The Teacher and the Pupil
By Verdigris
Disclaimer: Avatar the Last Airbender does not belong to me.
Author's Note: Dedicated to my wonderful father.
The Burden
Frustrated tears stained his cheeks and trailed down to his chin. He stared at the stone floor of his room as he sat curled beneath the foot of his bed. Aang lost track of time, unsure of how long he had been sitting there, yet he had no desire to move and face what was waiting outside his door.
He had spent the last three days grimacing under the uncertain and frightened glances of his peers and teachers. Everything had changed since the day the elders of the four air temples had announced his true identity. The children he had grown up with refused to let him to participate in their games, and the monks that had watched him grow from infancy treated him like a stranger. Even his name was pronounced different with his newly acquired Avatar title. It sounded so foreign in his ears and he doubted he would ever get used to it. He winced when the monks paused in his wake when he approached them in passageways of the temple. Some would bow and avoid eye contact in a distant respectful gesture, though they had smiled and laughed along with him three days earlier.
Aang felt as if he had disappeared. He felt like a stranger in his own skin. Did the Avatar spirit within him change him somehow? He touched his face wondering if he was truly different and glanced at the shallow water basin in the corner of his room. Nervously he slowly approached it, afraid of what he might see in his reflection and dreading that he may see a face he no longer recognized.
His breath caught at the sound footsteps from the doorway and he knocked over the water from the basin when he scrambled backwards to hide behind the bed.
"Aang," a voice from the doorway spoke softly in concern. "Is everything alright?"
The young airbender turned his head slightly, catching the shadowed form of his teacher in the doorway from the corner of his eye.
"You missed supper," he heard Gyatso say as he held out the bowl to gain the boy's attention, but Aang did not turn to face him.
Aang could smell the comforting aroma of thenthuk, a very simple but flavorful noodle and vegetable soup. It was one of his favorite dishes, but he was not hungry and the very thought of eating made his stomach turn. Without lifting his head he politely nodded and took the bowl, though he made no attempt to eat any of it. He continued to sit on the floor and began to stir at the thick noodles absentmindedly.
Without a word his mentor sat next on him on the floor. They sat like this for several long moments and the only sound heard in the small room was the scraping sound of Aang's wooden spoon against the clay bowl.
Twisted away from him, Aang could mentally picture the concerned expression on Gyatso's face. Or was he looking at him like the rest of his people did? The days of isolation had worn him thin and he wanted more than anything than pour out his heart to the monk. Yet he was afraid and chose to focus on stirring the warm soup, unable to gather his courage. He feared that the moment he turned his head he would see the same distant apprehensive gaze and not the paternal, caring eyes that looked upon him everyday of his young life. Aang may have changed in the eyes of everyone around him, but he could not bare the thought of seeing that mirrored in Gyatso's.
Aang swallowed back a sob as the prickle of tears returned. He would not dare turn around. He hoped that after a time his guardian would just let him be.
A gentle hand fell upon his shoulder causing Aang to jump slightly. To his amazement he began to calm down by the light touch. The silent display of comfort prompted the boy finally to speak.
"Can I give it back?" Aang asked in a quiet whisper. Then was a pause in the air.
"You are not the first nor will you be the last to ask such a question," Gyatso stated softly. "But no, you may not."
A sniffle was his only reply. Aang wiped a hand across his face letting it linger below his brows to avoid his eyes.
With a sullen voice Aang whispered, "Why did it have to be me?"
The monk let out a breathless chuckle. "It was always meant to you be you, Aang."
The sound of his name and the laughter in his slight raspy voice surprised the boy. Hope tugged at the corners of his mouth and he slowly he glanced upwards to look upon his face.
The old monk's eyes twinkled with same softness that Aang have come to love and expect from his master. They were the same ones Aang saw every morning of everyday, whether they were sharing a fruit pie together, telling stories or when they said nothing at all. He had begun to fear that they would be but a distant memory. Seeing them gazing into his Aang said nothing but flung himself into his arms, sobbing with joy into the worn robes, forever grateful that the recent events had not changed him in the eyes of his master.