Fanfiction: Crossing at a Ford (Avatar: The Last Airbender)

[nebroadwe]

Title: Crossing at a Ford
Fandom: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Character(s): Sokka and Piandao
Pairing(s): None
Rating: G
Word Count: ~1200
Warnings: Set post-series; contains spoilers for the finale.
A/N: Sokka became one of my favorite characters over the course of this series, so I'm no end pleased to have a chance to show him in action. (I'm less certain I've captured Piandao, though. Concrit welcomed with or without a slice of lemon.) Crossposted from nebroadwe to avatar_fans and avatarfic; my home Internet is behaving oddly at the moment, so I apologize in advance for any delay in responding to comments.
Dedication: For Lucy and Noël, because someday they will be my best beta readers.

---

"'Crossing at a ford' means, for example, crossing the sea at a strait ... setting sail even though your friends stay in harbor, knowing the route, knowing the soundness of your ship and the favor of the day. When all the conditions are met, and there is perhaps a favorable wind, or a tailwind, then set sail. If the wind changes within a few miles of your destination, you must row across the remaining distance without sail."

-- Miyamoto Musashi, A Book of Five Rings (tr. Victor Harris)

≈≈≈
      Like a lot of Sokka's really good ideas, this one wasn't working out in practice the same way it had in his head. Which was completely unfair, because he'd put a lot of effort into preparing to visit Master Piandao, instead of dropping in on a whim like he had the first time. He'd dressed Fire Nation-style for the long journey overland to the Master's castle (because some old grudges still flourished even in the Avatar's new era of peace), but he'd changed into the blue brigandine and moon-charged surcoat of a Water Tribe warrior before presenting himself at the gate. He'd remembered to bring a gift, too: blubbered seal jerky and dried sea-prunes wrapped in an otter-seal pelt he'd cured himself, all tied up with a red silk ribbon from which he'd hung the Master's white lotus pai sho tile. Even Katara had said it looked pretty. Fat the butler had greeted him with the same lack of enthusiasm as before, of course, but Sokka had tucked his wolf's-head helmet under his arm and stridden through the courtyard with all the confidence of someone certain he had it right this time. No need to worry about maintaining a disguise or inventing an alias; all he had to make was a simple, straightforward request: Teach me more, Master; I want to learn.

      So why was it all going wrong?

      The longer Sokka knelt in the wide, bright hall, its tall windows open to admit a gentle morning breeze, the more he was beginning to entertain the fantasy that he'd somehow traveled back in time to repeat his awkward first meeting with Piandao all over again. He didn't even open his present. The little bundle slumped, apparently forgotten, at the Master's left hand. Piandao was seated behind his writing table today, opposite his would-be apprentice, but the sunshine streaming cheerfully down upon his head cast his face into shadow, making his expression difficult to read. As Sokka stumbled through an increasingly rambling explanation of his motives, deeds, and hopes for the future, Piandao sipped the drink he held and said nothing.

      The sun climbed a few degrees higher, escaping over the roof tiles. At last, somewhere in the middle of a disquisition on the indignities inflicted on history by dramatic license, the Master set his cup aside with a quiet clink.

      Sokka's voice immediately dried up.

      "So," Piandao addressed him in a daunting, let-me-get-this-straight tone, "you lost your sword."

      "Yes, Master." Not a day went by that Sokka didn't regret that; the weather-wise knee he'd picked up in exchange hardly seemed a fair trade. He wondered if Piandao had kept the remains of the meteorite and whether they could smelt enough ore from it to forge a new blade. Or maybe he could go prospecting for more space earth. Things that big and loud hitting the ground have to make news. Too bad the Knowledge Spirit sank his library, but maybe Zuko would let me poke around in the Fire Sages' archives ...

      "But you defeated the Fire Nation's airship fleet."

