Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

And nothing carries us: not the road and not the house.
Was this road always like this, from the start,
or did our dreams find a mare on the hill
among the Mongol horses and exchange us for it?
And what will we do?
What
will we do
without
exile? 

Zuko’s healers don’t say much, but even in her weakened state Azula can read faces like books. And she knows they’ve exhausted all their knowledge. 

She tries to look her brother in the eye as he keeps vigil by her bed, to reassure him she’ll be well again, but the naked worry in his face unmasks her own. She’d taken ill after the funeral rites were performed and had to be carried from the banquet hall. Years spent trying to convince the court that she, the Firelord’s sister, was not insane, that she could in fact inherit the rights and privileges due a legitimate heir to the throne, only to collapse in a terrible, shaking fit before many of the same people who would soon oversee her trial. Now, lying in a bed that reeks of camphor and sweat, Azula would trade every last vestige of pride not to feel sick as a dog, not to fall into restless sleep where her spirit floats above her body and longs to escape. 

She wants to mumble an apology to Zuko, but she can’t remember where to begin, and the words fade on her lips as sleep descends. 

Azula awakes to a brief glow of cooling blue washing over her head, followed by a hushed voice. She recognizes it as belonging to the waterbender who’d once bested her, Katara. “I don’t know what to do. Her qi is strong, but erratic. It’s almost like she’s been poisoned.”

Azula sees Zuko slouched in a corner of her room, his face lined with worry. The decade since he’d ascended the throne weighed heavy on him. 

“That’s not possible, Katara. We all ate the same food.”

Katara sighs in impatience. “I know, Zuko. I’m just telling you what I can sense with my bending. I don’t know what’s wrong with her.”

“I’m sorry,” he gruffs. 

“You’re exhausted. You need rest, Zuko. You can’t go on like this,” Katara says, hand on his arm, her voice already firm with wifely concern. In the dim light, Azula sees her brother bend to kiss the waterbender’s fingers. Even like this, weary and frustrated, they make a picturesque duo, a symbol of the new world, of peace between the nations. 

“I can be left alone for a few hours,” Azula says faintly, and they turn to her with matching, alert looks of concern. “Go get some sleep.” When they still don’t budge, she tries a different angle. “This will only make the rumors worse.”

This has the intended effect. Zuko ushers his wife out of the room, with an express command to Azula’s maid, Preeti, that no one save him and the Firelady are allowed inside without his permission, and that they are to be alerted at once if there’s any change to Azula’s condition. With the room clear, Azula breathes a sigh of relief. The fever was heavy in her body but heavier still were Zuko and Katara’s eyes, and the nagging in her chest that threatened to overwhelm her with disappointment and regret. Hunkering down into her pillows, Azula gestures weakly for Preeti to open the window. The night air is heavy too, full of the Sages’ droning prayers for the dead. They would not cease their chanting until the eight days were concluded, lest the spirit of the newly departed be tempted to return and linger in a familiar place. 

Azula dreams of stone steps beneath her feet, a mountain half hidden in the clouds, and someone waiting for her at the windswept peak-

When she starts awake, mind racing, a warm, callused hand clasps her own. The Avatar sits beside her bed, his eyes dark with worry. The sight of him temporarily clears her thoughts.

“You’re here,” she says.

“I came as soon as I heard,” he says, running his thumb absently over her knuckles. His frown tells her she’s surely ice-cold to the touch. “They told me you collapsed at the funeral. What happened, Azula?”

“It’s not what you think,” she says, raising herself against the headboard so she can look him in the eye. The rumors are already flowing, she’s certain of it. The Phoenix King’s favored daughter going mad at the sight of his body. Only she’s not mourning Ozai. She isn’t sure what she mourns. But the thought of Aang and everyone else once more believing her nothing more than her father’s acolyte, after her years of painstaking work, is unbearable. “I don’t know what’s happening to me,” she whispers, suddenly choked with fear. Her eyes ran with tears that she hadn’t realized she’d withheld in Zuko’s presence.

