III.

Azula

Her world was bleak and gray, but thankfully, Azula didn't dream. She did, however, feel cold seep into her. Death.

Someone brushed their fingers on Azula's forehead. Mother? No, no, no, she couldn't face her. Mother always haunted her.

All Azula wanted was—no, she wasn't that base. That pathetic. No one would make her crawl to them and beg for kindness.

She didn't need Mother's love; she needed her death.

And her own death, well, wasn't it peace?

No.

No, you idiot. Never.

No. She'd been a fool.

Never in Azula's life, in any circumstance, would she give her family and enemies—one and the same, really—the satisfaction of her early demise. She was the true Fire Lord, the rightful heir after Zuko betrayed his nation and dishonored himself time and time again. He whined about how he always needed to prove himself, but her entire life was asserting her authority. At the risk of failing Father and becoming as worthless as Zuko.

Ba Sing Se. The Day of Black Sun. Never enough. The day after Azula distracted the Avatar and strolled the halls triumphant, Father turned a cold shoulder to her.

And she didn't understand. Was it his ire over Zuko's betrayal? She'd been perfect, as always. She'd worked so hard to mold herself into what she should be. And Father, for reasons he didn't reveal at first, wouldn't speak to her with anything but cool distance. Until that one dinner.

Who really killed the Avatar, Azula?

She hadn't answered. Though she hadn't swallowed her food yet, a lump swelled in her throat. Electricity surged down her arms, in her chest. It was cold. But it wasn't lightning.

No. Now, she knew it was shock.

Because they failed, didn't they? And now, he's still out there. If what you said was true, I'd expect this incompetence and failure from Zuko.

He didn't berate her. He didn't need to. The words hung like incense, until they curdled. Soured on her tongue. Her heart hardened long ago, and it faltered.

Incompetence.

Failure.

Worthless.

Waking up was like the slow drip of leaves on trees. The world came to her dim and unmoving. Then, as she heard someone shift to the right of her, survival instinct kicked in. No one would catch her off-guard, but she was lying prone.

The slippers had the form of . . . a rabbit? She couldn't tell what kind of rabbit. A squirrel-rabbit?

"If I may say so, it looks like you've had quite the adventure."

The man was off. His eyes, the first thing she noticed besides his attire, were blue like a Water Tribe peasant's, and his hair was silver. Yet, it didn't look as if he was old. Older, but perhaps around the same age as Father. The only sign of wear were the dark circles under his eyes.

"Can you speak?" he asked.

Azula eyed him in suspicion. This man hadn't killed her, so that was a possibly amicable start.

His lips thinned. "Is that a no?"

Oh, must she be bothered at a time like this? But her throat clenched. It'd been so long since she'd seen another person. Could she speak, and would anyone understand her? She felt like so much was lost in the wilds. All these years, she was so far from what she'd once been: the conqueror of Ba Sing Se; the slayer of the Avatar; the Fire Lord. Ashes.

The man, who looked as if he hadn't slept in ages, didn't seem to recognize her, so there was no use antagonizing him or preparing for a fight.

"Where are we?" she asked him.

"Ah, she speaks, indeed." She ruffled. "We're in my château." She wasn't sure what he'd just said, that last word, and it frustrated her.

"Where in the world are we?"

"Colorado," the man replied.

Colorado. At the palace and the academy, Azula extensively studied the geography of every inch of the world. There was no "Colorado." This must be some grand trick. Or an elongated spirit prank.

"And where is that?" Azula asked tersely.

"America. The southwest, in the Rocky Mountains region."

Again, Azula didn't understand, and she reacted in the only way she took her own incomprehension: consummate irritation.

As she narrowed her eyes at the man, Vlad said, "Interesting. I didn't detect any head injuries."

Was he mocking Azula's mental state? As if she needed more of that. She wouldn't be mocked. It took all her energy to suppress a snarl.

"I don't have any head injuries," she snapped. At that, he seemed to ease off.

"What is the last thing you remember?"

I was dying. The truth sits uncomfortably in her chest, right in the spot Zuko struck.

"I was asleep on the ground, and I stood up. As I walked, I found a home, and I fell." The truth. Abridged, but true.

He raked his eyes over her attire. "How long have you been in the woods?"

"A year."

The man was admittedly good at concealing his emotions, but Azula noticed his eyes widen a fraction, the way his head slightly tilted back.

Azula didn't want to stay. If she stayed, she'd be expected to repay this stranger, as she'd expect to be repaid for her own hospitality.

The man seemed to have some refinement to him, so he wasn't a mere peasant. Nevertheless, she didn't want to associate with him.

And yet . . .

It'd been so long since she spoke with anyone. Felt that energy, the tug and flow of power. Alone, there was no such thing as power.

Azula jerked away and gritted her teeth. "Don't touch me." She wasn't sure if she hated this man; she didn't care to think that people could have that effect on her. But she hated that he'd seen her at her weakest.

