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Uncle came to visit the week of Zuko’s seventh birthday.
He stayed in the biggest guest room, and didn’t bring his son. He never liked to have Lu Ten spend much time with Ozai.
Iroh watched his brother closely for the whole visit. He watched Ursa touch the children, normal, maternal touches that Zuko positively melted into and Azula tolerated with a distain that didn’t fit her tiny face.
He watched Ozai at dinner, as he surveyed his wife and children like particularly uninteresting extras in a story starring himself.
Iroh watched Azula, and saw how she turned to her father for acceptance and permission for every move. How she relentlessly checked his reactions and adapted herself to produce more positive outcomes.
He watched Zuko, and worried.
He worried about how hard it was to catch the boy’s eye.
He worried how sharply he reacted to being touched unexpectedly.
He worried at how vehemently the boy refused to eat unless the food met specifications Iroh wasn’t sure he even knew.
He worried at the cold, unfeeling look his brother got when he looked at his only son.
Iroh watched the children play, and noticed how Azula would pretend to fight monsters and men with her quickly developing martial arts skills. He noticed that Zuko, who had been learning for two years longer, seemed to struggle to balance, to follow the precise movements, as perfectly as his little sister. He flashed desperately confused looks at Azula as she played pretend, not understanding how to imagine combatants.
Iroh watched the boy tense up when his father watched him practice, so nervous that any skill Iroh had observed disappeared under Ozai’s gaze.
Early in the morning of Zuko’s birthday, Iroh took him shopping. He had barely spent five full days with his nephew since the boy had learned to walk, and had no idea what to give him.
They walked in companionable quiet through empty streets, and Iroh noticed Zuko’s hands twitch and tap against his thighs.
They spent some time in a toy store, and Zuko seemed unimpressed with the toys. Iroh noticed a small gravitation towards a large, floppy stuffed duck, but Zuko shook his head when Iroh offered it.
Zuko told him that his father didn’t like stuffed animals. Zuko told him he wouldn’t want the duck to feel sad, so it would be better if it went home to another child.
Iroh’s heart squeezed at the joint realization that this was the most emotional understanding he’d seen from the boy — towards a stuffed toy rather than a human — and that his nephew knew that his home was unhappy.
They moved on from the toy store.
Iroh almost missed his nephew’s sudden halt in the street, because the shop was so innocuous. A tiny antique dealer, nestled between a book shop and a cafe.
But the boy’s face lit up as he moved inexorably towards the window display.
Above shelves and shelves of random old knick knacks rested on faded painted boxes, hung two swords, crossed in the center.
Zuko stared at them, spell bound.
Before the boy had time to protest the purchase, Iroh had the clerk wrap the swords and their sheath in brown paper and handed over his credit card.
Zuko could barely breathe with excitement, his tiny hands fluttering excitedly at his sides, his entire body bouncing with each step.
As they walked back to Ozai’s house, the boy regaled him with an excited, jumpy monologue about ancient Chinese sword fighting, his story riddled with dates and facts as he ran through techniques, taking his uncle on a verbal tour of half a dozen different factions, different ways of using the blades, different ways of honoring ancient gods with movement and balance and power.
Iroh smiled down fondly at the tiny boy with raven hair and golden eyes as he practically danced with excitement, hands flapping wildly in front of him.
Zuko told him about the play his mother had taken him to for his birthday, where the Blue Spirit wielded his dual swords with skill that had taken Zuko’s breath away.
He didn’t stop talking until they reached the house. He fell immediately silent as Iroh opened the door.
Iroh went straight from the morgue to his brother’s house. It hadn’t been difficult to identify the body of his son, even though one side of his skull was so ruined by the other car’s impact.
He had no other family to go to, and Ozai didn’t miss the opportunity to mention it.
Iroh didn’t even notice the jab as he cradled the cup of tea Ursa had forced into his hands.
After three days spent lying on the guest bed, switching relentlessly between silent tears and raging anger, channeling both into hours of meditation and carefully controlled katas, Iroh emerged into the remainder of his family.
Zuko didn’t seem to fully understand that Lu Ten would not be coming back from the hospital. That he would never see his cousin again. That his uncle no longer had a son.
Azula’s face remained completely blank and impassive, glancing at her father every few minutes to check that he still approved.
Ursa enveloped him in a bone crushingly gentle hug, and whispered her sorrow into his ear.
