Author's Note: So...it's been a while...and I'm going to give you this. Yep.

Song: 'Longing' from the soundtrack to the movie 'Hero' watch?v=6Q6i41srJc8 (because melancholy Chinese music is the best method of conveying Urzai feels)

Enjoy!

21.

Ursa drew the brush carefully along the rice paper, feeling a drop of sweat glide down her back in a mockery of the stroke. The half-formed character beneath her hand was roughened at the edges, betraying the shakiness of its creator's hand. She kept her back straight and her head bowed, and mentally thanked her mother for the many courtly lessons she had received as a child.

She doubted her mother had ever anticipated such an exquisite torture for her daughter: performing fancy calligraphy under the keen gaze of the Firelord himself. Even more incredible was the fact that the Firelord was now her father-in-law. However, the term held none of the affection of Ursa's girlhood fantasies; she could find no second father in the fiery presence of her nation's leader.

She had not known why she had been summoned, but she suspected that she was merely another form of entertainment while the Firelord awaited news from the battlefields of the Earth kingdom. The Fire Sages had already been called to deliver their weekly horoscopes, their voices echoing into every corner of the palace as their assistants beat against iron gongs to emphasize their predictions. After the sages had come the leader of the elite palace guards, with his two finest swordsman to display their prowess in the Firelord's throne room. And, after the guards had bowed their way out, a messenger had been sent to bring Ursa before her ruler along with a writing desk and sheets of rice paper.

Firelord Azulon had not asked Ursa whether she would like to perform for him, for that was not in his nature. He had waited for her to bow. Then he had told her to sit down, and then, with an indecipherable look, he had said, "I want you to write the first word that comes to your mind when you think of my son."

"My lord?" Ursa had asked, perplexed in spite of herself.

"I want you to write the very first word that is in your mind when you think of Prince Ozai," Azulon had repeated crisply. "Do not censor your thoughts; I will not punish you for your answer. But I do ask that you refrain from vulgarity," he had added, in such a dry voice that Ursa had been forcibly reminded of her husband's sardonic humor.

She had no choice but to agree, although she could not fathom the reason for this unexpected command. Still, Ursa had stalled for time, studying the paper and its grains down to the last granule of texture, smoothing her palms over its surface, feeling for imperfections that could interrupt the single character she had been charged to make.

Somewhere along the way, her ploy to extend her performance had become a genuine interest. Ursa had reasoned that, if she had to write anything which featured her husband as the focus, she should ensure she had the finest paper the palace had to offer. After she had finished with the backdrop for her art, she had carefully inspected the brushes and ink as well, even though they had to be the finest in the country to come within a hundred yards of the Firelord's throne.

Azulon had not rushed her. He had sat, watching her turn the long-handled brushes over in her hands, testing the bristles. Ursa had swallowed the mind-numbing panic that had threatened to claw its way up her throat as she felt his eyes on her face. She had closed her own eyes, gathering her courage to continue under that heavy gaze. Then she had sat further back on her heels and tipped her forehead to her chest, thinking.

The Firelord had made a rather unfair demand of her, Ursa had concluded. How could she feel free to slap down the very first thought about the prince of the nation in front of his father? She couldn't guarantee a favorable outcome for her sovereign; her mind was as disjointed as any other human brain. She loved her husband, but not every thought towards him was charitable, especially since he had left for the Earth Kingdom a month after their marriage without one word of protest.

Ursa had brooded further, ink brush clenched tight in her hand. How should she interpret this order? She did not trust Firelord Azulon, mostly because he had never given her a reason to trust him. In fact, he had done exactly the opposite when he had accused her of an assassination attempt on Lu Ten. How could she know that she would not receive a beating or a horrible burn scar for an insulting character?

As if he had read her thoughts, Lord Azulon had spoken. "While I appreciate your sensitivity to the art of calligraphy, Princess Ursa, I think your appraisal of that brush is more out of hesitation than anything else. Must I repeat my promise not to harm you if your answer does not agree with me?"

"No, Firelord," Ursa had murmured automatically, with a bow.

"That is well enough, because it would irritate me to think that a woman who is married to my son, secondborn or not, would be so slow to comprehend."

Ursa had repeated that phrase, secondborn or not, in her mind, until it had resonated like the Fire Sages' predictions in a high-ceilinged hall. Narrowing her eyes, she had dipped her brush into the ink with a newfound sense of purpose.

Her first stroke had been confident, reminiscent of her husband on the training fields. The second stroke, dragged on top and through the first, had mimicked his body as it twisted in midair, ending with a hook on the end that resembled a finishing move to a firebending form. She had admired the two markings for a moment in the same way she would have admired Ozai at work, struck motionless by his graceful movements.

She could feel the Firelord's surprise when she continued to write, shaping a second character. The word started out firm, but it dwindled toward the end as she pulled the brush down the page. When she crossed over the intial two strokes, she did not stop her hand from shaking to express her feelings as the character came to life. When she added the final tail on the second stroke, she set down her brush and looked at her last creation.

The character revealed more than its one dimensional meaning. Its rough lines could not hold the same boldness as her first character, but it shone just as starkly on the white paper as its brother. The slant in the overlying stroke was slightly angled, not as centered as it should have been; it gave the character a raw, unpolished appearance that contrasted greatly with the character above it. Although she had written the word herself, Ursa could not help but feel a pang in her heart as she stared at it. It had given the piece of art the perfect touch, but that truth was painful for her to admit.

She brought the finished product closer to the fiery throne, table and all, and set it before the Firelord. Then she bowed and stepped away. Azulon stared at the characters for sixteen beats of her heart; Ursa counted each one, wondering if each loud pulse would be her body's last act. Finally, her ruler looked back up and waved his hand. "You are dismissed," he said curtly, "but leave the paper here. I want to look at it some more."

Ursa bowed and turned away, relieved but even more confused by the abrupt dismissal. Azulon waited until she had gone before he allowed his eyes to return to the two black characters on the thin rice paper.

He agreed with the first character without a doubt. 'Strength' screamed out at him from the top portion of the sheet, masterfully executed in the style of the noblewomen of his court. Azulon nodded his head absently, dwelling on that first character for several minutes.

Almost unwillingly, his eyes strayed to the second character. The ragged marks had come together to present to him an image he did not want to see, but could not ignore. Ursa was truly a powerful calligrapher, for her wrist had flicked out to connect the two characters by a trail of ink as thin as a strand of hair, but that strand was enough to draw his attention to the princess's full opinion of her husband.

Large but loose, the word 'Lonely' cried out to the Firelord in a voice louder than the boastful 'strength' could ever hope to acheive.