A/N I would apologize for not updating my own fanfic… but this is Aang-centric. So sorry-not-sorry.
Quick word of advice: if you value your mental health, do not go onto Tumblr. Or any social media, for that matter.
Seriously, don't.
If I hadn't made it clear before, I am an Aang stan (in, I hope, the best way possible). I like writing stories about him and going more in-depth with his character and relationships, and I feel like too many people overlook Aang in favor of Zuko. Don't get me wrong, Zuko's great—not my favorite (*gasp* BETRAYAL!), but his redemption arc was handled masterfully—but what grates on my nerves is when people demonize Aang, diminish his character, and call this 12-year-old pacifist monk some blatantly wrong and disturbing things.
So I present to you: this Aang-centric fic! This is meant to dive deeper into Aang's complexity as a character, as well as explain his motivations for some of his more… questionable choices that for some reason, people seem to get a little too hung up about.
So get cozy, because this one's quite the doozy.
Do note that there MAY be some elements of Kataang-ness in this fic (because… canon), but note that IT IS NOT THE FOCUS OF THIS STORY! This is meant to be a story for EVERYONE, regardless of shipping preference, and it's meant to be about Aang. Just wanted to get that out there so I didn't get flames about it. A lot of Aang's development also revolves around Katara, so it was kind of inevitable.
The writing style's a bit different from my usual, but I hope it doesn't bother you guys. Do note that it's meant to be ramble-y, so any grammatical errors and run-on sentences are, more likely than not, intentional.
Anyways, I hope you enjoy this fic, and thanks for giving it a chance.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own ATLA. All canon content and any quotes from the series belongs to Bryke and Nickelodeon. Seriously, how many times do I have to put this in the beginning of my fics?
i. what if I can't do it? what if I'm not strong enough? (failure isn't an option, can't be an option, but what if it's inevitable?)
Even before his career as the Avatar started, Aang had already failed miserably at his duty.
He had failed Gyatso, when he ran off recklessly into the storm and left only a note for his master (mentor, friend, father) as Aang almost steered himself and Appa to a watery, icy grave. He had failed the world, when Sozin's Comet passed overhead and the firebenders initiated a devastating war that raged for a hundred years (every life lost, every flame extinguished) and ravaged the lands and no one was there to stop them. He had failed all his friends from around the world in leaving Bumi to fend for himself and Kuzon to his nation's merciless conquest and countless others he can no longer remember to the imperialistic advances of the Fire Nation.
Most of all, he had failed his people by letting Sozin slaughter them all.
Maybe if he were there, he could've saved someone, anyone. Maybe if he hadn't been so cowardly in the first place, he wouldn't be the Last Airbender alive today. Maybe if he had simply accepted his duty as the Avatar and chose to do what the Elders had said, the temples would be populated by new generations of Air Nomads. Maybe if he had just been braver, been stronger, been a hero… he would've saved them all.
Or maybe, like Katara had told him in that cave, he would've perished along with them. Maybe it was better that he ran away, because then at least the world had hope in him, right? Maybe the Spirits had destined him to end up in that iceberg, to be woken at the right time to stop the war once and for all.
Maybe.
But it still didn't erase the fact that it was his failure that killed them all.
He had failed his people by trying to escape his duty. He had failed the Air Nomads by not being there when they needed him most. They had depended on him to save them, and what did he do? Run away on a whim, like the airbender he was.
Ha. How ironic that the monks' teachings on avoidance was what caused their downfall.
He wasn't there for his people, and he couldn't do anything to stop them from perishing by Sozin's hand. He couldn't be there for them, couldn't save them, couldn't make a difference in turning the tides, but he can make a difference now, and that was as much as he told Arnook while they waited in the silence before the battle.
No, he had vowed, he wasn't going to fail. Not ever again.
But oh, was he wrong, so very very wrong, because then he did fail the world again. He had let Azula shoot him in the back, had let his guard down for a split second too long and allowed her to take advantage of him. He had failed to stop the coup from conquering Ba Sing Se, had failed to protect Katara from their desperate situation, and to top it all off, he had let Azula kill him.
He had let the world's last hope for peace die.
Rage and dismay bubbled within him, choking him, when he heard how excited Sokka was about the world thinking Aang was dead (good? GOOD? HOW IS THAT GOOD?), but it was never directed at Sokka or any of his friends or even the invasion plan. No, Aang was angry that he failed, that he was the one who had allowed the world to fall back into its hopeless void, that he was the one who fumbled the baton and that his friends were the ones who had to risk their lives to fix his mistakes.
He had sworn he wouldn't fail again, but he did.
And as he pushed himself to his absolute limits, slamming his fists into a tree trunk over and over again even as the exhaustion turned his limbs to lead, he kept a tunnel vision, kept training and training and training and can't stop, won't stop because failure was not an option.
He failed twice, but he wouldn't fail this third time.
But then strike three: he had led the invasion force to the Fire Nation's doorstep, right into the heart of a trap. Everyone had depended on him to defeat the Fire Lord that day, had trusted him to end the war right there and then. It was a critical moment, one that could not afford even the slightest mistake on his part.
But of course he made a mistake—one mistake too many.
And the warriors of the invasion force had paid the price.
And as Appa soared away, the wind whipping at his face, Aang scrubbed desperately at his eyes, cursing the tears that burned down his face because how dare he mourn. He had no right to mourn, not when it was his fault that Katara's and Sokka's dad ended up captured, his mistake that left Teo's dad to the mercy of the Fire Nation, his inadequacy that threw Haru's dad in prison, his failure that separated The Duke from Pipsqueak, his fault, his fault, all his fault.
He had no right to be comforted by any of them, because it was his failure that caused the invasion force to concede defeat.
Least of all by Katara, for it was his fault that her only living parent was now in the hands of the Fire Nation.
He had made two promises that he wouldn't fail ever again—two promises too many that needed to be made—and he broke every single one of them.
Was it worth making that promise again, Aang couldn't help but wonder. Was it worth it, because every single time he had made that promise, he failed. He told himself he wouldn't, but he did, and it always came with the worst consequences.
Don't make a promise you can't keep.
He tried so, so hard, tried with everything he had—Spirits know he did—but no matter what, it seemed that he was inevitably destined to fail every time he made that cursed promise.
Would that mean, Aang wondered with a fear that coiled around his neck, that when the time came for him to face Ozai, he was inevitably destined to fail?
The noose around his throat only tightened with each passing week that meant Sozin's Comet was steadily closing in. Even as he advanced in firebending, even with the blazing sun blistering his skin and the hot, unbearably humid climate of the Fire Nation and his own body heat and sweat from all his workouts, Aang always felt a cold shadow coiling around him, fingers closing around his throat, reminding him as he gasped for air that you failed you failed you failed too many times you cannot afford to fail again the world depends on you do not fail—
And as he watched, in a somewhat surreal trance, his fall to Ozai's hands, going up in a blaze of smoke and fire (not real not real not real), as he heard the triumphant cheer of the audience members around him (they cheered for my death, they wanted me to die—), as he felt the crackle of electricity streak through his back and cut his lifeline and tasted the smoke and defeat in the air as the invasion force surrendered themselves, he could only feel his chest closing in on itself, and he couldn't breathe.
(strike four)
Failure is not an option.
Aang had failed the world too many times, and he was afraid of failing it once more.
ii. please, don't leave me here, I need you (but I guess you don't need me)
With a heavy heart, Aang watched the three figures shrink until they disappeared entirely into the woods and couldn't help but feel as though he deserved it.
Really, what should have he expected? Hiding the map to their father? And for what? To make sure they didn't leave him for the last remnant of their family?
Aang dragged a hand over his face, pretending the wetness that came away onto his hand didn't exist.
He was such an idiot.
