Archive of Our Own

The high tower suite does not feel like a Fire Nation prison anymore. Five months have passed since the Avatar carried his wife up the spiraling stairs and sealed the heavy iron door against the world. In those quiet months, the atmosphere of the room has fundamentally changed. Soft woven rugs cover the cold volcanic floor. Wooden chimes hang near the arched windows. When the night breeze slips past the invisible air barrier, the chimes produce a gentle, melodic sound that echoes the lost Southern Temple.

The Avatar sits on a meditation cushion near the hearth. The dying embers cast a warm glow across his scarred chest. He opens his gray eyes, ending his evening meditation, and looks toward the massive bed. Azula is sleeping, but she is not resting. She lies on her side, a mountain of silk pillows propping up her back and her heavy stomach. She is in her eighth month. The physical encumbrance infuriates her. The agile warlord is trapped inside a swollen, aching body.

He watches her chest rise and fall. He listens to her breathing. It is still that strange, airy rhythm the royal midwives discovered months ago. Their dynamic has shifted into a quiet, guarded domesticity. They do not speak of love. They do not exchange grand romantic vows. The Avatar still tastes her meals before she eats. He still sleeps near the main door. He is her warden, her servant, and her shield.

Suddenly, Azula shifts violently among the silk pillows. A low, distressed whimper escapes her throat. Her pale hands clutch at the red blankets. She twists her head, her dark hair sticking to her sweating forehead.

The Avatar stands up immediately. He crosses the woven rug in silent, rapid strides. He knows these dreams. He kneels beside the mattress, reaching out carefully. He places his calloused hand gently on her trembling shoulder.

"Azula," he whispers. His voice is a soft, grounding rumble. "Azula, wake up. You are dreaming."

She gasps sharply, her amber eyes snapping open. For a split second, she looks utterly terrified. She looks at him, her chest heaving, her breathing erratic and shallow.

"It is alright," he says quietly. He does not pull his hand away. "You are in the tower. You are safe."

Azula swallows hard, squeezing her eyes shut. She lets her head fall back against the silk pillows. She takes a shaky, ragged breath, trying to summon her usual impenetrable mask, but she is too exhausted. The thick walls of her pride are cracking under the immense biological strain.

"It was my mother," Azula whispers. Her voice sounds fragile, devoid of its usual mocking edge. "She was walking away. Down a long dark corridor. She did not look back. And then... my father was there. He was looking at me. He looked at me with absolute disgust."

The Avatar feels a sharp pang of sorrow. He sits on the edge of the mattress, shifting his weight so he is closer to her. "Ozai cannot hurt you anymore. He is locked away."

"You do not understand, Avatar," Azula replies bitterly, turning her face toward the dark window. "He was not looking at me because I am a failure. He was looking at the child." She brings her trembling hand up to rest on the crest of her swollen stomach. "I am terrified."

It is the first time she has ever admitted fear out loud. The word hangs in the quiet room, fragile and dangerous. He watches a single tear escape her eye and roll down her pale cheek.

"I do not possess it," Azula continues, her voice breaking. "The maternal instinct. I feel nothing but a crushing, suffocating panic. I am a weapon, Avatar. I was forged to conquer, to manipulate, and to burn. I do not know how to nurture. I am going to abandon this child, just like Ursa abandoned me. Or worse. I am going to break it, just like Ozai broke me."

He looks at her. He sees the terrified, broken girl hiding beneath the imperial armor. He reaches out, moving his hand from her shoulder down to her stomach. He places his palm gently over her trembling fingers. He feels the strong, rhythmic pulse of the life growing inside her.

"You are not Ozai," he says. His voice is firm, carrying the absolute certainty of the earth. "And you are not your mother. You are Azula."

She looks at him, her amber eyes searching his face for any hint of pity or deception. She finds neither. "We are not in love, Avatar. You know that. We never will be. This... this arrangement is a political necessity. A blood sacrifice to keep the world from burning."

"I know," he replies softly, his thumb gently stroking the back of her hand. "Love isn't what this is. But Ozai never feared hurting you. He never stayed awake in the dark, worrying that he might be a bad father. The fact that you are terrified of breaking this baby proves that you are already a better parent than he ever was. You care about what happens to her. That is the instinct, Azula. You already have it."

Azula blinks. The raw panic in her expression falters, replaced by a sudden, sharp confusion. "Her?"

"I like to think it's a girl." He smiles, a small, genuine warmth touching his lips.

