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rudderless-in-an-ocean-of-stars · 7 years

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of broken mirrors and haunted rooms (i'm empty inside but so are you)

Avatar: The Last Airbender was one of my first fandoms, and still is to this day, so I dug up a half-written fic from a few years ago and cobbled together a little something.

Bear in mind, this was one of my first attempts at fiction of any kind.

Read it here or on Ao3 at:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10998975

Summary:

After nearly half a decade in a cell, the decision to take Azula’s bending away has finally been made.

Someone has to break the news to her, and who better than the Avatar, who has spent the past three years trying to show the princess the kindness he realized she’d never known.

Note: Assuming Aang was 12 coming out of the ice and 14 at the series finale, this takes place roughly 5 years after that. We don’t ever really get to find out the ages of the other characters, so this fic is going by my rules.

This makes Aang, Azula, Katara, Sokka, Mai, Ty Lee, and Suki all about 19 years old. Zuko, canonically one year older than Azula, so he’s 20. Toph, as the youngest, is only 18. You only see Azula and Aang here, but I just wanted to let you know where everyone else stands in my little fanfiction universe, just in case this ever expands.

The Avatar doesn’t take away her bending.

Doesn’t need to, because that’s what the drugs are for. It takes the doctors years to figure it out, how to make something that will block her chi and nothing else.

She’s told that the Fire Lord was adamant that the medicine only bind her powers, not her mind.

She’s heard the stories of what drugs like this do to people. How it takes away their bending. How it takes away everything else, too. Hollows them out until nothing remains but a practically catatonic shell that once used to be a functioning person.

That’s why it’s taken them so long to cook up a recipe that wouldn’t leave her virtually brain-dead, all at little Zu-Zu’s behest. She didn’t realize he still cared so much.

Maybe he just wanted her awake enough to be able to gloat.

If only they knew that their work was wasted on her.

Ozai had taken great care to strip out her insides and replace everything warm and living with cold, dead things a long time ago.

There was nothing left for the Fire Lord to preserve, but his misplaced affection for the little sister he wished she could have been blinds him to the fact that Azula has been scraped empty long ago.

She sees it in his eyes every time he comes to visit- the little boy he used to be. The big brother, responsible for his baby sister.

She’s neither a baby nor his sister anymore.

Would that they could, Azula knows they would have preferred to slip it into her food without her noticing at all.

But the taste is too bitter for them to mask, to crush pills into powder and stir it into her tea, so they are forced tell her up front that she will be medicated.

Rather, they send in the Avatar to do it, terrified of her reaction to the news.

She hasn’t actually burned anyone in years, merely sent out flashy displays of sapphire flames as a warning to anyone who draws her ire. But her scare tactics have worked well over the past few years, and work well even now.

“I’m sorry, but it’s the only way.” He looks at her with wide, apologetic eyes, brimming with a mixture of hope and compassion that turns her stomach at the sight.

“Why?” She snorts, rolling her eyes, “Isn’t being in this glorified prison misery enough?”

The corners of his lips twitch downwards as he averts his gaze.

His reaction to her words elicits a harsh bark of laughter from her throat.

“I see. The rest of the world isn’t content to have me simply locked up for the rest of my days. They want me to suffer.” Just like I made them suffer, she thinks, pursing her lips to keep the wayward thought from escaping her mouth.

In typical Airbender fashion, he redirects her barb with fluid ease. “And you consider being here punishment enough for your crimes?”

Ah.

Punishment.

Azula’s least favorite word after Ozai and Father and dutiful.

“It doesn’t matter what I think or who I am.” She nods towards the evenly spaced steel bars stretched out across her window. “What matters is what everyone else beyond these walls wants.”

It’s never mattered, none of it. None of her hopes and dreams and desires and fears. None of it has ever mattered to anyone. At least Ozai had the decency to be up front about what he wanted from her. About how he saw her, what she was.

The Avatar narrows his eyes at her, and she can almost see the gears turning in his head as she stares back, unflinching in the face of his unwavering gaze.

The past few years have changed him just as much as they’ve changed her.

He’s older now, leaner.

