For shanastoryteller and dirgewithoutmusic. It's not what I wanted it to be, but eh.
Warning: Child Death. If you can't handle this, even in passing commentary, then close the tab. I'll take no respinsibility if you continue from here.
*Walking Whales borrowed from Vathara's fic Embers. Go read it. Go. Now.
(extra)ordinary
arrowsbane
Let's tell a story where Aang isn't the Avatar who ends the Hundred Year War.
Let's tell a story where he doesn't have that tremendous burden weighing on a peaceful heart, and thin bird-like shoulders; or the misery of war clouding his spirit-filled eyes.
But remember, for all that things change, things must stay the same.
True, Aang is not the hero of the Hundred Year War; he is not the Avatar to bring about peace. But he is still the Avatar. He will always be the Avatar born after Roku. And now he will be the Avatar whose death drops the burden onto an infant's tiny shoulders.
This is a world where Aang clung to Gyatso like the child he was, seeking comfort in the only father he had ever known. This is a story where the Fire Nation descended upon a temple still housing a child-Avatar and his kin.
This is a story where Aang stays.
This is a story where Aang dies.
…
Sozin's Comet roars bright in the sky, and the monks of the Southern temple call up a breeze to chase away the sweltering heat. There's a crackle as grassy scrub on the cliff-face bursts into flame, and a teenaged monk flutters down to suck the oxygen from the fire. The next thing he knows, he is face to face with an armored body, and fire comes for his life.
He is the first to die – unnamed and unknown in this story. He is one of many faceless children, gone too soon. Murdered because a tyrant dreams of subjugating the world. His death is senseless, but it is not meaningless.
His death warns the others.
…
The Monks move quickly – Air is Freedom, but it is not always kind. Scything winds cut down soldiers, razor-sharp and blindingly cold. It is not enough. It will never be enough.
The younger children, teenagers and infants are herded into the greater sanctum, and sealed in - safe. The bison take to the skies with bellows of rage and fear. There is chaos. There is death. There is war on both sides.
The children are supposed to be safe.
But this is not a kind story.
This is a world where Aang clung to Gyatso like the child he was, seeking comfort in the only father he had ever known. This is a story where the Fire Nation descended upon a temple still housing a child-Avatar and his kin.
This is a story where Aang stays.
This is a story where Aang d i e s.
Aang stands his ground, and refuses to leave Gyatso's side. They battle, back-to-back. Aang is kind and good and shows mercy – Gyatso doesn't command him not too.
He doesn't need to, not after Aang sees his kin cut down like sheaves of wheat.
Aang has Kuruk's rage, and Kyoshi's bull-headedness. He's got Roku's red-hot tears on his cheeks, and agony burning in his bones. He's got Yangchen and Tian, Song and Min Wen. He's got a thousand voices tied into his being and Rava wound tight around his soul.
He's got a thousand reasons to stand and fight, and only one to turn and run.
So he stays.
And he dies.
…
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang - but with a whimper.
A whisper.
A breath.
One last plea.
The echo of a boy ripples out across the world.
'Save them', it whispers, 'Save my people'.
And so the world answers.
In the oceans, the walking whales* raise their heads and listen, before diving deeper towards the poles – where they will sing to the arctic wolves, the otter-penguins, the polar-bear dogs.
In the air, the Bison soar above the clouds, carrying monks and nuns dressed in tear-soaked robes of orange and saffron.
The dragons rage and roar, and they cast Makoto from their hearts and minds, strip her of her name and self. She-who-was-once-kin is no longer theirs; something Sozin will rage over as his life-long companion withers in mind and being until she is a beast of fire-and-flame-and-nothing-more.
And deep beneath the earth, the badger-moles burrow up to the temples, opening up escape routes for an entire people who are in need of asylum.
…
All across the world, Air Nomads – benders and non-benders alike – flee into the night, flee on the winds, on sea, under earth and sky. They hide away in the depths of the Northern Air Temple, in chambers deep beneath soil and bedrock, hollowed out by ancient Badger Moles as a hidden temple of last resort. The old stone statues are worn with age – from a thousand-thousand hands carefully cleaning away dirt and grime as the ages passed.
It's here in this darkness, lit only by flaming torches that are as terrifying as they are comforting, that the shattered nation grieves.