"I should check your temperature. My dear, you had a high temperature." His expression soured, as if the "my dear" was a slip of the tongue. "Any higher, and your organs would shut down, which would be a rather unpleasant experience."

Yes, obviously. Her time in isolation, in both the hospital and the woods, made her lash out more than she would before. "If you step any closer, I'll burn you alive."

A light flickered in his eyes. Amusement, cruel amusement. So, this was the game. "Ah, I see. And how do you propose to do that?"

Hand curled to her chest, Azula tried to beckon flames forth, but when she tried, nothing happened. Her heart dropped and dismayed, she swallowed thickly, forcing herself not to take her eyes off the stranger.

What was wrong with her?

The man's brow rose, and as she had when her firebending failed, he moved a fist to his chest. Guarded. A mirror. Intentional? She couldn't tell, and she hated nothing more than someone she couldn't read. Even when he showed signs of physical weakness. The problem was that she was exhausted, too. And if she couldn't firebend, and her limbs were weak, she was vulnerable.

The man told her, "I've heard that lacking certain nutrients will erode the brain. Never fear, if you would deign me worthy of life, I will give you what sustenance you need to continue your grand nature escapades. Is that a deal, hmm?"

Reluctantly, Azula said, "I suppose."

"I would prefer more certainty." Though he kept his expression distant, there was an edge to his voice; from the state of his hair, it seemed that though he was far better off than her, he was neglecting himself.

She remembered when Ty Lee herself would bring her meals, and she'd refuse to eat out of self-preservation and just, for a second, to see the hurt flash across Ty Lee's insipid eyes.

"It's not poisoned. If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't choose poison."

"Your generosity knows no bounds."

"I could say the same for your gratitude."

Archly, Azula asked, "Am I not afforded privacy?"

"If you wish." He hummed. "I'm afraid I didn't plan to feed two, but my shelves are well-stocked. Your clothes, however." He touched his chin in thought. "I may have something, however, from a previous guest."

Examining the man, he looked sickly. Or at least, like he hadn't slept in a long while. She imagined if she were better put together, she'd have little trouble overcoming him.

"I will have more questions for you once you have gotten your bearings."

He left her, then.

Rarely did anything overwhelm Azula, but everything, except the bed, looked strange. The furniture and devices in the washroom looked vaguely familiar to be functional for her, but everything was different in style. Even the lights worked differently, changed with only the flick of a switch. A faint buzz, like a lanternfly, came from the ceiling light. As the Fire Nation industrialized, there were experiments with lightning, using its currents as a power source, but it'd been only a primitive science then. Somehow, this place she found herself in, so strange in design, perfected those studies.

There were drawers of clothes kept in the closet, and when she sifted through them, her eyes narrowed. The clothes were either one piece of a hideously vibrant color or they were what a woman more feminine than Azula would wear. To put it plainly, she didn't like these choices.

Contrary to how it might've seemed, Azula didn't despise femininity, but it wasn't her. She'd been made to scheme and conquer in armor, not attend court in a fine dress. She was made for knives, not dolls. She understood the benefits of her mother's strength, the gentle voice and iron back, the soft power, but it wasn't her strength, so they clashed.

Mother hadn't liked it; perhaps, in the new loneliness of court life, she craved a daughter like herself. Who enjoyed sweeping theater dramas about love and escape and played with her dolls. Who was kind and compassionate and considerate to animals and people. Who was respectful and not plagued by pride or ambition. Someone who chose love over power. Not a true scion of the dragons in their lineage. Not someone so sharp and unfeminine.

Mother wanted a weakling. She wanted Zuko and only Zuko. After all she'd been through, she wanted softness, and so, Azula lost. She couldn't compete. No matter how skilled she was, she couldn't compete with her idiot brother.

Azula gripped the fabric tightly. Her fingers ached.

What do I have left now, Mother, but pride? You stole everything else. You tried to steal that, too, by replacing me.

She and Zuko. If it weren't for them, I would've been above the world, and I would've reduced it to ash like it deserved.

The only leniency Azula granted Mother was that, once learning of how forced the royal marriage was, she couldn't blame Mother for resenting children she didn't want after intimacy she likely hadn't wanted either.

If there was anything that made Azula uncomfortable, as much as she wanted to kill Mother, it was to think she was taken advantage of in such a way. Such an action as that lacked control or sophistication. If Father had done that because Fire Lord Azulon decreed that, he was a brute. If Mother was forced to conceive and carry her children, resentment was excusable. Understandable. Even Azulon's death had cold clarity, and if resentment didn't eclipse everything, she'd respect how ruthless her mother could be. Only when it came to Zuko's safety, though. A waste.

And yet, Azula, who did her best to be the best, never compared to Zuko. Neither of them came from a hospitable home life, but he was adored. Not by Father, but it seemed, in the end, that hadn't mattered. Mother found it in herself to truly love him without wanting to mold him into a different person right down to his essence.

In her grip, in her anger, she'd scorched the fabric.