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“Uncle, have you eaten?”
Iroh stirs the congee. Thin as it is, some of the rice had glued to the bottom of the pan. He tries to pry up the clumps, and avoids meeting Zuko’s gaze. “Of course I have.”
Iroh steps forward, but Zuko shuffles back before Iroh can spoon the last of their congee into his bowl.
“I didn’t see you eat,” Zuko says.
“You didn’t see me cook either,” Iroh returns. “How many times did you circle the perimeter, nephew?”
Not as many as he would have liked, Iroh guesses from his nephew’s petulant expression.
“You were gone for so long,” he continues. “I had to set up camp, cook and eat by myself. Look, I even had time to find us tea to drink after dinner.”
Iroh digs into his pockets, pulls out a fistful of flowers, and presents them proudly to Zuko. The tiny heart-shaped petals are a lurid purple against his pale skin.
Zuko huffs, turning away. “We’re fugitives, Uncle. We can’t waste time on things like tea. Especially when they could poison you. Again.”
“Ah, but these are legendary plum-blossom lilacs,” Iroh says. “Their tea is supposed to taste like the finest perfume and encourage luckiness in love.” Predictably, Zuko makes a face, scooting even further away from Iroh and his crumpled flowers. Iroh wiggles them at him. “If you’re not going to eat, we can skip straight to the tea—”
Zuko shoves his spoon into his mouth and says, “No. I’m good.”
“Ah, if you’re sure, nephew.” Iroh pats his shoulder, silently taking in how sharp Zuko’s shoulder feels beneath his shirt.
Zuko is distracted enough that he can spoon the remainder of the congee into his bowl without Zuko insisting they share it more equally. He’s a growing boy, but he’s shrinking every day under Iroh’s gaze. He needs the food more than an old man like Iroh.
After dinner, he makes a show out of brewing the tea. Zuko refuses to taste it, and makes elaborately disgusted faces whenever Iroh talks about its love-finding properties.
But Zuko doesn’t stalk off to check the perimeter again. He lays several paces from the fire, facing Iroh, and listens as Iroh talks and drinks the tea.
It tastes bitter and unpleasantly earthy, like dandelion greens and dirt. Iroh keeps the fire stoked, and hums under his breath as he drinks and pretends to savour it. And slowly, like a candle smothered in its melted wax, Zuko’s eyes flicker shut and he drops into a deep doze.
He spends a few moments just watching over his nephew, settling his own heart, and then Iroh tips the rest of the bitter tea out and finally lays down to get his own rest.
It’s a quiet afternoon, the kind Iroh has learned to savour. The wind blows through their open window, stirring the bamboo chimes he purchased from the marketplace several days ago. Iroh sips his tea, appreciating the serenity, watching the peace settle comfortably over Zuko.
Zuko is savouring his own cup of tea and sketching with the new charcoal sticks Iroh gifted him. When they were at sea, Iroh often saw him buried in his journal, scribbling frantically. He never saw him sit and sketch and enjoy the experience, not like this.
“Nephew,” Iroh says, keeping his voice gentle. “What are you drawing?”
“Just some designs.” He always downplays his achievements, as if he’s putting himself down before anyone else can get the chance. “I thought, maybe for our new menus…”
He slides the sketchbook over, revealing the flowers blooming across the page: bushels of jasmine interspersed with gentle hydrangeas and cherry blossom sprigs. And, laced through the vines, the long noble bodies of dragons, their golden bellies tipped up to the sun.
It’s beautiful. He can’t wait to print them on their new menus and tell every customer that comes in that his talented nephew was the one that designed them. Zuko will pretend to hate the constant stream of praise, but secretly squirm with joy.
“Good work, nephew,” Iroh says simply, returning the sketchbook to him.
Zuko’s ears, peeking out between his shaggy hair, flush a vivid red. He ducks over his sketchboard, charcoal-coated fingers splaying over the designs, hiding them from view. “Thank you, Uncle.”
The next day, before Iroh can take the designs to the local printers, they receive an invitation to serve tea for the Earth King.
There is only so much Iroh can do for his nephew.
When Zuko was thirteen and newly banished, Iroh wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until he saw sense. Ozai is a monster. He had likely hoped Zuko would die young, either from an infection or storm or an enemy warship that decided Zuko was too big of a target to pass up.
