Chapter 1: The First Question
Chapter Text
When the sun was setting and the ocean breeze was wafting in off the Caribbean, lifting the heat of the day off skin and earth alike, Shuri could almost pretend she was home again in Birnin Zana, the Golden City, where the air was fresh and dry. Menelas was west of Port-au-Prince, but the neighborhood where Nakia had opened her school was still too crowded and loud by day to give Shuri any peace. She preferred the beach, where she could stare out into the eternity that was the turquoise-blue sea, listening for the presence of her mother, her brother, her father.
I told my mother that if she thought she felt T’Challa’s presence, it was nothing but confirmation bias. Seeing what she wished to see, hearing what she wished to hear. And now I wish for nothing more than to see and hear them all, too. Everyone. Baba, Umama, T’Challa. She wiped her nose and tucked her chin into her arms, glaring out at the sunset with burning wet eyes. I was stupid.
No, not stupid.
I was too busy being smart to be wise.
“You should think about plans to return to Wakanda,” Nakia had said to her gently that evening over dinner while little T’Challa played football outside with his friends. “Okoye called me this morning.” She had tapped her beads, giving Shuri a knowing look. “Where did you put yours? She said she hasn’t been able to find you in the last week and a half.”
“I put them away,” Shuri had said, trying not to make eye contact.
“You cannot put off being the Black Panther forever, Shuri. Wakanda needs a protector.”
“I just need some more time,” she’d insisted.
“You’ve been here for months.”
“And you’ve been here for years with Wakanda’s only blood prince!” Shuri had stood up so fast she’d knocked the table over, misjudging her own strength (again) and Nakia had stepped back, hurt in her large brown eyes. “Would you just leave me alone!”
“Shuri—”
She’d run away, away down to the beach, where nothing could nag or pester her but the mosquitoes and the sounds of the ocean waves. I’ve been here for hours, actually. I should probably go back and apologize. Shuri buried her head in her hands and huffed, fighting more tears. Nakia had been living here— had gotten to live through the five year gap of time that Shuri had missed. She didn’t understand. She didn’t—
I woke up on the floor with dust in my eyes, and it was still the middle of a war.
A splash caught her ears and Shuri lifted her head, blinking. A shell, a large conch whorled in bright red-orange patterns, was resting not ten feet away from her, water receding from it, and she stiffened immediately, on her guard as she leapt to her feet and looked around.
She knew that conch. Two holes, one on each end. She knew the words that had gone with it the first time she’d seen it, too.
Blow this horn when you have decided, and I will hear and come to you.
Was he somewhere out there in the bay? Watching her? The hair stood up on the back of Shuri’s neck. She reached down and grabbed up the shell, intending to smash it against the nearest rock, but stopped herself. Something had moved, a dark spot in the water, just out of the corner of her eyes. Shuri turned towards it, heart pounding, but it was gone. Even though she stared hard at the place she knew it must have been, nothing surfaced, and she took a step backward, still clutching the shell.
She did not want to think about why she kept holding onto it, even as she turned and hurried back up the path to the house, sure she could feel eyes boring into the back of her head with every step.
Nakia was gracious as always, with only a little edge behind the acceptance of Shuri’s apology for losing her temper, and after they’d all gone to bed for the night Shuri opened her windows, greeting the cool kiss of the night’s breeze on her sweaty skin. It’s really too hot, she thought, resting her head against the window-frame. Maybe I should go home. M’Baku was King of Wakanda now, and she was the Black Panther. However, Okoye had hinted briefly at the council considering a political alliance with the Jabari through a marriage to the last daughter of the Golden Tribe, and, okay, maybe that was why Shuri had instantly lost her Kimoyo beads. Mama would never make me marry anyone for political reasons. What is this, the lifetime of Bashenga? Ancient history? Medieval Europe? Yeugh!
Although maybe all those old kings and rulers had been onto something when they had come up with that as a solution. If she’d accepted Namor’s initial proposal, an alliance with Talokan would have prevented so many Wakandans from dying… but at what cost?
The leaves on the trees rustled. She picked up the horn, turning it over in her hands, and shut her eyes, thinking about that last day, about his spear, thrusting her through the gut, the blinding pain that had followed, and how there had been nothing in his eyes but resignation. He hadn’t even hated her, not even as he had thought he was killing her, and she had hated him so much…
As if her muscle memory remembered, she shuddered, feeling once again the horrible grate of claws breaking the bones of wings, shearing through flesh, his terrible scream. Her claws, digging furrows into his shoulder. If I’d had teeth made of vibranium, too, I would have bitten his throat out. I hated him that much.
But he had not hated her. Not on his back, his body burned, dying of waterless heat. Not even when she had held a spear to his throat. His eyes…
We made a truce, she thought hastily, looking out to the water. A truce made on their knees, in silty warm saltwater, both of them gasping for air and in agony as they healed together— she didn’t want to think about that. Not now. Not—
She wanted an answer to a question. That was what she wanted. And since Shuri had decided, she lifted the horn to her lips and blew. It was silent to her own ears, but far off toward Port-au-Prince, a dog or two barked, and then went quiet. The sea crashed on the shore as it had always done for another long minute. “Stupid horn,” she finally muttered, turning it over in her hands. “It doesn’t even work.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” said a low, slightly raspy voice outside her window. Shuri recoiled, so startled that she jumped and landed on her bed. In a quick, agile movement that seemed mismatched with his dense, thickly-built body, Namor had slid through her window and was standing on her floor. He wore a patterned blanket around his shoulders, and when he cast it off, the jade, gold, vibranium, and pearls on his collar and belt and bracelets gleamed like fire in the light from her bedside table. She had forgotten how broad he was. Namor only stood three inches above her, but he walked with the air of a man the size of M’Baku. It’s the muscle density, she told herself, her heart in her throat. That’s all. Her eyes went to his ankle: he had a thick white bandage wrapped around it, damp from the sea. “You called?” he asked, not moving from his place on the floor as his eyes trailed the walls, the bed, the lamp. “This is a humble abode for the Queen of Wakanda.”
“I’m not the Queen,” she replied, steadying her voice. “I gave the throne away to M’Baku. Maybe you remember him. Big man. You punched him in the chest.”
