Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The sun overhead is like fire itself, burning Sokka’s neck and shoulders and pulling sweat to rest on his skin. It saps his energy, coats his throat with dust and sets his heart racing from overexertion, but even the fiery heat outside is better than being inside. At least here, he can move. 

Sunlight is better than damp darkness, so Sokka enjoys his hour in it while he can. 

“Again,” Bato says. His voice is gruff; they’ll all need water soon. Sokka swallows in response, his breath heavy and rushed. 

But he doesn’t complain. He squares up with Sura, who is also panting and sweating like it’s their first day under a harsh Fire Nation sun, and she grins. He puts his fists up. 

He blocks her first punch, palm in to push her fist away from his face and carry her momentum past him. He’s surprised it works until, on her way past, she hooks a foot around his ankle and pulls his weight out from under him. He hits the dirt with an audible, “Oof,” wind escaping his lungs and sun blinding him for a moment. 

He rolls just as her foot comes down and she misses his nose by inches. He grabs a handful of dust before he stands and throws it between them to cloud the air; as Sura coughs, Sokka kicks forward and catches her shin, then her stomach. She catches his foot on his third try and spins him, but he catches himself before he lands flat again and pushes up, swinging toward her. His fist connects with nothing and he overbalances, so Sura lands a kidney punch and gets her hand around his neck. Sokka goes limp, then slides out of her grip with the help of sweaty limbs. As he turns, he catches her wrist as she goes for a side-palm towards his neck. His arm is arcing toward her for a solid hit when his father’s voice rings out: “Stop.” 

It’s enough; Sokka yanks his arm backward to stop the hit from landing, and Sura stops scrabbling to get out of his hold. Hakoda steps towards them and grabs Sokka’s arm, positioning his fist so that if he were to swing now, he’d hit her ear, not her shoulder. 

“Aim for her vulnerability,” he says, and Sokka nods. He doesn’t have to explain, because Sokka has heard it before: 

Use every advantage. 

Fight dirty, fight unfairly. 

Fight like it’s for your life, because in war it always is. 

“Good use of the dirt to blind her,” Bato says from a few paces away. “But you let her use it to hide from you once you pressed your advantage. Don’t let your own weapon be used against you.” 

Sokka nods again, words out of reach right now as he catches his breath. He lets go of Sura and she gives a friendly punch to his arm, an I’ll get you next time gesture, and he grunts in response. Bato catches her as she goes to sit down and starts showing her a counter to Sokka’s ear punch move. It’ll have to be for tomorrow; there’s hardly any time left today for more sparring. 

Sokka takes a seat next to Sura on what passes for furniture outside. He thinks it used to be a tree stump that fell hundreds of years ago, but ages in the sun baked into something like rock, hard and unyielding. Now, it’s a makeshift bench that sits perfectly in the shade of the prison’s main building, and the Water Tribe warriors had claimed it as their own spot long ago. 

“Here, son,” Hakoda says, passing Sokka a surreptitious bowl of water, no more than two mouthfuls. He takes a tiny sip and passes it to Sura, who swallows the rest gratefully. Today’s a good day; most of the time they don’t get water until dinner, but it’s the hottest day of summer so far, and one of the friendlier guards must’ve passed the bowl to Dad as they were let outside. 

Sokka tips his head to the side, drained by the heat but in a way that says he accomplished something, muscles already going stiff from overuse. He’ll stretch in his cell tonight, and be ready to go again tomorrow. 

For now, he turns and catches sight of the end of Katara’s lessons. His dad and Bato are tough on Sokka and the other warriors, but they don’t hold a candle to Pakku’s strictness. He never lets Katara finish a second early. 

He and Katara always look like dancers when they train. They move in sync down to the breaths they take, arms following ancient movements to chart courses across the sky. Pakku once told Katara that the strongest waterbenders pull from the moon even when she’s hidden, and so their positions always start with arms outstretched, inviting the moon in to help. Sokka can only imagine what these particular moves are supposed to do — tidal waves, water whips, healing springs, he doesn’t know — but that’s all he can do: imagine. Katara and her sifu bend nothing as they dance, because the dirt is parched beneath them, and even the friendliest guards won’t give anyone from the Water Tribe enough water to do anything more than sip. 

Katara says there’s a lake that the prison sits on, close enough that she and Pakku can feel it, but far enough away that it’s just a tease at the edge of their senses. They were brought in by dark of night when they came here, so Sokka didn’t see any lake, but he doesn’t doubt her. He just wonders what she would do with a boiling lake, if she could have it. 

A gong rings just as the sun traces out three hours past noon on the sundial. They file back into the shadowed interior of the prison for the rest of the day, and Sokka’s vision struggles to keep up with the abrupt change from bright to dark. 

“Good lesson?” he says to Katara when they end up next to each other on the way back to their cells. 

“Good enough,” she says back. “Saw you hit the dirt a few times.” 

“All part of my plan, of course,” Sokka says, and he catches the barest edge of Katara’s smirk as she’s directed away towards the womens’ cells. Sura follows, as does Desa and a few other Water Tribe women. Sokka and the other men are pointed towards the stairs, as though this is in any way a new process. 

This is his life. He hardly needs a bored Fire Nation guard to tell him where he sleeps. 

They’ll be in their cells the rest of the night, but at least from now until nightfall they aren’t expected to be silent. The atmosphere isn’t exactly jovial but it is familiar, the rumbling of footsteps on metal stairs, heavy clanging as cell doors are shut, and general babble amongst the prisoners as conversations continue even as each man is ushered into his own space. They can’t see each other, locked into their own cells like this, but they can talk through the bars in the small windows on each door. 

“Dj’you win?” Ryu asks Sokka as he steps into the cell next door, pulling the door closed on his own. He’s a thin, reedy thing, with a pitiful mustache and several missing teeth. He’s technically Water Tribe, but from the Swamps so his accent is jarring. 

“I always win, Ryu,” Sokka says airily. “You know this.” 

Ryu snorts and mumbles some jumbled words Sokka doesn’t catch. Sokka doesn’t pull his cell door closed: he doesn’t want to make the guards’ jobs too easy, but a guard is there within seconds to do it anyway. The click of metal against metal always sounds so final, but Sokka has learned to ignore it. 

He naps a little before dinner, which is hardly worth waking up for, but this is another thing his dad and Bato have drilled into him: you eat if there’s food. You drink if there’s water. You don’t pass up sustenance if it’s offered. 

The cabbage soup is basically water itself, the bread is hard, and the tiny cup of tea is warm and cloudy, but Sokka puts it all away and wipes the plates clean. He grins when he thinks about Katara’s face right now: she hates cabbage, but she knows their dad’s rules as well as he does, and she’ll suffer through. 

The guards gather up the plates and cups an hour after they eat, sweeping each cell for water puddles or rocks or anything that could be used as a weapon. As usual, they find nothing. 

As day grows dark outside, lanterns flare to light inside. Guards patrol every hour, but the prisoners are generally left to their own devices. There’s no threat of anyone bending their way out of these cells: there’s no earth or water nearby, and the firebenders who are imprisoned are kept on another floor, which has windows for light instead of lanterns and full doors on their cells instead of barred windows. 

Sokka doesn’t know if he envies them or pities them for that. Would he trade his barred door for a window? It’s those kind of questions that give him something to think about as the hours wend away. 

It’s about nine bells past noon, and Sokka is stretching and practicing his high kicks. The lanterns will be put out soon, and he learned his lesson early to not try any fighting moves in the dark. 

Someone a few cells over — Pakku, maybe, in the cell directly across from Sokka — starts singing. It’s a Water Tribe song, a war song, but a slow one. The one they sing on the way back from a battle to honor their dead, to pace the rowing of the canoes so as not to exhaust tired warriors after a fight. It sounds like waves against a glacier, a steady pounding that ebbs and flows. Sokka sings along under his breath as he finishes his push-ups. 

It’s a Water Tribe song but a familiar melody now; the Swamp man next door and the Earth Kingdom guys a few cells over add their voices to the swell just as the Water Tribe men do. Even the guards hum along when they pass. 

The lanterns flicker out at ten bells, but the song continues until, one by one, the prisoners drop into sleep. 

_________

Something is happening, but the prisoners aren’t supposed to know about it. 

“Someone big is visiting,” Hakoda says quietly. He’s in the cell next to Sokka, but the walls are metal and the echo makes his voice carry. And anyone who can't hear him now will catch the message as it’s passed along, a whisper wildfire. “The guards don’t know who, but the Warden is panicked.” 

Good. The Warden makes this hell what it is, and even the guards seem to have no love for him even as they follow his orders. Anything to make his life worse is okay in Sokka’s mind. 

Plus, it’s hardly new for Boiling Rock to get visitors. Sokka knew nothing about the Fire Nation before he got here, but he knows now that the highest security prisoners are kept in this very prison; generals and nobles are sometimes paraded through to see the worst of the war’s criminals, at least in the eyes of the Fire Nation. He thinks it might be some kind of self-affirmation for the Fire Nation leaders — if they can see all the terrible people who fought against them, they can justify the war. It doesn’t seem like the visitors are brought in to see any one person in particular, and they never seem willing to linger. 

There’s a rumor that the old Fire Lord is kept in a cell underground and that’s who they all come to see, but Sokka doesn’t believe it. 

He eats his single boiled egg and drinks his weak tea for breakfast, and stretches some more. He thinks his back is bruised from his sparring yesterday, but without a mirror there’s no way to confirm and it wouldn’t stop him from participating again today. The only days in here he hasn’t spent fighting were the times he had broken bones or pulled muscles, and then Pakku and Katara would heal him slowly over time in the yard with smuggled tea or water. Even then, he usually jumped back into training earlier than his dad would like. 

The morning spent in the cell is like watching a beehive that’s been knocked to the ground: the prisoners hardly move at all but the guards are frenetic, captains barking orders that contradict each other until the lowest level guards seem on the verge of a breakdown. 

“He told me to get my dress uniform,” says one teary guard, who looks hardly older than Sokka. “I don’t have a dress uniform.” 

“No one does,” says the guard he’s patrolling with. “Just forget about it, but find your helmet.” They’re not even really bothering to look at the people in their cells as they pass, worried about themselves and not the men behind bars around them. This would’ve been a perfect day to plan an ambush, Sokka thinks sardonically, but doesn’t voice the thought. The last time he’d offered that as an option, it had made everything so much worse. 

At two bells, the guards seemed to have settled a little. Maybe the visit got canceled; Sokka watches his dad as the stream of prisoners makes its way down the prison stairway to the yard outside the building. Hakoda looks cautious, but alert, and Sokka keeps his guard up. 

As his feet hit dirt, he makes his way over to their claimed corner with the ancient tree seat, and stands next to Omak. They spar on a rotation: Sokka fought Sura yesterday, so he fights Omak today, then Bato tomorrow. All of the Water Tribe warriors take part; it keeps their fighting skills from draining away from disuse, and helps them keep track of the days. Only Katara and Pakku stay separate, and rarely Desa will join them instead when they’re focusing on healing for the day, but she’s a warrior first and foremost so she doesn’t train with them daily. 

Omak and Sokka take their places across from each other, and take fighting stances just before: 

“No, Sokka.” 

Hakoda is speaking loud enough for the whole group to hear. Sura perks up, looking like she’d like to challenge Sokka to a rematch if it’s offered, but his dad looks at Pakku instead. 

Pakku speaks now: “Katara, today you fight your brother.” 

Katara spars with Desa sometimes, and she doesn’t look surprised by this, but Sokka raises an eyebrow. “You sure?” But a more impressive single eyebrow from Pakku has him bowing in apology, saying, “Of course, sifu.” 

Pakku explains anyway. “Benders don’t always just fight other benders. Katara must be able to defend herself no matter whether she fights a warrior with a sword, or a dagger, or a handful of fire.” 

He doesn’t voice the other part, but Sokka hears it anyway. That the Fire Nation has medicines, herbs that can be slipped into teas that remove a bender’s powers. That there are some Fire Nation soldiers who can touch a bender and take their powers away themselves. Katara can still bend right now, or she could if water was close enough to use, but that may not always be the case. 

She looks determined as she passes Pakku and walks toward Sokka. 

The other warriors don’t even bother pretending to spar in favor of gathering around to watch. Sokka is the best at hand-to-hand, but they don’t often see Katara fight, and she’s ferocious in her own right. Sokka even sees a few familiar faces peel off from the main crowd of prisoners to watch, when they usually don’t pay attention or even mock the Water Tribe for continuing to train for a war they lost. 

Ryu waves at Sokka, mustache quivering with excitement. 

There’s no starting bell, or agreed-upon phrase to begin. Sokka takes his stance in the same place he was before while Katara replaces Omak. Sokka’s arms are pulled in close to his body but Katara holds her arms out wide, inviting him to attack, the first step of her dance. She breathes in deep. Sokka jumps. 

Quickly, Sokka realizes he doesn’t need to pull punches. Despite the lack of water, Katara moves like she’s bending and redirects Sokka’s fists, or feet, and even lands a few hard hits. He catches her across the stomach and she winces, but flows into a low stance where she kicks furiously at his ankles. 

Sokka doesn’t allow himself to think during fights; he moves, he responds to instinct, but if he tries to think he makes himself slower. So he doesn’t consider how she’s only a little shorter than him now, when before she used to seem so small. And he doesn’t think about how his punches hurt him as well as her, with the muscles in her stomach and back and arms rebounding him after each hit like a defense mechanism. 

He thinks he has her at one point, when he can crowd in close and land a hard hit. She shoves him back but he rolls around it, kicking at her knee and making her dance backwards. He grins, and her eyes narrow, because they will always be competitive siblings first and foremost, and he’s not going to let her live this down. 

So he swings wide and knows right where his hit is going to land, except—  

Katara ducks him just in time and clasps her hand around his wrists, which become soaked in- is that tea? Sokka has no time to wonder; she freezes the liquid with a quick waterbending movement and locks his hands into little ice manacles. They bust almost immediately, the layer of tea too thin to hold Sokka for long, but it’s enough to let Katara scramble away and catch her breath. 

Sokka goes straight for her hands to stop her from bending again, and the fight becomes a wrestling match. He gets his hands around her forearms and she yanks them back, over and over again. She’s so infuriating, every bit the bratty sister he’s always known, but now she’s mean and resourceful, like a cornered crococat. 

Sokka has one wrist trapped and is struggling for the other as Katara elbows him wildly when a voice rings out, “Stop.” 

It’s not Hakoda. It’s not Pakku either. 

Sokka and Katara jerk to a stop to see the entire world has changed around them as they sparred. The other prisoners are all backed away and most have their heads down, subservient. Some of the Fire Nation prisoners are even on the ground, foreheads pressed to the dirt. At the top of the tower in the center of the yard a gondola glints in the sunlight, newly arrived and out of place, a sight they normally don’t see. 

And, face red with rage, hands clenched into fists, the Warden watches Sokka and Katara as though he’s mentally shuffling through his favorite punishments. He must’ve been the one who shouted; if nothing else, that man has a voice that would cut through stone. 

Behind him stands a small contingent of prison guards in spotless uniforms, rarely-used helmets all shined clean. They’re circled around a smaller group of guards in even nicer uniforms, who seem to be guarding the oddest assortment of people Sokka has ever seen. 

First is an old man, with a wide belly and pensive expression, as though stumbling across an all-out fight in a prison yard is commonplace, if slightly worrying. Next to him is a short girl in a faded green tunic and tapered pants, dark hair a mess of fringe in front of her eyes and stacked tall on top of her head. Next to her is a thin, tall teenager with a bald head and daffodil golden robes, though none of that is as unusual as the bright blue arrows crowning his head and running down his arms. And next to him is— 

Is who Sokka can only assume is the Spirits-damned Fire Lord. 

He lets go of Katara’s wrist. Otherwise, no one moves. Sokka doesn’t even breathe. As soon as he realized the high-caliber authority they were dealing with, he moved his gaze immediately to the ground. 

“What,” the Warden spits, “is the meaning of this?”

Sokka stays silent. They’ve all had experience navigating the Warden, and he’s got a pattern: he wants to yell, and berate, and threaten, but a shameful look and an apology will go miles with the guy. Sokka’s not a good enough actor to look contrite, and neither is Katara, but they can get a half-felt apology out when he’s stopped yelling. 

But maybe today is different, Sokka muses, because the silence stretches on to a breaking point, like a rope holding too much weight. It’s not every day the ruler leaves his throne to check up on things. Must make tensions run a little hotter than usual. 

Ha! Hotter. Fire Lord. Sokka’s hilarious. 

“Do you think this is funny?” 

Sokka is trying very hard to stop being hilarious. 

His smile is wiped away when his dad steps in front of him. His heart goes icy; from her stuttered breath, he can tell Katara’s does the same. 

“Apologies, Warden,” Hakoda says calmly. He bows his head slowly, deeply. “It was just a simple training exercise.” 

“Training?” the Warden says. His voice is also calm, which seems even more dangerous than the shouting. “And tell me. What exactly are you training for?” 

Dad doesn’t answer. Bato doesn’t answer. Sokka doesn’t answer. He grabs Katara’s wrist before she shoots off some sharp and dangerous comment, so she doesn’t answer either. 

“Take them away,” the Warden says. “Two weeks in the coolers.” 

“No!” Hakoda shouts, but he’s pushed back by two guards with spears, and four more have Katara and Sokka in hand before they can move. Stupid, Sokka thinks to himself, twisting his arms reflexively to try their hold. He’s been training relentlessly for a fight and then he got caught before he could start. 

They’re marched forward two steps when a new voice joins the fold. 

“Hey. Are you a waterbender?” 

It’s the bald kid, who sounds so cheerful that it’s like he’s on a class trip to a sparrowkeet sanctuary instead of the world’s worst prison. He’s looking at Katara, who still doesn’t say anything. Sokka can hear the war in her head raging: she’s pretty sure the guards know she’s a bender and they let her practice because there’s no water to use, but she’s not sure the Warden knows she is, and she definitely doesn’t want the (Tui and fucking La damned) Fire Lord to know, but then she can hardly refuse a direct question from a clearly important guy, and —

“Aang?” 

