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kolThis fic was last edited Feb 8th. If you'd like to read the January 30th version of the chapter, it can be found here.
Title: Road of a Blank Verse
Summary: The world has changed, and that which went wrong has been righted. A very different gang must find one another-- and the lost Avatar-- before everything falls apart.
Author's Note: Verse is an AU fanfic, centered on a world in which Aang summoned a terrible power and returned to his past. Forever separated from his friends, Aang manages to saved his people and the rest of the world against the threat of the Fire Nation. Years pass, and Aang worries of the threats his friends will face without him-- especially the return of a pesky comet. Verse is the story of the Avatar's once friends as they try to save the world in the Avatar's absence. There are a few original characters, but the story focuses on Sokka, Katara, and Toph.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. <3
The blizzard entered before the short monk, winds and snow thrusting papers from the study’s bulging shelves to twist and spiral in mindless flight. Stepping quickly into the burning room, Rinchen shoved all of his diminutive weight against the door’s faded red finish, the contrary wood protesting as it closed. Beyond the barrier, winds continued their angry roar, seeking to claim another victim from the temple. The door shuddered against the violent assault, but stood firm.
Pushing himself away from the door, Rinchen wished he could borrow some of the doors strength. He would rather be anywhere else, even out in the grip of the unforgiving blizzard. Any place where Rinchen wouldn’t have to face his grandfather.
It was nearing the end.
Bowing his shaved head, Rinchen dutifully pressed deeper into the study, the winds of the blizzard fading, papers and scrolls slowly sliding to a rest on the lonely ground. No one would clean this mess for a long time. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the dark corridor off the study, his feet chilled as they led his hesitant body closer to his grandfather’s sleeping chambers. The chill was a sharp contrast to the air, growing hotter and hotter as he walked, sweating, approaching a massive pyre burning defiantly at the entrance to his grandfather’s quarters. A stiff mockery of the frigid winter outside the windows, the last bending of a dying man.
“I wondered when you would come,” The soft rasp was weak and world weary, so completely unlike the warm, jovial tone so familiar from the man who had helped raise Rinchen and his brother. His grandfather lay amidst the finest furs from the four nations, shivering despite the smoldering space. “The hour is growing late. I’m afraid I won’t be good company for long.” A ragged laugh escaped his ruined lungs, and the old man hunched over as a fit caught him and refused to let go.
Rinchen rushed forward, but was stopped by his grandfather’s raised hand.
Slowly, the fit eased its hold, and his grandfather was smiling at him again. Rinchen returned the smile, but it faded as he saw the bundles of scrolls laying scattered about the old man, most nestled atop his fur-draped lap.
“Oh grandfather,” the young man rushed forward, embracing the dying man as gently as he could around shoulders that hadn’t ceased shaking for months now. “It cannot be!”
The old man patted the Rinchen’s scalp, a feeble gesture, as his grandfather’s shaking hands were too weakened by the ruthless illness for any inspiring consolation, remaining a cruel mockery of the comfort so frequently associated with that gesture. Just as the world was becoming as it was, his grandfather was slipping away. Rinchen could not believe his grandfather would fail so close to the end!
“Do not fear for me, Rinchen; these things happen for a reason. And who knows? In my next life, perhaps we will meet again. By then, you will be a powerful master, I think.” His grandfather smiled widely at him, his eyes twinkling a quiet gray.
But the boy’s heart knew this would be for the last time. His grandfather would die, his spirit would move on, become someone new. It was the way of things, something Rinchen had understood for many years— but that understanding didn’t make this final goodbye any easier. Tears prickled Rinchen’s eyes; he looked away from the battered body, struggling to be as strong as that aged door had been. This last gift Rinchen would give— fortitude during his grandfather’s passing.
His grandfather smiled thinly, as if knowing Rinchen’s thoughts and approving the attempt. “These scrolls and their importance is well known to you, Rinchen, how essential they will prove in sixteen years. I charged first your father with the task of taking each scroll to its master, but he cannot complete this task from the spirit world. I would charge your brother next, but Saang is deep in morning for a body that still lives. He cannot see reason. But you are young, grandson, yet youth matters little. I was not much older when I fought to save the world. And I can trust in none but you for the scroll’s care.”
Rinchen nodded very slowly, tears rolling down his cheeks in defiance to his wishes, falling upon his shaking hands. down This task would save the world, but the price could be stiff indeed; such a matter was not easily undertaken by wise men. Yet this was his grandfather, and Rinchen would do anything for the man. The decision was easy. “I promise.”