“Ah,” said Namor, nodding. “A fine warrior, though his stealth operations leave something to be admired.” He leaned against her desk. “You threw away my gift?”
She swallowed. “And what gift was that? The bracelet? Do you want it back?”
A small smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. “I am no fool, itzia. It is bad luck to return a gift given in earnest.” Was it her imagination, or did his eyes flash across her? “But that is not the gift of which I speak. I gave you a throne.”
Anger boiled in her heart. “You gave me nothing. You drowned my mother.”
“That was her choice; an honorable death, as a brave woman and a good queen who sacrificed herself for another. She did not have to die.”
“Yes, she did,” hissed Shuri. “You don’t understand. She would have given her life for any child of Wakanda, any child anywhere. She was— she—” Tears choked her throat, and she shut her eyes, fighting grief. “She was good,” she finally forced out. “And you killed her.”
Namor was quiet a moment. “You did not call me here to berate me for your mother’s death,” he said.
“No,” said Shuri, wiping her eyes. I resolved myself to never drown in vengeance. It will burn me alive. “I had a question.”
“So ask it,” he said, sitting in her desk chair, which creaked under his weight.
She took a breath. “You ran a spear through me,” she said. “I maimed you. I almost killed you. And yet in your eyes I saw no hatred. Why? Why didn’t you hate me?”
“I did hate you,” said Namor very quietly, not moving. “I hated you when you denied my offer. An alliance against the people of this world that rejected both our people, that hates and fears us. But I acted on those feelings of hatred and vengeance, and in return my people died. And so did yours, princess. ”
Shuri shook her head. “No. You— when it was just the two of us. On that beach. When I had a blade to your throat. You looked at me.”
“Yes,” he said simply. “I looked at you.”
“And did you hate me then?”
Namor’s nose flared as he breathed in. “I only thought that I would be happy to die at the hands of an equal,” he answered. “The Feathered Serpent and the Black Panther. Locked together. I am made of air and sea, and you are born of fire and earth. We are natural allies, you and I, I think.”
A memory of flames licking at the pillars of the throne room on the ancestral plane, N’Jadaka’s mouth curled in a mocking sneer, filled Shuri’s memory. Fire and earth. “Happy to die,” she echoed, the skin on her arms pebbling as a shiver ran through her.
“Yes. But I only wished for one thing, and I had not gotten it before my death. So I was glad you showed mercy in the end.”
“And what did you wish for?” Shuri asked, advancing on him from the bed. “Your people swimming up the river to break Wakanda’s borders? An empire of blood against all other nations in the world?”
“I wished,” said Namor very quietly, watching her and not moving, “to hear you say my name.”
Her brain ground to a halt as she considered that for a long moment. “I’ve said your name,” she whispered.
Namor shook his head. The jade in his ears and nose glinted in the light. “No. Not that one. It would bring me the greatest pleasure to hear you call me K’uk’ulkan, as my people do.”
She pressed her lips together and looked away from him. Why am I trembling? “Will your wing grow back?” she asked instead. “The one I cut off?”
“That’s a very personal question,” he said, cocking his head to the side. The graceful curve of his pointed ear gleamed. “But I will allow it, and answer you. Yes. Slowly.”
“I am glad,” she said, fiddling with her fingers. “I didn’t know— I’m glad to hear it.”
“There is much you do not know about me,” he said softly.
“You know nothing of me, either,” she told him.
“Ah. Now, that is not true. I know you are selfless and brave, Shuri of Wakanda. You were willing to turn yourself over alive to a strange people to save the life of a girl you barely knew.” He stood up, then, his still-damp skin gleaming, and came so close that he was almost touching her, almost… then put his thumb on her chin. Shuri froze, her heart beating hard. So close, he smelled of the sea, briny and warm. “You would have been a great queen,” he whispered. She could see beads of seawater nestling in his short beard, like jewels. “A pity.”
“I am more than a queen. I am the Black Panther.”
“What is a panther to a flying serpent?” mused Namor, his thumb stroking upwards slowly, then softly along her bottom lip. He was warm, warmer than her, and she could not think, could not breathe at all.
The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. “You tell me, K’uk’ulkan.”
His eyes went dark: the pupils dilating, his brows lowering. “Ah,” he said, his thumb on her lip, still as ice and warm as summer. “Such a gift. You are generous indeed.”
I cannot let him keep touching me like this. But it felt… “I am still holding back another one— another gift,” she said, hardly daring to move her mouth for fear he might move his hand.
“What gift is that?”
“My forgiveness. For your acts against my people. And my family.” And my mother.
“I do not want or need your forgiveness, itzia. I prefer your fire.”
“You know I am no longer a princess. You do not need to call me—”
“You are to me.”
Bast, but he was infuriating. She wanted to be angry at him, and all she could do was stand here stupidly and melt. Shuri shook herself, trying to get a rein on her emotions. “If you want fire, you may have it in abundance. Shall I get into my suit first, or shall we fight barehanded without weapons?”
He chuckled. She swallowed hard, dizzy. Why was his thumb still on her lip? Why hadn’t she bitten it off yet? What was wrong with her? “As much as I would enjoy that, I feel that your fire will be most productive when aimed at our mutual enemies.”
Shuri closed her eyes. There it was. “If you think you can— seduce me into being your ally—”
“You have no other allies in the surface world. Where else but toward Talokan could you turn?” His hand shifted and caught her by the chin lightly, his thumb wiping a swath of heat across her jawline. “As for seduction, that is quite the claim to make when I have hardly touched you.” As much as she hated it, he was right about the first part: Wakanda had lost its allies and made itself enemies simply by virtue of protecting its resources. Not even my brother could have foreseen this, with all his hopes for sharing, helping… She inhaled sharply through her nose, opening her eyes.
“Will you come back if I call you again?”
Something flashed in his dark eyes. “I am K’uk’ulkan, the Feathered Serpent; He Who Brings Rain; War-Maker, Sun-Eater. I do not come when called like a dog.”
“Don’t come, then,” said Shuri archly. “I can always discuss Wakanda’s alliances with someone else. Maybe Attuma. He seems nice. Very handsome, too. You should send him.”
