Chapter 2
The air rushed hot and gritty down her throat as Azula gulped it into her shuddering lungs. Her heart raced but her mind was clear. She stood, steadying her body and closing her eyes, concentrating on the steady beat in her chest. She balled one hand into a fist and brought it against her stomach, placing the other, palm flat, on top. She waited.
"Again, Azula!"
With a glint of amber her eyes flashed open and her body sprang into motion. Her arms and legs moved with coordinated precision, their movements clean and graceful as she brought them through each stance. Jets of orange flame leapt from her fingers, warming the air around her. The heat washed some of the fatigue from her muscles and her lips spread into a thin smile as she drank in its qualities, reveling in its familiarity. How exhilarating it was to use this part of herself, to call on the ability that she was so intimately bound to. And how deadly it was, like a miniature dragon cradled within her chest: a source of both terrible power and potential self-destruction – she loved it.
The fire's presence fueled her pace and on she went, faster and faster until her limbs were only a blur. After countless repetitions, the physical rhythm reached the peak of its crescendo and she launched herself into a sprint, gathering speed as she ran. She felt her feet leave the ground and she was in the air, slicing through it with practiced ease. At the apex of her flight came the twist and she arched her back, kicking her legs out as her torso twisted, air rushing past. The series of beautifully executed moves was nearly complete, she was almost there, just a few more seconds and she would land on her feet to her father's beaming smile.
But something in her back went rigid. There was no pain but her poise vanished and with it her flexibility, and she faltered. The ground rushed up toward her and she crashed into it. Her body had refused her, again.
For several moments she lay gasping in the dust with muscles burning and tendons strained. "Again!"
She slowly pushed herself up, arms trembling, and tried to stand but her strength was gone and she collapsed back into the dirt, a heap of exhausted limbs and angry disappointment. She could feel her father's disappointed glare on her back and she wanted to cry out, plead that it wasn't her fault, but she knew that would have been a lie. It was her fault entirely; her body simply could not process that airborne turn, and that only made her feel worse.
She heard the rustle of her father's robes as he stood. "You will do better tomorrow."
The words cut into her like a knife and she stared dumbly out at some distant point. After what seemed like a countless time, she realized her father had left, the soft clap of his shoes diminishing into the distance.
She lay on the ground for a little while longer, breathing in the earthy air. She ground her hands into the dirt, letting the sharp grains scratch her skin, her anger and frustration vying for prominence in her mind. The contest proved futile and she was overcome by an enraged, unmoving silence. She willed it to fill her, to form a mass so solid that she was rendered apathetic, numb to any thought. The anger, burning as it was, proved unwilling, and she continued to lie still, embalmed in her blanket of discontent.
The patter of slippers reminded her other audience and a growl rose in her throat. She wished they would just go; she wanted no one here but herself.
"Princess?" a timid voice inquired, "perhaps you would like to try again?"
The audacity of the question made her previously brooding anger flare and she leapt to her feet. "No, I would not," she spat, intent on following with and get out of my sight!, but the words caught in her throat. A desire to be away, away from here, filled her and she stormed off instead, leaving the masters bent and red-faced. She hurried through the courtyards, across the stone-lined pathways, under the blossoming plum trees, driven forward by a want, a need, to flee. To where, she didn't know, but her stomach gurgled and she was suddenly aware that she was desperately hungry.
She took a path that looped behind the palace and brought her close to the kitchens. The aroma of cooking foods confronted her as she neared and her stomach knotted more intensely, urging her closer. Rows upon rows of freshly-made bread cooled on long pallets, and she swooped close and brought one away, the warmth of the loaf seeping into her palms. She paid no attention to the shocked and curious but mostly apprehensive looks that fell on her back as she walked away.
After a while longer, she found that she had made her way to a small enclosed courtyard, one that she had frequented with her mother – and sometimes her father – when she was younger. It was a peaceful place. A small waterfall gurgled as it filled a pond in the southern corner, the sun shining brilliantly off of its smooth surface. Azula made her way over to it and sat down with a huff in the shade of an overhanging white pine.
