[AN] This was a requested work from ObeliskX, and while I'm not sure how quickly I'll be able to get updates out wanted to at least get the intro published. I've never tried doing a genderbent story before, so be kind...

Hope you enjoy!

The clash of weapons rings harshly in the early morning chill, hoarse battle cries interspersed with the screams of the dying. The snow-covered field is stained with blood and ash.

The voice of the Father Superior booms out over the field. "Hold the line, my brothers! The righteous will prevail!"

There's a bellow of rage in response and the battle intensifies. Great plumes of flame erupt in the midst of geysers of earth and ice, bodies hurled into the air.

An acolyte comes panting up to the Father Superior, standing with his guard overlooking the field.

"My Lord Unalaq," he gasps. "We are betrayed! A troop of Lord Zuko's men approached the Citadel by stealth and has attacked our rearguard! Brother Kor sent me to warn you."

Lord Unalaq spins and stares at the messenger. "Where is Brother Kor now?" he demands quickly.

"He leads the defense forces at the Citadel, my Lord," stammers the acolyte, flinching at the Father Superior's glare.

"And why is Brother Kor leading those forces?" Unalaq growls. "I left Brother Noatak in charge!"

The acolyte drops his gaze. "Brother Noatak was not at the Citadel when the attackers came, my lord," he whisper. "Nor was Brother Tarrlok."

The Father Superior's eyes narrow. He whirls and scans the battlefield, noting that the enemy troops are retreating under a vicious covering fire. "This was merely a diversion," he snarls. "Sound the retreat! We return to the Citadel now!"

He struggles against his bindings, his eyes blindfolded, a rag between his teeth. He's lying on something soft but his arms throb at the strain of being tied behind him. Nearby he hears the splash of water and feels a strong rocking underneath him; he's on a ship. The sound of voices makes him pause, listening hard. They're muffled, as if through a wall or door.

"Is that really him?"

"Yes, and keep your voice down!"

"Lord Zuko will be pleased."

The prisoner's eyes widen and he resumes his struggling. He bites back a groan as he twists his body, eventually working his bound hands past his hips, wriggling madly as he pulls his legs up before finally getting the toes of his boots tucked under his wrists. With one last grunt he gets his hands past his knees and hurriedly removes his gag and blindfold. He blinks as he looks around. He's lying on a bunk in a ship's cabin, the emblem of the Fire Kingdom prominently displayed everywhere. He stands on shaky legs and narrows his eyes, concentrating. His rope bindings part in a flash of light. He drops them to the floor then creeps over to a nearby port hole and eases it open. The fresh breeze streams in, chilling his face. In the distance he sees a hazy coastline beyond the large expanse of heaving water.

"Spirits guide me," he mutters under his breath as he eyes the porthole, calculating its size. He blows out his breath and pulls himself through, wincing a bit at the tight fit. He hears footsteps approaching him and forces himself through faster, ignoring the sounds of his tunic ripping and the burn of skin scraped raw against the wood.. With a last heave he falls through into the bone-chillingly cold water. He immediately takes a deep breath and dives, spinning as he descends. A vortex of water swirls into life, pushing him along in the direction of the distant coast. He's pummeled mercilessly by the strong currents and crashing waves — a storm is coming in and it hides as well as hinders him. He pushes on grimly, desperate to reach the shore and find some shelter.

Surfacing briefly, he looks around, trying to see if his captors discovered his absence but he can see no sign of the boat amidst the looming towers of water. He shivers as he retakes his bearings. His body aches from cold and his injuries and to his alarm he feels a languid exhaustion start to creep over him, lulling him into unconsciousness.

"Come on, Kor," he says to himself. "You can make it."

As he takes another deep breath a wave crashes hard onto him, forcing him deep into the surging froth. He struggles for the surface, his bending weakened from his fatigue. The waves grow larger and stronger and he fights along as best he can, until one last wave tumbles him head over heels and he loses all sense of direction. He chokes out one last gasp, "I commend myself to thy grace, O Spirits."

Darkness takes him.

Voices, faint, as if heard through a long tunnel. Hands press lightly against his chest, on his neck.

"He's still alive, my Lady, though only the Spirits know how." A man's voice, deep but kind.

He feels cold. There's sand under his cheek, gritty and damp. The hands press harder against his back and he chokes, a spray of water forced past his lips. He hears himself groan as he heaves.

"That's right, son," says the voice. "Get all that out of you."

"Bring him to the house," orders another a voice. A woman, her voice low and husky.

"Yes, my Lady!"

The sensation of movement, strong hands bearing him up and carrying him along. They enter a dwelling, the air almost swelteringly hot after the extreme chill of the outside. His ruined clothing is removed and he's laid carefully into a pool of warm water. A soft hand caresses his forehead, followed by the unmistakable sensation of liquid warmth; a waterbender's healing touch.

"He's in bad shape, my Lady," says another woman's voice. "But he will live."

"Good," says the first women. "I have some questions for him. However, they will keep until he is healed. Send word when he is ready."

"By your will, my Lady."