Work Text:
The urban landscape turns to wilderness, and the days become colder, and still Iroh runs.
My son, my son, my son, give me back my son!
He discards the regalia of his uniform early on; by the time the Solstice arrives, he is dressed only in his undertunic, ragged after months. It’s not enough for the bitterness of a Northern Earth Kingdom winter, but, then, his bones have been chilled since he left Ba Sing Se.
Give me back my son!
Strange phantoms shake their heads at this request, some of them smirking at him, some laughing. He falls to his knees.
Please take me, and give him back, give him back, it is my fault, mine!
Still, they laugh.
(They say the barrier between the worlds is weakest on the Solstice, that sometimes unwitting travelers cross through. But, then, he’s been seeing specters for months.)
Not every presence is cruel. Some see him clenching his hands—red with blood, so much blood on his hands, Lu Ten’s blood, so many others’, on his hands, his fault—and grip them softly, nuzzle themselves into his flesh.
“You will survive this,” they whisper, loud as lightning. “You’ll see. You will survive.”