Chapter Text
Ishiyo was a tough nut to crack. She whirled through her own life with a kind of energetic contentment that had to be faked, chatting to Azula about whatever seemed to be on her mind; her patients in the village, her co-conspiratoring owlcat (whose name, Azula learned, was Kaki), even the weather. The peasant woman was so smiley all the time, but her words had an undercurrent of clever sarcasm that Azula was aching to uncover. Not just because she was a fire-healer, a concept Azula still didn’t fully understand, and not just because she wanted to get at least some kind of dirt on the woman before she inevitably decided Azula was more trouble than she was worth and left her, but also because Azula was bored. Hopelessly, maddeningly bored.
It had been two weeks since her “rescue,” and after several days of doing nothing but reading old poetry (not Azula’s favorite form of literature) and sleeping, Azula was finally able to hobble around the cottage, but she was aching to do something other than chores for Ishiyo. Azula had never been one to sit idly but now she couldn’t really do much other than simple chores for the old woman. Ishiyo was taking advantage of Azula’s ability to walk with gusto. Setsuna, sort the medicines! Setsuna, boil some water. Setsuna, wash the dishes!
The first time a request like this had been posed Azula had stared at Ishiyo for an embarrassingly long time. She had never washed dishes in her life. She had hardly even stepped inside a kitchen. It was quite possibly the strangest order she had ever gotten. The old Azula wouldn’t be caught dead washing dishes.
“Well, spirits, Setsuna,” Ishiyo had laughed as if it was no big deal. “You’d think I’d asked you to go run naked through the streets.”
Azula had held back a snap and just pushed past Ishiyo to the water tub. She’d fumbled through washing the dishes doing her best impression of knowing what she was doing, hating every second of it. She wasn’t sure Ishiyo had bought it, but at least the old woman hadn’t said anything.
Despite the chores, Azula was still bored. She felt way too energized, in a kind of uncomfortable way that she couldn’t really put her finger on. It felt like she was balancing a glass of water on her head like how Ty Lee used to when they were kids–– as if Azula was going to move wrong, and the glass would fall to the ground and shatter. What was wrong with her? She wasn’t even doing anything. But whenever Ishiyo smiled at her, or asked her to help with a task, Azula felt the glass wobble. Like she was just waiting for it to break.
And she couldn’t stop thinking about fire-healing. Every day Azula bickered with herself in her head, thinking that maybe she could tell Ishiyo that she was a bender, or had been at one point, on the off-chance that Ishiyo would say something like, “Oh! Of course, losing one’s bending completely from a cause still not entirely determined, very normal problem, which I can solve,” or at least tell her more about the history of fire-healing and anything else that Azula should have learned on her exploits to the library as a child but didn’t because apparently controlling the electricity inside of a person didn’t make it into the history books. But then every single instinct Azula had screamed back that there were abundant reasons why Azula shouldn’t reveal her bending, or lack thereof, or express a desire to learn fire-healing, and the issue of Ishiyo being a peasant wasn’t even the most crucial one. Mostly, trying to explain that she lost her bending without giving any details away would be near impossible, even for Azula. There just wasn’t a story Azula could come up with that she thought Ishiyo would buy.
So Azula was not learning fire-healing, and that was that.
Regarding Ishiyo, the woman was still extremely boring but painfully transparent. Clearly, the old peasant woman decided that having a fifteen-year-old injured girl around to wash her dishes and listen to her babble was absolutely worth the trouble of feeding said girl, and had taken the predictable route of taking every single moment to smile at or talk to Azula to try to butter her up. It didn’t work, and anyone halfway versed in manipulation tactics would know that. You couldn’t lay it on too thick, in the beginning. Azula had made that mistake before, with her mother. She’d tried her best to act as nice and smiley as possible because she thought Ursa was stupid enough to buy it, and then her mother wouldn’t be so angry when she found Azula burning shapes into the grass in the courtyard, or something else that was fun to Azula’s six-year-old mind. But it turns out her mother wasn’t stupid–– something Azula had learned in full later, after Azulon was found dead next to a half-drunk teacup–– and she’d just told Azula to stop being so manipulative and go find something else to do.
Ah. So it was one of those days, Azula thought now, as she scrubbed the bottom of a stubborn, greasy pan. One of those days where everywhere she turned there were memories. She made sure the last bits of oil and crumbs were scrubbed off the metal pan–– she might have lost all dignity when she allowed Ishiyo to order her to wash dishes, but she wasn’t going to do it badly if she was going to do it at all–– and reached for the next dish, a handmade bowl.
