The Avatar was dying.
There was no other way to put it.
Avatar Aang was young and he was pale and his breath was frail and shallow and he was dying.
The boy knew Death's ghastly caress was to reach him, so he chose the most fitting place to receive its touch.
Those closest to him in life were gathered by his bedside in the dimly lit sanctum of the Southern Air Temple, awaiting the inevitable whether they were prepared or not.
Most of them were probably weeping, Zuko speculated in the—brief—moment he spared them a thought in his clouded mind, pleading the Avatar not to leave, rehashing old words of love and bonds because they were the purest, truest lyrics of the Song of Life.
Zuko paid no attention to any of that which was displayed before him—not that he didn't care, he cared—he just couldn't see or remember any of it because of the VOICES in his head screaming and racing like angry chi streams seeking balance. It was as if he absorbed a bolt of cold-blooded fire and had no idea of where to redirect it because there was no physical manifestation of who to BLAME.
Everyone present had a reason, a private moment with the dying boy that no one was to invade, and that included him for he was a FRIEND. So he was at the drawing board in his mind, writing his farewells and tearing them down because nothing made SENSE and he could only shriek at himself for refusing to delude reality and accepted what was before him.
AANG IS GOING TO DIE.
His friend was to leave the mortal coil and he had no idea what to say. Nothing seemed significant enough. He wanted—needed—to say something, he didn't know for what reason beyond closure. Not for the Avatar, but for himself, because he was the one who would still be able to breathe.
Time gave him no mercy as Aang's dulling grey eyes met his, and he knew his final moments in the boy's life arrived.
So he said the only thing that made sense to him.
"See you later."
He imagined that the boy smiled.
The candlelight flickered… Once…
…Twice…
Dark.