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POV Gran Gran
When the men left, many thought we wouldn't survive even one winter. The younger ones cried silently at night, the elders hid their fear in routine, and the rest of us... we just hoped the ice wouldn't swallow our people before the beasts did.
No one thought that scrawny boy, the one who could barely lift a net without falling, would end up becoming the pillar holding everything together.
The day he came back bloodied after fighting the polar dog-bears, I thought I would lose him. Katara never let go of his hand, not even when his body fell unconscious onto the snow. She cried all night, not letting anyone near him. And in the morning, as I cleaned his wounds with trembling hands, I felt something inside me break. When I was about to stitch him up, he opened his eyes. It scared me. I'd never seen anyone wake up so fast, not with such deep wounds, and certainly not without waterbending. I saw fear in his eyes when he saw the needle. He took the thread and needle with a steadiness that didn't match his age. And he stitched himself up. He did it like someone mending an old blanket - precise, no trembling. No screaming. No crying. Just a couple of grimaces when the needle hit a nerve. Then he got up and went fishing, as if nothing had happened.
Over the months, I watched him train the polar dog-bear pups. The mother too. They obeyed him. Not like an owner. Like an alpha. Katara helped. She gave them names. She called her favorite Little Moon. It followed her everywhere, just like the other three pups. Together they trained them to hunt, to protect, to live with us.
When he fully recovered, he started working on the garden. He used the seeds he found in the destroyed ship, the ones many of us thought would be useless. But we watched him build the first greenhouse with bone, ice and stretched hide. He prepared the soil with fish compost and manure, measured the light with hand-carved ice lenses. When the first green leaf appeared, the entire tribe gathered to look. Cabbage, carrots, thick roots... we began eating things my grandchildren had never seen before.
Then came the hunting. I saw him return from the forest with the dogs at his side, pulling sleds full of meat. More than we could consume. So we held feasts. He cooked for everyone, and when the children didn't want to eat vegetables, he made up stories where carrots were magic spears and cabbages were sacred shields. He never forced them. He convinced them.
I was amazed how someone so young could plan so much. He was smart, resourceful, tireless. The complete opposite of Hakoda, who though strong and brave, believed leadership came from muscle. I feared Sokka would grow up with that same idea. But he didn't. I saw him build, teach, heal, feed. I saw in him another kind of strength.
One day, he was teaching the children to read. He did it with simple drawings and symbols. When one of the little ones cried because he didn't understand, Sokka crouched down and wiped his tears with the edge of his coat. He told him a story and made him laugh. After that, that child never wanted to let go of his notebook.
He also built instruments. Some he brought from the ship, others he made with his own hands. Shell drums, bone flutes, strings stretched on a wooden bow. He sang at night, told stories, taught songs no one knew. He said every story was a seed, that we didn't know when it would grow, but it was our job to plant it.
The village changed. They weren't just igloos that melted in the wind anymore. The houses were solid, with sturdy roofs, double doors, reinforced ice bridges, watchtowers. There were marked paths, signs, beast traps. The leopard caribou no longer ran away. He tamed them with patience. One carries the elders. Another transports firewood. Another serves as a mount. They all respond to his gestures.
The gardens grew. The greenhouses multiplied. The women no longer fear winter. The children have books. The returning men are surprised. And him... he doesn't wait for praise. He just smiles and gets back to work.
I saw him leave part of himself in all this.
Tiga thinks of him every time she feeds her son. She says thanks to Sokka her child was born in a safe place. That now he can grow up learning, playing, singing.
Katara... Katara doesn't say much. But you can tell by how she looks at him, how she follows him without hesitation, how she repeats his jokes even if they're bad. Sometimes she imitates him to make the children laugh. Sometimes she just sits and listens to him read.
POV Katara
Sometimes I wonder if he'll ever stop saying stupid things.
This morning I woke up before sunrise, helped prepare breakfast, carried water to the garden, trained with Little Moon... and just when I'm setting the table, he says:
"Wow, Katara, at that pace you could get married young. I bet you cook well if you don't talk much."
I threw a rag at his face. Hit him in the mouth. Perfect.
"And what do you know about cooking if you burn everything or make it boomerang-shaped, fish head?!" I yelled while he laughed in that way of his, mocking and annoying. And warm.
He makes me angry. I hate when he says those things. But I also like when he laughs. I like it more when he sits down to teach me how to read a navigation chart or when he hands me a paper and says "if you write the letters right, I'll let you try the honey bread."
I trust him more than anyone. But I'll never tell him. Only sometimes, when he reads me stories he makes up with funny, ridiculous endings, I lean against his coat and pretend to be asleep so I don't have to talk. Because in those moments, I feel safe. Even if he annoys me. Even if I want to kick him.
POV Gran Gran
And now that he's turned fourteen, I realize something I didn't want to admit before. That he's not just a boy anymore. That without crowns, without shouting, without needing to declare it... he's already our chief.
And yet, he laughs with the children, plays with the pups, sings with the women, teaches the elders, cooks with those who can't hold knives.
And though his body is covered in scars, and his soul holds pains he'll never say out loud... he's still the first to rise and the last to sleep.
Because Sokka didn't build himself just to survive. He rebuilt himself to lift us all up.