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Ⅰ: La
Kanna’s granddaughter kneels at her feet, tears flooding her eyes. Though Katara is a daughter of La, of pull, of protection, of healing, of stability, she carries with her a strength and determination too sharp to be of her patron. Kanna knows that it’s from the war; a heavy burden of grief, responsibility, and anger, gifted by the Fire Nation. Secretly, she grieves for the girl Katara might have been—one with happiness, a mother, and a community. But sorrow changes nothing, so Kanna keeps it to herself.
“Gran-Gran, I’m sorry. But Aang needs a teacher, and I need to learn how to control my own bending. I don’t want to leave the village, I don’t want to leave you and Sokka, but I have to,” Katara pleads, face upturned, smooth skin wet with tears. Kanna smiles, though it doesn’t reach her eyes.
“My child,” she whispers, wiping Katara’s tears away with a rough thumb, “The spirits have called you. I’m glad that you’re sensible enough to listen.”
Katara laughs softly, smiling through her tears. “You won’t stop me?”
“I would be a hypocrite,” Kanna says, stepping back. “I had a journey in my youth, and now you have yours. You must go, Katara. Remember who you are, remember that La’s blood runs in your veins, and remember that you are loved.” She is grateful that her hands are steady, and that tears do not well in her own eyes. Why the spirits claim the lives of youth is beyond her understanding. Children fight and die in wars while Kanna sits safely at home. But she has faith, faith that everything will turn out. In her own youth, Kanna let herself be taken by war. She never considered how her grandparents felt, their granddaughter vanished into the night, never to be heard from again. It’s justice, in a sick sort of way. But everything is sick in times of war.
“Thank you. I promise I’ll come back home safely,” Katara says, throwing herself at her grandmother. Small, childlike arms wrap around Kanna’s middle. She envelops Katara in a hug, clutching her tight. The next time she sees her granddaughter, she’ll be a woman.
Ⅱ: Tui
Tui’s soft white light shines through Kanna’s window, filling her room. A gentle spring breeze drifts towards her, playing with the strands of her hair. She longs to climb out, to explore the night, to free herself. But she has goodbyes to say before she can. A neatly sealed note addressed to her parents lies on her desk, and her pack is full and ready to be swung over her back, but she has yet to remove the last reminder of her old life. Reaching up, Kanna clutches her betrothal necklace tight, ready to pull it off her neck. It will be the first time she had taken it off since she received it four years ago—back when she was still a naive child, when she still had hope, when she still accepted her place. She doesn’t anymore. No, she understands who she is. Kanna is a daughter of Tui. She is force, pushing, resisting, searching. And the moon has been calling her for years.
She listened, for far too long, to the voices that tell her to be quiet. To sit, to learn her place by a man’s side. But no man who ignores her will deserves her. And Pakku doesn’t listen—he loves her, that she cannot deny—but he expects her to be something she’s not. There were years where Kanna convinced herself that someday her wandering spirit would settle. Those were the years she carried hope for her impending marriage; Pakku was tall, serious, and handsome. He was the best she could hope for. After they were betrothed, everyone congratulated her, convincing her with smiles and pleasantries that a marriage between a council member's daughter and the most promising waterbender of their tribe would make an auspicious match, and that she would be the happiest woman in the tribe on the day of her wedding. Kanna believed them, whispered their promises of the spirit’s favour to herself when the ache to leave grew too strong. She doesn’t ignore it any longer. Tui calls, and she will listen.
Kanna’s hand stills around the pendant. She can feel every groove, every tiny detail, every soft edge. It’s a testament to Pakku’s love for her. And somehow, even though she’s abandoning him, she can’t make herself pull it off. Every time he sees her, his eyes light up like she’s the sun in spring. And they never lift off her face. Pakku loves her, and she’s leaving him.
“Tui and La,” she curses, digging the heels of her palms into her eyes. He’ll get over it. She left him a letter, given to his mother earlier that day. She’ll deliver it to her son tomorrow, and he’ll understand. Hopefully.
