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The sun set and rose and set again, and Azula's obsession over her discovery degenerated and died. Gracefully she squeezed herself back into the mold of the composed, icily charming young girl she had always been. Her firebending improving by leaps and bounds. Her mind grew sharper and sharper, her face harder, her lies even more difficult to detect.
It seemed as if nothing could break her shell, not even the day when her cousin Lu Ten died.
Lu Ten had been the perfect young man, everything a proud father could want – brave, polite, strong and handsome. His death rocked the family greatly. There seemed to be two ways to deal with the event, and both were rather popular.
The first was to narrow your eyes, flex your muscles, exercise a bit more authority, hold your head a bit more higher, and basically act cold and strong about the whole thing. (Azulon and Ozai executed this route perfectly).
The second method was what Azula had once heard called “weakness,” that is, grief and sorrow and tears. Iroh came home a sobbing wreck and had to be secluded in his own room for a while. Zuko cried on his mother's shoulder once or twice, but mostly he would just pace the kitchen saying over and over again, “He's dead, then? He's really actually dead?” and Ursa would say, “Yes, dear heart,” in a strange voice, retreating to her room afterward to cry alone.
Then there was Azula's way.
Except Ursa couldn't seem to figure out what in the world Azula's way was. Never since infancy had Azula shed a tear, and she certainly didn't seem about to now. During the days after Iroh came home, she rarely spoke, but roamed the outreaches of the palace as if she were looking for something she had misplaced. Sometimes Ursa would catch a glimpse of her face. Her eyes were obscured by their usual apathetic film, but there was something else that flickered behind them. A probing sort of look. A lingering spark of – could it be – confusion?
Ursa's heart suddenly went out for her daughter. The poor girl was confused! She was clearly trying to retain a royal composure on the outside, while she was surely as lost and scared as any of the others deep down. Or so Ursa thought.
“Azula, I want to talk to you,” she said gently one day to her daughter. Azula looked at her curiously, but didn't refuse her.
“My bedroom. Come on,” said Ursa, lightly touching her daughter's hand. To her utter astonishment, Azula didn't pull back, but instead gently squeezed her mother's hand in her own.
Ozai and Ursa's room was huge and adorned, with big ornate windows and a bed carved out of the finest dark woods. The sheets and comforters on the bed were also adorned with tassels and jewels. Neither Azula nor Zuko ever went in here, mostly because of their father's overbearing presence. Ozai's warlike nature was highly prevalent throughout the room; there were swords and other deadly tools on the walls, plus a large, embroidered tapestry of Fire Lord Sozin, surrounded by tortured victims and conquered lands. Azula stared.
“Oh, so you like the tapestry?”
Azula nodded, still hypnotized by the glorious image.
“Azula, we're here for a reason,” Ursa said with a small smile.
“Yes, mother. I remember.”
“Sit down.” Gently Ursa settled Azula down onto the bed. “Azula, I was wondering . . . if there was anything I could do. For you.”
“Not really.” Azula shook her head.
“Are you sure you feel okay?”
“Everything's fine. Maybe I miss Lu Ten. Maybe I'm a little sad but . . . I don't like crying.”
“Oh, honey. Nobody does.”
“Then why do they do it?”
“Because,” said Ursa, “it's the natural thing to do. The human thing.”
Azula shook her head impatiently. “I'm okay, mother. Stop worrying.”
Ursa let out a long sigh. “Okay, Azula. But please, if you ever need anything . . .”
Azula nodded and got up to go. Ursa watched her leave, sorrow pressing down on her. She had come so close to breaking Azula's shell, and now – it looked like it had all been for nothing.
Just as she was about to go, however, Azula suddenly turned around.
“Mother?” she said in a sharp voice.
“Yes, Azula?”
“If I asked you a question, would you answer me? Truthfully?”
Ursa was taken aback. Azula had a question, and she wanted an answer. But Ursa wasn't sure if she'd be able to answer.
“You can trust me,” she said, watching her daughter carefully. “I'll answer.”
“Well – Lu Ten died because of the war, right?”
Ursa lowered her gaze. “Yes.”
“And the war wiped out the Air Nomads, right?”
Ursa nodded slowly. She didn't like to ever think about the Air Nomads too much. The thought of genocide always made her squirm. It was hard to ignore, however, when she slept across from the giant tapestry every night, the tapestry of Fire Lord Sozin, his right hand outstretched, with a flock of terror-stricken airbenders right under his conquering fingertips.
“Why were they wiped out, mother?” Azula's eyes were earnest. “I mean, they never started any wars. They were nice people. They only got wiped out because they were in the way. Was that right of great grandfather to do that? I just – want to know.” Ursa could tell that it was painful for her to admit that she was unsure, that she was feeling some sort of weakness, beneath her cold, perfect exterior.
Ursa didn't know what do say. The earnestness in Azula's voice tortured her. She knew she couldn't let her daughter down.
“Azula,” she said, “we don't always know what's right and what's wrong. Sozin killed a lot of people, but he was still a great, powerful Fire Lord. He did a lot of shocking things . . . but you don't have to be ashamed. You're your own person, and a princess! And honey? Sometimes – you have to make some sacrifices.”
Azula's gold eyes glinted as she scrutinized her mother. Ursa felt like she was being burned right through. Her heart was pounding.
“Okay, mother,” said Azula quietly, and left the room, leaving her mother staring blankly after her.
Azula picked up her pace as she walked down the hall. Her brow furrowed and she stared at the floor. Her mother had not answered her question. She had showered her with platitudes and only increased her confusion. Pressing her lips tightly together, Azula swore to herself that she would never go to her mother for answers or support ever again.
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