Azula stares at him. The tension in her shoulders slowly, agonizingly begins to release. She does not pull her hand away from his grasp. She takes a long, shuddering breath, closing her eyes. She leans her head toward him, allowing her cheek to rest lightly against his forearm. It is a massive concession, a silent plea for anchor.

The Avatar shifts his posture, wrapping his arm carefully around her shaking shoulders. He rests his chin against the top of her dark hair. He holds her in the quiet dark, listening to the wooden chimes swaying in the night breeze.

The morning brings a strange, unnatural sky. Heavy, bruised clouds gather rapidly over the volcanic peaks of the Caldera. The air feels incredibly thick, tasting heavily of ozone and sulfur. It is not a natural weather pattern. The Avatar stands by the arched window, looking out over the capital. The wind is erratic, whipping in chaotic, violent circles.

Down in the royal courtyards, the High Sages watch the sky with deep terror. It is a spiritual anomaly. The immense concentration of airbending chi growing inside a vessel made of pure fire is disrupting the atmospheric balance of the entire island. The elements are clashing.

He turns away from the window. Azula is sitting in a carved wooden chair near the hearth. She is clutching the armrests, her knuckles white. Her face is unnaturally flushed, a dangerous, feverish red spreading across her cheeks. She is breathing in short, harsh gasps.

"Azula?" he asks, stepping quickly across the woven rug. "What is it?"

She looks up at him, her amber eyes wide with sudden, blinding agony. "Avatar," she gasps out, her voice straining. "It hurts. It burns."

Before he can reach her, a sharp, wet sound echoes in the quiet room. A puddle of clear fluid forms on the stone floor beneath her chair. The unseasonal storm outside unleashes a deafening crack of green lightning. The timing is undeniable.

She is in labor. It is a full month early.

He feels a spike of pure, instinctual panic, but he forces it down. He is the Avatar. He must remain the calm center of the storm. He scoops Azula up into his arms, ignoring the heavy weight, and carries her to the massive bed. He lays her down gently against the silk pillows.

"Stay here," he commands, his voice steady. "I will get the guards. I will bring the physicians."

He runs to the heavy iron door, using his earthbending to slide the massive locking bolts back. He pulls the door open. Two elite imperial guards stand on the narrow stone bridge outside, their halberds drawn against the howling wind.

"The Princess is in labor!" he shouts over the roaring storm. "Send a runner to the infirmary! Bring the midwives immediately!"

The guards bow sharply and run toward the lower levels. He returns to the bed. Azula is writhing against the sheets, her hands gripping the velvet blankets. The temperature in the room is rising rapidly. The heat radiating from her skin is terrifying. It is not the normal sweat of physical exertion; it is a dangerous, internal combustion.

Ten agonizing minutes pass. The storm outside rages louder, shaking the thick glass of the arched windows. Finally, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes on the stone bridge.

The heavy door swings open. Four elderly midwives rush into the suite. They wear the stark white robes of the medical ward. They carry large silver basins, sterile white cloths, and strange, sharp medical instruments. Their faces are set in lines of clinical detachment. They look exactly like the women who entered the bedchamber on the wedding night.

Azula looks toward the door. Through the haze of blinding pain, she sees the white robes. She sees the silver basins. The sight triggers a massive, violent flashback. She is no longer in the safe sanctuary of the high tower. She is back on the wedding night. She is a piece of state property, about to be stripped, inspected, and handled like a breeding animal.

"No," Azula gasps, her amber eyes dilating with pure, unadulterated terror. "No! Get them away!"

"Princess, please calm yourself," the Head Midwife says, stepping forward with a sterile cloth. "We must examine the progression. You are early."

"Do not touch me!" Azula screams. The sheer panic overrides her physical exhaustion. She throws her hand out toward the approaching women. She does not summon a controlled flame. She unleashes a localized, wild blast of pure blue fire.

The concussive force of the blast shatters the silver basin in the midwife's hands. The elderly women scream, scrambling backward toward the door, their white robes singed by the intense heat. The wooden chimes near the window catch fire, burning to ash in a single second.

"Azula!" the Avatar shouts, throwing up a shield of compressed air to absorb the remaining flames.

Azula scrambles backward on the mattress, pressing her spine against the heavy wooden headboard. She looks like a cornered, terrified predator. "Get them out, Avatar! They want to cut me open! They want to take it! Get them out!"

He looks at the terrified midwives, who are huddling near the entryway. He looks at his wife, whose sanity is actively fracturing under the weight of her past trauma and her present agony. He realizes instantly that the clinical environment of the state will kill her. The stress will stop her heart before the child is even born.

He makes a terrifying, absolute choice.

