(A/N: We didn't get to see enough of General Iroh during season one.
What we did see was incredible. He single handedly downed five aircraft, probably the first guy ever to become a fighter ace in a single day without an airplane of his own. Bolin described him as a "swashbuckling hero-type", which summed it up nicely. I wondered, though, what kind of past does this man have? There must be more to him than just the hero, a history that's made him what he is. We don't even know exactly how old he is, let alone what his early days were like.
This is the first of seven chapters, and it will tell the tale of a young and eager lieutenant who finds that the sting of battle and the honor of peace are two very different things.
As always, long-winded reviews are the most appreciated.)
Lieutenant Iroh stood stiffly at attention, one hand resting on his katana, the other clasped like a rock behind his back. The men behind him were wearing their red and black dress uniforms, but he was garbed in the traditional raiment and breastplate of the royal family. The sword was a reminder of times long gone when a Fire Sage's men could decapitate a peasant simply for failing to bow as his master passed. Times were different now, Iroh knew. The old stories of his great grandfather, Ozai, still permeated the minds of the people. He had insisted upon standing with his men, Rho Company of the Fire Lord's 422nd Armored Battalion, for this very reason. The prince had to show his common touch, and there was no better event to put this on display than this one.
He even lowered his head in respect as the procession passed. It was not a bow, but he did take a knee, which was a sign of utmost tribute when it was coming from the future Fire Lord. His movements were stiff, yet graceful. Eight years of training, practicing and discipline had made him a master of drill, and yet his eyes still flicked to the coffin as it passed.
There was no body inside it, he knew. Avatar Aang's physical remains had been disposed of in the custom of honored Air Nomads, in a towering funeral pyre that could be seen for miles around. An elderly female water bender was walking along behind it. She did not seem to be feeling distraught or grief. Like a legendary warrior before battle, her face was a mask of calm and serenity. Sokka, on the other hand, was a little less straight faced. He leaned on his sister slightly as they walked down the aisle, his feet rigid with age, but still possessing the vigor and strength of a much younger man. Toph and her daughter Lin followed afterward, along with Aang's children. Behind them was a contingent of ceremonial guard from each nation save for the Air Nomads. The last of their number were already present. Before looking back down at the ground, he stole a glance at the royalty box. Even from this distance, he could see the grim look on his grandfather Zuko's face, and he imagined that he could see his mother wiping tears from her eyes. He suddenly wished he had been able to meet the Avatar when he was old enough to remember it. His grandfather had told so many stories when he was growing up around the palace. Stories about himself, stories about Aang, stories about Ozai.
Was it really true? He wondered. Had my own great grandfather really been a bloody-minded tyrant and a warmonger? He could only stand in awe of an age of great deeds he would never know. The past was marching by him, one column at a time, and it gave him a strange fluttering feeling in his chest, the spirit of destiny brushing his heart with her silver wings.
There would be a gap now, the scales would be unbalanced. The search for the next avatar was doubtlessly well under way, but first he (or she, he reminded himself) would have to be found, trained, and raised. The wise, guiding hand of the avatar would not be fully known again for decades, like a cherry blossom unfolding a little wider every summer. Until then the spirit world had no arbiter in the affairs of men, and the primary affair of men, as Iroh had learned from an exhaustive study of history, was war. The avatar had only papered over the disputes between nations and peoples, never erasing them completely. As Iroh stood up again and regained his position of attention, he knew that his task would be more important than ever. He was ready for it. Before a Fire Nation prince could draw, or write, or pick out the stars in the sky he could hold a blade. He would not be a cook, or a carpenter, or a farmer. He would be a warrior, and frankly, he couldn't wait.
Now it was his turn to write history. An old order was ending, and with it ended an era. It was up to him to carve out the next age, and to stamp his name upon it in fire and glory for all time. Such was the destiny of the line of Fire Lords. Such was his destiny.