Author's Note: I know I've touched the idea of Azula losing a child on many occasions, but this time, I wanted to do something just a little different. I gave Ozai the chance to ponder his own thoughts on the passing, not just Azula. On another note, this infant's death was due to a late miscarriage. Instead of making a story that led up to the baby's death, I immediately focused on the event –no outside affairs were regaled upon.
The main concept of Azula's reaction to her miscarriage was inspired by a portion of Barbara Kingsolver's novel, 'Animal Dreams.' In one segment of her past, the protagonist of the novel miscarries and buries her baby. Read it. It is a beautiful, gripping, and emotionally powerful book. This is one of my all-time favorite novels, second only to Kingsolver's 'The Poisonwood Bible.'
I apologize if this subject might be getting old. I just feel like there are many perspectives I can combat with it. Also, both Ozai and Azula are OOC; it happens sometimes.
Oh, and I inserted my PRO-LIFE views in here. May they render no arguments, as I am free to display my own opinions at will.
This is going to serve as TrueThinker's disgustingly late Christmas present. I don't think you were expecting this (a piece you knew existed, as I did send you a portion of it months and months ago), but you expressed interest in the piece early on and I felt that offering this to you would give me a great opportunity to complete it. I hope you like how it came out. I actually feel like I succeeded with this one, so, I suppose, that's a good thing, right? And I hadn't read the piece in months before making the decision to work on it again. I was startled by how impressed I was with it. I never have faith in my old work, so this was an unexpected thing. Enjoy, chica!
Even though she will probably never read this on here, I'd still like to shout out a thank you to published author and my former Creative Writing teacher, Tamara Bundy for editing this piece for me. I thank her for patiently answering all my questions and dealing with my OCD nitpicks through her class and even now! As a note to TrueThinker, the only reason this piece is worth reading is because my amazing teacher is, well, amazing!
Music Credits: 'Do What You Have to Do' is by Sarah McLachlan, from the 1999 live album, Mirrorball.
The Meaning of Existence
By: Passionworks
"What ravages of spirit,
Conjured this temptuous rage?
Created you a monster,
Broken by the rules of love,
And fate has led you through it;
You do what you have to do…
And I have the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go."
Her sweat-coated curtain of black hair fell from her shoulders as she fixed her stony gaze on her trembling knees. How rapidly they quivered, she noticed immediately. Each involuntary vibration reminded her of a heart out of rhythm –one totally infirm of purpose. Yet, her own heart appeared surprisingly stable; she was outwardly aware of each beat that drummed through her ears. Each beat that signaled the vigorous pumping of blood through her veins.
But, here, she realized, the blood did not filter through her. It swilled from her like a desperate cleansing. And, yes, down her slender legs it trickled, coating her now pale, snow-white complexion with streaks that rendered the harrowing image of flesh wounds mercilessly inflicted. There was a pool where the trails climaxed, a pool so murky it almost seemed to mislay its scarlet tint and replace it with an obscure shade of gray.
She whipped a stray onyx-colored tress behind her ear and clutched her bosom. Biting her lip, she crouched on her haunches, but found the position terribly excruciating. When she reached the very peak of her discomfort, she lost her balance and tipped to the floor with a muffled thump and a sheepish yelp. Shaking her dizzy, disheveled head, she sat up, hoisted her knees, and pushed her back to the wall. Once there, she took hold of a washcloth that hung upon a rack above her and gently rubbed it against her legs, wiping the bright red bands until they faded to nothing more than light, pinkish marks. She recognized that she would have to shower to completely remove the blood from her skin, but she barely had the energy to even consider crawling into the tub.
Yet, here she was –still hemorrhaging and all; there was no need to continue such a futile task. Finally deciding that it was fine to quit, she tiredly lifted the cloth and dropped it without a single indication of care as to where it landed. She glanced to her left, and faced a small, bulky form cloaked in a tattered, blood-riddled rag. It was as motionless as a boulder. The sheathing blanket rested on a patterned rug in a watery fashion. Its ripples, however, were waves without a celestial body to propel them into motion. Extending a timid, hesitant hand, she picked it up and cradled it to her breast. She placed her palm on its shrouded back, caressing it absentmindedly until she felt the heat of her own touch.
Her warm strokes produced nothing. The figure did not stir. Never did she detect a heartbeat, the single sign of life. Never did she expect one in the first place.