Kanna sucks in a deep breath, and grabs her pack. There’s a ship waiting for her, tucked in the small bay just out of view from the city. It’ll ferry her as far as the northern Earth Kingdom, where she’ll make her own way south. But it won’t wait all night, and if she wants to make her deadline, she needs to leave now.
She glances around her room one last time, taking in the walls of ice covered in furs and Earth Kingdom tapestries, blinking rapidly. This room has been her home for as long as she can remember, and she’ll miss it, though it has never been much of a comfort. Kanna has always preferred an empty sky overhead and a plain of ice under her feet.
“Goodbye,” she whispers, “I’ll miss you.” Then she turns and swings herself out the open window. Shimmying down the side of the wall, she reaches the ground in safety. She wipes her eyes, then sets off at a jog. She runs through familiar streets, past dark homes full of her family and friends. The moon shines brightly overhead, lighting her way.
Kanna reaches the outer wall, and finds the gate already open. Grinning, she glances up and finds the guard on duty with his back turned. Her father always tells her that bribes are the most effective way of getting people to do what you want.
It’s only once she’s past the gate, trudging through ankle deep snow, that she realizes she’s still wearing Pakku’s necklace. Her fingers brush against it, gentle as a lover’s touch. She still can’t bring herself to remove it. Kanna has always known that Pakku loves her, yes, but she’s never realized that, in her own way, she loves him back.
Ⅲ: La
Kanna writes boldly, movements swift and decisive. Her brushstrokes scar the page, black ink stark against the white of the parchment. She hardly pauses to think. The code she writes in has become a second language, strange phrases that she has used since she was barely a woman. The letter is the last copy of dozens, and it will travel across the southern seas to a place as foreign as the Fire Nation, a city as impregnable as Ba Sing Se, or a nation as far as the Northern Water Tribe. Kanna does not write for her own good. She writes for her grandchildren, for the avatar, to plead for their protection. There isn’t much more she can do, not with them already out of her waters. She curses the spirits that made them leave. They’re children, not warriors. But fate has other plans.
When she finishes, she seals the letter with white wax stamped with a lotus. It’s beautiful and utterly innocuous. Inside, the letter seems to be about her granddaughter’s upcoming nuptials to a man of another land, leaving home without warning. But the message it carries is far more significant, one that tells of the avatar, of two children Kanna has spent her old age praying for.
Letters scattered around her, Kanna lets out a sigh and closes her eyes. Her only hope now is the Order of the White Lotus, old friends and strangers alike. If they will not help her grandchildren, no one will.
Ⅳ: Tui
Kanna is lost. Trees taller than glaciers stretch up above her, birds singing softly in the morning sun. Despite her lovely surroundings, anxiety courses through her veins. There are so many spirits-damned forests in the Earth Kingdom, and they all look the same on her map. And besides, there doesn’t seem to be a trail.
With groan, Kanna folds up her map and tucks it neatly in her pocket. The best thing she can do now is walk. And so she does. From midmorning to midafternoon, Kanna wanders, searching for anything that looks remotely like civilization. The tundras of the Northern Water Tribe were never so confusing, even with the endlessly white horizon. Here, every tree looks identical, and the sun is hidden behind the canopy far overhead.
It’s only when she stumbles across a stream that she stops. It’s small and gurgling, water clear and blue. It’s one thing Kanna didn’t consider about her journey; in the Northern Water Tribe, water, snow and ice are everywhere. Here, in the Earth Kingdom, there are days where she doesn’t see even the smallest stream. Kanna’s mouth is dry, and she kneels beside the brook, and drinks as much as she can. When she’s finished, she empties out her waterskin—the dregs she has been caring around are no doubt stale and warm—and fills it again. Still kneeling by the stream, Kanna whispers a prayer of thanks to Tui and La.
With a sigh, Kanna stands, and removes the map from her pocket. She stares at it longer than she should, then curses softly. It makes no sense.
“You lost?” A voice sounds from behind her, and Kanna spins, whale-bone knives replacing the map in her hands. She finds a young woman about her age with jet-dark hair and a cat winding around her ankles standing with her hands raised in surrender. “I don’t want to hurt you,” she says, laughing. “Just give some directions.”
