AN: So, uh, I lost track of days and... today's not Monday. I'll just leave this here.
"Again! Do not pull back! A strike of the sword, like the stroke of a brush, cannot be undone." Piandao's voice echoed from the top of the steps. "Again!"
Zuko took a breath and composed himself. He faced Piandao's partner, Fat, who was as skilled with the sword as he was in the kitchen, and held his wooden blade in wait.
He'd been so close that time. So close.
He'd been steadily improving for some time now but his development had suddenly plateaued, as if he'd reached maximum velocity and could get no greater. Instead, he just became more aware of his missteps. The jian felt unsteady in his hands. Often, in pivotal moments, his movements would become split. Half of him would want to counterattack a strike while the other half would bring the jian in, to block . Sometimes he couldn't decide whether to slash at Fat's left, or aim high. Whenever these schisms happened, the end result was a jumbled up block or a pulled back strike and usually led to his quick defeat.
It drove him up a wall. Effort with no return always pecked away at his temper; it reminded him too much of his childhood firebending classes. Maybe this was as far as he could go. Maybe he couldn't get any better. It was infuriating, but he couldn't be surprised. No matter how hard he trained, his power had always been capped at birth.
There it was, the stumble; a half strike with nothing to follow it. Fat held his wooden blade to his chest, yet again.
Zuko waited for Piandao's insistent bark of "Again!", but it never came.
Instead, he dismissed Fat and rubbed his chin in thought. Zuko walked up the steps to meet him. "You are ready for your own sword."
He was caught by surprise. "I am?" He hadn't exactly done anything to warrant his own blade.
"Yes." Piandao said. "Your blade should be an extension of yourself. Practice with these wooden swords is a must, but now they are stunting your growth."
His morale rose for a moment. Could it be the sword's fault?
He tugged his morale back down. He couldn't be sure. If he couldn't get a wooden sword right, how would be able to do any better with a real blade?
"Will you give me one of yours?" He asked.
"No," Piandao said, "You'll make your own."
Expectations comfortably settled, Zuko followed his sword master to the forge. He'd seen Piandao slip into the place a few times, once followed by the banging of steel, but he'd never had any reason to go there himself. The forge was an open-air pavilion with coal strewn across the floor. A kiln glowed lightly in the middle, with unfinished blades laying across tables and anvils at the side.
"The first step is to decide what sword you plan to make." Piandao turned a sword with an incomplete hilt in his hands. "You've trained with a jian, a straight sword, thus far but now that I've had time to study you, I don't believe it is suited for you." He handed him the sword. Zuko turned the blade in his hand for only a moment before a sinking feeling settled in his stomach. The jian, just like the wooden swords he's practiced with, felt wrong in his hands. Piandao continued. "The jian is meant for fighters whose purpose is as straight and clear as the steel. Every strike is with meaning. You, Zuko, will find yourself unbalanced with such a sword. You battle within yourself. Your loyalties, your passions, your rationale; they clash. You can't forge them into one blade; they must work together and balance each other."
Piandao took another scabbard from the clutter, unsheathed it and split the sword into two separate blades in one fluid motion. Unlike the jian, the blade was slightly curved and single edged. The metal glinted viciously in the sunlight.
"The dual dao. You must not think of these swords as two separate blades, but as two halves of the same whole. They follow each other, they lead each other." He swung into a guarded stance, the two swords circling around each other in unison. "They balance each other."
Zuko took the blades in his hands, intrigued. The canted hilts felt steady in his hands, and the pull on his wrists that he'd felt with every other blade wasn't there, but other than that - nothing. Despite Piandao's words, he didn't feel any more balanced or whole, at best, indifferent. Just as he'd thought, his troubles couldn't be soothed by something as simple as using a different blade.
Piandao didn't notice his inner dialogue, or more likely ignored it, and pulled a casting mold and an iron block from the back. "Let's get started."