 This time, it’s Pakku. This time, the Warden doesn’t yell, because the bald boy’s face bursts into a smile, and he bounds over — literally, hopping multiple feet into the air — and hugs Pakku, who seems stunned. 

“Guys!” the bald kid shouts to the sweet merciful Spirit World Fire Lord and his motley crew of associates. “Guys, this is him! This is the waterbending master, remember?” He has an arm around Pakku’s shoulders like they’re best friends. 

And it clicks. 

Asking about a waterbender. Jumping up in the air like gravity doesn’t exist. Right hand of the Fire Lord. 

“Holy shit,” Sokka says, arms still held by guards on either side. “You’re the Avatar.” 

And all hell breaks loose. 

_________

It takes a while for the hubbub to die down. The majority of the prisoners are forcefully ushered back inside the prison, but a small group are left outside, including Sokka and his dad and sister. 

“We need a place to talk,” says the short girl in green. She’s not looking at anyone in particular, and Sokka notices now, when he’s pushed close enough, that her eyes are white and cloudy. But when no one moves to answer her, she snaps her head right at the Warden and he jumps. 

“Yes, of course,” the Warden says. “Guards! Take them to a meeting room.” 

Sokka still has two guards flanking him, and enough stay behind from rounding up the other prisoners that each of the Water Tribe warriors gets two as well: Pakku, Hakoda, Katara, and Sokka are pushed inside and to a different staircase than the ones to their cells, the one that leads to the guards’ lounge and wherever they must sleep. 

At one of the closed doors, a guard pulls out a ring of keys and unlocks it, and then pulls Hakoda back so that the important people can go in before the rabble. 

The Avatar is the first to enter, and he stops immediately. Even Sokka, from a few steps away, can tell why: the room is dusty and disused, dark and gloomy. The air smells stale, and the Avatar wrinkles his nose. 

“Not a fan of windows here, huh,” he says doubtfully. There are lanterns over the table in the middle of the room and he lights those with a short wave of his hand, but the place is still eerie. 

“We have some in a few of the cells,” one of the guards says. “Not here, though.” 

“Oh, I can fix that,” says the girl in green, stepping around the Avatar. “Watch yourself.” 

The prison walls are all metal and the barest amounts of wood, to keep any benders from being able to use their powers to do anything that could help them escape. Sokka wonders if anyone told the girl this, because if she plans on taking a hammer to metal this is going to take a while. 

His breath catches in surprise when the girl steps up to the outside wall and runs her hand along it, then stomps and the metal splits like it’s made of paper, a rectangle of light appearing. 

A metalbender. A blind metalbender. 

What a weird day. 

The room is now bright with afternoon sunlight, and the stale air escapes out the punched hole. The Avatar laughs once. “Perfect. Thanks, Toph!” 

The metalbender chooses a chair at the table and takes a seat, shrugging. “No problem. Though, I guess I broke your prison, Zuko. My bad.” 

Zuko — the Fire Lord. She just- she just addressed the Fire Lord like he’s a random guy on the street. Sokka comes from a culture that isn’t really all that formal, but he’s still shocked. 

The Fire Lord doesn’t smile, but he shakes his head and doesn’t seem mad. “You’ve broken most of my stuff. Why apologize now?” 

It’s the first time he’s spoken. Sokka didn’t expect the Fire Lord’s voice to be so soft, like he spent the whole gondola ride here shouting. The gold flame in his hair glints in the newly exposed sunlight. 

“Almost perfect, except—” the Avatar stomps, similar to the metalbender, and the layer of dust rises up from the floor and the table. He sweeps his hands together and the dust collides into a ball that spins and compacts itself down, down, until it’s small enough that he can shoot it out the new window. 

Then he sits down two seats away from the metalbender, clearly leaving space for the Fire Lord in the center of the table. 

The guards push Sokka and the others to the opposite side of the table, and his dad takes the seat across from the Fire Lord. Katara and Sokka sit on either side of him, then Pakku by Katara. Guards ring the room with their hands on weapons if they have them, but they’re almost all firebenders and wouldn’t need their clubs if one of the prisoners got a wild hair and tried to attack the Fire Lord. 

Not likely. 

The Fire Lord sits but no one speaks, which gives the two sides time to survey each other. The Avatar is younger than Sokka thought, though he guesses Suki had told him that years ago. That the rumor had started that Avatar Roku never died but that it couldn’t be true, the new Avatar was so much younger, a mere boy. He’s younger than Sokka, probably younger than Katara. Fifteen or sixteen, maybe, and he spins a ball of air absentmindedly in his hand. The blue arrows on his head and arms are a shock of color Sokka hasn’t seen since— well, since his Water Tribe clothes he’d been wearing when he was arrested were burned. 

The metalbender — Toph — is as much a mystery as Sokka could hope to find. Blind, but she turns her head as though she can see them all as clearly as anyone else could. She taps her feet periodically, some kind of tic. Unlike the Avatar in his brilliant yellow robes, and the Fire Lord in an impeccable crimson robe of his own, her tunic is stained and rumpled, and her hands are dirty. 

Sokka doesn’t look at the Fire Lord. Just the fact that he’s here, in this room with them, when he’s caused so much misery in their lives— if he looked at the Fire Lord he’d probably throw caution to the wind and try to punch him, which wouldn’t end well for anyone, and Sokka likes his fingers unbroken. 

“Your Highness,” the Warden says, bowing his head. He’s sitting at the head of the table, as though he’s an intermediary. “If you would like these prisoners punished for their disobedience, you don’t have to sully yourself with this work. I am happy to have them locked away until you’re gone.” 

“I’m not here to punish anyone,” The Fire Lord says. He doesn’t look at the Warden; he’s studying the warriors across from him. 

“We’re actually here for me,” the Avatar says. “Well, and Master Pakku.” 

Pakku draws himself up. “Avatar Aang, I gave you my reasons for not training you when you came to me before. I understand if I must be punished for that, but I hope you at least understand my intentions.” 

The Avatar looks, strangely, horrified. “No! I don’t want to punish you, Master. I’d like to ask you again to train me, if you could.” 

“The Avatar has mastered three elements,” the Fire Lord says. “Air, earth, fire. He needs a waterbending teacher.” 

“Ah,” Pakku says, but doesn’t elaborate. Sokka feels in over his head — this is a conversation he can’t add to, and really none of them need to be here except Pakku. But, at the same time, he’s glad Pakku doesn’t have to be here alone. No one deserves that. 

The tension grows at Pakku’s non-answer. The Warden slaps a hand down on the table, making them jump. 

“Of course he’ll train you, Honored Avatar,” the Warden says. The Avatar wrinkles his nose at the honorific. “He’s a prisoner. He must do as he’s told.” 

“I don’t want someone forced into being my teacher,” the Avatar protests. “That doesn’t seem right.” 

“You wouldn’t have to force me, Aang,” Pakku says. “But you must understand how uncomfortable this situation makes me. Makes any of us.” 

“We’ve been locked in here for fighting against the Fire Nation,” Hakoda speaks up. “You can’t easily ask us to start helping it.” 

“But I’m not from the Fire Nation,” the Avatar says.

“Yet you act as its right hand,” Hakoda says. “Whether you intend it to or not, your being here with the Fire Lord sends a message.” 

The tension snaps. Of course, the one striking the match to light the tinder is Katara. 

She stands, fiery and bold in a bland tunic and dirty face. “We’ll never help you. You ruined our lives.” 

Chaos, again. Hakoda’s kids are good at that, if nothing else. 

“Silence!” the Warden shouts over the din of guards rustling to draw their weapons, two of them grabbing Katara’s shoulders and shoving her back down into her seat. Sokka and his dad also make to stand, but the sharp point of a blade is at Sokka’s back and he stops, weighing his options. 

“I didn’t ruin your life!” the Avatar says. Exuberance aside, he sounds more like a child now than he ever had before. Nearly pouty. “I’ve never even met you!” 

“I don’t think she means you. She means me,” the Fire Lord says. 

Again, silence. If Katara and Sokka are good at mussing up a room into frenzy, the Fire Lord is good at a single weighted sentence that stops all movement on its axis. 

Pakku looks horrified, though hidden under a polite veneer. Hakoda wears the expression Sokka has only seen once, before a firefight in which lives were lost. The guards rustle again, nearly in excitement. 

Sokka gets why. The Fire Lord has been insulted, even obliquely, by a prisoner. Punishments will follow. 

Not easily. Sokka can feel it in the energy radiating out from his side of the table. They won’t go quietly. None of them will let Katara be taken without a fight. If she goes to her death, so they all follow. 

Sokka isn’t surprised this day has come, but he is surprised at who is in attendance. 

“I feel like we all got off on the wrong foot,” says a slow, meandering voice from the doorway. 

It’s the old man, the one who was out in the yard with the Fire Lord before, and who Sokka just realizes hadn’t followed them into the meeting room. He’s holding— a tray of drinks? 

“Uncle,” the Fire Lord says. “Where did you find tea?” 

“I could find tea in an empty cave, Lord Zuko,” his uncle says. “In a place like this, it’s almost too easy.” 

He sets the tray down and, indeed, on it is a standard issue metal military teapot, and a handful of dented metal cups. The Avatar and Toph reach for cups with no hesitation and, after a moment, so does the Fire Lord. Then, to the clear surprise of the guards, the Warden, and the prisoners, he turns and offers the remaining cups to the other side of the table. 

“You two look like you need this the most,” he says, passing a cup to Katara, then Sokka. “That fight looked exhausting.” 

“Uh,” Sokka says. “Thanks.” 

Katara doesn’t do the same, but she doesn’t throw the tea back at the old man, and that’s really all they could hope for. 

Hakoda sniffs his tea, clearly checking for poison, and again the guards shuffle and mutter at the clear offense, but the old man waves a hand. 

“Now that we have refreshments, can we begin again?” he says. If the Fire Lord’s voice is sand on a beach, his uncle’s is gravel under a boot. “Master Pakku, it is good to see you again.” 

“You as well, Lord Iroh,” Pakku says. 

“We have not had the pleasure yet,” Lord Iroh says, inclining his head to Katara, next to Pakku. 

“No, you haven’t,” she says. Iroh doesn’t look angry, more amused than anything, but before the guards can make their disapproving noises, Hakoda cuts in. 

“I am Chief Hakoda of the Southern Water Tribe,” he says. “These are my children, Katara and Sokka.” 

“Chief Hakoda,” the Fire Lord repeats, and it’s not a response to Hakoda himself, but a question to the Warden. “We keep imprisoned royalty with the rest of the criminals?” 

Sokka will never, ever admit it, but the flicker of fear on the Warden’s face could keep him full even if the world ran out of food. For a little while at least. 

“We were— not aware that this prisoner was a chief, Your Highness,” the Warden ekes out. “He did not see fit to let us know.” 

“Would I have gotten a cell with a goose-down bed and wine?” Hakoda asks. “I can’t see how that information was of any use to you.” 

“Everything is of use to us,” the Warden snarls. “We own you, and we own your information.” 

“You do not,” Lord Iroh says. In contrast with the Warden, he is sitting back in his chair, teacup to his lips. His expression is mild, but his eyes are hard. “We do not keep prisoners to strip them of themselves, but to keep them from harming our citizens if they are likely to do so. In fact, I’m curious as to why these people are imprisoned in the first place.” 

“They are war criminals,” the Warden says. “They fought against the Fire Nation in the war.” 

“So did many other people,” the Fire Lord says. “There are thousands of Earth Kingdom soldiers walking free in their home nation who killed Fire Nation citizens in battles. Why are these people here?” 

“He doesn’t know,” Sokka says. Everyone shifts their gaze to Sokka for the first time. It’s nearly audible, the click of all eyes on him. Even the blind girl’s. 

“What do you mean?” Lord Iroh asks.

“He didn’t ask for a reason why we were brought in,” Sokka says. “A guard even tried to tell him, and he said he didn’t care. That we’re all the same, and he’d break us the same anyway.” 

“He called us feral dogs,” Katara spits. 

“He’s called us worse, since,” Hakoda says. “Since you asked, Your Highness, my warriors and I were captured before the end of the war after a failed raid on a supply ship near Omashu. Pakku had joined us by then, and was also captured with us.” 

“You are criminals,” the Warden hisses. 

“By the Fire Nation’s definition, perhaps,” Hakoda says. “But by my definition, I was fighting for the freedom of my home. Of my children.” He gestures at Katara and Sokka. 

Sokka is watching his father, but he sees the Fire Lord go still at that, and Lord Iroh lowers his tea. The Avatar and the metalbender both shoot small looks at the Fire Lord, but stay quiet. 

“Are there no free waterbenders who could teach you, Aang?” Pakku asks suddenly. “Several of my students were near the mastery level when I left, and could substitute for me in my absence.” 

“Well,” the Avatar looks uncomfortable. It’s easy to tell; he wears every emotion like a banner, strong on his face and movements. “We haven’t been back to the North Pole, so I don’t know if there’s anyone— if any waterbenders are free. When I asked about finding you, our search led us here, and we came straightaway.” 

“Is it likely that the North Pole is empty?” Pakku asks. His voice is strained. “Are there many Water Tribe prisoners in Fire Nation prisons?” 

Another awful silence, but the Fire Lord speaks this time. “My transition to the throne and the ending of the war has been messy, to say the least. It has taken the past three years just to call all my soldiers home, let alone organizing a mass exodus of refugees from Fire Nation colonies, finding a replacement head of state for Ba Sing Se, and handling the financial collapse we suffered when I shut down our weapons factories. It was only recently brought to my attention,” he nods slightly toward the Avatar, “that there might be falsely imprisoned people in our jails, and bureaucracy is slow.” 

“Listen, doing things that involve paperwork is the worst, ” the Avatar says. He’s leaning forward and waggling his eyebrows conspiratorially. 

“If you hadn’t already beaten the bad guy, I think I wouldn’t believe you’d win,” Sokka says before he can stop it. 

Ah, the deafening silence after a great quip. Sokka’s oldest and dearest friend. 

“Your Honor,” rumbles the Warden, looking gleeful, “I will take this prisoner out and punish him for insulting you. What-” 

But his poorly concealed love of violence is cut across by a laugh, short and soft, but there, and Sokka is so caught off guard that he turns— 

And catches the Fire Lord’s eye as the sovereign covers his mouth, concealing the sight of his laughter if not the sound. 

And now Sokka can’t look away.

He’s younger than Sokka thought he was, but he knows so little about this Fire Lord or the one before him, all the rumors mashed up over time and spit out in ungainly morsels for Sokka to catch from Fire Nation prison guards and Earth Kingdom peasants alike. He doesn’t know which Fire Lord started the war but he does know this is the one that ended it. And he now knows this: this Fire Lord’s face is long and tapered into a sharp chin, defined jawbone, and paler than any man has the right to be in a place with so much Spirits-forsaken sun. But the dominating feature is his scar, a burn that has left its shadow across this man’s face, old enough that the edges have blurred, his unblemished skin flowing into scar tissue. 

His eyes are gold. It hurts Sokka to look directly at them. 

The Fire Lord’s laugh breaks the tension, and the Avatar laughs too, bright and loud and unconcerned. The metalbender snorts, and kicks her dirty bare feet up on the table. 

“You think he looks harmless now?” she asks, thumbing at the Avatar over her shoulder. “Shoulda seen him when he was twelve.” 

“Hey,” the Avatar shrugs. “I won through the power of friendship and love. That’s all you need.” 

The room settles, like the dust that had coated everything before. An uneasy truce, but one nonetheless. Sokka knows his dad and sister are thinking the same thing he is: that they dearly want a reason to fight right now, to take physical payback for the losses they’ve endured, but the Fire Lord and his friends aren’t complying with that. And if they can’t fight, and if they can’t run, the best they can hope for is a return to normal, and their scheduled lives behind bars continuing when the Fire Lord leaves. 

After a moment, the Fire Lord says, “I’d like to confer with my advisors, if you don’t mind.” 

Sokka and the others aren’t given a choice; the guards haul them up by their shirts and toss them into the hallway outside the meeting room. The guards themselves mostly disperse at that point. A few stay to watch that their prisoners don’t try to run for it, but it’s a low enough risk that most of the extraneous guards wander to the lounge down the hall, or maybe to bed. Sokka has no idea what they do in the twenty-three hours a day the prisoners are in their cells, but he assumes whatever it is must be less stressful than this unplanned visit from royalty. 

They can hear muffled conversation through the door, but Sokka doesn’t waste time trying to hear that. He turns, instead, to Pakku. “What happens now?” 

“Now?” Pakku asks. He’s always looked like a statue of a prototypical elder, never a flash of emotion allowed to cross his face. Even now, he looks like he could turn to stone any second, but while it’s admirable, it’s hardly a comfort. “Now I wait to hear my fate. If they decree that I will go, then I must go.” 

“No!” Katara gasps. 

“Quiet!” a guard shouts. 

Katara shoots her an ugly look, but turns back to Pakku. Voice lowered, she says, “Master Pakku, you can’t. You can’t go to the Fire Nation.” 

“Unfortunately, Katara,” Pakku says solemnly, “that may not be a choice I have.” 

The door opens then, and the Avatar pokes his head out. “Hey,” he says to the closest guard, who jumps. “There’s a bunch of water nearby, right?” 

“Uh,” the guard says. “You mean the lake?” 

“A lake! Yes, perfect,” the Avatar says. “Can you take all of us to the lake?” 

_________

It’s funny, if you don’t think about it too hard. 

The gondola to and from the Boiling Rock is the only way out of the prison. Some people have tried to escape on it, caught dressed as guards but in uniforms that didn’t fit; some have tried to escape by jumping from the gondola tower; one guy even got halfway across the water in a cooler box he somehow ripped from the wall, but the bolts holding the box together expanded from the extreme heat and exploded, so it didn’t end well. None of them do. All the prisoners watch these escape attempts with bated breaths and the assumption they’ll never see any would-be escapee alive again. 

But that doesn’t mean that Sokka hasn’t tried to escape anyway. 

