The Southern Water Tribe rarely saw storms of such fury. The sky itself seemed to churn with rage, the moon glowing like a pale eye staring through the storm. Waves smashed against the glacial shore, spraying shards of frozen seawater into the air. The villagers huddled inside their igloos, whispering prayers to Tui and La—the Moon and Ocean spirits—hoping their wrath would pass.
But not all were afraid.
At the edge of the village, inside a small igloo built from whale bone and snow-brick, a woman labored through her final pains. The healer and the midwife exchanged worried glances; the wind howled so loud it drowned out the mother's screams. The igloo trembled with every gust, as if the world itself awaited the child's arrival.
"Hold on, Isira," the healer whispered, gripping the woman's trembling hand. "The storm will pass soon."
Isira barely heard her. Her vision going dark with pain again and again, the world reduced to the rhythm of her heartbeat and the roaring outside. Then, with one last cry, half agony, half triumph, the storm seemed to fall silent for an instant.
A child's wail broke the air.
The healer froze. The cry was strong—stronger than any she'd ever heard—and as she lifted the newborn toward the flickering lamplight, the flames dimmed. Outside, the blizzard shifted direction, swirling in a spiral that mirrored the movement of the ocean under a full moon.
The wind sang.
And the moon above burned brighter, its silver light piercing the clouds to touch the newborn's face.
He was named Isaruq, meaning "one born of the sea's fury."
That night would be remembered for generations: the storm that bowed before a child. The elders called it an omen. They whispered of a spirit-touched boy. And those who were wise said "Tui and La have blessed him."
But for his mother, Isira, the storm was not a prophecy, it was a promise. She held him close that night as the wind calmed, humming lullabies from her childhood, songs of the moon's light dancing on still waters. Her husband, Toruq, had been lost to the Fire Nation months ago, but Isira whispered to her son as if his father could hear.
"You'll be strong enough to protect us, my little wave," she said softly. "Strong enough to stand against any fire."
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Year One
Isaruq grew as the sea did—calm one moment, fierce the next. His laughter filled the icy air, his cries echoed through the frozen ridges. The tribe adored him, even when his temper caused tiny frost crystals to form in the air.
Elders claimed the spirits had marked him. Children followed him like duck-pups, though none could match his stubbornness. He had his mother's eyes, deep ocean blue, but the wild streak of the sea's unpredictability shimmered behind them.
At night, Isira told him stories of Tui and La's dance. How the moon guided the ocean, and the ocean, in turn, obeyed the moon. She said the world needed balance. But the boy's favorite part was always when the ocean fought back.
"Can the ocean ever defeat the fire?" he once asked.
Isira smiled sadly. "The ocean can drown fire, but only if the moon stands beside it."
He didn't understand then. But he remembered the way her voice trembled.
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Year Three
By the time he was three, Isaruq could walk the frozen plains beyond the tribe's walls, clutching his carved whale-bone toy spear. The world was vast—white, endless, unforgiving. His mother warned him never to wander too far, for the Fire Nation still patrolled the southern seas, raiding villages for resources and benders.
He saw his first Fire Nation ship that winter—a dark silhouette on the horizon, sails black against the snow. He remembered the sound of his mother's voice calling him back to the igloo, fear hidden beneath calm. The tribe gathered in silence that night, waiting for the storm to pass, but the storm did not come.
The Fire Nation did.
The raid came without warning. Fire cut through the ice, lighting the world in red and gold. Villagers shouted, children screamed, and warriors rushed to the sea with spears that hissed as flames licked them.
Isira hid her son beneath a pile of furs, her breath shaking. "Don't come out until it's quiet," she whispered, brushing his hair from his forehead. "Remember what I said, little wave, the moon watches. The ocean remembers."
He wanted to stay with her, to be brave like the warriors, but she pressed a kiss to his cheek and ran toward the smoke. The last thing he saw through the flap of the tent was her figure, outlined by firelight—blue parka against a sky bleeding orange.
The world became noise.
Crackling fire. Screams. The thunder of ice splitting apart. Then, a silence that cut deeper than sound.
When Isaruq emerged, dawn had come. The village was half in ruins. The snow was stained black and red. He stumbled through the wreckage calling for his mother, his small hands trembling, his voice cracking.
He found her near the edge of the shore, half-buried beneath snow and ash. Her body was still. The air around her smelled of smoke and salt.
He did not cry at first. He only knelt beside her, staring at the way the morning light glimmered off her hair. Then he lifted his face to the sea and screamed.
The water answered.
The sea water started rising, water answered to his anger and grief started rising, the snow around him started melting. After decades the waterbending happened in the South Pole. The first waterbender seen in decades in South Pole. But no one saw it, no one will know of it, no one but Isaruq.
Isaruq collapsed beside his mother's body, exhausted from his chi being drained. The tribe's elder, Ataq, approached, founding the boy unconscious, laid a fur cloak over the child. His eyes were sad and sympathetic for the child who lost both his parents to Fire Nation. He brought him inside the village to rest.
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Isaruq POV
The days that followed were quiet ones, outwardly, at least. The Fire Nation raids grew less frequent, the tribe smaller but harder. They rebuilt what they could, strengthened their walls, and buried their dead beneath the ice.
Isaruq grew silent after that night. His dreams became plagued with visions. Visions of another world. He started remembering his last life. Nothing much, he didn't remember his name or family, but he remembered the various fiction he has read and seen. And from there he remembered the world he has been transmigrated to. The world of Avatar: The Last Airbender. He understood the world he is in is not fiction anymore. He knows there would be death and losses in it.
He was taken in by Bato as his adopted son after that day, a warrior of his village and a friend of the new village chief, Hakoda. He decided to start training for the day when he would take the fight to the Fire Nation to have his revenge for his parents. Yes, parents, because they were his parents, they raised him, fed him and protected him. His father may have died before he was even born, but he died so that one day he would not have to see the ugly face of this war. Unfortunately, he failed.
He found a scroll in the few items of his father his mother kept when looking through their igloo-hut, when he was moving in with Bato. She never let him see them, sometimes she would bring out an item to show him but never let him look there. The scroll was about how to train waterbending and its basics. From the note attached to the scroll it belonged to his grandfather, who was a waterbender. He prepared the scroll in case he died, as Fire Nation kept raiding their lands, and his son who was a kid at that time turned out to be a waterbender, which sadly he was not, but now it will come in use for his grandson, Isaruq. He decided to start training his waterbending from that day onwards. Thankfully, one of the few things he remembered from previous life was Tai Chi. Not the one taught as a yoga, but the real deal. He was a martial arts fan in his last life and had heard about it from an MMA teacher, who was complaining how Americans have perverted the real martial arts as just another yoga exercise. So, he set about learning the real deal.
Now that is gonna help him since the martial arts technique of both the tribes is similar to Tai Chi, and from what he remembers, the same is used in water bending. As he could not learn to wield weapon right now at his meager age of 3, he would have to make do with this. But he could not be seen by anyone learning waterbending, disappearing for hours to practice would not do either. 'Hmm! I will have to train at night when everyone is asleep. We waterbender draw our power from moon, so we are stronger at night. That is going to help me.' Isaruq thought.
He watched the horizon as sun set, where the dark line of the sea met the stars, and swore silently to the moon that once he was strong enough, he would never let another Fire Nation ship reach their shores unchallenged. Not only their shores but any nations coast. No longer will a nation try to conquer and subjugate others and call it world peace. And for that every nation needs to be strong but the Fire Nation needs to be weakened.