Iroh returned from the walls of Ba Sing Se wearing white. As crown prince of the Fire Nation, he was aware that he had failed his father in capturing the great Earth Kingdom city. He had shamed his father, and his grandfather.

He would never share a cup of jasmine tea with Lu Ten again.

He walked with his head hung in grief. Thick tears slid down cheeks. He did not see the path before him or the greeny around him. He did not pause to appreciate the fragrance of the blooming fruit trees, nor did he investigate the shrieking sounds of children laughing.

Azulon would be angry. He would ask, why had Iroh failed? Had he not placed such great hope in his son, his firstborn, to bring such honor and glory to the Fire Nation?

Had not Lu Ten trusted the judgment and wisdom of his father? He could he have betrayed his own son?

Iroh wiped his tears away. He would arrive at the palace later in the evening, and he would face his father, his brother. Then there would be Ursa, his nephew, and his niece.

He patted his pockets. He had forgotten to bring them gifts. There wasn't even a single piece of rice candy in his bags.

He would ask their forgiveness. They would laugh. Well, Zuko would laugh—he was not sure about Azula. Zuko would kiss his cheek and offer him nuts or peaches from their garden. Azula would—who knew what Azula would do? Perhaps she would laugh after a cold moment. Perhaps she would sneer that she was not a child to be pacified by sweets.

Something was wrong with that child. There was too much of Ozai in her—he saw it in the hard flash of her eyes, the cruel set of her mouth.

Did she even care about candy or forgotten gifts? Did she even know how to be a child? He couldn't tell from the letters that Ursa had written him. She had made no mention of the doll he had sent to Azula, though she had told him how much Zuko had adored the knife.

When he arrived at the palace, his brother was there to meet him, though Ursa was not by his side. His face was drawn, tightened, and lined with an age that Iroh found surprising. Their embrace was brief, though Ozai did whisper a word of consolation before he put his hands on his shoulders, holding Iroh at arm's length. "I have news for you."

"So much news," Iroh said. "Is it good?" He had no desire for more bad news.

Ozai's face hardened, his eyes gleaming with something sharp. "I suppose it depends on how you felt about our father. He died some days ago. It took us all by surprise."

Iroh stepped from the weight of his brother's palms on his shoulder. "Why am I only learning of this now?" For the first time, he noticed the gold-blazed emblem adorning his brother's head and wondered what it was doing there.

"We sent a messenger hawk," Ozai returned, "but I suppose it failed to deliver its message."

Iroh blinked slowly at Ozai. There had been no news that their father was not in good health. And that the throne had been claimed by a younger brother while the eldest was being defeated by the forces of Ba Sing Se—it made one wonder.

"I suppose this must be such a shock," Ozai said, "but our father was an old man. And I do believe that treachery eased his passing. Surely you have noticed Ursa's absence?"

Iroh nodded. "But that she would do such a thing—that I cannot quite believe."

Ozai shifted towards him, slinging an arm around his shoulders as he escorted him into the palace, away from the greedy onlookers who waited to see how a spurned brother would react upon finding the throne snatched from him.

Perhaps Ozai was not without some measure of kindness.

"Nor could I," Ozai said. His eyes were downcast, his brow heavy. It was as if he truly grieved. "But we found the poison she used, hidden in plain sight in our quarters. Azulon had her banished on his deathbed. Merciful—" Ozai's lip twisted against his teeth – "to the very end."

That Ursa would have been so careless to hide her accessories to regicide in their quarters Iroh did not believe. But as they strode down the palace halls lined with soldiers loyal to the prince that had been by their side these last six hundred days while he unsuccessfully besieged the walls of Ba Sing Se, he knew better than to question Ozai's story.

"I must have declared you his heir," Iroh said. "It would have been the most logical choice, as I no longer have a son." The words fell from his lips, and they lay there at his feet, and he wondered how Ozai could continue to walk all over them, as if they had no more significance than broken glass.

"I am sorry for such a breach in tradition," Ozai said. "It was not something that I expected. I cannot imagine what possessed him to do as he did." He paused then. "I am sorry you had to find out this way."

