#aangst

very aangsty... yes... aangst....... perhaps even... kataangst :0

She hadn’t expected him to come to the announcement. Not after they’d cried into each other’s arms until the sun fell and then rose again. Not after Aang had told her he couldn’t survive seeing her before the Fire Nation Prince. He was merely a dark blur, dressed in blue instead of his air nomad attire— but he was here. That made this whole thing almost bearable.

There was that word again. 

Almost.

Chapter 12

The room was dark except for one low lamp and moonlight through the shutters. Drip… drip… drip off the eaves. The baby made that small, testing whine again.

Onji lay against the pillows, eyes closed. Body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry. She wasn’t sleeping. Just resting. Su was in the antechamber, door cracked. Present, but not hovering. Smart enough to know Onji needed quiet more than help right now.

Aang sat on the edge of the bed with the baby swaddled against his chest. 40 minutes he’d been frozen there. The baby wailed. Small at first, then louder.

“Onji?” His voice cracked the quiet at 2am. “Onji, she’s doing the noise. Is this hungry or wet? Suri used to make a face before she— wait, did Suri make a face? Or was that Soren? I wasn’t there for that. You sent letters. I still have them. In a box. Labeled ‘important.’”

Onji didn’t open her eyes. “Mmm.”

“Mmm means yes? Or mmm means ‘stop talking’? I can never tell.” He tried rocking. Left foot first. Su’s rule from earlier. He was actually following it this time. The baby hiccuped, then screamed for real.

Aang shot up 3 inches off the bed. “Onji! She’s escalating! What do I do? Walk? Bounce? The midwife said gentle but what’s gentle? Is this gentle?” He did a tiny bounce. The baby’s face went redder.

From the antechamber: “My lord, that’s not gentle, that’s airbender evasive maneuvers. Use your knees. Like meditation. Not like you’re dodging lightning.” Su’s voice, sleepy but amused.

“I’m not bouncing, I’m— fine.” He sank back down. Stared at his daughter like she was a puzzle. “She’s probably cold. Or hot. Her head’s warm. Onji, do babies run warm? I read that once. In a book. Maybe.”

Onji sighed from deep in her chest. “Aang.”

“Yes! Listening! What does she need?” He leaned in, desperate for instructions.

“She needs you to stop narrating and let her sleep.”

He shut up. For 15 seconds. A record.Then the baby sniffled. Aang broke. “Onji, is she sniffing because she’s congested or because she’s… feeling things? Do newborns feel things? She can’t be mad at me. She’s 3 hours old. But what if she is? What if she knows I missed the twins and she’s disappointed already?”

Onji opened one eye. Deadpan. “Aang. She’s fussy because she’s a newborn. Suri screamed for 6 hours straight night one. Soren only slept if I walked circles for 2 hours. You don’t fix it. You endure it.”

“But what if I’m holding her wrong?” He looked at his arms like they’d lied to him. “Su adjusted me. What if I forgot the adjustment? What if her head—”

“Su,” Onji called, voice rough.

Door cracked open. Su, hair a mess from napping on a chair, robe half-tied. “Yes, my lady?”

“Is he doing it right?”

Su glanced at Aang. Baby supported, elbows locked like he was carrying the Avatar State in swaddle form.

“Yes, my lady. He’s fine. For someone who learned parenting from letters and guilt.” She gave Aang a bright, honest smile. “You’ve got good hands, my lord. They hold the world up. They can hold one baby.”

Aang blinked. “Thanks, Su.”

“Thank me after she spits up on you,” Su said, already retreating. “You’re washing your own robes. I work for her, not you.” Door clicked shut.

3 minutes of silence. Aang rocked. Left. Left. Left. The baby’s breathing evened out. Fist unclenched on his chest.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the first contraction. “She’s asleep,” he whispered, awe cracking his voice. “Onji, look. She’s asleep.” He tilted so Onji could see without lifting her head.

Onji turned her head a fraction. The baby was scrunched, peaceful. Milk on her chin. Aang’s grey eyes weren’t on the baby. They were on Onji. Watching.

“She’s beautiful,” he said quietly. No panic now. Just fact. “She’s got your brows. That ‘I’m about to win’ look, even asleep.”

Onji’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Don’t get comfortable. She’ll be up in 2 hours. Then 3. Then every hour until she decides you’ve suffered enough.”

Aang’s face dropped. “Every hour?”

“Welcome to it,” Onji murmured, eyes closing again. “You missed it twice. Now you live it.”

He winced. But nodded. Adjusted the blanket with shaking fingers. “I’ll stay up. I’ll learn the cries. Hungry, wet, bored, existential crisis. I’ll figure it out.”

“You won’t figure it out,” Onji said, voice fading. “No one does. You survive it. With tea. And Su telling you’re doing it wrong.”

“I can survive,” Aang said, too firm. Like he needed to believe it. “I survived the Comet. I can survive this.”

The baby burped. Tiny, victorious. Aang froze. Stared at her. Then at Onji.

“Onji… was that good? Do I clap? Do babies like applause? Should I—”Onji pulled the blanket over her face. “Aang. One more question and I’m throwing this pillow. My aim is still lethal, even now.”

Silence. 5 whole minutes. A new record.Then, barely a whisper: “Onji?”

She didn’t answer.

“Onji, I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the twins. I’m sorry I was off on missions when you did it all alone. Twice. I’m here now. I’m not leaving for the Council. I’m not flying to the Temples. I’m right here. Annoying you. But here.”

Onji didn’t answer. But her hand came out from under the blanket. Found his knee. Squeezed once. Hard. Then dropped away.

Aang stared at his knee like she’d branded him. He rocked the baby. Left. Left. Left.From the antechamber, Su, muffled: “My lord, if you wake her again I’m putting chili in your tea. My lady likes her sleep. And her revenge.”