Namor looked like a thundercloud. “Maybe I will,” he snarled. “Goodbye, xunáan. ” And without another word, he had climbed back out her window and vanished, and Shuri took a shaking breath, then fell to her knees, hands clasped to her heart.
He was here. He was right here, in my room. He touched me. She sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and tasted the salt of the sea, left on her skin from his thumb. He said I would have been a great queen, that he did not care if I forgave him. And it is true, what he said. It is Wakanda and Talokan against all the nations of the world, who would gladly see us destroyed… Her breath was coming in gusts. I cannot make any alliance. I am not a queen. I am only Wakanda’s protector.
So what does he really want from me?
Chapter 2: Second Question
Chapter Text
Nakia left two days after, for a school trip with little T’Challa. “It’s only for a week,” she explained, smiling as she helped her son heft his suitcase into the back of the car. “Camping at Pic Macaya. The children are all so excited. You’ll be all right here?”
And of course Shuri nodded and hugged her and told T’Challa to behave and listen to his mother. He beamed at her. “Yes, auntie,” he said, in his sweet baby lisp, and she stood at the end of the road and waved them away until the dust had vanished.
Then she went back to the house, and started cleaning. She cleaned and cleaned, trying to make her brain stop thinking about the conch horn hidden under her bed, in a far corner beneath a crumpled-up jacket. Don’t even consider it. Don’t. The kitchen was spotless and every room in the house was sparkling tidy by the time the sun set, and Shuri then distracted herself by pacing the kitchen and rattling off every digit of pi that she could remember, like a silly child: she recited every formula in mathematics, physics, applied science, and chemistry that she could think of.
I want to see him again. She had a second question, set aside from the first, which had been why do you not hate me? The second was, what do you really want from me? Surely he would not be angry if she called him again. He had not brought the horn back to Talokan with him, after all. It had been left with her for a reason. Nobody is here, she told herself, walking in circles in her bedroom. Nobody is here, you are alone… so Nakia can’t scold you for being foolish, which is good, but you have no backup if he decides to attack, which is bad.
Then again, she did not need backup. She was the Black Panther.
Shuri got out her suit, checked to make sure it was safe and at hand just in case, and tidied up her bedroom. With a critical eye, she moved her pillows over a few inches and fluffed them, then swept a few eddies of sand off the floor and scrubbed a stain off the concrete wall. Bast protect me, she desperately prayed as she pulled the horn out and checked her reflection in the mirror. She looked all right: a yellow and green tank top bought from a market in town, colorful soft drawstring shorts, her hair a short, thick mass of curls atop her head that just brushed her eyebrows. Her undercut was growing out, and she wished for a moment she had asked Nakia to shave it before she left, then rolled her eyes. If Okoye could see me now, she’d be laughing at me. Telling me that’s why the Dora Milaje shave their heads, no maintenance required… Grief and guilt hit her from two directions at once, so strong it almost took Shuri’s breath away. Mama helped me cut my hair after T’Challa died. And then I cut hers. And we cried.
No. I cannot let it consume me. I must call. I have to ask.
She went to the window, lifted the horn to her lips, and blew long and hard. There was nothing but silence for so long that Shuri folded her arms on the window and closed her eyes, burying her face in her hands. I hope he doesn’t send Attuma. Bast help me if he does, just out of spite. I shouldn’t have teased him. The afternoon sun was warm on her cheeks.
“I was not that long in coming,” said Namor, making her jolt upright and blink. He was standing just outside, his blanket draped over his shoulders and chest again, hiding most of his torso, but his hair was soaked and water coursed down his face. “Let me guess. You finally wish to discuss an alliance.”
“No. I simply had another question,” she said, wondering how long she could keep him there.
“Do I look like an oracle to you?” Something about his voice had a bitter, sour edge to it that he had not had the first time. Shuri groaned inwardly and resigned herself to being the bigger person.
“It’s a simple question. But it’s one only you can answer.”
“This is the second question you have asked me. Another one, and we will find ourselves in a folktale with a wizard and a magic necklace.” He shook the sand from his blanket and tossed a corner over his shoulder. “Ask, then.”
“What is it that you really want from me?” asked Shuri, holding his gaze.
“What makes you think I want anything from you but an alliance?” Namor retorted easily, his dark eyes looking even darker in the shadows as he moved closer to her window.
“If you truly wanted an alliance between Talokan and my people, you would go to Wakanda and ask King M’Baku. I have no diplomatic authority.”
“You are the Black Panther. You have the greatest diplomatic power in the surface world.”
“And if you simply wanted an alliance, putting your fingers in my mouth was unnecessary,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him. Namor froze briefly, then leaned on her windowsill, gazing at her.
“I did not put my fingers in your mouth.”
“You are not answering my question. What is it you truly want from me?”
He was silent. Beads of water dripped from his beard and hair, and he shook them off, ruffling his hand through his hair. “We are not so different, you and I. You said so yourself on that beach. Don’t you remember?”
“I don’t want to talk about the beach,” Shuri said quickly, desperate to stave off any reminiscing.
Dark eyes gleamed. “No? Interesting. I recall you pulling me to the water. Step by step, though I had speared you like a fish. You were crying with every movement.”
“Stop it.” Her fists were clenched tight, trembling. He could not remember this, could not say it to her face. But Namor was inexorable.
“You took me all the way to the water and pulled me in,” he pressed. “Not just enough to touch my feet, no: you pulled me in until water surrounded me, and only then did you stop. I remember. You fell to your knees and wailed like a woman in mourning. You were healing, and so was I, and when I opened my eyes again, there you were.” Reaching out, he let the back of his knuckles glide along her cheekbone, eyes fixed on hers. “The Black Panther. Kneeling over me. Your hands on my chest.”
“Stop,” she whispered.
“And what did you do, when I sat up in the water, my ankle bleeding into the sea?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It does matter,” he insisted, eyes boring into hers. “Tell me. Tell me what you said to me. What you did.”
It never occurred to Shuri that she could simply walk away from him, on her side of the window. “I said— I said more connected us than set us apart. I said I would fly us back to the Sea Leopard before any more bloodshed—”
“No,” said Namor softly, shaking his head and leaning in. Something about his voice had gone hard and dark. “You see? You want answers from me, but you cannot even answer yourself with honesty. Perhaps this idea of an alliance was a mistake after all.” And then he was gone, storming away from her, down to the sea.
