Author's Note: I'm not really sure where this story came from. Just kind of a vision one day that I had time to act on. I'm proud of the fact that I actually did make some minor attempts to edit and rewrite this, I feel a bit more accomplished having put effort into something. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Side Note: I hope no one seems too out of character. I know that from beginning to end Zuko sort of tied into my own current feelings about many things at the time, and what with the lack of Iroh's insight (and Iroh himself) he becomes very much my alter-ego in the story. Obviously the issues are different...but I think everyone can relate to it at one point or another. Enjoy.

Inspired by Yasunari Kawabata's "A Row of Trees".

The ginkgo trees were turning yellow, Prince Zuko noted as he strolled through one of the castle's many elaborate gardens. The autumn season had flared over the Fire Nation like an inferno, swallowing up the remaining bits of summer so swiftly that the young prince had barely begun to notice the changing of the leaves until now.

Although more accustomed to the hotter months, there was something he liked about the autumn season. It did not hold the busy hustle that summer presented. There were always smaller masses of angry crowds of people that buzzed to and fro throughout the city streets during the fall, and there were less visitors to the Fire Nation Capital in the autumn seasons as well, since it was usually the end of the traveling months. This made the atmosphere around the castle a bit more...homely, perhaps? Of course the Fire Lord's palace was hardly homely. Its purpose was to serve more as a military fortress than a home for the royal family. Still, the coming of autumn made things quieter, and Zuko found himself appreciating the quiet more these days.

Although he was dressed in armor, Zuko's feet touched lightly upon the stepping stones that guided visitors through the northern garden. "The Northeast Gate" many had nicknamed it because of the ginkgo branches which arched in an elegant, sweeping bow over the heads of those who passed through. It did seem, in fact, as though he were stepping through a gate. Perhaps to another land, or another world. Somewhere; anywhere that was somewhere away from the talk of war, the pressure of his diplomatic position, and his studies.

A slight sigh escaped his lips. Zuko pushed forward into the garden, seeking out a place where he could melt into his thoughts for an hour or so, just to relax and separate himself from the rest of the world. The gardens were always a good place to regain one's thoughts. A person could get lost in the silence alone. In fact, the silence of these gardens was almost considered sacred to many of the monks who frequented it and even, to an extent, Zuko's own uncle. So it was, of course, no real surprise to Zuko when he passed under the ginkgo trees and turned instead to the path that held the graceful sasanqua (which were still in full bloom) that he found his uncle, robed in his usual pale red kimono, sitting beneath the shadow of a slightly taller sasanqua. His legs were crossed, one over the other, and his back hunched slightly. His hands could not be seen under the folds of the robe's billowing sleeves, and if Zuko would have taken a moment to guess, the elderly man's eyes were most likely closed.

Zuko's uncle, Iroh, was an honored, though retired, general of the Fire Nation's military, and although Zuko had not been born during his uncle's golden years of service, he had heard and read much about the many accomplishments of the great General Iroh, who had brought honor to the Fire Nation. Now, of course, the retired general's experience and time was spent by extending his knowledge to aid the war efforts (though he took little pleasure in such endeavors). Whenever he was not acting as advisor, he was seen spending time in the gardens, often overseeing the efforts of the gardeners, though never without irritating them. Often Zuko would hear through the windows of his room when studying the raised voices of both Iroh and the gardeners, arguing over the placement of certain trees, or the care of an herb that had been planted in the garden "long before you or your father, or your father's father was ever born!" Most often though, Iroh was found tutoring his nephew; assisting him in the studies he struggled in, and encouraging him almost zealously in those he excelled at. Whispers and rumors rose (as they always do, especially in such a politically weighted society) that Iroh had secretly adopted Zuko as his son ever since the brutal death of his own at the hands of Earth benders some years ago. Zuko was unsure whether his uncle had heard these rumors or not. If he had, the old man went unbothered by them. The prince had paid them with a similar sense of disinterest. He had no desire to take the place of his cousin in his uncle's heart or life. It was enough for Zuko that he had someone he could talk to and trust within the walls of his father's fortress. Whatever his uncle's feelings were beyond that were his own private thoughts, and no business of Zuko's. He respected his uncle enough not to question.

Watching the old man now, it was hard to believe that such a stout (though undeniably balanced and strong) figure could be the same uncle Zuko knew. Iroh appeared as a statue before the young prince's eyes. His body was keenly poised against the whispering winds. He was like a rock, planted against an ocean made up of rippling sasanqua petals and ginkgo leaves. The face that usually held a thoughtful or cheerful expression was stoic and emotionless, but clearly the man was focused on something that did not lay within the confines of the garden.