Even seeing the wreckage made of the guy in the cool box, the way his skin burned from the boiling water, he’s still thought about a hundred different ways they could get out. 

They only tried once; Sokka has nightmares about it sometimes. He hasn’t suggested they try again since. 

But in his wildest dreams, taking the gondola in the middle of the day was never the way they got out. Prisoners don’t get early release from Boiling Rock; in nearly three years here, Sokka’s never seen anyone set free. Cells are opened up for new prisoners when the old ones die, from age or overwork or failed escape plans, and that’s it. So, no, after Sokka’s one brush with an escape attempt, he never planned to set foot on the gondola again — in his most manic daydreams, he never thought he’d get the chance. 

The prisoners all press their hands to the glass as they’re ferried over the prison walls for the first time in years. 

They can’t just be let out on the lake’s edge by the prison, because there’s no way to the shore from the prison itself. Outside the prison walls is a small ledge of crumbling rock, then a sheer drop to the deadly lake, so that’s a no-go. Instead, they have to take the gondola out of the prison, across the lake, and to the outer rim of the volcano. Theoretically, from there, the metalbender will get them down to the shore on the far side. 

All Sokka’s thoughts are a drumbeat, steady and loud, freedom. Freedom. Freedom.

And, no, they aren’t free. But they’re closer than they’ve ever been before. 

Maybe it will go like this: maybe they’ll take the gondola across and Pakku will do some waterbending and the Avatar will take him back to the Fire Nation capital to keep him as a bending master. The rest will go quietly back to their cells. Katara teaches herself waterbending alone from now on. Life revolves around an hour of each day spent under boiling sunshine.  

Or maybe they take their first real chance at freedom and chase it.

Sokka isn’t subtle, and he’s fine with that. He stares avidly at every component of the gondola, the wench and pulley system that moves the box along, the wide glass windows that show the world moving slowly outside. He stares at the small crowd of prison guards accompanying them, but stares even harder at the Fire Lord’s personal guards. They haven’t said a word this whole time, and there are only a handful of them, but they look intimidatingly proficient and serious. 

So, yeah. They’re a problem Sokka will have to solve. He puts that thought to the back, plans to return to it later. 

Sokka wonders if the Avatar would fight them, if they tried to run. He assumes the Fire Lord would, because they’re technically his prisoners and he wouldn’t want them to get away. But the Avatar is all peace and love, man, and seems like he might be against the idea of prison as a concept, which is nice. 

The metalbender is a complete mystery. Sokka feels comfortable in assuming even she wouldn’t know what she would do in any situation until she’d already done it. He decides to put her in a column of her own, labeled only with a question mark. 

The gondola shakes to a halt, and the Fire Lord’s guards lead the group out onto the volcano rim. 

It turns out, the metalbender is also an earthbender. Or she’s an earthbender who can also bend metal. It’s all a bit muddled. Now that he thinks about it, Sokka doesn’t know much about bending, earth or otherwise, but he’s pretty sure metalbending isn’t even really a thing. But then again he saw it in action and he doesn’t think he’s dreaming, so apparently it does exist and was possibly created by this small teenager with dirty feet. 

Huh. 

Either way, she tells them all to stand close, and the group — four Water Tribe members, a Fire Lord, an Avatar, a blind metalbender, an old guy somehow still drinking tea, five Fire Lord guards, and twenty-five Fire Nation prison guards, including their warden — shuffles together awkwardly. 

“Actually,” the Avatar says, “I think it should just be us. I mean, no guards.” 

There’s an immediate outcry. “Your Honor!” shouts the Warden. He’s doing more of the outcrying than anyone else. “It’s not safe! These prisoners are dangerous!” 

“Are they?” the Avatar asks. “They haven’t seemed dangerous to me so far.” 

Sokka tries desperately to look as innocent as a kitten, to hopefully balance out any rage Katara might be emanating. 

“Even if they were,” says the metalbender, “we’ve got the Avatar and two of his bending teachers to keep them in line. We’ll be okay.” 

The prison guards shuffle to the side, looking forlorn. The Warden is apoplectic, though at least he’s trying to hide that. Badly, but still trying. 

The now-smaller group shuffles together again, and this time the Fire Lord clears his throat awkwardly before anything happens. 

“Captain Shoji?” he says. “That means you too.” 

One of his personal guards, who had arranged themselves between the prisoners and the Fire Lord, steps forward. Sokka assumes this is the captain the Fire Lord was talking to, as his is the only face visible, the other guards’ hidden by masks attached to their helmets. 

“Sir, this is highly irregular and I strongly suggest-“ 

“There is no need for the Royal Procession to be part of a waterbending trial,” the Fire Lord says. 

“But, sir-“ 

“I trust the Avatar,” says the Fire Lord. “Do you?” 

The captain clearly feels this is rhetorical, and he bows his head and then jerks it to the side, and he and his guard unit step to the side as well. Unlike the prison guards, they don’t immediately head to the gondola to escape the heat. They stand in formation as the metalbender and the Avatar take up positions on either side of the group. 

The metalbender stomps her feet like the beginning steps of a dance. The Avatar mirrors her on the other side. The edge they’re standing on overlooking the lake and the prison makes a gigantic cracking sound, then separates and starts sliding down into the volcano. 

Sokka is about to start screaming about dying a bubbly hot death, but he notices that the earthbender and the Avatar are doing mirrored swimming-like moves on each end of the rock shelf, and the rock isn’t gaining speed. They’re sliding quickly, but evenly, down the steep slope, but it feels controlled. 

They stop neatly at the edge of the water, and the small group steps onto the rocky shore of the dangerous water. 

“Right,” the Avatar says brightly. “Let’s see some waterbending.” 

There’s no explanation of why: the Avatar already knows Pakku to be a master, and presumably doesn’t expect his skills to have dropped off considerably since they met. The few years spent in prison don’t measure up to Pakku’s decades of mastery before now. Sokka wonders what would happen if that wasn’t the case. Or if Pakku was to say no. 

Either way, it doesn’t seem to matter. 

“I forgot the water was boiling,” the Avatar says. His shoulders are slumped. He kicks a stray rock into the water, and the rock hisses as it dissolves. “This seems like a problem.” 

“It feels like we maybe should’ve seen this coming,” says the metalbender, propping her elbow on the Avatar’s shoulder. “What with the name, and all.” 

“I think it might be impossible to use this water in particular,” Pakku says, but he’s watching Katara. “I know of no waterbending sequences that do not involve water coming in contact, if only slightly, with the bender. It would take someone extremely skilled to keep from harming themselves.” 

“But you can do it,” the Avatar says. “Can’t you.” 

He, too, is watching Katara, and it wasn’t a question. The Fire Lord and Lord Iroh are watching her now as well. Sokka feels his hackles raise in a familiar, if dormant way; he hasn't had to protect Katara since they left home all those years ago, and she’s hardly a delicate flower. But the instinct doesn’t go away. 

His father places a calming hand on his shoulder; Sokka reads that to mean, don’t worry. We’ll keep her safe. 

The Avatar is still waiting for an answer. Sokka doesn’t even know if he’s right about Katara’s abilities. If anyone could bend an element out of sheer frustration and tenacity, it would be Katara, but even this feels out of her reach. The water’s heat is intense from several steps away, yet alone right up close, and that’s not to mention Katara hasn’t properly waterbended with more than a cupful of tea in years. 

“I don’t know,” she finally says, but she takes a step forward. 

Hakoda says, “Katara,” but she waves him off. 

“It’s doing two things at once,” she says. She sounds like she’s deep in thought. “It’s controlling the water, and controlling the temperature.” 

The first try doesn’t go well; she funnels a small tornado of water towards her with one hand and tries to freeze it, but a stream of water gets through the pane of ice and singes her wrist, an audible sizzle. She turns away and folds over, clutching her hand to herself and breathing loudly. 

It’s silent; Sokka won’t embarrass her by running to her and fussing over her, but he wants to. He knows his dad does as well. Honestly, even Pakku looks like he’d give it a try if she’d let him. No one moves. 

But then Katara straightens, and breathes deep. 

The second time, she whirls the water up into a ball that hovers, rotating over and over so the shape stays unbroken. She moves her left hand in a fanning motion and the water ball starts to freeze in places, ice coating the boiling water like a glass layer over the top. Katara reaches out with her right hand now and funnels more water into the ball, the mass hissing as boiling water meets ice, and it grows and grows. 

She looks, for the first time in a long time, alive. Fiercely, wonderfully alive. 

Within a minute, Katara has a cloud of solid water over her head, freezing and melting in intricate shapes. Her back muscles strain like she’s holding the water up by sheer strength. Within another minute, the water shape is so large it blots out the sun, and their group is suddenly thrust into shadow. 

Sokka feels it like a pull in his soul; he and Katara hadn’t even exchanged looks before this, but he knows she’ll know. 

He yells, “Now!” 

Katara drops the water bomb on the Fire Lord and his assembled guests. 

Sokka lunges forward. His hands are shackled together but they’re in the front rather than behind his back, which means if he can get a weapon, he can defend himself. And the Avatar has a stick: that’ll do. 

Katara blasts the soaked group with a spray of ice, a stream of boiling water she pulls from the lake and shapes into snow like it’s effortless. The Fire Lord, the Avatar, Lord Iroh, and the metalbender all freeze in place mid-step. 

Sokka and Hakoda approach their opponents from two separate sides, waiting to see who can fight their way out of the ice first. A crack: the Avatar busts his shell of ice first, and Katara buries him again. Yes. 

“We need leverage!” Hakoda shouts. 

Katara rolls Lord Iroh up into a snowball. She whips the Avatar with a wicked edge of a water tendril she has wound around her arm like an actual rope. She isn’t expending energy to cool this water; it’s so hot her prison uniform sleeve is charring. 

Pakku is helping Katara keep the Avatar frozen in place. Hakoda is struggling with Lord Iroh, who has melted his way out of the snowball. 

In the mess of ice and confusion, Sokka realizes he has a clear path to the Fire Lord. 

Sokka sprints forward but suddenly the path is blocked by— a hill? A very square mound of dirt that appears in front of him. A manifested wall, here to ruin his good time. 

The wall of earth then suddenly flies towards him and he remembers — ah, right. They have an earthbender. 

He rolls out of the way, having to hit the ground to keep from being smashed. The earthbender is grinning, sharp, and Sokka wonders yet again if she is actually blind because her gaze chases him like a cat does a mouse. 

She stomps again, and this time the ground rolls like a tidal wave. Sokka jumps, but times it badly so he’s thrown by the momentum; he hits shoulders-first against the ground and grunts. Sokka gets to his feet awkwardly, his hands aching in their restraints, as another mound of earth rolls toward him, but — but then a bubble of water encases the earthbender’s hands and freezes, and Sokka looks over to see Katara moving like the ocean itself, fluid and inescapable. 

There's a resounding crack as the Avatar breaks free, and Katara turns back to him immediately. She lost her advantage, but Sokka is safe for the moment. 

Sokka rushes around the stopped wave of earth, and finds the Fire Lord out of his icy trap, and looking right at him. His hands are lit with twin flames. Sokka grimaces. 

He sidesteps a bolt of fire, using the melted ice to propel himself forward. He can’t do anything from a distance, not without his boomerang, and definitely not with his wrists in shackles, but if he gets close he can at least do damage. He rushes in close and the Fire Lord spins, ornate robes flickering out behind him. 

“Sokka, arms up!” Katara shouts. Sokka dodges a swing from the Fire Lord and holds his hands up, chains jingling. Katara shoots a blast of ice at him and the chain is frozen; Sokka stoops and crashes the ice block against the ground and it shatters, breaking the chain with it. 

He straightens, and grins. The Fire Lord’s eyes narrow. 

The fight is a whirlwind. Sokka hasn’t fought a firebender before; he expected more actual fire. Instead, every hit that lands is like a brand, inescapable heat that singes his skin but doesn’t set him alight. It’s like the Fire Lord’s fists are coals, stirred into life and brutally efficient. 

But Sokka is the last-made warrior of the Southern Water Tribe, and he may not have fire fists but he can do some damage too. 

He swings, catches the Fire Lord’s jaw. When he recoils, Sokka steps on the edge of his fancy cape and halts the step back, closing in to land another hit. The Fire Lord’s finery is a weapon against him, and Sokka feels malicious happiness when his outer robe tears, precious jewels scattering across the bare rock face. 

The Fire Lord apparently doesn’t like that, and he lands his hardest hit yet: a direct shot of heat and force to the center of Sokka’s chest. It throws him off balance, and he spins awkwardly into a new position. 

Suddenly, an opening: he gets his arm past a haze of fire and wraps his arm around the Fire Lord’s neck. 

“Enough!” 

A blast of wind like a hurricane stops the scene. Sokka braces, and he and the Fire Lord remain upright, but they’re the only ones. Katara is in a small pond of water, drenched and steaming. The metalbender is grinning at Hakoda, who has an avalanche’s worth of stones scattered around him. Pakku is helping Lord Iroh to his feet. 

The Avatar is ten feet in the air, hovering. 

“Let Zuko go,” he says, and it takes a moment for Sokka to realize the Avatar is talking to him, and to remember that the Fire Lord has a name. 

“Let us go,” he counters. “We’ve been unfairly imprisoned, and you have the power to change that.” 

“Well, you were unfairly imprisoned, but then you attacked the Fire Lord,” the metalbender says, hopping to her feet. She looks energized, like this was all a fun outing that they’d planned ahead of time. 

“I have no intention of making you stay behind bars,” the Fire Lord says. Sokka’s arm is pressed against his throat still; he can feel the rumble of those graveled words before he hears them. 

“But you have to let him go,” the Avatar says. 

Of all people, it’s Katara who says, “Sokka. Let him go.” 

Sokka is so surprised that he does it, stepping back from the Fire Lord, who coughs a couple of times and rubs his throat. 

Katara looks like a water spirit. Her hair is soaked and dripping, torn out of her loops. Her bland prison uniform is singed, scorched by boiling water and fire alike. Sokka’s angry little sister, volatile and vengeful, is getting to her feet like the world has been torn out from under her. 

The Avatar lands with a silent touch, right in front of her. 

“I knew it,” he says into the silence. “You’re my waterbending teacher.” 

“What?” says Katara. She whips her head up to glare at him.“No! Master Pakku-“ 

“I thought it was him too, but I was wrong,” the Avatar says. “The Spirit World points me in the right direction, sometimes. I had a feeling I needed to go to the Northern Water Tribe three years ago, and I met Pakku. When I found out he was here, I felt the Spirits telling me to come and see. But it wasn’t him I was looking for this time.” He smiles. The arrow on his forehead is the brightest color in the world. Sokka is going to watch his baby sister get taken away from him. “It was you.” 

“Katara,” says Pakku. “Put aside your anger. It is a great honor to train the Avatar, and he is not the same as a Fire Nation soldier here to burn your home.” 

In front of Sokka, the Fire Lord’s shoulders stiffen. 

“I don’t care,” Katara says. “I’m not walking free if you’re all still here.” 

“That won’t be a problem,” says the metalbender. Sokka is pretty sure she doesn’t have the authority to make that statement, but the people who do don’t correct her. 

“Then I don’t want to because I don’t want to!” Katara shouts. Her voice is wobbly, and even more impassioned because of that. 

“It’s destiny,” the Avatar says, fervent. 

“Destiny can take a running leap off an iceberg.” 

“I have an idea,” the Fire Lord says. 

_________

The ride on the rock shelf back up to the volcano’s rim is silent, and longer than the ride down. Sokka isn’t sure if the fight exhausted everyone to the point of silence or that they’ve all just got too much to think about, but for the sake of his pride, he’s going to go with the former. 

The Royal Procession guards rush forward when the shelf reconnects to where it had broken off before. 

“Sir!” the captain says. “We heard fighting, is everyone okay?” 

“Everyone is fine,” the Fire Lord says. “Get the Warden for me.” 

Once the Warden and his guards are assembled, the Fire Lord stands before them, looking official and imposing even with a torn robe and lopsided crown. 

“I’m issuing a decree, to be formalized upon my return to Capital Island,” he says. It’s the first time he has actually sounded like a ruler, precise language molding unimpeachable commands. “Boiling Rock Prison is hereby closed. The prisoners will be reviewed by an impartial judge, and anyone at risk for committing violent crimes will be moved to another location. Everyone else will be set free. The guards here will be offered positions elsewhere, or can take this opportunity to retire. The first group of freed prisoners will leave with us today.” 

The silence is ringing. 

“You insolent brat,” the Warden says. He sounds shocked. “Ozai was a better ruler than you’ll ever be. At least he knew how to treat animals like these.” 

The Fire Lord is quiet, but even Sokka, who met the guy approximately half an hour and a fistfight ago, can tell he’s letting the Warden go just long enough to incriminate himself. The prison guards start sliding away from him awkwardly. 

“You may think you have the power to do this,” the Warden continues, spittle flying in rage, “but I know people who want you gone, and they’re more powerful than you. You’ll never be safe, not while I have a say.” 

“Very well,” the Fire Lord says. “Guards, arrest this man for threatening bodily harm upon a sovereign.” Several of his own guards grab the Warden’s arms, and the Royal Procession captain snaps a set of chains on him. “I think he will stay here until his case can be reviewed by our impartial judge.” 

“Whoever it is, I’ll buy their loyalty,” the Warden seethes. 

“I don’t know,” Lord Iroh says. “I have terribly expensive taste.” 

_________

As sunset touches the rim of the volcano containing Boiling Rock, Sokka steps on grass for the first time in years. He’s surrounded by a small crowd of friends, family, and strangers, but right now they’re all one and the same: freed. 

“Boy, Sokka,” says Ryu. “M’gonna miss hearin’ you snore.” 

“I’ll miss you too, Ryu,” Sokka says. “I bet your wife has a frog-squirrel over a fire waiting for you back home.” 

It’s a long walk to the nearest town, but from there everyone can arrange boats, carts, food and drink — whatever they need for a trip home. 

Home. 

Sokka feels a hand on his arm, and turns into his dad’s arms. 

