Disclaimer: I don't own Legend of Korra, or any of the characters used in this fic. They all belong to Michael DiMartino and Bryan Konietzeko. I only own any of my original characters that I choose to include, as well as any of my own original plot ideas.

Fool That I Am

A/N: Pre-series; a follow-up to Noatak leaving the Northern Water Tribe; may contain spoilers for those who have not seen the season finale.

They were wicked thoughts, those that pervaded his head. He ought not have entertained them, even once. No longer could he be pure as the snows of his homeland, the snows that his mother had such a fondness for. Even knowing this, knowing how wretched he had become, Noatak let those ideas stay.

He had meant to kill his father, hoped that he had. Suffering at his father's hand for so long, he felt no remorse in his intentions, in his actions.

But, in all that time beind perfected, being molded and crafted into his father's tool of vengeance, the man's teachings had begun to sink in, to become a part of him.

Gradually, he had grown to hate the Avatar, the benders who had served alongside him to bring such misery to his father's life. But it was not for that glacier of a man that he hated them. No, Noatak hated them for the tragedies they had helped bring upon himself and his brother. Without the Avatar's interference, they could have lived a peaceful life in their white Northern world, free from the coils of hell.

Despite his best efforts to kill, to protect himself and Tarrlok, one so powerful and headstrong as their father could not have died so easily.

He had been filled with hatred for so long, and still his resolve to act for himself had failed him.

Even traversing the winter storm, huddled tightly within a makeshift shelter of snow and stone, Noatak knew that the memory would stay with him. Watching his brother fighting his grasp, his small frame twisted and immobile like the beasts of the icy terrain, would haunt him. And Tarrlok's wide, blue eyes, pleading with him at the end of their suffering.

Those eyes of his had spoken volumes.

"Please, don't leave."

His hands, covered by thick fur mittens, tightened beneath his folded arms, eyes dull and narrowed in shame and anger.

How wrong he'd been to leave Tarrlok there, perhaps to endure even more anguish. But this time, he would be all alone.

Were he to become a strong enough man, perhaps the Spirits would grant his wish. Perhaps they would light his brother's path, and allow them to meet once again.