Disclaimer: I do not own A:tLA or its characters. This is just an instance of me having fun.
His death was not tragic.
He'd gone peacefully, they said, in his sleep. All evidence was that he hadn't suffered much, if at all. He'd lived to a ripe old age, surrounded himself with friends, and raised a son he could be proud of. It was the way he'd have wanted to go—the way anyone would have wanted to go.
That didn't change the fact that he was grieved by many, that his passing had left a hole in the lives of everyone who had known him. It didn't change the fact that the hardest thing Zuko had ever had to do in his life was explain to his daughter that Grandpa Iroh was gone, and that he wouldn't be coming back.
He'd held her for nearly an hour while she cried, shedding more than a few tears himself. When she'd finally calmed down, he'd handed her off to his wife, who'd taken her without a word but with a look of understanding.
After, he'd wandered the palace grounds, shrugging off all offers to accompany him; he needed to be alone. Eventually, without him consciously realizing where he was going, his feet had taken him straight to the turtleduck pond. There, he'd knelt in the shade of the tree where his mother had used to play with him, and set his gaze on two small carved stones.
These were a mere memorial. Iroh's body, as was his wish, had been burned in Ba Sing Se, the place where he'd lost his son. Zuko, however, had needed something here, in the capital: a small thing to remember him by, and mourn.
He stared at the stones for several minutes before he managed to find his voice, and in that space of time, he was no longer the Fire Lord, the all-powerful ruler of his country, but a confused and hurting exile once again.
Zuko took a deep breath. He turned to the older and more weathered of the two stones, and spoke.
"Well, Lu Ten," he began, his voice breaking, "it looks like you've won. But for what it's worth… thank you for letting me borrow your father. It meant… more than I can say."
A hot stream of liquid spilled from his good eye as he finished, cooling as it trickled down his cheek. During his time as Fire Lord, he'd made many speeches—some inspirational, some sad, all of them longer than this. None of them, however, had come straighter from his heart.
"Uncle…" He barely managed the single word before he choked up completely, and was forced to start over. There were so many things he wanted to say, but in the end, there was only one thing that he could.
"Thank you. For everything."
As he spoke, the strangest sensation came over him. A touch that was not a touch ghosted over his skin, as of a phantom hand gripping each of his shoulders—one young and strong, the other gentle and warm.
We'll meet again.