Chapter Text
Prologue to Ashes and Wine
Sokka woke to the sound of the village beginning another day and lay still beneath the heavy furs, listening.
Wind worried at the hide walls of his tent. Somewhere beyond the harbor, ice groaned beneath the tide. A nearby door scraped open, followed by low voices and boots crossing packed snow. Someone laughed. A dog barked once and was answered from across the village.
Morning had arrived.
Sokka closed his eyes again.
His shoulder ached from four days inland and three nights sleeping on frozen ground. That kind of tired made sense; sleep fixed it, and a hot meal helped—sometimes enough tea.
This was different: a weight beneath his ribs and a pull in his limbs that had settled so slowly he could not remember when it began.
He was supposed to rest today. His father had said so last night, and Natch had told him before the hunting party left that he would need a day off when they returned.
No one was waiting for him. No hunting party needed him to check supplies. No shipment required sorting. No meeting would collapse without his notes spread across the table.
He could stay beneath the furs, and no one would come looking for him.
The thought should have been comforting.
Sokka opened his eyes. “Up,” he muttered.
The roof remained unimpressed.
He pushed the furs aside and sat up, rubbing both hands over his face before reaching for his clothes.
Everything had its place. His dark blue wool tunic lay folded over the travel chest, his boots sat beside it, and his thick seal-hide outer coat hung from the center pole where it would stay dry. Years of routine made the movements almost thoughtless.
That helped.
He could take the morning one thing at a time: clothes, boots, coat, practice, breakfast. By then, the rest of the day might have found him.
The wooden practice sword rested beside the sleeping platform. Sokka picked it up and pulled aside the entrance flap.
Outside, the stars had begun to pale, though sunrise was still some time away. He tied back the grown sides and nape of his dark hair into the familiar wolf tail before drawing up his hood against the cold. The village was already stirring beneath the long predawn.
Light showed through narrow windows and open doorways as fires were fed and lamps uncovered. Smoke rose from vents into the dark blue sky. People moved between homes and workshops, bundled against the cold, their voices carrying in the still air.
The Southern Water Tribe had changed.
Not all at once. Villages did not rebuild themselves overnight, no matter how badly their people wanted them to. It had taken years of cutting and hauling ice, shaping packed snow, gathering stone from exposed shelves along the coast, and learning which Northern building methods worked in the South—and which absolutely did not.
Imported timber was used where it mattered: supports, doors, roof braces, docks and boats. It was too useful to waste pretending the South had forests.
Sokka had helped plan many of the new structures.
The village no longer looked like the small collection of hide tents and snow shelters he had grown up in. The oldest homes remained, maintained rather than replaced, but low halls of ice, stone and packed snow now stood among them. Workshops sat partly below the surface to hold heat. Storehouses had been raised against drifting snow and shifting ground. Covered passages joined several of the larger communal buildings.
Nothing had the sweeping height or polished symmetry of the Northern city, but that had never been the goal.
The South built what worked, then repaired it until it worked better.
A pair of fishermen crossed ahead of him with bundled nets over one shoulder. One raised a hand and called, “Morning, Sokka.”
Sokka adjusted the practice sword against his shoulder. “Morning.”
They continued toward the docks, already arguing over whether the western channels would remain clear for another day.
Sokka smiled to himself. Some things never changed.
He turned toward the training grounds.
Before he reached the gate, Natch’s voice carried over the wall.
“Those are practice spears, not walking sticks!”
A child answered with something Sokka could not make out.
Natch slapped one gloved hand against his thigh. “Then stop leaning on it!”
Sokka smiled despite the weight still dragging at his limbs.
The training grounds had grown with the village.
What had once been little more than an open stretch of packed snow was now divided into spaces for weapons practice, archery, and wrestling. Low walls blocked the worst of the wind. A covered storage area protected the practice weapons from snow and ice. Lamps burned near the entrance while the sky remained dark.
It was not elaborate, but it worked.
The yard was quiet at this hour.
Most of the village’s experienced hunters had already left or were checking supplies before heading inland. Others were at the docks, repairing homes, or helping prepare stores for winter. There would be more people here once the season turned and the weather kept them closer to the village.
For now, the training grounds belonged mostly to children.
A dozen of them stood in uneven rows near the center of the yard, bundled so heavily that some had difficulty lowering their arms. Natch moved among them with his usual expression of deep personal offense.
Another instructor worked with the older children near the archery targets. A third sat beneath the shelter repairing a cracked practice bow.
Years ago, the tribe could not have spared three experienced adults for teaching.
Now they could.
Sokka stepped into an open section near the far wall, safely away from Natch’s students. He rolled his shoulders, ignored the pull in the left one, and settled his hands around the wooden grip.
The practice sword had started as a spare length of hardwood left over from rebuilding one of the docks. Sokka had shaped it himself, working slowly until the balance felt as close to a real blade as he could manage.
It was not beautiful. The guard sat slightly crooked, one edge bore a shallow dent from an overenthusiastic sparring match, and the grip had been wrapped and rewrapped until little of the original cloth remained.
It fit his hands, and that was enough.
It was a training tool, not a replacement.
His father had given him a replacement after the war—a good Earth Kingdom blade, balanced and sharp, offered with quiet understanding and careful hope.
Sokka had thanked him. He had trained with it.
He had never loved it.
The wooden sword made no promises. It did not try to be the blade he had lost. It asked only that he keep practicing.
Sokka planted his feet, loosened his long shoulders, and settled both callused hands around the grip. At twenty-three he had filled out beyond the narrow frame he carried through the war, though endurance still shaped him more than bulk.
