Iroh jogged up the gentle rise leading away from the spirit portals. He picked a random point on the horizon and stuck to it, hoping at the very least to avoid going in circles. He wasn't exactly sure how to navigate in the Spirit World, not really, let alone if what he was looking for even existed. All he could do at this point was try his luck and see what happened.
He slowed to a walk as his leg began to ache. Waterbending could accelerate the healing process, but it wasn't a cure-all. As he continued to climb, he thought about Republic City. He thought about the Avatar, about UnaVaatu, about his battleship—anything that might make a connection to where he needed to go. Iroh tried very, very hard not to think about the warm place on his cheek where Asami's lips had been, or the small shard of hope that had lodged in his heart. None of that would help him now.
He crested the hill and began to wind his way among the tall, jagged rocks that rimmed the shallow basin. Even up close, they were sharp. To Iroh it looked like a forest of giant, blackened knives. He reached into his pocket and pulled out Asami's little light; there would be no one to help him up here if he missed a step and fell. As he walked, the air seemed to grow heavy. The whole place had a feeling about it similar to the dark spirits; of anger, and of wrongness, somehow. If this was where Vaatu had been for thousands of years, Iroh had no trouble believing that the spirit wished them ill. He walked quickly and quietly, hoping to pass unnoticed.
The other side of the ridge opened down into a wide, grassy plain dotted with rocks and small trees. Iroh had gone perhaps ten steps before he realized that it was no longer night. Instead, the golden light of late afternoon cast long shadows in the tall yellow grass. He turned around to find himself on top of a small hill. The dark volcanic rocks he had walked through only a moment ago were gone, replaced by an endless sea of prairie. Overhead, the sky was a perfect azure blue.
Iroh had a moment of panic as he realized he had no idea how to get back to the spirit portals now. But if he had to go back he was probably as good as dead anyway, at least if he had any integrity. He'd meant what he said to Asami. Iroh certainly didn't want to die, but he wasn't going to run, either. Whatever happened, he wanted to be able to hold his head up at the end of it. Wasn't that the whole reason he'd come to the South Pole in the first place?
If there was no way back, then he had little choice but to go forward. Iroh stowed Asami's light again and continued down the slope of the hill into the thigh-high grass. As he walked, his steps disturbed what he realized with wonder must be miniature spirits. Glowing motes of orange, yellow, indigo, and red swirled up from his feet like embers blown from a fire. They whirled about him, almost seeming to dance before scattering into the sky overhead. Iroh watched, fascinated, his fear momentarily forgotten. He was so absorbed in the spectacle that he almost missed the path through the grass entirely.
To call it a path was perhaps generous. It more closely resembled a game trail of some sort; a line of crushed and beaten grass running almost perpendicular to his route. Iroh stopped, looking first right and then left. The path looked identical in both directions. He saw no others.
Okay, he thought, and closed his eyes. Then he pictured, with as much detail as he could recall, the door to his quarters. He imagined the rough gray steel of the door itself, its rounded edges. He thought about the feel of the lever as he turned it, the smooth metal cool under his hand. He even tried to remember the number of rivets across the topmost edge (six?) and down the side (no idea). Then Iroh thought about how he felt opening that door; going home, such as it was, at the end of a long day. Relief at the prospect of quiet, at the shedding of shoes and responsibilities, mixed with the anticipation of whatever he had planned for his evening and, he had to admit, the smallest touch of loneliness. Then he walked in a slow circle. When Iroh opened his eyes, he was facing directly down the path to what had been his right. He started walking.
As he went along, he noticed a growing number of brown rocks littering the prairie to either side of the path. At first they were only the size of his fist, but as he went they got progressively larger and larger until he was regularly passing boulders that came up well past his hips. Curious, Iroh cautiously approached one that was taller than he was. As he moved closer, he saw that it wasn't a rock at all, but some kind of insect nest built from the hardened soil of the prairie. Tiny, bright, fly-like spirits of every imaginable color fluttered and darted in and out of what had to be thousands of holes in the mound, bumping their faces together as they passed one another on their business.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" said a voice. Iroh jumped. He looked around and saw no one. Cautiously, he peered around the mound, keeping one hand behind his back in case he needed to quickly bend.