He turns toward the door. He raises both of his hands, his gray eyes glowing with a faint, dangerous white light. He summons a powerful, sweeping gust of wind. The gale catches the four midwives, lifting them off their feet and pushing them smoothly but forcefully out of the suite, depositing them onto the stone bridge outside.

The Avatar stomps his bare foot against the volcanic floor. The heavy iron door slams shut with a deafening crash. The locking bolts slide into place. With a sweeping upward motion of his arms, he manipulates the stone framing the doorway, fusing the rock together into a seamless, impenetrable wall. He permanently seals the room.

They are entirely alone.

He turns back to the bed. He walks slowly toward Azula. The white glow fades from his eyes. He is going to have to deliver this child himself.

The labor is not a normal biological process. It is a violent, terrifying clash of spiritual elements. The child's developing airbending chi is clashing violently against Azula's inherent firebending pathways. Her body is trying to reject the foreign energy, treating the airy chi like a toxic infection.

Azula lets out a ragged, agonizing scream, arching her back off the mattress. Her skin is burning up. He touches her forehead and recoils slightly. Her fever is spiking to lethal temperatures. If she continues to combust the internal energy, her organs will begin to shut down.

The Avatar quickly strips off his heavy obsidian armor. He throws the dark plates onto the floor, stripping down to his thin undershirt. He climbs onto the massive bed, moving behind her. He pulls Azula back against his chest, wrapping his arms around her shaking body. He must act as her physical and spiritual anchor.

"I am here," he whispers directly into her ear, his voice a steady, grounding force. "I am holding you. You are safe."

He places his scarred hands flat against her feverish stomach. He closes his eyes, sinking deep into the spiritual plane. He initiates energybending. He does not try to suppress her fire; he acts as a living heat-sink. He draws the excess, burning thermal energy out of her body, channeling it through his own arms and venting it harmlessly into the cold air of the room.

Azula gasps, her head falling back against his shoulder as the lethal heat begins to recede. But the pain of the contractions is still unimaginable. She drops all her impenetrable masks. Stripped of her royal pride, wracked by unimaginable physical agony, she reaches back and grips his forearms. Her nails dig deep into his skin, drawing crescent moons of fresh blood.

"Avatar," Azula sobs, her voice cracking, completely unrecognizable. She sounds like a frightened, desperate child. "Please. Please don't let it kill me. I cannot do this."

"Look at me," he commands softly, pressing his cheek against her damp hair. He refuses to let her give into the panic. "You are the strongest person I have ever known. You can do this. But you are fighting the energy. You have to let it flow."

Another violent contraction hits her. Azula screams, trying to utilize the sharp, forceful, aggressive breathing techniques taught to Fire Nation soldiers to manage pain.

"No," he says firmly, grabbing her wrists to ground her. "That is fire breathing. It is feeding the clash. You have to change your rhythm. You have to breathe like an airbender."

Azula shakes her head frantically, tears streaming down her face. "I don't know how! I don't know!"

"I will show you," he promises. He shifts his weight, pressing his chest firmly against her back so she can feel the movement of his lungs. "Breathe with me, Azula. Do not push the air out. Let it circle. Breathe in through the nose, deep into the chest, and let it flow out softly. Like a continuous wheel. Follow my chest."

He takes a slow, deep, circular breath. He exaggerates the motion so she can feel the rhythm against her spine. Azula whimpers, but she tries. She takes a shaky, ragged breath, attempting to mimic his peaceful rhythm. She fails on the exhale, coughing on a sob of pain.

"Again," he says patiently, tightening his protective grip around her. "Follow my lead. We are one breath."

He breathes with her. He shares his oxygen, pacing her through the agonizing crests of the contractions. Slowly, miraculously, the terrifying clash of chi begins to harmonize. By adopting the circular breathing forms of the Air Nomads, Azula stops fighting the child's nature. She allows the airy energy to flow alongside her fire, rather than attempting to conquer it. The lethal fever breaks, leaving her skin pale and drenched in sweat, but cool to the touch.

Hours pass. The storm outside rages on, rattling the heavy glass, but inside the sealed room, there is only the synchronized sound of two desperate people sharing a single, continuous breath.

The final stage of labor arrives. The exhaustion is absolute. Azula's head lolls against his chest, her eyes half-closed, her strength entirely spent. The Avatar is operating purely on spiritual adrenaline, his own muscles aching from the sustained energybending and the tight grip he maintains on her.

"It is time," he whispers, his voice hoarse. He shifts out from behind her, moving to the foot of the bed. "Azula, you have to push now. Give me everything you have left."

