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***
The first splash of green that Sokka ever sees is on his sister’s wrist. It’s a tiny sapling, just a drawing of a small plant being born, and it’s sweet and cute, but mom still makes her cover it.
“A soulmate mark is something very personal and unique to you. Nobody but you and your soulmate should ever see it.” She says one day when Katara is old enough to question it. “And also, don’t tell anyone you got it.”
“But why?” She looks lost and confused. Her sapling is so pretty after all. Her mother’s smile is sad but understanding. “Because most people don’t have soulmarks, these days. Once you’re older, you’ll understand why.”
Katara pouts but doesn’t fuss about it, diligently keeping her wrist cuff on at all times.
Sokka never has to be told to cover his own mark. He doesn’t understand what it means at first, but when he does, it still makes no sense. However he knows, he knows how they’re at war and those that don’t have soulmarks either don’t have a soulmate at all or will die before they get to meet them. So nobody in their tribe pays any mind to soulmates anymore. Not like it matters at all — his parents aren’t soulmates but they’re happy and in love, Sokka tells himself, as he sits around the village’s hearth and counts the people of this tribe. He pretends not to see the way his father glances at his best friend from time to time.
***
Sokka is twelve and helping his grandma carry some pelts when a powerful wave of emotion knocks the breath from his lungs. It overwhelms him, burns his insides. He drops to his knees, feeling nausea take over.
He feels visceral revulsion and anger, like something really horrible was just happening in front of his eyes, except it’s just snow and the village and nothing . And he grits his teeth at the determination rushing through his veins, steely, secure, immovable. It’s tinged in fear, for himself, but also for something else.
He doesn’t understand but, as quickly as it came, the emotion recedes, leaving him drained and confused, on all fours on the ground and his grandmother holding him up.
“What-... what was that?” He looks up at her and her eyes tell him that she knows the answer.
“Your soulmark,” she explains, once in the privacy of their home, Katara by his side “can represent different aspects of your soulmate’s life. It can be the moment they find themselves, understand what they are made of and their place in life; It can be a deep realization that will change their view of the world forever; or it can be a pivotal moment in their lives that will set in motion their destiny. The moment that connection is born, when that powerful event that is represented on your skin happens, you feel their emotions for a couple of minutes. You feel what they feel, what they are going through in that moment."
“So my soulmate…” Sokka swallows with difficulty “my soulmate really is out there, and they’re in trouble.”
“Maybe.” She concedes. “But destiny likes to hide in the tiniest details. The curse of the soulmarks is that you’ll have to know your soulmate exceptionally well or be very lucky, to realize it’s them. Is it really worth sacrificing your life and all the other, maybe even more valuable, relationships, your home and your family, for such a slim chance?”
Sokka looks down at his covered wrist. He knows what she wants him to say, so he sighs and shakes his head. He’s worried about his soulmate, about what could have made them feel like that, but he’s resigned to never meet them, never go looking for them, so what does it matter?
***
The avatar never has a mark , the monks had told Aang before he went under ice. But that doesn’t mean that somebody else won’t have his mark.
***
In the North Pole and the Earth Kingdom people are way less uptight about covering their soulmarks. Couples that found each other walk hand-in-hand with both or only one of their wrists uncovered.
“It’s still something very private for those who have it,” Suki explains once. She has no qualms talking about it, her wrist is bare and she knows it’s because she’s whole as a person, as herself. Yue didn’t have a mark either, but for a different reason. “Because you never know how deeply personal it may be for your soulmate. Maybe it’s something they don’t want the rest of the world to see? It’s a matter of respect, or at least that’s what we were taught as children.”
The rest of the world agrees. Sokka thinks of his own mark, and wonders what can be so personal about something so mundane and trivial.
But they are fighting a war, there’s no place for these kinds of thoughts in war. Katara agrees.
***
They’re at the Western Air Temple and Sokka is pacing the room because he’s worried, when Katara collapses on her knees, breathing heavily.
