Arashi sat on his bed. The wooly blanket beneath his uncovered hands itched and felt much too rough to ever sleep on. And yet night after night he found comfort under these coarse layers of fabric. The light was too bright. It was too warm. He knew he was being hypersensitive, but today was the ninth anniversary of the day his father, Jacen, had not returned from war. In the pockmarked off-white wall he could see his father's dancing hazel eyes. He could still recall their last conversation:

"B-but," Nine-year-old Arashi sniffled, wiping his eyes, "I wanna come with you! I don't want you to go alone!"

"I won't be alone. Your uncle will be here, and all the men of the village..." Jacen bent down, stroking his son's hair. "What's wrong?"

"I'm scared for you!" sobbed Arashi, flinging himself into his dad's arms. "I don't want you to die!"

"Arashi. Look at me." He son obeyed. "You need to be brave for me, okay? You have to promise to take care of your little cousin. You're going to be the man of the house while we're gone."

"I promise."

"It's going to be okay. Don't be in such a hurry to grow up. You'll be a man soon enough."

Yeah, well too late for that, Dad, Arashi thought bitterly, feeling the stubble on his chin - he'd quit shaving a month ago. He lay back on the bed, squinting out the window. The weather had been unfailingly sunny all week - an ironic counterpart to his grim mood. There was a stained-glass boat dangling in the window. His father had taught him how to sail a fishing vessel. He'd stuck with the hobby even after he and Tora, his younger cousin, left to settle in the Fire Country.

The door creaked open. Only one person came into his room without knocking.

"Tora?"

He listened to her shut the door and come over to his bed, blocking out the sparkly sunlight. Her face was concerned.

He sat up and regarded his cousin. Tora's shaggy black hair - almost identical in texture to his - framed her dark golden face and fell in an unruly ponytail down her back. She had a slightly more angular jawbone, a narrower nose, and darker skin than him. Arashi touched the indent of his nose and brow. "Look." He reached over to the table and picked up a necklace. It was a cord of leather strung through a pair of wolves' teeth. He slipped it on. "This was my dad's."

She nodded mutely. Somehow she could say more with her silences. 

"Why did he tell me it was going to be okay?" Arashi whispered, mostly to himself. "It wasn't. It's not. He's dead." His voice cracked painfully on the last syllable. "I hate him. I hate him." That wasn't true, but Arashi was angry.

"He didn't want you to worry," ventured Tora softly. Arashi felt the familiar enmity that her father, Mano, had survived, and his hadn't boiling in him.

"Well, that's easy for you to say, isn't it?" he snarled. "Your dad is alive!"

Tora's eyes were chips of ice. They were the only sign of anger in her otherwise neutral expression. "You know what?" she said flatly, sliding off the bed, "Jacen deserves more respect than you're giving him."

"Go away, Tora," he ordered, falling back on the sheets even as she shut the door. An immense wave of guilt rose up in him, making his eyes water. I'm so sorry, Dad...