His own importance here is not with his own face, certainly not with his hair so white. It is so strange.

Sometimes he wonders if this is something akin to what Zuko felt, just a little, when he first took the bandages off. Then he tells himself that he evidently hasn't missed out on the family tendency for over-dramatisation as entirely as he would like to believe. He pours his tea, a new blend. A little too sharp, the leaves picked slightly too soon.

And oh, damn:

Iroh doesn't know how to talk to this man without hate rising in his voice. He goes home, and he pours tea for himself, and for Lu Ten, and he keeps both cups hot for hours without drinking a drop.

... Yeah. That's his story, man. That's how it ends, Iroh looking down through the steam.