Ozai, his baby brother, who he had tried and failed to protect from the world, said nothing. Iroh found that he was glad. He didn’t want to know what Ozai had to say.
Iroh followed the children into the garden to watch them practice. Azula’s perfect form as she punched and kicked at the air gained her a nod of approval from her father.
Zuko’s less coordinated movements didn’t even earn him a glance.
Iroh watched him wilt, and try again, his body becoming even more stilted and fumbling as his anxiety visibly rose.
Ozai went back inside half way through Zuko’s second attempt, barely concealing his disdain.
Iroh winced as Azula chuckled, throwing a casually condescending barb over her shoulder as she followed her father inside.
Iroh and Zuko looked at each other.
Zuko’s hands clenched and fluttered at his side, and his eyes flicked immediately away from Iroh to look at the door through which his father and sister had disappeared.
Without words, Zuko returned to his katas, running through the movements over and over.
Iroh’s heart, so carved out and empty from the devastation of loss, filled to the brim with the little boy. Zuko was so much like Lu Ten. Never still, never wavering, never giving up without a fight.
He noticed the immediate improvement that came from not being under his father’s scrutiny.
Iroh inquired about the blades.
The first smile he’d seen in days spread over the boy’s face, and he sprinted inside to retrieve them.
The swords balanced perfectly in his hands, a fluid extension of his own body.
The katas flowed impeccably, despite having not been designed for sword play. Zuko’s face lit up with indescribable pleasure, and he looked eagerly to Iroh for approval.
Iroh provided a grin and a word of encouragement immediately, and Zuko glowed with the praise, running through the movements over and over, desperate for more affirmation.
Iroh was more than happy to provide. Each perfect landing was met with applause, each perfectly timed kick and swipe earned a smile and congratulations.
The boy practiced until he was sweating through his clothes and breathing heavily.
Iroh didn’t see his brother as he watched from the window.
He didn’t connect Ozai’s interruption and snide comment about how a real fighter didn’t need to use blades to Zuko’s accident that evening until years later.
After all, it wasn’t so unusual for ten year olds to trap their fingers in doors.
Iroh waited until his nephew was asleep, the cold beeping of monitors filling the burn unit with tremulous peace, before he called his younger brother.
Ozai made no attempt to deny the horror he had inflicted on his only son. He knew the power he held over both the boy and the authorities, and allowed the smirk to seep into his voice.
Iroh channeled years of meditation and calming exercises to bring himself not to march over to the house and thrash his brother like he had thrashed the boy in front of him.
Iroh looked down at the swathes of bandages covering the boy’s eye and cheek. The blossoming bruises over the other side of his face. The wrapped ribs. The five unmistakable bruises on each of his forearms, so clearly from being grabbed and pulled. The broken nose and cracked front tooth.
The tear tracks down his face from the last time he had woken up, begging for forgiveness that had never come.
Iroh clenched his hands into fists and demanded the paperwork he would need to transfer his nephew into his home.
Ozai gave it up without a moment's thought. Iroh gripped the plastic side of the hospital bed so hard it cracked under his hand.
How dare he care so little? How dare he do this to his son? What Iroh wouldn’t give to have his own son back, safe and under his roof, and Ozai was happy to throw his away. How dare he?
Iroh demanded his nephew’s possessions, and Ozai informed him that everything had already been boxed up and moved to the garage, ready to be taken to the dump the next day.
Iroh saw red.
The drive from the hospital to Ozai’s house was short, and he halved the time, speeding recklessly through residential neighborhoods.
It was nearing darkness when he swerved into the driveway and yanked the garage door up.
A small pile of boxes greeted him, glaringly obvious. A stack of papers had been dumped on top of one of the boxes, and Iroh riffled through to find all of Zuko’s paperwork.
Anger swirled in his chest, and he wasted a few moments staring at the house, at the lights on in his brother’s bedroom, itching to let go, to allow the rage to rule him, to hurt the man who had dared hurt his nephew.
He breathed.
He would be of no use to Zuko in prison.
He turned back to the boxes and pulled out a penknife. He wouldn’t be able to take everything, and he would need to find the things Zuko would want.
His head whipped around as the door at the back of the garage creaked open.
He had almost forgotten about Azula.
The girl stood as straight as ever, her face carefully blank as she approached. But Iroh did not miss the redness of her eyes, or the shake in her hands.
This is the box you want, Azula pushed a box marked with a red line towards him with her foot. I helped pack.
