Chapter 2: The Sickness

Katara sighed, weary from spending long hours in the healing hut. The young sailor in front of her was sick, dying from a disease she couldn't cure with her bending alone. If they'd had the necessary herbs and medicine, she might have been able to save him, but the poles were dependent on trade for all medication and the ships were late. There was no sign of the trade ship, and with time running out, Katara knew he was dying. When the boat hadn't arrived this morning, she'd known he wouldn't make it, so now she sought only to make him comfortable for his passing. She bathed his brow with cold water to keep down the fever. She'd been bending for too long today to waste her waning energy on one who could not be saved.

"Hi Sis," Sokka said softly, walking up behind her. He had grown and was as tall as their dad now. He'd filled out as well, looking the part of a future chief. His eyes still glimmered with mirth, but right now she could only see the quiet wisdom of too many years in battle. "He's still holding on?"

Katara sighed again, dipping the cloth back into the bucket of cold water she had next to her. "I don't know how. He should have died long before dusk but he's still fighting. I can't do anything to help him, and his pain is just growing. Sokka, I've never seen anything like this."

Sokka's brow furrowed. Katara was the best healer in the tribe and one of the greatest in the world after her long years studying with her Northern sisters. He was torn between wanting to ease the young man's passage and knowing that there were others who were injured who needed tending. He wasn't even sure Katara could continue healing tonight. She looked utterly exhausted. He sighed, "Go to bed Sis. You can't help him now. I'll watch over him until he passes. You won't be able to help anyone if you keep up this pace."

Katara looked up defiantly, clearly ready to argue, but when she tried to stand her legs buckled and she fell right back onto her stool. "I guess... there's no way around it." Katara said softly, taking her brother's offered hand. He helped her up and she gingerly tested her legs. She hadn't stood in hours and her legs felt like water. She stood still for a few moments as blood returned to them, and then began gathering her belongings. She hated having to leave, hated that she wasn't strong enough to heal through the nights when it was needed, but with a sigh she braced herself for the cold of outside. Despite being summer, the pole was cold at night. She was relieved there was no snow. This late in the summer, a snowfall after dark was not unheard of.

When Katara entered her room at the palace, she fell gratefully into the pile of furs by the fire. Beds, she thought happily, were overrated. With that single thought, she was asleep.

Back at the hut, Sokka took over her watch at the poor sailor's bed. He couldn't stop thinking of Katara's words that he ought to have died already. He suspected that Katara had continued using her bending after there was no chance of recovery and had accidentally extended his suffering. He sighed. That would be just like his sister. She was far more like the young Avatar than she would like to admit. Neither could accept the reality of death and both were incurable optimists.

The man groaned, and Sokka changed the cloth on his brow, trying to cool the sailor's fever. It was hot even to him. The man couldn't last much longer in this condition. Sokka sighed, hoping his vigil would be shorter than his sister's.

General Iroh had grown old since the war ended. Ten years may not have seemed long to his nephew and his friends, but to Iroh it had been the passing from middle age. His joints were creaky and he couldn't bend with the ferocity of a decade ago. Not everything had changed, though—he still loved tea and his fellow man. This morning, Iroh was bringing tea to the hospital for the sick there. About four years ago, while Katara had been visiting, she'd given him the idea to bring tea there. Ever since, Iroh had made it a weekly routine.

As Iroh entered the building with his kettle and tea ready, he was immediately struck by a difference. The imposing building was still immaculately clean inside as the doctors and nurses bustled through the antechamber and into the wards branching off for three stories. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, but Iroh had lived long enough to know when his gut was right. He stopped a young nurse that he knew, Xiao Wu, and asked if something was wrong.

"Ah, Master Iroh. I'm glad you've come. We're not sure if anything is wrong exactly, but there is something a bit strange. Ah, why don't we set up your tea, and I'll try to explain." She turned quickly and led him back into the small kitchen that the herbalists used for their poultices.

She didn't seem interested in continuing her story, instead looking preoccupied, so Iroh brewed his tea in silence, knowing she'd explain when she was ready. With the first pot of tea ready and a group of cups found, Xiao Wu led him out of the kitchen to the first floor room which was the terminal ward. These were the sick who were going to die, regardless of what anyone did. Few doctors entered this room. Only nurses and family, trying to make the dying comfortable.

Before she opened the door, Xiao Wu stopped and fidgeted with the hem of her apron. "Master Iroh, I'm not sure how to explain what's going on, but you should know. No one's died in this ward since yesterday noon. We had three who were expected to die in the night. They'd said their goodbyes and everything. Some doctors say this is a miracle. Others say it's a disaster because we're out of beds in this ward."

"What do you say, my dear?" Iroh asked softly.

The nurse's brow furrowed. "I-I'm not sure. We never want to see anyone die, but is living in this condition better?"

Iroh nodded slowly. "Well, the least we can do is bring them some tea."

Together they stepped forward into the room. The sight that met Iroh's eyes was subtly different from any other time he'd been in this ward. He could see the curtained off beds where the most critical slept. There was movement behind them; nurses and doctors trying to understand what was keeping these pained patients alive. Across the room, other patients seemed to understand something was wrong.

This was the source of his earlier feeling, Iroh realized. This is what was off. The emotion in this room wasn't peaceful acceptance of what was to come. That peace had been replaced by confusion and fear.

Iroh sighed and schooled his face to hide his worry. The people here didn't need another soul worrying over them; they needed tea. So Iroh began pouring tea, trying to wash away some of the fear in the room. All the time, he watched the patients and nurses. He could tell which patients had been expected to pass in the night. They didn't appear to have improved, and yet they held on to life.

Iroh spent all morning at the hospital, serving tea to worried patients and confused doctors. When he left, he asked Xiao Wu if any of the critical patients had passed. She frowned and shook her head, concern in every line of her face. Iroh nodded, and returned home deep in thought.

When he arrived, he took out his ink and parchment and began a series of letters, beginning with one addressed to his nephew.