AN: Super short Urzai thinger. Thought I should try this while I take a break on other things.
Dinner is quiet. There's the sound of chopsticks against the glass but no words are spoken, or exchange of gaze. She hates him. She knows she hates him and he hasn't even said a word since she came.
Their betrothal is an investment. Any conversation is nothing but parley. He asks if she's comfortable, she agrees. They take walks, and their fingers stay laced behind their backs, eyes averted down at their shoes.
Ozai speaks first, smiling, "grand isn't it? Every hall encrusted in gold, far more magnificent than your-desolate, village."
"Humble, Prince Ozai." Ursa mutters, bringing her arms back to her front and messing with the tips of her nails.
"Humble, right."
"I had a home, and a family, a life. While this is marvelous, and extravagant, I wouldn't have asked for any more than I had there."
Part of him wishes she didn't miss it. That she could accept her place. There were positions and jobs to be run, titles held and maintained. The crown on his head was symbol enough, the second born, but it meant next to nothing in worth. While Ursa was significant. Her blood useful, malleable in its sense of power.
"Humble beginnings make for prosperous ends." He counters, his smile fading as he bites the inside of his cheek.
"In more ways than one."
He notes how her brows furrow, and so purses his lips as they make it to the pond. It's beautiful, the sakura are in bloom and they fall quietly into the water, reducing it to ripples. There's a calm in the spring, and he can almost forget for a moment, that she's the gift and he's only to implement her use.
Her hands move from adjusting her sleeves, and to brushing a few strands from her shoulders, still not quite accustomed to the palace's attire. He wishes to tell her she's beautiful, but he knows that's a far stretch and while it's true, he wouldn't like to admit it. Instead he watches as Ursa leans, plucking a few flowers from the branches.
Ursa wishes, it was this easy. She could pluck herself from this existence, and watch the memory of it wither. Spare the hurt and longing for another life, but instead when she turns, she's met with gold, ink black hair. An instant reminder that such a simple thing does not exist.
There's a shared silence, an indifferent hum, and that's as close as they get. Longing, lost and hopeless, and for differing reasons neither of them persists.