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. He thought about air. He imagined being light, weightless. He sat like that for a few minutes, just breathing, emptying himself. Then he opened his eyes. He was still on the blanket under the tree. As far as Iroh could see, nothing at all had changed except that his tea was cold.
"What did I do wrong?" he asked.
The old man shook his head. "You are still fire, Iroh. Not air. You are not letting go."
"What does that even mean?" Iroh said, frustrated. "Letting go of what?"
"I knew a man once," the old man said, "who wanted something that he did not have." Iroh groaned inwardly. The man seemed incapable of giving him a straight answer about anything.
"This man, he did not think why he should or should not have this thing. Only that he wanted it, and that it was not his. The desire for it burned in him, always. For years. Over time, it burned others, too. His wife, his family. They all suffered. One day, his desire to possess this thing to which he had no right made him do something which could not be forgiven. And he found, once he had done one unforgivable thing, he could do another. And another. And another.
"This man, he hurt many people. And in the end, he did indeed possess the thing which he had so desired. For a time. But it came at a terrible cost, and I do not think it made him happy. There was not enough left of him by then, I think, to be happy." The old man shook his head, his eyes sad. "This man, Iroh. He died alone."
Iroh nodded. It sounded like a unfortunate story, but he had no idea what it had to do with his ability to get back to Republic City, and he was running out of time. "Thank you for the tea," he said, and moved to stand.
"Have you noticed, perhaps, that your fire has turned blue?"
Iroh stopped. How did the old man know about that? "No... I didn't… it was only once." It sounded lame, even to him.
"And he found, once he had done one unforgivable thing, he could do another," the old man repeated. He leaned forward, his bronze eyes grave. "I see this man in you, Prince Iroh. And it pains me. There is something that you desire, and that you do not have. It burns in you. But ask yourself, please. What have you done to earn this thing? Not to have it, but to deserve to have it?
"I don't know what you're talking about," Iroh said. His heart beat a little faster. Perhaps the tea had been a mistake.
"Do you not? Tell me, then, how is your lightning bending?"
"What?"
"Make some lightning for me, Prince Iroh. I would like to see it."
Iroh looked down at his teacup, suddenly ashamed. "I… I can't. You know I can't, or you wouldn't have asked me. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"You're a coward, Iroh."
Iroh looked up sharply. "Excuse me?" He felt himself flush slightly. Why did it always come down to this particular accusation? His shame deepened.
"You, Prince Iroh of the Fire Nation, General of the United Forces, are a coward. That is what's wrong with you."
"How dare you—" Iroh started.
"This woman," the man continued, as if Iroh hadn't spoken. "You have kissed her, yes?" Iroh stopped. He had no idea how the old man knew any of this. "Tell me. What, then, did you do?"
"Nothing happened," Iroh said angrily. There didn't seem to be any point in lying to this man. He clearly knew all of his secrets, and then some. "She said to forget it."
"No. That is not what I asked. What, immediately after, did you do?"
Iroh thought. "I, uh. We were interrupted. I went into another room. Then we went out to meet the dark spirits. But I don't understand what that has to do with—"
"Ah," said the old man, cutting him off again. "So, you left her."
"What? No, it wasn't like that, it was—"
"Did you tell her before?"
"Tell her what?"
"What you were doing. How you felt."
Iroh thought, then shook his head. He was so confused. What did kissing Asami have to do with lightning bending? And what did lightning bending or blue fire have to do with getting to Republic City?
The old man nodded. "So you kissed her, saying nothing, and then walked away. And then she kissed you, yes? Not that long ago. Here, in the Spirit World. What, then, did you do?"
"I—" Iroh stopped. He thought about it. "I left again," he said, crestfallen. He ran one hand quickly through his hair. "But it wasn't like that, it wasn't that kind of kiss, and I needed to find my way… anyway she'd made it very clear…"
"So when, exactly, did you tell her how you felt? Was it when you talked to her in front of your new city gate? Or was it earlier, perhaps? When you touched her face and she said a name that was not yours?" The old man peered at him over his teacup. "Or is there a chance that you walked away from her then also?"
