Chapter 5: The Hidden Gift
The laughter died, leaving something thicker in its wake. Sokka’s grin softened, then vanished. He ran a thumb over the edge of the workbench, not meeting Zuko’s eyes. The only sound was the distant cry of a tern and the soft, persistent hum Zuko now identified as a small lathe, its wheel spinning lazily in a corner.
“He’s not going to let that go,” Sokka said finally. “The ‘safety first’ thing. That’s going to be a dinner story for decades.”
“Worth it,” Zuko said. His fingers found the whale ivory block, tracing the shallow gouge they’d made together. His other hand was still loosely held in Sokka’s.
Sokka nodded, but he seemed distracted. His gaze was fixed on the ivory, but he was looking through it. He swallowed, the motion tight in his throat. He released Zuko’s hand.
“Before… before my dad so gracefully interrupted,” Sokka began, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant. He crouched down, his knees popping, and reached into the shadowy space beneath the cluttered bench. His fingers fumbled for a moment before finding a hidden catch. A small, recessed panel slid open. He pulled out a leather bundle, about the size of his palm, wrapped tightly with a thin strip of sinew.
He stood, holding it as if it were a live coal.
Zuko said nothing. He watched the play of emotions on Sokka’s face—apprehension, vulnerability, a fierce tenderness that made Zuko’s own chest ache.
“I’m not good at this part,” Sokka admitted, looking at the bundle. “The serious part. I joke. It’s what I do. It’s easier.” He took a steadying breath. “After Ba Sing Se, after the war… there were months where I’d lie awake. My brain wouldn’t shut up. Strategy, logistics, dumb puns. And you.” He finally looked up. “Always you. Taking up all the space.”
He picked at the sinew knot. It gave way. The leather folds fell open in his palm.
Nestled inside was a pendant. It was a stylized flame, carved from a wood so dark it was almost black, but shot through with deep, warm red grain that seemed to move in the dim light. It was smooth, worn silken from endless handling. It hung from a braided cord of stark, undyed leather.
“I made this,” Sokka said. The words were rough, scraped raw. “Months ago. Back in Caldera. I’d work on it in my quarters at the Embassy, late at night when I couldn’t sleep. When I thought I’d never have the actual, burning courage to say anything. I told myself it was just… carving practice.”
Zuko’s world narrowed to that small, perfect shape in Sokka’s hand. He could see the care in every curve, the way the wood had been coaxed into a fluid, dancing fire that was unmistakably of his nation, yet somehow softer. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“It’s meant to be worn,” Sokka mumbled. He stepped closer, the space between them charged and fragile. “Underneath. So it’s against… you know.”
Zuko bowed his head, an unspoken consent. His own heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
Sokka’s fingers were steady as they lifted the cord. He parted Zuko’s loose hair, gathering it gently over one shoulder. The cool leather settled around Zuko’s throat. Sokka’s knuckles brushed the sensitive, scarred skin of his neck as he fastened the knot at the nape. His touch lingered there, a warm pressure. Then his hands drifted down, settling on Zuko’s shoulders, turning him slightly.
The pendant settled just below Zuko’s collarbone. The dark wood was warm from Sokka’s hand. It lay heavy and right over his heart.
Zuko looked down at it. He touched it with one finger, tracing the sinuous curves. It felt like a part of him that had been missing.
“Sokka…” His voice failed him. All his words, his Fire Lord speeches, his carefully crafted diplomacy, evaporated. He was just Zuko, humbled and full.
“Don’t,” Sokka said softly, a plea. “Don’t say anything profound. I might actually combust.”
Zuko looked up at him. Sokka’s eyes were glassy, his usual bravado completely stripped away. He looked terrified. And hopeful.
So Zuko didn’t speak. He closed the distance, his hand coming up to cradle the back of Sokka’s neck, and kissed him. It wasn’t hungry or desperate like in the shed. It was a seal. A confirmation. A silent, profound ‘thank you’ and ‘I know’ and ‘me too.’
When they parted, Sokka rested his forehead against Zuko’s, their breath mingling in the cold air. He tapped the pendant once with a fingertip. “Just so you know,” he whispered, a ghost of his old smirk returning, “if anyone asks, it’s a… abstract sea prune. Very avant-garde.”
Zuko huffed a quiet laugh, the sound vibrating against Sokka’s skin. “It’s a flame.”
