh, the sound as tired as she looked. A second later, she glanced at me. "They're afraid for me," she said again. "That's all."

"Well, they're being dumb," I snapped. "What do they think I'm going to do, anyway? Haven't you told them I'm not dangerous?"

"Of course I have. I told you, they don't believe it."

That, almost more than the rest, bothered me. It seemed I'd built my whole life around trusting Katara. I didn't see why other people – people she called her friends – wouldn't. "They don't trust you?"

A sort of sad half-smile crossed her face. "No," she said. "It's not me they don't trust."

I almost asked what she meant. But she seemed to shut down for a moment, after that; she didn't speak, just sat and looked at me, weary eyes glazed. Like a dust-cloaked statue. It was strange, but I felt like something broken, watching her watch me. As if she were looking for something, in my face, in my eyes—searching me, and coming up empty. "They all want to visit, you know," she said softly, after a long while. "They keep asking. Some because they need proof we've made progress; some because they just want to see you. They ask me and ask me, and I tell them no every time – I say you're not ready, it's not worth it. I'm not going to risk everything we've worked for just so they can scratch an itch." The smile came back, bittersweet this time, flicking at one corner of her mouth. "Do you think I'm right?"

"Of course I do." There was no thinking involved. Instantly, naturally, the answer was clear; the thought of meeting these people curled my lip. "I'm not an animal. This isn't a zoo. If I thought you were going to be bringing your idiot friends in here to—I don't know, gawk at me—"

She raised a hand. "I get it."

But she was smiling for real now, shaking her head, and I saw the sallow cast to her face brighten. The tenderness returned to her eyes. She seemed to recall something, then, and unbound a canvas bag from her back; I'd hardly even noticed it, given her mood, but all of a sudden she remembered and laid it on the table. "I almost forgot," she said, undoing the flap. "I brought you something. Another project."

Mouth turned skeptically down, I watched her pull a book from the bag, large and square and bound in red. Nothing on its cover or spine. Then there came a long, flat black case, with a glass cover; peering inside, I saw jars of ink cushioned in velvet, glinting in the light. Each was a different color, from red to violet. Last came a mixing-tray, with a brush snapped into its groove – wooden with a fine tip, like the ones we'd used drawing in the cell. "This book is empty," she said, opening it to show me blank pages. "Your job is to fill it for me. Write a story, draw pictures, do both if you want – I don't care what you do, as long as you do something. No numbers, no grids. Other than that, it's your choice, and you have as much time as you need."

"Okay," I said slowly, unsure of how the notion struck me. Fill it for me. How could she think I knew anything worth recording? "Why?"

"Because I need some new reading material." I sent her an unamused glance and she grinned at me, deliberately opaque. "Just do it, all right? Trust me."