A/N: Thank you for the positive response and to everybody who's reviewed, alerted, and favorited. I doubt that this will be what you expect, but I hope it's still something we can enjoy together.

This chapter is probably a good indication of how the rest of the story will be structured. There will be a few scenes per chapter, switching between characters and timelines. Hopefully this won't be too confusing. The whole fic will probably cap out at 100,000k or somewhere sooner. I have no idea when I'll be updating.

Warnings: The first scene is a somewhat graphic sex scene between Azula and Ozai. This is what I was talking about.

One

She painted her lips dark red and smiled at her reflection.

It was a woman who smiled back, not a girl. She had hidden the thirteen-year-old under silk and perfume, under manners and personas and the games she had played to get this far. And even as her heart raced, it was excitement, not nervousness, that dominated her mind.

This was the key to everything she wanted. Good things were falling into her lap. She would hold onto them, build more for herself, take more. Never would she have dreamed, just a few years ago, that she would hold so much power in the narrow space between her thighs.

He was just another client, but he was so much more than that as well. If she pleased him, she would be blessed with favor beyond her dreams. If she displeased him, well...he might have been taken with her, but there were hundreds of other prostitutes to replace her. There wasn't even any telling whether she'd walk away with her life. They said the Fire Lord was a just and reasonable man, but then they said he'd loved his wife, and here he was hunting down companions to keep his bed warm.

She squelched her fear. He would be able to sense it. All she needed now was to focus on the reality, not on the possibilities. And the reality was beautiful. Here, in a room ornamented with scarlet and gold, with a vaulted ceiling so vast it disappeared into darkness, she felt more than human. She felt as if she was something more than a girl born in the colonies. When she looked around, she could almost convince herself that she was a princess.

There was a knock on the door, a gentle signal that it was time. She rose from the chair and surveyed herself one last time in the mirror. Her lips, so bright, seemed larger than usual. Her golden eyes were outlined in black kohl and held a burning intensity. Her hair, almost black in the light, hung low around her face. She had grown used to seeing herself like this, the makeup adding years to her face. With confidence that she was every bit as perfect as the Fire Lord would expect, she left her reflection behind her and headed for the door.

The servant waiting outside bowed and kept his eyes on the floor as he led her down the hallways. It was evening now, but even during the daytime, the long corridors of this palace held very little light. It felt more like a cave or a tomb than a tower. Azula's house, leagues away in the colonies, had many windows and a broad porch. There was nowhere sunlight didn't reach. Here the gloom put her even more on edge. No firebender liked to be away from the sun for long, and she wondered how the royal family could stand it.

With the thought of home came the thought of her mother. Azula frowned down at the delicate embroidery of her slippers as something resembling guilt gnawed at her. Where was Tsumika? What was she doing? Was she sitting alone in their small house, wondering what had become of her daughter? Maybe it was better that she didn't know. Besides, it was certainly better for Azula to be servicing the most powerful man in the world than to be one among many faces in a brothel. She was clawing her way up in the world, and her mother couldn't understand that. Her mother had never understood: not her desire to train in firebending, not her yearning to see the mainland, and certainly not the actions Azula was undertaking now to secure her position. Azula had wondered before what Tsumika would say if she saw her only child bedecked in the robes of a courtesan, her face painted to give the impression of an older woman. But even a protective mother, had she been there, could not have come between the Fire Lord and his desires.

"Good evening, Prince Zuko," the servant said, and the voice made Azula look around. Rounding the corner in front of them was, indeed, a young man she had never seen before. Oddly enough, there was no royal crest in his bun, but far more interesting to Azula was the left side of his face. When he stepped closer, what she had assumed was simply the cast of shadows revealed itself to be a scar. His eye was swollen narrow, his eyebrow completely gone. She wondered at it with macabre interest. A training accident, perhaps? Certainly it had been the work of a firebender. Surely whomever had dared to lay their hands on the prince in such a manner had been executed.

Caught up in her wondering, Azula forgot who she was facing until the servant let out a quiet cough. She remembered her manners and bowed deeply. When she straightened, though, she let her eyes fix on the prince's rather than respectfully facing the ground. He was about two years older than her, she knew, though it would have been hard to tell with the way her face was painted. There was something tight, angry, about his face. When she didn't divert her gaze, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Who is this?" he asked the servant. Azula blinked languidly. Her heart sped up. She should have been paying more attention to niceties, should have been trying to earn Prince Zuko's favor, but the situation lent her arrogance. Until his father was done with her, the prince couldn't touch her.

"Your father's concubine, Your Highness," the servant said with another bow. Azula studied the prince's face closely. His lips parted, and he looked back at her again.

"Oh. I see." Prince Zuko's mouth became very thin. After a moment more of silence, he turned and continued until he had disappeared behind them. Azula watched him, her mind focusing once more on the scar. The diversion had completely eclipsed her nervousness for what was to come. She was grateful to the prince for that.

"Milady, be careful you mind your manners," the servant said. As they began walking again, Azula, safely out of sight behind him, smiled.

The Fire Lord's chambers were not far from her own. The doors were instantly identifiable, and not only because of the guards standing outside. The intricate golden inlay on the door formed the shape of fiery beasts, their eyes made of sparkling rubies. Barely had she begun to satisfy her desire to look, though, when the guards opened to make way for her. The servant led her in.

