HOLLOW

"You understand that if you go into the Spirit World . . . someone will die." Roku was sitting, floating, before him, blue and wispy in his spirit form. "The energy required to transcend your soul to the next realm is tremendous. To compensate, the spirits must take the energy of someone in your realm. Is this—" he cast around for the word, "—vacation worth someone's life?"

Iroh looked down at his feet. He murmured, "Yes, I know of what you speak." He lifted his head and met Roku's eyes. "But I must see her." His face contorted. He murmured, "I need closure." He lifted his head. "It was all so fast."

Roku said, "She died bearing your son—a strong, healthy one, at that. I'm sure she is happy in the Spirit World. Don't go trifling with the spirits. We do not like to be disturbed—we do not like to be reminded of the pain in your world."

Iroh said in a quiet voice, "Are you saying that she does not wish to see me again?"

Roku frowned. "More or less so."

Iroh's jaw clenched. He said, "I loved her. She loved me. She will want to see me." He couldn't help but notice that he sounded like he was trying to convince himself as well.

"Forget not that it was an arranged marriage," Roku said, not unkindly. "She did not marry you of her own volition."

Iroh slammed a fist down on the table. "Quiet yourself!" he shouted. "I don't want to hear this—these—these lies!"

Roku watched wearily as Iroh stormed out of the room. "Very well," he said. "It is your own doing."

Iroh snapped out of his trance with a strangled gasp. He clutched a trembling hand over his heart. It wasn't who he thought it was—couldn't be—wouldn't let it be so. He stumbled over to the fire, legs unable to function—brain unable to function—and made himself a pot of tea. He brought the cup to his lips with quivering fingers. The tea sloshed over the sides of the cup. His trembling hand let go of the cup, and it fell to the table, sending shards of glass everywhere. One shard sliced through Iroh's hand, bringing him to the present, and the real world.

Iroh cursed under his breath and tended to his cut hand. He forced himself to take deep breaths. Finally, he had a hold on himself. He told himself, People are not themselves in the Spirit World. You know she loved you.

But her words—how they were cruel. They rang through his ears, mocking, telling him the thing he had never wanted to hear. The thing he feared most. He felt no pain.

Instead, he felt hollow.

Iroh heard someone clearing their throat outside, as if asking for entry. He stood and pulled aside the flap that led to the outside. A tall, dark man was waiting there. He looked oddly familiar. Iroh said, "Yes, sir?"

The man said, "General Iroh . . . I have some terrible news."

Iroh lifted his head. "What is it?" he breathed.

"Your son . . . he . . ." the man broke off. Iroh's eyes began frantically scanning the campsite, and something stood out. Two men, carrying a body, on a stretcher. The body lolled to the side, the face coming uncovered from the sheet over it. His face—just like his mother's. Cold, and dead.

No!

"That's impossible," said Iroh, but his voice sounded far-off to his own ears, drowning and muted, as if underwater. He saw his hands moving in front of him, felt his lips moving, heard his voice begging with the man, pleading for it not to be true, but it was all remote to him, as if he were slipping away from the world, for everyone he had loved and cared about had slipped away as well.

"I'm sorry." The man turned and walked away, leaving Iroh on his knees.

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