He’s at her side in an instant. “What is it?!”
“Relief.” She breathes out, an expression of pure wonder on her face. “Joy, excitement, pride, warmth, gratitude… I don’t know how I know but it’s the best thing I ever felt.” She looks up at her brother with tears in her eyes and a smile so bright she could outshine the moon.
But her excitement dies down when reality creeps in. She sits by Sokka’s side, both sharing in a moment of silent brother-sister solidarity, until they hear the telltale roar of Appa, his silhouette painted against the setting sun.
Zuko and Aang have just returned from the Sun Warrior’s ruins and the avatar doesn’t even wait for Appa to settle down before he jumps out and rushes in to hug them, energy galore, eyes sparkling and big as saucers.
“It’s life!!” He squeals. “Fire is not only destruction guys! It’s life! It’s the sun! Energy!!” He trips over himself as he retells their adventures, Zuko hanging back by Appa’s side, looking more relaxed and at ease than Sokka’s ever seen him. There’s a new light in his eyes as well, and it makes something warm spread in Sokka’s stomach.
Aang keeps talking meanwhile, waving his arms like he’s trying to fly off. He grabs a peach from their pile of supplies and shows it off like it’s a work of art.
“Do you get it, guys? For life to exist we need all four elements! All of them can be turned into weapons, but at their core… This peach has a pit, but it can’t turn into a tree by itself. It will need soil, and water, and clean air, and energy. It will need the sun. That’s the balance of the elements, what the avatar is meant to protect. Only if there’s balance, only if it has all four elements, this peach pit will be able to grow into a sapling.”
Katara gasps, realization hitting her like a landslide of rocks, and Sokka understands a second later.
“Aang,” she says, voice thin like a single thread of silk “I think we need to talk.”
***
Sokka is happy for them, he really is. But if anything, the way it happened further stomps over his deeply-buried hope.
Aang and Katara have known each other for so long before figuring it out. And it only went down by accident. What are the chances for the rest of them?
***
They end up talking about it one night around the hearth, on Ember Island.
“I’m not showing you!” Toph shrugs. “I don’t want anyone to see it if I can’t.”
“Do you know at least if you have one?” Katara asks. And Toph grins in her general direction. “My parents refused to tell me so… No idea!” she declares cheerfully. And that’s just like Toph.
Sokka explains the traditional views of the South Pole and Zuko grimaces, shrinking into himself when the deaths are mentioned.
“In the Fire Nation it’s regarded as naivety.” He says. “Especially among high classes. Nobody goes looking for or marries their soulmate. And we never show the marks to anyone.” He rubs absentmindedly at his wrist cuff and Sokka’s eyes are drawn to it like magnets. “But many of our children’s tales and classic literature resolves around them. I guess deep inside, everyone dreams of finding their other half. Regardless of the nation, gender or their destiny.”
No argument there. The mood is somber on their half of the circle, while on the other, Katara, Aang and Suki seem to be perfectly alright and happy.
“Have you ever felt it?” Sokka asks despite himself. “The emotions, I mean.”
Zuko turns to look at him, since they’re sitting side by side, and Sokka’s chest constricts with a fluttering of butterfly wings. “Yes,” he confesses, but doesn’t elaborate.
***
The comet comes and goes. The tyrannical rule of Fire Lord Ozai falls and the world wakes up to the first day of peace in a century.
Zuko is crowned shortly after and another type of battle begins.
There’s no longer a war going on, but the four nations don’t even know how to begin healing. They turn to their heroes for guidance. Politics take the place of duels, relationships forged in wartime fall apart, and everybody wants a piece of the wreckage.
There’s no place for dreams and children’s stories in the hectic post-war.
***
The South Pole is rebuilding.
