Chapter 17: Soil
The sun hung high in the sky as Aang and Azula worked side by side, turning the soil of the plot of land they'd chosen for the garden. Neither of them spoke for hours, both absorbed in the manual labor. By the time they finished, both were filthy and drenched in sweat, but the sense of satisfaction they shared was palpable.
Aang was the first to break the silence. "So, you seem different than when me and Toph left yesterday..."
Azula paused, staring off at the stone bench that Toph had crafted. It sat between two trees, facing the mountains to the west, and was flanked by a short section of stone wall. Despite being newly constructed, it looked ancient, as if it had always belonged there.
"I tried to firebend," she said softly, her voice steady despite the weight of her admission. "And I couldn't."
She lingered on the bench, her eyes tracing the details of its design. "You know, Toph worked longer on that little section of wall and that bench than she did on the entire foundation of the temple. I mean, of course, the structure took longer overall, but I remember every time she said we should rest, she'd go over there. She'd bring up stones from deep underground, run her hands over them, and either set them aside or toss them over the cliff. There's probably ten times the stones at the bottom."
Aang smiled softly. "Toph can be a real perfectionist when she cares about something. For all her tough talk and rough edges, when it matters, she does things with real thought and care."
Azula's gaze shifted to the plot of land they had just finished working. "Did you know, Aang, that there was no official division between benders and non-benders in the Fire Nation military? A non-bender could rise up the ranks, even command a fleet. We prided ourselves on that. Publicly."
She turned to face him, her eyes glassy though she refused to let the tears fall. "But behind the palace walls, we called them all peasants. It didn't matter what they accomplished. If it was necessary, you could snuff them out like a candle. That's what I am now, Aang. A peasant."
Aang felt a surge of sympathy rise in his chest, but something in him told him to stay quiet. This was the most Azula had ever revealed to him, and he didn't want to interrupt her.
"Anyway," she continued, "I've never gardened before. It was never my thing. Zuko did, though. And Mother... she had a garden. It was different than this one. She grew flowers—so many flowers, all kinds. Zuko would be out there helping her, pulling weeds, planting new ones. I hated him for it. I wanted to be out there too, but Father... Father had already told me that Zuko wasn't fit to lead, and that I needed to stop wasting time on childish things. I was seven, Aang."
Azula took a deep breath, her voice growing quieter. "One day, I came home and found Mother locked in her room, crying. Zuko was sitting on a bench near the back, near the rear entrance. I asked him what happened, and he said that Father came home drunk, saw them tending the garden, and flew into a rage. He burned the garden, smacked Mother, and threw Zuko against a wall."
Her lips twitched into a bitter smile. "You know what I did, Aang? I laughed. I told Zuko and Mother they deserved it. Because that's what a leader does, right? They make decisions and never look back. Father made that decision, so it had to be right."
She paused, her voice barely a whisper. "But inside, I was devastated. I loved that garden, loved walking by and smelling the flowers. They were beautiful. But I had to celebrate their destruction."
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Azula stood there, the streaks of tears now visible in the dust on her face. Finally, she stood and brushed herself off. "Well," she said, her voice lighter but not without strain, "let's grab some seeds. I remember seeing some in a crate."
Aang nodded, taking her lead. "I ordered a variety—fruits, vegetables, enough to get a good start."
They planted the seeds together in silence. When it came time to water the soil, Aang instinctively moved to bend water from the nearby cistern, but Azula raised a hand to stop him.
"No," she said, pointing to herself. "Peasant."
Aang gave her a small, understanding nod. She fetched a pail, filled it with water from the cistern, and began pouring it over the rows. As she worked, she noticed the water fanning out more evenly than it should have. It was obvious Aang was bending, just a little, to help. Azula decided to let it slide.
Once the garden was watered, Azula stood next to Aang, both of them covered in dirt, their clothes clinging to them from sweat. They started laughing, the day's labor and the shared silence breaking into an easy camaraderie.
"Hey," Aang said, still chuckling, "did Toph ever finish installing the showers behind the living quarters? I totally forgot to ask her."
Azula nodded. "Yeah, she did. You can shower up first. I think I'll make some signs for the garden, like my mother used to." Azula's tone was light, but there was a hint of something deeper behind her words.
As Aang walked away, he pulled his shirt off, stretching his sore muscles. Azula's eyes caught a glimpse of the scar on his back—the one she had given him years ago with her lightning. The memory hit her like a wave, freezing her in place. The very man she had once tried to kill was now working beside her, helping her heal in ways she never thought possible.
The weight of it all—the memories of her father, the garden, the scar—came crashing down on her. As soon as Aang rounded the corner and disappeared from view, Azula collapsed to her knees. Tears streamed down her face, her body shaking as the pain and regret she had long suppressed finally broke free.