Chapter 36
Hello! Here is your promised chapter as we go towards the end. Thank you for the reviews! This chapter was fun to write and a long time in the making. Enjoy!
The morning after Azula first wakes is quiet and full of soft, unpacked snow. Azula sits up in bed, propped up by a pillow, and watches the snowflakes drift down through the filter of the frost-webbed window. Each white clump is different, but they all look rough and loose, like they would easily melt on the tongue. The snow forms gentle mounds on top of the trees, bushes, and garden benches; sharp edges are softened under the forgiving cover of white.
Azula's mind also feels blanketed by soothing snow. Where once her thoughts retraced the same twisting paths of guilt, uncertainty, and defiance, now the patterns of her mind are less slippery and painful. Instead of rocks under bare feet, she feels the gentle give of fresh snow under boots. She has lost much: her family, her throne, her health. But somehow acknowledging what she's lost makes it easier to bear. The sky is grey, but the snow is beautiful. And when the clouds depart, the sunlight reflects orange off the sugary ground.
Azula is glad to be alive.
Immediately, a sharp sorrow stabs her chest. Altan isn't alive. But she let Altan go when she chose life, watched him float away into the starry abyss. Temurin says it wasn't her fault. Perhaps one day she'll believe him. For now, she savors the sorrow. She can survive it.
For the rest of the morning, Azula remains quiet, the thick quilt comforting and heavy on her weak legs. Wakaba comes in with breakfast, and Azula sips porridge while her student tells her everything that's happened in the past week. When she hears that Hegane is mayor, she nods in approval. And when she hears that Altan was buried on the grounds of mayoral mansion, she cries. Wakaba's hand on hers is unexpected, but warm.
Her friends' hands are just as gentle as she moves Azula to a chair by the window and then shaves off Azula's remaining hair. Azula watches black locks fall onto carpet. The sound of the scissor cutting through her hair is oddly calming, as is the graze of the straight-edged razor against her skull. But Wakaba seems a little more silent than usual.
"Have you heard from your grandmother?" Azula asks, neck bent forward while Wakaba shaves the back of her head.
"No," Wakaba says. "She offered to take me to the Fire Nation, but when I said no, she was upset?"
Azula frowns. Wakaba's nervous tick—the upward lift to her sentences—is back. But this is probably the girl's first experience with familial rejection.
"She'll reach out eventually," Azula says, trying to be comforting. "And even if she doesn't…you did a brave thing. Staying."
"Thank you."
The blade tugs against Azula's skin; she can practically feel every hair follicle submit to the razor. Snow falling, hair falling.
"It's hard to be on your own," Azula says quietly. "But if it makes you feel better, I'm planning to stay." At least until she repays how much kindness her friends have shown her.
"It does make me feel better. And you're all done." Wakaba brushes hair clippings off of Azula's shoulders, but the stray hairs still prick her skin.
She needs to see herself.
Without warning Wakaba, Azula pushes against the arms of her chair and stands shakily. She totters over to the mirror hanging on the wall over a vanity table and braces herself against the solid wood.
"Nekana—" Wakaba hangs back.
When Azula sees herself, she doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
An ugly, jagged red scar cuts horizontally across Azula's forehead, intersected with black stitches like a mouth sewn shut. There are bags under her eyes, and her skin is practically as white as snow outside the window. Her black eyebrows and gold eyes stand out against her pallor. With her bald head and boyish thinness, she looks like the Avatar. She's hideous. But the image fits her. Her hair, her beauty, her strength…the last vestiges of her power are gone. No one will look at her and see a Princess of the Fire Nation. She is really starting from nothing. Azula runs her hand across the smooth crown of her head.
Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source. True humility is the only antidote to shame. Did Zuko say that to her? Or Uncle Iroh?
Azula smiles, as does the girl in the mirror. Behind her, Wakaba's concerned expression softens.
Someone knocks on the door.
"Come in," Azula says, voice clear.
Temurin enters warily. Azula's stomach swoops. She may be able to sanguinely contemplate her new monk-like visage, but it's entirely different to be looked at by others.
But her physical appearance is not her ugliest side. Temurin has already seen her at her worst.
"You're standing!" Temurin says, looking pleased.
"Should she not be?" Wakaba worries.
Temurin shrugs. "She'll regain her strength at her own pace."
Azula's legs tremble, and she leans against the table, hoping against hope neither of her friends noticed.
Naturally, this is too much to ask. In an instant, Temurin is by her elbow.
"May I?" he asks, voice professional.
