TRANSCENDENCE

Monk Gyatso looks at Aang, and his heart could break because of how innocent he is, how young he is, how fragile he is. Does he know that he's different? Does he know what is in store for him? What is destined for him?

Of course he doesn't.

And oh, how he wishes it would stay that way.

So he tries. He makes him fruit pies, teaches him about Airbending, shows him how to play Pai Sho. Tries to make sure that his training isn't going too quickly, but that boy is a prodigy, and there's only so much that prodigies will be held back. Tries to make sure Aang remembers that life is something worth living, and that when looking back, he won't remember just the destination but the journey too.

And he's never felt this strong of a bond to a child before, but as Roku would say, "Some friendships are so strong, they can transcend lifetimes." And sometimes he can see a little bit of Roku in Aang, in the way his gray eyes sometimes turn serious and look to the ground, in the little way he holds his hands or grins, in his passion and carefree nature.

And when Aang gets his Master arrows, he is startled to see that he's tearing up, just a little. For he's growing up too fast, the youngest Master Airbender there ever was. For he's slipping away from him, and the realization that he no longer needs him is too much to bear, right now.

And the first thing that Aang does after coming out of the three-day meditation is leap into the air with a gust of wind from his feet, and give Gyatso the biggest hug he's ever gotten. The smile, stretching from both ears, and the wincing as he gingerly touches his new tattoos.

Their Pai Sho days, their fruit pie days, their wind scooter and airball days. The days when Gyatso thinks he will never die, he will never grow old, he will never leave this world. The day when he realizes he cares for Aang more than just as the reincarnation of Roku, but for Aang himself. That their friendship has transcended the lifetimes, but he cares for Aang beyond the fact that he is Roku's reincarnation.

And when the monks tell Aang that he is the Avatar, he sees the damage that is done, how heavy young Aang's heart has become, and he feels as if his heart could break again, once more.

And the tears, and the boyish shouts when Aang is to be taken away from him—for they have become too close, and closeness is earthly attachment, and earthly attachment is not allowed—they are too much to bear, too much to bear. All he wants is to give Aang the same childhood he had, carefree, innocent, like the wind.

And the night, when he sneaks into Aang's room, hands folded into his robes, murmuring comforts and telling him that he wouldn't let them take him away. And the horror, when he discovers that Aang is gone, and all he's left is a note.

And the storm, raging outside the window. The lightning, furious, flashing across his face and illuminating the room in a mocking version of happiness, if only for a moment. The thunder, rolling in the sky, and the images of a broken glider and stormy seas, and of tumultuous waves, sinking, sinking, falling, dying—

And the stretches and stretches of months, as he waits for a word, a sign, a vision, anything telling him that Aang is okay, that he is safe. And the gathering storm, storm-clouds on the horizon, arching and billowing nimbulus clouds of war. The fury of the other monks, the panic of the Air Nomads that they had lost their Avatar. The blame. And the guilt—not for his race, not for his duty, not for his people, but for Aang—that he had failed to protect him. The soul-wrenching, gut-turning, sleep-tossing guilt. Oh, the guilt.

And the summer, and the sun pounding high in the sky, and the comet. The machines crawling up the sides of the mountain, the fire in the air, the scent of charred flesh, the blistering heat. The flames, the metal and machines, the scattered bodies of his comrades, his monks, his brothers.

And the wall, the wall in the temple, the corner, the statues, and the red and the orange and yellow, and the heat, the bodies, the people, the people pressing in on him. The wind he vainly tries to fend them off with, but they are too many, and they just keep coming, with their steel and their metal and their flame. And their rage.

And—

and—

and . . .

There are too many.

His breath, loud in his ears, and his heart, pounding, reminding him that he is still here, he is still alive.

The flames.

The heat.

His last shot of air, a wind tunnel, his aching muscles. He looks down and sees the end of his beard burning, turning black, curling upward, folding and charring like the pages in a book. He closes his eyes, and he too turns dark and black, fading into the coolness of the abyss, letting himself drift between the waves, sinking, sinking, falling, dying . . .

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