Chapter 12: The Turning of the Tide
"The sun begins to rise, and wash away the sky"
Hysterical laughter sounded behind him as he strode through long, willowy blades of grass, followed by a high, childish battle cry. Crying out in imaginary pain, Iroh collapsed on the ground, moments before the owner of the voice flopped down on top of him, breathless with giggles.
"I got you, Daddy!"
Wrapping an arm around the child, he chuckled. They lay contentedly beneath the tree's branches, until suddenly the sky darkened and the leaves withered, and the boy he clutched to his chest eroded, withering into dust and blowing away like ash on the wind.
Sitting up, grief a heavy weight on his shoulders, he turned to find that lonely stone marker nestled among the roots of the tree, the letters of his only child's name burnt into it's smooth, unyielding surface. Iroh bowed his head, a lone tear trickling down his wrinkled cheek.
"My beloved Lu Ten. I will see you again someday."
The ceiling slowly came into focus, and a moment later, so did one scarred, frowning face.
Zuko.
Iroh bit back a pang of disappointment, for a moment suddenly angry at being denied the sight of the person he truly wished to see. He swallowed it, guilt growing in his chest. Zuko didn't deserve that, it wasn't his fault, he couldn't help that he was here . . . and Lu Ten wasn't. Still . . .
"Uncle. You were unconscious. Azula did this to you. It was a surprise attack."
. . . he was always so . . . detached. He would sulk or rage, but the boy just could not empathize with other people. Iroh knew he cared, he really did . . . but was it so much to ask that he showed it once in awhile?
He stifled a sigh. "Somehow, that's not so surprising." A groan escaped him as he sat up, grimacing in pain. Bandages. He did this by himself?
And then the boy thrust a cup at him. "I hope I made it the way you like it."
There was a defensive tone to his voice, and his lone brow was set stubbornly, but something in Zuko's eyes, something in the way he squeezed his hands together in his lap as soon as Iroh took the cup, the way he seemed to shake with barely controlled nervous energy . . .
Unbidden, he remembered countless occasions where his nephew had unleashed curses and fury and derision at his doddering old uncle's stupid obsession with 'hot leaf juice', and while once in a blue moon he'd given in to his uncle's pestering and tried a cup, never once, in all his sixteen years, had the boy ever attempted to make some for him. Or at all, for that matter.
He does care, Iroh realized slowly, suddenly sad. He's trying to be strong. And he's trying to show me he cares. And he doesn't know how to do both.
He can't touch the world around him. He can mourn it, scream at it, long for it, hate it, reach for it . . . but he can't ever quite touch it.
But he was still trying. Trying for his annoying old uncle who'd failed him over and over and over again.
Iroh stared at the dark liquid in his hand again, silently cursing his brother for damning Zuko to this miserable existence and simultaneously feeling as though he clutched a treasure he could never deserve.
Then he took a sip.
No, Zuko was definitely not a natural in the art of tea-making.
He coughed, trying to mask his gagging and desperately trying to remember that Zuko did this for him and not as a prank, either, and the boy is trying.
"Good-" cough "-that was very, uh . . . bracing."
Instantly regretting the compliment - such as it was - as he was handed another cup, Iroh discretely tossed the liquid out the window while Zuko's back was turned.
"So. Uncle." Sensing the weight of Zuko's tone, he watches his nephew carefully. "I've been thinking. It's only a matter of time before I run into Azula again. I'm going to need to know more advanced firebending if I want to stand a chance against her."
Iroh bit back a sigh, silently acknowledging his nephew's words.
"I know what you're going to say; she's my sister and I should be trying to get along with her-"
"No, she's crazy, and she needs to go down," Iroh interjected. How can he still think . . . she's trying to kill him!
The boy's brow furrowed, but after a moment he nods, and Iroh breathes a sigh of relief. After all this time . . . he's still trying to belong to that family. Grunting with the strain, he stands, pushing the pity out of his mind. "It's time to resume your training."
Zuko's heart sank with every word.