"What about the Avatar?" rumbles an old Monk who had tended to the gardens on the terraces so high above them.
There's a hiccup, and a muffled sob from the children of the Southern Temple, huddled together for comfort and warmth, and then –
"Aang's dead," whispers a boy no older than nine. He shivers and ducks into his temple brother's side.
From across the chamber, a Nun dressed in saffron robes, her face chalk white, begins to sob inconsolably. Twelve summers ago, she had birthed a son named Aang.
The Monks and Nuns have no mothers or fathers, no blood brothers or sisters, no sons or daughters. They do not mourn for individuals, it is not their way. But nobody says a word. Her temple sister winds a robed arm around her shoulders, and clutches her close in a firm embrace. No shushing noises are made, no reprimands. The cave is silent, but for her gasping cries.
…
Air is the element of Freedom. People say that the Air Nomads found peace after giving up material possessions and removing themselves from the world…
The sad truth is, that they fled the world, and lost their temples in a storm of fire… it was only when they hid that they found a bare shadow of the promised peace.
What is peace? What is it worth when your children are born never knowing the sun on their faces, or the wind carrying them across the world?
…
After Air, comes Water, an avatar of change and adaptability. The truth is that change is like fighting an uphill battle in a world on fire.
Nanuq is a curious child, always asking why. Why is the sky blue? Why do the seals call? Why do the polar bear dogs howl at the moon?
Nanuq never asks why the ice cracks in the spring, or why the ocean follows the moon.
Had she lived another six years, the elders would have known to train her. If they had been paying attention, they might have known sooner.
But the world is at war and the sky is filled with black snow, and so Nanuq dies in a raid when she's ten years old – unlucky enough to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, down by the water, giggling as it bent to her will.
…
Then Earth stands firm. If only for a handful of decades. Earth is substance, strength and determination – or pig-headed stubbornness, depending on who you ask.
Temujin is born in the rings of Ba Sing Se, and enlists in the Dai Lee when he's barely sixteen years old. He's named the Avatar not long after, and his life becomes that of war for the next fifty years.
Temujin is strong and steadfast - and very, very pig-headed. But he is also kind, and has a heart broken by war and famine and sorrow. Even stone walls fail in the end.
…
Fire is power and will and energy powered by the heat of the sun.
Hiro is both lucky and unlucky in being born into an earth-nation colony.
Lucky because a life under the red-hot iron first of Azulon, who even in his sunset years is every bit dictator of his youth, would have been terrible –
and unlucky because he's not even seven and already a firebending prodigy when he sneezes and shoots ten feet into the air.
He's seven, and got the power of the universe at his fingertips and there are angry-starving-raging people who don't care that he's a child or that he could be a force for good. He's Fire Nation, and has the power of the universe in his fingertips and that's more than enough to condemn him to death.
Death comes on a rusted, blunt farm tool. Death comes too soon.
Fire is power and will and energy powered by the heat of the sun, but even a candle flame can be snuffed out with a pinch of two fingers.
…
Air comes in the fall, and is gone before spring thaws the world oncemore.
Air that is trapped below ground can only be stagnant and dying.
Air is an infant born sickly, and a mother weeping silently.
Air is a puff of wind, too small to be considered a breeze.
…
Water is the element of change. Last time, this time, next time.
Water is patient. Water will wait. Water can grind down mountains, carve rivers a mile-wide into valleys, and turn cliff-faces into waterfalls.
Water always, always wins.
Water is change.
…
The identity of the current Avatar is a mystery – after Hiro's death, confusion is rampant. Where will the Avatar Spirit go when there is no Air for it to inhabit next?
…
The truth is, the latest Avatar has no idea that he is a bender at all.
Sokka is a son and a brother and a warrior-in-training. His mother died in a raid, his father is away at war, and his little sister is always off playing with her magic water or listening to Gran-gran's stories about the old days.
Sokka doesn't have time for make-believe, or hope, or playing at being a Waterbender. He's too busy hunting and trapping and fishing, too busy trying to train up a pack of four-year-olds and take care of his entire village – small as it is.
It's a little bit ironic – because in the end, it's why he's going to survive.
Everybody is looking for a bender of great power.
Extraordinary, is the term people use to describe the Avatars.
Funny word, don't you think. Extraordinary. Extra Ordinary.
Nobody is looking for an (extra)ordinary boy…