Gyatso (1x03 The Southern Air Temple)
"Is it a mistake?"
Gyatso looked up from the Pai Sho board, one bushy white eyebrow arching at his lifelong friend. "Indeed. Your left column is now open for attack."
Roku shook his head, dark russet eyes staring past the wood tiles. "I mean with Sozin. Should I have let him go?"
"What else would you have done?"
Roku's silence spoke volumes, and quietly, he pushed a tile across the board. When he finally answered, his voice was somber. "I know that he's had designs on the Earth Kingdom for years, but…I just didn't think…"
"Fire Lord Sozin is your friend," Gyatso said, rubbing a finger over his moustache. "It is hard for one to see evil in the actions of those he loves."
"As the Avatar, I can't afford to overlook such things. I can't be biased because I want to believe the best of him. So I wonder, was it a mistake?" Roku sighed, then waved at the board. "Your move, Gyatso."
"Forgiving people is never a mistake." The orange fabric of his monastic robe caught upon a breeze as he set down another tile, the sounds of birds and lemurs carried to them from just outside the arched window. "Do not blame yourself for showing mercy. For seeing the good in others."
The look Roku gave him was concerned, but relieved. As if all he'd needed was reassurance that he had made the right decision. Even after all these years as Avatar, he still felt the occasional pang of self-doubt. But, Gyatso supposed, that was what made him a true leader. His ability to question himself.
It was fortunate, though, that in those few moments, he had a true friend to rely on.
"My son is almost five now," Roku said, growing somber as he moved another tile, "and I've missed nearly every milestone in his short life."
"You have many demands upon your time."
"I think, though, that I've done enough. I can't be everywhere, watching everything."
"You are just one man."
"So I should retire to the Fire Nation, and try to appreciate what little time I have left with my family."
"There is nothing more important than that." Gyatso was merely agreeing with Roku, but he was sincere. Roku had spent many years traveling from one country to another – missing out on the things that truly mattered to him. And though one might consider it selfish that Roku should want to forego the bickering governments for the love of his family, Gyatso thought it was long overdue.
And Roku's smile communicated his appreciation. "I will miss our games, old friend."
Gyatso quirked his brows. "You will miss getting your butt kicked?" The response made them both laugh, and Roku set down one last tile. "I will miss our games, too. As well as our talks."
"We're fortunate that our friendship is so strong. Perhaps it can transcend distance. And time."
"We'll meet again," Gyatso said with confidence, then frowned at the board. The pattern of his counter-offensive formed a flame, and he eyed it curiously. "What move would you call that?"
"The Red Flame Pin. I learned it from Ta Min."
"Hmm. So that's why your plays have improved."
They finished their game in peace.
--
Aang was distracted. As he often was, these days.
"Your move, young pupil," Gyatso prompted, which made the ten-year-old boy sigh.
"Was it a mistake, Monk Gyatso?" Obediently, he set down a tile, but his normally smooth brow was furrowed, marred by some silent agony.
"You mean with Jinpa?"
"He destroyed my glider, and then he broke Ten-ten's prayer beads." Propping his elbow on the table, he held his chin glumly as he airbended a tile between his fingers.
"Telling the Elders about his actions was the right thing to do," Gyatso said, but even before he finished, Aang was shaking his head against his palm.
"I mean, was it a mistake to forgive him for destroying my glider? If I had said something then…" Again, he sighed, gray eyes staring past the board. "Then Ten-ten wouldn't have lost his prayer beads."
"Forgiveness is never a mistake, young one," Gyatso said as he studied Aang. But he was seeing something else. Something much further in the past… "You cannot blame yourself for wanting to believe that someone can change."
"But what if people can't change?" The boy was truly miserable, haunted by his decisions. Terrified by the prospect that there might be something less than perfect about the world. "What if my mistake is believing they can?"
"For every person who does the wrong thing, Aang, there is someone – like you – who wants to do only the right thing. The mistake is not in failing to stop those who are evil. The mistake is never giving someone the chance to be good."
The smile Aang gave him was wan – but encouraged. "Thanks, Monk Gyatso."
"You're welcome." Though he had given that same lesson to another, older man years before – though that same man had ended up being betrayed by the very friend he'd forgiven – Gyatso still truly believed his words. The evil that came of second chances could never be greater than the evil of no mercy at all. Every man deserved an opportunity to redeem himself.
As Aang laid down another tile, Gyatso eyed it with a frown, the move creating a pattern he hadn't seen in years. "Aang, where did you learn that?"
"Huh? Oh." He blinked at the formation, then shrugged. "I don't know. I just felt like doing it. Kind of…looks like a flame." He cocked his head at the design, then looked at Gyatso in question. "Is it a good move?"
Yes, Gyatso thought. Perhaps it was.