On the backside of the Patola Mountain Range lies one of the great wonders of the world. The final peaks of the soaring mountains shoot high, high in the sky, arranged in a rough circle, before plunging suddenly downward in dizzying drops, then leveling out to a rich, fertile valley. The tall trees of the sheltered vale are flush with songbirds, lemurs, great herds of flying bison, and myriad other sorts of creatures that live in the air. At the center of the bowl lies a cool, still lake with crystal clear water that from above acts as a mirror, reflecting the majesty of the sky. The diameter of the enclosing circle of mountains spans fifty miles; the least of the peaks thrusts three miles into the air; at sunset, the snow-clad summits and the walls of the natural bowl shine like diamonds from crystal deposits embedded within them. But, to the Air Nomads, the most incredible feature is the wind.

The air currents that whip powerfully over the heights and whistle through clefts in the walls are a playground for airbenders of any age and level of mastery. Swirling gusts of air twist and dance around one another like the currents of an ocean, sometimes shooting vertically upward along the cliff face, sometimes lazily meandering around the bowl, sometimes plummeting violently through the sky to the treetops far below, providing a paradise in which the denizens of the Southern Air Temple train and play during all hours of the day. The name of this wonder is, aptly enough, the Sea of Wind.

It is Gyatso's favorite place in the entire world.

Gyatso looks out over the open sky beneath him, feeling the wind caress him like a lover. It clothes him under his soft robes, whispering against his body from the soles of his feet to the crown of his shaven head. With each breath he takes, he can feel the entire world in his lungs, and he perceives himself both huge and infinitesimal in the same instant. Normally, he would revel in the feeling, would shout with joy, leaping from a mountain top into the sky and swirling it around him, riding the currents of air as familiarly as the bison he has loved for the majority of his life. But not today. Today he has come to pray.

He sighs, folds his body into the comfortingly familiar meditative pose he has known almost since the day of his birth, closes his eyes, and begins.

The most essential thing about meditation is the breathing. Every aspect of the spiritually centering necessity builds upon it. Deep, slow breaths, cycling in through the nose and out through the mouth. It is practically the first thing taught to young airbender novices. Naturally, the young ones almost invariably experience intense frustration when informed they must practice breathing. It is one of the few things five and six-year-olds feel they have mastered. This frustration combined with the natural hyperactivity present in almost every airbender child means that early lessons tend to be rather, well… unfocused. But, knowing well the essentiality of it, the masters patiently persevere until every novice has mastered the skill, despite the difficulty. Air is the element of freedom, but freedom without discipline is simply chaos.

Once one has learned how to breathe properly, one is essentially ready to begin meditation. However, in no way does proper breath control suddenly transform novices into masters. Cultivation of focus is a lifelong learning activity; there is no total master of meditative focus. One simply gets better with practice. Of course, having been practicing for the better part of a century, Gyatso reckons he is pretty good at it.

Instead of pondering the great secrets of the Universe, or probing at the depths of the mind and heart, or thinking of nothing in particular and simply relishing the feeling of openness that surrounds him, Gyatso calls out to the spirits regarding one, highly specific matter: Aang.

He waits for an indeterminable length of time, pleading with the spirits to show him one hint, one brief glimpse regarding the safety and location of his beloved pupil. He stretches his awareness out to the endless circles of the wind, crying out his grief and his anguish and his worry and most of all his love, and listens for any answering call, any sign. But, the answer this day is the same answer he has received every day since Aang's disappearance: deafening, blinding silence.

Gyatso is horribly aware of the implications. The lack of response means one thing: Aang is, somehow, utterly beyond the reach of the all-whelming Sky. After weeks of meditation, the other elders have come to the most obvious conclusion: Aang is dead. The Air Nomad's last hope against the mounting threat of Fire is gone; perhaps lying consumed in the belly of some beast or swallowed up in the depths of the sea.

Gyatso cannot accept it. So he climbs this mountain every day, and meditates until his body aches and his heart breaks.

With a heavy heart, Gyatso wearily stands, leaning on his glider as a walking stick. He looks into the sky once more with grief; then, he turns and jumps out into open air and, extending his glider with a master's grace, flies back to the temple.

Author's Note: This is the first fanfiction I've ever published. I have been sitting on this for a while, because I did not want to post such a short chapter. In my mind, this work should be the story of the genocide of the Air Nomads. But I have never written enough in that direction since the brief spurt of writing that got me started to justify indicating that this story will ever be anything more than what is above. However, I think this section works well as a one-shot. If I ever work on this more, I'll change the name and the description appropriately. But for now, this is all there is. I hope you liked it.