Chapter One: The Calm After the Storm

Anger is like a storm rising up from the bottom of your consciousness. When you feel it coming, turn your focus to your breath.

Thich Nhat Hanh

XoXoX

It was quiet—finally. The screams had stopped, the winds had settled, and the air was finally warming up. Though, none of those things happened because nature allowed it; everything was halted or heated by force—against the divine will of the spirits—to reveal a sorry-looking and somber sight. Screams, once deafening, were quieted because most of the villagers were finally perishing, their cries coming out as wet gurgles, blood frothing against blue-bitten lips. Winds, once gusty and intrusive, were blocked by a wall of iron-clad warships, rows upon rows embanked against the outer rim or idling slightly off shore. The air was warm—almost stifling compared to the natural chill; though, it was polluted with haze, tendrils of smoke billowing from the lean-to homes set ablaze, animal hides engulfed, feasting on the dead skins. The flames surged, climbing higher than the prow of the warships, smoke reaching challenging heights as a trio of uniformed men passed.

The largest of the three—large not in stature but in girth—stared at the massacre, his eyes sober and face generally impassive. He eyed the red splotches coating the snowy ground, the stains of so many lives strewn about in a cryptic painting, telling a few men's final stories, glorifying a hard-fought battle wherein the losers fought bravely and bitterly before succumbing to their foe's unforgiving strength.

War was war, but he couldn't help feeling a twinge of sadness.

Did so many people have to die?

Did the women and children who fought inside their humble homes have to take up arms—swords, spears, even a spoon or two—and perish?

Perhaps, but the outrageous loss of life felt unnecessary; though, he knew that anything less would've been considered weakness. And right now, weak was not something he could afford to be.

One step, and then another; that was all he needed to do: keep walking. So he did, occasionally glancing at the splattered remains on the ground and the bodies within the burning homes, where fire licked the corpses and consumed clothes, flesh, and hair with a greed he couldn't—and didn't want to—describe. Some feet—small and large, men and women and a few children—dangled outside the flapping cloth openings. It was a grim scene, but he had seen such things before, more times than he cared to admit, actually.

A sigh, something low and far too difficult for the armored men beside him to hear. The lieutenant on his right glanced at him briefly; maybe he heard, but maybe the noise was a trick from the wind. Either way, the thin-lipped officer wouldn't say anything; he knew better.

Three pairs of boots pressed onward, into the center of the small village, where the largest ramshackle hut was located, where most of the soldiers were positioned in two straight-backed lines, holding their spears aloft, satisfied smiles on their faces. It was the look of victory, but the middle-most officer could only think of the carnage around him.

The soldier closest to the destined hut reached out and pulled the canvas door aside, ushering his superiors inside, into the home of the defeated chief. Into the home of the man who refused to kneel when given the opportunity—again…and then again. Though unconfirmed, the trio expect the aforementioned man to be deceased, like the rest of his people, lying somewhere in the snow, skin and muscles freezing into whatever position he collapsed in. And when they enter through the flap, they weren't surprised to see crimson speckles coating the white furs or a body slumped with its head lolled forward, not moving or breathing. Dead.

But it wasn't the man they had expected. It was a boy, barely older than their nation's princeling.

There was a knife in his back, a gleaming, gilded piece, something no ordinary soldier would have—a weapon of an officer, of the man standing slightly off to the side, his hands clasped behind his back and a resolute smirk gracing his face.

The middlemost officer was the first to speak, addressing the sneering man opposite him. "Report?"

The officer—the captain who led the small incursion—bowed, one vertical hand over his fist. "General Iroh, we've taken the village. The Southern Water Tribe is yours to command."

Iroh stepped forward, closer to the dead boy with the golden knife in his back. He inspected the corpse curiously, eyeing the half-shaved head, the warrior's wolf-tail, the smeared face paint, and the silver-hued stitches sewn into his parka—the markings of an important family, the markings of the most important family in the tribe. The chief's son; his heir apparent and a boy barely older than ten.

And he was dead, a knife in his back. A dishonorable death.

There was an uncertain pause, and then Iroh whispered, "Casualties?"

"A handful," the captain replied, glancing at the thin-lipped lieutenant beside his superior. "Less than expected."

"And the villagers?"

The captain gestured to the boy, palm up. His callous smile hadn't faltered during the exchange. If anything, it grew, cracking across his face. "Annihilated."

