The morning is a cold gray, and the colors around her are muted. Even the pink of her dress is muted by the misty fog that hangs around her ankles and calves and thighs. Above her, seagulls caw as they circle the waves. One dives and resurfaces, a fish in its beak. They make it look so easy.
Azula looks down. She cannot see her feet. Her stomach is too large. She can feel the sand and the rocks, feel the cold water lap at her bare skin, feel the algae reach out to her. But she cannot see this. Does that make it any less real? Perhaps. Likely not. Her wishes mean nothing at this point. She wished for pleasure and only got pain. She wished for freedom and the child fluttered in her womb.
As the waves move, in and out, a steady rhythm, they beckon her further out to sea. Out there, where there is nothing but sky and ocean. There is no land, no buildings, no people. Only the tide and the current, the seagull and the fish. The lighthouse is too far away; they would not be able to see her. In the gray, clammy early morning, she would be lifeless and colorless just like the rest of the world. She would become part of the waves and cease to exist as a singularity.
Azula looks down at her wedding ring. Her fingers are swollen and she cannot take it off. She wants to throw it into the ocean, watch it sink and sink with it, but it is stuck. The sea salt air stings her nose as she inhales deeply. She will not cry again. She has never cried so much in her life. Her wedding ring is stuck, and she cannot take it off. Her nose is pink and her eyes are red. She cannot take it off.
There are early morning days when she lays awake on the bed, a bottle of pills on the bedside table, Chan still oblivious and asleep next to her. He snores. Azula hates his snoring. She cannot sleep when he snores. He snores every night. In these pre dawn hours, Azula lays still, her hands on her stomach, and she stares at the ceiling and tries not to think because she cannot bear to think. Because thinking will draw her mind to that bottle. It is for her headaches. She does not have headaches often, but she keeps this quiet. She wants the pills. Just in case.
She was never meant to be a mother. Instead of looking directly down, Azula looks a little further out into the sea. Beneath the clear water, she can see tiny rocks and pebbles. She walks forward and the water inches up to her knees. The push and the pull makes her unstable, but she was never meant to be a mother. Every time her two year old daughter, Nima, calls for her, every time she must hold the child, Azula is reminded of this. There is a distance she cannot breach; there is a distance she never tried to breach.
The child moves inside her again, and Azula is reminded of Chan. She frowns, wrinkles her nose as if she smells something bad. She does not like Chan. Chan was nothing more to her than a rebellion against the lifestyle she was destined to have. There were others before him; men with blurred faces and firm bodies, women who demanded no promises and gave only physical pleasure. She intended for there to be others after him. This was her private rebellion, a rebellion of the body, battle wounds not physical, not quite mental. It was a rebellion carried out in secret, and Azula would stand at those fancy parties and speak with wives knowing she would 'speak' with their husbands later in the night. Her mother would hate it if she knew. That was not who Ursa wanted her daughter to be.
But then Chan came along. He was not charming. He was not special. He was not particularly handsome. She had better men in her time. But there was something devious about that rich boy, something that made him more dangerous than all the others.
Azula takes another step into the deep ocean, and the water foams as it laps at the hem of her dress. She cannot see whether the water makes the pink more vibrant or if it takes more color away. She clenches her fists, grits her teeth against the cold that makes her feet numb. She can no longer feel the rocks beneath her feet, cannot tell if they are sharp or smooth. There is only the push and pull of the waves like a soft lullaby, calling her out. Calling her.
She had not listened when something called her away from Chan. Maybe it was a sixth sense, something left over from primitive days that could sniff out trouble and danger. Chan never had a wedding ring, had only things to gain by being with her. She always suspected he thought they were in a real relationship. He bought things for her, and because she enjoyed sucking away his money, Azula had quieted that feeling of dread until she was throwing up and a ring was on her finger, and her uncle was walking her down an aisle, a bride dressed in white, orchids clasped in her hands.
Another step would bring the water to mid thigh, but Azula cannot take that step just yet. The seagulls are still circling overhead, and she wonders if she would float or sink. Perhaps she should have filled her pockets with rocks. Maybe that extra weight would help. She closes her eyes and turns her face to what little sun there is. It offers no warmth, and she smiles at this. The day is too damp and gray for it to offer her anything other than coldness.
There are flutters in her stomach again. Azula hates this feeling. It always reminds her of Chan and that his desires take precedence over her own. This is Chan's child. It doesn't matter that she told him she didn't want another, that she never wanted the first. What kind of woman doesn't want children, he asked. What kind of woman are you? She had no answer. When he rolled on top of her, she just lay there. He'd stolen her rebellion. There was no pleasure. No joy. Only the flutters of life.
"Azula?"
She does not turn at the sound of his voice. She hates Zuko. She loves Zuko. He comes to stand beside her. He does not touch her. She is glad.
"Couldn't sleep?"
She shakes her head. The ocean sprays their faces with its salt water. Today, she does not dislike her brother. She doesn't feel much of anything. Except the fluttering and her wedding ring, still too tight on her finger.
"It's stuck," she says, and her throat feels raw, like she hasn't spoken in so long.
"What is?"
She holds her hand out to Zuko, watches him take it gently in his own. He inspects her fingers and the ring, twists it experimentally. It hurts. She keeps this to herself, lets it drown, one more pain amongst too many others. She feels overwhelmed, her heart too full with pain and anger, unable to let any other emotion in. She is breathing quicker, the tears stinging her eyes, and she tells herself that she shouldn't cry, that she won't cry, but her body does not listen. It has not listened to her in so long.
Azula lets go, and her legs let go underneath her, and the water pushes and pulls her, and for a moment, she feels weightless, and it is beautiful and the water and the colors and rocks and the sand… All of it is beautiful, and she doesn't even feel the weight of Chan's child or the weight of Chan's life. She doesn't notice the absence of her own life, and she closes her eyes and smiles because she loves this feeling.
But Zuko is pulling her up, and she coughs, and he's wrapping his jacket around her, brushing her hair out of her face.
"You have to be more careful, Azula. You could have drowned…"
But the look in his eyes says that he knows she did it on purpose. He is scared. Concerned. Azula cannot hold back her tears, and she cries because she knows she won't be able to let go again. Zuko wraps his arms around her shoulder and guides her back to the house.
"Azula, I—"
"Don't."
She cannot look at him. Her wedding ring is too tight. She feels like it's cutting off her circulation. Her feet are sore. She just wants to sleep. He takes her back to the house.
"I'll make you a cup of tea."
Azula nods her gratitude as Zuko guides her to sit on her bed. He does not leave her room. Not yet. He shuffles because he wants to say something. Possibly, he doesn't know how. Sometimes, he can still be awkward about these things.
"I understand, you know," he says.
But he doesn't. He loves his girlfriend. They will get married, and they will have children, and he will be happy. Azula only nods, and Zuko leaves the room, and she is left in silence. The bottle of pills is on the table, but looking at them makes her stomach churn. She is still in her wet dress, the fabric clinging to her uncomfortably, making her stomach look and feel larger than it is. She lies down and closes her eyes.
Outside, the seagulls still call and the ocean still crashes against the beach. Her wedding ring is still in place. Firmly, undeniably. She cannot get it off.
Supremely depressing, I know. This is why Azula has not one, but two kids in the main Bye Bye Blackbird story. I wrote this about a month ago, but I've been sitting on it, not quite sure how I feel about it. I like it now. In the 1920s, I don't think there would be very many options for Azula, or women in general. Azula's never struck me as the type to want kids. Even in an alternate universe, I don't think Azula would want kids, but given the time period, I don't think she really has other options. Not sure what else to say about it, really. Geez, this is so depressing.