Unfortunately, Azula’s first memory is Zuko.
The details are hazy. She is two, maybe three years old. Holding something. He quickly snatches it from her hands. Pushes her forcefully into a bow, head to the floor.
Then Father is there. He grabs the object Zuko took from her. Raises his voice. Smacks Zuko. Leaves. Zuko cries.
It’s a rather dull first memory. Not even about her.
~ ~ ~
Her second memory is much better.
She is almost four, watching Zuko’s lessons. She’s figured out how to firebend for a few weeks now, but hasn’t told anyone. Instead, she is watching. Waiting.
Zuko runs through the same kata he’s been trying for days. The same steps, same motions. Azula can see acutely where he falters. Can see Father’s eyes narrow, his mouth mangle in distaste.
She hops to her feet and strides onto the field, beside Zuko. Father barks her name, but she ignores him.
“Like this, Zuzu,” she says, and performs the motions, but turns her foot where Zuko keeps it planted.
Fire bursts from her hand, a perfect blast.
When the light dissipates, Father is smiling. Father has never smiled before. A thrill rushes through her.
~ ~ ~
Azula is five the first time she realizes just how stupid her brother is.
Unlike Zuko, she has never been struck by Father. It’s actually quite simple. If you make Father happy, he won’t be angry enough to hurt you.
Zuko, for some reason, still hasn’t figured that out. And he’s had two years on Azula to get there first.
They’re at family breakfast. Zuko drops his fork under the table. He crawls under the tablecloth to get it. Father scowls.
“I’ve mastered my intermediate forms, Father,” Azula says, “I begin advanced training today.”
Father turns his gaze to her, a smile forming.
There’s a thud. The table shakes. Father frowns, and puts a bored hand over his glass. Azula does the same - quick and calm enough that it seems she did it on her own.
Zuko scrambles out from under the table, holding his head where he undoubtedly hit himself.
“But I’m still learning the intermediate forms!” He says desperately. Azula fends off a cringe. She just played the biggest card in her hand to make Father happy, and Zuko is wasting it.
“Zuko,” Father says sharply. Zuko flinches. Azula wants to strangle him; he should know that Father hates displays of fear.
“It’s okay, turtleduck,” Mother says softly, but urgently, “Sit down.”
Azula wants to strangle her too. Father hates-
“What did you just call the boy?” Father asks, voice dripping with venom.
Idiots. Azula thinks fiercely. Shut up.
“It’s nothing, Ozai,” Ursa says placatingly. Azula wants to tackle her and melt her lips closed. “Zuko just-”
“Zuko,” Father cuts her off, “Needs to behave himself at the table. Or else he won’t be allowed to eat at all.”
He stares at Ursa with hatred that could melt steel without fire. Ursa, to her credit, doesn’t buckle and blubber like Zuko would. She nods tersely and returns to her breakfast, only shooting a discreet look of urgency to Zuko.
It’s messy, but passable. Azula would have actually responded with words, and with dignity, but Azula would never let herself draw so much ire in the first place.
Zuko finally, finally takes a hint and starts to return to his seat.
“Azula,” Father turns back to her pleasantly, and the slight tension in her shoulders vanishes. Her card is still in play. “Perhaps I will join-”
SCREECH
Azula snaps her head to the noise. Zuko is frozen in place, halfway through scooching his chair on the marble floor like a fucking dog-monkey.
“Father is speaking,” she practically spits at him.
Zuko’s eyes widen.
“Azula!” Ursa exclaims. Azula whips her head to her, too, fresh vitriol ready on her tongue.
“ENOUGH!” Father’s voice booms, echoing off the high ceiling.
The table shakes, more violently than before. Azula primly covers her glass with her hand. There is a searing flame of rage in her chest, hotter and fiercer than any chi she’s ever had. She had been crafting this moment for a week, and Zuko ruined it with his incompetence.
“Take the boy and get out of my sight,” Father orders Ursa.
She stands and gathers a petrified Zuko, scooping him up gently from the chair. Like she has all the time in the world to-
“Now,” Father growls, and Ursa drops the gentleness, practically dragging him from the room.
“Should I leave as well, Father?” Azula asks.
Father sighs.
“No,” he says tiredly, cutting into a sausage and popping it into his mouth. “Someone should remain to enjoy the morning.”
He puts the cutlery down and dabs at his lips with a napkin, despite the fact that Father has never let a stray crumb or droplet of any kind touch his face since the day he was born.
“I was hoping to watch your lesson today, but it seems like I will be too busy teaching the boy manners.”
Father stands, dropping the napkin atop his half-eaten food.
“Perhaps tomorrow, Azula.”
“Of course, Father.”
When the doors close behind him, she is alone in the massive room. After ten seconds, when she is sure he’s gone, she snatches a piece of toast off Zuko’s plate and coats it in searing flame, burning it to a puck. With a shout of pure, unadulterated rage, she throws it at the wall. It shatters into a shower of burnt gluten and embers.
The hall is silent, and her angry heaves of breath are deafening.
Then she remembers herself. Azula is five years old and a princess, not a tantrum-throwing toddler. With a wave of her hand the debris are smothered, and she shoves away from the table. The chair doesn’t so much as squeak.
“Clean that up,” She snaps at a servant. “Bring a fresh plate to my room.”
~ ~ ~
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