Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan story. Avatar: The Last Airbender is owned by Michael Dante DiMartino, Bryan Konietzko, and Nickelodeon.
Author's Note: Yes I know I really ought to be working on A Different Legend, but well, You know those things everyone calls plot bunnies? To stretch a metaphor, they kind of pulled a Night of the Lepus on me, and I had to pick a couple to follow through on. So yeah, with that and college my time has been pretty full (even though I restricted myself to two new stories, one of which I won't be starting for a long time, they both needed a lot of work before I felt they were even worth considering). The other story I plan on keeping mostly under wraps about, but I will say that it will be a BIG project (as in, "I'm planning to write a several hundred-thousand word fic to serve as an introduction to the setting" big). But don't worry; I won't be starting on that until I've finished both this and A Different Legend, which will be quite a while (possibly several years). Also I'm planning to call the above-mentioned prologue/setting-primer-story-thing To Scorch the Sky. Sorry if that got off topic, here's the story, and fair warning; it's gonna be violent and it's gonna be dark (as in "there's torture and slight implications of rape in this chapter" violent and dark), so faint of heart and weak of stomach beware.
Prologue: Bastard
By the standards of any northerner, the balmy, early summer's day that the inhabitants of the south pole were currently enjoying would have been considered apocalyptically cold, frigid enough to kill all but the hardiest of crops or men in mere minutes. Hakoda wondered once again why he cared about what a northerner would think of his homeland, before, once again, coming up with several perfectly reasonable answers to his own question. Yet none of them could rid him of the feeling that he wasn't being entirely honest with himself.
'You know what this is about, the fact you don't want to admit it changes nothing.'
Seeking a respite from his self examination, the former chief of the Yuupiik clan of the Southern Water Tribe deliberately focused on nothing but gazing out over the stark vista from atop the icy walls of the small town he called home. The fact that the settlement was coastal didn't bear mentioning; almost all of their food came from the sea, and warm currents from the north kept the shore just barely warm enough to be habitable by humans.
To the west the coast curved gently to the north until it reached the base of the long, crooked finger of rocky hills and Taiga that split the sea from the western sky. It also served a more practical purpose as the border between the territory of the Yuupiik, and that of their ancestral allies (and occasional rivals); the Tikaani (as well as the primary source of wood for the shipbuilding efforts of both clans).
To the east the shore was jagged, rocky, and broken by hundreds of bays, inlets, and islands as it fell away ever so slightly to the south. Over the horizon, and beyond the Uukarnit ice fields and the massive, miles-wide glacier that spawned them lay territories belonging to the Tulugaq and Tulukaruk clans, formerly a single band before a dispute over the title of chief led to them going their separate ways several decades ago, shortly before Hakoda had been born.
And to the south lay the jagged black peaks and not-quite-lifeless snow plains of the interior, home only to the massive flocks of penguins that wintered there, the Ugalik clan, and the wooly rhinocephants and yakopotommi they herded and depended on for fur, meat, milk, hide, and bone. Whereas the other clans were mostly sailors and fishermen who opportunistically hunted along the coast for prey like pika-squirrels and caribou-seal, the nomadic herdsmen only came north for their livestock's summer mating season, spending the rest of the year traveling between a series of sheltered hot springs in the interior.
The quiet crunch of beaver-seal skin boots on snow alerted Hakoda to the approach of another human being.
"I'm not sure I'm up for talking to anyone just yet."
"Yeah? Well as your friend, I know that if I just let you mope all day you'll never get out of this rut on your own." Bato said as he took a seat on the battlements next to Hakoda. "And as the man who may very well be your new chief tommorow, I know that I'm gonna be needing your advice on . . . well, quite a few things actually. And if you're busy sulking I know you won't be thinking clearly. So spill."
"You know me better than anyone except Kya and my mother; there's no way I really need to explain it to you."
"As a matter of fact I do have a pretty good idea. But we both know I'm not asking because I'm curious."
"It's not like I haven't talked about it-"
"Oh. Because discussing it with Kya and Kanna is such a great way to relieve stress. I may not have ever been in a situation quite like yours, but when it comes to family issues, I know it helps if you have someone to vent at who isn't caught in the middle of it."
