Father did not greet them when the airship touched down before the royal palace. Azula had written a letter in advance, stating that she was returning and that Zuko had escaped her grasp, and so clearly he did not see any reason to grace her with his presence upon her return. Still– it hurt that he was not there to receive her. She had nearly died on her journey – once at the Boiling Rock and once at Mount Huanma – and hadn't been entirely sure she'd make it back at all. But perhaps Father didn't know just how close she'd been to danger. Surely he would have received her with kindness, with relief, if only he knew how close he'd been to losing her, Azula thought. Convinced herself.

But he didn't know, and she didn't want to tell him in fear of looking weak, in fear of looking desperate. She knew long before her return that he would be displeased about her returning empty handed, but even knowing the fact beforehand didn't make it any easier to bear. She hadn't been able to eat her breakfast that morning, so nauseous was she. And when they landed, she dismissed Suyin and the captain and the soldiers to their usual duties, and she, alone, went to meet Father in the throne room.

She had not written that her friends had betrayed her. She did not think Father would care. She did not think Father remembered their names. Neither had she written to him that she'd traded a prisoner for her handmaid – though that, she figured, would have gotten to him through the grapevine, through all the strings she'd pulled to make it happen. But she did not think Father even knew who Hakoda of the Water Tribes was. Or at least – she hoped he didn't. She hoped she would not have to prostrate herself before him and lay out her every decision and mistake to be scrutinised. Foolishly, Azula hoped that Father only cared about Sozin's comet fast approaching in the month and a half, to care about anything else. Realistically, she had already prepared a hundred excuses for the inevitability of having to appease him.

The throne room, as it always was, was a sweltering midsummer day. Azula fell to her knees before her father, and he did not tell her to rise, and so she stayed as she was, kneeling, subservient, before him.

"Father," she said, and the words were thick in her throat, "I have returned from the Boiling Rock, where Zu– the traitor once again escaped me. He stole my airship. I deemed it better to return home, and to you, as we were out of supplies and using borrowed airships."

"And," Ozai added, and Azula immediately knew he was displeased, "You deemed it a fair trade, a seasoned warrior for a favoured servant."

Her heart raced. Her cheeks burned. She did not look up at him – she hadn't been given permission, and found that she was glad of it. He was right, of course. He always was. She'd known from the very beginning that the exchange was not an equal one, politically speaking. A civilian– a servant– a lover– none of those things mattered in the grand scheme of war. She'd allowed her heart too much leeway; she'd allowed it more power than her mind. She'd known it was not right – and she did it anyway.

"A lapse of judgement," she lied. It was better, she thought, to admit to a lack of knowledge than to a lack of backbone, better, certainly, than telling Father the truth of the matter. "I did not know– I did not realise the prisoner was the chief of the Southern Water Tribe. But she is my most capable handmaid, without whom my daily life would not be as efficient, without whom I would not be able to serve my country so well–"

"You've had half a hundred handmaids, and you will have half a hundred more," Ozai interrupted. "Servants are all replaceable. I expected this lapse of judgement, as you put it, from your brother, but not from you, Azula. You have disappointed me. This is not a game. This is war."

The words burned her, and even so– even so–

"Yes, Father," she said thickly, instead of defending herself, instead of insisting any further that this one was different, that this one was worth it. That she didn't think she'd have been able to carry on without her. That it would have been impossible, through and through, to leave her behind in the hands of the enemy. "You're right. I was foolish."

"You've grown soft, Azula," Ozai dismissed sharply. "First your brother, now this. You go behind my back and do as you please. Do you think me blind?"

"Of course not, Fa–"

"You are my daughter and my heir. I've given you more leeway than you deserve," Ozai did not care to let her finish. "But I am still young; perhaps I should remarry and sire another."

A knife to her chest. Her tongue felt enormous in her mouth; she'd forgotten entirely how to swallow. To think Father considered her as ill fit an heir as Zuko-! To think he wouldn't consider either of them to take his place-! Did he really mean it, or did he only mean to make his words cut into her heart?

