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When he first meets the new Avatar she is not what he expects. Iroh still remembers Aang as a kindly old man full of laughter who noticed people. He’d play with Iroh when none of the other adults would, somehow knowing that what a little boy with an impossibly big name needed most in the world was a grown-up who thought that he was important. Aang was and continues to be the most selfless person Iroh has ever met. Korra, on the other hand...
“I heard you’re a firebender too watch this!” she shouts in one long breath before hurling a fireball as large as an arctic hen straight at his chest. Iroh dodges it but only just; his nostrils fill with the acrid scent of singed fur.
“Korra! I’m so sorry, Lord Zuko,” says the girl’s mother. She grabs Korra by the scruff of her coat and hauls her back. It’s like leashing a baby dragon.
“What? He didn’t get hit. Is Prince Iroh my teacher now?”
Before Iroh can open his mouth his grandfather answers for him. “He is.”
“Yay!!” Korra worms her way out of her mother’s grasp and wraps her mittened hand in Iroh’s, giving it a tug that nearly sends him reeling. “Come on! I can already do fire. We can make snowmen and you can show me how to melt them better!”
Iroh lets himself be dragged off into the white expanse beyond her family’s home, but not before he hears the concern in Senna’s voice. “Are you sure about this? Prince Iroh is only a child himself.”
“Aang was taught by children,” Grandfather says. “Besides, it’ll be good for him.”
***
“Watch this!” Iroh has to squint to see the faint swirl of steam where Korra’s fireball finally lands in the snow. He’ll measure the distance later for his records. What matters is that, at eight years old, it’s within fifteen feet of his own.
“Excellent,” he says, and means it. “I think we can stop for today.”
Korra pouts and kicks at a lump of snow. “Do we have to?”
“I’m tired of targets,” he sighs. “You’re nearly as good as I am already. And I’m hungry.” As if to illustrate the point his stomach makes a loud gurgle. Firebending to keep warm this far south even in summer always seems to leave him starving by mid-morning.
Korra perks up at that. “Do you want cookies?”
“Yes?” Because really, who wouldn’t?
“Okay, come with me!” Korra grabs his hand like she still does when she’s excited and pulls him back towards Katara’s. As far as Iroh knows his visits are the only times she’s allowed out of the compound. But instead of taking him to the front, Korra drags him around to a skin-covered window. She stands on her toes and tries to pull back the covering but can’t quite reach. Iroh, already tall for his age, takes over, and is treated to a perfect view of Katara’s kitchen.
“There!” says Korra. She bounces on the balls of her feet and points to an earthenware jar high on a shelf to the left. “I can’t ever reach though.” Two big blue eyes meet his, full of longing. “Can you?”
Iroh doesn’t respond but instead studies the situation. The shelf is too high for him to reach from the outside. The curved wall of the house would make it difficult for Korra to stand on the sill and reach inside without falling inward, too. Fire is of no use inside, and he doesn’t know enough about Korra’s waterbending abilities to risk damaging the structure. What they need more than anything is someone even taller.
“Here,” he says, and crouches, “get on my shoulders.” Korra’s warm weight settles around his neck. He feels her hands in his hair. When he stands he nearly overbalances and has to brace himself against the wall with one hand. Then he maneuvers them back over to the window. “Careful,” he whispers, “don’t drop it on my head.”
Iroh can’t see what Korra is doing but feels the extra weight of the jar once she has it. Slowly he steps back away from the window and drops her to the ground. Korra’s gap-toothed grin of triumph makes him laugh out loud. Together they run to the shed that once housed Appa like a couple of bandits with a chest full of treasure.
***
Iroh is eighteen when Korra declares she is going to marry him “even though boys are gross.” Grandfather smiles; Sokka laughs. Bumi positively bellows. Korra’s father, half a head taller than Iroh and twice as broad, looks less than amused.
“You can’t marry me, you’re just a kid,” Iroh admonishes. The contrast being that he, Iroh, in his new United Forces officer’s uniform, is most definitely no longer a kid. He’s a grown man now and his profoundly deep interest in girls and their various attributes absolutely does not include anyone Avatar Korra’s age.
“Sure I can,” chirps Korra. “I’m the Avatar. I can do whatever I want.”
“That is not what it means to be the Avatar, Korra,” says Katara. “You know better.”
Korra has the decency to look somewhat chastened. “Fine. But I’m still gonna.”
“No, you’re not. Stop saying that.” And for the first time in his life Iroh turns his back on her.