Master Piandao’s voice came as clearly now as it had in the Fire Nation courtyard.
Again.
The practice sword cut a familiar path through the cold air as Sokka stepped forward, struck, recovered, and turned.
Again.
He had long since stopped counting repetitions. Piandao had taught him that chasing numbers was a good way to stop paying attention. A hundred sloppy strikes were worth less than ten careful ones.
So Sokka watched his footing and the set of his shoulders. He listened for the faint whistle the wooden blade made when it moved cleanly, then began the form again.
The children’s lesson continued behind him. Feet scraped over packed snow, and practice spears struck the ground. Natch corrected every mistake as if the entire future of the Southern Water Tribe depended on one eight-year-old learning to hold a weapon properly.
Maybe it did—not that particular eight-year-old, probably, but all of them together.
The thought was almost enough to make Sokka smile.
He turned into the next movement, blocked, stepped and struck.
A small shape appeared at the edge of his vision.
Sokka stopped the wooden blade before it completed the cut.
A boy stood several feet away, staring at him with a practice spear held across his body.
Sokka kept the sword suspended between them. “Sneaking up on someone with a sword? Generally a bad plan.”
The boy’s gaze moved from Sokka’s face to the blade. “It’s wood.”
“It still hurts.” Sokka lowered it a fraction.
The boy considered that, shifting his grip on the spear.
“Tavi!”
The boy’s shoulders jumped at the sound of Natch’s voice.
Sokka looked toward the old instructor. Natch stood with both arms folded before pointing firmly back toward the practice line.
Tavi did not move. “I wanted to see the sword form.”
“You’re supposed to be learning the spear.”
“My father says swords aren’t useful on the ice.” Tavi scuffed one boot against the snow.
Sokka rested the wooden blade against his shoulder. “Your father has never been hit with one.”
“He says there aren’t many swords here.”
That was true.
Spears and bows made more sense for hunting. Clubs and shorter blades were easier to use in close spaces or on uncertain ground. A long sword was not the first weapon most Southern warriors chose.
“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t know what to do when somebody else has one,” Sokka said.
Tavi brightened.
From across the yard, Natch cleared his throat loudly enough to be heard over the wind.
Tavi glanced back at him.
“Later,” Sokka said. “Finish your lesson.”
The boy looked up again. “You’ll show me?”
“If Natch says you’ve stopped using your spear as furniture.”
Tavi grinned and hurried back to the others.
Natch watched him return, then turned his attention to Sokka. “He’ll bother you about that every day until you do it.”
“I know.” Sokka adjusted his grip.
Natch’s eyes narrowed in satisfaction. “You brought it on yourself.”
“I know.”
Sokka resumed his stance.
The next time he moved through the form, he was aware of Tavi watching whenever Natch’s back was turned.
That was fine.
Sokka taught some of the weapons lessons when the hunters were home or when the older students needed to train against something other than spears. He had spent entire days in this yard correcting footwork, blocking clumsy strikes, and reminding teenagers that real opponents would not wait while they finished showing off.
Just not today.
The instructors already had their lessons planned. The children knew where to stand, and Natch had everything under control.
Sokka was free to practice.
He finished the final form as a thin line of sunlight appeared along the horizon. For a moment, he remained still with the wooden blade extended.
His breathing came steadily, and his arms felt loose. The heaviness had not disappeared, but repetition, cold air, and something useful held between his hands had pushed it farther away.
He lowered the sword.
“You’re pulling your left shoulder,” Natch called.
Sokka turned his head. The old man had not stopped correcting the children.
“I am not.”
Natch caught one student’s spear before it struck the ground and shoved it back into position. “You are.”
“Pretty sure I would’ve noticed.”
Natch released the spear and looked over at him. “If you’d noticed, you wouldn’t still be doing it.”
Sokka rolled his shoulder experimentally. There was, perhaps, the slightest hint of stiffness.
“Huh.”
“Getting older,” Natch said, his mouth pulling to one side.
Sokka stared at him. “Oh, absolutely not.”
“You don't think twenty-three is old?”
“No.” Sokka leaned the practice sword beneath the shelter while he adjusted his coat. “I think you’re old.”
Natch barked out a laugh, startling two of the children. “I walked right into that one.”
“You really did.”
Natch jerked his chin toward the gate. “You got back yesterday. Go eat breakfast.”
“I was already planning to.” Sokka slid his arms fully into his coat.
“And then rest.”
Sokka looked around the training grounds. “This is a public training ground. You can’t just kick me out.”
“My public training ground.” Natch spread his arms to indicate the yard.
Sokka offered a mock bow. “Fine. As you wish, mighty training-ground tyrant.”
He turned toward the gate.
Behind him, Natch began explaining the same spear position for what sounded like the fifth time. The older children loosed arrows beneath the careful eye of their instructor, and the cracked bow beneath the shelter was nearly repaired.
The yard was not crowded. It did not need to be.
The hunters would return, and the fishing crews would come ashore. Lessons would change with the seasons and the work waiting to be done.
For now, the children would learn, the instructors would teach them, and the village would prepare for winter.
Sokka stepped onto the main path and headed toward breakfast, leaving the wooden sword leaning beneath the shelter.
As the days shortened, breakfast was served in the meeting hall more often than not.
The hall was not large enough to hold the entire village at once, but that had never been the point. People came in as they finished morning duties and left when work called them elsewhere.
It was warmer than eating outside, especially when sunrise came late and the cold settled into everything.