Kanna doesn’t lower her knives. The girl seems innocent enough, she supposes, but she’s learned not to trust anyone who hasn’t given her a proper reason to during her travels. “Who are you? Where did you come from? How did you find me?”
“Inquisitive, I see,” the stranger says, raising an eyebrow. “My name is Bik, and I’m the healer in the nearby village. I was out picking herbs for my remedies when I stumbled upon you. Is that enough information, or would you like me to detail every aspect of my life?” Her tone is joking, and as far as Kanna can tell, is telling the truth. But she wants to pry, to find out exactly why Bik is willing to give her directions. The world is a dangerous place these days. Strangers are as likely to rob you of all your possessions as they are to befriend you.
“I suppose that’s sufficient,” Kanna finally says, lowering her knives. She still holds them tight in her fists, ready for a fight at any moment.
“So you get to interrogate me, but I don’t get your name?”
Kanna hesitates, then speaks. “Kanna of the Northern Water Tribe.” Bik nods, as if she predicted this. The cat at her feet meows, staring up at her caretaker. She shrugs at her cat, then looks back at Kanna, staring her up and down. She meows back at the cat. Kanna blinks, looking between Bik and her cat. They’re… communicating? This stranger is odd, indeed.
“You’re coming with me,” Bik announces, walking forward. Kanna tenses and raises her knives, but the cat yowls at her. “Oh, stop with the knives. I’m not going to hurt you. Miyuki likes you, and I like anyone she does, because she’s picky,” Bik says, smiling. She plucks one of the knives out of her hands, and loops her arm around Kanna’s.
“I’m not going spirits-know-where with a stranger,” Kanna spits, pulling out of Bik’s grasp. Who does this girl think she is? She’s not odd, she’s dangerous.
Bik raises an eyebrow. “You obviously have no idea where you are, and besides, I have need of someone with your skills.”
“What skills?” Kanna says slowly. What can she possibly know that could help this girl? She’s good with knives, yes, and she can navigate a frozen wasteland with ease, but Kanna doubts that this girl has need of either of those things. Bik glances at Miyuki, who yowls again. Letting out a sigh, Bik tosses Kanna’s knife between her hands and stares at the ground.
“There’s this spirit,” Bik begins, and Kanna’s heart sinks. “None of us know how to deal with it. It comes out every new moon and attacks anyone it can find. I’ve been dealing with the spirit-touch as best I can, but we’ll all be dead by the year’s end if we don’t get rid of it.”
“And you think I can help you because I’m from the Northern Water Tribe?”
Bik smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “That’s my hope, yes.”
Kanna’s gaze drops to the forest floor. The sun streams through the trees, dappling the ground. She doesn’t know if she can help Bik’s village, even if she tries. But if she learned one thing from her mother other than sewing, stories, and her skills with a knife, it’s that if you’re able to help someone, you never turn their back on them. And Bik isn’t wrong; Kanna has communed with more spirits than foreigners back home.
“Fine,” Kanna says, “But you’ll need to repay me accordingly if I succeed.” That isn’t what her mother taught her, but she’s further from home than she’s ever been, and her reserves of coin are dwindling faster than she thought they would. Pure relief flashes across Bik’s face.
“Of course, anything you want,” she replies, grinning. She tosses Kanna’s knife back. Miyuki meows and turns, walking away from the stream. After Kanna sheathes her knives, Bik grabs her hand and drags her forward. They half-run through the forest, and Kanna’s aching feet throb with pain.
“You know, I’m already regretting this,” Kanna says, teeth gritted. Bik just laughs.
Ⅴ: La
Every month the mail ship brings Kanna letters full of news about her grandchildren. The Order responded better than she thought they would, sheltering Sokka, Katara, and Aang without complaint. She pours over every tiny detail, wondering if they’ve gained scars she hasn’t soothed, learned stories she hasn’t told, and cried tears she hasn’t dried.
