Part I - Diplomacy

The first time he comes, he's with her brother. She's asleep at last, after tossing and turning for hours, when the low sound of Zuko's voice wakes her. It gets louder as he draws closer, and two sets of footsteps echo through the stone corridor.

"I'm keeping her here until I can come up with something better. She's burned every servant and guard I've put near her."

Curse him. Now she's going to be lying awake for who knows how long. She's about to sit up and flambé her idiot brother and whatever moron he's brought with him when the second boy speaks.

"Something better? Come on, Zuko, if things were the other way around she'd have killed you a year ago."

That voice… why is it familiar? She opens her eyes silently and stares at the wall of her cell. It's nighttime, and the cold of winter has seeped into the corners of the tower. Not that it matters much, anymore, what time it is. She hasn't seen the sun in ages.

"I know that," he answers, and she hears him sigh. "But I'm not her."

No, she thinks spitefully. You're definitely not. She can feel fire racing through her veins to her hands, making her palms itch, but for some reason she can't quite name, she keeps it at bay. She waits for a reply.

"No," Sokka agrees. "You're definitely not." But there's no spite in his voice. There's a short silence, and then the sound of heavy boots shifting on the floor. "But you're going to have to do something about her sooner or later."

"I know," Zuko says heavily. "I will."

Oh, she would love to throw her covers back and shoot them both full of lightning, but hearing them discuss her fate gives her pause. It makes her stomach flutter in that way that she hates, the way they talk about her like everything is up to them, like she's got no control over what happens. And besides, lately, her lightning hasn't exactly been… well, it hasn't—

Sokka clears his throat. "I know you've already said you're opposed to… well, opposed to the death penalty. But Zuko, think of what she's done… all the people she's hurt without thinking twice about it…"

"I know," her brother answers. There's no feeling in his voice. "But she's still my sister. I can't just have her killed."

She rolls her eyes into the dark, some part of her actually hoping that the stupid Water Tribe peasant will convince him. After all, why not?

"Honestly, that's not a very good reason to keep her alive," Sokka says bluntly, and she realizes she's silently agreeing with him. "If she wasn't your sister, the decision would be easy."

"Look, I don't expect you to understand," Zuko says, and she can't believe that he doesn't even sound annoyed. If anything, he sounds tired. If anyone dared to speak to her like that… well, they'd be a nice crispy snack for a komodo rhino. "You're lucky. Katara's your sister. But Agni gave me Azula, and there's nothing I can do about that."

The disappointment in his voice makes her blood boil. How dare he speak about her like that, like between the two of them, she's the disapointment? The fire itches worse than ever, and she wonders if she's being stupid by not just letting it out. However much her brother resents her, he can't resent her more than she resents him, hate her more than she hates him…

And yet he won't kill you, whispers something in the back of her mind. So how can that be true?

"Fine," Sokka says exasperatedly. "So you're not even going to consider it?"

"I haven't considered it in the past year, and I'm not going to consider it now."

Sokka huffs, and she can almost see him crossing his arms in her mind's eye. "Okay, fine. Fine. That makes perfect sense."

"You should take a leaf out of Aang's book, Sokka," Zuko says, and for the first time she can hear some irritation. "He agrees with me. He understands."

"Oh please," she hears a soft clank of metal against stone; it sounds like he's leaned against the wall. "I don't remember you being such a pacifist when it was your father we were talking about."

Another pang, and a column of heat surges through her middle. She almosts gasps in surprise and pain — her control is getting worse and worse.

"No," Zuko admits. "But Aang was right, in the end. And he agrees with me now. Death isn't the answer."

Sokka snorts. "Don't you see? Aang would never say that death is the answer, and we're never gonna see eye-to-eye on this stuff. If it had been up to me, we would have left you for dead in that blizzard at the North Pole. I believe in getting what you deserve."

She doesn't mean for it to happen, but a little ripple of approval runs through her. He was in favor of killing Zuko?

"How rude," Zuko chuckles, and her annoyance is back full-force. "And look at us now. Aren't you glad he showed me mercy?"

Sokka huffs again. "That's different. Azula's nothing like you."

She hates how much sense this peasant is talking.

"No, she's not," her brother agrees. "But it doesn't matter. I'm not having her killed, Sokka. If my father gets to live, then so does Azula. That's final."

There's another silence.

