She who lives in the mirror
Thereâs 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 donât always want to open that one door at the top of the highest tower and discover whatâs in it.
All good messages for little naive girls, but was Azula ever one? She canât remember.
Azula canât really remember past some snippets of her childhood, most of which include them, and that hurt beyond what she can explain.
She canât remember what she did before she learned to bend and Ozai took her under his wing, and she canât remember the last time Ursa brushed her hair, or the first, if there ever was one.
Azula canât remember if she was ever gentle with her brother, perhaps some time before she was taught he was useless, weak.
She canât believe sheâs worthy of the smiles he now gifts her, or the fact that heâs accepted her back in the palace after everything sheâs done to be thrown out.
The feeling of silk sheets, and the softness of her dresses, so pretty, so very beautiful, when she canât-
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 sheâs 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 canât 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 Zukoâs 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.
Sheâs 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 shouldâve 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 shouldâve been enough warning as well, but that canât 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. Thereâs an inhumane sound filling the chamber, but itâs only after she falls to the floor with a heaving chest that Azula realises itâs her making it. Her throat burns, and sheâs 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, itâs so clear now.
Itâs 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 canât tell if thatâs good or bad. She canât 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?
Everyoneâs always so interested in Zuko. Heâs everyoneâs beacon of hope, so why hasnât she come down to see him? Why isnât anyone good enough for her to come back?
Azula tried so hard, she tried so, so hard to be perfect. But she- couldnât. 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 canât Azula be left alone once and for all? Be rid of her?
Everywhere she looks there she is. Itâs not fair. Itâs not-
Sheâs 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, donât, stop, leave, donât.
Why canât she see that?
Zuko said Azula could do this, but she canât like this, when thereâs secrets hidden in their palace. When thereâs her hidden here, refusing to see her!
She tried so hard, but she never heard the warnings, so itâs her own fault then.
âAzula, what-â Do you like me now, Zuko?
âCall a healer, now!â Am I being good now, Zuko? âAnd Katara, call Katara, hurry!â
âAzula, what have you done, darling?â Do I look like her still, Zuko?
âEverything will be alright, Azula, I promise.â I know, brother, donât cry. I know.
