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The title of the Firelord’s Ambassador was a thin layer of armor designed to shield her from the worst of the automatic suspicion and reproach from the members of the Southern Water Tribe—a product of being Fire Nation and the most egregious crime of being herself. It allowed Azula to walk freely among them, but it didn’t at all protect her from the more than occasional cold stare. Not that she blamed them for it, of course. Unlike her title, she had more than earned those stares with everything that she’d done. Their stares didn’t bother her any more than the frigid temperatures of the South Pole as they fought their way through the thin layers of her wardrobe that, while being station appropriate, didn’t protect her from the cold.
Not that what she wore mattered in the slightest.
Azula was distinctly under the impression that she could be wrapped in every wool, fur, and fiber in the world and it wouldn’t make a difference.
She would always be cold.
After an afternoon spent attending a meeting with a collection of warriors, elders, and anyone else deemed important enough to cram in an overly stuffy tent she determined she had absolutely no business being involved in, Azula was almost grateful for the brisk walk to clear the sensation of cotton spilling out of her head.
“You look cold,” a voice said.
She sniffed—a reaction to the comment, and certainly not a reaction to the temperatures that were making her nose resemble the blush color of Ty Lee’s favorite shirt. Turning in the direction of the voice, she found the first sign of warmth she’d found in the South Pole outside of that Agni forsaken tent. A pair of light eyes watched her from beneath the thick folds of a dappled, grey fur cloak hood.
“So I’ve been told. I would have to imagine it’s a product of my upbringing,” Azula answered.
A barking sort of laugh came from under the hood, the material slipping back enough to reveal one of the Avatar’s companions. It was the non-bender, who had managed to hit her with a boomerang at least once if she recalled. But he looked different than she remembered. Brighter. Softer. And warmer somehow. More in his own element than she had ever seen him before. Understandable given he was home again, and clearly enjoying the safety and comfort of it—that and no longer trying to save the world or outrun enemies he could only estimate the forces and reaches of.
“I didn’t mean it that way, I just meant the Firelord didn’t equip his ambassador well for the South Pole.”
“My brother gave me a title I didn’t do anything to deserve other than being born, equipping me with the best political protection he could offer under the circumstances.” She huffed, the heat of her breath rushing out into the cold sent a soft trail of steam between them. Of all the criticisms the new Firelord had earned, that was not one of them. Or at least it wasn’t the one she would stand for. “Not all of us can walk around looking like we skinned the Earth King’s beloved pet bear on our last visit to Ba Sing Se.”
As an ambassador she rarely had the occasion to insult people anymore, but it seemed she hadn’t lost the ability to hit her marks and make them sting if the way his expression fell was anything to go by. One of his hands found the hem of his hood, brushing soothing circles between his fingers and thumb. He looked wounded in a way she hadn’t expected. It felt as if she had kicked a puppy, hybridized or otherwise, rather than an actual opponent. And it wasn’t satisfying in the slightest.
Azula sighed. Another, thicker puff of steam rolling off her lips. If there was one thing she had become more well-versed in and had more occasions to use over the past months since the end of the war, it was apologies. “I’m sorry,” she said, “that was uncalled for. Sometimes I can be defensive as far as my brother is concerned.” Her lips pinched in distaste for the words that came next, “I’m working on it.”
His eyes went round at the admission, a wash in surprise and a softness that Azula wasn’t sure she could ever remember being directed her way before. He nodded, gaze flicking past her down the path to where the Avatar’s other Water Tribe companion, the waterbender, was coaxing a pile of snow into a slide for a group of waiting children.
“Hey, it’s okay.” He cocked his head to the side, the thick material of his hood sliding off entirely to pool around his neck and shoulders. “You really care about Zuko. If there’s one thing I can understand, it's protecting what’s most important to you.” His expression had moved from softness to almost sickeningly tender. It was all a bit too sentimental for her taste, but she supposed she could respect it on some levels. “Will you be at dinner tonight?” he asked.
Azula gave the same noncommittal hum that she always gave whenever her hosts invited her to dine with them. It seemed rude to refuse them outright, but lying seemed just as wrong. While she was acting as an ambassador, it was expected for her to be offered hospitality. They were all well aware of that. However, she was ambassador by title alone, none of them needed to pretend this was anything different than it was. They didn’t have to indulge her or her brother in the political technicalities of it all any further than allowing her to sit in on council meetings—unless other foreign dignitaries happened to be present, and then she supposed she would have to agree to dine with them.
