Letters from the Falling Sky

Summary: "Katara felt helpless. Aang didn't know he had a daughter." Things more complex than the war had finally torn them apart. In isolation, they take out their brushes, regret the past, and write. Kataang, Tokka. Rated M.

Author's Note: I admit that I'm at fault for making you wait this long. Believe me—I enjoy writing fan fiction more than doing calculus. But priorities are difficult like that.

I recommend for those of you who are forgetting what's happened so far to go back and read the first eleven chapters over again, if you have the time. I actually had to read the whole thing three times through to put the little plot things back in my memory! Strangely enough, it worked wonders.

A few things are addressed in this chapter that I feel I should probably outline, as more than one reviewer caught them: (1) Kya Lynn's maturity at such a young age and her status with Suki (2) The fact that Aang isn't a magical object that can just make things better now (3) Katara's detached attitude towards her daughter (4) The village's attitude towards Katara and her bastard child, which is ultimately looked down upon in any old world tribe. (5) Katara and Aang's relationship now that he's returned to her.

And for those of you curious, I have been reading ALL of your wonderful reviews. If I haven't replied to you, please don't feel crummy. I'm at loss for all the work I have to get done, and so I figured that I'd give all of my reviewers the ultimate gift by updating! Thus encouraging more feedback—as your thoughts are always valuable to me.

-Happy reading!

.12.

"She's a picky eater," Katara explained in the darkness. "She refuses to eat fish. I don't know why. She kept mentioning a sea monster before. Now she won't eat it at all."

"But she'll have vegetables?"

"Sort of. Gran Gran used to feed her a lot." Suddenly her voice grew quiet. "Now Pakku does, actually."

"Where are you this whole time—when they're feeding her?"

Katara's eyes turned glassy for a moment, as if recollecting. She bit her lower lip. "Where am I? I don't know. Everywhere. No where." Then her voice dropped again, and she traced the outline of his face with her forefinger, lingering there on his earlobe, tugging at it as softly as she could. "Things were never right after you left, Aang. Or when I left. Whichever."

She rolled to her side and caught his lips between her teeth. They had decided to rest in Appa's saddle. The sun crawled lazily into the sky and spread a red hue over them—a secret blanket, protecting the adoration—the conversation of their daughter—the sex. She didn't feel like talking, although Aang wanted to learn more about Kya Lynn, and though it was obvious that he was nervous of their first meeting. But all she could think of now—or, more over, all that possessed her now—was an unbelievable lust for the Avatar that seemed to paralyze everything else—freeze it. This was what was missing this whole time—what Katara felt she needed now, more than anything else.

This is what she told herself.

But when she felt Aang grow closer, the feeling lifted, breaking her mood.

"Aang—" she started; she placed her hands against his chest, attuned to his heartbeat throbbing against her fingers, an unfinished rhythm. Katara closed her eyes and breathed through her mouth. "I just need a second," she promised, and smiled a little, caressing his bare leg with the tip of her toes—a silent, childish promise—a signal of her own emptiness—an emptiness that translated into something deep and exhausted.

"You're thinking," Aang observed quietly.

"Yes."

"What is it?"

Katara looked at the reddening sky above them and sat up, moving her hair away from her shoulders. "I'm thinking," she explained, "about how Kya Lynn is going to take to you."

"What do you mean?"

It is the hardest thing in the universe to be completely honest with those you love, specifically when the truth hurts to unmentionable levels.

"It's nothing, really," she answered, crossing her arms. "But I...Aang, I..." She began distractedly, "I haven't exactly been the greatest mother on the planet."

She refused to face him—refused to acknowledge her own downfalls since Aang left four years ago. She clasped her hands together.

"Gran Gran raised Kya Lyn," she confessed. "I just sort of...watched. And I have a feeling that even though you're back...nothing is going to change." Aang sat up to listen. "I was expecting you to solve all my problems," she concluded, "but somehow, I don't think that's going to happen, either."