Sokka is proud and determined to work his heart out to help his people and land recover from the losses and prosper in a way that hasn’t been seen even before the war. The process is steady, slow and reliant on the waterbenders from the North and the economic help of the Fire Nation. Sokka is proud of the system they’ve settled on, proud of his people and his tribe for their strength.
It took him three weeks to arrange the treaties, and through the next six months he helps build home after home, soothes over talks with the other villages about hunting grounds and ice-fishing holes, helps to hunt, to dry pelts, to supervise the construction. All the while Katara continues travelling with Anng, Toph starts a school, and Zuko is stuck in his palace, trying to fix an entire Nation and the world all by himself.
Sokka’s sitting on the wall, waiting for a falcon carrying a letter sealed with red wax — a falcon that might arrive today, tomorrow, or next week — when he looks, really looks, at the never ending expanse of immaculate snow and icy tundra outside of their, still so tiny, tribe. It’s as open and free and clear as he always remembered it.
He feels chokingly claustrophobic.
***
White is the color of mourning in the Fire Nation. It’s the color of nothingness, of absence of pigments, of the light at the end of the tunnel, of the milkiness in the eyes of a dead man when you lift his pupils, Zuko explains, and Sokka believes it.
It makes sense, in some way, even if he’s used to white meaning home , meaning the fields of snow and ice that he left behind. But he’s been travelling a lot, and learning that traditions and cultures often clash in the simplest of ways. For the first time in years he rubs at his wrist cuff and wonders.
***
The forest is alive with a hundred shades of green.
“Thank you for coming with me,” Zuko says yet again “this isn’t part of your job.”
And Sokka dismisses him with a wave of his hand. “Nonsense. This trip is great. Just crossing the Nation, like in the old days, but with all the comfort we couldn't afford back then.”
Zuko snorts, and shakes his head. They’re travelling with an entourage, that’s true, but it’s not nearly as pompous as a royal procession would have traditionally been. Just a few guards and a carriage with their basic belongings, but both the Fire Lord and Sokka have chosen to ride their ostrich-horses instead, sleeping in inns managed by commoners.
It’s been three years since the end of the War and with the peace talks solidified and most of the more pressing works done, Zuko felt like it was time for him to hear the voices of his people first hand. They’ve already made six stops in different towns, talking to their representatives and taking notes, been attacked on the road twice by bandits — to the dismay of the guards and the delight of the two war heroes that finally got to have some action again — and accidentally crashed a wedding.
It's not always great. A lot of people are still unsure of the peace, are still coming to grips with the fact that so much of what they’ve been taught throughout their lives, was blatant propaganda. Some even stare at Sokka like he’s an exotic spider, with a mix of apprehension and curiosity, if not hostility. Sokka sometimes has to spend hours after each meeting reminding Zuko in hushed tones that change takes time.
Yet on the road, surrounded by lush nature, Zuko looks more alive than Sokka has seen him in a long while. It’s difficult not to notice, not to look at him from the corner of his eye, even if Zokka always rides on Zuko’s left, instinctively protecting the side he has some hearing and visual loss at. But even his scar looks smoother and softer now, lacking the angry red scratches at the edges that Zuko accidentally inflicts on himself when it itches during stressful days. His hair glistens under the sun, falling around his shoulders in a jet cascade and a tiny, relaxed smile rests on his lips. Even in travelling clothes and without his crown he looks proud and confident, gently rocking with the pace of his mount.
Another benefit of riding on Zuko’s left is that Zuko is blissfully unaware of how much time Sokka spends just staring at him.
The next village they stop at is a tiny, secluded thing. It reminds Sokka in a weird, detached way, of his own village. A handful of old houses peppered around a central hearth, two dozen new ones being built around them and a wooden statue of a moosebear by the gate, that an old lady says brings them luck. Her husband huffs and says that it’s not been doing its job well then. Zuko snorts and asks them to assemble a team of youth and elders that he would like to speak to.