Aang zipped his lips. Looked at the baby. She stared back with unfocused storm-grey eyes. His eyes. Onji’s brows.

“Okay,” he whispered to her. “Just us. No questions. We’ve got this. Left foot. Breathing. Like the Avatar. But quiet. Very quiet.”

The baby yawned. Aang’s whole face softened.Under the blanket, Onji let herself drift. Not sleep. Just rest. Listening to her husband fumble through fatherhood at 2am, loud and late and trying. It was exhausting. It was 8 years too late.

But he was here.And for tonight, that was enough.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dawn came grey and soft through the shutters. The storm was gone. All that was left was wet stone and the smell of rain on the roof. Inside, the room smelled like milk, herbs, and a man who hadn’t slept.

Aang was still rocking. Left. Left. Left. He’d been rocking for 6 hours. His arm had gone numb 4 hours ago. The baby — their daughter, unnamed yet — slept against his chest, tiny mouth open, drooling on his robe. He hadn’t dared move her. Hadn’t dared breathe too loud.

Onji was under the blanket. Eyes closed. Not asleep. Just… buffering. Her body ached. Her throat was sandpaper. Every time she shifted, something pulled and reminded her she’d pushed a human out 7 hours ago.

The door burst open.“SURI, DON’T RUN IN THE HALLWAY!”

“YOU’RE NOT MY FATHER, YOU’RE JUST DAD!”

Two tornados in human form exploded into the room. Eight years old. Fire in their veins and zero concept of volume.

Suri hit the room first. Black hair in a messy braid, Onji’s sharp brows already set to “I run this place.” She skidded to a stop when she saw the baby. Then saw her mother. Then saw her father looking like he’d been through a war.

“MOM!” She whispered, but whispering for Suri was still louder than most people’s shouting. “YOU DID IT! YOU MADE THE BABY!”

Soren followed, quieter but only by comparison. He had Aang’s eyes and Onji’s stubborn mouth. He walked in on his toes like that would make him silent. It didn’t. “Is it a girl? Can we hold her? Did you name her yet? Can we name her? I want to call her Typhoon. That’s a cool name.”

Aang’s eyes went wide. Panic. “Shhh! Shhh! She’s sleeping! Use your indoor voices! Your whisper voices! Your library voices!”

Suri immediately whispered: “SORRY DAD.”

Soren whispered back: “IT’S OKAY SURI.”They were not whispering.

Onji pulled the blanket off her face one inch. Looked at the chaos. Looked at Aang, who was now making frantic “sit down sit down sit down” gestures with his free hand. Looked at her twins, vibrating with energy at 6am.“Come here,” she rasped. Voice like gravel.

Both kids were at her bedside in 2 seconds. Suri gentle. Soren too. For once. They’d been raised by a woman who didn’t tolerate nonsense. They knew the rules.

“Mom, you look tired,” Suri said, reaching out but stopping before she touched. She remembered the rules from when Soren was born. “Does it hurt? A lot?”

“Like I got hit by a rhino,” Onji said honestly. Then softer: “But I’m okay. You’re both okay. That’s what matters.”Soren peeked over the bed at Aang. At the swaddle. “Dad, can I see? Please? I’ll be gentle. I practiced on my stuffed bison.”

Aang looked at Onji. She gave the smallest nod. He stood, knees cracking, and shuffled over. Arms still locked at 90 degrees. Like the baby was made of glass and lightning.

Soren’s whole face went soft. Eight years of bravado gone. “She’s so small,” he whispered. Actual whisper. “She has your eyes, Dad. And Mom’s angry brows.”“She’s not angry,” Aang whispered back, too proud. “She’s just… thinking very hard thoughts.”

“She looks like she’s judging us,” Suri decided, nose scrunched. Then she looked at Onji. “Mom, did it hurt more than when Soren came out? Aunt Kazumi said you screamed for hours when he was born. Dad said you didn’t scream at all this time. He said you’re the strongest person in the world.”

Onji closed her eyes again. Aang had said that. At 2am. When he thought she was asleep. Guilt made him honest.

“Strongest person in the world is busy being tired,” Onji said. “So you two are in charge of being quiet until she wakes up. Understood?”

“Yes, Mom,” they chorused. Then immediately started negotiating in whispers that were still too loud.

“Can we touch her hand?”

“No, Dad said no touching.”

“But just one finger?”

Aang mouthed “NO” from across the room, eyes bulging.

The door opened. Su slipped in with a tray. Tea. More hot water. A plate of rice porridge she knew Onji could actually keep down. She took one look at the scene — Aang frozen holding the baby, twins vibrating next to the bed, Onji pale and done — and sighed.“Right,” Su said, bright and brisk. “Twins. Chairs. Now. You can look, you can whisper, you cannot touch until my lady says so. My lord, you’re turning blue. Breathe. The baby breathes when you breathe. She’s not going to fall if you blink.”

Aang inhaled like he’d been holding it since dawn. Sat back on the edge of the bed. Careful. So careful.

Suri climbed into the chair Su pointed at. Soren copied. Both leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring at their sister like she was the 8th wonder.

“She doesn’t have a name,” Suri observed. “Dad, what are you gonna call her?”

Aang looked at Onji. “I… we hadn’t decided. I thought… maybe you’d want to choose? Since you did all the work.”

Onji shook her head against the pillow. Too tired to think. “Not today. You pick something temporary. Something quiet.”

“Quiet,” Aang repeated. Looked down at the baby. She scrunched her nose. Sighed in her sleep. “Lira. Like… lullaby. For now. Until she tells us her real name.”

Soren nodded seriously. “Lira. I like it. Lira means she’ll be sneaky like me.”

“She means air,” Suri corrected. “Dad taught me. From the old language.”

