"Get up." Asami felt a sharp pain in her side.
"Ow," she muttered. She opened her eyes, the bright daylight nearly blinding her. Iroh was standing over her, frowning and nudging her in the side with a stiff black boot.
"Get up, Miss Sato," he said again. "We've indulged you long enough today. I have to keep moving."
"Spirits, ow, ok, I'm up." She yawned and sat up, rubbing at her side. "You didn't have to kick me." But Iroh was already walking towards the plane. She looked around and saw that he'd packed most of her things as well as his own. He'd somehow made everything fit neatly into her pack, too—she'd have to look at how he'd done that. The only thing left out was her mug, which sat beside her sleeping bag, filled with cold tea. She must have fallen asleep with it.
Asami stowed the mug, grabbed a granola bar, and stuffed her sleeping bag into the top of her pack. There was nothing left to do except get back in the air. She shrugged back into her leather jacket, hoisted the pack, and followed Iroh to the plane.
The day passed mostly in silence. It was difficult to have much conversation over the sound of the engine, but even so Iroh seemed unusually quiet. He was surly and out of sorts, and spent most of the day glaring at clouds like he wanted to fight them. It was night and day from the shy, thoughtful man she'd laughed with the night before.
They stopped for the evening on a black sand beach at the edge of the Southern Ocean. The next day would take them over the sea to the pole. It was very cold here, and Asami was glad when Iroh got a fire going. But instead of staying to boil water, he started walking towards the thick evergreens that lined the top of the beach. "Where are you going?" Asami called after him. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"
"Practice," he called back, not slowing his pace. He disappeared into the edge of the trees, and was gone.
Asami boiled her own ration pack and ate in silence. An hour passed, then two, and all the while Asami's thoughts kept coming back to Iroh. What could be so important to practice that he'd miss dinner? What had made him so obviously upset today? What if something had happened to him in the woods? Her food was tasteless. There was no tea.
Finally, she couldn't sit any longer. She removed the Equalist glove from her bag and her small mechanical light, then walked off in the direction Iroh had gone.
She hadn't gone far into the forest when she saw the unmistakable flicker of firelight through the trees ahead. It didn't sound like a fight, but Asami switched her glove on and moved forward carefully. If there was trouble, she wanted to be prepared. After a short walk, she found herself at the edge of a clearing about 50 feet across. And in the center of that clearing, Iroh was firebending.
It was familiar, and yet like nothing Asami had ever seen. She'd watched a lot of pro-bending matches over the years, and she'd seen Mako train up close, so she was familiar with basic firebending forms. But pro-bending emphasized speed and power, training players to deliver the fastest, hardest punch before moving out of the way. Compared to that, what Iroh was doing could only be described as… art.
In the middle of the clearing, Iroh moved through the firebending forms like the world's slowest dancer. His jaw was set with determination, and his golden eyes were flat and hard. Each motion was controlled, deliberate, precise. Slow though it was, it was clear to Asami that whatever he was doing was extremely difficult. He'd removed his shirt and boots despite the cold, and sweat ran fast down his lean torso. His thick hair, usually swept back, hung wet against his face.
When Iroh released, instead of a blast of flame, a tight rope of yellow-white fire shot from each successive hand and foot. Each was as thick as Asami's forearm and almost perfectly straight; more like one of her father's cutting lasers than any fire she'd ever seen. The fire was hot enough that she could feel it from where she stood, but so finely controlled that neither leaf nor blade was singed. The frigid air crackled against the dry heat. Asami watched from the trees, mesmerized. The exercises were almost hypnotic in nature, fluid, unceasing. It was the scariest and most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.
After some unknown amount of time she realized that Iroh had stopped bending. At first she thought he'd seen her, but he made no sign of notice. Instead, he slowly dropped to his knees in the soft needles that carpeted the forest floor. He cupped his forehead in his hands, breathing hard, before pushing the hair roughly out of his eyes. He looked utterly spent.
We'll see who kicks whom tomorrow morning, Asami thought, but her heart wasn't in it. Truth be told, she was more than a little worried about him. To do… that… for hours. She prided herself on keeping in shape—with Iroh's help she had mostly managed to keep up her evening kickboxing routine—but she couldn't imagine the kind of energy it would take to do what he had done. She wasn't sure what would drive someone to push themselves that hard. In some way it didn't seem healthy.
Asami made her way back to camp as quickly and quietly as she could. Somehow she'd felt like she'd witnessed something private, and she didn't want to be seen spying. When Iroh arrived a short time later, she pretended to be asleep.