“Are you afraid you might actually enjoy yourself if you say yes?” He asked.
She frowned. That was a taunt and a challenge if she’d ever heard one. Azula shook her head. “No, I simply don’t see any benefits to pretending that I’m here to gain anything except political asylum.”
The barking laugh was back. She bristled, a flush spreading through her cheeks that matched the redness spreading through her nose from the cold. But it didn’t last. Azula let out a soft breath, watching the fine cloud of her breath dissipate as she regained her composure.
Not everything is meant to be an attack.
Zuko had reminded her of that before she left, and it replayed in her head from time to time. Back then she had thought it was strange advice to give someone he was sending to the furthest reaches of the world to help her avoid the worst of the fallout from the other nations’ leaders. But with more time and distance between them she was beginning to see the wisdom in those words.
“We’re not just inviting you because you’re an ambassador, Azula.”
“Why then?” she asked, “Because, I imagine we can assume it’s not for the pleasure of my company?”
Sokka pulled his hood back up a fraction too late for her to miss the smirk playing on his lips. He shook his head and answered, “Not yet, but give it some time and we all might surprise each other.”
She couldn’t remember having actually agreed to attend dinner that night, but somehow she arrived and had barely crossed the threshold before someone had pressed a cup into her hands and bustled her closer to the fire. Azula hadn’t been cold, but even she could appreciate the gentle heat leaching into her fingers from the cup that she had no intentions of drinking out of–at least she hadn’t until a waft of warm spices rushed into her nose. She sipped, savoring the gentle heat that cut through what would have been a cloying sweetness otherwise and savoring the fact that as long as she was drinking she wouldn’t have to converse with the old woman who seemed intent on fussing over her.
Her reprieve came in the form of the waterbender. Katara, she reminded herself. With no foreseeable end to her diplomatic mission, Azula supposed it was time to start learning their names. Katara had somehow convinced the old woman to channel her fussing energy into rifling through trunks for some warmer things for Azula to wear. It didn’t seem to matter to them in the slightest that she didn’t need them. Her protests went ignored, and her cup was refilled.
“It’s better just to let her help,” Katara said, sliding into the seat beside her, “Gran Gran tends to get her way about these sorts of things.”
“That seems to be a familial trait.” Azula rolled her eyes in Sokka’s direction. Katara followed her gaze over to where Sokka was using Gran Gran’s current distraction as the opportunity he needed to sneak a warm roll out of a basket on the table without being shooed away from the kitchen. He brushed stray crumbs off the fur cloak that hung open and loose around his shoulders. Catching her gaze from across the room, he held his finger up to his lips and winked. Somehow he managed to sprinkle a fresh layer of crumbs down his front in the process. “Was that cloak a war prize?” Azula asked. “I can’t recall him ever wearing that before and now I never see him without it.”
“Oh no, Sokka’s always had it. He just had to leave it here with Gran Gran when we were traveling with Aang.”
“Why?” She supposed it wasn’t an ideal traveling cloak. It was heavy and unique enough to draw attention, especially if they weren’t traveling in arctic climates–which she was well aware they often weren’t. But it wasn’t any of those reasons if the thin line of the waterbender’s lips were anything to go by.
“Well, I guess there’s no reason that you would have known but Sokka is a selkie.”
“I wasn’t aware there were any skinbenders left in the South Pole.” Though her intent was casual enough as the words left her mouth, Azula was aware she had said something wrong. Katara’s jaw clenched enough that it was impossible not to take notice. The waterbender scanned the room, relieved that no one else seemed to have heard the remark.
“He’s the last one and we don’t call him that .”
Azula nodded and sipped her drink. She was aware she likely owed the other girl an apology, but it seemed the better option was to not say anything else. They sat in a silence that was distinctly less comfortable than it had been a minute before. Uncomfortable enough that Gran Gran returning with a stack of coats and robes tucked over her arms was almost a pleasant diversion.
“This really isn’t necessary,” Azula protested weakly as a thick parka in a deep blue shade was pushed against her shoulders to test for the height. The old woman shook her head, the set of silver loops in her hair swaying against her cheeks as she dug through her pile for the next one to try.
Gran Gran clicked her tongue against her teeth. “I’ll make you a bargain, Miss Ambassador,” The old woman said as she held up another coat, but dismissed it out right as being too short. “Live to be my age and then you can tell me what’s necessary and what’s not.” She chortled to herself and held up a robe before she declared it as needing far too many alterations to be a worthy contender. “Ah, now this one might do.” She lifted a brighter blue parka from the pile and shook out the worst of the wrinkles before pinching it against Azula’s shoulders with her bony fingers.
