Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA.
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The costs and benefits of war.
I. Ozai [Phoenix King and Widower]
They say sometimes you lose a silver coin and pick up a gold one instead, but Ozai doesn't quite agree. When the sun sinks behind the iron-grey mountains and the servants retreat to their quarters and his children are asleep in bed, Ozai sits upon his gilded throne and thinks of what might have been.
– of a woman, a fully faerie's child, sitting by a warm fireplace, a babe on her chest, singing a sweet lullaby of dreams fulfilled and plans come to fruition while a boy and a girl chase each other about the house; of spring and cool winds and the light step of his wife as she enters his chamber; of a hand reaching out in the darkness to calm his nightmares -
The flames die down and all that's left is a glimmer of the hopes and memories and regrets that lurk in Ozai's blackguard heart.
About him, shadows steal up the walls and dance along them, flitting ever closer to him.
On nights like this, he can feel Ursa's breath hot on his face, and the feel of her velvet skin lying against his.
He shivers and summons his fire again. He shivers, and tries to banish the shadows and the fear back to where they belong, in the darkest edge of his locked heart.
:::
II. Ursa [Almost-Fire-Lady and Murderer]
Ursa knows better than to lie, but she does it anyway. This is the consequence of war and of bloodthirsty monarchs grown cruel from centuries of bountiful crops and peaceful years.
There is nothing to fear, she thinks, for she has done what she could. Ozai can beat her and torture her – even kill her, and nothing can reach her now.
Blood runs down her hands, but the night stays silent. She has triumphed over the tyrant she has married, and now, she will clamber towards the end.
Only death a-waits, beckoning her – the end of all suffering in this hell on earth.
:::
III. Azulon [Fire Lord and Victim]
He thinks he has won the war. A few more battleships – a few more victories, and all will be his to govern, his to enjoy.
Too bad Ilah left too soon to enjoy it. He misses his wife, really, but he's not ready to join her yet.
What he doesn't know won't kill him, he thinks, but wrath and ignorance do. Death sneaks up on him in the guise of a pretty face, thick hair like midnight, a cup of jasmine tea, and a properly poised dagger.
He doesn't know what happens till Ilah slips her hands around his neck in the spirit world. Then he knows, but by then, he's too powerless to change anything.
:::
IV. The Painted Lady [Spirit and Woebegone]
The Painted Lady finds it hard to keep moving on. Day after day thick ooze coats her river, suffocating her with terrible smells. There is little she can do, and she remembers –
The feel of calloused fingers on her throat, the languor of sleep overcoming her, the cries hidden in her parched throat, the feeling of death, the smell of misery, the orange lights behind her eyes –
And then the air parts.
There's something fresh in the wind, and now she can recall the hand that she stretched out before, plunging something sharp, something dark, into the spine of the man whose hands were wound about her lily throat.
The strength wells in her, and she rises again, the river clean and spry, as it once was, as it will always be.
:::
V. Jun [Bounty Hunter and Misfit]
Her lips are stained a deep red, like the colour of the many animals she has slain. Sometimes she thinks that she's going crazy, but a few shots of wine soon smoothens that problem out. She's not crazy, just strong; she's not violent, just somewhat aggressive, and so what if she likes to frequent dirt-dug little pubs along the highway?
She's a girl who grew up strong, facing the dark with daggers in her calloused hands; she's a woman with the guts to chase the world.
The war doesn't faze her.
It's the princeling who does – he with the scarred face and the ridiculous hair. His obsession with the Water Tribe girl is amusing to watch, and his Uncle is funny.
And she knows deep down that he'll make a good ruler – so long as he doesn't interfere with bounty hunters, of course.
That's the fifth cup of wine she's had so far.
She can't count to ten now.
:::
VI. Long Feng [Chief of the Dai Li and Betrayer]
There's a statue of him down in the lower ring of Ba Sing Se but he pretends he doesn't care, although he's really pleasedpleasedpleased that his once-neighbours remember him, that boy with the nightdark hair and the eyes like molten iron who has risen through the ranks and come into his own.
Of course, he's much too busy now, wily politician and king's advisor, to bother with them, and when he passes the lower ring he swipes at beggars and kicks at their coin bowls and spits at the offerings they leave beside his statue. They're not worth much, after all.
All the adoration if a big fat lie and anyhow, he's an important lord now, so who's to tell him what not to do?
:::
VII. Koh [Spirit and Hollow]
The way he sees it, the war is a pretty thing.
The souls fall into the afterlife like the petals of a flower past its prime, and he snares them in the traps, calling out to them in singsong tenors, drawing them on fishline-hooks with the voices of those they hold dear.
It's despicable, but Koh's will must be done.
They follow each other blindly into his cave, and he stands before them all, surveying the wonderful sight. So many souls to claim, so many faces to reap; the harvest is bright this year.
One by one he corners them, breaking through their defences. The minute their expression changes, he reaches out – snap.
They're trapped.
When he's done with them he hides the empty spirits beneath his creaking floorboards, or stuffs their shrivelled souls into squirrels' holes.
Then he sits back and leafs though his collection, one, two, one thousand, two thousand, and tries them on. They fit smugly on his face, and he smiles, fangs hidden deep inside the caverns of his ancient, rotting mouth.
He lives a thousand lives, each one different, but all alike. They all die in the end, and they all come to him.
But it doesn't fulfil him. Nothing does.
He's hollow inside, like a tree rotting away on the inside. There's this insidious need to fill himself up, to try and chase away the emptiness that locks his heart and soul.
But – he can only wait and wait and draw new faces and hope for a day where hollowness is a concept long left behind in the ravages of time.
A/N: What did you think of this? Thanks for reading, and reviews would be nice (: