138 AG — The Northern Water Tribe
In one of the tribe's countless small villages, the world lay frozen in silence. Snow rested undisturbed beyond the settlement, stretched smooth like a held breath.
Lanterns burned low, their glow dim and patient. The wind stirred restlessly, as though the night itself were uneasy.
Inside one of the larger dwellings—dome-shaped, reinforced with ribs of carved wood and sheets of ice fused together by careful hands—a child slept.
He was eight years old.
His bed was small, but warm. Thick layers of fur and woven mats shielded him from the cold, and over him lay a heavy blanket made from polar bear hide. Its weight was comforting—almost suffocating.
His chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. His face, still soft with youth, bore no trace of worry. For a time, all was still.
Then he moved.
It began subtly—his brow tightening, his breath faltering.
His legs twitched beneath the blanket.
His fingers curled, then flexed.
The rhythm of his sleep fractured, turning uneven and strained, as though something unseen had slipped into his dreams without permission.
He tossed and turned.
His hands slipped free of the blanket, pale fingers clutching the edge of the fur as if it were the only thing anchoring him to the world.
Sweat beaded along his forehead, cutting clean paths through the cold air as it slid down his temples.
Ten minutes passed.
It felt like forever, measured by the tightening of his breath and the growing tension in his small body.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
They were not the eyes of a boy waking from a bad dream.
They were wide with shock. With recognition. With disbelief so sharp it bordered on terror.
He inhaled sharply and sat upright, the blanket sliding from his shoulders.
The room came into focus—the curved walls of hide and ice, the dim glow of a low-burning lamp, the familiar patterns carved into the wooden supports.
Familiar.
Too familiar.
He turned his head slowly, scanning the dwelling as if expecting it to dissolve. As if waiting for reality to contradict him.
It did not.
"No…"
His voice was hoarse, fragile—far too calm for the words it carried.
"How…? This can't be…"
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood, the cold biting sharply as his feet met the floor.
His movements grew hurried now—urgent, unsteady—as he crossed the room toward the far wall.
A tall mirror stood there, its frame carved from pale wood, its surface polished smooth and unforgiving.
He stopped before it.
"…Did I go back in time?" he whispered.
"But I swear I died from the explosion…"
The mirror did not argue.
A child stared back.
He was small—wrapped in a thick blue Water Tribe parka trimmed with white fur at the collar and cuffs.
His face was round, untouched by age or scars, baby fat clinging stubbornly to his cheeks. His hair was dark and neatly kept, pulled back from his face—long enough to be styled, but not yet free enough to fall loose around his shoulders.
He raised a trembling hand and touched his face.
Warm.
Real.
His breath caught.
Slowly, he lowered his hand. He straightened, inhaled deeply through his nose, then exhaled with careful control—once, twice—as though soothing something dangerous inside himself.
Then he met his reflection's gaze.
"I don't know how this happened," he said quietly. His voice steadied—cooled.
"But it appears I truly went back in time…"
His right hand rose.
He clenched it into a fist.
"Whatever this is," he continued, teeth tightening, "I'm not going to waste it. No…"
There was no confusion left now.
"This is my second chance to change everything that will happen in the future."
He unclenched his fist.
Red half-moons stained his palm, where his fingers had dug into his skin with unnatural force.
"Tarrlok," he murmured.
"…Mother. And… Father."
The names opened the floodgates.
Memories surged—not gently, not in order, but violently. Like ice breaking apart in dark water.
The brutal training. The fear. The abandonment. The terror of becoming his father. The hunger—the addiction—to power and control. Innocent blood on his hands.
And then—
Korra.
The next Avatar.
The image burned sharp and unmistakable.
"The Avatar," he said, his reflection watching him without blinking.
"Perhaps our next encounter this time will be different…"
...
Two Months Passed
"Noatak! Wait for me!"
A smaller boy—no more than five—struggled through the snow, trying to catch up to the taller figure ahead.
"Tarrlok," Noatak said without turning, his voice calm but firm."You have to hurry. You know how father is."
Tarrlok froze at the thought. Fear flickered across his face—but he shook his head and forced himself forward, legs burning as he chased after his brother.
Their footsteps carried them through the village road, leading away from warmth and safety toward the outskirts.