He had known, deep in his heart, that crumpling up the map and stuffing it in his clothes was a horrible, horrible thing to do to his friends. He had seen the wistfulness in Katara's eyes when she had talked about her father, had seen the longing in Sokka's face when he had recounted all the good memories he had with his dad. He had seen it all, and Aang felt dirty and awful and selfish, because it was so obvious that they wanted to see their father, but instead of being happy for them, he had gone and tried to stop them from doing the one thing they wanted the most… and all because he didn't want them to leave him.
He was horrible and selfish and despicable, and this was what he deserved.
But when he had seen Sokka and Katara with Bato, caught up in the stories from their childhood and their tribe, stories of which he had no knowledge, he couldn't help the sudden pang in his heart, nor the weighty heaviness that had suddenly pressed down on his chest. In one moment, he had suddenly become a stranger in the midst of a family. An outsider witnessing the intimate bond of a community. A community that didn't include him.
Even though Katara had insisted that they were his family now, he had never felt it was less true than it was that night.
So when Bato had confided in Katara and Sokka of the map to their father's whereabouts, the snaking fear wound its way around his body, coiling around his chest and throat.
And when Katara and Sokka exclaimed with joy and excitement at the prospect of seeing their father again, the snake tightened its grip.
There was only one other time he could remember that he felt the same crushing hurt, the same vague notion of betrayal—betrayal of what, he didn't know—the same emptiness that hollowed out his heart, the same inability to just breathe.
And it was when the monks had commanded Gyatso to leave Aang.
Well, really, they had commanded that Aang be sent off to the Eastern Air Temple, but it all amounted to the same thing: they were asking Gyatso to abandon Aang. They wanted to take Aang away from everyone he knew and everything he ever loved, but more than that, they were asking the same people Aang loved to forsake him, to— to just leave him, discard him as though he were nothing more than an object to be shipped away.
And hearing them say that to the last friend he had left… it was more than Aang could bear.
So he left. Took nothing but his glider and Appa and just flew away. He didn't know where he was going, didn't know where he wanted to go, didn't know anything except that he just needed to get away, had to get away, had to find clean air and open space, had to breathe. He couldn't bear the thought of Gyatso coming to Aang and telling him that he would be abandoned, so Aang left before Gyatso could get the chance.
He supposed, in a way, he had chosen to abandon Gyatso before Gyatso could abandon him.
It seems so contradictory, and he very well knew it, but—and he doesn't know why, maybe he never will—it felt better when he was the one to abandon others. It hurt less when he was the one to cut off all connections. It was less painful to be the one to abandon others than it was to know that they were going to abandon him and simply wait for it to happen.
(But maybe he was wrong. Maybe, because when he had woken up to a war-torn world—to decrepit temples and crumbling stone spires that had once towered majestically towards the sky, to the skeletons of his mentor and firebending soldiers—and known that it was his abandonment of his people to cause that… it was harder to breathe than ever before.)
(Maybe. He doesn't know.)
The monks had cautioned against developing attachments. They had taught him that life was like the wind: always moving, always changing. Anything that passes through his life is fleeting; whatever he holds onto will inevitably slip from his grasp and disappear, swept away by the wind. The elders had said that this was simply the natural cycle of life: buildings will crumble, materials will decay, and people will leave. Fighting against this cycle to retain an attachment, they said, would only make him lose what he has more quickly; accept that everything is impermanent, cherish what he has now, and move on when it passes.
Aang was now beginning to see what they meant: when he tried to fight, tried to keep Katara and Sokka from seeing their father, it only spurred them to abandon him—but this time, out of spite for Aang's actions instead of excitement to see their father.
When he tried to hold on, he only lost them even faster.
Nothing lasts forever.
So he tried, he tried, he tried. He tried to let them go, tried to accept that they wouldn't be around in his life forever, tried to acknowledge that they were only a fleeting presence, tried to move on, tried to breathe.
But it hurt.
It hurt, because when he tried to banish them from his mind, all he could think about were the apologetic yet resigned eyes of the other airbender children as they banished him from their play. It hurt, because when he tried to let go, all he could think about was how Gyatso had been forced into letting him go. It hurt, because when he thought about how fleeting their presence would be in the grand scheme of his life, he was led to the idea that he would be all alone, unwanted and unloved, and that… that was terrifying.
So when Katara and Sokka chose to mount Appa with him as they escaped from Zuko and that weird creature that could paralyze things with its tongue, Aang found he could breathe so, so much easier when they were with him and prayed that he wouldn't drive them away again (even when he protested—rather feebly, he will admit—about their father).
But still, the thought always lurked in his head, always waiting, always anticipating for the moment where his actions—or maybe even just his circumstances—would be the thing that finally drove them away.
When he burned Katara's hands because of his careless (stupid, stupid, how can you be so stupid) actions and Sokka pinned him to the ground, screaming at him, Aang wondered if they would desert him for his recklessness.
When he screamed at everyone in that awful desert, struggling with barely contained rage at how unconcerned the rest of them were for Appa, Aang wondered—even hoped—that they would just give up on him and leave him to search for Appa by himself.
When they failed the invasion, and he was steering them towards the Western Air Temple, Aang wondered if everyone in Appa's saddle—from The Duke to Katara—secretly hated him for the outcome and knew he wouldn't blame them if they turned their backs on him.
And when he shouted at his friends against their insistence that he take Ozai's life, steadfast in his beliefs of the Air Nomads, Aang wondered, in the dark recesses of his mind, if they would abandon him for that too (for he had learned early on that the world did not take kindly to those who didn't conform).
Everyone leaves eventually.
Aang hated feeling abandoned, and he feared that it would happen again.
iii. all I know is gone, but even when I had everything, no one wanted me around… I guess it's just a feeling I need to get used to (they see me as a weapon, but they forget I'm human too)
Aang hadn't really been alone in his life.
For as long as he could remember, he was always surrounded by his peers, doing anything and everything—from studying under the masters to traipsing through the temple—together; even when he meditated, it was done in a group session.
So when he suddenly found his peers avoiding him, shunning him from playing with them because of his Avatar status, and treating him respectfully and even fearfully—as though he was no longer Aang, he was the Avatar, he was an all-powerful god that would exact vengeance on them otherwise—he found himself truly alone for the first time in his life.
And he hated it.
He hated it, when he walked the halls of the temples and heard the ringing of children's laughter, yet knowing that trying to join them would be in vain. He hated it, when he saw them zooming around the temple courtyards without a care in the world while he was being forced to drill his techniques, over and over again, forced to abandon fun and laughter because he was the Avatar and he should start acting like it thank you very much. He hated it, when his peers (his friends, his friends, they had been his friends) regarded him with something like fearful awe because he was the Avatar (I'm still Aang, he wanted to shout, I'm still Aang) and no longer let him in on their fun because he was no longer like them (but I am, he wanted to say, but I am).
He was drowning, drowning, drowning, drowning in his responsibilities and his heartache and pain, drowning in abandonment and rejection and isolation, drowning in sympathetic yet distant eyes and words of rejection that cut straight through his heart. He was drowning, but nobody saw, nobody was there, nobody tried to save him.
He was drowning, he couldn't breathe, and he couldn't take it anymore.
So when the elders threatened to send him to a place where nobody would truly know him, a place where all he was and ever will be is "The Avatar," a place where he was far away from his friends (were they friends? Or did that change too, when he wasn't looking?) and had no hope of making new friends (no one will want him, no one will want to know Aang because he was only "The Avatar"), he did the only thing he could.
He ran.
He didn't want to be alone. He didn't want to be shunned by the people he loved the most. He didn't want to be treated as this all-powerful, wrathful god who would strike people down if they said something wrong. He didn't want to be treated like a weapon, didn't want the monks to isolate him to drill him over and over and over again, didn't want this destiny if it meant he would forever walk his path alone, didn't want to feel like he was choking in the emptiness.