Azula lets out a guttural, primal cry that tears through her throat. She grips the silk sheets, her knuckles white, her face contorted in absolute agony. She pushes with the fierce, unyielding will of a conquered warlord reclaiming her throne.

He waits, his hands steady, his gray eyes focused.

With a final, devastating push, the physical ordeal culminates. He reaches out. He catches the tiny, slippery weight of the infant in his waiting hands.

It is a girl.

He looks down at the fragile life resting in his palms. His heart swells with an emotion so vast, so profound, it threatens to crack his ribs. She has a tuft of dark, silky hair. Her skin is flushed from the exertion of birth.

Her golden eyes snap open almost immediately. She takes a sudden, deep gasp of air all on her own. Her tiny face turns bright red, and she lets out a piercing, wailing cry that echoes off the stone walls.

The sheer, incredible force of that first, triumphant exhalation is a biological miracle. It creates a literal, physical gust of wind. The sudden burst of air sweeps outward from the child, rushing through the tower suite with the power of a minor gale. The wind catches the heavy crimson drapes, blowing them wildly into the air. It sweeps over the hearth and the remaining candles, extinguishing every single flame in the room in an instant.

The room is plunged into darkness, lit only by the flashes of green lightning from the storm outside.

She is an airbender.

The hundred-year genocide is officially, undeniably broken.

The Avatar collapses back onto his heels, openly, uncontrollably weeping. Deep, wracking sobs tear through his chest. He holds the screaming, squirming infant against his heart, tears streaming down his face and dripping onto the red silk blanket he quickly wraps around her.

He looks up at Azula. She is staring at the screaming baby, her amber eyes wide, her chest heaving with exhaustion. She looks terrified, but she is reaching her pale, trembling hands out toward him.

He stands up on shaking legs. He steps to the side of the bed. He leans down and carefully, gently places the wrapped infant directly onto Azula's chest.

Azula flinches as the warm weight settles against her skin. She stares down at the tiny, red, screaming face. The terrible, dark fear she had harbored for months—the fear that she would feel nothing, that she was an empty, broken vessel devoid of love—completely shatters like glass.

A fierce, overwhelming, and utterly terrifying rush of protective love locks into place deep within her soul. It is not a soft, gentle emotion. It is a possessive, lethal instinct. It is the fierce dedication of a dragon guarding its only hoard.

Azula brings her trembling hands up. She does not push the child away. She carefully cradles the back of the baby's tiny head, pulling the infant closer against her heart. The baby's screams slowly quiet into soft, rhythmic whimpers as she feels the warmth of her mother.

Azula begins to cry. Silent, heavy tears spill over her eyelashes, tracking through the sweat and grime on her face. She is entirely consumed by the fragile life in her arms.

The Avatar climbs back onto the mattress. He sits beside them. He wraps his arms around both Azula and his newborn daughter, resting his chin on Azula's exhausted shoulder. He closes his eyes, burying his face in her dark, damp hair. They sit there in the dark, listening to the storm outside slowly begin to die down, replaced by the soft, new rhythm of an airbender's breath.

He leans his head down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Azula's dark hair. Then, carefully, he presses his lips gently against the baby's tiny, grasping hand. It is a show of gratitude and a vow of lifelong love to his daughter. His daughter 

Hours later, when the morning sun finally breaks through the bruised clouds, the Avatar shifts. Even through the thick stone floor, he feels the distinct, familiar rhythm of footsteps approaching the bridge. He feels the rapid, anxious heartbeat of his oldest friend.

He stands up and walks to the sealed doorway. He uses earthbending to pull the fused rock apart, drawing the heavy iron bolts back. The door swings open.

Fire Lord Zuko stands in the corridor, flanked by a dozen terrified guards and the royal physicians. Zuko looks pale, his golden eyes wide with panic. He takes a hesitant step into the ruined suite, surveying the shattered ceramic, the extinguished hearth, and the heavy smell of sweat and ozone. He sees them sitting together on the massive bed, completely exhausted but radiating an impenetrable, terrifying aura of unity.

Zuko realizes that the empire's calculated political maneuver has created something beyond its control. The Avatar and Azula look at each other over the head of their sleeping daughter. The treaty is irrelevant now. The state is irrelevant.

They have forged their own dynasty of ash and air. As he tightens his grip on Azula's shoulder, and Azula’s amber eyes lock onto her brother with lethal, protective defiance, they silently acknowledge a terrifying truth. They will burn the entire world to the ground before they ever let anyone take this from them.