In a way, the banishment was a kindness. Zuko wouldn’t have survived in the Capital for much longer. Either Ozai or some other noble would’ve sunk their teeth into him, and he would have become twisted inside, like Azula, like Iroh before Lu Ten’s death. Or else they would have found some way to kill Zuko outright.
But Iroh couldn’t open his eyes to the truth of the world; that was something his nephew had to do for himself.
He had thought maybe Zuko was starting to see sense. Gone was that frantic, ruthless thirteen year old, and in his place was a tea server that was slowly opening up to the world, like a flower in bloom.
There had been enough casualties in this war. Iroh had hoped, perhaps naively, that the sweet tea server who smelt of Jasmine, and whose fingers were stained with charcoal, and who smiled more than Iroh had ever thought possible, would survive the war.
He was wrong.
Down in the caverns beneath Ba Sing Se, Iroh sees that tea server die beneath Azula’s gaze, like a fresh candle snuffed out in a storm, and Iroh’s heart aches for them both.
They make him strip. Pale green silk pools at his feet, and a slip of parchment flutters out of one scorched sleeve. Iroh only makes out a single jasmine flower outlined in charcoal before a soldier scoops up his clothes and the sketch.
“Wait,” Iroh says, reaching for it. Another soldier shoves him back. Iroh could take them all easily, but he’s already decided to play the pathetic old man.
But that drawing, the last thing Zuko gave him—
“Give it up, old man. You’re no dirt-eater Lord; it’s time you stopped acting like one.”
In the soldier’s hands, the bundle goes up in flames. The silk shrinks and crumples into a gritty powder in mere minutes. No scraps of parchment remain.
They strip him of his underthings and force him into rough prison garb. Iroh barely registers the humiliation, the discomfort. All he can see is the memory of that peaceful afternoon—a charcoal dragon dancing between flowers, Zuko’s shy smile as Iroh praised him, bamboo wind chimes singing in the breeze. Will he ever get that back?
Will he ever get Zuko back?
Iroh’s hand slips between the bars and latches onto Ming’s wrist.
“Please,” he says, trying to look as desperate and pathetic as he can. “Can you tell me if my nephew is alright?”
She hesitates. She’s already broken the rules; she should have subdued him and called for backup as soon as his hand slipped between the bars. But giving up information about the royal family to a prisoner—a convicted traitor, no less—could get her executed.
Iroh knows that. He wouldn’t risk her life if it were anyone other than Zuko. If they were anywhere other than here, where Zuko was held down and burned by a man that could—and would, if given opportunity—do it again.
“Please,” Iroh says again. Tears clog his throat. He lets them come, tilting his face up so she can see the wetness on his cheeks. “It’s the first time we’ve been apart in three years. The last time he was here...”
Ming lowers her eyes. Everyone knows what happened the last time Prince Zuko was at court. He bets the whispers have penetrated every level of society.
“I haven’t heard anything,” Ming says, at last. “But I have friends that work in the palace proper. I can ask.”
The staff see and hear more than the nobles assume, and word travels fast in the palace. It’s one of the reasons Iroh has always tried to stay on good terms with them, unlike the rest of his family.
Iroh releases her wrist. “Thank you, Ming.”
“I’ll do my best,” she says, “but no promises.”
What someone else might take from that: she may not be able to find out how Zuko is doing.
What Iroh and Ming both understand: she may not return with good news.
Prince Zuko, under his father and sister’s loving care, might not be okay.
Three days later, Ming is the one to deliver Iroh’s dinner. She sneaks him an extra roll and a snippet of information: “The older servants say Prince Zuko isn’t the same as when he was a boy. He’s been withdrawn and unwilling to let them assist him with many tasks.”
That sounds like the Zuko he knows. Maybe not the same boy from Ba Sing Se, but still, his nephew.
“And?” Iroh prompts.
“And aside from that,” Ming goes on, “he seems alright.” She pauses. Iroh can see a question in her eyes.
Maybe she wonders why Iroh would worry about the nephew that turned him in, the boy who has been welcomed back as a hero and now stands at the Fire Lord’s side.
Or maybe, when she was asking after the prince, she heard years-old rumours about the royal family. Maybe she heard about the way the staff spoke, as if they were used to monitoring Zuko’s behaviour and weighing it against Ozai’s moods. Used to keeping an eye out for stray injuries hiding under the prince’s clothes.
For all that Iroh had tried to stay on friendly terms with the palace staff, they had never told him how Ozai treated his children. Maybe they assumed he knew, and purposefully kept their whisperings from him, in fear that he would only make things worse for Zuko. That thought makes him sick.
