Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Avatar: the Last Airbender. I don't think I could do nearly as good a job as the original writers, so this is probably a good thing.

"Fire Lord Ozai…"

"What did the Prince say?"

"…banishment, wasn't it?"

"…an Agni Kai…"

"…defied his father…"

"…his own son…"

Whispers and snatches of conversation followed after Iroh as he made his way swiftly through the corridors of the royal palace, occasionally shaking his head as though the mutterings were flies that he could drive away. Occasionally someone, a guard or a general or even a servant, would step forward with open mouth as if trying to catch his eye, only to hastily back down at the look on his face. No one dared approach the Dragon of the West when he was in this rare mood.

Iroh had reached the door. Briefly closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. Raising his hand, he rapped his knuckles twice against the wood.

"Go away!"

In spite of the words themselves, the voice that spoke them was laced with pain—quite aside from the physical anguish, there was also the far deeper hurt of a wound that would never truly heal.

I must keep calm. Zuko must not see anger from him right now—not even if that rage was directed against his father rather than himself. "Would you at least let me tend to your burns?"

There was no answer—certainly not an invitation, but at least he was not directly turned away. He waited a few seconds, and when the rebuff was not repeated, he reached for the handle of the door.

Thankfully, it was unlocked, and turned inward at his touch. As soon as he was in the room, he threw the bolt back into place—the nobility of the Fire Nation did not need to see this—but in the brief square of light that was thrown into the room, Iroh could see the figure of an adolescent lying on top of the bed.

All of the lights in the room were out, the curtains drawn, and with the door closed, darkness reigned. That, at least, was easily remedied. With a flick of his wrist, Iroh sent his own fire to the lanterns that bracketed the walls, and the room was flooded with light.

Now that he could walk without tripping, he hastily made his way to the bed and pulled up a chair. Zuko had not moved.

Up close, Iroh could see the full extent of his nephew's agony. He lay on his right side, a hand pressed to the left half of his face. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and his breathing came in shuddering gasps from between clenched teeth. Iroh thought that he saw a spot of dampness on the pillow beneath his head, but said nothing of it.

"Zuko." Iroh's voice was firm, but he also took care to speak gently. "Let me see."

For a few seconds, he thought that his nephew was not going to obey, or that he had not heard at all. Then, however, ever so slowly, Zuko lifted his hand from his face.

Iroh had looked away. He was not fully prepared for what he saw.

A good half of the left side of Zuko's face was an angry red, blisters already beginning to rise over the surface of the skin. All of the hair in proximity to his ear had been completely singed away, leaving nothing but black residue. His eye was swollen shut.

What sort of parent would do this to his own child?

A few seconds passed again before Iroh could trust himself to speak again without losing his outward calm. Even then, he kept to practical statements. "I'm going to need to clean your burn." He lifted a dampened cloth that he had brought, along with other supplies. "This… may hurt."

The only response he got was a barely perceptible nod.

Sighing, Iroh brought the cloth to his nephew's face. Though he dabbed away the grime as gently as he could, Zuko still gave a sharp hiss of pain whenever he touched a spot that was especially tender.

He did not cry out.

One did not live the life of a firebender, nor that of a soldier, without learning of the symptoms and side effects of various types of burns, often firsthand. Given the severity and location of this one, Iroh knew full well that Zuko must have been in much more pain than he was letting on—but he did not let out even the smallest whimper, or try to pull away, and Iroh found that this behavior shook him to the core. Especially given Zuko's age…

"Dad…"

Alarmed, Iroh looked up from his Pai Sho table to see the two boys coming toward him from the direction of the practice grounds, one of them leaning heavily on the other. Lu Ten's face was pale, beads of sweat standing out against his skin, and his breathing came in ragged gasps. When Iroh ran out to meet them, he could see that his son's clothing bore a number of scorch marks.

"Sheng," he said urgently, turning to the other boy, Lu Ten's best friend and regular sparring partner since earliest childhood, even as he took Lu Ten into his arms. "What happened?"

Under Iroh's gaze, Sheng bit his lip. "I… we were practicing sparring and… it was an accident, I'm sorry!" Sheng was beginning to look genuinely panicked.

"It's true, Dad." Lu Ten grimaced as Iroh settled him into a chair, but managed a slight smile through the pain. "We thought we'd have a friendly match and… well… things just got a bit out of hand."

"Well, it's nothing that can't be taken care of." Iroh knelt before his son, but turned his gaze to the other boy. "Sheng, I need you to go and get a doctor. Tell him that Prince Lu Ten requires assistance."

