ATLA: Azlua

Rebellion Part Eight

The Weight of the Blade

The quiet hum of camp life filled the air as Mai slipped back into her tent, the noise barely penetrating the walls. She had returned unnoticed, exactly how she wanted it. The others were too preoccupied with their tasks, leaving her with a moment of solitude—a brief reprieve before the next round of planning began.

She set the reports down on her makeshift desk, skimming over them one last time before pushing them aside. There was nothing urgent, nothing she hadn't already predicted. It was the same day in and day out—Earth Kingdom patrols, rebel scouting parties, and whispers of unrest spreading through the villages. But none of it compared to the unease that churned inside her.

Mai reached for her sword. The familiar weight of it in her hands was comforting in a way nothing else was. She sat down, pulling out her whetstone and beginning the rhythmic task of sharpening the blade. The sound of metal grinding against stone was soothing, almost hypnotic. She let the motion take over, allowing herself to get lost in the repetition.

Her mind drifted as she worked. With each stroke of the whetstone, the tension in her body seemed to ease, but only for a moment. She reached for her sword cleaning kit, carefully removing the cloth and oils she used to polish the blade. Her hands moved with precision, cleaning the steel until it gleamed. But as she held the sword up to eye level, something in the reflection caught her off guard.

A memory surfaced—unbidden and unwelcome. The image of her former master's lifeless body, the cold realization that it was her hand that had taken his life. The blade she now held had ended him, severing the last thread of his existence. Her heart clenched, but she tried to push the memory away. Then Zuko's face flashed in her mind, his expression of betrayal burned into her thoughts. The pain of it struck her like a blade to the gut, making her flinch.

She lowered the sword, hoping to shake off the memory, but as her eyes lingered on the reflection of the blade, another image appeared. The faces of the two men she had killed not long ago. She remembered their expressions as the light faded from their eyes, their last breaths slipping away. The sword in her hands felt heavier now, like it carried the weight of those lives.

Focus, she told herself.

With a frustrated breath, she stood and began running through her sword forms, hoping the discipline would chase away the thoughts. Her body moved on instinct, the familiar patterns of attack and defense flowing from one to the next. But something was wrong. Her movements lacked precision, each swing of the sword more wild than the last. She tried to correct it, to regain her form, but the memories refused to leave her.

The sword lashed out in a violent arc, then another. Her mind was a storm of confusion, anger, and guilt, and it seeped into her movements. She swung again, harder this time, her control slipping until her blade slashed wildly, reckless and without purpose.

It wasn't until she heard the soft shuffle of footsteps that she stopped, her sword inches from a familiar face.

Rangi stood there, calm and unfazed, despite the blade's proximity to him. His eyes didn't waver, his posture steady.

"We should talk," he said, his voice calm but firm, as though he hadn't just almost been slashed in half.

Mai froze, her breath caught in her throat. She stared at him for a moment, her grip on the sword tightening before she slowly lowered it.

Rangi stood in front of her, arms crossed, his blunt nature cutting through the tension in the room. "I figured something was wrong," he began, his voice firm. "And I think I know what it's about."

Mai sighed, avoiding his gaze. "I'm fine," she muttered, sitting down on the edge of her bed. She hoped he would drop it, but she knew better than to expect that from Rangi.