Glancing down, Azula’s eyes didn’t find the creases in the material from being stored in a chest for too long or the few stray loose threads intermixed with the design begging for trimming. Instead, they traced the embroidered stitches that someone had obviously and painstakingly worked into the thick blue hide. A series of lines that began at the center of her chest and trailed out in jagged angles down the sleeves, the tails ends of them blending seamlessly into the soft grey lining of the cuffs. “Like lightning,” Azula said in a low voice.
“They were icebergs, but in this case lightning does seem more fitting for you.”
“How do you know they were icebergs?” Azula asked, forgetting to put up any resistance as Gran Gran handed over the coat for her to try on. She tugged the thick material over her head, nearly knocking her headpiece from her hair in the process. She straightened her flame and brushed down the folds in the parka, tucking back the cuffs and letting her fingers linger in the fluff of the lining longer than they strictly needed to.
“Because she stitched them in herself when she was around our age,” Katara answered.
“This was yours?” Azula asked in a quiet kind of reverence balanced with her disbelief–the material and stitching were so well maintained that it didn’t seem possible for that to be true. “It’s beautiful.” She had to stop herself from absently tracing the patterns again. “Why was it being stored away?” she asked, struck with the thought that if items were kept with the intent of passing them down, then surely Katara could have worn it.
She glanced at the other girl, and was met with an expression to indicate that she had managed to find herself back in the territory of having said the wrong thing entirely. Instead of anger this time, there was a different emotion being suppressed. Sadness, but not quite. A pained longing perhaps? That expression she was more familiar with. She’d seen it plenty of times on Zuko’s face in their lessons and demonstrations when they were younger–the look on his face as she sailed through the forms he had just stumbled through himself.
Gran Gran shrugged absently, nearly spilling the armful of the rejected parkas she’d gathered back onto the floor. “An old habit,” she answered, though for a moment her gaze was somewhere far more distant than their conversation. “We take care of our things here.” Her smile returned, the corners of her eyes crinkling for Azula’s benefit. “People too when they let us, Ambassador.”
Under normal circumstances, fire was a source of comfort for Azula. It was somehow a constant through its flickers and changes–the only change she could trust. But between the foreign warmth of the parka, the even more foreign warmth of the smothering old woman, and the flames so close to her back it was all too much. She stood up and shed the coat abruptly enough to draw even more inadvertent attention to herself. Not everything is meant to be an attack. Zuko’s words rang in her ears again. And it wasn’t. Azula was more than aware of that, unless one could count showing her far more care and hospitality than they should an attack. However, knowing the difference between them couldn't stop it from feeling like one.
Their concerned stares only made it worse.
Whether the role was a sham or not, she still represented Zuko and all of the Fire Nation with it. She couldn’t afford to offend them on his behalf. Azula delicately folded the parka and laid it over the back of one of the chairs. Constructing her phrasing almost as delicately, she said, “I appreciate your hospitality, but you’ll have to excuse me.”
She didn’t wait to see their reactions. Azula had already turned away from them and started for the door when Gran Gran spoke again, “Sokka will walk you back.” Her tone was warm, but firm. No room for either of them to disagree.
“I will?” Sokka asked, already tightening his cloak around his shoulders to ward off the worst of the cold. Sokka could protest all he liked but it was obvious to Azula that if Gran Gran gave the tides an order, even they would have to listen and bend to her will. And it seemed he had determined it wasn’t worth the effort to disagree–that or the more unlikely conclusion was that he didn’t mind spending more time with her.
It was quiet for a while, their footfalls crunching through the freshest layers of snow. If she strained her ears she could just make out the cooing chirps of otter penguins roosting for the night beyond the shelter of the snow walls. The South Pole wasn’t home, at least it wasn’t yet. But Azula never felt more settled there than when night fell over the village as lanterns were lit and their flickering lights cast warm, sparkling glows over everything. When even the coldest and harshest realities were softened.
Azula sighed, gathering her resolve to break the quiet with, “She won’t be offended, will she?”
“Who, Gran Gran?” Sokka asked, an eyebrow raising at the question. She nodded and Sokka shrugged. The shifting of his shoulders forced him to pull his cloak tighter again. “For which part, leaving without having dinner or leaving without the coat?” Azula didn’t answer. It didn’t seem necessary when his eyes were dancing in a way that had nothing to do with the lantern light. “Maybe a little, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it. The first time Zuko met Gran Gran went much worse.”
