Ozai's words haunt her for thirteen days. "I will die here…I will die here alone." They echo in her head faintly with every step, every time she walks into one of their courtyards—their courtyards, filled with ghosts of smiles and laughter and sidelong glances—and every time she sees Zuko's eyes light up at the sight of the dark-haired girl (sharp in every sense of the word, as Ursa likes to think of her). That light…it's so familiar in its warmth, fiery warmth, passionate longing, it almost hurts to see.
"I will die here alone."
Ursa's words haunt him for thirteen days. "I would never let that happen, Ozai…Never." Never, she said. Never. Where is she now? Where is her golden warmth, her smooth pale skin lighting up the darkness, her soft, enigmatic smile? Never, she said. And yet here he is, empty and aching and missing…and dying.
He could feel it. He could. Death was slowly sinking around him, circling over his crownless head, watching him as he slowly lost all sense of reality and time and life. The loneliness was what was driving him mad, he was sure of it. It was the hollow air, the void that was never filled, that surrounded him and sucked him in and wouldn't let him go.
It was the silence.
"Stay away from me," he whispers hoarsely to the ghost circling him, watching, waiting hungrily but patiently—with frightening, eternalpatience—for the time to come. "You will not take me. I will not let you take me.
"Stay away."
But the shadow lingers ever closer, relishing in the silence, the cold, the emptiness of it all.
On the fourteenth night, Ursa jackknifes awake, covered in thin sweat, her breath painful in her chest. In her heart. "I will die here alone."
Alone. That one word, echoing off of those heartless stones, striking her with pure emotion. Pure desperation. Alone.
On the fourteenth night, Ozai opens his eyes, the stone cold against his temple. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.
Death.
He recoils quickly, staring at the wall. Cold and heartless. Staring.
Waiting.
"No!" he yells suddenly, violently, striking out at thin air. At the shadow waiting for him. At the wall. "No, no, no! You will not take me! You will NOT!"
The wall, the stones, they stare—amused. Laughing at the Phoenix King, weakened and wild and out of his mind, defying something that cannot be defied. Death.
The name is repeated, echoing, echoing, echoing.
Death. Death. Death. Death.
The immortal King shall die.
"Bow down!" he screams, punching the wall with his fist. And again. And again. "You will not stand in my presence! Bow down, damn you! Damn you all!" The stones are stained crimson. Crimson like fire, crimson like anger, crimson like the pity he always despised. Stained, again and again and again. Pain like wildfire licking his hands and wrists and arms. Throat raw. Screams dying slowly like his heart. "I am the Phoenix King…I am the Phoenix King…I am supreme…You are mine…You are all…mine…"
A gasp he can't hear for the screaming. Thin fingers wrapping around his wrists, a sudden warmth that chases away the shadow. Heavy, saddened breaths on his neck—and the fingers on his wrist begin to tremble.
Then everything disappears, and all he can see is Death. Death. Death. Death.
The immortal King shall die.
"NO!" he screams, thrashing. The fingers on his wrist—his bonds, as he sees them—only tighten. The breathing next to his ear becomes heavier, with a touch of a sob that he might have imagined.
"Ozai," it whispers softly, gently, sweetly. "Ozai, please."
He freezes, breathing hard.
"Please."
Her voice melts into his skin, velvety and warm. And desperate. Suddenly he is limp in her arms, leaning against her thin, strong frame, and she lunges to catch him. Keep him. Support him, like she always had.
She always had.
The skin of his bare chest and back and arms is slick with sweat and dirt and filth, but all she can feel is the cold. She cannot feel the fire she once did, flickering with vigor inside a soul filled with pride. He is cold.
And that chills her to the bone.
"My flower," he breathes in a voice raspy with emotion and rawness, staring sightlessly into the empty air. He cannot see me, she thinks with horror. Why? Why can't he see me? Why isn't he looking at me?
No. He can see the shadow, watching with interest. Cold and uncaring. Watching.
Waiting.
Ozai's fingers clutch at Ursa's own, and he squeezes his eyes tightly shut as he turns his face into her neck. "You left me," he whispers. Ursa's chest contracts with a sharp, unadulterated pain.
"You left me."
