Chapter Text
“You must know the pain of losing a favored child. By sacrificing your own!”
Azula has never, ever, been afraid.
But that was before.
Nobody dares to make a sound. Even Zuko shuts up, white as a sheet and ready to bolt. The silk of his shirt is cool in Azula’s fist; it's going to rumple, but if she lets go, he’ll give away their hiding place.
The seconds tick by, but Father doesn't say a thing. He’s just – he’s just sitting there, staring straight at Grandfather, eyes flat and unreadable the way they always are when Zuko is in trouble. But Zuko’s not in trouble this time, is he? Zuko isn't Father’s favored child.
Azula is.
Grandfather's flames snap higher, the hiss and crackle of it filling the room with the sound of his disappointment. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of Azula’s neck, and the silk in her fist is getting disgustingly moist, but Azula doesn't feel hot at all, she’s cold, cold all over, why is she even sweating if it's so cold –
Slowly, Father bows, until his forehead is touching the ground in respect. In obedience.
Azula’s heart leaps up to her throat. He wouldn't. Father wouldn't. Father loves her, he said so, Azula made him proud because she worked so hard to perfect the Crane forms, he wouldn't.
“If the Fire Lord commands it,” Father says, his voice ringing in her ears, “it will be done.”
Azula stops breathing.
~
Someone is shaking her. Azula blinks, and suddenly, she’s not in the throne room watching her father promise to kill her; she's in Zuko’s bedroom, and Zuko’s hands are trembling where they're gripping her shoulders.
“Azula,” he says again. “Azula!”
“I – what?” she mumbles. Zuko’s face swims into focus.
“Father's going to kill you,” he whispers, eyes wide and scared. “What are we going to do?”
“We?” Azula repeats, dumbfounded.
“I guess – I guess we could tell Mother,” Zuko babbles, “and Uncle Iroh is supposed to be on his way home –”
No way. There's no way Zuko said ‘we’ – he couldn't possibly want to help because helping Azula would mean disobeying the Fire Lord.
The Fire Lord himself had commanded for Azula to be killed, and if anyone finds her here, of all places, that would make Zuzu a traitor to the Crown.
“Why are we in your room?” Azula blurts out.
Zuko stops his babbling, and stares at her incredulously. “You think I would bring you to your room when Father is going to kill you?! I’m not stupid, Lala!”
But – but he is, doesn't he see that if he just does nothing he'll be Crown Prince when all this is over? Isn't that what he wants? To be Father's favored, only child?
“But now we know that that doesn't really mean much, right?” Zuko says, trying to look sure of himself but failing. “You were always his favorite, but when Grandfather told him to kill you he still said yes."
Were. Past tense. Azula was Father’s favorite child.
“Lala? Lala, don't cry, we'll fix this, we'll find a way, I promise!”
Zuko doesn't know what he’s promising. He's promising treason, and what can he do to stop Father anyway? He can't even do Crane Leaps Over the Boulder yet, and Father has mastered all the Crane forms. And all the Phoenix forms. And all the Dragon forms too.
Father is a master firebender, and Zuzu is ten.
Azula won't cry. She won't.
~
Zuko wouldn’t leave to fetch Mother until Azula agrees to hide in his sock drawer.
“No one’s going to look for you here,” Zuko explains, as they stuff the socks into other drawers. “It doesn’t look like a person can fit. But you’re little, and if Ty Lee can make herself fit into a locker, you can too.”
It’s Zuzu, so it’s not really the smartest plan ever, but it’s the only one they have. Azula does fit. It’s not comfortable, but it’s better than being dead, so she doesn’t complain.
“Hurry,” she says instead. “I don’t think I can stay here for very long.”
“Okay,” Zuko promises, before covering her with socks and pushing the drawer almost-closed.
Thank Agni he wasn’t dumb enough to actually close it all the way.
Waiting for Zuzu is awful. She determinedly doesn’t think about how sock drawers were good places to trap a royal targeted for execution while you got guards to arrest her – it’s what she would have done, if the royal was Zuzu.
But it’s not Zuzu, it’s her. And she still doesn’t know why Grandfather wants her killed.
The only royals ever executed are those who betrayed the Fire Lord. Her blood runs cold, all of a sudden, as realization hits. Did Grandfather know she called him a weak old man earlier this afternoon? Or maybe he heard what she said about Uncle Iroh and Lu Ten. Everyone knew that Uncle Iroh is Grandfather’s favorite – is it treason to make fun of the Fire Lord’s favorite son?
If it is, it wasn’t in her tutor’s lessons.
She should’ve listened to Mother. As it is, all she can do now is grip her knees and try not to throw up.