The first time Temurin tried to treat her, months ago in Taiyang, Azula snapped at him when he presumed to touch her. Now, she nods gratefully when Temurin pulls her arm over his shoulders and helps her to bed. Wakaba pulls back the comforter, and Azula sits down heavily.
"Thank you," she says. Wakaba's square face is kind as ever, but when Azula meets Temurin's eyes, she remembers. Something she had to tell him, pulling him forward. The taste of his mouth.
Her true name on his lips.
"I think I should rest." Azula scoots clumsily to the other side of the bed and gives Wakaba and Temurin a winning smile. "Thank you, Wakaba."
Temurin says something about when he'll be back with medicine, and Wakaba mentions a new scroll she's interested in, but Azula doesn't really hear them. When she's finally alone, she sits back up in bed, making her head throb.
Azula looks to the snow for cooling reassurance. But not even the spiraling snowflakes outside can calm her nerves. This is madness, she tells herself sternly.
But she's experienced madness before. This feels more like…hope.
Azula summons a small blue flame. It reflects in the window, tinging the snow with wild sapphire light.
Over the next few days, Temurin is kept busy. As the only doctor in the entire town, he's constantly checking up on all the wounded soldiers; yet as he re-bandages wounds and marks the progress of splinted bones, Temurin's feeling of foreboding grows. A week ago, his forty patients nearly destroyed the town. All of them are capable of great violence, and if they set their mind to it, they could probably overwhelm the Qima villagers serving as guards at the mayoral mansion.
The Yu Dao delegation will be here in three days. Surely Temurin's patients won't destroy the town before then.
Temurin also visits Jirou at least once a day, unable to shake the feeling that he, Temurin, is completely responsible for his nephew's wayward turn. His guilt turns to nausea every time he unbolts the door into Jirou's room and every time Hegane calls him to her office for advice. Only three days left to decide.
The only bright spot is Haojun. Since Jinlian's near-death experience, his ex-wife seems to have softened. With the choke of death all around him, Temurin is tired of arguing. And so every night for the past week, Jinlian, Haojun, Hegane, and Temurin have eaten dinner in the mayor's quarters. Haojun is remarkably resilient; already she's back to drawing pictures and complex mazes when she's supposed to be eating dinner.
Temurin's glad that his mother didn't invite Guo to the family dinners, though. There are limits.
And then there's the person who is neither a problem nor a source of relief. Nekana has slowly regained her strength, even taking a walk with Wakaba out to Altan's grave. But every time he checks on her, whether he's changing her head bandage or administering her daily dose of yapian, their dynamic feels off. Every touch, every word leaves Temurin hunting stupidly, desperately, for a second meaning. And he can't even tell if his confusion is because of Nekana or because of all the other uncertainty in his life.
Does Nekana remember the kiss?
It would be easier if she doesn't.
When Temurin enters her room with breakfast today, she's already standing, reading a small notebook. Temurin knows Nekana is self-conscious about her bald, bandaged appearance, but to be honest he finds the look striking. Her eyes practically glow with interest.
"What are you reading?" Temurin asks, setting the tray with porridge down on her empty bed.
"A farming catalogue," Nekana answers. When Temurin snorts, she smirks back and tosses the notebook at him.
"Really, look."
Temurin thumbs through the pages; it is, indeed, a schedule of the best time to plant crops and a timetable predicting when the Qima River will flood.
"What is this about?" he asks, bemused.
Nekana sits on her bed and picks at the egg porridge.
"It's a surprise," she grins.
Temurin represses his insane desire to ask if it's a surprise for him. He pulls up a chair.
"You look worried," Nekana says, pointing her spoon at him.
"It's nothing."
"Is it Jirou?"
"It's-a lot of things," Temurin admits. "But yes. Jirou. I can't help but feel…"
"Guilty?"
"Yes, exactly!" Temurin leans forward in his chair. "I deserve to go to prison, not him."
"Believe me, I understand that feeling. But you're not responsible for Jirou's choices."
"I know," Temurin sighs. The twist of guilt doesn't go away.
"I've done very little to make up for what I've done," Nekana says. "So I'm afraid I'm a poor source of advice."
"You've done nothing to be ashamed of—" Temurin starts, and Nekana curls her lip.
"—recently," he finishes.
"Did you…just make a joke about me not murdering people recently?" Nekana asks, horrified.
"Too far?"
Nekana laughs despite herself. "Damn right, too far. Maybe you are the real monster, Temurin. That's messed up."
Her eyes sparkle. She gets up from the bed, circling behind Temurin's chair to retrieve the farming catalogue he deposited on the table. He resists the urge to turn around.
