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Time.

What a ridiculous notion. Koh didn't think he even had a face to express how laughable it really was. But humans not only lived by it—they fought for it. They fought over it, each person grasping for fleeting moments like raindrops in a parched desert. They anticipated the good times, they looked back on the old ones, and in their minds, there was always time enough to do what they needed to do, until there was no time left at all.

Koh supposed that strange definition—of time as a finite resource—came about because humans could not separate their existence from their own perception of time. It moved differently for them depending on their moods, sometimes as quick as arrows, sometimes as slow as mountains. But it always moved forward.

That wasn't time. The world existed upon a circle, so wide that everyone who ran it looked ahead to see only a straight line. Thus they didn't see that this rock was one they had seen before, when younger feet made the journey. They didn't realize how many infinite sunsets had already plunged them into night. They walked, with the assumption that when they rested, they would have reached their destination.

Not knowing that there never could be one.

Koh knew. So it was with a mixture of amusement and pity that he watched the mortals dance through their routines, as if they had never danced through them before. They sang songs of lies, of 'past,' 'present,' and 'future,' and kept beat with the stores of their dwindling years. In return, they gained appreciation of their brief existences, hoping that this one insignificant life might make a change in the circle they didn't even know they followed.

Insignificant.

Koh, however, did have a past. Not a beginning, not an ending—but simply a past. His existence was defined by 'being' and 'not being.' Koh had always been, and he knew he always would be. But there was a time when he had not been in a cave, and there was a time when he had not been able to save himself, even against a mere mortal. To him, these seemed like bumps that moved the circle—moments that would not come again, and the only ways in which he could mark the passage of his own 'time.'

Such as the eighth time the Avatar visited him, a mere airbender child who did not remember the times before, as if this instance were unique. As if no other Avatar had thought to solicit the knowledge Koh had gained simply by remembering. He represented the last of his kind, and heralded the destruction of the Balance as both man and spirit knew it. Time would continue, of course—Koh would continue to be, but the circle would not quite be the same in its next revolution.

Koh cherished those moments.

Of course, the events that led up to this change were merely the successors of a long chain of the same events. Genocide of the Air Temples, a war between the Fire Nation and Water Tribes—they had all had their iterations, until even Koh with his timeless memory could not differentiate between them.

One, however, did stand out. It was one event that, much like the last airbender, marked a change in Koh's existence. When a great war between the nations spawned an Avatar who would make the sixth visit to Koh's lair. And when Koh so narrowly avoided ceasing 'to be' and swiftly becoming 'had been.'

It began with a particular year, like a thousand other years, that saw the death of a certain community. And this particular war, like a hundred other great wars, began with one arrogant Fire Prince who wanted too much.

—

Yang Chong Year of the Crab-Rabbit, Sixth Month

897 years before the Air Nomad Genocide

997 years before the defeat of Fire Lord Ozai

—

The scene Yojing walked in on was chaotic—more chaotic than it had been even in the previous year, when news of Rajio Bay reached them. The low-set table of the Fire Palace council room was practically ignored, nearly every man on his feet, be he an aged general or a lowly attendant. The red lanterns in the wall reflected off faces that sweated more out of panic than heat, as all of those in attendance screamed at each other.

"What proof do they have?" That man was dressed in the copper-studded mantle of a naval officer, though Yojing didn't know his name. Yojing didn't know most of these men's names, in fact, as he rarely ever attended council meetings. He was too young and too unimportant of a Fire Sage, his brown hair contrasted with their graying temples.

"Armor was everywhere, Samnang," another man shouted, apparently either a peer or a superior. Or perhaps the conversation had degraded to the point where there was no formality anymore. "Naval armor. Not to mention the witnesses-"

"A lie!" Lieutenant-Colonel Zhen snarled savagely. Aside from Yojing, he was the youngest man in that room, his sideburns engulfing half his cheeks. And aside from the Fire Lord, he was the only one seated. His skin tinged with a color just shy of purple, he gripped the table as if he could snap the wood. "There were no witnesses. All reports listed them as dead. The Water Tribe is lying to us!"

"What's going on?" Yojing whispered, though he hardly expected the Great Sage to hear him. They both stood just inside the curtained door, spectators to some violent drama that had been playing long before they arrived.

The Great Sage Wuzhong leaned near him, the red lamps reflecting in eyes that had looked incredibly sad for most of their journey to the Palace. "The Western Air Temple has been massacred." He spoke in a murmur, his voice nearly swallowed by the cacophony, and Yojing for a moment thought he'd misheard.

"The Air Temple?" No. That made no sense. He stared at Wuzhong as if there'd been a mistake. Wuzhong simply stared back. "But…how…?"