"Your Majesty, I have brought her as you requested," he called. After a brief pause, Azula heard footsteps from the next room. The servant dropped to his knees, and she did likewise. She didn't have to look up to know when he stood over her.

"You're dismissed."

The servant got up, and then she heard the door close. Azula kneeled alone, and her nerves returned. Never before had she felt so isolated. In the brothel, there had always been other girls just a room away. Here there was nobody to call for. He could kill her, rip her apart, and nobody would care. Her mother would never know.

It wasn't going to happen.

He paced a slow circle around her prone form, reminding her of when he had come to the pleasure house in the first place. She was used to being treated as little more than a piece of meat, but the complete subordination was new. She could not reject this man, could not refuse him. All she could do was pray he was pleased with her.

"Stand," he commanded. Azula shifted obediently off of her knees and stood. His voice, though not particularly loud, seemed to fill every corner of the room and every part of her body. "Come with me."

She raised her eyes then. He had turned his back and was leading her away—to the bedroom, she supposed.

"Are your rooms to your liking?" he asked, but it sounded more like a statement than a question, like a script he was reading from. Azula followed him into an interior chamber, her suspicions confirmed when she saw the vast bed laid out before her. The Fire Lord crossed to the shelves and began to undo the buckles of his ceremonial armor. She watched, knowing she shouldn't.

"I would be very ungrateful if they were not, Your Majesty," she said. He made a short noise, but she could not see his face and was left to guess whether it was positive or not.

He lifted the vast ornamental shoulder guards over his head and slid them into their proper shelf before beginning to shed his clothes. Azula's heart beat faster despite herself, even as she breathed slowly in and out to try to calm down. She could not help but be nervous.

"When we are alone together," he said shortly, still not facing her, "you will call me Ozai."

"Yes, Your Maje...yes, Ozai," she said, correcting herself when she saw his head move slightly. She mentally reprimanded herself for such a stupid mistake, and so soon. He would think she was an idiot. But still, the informality was uncomfortable. The Fire Lord, the most powerful man in the world, expected her, a thirteen-year-old girl from the colonies, to address him by name?

She shivered, not entirely from fear, and a smile tugged again at the corners of her lips.

He pulled off his shirt, leaving him clad only in breeches. Azula had seen her fair share of soldiers in the brothel, but the Fire Lord surpassed them all in musculature. His shoulders and back rippled powerfully, and she became aware, again, of how small she was. His arms could crush as easily as caress, she was sure.

He turned toward her, and she lowered her eyes quickly, pretended she hadn't been watching. He strode across the room, and she could not help but notice the tent in his pants. He was large there too, surely.

The Fire Lord walked slowly across the room toward her, and she watched his lower half move closer and closer. She was afraid to look anywhere else, afraid to make eye contact, lest he judge it as disrespect and kill her then and there. But a single large hand cupped her chin gently, tilted her head back, forcing her to look at him.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen." The practiced lie slid easily from her lips.

He said nothing, just continued to stare at her. His face was not so intimidating after all, she thought. It was his eyes that put her on edge. He looked at her as a madman might, as a man lost in the desert would look at water. She stared back, not knowing what he wanted, her duties forgotten.

She was, after all, just a child.

He kissed her like she had never been kissed before. His lips were so hot against her own that she was certain he would burn her. When his tongue slid into her mouth, she felt as if he was breathing fire, as if both of them would be consumed. His arms encircled her, so strong, too strong, and then he picked her up as if she weighed nothing at all.

The bed was soft enough to sink into, and he let her go. Azula reached for the knots of her sash, but he intercepted her. Her wrists were small enough to fit into one of his hands, and he held them over her head, where she could do nothing at all.

"My lord—" she began, a little afraid, unused to his force.

"You will not speak," he rasped. She fell silent. He undid the ties for her and stripped away her borrowed robe, only then releasing her wrists. She remembered her lessons, remembered that she should moan for him, lean into his embrace, but her heart was going too fast. Unbidden, she thought of her mother and wished she hadn't.

His fingers were just as hot as his mouth when they entered her. She was dry, and it hurt a little, but she'd had far worse and did not cry out. She tilted her head back and groaned as she had been taught. The Fire Lord leaned down to suckle at her neck. His other hand found the small of her back and lifted her, pressing them together, forcing an embrace. She could feel his cock through the thick cloth of his pants. He withdrew his hand from between her legs, wiped it on the sheets, and shed his trousers.

It hurt more, but not unbearably so. She let her eyelashes flutter closed, only to have them open wide when he began kissing her again. Azula had trained herself, had done this enough to be able to arouse herself, but this time fear was an insistent block. With his tongue in her mouth, she couldn't grit her teeth, couldn't brace against the pain as he thrust in and out, rubbing her raw.

He pawed at her breasts, and this time her cry was not artificial. Heat would be her constant companion in the days to come, she was realizing, if she passed this test. His hands seemed to grow hotter and hotter, and her own inner fire did little to stifle the pain.

In response to her noise, the Fire Lord stopped kissing her, moved his mouth to her jaw and her neck and her ear, where his hot breath felt better, not as searing.

She could tell that he was close when his hips began moving harder, faster, grinding into her. He pulled away and she looked up at him. Ozai's gaze was vague and distant. He gave a final push and came inside her. His lips parted and he hissed a word—a name.

"Ursa..."

Azula stayed still and silent. She didn't know how to react. The Fire Lord's wife had been gone more than a decade, she knew, and still he whispered her name as he ravished his new concubine. He didn't seem like a sentimental man, and yet...