"Fine," Sokka says finally, and she can hear the effort it's costing him to stop arguing. "Fine. You said yourself that I should take a leaf out of Aang's book. So, why don't you ask him to take away her firebending? More safety, no death. Nobody else getting burned."

Suddenly, she can't breathe. Panic squeezes her chest, hot and fluttering, and she can feel her throat tighten as she stares at the wall. Her entire body itches painfully.

"No," Zuko says quietly, and she sucks in a gasping breath so loudly that she's afraid they'll hear her. "I can't do that, either."

There's a dull thump. It seems Sokka's actually stamped his foot in frustration. "Why the hell not?"

"Because," Zuko answers, "that's all she has."

Sokka starts to speak again, but Zuko cuts him off. "If I took away her fire, I might as well just kill her."

Her heart is still pounding, spires of alarm rising and falling inside of her chest.

There's more silence.

"You are so fucking hard-headed," Sokka says finally. "If you might as well just kill her, then just go ahead and kill her."

"I'd like to see you try."

She's sat up at last, and it's satisfying to see them both jump. Her eyes fall on the newcomer, and, just for a second, she takes him in. He's taller than she remembers, an inch or two taller than her brother, and his dark hair is shaggier. He's growing broad, too, filling out his blue tunic more thoroughly at sixteen. His blue eyes are shocking, luminous in his brown face, and they fix on her so coldly that she almost shivers.

Almost.

"Good evening, Azula," Zuko says evenly.

Agni, how she hates the calm in his voice, how she hates the crown in his topknot! That crown that would have been hers, if she had just been… She grits her teeth.

"Good evening, Zuzu. Still too weak to kill me?" She pushes herself off of the thin mattress and steps towards the bars. "I've never heard of a Fire Lord being such a coward."

"I'm breaking tradition," Zuko answers, and she hates that too. A year ago he would have yelled, challenged her, shot some of his sad little orange flames at her. And now… she clenches her fists. She hates that she's losing her power over him, losing herself.

"Obviously." She leans against the door and grasps it lazily, her hands igniting around the bars. The bluebell flames dance through her fingers, the heat of them cutting through the room. "It's a shame."

She's speaking to Zuko, but she fixes her eyes on Sokka. To her consternation, he doesn't back up, or even look away. Instead, he stares back at her, steadfast and bluer than anything she's ever seen. She grips the bars a little tighter, and the flames leap higher.

"Thanks for your input," Zuko says. "I'll be sure to take it into consideration."

The insolence of him. But now she's distracted, curious, not understanding why this ridiculous boy won't stop looking at her like that, like he disdains her. The metal is getting hot under her hands and she lets go, instead palming the little infernos at her side. Why is he looking at her like that? He knows what she can do.

"Come on, Sokka," her brother says, and turns. "Let's go."

She stares at him and he stares back, blue on amber for another breath.

And then he breaks it, pushing up off the wall, and without another word they're both gone.

The prison door slams. She's still and silent, staring after them for one, two, three heartbeats.

And then she lets go and the fire rips out of her with a scream, her frustration pummeling the steel door of the tower, the heat nearly searing her eyebrows off. It's huge and as blue as those dismissive eyes, billowing out from her palms, her mouth, in wave after wave until the roiling in her veins has slowed. She collapses to her knees, the tears trickling down her cheeks as hot as fire, the fire that Zuko refuses to take from her.

It's the first time she's ever been grateful for his weakness.

-o-

The second time he comes, he's reluctant. She's awake this time, but for what? It's not like she's got anything to do. She's sitting on her bed, staring out at the wall across the hall, when the door to the tower creaks open. She assumes it's a guard, bringing the lunch that she probably won't eat anyway, and she doesn't turn her head until he's right in front of her. She hides her surprise and raises an eyebrow.

"Couldn't stay away?"

He gives her that look again, like he'd rather be anywhere but here. He's got a scroll in his hands.

"Yeah, I just love running unpleasant errands for the Fire Lord."

It's hard to gauge time when you're locked up in the dark, but it's been at least two months since she last saw him, she's sure of it. His hair is growing out — his sides are even shaggier than last time, and the new growth looks soft and shiny. He's dressed in full Water Tribe warrior regalia again, but without that ridiculous wolf helmet.

"Of course you do. Missing all the excitement I bring to your life?"

"Obviously," he says. "Now, get up. Let's get this over with."

She bristles. Like she's going to take orders from him. "I'll pass."