Aang draws her head down to his shoulder,“It’s alright,” he murmurs, running a comforting hand down her back. “I’m here. I’ll stay as long as you need.”

She knows he’s true to his word, just as she knows it would be selfish and reckless for her to ask such a thing, given who he is, given how many people in worse straits than she needed his help. She should disabuse him of such a notion, but she can’t bring herself to send him away. Despite everything, her fingers curl into his tunic and she savors the comfort of his arms.

Azula grows faintly aware of other presences in the room, but it’s not until Katara coughs discreetly that the Firelord and Lady make themselves known. She stiffens in Aang’s hold and pulls away, sensing rather than seeing their eyes slide disapprovingly over their embrace.

The Avatar rises to greet them and Azula fidgets with the threading on her sheets. She gazes longingly out the window, wondering when she’ll step outside her room again. It’s then the memory of her dream hits her with such force she sucks in a breath. She’s almost climbed out of the bed when they notice. Zuko and Katara rush forward, but Aang beats them to it, his hands alighting gently on her arms. “What is it?”

“The mountain,” she says, gesturing at the wicker chest against the wall while Zuko and Katara exchange worried looks. Azula keeps her focus on the Avatar, trying to clear her mind. “My art,” she says, willing him to understand.

Aang follows the direction of her hand. “In there?” 

She nods, leaning against the bedpost, dazed and tired as he rifles through the contents of the chest and fishes out a sheaf of rice paper. Too impatient to watch him card through them, Azula reaches out her hand. Normally fastidious about the state of her belongings, she drops each successive square of paper on the floor until she finds the one she’s looking for and holds it out for the Avatar.

Zuko peers over Aang’s shoulder, frowning as he tries to make out the image while Katara watches them warily.

“There,” Azula says, aware of how unhinged she must sound to everyone except the Air Nomad standing before her. “That’s where I need to go.”

Zuko steps forward. “Azula  -,”

“I know where this is,” Aang says. “It’s a mountain in the Earth Kingdom, called Deva Kanda. There’s a healer there-,”

“She can’t just abscond with you at whim, Aang,” Zuko points out, running a tired hand over his face. “The trial is in less than two months, the Keohsho are beating down my door asking when I’m going to announce her engagement-,”

Aang’s face hardens. “If the council has an issue, they can take it up with me. And wouldn’t her future husband prefer a wife who isn’t sick?” The quiet but steely determination in the Avatar’s posture, Azula knows, is not entirely for her benefit. He’s witnessed his share of less than pristine dealings in the imperial court since the war ended.

Katara rises from her seat and sweeps to Zuko’s side with the silent grace of her element. “All of that is true, Aang, but Zuko’s also right. There’s a proper way to do things here and, well, we can’t risk a big scandal. You know that,” she says, blue eyes full of entreaty.

“So you’re suggesting we let her languish without trying to help -,”

“That’s not what-,”

“Tell them it’s a pilgrimage.”

All three turn to Azula, who smiles faintly, hearing herself make a suggestion she would once have balked at. “Women of the court make them all the time,” she says. “And who better to escort the infamous Fire princess on her pilgrimage than the Avatar?”

“She’s right,” Aang says, moving to stand beside her. “Deva Kanda is a popular pilgrimage site, we can say she wanted to pay her respects before the trial.”

Zuko scowls, as though put out by how foolproof the idea is. Katara remains silent, her face pinched in disapproval.

“And what about this healer?” Zuko directs his question at Aang. “Will she be willing to treat Azula? What if she finds out who she is?”

“Deva Kanda is too far west of Ba Sing Se for anyone to know what Azula looks like, and Biyu never turns anyone away,” Aang replies steadily.

Zuko finally shifts his back gaze to her. “You really think this will help you get better?”

And there it was. Underneath the gravity and poise Firelord Zuko wore as armor, he was still her soft-hearted older brother. Still Zuzu. “I think I need something that can’t be found in the Fire Nation,” she says, and Zuko, no doubt recalling his own exodus from home, grows quiet.