Iroh blinked. Annihilation was a good word for what this was. Pure, intolerable extermination. Something deplorable and horrific. Sad. "We could have used this one," he remarked, forlornly shaking his head. For the first time, the captain's smile faded. "The chief's son. He could've been used as a political hostage or an example for the North. It's a shame he met such a gruesome fate."

"Indeed," the lieutenant piped up.

"He could've proved problematic over time." The captain stepped forward and pushed the dead boy's shoulder. The small body fell forward with a sickening thump and sprawled out. Blood pooled from the wound and dripped into the furs underfoot, thoroughly soaking the fuzzy floor. "It's better this way—cleaner. A complete extinction, like the nomads. Your grandfather would be proud."

There was a murmur from the final officer and a nod that spoke volumes—he agreed with the captain. "Use the boy's corpse as an example, sir. Defy the Fire Lord—refuse his supreme might—and face his wrath."

Iroh inhaled, subtly displeased and wishing to tear his attention away from the slain child. "And the chief? Where is his corpse? My father will want confirmation that the man was eliminated."

"I have a team scouring the village," the captain supplied. "He was last seen on the eastern edge of the village but he's not there anymore."

Iroh frowned and hmmmed. "It's unusual, don't you think?" He tugged on his beard, slipping into a more thoughtful pose. "Why was he so far away from the rest of the fighting? Shouldn't he have been leading his people through the streets?"

"Perhaps he had more pressing conc—"

The flap opened and a pitiful wail poured through. A child was thrown inside, stumbling face-first until she crumbled onto the floor. Blue, two-toned mittens clutched the fur beneath her hands and her fingers clenched before she whirled and attacked the men who had thrown her inside. She sputtered, screaming an incoherent insult—something in her own language and slurred in the village's peculiar dialect—and charged.

One man swiftly pushed her aside and twisted her, pulling the braid trailing off the back of her head between his fingers. He tugged and she scrambled, standing on her tiptoes and reaching for the base of her hair as he pulled her higher, trying to alleviate the pain. She screamed again and scrunched her eyes closed with a mixture of rage and pain.

The soldier pulled her hair forward, urging her to continue walking. And she did, albeit grudgingly.

Another soldier entered, this one lugging a corpse: the deceased chief, who had a gash in his chest spanning from his left side to his right shoulder. Innards dripped from his wound and sloshed against the floor as he was thrown inside, next to his dead heir. The girl stared and whimpered. But it wasn't a girly sound, it was almost a gurgled cry, a grunt that expressed her displeasure over the chief's disrespectful treatment.

She stamped her foot and the soldier released her hair. She fell forward and crawled to the dead boy, fingers trembling as she reached further and further. And when she finally made it—knees sloshing in a puddle of blood and crimson fur—she cradled his head and teetered over him, muttering more guttural words.

Even though her eyes were glistening, she didn't cry. Just wobbled and murmured the same word over and over again. "Sokka…Sokka…Sokka."

The boy's name, perhaps?

The soldier, the one who had thrown the chief down, bowed. "We found them in the tundra, sir. Headed west."

Nobody could hide their surprise. Not even Iroh, who was unusually stoic and level-headed.

"Abandoning his people in their time of need," the captain spat. "Barbaric."

"Fleeing," Iroh said, looking at the grieving girl who wore a parka with silver-hued stitches—like the chief and his son, "with his remaining child."

The child in question continued swaying, clutching her brother. A pang of guilt swept through Iroh. War was war, but sometimes, seeing the outcome was heartbreaking. Especially through the eyes of a child. Especially when she was all that was left.

The sole survivor of the Southern Water Tribe: a little girl, no older than his niece.

Without a word, the captain lumbered forward and grabbed the girl's hair, fingers splayed between her pulled-back locks, nails digging into her scalp. He forced her head back—exposing her tanned neck—and drew a dagger. One clean slash across her throat and the tribe would be rendered survivor-less. He pursed his lips and slit.

"Stop." Iroh's command caught the captain off guard and he faltered, revealing a thin gash. Blood dribbled down her neck and into her fur-lined parka, an unsteady trail struggling against her haggard breathing. While everybody remained still and silent, awaiting a future order, she glared, light blue eyes darting around the room, looking at each of her potential assailants and evaluating them.