"Only a select few firebenders can separate these energies. This creates an imbalance. The energy wants to restore balance, and in a moment the positive and negative energy come crashing back together, you provide release and guidance, creating lightning."
Only a select few.
That sentence alone told him he wouldn't succeed.
Azula was one of a select few. His father was one of a select few. His uncle was one of a select few.
Zuko had never belonged in the same class as the rest of his family.
Even as white hot energy blasted from Uncle's fingertips, even as he claims he is ready, even as Uncle murmurs advice and tells him to breathe - why does he always tell him to breathe? He knows! He's not a child! - he knows he will not create lightning.
So in his heart, he isn't surprised when he's blasted onto his back, into the dirt where he feels he belongs.
Uncle shakes his head.
Failure.
So he gets up and tries again.
And again.
And again.
Until his clothes are blackened and singed and the ground is charred beyond recognition and Uncle says nothing but his nothing is everything and Zuko knows what that means, and he's listened to the silence his whole life and he hates it like he's never hated anything, and he finds himself screaming his frustration because anything is better than what the quiet whispers.
"Why can't I do it?"
Nothing.
"Instead of lightning, it keeps exploding in my face - like everything always does."
He hates the way his voice breaks.
And finally, Iroh stands.
"I was afraid this might happen."
You knew. You knew and I knew and you made me do it anyway. Why? So you could watch me fail again?
"You will not be able to master lightning until you have dealt with the turmoil inside you."
"What turmoil?"
Now Uncle is frustrated - he's not getting it again and the disappointment is clear. "Zuko, you must let go of your feelings of shame if you want your anger to go away."
"I would be dead without those feelings."
And for once, Uncle has nothing to say, because Zuko has shocked all the words out of him.
Zuko goes inside.
His heart feels like this house - all the walls are crumbling down and exposing the decay inside him. Every word he said was true. If it wasn't for the shame that boils in his chest - he would have stepped off that cliff three years ago.
Every word is true - and they expose all his lies.
"All this four elements talk is sounding like Avatar stuff."
Iroh cringed slightly, but Zuko remained cross-legged on the ground, blinking up at him. A pupil, waiting for the teacher to explain the concept behind the theory.
Two months ago, he'd have walked away.
Perhaps that was an underestimation of the prince, but Zuko's temper was certainly bad enough to raise the odds. Though lately he'd kept a firmer lid on his rage - the cause of which, Iroh could only guess at. Still, best to tread carefully. Zuko hadn't argued when Iroh had told him to come continue his training this morning; he'd simply looked at him with eyes far too dim and weary for anyone so young, and stepped outside.
I would be dead.
Zuko was a terrible liar. He'd looked his old uncle dead in the eye and spat out the truth like the bloodied knife it was.
Dead.
Iroh reeled inwardly.
How does shame keep a person alive?
How does honor drive a man to die?
When you answer a question with a question, Iroh thought soberly, more often than not you will come to no conclusion at all.
"It is the combination of the four elements in one person that makes the Avatar so powerful. But, it can make you more powerful too." He prodded Zuko's chest lightly with his stick. "You see, the technique I am about to teach you is one I learned by studying waterbenders."
There.
Intrigue furrowed his nephew's brow, and a subtle cock of his head told Iroh he'd succeeded. He cheered inwardly. Pique Zuko's interest, and he'd listen to anything, no matter how far-fetched.
He remembered a time when his brother's son had looked at the whole world with that same exuberant curiosity that he was trying to mask now; had explored with wide, innocent eyes and brushed everything with searching fingers and asked why. Sometimes he forgets about that boy; only to realize at moments like these that somewhere deep inside he is still alive, buried and scarred and crippled, but still burning in the fire behind Zuko's eyes.
Iroh forgets him, but he grieves him as well.
There was never a greater tragedy than what could have been.
So . . . today is the one year anniversary of this fic . . . so to celebrate here is this piece of chapter I've been struggling with forever. Love you all, and thank every one of you for reading.
~Evil