Iroh can’t do anything for the child Zuko once was. And he can’t do anything for him now, locked away in a cell.
“Thank you, Ming,” Iroh says. “Really. Thank you.”
A week later, Agni is eclipsed by his sister, and Iroh breaks out of prison. There’s no time to go after his nephew. He just hopes, wherever he is, he is okay.
Iroh meets up with the other members of the White Lotus. Their encampment lies in a shallow valley half a mile from the walls of Ba Sing Se.
The day after he arrives, they receive news from their elaborate spy network about how the rest of the world fared during the eclipse. Much of the resistance has been jailed, but thankfully, the Avatar and his friends escaped safely.
Zuko escaped too.
Iroh prays that his nephew is safe and, hopefully, chasing his destiny.
When he next sees his nephew, he’s on his knees and his face is downcast and wet with tears.
“I’m sorry,” he chokes. “I’m so, so sorry—”
Iroh grabs him and crushes him against his chest. Zuko’s hair is unwashed, tangled around his jaw, and he smells like sweat and campfire smoke, and Iroh just presses closer, fighting back his own tears.
Finally, finally his nephew has come home to him.
When they emerge from the tent, the children pull Zuko into their circle. He doesn’t pull away from them; if anything, he leans into their touch, the same greedy way he’d leaned into Iroh’s hug, like a flower starved of sunlight.
Iroh had been worried that the gentle tea server from Ba Sing Se wouldn’t survive the Fire Palace. But he can see traces of him in this young prince, this almost-Fire Lord.
Ozai didn’t crush Zuko the way he had intended. Zuko survived. He grew strong, and gentle, and more honourable than Ozai could ever imagine.
Iroh is so proud of him.
Zuko accepts the tea without complaint. He closes his eyes and sips it slowly, like he’s savouring the taste.
“I thought you hated tea,” Iroh says.
“Zuko?” Sokka says, glancing between uncle and nephew with raised eyebrows. “Hate tea? No way. He made it for us every night.”
Zuko ducks his head, staring intently at the steam wafting from his tea.
“Is that so?” Iroh says.
Toph slurps her tea noisily. “It was pretty good. Not as good as this, but still better than anything Katara made.”
Katara’s eye twitches. “Well, I’m sorry I can’t brew tea as well as royal firebenders. I did my best to provide for everyone while we were running for our lives.”
Toph smirks and takes another sip. “I’m sure Zuko will teach you if you ask, sugar queen.”
Iroh turns away from the brewing argument and focuses on his nephew. Zuko is carefully not looking at him.
“I see you took my lessons to heart.”
“I was a tea server for months. I kind of had to.”
Iroh nods. “Yes, and after Ba Sing Se, when you no longer worked in a tea house?”
Zuko’s gaze flicks up to him and then away again. Ah, Iroh thinks. Even though they talked everything out, it seems it’s going to take time for Zuko’s wounds to close.
“In the palace,” Zuko starts, soft enough that Iroh has to lean in to hear him over the girls’ argument, “I would sneak out of my room at night. I would often head towards the prisons to talk to you, but lose my nerve on the way there. Other times, I headed to the kitchens to make tea.”
“Dangerous,” Iroh observes. He doesn’t want to think about what Ozai might have done if he’d caught Zuko roaming the palace halls at night.
“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sneaky.”
“Not that sneaky,” Sokka cuts in.
Zuko scowls. “What?”
“When we went to rescue my dad, you got caught, like, almost immediately, remember?”
Zuko shoves him. “That was your fault for staying in the cell for so long!”
Iroh glances between the teenagers, a familiar bubble of concern rising in his chest. “Cell? Nephew, what were you doing?”
Zuko clears his throat. Oh no. Iroh knows that face. He always dreads seeing that face.
“Sokka and I,” Zuko begins, “might have broken into the Boiling Rock.”
Iroh sets his tea cup down. “Pardon?”
“Yeah, we went to break out my dad,” Sokka says. “Chief Hakoda? He was captured during the invasion. We rescued Suki too! It was fun. I mean, we got captured and almost shoved into boiling water, but it was fine in the end.”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” Suki says. Zuko glares at them both, and she just smiles back, seeming to take joy in spilling his secrets.
Iroh presses a hand to his temple, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He’d forgotten what this particular brand of fear felt like. “Is there anything else you want to tell me, Zuko?”