Iroh sat, stunned. Surely he'd been open about his intentions. Even Katara had said he'd been painfully obvious. It was just that now, he couldn't remember exactly when. Asami had to know though. You don't kiss someone the way he had kissed her and not know. She had to.
Didn't she?
"And what," continued the old man, "did you tell her about scars?"
Scars? Iroh paused, thinking. He had no idea. "I'm not sure. I don't remember."
"Did you not say that injuries are rarely about what you can see on the outside?" Iroh nodded, his hand moving absently to the healed stab wound in his side. He didn't remember this conversation, but it was true enough.
"Letting go is not the same thing as running away," the old man said. "I think that you have had the arrogance to think that everything is about you. And, yes, the cowardice to not be willing to face the consequences of your actions. Think. See it from her perspective. What, then, do you know?"
Iroh thought. What did he know?
That Asami was brilliant, and beautiful, and fun, and kind. That she would have your back in a fight. That she couldn't cook and hated mornings, and that any man would be lucky to spend the rest of his life waking her up. That she was brave and energetic and successful, and could probably have anything and anyone that she wanted on a long list of things that didn't seem to include Iroh at all.
He paused. Except she couldn't.
Because Asami's success had come at a terrible cost. She'd only inherited the company after her father's treachery and imprisonment. Given the choice between his daughter and the Equalist movement, he'd turned on her. Even worse, she had been the one to have to bring him to justice.
Because once she'd stepped up to head Future Industries she'd faced doubts from customers, investors, and her own staff. She'd struggled to keep the business afloat, and fought a seemingly endless uphill battle against the perception that she was nothing more than Hiroshi Sato's fragile, spoiled little girl.
Because her wealth and beauty had attracted a string of empty, vapid men who saw her as a trophy, not a person.
Because her friends were powerful benders, and that though she could hold her own in a fight, Asami would always be different. No amount of money or courage would change that.
Because despite all her advantages, one of those benders had left her for the woman she considered her closest friend.
Because she'd barely known her mother.
And Iroh saw it. They left her. All of them. Everyone that Asami Sato had ever loved had left. Somehow this amazing, fierce, incredible woman had always come in second to something or someone else.
"Tell me, Prince Iroh," the old man said, putting down his tea again. "What answer can this woman give to a question that you will not ask her? What might she think, if instead you are always walking away?"
Iroh said nothing. Spirits, he was no better than the rest of them. "But she's in love with somebody else," he said.
"And when, exactly, did she tell you this?" Iroh opened his mouth, then closed it again. She hadn't, of course. He'd only assumed. Katara had told him the same thing, too. He'd just been too stupid and tired and hurt to believe her. And Asami hadn't reacted to Mako at all when they'd entered the Spirit World. Was it possible that he'd been that wrong?
The old man's eyes twinkled. "Then what do you need to do, Iroh? Not to have this thing, but to deserve to have it?"
Iroh closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He saw Asami's face again, stark and pale in the moonlight. She said nothing, her too-bright eyes unreadable. Except that this time, they weren't. And it wasn't confusion or disappointment that he saw in them. It was doubt.
Iroh looked back, and chose again.
He pictured Asami the last time he'd seen her, her green eyes were tinged with worry. A spot on his cheek tingled as he asked her the question on the tip of his tongue.
He saw her standing by the wall outside a frozen city, cheeks flushed with cold, and this time he did not hesitate.
He did not walk away at Katara's questions. He stood his ground, declared his interest openly, and accepted the result without fear.
They did not part at a doorway painted robin's-egg blue.
He brushed the hair gently from her face in the morning, handed her a cup of tea, and asked her: Will you?
Iroh felt a painful tug around his heart. Then he imagined giving Asami a choice, a real choice, without fear, without shame, without anger. He imagined what it would mean to stay. Iroh reached into his pocket. Let go, he thought. His hand closed around the portable light.
He imagined what it would mean to deserve her.
Will you? Will you? Will you? Will you?
Iroh breathed out.