There are very few things in existence that I consider genuinely sacred. A comfortable bed, a peaceful afternoon, a particularly good dessert, and the beautiful silence that comes from knowing nobody expects anything of you are among them. Unfortunately, after spending several days at the Eastern Air Temple, I had come to the horrifying realization that Guru Pathik respected precisely none of these things, and I was beginning to suspect that the old man had taken my arrival as a personal challenge to his patience.
Oh, he was a lovely man, certainly. Kind, knowledgeable, exceptionally patient, and blessed with the peculiar sense of humor that seemed to accompany individuals who had lived far longer than any reasonable person should. He had rescued me from an unfamiliar beach, provided food and shelter without asking for anything in return, and even tolerated my occasional habit of disappearing into elaborate imaginary worlds in the middle of conversations. Under ordinary circumstances, those qualities would have earned him a permanent place among my favorite people, but there was one unforgivable problem with our arrangement.
The man believed in waking up early.
Now, I understand that some people enjoy watching the sunrise. They speak about the beauty of the morning, the freshness of the air, and the wonderful opportunities awaiting anyone foolish enough to abandon their blankets before the world has properly warmed up. Personally, I find such enthusiasm deeply concerning, particularly when it develops into the belief that everyone else should participate in their unnecessary suffering.
Which brings us to my current predicament, where I was attempting to enjoy the final moments of a perfectly wonderful dream while a certain elderly gentleman insisted upon reminding me that the sun had apparently committed the dreadful offense of rising.
"Jinx, the morning is getting away from us," Pathik called from beyond my bedroom doorway, his voice carrying the patient amusement of someone who had apparently decided to make ruining my mornings a personal hobby. "Breakfast will be ready shortly, and I believe you promised to help me fetch water from the cistern before we eat. It really is a beautiful day outside."
I remained perfectly motionless beneath my blanket, allowing the cool mountain breeze to brush across my face while my mind continued constructing an elaborate imaginary courtroom. Within that courtroom, I intended to prosecute the concept of morning responsibilities for crimes against comfort, laziness, and basic human decency. Naturally, I would serve as judge, jury, and prosecution, while the defendant would be an enormous clock wearing a particularly offensive expression.
The clock was losing rather badly, especially after the prosecution revealed that it had been personally responsible for the invention of alarm bells.
"Jinx?" Pathik called again, his footsteps approaching across the wooden floor. "I know you're awake, young man. You were muttering something about the unreasonable taxation of pillows a moment ago, and I would hate to interrupt such an important discussion."
That was unfortunate. Apparently, my imaginary courtroom had begun leaking into reality again, which was a rather embarrassing development considering the prosecution hadn't even presented its strongest evidence. Nevertheless, I maintained my silence, hoping the old man would eventually conclude that further efforts were pointless and leave me to enjoy what remained of my dream.
A shadow fell across my face, and I felt two fingers settle gently against my wrist. Pathik had developed a habit of checking my pulse whenever I became particularly still, something I suspected had begun after discovering me unconscious on the island's southern beach. Considering how faint my breathing became during sleep, I supposed I couldn't entirely blame him, although I would have preferred that he develop the equally useful habit of leaving me alone.
"Remarkable," Pathik murmured, his voice shifting toward genuine curiosity. "You have such an extraordinary ability to remain motionless that I imagine you could sit among the temple statues without anyone noticing. Though I suppose that would be a rather unusual way to spend an afternoon."
I considered informing him that he'd just described an excellent afternoon. Unfortunately, doing so would require opening my mouth, and I wasn't prepared to make such an extraordinary sacrifice before breakfast. Instead, I allowed my imagination to return to the courtroom, where the clock had begun desperately pleading for leniency.
"Of course, there is one small difficulty," Pathik continued, apparently deciding to change tactics. "I'd intended to prepare sweet rice with honey this morning, but the honey is stored in the pantry, and there are still a few things to do. Perhaps ordinary porridge would be more practical."
My eyes opened.
The betrayal was immediate and absolute.
"That's emotional manipulation," I accused, turning my head toward the old man while keeping the remainder of my body firmly beneath the blanket. "And I would appreciate it if you didn't use something as precious as honey to advance your unreasonable political agenda. Surely a man of your spiritual standing should be above such cruelty."
Pathik looked down at me with an expression of perfect innocence, although the corners of his mouth were already betraying him. "Political agenda?" he repeated, folding his hands into the sleeves of his saffron robes. "My goodness, Jinx. I had no idea breakfast had become such a complicated matter."
"It became complicated the moment you threatened to deprive an innocent child of a perfectly good meal," I replied, drawing the blanket closer around my shoulders. "I've read enough stories to recognize tyranny when I see it, and I must say, you're displaying some deeply troubling tendencies. I expected better from a spiritual guru."
The old man laughed, the sound warm enough that I found myself smiling despite my best efforts to maintain a suitably offended expression. He had developed an unfortunate habit of enjoying my complaints, which made negotiating with him considerably more difficult than it should have been. A reasonable person would have recognized the overwhelming strength of my arguments and surrendered immediately, but Pathik appeared determined to persist in his wickedness.
"Well, since you're awake, perhaps you could help me with the water," he suggested, gesturing toward a pair of empty wooden buckets resting beside the doorway. "The cistern isn't far, and a little movement might do you some good. You've been asleep for quite a while."
I stared at the buckets, then returned my attention to the old man with an expression of profound disappointment. "Pathik, I say this with the deepest respect imaginable, but have you considered that water is perfectly capable of remaining wherever it currently happens to be? We shouldn't interfere with its personal decisions, particularly when those decisions have absolutely nothing to do with me."
"An interesting philosophy," Pathik replied, apparently giving my argument serious consideration as he moved toward the doorway. "Unfortunately, the water in the cistern has not yet developed the ability to carry itself into the kitchen. Until that changes, I believe we'll have to assist it."
I watched him leave, my expression settling into one of quiet betrayal. For a man who preached spiritual freedom, he possessed an astonishing willingness to impose his opinions upon innocent people, although I had learned that his gentle appearance concealed a truly frightening degree of stubbornness. Unfortunately, the promise of honey remained a powerful incentive, and my stomach had already begun expressing opinions that were decidedly unsympathetic toward my suffering.
With the weary sigh of a condemned criminal, I finally abandoned my blanket and accepted that civilization had once again defeated me.
The Eastern Air Temple was a magnificent place to live, provided one possessed an unhealthy enthusiasm for staircases.
The temple occupied three enormous mountain peaks rising from a rugged island surrounded by the Eastern Sea, its buildings connected by narrow stone bridges that stretched across dizzying chasms. Thick forests covered the lower mountain slopes, while the upper ridges rose through drifting clouds, their weathered stone faces interrupted by ancient monasteries, meditation courtyards, and abandoned structures that had survived the passing of generations. Far below, the ocean surrounded the island in every direction, its blue expanse broken by smaller islands scattered across the horizon like enormous pieces of emerald rising from the water.
