#southsuns

continued || @southsuns

“Of course, of course we’ll take them, Katara,” assured Sokka as he set his nephew and niece down on a soft chair before ruffling their heads and telling them it was going to be okay. Sokka came over and took tiny Tenzin from his sister’s arms and shushed the sleeping child. “There’s a spare home that Dad was fixing up over by the riverbank,” explained Sokka, bouncing the baby in his arms. 

“It’s probably the coldest spot in the Southern Water Tribe, but I’m sure you’ll like it. You can bend to your heart’s content,” Sokka offered with a slight laugh. Seeing his little sister like this pained Sokka. He was a doer, a helper, a problem-solver. He wanted to fix this. Though, he knew these things weren’t so simple. 

Sokka also knew something was very awry with his sister’s marriage, but he was hesitant to ask. He didn’t want to open any fresh wounds, especially with Katara already so on edge. It was best to let her come out with it herself on her own terms, or to let their father do the prying. Dad was better at those things and it felt more justified. He was their father. 

Just as Sokka opened his mouth to offer Katara some dinner, Sokka’s daughter, Tanaraq, came running in and clung to her father’s legs. 

[ID: A screenshot from Avatar: The Last Airbender. A canal with buildings of ice and snow on the left and right sides of the water, with a bridge connecting the two sides. The text reads as follows:]

We’re gonna make it through this together like we always do, okay? One day at a time’

Katara holds onto those words as delicately as she does her brother— her best friend— the one person who could really, and truly understand what she was feeling in this moment and yet the sentiment did not make her feel any better. If anything, the claws of grief wrapped around her even tighter than before, even deeper as it cuts through like a jagged blade.

“I should have been there,” she chokes, cries, muffles the torrid words into his chest before pulling back to look at him— into his eyes; spirits, did he look so much like their father when he furrows his brows like that. “I should have been home more— I should have done something. I knew he was sick and I still didn’t come home before it was too late—“

“— I didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

Heartache. It had been so long since Katara had felt true heartache. Not like this— not for so long; not since they’d lost their mother. Gran-gran was hard, but they had expected it. They were there with her the whole time, never leaving her side unless they were absolutely needed— unless someone else was dying. Katara, herself, had held her gran-grans hand as she passed, but at least she got the closure of her passing in peace, surrounded by her family.

Their father was alone. Not completely alone— but alone. Apparently he had fallen ill and the sickness escalated too fast too quickly. By the time Katara had arrived back in the south— as soon as she had gotten the letter— it was already too late; she had failed him— she had failed him.

“I let everyone down— I-I failed him.”

"Katara..!" Disbelief spills like ink into his already thick voice, his heavy chest cracking further into a chasm of grief at the sight of her splodgy, tear-stained cheeks, her anguished, red-rimmed puffy eyes. It’s a sight all too familiar, and the words she chokes on are more familiar still; self-blame, invoking ‘should haves’ like they’d turn the tides of time, like they were anything more than shucks of regret, than desperation for control born of yearning for what was lost. 

“No, Katara- listen- you didn’t let anyone down, alright?" Though his voice wavers, his tone is strong, firm as his grip on her. “The healers were doing their best- the sickness was too bad, even if you got here sooner I don’t think... There’s only so much that can be done. You didn’t fail him. You know Ataata wouldn’t think so - if he heard you he’d get that crease between his brows- you know the one..” 

How strange it was for the words to come so easily, thick with nothing but honesty and without a shred of insincerity. Not an ounce of blame should be on her shoulders, and she would never find any from him - but he knew, oh he knew, deep down, those feelings, the incessant agonising over one’s lack of control where it was so deeply wanted. Hit with the unfair and sudden force of tragedy, with the terrifying realization that no matter how much you willed it, grasped at it with both hands, anything dear could be ripped away - how could you not over-analgise, claw desperately for something, someone to blame, and not arrive at yourself? 

He knows: he knows that no matter what he says, she’ll still carry this guilt, (maybe forever. and it scares him, that powerlessness, knowing that she’s hurting and he can’t take it away.) He knows the heartbreak of not saying goodbye, of wishing he’d cherished the time spent, wishing he could go back just once..