Most of the dishes they ate on were handmade, Ishiyo had told her a few days ago, and one of the old woman’s favorite pastimes was sitting down at the big wooden table in the center of the room and making whatever she wanted out of clay. It was, Azula had to admit, relaxing to watch Ishiyo form the cups and plates with her hands. The woman hummed to herself as she did it, her face the very picture of tranquility. Right now, she was sitting at the table, crushing bits of roots into a clean paste with a–– what was that called again? Oh, right, mortar and pestle. If Azula had learned anything from this stint in the house of a peasant woman, it was the names of useless things that no one but a peasant would ever feel the need to have.
Remember your place, my daughter. Out there you may see things that are unsavory, inappropriate for a princess such as yourself. You owe the filth nothing, and––
It was one of those days. Azula shook her head as if that would somehow clear the sound of her father’s voice out. It wasn’t actually her father’s voice–– her episodes didn’t just appear like that–– but it was a strong memory all the same.
His words didn’t make sense anymore, and it felt traitorous to think. Ishiyo’s cabin was small, sure, and nowhere near what Azula had been accustomed to most of her life.
But it was better than the asylum. Much better, and Azula couldn’t bring herself to call Ishiyo filthy even if the woman was clearly beneath her.
Nothing made sense anymore.
Azula was still holding the handmade bowl, and she set it down in the sink to wash it. Or she tried, but her annoyance was evidently leaking into her hands, because the bowl broke into several pieces with a loud clunk.
Azula froze. That decided it, she was actually the most useless person ever. She couldn’t even do the simplest task that even peasants could do without breaking things. She couldn’t even control her own mind.
“Oh!” Ishiyo’s voice came from behind her, and Azula flinched. Would she be mad? What would the woman do, if she was mad? Azula had no blueprint for Ishiyo’s anger. Would she––
“Hey, don’t worry about that, Setsuna! Happens to all of us!” Ishiyo pushed past Azula and collected the pieces with careful hands. The old woman deposited them onto the big table, and removed a tiny bottle of a gold substance from her cabinet.
“Here we go. Mica powder.” Ishiyo said, settling down at the table. Azula tried to tamp down her nervousness. She’d forgotten, Ishiyo was playing good samaritan, of course she’d control her anger for stupid mistakes. Ishiyo continued, tapping some of the powder out into a little bowl. “We use it for kintsugi. ”
“Gold repair?” Azula translated, then immediately regretted showing that she understood the old speech. Most peasants wouldn’t have.
“That’s right,” Ishiyo replied, not missing a beat. Did anything shake this woman? Azula had her work cut out for her. “I make the mica powder into a glue, and repair the bowl with it. You can look in the cabinet for an example, I think Kaki has broken most of our dishes at least once.” She gestured to the cabinet above the sink and when Azula turned to open it, she saw that several of the dishes were repaired in a similar way, with gold hairline fractures running through them like rivers. Azula truthfully hadn’t noticed them before, but most of them were like that. Stupid owlcat.
“When we repair with gold, we highlight the breaks inside of hiding them.” Ishiyo explained. “The cracks will always be there, so why shouldn’t we celebrate them? That’s what kintsugi is about. Imperfection isn’t just essential, it’s beautiful.”
Azula raised an eyebrow. “Is that some kind of metaphor?”
“You do listen,” Ishiyo smiled. “Here,” she patted the seat beside her. “Do you want to learn?”
Azula didn’t, at all. “All right.” Just act interested. She clearly wants you to do this with her.
Despite Azula’s reluctance, the kintsugi was actually fairly relaxing. Something about carefully painting the adhesive on each piece of pottery took a care and focus that Azula had been missing without her bending, and for some reason, she was hit with no unwelcome memories as she worked. After, when she held the repaired bowl in her hands, it felt satisfying in a way Azula hadn’t expected. Like when she mastered a firebending kata, or created a new one, all her own.
“You did quite well,” Ishiyo praised, tracing the gold lines of the bowl. “I think you’ve got a magic touch, Setsuna.”
Azula fought not to roll her eyes. “It’s not particularly difficult.”
“It is difficult, but you have steady hands. Have you ever done any sort of art before?” Ishiyo asked.
“No,” Azula lied. She had, but only things like calligraphy as was expected of royal children, and bending if you count that.