So when he woke up to a world where everything and everyone he knew was gone, he wept bitterly.
(but why was it different? Already abandoned by his people for being the Avatar, treated like a weapon, shunned by his peers… was it really all that different from before?)
Oh, but it was, it was, it was, because though Aang had been isolated and shunned, at least he still had his culture; at least he still had his people; at least he still had a community to call home. But now… now, he was truly alone. Now, all he had left was his beliefs, his glider staff, Appa, Momo, and the ruins of the once-great Air Temples.
He was all alone, and it terrified him.
It terrified him, because he was the only one left to uphold the legacy of the Air Nomads. It terrified him, because that meant there was no one left to guide him, to help him on this journey to become the Avatar. It terrified him, because everyone that had loved him was gone, and he was left abandoned, struggling in a world he barely understood and left to shoulder the weight of the world but also to serve as the only representative of a culture long decimated.
The weight of the world and his failures and his responsibilities were pressing down on him harder than ever before and crushing his chest and filling his lungs and he was choking and drowning and couldn't breathe he needed to breathe—
So he did the only thing he could: he extended his reach, extended a hand of friendship to the first two kids he ever met as soon as he was released—a waterbender and a warrior—because as much as he'd like to think he was doing them a favor, it was more so for himself, because he needed to not be alone, needed to be loved and wanted and he knew he was being selfish, knew it and hated it and didn't want to be, but that was the truth.
Because he had known what it was like to be alone, and never again did he want to feel that way.
For that reason, he didn't tell Katara and Sokka that he was the Avatar at first. He couldn't, not really, because if they had known… would they have treated him differently? Would they have shunned him, like all his friends had so long ago, simply because he had the mantle of the Avatar on his shoulders? Would they have detached themselves from him, fearing him to be some god-like hero?
Much to his delight, he found that no, they wouldn't.
But did that mean that others would see him the same way that they did?
Much to his disappointment, he found that no, they wouldn't.
So he stuck close to Katara and Sokka, clutched to them almost—dare he say—greedily, because they were all he had for a family now, all he had to keep him from drowning, drowning, drowning in his loneliness and heartache and misery, all he had left that reminded him of a world where he hadn't been "The Avatar," but Aang.
Thus, when Guru Pathik told Aang that he had to let go of his love for Katara to achieve mastery of the Avatar State, he refused.
How could he willingly give up his last attachment? How could he willingly choose to walk the path of the Avatar—alone? How could he willingly choose to be unloved and unwanted? How could he willingly choose suffocation over air?
He couldn't.
So he didn't.
Not until that fateful moment in the Crystal Catacombs, when he realized that he was willing to choose loneliness over love, was willing to let himself drown, if it meant that Katara would be able to escape the catacombs safely.
Not that it mattered, in the end.
When he walked the corridors of the Western Air Temple, smoothing his fingers over the cracked stones of the walls like he had done lifetimes ago, Aang found it so, so hard to breathe, the silence a vast ocean with no surface to break through.
When he closed his eyes, he could still see the gleaming white stones of the Air Temples as they stood, majestic and beautiful and pure. He could still hear the joyful bellows of the flying bison, mingled with the gleeful laugh of children as they rushed to see their animal companions. He could still smell the fresh breeze that wafted in from the outside, could still taste the sweetness of Gyatso's fruit pies, could still feel the crisp, clean air as he glided through the air.
A tear dripped down his face as he thought of the happiness then and the emptiness now—of both the temple and his heart.
You are all alone.
And when he argued with his friends over killing Ozai, it suddenly hit him: he held onto values and beliefs that no one else in the entire world held. He chose to uphold a culture that had long gone extinct, a culture that embodied beliefs that were drastically different from what the rest of the world believed.
Where the rest of the world said, kill, the Air Nomads said, spare; where the rest of the world said, take revenge, the Air Nomads said, give forgiveness; where the rest of the world said, seek justice, the Air Nomads said, choose mercy.
And none of them could understand that.
Even though his friends, his family, had been with him every step of the way, had supported him and helped him shoulder his burden so that he didn't have to do this alone… even then, in the end, Aang was alone.
Because he was the Last Airbender. The sole representative of a culture that didn't share the same beliefs as the rest of the world. The only one left who was able to hold on to his people.
And maybe, maybe, maybe he should just accept it, accept that no matter how many people he would meet, how many friends he had, he would always be alone, accept that even his family would never be able to understand his responsibilities.
But he can't, he can't, he can't, because the emptiness in his heart was slowly hollowing him out and the weight of his duties was crushing him and the silence that surrounded him was strangling him, and he needed to not be alone, needed to be filled and supported and able to breathe because if he isn't he will collapse in on himself and fall and crash and burn and he was terrified of what would happen then.
You are the last of your kind.
Aang had been alone before, and each new experience only frightened him more and more.
iv. no, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! all this power I hold… and all it ever does is hurt others (how can I save them from myself?)
"You burned my sister!"
The words echoed over and over again in his head long after they were said, a chant of condemnation paired with icy blue, accusatory eyes. They battered against the inside of his chest, flooding his lungs and crushing his windpipe until he couldn't breathe.
I burned Katara.
He closed his eyes.
I hurt my best friend.
But— but he didn't mean to. He had just been playing— he didn't think that it would— it had just been a small flame, it wasn't supposed to hurt people! It was supposed to be harmless!
Until it wasn't.
Oh, sure, he had seen the damage that had been caused by fire. He had seen the blackened, cracked ruins of the Southern Air Temple (which should've alerted him to the fact that there was something wrong, but—perhaps through deliberate ignorance or blissful hoping, he wasn't sure which one—he didn't notice). He had seen how Suki's village had been ravaged in mere minutes, fire leaping from building to building, before he managed to put it out with the Unagi. He had seen the devastation of Hei Bai's forest, the burnt husks of trees and the gray, ashy soil.
But Aang had never really thought about it, had never really internalized the true extent of the damage. Maybe it was because he had been friends with Kuzon, who had been a firebender and certainly never used it to harm others, maybe it was just him wanting to have fun, or maybe it was even him deliberately choosing to be ignorant. Whatever the case, when he had seen the fire performance at that festival, all Aang could see was how colorful and fun it looked and think, I want to be able to do that. He had thought of fire as some kind of toy, a new game to play with, a novelty that could do all kinds of cool stuff.
Until he burned Katara.
And that's when he realized that it wasn't a game.
Jeong Jeong, Aang realized with a growing dread, had been right: fire was alive. It was like a wild beast, barely restrained and just waiting to be unleashed, and toying with it was like taunting the beast: it was bound to break free and rampage, sooner or later. Playing with fire meant that someone was bound to get burned.
And when Aang played with fire, Katara was the one who got burned.
As shame seared the inside of his throat and Aang brushed away his bitter tears of self-loathing, he vowed never again. Never again would he be so reckless and careless with the elements. Never again would he bend fire, or even look at a flame. Never again would he gaze upon the spectacles of those Fire Nation performers and try to recreate their tricks just for his own personal amusement.
A memory worked its way to the forefront of his mind: of Katara, tied to that wooden chair. Of the performer, using elaborate hand movements to create the likeness of a dragon out of fire, tied to a leash. Of the fire-generated dragon, diving towards Katara. But, most of all, of the fear that radiated off of Katara as she cringed away from it.
That was the same fear that had propelled Aang to jump to her defense and airbend the fire away from her—an instinctive reaction that had activated when he saw she had been in danger (although now that he thought about it, the performer certainly wouldn't have let her get burned to a crisp; regardless, he didn't regret protecting her). But when she had expressed that same fear when he was handling fire, he had dismissed her concerns and played around with it, just like that performer did.
