Wildfire

Chapter 1

A/N: So this an idea I've had for awhile, it's sort of random but I thought I'd try it :) Any comments/criticisms are welcome but be warned, it will get pretty dark

Disclaimer: I own nothing recognisable

"That one," the grizzled old General grunts to the Madam Azari, his hairbrush moustache twitching as he points at her, "she'll do."

Yusheng peers at him under darkened lashes. He's a war veteran, that much is clear, he stands with the commanding air of a man who expects to be obeyed and the rigidity of a practised soldier. Not one of those pampered play Generals, she thinks as she observes him, there are callouses on his hands, rough and coarse, and his voice lacks serpentine slide of a politician.

It is dark in the harem, a sinful twilight where the orange-fire glow of the lanterns reflects off miles of porcelain skin. The air is thick and perfumed and the cloying-sweet scent of opium hangs in a cloud of heady musk. Around the room the whores of the court lounge on beds of sumptuous red silk cushions, their eyes dazed or calculating as they take in the armoured man.

She rises slowly in a ripple of sinuous motion, her crimson robe slipping slightly open to reveal the slightest hint of rounded creamy flesh. The man pays no notice, his golden eyes sharp and unwavering as he takes her in. He not here for a night with one of the Fire Lord's women, that much she knows just by looking at him, he eyes her not with the salacious leer of lust that she has grown used to, but the impassive gaze of a man surveying livestock: considering but slightly bored.

She glides towards him, her full hips swaying in a seductive saunter, half-lidded eyes meeting his cold ones. The other women watch uninterested, this is a ritual that happens everyday: customer and saleswoman, client and product, man and whore.

"Your name," he asks, his voice brusque.

"Zarin," she purrs, the word tasting like ashes in her mouth, a filthy Fire Nation name given to her to replace her own.

He nods sharply, the air around him smelling of smoke and war, "You are to accompany me tonight to the Fire Lord's birthday celebration. You are to be silent and respectful. The Madam assures me that you are the best for this task."

She inclines her head dutifully in assent, fine black strands of hair drifting in front of her eyes. This is different, she thinks as she looks at him with consideration. He's not ugly per se, old yes, with grey hair and severe lines, but not unattractive. His irises are the fierce gold common amongst the upper classes and his jaw line firm and handsome, it begs the question as to why he has no wife to take to this event. If he were a widower, it would not be questioned for him to be alone, but for him to choose one of the scandalous beauties of the harem, well, it's unusual to say the least.

She has heard, however, in between whispers, of men who prefer men; of soldiers who seek the warmth of their own sex to distract themselves from the fire and blood of war. She wonders looking at this man, if he is one of them, hiding his shameful secret in her beauty from a people who would condemn him.

He turns abruptly and walks off, his soldier's stride setting a hard pace to follow. She trails after him through the dimly lit passages of the palace, taking in the reddish glint of gold that adorns every wall and the lacquer dragons that dance in their frames. It is rare that she leaves the clandestine confines of the harem, when she does it is only for the men that come for her. The fat, privileged courtiers with soft hands and bulging perfumed skin, the vicious men-children who take pride in fucking a woman with no choice. They paw and grab at her flesh, poisoning her with every disgusting, lustful touch, little pig eyes hungry, little claw hands sharp.

They twist and turn through the gloomy corridors, the further they go the more ornate and heavy the decor becomes. She recognises this part of the palace, it's for the honoured guests and personal friends of the Fire Lord, she's only been here once or twice but she'd know it anywhere. The lavish carvings and writhing, flame-like designs were paid for by blood money, gold gained in the smouldering wreck of burnt out villages like volcanic glass pulled from the ashes of an eruption.

They enter a spacious suite of rooms and are greeted by a team of nervous looking serving woman, their worn red uniforms standing out against the scarlet silks and velvets of their surroundings.

He turns to them with an impassive gaze, "Make her presentable," he commands sharply before striding through another door.

