A/N: PLEASE NOTE—TRIGGER WARNING. This story includes a miscarriage. It does not describe said miscarriage, and mainly focuses on characters' reactions, but if you are afraid this may hit a bit too close to home, I would suggest that you do not read it.

With that said, this is what I decided to do instead of studying for finals. I apologize if the language is a bit difficult; I will spare you whatever excuses I might have for its every fault and allow you to form your own opinion, dear readers. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated. I am a developing writer, and need input to foster my growth! Imagine a plant withering and dying, if you will. (Hooray for emotional blackmail.)

DISCLAIMER: I am neither clever enough nor awesome enough (nor old enough, hah) to place any claim on Avatar: the Last Airbender. Do not sue me, for I am poor. Try again when I am old enough to work more than ten hours a week at a minimum wage job—though it would be preferable if you did not!

Aang briefly wondered if such a favorable term as "vacation" could be used to describe having been unceremoniously relieved of his current duty, supposedly out of fear for his somehow offending a group of foreign dignitaries with his higher level of education. He spent some time appreciating how amusing the entire incident had been, even though he was long accustomed to court flattery. He still had yet to recover from their plans of a great statue in his likeness! It was another item on his list of things he was to put a stop to.

It was not that he resented leaving the Fire Nation. No, he had long desired a break from political involvement. He only wished they would not disguise his dismissal with so many falsities—

He had long observed how words could twist and bend about, building upon themselves until fallacies were overlapped with more words—more faulted arguments, more honeyed phrases and more evasions—winding about until the initial matter was lost sight of, if not lost entirely. Precious few ever endeavored to remove the many layers of corruption, and Aang could not find it within himself to blame them.

He shook his head, clearing it of embittered thoughts.

Regardless of how brief his leave was sure to be, Aang intended to take full advantage of it. He had not seen his youngest son, or his youngest's wife, since nearly half a year prior.

His only regret was that Katara's level of education had not been deemed to be so insulting as had his own.

Eyes having been closed, Aang realized his proximity to his destination when he breathed the air of the Patola Mountains. Bliss curled upon his lip, and his long-held companion groaned in content.

He lived in the hope that the recognition that flooded him so whenever he approached his childhood home would never leave him, despite the occasional twinge of pain at knowing the very different circumstances under which he had once traveled.

—

—

"Father!" cried Tenzin in surprise, betraying his displeasure in an uncharacteristic display of fervent inspiration.

"I see that you are glad of my presence," Aang jested, grinning, in order to hide his—as of yet—seemingly unfounded concern, eyebrow cocked in gentle rebuke.

Tenzin fidgeted slightly in contrition. "You have come at a time that is most—" he paused, brows knitting almost imperceptibly. Before Aang had time to consider his son's behavior, an anguished cry rang out among the towers, as though in premature answer to Aang's mental catechization. Tenzin grimaced.

"—Inopportune."

Aang's eyes widened. "My dear daughter-in-law? Pema?" He reckoned briefly, his thoughts a-whir as he recalled the moon's cycle, "—but–but was not she due for months yet?" he asked frantically.

Tenzin appeared deeply troubled, but managed a strangled "Yes," as his carefully-schooled features faltered, stricken by grief. Aang suffered a pang of sorrow and pity as he felt the bereavement of his youngest son.

It was sharp behind his eyes, tight and bitter in his throat.

With a determinedness that poorly reflected his emotional state, Aang placed an arm across Tenzin's shoulders, and he guided them in the first steps to Pema's chambers. They trudged, as one, gait weary, with one leaned upon the other, the weight of countless other burdens displacing their steps. Haunted wails sounded around them, and with each echo was the imagined distinction of a daughter from a wife, from a woman that would, as of yet, be denied motherhood—the lines blurring, then turning in upon themselves and separating, then blurring once more.

Tenzin, at one point, succumbed to his dolor, the lines blurring, sharpening, blurring—dampening Aang's tunic. His steps became softer; Aang's, heavier.

—

—

All in company knew what somber speech the hermit would give, so he was not forthcoming. He glanced briefly in Tenzin's eyes, and in that moment, Tenzin knew this man's level of empathy.

The stranger, the unknown elder who dwelled in the lesser sanctuary over the hill, had known death, just as had Tenzin's father—immeasurably more so than had Tenzin.

However, one could not so simply quantify suffering.

Tenzin bowed his head in a gesture of veneration, and the hermit responded accordingly; and then he was gone, the sense of the moment leaving with him—the passion, the mutual commiseration, the connection to a time before the sacred ground upon which they stood had been decimated, all vanishing with a devastating, yet simple, finality.

The line of his lip quivered, wavering between a mirthless smile and a miserable frown. His brow twitched; his shoulders shook.

Clutching to his wife, Tenzin wept.

—

—

A single thought occupied Aang and Tenzin; and might have had Pema, if exhaustion had not spirited her troubled mind to sleep and despondency.

The same force that spurred trees to rise, then drop their leaves; the sun to climb and then surrender to moon; the ocean's tide to rise, then fall; kingdoms to crumble; lives to give way and better those following until they were forgotten—worked upon them all. The Spirits turned the eternal wheel of birth, death, and rebirth; the pendulum swung, still.

The son of Tenzin and Pema would be reborn.

It was comfort in a world where some were born blessed and others, wretched—and others, withal, without breath.