A middle-aged, unnamed man on the Fire Lord's left interrupted before he could answer. "Those reports were unconfirmed, Lieutenant-Colonel, and all new reports from that region are conflicting. We think the novices may have survived."

That renewed the clamor of the large, red room, the twenty or so men shouting to be heard over each other.

"We're listening to the word of twelve-year-old girls?"

"No one authorized an attack! His Lordship authorized no attack!"

"Where were your men, Commander Izumo? Weren't they the ones organizing the barricade?"

The barricade, yes. Put in place around the Cloudless Isles to isolate the Air Temple. To seal in the exiled Fire Prince. Again, Yojing bowed his head close to Wuzhong, certain to maintain a level of reverence as he spoke. "If the Air Nuns are dead, then what about Prince Zenshi?"

Wuzhong's expression grew more somber, if such was possible. "The Fire Prince has not yet been found. Nor the Water Tribe Princess."

Zenshi. The entire reason this war was started. No, that wasn't true, and Yojing had to chastise himself for being foolish. Zenshi was simply the excuse they all used to keep from blaming themselves. But now he was gone, and with him their scapegoat. Perhaps that was why the men fought so angrily.

Yojing's eyes were drawn to Fire Lord Kapil, who sat at the head of the table, his gaze on the wood in front of him as if he didn't hear a word of the bickering. He looked much older than he had a couple of years ago, the wrinkles around his mouth pronounced, eyes sunken under a brow that had always been heavy, but even more so now. The life had been slowly sucked out of him, leaving nothing behind but a beaten man.

Kapil might have been the one to banish his own child for crimes against the Fire Nation, but he had done that as Fire Lord. As a father, he had lost his dearest son. Now, these men arguing over who to blame for the murder of a hundred women didn't realize that their leader was dwelling silently on the fate of one boy.

"They're going to bring Sidhari into this." Zhen nearly spat the Avatar's name, and the noise died down enough for him to be heard. "The Water Tribe planned this so she'd finally have to intervene."

"Zhen, you're being ludicrous," a general protested, shaking his gray, top-knotted head. "The Water Tribe would not slaughter an entire Temple to make the Avatar act."

"The Fire Nation would not slaughter an entire Temple to do away with one arrogant former-Prince!" That caused another shouting match, and Yojing could see Kapil wince in pain. He had other sons—Pran, merely a boy, and Kanzagan, just a baby—but none of that mattered. Zenshi was his eldest. And though Yojing was only twenty-nine, not yet with children of his own, he suspected he knew how strong the bond was between a father and his oldest son.

"Enough!" Kapil's voice boomed over the argument, and suddenly, all chatter ceased in the face of his famous temper. He rose now to his knees, his face darkening as he pressed the knuckles of his fists into the table. "I don't care who did or did not do this. Be it us, the Water Tribe, or the spirits themselves. The fact is, it's done and we are being blamed. So I don't want to hear you fight over who is to take responsibility. I want you to tell me what we are going to do to save this nation when—no, not 'if'—when Sidhari intervenes!"

That demand was met with perfect silence, the men finally finding the will to seat themselves on their crimson cushions once more. Perhaps sensing that if they stood, they might be called on for a solution. But Kapil didn't seem bothered by their inability to answer, as if the command were simply to give him an outlet for his own emotions.

When his color had returned to a more normal shade, he spoke again, his voice softer. "We will offer aid to the Air Nomads, but we will not go near the Western Temple. Whatever we do there will be seen as an attempt to cover something up. Sidhari will likely call a council, and so I want all diplomatic fleets mobilized. I even want some of the warships converted for that purpose. There should be a representative in every country, every region, trying to sway people to our side. And I want this done immediately."

Finally, his eyes rested on Wuzhong, and though neither Sage had been recognized for the entire exchange, Kapil seemed to have known they were there all along. "Your Eminence, I understand you've long been friends with Sidhari."

"Our friendship extends many years, yes." He folded his hands in his sleeves, his shoulders pulled back in a way that demanded respect.

"Will you speak to her on our behalf?"

"Avatar Sidhari does not leave Ba Sing Se too often. I doubt I'll even see her."

"I imagine we'll be seeing a lot more of her in the days to come." Kapil's response was muttered, as if only meant for him to hear, and his attention slipped back to the men at the table.

But before Yojing could catch the rest of the Fire Lord's instructions, Wuzhong disappeared through the curtained door behind them, leaving him to follow.

"Your Eminence?" Yojing asked curiously as they exited the room, though the Great Sage didn't slow. In the dim red lamps of the hallway, he was an awesome figure, his wide robes sweeping behind him, his topknot bearing a sharp, five-point flame.

"His Lordship had no other need for us, Yojing, and you would have likely grown bored with the meeting."

