Disclaimer: No poseo el Avatar.

Author's Notes: Another string of drabbles I started for no reason. These'll be mainly Sokka and Katara's life before they found Aang. Lots of old-fashioned familial stuff, but no incest. That's just nasty, and it should be pretty obvious by now that I don't roll that way.

Anywhere But Home

It was cold in the arctic, even though the sun was already high in the sky. The winds were nearly still, settling across the snow-covered valleys and mountaintops so silently that the atmosphere felt thin. The icy polar waters were warmed a few degrees above freezing as they lapped and splashed tamely across the creaking icebergs. A wharf, composed entirely of frozen water, jettisoned off of the ice shelf like a thin, bony finger into the cool seas.

A boy, dressed in traditional wolf warrior garb, sat on the edge of the frigid pier. And even though the coldness crept through his too-flimsy clothing and chilled his bones, he didn't move.

He was just thirteen. But watching those eight ships sailing off over the horizon, disappearing into the fog—it felt like a part of himself had gone missing. Slim, boyish fingers that could grip a boomerang so surely or an inking brush so clumsily now dug into the hard-packed snow atop the ice. Softly, he breathed out. The hardest day of his life. He could still remember the low murmur of voices as the cargo was being loaded, the creaking floor planks, the whooshing coils of rope. The soft swish, swish of a blade being tested before battle.

A sudden drip disturbed the boy from his thoughts. Carefully, he touched his face paint. A stray bit of emotion had escaped and had carved a solitary path through his façade.

Like the confrontation with his father. Being a man is knowing where you're needed the most.

Not here. On that boat, with those men, yes. Fighting, yes. Winning… yes. Anywhere but here.

Anywhere but home.

Then he heard the crunching of snow and the quiet, girlish voice he knew so well. "Sokka."

The warrior (in training) did not reply.

"You should come back home now." He shook her voice off. No. He didn't want to go back. "It's getting late. Gran-Gran's got supper on already."

The brother picked at a clump of snow on the dock. He knew her words were empty today, even though they were usually so full of fun or emotion or meaning. Why was this day so different? Why did she feel the need to lie to him? "Why are you here, Katara?" His young voice sounded high and broken even to his own ears.

He sensed her kneeling beside him, her thick parka brushing his arm. "For you," was her simple answer.

The boy pursed his lips, allowing his shoulders to hunch slightly. Maybe he could just hide for the rest of his life… Or even better—disappear forever. The sister continued, "I prayed to the Spirits today."

He almost laughed. Almost. He himself hadn't prayed to those forsaking, hypocritical beings since he was old enough to understand the religion. But she… she was different than he. She always prayed, so it didn't really surprise him that today was no different. She was a believer like that.

The elder sighed softly as she gently brushed her shoulder against his. Even if he had wanted to leave, and even if he felt like he had been left behind, he couldn't let go of Katara like that. Not her… not his sister. Just the thought that she had been praying for him—even if it was to some spiritual beings he knew didn't exist—nearly brought tears to his eyes. She really cared about him. She did. Even after all the times he had pushed her on the ice, or buried her in snowballs, or pulled out her hair loopies just to make her mad.

The twelve-year-old held an old wooden bowl in her hands, and she took off her mittens so she could dip a rag into the water. The boy said softly, "Really. What did you pray about today?"

His companion held the rag up to his face before sweeping it across his forehead. The fatty paint had been wiped away, revealing sun-kissed skin underneath. "Ah, there it is," she laughed, pulling back her parka sleeve to reveal similar smoothed skin underneath. She held it up to the free space over his eyes. "See that?" the younger said, comparing them. "We look the same." The thirteen-year-old held his breath as she continued to wipe away his layers.

The water in the bowl sloshed as she momentarily Waterbended a droplet of water above the wood. She couldn't meet his eyes, even as she felt his gaze turned toward her. "I prayed for you because I was scared," she admitted, her voice now fragile like a shattered looking-glass. "When you started getting ready, I really thought that you were going to leave with them, and just leave me and Gran-Gran."

He heard what she really said. Just leave me.

She began smoothing away the paint again as she continued, "So I asked the Spirits to leave me someone. Anyone. A companion while everyone else abandoned us." She had to wipe away a quick tear. "I'm so thankful they heard me today… They didn't ignore my prayers. They just left me you."

He couldn't help the smile that split across his face. And you know, even those ships didn't seem very appealing anymore.

He finally understood what his father was talking about. He was needed here. Not out there, where he probably would've been next to useless anyway. (He was only thirteen, you know.)

And suddenly, Sokka couldn't imagine himself being anywhere but home.