I'm not sure when my wife began to irritate me. It came slowly, slightly, overtaking me before I realized what had happened.

And I found a flaw.

Her frown, that frown of sadness, aged her piercing eyes and showed how soft her jawline had always been. I'd never noticed before, but now it plagued me. It glared like a noon day sun—too soft, too weak.

I'd seen that sadness in her eyes too many times. When her mother died. When her father betrothed her. When I broke her heart by walking away. When we lost our daughter. Whenever the morning of Azula's birthdays came and we'd visit the pond in silence. When I walked away again in pursuit of a wild goose chase. When I came home only to kill a man in front of her and our children.

Now it was her natural state of being. Now it shone every time her stained eyes met mine, an angel somehow made ugly, reminding me again and again who was to blame.

Time turned weeks into years.

And the more it passed, the less often I caught glimpses of my prince, my Ozai.

I missed Azula like a fish on the shore, but she seemed much happier, kinder, and occasionally almost slightly gentler. She seemed to love school and everything she studied, triumphing at being the top of her class in every subject. My fierce, beautiful firebender would come home eager to hug me and hear my stories, though Ozai remained her clear favorite, at least once a month. She could usually get through a full day before quarrelling with Zuko. She'd renewed her friendship with Ty Lee, and she'd befriended Li Mei's daughter.

This development worried me at first, but I refused to project my biases against the mother on to the child as well. Meeting her relieved all my fears. Mai was timid in the extreme, so sweet and shy, selfless, clever, dutiful, and nothing like her mom. She had a morality and compassionate heart that her mother could not quash—in addition to a massive crush on Zuko that amused me endlessly.

Even Ozai couldn't always resist a smirk at her deep blushing.

Both of these girls seemed to follow her more than hold her accountable, which disappointed me somewhat, but they were kind, loving girls who really were her friends and really saw the best in her, even when Azula couldn't see it herself, perhaps even when I couldn't see it, and I appreciated them so much for that, hoping they could teach and challenge her more as they grew older, hoping she would prioritize their love over their fear.

Zuko, my brave, beautiful boy, brought me more joy than words could say. In so many ways, he was everything his father could have been as a boy, if only he'd had the unconditional love and support he needed, if only he hadn't bought into the lies and fears and prophecies of everyone around him.

Zuko didn't have his father's talent, of course. Not for firebending, nor manipulation, nor obsessive memorization of military strategies throughout history… His natural swordsmanship meant little to a family of firebending prodigies, but I saw his skill and heart and strength when no one else did, and Ozai supported it on occasion, even if he viewed it more as a consolation prize than something to take pride in. Ozai tried to be a good father to Zuko, but it clearly felt like more an effort than being a good father to Azula did, not that he gave her what she needed either.

I couldn't criticize this in him anymore. It was pointless, and it only served to distance us more and more.

Assuming such a thing was possible.

"You didn't make her, you know," Iroh had said years ago, not long after I returned from my so-called mission. "You don't own her."

"And she didn't make me."

"No," he agreed after a moment, speaking under his breath. "But it would've been better if she had."

I didn't react in the least, which galled him into saying more.

"She has always been beautiful. You saying it did not cause it. Meeting you didn't bring her any happiness that wasn't already there. You took a child who was loved before you and made her feel like none of that was real. She has always loved you and never owed you a thing, but you continually make her feel like indebted to you beyond anything she could ever pay. You owe her everything so stop making her out to be the fortunate one."

He calmed down after this harangue, realizing it meant nothing, and changed tactics, appealing to our memories instead, the only proof he had of my humanity or emotion.

"I warned you once to not idealize her, to not put her on a pedestal and begin to love the idea of Ursa more than the woman herself. I warned you no one could live up to that forever."

He said this so calmly and righteously that, somehow, it sparked a defense.

"Perhaps you should have reminded me before I left to wage a war."

"Perhaps you should've been willing to listen just once."

I fumed before lowering the mask for the last time with him, speaking the blunt truth he'd wanted from me for so long.

"I have listened, Iroh. I have always listened, even when you haven't, and I have always seen you fail to live out your own advice."

Iroh was too exhausted to wince, though I could see the point struck him as justified.

"I have never claimed to be perfect, Ozai."

"Claimed? Of course not," I scoffed. "Your actions, your manner, your posturing speaks louder than all your fancy words and philosophical meanderings."

"As does your deceit. You want the throne, Ozai? You can have it! You'll find thathistory is not always kind to its subjects."

I scoffed again and stormed out, at the time still viewing the accusation as ridiculous, but Iroh sensed the change in me and the changes yet to come. He knew what was coming, where my constant thirst and ambition would lead me, before I did, but he had resigned to fate.

For a while, I would go to Iroh for a shoulder, for some form of comfort or advice. My hopes were raised and dashed every single day, draining me in a way that only love could, leaving me with just enough energy to dream. I always found a way to torment myself with that, and I would go to Iroh for insight, for ideas on how to fan dying embers into flames, for confirmation that I was not insane.

But after a while, talking with him proved to feed into that same cycle of self-destruction and despair, unable to give me hope or energy because every conversation proved how futile my efforts were, how hopeless we both were to restore a thing or heal this cause. We talked about anything else because it hurt me too much, because I loved Ozai too dearly to say it anymore, and Iroh loved me too dearly to see me hurt.