Creating a sword was a long, demanding process. The sun crossed the horizon to the sound of metal being picked to pieces, and the moon stared down at the sight of a forge spitting flames. A crucible sat at the heart of the fire, the iron inside it begrudgingly melting, drop by drop. Piandao had retired for the night long ago, leaving Zuko to his own devices.
With nothing else to do but shovel coal, the night gave too much space for thought. Glowing embers threw shadows across the stone, and sparks jumped and bit at his skin. The night air did nothing to ease the pressing heat. He's reminded of why, ever since the mess of his childhood, he'd tried to avoid working with fire. Other than the occasional candle, Zuko tried to stay away; braziers, cooking fires and forges alike.
Fire was uncontrollable and implacable. It flared old memories and gave light to his defects. It was the power Azula held, that his father held, one that he'd never have and would never understand. It was ridiculous, he knew; the Fire Prince trying to run from fire in the Fire Nation. It was like trying to run from the sun. He might be able to escape it for a night, but it'd glare down at him again every morning to remind him of everything he couldn't control.
He shoved metal tongs into the fire, bringing out the crucible. Still grainy, he pushed the metal back in.
Zuko sighed and let himself slide to the ground. He was tired. It had been a long night, and at the end of it all, he's not sure anything would make a difference. His time training had let him feel like he was picking away at the lump of doubt he carried around, but even with a sword at his side, fire still pressed all around him. It was only a matter of time till he got burnt.
After hours of only the sound of fire crackling, Piandao's voice jumped from the shadows.
"You still doubt yourself." He said, as if he'd heard the thoughts that had been plaguing him. "You think that you'll always be less because of your lack of firebending."
He said, defeatedly. "How do you know?" Zuko never could find a reason to lie to Piandao.
"Because I was just like you once." He acknowledged. "I was born to two firebending prodigies; or so I was told. They left me at the doorstep of the orphanage when they learned I wasn't a bender. My parents couldn't stand the fact that their only son was a disgrace." Piandao chuckled deprecatingly, the past so far away it might've been a past life. For Zuko, the words were too much like an echo. "They decided from the very start that I had already failed and I grew up most of my life believing that. It's a horrible feeling, isn't it? Being cast down over something you had no control over, going through your life thinking you'll never amount to anything." Piandao's voice crept closer, until he felt the weight of a hand on his shoulder. "Yet here I am, and I know now that if I was born a firebender, I would have been just another soldier in the army."
Zuko realized why he never could lie to Piandao; they were too much alike. He would see through any lie he told. He was a kindred spirit to him like no one had ever been, not even his uncle.
He stood again, and stared into the ever dancing flames of the forge.
"We can't change how we're born, Zuko. But weakness does not come from what you lack; it comes from not using what you do have. You will never be able to wield these swords if you believe you are weak. So let your doubts melt."
Zuko took a breath, doesn't linger his eyes on the flames, and pulled the crucible from the furnace. The metal poured smooth into the cast. Zuko was tired, and said nothing as the glow of the molten steel began to dim. Piandao ordered him to bed and Zuko, as with most things, obliged.
Zuko knelt in the main room, just as he had when he'd first arrived. His sword master stood before him, Fat to the side with a blade held reverently in his hands. The blade, his dual broadswords, he knew were made of forged iron with a simple canted hilt of wood and leather, while the sheath was a solid, lacquered black capped with gold flourishes at each end. Sunlight peeked in from the windows and a soft wind blew from the open doorway.
He kept his head bowed as Piandao began. "Zuko, over these last few days, I've had the chance to watch you learn and grow. I've watched you try, and fall, but like the sun in the sky, you rose back up every time." From Fat's hands, he unsheathed the blade and let it turn gold in the sunlight. "I saw a passion to learn, a determination that falls almost into stubbornness and a brightness that is still waiting to be uncovered; these are the traits that define you. And it is with great honor that I present to you your sword."
Piandao sheathed the sword, stepped forward, and the blade passed from master to student. A smile played on his lips. "Thank you, Master Piandao."
And if only for that moment, Zuko let himself feel proud.
