Chapter Text
Winter in the south pole is always brutal. The animals are holed up in their dens, and the fish are at the bottom of the ocean, far below the sea ice. The few plants that grow in the harsh climate are hidden beneath a layer of permafrost that only grows thicker during this time of year. And of course, there are the blizzards, impeding their ability to forage, hunt, and fish.
This is the worst year Hakoda can remember. His tribe is starving. The last hunting party he sent out never came back; they found one of them frozen to death out on the tundra, and he imagines that the others have suffered a similar fate. Disease from malnutrition has already taken two of the elderly and one child, and his own daughter has fallen ill.
There is talk of the men leaving to fight in the war once spring arrives. Such a notion is foolish. They will leave their already-vulnerable tribe open to attacks, and without hunters, the difficult recovery will only be made harder.
There’s aren’t many viable options, and he’s thought them through. He could send for aid from their sister tribe, but they are on the opposite side of the world. By the time help arrives, it will already be spring, and there’s no telling if the northerners will want to risk such a journey. Picking up and moving his own tribe to the north pole is an even worse idea. It’s possible that the Earth Kingdom will send aid, but with the war, their resources are in short enough supply as it is, and they’ve already turned him down once.
That leaves him with only one option, one place to turn. He hates it with every fiber of his being, but if it’s a choice between that and watching his people starve, seeing his daughter, the last waterbender they have, wither away of malnutrition — then he’ll do what he must.
He goes alone, taking a boat out to the remote island he’d set up as their meeting place. The Fire Nation warships dwarf his skiff in both size and number; one cuts behind him like a shark tailing its prey, another rests anchored to the seafloor, a sailor up on the mast watching him like a hawk waiting for the right moment to swoop down and make its kill.
As he docks, he thinks about how easily this could go wrong. He could leave his tribe without leadership when they need him the most, and his children without both their parents in the span just a few years. It boils his blood to offer himself up to the people who slaughtered his wife, but if they can save his daughter, then will it cancel out?
Masked guards escort him aboard the ship at the port. As he enters the hulking slab of metal, the cold winter air gives way to a dancing, living heat that he knows all too well. In the bowels of the ship, he finds himself looking at the first face he’s seen all day. The man is in uniform, but he doesn’t wear a mask, glossy black hair pulled back to reveal strong Fire Nation features.
“You must be Chieftain Hakoda,” he says, and for all the warmth in the room, his tone is icy cold, matching the glint in his eyes. “You must know who I am.”
Hakoda searches his face, searching for anything he recognizes. Is this one of the raiders who attacked his village? One of the sailors who ambushed him the time he’d taken his family out on a trip to Whale Tail Island?
Or, La forbid, the man who’d killed his wife?
“Maybe I would if you people didn’t wear those damn masks all the time,” he says, and the man laughs.
“I was told that you have a proposition for me,” he says, brushing past the question of his identity.
He words his sentence carefully, as to downplay the weakness of his tribe. They could easily swoop in and finish conquering him, but he doesn’t want to give them any such ideas. “My people are in need of certain resources, and I believe that we can best attain them from you.”
“And what are these resources?”
But there’s no skirting around how badly they’re hurting. “Food, mainly. Medicine. This winter has been particularly harsh,” he admits.
The soldier doesn’t hesitate. “And how do we benefit from helping you? You know, Chieftain, there’s a reason my father had all the waterbenders killed, but never bothered to claim the Southern Water Tribe as ours. Your territory is useless to us.”
A chill runs through Hakoda’s bloodstream, seeping into his bones. His father…?
Ozai sees the look on his face as he realizes who he’s talking to. “You could stand to show proper respect for your fire lord,” he says.
“Forgive me,” Hakoda says past the sick feeling rising up through his throat. “I didn’t know.”
“I won’t be so lenient next time. Now, tell me, how do you intend to make this worth my while?” Ozai folds his hands and leans back in his seat. He’s not threatened by Hakoda in the slightest, and although they are functionally equals, leaders of their respective nations, he intends to make it exceedingly clear that Hakoda is beneath him.
“I can offer our military services,” he says, and when the words leave his mouth, he feels like he’s made a deal with an evil spirit, one who will twist his words to make them mean whatever he wants. “I believe that we have the element of surprise. No one will expect us to ally with you, so we can infiltrate enemy forces to gather intelligence, or take out unaffiliated forces — pirates and bandits and such — that are a nuisance to your soldiers. There is a wealth of possibilities.”
“I certainly agree,” Ozai says. “I can already think of several tasks for Water Tribe spies. But I must know, Chieftain, how will the rest of your tribe react to the new allegiance you’ve made behind their backs? You came here alone for a reason.”
“They don’t need to know about it,” Hakoda says. “They can believe that both our aid and military orders come from the Earth Kingdom. They are loyal to me. They won’t question my leadership. They’ll do what I say.”
“And you will do what I say,” Ozai affirms.
“I have conditions,” Hakoda says, trying to assert himself despite the poor bargaining chips on his table. “You will give us the aid before we start working for you. Once spring comes and the tribe has stabilized, my men can begin taking assignments. Second, this will not be a permanent arrangement. You will give us food and supplies this one winter, and in turn, we will work for you just for one season.”
Ozai considers it, and Hakoda holds his breath. His throat is dry, and the heat inside the metal boat is starting to make him sweat. He finds that he much prefers the cold.
“You don’t want your tribe to starve, do you?” Ozai asks.
He thinks about his frail mother, shivering by the fire even beneath layers of blankets and parkas while she stirs a thin broth that will barely tide over his family until the next morning. The young men of the tribe, barely more than boys, with their noses and fingertips blackened by frostbite. His best friend Bato, returning from another hunting expedition empty-handed. Katara, once so full of joy and life, spending her days curled up in a motionless ball, delirious and crying for food. His own stomach growls, and suddenly, the stifling heat of the boat is warm, welcome.
“Of course not,” he finally says.
“Then it’s not up to you how long your service lasts,” Ozai replies. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Chieftain Hakoda. You can expect our first shipment tomorrow.”