Chapter Four: Tattoo
The subtle rejuvenation that washed over the small band of travelers on that third afternoon was welcome and refreshing. It was something natural and primal, a feeling that came from the beginning of time and ran through the blood of generations. He tried to find a word for it. Freedom? Anticipation? Relief? He couldn't name it, but knew it only as feeling that was familiar. It was familiar to any nomad, and suddenly Aang realized exactly what he, Katara, and Sokka were. Nomads – and maybe the only ones in the world.
Laying on his back with Momo curled contently on his stomach, Aang watched the few wispy clouds pass slowly above him. Besides the steady breath of rushing wind, the world was silent. Sokka, he knew, was at the reins and Katara must have fallen asleep because she hadn't been over to check on him in quite a while. She had set up a doubled over sleeping bag as a prop for his still swollen ankle, and made a point of readjusting it and offering him another drink, another pillow, another blanket every few minutes. Though he hated to be a burden, Aang didn't mind her extra attention.
He glanced over the small mound of white fur, purring softly and tickling his belly, and examined his raised foot. The swelling had gone down considerably, and the sickly purple color had all but vanished, but it was still too painful to move or even wear a shoe. Bandages around his ankle kept the joint from moving, but his toes were getting cold. Above the cloth peeked the tip of a blue arrow.
Aang could remember the day he received his first tattoos. Even after a hundred years, the memory remained clear. He imagined that when he was very old – too old to walk on his own, or feed himself, or remember his friends' names, or even his own name – he would remember that day. The pungent scent of incense, the murmuring of prayers and chants, the nervous tremble in his stomach. The memory would stay with him until he died, like the story in his skin.
The entire process had taken one excruciating month. Suddenly, Aang was in his room at the temple, lathered in salve and barely able to move as his friends crowded around his bed.
Did it hurt? they wanted to know.
"Of course it hurt."
Did you cry?
"Did I cry?" he echoed wryly, and laughed. He laughed because the truth was that he had cried – a lot – but they didn't need to know that.
Aang sighed. He had been happy to show off his tattoo then. Now there were times when he would give anything to hide it. Then it had set him apart as different from his young group of friends. Now it separated him from the world.
He took a deep breath and tried to empty his mind of dispiriting thoughts. He'd had more than enough time to think during the three days they were camped, but he hadn't come to any satisfying conclusions. Despite his efforts, Aang couldn't keep his mind from wandering back to that night, searching for answers.
Of course, it hadn't been the first time in his experience that someone had been inhospitable. He could recall a few instances, while traveling with his friends from temple, when they were forced to run in the rain from one house to the next before they found someone kind enough to share their roof for the night. Other times people would eagerly invite them in to eat or sleep when the weather was fair, beckoning them with frantic waves as they flew overhead. There was no telling what sort of people they would stumble upon. So it wasn't the old innkeeper's refusal that bothered Aang.
What bothered him most was her eyes. Her eyes had helda hatred that had, for a moment, crippled him more than his wounded ankle. And there was something else he saw there. Fear. He almost laughed. Why would anyone be afraid of him – a big-eared, goofy, twelve-year-old kid?
A big-eared, goofy, twelve-year-old kid with a giant arrow carved into his forehead like a glaring sign that read, "Here he is, everyone! Here's the kid you've been waiting for!"
The tattoo meant a lot to him, even more now than when he first received it. And, he realized, it meant a lot to everyone else, too.
If there were any answers, Aang doubted he would find them. In the air now, as in the camp, there seemed to be some unspoken pact that none of them would speak of that night anymore. Or, at least, not for now. They had other things to deal with, like saving the world. There was no time scrutinize the past. For three days they did a good job ignoring the little town, just out of reach, as Aang's wound's refused to heal, as they ran out of food. As far as they were concerned, it didn't exist; they would get what they needed someplace else. And now they were leaving, on their way to "someplace else," and they would move on from there, and they would keep going.
Momo stirred on his stomach and shifted to a more comfortable position. Again, Aang turned his attention to his elevated foot. As long as he was careful, Katara had reassured him, and didn't walk on it for a while, it would heal. He hoped that would be soon, because he was getting tired of hopping around on one foot.
Half hidden by the bandages, the blue arrow pointed steadily upward to an even bluer sky.
Disclaimer: I don't own Avatar, and can't think of a clever way to say it.
Note: That's all folks! Thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. A few people mentioned that Aang's tattoo may not be manmade, and you may be right, but for the sake of this story, it is. To whirleeg, Phantomhobbitses, NightSkye 18, 1bzwriter, Seriously Yours, 1225491, and Kishi - thanks for the self-esteem boost.
- effie's head