The smell reached Sokka before he stepped through the entrance: smoked fish broth thickened into stew, fresh flatbread, and strong tea.
His stomach growled in appreciation. At least one part of him had woken properly.
“Thought you might have forgotten breakfast existed.”
Sokka looked over to find Hakoda already seated at one of the long tables, two steaming bowls waiting between them.
“I considered it.”
Hakoda pulled one bowl closer to his side. “You’ve never considered skipping breakfast.”
“I considered considering it.” Sokka sat opposite him and reached across the table.
“That’s more believable.” Hakoda let him take the bowl.
Sokka wrapped both hands around its warmth. “You started without me.”
“I ordered yours before you got here.”
“Good to know you still believe in me. Or at least my stomach.”
“I’ve raised you for twenty-three years.” Hakoda tore off a piece of flatbread.
Sokka picked up his spoon. “Fair.”
For a few minutes, they ate in comfortable silence, tearing bread into the broth while the room warmed around them.
Around them, the hall stayed in constant motion. Hunters discussed the morning’s routes. A pair of builders argued over measurements with increasingly dramatic hand gestures. Children wove between the tables until one of the elders shooed them away before someone lost a bowl of stew.
It was not quiet, but neither was it chaotic.
It was simply alive.
Hakoda dipped his bread into the stew. “How’s Natch?”
“Old.”
Hakoda chewed, swallowed, and nodded thoughtfully. “He’ll be pleased to hear that.”
“He already was.”
A laugh escaped Hakoda before he hid it behind his cup. “I imagine he gave you something to complain about.”
“He says I’m favoring my left shoulder.”
Hakoda’s eyes moved briefly toward it. “Were you?”
Sokka frowned at his breakfast. “Maybe.”
“I’ll mark today on the calendar.” Hakoda sat back.
Sokka looked up. “Oh?”
“The day Natch was right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You implied it.”
Sokka pointed his spoon across the table. “Okay, wow. These are serious accusations.”
Hakoda smiled into his tea. “You got in late.”
“I noticed.”
“You were supposed to sleep.”
“I did.”
Hakoda set down his cup. “Longer than five hours.”
Sokka took another bite of stew. “That sounds excessive.”
His father said nothing.
Sokka looked up and found Hakoda waiting. “What?”
“You’re resting today.”
Sokka glanced down at the bench beneath him. “I’m eating. Sitting down, too. This is basically rest.”
Hakoda continued to look at him.
“Honestly, this is practically a vacation.”
A woman stopped beside their table. “Chief.”
Hakoda turned toward her.
“The shipment inventory is finished,” Nila said, wiping one hand against the side of her coat. “I’ll leave the list on your desk.”
“Thank you, Nila.”
She nodded to Sokka before moving toward another table.
Sokka watched her go.
Five years ago, she had brought every inventory report to him first. Not because Hakoda could not read them, but because someone had needed to organize incoming supplies, compare requests, track shortages, and make sure nothing disappeared before reaching the families it had been promised to.
Now Nila handled it herself, efficiently from the sound of it.
Good. It was one less thing for Hakoda to worry about and one less thing for Sokka to worry about too.
Hakoda tore off another piece of bread. “Any plans today?”
Sokka traced his spoon through the surface of the stew. “I thought I’d stop by the docks. See if the western fishing crews need another pair of hands.”
“They’re in good shape.”
“That’s good.” Sokka nodded once.
“It is.”
A beat passed. Sokka took a drink of tea before saying, “I’ll probably head over anyway.”
Hakoda studied him for a moment. “I’m sure they’d be glad to have you.”
Glad.
Sokka looked down at his breakfast.
Across the hall, someone laughed loudly enough to turn several heads before the conversation settled again.
Hakoda reached for his tea. “I’ve got a council meeting after this.”
Sokka looked up automatically. “Anything interesting?”
“Trade schedules. Hunting allocations.” Hakoda counted them off against his fingers. “A request from the northern settlement about expanding the eastern storehouse before winter closes in.”
Sokka waited while his father took a drink. When Hakoda offered nothing more, he asked, “That’s it?”
Hakoda lowered the cup. “What were you expecting?”
“I don’t know.”
“A sea monster?”
Sokka tilted his head. “Maybe.”
“A pirate fleet?”
“Always possible.”
Hakoda’s mouth twitched. “I’d settle for a sea monster.”
“It would certainly make the meeting more exciting.”
“It would also make the paperwork significantly worse.”
Sokka laughed and leaned back from the table. “That’s the most Chief thing you’ve ever said.”
Hakoda accepted the accusation with a small shrug. “I’ve had practice.”
Outside, the low sun traveled along the edge of the horizon rather than climbing far above it.
Inside, bowls emptied and people came and went. The village moved forward, one ordinary day after another.
Sokka finished his breakfast and tried not to think too hard about whether he found that comforting or unsettling.
The western fishing crews did not need another pair of hands.
Sokka asked anyway.
Tarek looked up from the coil of rope he was checking. “Didn’t you get back from the hunting grounds yesterday?”
“Technically.”
Tarek stopped working. “What does that mean?”
Sokka tucked both hands into his coat. “I got back before midnight. So, technically? Yesterday.”
Tarek stared at him.
Sokka smiled.
Behind Tarek, the crew continued loading baskets onto the broad fishing boat tied alongside the dock. No one appeared rushed. Nets had already been checked and folded, lines were secured, and two younger fishermen were discussing the safest route through the western channels without needing anyone to settle the argument.
They had it handled.