"I bought her presents," he offered meekly, touching Katara's face but then frowning when she flinched at his contact. "It'll be fine, Katara. Maybe I can't do anything personally, but we can both work on this. Together."

"That's another thing," Katara said, slipping her coat over her head. "I have this other idea and... it's going to sound stupid, Aang, but—I can't help it."

"A bad idea?"

"I don't know." Katara tied her sash around her waist hurriedly. "Just...a feeling. Like something isn't right."

"It'll be fine," he replied, kissing her forehead. "You worry to much."

"I guess so," she said, but even Aang knew she wasn't being completely honest with him.

The Avatar began to dress himself, conscious of Katara's stare resting peacefully on his back. But he couldn't lie to himself and say that he didn't feel it too—the dampness. The murky air around him, constricting his breathing. He had always thought that his return to Katara would solve all of his problems too, but reality was sinking in, and Aang didn't like it.

"I have to ask you something when we get to the village," Aang said, repositioning himself on Appa's head. "It's important, so I want it to wait."

Katara crossed her legs and looked at the bags of gifts Aang had needlessly purchased. "Whatever you say, Aang."

"You'll like it," he promised. But Katara didn't answer. Her head was in her hands—a dead weight that rested numbly there, contemplating and worrying over things that had yet to happen, but were also inevitable.

When she didn't move, Aang leaped off of Appa's head to the saddle. "What's going on?" he whispered, turning her face to him. "Katara, are you okay? Should I get you anything?"

"No—no, you don't have to."

She was looking up at him, and Aang saw a strange shadow over her eyes—as if they were made of wax or stone. Her arms snaked about his neck suddenly and pulled him down. But when their lips made contact, he took immediate notice of how cold and still her mouth was; this all felt peculiar to him.

"Katara, is there something—"

"She must hate me," Katara said, releasing him and staring at her own hands again. "She must hate both of us."

"Who are you talking about?"

But Katara's voice was raspy and tight and thin, as if she was saying something because she had to, not because she wanted to. "Just let the village raise her!" she screeched, making Aang jump. "Honestly. I'm a fucking idiot for even trying. Something should have been done about that, before it happened."

Aang grimaced in realization of another one of Katara's rants. He knitted his brows closer together and sat there motionless.

"She's only four years old and she's smarter than all the kids in her age group. But she can't bend. And what's the point of that? I was afraid she'd be an airbender, Aang, to tell you the truth. I hated you. Or, I thought I did."

Aang's body felt tense. "But you don't?"

"I don't know," Katara stated, much to her lover's surprise. "I mean I did. Yes, I did. Well—but...now...it's different now." Katara leaned forward and kissed him again, harder than before—shoved her tongue between his lips and pulled his mouth open, holding the back of his head, like cracking a melon. Aang's eyes widened with surprise and anxiousness. This kiss was warmer, but still detached. And this was Katara, but at the same time, it wasn't.

He didn't speak after breaking away from her.

"No matter how close I get to you," she said suddenly, as if reciting a fact, "it's not...the way it used to be." Then she sighed and slumped forward, as if this little new piece of information really meant nothing. She offered lazily, "We should be getting back to the village now, anyway."

Aang sat—dazed—and felt a rush of strange emotions crash into his chest. That's what the feeling was: aching...craving...something that Katara had associated with their lovemaking a long time ago. But the physical aspect wasn't enough for her for that simple reason—

He couldn't offer her peace of mind just yet.

Like it or not, there were still mistakes that needed to be corrected and addressed—things that should have been done before this. Before the marsh.

This is what Aang thought of as Appa trudged into the village center, around the zebra-seal statue that Master Pakku had crafted. It was still considerably early, but that didn't prevent hoards of unnamed children from rushing up to the flying bison and crowding around him, shouting excitedly, "It's Mister Avatar!" or "Wow—a bison thingy!"

