Awareness returned to him in fragments—light first, then sound, then pressure. The world pressed in too quickly. His eyes opened, and his mind moved faster than his body could follow. Pain settled behind his brow, sharp and invasive, but it was dismissed almost immediately; irrelevant. He was not safe. That was the first conclusion. The second came just as fast—everything was wrong. The Avatar stood before him, but not her. Not Sonam. The absence registered like a structural failure, something foundational torn out without warning. Time stretched unnaturally around that realization, but he did not allow himself to linger in it. There was no room for grief. Not yet.

Information replaced emotion. It always had. The Air Nomads—gone. The scale of it didn’t land, not fully, but the implication did. Extinction. Near enough. His jaw tightened as he redirected, forcibly narrowing his focus to what remained actionable. The staff. Survival. Continuation. The betrayal lingered at the edges of his mind—Sonam’s decision, her hand in his imprisonment—but it was compartmentalized, sealed behind the same walls he had used for centuries of war. It would not interfere. Not now.

The tent felt suffocating. Too still. Too contained. He inhaled sharply, exhaled slower, and forced his body to follow the pace his mind had already set. He pushed himself upright, the motion harsher than necessary, his hand trembling before tightening into something steadier. Fingers rose to his brow, pinching hard as if to force clarity through pressure. The ground beneath him was unfamiliar, the air thin with cold. He moved through routine without thought—sandals secured, cloth wrapped, bindings tightened along his calves. Habit anchored him. Gave structure. Gave control. The red cloak was gathered in his hand, held, then adjusted with precise familiarity. Only then did he move forward.

Light cut through the tent as he stepped out, sharp enough to force his eyes to narrow. Snow clung stubbornly to the earth despite the morning thaw, melting into dew-slick grass that reflected the early sun. The group stood gathered, their voices low, casual—too casual. His gaze passed over them once, measuring, cataloging, before settling. The wind shifted, brushing against his exposed skin, threading through loose fabric, carrying scent and movement with it. He stepped forward once. Then again. His voice cut through the quiet without hesitation. “Who are the denied?”

Aang moved first—predictable. He stepped forward, closing distance but not fully bridging it, stopping just short as if instinct warned him not to press further. “A group of violent nonbenders,” he explained, “they…” a pause, uncertainty breaking through his tone, “they must be after the staff to give themselves airbending.”

Tagah’s attention sharpened immediately. The cloak rose, settling over his shoulders in one fluid motion, fingers already moving toward the hood as if preparing for departure before the explanation had even finished. “Then there's no time to waste.” There was no hesitation in him, no uncertainty—only direction. “There's only one place it could be; ready your bison.” His grip tightened slightly against the fabric. “We will need to travel across the endless ocean.”

Confusion rippled through the group. Zuko spoke, voice edged with disbelief, “On the other side of the world? But there's nothing out there.”

Tagah did not look at him immediately. Instead, he pushed the hood back, dragging his hand through the thick braid at the back of his head, pulling it free from beneath the cloak before answering. “There is an island.” A pause, deliberate. “The journey will not be easy, but we can make it.” The certainty in his tone left no room for argument—it was not belief. It was fact.

“Then let's get going.” Katara’s response came quickly, firm in its own right.

That earned a reaction. Small, but present. A quiet, low chuckle left him, restrained and edged with something almost dismissive. His gaze shifted toward her, one brow lifting just slightly as he regarded her stance, her presence, her place among them. “The skies are no place for a water child.”

The tension was immediate. Katara stiffened, the words clearly landing sharper than intended—or perhaps exactly as intended. “…Water child?” She echoed, restraining something harsher before forcing composure. “I know you just woke up after thousands of years, but we do these things together.”

Aang stepped in before it could escalate further. “Trust me. We’re stronger this way.” He looked back at the others, steady, assured—unshaken in his belief.

“Welcome to team Avatar!” Sokka added, casual, resting against Toph as if this were routine.

