She who lives in the mirror
There’s always a cautionary message at the end of fairy tales Azula has never heeded much in her life before now. Beware of strangers, not all that shines is gold, you don’t always want to open that one door at the top of the highest tower and discover what’s in it.
All good messages for little naive girls, but was Azula ever one? She can’t remember.
Azula can’t really remember past some snippets of her childhood, most of which include them, and that hurt beyond what she can explain.
She can’t remember what she did before she learned to bend and Ozai took her under his wing, and she can’t remember the last time Ursa brushed her hair, or the first, if there ever was one.
Azula can’t remember if she was ever gentle with her brother, perhaps some time before she was taught he was useless, weak.
She can’t believe she’s worthy of the smiles he now gifts her, or the fact that he’s accepted her back in the palace after everything she’s done to be thrown out.
The feeling of silk sheets, and the softness of her dresses, so pretty, so very beautiful, when she can’t-
She does remember the tightness of her straightjacket, and the give of the padded room whenever her strength waned, and her throat gave, and she slept for hours on end against it.
The way the servants treat her like she’s on the verge of snapping, the way they look at her with the terror she once craved to have from her subjects and that now seeps into her nightmares.
Nothing like the rough grip of the asylum nurses, dragging her back, putting her in place, and the needles at her neck, turning her screaming mind into a cotton cloud.
She can’t remember much, but she does remember stuff, and it all comes to her in fits and starts; a sheen of cold sweat pulling her from bed, a strangled cry into the night, that slowly morphs into hiccuped sobs when Zuko’s arms embrace her.
Azula does remember now, walking through the palace halls in her newest dress.
She left her shoes forgotten at the bottom of the stairs, and her feet start aching after a while, scraping against the rough rock of the steps.
The sash keeping her hair up and away from her face has become a knot in her hands, and then ashes floating in the still air around her.
She’s not sure where her crown lays, but she believes the tinkling echoes of metal hitting stone, some unknown meters underneath must be it.
And the deserted path she took to reach there should’ve been warning enough, but Azula never learned that. She was never warned against heavy doors at the end of an endless staircase because she was going to have the world lain at her feet. She was never quite the little girl in the fairy tales. Not quite.
The door is heavy, the lock is closed, and that should’ve been enough warning as well, but that can’t stop her and her fire. It never could.
Her heart falters when she steps inside, eyes instantly welling up with tears, and clouding her sight. There’s an inhumane sound filling the chamber, but it’s only after she falls to the floor with a heaving chest that Azula realises it’s her making it. Her throat burns, and she’s not breathing fire, but it sure feels like that.
The door is still very much open, but she still feels trapped by the dozen pair of eyes staring back at her. Wide in terror, hopping from one mirror to the next in desperation, following her every movement and giving her no possibility to escape.
She can remember her, the woman in the mirror, it’s so clear now.
It’s with trembling hands that she manages to crawl to her, tears a steady flow down her cheeks, neck, trickling to the dirty stone floor, and her pretty dress now ruined. She ruins them all in the end, no matter how many Zuko gives her.
Azula always ruins everything, that much she can remember as well.
The woman in the mirror agrees with her, and she can’t tell if that’s good or bad. She can’t tell if she should listen to her at all. To trust her is to open another door at the end of another set of stairs, and Azula fears the one that lives there.
But why has she come now? Why is she here, hidden, when Azula has been in the palace all along? Was she not worried about her, about Zuko? Was she not curious about them at all? About him at least?
Everyone’s always so interested in Zuko. He’s everyone’s beacon of hope, so why hasn’t she come down to see him? Why isn’t anyone good enough for her to come back?
Azula tried so hard, she tried so, so hard to be perfect. But she- couldn’t. It was so difficult, and it hurt so much. Yet she was close, she knows she was at least close.
And even so, she never came. Not for her, not for Zuko.
Why then, why is she hiding here?
Why can’t Azula be left alone once and for all? Be rid of her?
Everywhere she looks there she is. It’s not fair. It’s not-
She’s tried so hard to be perfect, and be rid of her, and be good, and smart, be pretty, and strong, be good for everyone.
He said be better, Azula. Be stronger, Azula. Show no mercy, Azula.
She said stop that, leave that, don’t, stop, leave, don’t.
Zuko said Azula could do this, but she can’t like this, when there’s secrets hidden in their palace. When there’s her hidden here, refusing to see her!
She tried so hard, but she never heard the warnings, so it’s her own fault then.
“Azula, what-” Do you like me now, Zuko?
“Call a healer, now!” Am I being good now, Zuko? “And Katara, call Katara, hurry!”
“Azula, what have you done, darling?” Do I look like her still, Zuko?
”Everything will be alright, Azula, I promise.” I know, brother, don’t cry. I know.