Yojing honestly doubted that, but he wouldn't argue. In reality, getting out of that room was a relief, the anxiety and desperation among those men almost stifling.

"Will you seek out Avatar Sidhari, Your Eminence?" he asked cautiously, knowing he shouldn't ask at all. But Wuzhong had put faith in him by taking him to the council meeting. And Yojing hoped that he hadn't yet pushed the limits of the Great Sage's good will.

"I don't think I'll need to." He sounded weary, as if suddenly feeling his age. "Sidhari will not let this pass. Not this time."

"After everything else she's ignored…" Yojing didn't mean to let such rancor slip into his voice. But Wuzhong must have heard it, for he stopped abruptly, turning to face him.

"No, Yojing. That's not why I brought you here." He looked so earnest, thin eyebrows furrowing over haunted eyes, the wrinkles around his nose deepening as he frowned. "Not to regret, not to blame."

"Why did you bring me, Your Eminence?"

"To understand." With a sigh, he caught up the edge of his robe as he continued walking. "We are entering into a very troubled time. Even more troubled than the last three years. And I fear what will happen." Yojing trailed behind him, his eyes cast to the floor as the older man talked. His thoughts, too, were on the future. Murky, uncertain, and terribly scary.

"However," Wuzhong said, his voice now stern, "if we continue to live in the past, we will be no better than that room full of quarreling men back there, trying to find someone to blame. You must move beyond that, Yojing. You must remain alert."

"Alert for what, Your Eminence?"

"For the center, Yojing. For the center."

The statement was cryptic, vague at best. But Wuzhong offered no other explanation, and Yojing suspected he was doing so on purpose. Resisting the urge to sigh, Yojing paused as the Great Sage bended open a tunnel in the wall.

With a final glance at the Palace's red halls, he followed his master into the dark.

xXxXxxxXXxxxXxXx

—

Tan Zheng Year of the Ostrich-Horse, Fourth Month

2 years later

—

The rain was soft, whispering like a chorus of hushed voices through the window pane. Outside, the world was a mute gray, dim though it was just past noon. Everything was hazy, made hazier by the steady shower, and the scarlet tiles on sweeping roofs directed excess water out of the mouths of green dragon spouts. Down the water coursed, into the cisterns below. Collected so that the moss-carpeted garden would not be swamped by the spring monsoons.

A common enough occurrence in the Fire Nation, particularly the Eastern Isles. Common enough that the farmers faced them with determination, and fishermen secured their boats against the inevitable waves. Every year, they prepared themselves for the seasonal storms. Every year, they awaited a torrent that would cease just as the months grew warm.

This year, however, was different. This year, there was a distinct hint of dread mixing with the taste of ash and the smell of wet basalt. Beyond those jade dragons undulating along the roof gutters, the world had drastically changed over the course of a cold spring and an even colder winter. Beyond the Temple walls, no one was prepared for the storm ahead.

Still, Fire Sage Himizu enjoyed the rain. He watched it from the window, his formal robes tucked up around his knees, his hat clutched between his hands. The wood bench on which he sat was placed perpendicular to the opening, such that he had to crane his neck to the right to see the rain-swept trees. On his left was a lacquered wood screen of flames and fire lilies—a privacy screen that hid both bench and window from the rest of the room.

Because of it, Himizu didn't see the other Sage until he'd approached near enough for his shadow to fall across the marble floor, black against the light of the red lantern. With a frown, he glanced forward, and was greeted by Shinyo.

Shinyo was of a lower rank, marked by his short sleeves where Himizu's were long. And his short tunic where Himizu's fell to the floor. Accordingly, Shinyo dipped into a low bow, his tall, conical hat in his hands.

"The hour has come and passed, Fifth Sage."

Fifth Sage. Himizu wasn't used to that title yet, as he'd only been recently raised to it. At his age—no more than twenty-seven—he was the youngest man to ever attain such a lofty title. The fifth most powerful person in the Shiri Temple. The one who saw to the daily functions of the entire grounds.

Yet Himizu, surprisingly, wasn't much of a bender. In an Agni Kai, he'd be easily outmatched by even fourth level Sages. No, he hadn't come to this position by talent or even ability. Rather, his achievements were all due to his intelligence. Something that had had, in retrospect, a much larger impact on his life than even his mediocre firebending.

Something that he also employed right now, as he regarded a man of lower rank but not much younger age. "Are they waiting at the moon gate?"

"For hours, Fifth Sage."

"Has the pantry been informed?"

"The Kitchen Head is awaiting your command."

Beggars. Years ago, Himizu would have viewed them with disdain, unimpressed by their cries of hunger and their pleas for hand-outs from the Temple. After all, they were as often as not men. Men who'd happily push past orphans and widows, claiming that their own families were starving more. Men who couldn't accept that suffering was one thing that came in large enough portions for everyone to share in equally.

