disclaimer: I claim no ownership over any of the characters contained within. This story is written for fun, not profit.
heartbeat
Aang remembers his mother as an impression.
As a child, head shaved but for a small topknot, before that too had been cut and replaced with religious ink, he would crawl to the edge of the meditation pool and look at himself wavering in the water.
He wondered if his eyes had been hers, first, or if the roundness of his cheeks, beneath baby fat that would fade years later, had been her blessing. If the reason he dreamed of steady drumbeats was the half-felt memory of a heartbeat under a soft breast.
At the temple there were no women, no mothers; no fathers, either, but men who could take the place of father and so in that way he did not lack. But he wondered, watching his reflection in the pool: do I have a mother? The waters moved under the moonlight and the mountain air turned his skin cold and he would stare until his eyes teared and he could imagine the softness of two arms holding him to a heart beating beneath his ear as if to say welcome home; welcome home.
And they told him: you are the Avatar; you are our Protector and Defender and Reason. (He wondered: do Avatars have mothers? do Avatars have homes?)
Katara is not his mother and he is glad, but her hand is soft and when they sleep he dreams of her heart beating, gentle and warm and steady, saying: this is your home now. welcome, welcome.