Panic shot through Shuri, bright and hot. I have ruined a peaceful cessation of conflict, but not only that, I have ruined— I ruined— “No,” she gasped, swinging herself out of the window and landing on her feet in the sand and seagrass. The moon was rising, but she thought she could still see him, flying toward the water. “No, no— Namor—” Her feet were taking her, faster than any human could run, to the wide arc of pale sand, the crashing surf that he was stepping foot into already. “Namor, please!” she shouted.
“You don’t—call me that!” he bellowed, whirling around and slapping one hand, open and heavy, on his chest. The sheer pain and anger in his voice made Shuri’s heart almost stop. He was in the water, ankle-deep, his blanket balled in his other fist as if he was going to throw it. She had almost reached him, almost—
He threw the blanket aside into the sand and turned, his winged feet carrying him up and over the breakers before he dived into the dark sea and vanished. Shuri splashed into the surf too late, her lungs heaving as she fought tears.
I know what I said. I know. I remember.
After their fight, she had wept over him, pulled him up to help him sit without even thinking about it as color came back to his gray, parched face. She could still feel the texture of his collar at her fingertips, heavy with gold and pearls and vibranium, wet with warm seawater. The skin-peeling agony in her gut had burned like fire as her Kimoyo beads had knit her flesh together: he had missed her vital organs, whether on purpose or not she couldn’t have said.
“You are going to live,” she had ground out between her teeth, holding him. “Namor. You are— going to live.”
“So are— so are you, it seems,” he had answered haltingly, coughing, and then he had given her the wryest little smile she had ever seen and said, “Did you think you could rid yourself of me so easily, princess?”
“Oh, shut up,” she had grunted, praying the beads did their work fast. “Truce. You— agreed.”
“I did. With a knife to my throat.” His hands had gone from limp at his sides to holding her shoulders, clinging to her as the water slowly soothed his burns, his wounds, made him whole. “Aah,” he had groaned, so close to her face. “Maybe—just let me die after all.”
“Not an option,” she had whispered, her knees folded in the still, lukewarm water, silt billowing around them both. Dizzy with agony, Shuri had reached up to support herself by clinging to the back of his neck with one hand, shaking. “We share more than— we think. We have to. Make them see it.” Had she meant their people, or the two of them? She could not remember.
“Make them... see it,” he’d repeated, his forehead and nose pressed to hers. She had never been able to tell when, exactly, he had done that: pain blurred the finer details of her memory, but not the words they had exchanged. “Yes.”
“When I can— fly— I’ll take us to the Sea Leopard. Tell your people to lay down their arms, and I will tell mine to do the same. We don’t— we don’t need any more death—” When had her hand pressed to his naked chest? “Today. We don’t—”
“No, we don’t,” he agreed, his breathing coming heavy and thick. “Your people can go back to— to Wakanda— to your land of clean air and fresh rivers. I give— give you my word. And the scientist—”
“Wakanda will take care of her,” Shuri had told him, trembling. The pain was fading. “I swear to you. I give you my word.”
“A god swearing oaths to a god,” Namor had murmured, his breath going a little ragged, and she had thought— he was so close to her, his mouth so close—
Shuri knew. She knew what she had done; what he wanted to hear her admit.
And she knew what he wanted now.
“K’uk’ulkan!” she screamed across the water, wading out furiously until she was knee-deep, waist-deep, chest-deep. “Pa’atení!”
Wait for me. Please. Wait for me.
She struck out, swimming hard. Shuri was an excellent swimmer, almost as good as Nakia. She shouted his name again and again, until the open water swallowed it up. Past the breakers, however, in the open bay, the night water was rough and the wind was ruffling it up into thick white-capped waves two or three feet tall. Shuri was strong, but the sea was stronger, and as she swam further out, still trying to shout, she realized that a current had grabbed her with its cold black fingers. She did not fight it, allowing it to pull her, and turned, floating on her back to save her energy. “K’uk’ulkan,” she gasped one last time, worn out as she stared up at the stars. I am a fool. I ran into the ocean for a man who left me in anger, because I could not be truthful with myself. And now I am probably going to drown. Would she sink down to Talokan, one last time? See that vibranium sun, gleaming like a star set in the depths of the ocean? She hoped she would.
And then a pair of hands, hard and cold as iron, grabbed her around the waist. Shuri screamed and thrashed, kicking and elbowing in an adrenaline-fueled panic. “Help!” she screamed, spitting out saltwater.
“Would you be still?” barked Namor’s voice in her ear. “You thrash like an eel.”
Shuri twisted around, spluttering, and caught his annoyed expression in the moonlight before a wave caught them both full in the face, saltwater burning up her nose. She gagged and spit out water. “I’m sorry,” she coughed.
“Hold on to my neck.” He gripped her around the waist and kicked off, his winged heels pushing them both upward, and Shuri closed her eyes tight against the blast of wind that struck her as he ran. It was the strangest sensation she’d ever felt: every running step of his seemed to bounce off an air cushion as his wings fluttered, but the wounded ankle came down harder, only one wing functioning on that side. Cracking her eyes open to see how close they were to shore, she saw they were at least twenty feet in the air, a good fifty yards from the beach, over open black water. It was cold, too: the wind stole the warmth from her soaked clothes and skin. Shuri hid her face in his neck, the heavy collar hard against her cheekbone, and tried very hard not to scream.
When he landed in the surf, white foam kicking up around his feet, she wrestled her way out of his arms and stumbled forward, all her limbs trembling. “Thank you for saving my life,” she whispered, wiping her nose. Even her eyes stung.
“Don’t tell me. You have a third question.” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
“No. I have something I want to say to you.” She turned back to him, steeling herself for whatever his reaction might be. “Just stay. Just wait, please.”
The water surged around their feet. “Speak, then,” he said.
Shuri stepped closer, until she was so close that she could feel the heat coming off his body. She shivered, her skin pebbling into goosebumps. “I know what I said,” she told him. “I know what I did. And I will tell you, if only because— because Wakanda cannot lose its only ally.”