On clear mornings, I could see fishing boats moving between the distant islands, their pale sails occasionally catching the sunlight before disappearing behind the mountains. The nearest stretches of the Earth Kingdom mainland lay across open sea, far beyond any possibility of simply walking there, which meant that anyone wishing to visit the temple without a flying bison would first need to reach the island by boat. After that came the rather unfortunate task of climbing its mountain paths, though several old supply lifts and carefully maintained trails made the journey slightly less unreasonable than it otherwise might have been.
The temple's location explained a great deal about the Air Nomads. People who dedicated their lives to freedom and detachment apparently considered living several thousand feet above the ocean a perfectly ordinary decision, which suggested that they were either exceptionally spiritual or possessed a collective disregard for the convenience of everyone who couldn't fly. Personally, I suspected it was a little of both, especially after discovering just how many stairs separated the temple's upper courtyards from the lower supply chambers.
Fortunately, the cistern Pathik wished to visit was located within the same mountain complex as our living quarters. Unfortunately, I had already begun developing a personal grudge against the concept of carrying water, and the knowledge that the journey was relatively short did absolutely nothing to improve my opinion. I followed the elderly guru down a broad stone staircase, carrying my empty bucket with the enthusiasm of someone attending his own execution.
"You're remarkably quiet this morning," Pathik observed, glancing toward me as we passed beneath an archway decorated with faded Air Nomad symbols. "I hope I haven't exhausted you already. We've barely begun."
"I'm contemplating a revolutionary invention," I explained, looking toward a narrow channel that carried rainwater away from the courtyard. "Something involving pipes, gravity, and a complete elimination of unnecessary manual labor. Once it's finished, future generations will remember me as a visionary who liberated humanity from the tyranny of buckets."
Pathik chuckled, his eyes following the direction of my gaze. "A system that carries water directly to the kitchen would certainly be useful," he admitted, sounding genuinely interested. "Perhaps you could design one. I would be happy to help you examine the old channels."
I turned toward him.
That wasn't the response I'd expected.
"You're supposed to tell me that such a thing is impossible," I complained, shifting the bucket in my hand. "Then I get to explain how terribly unimaginative you are, and we continue with our lives. You're ruining the natural progression of the conversation."
"How unfortunate," Pathik replied, clearly struggling to suppress another smile. "Would you prefer that I discourage your creativity?"
"Absolutely not," I answered, shaking my head. "I simply wish you'd stop encouraging it in ways that might require me to actually do something."
The old man laughed, and we continued toward the cistern beneath the morning sunlight. Despite my complaints, the walk was rather pleasant, especially when a gentle breeze carried the smell of the sea up from the island's lower slopes. I could hear distant seabirds circling beyond the cliffs, their cries occasionally mixing with the soft rustling of leaves in the abandoned courtyards.
By the time we finished collecting water, I'd developed three possible designs for a gravity-fed plumbing system and one exceptionally elaborate imaginary machine involving a trained sky bison, a large collection of wooden wheels, and a remarkably cooperative family of turtleducks. The latter was probably impractical, but I refused to abandon the idea entirely. Any invention capable of making a turtleduck feel useful deserved at least a little consideration.
Pathik seemed amused by my sudden enthusiasm, although he made no attempt to interrupt my increasingly ridiculous explanations. He simply listened while I described the machine's proposed operation, occasionally asking questions that forced me to consider problems I'd previously ignored. By the time we returned to the kitchen, I'd discovered that imaginary inventions were considerably easier to construct when nobody insisted upon examining their physical limitations.
Still, breakfast was waiting.
And breakfast involved honey.
So I was prepared to forgive him.
After eating, Pathik offered to show me several portions of the temple I hadn't yet explored. I accepted immediately, partly because I was curious and partly because he promised that our little expedition wouldn't involve carrying anything heavier than ourselves. That sounded like an eminently reasonable arrangement, although I suspected the old man was already planning to disguise another lesson as an enjoyable afternoon.
We began by crossing one of the great bridges connecting the temple's mountain peaks. The structure was broad enough for several people to walk side by side, but its low stone railings offered very little comfort when I glanced toward the enormous drop beneath us. Far below, layers of mist drifted between sheer cliffs before giving way to green forest, and beyond the island's slopes lay the endless blue expanse of the sea.
I stopped near the center of the bridge, resting my hands against the railing as I watched the clouds move beneath us. The wind tugged gently at my damp-looking black hair, carrying several loose strands across my right eye, and the red earrings hanging beside my face swayed with the movement. I couldn't help smiling at the extraordinary view, although part of me was already imagining what would happen if someone attempted to construct an enormous slide connecting the temple directly to the beaches below.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" Pathik remarked, stopping beside me with the comfortable patience of someone who had crossed the bridge countless times. "The Air Nomads believed places like this helped them appreciate how small their troubles could appear when viewed from a different perspective."
"That sounds rather wise," I admitted, looking down toward the forest before turning toward him. "Although I suspect their appreciation for perspective was greatly assisted by their ability to avoid falling several thousand feet to their deaths. Some of us lack that particular convenience."
Pathik laughed, glancing toward the distant buildings where weathered wind chimes moved beneath the roofs. "True enough. The Air Nomads were rather comfortable with heights, though visitors sometimes needed a little time to adjust."
I looked toward the ocean again.
"I wonder whether they ever used these bridges for races," I murmured, imagining a group of young airbenders darting across the stone while their instructors shouted increasingly desperate warnings. "They must have had some rather interesting games, especially when everyone could manipulate the wind."
"Oh, they certainly did," Pathik replied, his expression brightening with fond remembrance. "The younger monks could be extraordinarily inventive when they wished to avoid their lessons. I remember one occasion when a harmless competition turned into several hours of searching for a missing ceremonial banner."
I glanced toward him with renewed interest.
"Please tell me someone accidentally launched it into the ocean," I requested, already imagining several entertaining possibilities.
"Not quite," Pathik answered, chuckling as he began walking again. "It became tangled around one of the temple's highest weather vanes. I believe the children spent more time inventing explanations than they had spent playing their game."
I laughed, following him toward the next courtyard. Something about imagining the Air Nomads as ordinary people rather than distant spiritual figures made the temple feel considerably more alive. They hadn't spent every moment meditating or contemplating the nature of existence; they'd played, argued, made mistakes, and occasionally created problems that their teachers undoubtedly found exhausting.
I suspected I would have liked them.
At least until they started assigning chores.
