Hakoda takes a deep breath, trying to rub the beginnings of a headache from his temples. He's already heard the basics of what happened from Bato, but he's still trying to wrap his brain around it.

He'd given Sokka and Katara a very simple task: watch the other kids during the meeting. But in the span of less than an hour, they directly disobeyed him by abandoning their post, conspired to commit a fair amount of property damage, and nearly jumpstarted an international incident, not to mention jeopardizing the very fragile agreement Hakoda had just made with the rest of the village. Oh, and they put their lives in serious danger—and Hakoda can't think about this part too much, or he really starts to lose it—by confronting a firebender by themselves.

It boggles the mind. It defies all logic. It makes Hakoda want to lay down and sleep for a week.

"Okay," Hakoda says, crossing his arms and giving his children a stern look. "Explain yourselves."

Sokka fidgets nervously, his eyes seeking out anything except Hakoda's gaze. Beside him, Katara suddenly becomes very interested in the furs that line the floor of their family tent. Neither of them say a word.

Hakoda waits, trusting his children haven't outgrown this particular interrogation technique. When Sokka and Katara were younger, a little silence was all it took to crack them. The pressure would mount until they either confessed out of overwhelming guilt, or turned on each other in hopes of a lesser punishment.

It's Sokka who breaks first.

"Katara started it."

"I did not!" Katara squawks, her face livid. "This whole thing was your idea!"

"I wanted to stay with the kids like we were supposed to, but nooo, you just had to know what was in the storehouse—"

"You're the one who was all," Katara pitches her voice lower in a ridiculous impression of Sokka, "we can make our own entrance, c'mon Katara, just bend one—"

"Enough," Hakoda cuts in, before they can devolve into a screaming match. "I don't care whose idea it was. I just want to know why you disobeyed me."

"We left Amka to watch the kids," Sokka tries, eyes on his guilty, shuffling feet. "So it's not like we left them completely unattended or anything."

"That's not the point, Sokka. When I ask you to do something, I except you to do it. Not to defy me, and then do a whole bunch of other things I didn't think I had to tell you not to do."

"We wouldn't have, if you had just told us what was going on," Katara mutters.

"Excuse me?" Hakoda is trying to keep the anger out of his voice, he really is.

Katara winces, but plows forward anyway. "You could have told us about the boy from the start. But you didn't. Even after I specifically asked you about it."

"I didn't tell you because this is a very delicate situation. And because I was trying to protect you."

"Protect us?" Sokka scoffs. "From what? The guy didn't even defend himself. Besides, I think I'm taller than him anyway."

Hakoda isn't one to yell at his children, but the blatant disregard in his son's tone—and the lack of fear—sharpens his worry into anger. "That guy is the crown prince of the Fire Nation, and a firebender! Don't you understand what could have happened? You're lucky he didn't burn down the storehouse will both of you still inside!"

Sokka and Katara's mouths fall open.

"He's the Fire Lord's son?" Katara asks incredulously. "What's the Fire Lord's son doing in our village?"

Hakoda takes a breath. "We fished him out of the ocean after a storm. He'd fallen overboard and broken his leg. I then decided to bring him back here."

"So it's true," Sokka says in a small voice, his brows knitting together in dismay. "You did kidnap him."

Hakoda drags a hand down his face. How to explain this. "We saved his life. He would have died if we hadn't brought him aboard and given him medical attention. But then yes, I decided to make the most of the situation. I plan to ransom the prince back to the Fire Lord in exchange for a peace treaty for our tribe."

"So, then the war… will be over?" Sokka's expression wrestles with the thought, as if the concept is so foreign he doesn't know what to make of it. Hakoda can sympathize.

"For the Southern Water tribe, yes. If everything goes according to plan. In the meantime, both of you are to stay away from the prince. Is that clear?"

Sokka crosses his arms and effects a cool casualness that Hakoda isn't buying for a second. "Fine."

Katara mirrors him. "Fine."

"Don't want to talk to an ash eater anyway."

Hakoda narrows his eyes. "I mean it. I don't want you having any contact with him."

"If you had just explained everything, we wouldn't have gone in there in the first place," Katara retorts.

Hakoda pinches the bridge of his nose. Why won't Katara let this go? "I was going to. When the time was right."