Careful not to disturb his uncle's meditation, Zuko turned lightly on one foot and began to walk away.

"You are more than welcome to join me, you know?" came Iroh's voice so suddenly that Zuko nearly toppled where he stood. Turning his head, he found that the old man had not budged. It seemed almost surreal that anything had been said at all, but sure enough a voice continued to rise up from the figure nestled so comfortably on the ground beneath the sasanqua. "I am always happy for good company."

Knowing that his uncle would be disappointed if he refused, Zuko quietly retraced his steps and settled down a few steps behind him. He placed his hands on his knees and looked down upon the petal and leaf bathed ground.

"I am sorry for disturbing you uncle," he started at once. "It was not my intention."

"You did not disturb me, Prince Zuko," Iroh replied warmly. "I thought you might make your way down here sometime today."

Zuko looked up, though Iroh had still not moved from his stance. "You did?"

The old man nodded. "From what I understand, your father has spoken with you about something quite recently?"

The prince allowed his gaze to fall back to the ground. He had not wanted to talk about what his father had spoken to him about earlier in the day.

The Fire Lord Ozai had declared that Zuko, at a mere fourteen years of age, was enough of a man to seek out his own honor, something beyond his own diplomatic position as prince and heir to the throne. It was time he got a taste of what it truly meant to be a son of the Fire Nation, and be allowed the opportunity to make his father, and his nation, proud. It was hard to think about all of these things, and to bring them up before his uncle seemed foolish and childish. After all, Iroh too had been sent to war at fourteen. But Zuko did not want to leave. It was hard enough being forced to leave your home against your will. Harder still it was when being forced from your home to begin making your place in a war that you did not understand, and in a world that was so much bigger than yourself.

"We did." Was all the young prince could bring himself to say.

There was a long pause in which he could hear nothing but the hushed whispers of falling leaves and his uncle's steady breathing. Zuko tried to steady his own as well, but every time he attempted to clear his head all he could hear were his father's words: "You will find a place of true honor among your people, Prince Zuko, and when you return home you will have justly earned your place upon the throne." What was it that kept him from that privilege now? What had Zuko missed in all his studies, all his training, that he must be sent away to find?

His thoughts were interrupted by his uncle's words once more.

"What did you discuss?"

Sighing, Zuko closed his eyes..

"We discussed nothing."

Iroh also breathed a sigh. Zuko looked up and thought he saw his uncle's shoulders sink ever so slightly inside of themselves.

"You are leaving I take it?"

"Yes."

Iroh paused. Then, with a voice that shook only a little more than the ginkgo leaves that had yet to fall from their branches, he asked: "To go to war?"

"Yes."

Another pause. This one was slightly longer, and for some reason, much less bearable.

"When?"

"Soon."

Iroh's meditation came to a halt as his hands fell from there resting place across his wide girth. His eyes opened, then instinctively dropped to the ground. The expression which had once been stoic and concentrated had now been reduced to a profound scowl. His back sagged into an almost unnatural slump, as if a crushing burden had unexpectedly fallen upon his shoulders.

"Are you happy to be going?" asked the old man. "It is a great honor that your father has asked you to serve your nation during these times."

Though he knew his words to be true, Zuko could not help but sense a great weight in his uncle's voice, though why it was there he could not be sure. He decided to measure his words carefully, desiring to sound neither enthusiastic or ungrateful in his manners or his voice.

"You are right. It is an honor."

Iroh cocked his head slightly to the left, one eyebrow raised in suspicious questioning. His nephew's head was lowered however, and therefore did not notice his uncle's gaze. Zuko's shoulders arched into themselves while his back angled toward the ground. He looked to Iroh like a willow that had weathered far too many storms, ready and all too eager to finally collapse and rot into the ground. This unsettled Iroh, for to have such a mind-set going into war would almost ensure his death.

The old man's frown deepened. He wished more than ever that he could save his nephew from this fate, but even as the Fire Lord's brother he held little sway in the palace. Iroh had been a warrior, never a politician. His word against the King's reasoning would hold little sway, and cause only more trouble for Zuko. The only power he did have would be to persuade his young nephew away from his own anxieties, a feat which could very well prove more of a challenge than that of pleading with the Fire Lord.

Iroh pulled himself to his feet (with a slight grunt) and nestled back down on the ground directly beside his nephew. (He did this so that if any intrusive monks happened by, it would at least be more difficult for them to hear their hushed words.)

"But not an honor you desire, my nephew?" he asked, hoping that Zuko took his words as more of a perception towards his feelings, and not as a questioning of his honor.

Zuko took one deep breath through his nose and released it through his mouth. "I knew it would come. It was just...much sooner than I expected."