Beyond the bridge lay a long corridor lined with weathered carvings depicting clouds, mountains, and figures performing elegant airbending forms. The stone beneath our feet had been polished smooth by generations of footsteps, while sunlight entered through narrow windows cut into the outer wall. Some carvings had faded so badly that I could barely distinguish their details, though the flowing patterns of movement remained remarkably clear.
I stopped before one particularly elaborate relief depicting several Air Nomads arranged in a circle. Their arms were extended in different directions, and swirling patterns of carved wind connected their movements around an invisible center. The figures weren't standing in aggressive combat stances; instead, their bodies seemed to turn naturally around one another, avoiding direct confrontation while maintaining a flowing rhythm.
"Interesting," I murmured, leaning closer to examine the stone. "They're moving around something rather than trying to overpower it. Almost as though the point is to avoid being where the attack arrives."
Pathik stopped beside me, following my gaze toward the relief. "Airbending places great importance upon movement, freedom, and finding another path," he explained, his expression thoughtful. "The Air Nomads understood that meeting force directly is not always the wisest response. Sometimes, moving around an obstacle accomplishes far more than attempting to overcome it."
I considered his explanation while tracing the shape of one of the carved figures with my eyes. It reminded me of how water flowed around stones, though the philosophy behind the movement seemed different. Water adapted to its surroundings, while air almost seemed to celebrate the possibility of never being confined to a single direction.
"Sounds exhausting," I remarked, imagining the amount of running involved in those circular movements. "Although avoiding a fight is generally preferable to participating in one, so I suppose I can appreciate the reasoning."
Pathik smiled, evidently amused by my interpretation. "There is wisdom in avoiding unnecessary conflict, Jinx, although the Air Nomads also understood the importance of discipline. Their freedom was not simply a refusal to accept responsibility."
I gave him a deeply suspicious look.
"That sounded suspiciously directed at me," I observed, folding my arms as the old man's smile widened. "I feel you're using ancient spiritual teachings to advance your deeply unreasonable opinions about household chores."
"Would I do such a thing?" Pathik asked, looking almost offended by the suggestion.
"Without hesitation," I answered, earning another warm laugh from the elderly guru.
We continued through several chambers that had once served as communal rooms, meditation spaces, and places of study. Low tables remained arranged along the walls, their wooden surfaces weathered by time, while faded decorations hung beneath beams that had survived an entire century of abandonment. In one large chamber, shelves stood beneath an enormous window overlooking the sea, most of them empty except for a few damaged scrolls and broken ceremonial objects.
I ran my fingers along the edge of a table, feeling the shallow scratches left behind by someone who had probably lived here long before either of us arrived. There was something strangely intimate about those marks, the kind of ordinary damage that could have resulted from a dropped bowl, an impatient child, or someone practicing an unfamiliar craft. The grand carvings and statues told me what the Air Nomads had believed, but these little imperfections suggested how they'd actually lived.
"Did the Fire Nation destroy everything?" I asked, glancing toward the empty shelves as Pathik approached the window.
"The temples suffered terribly during the war," Pathik replied, his expression becoming more solemn. "Many things were destroyed, and many others disappeared in the years that followed. Travelers took what they believed had been abandoned, storms damaged buildings that no one remained to maintain, and time claimed much of what the soldiers left behind."
I nodded slowly, considering the explanation. "People have an unfortunate habit of assuming something belongs to nobody simply because its owner isn't around anymore," I observed, brushing a little dust from my fingertips. "I suppose it's easier than thinking about why the owner never came back."
Pathik looked toward me, his eyes thoughtful. "Sometimes," he agreed quietly. "Though people also take things because they are frightened, desperate, or simply ignorant of what those objects meant to others. Understanding their reasons doesn't necessarily make the loss less painful."
"Naturally," I replied, glancing toward the abandoned shelves. "A perfectly understandable reason doesn't magically erase what someone did. It just means there was a reason, which is usually more interesting than pretending people are either wonderful or terrible all the time."
The old man regarded me for a moment before smiling faintly.
"You're rather thoughtful for someone who claims to dislike thinking," he remarked, sounding genuinely amused.
I placed a hand over my chest.
"Pathik, please," I protested, giving him an expression of profound disappointment. "I have a reputation to maintain. People might begin expecting things from me if you keep spreading such malicious rumors."
His laughter followed us into the next chamber.
The room we eventually entered was smaller than the others, tucked behind one of the temple's inner courtyards. It had escaped much of the damage I'd seen elsewhere, and several simple wooden shelves remained intact along its walls. A few surviving scrolls rested inside protective coverings, while an assortment of ordinary objects occupied the lower shelves.
My attention immediately settled upon a small wooden toy.
It was shaped like a sky bison, though the carving was rough enough that one of its six legs was considerably shorter than the others. Faded blue paint marked the arrow upon its head, and someone had attached tiny wooden wheels beneath its body. I picked it up carefully, examining the uneven craftsmanship with growing amusement.
"Well, aren't you an unfortunate-looking creature," I murmured, turning the toy in my hands. "Your creator clearly possessed enthusiasm, if not an extraordinary amount of artistic talent. I admire the dedication, though."
Pathik approached, glancing toward the object before smiling. "That was made by one of the temple's younger inhabitants many years ago," he explained, his voice carrying a fond note. "I found it in another chamber and brought it here for safekeeping. I thought it deserved a better home than a corner where rainwater could reach it."
I studied the little bison again, running one finger carefully along its uneven wooden back. One eye was larger than the other, the tail had been attached slightly crookedly, and the wheels barely turned when I tested them. It was the sort of thing a child might have spent an entire afternoon making before proudly presenting it to someone who would have pretended not to notice the flaws.
Somewhere in the past, a small pair of hands had shaped this piece of wood.
Someone had probably laughed while painting it, perhaps smearing blue paint across their fingers and leaving a thoroughly offended instructor to clean up the mess. Maybe the toy had been intended as a gift, or perhaps its creator had simply wanted a miniature sky bison because actual sky bison were considerably less convenient to carry around. I could almost imagine the child racing it across the floor, inventing elaborate adventures while the little wooden wheels rattled against the stone.
My smile softened as I placed the toy back upon its shelf.
"Funny, isn't it?" I murmured, tracing one finger along its crooked tail. "A hundred years later, and this little thing is still telling part of someone's story. Not a particularly grand story, perhaps, but one that belonged to someone all the same."
Pathik looked from the toy to me, his expression becoming thoughtful. "Objects can carry memories, certainly," he answered, folding his hands within his sleeves. "Though the memories themselves live within the people who remember."
"Sometimes," I agreed, glancing toward the surrounding shelves. "But even when nobody remembers the person, the things they left behind can still tell us they existed. Not the whole story, obviously, but a little piece of it, which I think is rather lovely."