He ignores her. "This," he says, unrolling the scroll, "is a statement of war crimes. Your crimes. I need you to read it, and verbally confirm to me, as a councilman, that you acknowledge what you've done."

"A little late, aren't we?" she laughs. "Diplomacy's not all it's cracked up to be, is it, councilman?"

"It's not," he agrees with her, surprising her. "I hate not getting my way when I know that I'm right. So, like I said, let's get this over with."

"Politics," she muses aloud, just to annoy him. She doesn't make the first move to get up. "How long has it been since I zapped my darling brother? A year? A year and a half? And I'm just now being prosecuted? Goodness, people really don't value the life of their Fire Lord the way they used to."

He gives her a funny look that she doesn't like. "A year and two months."

It takes her a second to realize what he's telling her, and when she does, she doesn't say anything. She doesn't like that, the fact that he found the real question buried in her taunt so easily. How long have I been shut in here? He heard it without even trying, and, what's worse, he answered it. He didn't have to. He did her a favor.

He crouches down and, with a flex of his shoulders, pushes the scroll through the bars and across the stone floor. "Here."

It skitters to a stop near her bed, and, without looking, she points two fingers and lights it. She watches his face as the blue flames turn orange, crackling happily along the scroll, curling characters into smoke. The scent of burning paper fills the space between them, acrid and sharp.

"There's your acknowledgement."

She expects (hopes?) he'll get angry. Instead, he rolls his eyes, and as she watches, pulls another, identical scroll from his pocket. She shoots another jet of flame, but he's quick — he dodges it. Now she's standing up, striding over to the bars before she's even realized what she's doing, angry because the message is clear, even if he hasn't said it. You're so predictable. I knew you were going to do that.

He unfurls the scroll with a shake and dodges another jet of fire. "Could you quit that?"

She sneers. "Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

He rolls his eyes again, and she clenches her fists. The nerve of him! She could light both him and the scroll on fire in a second if she really wanted to, but…

"Here." He shoves the scroll towards her, and her eyes travel down the characters, reading automatically without meaning to. "Just fucking read it so I can get out of here."

"Did you write this?" she lifts an eyebrow. "Impressive. I didn't know savages could write."

"Wow, I've never heard that one before," he retorts. "Did you come up with that all by yourself?"

She glares at him. Does this peasant have no fear of getting charbroiled? But, she notices, they're kind of close to each other, standing like this. She's as close to the bars as she can get without pressing right up against them, and he's glaring at her just feet away, near enough that he could reach out and touch her if he wanted to. So close to her cell, like he didn't even think about precautions, like he's not even worried! No one else dares to get this near to her, and she can see the blue of his eyes burning out of his face, the crease between his dark eyebrows.

She doesn't approve of this at all, though — this idea that she's not dangerous. So she twirls her hand beside her, pulls a fiery rope out of nowhere, and winds it through the air absentmindedly.

"You've forgotten the time I attacked a former general."

He checks the list, and adds some characters in an infuriatingly matter-of-fact way. "So I have."

"And lied to the Fire Lord about who killed the Avatar."

"I don't count lying to evil psychopaths as a war crime."

That painful heat rolls through her middle again, and she hates the uncertainty that grips her, even if it's just for a moment. Her flaming rope goes out, but she smirks. "I imagine Zuko would beg to differ."

"Fair enough," he shrugs. "Everything else look heinously correct?"

She eyes him carefully. Why does he need this confession from her, really? Is it possible that he finally convinced Zuko, and this is the last step? Personal admission from the source?

"Spot-on."

"Great." He rolls up the scroll and shoves it into his pocket. "Pleasure doing business with you."

He turns, walks away, and some strange emotion seizes her. Almost like… no, it would be ridiculous, but almost like she… doesn't want him to go. Not because she likes him — he's unbearable, just like the rest of them — but because when he's gone, she'll be alone again. Alone, and bored.

So she points, and another stream of fire shoots towards him. It's not big but it's hot, and it's enough to instantly catch the hem of his tunic. As she watches, he yanks open the door with one hand and bats out the flames with the other. He doesn't even turn around. For just one brief, shining moment, she can see sunlight, glowing around his boot, glancing off his armor as he steps outside. He's smoking slightly.

And then he's gone. She stares at the scorch marks on the floor for a long time after that.

