Chapter Text
95 Years After the Day of Glorious Light
The Dragon of the West demands unquestioning obedience from his soldiers. Prince Iroh expects much, much more from his son. As he surveys the tall, broad-shouldered young man standing in his tent, he thinks that life was a lot simpler before he introduced Captain Lu Ten to Admiral Jeong Jeong last year.
“Two weeks leave, no pay, that's your penance,” he instructs the boy. “You try something like this again, you're done here.”
His son’s eyes flash, but he is a loyal son. He will not disrespect his father, at least not to his face. “Fine.”
The General can tell that his son is not best pleased with him. That’s quite alright with him. The General is not best pleased with his son right now. “So let's make it three weeks, since you're so willing to agree with me!”
But Captain Lu Ten of the Fire Army doesn’t agree with him, he thinks furiously to himself as the boy turns abruptly on his heel and leaves without another word. He doesn’t see that the war brings Agni’s light to the Earth Kingdom – he doesn’t see that this is destiny, father and son together.
He doesn’t understand.
…
He doesn’t understand.
It was supposed to be destiny. They were meant to bring their superior way of life to the backwards Earth Kingdom. Fire was to take its rightful place, the weak was to serve the strong. Father and son were to bring glory to the Nation together.
But his son is gone.
His son is gone.
“In all my years of conquest, violence, slaughter, it was never personal. But I'll tell you now, what I'm about to do to this city… I'm going to enjoy it. Very, very much.”
The Dragon of the West barely hears Captain Zhao’s promises. How can Iroh enjoy anything this world has to offer, when his son is gone?
“Sound the retreat.”
His words are a broken whisper. He does not know whether his words are a General’s order or a desperate man’s helpless plea.
He doesn’t know what his subordinates do next, after he wanders back to his tent in a daze. After he hides his face in a shirt that still smells faintly of jasmine tea, under all the dirt and the mud and the –
and the earth
He doesn’t know when his tears start coming, or when his howls of grief turn to screams of pain as his tent burns down around him.
All he knows is that his son is gone.
…
“We’ve been here for six hundred days, General Iroh.”
“That is correct, Captain Zhao.”
There is the sound of grinding teeth. “And we’re just – leaving?”
Captain Zhao makes it seem so simple, Iroh thinks to himself. But then – Zhao is not leaving his heart behind. “We are.”
“With all due respect, General,” the captain begins, in a voice that is as far from respectful as Iroh has ever heard. “Why?”
“I say that every prince must desire to be considered merciful and not cruel.”
Too late, Iroh remembers the caveat Fire Sage Fukuyama had gone on to add to that statement. He thinks he can be excused his absent-mindedness; he has a lot on his mind, these days.
He is always too late to realize things, these days.
“He must, however, take care not to misuse this mercifulness,” Zhao finishes the quote with a triumphant air.
A prince ought to have no other aim or thought, nor select anything else for his study, than war and its rules and discipline, Fire Sage Fukuyama had once written. For this is the sole art that belongs to him who rules, and it is of such force that it not only upholds those who are born princes, but it often enables men to rise from a private station to that rank.
Iroh is strangely unsurprised that the brutish man in front of him knows Fukuyama. Captain Zhao is exactly the kind of man who would aspire to rise from private to prince.
“Remember, General.” The Captain’s voice is smug. “The hardest choices require the strongest wills.”
Iroh’s son had made the hardest choice, and Iroh is not strong enough to bear this grief.
“Dread it, run from it,” Zhao continues, a sneer curling on his lip as he looks out at the great wall of Ba Sing Se. “Destiny arrives all the same.”
Once, Iroh had thought that his destiny was to take Ba Sing Se. But Ba Sing Se has taken his son.
He thinks he understands now why Jeong Jeong seems so tired all the time. “And what would you know of destiny, Captain Zhao?”
But Zhao surprises him by answering his question – even more surprisingly, the captain seems to be sincere in his response.
“I was a young lieutenant serving under General Shu in the Earth Kingdom,” he explains. “I discovered a hidden library – underground, in fact…”
Zhao trails off, and Iroh sees his yellow eyes cloud over as he returns to a half-forgotten memory.
He will never forget his son’s hazel eyes.
“I know that my destiny is to bring glory to the Fire Nation,” Zhao states. Iroh does not envy him his uncomplicated assurance. “But it seems that I'm the only one who knows that. At least, I'm the only one with the will to act on it.”
You are not, Iroh wishes to scream at him. My son knew, my son acted, my son had honor –
“Wisdom gotten from age is better than the shell of a lion-turtle.”
Zhao frowns. “What?”