“Well,” the old woman had a dangerous twinkle in her eye. “What about healing?”
. . .
And thus began a new routine that, thank Agni, didn’t involve very much talking on Azula’s part. For the next week, she spent her days shelving her emotions, making medicines, and shadowing Ishiyo as the old woman treated patients from Tayouka.
There was the young mother of a small boy who had been ill for a week–– the kid smelled like sickness, and barely spoke a word to Ishiyo, and definitely not Azula. Ishiyo prescribed a handful of medicines and spent ten minutes telling the mother what to do and what not to do, because she couldn’t seem to stand to let the pair out of her sight. When they left, the old woman stood in front of the closed door for a little longer than made sense, and Azula didn’t miss her reddened eyes.
There was the old man who came in frequently for his stiff joints, whose appearance Azula absolutely dreaded not because there was anything particularly off-putting about the man, but because Ishiyo literally flirted with him whenever he came by. Which Azula could really live without, thanks.
Then there was the soldier–– his name was Sunan–– who had come three times in the week since Azula had begun to shadow Ishiyo. His shoulder had been shattered by an earthbender’s projectile during the war, and by the powerful drugs Ishiyo was having Azula make, was in a lot of pain that fire-healing either didn’t last long enough or simply wasn’t powerful enough for.
Still, the potency of fire-healing couldn’t be understated, and that was why Sunan came in so frequently. He would lie down on the table in the middle of the second room with practiced ease to let Ishiyo float her hands over his shoulder, dulling the nerves and soothing any inflammation. Ishiyo talked to him easily, asking questions from his pain levels to how his family was, and he matched her personality with a warm smile and frequent jokes.
Azula didn’t like Sunan very much, and as interesting as it was to watch Ishiyo’s fire-healing, she wished he didn’t come in so often.
It wasn’t his fault. He just reminded her of Lu Ten.
Azula may have agreed to help Ishiyo with her healing practice, even learn a little bit, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to say that she was actively some kind of apprentice. She felt that Ishiyo was, in terms of peasants, a fine one; but Azula’s tolerance did not extend to the other residents of Tayouka. She still had a long way to go before she threw herself into a service role for a bunch of villagers. Every other structure in her life had fallen apart, but Azula still was confident of that much.
If she had been learning fire-healing, she may–– may –– have allowed herself to have a more hands-on role. But when Ishiyo had said healing, she meant making putrid-smelling medicines and writing down reminders, not learning the world’s most obscure and difficult type of bending. Not that Azula could.
She had tried to produce flames once since waking up in Ishiyo’s cottage, when the other woman had been on an outing. Smoke had risen from Azula’s palm, and tiny orange flames had licked her fingers. Nothing Azula could do would make the fire bigger, let alone blue. It had been a relief that she could at least do that much, but not much of one, and she’d felt like crying. Like a weakling.
For whatever reason, Ishiyo hadn’t asked Azula if she was a bender or not. In fact, Ishiyo’s lack of curiosity perplexed Azula. The woman seemed content to allow Azula to just… exist. Do chores, yes, but Ishiyo always made sure Azula sat down and stretched her foot. Got enough rest and food. And so Azula did . She kept her appearance at all times: the perfect, grateful patient. She controlled her urges to run, to yell, to snark back. As the days passed and Ishiyo’s behavior never changed, Azula knew she had succeeded in her show. She was, after all, a prodigy.
She put most of her focus into getting her foot better, which unfortunately was not happening very quickly. Ishiyo had told her, days ago, “I can help with the pain and recovery, but I can’t guarantee it will be as good as new,” and Azula had dropped the mask without meaning to and snapped, “So what good are you to me, then?”
Surprise had colored Ishiyo’s eyes, just a little, and shame had filled Azula. Now you’ve done it. You messed up and now she’ll see what a monster you really are, and now you won’t be able to keep her in line because she’ll leave you like everybody else did ––
But Ishiyo had breathed, and her eyes had softened. “Well, I think I make pretty good katsudon,” She had joked, like there had been no harm done. The joke hadn’t done anything to calm Azula’s nerves, but at least they could both go back to faking care for one another in peace.
