Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hakoda knows that Sokka is tired.

Exhausted, even. They all were, all the time. His son had even begun saying that being tired had become a part of his personality. “That’s me,” he would joke, “the meat, sarcasm and perpetually tired guy.”
Hakoda was tired, too. The war had been over for a few years now, and the Northern and Southern Water Tribes were working on rebuilding their relations as well as their cities. Hakoda, Bato and Sokka were the only ones as representatives for their small tribe of only 40, while the Northern had thousands, and had sent over 50 representatives.
They had decided to convene in Omashu, where King Bumi had been gracious enough to let them host, after the Northern Water Tribe realized that traveling from pole to pole was not an easy feat for the southerners (them, too, but they would never admit that). Getting a chance to speak was difficult, the formal language used was difficult, getting the representatives to understand just how different their tribes were was difficult, even finding a seat had been difficult.  The door to the apartment they were staying in opened abruptly and then slammed a moment later, and Hakoda’s heart started to race. Sokka was home, and that meant that he…had to tell Sokka. Hakoda took a deep breath as his son entered the room.
“S-“
“Not now,” Sokka practically growled, and if he had been a fire bender, he certainly would have let out a huff of fire, “I’m really not in the mood for anything right now. I’m hungry, exhausted and this place is horrible. The people here are all jerks.”
“Sokka, I think you should-“
“Why do they even care that we’re using one of the fifteen conference rooms? Bumi said it was fine!”
“Sokka, you should-“
“They weren’t even politicians! They were damn delivery drivers!” Sokka pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Should-“
“Dad, I literally just said I didn’t want to talk!”
“Read-“
“Ugh!” Sokka threw his hands in the air, frustration pouring out of him. “Goodnight, dad. Don’t wake me in the morning, unless something catastrophic happens. Actually, scratch that, even if the world ends, don’t wake me up. La knows it would be an improvement.”
The door slammed, and Hakoda stood. He couldn’t remember how long he stood, how long he stared at the door, before the reality of the situation hit him all at once.  He covered his mouth with his left palm, an attempt to keep from sobbing, silent tears beginning to slide down his face, hands shaking, the crinkling parchment of the Fire Nation missive heavy in his hand.

To whomever it may concern;
Fire Lord Zuko, First of his Name, Protector of the Dragon Throne, and Master of Dragon Fire, has been assassinated by poisoned arrow on the date of the 17th, Late Sun. Lord Zuko was struck in the left shoulder by a lone arrow while presenting a speech to the Council of Education, and died a few hours later from his wounds, as the weapon was laced with belladonna.
He leaves behind a grieving mother, sister, uncle and nation.
No successor has been named as of yet, however, General Iroh is currently acting as a reagent.
Princess Azula is no longer in line for the Dragon Throne.

May his flame burn bright forever,
Councilmen of the Court of Flames

Chapter Text

Sokka woke up that morning feeling much better than he had he night before— all that ranting and raving had paid off, letting him blow off the steam so he could get some real sleep. An he had needed it. Sokka had been exhausted for what seemed like weeks now.

He stretched in the Earth Kingdom’s sunlight, heading for the common room he was sharing with his father and Bato. The three had their work cut out for them. So far, the only person in the entire delegation who had actually been to both tribes was Sokka. The difference between the two was like night and day, and trying to get the northerners to understand this was proving to be more difficult than the riddles Bumi kept asking his father to try to solve. But as he looked out the window to the sunlit courtyard, he smiled.

He had one thing keeping him going. Every night, Sokka would pull out the special box he kept in his room. It was small, not really ornate. Made of polished wood from the ash trees of the Fire Nation, adorned with a latch made of the same seal-otter bones his tribe used to make the tips of their spears with, Sokka felt it had been the perfect combination, like night and day.

He would re-read Zuko’s letters all the time— when he was sad and missed the other man so, when he was angry and wanted nothing more than to light something on fire, (certainly not the letters, he would rather have burned off his own eyebrows) and when he was happy, because they just made him even happier. While nothing had been made official, of course, Sokka was trying to get the nerve to bring up the conversation with Zuko. The one he practiced time and time again with Aang and Katara;

“Sokka, I really don’t think its necessary to take your shirt off just to ask Zuko on a date.”

“But what if my muscles convince him to say yes?”

“What muscles?”

“Hey!”

“Katara has a point, Sokka. I don't think you need to attempt to seduce Zuko into a date. He's much more straightforward than that. I think, if anything could convince him to agree, not that I think he’ll need it, it would be your honesty. Just tell him how you feel, Sokka.”

“Tell him you love him, because its obvious that you do."