Bumi’s letter is intelligible, full of wisecracks and tangents. Bik’s is, likewise, a comedy, and only a small portion of it is dedicated to her grandchildren and the Avatar. Wu Shiyun’s is exasperated but fond, and Jeong Jeong’s is written with military precision, laced with a touch of annoyance. The Order has taken care of her small ones well, harbouring and sheltering them, and giving them much-needed guidance. Their childlike innocence shines through the words of her friend’s letters. They’re still young, still full of hope, still silly and ridiculous. Kanna loves it. How her heart aches for Katara and Sokka—while they had to grow up faster than she ever wished, they got to be children with her. In that big, empty, burning world, they have no one but themselves to rely upon.
Ⅵ: Tui
Yutu’s large hand rests on Kanna’s round stomach, touch gentle. She leans into him, head nested in the crook of his neck. It’s been nearly six years since she arrived in the Southern Water Tribe, ready to find home. While her journey is something she’ll always remember fondly, whenever she stopped, a restless ache would fill her. Tui’s pull, drawing her forward. And for the first time in her life, Kanna is at rest.
She keeps in close contact with the friends she made along the way—particularly Bik and Shiyun—and informs her newfound order of the goings on of the Southern Water Tribe. And now that she's settled, letters from home are frequent. Everything she ever could have dreamed of is hers: friends, both near and far, a welcoming home, a loving husband, a child and another on the way.
“Oh, they’re kicking,” Yutu says, grinning over at her. This baby has been far more active than her first, Suagutak, who’s almost at his second birthday. Since she’s due to give birth in the next few months, they’ve been considering names—Hakoda for a boy, and Amka for a girl.
Kanna returns her husband’s smile, placing her hand next to his. “They’re almost ready to come, I can feel it. We’ve only got a few more days of peace and quiet.” Yutu laughs, and kisses her hair.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for the crying,” he admits. “Suagutak has big enough lungs just on his own.” Kanna laughs, and curls closer to Yutu. They’re snuggled in their igloo, furs piled around them. Hama agreed to take care of Suagutak for an afternoon to give the pair of them some peace before the baby comes. Since her arrival in the tribe, Hama has stuck close to her side. They’re nearly inseparable—Hama’s igloo is right next door—and Kanna can’t imagine life without her closest friend. In fact, without her, she never would have met Yutu. Most of Kanna’s happiness here can be attributed to Hama.
Kanna is startled out her thoughts by Yutu’s finger tracing her necklace. “I’ve always wondered why you never take this necklace off. I don’t know why I’ve never asked,” he says. Mouth dry, Kanna considers lying; that it was her mother’s, a family heirloom, a gift from Yugoda, or something of the like. But she and Yutu don’t keep secrets. And besides, it’s unlikely she’ll ever see Pakku again. Seven years have passed since she last saw him, and any love she might have once harboured for him has long faded.
“In the north, we have a tradition. When a man proposes, he gives the woman a necklace. She wears it as a symbol of his love,” Kanna replies, and Yutu looks down at her, eyebrow raised.
“You still wear the symbol of love for a man you haven’t seen in seven years?”
Hand brushing the pendant, Kanna considers how to reply. “Not really. I don’t have much from home, and this is a reminder of why I needed to leave.”
“He was that bad, huh?” Yutu replies, chuckling. Kanna laughs along with him, leaning into her husband’s warmth. This is why she loves him: his geniality, his humor, his love. In many ways, he’s the exact opposite of Pakku. She shouldn’t have predicted anything less, since her betrothal was arranged with politics in mind.
“He was blinded by the society in which we were raised. I don’t blame him, and I hope he doesn’t blame me for leaving,” she says, smile falling. Though Kanna spent her childhood longing for escape, she misses home. The south is similar enough, but still. Her parents and siblings are further from her than she ever thought they would be, only accessible through letters.
Yutu kisses her head gently, sensing her sadness. “Well, I hope he does. That way, he’ll never come chasing after you like a love-sick polar bear puppy, and I can have you all to myself.” Laughing, Kanna turns her face towards him and kisses him softly. When he pulls away, Yutu is grinning, though his eyes are on her necklace. “I might need to make you a new necklace, though.”