But this time, he succeeded in hurting her.
Bile rose in his throat, and Aang squeezed his eyes shut, cursing himself over and over again. How could he do that? How could he choose to protect Katara from outsiders, yet when it came to himself, he let himself hurt her? He was a hypocrite, a reckless, idiotic hypocrite, and Katara had been the one to pay the price. Heck, if Sokka wanted to pack his and Katara's bags and flee, Aang wouldn't have stopped them.
Because it was what he deserved.
No. He wasn't going to go down that road ever again. He wasn't going to be so careless and reckless about his abilities ever again. He wasn't going to firebend ever again.
Never again.
But then a new problem arose, a far more dangerous problem. He may have been able to control whether or not he firebends (and if he had any say—which he did—then he would never firebend again), but he certainly couldn't control the Avatar State.
He couldn't remember exactly what had happened during the Siege of the North, but the dreams were enough to inform him. Many nights, he would see a giant blue water monster that vaguely resembled a koi sweep through the Northern Water Tribe city, its light blue eyes glowing menacingly as it bore down on the firebenders. Every night, there were different faces, and the monster would perform different actions, but it was all the same: the monster would always attack, and the firebenders would always scream. His gut twisted with every shout and every splash as they were dragged down down down, but as much as he wanted to, he couldn't look away.
But that wasn't what scared him the most.
What scared him was the boy with the glowing eyes and arrow tattoos in the center of that monster.
The dreams gradually compounded with other memories, all witnessed in an out-of-body vision that left Aang feeling disoriented: when he went into the Avatar state at the Southern Air Temple; when Roku took over his body in the Avatar state; and then, of course, the koi monster. Each time, he saw its raw power; and each time, he felt helpless, cowering as he saw himself tower over him, eyes glowing and creased in rage.
It scared him deeply. It scared him to know that he had such devastating power. It scared him to know that he had used it against people. It scared him to see himself in such a state of rage and power and know that it was a power that he couldn't control and know that he might hurt somebody and not even know it—
But when General Fong showed him all the soldiers in the infirmary, all the casualties that had amounted because Aang had failed the world, because he had run away and left the nations to fend for themselves, he tried to push away his instincts that screamed Danger! when Fong presented his plan to utilize the Avatar State—because as much as he hurt people with that power, there were just as many, if not even more, people that were getting hurt every day.
Because he was a hundred years too late.
Because he failed.
And when Katara expressed concerns that aligned rather eerily with his own ("For the people who love you, watching you be in that much rage and pain is scary"), Aang tried to tell both himself and her why he was going through with it ("Every day, more and more people die. I'm already a hundred years too late."), but her concerns weren't alleviated; and, if he was being honest, he wasn't sure his own were either.
Both Katara and his intuition had tried to warn him, and he didn't listen.
Now, Aang wished more than anything that he had.
Because when Aang exited the Avatar state, all he saw was the decimation of Fong's base; all he saw were the limp, groaning forms of all the soldiers who had been caught in the crossfire; all he saw was the terror on all the soldiers' faces as they looked at him, and he hated it, hated that he had caused this terror and pain, hated that Fong forced him into becoming this living, killing machine, hated that he hadn't listened to Katara and his instincts—
And when Katara's arms enveloped Aang, all he could think of was how Katara got hurt because of him, how Fong used her to get to him, how she had been forced to see him reenter the Avatar State and lay waste to everything around him, and he found his breath abruptly leave him.
He clung to her, relief flooding through him as he let himself be reassured by the fact that she was alive, alive and unhurt and here and wasn't afraid of him (though he wouldn't have blamed her if she was, he had scared himself) and reminded himself to breathe, just breathe and promised that she would never have to see him like that again.
But oh what an empty promise that had been. Because Katara was forced to see him like that again, back in the desert when he had been filled with so much fiery rage and hatred towards the sandbenders that he had entered the Avatar State and come so, so close to annihilating them. He had come so close to breaking the monks' most sacred belief—heck, he had broken it with the bug that abducted Momo—but the blood of people would've stained his hands forever.
Worse was the fact that he had consciously let the Avatar State take over. The Avatar State—the defense mechanism that leveled cities, the raw power that drove armies away single-handedly, the barely contained monster that lurked just beneath the surface of his skin, the very thing he feared with his life because it made him hurt people and he didn't want to—and he had willingly let it emerge.
He will forever be grateful to Katara for sticking by his side even when everyone else ran away, because had she not been there, he knows he would've done something—he wasn't sure what (or maybe he did know and just didn't want to acknowledge it)—that he would've deeply regretted.
(But he felt horrible for being grateful that she stuck with him. Horrible, because he deserved to be all alone and deserved to have no one love him and deserved to be abandoned, but he wasn't, he wasn't and he was grateful for it and he hated that he was grateful for it.)
But even though he didn't kill, it didn't change the fact that he did hurt them. It didn't change the fact that he had hurt Toph, throwing out unjustified accusations that she didn't care, that she let Appa get stolen (and he knew, he knew, he knew it was untrue, knew it deep in his heart but in the moment all he could see was red and all could he hear was his heart shattering and all he could feel was his throat closing in on itself because Appa was gone, gone, gone, one of his only friends left of the Air Nomads was gone and Toph couldn't save him, save the last friend he had, save one of the last links to his people and it hurt and he couldn't breathe—). It didn't change the fact that he hurt Katara, accusing her of not doing anything when she had, she had, in trying to keep the group together. Most of all, it didn't change the fact that he had hurt the sandbenders, and now they looked at him with terrified eyes and skirted around him as though afraid he would blow up at any moment.
So he shut himself down. Barricaded his feelings. Chose to feel nothing.
Because when he felt pain and rage and hatred, all he ever did was hurt others.
Katara had pleaded with him, begged him, not to shut himself away from them ("You have to promise me that you won't stop caring."), but Aang refused. He refused, because he knew that if he let himself feel again, he would only lash out ("You saw what I did out there."). He refused, because he knew if he let himself feel again, he would only hurt others again.
He understood, more than anybody, the damage he could cause others when he let his grief and pain cloud his judgement. He understood that letting it take control of him would only lead him into doing something he would deeply regret, actions that he would never be able to take back. He understood that hatred and rage would only hurt the people that loved him more than the people towards whom he directed it.
And that was why, lifetimes later, he went to Katara and tried to plead with her to let go of her rage and forgive. Because he knew, he knew, he knew what it was like to see nothing but red and feel nothing but fire and taste nothing but blood. He knew, he knew, he knew what it was like to come face-to-face with the people who had taken away all that had been most precious to him and burn with the desire to killmaimdestroyobliterate. He knew, he knew, he knew how easy it was to strike and lash out and how easy it was to choose to unleash the monster under his skin and how easy it was to become the monster. He knew, he knew, he knew what it was like to be drowning in hatred and choking on rage and not being able to breathe.
And he knew, he knew, he knew what it was like to wake up and see the devastation wrought all around him and find the wounded and pray that nobody died and feel empty empty empty because I did that I hurt them they didn't deserve it but I did it anyways what have I done—
He knew, he knew, he knew, and he knew that Katara didn't know, not really, and he tried desperately to stop her from knowing what it was like, stop her from going down the path he had almost gone down before, stop her from making the same mistakes he did.
Because he knew what it was like to hurt people.
Monster, monster, monster.
And he was terrified he would do it again.
v. falling, falling, falling, with no one around to save me and no air to breathe (please help me I can't breathe I need to breathe)
Throughout his life, Aang has heard poetry and stories that say death is slowly drifting off into a black void, a quiet release from a life fulfilled. Other times, they say that death is swift and merciless, a flash and a bang, before the world vanishes. Still other times, they say that death is slow agony, feeling the life creep out of oneself and knowing there is nothing they can do to stop it.
