Like Father, Like Daughter
By Nikkel
(c) to Nickelodeon, Michael Dante DiMartino, and Bryan Konietzko
The Cold-Blooded Fire
The crash of thunder weighed heavily in her chest.
The two of them stood out in the rolling meadows on the other side of the island, facing the ocean cliffside, backs to the palace. Only a mile or so over the water was a storm, sneaking closer and closer to the shore. Black clouds loomed near, vibrant flashes illuminating the sky. Now, it only needed to rain.
Ozai stood on the edge of the bluff, hands behind his back as he inhaled the moist, tropical gale rushing off the sea, rich in the smell of rain and electricity. He glanced at the little girl behind him, watching the tempest near.
"Are you afraid?" he asked, voice as deep as the echoing thunder. Amber eyes flickered to his, vibrant and defensive.
"No," she replied. "What are we doing out here anyways?"
"I told you," he said simplistically. "I'm going to show you something that I hope to teach you. Not now, but in your future."
"Well, what is it? Is it firebending? I already know how to do that, I'm the top—"
"What I'm going to show you, Azula, is firebending, but not the kind you know."
Azula's brow furrowed. Her father was being weird and obscure again. He often spoke in riddles no one quite understood.
With a flash of lightning, it began to drizzle. Azula groaned. She hated the rain. "Great, now it's raining."
Ozai did not seem to notice. He inhaled the air again, the wind pushing back his robes and hair, and raised his arms to either side of his body, as if he were about to jump off the cliff and take flight. He exhaled. "Marvelous."
That doesn't make sense, Azula thought, How does he expect to firebend in the rain?
"Stand back!" Ozai commanded like the crack of a whip, suddenly angry. Somewhat startled, Azula obeyed, walking several paces backwards.
In a flurry Ozai tore off his robes, leaving him in a pair of hotsquat pants. He still had his arms spread, absorbing the power of the storm.
And then he began to move his arms in great, wide circles, two fingers on each hand extended. At first, Azula thought the arching movements were rather silly, when something seemed to spark and fizzle at the invisible edges. White and brief, she quickly concluded that her father was not firebending. The storm, the focus, the movements—now, it all made sense.
He was bending—no, creating—lightning!
Suddenly the blinding-white electricity was surrounding him, coiling around his naked arms and rippling between his toes, curling over his spine and chest. His fingers held the wild snake of energy, concentrating it, empowering it. With a dramatic turn to the cliff he unleashed a blue-white scar into the black fabric of the sky, ripping the fragile seams. The flash was violent and godly and raw, so that when Azula blinked she could still see its imprint in the sky. It made her blood run cold.
Ozai generated more and more lightning, producing faster, deadlier strikes, throwing them into the storm. He was a Spirit of Lightning, the bolts flying from his fingertips, like terrifying cobalt dragons.
Azula couldn't wait until he taught her how to do it.