In Iroh’s experience – which is the crux of the matter – a man who does not care for proverbs is a man utterly lost. “Experience is the mother of wisdom, Captain Zhao.”
“Well,” Zhao allows, with a humorless smile and a mirthless laugh. “If you consider failure experience.”
For a moment, Iroh is tempted. He sees Zhao’s body lit up with lightning, cold fire burning his bones away to ash. He could say it was an Agni Kai, and nobody would dare question the Dragon of the West’s word.
But it will not bring back his son.
“I know what it's like to lose,” he says instead. “To feel so desperately that you're right, yet to fail nonetheless.”
Iroh had been desperate to fulfil his destiny. He wonders if his son had felt that desperation when his father had been so blind to his pleas. When his son had failed to convince him that they had to stop the fighting.
No…
When he had failed his son.
“Today, I lost more than you could know,” Iroh tells Zhao, feeling no triumph and no joy as the captain looks away. “But now is no time to mourn.”
No, he thinks miserably to himself, as he feels his inner fire turn cold. Now is no time to mourn.
Now is no time at all.
…
97 Years After the Air Nomad Genocide
Winter announces itself by wrapping its chilly fingers around Iroh’s joints and extremities. Iroh flatters himself to think that he is a fairly competent firebender, and so he does not especially feel the cold; be that as it may, it is a useful excuse to have ready to hand when he wishes to bring a gentle end to his conversations.
He had gotten the impression that his nephew would have quite liked to continue learning about how Lu Ten, of blessed memory, had turned against the war and spoken out against the Fire Army’s brutality. But Iroh is only a man, and he had not wished for the delicately fragrant taste of his jasmine tea to be spoiled by the involuntary addition of several droplets of saltwater.
That is how he finds himself now sitting in his cabin – alone, as he deserves to be, as is his right and his curse after all his wrongs. Now that Zuko has departed for the evening, he probably ought to get around to tidying away his Pai Sho board; the pieces are still set out as they had been when Iroh had mustered up the courage to interrupt their game and begin telling Zuko about how his cousin had been determined to never compromise on his principles.
Zuko had used the rock tile to cancel Iroh’s knotweed to good effect, doggedly drawing the endgame out for quite a few more turns than Iroh is used to. His nephew must be nearing a hundred defeats by now, but as they have not recorded a victor this game, Iroh may have to wait a little longer before his nephew has to make good on their wager and perform for the crew at Music Night.
He allows himself a moment to think fondly of his nephew; Zuko is determined to overcome any problem or difficulty that he encounters; resolved to never yield to difficulties and to win over his suffering. Iroh wishes that he might be capable of transforming Zuko’s suffering, yet he knows better than most that whilst saltwater tastes bitter, wisdom tastes sweet. If only his nephew could see that there is still beauty and humanity to be found amidst the hardships. Setbacks are setups for upcoming comebacks, as Ensign Takahashi always says, and the retired General Iroh knows this better than most.
Once, the Dragon of the West had believed that it was a matter of principle that the great walls of Ba Sing Se would fall to his siege. Fire was the superior element, and it was the natural order of things. He had believed that victory was inevitable, that they must win, because how could they fail when they were bringing Agni’s light to those who needed it? The Dragon had been arrogant and prideful in considering victory his by right. He had been blinded by the thought of glory, seduced by praise, convinced of his own superiority and the superiority of his element… and yet now Iroh realizes the truth.
Iroh has learnt much, but he knows he still has much to learn, and it has taken him far longer than it should have done to come even this far. But Iroh does not have to wait until he has attained perfection on some far-off distant day until he can start trying to make amends. Much as the white lotus flower brings forth its fruit and its flowers simultaneously, so too can an old fool be at the same time both remorseful penitent and contrite atoner – and Agni knows that Iroh has been derelict enough in his duty in the past.
To have faith in your principles means you must never compromise on them, Prince Zuko, he had recited. It is the harshest lesson he has ever learned.
“It wasn’t fair to have gone like that,” he murmurs to the candle he has lit at the shrine in his room. “He was a peaceful man. And it was all my doing.”
He sighs, and reaches out a hand – but before his fingers can touch the ink and charcoal that make up the lines of Lu Ten’s handsome face, he catches himself. His fingertips are still slightly damp with jasmine tea, and he knows that if he stains his son’s face, he will never forgive himself.
Zuko’s wound has been causing him agonizing pain this winter because Iroh had looked away. Iroh is a large man, but all his sins are starting to weigh heavily on his shoulders. Still – he will carry them without complaint, for they are his to bear, and his alone.