As promised, it doesn’t take long for Zuko to come back. She nearly cries when he opens the drawer, and Mother is the only other person in the room.
No guards. Zuzu didn’t betray her.
“Zuko!” Mother exclaims. “Why is your sister in your sock drawer? Get her out this instant!”
“I am, I am!” Zuko protests, shoving all the socks off Azula and pulling her out. “We just had to hide Lala because something might have happened to her if I left her alone.”
“Duckling, this is why Grandfather has guards,” Mother says exasperatedly. She sighs, and then draws them both into a hug. “You’re safe here in the palace. There’s no need for you to be scared.”
But there is! Azula thinks, but doesn’t say. She doesn’t know how to say it to make Mother believe her.
Zuko squirms out of Mother’s embrace. “But that’s the problem!” he cries. “We heard them, Father and Grandfather! The Fire Lord said that Father had to kill Azula to become Crown Prince, and Father said yes!”
Mother lets go of Azula in shock. “Zuko! Your Grandfather would never say something so horrible!”
“You weren’t there! He said that Father had to ‘suffer the pain of losing a favored child’. That’s Azula!”
Azula stares at her feet, fighting back tears. She won’t cry. Mother will never take her seriously if she cries.
But it doesn’t seem to matter – Mother is already shaking her head. “That can’t be right. Your Father loves Azula.” She turns to Azula solemnly. “He loves you. He’s not good at showing it, but he does. You’re his daughter, through and through. There is no way he’s going to – no. It’s unthinkable. You must have heard wrong.”
“But it’s true!” Zuko insists. He’s wasting his breath. Azula knew there was no convincing Mother. “I was there, Lala was there! You should’ve seen the look in Father’s eyes, Mother, he meant it, he’s really going to kill –”
“Zuko, listen to yourself! You’re accusing your father of murdering his own daughter! Ozai – no. I will hear no more of this, do you understand?”
“But –”
“Do you understand?”
Azula takes a deep breath, and decides to try. “It’s true!” Azula says, as earnestly as she can. “You know Father is ambitious, and he has never let anything get in his way before, but now I’m in the way, and you know what he does with obstacles –”
Mother glares at her, and Azula quails instantly at the look on her face. “If this is a game you’re playing to – to mock me, or humiliate me, young lady, you are to stop it now!”
Mother has never hit her before, but her fists are clenched at her sides, like it’s taking everything for her not to reach out and strike.
Mother has never shouted at her before either. Maybe today will be the first time for more things too, Azula thinks dully.
“Both of you, listen to me carefully. You are never to repeat anything you just said to anyone, do you understand? What you are suggesting is treason, and people have been executed for less. Don’t think that your Grandfather will be lenient just because you are family – Fire Lord Azulon is just above everything else, and do not ever forget it. Am I clear?”
Azula looks down at her shoes. “Yes, Mother.”
Mother turns her glare at Zuko, and he shrinks under the intensity. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good. Get ready for bed. Azula, let’s go.” Mother takes Azula’s hand, and, left with no choice, she follows.
Zuko is hanging his head, dejected, when Azula turns to shut his door.
~
Zuko tries all the secret passageways to Azula’s room, but they’re all blocked.
Which – fair. Everyone in their family is paranoid, even Mother sometimes, and Azula has had a really rough day. But that left the window as Zuko’s only option; if Mother catches him sneaking into Azula’s room, she might post a guard at the corridor to make sure they’re not up to anything “rash”.
Why wasn't Mother on their side? She didn't believe them – and it still boggled Zuko’s mind, how quick she had been to dismiss him and Azula both even when they clearly heard what Father was planning. Zuko knows it's big accusation to make, but shouldn't their word be enough for her to check, at least?
Zuko scowls, and gives up trying to jimmy the last door open. The window isn’t ideal, but at least now he’s sure that the tunnels are secure. He takes one last look through the halls, and when he’s satisfied that the coast is clear, clambers back through the trapdoor into his own room.
No one else ever uses the secret passages, except for eclipses and foreign invasions anyway, and there hasn’t been any of those in like, a hundred years. They can take the tunnels back into Zuko’s room, and maybe, if the coast is still clear, use them to escape.
He resolutely doesn’t think about what they’ll do if they don’t escape. He – it's more important to get Azula out of her room, for now. She’s a sitting turtleduck for Father while she’s in there.
Luckily, their rooms are right next to each other, so Zuko makes short work of climbing into the next window. On any other day, he’d be preening at how easy it is, pleased at having at least one thing he’s good at, but today his sister’s life hinges on him not getting caught.
He drops into Azula’s room, and is immediately assaulted by a hot hot fireball.