Let’s make a deal, the Fire Lord had said. I’ll free all the prisoners except the truly dangerous ones. Your tribe can go home. 

“This is important,” Hakoda says, hushed and gruff. He keeps hugging Sokka, like the world would end if he didn’t. “Pakku is right — she has to do this. And you have to help her.” 

For your peace of mind, and for extra precaution, your brother should come with you while you’re training Aang. 

“I know,” Sokka says. “We’ll be home soon enough.” 

I can name him ambassador on behalf of your tribe, and he can stay as long as he wants. As long as you need. 

Hakoda steps back, grabs Sokka by the shoulders. “You’re a fine warrior, Sokka-Hakodason. I’m proud to know you.” He touches his hand to Sokka’s face. 

Sokka feels melted inside, but he returns the gesture, ancient and eternal, and picks his bag up off the ground. Besides his boomerang and club and map, the contents are mostly worthless. He and Katara had a single silver piece between them when they were arrested, and their food was taken by the guards. Other than that, his bag is full of too-small clothing and useless trinkets he’d dug out of Ba Sing Se trash piles. 

Hakoda hugs Katara next. Sokka can’t hear what he whispers into her hair, but it makes Katara sob. Then he steps back, same as with Sokka, and says, “You’re the promise of the Water Tribes to fulfill this peace, Katara-Kyadaughter. I’m proud to know you.” 

Tears cut a path down both of their cheeks as they are ushered towards the strange ship nearby, a large red balloon inflating slowly above it. 

Sokka turns one last time to wave at his dad, his uncle Bato, his friends, Master Pakku, and a small contingent of other lucky souls who got to leave the prison today. They’re a mass of deep red, shapeless prison uniforms and pale faces, but they look happy. They get to go home. 

Sokka, for the first time since they were children, takes Katara’s hand as they make their way into the bowels of the Fire Nation airship. 

_________

They're on the ship for approximately half an hour when Sokka and Katara both, on their own but nearly simultaneously, realize they might need medical attention. 

They were brought to a set of adjoining chambers in the belly of the airship by the cheerful metalbender, Toph. 

“Apparently these rooms are for visiting dignitaries,” Toph said, gesturing at a metal door that didn't look all that inviting. “But I guess they'll work for you, too.” 

The two rooms are connected and identical, except one has a weapon rack and the other has a low table with a large mirror. Weirdly domestic for a flying warship, but sure. There are large beds in each room, decked out in red and black, and drawers for clothing and shoes. 

Sokka had stashed his bag under the bed, feeling weird about the idea of unpacking and settling into a Fire Nation ship. 

But now, the adrenaline of the fight has worn off. He's cried, just a little, at the thought of his father and the warriors arriving home without him among them. He's checked on Katara, who is looking similarly reticent and quiet. Those two important steps checked off his list of things to do, he flops back onto his mattress.

And then immediately springs back up. “Oof, ow,” he groans. His entire body feels pummeled and roasted. 

He steps over to the mirror in Katara’s room and peels his prison uniform top off. 

“Gross, weirdo, what are you— Sokka,” Katara gasps. Sokka’s chest and arms are littered with fist-shaped burns. Most are benign enough, looking like the scars he already had from various campfire mishaps, but one in the center of his chest is still hot to the touch and open, a wound that could turn serious if left to fester. 

“Here, let me,” Katara says. There's a water basin in the corner of each room, and she bends the clean, clear water out of it and layers it over his wound. The pain is just starting to leech away when she gasps again, the water splashing to the floor. 

“Katara, what—” but Katara is clutching her wrist, where her own burned skin shows in flashes under her uniform sleeve. Sokka worries his lip in indecision. If Katara can’t heal him or herself, they might be in real trouble. “We might need help, just for tonight.” 

Katara shakes her head fiercely, and pulls the water off the floor to try again. A few seconds later, the pain forces her to stop once more. Sokka pushes aside his indecision, and goes to the door. 

Two of the Royal Procession guards are right outside, clearly instructed to watch the two Water Tribe prisoners who technically attacked their leader earlier. But they're all friends now, right? Katara is helping the Avatar, who is friends with the Fire Lord. It's all good. 

“Hey, could we, uh. Get some help from a healer?” Sokka asks the closest one. They're both still wearing their full-coverage helmets, so he has no idea if they heard him, or if they’re rolling their eyes, or maybe laughing at him silently behind those face shields.  

“And clean clothes!” Katara calls from behind him. 

“And clean clothes,” Sokka relays. “Please.” 

Neither moves. They could be sleeping standing up, for all Sokka knows. Or ignoring him because he didn’t use some type of royal code word. Or maybe they’re not even real people, just dummies dressed in guard uniforms to give the illusion that they’re being watched. 

Sokka reaches out and pokes one in the chest to see if it feels real, and the guard smacks his hand away. 

Well, that answers one question. He wonders if he should just find someone else to ask. But then the one he didn’t poke, still not uttering a word, spins on their heel and disappears down the hallway. 

“Right,” Sokka says to the one who hasn't moved. “Thanks.” 

He closes the door behind him, wondering if he’s supposed to do something to ease the tension. He learned about the custom of tipping in Ba Sing Se — maybe that’s a Fire Nation custom too? But he has absolutely no money and also the only people he’d ever seen given tips were servers at cafes, not guards. 

Katara has brought Sokka’s water basin into her room and is slowly circling a band of water around her wrist, wincing every few seconds. 

“Save your strength,” Sokka suggests. 

“I don’t really like the idea of letting Fire Nation soldiers know we’re hurt,” she says tightly. 

Sokka sits on the edge of her bed with a sigh. “I get that. I don’t trust them either. But Pakku did, enough to agree that we should do this, at least. And so did Dad. If this wasn’t safe, he wouldn’t have let us come.”  

Katara doesn’t answer, still filtering water over her wrist. She doesn’t even seem to be trying to heal herself. Sokka wonders if she can let herself stop, after finally having access to water to freely bend with for the first time in years. 

“We don’t have to like them, or be friends with them,” Sokka says. “We just have to stay until you’ve trained the Avatar, then we go home.” He lays back, thinking. “Didn’t he learn fire and earthbending in like a month to defeat the old Fire Lord? I feel like that was the story we heard.” 

“I don’t know,” Katara says. “But I do know you’re all dirty and bloody and laying on my bed. Get up.” 

She snaps a tendril of water at him, and Sokka gets to his feet, grumbling. There’s a knock at the door, and he says, “I guess I’ll get that.” 

He opens it, expecting to see the guard, but it’s most definitely not that. 

“Oh, uh. Hello,” says the Fire Lord. He’s holding what looks like a pile of linens, and is accompanied by a small woman Sokka doesn’t recognize. The Fire Lord has changed out of his torn crimson attire from earlier, and is now in a simple black tunic, thinner and less ornate than the royal finery he wore before. “I heard you needed— is that from today?” 

Sokka looks down at where he’s gesturing, the fist-burn that’s starting to smell a little. “Yep.” 

“Oh, that’s. Wow,” the Fire Lord says, then flushes. He’s staring at Sokka’s chest. Sokka guesses he doesn’t often get to see the consequences of his own bending after the fact; it probably would be weird to see your own destructive force up close. He snaps his eyes up to Sokka’s and says, “These are clothes. For you. Both of you. And this is Tai.” Tai, the woman next to him, bows shortly. “She can look at your- um. You.” 

He pushes the pile of clothing at Sokka, who hisses when the fabric touches the open wound on his chest. 

Tai reaches out and takes the clothing from Sokka. “I’ll handle this for now.” 

“Perfect. Good.” The Fire Lord backs away, stepping on the foot of one of his guards. “Sorry! I’ll just. Oh!” he says, stopping his awkward escape. “Also, dinner is ready. But we’ll wait for you to eat.” 

“That’s really not necessary,” Sokka says. “We can eat in our rooms. Or just not eat tonight, that’s hardly a new one for us.” 

The Fire Lord looks horrified. “No! You should eat. We’ll wait. When Tai is done, she’ll show you where to go.” 

“Well, okay. Thanks.” 

“Right,” says the Fire Lord, who bows a little, a pained expression on his face like he can see how awkward he’s being, but can’t stop himself. 

Maybe this is why the guy didn’t talk so much before. 

“Okay,” Sokka says, starting to close the door slowly after Tai steps past him and heads toward Katara. “Bye.” 

“Right,” says the Fire Lord again. “Um.” Then he turns and leaves. 

“Is he always like that?” Sokka asks Tai, but she just smiles and inspects Katara’s forearm. 

Tai is efficient, and they’re bandaged relatively soon after that. Katara’s arms are striped with boiling water burns, and she has cloth bandages wound up from her wrists to shoulders, but otherwise she went untouched. Sokka’s wounds are more scattered, but Tai mostly focuses on the big one on his chest and just rubs salve on the others, which makes him smell minty and cool. She cleans his wound, which is excruciating, and wraps a wide swath of cloth around Sokka’s chest. 

“You should get dressed,” she says. “I’ll wait for you outside.” 

Sokka never really considered how he’d feel if he was ever asked to wear Fire Nation silks. Not good, he’d have assumed, but the silks are better than his prison uniform, which is little more than tattered rags and bad smells after years of containment and one pretty intense fight. He wipes himself down with a cloth and cool water, and settles the silk robe, similar to the one the Fire Lord has been wearing, over his shoulders. The bright red is strange on his skin; for a second, it looks like blood. The trousers that come with the robe sit low on his hips, wide-legged and soft. 

Katara grins when she sees him; they’re in the exact same clothes, down to the golden flame embroidery on the sleeves of the robes. Her face is cleaned of dirt and grime, blood and sweat, for the first time in years. She looks older; the dirt had made her look lost and young. Now she looks — well, she looks eighteen. 

Back home, she and Gran-Gran would’ve been collecting furs and trinkets and weapons for her wedding box, the gift she would one day give her future spouse. The box would’ve been presented to her on her eighteenth birthday, crafted by her closest male family member — Sokka had known what he wanted Katara’s to look like for years, had started gathering spruce branches when fishing trips took him to islands with trees. Instead, they celebrated her birthday on a random day near the winter solstice, since actual dates were pretty hard to track in the prison. And instead of her coming of age wedding box, and the piles of goods she could've gathered as the chief’s daughter, everyone saved their servings of crusty bread at dinner and gave them to her the next day. Most of it wasn't even moldy. 

He shakes his head; that was months ago, and they're not in prison anymore. And Katara can get back to her life, and the paths she was meant to walk, as soon as she trains the Avatar. Maybe tradition can be changed, just a little, and she can get her wedding box on her nineteenth birthday. Maybe things don’t have to be terrible, all the time. 

Easy does it. 

They’re led to a room on what has to be the other side of the ship. It takes fifteen minutes of traversing humid, dark metal hallways to get there. Sokka feels bad about the whole trip, the oppressive heaviness of burnished metal and the clank of their footsteps, until they get close enough for him to smell food, then he gets over it a little. 

It’s just the Avatar, the Fire Lord, and Toph inside the room. No guards, no food servers. Tai doesn't follow them in, just bows and ushers Katara and Sokka inside. Five people, and a low rounded table. 

The food is some kind of rice and meat dish — Sokka doesn’t ask what it is, just starts eating the moment he spots an unclaimed bowl and an empty seat. It’s spicy and light, like a Fire Nation summer spent anywhere but a prison, and Sokka soon finds the bottom of the bowl. They’d eaten in near silence, the Avatar starting only a few halfhearted attempts at conversation that fell flat when Sokka and Katara ignored him in favor of their meals. 

It's probably rude, but Sokka has been hungry since his first night in the prison three years ago and cabbage soup never quite did the trick. If this whole ambassador thing is a short respite from hunger, he's going to take advantage of what’s offered. 

“You two look— rested,” the Avatar says, trying again. 

“We’re not,” Sokka answers. He scrapes his spoon against the bowl to catch the last dregs of food, then swipes his finger around the edge of the bowl and sucks the sauce off. “Katara?” 

She’s also scarfing down her last bites, and she nods. They stand, and leave their empty bowls and utensils scattered, and silence in their wake. 

_________

It's four days by airship to Capital Island. 

Sokka spends most of those days up on the deck, or sleeping on an actual mattress for the first time in years. He doesn't like the feeling of the metal hallways, the steam that billows out from under certain doors, the way condensation collects in the corners. So he stays up under the open sky, or he is asleep. 

Food is brought to their room, ever since that uncomfortable dinner the first night on the ship. He still doesn't feel bad about that. 

They're two days out from the Fire Nation, and whatever is meant to happen there. 

A storm hovers on the horizon. Far enough away that the sky is still cheerfully blue overhead, past the bright angry red of the air balloons, but close enough that a breeze has kicked up into more of a gale. 

This is good for Sokka —water is harder to control in windy conditions. 

He snaps a kick towards Katara's left side, her off foot in front so she's slightly off-balance. She spins to miss him and whips a beam of water at him, which wraps around his wrist and tugs him off-kilter, but then breaks in a heavy gust so he can right himself. He lands a hit on her upper arm, but she draws blood on his calf with a cat-tail of ice. 

Sokka is used to sparring every day, and taking a break, even if just for two days because of a major change of venue, felt weird and bad, like he was forgetting to do something he'd promised to do. This is better. 

He jumps to avoid another whip that was aiming to tangle his ankles, and spins to get behind Katara and kick at her knee. She rolls forward and turns to face him again. 

Rain is starting to sprinkle on the deck. There goes Sokka’s advantage: Katara smiles and turns the deck into a sheet of ice. 

“Cheating,” he pants. 

“Using my strengths,” she corrects, and lunges. 

It's harder for him to control his balance, but it's not like he doesn't know his way around ice. He uses Katara’s momentum to slide her past him harmlessly, and scuffs his bare feet on cold ice to follow, landing a hit to her back. She twists and grabs his hand before he can pull back and ducks, suddenly, to shove his hand against the ground and freeze it there. 

He's stuck. She dances out of the way of his awkward, half-bent kicks, and refreezes the ice on his hand when he does manage to bust it. 

“Alright, yield,” he says, breath caught in his chest. Katara is also winded, and after she melts the ice on his hand and under their feet, she lays on the deck and lets the sprinkling rain cool her off. 

“You'll have to show me how you got me off balance on my own ice,” she says, rolling her head to look at Sokka. 

“Show me how I could've gotten my hand out of the ice, then,” he shoots back. 

Someone clears their throat nearby, and Sokka looks over to see a small crowd that had gathered to watch them without their noticing: about a dozen guards are scattered around, their blank-faced helmets giving nothing away, and the Fire Lord and Toph are sitting nearby as though waiting for a moment to interrupt. 

“It's okay, we’re done,” Sokka says, getting to his feet slowly. Katara hits hard; his muscles are going to ache tomorrow. “You can have your deck back.”

“No, we don't want to make you leave,” the Fire Lord says. “We were just watching.” 

“Plus, there's a practice ring downstairs, if we wanted to fight too,” Toph adds. 

“Okay,” Sokka says. Katara has her back turned to them, gathering rainwater in her palm to filter over a bruise Sokka left on her forearm. Her boiling burns are mostly healed, but a few still stand out dark on her skin. “So… can we help you?” 

“Where'd you learn to bend?” Toph asks. 

Katara’s shoulders stiffen. “I taught myself,” she says shortly. “But Master Pakku trained me for a while. Sokka, I’ll be in our room.” 

She leaves without acknowledging them or the guards who spring aside to let her through. Sokka sighs. 

“Was it something I said?” Toph asks. 

Sokka glances at her, and shrugs. Then, remembers she’s blind — even though the Fire Lord had said they were there to watch, and she didn’t correct him — and expands: “Katara has always been passionate. She once yelled at me for three days when she was seven because I said men were naturally better hunters, though to be fair, she was right.” He bends down and scoops up his robe, discarded for the fight, and balls it up in his hands. It’s soaked; Katara will have to pull the water from it before he can wear it again. “So you take that passion, and put her in jail for years, and it turns to anger. Doesn’t help seeing the Fire Lord himself everywhere we go to remind us of what we have to do to get home.” 

The Fire Lord says, “Please, just call me Zuko.” 

(Sokka doesn’t look at him, still can’t look at him.)

“No,” Sokka says simply. He’s not like Katara: his rage doesn’t burn day and night like a lamp with unlimited oil. But he knows if he stopped, and thought about where they are, and where they’ve been, and who they travel with… he’d be in chains again by evening for doing something he could regret. “Then I might forget who you are.” 

_________

When Sokka and Katara first set out to find their dad, they didn't really know where to go or where to look. Luckily, for the Southern Water Tribe, everyone else was north, so they had a basic direction and a small boat and a waterbender who knew just enough to move them faster on the waves. 

The first land they'd spotted had been uninhabited mountain islands, rocky shorelines that led to nowhere. Sokka’s map, a relic their Gran-Gran had brought with her from the Northern Water Tribe, said that Air Nomads used to live among those peaks. They didn't bother stopping; if there were any Air Nomads left, they didn't seem the easiest to reach, and Sokka doubted they'd be any help in finding their dad. 

It took weeks before they finally made landfall on an island called Kyoshi, a small and fiercely isolated village that bristled with suspicion at two outsiders. Luckily, they were obviously no threat, and the villagers seemed sympathetic when they heard about their mission. Since they’d been mostly untouched by the war, they even had some provisions Sokka traded for their extra Water Tribe furs and blankets. With the war over, business on Kyoshi was slow but growing, the same as it had been back in their village. 

A group of girl warriors dressed in battle gowns and striking makeup convinced Sokka and Katara to stay and rest for a few days. The open sea was a difficult journey at any time, but on a small fishing boat they'd had to sail on their own, they'd hardly been able to sleep for more than half an hour at any one time. 

One of the warriors, Suki, had warned them that their trip might be futile. “Some of our men were conscripted into the Earth Kingdom army,” she’d said. “We've gotten letters so we know they're alive, but they haven't come back.” 

But Sokka and Katara couldn't be deterred, and they couldn't be convinced to stay in Kyoshi any longer, so they left again in their boat a day later, each with a gift from Suki: a warrior fan for Katara, a new, more detailed map for Sokka, and a kiss on the cheek for each of them. 