If she’s correct in assuming that they’re both around the same age, he’s nearly twenty now, like her.

Age has stripped them both of the baby fat that once softened their features half a decade ago when they first met, children fighting a war started by people who didn’t fully understand that the price to pay for power was blood.

Or perhaps they did understand, and chose to spill it anyway, painting the world crimson and leaving stains that would likely never wash away.

Thinking about either option for too long always makes something in Azula’s gut twist.

He’s grown into himself, no longer looking like someone far beyond their years trapped in a childish form.

But his eyes remain the same, youthful and ancient all at once, and still gleaming with the unmistakable spark of hope.

Azula hasn’t looked into a mirror since the day she shattered her mother’s reflection, but she knows that her own eyes carry no such emotion.

Hope was something that Ozai had taken pains to ensure would never blossom in Azula’s heart. He’d stolen it from her as soon as he was able, extinguished from her childish eyes to be replaced with the cold steel of blades forged in angry flames.

They sit like that for several moments, neither one moving. Neither one looking away.

Then he speaks, and it strikes at the wobbly foundations of sanity she’s struggled to build ever since the day she shattered her mind along with that mirror.

“So who are you, Princess Azula?” She’s long-since lost any right to the title, but that never stopped him from using it, not three years ago when these visits first began and certainly not now. “And what do you want?”

She turns away from his piercing stare, the hand buried in the folds of her skirt curling into a fist as her nails bite deep enough to draw blood.

For the first time, she is the one who looks away.

The significance of the gesture is not lost on him- she can tell as much by the way he stiffens in surprise. But she cuts him off before he has a chance to speak again.

After all, her fragile tether on sanity could only take so much in a single day.

“Don’t ask questions you aren’t ready to have answered, Avatar.” She says it quietly, voice low and tight with an emotion she knows he can’t quite place, because neither can she.

Don’t ask questions I’m not ready to answer, she thinks, but the words go unsaid.

She doesn’t know if she can trust her voice to carry them.

She doesn’t know if she can trust the Avatar to understand.

For the first time since he started visiting, her voice shakes.

Azula looks brittle, as if the next wrong move could shatter her and every single bit of progress he’s spent the past three years trying to make.

As much as he wants to push, to finally solve a piece of the puzzle that is the deposed princess, he knows he can’t. Not if he wants there to be anything left for him to solve.

He bows his head in acquiescence. “I apologize, Princess.”

She nods silently in response, now peering carefully at the embroidery of the silken scarf resting in her lap despite the fact that they both know she could care less about its craftsmanship.

The piece is exquisite, its stitching flawless- he knows this, because he’s the one who bought it for her. It’s become something of a tradition- giving her a tiny token of appreciation for allowing these visits, for speaking to him when they both know she could simply treat him like everyone else who tried to arrange a meeting- with the stiff, regal silence befitting her former station.

He’s still not really sure why she tolerates him in the first place.

Zuko tells him it’s because he’s the Avatar, and if there’s anything Azula respects, it’s power.

Aang thinks it might be something else.

He can wield the four elements, but the princess is a prodigy in her own right.

He may be the Avatar, but she is Azula.

Azula, who possesses sapphire flames and a mastery over the most difficult of all firebending skills- manipulating lightning.

Three years ago, when he’d first dared to enter her room, Azula had no need to respect his power. Not when she was already so sure of her own.

She was still the same girl who had struck him down with a bolt of lightning, the same girl who had shown no fear at the prospect of confronting the Avatar.

The same girl who had left a scar on his back that not even Katara’s considerable skills as a Master Waterbender and healer could dissolve.

But for some reason, she tolerated him.

And over three years of regular visits and carefully worded exchanges over tea, he’s never asked why.

One day, he hopes she’ll feel comfortable enough to tell him.

But the dismissal is evident as she skims a hand along the silk of his latest gift to her, firmly ignoring his presence.

“Until tomorrow, Princess.”

For a single second, her eyes dart back up to meet his, golden irises flashing bright in the light spilling through the bars of her windows.

“Until tomorrow,” she echoes, casting her gaze back down to the fabric in her lap, the expression etched across her features still unreadable.

