You have a scar. Here. On the edge of your wrist.

It's pink. Small. A burn that's more discoloration than wound.

It was deep, once. When you were young – a naïve little thing.

You were a child, once, weren't you?

It's hard to remember.

You have a scar. There. On the skin of your knee. It's warped – skin puckering like fabric bunching in clenched fists.

You got it when you were 8 – less naïve but still a fool to the world.

You fell. Tumbled through a thorn bush after failing to complete a basic kata.

You were embarrassed. Tried to hide it – piled cloth upon it as a makeshift bandage, but too soon it smelled sickly sweet and you learned of infection. Of rot that swept through your veins hot like a fever.

Father made you do the kata 300 times until you fell over from exhaustion.

Now, it is your most well-practiced move.

You have a scar. Here. On the bottom of your chin.

It's purple. Strange. A little raised, it crawls across your skin like a deer trail.

You follow it. Trace it with your fingers until you reach the divot in your chin

You got it from a jagged rock. Jagged like the path of your fingers – broken and crooked from when your sister's heel dug into them. Ground them into the dirt.

She's sharp. Edges defined like a sculpture hot from the kiln. Jade and flecks of gold, an angel.

A cold one. Ice and soft, frosty skin of snow.

Smooth skin.

Smooth skin is novel. And you see it on your sister. Pale arms, milky and flawless.

Yours are scattered with cuts and bruises. Starbursts and nebulas.

Some hurt. Others have healed.

Half are from yourself – they tell you. They say that tripping – stumbling – from over-exertion is your fault. That the wounds from your sister's small hands are because you are too weak to defend yourself.

It's true to an extent. Just like it's true that Azula is stronger than you. It's true like the fact that the summer sun makes the fruit trees ripen and the winter one brings sour crop. It's true like the fact that burnt tea leaves are bitter, but Uncle Iroh's tea always tastes rich and sweet.

It's true like cousin Lu Ten dying changed the world.

You have a scar. Deep. Withering on your heart.

Your mother – a ghost – a whisper on the wind.

You have scars. Here. In between your fingers. From where Azula would hold your hand and burn it with a cruel nonchalance as she smiled prettily for the other Nobles – no mother to catch her wrist before she could hurt you.

She'd bring her hand down, smoking, and you learned to breathe through the pain.

You wonder if you should be thankful.

You have a scar. There. On your eye.

Your face.

You have a scar. You.

One which covers your cheek. Pinched skin. Ripples of red and dark pink.

You have a scar. Large. Like a promise.

Like a lesson.

You're a child, a small thing, but you are no longer naïve. Your hands are calloused, arms sore and back tired.

You have a scar between your eyebrows – a permanent furrow. Anger. Pain.

Because you have a scar on your shoulder. Your neck. Your thigh. A scar on your palm and one on your foot.

You have a scar, deep.

You.

You, a scar of skin stretched across your bones. You, a scar of sinew and muscle torn on the expanse of your body. Like a rip, you. Marred and broken.

A thing, you. A crumpled piece of parchment with gouges bitten out of it like a half-eaten carcass.

You have scars. Here. There. All over. And you wonder what it would be like to be smooth. Jade statue skin.

Polished ivory.

You would be different, you think. Unnatural. You'd be stronger, maybe.

Weaker, maybe.

A different thing. More naïve. More mature. You don't know.

You can't.

Your skin is scarred. Soul – scarred. You can't remember a time where it wasn't.

So you trace them. Hands shaky. Eyes wet.

Because you've forgotten how to breathe without them. How to shape yourself. How to stand without leaning further to your right. Eye wounded, foggy like a clouded window.

You squint. Wobble. Shift.

You scar. Human, you.

Like a canvas. Marred by red and white and pale pink.

But you. You are. And you live. And you shift. Change.

More scars. Soft ones. Ones that make you smile. Laugh.

Accidents. Real ones. Not like your sister's too sharp eyes glinting at the metallic smell of your blood. Not the sneers of your tutors as you stagger – fall.

Apologies and promises. Trinkets like souvenirs.

You. You are scars. You are burns and bruises and frayed skin pulled taut across broken bones.

But you. You are fire and flame. Sharp and stinging, yes, but also soothing.

Soft. Free lights smoldering in embers. Healing. Sustaining.

Never faltering, even as you crumble to ashes, you are an idea.

A boy. A man.

Formed by cruelty and flame. Born from a bonfire, you kindled. Sparked into a revolution.

You. You scarred thing. You human thing.

You are a boy.

A tragedy. A soldier. A warrior.

You.

A king.