“Azula! It’s just me!” Zuko yelps, thrusting his arms to the side to dissipate the flames. It’s easier than it should be, and a glance up immediately tells Zuko why: Azula is crouching on the other side of the bed, shaking, chest heaving and her face bone-white.
She lost her breath control.
“Zuzu? Why didn’t you just knock like a normal person?” she demands shakily. Her form is perfect, but her eyes are red and her shoulders are still shaking from the sobs that Zuko can tell she’s suppressing. A bag, half-full with clothes, is sitting next to her feet.
“I had to make sure no one saw me, and you blocked all of the secret passages,” Zuko retorts. “You're packing already – do you have a plan?”
Azula draws herself to her full height, trying to look imperious. “That's none of your business,” she says icily. “Get out of my room!”
Zuko just rolls his eyes, and hefts his own bag up to show her. “I promised you I would help. I'm packed and ready to go now. Where to?”
A tense silence blankets them; Azula is staring at him, eyes wild and suspicious, and Zuko stares back as earnestly as he can. He tries not to shake with the enormity of what they're doing, but he’s probably hiding his terror as well as Lala is – that is, not very well at all.
Azula breaks their standoff. “You can't mean that,” she hisses, her face scrunching up in anger. “You're trying to trick me. If you stay, you'll be the sole heir to the Dragon Throne. You don't even have to do anything to win! You just want to sabotage my escape so Father and Grandfather will be impressed!”
Zuko nearly reconsiders, but discards the idea just as quickly. Father has never approved of Zuko, and his temper is shorter with Zuko than it is with Azula. Impressing Father this one time won't matter at all. If Father is willing to kill Azula, what else will he be willing to do to Zuko?
He can't say that to Azula, though.
“You're right, I'll be the only heir,” he concedes. “But that means even more pressure to be perfect, and once I mess up, it won't be safe here for me anymore. And you know I'm going to mess up. I can't stay here either.”
“You're not serious.” Azula shakes her head, and stomps back to her closet, grabbing more clothes and dumping them onto her bed. “Get out of here, Zuzu, or I’ll – I’ll hurt you if you get in my way.”
He tosses his bag onto Azula’s clothes and yanks it open. It’s packed with his clothes, food, and several pieces of jewelry.
“Yes, I'm serious,” he says, eyes boring into Azula’s. “You're my baby sister; I'm honor-bound to protect you. And if we're running away –” he fumbles along his belt, where the sword Lu Ten gave him is strapped, and pulls out Uncle Iroh’s knife “– you're going to need a weapon.”
Never give up without a fight. Azula stares at the knife, stares at Zuko, and swallows. “Alright.”
~
Zuko sneaks back down to steal an army survival pack – the one with the tent, Zuzu – from the bunkers below, while Azula stays behind to finish packing. Stupid Zuzu; he left all the valuables in plain sight inside his pack, so now Azula has to unroll all her socks again to hide the jewels. They're already stuffed with some of Azula’s jewelry. They'd have to sell it as soon as they found a shop that trades gold.
It’s hard to concentrate, though, because every little sound sends a wash of terror down her spine. But Azula breathes in, breathes out, and does what she does best: focus on her work until all her tasks are finished. And to her, finished means perfect, and perfect means safe.
In a way, packing is calming too. If her hands are occupied with stuffing the hairpieces into socks, then they're too busy to shake. If her mind is too occupied with counting and budgeting the rations they have packed, she's too busy to be afraid. She’s putting away the first aid kit that Zuko managed to steal when the loose floorboard right outside her door squeaks.
The calm immediately morphs into terror, and Azula whirls around. Father is standing at the doorway, smiling sardonically.
“Going somewhere?” he asks mildly.
He’s already dressed for bed, looking for all the world like he's a normal father on a normal night checking in on his daughter before bed. But Azula has never been tucked into bed by Father before – that's always been Mother's job.
Besides, the gleam in his eye is enough to let Azula know why Father is here.
He steps into the room, eyes trained on Azula’s. The door closes with a soft click; Azula could scream, but if Father came here himself, there aren't going to be any silly servants in this wing of the palace to hear her anyway. Absolute silence hangs heavy between them, not a single sound from a guard on rotation or a servant scurrying past – Father’s not going to risk witnesses for the murder of his daughter, after all.
Father advances, every creaking footstep deafening in the silence. “You already know why I'm here, don't you?” he continues. “Smart girl. It really is a shame that this is the Fire Lord’s condition – you would have been the perfect heir, Azula.”
Would have been.
She had packed and planned to escape the Capital because she knew Father is going to kill her, but hearing the confirmation still feels like a blow.
“So, are you going to be a good daughter, Azula?” Father pulls out a knife – a blue handle flashes in the dim light, for framing the Water Savages for her murder, Azula supposes – and steps even closer. “Or will you make things… messy?”