"If it pleases you," Azula said, though she did not mean it. "I would not stand in the way of your happiness. I beg mercy, Father. I stumbled. Have I not proven myself before? I would do anything for you– I will do anything you ask. I will not falter again."

His gaze burned into her. She could feel it, even with her head bowed and her eyes kept steadily on the ground before her. The flames in the throne room seemed to burn ever brighter, ever hotter. Sweat beaded on Azula's forehead. She felt a drop run down her back. Her heart was a war drum, pounding away to the beat of a march leading her to battle. The words she'd said hung in the air for a seemingly eternal moment. Why wasn't Father saying anything–?

Finally, he sighed.

"See to it that you don't," he said. "Examine what's important to us. We are the Fire Nation. You are very capable; you are a great asset to the country, and to me. As long as you work hard and do as is expected. Do not grow soft. You may take your leave."

Azula swallowed. Despite herself, she felt her lip quiver, and she had to bite her tongue to stop it from showing any further. She knew what Father meant – she was to get out of his sight. And so she bowed one more time, and gathered herself, and stood up on shaky legs, and left the throne room without another word.

Her head felt like cotton. Spinning. Light. Like it would fall off with the slightest breeze. The palace corridors were chilly in comparison to the immense heat of the throne room, and Azula, covered in sweat, shivered.

What she needed was a bath. Some time to just sit and relax and feel the burning hot water against her skin. Not her father's terrible, threatening flames – but her own, controlled heat engulfing her like a gentle embrace. A moment to forget about the whole, complicated world, and to just focus on herself. On her body.

Yes, a hot bath would do her good. She'd tell Su to prepare one for her immediately. Maybe she'd even ask her to join her in the water. She wanted to – she needed to embrace the spoils of her victory. (Though perhaps victory wasn't the right word). She needed to look upon Su, to pull her close, to rest her cheek against her breast. To savour all of her. To remind herself that this – this one, sweet girl, was what made it worth it. She'd made her decision back then, on return from the Boiling Rock. She'd weighed the cold, hard facts of war against her heart and she decided, not for the first time, that she would be selfish. She hadn't regretted that choice then. But now, on returning from the throne room with her cheeks aflame and Father's disappointment reverberating through her head on repeat, she absolutely had to remind herself that Su, her own, sweet Su, was worth it.

"Su, go run me a bath–" Azula cut herself off when, upon entering her bedroom, was met with the soft sound of stifled sobs. Immediately, she went to the handmaid's door. "Su?"

"Oh– princess– I'll get on that right away, I just – I just need a moment–"

"What's wrong? What's happened?"

Suyin looked to the wall, turning her head away from Azula. She wiped her eyes with her sleeve. She'd quieted. She didn't say anything. But her shoulders were still shaking. And there, clutched in her hand, was an open letter, and on her lap – a black envelope. That told Azula exactly what contents were written in the letter.

"Oh, you poor thing," she sighed. "Come here."

She opened her arms and Su came to her, like a child, leaving that dreaded letter behind on the bed. Azula led her to her own bed and motioned for her to lie down, beside her, and she wrapped an arm around her waist, and let her cry against her breast.

She didn't quite know what to do. This was not the first time Suyin had cried in her arms, and certainly not the first time they'd lain entangled with one another to such a degree. Even so, the gesture was delicately uncomfortable. The drying sweat made her clothes stick unpleasantly to her skin. She didn't like lying on the silk bedsheets in such an unkempt state, in her thoroughly worn day clothes, and made a mental note to get the maids to strip and redress the bed later–

But right now, that didn't matter. Su took priority. And though she wished to comfort her, Azula didn't think there was anything she could say or do to ease the hurt of grief. If there was – she certainly wasn't familiar with the right words. So she let her cry against her in her own grand bed, and pretended not to notice just how undone she was.

What terrible, terrible timing. Really, Azula was in no mood for this. It was more than an annoyance - it was a chore. If it were anyone else, she wouldn't have bothered. If this had happened half a year ago – she would have demanded Su put her grief aside and do her duties instead. But she wasn't just a servant, she was someone for whom Azula cared deeply, and so even though she found it a bother, she put her own annoyance, momentarily, aside, and cradled the woman she loved.

