Chapter Text
His stormy eyes meet hers from across the room and, against her better judgement, she lets him linger.
Some time not so long ago, those very same eyes had looked at her with a tenderness only reserved for her, and she was free to bathe in its warmth with a selfishness possessed by no other.
Now, his eyes are unkind, straining underneath the golden light of the great hall.
For the first time in her life, she is the first to break away.
Azula turns on her heel to walk briskly towards the raised dais seating the Fire Lord and his lady. The busy crowd standing in between them pay them no mind. Hundreds of women whose ornate garments sweep across the floor laugh in bashful grace in the front of noblemen, diplomats, soldiers — men who surely have things greater than conversation in mind. Servants rush in and out of the royal kitchen, mouths knit tightly in concentration as they carry endless trays of drinks to the guests.
There is a nervous thrum in the air in anticipation of tomorrow’s royal nuptial ceremony. Although the union years ago between the Fire Lord and Fire Lady Mai had been grand (much grander than either had been comfortable with), the celebration of Azula’s upcoming marriage was very quickly classed as the event of the season. Her brother’s lavish efforts to prove the title true are paying off handsomely.
As she crosses the room, Azula’s eyes fall on a girl, surely not even fourteen, dancing freely in a flowy hanfu that stops short of her ankles. A slightly older boy picks her up to spin her around, and she throws her head back in laughter before her feet touch the ground again.
The sight is so pure, so wonderfully untainted that Azula briefly considers retching the rice cake she ate in haste earlier in the night into a nearby potted plant, but she is stopped by a hesitant hand on her shoulder.
Her heart stops. How he could have crossed the room so quickly, she has no idea, but-
“Princess,” a woman’s voice calls out, and Azula can’t help the relief that passes between her shoulders.
She turns to see the blushing face of a plump middle-aged woman in a simple brown dress, holding a red bundle in her arms.
“Princess, I-” the woman huffs. “Oh dear, I’m terribly sorry. I shouldn’t have- ah, I just wanted to let you know that… Well, I am just so incredibly happy for you.” Her eyes gaze up at Azula in wonder.
“You know, we in my village celebrated for a fortnight when you were born. Blessed be, our first princess from Agni in three generations!” The woman lets out a joyful chuckle. The movement earns her a muted babble from the babe swaddled in cloth. “Strikingly beautiful, and with blue flames to boot. Blessed indeed.”
Azula says nothing, her lips in a tight line. She briefly wonders what the woman had thought when her father had sent out orders to raze rural colonies and tear Earth Kingdom children from their mothers in the dead of night. She wants to ask if her village had whispered tales of the insanity that had enraptured their nation’s crown jewel, if the bruises on her wrists and the sick running down her legs were blessings from Agni, too.
If the woman notices her disdain, she says nothing of it. “And to be betrothed to General Ren of all people! Oh, what a wonderful man. He aided my son and I from thieves once, years ago. He is much deserving of you, Princess. Oh yes, very much deserving.”
Deserving. As if it had been her betrothed who had had to rise to her station in the eyes of the world.
She wants to scoff. Her brother had tried his best to fulfill the duty of all older brothers. He had tried to wash her hands of the messes she had made as a girl. To his detriment, her messes weren’t as simple as awkward situations with boys or scattered pieces of broken toys. Try as he might, his sister’s hands are permanently stained an ugly shade of red.
Azula offers a small nod of dismissal wrapped under the guise of appreciation. She begins to step away with a mutter of thanks when she feels a strong grip on her elbow.
The woman’s face breaks out into a large smile, the blush on her cheeks spreading. “General Ren! How lovely it is to see you again.”
For a few seconds, Azula permits herself to look at her betrothed. Her eyes trail from his head to his hands, trying to catch a glimpse of what other people saw.
She had first met her consort-to-be at a private dinner with a few recently returned soldiers and the Fire Lord, whose post-war efforts were, in Azula’s opinion, idiotically invested into fortifying a united but stupidly passive army. General Ren had reportedly been the best of them, having established peaceful relations with officials in the Northern Water Tribe while keeping stock of nearby island footholds. He had stark black hair, eyes the color of mud, and a smile easy enough to make him tolerable.
Looking at him now, she can scarcely remember what they had discussed that night. She did remember him saying that his father was in attendance of one of her formal demonstrations at the palace more than a decade ago, and he had come home to tell his sons that perfecting the princess’ katas was crucial to their mastery of firebending.
She had given him a real smile then, her pride ablaze in her chest.
A week later, he wrote to the Fire Lord himself to ask for her hand.
Zuko had more or less pleaded with her over dumplings that very same night, trying to gently drive home the fact that the general came from a well-stood family and had proved himself to be a worthy leader. Though it went unsaid, it was easy enough to wager that the most crucial hand in Zuko’s desperation was that Ren's family had been some of the Fire Lord’s most staunch supporters since the very beginning of his reign, and rejection from the princess would have been synonymous with mocking her own brother’s right to the throne.
It is a story as old as Agni himself. Where the crown goes, Azula follows.
She was lucky, they had all reminded her. In so many words, the masses were eager to tell her that should be grateful that such a generous man wanted her — still wanted her — given everything that she was. Azula knows every eye in the room catches stolen glances at her, hoping they will find the remains of her corruption, a final shard of madness. Some days, she believes they may be right. Most days, she yearns to see the invaluable looks on their faces when she subverts expectations.
Today is one of those days.
“Lian, pleasure,” the general says simply. “I hope you don’t mind. I’d like to take my bride away for a dance.”
Uneager to wait for a response, he grabs her wrist and pulls her towards the dance floor. The mob adjusts like water to accommodate them, and Azula can feel their eyes staring at his hand placed hesitantly on her waist. His other hand is clasped into one of hers, but her red satin glove stops their skin from touching.
“Enjoying yourself, Princess?” Ren asks in a polite tone.
Azula simply hums affirmatively in response. The air feels too stale to engage in conversation, but his eyes are patient enough.
The hand around her waist pulls her closer. Much closer than what is typically appropriate, but the women around them coo in affection anyway. General Ren smiles at her eagerly.
There is no darkness behind his eyes, no unspeakable secrets threatening to spill from his lips. He is kind, if not a little boring. He would be a good husband to an ordinary wife.
She glances up towards the dais where her brother sits with his wife. Zuko looks back at her with an unreadable look on his face, though he offers her a small nod when he catches her eye. Beside him, Mai is the picture of poise with her straightened back and her jaw raised ineffably high. It almost makes Azula laugh, the idea of knifethrower, Avatar-hunter Mai being reduced to a wife on a makeshift throne. But then the image of her own matriarchal high chair sharpens in her mind, and she has to shut her eyes when she sees a shadow in the shape of her mother at her side.
General Ren shoots her a quick smile before nervously leaning forward to plant a small kiss on her lips. Innocent enough, and the crowd drinks in the sight like good wine.
Nevertheless, a chill runs down the path of Azula’s spine.
She knows him well enough to count how many steps it takes for him to get close enough to touch her.
“Mind if I cut in?” a cold voice calls out from behind her.