"On behalf of the United Forces, we regret to inform you of the untimely death of General-in-Chief, Prince of the Fire Nation--"
The words fade from the thick parchment in her hands. Bureaucratic proclamation, an attempt at compassion that feels far too thin for the weight they carry. The aged master hardly sees them, doesn't linger on the sterile explanation or the vague details of memorials planned. Not yet.
Instead, her mind turns inward. To a time before rank beyond birthright. Summer days spent beneath the warmth of the Caldera sun, children's laughter & shrieks of delight that yet knew no worry for the world around them echoing throughout palace halls & courtyard trees. To toothy grins, bright eyes, & proud declarations of victory rewarded not with medals or valor, but with simple sweets & the promise of another day to conquer waiting just beyond the horizon.
The first tear falls silently, unnoticed as she folds the notice slow, the sound of carefully pressed paper deafening in the silence of her empty home. Her hands are reverent, delicate even now as if the gentle care she showed to the message it held within could be felt elsewhere. Somewhere far beyond the limits of her humble southern home.
For now, she thinks not of the soldier, but the boy.
She weeps bitterly for what the world has lost, far before its time. She weeps a goodbye she hoped to never make, a heart already so heavy-laden with the grief of loss splintering impossibly further for the space to carry one more. When she thought there had surely been no more room to give. / </3
My muse is dead, tell me how yours responds to the news || accepting
