brows furrow, baffled by the question. pain was ignored, a trait of a child-soldier. when you’re on a mission, there only thing to focus on is the objective. the plan. there was no time to hurt. the war is over, who are you fighting for ? why are you so afraid to hurt ?
“ i’m old, child. pain comes with age. ” she says, plainly. an answer that touches truth. it has gotten worse as she ages, as she continues using it. but the burning started when she was much younger. around her age. “ if you’re careful, you won’t end up like me. ” she wonders herself if she means the pain, or if she’s referencing the image of herself, chained up, broken down.
she shakes her head, a sigh escaping her. “ lightning is the ultimate form of power, or drive, of life. that is what fire is. lightning, is just a controlled and condensed form of that, ” she explains. “ if you do it right, it shouldn’t hurt. IF you do it right. ”
“ Right, right…” she crosses her arms, she’s heard someone else say that before about their pain, about being careful—they didn’t seem that old—just more worn out or worn down by the war. She’s seen the scars on the people around her and felt the way it seems to lurk, the way it seems to feed on them. All these adults holding in pain, trying not to let rage & grief tear them apart.
“ I don’t know, for fire nation, I mean, I wouldn’t mind being like you.” she’s more than capable of forming her own opinion, despite the animosity she’s seen. with her grin a little wild, she doesn’t mean to give her time to react instead just shouts, “ Ok, get back, & watch this, azula! ”
There’s such an eagerness to finally be able to generate that lightning, that cold flame, her body practically vibrates in excitement.
She’s got this, focused, calming herself down like she’s running through the practice sets with her hookswords or back among the woods—it’s soothing to think on. As she reaches a peace, she focuses on the why—why take up hookswords? because people were still around her holding their hurt--& those who had caused it remained. Her fingers point up, following the motions, fluid, & at once she can feel it building, probably too fast, too soon.
It builds and builds until she can feel it searing her core, & she’s not letting it release, not acting as a guide, but as a captor, stubbornly clinging on. There’s a smell of burning hair, vision going black at the edges, before she releases, haphazardly, out of control. There’s an explosion of lightning and she’s knocked off her feet, sprawled on her side & it hurts, and her head is ringing but she doesn’t care.
Turning herself over she means to climb back to her feet but finds sitting up is painful enough. She tries to find words, but her mouth feels like she chewed on cotton and iron.
