Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Aang scrambles on the edge of the lake, his limbs flailing uselessly before they muster up the strength to bend a jet of water to whirl him onto land. The Fire Lord looms ever closer, hot on his heels. He wonders how long he can keep this up. Hot, dusty air stings the corners of his eyes and it’s all he can do to leap out of his terrifying path and conjure a rough wall of rock for protection. 

His head pounds. How could he be so presumptuous? How could they all? Agonising for days over whether Aang should kill the Fire Lord or spare him, when the only thing, the only thing Aang can focus on in this moment is to not be killed. 

To not die when the fate of the world depends on him. The fate of all his friends and all the nations, of any possible hope for peace and coexistence. 

A swoosh of his arms, and the ground bursts into a protective shield, as Aang braces for another angry cloud of flame. Ozai approaches, propelled on his jet of fire. Heat clouds Aang’s vision as he waits for the impact, his elbows scraping against harsh, jagged rocks. 

You're weak, just like the rest of your people! They did not deserve to exist in this world ... in my world! 

He screws his eyes shut. There it is. 

Ozai’s words thunder through the earth, a lightning strike right into Aang’s heart, burning up in his chest like his flames haven’t yet managed to. The wall of rock erected for protection now morphs into a perfect sphere to deflect Ozai's fiery blasts, encasing Aang like ice.

He cowers and waits for the final blow. 

Any chance that the air nomads could survive will die with him right here. He failed them once and it wasn’t enough, it turns out. He’ll fail them again, and the rest of the world with it. 

Prepare to join them. Prepare to die!

“Aang! Aang, wake up!” 

He rises with a start, a bolt of air sending him three feet in the air. The curved hull of the airship closes in on him like the Fire Lord’s flames, clogging up his windpipe and sending him tumbling to the dusty ground – 

Except it’s not ground. It’s a blanket in a makeshift cot. And it’s not the Fire Lord calling to him, but Sokka. 

“Aang?”  Sokka’s eyes are insistent, bright with worry. 

But Aang has no time. He takes gulps of air. “I have to get out of here.”

Sokka cocks an eyebrow. “Don’t be ridiculous, we’re a hundred feet in the air.”

He leaps to his feet, already scanning his surroundings. “Where’s my staff?”

“I don’t know! You left it when you disappeared! Will you calm down? The Fire Lord’s not a threat anymore, Aang, you took his bending, remember? We’re safe now.”

The panic ebbs in Aang’s limbs, sweat trickling down his back. He blinks hard, trying to take in his surroundings. Sokka’s right. There’s no sting of smoke in his eyes. No flames, no Fire Lord. Only the loud whir of the airship as it slowly hovers towards their destination. 

“But I– It was–" He takes a shaky breath. "Where is he?”

Sokka narrows his eyes and waves an arm towards the metal door, gesturing to the next room. “Down in the brig, remember? Toph took care of him. Believe me, he’s not gonna be able to escape the restraints she fashioned for him.”

Aang nods slowly.

“Are– are you okay?”

His heartbeat finally slowing, Aang turns to Sokka, and really tries to take him in for the first time since waking. He’s leaning heavily on the wall next to them, his bandaged leg in a makeshift sling of ripped cloth and hastily bent metal. He looks a little scared, and Aang can’t blame him. 

Aang takes a deep breath. The ship’s engine grinds in his ears, a constant thrum. He finds a thread of calm and lets his panic ease, little by little. 

It had felt so real. But the dream – and the fight – are a blur when he tries to recall them. At least he hadn’t been desperate enough to go into the Avatar State. That was the first fearful thought that leapt into his mind when he opened his eyes to Sokka’s alarmed features. 

Aang slumps back down against the cold lining of the ship, head falling to his knees. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles. “I dreamt—”

Sokka’s expression softens into worry. 

“It’s okay, Aang.”

Footsteps pad closer into the doorway, followed by the a gigantic yawn. “What’s going on in here? I’m trying to get some shuteye. You know how sharp my hearing is with all this metal, right?” Toph steps into the cabin, hands cupped over her ears.

Aang glances up to her tiny frame, just as tired as Sokka and practically swallowed by the cavernous interior of the Fire Nation ship behind her. His chest pangs for her. Just by the structure of the vessel – every surface constructed from coarse metal, from the walls and doors right down to the handful of uncomfortable-looking seats — he can take a guess at how much heavy lifting she’d had to do for them to be able to defeat the fleet. Aang isn’t sure he’s ready to hear the details, but that hardly matters, because they're all etched on her face – pinched with distress and aimless, suddenly left with nothing to do but sit and wait in the aftermath of the battle. 

Not to mention, she's as helpless here without solid ground as he is without his staff. Probably even more so.

"Toph? You..."

He can’t even bring himself to put any of it into words. 

Sokka’s voice comes through the din of his mind, oddly kind and measured. “Nothing's going on. Sorry, Toph. Aang’s just resting. You should go back to sleep.” 

Toph harrumphs, but even that sounds small and fatigued. She turns right around, ready to leave the instant she’s dismissed. Aang turns back to Sokka with a sigh, grateful. 

“Sorry for scaring you guys.”

Sokka shakes his head. “I got you, kid.” 

“Where’s Suki?”

“She’s in the cockpit.”

“Right.” How could he forget – someone has to be steering the ship while they all rest in here. “Doesn’t she need any help?”

Sokka laughs, wiggling his toe as a demonstration, before immediately wincing. “She can handle it. I don’t think the three of us are going to be any help to anybody right now. Besides, we’ve cleared most of the smoke. It should only be a few hours until we reach the Fire Nation.”

Aang nods. They settle into a grinding, metal mockery of silence. 

The fates of Katara and Zuko in the Fire Nation hang unspoken between them. 

Finally, Sokka yawns. “Get some sleep, if you can.” He catches Aang’s eye, knowingly. “And if you can’t, a little rest still won’t hurt.”

They lie back down next to each other. Aang doesn't know how to feel. With the ceaseless whir of the ship in his ears, he can hear nothing of the outside world. It's almost as if he is still in a dream – they're still in the thick of the action, stuck in a Fire Nation battleship under a blazing red sky. Except no enemy airship would carry an already-snoring Sokka safe in its cabin, Momo tucked against his arm.

“Momo,” Aang calls gently, not wanting to wake Sokka. 

The lemur raises an ear instantly, like he was expecting Aang to call. He skits silently out from behind Sokka’s arm, pausing to tilt his head curiously at Aang before jumping onto his shoulder and curling his tail around his neck.

