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trans_92011-06-17 04:06 am
jesushasayak.livejournal.com) wrote in trans_92011-06-17 04:06 am
Entry tags:
"If you were that old, and that kind, and the very last of your kind..." [closed]
It had taken him so long to find it, but then he hadn't really been looking. There were no mountains in the city, no places that rose high above the rest, other than the Garibah Tree. And without mountains, he hadn't expected any Air temples.
But here it was, the place where he'd grown up under Monk Gyatso's gentle guidance.
The Southern Air Temple.
It was set into its own hill, like it'd been at atop the mountain, only no rivers flowed here, no trees grew. What trees that were there were dead, but woven into the structure of the place, as they had been when they still lived. There was no smell of mountain blossoms in hanging gently in the air. It was as dead as when he'd first set foot there with Katara and Sokka, when he'd found Monk Gyatso's body.
But it was home. He felt it in the stones under his feet, in the way his voice echoed in the halls when he called out "Hellooo" ("Hello, hello ello ello lo," went his echo) exactly the same as it once did. This was his home. The exact temple, ripped from the world of the Four Nations. The only difference was that the hall of the Avatars was carved out of it, but he knew that was in the Statuary. Why they would tear the place apart he didn't know, but Aang knew by now not to question the actions of a people that didn't make sense, that he'd long since learned not to fully trust.
He would have to tell Nima. Not that she'd have the fondness of the place as him, but it was still one of the temples, and she might still want to walk the halls of this place.
It was terrible and painful and wonderful and beautiful at the same time. It left all kinds of feelings roiling in Aang's gut as he walked through from section to section of the temples, from meditation room to classroom, with Appa and Momo.
Somehow, even though the place wasn't as high up, even though the weather in the city was usually calm, the breeze was perfect here. It didn't smell right, but it felt like it should have felt.
Comforted by it, Aang sat and meditated in the place where he grew up for the first time in a long time. Momo chirped at him and Aang politely shushed him.
"Meditation time is quiet time, Momo."
For the first time in a while, he found true calm, so much so that he was able to get in touch with a part of himself he'd been struggling to get in touch with.
If anyone happened to explore the many splendored halls of his youth, the mountainside spires, the winding passageways of the temple, they would find a giant furry flying bison laying comfortably on a balcony, with a flying lemur sitting on his head, picking through his fur. Next to them both, there was a bald monk seated with his eyes closed, his tattoos glowing a gentle blue glow, robes buffeted by winds that shouldn't have even existed.
But here it was, the place where he'd grown up under Monk Gyatso's gentle guidance.
The Southern Air Temple.
It was set into its own hill, like it'd been at atop the mountain, only no rivers flowed here, no trees grew. What trees that were there were dead, but woven into the structure of the place, as they had been when they still lived. There was no smell of mountain blossoms in hanging gently in the air. It was as dead as when he'd first set foot there with Katara and Sokka, when he'd found Monk Gyatso's body.
But it was home. He felt it in the stones under his feet, in the way his voice echoed in the halls when he called out "Hellooo" ("Hello, hello ello ello lo," went his echo) exactly the same as it once did. This was his home. The exact temple, ripped from the world of the Four Nations. The only difference was that the hall of the Avatars was carved out of it, but he knew that was in the Statuary. Why they would tear the place apart he didn't know, but Aang knew by now not to question the actions of a people that didn't make sense, that he'd long since learned not to fully trust.
He would have to tell Nima. Not that she'd have the fondness of the place as him, but it was still one of the temples, and she might still want to walk the halls of this place.
It was terrible and painful and wonderful and beautiful at the same time. It left all kinds of feelings roiling in Aang's gut as he walked through from section to section of the temples, from meditation room to classroom, with Appa and Momo.
Somehow, even though the place wasn't as high up, even though the weather in the city was usually calm, the breeze was perfect here. It didn't smell right, but it felt like it should have felt.
Comforted by it, Aang sat and meditated in the place where he grew up for the first time in a long time. Momo chirped at him and Aang politely shushed him.
"Meditation time is quiet time, Momo."
For the first time in a while, he found true calm, so much so that he was able to get in touch with a part of himself he'd been struggling to get in touch with.
If anyone happened to explore the many splendored halls of his youth, the mountainside spires, the winding passageways of the temple, they would find a giant furry flying bison laying comfortably on a balcony, with a flying lemur sitting on his head, picking through his fur. Next to them both, there was a bald monk seated with his eyes closed, his tattoos glowing a gentle blue glow, robes buffeted by winds that shouldn't have even existed.