Uncle,
My son was born today.
It was a long labor, harder than most, Gran-Gran said. She also told me that it is quite likely that I will never be able to have another. That was nothing I hadn't known already. I have sworn on my mother's grave that I will never marry again, and so I had already known in my heart that this child was to be the only one the Spirits would see fit to bless me with.
He is a beautiful infant, Uncle, the most beautiful I have ever seen. Every inch of him is perfectly formed, from his ten little fingers to his ten perfect toes. But I fear for him. Even at this precious, infantile state, his skin is lighter than any of the babies born to our tribe, his bones lighter, his small features more delicate, the downy hair on his head darker and silkier. Right now his eyes are the gray-blue of infancy, but I know it won't be long until his Fire Nation heritage will be evident.
He is a child that is destined to be betwixt and between two worlds, never truly being accepted by either. My only hope for him is that the other village children will become so accustomed to green eyed, fair skinned Hakoda, that they will not point and laugh at the obvious physical signs of my son's mixed heritage. But more than that, I pray to La that they will not fear him for the blood of fire that runs through his veins.
I miss you so dearly, Uncle. I miss your guidance more than I can begin to say. It seems like every day I've been longing for your wisdom. Although Pakku has attempted to enlighten me through the games of Pai Sho I remember so fondly playing with you, and Gran-Gran has done her best to help acclimate me back to the Water Tribes… It is nothing like the parables you used to tell me. Nothing like the wisdom and guidance you once offered with one hand and the cup of tea you proffered with the other.
Please come and visit us soon. I know Gran-Gran will be thrilled to meet you, and that Sokka and Suki will be so excited to show little Hakoda off to you. And I want my son, my dear, sweet, little Pakak, to be held by his mother's favorite uncle.
All my love,
K.
Iroh sighed softly as he finished Katara's letter, and he could feel his nephew's eyes on him. Zuko was aware, of course, that Katara and Iroh had maintained contact since the woman had left for the Water Tribes, but never once had the man asked to read one of the letters. Never once had he asked for news on Katara's condition or state of mind. He would merely stare at his uncle, and inscrutable look on his face before he would drop his gaze and look away.
Iroh was no fool. He knew that despite the fact his nephew had grown closer to his wife, Katara was still the queen of his heart. He felt for the boy who had been forced at such a young age to become a man, for the young, innocent girl who had had her heart broken, and who had returned to her homeland divorced and pregnant out of wedlock. And he felt for Mai, the woman who was now his nephew's wife in name, but who knew that she would never be the wife of his heart. He felt for them all. Children were always the greatest victims of war.
Wordlessly, he extended the letter to his nephew. Iroh watched as Zuko's eyes widened as he stared at what must have been familiar handwriting, could see the internal war that raged across the boy's…no, the man's… face. Finally, his hand trembling in a way most unbecoming of a Fire Lord, Zuko reached out and gingerly took the letter from Iroh's hand.
Iroh pretended not to see his nephew's eyes fill as he read the letter, pretended not to notice the way that Zuko traced Katara's handwriting the way a man would run his fingertips over his lover's body. And when Zuko set the letter down on his ornate desk, bent his head, and allowed his tears to flow onto the parchment, Iroh looked away to give the man some privacy.
His heart broke, and he stifled his own urge to give into tears as the thoughts of could have beens and should have beens passed through his mind. He swallowed hard past the lump in his throat, and turned back to his nephew once the man had composed himself.
"I have a son," Zuko said, his voice thick and sounding like more like the child Iroh had helped to raise than the man that boy had become. "A son," he said again, glancing back down at the letter and re-reading every word.
"Pakak," Iroh replied softly, and Zuko nodded.
"Pakak," the boy-turned-man echoed, and Iroh gently rested a hand on his shoulder.
For a while, the two men stood in silence, and Iroh was not surprised that Zuko was the one to finally break it. "When you go see her, could you tell her…" he began, and then stopped himself with a slight shake of his head. Iroh knew what his nephew had been about to say, and he squeezed the boy's shoulder slightly in compassion.
He watched with a pain in his chest as Zuko's brows furrowed, and the boy's mouth worked with words he was unsure of how to say. "Never once did my father tell me that he loved me," he said at long last, and Iroh closed his eyes against the familiar futile fury that rose within him towards his brother. "My son will never hear those words from my lips either," the boy continued softly, his words choked and strangled.
Iroh could say nothing; no wise words of comfort came to mind. His nephew had voiced a simple and profoundly painful truth, one that could never be altered.
"Uncle, when you go…" Zuko said softly, and Iroh looked down at the boy that he loved like his own child, "…could you tell my son that I love him?" he asked, sounding very little like a Fire Lord and very much like the nineteen year old that he was . There was a raw pleading in his voice, one that made Iroh wrap his ample arms around the boy in comfort.
"Of course," he replied softly. Although Pakak would not be old enough to remember his father's words, they would be spoken. And perhaps somehow, someway, the Spirits would allow the child to have some inkling of a memory. Perhaps, from the stories Iroh would tell the infant while he was in the cradle, he would have some vague notion of who his father was. And would know that he was loved.
