It is over. It is done. His wife is dead. She had been such a tiny bloom, a defiant burst of blue in a sea of endless white. But flora never lasts in the tundra. No matter how hard she fought, and she fought hard, her life was to be brief. The healers say she could've lived a few more years. But she always did what she wanted. She went ahead and nurtured their son in her womb. The healers said her body couldn't sustain the pregnancy. It would end in miscarriage. She died as she lived, brilliantly defying all expectations. She gave birth to their boy and, with her last breath, named him. It is over. It is done. His wife is dead.

North fears his son will soon follow.

The boy was born quiet and still. He had not cried the way babes do. He merely laid motionless in his mother's arms. He would've been dubbed a stillborn save for his silent breaths, the tiny shuddering of his chest. The boy lived but barely. North knew then. His son was to be a fighter, just like his mother.

Perhaps too much like his mother. His son would live a short life but far too short. The healers tell him the boy would not see his first morning. But he isn't just a boy. He is Jack. Jack of the Northern Water Tribe. His son. And North will damn himself, damn the tribe, damn the world, before he lets his son die, not without a bloody and bitter fight.

North takes his child to the highest room of their tallest temple. He had thrown out all the shamans and demanded privacy. In that tiny chamber, barely accomodating his girth, he kneels. The floor bore an intricate carving of the sacred yin and yang symbol. A pedestal stood atop the ice-white yang half. It held a normal basin of water, drawn from the spirit pond, and reflected perfectly the full moon's visage.

"Manny..." North begins, cradling his son close. "I don't ask for much. And I swear I will never ask for anything more. But by the grace of your light, I beg you oh Man of the Moon. Please, save my son."

With careful hands, North places Jack, precious Jack, into the basin. The moon-soaked waters bathe the babe in its cold embrace. Jack doesn't stir, his breaths coming in shorter gasps.

For a moment, the longest moment of North's life, nothing happens. North feels tears well up in his eyes. His heart rattles in his ribs, suffocating in his chest. He bows his head. It is over. It is done. His son will die.

Light catches his attention. He looks up and there in the basin, its water collecting every drop of moonlight. It suffuses his boy's body with a pure glow and curiously, the once dark mop of hair turns a gleaming snow white.

Jack's eyes open. He draws a bone deep breath and wails his little heart out.

North stares dumbstruck at the crying child. Joy sings in his veins as he pulls Jack, tiny fighting Jack, from the water. He holds his son close, marveling at the fluttering pulse cupped in his palms.

Jack will see his first morning and the morning after and all the mornings for years to come.

"Thank you. Oh, thank you." North breathes, kissing those white locks.

His son will live.