(Misread your prompt the first time, working on the thing proper, but this is what I came up with in the meanwhile)
Fire Lord Ozai had never really thought of himself as expecting to be a grandfather.
Oh, he’d imagined his future, strong and unconquerable above a world that acknowledged his greatness, and he’d assumed that his heirs, and thus eventually their heirs, would come along in a sort of natural result of that.
When fatherhood had come upon him, he’d been- he’d assumed it would be a good thing. Ursa was ecstatic, and he took joy in watching her light up from within, warm and protective and sneaking little looks at him and grinning like he was in on the joke.
He hadn’t had the heart to break her of the notion, and he’d thought between them, their children would surely be glorious.
The slow series of disappointments had soured him on the notion, even as his secondborn overtook the first and made great strides in becoming the sort of potential monarch that would always end up on the top of the heap. The kind that must be encouraged, and praised, and delicately pointed in appropriate directions so they didn’t get the wrong ideas- the kind that he had once been.
His daughter, though- at times, he could almost be moved to pity. Born too early, and started too late! She tried. And tried. And inevitably was nothing more than a buffer, between him and Azulon (both father and son, cage and key)- between him and his wife.
That Ursa had chosen to leave him as acceptable losses, when seeking to keep ahold of her useless child-
But that was many years ago. The wounds had healed. Getting everything you ever wanted- even with great sacrifice- could prove a great balm. They had both gotten what they wanted, and given up their greatest love for it, and that had been that.
The scandal had been convenient. Let all paths lead to a victory- with Zura out of the way, Azulon could be both groomed and controlled. If she and her theoretical whelp were lost, no great trouble. If- by some miracle- her trials made her a stronger contender, made her strong enough to get away with her small crimes (for even treason of the body could, and had been, forgiven for enough loyalty of spirit in the past)- well, that would be of benefit as well.
That had settled the matter for a number of years, and he had returned to the business of running a busy empire and a hungry war. The vagaries of parenthood were no longer his concern.
Then miracle of miracles- the prodigal daughter had returned home, victory in one hand, child in the other- and suddenly, he was a grandfather of all things. He had no silver in his beard, and a hundred years in front of him if he was very strong and lucky, and it was hard to feel old and lonesome when the heart that cared about such things had been ripped out a long time ago.
But there she was. Wriggling in his daughter’s arms, under her haunted eyes- bright and sparkling and reaching out to touch the flames that did not deign to burn her. A true prodigy, as her mother’s brother had been- and him with no need to offer her up as a sacrifice to his judging elders-and-betters.
He’d held her in his arms, and if that old, aching trickle of warmth, of treacherous hope had welled up again- no one could blame him but himself.
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timeasmymeasure
Ozai's Reaction to Lan Min
Date: 2010-10-21 12:01 pm (UTC)Fire Lord Ozai had never really thought of himself as expecting to be a grandfather.
Oh, he’d imagined his future, strong and unconquerable above a world that acknowledged his greatness, and he’d assumed that his heirs, and thus eventually their heirs, would come along in a sort of natural result of that.
When fatherhood had come upon him, he’d been- he’d assumed it would be a good thing. Ursa was ecstatic, and he took joy in watching her light up from within, warm and protective and sneaking little looks at him and grinning like he was in on the joke.
He hadn’t had the heart to break her of the notion, and he’d thought between them, their children would surely be glorious.
The slow series of disappointments had soured him on the notion, even as his secondborn overtook the first and made great strides in becoming the sort of potential monarch that would always end up on the top of the heap. The kind that must be encouraged, and praised, and delicately pointed in appropriate directions so they didn’t get the wrong ideas- the kind that he had once been.
His daughter, though- at times, he could almost be moved to pity. Born too early, and started too late! She tried. And tried. And inevitably was nothing more than a buffer, between him and Azulon (both father and son, cage and key)- between him and his wife.
That Ursa had chosen to leave him as acceptable losses, when seeking to keep ahold of her useless child-
But that was many years ago. The wounds had healed. Getting everything you ever wanted- even with great sacrifice- could prove a great balm. They had both gotten what they wanted, and given up their greatest love for it, and that had been that.
The scandal had been convenient. Let all paths lead to a victory- with Zura out of the way, Azulon could be both groomed and controlled. If she and her theoretical whelp were lost, no great trouble. If- by some miracle- her trials made her a stronger contender, made her strong enough to get away with her small crimes (for even treason of the body could, and had been, forgiven for enough loyalty of spirit in the past)- well, that would be of benefit as well.
That had settled the matter for a number of years, and he had returned to the business of running a busy empire and a hungry war. The vagaries of parenthood were no longer his concern.
Then miracle of miracles- the prodigal daughter had returned home, victory in one hand, child in the other- and suddenly, he was a grandfather of all things. He had no silver in his beard, and a hundred years in front of him if he was very strong and lucky, and it was hard to feel old and lonesome when the heart that cared about such things had been ripped out a long time ago.
But there she was. Wriggling in his daughter’s arms, under her haunted eyes- bright and sparkling and reaching out to touch the flames that did not deign to burn her. A true prodigy, as her mother’s brother had been- and him with no need to offer her up as a sacrifice to his judging elders-and-betters.
He’d held her in his arms, and if that old, aching trickle of warmth, of treacherous hope had welled up again- no one could blame him but himself.