"I'm sure you'll do the right thing," Nekana says from behind him. Her hand rests on his shoulder. She probably means it as a comforting, friendly gesture. But the brush of her fingertips sends spark of lightning straight to Temurin's heart.
Temurin knows he should shake her off. But instead he finds himself reaching up to cover Nekana's hand with his own.
The hairs on the back of his neck raise as he feels Nekana step closer. Her other hand slides up his back, slowly, almost exploratory, over his shoulder blade to his shoulder. She hesitates.
Temurin shivers. Suddenly, rudely, he lets go of her hand and stands.
"Let's take a walk," he says. Cold air, snow, cloaks. "You could use the exercise."
Azula follows Temurin outside into the snow, adjusting the warm woolen hat that Hegane found for her. The trees behind the mayoral mansion are still blanketed with shimmering white, and the world feels silent and peaceful. Yet the farther they walk, the thicker the air feels, and each icy breath burns Azula's lungs. A branch over-laden by ice and snow, cracks sharply; not far off, Azula can hear the slow gurgle of the Qima River. Does Temurin even have a destination? His hands are shoved in his coat pockets, narrow frame hunched. He walks like he wants to run away.
"Slow down," Azula orders.
"Sorry." Temurin stops outright, looking irritated. Azula tries to regulate her breathing and conceal how winded she is. For balance, she places a gloved hand on the bark of a pine tree, then quickly withdraws it. The sticky sap reminds her too much of her yapian den.
"Ready yet?" Temurin asks.
"No," Azula snaps.
They stand staring at each other. Azula can practically hear her own heartbeat. And she bets that the red coloring the corner of Temurin's jaw isn't from the walk.
Hope? Or madness?
Azula walks forward until she's standing less than a foot away from Temurin. The steam from their breath mingles.
"What's really the matter, Temurin?" she asks bluntly.
"Nothing—"
"Liar." Azula takes his hand. He forgot to bring gloves, and his fingertips are purple with cold. She kisses his palm slowly.
Temurin jerks his hand away. "No."
"Why not?" Azula asks angrily. "Is it because of who I am?"
"It's not because of your past, if that's what you mean," Temurin struggles.
"Then why not?" Azula demands.
"It's just…not smart." Temurin blushes as if he knows it's a feeble excuse.
"I'm smarter than you are," Azula says, moving closer again.
"No you're not," Temurin scoffs. But he doesn't back away. Their eyes are level.
"I'm divorced," Temurin hedges.
"I'm exiled."
"I'm a drug dealer."
"I'm a war criminal."
"I—" Temurin scrambles for something desperately, even as Azula feels him melting towards her.
"I'm much older," he concludes.
"Yet somehow not wiser."
Temurin searches her face, for what Azula doesn't know. She suddenly feels very young and inexperienced and cold.
"Azula," Temurin says, voice low. Her breath catches.
No one has ever said her name like that before.
When Temurin says her name, Azula's eyes soften. There's no mistaking what Temurin reads in the woman in front of him.
She cares.
Temurin's caution and reasons and logic melt like snow before fire.
Cupping her face in both hands, he kisses her. It's nothing like last time, the bitter scent of yapian on her breath. It's nothing like his dreams. Instead, Azula responds with surprising joy. When Temurin breaks away, her smile is brilliant and sweet. He's never seen anything so genuine.
He wants to make her smile again.
Azula wants to stay in the forest forever. But night is slowly falling, and Temurin insists on walking back 'before she freezes to death'.
"Fine," Azula agrees. She can be reasonable. She kisses Temurin lightly on the lips. His hair is brushed with snow.
"Just wait until I get my strength back," Azula says smugly as she crunches through the snow back to the mansion, Temurin's hand firmly clasped in hers. "Then you'll be helpless before me."
"Who says I'm not already?" Temurin teases. He tugs her back to him, so close their foreheads are almost touching.
Azula tries to keep a stupid smile off her face, but fails. It's unbelievable. It's absurd. But her hopes are cartwheeling in her stomach and she can't seem to think.
"Are you?" Azula can't help but ask.
"What, at your mercy?" Temurin laughs. "No."
"No?" Azula is irrationally dismayed.
"No."
Temurin kisses her fiercely but protectively, one hand gently supporting her neck through her woolen cap. His teeth graze her lip, and Azula shudders. He kisses her until she's breathless, and then pulls away.
"It seems that you're at my mercy," Temurin smirks.
"Ridiculous peasant."
It's well and truly dark before they return to the mansion.