“What did he do?” She asked.
“Grabbed her by the hood and threatened her. Not his best moment.”
“Typical of Zuko to set the bar so low for me.” Neither laughed at the remark, but her eyes joined the dance.
“Just don’t be surprised when she tries again,” he said on a more serious note when their moment of shared humor had passed. “Gran Gran giving you that coat is the same thing as her saying she accepts you as part of our tribe,” Sokka explained as they trudged further down the path that would eventually lead them toward the lodge that served as her personal embassy.
“Because she’s a selkie like you?” Azula asked before she could think better of it. If she was making another misstep, at least he would be the only one to witness it. He didn’t seem angry or insulted, or even particularly surprised she knew. And perhaps on some levels he was relishing in the fact that it wasn’t a closely guarded secret anymore. With the end of the war, there were far less dangers and pitfalls when it came to being himself.
“It’s sort of like that,” he conceded, “Gran Gran’s not a selkie, though. Not anymore. Not since,” Sokka trailed off and stopped in his tracks, holding his cloak closer against a harsher chill that Azula couldn’t feel.
“The raids,” she softly finished the sentence for him. He nodded, though she hadn’t needed the confirmation. There was a reason Katara was the only waterbender in the South Pole, it wasn’t difficult to extrapolate there was a similar reason her brother was the only selkie. “How is it that she can stand to be around me, let alone try to give me things?”
Part of her couldn’t help but wonder if she was supposed to apologize. But she couldn’t manage it. There were results of the war that she was responsible for. That couldn’t be denied, nor would she want to. They were part of her history, after all–the things she had overcome to be where she was. Things she could hold, privately, in a strange sense of pride. That being said, so much of the war went far beyond her control. And it wasn’t her place to even begin to make amends for them.
Sokka shrugged, “She probably knows something you don’t know yet. The way I see it is that old people tend to be pretty wise. If she thinks you’re worth getting to know, you should probably just believe her.” Sokka cocked his head to the side, he glanced between Azula and the direction of the embassy before he brightened again and beckoned her down a narrower path she hadn’t taken before.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking me back to the embassy?” She asked.
“Oh I’ll take you back, just after a detour long enough that you might regret not accepting the coat when Gran Gran offered. Now come on,” he said, hooked his arm under hers, and started walking again before Azula could offer any more protests. Sokka led them out past the snow walls, toward the docks.
“You’re going to miss dinner,” she said, watching with her arms crossed—from irritation and not cold, as he turned over one of the canoes and shoved it into the water.
“I’ll add that to your list of war crimes then,” he retorted with a grin, holding out his hand to help her onboard. Azula rolled her eyes, but found herself taking his assistance and not letting go until she’d eased herself down onto the slats of the seat. Her knuckles were white against the gunnels—from more than the cold. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.” His reassurances did little to put her at ease. Nor did the way the canoe rocked as Sokka climbed in behind her and pushed them off.
He paddled in steady strokes that took them further away from the village and warmth of the lights. Azula craned her neck to look at Sokka and ask, “Won’t it be too dark to see much of anything by the time we get there at this rate?”
“It’s not too much further. Besides, my instincts were good enough that I brought my own light source with me just in case.” He waggled his fingers in a lazy imitation of bending that almost resulted in him losing his hold on the paddle. Sokka steered them down a wide crack in the ice, rounding a bend and bringing them to an ice floe. Through the dusk, Azula could just make out the collection of seals that were lounging on the floe.
“Seals?” She sniffed and immediately regretted it as wafts of salty air, weighed down with the sharper smell of fish assaulted her. Azula wrinkled her nose. “Did you really bring me all the way out here just to see some seals when apparently I’ve been in the presence of one this whole evening?” Somewhere in the back of her mind, she wondered if that was offensive or insulting. But Azula doubted an ice floe was a place she truly needed to be concerned with her decorum.
Sokka snorted, “Yeah, I guess I did.” He climbed out of the canoe and helped her up onto the floe. “So, here’s the thing. The seals don’t usually like people.” Azula hummed in reply. Of course they wouldn’t. From what she understood, the South Pole economy and lifestyle relied rather heavily on those seals as resources. “But they don’t mind me being around them.” He demonstrated his point by striding up to the closest of the lounging seals. Bending down, Sokka stroked its thick fur. The creature let out what Azula had to assume was a rumble of pleasure in reaction to the attention. It trilled and wriggled, showering Sokka in a dusting of the powdery snow that covered the ice floe.