She blinks back tears, focuses on the anger and outrage welling up inside her, and settles into a perfect defensive stance.
“I'm not giving up without a fight!” she shouts.
Father sighs. “That's a pity. I was hoping to make this painless, but needs must.”
For a single, crystalline moment, Azula is frozen, watching her father raise a weapon against his own daughter.
Does none of it matter? None of her accomplishments – advanced bending, advanced lessons, none of the work and effort and heart and soul she poured into becoming the perfect princess for this man – will none of it change his mind?
This man isn’t really her father, is he? Not in the ways that matter.
Then reality comes rushing back, in the form of a knife aimed at her heart, and Azula’s training kicks in. She dodges neatly – perfectly – and smoothly slides into a maneuver she learned three weeks ago, for disarming attackers with knives and short swords. Father counters it, but still has the gall to look impressed and regretful.
“You are truly remarkable, Azula,” he praises, and goes for Azula’s throat in the same breath. “Perfectly done. Hopefully your brother will catch up to your level once he is sufficiently –” Father dodges a blast of fire, and slams Azula into a chest of drawers “ – motivated.”
She flips back onto her feet, trying not to let the words distract her. Father is aiming to kill, not to teach, today; her survival hinges on the perfection of her defense. But the phrase sufficiently motivated keeps repeating in her head, and she thinks hysterically that for once in his life, Zuzu is actually right. Grandfather may not have ordered his death, but there's no way he can be safe in the palace –no, the capital – once he is their father’s only heir.
It only takes a split second – but she's tired, shaking, and emotionally wrung out. To her horror, Azula stumbles, and Father immediately exploits the advantage. He drives his elbow deep into Azula’s midsection, and she collapses on the floor, doubled over in pain and gasping for breath.
Father towers over her, knife in hand. “You are my daughter, Azula, through and through,” he says. “You deserve to die at my hand, and you deserve to die fighting. And you deserve to die knowing why I –"
“Why you decided to kill me?” Azula spits out. “Isn’t it because you’re jealous of Uncle Iroh, and you’re too scared to kill him yourself? Instead of taking the throne you want, you dance to Grandfather’s tune and kill your own heir?”
Father stops in his tracks, his face contorting into a picture of rage that Azula has never seen before.
“You will be quiet, child,” he hisses. “Your death will be instrumental in reshaping the Fire Nation. Once I am the Fire Lord, I will –”
“Fire Lords are supposed to be the honorable leaders of the Fire Nation.”
Zuko is standing behind Father, a pack at his feet, and both dao drawn.
“The murder of children is a stain on the honor of the Dragon Throne,” he continues, staring up at their Father defiantly. “The murder of –”
“Bite your tongue, Zuko,” Father snaps, “and be grateful that you are the only heir the Fire Lord has allowed your father to have. Otherwise, you would already be dead.”
Zuzu’s eyes widen, and the dao in his hands shake. But amazingly, he doesn’t back down, doesn’t cower in fear and respect the way he usually does when Father intimidates him. “You lost your honor the moment you tried to kill Azula,” he says. “You don’t deserve to become the Fire Lord, and you don’t deserve to be called our Father, Ozai!”
Azula watches in horror as Zuko launches himself at their father, swords swinging inexpertly. Father is a master and has decades of experience behind him, and Zuko has never been good at controlling his own flames – he’s obviously decided that he has a better chance with steel than with fire. But it doesn't matter; Father has Zuzu disarmed and groaning on the floor in two seconds flat.
Father bends down and lifts Zuko by his shirt, eyes boring into Zuko’s face with hatred. “You have much to learn, Zuko, the first among them respect for your betters. You will learn it, and suffering will be your teacher!”
A flame bursts in his right hand, and before Azula could stop their father, Zuko is screaming, the fat beneath the skin of his face is crackling at the heat of Father's fist, and the stench of cooked flesh begins to permeate the air.
“Zuko! No!” Azula screams, fighting to get back to her feet. Father tosses his limp body to the side; the left side of Zuko’s face is a melted mess, and he's not moving not breathing not breathing –
Time stops.
In that moment, Azula knows with cold certainty that if she does nothing, Zuko will die. Her father – Ozai – turns back to her, walking with the slow, sure pace of a predator assured of a kill. And it is a sure kill – Ozai is a master firebender, and Azula is eight. A prodigy, but still eight.
She only has one chance.
Azula stands, trails her arms through half-learned circles, and prays to Agni with all her might that it will work. Electricity crackles along her arms, more energy than she has ever summoned before, and when she thrusts her fists forward, pointing straight at the man she will never call Father again, the lightning strikes true.