[SEPT 3] [AVATAR] THEY'RE LIVING THINGS TO ME

[fulselden.livejournal.com]

Title: They're Living Things To Me
Day/Theme: Sept 3 - "the sleep of reason produces monsters"
Series: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Character(s): Azulon, Ozai, Ursa, Zuko, Azula
Rating: G

 

Blindfold, in the dark, with the brush of a finger, I could tell one from the other. They’re living things to me; they know me, they return the touch of my hand.

Henry James, The Spoils of Poyton.

 

Brick red shadows slammed out across the palace courtyard as guards raised up the banners, long stiff slabs of silk. The sky was grey with heat, the high roofs wavering against it as if held in still water. Ladies fussed and fluttered in the dark hallway behind the royal family, their robes crisping across the floor, fans jerking the air back and forth.

 

Prince Ozai stood beside his father, his wife a step behind him, their daughter in her arms. Their son, almost three years old now, stood at one side, between the dowagers Li and Lo, clutching unsteadily at their robes.  His mouth was wet and sticky; the ladies had been giving him sweets. Ahead, the courtyard was massed with nobles, palace functionaries, military staff, their heads bowed. Fire Lord Azulon raised a hand.

“I am here,” he said, “to witness the naming of my grand-daughter.”

Ozai’s wife stepped forward, her hair sheeting briefly white as she passed into the sun. She held the child out to the waiting Fire Sages, who gathered to streak her hands and feet and mouth with wet red oil. The baby squirmed in her mother’s arms, mouth quirking ominously. Azulon raised a whisper of fire in his hand, almost invisible in the sunlight. The Fire Sages stepped back.

 

The Fire Lord tipped his hand out over the princess, flames licking the oil. The baby blinked, stilled. A good omen. Her mother raised her before the crowd.

“Azula,” announced the Fire Lord, “Fifth of the blood.”

He turned, nodded at his son, swept back into the glinting dark of the palace. The crowd rippled as he left.

 

Ursa was smiling down at their daughter, wiping at the last traces of oil with a finger. The world around Ozai suddenly turned small and hot, a tight red snarl of palace towers and courtyards and powdered old ladies. His wife would be one of them someday, mouthing at sugared squares of plum jelly in the second best apartments, their daughter behind her laughing into her sleeve. The sun twisted above him, the sky stretched and filmy. His son looked up at him, eyes squinting against the light. His daughter mouthed at her mother’s finger, tiny and pale with heat. The crowd waited.

 

“It’s a fine name,” his wife said, absently enough. She touched his sleeve.

Ozai bowed his head, lifted a hand to his daughter’s face. Then he turned and led his family back through the rustling women into the palace, following his father. The banners dipped down into their shadows. The crowd broke apart behind him.