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Flowers had always been something of a miracle for the Southern Water Tribe. Not that they didn’t have flowers there, but in the desolate white, it was sometimes hard to remember that other colors existed besides the blues of the sky and ocean, the white of the snow and ice, and the reds of meat and blood. Green and brown would come and go with the seasons, but anything else was a rarity – unless they bloomed in the hair of a member of the tribe. Sokka’s own flowers were nothing unusual -- the red petals of some creeping flower and the soft white petals of an upright bell. He kept them shorn, one blossom of each so as not to weigh down his head, the white at the base of his wolf-tail and the red tucked underneath it.
He knows he should pluck out the final red blossom the way he does all the rest. The red is too vibrant against the snow and the blue of his clothing. It’s too bright, too dangerous, too reminiscent of the fire nation and their sharp armor. He sees the flash of remembrance and distaste when Katara sees the petals. But she’s young and doesn’t understand. She’s young and her flowers are white and soft pink, unnoticeable in her thick brown hair even if the blooms are rather large and numerous. Nothing to be ashamed of, nothing to hide. She just doesn’t understand.
So he keeps the red flower tucked under his hair and admires it only when he is alone, looking at his reflection in the smooth ice.
The flowers are meant to represent your soulmate. He remembers that his mother and father both had the same flowers as each other and Bato. Three different flowers that bloomed like crazy in his mother’s braids, that his father and Bato wore proudly in their shaggy manes. He remembers how happy they made each other, how safe they seemed to be when they stood so close.
He’s determined to be that for someone. He will be someone’s safety. He will be their harbor in this world that’s so worn down with people being torn from each other. He believes that. He knows the day will come when he knows whom he is meant to stand beside for the rest of his life.
Of course, Katara finds the one whose flowers match hers before he ever comes close. She has always been like that. Blessed with waterbending, blessed with a sense of what she is meant to do, blessed with --
Well, she’s always been more lucky than him.
He doesn’t resent her. He can’t resent his own sister’s happiness. Not after – well, not after everything. He can be angry, he can be hurt, but never to her face. And he can feel adrift, uncertain, doubtful as he stares at her and the so-called airbender as they laugh together and play in the snow that first day. He had tumbled out of the iceberg with his ‘peonies’ and ‘camellias’ as he calls them wind-torn and damaged, but he still smiles so brightly as he gazes at Katara.
Everything changes after that.
There is a firebending commander with a scar and a head free of flowers, scalp scabbed in various places as though he rips them from his head. He threatens the village and Sokka can’t defeat him, he can’t protect those he has sworn to keep safe. And then, because of Aang, because of the Avatar, he is gone. And then -- so are Sokka and Katara. They leave their home behind in order to save the world. In order to keep them safe.
The world is -- different. It’s so much different than anything Sokka has ever known. No number of warriors returning home with stories of far lands could prepare him for the reality of the world at large. Just the trip to the Air Nomads’ temple shows him that. Everything is so large, so much bigger and yet -- smaller. The closed-in walls, the sloped roofs, they all close in so much compared to the endless expanse of white and blue that he is used to.
“Why are there so many flowers here?” Katara asks softly, crouched down to gently caress the petals of a vibrantly orange blossom.
Aang spins on his toe, grinning at Katara and Sokka so openly. “It’s an Air Nomad tradition. We pluck the first bloom of our flowers and plant them in the gardens of the temple. That way no matter what happens to us, the love we brought into the world will always exist and give back to the earth.” He grinned, tapping the blue tattoos on his head. “Then some of us let our flowers grow wild on our heads except for where we get our tattoos. It’s a symbol of our growth as well, that we can depend upon ourselves and not just our soulmates to be happy.”
“And that’s what you chose to do?” Sokka asked, arms crossed as he stared at the air nomad, the avatar.
“Of course! I love my flowers. They make me happy. They comfort me. Gyatso taught me how to care for them so that they don’t wilt or get tangled and every time they need to be pruned, I send them away on the wind just like he showed me. Maybe he can show you how you’re supposed to take care of yours! He knows a lot of different traditions.”
His confident words struck a chord in Sokka and he exchanged a hesitant, worried look with his sister. Aang was still so certain that they were playing a joke on him, telling him it had been a hundred years since he had last been seen. Not even the wild overgrowth of the monks’ soulmate blooms could convince him it seemed. There was no expected grief, just a solid denial that wore the mask of happiness. It was concerning.
And in the end -- it was dangerous.
The raging power that had swirled around Aang had been terrifying. It had been terrible to see his sister charge into a place he could not follow. A place he could not save her from if something went wrong. And as Aang and Katara’s petals mixed together in the dying wind of Aang’s descent, Sokka looked away.
