cabbagesforall | The Meeting [Open to itstillhurt]

The Meeting [Open to itstillhurt]

In the uncertain remnants of the Earth Kingdom - then the Earth Empire and now...now a nascent Republic - the name Kuvira provoked deeply divergent views. For some, she was a traitor. Oh, not for leading an attempt to reunite all the Earth Kingdom's former territories through terrible violence - but for betraying it. For giving it up, for saying she had been wrong. Then there were those who grumbled about how, after all the violence and lives lost, she'd clearly used her family connections to avoid a lifetime in deep, dank cell or a hangman's noose.

Then there was the third group, which thought she'd done the right thing, and were ready to forgive her.

Most of that third group was situated in the towering metal city of Zaofu - seat of the Beifongs. It hadn't been the most welcoming to Azula, for oh so many reasons. Deep suspicion accompanied the entire enterprise - were it not for letters from the Avatar, she might have been turned away.

But, finally, with more than a little concern - she was brought into a small room. It wasn't much of anything, but it was better than a prison cell, certainly. There was a bed, a desk, a bookshelf - not much across the board. The woman at the desk, however, turned as she entered, frowning in confusion.

She stood up, wearing khaki slacks and a green, sleeveless shirt.

"Can...I help you?"

Behold, Kuvira. Once the mightiest warlord in the known world. Now, living a life of house imprisonment.

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"Right," she replied, not even pretending to believe it. Because Kuvira had been - she knew what it sounded like, what it looked like.

Azula wasn't it.

"But what did you get out of all of it? What did you want?"

Hm. Yes. Kuvira had believed herself an actual patriot, it wasn't surprising that she was dubious of Azula's claims. Azula was rather infamously self-serving, after all- she'd even readily admit to it, most of the time. Still, it was beginning to vex her that- despite being a clearly superior liar- her attempts to redirect the conversation kept failing.

"Well, I was next in line for the throne, after my worthless brother went and got himself removed from the line of succession. Twice."

The photograph Korra had shown her flashed into her mind again, and she tried to ignore it.

"So really, it was in my best interest to ensure the Fire Nation's victory, wasn't it?"

"In line for a throne your father immediately devalued by creating a superior position," she commented. "Almost as if he never intended you to rule at all. But, well, you know how the saying goes - the loyal dog gets the best scraps."

She tried to restrain the immediate flare of emotion that suddenly flared up in her. It's nothing. She's just fishing for weaknesses. She tried to tell herself that it didn't matter- that her father had thought he outplayed her that day, but that he had been the one to suffer for it, not her. It had been his weakness, not hers.

But it didn't work. She felt herself tensing, felt her breathing becoming more erratic, felt her fingers clenching around the cup in her hand again. The smirk dropped from her lips. For a moment, she wondered if she had miscalculated how untouchable she was, here in her prison- she couldn't fight her way out, but it wasn't very heavily secured, maybe if she finished her off quickly enough she could make her way outside before anybody-

But no. No, that was emotion talking. She refused to let this unbalance her, and she definitely wouldn't be like Zuko, charging foolishly into a completely self-destructive battle just because somebody got under her skin. She was better than that. Better than him. Better than Kuvira, and definitely better than-

She forced herself to stay in her seat, smothered the violent urges, and commanded the smirk back onto her face.

"I suppose somebody in your circumstances would know something about begging for scraps."

Her calm tone failed her on the last few words, and she suddenly feels the teacup shatter in her hands, the porcelain shards cutting into her palms as the remaining tea splashed to the ground at her feet.

Edited (May have forgotten a word there) 2022-11-27 06:12 (UTC)

There was a moment of silence after that, but then Kuvira stood, crossing to a cabinet and pulling open a drawer, removing a small box. With a sigh, she sat on the edge of the table, opposite Kuvira, opening it on her knee - a small kit of bandages and the like.

"Here," she said, calmly, "give me your hands." There was, after all, likely to be a considerable amount of cuts. She took a small bottle of ointment in one of her hands, sighing.

"You know what's funny," she said, as she got started at disinfecting the cuts, "I never had to beg for anything? Part of what made me realize how wrong I was, so easily. Nobody ever made me beg. My parents only abandoned me - they never made me a slave, a servant to their wills. I suppose I have to give them that much. You, it seems, were vastly less fortunate than I."