But to Aang, death was falling.
Death was falling and not knowing when he was going to hit the ground. Death was falling and knowing that no one could save him. Death was falling, falling, falling, with no wind to grasp and no air to save him and flailing around helplessly and trying, trying, trying to bend but not being able to and not being able to breathe—
Death was falling, and for an airbender, it was terrifying.
Airbenders could never truly fall. Push them off the top of a tower, and they would simply grasp the winds and float to safety. Push them off an air bison, hundreds of feet off the ground, and they wouldn't break a sweat or even scream. Push them off of any high vantage point, and instead of falling, they would soar.
As a result, Aang never really understood the fear of falling, not like Katara or Sokka or Zuko or Suki or especially Toph. Maybe he could, to some extent, sympathize with them—especially Toph, since she would only feel an endless void as she plummeted down, down, down—but personally? He never had that fear, because he knew that the winds would always have his back.
Until they didn't.
He felt a distant flash of pain in his back, a shock of electricity that coursed through his body (but it was all so distant, so far away, as though he wasn't really in his body). He looked up to see the giant Avatar version of himself falter slightly, the light dimming suddenly as the fingers loosened from its position. The bridge under his feet flickered.
And then when the Avatar fell, he did too.
His gut lurched to his throat, his eyes watered, and his breath whooshed from his lungs as he fell down, down, down. Instinctively, he reached out, trying to grasp at the winds, trying to will the air to cushion his fall.
But there was no air.
Panic closed its cold fingers around his throat, and he opened his mouth, tried to gasp in air, tried to breathe and breathe and breathe but he couldn't, he couldn't and he was choking, choking on nothingness. Hands leaping to his throat, clawing at the skin as though it could somehow will oxygen back into his lungs, fingers scrabbling at his chest as he heaved for air he needed air there was no air—
There was no air, and he couldn't even scream.
And when he plunged headlong into the cold, frothing ocean, he couldn't even find the strength to swim up, up, up. He let himself drift down, down, down into the unforgivable nothingness, the same nothingness that had filled his lungs and suffocated him, the same nothingness that deprived him the presence of his element, the same nothingness that had pulled him down from the sky to the ground and was still pulling him down into the depths of the ocean.
Even when he felt the tug on his back, even when he felt himself suddenly rising instead of sinking, even when he resurfaced and expelled the nothingness from his lungs and sucked in air greedily, even when he opened his eyes to see two familiar cerulean eyes staring down at him, red and puffy and streaming with tears, even when he offered her a tiny smile, even when he drifted back to unconsciousness, the memory of falling and choking and sinking and drowning was still fresh in his mind.
Every night since then, when he went to sleep, he would find himself falling again, but instead of landing into the frigid embrace of the ocean, he just kept falling. He kept falling through that vacuum, kept trying to breathe but couldn't breathe, kept reaching out for an element that had always surrounded him until that moment.
He just kept falling, and nobody saved him.
He never really told anyone about those nightmares—instead acting (or trying to act) like the carefree kid he had been before—but it shook him to his core. The memory of his death was never far from his mind, resurfacing to the forefront when he was meditating or pondering to himself, and when it did, all he could think about was how he just kept trying to reach out for help… and nothing, not even his own element, had come to his rescue except for Katara's spirit water.
It scared him. It scared him to remember feeling so helpless in a setting that an airbender would normally be able to control. It scared him to think about how he was deprived of even the simplest acts, like breathing. It scared him to remember the nothingness that had surrounded him and filled his lungs. It scared him to think about how he had been falling, falling, falling, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
(A part of him wondered if this was what the Air Nomads had experienced when they died. Did they feel like they were falling when they died? Did they feel the suffocation of nothingness? Or did they feel only the heat of the firebenders as they burned?)
But what scared him most of all was the fact that he died. He was the Avatar, the most powerful human on the planet. Heck, he had been in the Avatar State, the most powerful, devastating force known to the world, the very thing that made tyrants cower and armies surrender. He had been at his most powerful… and Azula had managed to kill him.
For the first time, Aang was forced to really, truly consider his own mortality. Oh, sure, he had known he would die someday (he's not stupid) but maybe, deep down, he, like Sokka, had thought that the Avatar State would be so powerful that nothing would be able to cut it down. Nothing would be able to cut him down.
Until Azula had.
And that's when he realized that all this power he wielded… it didn't guarantee that he would make it out of this war alive.
That was why, when he and Katara had been left on the top of that submarine, he had kissed her ("What if… what if I don't come back?"). Because he almost didn't come back before. Because it had almost happened before, and he realized that it was an all-too real possibility that he wouldn't be coming back this time, and he was scared of falling back into that black, airless void, of course he was, but he was more scared that he was going to go and get himself killed without letting Katara know how much he loved her.
So he mustered up his courage and pressed his lips against hers, trying to ignore the nagging voice in his head that taunted him with certainties that he wouldn't be coming back.
And when he leaped into the air and soared off towards his destiny—whether it be victory or death—he resisted the urge to look back. Because he knew if he looked back, he would see Katara and give into the instincts that were screaming for self-preservation, screaming at him to run, run far away where the Fire Lord can't hurt you and take them with you and run away from this war.
But as much as he so desperately wanted to, he couldn't do what his instincts told him to.
Because he was the Avatar, and he had a duty to the world.
Even if it meant dying for it.
When Aang had gone off to face the Fire Lord, he had thought there would only be two outcomes: he would either defeat Ozai and emerge victorious… or he would be dead. He honestly never thought that he would fail… but somehow make it out alive.
(a part of him was actually relieved, relieved that he didn't have to face Ozai, relieved that he didn't have to face death, and he cursed himself for it, because as the Avatar, it was his duty to fight and die for the world, and he should even feel honored to die for the world, and he failed in his duties, failed miserably and he should be completely devastated and he hated that even a small portion of himself would feel relieved)
(worse yet, he was relieved that he had escaped death while he doomed to rest of the invasion force to the possibility of the same fate, but they faced it gladly, with heads held high and eyes glittering in defiance)
(what a selfish, selfish Avatar he was)
And as he stood there on the balcony of the Ember Island Theater, watching Katara retreat into the playhouse once more, he couldn't help but feel it was more true than ever.
He cursed himself as he slammed his head against the wooden railing, and if pain flared violently in his forehead, he ignored it.
It was what he deserved anyways.
How could he have possibly thought that deliberately ignoring Katara's boundaries was an okay thing to do? How could he have just… disrespected his best friend like that? In what world was what he did even remotely okay?
Aang lifted his head and propped his chin on the railing, staring gloomily up at Yue.
But— but that had never been his intention. He had just been so, so confused and desperate for answers… and scared.
Confused, because that stupid play had implanted the idea that Katara had only looked at him like a little brother, and now he wasn't sure if he had read her signals correctly. Desperate, because during the weeks between the failed invasion and now, Katara had not once tried to talk about the kiss—in fact, if Aang didn't know any better, he'd say she had been actively avoiding him.
And scared, because in mere weeks, he would have to face Ozai. Scared, because he was hyper-aware of the fact that he would have to run towards the inferno. Scared, because death would be awaiting him where the Fire Lord was, and he didn't know whether or not he would make it out or not but knew that not coming back was a very, very real possibility for him.
His death in the Ba Sing Se Catacombs was still fresh in his mind. He could still remember the utter helplessness that had consumed him when he felt the weightlessness of his body as he fell. He could still remember how utterly alone he had been and how no one had been around to save him. He could still feel the nothingness that choked him, stealing his breath and smothering him.
He could remember it all, and he knew that when he faced Ozai, there was a very real chance that he would fall again.
And he was scared to death.