“Ah, only for that, then,” he said dryly, looking at her.
She bit her bottom lip, tasting salt. “We made a truce. And I had my hand like this…” She slid her palm up behind his neck, so that it touched the thick, dark hair on his head and the hard, smooth gold on his collar. “And the other— here, like this,” she added, and placed her other hand flat on his chest, below the collar, over his sternum. Bast, give me strength. His heart was beating beneath her hand. Was it her imagination, or had it quickened? “And we sat like this,” Shuri said quickly, pressing her forehead to his, her nose to his. Salt water ran in rivulets down her cheeks, cooling in the night breeze. “Just like this. I remember.”
“Yes,” said Namor very softly, almost not breathing at all. “Like this.” Two broad hands, astonishingly gentle, cupped her cheeks softly, like her face was a flower or a sea anemone. Shuri could not believe how warm he was. The sun might have set below the horizon, but he burned as hot as a second one. “And I said: a god swearing an oath to a god.”
“Yes. I thought that bit was just a little pompous,” she told him, her nose bumping the jade plug in his. Her belly was twisting and rolling over, and she hoped her hands weren’t shaking.
He exhaled in a soft sound that might have been a laugh, if he’d voiced it. “Ah. Well, you didn’t say that, if I remember correctly.”
“No, I didn’t,” Shuri breathed. A simple shift, that was all it took. “I didn’t say anything.” Her mouth brushed his, the barest touch of skin to skin— does he actually want this, or did he bring it up to shame me for my actions? Did he make me admit it for his own entertainment? All these questions and dozens more filled her mind, but all thoughts ceased when Namor’s mouth, warm and soft, prickly where his coarse beard met it, found hers, and both his hands slid from her cheeks to her shoulders to the nape of her neck and the small of her back, pulling her close.
Shuri had never kissed anyone like this, not ever. Her teenage years had been spent in labs, in classrooms, in the pursuit of higher knowledge and tech development and programming— definitely not necking in corners with boys or girls. I don’t even know what I’m doing! Her cheeks burned and she opened her mouth to apologize for her terrible kissing, but his tongue got in the way, hot and rough and slipping along her bottom lip. Shuri certainly didn’t remember this being part of her embarrassing outburst on that shore. She had only pressed her mouth to his in a sudden surge of emotion and instantly pulled back, shocked at herself, when she realized what she had done. And he had looked away, stoic and quiet, a flash of something in his eyes she could not put a name to.
But now he was— he tasted like the sea, and his thumb was slipping along the bottom of her ribcage, through her soaked sleeveless shirt, and his other hand was wandering up through her hair, fingers gently burying themselves in her thick, soft curls, still soaked and tangled from the sea. She broke off, trying to remember how to breathe, and somewhat shaken by the intensity of her own feelings. “Don’t touch my hair,” she panted, staring up at him.
“My apologies, princess,” he murmured, slipping his fingers out and back down to the delicate nape of her neck. “You’re shivering.”
“I did almost drown,” she pointed out.
“You did.” Was he waiting for her to say something? He was still holding her, fingers caressing the back of her neck. Suddenly she could not even look at him, her face so hot she could hardly breathe. That was stupid. Why did I let him kiss me? Why did I…
She said the first thought that popped into her head. “Your beard is very tickly."
Namor’s teeth gleamed when he grinned. “Is it? I never considered that.”
“Ha! I find it hard to believe nobody told you it tickled in five hundred years.”
He scoffed as his hand fell from her skin, leaving her curiously cold and bereft in the cool breeze. “What, and risk offending a god? Hardly.”
“You know, that is your problem. Nobody has ever told you no in your whole life.” She sniffed hard and drew her bare arm across her nose.
“I can think of one or two people,” he told her. “You should go inside and get warm.”
“What, you’re not coming in?”
“Not… this time,” said Namor, his voice a little hesitant as the smile dropped.
“I have the house to myself,” said Shuri quickly, trying to sound very aloof and uninterested, as if that was just a little fact, a little nothing she was tossing away. I’m not desperate. Not me. He can leave, that’s fine. Completely fine. There is no problem. Absolutely none. “For— for a week, in fact.”
Namor’s eyes narrowed, his lip curling. “And you accused me of attempting to seduce you.”
Oh, no, no, no. “That— that is not what I am—”
“Suggesting? No? You think I am stupid?” He ran a hand through his wet hair, looking incredulous.
Shuri’s temper flared. “You demand I recall my actions, actions that I— that I preferred to forget rather than think about, and when I obey, because you threatened to break peace with my people over it, you mock me and accuse me of trying to seduce you. I will ask the question I asked you again. What do you really want from me?” The wind gusted gently. It lifted a piece of her hair up and into her eyes, and she shoved it away furiously, keeping her glare fixed on Namor, who stood in the surf and just stared back at her. “I do not like to repeat myself,” she said softly. “Tell me.”
“I did not threaten to break peace,” he said finally.
Bast, but he was infuriating. “Yes, you did! You said the alliance was a mistake because you thought I could not be honest with—”
“No,” he said in a voice like steel. “No, Princess. I do not threaten. Be assured that if I were one to break a truce and make war against a people for the sole purpose of avenging my wounded heart against their princess, I would have burned your Golden City to the ground and drowned it in the sea the day you escaped my home and took the life of one of my handmaids.”
“I did not kill that girl,” said Shuri, swallowing hard. “I tried to help. She was losing too much blood. I was not— I could not do it quickly enough to escape and save her—”
“A death is a death,” he told her. “And you chose your own life. There is no shame in it. But I did not know you tried to save her, so I thank you.”
Shuri closed her eyes, once again seeing the bewildered, dying face of the blue-faced Talokani woman on the floor, her language unfamiliar, but her eyes beseeching Shuri for life. “It was my duty,” she said hollowly. “To try to help. I failed her, my mother, and my brother… I cannot seem to have saved any life thrust into my hands except yours.”
“You saved your own people, and mine, when you agreed on peace and mercy. That is not a small thing.”
“No,” she agreed, lifting her face again to meet his eyes. “But what wounded heart do you speak of? What do you mean, avenging it against my people?”
Namor’s face shuttered, blank and unreadable as a white wall. “I will come to you again.”
