A/N: This story is just an idea that I thought would be fun to write! I have a corrosive habit of creating OC's, and so I thought I'd take a shot by putting my skills to the test in the Legend of Korra archive! So please let me know what you think of her in terms of being a believable character!

Note: In this story, Amon is not dead—as per the summary. The reason for this will be revealed much later. Also, I will be using his birth name very briefly in this chapter.

Enjoy and please review!

Chapter One - Old Wounds

"Daddy, what are those people doing?"

The man adjusted her tiny body in his arms. "What people, Hana?"

She wriggled in his arms with an impatient huff, and stuck out her arm further to emphasize the point. "There, daddy! Over there!"

Her grip on him tightened slightly, while her other tiny arm was outstretched, one chubby finger pointing toward the park. Following her gaze, they both came to a stop on the busy cobbled street to see a group of people across the way, moving in sync, their hands outstretched and knees bent.

"What, those people over there?"

The tiny girl in his arms nodded frantically. "Who are they, daddy? And why are they dancing funny?" Her tiny nose screwed up at that last part.

A tiny chuckle escaped his lips. "They aren't dancing, Hana. They're bending."

The little girl gasped in awe and moved her cobalt blue eyes moved back to the group of people; young teens, her father silently guessed. Their teacher stood in front of them, watching with a sharp, calculating eye for any mistakes. A few seconds later, a snake-like whip of clear water rose from the pond to their left. It wobbled at first, but became steadier and stronger at the coaxing of the teacher.

The water hovered in the air for a moment longer before falling to the grass with an almighty splash. The tiny girl in his arms squealed in delight, her blue eyes transfixed on the group of waterbenders as if it was the most magical sight she had ever laid eyes upon.

"Daddy, I want to be a bender."

A spoonful of food came to an abrupt halt, scant inches from his mouth. At the same time, a loud clatter resounded from the sink. The room then fell dead silent; the young girl oblivious to the tense looks her parents exchanged.

"Hana, we've been through this…" he started wearily, placing his spoon down and pinching the bridge of his nose. Ever since she had spotted that display in the park all those weeks ago, she had been blathering on and on, non-stop, about how amazing it was, and how she wanted to become the best of the best.

While he admired his daughter's inherited fierce nature and determination, parenting duties always came first, however inexperienced he may be on the latter.

"You are not allowed to be a bender, Hana; we've discussed this. The answer is still no."

Normally, speaking so harshly to another person never caused him any concern for others, but when it came to his beloved daughter, he had to push down the uncomfortable lump that rose in his throat that came with seeing her absolutely crestfallen.

"But, daddy…"

"Listen to your father, Hana," her mother spoke sternly.

Glistening blue eyes beamed up at him. They were round, soft, and damned near impossible to resist. "But—"

"—Hana," he cut in sharply, flashing her a glare. The tiny girl went rigid, as if she had just been struck. And by the way her gaze went wide before falling to her lap in dismay, he might as well have hit her instead; the pain on her face was too much to bear as a father.

He sighed. "Finish what is on your plate and then go straight to bed. I don't want to hear anymore talk on bending—is that clear?"

Hana flinched when her father's palms came into sharp contact onto the table with a loud bang. The cutlery clattered, the plates wobbled and the glasses clinked together. Slowly, cautiously, she looked up from her breakfast and saw a look of utter disgust plastered all over her father's angular face.

"What's the matter?" she asked, recoiling slightly.

Instead, he said nothing. His nostrils were flared and his brow was set in a hard scowl; he suddenly shot straight up out of his seat, its legs scraping harshly against the floor, and exited the room in a hurry. Grabbing his coat, Hana flinched again when she heard the door slam hard, causing the very walls to reverberate in his wake.

In front of her beside her father's unfinished plate was the local newspaper. Its normally smooth surface was crumpled and slightly torn from the death grip of her father's hands.

