She died on a Tuesday, deep in the heart of midwinter, when snow was on the ground. His friends and family rallied around him, but there was no comfort. Everything was cold and dead to him. The light had gone out of the world.
He spent the next few weeks in mourning, hunched in a chair beside the bed they had shared for sixty years. He couldn't bear to climb into it, knowing her warmth was forever gone, her comforting presence a memory.
He stopped eating. Their daughter worried over him and cried on his shoulder, but even she couldn't ease the pain he felt. He'd lost a part of himself, the part of him that had known joy. Everything tasted like ashes.
She died on a Tuesday, but he got her first letter on the first day of spring.
It was delivered with his breakfast and the sight of the letter and the achingly familiar handwriting had made the whole world stop for a moment. Breathing hard, his heart beating much too fast, he opened the letter with arthritic fingers, her perfume bursting forth from the vellum like a warm kiss.
My dearest love,
If you're reading this, I am gone. I'm sorry I left you. I wish I could have stayed, but these things are not up to us to decide. Wherever I have moved on to, just know that I will think of you and that I will wait for you. Take your time. Live for us both. There is still so much for you to do. Guide our daughter. Protect the world. Be the man I love, have loved, will always love. Remember me only with a smile, for that is what you gave to me.
Love always,
Your love
His hands clutched the letter in disbelief. He knew her handwriting, her perfume, her words. Tears fell down his cheeks, tangling in his unkempt beard. Live, she had said. But how?
She died in midwinter and he nearly followed, in his grief. He read and reread her first letter for hours on end, for days at a time. It was mid-spring when he decided to leave the suite they'd shared. It had been the first time since the funeral.
The sun was warm, the air soft and damp from the rain that fallen that morning. He walked through the gardens she had once tended, her letter in his hand.
Every day after that he walked through the gardens. By the end of spring he had planted new flowers. He liked the feel of the dirt beneath his fingers, the simplicity of it all. The hope and life that he created. Sometimes his daughter joined him, and they spoke lightly, softly, of things that didn't matter. She seemed afraid to bring up her mother, afraid to hurt him and send him running back into the despair he'd felt.
He didn't tell her about the letter.
She died in midwinter and he got her second letter on the first day of summer. It was a balmy day. He'd spent it in the garden, getting sunburnt and staining his knees green from the grass. A tray of food awaited him at a little table in the shade. The moment he saw the letter, tears sprang to his eyes.
My darling husband,
As I'm writing this, you are asleep beside me. I can't help but think of all of the times we have made love in this bed. Just the thought of your hands on my skin makes me feel like the girl you married so long ago. You stole my heart back then and you will have it always, but also fear that when I go I will take a part of you with me as well. I know you too well, my love. You will pine for me and forget everything else. Do something for me: fly. Feel the winds. Be young and carefree again. Chase the sun as we did so many times. Don't forget to smile. Don't forget to breathe. The world is so full of wonders. Don't forget to look.
Love forever,
Your adoring wife
She died on a Tuesday, on a cold midwinter day, but her words were like sunlight and they banished the cold inside of him.
He took Druk flying for the first time in months. The dragon was excited to see him, spinning in circles like an overexcited reindeer-dog, his tail flicking side to side. He breathed his warm, sulfurous breath into his face, rubbing against him until he nearly knocked him off of his feet.
He laughed for the first time in six months, his voice scratchy with disuse. When he mounted Druk and they launched into the warm blue sky, he smiled so hard his face ached. The wind whipped his white hair back, pushing against him, seeming to run through every cell and pore in his body until the black despair he'd felt for months on end lessened, became a knot in his heart instead of the strangling weight on his chest.
They flew for hours, chasing the sun across the sky, skimming the water. He let Druk fly where he pleased. A part of him never wanted to go back. He wanted to fly free forever, to have no tether. He didn't want to go back to the palace, to its rooms full of memory and sadness.
He eventually did though. His daughter was waiting for him when he landed.
He pulled her into his arms and held her tightly, trying to tell her without words that he would be fine. Or at least, that he was starting to be, anyway.
She died in midwinter and when autumn came and the leaves swirled through the air, he began attending council sessions again, picking up the ragged strings of his life with a sigh. Life went on, as they said.
