Workings of the Heart
The general is young and ambitious and the lines of his face are always set in solemnity. He's intriguing, in a way, but would be forgettable if it weren't for his quiet appreciation for the paintings in the halls. Iroh speaks to him as often as one general does to another, which is to say not much. Often he's away at war, guiding his troops with what Iroh is sure is at least as much seriousness as he shows in the Firelord's council room.
Iroh finds him in a back hall, once, standing tall and still between two vases, staring thoughtfully at a mural of an old war. A mythological war by Iroh's father's standards. Iroh stops behind him and studies the long necks of dragons, expanded in the moment before breathing out fire. Men in the sky and on the ground are wreathed in a serene brutality that seems unreal in juxtaposition to their expressions, serious and noble.
"General Iroh," he says without turning. His posture does not tighten. General before Prince. Peculiar.
"Hello, General," he begins, but the man interrupts him as if speaking to himself.
"This is not the way wars are waged." He turns to Iroh, then, and for the first time Iroh is struck by how old the young general really looks. "My men do not die with nobility. They perish as monsters, ravaged by their country's ideals." If he realizes how treasonous the sentiment is, he does not seem to care. He stares at Iroh as if challenging him to contradict him.
Iroh has no intention of fighting an ideological battle. "Painters embellish everything," he says with a laugh, and claps his hand across the general's shoulder. "If the war is getting to you, General, ask for some leave. I could put in a word with my father."
The look Iroh receives is pitying.
-
Three years later, the general is forced to return to the mainland because of injuries. When Iroh stops by his home as a professional visit, there is a stark bandage over his eye and his hands are in fists over his bed sheets. The walls of his room are lined with paintings, all graceful women and men growing in wide, surreal landscapes. There is nothing speaking of pride or violence anywhere in the room. A Pai Sho board sits innocuously in one corner.
"Greetings, General Jeong Jeong," Iroh says with a bow. "I am sorry to hear about your wound. If there's anything you need, anything at all, do not hesitate to call upon my family." When he looks up, the general pins him with a stare that is scrutinizing and shrewd. Iroh blinks. "You have a magnificent collection of paintings," he tries, not bothering to gesture.
The general's face softens. "I revel in beauty where I find it," he says, and when he looks away there is a certain tragedy in the slant of his shoulders and tilt of his chin. "To look upon the life coursing through this world and only desire to destroy it is the most detestable human condition."
Iroh looks at the Pai Sho board, skin crawling, uncomfortable. He thinks of his father, patiently laying fingers across swathes of land with the order of conquest following on his lips.
The general watches him. Then, thoughtful, he asks, "Would you like to play?"
-
Jeong Jeong's passion is standard for the Fire nation, but there's an edge to it that draws Iroh. As they play Pai Sho and drink tea, his words spill more and more reckless; when he speaks of the other nations, he sounds reverent. It fascinates Iroh. He's never known someone who speaks about firebending like it is a danger to the soul as much as a danger to the body. It has always been a gift.
When Iroh is alone, he studies his hands and wonders.
-
Iroh is not surprised when his father announces Jeong Jeong's betrayal to the nation.
-
It is two years after Lu Ten's death that Iroh finds Jeong Jeong. The man has no consolation when he learns what happened; he turns his head away and sighs. He offers Iroh tea and keeps his lips a thin line, forehead creased and somber.
He is the first person from Iroh's old life to refer to him as Iroh, just Iroh, without question or hassle. They are standing next to a lake that stretches to the horizon a day later when he finally finds words to offer.
"The loss of life reminds us that every breathing, green thing on this earth is precious." He kneels and strokes back the petals of a weed, and when he looks up, there are actually tears in his eyes. "Have you heard of the White Lotus?"
-
Iroh learns that Jeong Jeong is a painter a week later. The other man is standing halfway around the lake in front of a burning canvas, shoulders rigid and impassive. When Iroh moves behind him, he doesn't look up.
"What are you doing?" Iroh asks, staring at a soldier's lolled head, at the bodies writhing in fires metaphorical and literal. Goosebumps rise on his arms and he remembers (a lifetime ago) when the general spoke treasonously before a very different painting of war.
"I do not allow myself to keep the ones that echo my heart," Jeong Jeong replies simply, and Iroh notices for the first time the brush in his hand. Iroh touches his back. Offers to make them both tea.
Jeong Jeong turns away from the canvas and nods.
-
"We are dangerous," he murmurs, and Iroh lets his lips linger over his neck. He isn't going to say anything, isn't going to let words ruin this before it even begins, but suddenly the words in his throat mean more than anything. They have to be exhumed.
"We are lonely," he says, and thinks of Lu Ten crumpling to the earth and his wife twisted in bed sheets and something inside him is pouring out. He can't stop himself, and Jeong Jeong does not ask silence of him.
-
"I've never had a knack for calligraphy," Iroh admits as he settles next to Jeong Jeong.
Jeong Jeong looks up from his canvas, pensive. "Mastering art must take precedence over mastering war. We have grown backwards. Here." He holds out his brush and stands, moving for Iroh. There is half a landscape painted on the canvas, but the left side is completely blank.
Iroh accepts the brush without question. Now, he supposes, is as good a time as any to relearn the workings of his heart.