One person, one child, one boy. "Please, Father," he pleaded from his submissively bowed form on the cold stone floor, waiting, helpless, like a beaten dog.
"Fight," the shadowy towering figure commanded, drawing nearer.
"No," the boy cried, shaking in fear. "I am your loyal son," It was true. "I am sorry that I spoke out of turn." It was even truer.
"Fight," the dark brooding presence demanded, covering several more yards between them as the boy bent lower.
"I only had the Fire Nation's best interest at heart," the boy insisted, trying desperately to fix things. He had only done what he thought was right, but it seemed that he had been wrong.
"You will fight," the tall man thundered. The flaming torches all around the arena burst into an inferno of flames reflecting the Fire Lord's mood.
"No," the boy whimpered, refusing to raise a finger or summon a single spark in defense or offense against his father. He would never resist his father's will, never. He even bent lower, no longer on his knees, groveling.
"You will learn respect," the man hissed, "and suffering will be your teacher."
The Fire Lord stood directly over the prostrating figure of his son. The boy's shaking form, stiffened whilst he raised his tear streaked face to his father. He wouldn't plead again; there was nothing left to say. He would, however, pray for mercy, look his father in the eye and hope that the man would see his sincerity.
One look into the pleading eyes and the Fire Lord Ozai knew. He knew that his son's love for him was more than himself, that his son had only spoken out in defense of his fellow loyalists, not in any way intending disrespect, that if he at any moment in time had asked the boy to leap off a mountain top, the boy would have complied. Sadly, but obediently. He knew and had always known that the boy looked up to and revered him long before he was Fire Lord. The powerful ruler saw the sincerity and love in his son's eyes but it didn't sway him.
He instinctively, effortlessly, yet every bit intentionally summoned breath, striking the match.
Tears poured from the boy's eyes but he did not look away.
Fuel for the flames to burn. Fuel to feed and nourish the flames.
The Fire Lord extended his fist and struck out, but stopped an inch from his son's face.
Time slowed to a trickle for the boy as he saw his life whirl past his vision. He remained as motionless as a log. A fuel drenched log.
He blinked quickly startled by his father's pause. Then the flames poured forth from seemingly nowhere. He screamed and should have collapsed in a groping heap, in pain. But he didn't.
The boy sat stiller than stone, rooted to the spot, bound by the chains of his own obedience and took the blaze, full force, screaming in utter agony as the flames consumed the left side of his face. The boy's piercing scream grew even louder as his natural resistance to flame was diminished. The hair of his eye brow melted away and washed away in a thin stream of bloody puss. As the fire tore away his skin the boy's body shuddered and he convulsed.
Once, the flames renewed their waning force with a greater vigor, the concentrated blast that would have torn his eye out of its socket for good shifted slightly to the left. Tearing through the flesh of his cheek the boy was remained motionless, but still screaming.
Twice, the flame died down as the second, shorter, sharper, breath waned and then, the Fire Lord wasn't sure if the convulsing form of his son moved or his arm but the boys hair was on fire. It was his weakling son's fault.
Thrice as the fire lord released all the air in his lungs the flame burst forward once again, and for the final time. The blast ripped away the outer fold of his left ear, eating through the flesh entirely.
The Fire Lord retracted from his stance to stand upright and walk, quietly, away.
Impassive, uncaring, alive and feeding on others for its own survival, born of destruction, fire was dependant upon destruction. Only when its helpless victim was reduced to nothing but a smoldering pile of ash did the flames cease. Only when it was content, would it slowly fade and die, all the while destroying the remains of its life source. To do anything less…would result in a withering flame, a weak flame.
Impassive, uncaring, born of destruction, to destroy until nothing is left and it is alone, then to die slowly. It was the nature of fire, to be alone.