He pulled out. Their breaths came together in short harsh gasps. Was it over? Azula felt raw, aching, and when she glanced down there were streaks of blood on her thighs. It was her fault. If she'd been able to remember her lessons, think the proper thoughts, she would have been fine. Instead she'd gone limp and still, frozen like a virgin. Stupid.

Ozai shifted his weight off of her, lay beside her. His bright golden eyes were hidden behind closed lids, a small comfort, and his breath was slowing. Would he sleep now? Was she to stay beside him through the night? With no instructions to the contrary, Azula stayed where she was. She had no chance of falling asleep, not when her heart was still going too fast and she was in an unfamiliar bed, an unfamiliar palace, leagues away from anything she could call home.

With a weight in her throat, she realized again how utterly alone she was. She was only thirteen, and here there was nobody at all to care about her. If the Fire Lord crushed her, burned her alive, ordered her executed, then nobody would object. She would die, and her mother, across the ocean, might never know. Azula was so small. What use was talent in bending when here she had to play a different game, one where suggestive smiles and an alluring gait were her best weapons?

Not for the first time, she wondered whether it had all been a mistake. Perhaps it would have been better to stay in the colonies, where she had a mother to love her and people to care if she d . . .

Stupid!

She forced sense back into her mind. She had risen higher than she could have hoped, ensnared the Fire Lord himself, and here she was sniveling and feeling sorry for herself? It was pathetic. It was ungrateful to think such things. She would get more than she had ever dreamed now, if she played her Pai Sho tiles carefully. To stay in the colonies would be to stay a nobody, with an overbearing mother who never wanted her to practice bending in the first place. Here she was powerful. Here she was free. Here the Fire Lord slumbered next to her, won over by her smile and her body and the lie of sixteen.

He wasn't asleep yet. One of his arms wrapped around her waist and pulled her closer until she lay flush with his bare chest. She could feel his muscles against her back, his fingers digging into her waist.

Escape was impossible.

He hit the ground hard, and all of his already-exhausted muscles seemed to cry out in protest. He lay there for a few seconds, his breath coming in harsh gasps. He wasn't sure he could muster the effort to push himself to his feet again. All he could do was pray that it was over, that this was going to be the last time. After a few desperate breaths, the pain of the blow that had toppled him caught up to his adrenaline-filled nerves. He had been sparring shirtless, of course, and when he looked down he saw a bright pink patch on his stomach where the skin had been burned away. His attempt at a block had ensured that it wasn't as bad as it could have been, but with nothing else to focus on the pain was growing. He forced himself to look away. His head was spinning. He was going to throw up...

"Get up," a contemptuous voice said. A shadow fell over him, and he couldn't help the flinch. Despite his tiredness, his body responded immediately to the command. He pushed himself up, managing first to kneel and somehow to make it to his feet. He did not make eye contact with his father.

"In any real Agni Kai, the burn would be much, much worse," Ozai said. Without warning his hand was at Zuko's face, his fingers running none too gently over the ruined landscape of Zuko's left eye. This time Zuko suppressed the shudder. He didn't need the reminder. His father had told him a thousand times that even then, he'd gone easy on him, that if he'd hit with all his strength Zuko wouldn't have an intact brain to speak of, much less an eye.

"I know," Zuko muttered. His head was reeling. He'd stood up too fast, and now vomiting was almost a certainty. He could feel nausea in his throat, taste it in his mouth, and it took all his strength to desperately attempt to subdue a retch.

"You lack finesse. You insist on straightforward attacks, but you lack the power necessary to back them up. A group of earthbenders would make quick work of you." Ozai withdrew his hand and stared disdainfully down at his son. Zuko tried not to look back, to lower his head submissively and pretend his father's words didn't affect him.

He sparred nearly every day with soldiers at the barracks, and those matches almost always resulted in victories for him. He'd even been able to take down high-ranking officers before. But in the face of his father's vast power, he might as well have been an ant. Ozai was overpowering, even when he claimed he was going easy on his son.

The Fire Lord didn't often take the time to train Zuko one-on-one, but he had taken more of an interest in it recently. While Zuko had initially relished the opportunity to make his father proud, now he dreaded the sessions, marked as they were by humiliation both physical and mental. The fist-sized burn on his stomach now was hardly the worst injury he'd received. He was lucky he hadn't broken any bones yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Their bouts rarely lasted more than a half-hour. In the beginning, Ozai had seemed more interested in teaching Zuko techniques, but when Zuko invariably took longer to learn them than his father liked, Ozai turned his attention to sparring instead. He claimed experience was the best teacher, but it didn't feel like it when the scars on Zuko's body grew more and more numerous each day.

"Again!" Ozai snapped, turning his back and striding a few feet away.

But Zuko couldn't hold it anymore. Maybe it was being knocked silly or the flashes of memory of It, but the reason didn't matter. One second he was holding himself together, shivering and hot and cold all at once, and the next his stomach was heaving. He clamped a hand to his mouth, but it was far too late. Guilt and shame rose as sure as the vomit. He wished he could disappear on the spot, that his father would just burn him away.

Ozai looked back at the noise. Zuko didn't have to see his face to know that his father would be looking at him with contempt, disgust, even hatred. It wasn't as if Ozai usually looked at him any differently.