Sokka stays by his side as Zuko sits on the floor with his subjects, as if they were on the same level, and gently coaxes questions and answers from them. They’re assembling at the mayor’s house and, as always, Zuko doesn’t tell them who he really is, introducing himself as an emissary from the new domestic affairs minister, assuring that all their comments, suggestions, opinions and complaints will be anonymous. Those who can write, write, but those that can’t also get to say their piece.
But there’s always someone, someone who looks like they’ve seen a ghost, who doesn’t dare to speak or tries to and stumbles instead. Sokka always catches their eye and commands with his glare to silence. Let them try to convince their peers after they leave that they’re “pretty sure it was the Fire Lord himself, no mother I’m NOT crazy! Have you seen that scar?”
However, this time it’s several people that exchange uneasy looks, who turn to the mayor as if looking for answers. But the old man just smiles and tells how they’re happy that a lot of the village’s sons and daughters came back from the war, or at least are now safe doing mere reparations overseas, but how it’s been hard for those that returned to find work, although they are managing. The drought season is about to come to the region too, so they’ll need all the available hands to supply their livelihood from the forest again, apparently it’s been getting worse with the years. Zuko writes it down. Once again, Sokka is reminded of his own people, just trying to survive in the unforgiving nature. Fire Nation, maybe, but just as human.
They spend the night in an empty house that the townsfolk clean up, and prepare to leave in the morning, already loading the saddle when the mayor comes out to bid them farewell. He pushes a satchel into Zuko’s arms and even through the wrapped cloth it emanates heat and smells delicious.
“My wife made her special buns for you and your companions.” He smiles affably.
“You really didn’t have to.” Zuko stumbles, mumbling in that lost way that he always does whenever he’s shown basic kindness out of nowhere.
“Consider it a thank you gift, Your Majesty.” The old man chuckles. “For everything.”
Zuko blinks, freezes for a second, and then sighs, relaxing a bit. “It was the scar, wasn’t it?”
The mayor laughs but his eyes take on a sad note, looking at the left side of Zuko’s face. “It’s a dead giveaway to those who know the story but…” he hesitates before speaking anew “it means a lot that you are not covering it.”
At Zuko’s puzzled expression he elaborates, voice raspy and heavier all of a sudden “My only grandson… I lost him in the war.” His tired old eyes lock with Zuko’s golden ones. “He was part of the forty-first division.”
Sokka inhales sharply as Zuko tenses up besides him.
“He was so young. Only sixteen, just the wrong age for the latest forced draft. Sacrificed in a war he never asked to be born into, just like the rest of his mates. And nobody tried to protect them. Nobody but you, that is.”
“But I couldn't…” Zuko’s voice sounds resigned and regretful and Sokka reaches out to rest a hand on his back. Zuko leans into it “I couldn’t protect them.”
“No,” the old man agrees, but his eyes are kind, and so is his melancholic smile “but you cared, you are the only one who cared, for the first time in a century, and you wear that care on your face now. We don’t get many news here, nobody ever bothers to explain to us anything, but from what I heard and gathered, the events that my grandson’s sacrifice put in motion, contributed to where we are today. Contributed to the end of that war, and to the rest of our youth returning home and the drafts being abolished. It’s a feeble consolation, but it brings this old man peace of mind, if not a heal for the heart.”
Zuko nods, mostly because - as Sokka knows - his voice would fail him if he tried to speak. But he stops the man when he tries to bow, clutching the satchel to his chest with one hand and gently placing the other on the mayor’s shoulder. He inclines his own head instead and thanks the old man again in a whisper. Sokka looks away and catches their entourage of guards creeping from behind the carriage, wiping at their eyes and discreetly blowing their noses into their sleeves.
The ride that day is silent. Zuko is immersed into his own thoughts and memories, his eyes focused on the road ahead. Sokka keeps glancing at him from the corner of his eye, but doesn’t speak, his own inner turmoil evident on his face.
