Title: The Art Of Deception
Author: Lala-Ness (vivian)
Genre: Drama + Romance
Summary: Zuko's world had been shattered once, and Katara finds that she can
melt the icy barrier that surrounds his heart. But there is a killer among the Fire
Nation, and both Zhao and Zula decide it's time to get rid of the Prince. Permanently.
Disclaimer: Avatar: The Last Airbender and friends do not belong to me. The plot,
however, is mine - along with any of the encounters and scenes that appear in TAOD.
Chapter Three
Death
On the night he was murdered, General Yasashiku dined simply on bread and tea and rice. You'd think after ten years, you'd be showered with gifts, he mused, or decent food in the least. The rice was still young, and Yasashiku was not. Neither would continue to age. Like his bread and tea, Yasashiku was a simple man. He had lived in the same little house with the overlapping, slanted, slightly curved roof - where every room had tatami mats and at least one pair of slippers - since his marriage fifty one years before. His two children had been raised there, his wife had died there.
Now at seventy-three, Yasashiku lived alone. Though he rarely took action on the battle grounds of the Fire Nation, he attended each of the mandatory meetings with the advisors, courtiers, and other high-ranking socials - and also the meetings requiring the company of those who belonged to the Lord's covenent.
He had known Lord Ozai since his childhood, and had been taught to remove his helmet and whenever he passed by. Even now if the Fire Lord traveled from the Earth Kingdom and back to his palace, he would stop if he saw Yasashiku. And they would talk of the old days when his father riled the throne. Senior Souzen, he called him Respectfully. General Yasashiku had great appreciation for the Fire Lord, and had been loyal to him and his the whole of his life.
For more than sixty years he had taken part in the army and court of his nation. There had been many changes - some good, in Yasashiku's opinion, some not so good. He had seen much.
Some thought, too much.
The war, lulled into dormancy by winter, would soon be in it's prime. Inflammation of his joints due to metabolic and infectious causes prevented him from taking part in the physical scenery of war, as he once had, but still, he would take his turn in offering the best of plans and routes he could discover. He would continue to do so, he vowed a long while ago, until the day he died.
He considered his sons and grandson's lives, and he didn't regret the choices he'd made. The choice to keep them as far away as possible from the strife of conflict - from death, from betrayal, from loss, from grief, from all the emotions he'd experienced throughout his life. His choice was as reasonable as it should be. He was glad it was enough of a reason to keep his family safe. Enough of a reason so that his mother and father died peacefully, enough so his sons grew, fell in love, and borned their own children.
But it wasn't enough for his brother.
His brother was a corrupt man, Yasashiku thought sorrowfully. Commander Raidon was as sinful as people came - he was immoral, wicked, evil. He was the epitome of all things hatred. He hated his mother, his father, his own brother - the brother that shared his mother's womb, who came to life with him. Yasashiku was regretful that the fact of the matter was that he was born into life with a heart, and his twin brother was not. For if he did, there would be no bad blood between them, no shame, no hate, no spite. In his fantasies, it was true. But in reality, it was not.
Commander Raidon's heart was as black as darkness. He shed no mercy. He showed no feelings. He was, in the least, a bastard.
Yasashiku tasted the bitterness on his tongue and sipped his tea to wash it down. Hate was not the way, despite all those who despised the Fire Lord and all he stood for. On his last night of his seventy-three years, he looked out the window, into the dusty paths of the neighborhood - his neighborhood, seeing what had been done, what needed to be done, and listened as the wind whistled through the air.
It was lonely now, in the night, in the winter, when only servants slept in the imperial palace, and the war had yet to begin once again. He wanted the spring, and the long summer that followed it, when the sun would warm his innards and Souzen's comet would arrive. He wanted, as it seemed it always had, to win the war.
General Yasashiku ached with the cold, deep in the bones. He considered heating some of the soup his granddaughter had brought to him, but his Cho was not the best of cooks. With this in mind, he made do with the bread and sipped the good, full-bodied tea by his little fire. He was proud of his life's work. The tea had been a gift, one of many given to him on his retirement, though everyone knew the retirement was only a technicality.
Even with his aching bones and a heart that had grown weak, Yasashiku would walk the markets, greet the citizens, watch the sky and smell the air.
He lived for war.
He died for it.
He drank, nodding by the fire, ith a blanket tucked around his obese legs. Through his mind ran images of sunwashed fields, of hi wife laughing, of himself showing his son how to support a small sword, to use his firebending skillfully. Of standing beside Lord Ozai on his throne during one of his many nightly dinings.
Yasashiku, he had said to him when their faces were still young, we have been given a world. We must protect it.
And so they had.
The wind whistled at the windows of his little house. The Fire died to embers.
And then the sword entered his chest. When the pain reached out like a fist, squeezing his heart to death, his killer was on the other side of the city, surrounded by friends and associates, enjoying a perfectly poached salmon and a fine cup of Ginseng Tea.