"Clean yourself up before dinner," he said finally. This time, when he turned away, it was for good. Zuko lifted his head to watch his father walk across the training ground and retrieve his abandoned clothes there. Only then did Zuko feel comfortable sinking to his knees. The nausea continued, pounding through his head, his stomach, his throat. Bile was all he could taste and smell. He was tearing up in his better eye.

He'd had some small, foolish hope that his father's mood would have improved after the arrival of his newest concubine, but now that was dashed too.

He vomited again, seemingly emptying his stomach, and then couldn't be bothered to get up. The burn on his stomach was throbbing. Pain corroded his ability to think. He'd thrown up all he could, but nausea still pressed in on his skull, drowning him.

"Prince Zuko!"

He might have been kneeling one minute or ten when servants finally arrived, rushing across the field to help their young prince. It was humiliating, and Zuko wished he'd just swallowed his pain and gone back to the palace. After the servants saw him like this, next week all the nobles would be muttering about what a sick weakling their crown prince was.

"Get off me," he rasped when one of the servants attempted to help him up. The man obediently backed away. Another offered water, which Zuko accepted. He poured it over his face, washing away the bile, and used what was left to rinse his mouth.

Only then did he push himself to his feet, staggering slightly. The servants stayed at a distance. One handed him a towel, and Zuko wiped away sweat and vomit and who knew what else from his face and chest.

"Your Highness, your stomach!" a servant exclaimed. Zuko instinctively looked back down at the burn as if it didn't make itself known through its insistent throbbing.

"I'm fine," he said harshly. He wasn't, not really, but he would much rather hide away in his chambers and deal with the wound himself than have to rely on servants. "Just...one of you bring more water and bandages to my rooms."

"Of course." One of them scurried away. The other two accompanied Zuko across the training field, out onto the palace grounds, and up toward his room. He didn't want to put his shirt back on, as he knew it would rub against the open burn, but the thought of one of his father's nobles or generals, of Zhao seeing him like this was enough that he swallowed the fear and pulled the cloth over his head. He was right to have worried. The pain intensified with every movement, every step, enough to set off fireworks in his head, to make him want to scream.

The halls of the palace were cool, dark, and busy. Dinner that night was some important affair, an occasion Zuko couldn't recall. Servants were rushing about in preparation; guests were making their slow way to the banquet room. It seemed that everybody stared too long at Zuko before bowing their heads in proper respect. He was relieved when they ascended to the upper floors, where the traffic was much less.

He was almost back to the safety of his rooms when he saw her.

Zuko had seen his father run through many concubines, all of them leaving the palace sooner or later. He'd never really taken notice before. But this time, he'd found himself staring just because of how young she looked. Certainly she wasn't over twenty; he doubted she was even seventeen. The powder on her cheeks and the kohl around her eyes made it much harder to tell. None of the others had ever appeared so youthful. Zuko could not, would not, judge his father, but it still gave him pause to imagine the Fire Lord bedding a girl the same age as him.

As the last time they'd passed each other, just a handful of days before, she held his gaze a few seconds more than was appropriate before bowing. That was the other reason he'd paid attention. Today he supposed staring was to be expected, when he was covered in sweat and limping to avoid aggravating the wound on his stomach.

Her clothes were as richly ornamented as even those Zuko had seen his father wear on special occasions. Was she going to the dinner? Zuko didn't like that. In the past, Ozai had kept his women away from royal functions. What made this one special?

He didn't even know her name, but he made it a point not to ask. She remained with her head and torso slightly inclined as he and his servants passed her by. A few more steps down the hallway, and Zuko glanced back. She was looking. Their eyes met. She held his gaze. Zuko was the first to look away.

They finally reached his chambers. Zuko's mood had been worsened by the encounter. He wanted to ask his servants about her, but he didn't want to dignify her presence by asking questions. He wanted to ignore her, but he knew he would see her at dinner, hear the nobles gossiping about her.

The servant he'd sent ahead had done more than he'd instructed; the royal physician was waiting in Zuko's rooms for him. Though he would have rather tended to the burn himself, Zuko couldn't deny that it felt much better to have it rubbed with salve and wrapped in clean bandages. The doctor gave him an herbal tea as well, to help with the pain. By the time he was ready to head off to dinner, Zuko was feeling better, though he still would have rather stayed in his rooms than have to go off and face a crowd of courtiers.

He pulled on a fine silken shirt and an embroidered vest and tied his hair up. As on all fancy occasions these days, Zuko was reminded of the royal crest that was supposed to sit in his bun. His father had taken it from him the same day he'd scarred his face.

"Know this: you are not a prince. The world may look at you and see my son, but you will look at yourself and know that you have shamed yourself. You are not worthy of this. Only when you have proven yourself worthy will you have a hope of becoming my heir."

Even with the herbs and bandages, the wound on his torso ached as Zuko made his way from his rooms down to the banquet hall. The halls were emptier now, almost all of the guests having been herded in, though busy servants rushing back and forth still took the time to bow to their prince. Zuko moved through them as if they didn't exist, as if he was a boulder and they were the stream.

As soon as he entered the vast dining room, Zuko knew he was late. There was nobody to announce his name, nothing but a sea of richly-dressed people sitting at long tables. The walk from the door up to the high table where his father sat seemed infinitely long. The buzz of conversation continued, but it seemed to Zuko that everybody turned to look at him as he walked past. It was a relief to finally reach his father's table, until Zuko actually looked where he was going.