"Hn."
The two men sat in awkward, if companionable silence for several minutes, watching ragged shreds of cloud slide briskly across the sky, before Hakoda spoke up;
"It's been almost eight years now, and half of them still hold it against her, and against Sokka. He wasn't even born yet; he's lived his entire life in the tribe. He's my son, no matter what Patuktuq or Tapeesa or anyone else says."
Bato sighed.
"Sokka's a good kid. At least, as much as can be expected at seven. He's a good older brother for Katara, and he's nice enough to the other kids when they're not going out of their way to pick a fight with him. I know that, you know that, and your family knows that. But as much as you might hate it, for some of them it'll never be enough that he's a loyal, contributing member of the tribe; they'll always find something to get angry at him for, no matter what he does, because to them, he's not one of us.
But that doesn't matter. Because he's your son, and everyone who says he's not, that he can't be? Each and every one of them is another reason for him to turn around and prove them all wrong."
"I . . . It's just . . ." Hakoda struggled, whether he was searching for words or courage even he wasn't sure.
However, before he could prepare a response, the air was rent by the sound of children screaming.
A small, traitorous part of Sokka wished Silaluk would just attack him already. At least then no-one could claim he had started the fight. Sure, they would still go on and on about what a vicious, violent child he was, and the less subtle among them would whisper to each other about bad blood, and shameful, and should have smothered him in the cradle. He may only be seven, but Sokka knew what they meant; Silaluk and Qimmiabruk had made sure of that.
Not that anything was likely to come of those whispers; they'd been floating around for years. And besides, Gran-gran and Mom, and Dad and Uncle Bato would never let something like that happen.
'Unless Patuktuq or Qamut get chosen as the next chief;' he thought dismally, 'then they won't be able to do much to stop them that wouldn't turn the whole clan against them.'
It still infuriated him that the fact that his parents hadn't killed him as a baby had been used as grounds for a half decade whispering campaign to get his dad removed from office.
"Hey, freak. You think you can just ignore us?"
Turning to face the duo stalking down the alley toward him, Sokka answered Qimmiabruk with a glare. While he might hate Silaluk, the younger boy disgusted him.
"What's your problem now, Qimmiq? You were all smiles back in the roundhouse. Oh wait, that's right; your master showed up." he spat angrily.
The six year old snarled and lunged at Sokka, nearly foaming at the mouth with rage. Unfortunately for him, in addition to being a year older than Qimmiabruk, Sokka was about two inches taller and nearly fifteen pounds heavier, though still nearly a foot shorter than the ten year old Silaluk. And, after he had pleaded with his dad to let him stand up for himself, Hakoda had agreed, on one condition: he had started teaching Sokka how to fight.
Qimmiabruk came at him with his head down and his fists up, seemingly unsure if he wanted to throw a punch or tackle his opponent around the waist. Sokka surged forward, putting his weight into his shoulder, and bending his knees to try and drive it into the smaller boy's chest. But, for all his practice and newfound confidence, Sokka was still very young and inexperienced, and he'd never tried to do anything more precise than flail angrily at an opponent close to his size before; his shoulder strike went high, and Qimmiabruk's collarbone drove his upper arm into his side hard enough to knock the wind out of them both.
Staggering, Sokka recovered first; punching the smaller boy once in the gut to double him over, then grabbing him under the armpits, swinging, and shoving; sending him sprawling into a crusty, half melted snowbank with a panicked yelp. However, his triumph was short-lived, as Silaluk planted a backhand across his face, eliciting a cry of pain. Stumbling, Sokka felt blood beginning to run freely from his nose, as tears blurred his vision and the throbbing pain in his face and shoulder sought to divert his attention from the larger boy bearing down on him.
But before he could regain his balance, Silaluk hit him again, this time in the chest, and Sokka landed on his back, gasping for air. Then in came Qimmiabruk with what was probably supposed to be a heroic battle cry, followed by a kick to the ribs. If there had been any air left in his lungs he would have yelled, but as it was he merely choked.
