CLANG.
A few hours after Katara finally falls asleep, she's rudely woken again by someone banging on the bars of her cage. For a second, she thinks the last three months were a dream, before she's fully awake.
Azula stands in front of her cage. The sun is barely up, but like all firebenders, Azula has been up since the first ray crept over the horizon. What the moon is to waterbenders, the sun is to fire.
"Get dressed", she orders. "You have a full day today."
Dressed? Full day? Something blue – the remains of her Water Tribe clothing – has been slid under the bars of the cage.
At first, Katara wants to refuse. Whatever Azula has planned for her, she wants no part of it. She will not be Azula's entertainment. But, considering Azula's unusual lack of cruelty the day before, and knowing that 'generosity' can easily turn into violence again… Katara reconsiders. She needs to conserve her strength. As much as she wants to wash the arrogant tone out of Azula's throat, she will gain nothing by provoking the princess into burrning her further.
She hates it.
Azula gracefully averts her eyes as Katara changes out of her red prisoner tunics into her old robes. Once Katara is dressed, Azula waves a guard over, who unlocks the cage and shackles Katara, hands behind her back, preventing any meaningul bending. After Azula convinces herself Katara is suffficiently secured, she leads them out of the royal chambers and deeper into the palace.
"Where are we going?"
"Shut up and walk", the guard barks, but to Katara's surprise, Azula holds up a hand to shush her.
"You'll see", she just answers.
The walk through the palace is… demeaning, that's the best word. Humiliating. Katara is keenly aware of the stares – guards, nobles, clerks. Once or twice, they pass a family, no doubt wealthy and important, judging by their clothes, and Katara's face burns red with shame every time a small child points at her, like an exotic animal. That's all she is, really, she realises: Azula is showing her off like a pet. A walk of shame for the whole palace to see. Her hands clench into fists behind her back.
"We're here", Azula announces. Two guards open a wide double door for her, and Katara is led inside.
It's… a tailor's workshop?
Rolls of cloth hang from the walls and ceiling, in more shades of red than Katara has ever seen. Golden trimmings, boxes full of buttons – golden, pearls, wooden, bone –, jewels in all shapes and sizes… Katara sees velvet, silk, damast, batiste, crepe, muslin; or she would if she knew half of these names. There is fur, too, though not of any kind she's ever seen. Leather, seal and polar bear dog fur, she recognises that from home… buckets of dyes, in crimson, burgundy, fiery reds, blacks, golds and ambers…
The wonder and awe is written on Katara's face, and Azula soaks up every last bit of it. The little peasant probably has never seen anything like this. From what she's seen of those tribals, they know little more than rags and pelts – she almost grimaces in distaste, but she has more discipline than that –, certainly nothing that could rival the cloths of an industrious nation like Azula's own.
"You can close your mouth now", she remarks. "It's just cloth. You do know what that is, right?"
The hurt and embarrassment on Katara's face when she realises she's been caught staring only satisfies Azula further. No discipline, she thinks to herself. Never show what you're thinking, Ozai's first lesson to her. Remain unreadable. Know what they think, never show what you think.
Katara, clearly, has been raised without any such restraint.
But that's not why they're here.
Fear is not an effective motivator, Azula has decided. But what is?
She's spent the entire night thinking about it. The thought of just killing Katara has crossed her mind again, but she may still be useful, with how far behind schedule the war is lately. And after sparring her, Azula sees entertainment value in Katara. No, she's not giving up on taming the savage just yet.
Not fear then. Not death either. What else remains?
She hit on the idea shortly before sunrise: a golden cage.
Azula can only raise the price of escape so far. Death, torture, pain beyond belief; there's not much more she can add to that. Katara knows what could happen to her if she tries to break out, and yet she's tried. So all Azula can do is lower the cost of staying. Make it easier for Katara to become complacent. Housebreak her, accustom her to the amenities of palace life. Not quite so nice, of course, that it gets rewarding. Just barely enough to make escape not worth it. It's a genius solution, Azula thinks. Not quite the way her father would handle it, but it's one all her own. Manipulation, paired with carefully dosed violence and threats.
She will tame Katara like one does a puma goat. Meat and whip. Warmth and cold.
"Your Majesty! It is an honour to be allowed to serve you! What may I do for you today?"
The tailor's words – out of breath after hurrying through the shop when one of her assistants alerted her of the Fire Lord's arrival – snap Azula out of her thoughts. Right. She's here for a reason. She motions for the guards to bring Katara forward.
"My guest", the words are a mockery of Katara's bound and pitiful state, "will require new clothing. Maybe something less primitive than what she's used to."
If the tailor is surprised, she hides it well. She motions someone over to start taking measurements.
"Certainly. What did Your Majesty have in mind?"
"Blue", Azula decides. It's easier to spot in a palace full of red, should Katara try to escape again. And perhaps it will pacify the savage a little. "Nothing too fashionable, of course."
The tailor hurries to show Azula some different designs. She doesn't notice Katara's befuddled stare at Azula's back. Not that she isn't glad to be rid of the prisoner outfits – as nice as clean clothes are, the tunics are scratchy and barren, just enough to cover a decent amount of skin, hanging off her body in some places and pinching in others. But a whole new wardrobe?