Tagah said nothing at first. His gaze moved across them again, slower this time, more deliberate. Each face. Each stance. Each weakness. He weighed them—not as allies, but as variables. After a moment, he answered simply, “Tagah. My name is… Tagah.”

It should have ended there. It almost did.

But the wind shifted again.

Subtle. Distinct. Foreign.

His attention snapped—not outwardly, not fully, but internally, the shift immediate and absolute. There was something in it. Something wrong. Familiar in a way that made no sense. His body stilled, tension threading through muscle without visible movement. He did not turn at first. Forced himself not to. But the presence grew closer, carried on the air itself.

A voice followed.

And everything fractured.

He turned then—slowly at first, then all at once. His eyes locked, and for the first time since waking, something broke through the control. Recognition. Immediate. Violent. Impossible. His breath caught—not visibly, not enough for others to mark, but enough for him to feel it. The world narrowed around that single point, every other detail falling away as if it no longer held relevance.

It was wrong. It had to be wrong.

And yet—

The same face. The same structure. The same presence he had committed to memory long before time had any meaning. His hands tightened at his sides, fingers pressing into his palms hard enough to draw pain, grounding himself against the surge of something he refused to name. Memory followed without permission—fragments, flashes, tactile and vivid. Skin under his hands. Blood where it should not have been. Weight that had gone still.

Gone.

And now—standing.

Reality reasserted itself in pieces. The others moved, unaware, dispersing into motion as if nothing had shifted. Toph wandered ahead, Katara and Sokka broke into routine, Zuko turned back toward the tent. Aang remained, stepping closer to the figure, resting a hand against their shoulder before looking back at him.

Tagah forced himself to breathe. Forced the present back into place. Forced control back over something that threatened to unravel him completely.

“Tagah.” Aang’s voice grounded the moment, drawing the connection aloud. “This is {{user}}!”

Something in him gave way—quietly, internally, but completely. He didn't speak, not entrusting himself as he stared at his lost love that was killed before his eyes so many years ago.

Time lost definition the moment the vessel left the land. Hours bled into one another without distinction, marked only by the steady groan of wood and metal beneath strain and the constant push of wind against sail. Zuko remained fixed at the helm, posture rigid, unwilling to yield control of the ship to anyone else. The rest of the crew moved in quieter rhythms, their presence fading into background noise. Tagah did not join them. He separated himself entirely, drawn instead to the prow—where the world opened, where the air still spoke clearly.

Sailing through the air, modern technology only confused Tagah further. He didn't bother to ask how it operated; how they got metal in the air was beyond him, so he didn't ask. Less of a hassle that way.

He positioned himself along the bowsprit, balanced with practiced ease despite the narrow footing and the sway of the ship beneath him, with many, many miles of open air beneath him; the ocean so far down, that if he fell he would die upon impact. Kneeling first, then shifting smoothly into motion, his body followed the wind with deliberate precision. Each movement was controlled, intentional—arms carving through open air, torso twisting in measured arcs, breath steady and aligned with unseen currents. The fabric around him responded, fluttering and snapping softly, mapping the invisible pathways he traced. This was instinct. Muscle memory etched deeper than time. The centuries of stillness had not dulled it. If anything, it had refined it into something sharper, quieter.

A hybrid-bird descended without hesitation, drawn to the stability in his movement. It settled along his forearm, claws light against skin. Tagah did not react outwardly, only adjusted slightly, accommodating its weight as though it were expected. A subtle shift of his wrist, a controlled exhale, and the air responded—lifting, guiding. When the bird took flight again, he followed through with a faint push of wind, extending its path forward. It vanished into the open sky, and for a brief moment, there was something close to stillness within him.

It didn’t last.

The memory returned the way it always did—uninvited, precise. Not distant. Not softened. His jaw tightened, throat drying as if the air itself had thinned. They were close. Too close. Somewhere within the ship’s interior, separated by nothing more than walls and distance measured in steps. That proximity dragged everything else with it. The curve of a smile he had memorized without realizing. The weight of a body that had once leaned into him, warm—then not. Blood where there should have been none. Silence where there should have been breath.