Momo purrs as Aang’s fingers smooth down his dusty fur. Aang sighs. “You won't believe what happened out there, boy. I did it. I stopped the Fire Lord.” Aang’s fingers pause, his mind suddenly struck by the enormity. “ I… I guess I saved the world.”

Momo stares at him unblinkingly, Aang's uncertainty reflected in his giant, blank eyes. 

He did stop the Fire Lord. He did save the world. 

So why on earth doesn’t it feel like he did? 

Above him, the sky presses down, ready to buckle under the weight of thick smoke. Aang feels the crackle of lightning on the breeze, on the hairs of his arms. By the time he sees the flash, it's too late. 

A snatch of deep laughter echoes through the ship. 

He wakes drenched in sweat, an arm raised to shield his eyes from the breaking dawn. 

Katara presses her lips together, turning them into a small smile. “It’s a miracle you're not hurt worse,” she whispers, for what feels to Aang like the twentieth time.

Aang doesn’t know what to say – he can’t step back and judge the truth in her assessment, can’t recall anything from the fight in any more detail than a harsh, fiery blur. He settles for offering her a smile back, trying not to notice how glossy her eyes are and how they’ve been that way all morning. They’ve covered many topics while she works on his injuries, the conversation sparse, then fast, and sparse again, but she always keeps coming back to this. 

They had arrived on land soon after sunrise and stumbled into the palace to find a bewildered state of victory. A smattering of guerilla fighters from the Earth Kingdom, White Lotus guards, and Southern Water Tribe warriors had already gathered amidst the remaining Fire Nation councillors and palace staff who had not escaped, forfeited or been imprisoned. No insistence from anyone of any stature could pry Katara away from them until she had stood each of them straight and checked every one of their joints twice over. Hakoda had managed to convince her to leave them under his care long enough to rest herself, but that was only temporary. Sokka, Suki and Toph managed to make their way to the medical outhouses to rest and tend to their injuries, mixing with the tribesmen and questioning the White Lotus guards for news from Ba Sing Se. Aang and Katara only clung to each other, like children caught in a windstorm.

Aang lifts his head to watch her reach behind and pull a globe of water around his shoulder blade, transfixed. The smarting skin of his arm cools immediately. 

Katara releases him and makes a small noise in her throat, silently asking Aang to shift so she can work on the other shoulder. 

There would be a time somewhere down the line to talk about the awkward way they had left things before the battle, but here in this strange, suspended victory, that time is as vague and unreachable as if it were in the Spirit World. For now, their only job is to heal. 

Not even the Avatar is immune to the reality of cuts and bruises. Every muscle in Aang’s body blooms with a fresh pain that the adrenaline and fatigue had masked until a few hours ago. Katara asked, of course, but he spared her the details of just how many times the Fire Lord had effortlessly thrown him against pillars of rock, not wanting to upset her even more in their precarious state. There are scrapes and burns on his knees and elbows and no matter how much he tries to blink it away, the everpresent sting of smoke remains in his eyes. 

“Katara, your arm,” Aang whispers, alarmed. Shame warms over him – why hadn’t he noticed it earlier? A gash across the inside of her elbow is blotchy, blistering in gruesome red and orange.

She glances up from her careful waterbending. “A close call with Azula. Don’t worry,  I treated it already. Just let me finish your shoulders, okay? You’ll be able to sleep on your back much more comfortably after this.”

Aang acquiesces, too tired to argue. He watches her work. But now that he's noticed it, he can't help but observe how Katara winces each time the healing motions twist her arm too far out. 

“Maybe we can finish tomorrow?” Aang suggests. “I think I'll be okay for now.” 

“It’s fine, Aang. I told you, I already treated it.”

“Look, you need rest, too. I know I'm injured but I’m not–”

Katara glances up sharply, eyes sharp and glinting with unshed tears.

Aang falters. "I'm not..."

"Not–?" 

They hold each other's gaze. Not dying . Not like the last time she had healed him after a horrific fight. 

“...I'm okay,” Aang tries again, trying to soften his tone and really make her understand. “I mean – I will be. I promise.”

Katara nods and sniffs, lifting a hand to wipe surreptitiously under her nose. With a sharp intake of breath, she drops the water back into its bowl and takes his hands, turning them in hers. His scraped palms are already hardening to scabs and callouses, and he rolls his shoulders to check their state. “My body hurts, obviously, but I am fine.” 

He swallows. He hopes that sounded surer than he feels. 

Katara nods in agreement, however, as if she had come to this realisation much sooner. “It’s the Avatar State. It protected you. Technically you don’t even really need me to heal your surface injuries, I’m just doing this so you’re more comfortable.”

Aang laughs nervously. “You almost sound disappointed.” 

Katara raises an eyebrow. He holds his breath  – was that too close to flirting? 

Can they do that right now? 

But she only laughs him off, before shaking her head seriously. “Believe me, I’m not. Before the four of you arrived this morning, I spent hours on Zuko.” 

Aang’s chest twists with worry, just as quickly as their gentle back and forth had eased him out of it. “How’s he doing?” 

“Fast asleep, last I checked.”

“Well, at least someone is.” 

Now Katara grins. 

“Is he…gonna be okay?” 

She had relayed to Aang and the others what happened during the fight with Azula only in the briefest terms, considering how overwhelmed they were by well-meaning helpers of every ilk soon as they had arrived. He knows that she probably didn’t want to get into the details of being attacked by Azula’s lightning in front of him, too, and he’s endlessly grateful for that.

Though some part of him knows he’ll be going to Zuko for the details, regardless. 

Katara squeezes his hand. “He’ll be fine, Aang. It feels like a miracle to even say it, but it looks like we all made it out of the battle in one piece.” Then she pulls up her knees, resting her chin over them to stare into the distance over Aang’s head. “It's a pretty bad wound, it might take a few weeks to heal.” There’s no doubt that she’s thinking about the last lightning wound she had to heal. 

Aang sighs. He’s overwhelmed by the sudden urge to get out of this stupid tent with Katara, to find Appa or some airship and just fly, take her far away from every ordeal that’s ever fallen on her. Where would any of them be without Katara? How could they all ask so much of her?  

She presses on, “I think he’ll be out of commission for a little while, but he told me he’s planning it all out with Iroh how they’re going to proceed here in the palace. Iroh’s going to take over before Zuko’s coronation in a few weeks, as long as they can get the remaining councillors and the army in line before that.“ 

“They’re already planning his coronation?” 