She sank her teeth into the bread and reveled in its warm doughy perfection as it melted in her mouth. Her indistinct murmur of pleasure matched the now happy rumbling of her stomach and she took several more bites until the edge of hunger dulled. As she chewed, she took stock of her aching body and wanted nothing more than to sit in cool stillness of the shade. Her moment of tranquility was broken however when a family of turtle ducks glided past, quacking happily in the warmth of the sun. Azula glowered, the interruption only deepening her foul mood. The mother turtle duck saw the look and quickly ushered her babies away, but not before the quacking threatened to induce a headache, irritation crawling along Azula's skin.
She tried to relax, to shut it out, but from the noise emerged her father's voice, his shouts filling her ears. Again, Azula! She ripped into the bread but its taste had turned ashen and she spit it back out. She had been drilling that set since the first rays of light had peaked above the horizon. She had worked hard; she always worked hard, but no matter how much she threw herself into the training, no matter how much she sweated, her father remained hard, unmovable, and overwhelming critical. She gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt. Couldn't he see I was doing my best!
Her face flushed and her breath seethed between her teeth. The bracers - her father's gift - suddenly felt like burlap and her arms burned. She reached down and tore them off, one after the other, and threw them to the ground, out of her line of sight. A cry burst through her lips and she clenched her fingers into the now repulsive loaf and threw it toward the retreating group of turtle ducks. To her immediate regret, the loaf smashed into the nearest turtle duckling and sent it tumbling through the water. A hand flew to her mouth.
"Hey! What'd you do that for?"
Azula turned. It was Zuko. She hid her guilt and surprise behind a leer and said quickly, "That's how you feed them, duh."
Zuko looked uncertain. "Can I try?"
Azula eyed him, her expression vacillating between amusement and animosity. The thousand witty replies that normally rested on the edge of her tongue had vanished in her fatigue, making her answer sharp and unplayful. "No, you cannot," she snapped. "I don't have any more bread but even if I did, I doubt you could hit one anyway." A look of crushed dejection rushed into Zuko's face and it looked like he might cry. He turned and walked quickly away, retreating to the opposite end of the pond where he sunk to the ground, head bent.
Sympathy marred with guilt stirred within her and for a moment she wondered if she had been too harsh. Despite all of his annoyance - of which there was plenty, a truly ungodly amount - they were still siblings, of the same blood. This made them close even if she had not the patience nor interest to associate with him outside of what was forced upon her. Spirits knew her mother desired it, and she supposed she had some duty to him. Even so, he had surprised her and, if she was fair to herself, her response had been far less cruel than perhaps it might have been. She shifted uncomfortably at this rationalization, and she imagined her mother's hard look had she been there. It was unworthy of her to think so, and rather selfish and unkind, her mother would have added.
Azula scoffed internally and looked away from Zuko, grabbing at the grass vengefully. It wasn't that she wanted to dislike him, it was just…he was incredibly difficult to relate to: she was driven to perfection, and he had not the ambition of a mole sloth. On top of that, he was older and yet held none of the advantages of age. The pace at which he learned was far reduced from her own and he was barely capable of sprouting any amount of flame even after considerable time and effort. On the odd chance that he succeeded, it was often unintentional, to say nothing of his utter lack of understanding of the forms themselves. He was the crown prince, firstborn son of the Firelord; the waste of potential was sickening.
A tremendous splash drew her from her thoughts. The pond was frothing, white ripples undulating across its surface as the turtle ducks clucked in agitation. The opposite shore was empty, her brother nowhere to be seen, but with a spurt and a ragged cough, Zuko emerged from the water, dripping and strewn with slimy weeds. He waded out, muttering about a rock and how it had been too heavy. At first, Azula regarded the scene with curious detachment but as Zuko stood, water spilling off him as he attempted to ring out his shoes, an uncontrollable glee bubbled out of her and she laughed: a genuinely real laugh that was decidedly sympathetic but still very much amused. Zuko mistook the noise for mockery and glared at her through his wet and weed-infested hair; Azula was far too taken by the hilarity of what Zuko had just brought upon himself to even attempt to correct him, so he stalked off, arms flailing as he muttered, a trail of wet splotches on the stone following him.