-o-

The third time he comes, it's raining outside. She knows because she can hear it pounding on the roof of the prison tower. She hates the rain, but she'd still rather be outside than locked in here. She's lying on her bed, flat on her back, bouncing a ball of blue fire off of the ceiling. Gods, she's never been so bored in her entire life.

So, when he walks in, she actually sits up to see who it is — she's dying for some amusement. She's surprised to see him. He's dressed the same as last time, in a warrior's uniform, the fur trim wet and dripping from walking through the rain outside. How stupid, to wear fur in the Fire Nation. It's too warm for that, even in winter.

This time, she doesn't say anything, just bounces her fire off the stone floor, sitting cross-legged on her covers. He comes right up to the bars of the cell again, like it's no big deal, like it's the most casual thing in the world.

"Hey."

Hey? She narrows her eyes. What is that supposed to mean?

He shrugs when he's met with silence. The sides of his hair are growing out fully now — it's beginning to lay flat, framing his face, and his ponytail has been freshly trimmed. He looks better-rested. She contemplates the little fireball she's still bouncing. She could augment it in a second and send it at him, catch his clothes, and get him out of the tower. He does nothing but irritate her when he comes, and—

"I have some things for you." To her horror, he actually sits down in front of the bars — so close that his knees are almost touching them — and settles into a cross-legged position. "Zuko tells me it's your birthday."

She looks at him like he's speaking Egyptian, the ball of fire hovering just above her palm. She's trying to come up with a snarky answer but he's catching her so off guard each time he opens his mouth that he's making it difficult.

"How old are you, again?"

He stares at her, waiting for a reply, like he expects her to reply, and before she's quite realized what she's doing, she answers.

"I'm sixteen today, apparently."

She'd had no idea it was her birthday. It's not like she's got any way to know what the date is.

"Sixteen, huh?" He pulls his boomerang off of his back and starts sharpening it, like he's not even thinking about what he's doing. The rasp echoes through the hallway. "You're only a year younger than me."

She frowns. "I guess age and wisdom don't always correlate."

He cracks a smile. What is this guy's fucking problem? "I mean, obviously, seeing as Zuko's older than both of us."

She frowns deeper. He clears his throat.

"So, look, I've got some stuff for you here." He sets down the boomerang and stone and picks up the knapsack he's dropped, rifling through it for a moment. "This is from Zuko."

He pulls a small framed canvas out of the bag and she recoils on the bed. It's her mother's face painted onto it, young and beautiful, the way she— the way they— remember her. She smiles softly in red ochre and yellow paint, curved lines and loveliness, a Venus with terrible sadness behind her eyes.

"He commissioned this about two months ago," Sokka says, oblivious to her reaction, busy admiring the painting himself. "She was quite a beauty. I can see where you get it from." The canvas is small enough to be slipped between the bars, which he does.

She stares at it. Her palms itch. She should set it on fire, rid herself of that face. She knows that she should.

"And then," he says, reaching into the bag again, "there's something from me."

This is distracting enough that, for a moment, she takes her eyes off of Ursa.

"It's not much, but I think it'll be good to have in here." And between the bars, he places a fat bundle of dried sage. "I thought you should have some."

And then he looks at her, like he's expecting something. Sits back on his hands, shoulders slouched and relaxed, and fixes those eyes on her. They're so shockingly bright in his dark face that she feels as if she's being examined from every pinpoint, read the way you would read a map. There's a clap of thunder overhead, and a fresh wave of rain pounds onto the roof. Her stomach growls painfully.

"Who said I wanted anything from you? Or from Zuko, for that matter?"

He just shrugs and picks up the boomerang again. Its scrape sounds through the corridor. He's still watching her. She hates the way his gaze is making her feel, like he can see every inch and angle of her, like he can see right through her. She can smell the sage, sharp and fragrant, and in a second it brings back enough memories to make her angry. She flexes her wrist and the fire grows, swirling to the size of a watermelon. The heat radiates outwards from above her hand, making the side of her face itch.

"I've been nice until now," she says coldy, staring daggers back at him. Their gazes seem to meet, snapping and crackling in the air. "But you had better get out of here, peasant, if you know what's good for you."

He appraises her for a moment, the stone moving one, two, three more times along the edge of the boomerang. And then he stands, in no hurry, and slings it onto his back. He drops the stone into his knapsack, and stretches before straightening his tunic. She realizes that she's waiting for a response, waiting for the bite of attitude she's come to expect from him. Instead, he gives her and her fire one last glance, and, without a word, strides to the door and out into the rain.