Tarek glanced at Sokka’s left shoulder. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am resting.”
“You’re standing on a dock looking for work.”
Sokka looked around as though the accusation surprised him. “It’s restful work.”
“Fishing?”
“Very peaceful.”
Tarek pointed toward the dark water. “In freezing water.”
“Practically a holiday.” Sokka spread his hands.
Tarek snorted and tossed him the rope.
Sokka caught it against his chest. His shoulder protested, but he ignored it.
“Make yourself useful, then,” Tarek said.
There was a particular satisfaction in knowing you were useful.
Sokka carried the rope aboard.
The boat had been built in the South three summers ago, broad through the middle and reinforced to withstand drifting ice. Imported metal braced the joints. The mast had come from the Fire Nation, part of one of the early recompense shipments, though most people had stopped calling them that.
Recompense sounded finished.
The first ships had not finished anything.
There had been arguments over every crate: tools stamped with Fire Nation marks, bolts of cloth in colors no one wanted to wear, timber cut from forests by people who had never seen the South and unloaded by sailors who had been carefully warned not to mention the war.
Some of the elders had refused to touch any of it. Others had said refusing good steel would not bring the dead home.
Sokka had spent weeks sorting lists, demands and shortages while trying to keep three separate disagreements from becoming one large disaster.
The metal had eventually become tools. The timber became boats, doors, and supports. No one had forgotten where it came from; usefulness had simply become another form of ownership.
Sokka secured the rope and tested the knot.
Tarek leaned over to inspect it. “Still showing off?”
“You asked me to make myself useful.” Sokka gave the knot another sharp pull.
“I asked you to tie down a rope.”
“It is extremely tied down.”
Tarek straightened. “It’s a rope, Sokka.”
“A very important rope.”
Tarek shook his head and went back to the baskets.
The rest of the crew arrived in twos and threes. Everyone greeted Sokka. No one seemed surprised to find him there, even if several people looked at his shoulder and then politely chose not to mention it.
That was normal too.
Sokka helped wherever there was work: hunting parties, fishing crews, repairs, storage counts, and training lessons when enough of the hunters were home to make time for them.
Whatever needed another person that day.
Once, his days had been planned weeks ahead.
Now he usually found them after breakfast.
They cast off while the low sun still clung to the edge of the horizon.
The village slid behind them as the boat moved toward open water, runners scraping over the last stretch of shore ice before the hull settled fully into the sea. Another fishing crew prepared farther down the docks. Traders shifted crates from a narrow cargo vessel flying Southern colors.
Near the eastern end of the harbor stood the larger storehouse Hakoda had mentioned. People were already measuring the ground beside it.
So much for the council meeting.
“Looks like they approved the expansion,” Sokka said.
Tarek followed his gaze. “Probably. Nila had the numbers ready yesterday.”
Of course she had.
Sokka watched until the shoreline curved and hid the workers from view.
The crew knew the waters well.
Years ago, Sokka would have stood near the bow with maps spread across a crate, comparing currents and ice movement while fishermen argued around him. He had helped mark the safer channels when families from the North first began working Southern waters.
Northern boats had been built for canals and sheltered bays, not hidden ice and tides shifting beneath seemingly solid ground.
There had been mistakes and arguments, followed by one overturned boat and three half-frozen fishermen before everyone agreed that Northern experience did not always translate neatly to the South.
Now Tarek gave orders without looking at a chart. The crew adjusted the sail, and the boat turned cleanly through a narrow passage between two low shelves of ice.
Sokka sat near the bow and watched them work.
“You’re quiet,” Tarek called.
Sokka shifted one shoulder against the side of the boat. “I can be quiet.”
“Not usually.” Tarek looked back at him.
“I’m growing as a person.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
Sokka leaned his head against the wood.
His shoulder ached from the hunting trip. Four days inland hauling supplies, sleeping on frozen ground, and helping drag a snow-leopard caribou back toward the village had left most of him stiff.
The sensible thing would have been to stay home, rest, clean his gear, and sharpen the hunting knives that did not need sharpening yet.
He had tried. He had made it through breakfast, and that counted for something.
They reached the first line of nets before midday.
The work was cold, wet, and repetitive.
Sokka loved it.
He braced his boots against the deck and hauled beside the others, shoulders straining as the net rose heavy from the water. Silver fish flashed between the knots. Someone shouted when one escaped and slapped against the deck.
Tarek lunged for it, missed, and nearly took Sokka’s legs out from under him.
Sokka grabbed the side of the boat to steady himself. “Graceful.”
“Help me catch it.” Tarek scrambled after the fish.
“I’m busy appreciating your technique.”
The fish struck Sokka’s boot. He bent, caught it with both hands, and dropped it into the waiting basket.
“See?” Sokka wiped his gloves against his coat. “Natural talent.”
Tarek muttered something impolite.
They worked through three nets before one came up twisted.
Sokka saw the problem as soon as the first section broke the surface. “Stop pulling.”
The crew froze.
He leaned over the side, following the line beneath the dark water. “It caught under the shelf.”
Tarek crouched beside him. “Can we free it?”
“Maybe.” Sokka shifted his grip on the rope. “If we keep hauling, we’ll tear it.”
One of the younger fishermen looked toward the far end of the boat. “We could cut the anchor line.”
“And lose half the net,” Tarek said, shaking his head.
Sokka studied the angle of the rope, the current, and the shadow of ice beneath them.
The angle resolved: current, shelf, loose end. The heaviness fell away.
“Shift the boat east,” he said, pointing past Tarek toward the open channel. “Just a little. Keep tension on the upper line, but don’t pull.”
