You live as miserable of a life, as one could in this world.

The bastard daughter of a soldier who partook in the Earth Kingdom invasion—you never knew your mother. Your father spoke little of her, and when he did, it was never with particular fondness. Only that she cried too often and complied too little. Still, when she died during childbirth, he took you back home with him to the fire nation, where you know live as reviled for no reason you can control.

Because, in spite of being descended from both fire and earth, you cannot bend either.

Lord knows you’ve tried. You spend your childhood trying to push rocks with your mind. Clasping your fists shut, in the hopes that a flame would burn once you released them. No. Nothing. Silly, unlucky you.

The fire nation is not kind to non-benders. You are dregs of society, the weak that are to be sacrificed in times of crisis. As a child, the other kids pulled your hair and spat at you for it. The adults turned their backs on you for being descended for being a half-blood of a ‘weaker’ nation. A bastard with no name for her own mother.

It’s really hard to smile, these days. But you do it. Your father has been dead for many years now, but you’d like to think he’d be proud of you. You’ve found work as a serving girl in the royal palace—under the gentle reformer king—Firelord Zuko.

You mind your business, change the linens of snooty royals and bring them their supper. It’s not too bad of a life. Until…it is.

“Useless girl!” The Lord Shinu bellows at you, when he is too tired to produce a flame for a candelabra in the hallway but learns you cannot do it for him. “You dare stand in my presence? As a non-bender? And you think to hide it from me—as though I wouldn’t find out?”

You try to keep the tears from your eyes, but his fist is awfully hard in your hair and you haven’t the strength, nor the status, to remove it.

“My Lord—“ you begin, because this is your life. You live at the palace. You need this job. And so, you open your mouth, determined to beg your way into safety, when you are promptly cut off.

“What is the meaning of this?” A man’s voice rings out and your eyes bulge out in shock.

Firelord Zuko, himself.

He’s so tall, you have to tilt your head up, just to get full view of him. His hair is long and black, half-tied in a neat top not. His brows are pinched together in a critical look of distaste. His eyes shine a lustrous gold. Half his face, burned gruesomely into dark reds and browns. He is a picture of regality.

“This girl cannot bend—“ Your master begins contemptuously. “And she hid it from me, all along! A duplicitous thing, she is!”

The king steps forward, his eyes never leaving you. One step. Two step. His footsteps crack against the marble ground. His lips curl in disgust.

“Release her,” he begins, and when he sees Lord Shinu’s grip tighten—his voice raises. “Now!”

You fall to the floor, quite easily. Your scalp burns from the force of the old man’s grip. The Firelord looks at you with a lingering pity. Your cheeks are pink and blotchy, wet with tears. It has been a long time since you have felt so ashamed of your deficiency.

“She cannot defend herself,” The King begins roughly. “So you grip her from the head like an animal? You shame yourself, Lord Shinu. You shame your age. You shame your status—“

The old lord’s face begins to melt into embarrassment. The Firelord’s gaze is searing.

“Do not ever abuse my staff again,” he warns, very seriously, before nodding his head to the opposite side of the hall. “Get out of my sight.”

He looks at you, still slumped on the floor pitifully. Residual tears are still leaking from your eyes, your lips quivering. You hate to look like a damsel in distress. You swear to yourself that you are better than this. But in this moment, you simply cannot find your strength.

His eyes are soft on you. There is none of the hatred that you are so accustomed to. Only sadness for you—and that shakes you, even more than the hate.

“What is your name, girl?” He asks you, in a gentle voice.