He knows that story, Zuko told him once. How he spoke out of turn against a general’s plans to use their own soldiers as bait, and that landed him in an Agni Kai with his father, who gave him his scar. Sokka grits his teeth, a sudden wave of hate and disgust overcoming him, and his ostrich-horse protests, probably sensing his mood.
Sokka knew that story, of course he did, but he didn’t know the details. He didn’t know that it was a division composed of forcefully drafted kids, or that they really had been sacrificed in the end, although he should have expected that. The forty-first division. He shuddered, his mind determined to remember, to connect and extrapolate every detail. Zuko had spoken up to protect that division, he was scarred and banished as a result.
Revulsion, anger, determination, fear.
Who knows how things could have turned out, who knows if they would have even met, been enemies or friends. Who knows if Zuko would have aided them if not for his tragedy, taught the avatar, fought his sister... Who knows if the war would have ended in their favor or if Zuko would have become Fire Lord by now, and such a good one at that, if not for his banishment and the lessons learned the hard way on his journey. It made him humble, it made him strong, it made him who he is.
They eat lunch in silence, and the dumplings are excellent, but Sokka’s mind, for once in his life, is far away from food.
How many world-changing events did that single, rash decision to speak-up put in motion?
He’s so engrossed in his head that he almost guides his ostrich-horse into a river.
“Shooo!” Zuko stops his own looking at the wreckage of wooden beams and rope.
“Sir, the bridge has collapsed here!” The captain of the guard supplies.
“I can see that, Akai, thank you very much.” Zuko rolls his eyes, and that pulls a smile out of Sokka for the first time today. “Where’s the nearest one?”
In the end the detour costs them the rest of the day, the nearest city way ahead, so Zuko lights a bonfire while his men set up camp. Sokka looks at him as he bickers with one of the guards during dinner, heart full and aching in a dull, pleasant way. Zuko reaches out to tug a strand of hair behind his ear and Sokka’s attention falls on the dark leather of his wrist cuff. I need to see his soulmark. He thinks. Because that’s the only way to know for sure, the only way to end the turmoil that this morning set in motion.
But what if he’s mistaken? What if it’s only a coincidence? A supposition? Is not knowing for sure worse than finding out he’s wrong? And what if Zuko doesn’t want it? What if Sokka is right but Zuko hates the idea? It could ruin everything… it could ruin their friendship, their closeness, the tentative dance around each other they’ve had going on since he moved into the Fire Nation… but then his eyes meet Zuko’s over the bonfire and the light pools in their golden depths in a way that makes Sokka feel like he’s drowning in sunset.
He makes up his mind.
He walks up to Zuko.
“Can we talk? Alone?” He asks, and offers up a hand. Zuko is inquisitive, but doesn’t refuse, following Sokka along the river banks away from the rest of the entourage. They sit cross-legged on a little cliff that overlooks the waters bathed in the silver light of the moon, and Sokka silently pleads to Yue to give him courage.
“So what is it?” Zuko tilts his head.
“You owe me a No Questions Asked.”
“Technically Toph owes you that one, but alright. What do you want?” It’s not like Zuko is in the habit of ever denying Sokka anything he asks for, not that he ever asks for much besides his company.
Sokka inspires deeply and tries to steady his voice. “Let me see your soulmark.”
Zuko’s one eyebrow creeps up in disbelief.
“Rude.” he points out, with good reason, but reaches for the ties of his leather cuff nonetheless, untying them and sliding it off. “Suit yourself, but it makes no sense.”
It might not make any sense to Zuko, but as Sokka takes his wrist and turns it towards the light, his heart stops. His breathing stills and every thought, every process in his brain draws to a halt.
His fingers start to shake.
Zuko frowns, sensing his reaction. “Do you know what it is?” He asks, and Sokka gulps around the rock stuck in his throat. With a trembling thumb he traces over the curved line nesting a simple dot underneath.
“It's the Eye of La,” he whispers reverently. “the mark of the wise.”