Aang blinked at them. “You remembered that?”

“You talk in your sleep when you’re guilty,” Suri said matter-of-factuality. “We listen.”

The room went quiet. Not the tense quiet from last night. Just… tired quiet. The baby, Lira, shifted and made a tiny mewling sound. Aang froze. Onji opened one eye. Su moved toward the bed.Before anyone could panic, Lira burped. A massive, indignant burp for a 7-hour-old. Then settled.Soren giggled. Clapped a hand over his mouth. “She’s like Dad! Loud!”

Aang deflated. “I am not loud.”

“You’re very loud,” Onji and Su said at the same time.

Aang looked betrayed. Then looked at Lira. Then at Onji, exhausted but awake. Then at his twins, whisper-shouting about whether Lira would be a firebender or airbender.

He was tired. His arm was dead. He’d had 0 sleep. He’d spent 9 years being absent and 7 hours being frantic.

But his wife was alive. His daughter was breathing. His twins were here, fierce and curious and already protective of the new, loud, tiny person.“Okay,” Aang said quietly. “Okay. This is good. We’re… we’re okay.”

Onji watched him. Really watched. The frantic Avatar from 2am was gone. This was just a man. Tired. Trying. Holding their daughter like she mattered. Because she did.Su set the tea on the table. “Drink, my lady. Then sleep. I’ll guard the door. The twins can stay, but if they go above whisper-volume, they’re banished to the courtyard.”

Suri and Soren nodded solemnly. Like they were being entrusted with state secrets.

Onji sipped the tea. It was hot. Not too hot. Su’s work. She looked at Aang, rocking Lira left-left. Looked at Suri copying him in her chair with an invisible baby. Looked at Soren whispering “Typhoon” to the air like he was testing it.

Nine years of arranged marriage. Nine years of distance. Nine years of him being gone when it mattered.But today he was here. Loud, clumsy, overbearing, and here.Onji closed her eyes again. “Su. If he asks me one more question before I sleep, you have permission to hit him.”

Su grinned. “Already loaded the pillow, my lady.”

Aang zipped his lips. Rocked Lira. And for the first time in 9 years, the silence in the room didn’t feel like distance.It felt like a family figuring itself out, one noisy, exhausted dawn at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Day 2. The room still smelled like herbs and milk and a man who’d forgotten how to sleep. Onji hadn’t left the bed. Her body wasn’t ready. Every shift sent a reminder through her ribs that she’d been torn open and put back together. So she stayed propped on pillows, pale and sharp-eyed, watching the chaos she was too tired to stop.

Aang was in charge. On paper. In reality he was in charge of panicking and asking questions.

Lira fussed in the bassinet. Not a full cry yet. A warning. Aang’s head snapped up from where he’d been folding swaddles. He’d been folding them for 20 minutes. They all looked wrong. Su’s folds were sharp, hospital corners. His looked like deflated airbender kites.“Onji?” He crossed the room in 3 steps. “Lira’s making the noise again. Is this the hungry noise or the ‘I’m bored’ noise? She can’t be bored. She’s 36 hours old. But Soren got bored when he was 2 days old. You wrote that in a letter. I have it memorized.”

Onji opened one eye. “Aang. If she’s rooting, she’s hungry. If she’s staring at the ceiling, she’s bored. If she’s red and screaming, she’s gassy. Pick one.”

He stared at Lira. She was rooting. And staring. And starting to go red. “She’s doing all three?”

“Congratulations,” Onji said, voice dry. “You have a gifted child.”

From the corner, Su didn’t look up from sterilizing bottles. “My lord, pick her up first. Then worry. Babies don’t explode if you’re 5 seconds late. They just get loud.”

Aang scooped Lira up. Awkward. Too much arm, not enough support. Lira immediately wailed like he’d insulted her ancestors.The door opened without a knock.

Her eyes went straight to Aang fumbling with Lira. Then to Onji in bed, exhausted. Then back to Aang.

“Aang,” she said. Flat. No title. No respect. “You’re holding her like she’s a sack of rice.”

Aang froze. “Kazumi. You’re back. This is Lira. Our daughter. She’s—”

“I know who she is,” Kazumi cut in. She crossed to the bed, set down a. Perfect. “How’s the pain, sister?”

“Manageable,” Onji said. Her voice softened 20% for Kazumi. Only 20%. “Tired. Annoyed.”Kazumi picked up the cup of water Su had left. Held it to Onji’s lips. “Drink. Slow.” Then she turned. Full glare on Aang. “Let me see.”

Aang, still holding a screaming Lira, didn’t move. “I’ve got it.”

“You don’t,” Kazumi said. She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t have to. “Su. Show him.”

Su wiped her hands, stepped over. “My lord, arms like this. Elbow under her bottom. Other hand supporting the head. Yes. Like that. Now bring her to your chest, skin to skin if you can. She needs your heartbeat. Not your panic.”

Aang adjusted. Lira quieted from screaming to indignant huffing. He looked up, relieved. Kazumi’s expression didn’t change. “Good. You can follow instructions. For 10 seconds. Let’s see if you can last a minute.”

“ Kazumi,” Onji warned, low.“I’m not talking to him,” Kazumi said, fluffing Onji’s blanket. “I’m talking to the air. The air is incompetent.”

Aang’s jaw tightened. “I’m trying.”

“Trying is what you did for 9 years,” Kazumi said, then immediately turned back to Onji. “Eat this. Rice porridge. No spices. Su said your stomach’s sensitive.” She fed Onji one spoonful. Like she was 8 again and Onji had a fever. Gentle. Familiar. Zero patience for anyone else in the room.

