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Azula is eight when she realises she is glass.
It's not a sudden epiphany; it's a gradual, creeping conception that lingers in her head, seeps into her dreams. Something she reflects on only when Agni dips over the horizon.
She sees it in the way other people inch away from her. How they falter at her edges, how they are careful near her and careful not to get too close, lest she shatter on the ground like the teacup Zuzu had knocked over earlier that day. Like they too will see Father’s eyes reflect the flames in his palm and know that Zuzu is doomed.
It's not like she cares. They should treat her like this: After all, she is royalty, Princess of the Fire Nation, and they are beneath her.
She smirks at the mirror, the unmistakable inflections of Father's voice lying underneath her own.
But Mother drifts away little by little each day and Azula can do nothing to stop it; she tries. She demonstrates her katas, she sets fire to the flowers—she eyes the charred little petal, its leaves curling pitifully around the stem and wonders why such a pathetic thing would be the target of so much love.
Mother never reacts the way Father does. Instead, she spends more and more time with Zuzu until she is galaxies away and Azula is alone, on her planet, and she calls and calls for her...but Mother never turns around, never smiles, never wraps her up in her arms like she does for Zuko. Zuzu who glares at Azula while safely ensconced within Mother’s arms. Mother who bends down to kiss his cheek, accidentally locks eyes with Azula and sends her an almost skittish look.
Mother turns away from Azula, her daughter, who’s with Mai and Ty Lee in the turtle duck gardens and is staring at the fringes of this scene, something burning, burning deep in her stomach until she can smell the smoke—which doesn’t happen, Azula must not lose control, cannot lose control. So she flings away deliberately, announcing she is bored of this game.
To Father, she is not glass. To Father, she is metal. She is strong, and unlike Zuzu, she is worthy. Father does not hesitate to pound her into the shape fit for a princess.
Uncle sends her a doll and she does not hesitate to set it aflame. The sage green fabric turns crimson before her eyes, until all that's left are the glass earrings, which shatter in her palms. She ignores Mother’s admonishments and smiles. Good riddance.
She kneels at her father's feet, lips curving as she murmurs her assurance. She sees the light in her father's eyes mirroring her own, and lets out a peal of laughter, swiftly kicking a palanquin bearer out of the way. Finally. They can stand together and destroy this pathetic kingdom from the ground up.
Then he turns, his helmet gleaming gold against the vermillion banners. Phoenix King. He turns and Azula understands that the light is not for her; it’s for himself, a manifestation of his own brilliance, leaving her in darkness.
Azula is fifteen when she knows that she is glass and that glass is breaking. When she knocks over the mirror veiling Mother, it falls to the floor and she feels a similar echo within. The shards are cracking, fracturing into teeny tiny pieces and it’s all Azula can do to speed up the process. Mother’s words reverberate through her mind. Or maybe Mother is just following her, delighting in Azula breaking at long last.
So Azula heeds Mother’s wishes, snapping the pieces further until she can feel the sharp things embedded into her skin, her hands, her face, her brain. Everywhere—it might be real for all she knows—the twinkling shards catch light from the crimson carpet and she can still see her mother’s reflection in pieces behind her eyelids.
Azula is fifteen when the glass shatters.