It's always night when you see his face.
It disgusts you.
The way those lips curl into a mocking smile. The way those cold, amber eyes lock with yours, staring at you—making you feel small and pathetic. You stare back, and all you see is hate—hate, anger, mockery, scorn…you wonder how many adjectives you can come up with to describe that look before you finally stop because you realize that that's probably what he wants.
Let him hate, you tell yourself.
No, another part of you responds.
You wonder if that face ever knew love.
Did it love your mother?
Did it love you?
He loved Azula—you quickly silence that thought.
We were both tools to him, you assure yourself.
Even so you can't help but wonder if he ever knew what love was, if he ever loved Ursa, Azula…you.
No. You tell yourself.
You try to remind yourself that Firelord Ozai was a monster whose heart was forged from cold iron…but sill you can't help but long for his love.
He steps forward and all of a sudden you're thirteen again, kneeling before him on that cold marble floor. The memory is still fresh in your mind. You can clearly picture the thousands of eyes staring at you as your father approaches, how those eyes mocked you—daring you to attack this man you called father.
You grit your teeth, and he mocks you by doing the same—only when he does it he looks at you with mockery in his eyes. You think you see the semblance of a smirk as he does it—but that look quickly goes away and you convince yourself that you just imagined it.
You remember how you slowly pulled your arms towards your chest, shifting your weight so that you could stare up at him. How the marble seemed to pull at your arms as if willing you to stay low to keep you from staring back at that cold, hateful face that spoke of nothing but scorn and disappointment.
You remember wondering if you should look up at him all. You remember how your stomach was filled with dread as your father's shadow inched closer and closer—or was it the sudden feeling of nausea that you felt? You can't remember. It doesn't matter now anyway. Not anymore.
You remember how quickly the coldness of the marble floor turned into a searing hot pain as your father's flames caressed the left side of your face with their painful embrace, and how the silence of the chamber turned into a quick and sudden roar followed by your own screams of pain and anguish.
Again he steps toward you, and you remember how the shadows seemed to dance as he came to greet you on that cold marble tile floor.
"Father," you tell him, but your words fall on deaf ears.
You stare into those cold eyes—and they stare back at you with so much hate and anger
Was he always this hateful? You ask yourself.
Of course, a part of you screams back.
"Father," you tell him again, but once more your words fall on deaf ears.
"Father," You realize that your daughter is standing beside you and you wonder how long you've been keeping her waiting.
The reflection in the mirror turns its head, and from the corner of your eye you see moonlight reflecting off of the scar that you both share.
You smile, knowing that your father made sure that you would never become him.