My life would be a war itself. Peace vs. war. Light vs darkness. Mercy vs. wrath. The prophecies were self-fulfilling. I'd give up the battle before I sent a blow. How could I expect anything different? How could she? I was a born a killer. Her love couldn't change that. I would die a monster. Her soul couldn't free mine. Only I could save myself. There were so many chances I had to do it. She offered me a way. She believed in me when no one else would. She was the first to make me believe I could be something else—someone else. She was always enough. She was never enough. If she had stayed... If I never left.. . There were too many ifs. There were too many buts. She could have been my inspiration. She could have opened my eyes, had I let her. Had I let Iroh. Had I let my children. But I didn't. I kept my eyes slammed shut. The fear was too much. The self-doubt, nay, the certainty of my own darkness... I couldn't let go of the past. I couldn't let go of the anger. I couldn't forget what I had done. What I was capable of doing.
For all the fires that burned within and around me, darkness was my home and sanctuary. Darkness was all I knew. It kept me safe. Light—her light—was something I would only allow myself to dream of. Something I would glimpse at to keep from going mad. But I couldn't follow it. I couldn't embrace it.
So I lost the light.
So the darkness embraced me.
I fell because I refused to climb. I fell deep. I fell fast. I fell hard. Into my every fear. Into fear itself.
Into the ruthless. The vicious. The bloodthirsty.
Into savagery.
I reveled in ferocity. I was driven by anger and pride. I delighted in pain, sadistic. I was strong in heartlessness. I was caustic and cruel. I was cold, and I was burning. As I was consuming, I was consumed. As I was destroying, I was destroyed.
As I hated the world, I loathed myself.