"Who was it?" she asked after a while, once the worst of the crying had quieted down.

Suyin hiccuped. Took a moment to steady her breathing. "My brother," she whispered.

"How terrible," Azula murmured.

The thought came, idly, to her, with a sort of deep-seated pleasure that she knew she should never say out loud: now, neither of them had a brother.

But they had each other still, and that was what mattered. Brothers could not be depended upon. Even her dearest friends had chosen her brother over her. But Suyin remained. And Azula would remain for her, too. Hold her and cradle her and wipe away her tears. The departure of a brother was painful, but it would not be their undoing.

And when Suyin finally lifted her head and wiped her blood-shot eyes and runny nose with her sleeve, Azula thought, briefly, that it was like looking in a mirror. Had she looked just as undone on the Day of Black Sun, when she'd returned from her victory to learn she'd lost a brother? Hadn't she masked her grief with determination, just like that? How was it that misfortune came all the same to both princess and civilian, noble and commoner?

"I knew he was unwell," Suyin's voice was still tender as she spoke, clearly focusing on keeping herself level. For a moment, Azula worried that she would start crying all over again, but she retained her composure admirably. "But I never thought it– it would happen so soon."

"How did it happen?" Azula asked, as gently as she could muster, and hoped that she wasn't overstepping any bounds with such a delicate question. Maybe it was too painful to talk about. But she didn't want to fill her with false reassurances when she knew they would help with nothing, and she couldn't think of anything else to say.

"He caught something, apparently. His illness made him weaker, you see. And what should have been a mild infection was– was–" Here she started to tremble again, and her words were cut short with a quivering gasp. A deep breath in. A controlled breath out. Another breath in, and she'd calmed down, marginally, and Azula was glad for it. She did not want her to start crying again.

"How terrible," Azula repeated. She did not know what else to say.

Suyin took in another deep breath, in and out, in and out, in and out. She righted herself and sat up properly on the bed. Azula did the same. She reached out to put her hand on top of Suyin's. They sat on the edge together like that, not saying anything for a moment, until it felt really quite uncomfortable. If Suyin was done– if she was finished with her crying– Azula really, really needed a break. Needed that bath. Father's harsh words still echoed in her head, and every second of silence was a space that invited those words in; the memory on repeat no matter how desperately she tried to force it out. It was suffocating.

But though she wasn't crying anymore, it seemed Suyin was not quite finished with her need for attention, and she looked to Azula with a sort of determination.

"The funeral is in a few days. If I leave tomorrow, I'll make it in time," Su decided, and only then did she seem to remember herself and her position, "Princess, I would be most grateful for two weeks of compassionate leave."

She spoke with such certainty that it didn't seem as though she were making a request at all, but simply stating a fact, which, for some reason, rubbed Azula the wrong way. Obviously, she'd given Su a wide berth of her freedom, of their familiarity. She'd allowed her to do things she would have flogged her previous handmaidens for. Maybe she'd been too tolerant with her. She chewed on the request for a moment.

"No," Azula stated.

"No?" Suyin's eyes widened. Brows furrowed. Evidently, she hadn't been expecting such a response. "One week, then."

"No," Azula repeated, "I refuse to grant you any leave. I need you here, with me. Sozin's comet is fast approaching and I will not enable myself to any further ridicule. Already my brother and– and his fiancée and her friend left me. I will not have you leave me, too, much less to some cesspool who-knows-where."

"The comet is still a few weeks away– I'll be back before then–" Suyin tried to reason, but Azula cut her off.

"My decision is final. You're not leaving."

Su all but jumped up from the bed, "My brother is dead–"

"–and so it makes no difference to him whether you attend the funeral or not," Azula interrupted. "But I need you, Su. Now. Tomorrow. Always. You're the only one left. You're the only one I can trust."