From there, they sailed north and stayed with the coastline, passing a village that advertised Avatar figurines you were meant to smash on the ground and another village on the edge of a forest that seemed to have been destroyed by something large and angry. They saw a floating prison ship off the coast but Suki had suggested they start in Ba Sing Se, so they forced themselves to keep going. It was months on the water, their little fishing boat unable to do more than a slow float along calm rivers and shallow ocean waters. 

Through it all, Sokka’s main feeling was that of determination, but doubt had crept its way in as well. The Earth Kingdom had seemed insurmountably large, an entire world’s worth of villages and outposts and military bases and large cities, each with their own prison or camp for criminals, a thousand different places their dad could be kept. 

As the airship crests the eastern edge of the Fire Nation archipelago, Sokka is struck by how small the islands look in comparison to the vast lands they'd traversed to find their dad. 

How did this little nation bring the giant of the Earth Kingdom to its knees, let alone the entire rest of the world? 

The ship flies over two golden dragon statues on each side of the mouth of a bay, and an empty plinth in the middle as though a third statue used to live there. Sokka’s map says this is the Great Gate of Azulon, but there’s no gate in sight, just an uninterrupted gap of water. Maybe the gate was knocked down, but Suki’s map tells him it was here at least a few years ago. 

The largest volcano looms like a specter in the distance, fuzzy and smudged in the heat of the day. Before it, a city lies along the shore, and creeps halfway up the volcano itself. They approach the entry point of the Fire Nation, wide canals and guard towers that lead into a large, flat docking area with no cover. The city glitters in the distance; it would be nigh on impossible to breach without coming under heavy fire beforehand, especially if the only way to approach would be the narrow waterways. Maybe that was the secret to the Fire Nation’s success: they had a stronghold to fall back to. 

Of course, that same strategy didn’t work for Ba Sing Se, so maybe it was something else. 

From the deck, Sokka can see a small contingent waiting for their arrival. They’re all in red, no surprise, and Sokka resigns himself to a summer spent getting used to bright colors and soft silks, rather than the muted blues and sturdy clothing of home, or the muddy rusts and browns of prison. He’s also already sweating: another thing he didn’t have to worry about back home. 

It takes a while for the ship to dock; it lands in the water with a heavy splash, and the balloons overhead are slowly deflated and packed away. Sokka, his measly bag packed with old prison robes and some weaponry and knick-knacks, stands off to the side with Katara as the Fire Lord and his retinue are assembled. 

“Ambassador Sokka, Master Katara,” a guard says, bowing. Sokka snorts. Katara elbows him. “The Fire Lord will exit the vessel first to greet his officials, as is custom, but you should stand with those of your rank to exit behind him.” 

“Those of our rank,” Sokka repeats. “Right.” 

When they don’t move, the guard clears his throat. Even though they can’t see his face, Sokka knows he’s laughing at them. “Behind the Avatar, next to Ambassador Toph.” 

“Yes, excellent,” Sokka says, drawing himself up. “We will arrange ourselves accordingly.” 

“You are an idiot,” Katara says. 

“That’s Ambassador Idiot to you.” 

They shuffle over to take their places next to Toph. She immediately reaches out and takes Sokka’s arm, as though needing his help to get off the ship. She does it as though she’s done it a million times before, even if her hand is an unfamiliar weight on Sokka’s forearm. It’s the first time anyone outside of his family has touched him in years except to fight him or punish him. 

“I hate being off land,” she groans. “Remind me to never agree to fly ever again. Even if the trip sounds really cool, like to a high-security prison in a volcano.” 

“Uh, sure. I’ll remind you if the opportunity ever arises again,” Sokka says. The Fire Lord at the head of their queue is adjusting his robes— the thick formal ones again, though these aren’t torn and stained from fighting— and settling a shiny golden flame pendant into his hair. “Hey, by the way. Are you actually blind? Because you don’t act like you are.” 

“That’s rude,” Toph says, but she sounds delighted. In front of them, the Avatar’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter. “I’m actually blind, yes. But since I’m the world’s greatest earthbender, I can see, sort of, if I’m standing on earth or metal.” 

“Toph, we’ve been over this. You can’t just call yourself the world’s greatest earthbender,” the Avatar says, turning to look at her. His mouth is turned up like this is a familiar argument. “It’s not a competition.” 

“It was literally a competition, and I won it,” Toph says. “I have a trophy and everything!” 

“Earth Rumble is not the world’s best earthbender competition,” the Avatar says. “Most earthbenders aren’t concerned with entering competitions!” 

“He’s just mad because I’m still better than him,” Toph says to Sokka. “Anyway, yes, I’m blind, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see. I used to only be able to use the earth as my eyes, but now I can use metal, too. Isn’t that cool? ” 

“Yeah, I’ve been wondering about that,” Sokka says. “I didn’t think you could just- invent a new thing to bend.” The guard next to him shifts, but doesn’t say anything. The ship’s gate is lowered slowly to the landing area, and the Fire Lord starts to disembark. 

“Metal is just earth that has gone through some processes and came out the other side a little different,” Toph says. She, Sokka, Katara, the guards to either side of them, and the Avatar in front of them, start moving down the ramp. “It’s a cool trick though, right? I was thinking of starting my own metalbending academy someday. Even though I’ve never really been to school, I figure I can still run one.”

“Where did you learn to bend?” Katara asks. 

Toph’s grin widens. “Badger-moles taught me when I was five and I ended up in some underground tunnels for a few hours.” 

And with that extraordinary pronouncement, Sokka takes his first step on Fire Nation soil, five steps behind the Fire Lord, two steps behind the Avatar, and arm in arm with someone who talks to badger-moles. 

_________

The Fire Nation palace is a kind of oppressively gaudy Sokka didn’t even know existed. Gold glitters no matter where he looks, inescapable as the bright sunlight outside. 

The first thing he and Katara did when shown to their suite was fight over who gets the bigger of the rooms. (Sokka won by throwing four different formal robes over Katara’s head until she was so overburdened she fell down. A win is a win. Use every advantage.) The second thing he did was gather up all the gold-plated statues, pottery, artwork, and tapestries, and bundled it all away in a drawer so his eyes could have a break for one single second. 

The Avatar had been the one to show Sokka and Katara to their rooms this time around, as Toph wanted a nap. 

“These are the private suites, and only highly ranked ambassadors and members of the royal family are allowed in,” he said as the guards opened a huge door to a nearly-silent wing of the palace. Unlike the court areas and public meeting spaces that Sokka and Katara had been briefly shown earlier, the only souls in sight here were the rare guards and palace servants. The door to the private wing, shockingly, was burnished gold. “Zuko hasn’t had a chance to name a lot of ambassadors, and he doesn’t have a ton of family, so it’s pretty much just him, me, Toph, and Uncle Iroh. And now you guys!” 

It was a long hallway, dark red rugs muffling their footsteps and large paintings on the walls of mountains and beaches and forests. The doors seemed endless: Sokka counted ten, then fifteen doors they passed with no signs of life, though a couple had some small notes of personalization. One close to the front of this wing had a tiny lightning bolt on it, so small Sokka wondered if he’d imagined it. “So all of these rooms are meant to be used?” 

“They will be, someday,” the Avatar said confidently. “Zuko will appoint or accept other high-ranking ambassadors from other nations, and when he has a family, they’ll live here too.” He frowned to himself, then shook his head and smiled. “If he wants one, I mean.” 

Soon they found the end of the hallway, the last few doors on each side leading up to one final large door set in the middle wall. “Those are Zuko’s rooms. He gets the most space because, well-“

“He’s the Fire Lord?” Sokka ventured a guess. 

“Exactly!” The Avatar turned to the last door on the left side of the hallway. It was the only one so far that looked actually used, made of wood instead of gold-painted metal and smudged with handprints. “Those are Toph’s rooms,” he said. “Mine are on the other side,” he turned and pointed to the last door on the right, which had one distinguishing mark, a little blue arrow on a small piece of fabric attached to the door knob. “Which side would you like to be on?”  

From behind Toph’s door, they heard a loud crash that sounded not unlike a bunch of glass breaking all at once, then a loud cackle. Katara said, “We’ll take the rooms next to you.”  

“Cool, we’ll be neighbors!” the Avatar said cheerfully. He handed them two golden keys on ribbons and said, “This suite is meant to be your home here. I know it’s not— it’s not a replacement, but make yourself comfortable. If you need anything, just let a guard or someone else who works here know.” 

“Thanks for the help,” Sokka said as Katara tried her key in the lock for the door next to the Avatar’s. 

“You’re welcome. Hey, while we’re here, can we talk about starting my-“ 

The door slammed over his last few words. 

Their suite had three rooms: two large bedrooms, with windows tall enough to be walls themselves and large, ornate beds covered in red and black blankets, and a sitting room space with seats and tables and a desk. The center room, the sitting room, also had a door that led outside. 

“Oh,” Katara said when they tried the door, and stepped out under cool moonlight. “It’s beautiful.” 

It looked like a small, walled-in garden, but if that garden was flooded and made into a pond instead. The wall was lined with trees and vines, all carrying the same kind of drooping moss they saw in the swamps of the Earth Kingdom years ago. Lilypads and water flowers floated on the water’s surface. A frog croaked nearby. 

It was a lagoon, murky and natural, a blessing among the glittering gold of the rest of the palace. The moon rippled on the surface of the water. 

The salt from the nearby ocean hung heavy on the air; the heat must draw it out. Back home, the salt was in the fish they ate and the ice they broke and the mists stirred up by their boats, but nothing like this. 

Katara traced patterns in the water’s surface, and the ripples flowed outward until they touched the stone walls, and scattered into nothing. 

_________

It’s been a week in the Fire Nation. 

Sokka had never had a room to decorate entirely on his own before, unless he counts his prison cell, which he definitely does not. He hung the map Suki gave him and the older map Gran-Gran gave him in the place where a giant tapestry of a golden dragon once adorned the wall over his bed. He carefully set his club in the hooks of a weapons rack, and balanced his boomerang beside it. He burned his prison uniform in the fireplace. When Katara saw what he was doing, she threw hers in as well. 

That was all an hour after they arrived. Sokka has done basically nothing since. 

The problem is that in prison, his day was so regimented and structured that he didn’t have time to think about what he would’ve preferred to be doing. He looked forward to the one hour a day he got to spend out of his cell, and otherwise his life revolved around scheduled meals and conversations with his dad and Ryu and the others in their block of cells to pass the time. 

And before that, he and Katara had been traveling for months, constantly alert and awake and aware of anyone who might be around to take their stuff or hurt them. They didn’t risk fires for warmth unless they knew for sure they were alone and slept in shifts that left them irritable and grouchy, but alive. It was months on a boat that wasn’t built for a worldwide voyage or traveling on foot in unfamiliar terrain. Only for them to make it to their destination and be arrested within a week. 

And before that, he was the sole warrior in a village decimated by war. He spent his days hunting, or teaching the children of the village to hunt, or patrolling, or teaching the children how to patrol. He could never rest, because if the Fire Nation attacked he had to be ready, the way he wasn’t ready the last time they’d shown up. 

Basically, Sokka’s never had an endless stretch of time in front of him where he can do whatever he wants whenever he wants. 

He hates it. 

He wakes sometime between late morning and afternoon, because his body seems to be wanting him to catch up on all the sleep he should’ve had in previous years. He eats when he’s hungry, rather than at scheduled times. The one regularity in his day is when he spars with Katara to keep themselves sharp: they’ve shifted or removed the furniture in the center room to give them an open space, and they spend an hour at least fighting each other with a ferocity that freedom probably should’ve dampened a little. 

Otherwise, Sokka just… wanders around. 

He’s not sure what he’s doing here, now that he actually is here. He was only invited so Katara would feel safe to teach the Avatar, but he has no part in that process (and, so far, neither does she — she pretends to go deaf each time there’s a knock at their door and the Avatar is outside asking to talk to her). As far as Sokka can tell, the only other actual ambassador here is Toph, and she’s absolutely no help when he asks her what they’re supposed to be doing. 

“Oh, it’s awesome,” Toph says. “We don’t have to do anything. I spend my days doing whatever I want, which is usually challenging guards or Aang to fight and then eating for the rest of the day. If I get bored, I go drag Zuko out of whatever boring meeting he’s in. Being an ambassador is the best.” 

“So we don’t have to go to these meetings?” Sokka asks. 

Toph shrugs. “I guess we could, if we wanted. But who wants to talk about taxes and trade for hours?” 

That conversation leaves him even more confused about his role here. 

It’s been ten days. 

Sokka knows Katara doesn’t want anything to do with the Avatar, and he respects her wishes. She isn’t having any issues filling her days; she spends hours and hours waterbending, working on the moves she’d practiced with Master Pakku for years but with actual water now. She starts every day by funneling pond water from their garden into a huge pot that once held a large fern, and spends the rest of the day using that water to twist into all sorts of fantastic shapes and tricks. So Sokka doesn’t bother her, and he also doesn’t let her know that he’s talked with the Avatar pretty much every day since they’ve been here, in lieu of bothering her while she practices her bending. 

“I know you’re not comfortable calling Zuko by his name,” the Avatar said, on the third day after they’d arrived at the palace. “I completely understand why. But, please, can you just call me Aang?” 

“It feels weird,” Sokka disputed. “I mean, you’re the Avatar. You’re like something out of a book. Like I’m talking with a unicorn, or a dragon, or something.” 

“Well, I’m not a unicorn or a dragon,” the Avatar said. “And if you keep calling me the Avatar, I will only call you Ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe.” 

“That’s not too bad,” Sokka said. 

“It’s not, Ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe?” 

"It is a really long title, I suppose. You might get tired of saying it." 

"Oh I won't, Ambassador of the Southern Water Tribe." 

It takes a whole afternoon for that to get incredibly annoying, and Sokka agrees, however warily, to call the Avatar by his name. 

“You can’t tell me the Fire Lord chooses ambassadors just for them to have nothing to do,” he says on day five. “From what it sounds like, he has plenty of work to do. Are we not supposed to help?” 

Aang shrugs. “I think, in theory, yes you’re here to help. But the ambassador role never really got figured out when Zuko had to get rid of all the old ones after he took the throne.” 

“‘Get rid of’?” 

“Oh, yeah, it was a whole big ordeal. All of Fire Lord Ozai’s ambassadors were corrupt, and they hated Zuko. Some tried to have him arrested or even killed, and he got rid of them immediately. But a few pretended to switch their allegiance to him until they could get close enough to backstab him on new laws he’d try to announce or when he was ordering the military back to the Fire Nation. He just cut all of them loose, had some of them arrested, and decided to start over.” 

“So now he has two of his own ambassadors but doesn’t know what power they should have,” Sokka finishes. 

“It was really important that he offered the position to you,” Aang says. “Toph only got her position because she wanted a room in the palace by mine and Zuko’s. And no one else has seemed right so far. Until you.” 

It’s been two weeks here. 

_________

There’s a knock at the door one afternoon. 

Sokka assumes it’s lunch. Servants bring meals directly to them three times a day, and it’s about the right time for a midday meal. 

He finishes wrapping a clean bandage around his chest after checking the status of his burn. Tai has continued to check in on him since they’ve arrived, and now that Katara has access to water and is healed herself, the wound is nearly gone. It’ll scar, but it’s just another mark to add to Sokka’s tally. 

Sokka passes Katara on his way to answer the door. She’s combing out her hair, methodical and slow, freshly washed after she and Sokka sparred this morning. 

Sokka opens the door and sighs. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Aang says. He’s holding a small pile of dishes, and another floats behind him as though forgotten but not wanting to be left behind. “But I brought lunch! And I thought I could talk to Katara. If she’s not busy.” 

Sokka glances over at Katara, who is determinedly staring at her reflection as she plaits her hair out of her face. 

“She’s… sleeping,” Sokka says lamely. 

Aang shoots him an unimpressed look. “I can see her. She’s not sleeping.” 

“She sleepwalks. Sleep-brushes her hair.” 

“Can I come in?” 

“She’s allergic to airbenders?”

“Master Katara,” Aang says, using an air current to push past Sokka, who totally could’ve avoided being shoved to the ground by wind but agrees that Katara’s avoided her responsibilities for long enough and honestly the ground isn’t even that hard. “I’d like to start training with you, if you’re ready. When can we begin?” 

“Soon,” Katara says, not looking away from her own reflection. She’s nearly at the end of her braid. Sokka wouldn’t be surprised at all if she pulled the strands out of their plaits and started over to keep from having to acknowledge Aang. 

“Soon, like today?” Aang starts setting the food bowls down all in a rush, like Katara might send a wave his way any moment. 

“Not that soon,” Katara says. 

Aang sets the last bowl down and takes a nearby chair. He breathes in deeply, and smooths out the puckered furrow between his brows. “I understand you’re uncomfortable-“ 

“Do you?” Katara, finally, turns. Her eyes are hard. “Do you know why I’m uncomfortable?” 

Aang looks caught off-guard. Sokka would bet a hundred coins he had a speech planned and Katara stepped right on it. “Because… you hate the Fire Nation?” 

“I do,” Katara says, “but that’s not why. Did you know I’m the last waterbender from the Southern Water Tribe? The last of my kind, just like you.” 

Sokka shuts the door, realizing this isn’t something that he would want a random guard to hear, or even Toph. He slips into the sitting room, trying to be unobtrusive and also obtrusive enough that Katara knows he’s there. He also steals one of the bowls of food and, quietly, starts eating.  

“I understand that you have to learn waterbending,” Katara continues. “I even understand that the Spirits led you to me for this job, and I’ll do it. I know that I have to do it. But this is something important to me— sacred to me. And it’s hard for me to give this knowledge to you when it’s just checking off the last thing on your list.” 

“It’s not, though,” Aang says. He’s speaking slowly; not rushing to correct her, but parsing out his own feelings. “I think even if I didn’t need to learn waterbending to fulfill my duties as Avatar, I would still do it. It feels like I’m missing a piece of myself, right here,” he touches his chest. “I’m not complete without waterbending. I feel like that’s something you can understand.” 