He doesn't slam the door. It clicks shut behind him.

She hurls the fire through the bars and across the hall with one heaving breath. It hits the stone with a BOOM! and her cell vibrates, a wave of heat blasting back at her. She realizes that her heartbeat is pounding far harder than is justified. She breathes fast, dropping her chin and clenching her fists, hoping that he heard the explosion from the path back to the palace. He should know that the smoking starburst on the wall could just as easily have been on his stupid face.

She stares at the gifts he's left. Her mother's face taunts her upside-down, her red lips frowning from this angle. The eyes are disconcerting, too. Almost like they can see her, like they can follow her with that wistful, disappointed expression. Ursa's face is marred by sad eyes, like she'd always known her daughter would fail, like she could see it all along…

"Leave me alone," she demands. "I'm not afraid of you!"

The portrait doesn't answer, thankfully, but she lights it anyway with a stream of blue fire. She can't fight the hot, twisting pain in her gut as she watches the neckline of her mother's robe beginning to curl into nothing. It shrivels, crisps up and blackens, and she swears she's being ripped clean in two. The fire hurts and she can't fathom why, because it never used to hurt before. She can feel that fluttering in her stomach, that hot sensation of panic, and she leaps off of her bed, stamping on the bottom of the portrait. The frame cracks, the flames die. Her mind is racing, threatening to drown itself in a deep river of doubts and memories. This is when she craves lightning the most, craves that deep sense of calm and purpose. No thoughts at all. No weakness.

She stops, her mother's half-burned portrait still smoldering underfoot. She closes her eyes. Lifts two fingers on each hand, and—

KA-BOOOOOM!

It explodes in her face, throwing her backwards, and she cries out in rage and frustration. A new burn smokes darkly on the floor of her cell. There's dust raining from the ceiling now, drifting down onto her, and she knows it's only a matter of time before one of the guards standing outside reports her to Zuko again. But her whole body is itching, and containing the fire is proving harder than it's ever been before.

She's still on the bed for just a moment, breathing hard, and the sound of the rain comes back to her. The sound of water, pounding on the roof and trickling down the sides, cold and cleansing. She's heaving, hot, but for some reason she can't explain, the sound of the water calms her. She can imagine it, almost feel it, running down her flushed skin in cool trickles, dripping onto the burn deep inside her chest and quenching it.

She breathes deeply, and some of the pain subsides. Her uncle's voice comes back to her unwillingly.

"Now Azula, not like that. Yes, you completed the form, but in firebending, your power must start with your breath. Your technique should include beauty, too, my niece — not just heat and power."

Her father had scolded his brother, she remembers, told him off for trying to influence the royal children's training. That had, of course, been the correct reaction, and exactly what she would have done… and yet, lying here and listening to the rain, for once, she obeys Iroh's voice. She breathes. The pain cutting through her abdomen subsides, dulls. She keeps breathing until it's gone.

There's guilt writhing in the pit of her stomach as she sits up. She deserves the pain, if it's there, and she listened to Uncle just to escape it… it's weakness, she knows it.

She spots the sage. It's still lying where Sokka left it, untouched next to the cracked and smoking remains of her mother's portrait. Its smell is as sharp as ever, mixing with the heavy scent of rain. For the first time, she really considers it. She'd like to burn that too, so the next time he comes he can see what she thinks of his gift.

But to burn sage...

She clutches her blanket in her fists. He knew that she would burn the portrait, she realizes, because his gift to her is something she can't burn. To burn it would be to use it.

She stares at the sage and tries to feel angry.

Instead, she turns over and stretches out. She won't burn it, then. It can sit there unused, can sit there and stink until he comes back the next time, until…

"She was quite a beauty. I can see where you get it from."

She doesn't want Sokka to echo in her head like this. She stares at the ceiling. He was mocking her, the same way he's mocking her with the sage, knowing she'll want to burn whatever he gives her… She can almost hear his obnoxious voice. What would he say?

"Always burning everything, aren't you? Well, here — finally something you can do right."

She hates to admit it, but her cell and the hall really do smell now, reeking of burned paper and charred stone. Her failed attempt at shooting lightning is still smoldering sadly on the ground. She probably has soot on her face from the resulting explosion, not to mention the fresh burns on her pride. She wonders what she's becoming.

