Sinful Sundays: Promise
Zuko pressed his lips to Azula’s cold forehead and brushed her hair back. She looked so peaceful with her eyes closed—without a hint of them being squeezed too tight—and her lips pressed softly together, painted in a red and glossy tint. Her hands were clasped together, resting on her stomach. He brushed his hand over her pale cheek.
He could almost pretend that she was just sleeping, save for that she had always preferred to sleep on her belly with her hands under her head. And that she no longer had the feeling nor scent of fire that usually hung around her. It was funny how everyone seemed to think she would have wanted to be presented before everyone wearing ridiculously expensive perfume. If they knew her like he did they’d know that she much preferred smelling like smoke and rather hated the overwhelming fragrances that perfumes made.
He choked back a bubble of sorrow that had slowly formed in his throat.
Her hand felt like ice beneath his and no matter what he did he couldn’t seem to warm it. His stomach lurched at the thought. He couldn’t quite fathom…couldn’t quite grasp how someone who had marshalled fire so skillfully could radiate such coolness.
Zuko clenched his teeth. Only a few days ago they sat together on the palace roof. He had told her of his plans for the nation and vented about how being Fire Lord kind of blows. She had told him that she was rather fond of her position as a Fire Warrior and thanked him for helping her realize that her destiny lie exactly there. That she had always longed for the welfare and glory of her nation and that there was no better way to uphold that than to be out there fighting.
It really should have surprised him to know that she’d die in battle. Azula always had a thing for going down with pride and dignity. He could never imagine her retreating, even if it would cost her, her life. He just didn’t think it would happen so soon.
On that night—the night before she departed—Zuko had asked Azula to promise him that she’d come back. He followed that up by requesting that she promise that if things went south, she’d surrender this time—given how she’d narrowly missed death last time.
On that night Azula looked at him and declared that she couldn’t promise anything of the sort. That, in fact, she could promise only the opposite—that if things went downhill she’d stay and fight harder. That she would make sure she could get as many of her warriors to safety first.
Things had went very south that day. Zuko received few details about the nature of her death and the death of many others as the coroner his subjects found the story to grizzly to vocalize. He looked down at Azula’s mostly unblemished body and wondered what they meant. They hadn’t had to patch her up beyond hiding a few cuts and bruises.
He wondered if the blades she fought against were poisoned.
Zuko fought to push a vision of his sister struggling against a poison; her mouth lightly frothing, breaths hard to taken, her body going limp and slightly discolored out of his head.
He carefully hoisted Azula’s body against his own and hugged it tightly while running a hand over her thick, well-groomed locks. Days ago he would have felt her heart beating against his, the rhythmic and comforting rise and fall of her chest and her breath on the nape of his neck.
The Azula he held now was stiff and could not provide him with the condolence he sought.
He missed her.
He loved her.
He wanted her back. A tear slid down his cheek and slipped into her hair. He could practically feel Azula punching his arm, telling him to “stop crying you little bitch.” Which never helped at all but he’d give anything in the world to hear it again.
Zuko felt a tap on his shoulder. “It’s time for the ceremony to begin.” The voice stated before urging him to put his sister down. But he didn’t want to see her off…couldn’t let her go.
He leaned over and whispered in her hear, “why couldn’t you have just promised me?”
