[ He stares her down a moment longer, his harsh gaze softening with concern, confusion, caution— no, confusion— no, concern... His ribs hurt, his face hurts, he's surely bruised and bloodied, still holding his own defensive posture — and yet... he finds himself worried about Azula. How is that? He can take a beating like no one's business and he knows it; she knows it. But even if he's certain his life was about to flash before him, knew that Azula seriously had weighed the option of killing him in that moment and erred on that side — it wasn't the first time, nor would it be the last, probably, that she'd threatened to kill him... and then didn't. It doesn't even necessarily register as her "changing her mind," usually, what's more — for all the times they've fought, almost killed each other, tried to kill each other, they never did, and that was almost... concrete. That was their normal, by this point. That's how they play now. "What? No lightning today? Afraid I'll redirect it?" "I'm about to celebrate becoming an only child!" Bickering — like brother and sister. Bantering in battle.
But this, this was different. She clearly changed her mind. She wasn't playing. This was the first time Azula had threatened to kill him, almost did, could have, spared him, and then... cried. Or something like it. She's shaking. Her voice is wavering. She won't even meet his eye. His own breathing is shaky for the pain he's in, but he keeps his breaths steady, and his eyes on Azula. He keeps his stance rooted, his wits about him, but he lets up on his defensive pose, standing tall with shoulders squared instead. He doesn't run. Nor does he attack her. He takes half a step forward — of course still staying at a considerable distance, but all the same, half a step toward her. ]
...We don't need to keep doing this, Azula. It's over.
[ The war, he means. The revolution. Their fight. From his standpoint, that must be abundantly clear — plainly assuming they're from the same moment in time, as one would... But still, there's something slightly less than familiar about her — something different, changed, but "older" isn't where his mind goes. Something's wrong with his sister. That's all he knows for sure. And that alone is enough to justify not running, not fighting back, nor surrendering. ]
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But this, this was different. She clearly changed her mind. She wasn't playing. This was the first time Azula had threatened to kill him, almost did, could have, spared him, and then... cried. Or something like it. She's shaking. Her voice is wavering. She won't even meet his eye. His own breathing is shaky for the pain he's in, but he keeps his breaths steady, and his eyes on Azula. He keeps his stance rooted, his wits about him, but he lets up on his defensive pose, standing tall with shoulders squared instead. He doesn't run. Nor does he attack her. He takes half a step forward — of course still staying at a considerable distance, but all the same, half a step toward her. ]
...We don't need to keep doing this, Azula. It's over.
[ The war, he means. The revolution. Their fight. From his standpoint, that must be abundantly clear — plainly assuming they're from the same moment in time, as one would... But still, there's something slightly less than familiar about her — something different, changed, but "older" isn't where his mind goes. Something's wrong with his sister. That's all he knows for sure. And that alone is enough to justify not running, not fighting back, nor surrendering. ]