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Katara had always been stubborn. Always willful, never silently disagreeing, always ready with a retort like water that leaves the shore only to come back in a wall of fury and destruction.
She was three, sitting on the beach while Sokka was trying to bring back a fish for the family with nothing but a small stick and a constant supply of determination, when she found the small otter-penguin, alone and crying out for its parents in the middle of the field. She brought it home, wrapped in her shawl, disregarding the chill that settled in. The poor thing was wasting away by the moment, slipping away as the nights grew longer and the sun fled the sky. She stayed with it, over her mother gathering her into her arms and kindly, oh so kindly, whispering that she shouldn’t count on it recovering, that it was perhaps time to let it go free. She had burst out of her mother’s arms, running to hug the little otter-penguin close, reassuring it under her breath that it would live, that she wouldn’t let anything happen to it. After they awoke on the longest night to find that its spirit had slipped away, after they laid it to rest on the tallest peak of the inlet, Katara would travel every full moon to visit the stone where she had carved an image of the otter-penguin in her child-like scrawl. I won't let anyone else get hurt.
She was eight, bursting into the tent after her father, seeing her mother crumpled on the floor, screaming for something, anything as the igloo melted around them while she screamed. I will avenge you.
She was twelve, grabbing onto a clothesline as the snow whipped around her face, barely pausing for breath as she forged on towards the woodpile to warm her family’s hearth and get them through the longest night. I will protect my family.
She was fourteen, standing on the deck of a Fire Nation ship, feeling the long-simmering rage of a child left behind, of a culture lost, of one forced to grow up far too soon as she thrust her hand forward, freezing the soldiers in place. I’m not a child anymore.
She was standing on the deck of a prison ship, holding her fist aloft as she told stories of freedom, stories of resistance, stories of hope. She looked at the face of the boy so much like her, but with a mother, a father ahead of him. These are my people. This is why I am here.
She was facing Pakku, feet twisted and frozen firmly into place as she raised her shoulders and intoned with the power of assuredness, you can’t knock me down.
She was surging forwards on a wave of fury as she regarded the boy standing in the caves that glowed with intrigue and secrets, the boy who had tricked her, who had hurt her friend. I will defend Aang to my last breath. You cannot hurt my family.
She was sitting on Appa’s back, watching the figure of her father growing smaller and smaller in the retreating distance. Watching the hope that had sustained her, of reunion, of a solemn victory, vanish as if snuffed out like a candle. This isn’t the end. We will come back. We will finish this.
She darted behind the pillar, gasping as Azula’s laughter rang around the courtyard, as her life seemed to flash before her eyes, as she thought of how her mother must have felt in her last moments. She heard her doubts ring in the air for only a second before they were washed away by her conviction, her fury, her vengeance, and her hope. As she stepped away from Azula, regarding the symbol of her lost childhood, of her disappeared culture, of the pain in her brother's eyes when her father told him he could not journey the long path to war, a single tear rolled down her face. I didn't know victory would feel this melancholy