The seat left vacant for the prince was far from the head of the table, sandwiched between two of his father's ministers. At Ozai's left hand sat one of his favored generals, and at his right...

She didn't meet Zuko's eyes this time, but Ozai did. He looked levelly at his son, unblinking, and Zuko felt that those pale golden eyes were boring into him. With no choice at all, feeling as if the whole room was watching, Zuko swallowed his pride and took his seat.

He'd heard plenty about the supposed beauty of expecting women, and indeed the servants and the nobles were all abuzz with joy at the growing stomach of their new princess. Every day now, it seemed, he had to endure some comment about how his wife was positively aglow, about whether the child would be a boy or a girl, whether it would possess its father's fire or inherit its mother's nonbending. Every day his smile became more strained, his replies more sarcastic. He despised the necessity of sharing his marriage with a country. Ursa was his, not theirs, as the child would be.

Just a week ago he'd stumbled upon his father's minister of agriculture laughing about the size of Ursa's stomach, chortling that either she was expecting triplets or the marriage had been consummated long before the country heard of their younger prince taking a bride. Of course, the man had sputtered and apologized and bowed when he realized Ozai was standing within earshot. Ozai had given a twisted smile and murmured that it was fine, when really he would have loved nothing more than to seize the pathetic little man by what little grey hair remained on his head and thrown him out the window.

Besides, Ursa wasn't glowing. She looked more tired than she ever had. She moved more slowly than a war meeting. He'd awakened twice in the past week to the sound of her retching, her body curled around a porcelain vase. And as patient as she was, he could still see how forced her smiles where whenever anyone placed a hand on her stomach, even if whatever imbecile was touching her was too thick to notice it.

On this particular afternoon, they sat together in the gardens in the shade of the trees. Ursa was watching the turtleducks paddling about their pond. As spring gave way to summer, the young ducklings were growing. Sooner or later there would be too many for the pond, too many for the gardens, and the oldest ducks would appear on the plates of the nobility. Ursa didn't know that. She watched them with a childlike innocence. Ozai didn't understand her fascination—they were just ducks, after all—but he found it endearing nonetheless.

"I've sent a messenger to invite your parents to stay here next week," he said.

She made an indistinct noise and shifted, her eyes still on the pool. He had expected thanks. It was the first time since their marriage that she would see her mother and father. When Ozai had gone to the Fire Lord to ask permission, he'd caught Azulon in a bad mood and endured the usual slew of insults about how he sat at home, a lazy, pampered prince, while his brother was off laying siege to Ba Sing Se.

"Aren't you excited?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." She tore her gaze away from the turtleducks for the first time and smiled apologetically up at him. "I am, of course. It's just...I know it's selfish, but I wish people would stop fussing over the child."

"It is annoying," he agreed, pulling her closer, nuzzling her neck. She laughed and squirmed before giving in.

"Stop...! Stop it." She made a valiant effort to sound serious, but soon she was dissolving into giggles again before he finally relented, leaving a final kiss on her skin. "I...oh, I feel like I shouldn't say this."

"You can tell me whatever you like," he said. His arms were around her, holding her safely. He could feel her breathing in and out. She was silent for a few long moments. The wind made ripples on the surface of their pond. Two turtleducks, quacking, squabbled over a stray bread crumb.

"It's as if they were waiting for this, waiting for me to have a child." Her words came hesitantly at first and then rushed over one another in a flood. "It's...as if I don't matter, as if the baby is all that matters. As if I'm nothing." Then she was quiet again. She glanced at him and quickly away.

He was surprised at that. He slid one hand down to rub gentle circles on her swelling midriff. With the other he brushed her hair behind her ears. She was warm under his touch and sweet-smelling, whatever perfume she'd chosen masking the omnipresent stink of vomit.

"Of course you matter," he said. He felt something shift under his hand, movement from inside her. It was a common occurrence of late, but still it excited him. His child was within her, reacting to his touch. It would know him before it was born. "You're my wife. You're their princess. They adore you. How could they not, when you're so young and lovely? Iroh will never have another child, but you will give them many more princes...princesses. How could you think you are nothing? You are everything."

"...Of course. Just a silly thought," she murmured, and then was silent for a long time. Ozai was content to sit still, his eyes drifting closed, his wife and his future in his arms. Distantly he heard the sound of guards marching.

"What if I miscarry?" she blurted out. His eyes opened. She wasn't looking at him.

"Of course you won't. You're healthy and strong. Why would you think such a thing? Don't worry about it. Stress can't be good for the child."

"But what if I do?"

"You won't," he said, and the finality in his voice made her stop asking. She returned to her quiet contemplation of the ducks swimming about in the pool, and he returned to his thoughts of the child under his hand. She wouldn't miscarry. She would give him a son, and he would be a bender.

And what did it matter, said a voice in the back of his mind, when his children would never be more than minor royalty, when Iroh, the perfect child, would inherit the throne, and golden Lu Ten after him? His face darkened at his dark thoughts. Even a lovely day in early summer, with his love in his arms and a small, fluttering heartbeat under his fingers, meant nothing. All of this was nothing more than a useless distraction, something to think about other than Iroh conquering distant lands and being showered in their father's abundant love.

Ozai returned to an old fantasy, one that had kept him through childhood and his teenage years, through sick spells and training sessions and every one of Azulon's insults. He imagined his father burned to ashes, his brother too, and himself sitting behind a curtain of fire as the world kneeled before him.