It didn't excuse what he had done, no, nothing would, but… at the same time, Aang didn't think Katara understood just how important this was to him.
Because if these weeks would be the very last days of his life, then all he wanted to do was to let Katara know he loved her… and know whether or not she loved him.
Or had loved him.
Because if there was one certainty that came out of tonight, it was that he succeeded in pushing her away from both himself and any potential feelings she had for him—all because he had let his fear cloud his judgement.
But regardless of whether or not she liked him that way, Aang still needed her. He still needed her with him, still needed both her bending prowess and her quiet strength, still needed that fighting spirit and healer at his side.
Because he didn't want to face death by himself.
Dying was easily one of the worst experiences he had ever felt in his life, and Aang prayed to the Spirits above that he wouldn't have to face it again so soon… but was it right to kill someone else?
That was the question Aang found himself forced to contemplate as he sat on the balcony of the summer house, conflicted between his friends and his own beliefs ("You'll have to take the Fire Lord's life before he takes yours."). Fire Lord Ozai was an awful man, Aang wasn't going to deny that ("Fire Lord Ozai is a horrible person, and the world would probably be better off without him"). Did he deserve to die? Probably.
But Aang didn't want to be the one to kill him.
Because when he closed his eyes, every moment of his death—his fall through the cosmic, airless void, his submergence into the cold, deathly grip of the ocean, his slow descent into nothingness—would play out in his head, every second stretched out so that he could feel his breath being slowly, painfully choked off, feel the panic that crawled through his veins, feel the pure hopelessness that slowly crept over him as he plummeted down, down, down into the depths of the unknown.
How could he willingly choose to subject anyone to that agony—even if it was his own enemy? How could he, with full knowledge of what death felt like, choose conscientiously to force anyone to experience having their breath cut off from them, to know full well that they were dying and dying alone, with no one and nothing to save them?
And maybe his friends were right—maybe Ozai does deserve to die—but they didn't understand. They didn't understand what it was like to die, to find themselves plummeting through a cold and dark void, alone and afraid. They didn't understand what it was like, to be unable to even do the simple act of just breathing and existing. They didn't understand what it was like, to slowly feel themselves fade into a black emptiness.
But Aang did—that's the thing, Aang did. He could never fault his friends for being so insistent on killing Ozai, and he would never insist that he knew better than them, but he was the only one who knew what death felt like and understood how terrifying it was. To know what it was like to die, and to knowingly force someone else to experience the same thing he had…
He couldn't. It didn't feel right.
Maybe that made him weak. Maybe that made him a bad Avatar.
And maybe that was a decision that would cost him his life.
Aang raised his head up to the sky to gaze upon Yue.
He had accepted that he might die. He had accepted that there was a high chance that he wouldn't be able to make it out alive. He had accepted that he might not make it back to Sokka, whose terrible jokes could always make him laugh, or Toph, whose brash personality had grounded him in times when he desperately needed it, or Zuko, whose determination and passion had inspired him, or…
Or Katara. Brave, beautiful Katara. His best friend. His strength when his own failed. His hope in the most hopeless moments. His light in the darkest of times. His reason for fighting in this war.
The girl he loved.
Aang felt something warm trickle down his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away.
What would happen to them, he wondered, if he fell? What would happen to them as he plummeted? What would they do when he could breathe no more? Would they surrender, if they saw him fall from the sky? Would they keep fighting, even when he was drowning in the void?
Cold, clammy hands closed around his throat as he remembered. Remembered what it was like. Remembered what it was like to die.
And remembered that it was a fate that was all too possible.
Death is a fate inevitable for everyone.
He may have accepted he would die, but that didn't mean he wasn't scared of dying.
vi. it's alright to be scared, because that means you're human; but as long as you have us, you won't have any reason to be scared anymore (we're with you every step of the way)
Aang finds himself sitting on a railingless balcony, staring over the site of Zuko's and Azula's Agni Kai and watching the sun rise to a new day. It is a beautiful, breathtaking view, but Aang finds it especially meaningful in the wake of all the events that had happened before.
Because the sun is rising on the day Sozin's Comet had disappeared from the sky, and they had emerged victorious over their battles.
It's over. Everything that they had experienced—the war, the heartache, the grief, the tears, the failures—every obstacle that they had been forced to endure, every tragedy that had tried to break them down… after everything that had happened, it's over.
All of it.
Aang closes his eyes and breathes deeply. It is a calm breath, a breath that fills him with inexplicable peace. It is a breath of satisfaction, a breath of triumph.
Because he had won.
After far too many failures—running away from his home, letting Ba Sing Se fall to the Fire Nation, leading the invasion into a trap—he had not failed in the most critical battle of the war. He had brought down Ozai, stripped him of his power and effectively ended the Hundred Year War—the war he had inadvertently kept running for a hundred years when he disappeared into the ice.
But, in a strange sort of way, Aang feels that perhaps he had redeemed himself in being the one to end the war. Himself… and Roku, who had failed to prevent Sozin from starting the war.
(he wonders if the Air Nomads are proud of him and wonders if they had forgiven him for failing them)
(he hopes they are and, knowing them, knows they have)
Aang breathes, easily and freely, because he did not fail, not when it counted. He breathes, because even after all his failures and mistakes, he had accomplished the one thing that could right it all. He breathes, because he had made a promise that he would not fail, not after the invasion, and in the end, he had kept it.
Aang breathes, because he refused to make failing an option.
A warm hand slides into his, fingers automatically intertwining, and Aang opens his eyes and glances to his left to see Katara wedge herself right next to him. Her brilliant eyes take up most of his vision, glistening in the orange light that brought out the beautiful blue in them, and she gives him a soft smile, a smile that spoke of endless reliefs and confessions left unsaid and a You came back to me.
Aang responds by squeezing her hand and giving her his own smile, a smile that he hopes that tells her of his own eased burdens and reliefs and an affirmative I came back to you.
Katara sighs in response—a breathy sigh, the kind that expels stress and worries—and turns her head to regard the sunrise, a contented smile playing on her lips. Aang can't help the soft smile that graces his own face as he turns to regard the sunrise with her, studying her out of the corner of his eye.
Looking at her now, it's hard for Aang to believe it was only a year ago that she had been a novice waterbender. After all, she had held her ground against Azula, who was possibly the most cold and calculating firebender in the nation, and emerged victorious.
And Aang is so, so proud of her. She had come such a long way, from barely being able to create a water whip to having the precision to take out Azula. She had truly grown into the master waterbender he always knew she was meant to be, and he knows that this was only the beginning for them.
When he looks back on all his adventures with Katara, he finds that there are so many things he admires about her: her passion for waterbending; her determination to become a master and even learn how to fight; her compassion towards everyone, even a Fire Nation village; her sense of justice and doing what's right; even how she was never afraid of using her emotions when she fights.
But he knows that there is one thing about her in particular that he will forever be grateful for.
And that is that she never abandoned him.
Even from the very start, when he first came into the village, Katara had immediately been willing to be banished alongside him when her village tried to expel him. When he had been taken by a ponytailed Prince Zuko, she had come for him. When he had entered the Avatar State in the Southern Air Temple, so filled with pain and grief and rage, she had been the one to run towards him instead of away. When he had flown away from the fisherman, she had followed him. Even when he had burned her, she had still chosen to stay with him. Even when he had gone into the Avatar State and nearly destroyed everyone, when everyone else, even Sokka and Toph, had run away from him, she had walked through the storm towards him.
Countless other memories worked its way to the forefront of his mind: when she had reached out to him even when he tried to shut himself off from her; when she had went out to search for him after he ran away; when she had gotten up during the middle of the night to try and get him to sleep; when she had comforted him while he was grieving the failed invasion, before they had to run away.