But her sweet words fell on deaf ears – else Suyin did not find them as sweet as she'd intended. Her features contorted into a sorrowful expression, pitiful and watery with unshed tears.

"Please," Suyin said wetly, "Just let me go for the funeral. Let me see my family. Let me say goodbye to my brother."

"Well," Azula dismissed, "Life's not fair, is it? I've had no such luxury."

"Just because you won't grieve your brother," Suyin said, "doesn't mean I shouldn't grieve mine. I have to go. I have to."

And all at once, Azula felt herself be consumed by flame. Something inside of her snapped. Zuko– Zuko had nothing to do with this! This was not about him. This was about her and Suyin, no one else, and she despised the implication. It was in that moment, then, that she knew that she could not coax her back, she could not get her to stay with sweet words and professions of love, no matter how hard she tried.

"You… you ungrateful louse!" Azula snapped as she jumped up and strode towards her. She grabbed Suyin by the wrist, fingernails digging into skin, and the poor girl tried, instinctively, to pull back, but she wouldn't relinquish her hold on her.

"After everything I did for you? This is how you repay me?" Azula hissed, "I gave up a prisoner of war for you!"

"P-Princess–" Suyin stammered. Her eyes had gone wide and wet – more shocked than frightened, as if her little mind were still reeling to catch up to what had happened.

"You would be two-halves dead in a ditch somewhere, if not for me."

"Please, princess–" Suyin tried, but Azula cut her off.

"Father was right. I've been too soft on you."

"Azula, you're hurting me–"

Only that gave her pause. She scowled and threw down Suyin's wrist. When she saw the little crimson beads where her fingernails had dug into her wrist, she felt an apology take root somewhere deep within her chest, but it died before it could bloom.

"I'm sorry," Suyin croaked as she cradled her wrist, "I have to go. It's my brother."

And as Azula watched her turn away with the intention to leave, she, fire personified, did the one thing she knew how to do. The only thing she could think of to stop her leaving.

"If you leave right now, Suyin," Azula threatened, enunciating every syllable sharp as a knife, "then don't bother coming back."

For a moment, Suyin's face grew blank. It softened from the sorrow she wore so wetly on her cheeks into a brief moment of reprieve – and then contorted into something harder. The corners of her lips pulled downward into a vulgar display of a scowl and her nostrils flared like that of a crab-bull. She'd never seen her wear such a crude expression before. She hadn't known Suyin was capable of such boorishness.

"Fine!" Suyin snapped as she turned on her heel and then– disappeared into her room.

"Fine!" Azula cried back even as the door shut in her face. Even as her vision blurred with tears. She picked up the closest thing to her – the golden hairbrush on the vanity – and hurled it at the door with all her might. It left a crater in the crimson wood on impact and then clattered to the floor.

As if she would ever let her have the last word-! Shoulders heaving with emotional exertion, she cried, "Don't you ever show your face here again!"

And then– she wept. Everything, every grievance she'd had to shoulder until now, bubbled within her chest and overflowed. She cried bitter tears and angry tears and those of sorrow. She did not hide them – she did not think she was able to stop them at all. She wept like a child, and the thought that Suyin could hear her from the next room over did not embarrass her as much as it once would have. A part of her even thought– even hoped that Suyin would hear, and that her heart would soften. Any moment now, the door would open, and Suyin would come in with pity and guilt etched on her brows, and she'd kneel down beside her on the floor and wrap her arm around her shoulders, and she'd kiss her temple and apologise.

But she didn't.

By the time Azula had quieted, by the time her raging anger had mellowed and her tears had dried on her cheeks, and she came into Suyin's room to be the bigger woman and apologise and make amends – she found it was completely empty of her things. No trinkets on the bedside table, no clothes in the closet.

She was gone.

Maybe forever.

The new handmaid was some timid girl whose name Azula couldn't be bothered to remember. She was older than Suyin, and spoke only when spoken to, which didn't make for an ounce of interesting conversation when Azula herself had no want to speak. Her hand shook when she applied her makeup, and when Azula told her (admittedly, more harshly than she could have) to re-do it, the poor girl burst into tears. The action took her so completely by surprise that she couldn't find it in herself to reprimand her any further, but told her, only, to clean herself up and re-do it in a few minutes.