Except it all seemed so empty. The crown weighed on him, reminding him too often of all of the times he'd had to sacrifice time with his family to attend to the needs of the Nation. He sat in his room one day, holding his crown in his hands. He glanced at the bed he still couldn't bear to sleep in without her, and then at the window.
She died in midwinter, and her third letter came with his dinner tray, just after a long council meeting, in which he'd wanted nothing more than to shout out his frustrations. Seeing it there, so innocuous and yet so heartbreakingly devastating in its importance, made his knees weak and his heart flutter.
My wonderful soulmate,
I've thought long and hard about what I would like to tell you after I'm gone. To simply say that I love you seems to me to be such an inadequate representation of how I feel for you. I don't simply love you. I adore you. I admire you. I worship you. I think you're far funnier than you've ever given yourself credit. I think you're kind and caring. You're brilliant and tough and generous. And you have sacrificed many things in your life, all to care for your people. I never resented those times when your duties took you from me, because I always knew that you would come back to me. I have watched you raise our daughter to follow in your footsteps. I've watched you with our grandchildren and I know that the Fire Nation, my beloved second home, will be in good hands. I'm so proud of you and of our family, and of the good we've done in the world. And, as always, forever more and into eternity, I love you.
Yours, always yours
She died on a midwinter Tuesday and he abdicated the throne on a riotous autumn Friday, when the leaves barely clung to the trees and the taste of winter was in the air. He watched the weight of the crown settle upon his daughter's strong, capable shoulders with a sad smile on his lined face. The crowds cheered for their new Fire Lord, and they cheered also for him, for his reign and the good that had swept the Nation after that terrible, long war.
His daughter would be a wonderful Fire Lord and he knew it. She'd stepped up during his long mourning and taken on the heavy burden in all but name. He was tired. Ruling was a job for the young. And besides, the world awaited.
The next morning, he packed up his bags and walked through the garden. The flowers had died months ago, and the leaves gathered in the corners, waiting to be raked by his attentive gardeners. He walked through the grounds slowly, taking in all of the places he had loved best. And all of the places she had loved best.
He finally found himself at the little temple on the edge of the garden. He had avoided this place for months. He was not yet ready to mourn her in this way. Her body was gone, ashes scattered on the wind. All he had left were memories.
He rang the bells, lit a fire and prayed.
When he opened his eyes, his daughter stood beside him.
"You're leaving?"
"Just for a while. I feel like traveling. Seeing the world."
"Where will you go?"
"Republic City. And to the South Pole to visit Katara and Sokka. They've been writing me, asking me to visit. I think they're worried about me. Perhaps I'll find Toph and travel with her for a while."
"You'll be careful?"
"Of course. And you? You'll be a wonderful Fire Lord. I have every confidence in you."
"You taught me well, father," she said and embraced him. "I have a gift for you."
He pulled back and studied her face. Though her hair was dark like his, she was the image of her mother. Her violet eyes made his heart ache and he brushed her hair back with a shake in his limbs.
"What is it?"
A tear started in her eyes as she reached for the pocket of her robes. "It's a letter from mother. She left them with me before she…she… It's the last one. I was supposed to give it to you on the anniversary of…of her passing. But I may not see you then. So here. Promise you won't open it until then?"
He took the letter, his wife's perfume curling into his nostrils. He studied her handwriting for a moment, feeling an ache in him that would never heal. But it could be born. Time and acceptance had given that to him. That, and her letters.
"Thank you. I promise I'll save it until then."
"She loved you so much, daddy. She knew it would be hard on you, that you needed something. Please don't disappear on me."
He smiled slightly, tucking the letter into his pocket, right next to the others. "I won't, sweetheart. I'll be back in the spring. I love you very much."
"I love you too."
He hugged her then, holding her close for one long moment. Then he released her and walked away. He mounted Druk and together they flew into the east, chasing the winter winds as they flowed through the skies.
She died on a Tuesday in midwinter, breaking his heart and changing his life forever. On the anniversary of her death, he sat upon the beach of the little island his wife had grown up on, watching the icy waters of the ocean and the graceful snow falling down.
He opened the letter, his wife's last gift to him, and stared at the words written there.
I love you.
He smiled at the words and held the letter to his heart.
She died on Tuesday in midwinter and he mourned her and remembered her, and loved her for the rest of his days.