Because I am unoriginal af

Her mother says her uncle named her for her grandfather. She worries it will be an awful feminisation, but instead it's thematic. Fùxīng; revival. Not the easiest to pronounce but it's soothing to the ear, so she forgives its tongue twisting nature. It's also incredibly on the nose, and she wonders if fate were truly so unfunny.

She can't remember much of the early days. Her days are spent indoors or being carted from one pair of arms to the next. She doesn't see her mother as often as she thought she would, and it irks her. The wet nurses are kind but impersonal, as all servants are.

She is royalty after all—it is a privilege to merely lay hands on Prince Ozai's firstborn.

Ozai is disgusted by her presence. She knows because she saw his face approximately three times before her first birthday. She doesn't mind since the feeling is mutual. Her mother minds greatly however and makes desperate attempts to reconcile them.

In that sense, she understands Ozai. He does not despise her specifically, but rather the concept of her. There is no passion when he looks down at her on their first meeting, simply cold contempt.

"A girl?"

Two simple words that conveyed everything that made up her parents' relationship. Ozai never hits her. He doesn't need to. Ursa caves in at the slightest nudging, and she wants to feel sorry for her mother but can't quite bring herself to care. Whether her mother admits it or not, she knows she wanted a son also. Anything to mitigate the disapproval of her husband and the court. As such, she learns early on to not rely on either of her parents.

She learns not to rely on anyone.

"Lady Fùxīng, it's time to return indoors." Her caretaker murmurs, bowing to the toddler.

Fù turns from the pond, crimson robes brushing against the water's edge in the same movement. She appraises her with steely golden eyes before nodding her acquiescence, following the older woman obediently.

"Lady Fùxīng, do you require anything?" She asks, as is customary.

"No," she replies quietly, still glancing back at the garden. It's the only place she feels at peace in this labyrinth of brimstone and fire. "Is Mother visiting?" It isn't a hopeful inquiry, nor did any excitement surface on her expression.

"I'm afraid not, milady." Her caretaker—she never bothered learning her name—is a tired young woman, body aged by a life of service. Fù feels sympathetic towards her plight and tries to remain well behaved mostly for her sake. "But His Highness did promise that if his schedule was to allow it, he may be able to bring Prince Lu Ten for a short while."

A small smile worms its way onto Fù's face. It is in equal parts mesmerising and terrorising. "Okay," is all she says, but it is obvious she is pleased.

Her uncle and cousin do indeed visit later that evening. When they enter, she's sat cross-legged on her bed, staring vacantly. Iroh knocks and her neck snaps towards them, amber eyes wide and sharp. He hates the suspicion that lingers on her face until she processes their presence. Then, her shoulders relax, and she waves them over wordlessly. Lu Ten dive bombs onto her bed, scooping her up in a tight hug. She squirms a little but otherwise lets him do as he pleases.

"Lu Ten," she mumbles in greeting, muffled by his arms.

"Fù! It's been ages!" It has actually been three days.

"Yes." She lifts herself off the bed and bows to Iroh, to his great discomfort. "Your Highness."

"Now is that any way to greet your favourite uncle?" He holds out his hands and she takes them tentatively. He lifts her up for a proper embrace, which she doesn't return but much like with Lu Ten does not reject it either. "How have you been, little blossom?"

"Good," she lies easily.

"Hey Fù, look what I got you!" Lu Ten demands her attention once more and Iroh gently lets her down to converse with her older cousin. "You like the turtle-ducks, right?" Lu Ten reaches into his robe and pulls out a delicately bound book, placing it in her small hands proudly. "It's a book!" He repeats the word slowly, and she blinks at him and then the bundle of parchment in her hands. "It's all about turtle-ducks. That way you can get ta know what they like to eat. If you feed 'em, they'll come to you for sure."

Fù hides her hands in her long sleeves, concealing the telltale bitemarks dotting her fingers.

Iroh chuckles and takes a seat on the floor beside them. An act not befitting a Crown Prince like himself, but perfectly appropriate as thei—Lu Ten's father. He often wonders if his niece truly comprehends that the dark haired man who occasionally looms over her while she sits in the garden is her father. His little brother was not ready to have children and he is expressing it in the worst way possible. The pregnancy was hard on Ursa; he thinks she subconsciously blames Fùxīng for the new strain she feels from Ozai for not birthing a boy.