Katara nods. “It’s moving fast, right? I didn’t even get the chance to ask if he felt ready, he sounded so sure about what he needed to do.” There’s a curious thread of respect and affection in her words that Aang definitely wants to pull at. He smiles. That staunch determination definitely sounds like Zuko, even if he’s stuck with orders for bedrest for the time being. 

He and Katara smile at each other. He knew she’d come around. He knew, in his bones, the kind of person Zuko was, the person Zuko could become. 

He shakes his head and grins. “Isn't it crazy? We’re actually going to work with the Fire Nation, not against it. Did you ever imagine we'd get here?” 

Something in Katara's composure seems to change at that. She sits up straight and leans forward, grabbing Aang’s arm before dropping it to cup his face instead. “ I did. I knew you could do it, Aang. I always believed in you.” 

Warmth flushes his cheeks. If the months of travelling, laughing, sparring, chatting and adventuring with Katara have taught him one thing, it’s that – Katara believed in him.

If he’s being honest with himself, he doesn't know when he'll start feeling like he saved the world. Even if the Fire Lord is gone, even if he did exactly what he was supposed to, there’s a distance, a kind of numbness in his head already - one he never expected to feel. 

But despite all of that, one thing remains always true, and for now, it’s enough: he believes her .

Chapter Text

“Hey, watch it, Aang! You’re going to trip me up–!”

Aang whips past a bewildered Suki, who’s wading towards the circle of refugee tents, arms full with a tall pile of bags full of rice flour. Startled, Aang realises he knocked one of them over, the fine flour pouring steadily out. She cranes her neck over the tops of her stack to glare at him. 

“Whoops, sorry!” He bends down to pick up the torn bag, balancing it as best as he can on the top of her precarious pile. 

“How much flour do you need? Are you planning to start a bakery here?”

Suki laughs. “ I'm about to leave, actually. There's a ship scheduled tomorrow for me and a few other Earth Kingdom fighters that ended up here. I just thought I'd help out some of the folks that are going to be stuck here for a while before I go.”

“You got a ship to come already!?” Aang has spent a lot of time tucked indoors, eating, healing, and sleeping – if fitfully –  but even he’s sure that only two days have passed since they arrived. 

“Not from home! We only have boats back on Kyoshi Island, anyway. Iroh managed to arrange something for me, even though most of the fleet left here are still only taking orders from Ozai’s men.” She shifts the weight of the bags in her arms, one bandaged, and an uneasy expression crosses her face. “I haven't been back on the Island in so long. Who knows what state I’ll find it in.”

They share a guarded glance. Aang knows all too well. He swallows and nods solemnly, feeling himself shrink. “Good luck.” 

He greets Suki with another apologetic wave of his hand, wincing when the enthusiastic gesture accidentally sends a cloud of dusty earth flying in her direction. 

The extra food rations from outside the city must have arrived, because Suki’s not the only one lugging sacks around the vast outer grounds of the palace. Another healing session with Katara this morning – and the judicious nap he took afterwards – has left him with a surprising well of energy. 

No better time than now to find the next most important thing on his list. 

Besides, no amount of fatigue could stop him. Despite landing in the Fire Nation days ago, he’s just now found the chance to see to it. Aang picks up his pace until he’s practically running, eyes scanning quickly for their target, calling out and weaving between foreboding pillars, people, carts and buckets of supplies and rations. 

He has to pause only a few minutes later, a little winded. He braces his arm against the frame of what looks like a tall iron gate and catches his breath. A uniformed palace guard strides up and enters, and Aang noiselessly slips in behind them – into a vast, nearly deserted courtyard. It’s a stark contrast to the chaos outside: sparkling clean columns stand imposingly, shaded by tall palm trees with lazy, drooping leaves and an array of exotic foliage beneath them. The air is refreshing, cooled by their shadows, and any sound outside is completely muffled by the enclosed walls.  

Aang clasps his shoulder, shrugging away a minor twinge of pain, and stifles an unexpected flare of irritation – clearly a wrong turn into the out-of-bounds residence of some important lord. 

He turns around to leave, and walks right into another guard. 

“Avatar Aang!” The guard looks stunned. “What are you doing here?” she demands, before shrinking back immediately with a hand over her mouth. She seems confused about how exactly to react to his presence, and he can’t blame her. 

It has to be strange to run into a sworn enemy-turned-ally roaming your place of work. Aang wonders briefly what her story is – according to Katara, the lower rung of palace staff are an unpredictable mix of loyalists, sympathisers to change, and those that grudgingly accept Iroh and Zuko back into the fold – not to mention those that seem apathetic to it all. 

But the woman only seems confused, not angry.  She looks at him expectantly, her helmet clasped in the crook of her elbow. “Are you lost? Are you perhaps looking for Prince Zuko?” She leans forward, “We’re under strict orders not to disturb His Highness, however, I can guide you to the company of the White Lotus where I believe General–”

But Aang's not listening anymore.  Behind her, there’s movement in the foliage. A paw covered in a mass of white fur pads out from behind a humongous leaf. 

It looks like he made the right turn after all. 

“APPA!!!!”

The bison roars and thunders out from under the trees – calling to him with a long, low bellow that reverberates in Aang’s bones like a calling to come home.

Aang leaps to him. Within moments he finds his face buried in the tufts of Appa’s mane, fistfuls of fur turning his knuckles white. Appa concurs, lifting his feet and stomping them in greeting. Aang has to duck in and out of his sight for a good minute before Appa stops trying to lick him, and he finally settles for nuzzling so hard that he lifts Aang off his feet. 

“I missed you, boy,” Aang breathes. “How have you been?” 

Appa moos loudly, saying everything that Aang is too overcome to say. 

“We've both had a crazy few days, haven't we?” 

He gently extracts himself from where he had been practically tucked inside Appa’s fur and walks a quick circle around the bison’s body to check for any signs of injury or wear. Then he swoops on top of the saddle so he can better pat the fur on top of Appa’s head. “I knew you'd keep my friends safe. Great job, buddy.”

Appa moos again, happily stomping and shaking, probably trying to shake Aang off his back so he can give him a few more licks.  Laughing, Aang holds tight and ruffles the fur on his head harder. His heart soars, a weight in his chest lifting.

He should probably go rest some more, now that Appa’s accounted for, but Appa – well, he looks rested enough, dozing under the cool canopy of leaves. It must have been a welcome respite after all the smoke and dust of the Capital outside. He’s never been good with heat, growing up far up in the clear mountain air. 

No one said Aang had to rest on land…

The guard at the gate, who had been idly drumming a rhythm with her nails against her helmet, suddenly snaps her head up to watch them, but by then, Aang's well away from the ground, too far away to read her expression. 

