Avatar The Last Airbender: Doctor’s Tale

Chapter 1: The Traveling Doctor

Village of Dao Dei: 

It was a remote village away from the chaos of the Fire Nation's invasion. An isolated and hidden village, of course such isolation one would expect that they are living in peace but that thought couldn't be more wrong.

The quiet, once cherished peaceful village was now carried the cries of grief.

Half of the village lay stricken, the other half, consumed by helplessness, wept beneath the pall of smoke rising from makeshift pyres. 

There was no invasion here—no armies, no battles, just the unseen enemy that ravaged the bodies of the young and old alike.

Smallpox had found Dao Dei.

The children, the wives, the fathers, the brothers, all of them were at the village square surrounded by weeping families.

"Oh spirits! Please save my people!" The village chief cried. He was wearing a mask, a wooden mask with rectangular slit as its eyeholes, he was garbed in a ceremonial robe as he danced around the bodies of his people.

He was performing a warding off shamanistic dance. 

A traditional dance called Seungmu is a dance performed to exorcize evil spirits and invite blessings.

Despite his wooden mask covering his face, it failed to cover his grief as tears slip out of the bottom of the mask.

He was old, his silver hair was evident, and despite his weak body weathered by age he still forced himself to perform Seungmu.

Indeed, Dao Dei was away from the conflicts of the world but they are also away from its help. With no  one in the village with any medical knowledge, the village chief could only perform Seungmu to ease the spirits and hope that they get healed.

"My son!"

"Mama! Please wake up! Papa, why is mama not waking up?"

"No! No! No! Please, benevolent spirits, don't take my daughter away from me! I beg you!"

"Please! I beg you!"

"Take everything away from me! Just don't take my wife!"

The more he heard his people's cry the heavier his shoulder weighs. His dance became more and more rigid. 

He was doing his for already an hour, his bones, his lungs were giving up on him.

Just as the village chief's legs began to buckle under the weight of exhaustion, a figure appeared at the edge of the square. 

He walked with steady steps, draped in a long cloak, hood pulled low over his face. The crying families, the desperate chief—none of them noticed him at first. 

But as he stepped closer, the sound of his footsteps against the dirt caught their attention. One by one, heads turned toward the stranger.

The doctor stopped just before the edge of the circle, scanning the scene. 

The villagers' faces were littered with fear, skin pale, bodies trembling. The infected lay sprawled on blankets, feverish, skin marred by pustules. He took a deep breath, smelling the sickness in the air.

"I can help," he said, his voice calm and steady.

The village chief stumbled out of his dance, falling to his knees. He raised his masked face to the man, tears streaking the old wood.

"Please, spirit or man—whoever you are—save my people," he begged.

The doctor approached the chief and placed a hand on his shoulder, gently pushing him to sit down. "I'm no spirit. But I can help if you let me."

The chief nodded weakly, too tired to ask questions, too desperate to care. 

The doctor knelt beside him, pulling back his hood to reveal a man not much older than the chief's own son, though his eyes were sharp with knowledge. He stood and moved toward the sick, the villagers parting to let him through.

"I'll need water," the doctor said, glancing around. "As much as you can bring me. And space. Move the healthy away from the sick."

At his command, a few of the less stricken villagers rushed to bring buckets of water from the well. Others, numb with shock, obeyed his second instruction, dragging their loved ones away from the gathering of infected.

The doctor knelt beside the first child. Her skin was flushed, her breathing shallow, tiny pustules dotting her face. 

He placed his hands over her forehead, feeling the heat radiate from her body. Calling forth the water, he guided it with gentle precision, drawing it from the bucket and into the air, where it hovered in delicate streams between his fingers.

The villagers gasped. A waterbender.

He ignored them, concentrating as the water glowed faintly, absorbing the fever. He guided it through the child's body, pulling the heat away, soothing the inflammation.

As the water circled around her, the child's breathing slowed. The redness of her skin faded slightly. The doctor withdrew his hands, and the water fell back into the bucket, now tinged with a dark, sickly color.

"She will recover," he said, moving quickly to the next patient. He repeated the process, treating the fevers first. Water flowed over them, calming their bodies, flushing the heat from their veins.

One by one, he cooled the sick. Each time, the water darkened as it drew out the infection, leaving the bodies momentarily at peace. But it wasn't enough. Smallpox wasn't something that could be healed with waterbending alone.

After treating several more, he stood and faced the chief. "This will ease their pain for now, but it's not a cure. The disease runs too deep. I need to use bloodbending."

The chief's eyes widened. "What is this bloodbending?"

The doctor's eyes grew steel and said with a serious voice.

"It's a violent kind of sub-bending that lets me manipulate the blood of my target." He said. 

The chief gasped. He didn't know such a dark ability existed. His thoughts swirled with hesitation.

"Such a dark bending." The old chief said weakly.

"I know it is. But it's the only way." His voice was firm. "I can manipulate their bodies, draw the sickness out from the inside. If I don't, they won't last the night."

The chief hesitated, torn between his fear of the forbidden art and the reality of his dying people. He looked at the sick, their faces drawn with pain, then back at the doctor.

"Do it," he whispered. "Save them."

The doctor nodded and moved back to the first child. His hands hovered above her again, but this time, he reached deeper, feeling the blood pulsing beneath her skin, the sickness moving through it. Slowly, carefully, he bent the blood within her, isolating the infection, forcing it out through her pores. The child's body jerked slightly as the disease left her, forming a dark liquid that dripped into the water below.

He moved from person to person, repeating the process. It was slow, methodical. Every movement had to be precise. Bloodbending was dangerous, but it was the only choice.

Each patient's body writhed under his control as he drew out the smallpox, but as he worked, their breathing grew steadier, their skin cooler. The pustules began to shrink, some disappearing entirely.

Hours passed, and by the time he had finished, the bucket of water had turned black with disease. The village square was silent now, the only sounds coming from the gentle rustle of wind and the quiet breathing of those who had been saved.

The doctor stood, wiping sweat from his brow. His hands trembled slightly from the effort, but he ignored it. He looked at the village chief, who had been watching in stunned silence.

"They'll need rest," the doctor said. "They're weak, but they'll survive."

The chief's eyes filled with tears again, this time of gratitude. "Thank you… Thank you, spirit."

The doctor shook his head. "I'm no spirit. Just a man who knows how to help."