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The Love That House Built
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They were 17 and 16 respectively, far too old to be playing fanciful imagination games. It used to be that they played Soldier or Tea Party. Now that they were of age, they actually had to be soldier, and host tea parties. The fun and glamour of the games had disappeared.
But there was one game Zuko and Azula still played: House. It was the only game they played, the only fun they had.
Of course, with deep pockets and numerous agents kept in those pockets, the siblings had the means to make all their fantasies real, to supply all their childish fancies with the props that made their playtime much more than a simple game.
The cottage over the cliff was small, rustic to the point of dilapidation, a leftover from some lord's holdings that the princess had managed to secretly purchase through a third party. A few pieces of country furniture—two chairs, a table, and a bed for two, bought second-hand, of course—were moved into the house. A maid from a nearby village was paid anonymously to clean it once a week. She was kept well in coin to remain discreet about anything she might discover left in the cabin or in the bed sheets. Of course, she was not a dumb girl: palace trysts were not unheard of, after all. Figuring out which nobleman had seduced which handmaiden by the scent of the perfume in the air, or by the trinkets left behind, was half the fun of her work, and made great conversation fodder in the sewing circles.
The siblings didn't really need to escape the palace to make the affair discreet: there were enough spare rooms, secret passages, closets, nooks, crannies, and dark corners where the two could have stolen enough kisses and caresses for an army of lovers. Azula said part of the fun was getting away from her entourage, the thrill of almost being caught, but Zuko, as big brother, was more prudent. Besides, House was something they could lay claim to together, something that was entirely theirs and not under their parents' dominion. And so their furtive glances and stolen moments in court cooled, and they began conducting their tryst entirely beyond the palace walls.
The clandestine jaunts to the hideaway were easily kept secret, dismissed by those who noticed the royals' separate comings and goings. Moody Prince Zuko is off on another rhino ride, the stablemen said. The Princess Azula requires no escort on her outing into the fields; if she is disturbed, she will surely set you on fire, the handmaidens warned.
No one knew where the two really went during those long summer afternoons. Troubled youths seeking respite, that's all they were to the palace workers. But the teens, despite their lavish upbringing, were not going on the shopping trips or hunting rides the rich, disaffected members of their generation commonly went on to stave off boredom. Instead, they had developed an appreciation for life's simpler pleasures. A humble bed with rough-seeming linens; hot breezes blowing through periwinkle curtains; feeding each other apricots and cherries with juice-stained fingers: these had become the two young royals' greatest comforts, next to the ones they found in each other.
Even compared to the grandeur of the palace, the luxuries of silk and oranges and clusters of adoring staff and admirers, House was the one thing—the only thing—that made the lovers happy.
House was also the only thing that fueled their bitter, ongoing sibling rivalry.
It was a painful ritual, this homestead war. The Fire Lord and his wife had never agreed about who was more suited to the throne, so pitted their offspring against each other daily to test their wills. The week was riddled with barbed comments, poisonous half truths, and incendiary remarks, all lobbed daily from the siblings' respective posts, Azula by her domineering father's side, Zuko by his iron-willed mother's. At the very least, they had to pretend to not like each other under the jealous and scrupulous eyes of their guardians and the palace gossips. Only the promises of being together kept Zuko and Azula at each others' throats. They had to keep up the show, keep everyone from suspecting the rosy glow in the youths' cheeks was from healthy exercise, and not an unorthodox love affair.
Sometimes, brother and sister were forced to duel each other to prove their strength, their worth, their prowess. Zuko never let his sister lose, though: his fireballs went wide, the long gouts of flame he threw were weak and ill-timed. When they came in close contact, he would switch to fire sais and engage her hand-to-hand, relishing the opportunity to graze her steely-smooth skin, enjoying the sight of her up close and at her best. He never hurt her, not really. But she did. And Zuko let her, pretending the stinging burns on his back were her kisses, her caresses, and not the physical expression of hate she had proclaimed them loudly to be.
Mother was not pleased by his performance.
But when their appointed rendezvous date came, they would make haste to their trysting place and beg each other for forgiveness, for consolation, shrouding all the hateful things their parents made them do beneath a veil of kisses, strokes, and heated declarations of love.
"I always lie," Azula cried, tears streaming down her cheeks as she kissed her brother's freshest injuries. "Never believe a thing I say about you. I'm always lying." And her lips would trail over his skin, lapping up Zuko's tears as they dripped down, a salty-sweet mixture of pain and ecstasy, sorrow and happiness. And he would hold her tighter, closer, harder, even if her soft, steely body chafed his burns and bruises.
Those were the good days. The bad days stole in swiftly, a thief with a knife in the night.
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"I think Father is planning something," Azula said lowly one afternoon. The passion sweat of her skin had dried, and her brother teased a trail of goose bumps along it with lazy fingertips. "He's been coddling me again, pouring poison in my ear against you…"
"That's not new," Zuko murmured sleepily.
Azula hesitated, something she was not used to doing. The words she'd been storing all week finally surfaced.
"Have you… have you ever wondered about why Uncle Iroh isn't the Fire Lord?" she asked intently.
The prince opened his eyes and looked at his sister. "It was Grandfather Azulon's dying wish to see his second son, Ozai, claim the throne after crown prince Iroh's bloodline—"
Azula interrupted her brother's explanation, pulled almost word for word from his history scrolls. "The old scrolls say the first in line should have the throne unless he or she is killed. Uncle Iroh is still alive. But instead, Father was conveniently crowned at Grandfather's death before Uncle could get home and get over mourning Lu Ten. He's back now, he's got enough seed in him to spawn a whole army, so why isn't he Fire Lord?"
Zuko stared at his sister. Palace politics had never fascinated him as they had Azula—he took his cue from her. Also, he didn't want to think about Uncle Iroh's seed spawning anything.
