Work Text:
I)
Aang trains under clear skies to the tune of birdsong. He bobs up and down on the balls of his feet. Over and over he hears the soothing voice of Gyatso, explaining the placement of energy, the importance of fluidity in his movement, and above all:
“Stay light on your feet, my young Aang.” he smiles and the wrinkles on his face deepen pleasantly. Aang widens his stance, his arms gyrating about him, haphazard at first, then with more control, until at last he is forming great spirals of energy within himself.
“The body is a channel of energy, young pupil,” Monk Gyatso’s tutelage continues, “If the energy is blocked, it creates a sickness inside of us. If we free it too soon, our emotions become wild, and in turn our bodies become violent. Airbending is the control of that energy within us; it is about controlling the very essence of life.”
As Aang shifts from leg to leg, sinking low into his stance, he allows air to collect. First in his lungs, then around his arms, curving with the machinations of his body. At last in the center of his circling hands he feels the familiar coolness, the prickling sensation of air cycling tightly into a sphere between his palms. His shoulders relax and a bead of sweat drips down his neck.
His body does not still, instead shifting into more elaborate forms, but the air is held fast and safe in his reach. He keeps it there until he needs it.
II)
Tenzin fights against the urge to crack his knuckles. His arms are getting tired and the sun is too hot on his back. He can’t remember the form, his knees keep locking, and he hasn’t so much as made a single breeze this afternoon.
His father stands behind him, moving forward only briefly to adjust the boy’s posture. Tenzin’s father is a kind man, who smiles often and laughs even more. But during training he is quiet. Even his instructions are said in the smoothest of hums. He repeats chants and mantras from his impossible childhood. Tenzin feels out of place. He feels unsuited for what his father expects of him. He doubts he will ever understand a thing his father says and thus does not hear at first when he begins to speak.
“Tenzin you are the only one who will carry on these forms. You and I are the only airbenders in the world right now,” the man’s voice has lost some humor, and Tenzin feels two strong, broad hands on his shoulders. He opens his blue eyes to gaze into his father’s gray ones. “It is a burden I must ask you to bear…and also a favor to me.”
He smiles and adjusts his body to mirror his son’s, “I can’t share these with your siblings or your mother. You and I are linked through airbending, Tenzin. I want you to experience all it has to offer. I want to share this with you, son. These sessions make me so happy.”
Tenzin can’t explain it, but his arms feel lighter. He moves forward in synch with his father, arms curving about his head, rising up, coming down into guarding stance; then suddenly swinging them back around into a piercing posture, one extended arm supporting the other in front of his chest.
His heart feels full. Was it supposed to feel this way? He watches the man before him closely. Tenzin feels small compared to him, though his father is not a tall man. He moves like the wind itself. Fast at times, sharp and forceful, then suddenly wafting and swaying as if there were no weight in him at all. Tenzin leans into his leg and drops into something called a dragon stance. He curls a hand inward, mimicking the way his father’s is positioned, as if holding a perfectly balanced teacup in his palm.
They both come out of the form, striking forward, hands outstretched like daggers, and Tenzin feels something like a surge echo from him, as if he were riding a wave. He sees the trees and grass displace before him, hears the heady whoosh of air leaving his finger tips.
He feels like he might cry, and looks into his father’s wide smile.
“We hold it close. We keep it moving within us, Tenzin. Airbending is a part of us…it’s a part of you.” He kneels down and places his fingers not on his son’s heart, but splayed out over his chest where his heaving lungs meet.
Tenzin tries to smile, but begins to sob instead, nodding to show he understands.
III)
Korra is naturally talented. Tenzin knows this. His father was the same in his youth, from what he’s heard at least. She shifts through the stances easily enough, twisting her arms elegantly through the air, moving in a low circle, protecting her middle. Her back is strong and rigid, though, and her muscles tensed around her neck and knees.
He refuses to show her forms today. Not yet.
“You move as if you’re about to punch something,” he scolds, though his voice is measured and calm.
She eases up from a low horizontal strike and juts her chin out at him.
“Isn’t that kinda the idea?” she counters.
He sighs and sinks low, collecting the air, feeling the energy bubble up and curl about his muscles and organs, mending his mild hip displacement and softening the sinews left hard by age and childrearing. He brings his arms inward, gyrates his hands, pulling them around his head and outwards until air is twisting about him like a whirlwind.
Korra takes a step back, eyes on the vastly spinning air.
“Look at me,” Tenzin says firmly. She does. “My body is pliant, not tense. The energy flows through me and I shape it and hold it within. This isn’t a fist fight, Korra.”
And at those words, he lets his arms shoot outwards, lunging forward and sending the air horizontally through the wafting curtains on either side of the room. They fly up fiercely, then flutter down until all is still again. He exhales and stands up straight.
Korra looks on, dumbfounded.
“Airbending isn’t about the weight of your punches or the fierceness of your forms. It is about control.”
“Of the air?” she murmurs, obviously trying to wrap her head around a fighting style that isn’t about fighting.
“Of yourself.” Tenzin breathes out, and considers a smile like the ones his father was always so generous with. He does not bother, but rather waves his hand toward the open space and simply says,
“Again.”