"You children think you know everything," Iroh said, gaunt from illness or old age (but Zuko thought him immortal), pai sho tiles splayed at his blue-veined feet, trying to find the strength to slide off the throne.
"You should have been Fire Lord, Uncle," Zuko replied, "not me."
"I cannot sit here, Zuko."
"Didn't you ever think-"
"I always thought," Iroh sighed, "I thought that perhaps I would become a better lord than your father. That perhaps I should have claimed what was rightfully mine."
"Why did you denounce the throne?"
"Maybe in another life, I didn't," Iroh smiled (not at him, but somewhere far beyond, it had been a smile that welcomed an old friend). "Can you prepare some tea for us, Zuko?"
Zuko approached a table on the dais and poured two cups, hands shaking. He remained still for a few minutes, fearing the sudden hush. "Uncle," he wanted to call out, but he knew what the reply would be. (If only he didn't understand, perhaps the tears came and not the silence, the choking, never the silence.)
Finally, he faced the throne, and laughed. It was funny how his uncle looked so natural, so tranquil, so at ease on the throne. Maybe in another life, he did become Fire Lord, and the world remained black-and-white, and the scar on Zuko's face was still fresh tissue.
(But eventually, Zuko learned that life was meant to be in color; ephemeral flowers or dried tea leaves.)
When the silence left the room and sound engulfed the room once more (a cat purring outside, the hiss of the kettle, the wind in the corridor), Zuko picked up the tiles and returned them to the table one by one.
He placed the second cup of tea on the edge of the table and started a new game.