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Summary
Sokka’s posture is perfect, demure but attentive. His head is tilted down, but his eyes crane up to take inventory of the man who just entered. This is the Fire Lord? He’s tall and rail-thin, exaggerated by the angle, and can’t be much older than Sokka. His face is cast in shadow, but Sokka can still make out the shiny pink outline of the distinctive scar that had marked the portraits that hung in all the ships and chambers he’d so far passed through. Actually, it’s not so bad — not nearly as frightening as the bright red disfiguration he’d seen illustrated.
“First, a gift. A tribute from the Southern Water Tribe.” Fengwei doesn’t make any gesture toward Sokka, because Sokka is the only thing in this room that doesn’t already belong to Zuko. Only for a few more minutes, surely. “A Water Tribe noble,” he tacks on, and Sokka has to slam his throat shut to quell the bemused snort that threatens to bubble out of him. It’s funny, in a way. Maybe not ha ha funny, but. You know. Funny.