The child under his fingers kicked again.

"Have you thought of any names?" he asked. His wife stirred; her eyes had drifted closed.

"No...but people keep asking me. Have you?"

He had. "If we have a daughter, we'll name her after my father." An obvious ploy, but Azulon's ego was vast enough for it to work.

"Aza?"

"Azula." He wouldn't do the same with a boy. He would die before he would have a son named Azulon.

She had never been on a ship before, never been on a boat, never been this far from home.

And she was afraid, a little bit.

But fear wasn't at the forefront of her mind, not when she'd finally done it, made the leap forward to leave her stupid mother and her small life behind. No, it was exhilaration that ruled her, excitement that pounded in her veins, even as the tossing of the ship on the waves made her stomach churn and her throat too tight.

For the first time in her life, Azula was going to be free.

She'd planned it out over the past few weeks, months. She'd departed their house for school as she normally might. Her mother hadn't noticed that her school bag was fuller, heavier, than usual, filled not with books and scrolls but with a few key possessions.

Smuggling onto the ship had been easier than she expected. It was a sleepy colony, and the sailors of the trading vessel had been lax in their security. It had been easy to climb aboard while the ship's captain spoke to the dockmaster.

And now she was sitting in a dark, damp storage room, hidden behind crates and barrels and boxes, and although the air smelled very strongly of fish and the coil of rope she sat on was slimy, Azula was more excited than she had ever been before. She was at sea. She was free of her mother's overbearing presence. She was on her way home, not to a home she had ever known but a place that called her just the same. She had never been made for a dull life in the colonies. She had known it for years, for as long as her teachers called her work exemplary and her peers eyed her with jealousy and distrust. The fire that burned in her veins told her that she was not going to live the same way her mother did, nothing more than a shadow. She was meant for more. She was meant for the mainland.

The ship was tossed harshly forward. Azula slid into the box in front of her, its corners pressing sharply into her skin. Her stomach lurched in time with the boat. She didn't know how long she had been onboard. It had probably only been a few hours. She had brought food with her, and of course she could steal some from the crates surrounding her, but in her current state she didn't know if she would ever be hungry again.

She was a firebender, after all, unfit for tossing about on the waves.

She wished she could have been up on deck, watching the endless blue, but it would be too easy to get caught up there. She didn't know what the sailors would do if they found her. Would they toss a twelve-year-old overboard? Or, worse, would they cart her home to her mother? She couldn't bear that, couldn't bear to be dragged home to Tsumika to be punished.

Azula didn't know whether her mother would have found out she was gone yet. Tsumika worked most days in the town, assisting the potter in painting his wares. She'd come home after a long day with paint staining her yukata, sweaty from working so near the kiln. She was a quiet, graceful woman, polite to a fault. Azula knew the other villagers respected her mother for that, but they were the traits she hated in her mother. Tsumika had never longed for anything more than her current station, and she couldn't understand why her daughter would either. On her rare free days, Tsumika would sit at home and paint, not pottery, but ink paintings. She'd tried to teach Azula, but she had no patience for it and no desire to learn.

Her mother was quite good, Azula supposed. She always drew the same things: an infant, a boy, a man. There was a framed painting of Azula's dead father on Tsumika's bedside table, but Tsumika never painted him anymore. When Azula asked why, her mother said it was too painful.

Azula thought this would be the same as any other day for Tsumika. She'd work late at the potter's, come home to an empty house, and assume Azula was simply disregarding her curfew. Maybe the next morning she would start to worry, but Azula had stayed out overnight before. When she was nine, she and her mother'd had their worst argument ever over allowing Azula to study bending properly. Azula had run away and spent three nights in the woods. When she returned home, Tsumika was more than willing to see things her daughter's way.

But even if Tsumika guessed, sooner or later, where Azula had gone, she didn't think her mother would follow. She was too quiet, too tame. It was hard for Azula to imagine her mother outside the confines of their sleepy home.

The ship jolted again. Bile flooded her mouth. She clapped a hand over her lips to stop the vomit escaping. She tried not to think of the last time she'd been ill, really ill, when she was ten and her mother held back her hair and stroked her back. Here there was only Azula to look after herself in a world as vast as it was cruel. The mainland was far away, and she was just a girl, crouched in the dark in a tiny space with nobody to hold her.

She was afraid.

She was terrified.

She knew the last time she had felt fear like this, years ago, fourteen years ago, when her daughter was no more than a tiny thing growing inside of her. There was nothing to frighten her too much in their sleepy colony, where the most exciting thing was seeing a battleship on the distant horizon. She had been scared for her daughter before, when she'd run away, when she'd disappeared for the last time, but even then was nothing like this. Her hands were trembling so badly that she couldn't even hold on to the table. Light was swimming in front of her out-of-focus eyes. She thought she might faint or perhaps throw up. There was nobody to find her, nobody to look after her. The days of servants to bring her cold water and see to her every need were long gone.

She would have to go home.

She had anticipated dying here. It was not a happy thought, but she had accepted her fate. Were it only her life, she might have been discontented, but she was more than willing to live out her sentence for her daughter.

Her daydreams of the Fire Nation had never brought this terror on. Many times she had dreamed of, wished for, the crater that housed her true city, for the lush wet woods of the smaller islands, for Ember Island, for excitement and rich meals and royal dances, for anything outside of the small harbor village that had become her world.

