A/N: Hello! Welcome to the story. This is just my interpretation / idea of what might've happened between "Noatak" and "Amon". I think Amon is a fascinatingly contradictory character, and I really wanted to explore what might've happened to a 15 year old kid to turn him into someone like Amon, and I thought I'd share it!

For those of you who might've noticed, this is a REBOOT of the same story that I wrote many years ago but discontinued for many reasons. However, I'm back and ready to roll. Currently, the Fanfiction version of the story is behind the one I have on AO3 (/works/4659165/chapters/10629162), as I'm working on uploading each of the chapters and such. However, all of the chapters should be up very soon. I'll do my best to keep each version updated equally for convenience.

I do hope you enjoy! If you have any comments or concerns, please let me know either here or at my Tumblr, thelordwrites. Thanks ~

The cold is absolute.

Noatak wonders, numbly, if this is how he will die. He supposes, however, that if this is how his story will end, it is not, really, as bad as it could have been. Not as bad as he thought it'd be, by far. Dying in a blizzard might be painless, even. He'll probably be too numb to feel anything, or fall asleep in the snow before he actually dies. It wouldn't be so bad, he figures.

He is not yet completely convinced, however, and clings to life. He bends his back against the unforgiving chill and narrows his eyes against the snow. His parka is lined with fur and had been brushed over with dolphin-whale oil, but still the blizzard pierces unforgivingly past it, stinging his bones and leaving him feeling brittle. His hands are clenched in his mittens and shoved underneath his armpits, and even though he's staring at himself dragging them, Noatak cannot feel his feet. The only evidence he has that they are still attached is the fact that he is still standing.

And through it all, in the ghastly howl of the storm, he still hears Tarrlok's echoing wail: Don't leave, please!

Not for the first time that night, Noatak looks back, furtively, over his shoulder. Is he hoping Tarrlok is there, and he and his little brother could travel the world together like they had promised when they were younger? Or is he secretly relieved there is, in fact, no one behind him, and he has left his past behind, it seems, for good?

These are questions too emotionally difficult for his half-frozen brain to muddle through, at the moment. All he knows is his chest gives a pained ache whenever he thinks about Tarrlok's face when he left—or is it because of the cold?

He just looked so betrayed. And you called him weak. For what, caring about mom? How could you do that to him? How could you leave him? You call yourself a brother? a small voice sneers at him.

But I hated it, another hisses back. I hated it there. No one can blame me for leaving. No one can say I was wrong.

Wearily, Noatak quells these voices and hunches his shoulders further, continues to put one foot in front of the other, furrows his brow in deep focus. He should consider waterbending himself an igloo or something, anything to break the constant, unforgiving blast of cold blizzard air freezing the tips of his hair. What he wouldn't give to be a firebender, in this moment.

But you aren't, the same small, harsh voice snaps at him. You're a waterbender. And he hates himself for it.

And despite himself, he cannot bring himself to move his hands from their relative warmth underneath his arms. At least he can still feel his fingers.

But he is sure he cannot feel his toes—a bad sign, he acknowledges dryly. This is the sort of foolish, impulsive planning Tarrlok would do…

Noatak fiercely pushes the thoughts of Tarrlok—and the reflexive image of his large blue eyes, his broken face of disbelief, the vague hopelessness starting to creep into his expression ("He was right about you—you are a weakling")—from his mind, returning all of his energy into walking. Keep walking. He could not stop walking. This is a fact that he knew and valiantly held onto. An absolute truth. Keep walking. Keep walking.

Father will be furious. He'll spend days trying to find Noatak. He'll take all his anger out on Tarrlok. The thought makes Noatak's blood run, impossibly, even colder than it already is. Slowly, the magnitude of what he has just done seems to dawn on him. He has left his younger brother at the mercy of a former crime lord. He has left his younger brother at the mercy of a man who tried to use his own sons as weapons of revenge. He has left his younger brother to care for an ignorant, stupid, naïve woman who couldn't see the truth ("Don't say that about mom," Tarrlok pouted to Noatak once. "She doesn't know. How could she know?" But she should've. She should've…).

Tarrlok will be stuck in that house forever, probably, without Noatak to look out for him.

Dimly, he is aware that he has stopped walking—he must've, because his cheek is cold and half his face is in snow, and he's pretty sure he's lying down.

Get up. He needs to go back. What was he thinking, abandoning Tarrlok like that? He should've tried harder to convince him. No, he should've forced him to come with Noatak—it's not like he couldn't have (even though the act of bloodbending his own brother almost made him throw up right in front of their father), Noatak thinks bitterly. He was just so angry and frustrated—the one time Noatak tries to be some selfless fucking hero, and father punishes him for it hard—but he was hasty.

I take it back, Noatak thinks vaguely as his vision begins to fade. His body begins to panic, and he feels a few weak, desperate shivers ripple across his body—a physical container's hasty, instinctive attempt to survive, even for just a few moments.

I'll go back, Noatak promises someone—anyone who will get him out of this, if just to keep his little brother safe. I won't run again—just keep him safe…