"It's just…" She sighed. "…there have been whisperings. Father's been preparing a ship of some kind, an exploration vessel being stocked for a long journey."
The prince could not figure out what this had to do with Uncle Iroh not being Fire Lord, or why Azula was concerned about the nasty things Father had been saying about him of late.
"Perhaps our father means to see the world?" Zuko chuckled at the thought.
Azula shook her head, mutely appealing to her brother, No, no, Zuko, that tiny ship is not for him… But she could not speak her fears, or lend a voice to the shadowy portents hovering on the peripheral of her senses. She laid there on her side, gazing at her brother's perfect, honest face, the left half hidden from view, buried in the cushy pillow.
He smiled just then, and it filled her senses like a blaze of fire.
The princess shook her head again, as though to clear it. Perhaps she had imagined it all. Perhaps the treacherous things she had overheard her father say were not about the beautiful, loving young man curling his body protectively over hers now.
She closed her eyes. If she could just stop her mind from connecting the dots, from bringing the picture into focus, maybe, just maybe, she wouldn't see it. So instead of probing further, she shut herself down and indulged herself in her age-old habit of taking comfort in her brother's arms. Zuko obliged her—repeatedly—and let her hide behind the swaying curtain of shining ebony hair only he had ever seen freed from the severe topknot of their people.
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Iroh knew two things: he knew when to take a hint, and he knew that his nephew was troubled.
It was that first bit of knowledge he had decided to ignore when he followed Zuko that one fateful afternoon, even after the prince had specifically told him he wanted to be alone. The retired general had just come from speaking with the Fire Lady, who had asked him to speak with her son about his continued aloofness with the ladies of the court. Old Iroh had been quite a fox in his time: maybe some of his influence would rub off on the detached and asexual prince?
And so he had tracked him, trudging across vast fields of emerald grass, over rolling hills dotted with tiny wildflowers and up the bluffs bordering the sparkling blue ocean, following the faint trail Zuko's rhino had stamped out. He strolled along, reminiscing about the days when he had gone on identical hikes with his niece and nephew to this very viewpoint, back when they had all been younger and more carefree.
He pictured finding the prince brooding at the cliffs' zenith, like some stoic statue, a parody of himself, staring out to sea as though in search of some lost artifact, or deeply pondering some enigma of the universe. Or maybe, as Iroh suspected, Zuko was feeling bitter about Ozai's continued animosity toward his son. But he wasn't about to make any assumptions. After all, who knew what went on in the mind of a teenage prince?
But Zuko wasn't at the peak. The trail went on past the summit, winding its way down for a few miles until it came to a small, thatch-roofed cottage closer to the water, tucked away just beyond the tree line where no one could really spot it. The prince's rhino was picketed just outside… alongside Azula's giant basilisk lizard.
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The man paced, his heavy, lumbering gait and sheer presence making the cold, solid marble floors tremble.
"How could you?" He exclaimed in a harsh, strangled voice. The palace walls had ears, so Iroh did not actually put into words what Zuko had done. The young man only shrugged, not caring for the retired general's assessment of his relationship with his sister, who was currently confined to her suite at the far end of the palace under Uncle's orders. Yes, even the Dragon of the West had power over his foolishly petulant princess of a niece… when he really meant it. He just hoped he had as much influence over his bullheaded nephew.
The questions rolled off the flustered old man's tongue as quickly as his rebukes. What if it had been someone else who discovered you? This is absolutely scandalous! What if you had had an accident? What will your parents think? What on earth were you two thinking? Do you even know what the punishment for this kind of behavior is?
Zuko narrowed his eyes at his loving Uncle, the only other family member who seemed genuinely concerned about his future. "Banishment," he said without wavering. He knew the laws.
But Azula, being a woman, would not have it so easy. She was spoiled now, deflowered by her own blood kin, her own brother, no less. Doubly dishonoured, she would not have an easy time catching herself a respectable husband, princess or no. Even as the daughter of the Fire Lord, she was not immune to the laws of Agni, and incest was considered one of the mortal sins. Father might be able to weasel the prodigious young lady out of banishment, but what would happen to her after that?
Iroh sighed, clutching his temples. What to do? If he had discovered his niece and nephew's goings-on so easily, it was likely others had, too. Had news of this affair reached the Fire Lord and Lady yet? He would hate to see what this would do to Ursa's already frayed nerves.
Zuko, in his teenage invincibility, waved him off. "No one else but you knows," he said lowly, and he didn't have to say anymore than that: his tone told Iroh everything. I will do as I please until the day the consequences catch up with me. If they catch up with me.
Iroh only chose to keep his nephew's secret for Ursa's sake. The woman had been so stressed of late, her hair had started going white at the temples. (She hid this tell-tale sign of her age and anxiety with black henna dye, but Iroh wasn't about to let anyone else know how he knew this). After all, she had to ensure the rightful heir to the throne was properly ensconced in his position of power before her husband could make a move against her. Against either of them.
The general laughed bitterly to himself. Fate was twisted and cruel and drank too often with Irony. Ursa and Ozai were divisive, ambitious, and opportunistic. How would they react to their progeny's secret? His brother was not, after all, the understanding type. And Iroh could only imagine the hell the Fire Lord's two children would have to endure if the rest of the court—much less the rest of the Fire Nation—learned of the prince and princess's incestuous relationship.
No, for his niece and nephew's own safety and sanity, he would keep their idyll secret. But he was damned if he let them continue.
Zuko never got a chance to talk to Azula about Uncle's discovery, but she knew Iroh knew. At their next appointed rendezvous, the siblings found they could no longer meet at their love nest. A freak lightning strike on a cloudless day had reduced the cottage to ashes.