"I'm sorry, my love," she whispers in return, stroking his face gently. How gaunt he is…and light in her arms. The muscles are gone, the grace is gone, the dignity is gone. And she is left holding an empty skeleton. Empty and hollow, like her heart was slowly becoming. "I had to."
"Not before," he protests, and his tone is like that of a child's. "Not that night. I told you not to leave. I ordered you not to—"
"I had just killed the Fire Lord," Ursa interrupts harshly—her voice is strong with regret and disgust. Disgust for herself. Disgust for the crimson on her hands no one but her could see. "I had killed him so that you, Ozai, could have the throne. I would not have stayed for the world."
There was a soft silence, that left Ursa's words echoing off the walls. Their audience of stones. Then:
"You were my world."
She looks down at the man in her arms, her expression softened with pain and sorrow. His eyes remain closed, his face remains pressed into the skin of her shoulder and neck, and there is a sort of agony in his expression that cannot be defined.
He is ill, she thought with resignation. He knows not what he says. This is not my husband. Ozai would never admit such a thing.
His eyes open. They no longer glow with fire as they once did, but they captivate Ursa all the same.
"I will die," he murmurs, searching her gaze for something. Something she does not know she has. "I can see it. I can feel it. I can feel Death. It is waiting for me. Waiting for me to become alone again."
Breathing is becoming harder. Unconsciously, she clutches him to her tighter, and reaches up to cradle his neck with a hand. "You will not die alone," she says firmly in a voice that only barely trembles. "I would never let that happen."
A soft, flickering smile. "Too headstrong. That's what they always said about you."
"I don't like to think of it as a flaw," she replies with a quiet smile of her own.
"Neither do I."
And for a minute, she can see him. She can feel him. Her lover, her husband. His eyes sparkle just a bit brighter. There he is…unearthed, after weeks of being buried. There he is. In her arms. He is almost even a little warmer to her wounded imagination, struggling to break through the despair that permeated the dungeon.
The smile fades, and he stares imploringly into her eyes. "I will die here," he says honestly. "I meant it. I will die here alone, and be forgotten by the world. Forgotten even by you, I suppose."
She shakes her head slowly, surely. "I will never forget you, Ozai."
That wavering smile flickers to life again. "I think you will," he replies. "You have Zuko. You have the court. You have the Fire Nation—"
"But I don't have you," she interrupts firmly. "And I will be reminded of that every day. Every day, Ozai."
He is fading. She can see it. Everything is wavering unsteadily, slowly falling. She feels him start to tremble. "I will die," he whispers, almost to himself. "I will die. I will die here. I will die alone."
A sob almost escapes her, unbidden and unchecked—but she withholds it. "You are not alone," she says resolutely. "I am here, Ozai, I am here!"
"All alone," he murmurs to the air. "With the silence and the pity and the walls and the Death. Death all around me—"
Ursa shifts to face him, now choking on her sobs. Yes, he is gone. Completely gone. Gone somewhere she can't follow, and wouldn't even if she dared. "Ozai," she calls softly. "Ozai!"
In an instant, he sees her. Catches her in his dulled golden gaze. And there they are, both caught in each other's eyes: Ursa with restrained sobs and an intense agony somewhere in her heart; Ozai with a memory in shards trying to fit pieces together.
"My flower," he breathes.
Ursa breaks down in sobs.
-x-x-
The funeral is secret. Held at sunset, as firebender funerals always are. The celebration of death at the death of the sun. The fall of the sun.
The fall of a king.
No one yet knows he is dead but the servants and the royal family. The Fire Lord made sure of it. No one would be at the funeral except those needed to complete it and the royal family. There would be no citizens to mourn their beloved ruler. There would be no citizens to celebrate his final passing.
The Fire Lord made sure of it.
The setting sun casts a fiery light over everything, making it glow and shimmer like a fire itself. Oranges, reds, golds…
Golds. Every time Ursa sees the gold banners next to the coffin, the golden designs on the blanket draped over it, she thinks of his eyes. The only gold she ever wanted to keep and hold forever, the kind of gold that was endless and beautiful.
The procession walks toward the hill, the hill that was chosen by the Fire Lord earlier that day. Behind the palace, away from the city, away from prying eyes. And looking over everything.