The old man nodded slowly, apparently considering my words. "That's a beautiful observation, Jinx," he said, offering a warm smile. "Perhaps that's one reason these places deserve to be cared for, even when the people who built them can no longer enjoy them."
I looked toward the toy again, then toward the empty shelves surrounding it.
There was something wonderfully strange about the idea that an ordinary child's crooked little carving could survive longer than kingdoms, wars, and people who had once considered themselves terribly important. The child was gone, their name possibly forgotten, and yet their little wooden sky bison remained upon a shelf in an abandoned temple. What an unexpectedly stubborn final sentence to leave behind.
"Did you know the child?" I asked, glancing toward Pathik.
The old man shook his head, his expression gentle.
"I'm afraid not," he admitted. "There were many children living in the Air Temples over the years, and I wasn't here for all of them. But I knew others, and I remember what it was like to hear their laughter moving through these halls."
I smiled faintly.
"Then perhaps you'll tell me about them sometime," I suggested, looking toward the window where sunlight spilled across the floor. "I imagine the stories of people who spent their days riding flying bison and playing with the wind must be rather entertaining."
Pathik's smile grew warmer.
"I think I'd like that," he replied, and for a brief moment, the little room seemed considerably less empty than it had when we entered.
By midday, I had developed several new interests and one particularly serious complaint.
The interests involved Air Nomad architecture, ancient spiritual teachings, and the possibility that their understanding of airbending might contain useful principles for my own experiments. My complaint involved the fact that exploring an enormous mountain temple required significantly more walking than I'd originally anticipated, and I was beginning to suspect that the Air Nomads had secretly possessed a fifth element related entirely to staircases.
Nevertheless, the morning had given me something genuinely useful. Pathik had explained how the Air Nomads approached meditation, how breathing connected their movements to their element, and why many of their teachings emphasized awareness rather than force. None of it constituted a proper bending lesson, but it offered something potentially more valuable than a collection of impressive martial arts techniques to imitate.
It gave me another way to think.
After lunch, I returned to the meditation garden carrying a shallow ceramic bowl filled with water and a small notebook I'd borrowed from Pathik. The notebook contained only a few unused sheets of paper, which was unfortunate because I'd already begun imagining several hundred possible experiments. Still, beginning with one or two sensible questions seemed preferable to accidentally freezing an entire courtyard, and I had no particular desire to discover whether my new body was capable of surviving an uncontrolled bending accident.
The previous day, I'd managed to form a delicate layer of frost around my fingertips while touching the water in the garden's stone basin. The effect had lasted only a short time, and afterward my fingers had become uncomfortably cold while a faint headache developed behind my eyes. It hadn't been particularly impressive by conventional bending standards, but it had demonstrated that Death's mysterious alterations weren't entirely imaginary.
Which was encouraging, even if my grand accomplishments currently consisted of making a bowl of water slightly less comfortable to drink.
I placed the bowl upon a flat stone and sat cross-legged in front of it, arranging my notebook beside my knee. The water reflected the afternoon sky, its surface disturbed by occasional gusts moving between the surrounding trees. I watched those ripples for a while, attempting to decide how one was supposed to remove energy from something without accidentally convincing it to explode.
"All right, little bowl of water," I murmured, extending one finger toward the surface. "Today, we're going to conduct a perfectly reasonable scientific investigation. I would appreciate your cooperation, preferably without any unexpected consequences or dramatic attempts upon my life."
The bowl offered no response, which I considered rather discourteous.
I dipped my fingertip into the water and closed my eyes, allowing my breathing to settle into a slow, comfortable rhythm. Rather than immediately attempting to freeze anything, I imagined the liquid as an enormous collection of tiny particles moving around one another. The image grew increasingly elaborate until I could picture each particle as a little glowing sphere, bouncing and sliding through an invisible world.
Naturally, my imagination became somewhat carried away.
The particles developed faces, then personalities, and eventually an entire miniature civilization whose inhabitants believed that movement was a sacred religious obligation. Their high priest wore a magnificent blue hat, while the royal family maintained a deeply questionable policy concerning taxation. I was just beginning to establish the theological implications of freezing when a distant bird startled me out of the daydream.
I opened my eyes and discovered that the water was entirely unchanged.
"Well, that was productive," I muttered, withdrawing my finger and inspecting it with mild disappointment. "I've invented microscopic organized religion, but apparently I can't cool a bowl of water. Truly, my priorities are impeccable."
I sighed and reached for my notebook, carefully recording what had happened. My first observation was simple enough: imagining something vividly did not automatically make it happen. A disappointing discovery, certainly, although I suspected it would prove useful if I ever became tempted to assume that a particularly impressive daydream constituted genuine progress.
For my second attempt, I tried something different.
Instead of constructing an entire imaginary world, I focused on the peculiar sensation I'd experienced when frost formed around my fingers. I remembered how the water had seemed to pull against my skin, as though something invisible were moving away from the liquid without necessarily moving toward me. The sensation had been subtle, almost like standing beside an open doorway and feeling the air shift when someone passed through.
I closed my eyes again, allowing my thoughts to narrow around that memory. The water touched my fingertip, pleasantly cool and still, while I imagined its internal movement gradually slowing. Whenever my imagination attempted to invent another story, I deliberately returned my attention to the sensation of the water.
Several moments passed before a faint pressure developed beneath my fingertip.
I went still, careful not to let my excitement scatter the unusual feeling. Something seemed to respond to my concentration, not exactly obeying a command but aligning itself with the intention I'd been holding in my mind. The water grew cooler, only slightly at first, and then enough that I could distinguish the change from the surrounding liquid.
A smile tugged at my mouth.
Unfortunately, that small expression of satisfaction proved sufficient to distract me, and the pressure vanished almost immediately. I opened my eyes and stared at the bowl, both delighted and faintly offended by how fragile my concentration appeared to be.
"Ha," I whispered, leaning forward to examine the water. "Well, that's interesting. Apparently, the universe has decided I can accomplish extraordinary things, provided I don't become too pleased about them."
I dipped another finger into the liquid, comparing the temperature near my hand against the water at the opposite edge of the bowl. There was a small difference, though not a particularly dramatic one, and the faint chill began disappearing as the liquid mixed. It was a tiny result, but it had required less effort than my first successful attempt.
I quickly reached for my notebook, recording the observation before my mind could wander toward something unrelated. The act of writing proved surprisingly useful, forcing me to separate what I'd actually experienced from what I'd merely imagined. I could picture a thousand spectacular applications of Coldbending, but my current accomplishments consisted of making a little water slightly colder.
A rather humbling distinction.