The younger fisherman wrapped the rope more securely around his hands. “And then?”
“When the current catches the loose end, it should lift clear.”
The crew moved without questions or hesitation.
Tarek took the steering oar. Two others adjusted the sail. Sokka kept hold of the line and watched the water.
The boat drifted. The rope tightened against his gloves, then loosened.
“Now.”
They hauled together, and the net rose intact.
A cheer went up.
Tarek clapped Sokka hard between the shoulders—unfortunately, the left one.
Sokka managed not to wince.
“Knew there was a reason we brought you,” Tarek said.
Sokka grinned.
There it was: the rush of a problem seen and solved, people moving because he knew where they needed to go, and the clean satisfaction of being right when being wrong would have cost them something.
It lasted until the younger fisherman crouched beside the net.
“The current lifted it off the southern edge.” He studied the line, then pointed toward the water. “If it happens again, we move with it instead of pulling against it.”
Tarek nodded. “Remember that.”
“I will.”
Sokka turned toward the horizon.
Good. That was the point—to teach people the answer so next time they did not need you.
He knew that. He had always known that.
The rest of the nets came up without trouble.
By the time the baskets were full, the light had already begun to weaken. The low sun disappeared into a bank of cloud, and the crew turned home without argument.
No one wanted to navigate the outer ice after dark.
The fishermen talked around Sokka as they traveled, planning where they would cast the following morning and whether the weather would hold.
Their plan was sound. They did not ask what he thought because they did not need to, and he had nothing to add.
The village came back into view through the fading light, solid against the white stretch of the South. Smoke climbed from vents. Lamps had already been lit along the docks. People waited to take the catch before the boat had fully tied off.
Sokka helped unload.
Someone thanked him, and someone else handed him a fish wrapped for his evening meal.
Tarek hooked one arm over a post while the crew gathered the remaining baskets. “We’re going out again tomorrow.”
Sokka tucked the fish beneath his arm.
“You’re welcome to come.” Tarek nodded toward the boat.
Welcome.
Sokka smiled. “Maybe.”
Tarek’s gaze dropped pointedly toward his shoulder. “Or you could rest.”
“Let’s not get unreasonable.” Sokka turned toward the village.
The crew started toward the storehouse, already discussing the next day.
Sokka remained on the dock after they had gone.
Around him, everyone knew what they were doing. The fish were sorted, the boat was secured, and the damaged net had been marked for repair.
There were no loose ends waiting for him.
He looked down at the wrapped fish.
Useful, needed, and wanted were not the same thing.
He stayed on the dock until the last of the catch disappeared into the village.
The fishing crew had already gone ahead, following the workers carrying baskets toward the storehouse. Their voices drifted back to him through the growing dark, still discussing tomorrow’s route.
No one called for him to join them, and there was no reason they should. Everything that needed doing was already being done.
At least dinner was settled.
He left the dock as the lamps along the main path were being lit.
The day was not especially old. It simply did not last long anymore.
The fish beneath Sokka’s arm was beginning to drip by the time he reached the kitchens.
He adjusted his grip and pushed through the entrance.
Warmth struck first, followed by steam and the smell of fish stew, baking flatbread, and a dense berry-and-fat sweet cooling near the back table. Several people moved between the worktables and fire pits, preparing the evening meal while arguing over who had misplaced a chopping knife.
Sila stood near the closest table, sleeves pushed to her elbows as she cleaned a fish twice the size of the one Sokka carried.
She looked at him, then at the fish. “You clean that?”
“I caught it.” Sokka held it out slightly.
Sila put down her knife. “That was not my question.”
“I helped catch it.”
“Sokka.”
He looked at the fish. “No.”
Sila held out one hand, and Sokka placed the bundle into it.
“I’ll put it with the rest,” she said.
His shoulders relaxed. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
Her eyes moved from the fish to the way he held his left arm close to his body. “I thought you were supposed to be resting today.”
“Okay, this whole ‘Sokka needs to rest’ thing is getting out of control.” He glanced toward the entrance.
“You were inland for four days.”
“And now I’m not.”
“You went fishing.” Sila laid the fish on the table.
“It was very restful.”
She stared at him.
Sokka took one careful step backward. “Right. I’m leaving before you make this hostile.”
Sila picked up the knife again. “It became hostile when you brought me an uncleaned fish.”
He escaped before she decided feeding him required payment in kitchen work.
Outside, the village was settling into evening.
Work did not stop, exactly, but it softened. Tools were put away. Boats were checked one final time beneath lamplight. Children were gathered from wherever they had wandered. The sharper sounds of hammering and splitting ice gave way to voices, laughter, and the scrape of benches being shifted around the communal fires.
Sokka should have gone home.
He had spent three nights sleeping on frozen ground. His shoulder ached, and his legs had started reminding him that hauling fishing nets after helping drag a snow-leopard caribou across half the South had been a bad idea.
A bath would have helped. Sleep would have helped more.
Instead, he followed the lamps toward the center of the village.
The main gathering place was sheltered by low walls that blocked the worst of the wind without closing away the sky. Several fires burned in shallow pits between the benches. Families crowded close beneath heavy blankets while bowls and cups passed from hand to hand.
The meeting hall would have been warmer, but the night was clear and the wind had dropped. A still evening was worth enjoying before winter kept everyone inside more often than not.
Someone had brought fermented sea-prune juice.
Hakoda had already warned two younger hunters away from it by the time Sokka arrived.