Soulmates were something worth protecting, but they could destroy you too. He saw that now. He had always wondered how his mother’s death had not destroyed their father, but now he understood that too. It was just something one had to be prepared for when the flowers bloomed in their hair.
The journey away from the Air Temple was a quiet one. Aang slept in Katara’s arms as Sokka guided Appa away from what had once been his home too. He wondered, as they made their journey away, if the feelings that could destroy a soul were worth their lovely flowers. It just seemed like a weakness that would be easiest to sidestep by removing the flowers and never dwelling on them.
But the more they encountered that firebender with the scar and flowerless head, he wondered if that was a flawed way of thinking too. If the Fire Nation removed their flowers, then surely that wasn’t the right path either? What was the balance between silly romantic weakness and heartless ruthlessness? He didn’t know, he wasn’t sure anymore. His two flowers remained tucked at the base of his wolf tail and his fingers plucked at the extra blossoms he pulled from amongst his locks.
And then he met the warriors.
They were fierce and amazing and everything he wanted to learn to be. Devoted and victorious -- they all had heads bare of flowers. They had shed their weakness but not lost their humanity for it. They had not become monsters like the flames that ate away at the world with no control, they were grounded deep in the earth they had grown up on. But they had also held themselves apart from the world, from the conflict. Was it their compassion they had traded for their victory?
No matter what, he wanted to learn from them. From their strongest, from their leader. He had to be amazing -- and perhaps he could advise Sokka what to do with his own flowers that weighed on the back of his neck.
“You pluck them.”
Suki’s voice was firm. After everything else he had learned about these warriors, after his shock of realizing it was girls who removed their flowers and fought so fiercely, after being embarrassed and put in his place, he shouldn’t be surprised. He shouldn’t be surprised but he was. Maybe it was because of the way Katara held her flowers so dear, how every girl in his village had crooned over what a shame it was that he pruned his hair. He had always thought girls were the softer ones, the more romantic ones, but the Kyoshi warriors didn’t hesitate at all where he had waffled back and forth for years over what he should do.
“You take your flowers and you bury them. Or burn them. Or toss them out to sea. Whatever frees you of them. The only thing that matters is the here and now and what you’re fighting to protect. The future -- it’ll come when it comes. We need to focus on the here and now if we’re going to survive, much less win. Do you understand me, Sokka?” Her voice was firm but her eyes were gentle, as though she knew just how much she was tearing parts of his world apart. As though she had had to do this for a dozen others before him. She probably had. She was the leader here after all. “Do you want me to help you?”
“No. No, I can do it.” He shook his head, bowing slightly. “Thank you for telling me. And for teaching me all that you have.”
“It would be pretty poor of me not to give the protector of the avatar some pointers.” She points out and a smile even quirks her lips and he finds a warmth for her in his heart. A thankfulness that carries him the rest of the way north. Through the encounters with the Freedom Fighters and the feeling of betrayal that stings when he learns that his temporary mentor is working with the fire nation. Her words of support and belief carry him through learning of the various ways people handle their flowers. And yet still he does not pluck the fire lily at the base of his neck.
The flowers have meaning. The flowers bring strength. He knows this from his father. But they can be distractions. He knows this from Katara -- how she tucks the flowers carefully into the loops of her hair and blushes as she looks at Aang care for his in the morning. He’s learned from Suki how the flowers can be points of weakness. Even Jet, though he loathes it, taught him that the flowers can be a weight around your legs that would drag you under. There are lessons with every blossom he sees. He has to walk the careful balance of knowing that there is a meaning to the flower he keeps hidden away but never acknowledging it.
He learns something new when he reaches the North Pole. He learns how beautiful flowers can be even when they do not match his.
Princess Yue’s hair is decorated in beautiful purples with hearts of yellow and soft, closed white petals that unfurl with the rising moon. They could almost blend into her white hair if not for the soft cream-white that detailed a star as they spread out. Irises and moonflowers she called them as her hand gently curled around one. Gifts from the moon spirit, for she had been born without voice, without breath, and without flowers. Her eyes are a brilliant blue as she smiles at him, soft and secret. “The moon gifted me with a part of her soul, so I will always carry her with me just as you do your bellflowers.” Her hand comes up, almost touching the flower at the base of his wolf’s tail, and then she jerks her hand back, a blush across her cheeks. “Yours– are very beautiful. White campanulas. They are something you should be proud of, wear proudly like the warriors of the south.”
“Well, I am very proud, maybe I will. If they’ll make you smile.” He waggles his eyebrows at her and she laughs and he feels as though he is walking on air. He understands, maybe a little, why Aang likes the feeling so much.