When Sokka entered the common room, he was startled to see both Aang and Katara sitting at the table, with their backs to him. He recovered himself quickly, though, striding over, happy to see them.

“Hey, you guys are early, you weren’t supposed to be here for another week!” Sokka called, hoping he didn’t accidentally sound like he was unhappy with their arrival, “Maybe we can finally convince these northern jerks that the South and North Pole are two very. Different. Places.”

He drew out his sentence, hoping to get his point across. He sat next to Aang and startled all over again when he saw his friend’s face. Sokka had never seen Aang look like this before. His eyes were red and puffy, the salt from tear tracks sticking to his cheeks, despite the fact that his tears had not stopped. Aang was taking in this huge, gasping breaths, that sounded like he was trying so desperately to talk but just couldn’t.

Sokka turned to Katara in alarm, only to find his baby sister in a similar state. At the expression on Sokka’s face, Katara let out a wail, covering her face in her hands as she started crying all over again.

He turned to his father, sitting across from them, looking grim. Bato stood behind him, a hand gripping Hakoda’s shoulder. His father looked exhausted. His eyes were shadowed and ringed in red, making them appear dull. His face was long and drawn, almost as if it was sagging. He held himself curled in, like he was cold, despite it being summer in Omashu.

Sokka looked around the room, alarmed. “What’s going on?”

Immediately, Sokka’s mind flew to Gran-Gran.

She was getting older, and Sokka knew nobody lived forever. But, last he had heard, she was leading the tribe in his father’s stead, Pakku still absolutely head over heels in love, the picture of strength. And health.

Was it Pakku? He knew his sister and Aang would have cried for their former master, but Sokka couldn’t imagine his father being so torn up he would lose sleep over it. Sokka’s mind raced through all the old people he knew. Bumi was fine, he had seen him only yesterday. Piandao was older, yes, but not nearly old enough for Sokka to think he had already left the world. Jeong-Jeong? Sokka couldn’t imagine his dad being as upset over him, either.

Only Bato would meet Sokka’s eyes, and they wavered like his voice as he began, “Sokka—“

“No. I’ll….I’ll tell him.” Hakoda almost whispered, and Sokka followed his gaze to a letter sitting on the table in from of him.

A rich cream color, black script that was way too fancy to have been the handwriting of anyone in the room, besides maybe Katara, the parchment had been sealed with wax. There are still remnants of red on the outside of the letter, clearly in the Fire Nation’s seal.

Sokka’s heart quickened at the sight, and fear shot through his body. Iroh…

Hakoda swallowed thickly at the expression on his son’s face, before pushing the letter towards him, unable to form the words.

Sokka lifted the parchment with trembling hands, already drafting a condolence letter to Zuko in his head.

He would be there for the Firelord, he knew. He would drop everything to sail to that volcanic island just to be there. As if that’s not what he had wanted to do all these months anyway. His heart ached for the soft smiles of the fire bender he had grown to love. He needed to tell Zuko he loved him, and—

Fire Lord Zuko, First of his Name, Protector of the Dragon Throne, and Master of Dragon Fire, has been assassinated by poisoned arrow—

Sokka stared at the letter, uncomprehending.

He sat still for a moment, staring at the first sentence of the letter. It didn’t make sense, the words don’t go together, there was a mistake so blatantly obvious Sokka almost started to laugh.

Poisoned arrow? Yeah, right, and he’s a purple platypus-bear with pink wings.

Toph would get a kick out this, Sokka thought, this joke, even if it wasn’t a very good one. Sokka could have done much better, been much more convincing. Belladonna? Sokka had never even heard of it before.

Sokka’s grip on the paper crinkled it, and he let out a short huff of laughter.

His father’s eyes looked up at him then, startled by the sound.

“Come on, guys, really? This is an awful joke. You guys are mean, is this just another attempt to get me to go to the Fire Nation to finally tell him? I’m going, jeez, I just need to get my stuff, first ship out of here—“

“It’s not a joke, Sokka!” Katara cut her brother off, a sharp wail that had Aang trying to comfort her himself, but was unable to speak through his own broken sobs.

Sokka hated seeing them like this, this was almost as bad as the joke. Sokka huffed another laugh, and turned to his father and Bato, “can you believe these guys?” on his lips, when he realized his father was crying.

He hadn’t seen his dad cry like this, quiet and steady, since mom died.

Sokka felt like the earth had been pulled out from under him, the wind knocking him off balance, ice melting to water under his feet.

It felt like the fire had died.

“He’s gone, Sokka. I’m so sorry, son. I’m so, so sorry.”

Sokka's world scattered into ash.  

Chapter Text

“What do you mean we missed the service?!?” 