Of what worth was her effort when, in reality, she asked for what had come to her?
In her blood-soaked hands, she embraced the very being who had once been lulled to sleep by her own heart; she embraced the very creature who she had selfishly begged to internally slay and discard like a hand-me-down. She had her prayers granted, and it only plagued her more. Inside her head, she almost wished she could regress to the very beginning of her term and request the risky abortion she had pondered. A colder hand would have ended the life inside her –not her own. But she could not put herself up to it at the time. It would have been an unsafe investment; performances of slaughter in that degree were fairly new in creation –and still were, anyway. There had been a high chance that she would have died herself.
Not that that had been her main concern, of course. She supposed now that she had made the right decision in neglecting her own upkeep to rid herself of the burden, but it conceived the impression that she was a murderess herself.
No, this was not some ethereal impression –this was truth. She could not have weaved her way out of this with a fib, a lie, a pretense of incorruptibility. Even with her position in society, there was no erasing this disgrace. She had succumbed to an unspeakable low.
In her mind, there was no significance to the conflict of global scale, for there was a greater one within her own being, her conscience. Her flesh. No longer were the victims mere strangers to her. She, and any other extension of herself that had existed, fell prey to this madness, this egocentricity and narcissism.
This disease.
Despite her pangs of guilt, her heart remained at a steady beat. It never skipped, never jumped, never fluttered.
Never stopped.
And she so longed that it would –just this once.
…
"Every moment marked
With apparitions of your soul.
I'm ever swiftly moving,
Trying to escape this desire.
The yearning to be near you,
I do what I have to do…
But I have the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go."
His ear was pressed to the wooden door. A strand of coaly hair was snaking behind the tender flesh like a serpent listening in alongside him. With his head hanging low, he puffed air from his lungs and exhaled, hoping to hear something besides the distant thumping of his daughter's footsteps, or the sound of a wet cloth squishing about the floorboards.
He had wanted to discuss this matter privately with her for months, but had never mustered the courage to delve into such a feminine subject. The most difficult aspect had been contemplating a way to initiate the conversation, how to tell her that he was aware of her condition since the day she had first displayed symptoms.
Azula, my daughter, I've noticed you've been pregnant for some time now, he had yearned to say, but it was far too late for that. The statement was long overdue, and ineffectual. The baby was gone.
Dead. Deceased.
Why didn't you ever come talk to me about it?
It was his initial presumption to deem the young teenager as independent. She was always one to take her own initiative. Or, perhaps she was ashamed; humiliated to succumb to this level, like falling pregnant at an improper age conceived the image of recklessness. Like she had somehow failed to maintain awareness of her own body.
This was my child too.
It was partially his fault. This was not just his daughter's predicament; it was his. The child's conception was, in and of itself, a disappointment on his behalf; he had not bothered to keep his distance. He had failed to allow the young woman some space when she had rightfully refused his advances.
He withdrew his listening ear, shaking his head in dissatisfaction. His traumatized daughter needed her time of privacy, solitude. This was not his place; listening in was not a right.
A stifling sound drew him back to his post. He listened intently.
For the first time in years, he heard his daughter weep.
…
"A glowing ember,
Burning hot,
Burning slow.
Deep within,
I'm shaken by the violence
Of existing for only you.
I know I can't be with you,
I do what I have to do…
And I have the sense to recognize
That I don't know how to let you go."
She slowly pulled the door, its hinges creaking like a signal of warning. Her eyes were sunken and harbored shameful shadows of black. She appeared bruised and tattered as she slipped past the door's opening and entered the elongated corridor. Before beginning the long walk down it, she glanced at the lifeless child. The dead bundle clung to her breast, the crimson blanket draping over her arm like a curtain. Sighing, she curled the cloth and tucked it underneath the baby's back, blocking the sense of touch between the living and the dead.
She then looked about her. She presumed by the lack of light that it was long past sunset. The candles meant to illuminate the hall were losing their heated flames. She saw them faintly flicker behind square-shaped, decorative glasses. They were quite elaborate, she noticed. Pretty too.
The world is never an accurate reflection of those who dwell in it.
So, with her long-deceased babe in tow, she stepped cautiously down the passage, taking each one slowly, almost deliberately; perhaps, if there was just a sliver of life left in the child, then she had to be careful. It was like holding flame. Walk too haughtily, and the fire exhausts itself.