Today, Azula ate breakfast outside on the deck of Ishiyo’s cottage. The midmorning fog hung heavy in the air, and Azula could feel a storm in the wind. Ever since she was little, Azula had been able to tell when lightning storms were coming, and she’d loved them her whole life. The electric breeze was infectious, and as a kid she’d always felt happiest in a storm. That was probably poetic or something, but Azula didn’t care to explore the thought. She worked through a bowl of rice and eggs–– which was actually good, who knew peasant food could taste so good?–– and tried to ignore how empty her whole body felt, even with the promise of a storm.
She felt mostly empty these days.
“Setsuna!” Ishiyo called from inside. “Come give me a hand!”
Azula rolled her eyes at her bowl of food, but didn’t hesitate to limp inside. She had to keep up this facade, because, well, it had worked so far. She couldn’t lose her only source of food and medical treatment. She wasn’t that stupid.
She almost tripped over Kaki the owlcat, who chirped at her as he leapt onto the kitchen counter. She snarled at the animal, who looked balefully back at her with yellow eyes, as if to say, if you didn’t want to trip over me you shouldn’t have walked where I was. Azula resisted the urge to scream at him.
She looked around the cottage and didn’t see Ishiyo anywhere, so the woman must be in her workspace behind the screen that separated the cottage. Azula slid it open and was surprised to see that Ishiyo was not alone. She mentally kicked herself. Of course Ishiyo had patients right now, it was well into the morning. Azula was just a little thrown off. And angry. Agni knew why.
Ishiyo’s patient was a teenage girl, probably around Azula’s age, actually. She seemed surprised to see Azula but smiled when their eyes met. Azula quickly averted her eyes and looked at Ishiyo in expectation.
“Thanks, Setsuna,” She said cheerily. “Would you mind putting together a bag for Fumiko here? She’ll want a snakeroot extract, garlic tonic, and would you smash up some gingko leaves into a paste?”
Azula nodded, still a little shaken. She limped over to the cabinet where Setsuna kept her medicines and started putting the requested bottles into a small canvas bag. She crushed some gingko in a mortar and pestle, keeping an idle ear on the voices of Ishiyo and the girl–– Fumiko.
“And how are the babies?” Ishiyo asked warmly.
“Just fine,” Fumiko had a smile in her voice. Her accent was very strange, and had an odd lilt that had Azula struggling to understand what she was saying. “Koji took his first steps just a few days ago. Mother’s been riding that high all week.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful!” Ishiyo said. “You must bring him up here to meet Setsuna and I. Bring the whole family one of these days, we’ll whip up a feast.”
Azula did not like the sound of that but kept quiet.
“Okay, you’re all done,” Ishiyo said. “Everything seems to be running smoothly in that heart of yours. But remember, no strenuous activity, snakeroot and garlic in the mornings, gingko––”
“––In the evenings. I know, I know, Ishiyo,” Fumiko said. Azula finished smashing the gingko and scraped the paste into a bottle.
“I know you do,” Ishiyo laughed. “It’s a healer’s job to nag! Can’t have you collapsing on all of us again.”
“I won’t,” Fumiko promised. Azula turned around, avoiding Fumiko’s gaze, and held out the bag to Ishiyo instead.
“Thanks, Setsuna,” Ishiyo didn’t change her warm tone. “You know what? Why don’t you walk Fumiko here down to the village. It’ll be good for you to get out.”
Azula opened her mouth to protest but was interrupted by Ishiyo aggressively pushing the bag of medicine into Azula’s chest and spinning her towards the door. “Fumiko, you tell your mother she’s welcome anytime. There’s a storm in the wind so stay safe! Keep those babies healthy! Don’t walk too fast and take breaks!” Ishiyo called as she slammed the door behind them. Azula glared at the sliding paper door and hated everything.
“Agni, she can’t turn it off, can she?” Fumiko laughed. Azula cast an appraising eye over the peasant girl. She was shorter than Azula by several inches and had a lithe build; her black hair came down to the tops of her shoulders and her gold-brown eyes were sharp with mirth. Fumiko easily adapted to Azula’s limping speed as they stepped down a dusty path towards the village, hills and forest rising all around them.
There was a beat of silence before Fumiko said, “So. Setsuna, right? I’m Fumiko, but I think you already heard that. I haven’t seen you around! Are you helping Ishiyo with her healing practice?” Azula had really only ever spoken to people with the accent of the Fire Nation elite, which was decidedly not what Fumiko was, and that made the other girl’s accent difficult to parse out, but Azula managed.
Azula clutched the bag of medicines tightly and nodded. “I have been, yes.” She replied, not even trying to hide the irritation in her voice. There was no reason to keep up her facade here.
