| By Fruipit | Genre | Rating | Reviews | Updates |
| More from Fruipit | Family/hurt/comfort | G | None | No update page |
a soft answer turneth away wrath
—proverbs 15:1
You stalk through the palace, red walls and floors reminding you only of blood, of red-raw burns and thick scars. The ones that criss-cross your sister; the one that stands so prominent on your face.
It's fitting, though, that you would see only that; you've come from the throne room, eyebrow(s) drawn thick over your eyes. It's only when you're certain you're alone that you pause and, with a growl, send a flaming fist through a wooden wall. A thread from a tapestry catches alight, but you don't have it in you to stop it, to snuff it out.
That's what the minister wanted with your sister.
She's just a thread now, and a loose one at that. There's a little fire left in her, and honestly, that's all you need. She's still your baby sister, no matter what.
So when the minister who made such a bold suggestion approaches you, his hands clasped placidly in front of him, it takes every ounce of your strength not to put your fist through his head, too.
He bows and snivels, tries to explain his words and I'm only saying what everyone is thinking and It's my duty as your advisor, Sire, and you just want to rip out his tongue.
You cut him off instead with a harsh cry and a well-placed blow. You hiss at him to just leave as he grabs at his nose, eyes widening at the blood he pulls away. He understands then that she is off limits, and the burning in your eyes can't lie; you will kill him if he dare suggests anything to do with Azula again.
Without any further comment, he bows out of the room. You see his eyes flicker to the smouldering hole in wall before you're finally left alone.
You can't help sinking to the ground, regretting your rash actions. Your hands come up to cradle your head, but you're not given long to ponder on your own. A slim pair of cool hands cup your cheeks, and you open your eyes—somewhat surprised when you realised they were shut—and look into the eyes of your wife. She doesn't smile often, but the small, encouraging curl of her lips give you the strength—the courage—to stand up. She lets you walk the red halls alone, though you don't yearn for her presence. Your mind is too full of musings and questions.
When you reach your destination, the room is dark, your sister asleep. You content yourself with sitting next to her, brushing hair from her face.
She doesn't flinch anymore when you press a kiss to her temple; she doesn't burn the curtains, burn herself anymore. It makes everything worth it in the end; even the backlash from striking your own minister can't dampen the small victory. Azula doesn't know, but she doesn't have to, either. She just needs to understand that no one is ever going to betray her again.
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