A/N:
This is a special edition chapter telling the tale of Piandao. Some things and thoughts and a memory that occurs before he leaves for Ba Sing Se. Who is Piandao anyways? Why is he tanned like a Water Triber? Why are his eyes mostly grey in color? Why would he accept a ruffian like Sokka? Why does Sokka impress him so?
Way of the Sword: Piandao's Tale
Master Piandao sat in his large meeting room after the ragtag group left him. He had two notes in the sleeves of his robe. One read for him to train the wolf and make him a warrior. That was a scribbled note and a filthy scrap of paper written by a lotus member from his prison cell here in the Fire Islands. Iroh. He hoped Iroh knew what he was doing. Piandao was in no position to save him. The other note had found its way to him through a secret messenger. It simply read: The White Lotus blooms upon the great Walls. It was a summons written in JiongJiong's militarily sharp script.
His butler returned to tell him that Sokka was now in possession of the white lotus tile.
He had meant what he said to the young man, that Sokka was one of the greatest pupils he had ever trained. Sokka stared out as such an uncouth lanky starved and desperate young lad. In such a short time, his dedication to becoming a swordsman flourished under training. With time, he knew the Water Tribe youth would only become the master that was lurking inside him. His love and devotion to the avatar and his family and friends only strengthened that calling.
It reminded him of himself at that age when he was adopted by the master of the Piandao household ages ago.
Piandao was a master swordsman, a master swordsmith and a lord, a landed estate owner. He managed the small villages and all the layers of rise patties the shelved their way up a mountain that smoked continuously with the lava that lived and flowed within. This was the Master's estate. He had several apprentices, some in swordsmithing, some training to use the sword and other bladed weapons, some in the noble necessities of managing an estate. All learned a little of the other's tasks. Every one forged their own blade. Every one of them learned how to use it. At this point, their training diverted into specialties.
He was a selective man when it came to apprentices. You couldn't just assume that because you were noble that he would accept fostering your son for training. He turned many away. No one knew what the criteria was that granted acceptance under his wing. His skill was legend already and everyone hoped to be a student, from the most poverty stricken, to the farm-boy, to the noble and military elite. Piandao sought a quality in his students that was rare. It was the quality of the heart, one that sang out the sword. Sometimes, he would walk through his villages or ride as far as the sea docks and select promising young boys, give them a chance to become something more than what they were. Often, he chose from the gutters of the starved and homeless. He believed that the Way of the Sword belonged to no one in particular, no one nation, no one class, and that anyone with the heart to do so could master it. The art belonged to everyone.
It was a shame Piandao had no children. He had never remarried after the loss of his wife and child in childbirth. Some were concerned that his art would die out and his lands be carved up by the surrounding nobles. One day, he would have to either choose and heir or vanish into the pages of lore and history like the tales of now rusting blades.
On one of his walks down by the docks he saw prisoners and refugees being shuffled along. The war had done such cruel things so far. It was not as Sozin or even Azulon had vowed. They were not bringing enlightenment and prosperity to the world. The eyes of families broken apart, starved, or hollow from the deaths of their kin was proof enough of this. He went to play Pai Sho with another old friend and thru that cryptic meeting learned the truth of the refugee camps. Slavery. Mines. Execution. The last was the more merciful.
He could do nothing for them though as he later watched them being marched along into large carts. He could not save them all. His eyes fell upon a young boy who struggled fiercely like a feral wolf-lion. A guard who was fed up drew his blade to end the boy. Master Piandao concluded he couldn't save them all, but he could save this one. As the blade came down upon the boy, it rang loudly against Piandao's. Everyone stopped and stared. "This one will be mine. Hand him over." The guard looked about to protest. "I am Lord Master Piandao. I have rank and right to claim any person as mine by writ of Fire Lord Azulon." He did after all since Azulon wanted elite swordsmen from Piandao to be the royal guard in the palace.
"But sir… my lord… he's not…" stammered the guard.