From a distance, their father waited.
Arms crossed. Back straight. Motionless.
Even from afar, his presence pressed down on them—heavy, menacing in its stillness.
Minutes later, the boys reached him.
"Are you going to keep me waiting all day?!" he barked."Get yourselves together and do what you're told!"
His voice cut through the cold—sharp and unrelenting.
Tarrlok hiccupped softly, shrinking into himself as he buried his face deeper into his parka.
Noatak remained still. His expression was calm, unreadable.
Taqalun.
Once known as Yakone—the former crime lord of Republic City.
He stared at them, ready to unleash more.
Then Noatak spoke.
"Father, it's my fault we arrived late. I'll take responsibility and make up for it."
Yakone froze.
Tarrlok stared at his brother, mouth parted in shock—and shame."Noatak…" he murmured.
Yakone studied Noatak for several seconds before turning away.
"You'd better perform well today," he said coldly."Otherwise, you'll face the consequences."
Tarrlok exhaled in relief, glancing apologetically at Noatak.
"Yes, Father," Noatak replied calmly.
They stood side by side as Taqalun turned his back.
"Follow me," he ordered."It's time to resume your training."
He walked toward the docks. The boys followed in silence.
The village dock was barren.
No villagers. No animals.
Only the sea—broken by endless sheets of drifting ice.
Taqalun gestured toward the water.
"Remember what I taught you," he said."Bend the water and keep it stable for thirty minutes."
"Yes, Father," both answered.
Tarrlok went first.
He extended his arms, face scrunched with effort. The water stirred—ripples forming as a small mass rose, wobbling as it tried to shape itself.
It failed.
The water collapsed, splashing back into the sea.
"Tarrlok!" Taqalun snapped."Shape up, or you'll stay out here all day and night!"
"I—I'm trying—" Tarrlok stammered.
"Try harder!"
Taqalun turned sharply.
"Noatak. Your turn."
Noatak said nothing.
He faced the open sea.
Did not move.
Did not raise his hands.
He only stared.
Then—
The water exploded into motion.
The surface twisted violently, surging upward into a towering column. It slowed, reshaped, compressed—until it became a massive sphere hovering in the air.
Perfect.
Glass-smooth. Completely stable.
Tarrlok stared in horror.
Taqalun froze.
Moments earlier, he had been ready to punish him.
Now he was speechless.
Admiration flickered in his eyes.
Greed followed.
"This changes… everything…" he muttered.
Training had begun only yesterday.
A week earlier, at dinner, he had tested their affinity on a whim. A cup of water. Both boys moved it.
Hope—long buried—had reignited.
His reign. Republic City. Power.
Lost the moment Avatar Aang stripped him of his bending.
He had fled. Changed his face. Found Seya. Found peace.
Or so he thought.
But now—
His son stood before him, holding the impossible.
Excitement surged.
Then realization struck.
"Impossible!" Taqalun hissed."How are you bending without your hands?!"
Noatak hadn't moved at all.
Finally, he spoke.
"Is it supposed to be complicated?"
Taqalun began to shake—anticipation overwhelming him.
This child… is the one.
He laughed—low, then manic.
"HAHAHA! REPUBLIC CITY, JUST YOU WAIT!"
The water sphere crashed back into the sea.
Noatak glanced sideways—just for a moment.
A faint smirk touched his lips.
Then vanished.
"This is just the beginning…" he murmured.
Another month passed.
Night settled over the village.
Training continued beneath Taqalun's watchful eye—but things had changed.
Tarrlok's lessons steadied. Still strict, but lighter.
This was Noatak's doing.
He bore the full weight of expectation—deliberately.
Quietly, carefully, he convinced Taqalun that Tarrlok lacked the same talent.
A mercy.
One he had once wished for.
Now given to his brother.
The results were clear. Tarrlok was brighter. Their mother happier.
The home felt… lighter.
Tarrlok noticed and understood. Gratitude mixed with guilt.
But it wouldn't matter.
Noatak's skill eclipsed everything.
Refined by memories that did not belong to a child.
There was nothing left to teach him.
So Taqalun moved on.
He accelerated the next phase.
...
Two Years Later
Bloodbending.