Gran Gran had gone in earlier, after informing Hakoda that fermented sea-prune juice did not improve with age no matter how proudly the younger hunters served it.
Sokka lowered himself onto the bench beside his father. “I leave for four days, and the entire tribe falls into lawlessness.”
Hakoda passed him a steaming bowl. “You’ve been back since last night.”
“And look at the damage.” Sokka balanced the bowl on one knee.
“You went fishing.”
“I tried to restore order.”
Hakoda glanced toward him. “With a net?”
“It was a very strategic net.”
Hakoda shook his head.
Sokka lifted the bowl and breathed in the steam. The stew was hot enough to burn his tongue, but he ate it anyway.
Sila caught him looking toward the kitchens and lifted one eyebrow as if daring him to complain.
Sokka raised the bowl in approval.
She appeared disappointed.
Katku leaned forward from the other side of the fire. “Show-off.”
Sokka glanced down at himself. “I’m eating stew.”
“You caught that bread one-handed last week and made sure everyone saw.”
“That was natural ability.” Sokka lifted his spoon.
Katku snorted. “You dropped an entire basket this afternoon.”
“The dock moved.”
“The dock is attached to the ground.”
“Exactly.” Sokka pointed at him with the spoon. “Very suspicious.”
The people around them laughed.
Sokka smiled into his bowl.
This was home: warmth against the dark, familiar voices, shared bowls moving from hand to hand, and people who had known him before he crossed the world, before he helped end a war, before anyone outside the South knew his name.
People who still remembered him as the boy who had once tried to hunt a tiger seal with a bent spear and fallen through the ice.
There were advantages to being famous somewhere else.
Hakoda nudged his right shoulder. “How’s the other one?”
Sokka glanced sideways at him. “What other one?”
“The shoulder you’re pretending doesn’t hurt.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Sokka took another bite.
Hakoda waited.
Sokka rolled his eyes. “It’s not hurting. It’s just… complaining. Loudly.”
“You should have rested.”
“I ate breakfast.”
“That is not rest.”
“I sat down while I did it.”
Hakoda gave him a look.
Sokka offered his most innocent smile, though his father had never been particularly vulnerable to it.
“You’re home tomorrow,” Hakoda said.
It was not quite an order, but it was close.
“I could help with the eastern storehouse.” Sokka stirred his stew.
“They have enough people.”
“The docks—”
“Have enough people.”
Sokka blew out a breath. “Natch said Tavi wants to learn sword forms.”
“Tavi can survive another day with a spear.”
“I don’t need an entire day.” Sokka frowned into his stew.
Hakoda’s expression softened. “That doesn’t mean you haven’t earned one.”
Sokka looked across the fire.
The younger hunters had somehow acquired cups of sea-prune juice despite Hakoda’s warning. One took a drink and immediately regretted every decision that had led him there.
Sokka laughed with everyone else, and the moment passed.
“Sokka.”
He looked up.
Three children had gathered directly in front of him, which was rarely a good sign.
The oldest, Mina, folded her arms. “You promised.”
“I promise a lot of things.” Sokka leaned back slightly.
“The library story.”
The boy beside her immediately shook his head. “No, the airships.”
“You heard the airships last week,” Mina said, turning on him.
“I like that one.”
“You always like the one where things explode.”
The boy folded his arms too. “Things exploding is exciting.”
Sokka pointed his spoon at him. “He has a point.”
Mina turned a betrayed look on Sokka. “You said the library.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
Sokka narrowed his eyes. “When?”
“Before you left with the hunters.”
He lowered the spoon. “You remembered that for four whole days?”
“My mother says promises matter.” Mina lifted her chin.
From somewhere behind the children, Mina’s mother laughed. “Don’t bring me into this.”
Sokka looked around the fire.
Most of the adults were listening now, though several pretended otherwise.
They had heard the story before. All of them had.
Some had heard it after Sokka first returned from the war, when the memories were still too sharp and he could only tell the funny parts. Others had heard versions shaped over the years, details added or left out depending on the age of the children and how late the fires burned.
No one cared that they knew how it ended.
The children settled onto the packed snow.
Sokka handed his empty bowl to Hakoda and shifted until his shoulder found a position that did not ache quite so badly.
“The library was in the middle of the Si Wong Desert,” he began. “Completely buried beneath the sand.”
Mina leaned forward, and the youngest child gasped right on schedule.
“Now, some people would say walking into a mysterious buried library owned by an angry spirit was a bad idea.” Sokka lifted both hands.
Beside him, Hakoda made a thoughtful sound. “Those people would be correct.”
“You weren’t there.” Sokka looked at his father.
Hakoda stretched his legs toward the fire. “Neither was common sense, apparently.”
More laughter moved around the flames.
Sokka ignored him with dignity. “It was full of every book ever written. Maps, histories, star charts—everything. The shelves went on farther than you could see.”
He remembered the cool darkness and the smell of old paper.
Wan Shi Tong rising above them, wings spreading through the chamber as his body twisted into something enormous and furious.
The floor shaking. Sand pouring through cracks.
Toph outside, feet planted, holding an entire building against the desert while Appa screamed.
The laughter faded from Sokka’s voice before he noticed.
“The spirit who guarded it didn’t like humans very much,” he continued. “Turns out people have a bad habit of using knowledge to hurt each other.”
Mina’s eyes were wide. “What did you do?”
“What we always did.” Sokka’s mouth curved.
He waited until all three children leaned closer.
“Made everything worse.”
The adults laughed again, and the children shouted their objections.
Sokka let the moment stretch before continuing.