With a quick nod and a look of immense relief, Sheng was running as fast as he could make it into the palace. The blame for what had happened did not lie entirely with him—at least, not so far as anyone could be held responsible for the foolish antics of 13-year-old boys. Giving him something genuinely useful to do would, at the very least, help him to make reparations in his own mind.

Iroh, in the meantime, assessed the damage. There was nothing left of the left shoulder of Lu Ten's shirt, and most of the cloth over his upper arm and a good portion of his chest had been seared away as well. It wasn't too hard to figure out what had happened: Lu Ten and Sheng had neglected to change out of their court robes before their practice match. Somewhere along the line, Lu Ten had taken a hit, his shirt had caught fire, and what should have been a fairly minor injury had instead become a very painful and widespread second-degree burn.

He helped Lu Ten out of his shirt as gently as he could, and though his son tried to grit his teeth and bear it like the soldier he played at being, he was unable to suppress a gasp of pain as burnt cloth peeled away from the flesh to which it had effectively been welded, nor could he stop the tears that brimmed and fell from his eyes.

"Lu Ten, it's okay to cry." Reaching out, Iroh gently placed a hand on his son's uninjured shoulder. The ruined shirt he threw unceremoniously to the side. He gave Lu Ten an encouraging smile. "I have seen grown men shed tears over injuries of this caliber."

"I—I'm sorry, Dad." Lu Ten used his good arm to wipe away the tears that were still rolling down his face, though he no longer tried to hold them in. "We were being stupid, sparring in our court clothes like that. I should have listened to you—"

"Yes, you should have." Lu Ten looked away in shame at that, but Iroh turned his face gently back with a hand beneath his chin. "I am not angry with you, my son. I am only glad that you did not suffer worse injury." Lu Ten smiled in relief, which was Iroh's cue to take up his stern demeanor once again. "I do trust, however, that the next time you practice your bending, you will do so in proper attire."

The memory faded, even if the pain did not. Nevertheless, Iroh pushed it forcefully to the back of his mind; no amount of grieving would bring Lu Ten back, and his living nephew needed him now.

Zuko had just learned that it was not okay to cry.

"I'm almost done," Iroh tried to reassure. "I know it hurts. Try to hold on for just a little longer."

Zuko did not respond except with the smallest noise of affirmation, an attempted grunt that was in reality just short of a whimper.

He'd looked away…

"There." Letting the dampened cloth drop, he next retrieved the salve that he had brought. "This… ought to help you with the pain."

Inadequate, and he knew it. At this point, however, it was the only thing he could do.

Again, there was no verbal response, but Zuko did let out a small sigh of relief when the soothing ointment made contact with his face. The burns were even worse now that Iroh could feel them directly under his fingertips, especially at the center of the burn—right over Zuko's left eye. The eyelid was so swollen that there was no way to tell how much damage had actually been done, but Iroh knew full well that attempting to pry it open would only cause further injury. So he left the eye as it was. Only time would tell if Zuko would ever see out of that eye again.

"Zuko, what happened was no fault of yours."

The blame lies with your father… and with me. I should never have let you go in there.

How long had he really been looking away?

Zuko only responded only with further silence that was worse than a flat denial. Even that would have left room for a refutation, for further dialogue. Instead… nothing. It was like trying to burn a void.

Iroh had failed, in more ways than one.

Had it been when Zuko was born, and Ozai had seemed distant and cold to the child when he did not display any firebending aptitude, and Iroh had dismissed his misgivings as mere paranoia on his part?

"Zuko?"

Again, there was no answer, only a slight shaking of Zuko's head. His hands, knotted in the sheets, were visibly trembling. Clearly, his nephew did not believe his words.

Iroh knew that there were some wounds that only healed with time; almost certainly this was one of them. For now, he would just have to concentrate on the tasks he could complete, on tending to the physical damage even though his words would not soothe. With a sigh, he took up a square of gauze and laid it gently over the burnt area of Zuko's face.

"Uncle… why?"

Iroh paused in his binding. The uncovered side of Zuko's face was still pressed into the pillow; he could not read his nephew's expression.

"I… don't know," he admitted finally. It was the only answer he could give—but it was also true. Iroh could not fathom why any father would do such a thing to his son.

Had it been when Zuko had started coming to his room, rather than Ozai's, whenever he woke in the night, because "his father didn't want to be bothered?"