At length he turns back to Aang. “Fine, take her. I’ll prepare a statement for the council tomorrow.”

Aang grasps his friend by the arm, the two of them exchanging silent looks of understanding. Then he returns to Azula’s side, brushing her cheek lightly with his fingers. “Get some rest, I’ll meet you on the balcony in the morning - no need to draw attention by walking through the palace.”

It’s decided, and if Katara’s pursed lips hide stronger words, she doesn’t speak them. 

Shortly before dawn, the Firelady herself arrives to help gather a few things for the journey, bustling with all the efficiency of a mother Azula only faintly remembers, her movements radiating carefully suppressed ire. When her things are readied, Azula mumbles stiff thanks to her brother’s new wife. Ozai’s death and her illness had occurred barely a month after the wedding - hardly the festive aftermath Katara and Zuko had both no doubt envisioned.

Azula finds her tongue both heavy and empty with words she doesn’t know how to say. Katara lingers briefly by the door, her eyes sharp as blades. But just as Azula expects her to lash out, she murmurs a quiet farewell. “Safe journey, Azula.”

She admires the waterbender’s poise, though she suspects she’ll hear Katara’s true thoughts eventually. Glancing at the mirror, Azula sees her own gaunt form, her wild hair and sunken eyes, the pallor of her lips. Her shenyi   - unadorned white, the color of mourning worn by the court until the mourning period was over - only makes her look more ghostly. Through the open balcony doors she can hear the rise and fall of the Sages’ chanting. She’s a ghost in a country of ghosts. If Ursa’s visage was to appear now, opening her arms and smiling with that terrible sadness, Azula might welcome her as a friend.

Piled on a table in the corner of her room, the gifts sent by her husband-to-be resemble offerings for the dead. Bolts of fine white silk for mourning. Delicate green apples from the foothills of his estate. Combs carved from wild turtleduck shells. Ryōichi had sent daily messages inquiring after her welfare, accompanied by carefully appropriate overtures. But Azula sensed the doubt and worry behind these gestures. The rumors that never quite faded - that she was mad, cursed, possessed by hungry ghosts. Rumors she sometimes believed.

A shadow looms in the sky, the massive silhouette of the Avatar’s bison hovering beyond her balcony. The airbender alights, slinging the rucksack of her travel clothes over his shoulder and wrapping his other arm around her waist. To her clammy skin, his touch burns like a roaring fire.

“Ready for your first time on a sky bison?” he asks with that crooked smile, making light of the moment.

“No,” she says, her head resting on his shoulder. “But thank you.”

In a stomach-dropping leap he airbends them aboard the bison and settles her in a corner before taking the reins. Then with a mighty flick of the animal’s tail they’re high in the heavens, gliding through the cold airs. The sky is quiet, empty of the sages’ chanting, of the courtiers’ whispering, of everything but the rivers of wind. She’s heard stories of soldiers during the war who, before being shipped off to battle, put their hands in the earth and swallowed palm-fulls of loamy soil, so they might carry their homeland with them. But up here, the plaza tower growing smaller as the bison takes them higher and further, it’s not soil but air that slips between her fingers, and if she opens her mouth, she would taste only clouds.

Four Years Ago

Spirit sickness. That’s what they called it when they thought Azula was out of earshot, what they wrote down in their parchment thinking she was too dazed to pay attention.

Seven years since the second pass of Sozin’s Comet and Azula’s days are grey and quiet. The monotony of rising, eating, bathing and sleeping - broken only by occasional walks on the guarded terrace that always felt too brief before she’s returned to the sterile air of her room - dulls her senses more effectively than the opiate teas they give her to dampen her qi . After the first two years she had simply stopped drinking them, but none of her attendants could tell the difference. Without Ozai’s designs, without an empire to win, she had no cause to reach for her inner flame. In their place were dreams that stole her sleep, sudden fevers that vanished swiftly as they came, and fits - strange episodes that would seize all her limbs and knock her unconscious for an hour or two - all of which the caretakers chalked down as a disease of the spirit no medicine could touch.