If she were a boy, perhaps it would be her parents here now and not he and Lu Ten as pale substitutions.

"Read it," she mumbles to her cousin, grasping his sleeve. Lu Ten grins widely and plops on the floor without further word. She settles in beside him after a moment, raven curls spilling onto his shoulder. He begins on command.

"The turtle-duck comes from the Fire Nation—that's where we are!—and can live up to thirty years. Ehhh, that's so long." He gives Iroh a hard look. "It's almost as old as you, Father."

Iroh pretends to be wounded, pressing his palm against his heart. "My own son, betraying me so! How could this be? What will become of our family?" He falls on his back, the sharp jab in his ribs forgotten when he hears a high-pitched giggle. He lifts his head to catch the ghost of a grin on his niece's face, cheeks tinged pink.

Then the door clicks open and the moment is shattered.

"Your Highness, I-I'm so sorry," and the woman is, so he forgives her for casting a long shadow across their faces, "but your presence has been requested b-by His Highness Fire Lord Azulon, may he reign supreme."

Lu Ten groans, asking if they need to go. "Grandpa's such a stick in the mud," he grumbles, standing up. "We'll come again soon to make up for it, kay Fù?" He hugs her to his chest, squeezing tightly. "I'll even show you some of my super cool bending tricks." He winks, letting sparks fly from his prodigious fingers.

Iroh gives his own goodbyes (he doesn't like to make them long, since he always tells himself they'll be back so soon she'll forget they were even gone), and pats her on the head gently.

He's halfway out the door when she sniffles. He doesn't look back.

Iroh thinks the other reason Ozai dislikes his daughter, aside from her gender, is that on first glance they do not even appear related. There is no way she is not his—Ursa lives in a tightly locked gilded cage. But, he knows she has her uses. Should something happen to his Lu Ten (and he should perish the very thought) then Fùxīng is his ticket to the throne. He won't hurt her. Yet, even knowing that, Iroh shuffles over to the children cartwheeling in the garden, gathering Lu Ten under his arm. She was finally beginning to get a hang of the handstand too.

And he almost reaches for her, but suddenly she's miles from them and too incorporeal to grasp. She does not even glance Ozai's way until he stamps his boot against the ground. Let no one say the aloof princess is a coward, because Fùxīng gazes up at the Prince through her undone hair as if he is less than the dirt beneath her shoe. Quiet contempt, which Iroh has never quite seen so perfectly captured on someone only in their second year of life.

"Brother, I'd no idea you would be gracing us with yours and the young Lu Ten's presence." He makes a grandiose gesture of bowing and then gestures to the door. "However, tonight I would like to spend some time with the Lady Fùxīng." So distant, as if she were some political ward rather than his flesh and blood.

Fùxīng smiles crudely up at Ozai as they turn to leave and Iroh sighs.

Yes, that smile is how he knows she is made up of the same stuffs as them.

And he forever regrets not listening to that telltale sniffle or examining her 'turtleduck bites' more closely.

Truthfully, she doesn't even like turtleducks.

Ursa's home when they visit next, some days after Ozai's interruption. Iroh is only half a step through the doorway before he's shoving Lu Ten behind him and into the hallway.

"Fùxīng isn't feeling well so she won't want to play," he tells him gently, kneeling down to rub his head. "You know how you get when you're sick."

Lu Ten nods tentatively—he is positively rotten when under the weather. He has more energy than he can burn, leading to the worst sort of cabin fever.

"But, we don't have to play," the boy scuffs the floor with his shoes, but seemingly knows that he will not be granted entry regardless. "Fù doesn't have anyone else to talk to. . . Uncle Ozai an' Auntie Ursa aren't here as much as us."

Iroh cringes but doesn't disagree. "I know, but I think it's best if you run along. Ask Wuzhang to take you back."

His son agrees, albeit reluctantly.

Iroh takes a deep breath and steps forward. Ursa hums a greeting absentmindedly as she combs through Fùxīng's cindered hair.

"What happened, sister?" He asks, resisting the urge to simply bat away her hands from his niece. "Did she awaken her bending?" It's hopeful, and not impossible; Iroh remembers his first experience with fire with little fondness.

