I Was Forced to Heal My Sworn Enemy, But His Touch Set Me on Fire

A throbbing, insistent pain was the first thing to claw its way through the thick fog in her head. It started at the base of her skull and radiated forward, a relentless pulse that matched the frantic beat of her heart. Katara’s eyelids felt heavy, glued shut. She forced them open, blinking against a world that was blurry and tilted.

The sky above was a bruised purple, the last vestiges of sunlight bleeding away between the dark silhouettes of towering trees. She was lying on cold, damp earth, the smell of mud and wet leaves filling her nose. A groan escaped her lips as she pushed herself up onto her elbows. The world spun violently, and she squeezed her eyes shut until it settled.

She was in a ravine. Steep, rocky walls rose on either side, choked with roots and ferns. She was alone.

“Aang?” Her voice was a dry crackle, barely a whisper. She cleared her throat and tried again, louder this time. “Sokka? Toph?”

The only answer was the rustle of leaves in the evening breeze. A cold knot of panic tightened in her stomach. The battle. There had been an explosion—a flash of brilliant, searing light and a deafening roar. She remembered being thrown, the impact of the ground knocking the air from her lungs, and then… nothing.

A sharp grunt of pain from somewhere nearby cut through the silence. It wasn't one of her friends.

Katara froze, her every muscle tensing. Her hand instinctively went to her hip, her fingers finding the familiar leather of her water skin. It was still there. A small measure of relief. Slowly, cautiously, she got to her feet, using the rocky wall for support. Her head swam, but she forced herself to stay upright.

She crept toward the sound, her bare feet silent on the mossy ground. Peering around a large, lichen-covered boulder, she saw him.

Prince Zuko.

He was sitting with his back to her, his torso bare. The fading light caught the taut muscles of his back and the angry red of a fresh burn on his shoulder. A strip of his own tunic was clutched in his hand as he tried, and failed, to wrap it around his ribs. He hissed in frustration and pain, his shoulders slumping in defeat.

For a heartbeat, she was just a statue, carved from shock. Then, a hot, familiar wave of anger washed through her, so potent it momentarily eclipsed her own pain. Of all the people in the world to be trapped with, it had to be him.

He must have felt her presence. He spun around with a speed that defied his obvious injuries, his dao swords appearing in his hands as if by magic. His body was coiled, ready to strike. His gold eyes, wild and fierce, locked onto hers. The initial shock on his face curdled into a snarl.

“You,” he growled, the word a blade in the quiet air.

“You,” she spat back, her own voice dripping with venom. She pulled the strap of her water skin over her shoulder, her stance shifting, readying herself. The water inside sloshed, a comforting weight against her hip. They stood there, two enemies at the bottom of a deep ravine, the last light of day dying around them as the crushing reality of their situation began to sink in. They were hurt. They were lost. And they were utterly, terrifyingly alone. Together.

The cold was the first to break the stalemate. It crept in as the last of the light vanished, a damp, biting chill that sank into Katara’s bones and made the ache in her head feel sharper. Her thin tunic offered little protection. She saw a shiver rack Zuko’s frame, a tremor he tried and failed to suppress. His bare skin was covered in goosebumps.

For a long, tense minute, they remained locked in their standoff, two predators sizing each other up. But the growing darkness and the plummeting temperature were a more immediate threat than either of them. They couldn't fight. They couldn't run. They could only survive.

Zuko was the one to finally lower his dao swords, sheathing them with a quiet, decisive click. The sound echoed in the ravine. He didn't relax his stance, but his gaze shifted from her face to the surrounding area, a flicker of grim practicality in his gold eyes.

“We need a fire,” he said. His voice was low and rough, devoid of its usual arrogant bite. It was a statement of fact, not a request.

Katara’s jaw tightened. The thought of accepting anything from him, even warmth, felt like a betrayal. But she was cold, and he was right. Her anger wouldn't keep them from freezing to death.

“And we need water,” she shot back, her gaze landing on a dark, stagnant-looking pool of water collected at the base of the ravine wall. “Unless you plan on drinking mud.”

A muscle worked in his jaw. For a second, she thought his pride would win out, that he’d rather die than cooperate. But then he gave a stiff, jerky nod. “Fine.”

A truce. It wasn't spoken, but it settled between them, as heavy and cold as the night air.