Lira started rooting against Aang’s chest. Mouth open, searching. “Onji?” Aang’s voice went high again. “She’s doing the mouth thing. Is that hunger? Do I feed her? How? The midwife showed me but I forgot. There were too many steps. Step 4 was ‘confidence’ and I don’t have that one.”

Onji chewed, swallowed, then sighed. “Su. Instructions.”

Su was already moving. “My lord, sit. Chair. Good. Now unswaddle her top half. Keep her legs warm. Kazumi, can you—”

“I can do better than ‘can you,’” Kazumi said. She took the small bowl of warm milk from Su, tested it on her wrist like she’d done for the twins. “Temperature’s right. Aang, lean back. Support her head on your arm. No, your other arm. Yes. Now bring the bottle to her mouth. Let her latch. Don’t shove it in. She’s not a Fire Nation soldier.”

Aang followed every word. Sweating. Lira latched. Started drinking. Her tiny fist curled around his finger.For 3 minutes, the room was quiet except for the sound of feeding and Kazumi’s spoon against Onji’s bowl.

Then Lira paused. Looked up at Aang with storm-grey eyes. Burped. Milk dribbled down his robe.Aang looked down at the mess. Looked at Onji. Looked at Kazumi, who was already holding out a cloth without him asking.

“She spits up,” Kazumi said, deadpan. “All babies do. Even the ones whose fathers show up for it.”

Aang took the cloth. Wiped Lira’s chin. Wiped his robe. “Thanks.”

Kazumi didn’t answer. She turned back to Onji. “More? Or rest?”

“Rest,” Onji whispered. Eyes closing.Kazumi adjusted the pillow again. Pulled the blanket to Onji’s chin. Then sat in the chair beside the bed. Didn’t leave. Arms crossed. Eyes on Aang.

Aang rocked Lira. Left. Left. Left. He could feel Kazumi’s stare on the back of his head. Judging every rock, every breath, every time Lira squirmed.

“Su,” he whispered, desperate. “Is she supposed to squirm like that after eating?”

Su didn’t even look up from washing bottles. “Yes, my lord. That’s called ‘digesting.’ If she doesn’t squirm, then we worry.”

“Right. Digesting. Good.” He rocked more. Kazumi spoke without looking at him. “Onji. Do you want me to take the night shift? So you can sleep. He can ask Su questions. Su actually knows things.”

Onji didn’t answer. She was already drifting. But her hand found Kazumi’s wrist under the blanket. Squeezed once. Thank you.

Kazumi’s face softened for half a second. Then hardened when she glanced at Aang again.

Day 3 blurred into Day 4. Same pattern. Aang: “Onji, Lira won’t stop crying. I changed her, I fed her, I rocked her, I sang her the airbender lullaby and she cried louder. Is she broken?”

Onji, eyes closed: “She has colic. Suri had it for 3 weeks. Walk. Bounce gently. And stop singing. Your voice is nice but she’s tired.”

Kazumi, feeding Onji broth: “He’s walking in circles like he’s pacing a battlefield. Sit down, Aang. She can feel your anxiety through your arms.”

Aang sat. Lira hiccuped and fell asleep.Day 4 evening. Aang tried to change Lira’s swaddle alone. Su was boiling water. Kazumi was brushing Onji’s hair. He got the fabric twisted. Lira started crying. He called: “Onji? Onji, the fabric’s stuck and I don’t want to pull—”

“Su,” Onji said without opening her eyes.Su was there in 2 seconds. Untangled the cloth, showed Aang the fold again, slower this time. “See? Like wrapping a gift. Not trapping a prisoner.”

Kazumi didn’t say anything. She just watched. Every time Aang fumbled, her eyes narrowed. Every time he listened and got it right, she looked away, like she hated admitting it.

That night, Lira finally slept 3 hours straight. Aang slumped in the chair, asleep with her on his chest. Onji watched him from the bed. Kazumi watched him too.

Kazumi kept watching Aang. Watching his hands, big and clumsy, cradling Lira’s head like it was the world. Watching him twitch awake every time Lira sighed, ready to panic.

“Fine,” Kazumi muttered. “He can stay. For her. Not for him. And if he wakes you up one more time, I’m throwing him out the window. Avatar or not.”

From the chair, Aang mumbled in his sleep: “Left foot… breathing… quiet…”

Kazumi rolled her eyes. Su smothered a laugh behind her hand. Onji closed her eyes and finally, finally slept.

Day 5 morning. Aang decided he was ready for Lira’s first bath. He’d watched Su do it yesterday. He’d memorized the steps. He had confidence now. Step 4.

He filled the basin. Tested the water with his elbow like the midwife showed him. Felt right. Warm.

Kazumi was at the bedside, feeding Onji mashed fruit. She heard the water. Her head snapped up.

“Water temperature,” she said. Not a question.

“Feels good,” Aang said, proud. “Not too hot, not—"

Kazumi was already off the chair, across the room, dipping her wrist in the basin before Aang could stop her. Her face went flat. “This is too hot, Aang. You’d scald her skin. Newborn skin burns at 100 degrees. This is 110 at least.”

Aang blinked. “It felt— I thought—”“You thought,” Kazumi said. She dumped half the basin and refilled it with cool water, tested again. “Wrist. Not elbow. Elbows lie. Wrists don’t. Like this.” She grabbed his hand, pressed his wrist to the water. “Feel that? That’s right. That’s safe.”

Aang swallowed. Nodded. “Right. Wrist. Not elbow.”Su handed him the cloth without comment. Kazumi didn’t leave. She stood there, arms crossed, watching every move while she held Onji’s bowl in one hand.

Aang lowered Lira into the water. She startled, then relaxed. He washed her with trembling fingers. Kazumi’s eyes tracked every swipe of the cloth. Every time his hand shook, her jaw tightened. Every time he paused to check Onji’s face for approval, Kazumi’s glare intensified.