Ursa doesn't answer, eyes glazed over and seemingly counting each tug of her hair. Fùxīng sits equally silent but her eyes are sharp, staring at her hands with frightening intensity.

"Answer me, Ursa."

He's never raised his voice against his sister-in-law before, because she is oh so young and he feels for her having given birth at her age but—

"Uncle."

Iroh pounces on this last tether to reality like a lifeline. He crouches in front of her, edging back when Ursa tenses. He's never been sure of her relationship with her daughter. It was as if a part of her despised this bundle of oversized robes and tight lipped smiles for locking her in an even smaller cage, yet a voice cried for her to protect her from everything and everyone.

Even herself.

"Yes, Fù?" He knows she likes that more than Fùxīng. He wonders if he's the only one.

Her gaze captures his and his soul is inspected from head to toe. He isn't sure if she finds what she's looking for but she smiles for only the briefest of moments before resuming her neutral, deadpanned expression.

She says nothing.

"We're fine, Iroh," Ursa's words are both strained and clipped and she looks to the door with increasing fervour.

"Ursa, she doesn't look fi—"

"Leave." Her voice is low and dangerous but her hands tremble. "Please. Don't give her hope," she whispers after. "I don't want her to be disappointed when she grows up and realises what this world is like."

Iroh briefly remembers that Ursa has only just celebrated her nineteenth year.

Fù toys with her hair, giving it a derisive sniff. She doesn't look at Iroh as his shoulders slump and he trudges outside the room.

Everyone gives up eventually, she thinks. But it was nice while it lasted, her heart mumbles.

The next time Iroh is face to face with his niece is when she's three and presented to the Court. She's still a small girl, and her physique hovers between slim and unnaturally thin. Lu Ten does not even recognise her until her name is called. He buzzes in his seat beside him, clearly resisting the urge to run to her. Iroh feels the same but he wouldn't class his feeling as excited.

Instead he diverts his attention to the figure seated behind the wall of flames lining the back of the room.

Fùxīng does not look bothered by the attention and whispers direct towards her as she steps, alone, to the scorching steps.

"Firelord Azulon." Her voice is remarkably clear and pierces any noise in the hall. All eyes on her, she steps back and bows. "Grandfather." The room erupts into harsher whispers when Azulon does not answer. She turns to them, a mirthless grin planted across her face. "His Highness can't hear you. Speak up."

If she had not been Ozai's daughter and had Iroh not glared at all those with heated palms at the table, perhaps her story would have ended there and then.

It's silent then, and Ozai looks beyond his boiling point. If it had been up to him, she would have been thrown by the wayside as soon as she were birthed. But his mother had been alive then and while Azulon had many vices he indulged his queen as often as his pride allowed.

Maybe it's because of that Azulon does not strike her down and instead lets the fire lick her sleeves instead. "And what makes you so certain I am your grandfather?" His voice borders on a growl and is meant to scare, to intimidate.

What makes you worthy?

Lu Ten had never had to answer; he was the heir, so of course he was worthy.

What could poor, small Fùxīng do? He sees her hands shake underneath her cuffs. This was cruel—a child's entry to Court was never joyous, but strong nobility had always been valued in their society. Why was Fù cursed so? Yet it is now she smiles and Iroh notices her shaking fingers point directly at the Fire Lord.

"Because," and a fire pillar diminishes to but an ember, "I am strong," her eyes shine golden as she takes in the room around her.

In its place, a jet of blue flame faces Azulon. Ozai jolts, expression torn between awe and thunderous. She hid this from him.

Lu Ten is the one to break the tense silence that follows by rising from his seat and simply whooping.

"Did you see that?! I've never seen blue fire before."

No one has; it's this shock that keeps Lu Ten from being disciplined for his outburst.

Azulon laughs then. It is deep and raspy but lacked the underlying murderous intent it had carried before. "If you insist. Welcome, Fùxīng. My granddaughter."

Beneath the painted lips and her white face, Iroh sees something akin to triumph when she gazes back at Ozai. They both know she's won their war; he could never be rid of her without consequence now that Azulon favours her.

She looks at him too, once. She tilts her head to the side and then nods in apparent appreciation.

'Uncle' it is then.

He would be useful.