"Go back to the Fire Nation, Freak!" Qimmiabruk jeered as he kicked Sokka again in the gut.
"Looks like the half-breed's not having fun." Silaluk chuckled. "That's just too bad, 'cause we haven't finished our training yet."
Bending down, the older boy grabbed Sokka by the arms, picking him up so that his back was to Silaluk and his feet dangled several inches off the ground.
"If Qimmiabruk is gonna grow up to be a warrior of the tribe, he's gotta learn how to fight Fire marines. Unfortunately, we don't have many of those around here, so I guess we'll have to settle for a Fire marine's brat."
"My- my Dad's name is Ha-"
"Shut up scum," Silaluk purred as he kneed Sokka in the back, drawing another scream of pain "practice dummies aren't allowed to talk back."
Hesitating for only an instant, Qimmiabruk stepped forward and began throwing blow after blow into Sokka's gut and chest. After what felt like an eternity, the younger boy stopped, panting from exertion.
"I guess that's enough," Silaluk allowed, dumping Sokka face-first into a snowbank "I suppose we can let you off easy today. I mean, you're probably already having a bad day, what with worrying about who'll be the next chief."
Rolling onto his back, Sokka gasped for air.
"It's not like Hakoda will be getting the job back any time soon." Qimmiabruk taunted.
Enraged, Sokka made a feeble attempt to surge to his feet, only to be smacked across the face by Silaluk and slump back into the snow.
"If you know what's good for you you'll stay down, Freak."
Fuming, the younger boy hocked and spat, and was satisfied to see his saliva find a new home on Silaluk's forehead. For several moments the only sound was the occasional soft rustle of a gentle gust blowing powdered snow. Sokka continued to glare defiantly up at Silaluk, even as the older boy's face continued to sour while Qimmiabruk chewed his mittens nervously to one side. Suddenly, and without a word, Silaluk grabbed Sokka by the wrist and began dragging him down the alley back toward the main path. Thrashing with all his might, Sokka still found himself unable to break free of the older boy's grasp, and a sharp, yelp inducing twist of his arm put an end to his efforts.
Twisting his neck around, Sokka's throat seized up for a moment when he saw that Silaluk was dragging him toward a nearby cookfire. Glancing down at the noise, the older boy sneered;
"I think it's about time we showed you how we ought to deal with dragon spawn like you."
Scooping him up by the scruff of his neck, Silaluk began to press Sokka's face down toward the grey coals below, which while no longer glowing, were still more than hot enough to make the steadily falling drops of blood from his nose sizzle and evaporate as they landed.
"What's the matter Freak? Don't you like fire?" Silaluk taunted as Sokka gagged on the thin smoke rising from the firepit.
"Silaluk, I- . . . I'm not sure that . . . this . . . is such a . . . good idea." Qimmiabruk hazarded.
"Are you defending this little traitor?" Silaluk snarled incredulously, "If I didn't know better, I might mistake you for a damn Dragon Licker!"
"I'm NOT a traitor!" Sokka yelled, only to be ignored as Silaluk stared down Qimmiabruk, who was desperately shaking his head. Growling to himself, Silaluk pressed down on the back of Sokka's neck with renewed force.
"I'M NOT A TRAITOR!" the younger boy screamed desperately, his eyes and throat raw and weeping from the smoke.
"LIAR! Half-breed, dragon-spawn filth can never be loyal to the tribe!" Silaluk snarled as he slammed Sokka's face into the coals.
Sokka shrieked in pain and desperately began heaving and flailing against his tormentor, when suddenly, the weight above him vanished. Toppling over, thankfully away from the fire, he was shocked to realize that, for some reason, Silaluk and Qimmiabruk were screaming too.
Dashing ahead of Bato along a narrow alley leading between homes constructed from various combinations of snow, ice, and hide, Hakoda realized that the screaming had only increased in volume since they had started running. Tearring around several sharp corners, he caught sight of a bizarrely striking tableau: three boys, one was curled into the fetal position on his side, and two were more running in circles like decapitated pig-chickens, one of them trailing smoke and sparks from his smoldering parka, and all three were screaming at the top of their lungs.