Reaching over, she gathered the paper in her hands and quickly scanned it to find out what had gotten her father's feathers so ruffled. Right on the front page was a huge spread that detailed the death of a shopkeeper and his wife after they were robbed and murdered by a gang rogue benders. The black and white image depicted what was left of the quaint little shop; shelves, papers, and food that were scattered and burnt all over the place.

Placing the paper down, Hana sighed.

A loud crash from the far side of the house jolted Hana from her sleep. Her hand instinctively reached for the kitchen knife she kept under her pillow, when the sound was quickly followed by heated arguing.

Sighing to herself, Hana replaced the knife back in its hiding place and threw back the covers. Rubbing her eyes, she glanced at the analogue clock on her bedside table. It read somewhere in the early hours of the morning.

Through the crack of her door, she could make out the voices of her parents; their voices low and hurried. She could only make out bits and pieces of conversation, but it was all the same.

Her parents fought constantly now. They never used to fight, she remembers. They loved one another, and never spoke ill of anything or anyone – especially not each other. But lately, all they seemed to do was fight. They would always assure her that nothing is wrong, that everything is fine, but deep down, it Hana knew it never was.

Despite being young, she could detect the harbored tension between the two; the way they chose their words carefully, the way one of them would leave the room when things were just about to go awry—and what hurt the most was how Hana noticed her father forgetting to kiss her mother on the cheek when he left for work in the morning.

Sometimes, she could hear her mother cry. They weren't tears of sadness, but of frustration and hopelessness. Hana was desperate to help, but was constantly warned to stay out of the way.

Another loud crash caused Hana to jump. Quickly, she scrambled to her feet and quietly crept out into the hallway. The dim glow of the kitchen light spilled through the hallway, lighting her path so she wouldn't crash into anything.

Inch by inch, she crept on her toes to the archway that separated the hallway from the kitchen. She stopped, hoping they wouldn't hear her. She held her breath and listened.

"You must stop this foolishness, Noatak, before it gets out of hand!" she heard her mother hiss.

Shuffling.

"I am afraid I cannot do that."

Hana hated the finality and tone of his voice. She had never heard her father speak like that before—to anyone. It sent cold chills racing up and down her spine.

Silence.

"Noatak, please," her mother begged, louder this time. "This isn't right!"

"What is right and what is wrong is exactly what I am fighting for. Do you not understand this? Republic City needs me. The world needs me."

"Your family needs you!" her mother wailed, careless of the fact that they were supposed to be arguing quietly. "I need you," her voice croaked, muffled by choked sobs.

Silence.

Her father's tone was softer this time. "I ask you not to sway me. I ask you not to become angry with me. All I ask is that you understand me, Kira."

"And what the hell is there to understand, Noatak?! You kill innocent people! You take away their bending and then you end their lives! How can I possibly understand any of that?!"

Hana's blood froze.

Was this true? Did her father kill innocent people? Her hands began to tremble as tears prickled in the corners of her eyes. Her father – the gentle man who would read her bedtime stories when she was sick? Her father – the man who would carry her on her shoulders when she was too short to see?

No!

It couldn't be true! Her father would never harm another human being! Hana refused to believe it, and before she knew what she was doing, she leapt from her hiding spot and into the kitchen. She ran full pelt and crashed into her father's legs, wrapping her tiny arms around them and holding on for dear life.

"Please, stop fighting!" she cried through her muffled tears. "Please! Just stop it!"

Silence befell the room, save for the little muffled cries that came from his leg.

"Hana!" her mother cried out, surprised. "What are you doing out of bed?"

It took a few seconds for Hana to collect herself. Her shoulders were shaking slightly, and the sobs became more choked and unbearable to tolerate.

Her father carefully crouched down and pried his daughter's tiny arms from around his leg. Her eyes were still shut tight, tears streaming down her round cheeks and dripping off the end of her slightly upturned nose.

"Hana, don't cry, please," he soothed, running the pads of his thumbs across her cheeks to wipe up the tears. His words only made her cry more. Her shoulders quaked and a loud wail retched itself from her throat as she flung her tiny arms around him, silencing her cries in the crook of his neck.