Katara's face hardens. "And when would that have been? A week from now? A month?"

Hakoda sighs. That came out wrong. "Katara, that's not—"

"No!" Katara's expression twists in anger. "All you've done since coming home is keep things from us! Were you planning on telling us at all? Or were you just going to keep lying about it?"

"I did not lie to you," Hakoda snaps. It comes out harsher than he intends, but between his stubborn daughter and an already stressful day, his patience is beginning to splinter. "And I don't owe you an explanation for something that is, frankly, none of your business."

"None of our business?" Katara's eyes are blazing now, flashing from ice to fire in an instant. "Our mother was killed by a firebender, and then you bring one into our village without telling anyone?" Tears begin to fill her eyes. "How could you?!"

Katara invoking Kya is like a dagger to the chest, and Hakoda has to close his eyes briefly against the pain. His own grief and anger rises in kind. "I did it for the greater good, so that our tribe could have the chance to end this war," he says firmly. "If you disagree with my methods, that's fine. But that doesn't mean you can disobey me. You are still a child, and I am still your father."

"I cook, I clean, I do everything the other women do," Katara grits out, righteous fury raging across her features. "I haven't been a child for a long time, so you don't get to show up after two years and treat me like one. We were doing just fine without you!"

And there it is, the real reason Katara is so angry with Hakoda: because he left. Hakoda rocks back on his heels, like he's absorbing a punch. He used to imagine conversations like this, wracked with guilt and worry in his bunk aboard the Akhlut. That Sokka and Katara would hate him for leaving. That no matter his intentions, choosing war over his own family was a mistake. One that his children might never understand, or ever forgive him for.

The reality of it—his daughter standing before him now with tears streaming down her face and her hands clenched into fists—is so much worse.

A sob bursts out of Katara, and she storms out of the tent.

"Katara, wait—" Hakoda goes to follow her, but suddenly the ground beneath him rumbles. A deep crack shoots through the ice, buckling the ground in half underneath their tent. The support poles wobble dangerously and the furs come apart over the split, their sleeping pallets sliding to either side as cooking utensils, tools, and other objects go crashing to the floor. It nearly knocks Hakoda off his feet.

By the time he regains his balance, Katara is gone.

Hakoda stares at the fractured ground, his anger fading into exhaustion and a terrible kind of awe. How had that conversation gotten so out of control? And how did he end up the bad guy?

(Not that he doesn't deserve it.)

He turns to Sokka, who's being uncharacteristically silent. "Are you okay, son?"

"Is that the only reason you came back?" Sokka asks quietly instead. "To make deals with the Fire Lord?"

"No," Hakoda says immediately. "I also missed you, and your sister, very much."

Sokka's shoulders are up around his ears, like he's trying to withdraw into himself completely. "Does that mean you'll stay, after all this is done? That you won't leave again?"

Hakoda's heart clenches. He hates seeing Sokka upset, but he also doesn't want to lie to him. "This will take some time to sort out, so I think I'll be here for a while. But I can't promise I won't need to leave again at some point in the future."

"Oh. Okay." Sokka's eyes drop to his feet again, his lower lip trembling. "I have to, uh, go. Warrior training with the kids."

"Sokka—"

But before he can get another word out, Hakoda's other child all but sprints from the tent.

Hakoda rights a stool that had toppled over during Katara's waterbending outburst. Then he sits down heavily and puts his face in his hands, his mind worrying over the literal rift that now runs through their home.

Hakoda had expected that being gone for two years would effect his children. How could it not? But they're both so much different than he remembers. Sokka, who before only stopped his constant barrage of chatter and questions when he was asleep, is now quiet and withdrawn. And Katara, once so sweet and open, is now as unassailable as an icy cliff, as raging as the tides.

Both versions of his kids overlap in his mind, but Hakoda feels them sliding apart, until the lines no longer match up into a recognizable picture. Are the children he remembers still in there somewhere? Or are they gone, part of a past he missed?

And more importantly, how many of the differences are Hakoda's fault?

Sokka hurries through the village as fast as he can without running, dodging concerned looks like flaming arrows. His vision starts to blur, and he angrily wipes his eyes. Warriors don't cry. And why is he crying, anyway? Because his family got into a stupid fight? Because Sokka just stood there like a statue and did nothing to stop it? Those aren't reasons to cry. Not when there are so many worse things happening, everywhere, all the time. Not when the world is at war.