Appa’s tail lifts gently on the breeze. They rise, and keep rising, until the air is cooler, lighter, past the lingering haze and smog into a fresh current of wind that flows across Aang’s chest like healing water. The higher they fly, the more the weight inside him lightens. He yells with exhilaration, his mind clearer than it has been for days. 

He takes a long breath in, momentarily heedless of the chaos beneath them and the wreckage surrounding them, of the nightmares and the fatigue. 

By the time they land again, evening has fallen, the reddish sky turning into an opaque dark grey.  Aang takes ten minutes to fetch food and water for Appa, greet Katara and Sokka, and stuff a fist full of rice balls into his mouth for dinner, before climbing right back into Appa’s saddle. How strange that this time two nights, he was brimming with the ancient knowledge of a lion turtle, gearing up to fight Ozai. Now his only mission is to sleep soundly – and if he’s honest that one sounds a little far-fetched, too.

But Appa rumbles comfortably beneath him, and for a moment, it’s possible. 

He imagines they are falling asleep high on a mountain, blanketed by a clear blue night, under the weight of stars. 

This time, it’s Ozai who cowers. Aang bends his own lightning back at him with a methodical precision, sizzling him up while Monk Gyatso watches from the sidelines and mourns his innocence.

The Fire Lord only laughs, a vicious gurgle of burnt flesh. 

He wakes up to the uneasy chill before sunrise, drenched in cold sweat. He startles, then finds his bearings quickly, struck by the desire to check on Appa before noticing the deep rise and fall of the beast’s breathing beneath him.

His sweaty hands slip on the edges of the saddle. Appa is sound asleep. 

Aang wants to never fall asleep again, if he can help it. 

With nothing else to do, he wanders into the little settlement of Water Tribe tents in the predawn light, his footsteps as quiet as the stagnant air. He takes in long breaths of the cool morning fog to settle his mind, idly aware that he’s discovered the only hour when the weather here might be bearable. He stops between two random tents. Even though they are all closed up to protect the inhabitants from the dust and chill, there’s something comforting in the brown hides and ramshackle enclosures down here. A spot of relief for his eyes amidst the marble and metal and hulking, sharp facades of the palace before them. He sits for a while. 

He gets up and keeps walking, until he recognises the White Lotus tents. They're further from the Water Tribe warriors than he thought. The grounds are so crowded during the day that they give the impression of one mass of people. At this hour, without anyone around, the camps feel like icebergs spread across a vast ocean.

There are fewer White Lotus tents. But so many carts of food and medical supplies are stationed around them that Aang can tell they have been here the longest, that they’re something of a landmark in the grounds already. He wonders if Iroh is in there, or up in the palace. 

He wonders if Bumi made it here with the others, banishing the excited thought as quickly as it came. Unlikely - like most people, he has his own war-torn home to rebuild, far away from this place.

Struck by a sudden urge to check on Momo, he speeds back to the Water Tribe tents. But the urge falters and wanes as he actually reaches them. Even if he's pretty sure Momo is with Sokka, would Sokka himself be in there? Katara had told him that Hakoda insisted all his men stay together with their equipment, but Sokka might not count. Or his injuries might mean he needs a proper medical cot inside the palace.

Why does he even want to disturb them?

They had all been in each other’s laps practically, travelling together, sharing food and shelter for months. Now they're scattered through different parts of a palace that, until a few days ago, was the terrifying, unreachable symbol of all they were fighting against. And they'll soon be in different corners of the world.

He thinks of Bumi again and everything he’d done to protect Omashu. Of Suki, who will be far on her route back to her beloved Kyoshi Island this time tomorrow. 

Whatever they have waiting for them, they’ll face with courage. 

He thinks of Appa and Momo, two lone relics. 

Now that he has done the impossible, the thought he hoped he had banished a year ago comes charging, barrelling into him, again and again with each step he takes, with each moment he wanders awake with the Fire Lord deep in some dungeon under him. 

If it was possible all along, couldn't he have done it earlier? 

Why hadn't he saved his home?

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Zuko says, leaning up on his elbow to hastily clear away a tray of ointments and the remnants of his rice porridge breakfast so Aang has room to sit down. 

Aang can't say he believes that. The wound definitely looks bad, taking up almost all of Zuko’s chest, the mottled burns peeking out of the bandages. He had tried his best not to wince when he entered the room and his eyes landed immediately on Zuko’s injury. A white-hot flash of remembrance struck him, the feeling so sharp he had to grab onto the ornate doorknob for balance. He blames it on the lack of sleep keeping him in a frazzled state. 

Zuko dismisses the guard stationed at his door instantly - something of a relief to Aang. It’s hard to get used to any kind of attendant hovering in your vicinity after the freedom of travelling around in a tiny group for long, let alone a Fire Nation guard. 

Aang doesn’t know where to begin. There are a million things they should talk about, yet not a single one comes to mind as he takes in Zuko’s haggard face. Thankfully it’s Zuko who takes the lead, reassuring Aang about the severity of his wound - not very reassuring at all, and not just because of Zuko’s usual harsh tone.  

“How are you doing?”

Zuko regales him with an admittedly dismal account of his days since the fight with Azula and the victory over the Fire Lord. Sleeping, long conversations with Iroh and short healing sessions with Katara. More sleeping. “There’s so much I have to do, but Uncle won’t talk to me about most of it, he says it’s all off the table until I’ve had enough rest. Katara, too. She threatened me with worse than lightning if I try to work before my wound heals up.” He sighs roughly. “It’s not that bad,” he repeats stubbornly, though the effect is slightly dampened by the wheeze in his voice. Clearly, he can’t put any pressure on his chest. 

Aang sits closer, cross-legged on the edge of Zuko’s cot. He carefully summons the mirth in his voice that usually comes so naturally. “You know, I think I’ve seen worse.” 

Zuko’s tired face lifts into a smile. It looks strange on his face - but not unwelcome. Aang had gotten so used to the scowling, especially during those last few days before the comet.  “Katara and the palace medics did their best.”

The truth is, he hasn’t seen worse, if he’s not counting Azula’s attack on himself, but he can’t tell Zuko that. Something in his spirit crumbles a little at seeing Zuko in this state, pale, hollowed out, just as it had over Toph’s sleepy face in the airship a few days ago. 

They’ve given so much to win this war. But it’s not just the war. They’ve betrayed their families, renounced luxuries, bruised their bodies to be with Aang , to train him, protect him, and bear his destiny to the end. 