Indeed, Appa was more popular than Aang was with the children; but the adults, watching strictly from the doorways of their igloos and cabins, kept their eyes locked on Katara as Aang helped her off of Appa's saddle. Their noses flared out and their faces contorted in too many places to count. A film of whispers surpassed them—that this was in fact Katara's significant other, and he had come back, just as he said he would.

Katara, meanwhile, kept her eyes down as Aang followed her to the doorway of her own igloo—a large mass of globular structures that she had bended herself, before Lynnie's birth. The healing lodge, right next door, was made of wood, thanks to various non-benders who had also wanted to contribute.

This is what is so great about our tribes, Katara thought idly, working the lock. They work together, no matter what.

And then she smiled sadly to herself and walked in, leaving Aang to enter behind her.

The igloo was dark and soundless—Katara guessed everyone was still sleeping. She pulled her coat off and sat cross legged on the low couches of the living room. There was a hearth in the center that provided minimal heat when necessary. Aang followed suit and looked about him—the walls were barren and there were small wooden toys everywhere.

"I imagined your house to be a little more...decorative," he admitted in a whisper, sending his gaze to Katara again.

She raised a brow.

"It's just that it...looks really empty in here."

"It is really empty in here," she stated monotonously, filling a teapot and placing it carefully on the hearth. "It's been like this since Lynnie was born."

Aang's face twitched at the name. "Do you think she's still asleep?"

"She might be."

Aang inquired with one of his confused expressions, "...Which way is her room, exactly?"

Katara began staring, which made him somewhat uncomfortable. She searched his face and looked through his eyes—she thought of the four years that he had been away—how he hadn't sent a single letter, nor rode his bison for a tiny visit. She thought about the night he had impregnated her and how she had hurt him—how she had told him that their separation was for the best.

For the best.

The words themselves were lies. Katara stared at him for a good two minutes before she rose slowly and walked to the room she and her daughter shared, only to be greeted by two empty mattresses.

For some reason, this sight flushed into her heart and sent her thoughts spiraling. Everything was out of control. Aang's return had done nothing but confuse her further—and she had fallen for him. Again.

And she had slept with him.

Again.

So when she sat down on her own mattress and forced her face into the pillow, she felt a looming guilt gnaw at her insides. Then she squeezed her eyelids together and forgot about Lynnie and the emptiness that consumed not only her room, but also her body.

"I'm such a fucking idiot," she repeated, but the pillow muffled her words and absorbed the trail of saliva that resulted from talking into it so closely.

She didn't know that, meanwhile, Aang sat patiently in the living room, watching the teapot come to a boil. He touched the clay handle and pulled it off, placing it on a coaster that Katara had left nearby. There were two clean glasses that he imagined his lover and his daughter used frequently.

Aang thought about Kya Lynn and also about proposing, and then he felt like slapping himself. He should have proposed before they fell into each other at the marsh, as—since then—Katara had seemed to be a little more intent on touching him, but less intent on actually getting in touch with him. And it was the emotional qualities that he missed more than anything—her smiling, her dimples indenting each cheek...how she used to hold him—not because her body needed him, but because she simply wanted him closer. Near her. It was like when they were still young—before Aang had started to associate "near" with "inside."

He was sometimes glad that the war had placed their relationship on hold, as Aang had always felt the need to rush. But Katara was steady and even. She complimented him perfectly because of this, and now it seemed as though she had begun fraying around the edges—becoming more and more needy—more like him. More in a rush. More confused. She needed help. And while Aang was the Avatar, he was still only twenty-two years old and still suffering a few wars of his own. As, he thought, it was fine if Katara was changing—but that would mean he needed to change too.

Aang looked about the igloo and noticed dimly that Katara had yet to return.

He also noticed—again rather dimly—that he was afraid of change.

These thoughts kept him occupied until he heard a noise and craned his neck back. Then he witnessed a small child pushing the wooden door of the healing lodge open and squirming inside. Her face was pink and her eyes were still drowsy—pulled into little, tired slits. She held a furry doll at her side and her hair was spread out in chocolate waves around her small, round face. She looked at Aang and then at the teapot.

