Update: I'd like to say that as of October 13, 2011, I've updated this work. Added about 100 more words. I felt it didn't flow as well as I'd like.
Bring Him Home: An Iroh Story
Bitter Regrets: A Diary of A Regretful Old Man
I am an old man now. An old man with regrets. Many regrets.
I regret leaving the wife of my youth to fight a war I didn't support. I regret encouraging my only son to follow in his father's footsteps. I regret the siege of Ba Sing Se. I regret not being a better role model to my younger brother. I regret leaving my wife to die in squalor from child-bed fevers after giving birth to someone else's child. I regret abandoning that child to whatever miserable fate awaited it. I regret abdicating. I regret giving into my grief. I regret not being there for my sister-in-law. I regret not stopping my brother from abusing his only son.
I live with my many regrets, but I will not let my nephew's banishment become one of them. Perhaps, if I go with my nephew into exile, I can make up for at least some of my mistakes. Mistakes I could have prevented had I been brave enough—wise enough. Maybe the Spirits have granted me a second chance. A chance for redemption. My nephew—He is young yet. Maybe I can undo some of the damage.
The pen was set aside and burnished gold eyes looked over the drying ink. It was strange to him that he would keep a diary. He'd never before thought to record his thoughts, but the weight of guilt was resting heavy on him and he needed some place to put it—to ease the burden even if he was never able to shed it completely. Iroh sighed, wrapping his hands around a cup of jasmine tea and breathing in the delicate fragrance. The tea helped clear his head, though more for watching the tea leaves swirl than for any supposed medicinal reason. For a moment he wondered when he'd become this tea-drinking, diary-keeping man, but then he brushed the thoughts away. Circumstances change. People change. A selfish part of him resented that change and he felt ashamed of it. He glanced around the richly furnished room, taking in the deep reds and brilliant golds. Another sigh escaped his lips and he closed his eyes, blocking the sight from his eyes. Tomorrow it would be different. Tomorrow. Sharp steps outside his door drew his attention and a tall, proud man's presence filled the room. Cold gold eyes flitted over the room, taking in the packed bag and the desk littered with papers.
"So, you are determined."
It was not a question. Repressing a third sigh, Iroh set the teacup down, pushing himself out of the chair. His gaze lingered on a small, framed portrait—his late wife in her wedding finery. He traced a finger over the painting and then turned, meeting the eyes of his younger brother. Little remained of the boy he once knew. The one who laughed, who—Iroh shook the thought away. There was no use dwelling on the past. Ozai was not the brother he used to know. Iroh nodded, reaffirming his decision, "I am."
Ozai's expression tightened and he scowled. "If you leave with the boy, you will never be welcome back to the palace."
It was Iroh's turn to frown. "The boy is your son—"
"I have no son," Ozai snarled.
A great weight of sadness settled on Iroh. "He's just a boy, Ozai. A child. Do you really need to banish him?"
The brothers looked at each other, the silence stretching tight. "The boy is a coward. Cowards deserve to die on the rocks. I have no use for them."
"He's—"
"He's taken too much from me."
It was something in his words, some underlying resentment, that Iroh detected. "Ozai, Ursa—"
The Fire Lord swore, interrupting Iroh. "Never mention that woman to me again! She whored herself out and I got stuck with the issue. She's abandoned me!"
"You know that's not true."
While it was true that Zuko greatly favored his mother, there was something about the jaw that was all Ozai. Not to mention the boy's struggle to master the basics of firebending. Iroh wondered if Ozai had forgotten his own struggles. Ozai sneered in response and turned to leave. "Should he succeed in his goal, he would still be unwelcome here. Those who are loyal to me have leave to kill him on sight if he so much as steps into Fire Nation territory."
Iroh didn't bother to protest and simply watched the Fire Lord leave. Alone once more, Iroh gathered his papers, blotting his writing, and packing it away in a worn leather satchel. There was nothing left to miss. The ties that bind were broken. With a wave of his hand, he doused the torches, pausing at the window to gaze out at the moonlit gardens. Second chances were never free.
"Farewell...my brother."
AN: Honestly, I don't know where this came from. It's probably already been done before as well, but I thought "What the hay? Why not?" The italicized part has actually been written for just over a month, the rest I whipped up in just under an hour. I don't know if I'll be continuing.