Katara turns back to her reflection, grabs a leather string to tie off her braid. She pulls the two front strands of hair out for her loopies, the beads by her temples worn to a pale blue. 

She turns to look at Aang, scrutinizing. “We can start tomorrow,” she says. Then, like it’s taking everything in her, “Waterbending is everything to me. Please treat it well.” 

“I can’t imagine doing anything else,” Aang says. He gets to his feet and bows, his hands twisted into a fist and open palm. 

When he leaves, Sokka follows. He doesn’t want Katara to deal with him listening as she cries. 

He does take his lunch with him, though.

_________

Toph kicks the door to Sokka and Katara’s rooms down and bounds in. 

(It’s been three weeks. Katara has been training Aang for days now. Why is Sokka even here?) 

“Get dressed, losers!” she says. Like everything else out of her mouth, it’s vaguely threatening and tinged with laughter. “We’re going to a Council meeting.” 

“What?” Sokka asks, pausing in his daily routine of inspecting his weapons for damage even if he hasn’t used them at all since they got here. 

“Why?” Katara asks, swiping a hand over her sweaty forehead. 

“Is that today?” Aang asks. He is also sweaty, a byproduct of his and Katara’s now daily sparring matches and lessons. The door to the pond has to be open so they can connect to water, and it lets in the day’s heat like a beacon. 

“I’m sorry, start over,” Sokka says. “Why would you assume we’re not dressed?” 

“Because I can’t even see you, but I still know whatever you’re wearing isn’t fancy-pants enough for a Council meeting.” Toph smiles again and shouts, to the room at large, “They’re ready!” 

A stream of servants flows into the room. Half split off toward Katara, who looks horrified as they usher her smilingly but forcefully towards her room. A few chivvy Aang towards the door, a clear indication that he, too, should go get ready. 

The other half come straight for Sokka. 

“What- is happening,” he garbles as two nice ladies grab him and manhandle him into a chair. 

“Our apologies, Ambassador Sokka,” one says smoothly. “But we have much work to do before the Council meets this afternoon.” 

“Work? What work?” Sokka asks. “Toph! What work?” 

Behind the closed doors of Katara’s room, all Sokka hears is arguing and angry splashing. Toph is still in the center room, smiling like she’s announcing a surprise party for herself. “Oh, you’ll love it,” she says. “The Council meetings require either full military dress, or formal robes. Anything less is a dishonor to the entire nation.” 

“That’s… intense,” Sokka says, which is difficult to do because a servant is trying to brush his teeth for him. 

“Tell me about it,” Toph says. She takes a seat, and kicks her bare feet up on the desk, scattering Sokka’s pens and inks. “They usually don’t meet that often, but Zuko’s been with them every day since we got back. Which must be why they’re only now getting around to confirming your ambassador position, and meeting Katara.” 

“Confirming?” Sokka asks. Another servant is rummaging through the small pile of silks and linens that have been given to Sokka to wear, and making a face. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Toph shrugs. “The Council just has to agree with Zuko that you’re the right person for the job.” She pauses, looking thoughtful. “Well, okay, maybe it is a big deal. But it wasn’t too bad for me! I just talked about how Zuko owes me for, like, everything he has today, and how I’m the Avatar’s earthbending teacher which kind of means the whole world owes me for helping to end the war, actually.” 

“Somehow,” Sokka says, “I don’t think those reasons are going to work for me.” 

“Oh, yeah,” Toph says, sounding supremely unruffled. “You’re probably right.” 

“Ambassador Sokka,” says yet another servant, holding a tray of shining silver instruments. “Are you ready for your shave?” 

“Shave?” Sokka asks. “No one said anything about a shave.” 

“It is unseemly, in our highest circles, for men to sport…” the servant deliberates on a word, “unfulfilled facial hair.” 

“Unfulfilled,” Sokka repeats. “My facial hair isn’t fulfilling?”

“I think he means it’s scraggly and sad,” Toph says cheerfully. “But, I say again — I can’t actually see you, I’m just guessing based on context clues.” 

The servant holds up a mirror. It’s actually the first time Sokka has seen his reflection in anything more clear than rippling water or a window in months, besides the times he used Katara’s mirror on the airship to check his wounds. He never looked at his face, in all that time, for no particular reason. He just didn’t. In fact, he hasn’t seen his own face’s reflection since— 

Well, since Ba Sing Se. Since he was a wild-eyed teenager who knew nothing of the world and thought his boomerang was enough to keep him out of trouble. 

He looks now, though. 

Sokka’s hair hasn’t been cut since he was thrown in prison. The guards weren’t much for hygiene, and obviously sharp objects couldn’t have been allowed. The sides of his head, once shaved close, have grown in entirely, and his wolf-tail has blended into the rest of his hair in a long flow. It’s a man’s hairstyle, one he might have adopted on his own when he came of age, but was instead chosen for him by necessity. In that way, it’s odd on his young face, not something he chose but something that happened all the same, and it’s utterly incongruent with his sparse facial hair. Now, all he sees is the aftermath of imprisonment. 

He sees a kid aged too early by choices he didn’t make on his own. 

“Do you mind?” Sokka asks, reaching for the razor on the servant’s tray. 

“Please, help yourself, Ambassador,” the servant says, bowing a little. He props the mirror up on a nearby table and stands nearby, foaming soap and brushes at the ready. 

The first swipe of razor along Sokka’s cheeks shows smooth skin, several shades lighter than his forehead and nose, which are tanned dark brown by the Fire Nation sun. The second swipe uncovers the soft vulnerability of his throat. He drops unearned years with each pass of the razor, until he feels his age again.

Or, nearly. 

“Katara!” he calls. He examines his face in the mirror, left and right, holding his chin to see all his newly revealed angles. 

“What?” 

“Need your help for a second.” 

It takes a few minutes — several more splashes are heard — but soon Katara appears behind him in the mirror. Her hair is dripping like she’d been thrown into a bath, which would explain all the splashing. 

“Oh,” she says. “You look like you again.” 

Sokka can’t say the same: the servants working on her have applied red to Katara’s lips and black to line her eyes. She looks like an exaggerated version of herself. He hands her a towel, and she gladly takes it. While she summons a small handful of water to rinse her face, Sokka says, “Not just yet. Can you cut my hair?” 

She takes a moment to answer, pressing her face into the towel. When she pulls the towel away, its cloth is red and black and brown but her face looks like her face again. 

“Are you sure?” she asks. “You’re an adult now. You don’t have to cut it short.” 

“I know,” Sokka says. He hands her the razor. 

The sides of his head take longer to clean up than his face. Katara works slowly, not used to the heft of a razor. Sokka could’ve done the front himself, but this way he knows the lines will be straight, and he can keep it up from here. 

Once the sides are back to a short crop, Katara gathers the hair up the center of his scalp, which falls down past his shoulder blades, and sets the razor against the strands right above her fist. 

“You’re sure?” she asks. 

Sokka nods. 

In the mirror, he watches remnants of the last few years fall to the floor in waves. Katara has cut his hair short, but not as short as it was when they were captured: different, but by choice. She gathers the center stripe of hair into a wolf-tail and ties it with leather. Then she steps around to study his face. 

“One more thing,” she says. “Wait here.” 

She dashes out of his room but returns nearly immediately, holding a single bead. It’s not hers: Katara’s wearing the same two beads she wore from the South Pole all those years ago, and will probably continue to do so until they break. But this one is reminiscent of home: blue like water under ice, and catches the light like a gemstone. 

“Aang says he got this from a Water Tribe merchant here in the capital,” she says. “I wasn’t going to wear it, but you should.” 

Katara pulls a chunk of hair out of the front of Sokka’s wolf-tail and plaits it quickly, slipping the bead onto the end of the brother braid before tying it off. 

“There,” she says. 

He sees himself in the mirror, and something settles in him the way it did when he saw their dad for the first time after years apart. A recognition that someone he used to know has changed, as much as they are still the same. His jaw is wider than it used to be. His cheekbones are more angular. His baby fat has melted away from stress and time and irregular meals. But his eyes are still blue, and his hair feels right. The braid dangles next to his eyebrow, a spot of azure always visible in the corner of his eye. 

From there, it’s quick: more servants appear with robes that are, for the first time, the familiar colors of home. They’re a silken approximation of the furs Sokka and Katara might’ve worn if invited as visiting dignitaries, in some alternate version of time. Katara’s robe is like a tunic, tied neatly at her waist and ending at her knees. Her shoes are light and mostly made of strings: some sort of sandal a servant helps her tie on that lace up her legs like seaweed. Sokka’s robe is longer, the soft fabric edges brushing his calves, and he’s given boots instead of sandals. His sleeves end at his elbows, displaying forearms scarred from jail sparring and new white wrist wraps. His tunic front dips just low enough to show the healing burn on his chest. 

The servants brandishing red and black and golden makeup try to ambush Katara again, but she growls and snaps a water whip at them as a threat, and they subside. 

Aang appears dressed in heavy yellow robes and carrying his staff. “Everything will be fine,” he says, though the confidence of his smile doesn’t mirror in his eyes. 

The servants are dismissed and Katara locks the door behind them before she and Sokka follow Aang and Toph to a room they haven’t been in yet. A bevy of soldiers stand in their way; Sokka wishes suddenly he’d thought to grab his club. 

This must be the throne room: Sokka has wandered the endless hallways in this palace out of boredom, but he never knew what lay behind this particular large, ornate door. The scene carved into the golden door is two dragons dancing around men engulfed in flames — Sokka assumes it’s metaphorical. 

A soldier on the end of the line bows to Aang, and turns to shoot a jet of fire at a crevice near the door. Like a key sliding into a lock, the door clicks loudly, then shifts and begins to open seemingly on its own. 

It’s dark beyond the doorway; the only movement seems to be the flickering of firelight. Sokka swallows. 

They go inside. 

It's almost anticlimactic when the huge scary door to the throne room opens and it’s just a normal hallway behind it. One of the guards accompanies them down a very average hallway by Fire Nation palace standards until they reach a large curtain blocking their way from going even further in, blood red and adorned with a golden flame emblem. The guard leaves them there, bowing to Aang and otherwise pretending the rest of them don’t exist. 

“Ready?” Aang asks. No one answers; he parts the curtain and steps through. Toph follows without hesitation. Katara and Sokka exchange a look, wary and cautious, and step through as well. 

The room beyond the curtain is like something out of a nightmare. Columns adorned with single torches ring the perimeter. Sokka has to blink to clear his eyes, vision lost for a moment in the abrupt change from bright light to manufactured dusk. The small amounts of light thrown from the torches can’t compete with the oppressive shadows, the high ceiling and corners of the room lost to the dark. The only brightness in the room comes from the furthest wall, and that’s so much to take in that Sokka avoids it, his eyes burning. In contrast, the center of the room is dimly lit, the torches on the columns throwing Aang and Toph’s shadows into cross-hatched relief on the floor in front of them, exaggerated and large. 

It’s hot; terribly hot, swelteringly hot, like sliding into a bath filled with boiling water. It’s quiet; silent, except the distant cracking of fire, and Sokka is vividly aware of each footfall as it lands. Smoke wreathes the ceiling, dimming the colors of the room to muted smoky reds and black. 

In the center, in the circle of torchlight, sit ten people around a low table. Their faces are shadowed, but Sokka can pick out a few details: a few are women but the majority are men, a few are in military uniforms but the majority are in heavily embroidered formal robes, a few are young but most are much older, white-haired and wrinkled. He feels like these are important people: the Council, surely, who Toph warned he’d have to impress to continue to be an ambassador. 

(Does he want that? What happens if he doesn’t? Could he stay at the palace as his sister’s guest, or will he be sent packing? Who becomes ambassador then?) 

(Why does his heart feel like it’s being pulled both north and south at the same time? Home or here? Duty or safety? Dad or Katara?) 

Despite the importance of the Council, their looming presence even as they stay seated, Sokka’s eye is finally drawn beyond them. 

The back wall of the throne room is a gold so blinding that Sokka almost looks away again, overwhelmed. The full wall is gold, brilliantly illuminated gold, carved to look like a dragon spitting flames rising up to take them all. The waves of heat throughout the room radiate from that wall: a closer look shows that the carved flames are layered, and real flames flicker between the layers of carvings. Like a mosaic of faux fire and real, the blazes hiss and spark and pop dangerously. The heat is intense from all the way across the room; Sokka can’t imagine being any closer. 

But he doesn’t have to worry about that — the closest seat to the fire is already taken. 

A large structure rises up from the shadows, directly in front of the golden wall. It’s a raised platform, with a covered throne in the middle. The throne’s columns are twisted bronze, the top draped in deep red fabrics. Seated under the overhangs is the Fire Lord, or at least Sokka assumes so: the brightness of the wall and fire behind him reveal only his silhouette. 

It could truly be a scene from Sokka’s worst dreams. If, a month ago, someone in the prison had asked what Sokka thought it would be like to face off with the Fire Lord once and for all, he probably could’ve conjured this location for it. Oppressively dark, hot like death, ornate displays of power, and unimpressed silence. 

His brain knows that’s not what they’re here for (he’s pretty sure), but his heart hammers anyway. 

Aang and Toph are walking forward with purpose, and Sokka and Katara follow behind. They approach the table, then veer around it. For the first time, Sokka notices a row of empty cushions at the head of the table; when they sit, they’ll face the Council, and their backs will be to the Fire Lord. 

Sokka doesn’t like that. He doesn’t like that at all. His spine crawls with uneasy prickles. 

The Council remains silent as they draw nearer. Aang sits gracefully on the first cushion, and Toph continues on to take the fourth one, leaving Katara and Sokka to take the two in the middle. 

Before he sits, Sokka looks up at the Fire Lord: just a quick glance. He doesn’t like the idea of turning his back on an enemy, but he knows if this is actually an ambush, there’s not much he can do besides gather as many details as possible. 

Up close, the platform looks taller, and Sokka notices the small set of stairs that are carved into it. He also, briefly, notices the two additional cushions on each side of the throne, as though two people used to sit at the right and left hands of the Fire Lord; they’re empty now, though. 

The Fire Lord’s face is lost in shadow, but his crown glints in the firelight. 

Sokka takes his seat. 

The Council is larger than life from these seats. Sokka wonders if it’s some kind of optical illusion, like maybe they’re on an incline and they just seem to loom over them. They have identical reserved expressions, not a friendly face among them. 

For a moment, the only sound is the crackling of flames. Then, from behind Sokka: 

“As I’ve mentioned already,” a voice calls out. Sokka whips around in surprise before he realizes— that was the Fire Lord? His usual raspy, low tone is buried under an authority that hadn’t been there before. Sokka turns back around, neck burning; he hates this even more now. “My trip to the Fire Nation’s maximum security prison was to help Avatar Aang secure a waterbending master, as well as conducting other routine inspections.” 

Sokka nearly laughs. The Fire Lord and his friends weren’t there nearly long enough to inspect anything except the single room they held their meeting in. Though, he supposes the Fire Lord saw enough to shut Boiling Rock down, so maybe that does count as a pretty thorough inspection after all. 

“As part of the agreement made with the Avatar and his waterbending teacher,” the Fire Lord continues, “a representative from the Southern Water Tribe has been named as ambassador to the current Fire Nation court, the first of his kind in over a century.” 

Sokka tries to look historic as all eyes scrutinize him and Katara with renewed vigor. Regal. Important enough to not maim or even temporarily damage. He feels like announcements are being handed down from the spirits in the clouds, the way the weight of the Fire Lord’s voice falls across the room from out of his sight. 

“This decision awaits the Council’s confirmation,” the Fire Lord finishes. 

“Before we begin with the ambassador,” says one man, about halfway down the table. He is older, with a sharp beard and heavy gray robes embroidered with glittering thread rather than a military uniform. His voice is like oil on water, slippery and thin. “Perhaps we should begin by extending our greetings to the Avatar’s waterbending instructor. What shall we call you?” 

“I am Katara, of the Southern Water Tribe,” Katara bites out. She’s clearly as on-edge in this room as Sokka is, and her nerves are harder to hide. Katara was never the diplomat of the two of them; Sokka has always preferred words before fists, while Katara doesn’t like any ambiguity. This situation is built to keep her on a knife’s edge. 

“Master Katara,” the man bows. “I wish to welcome you to Capital Island. Though,” he toys with the word, “Avatar Aang, I recall you mentioned a man you had met previously was to be your teacher before you left?” 

“Master Katara is younger than the other waterbender I’d mentioned previously,” Aang agrees. Sokka notices the hedging around Master Pakku’s name — does Aang not trust these people, this Council, with details? “But I don’t think that should be held against her. She is older than another of my teachers, after all.” He gestures to Toph, who smiles widely and sets her elbows on the table before them, resting her chin in her palm. None of the Council spare her a glance, clearly used to her antics. 

“I think what Councilor Yun is suggesting is that Master Katara’s teachings might not be of the same quality as those of a more experienced master,” another man says. He is one of the men in a military uniform, a precision-straight mustache under his nose, his gaze unwavering. In direct contrast to Councilor Yun’s slippery sentences, his are like desert rocks: dry and unyielding. Sokka gets the feeling that he has no issues speaking his opinion as fact. 

“There is more than one waterbending master in the world,” Aang rebukes easily. Beneath the table, Katara’s hands are balled into fists. 

“Of course,” says a woman near the head of the table, her lips as red as the curtain they’d parted to enter here. Her robes are even more embellished than Councilor Yun’s, with wide, draping sleeves and her waist tied with a golden rope. “Where is the other waterbender you set out to find? Is he still in the prison?” 

“The prison is undergoing some changes, and only a few prisoners are still there,” says the Fire Lord. The Councilors straighten as though they’ve just remembered there are eyes on them from above. “General Iroh stayed to oversee the changes, and we should have a report from him soon.” 

“I imagine he’s currently traveling back to his home village,” Aang answers the woman. “He was not the right person for this task, and wasn’t one of the prisoners required to stay in Boiling Rock.” 