There had only been two times when she had abandoned him: the first time was with Bato and Sokka to meet up with her dad—even then, he had seen the reluctance and sadness in her eyes as she bid him goodbye—and the second time was when she had fled from him on the balcony of that theater—but really, it was his fault in the first place, having put her in an uncomfortable position.
(he sighs quietly to himself, knowing that there is a lot for them to talk about—facing the Fire Lord tended to put a stop in any plans of reconciliation—but for now, he chides to himself, for now, sitting here and watching the sunrise… for now, that is more than enough)
Aang knows that in each instance, Katara didn't have to go after him. She could've just given up on him and chose not to bother. In his worst moments, she could've chosen to flee from him, could've chosen to leave him.
But Katara didn't—and that was what made all the difference, she didn't.
Aang closes his eyes and breathes deeply. It is a breath that brings in an odd scent, a scent of battle smoke and flowers and the crisp ocean air, a scent that is entirely unique to Katara. It is a breath that instills a sense of trust within him, a breath that warms his heart.
Because there is someone there for him.
He had been abandoned by people he had thought were his friends before, all his peers from his temple, who had immediately chosen to shun him upon finding out he was the Avatar. The elders had wanted Gyatso to abandon Aang (and maybe he would've, maybe he wouldn't have, Aang didn't know and probably would never know—and that hurt most of all, not knowing and never having the chance to find out).
The monks had warned against attachments, talking about how fleeting their presence would be in his life, and for so long, Aang had followed their teachings, because he had thought they were right, unquestionably so… but looking at Katara, Aang knows, deep in his heart, that her presence is the forever kind of presence.
(he wonders if Gyatso would've liked Katara, had he seen her)
(he had no doubt he would've)
Aang breathes, easily and freely, because even after all his mistakes and his failures, there had been someone there who hadn't abandoned him. He breathes, because even in moments that had been so insignificant, there had always been a hand on his shoulder to tell him, I am still with you. He breathes, because even when he was at his absolute worst, and it would've been safer for all of them to flee, there was one person who reached out to him, who refused to let go.
Aang breathes, because he is not abandoned.
A rough yet gentle hand is laid on his right shoulder, and Aang glances up to see Sokka looking back at him with soft eyes and a knowing smile, and Aang can't help but be relieved that Sokka (his comrade, his friend, his brother) had made it out alive and well (and yes, Aang will count having a broken leg as "alive and well," considering it much more preferable to death).
Aang returns Sokka's smile with his own, and Sokka nods, as if understanding what Aang was trying to convey—Aang has no doubt he does—and the two of them turn towards the rising sun.
Looking at this accomplished leader next to him, the teen who has become the older brother he never had, Aang finds it hard to believe that this is the same Sokka who had treated him with nothing short of suspicion and fear when he had first emerged from the iceberg, who had suspected him to be a Fire Nation spy, who tried to actively banish him from the village (and really, Aang couldn't blame him for it).
He looks back at that starting point and wonders, what was the moment when everything changed? What was the moment that made Sokka accept him as a little brother?
And the answer comes to him as clear as the cloudless sky: the Southern Air Temple. He had been so filled with grief and pain and rage… and a raw, aching loneliness that left him feeling hollow, hollow, hollow. He had looked upon his mentor's skeleton and known, deep in his bones, that he was all alone in the world.
He had screamed to the world, and the winds howled along with him… but no one had answered.
No one… except a waterbender and a warrior.
"Katara and I aren't going to let anything happen to you. Promise."
(You are not alone. I am here with you. I promise that you will never feel alone again.)
And Sokka had kept his promise since.
When Sokka made terrible jokes, Aang couldn't help but laugh, the noise filling the silence that had surrounded him. When Sokka played along with Aang as they fooled around with each other, Aang couldn't help but feel warmed to the core for having someone who was willing to play around with him. When Sokka reassured Aang that they were in this together, that Aang wouldn't have to carry his burden alone, Aang no longer felt alone.
And even when Sokka couldn't understand that Aang had a duty as not just the Avatar but the Last Air Nomad, Aang had known still that Sokka would never mean to make Aang feel alone.
Aang closes his eyes and breathes deeply. It is a breath that takes in a musky scent, a scent of battle smoke and sweat and a hint of the ocean, a scent that Aang knows belongs to Sokka. It is a breath that dispels the cold ache in his heart, a breath that solidifies his connections.
Because he is not drowning in loneliness.
He had been left alone in silence. He had been isolated from the people who had been his family. He had been rejected from his friends' play and left to wander the halls alone, forced to listen to their laughter and yearning to join in but not being able to. He had been left to be crushed under his duties as the Avatar, treated as a weapon, hailed as a god-like figure. They had forgotten that he was not the Avatar but Aang, the boy who zoomed around on air scooters and played pranks and laughed at jokes.
And when he emerged from the ice, the world had forgotten that he was an Air Nomad. They had only seen him as the Avatar, the fighting, killing machine that would bring down the Fire Lord. They had thrust upon him the responsibility of ending the war before walking away, leaving him to struggle with his newest burden. They had only seen him as the Avatar, and they had forgotten that he was Aang, the last of his kind, the only representative of his culture, a pacifist monk forced into violence, a child of peace in a time of war.
But Sokka hadn't—and that was the thing, he hadn't.
(and he couldn't find it in himself to blame his peers for thinking that way; maybe if he weren't the Avatar and one of his peers was, he might've thought the same)
(which was why it was so astounding that Sokka didn't)
Aang breathes, easily and freely, because he can laugh, and there is someone who welcomes it and laughs alongside him. He breathes, because he can play, and there is someone who chooses to play with him. He breathes, because there is someone out there who chooses to induct him into a family. He breathes, because there is someone out there who sees him drowning in grief and emptiness and heartaches and chooses to pull him out and hold him.
Aang breathes, because he is no longer alone.
A clearing of a throat sounds behind him, and Aang turns to see Zuko standing there awkwardly, a red robe with a golden trim framing his shirtless torso, revealing the white bandages around his abdomen that stand out against his pale skin. Gazing upon the wound, Aang can't help but feel grateful to Zuko for jumping in front of Azula; if it weren't for the firebender's intervention, Katara wouldn't be sitting next to him right now, warm hand in his grasp and breathing and alive.
Aang offers him a smile he hopes conveys the magnitude of gratitude he has towards Zuko. Zuko responds with a quick twitch of his lips; seeing as that is usually the extent to which they get from Zuko, Aang considers it a smile. It is a smile that conveys Zuko's understanding of what Aang tries to convey with his own, a smile that acknowledges the gratitude Aang tries to express.
Out of the corner of his eye, Aang sees Katara beckon Zuko to come over to them, and, after a moment of hesitation, Zuko closes the gap between them and stands behind Aang, his gaze turned towards the fiery orange sun.
Seeing Zuko looking so… tranquil in the light of the rising sun, Aang can't help but reflect back to the scarred, angry prince that had stormed into the Southern Water Tribe what felt like eons prior, seething fire and rage as he demanded for the inhabitants to hand over the Avatar. It's hard for Aang to wrap his head around the fact that that Zuko and the Zuko now, who looks so at peace with himself, are the same person.
The Zuko back then had been so filled with anger and drive. The Zuko back then had so much rage pent up in himself that his firebending had been reckless, hot, and wild. The Zuko back then had no qualms about hurting other people with his power (Suki's village comes to mind, first and foremost).
It was only fitting, Aang reflects, that Zuko had been the one to teach Aang how to use firebending without hurting others.
Aang closes his eyes and breathes deeply. It is a breath that fills his nostrils with the scent of smoked wood, like the fuel to a warm campfire, a scent that he knows is Zuko's. It is a breath that settles the disquiet in his heart, a breath that brings peace of mind.
Because he had learned to control his power.
