This is a Vivian production, written by Vivian of "Merlin to Vivian'
The Channelers of Water were the closest there were to being human.
Like the churning depths, each had their subtleties. If one were to look at a member of the Water Tribespeople's eyes, looking into blue or green or blue-green or green-blue pools of thought, one would see layers upon layers of wisdoms – some cheap, some profound. The Water people embodied the patience and understanding that comes from calm, collected thought.
They were fearless humans, for who else would want to brave the vast seas in search for new things? Who else could brave the Tidehunter's domain or brush against the treacherous Breath of the Windlord in its capricious moments? Who else would dare risk the Stonemother's displeasure by almost spending their entire lives without standing on an inch of earth?
They did not even fear the wrath of the Firelord.
The People were unafraid, too, of the unknown. Legends tell of how they were the First to welcome the Spirits into their lives, when the other fleshlings shunned the presences of these invisible, powerful beings. They had willingly embraced the Channeling, or so it is told by the Water Tribe seers. The spirits seemed to bless and acknowledge this, for each child of the Tribe had more chance than any other People of being a Channeler.
In that respect, the firstborn son of the Southern Water Tribe leader belonged to the rarer ones who didn't have the affinity.
It was a fact that his younger sister, one whom the elders had praised for bonding to a spirit at birth, continued to tease him about, despite herself.
The Channelers of Earth were the closest there were to being human.
The true children of the Stonemother, they called themselves. They were workers of the earth, giving to it the entireties of their being: their sweat, their blood and tears, without asking for nothing more than to live to kiss the earth one more day. They embodied the human essential of work equalling worth, and the admirable aspect of the unshakeable human spirit.
Extremely practical, they were the most hardworking People, sometimes devoting their entire lives to a single cause, unmindful of themselves; because they all believed in the importance of the More than the One.
They were the most numerous People, and also the most long-living. Those who could channel lived longer than most. Though they would grow old and wrinkled, they would never grow feeble or weak. They had the astounding capacity to endure and persist.
Spirits whispered to their Channelers how the People were the most resilient spirits after life, and whether that claim was true or not only spirits and the Avatar can possibly know.
True, their hardiness meant they submitted stoically to whatever changes came their way, trusting on their fellow People to hold them up as they would do in return; for each man, woman and child was but a pebble, that when combined would form the single surface of hard, packed earth that resisted all.
Young Toph would never in her life succumb to that collectivistic attitude; there was much of a moving landslide to her than of any other Channelers before, save perhaps, a previous Avatar. Even then, she was merely only a secret channeler of earth, and the Avatar was the Avatar. Her constant companion, a little sprite she'd christened Arr, though the spirit had a name of its own, would remark that though blind, Toph could peer into the spirit world as much as any Avatar.
Toph figured it was just one of those flattering things the sprite said to have her treat it to some Rock crystals whenever she "went for a stroll".
The Channelers of Fire were the closest there were to being human.
Like their patron, their living spirits smouldered in the world, filling it with a heat that consumes itself as much as it tries to consume others.
They embodied action, industry, ingenuity – the entirely human way of filling their mundanely short lives with motion, with a meaning that transcended their existences. Humanity's frailness ensured that it would return to ash one day, and the Sovereign People were determined to fill each minute, every second with action, with purpose.
They seized the day. Other times, they just seized.
They could claim to be the most developed Peoples, for while the Earthers clung to their farms and the Waterers their fisheries, and the Airheads ate flavored air and called it food, the People of Fire learned to create things that created other things in turn. Through the extant wills that called them to push forward, they soon created things that could destroy.
Unknown to all but their own Sages, they were the most fragile People, for like the living Flame they embodied, their lives hung on the barest whisper of chance – should a strong breeze, or a splash of water, or a little bit of dirt overwhelm them, they would be lost, snuffed out in the darkness.
But theirs was also the most noble of spirits, empowering a Will that looked to the future, that strove against the perils of the world as much as it hung on them. On their backs would be laid the future. Some knew and recognized this fact.