"Hana, I have a special job for you to do."

Blue eyes glanced up at him. Something akin to worth swelled in her chest, and she could not help the smile that graced her lips. It was such a rarity nowadays that her father asked anything of her; he was always so preoccupied with his own dealings that Hana sometimes wondered if she ever still existed in his eyes.

"What is it?" she pressed as she neared the edge of her bed, trying not to sound too eager.

"I… I need you to wake me up tomorrow morning, okay? Can you do that for me, Hana?"

Her smile faltered slightly at such an odd request, but she was happy nonetheless. Maybe he was finally starting to take an interest in her. Maybe she could eventually show him how well she was progressing in school. Maybe all of her hard effort would finally pay off if he just paid a little more attention to her.

"Uh, sure, daddy."

He turned to her, and for the first time in a long time, he smiled back at her. His big hand came forward to ruffle her hair the way he used to before he and her mother started fighting. She missed the feeling, and so, craned her head on an angle so she could revel in the feeling a little longer.

"Good girl. Five-thirty, okay?"

Had she been paying attention, Hana would have seen the wetness in his eyes.

"Okay daddy!"

Excitement could not even begin to describe what Hana was feeling. She was a bubble of insurmountable joy, bobbing on the edge of her bed with blue eyes transfixed on the two black hands of her bedside clock.

It was set for five-thirty exactly. Hana made sure of that at least a dozen times before setting the small contraption back on the table. She was clad in her favourite pink pajamas with a little black coat and matching mittens.

Outside it was snowing, and Hana made sure she rugged up before the time came to wake her father up. In the back of her mind, she wondered what important business her father had to have him waking up at such an early hour.

But that didn't matter to Hana. All she was happy about was finally becoming clear in her father's eyes once again. These days, her parents barely spoke to one another. They never fought anymore. Hana wasn't sure what had stopped the fighting, but she was thankful for it nonetheless.

Blue eyes darted back to the clock, and her heart fluttered with excitement. It was nearing five-thirty; in about three minutes, her clock would buzz, and she would race to her father's room and wake him, just like he asked.

Her bouncing became more excited.

Two more minutes.

On the bed beside her was a neatly piled collection of her most recent school work, all marked with red ink that proudly stated her perfect scores in almost everything, from mathematics to art. Because Hana wasn't a bender like most of the other kids at school, she had more time to throw herself into her schoolwork and improve, both in her abilities and in her chances to impress her father.

Fifty seconds.

Hana had to suppress a squeal that threatened to tear its way out. Blue eyes watched, transfixed on the skinniest hand as it slowly ticked its way around the clock's face. Her excitement grew tenfold as the tiny hand flicked past each number.

Finally, the skinny hand reached the very top, and Hana slammed her hand down on the button before the alarm had the chance to ring shrilly. Leaping from the bed, she had to turn back once she had reached the door, almost forgetting her papers that she had spent all afternoon organizing.

Bounding down the hallway, Hana entered her father's room. Slowly, she pushed open the door and crept to his bedside. Her bright smile faded when she peered over the edge to see her father's side completely empty, the sheets perfectly made and tucked in where his form should have been sleeping.

Hana blinked.

Her mother was still asleep on the other side, her back turned to Hana. Her chest fell in even breaths. Confused, Hana looked around.

Was she late?

No, she couldn't be.

Glancing at her father's bedside clock, it read the same time hers did; five-thirty on the dot. Looking around, Hana quickly made haste to the adjoining bathroom. The door creaked open to reveal absolutely nothing but darkness.

Something wasn't right. A cold feeling settled in Hana's chest as she looked around the bathroom one last time.

A muffled sound from the kitchen caught her by surprise. Quickly, she closed the bathroom door, exited her parent's room and headed down the hallway to the kitchen. As she turned the corner, her smile returned when she spied her father's figure standing by the counter, his back turned to her.

