11. gardenia
He is never happy is forever-ever dour and restless and scheming. Today, he calculates for a way to ascend the throne. Yesterday, he perfected another method to burn – this one is faster, agonizing, he told her. Tomorrow, he will desire something new.
And he will seek. And he will receive.
She can only stand aside and watch as he devours more and more. Proud and sinister, he draws her in with magnetic rings. And she (weak that she is) cannot refuse.
Tomorrow (Ursa swallows hard) has not yet come Tomorrow, she will think of this tomorrow.
...
He surprises her with gardenias and joy.
Horrified, she cringes as his lip blister her skin.
It does not take long to kill three thousand. A city falls in a day. A nation even less (news travel fast). And when a baby cries, watching its mother die, it emits the sweetest noise: something between a gargled mewl and a screech.
One day, she will see. He will take her to the battlefront. So that she too (she will see) can be happy. Like him – with him.
...
Patiently, Ozai waits for her to unwrap the present. Her hands shake, flittering across the cloth. Delighted, he observes her movements and reactions (anticipates the fear clouding her eyes).
"He died painlessly, quickly. Snuffed like a moth that dares to defy a flame."
"Why – how did you find him?"
"His last words were of you. Of honor."
He smiles and inches closer. She retreats. He advances. And again. He will always take, just as she will always give.
...
After that terrible night, she stops tending to her flowers. And the gardenias that he gave her, years ago, have wilted and died. Sad and forgotten. And the garden turns barren and dry like patches of a sandy desert.
He is pleased. Now, she is the only flower. Only he can view.
