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The first thing Zuko noticed as he dismounted Appa, Katara in tow, was that there was an overwhelming stench of death in every corner of the palace. He was aware of course一that Death had already followed everywhere in the palace, but this was different. Zuko knew what blood smelt like, he had killed before and he had seen others kill before. He was no stranger to the smell and rot that carried along with murder and he, most likely, won't ever be. But it wasn’t just blood he smelt, no, there was something else. He looked over to where Katara stood beside him, a similar look of confusion drawn over her face as well. Good, it wasn’t just him. Had it just been the smell of death, Zuko would not be as concerned as he was right now. He was fighting in a war, afterall, he had been his entire life, it only made sense that Death followed in war. It was that the palace was quiet.
Throughout his time as a Prince, Zuko had never known the palace to be as quiet as it was now; there were always servants running around, butlers and maids around the place, commands being thrown into every group. There was always something. The only time that Zuko can remember it being this silent and voided, was when his mother had escaped and his grandfather had passed, but such a tragedy had not fallen again today, because there was no Ursa and there was no Azulon, or Ozai—hopefully—anymore. There was only Azula, and that's exactly what Zuko and his companion had come after. To his side, he could feel Katara shaking his arm, urging him to follow after her as she walked into the palace, a quiet understanding between them; they would find something soon.
Truthfully, Zuko did not traditionally hate his sister. He held negative feelings towards her and he definitely did hate her to some extent, but he has long been accustomed to the feeling of conflicting emotions inside of him, he loved Azula. It was impossible not to, there was a reason she was always favoured over him in terms of, well, everything. So when Zuko followed Katara into the palace and the first thing their eyes directed them towards was what could only be described as a massacre, Zuko panicked. Someone, something—a monster, the only explanation—had gotten here before them. There were bodies, bodies from both sides of the war. Who had done this, What had done this left no survivors, no mercy. Zuko couldn’t一he really, really couldn’t. He long since felt the absence of Katara's hand on his arm, they had both gone still.
Azula. Azula was in danger, grave danger. She could be dead already, but Zuko wouldn’t consider that, not now. Not when she was his only family. Whatever had beaten them here, they were going to hurt Azula. His legs were running towards the throne room before he could even think of going to find her, he had to find her, to get her, to save her. He left Katara behind, and he would have to apologise for that later, but fuck, he really didn’t care right now. Not when his body was burning and he could feel his legs pushing themselves to their limit as he ran and ran and ran and ran.
He wasn’t sure how long it took him to find the throne room, but it had been quick. And Azula wasn’t there. There was no fire being displayed, there were—was that the Dai Lee?—other bodies that laid on the floor, disfigured. But none of them had been Azulas. None of them would be Azulas. His heart was racing, but Azula needed her big brother right now, and Zuko needed his baby sister. So he knelt, he knelt and looked at the floor, the bodies. He tried his hardest to just get over it, to force his mind to be okay with what he was looking at, for Zuko was no stranger to Death.
But he couldn’t. Every body, every strand of black hair, made him sick. There were shards of glass around the floor in the rare amounts of spaces that weren’t filled with rot and gore. Zuko moved the search towards the back of the room, near the throne. He looked, and he looked, and he looked. And yet, the only thing he could find that actually meant something, was the fire lord head piece. Left behind, discarded.
Azula was too stubborn and proud to leave her crown behind. That was the only thing Zuko could think of. It was the only thing he could focus on as he slowly reached for the head piece with trembling hands that screamed at him to stop. He should be the one wearing this. He banished the thought as quickly as he could, it was not the time to be jealous of his sister's achievements.
Azula wasn’t dead, she couldn’t be. It’s what he had to tell himself to stop the wetness in his eyes, he failed, of course. Soon enough, he found himself curled in a kneeling position, crown clutched tightly to his chest as his face was anything but dry, it was then when everything else in the room seemingly disappeared, it had been gone for awhile, but his sister wasn’t dead. Zuko tried, he really did, he tried so hard to restrict himself from feeling grief for her, because Azula wasn’t dead. The grief stayed, of course. So did the despair, the anger, the hope. But it wasn’t hope that Azula was alive, it was, disgustingly, the hope that Azula wasn’t. For if Azula were dead, she would be free, but at the very, very back of Zuko's mind, it was also hope that the world would be free. He cried at the thought.