A voice calls out from behind him. "Hey, Sokka! Aren't we having warrior training today?"

Sokka sniffs and roughly scrubs his face, desperately hoping it's enough to hide his tears. He turns to find Taqtu, one of his students, watching him.

"You bet!" Sokka says with an enthusiasm he doesn't feel. "As a matter of fact, I was just heading over there now."

"But training is that way," Taqtu says, pointing in the opposite direction.

"Uh, well, I was going to head that way—"

"Are you okay?" Taqtu blurts out. "Your face is really red."

Sokka's hand shoots up automatically, but then he stuffs it in his pocket and forces out a laugh. "Oh, this? I just… accidentally hit myself. While I was. Training! Yeah."

Taqtu squints at him. Sokka mentally smacks himself in the forehead. Not his best lie ever.

"Riiight. So, are you coming or not?"

Sokka tries to swallow his emotions, but he can still feel them deep inside, churning relentlessly like surf on the shore. He suddenly wants nothing more than to escape their tiny village, to run until the land meets the sea, and then keep going. Far, far away, from all of this.

But Sokka can't. The village needs him. To lead the kids in warrior training, to rebuild his watchtower, to sharpen and maintain his weapons. Because there's been no one else. For two years, Sokka has been the only man here, the only one standing between the village and another Fire Nation attack. His father is back now, but—

No. Everyone is counting on Sokka. He needs to to protect the village, to keep everyone safe. He won't let them down.

Sokka sets his face into something more serious, and nods. "Yeah. I'm coming."

They're working with spears today. After some stretching—you should always stretch, nothing will lose you a fight faster than cold muscles—Sokka leads the boys through some basic forms. Jab, reverse, overhead, repeat. Amazingly, everyone is paying attention today, and no one needs an unscheduled potty break. The kids are all between six and nine years old, so getting them to do anything in an organized fashion is a minor miracle.

But even when it's like herding snow rats, Sokka honestly enjoys teaching them. It makes him proud to pass on the warrior traditions of their tribe. And it's a way for Sokka to feel close to his father. Using the same methods his father had once used to teach Sokka made Dad feel not so far away, made his absence hurt a little less.

Or, at least it had. Now, Sokka doesn't know what to think.

Before, Sokka had believed that his father was a good man without question. An honorable warrior and trustworthy chief, brave and strong and true. The kind of man that Sokka had idolized as a child, one he'd studied and tried to meticulously model himself after.

Not a liar. A kidnapper. A coward who leaves his men at sea to fight without him. A man whose enemies know him better than his own son.

Why don't you ask the chief? He's the one who kidnapped me.

Emotions rise up Sokka's throat like bile, a whole host of things he doesn't want to feel; anger, and sadness, and loneliness big enough to swallow him whole.

What if Sokka's wrong? What if his father isn't all the things Sokka thinks he is?

What if his father isn't a good man?

"Did you hit yourself in the face again?"

Sokka's brooding thoughts come crashing down around him. He blinks and finds Taqtu watching him again. "What?"

"Your face. It's all red again."

Sokka hastily wipes his cheeks, embarrassment making his cheeks burn hot. Spirits, why can't he stop crying?

"I'm fine," he mutters quickly. Left to their own devices for longer than three seconds, the other boys have stopped practicing and started chasing each other around, gleefully waving their spears like swords.

"When do we get to use real spears?" Ujurak asks while whooshing his through the air, each pass closer and closer to his own face. "With the stabby bit?"

Sokka had designed the boys' practice spears to be shorter than normal—easier for their smaller frames to handle—and without the sharpened bone blades attached. He sighs, pushing Panuk N. and Panuk R. apart to prevent one from beating the other with the blunt end of his spear. "When I can trust you not to stab each other."

"Awww," Ujurak whines. "But that's going to take forever!"

Sokka chuckles. "Yeah, but it keeps your mothers from killing me. Okay, I think that's enough for today. Let's pack it in."

The boys let out a chorus of whoops and cheers.

"All right, you don't have to sound so happy about it," Sokka grumbles. The boys jostle into each other as they line up to hand their spears to Sokka as quickly as possible. "Yes, yes, thank you," he says to each of them in turn, taking the spears and tucking them under his arm. "Good job, excellent work today, men."