I repeated the experiment several times over the following hour, occasionally succeeding and more often producing absolutely nothing. Sometimes the pressure appeared almost immediately, only to vanish when I became excited. Other times, I spent so long concentrating that my legs became uncomfortable before anything happened at all, which felt like an exceptionally cruel price to pay for such unimpressive results.
The most irritating part was that forcing the sensation never seemed to help. Whenever I became impatient, the delicate connection disappeared, leaving me staring at ordinary water while my thoughts grew increasingly uncharitable. Relaxing made it easier to sense the strange pressure, but relaxing too much caused my imagination to wander into another elaborate fantasy.
Apparently, the universe expected me to discover the exact middle ground between concentrating and doing nothing.
An outrageous demand, honestly, especially for someone who had spent years perfecting the latter.
After several attempts, I noticed that my fingertips had become uncomfortably cold again. The chill wasn't spreading far beyond my hand, but my skin had grown slightly pale, and a dull ache was developing near my temples. I withdrew my fingers and flexed them carefully, deciding that continuing until something genuinely unpleasant happened would be rather foolish.
I might have been curious, but I wasn't particularly interested in losing a finger for the sake of scientific progress.
"Well, that's enough of that," I murmured, setting the bowl aside. "I'd prefer to keep all ten fingers, at least until I discover whether they're replaceable. I suspect finding an appropriate replacement would involve an unreasonable amount of paperwork."
My attention shifted toward a small stone resting beside the basin.
If Coldbending truly involved removing energy, there was no particular reason it should work exclusively upon water. Stone possessed thermal energy too, along with microscopic movement that conventional earthbenders probably didn't spend much time contemplating. The question was whether the bending ability Death had given me could establish the same connection with something that wasn't water.
I picked up the stone, turning it over in my palm.
It was ordinary gray rock, slightly warm from sitting beneath the afternoon sunlight, and its rough surface pressed against my fingers. Unlike water, it didn't move or flow around my touch, which made imagining its internal activity considerably less intuitive. Still, the energy within it had to exist, and I was determined to discover whether I could reach it.
"Your turn," I informed it, placing the stone in front of me. "Try to be more cooperative than your aquatic friend. I'd hate to develop a personal grudge against geology."
For several minutes, I attempted to reproduce the sensation I'd experienced with water. I imagined the stone's microscopic movement slowing, its warmth disappearing, and the energy sustaining its temperature fading into absence. Unfortunately, the rock seemed determined to remain exactly as it was.
I tried again, adjusting my breathing and concentrating upon the faint warmth beneath its surface. Nothing happened, and my growing frustration made it increasingly difficult to maintain the delicate awareness I'd managed earlier. By the fifth attempt, I was beginning to suspect the stone had developed a personal dislike for me, which was admittedly ridiculous but considerably more satisfying than acknowledging my own lack of skill.
"You're awfully stubborn for something that doesn't possess a brain," I complained, glaring at the rock as though my disappointment might frighten it into submission. "I should introduce you to a particularly unpleasant earthbender. Perhaps then you'll appreciate how politely I've been treating you."
The rock remained unmoved.
I sighed and set it aside, deciding that further attempts could wait until I had a better understanding of what I was doing. Perhaps different substances required different methods of establishing the connection, or perhaps my apparent talent for cooling water had nothing to do with universal energy subtraction at all. The possibility bothered me, not because I desperately needed extraordinary power, but because the mystery was too interesting to abandon.
I added a second observation to my notebook before turning toward the surrounding air.
If I could cool water and eventually stone, the atmosphere should theoretically be another possibility. Air was a mixture of gases, each carrying thermal energy, and withdrawing that energy should produce some form of cold air. I extended my hand toward the breeze and attempted to concentrate, only for a particularly enthusiastic gust to sweep through the courtyard and scatter several loose leaves across the stones.
My eyes flew open, and for half a heartbeat I wondered whether I'd accomplished something remarkable.
Then I noticed the surrounding trees swaying in the same direction.
"...Right," I muttered, lowering my hand with a disappointed sigh. "Apparently, ordinary wind still exists. How terribly inconvenient for my scientific ambitions."
I recorded the attempt as inconclusive rather than claiming responsibility for a perfectly ordinary breeze. It was a shame, really, because I'd looked rather impressive for approximately half a second. Still, I was beginning to appreciate that imagination and reality were not always interested in cooperating, and that discovering the difference could be every bit as fascinating as the bending itself.
"You're thinking too hard."
The familiar voice came from behind me just as I finished writing another observation. I glanced over my shoulder to find Pathik approaching with his usual unhurried steps, carrying a small clay pitcher and two cups. The old man's expression was warm, although the way his eyes moved toward my notebook suggested he'd already noticed the increasingly elaborate collection of experimental notes scattered across the page.
"That's a rather offensive accusation," I replied, placing the notebook beside me. "I work very hard to avoid unnecessary thinking, and here you are suggesting I've been doing too much of it. Honestly, I don't know what you want from me anymore."
Pathik chuckled as he settled onto a nearby meditation platform. "I don't doubt your commitment to rest, Jinx, but there's a difference between thoughtful investigation and becoming so determined to achieve a result that you lose awareness of what you're doing."
I considered his observation while accepting the cup he offered. The drink was warm herbal tea, thankfully lacking any suspicious combination of onions and bananas. I took a cautious sip before glancing toward the bowl of water resting between us.
"I've managed to make the water cold a few times," I explained, gesturing toward the bowl. "Not particularly impressive, but it's something. The problem is that whenever I try too hard, whatever I'm sensing seems to disappear."
Pathik nodded thoughtfully, his gaze settling upon my hands. "And how do you feel after these attempts?" he asked, placing his own cup beside him. "You've been sitting here for quite a while, and your fingertips look rather pale."
"A little tired," I admitted, flexing my fingers. "My hand gets cold, and sometimes I develop a headache. Nothing particularly dramatic, though I'd prefer to avoid discovering whether the effects become worse."
"Then perhaps you've made a wise decision by stopping," Pathik replied, his expression becoming gently serious. "Learning to recognize our limitations is an important part of any discipline. A person who ignores the body's warnings may discover that ambition can be a rather unforgiving teacher."
I nodded, finding little reason to argue, although the word ambition seemed rather excessive for someone whose principal objective was making a bowl of water slightly colder. Pathik studied the bowl for another moment before looking toward me again, his curiosity evidently overcoming whatever concerns he'd developed about my experiments.
"May I ask what you were imagining when the water became cold?" he inquired, settling his hands comfortably in his lap. "You mentioned removing energy yesterday, and I'd like to understand what you mean."
I considered the question, searching for a way to explain the sensation without revealing more about my previous life than necessary. "Movement," I answered after a moment. "I imagine all the tiny movements inside the water, then picture the energy behind them disappearing. When it works, I feel something strange through my fingers, almost like a gentle pressure pulling away from the water."