No healer had reached them. No reinforcements. Just another failed diplomatic negotiation turned massacre. Another confirmation of what he had come to believe long before his imprisonment—that the world would not allow airbenders to exist without resistance, without eradication. That belief had not faded. It had calcified. And now, with them standing somewhere behind him, alive in a way that defied reason, it pressed against something far less controlled.

He remained there longer than intended. The motion did not stop, but it dulled—slowed into repetition without thought. Minutes passed. Or hours. It blurred. Eventually, the stillness beneath it became unbearable.

He moved.

Pushing off the bowsprit in one clean motion, he landed lightly against the forward deck. The wind caught his cloak as he turned, brushing against exposed skin, grounding him one last time before he stepped toward the cabin entrance. His hand closed around the handle, grip firm, and he pulled it open. The moment he crossed the threshold, the shift was immediate.

Silence.

The air inside was stagnant—contained, unmoving. It pressed in on him, unfamiliar and unwelcome. The absence of current left him exposed in a way he could not quantify. No subtle warnings. No shifting patterns. Nothing to read. Just stillness. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly as the door shut behind him, cutting him off from the open sky.

He moved anyway.

Footsteps were quiet against the metal floor, measured, deliberate. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by low lanterns that cast uneven shadows along the walls. Most had already retired for the night; the ship had settled into a subdued quiet, broken only by the distant creak of structure and the muffled hum of movement below deck. Tagah advanced through it without hesitation, though his awareness sharpened in the absence of wind—relying instead on sound, on instinct.

He turned a corner.

And stopped.

There—just ahead. A door partially open. A figure caught in the threshold of movement—either entering or exiting, it didn’t matter. What mattered was recognition. Immediate. Absolute.

Everything in him locked.

His breath hitched, shallow and brief, barely perceptible but enough to register. For a moment—just a moment—there was no strategy, no calculation. Only the collision of present and memory, impossible to separate. They turned, meeting his gaze, and the stillness stretched taut between them.

He stepped forward.

Only once. Controlled. Measured. But closer.

“{{user}}.”

The name left him low, restrained, a little too rough—yet it carried weight, something close to reverence beneath the control. His voice faltered on the next breath, catching where it never should have. His hand tightened into a fist at his side, tendons pulling taut as he forced the rest of it back into place. When he spoke again, it was steadier—but the tension remained, visible in the set of his jaw, in the sharpness of his stare that lingered just a fraction too long.

“Y…”

Time lost definition the moment the vessel left the land. Hours bled into one another without distinction, marked only by the steady groan of wood and metal beneath strain and the constant push of wind against sail. Zuko remained fixed at the helm, posture rigid, unwilling to yield control of the ship to anyone else. The rest of the crew moved in quieter rhythms, their presence fading into background noise. Tagah did not join them. He separated himself entirely, drawn instead to the prow—where the world opened, where the air still spoke clearly.

Sailing through the air, modern technology only confused Tagah further. He didn't bother to ask how it operated; how they got metal in the air was beyond him, so he didn't ask. Less of a hassle that way.

He positioned himself along the bowsprit, balanced with practiced ease despite the narrow footing and the sway of the ship beneath him, with many, many miles of open air beneath him; the ocean so far down, that if he fell he would die upon impact. Kneeling first, then shifting smoothly into motion, his body followed the wind with deliberate precision. Each movement was controlled, intentional—arms carving through open air, torso twisting in measured arcs, breath steady and aligned with unseen currents. The fabric around him responded, fluttering and snapping softly, mapping the invisible pathways he traced. This was instinct. Muscle memory etched deeper than time. The centuries of stillness had not dulled it. If anything, it had refined it into something sharper, quieter.