And her son. Of course, her son. Not a day went by that she did not think of Zuko. She looked at Azula and wondered if her brother looked like her. He would be fifteen now, broad in the shoulders, perhaps looking like his father. She had drawn him so many times, imagined the planes of his face and how his golden eyes would look, of how strong and noble he would be.

Azula had found her drawings and questioned her. Ursa had lied, like she had lied about her name, her identity, her husband. Like she had lied about everything.

But now it was time to take Tsumika off and leave her in the ashes. It was time for Ursa to go home, and that terrified her. She heard Ozai's words ringing in her ears as if it had only been days, not years, that he had stood above her and pronounced her sentence. That was the fear that had gripped her for fourteen years, that had slumbered until she received Azula's letter. If she was discovered, she would be killed. They would bring her to Ozai, and...

She was afraid. His name beat a tattoo into her mind. She remembered her prince, as he had been, and his arms too tight around her and his breath hot against her neck. She remembered marrying a facade and watching it peel away.

The evening was still and quiet. The only sound from outside was the chirping of birds beyond her windows. The thundering noise was only in her mind.

Ursa looked down at the letter on the wood of the table. She needed to go after her daughter. That was the thought that gave her resolve to overcome the fear. Her life did not matter. Her fear was inconsequential. But for Azula, she would go. Her daughter wouldn't want to come home, but she couldn't be alone, not when she was so young and so unwise of the world. Azula was fearless, and so Ursa feared for her.

Their house seemed so very empty. Ursa thought of what she would need and nothing much came to mind. She had very few possessions that mattered to her. They hardly had anything worth stealing. In her banishment, Ozai had left her nothing at all but the cloak on her back and the seed in her womb. She would take food, all the food they had, and her clothes, and a knife. It took no time at all to gather her things together on the table beside her daughter's letter. Her heart had stilled somewhat. It was more difficult to be afraid when she had something to distract her.

She couldn't go home as Ursa. They'd catch her. They'd kill her, and Azula would have nobody. She would not be found before she found her daughter.

Ozai had loved her hair. He would play with it, stroke it, run it between his fingers. He had taken to combing it out himself, massaging spices and perfume into her scalp. He'd called it his and forbidden her from cutting it.

And she never had. She loved it too. As stupid as she knew it was, when it fell thick and warm around her ears, she felt safer.

It went, all of it. It was difficult to cut with the knife. She grabbed great handfuls and sawed haphazardly through them. A dark pile gathered on the ground and the table, inches and inches of silky dark hair. Her head felt lighter than it ever had before. She cut and cut until it did not even brush her shoulders, until she turned her head this way and that in wonder at the strange new sensation. She'd taken too much off, she realized too late; most men still kept it long. Short hair was for prisoners and slaves, for the disgraced.

Well, disgraced she was. She would return home, her crime visible for the whole nation to see. To think of her pride anymore was ridiculous.

One of the luxuries she missed most were the grand mirrors of the palace and even her childhood home. Ursa had taken them for granted. It was a shock to come here, where the most readily available reflection was in the river. She'd saved up a long time to buy a mirror when the traders came, and still the best her pitiful funds could do was a small one just a bit bigger than her palm.

This she balanced now on the table to see the jagged ends of her hair and to cut them evenly. It was a rough, patchy job, and when she was complete she was certain she looked ridiculous.

She stared around at the fallen strands and clumps of hair piled up on the floor, and she felt fear rising again thick and dark inside of her. The room seemed to spin. For so long it had been the same, her small life in this small place, and now she was forced to leave it. She clutched for her hair and found nothing at all, so she clutched at her shoulders instead. Why couldn't Azula have stayed home? Was it her father's blood that compelled her, the fire in her veins that led her to the mainland? Why couldn't she have humored Ursa for once in her life?

Ursa sank down on a chair and allowed herself a few minutes to cry. Foolish, cowardly tears they were, useless to her and Azula alike. She wished, for short fleeting seconds, to be a child again, at home in the Fire Nation, never wanting for anything, with her mother and father to hold her and make all her fears disappear.

But she was alone now. Her parents had been dead before her banishment. The only person she had was Azula. She had to go after her daughter, regardless of fear, regardless of the threat to her own life. Without Azula, her purpose had vanished, and her small, meaningless life would be empty at last.

She wiped her eyes and stood. Her fear was small beneath her determination.

When she was focused, packing took no time at all. She stuffed food and gold into her pack, but thought better now of taking her clothes. Her wardrobe wouldn't suit her anymore. Ursa had never worn men's clothing before in her life. Even her most unremarkable pants had flowers embroidered along the hem. She would need help with that.

Ursa left the house locked behind her, though they had nothing of worth. She didn't know when she would be back again. If she was discovered, she never would be, and she knew that Azula wouldn't come home without a fight. The place looked even smaller and sadder when she looked at it now, its windows as soulless eyes. It meant nothing anymore. The life she had made for herself here was so easily packed up and taken along with her. Her home was where her daughter was.

Masaru looked surprised when he threw open his door and saw her there, and even more so when his eyes traveled up to where her hair no longer was.

"...Tsumika? I hardly recognized you! What is it? Did you forget something?"

She was glad, then, that the potter had no lover and no children, that he was the only one who would know about any of this.

"Please, may I come in? I have a favor to beg of you."