The hole is ready. The coffin is lowered. And Ursa looks around at them all. Zuko, tall and proud, but with a sort of sadness and regret that wasn't the kind to heal with time; Mai, quiet and strong, keeping one hand on him at all times to support him; and little Kaza, thumb between her lips, hand clasped in her mother's, staring without comprehension at the wooden box as they began to shower it in earth.
"With the death of the sun, we celebrate and mourn the death of the firebender…unlike the sun, not to be reborn on this world as we know it…"
She thinks she can see a tear in her son's eye, but she can't be sure. Instead, she tears her gaze away and looks into the sunset. Crimson and bright—and slowly fading. Slowly sinking.
Slowly falling.
"You are crying," Ozai whispers as sobs rack Ursa's body. She can hardly breathe to speak—but he has already moved to a kneeling position in front of her, peering into her face with a certain child-like curiosity. "Don't cry," he says quietly, wiping her tears away with the back of his hand.
She feels something wet on her face that is not her tears.
Her hand finds his. She pulls it away, placing it in the faint light of the torch, and gasps.
"Ozai," she breathes in utter shock and fear. "What did you do?" His torn and bloody knuckles are obvious in the light, the skin shredded and the flesh wide open for the world to see. Crimson.
"I don't know," he chokes, tears forming in his eyes. "I don't know."
They don't know how it happened, they say. He is just dead. Just dead. That's what they whisper in the streets.
"He just died."
They don't know the reason. They don't know why. They don't know how.
He is just dead.
Ursa sits by the window, arms around her knees like she used to when she was in her wistful youth, staring at the sunrise. Rebirth. Like a phoenix.
Her eyes flick downwards, studying the veil in her hands, white and pure. Pure with innocence, pure with love, pure with goddamn good intentions. Visions appear, visions of another sunrise in another life: a wedding, white and bright and musical and beautiful. A strong young man looking down on her with devotion. What she thought was devotion.
Maybe it really had been devotion all along.
Her fingers trail along the edge of the wedding veil, tracing the patterns. Flames, flowers…a large bird rising above it all, showered in flames and ashes…
The veil flutters to the floor as she raises a hand to her mouth to muffle the sudden sob. She had not cried. Not even at the funeral. Not since that night.
More tears sting her eyes as she sees the confusion and pain in Ozai's face. His mind was falling apart—and she was being forced to watch.
Her fingers find his cheek, and he leans into them gingerly, his eyes never leaving her face. "You were always enough for me," she says softly. "Always. I never needed anything more."
He just stares. A single tear rolls down his face.
She takes a deep, shaking breath. She lets it fill her up, comfort her, give her strength. Strength she doesn't want, never wanted. "And I won't let you die alone," she breathes at last. "I won't."
"I will die," he says hoarsely. She can hear the fear, the desperation. She moves closer, hugs his frail body to her once more.
"You will not die alone."
Her chambers seem so empty. Even the gentle light of the sunrise isn't enough to fill them. They are still hollow, lonely. Silent. She is alone.
"And I will die alone," she realizes aloud, her cheeks stained with tears as she stands in the middle of her empty bedroom. "I may have saved Ozai. But he will never be able to save me.
"I will die alone."
He is limp in her arms now, just like before. "My flower…" he is murmuring. "My flower, my flower…"
"Hush," she says gently, pulling a cord around her neck up from beneath her nightgown. "I am here. I will not leave you."
"You left me," he says automatically.
She looks down at him sadly, and whispers: "And I will not leave you again." Dangling at the end of the cord is a vial, clear as crystal. She uncorks it, and lifts it to the light. The fire of the torch seems to dance in its depths. "Drink this," she says—and her traitorous mouth that doesn't seem to be her own: it never falters. "Drink this, and it will all go away."
He complies obediently. Too obediently.
He is well and truly gone.
"It will all go away," he repeats. "All of it?"
She brushes his forehead lovingly. "All of it."
"All of it," he says again with a deep sigh. "All of it, all of it."
"That's right," she says. All she can do is wait. Wait like Death for the time to come, with patience eternal.