      Which hadn't involved half as much swordsmanship as it had applied physics, but maybe that counted as one of those other arts whose study Piandao recommended to keep the mind sharp and fluid. I stamped my identity on that battlefield with a war balloon. "Yes, Master," Sokka replied, adding modestly, "Toph and Suki hel-- "

      "And then you returned home," Piandao continued, ignoring the qualification, "to assist your father and sister in rebuilding the Southern Water Tribe."

      But they agreed that it was a good idea for me to come here and learn swordsmanship and calligraphy and stuff, Sokka thought, trying not to remember how much argument (not "whining," thank you, dear sister) had been required to bring his family around to that point of view. "Well, yeah."

      "But now you've come to me for training, instead."

      Possibly a stupid thing to do in high summer, when distant prospects blurred beneath a shimmering haze and cicada-locusts thrummed drowsily in the trees and anyone with a lick of sense napped from midday through midafternoon. The air had already grown as heavy as a walrus-bearskin rug over the course of this interview. Sokka could feel the sweat beginning to trickle down his back beneath his shirt ... so why did he suddenly want to shiver? "Yes, Mas-- "

      "Don't call me that!" Piandao's voice somehow managed to fill the high-ceilinged chamber without becoming any louder (a technique Sokka added to his to-learn list even as he flinched). "Don't your own people still need you? Didn't I tell you to continue your training on your own?"

      "Yes, Ma-- uh, sir." Sokka bowed, hoping he looked humble and not as if he were trying to duck. "But I really think -- "

      "Then why are you here?" Piandao demanded, rising from his desk to loom over his petitioner like Kyoshi Island's unagi poised to pluck a wallowing tortoise-slug from the waves. "How can I teach you anything when you don't listen?"

      Sokka pressed his forehead into the carpet so firmly that he could feel it leaving a mark on his skin. "Well, I -- I thought," he stammered, "that I could listen better if I was, uh, close enough to hear?"

      He wasn't sure what was worse: the silence that followed this remark, into which not even a cicada-locust dared chirp, or the badly-suppressed snicker that finally broke it. He could only be glad that none of his family or friends (especially Suki) were here to see him rebuffed; it would be awful enough slinking back to the South Pole like a whipped wolf-dog. It's gonna be a long walk home. A long, hungry walk, too -- he'd been so sure that Master Piandao would take him on again as a pupil, he'd only bothered to bring enough provisions for a one-way trip.

      Well, at least I gave old Sourpuss a laugh. Sokka stole a self-flagellating glance at Fat, but the servant's face was set in its usual grumpy expression, without so much as a glint of humor in his eyes. Then who -- ? He peeked the other way, then surreptitiously humped his spine so that he could get a glimpse back between his knees. Nobody else had entered the room. Astonished, he looked up at Piandao --

      -- who, letting fall the hand that had muffled his amusement, threw back his head in a shout of laughter. "Ha!" he exclaimed. "Very well, then!"

      Sokka gaped.

      Master Piandao bent down, his handsome features lit by a grin almost sinister in its enthusiasm. "But you will listen this time," he went on, "and obey -- and learn -- or I'll toss you out on your ear faster than you can say, 'Flaming fire flakes.'"

      Sokka's head seemed to whirl for a moment at this abrupt reversal (I passed? I passed!) but he quickly gathered his wits, recovered his dropped jaw, and grinned back. "I'm pretty good at tongue-twisters, Master," he said.

      "A true master pays attention even to trifles," approved Piandao, gesturing Sokka to his feet. "Fat! Bring the practice gear for my student!"

---

Author's Note: My apologies to all those of my acquaintance who think The Book of Five Rings is self-propagandizing twaddle. I'm sure Piandao's own meditations on the art of strategy are far more elegant and thoughtful, but unfortunately I do not have Sokka's access to the Master's library.

---

[Acknowledgments: Avatar: The Last Airbender was created by Michael Dante DiMartino and Bryan Konietzko; copyright for this property is held by Viacom International, Inc.]

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[nebroadwe.livejournal.com]

Yeah, either I have time but no plotbunnies or plotbunnies but no time. I can't wait for retirement.