Clearly, he did not wish to have a conversation about it. Shuri sighed. “When?”
“When I find the time. I am a busy person.” A glint of mischief shone in his eyes briefly. “Leave your window open and I might surprise you.”
“You have obviously never had to deal with mosquitoes,” said Shuri, raising one eyebrow.
“They don’t like the taste of Talokanil blood.”
“Oh, how convenient.” She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. “I’ll see you later, then.”
He looked her over one last time. “Pa’atení,” he said softly.
Please. Wait for me.
“All right, I will,” she murmured, and watched him return to the sea.
It was not until Shuri had showered and changed that she realized he had never answered her second question.
W hat do you truly want from me?
Chapter 3: k’ahk’nahb
Notes:
Everyone PLEASE go look at this incredible art done by @hiomnom on twitter for this chapter!! I am screaming! I am on fire! https://twitter.com/hiomnom/status/1596082031876018176
Chapter Text
She dreamed that night of Talokan.
In her dreams, Shuri did not need a suit or a respirator to go there; she swam freely under the crushing pressure, she breathed the water like air, and she greeted the children, watched the sun rise from the seabed, laughed as she chased fish and whales.
You see? I brought the sun to my people, said a voice near her ear, low and gentle. When she turned in the water, he was gone.
Come back, she said, stretching out her arms. The water around her became stone walls, painted with ancient coiling murals— they faded to one single, enormous painting of a man in a feathered helmet, dripping in gold and jade and cobalt-colored vibranium— then he was the mural, eyes staring out at her, something ancient come to life.
Come, he said, and Shuri was being pulled into the wall, her flesh encased in stone, two arms pinning her in place. She shuddered and let him fold her in, surrounding her, a prickly beard at her throat as a hot mouth kissed her.
And then she was awake, sitting straight up, the sheets tangled around her legs and half her right arm. It was still dark. Her heart was thundering a hundred beats a second, it felt, and sweat was sticky on her chest and back. Bast take it, she thought dismally, untangling herself from the sheets. It had felt so real, the hands on her arms, the mouth on her throat. I am going mad.
And yet… Shuri touched her own mouth, closing her eyes as she remembered the press of his skin, the heat of his lips. Leave the window open, he’d said, and she glanced over at her curtains: she had purposely left it shut to annoy him, should he come again, but…
I do have mosquito netting. Quickly, before she could change her mind, Shuri hurried over and threw open the light curtains, opening the window. It was old and swollen from the sea air, and she had to be careful not to shatter the frame as she pushed it up and looked out. The beach was only a gleam of pale color in the night; the moon had set long ago. Shuri could hear the eternal whispering of the waves on the shore, but nothing else. She waited a long moment, maybe a minute— maybe twenty— and turned back to her bed, crawling into the damp sheets and drawing the netting around her bed. It wasn’t like the window would keep him out. Perhaps he decided he did not want to come. Or he is busy. Or…
She drifted off, half-asleep, and stirred when a light, barefoot scrape against the floor roused her back to full wakefulness. “What?” she mumbled, nestling further into her pillow.
“Nothing, princess. Go back to sleep.” She knew that voice, knew its every cadence and inflection by now, and half-opened her eyes as a shape moved outside the netting, just visible. “You’re very trusting, you know. I could have been a thief.”
“I would have stopped you if you were a thief,” she said, rolling over and flinging an arm over her eyes. “What time is it?”
“Not quite dawn,” Namor answered. “You slept badly?”
“Bad dreams,” she muttered. “How did you know?”
“I heard you wake and open the window two hours past midnight.” He settled on the floor in a deep squat, the blanket cowled over his head to hide his ears. Shuri could just make out his silhouette in the gray morning light.
“You’ve been spying on me?”
“I’ve been watching over you,” he corrected. “After all, you said you were alone.”
She had to smile at the absurdity of it. “Watching over me? I am the Black Panther. I need no protector, I am the protector.” Her eyes narrowed at him through the netting. “Were you walking up and down the beach waiting for me to open my window all night?”
“No,” he said defensively. “I was— no.”
“Oh, really? Now who can’t be honest with themselves?” she mumbled, rolling over to face the wall. There was a long silence, and she wondered briefly if he had left, but then as the sky outside the window paled to a soft pink, she heard him come closer to the bed, then slip the mosquito netting aside.
Shuri did not move. She kept her eyes closed, her breathing slow and steady, but her senses, already heightened, were bursting with information. The depression of an elbow leaning at the edge of the mattress, the hand sliding to her, outstretched. She could feel all those things as if she had seen them with her eyes, and knew Namor was kneeling at the edge of her bed, one hand reaching for her back, the fingers only a little unsteady.
He is going to touch me, she thought, forcing her breathing to be even.
But he did not. His fingers hovered, inches from her skin, half an inch— then he pulled his hand away, his breath coming in a ragged little rhythm. “You are awake,” he said accusingly.
“Yes,” she said, not moving. “And you are about to catch a face full of vibranium-alloy claws if you try to grab me without permission.”
There was a brief second of hesitation, and then there was a rustling movement as he stood. “Come with me,” he said softly. “Just for the morning.”
“Come with you where?” Shuri rolled over, slightly suspicious. He had put the netting back down, but his shape was outlined in rosy light from the window.
“I like to come to the surface and watch the sun rise sometimes,” Namor said, going to the window. “I would enjoy some company. And you are awake, so. Come with me.”
Shuri kicked the netting back and slid off the bed. In her sleep shorts and overlarge shirt, she felt small and exposed next to him. Everything about him was heavy and dense: his chest, his waist, his thighs, his blanket and his collar and every inch of gold and jade on his body. “Company,” she echoed.
“Yes. There’s a good spot not far from here. Will you come?”
“Can I put on some clothes first?”
“You won’t need any,” he said dismissively, then caught himself as she gave him an incredulous stare with both eyebrows raised high. “Clothes. I mean, not—I don’t mean to say that you— I only meant that there is no need for you to change. I did not mean to imply—to—”
“Yes, I get it, okay,” said Shuri, trying not to laugh at how ruffled he looked. “I’ll come.”