“Cool!” The peasant girl said. “Where are you from?”
Azula winced internally. But the best lies were half-truths, so she said, “I was born in Caldera City.”
“The capital! Wow!” Fumiko exclaimed. Her loud tone was hurting Azula’s ears. “Bet you went to some fancy school, huh? I heard they all do over there.”
“Yes.” Azula said and didn’t elaborate.
Beat. The girl seemed uncomfortable with the quiet and said, “Sorry if I’m being a little loud. There aren’t a ton of people our age in the village, ‘cause of the war. I got out of the draft on account of my bad heart. Guess it’s good for something.” She laughed a little. “What’s your excuse? Your foot?”
Azula looked down at her splinted right foot. “...Yes, that’s right.” She hated this. All she wanted to do was go back to the cottage and, well, “mope” as Ishiyo would’ve put it.
Silence reigned yet again and Azula felt exactly zero guilt for not keeping up her side of the conversation. She wasn’t here to help anybody. She wasn’t here to talk with peasants or even go so low as to become friends with them. Fumiko was not a person that Azula saw any use in being friends with. But she got the distinct feeling that Ishiyo would kill her if she came home too soon. And, well, it was nice to get out of the cottage. The land that surrounded Ishiyo’s home were cut into terraces growing sun-gold grain, bordered by bold green as the farmland wore away to a town nestled in the hills. Mist painted the hills in grey fingers, blue sky peeking between fluffy clouds. The midmorning sun turned Fumiko’s hair a warm brown, and undoubtedly Azula’s as well. Azula felt the pull of the sun, even still, and her sprained foot felt strong, and it sparked enough hope in her to let out a sigh she felt she had been holding in for months.
Fumiko looked at her quizzically, and Azula flushed a little. She’d almost forgotten the peasant girl was there. Azula broke her gaze and her irritation returned in full.
“So…” Fumiko drew out the word. “What’s your favorite… animal?”
Azula didn’t hold in her snort. “Is that the best conversation topic you can come up with?” She said scathingly.
Fumiko seemed to think she was being sarcastic. “Well, you’re not exactly pulling the conversation along, so I have to do all the work!” She was teasing now, but Azula did not find it funny to be criticized by a person like her.
“We’re under no obligation to have a conversation,” Azula retorted. “I have no intention of being your friend, so leave me alone.” She made sure to make her inflection clear. She was not joking around.
Fumiko blinked and turned her head slightly away. So she did know when to shut up. Azula’s annoyance didn’t go away, and now it had just lost an outlet. Whatever. She gritted her teeth and kept limping along the dusty road.
The rest of the walk to Fumiko’s cottage was blissfully silent. When they arrived, a young girl, probably no older than twelve, with a baby on her hip opened the door with her foot. Her face lit up when she saw Fumiko. “‘Fumi! Ma’s on the warpath,” the girl rolled her eyes, idly bouncing the baby. “The twins won’t give her a break. You gotta come in an’ help her with dinner or she’ll sure explode.”
What a strange way of speaking. Azula held out the bag of medicines to Fumiko, who took it with an unreadable glance.
“Thanks for walking me, Setsuna,” Fumiko said. “I’ll see you around.” Azula averted her eyes and said nothing.
The girl’s eyes flitted to Azula and then back to Fumiko, questioning, as the two peasants turned inside. The door slid shut behind them, pushing out a whoosh of warm air thick with spices and the smell of wet wood. Ishiyo’s cottage smelled similarly, and Azula found it to be comforting despite the fact she would never tell anyone that. She turned around sharply and walked as fast as she could back up the hill to Ishiyo’s. The storm continued to approach, and Azula almost felt as if her own anger was building with it.
She didn’t know why she was mad. She just was, and she couldn’t do anything about it. Azula thought maybe she had always been this way, angry at nothing and nobody and at the same time everything that crossed her path, barely controlled under a smooth surface.
Azula made her way up across a countryside tainted with graying skies, and tried not to cry. She’d overcome worse than this. Her father had taught her never to accept a loss; even sparring with him, he’d never allowed her to claim defeat. Even when the odds seemed insurmountable, he would say, the noble blood of the Fire Nation that ran through Azula’s veins would secure absolute victory in the end.
Azula was fairly sure the end had come, and gone, with no victory in sight.
She just had a crippled foot, hands that didn’t make fire, and a storm.