“No,” he says.
“Aang said something about dancing with dragons,” Toph announces.
“Toph!”
“Zuko took me to confront the soldier that murdered my mother in front of me,” Katara says.
“I didn’t get a life-changing field trip.” Toph jabs Zuko in the ribs. “You better have something good planned for when this is all over.”
Zuko looks at him, guilt written all over his face. “Uh. I can explain?”
He reaches out and smoothes down Zuko’s hair. “There’s no need, nephew. I’m just glad you’re safe.”
There will be time for explanations and stories, but that time is not now, on the eve of war. Especially not after Iroh has only just gotten him back. He doesn’t want to think about all the ways he could have lost him.
Zuko goes quiet and leans into the touch. Oh, how Iroh has missed him.
Iroh helps reclaim the city he once laid siege to. People hang out of windows, cheering with all their hearts, throwing fistfuls of rice and flowers onto the street.
Power crackles under his skin like furled lightning. He itches for another battle, if only so he can do something instead of sitting here and waiting for news, other people’s happiness ringing in his ears, while his child is hundreds of miles away fighting for his life.
The messenger hawk arrives just before dusk. Piandao ushers him over, a rumpled scroll in hand, and Iroh almost trips on his robe in his haste to get there.
In a messy hand, the letter reads:
The Avatar has defeated Phoenix King Ozai. Prince Zuko challenged Princess Azula to an Agni Kai for the throne. He won. No casualties.
The war is over.
There are several hasty signatures penned at the bottom of the letter. Aang. Master Katara. Sokka. Several inked fingerprints next to a neat Toph. A paw print, likely from Momo. And finally, like rainfall after a burning summer: Fire Lord Zuko.
“They did it,” Piandao says.
Iroh clutches the letter the way he wants to clutch his nephew. “They did it,” he says, and bursts into tears.
Iroh hasn’t spent much time in the palace since Lu Ten’s passing. The few months he visited after his son’s death passed in a grief-coloured haze he barely remembers, punctuated by the Agni Kai he still sees when he closes his eyes.
He thought it would hurt too much, living here, expecting to see Lu Ten come tumbling around every corner with that toothy smile. But then, Ba Sing Se is full of ghosts too—his son, his loyal troops, the tea server whose life ended in the glowing catacombs. It’s going to hurt just as much to return there without his nephew.
He doesn’t have a choice though. Zuko has to be seen as the Fire Lord first, his nephew second, and that means Iroh can’t keep casting a shadow over him.
He finds Zuko in the hall of portraits, dwarfed by the Fire Lords that came before him. For most of his life, Iroh thought his picture would hang here, but now he’s glad that Zuko is the one history will remember.
Zuko stares up at an austere portrait of his father. Without turning to look at Iroh, he asks, “Was my father ever a good man?”
Iroh blinks. “Why do you ask?”
Zuko shakes his head, loose hair tumbling around his shoulders. “I thought…”
“It doesn’t do well to linger on the past on nights like these, especially when you’re hurt. You should be resting.”
Zuko huffs and turns around. “Uncle,” he says, “I’m going to be crowned in a few days. Azula and fath—Ozai will be gone, and you’ll be in Ba Sing Se. My friends have responsibilities and homes to go back to. And I’ll be here, alone with supreme power.” Zuko scrubs a hand through his hair. “How will I know that I’m—that I’m not turning into—?”
Iroh places both hands on Zuko’s shoulders, relieved when his nephew doesn’t flinch, as he had in the early days of his banishment. “Zuko, look at me. You are not your father. You never were and you never will be.”
“But how do you know that?”
“Because I know you, nephew. You have a good heart. You would never abuse your power the way Ozai did.”
“But I’ve made mistakes. I’ve hurt people. And I thought I was doing the right thing then—who’s to say I won’t hurt innocent people again, thinking I’m doing the right thing?”
Iroh places the back of his hand on Zuko’s forehead. He feels as warm as any firebender.
Zuko shakes him off. “I’m not sick, Uncle. I’m serious. How can I rule knowing I might hurt people?”
“You have people that love and know you. Do you think I would sit back and not interfere if you were doing evil things?”
“You did once,” Zuko accuses.
Iroh wishes he could say he would never again put politics before his nephew, but he’s about to. In a few days time, he will leave his sixteen year old nephew to rule over a wartorn country alone.