“No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try,” he whispers sorrowfully to himself, “The ones I love will always be the ones who pay.”
“Indeed.”
That is not Iroh’s voice.
As he jumps to his feet and spins around, Iroh almost lets out a shout at the sight of a dark-clad figure standing in the middle of his room.
He had made sure earlier, after Zuko had left, that his door was locked for the evening – and for all that Ensign Takahashi is finding great entertainment in testing her lock-picking skills on any and every locked door she can find, Miss Takahashi is no fool. She knows that the Dragon’s inner sanctum is not to be disturbed.
And Iroh is no fool, either. He knows what – not who, but what – this figure must be.
If no mortal on this boat will dare to trespass, then it must be a spirit that stands in front of him, its blue features smiling at him in a hideous mockery of a rictus grin.
“General Iroh,” the strange apparition intones. “Great hero of our nation.”
The mask muffles their voice, but Iroh will never forget their voice. Not even if he wanted to.
“How?” He breathes.
“As the solstice approaches, the natural world and the Spirit World grow closer and closer, until the line between them is blurred completely.”
The spirit pauses, and Iroh can barely breathe.
“You should know that by now, General,” the spirit continues with a wry chuckle. “You were the one who taught me, after all.”
It’s a trick.
It has to be a trick.
“Who are you?” Iroh demands. “And what do you want?”
“I exist only to serve the Fire Nation,” the spirit – it has to be a spirit – replies. “That is the sole purpose for which I was born. And every action I take, no matter how hard it may be, is for the greater good of my people.”
As the imposter removes their mask, Iroh feels his knees go weak at the sight of glossy dark hair in a finely-bound topknot.
“It’s a trick!” He protests desperately. It’s a feeble attempt at outrage when he wants nothing more than for it to be true. “It can’t be!”
For a moment, Iroh is back in Ba Sing Se – but this, the ghost of his son, looks nothing like the soldier. His skin is pale and clean, not covered in sweat and grime, and Iroh has to swallow hard as he sees the glint in his son’s dark bronze eyes.
“Let's put our cards on the table, General,” his precious boy says once more, in a voice Iroh only hears these days in his dreams and his memories. “You're scared of me because you can't control me. You don't, and you never will. But that doesn't mean I'm your enemy.”
This spirit speaks his son’s words – it speaks in his voice –
but Iroh’s son is gone
“That doesn’t mean you’re my son!” He shakes his head violently. “It’s a lie!”
“What would it take to convince you?” The spirit asks with a slight chuckle in their voice. “Should I set your Ban Tian Yao on fire again, just to prove it’s me?”
Iroh remembers that day. He has gone back over the details of that conversation every day for two years and more. More than the way this spirit tilts their head with a smirk, more than the sly humor in their words – more even than their brown eyes, it is this that makes the Dragon of the West believe.
“It was my fault,” Iroh admits. He has waited a long, long time to confess his sins to his son. “I drove you away.”
“It was my fault,” Lu Ten says simply. “I let you down.”
“You did not!” Iroh will not let his son believe such a thing, he will not –
“I did.” His son’s gaze is steady, and he does not look away. “And not a day goes by where it does not haunt me. But if I had to do it again, I would. I have a duty to my people, and I will not allow anyone to prevent me from carrying it out.”
Iroh doesn’t understand why his beloved Lu Ten persists in speaking in the present tense, but he will gladly believe this lie, if only for a moment longer. His son looks every inch a prince; it will forever be to Iroh’s shame that it has taken him so long to realize the truth. “You always did have faith in your principles.”
“We’ve had this argument before,” Lu Ten says, but there’s no malice in his voice. “You quoted Fire Sage Nakamura.”
There is no substitute for victory, the Dragon had said. “I did.”
Iroh’s beloved son quirks an eyebrow, and the corner of his mouth curls up in a wry smile. “I hated Fire Sage Nakamura.”
“I believed it an appropriate quote,” Iroh explains himself, though his mistakes can never be excused. “And I'm arguing its merits with a ghost.”
The ghost’s laughter is not the hearty cackle Iroh’s son had let out whenever he had been particularly amused; it’s only the gentle chuckle Iroh allows himself at a witty play on words. But the expression on the boy’s face as he gently tolerates an old man’s eccentricities – ah, that’s all too familiar to Iroh, though he has not seen it in a long, long time.
“I always thought you enjoyed winning our little arguments, Dad.”
Victory is no substitute for you, my boy, the Dragon longs to say. But he will not. He deserves this pain.
“I always believed you were meant for greater things.” If he speaks the truth, it might help him hold back his tears. “And that when the day came, your shoulders would be able to bear the weight.”
