Wow, I haven't written Avatar fanfic in HOW long, exactly? Yeesh. So sorry, guys. Flagging interest and all.
But anyway, this was written for a Finale Taang Drabble Contest over at the Aang/Toph Livejournal community. But (because I am a wind bag) I ran a few hundred words over.
This was written mostly because Aang never really got a moment to step back and contemplate the fact that his job was not, in fact, over. It was only just beginning. Obvious spoilers for Sozin's Comet.
Disclaimer: I have nothing smarmy to say. I no own, you no sue.
Repetition
She has never made things easy.
Hers is a perspective he rarely likes to take, one rooted down and connected-chained-to the earth and its concerns. Always shoving, always pushing, always the same response to any failed attempts.
"Keep going."
Always forcing him to stand again, after he falls for the last time over and over and over.
"Keep going. You've got the stuff."
Funny, though, it's not the battle that finally undoes him.
It's not the weight of hope that each new face adds.
It's not even the sight of the ravaged capitol, no different than a thousand other cities.
It's in the hour after Zuko's coronation; after he has stood on the dais and made an impossible promise to piece this shattered world back together. Everyone is in the palace banquet hall now, mingling with politicians and soldiers, pretending that things can go back to the way they were. He spots the faces of his companions scattered in between the strangers, and an abrupt emptiness yawns open within him.
Because etched into their eyes, each and every one of them, is the subtle realization that they never really can. He's just the last one to notice it.
The war has taken so much from them, from him, but it has also left behind a clear illustration of the workings of hatred, greed and wrath. There will always be another war to end.
(Such is the nature of man, after all.)
Amid the commotion, Aang glances down at the wooden pendant about his neck. One finger traces the simple carving.
And he feels, really feels for the first time, the weight that he bears.
Suddenly, there are not ten years of labor ahead of him. There are a thousand more lifetimes, a thousand lifetimes of watching this cycle of life and peace and war and death turn and always having to walk forward once more, once more. Never stopping, never resting.
The sky is so heavy and he is so small.
So human. So alone.
His heartbeat weakens for a moment. The sound is faint enough that only one person in the crowd around him is able to hear it.
She immediately shoves through the maze of robes that separate them, grabs him by the collar to survey his face with her sightless eyes. He looks back into them and tries to speak; his voice barely manages to escape through the sorrow that is tightening around his lungs, as if the atmosphere itself is collapsing him inwards.
"I..."
And she tugs him into one, strong, wordless embrace that somehow says everything. It is exactly the same thing she has always said. It is exactly the same thing that she has never really needed to say, in the thousand lifetimes that she has accompanied him before this.
"Keep going. You've got the stuff. I'm right here beside you."
He tries once more to breathe, and finds that he can.
She has never made things easy.
But she has made them possible.
(Such is the nature of love, after all.)
A/N: Thank you for reading! All reviews, comments and critiques are welcome.