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Iroh cannot remember the last time it took him this long to reach an adequate state of inner peace to meditate. Each time he breathes, each time he comes close, Zuko’s rattling lungs crash through his ear drums, and again Iroh is tense, shaking, because Zuko is sick—sick in body and in soul, much sicker that Iroh has admitted to him in those moments when he’s conscious—with a type of illness that Iroh has seen, and one he has seldom seen men survive.
(He cannot lose him, he can’t, he can’t.)
He should leave the room, go elsewhere in the apartment, but he will not leave Zuko’s side.
(He will leave Zuko’s side, that is the whole point of the whole endeavor, to go somewhere—even if temporarily—where Zuko cannot follow. The thought fills Iroh with self-loathing, fury at himself, even though he knows that it is a journey that he takes for his nephew. But nonetheless, he will keep his body close to Zuko’s, even if his essence, if his spirit, must journey elsewhere.)
Eventually, when Zuko’s breathing is as steady as Iroh surmises that it will get, after he has rewetted the damp cloth on Zuko’s forehead with cold water, and wrapped the boy with as many blankets as he has as tightly as he can, Iroh pours himself a cup of tea to calm his mind, and hating himself, allows himself to ignore his nephew’s noisy breaths.
Iroh breaths. Once. Twice. Three times. A fourth. And then his apartment fades away from around him, Zuko fades from in front of him (Iroh forces himself to let him) and Iroh knows where he is, though he has not been here since the worst period of his life (so far), and has never come here intentionally. But he is a spiritual man, or at least he has been since he emerged from that last Worst Day, and he knows how to find the spirit he seeks.
When he does, he falls to his knees, prostrates low before the entity before him, his nose touching the ground, which in this part of the Spirit World, is formed like mud. “Great Yanluo, I am humble before you.”
The great Iroh, the spirit responds, and Iroh can hear his smirk, though with his head to the ground, he cannot see it. You appear to have seen much since the last time you groveled before me. You are no longer that handsome young general.
“You are correct, Great One. I am old.”
(In truth, it has only been six years. But he is older, feels so much older than he did then...)
Well, why are you here? I assume you want something, or you would not have journeyed all the way back to me.
“Again, You are correct, Great One.”
Another favor, Iroh? I didn’t grant you what you begged for last time.
“With respect, Great One, I did not ask for a favor the last time I was before You. I offered a bargain.”
Perhaps. But one that I did not accept.
Though he does not move from his position of supplication, Iroh closes his eyes, trying not to remember too vividly. “This is true, Great One. But I know that last time I was before You I made two errors.”
Really? And Iroh can imagine the spirit raising his eyebrows, if he had any. And pray tell, what were those?
“First, Great One, I came to You too late. And second, I did not offer something of enough value.”
It’s true that you came too late; I seldom restore lives I have already taken. However, you offered me your life, Iroh—your life in exchange for your son’s. What more can you possibly give me?
“My death, Great One.”
Elaborate.
“My life is finite, Great One, and there is not much of it left in me. Twenty years, perhaps. Thirty, if I am extremely fortunate. And to You, Great One, who are eternal, numbers such as these must seem as specks of dust. However, my death is not finite. My death, once I die, is infinite. And when that time comes, I am willing to spend it in the Spirit World with You, to do whatever You ask of me.”
There is a silence for a moment, an unbearable silence, as Iroh waits for Yanluo to contemplate.
Intriguing. For what do you ask in return?
And finally, they have arrived at the point in the conversation that Iroh has been awaiting. And it is an effort for him to keep his voice level and supplicant. “For you to spare the life of my nephew, Great One.”
Ah, yes. The young Prince Zuko. Such a troubled young man. Such a tragic story.
And here Iroh has to clench his eyes shut tightly, must bite down on his lip, because there is a part of him that wants to rage like the dragons who mentored him at anyone who dare condescend toward Zuko, even the Spirit of Death himself, but he must keep himself restrained. He breathes, forcing himself to remain composed.
I have felt your nephew coming close to me, continues the spirit. But I have not yet reached to take him.
Iroh knows that there is nothing more that he can say, so he bows silent, pressing his nose deeper into the mud, waiting for the spirit to continue.
You would give your death for your nephew?
“Yes.”
Even though you know your son is not here in the Spirit World. You would forfeit any chance of seeing Lu Ten again?
“I would.”
And even though it is rather unlikely that Zuko will find his way to the Spirit World in life or in death, you would still do this?
“Yes, Great One.”
The silence that follows is the most torturous yet, and if time exists here at all, Iroh has no conception of how long it lasts. But Yanluo finally breaks it.
Very well, Iroh. Your nephew will not die today, and will not die of the illness that currently plagues him. And in return, when you die, you will remain here, with me, and serve me.
Iroh feels relief swell up in eyes and in his throat, such that he can hardly speak. He whispers: “Thank you, Great One.”
I will seal our bargain. Iroh remains still, but he feels Yanluo’s long fingers grip at his neck, and feels them burn into it painfully as their deal—and Iroh’s fate—is sealed. He relishes in the sensation.
And then Yanluo shoves him hard, so hard that he flies from his place in the Spirit World and back to his body, his eyes opening with a start. He is back in his apartment, and Zuko is stirring beside him. His nephew’s eyes open, and he makes a move to sit up.
Iroh feels tears, as he reaches for the young man to assist him; he has never been happier, he thinks. Never in his life.
“Uncle?” murmurs Zuko, faintly. “What’s…?”
“It is alright, Prince Zuko,” responds Iroh, and his nephew’s forehead is cool and wet under his hand. “You were ill, but your fever has broken. You are going to be alright…”