It is as close as Iroh can come to admitting what he feels in his heart. That the Dragon’s son had been forced to carry a man’s burden too soon, always struggling to grow into armor he should not have had to wear. Too scared of being afraid to show his fear, too eager to be brave to know what true courage should be.
Iroh thinks he has learnt many things because his beloved Lu Ten was a more honorable man than he will ever be.
“You were a hero,” he tells his son what he should have told him every day. “Not the hero I deserved –” for Iroh could never have done enough to merit the gift the spirits had given him in Prince Lu Ten – “But the hero I needed.”
His son’s face doesn’t hold judgement or pity, but rather a strange sort of acceptance. “Could I have but a line a century hence crediting a contribution to the advance of peace, I would gladly yield every honor which has been accorded me in war.”
Iroh blinks. “I thought you hated Fire Sage Nakamura.”
Lu Ten’s easy grin is painfully familiar. “There’s not much else to do in the Spirit World except read, Dad.”
“And you chose to… familiarize yourself with the Fire Sages?”
“There’s a library,” his son shrugs, a careless, easy motion of his broad shoulders. “And there’s always more to learn.”
Iroh has learnt many hard things, and the spirits have taught him many harsh lessons; he is not looking forward to another with much enthusiasm.
“Is that why you’re here?” He asks with some trepidation. “To guide me?”
“I’m not going to guide you, General,” Lu Ten laughs, running his hand through his hair. It dislodges his topknot and makes his hair fall into his eyes, and he is as carelessly handsome as he always was. “You’re going to be the guide, this time.”
“For whom?”
But as soon as Iroh asks the question, he knows the answer.
“Why are the spirits so interested in Zuko?” He whispers, fighting to keep his voice calm and steady.
“Because he's the hero the Fire Nation deserves,” his son replies. “But not the one it needs right now. And they need a silent guardian. A watchful protector.”
Iroh will never leave Zuko. Never again will he look away. But there’s something in his son’s words that makes him wary. The great love of the spirits, after all, is irony.
“Are you speaking of Zuko, or of the Fire Nation?” He asks cautiously.
“A person, a people – what does it matter?” Lu Ten waves his hand with a practiced apathy, but there’s passion and power in his words. “You can guide them, General. You can give them hope. A fundamental belief in the potential of every person to be a force for good. That's what you can bring them.”
“I don’t know if I can do that,” Iroh whispers, laying bare his own shameful weakness. “I’m not strong enough.”
“The leap to freedom is not about strength,” his beloved son responds. “Sometimes, you have to take a leap of faith first. The trust part comes later.”
Lu Ten moves to raise the mask to his face, but Iroh cannot bear to see his son’s face covered again.
“Can't I just keep pretending you’re my son?” He cries out desperately.
Lu Ten raises his eyes to meet his father’s, and Iroh drinks in the sight like a man dying of thirst in the desert. But then the young man squares his shoulders, and Iroh has to close his eyes so he cannot see his beloved son disappear again. When he reopens them, he sees a spirit wearing a grinning blue mask.
He hates that mask for hiding his son’s face.
“I am your son,” the spirit assures him. “But somewhere out there you have another son, too.”
“Zuko?”
“The boy is twice the man I was.” Iroh can hear the approval in the spirit’s voice. “He will finish what I started, I can promise you that.”
Iroh is almost afraid to ask, but his son has taught him the courage to ask hard questions. “And what did you start?”
“Have we started the fire?”
The Dragon of the West recognizes the words from an eternity ago, when Captain Zhao had been keen to demonstrate the efficacy of his firebomb tactics. Even now, Iroh still remembers the correct response so clearly.
“Yes,” he tells the specter standing in front of him. “The fire rises.”
“And Zuko will rise,” the spirit says quietly. “He will be free. Free to forge his own destiny.”
That was all Iroh had wanted for Lu Ten. For his son to have the element of choice, of chance. But when Captain Lu Ten of the Fire Army had made his choice, the Dragon of the West had not been willing to listen.
“I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you sooner,” Iroh confesses miserably. “I was too late.”
The masked apparition shakes their head. As they step towards the door, they pause for a final brief moment.
“A good death is its own reward,” they recite softly, and Iroh thinks to himself that his son had always hated his proverbs.
He blinks hard, and a tear slips down his cheek. Once he’s dashed it away and turned back to the open door to his room, the spirit is gone.
Iroh takes a deep breath, and stiffens his resolve. It is said that the energy of the old generation inspires the new, but as he thinks of the task he has ahead of him, he feels his inner flame burn brightly once again.
He has fought to remember one son. Now, he must fight to restore another.