What is she playing at?
Azula never does anything without ulterior motive. 'Azula always lies', Zuko had told her. Azula the schemer, the manipulator. There has to be a reason, a goal. She lets herself be posed and moved around while the cutters measure her from head to toe, backwards, forwards, arms, waist, shoulders, bust, neck, and whatnot.
What are you playing at, Azula?
Meanwhile, Azula finishes up. She settles on a plain blue cotton-oak cloth for Katara and a simple design, a little more comfortable than the prisoner tunics. She instructs the tailor to embroider all sets with the Fire Lord's sigil – declare her ownership of her prisoner, in a way, lest anyone get the idea she's forgotten Katara is the enemy. She's spoils of war, that's it.
"Oh, and something for sleeping in", she orders, almost as an afterthought.
"Certainly, Your Majesty", the tailor nods. "When will Your Majesty be needing it?"
"As soon as possible", Azula replies.
The tailor isn't particularly happy about it, she can tell. Around the workshop, she can see various unfinished projects – a dress that looks like it may be for Lord Zhen's wife, a bespoke uniform the size of which can only be for Admiral Kozai – and none of the recipients will be happy about delays. In fact, Azula is pretty sure some of them may be due shortly, for the officer's yearly ball.
Who cares.
She's the Fire Lord.
Her word is law. Her will is divine. Her right to rule is absolute.
"Let's go", she calls Katara and her guards along. "We don't have all day."
Katara barely pays attention as the guards guide her through the door and walk her after Azula. There's got to be a motive. Is Azula out for information? Trying to pretend to be her friend to pry more about Aang or the Earth Kingdom out of her? Does she want to bring Katara around to her side, turn her into some sort of sidekick, a replacement for the mean girl with the knife – Mai, she remembers – and the chi-blocking athlete?
What's going on in your head, Azula?
She doesn't notice they've arrived at their next destination – Azula's next destination? – until she hears Azula's voice.
The court architect, in contrast to the tailor, is a very quiet man. He's been in the royal family's service since the time of Azula's grandfather. Ordinarily, Azula would have a servant banished for failing to bow down to her, and two years ago, she might have. But good staff is so hard to find these days. So when the architect just mumbles "your highness", she lets it slide.
Katara can't quite hear what Azula discusses with the man. She doesn't hear the revonations Azula demands. The taking out of a wall. The reinforcement of the walls of an adjacent room next to her cage. The furnishing of her cage. She doesn't hear when Azula demands it be done today, before sunset, but she sees the architect's surprise at it. After some more discusssion, he wordlessly salutes her.
"Come", Azula orders.
The Fire Lord's barber has probably never had to work with hair as bad as Katara's. After a year of captivity – by Katara's count, it's the day before the Fall Equinox –, her hair is filthy, frayed, matted and tangled. Azula doesn't explain why she wants Katara cleaned up, and the barber knows better than to ask. It must be a nice thing, Katara muses, to not have to explain herself to people all the time. Her hair is washed, combed, cut to its previous length. It's the cleanest she's felt in a year. That her hair is cut in a basic Fire Nation style – Azula's orders – is less nice, but she refuses to give that monster the satisfaction of protesting. It's not like there's anything left of her old hair, her loops.
She refuses to involve herself at all.
She sits down when told to. She's let the tailor pose and measure her. She lets the barber wash and cut.
Prisoner, yes.
Entertainment, no.
Azula watches as Katara, slowly, turns into something resembling a person again. The savage animal Azula knows she is on the inside disappears. When the servants are done, Katara looks very much like a Fire Nation labourer, or perhaps a junior servant. Humble, presentable, unobtrusive. If it weren't for the blue clothes, the shackles, or the prominent scar on her face, she could pass for a handmaiden.
The beast is being tamed.
By the time the guards lead Katara back into the Fire Lord's chambers, the workers are done. A door in the back of the cage leads into a small closet. A basic bed – really just four beams with a futon across them –, a chair, and small table have been placed in the cage. A bamboo divider has been set up for Katara to change and relieve herself behind. The architect assures her that the metal reinforcements in the makeshift bedroom are just as durable as the cage, and he knows his head will be on the chopping block if they're not.
It's still a cage. But it's golden.
Katara doesn't say a word when she's led into the cage and locked in again. She doesn't let it show whether she appreciates the bed as she sits down on it. She utters no 'thank you' as a bowl of noodle soup and chopsticks, a more generous portion than before, is placed on the table. When the tailor brings in the first set of completed clothes, she doesn't look up, doesn't jump up and disappear behind the divider to try them on, doesn't try them on at all until Azula orders her to (they fit perfectly). If it's admiration or gratitude Azula wants to wrestle from her, she won't let her have it.
Nevertheless, Azula can tell. She is a people person.
Katara has been tempted. Over time, Azula is confident, the bait will take. Fighting her way across the palace grounds, hiding in a foreign country, plunging herself into the cold and unforgiving ocean, risking death to escape – or staying in a cage where she's fed, clothed, provided with a bed?
Azula can't make the price of escape higher, but she's reasonably confident that she's just made the price of staying lower.
She will break Katara's will.
She's the Fire Lord.
The entire nation bows to her. It's time Katara does, too.