“I only took away his bending,” Aang says suddenly. “The Fire Lord, I mean, ” he corrects. As if this is new information to Zuko in any way. He needs to say it, nonetheless, to speak those words out loud to Zuko, for his own peace of mind. “I wanted to talk to you earlier, Zuko, I just haven’t found the time.”

“I can’t believe you found a way to defeat my father without killing him.”

Aang smiles. The way Zuko says it – tinged with the slightest awe – does make him feel a little relieved. He did do all of that – it was the best outcome he could have hoped for, the outcome he knew deep in his bones that he had to discover, somehow, if he had any hope of being true to himself. 

He knows the triumph of what he did. And yet, watching Zuko describe it feels like hearing about the feats of a stranger.

“We’re keeping him in the dungeons within the palace for now,” Zuko continues, demeanour changing so suddenly like a dark cloud passing over his face. “I…haven’t seen him yet.” 

Aang shudders at the memory of his final glimpse of the Fire Lord, slumped in his metal restraints as a small crowd of guards, men appointed by the White Lotus, marched him out of the airship. Even in that sorry state, the sight of him had made Aang’s exhausted mind momentarily cringe in terror, before his brain and his surroundings caught up to him. 

He doesn’t like the way Zuko has settled into a pensive frown, either. He’s tried to put himself in his shoes before, back when Zuko first joined them, but he can’t fathom Zuko’s position. His own father. 

He can’t begin to imagine the position Zuko is in right now, either, facing his defeated father is only the first thing in a long line of duties. Aang has a role there, too, but the fate of this nation doesn’t depend on him. 

The fate of the world had been pressure enough. 

He searches for a new topic, averting his eyes from Zuko’s face. “Katara told me what happened during your fight with Azula. You saved her life. I don’t know if I can ever thank you enough.” 

Zuko shakes his head. “You shouldn't be thanking me on her behalf. She's the one who saved my life, not the other way around.” 

“That’s not the way she sees it.”

Aang quietens his voice then, playing idly with the hem of his tunic and weighing up his curiosity. “Does it hurt?”

Zuko scowls. “I got fried directly by lightning. Do you think it hurts?”

He seems to realise his error just as he says it, correcting himself before Aang can finish wincing. “Sorry. Sorry, I know.” His eyes harden, and he looks more pensive than ever. “I know, you've been on the wrong side of Azula's lightning too.”

Since when does Zuko stop to think so much? 

“No,” Aang says, hands out to placate Zuko. Aang’s heart goes out to him, sitting there irritable, ashamed and like a wounded animal all at once. It wasn't Aang's intention to come in here and sit around dwelling on the past. “That was a stupid question. It’s just – it was over for me so quickly, I just wanted to know what it felt like for–” Zuko’s expression darkens even more, if that‘s possible, and Aang falters just looking at him. He shakes his head. “Nevermind. I know you said it’s not so bad, but I know what it’s like, Zuko. Katara told me that healing your injury was a difficult one. Worse than mine, in some ways.” 

“Did she?” Zuko sounds disbelieving. 

Aang nods. “And that’s on top of the fact that you were able to redirect some of it. I don’t even want to think about what could have happened if you didn’t.” He pats Zuko’s shoulder awkwardly, carefully. 

Silence. Zuko seems to be having a staring competition with his bandages.

“Zuko?”

“What?” His voice is terse, raw. 

“I'm really , really glad you redirected it.” He pauses, then adds, “And not just for Katara’s sake.”

Zuko looks up at him but he doesn’t move. After a moment, he shrugs Aang off. His voice is quiet, though, almost kind. “What about you? You really managed to escape my father unscathed?”

Aang gives him a small smile. If only he knew. “The Avatar State wanted me unscathed. Who am I to say no?” 

Zuko looks like he’s trying hard not to roll his eyes. 

“Oh, and thanks, by the way, for Appa.”

“What?”

“You’re the one who gave him his own little garden to rest, right?” 

“Did Katara tell you? Sorry, I completely forgot to send word to you.”

Aang just beams. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for looking out for him.” 

Zuko raises his eyes, but he’s not looking at Aang, a momentary lapse in focus, like a memory crossing his mind. "It's the least I could do."

“You know, I’m trying not to be mad about it, but I can't help but suspect you’re trying to become his favourite.” 

Zuko does roll his eyes this time, all too familiar and intensely gratifying. 

Chapter Text

“All right,” Sokka says, hands on his hips as he looms over the buffet table. “So many choices. Let’s see… fried noodles are always a good bet, but maybe I should start with the duck pancakes if they’re as delicious as everyone here says– Oh! Is that stuffed crab?!”

Aang watches his initial skepticism about Fire Nation cuisine falter more with each new dish that his eyes fall on. He catches Katara’s eyes across the table with a smile – she already has a stacked bowl of eel-shrimp in front of her. Aang grins at Sokka’s dilemma, struck by just how normal he sounds. He can’t help but bask in Sokka’s return to form, and judging by her pleased laughter, Katara feels the same. It’s almost like one of the long days they spent travelling around the Earth Kingdom, and Sokka’s striding into some random town’s weekend food market, not recovering from a grisly battle and a broken leg in the wing of a cold, unfamiliar palace. 

At present, they’re reaping the rewards of what Zuko says is a standard lunch up here in the inner quarters of the palace. It’s also the only reason to endure a midday diplomatic event in the baking heat, according to Iroh. Zuko’s uncle had whispered the promise of the feast to Aang as a motivator of sorts, noticing his concentration falter somewhere in the second hour of the assembly as they threw around ideas for getting supplies out to remote villages to help them rebuild after the war. It’s the first official meeting they’ve all been invited to –  not including Zuko, who grumbles to Aang about the painstaking council meetings that Uncle has started making him attend now that he’s recovered from his injuries enough to contribute to matters. 

“Once I’m crowned,” he had said the night before, sitting with Aang, Toph and Sokka in his balcony and picking angrily at a scab on the perimeter of his lightning scar – which, thankfully, was well on its way to healing now. “I’m going to get rid of every stupid ritual in this council. Why do we spend ten minutes reciting a pledge of loyalty before every minor meeting about whether to spend a few hundred extra yuan on this issue over that one?!” He’s been doing that a lot lately, the righteous proclamations about everything he’ll do different once he’s Fire Lord. Though he was a lot less righteous when Katara joined their hangout, glowering at him so hard that Zuko not only stopped messing with his injury, but actually apologised to her for it. 

Aang still can’t fathom how strange it is to be in the heart of this palace as a guest. Over two weeks have passed since the morning he arrived here on the airship. He’s been counting how the time passes diligently, acknowledging each new day in the quiet of dawn. It’s not quite meditative – he hasn’t managed to crack that yet, with all the restlessness and nightmares – but it is grounding, in some way. It eases the feeling of floating in time with no task and no deadline. 