She tries to go to sleep. She really does. But no matter how she turns, the smell of smoke stings her nostrils, and the din of the rain won't let her rest. Her mind spins fruitlessly over itself until she can't quite grasp onto any one thing, and it's only then that his voice echoes through her head again, as clear as day, in a very different tone this time.

"Here. You don't need matches. Use your fire. Do something good with it."

So which did he mean?

"Listen to you," she mutters to herself. "Why are you even thinking about him?"

Something good.

In the end, she lights the sage. Only for a minute, to mask some of the bad burning smell. She falls asleep to the sound of the rain.

-o-

He comes again sooner than he ever has before; she estimates that another month has passed. She's sitting on her bed and drawing characters on the sooty wall when she hears the door open and heavy boots come inside. She's horrified to realize that she's beginning to recognize the sound of his walk, and then he's in front of her cell before she can address it further.

"Princess," he bows his head ever so slightly, and she stares at him. His hair is… down. Out of the ponytail. And it looks… good.

It's not just his hair, either. He's out of his strange Water Tribe armor and wearing a blue tunic, which fits around his shoulders and waist in a way that makes her skin tingle just from looking at him. Not a good tingle. It's still strange and barbaric and blue is a bad color.

He gives her a funny look, and pushes his hand through his hair in a self-conscious kind of way. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

His bangs flop back into his eyes, and she decides that this whole hair thing is kind of distracting. It's the color of bittersweet chocolate, which she loves, and it's just the right length to grab…

She turns up her nose. "I'm not."

"Are too," he argues, and crosses his arms. "What, did Zuko singe my eyebrows again?"

She blinks. "Um, no."

"Yeah, right," he mutters, smoothing the feared-for hairs. "No respect at all. I fall asleep in one meeting one time… Boom. No eyebrows for a month." He eyes her suspiciously. "Something he learned from you, maybe?"

Talking to Sokka is like being on the training field. He keeps shooting off fireballs for her to dodge, and it's impacting her offense.

"Please," she snorts. "I didn't shave his head. He can mess up his hair just fine without my help."

"I guess that's true," Sokka muses. "But still…"

He looks as if he's actually considering the validity of this, and she realizes that he's gotten her talking to him again. She scowls.

"Why are you here? What do you want?"

"To wish you a happy winter solstice, of course," he says, and pulls out that damn boomerang again. He's not sitting down this time, just leaning against the wall. "I hope you're square with the spirits. You never know what might happen on this day."

Her jaw clenches. "How dare you— "

"Wish you peace and balance?" He bows to her, Fire Nation-style with the boomerang in his fist, and she stares at him. "I don't know. I've always had a bit of an impertinent streak."

"Too right," she snaps.

He winks at her, and her next words die in her throat. "My apologies, princess. I didn't mean to offend you. I only wanted to make you aware of the date."

He keeps on sharpening that damn boomerang. Rssssp, rssssp, rssssp. His dark hair falls to his throat, and she glances at the work he's doing. The skin of his forearms is smooth and deeply tanned, veins rising below the surface as he works. His muscles bunch and flex with every new pass of the stone.

She needs to concentrate. "Today's the same as any day."

"Is it?"He raises an eyebrow, squints at his handiwork. "Don't believe in the spirits, huh?"

She doesn't say anything.

"Well, I didn't, before the war," he tells her conversationally. "When I met Aang, I thought it was all just a bunch of mumbo-jumbo. But then… two winters ago we were in the Senlin Village, and something happened that changed my mind."

She rolls her eyes. She is not going to ask and encourage him.

It turns out he's not going to wait for her. "See, there was this angry spirit attacking the town. And there was all this pressure on Aang to be the 'great bridge' between our world and theirs, right? Well, things went wrong, and I ended up trapped in the spirit world for an entire day."

She doesn't want it to happen, but a shiver runs down her spine. She risks glancing at him for half a second. Thankfully he's not looking at her, his jewel-bright eyes fixed instead on the boomerang in his hand.

"Of course you wouldn't believe in the Spirit World," she sniffs. "You're not a bender. Lecturing me when you haven't meditated a day in your life."

"I mean," he shrugs, "that's fair. But it's a trip that really makes you think, once you get out. It's hard to describe what it was like. But I can tell you one thing — the human heart is a scary place, Azula."

She winces as though he's slapped her. It's strange to hear her name in his mouth, and she doesn't like it.

"That's Princess Azula to you, savage."