“Rinse her hair last,” Su instructed from the corner. “And support the neck. Always the neck.”

“I know,” Aang whispered. He did. This time. He rinsed. Wrapped Lira in the towel Su warmed by the fire. Held her to his chest.

Kazumi took the bowl from Onji, set it down. Crossed to Aang. Looked at Lira, damp and pink and blinking up at her father with trust she was too new to know she shouldn’t have.Kazumi said nothing. Just took the damp towel from him, handed him a dry one. “Dry behind the ears,” she said, low. “Water sits there. Causes rashes.”

Aang did it. Kazumi watched. Then she stepped back. Arms crossed again. “You didn’t scald her,” she said. It sounded like an insult. Like she was disappointed she couldn’t yell at him.“I didn’t,” Aang agreed. Quiet. No defensiveness. He was too tired for that.Onji watched from the bed. “Kazumi.”

“What.”

“Enough.” One word. Soft, but final.Kazumi’s mouth pressed thin. She looked at Onji. Really looked. At the dark circles, the way she was sitting up for 10 minutes now instead of 2. At the way her eyes kept drifting to Aang, not with love, but with… acknowledgment.Kazumi exhaled through her nose. Sat back down. Picked up the brush. “Fine. He can stay. For her. Not for him.”

Aang didn’t argue. He sat with Lira, drying her behind the ears like Kazumi said. Rocked her. Left. Left. Left.

Su brought tea. The twins were allowed back in after lunch, on the condition they whispered and didn’t touch until Onji said so. Suri immediately started teaching Lira how to “be dramatic” by gasping loudly. Soren taught her how to “look intimidating” by squinting. By Day 6, the pattern was set. Aang would panic. Onji would give one tired sentence of advice from the bed. Su would give directions and step in if needed. Kazumi would sit, feed Onji, fluff pillows, and scrutinize every move Aang made like she was grading him.

He failed sometimes. Forgot the wrist test once and Kazumi dumped the whole basin without asking. Tried to swaddle Lira too tight and Su had to re-do it while Kazumi’s stare could’ve peeled paint. Called for Onji at 3am for the “existential crisis cry” and Kazumi threw a pillow at his head from across the room.

But he learned. By Day 7, he could change a diaper without calling for help. By Day 8, he knew the difference between hungry cry and gassy cry 60% of the time. By Day 9, Lira slept 4 hours straight and Aang didn’t wake Onji once. He just rocked. Left. Left. Left. And whispered “quiet” to himself like a prayer.

That night, Onji was finally allowed to sit up for longer than 10 minutes. Kazumi propped 3 pillows behind her back, perfect angles, and handed her Lira.

Aang froze across the room. Like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to be there.

Onji held Lira against her chest. Looked at Kazumi. Looked at Aang. Then patted the empty space on the bed beside her.Aang stared. “Is… is that for me?”

Kazumi didn’t answer. She just adjusted Onji’s blanket and said, “If you wake her, you’re sleeping on the floor.”Aang sat. Careful. Lira transferred from Onji’s arms to his without crying. He froze again, breathing shallow.Kazumi watched. Then, very quietly, so only Onji could hear: “He’s still an idiot. But he’s your idiot. And he’s her father.”Onji leaned her head back against the pillows. Exhausted. Still healing. Still not in love. But not alone.

She looked at Aang, frantic and clumsy and 9 years late, holding their daughter like she was the only thing in the world. Looked at Kazumi, sharp and protective and loyal to a fault, keeping watch. Looked at Su, bubbly and steady, refilling the tea without being asked.Nine years of distance. Four days of chaos. One week of learning.

The first few days were messy. Loud. Full of tired advice and Su’s directions and Kazumi’s glares.

It's unfortunate that there isn't a permanent way to kill you. The world doesn't need an avatar anymore.

They only need a Firelord like me to rule them!

- Azula

I've read scrolls of fire nation soldiers describing how easy it was to end your people. Only a handful put up a fight.

So weak.

- Admiral Zhao

Chapter 11

The storm did not break with a roar; it began as a sickness in the air, a heavy, sulfurous pressure that crawled into the bedroom and settled between us. I stood by the high window, watching the horizon bruise into a violent, unnatural purple, my knuckles white against the stone sill. Behind me, she was quiet, adjusting the heavy velvet folds of the gown I would wear tomorrow to meet him. Every breath she took felt like an accusation. The air tasted of copper and rain-soaked earth, the distinct flavor of a beautiful thing beginning to rot from the inside out.

I could feel her eyes on the back of my neck that soft, intuitive heat. She knew. She could taste the dishonesty on my skin, could feel the sudden, icy distance in the way I let her fingers linger on my laces. A low, vibrating thunder rattled the glass in its frame, a suffocating vibration that mirrored the panic clawing up my throat. Look at me, I prayed silently, staring at my own ghost-like reflection in the glass. See right through me. See the coward I am and scream at me. I was suffocating under the weight of my own silence, desperately wishing the wind would shatter the windowpane, that the tempest would rip through the chamber and violently unmake the lie I was forcing us both to live.

But the sky only deepened into an impenetrable, claustrophobic grey. A single, jagged line of lightning fractured the sky, silent and permanent, cleaving our world into a before and an after. I turned to look at her in the dimming light, my heart fracturing as I offered her nothing but a cold, distant nod of dismissal. I was drowning her in my silence, letting the incoming deluge wash her away, praying she would catch me in the act of destroying us before the first raindrop even hit the glass.

She did not move…she stood. A few moments passed. I looked back, I didn't speak, didn't question. I just stared at her assessing her. My stance powerful, posture straightened and the air around me harsher than I would allow it to be with anyone I cared for…especially her. I almost crumble when I sense her heartbreak.