She would have dismissed her there and then, in all honesty, were she not waiting for Suyin to return. She'd be back in a week or two, Azula was certain, and so she only had to put up with this simpleton for a few days.

In spite of her harsh words, Suyin would be back, Azula knew. They were more than princess and handmaid – they were companions. They were– they were lovers. She'd seen enough of Zuko and Mai's fights to know that they always made up in the end, no matter what was said and what was done. Suyin would come back demurely after the funeral and ask her forgiveness, and Azula would pull her into her arms and say that no, she wanted to ask her forgiveness. That she hadn't meant it. That she'd been too caught up in her own grievances to see she'd been irrational. That she was only afraid that she'd lose her. That Su would choose her family over her. But now that she was back, everything was all right again. And she'd kiss her, and she'd write her family a large sympathy check, and she'd give Su that necklace of hers that she liked so much, and all would be right again. Maybe not in the world – but between them, at least, and that's what mattered.

But a week passed, and Suyin didn't return. Then two, and still she had not come back. Then three, then four, then five.

Maybe, Azula was forced to concur, she would not return at all. She felt her absence like the sting of a nettle; sharp, lingering, impossible to forget even long after the fact of the sting.

The thought flickered through her head to write her a letter. One day, when she was filled with such guilt and yearning that it threatened to overflow, she even sat down at her desk to attempt it. But when it came to putting her heart into words onto paper, she couldn't do it. Whoever heard of a princess begging her handmaid to return? It was preposterous; her pride wouldn't allow it. She imagined Suyin reading the letter out loud to her family, neighbours, and the entire town, and she imagined them all laughing at her.

No – why should she be the one to beg for her return? If Suyin loved her – really, truly loved her – then she should put in the effort and make amends. Reach out. Meet her in the middle. Sometimes, she was filled with such anger that, were it only possible, she'd burn each memory of her from her mind. What a fool she'd been! Evidently, Suyin didn't care. She must have never loved her at all. Every kind word, every tender moment between them – had it all just been part of her duties?

Her quotidian returned to dull monotony. She woke, and trained, and studied. She exhausted her body and she exhausted her mind. She ate her solitary meals alone in her room. Father rarely sent for her. Some days, her voice sounded foreign to her own ears, so rarely did she use it. Had this really been her life, once upon a time? The years between her brother's banishment and Suyin's employment – hadn't her days looked just like this? No brother, no friends, no one she could depend upon. Just her and Father and dozens of faceless, nameless servants. Yet, somehow those days hadn't seemed so cold, so lonely. She hadn't minded it then, not really. How was it that she felt each absence so much more strongly now?

Sozin's comet was nearly upon them. In the final few days before its arrival, already Azula felt her internal fire begin to grow. She trained harder than ever, working herself nearly half to death, repeating the movements over and over again until every fibre in her body screamed. It kept her mind off of matters, at least. Sometimes, it even exhausted her to the extent that she fell asleep immediately instead of letting her thoughts keep her up at night.

And on that fateful day when the sky lit up with the comet's power, on that fateful day where Azula was to leave, with Father, to lay ruin to the Earth Kingdom, to make an example of their enemies– he kept his back turned to her. He asked her– no, he ordered her to stay behind.

He named her Fire Lord. He named himself Phoenix King.

Azula watched as her father, dressed in extravagant armour that must have been planned months in advance, boarded the ship. He did not say anything else to her. He did not raise his hand in blessing. He did not even turn back to look at her, one last time. He boarded the ship with his chin held high and with his sights set on the horizon before him, where soon Sozin's comet would hang.

She watched as the ship departed. She watched as it grew smaller and smaller on that great horizon, until she could see it no longer. Until her father was, well and truly, out of sight, of his own volition.

Just a few days ago, she'd thought she could get no lonelier.

How utterly, terribly wrong she'd been.