***
He is choking as he burns. Iroh is half convinced this is all some terrible dream. It can’t be real, pain like this can’t be real, soon he will wake up and find that the battle hasn’t even begun. Something heavy wraps around his neck and even breathing water becomes impossible. His vision fades. Then the world explodes with air and light and sound, horrible sound like tearing metal. Iroh retches a stomachful of putrid seawater and only then does he smell the burning oil. His eyes sting too much to take in more than a few blurs. Hazel on ice blue that nevertheless is familiar.
“Avatar Korra?” he gasps. She nods. There is no sign of her smile. “You saved my life,” he adds. “Thank you.”
Later that night and Iroh is still coming to grips with the nightmare that has become his reality. He's been general for less than six months. It’s almost easier to focus on the pain in his arm.
“How are you?” Korra asks as she plops down beside him.
Iroh runs a hand through his sea-sticky hair. “Never better.”
That gets him the ghost of a smile. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too. Though I’d hoped for better circumstances.”
“That was some awesome firebending.”
He shrugs and it turns into a wince. “Fat lot of good it did.”
“That’s crap.” Iroh turns to see a scowl on her face. “Iroh, you took out half the planes by yourself. I can’t hit moving targets like that and I’m the Avatar. I don’t think anyone else in your fleet could have, either.”
Iroh studies her face; angry, defiant, and notes the past tense. Could have. “And who did I save?” he asks.
“Me.”
He blinks. “What?”
“Me,” she repeats. “I had my hands full, in case you didn’t notice. Without you hitting all those planes who knows what would have happened?” She puts her hand on his knee and tries on an encouraging smile. “We’re a team, you and I. Remember? The Avatar and the Firelord, it’s a thing.”
“I’m not the Firelord,” says Iroh.
“Yeah, well, your grandfather is too old to take a high dive off a battleship these days. I’d just as soon do this with you, if you don’t mind.”
Iroh chuckles and shakes his head. His neck hurts from where his body hit the water. “I don’t suppose you all have any cookies?” he asks.
***
He finds her after the battle again. He is always finding her after the battle. This time her arm is wrapped around a weeping woman Iroh recognizes immediately as Asami Sato. He doesn’t need to ask. He’s read the cable that included notable casualties. Asami’s back heaves with the depth of her grief even as her hands hide her face from view.
“Is there anything I can do for her?” he asks by way of greeting and tries to give it the full weight of his heavy conscience. In that moment Iroh would sell his very spirit to be of some, of any use, to anyone.
“Maybe some water?” says Korra.
Iroh leaves without a word and returns with two cups. The first contains cold water. The second, a sad sort of tea made from the single battered teabag he’d found in his belt pouch. He hands both to Korra, who in turn offers them to Asami. Thank you, she mouths back at him.
She comes to his command tent—a joke, what had he commanded today?—hours later with a bottle of baijiu scared up from who knows where. Iroh is already dressed for the evening in nothing but training pants and an undershirt. He notes the bottle and sits cross-legged on his futon with a tray and two teacups. Korra settles opposite and pours.
“Fuck this,” she says and clinks her teacup against his. Iroh downs his shot. It tastes the way the burning city smells.
“I’d thought you’d be happy,” says Iroh.
She gives him a baffled look. “What in the world do I have to be happy about? Mako’s in the hospital, Asami can’t stop crying, my whole city is in ruins and now we have to figure out how to un-evacuate everybody without knowing if their houses are still there. You mean because we didn’t die?”
“No,” he deadpans, “because you’re the first person in 10,000 years to make a new spirit portal. You’re bound to be taken seriously now.”
Korra studies his face with a blank expression. Iroh feels his mouth twitch. Korra’s eyes fly open and she hurls her empty teacup at his chest. “You jerk!” she shouts, “that isn’t funny!” but she’s already laughing and so is he. Because if you can’t laugh at the darkest of moments, all that’s left is to cry.
***
They stand together on the ridge above his troops, shoulder to shoulder. Darkness boils from the portal like a burst oil well. It won’t be long now.
“Are you ready?” she asks beside him.
Iroh squares his shoulders. “No. Are you?”
“Of course I am.” He turns to see Korra grinning up at him. The faint lines around her bright blue eyes do nothing to dampen the impression of youthful vigor. She might be fifty or fifteen. The same Korra, always. In that moment he’s struck by how much changes and yet how nothing does. Or at least, nothing important.
“You would be,” he says with a smile. “I suppose I don’t have to say it, do I?”
“Don’t you dare,” says Korra. “Once we kick this thing’s ass we’re doing shots in your tent. I won’t take no or death for an answer.”
Iroh bows. “See you on the other side then, Avatar,” he says, and gets ready to give everything he has one more time.