He’s nearly out the door when he hears her call out behind him, hesitant and unsure.

“Avatar?”

He stops and turns back instantly- uncertain isn’t a word he’s ever associated with Princess Azula, but it’s how she sounds now.

“Yes?”

“Tomorrow, you said they’ll begin giving me medication during tea.” Again, the flicker of her aureate eyes looking up to meet his lasts only a moment, too fast for him to read the emotions glimmering within. “Will you join me?”

I don’t want to be alone.

It goes unspoken, but they both hear it just the same.

He realizes it then, how much this must scare her.

From the little she’s shared and the information he’s managed to pry out of Zuko, Mai, and Ty Lee, her firebending has been the one constant in her life.

And now, like everything else, it’s being taken away.

All this time, he’s waited for her to open up, to show the vulnerability he’s never doubted she possessed, not since the day he watched her lose her mind as well as her crown. It had struck him then, that she must have lost as much, if not more, than he and his friends. The cost of the war had been paid by both sides of it.

But this is not the way he’d wanted to get her to open up.

He bows, not deep enough to appear subservient, but deep enough that his feelings are made clear.

“I would be honored.”

Good? Bad? Absolute trash?

Should it end here or should I pick it up after all these years and turn it into something longer?

Let me know down below. :)

#Avatar #ATLA #Azula #Aang #Post-series #fanfiction #old writing #rudderless writes #Avatar The Last Airbender #Ao3

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pravasiga · 7 years

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June 19, 2017 - Wabi-Sabi: (Im)perfection.

Wabi-Sabi: (n.) "the quality of being attractive because of being imperfect in some way...wabi-sabi suggests that we see the flaw as being part of what is charming. Can apply to pots, furniture, houses - and whole lives." Origin: Japanese.

Trigger Warning: Body Image and Expectations

I wasn't sure how to start this post to be frank with you. I spent a few hours aimlessly looking around for a word to inspire me to make sense of a whole collection of experiences that I've felt since I've been here. Perhaps the most personal post I've made in a long time, I realized that in the last few years, I've lost my confidence in writing because as I grew up, so did my insecurities, so did my stress levels, and so did my ability to self-doubt. Part of my journey towards writing again is the willingness to be honest, to go deeper, to go pick at the scars that haven't healed properly.

As evidence by the slew of Instagram photos that I've been spamming you all with, being in India meant a change in what I'm used to wearing. For those of you that go to school with me, you know that I stick to a steady stream of sweaters and sweatpants because quite frankly if I have to suffer at college, I might as well be comfortable and warm while I do it. When I go shopping, I go straight to the larger and plus sizes. I thought I had learned to stop being disappointed at finding few items that fit and learned to seek out alternatives. But in India, where I have had to buy new clothes and adjust to a brand new style, I've had my fair share of struggles with body image, grappling with an age-old insecurity that has only worsened with the years and only has been exacerbated by hurtful comments, overactive paranoia, and the desperate need to prove to myself that I can do and be better. One of the biggest things that this trip has forced me to confront was a personal journey that I had long been avoiding - the burden I have borne my entire life regarding Asian-American, feminine, and personal expectations on body image and size.

But I don't owe anyone the debt of feeling sorry for who I am, and wearing my first sari, an ensemble that asks me to bare a part of my body that I have spent most of my life hiding, gave me a burst of confidence that there is so much that I should not and will not be ashamed of. I thank you, ahead of time, for reading this post, and hope that you recognize that this post is an expression of freeing myself from some of the worst thoughts I've had, in pursuit of self-acceptance and integrating the imperfect into the (I'm)perfect.