If Azula were dead, it would mean the war was over. It would mean that Zuko and his friends wouldn’t be hunted down anymore, and they could be kids—Azula was also a child, Zuko—again. It was a gross line of thinking, because Azula was his little sister. The Azula that had taken control of Bai Sing See and the Azula had threatened to kill him and the Azula that worked for Ozai, was still the same Azula that had come into his room, silently crying after a nightmare. No matter how much Zuko wanted to deny it, they were the same Azula, and the Azula that cried was the same Azula that oppressed. Uncle would tell him that they were different, that Azula had made her choice and had chosen to stand for evil, but really, what choice did Azula have, when her only family left was Ozai?
He should get up, he should go back to Katara, his friend, and tell her the news. That the palace was truly empty, that there were no survivors, but he will not mention Azula by name. Because Azula was not dead, not as long as Zuko could remember her face, not as long as Zuko could remember the way she had tried to get him to hang out with her, not as long as Zuko could remember when Azula had been his little sister. And if one day, Azula came back to him, trying to kill him and maybe succeeding, then Zuko thought that would be just fine. Because Azula was not dead, not when it was supposed to be Zuko who had been his fathers favourite and he had replaced Azula in every sense, back when he was under the delusion that was a good thing.
He finally picked himself up, letting the crown drop onto the fall and roll someplace unseen. He got ready to leave then, to go back and his friends and celebrate the end of the war, no doubt the others would want to investigate what monster had done this.
“It’s gross, isn’t it?”
He stopped.
That wasn’t Katara's voice. He didn’t dare turn around, not yet.
“Well? Aren’t you- aren’t you going to… say something?” Zuko refused to turn to this voice as it trembled. Zuko refused to turn to Azula. “...Say something,” he could hear the plea in her voice now, sounding like she was afraid, which was beyond strange to Zuko, because Azula was never afraid. “Say something, Zuzu! Tell me I’m a monster! That I’m just like father!” She was screaming now, but he could still hear it, the tremble, the plead, the fear. Zuko finally turned around, and oh.
Oh, Angi. What happened to you?
She was a mess. Her topknot was gone, hair tied up into a disordered ponytail. Her bangs were cut unevenly, it was a look that Zuko never thought he would find her in. It was silent, deafeningly so, as Zuko ran his eyes over Azula's face. There was blood—Had seen been hurt?—all over the sides of her face with small little cuts that made themselves present. He looked at her hands now, and he noticed how she harshly shifted in fear. What are you so afraid of?
The once soft pale skin that once were her hands were now replaced with a dark red, she was gripping something, but Zuko wouldn’t tell what. It was definitely a weapon, and Zuko understood why. It wasn’t a monster that had emptied the palace by bringing Death, it was Azula.
“Don’t just look at me like that-! L-Like I’m some kind of monster! Just say something!” She was back to screaming, she must have seen Zuko's face morph into an expression he wasn’t even aware he was making. She was begging him, begging him for something Zuko could never give her. “I hate you! I- I fucking hate you Zuzu! Say something, for once in your life say something!” Zuko hadn’t missed the tears that welled up into her eyes.
He didn’t know what to do. He was a failure. Azula finally stood in front of him, she was close enough now that he could reach out and pull her into a hug, but he wouldn’t. Azula was stepping closer, she had stopped screaming. Her voice was tired, and she fell. She fell to Zuko's feet, and begged. It was strange. So, so, so strange. Where was her honour? If Ozai had seen her now, what would he think?
“Run, Azula.” The words had finally come to him, she looked up at her carrying the same fear she had when he first turned around to look at her. He felt horrible. “Run. Don’t come back to the Fire Nation.”
And so she did. He wasn’t sure why he had pushed her out, made her flee from a home that was more hers than it was his. But if any of Zuko's friends had found her in this massacre, they would trial her, and they would give her the same punishment Aang was surely giving Ozai. He told himself that he had to, he would tell them that it was a rogue group that did this, and not Azula. He owed her that much, at least. Azula will still be written down as an evil that had no heart, but maybe, maybe some time in the far future, when the terms grooming and abuse were understood, Azula would be remembered as the victim she was.