It was cloudy that day.
“He thinks of the sharp gaze of his Grandfather as his voice carries with rising flames that once molded into small shapes as the sea breeze crept in and the sand welcomed an elderly man with his grandson.
Thinks of the way Azula’s smiles stopped sounding the same, when Father started wearing white robes and the sharp crown that once felt so light in his hands as his Father quietly told stories of dragons that were brutal and beautiful, when Uncle Iroh came back with hollow eyes and a distance that often felt the same stretch of distance his Mother had been when she had quietly woke him and told him that she loved him before she loosened her hold and never looked back.
Thinks of a pond. Thinks of a tree. Thinks of wispy feathers. Thinks of warm bread.
Thinks of a knife. Thinks of the blade’s message.
He wonders if his cousin chose it, wonders if it was exchanged or taken, if it’s been used before.
Wonders if he knew of the poison slipped into grandfather’s drink, if he saw him survive.”