After he had burned Katara, Aang had sworn off firebending. He couldn't bring himself to want to do it again, never again, because he had been so careless and reckless and stupid, and it was because he had been so that Katara had gotten hurt, and he was deathly scared that if he firebent again, he would hurt the people around him again… or worse.
Thus, he had sworn, Never again.
And, ironically enough, it had been Katara who had pleaded with him the most, begged him not to forsake his duty as the Avatar for her, but she didn't understand. She didn't understand what it was like, to see her hunched over herself, cradling her burnt fingers, and know that it was his fault. She didn't understand what it was like, to hear her scream out in pain. She didn't understand what it was like, to see her run away from him and feel his heart tearing in two, knowing that he did that to her.
She didn't understand. None of them did.
But when Zuko joined their group and pleaded with them to let him join them ("I need to be more careful and control my bending, so I don't hurt people unintentionally."), Aang suddenly realized that Zuko understood. He understood what it was like, to watch the people closest to him get hurt because of him. He understood what it was like, to watch people cry out in pain and feel paingriefguiltshame.
And because Zuko understood, Aang knew, immediately, that Zuko could teach him how to control his firebending.
And Zuko did—and that was what was so amazing about it, he did.
Aang breathes, easily and freely, because he is no longer chained to the fear that one wrong move would send all his loved ones up in flames. He breathes, because he no longer has to fear the fire that coursed through his veins. He breathes, because he had learned to control both himself and the Avatar State—the awesome power that resides within him, the monster he had once feared—and he feels freer because of it.
Aang breathes, because he has learned how to wield his power without bringing harm to others.
Aang feels Sokka shift slightly, dropping his hand from Aang's shoulder and stepping away. Aang only has a moment to wonder why Sokka moved away before he got his answer in the form of a blind girl that plops down right next to him, and Sokka's hand finds its way back onto Aang's shoulder.
Toph turns her blind gaze upon Aang, grins, and throws a punch to his bicep. Even as Aang laughs and lets go of Katara's hand to rub at the sore spot, he can't help but notice that it feels different somehow. Normally, when she punches him, she is saying, Stop being a wimp or Toughen up. But this time, this punch is a triumphant punch, a punch that seems to say, You made it back and I never doubted you would.
Aang responds by throwing his own fist at Toph's shoulder, a punch that says, Yeah, I did and I know you didn't.
Toph merely grins again before leaning back against Sokka's legs.
Looking at her now, Aang thinks that Toph hasn't changed much from their first encounter with each other. She is still brash, still likes to taunt others, still likes to show-off, still likes to knock around heads when she gets the chance, and still a rule-breaker. Aang thinks that she may have grown in the sense that, before, she always insisted on doing her own thing; but now, she accepts help from her friends. Apart from that, she seemed like the earth: unchanging and unwavering.
And it was the very thing Aang had needed.
Surprisingly, it was Toph who had managed to ground him when he found himself drifting in his memories. In the days after he woke up from his death, whenever his mind drifted back to the memory of falling, falling, falling, a punch to the upper arm usually shattered his thoughts and brought him back to the present. Whenever he felt his throat constrict and his chest close up as he remembered how his breath had been stolen from him, several sharp orders barked by Toph often managed to snap him back to reality.
And when the dreams got really bad, a rock to the head always succeeded in waking him.
(he wasn't sure if Toph knew exactly what he was dreaming about; he had never told anyone what it felt like, dying, nor did he tell anyone about his dreams)
(he thought she might've, because even when she acted like her brash self around him, he would sometimes catch her giving him a concerned glance)
In every instance, when he had been consumed with his fear of dying, it had been Toph who had managed to pull him back from the brink. When he had found himself spinning wildly out of control, panic consuming him as he thought of how he fell and choked and sank and drowned, it was Toph who reminded him that he wasn't falling or drowning, he was on the ground and breathing and alive. When he found himself drifting from the present, it was Toph who would forcibly yank him back to reality.
And when Toph had found him after his screw-up at the Ember Island Theater, and he confessed to her on what he did, Toph first gave him a good tongue lashing (which is what he, admittedly, deserved), but then, much to his surprise, she had asserted that he will come back, so stop thinking like you won't and focus on your training now so that you can kick the Fire Lord's butt.
Toph had been his grounding force since he came back to life. She had kept him from losing focus in even the most critical of times, had forced him to stop thinking about what will happen and look at what is happening now. Katara may have been his attachment to the world, of course, but it was Toph who had become his rock, his anchor to reality.
And he couldn't be more grateful that she was.
Aang closes his eyes and breathes. It is a breath that brings a fresh, earthly scent to his nostrils with hints of rock and grass, a scent that belongs entirely to Toph. It is a breath that reattaches him to the earth, a breath that makes him feel stable and solid.
Because he is alive.
When he had come back to life, Aang had found it was so, so easy to drift away, back through his memories and back into the airless void that he had plummeted through. Sometimes, the memories would consume him, so much so that he felt as though he was dying right then and there, and there was no way out. Sometimes, it became so intense that he couldn't separate the past and the present.
And nobody seemed to notice he was struggling with it—but really, what would he expect? He never told them about the nightmares, nor how the starry sky at night and the silence reminded him so much of that airless void he had fallen through. He never told them how he sometimes struggled to breathe, nor how his chest sometimes felt like it was closing in on itself.
But Toph had—and that was the point, she had.
(he wondered back then why Sokka or Katara never seemed to notice)
(it isn't until much, much later that he learns that they had still been trying to cope with his death; Katara especially had been struggling with it)
Aang breathes, easily and freely, because he is here and alive and well. He breathes, because there is someone out there who can keep him from drifting away from the world. He breathes, because there is someone out there who reminds him of the here and the now, the most important time in the moment. He breathes, because when he had felt like he was slowly slipping away and no one was noticing, there was someone who reached out and pulled him back to the earth. He breathes, because there is someone who helps him keep his head clear of his fears of what could happen.
Aang breathes, because he is alive now, and that is more than enough.
Looking around at his misfit family—a waterbender who had grown up too quickly, a warrior who had to prove his worth, an earthbender who had run away from her overbearing parents, and a firebender who had been abused by his own father—Aang finds he can breathe so much easier now.
He can breathe, because even when he fails, they would be there to help pick him back up. He can breathe, because he knows they will never abandon him. He can breathe, because he knows he will never be alone as long as they are with him. He can breathe, because he no longer has to fear hurting them with his powers. He can breathe, because he is alive now, and he may fall one day, but he is alive now and with his family, and it is more than enough.
Aang knows this is only the beginning, and whatever comes next… he knows his family will be with him every step of the way.
He breathes and smiles towards the rising sun—the dawn of a new era.
The future is looking bright.
A/N I like Aang because he is a child thrown into a world where he doesn't belong, a world where he struggles to hold onto his beliefs while also juggling his responsibilities as the Avatar. I like Aang because he is kind and compassionate in a world that tells him not to be. I like Aang because he tries so hard to stay true to who he is in a world that tells him, "Who you are is unacceptable." I like Aang because he struggles, he fails, he makes mistakes, he gets angry, but he always gets back up again, no matter how much it hurts. I like Aang because he has every reason to be consumed by rage and hatred and bitterness against the Fire Nation, but time and time again, he chooses instead to forgive and smile on and give hope to a world that had taken everything away from him.
I like Aang because he is human. He is more than just a "happy-go-lucky" kid, and it saddens me when that's all people seem to see him as.
Aang is a far more complex character than a lot of people give him credit for being, and I sincerely hope I did him justice. He deserves far more than what he has been given.
Truth to be told, this fic fought me almost every step of the way, but I felt like it was something that needed to be said. Whether or not I won will have to be decided by you guys.
Anyways, I hope you enjoyed my thoughts on Aang's introspection, and thanks for reading!