The old man smiled, and settled against his bedding, the tension easing from his weary body. “I die with no regrets. I will see my friends in my next life, that much is certain. I am glad things worked out as they did. If they had stayed as they were, I never would have met your grandmother. I would never have met you, Rinchen. And our people would be no more, memories of a long dead wind, the Avatar cycle irrevocably broken and the world left asunder. Perhaps now… perhaps now they stand a chance.”
“I don’t want you to go,” Rinchen’s mouth wobbled as he held back the hysterics that had taken his brother, leaning closer to his grandfather but not daring to shake sense into his mumbled words.
His grandfather shook his head, one last smile on his lips. “I should like very much to stay, but such is not my fate.” His ravaged lungs struggled with a choked laugh. “Never forget that… I love you, Rinchen. And… the scrolls… to each master… of the White Lotus.”
The boy pressed his lips against the chilled forehead. “I won’t forget, grandfather,” Rinchen paused, struggling to raise his spirits for one last gift for the man. “I hope the spirit world is more enjoyable this time.”
The Avatar struggled to speak, his lungs producing one last laugh, before his tired body gave in to the illness. His grandson bowed his head, shoulders shaking with quiet sobs, closing his eyes to Aang’s final legacy to the friends he had left behind, and the world he had struggled so hard to save, unable to bear the sight of the scrolls.
Time passed, and Rinchen’s sobs dried to hollow shudders. Determination steeled his soul, his hands ceased shaking as they gathered the final legacy, securing them in a dusty sack from beside his grandfather’s bed. Rinchen would be strong. He would succeed with this final mission from his grandfather.
Because in sixteen years, the new Avatar would rise, born of the water tribe, and stand beside his grandfather’s statue in the line of Avatars, an unbroken line that stretched back to the beginning of time. The new Avatar would face a terrible threat, and would need all the help he— or she— could gather.
That was not Rinchen’s concern. He was not meant to save the world, but to deliver the tools for those who would. To entrust his grandfather’s legacy into the hands of the White Lotus, and wait for his grandfather’s eventual return.
It would be a very long wait.
Wet flakes cascaded against the pitch sky, twirling over the city’s walls and sticking thick to the young man’s poorly patched parka. He brushed repeatedly against the thin material with recently darned mittens, shivering against the brilliant full moon, and vowed he would never, ever, sit for sentry duty again.
Especially not the moon shift, knee deep in wretched winter.
Sokka huddled against barrier between the worst of the wind and the quiet city, moodily casting his blue eyes out into the unending blackness. It stretched as far as his eyes could see, the bay a chilled quiet broken only by the soft touch of waves against the shore. Even the violent currents slept, so late the hour. Only fools and boys on sentry duty were awake.
His face stretched with displeasure. Any other night, Sokka would be nestled happily in his furs, fast asleep. Well, in truth, with one eye on his sister Katara, filled with brotherly suspicion. He hadn’t caught her yet, but he knew she’d pitched her tent for some boy, and was sneaking off at any opportunity. He would welcome the arguments with Katara now, as at least at home he would be warm and content. Sheltered away from the bitter winds, which for the past hour had threatened to steal him off into the shadow stained sky.
Such was not Sokka’s fate. In only a few hours, the Council of Five would meet, and Sokka would stand before his people and claim his right as a warrior. By the light of the first rays of the sun, Sokka’s vigil would end, and he would be bathed and made ready for the Initiation ceremony. His sister had finished his fine garments for the ceremony only hours before Sokka had left for his sentry duty. It had been difficult to stand still while Katara had attacked him with pins and shears, clucking her tongue at his rumbling stomach.
For a new warrior was expected to fast on their vigil, to test their mental will against their weak body. Trapped on the frozen wall with only the wind for company and doubts settling in, the lack of food to pad his stomach was the hardest aspect of the ritual. As the new chief’s son, Sokka knew how important this final step in his path to becoming a warrior would be, so he ground his teeth and endured.
But frequently, his thoughts twisted from moment at hand, sneaking backwards to the past. Katara, laughing when he called himself a man. His father, standing proud after Sokka had made his way through the ice flows, the test any boy underwent before the Initiation. And his mother, smiling as she kissed a childhood wound.
It was difficult to steady his mind against thoughts of his mother. He guiltily wished she could be there to see him in the morning. Perhaps she would look upon the ceremony from the spirit world, cheering him on from beyond? Standing proud beside his youngest sister?
