Lu Ten believed that here, in the heart of the Fire Nation, was the most peaceful place there had ever been. Here, with its endless lawns and ponds and knotted trees, the only sounds to permeate his thoughts being the chatter of birds or babble of fountains, the constant hustle-and-bustle of the palace farther away than any traveling could take him. A childish innocence shone through his eyes that countless hours of training had yet to extinguish.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"
Lu Ten, upon recognizing the newcomer's voice, turned to greet the man.
"Father," he said, rising to his feet, attempting to suppress a grin. "It brings me joy to see you." He bowed his head.
"My son," said Iroh, embracing the boy. He gestured for Lu ten to sit, and the youth happily complied, returning his gaze to the expanse of the palace gardens, which were, indeed, breathtaking.
"I trust that your journey home was safe?" he asked.
"Oh, yes!" Iroh replied, chuckling. "As safe as my journeys have ever been."
Lu Ten's smile faded slightly. Being next in line to the throne – that of the Fire Lord, no less – was a heavy burden to bear. At least he still had these quiet moments to enjoy.
I do not see much of my father. I hold no resentment, either for him or his duties as prince, but I do have moments of regret. What if there was not a war, and I a farmer's son rather than a General's? I wonder. I would see my father more often than not, and I would not have had a sword thrust into my hand the moment it was large enough to hold one.
But these are treasonous thoughts. My father is my father and I am myself and the world is the world; he has obligations to our nation and this I must respect.
He resisted the urge to delay in walking to his chambers in order to nurse his wounds – he'd get a lashing if one of his teachers saw, and what talk it would cause among the servants! – Today's training session had been particularly unpleasant (he'd little success in dodging and parrying; despite using wooden mock-swords, repeated blows to all parts of the body were quite painful) and he had no wish to remain long afterwards under his master's cold scrutiny.
And, so, he traced his accustomed path through the labyrinthine network of passageways that eventually led to his chambers in near-total discomfort, his attention entirely focused on struggling to maintain a demeanor of rigid formality as befit his position. He found another reason to be lashed, had one of his tutors been near, when he failed to notice a slight figure running toward him before it had collided with him at full speed.
After regaining his balance, he looked down upon the young Zuko, but Zuko was not looking back; his eyes were on the end of the hall whence he'd come. Sure enough, Azula emerged from around the corner, following after her brother at a pace matching what his had been moments before. Zuko's eyes clouded with fear at the sight of the girl, and Lu Ten watched curiously; this was not a child's response to the prospect of losing a simple game. What had Zuko, a great boy of six, to fear in his four-year-old sister?
Azula halted as she spotted Lu Ten. She approached at a much calmer pace, a slight bounce in her altered gait. She glanced at Zuko for a moment as she said sweetly, "Cousin Lu Ten! I pray that my brother has not hurt you?"
Lu Ten found his voice. "Of course not, cousin," he lied (in truth, at least sixty pounds of boy slamming into him without warning had been entirely unwelcome), "Indeed, I was more concerned with harming him." Zuko shot his sister a glare.
"Well, hurry along, then," said Lu Ten, wishing to be in his chambers, preferably drawing a hot bath, as soon as possible. The two siblings made gestures of assent, then stalked down the hall as regally as the awkwardness of such youth would allow. Lu Ten shook his head, deciding to allow them their pretenses if he might have his, and continued to wend his way through the palace.
I never had much ambition to be a soldier. I don't think I ever had much ambition at all, really. I've always known that my being involved in politics was inevitable; it's nothing short of comical to picture the son of the soon-to-be Fire Lord (for, despite what the lady Ursa or what few others may insist to the contrary, Azulon grows old and likely will not live to see the Comet return) as a mere scholar or artisan with neither political power to his role nor blood on his sword ("the most wretched path," indeed).
Every great leader has started somewhere; in order to command and be heard, one must first follow. I was fortunate to start further than most, but that was mostly, if not entirely, a matter of blood – who would dare order the bloodline of the Dragon of the West to clean the privy? – Which, despite my gratitude, should not determine who is to be a ruler and who is to be a slave. What if the gift of a leader is bestowed upon a lowly merchant's son, but is lost to lack of conditioning? No, rulers and slaves are born of circumstance, not of blood, yet the latter dictates the former, and so it is the expectance of others and not my own ambitions that guides me.
That is why I am a soldier.
His hand stilled for a moment in contemplation as he wrote, searching for a choice of words, then continued to flow across the page. When he finished in his brief letter, it read:
"General Iroh, I will see you again after gaining victory.
Your loyal son, Lu Ten."
His father would appreciate the flattery; after all, the man had broken through Ba-Sing-Se's great wall, a feat thought impossible, and high morale was necessary for the battle that was sure to come. He smirked slightly, imagining the response that it would receive, as he sealed the scroll and tied it to the messenger hawk.
It disturbs me that there are those who fight this war, live this war, without even considering why. They fight to live. They live in ignorance.
He fought through masses of men, surrounded by the chaos of death and life and murder and dirt, sweat, blood…
Blood.
The battle raged on.
The grain beneath them was destroyed; the fruition of months of labor was entirely ignored, save for the occasional cursed regard as hindrance whenever it faulted a man's steps.
How many lives had he taken? How many had he slain in much the merciless manner as he had lost countless comrades? He did not know. He fought as if in trance. This was all there ever was.
We are told that this war was and is in the name of sharing our country's wealth and resources with the world, as well as uniting us all.
He gasped at the sudden pain as he fell: An arrow had pierced his side.
Isn't that what we're fighting for? To "better the world"?
His breaths came in shallow gasps; how long had he lain there, unheeded? The crashes and clangs and shouts seemed oddly distant – surely, their lines could not progress so quickly…!
His breathing stilled, the light of his eyes snuffed out as a candle in wind.
Here, he was but a shell whose blood only marked the ground where he lay, the ground that had seen birth and death and rebirth, that had been tilled, the seed sown, grown, and cut down, then tilled again; he was but a remnant of one death out of thousands.
For peace?