Lunging into the open, the former chief tackled the smoldering child, and quickly rolled him through a snowbank to smother the flames, before glancing up to see Bato kneeling next to the fallen boy- Sokka!, and murmuring softly to him. The screaming had stopped, but Sokka was still whimpering in pain from several large, relatively minor, but still extremely painful looking burns on his face and neck.
"What happened here?" Hakoda demanded firmly, recognizing the two other boys, and not much liking any of the probable answers to his question.
"He's a damn firebender!" Silaluk hissed as he got to his feet, pointing at Sokka.
"Whaleshit." Hakoda barked "Next you're going to try and tell me the Fire Lord personally ordered him to spy on us."
"Sokka and-, Silaluk got in a fight," Qimmiabruk started hesitantly, before Silaluk tried to interrupt, only to be silenced by a simultaneous glare from Bato and Hakoda, "and Silaluk got really, really mad when Sokka spat on him. So he tried to stick his face in the cookfire, but Sokka threw the fire at him."
Staring intently at Sokka's younger friend, Hakoda was only vaguely aware of the gathering crowd around them.
"And you're absolutely sure that it wasn't hot coals he threw?"
Rather than vocalize a response, Qimmiabruk pointed at the cookfire in question. Following with his gaze, Hakoda allowed the cold talons of dread to sink into his gut.
Not a single coal lay outside the stone ring of the fire pit.
A/N: I feel I should disclose that, as a guy who grew up reading Tolkien, Pratchett, and Orson Scott Card (Yes I'm aware that he's a homophobic asshat, but in my defense; I was ten, my dad's side of the family is ultra conservative, and to be fair (most of) his books are still pretty good. And if we're being completely honest, Tolkien's stuff has some pretty racist subtext of it's own.), I'm a bit obsessed with world building. And as a massive fan of Embers, I would like to disclose that that series, as well as a number of ideas (mainly the names of languages, and the fact that separate languages exist in the setting) touched upon in the Romance of the Four Nations trilogy, have been some of the main influences on my head canon beyond the original series. Not that I currently plan on using anywhere near all of the stuff from either of those series (half the fun of writing fanfiction is coming up with my own interpretation of canon), but readers of either fic will probably recognize some setting elements and (in the case of Embers) historical events. And next, since there won't be any power levels in this fic, but I still feel the need to stick some kind of info dump at the end of the chapter you guys will instead get LINGUISTIC CREDITS!
In order of appearance:
Yuupiik: Blatantly borrowed (with spelling changes) from Romance of the Four Nations, which blatantly borrowed it (again with spelling changes) from the Yup'ik people of central Alaska.
Tikaani: Inuktitut for wolf
Uukarnit: Inuktitut for calved ice (I know it's not a very creative name for a glacier. Sue me)
Tulugaq: Inuktitut for raven
Tulukaruk: Inuktitut for crow
Ugalik: Inuktitut for arctic hare
Patuktuq: Inuktitut for ice crystals
Tapeesa: Inuktitut for arctic flower
Silaluk: Inuktitut for storm
Qimmiabruk: Inuktitut for Puppy
Qamut: Inuktitut for sledge runner
Qimmiq: Inuktitut for dog
(And in case you're wondering, most of the names here are from Behind the )
(And for those who claim that the above instance of torture shouldn't have happened on the grounds of children lacking a sufficient capacity for cruelty, I would like to congratulate you on never having been made to participate in the american education system.)
(Also, similarities to the backstory of any Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire characters (living or deceased) are purely accidental. I realized right after I finished writing the scene. This fic was actually inspired by a craving for more Another Brother, which is really good, but hasn't updated in several years due to the author focusing on other projects.)
(And I speak from experience when I say that while second-degree burns aren't likely to do permanent damage or cause scarring, they are still very painful. And while most young Water Tribesmen are probably taught about stop, drop, and roll in this day and age, I once again speak from (unfortunate) experience when I point out that being on fire is not very conducive to clear thinking. And neither is being ten, for that matter.)