"Oh, of course," he drops the boomerang to his side and makes a great show of groveling. "I forgot I was in court. My deepest apologies, to the fairest of fire lilies."

Her heart does a weird little jump just before she sends a ball of fire at his face. "You've got some nerve, peasant!"

He dodges it, of course, dodges it like he was expecting it. "I've been upgraded from savage to peasant?" He strokes his chin. "Great progress in only two sentences."

"Argh!" she stamps her foot, and sparks explode against the cell walls like shrapnel.

"Of course, I wouldn't expect you to understand," he continues, resuming his sharpening as if nothing had interrupted their conversation. "You probably haven't thought much about the state of your soul."

She scowls. Her slipper is smoking. "So now not only are you going to impose your company on me, you're going to start telling me what I think?"

He looks at her, maybe a little surprised. "I'm not telling you what you think. I'm just making an educated guess."

"Well, aren't you just brilliant." It's her turn to cross her arms. He frowns at her through the bars.

"So I'm told."

They stare at each other for a second. Time turns to jelly.

"Well," he says finally, "I'd better be going. I wish you a safe winter solstice." He pushes up off the wall, his slender hip jutting out for a moment. "Princess Azula." He falls to one knee, his palm on his chest. "Your servant."

He rises to his feet, bangs swinging, and smirks at her just enough for her to know that he's bullshitting. And then he's gone, the fresh wave of fire slamming against the closed door just a second too late; she waited too long to decide again. She turns, breathing heavily, and only then do her eyes fall on the bundle of sage in the wall bracket. She curses. She'd meant to hide it, stuff it away under her mattress so he wouldn't know that she's been burning it. She stares at it, hanging on the wall, charred to half its original size. She wonders for a second if he just didn't notice it, but dismisses this — he's too observant for that, and it's in too obvious a spot. And yet… he didn't tease her, didn't try to humiliate her for scorning it and then using it. He didn't even say anything.

As obnoxious and impertinent as his visits are, he's given her something to think about. His voice echoes through her head.

"To wish you a happy winter solstice, of course."

It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and she rubs at them impatiently. Fear has no place with her. She knows that Uncle has been to the Spirit World; everyone whispers about it, and she believes the old man's kooky enough to have tried it. But she's never asked him about it. She's learned not to trust Iroh's advice — and she doesn't need advice.

And Sokka… Sokka, who spent a day in the Spirit World. She bites her lip, still staring at the closed tower door. She doesn't understand how he can talk about it so easily; she's pretty sure that if she'd gotten stuck in the Spirit World, she wouldn't have found her way back out.

"You probably haven't thought much about the state of your soul."

And, okay, maybe that was true up until only recently, but she feels like the last year has been enough to prove him wrong. And anyway, why should she care what he thinks? Why should she care whether he believes she has a heart or not?

"The human heart is a scary place, Azula."

Like she needs him to tell her that. And for the first time, she stops thinking about herself, and she wonders about his heart. What does Sokka have to be afraid of? What did he see when he was in the Spirit World?

That night, she burns some of her sage. She knows that it's superstitious and ridiculous, but if there's a chance it might ward off any spirits she doesn't want to see, she's willing to try it. Her thoughts fall to Sokka again. She walks around the cell with the incense, spreading the fragrant smoke and thinking that maybe he's given her some protection against the night. Then she gets angry at herself for thinking about him. She hates that stupid smirk of his, and she hates the constant boomerang-sharpening, and she hates how he keeps coming to bother her. Whatever happened to him wanting her dead?

Night comes on, and, as usual, she finds herself unable to sleep. The fragrance of the sage is still drifting around the room but it's cold now, and she can almost picture tendrils of fog creeping in to grab at her. She curls onto her side and brings fire to her hand, and it's only then that she looks at where she was mindlessly writing in the soot earlier, at the character that he must have been able to read on the wall.

Daughter.

She falls into a peculiar half-sleep an hour later. Her dreams are strange and hazy, and too vivid for her liking. The first one is a memory — the oldest memory she has.

"Zuzu!"

She's four and he's six, and they're tumbling around in the royal gardens. The sun is bright; it's midsummer, and it's so hot that all of the adults have gone inside except for the guards. Fire lilies in full bloom spill from the flowerbeds and planted rooftops.

"Hey, be careful, Azula!" Her brother catches her around the middle, keeping her from cracking her head against the fountain. "You'll hurt yourself."