“Hmm… crispy vegetable rolls or sticky komodo chicken?” Sokka muses, having narrowed it down to two. He peers into said dishes as if they’re going to give him the answer. 

“ Definitely sticky komodo chicken,” Toph declares through a mouthful, before gulping it down and licking her fingers. “This is the best I’ve ever tasted! Try the drumsticks.” She’d beaten them all to the buffet, her first plate already devoured. 

“If there are any left! I saw you take three..” Katara harrumphs, looking only a little resentful. 

“You’re the one who wouldn’t let anyone else get at the eel-shrimp,” Toph retorts, eyeing her bowl before Katara playfully snatches it out of sight.

“You might be right about the komodo chicken, Toph,” Sokka muses, stroking his chin now, “but it’s a close call. These are the most delectable looking vegetable rolls I’ve ever seen.” Aang has to agree – they call to him from their plate, perfectly browned pastry just begging to be crunched on. “I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Sokka continues, visibly cringing, “but I think I’ll pass on the meat this time.” 

Katara gasps, loud and mocking. “Who are you and what have you done with my brother?” 

“Wait for me!” Aang grabs a bowl of his own from the stack. “You can’t eat them all. I should get more rolls, since I can’t eat the komodo chicken.”

“You make a compelling point most of the time,” Sokka says around a mouthful, one crispy roll already fallen into his clutches, “but I might have to make an exception for these.” Without waiting for Aang, he stuffs another roll into his mouth, before he’s even finished chewing the first one.

Toph snickers. Katara doesn’t seem to care about the outcome of their bickering as long as she can munch on her bowl of shrimp. 

Aang smirks. “You’ll regret that!”

Using a precise draught of airbending, he knocks the plate of vegetable rolls away from Sokka. Sokka yelps. “Unfair! Bending advantage!” 

Toph guffaws around her second helping of chicken. “Uh oh, meat meister. Should have watched your mouth!” 

Aang takes the opportunity to swoop in and load as many vegetable rolls as he can into his bowl, mostly to annoy Sokka. “You know you should never get between an air nomad and vegetarian food!”

Sokka harrumphs. “At least leave me the last one!” 

Aang concedes playfully, picking up the smallest, measliest roll from his bowl and handing it to Sokka. Sokka blatantly ignores him, using the advantage of his longer limbs to reach over and pick out the fattest one from Aang’s bowl instead.

“Hey!” 

Toph chortles, shoving another piece of komodo chicken into her mouth. “Watch it, Sokka. Better not get on his bad side or he’ll take away your bending.”

Aang’s hand freezes midair. 

The weight of a hundred rocks rains down on his chest. 

He drops the vegetable roll, hand rushing to his chest as if that could stop the onslaught. He doesn’t care to see if the roll makes it into Sokka’s bowl or falls onto the floor. He can’t care. He can’t do anything except try in vain to breathe. 

Somewhere behind him there’s a gasp, but he can’t tell who it is. One of them reaches for him, but he can’t make out what they’re saying. He can’t turn, he can’t speak, he can’t do anything for the crushing weight in his chest. 

He has to get out of here. 

Heart racing, he quickly weaves through the guards, out of the hall doors, and into a quiet corner of the hallway. He falls down into the velvet carpet and just breathes. Harsh breaths rack his chest, fighting to get past the panic and pressure. It’s cool and dark here. The cold marble of a column pressed to his forehead centres him. All he can do is hold himself up and try to get his breathing under control. 

He squeezes his eyes shut. The meeting, his friends, everything beyond the matter of just calming down feels irrelevant, a muffled commotion in the distance. He concentrates, hard.

Slowly, the pressure on his chest eases. Gone just as suddenly as it came. 

He shuffles up onto his feet tentatively, as if one wrong movement might make that horrendous weight come crashing back down onto him. 

What was that? What on earth has gotten into him? 

He doesn’t know how long he spends standing there, head bowed against the cool stone column in silence. The ghost of his heartbeat, fast and booming like a stampede, lingers in his throat. 

Eventually, the quietest of footsteps draw his attention. It’s Toph. She looks so incredibly small. Her shoulders are bowed, her expression hesitant. Like a lost little girl, like the person that only hapless strangers sometimes think she is. 

“Aang?” she whispers. 

Aang draws in a breath and nods, because he can’t quite speak yet. 

“I– I’m sorry. I didn’t think–”

She’s shaking her head, and so is Aang. Her voice sounds on the verge of tears, and Aang hates himself for shaking her up so badly, making her act so uncharacteristically. 

“No, it’s–” he starts. Two lousy words, and it feels like climbing a mountain just getting them out. “It’s – don’t worry, it’s not your fault.” He turns and walks back into the hall, squeezing Toph’s hand in apology. She lets him. 

Outside, Katara and Sokka are wearing identical expressions of worry. One glance at Katara’s face, so far from the glee of only a moment ago, is enough to make him stuff down the urge to tumble into her arms – best to leave her out of it. He’s worried her enough. 

It’s Sokka who gently urges the girls back to their food, letting Aang silently get on with his own bowl. 

The wind is so harsh on the mountain tonight that there must be a storm coming. Tempa looks more upset than Aang has ever seen anyone look in all of his twelve years. He doesn’t understand why, because he’d been perky as ever earlier today – they’d chatted together in the breaks between learning new airbending forms, and he had promised to show Aang a new marble trick he discovered. Next to him, Sonam wears the same expression, and so do all his other classmates as they filter into Aang’s field of vision, materialising one by one. He turns back to Tempa, bewildered. 

The boy mumbles his words, all the usual brash confidence drained from his face. “Why, Aang? Why didn’t you save us?”

“I- I didn’t- “

“Why did you choose to defeat the Fire Lord so late?” 

Someone else pipes up behind him, voice even ghostlier, “Why did you run away…”

“...Weren’t we important enough to save?”

“...Weren’t we important enough for you to stay?”

Aang takes gulps of air, begging his wretched brain to form any response. He draws his hand out, reaching for his friend, but as soon as he touches him Tempa vanishes in a cloud of black smoke. 

Aang recoils. He could scream. He could– but he doesn’t. Because when he looks up Katara’s suddenly here. 

Relief settles into his bones – it was a dream. 

It’s doused in an instant as Katara grabs his shoulders and stares at him, imploring. The relentless wind turns sharp and icy in an instant, the cold attacking him like tiny knives. 