Their weapons returned, the boys take off, buzzing with excitement at finally being free to play. Sokka shakes his head affectionately as he watches them run after each other. Sometimes, he has to remind himself that they're still just kids.

(Like he used to be.)

Taqtu is the last to turn in his spear. "Are you sure you're okay, Sokka?" He asks. Then, in a whisper, "is it about your dad?"

Sokka plasters a smile on his face. "I told you, I'm fine. Don't worry about me, okay?" He grabs Taqtu in an easy headlock and rubs a noogie into his hair. "Okay?"

"Okay!" Taqtu shrieks with laughter, flapping his arms until Sokka releases him.

"Good. Go catch up with your friends. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yep! Bye!"

Sokka watches as Taqtu bounds off to join the others. Then he gathers up the spears and begins packing them away, one by one.

Sokka's fine. He's fine because he has to be. Because the village still needs protecting. Because he has to carry on doing everything that's expected of him. Because crying isn't going to help him. He repeats it like a mantra, clings to it like a piece of driftwood in a storm. He's fine. He's fine. He's fine.

But under that, deep down, is the question Sokka doesn't want to think but can't help, repeating in his head until it feels like he's being pulled apart from the inside, like he's drowning on dry land:

If his father isn't a good man, then what does that make Sokka?

As the sun begins to set over the village, Hakoda walks two steaming bowls over to the storehouse. Bato's eyes light up when he approaches.

"Thank the spirits, I'm starving." He accepts one of the bowls from Hakoda and takes a long sip. "Ahh. Stewed sea prunes. So much better than ship slop."

"How are Katara's repairs holding up?" Hakoda asks. Luckily, he'd asked his daughter to mend the storehouse wall before they'd gotten into their argument. It had been amazing to see: Katara pushing and pulling the water to refreeze the blocks and then maneuver them back in place, her movements not unlike a warrior moving through different fighting forms, gracefully fluid and deliberate. Because Katara is the only waterbender in their village, it's been decades since bending of such skill has existed outside of stories.

"Good, as far as I can tell. If you're worried, we can leave Snowball back there." Bato grins into his stew. "She and the prince have already been formally introduced."

Hakoda shoots him a look. "You didn't."

Bato shrugs, completely unrepentant. "You told him not to escape. I was merely providing reinforcement."

"Let's try not to injure the prince any more than he already is," Hakoda says dryly. "Besides, you better not let Kanna hear you say that. If her handiwork's been damaged, she'll have your head."

"The kid's fine. Just a light tackling."

Hakoda rolls his eyes. "And besides that? How's everything here?"

"Quiet." Bato drinks another mouthful of stew. "I think the royal pain in the ass wore himself out. You should sic your kids on him more often." He studies Hakoda's drawn face. "Unless they're on house arrest until adulthood?"

Hakoda sighs. "I wish. I tried to lecture them, but it turned into a free-for-all. They both ran off, but not before Katara nearly collapsed the family tent with her waterbending. With Sokka and I still in it."

Bato snickers into his bowl.

"It's not funny, Bato."

"It's a little funny. And damn impressive. When we left, Katara could barely blow bubbles. And now she can dissolve solid walls, ice people in place? Without any training at all?"

"I think lack of training is part of the problem. She lost her temper, and nearly brought down our house. Who knows what else she's capable of, if she gets upset enough?" Hakoda sighs again, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I thought I was pretty good at this parenting thing. But after two years, I feel like I have no idea what I'm doing anymore."

"Sokka and Katara will come around, you'll see. Just give them some space." Then Bato elbows him, grinning. "Come on, your thirteen year old daughter froze the future Fire Lord to the floor like it was nothing! Aren't you at least a little bit proud?"

"Yes. And pissed, and scared." Hakoda takes a breath. "The prince knows Katara is a waterbender now."

Bato realizes the implication of Hakoda's words, and the amusement drains from his face. "Shit. Hakoda, I'm so sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, you asked me to guard him, and then—"

"If it's anyone's fault, it's mine. I stupidly thought I could keep the prince separate from everyone, so it wouldn't be a problem. I just didn't count on my kids having other ideas."