“DO NOT SHOW WEAKNESS, YOU ARE HER LADY NOT HER FRIEND. DEMONSTRATE YOUR DOMINANCE, SHE'S A PEASANT, SHE SHOULD FEEL LUCKY THAT SHE WAS FORTUNATE ENOUGH TO BE CHOOSE BY YOU!!” a voice…my voice keeps getting in my head repeating these words to me. It sounds just like me and it words itself just like the but it's not me I would never utter such words nor think that way about those close to me, especially her.

“I am your lady and I have dismissed you…why do you still stand in my presence.” I said trying to grip any form of authority, courage and confidence I could muster but the volume and slight tremble in my voice betrayed me. It shone upon my cowardice, my fear and weak. I felt so betrayed by every fibre of my very being, cursing how much power she had over me without even so much as lifting a finger. If she would ask me to burn everything down for her…I wouldn't have to hesitate and that was the problem.

“I just wanted to thank you, my lady for the letter of recommendation and better…opportunities. I am grateful.” the woman's tone oozes sadness, anguish, torment and most of all bitterness. A rampant, scornful wave of bitterness. Thought the woman's words seemingly where to convey her gratitude at her ladies offer and allowing her to not waste away as a handmaiden. She knew she truth, the real truth.

Silences passed between the women again, this time Onji just decides to turn around and leave the woman to see herself out.

“So you are really going to do it…” the woman just blurted out her voice cracking. Onji doesn't need to inquire what the woman behind her is referring to.

“I am.” Onji answered calm,cool and calculated.

"You won't be happy. And You know it. He will never truly make you happy. You'll just waste away becoming a shell of the women you were meant to be. And you shall see in your final moments that you truly would have accomplished nothing and just let fools and wolves dictate your life and you will go on to hate the cage you have locked yourself in and loathe the life you would have had as you die alone and cold with no one that had truly ever loved you and allowed you to be you.” the woman's words are filled with nothing but love and grief as she stares daggers at Onji with her blood red eyes. The hierarchy of a lady and her handmaiden has already corroded away between the two long before this conversation but those times were sweeter, lovelier and happier.

Onji does not respond for a hot minute. Just lets the words sink in. Every word imprints itself in her mind and she can already envision it. And she accepts her fate.“And you think, you will give me…happiness?” Onji finally builds up the courage to respond. Her tone lacks any warmth; it's now colder than titanic water. The woman is flabbergasted at how she could even question that, how the woman she loved with all of her being can even have such a thought. She is about to answer her when, she's cut off.

“Let me tell you the truth in this moment…you will not be able to give me or provide me this happiness you speak off. I admit what me and you had was rather interesting but that's all it was a momentary and temporary. It's quite common for noble ladies to have such involvements with those below them to pass time, so don't try to put importance into yourself. You are nothing special and are as replaceable as the maid next to you. What was between was all in casual fun.” Onji says behind a mask of indifference not dare to look directly at the woman as she knows it would instantly crumble.

Silence is what follows again.

Until the woman's laugh feels the entire room. It is not pleasant. It is broken, laughing at this entire situation. “Is that the best you can do? Come on Onji I have heard you do far better than that. I have given you a chance to speak so please respect my turn to speak. You are lying not only to me and everyone around you but you are most especially lying to yourself. Telling yourself this over and over in hopes you believe it and can live with what decision you have chosen to stand by. And that has always been my favourite thing about you, your tenacious, strong willed, stubborn and resilient. I have always admired that about you…it is part of the reason why I love you so much and made me wonder what the girl behind all of that was like. You have taken your decision and I respect you for sticking by it. But please don't disrespect our love and call it casual…it is everything but casual or a fling. If you want to break it up just say it straight and forward and do not try to tell me indirectly. I have pride and would never beg to stay where I am not needed. I won't grovel.”

“I will most certainly not, and I am not hurt that you are ending it with me. I am just hurt that you could not have the courage and decency to tell me directly. To sit down with me and talk to me. Instead you have chosen to treat me like I am some stray dog that you can call and kick as you please, my lady. You are treating me as if you weren't the one who had begged me and cried in my arms for me to not leave you. I am hurt that you dared to treat two years of love, memories and passion like it's what under the bridge.”

“You don't need to remind me that I am below you, lady Onji I have never forgotten nor doubted it. I know my position in society and you can't shame me for it. I just want you to know that the path you have chosen for yourself will never truly fulfill you. Tomorrow you will put on that band on your hand ceiling securing your family and father's legacy but you will only bind yourself to nothingness. You'll stay up at nights looking at that band and you'll feel nothing but emptiness.”

“You think that sending me away will do you any good. But I promise I will only haunt you and I will be nothing more than a figment of your imagination.” the woman finally airs all her griviences out her tone in the entirety of her speech was hollow and agonizing. She waits for Onji's response and once again she's meet by silence.

She bows, one last time. “Thank you for the opportunity, lady Onji. I promise to work hard to not disappoint you and your family name.” she raises her head and grabs the document on the side table and turns to leave the room. Stopping at the door to to look back at her former lover and leaving her with just two words before closing the door, “Good luck!”

A few more moments pass before Onji crumbles down to the floor and breaks down to sobs. Grateful that the storm outside carried one helping her mask her cries with each roar from the sky.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The storm continues to roar through the sky as Onji's grip on the sheet under her tightens, as sweat drips down her entire body, pain rips throughout her body threating to split her in half and her cries are drowned out by the Sky's stormy roars as lighting cracks through the sky as if gods above will jump out any moment.

“Push, my lady. You are almost there! Just a little more and it will all be over!” the midwife encourages her to give it her all.