"He's mine." He took hold of the stunned boy's arm and led him away to his rhino lizard. The boy was wild, lanky and starved. He was rough and uncouth. Along the journey, he learned that the boy was of mixed blood out of one of the conquered colonies. His mother was continental Water Tribe from the North Peninsula and his father was an Air Nomad from the Western Air Temple. That had made no sense at first because all the Air Nomads were supposed to have been extinct. The boy explained that his father was a guru, named Pathik, but as a nomad had not been seen for many years. The boy's hazel grey eyes grew wet for the loss of his parents. Piandao explained that he would give the boy a good home and fine training if he were worthy of it.
The boy knelt a long time while Piandao met and received reports of the progress of his other fosterling apprentices. Most were ready for release and assignments or to return to their homes. There was one other boy, Fat, who was still learning the ways of the sword and the ways of assistant management, a merchants fifth son with no real future. Finally all were dismissed except this new boy who was not really Fire nation at all, with his tanned skin and grey eyes. The master looked at the boy expectantly.
The boy hung his head, "I been listenin', sir. An'... an' I been thinkin', sir…An' truth is… I donna know iffen I'm worthy." His spirit seemed so defeated. "I gots so muchen to learn…"
The boy's accent was endearing, but he knew over time it would vanish, along with the boy's lack of self esteem. He had seen ferocity in him before and haw a heart determined to be something more. With study, with training, and with a good blade, this boy could be the finest pupil he had ever trained. "I will train you." The boy looked up with hope lighting his eyes. So began the grueling work of educating the boy in the basics of reading and writing and arithmetic, literature and poetry and calligraphy, dance and music and painting, and especially the arts of forging and using swords.
In time, no one thought the boy was anyone but another fosterling in Piandao's. The boy and the other student, Fat, became good friends that relied on one another well. They even got into plenty of trouble together growing up. That trouble necessitated them learning Pai Sho and the art of subtlety. When the boy was nearly a man, he underwent the rites of manhood that anyone in the Fire Nation had, and performed admirably. The Master was proud.
When the time came to send the boys on their way, he called them into his meeting room where he wrote several kanji on papers on the table and asked them to read them aloud: Honor, Loyalty, Friendship, Family, Knowledge, Art. "I have to choose an heir. Recite to me the Way of the Sword, your most important lessons."
Fat was a decent student and a great master of the sword, but it was not his forte as much as the management of lands and estates. It was this non-Fire Nation adoptee that raised his chin with calm grace and spoke.
"The way of the sword is an art that belongs to no one person or nation. It belong to us all, from the selecting of the right materials human and metal, to the forging of both blade and wielder. The blade is an extension of the self. Just as the imagination is limitless, so too are the possibilities of the sword. In battle, you only have an instant to take everything in. Manipulate your surroundings and use them to your advantage. Creativity. Versatility. Intelligence. These are the traits that define a great swordsman." The young man picked up the brush and wrote a single kanji on the paper, "And lastly, you cannot take back a stroke of the blade… or a stroke of the brush." His Kanji read: Love.
Master Piandao's eyes crinkled in the corners and he hugged them both. For they were both like the sons he never had. His heir would be this one, renamed Piandao after him as each male heir would be after. It was a family name. The given name would forever remain secret.
Master Piandao smiled at his memory and hoped he too could find another pupil like this Sokka to train and later declare as his heir. With just water and the brush, he wrote on the slate stone that held down the paper. It was a strange script not at all of Fire Nation origin. It read: Anil. (Wind as his father had named him.)
He set down the brush as the water and the name fast evaporated into nothingness. He asked Fat to arrange for travel. "I must go away on a very important business trip. Please maintain decorum here while I am away… as though I have never left. Obviously, I will not be entertaining visitors for any reason. If by some chance I do not return by the time a month has passed after Sozin's comet. You are my heir. Be sure to train someone. Take one of the orphans from the villages. Or better yet, take a refugee from the docks, someone very young." He packed quickly and left in the night.