Pathik listened carefully, his expression becoming contemplative.
"An unusual description," he observed. "I've encountered waterbenders who could freeze water with remarkable precision, but they generally describe their art through the movement and transformation of their element. You're speaking as though the water itself is almost incidental."
"That's because it is," I replied, looking toward the basin. "At least, I think it is. I'm not trying to command the water to freeze. I'm trying to remove something from it, and the freezing happens because of what's missing."
Pathik remained silent for several moments, considering my explanation without pretending to understand something he hadn't experienced. I appreciated that about him. Too many people seemed compelled to have an answer for everything, even when admitting uncertainty would have been considerably more sensible.
"Then perhaps you should continue exploring that distinction," he eventually suggested, lifting his teacup. "Although I would recommend doing so carefully, and preferably without sacrificing your fingers. I imagine you'll find them rather useful in the future."
"Yes, apparently everyone is terribly attached to those," I replied, examining my hand with mild amusement. "I'll try to preserve them, if only to avoid disappointing you."
The old man chuckled before gesturing toward the meditation platforms.
"Would you like to try a different exercise?" he asked. "Not bending this time. Simply practicing awareness, which may help you understand the difference between concentrating and becoming lost in concentration."
I hesitated, considering the suggestion. Part of me wanted to continue experimenting, especially now that I'd achieved a few small successes, but another part was becoming increasingly aware that my fingertips were still unpleasantly cold. Sitting quietly while someone else explained something sounded considerably easier than attempting to convince a rock to obey me.
"Does this exercise involve moving?" I asked suspiciously, narrowing my eyes toward the guru.
"Very little," Pathik assured me, smiling as he set his cup aside.
"Then you have my attention," I replied, settling into a more comfortable position. "Please proceed with your suspiciously reasonable suggestion."
Pathik laughed softly before demonstrating how he wanted me to sit. He placed his hands upon his knees, straightened his back without becoming rigid, and closed his eyes. His breathing slowed naturally, and for a moment the old man seemed so completely at ease that I wondered whether he'd already fallen asleep.
"Begin by noticing your breathing," he instructed, his voice calm and unhurried. "Do not force it to change, and do not become frustrated when thoughts appear. Simply recognize each breath as it comes and goes, and whenever your attention wanders, gently bring it back."
I nodded and closed my eyes.
Breathing seemed simple enough, particularly since I'd been performing the activity successfully for approximately thirteen years in my current body and considerably longer if we counted the previous one. I became aware of the air entering my lungs, the faint movement of my chest, and the cool sensation around my nostrils. For perhaps ten seconds, everything went remarkably well, and I began wondering whether meditation was going to be considerably easier than Pathik suggested.
Then my imagination introduced a dragon.
Not an ordinary dragon, mind you. This one was enormous, with scales made from polished silver and a pair of antlers resembling flowering trees. It drifted through an endless ocean of clouds, carrying a palace upon its back while tiny spirits danced along the edges of its wings.
Naturally, I became curious about the palace.
Who lived there, and why had they decided to construct their home upon a dragon? Did the dragon charge rent, or was the arrangement based upon some ancient spiritual agreement? Perhaps the palace's inhabitants offered beautiful songs in exchange for transportation, or perhaps the dragon simply enjoyed having company during its endless journeys across the clouds.
Before long, I'd developed an entire civilization whose economy depended upon exchanging dreams for fragments of moonlight. Their political system was surprisingly stable, although I suspected that would change once I introduced the rebellious princess currently preparing to overthrow the royal family.
"Jinx," Pathik said gently, his voice reaching me from somewhere beyond the imaginary clouds. "Where has your attention gone?"
I opened my eyes, and the dragon disappeared along with its floating palace. For a moment, I felt almost disappointed, although Pathik's expression suggested he was considerably more interested in my experience than in whether I'd followed the instructions perfectly.
"To a palace on the back of an enormous silver dragon," I admitted, looking toward the old man with mild regret. "It was rather interesting, actually. The inhabitants used dreams as currency, although I hadn't quite worked out how inflation would function."
Pathik laughed, shaking his head.
"Your imagination certainly keeps you entertained," he observed, smiling warmly. "But when you notice yourself becoming distracted, try returning to the sensation of your breathing. There's no need to punish yourself for wandering."
I sighed and closed my eyes again.
"You're asking me to abandon a perfectly good imaginary civilization," I complained, though I attempted to follow his instructions. "I hope you understand the sacrifices I'm making for your educational ambitions. That princess was just about to overthrow a government."
"I appreciate your dedication," Pathik replied, his voice carrying unmistakable amusement.
We tried again, and this time I lasted nearly a minute before wondering whether sky bison ever became dizzy while flying upside down. The question was genuinely fascinating, particularly because the creatures possessed six legs and enormous tails that might affect their balance in unusual ways. I was still imagining a thoroughly disgruntled sky bison attempting an aerial somersault when Pathik gently reminded me to return to my breathing.
The next attempt ended when I began wondering whether ancient spirits experienced boredom, and another collapsed into an elaborate fantasy involving the entire Eastern Air Temple floating upside down above the ocean. By the time Pathik suggested a brief pause, I'd developed a profound respect for anyone capable of deliberately controlling their attention for more than a few minutes. Apparently, sitting quietly could be every bit as exhausting as physical exercise when someone insisted that your mind behave itself.
"This is considerably harder than doing nothing," I complained, opening my eyes and allowing my shoulders to slump. "I feel as though I've spent the entire afternoon fighting imaginary dragons, except the dragons keep winning because I'm the one inventing them. It's a rather unfair arrangement."
Pathik smiled sympathetically, apparently unsurprised by my difficulties. "The mind is accustomed to following whatever captures its interest," he explained, placing his hands comfortably in his lap. "Meditation does not require destroying that tendency. It teaches us to recognize it and choose where our attention rests."
I considered his words while watching a small leaf drift across the courtyard.
"So the point isn't to stop thinking," I murmured, beginning to understand the distinction. "It's to notice that I'm thinking, rather than disappearing into whatever ridiculous story my mind decides to invent."
"Precisely," Pathik replied, his expression brightening. "Awareness gives us a choice. Without it, even a fascinating thought can carry us somewhere we never intended to go."
I nodded slowly, finding the distinction unexpectedly compelling. For most of my life, I'd considered imagination a wonderful escape from boredom, allowing me to spend hours enjoying experiences that existed nowhere beyond my own mind. I'd rarely bothered questioning whether I was choosing those experiences or simply following wherever my thoughts happened to wander.
Perhaps the difference was subtle, but it mattered.