After a while her laughter died down and she was able to wipe dry her eyes and cheeks, a final chuckle turning into a contented sigh as she lied back onto the soft grass. The creases in her face relaxed and her muscles unknotted as the ground warmed her back. The warmth and whispering of the trees made her drowsy, and she was eagerly lulled into the state of relative ease that settled over her exhausted body. Her eyelids became heavy, and the world blurry and gray, and then she ceased to see it all. The remaining hours of the day slipped by as the sun sank.
She woke shortly before dusk, the horizon pink and hazy. With a yawn, and feeling greatly refreshed, she made her way from the courtyard, past the turtle ducks now firmly asleep as they bobbed gently on the water. The orange lights of the palace winked in the distant twilight, beckoning her closer. Soon she was through the many gates and archways, through the main door flanked by Imperial guards, their armor glowing pale crimson in the fading light. They came to attention at her approach, but she continued past without so much as a look.
She moved slowly down the black-walled corridors, content to linger on happy feelings and forget the earlier turmoil of the day in the flickering light of the lamps. As she neared a smaller junction far from the main corridors, she heard hurried whispering, as if someone was shouting but didn't want to be heard. Curious, and feeling like she had stumbled upon a covert conversation, she stopped and eased herself along the wall toward the voice, a woman's voice.
"…did you think I wouldn't notice? You taking her at odd hours, undoubtedly to skirt my attention?"
"It is my prerogative to oversee the training of my children. Surely you cannot fault me for that," a second voice replied.
"And what of Zuko?" – she now heard that it was her mother – "He adores you and yet you focus all of your attention on Azula. Spirits knows she is talented, and I am so incredibly glad for it, but it is unfair to dote on one and not the other. They love you both so very much."
"That contemptible scrub is beyond my help."
"Ozai, how can you say that? He is your son!"
Silence.
"Regardless of their respective prospects," her mother said at last, her voice threatening to thunder, "it is your duty to see after his growth as well, if not as a father then as Firelord. Spirits forbid he would ever need to succeed you."
Another pause, after which her father said, quietly, "I suppose there is some truth in what you say, if only that the honor of the family suffers." Azula could feel her mother's reproachful look from where she was. "Very well. I will take more care."
Her mother gave him a rather firm "Thank you," before they parted, the sound of their shoes reverberating down the corridor in opposite directions.
Azula stayed for a moment listening to the falling patter of their slippers, her mind processing what she had heard. Her father had always been a pillar of unyielding strength and composure, rarely disturbed, if only when disappointed or enraged. To see him act meekly… she didn't know whether she should be shocked or amused. And her mother's words; for her to attempt to improve Zuko's position was all fine and well; it was hardly for Azula to deny him a chance at attempting to fulfill his potential, but to do so by taking something away from her, and for her mother to suggest it…it left a bitter taste in her mouth. Quietly, she slipped back down the hallway, retracing the way she had come.
The sun had set fully by the time she returned to the courtyard. The turtle ducks were nestled together, their overlapping wings forming a barrier against the cool night breeze. Grass crickets croaked and water gurgled as she made her way back to the white pine. She found them there, her bracers, rumpled and dusty where she had thrown them. She lifted them from the ground and inspected the dirty fabric, chastising herself as she caressed the silk. She tried as best she could to clean the dirt away, blotting and pressing until the grime eventually gave way under her relentless assault. They weren't clean, not really, but cleaner, and Azula tugged them back on over her arms, satisfied for the moment.
She moved out from under the protection of the pine tree until the soft touch of the grass tickled her ankles. She stopped, the pale light of the moon falling all around her, and breathed in the cool night air. The shushing of the breeze urged all noise to stop, and for a moment it did. She closed her eyes, focusing on her heart, and moved her hands to her stomach. Her eyes opened, and she began again.
Author's Afterword: I apologize for this being so incredibly delayed. On top of life, this chapter proved rather difficult to move through. The content itself wasn't all that troublesome but something was messing with my writer's mojo, if that's a thing, and I guess it hampered my concentration and clarity of mind. I think (hope?) I've moved passed it, so fingers crossed the next one will pass like a dragon devouring a cow. Many thanks for your reading.