He told them about the planetarium and the model of the world turning beneath their hands. About finding the date of the eclipse. About the owl spirit changing shape as the library began to sink.
He did not soften the desperation of the escape.
The children knew the story and knew everyone survived. That did not mean they should think survival had been easy.
He told them about books falling from shelves, sand rising around their ankles, and Wan Shi Tong chasing them through the dark. About Katara shouting for everyone to keep moving. About Aang clutching the information they had risked everything to find.
About running when their legs were failing and the entrance still seemed impossibly far away.
“And Toph?” Mina asked.
Sokka swallowed. “Toph held the library.”
Mina stared at him. “By herself?”
“By herself.”
The youngest child leaned closer. “The whole thing?”
Sokka looked into the fire. “The whole thing.”
That was Toph: twelve years old and holding a spirit’s library above the sand through strength, stubbornness, and an absolute refusal to let her friends die beneath it.
Ridiculous and impossible.
Toph.
The boy who had wanted the airship story frowned thoughtfully. “And then you escaped.”
Sokka watched a coal split open beneath the flames. “Yeah.”
He did not tell them what they found outside.
That was another story, one he rarely told.
He forced his voice lighter. “Then we all agreed we were never going into another mysterious spirit building.”
Hakoda raised an eyebrow. “You did?”
“No.” Sokka rubbed one hand over his knee. “But we should have.”
The children began arguing over what story he should tell the following evening.
Around them, the adults returned to their conversations. Someone refilled Sokka’s cup.
Katku leaned across the fire. “You always leave out the part where you screamed.”
Sokka stared at him. “You weren’t there.”
“I know what you sound like when you scream.” Katku grinned.
“That was one time, and there was a tiger seal.”
Katku only grinned wider.
Sokka argued. Mina demanded the airship story next. The youngest child fell asleep against his older sister before the decision was made.
It was good—all of it.
The fire, the voices, his father beside him, and children who knew every story and asked for them anyway.
There was a different satisfaction in knowing you were wanted.
The fires burned lower.
One family left, then another. Parents lifted sleeping children into their arms. Couples shared blankets as they walked away. The older hunters disappeared toward their homes in twos and threes, still discussing the next morning’s work.
Mina waved as her mother led her away. “Tomorrow!”
“We’ll negotiate!” Sokka cupped both hands around his mouth.
She pulled against her mother’s hand. “You promised!”
“Apparently promises matter. I’ve been informed.”
Mina seemed satisfied with that.
Soon only a handful of people remained.
Hakoda stood and stretched. “You coming?”
Sokka looked toward his tent across the village. “In a minute.”
His father studied him. Hakoda’s eyes moved briefly toward Sokka’s shoulder and then returned to his face, not long enough to become a question.
“All right.” He squeezed Sokka’s good shoulder as he passed. “Don’t stay out too long.”
“I won’t.”
Hakoda took two steps, then looked back. “Goodnight, son.”
Sokka lifted one hand. “Night, Dad.”
The last conversations faded. Someone banked the nearest fire before following the others home.
Sokka remained on the bench as the flames settled lower.
He made no move to leave.
Sokka stayed beside the banked fire until the cold finally drove him to his feet.
The village had gone quiet around him, though the South was never truly silent.
Wind moved over the roofs and packed walls. Ice shifted somewhere beyond the harbor. A child cried out briefly from one of the nearby homes before a parent’s voice settled them again.
They were the small sounds of people living, close enough to hear and not close enough to need him.
Sokka pulled his coat tighter and started toward his tent.
Lamps marked the main paths, their flames sheltered behind thin panes. The light caught on snow packed smooth beneath years of footsteps and stretched long shadows between the buildings.
He passed the eastern storehouse.
The expansion markers stood beside it, half buried in new snow. By spring, there would be another section built against the existing walls, with more room for dried fish, grain, and whatever came in on the first trading ships after the ice opened.
They had planned ahead.
Nila would have the inventories ready, the council would settle the work assignments, and the builders already knew what the ground would support.
Sokka kept walking.
The training yard stood dark except for one lamp near the entrance. Practice weapons rested safely beneath the shelter, ready for the next lesson. Tavi would probably spend half of it watching the sword rack instead of his instructor.
Sokka would show him the forms later. Tomorrow, maybe, if Hakoda did not find a way to enforce the rest day.
The thought should have made him smile.
It almost did.
He reached his tent and pulled aside the heavy entrance flap.
The fire inside had burned low but had not gone out. Someone must have checked it while he was gone, probably his father.
Sokka added fuel and stirred the coals until the flames rose again. Warmth spread slowly through the small space.
He was home.
His sleeping area rested on a low platform along the sheltered side of the tent, raised away from the frozen ground. Storage chests and folded hides lined the wall behind it, adding another barrier against the cold. A low table nearby held an abandoned cup, two rolled maps, and a stack of letters he had already read too many times.
His travel gear from the hunting trip remained near the entrance, cleaned enough not to freeze solid but not yet properly put away.
The wooden practice sword rested across the top of one of the chests. His boomerang lay beside it, exactly where he had left it after the hunting trip.
That, at least, had come home with him.
Sokka looked at the sword.
He had left it at the training grounds. Natch must have sent someone to return it, or brought it himself while loudly complaining that Sokka cluttered his yard.
Sokka lifted the sword and set it beside the sleeping platform.
The wood was smooth beneath his hand. It was a good, useful tool, but it was not a replacement.
He sat to pull off his boots, and his shoulder protested when he leaned forward.