She’s angry. Angrier than he’s ever seen her, and that’s saying something. Her hair whirls out of her parka into the icy winds around them, but she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t even seem to notice. Her voice trembles with so much pain when she speaks, and Aang sees Tempa’s wide, sad eyes echoed in hers. “If you didn’t run away then, Aang, I would still have my mother…” 

“No! I–” He turns around, eyes squinting against the biting cold. 

Sokka’s sitting on the ground behind her, eyes rimmed red. Like his sister, he’s untouched by the brittle ice shower that turns Aang’s skin into pinpricks of pain. “What do you have to say for yourself, Aang?” 

Appa’s garden – as Aang has taken to calling it in his head – is the perfect spot to meditate. 

Or at least, try to meditate. 

In all honesty, he’s been scared to attempt it until now. But his reaction to Toph’s comment at the buffet lingers in his mind. How could he have let it bother him so much? He didn't even know it could bother him until the moment she'd said it. 

His friends had been so nice about it, too. They probably think he’s losing it.

Is he? The nightmares haven't stopped.

Sighing, Aang closes his eyes and tries to keep his thoughts loose and light. He hadn’t always been the calmest kid growing up, despite what it might seem like now – it had taken him years to learn to meditate properly without getting distracted, even as some of his fellow monks in training picked it up like they were born reciting mantras. But the monks were staunch about one thing – erratic behaviour was a grave sign of a lack of self-composure. And a lack of self-composure was what happened when you weren't practising your meditation regularly. 

 Aang opens his eyes only to squint into the midday sun, its hard rays washing over the stone benches lining the courtyard where he sits. A delayed summer breeze had broken the unbearable heat this morning, and everybody had gotten busy with their own tasks, taking advantage of the temporarily temperate weather. Katara, Sokka and Hakoda were taking Appa down from the palace to the nearest seafaring town, in search of materials to repair their men’s ships before they prepared to set sail. Needless to say, the fancy metal-forging shipbuilders at the palace had little to offer them. 

Toph is still here, but Aang’s certainly not going to be the one to bother her solitary rest. Rattling Toph isn’t an easy feat, yet he’d managed it so well. Best to leave her alone for a few days. He doesn't want to go with Zuko to whatever meeting he has lined up, either. The inner parts of the palace aren't exactly comforting. It's like they close in on him if he wanders too deep – far too close to Ozai in space, if not time. Maybe it had affected his mood at the buffet without him realising, too. 

So faced with himself, he had found a bench under the shade of a long, low palm leaf, finally ready to address the glaring new gap in his meditation routine. 

He lets his limbs fall into the muscle memory of the lotus position, only a mild twinge of pain remaining in his joints. 

He takes a deep breath. The faraway shouts of afternoon hawkers and the distant ring of cicadas float in and out of earshot, muffled by waves of cool breeze. They ruffle the fabric of Aang’s tunic and wash over his face, bringing much-needed relief from the sun’s heat. If he concentrates, he can tune out those bigger sensations to hear the gentle scrape of leaves brushing against one another above him, and feel the minuscule grains and uneven grooves in the stone below him.

He turns his mind inward to his own breath. One, two. Three, four. His body lightens. Five, six. He pictures his worries in his brain. Flares of disquiet and anger, an ever-present cloud of unfounded anxiety. He tries the technique that Monk Gyatso had taught him many years ago: he takes all the weight of that cloud and condenses them in his mind, smaller and smaller until they turn into tiny droplets of doubt. And then he releases them all – the drops fall and splash and splatter as he lets them go, spilling into blissful sheets of rain. It falls all around him, dripping off leaves, hitting his sun-parched skin, a litany of droplets humming in his ears. 

A flash of lightning. 

The Fire Lord’s mocking grin lights up his brain, visible for only a split second in the blinding white light. 

Thunder rumbles through the corners of his mind. Suddenly the rain isn’t so freeing anymore, the drops so heavy they hurt, clattering in his ears and leaving him wet and shivering bitterly. 

Aang rubs his forehead and swears under his breath. Just as he had feared. 

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes again, trying in vain to recapture it –  those evasive few seconds of calm. But it’s gone –  he might as well be trying to airbend his way through a solid wall of rock. 

“Is that you, Aang? Are you alright?” 

His head whips around. It's Iroh, standing by the gate at the other end of the garden. In one palm he carries a  steaming cup of tea – Aang wonders if it's as hot as it looks, and why it isn't burning through his skin. 

“Yep,” he calls out, stuffing down the frustration as quickly as possible. He scratches the back of his head in what he hopes is a genial manner. “Just me! Just… hanging out here.”

A brief look of puzzlement flashes across Zuko’s uncle’s face. Unwittingly, Aang’s brain makes the comparison: he looks nothing like his brother. He doesn't know if that relieves him or not. It's a relief to not be reminded of Ozai, and yet it only makes him stranger and crueller and further away, a figure so grotesque and inhumane that he bears no resemblance to even his closest kin. 

“What are you doing alone here? I thought you would be with your friends.”

“Oh, nothing,” Aang says and it's not exactly a lie – he had come here with the intention to meditate, and he has managed exactly nothing . “Everyone’s busy today… What about you? Are you headed somewhere important?”

Iroh chuckles, crossing the marbled courtyard to take a seat on the bench next to Aang’s, after requesting permission with a gracious nod. “You wouldn't mind if I hid here for a moment, would you? I am sure Councillor Kee will come looking to take me to the next meeting any time now.”

Aang grins. “Of course not.” He shifts to sit closer to the old man. 

Iroh takes a long sip of tea, followed by an exaggerated sigh of relief that pulls all the corners of Aang’s mouth. “Would you believe it if I told you I have just left the most boring meeting in all my years of sitting on the inner council? Today I am reminded greatly of why I am grateful I never became Fire Lord, though I suppose I will have to bear the burden of that role for a few weeks now.”

Aang laughs.  “Wait, really? You never wanted the throne?”

“Oh, I did. But that was before I came to my senses. I wanted it for all the wrong reasons–” he winces, before looking solemn. “Much like my brother.”

Now Aang was listening. He had only ever known Iroh as Zuko's weird uncle and a respected elder of the White Lotus. Someone fighting on their side – how could he ever have been the same as Ozai? “What changed?”

Iroh took another long sip and looked skyward. “Quite a few things.” Aang wouldn't have recognised the way he hesitated before speaking, if he hadn't been pulling the same act all week. “I lost my son in the war.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Yes.” Iroh’s eyes are deep and sad, but he continues briskly, as if that isn’t the crucial part. "It took a personal tragedy for me to discover my sense of right and wrong. And after that, I knew at once I should never be a man with access to so much power.”