I closed my eyes again, this time without attempting to force my mind into complete silence. I focused on my breathing, allowing thoughts to appear naturally while making a conscious effort to notice them rather than immediately becoming absorbed. A dragon appeared, naturally, but instead of following it into another imaginary world, I acknowledged its existence and returned my attention to the air entering my lungs.
The dragon wandered away.
Another thought appeared, this time involving a turtleduck wearing a particularly magnificent hat, but I allowed that one to pass as well. For a little while, the garden seemed unusually quiet, not because the birds had stopped singing or the wind had ceased moving, but because I was finally noticing those sounds without immediately transforming them into another story.
When Pathik eventually spoke, I opened my eyes without the disorienting sensation of being dragged out of a daydream.
"Very good, Jinx," he said, offering an approving smile. "Did you notice anything different?"
I considered the question before glancing toward the trees.
"I was still thinking," I admitted, "but I wasn't following every thought. It's rather strange, actually. Almost like watching clouds pass overhead instead of climbing onto one and demanding it take me somewhere."
Pathik chuckled, clearly pleased by the comparison.
"An excellent way of describing it," he replied. "And with practice, you may find that awareness useful in many situations, not merely during meditation."
I nodded, allowing my gaze to settle upon the bowl of water resting nearby.
Perhaps that was what I'd been missing.
Not imagination itself, but the ability to choose what I imagined and remain aware of what was actually happening while I did so.
"Well, that's annoying," I murmured, earning a curious look from the old man.
"What is?" Pathik asked, tilting his head.
"I think you might actually be teaching me something useful," I replied, shaking my head in mock disappointment. "I was hoping to spend the afternoon doing absolutely nothing, and now I've accidentally improved myself. I'm not sure I can forgive you."
Pathik laughed so warmly that I couldn't help joining him.
Of course, learning something useful introduced another problem, one that had been quietly bothering me since my conversation with Death.
Firebending.
I'd spent the better part of two afternoons experimenting with the cold side of my abilities, but my first wish had included fire as well. The two seemed almost absurdly contradictory when I thought about them together, particularly because one concerned removing energy while the other depended upon producing and directing it. Yet I couldn't help wondering whether their apparent opposition concealed some deeper relationship, especially considering Death's suspicious comment about having to change something.
Unfortunately, possessing an interesting theory was considerably different from knowing how to test it. I understood the basic principles of firebending from watching the original series in my previous life, and I could remember numerous techniques performed by characters who had spent years practicing their art. But knowing what a movement looked like wasn't the same as understanding the sensations, breathing, and internal coordination required to produce an actual flame.
Still, everyone had to begin somewhere.
I waited until Pathik departed to prepare the evening meal before selecting an empty training courtyard on the same mountain peak as our living quarters. The surrounding walls were constructed primarily of stone, and the nearest wooden structures stood far enough away that I felt reasonably confident I wouldn't immediately burn down an ancient monument. Considering the temple had survived a century of abandonment and warfare, accidentally destroying part of it during my first firebending lesson would have been a deeply embarrassing achievement.
I stood near the center of the courtyard and examined my hands. The fingers were slender and pale, still slightly sensitive from my earlier experiments, and I briefly wondered whether attempting another unfamiliar bending discipline on the same day was a particularly wise decision. Then my curiosity reminded me that I'd already spent several hours doing absolutely nothing, which surely counted as adequate preparation.
"All right," I murmured, rolling my shoulders before extending one arm. "Firebending. How difficult can it possibly be?"
As it turned out, the universe considered that an excellent opportunity to humble me.
My first attempt involved imitating a basic firebending stance I'd seen numerous times in my previous life. I planted my feet, bent my knees, drew one fist toward my waist, and thrust my other hand forward while exhaling sharply. The movement looked reasonably impressive in my imagination, complete with a magnificent burst of orange flames that would undoubtedly have intimidated anyone unfortunate enough to witness it.
Reality supplied absolutely nothing.
I stared at my empty palm, then slowly turned it over as though the missing fire might somehow have become trapped beneath my fingers. The courtyard remained perfectly ordinary, and a nearby bird continued its cheerful singing without displaying even the slightest appreciation for my extraordinary effort.
"Well, that was disappointing," I muttered, relaxing my stance. "I was at least expecting a dramatic little spark. Perhaps a puff of smoke, if the universe was feeling particularly generous."
I tried again, adjusting the position of my feet and concentrating on warmth gathering within my body. This time, my imagination supplied an elaborate picture of a brilliant flame blooming from my outstretched hand, curling into the shape of a magnificent dragon before spiraling toward the sky. It was a beautiful image, and I became so absorbed in designing the dragon's scales that I momentarily forgot what I was supposed to be doing.
When I finally opened my eyes, my hand was still empty.
Apparently, daydreaming about fire was not the same as producing it. A rather unfortunate discovery, although I supposed the world would become considerably more dangerous if every enthusiastic child could accidentally set something ablaze merely by imagining a dragon.
I exhaled slowly and lowered my arm.
Then a memory surfaced.
Not a memory from my current life, nor anything Pathik had taught me. It was a scene from the original Avatar: The Last Airbender, one I'd watched long before my unfortunate encounter with a stray bullet. In it, Iroh had been teaching Zuko about the different elements, explaining that truly understanding bending required looking beyond the traditions of one's own nation.
I remembered the old general drawing the elemental symbols upon the ground while his nephew listened with varying degrees of impatience. Zuko had been desperate to become stronger, as usual, while Iroh had seemed far more interested in helping him understand the foundations of what he practiced. At the time, I'd enjoyed the scene because of Iroh's wisdom and Zuko's rather entertaining inability to appreciate being given advice.
Now, however, the explanation took on an entirely different significance.
Fire, according to Iroh, represented power. The people of the Fire Nation were driven by desire and determination, possessing the will and energy to pursue whatever goals captured their hearts. That description certainly suited many firebenders I'd seen, from the fiercely ambitious members of the royal family to the soldiers who marched beneath the Fire Nation's banners.
But it wasn't the whole story, was it?
Iroh himself was a firebender, and while he possessed extraordinary determination, he also enjoyed tea, music, relaxation, and the small pleasures that other people often overlooked. He could be gentle without becoming weak, playful without becoming foolish, and frighteningly powerful without constantly demanding that everyone acknowledge it.
Then there was earth, which Iroh associated with substance. The Earth Kingdom's people were diverse, strong, persistent, and enduring, qualities reflected in the way earthbenders rooted themselves and met force with unwavering resistance. Toph certainly embodied that stubbornness, though I suspected she'd be deeply offended if anyone suggested her entire personality could be explained by the fact that she controlled rocks.