Sokka sighed as his eyes sweeping moodily across the bay’s inky surface. Such would not be. Sokka didn’t hold much to the spirit world, knowing deep in his gut both his mother and sister were gone, forever separated from this world. Wishing would change little.
A nasty gale cleared the wall, catching Sokka square in the chest. He ducked down, taking shelter against the thin wall, grumbling as he tucked his shivering hands within the parka.
He wished again Katara was there— she, at least, would have thought to bring a blanket.
But Katara was fourteen now, nearly a woman of the tribe, and too well aware of her duties now to sneak off in the dead of the nigh. Soon she would leave to find a husband in the North, cementing an alliance with their sister tribe fractured with the death of Sesi.
Which made her recent behavior troubling— feelings for another would only make her departure more difficult, and Katara should have more sense. But in the morning Sokka would be named a man, and he’d use his new influence to change his sister’s mind.
Katara had a duty to take Sesi’s place. Sesi had been promised to a son of the Northern Tribe’s Chief. Imposing and fierce, the man had reminded Sokka of a gruff snowbear, fangs bared against any opposition; Sokka hadn’t liked the thought of his baby sister marrying into that family, and the thought of Katara around that man was even worse. Katara, at least, would wed another of the tribe. Some high ranking warrior, Hahn or something. But that did little to cease his worrires. Katara’s mouth would get her in trouble; Sesi at least had a softer way about her, could have handled the transition between tribes.
But Sesi had died, taken in the same plague that had killed their mother. Now the alliance was threatened. It wouldn’t take much to sunder the accord the two tribes had reached, especially with the Water Sages abductin any Waterbenders in both tribes, consumed with their useless quest to discover the Avatar. It had been over sixteen years since the last had died— surely by now the Avatar would have been found, if he truly existed?
Something distinctly foreign caught his frozen ears, and Sokka blinked, suddenly alert. It was the cracking of ice against the frozen sea, layered against a sharp woosh of movement. It almost sounded as if something, or someone, was flying across the ocean…
Had Sokka summoned the demon Water Sages with his thoughts? Face white against the ice ledge, he slowly peered out into the bay, fingers shuddering with terror as he beheld the ocean.
Clad in white robes, five figures raced effortlessly across the ocean’s surface, their unnatural progress pointed directly or the walls of Atka City, stronghold of the South.
Only master waterbenders could manage that feet. They were Water Sages.
Cursing his idleness, Sokka jumped to his feet. The signal bell was dull against the pale light— too far to reach in time to call forth the Tribe’s warriors. Reach by foot, that was— he had a secret weapon. He bit his lip, drawing blood as he pulled the boomerang from his back, eyes locked on the dull bell. Everything counted on him making this strike.
The trusty instrument sang through the air, striking the bell with a deafening clang. Sokka let out a victory whoop, even as shouts began to ring out below, the domes of the city opening as men and women poured from their homes, shoving clothes onto their shuddering bodies.
The ringing of the signal bell was never a false alarm.
“Who rings the signal?” A heavy voice boomed formally, although all knew who sat upon the walls that night.
Sokka grinned widely, no longer fearing the danger. Always before his father had been gone when the Sages had come. Those demons would take no one this night! “Water Sages are bending across the harbor!” He called out, wincing as his voice rang shrill and cracked in the wind.
Shouts of the warriors deafened Sokka, mingling with shrieks women rushing to secure their children, to hide the precious ones against the cruel eyes of the Sages. Sokka raced along the wall, moving so quickly he slid into the bell with a thud. His boomerang lay in the ice beside the bell, but he paused to admire the dent on the heavy bell’s surface— it would stand as an eternal reminder of Sokka’s vigil.
The wall groaned, reminding Sokka of the danger, the city gates thundering open to release the still dressing warriors. Sokka rushed down the glistening stairs, stumbling awkwardly. The surface was slick and treacherous; a broken leg would do none of his people any good. He slowed his progress, anxious to continue, but too smart to risk his neck. By the time he reached the bottom, the city gate was nearly shut!
Ears muffled against the shouts of his tribesmen, Sokka raced forward and rolled neatly beneath the gate, his threadbare parka’s sleeve narrowly missing being trapped beneath the heavy stone.
“What are you doing out here? You should be inside the city, protecting your sister!” Hakoda spared only a glance towards his son, the tension sharpening his words as he tossed a worried look at the Sage’s approach.
