(contempt loves the silence, it thrives in the dark with fine-winding tendrils that strangle the heart)
In Zuko's dream, he is two years old, and his Uncle Iroh is holding him over his head and laughing heartily up into his face. His ten-year-old cousin Lu Ten is crouched over a crude sandcastle and grinning over at his father and baby cousin.
In this dream, Uncle Iroh gently swoops Zuko through the air and makes cooing noises, completely unaware that as a fearsome war general he should be more composed and less…indulgent. But he has never been one for conventions, and prefers flying his infant nephew to maintaining perfect dignity at all times.
In the dream, baby Zuko looks down at that smiling, benevolent face and feels the feelings that he associates with warmprotected safehappy goodfeeling and with the recognition that will someday become the word pronounced father.
--
In Zuko's dream, the long-ago, fuzzy memory of the beach morphs, twists, becomes a long table crowded with old men, becomes a face twisted with fury, becomes his father's blazing eyes filled with contempt, becomes the searing pain (only a phantom, only a memory, only a dream) of the fire devouring his flesh, his eye, his hope.
In this dream, Zuko's Uncle Iroh is the only one who leaps to Zuko's side after the Fire Lord turns his back, walks away without a second glance from your son, your son, I'm your son. Uncle Iroh tears the sleeve of his own uniform and dabs at the blood on his nephews face and roars for a medic, fear in his eyes and in his voice and in his trembling hands, and I'm sorry so sorry in his touch.
In the dream, Uncle Iroh stays with him through his recuperation, his banishment, his unyielding search for the Avatar, and Zuko never says Thank you at all, even once, and Uncle Iroh never mentions it.
--
In Zuko's dream, he sees temples and towns and blockades and bison soaring through the air. He sees pride and poverty, Uncle Iroh's easy smile and his own unrelenting scowl, wishes and choices, lies and truth, hardcoldtruth.
In this dream, Uncle Iroh is strolling from vendor to vendor on a busy market street looking for a useless object and buying more useless objects in the meantime. Uncle Iroh is offering Zuko tea and advice, neither of which is received well, willingly, or at all. Uncle Iroh is being forced to beg for money, to dance, to serve. Uncle Iroh is lying on a pallet bound tightly with bandages, please get better please don't leave me alone.
In the dream, Uncle Iroh is sitting in a prison cell, his back turned to Zuko just as the Fire Lord's had been just years ago. His voice just as silent as Ozai's had been; that silence full of the same disdain, disappointment, disgust. Dismissal.
--
In Zuko's dream—a dream that is not made up of memories, of truth, a dream that is entirely made up of wishes, of hope—he is sixteen years old, and his Uncle Iroh is holding him at arm's length and laughing heartily into his face.
In this dream, Uncle Iroh gently pulls Zuko into a warm, tight hug, his arms comforting and reassuring, completely aware that he is being indulgent and still, after all these years, uncaring of how it looks. He has never been one for conventions, and prefers embracing his grown nephew to maintaining perfect dignity at all times.
In the dream, Zuko looks into that smiling, benevolent face and feels the feelings associated with thank you and I love you and you are the reason I am who I am and with the recognition that he pronounces father, my father.
And Uncle Iroh smiles into Zuko's eyes and whispers I am proud of you, my son.