Keeping herself hidden behind the wall, Hana watched intently as her father heaved his pack onto his shoulder and exited the kitchen; passing her on the way as if she wasn't even there, not even sparing a glance back as he reached the front door.

Hana's heart dropped into her stomach.

"… Daddy?"

He didn't seem to hear her. Instead, his hand reached for the doorknob. Grasping it, the door was noiselessly pulled open. Hana was about to call out again when he hesitated, cocked his head to the side, and spoke.

"I tried, Hana."

And with that, he was gone, the front door clicking shut behind him.

"Hana."

Eyelids fluttered as if stunned, and the room slowly came back into focus. Looking around, the sunlit kitchen dissolved to give way back to the dirty brick wall she had been facing. The gruff voice called out once more, and she immediately picked herself up off of the mattress and headed into the next room. The floorboards creaked and groaned in protest underneath her weight, where she took each stride with a cautious confidence.

Reaching a door, she halted for a mere second, breathing in the deep, musty scent of the cracked brickwork around her. She knew very well what awaited her on the other side of that door, but as to why the way the weight on her shoulders suddenly intensified was something that was better left in the dark.

Hana didn't even try to fool herself into believing that her actions were out of loyalty, or even out of love, not even in the slightest.

The latch on the door was released, and Hana carefully made her way across the room. With a heavy breath, she let the door click close behind her. A small bed lay to the left where he lay, his large frame like a silhouette against the dim candles that flickered and danced in the dark.

She approached him. "Yes?"

No response was given as he curled his large fingers under the hem of his tattered shirt, which had received some fresh holes and tears, and pulled it over his head. His oily and sweat-matted hair clung to the sides of his face, his skin slightly dirty and flushed. The shirt was then discarded, and Hana immediately went to retrieve it.

Folding it up, she gently placed it on the small table beside her, making a mental note to sew it up later on. The man simply sat there in the bed, his form still and shoulders rigid. A small, cracked porcelain bowl was pulled out from underneath the bed, and with a wave of her hand, droplets formed in the damp air and fell like rain underneath the power of her fingers.

Taking a thick wrist into her hand, she placed her index and middle finger on the undersides of his wrist and counted his heartbeats. She felt the vein throb evenly, albeit a little faster than her own, underneath the pads of her fingers, and she placed his arm back by his side.

"You mustn't strain yourself," Hana murmured softly as she placed her hand into the porcelain bowl while surveying his body. Her hand then began to glow, and the water encompassed it like a glove.

He did not answer as Hana placed her cold hand against his hot skin. Moving her hand across his back, she felt him relax underneath her touch, a long breath escaping his lips.

Hana did not speak, and simply went about her duty, letting the water sink in to his scarred skin and feeling the very fibers of his muscles knit back together. She let her slender fingers run over the countless white lines that looked like jagged lightning against his tanned skin. She remembered healing this one, she mused softly, as her index finger brushed over a particularly large and ugly one.

She remembered the blood – so much blood – that she had relentlessly scrubbed off of his body and out of his clothes until they were clean again. But even now, she could still feel the sticky, warm liquid coating her hands whenever she touched his clothing. It clung to the insides of her nostrils, hot and metallic, pushing her near the edge of insanity.

Almost losing herself to the dark thoughts once more, the man's impatient grunt jerked her back to reality. Shaking her head, Hana placed her hand in the bowl once more, watching as the liquid glowed and warped its way around her hand. She rested her hand on his back again, letting the water sinking into his pores to heal the muscles.

The heat that radiated from his skin was unbelievable, even for a waterbender, and was the sure sign of an encroaching fever. Hana would need to work fast in order to fight it. Attaining more water, she began to intensify the healing process, ignoring the obvious strain it put on herself.

Looking up, pale blue eyes landed on the man's face. His features were set into a hard frown, tight, as if thinking, plotting; his gaze distant.

Once the healing was finished, Hana placed the empty bowl back underneath the bed and reached for his shirt. To her surprise, the man's burly hand had grabbed it before hers even had a chance to.