She doesn’t talk about how her white flower is different from his. And he doesn’t talk about how her iris doesn’t match Hahn’s one flower he wears either. He thinks, just maybe, their happiness doesn’t have to hinge on the petals in their hair.
Neither one of them spoke of the red that burned at the base of his neck.
And yet when the snow mixed with ashes began to fall from the sky, he could feel her eyes on him. Sad, questioning, determined. He turned and smiled at her and tried to act confident. And she did just the same.
Her moonflower spoke of such soft hope and the brightness in the dark but her wisdom and courage was what was shown through.
Right until the very end of her life.
The flowers fold in on themselves, he watches as they drift in the water of the koi pond, dead and dying as she breathes her last breath and gives her life back to the moon spirit. He watches, silent and sullen as irises and moonflowers begin to bloom in the grove. It’s not fair that they bloom while she dies.
He’s quiet and distant when they leave.
The white campanulas that were in his hair are now pruned free. The fire lily stays, but only because it is tucked away where he can’t see it. In his pack there is a small book with a moon flower and iris pressed between its pages, but he doesn’t look at it. He doesn’t mention it. He doesn’t even think of it, but it weighs heavy on his shoulders. The moment where he thought that perhaps flowers didn’t mean anything, that they were random happenstance and that human choice could always defy the silly concept of fate.
A million things happen. Nothing happens. They’re on a mission to end the war and Sokka feels as though he is in a haze during the moments where they’re not active. When given time to lounge around he doesn’t believe himself melancholic or sullen, but there’s something different he knows. It feels like he’s dragging his feet when he should be racing a hundred miles a minute. There’s no other way to put it – he feels trapped. If they’re bound to these fates, what are they even doing? What would happen would happen, there was no other choice. It made everything they do feel – meaningless.
But he tried his best to keep those thoughts quiet inside his head. He didn’t speak up, didn’t bemoan the tasks they did as they worked to cross the Great Divide into the earth kingdom. He played his hand though, working to get them across the world. It was what they had to do – it was what they would do no matter what he did, so best to make sure his sister traveled safely.
When the guard grabbed him by the collar, Sokka was about ready to fight. He was tired, he had wanted to enjoy his meager victory in obtaining the tickets and ensuring safe passage. When she kissed his face and he realized who it was, his face shone with more happiness than it had in weeks.
And then, just as quickly as her name, Suki, passed his lips, his smile was fading and his eyes were going wide and it felt as though a knife had been pushed through his gut.
“You look like you’ve seen a spirit.” Suki teased. Her hair moved around her face, free from the helmet and her old Kyoshi garb. Her short brown hair now filled with purple irises with yellow hearts and soft white moonflowers with cream colored stars.
Yeah, to say he looked like he had seen a spirit was a fair statement to make.
His hands rest on her shoulders and he wants to pull her close, he wants to push her away. He wants to run his hand through her hair and gently touch every flower, he wants to rip them all out. What right does she have to wear them so casually, what right does he have to get upset over it. He swallows thickly and tries to smile. “You look–” good, is what Sokka means to say, “different.”
Self-consciously, Suki raises a hand to her hair. “My flowers, right, you haven’t seen them.” She smiles awkwardly. “I had almost forgotten, I’ve gotten used to them just flourishing ever since us warriors left the island. We stand out less among the civilians with them growing like this.” Her face softens slightly. “The irises remind me of home – and the moonflowers of you.” She admits quietly. And of course they do. Of course they do. They’re white and speak of the water tribe and he is her idea of the water tribe and–
And they’re her flowers but they’re Suki’s flowers and he has loved them both so much and how is it he can love them both when they were always meant to be each other’s? He rubs his eyes, trying to fight back the tears, but they start streaming down his face despite his best efforts. Suki’s reaction is immediate. She’s on alert, her hand on his elbow, and she’s steering him away. She guides him away from curious eyes and from his sister and Aang and Toph and he breathes in raggedly. He can’t thank her, can’t find the words, but he hopes she knows.
They find a quiet corner and he cries where no one but Suki can see him. Her arm rests on his shoulder and he listens as he speaks about the princess of the Northern Water Tribe and how Suki would have liked her. The Kyoshi warrior’s face goes tight, he sees it, and he avoids mentioning that they share flowers. He just says he thinks Suki would have liked her.
He just says they’re cut from the same strong cloth.
And he leans against her and breathes in the sweet smell of irises and moonflowers.
He mourns, and she holds him, and then they stand and move together. They have a war to fight. A war to win.
And maybe after that, Sokka can figure out what the flowers mean.