“What?” Zuko tries to take his wrist back, but Sokka doesn’t let go, not now, not ever. The puzzle is assembling itself, all the pieces sliding together as the truth is just starting to sink in, and he can’t process it in any other way but babbling.
“It’s earned by the young in my culture when our fathers take us ice-dodging. Or rock-dodging like Bato took me. It’s a rite of passage, when a boy becomes a man. The mark of the wise is granted to leaders, strategists, those who know the seas and their own companions, their strengths, weaknesses and…” he takes a shaky breath “what did you feel?”
Zuko’s eyes are wide, he’s looking at Sokka like it’s the first time he’s ever seen him, like he’s reaching for something just out of his field of vision. But he understands the question.
“Pride, happiness, love… and then confusion and-”
“anger, betrayal, pain.” Sokka finishes for him “Yeah. Discovering your best friend's been a selfish prick who tried to hide your dad’s letter out of his own insecurity will do that.”
He locks eyes with Zuko and can’t help the pure joy and wonder that’s spreading through his limbs from seeping into his voice; “Did that distract you? Did you fall off that shirshu beast while you were hunting us?”
“Sokka-” Zuko breathes out, searching his eyes, and there’s a question in it.
Sokka nods.
Zuko yanks his wrist out of his hold. But only to throw his arms around Sokka’s neck, lunging forward. And suddenly Sokka’s got a lapful of firebender and scorching hot lips on his own. He makes a surprised sound but before he can reciprocate, Zuko jumps away, eyes wild.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry I just-”
But Sokka doesn’t let him finish, doesn’t let him start questioning himself and twisting everything in his head. Not this. He yanks on Zuko’s sleeve and draws him in, kissing him again. This time deep and passionate, his hand coming up to hold Zuko’s nape, turning his head for a better angle. He tries to pour into that kiss everything he’s ever wanted to say with words. Words of wonder, of trust, of a developing infatuation, of mature years-long yearning, of love and compassion, of pride. He kisses Zuko like he’s his lifeline, every nerve in his body ablaze with pure joy and a feeling of rightness that he couldn't explain in a million pages of writing. Kissing Zuko feels like conquering the summit of a mountain range together and looking down at the expanse of possibilities, of hope and dreams and love below their feet.
His lips are hot and chapped, but soft and so perfectly aligning with Sokka’s own; the feel of his hands and nails in Sokka’s hair and on his shoulders; his heartbeat frantic against Sokka’s own chest; his taste and scent, invigorating and intoxicating at the same time, like campfire smoke, like warmth and safety and home .
It’s not like any kiss Sokka’s ever had, it’s not like any kind of experience he’s ever lived or imagined living through. It’s so much more, it makes his heart feel like it’s about to burst and overwhelms his senses.
They break apart and Zuko’s eyes are like a field of diamonds. Pupils blown wide, reflecting the ocean of stars. Sokka wants to drown in them. “I love you. I have loved you for so long. Please, be mine.”
Zuko hiccups around a sob, but it sounds like a yes, and so Sokka draws him in, his own tears seeping into the silk of Zuko’s hair. They breath each other’s scent, limbs intertwined and holding onto the other’s body for dear life. And minutes pass, or maybe hours. Sokka doesn’t care, he could spend an eternity like this, but the disappointment of Zuko pulling away is quickly soothed with a tender kiss, chaste and sweet, and wrapped around a love confession that melts his heart but coats his mouth in honey.
“How did you know?” Zuko asks, once they’ve gathered themselves enough to let go and sit back on the damp grass. The sound of their guards chatting in the distance carries through the wind and a frog splashes from the river bank into the water, disturbing the surface.
“Well-” Sokka’s smile takes on a sad edge, as he reaches for his own wrist cuff, tugging the straps loose. “It seems like destiny likes to hide in the details.”
The number 41 gleams a ghostly white on his copper skin.
_