I've always loved the lines in Chaitanya's body. Like the way he cranes his neck so that it's a perfect curve into his shoulder, exposing his collarbone with his long hair hooked behind an ear and the rest hanging from his forehead so that he sees no world but the ones in his books.

And every so often, I see a humble, pure smile crack his lips. But never a laugh. I've never heard his voice, and there was something about the majesty of it that made him seem fictional.

I often wondered if I were the only one to have noticed this quiet creature or if there were others. If there were, what happened to them? I liked to make up stories for them in my head. Maybe the librarian didn't speak because his words cast spells, changing people.

I had never believed that to be reality, of course.

I had originally started going to the library to do research on the war. My senior thesis was to be an analysis of the equalist generals, but then I realized it wasn't long before I was only going to see the silent librarian, watching him sign to the other librarians and communicating everything to visitors with facial expressions. I decided then to learn sign language so I could understand him a little better, but I wanted to be good at it before I embarrassed myself and approached him head on. It took me weeks to even learn and memorize basics.

I also had my research to continue. And a library was a library, and it was impossibly easy to get lost in a good book. So much so that Chaitanya startled me when he tapped my shoulder. My surprise shocked him just the same, but he grinned suddenly and set a book next to me with a note scribbled on a lined, folded piece of paper.

All I could manage in response to the gesture was an expression of confusion. How had he known to give a book? I had suspected he might have caught my glances in the months since I started my thesis, but I hadn't looked in his direction for hours. And I always thought my glances could just be passed off as friendly greetings. I didn't think I garnered his attention in return, but when I picked up his note read it, I began to understand. He was recommending a book to me. Of course he was. He was a librarian.

Thank you, I signed after I set the note back down, and his eyes lit up. For all of his effort, it was gratifying just to see that reaction.

You know sign language? he rapidly gestured back to me.

I blushed, embarrassed for him, and signed slowly. A little. I'm learning.

He grinned and nodded, encouraging me and congratulating me. I didn't entirely understand the gestures he used next, but I was able to piece them together. He could hear me, he just couldn't talk himself.

"You're mute, not deaf," I clarified, and he nodded, signing a yes.

I had seen deaf and blind people before - especially more so as a result of the war - but never a mute person. I guess they were harder to pick out of a crowd. In public, they could understand you just fine, and it was hard to notice when a stranger walking past you couldn't talk.

I was so fascinated with him and had so many rude questions I didn't want to ask that I just ignorantly stared at him.

He became embarrassed with the awkward exchange that he began signing again - but only as an escape. I hope you enjoy the book.

I nodded and allowed him to leave even though I really didn't want to let him go. I wanted to know who he was that could enchant me so easily. But he had done something I wasn't brave enough to do - he gave me a chance so I could engage in conversation with him again.

I checked out the book and took it home with me, reading it as quickly as I could, which was not quick at all. I was a history major, not a literature major, and even though the book was about the war, it was filled with dense rhetoric that was at times impossible for my tiny brain to handle.

It was even more impressive to know that this was the kind of thing that Chaitanya enjoyed reading. At least, I assumed he had read it. Why would he recommend it otherwise? The book appeared to be an alternative fiction take on the war from the perspective of a traitor, but enough of the book seemed accurate to what I knew to be true events that I had to question how much was actually fantasy.

Between school work and my mundane very part time grocery job, it was a month before I could finish the book and proudly take it back to the librarian.

He seemed excited to see me holding it as I brought it up to him at the check-out counter. Did you like it? Was it too much?

I half-heartedly smiled for him, trying not to lie about not understanding half of it. "Yeah, just a little bit. But the parts I understood were good." I had to ask the burning question on my mind. I couldn't find the book online, so it wasn't mass produced like most fiction books of its kind. I was teetering on the brink of interpreting it as fantasy and reality. "Is this based on a true story?"

Chaitanya nodded, but I didn't understand what he signed to me. He saw the confusion and picked up a notepad, writing, It's an autobiography.

My eyes widened. Wait, the traitor's autobiography? "There's no way." The story wasn't written in first person either. It really did feel like the entire thing was a hyper-authentic invention - kept at a distance from the reader, but I knew enough rhetoric to know that maybe that was the point?

Chaitanya picked up the notepad and wrote underneath his first line, Another author adapted the works straight from his journals. There are small details added to build some metaphors, but it's mostly true.

The unbelievable parts of the traitor's story were of details on his interactions with an enemy bender. Harsul, the traitor the story was about, was a Republic soldier, but he was ultimately a closeted equalist. He had been leaking intel from his unit to the benders. This man could have been the single reason why the war lasted so long. Why the benders were able to stand for so long.

"Does anyone know what happened to him?"

No. He went missing. Some say the Republic killed him, but I don't think he was ever found. This book is marketed as fiction, but I knew the editor.

Just like I thought! The librarian was full of mysteries - an untold story himself. I always knew there was so much more to him. He was the reader that knew the truth to all of the war fiction. He had connections, and I knew that the key to being a good historian - his lifelong dream - was to have the same type of connections.

"Could you introduce me?"

Chaitanya frowned and tapped his pencil before writing, I wouldn't know how.

I quickly backed off. I didn't want to take advantage of him. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound rude," I rushed, noticing by his hesitation that he was becoming uncomfortable. "I'm a historian. This kind of thing very much fascinates me, and it's hard for me to filter when I get excited."

Chaitanya was quick about his response, but when he finished writing, he tore off the page and folded it in half, handing it to me. The second his fingers left the paper, he turned and headed into the offices behind him.

I could tell he wasn't frustrated by my response as he wrote - just that he had an unpopular opinion that. He didn't want to see my reaction to whatever he wrote. So I spoke out to him and caught him before he could run away, determined to do the thing I promised myself to do before I never had a chance to again. "Chaitanya, could you teach me sign language?"

He stopped, his back turned to me, but I saw the edges of a smile. He nodded and gestured a word I didn't know, which I would look up later that night to discover he had signaled, Tomorrow.

Ten years ago, the war between benders and non-benders began. As technology became ever-changing and automatic, the need for benders powering crude devices became obsolete. The benders recognized their lowering status and in a desperate attempt to regain what they were losing, small regimes formed and fought against society. The pendulum swung back in the opposite direction in full force, and non-benders responded by oppressing the benders that tried to erase them just the same. For decades the war had been broiling into the full force it became just a decade ago: benders and those that called themselves equalists against non-benders, determined to extinguish the terrifying force that threatened to flatten the planet.

Benders with their magnificent, crude power laid seize to several of the world's capitals, but they were vastly outnumbered by non-benders, even with the help of equalist sympathizers. The war should have ended quickly, but there were enough small, strategic battles won by the benders that extended the war. They must have known they were on a losing streak, destined to be the defeated party, but there was always a rumor that they were holding out for the avatar.

Of course, no one had seen an avatar since Korra. The one person who was supposed to keep balance to this world, and nothing but chaos ensued. The avatar never appeared, and three years ago, the benders finally lost, vanishing from the world. No one has seen any bender since - not even just keeping out of sight but gone.

And the world has seen nothing of benders since. The four nations are now nothing but a semblance of their former selves, and the world is now united by commonality and peace.