Iroh, too weary to continue, sagged against a pillar. It still surprised him, vaguely, to realize that Ozai was more concerned with how Iroh would take a lost throne. "I understand." He looked up at Ozai, so tall and so young. His face shifted with surprise, then scorn that Iroh had given in so easily to his schemes. "I am old. My son is dead, my wife is dead. You are young. You have children. Father made the right choice."

Ozai nodded.

Iroh tucked his hands into his sleeves and continued walking. "How are Zuko and Azula handling their mother's absence and their grandfather's passing?"

Ozai huffed something that could have been a laugh, could have been a snort of irritation. "Zuko does not understand, of course. He misses his mother very much, and does not understand where she could have gone. He cries for her, demands me to explain what has happened. Azula—well, she's Azula." His smile seemed almost proud before it vanished. "She and Azulon were close you know—as close as Azulon could be to anyone. Not something we could have predicted when we named her, but it certainly turned out to be appropriate."

"Of course," Iroh said.

Ozai paused before the entrance to the room in which he held his war councils. "Forgive me, brother. I have urgent business to which I must attend—this business with Ba Sing Se—" he shook his head. "Your chambers remain the same—untouched since you left them save for when the servants cleaned them."

"Your generosity is much appreciated," Iroh said. They bowed to each other, then parted. Iroh sighed heavily, wishing for a soothing cup of tea. Even a cup of the weakest, coldest tea would be welcome.

He found his way to his chambers and deposited his single bag onto the bed. He had left with so much—his pai sho board, his combat gear, his regalia armor to be worn in the moment of his victory, his son—

He shook himself, and peered out the window when he heard children's voices drifting upwards. A boy and a girl, he thought.

Azula and Zuko. He leaned farther out the window—but Ozai was nowhere in sight. No adults were. No one who could be considered a caregiver. Iroh leaned against the sill, his breath heavy, his eyes closed until he turned his back on them, changed into something a little more comfortable, and made his way outside.

He lingered in the shadows of the mimosa trees, already blooming with their pink delicate flowers. He plucked one and slipped it behind his ear.

Both Azula and Zuko were by the duck pond. Zuko sat by the water, his face buried in his knees, while Azula stood over him.

"I don't know why you're so upset," Azula said, her voice shrill. "Look around. Now we're the prince and princess. Everybody wants to be us, but they can't!"

Zuko took a moment to lift his head. His cheeks were streaked with tears. "Are you crazy? Lu Ten should be prince, but he's dead—but why do you care? It's not like you wanted him or Uncle Iroh to come back alive anyway."

Iroh held his hand over his heart, his teeth biting into his lips.

Azula paced around him so that she stood by his other side. Zuko turned his face away. "Don't pretend you don't benefit from this. Things will be better now, you'll see. Unless you don't understand what we can do now, how no one can stop us. After all, Father will expect you to act like a prince now." She clasped her hands under her chin, a cruel smile carving itself from her lips. "Are you a Dumb-Dumb, Zuzu?"

She had the same hungry look that burned in Ozai's eyes.

Zuko pushed himself to his feet, his hands heavy on Azula's shoulders as he shook her. "Mom's gone, and you don't even care. She could be dead!"

Azula easily shoved him away from her, and he staggered back. "Oh, please. I don't know why you're being so dramatic." She found a smooth stone at her feet and skipped it towards the flock of turtle-ducks, scattering them right and left as she laughed.

Zuko kicked the next stone out of reach as she bent to pick it up. "Mom said not to do that!"

Azula looked around, exaggerating the movements of her neck, the wideness of her eyes. "Didn't you just say that she was gone?" Her voice lowered into a whisper. "Forever?" She loomed over her brother even though he was taller than her. "So who's going to stop me—you?"

Zuko turned from her, kicking at a tuft of grass. "This is your fault somehow—I just know it."

"My fault?" She laughed so hard she held her stomach. "What could I have done?" She laughed again, shrill and high, covering her face with her hand.