“The wind will be cold before sunrise,” Namor said, slipping his blanket off his shoulders and wrapping it around her snugly. She swallowed, standing very still, but he never looked at her face, only the blanket with a critical eye as he tucked in corners and smoothed the sides. “This will keep you warm.”
“Thank you,” she said. It was a very warm blanket, actually, and the surface seemed waterproofed with some kind of wax that smelled strangely earthy. Beeswax? But where would Talokan get bees? If only she had her lab equipment at hand to analyze it, she thought. There could be so many useful things shared between our people. If only…
He took her, flying in the night-cool air of the early morning, to a rocky east-facing cove miles and miles away, protected on all sides apart from the mouth that faced east, with waist-deep water as clear as glass and blue as the sky. Shuri sat on a driftwood log, bleached to the color of bone, on the small, sandy shore, huddled in the blanket, while Namor sat beside her, his bandaged ankle propped up on a rock.
“You surface people call this sea the Caribbean, ” he told her as they watched gulls wheel overhead and clouds turn from pale pink to purple, then from purple to faint red-orange. “For the Carib people who lived here, six hundred years ago. But my people called it k’ahk’nahb, The Pool of Fire, because the sun rises up from it. When the first tiny sliver comes up above the sea, the water looks like it has been set ablaze.”
Shuri tucked her chin into the blanket. “I never noticed,” she admitted. “Sunrises, I mean.” Usually because I am still in the lab.
He was still looking far out to the horizon. “And the Empire of the South, the Ēxcān Tlahtōlōyān, four hundred years ago— they called the sea the Sky-Water, ilhuicaatl. They believed the surface was a great celestial sky, and that the Feathered Serpent God held up the whole sky on his shoulders from below the water.” A modest smile played on his face. “They were a little right about that one.”
“The Aztecs,” put in Shuri. “Yes?”
“Yes,” said Namor, glancing at her. “You have been doing some research.”
“Some,” she admitted, lowering her eyes to the water, then back to his face when she realized something she had not noticed before in the dark. “Did you… did you trim your beard? Just a little?”
His cheeks went a very interesting shade of dark red. “Am I not allowed to cut my own hair?”
Shuri stifled a giggle. “No, no. Forget I said anything.” The sky had lightened considerably, every orange cloud edged in bright gold. “I like it,” she said after a long, quiet moment. Namor scoffed and shifted his weight, a flicker of discomfort shooting across his face fast as lightning, gone in a flash. The wings on his good ankle folded in when he sat, like the wings of a roosting gull. She wished she could inspect them more closely. “Your foot is hurting you?”
“It’s fine. Look.” He leaned over and pointed, one careful brown finger pointing just above where the sun was moments away from bursting over the sea. “There is Chak Ek’, brother of the Sun, who is so jealous of his brother’s power and beauty that he descends every night into the sea to plot revenge.” Shuri could just make out a dimming, diamond-bright point.
“Venus,” she said, smiling a little. “The morning star. It’s a planet two hundred fifty-four million kilometers from Earth, not a god.”
Namor made a derisive little ppuuh sound. “You have no imagination.”
“Yes, I do. I just believe in science over—” Her voice died as the sun broke the surface of the sea, a bright, hot lance of light streaming into the cove and lighting them both up in gold. Namor shifted his position again, and the light reflecting off his arms and collar and belt made him almost too bright to see. Shuri shielded her eyes, awe and wonder filling her whole being at the sight. It was as if the sun had been made new that very moment, as if the light had never touched anything before except the two of them, sitting in that cove together. “Oh,” she whispered, lowering her hands as she gazed at the glittering water, the crimson and purple clouds, the orange sky.
“I have lived five hundred and four years on this earth,” murmured Namor, “but every sunrise is different, and each one is beautiful. Yet you could never have them if the sun never set and left you in the dark for a time. My people see the whole world and everything in it as one great cycle. Death, and rebirth, and life again. For so long, I thought I was the exception. I was the one thing that never died. Never feared dying. And then there was you.”
Shuri let the blanket ship off her shoulder as she turned to face him. It was growing warmer, now, with the sun up, and she thought he would have been gazing at the sunrise, all that red and gold burning glory spilling out across the endless sky— but he was looking at her. “I never noticed sunrises before,” she said, half afraid to move for fear the moment would be broken. Is he going to ask me to kiss him again? Talk about an alliance, a wounded heart, whatever that meant? “My people believe that death is not the end of life, either. That when you die, you cross through, and you are with your people again— family, ancestors— in a world where life and death mean nothing. Where eternity goes on forever.” She had not expected her throat to choke up as she spoke, or her eyes to start burning.
“And what does your science say about that?” he asked. The pearls around his throat gleamed like snow. “Is the afterlife real? Is it truth?” Namor leaned in closer, so close that she could see hidden flecks of red in his dark, dark eyes. “Or a fable invented for the ignorant and superstitious to believe?”
Don’t, she wanted to say, don’t look at me like that, I can’t stand it. Instead, she shut her eyes and thought of her mother, still and peaceful in death; of her cousin’s face as he sat on the throne of Wakanda while the skies outside burned purple and blue. “A thing can be real without being true all the time,” she managed. “The sun is real, but it is not always in the sky.”
“Ah,” said Namor, tilting his head a little. “You are growing wiser than you were.”
“Don’t mock me,” she muttered, ducking her chin a little and blinking hard. Her vision had blurred. I will not cry. I can’t cry in front of him.
“I wouldn’t dare,” he told her. “You hold my heart in your hands.” She must have made some type of face, because he amended, “The heart is— is the seat of the soul to my people. I mean you hold my very soul. The one person who ever came close to killing me, who ever could.”
“Well, don’t push your luck again,” Shuri said, trying to be lighthearted. A tear slipped from her eye and she sniffed, but his finger had already swiped it off her cheek. She gulped. “Why did you say before that your heart was wounded? Did you mean you were offended by my refusal to let you kill Riri Williams?”
“No,” he answered. “My heart, my soul was wounded because… because I had found the only thing near to an equal that the world holds for me— has ever held for me— and she scorned my gifts, and my offer of an alliance.” He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “You came willingly and saw what no surface-dweller has ever seen or will see again. You accepted my hospitality, ate my food, took my gifts, heard my words, and then were spirited away, back to your people, with death in your wake. My rage was so great that I could have easily burned your country to the ground without a thought.”