And then something seemed to spark behind her eyes—some small outburst, like the explosion of a star in space, or the first root sprouting from a seed—unknown of and probably distant, but amazing nonetheless.

She dropped her bison and ran to Aang with little socked feet, swinging her arms around him tightly and resting her head in the flex of his shoulder and neck.

"Baba," she exclaimed softly—endearingly. "Baba. You came back."

"I—uh...I..." He touched her back unsurely, hesitating with this new sensation. It felt as though he was defiling a shrine. And when he spoke again, his tone was high and sore. "Lynnie?"

"Yeah," the girl said, nodding into his skin. "Yeah, Baba. Who else would it be?"

This new state of affairs tossed him in an uneasy panic. He wondered briefly where Katara was before thinking of all the conversations he had practiced with Momo and Appa and the crazy squawking bird that had disappeared only yesterday.

"Oh God," he murmured instead. "Oh God."

He didn't know what to say now. Aang merely felt his stomach squishing inside of his body, like a huge, unstable porous sack. He touched the bridge of his nose and then looked down at the little girl again.

Or rather, his little girl.

...This was his daughter.

With all the love I am capable of giving,

Katara, and your daughter, Kya Lynn.

Your daughter, Kya Lynn.

YOUR DAUGHTER, KYA LYNN.

He did not know how he knew, but he could tell that there was also something else...some other manifestation that he felt existed beneath the girl's head of wavy dark hair—inside her silver orbs which were starting to open up a little more at the surprise of finding him here.

Aang, still recovering from shock, pulled her into an anxious embrace and then held her at about arm's length. He looked at her, eyes trembling, face contorting into some unknown shape. He imagined the tips of his ears to be turning bright pink, and then one question stood isolated for him:

How could Lynnie possibly know who he was?

"Look at you," he started quietly, ignoring the question that lingered below his tongue. "Lynnie—you've got such pretty hair."

His voice was cracking. He was suddenly reminded of a distant recollection: Katara making fun of him about seven or eight years ago, when his voice box was still altering figure and adding distinctiveness to his sound. She had touched his Adam's Apple and told him to say, "And here I will be forever, with my dearest, most lovely Katara," about ten times—just to see it bob up and down, and probe at it gently with her hands. That was when voice cracking was cute. Now it was just bothersome and made him feel even more unsure than he already was.

Lynnie waited for him to continue.

"And your eyes," he whispered hoarsely, more to himself. "Your eyes...they look like—like storm clouds, Lynnie." He smiled broadly to himself and situated the child on his lap. "You've got eyes just like mine."

This seemed to please her, as she hugged her father again and returned loudly, "And you've got a great big arrow on your forehead!" Her eyes searched the living room quickly and turned back to him. She added in a hushed voice, "Can I get one like it, Baba?"

Baba.

She calls you Baba, you know. Gran Gran told her to call you that. You probably think I'm lying, but I'm telling you the truth this time.

To think—he was sitting with his daughter and having a conversation about getting a tattoo on her forehead. He was pulled away again—another recollection—of him and Katara sitting outside on a summer night, five years ago, and talking about what names they would like for their children—not necessarily the children they would make together, but for children in general. Katara had placed her head on his bare chest and listened to him breathe as they spoke. She said she would like to think of herself more as a strict mother, with bedtimes and house rules and things of the like. They had laughed at each other for even thinking about it—Katara only nineteen then and Aang still seventeen. She hadn't known that as she laughed and conversed with him, he was having thoughts related to child bearing rather than child raising.

"You like my tattoo, Lynnie?" he inquired, brushing his fingers over it. He showed her the back of his hands. "I have tattoos all over the place."

"Cool!"

At that very moment—as if on cue—Katara shuffled into the room noiselessly and looked to Lynnie, who bolted upright and ran to her mother, swinging her arms around her legs. Katara bent down and scooped the child into her arms. Aang noticed that her face was flushed.