“Pardon our curiosity,” Councilor Yun says. “We only wish to ensure your training will be completed in full and not hampered by…” he trails off meaningfully, “the emotions of childhood.” 

“I won a war as a child,” Aang says simply. “Youth is not a weakness. Master Katara has already shown incredible strength as a waterbender, and the other master agreed that she was a better fit as my teacher.” 

“None of us would presume to question your judgment, Avatar,” the woman says. “But perhaps we could hear from the master herself.” 

“What do you need to know?” Katara asks. Her shoulders are tight, her voice tighter. 

“Fire Lord Zuko has not appointed many people to his court, nor has the Avatar brought many from his worldwide network to the capital here,” Councilor Yun muses. Sokka can see Katara release a frustrated breath. “You must understand, any person with a personal suite in our palace, in direct contact with the Avatar and the Fire Lord, is going to be under severe scrutiny. We cannot, in good conscience, invite anyone into our court without a thorough investigation.” 

He pauses, as though there was a question under all the flowery language. Katara doesn’t take the bait, and says nothing. 

“Why were you in prison?” the military man asks. Sharp like a knife, the question slices through the room. 

Sokka, suddenly, wishes he’d brought a knife, or his club, his boomerang, even. Anything to give them some kind of fighting chance. Katara’s anger is a volcano where once it was a firecracker: before prison, the slightest spark could set her off. Now, the anger is wrapped around her bones like magma under the earth surface, and only tectonic-sized shifts can set her off. Sokka prepares for the explosion, and hopes they let him have his old cell back at Boiling Rock when they’re inevitably shipped back to serve out their time. 

But Katara doesn’t spit poison like she might have once, or raise her hackles. She raises an eyebrow instead, and her tension escapes where only Sokka and Aang can see, her hands contracting and squeezing into fists under the table. “My crime was being born somewhere besides the Fire Nation during a time of war,” she says coolly. Above the flicker of the fire in the background, it sounds like an omen. “It’s a crime I, my brother, my father, and many other members of my tribe were found guilty of and punished for.” 

It’s quiet again; flames snap and crack to fill the silence, but the silence is too big to be filled. 

“Indeed,” Councilor Yun says. The oil in his voice is frozen now. Sokka wonders if there are some faction lines Katara just crossed. If alliances are being made and broken in silence around them, with Katara and Sokka completely unaware of it all. 

Another man, this one middle-aged, a round paunch of a belly pressed up against the table, clears his throat. “Perhaps we should move to the fact of the matter,” he says. He sounds like one of the uncles from the village back home, cheerful and charismatic even while being completely serious. “The Avatar’s instructors, while guests of our Nation, are not actually our prerogative.” 

There’s a palpable shift in the room, and Sokka feels it like a physical weight when every gaze swings towards him. 

According to Toph, and the Fire Lord himself, this is only the second time an ambassador has been presented before this Council for a vote of confirmation since the war ended. Sokka doesn’t know much about the end of the war, what the Fire Nation looked like as peace settled, but he knows Toph, at least a little. She is the Avatar’s earthbending teacher, which means her skills helped lead to the end of the war, one way or another. 

Sokka is verifiably not the same. He is an unknown to these people, even to his supposed allies here, Toph and Aang. They can vouch for him, but what do they really know of him to vouch with? A few weeks ago, he was a Fire Nation prisoner; today, he might be given a Fire Nation title, even if in name only.  

“Of course,” says one of the Council members, hidden in shadow towards the end of the table. “Please, introduce yourself.” 

Right. Here goes nothing. “Hi,” Sokka says, waving a little. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to say here. He doesn’t know what they want from him. “I’m Sokka, also of the Southern Water Tribe. Katara is my sister.” 

He shouldn’t have said the last part. He knows it immediately; the Council turns from regular humans to lion-vultures circling prey in an instant. Councilor Yun, the slippery guy, looks like his face might crack from suppressing his glee. 

The military man, however, is righteously furious. “Is this what we are to expect of the ambassadors to our nation?” He speaks to the other councilors, gesturing directly at Sokka like he’s not sitting right there, listening to every word. “Not experienced policymakers or warriors, but boys who are lucky to tag along with their talented relatives?” 

“Hey!” Katara says, the anger she’d hidden so well so far flaring up. Sokka nudges her with his knee. 

“Actually,” Sokka says, “I-” 

But he’s spoken over like he really isn’t there, like he somehow exited the room and left his body behind while doing so. 

“We trust the Avatar to choose his teachers, and we would not think to insert ourselves into that decision,” the red-lipped woman says. “But we have to ensure our ambassadors are not selected lightly.” 

“If I could just-” 

“It must be said,” Councilor Yun says softly, as though disappointed, “this is a very unusual way for an ambassador to be chosen. Does he have any credentials, any reason for being here besides being a brother?” 

Voices overlap and crash together like waves. It heats immediately, boiling from a conversation to an argument in mere seconds. One man stands, pointing his finger at another’s chest. Sokka notices, amongst the chaos, that no criticism is leveled at the Fire Lord, though he’s just steps away, and everyone here knows that Sokka was his choice for ambassador (albeit unwillingly, and just to help Katara agree to teach Aang, though he assumes the Council doesn’t know that part). Are they afraid of accusing the Fire Lord directly? Are they allowed to criticize his actions?  

“You know, you could ask me?” Sokka says loudly. Surprisingly, it cuts through the babble. All eyes are back on him again. “You asked for an introduction, I introduced myself. You didn’t ask for anything else.” 

The military man sniffs. “I can hardly expect you have any experience that would be beneficial for this Council to know-“ 

“Really?” Sokka asks. “Because I’ve spent three years in your prison system. I know everything about your political prisoners, the really dangerous ones, and how they feel about you all for failing to actually end a finished war. I know their names, where they probably are now and, most importantly, what they’re capable of. If you want to know about dangers inside and out of your nation, you should know your enemies. I do know them — that seems important.” 

Quiet reigns supreme; Sokka sets his elbows on the table like Toph, but he folds his hands together and laces his fingers. Serious face; he’s almost an ambassador now. 

“I also have ample experience in military tactics and defense, I’m a trained fighter, and I defeated your Fire Lord in single combat.” 

There’s an intake of breath at that, seemingly from an older woman with her gray hair tied up in a severe knot. Sokka revisits that sentence in his head, and wonders if maybe he also shouldn’t have said that. Judging by the mildly pained look on Aang’s face, he’s thinking the same thing. Maybe they can spin it later to make it seem like the Fire Lord and Sokka had a friendly sparring match. 

Outside of a prison. Next to a boiling lake. 

Okay, maybe not. 

Into the silence, Sokka finishes: “Oh, and I’m the eldest child of the Southern Water Tribe chief, who might be interested in discussing established trade routes so you can start feeding your population again.” 

Sokka learned a lot in prison, but one of the biggest lessons was learning to appreciate silence. To let the lack of words say what he wants it to say. He won’t grovel; it wouldn’t do any good anyway. If the Council wants to spite the Fire Lord and vote against Sokka, he won’t change their minds — he doesn’t know them well enough to do so. 

It’s Toph who breaks the silence, letting out a little laugh. 

Like a crack in the ice on a frozen lake, one voice is enough to start a reaction. 

“I vote to confirm.” the uncle councilor says. 

It goes pretty smoothly after that. 

_________

That night, Sokka stays awake long past when Katara extinguishes her lamp, and the small sounds of life from Aang’s room next door settle down. The moon is centered in the sky through the windows when he climbs out of bed, still fully dressed in his formal robes, and slips out of his room. 

He needs to walk. He needs to think. 

He doesn’t have a plan in mind. He’s walked these palace hallways for weeks now, quiet footsteps by night or among the crowds by day. Even before he was officially an ambassador, he wasn’t given any grief when he climbed tucked away flights of stairs, and found himself wandering entire floors that seemed abandoned, dusty with disuse. He’s sat in the gardens, trailed his fingers along the paintings of former Lords in the gallery, tried doors that stay locked. He found the kitchen once and ate his weight in strange tropical fruits. He found a door that he thinks led to prison cells below the palace, but heavy chains barred his entry. While the palace is far from empty, it almost feels dormant in places. Like living things haven’t touched the rugs in years, haven’t pushed open the window shades to let in light in decades. 

He doesn’t have plans to revisit any of these places tonight, and sort of expects to end up outside, under familiar moonlight; the only thing familiar here, really. 

But his feet have other ideas. He crosses nearly the length of the palace in silence tempered only by the crackling of torches on the wall. When he stops, he’s back in front of the throne room door for the second time today. 

There are no guards this time. The door can only be opened by a firebender, and even if that wasn’t the case — there is no one inside that needs to be protected by guards, not at this hour. There is no one there to chase Sokka away as he takes in the golden relief of the huge door, the dragons entwined in a dance around two men in firebending poses. The way the torchlight flickers on the dragons’ eyes makes them seem alive. Their flames seem real, like if Sokka reached out and touched the golden door, he’d be burned. 

In defiance of the fear in his own thoughts, he touches one of the dragons’ golden teeth; the metal is cold. He withdraws his hand. 

There’s a small alcove across from the door, and Sokka would guess it’s for visitors who are early for their appointments with the Fire Lord. There’s nothing as welcoming as a chair, or a cushion, or even a nice plant. It’s a stark section of wall only notable because it’s scooped out to allow people out of the flow of the hallway during busy times. 

Sokka steps into the alcove, and leans against the wall. Watches the torches glimmer fire against the gold door. And he thinks. 

He thinks about the Fire Nation. How strange it is that he’s here, in the Fire Nation palace, the heart of it all, his feet firm on Fire ground. 

It used to be so abstract to him. The Fire Nation of his childhood was a collective memory of a bogeyman, a shapeless monster used to frighten children around the campfires. Sokka’s Gran-Gran used to tell him he had to eat his sea prunes or the Fire Nation would take him away. He and Katara and the other kids used to play War, and chase each other in mock battles. Everyone always wanted to be the Water Tribe— the Fire Nation always lost when they played War. The actual war itself was a distant menace; merchants and traders had disappeared before Sokka was even born, not willing to risk open oceans for trade with poor Water Tribe villages. Otherwise, little of the war touched their daily lives, except the worried lines that appeared on Dad’s face when unknown sails were seen out at sea.

And then, Sokka’s mom was murdered. Their home was breached, and their people were hurt, and Sokka’s mom was gone. Suddenly the bogeyman wasn’t abstract at all. The bogeyman had a face, and a flag, and a language Sokka only knew bare snippets of. The Fire Nation was a splash of blood red against white snow, and their echo was like a spreading stain long after they left. The soldiers left, and Hakoda and his warriors followed, joining the war when for so long they’d resisted. Sokka and Katara watched the longships disappear against the horizon and suddenly Sokka was the lone warrior keeping the Fire wolves at bay. 

And he mourned, too, because everything he knew was gone in mere moments. His mother was taken, and his father left to avenge her and the countless others affected by the neverending war. Gran-Gran put on a brave face, but she was scared, Sokka saw it in the shake of her hands. The children of the village were quieter, less prone to shouts of joy. No one suggested playing War anymore. 

Katara grieved their mother by growing loud about her passions both joyful and ruinous. Her rare moments of happiness were unbridled and bright, but the sorrow that followed was deep and unending. She believed their mother had died for her, and also to spite her: the warped grief of a child twisting reality to suit her sadness. She couldn’t accept that it was random evil that took their mother, and pinned the blame on herself as a badge of honor. It was that self-appointed blame that led to her strength: she had to learn to be better, in her mind. She had to protect herself, because their mother wouldn’t be there to stand between her and danger the next time. And she assumed the unenviable task, even at eight years old, of starting to look after Sokka and keeping him out of danger. They were all they had. 

Sokka couldn’t grieve like Katara did. He knew it wasn’t his fault, because he wasn’t a real warrior yet and the real warriors hadn’t stopped it from happening. If a man could’ve kept his mom from being killed, his dad would’ve stepped in to stop it. Since his dad didn’t stop it, it couldn’t have been stopped. Sokka didn’t mourn like Katara, loud and needy, but he did mourn. And it hurt, and it scarred, and it burned in him like a secret fire. It was what kept him warm when he patrolled alone at the edge of the village, all of ten years old and facing down a darkness full of enemies he couldn’t see but he knew were there. 

So the Fire Nation became real to Sokka overnight, in the span of one breath to another. And when it became real, it became something Sokka could hate. It was a coal deep in his chest, hot like the embers of a fire left to burn out. It only grew over time, at the dawn of each new year as the village babies grew old enough to hold spears, to swing clubs. As Sokka trained children, fresh-faced and scared, to choose to put the tribe in front of themselves. As the months turned to years and none of the warriors who left came home, but no one talked about it. As their population dwindled away to nearly nothing. 

And that hate burned like a lightning strike when a ship appeared on the horizon and Sokka called on the boys to grab their weapons, to man the outposts and the perimeter walls, his heart beating a rumble in his chest. It had been six years since Dad had left, and Sokka still felt like a small, scared boy at the sight of unfamiliar ships. But it wasn’t Fire Nation soldiers there to raze the village once and for all; it was an Earth Kingdom merchant, cheerful and fat and pockets heavy with gold. He dazzled the young ones with shiny trinkets from Ba Sing Se, and shared the news they’d all waited to hear: the war was over! Over for months, now, and life was beginning to resume across the world. 

Sokka was glad, of course he was, of course. But the hate twisted its claws in too because if the war was over, where was Dad? He gave it a few months, in the end, before setting out with his sister in tow to find them: to find his father and the other warriors, and set right what the Fire Nation had wrought. 

And now he’s here. He breathes and lives in the jaws of the monster he’d hated for so long. Or perhaps not— perhaps he lives in its belly, fully devoured and rendered harmless. 

He doesn’t have to be harmless. He could grab the torch from the wall sconce nearby and set fire to the tapestries, the paintings, the shelves holding up all the gold. The palace is stone, it wouldn’t burn, but if the inside burns then wouldn’t that be enough? Or, he knows how to find the kitchen. The wrong herb, the wrong seeds, slipped into the next day’s breakfast, and he could lay waste to the palace. He could strike more directly: the Fire Lord’s rooms are mere doors away from his own. He could sneak in— spirits, he could even bust in at full volume and take his shot, club to royal skin. He could set the Fire Nation aflame like it did to his life. 

Sokka won’t do that. There are innocent people in the palace, servants and cooks and there’s probably a clerk or two who isn’t wholly corrupted by the strange politics of this world. He won’t harm the masses to punish the few, especially in the name of revenge for people who wouldn’t want to see harm come to ordinary citizens. 

And that’s why Sokka won’t do it: he won’t burn the Fire Nation if it would only unleash war on the world once more. 

Plus, he’s not entirely sure if he understands the Fire Nation enough to know who he would actually target if he wanted to bring the nation tumbling down. 

That’s what makes his stomach twist and turn as he watches firelight play across the surface of the golden throne room door. It’s why he couldn’t sleep, and why he’s out walking palace corridors late at night. Before today, he assumed he knew the way the Fire Nation worked. He thought the Fire Lord sat on his throne and handed down edicts to willing supplicants, who did his bidding without question or pause. In his mind, they all delighted in the process of darkening the world, turning it more hateful through conquest. When one Fire Lord died, another one continued the work. Then, for some reason, the war ended as the Avatar intervened, and a new Fire Lord was installed. Sokka guessed that the war didn’t continue because this new Fire Lord had conquered everything he wanted. That he got what his grandfather aimed for by starting the war in the first place, with the strength of the Avatar by his side. Or, another piece of him thought that maybe it was getting too expensive to continue waging endless war. Whatever the reason, he assumed the Fire Lord ruled all his war-won lands and the nobles and sycophants around him with an iron fist. 

That wasn’t what happened today. Today, Sokka saw a Fire Nation Council at battle with each other, as though they merely turned their fighting inward when the war ended. He saw a Fire Lord removed from the decision-making, a figurehead on a distant throne. Ten different vipers sat around a table in front of the Fire Lord’s throne and fought for their own interests, and they fought harshly even though they were only discussing the nomination of an ambassador who, in reality, holds no power. 

It’s like Sokka cracked open a marble statue to find it rotted inside. The great, fearsome power of the Fire Nation is powered by a venomous council and a Fire Lord who, Sokka realizes now, was silent and sullen as they approached the landing platform at the entrance to Capital Island. As though power doesn’t sit in the Fire Lord’s grasp, and the man himself isn’t sure whether that relieves him or scares him. As though he preferred to be away from his own palace, where trouble seems to lurk behind each golden statue. 

Sokka’s head pounds with questions. Sleep tugs at his itching eyes. He should go to bed. 

He stays and thinks a little longer. 

_________

Sokka always wanted to learn how to use a sword. 

There’s a crossed set of them hung on the dining room wall in the private suite. Sokka surveys them as he eats. He’s not alone; Toph is next to him, head down as she devours her food. 

“Whose swords are those?” Sokka asks. 

“Zuko’s,” Toph says immediately. 

“Do you not need me to describe which ones I’m talking about?” 

“Not really,” Toph shrugs. “Zuko’s the only person I’ve met here that even studies swordwork. Most benders don’t bother.” 

That fits with Sokka’s experience— he tried to show Katara how to use his boomerang once, and she froze it to his pillow instead. “Why does he?” 

“Zuko has deep-seated trauma that manifests itself in various ways,” she rattles off through a mouthful of food. “Swordwork is just one of them.” 

“Uh,” Sokka says. “He does?” 

Toph turns to look at him, big eyes wide and white. “Don’t we all?” 

Sokka chuckles. “Well, when you put it that way.” 

But he still stares at the swords until they’re done eating, and Toph is pushing him out of the room so they can go bother Aang and Katara. 

_________

The next time Sokka wanders past the dining room with the crossed swords on the wall, he takes them down and swings them a few times. Just a few times. Feels the weight of them; they’re light and sharp, whistling through the air as he spins them clumsily. They seem elegant in his hands compared to the brutal simplicity of his club. 

He puts them back a little while later; they’re a little crooked where they rest on the wall. 

_________

Sokka would never claim to be an expert on bending. 