“You are ridiculous,” Kanna says, nuzzling her face into his chest. Yutu strokes her hair with a gentle hand.
“I love you,” he replies, and they dissolve into laughter.
Ⅶ: La
Kanna has been anticipating the next letters she receives: two tightly rolled scrolls smelling of salt arrive at her doorway a few months after the departure of her grandchildren and the Avatar. She cracks them both open at the same time, and finds her stomach twisting at the handwriting of the first. It’s steady and controlled, each word measured. Kanna would know that handwriting anywhere, just as Pakku knows hers. Chest tight, she turns to Yugoda’s first.
Yugoda tells a thrilling tale. Katara standing up against the council and challenging a master, Aang offering to give up his position as Pakku’s student for her granddaughter, and Sokka falling head over heels with the princess. The record of the duel is delightful—Katara has always been determined—but it ended in failure. For reasons Yugoda refused to reveal, Pakku decided to take Katara on as a student anyway. The story takes a darker turn after that; black snow, a red moon, La’s retaliation, and Yue’s sacrifice. Kanna remembers that night well. A hollowness had filled her bones, carving out all the life from the place where the moon used to pull her forward. She had collapsed on the ground, hardly breathing, trying to understand why she felt like half a person. Though she has never felt more relief than the moment the moon returned, Kanna mourns for the girl who died. Yue, who, in another life, she might have loved like a granddaughter.
Letter completed, Kanna turns to Pakku’s. It’s thicker than she thought it would be, pages and pages of steady script. A lump is heavy in her throat. He’s only written to her personally twice before, once to beg her return, to which she did not reply, and then next to inform her of her parent’s deaths, which she did respond to, the paper covered with tear stains. That letter arrived before the ones written from both Yugoda and her siblings, and strangely, she had been grateful it was his that she read first. His steady nature but quiet grief had been exactly what she had needed.
This letter is unexpected; since Yugoda can inform her of everything she needs to know, he has no need to write her. But when Kanna starts, she finds it isn’t about her grandchildren at all. It’s an apology.
Ⅷ: Tui
A cold wind whistles around Kanna, biting at her ears. It freezes the tears tracking their way down her face, cold and heavy. She hardly notices, too busy staring at the small boat covered in a soft blue blanket, drifting away on the steel-gray sea. It’s the blanket she and Hama made before her wedding, laughing without a care in the world, embroidering spirits and stars. It’s only fitting that Yutu and Suagutak will lay under it for their final rest.
Hakoda sniffles, pressed up against her side. He’s too old to be clutching her like this, so unlike his usual bravery. But Kanna won’t stop him; he’s witnessed something a child should never see. Suagutak was brutally murdered in front of him because he was a waterbender. Yutu’s death was for the same cause, only he was on the front lines instead of hidden in his home.
“Kanna.” Hama’s voice is shaky, echoing from behind her. She and Yutu were raised together, and they shared a bond unparalleled by any blood relation. “You should come inside.”
Kanna doesn’t move. “Give me this last favour, please,” she manages, though her voice is raw and quiet from the sobbing. She can feel Hama hesitating, then steps behind them, placing a hand on Hakoda’s shoulder and arm around Kanna. They lean into one another, because they’re the only family they have left. Hama’s father died in the war when she was very young, and her mother from illness a few years before. Her siblings have all been captured or disappeared. And Kanna? While this village is her family, everyone she’s held dear—except for the two she’s clutching close—are dead and gone.
First was her baby daughter, Amka, born two years after Hakoda. She was healthy for a month or two, and Kanna has never been as happy before or after. Then, without warning, her baby died. No one knew the cause. Screaming at the moon, throwing herself in the ocean just to feel, the refuge of sleep stolen from her, Kanna was sent into the worst time in her life. It had been at this very spot they had pushed Amka’s boat—so tiny and delicate, crafted by Yutu with weary hands and covered with the baby blanket Kanna had spent months perfecting—out into the ocean for La to find and put to rest. It was here that Kanna had screamed the mourning songs with a raw, haunting voice, that Hama and Yutu had echoed along with her, that her tribe had grieved.