They turn to her as one, their dull amber eyes trailing up and down her form assessing. She knows what she looks like, she wears nothing save a crimson silk robe and a scrap of material that barely covers her womanhood. Whore, their minds must whisper at them, filthy harlot, painted tart, vice and sin. She can see the very moment it registers, the disgust creeping in behind the wrinkle of their noses and the sneers pulling at their mouths. She smirks back at them salaciously, making a point of roving her gaze up and down their bodies as if she were undressing them in her mind. These women know nothing, they clean and primp and tidy before going home to their happy families and safe lives, their good fortune built on the corpses of her people.

They move toward her cautiously, silent and taking care not to speak. The younger ones eye her nervously, as if they're afraid she'll eat them up while the elders are hesitant in touching her skin.

They dress and undress her quickly and efficiently, taking her robe and removing the cheap combs and pins that hold her hair in a mimicry of court style. They layer her in ornately decorated folds of cloth and pile her hair high with jewels. Her face is painted like a dolls', all snow white skin and tastefully rouged lips while tiny silk slippers are slipped onto her feet.

When they're finished, they step away to allow her to view herself in the mirror, upon catching sight of her reflection she cannot help but gasp. She is wearing more clothes than she has in years, hand stitched layers of lavish silk that ripple down her body like flames. Her hair is expertly twisted and braided into intricate designs and each piece is held firmly in place with pins of priceless rubies. She could almost pass for a noblewoman dressed like this.

Almost, but not quite.

Her neckline is too low, gaping open to show the valley of flesh between her breasts and her face too painted. She is a parody of court style, just lavish enough to fit in but not conservative enough to belong. The General, it appears, still wanted a courtesan, a woman with loose morals and a seductive smile, just one that wouldn't embarrass him. She smirks slyly at the mirror, she can work with that, she can be exotic and forbidden, straddling the line between scandalous and acceptable, she's been wearing that mask for years after all.

It is then the General returns, his presence fills the room with phantom clanking of tanks and screams of the dying as his golden eyes meet hers. Her green orbs are cold in the firelight: hard and unrelenting as marble, sharp and textured as agate. They mark her out more than anything as Earth Kingdom, as Earth Kingdom nobility.

Jade, her mother had told her, the stone of kings (Dead, the men that come to her whisper, dead like half your nation).

He gives her a quick once over before dismissively pronouncing, "Satisfactory," and offering her his arm. She slinks toward him in a ripple of shimmering fabric, draping herself over his armoured bicep and peering coyly up at him through her lashes. He gives her performance no notice and she scowls internally at his lack of reaction, all her acting will go to waste if he doesn't play his part.

As they turn to leave the serving women bow their heads in deference, their postures submissive and docile. She sneers cruelly at them as they pass, Must be painful, she thinks, to bow for a whore.

They make their way through the halls of the palace quietly, weaving through dark labyrinthine passages and red hued rooms. The General slows his pace so that she can cling to him comfortably but fixes his gaze firmly ahead and says not a word. She's never been one for superfluous noise, but between the echo of their footsteps and the rhythmic hush of their breathing she's feels as though she's drowning in the silence.

The corridors grow grander now as they reach the public areas of the palace, the carvings more opulent and the gold more impressive. It's oppressive in its extravagance. The crimson walls bow under the weight of their own grandeur and the frozen eyes of bejewelled dragons and dead men peer from every surface.

The people drift around like fire lily petals, robed in silks of scarlet and midnight with their headpieces glinting in the lantern light. She stands out in her attire, and she can feel the scornful eyes of the Fire Nation elite crawl over her body, taking in her exposed flesh and rouged lips with hawk eyed gazes. Their stares feel like naked flames running over skin. The women look at her with upturned noses and whisper words of scandal and hate behind their satin fans while the men trail predatory, appreciative leers along her curves.

She takes a sick sort of pride in their stares.