However, he is an expert on the many moods and faces of his sister, and he’s pretty sure she’s lying to the Avatar. 

Maybe lying is a harsh word. Withholding. She’s being withholding with the Avatar. With the Avatar. With the sixteen-year-old savior of the world, uniter of nations, stopper of wars Avatar.

And here’s the thing: Aang totally knows. For all that Aang seems like a bubble made of sugar and rainbows, he’s not an idiot, and he seems perpetually befuddled by Katara’s fierce determination to pretend she doesn’t actually know how to waterbend. 

“I was thinking about that wave you made when we all fought at the Boiling Rock,” Aang is saying today, face bright like he doesn’t know he’s about to be metaphorically knocked on his ass. “The tidal wave that you froze Iroh in. Could you show me that?” 

“I don’t know how to do that,” Katara says, glib. 

“But you did a few weeks ago,” Aang points out. 

“I must’ve forgotten,” Katara says. “Let’s work on water ripples again today.” 

Aang mastered the waterbending basics weeks ago. It must be easier, Sokka thinks, when it’s your fourth time learning a new style. He can copy Katara’s fluidity like he’s studied waterbending for years, and has an obvious aptitude that makes his water whips that much sharper, his contained waves that much larger. 

Sokka is starting to feel bad for the guy. He imagines it would be similar to if he was forced to take lessons on hand-to-hand combat that only taught how to fall. A useful lesson, of course, but not the extent of what is meant to be taught. 

And the thing is, he understands Katara’s side of it too. Despite spending nearly every day in the same room, he and Katara don’t chatter throughout the day. They don’t have to; they talk when something important needs to be said. But, if you remember, Sokka knows Katara, knows her well. He knows her bones ache at their confinement to the palace. He knows she’d never go back to the prison but she thinks every day about running off to steal a boat and rowing back home. She knows Aang isn’t a threat, Sokka is sure of that, but he’s tangled inextricably with the Fire Lord and the end of the war. Sokka knows Katara looks at Aang and sees their mother, and their prison cells, and lands ravaged by fire. 

Sokka doesn’t see the same things, at least when it comes to Aang. (The Fire Lord, that’s a different conversation.) But he does still startle at his surroundings sometimes, reminded that he’s in the Fire Nation. Some days he wakes up to see the black banner hung on the ceiling over his bed and he moves his wrists to see if he can feel iron chains. They’re in the heart of enemy territory, and Sokka can feel the Fire Lord’s eyes on him even when he’s all alone. 

But the longer it takes for Katara to fulfill her side of the deal, and to teach Aang waterbending, the longer they’re here. If Katara came to Sokka today and said she wanted to run away and break her word, Sokka would be packed before she finished speaking. But she won’t do that, it’s not in her nature. Instead, she’ll drag it out until someone forces her hand, whether that’s Aang or Sokka or somebody else entirely. 

“Hey,” Sokka says, and Aang and Katara both look his way from the pond outside their rooms. The water’s surface is rife with rippling waves, the water lapping against the stone walls like it’s high tide. “I’m in the mood to spar. You guys interested?” 

Katara shoots him an annoyed look. “We should really concentrate on-“

“Yes!” Aang shouts over her, bounding out of the waist-deep water of the pond and bouncing on his toes. He’s dripping all over the marble floors. “Yes, please. And I know exactly where we can go!” 

It’s not a long walk; in fact, it’s right across the hall. Aang knocks twice on Toph’s door and then lets himself in without preamble, and Sokka and a reluctant Katara follow him inside. 

Whatever Sokka was expecting for the living quarters of a blind girl who sees with dirty bare feet and apparently befriended giant moles at least once, this wasn’t it. 

The space is wide and bright, one big room of white marble pillars patched with gold filigree. The windows are tall along the furthest wall, showing the brilliant blue of the afternoon sky outside.  A small shadowed corner hides a bed covered in a mess of blankets and pillows, and in the opposite corner is a desk, which is piled high with snacks, errant weapons, clothing, and coins. The center of the room is dominated by what seems to be a massive sand pit. 

Or, to be more accurate, a fighting pit. 

Toph herself is standing in front of the windows, a wide strip of sunlight illuminating her from behind. “Hi,” she says, and it echoes across the mostly-empty space between them. “You guys here to fight?” 

“Of course,” Aang says, and Toph’s smile is so sharp it could carve stone. 

They divide up: Sokka and Katara spar regularly, and Katara and Aang just spent the morning training together, so Katara and Toph take the ring first while Sokka and Aang watch from one side. 

“Is this a good idea?” Aang asks. 

“All my ideas are good ideas,” Sokka says. “Just watch.” 

Because Sokka knows his sister. She’s caught between a cave wall and a spear here: she can either give up and lose her fight with Toph — which her competitive nature would hate — or actually try and prove she does know how to waterbend more than just a few measly splashes. It’s pride versus stubbornness. 

It’s a moot point anyway; Aang and Toph and several other people including the Fire Lord himself saw Katara waterbending at a mastery level when they fought at the Boiling Rock lakeside. Katara has no leg to stand on in her argument that she’s been indirectly making, the argument that she’s just not talented enough to teach the Avatar. Everyone here knows it, and it’s time for Katara to admit it. 

Toph swipes her foot outward in a circle, then stills. Katara takes longer to settle into a fighting stance. Sokka wonders if she’s feeling for water sources in the room; unlike their quarters, there’s no pond in sight, and she didn’t bring her hip flask with water to this fight. 

This is it: one way or another, Katara has to make a choice. In or out. Yes or no. Fight or flight. 

There’s a low rumble as Katara and Toph stare at each other across the sand pit. The rumble grows, and Toph cocks her head to the side before—

A jet of water bursts from the sand, and Toph barely throws up a rock wall to shield herself before Katara redirects the blast of water at her, full force. A broken pipe glints in the afternoon sunlight, still jettisoning water into the air like a spontaneous fountain. 

Fight it is, then. Sokka grins, and settles back against a pillar to watch. 

“Next time, we’ll bring our own water,” Aang says with a wince. Sokka shrugs; he’s sure the Fire Lord can afford to fix a broken pipe. If not, Sokka can point him towards a few dozen pointless gold statues they could sell for some quick cash. 

But soon, Aang and Sokka both forget about the broken pipe gushing water and turning the sand pit into a swamp. For all that Katara fought showing the true extent of her bending skills, and for all Toph’s over-the-top bragging, they seem to be close to equal in skill. Sokka’s mind is flying fast, connecting dots he can’t spare the brain power to process: Katara is hurling ice swords and gliding along tidal waves, and all he can think about are the Earth Kingdom legends Suki told them about titans that created the world, larger than life and ferociously strong. That’s his sister, she can’t be a titan; can she? 

Katara swipes her hand out to pull the water into a sheet that thunders down on Toph like a wave. Toph throws shards of hardened mud up to make a pyramid to cover herself, then she flings the shards full speed at Katara. Katara snaps a weighty water whip at the shards to crumble them, then freezes Toph’s feet to the sand. Toph creates a platform under her frozen feet and rises up twenty, thirty feet in a mere second, hurling boulders down at Katara. 

And on and on. 

It’s a showcase. It’s two powerful benders who aren’t hindered by friendship but aware enough to keep their blows pulled from being lethal. They’re making risky choices and experimenting on the spot, and the whole palace seems to be shaking with the force of their power. 

It’s strange to see Katara like this. Even when watching her fight, back at the prison or on the shores of the boiling lake, Sokka’s brain always superimposed an image of Katara as a small girl over her nearly-adult face. That was his baby sister, no matter what she was doing or how she fought. Today, he doesn’t see short legs and chubby cheeks. He sees a waterbender, the last waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe. 

It’s strange to see Toph like this, too, even though Sokka’s known her a mere handful of months. He realizes now that he is very lucky for the element of surprise, because if she’d been paying attention to him instead of Katara at Boiling Rock, he probably would’ve been squished like a bug. He’s a good fighter, and a better tactician, but Toph is able to parry Katara’s hits before she even starts to swing. Toph could have trapped Sokka in a stone cube and hurled him into the lava back at the prison, and he could’ve done nothing to stop her. 

The fight ends in exhaustion; Katara is dripping melted ice and sweat in equal measure, and Toph’s hair stands on end like she’s been struck by lightning. They’re still digging for reserves of strength when Aang steps between them, separating them with a ball of air that pushes them back away from each other. They’re both so tired, they fall over with hardly any pushing necessary. 

“I think we’ll call that a tie,” Aang says happily. “Right, Sokka?” 

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees, watching Katara flop onto her back and pant.  He goes over and helps her to her feet; he expects her to be angry, but her face is calm. Her movements are careful, like her muscles are sore. 

“So,” Aang says casually, swaggering over to Katara and Sokka, “tomorrow, I’d like to start learning how to do all of that.” He waves his hand at the air in the room, filled as it is with heavy breathing and mist from the impromptu fountain and dust particles. 

Katara still doesn’t look angry. Her eyebrow quirks at Sokka, an acknowledgment of his plan and a concession that it worked, and she sighs. It still doesn’t sound unhappy. “Alright,” she says. “But not tomorrow. I’ll be too tired.” 

“Day after tomorrow. It’s gonna be great!” Aang hops over to Toph, who is rolling dramatically over and over to make an awkward exit from the practice ring. Aang scoops her up with a cloud of air and deposits her off to the side. He turns to face Sokka, beaming. “It’s you and me now, buddy!” 

Sokka’s stomach falls through the floor, and he’s pretty sure he hears the thud when it hits the molten core of the earth. He was so caught up on the brilliance of his plan, he forgot about the part where he’d have to fight the Avatar. 

“You know, on second thought, I don’t think we need to-“ 

“Nonsense, Sokka,” Katara says. She’s still drenched, but she smiles a wide, terrible smile. “Here, I’ll help level the playing field.” 

She steps on wobbly legs to the pipe fountain and stops the gushing water. Toph, who is still slumped against a wall like a tossed-aside rag doll, lifts her hand and the metal pipe screech es back down, the metal flowing together and whole once more. Katara then pulls the puddles out from the pit so that the sand is dry and soft again, flowing the water in a stream out Toph’s door, likely into the pond outside of Katara and Sokka’s rooms. 

“Right,” Sokka says. “Of course. I’ll just fight the Avatar.” 

“Sokka,” Aang says chidingly. “I’ve told you just to call me Aang.” 

And then he leaps thirty feet into the air and blasts Sokka with a tornado of wind and sand. 

Sokka gets pummeled. The hard gusts and air balls and other fancy moves buffet Sokka from side to side, shunting him to the right when he tries to land a hit on Aang, throwing him backwards when he tries to run forwards. Aang smiles through it all, and he never uses firebending or earth or even water, though Sokka knows he could. He seems to be making a point: his airbending against Sokka’s fists and club, their original weapons displayed in full. 

Eventually, exhausted and bruised, Sokka picks up the pattern. It seems random, but there is a strategy: Aang uses too much energy hovering in the air to make multiple attacks, so he has to land and fight on the ground more than linger in the air and fling dust at Sokka all day. 

He can work with that. If he can just get close, he has a chance. 

It feels like it takes ages. Sokka shields his face from a blast of air, clambers to his feet when he’s knocked to his back, coughs up sand and dirt, over and over. But, once Aang lands and, smiling like a sadist, funnels a blast of air at Sokka yet again, Sokka dodges the funnel and hurls his club at Aang. 

It doesn’t hit; Aang, surprised, dodges out of the way just in time and watches the club spin behind him and bury itself in the sand. He turns back to Sokka, laughing. “Seems like a bad idea—“ but he doesn’t finish his sentence because Sokka is there in his face, rushed up to land a hard hit to Aang’s stomach. 

Aang tries to shove Sokka back with a funnel of air but Sokka dodges and spins until he can crowd in close again: another hit, another hit. Aang’s face is furrowed in concentration now, tongue poking out of the side of his mouth. 

It ends predictably: with Sokka in the sand, hand up for a truce. But Aang is winded, and has a few rips to his clothing, and red splotches on his forearms and neck that speak to Sokka’s landed hits. 

“That was really well done,” Aang says, extending a hand to help Sokka to his feet. Sokka accepts, muscles aching as they uncurl and he pushes to stand. 

“I lost,” Sokka points out as they join the girls. 

“The point of practicing isn’t to win,” Aang says, a sudden sage. “The point is to get better.” 

“Uh, no,” Katara says. “The point of everything is to win.” 

“Exactly,” Sokka says, then hisses as his sore ankle pops in an unnatural way. 

_________

A few days later, Katara and Aang are meditating and otherwise being completely boring, so Sokka strikes out on his own. It’s late enough that the council meeting has dismissed for the day, so Sokka doesn’t bother swinging by the throne room to eavesdrop. He’s not hungry, and he’s not sleepy. 

He doubles back after a half hour spent wandering and heads back to the family wing of the palace. He thinks about breaking into one of the empty bedrooms just for something to do when he hears the tell-tale sounds of fighting coming from behind Toph’s door. 

Sokka lets himself in, assuming Aang and Katara got tired of breathing quietly together and decided to actually do something fun, but that’s- that’s not what’s happening. 

Sokka steps inside just as a wall of flame finishes sweeping through Toph’s room, orange and red licking at every available surface. Panicked, Sokka nearly shouts for help from the resident waterbenders when a mighty crash sends shards of rock flying, and Toph emerges from a cocoon of stone to go flying at- 

Is that the Fire Lord? 

Sokka slinks further into the room and takes an unobtrusive seat. 

Yeah, that’s definitely the Fire Lord. 

And that’s, uh. Certainly more of the Fire Lord than Sokka has ever seen. 

His chest gleams with sweat, as though he and Toph have either been fighting for hours or his own fiery blood keeps him running hot. Probably the latter, Sokka thinks distantly; he’d have heard this commotion early if they’d been sparring when he left his rooms. His shoulders are wide and his hips narrow, and there’s a frighteningly large scar like branching lightning down his sternum. Down to just tapered trousers and a strip of cloth keeping his hair out of his eyes, the Fire Lord surges with power, force and fury bound up in flowing movements across the sand. Every movement is strength, is grace, is intelligence. 

Something. Something twinges in Sokka’s stomach. 

He knew the Fire Lord was attractive, of course, when he showed up at the prison in his pristine clothes and his porcelain skin and wide shoulders. Sokka has always been drawn to pretty things, even more so when they’re untouchable, and there had never been anyone he’d met prettier or more untouchable than the Fire Lord was that day at Boiling Rock. But his scar drew so much attention that everything else seemed secondary, and then of course his title eclipsed even the scar so that was all Sokka thought about from then on. 

And since then, Sokka has mostly tried to avoid looking directly at him. It’s stupid — it’s not the like Fire Nation didn’t commit all those atrocities just because Sokka doesn’t look right at the latest bearer of the flame crown. But it was still easier, a little lie to keep Sokka from feeling the need to put his hands around a man’s neck and ending his dynasty once and for all. When Sokka wasn’t looking at him, the Fire Lord was just some guy: a flash of gold eyes and shiny dark hair, ostentatious robes and a voice like smoke. 

Sokka is looking now. Sokka is wondering how he ever looked away. 

Fire bursts from the Fire Lord’s hands and chases Toph around the ring, as she scrambles up and over and around various rock shapes to give herself cover. She screeches periodically in wild joy, and laughs when a summoned rock knocks the Fire Lord on the shoulder and sends his flames off course so she can escape once more. 

He’s too good to be distracted for long, though, and he cuts like swords through water to continue pelting Toph with flames. He blasts away a boulder she sends rolling toward him, and spins athletically to avoid a shower of sharp slivers of stone. Sokka sees him smile, just once, when he lands a hit directly to Toph’s shin that makes her stumble. 

Toph’s game is to keep the Fire Lord away, and his is to draw her in. In close quarters, he is definitely the bigger threat, and Toph fights maniacally to stay out of his clutches. It’s always close, a back and forth of equal skill. It hits Sokka, right then, that these are the benders that taught the Avatar; perhaps not the best in the world at what they do, but near enough. Just like when Katara and Toph sparred, he’s seeing titans at play. 

The Fire Lord finally closes the gap and yanks Toph to him so that they’re trading blows, solid hits and kicks that land with a thudding harshness. She holds out for several long minutes until, finally: 

“Yield,” the Fire Lord says. He’s got an arm around Toph’s throat, an echo of the way Sokka subdued him when they fought beside the boiling prison lake. 

Toph scratches at his arm and then stills. “Fine,” she sighs, and the Fire Lord releases her. The two of them spend a moment wiping away sweat and guzzling water, then Toph calls, “So, what did you think?” 

Sokka wonders who she’s talking to until she turns with uncanny accuracy towards his half-hidden seat by the door. The Fire Lord turns, too, eyes widening when he realizes they had an audience. 

Probably mad at himself for showing so much of his hand. Sokka’s brain had been filing away some of those moves to peruse later for weakness or strategy. Not that he expects to find many, but he’ll try all the same. 

The Fire Lord wipes himself with a cloth, watching Sokka warily. Sokka watches him back. 

“Hellooo?” Toph calls. “I know that’s you, Sokka, I can hear your heartbeat.” 

Well that’s fun. 

“I don’t think you need any pointers from me,” Sokka says dryly. 

Toph laughs. “Maybe your praise, then.” 

Sokka can’t help it, his gaze flicking back to the Fire Lord. “It was amazing.” The Fire Lord stills, cloth stopped halfway up his arm like he’s listening intently. He’s turned half-away from Sokka, like he’s not there. Sokka, for some reason, continues, pushing the words at their intended recipient. “Of course it was amazing.” 

He doesn’t know what he wants. Acknowledgment from the Fire Lord, maybe. Agreement that what he saw wasn’t just another day of sparring, but something monumental. But maybe it isn’t, for him. Maybe this is just another day.

“Yeah,” Toph says, sounding like the crococat that got the cream. “Come on Zuko, round two?” 

Sokka leaves before the fighting starts again, but the images linger with him for hours: the Fire Lord, titles shed to play in the dirt, stripped of authority but roaring with power. 

Sokka wonders how he ever got the upper hand on him. 

He wonders how anyone ever did.