Iroh frowned. "As the Fire Lord's son, much will be expected of you before the time is right."

"I understand that."

"But that does not make it any less fair. You are young and yet your role in life does not allow you to recognize it. Your path beats upon you like waves upon a cliff side, eroding what was and crafting another form that is completely unrecognizable from its former self."

Zuko breathed an even deeper sigh. "Forgive me uncle if I do not find your wisdom comforting."

Iroh afforded himself a slight chuckle, but not at the expense of his nephew's feelings. He lifted a hand and placed it comfortingly upon the boy's shoulder; a boy who in such little time had been forced to become a man. "But, Prince Zuko, you are wise, and you are strong. Men twice your elder respect you, and those who do not know you fear you. Your power radiates from you as warmth from the sun. You will find that there is no place that awaits you in battle, it must be created through hard work and keen perception, both of which you are familiar with and know how to use to your advantage."

The young man's expression seemed to grow less dark.

"Know this also, Prince Zuko, in the eyes of some your right to the throne must be earned, but understand that destiny has assigned that right to you unconditionally. You are a son of the Fire Nation, and your people and father are proud of you." He paused for a moment, hoping that his words were breaking through the grey cloud that surrounded his nephew's thoughts. "And, I am proud of you."

At these words the young prince looked up into the eyes of his uncle. A warm, familiar smile was planted on the face he had grown to accept, Zuko now realized, as a second father.

"And," continued the old man, "I will miss you."

For the first time in his life, Zuko saw tears beginning to well in his uncle's eyes. The thought that Iroh was grieved at his leaving pained Zuko deeply. He suddenly began to feel a sweltering guilt rise up within the pit of his stomach and consume his heart. It was a taste more bitter than the thought of being sent to war.

"Uncle..." he tried to think of something comforting to say, something insightful...something that his uncle would say! But no words came. He simply sat staring at Iroh's face, wishing that he could quell the pain in his uncle's heart. The old man gave him little time to speak though, for he soon had pulled the prince into an embrace that left his face buried in his uncle's kimono. Any words would have been muffled instantly.

Knowing not what else to do, he lifted his arms and wrapped them around Iroh's wide girth, taking comfort in one of the few gestures of affection ever offered to him.

"You must promise me that you will always be careful," Iroh stated, his voice now quaking. Although he had his head buried into his nephew's neck (which slightly annoyed Zuko, given that his uncle had a very copious beard) his words were amazingly audible.

"I promise." He managed through the thick folds of Iroh's robes.

"Take care of yourself foremost, and your men. They will take care of you just the same."

"I will, uncle."

"Obey your officers, and remember to show them proper respect. If you must question them, do it so that you do not offend them."

"I will."

"Be vigilant and mindful of your surroundings. A wise enemy will find you where you think you are safest."

"I will be."

"And remember to be careful!"

Zuko chuckled slightly. "You said that already, uncle."

"I know." His arms held slightly tighter to his nephew's lean frame for a moment before he released him. Zuko pulled away slowly, a questioning countenance meeting him as he did so. "But it is of the utmost importance that you return home, Prince Zuko."

"I understand, uncle." He bowed his head respectfully. "I will not disappoint you. I will return to take my rightful place on the throne."

"Your throne will wait, Prince Zuko," said Iroh, perhaps a little boldly. "Your uncle, however, cannot be nearly so idle."

It was then that Zuko realized what his uncle was saying. A throne could wait in ease for its king to return, and a palace would rest forever unscarred by time. Iroh, however, would spend every waking moment worrying, fretting, clinging to hope that his nephew would return home. His sleep would be plagued with nightmares; his fears would eat at him until each passing moment would become nearly unbearable, and any news that spoke of lost soldiers and battles gone awry would conjure countless images of injury, imprisonment, and execution at the hands of faceless enemies. It was a war of the heart, and those were the most brutal of all battles.

Yellow ginkgo leaves fell from their branches, and for the first time Zuko noted that they did not seem to twirl. There was no exotic dance that reflected the sun's brilliant radiance at every spiral. The wind had died, and the leaves that fell now dropped to the ground like tears from the gods and spirits. The yellows entwined with brilliant pinks and reds of the sasanqua petals, and a few of the snowy-whites from the cherry blossoms that grew in the upper levels of the northeast garden. It was an enrapturing myriad of colors, and yet Zuko found nothing but sadness in their falling. Soon the leaves would be gone, and the garden left barren and forlorn in winter's coming.

Soon, Zuko would leave, and his uncle would be lost and empty, facing the cold without a grace of summer's brilliance. It would be a lonely journey for them both. Zuko sighed and looked toward the sun. There was something he liked about autumn.