Onji doesn't know if she can continue anymore, she has lost count of how many times the midwife has been feeding her these words. She may has lost count but her body hasn't, but it continues to push. Su has placed her head in between her thighs as she holds a damp cloth on to her ladies forehead, motivating her to not give up. She doesn't know how long she has been on this mattresses and how long she has been pushing but she was starting to feel her body starting to quit on her.

The storm outside releases a new wave of dangerous winds, heavy rains and wild lighting strikes, that mask most of Onji's blood curling screams.

This goes on for a few more moments until finally a high pitched, unapologetic cry is heard through out the room and the storm outside finally clears up.

The crying stopped.

Aang collapsed forward like someone cut his strings. The room still smelled like copper and boiled herbs, but the screaming was done. Thank the spirits.

He looked up at Onji. She lay against the pillows, pale and sweaty, staring at the ceiling like it owed her money. Classic Onji.

“Daughter,” the midwife said, wrapping the baby and dropping her into Aang’s arms like she was handing him a live coal. “Strong and adorable.”

Aang clutched the baby to his chest and shuffled to the bed on his knees. He’d practiced this. Eye level. Gentle voice. No airbending. “Onji. Hey. You did it. You’re amazing. You’re literally the strongest person…”

“Hot towel, my lord.” Su appeared at his elbow like she’d been hiding under the bed. She thrust a steaming cloth at him. It was too hot. It was always too hot when she did it. “For her forehead. Don’t burn her. She’s fragile now.”

Aang took it carefully. “I know how to…”

“You’re holding the baby wrong,” Su said, already adjusting the blanket around the newborn without asking. “Her head needs support. See? Like this. Not like you’re carrying a sack of rice.”

“I’m the Avatar and her father, Su.”

“And I’m her loyal handmaiden of nine years,” Su said brightly, then turned back to Onji. “My lady, shall I fetch the tonic? Or would you prefer Lord Avatar’s breathing exercises to soothe the shaking? He’s very good at those. Very… windy.”

Aang’s eye twitched. “I’m just trying to help, my wife.”

“I know, my lord,” Su said with the kind of smile that meant she absolutely did not know and also thought he was terrible at it. “It’s just, I’ve been holding cold cloths since before you learned her tea order. Takes practice. Would you like a demonstration?”

Aang reached for Onji’s hand. Su reached for it at the same time. Their fingers bumped.

“Sorry,” Aang said.

“No, my apologies, my lord,” Su said, but she didn’t let go. She just started patting Onji’s hand with the cloth while Aang was still holding it. Like she was giving him a hand massage he didn’t ask for. “See? Gentle circles. Not squeezing. You’re cutting off circulation.”

“I’m not…”

“You are, my lord. Three squeezes per second. I counted.”Onji stared at the ceiling. Didn’t laugh. Didn’t stop them. Just let her husband and her handmaiden bicker over her hand like it was a contested piece of laundry.

Aang gave up and kissed her knuckles instead. “I’m so proud of you, Onji. You’re incredible. You did this for our family. I’m here. I’ll always…”

“Tea!” Su announced, suddenly appearing with a cup she absolutely did not have 2 seconds ago effectively cutting off Aang. “Chamomile. No honey, because my lady said last Tuesday honey makes her tongue feel ‘fuzzy.’ I wrote it down. In a book. A very important book.”

She shoved it toward Aang’s free hand. “Hold this. Don’t spill. If you spill, the carpet screams.”

Aang took the tea. Stared at it. Stared at Su. Stared at Onji, who still hadn’t blinked.He was trying to be a husband. Su was acting like he was a servant for her to boss around.

Chapter 9

Aang watched Onji pour his tea. The steam curled up between them, slow and steady. The way her wrist turned, the quiet focus on her face.

Katara.

A name that has been ringing in his head for a while now…a figure he could not forget about. She was starting to morph into his life invading his mind, his routine, his life, his…marriage. And everytime he reminds himself she is not here and hasn't been for a while. She doesn't even check up on him but can he blame her when he has not reached out either. But he wasn't the one who threw away all those years together,all his care,all his love,all his vulnerability,all those memories she did! Not him!

The scent of ginger, rosemary and… jasmine lingered in the room and his entire senses took it in and for a heartbeat he was 19 again, in a tent in the South Pole, Katara pouring tea after a long day of bending practice. She’d looked up and laughed at something he said. Her eyes crinkled at the corners.

Guilt stabbed through him. Sharp. Ugly.

He forced his eyes back to Onji. Onji was here. Onji didn’t leave. Onji built him a home. Onji stayed up with him, brought him tea, managed the estate so he didn’t have to. Katara fought beside him, was what his childhood self wanted, what he thought he needed and in the end… she left. He did not leave she did. Onji… stayed for him.

“Thank you,” he said. And meant it. Meant it more than he should.

Onji nodded, polite. “Of course, my lord.”

“My husband,” he corrected softly. Testing the word. Liking how it sounded when she was the one saying it without him asking. “Say husband.”

Onji’s fingers paused on the teapot for half a second. Then she smiled. Small. Regal. “Of course, husband.”

The word landed warm in Aang’s chest. He told himself it was love. That this — her steady hands, her quiet presence, the way the estate ran smooth because she was in it — this was what love felt like when it wasn’t on the run.

“Katara was water. Refreshing and drowning him. Onji was fire. Warm and lighting his path. One flooded and changed with the tides. The other consumed and remained constant. One needed air…the other did. Plus air always made fire burn greater.” his mind had been repeating these words over and over again until he'd finally believe them.

He reached out and covered her hand where it rested on the table. Not demanding. Just… holding. Relishing the contact. Relishing that she didn’t pull away. Relishing that she was “his”.

“Stay,” he said. Soft. Almost a plea he didn’t recognize in himself. “Just… stay like this a little longer.”

Onji didn’t answer. She just let him hold her hand. Sitting next to him as he pulled her closer and started to explain the contents of the scroll in his hand to her like she doesn't know how it all works. Her intelligence almost feels insulted but doesn't act on it.

