Disclaimer: I don't own Avatar: The Last Airbender; someone else who's very lucky does. I didn't create it; that credit goes to the two geniuses and my role models, Mike DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko. And I'm not making money by posting this story.

A/N: This is some of my earliest work, completed approximately March 2006. It's my version of when Iroh comes home after failing in his siege of Ba Sing Se and losing his son. (But I wrote this while watching season 1.) The horizontal lines represent passage of time or change in point of view. The first part of the story is from Zuko's POV; the second part is from Iroh's POV. Send me your lovely reviews!

Rated K+ for mention of death.

Filling the Void

"Uncle!" A small, sweet voice floated through the palace halls. Eight-year-old Zuko stopped to listen, but there was no answer. "Uuuuuncle!" he sang out, trotting past magnificent red tapestries embroidered with black flames. He growled with impatience and ran faster. He had to find Iroh, and tell him the wonderful news . . .that he had made fire!

Iroh had been training him for weeks, and for all that time, Zuko had not been able to create anything more than smoke. Ozai called him weak, but Iroh was a patient teacher. And now, today, sitting in his room, breathing carefully, feeling his inner energy—he'd done it! He had produced flames in his hand! Zuko gave a little hop of excitement. He couldn't wait to see his uncle's face!

His golden eyes fell on a black-clad soldier ahead, who was standing to the left of a mahogany doorway. The skull mask the man wore, designed to intimidate enemy soldiers, was indeed frightening. But Zuko had seen them hundreds of times before, and he was used to them by now. He wasted no time in scampering up to the guard. The young prince stood on tiptoe—for he was rather small for his age—and, reaching up, tugged on the man's elbow.

" 'Scuse me—have you seen my uncle?" he asked hopefully.

The sentry hesitated a moment, then admitted with evident reluctance, "I think he went up to the third floor, Prince Zuko."

Zuko beamed and hurried away, calling shrilly over his shoulder, "Thank you!"

Zuko ascended the two hundred stairs in record time. He was running across the polished marble floor, grinning from ear to ear, when an awful sound brought him to a halt.

Someone nearby was crying. Zuko's smile vanished as he listened. It was coming from a room to his left. He padded over to the door, hesitated, and then pushed it open.

Iroh was sitting on his bed, face buried in his hand. He was weeping, sobbing, moaning with grief. Zuko stood rooted to the ground, shocked by what he was seeing. He had never seen his uncle without a smile on his face. What horrible thing could have happened, to make Iroh weep so brokenly?

For an instant, Zuko didn't know what to do. Was Uncle wounded? Should he run to get help? But what if Iroh needed to be left alone? Should he leave?

He danced on the spot for a moment, shifting uncertainly. Then, he slipped quietly into the room. He tiptoed over to the old man, surveying him carefully. No, he decided, there was nothing physically wrong with him. He was just so terribly sad. . .

"Don't be sad, Uncle," he implored, climbing onto the red satin coverlet. He reached out to touch Iroh's free hand—and pulled back, repelled. It was cold.

Zuko didn't know much about Bending, but he did know that a Firebender should never be cold. It wasn't right, wasn't natural. He frowned in thought. Maybe he could warm it himself. That's what Firebenders did, right? They made heat. So he should be able to do the same.

He grasped his uncle's hand with both of his own, shuddering. Iroh didn't respond to his touch; he didn't even seem to realize his nephew was there. Tears spilled freely down his face and ran off his beard, but Zuko forced himself to ignore that. He concentrated on his breathing. In, out. In, out. He let the gentle warmth of the sun wash over him, and tried, tentatively, to mimic it. If he wasn't careful, the eager energy inside him might burst forth in sparks and flame—and he certainly didn't want to burn Iroh. Slowly, he attempted to heat his hands. He didn't feel any difference, and Iroh still didn't acknowledge his presence, so he wasn't sure if it was working. But he kept at it, determined to help.

Iroh's pain sliced through him like a knife. He didn't know if he could go on. Worse, he wasn't even sure he wanted to go on. There was nothing left for him in this world. His son was dead. His beloved wife, unable to endure the loss, had departed from this life mere hours ago. Would it be so horrible, he wondered, if he made his journey to the spirit world . . . permanently? If he gave in to his unbearable pain, surrendered to the inevitable, and slipped into death, as his wife had done?

It was then that he heard movement next to him. He turned and saw Zuko lying with his head on the red pillow. The boy had his thumb in his mouth. Iroh had broken him of the habit long ago; it wasn't proper etiquette for a prince, after all. Now, Zuko only reverted to it when he was insecure, finding comfort in the forbidden indulgence. Despite everything he was going through, Iroh felt sympathy envelop him as he gazed at his nephew, whose small face was puckered with distress and weariness.

"Zuko," he said gently. His nephew gave a jerk of surprise and sat up, yanking his thumb out of his mouth. He studied Iroh uncertainly for a moment, then said timidly,

"Are you all right, Uncle?"

Iroh smiled. "Yes, Zuko." It wasn't true, of course; it would be years before he was truly all right. But he needed to keep his composure, for his nephew's sake.

How ironic, he thought. Zuko was without a mother, and his father. . . Iroh sighed. Love was not one of Ozai's priorities.

And here he, Iroh, was—a veteran of many wars and many years, who had lost everything in one devastating blow. There was nothing left inside him but a gaping void. And yet, he was quickly realizing that he was not the only one who had experienced loss. Zuko needed him. And, if he was going to be completely truthful with himself, he needed Zuko, as well.

A boy without a father.

A man without a son.

Iroh reached out, and Zuko slipped his little hand into his uncle's. It was such a simple gesture. Insignificant. Unimportant.

But it had a deeper meaning than either of them could know.

~The End~