With each breath, the flames in the Royal Chamber stirred. The Fire-lord (an honorary title, also affixing a dash in the middle, for the People rightly feared the Firelord's wrath) regarded his advisers from behind a plume of smoke, perfumed by braziers that hung behind him. The firelight seemed to bathe him in a prodigial manner, making him seem benevolent at some times, and malevolent in others.
For now, the Fire-lord reflected on what his generals, admirals, vice-admirals, ministers, high officials and governors had each told him, in minute detail, of their constant failures and misdemeanors. It was up to him to pass judgment, whether to wreath the entire chamber in the fires of his companion, consuming them in an instant, snuffing out their flames; or to allow them to pass out of the room in peace while he would sit smouldering upon countermeasures and new plans.
His totem, a Royal artifact that hung on his neck, glinted, the golden-trimmed thing carved into image of the Royal spirit of the Fire-lords, a phoenix that would never die, like the People's Will should be. Garuda, he had named it, upon his ascension, when the Sages had bequeathed upon him the amulet, ripped unceremoniously by them from the previous Fire-lord. Though the Leader's Spirit would be extinguished, his faithful companion would not, and would rise from the ashes many times to serve the next Fire-lord.
Garuda waited, as patient as an Earther, fuelling the flames that bathed the chamber, in accordance with its master's commands. And as his master spoke, it wrapped its form around his shoulder, an invisible act that only the Fire-lord could sense, could react to, could smile to. The ruby captured within the heirloom shone brighter than the flames.
The other old men in the room could fancy seeing the form of the Royal spirit appear behind their ruler in a brief instant, a flash of wings spread out infinitely, before the inferno swirled around their ruler's seated form, seemingly consuming the man but not really burning, and the relatively unharmed Fire-lord spoke from within the wreath of flames with all the authority of his position. The Fire-lord speaks: let his Word inflame us all.
Miles away, a solitary old-fashioned steamer plugged away at the waves, carrying a bevy of People of the Flames within it. It was a brave thing, to stand alone surrounded by its opposing element, but its occupants were driven by a mission.
On top of the deck stood an aged man of the People, and the astute sage could say that he had lost much of his fire; but it was not all gone, for it smouldered in the depths of his soul as embers – ready to flare up if need be. He was supposed to have been the Fire-lord, after all, his royal frame marked by an august presence that radiated mastery. He even had an amulet, but this was not the heirloom, it was a simple memento from his son.
He stood with eyes closed, listening to the voices carried through the howling breeze, his hands poised above the amulet as if it was a fire that warded of the cold. His brow was awash with sweat, and his wrinkles dug deep grooves on his already marked face.
The old man patiently listened to the wind, whose spirits mostly did have nothing to do with his People. But some other spirits lingered, and some were talkative, and to these the old man listened.
His first and last companion, a cranky old spirit who perched unseen on his shoulder, leaned in and whispered something in her companion's ear. The old man stirred, opening his eyes and turned towards the door that led to the lower decks. It opened with a rustborn screech, and there a young man stood, the marks of sleep still evident on his face.
The old man gave a greeting, and he received a glower in return. The young one looked towards the aft, seeing miles upon miles of ocean stretching far away into the misted horizon still. Grunting impatiently, he slammed the door shut as he turned back, ignoring the offers for tea. His little wisp of a companion gazed at the old man's, and an unheard conversation took place, spoken in words that only spirits knew. The old man sighed, pained for a moment, but knowing as any old one that young flames must not be fanned rigorously.
The wind stirred the old man's gray hair, and as the old man returned to listening to it, the breeze intensified almost abruptly, battering his form with relentless abandon. Then just as abruptly, it vanished, and no wind came to talk to an old man for the rest of that day.
The Channelers of Air were the closest there were to being human.
The People were said to be the last to accept the spirits, in an age long ago; for even in their primitive states, they had already achieved the capacity for mystic might. Their monks had achieved nigh-perfect mental form, attuning their minds to the natural, while their warriors had developed a lifestyle and society that brought forth numerous rewards for little effort. Bonding with the spirit realm didn't dampen their powers, but augmented them to arguable effect.