Her face stretches into a sly smile and she makes sure to meet the eyes of everyone she passes. The colour of her irises tell all who look that she is Earth Kingdom, and there is a kind of power in that. As a prisoner of war, for her to be here she must be either uniquely beautiful or uncommonly powerful; she knows, with a pang of twisted vanity, that she is both.

Beauty is a woman's armour, she remembers her aunts whispering, and she thinks, with a beguiling smile, that she has learnt to wear hers well.

As she and the General step through an imperious crimson doorway she takes a deep breath from where languishes over his arm. She knows how to work a court, how to weave intricate nets of pretty words and empty promises, but she is sorely out of practice. It seems almost a lifetime since she sat with her mother and aunts in the parlour and learnt the secrets of powerful women. She knows, deep down, that she can run rings around these people. Their fiery personalities and heated impatience mean that the movements of politics are quick and brash with little long term planning. Unlike the Earth Kingdom, where deception and treachery sink into every stone of Ba Sing Se and some of the best power plays are decades in the making.

They enter a huge ballroom in the centre of the palace, the walls are the colour of fresh blood and pillars of obsidian support bright gold dragons that spiral down from the ceiling. The sides are draped with tapestries of sun gods and bloodshed, full of scenes of flickering bonfires and rapturous peasants that bow to Agni, the two headed fire god. It is decadent and overbearing and she longs for the clean elegance and calming tones of the Earth Kingdom.

There are more people here and the stares grows more intense. She pouts and sways her hips with every step but her eyes are vivid and calculating. The General (who she now knows is called Khan) must be fairly influential as despite (or perhaps because of) her presence he is approached time and again. There are stiff looking army men with their harsh faces and ragged scars, waifish matrons with pinched features and shrill voices and gluttonous politicians with flowery words and pudgy, jewelled fingers. She studies each person intently, measuring their importance in the way they stand and the gleam in their eyes, reading between the lines and analysing the nuances that only she can see.

She was told to be silent and so she is, she watches and she listens and through that, she learns. She can feel the delicate filigree of it come together in her mind as she pulls together the Fire Nation social scene, gossamer threads of alliances and nets crafted of secret enmity spread out in front of her in complex silken webs.

Most of the night continues in this manner, she is a silent beacon for the jealous ire of women and the covetous gazes of men. She entrances with her eyes, bewitches with the secret seductiveness in her smile and her walk is cultivated to entice. The General, however, barely gives her a second glance. His standoffishness is preferable by far to the cocksure arrogance of the young fools who see her as no more than a pair of breasts and a pretty face, but she feels the stirrings of feminine anger at being so easily dismissed.

The night is drawing to a close when the Fire Lord and his sons head towards them. The monotony and endless drivel of meaningless conversation has taken its toll on her and she thinks longingly of her small bunk back in the harem, she has no desire to be eyed like a toy any longer.

However upon catching sight of Fire Lord Azulon in all his robed glory making his way toward them she shunts her weariness to the side and engages all her mental faculties on the coming conversation.

Fire Lord Azulon walks with a proud arrogance: straight-backed, stiff and commanding. His face is angular and handsome, the lines sharp and cruel. There is a stark harshness to his features, a paradoxical mix of pampered nobleman and weathered warlord and his gold eyes burn with a singular viciousness that is both terrifying and alien. Dragon eyes, she thinks, remembering the old legends about the Fire Lords, the eyes of the beast.

She knows, looking at him, that this is a man who would happily let the world burn, and not out of madness, but indifference.

Lightning, she surmises observing him discretely, the cold fire.

The Crown Prince, Iroh, is his complete opposite. He is short where his father is tall, smiling while his father's face is closed off, his form is more like an earth bender's: compact, powerful muscles meant for standing firm rather than lithe, precise grace crafted for speed and accuracy. His features are rounded, softer and while his eyes are the same terrible gold, there is a jovial spark within them, a good humour amidst the fire.