Hana looked up, confused. She merely regarded him and held her tongue as he slipped on the tattered shirt, a tunic, and a black scarf that was wrapped around to cover the bottom half of his face.

"Do not leave this house for any other reason. I will return late tonight."

And with that, the bedroom door clicked shut behind him, drowning out his heavy footsteps as he left. Hana took a deep, shaky breath and sighed heavily. Her shoulders – usually tensed – finally slackened as she ran a shaky hand through her brown hair, ending with a fierce rub on the back of her neck.

Beside his bed was a rickety chair with a half stitched shirt hung limply over the back, the thin needle glinting in the candle light. Hana found herself standing to her feet and taking the seat once more, gently picking up the shirt. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling in her hands and the way her heart rate spiked, Hana picked up where she left off.

Holding the shirt in one hand, her attempt seemed near impossible to get the shirt back to its former glory. It seemed useless if it were any other shirt, really, but this shirt held a significance that she just could not abandon.

Picking up the needle between her fingers, she continued to sew up the tear near the left side of the rib cage. The shirt would never be whole again, and once more, the small part of her just begged her to throw it away and purchase another. He was so preoccupied these days that he probably would never notice. But the fear she still held for him stopped her every time.

Hana could not remember a time where she did not fear him.

He was always so cold, so calculating, that it seemed as if he did not care what happened to her one way or another. She always felt that she was constantly in his way and more of a hindrance. But despite this, he still kept her just within reach, never letting her travel too far. It was always strange to Hana why he did this. But rather than question his motives, she simply accepted it, and eventually, she had fallen into a state of submission.

It was difficult, sometimes. The man was practically made of steel; his walls impenetrable.

At least, that was what she had always thought.

She remembers the blood once more, its thick texture covering every surface, sticking to her body and drowning her, pulling her down into the blackened abyss – choking her. It clung to her, digging its claws into her skin, never leaving her, no matter how hard she had scrubbed.

Hana's teeth ground together as hot tears of frustration threatened to spill. Her grip on the fabric intensified to the point where her knuckles burned white. Her nose stung hotly, and with a few calming breaths, she managed to release the shirt and let her hands fall to her lap.

She knew that her tie to him was unshakable.

Their fates were intertwined, whether she wanted to believe it or not. He was as much a part of her as she was of him. Truth proved that bonds could never really be broken, and Hana suddenly felt sick to her stomach. It seemed as if she was never going to get away from him. He was always there, always watching.

Hana stopped in he tracks, blue gaze lost to the candles that dotted the walls. Her eyes then fell to the mattress beside her, remembering all the times she thought he would not wake – that he could have suffered something internally and died while she was in the other room sleeping. That was why Hana had constantly found herself sitting by his bedside with every spare moment she had, struggling to keep her eyes open.

The fabric then fell to her lap, quickly forgotten.

Something in her chest tightened, and her head found its way into her awaiting palms, her long brown hair falling over her shoulders and obscuring her view. What had she been thinking? Why was she doing this? A lump – so achingly familiar – knotted deep within her stomach, still so painfully fresh from all those years ago.

But time was supposed to heal all wounds, wasn't it?

However, time never quite seemed to heal hers completely. The wicked fangs of her deep seeded hatred for him continued to wash through her as the old wounds stung in the still red corners of her heart, searing into her soul, scarring it just like the countless scars that marred his skin.

Hana cursed aloud, picking up the shirt and heaving it aside with as much strength as she could. Her anger deepened when the shirt failed to reach the wall, and instead, fell limply to the dirty floor. Clenching her eyes shut, she cried aloud as, hot, frustrated tears crawled down her cheek, one after the other, tearing their way through her dirty face.

What had she been thinking?

No matter how much Hana denied it, no matter how many times she repeatedly mumbled it under her breath with eyes shut tight, facts still remained facts.

Hana was harboring a thought-to-be-dead criminal of the country.