"I won't," she giggles, struggling out of Zuko's protective grip. "Lemme go. I'm fine."

He rolls his eyes but releases her, flopping down by the base of the fountain, gesturing for her to join him. "C'mon, let's rest. It's hot."

She sits. "I want some sorbet."

"Sorbet, huh?" He tugs at his stubby ponytail. "I can ask mom."

"Mom'll say no," she pouts.

"Well, it's not like Dad's gonna say yes," Zuko grimaces. The sun sparkles on the garden pond, reflecting like a thousand tiny mirrors in the noonday sun.

"Ask Chef," she suggests. She sees his golden eyes narrow mischievously. Zuko's eyes are just like their father's. Actually, Zuko looks just like their father in general. Everyone says so.

"Good idea."

They lay there for a minute longer, two small children sweltering in the heat and considering the magnitude of the heist they've just agreed to pull off.

"Zuko," Azula whispers, "It's too hot. Let's go in."

"Okay."

"Can you show me one more time before we go?"

"'Zula!" He looks at her, half-annoyed, half-pleased. "I've already shown you twice today."

"Please," she wheedles, rolling onto her stomach and gazing at her brother. "I wanna see it again! All I can do is sparks."

"That's still really advanced for your age. I couldn't do that," he grumps. "I bet you're going to be firebending by autumn."

"Zuko, show me, show me! Please?"

"Well… okay," he relents, as she knew he would. "C'mere."

She scoots closer, blocking him from the guards' view. He closes his eyes, clenches his fist, and with a deep breath, slowly uncurls his small fingers. There, dancing just above his palm, is a flame. It's tiny at first, but as she watches it grows higher and higher until it's half a foot tall. She's completely entranced.

"Dad says it's because it's July," Zuko whispers, his eyes fixed on his fire. "He says I couldn't do it if it was winter. But I think I'm getting stronger. I can feel it."

"Like Lu Ten," she says. She can't stop looking at the fire, at how beautiful it is. She can't wait to make her own someday.

"What? No!" Zuko blushes. "I'm nowhere near that good."

A hot breeze blows through the garden, sweeping through the lilies and the treetops, blowing out the fire in her brother's hand. She's disappointed but he's undeterred, standing up and brushing himself off.

"But I'll be like Lu Ten someday. I'll be like Dad." She can hear the hope in his voice as he stretches out a hand, pulls her to her feet. "And so will you. C'mon, let's go find Chef."

The dream changes.

It's raining — no, not raining. The rain is frozen. It's snowing. She's never seen snow before. It's snowing and cold and dark, and she's alone. She shivers. It's very cold. Her own heartbeat is loud in her ears, and she listens to it just long enough to start to feel afraid.

But then she starts to notice strange ripples of color across the ground around her, almost like the earth is moving. The snow is white fire; It's strange how bright it is, even in the dark. She looks up.

The breath goes out of her lungs. The sky is infinite, a cold, clear bowl above her, and colors are waving across it. Green, then pink, then changing to blue as she watches. The night is absolutely silent and still, the snow still falling noiselessly around her as she stares upward.

The aurora australis— the southern lights. She's seen them before, only once, in a painting at school. It reminds her of a massive green dragon, waving its great head and breathing cold fire. She stands still, and stares and stares until her feet start to go numb. The silence is so stretching, so great. She begins to wonder if it might just go on forever; maybe no one speaks and nothing moves in this world except for snow. The lights glow and ripple and change, and a strange sensation overtakes her. She feels small. She thinks of all the times she's been proud of her own fire. She thinks about her father's praise when she filled the air, searing the trees above the training field. This fire, strange and beautiful, stretches out across all of heaven.

"Azula!"

Her chins snaps down. Did someone call to her, out there in the night? She squints into the dark and the thickly-falling snow, raising her hand for a torch. But when she tries to light it, nothing happens. She can't firebend.

She should feel panicked, but for some reason the feeling won't come. Instead, this seems to make sense. She focuses on the voice, the sound of it, calling for her through the blackness. A man's voice.

She begins to move towards it. She isn't afraid; there's a warmth in her middle that intensifies as she walks. This heat doesn't hurt. It burns reassuringly, comfortingly inside of her as she trudges through the snow. She's going to find the owner of that voice, and when she does, she's never going to be cold again.

Above her, the aurora australis fades. The sky lightens, and the snow melts. She walks through the mist towards the sunrise.