Katara’s voice was rough and raspy, her words getting caught in her throat and having to be pushed out in a sputter, the result of crying nearly nonstop for three days straight. 

Appa had sensed that something was wrong. As smart as the bison was, though, Sokka could never tell if Appa actually understood their language, outside of “Appa. yip-yip!” But either way, the tears rolling down Aang’s face were enough of a clue for the bison to push himself to his limits, pouring on enough speed to reduce the travel time to their destination by a whole day. 

From Omashu to the Fire Nation. 

They had planned to pick Iroh up in Ba Sing Se, only to be told that he had already been retrieved via airship and was being escorted by the Kyoshi Warriors back to Caldera. 

The flight had been a silent one, Aang gripping Appa’s reigns so tight his hands started to blister, silent tears running down his face at random intervals, when he got too lost in own thoughts. 

Katara would sit close behind Aang, staring out at the clouds, periodically launching into crying fits. Aang or Hakoda would try to comfort her, but after some time, they knew there was nothing they could say, so Hakoda sat next to her, keeping close as he occupied his time sharpening his knife of whittling away at some shard of driftwood. 

Sokka….Sokka couldn’t tell you what he did on that flight. 

It was like a dream to him, one that had twisted itself up into a nightmare, but slowly. It was the slow dawning, the dragged-out realization that this was really happening, it was true, he really wasn’t going to wake up from this, that was the worst part. It was the blank staring out into nothing, the feeling that years had passed by when it had only been a few minutes, the realization that this was how it would be from now on, a world without Zuko in it, that tore Sokka down the most. 

They weren’t flying to the Fire Nation for something to celebrate, like they had last time they had made the journey to Caldera. 

They weren’t flying there so Katara could heal a badly injured, deathly ill Firelord, one hanging by a thread but still hanging. 

They were going to say goodbye to someone who was already gone.   

The Fire Sage glared at Katara, huffing in annoyance. “As I said, the service was already held. It was held only a day or so after Lord Zuko’s death. His mother was in attendance.”

“You mean to say you didn’t even wait for General Iroh?!?”

The Fire Sage didn’t roll his eyes, but his tone told Sokka he would if it wasn’t 'improper.'

“We didn’t have the option to wait. Being in Ba Sing Se, General Iroh would never have made it here in time before, well, I don’t need to explain how human decomposition works to a healer, yes? We were already pushing it.” 

At Katara's silence, The Fire Sage continued, “We didn’t want to….disrespect Lord Zuko by allowing his remains to go through the process of decay.” 

Katara looked at him, defeated. 

The Fire Sage softened, “I understand it must be hard for you. I know you were close with Lord Zuko. If we could have held off on the service, we would have. But to wait would have meant that by the time you got here….his body would have started to rot. And I don’t think anyone would have wanted to see him like that.”

Katara kept her head down, staring at the floor. “So what…where…?”

The Fire Sage nodded. “Currently, I believe his remains are with his mother. She hasn’t put them down since.”

Sokka found Ursa. 

She was sitting in one of the many long, seemingly endless hallways, lit by the soft lighting of a setting sun. 

She sat on a bench, holding the urn, with silent tears streaming down her face. 

She didn’t look up as Sokka approached her. He sat down next to her, putting his head in his hands. 

He couldn’t bring himself to look at the urn. He couldn’t, because it would make it too real. 

It was real, but Sokka couldn't admit it. He still hoped it was a horrible dream, an elaborate, horribly cruel prank. 

The two of them sat in silence, Sokka trying to gain some composure. He wished he could comfort Ursa. 

She was a grieving mother who had been through so much in her life. Sokka wished he had something to say to help her, make her smile. He could maybe tell a funny story about Zuko, one she would giggle at hearing. Maybe he could offer her a cup of tea. Maybe he could go get Aang, Katara, Iroh, and they could all grieve together. Maybe he could just let her cry on his shoulder. 

Maybe he could tell her he loved her son more than anything. 

But Sokka couldn’t even find the voice to say he was sorry. 

He eventually found the strength to pull his head out of his hands, and was startled to find Ursa staring at him. 

Once she saw him notice her, she held out the urn to Sokka. 

He took it slowly, trying to control the tremble in his fingers. 

It was surprisingly plain, not the elaborate, ten foot tall ornate urn he imagined for the Firelord. It was of simple hammered gold, a dragon curling around it etched into the metal. It could fit in the palm of Sokka’s hand. 

Zuko’s ashes, after they had burned his body, so it didn't decay, because it wasn’t working anymore, because he was dead.

Ursa sat next to him, eyes turning down, staring at the floor. 

Sokka held the urn close to him, shut his eyes, and wept.