“Yeah, yeah,” he muttered. “I get it.”
His body had apparently joined the growing list of people telling him to rest.
He stripped off the outer layers of his clothes and folded them over the nearest chest. Then he climbed beneath the furs and settled against the hides lining the wall.
The fire cracked softly.
He was tired after four days hunting, a morning at the training yard and a day hauling nets. He should have fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the bedding.
Instead, he stared across the tent.
The quiet felt different inside. Outside, it had been peaceful; inside, it pressed close against hide walls, banked coals, and the orderly possessions of a life that had no reason to change.
There was satisfaction in knowing you were useful, needed, or wanted.
There was a particular kind of pain in believing you were none of them.
Not really.
That was not fair. His mind began producing evidence before he could stop it.
The tribe valued him. His father loved him. Children followed him around demanding stories. Hunters took him inland. Fishermen welcomed him aboard even when he was supposed to be resting.
He was useful.
There was always another net to haul, another hunting party to join, another lesson to teach. There would always be work.
That was not the same as having something that was his.
His sister was the greatest waterbender the South had produced in generations, maybe ever.
Katara had left the village barely able to lift a fish from the water and returned a master, a healer, someone people crossed oceans to learn from.
She had come home after the war, at least for a while.
Then she and Aang had left again, searching for anyone who might help rebuild what remained of the Air Nomads. They visited when they could, usually once a year on Appa, bringing letters and stories and fur that clung to everything for weeks.
Katara always hugged him as if she had been gone for days instead of months.
Then she left again.
Aang was the Avatar. Comparing himself to Aang would be like comparing himself to the sky, and there was not much point.
Aang belonged to the whole world. Sokka understood that.
Katara and Toph were different. They were his sister and his friend, people he had trained beside, traveled beside and fought beside.
People who could do the impossible as easily as breathing.
Toph was simply Toph: the youngest of them all and somehow the most terrifying.
The last letter from her had arrived three months ago, written by someone else. She was working on trade negotiations between Omashu and the Fire Nation and threatening to bury several officials beneath their own meeting room.
She would probably do it too.
Toph had invented an entirely new kind of bending because ordinary earth had not been enough for her.
Katara could freeze a harbor. Toph could hold up a buried spirit library. Zuko—
Sokka stopped.
The fire shifted. One of the coals collapsed, sending a brief spray of sparks against the stones.
Zuko was Fire Lord.
The crazy Jerkbender-turned friend-turned Fire Lord.
He had never been effortless in the way Katara and Toph sometimes seemed. Zuko was simply too stubborn to stop. He trained, got knocked down, got back up, and somewhere along the way became the kind of bender and fighter who could face almost anyone.
Then he inherited a nation built for war and somehow had to teach it how to live without one.
Sokka had stayed in the Fire Nation during those first fragile months, helping wherever he could.
There had been plans, meetings, and arguments that lasted until everyone involved was too tired to remember why they were angry.
There had also been quiet conversations in Zuko’s study after the palace went still.
Sometimes they talked about the negotiations, sometimes about the war, and sometimes about things they had lost and what they still hoped to gain.
Zuko had understood duty in a way the others did not.
The Fire Nation could not have been more different from the Southern Water Tribe, but they were both sons raised beneath the weight of what their people needed them to become.
For a while, Sokka had thought they were becoming real friends.
Then the peace talks ended, and Sokka returned South.
More than six years passed.
There had been official correspondence between the Fire Nation and the tribe: trade agreements, shipping schedules, and requests from one leader to another.
Nothing personal.
Sokka rolled onto his side and pulled the furs higher.
It did't matter.
Everyone had their own lives—important lives, the kind that carried them across the world and gave them something new to accomplish every day.
Sokka had his tribe.
He had helped welcome families from the North and keep Southern customs from being swallowed by Northern ones. He had helped decide how the first recompense shipments would be used. He had mapped fishing channels, organized stores, trained hunters, and sat through more council meetings than any reasonable person should survive.
For years, there had always been another problem, another plan, another reason to get up. Then the new families settled, the shipments became ordinary trade, the fishermen learned the channels, the council learned the systems, and the younger warriors became teachers.
The village had taken everything Sokka helped build and made it work.
That was what was supposed to happen.
He knew that. A plan was only good if it kept working after the person who made it walked away.
The tribe was safe, the stores were full, and his father had years left as Chief.
Sokka was still the meat-and-sarcasm guy. The meat part was still true, and tasty. The sarcasm mostly earned him looks from older men who thought a chief’s son should be more serious.
He was still the plan guy too.
Only there were no plans left that required him.
There were no invasions to organize, prisons to escape, airships to destroy, or falling rocks from space to forge into swords.
Sokka’s eyes moved toward the wooden blade beside him.
He wished he had spent more time training with Piandao after the war.
There were no more quiet talks in the dark with a former enemy who had somehow become a friend, embers glowing while they spoke about everything they could not say in daylight.
No more crazy-desperate plans, no more long and carefully arranged ones, and no more oh-crap-just-go-with-it plans that somehow saved his friends, the world, or the fragile peace holding everything together.
Now there were hunting trips, fishing boats, training lessons, breakfast with his father, and stories around the fire.
Tomorrow would be a day of rest.
Then he would get up and find something else to do. The day after that, he would do it again, and the pattern would continue year after year.
It was a good life, and a safe one.
The life they had fought for.
Sokka closed his eyes.
It was lonely enough to make his heart ache.
It felt unremarkable and entirely forgettable.
Just like him.
It was regular.
And it was killing him.