"You must never give into dispair.
Allow yourself to slip down that road
and you surrender to your lowest instincts.
In the darkest times,
hope is something you give yourself.
That is the meaning of inner strength."
[ Uncle Iroh ]
She shivers in her dream, her haze-filled mind still lost somewhere in the wintry world she knew so well. But the estranged snowflakes drifting past her mind's eye grow as dark as the night itself, and Katara has to remind herself, as a falling feeling wakes her, that this is not her home. She isn't in danger.
But, too soon, she becomes aware of the empty space beside her; the place where her husband's supply of heat had been so constant every night. Her subconscious immediately considers the worst. In the light of the waking sun, she is relieved at once to see him sitting at the foot of their bed - though his back is arched like a strung bow and his bone-white fingers massage the shoulder beneath his tunic. His wife holds her breath as she sits up.
"Aang," she mutters, his name nothing less of a reflex, "what is it?"
His profile comes into focus first, but her imagination could just as easily create the look of guilt he must be wearing. He had always hated to wake her. "I'm okay. I must have slept wrong or something. My back…"
It's seconds before her cool palm meets the crook of his neck, a breath escaping him under her touch. Even then, he persists, "I'm fine! You should go back to sleep. It's early."
"Very early. But I would have woken myself up anyway." She thinks she catches a smile before he turns away. "I think," she goes on, "I'd like some tea. What about you?"
He has no time to answer before she's facing him, a hand on each curved hip. He thinks, in the dark, she must not see the hesitance written on his weary face. "Come with me to the kitchen. I bet you'd feel a whole lot better after a hot drink."
"Oh, I'm sure you're right about that."
"Well then let's go before-"
"I can't."
The first birds chirp in the quiet of dawn, keeping away whatever heavy silence might have formed between them otherwise. Her hands, warmer now, just as soft, travel to his shoulders again, her expression marred with concern as she kneels to his level. "Why not?"
But he just shakes his head, not daring to supply a spoken answer. For weeks, he's hid every ache and cringe from her sight… he should have known it would only amount to his embarrassment in the end.
A gust of wind helps him to his feet, joints surely popping as they compress under his weight. It takes two uncertain steps, two shuffling steps, to reinforce his shame; four more to reach the threshold. He hears her call his name, and in an instant, he's gripping the door frame to avoid the ground. That's why.
A pleasant heat envelops him as his wife rushes to hold him - for comfort, for aid, perhaps for both - and he finds one more reason to keep standing.
"Aang, you need to be honest with me. Right now." It's the voice she'd used so often on their children whenever they misbehaved, or on Momo when he would track mud into their home. Now she uses it on him, out of fear. "Are you feverish?"
"No."
"Did you hurt yourself?"
"No, no… it's nothing like that."
"Then what is it like?"
He shifts his weight to regain his balance, back leaning against a strip of wood for support. "It's like my age is catching up with me."
"Your age?" Her breath is hot at his neck. "You're only sixty-six."
He shakes his head. "One-hundred and sixty-six. And slowing down for a long, long time…"
Her silence confirms this. She'd noticed, perhaps as soon as Yakone's trial, but certainly with every cough, wrinkle, and denied party invitation. For as long as her hair had been greying, his body had begun to betray him. And with gentle arms she wraps herself around his torso, so much frailer than it had been the night before.
"You're alright," she assures, only partially to him. "We'll work through this like we've worked through everything else. You're alright."
His hands search for hers in the waning darkness. "Of course. But even if I'm not-"
"Don't even say that. You are."
"Evenif I'm not," he continues, the smallest of smiles somehow forming on lips at her insistence, "you're right. We will work through it." He waits for her acknowledgement, a quick nod, before he swallows his fear and speaks the grim truth long-resting at the back of his mind. "That reminds me: I've been thinking for a while," he adds, half-expecting to look up and find a stray tear on his wife's cheek, but her eyes are dry; focused. His gaze returns to his feet. "I want the next Avatar to have the support and preparation I never had. They may need masters, and luckily, I know of a few."
"Aang…"
"You, of course. Toph, Zuko… I'll send word to Tenzin."
"Aang?"
"Hm."
Even on the tips of her toes, her chin barely reaches his shoulder. But she tries before settling her forehead in its place. "I'm glad you've thought all of this through. Believe me, I am."
"But?"
But there's so much more to talk about. So much more that needs to be done that she can't help but think will never be achieved. Not with him. She searches for his eyes, just as silver in the inky light, and struggles to memorize every subtle detail...
"But it's very early," she whispers, voice cracking, "and we'll need our tea."