Bato's expression is stricken. "If the prince takes that information back to the Fire Nation… they could come after Katara. They could start raiding again."

"I know," Hakoda says gravely. The Fire Nation began the raids sixty years ago to eliminate the Southern Tribe's bending population, in order to weaken them tactically, and to break their spirits. They were successful on both counts; the last waterbender had been captured long before Hakoda was born, and an entire generation of their people had been decimated trying to defend against it.

After that, the raids stopped just as quickly as they'd started. The Fire Navy still attacked their ships, burning and pillaging any Water Tribe vessels they came across. Dozens of warriors had been lost in such battles since, including Hakoda's father and older brother. But the Fire Nation never again landed on their shores.

Until five years ago, after Hakoda began looking for a waterbender to teach his daughter.

Hakoda still doesn't know how the information got out. Were they betrayed? Or was it simply bad luck? Either way, it didn't matter. The Fire Nation came all the same, and it was Kya who payed the price with her life.

Dad, Dad! Please, I think Mom's in trouble! There's a man in our house!

Hakoda takes a deep breath, pushing his grief down for the second time that day. "The plan is still the same. Once we secure a peace treaty, all of us will be protected, benders included."

Bato's expression hardens. "And if the plan doesn't work?"

Hakoda can't let the raids return. Their tribe, their family, have already been through too much. He won't let his loved ones die because of his mistakes. Not again.

"It will." Hakoda puts a hand on Bato's good shoulder and squeezes. "Because it has to. And because you and I will make it happen."

Bato gives him a critical look, like he knows Hakoda is trying to reassure himself just as much as Bato. But finally, he nods. Then he yawns into his stew.

"Why don't you get some rest?" Hakoda suggests. "I'll take watch tonight."

"When are you supposed to sleep, then?"

"I have a feeling sleep is going to be a long way off for me tonight," Hakoda says. Then he claps Bato on the back and forces a smile. "Go on, I insist. Kanna should take a look at your arm anyway."

Bato gazes into his half-empty bowl, as if he's thinking about arguing against the idea. But then he shifts his bandaged arm uncomfortably and sighs. "Fine. But you'll send for me if you need to?"

"Of course."

Bato departs, leaving the spear behind. Hakoda watches his retreating back disappear between the igloos and tents. Then Hakoda takes the lantern and the other bowl of stew, and ducks inside the storehouse.

Zuko is floating between sleeping and wakefulness, too exhausted to fully sink into either, when he hears the sound of approaching footsteps. His body feels impossibly heavy, a hundred times its weight. It's a fight just to open his eyes.

When his gaze finally focuses, Zuko sees the chief towering over him. "Prince Zuko."

Zuko jerks upright with a sharp inhale, anxiety burning off just enough drowsiness to keep him vertical. But between his escape attempt and his confrontation with the chief's children, Zuko's body is past the point of being completely drained. It's taking all his strength to not flop over again. He just might, if the chief doesn't hurry up with whatever the hell he wants.

The chief stares down at him, his face cast in severe angles of light and shadow by the lantern's glow. Is he angry? Zuko can't tell from the man's solemn expression, but he has to be angry, right? Zuko tried to escape. He broke the rules, even after the chief told him not to.

Is that why he's here? To hurt Zuko for disobeying him?

(That's what Father would do.)

The chief leans down, and Zuko's stomach tightens in fear. He flinches, not even having the energy to fight back, or flee. The best Zuko can do is squeeze his eyes shut and brace against the fur pallet, hoping that whatever punishment the chief has in mind is quick.

But instead, the chief sets something down next to the pallet and steps back.

Zuko cracks one eye open. It's a bowl, filled with what looks like some kind of lumpy soup. He pokes one of the lumps, frowning at its spongy texture. "What's this?"

"Dinner."

Zuko blinks at the bowl, squinting to make sure he's not having an exhaustion-induced hallucination. The chief brought him food? After Zuko disobeyed him? That doesn't make any sense.

"But I tried to escape," Zuko says.

"I heard."

"I tried to escape," Zuko repeats dumbly. "And now you're giving me dinner."

"Yes."

Zuko huffs, suddenly frustrated. Is this some kind of test, or game? What is the chief playing at? Being sent to bed without dinner had been the least of Father's punishments when Zuko was young. He used to pray to be sent to bed without dinner. It was certainly better than the alternatives. "I broke one of your rules. Aren't you going to punish me?"