But walk too timidly…
Well, to be frank, the answer is the same.
…
"…Don't know how to let you go…
Don't know how…
To let you go."
The sunrise was just barely peeking over the horizon like a child bashfully peering over a mother's slender shoulder. A tint of the morning blue was beginning to show itself. Most of the sky was still a bit purplish, speckled about here and there. Red was mixed in with it as well, sort of a pinkish red. Young blood was spilled under the cool darkness of night. The sunrise was like a revelation.
A torn life bled though the transparent sky.
She felt the tickle of the morning breeze raise the hairs on her whitish skin. She shivered. The tree above her provided a veil of gray shade, concealing her dark act from the purity of the first light. A small pool of water was behind her. There were numerous memories of her own childhood floating around here, dull ones. The grass around the pond was perfectly green and rich. Green was often called the color of life.
From the earth we are born and to the earth we fall.
With that in mind, she tirelessly began tunneling a grave. The dewy grass saturated the previously untouched earth; the wet, soggy dirt coated her palms with a sheet of brown, giving them a glove-like appearance as she dug. The sky was lightening, and the ample shade of the tree was starting to fade like an image in the distance.
The secrets sunshine will reveal.
Wiping her sweat-coated brow with the back of her hand, she sat back on the grass, wincing as her insides seemed to pull apart. She was sure that she was still bleeding a bit; her legs felt a bit sticky and her lower region was rather warm and sodden. But she paid it no mind as her eyes traced the form of the bundle resting against the old but healthy tree. The shadows of the leaves provided the cloth blanket with a rippled pattern, and as the wind shook, the silhouettes changed and moved about, giving the baby a falsely active appearance.
Saddened by the prospects of this image she saw, she curled her hands around the blanket and picked up the almost weightless baby encased inside it. Rocking it for no reason at all, she slowly let the tears fall from her face, the droplets landing ever-so-gently upon the babe's shriveled visage. She gave this pale, colorless expression a hard, depressed look, noting its contortion. It had suffered upon its last moments on this earth, suffered greatly. She then wondered if a child of this tender age was capable of thought. What had it been thinking when it felt its own heart slow to a stop?
Nothing, she hoped.
She tentatively laid the babe into the hole, respectfully concealing the crooked visage with a free, loose corner of the cloth, shielding it from the new rays of the morning sun.
…
"I don't know how…
To let you…
Go."
He was behind her, providing a comforting shade. His eyes were glued onto her movements; they were jerky and apprehensive. She seemed to always have a reason to pause, either to let out a few remorseful tears, or to just stop and stare at her creation.
However, upon his entry, he saw her tense up. Presumably alarmed that she had been both followed and discovered, she hunched her shoulders, and pressed her mud-soaked hands to the ground, ultimately defeated.
"You knew, didn't you?" she asked him, slightly turning her head but not directly meeting his eyes.
"That doesn't matter," he answered, placing his hands in his robe's flowing red sleeves. "Why didn't you tell me about it?"
She faced him, a mad scowl etched across her pink lips. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, tears fully exposed by the morning sun's revealing rays.
"Because the pregnancy was my business and none of yours." Her teeth clenched as she held back a sob.
He easily detected that she hated being this way in front of him, hated being so weakened by the plain act of death, but he held back any comment on the subject, and instead replied, "But the baby belonged to the both of us. Did you think I wouldn't be saddened by the loss?"
"I felt you would be better off not knowing about it. I didn't want you to be aware that I was pregnant…
"Besides, I'm much too young to be a mother anyway."
"That's not really how you feel."
With her eyes locked on his, she slowly emerged from the ground on weak legs. Once up, she immediately crossed her arms and turned, facing down on the shallow grave. He stepped next to her, and looked down himself. The deceased child's face was respectfully veiled by the cloth that wrapped its form. Though curious to look upon the visage of what was also his creation, he deduced that it was best to leave it be, alone and enveloped under the crimson cover and the black shade of its grave. Its face was his daughter's to see. Whatever expression the child had upon its passing was meant only for her eyes. Not his. A secret, more or less, exposed, but never seen.
"What did we lose?"
She hesitated to reply to his question. He presumed she was too overwhelmed by the miscarriage to even know the answer.
After a pause, he saw her lips quiver, and she finally said, fighting back a fitful moan, "Our daughter, Father."