Somewhere in some dusty archive of the courts is a scroll marked "The Confession of Kuzon the Deserter." And all of it is a lie.
It wasn't me he lied for. He would never lie for me. He'd never met me. He was just my fiancé, who'd decided to bring dishonor on his family- dishonor on me, from which I never recovered- by deserting the Fire Nation army in its moment of greatest triumph.
Deserting me- a lady of the court, a fine match- and leaving me to a life of shame.
Not all shame. I married for love, but to a man so far below my station. I suppose by deserting, Kuzon freed me.
Freed me to spit on his grave. I chose a butler instead of you, and you chose a peasant instead of me.
And never even told me. No, he lied to everyone- to the courts, to the nation, to the army- and left everyone to believe that he was a traitor, but a traitor alone.
And then I found this. A letter she'd sent me.
I suppose she's dead. I hope it was some slow disease, eating away at her, slower than the execution my once-fiancé suffered.
I suppose I should open the letter, now, decades after it was sent. It's just a scrap of paper- so easy to burn. But I won't.
I'm dying myself, a gray haired grandmother, in a little cottage near Azulon's palace.
This letter can be buried with me.