Without another word, he turned and began gathering dry twigs and fallen branches, his movements economical despite the way he favored his side. Katara watched him for a moment before turning to the pool. She knelt, uncorking her water skin. The water inside was almost gone, barely enough to wet her lips.

Drawing a deep breath, she extended her hands over the murky puddle. The familiar pull resonated from her core, a steady, calming power. The water lifted from the ground, separating from the dirt and grime, swirling into a clear, perfect orb that hovered between her palms. She guided it into her water skin, then repeated the process, filling his canteen as well. It was a small gesture, but it felt monumental. When she was done, she placed his canteen on a rock halfway between them. A clear offering. A term of the agreement.

By the time she finished, he had a small pile of tinder ready. He knelt, shielding the kindling with his body. Katara expected a huge, uncontrolled blast of flame, the kind he always used in battle. Instead, he held out his index and middle fingers, and a tiny, precise tongue of fire appeared at their tips. He touched it to the tinder, nursing it gently, blowing on it until it caught the larger twigs. The flame grew slowly, a controlled, deliberate thing.

Soon, a small, respectable fire was crackling in the space between them. It cast flickering shadows against the ravine walls, illuminating the harsh lines of his face. He sat back on his heels, his expression unreadable in the dancing light.

Katara settled on the opposite side of the fire, pulling her knees to her chest. The heat felt good on her skin, but it did little to thaw the icy tension. They were two enemies, sharing a fire, the silence broken only by the crackle of burning wood. She could feel his eyes on her, and she stared back, her own gaze just as wary, just as resentful. The fire was a barrier as much as it was a comfort, a flickering line drawn in the dirt between them.

He huddled closer to the flames, but it didn't seem to help. A tremor started in his shoulders, a slight shiver that he tried to control by clenching his jaw. Katara watched him, her own arms wrapped tightly around her shins. The fire was small, but it was giving off a decent amount of heat. There was no reason for him to be shivering that hard.

Unless it wasn't the cold.

Her eyes narrowed, moving from his face to the makeshift bandage around his ribs. It was just a strip of his tunic, already dark with blood in the firelight. The burn on his shoulder looked bad, too—puckered and angry. He probably had other injuries she couldn't see.

Another shiver wracked his body, this one so violent it made his teeth chatter. He pressed his lips together, a flicker of something—shame? frustration?—crossing his face before he could mask it. He shifted, turning his back to her slightly as if he could hide the weakness from her. But she could still see the muscles in his back contracting with each shuddering tremor. His breathing was becoming shallow, ragged.

Her healer’s instincts, honed by months of war and loss, began to scream at her. Fever. Infection. The words echoed in her mind, a clinical diagnosis that fought against the seething hatred in her gut. This was Zuko. The boy who had burned down Kyoshi village. The prince who had hunted the Avatar across the globe, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. He deserved to suffer. A part of her, a dark and vengeful part she tried to ignore, whispered that this was justice.

But then he let out a low groan, a sound of pure misery that cut through the crackling of the fire. He curled in on himself, his arms wrapping around his stomach as another wave of tremors hit him. In that moment, stripped of his armor and his arrogance, he wasn't a prince. He wasn't a monster. He was just a boy, sick and in pain, alone in a ravine. He was someone’s son.

The thought hit her like a physical blow, stealing the air from her lungs. Her own mother’s face flashed in her mind—her gentle hands, her healing touch. What would she do? What had she taught her? To heal. To help. To choose compassion, even when it was the hardest choice of all.

Her internal war lasted only a moment longer. Hate was a heavy stone, but her instinct to preserve life was a current, powerful and undeniable. She couldn't just sit here and watch him die. She wouldn't.

With a quiet sigh that was half resignation, half resolve, she pushed herself to her feet. He didn't seem to notice. His eyes were squeezed shut, his face pale and slick with sweat in the firelight. She uncorked her water skin, drawing a small amount of water into her palm and chilling it with a thought until it was almost ice-cold.

She crossed the small distance between them in two steps, her shadow falling over him. She knelt beside him, her knee brushing the cold dirt. For a second, she hesitated, her hand hovering in the air just inches from his skin. Then, she pressed her cool, wet palm against his forehead.

His skin was burning. The heat was shocking, a dry, intense fire that seemed to radiate from his very bones. His eyes flew open at her touch, wide and unfocused. They stared up at her, gold and glassy with fever, confusion warring with the deeply ingrained hostility. He didn't pull away. He just lay there, shivering under her hand, completely at her mercy.