The most laid-back of the Peoples, the Air People lived their entire lives in constant motion, never staying in one place, or in one mindset all throughout. To the nomads were born the greatest thinkers of any age, surpassing even the theorists of Fire, to their chagrin. Over time they developed precepts, concepts, principles and philosophies that were just as easily discarded like feathers in the breeze, as the People flew through the winds of time. What was essential to them was the human need for freedom.
They had a capacity for trickery, and fickleness, as their patron represented, the unruly, capricious Lord of the Four Winds. They were quick to anger and quick to cool, and quick to crack a joke as much as they were quick to reprimand them for impropriety (those were usually the bad jokes).
As a consequence of their nature, they became the most fragmented people, with no true place to call home. Only the Northern and Southern temples, perched on the highest peaks and cliffs in the world spoke of a home, and only the oldest and youngest of the Nomads spent their time there. The rest went below and travelled endlessly, beholding: the smoke-choked metal spires of the Fire Nation, the ice-colonies of the Water Tribe and the labyrinthine Earth Kingdom cities built and packed into the earth. Ever they strived to prove themselves aloof, never spending too much time nor forming too deep bonds with the people and places they met; because such was their nature.
Ao floated outside the barrier, as worried as any spirit could be for their companion. It tested the defenses again, as it had done many times for the past spirit-year, and yet again found itself repelled, like an insignificant insect when confronted by the flame. The power that erected such a barrier was one that had always held it in awe. It was a vortex of strength. It held the wisdom of ages.
Many voices, some like and unlike it, called out to it, asking many questions. Fellow spirits of the air bid it well as they passed on by, The occasional sprite of fire gave the barrier a curious glance before being carried away, and then there was the clamor of many water spirit imploring it to move the thing that was an obstruction to their flow, begging it to be dispersed. They too, did not dare touch the barrier, fearing to be consumed.
Ao considered the glacier, floating freely above it, and wondered to itself yet. It wondered why it was the only one of the four who had escaped, who had spent the last spirit-year waiting, while the others slept on with its companion.
The water spirit, her companion's first spirit after her, had been the primary instigator of that fool plan. The waves had risen to engulf them, and she was the only one who had the foresight to escape the blue clutching claws.
The spirit of earth, who had been asleep, had been caught unawares, but even if it had, it could never had escaped while they'd been in the middle of the ocean. She was the only one fleet enough to escape.
The last to join, the fire one – oh she had been bickering with that one. It had always seemed to be angry at something: training, traveling, meeting people, obnoxious trainers, other spirits, more training. It too, had been sleeping, unprepared for its opposing element that had smothered it. She was the only one lucky enough to escape.
She'd been the only one to escape because she was Ao, spirit of wind. The people who'd bonded to her kind had been much like her, as she emulated them in turn. Beings of the Air. The Essence of the Winds.
Again, Ao knocked. And again, there was no answer.
Would she have to wait another spirit-year?
The Channeler of All has only one name: Avatar, everlasting spirit, spirit of balance, master of the spirit-realm, He-Who-Walks-With-Spirits.
It can only exist as something far from being human.
Vivian's Note: Well now, this is my first offering as Vivian. Readers of Merlin's works will remember that he has his computer problems, and it's hell on him while his so-called ideas are stuck in his paper napkins, so he can't possibly write yet. It leaves me to do what I want while he sulks.
Being the enterprising little goblin that I am, I've decided to convert his account for my use, Hey, he's been using my computer to upload his stories, and the account was also intended to be joint. If he wants it back, he should get his own damn computer.
. . . .though I gotta say, this story was originally a bunny of Merlin's. "What if benders were shamans? Would the martial artists be distinguished from the controller of elements?" I thank him in spirit for that, but this story is MINE. I intend to go through it my way. If he tries to steal this for his own, well – "delete account" is so easy to do.
This is just a one-shot, though I may expand this if reader-response is favorable. Unlike Merlin, I'll be needing that constructive feedback to continue on with this and any other story I'll be posting in the immediate future. Because unlike Merlin, I do have the intention to go into writing, something which Merlin treats as more of a hobby.
Vivian out, with the obligatory "RnR plox I kill cats if u dont"
Additional note: deleted story accidentally, reposting it without changes-