Grief is a familiar thing, now. The raids come often, and every time, they take more lives. Some say that the dead are luckier than the prisoners. Kanna disagrees. Those who’ve lost loved ones to Fire Nation prisons have hope, at least. She has none. Not anymore.
Snowflakes drift down around them, clouds hanging thick and gray overhead. “Why did they have to die?” Hakoda asks, tears pouring down his face. Kanna feels nothing at his question, only emptiness. She knows he needs her, that he needs a mother, but her heart aches. She can’t bring herself to reply. And besides, she doesn’t know the answer.
“Because the world is full of bad people,” Hama says, staring at the boat. “And sometimes awful things happen to people who don’t deserve it.”
“It’s not fair,” he whispers.
“No, it’s not,” Kanna says, drawing her son close to her side. “But we can try to make it right.”
Ⅸ: La
A ramble of children are piled before Kanna, tiny faces filled with excitement. She smiles at each of them in turn, taking in their wide blue, green, and brown eyes. The innocence they hold is well worth protecting, and so Kanna does all she can. Every few mornings, she gathers up the lot of them, relieving their mothers, and tells them stories. Some might call them spirit tales, but she calls them truth.
Kanna opens her mouth to speak, ready to tell the tale of Nukak, the legendary hunter who faced down Koh, when a voice from the wall interrupts her. “Ships! There are ships heading this way.”
A rush of fear sends Kanna’s heart beating wildly, but the nervous, blinking eyes of the children before her bring her back to reality. “To the caves,” she snaps, not caring if she scares them. “Find an elder or two to go with you.” They scramble off, led by the oldest child, who’s nearing nine. After they run off, Kanna stands and walks determinedly to the wall. She climbs up beside Imiq, the woman on watch today. They watch the boats approach, shrouded in mist. They don’t look Fire Nation in design, but with only silhouettes to go by, there’s no telling who it might be.
Anticipation churns in Kanna’s stomach, and beside her, she can feel Imiq’s tension. Most of the scrambling from the village has subsided, but their hiding places are rough in construction and easy to find.
But when the boats emerge from the mist, they’re not enemies, but friends, headed towards them. Boats from the Northern Water Tribe. They’ve hardly changed in design since Kanna last saw them, with perfectly lacquered wood and blue and white designs. A laugh echoes out of her.
“Stand down! They’re friends,” she calls out. Imiq doesn’t relax, and Kanna doesn’t blame her. The people on the ships are strangers, and strangers are dangerous.
The boats dock in their small bay, and Kanna searches the crowd for familiar faces. Most of them are youthful and spry, but there—Pakku. Pressing her gloved hand to her mouth, Kanna tries to steady her breathing. He’s the one person she never thought she would see again, never wanted to see again. And now he’s here, and she can’t deny the glow of happiness flooding her chest. A tear slips down her weathered cheek.
“Kanna!” Pakku cries, rushing towards her, long gray hair streaming out behind him. When he gets to the wall, he bends himself up to her level on a pillar. There, his momentum stops. For a moment, all they can do is stare at one another.
“Pakku,” she finally whispers, and they crash together in a tight embrace. Kanna can feel dozens of eyes on them, including Imiq, but she doesn’t care. Pakku is here, not because he’s trying to take her back, but because he loves her. Because he’s changed.
Pakku’s hand is cradling her head, stroking her hair. “I was so angry when you left. It took me so long to understand, but…” he trails off, and holding her hands in his, pulls back. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too. I’m not sorry I left, but I am sorry you didn’t come sooner,” she says, grinning at him. He grins back, worry melting from his face.
“We’re terrible, aren’t we?” His eyes haven’t once moved from her face, like he’s trying to drink her in all at once. She can’t blame him, since she’s doing the same. A whole lifetime has passed since they’ve last seen one another. Though sorrow and exhaustion line his face, he’s still beautiful.
Smiling, Kanna embraces him again. “Yes, we are.”