Day Four

Morning letters came with the courier. Three of them. Eastern Temple grain shortage. Northern acolytes requesting new prayer mats. The headmistress at Suri’s school asking about her mother’s signature on a permission slip.

Onji handled them at the low table while Aang pretended to read. She wrote fast, neat, decisive. No hesitation. This was her work. She’d been doing it for eight years while he was “busy saving the world.”

Aang watched her seal the last letter with wax. Her focus was total. Lips pressed, brow faintly furrowed. She looked nothing like Katara. Katara would’ve teased him while writing. Onji didn’t tease. She handled.

When she stood, one hand braced on her lower back for half a second before she smoothed her robes. Noble wives didn’t show strain. “Rest,” Aang said before she could move to the kitchen.

“I’m not tired,” she said. Lie. The third one today.

Aang stood and took the stack of letters from her hand. Their fingers brushed. She didn’t pull back. He didn’t let go fast. He liked the weight of the paper. Proof she trusted him enough to let him hold her work. “I can send these,” he said. Quiet.

Onji blinked. Surprised. “You don’t have to, husband.” The word. He made her say it. And she did. And he relished in it. It felt like she was choosing him. Not duty. Him.

He sent the letters. Felt useful. Felt needed.

Day Five

Rain. The estate smelled like wet stone and wood.

Onji moved through the halls checking for leaks. Seven months pregnant and she still climbed the small ladder to inspect the rafters. Aang found her there, sleeves pushed up, hair damp from a drip she missed. “Get down,” he said.

“I’m nearly finished,” she answered. Calm. Competent. “If the archive room floods, the children lose their history.”

Aang caught the ladder before she could descend. Held it steady. When she came down, her robes clung to her belly and her cheeks were flushed from exertion. She looked… capable. Built. The word he’d used to push her away years ago. Now “built” meant she didn't break.

She reached for a rag. He caught her wrist. Light. “You’ll catch cold,” he said. “Let the servants do it.”

“They’re entertaining the children,” she said. Then, softer: “I’m used to it, husband.” Husband. She said it without him asking this time.

Aang’s chest tightened. He pulled her away from the draft and draped his own cloak over her shoulders. His hands lingered. Adjusting it. Fingers brushing her collarbone. She stood still. Allowed it.

He told himself it was concern. It was. It was also relishing. Relishing that she let him fuss. Katara would’ve laughed and shoved him off.

Onji let him care.

For a second, steam from her damp hair reminded him of Katara after sparring. Wet, laughing, alive.

Guilt hit like a stone. Aang stepped back fast. “I’ll have someone bring tea,” he said, voice too rough.

Onji nodded. “Yes, husband.” He walked away faster than he needed to. Panic love said: Stay. She's here. She won't leave like she did.

Day Six

Dinner again. Just them. The children ate with the servants early. “So you and your mother can talk,” Su had said, eyes sharp.

Onji served him first. Always. Rice, then vegetables, then the fish he liked. She remembered. Of course she remembered. She’d been memorizing him for eight years. She poured his tea. Wrist tilted. Steam rose. Katara.

Aang’s chopsticks froze halfway to his bowl. Same angle. Same quiet. Same…

No. He set the chopsticks down and picked up the cup instead. Drank. Let the heat burn his tongue. Ground himself in Onji. Onji was here. Onji stayed.

“You’re quiet,” Onji said. Not accusation. Observation.

“Just thinking,” Aang said. Then, because he wanted to hear it again: “Say my name.”

Onji’s eyes flicked up. Confusion, then understanding. Noble wives didn’t use names casually. Names were intimacy.

“Aang,” she said. Soft. Careful. Like testing a word in a foreign language.

He exhaled. Sounded like relief. “Again.”

“Aang.”

He smiled. Small. Real. “You make this place feel like home.”

Onji didn’t answer. She just refilled his cup. But her hand stayed near his for a second longer than necessary. Not touch. Proximity. Wives stayed close.

Aang took it as affection. He relished in it.

Day Seven

Night. Lamp low. Scrolls abandoned.

Onji fell asleep in the chair again. Three nights in a row now. She’d claim it was “light rest.” Aang knew better. She was exhausted from running an estate + pregnancy + playing perfect wife.

He watched her sleep. The way her mouth relaxed when she wasn’t performing. The way one hand rested on her belly. Protective. Fierce. That was the Onji he never saw when he was avoiding her. The mother. The builder.

He stood and crossed to her. Draped the Fire Nation blanket over her shoulders. His hand came to rest on her shoulder. Thumb brushed once, twice. Testing. She leaned into it in her sleep. Just a fraction. Acceptance.

Aang sat on the edge of the desk beside her. Close enough that her breathing touched his knee. “This is nice,” he whispered. To her. To himself. “Quiet. Safe. You… you make it nice, Onji.” He thought he saw her smile in her sleep. Probably imagined it. But he chose to believe it. Panic was loud tonight. She’s steady. She’s constant. She won’t leave. This is love. This has to be love.

Katara’s laugh echoed once in the back of his mind. Distant. Fading. Guilt twisted.

Aang pressed his forehead to his knuckles for a breath, then straightened. Looked at Onji again. No. Onji was here. Onji chose to stay. Onji loved him. Had to. Why else would she do all this? He stayed until dawn. Hand on her shoulder. Relishing the warmth. Mistaking duty for devotion.

When Onji woke, he was already at his desk. Tea steaming. Her blanket folded neatly beside him. Like nothing happened.

“Good morning, husband,” she said. Perfect. Polite.

“Morning,” Aang answered. And meant it.

The estate was quiet. The letters would come. The children would laugh. And Aang would keep relishing these moments. Calling them love.