Iroh lays a hand on his chest, over his heart. He would kneel if he thought the gesture wouldn’t freak Zuko out. “I promise before Agni to stop you if I ever think you’ve gone too far. I promise to check in with you whenever I can, by letter and by visiting as often as I can. I’ve been watching over you since you were banished, nephew. That’s not going to stop now that you’re Fire Lord.”
There are many things Iroh wishes he had done differently, dating back to well before Zuko was born. But if there’s one thing he can do now, it is look after Zuko as best as he can.
“Please stop me if I ever…” Zuko swallows. “Do whatever you have to, Uncle. Please.”
Iroh promises no such thing. He’s always been pragmatic, but he can’t think about killing his nephew. He can’t. Especially since it will never be necessary, not in this world or the next.
He cups Zuko’s cheek. “You’re a good man, nephew. You have more honour than men three times your age. Don’t let the crimes of our ancestors make you forget that.”
Zuko closes his eyes and leans into the touch. His reign hasn’t officially begun, but already he looks exhausted.
“Come on,” Iroh says, gently ushering him away from the towering portraits. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
Iroh spent all of his childhood and most of his adult life expecting to one day be Fire Lord.
Azulon was a deeply paranoid man in good health, so Iroh knew he wouldn’t succumb to illness or assassination for many years. But eventually he would fall like any man, and it would be Iroh’s turn to take the throne.
And then he lost Lu Ten.
He lost a part of himself that day. Including the part of him that wanted to rule.
On the morning of Zuko’s coronation, Iroh finds him in his room, shifting under the impatient hands of servants. He startles when Iroh enters, and it dislodges the comb sliding through his hair. The servant looks half-terrified, half-ready to yank Zuko back by the scalp.
“Good morning, Prince Zuko,” Iroh says. “Or should I say Lord Zuko.”
Zuko fidgets on the stool, grimacing. The bags under his eyes are more pronounced. Another sleepless night, then.
“You may go,” Iroh tells the servants.
When they’re alone, Iroh picks up the comb. He has only brushed Zuko’s hair once before, when Zuko was sick from infection, pus oozing from his bandaged eye. His hair had become matted from thrashing in bed for days.
Back then, Iroh had only managed to brush the ends before he had to stop. Zuko had almost trembled apart under his hands. It wasn’t until Zuko had started hyperventilating that Iroh had realised that his touch had driven Zuko’s fevered mind into a flashback.
Zuko’s hair is shorter now and covers his whole head. The ends are uneven, scorched faintly. Iroh coats his fingers with oil and runs them through his hair.
Zuko’s eyes slip shut. He leans into Iroh’s touch, so trusting, and Iroh takes a few extra moments to brush through his hair after all the knots are gone.
“Uncle,” Zuko grumbles, opening his eyes.
“Hm?”
“I’m going to fall asleep.”
Iroh laughs and carefully twists his hair into a top-knot. His hair is short enough that Iroh has to secure it with a few dark clips, almost invisible in his black hair.
Next, he helps Zuko dress. It’s slow going, considering the lightning scar burnt into his stomach, but together they manage.
Once dressed, Zuko fidgets with the heavy robes. Iroh knocks his hands away and straightens them, smoothing out the wrinkles and checking to make sure the sash around his waist isn’t too tight on his injuries. This may be servant’s work, but Iroh is honoured to do it.
“Uncle,” Zuko says, just that, a single word holding an ocean of worry.
“You look wonderful, nephew. Like a proper Fire Lord.” His voice cracks.
“Uncle,” Zuko warns. “You promised.”
Iroh clears his throat. He had told Zuko he wouldn’t cry—not yet, at least. Not before Zuko makes it out into the pavilion.
“I’m fine. Really.”
“Do I need to make sure the servants are carrying spare handkerchiefs?”
Iroh pats his chest pocket. “Ah, I already have three on me.”
“Three?”
Iroh laughs at Zuko’s horrified face. “Of course! What did you expect? My child has grown into himself, saved the world, made life-long friends, and redeemed our nation. All before the age of twenty.”
Zuko stares down at his boots, flushing faintly. “Promise you won’t brag about me, Uncle.”
“I will promise no such thing.”
“At least wait until you’re back in Ba Sing Se!”
Iroh laughs and sweeps Zuko into a hug. He squirms in Iroh’s hold for a moment before going lax and sinking into the embrace. He’s so tall that he has to crouch slightly to wrap his arms around Iroh’s back. When did that happen? It feels like just yesterday that Zuko was a child chasing after him for war stories.