A man was seated on the ground behind the enormous nest in the shade of one of the small trees. He sat cross-legged on a faded red blanket, facing Iroh, his back to the setting sun. Before him was an old fashioned tea set.
The man was quite old, perhaps in his 80s, with long white hair that didn't entirely reach the crown of his head and a full, bushy beard. He was dressed in some kind of green and yellow robe. Though he was seated, he seemed short and squat; Iroh thought the top of his head might come up no farther than his shoulder when standing. The man also seemed vaguely familiar somehow. He decided to be careful—though Iroh had none of the bad feelings he'd gotten from Vaatu and the dark spirits, he knew the Spirit World could be just as tricky and dangerous as it was beautiful.
The old man looked at him and beamed. "Iroh!" he said, and laughed. His bronze eyes crinkled up at the corners. "I've been waiting for ages to say that, you know. I find it very funny."
"Hello," said Iroh cautiously. He had no idea why his name would be amusing, let alone how this man knew who he was. He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen him before, but though his light tan skin and gold eyes seemed to suggest he was from the Fire Nation, he was dressed more like an old-style Earth Kingdom courtesan. "I'm sorry, do I know you? I think we may have met, but I don't recall your name. Please believe me when I say that I've had a very strange day."
"Ah!" said the old man. "Sometimes, to find the true name of a thing, you must instead look inside yourself." That didn't make any sense to Iroh. The only thing he felt inside himself at the moment was hungry. He realized with some surprise that he hadn't eaten since early that morning.
"Would you like some tea?" As if reading his mind, the old man uncovered a shallow dish filled with what smelled like roasted rice balls. Iroh's stomach growled. He couldn't recall that the dish had been there a moment ago.
"Um. All right." In truth, a brief rest sounded nice. He knew that he had to keep moving, but the tea he'd shared with Asami in Katara's kitchen seemed like a thousand years ago, and he was so tired. Iroh released the tension in his hand—the man didn't seem like much of a threat—and walked over under the tree. He sat down, then accepted a cup of tea. It smelled wonderful.
They sipped in silence. Iroh munched on one of the rice balls and found it delicious. The colorful bugs on the dirt mound buzzed lazily behind him in the growing twilight. After a few minutes, Iroh said, "Thank you. I know that I am already in your debt, but may I ask you a question?"
The old man nodded. "Yes. I hope that it is the right one."
Iroh frowned. He had no idea what the man might think the right question was, but there was only one that mattered at the moment. "I need to cross back over into my world, the physical world, where I came from," he said. "I need to do it at a specific place called Republic City. I have reason to believe the barrier between here and there is particularly thin at the moment. Do you know if this is possible?"
The old man nodded. "Yes," he said slowly, "it is possible." Iroh felt something loosen in his chest. He and Asami had been right.
"Can you help me? I'm not quite sure where or how to do it, and I have to get there as quickly as I can."
The old man shook his head. "See? That is the wrong question," he said.
"What do you mean, the wrong question?"
"That is not the question that you should be asking."
"Then what is the right one?" Iroh said. He was growing impatient. It seemed that the old man only talked in circles.
"The right question is not whether or not I can help you. It is, can you help yourself?"
"What do you mean?"
The old man looked at Iroh, then put down his teacup. "The air nomads," he said, "before they were wiped out nearly 200 years ago, were always the culture closest to the spirits. Many of them dedicated their lives to good works and peaceful contemplation. By releasing their hold on earthly desires, and by embracing the element of air with their whole being, many were able to pass beyond the realm of the physical world." The old man looked at Iroh, his eyes sad. "This art, it grieves me to say, has been largely lost."
"So, you're saying that I have to meditate?" Iroh felt a spark of hope. He'd always been good at that, although he thought with some concern about what had happened when he'd tried to lightning bend.
The old man shook his head. "No. It is not that simple. You do not only have to meditate. You have to let go. You have to embrace air. Become, air. Only then may you pass through the boundaries of our worlds at will."
Iroh nodded, then closed his eyes. He crossed his legs and felt Asami's little light press against him from the inside of his pocket. All right, he thought. Let go. Embrace air. Become air. He breathed in and counted to ten. Then he breathed out.