As promised, the next chapter. Any ideas for who should visit next? Please PM me or review this if you liked it :)
Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to ATLA, so don't sue me.
"Azula, darling, look at the state of your hair. How often have I told you to brush it at least a hundred times a night? Your hair was always so beautiful, it deserves better treatment than this."
Azula tried to shift her numb legs into a more comfortable position on her bed without moving her head too much. Her once thick, silky hair had been reduced to split ends and dried out clumps, due to the harsh prison air and lack of a washing. Azula couldn't even remember when she last had a bath, or used a comb. It had been hard, at first, to go without the modern luxuries that came with being in such a high position as her previous status, but what could she do? Perfumes, shampoos, delicately carved ivory combs imported from the Earth Kingdom were just to name a few. Daily bathing in the Palace bath house, hair washings from hush-lipped servants, linens and silk draped over your damp skin feeling the way that a slowly warmed flame did over your hand. Simple, yet pleasant.
"I'm sorry mother, but really, what did you expect in such a place as this? It's not exactly a classy resort, you know."
Tugging a pearl-handled comb (one of Ty-Lee's gifts from a few months back) painfully through her knotted hair, Fake-Ursa sighed, smoothing the top of her daughter's head gently.
"I know Azula. It does seem rather…" Fake-Ursa glanced around her as if seeing the cell's interior for the first time. "Dingy. It's a shame, these prison cells. Such ugliness hidden away beneath a nation so beautiful. Like burnt-out ashes every fire leaves behind after it dies out.
Azula scoffed and knotted her hands tightly in her lap, head still obediently bowed. "How poetic. Ow-"
"I'm sorry dear, I'm trying to be gentle but your hair-"
"I KNOW, enough about my hair mother," Azula said, exasperated and pulled away a bit.
Fake-Ursa yanked the fistful of hair back with a scowl and Azula yelped.
"Mother!"
A guilty look in her eyes, Fake-Ursa quickly smoothed her daughter's hair again. "Oh my dear I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pull so hard," she crooned, lessening her grip on the comb.
Azula sat completely still, grimacing at the slight sting on the top of her head. "Was that really necessary?" she snapped. "For figment of my imagination, you seem harsher than what I'd expect."
Fake-Ursa's hands froze in mid-combing. "Figment? Of your imagination? Whatever would lead you to think that?"
Azula snorted in amusement. "Oh of course, my apologies. I completely forgot that you were my real mother miraculously returned from your exile and you're sitting next to me in a Fire Nation cell brushing my hair with a pearl-handled comb."
In all honesty, she wished this were true more than anything.
"You're different. You're scaring me, with all this niceness and don't think I don't notice how calculating you are. I'm smart, I notice. I notice.
With a soft laugh, Fake-Ursa resumed in her task, pausing occasionally to admire Azula's long black hair. "Is that really such a hard concept to grasp? All this suspicion isn't good for you, darling, who knows what it'll eventually do to you." Azula shuddered as her fake-mother's voice grew colder towards the end, and wrapped her arms around herself.
"Even so," she continued. "I expected Zuko to at least treat you better than this."
Azula raised an eyebrow, laughing lightly. Her laugh sounded annoyingly hollow to her ears. "Really? Do tell mother, do tell."
Sighing, Fake-Ursa tucked a strand of hair behind Azula's ears. "I thought he would show more compassion, possibly in the form of a nicer cell? I do mean that, dear. You were always misunderstood, no one ever gave you a chance. You are his sister, and his promise to take care of you still stands. I just hope he wasn't lying when he told me that," she said sympathetically, a light hint of amusement in her tone.
She sounds regretful. I knew it, he was lying. He was.
"And since you always insisted on doing this yourself when you were little, why, I thought it'd be nice for a change. That's what mothers are for, Azula. To take care of you. To comfort you when there's a lightning storm, to dry your hair after a washing in the bathhouse, to play with you. To raise you."
Her voice softened. "You never gave me the chance to do that until it was too late."
Azula gritted her teeth trying to compress the smoldering rage settling unpleasantly in her stomach.
"….well it's not as if you ever showed any interest in those things, Mother."
.-.
A passing night guard walked slowly down the frigid halls, his steps echoing softly as the heels of his boots hit the floor. He clasped his hands behind his back, peering occasionally into the small windows of each cell, continuing on when he was certain nothing was out of order. Being an old regular working at the prisons, he was used to the constant murmurings that lingered behind each door emanating from each tortured prisoner. The occasional scream or strangled cry was nothing to be too concerned about. Nothing could get in or out of each iron-clad cell, and the temperature of the containment facility was specifically designed to keep enough heat out for it to be nearly impossible for any flame to be conjured. Not to mention they were so down below the ground the oxygen was barely at a sustainable amount for them to take a deep breath longer than six seconds. Their shaking hands and ice-cold fingers would barely be able to produce a spark. Especially during the wintertime. It was amusing, he thought, seeing their feeble hands rub against each other furiously then opening their palms, staring at them expectantly. The moment of silence, a hushed intake of breath, then the inevitable release of frustration at the lack of fire, much less heat. Eventually, their tries would diminish after each failed attempt.
It's enough to drive them mad, the guard thought to himself.
Suddenly an insane burst of laughter tore through his reverie and he jerked in surprise. Coming from the end of the hall he stood stock-still trying to calm his nerves, somewhat embarrassed at the momentary lack of proficiency.
Suck it up, you've heard worse in these halls.
Still he continued down the corridor until the laughter tore through the air again, a rising torrent of lunacy echoing off the walls and stirring the sleeping prisoners in their adjacent cells.
It must be the devil awaken from her sleep.
He stopped at the specific door, one of the many numbered cells laid out in his mind like a map. Knocking his hand against the window bars, he squinted his eyes through the scattered bits of light.
"Hey, quiet down in there!" he barked, his eyes finally settling on her curled up figure resting on the bed that was chained onto the wall.
Azula was grasping a pearl-handled comb in her frail hand and was madly jerking it through her hair, viciously taking out knotted clumps with a determined ferocity. Azula sniffed, throat burning from the screaming laughter.
"Mother, really! Enough with your foolish words, you're intruding on my home this is my cell this is my pearl comb isn't it lovely, oh yes Ty-Lee brought it for me what a darling girl you know, the one with the stupid braids and the vulgar shades of pink she brings lots of things for me, oh yes because we're friends, such good companions you like that don't you owstopityou'repullingonmyhair-"
The guard scoffed and shook his head. It was no matter to him what she was incoherently babbling. Mad, the lot of them. Especially their new Fire Lord, mister "peace-and-prosperity-throughout-this-wonderful-na tion-and-we-shall-hold-hands-and-sing-the-ancient- songs-of-our-ancestors-to-build-unity-in-our-bleed ing-hearts." Huh. It was certainly a drastic change from Ozai, or Azulon, who ruled with fists full of flames, and there was certainly no talk of hand holding. Shaking his head derisively, he turned and left, more important things on his mind.
Azula had now lowered her hands slowly from her head and covered her face.
The comb slipped from her fingers and fell with a dull thud onto the floor. And it would stay there until layers of dirt and dust eventually smothered its delicate beauty.