Regular
Each of you is so amazing, and so special. And I'm... not. I'm just the guy in the group who's... regular.
~Sokka of the Southen Water Tribe
There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that you were useful, needed, or wanted. There is a particular type of pain to knowing that you are not any of those things, not really.
His sister was the last waterbender of the Southern Water Tribe, and while always family he knew that deep down she didn't think he was as good, as important.
Aang was the Avatar, you couldn't get much more crucial than that. Aang was his friend and he enjoyed his friends company but he knew if push came to shove Aang would want another bender in a fight.
Toph was Toph with everyone: sarcastic and rude, a master bender with a hell of a punch. Better at remembering he could do stuff, at not forgetting that he once helped save the whole world.
His own people knew what he helped do, the plans he had crafted during and after the war. At home he was still the Chief's son and was expected to do his duty by his tribe. And he did. For years he did, burying the want to go back out into the world.
Katara, who was with Aang helping find those who could become the start of the Air Nation all over, came to visit on Appa once a year.
Toph was in the Earth Kingdom, no longer restricted to her family's walls, but still a merchant's daughter. Last letter he had received said she was working on new trade negotiations between Omashu and the Fire Nation.
The lives of his friends were meaning something to them, were accomplishing stuff that still helped the world.
Even Zuko, the crazy-Jerkbender-turned-friend-now-Fire Lord, worked toward a goal that meant something.
He, Sokka, was the meat and sarcasm guy. The meat part was still true, and tasty, the other men of the tribe wanted him to be less sarcasm and more serious.
The plan guy. With the tribe doing well and his father years left of being Chief there were no plans to make. The council took care of that.
The regular guy. He knew he should be grateful for his home and his tribe together and safe, but here he had a regular life.
No more falling rocks from space to forge into swords.
How he wished desperately to have trained more with his Master after the war was over.
No more quiet talks in the dark with a once enemy now maybe friend, with embers glowing as they talked about what had been lost and what was hoped to gain.
No more crazy-desperate-plans or long-well-thought-out plans or oh-crap-just-go-with-it plans to help save the world or his friends or that so fragile peace as summer turned to autumn to winter.
Now it was get up and work through dry runs of sword forms with no sword, join the tribe in preparing for the winter to come, sit fireside with the men of the tribe in the evening into night and listen to old tales or war tales, go back to his tent alone because anyone he would share it with is not there, and do this again and again year after year.
It was lonely to the point of heart-sore, it was not what he wanted, it was unremarkable and entirely forgettable, just like him.
It was regular, and it was killing him.