Every once in a while, something would still slip out.

"There's a phrase you used to say," I reminded him once. "You never do anymore. 'The strongest metals—like the strongest wills—are the most brittle. Under enough pressure, the most unbendable shatter most irreparably."

He didn't respond and refused to meet my gaze.

Once, I overheard him giving some fatherly advice to Lu Ten, a lesson on the importance of balance, peace, harmony, and drawing wisdom from different places, but all I could picture was the Dragon of the West in battle. He must've seen the thought in my eyes because he said, "I know my place, Ursa. I play the role I'm supposed to play, and I'm very good at it. I'm not cruel. Fierce, yes, but never cruel."

It was an excuse, a justification for violence I'd heard my entire life, but I couldn't swallow it any more, least of all from him.

I hadn't said his wife's name because he hadn't, but I could see him miss her quite often, and he could see miss Ozai even more, accidentally letting things slip that I saw right through.

"There are worse things than being alone," Iroh said once near the turtle duck pond.

I don't recall the context of our conversation, but it's double meaning was a knife to my heart.

"Like two people feeling alone whenever they're together," I stated simply, staring at the water.

His brow furrowed and he immediately tried to comfort me, denying it.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

I replied with iron firmness, spurning his softness for reality, and he couldn't argue with that.

Time passed so much that I no longer wished for Ozai to turn around and look at me, much less reach for me. Time passed so much that I barely had the will to reach for him. There were days when I ached for some reaction, any reaction, out of Ozai. It didn't have to be tender or kind. It could be angry and violent and loud and cruel. So long as it had some emotion that was real. Something that wasn't another mask.

I couldn't stop wanting it. I couldn't stop believing in it. In him. That he was still there, beneath that cold, chiseled chest. That his eyes could blaze again. That he still loved me more than anything even if he couldn't show it. I couldn't stop loving and hoping and fighting even if it killed me. There was a constant cycle of uncertain hope and uncertain despair. I refused to believe he was lost to me, had never returned to me, was choosing something other than me, and had decided that was more important than our love…

Until I learned that Zhao was in the capital to receive a promotion.

Ursa burst into my training room as though someone had scarred one of her children and she wanted me to set the culprit aflame.

And yet, the expression on her face held no anger, nor even sorrow. There wasn't fear, but there was shock, confusion, as though her world was spinning and she needed someone to straighten it again.

As though she needed someone to confirm what her ears could not believe.

"Ursa?" he asked when I couldn't speak, crossing over to me and reaching for me as I'd wanted him to for so long.

But I couldn't cherish that. I could barely notice it. I couldn't register the concern on his face.

"I… I thought I heard… someone said…"

I couldn't say the name aloud, but he saw me mouth it.

Ozai tensed and a veil of steel fell over his gaze.

"That fool…" he hissed. "I told him to stay away from the palace. Ursa, you know I'll make sure you never have to see that coward ever again. The fact that you've even heard his name is… You know, I'd never let—"

"I knew that Zhao would never advance in the Fire Navy, but now he's being promoted."

We both knew that I understood enough of Ozai's meetings and dealings to recognize that, at this point, no one in any branch of the military could be promoted without Ozai's consent.

"Ursa…"

I hated the way he said my name now. I hated how much his voice had changed.

I hated how much I still loved his eyes, how much they were trying and failing to shine for me.

I reached for her, vainly hoping that holding her could comfort her, but she stepped back, eyes filled to the brim, and that frown…

Don't give me that pathetic frown, I resisted the urge to growl when she looked at me, hating myself instantly for the thought, for the reaction when she was in so much pain.

"There's only reason I can think of why you would permit… Only one thing you could possibly want, but if you do want it…" I trailed off, recalling the first morning of our married life together.

"Ozai!" I cried, leaping out and blinking at him in more than a little horror. "Never say that again! Ozai, you cannot… You must not say that."

"I'm sorry," he apologized immediately, climbing out and reaching for me. "I did not mean it. It was just a thought I had for one moment and, foolishly enough, I said it aloud as it formed."

"Is that what you want?"

"Ursa."

"Because the moment you want… that, you'll lose me Ozai. You know that, don't you? You know we can't, I can't—"

She knew I never did well with ultimatums.

"I will fight for us with the last breath in my body, but I beg you, Ozai. Do not make me fight alone." "Never. I swear, Ursa, I will never leave you."

He said it so sincerely, with so much of my old Ozai in his eyes and voice, that I almost believed him.

"You've broken every promise you've ever made," I realized.

"I meant each one when I—"

"You know that's not how promises work. A vow is a vow, regardless of time, place, or circumstance. Or does a prince's promise mean nothing?"

There was a strength and conviction in her I hadn't seen in years.

There was an apathetic finality to his next words, a brutal honesty that showed how fully aware he was of what he said and what it meant to me and to us.

The masks came off.

"When he becomes Fire Lord, it doesn't."

She blinked back tears of pain and anger, but not of disbelief. She stepped back, no longer blinded by love, certain of something for the first time in years.

My prince was gone.