A few minutes pass. She rocks him, hums lullabies she remembers (he remembers too). Gently strokes his face, cradles him to her, warms him.
"Ursa," he says suddenly at the end of a lullaby. She looks down. His eyes are closed, his hand wrapped tightly around one of hers. "Promise me you won't forget me."
Sorrow closes in around her once again.
"I promise," she replies. "I promise."
He smiles, opening his eyes—and there is that glow. There's the fire, the passion, the life. Rising to the surface only when they are of no more use. "You always had my heart," he whispers, wiping away the blood he had put on her cheek. "Always. And you will always keep it."
The time has come. Death has descended.
Warm tears are running down her cheeks again, and she presses his hand to her cheek in an attempt to keep it there. To keep it from falling. "I love you, Ozai," she whispers passionately, her voice breaking into a million pieces with her heart. "I love you."
The smile appears again, devoted and caring and with the air of someone gazing at pure beauty, at peace…then it slowly fades.
And his hand falls from her cheek.
Ursa is curled on her bed, on the quilt, on the pillows, dressed and made up for court. For once more flitting amongst the butterflies, simpering and smiling and laughing at that which neither requires nor deserves laughter. For being caged.
Sobs no longer rise to her throat, but tears are steadily dripping on to her pillowcase, making a dark stain on the golden fabric. Bright gold, deep gold, gold fiery with affection—
She takes a deep breath, and buries her face in her pillow. There is somewhere she needs to go.
The courtyard looks beautiful in the early morning. The slanted sunlight casts long shadows, makes everything glitter in the dew. Ursa feels the cold, wet grass beneath the soles of her feet, feels the wet edge of her skirt slowly getting dirtier and dirtier. But the feeling is too wonderful, and she has missed it for too long to care. Far too long.
The bench is still where it was, exactly the same. Ageless. Timeless. The stone is no more worn than it was. It is cold when she gently lowers herself upon it, seating herself lightly in the sunlight.
If she looks, she can see them. The ghosts. Walking around the paths, picking flowers from the trees, sitting in the shade, throwing bread into the pond. Holding hands. Playing games. A girl and a boy. A woman and a man. The woman is tall and dignified, with a determination in her eyes to make any man tremble. The man is tall and proud, his expression confident and his steps sure. Both are dark-haired, bright-eyed, and alive with fire and passion and life.
She watches with a growing sadness as the ghosts pass by, figments of her imagination and memory, transparent reminders of a time long past.
"Sometimes I hate this place," the ghost says as he throws bread into the water. The other ghost looks up with interest.
"Why?" she asks curiously, eyes wide with concern. He scowls slightly.
"I feel as if I'm in a cage, Ursa," he replies, and the old woman sitting on the bench presses a hand to her chest at the sudden pain. "You give me my only freedom."
She ducks her head. "I am glad to give you companionship, Ozai," she says shyly. "But I simply do not see how I could give you any more freedom than any of the other noblewomen."
This makes him chuckle: and in a moment, he kisses her softly on the lips, catching her by surprise. The old woman can watch no more.
Ursa stands suddenly and turns away, her stomach twisted and her chest contracted. Things had changed so much. So much. That had been a different world. A different lifetime.
Then she sees the tree. And she stops. Two ghosts sit beneath the tree, leaning against one another and looking up into the sky.
"There's one," the ghost says happily, pointing her finger upwards. "A shooting star. What do you wish for, Ozai?"
He frowns a little in thought. "There is a lot I would like to wish for," he replies seriously. "I would like to wish that I were the older brother. I would like to wish that my father would take me seriously. I would like to wish that this courtyard was ours, and only ours. And I would like to wish that I had more time to spend with you." He turns to her then, a faint smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. "What about you, Ursa? You must make a wish."
She laughs, a colorful sound even as a memory, and the old woman slowly falls to her knees in the cold, wet grass. "You wish for so much, my love. I? I wish for nothing."
Ozai's eyes go wide. "Nothing? Nothing at all?"
She laughs again, and her arms encircle his neck. "Nothing. You are enough. You are enough for me."
A happy, relieved smile slowly makes its way across the young man's face before she kisses him.
The old woman can no longer control her pain, and screams in agony to the sunrise.