“Too late now. The Sages are here.” Another warrior said, pointing as the Water Sages landed on the shores. The pale light of the moon took an eerie glow, catching the pure white parkas of the Sages and giving them an unearthly glow.
Sokka slowly stood, dusting the powdered snow from his trousers, lowering his head to cover burning cheeks. Although he stood on his vigil, Sokka was not yet a man, and it chafed to be reminded of it. His arm was just as good as any other! Better, even— his father had sent for the best sword master in the lands to train him, and Sokka doubted there was a warrior in the South who could best him. Save for his own father.
The approach of the Sages was slow and silent, their hoods masking faces, bodies stiff, betraying their deadly mission. Although their hands remained within the folds of their white robes, Sokka could see the gleam of bottles hiding just outside the folds.
He well remembered just how dangerous the poison waters within could be. The former Chief burned so terribly, with just a trace of the poison. The burned arm had withered to uselessness, marking Bato no longer fit to lead the tribe. He had left their shores, leaving Hakota as Chief…
The tallest of the hooded men stepped forward, and Sokka’s father walked away from the warriors to meet him. Sokka strained to hear what words were exchanged between the two, but the winds carried no hint of the exchange, a sudden snow swirling in white-laaced circles around both men, obscuring them from view.
Impatient for the fighting to begin, Sokka pulled his boomerang out, testing the sharp edge, as he stepped to the front of the men. None denied him his place, even if he wasn’t technically one of them yet.
The snow ceased falling, and Sokka prepared to unleash a hearty brag at the silent Sages— until his disbelieving eyes caught sight of Hakota, defeated without a blow. His father’s mighty shoulders sagged, and the fierce chief had bowed his head, obviously yielding to the authority of the Sage.
The five Water Sages strolled forward, the warriors of Atka City made powerless by their Chief’s failure. Sokka stiffened as one passed, the brute’s thick face barely visible in the shadow of his hood— save for a smug, knowing smirk. The benders waited on no raising of the gate, teare out a section of the wall and calmly walking through.
Confused and angry, Sokka twisted back to look at his father. Hakota remained apart from the warriors, his eyes cast up to the moon, shame pulling at his face.
“Why?” Sokka asked, stepping to his father, voice reedy against the wind.
Hakota did not speak for a long moment, working his mouth as if to answer, but no words came. Finally, his father closed his eyes to the moon, bowed his head. “Your sister.” The man said simply, his eyes slowly raising to catch Sokka’s.
“What?” Sokka cried out, twisting away, but his father laid a hand on the threadbare parka, holding the squirming boy fast. “Why aren’t you doing anything? They can’t take Katara! She’s… it isn’t right!” Sokka fought against both hot tears and stone faced father, managing to escape the later— but not the former.
“I won’t stand here and do nothing! I have to save her!”
“Sokka, you can’t defeat them. They have the power to kill all of us. Your sister knows her duty.”
“I can’t believe you won’t fight for her,” Sokka cast his father a poisoned look of disgust, and stalked away, boomerang held at the ready. He would end his vigil with the blood of the Sages, saving his Tribe and his sister!
Before he could reach the hole, the Water Sages strolled through, a struggling bundle held on the shoulder of the tallest. It was Katara. All thought left Sokka as he rushed towards the men, waving his boomerang and howling the cry of a Southern Warrior.
A blast of ice shards, aimed at his legs— Sokka hurled his limber body over them, hurling the boomerang at the man’s face. But the wind was wrong, the weapon lost to the blackness— it would return too late.
Sokka landed heavily on the packed snow, weaponless, but even more determined. His sword had been left behind, siting uselessly on his sleeping furs. Why would he have needed it on vigil, indeed!
He rolled, narrowly avoiding a whip of ice sliced the ground he had rested, puffs of snow obscuring the air. Sokka pulled his limber body up, using the momentum of the roll.Hands clenched into fists, he panting for air, eyes narrowing as he saw Katara’s terrified face. Blood surged as he prepared for his next assault. “Is that all you-”
The sentence remained unfinished. The leader of the Sages nodded as Sokka began, and his companions twisted ice around Sokka’s form, the freeze slowly encasing his body. He watched, helpless, as the clear cut of the ice covered his eyes, unable to look away as the Water Sages took to the seas again. As he fought against the cold blackness, he watched Katara’s face fading, smaller and smaller, before he lost the struggle for air and gave into the blackness.