He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles and glanced up and down the empty street before nodding and opening the door wide enough for her to fit inside. She knew this place very well, of course, as she had worked here every day for the past thirteen years, but it looked different in the evening. The setting sun threw long shadows from the pottery stacked on the shelves. The kiln heated the air uncomfortably.

Masaru led her upstairs, where he lived. It was neat and sparse. Ursa's glancing eyes could hardly take any of it in. Her nerves had returned.

He gently guided her to a chair and then sat opposite her. His aged face was even more serious than usual. Just when the silence began to feel unbearable, he spoke.

"Tsumika, were you...attacked?"

"What?"

"Did they...?" He gestured at her hair, her red eyes, her clothes more disheveled than usual, and she understood.

"No! No. I cut my hair myself. This...please, if you would do something for me, I would be indebted to you."

"What is it?" He settled back in his chair, looking less concerned and more perplexed.

"May I borrow some of your clothes?"

He blinked but didn't answer immediately. She rushed to fill the silence.

"I...my reasons are my own, but I'm leaving the village tonight. I must not be recognized. Men's clothing would be a great help, I believe."

Masaru chewed at his lip. He wasn't looking at her any longer, but past her, his eyes suddenly unfocused. Seconds drifted by and still he didn't speak. Ursa didn't say anything, didn't want to push him, but she wondered if she had even been heard. As time stretched thin, her heart began beating faster again. Irrational fears swarmed into her mind. Had she been wrong to come here for help? Was it folly to trust anyone at all, even her oldest friend in the colony?

Just when her hands started shaking again, he finally spoke. "This is about your daughter, yes?"

"Yes." Ursa closed her eyes. She felt heat building up in them, but she couldn't cry again. She had already allowed herself too many tears. "She sent a letter. I have to go after her, but I mustn't be found."

"Of course I'll give you clothes." Masaru got up so suddenly that his chair went skidding across the floor. Ursa rose more slowly and stared after him. "That's why you cut your hair?"

"Yes." She followed him to the corner of the room, where he had thrown open a wooden chest and was pulling garments from within it. "Just...anything you can give me."

"Are you going to bind your breasts?" He thrust a pair of pants into her arms. Ursa had just started worrying that they would be too large when a belt followed.

"Oh! I—" She glanced downward. She hadn't thought of it at all. "Yes, I suppose I should."

"Here." Masaru handed her a shirt to complete the outfit and went rummaging through the chest until he emerged, triumphant, holding up a roll of white linen. "I'll go downstairs. Call when you've finished changing."

It was strange to disrobe in this foreign place, and even moreso to pull on clothes not her own. When she'd wound the linen around her chest, she felt constricted. Even breathing seemed harder than it had been. Ursa knew that military women would bind, but she had never done so before. She was a princess, the daughter of nobility, not a soldier.

The clothes smelled of clay and dust. They were too big on her, even when she'd tied the belt firmly around her waist, but she was thankful for the shirt's bagginess. It hid her curves, smaller but still evident, well.

She did feel ridiculous, standing there in too-big clothes. She'd be lucky to pass as a man; most people would glance at her and see a boy, with baggy pants and too-short hair, and laugh.

"I'm done," she said. She'd meant to call, but her voice fell flat. Her words still carried, though, and in a few seconds Masaru had reappeared at the top of the stairs.

"Nobody will recognize you," he said. "I can say that for certain."

She thought she might have espied a smile at the corners of his mouth, but thought it best not to bring it up.

"I am in your debt," she said, and bowed. "I cannot thank you enough. If ever you need anything..."

"It is a small favor for someone I have known many years." He waved aside her thanks with a shake of his head. "I will hope for your good fortune. I must ask, Tsumika: are you going to the Earth Kingdom?"

"No," she said, before she even thought of lying. "Azula has run to the mainland. I must follow her. This disguise is..."

Masaru nodded once. "You're Ursa, aren't you? The vanished queen."

She froze. Her eyes flickered for the stairs. He would tell. He would tell them. She had made a mistake. She shouldn't have asked for help. She should have left when she had the chance, should have settled in the middle of nowhere, shouldn't have gotten close to anyone.

"I'm not going to turn you in." He stepped closer, his hands held out to placate her. "I've always wondered. The timing, and your reticence...and it's clear you aren't a low class woman."

Ursa sighed. She owed him the truth, at least, for his help. "I am."

"And Azula?"

She knew what he was asking, but she didn't answer it.

"I need to go after her."

"Of course." They stared at each other, the light of the sinking sun falling in through the windows, and Ursa thought that this really was goodbye to the life she had made. She thought of years sitting beside this man, painting his pottery, years of raising a little daughter to believe a pack of lies. In some vague way, Ursa still imagined finding Azula and bringing her home, but slowly it was dawning on her that she didn't believe she would return.

She wouldn't insult Masaru by asking him to keep her secret. She just inclined her head. She might have cried, but tears were oddly absent now. The time for crying was over.

"Good luck." He handed her another set of clothes without breaking his eyes away.

As she went down the stairs and out into the street, Ursa thought how much more she had to thank him for than clothes. He had given her a job, kept quiet for fourteen years regardless of his suspicions, and he hadn't asked her a single question about her banishment.

Even if she never returned, she would think of him as a friend forever.

The sea looked red in the light of the setting sun. The ships docked in the harbor bobbed up and down on the waves. Ursa strode out onto the wooden dock and looked beyond the ocean to an island distant.

Her daughter was there.

Her son.

And him.

I'm coming.