"Sir." The captain's voice wasn't questioning, it was a hint, a reminder that the child needed to be killed. Destroyed for the sake of peace—of victory in Fire Lord Azulon's name. But Iroh gave no response, just kept looking at the defiant little girl on the floor sitting between her slain brother and father.

With an aged grunt that definitely didn't go unnoticed by his fellow officers, Iroh stooped over the quaking girl, furling his arms within his sleeves. Nonthreatening. "Your name?"

He didn't expect her to answer. He doubted she even understood him, but he was willing to give her a chance to stifle her immediate execution.

She looked torn between spitting in his face, hurling a variety of colorful and unintelligible insults his way, or ramming him with her head. But instead of doing either of those things, she looked away from him and muttered something softly in her own language; something clipped and harsh—almost guttural—but strangely soft. And he nodded, expecting nothing less.

He was an invader, an outsider. And though he had hoped that her father would've taught her the common tongue, he understood that in a land so far away from everybody else, nobody would've bothered with such a thing unless she was being raised to lead. And—very obviously, now—she hadn't been.

Iroh let out a patient sigh and stood straight, still staring at the girl with his head tilted, intrigued.

Her eyes were startlingly blue, like an entire ocean miniaturized into two tiny globes, pools shifting as her irises bounced around the room. The whites of her eyes were blotched with webs of red but there was a twinkle that couldn't go unnoticed. The twinkle wasn't hatred—it wasn't even grief. It was something significantly stronger, something beyond a simple emotion like anger or a complicated monster like sorrow. And a piece of him wished to uncover what was beneath the surface of those eyes, pick them apart until he figured out what that something special was.

Captivated and enthralled, he kept looking.

She was wearing a thick, fur-lined parka, colored blue like everybody else's. Unlike her peers outside the chief's hut, she had silver-tinted thread emblazoned on her chest in the form of a wolf—of the tribal leader's chosen sigil. Between the wolf's jaws was a stitched symbol, something that her father and brother didn't have: waves within a circle. Briefly, he wondered what the symbol was, but was quickly distracted with the blood coating her stomach.

For a moment, he wondered if she was grievously injured. If she was, she was destined to die. But after studying the presumed wound, he noticed that she wasn't hunched over in pain, clutching her stomach. The red splotch was just a stain, just a pool of somebody else's blood—probably her father's. A final parting gift: a crimson blemish.

Altogether, the girl appeared healthy despite her newly-created neck wound. And most importantly, she was alive. But there was a problem with that, something that his captain had already mentioned: she shouldn't be. It would've been much easier that way.

Iroh sighed. What was he going to do with her?

A merciful piece of him called for a quiet death, something less gruesome than a slit throat. Perhaps a permanent sleeping draught of some sort—something that wouldn't cause her pain as she slipped away into a peaceful sleep. But she was whole and alive and well and barely older than eight, and he had already seen too much death and destruction for one day. So he took a deep, relaxing breath and wrung his hands together beneath his sleeves.

Besides a warmonger—the famed Dragon of the West—Iroh liked to think of himself as an accumulator, a collector and connoisseur of rare and unique goods. Anything from foreign teas and golden-flecked lemon cakes to bejeweled monkey statues with ruby eyes bigger than his fists. And as he looked at the quivering child, he had an ingenious thought: the last of something was the most rare an item could get. And before him was the only surviving member of the Southern Water Tribe, the last child from a decimated culture.

A soft smile graced his face, something friendly as he said something unexpected. "She'll remain with me."

His officers had immediate objections; he expected no less. Their honesty was why he cherished them. His lieutenant was first, "But sir, she's a savage, she'll murder you when you least expect it." The captain at his side, "She'll be the end of us if you bring her on board, sir. She'll escape when you least expect it—be a threat to not only yourself, but the crew." And finally, his commander, an unusually quiet man, "Do as you wish, but it's a horrid idea. Set her ablaze and be done with it."

For a second, Iroh wondered if he made the right choice. But something beyond his control was urging him to do this. Perhaps it was a sign from his late son, Lu Ten. Perhaps—from beyond the grave—his son's spirit was requiring some sort of cryptic penance for the entire tribe's loss. Whatever was tugging at his decision made him nod. Yes, he would keep the girl alive, bring her into his care—under his protective sleeve. She was the last of her people, the last of an entire culture. She needed protection—needed guidance. And he would keep her.