“Because of the cloak,” Azula said. She tried not to snicker as Sokka scraped the snow off his face.
“It’s not that. Here, hold this for me,” he tugged the cloak off and held it out to her. Eyes rounding, Azula made no move to take it. Though she’d had limited interactions with skinbenders in the past, selkies or otherwise, she was well aware of the weight of that cloak–a weight that went far beyond the thickness of the material. “Just for a minute,” he reassured, “I’ll take my chances to trust you for at least that long.” He winked, taking advantage of her bafflement to toss the cloak over her arms before she could refuse again.
Cloakless, Sokka wandered deeper into the group of seals. None of them seemed the least bit concerned by his presence there. They recognized him, or at least something in him, that said he wasn’t a danger to them. That he was one of them.
Azula let out a soft breath, mist hovering in the air before it trailed into the crisp breeze and disappeared again. “Was the whole purpose of this excursion just an elaborate metaphor to tell me that if the seals are able to overlook the fact that you appear as one of their enemies, and that they can recognize you as one of their own that I’m supposed to assume that it’s possible your tribe would be able to do the same for me?”
It wasn’t a situation that called for humor really, but Azula couldn’t help it. She snickered to herself. Shoulders shaking in her silent amusement.
“Something like that,” Sokka left the seals, catching sight of her in the lowlight, “You’re shaking. I knew you’d get too cold out here without the coat,” Sokka said. He crossed back over to her, taking his cloak back only long enough to shake out the folds before wrapping it around her shoulders. Azula considered correcting him or trying to protest, but even she could admit it was warm. Besides, if he wanted to use poor judgement to share the most important aspect of his life with her, that was his own decision. She wrapped it tighter around her shoulders as she settled back into the canoe.
“Let's imagine for a moment that I do follow your contrived metaphor,” she began on their second trudge toward the embassy, “What happens if I participate in the tribe or wander among the seals, if you prefer we stick to this analogy. I allow them to get to know me and they realize that I’m still a wolf in a seal’s clothing.”
“Well, for one thing, you should probably know we like wolves so your metaphor doesn’t work the way you think it does.” He laughed, but she could tell his shoulders were shaking in more than just humor at her expense.
“Now you’re the one who’s cold,” she said, unhooking the clasp at the hollow of her throat to give him the cloak back. Her relief when he didn’t argue lasted only a second before he laid it over both their shoulders–their shared heat tucked into the folds of the fur. “Did your infinite wisdom of your instincts run out or were you hoping this maneuver would distract me enough that you wouldn’t have to answer the question?” she prompted.
“For the record, my instincts never run out of wisdom. I just don’t think you’re going to like my answer.”
Azula hadn’t liked the cold.
She hadn’t enjoyed the canoe either.
Most certainly, she hadn’t liked the stench of the seals.
But she had somehow managed to indulge him through that excursion–even when all the information she had learned could have been relayed more anecdotally from the shelter of the embassy. She struggled to imagine how this next pearl of wisdom could be any different. Raising her eyebrows, she held him in a firm gaze until he relented to say, “There’s no way to know for sure, it’s just a risk you have to take.”
“How disgustingly sentimental of you,” she said, without any of the sting she could have put behind her words.
“I know, but it’s the truth. Just trust me on this one.”
Azula was almost certain that Sokka wanted to say trust yourself too and that it had gone unsaid for her benefit–which was just as well as far as she was concerned. But if he could have enough faith in her to entrust her with the very source of his identity, she could at least attempt to return the favor.
“So, back to the embassy?"
“Do you think we’d be too late for dinner?” She asked, “In all this seal and soul searching, I might have actually found my appetite.”
“Maybe,” he answered after some of his initial shock had faded, “if we hurry anyway.” He hooked his arm through hers again, hastening their pace through the snow. “And that, Ambassador, is definitely a risk I’m willing to take.”
Turning toward Sokka, she caught light dancing in his eyes again—whether it was from the lanterns, the anticipation of his stomach being filled, or something else she couldn’t be certain.
And there was no way to know if it would last or change into something else entirely, but bundled somewhere between the layers of fur wrapped around her shoulders and the heat of Sokka pressed against her side was a possibility.
A possibility she wouldn’t always be cold.