Seven years since they dragged her chained and sobbing from the courtyard of her defeat, Azula is brought to a different courtyard in fresh clothes, her clean hair pulled into a traditional top knot - only without the flame-gold headpiece that would mark her as princess. She is to have a visitor, her first since those early days when her brother would bring her blankets and tea and sit in silence while she dozed off on her opiates or stared stubbornly at the wall, refusing to speak. 

There are cushions and a table laid out, along with fresh tea and dumplings. But her eyes fix on the man standing in the bright morning sun, and her heart jumps in her throat. Could it be -

The red scar grows visible and the image dissolves. 

Not Ozai, but Zuko. 

Strangely, Azula is relieved. She begins to genuflect, but Zuko stops her. His hands, brutishly strong from the swordsmanship he clearly kept up with, keep her from sinking to the ground. 

“Azula,” he says, and there’s the faintest tremble of emotion in his voice. “Come sit.” Under the pomp and circumstance he’s still the brother she remembered, still Zuzu, his heart worn easily on his sleeve. 

He takes a seat across from her and waves the servants away, pouring the tea himself. His not-so-surreptitious glances at her don’t go unnoticed. Every so often he blinks, as though trying to clear a mental image, and Azula has the unpleasant realization that he isn’t the only one who’s grown to resemble a parent.

She sips her tea in silence, too grateful for the strong, fragrant flavor after years of bland food to say anything. She’s learned the hard way to appreciate simple things - the fresh air on her face, the feel of real porcelain in her hands, the living sky above. 

Zuko clears his throat. “I have a proposal for you.”

She waits for him to continue.

“I’ve discussed it with my ministers. We think you should return to the palace.”

Azula sets down her cup, her hand trembling slightly. “Why?”

“It’s been seven years. The caretakers tell me you’ve made good progress.” 

She gives him a penetrating look, until his jaw twitches and he waves his hand, sending the servants away.

There's a faint sulk in his voice reminiscent of their youth. “I thought you’d jump at the chance to leave here.”

“Perhaps if I knew what I was jumping in to ,” she replies, her own voice quavering a little. She still practiced her katas when possible, but she’s a far cry now from the deadly princess whose cunning and childish bravado had slain the Avatar and toppled the Impenetrable City. Her words are a rough whisper. “I’m not what I used to be.”

“Good.” Her brother’s golden eyes meet hers. “Because I need you to be something new.”

As he outlines the reason for his visit, and what he’s truly offering, Azula reads between the lines. Establishing peace after a hundred years of war is bitter work. Enemies are numerous, and maintaining an image of strength is paramount. The royal family needed to present a united front, prove they were worthy of Agni’s mandate. An imprisoned father and a mad sister made that difficult.

“You need a figurehead,” Azula says. “To prove I’m not insane, and demonstrate my loyalty to the throne.”

“I know what you’re thinking. I’m coming to you about politics, when I should come to you as a brother.” 

Oh Zuko, what difference has there ever been, in our family? But she remains silent, lifting her cup again. 

“You’ll have to stand trial, eventually, before I can officially restore your title and inheritance,” he continues. “I couldn’t dissuade the councillors without losing favor. But I told them you weren’t insane, and that when the time comes you could face the council clear-headed. My enemies don’t believe me, so you have to prove them wrong.”

As she watches, Zuko sets a small ebony box on the table between them. His fingers press the golden dragon clasp and the bottom slides out. Her royal headpiece gleams on a cushion of red silk.

Azula dares not touch it, but her eyes rivet on the ornament, trapped in a strange feeling of disembodied fear. 

“I know we’ll always have our differences,” Zuko says, “but I also know you love our country. This is a chance for you to inspire them again, Azula. Be a symbol the people can unite around.”

She pulls her eyes away from the headpiece. Somewhere inside her, shrill laughter vies with deadly quiet.

Zuko lifts the ornament and puts it in her hand. “Take it. And retake your honor.”