When they pull away, Iroh takes a moment to drink in the sight of him, dressed in finery, hair pulled into a silky top knot.
“Fire Lord Zuko,” Iroh says, enjoying the way the syllables fit in his mouth. “My nephew. I’m so, so proud of you.”
Zuko doesn’t say anything, just grabs Iroh for another hug. And this time, if Iroh’s shoulder is damp when they pull away, then neither of them point it out.
The crowd is a wash of reds, greens, and blues. Earth Kingdom rebels. Waterbenders. Kyoshi Warriors. Children who are too young to call themselves veterans but hold the title nonetheless. All of them crowded into the royal pavilion, a sight Iroh never thought he would have lived to see. He can hardly breathe at the sight.
“Is he coming?”
Iroh turns. The young Water Tribe boy shifts in front of him. Sokka, he recalls. The one who broke into the Boiling Rock and lived to tease his nephew about it.
“Pardon?” Iroh says.
“Zuko. Is he coming?” Sokka squints. “You don’t think he’s gotten stage-fright do you? Do we need to bully him into it? Because I’m totally up for it if you are.”
Iroh laughs, some of the nervous energy melting away. The Avatar’s earthbending master, Toph Beifong, stalks over and leans heavily on Sokka. “What are we doing?” she asks.
“Bullying Zuko.”
“Oh, nice. I’m in.”
They snicker together, looking young and happy and bright despite the yellowing bruises littering their skin or the cast on Sokka’s leg. In the hard months and years to come, Zuko will need friends like this—friends who can smile like they’ve never seen violence, friends who don’t care what title he holds, friends who love each other fiercely and without shame.
“May I ask a favour?” Iroh asks.
“Does it involve bullying Zuko?” Toph says.
“In a way.”
Toph grins. “Then sure.”
“The coming months won’t be easy on any of us,” Iroh begins, “but it’ll be especially hard on my nephew. The world won’t be kind to him. As much as I want to stand by him, I can’t, not if I want him to be respected the way he deserves.”
The children stand straighter, their feral smiles gone. Sokka braces on his crutches like a seasoned soldier and there’s something sharp in Toph’s milk-coloured eyes, like she’s watching enemy ships pull into port.
“Will you look after my nephew for me?” he continues. “He cares for you all, even if he may not always be good at showing it. And as the Fire Lord, he’s going to need as much love and support as he can get.”
“Is that all?” Toph asks. “We were already gonna do that.”
“Zuko’s our friend,” Sokka says. “We would never abandon him. I mean, I’ve already got a loose rotation in mind.” Toph glances at Sokka, eyebrows raised. He splutters. “What? We won the war, but there’s a lot of work to be done! We need to make sure Aang doesn’t get buried under Avatar responsibilities, and Katara doesn’t feel like she has to rebuild the Southern Water Tribe on her own, and you know Zuko’s an idiot workaholic who’s going to need help keeping his head above water. We’re gonna need to keep an eye on them all. So.” Sokka scratches his head, balancing on his good leg. “Rotation.”
“Nerd,” Toph accuses. Sokka squawks and tries to smack her, but she ducks out of the way and he almost topples over. Toph catches him at the last moment, cackling loud enough to draw attention from the people around them.
“Thank you,” Iroh says. “If you ever need me, don’t hesitate to write. And I expect to see you all in Ba Sing Se sometime. Don’t be strangers.”
The Fire Sages emerge from the curtain and take centre-stage. The buzzing crowd quiets down and begins shuffling into neat rows.
“Come on,” Iroh says, ushering the two young ones forward. “You stand at the front.”
“Isn’t the front for family?” Sokka asks.
“Yes,” Iroh says, slipping an arm around Sokka’s shoulder to help support him, “it is.”
They find Katara and a few Kyoshi Warriors in the crowd, and Iroh bustles them towards the front too. This is where they deserve to be. The children who saved the world. Zuko’s friends, the ones who helped him become the young man he is today. The people who supported him when Iroh couldn’t.
When Zuko steps out onto the pavilion and starts to speak, Iroh’s body feels too small to contain his swell of pride.
Toph elbows him gently. “You good?” she whispers.
Oh, Iroh thinks. He hadn’t realised he’d begun to cry.
He pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his face. He has a feeling he’s going to need more than the three he packed.
Iroh nods to reassure the young earthbender. He’s fine. In fact, he’s never been better.