If she expected honesty, after all, it had to be given. She put down the ointment, picking up the bandages.

"You'll like these. Beifong special secret, I've been told - something woven in to make wounds heal faster. It's probably nonsense - the Beifongs are just made of stern stuff, and heal quickly. But you never know."

There's a part of her that immediately wanted to rebuff the offer- she's never had much stomach for pity- but logically, of course, she's could feel the pain in her palms, see the blood dripping from around her clenched fingers. So she forced her fist to open, dropping the bloody shards of the teacup to the floor and showing her palms to Kuvira.

"I wasn't a-"

She huffed. Alright, that was an absurd rebuttal. Obedience to the Fire Lord was absolute, after all.

"I grew up knowing every possible luxury, and all he expected was perfection in return- which I gave. I never had to beg him for anything." Nor would he have responded well if she had, for that matter. But somehow, she still felt shaken, and not just by her bloodied hand.

She wrapped Azula's hands slowly, not speaking for a moment, but shaking her head.

"You do realize that demanding perfection and total obedience from a child qualifies as abuse, right? Frankly, I'd prefer the begging, all things said and done."

She finishes the work with the bandages, clipping them off in place. She looks Azula in the eyes, too, her emotions a mixture of profound pity, and dawning realization.

"At least I can say I made a choice to start down the path I did. Something I can hold onto, a firm responsibility. How old were you when he started demanding your obedience?"

A father, a Fire Lord, demanding obedience? Abuse?

How... weak.

It's a surprisingly soft, sentimental perspective from somebody who once brought the largest nation on the planet to its knees with ruthless efficiency. The mindset is so dissonant that it draws a stare, meeting Kuvira's gaze with a look of bewilderment.

As soon as she sees the pity in Kuvira's eyes, though, her expression hardens, and she suddenly pulls her hand away irritably and glares down at the broken cup on the floor.

"I'm sure Suyin Beifong might have let you be wild and feral like her mother was, but most people rather expect obedience from their children. Even nice people, I'm given to understand."

The last line is sneered, but the sneer sounds a little too forced to be believable. Another frustrating lapse.

Everybody has their lines.

"Maybe," she replies, non-commitally. "But just how early did your...obligations begin?"

Another attempt to get a rise out of her, put her off-balance, and another total failure. She'd changed her entire life for these people, and yet when Azula openly insulted them, she just... ignored it. Kept asking the question she'd been asking, kept the conversation about her.

Spirits, this woman was difficult.

"Ever since I was old enough to understand the instructions, I suppose."

Because she knew the disdain for what it was. A smokescreen. And you never indulged the enemy in their plan. She leaned back a bit, packing up the little kit.

"So you never really had a childhood," she said, stating the obvious. "And what about your mother? Did she at least encourage you to...well, live, at all?"

She rolls her eyes at that. "Of course I had a childhood, don't be so melodramatic."

The question about her mother... well. She's able to keep the intrusive thoughts out of her mind. She is at least able to keep the irritated response from her face, instead giving the practiced smirk again.

"As for mother, well. She was a little busy taking care of precious Zuzu to spend much time on me."

She gives Azula a look at that. She's also learning that using 'Zuzu' is a key part of that smokescreen. A good place to displace some anger, too.

"Right," she replies, setting the kit aside, sitting with her arms draped over her legs. "And I'm sure your father - raising you to be his obedient little doll - had nothing to do with you and your mother not getting along."

It's a guess, but a logical one. It's strategically sound - if she were a manipulative despot, needing a loyal second, it's how she would approach it. School them from a young age, cut them off from any intervening influence as much as possible - and where not possible, since appearances had to be maintained, make sure to poison the well. Ozai hadn't been exactly clever or original in his way of doing things, but it was effective nonetheless.

"Do you think your mother loved you less than Zuko?"

There it is again, the spike of rage so intense she can't quite keep it from momentarily reaching her eyes. As before, the knowledge that she was in the middle of a functional fortress full of metalbenders is the only thing that keeps her from responding with immediate violence. But she takes a deep breath, and she plasters the false smile back on her face again, speaking with venomous sweetness.

"What an insulting question."