*If you would like to talk, if this post triggers you, I am here for you. As much as I can be with this spacey wifi. :)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------- When yet another size XXL kurta (long shirt) barely made it down over my chest, I was prepared to shed a few tears. The straight, narrow cut of the cloth was not made to fit me and in the dim-lit dressing room, I could only stare at my reflection and feel the same old thoughts come back. If only you had actually used your gym membership this year instead of being lazy. If only you could have foregone that McDonald's meal at the airport. If only you could have just, for once in your life, been smaller. Coupled with a time constraint and limited inventory, I was absolutely exasperated with myself. I had to somehow, find enough salwar kameez combinations to make it through the rest of the summer and so far, all I could be absolutely sure of was that my dupatta (scarf) was not going to be a problem. Though I later was to learn that most Indian women would tailor their clothes or alter it in ways to fit, the pain of quite literally, not fitting into, the new culture and society that I was going to engage with, was enormously difficult to bear. Even at 20 years old, having been overweight all my life, I was not immune to the dread of yanking off a clothing item that didn't fit, praying that no seams would rip.

A Chinese-American woman, I learned at a young age that I didn't fit the mold. I grew up seeing skinny women on runways, in my magazines, and TV-shows. I was fortunate to grow up in a family where my grandfather used to touch the skin on my arm and smile proudly, telling me that my yellow skin ('jing huang pi fu', he would say), golden and luminous, was beautiful. My grandparents were always the most insistent that their grandchildren never forgot to appreciate and love their roots, to continue a proud story that had crossed the Pacific Ocean, weathered world wars, and landed in a strange new country. Save for a brief infatuation with Cinderella where I stubbornly stated that I wanted blonde hair and blue eyes because "that was what princesses looked like", I grew up in love with my long, straight black hair, especially when I could brush it until it gleamed. I used to stare in the mirror at my dark brown eyes, trying to discern the exact rich chocolate brown-black shade of my irises. I decided early on that no matter what color they were, they held light and enthusiasm for life. Enveloped in love, emboldened in a household of two tongues - English and the warm embrace of my ancestors' Mandarin - I was raised in love with my Chinese heritage. But with this, I inherited expectations that would prove to be most constant source of my self-esteem issues - I have never been petite, slender, or thin.

I take a second to dodge questions about my health to simply state that regardless of that condition, it has never warranted the kind of overwhelming pressure to have collarbones that could hold rolls of quarters (http://www.dailymail.co.uk/…/Country-goes-wild-new-social-m…) or a waist that could hide behind a sheet of paper (http://www.nbc26.com/…/asian-women-are-pressured-to-be-peti…). I have never felt quite at home within the Chinese-American community because I have never been able to shake the shame of not fitting what I saw as the ideal Chinese-American woman. It is assumed that our bodies are meant to be a certain way and that it is woven into my DNA to be a porcelain doll, slim and well-proportioned.

I come from a family where love is shared in food, love is communicated in asking about health, and love is given by pinching cheeks and unfortunately, openly asking about my body weight. When my family comments on my waist before my college experience or when I get asked questions, I get asked about my SAT, my GPA, my weight, the amount of times I've gone to the gym far before I get asked about my mental well-being and happiness. I grew up understanding that this was how love was shown sometimes, even when it would twist in too-round stomach and curb my appetite. I have grown up always feeling like my answer was never good enough. I have grown up understanding that this was something I had to desperately change, not simply out of concern for my health, but because - what would other people think? "We just don't want other people to make fun of you," relatives would assure me, "You're a beautiful girl, but you should lose weight."

And so it goes.

I scrambled to find kurtas that fit and while I was able to find some, I couldn't lift the feeling of defeat that followed me out of the door of Big Bazaar, onto the van, and back into my hostel room. I had been so excited to go shopping for those loose garments, wrongly guessing that such loose fabrics and clothes would be easier to fit into. Even though many of my team members expressed similar frustration of finding clothes that fit, I tuned it all out, I tried to hold myself above wallowing but I couldn't help but sink in. That night, I ate less than half of what I had been given for dinner. I felt like I could have burst out of my skin every single time food passed my lips.

When we got the chance to buy saris, I tried to put a lid on the excitement. A sari is a long piece of fabric (anywhere from 5 to 9 yards), often beautifully decorated, meant to be wrapped around the body to form a skirt and to drape over the shoulder. (Side note: it is so hard to tie this damn thing, I tried and ended up hopping around the room trying to keep everything in place). We had been invited to the wedding of the son of a local technology company, known for its dedication to employing those with mental disabilities and pushing for similar practices in other companies. But I was focused not appearing lumpy, misshapen, and enormous in my sari. I was most afraid of what my rolls of stomach fat would look like, hanging out of the skirt, or worse, not fitting in at all.

