Disclaimer: Look, you know the drill. It's not mine.
Between Humanity and Savagery
The handling of this situation was unusual. Field medics on the warfront were generally capable enough at saving soldier's lives, and when they couldn't, it wasn't as though delaying treatment and shipping them all the way back to the Fire Nation would be helpful. So, wounded soldiers were not generally brought back to the homeland for care, unless they were so badly mangled that they needed to retire.
But this was something new, something that hadn't been attempted before. And with such a promising young captain badly wounded, it was worth the time and effort to try.
When they brought her through the door, the captain was lying on his back on the cot. The guards had scrounged up a passable blanket and pillow, and found a private room, but it was quite obviously makeshift. The prison wasn't built for comfort.
As for the woman, she was a mess. Her black hair was long and knotted into a single matted burl, her eyes were sunken, and her skin looked sickly even in the candlelight. It was obvious from the look on her face that she had no idea what she was doing there.
The guard accompanying her raised his arm, and she flinched, but he was only pointing at the captain, who was looking at her with a mildly curious expression. He'd never seen a woman like her before.
The medic by the captain's side gently rolled up the blanket covering the captain's legs. His right leg was held together by bandages, obscuring the wounds. "Crushed," said the medic. "By a boulder. We would amputate, normally."
The woman's grey-blue eyes flicked rapidly from the medic to the guard to the captain, then fixated on the floor. "I can't help you." Her voice was scratchy and low.
"You can," said the medic, firmly. "And you will."
The woman was placed before the captain, and the medic produced a bowl of water.
Almost instantly, the woman's entire demeanor changed. She straightened, her hands became fists, and her hollow eyes lit up.
"No," said the guard, and pressed the sharp end of a spear against the small of the woman's back. She froze.
"You should heal him," said the medic quietly.
The woman stared at the bandaged leg, then slowly, carefully, her face a mask of yearning, she drew the water from the bowl, and pressed it to the leg.
"You don't even want to see the wound?" the medic sounded surprised.
"I don't need to." The woman's voice was stronger, as if by merely bending the water she was quenching some deep thirst.
"It's broken," she said.
"Yes," said the medic. "That is apparent."
"In fourteen places."
The medic's eyebrows rose. "You can tell that?"
"Yes." The woman's eyes had gone dull again.
They all watched the woman intently, none more so than the captain himself, who had not uttered a word.
Finally, after several long moments, the woman said; "I can't heal it."
"Why?" asked the medic. "Why not? Do you need herbs? Or medicine?"
"No, just pure water." The woman looked at the medic, and spoke blandly. "I can't heal it because it's already healed."
"Impossible! This man could lose his leg!"
"How long did you have him before bringing him here?"
"It took a few weeks to transport him home. Why?"
"Because the bones have already started to heal. Heal wrong. If you want me to fix his leg," now there was something in the woman's voice that felt like blizzards. "You will have to break it again."
There was a moment of silence, and the guard tightened his grip on the spear.
"…I see." Said the medic. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." The ice in her voice had not melted.
The medic inhaled with a hiss. "I see." He nodded at the guard, who took her by the arm and led her away without a word.
Even from down below, in the rotten, rat-infested cages, she liked to think she could hear the captain screaming.
The next day was the same. The medic, the guard, the clean water, offered to her like milk to the spirits. And, like the spirits, she could not drink.
The captain looked worse for wear. He was perspiring heavily, and even his golden eyes seemed to have lost some of their luster. Still, he held his head up, and met her gaze.
The woman sat down. There were no bandages this time. The leg had been re-broken, though it had been set back straight for her to work. The whole limb was swollen to several times its normal size, and was blushed and bruised with red and purple.
The woman took the water from the bowl, and put her hands on the leg.
For the first time, the captain made a sound. It was a yelp of pained surprise, and the medic gripped his shoulder, in case he would need to hold the man down. But the expression on the captain's face soon went from agony to relief, then to wonder.
Hours passed. The guards changed shifts. The woman never left, never asked for anything else. The captain even drifted off to sleep with the woman healing his leg.
Eventually, she was taken away, and down, wiping her hands on her soiled shirt.
Days passed before he was able to walk. It wasn't much, just a few shaky steps. But he could. He could walk.
"What is your name?" he asked, during one of their last healing sessions.
"Why do you care?" It was an honest question.
"You saved my leg. My career. Your water has brought me my life back. I can go to war again."
"And for that," replied the woman, teeth bared in a snarl. "I should die a thousand times over."
It wasn't until much later, after his skin had aged and his topknot had long been undone, that he saw her again.
Her white hair was long and knotted into a single matted burl, her eyes were sunken, and her skin looked sickly even in the lantern-light. Her arms were bruised, her hands shackled to the wall. But her eyes were fierce, defiant.
"Come to take a look at the witch?" She didn't recognize him.
"No," he said. "I have come to see how water can destroy, as well as fire."
"Any element can destroy," she scoffed. "Thinking otherwise is naive."
He paused. "The war is over."
"The war is never over."
"It is true that in the spirit of a soldier, it never ends. But there is a new Fire Lord, and my Order has taken back Ba Sing Se. It is over as much as it ever will be."
The woman's face contorted, bringing out its lines more sharply. "Your Order can take back Ba Sing Se, but can it take back the lives and culture of my people? Can it take back the lost years? Can it take back the death and the suffering?" She could feel the humidity in the air, the moisture prickling on her skin. Her fingers twitched.
"No, it cannot. They have been thrown into the fire, and nothing, no healing and no destruction, can bring them back."
The woman looked at him, then. He thought he might see doubt, but perhaps it was his imagination.
He paused, then said; "If you need us, we can help you." He reached down, and pushed a small object through the bars of the cage, sliding it to the old woman's feet.
For a moment, she almost thought it was a key, but no. It was a Pai Sho tile.
The woman looked back up at the Fire Nation man, with his thin mustache and shaggy gray mane. Her eyes lingered on the scars, left by a thin blade, like one made of water. "Is this some kind of game?"
"No," he said. "In Pai Sho, the White Lotus tile can be thrown away, or it can become the center of strategy. Everything hangs on the skill of the player. It is the same with a life. Think! Such bending as you practice can be used for great good. The healing you can perform could save many people."
The woman twisted her lips into a sneer. "I have already served my purpose. Let me wither in peace."
He left her, then, and she tried to pretend he had never come. But even in the dim light of her cell, the pale tile on the floor stared up at her like a golden eye