Zuko whirled on her, his face red. "Maybe you're a monster, just like Mom always said. Maybe you're not really ours at all—just someone somebody left with us because they didn't want you anymore, and the only person who'd take you in was Mom because she was good and kind."

Her laughter disappeared, leaving only a smirk. "Well, look how that turned out for her."

Zuko's mouth fell open, as if he waited for the right words to come but there was no word that would mean what he needed it to mean. "I hate you," he said, his voice quiet and hard.

Azula kicked his feet out from under him so that he fell to his knees. She curled her fingers into the cloth around his neck, and hissed, "You don't hate me." She leaned closer. "You fear me. You fear what you think I've done, and what I could do to you without Mom to stop me. You fear me like Mom feared me."

She shoved him backwards so that he had to roll in order to regain his balance. He brushed himself off and, without another word, left Azula standing there by the pond, hand on her hip, watching him slip away with her mouth closed, eyes glittering.

When he was gone, she knelt beside the pond—perfectly still. The turtle-ducks began to cluster in a group once more. Iroh sighed, wiped his eyes, and stepped from the shadow of the trees.

"You will have to wait a long time for the turtle-ducks to return," he said, standing beside her.

"Or I could just come back later and surprise them." She turned her face up towards him. "They never know when I'm coming."

Iroh sat down heavily beside her. He let his fingers play in the cold water, tracing circles against the limpid surface. "It must be hard for them, knowing their home is never safe."

"How much did you hear, Uncle?"

He lifted his hand, flicked the water from his fingers, and tucked it back into his sleeve. The grass was green and coarse. It pricked his skin. "Enough."

She stood, and paced around him with her hands clasped behind her back. She was restless, never still. As if she could not stop burning. "I wouldn't take it personally if I were you," she said lightly. "It's just politics and math. It could have been anyone." She smiled serenely at him.

"It could have been," Iroh agreed. But still, it had been his son, Lu Ten.

"Do you have plans to return to Ba Sing Se, to renew the siege?"

Iroh bowed his head. "I do not. I believe that I am done with the war."

"Isn't running away from a fight what cowards do?" She turned her face away, possibly to hide the insolence in her eyes. "No wonder grandfather didn't name you his heir."

Iroh frowned at her. "I grieve for my son. He was my only one, and I loved him. The crown will need sons, and your father has Zuko."

"My parents—my father doesn't need another son," she said, her chin high and proud. "Not when he has me."

"Then I suffer the misfortune of not having a daughter such as yourself," Iroh whispered.

Azula tilted her head, and breathed deeply. Fire raged through her hand, sizzling the air. The turtle-ducks cried out in alarm. "There's no one like me. I'm a prodigy. Father said so."

"That I believe."

Azula sat beside him, then tugged on his arm so that she could slip her hand in his when it fell free. "You are not at all like I imagined you, Uncle. I imagined a dragon to be so much fiercer—someone who could swallow Ba Sing Se whole or burn it to the ground in revenge instead of coming back home crying."

Iroh pulled his hand from hers. "You are not alone in your disappointment, I'm sure." Though perhaps he alone grieved for his son. They sat in silence a little while longer, and Iroh spoke before Azula could find something cruel to say. "What do you know about your mother, Azula? Where has she gone?"

"Oh, Uncle," Azula said, lowering her head though her eyes remained fixed on his face. "I'm sure you know more about that than me, as my father insists that it's a matter for the grown ups." Then, for the first time, she seemed to hesitate. "What has he told you?"

Iroh bowed his head. He could not imagine what had gone on in the months he had been away. He wondered that he had heard no word of this in Ursa's letters. Of course, she had been concerned for Azula, of course she had mentioned that she seemed more like her father. But this cruelty surprised him. It scared him. "He has told me enough."

Her face fell in disappointment.

After sitting for a little while in silence, Azula rose and left Iroh behind, staring into the pool.

Slowly, the turtle-ducks came, and he thought of how he and his son had once fed them, before the war had called.

He closed his eyes and wept.