But, for all the amicability in his poise and way, there is still the inherent sense of danger that runs molten underneath. Prince Iroh is a man not to provoke, a man who hides a fierce and deadly intelligence under his smiles, a man who is already a successful battle commander; carving his own trail of blood and fire across her homeland.

Bonfire, she decides with a considering glance, warm and comforting but deadly when mishandled or provoked, the slow burn.

However, it is the second prince that catches her attention.

He stands slightly back from his father and brother, and appears somewhat swamped by the ornate heaviness of his crimson robes. He is only sixteen, still a baby, still a child. But there is something about him that ensnares her focus.

He looks like his father, the same height, the same piercing features and the same elegant grace. However it's clear just by watching that he's used to being ignored, being looked over in favour of his charismatic older brother. His tall form is hunched in ever so slightly and his eyes are just the tiniest bit downcast, he is lesser in the eyes of those around him and he knows it.

She searches around her mind for his name, the second prince is rarely talked about among the whores, innocent as he is, and has not been mentioned at all this evening. Ozai, her mind supplies after some mental digging and she watches him all the more intently to try and figure what it is about him that captivates her so.

She studies him through her lashes, under half-lidded eyes as General Khan and the Fire Lord discuss the war. She is in a prime position to hear it all, no one pays attention to a courtesan, and so she able to form a fairly comprehensive picture of troop movements across the western Earth Kingdom. Not that it will help anyone, she thinks sardonically. The conversation flows by as she continues to watch Prince Ozai, she still cannot tell why she instinctively finds him so intriguing, if anything he looks no different to the other young noblemen that crowd the hall.

But then he looks up and his eyes meet hers.

Wildfire, she thinks immediately as she looks into the vivid gold of his eyes, passion and power, fierce and untamed.

This is why he captures her attention, the ambitious ferocity lurking the molten swirl of his irises, the edge animal intelligence and predatory fire churning in their depths. There is danger and cruelty and smooth calculation behind the gold and she is helplessly drawn in, mesmerised by the burn. She sees herself reflected back at her, a younger, less jaded version with all the power in the world so close yet so far, slipping through his fingers like ash.

Him, she thinks looking at him, him.

He is young, oh so very young, but there is potential there, potential for greatness. She can see where his rough edges need to be refined, where his manner needs to be changed, but underneath there is a drive and a will and she can work with that. She can iron out his creases and mould him between her fingers, sculpt the timbre of his voice so that no one will ignore it and give him a presence that cannot be overlooked. His father is old and dead inside, lacking passion and care and his brother is too complacent, too content with his place in the world. But Ozai, Ozai she can tell from studying has needed to fight to be seen and that gives him an edge in this game, and with her help she knows he can win.

She gives him her most bewitching smile, one part seductive, two parts secret and uses her beauty like a knife. His eyes grow wide watching her, obviously not used to the attention, and his pupils dilate with lust. Success, she crows inside, for all that he is a prince he is still a teenage boy and she can use her body in this dance.

Even when he and his father and brother walk away she can feel his eyes on her for the rest of the night, the molten heat scouring her skin and burning through the layers of her dress. She catches his eyes several times and loads her own her sinful intent, taking advantage of his lack of familiarity with attention to ensnare him with her smile. Inside she feels giddy delight build up inside and fights down the bubbles of laughter that threaten to break her facade. She finally her a purpose, a goal, a power. A chance to exercise her formidable mind to its fullest potential, to grasp some the future that she lost when they took her name and her family. Vengeance will be sweet, her revenge on the world for its mistakes and treachery. They thought they could forget her, shove her in a harem and change her name and forget the power that she holds, the power of her forebears.

But no.

With this boy-prince she will shape the future, use the simmering hate and madness in his gaze to craft the world. She will tame the wildfire or release it to blaze unchecked but at the end of the day the cogs of the world will turn by her hand and no one will ever know.

Yes, she thinks with relish, let's play.