With a wave, he dismissed his fellow officers and instructed one of the soldiers outside to bring in his favorite tea set. Though she definitely wouldn't understand him, he would show her kindness, and she would have to get used to him.

XoXoX

It doesn't matter what people say about me, I weather the storm.

Terrell Owens

XoXoX

She'd never seen anything like it before.

Her dad used to tell her stories when she was younger; well, technically, he used to tell Sokka stories (she would never beg for a bedtime story; no, she was much too mature for that). But she used to listen until she drifted off, anyway.

Her father told tales of adventures, of battles in the sea, of skirmishes on land, of swashbuckling pirates who usually used weird words like "ya-hargh" or "matey," of princes who fought for honor, and princesses who fell in love (which Sokka didn't like very much, calling such stories "oogies"). In all of those stories, the battles were never described in detail; they were glossed over and glorified—moments of bloodshed where the hero always came out victorious. The tales always focused on the aftermath: the spectators cheering and hoisting their champion over their heads, chanting their hero's name until it rang through the kingdoms and straight into infamy.

He never told the real story—the true art of war; the horrid violence filled with ear-piercing screams and clangs of metal, a melody of gurgles, and pleads for life that went ignored.

So when the villains approached the shore, she expected a glorious spectacle wherein her father—her own personal hero—would battle the invaders and mow them down, one by one, until he ruled supreme over those iron-clad warriors. She wanted to cheer his name alongside the other villagers, celebrate with elaborate feasts. She wanted to hear another story, this one his, before her eyelids fluttered shut at night. She expected all of that and more.

She never expected to see him begging. She never expected to see him slain.

Her hero, gone—her dad, murdered. And her brother—only two years older than her, a boy who barely fit into his armor—slaughtered while he tried to protect her.

She sniffled, just once. And the uniformed man who was definitely more than a simple soldier turned his head to glance at her. He shrugged when she did nothing more and started going through her father's personal possessions—riffling through his desk and poking through his wooden hope chest—searching for Tui knew what. His yellow eyes—a horrible color for irises—shifted toward her once more, catching her sight.

She twitched, hands clenching periodically as her thoughts overwhelmed her tiny consciousness. A deep inhale and a refreshing exhale, a puff of frost. She tried to settle herself down, but her murdered family was inches away and she couldn't close her eyes, knowing that tears would drip down her face if she did. She didn't want to cry—not in front of them. Not in front of the people who took away her world—who mercilessly slaughtered her brother and father. Who maliciously executed her entire tribe.

Another calculated inhale and her eyes closed, searching for the faintest bit of warmth from the fire in the far corner. Even though she never minded the cold before, her limbs felt faintly chilled and sluggish. And she usually solved that problem by curling up around her brother after she ignored his whiny protests. But Sokka wasn't alive anymore. She'd never hear his exasperated voice groan and then relent as he wrapped his arms around her. Gosh, she was already missing him.

The invader—the murderer—said something ("Are you cold?"), and her eyes snapped open, glowering, unable to understand his words. He said more things ("Why don't you sit down by the hearth and join me for a relaxing cup of jasmine tea?") but she remained still, planted—rooted to one spot. Like a stubborn earthbender unwilling to part with the small section of ground she had claimed for herself (in her own home, no less).

She spared a glance at her father's unmoving corpse, blood splattered limbs curling inward, freezing steadily even though there was a fur lining beneath his body, protecting him from the true harshness of the icy ground. And the murderer's yellow eyes followed her gaze.

Did his eyes soften? Or was that a trick of the now ever-growing, flickering light?

She looked away, ran her fingers through her dead brother's half torn out wolf-tail, willing him back to life. It didn't matter that the soldier's eyes held compassion or sorrow. He'd done what he'd done—even if he didn't wield the knife himself—and she wouldn't spare him the courtesy of listening to his soft words, no matter how soothing they sounded, no matter how gentle they seemed.

He killed her family—her people—and she steadily wondered when she would join her father and brother in the afterlife. Why couldn't he just kill her, too?

The invader stood up and she watched him poke his head through the hut's hide-covered exit. He said more things—this time with harsh-sounding words, words that sounded bitter and commanding—and four men walked in. They waved at her, telling her to shoo, but she remained still, clutching onto her brother's shoulder. Desperately clenching onto her elder sibling's slightly too-big armor, unwilling to ever let go.

