How she'd sit beside him at the head of the table, state "No politics at dinner" then deftly tune the chords of the conversation so when politics were discussed, never in her presence, the song was his. Pacts made, treaties signed, deals brokered.
How with a glance she'd encourage their children to try again, but never made them fear.
How beside the window, fresh from her bath, the morning sun created sparks of red and gold in her hair.
How she exercised till sweat beaded on her brow never ceding the belief that someday she'd walk again.
"You inspire me Azula," Sokka said once, kneeling beside her wheelchair. "Every poem every novel I write, from you.
"You inspire my writing as well," she told him.
He stood, laughing. "You write math, science, history, logic. Am I as dull as that?"
Azula placed her hands on his shoulders, pulled him down onto the bed, facing her.
"I write my life everyday Sokka. How I love you and our children, how I speak to the servants, host charity balls. My life's what I write. Without you my book would be anger, hate, fear, lonliness. You inspire me Sokka. You're my muse."