"You've met already," she observed, looking at her daughter. "Lynnie darling, do you know who this is?"

Lynnie nodded and stated merrily, "It's Baba."

"And where were you just now, dearest?"

"In the healing lodge with Misses Toph Lady," Lynnie answered nonchalantly, playing with the buttons on her mother's robe. "I feel asleep, but when I woke up, Misses Toph Lady wasn't in there."

Katara put her down and poured tea for Lynnie and Aang, refusing to pour any for herself. She watched the Avatar from the corner of her eyes—her gaze wavering on him for prolonged periods of time as he and Lynnie chattered endlessly. A few times, Aang's eyes would glaze over with tears, and then he would tear himself away and look at something else as Lynnie spoke to him. But Katara felt it, and Katara knew. Lynnie's speech was becoming more articulate and defined—more foreign. A few times her eyes would spark with some restless form of energy, and then she would stop speaking and take a sip of her tea before continuing again.

"Not now," Katara murmured, so quietly that neither Aang nor her daughter noticed it. She felt that very same uneasy feeling inching its way around her stomach. This is what she had feared most of all. "Not now, Suki. Not now."

But Suki couldn't hear this silent prayer, as she was already crawling beneath Lynnie's skin, making her limbs twitch slightly with the effort. Katara recognized the symptoms and sighed desperately and rather loudly to herself.

Aang and Lynnie looked at her.

The Avatar asked with acute directness, "What is it?"

Lynnie's eyes were wide. "Mama?"

"It's nothing, dear," Katara promised, but her eyes were locked on Aang. "I forgot to tell you something," she stated, a little louder this time. "I think it's going to happen now. I mean—I hope it doesn't, but if it does...don't be surprised."

Aang looked both confused and anxious. He placed his glass down and made a face, turning his attention from Lynnie to Katara and then back to Lynnie again. "What do you mean?" he inquired desperately.

If only Katara could see how pained and angered he was at this! Her distance from him was overwhelming—it made him ache in ways he never thought he could. It was ironic, because he had imagined his meeting with Kya Lynn to be a cause for celebration. But having Katara in the room—speaking to him in this tone and with this detached quality—only made him sick. "Katara," he said again, "what do you mean?"

She shrugged and sighed tediously. "Lynnie, darling, why don't you show Baba your Appa doll?"

Something was stuffing the room with density; something large and ominous leaked into the walls of the igloo and swirled around near the hearth. They could see nothing, but they all felt it. Lynnie especially. Aang felt the soft presences he usually felt when visiting the Spirit World.

"I already showed it to him," the girl offered. "He said he got me a pink one, and he got me Earth Kingdom chocolates—although, I've never really been fond of Earth Kingdom chocolates. Water Tribes do it better, in my opinion."

Aang's mouth hung open. He could barely utter, "What?", and when the rest of the words came out, they were watery and stammering. "Lynnie—what...what did you just say?"

"It's my own personal preference, Aang," she stated factually, her voice growing a octave deeper. "No reason to get upset. I mean, we had a chocolate factory on Kyoshi that went out of business because everything tasted terrible."

The stammering stopped when Aang realized he could barely bring himself to speak. In desperation, he looked at the girl's mother, who sat with her arms crossed and her face waxy. She touched Lynnie's shoulder from behind and glanced at Aang curiously.

Lynnie's eyes were wider now. Her small body trembled with some unknown force that had stopped spiraling around the room, as it had found refuge in the girl's body. "Katara," she started, her hands shaking, "you haven't told Aang, have you?"

"You picked the most ridiculous time to show up," Katara returned bitterly. Her voice was metallic and fierce—it pinched the air in the igloo and struck Aang's ear like a sharpened sword. Things had changed in the years he had been gone. Too many things for him to keep track of.

"This is my body and I'm entitled to it," the child replied, trying in vain to get Lynnie to stand. Instead, the body flopped down on the floor again, and then rolled to its side and sat up. "I was killed in my prime, Katara. You have to have some sort of sympathy for that."