They heaved and drug Sokka out and away, pinning her back as she fought against them, clawing at their mesh-covered face masks. And when her father and brother finally disappeared beyond the tent flap, she snarled and whirled, fists aiming for the portly man who had now taken everything from her.

He moved quickly, blocking her attack with effortless precision. She fell forward and scrambled back onto her feet, panting and cheeks blushing red from her effort. He merely walked away, ignoring her as he made his way toward the small hearth.

After she calmed down a little bit—breath fogging before her face in less lengthy pulls—he turned and looked at her. The ends of his lips curled into a delicate smile, something soft and comforting, but she only glared and started to scream at him ("Why would you do that? Who do you think you are? Bring them back! Now!").

He didn't understand. Of course he didn't.

He just continued smiling and softly said, "Please, sit down," while he gestured toward her father's hand-carved dining room table. A table where she had just eaten a bountiful dinner, happy and laughing—when Sokka and her father had still been alive. Before the battle; before the slaughter.

The invader sat and brought a teacup to his lips. He sipped without slurping and let out a satisfied sound. And she hated him—loathed him.

"Sit," he said, pointing once more.

Her eyes flicked to the bloodstain on the floor, the final remains of her relatives—the final proof that they had once been alive. Then she turned away, blinking away her tears.

And then she sat. At the table. Across from her tribe's murderer, across from a man she would hate until her dying day.

He sipped again, and then pointed at his chest, trying his best to offer a basic introduction. "General Iroh."

She pursed her lips, committing his suspected name to memory. General Iroh. A name she would despise and a man she would end.

But first, she'd need to come up with a plan.

The tea he pushed her way was hot—practically scalding—but she slurped it down violently and didn't even taste the jasmine that poured over her tongue. It burned her throat the whole way down. Deep, deep, deep down until it hit her rolling tummy. Bile flitted up her esophagus but she shoved it back and steadied her hateful gaze on his curious eyes.

Yellow eyes. An ugly, unnatural color.

Suddenly enraged, she vaulted over the table and aimed for those hideous orbs. She wanted them closed. Permanently. Dead and empty, like the eyes of every other person she had ever known.

But once again, he blocked her punches. He caught her wrists between his enormous and aggravatingly warm hands and twisted her arms around and back. "Settle," he said softly, even though she wouldn't—and refused—to understand.

She bit back a yelp and crushed her tongue with her teeth. "Calm down," he said, using that soothing tone she hated so much.

He released her arms when she stopped clenching her fists and she landed in an uncoordinated puddle on the ground, limbs too exhausted to move. She breathed deep and closed her eyes.

She wasn't strong enough to beat him physically. And she wasn't sure what he wanted, so whatever plan she could come up with needed to be carefully crafted, thoroughly and meticulously coordinated. She'd need to be patient, bide her time, willing to do whatever he wanted to lure him into a false sense of security. And then she would strike, obliterate him when he least expected it.

She looked at the bloodstain on the floor, blue eyes longing, and a dangerous realization clicked. She didn't want him dead. No, death would be merciful. She wanted him to hurt. She wanted him to feel the same amount of absolute rage and loss she felt when those soldiers took her brother and dad out of the tent—drug them away from her frantic fingers. She wanted to destroy the thing—or person—he loved most. Kill it with a violent passion. Receive owed justice for the loss of her entire tribe. And if she needed to wait a few weeks to get what she wanted, needed to do whatever he wanted, she would.

The flap opened and a soldier entered—the one who had started to cut her throat. Their eyes locked and after he smirked at her sprawled position on the floor, he said something to General Iroh.

"The ships are ready to depart, sir. Once we're off, we're projected to be back home before the end of next week—right before your nephew's birthday."

Iroh seemed pleased. He looked at her, a hearty smile tugging the corners of his lips upward, and he gestured to the flap, expecting her to leave. She glanced at the exit and then back to him, her mind reeling. The soldier frowned and departed. And Iroh extended his hand, expecting her to take it.

She did.

And as he started to lead them away, she stomped her foot. Iroh turned to regard her, heavily intrigued. She pointed to him and then to herself. "General Iroh," she said, pointing to him. Pointing to herself, she said, "Katara."

He smiled once more, and without a backwards glance, they left.

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