His words are grave, but Aang marvels at how lightly he says them. It's the demeanour of a man who has had a long time to reflect on his own thoughts and actions. 

“And…and you think Zuko should be?”

Aang knows the answer to that one himself, but he’s curious about Iroh’s verdict – especially if he doesn’t think he himself would be a good Fire Lord. Aang would have thought someone calm, and so familiar with the traditions of many nations, would be an ideal candidate after the war. 

“I had my doubts once upon a time…” He shakes his head. “But he is the only choice. Do you know why I know Zuko is the only member of this family who can be Fire Lord? Because his sense of right and wrong has never needed igniting. It has plagued him since he was a child. It is the reason he was banished and it is the reason we have you on our side, now, to rebuild this world, instead of being the shameful loser of a war of our own making.”

Aang listens intently, nodding with a sense of understanding he's not sure he actually has. He has nothing further to ask on that – nothing to ask Iroh that wouldn’t feel like going behind Zuko’s back, that is. There are so many questions he has for Zuko – about his impending reign, his life before their paths crossed, that Aang never quite felt ready to ask. He might be ready now – Iroh’s steadfast words pique his curiosity, something to compare against Zuko’s own vague, dark utterances about his past. 

He isn't ready, however, for the abrupt change of subject that comes.

“So how are you faring? I know it was not easy to face my brother, though you have saved us all with your unimaginable efforts.”

Aang's shoulders droop. He should have known he couldn't hide his real feelings from Iroh for long. The old man had a way about him. Even Toph wasn't immune, if her anecdotes about him were to be believed. 

“Honestly? Not good. I just…” He takes a clump of fallen leaves on the ground next to him and squeezes them in his fist. “I can’t stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I try – about the Fire Lord, the battle. It crosses my mind when I least expect it.”

Iroh nods, no hint of surprise on his face. 

Aang lets the leaves scatter and puts his face in his hands, rubbing at his eyes. “I thought I'd be happy, I thought I'd be relieved – and don't get me wrong, I am. But it still feels all wrong. I don't know what to do with myself now. And… and if I'd always been capable of it, I don't know why I couldn't have saved everyone earlier– I ran away when I learnt I was the Avatar.” Shame warms over him like the cloying heat. “I could have helped, then and there, but I didn’t. So many people had to–”

“None of that.” Iroh’s voice is uncharacteristic, blunt enough to make Aang look up. His tone eases immediately, as if it hadn't changed in the first place. “That's a lie you are telling yourself. You have not always been capable of defeating the Fire Lord.”

Aang shakes his head. He doesn't know how to explain what he means – he’d probably sound like a crazy person if he told Iroh about his last nightmare. 

“You have lost a lot to this war, Aang. You have lost more than me, more than anyone in this nation, or indeed, anyone that remains on this Earth.”

Aang squeezes his eyes shut, wetness pricking at the corners. 

Iroh presses on, “Believe me, I know how it feels to hold yourself responsible for your loss. But you were never responsible for what befell your people. You have nothing to be ashamed of.  It is this nation – my family – who must bear that shame.”

Aang takes a shaky breath, chest jittering. Could Iroh be right? 

They stay in place, but Iroh doesn’t say anything more, letting Aang take in his words.  

Aang doesn’t know how long has passed, but eventually, he speaks up. “I wasn't doing nothing when you came here. I tried to meditate, like I used to every single day... before all of this.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s just that every time I try to sit and clear my mind, I see that fight.”

Iroh is quiet for a moment, toying with the edge of the cup in his hand – which is somehow still steaming. “Sometimes, clearing one's mind can be counterintuitive. The more you try to think of nothing at all, the more everything you are trying to avoid filters in.”

Aang sighs. “Tell me about it.” 

A brief smile crosses Iroh’s face. “Often, in order to stop thinking, one must have a task to focus on. Would you like me to show you an ancient method of meditation we have in the Fire Nation?”

Now Aang’s listening. 

Iroh turns to face him, and Aang follows, ready to copy. The old man chuckles. “You know, I tried to teach Zuko this many times, to no avail. I must say, you’re much easier to talk to than Zuko when he’s in one of his moods.”

Even with all his frustration, Aang can't contain a grin at that one. Zuko meditating, now that would be a sight to see.

“Hold out your palms,” Iroh says, demonstrating. “You will conjure a flame in one, then the other. They do not need to be big, just a tiny flicker will do.”

Aang does as he is told, two small fires igniting from his palms. They flicker and falter in the breeze, losing and regaining their form haphazardly.

He glances towards Iroh. His flames stay exactly in place, two burning wisps shaped like perfect teardrops. “You have one task only,” he says easily, “to ensure your two flames are identical to each other.”

Aang concentrates. His flames are definitely wonky. He directs his energy through the palm of the smaller one, but it’s easy to overshoot. The fire billows up high, suddenly double the size of the other one. 

This is harder than it looks.

Iroh sits serenely behind his twin flames. “To succeed, you must let everything else fall away. I am not here. Neither is this stone garden or the trees above you. Your mind, your thoughts, and even your body are not relevant. Only the fire exists, and your energy that powers it.”

Aang doesn't need to be told twice.

It’s a finicky task – probably the most precise work he has ever had to do when it comes to firebending. It takes all of his concentration to even get them to stay the same size – and once that’s taken care of, he has to focus on the shape of the flames.

The more he focuses on tending the fires, the more his surroundings ebb away. His eyes only see the edges of the flame, yellow tapering to wispy orange, then in the next moment, flickering to nothing. 

They look vaguely similar, eventually. He figures out quickly that the bigger the flames are, the easier it is to maintain their shape. 

A familiar calm seeps through his head, trickling its way down his spine. 

There's no way to say how long he sits like that, back straight and all his senses geared towards the tiny fires in his palms. 

One by one, his thoughts float back into his mind. First, he lets the physical sensations in: the breeze, the sunshine, and the cool stone. Then the mental ones: worry, relief, and victorious joy. And the events of all the days before: his friends, new strangers, the ache after the battle, the first laugh with Katara and Sokka one night atop Appa, the panic, the guilt, the frenzied fear facing the Fire Lord. There is no room left in his brain to linger on his feelings, to react to them, because he has to focus on the fire: if his concentration lapses, the flames will too. All he can do is acknowledge each feeling and move on to the next. 

The twin fires dance, reflecting his thoughts without judgement. It's almost like watching his own self from the Spirit World. The constant burning glow, etched into his vision, is not unlike the ethereal light that blankets so much life in that realm.