Air represented freedom, something the Air Nomads had pursued through detachment from worldly concerns and a willingness to release the burdens that confined them. Their spirituality had helped them discover peace, while their humor and playfulness had prevented that peace from becoming lifeless solemnity. Aang was practically the perfect example, a child who loved games, animals, and adventure despite carrying responsibilities that would eventually weigh heavily upon him.
And water represented change.
The Water Tribes had survived through adaptability, but Iroh had emphasized something equally important: the love and community that helped their people endure hardship together. Their strength didn't come solely from changing direction when circumstances demanded it, but also from the bonds they maintained while doing so.
I stood silently in the courtyard, my abandoned firebending stance forgotten as those four ideas settled into my thoughts.
Power.
Substance.
Freedom.
Change.
Four elements, each expressing something about the world and the people who had shaped their lives around it. They weren't absolute rules governing every individual, obviously, but they revealed the philosophies that had developed alongside the bending disciplines themselves.
Which raised a rather interesting question.
What would Coldbenders be like?
My eyebrows rose slightly as the thought took hold.
Coldbending wasn't a fifth element, at least not according to the principles I'd been imagining. It was a method of subtracting energy, something that should theoretically be accessible through any of the four traditional elemental paths if the practitioner understood how to establish the appropriate connection.
Water could express absence through ice.
Earth could express it through snow and frozen ground.
Air could express it through cold currents that stripped warmth from the atmosphere.
Fire could perhaps express it through something far stranger, an unnatural flame that consumed energy rather than releasing it.
Four elements, all approaching the same underlying principle through different methods.
But if firebending reflected power, earthbending endurance, airbending freedom, and waterbending change, what sort of philosophy would develop among people who learned to remove energy from the world?
Would they be calm?
Detached?
Patient?
Or would they simply become terribly depressing individuals who spent their afternoons discussing death while everyone else desperately searched for a more entertaining conversation?
I considered that possibility with mild amusement.
"Well, that sounds dreadful," I murmured, folding my arms as I stared toward the distant mountains. "Imagine discovering an entirely new bending discipline, only for everyone to assume you're obligated to behave like a particularly miserable funeral director."
The thought entertained me for a moment, but the question itself refused to disappear.
Cold was not really an element in the ordinary sense. It was a condition created when energy became scarce, and in the supernatural discipline I envisioned, that scarcity could be produced deliberately rather than through conventional transfer. A Coldbender didn't necessarily command ice, snow, or frigid air as separate substances; they manipulated what was missing from the processes that allowed those things to remain warm or active.
Perhaps Coldbenders would be people who understood stillness.
People who could recognize when something had exhausted its purpose, who weren't frightened by silence, and who understood that stopping could be just as meaningful as moving forward.
That sounded rather appealing.
Particularly the stopping.
I glanced toward the empty courtyard and considered my own personality. Extreme laziness was certainly one way to appreciate stillness, although I suspected it would be an insult to an entire bending discipline if I declared my preference for afternoon naps its defining spiritual principle.
Then another thought surfaced.
What if Coldbenders were people who accepted endings?
Fire might strive to accomplish something, earth might endure until the very end, water might adapt to whatever came next, and air might release itself from whatever threatened to confine it. Cold, by comparison, might concern itself with the moment when movement finally ceased, when something was allowed to end rather than being forced to continue.
But even that seemed incomplete.
After all, not every ending was welcome.
A cruel person might use the language of acceptance to excuse doing nothing while others suffered. Someone might claim that death was natural simply because they didn't want to bother saving a stranger, while another might desperately preserve something that had already become harmful because they couldn't bear to release it.
Neither extreme seemed particularly wise.
I believed every story had to end, but that didn't mean I considered every ending equally beautiful. A child's life cut short by war wasn't automatically poetic simply because death belonged to the natural order. The fact that all flowers eventually wilted didn't mean someone deserved praise for stomping upon a garden.
I looked down at my hands again, considering the strange contrast between what I believed and what I might eventually learn to do.
Perhaps Coldbenders would be people who understood the value of letting go, but also the responsibility that came with deciding when to intervene. People who could stand before an ending without pretending it wasn't real, yet still choose to preserve something simply because they loved it.
That was a considerably more interesting idea.
Unfortunately, it raised another problem.
If Coldbending could be learned through all four elements, then there might never be a single kind of Coldbender.
A Fire Nation practitioner might approach it with fierce determination, treating the removal of energy as another expression of control. An Earth Kingdom practitioner might value the endurance of stillness, using absence to preserve structures or halt dangerous movement. An Air Nomad might understand it through release and silence, while a waterbender could approach it as another way to understand change.
All four might practice the same fundamental principle while believing entirely different things about it.
Which meant my original question might have been wrong.
Perhaps it wasn't about what Coldbenders would be like.
Perhaps it was about what kind of person someone needed to become in order to understand absence without fearing it.
I smiled faintly.
Now that was a question worth thinking about.
Unfortunately, the universe chose that exact moment to remind me that I had originally come outside to practice firebending.
A gust of wind swept through the courtyard, scattering leaves across the stone and brushing my hair into my eyes. I blinked, realizing that I'd spent several minutes standing in one place while contemplating the philosophical implications of an ability I could barely use. That was a fairly impressive achievement, although it did very little to improve my practical circumstances.
"Right," I murmured, brushing the hair away from my face. "Fire first, existential questions later. Apparently, even revolutionary philosophical discoveries require a certain amount of basic competence."
I returned to my stance, planting my feet more carefully and allowing my breathing to settle. I remembered Iroh's description of fire as power driven by desire and will, but I also remembered that firebending wasn't supposed to consist entirely of anger and aggression. Properly understood, fire represented energy and life, something capable of offering warmth and illumination just as easily as destruction.
That distinction mattered.
I'd spent the afternoon trying to remove energy, imagining motion slowing and warmth disappearing. Now I needed to approach the opposite process without simply reversing every thought I'd used before.
Rather than imagining fire erupting from my hand, I pictured a small ember deep within my chest.
It wasn't an actual object, obviously, but the image helped me understand what I wanted to accomplish. The ember represented warmth, something alive and moving, something that could grow when provided with the right conditions. I focused upon the rhythm of my breathing, allowing each controlled inhalation and exhalation to accompany the movement of my arms.
For several moments, nothing happened.
Then a faint warmth flickered beneath my ribs.
I paused, surprised by the sensation.
It wasn't the same peculiar pressure I'd experienced during Coldbending. This felt more like a gentle current flowing through my body, a small pulse of warmth following the movement of my breath and gathering behind my extended arm.
My fingers tingled.
I stepped forward and thrust my palm toward the empty courtyard.
A tiny orange spark appeared near my fingertips.
It lasted less than a heartbeat before vanishing.
I stared at my hand.
Then slowly smiled.
"Well, hello there," I murmured, opening and closing my fingers. "Aren't you an interesting little thing."