After a moment, she shrugs and adds, "I know she did. He was soft, like her."

"Is that you talking," she replied, curtly, "or your puppet master father?"

She couldn't let her duck away into her usual responses - responses she wondered about. Had they come to her naturally, or had they been programmed into her? Azula had it far worse than Kuvira had - similar paths or not. Kuvira had made her choices, she hadn't been manipulated as a child.

"You're still making the choices he wants," she adds. "Don't you think it's time you started to re-evaluate those assumptions?"

"And the insults just keep coming."

Despite that, she doesn't seem particularly bothered by her jabs against Ozai- no trace of the uncontrolled fury that the question about her mother prompted- but the smirk does take on a slightly harsh edge.

"I haven't been motivated by what my father wants for a long time, even if you don't count the eighty years I lost."

"I've no reason to insult you," she pointed out. "I'm merely pointing out that you're still playing out the pattern he created for you."

As for the rest, well.

"What does motivate you then? It can't be power, or revenge against the mother you seem so angry at."

Not an insult? Well, if that's what she wanted to tell herself.

The later question, though she had only recently, from her perspective, tried to get that exact revenge-

If it's true- if I am your mother- then I'm sorry I didn't love you enough.

Rrgh. She ignores the intrusive memory and focuses on the question, but there's another flicker of frustration on her face.

"Why can't it be power, exactly? Perhaps I simply haven't yet found an opportunity to my liking. And I sincerely doubt dear mother is even alive anymore."

She shook her head.

"Not that you couldn't figure out ways to strike at her regardless. But I advise against it. And seeking power, frankly. Because it won't satisfy. Or exorcise the ghosts I can see haunting you."

She stares at Kuvira for some time at that- not scrutinizing her, just broadcasting her disapproval.

After she feels her point is made, she finally responds.

"Then what is it you believe would satisfy me, exactly? Assuming I don't find your little retirement plan appealing."

She emphasizes the words by sweeping her fingers upward to indicate the room around them.

"The one question I can't answer," she replied, matching the gesture.

"This is my choice, my penance. There is no other recompense I can offer, save my life, for what I have done. The misdeeds, the pain. This is what has to be. But you...you are in the unique position to decide for yourself."

She nodded.

"For the first time. Not thanks to your father, or in spite of your mother. Or even out of consideration of your brother. This is your moment, Azula, to find out who that really is."

She can't explain why that prompts another surge of frustration. The rational part of her brain feels like it's an admission of defeat by Kuvira, an answer she's failed to provide, another reason why Azula should just ignore this conversation and leave.

But it doesn't feel that way. It feels... disappointing, somehow.

"Who I really am? You have been talking to Korra, then, she used a very similar line of reasoning." After a moment, she sneers, "It sounded inane when she said it, too."

That was probably petty, but the longer she thought about the idea, the more irritated she became. Not knowing what she wanted. Not having a goal. Not having a purpose. She'd assumed it was simply a lack of context, that the next step would become obvious once she'd assessed the state of the new world where she found herself, but it didn't.

She was silent for a moment, then rose, moving to her desk. She opened a drawer, lifted a few papers - and returned, offering a letter over to Azula.

"That's all she said," Kuvira said, taking her seat again. "She didn't tell me anything other than that you were coming, as you can see. This is all just from what I've seen, in the time you've been here."

Because honesty, applied liberally like an artillery barrage - has superb use.

Somehow, she has a feeling Kuvira was telling the truth, even before she checks the letter herself- though, she does anyway.

Which only made it more frustrating. She doesn't like being read, and Kuvira has done a frustratingly thorough job of defying all attempts at deflecting her attention, distracting her, upsetting her, or misleading her.

That's the focus and will of the would-be dictator, she supposes. Why that focus and will is being spent on her is another question. She hands the letter back, summoning the projected smirk again.

"Well. Since she didn't share my answer, I suppose I'll have to tell you what I told her- this idea that there's some better person inside me begging to be set free is absolute nonsense."

She laughed a bit, shaking her head.

"How in the hell would you actually know?" she asked. "You've been propagandized and groomed into being a weapon since you were, what, able to walk? But no, please," here she actually laughed a bit, skeptically, "explain to me how you can speak with such certainty."

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