The Thing with Feathers Perished
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all
—Emily Dickinson
-
She didn't mean to.
She really didn't (convinced herself as much). The thing just died. Laid flat and silent (chest concave and misshapen like all the bones of dead things do). The beak parted slightly, like it was on the verge of one—farewell—song. Singed and frayed along the edges, its feathers lost luster, and it failed to muster courage and fly.
"It was an accident." I didn't know I was that good, that ama-zing.
"It's okay, Azula. I'm sure it didn't feel any pain. A very…quick ordeal."
"Mommy, mommy, did you see it though? Did you see the way I lit it on fire?" (See the way her fingers glowed, hot and white, and burned up flesh until it melted off—clean and crimeless.)
"Yes, I did, Azula. And it was awful, but it's not your fault."
"I know."
Azula smiled complacently.
No wonder Daddy loves me best.
-
Word traveled fast in the place, spread like an eagle (the rumors) and reached ears far and wide. To this lady it whispered: the princess was so terrified, so petrified, so glorified. And to the lords and princes and knights (those with sneers and throaty commands): it was no accident.
And as for Ursa, she simply lost her wits and mind and wrung her hands, but still produced no answer. And she was there. That was the worst part.
And people talked, gossiping like mad—hands flying and waving past half-concealed, riddled sentences and phrases.
Because word traveled fast in the palace.
(Soon, Azula was challenging everyone upon sight, assured—inflated—that she could never, ever lose.)
-
At night, Ursa consulted her husband (addressed him as Lord and bowed reverently). She inquired him on his health, on his thoughts, on his opinions and demands. And finally, she thought it okay and wise to ask:
"Don't you think there's just a little something wrong with Azula?"
Ozai frowned, picked at the grapes (crushing the bruised—useless—ones until sticky juice burst between his fingers).
"Why? Has something happened?"
"Well…she lit her bird on fire."
"So?"
"Don't you think that's a little dangerous?" (And Ursa glared dangerously. They were used to playing a dangerous game. Here, in the sanctuary of a demonic, gilded paradise.)
"Not particularly. She has talent."
"She's seven."
"Enormous talent."
"It's not normal."
"Kings are never normal."
"She's not a king."
She will be.
Ozai did not respond but returned his attention to sorting out authentic grapes from the odd-scraped, lumpy shapes. Especially the ones marred with scars and dents.
-
When she was pregnant with her daughter (not even knowing it), Ursa thought of the magical moments they would share. Like a walk through the inner garden or teatime among peonies or fairytale endings or calligraphy (Ursa was a master).
But Azula came along fiery and implacable, liked war more than lore and fighting more than writing. And soon, Ursa turned insane, made herself nervous, reckless (a wreck), and saw it as entirely—all too—hopeless.
She had a daughter-not-a-daughter. A little warrior tethered below four feet in stature, bound by graceful arms and lanky legs.
And fast. Azula was fast as lightning.
-
"Mommy, look at me. Look at what I can do."
"That's beautiful, Azula."
"It's not beautiful, mommy, it's powerful. Get it, do you get it yet?"
-
Eventually, even Lo and Li confronted her about a "slight, minor predicament". That Azula was advancing too fast, too swift for her age. Rapidly gaining speed and charging precariously head on. And showing-off. Azula liked that—did that—far too much.
"There's not much I can do." Ursa shrugged, too jaded to care.
Her concern had died a long time ago, and all she had were brittle, messy feathers scrunched tightly in balled up fists. Matted and greasy, they perished from too much hope.