Morning chakras, anahata; Tenzin means well, sweetheart

He leads her outside, towards the cliffs. They leave the warm light of the temple behind, dipping into the green and golden line of sleepless trees. The terrain slips and swerves underfoot, turning treacherous, but Tenzin knows better than to offer her a helping hand. Korra the teenage god does not take kindly to gestures of guidance (save that for the kids, Tenzin, I got this).

He takes a good look at her face: unguarded eyes and unbrushed hair, fingers snapping along with the thurr-ump of her step in the leaves. Tenzin shakes his head, smiling a little; he's given up on telling her to be just a little quieter, to watch where she walks. Oh, he could never say it in so many words, but she is but a child to him, still.

And yet, whatever his concerns, he doesn't really mind a child Avatar—her grin in the gardens, her fingers running around flowers like her eyes rush across the sky (how far can I go), the simplicity of her satisfaction, things will be alright if I just promise. After all, he only has to remember his father to know: gods are given so much, but only very rarely are they granted the gift of childhood.

It's a morning marked with the memory of last night's summer rain; the air is quiet and cool, a secret like new fruit, like a sleeping infant's cheek; the air swells and sidles up along the skin, curling up at the base of the spine, the glow of the river circling the mountain. Tenzin breathes in deep and feels the wind color his buttoned-up lungs grey-blue and sun-bright, easing up, helping him along.

Korra, however, doesn't seem to find the same comfort in her teacher's element. She grabs and gulps at the air, pushing her hands to all sides of her, dying to see it all stop and do her bidding. She's biting her lip, body tense like the pitch black core of a storm, arms twisting: all that earnest and honest, but ultimately misguided, anticipation. Tenzin can't help rolling his eyes.

"I'm not sure what you hope to gain with that, Korra, but it cannot be airbending."

"It's early," she complains, ignoring his barb entirely, "way too early, Tenzin. Meditation never starts this early, even Jinora isn't up yet!"

"We're not meditating today, actually."

She looks at him in surprise. "No meditation?"

Tenzin smiles. "I thought we might break a little with tradition. You seem rather fond of that, after all."

They come to a stop close to the ocean, cutting past the boundary of the forest. Korra can hear the cry of the water's crash, familiar as a mother's voice; the roar seems tender to her, closer to her than even sunlight, the gut of the sea that is the bedrock of her birth. Tenzin notices her expression soften and murmurs a little thank you to Pema for suggesting the location ("she likes the water an awful lot, you know, you might find her a little more accommodating if she feels at peace"). How wise she is, that wife of his.

"We're going to talk for a while, before training begins." Tenzin settles onto the ground, and his charge follows suit. "What do you think about that, Korra?"

She frowns. "Am I in trouble? I swear I'm not really responsible for feeding Oogi the sugar cubes, and even if I am kind of responsible I swear I'm only really half-responsible because—"

"No, Korra, you're not—wait, is that why he was so excitable yesterday? Korra, the animals are not playthings…anyway, forget that, it's not important. You're not in trouble. We're just going to talk about bending. Airbending, to be precise."

Korra squirms, pouting theatrically. "That's a waste of time, Tenzin. I know everything there is to know. I just can't…do it."

"Now, now, hear me out here." Tenzin pats her shoulder encouragingly, and she stops, shrugs, her face still fitful, eyes filled with the hesitation of the switch in seasons. But she keeps silent which, when it comes to this little god, means: okay, I'll listen for a while.

Tenzin places a hand over the center of his chest, the red-gold of his history and home; he looks searchingly at her. "Do you know what this is?"

"That's your heart, Tenzin. Very cute."

He skirts around her sarcasm, waving the comment away. "Not just a heart, Korra. It's a chakra."

"Oh, chakras. I know all that. I got lessons in the compound. Relative Anatomic Positions of Chakras, super boring. No offense, Tenzin."

He sighs, reaching up to tug at his beard. "Perhaps your education in this respect has been more technical than you require. But try to give it another go. What's a chakra, Korra?"

Korra pauses, thinking. "It's, um, a pool of energy? There are several, located in the body, and they concentrate power. Each one is associated with bending, or some kind of energy, and together they make the Avatar State possible."

"That's very good, Korra. Now, do you know which chakra this one is?" He points again to his chest.

She mimics his motion, her hand a mirror image, the young deity and her teacher, the old god and her keeper. "This chakra?"

"The heart belongs to anahata. The airbending chakra."

"Ah," she says, gripping tighter, voice going quieter, like the dying light of a closing day, "that's right. I remember now."

"Anahata, near the spine, symbolizing selflessness, dealing with love, blocked by grief," Tenzin continues, choosing his words with care, "in the ancient books it's shaped like a flower, grey and red. Anahata," he repeats, "emotion in raw form."

What Tenzin does not say: chakras mark the texture and nature of humanity, those wells of soft color and ache, giving a world substance, giving love and loss weight. Chakras: feeding on feeling, relishing the patchwork map of the body, hiding in the hills and dips of an arm, a hip, breathing in life, to gods and babies alike. Anahata: grief, love, a pair of near opposite and yet infinitely complimentary conditions, woven into the living world in which one learns, in which one burns.

He fears that Korra, seventeen years old and fresh from the constrictions of the compound, cannot allow herself grief nor love because she has never been allowed the chance to live. He wonders if the veins of her bending are split by the holes in her experience. If so, how to correct it?

"Maybe, knowing what you do about this chakra, you should concentrate upon the instances in which you have felt emotion. Very deep sorrow, attachment, compassion. Just hold the memory in your mind, for a little while. Think of it in grander ways than you have before." He's unsure how she will take this vague direction, but he hopes that she will understand, somehow.

The spine, the ocean, a flower colored like smoke and blood, grief, love, ways grander than she knows. Korra looks out at the water, she closes her eyes.

Grief: her mother's handwriting three times a month, letters she'd read in the dark, letters she'd press to her face (I'm sorry your father and I can't visit, your training is important, sweetheart); a thousand miles, monsters of snow and cold, an alleyway, a white bun in dirty hands, why, why can't I, I should be able to, I'm so—

But also—Love: sweet-eyed Ma and Pa, a warm dog she named, a master and wife, their chirruping children, the ocean in her window, building a home, a city, a bowl of broth during cold evenings, a bow-tie, a busboy.

"Korra?"

"Mhm?"

"Korra," he says softly, "do you know what anahata means?"

She shakes her head, leaning in, opening her eyes. Tenzin sees blue gleam, some seam of a star split open, the crinkles of his father's face when he would smile, reproduced exactly in the child born upon his death.

"It means, 'unbeaten'."

The wind returns, the day draws on up over the cover of trees, getting caught in her hair. Korra breathes out slowly, looking out again at the water; in her field of vision lies the wisdom of a thousand gods of motion and feeling, a thousand contained heartbeats lost over the surface of the ocean, and then folded up and kept safe in her able heart. Then she looks once more at him and slowly, she smiles.