The chief tilts his head, studying Zuko with an unreadable expression. "Do you want me to punish you?"

Zuko's mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. Of course he doesn't want to be punished! What kind of stupid question is that? But then again, if Zuko is punished, it will make this situation make sense. Otherwise, it feels like an itch he can't scratch, a song ending without playing the final note. Zuko would rather suffer now then have to dread some future punishment hanging over his head, waiting for him when he least expects it.

It will also give him more insight into the chief, which Zuko sorely needs. Like a good fight, punishment will help tell Zuko what kind of man the chief is. His capacity for violence, for cruelty, how far he's willing to go. Things Zuko will need to know if he's going to be stuck in this igloo for the foreseeable future.

The chief is still watching him, waiting for a response. "I'm just trying to find out how things work here," Zuko finally says lamely, his voice smaller than he intends.

The chief nods. "Understandable. In that case, yes, you did break a rule. But I'm not going to punish you. I think you've been punished enough for one day. Just don't do it again."

Zuko stares at him.

"Besides, you barely made it outside. Not sure if that counts as an actual escape attempt."

Zuko flushes, and tries to bury his embarrassment by snatching up the bowl and taking a big gulp of soup. The broth is a bit bland, and the mystery lumps are oddly briny and sour, but it's warm, and it's food.

"Get some rest, Prince Zuko," the chief says. "And thank you."

Zuko stops chewing. "For what?"

"For not firebending at my children today. I know that couldn't have been easy."

Zuko nearly chokes on his food. Is that why the chief is going so easy on him? Because he thinks Zuko spared his kids? He tried to firebend, but just like all his efforts since being dragged aboard the Water Tribe ship, nothing happened. Those two brats were saved by chance and whatever is wrong with Zuko's bending, not out of some noble kindness on his part. Not because he was being nice.

Zuko thinks he might scream—or start laughing hysterically—so instead he blurts out, "Did you come just to bring me food? Aren't you going to make me do something?" After all, Father and Azula were only nice to him if they wanted something in return. Surely the chief is no better. "Like write that letter?"

"Yes. But it can wait until tomorrow." The chief picks up the lantern, turning to leave. "And for the record, the normal response to someone thanking you is 'you're welcome'."

"I know that," Zuko snaps. But then he swallows and looks away, his face growing hot again. "You're welcome," he mutters. "I guess."

The chief shakes his head and walks out of the storehouse, the lantern light fading in his wake.

As Zuko lets his eyes adjust to the darkness once more, bewilderment and turmoil swirl inside him. Try as he might, he can't get a read on the chief. He doesn't understand the man, not one bit. There has to be a trick of some kind, a catch. A trap Zuko's not seeing. Why else would the chief not punish him? Treat him more like a welcomed guest than a prisoner of war?

And if violence will tell Zuko more about the chief, what does not choosing violence say about him?

Zuko finishes the soup and sets the bowl aside. His previous exhaustion returns with a vengeance, and he starts to slide sideways on the pallet. But just as he lays his head down on the furs, something catches his eye.

Some of the blocks in the igloo wall are glowing.

Zuko rubs his eyes. No, not glowing; the moonlight is shining through them, ever so slightly. Not enough that the chief would have noticed with his lantern, but enough that Zuko can make them out in the dark.

With a groan, Zuko pushes himself up again. He pulls off a mitten and brushes his fingers against one of the luminous blocks. The surface is cold and hard as expected, but the texture is slightly different than the more opaque blocks around it. Experimentally, Zuko pushes against the ice.

To his surprise, it gives slightly, forming a spiderwebbing crack under his hand.

These are the blocks the waterbender girl had crumbled and then repaired. Something in how she refroze the ice must have made the blocks brittle, weaker. Weak enough that Zuko might be able to break them down again, with a little time and patience.

A new plan begins to form in Zuko's mind. How he can escape this wretched place, and get back to hunting the Avatar. To prove himself to Father, and to regain his honor and his crown. To get his life back.

Given how decently the chief has treated Zuko, he almost feels bad about breaking the rules again.

Almost.

Starting with the blocks closest to the ground, Zuko begins to pick away at the ice—and to plot.