Iroh scored through the tape with his knife and opened the box. There were the blades. Two hoodies he’d seen Zuko wear. A clear plastic envelope filled with photos of their mother. Three notebooks that looked worn and full. A stack of Ursa’s acting scripts. A key-ring sized teddy bear with one eye and flat fur across its head, like it had been stroked incessantly.
Tell him he’s not one of us anymore, Azula instructed, her face deliberately blank and her eyes shining with tears she would never allow to fall. Tell him he shouldn’t ever come back. Tell him he mustn’t come back.
Iroh offered to take her with him, and she refused. He offered to hug her, and she gave him a look of absolute disgust before turning away, sneaking back into the house in silence.
His heart sank. But Azula would be fine. He had never seen a negative interaction between her and her father, not even in retrospect. Ozai practically doted on her. Iroh didn’t want to think of the eleven year old alone with his brother. But Zuko had to come first, for now.
Iroh gathered the box of his nephew’s most precious possessions, and slammed the garage door on an old life.
Iroh watched his nephew carefully through the warm up katas. Without the swords in his hands he was still a little clumsy, but his newfound height and developing muscles helped to keep him steady and firm on the ground.
When the class was told to pick up their weapons, Zuko transformed.
He flowed through his movements like he was dancing with the blades, each step absolutely perfect, the intensity blazing off him.
The instructor nodded encouragingly, nudging his elbow up a quarter inch on a turn.
Zuko smiled at his teacher, correcting his posture.
Iroh’s heart warmed. The boy had spent the three years since his burn learning many things.
How to accept his teacher’s praise without defensively insisting that he was bad at the sport.
How to lean slightly left in all his positions, to compensate for the reduced hearing and vision on that side.
How to spin faster than Iroh had ever seen anyone move when he detected sound or movement in his blind spot.
How to give words of encouragement to younger students, without fear of spoiling them when they should be afraid of mistakes.
Zuko had learned so much, and Iroh was so proud.
While the children were getting changed into their street clothes at the end of class, the instructor approached Iroh, a wide smile adoring his strong features.
The boy is exceedingly talented, Iroh’s old friend shared like a secret, easily my best student. Absolute prodigy. He’s sixteen now, he can compete as an adult. He’ll win, too.
Iroh beamed. He signed the permission forms for Zuko to train and compete with the adults, barely able to contain his pride.
Zuko appeared from the locker room, damp and pink faced from his quick shower, clutching the strap of his backpack and itching to leave, to move to the next activity.
Iroh held up the signed permission form, and Zuko read it, a little frown appearing between his eyes.
Me? He asked quietly.
You. Iroh replied.
If Iroh was surprised by the sudden armful of sixteen year old boy, he didn’t show it, simply wrapping his arms tight around his nephew and holding on.
He’d only had one session in the adult class before he moved back in with his father.
By the time he got back, he was barely strong enough to hold the swords. Barely strong enough to do the warm up exercises.
Adult classes would have to wait for adulthood.
They’d booked the sparring room for two full hours, and Iroh had insisted on coming with them. He did not want the other boy to be responsible for making sure Zuko didn’t overexert himself and push his heart too far.
He’d seen the boy push himself past what his damaged heart could endure on too many occasions, and the dojo had insisted on supervision if he wanted to continue to come at all.
Zuko had submitted immediately, terrified of being kicked out of the only space in which he felt truly competent.
The old man sat in the back of the room, reading his book and trying not to pay too much attention to the boys on the sparring mat.
He watched as Zuko explained, with his characteristic enthusiasm when he was talking about something that excited him, how to hold the double blades.
Remember, Zuko’s rasping voice filled the space, they’re two halves of the same weapon. You can’t think of them as separate, because they’re not.
The other boy looked at his nephew in awe, taking the blades reverently in his hands. Zuko helped him adjust his grip, meticulously nudging his stance into a perfect starting point.
Iroh was pleased to see that after a few demonstrations, Zuko seemed happy to fall into the teaching role, rather than pushing himself to practice.
It was nice, watching him with the other boy, gently adjusting his poses, praising his katas, complimenting his achievements.
Iroh couldn’t help but sigh as he saw Zuko give his friend everything he had so desperately needed as a small child.
Ah.
Except for that.
Iroh flicked his eyes immediately to the ceiling, staring with rapt interest and an uncontrolled smile at a small spider web between the beams.
There was no need for him to witness the boys in that particular affirmation.