But then there'd been Sidhari's decision against the Fire Nation, and against those who had aided them in the War. Within a year, she'd established the sanctions—the physical embargo that separated them from the outside world. So that now everyone was a beggar, be they a professional malingerer or an honest merchant.

"How much petitions-bread is left?" Himizu said, pushing himself up from the bench. With one last look out the window, he shoved his shorter hat onto his head, its stiff, leather-backed silk crimped where he'd held it.

Shinyo stepped out of his way, once more bowing as Himizu brushed past. "Twenty loaves, not counting those reserved for the Temple staff's families."

"Then we'll have to start rationing." He headed for the door, the sparsely decorated room around him ignored. This meditation room had become his frequent retreat from the daily demands of the Temple, but he could not hide there today. "Order a portion no thicker than two thumbs given to each petitioner. They'll complain, but I want the hard bread to last us until the end of the monsoons."

Shinyo followed at the hem of his robe. "And the petitions-fruit?"

"Never mind the fruit. I checked yesterday and all we have left are kumquats and ocean-crests. I intend to save those for the students, before our own rations run too low."

"They're also requesting oil."

Himizu closed his eyes as he grasped the iron ring of the narrow door. Oil was another item that they were learning what it meant not to have. With a shake of his head, he bended the single lantern out and pulled the door open. "No oil."

"But Fifth Sa—"

"No oil," he repeated firmly, not even checking to see if Shinyo followed him into the hall. He was sure the Sage had. "We still have the prayers to think of. And I would rather we sacrifice our luxury before our spirituality. They'll learn to do without." No, he didn't like telling the people waiting outside the Temple gates that they would not be given charity. But there was no charity left to give. Himizu had to make sure the Temple survived, first and foremost.

It was the oath he had taken as a boy. The Temple before all others.

Shinyo was silent, perhaps laying the blame of such parsimony at Himizu's feet. Perhaps accusing him quietly of having no mercy. But this was not his fault, as he partly wanted to explain to the Sage. They'd been forced into this situation by a woman who had used her power to punish an entire people for a crime they had never committed.

He wanted to tell Shinyo that if those desperate faces and broken eyes really tore at his heart, then he should blame the Avatar for caring even less than Himizu did.

But instead, he ignored Shinyo's invisible look and swept down a hall lit by only four of the fifteen lamps. As Fifth Sage, he could not – would not – explain himself to a lower-ranking Sage. Not even if it was a man who had been his friend in childhood.

Still, Himizu hesitated, his thoughts dwelling on the neighboring villages. "Tell Master Eng that the men of known dignity should receive extra rations for their families, and that women and children petitioners should receive double rations. If any other men complain, have the acolytes escort them physically from the grounds, with or without their own rations." It was an unfair proclamation, particularly for the more destitute. But Himizu had been struck with a twinge of compassion, and he'd let it, momentarily, cloud his judgment.

The decision was made, though, and he couldn't take it back. Perhaps, Himizu mused, by giving more bread to some and less to others, he would foment a riot. Perhaps he was setting them on a path to the Temple's destruction. Forcefully, though, he shoved away the thought. He refused to let this weigh on his conscience. Not when there was someone else far more to blame.

"Save as much bread as you can. I plan for us to make it to the first harvest, at least." Reaching the end of the hall, Himizu turned to extinguish the lamps. Whatever they could do to conserve oil. To keep the Temple going until Avatar Sidhari deemed in her oh-so-benevolent majesty to save them from the very misery she'd inflicted.

What good, he wondered, was an Avatar who could hurt so many? What good was it to give so much power to one so terribly wrong?

Frowning miserably, Himizu stepped into the adjacent hall, Shinyo on his heels.

Only the sound of rain on clay tiles broke the darkness.

A/N: First off, this story features an almost entire cast of OCs. The only canon character, in fact, is Koh. This story began as a story about him, or rather the Avatar who tangled with him, back before we really knew about Kuruk. As far as I'm concerned, this takes place about 300 years before Kuruk, and should actually by the end explain why Koh was against Kuruk to begin with.

Also, the Western Air Temple Massacre was purposefully designed to mirror the Air Nomad Genocide. The cycling of history's an important theme, and I wanted to parallel it in many ways to the series itself.

Also-also, the years are from the calendar seen in 2x10 The Library and should be correctly calculated from the year identified in that episode. Translated, they'd be something like "Molten/Slothful Worship Year of the Rabbit" and "Right Level Year of the Horse." Yes, my inability to speak Chinese sucks. Yes, that's why I just left them in Pinyin.