The sari store was stuffed to the brim with gorgeous fabrics and I remember my breath being taken away as I ran my fingers along the ornamentally decorated trims of red, blue, purple, golden - every color of the rainbow - saris. I had long decided to go with a red sari, taking a lesson from my prom dress shopping fiasco that red, in fact was my "power color". I tried sari after sari, and as the women who worked at the store hastily tied and rolled me repeatedly into increasingly beautiful fabrics, I couldn't help but focus on everyone around me, finding their perfect sari. Between indecision and an inability to be satisfied by anything I had seen so far, I began to feel that same sense of dread that I had experienced the week before in the dressing room. I began to feel like a little girl trying to play dress-up, attempting to mimic an imaginary standard that was always meant to be above my grasp. Time was running out and I was among the last people to choose - and of the few I had tried on, I just felt completely out of place in all of them. I begged the women to let me try one more on - a red sari with tear-drop gold embroidery, and a golden-green trim. I reviewed the photos a friend helped take of me, and still couldn't bring myself to love it. But in all honesty, I don't know what I had more difficulty loving - the sari, or myself.

I bought the sari anyways. I didn't have time to find another one and this was the best I had found from the bunch. I kept my negative thoughts deep in my belly, swallowed to prevent them from reaching the surface. I told myself that I would just have to learn to wear it, learn to love it for all the other aspects. The fabric was beautiful - there was no doubt in that. I would have to do my best to fit myself in its folds and present as little trouble to the tailor in the next few weeks.

The week flew. We got fit for the tiny blouses (which were MUCH shorter than I expected) and patiently waited for our first chance to wear our beautiful new garments. In my room, I clumsily tried to imitate what I had learned from the women at store and "tied" my first sari. I have a long way to go. Getting those folds perfectly evenly and crisp much be a superhuman talent, honestly. I have incredible respect for anyone who can do it perfectly.

But of course, this is a blog post with a happy ending. The first time I was properly tied into my sari, with the little red blouse, my hair swept back, and my favorite red lipstick on, I was floored. I had tried pulling my petticoat up as high as I could, to hide as much of the skin that peeked out, a fact that the women helping us tie our saris noticed. They originally had pinned part of the draped fabric to my blouse, to form a curtain over the expanse of waist that I had hidden for so much of my life. Staring in the mirror, turning and feeling the fabric swirl around my feet, I unpinned that little curtain and tucked it back into my skirt. And I gave myself time to appreciate the form in front of me, a force in red, gold, yellow, and black. In that moment, I thought little of the expectations that I had carried on my back all my life. I didn't feel hidden under the beautiful fabric nor did I feel that the sari was wearing me. The body that I had spent so many years of my life berating, squeezing, hiding, was perfectly displayed.

It was a breath of fresh air, it was freedom from a restriction I had long placed on myself. And you damn well know I had to take a million photos to celebrate.

But more importantly, it is a reminder. It is a reminder that for all the comments of my family, I come from a long line of strong, sturdy women. Women whose hands and arms bore equal weight as the men in my lineage, women who were mothers and doctors and businesswomen and accountants and caretakers and brilliant and brave. Never had I once questioned whether they were fantastic role models. Never once have I questioned their beauty, their grace, their strength. So size zero be damned, I know that I may never fit into anything at half of the store I stop by, but what there is of me, I will love, I will cherish, and I will protect. And so should you, you fantastic, incredible, wonderful human being.

Dhanyavada galu (thank you) Ninna gelati (your friend), Winnie

PS: The wedding was also amazing and great and wow so many people I can't believe they just literally let 30 random Americans in at the last second. Congratulations to the bride and groom!

PPS: I learned the hard way how hard it is to pee in a sari and let me just tell you it involves a lot of folding, clutching, and praying.

PPPS: Photo credits to my least-favorite person and kind-of favorite photographer, Anant Sriram because bless that camera and his patience for dealing with my idiocy and basicness.

PPPPS: I love all of you, just the way you are.

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