Blood runs from one hand to the other. It's like water, but it's stickier, and messier, and it tastes different.
Beside her, Zuko squirms. There is something inhumane about the sight of blood, something dark and twisted about someone who plays in it, bathes in it.
"What's the matter, Zuzu?" Azula laughs, cold and heartless. "It's only blood."
No, he wants to argue but cannot find his voice. It isn't blood. It's life, human life that's oozing into her hands, but he can't find a way to say that.
Instead, he turns and vomits, the stench of death and burning, rotting flesh getting to him.
"You always were too weak," She muses, and continues to let Long Feng's blood run from hand to hand, sticking to her like flies to honey while her brother's hands remain as they always have: pure and pale and so disgustingly weak.