Katara was ignoring Aang completely. Her eyes were full of a smoky rage that erupted rather suddenly. She held Lynnie's shoulders, staring through the child at best, ignoring the feeling of being watched. "This isn't the time," she hissed crossly. "Her father's come back and you greet him with this?"

"Let me go!"

"No!" Katara picked the girl up again, and then—to Aang's horror—Lynnie began kicking wildly. Her mother fastened her on the low couches and held her legs down. "Things are confusing enough," Katara muttered. "The last thing I need is to see this happening to my daughter again." Her mouth was pressed in a thin line. "Get out," Katara ordered. "Get out now."

Lynnie's body crossed its arms and tried standing up again, but this time the effort was blocked by Katara's grasp. She stopped resisting and sat still. "I want to see Sokka," the deep voice demanded. Lynnie's eyes were silvery and bright, as if filled with a great, terrible knowledge. "That's all," she promised vaguely. "He needs to see me. I need to talk to him. Just let me see him one more time."

"This isn't about you," Katara spat back, completely oblivious to the horrified look and the stammering pouring out of Aang's mouth some feet away. "This is about me and Aang and Lynnie. You can come back some other time, Suki. When things have worked out."

"You're being selfish!"

"Well—you're being impossible."

Indeed, under any other circumstances, this would have been a normal mother-daughter conversation.

The Avatar—though young—wasn't a complete idiot. He caught on to what was happening quickly enough and did the math in his head. Four years ago, Suki had been murdered. Four years ago, Kya Lynn had been conceived. And four years ago, a marriage had been cut drastically short because of a certain resistance.

"Let her see Sokka again," Aang demanded wisely from his spot. Katara turned to him, eyes reddened, and started to say something before Aang interrupted, "She isn't going to be able to come back like this forever, Katara. Lynnie's nearly five years old. That's when these sort of things stop forever." He looked at Lynnie, who was smiling at him in full gratitude. "Just because we haven't worked things out yet doesn't mean Sokka and Suki shouldn't get a chance."

The healer wore an unsteady expression of guilt and shame. She had yet to tell Sokka of Lynnie's past life. After all, Katara liked to forget that Lynnie had parts of other people swimming around inside of her. She liked to forget the state of affairs that made them this isolated and this confused in the first place.

"I heard everything," Sokka's voice said from the doorway. He was dressed, which led them to believe that he had been up for a short while. He stood in the doorway of his grandmother's room with his hands in his pockets, watching Katara's expression move from place to place. Aang no longer existed—Toph, in his room, sleeping on his mattress, no longer existed either—and Katara...he could have strangled her right then for not telling him.

When he approached he felt a strange sensation fill him, and before they said anything, Aang noticed Katara stand up and walk quickly to the kitchen, where she buried her face in her hands and sobbed quietly to herself.

She had felt it too—the sensation—the love Sokka and Suki had held for one another that had went beyond sex and lust and physical aspects. The love that translated into reincarnates. Love that lasted always—through the war, and through the assassinations, and through death. She didn't look up when she felt Aang's hand on her shoulder. She instead felt something breaking inside of her: something exhausted and ominous and gray that had been accumulating over time.

And while parts of her wanted to go back in and see what Sokka was saying to Suki, another part wanted to ask Aang what had happened between them. Why they were broken. What had shattered things and left them stranded this way.

And still another part wanted to ask him, more than anything else, why he had left her those four years and refused to return to her, as—though she hated to admit it—her distance from Lynnie, and from the tribe, and from Gran Gran, was perhaps an outcome of her waiting too long.

She had always complimented him in the most perfect ways. But Katara couldn't lie to herself and say that she hadn't always looked up to him. In the dark kitchen, with his presence there, she felt like a shell. Externally beautiful, but empty on the inside. Waiting for something worth meaning to fill it so that it could get back to more important things—like raising a daughter, or mourning a grandmother, or living and breathing and loving again.