Gently, Iroh finished securing the bandage in place. It was rough—a trained doctor could have done a better job—but word was that Zuko had responded to anyone else who attempted to come through the door by bending fire at them. Until he could persuade his nephew to see a doctor and receive proper care, Iroh's work would just have to do.

Had it been when Zuko had despondently said that Azula had been born lucky, and he was lucky to be born?

His thoughts were interrupted once again by the rattling of the doorknob, followed by a knock when the door was found to be locked. "Can't it wait?" Iroh called, getting up and moving to the door before Zuko could respond. Hasn't this child been through enough for one day?

"I'm afraid not, sir." The voice was one he recognized, that of a guard with whom he'd had many a pleasant conversation in passing; he'd found her to be an intelligent and engaging young woman. At the moment, however, her voice was filled with hesitation—and regret. "It's… this is a direct order from the Fire Lord."

"It's just walking! I don't need your help!"

"If you say so, Prince Zuko." Iroh obligingly withdrew his supporting hand from Zuko's elbow—only to catch him again a few steps later when he stumbled, saving him from what would have been a nasty fall.

"Why can't I even walk by myself!" Tears of rage and humiliation were beginning to gather in Zuko's good eye; he swiped them angrily away before they could fall.

"You are in shock," Iroh said gently. "It can happen, with severe enough injuries. It does not mean that you are weak."

To that, Zuko said nothing. Iroh did not press him for a response, but he hoped that his nephew would remember his words, and would someday take them to heart.

Zuko was silent all the rest of the way out to the docks. Thankfully, it was not far; Iroh did not think he could manage a walk of any real distance at this point, and he was sensitive enough to his nephew's pride that he dearly wished to spare Zuko the additional shame of having to be carried. When they reached the ship that had been assigned to him, he simply stood and stared.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Iroh asked quietly. The tower of hulking metal reared out of the water before them, billowing black smoke.

"Yeah, well I guess it's my home now."

How Iroh wished he could correct that statement.

Fortunately or otherwise, Zuko once again seemed disinclined to speak. He did not say another word all throughout the boarding process and the loading of the ship. Iroh wanted to make him go and lie down—he was still hurt, and had had no time to recover—but just couldn't bring himself to ask his nephew to leave the deck. Even if Zuko refused to admit it, the Fire Lord had set him an impossible task. This might well be the last time he ever laid eyes on his homeland again.

As they pulled away, Zuko's eyes remained fixated on the shore, and on the palace. He did not cry, but his breath was coming in choking gasps that made it obvious he was fighting desperately not to. Gently, Iroh placed a hand on his shoulder.

The gesture was not rebuked. By contrast, the touch seemed to bring Zuko out of a kind of stupor, and he turned around as if realizing for the first time that he was not alone.

"Uncle?" he asked, confusion settling across his face. "Aren't you going back to shore?"

"No, Zuko," he answered solemnly, turning his eyes away from the shoreline and back to his nephew. "I am coming with you." He smiled. "Your firebending is coming along nicely, my nephew, but you still have a lot to learn. Having a teacher to accompany you would not be amiss."

Zuko frowned, his solemn expression and the thick bandage across his face making him look suddenly much older than his mere thirteen years. "What did my father have to say about that?"

"Why Zuko, I am retired!" Iroh outspread his arms with a jovial smile. "I do not need permission from the Fire Lord to go where I please."

"Well… if that's what you want to do." Zuko still looked doubtful, but slightly… just slightly… Iroh thought he saw the frown ease from his nephew's face, and the eye that was not covered by bandages soften just a bit. It wasn't much, but at least it was something.

Zuko no longer had a father in Ozai, and Iroh no longer had a son. Hopefully, if they stuck together, they would be able to do each other some good.

I will not look away from this child again.

A/N: And here's yet another stop in my recent game of Musical Fandoms. It was an idea that popped into my head shortly after learning Zuko's full backstory - it was hard to resist reading or writing fic for this fandom until I'd finished the series, but by the time it finally did it was still there, so I wrote it down. It took somewhat longer than I expected - normally I find it very easy to get into my favorite characters' heads, but Iroh actually made me work a bit. Not that I consider that a bad thing.

I have my own theory as to why firebenders tend to throw off their shirts before dueling or practice, and it has nothing to do with Zuko pulling fanservice duty. I just think that it's way too easy for excess clothing to catch fire, leading to potentially serious accidents.

I did do my best to do the research on the proper treatment of burn injuries, but I don't know where to look and this subject is hitting all of my weak points, so if I made any mistakes, please tell me.