You Don't Bring Me Flowers
She remembers pulling the hooded cloak over her eyes, feels the blood and the sweat drip down her cleansed hand, and sighs. Under the cover of midnight, Ursa returns from Lord Azulon's chambers with the murder trailing behind her. A most grievous crime to the nation, and if she is caught, warrants execution. The dagger hidden in the palm of her hand oozes with the protective love for her child and nothing else; it does not glow or shimmer, it throbs with the ache of inevitable sadness.
The man she has come to love does not exist. The princess can almost blame herself, almost, for her naivety as a woman born and raised within the court should. She should have known better. An arranged marriage whose sole purpose is to mingle the estranged blood of Lord Sozin and Avatar Roku – she should have known her body was only worshiped for birth.
But for a time, she can pretend it was good. A face – her skin as pale as rain when she compares it to the smoothness of his cheek, the breathlessness of her throat as she presses her body against his and molds her form for another restful night. She dreams of another summer's day.
Ozai loves her title more than he loves the woman. At least, that is the reality of today. The faithful but blind wife does not want to disintegrate the illusion of a pleasant life, one full of vacations and young children and warm kisses, but autumn is here now and the emperor is dead. The romance is gone.
Ursa closes her eyes and hurries across the courtyard. The evening clouds part to reveal the night sky. Her arms remain still at her sides as she waits – and hopes maybe one of the winking stars will take pity on her child. Take pity on her plight. But there is no answer to her dream, and the tingle of numbness in her fingers alerts her senses and brings her mind back to the crime.
Because dreaming does not work for lovers who walk alone at night, and Ursa's feet shuffle far too quickly across the stone path to leave a trace of repentance.