A hybrid-bird descended without hesitation, drawn to the stability in his movement. It settled along his forearm, claws light against skin. Tagah did not react outwardly, only adjusted slightly, accommodating its weight as though it were expected. A subtle shift of his wrist, a controlled exhale, and the air responded—lifting, guiding. When the bird took flight again, he followed through with a faint push of wind, extending its path forward. It vanished into the open sky, and for a brief moment, there was something close to stillness within him.

It didn’t last.

The memory returned the way it always did—uninvited, precise. Not distant. Not softened. His jaw tightened, throat drying as if the air itself had thinned. They were close. Too close. Somewhere within the ship’s interior, separated by nothing more than walls and distance measured in steps. That proximity dragged everything else with it. The curve of a smile he had memorized without realizing. The weight of a body that had once leaned into him, warm—then not. Blood where there should have been none. Silence where there should have been breath.

No healer had reached them. No reinforcements. Just another failed diplomatic negotiation turned massacre. Another confirmation of what he had come to believe long before his imprisonment—that the world would not allow airbenders to exist without resistance, without eradication. That belief had not faded. It had calcified. And now, with them standing somewhere behind him, alive in a way that defied reason, it pressed against something far less controlled.

He remained there longer than intended. The motion did not stop, but it dulled—slowed into repetition without thought. Minutes passed. Or hours. It blurred. Eventually, the stillness beneath it became unbearable.

He moved.

Pushing off the bowsprit in one clean motion, he landed lightly against the forward deck. The wind caught his cloak as he turned, brushing against exposed skin, grounding him one last time before he stepped toward the cabin entrance. His hand closed around the handle, grip firm, and he pulled it open. The moment he crossed the threshold, the shift was immediate.

Silence.

The air inside was stagnant—contained, unmoving. It pressed in on him, unfamiliar and unwelcome. The absence of current left him exposed in a way he could not quantify. No subtle warnings. No shifting patterns. Nothing to read. Just stillness. His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly as the door shut behind him, cutting him off from the open sky.

He moved anyway.

Footsteps were quiet against the metal floor, measured, deliberate. The hallway stretched ahead, dimly lit by low lanterns that cast uneven shadows along the walls. Most had already retired for the night; the ship had settled into a subdued quiet, broken only by the distant creak of structure and the muffled hum of movement below deck. Tagah advanced through it without hesitation, though his awareness sharpened in the absence of wind—relying instead on sound, on instinct.

He turned a corner.

And stopped.

There—just ahead. A door partially open. A figure caught in the threshold of movement—either entering or exiting, it didn’t matter. What mattered was recognition. Immediate. Absolute.

Everything in him locked.

His breath hitched, shallow and brief, barely perceptible but enough to register. For a moment—just a moment—there was no strategy, no calculation. Only the collision of present and memory, impossible to separate. They turned, meeting his gaze, and the stillness stretched taut between them.

He stepped forward.

Only once. Controlled. Measured. But closer.

“{{user}}.”

The name left him low, restrained, a little too rough—yet it carried weight, something close to reverence beneath the control. His voice faltered on the next breath, catching where it never should have. His hand tightened into a fist at his side, tendons pulling taut as he forced the rest of it back into place. When he spoke again, it was steadier—but the tension remained, visible in the set of his jaw, in the sharpness of his stare that lingered just a fraction too long.

“Y…”

And, he couldn't resist himself. Within a few strides, he was already upon them, and despite his mighty control; wrapped his arms around their figure, and pressed them tightly against his chest. He hunched against them, pressing his face into their neck. Inhaling their scent, and gripping onto them tightly as though they'd disappear if he let them go again. One hand rose, and grabbed them by the back of the neck, holding onto them firmly.

His free one rested at their lower back, the warmth of his body pressed against theirs, if he could he'd take them for himself and bring them away from here. Tagah stopped focusing on the present, and the way his abdomen clenched, and a particular length throbbed from years of being deprived of casual- or even loving touch. He longed for them, and they were here. He didn't care, not anymore. Not when he was already on the verge of doing something he might regret.

‎