“Yeah,” Sokka agreed, his voice thick. “It is.”
For a long while, they just stood there, foreheads together, the pendant a solid, secret weight between them. The hum of the lathe was a soothing baseline. The world outside the shed—the tribe, their titles, the ghost of Hakoda’s knowing smile—felt very far away.
Eventually, Sokka cleared his throat and pulled back, though he kept one hand on Zuko’s arm. “Right. Okay. We should probably… do something. Before my Gran-Gran sends a search party thinking we’ve maimed ourselves with inappropriate tool use.”
He moved to the lathe, giving the flywheel a practiced spin to speed it up. He selected a rough length of pale driftwood from a pile and began to fix it into the mechanism, his movements returning to their familiar, capable rhythm. It was a retreat into normalcy, a way to steady himself.
Zuko leaned against the bench, content to watch. He couldn’t stop touching the pendant. He felt tethered.
“So,” Sokka said over the growing whir of the machine, not looking up as he picked up a sharp chisel. “You never finished your first carving lesson. You want to try not maiming that ivory block for real? Maybe make a matching… abstract sea prune?”
“What would I even make?” Zuko asked, picking up the ivory. It felt different now. Charged with potential.
Sokka guided the chisel against the spinning wood, a long, pale curl peeling away. The scent of fresh-cut pine filled the air. He shrugged, a casual gesture that didn’t match the intense focus in his eyes. “I don’t know. Something for me. So I have something to fidget with during boring trade meetings that isn’t my own thumbs.”
The unspoken meaning hung in the sawdust-filled air: Something to carry with me when you’re not there.
Zuko looked at the ivory, then at Sokka’s focused profile, the set of his jaw, the way his hands worked with such confident grace. An idea, simple and clear, formed in his mind. He reached for a pencil on the bench and began to sketch lightly on the ivory’s surface.
“No peeking,” he said.
Sokka smiled, small and private. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Your Pyromaniacalness.”
They worked in companionable silence for a time, the sounds of the lathe and the soft scrape of Zuko’s tool filling the shed. It was peaceful. It was ordinary. It was everything Zuko had never known he wanted.
The peace was broken by a brisk knock on the door frame, followed immediately by Kanna pushing it open. She carried a woven basket laden with strips of dark kelp and dried plums. Her sharp eyes took in the scene: Sokka at the lathe, Zuko at the bench, the intimate but decent distance between them, the focused quiet.
She didn’t smile like Hakoda had. Her expression was one of deep, practical assessment.
“I see the workshop has become a sanctuary,” she stated, her voice dry. She set the basket on a clear spot on the bench. “A snack. To fuel your… creativity.”
“Thanks, Gran-Gran,” Sokka said, powering down the lathe. The whir faded into silence.
Kanna’s gaze fell on Zuko’s hands, on the ivory block. Then it flicked, just for an instant, to the hollow of his throat. The pendant was hidden under his tunic, but Zuko had the uncanny feeling she saw it anyway. Her eyes crinkled, just at the corners.
“A person works better on a full stomach,” she said, directing the words at both of them. “And a happy heart. Do not stay in here too long. The world needs its Fire Lord and its Ambassador to be present in it.” She gave a short, decisive nod and turned to leave. At the door, she paused. “Sokka. Your sister is back from the seal hunt. She is asking for you. Loudly.”
As the door shut, Sokka groaned. “Great. The ‘I told you so’ is going to be seismic.” He popped a dried plum into his mouth and offered the basket to Zuko.
Zuko took a piece of kelp. It was salty and chewy. He looked at his nascent carving, then at the door through which Kanna had just left. “She knows.”
“Of course she knows,” Sokka said, through a full mouth. “She probably knew before we did. It’s terrifying.” He smiled, though, as he said it. “Come on. Let’s go face the music. Or, in Toph’s case, the earth-shattering, gloating ridicule.”
Zuko stood. He tucked the ivory block and his tools into the hidden compartment Sokka had shown him. It felt like a promise—a project to return to. He followed Sokka out into the blinding white afternoon, the carved flame a constant, warm pressure against his skin, a secret shield for whatever came next. The cold air bit his cheeks, but inside, he was warmer than he’d ever been. He walked beside Sokka, their shoulders nearly touching, toward the noisy heart of the village, toward the life that was now, irrevocably, entwined with his own.