“But you didn’t,” she whispered.
“No,” he agreed. “I did not.”
“Why? You came and warned us. You could have killed us all, but you withdrew, you gave us time to bury my mother, why did you— why?”
His throat moved softly, his lips parting. “I told you already. I had not yet gained the one great wish of my life.”
Shuri felt as if the world had halted on its axis, the rotation skidding to a halt, threatening to fling her off the surface, unmoored. When had her mouth gone so dry? “You are saying that you spared my country, my people, for me,” she forced out, wishing she had a more commanding voice.
“I am,” he said.
She could not think. Could not move, could not even make herself laugh or cry or— or— “I want to see your ankle,” she heard herself saying, as if another woman was speaking, somewhere a thousand miles away.
Namor leaned forward, slipping the bandage off in a long, winding strip, and revealed the damaged, folded wing beneath. Shuri made a sympathetic sound in her throat and slid off the log, leaving the blanket as she knelt by his foot and lifted it gently by the heel. Mingled feelings of guilt for what she had done in anger and fascination at the structure itself filled her chest. The hurt wing was smaller than the other three, growing back like the tail of a lizard, but the flesh was still bruised around his ankle, the colors gone all purple and dark green beneath his skin. Soft fuzzy down was sprouting from the pink new flesh and bone, and a thin red scar showed where Shuri was sure she’d initially cut the wing in half. “You cannot move it independently?”
“Of course I can,” he said, and she watched as the wing slowly, delicately flexed, moved like a shaky baby bird’s. The contrast between it and the mature, white-feathered wing on the other side of his heel was astonishing. “A few more months. It will grow back. It is weak, and the bruise is an irritation, but it will fade.”
“I could heal it with my Kimoyo beads,” said Shuri, running her finger along the bruise. There was not much swelling left. “Reprogram it for your DNA, of course, since you are not exactly human. It would hardly take any time. I wouldn’t even need my lab.”
“A very generous offer,” said Namor. She delicately rested her fingertip along one soft new feather, astonished at how light the pinions felt. “Mm—”
Shuri glanced up and saw that his face had gone all slack and tight at the same time. “Did I hurt you?”
“Not— hurt, exactly. It is just sensitive. New nerves, new skin.”
“Like—” She ran her thumb down the healing length, and his leg jerked out against the sand, a sharp short cry escaping his lips. “Oh,” she said, startled.
“That,” Namor said with some difficulty, sweat on his forehead, “is why I keep it covered.” He sat up and re-bandaged his ankle, shuddering.
She nibbled on her lip. “It’s like having your toenail ripped off and someone touching the bed, eh? I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”
“I trust Wakanda and its new king will not learn of this strategic weakness,” he said, a slight edge to his unsure tone.
“Why would I tell M’Baku anything about you?” Shuri sat back on her haunches. “He’s a nosy tease. If I tell him I learned that his favorite enemy, the fish-man, has a weak ankle, it would be, ‘Ahhh, really, and how did you come to find this out, you sneaky cat?’” She could imitate M’Baku fairly well, and it got a grin out of Namor. Heartened, she carried on with the imaginary conversation. “‘Well, M’Baku, we were just sitting on a beach and talking—’ ‘Sitting on a beach! Talking! Ahh! Were you on a date, Shuri? A date with the fish-man?’ ‘No, no, not a date, my king, we were merely watching the sun rise.’ ‘Oh, watching the sun rise, were you? And did you watch it set, too? Spending the whole night with him?’” She puffed her cheeks out and pretended to scowl. “‘I know you are fond of that colonizer from America, Shuri, but this is going too far—’”
“What colonizer is that?” said Namor abruptly, his eyes narrowed.
Shuri stopped short. “Oh—what? Nobody.” Heat burned her cheeks at the sudden change in Namor’s mood. “His name is Ross. He’s an old man, he works for their government. I mean, I think he’s old. It’s hard to tell with Americans sometimes, you know. Especially the white ones. He looks sixty, but he could be forty for all I know.”
“You’re fond of this… Ross?”
“He saved Nakia’s life,” she explained. “Took a bullet for her. My… my brother took him to Wakanda and I treated him. He helped us…” Her throat grew thick again at the memory of T’Challa. “He helped us save the throne from my cousin at great risk to his own— it’s a long story.”
“But you like him.”
“He is an ally to my people,” she informed him, rolling her eyes and looking out to sea as her eyes burned and she wiped the unshed tears away. “Why do you sound so jealous?”
Namor stiffened beside her and went very still, glaring at the ground. “I am not jealous. I am the Feathered Serpent; He Who Stands In Sky And Water. What reason would I have to be jealous?”
“You are!” she spluttered. “Bast’s sake, he’s old. Of course I don’t like him like that! Eugh! ”
“I am older,” he said in a frigid, dry tone.
Shuri couldn’t help but groan at the expression on his face. “That is not— he’s— if you ever met the man, you would understand. He looks like a confused mouse. He’s nothing like you.”
Something about the set of Namor’s mouth softened when she said nothing like you. “Nobody is like me,” he said. “Nobody but you. We could be gods together, you know.”
“The Black Panther is not a god,” Shuri said, sitting back down on the driftwood log beside him and draping his blanket loosely around her shoulders. “It is a protector. Bast is the goddess— the one who first gave the herb to Bashenga, and he was the first Black Panther.” What is he getting at?
“A technicality,” he said, resting his elbows on his knees.
“And I’ve seen others like us, you know,” said Shuri, squinting at him in the daylight. “People in the past saw things they did not understand— genetic mutations, creatures from other worlds—and called them gods. There is much on the surface you have not yet seen.”
“I think you look at without truly seeing the things of your surface world,” he mused, nudging her gently with his elbow. “You looked at the sunrise all this time, and never truly saw it.”
“My brother was the spiritual one who saw beauty and meaning in everything,” she told him. “I was— I am the scientific one, the one who sees facts and logical reasoning and…” Her throat did not choke up with tears this time, when she thought of T’Challa, and she was glad. “I thought he would be the Black Panther forever.”
“You were afraid to take up the mantle,” said Namor quietly. “To accept the spiritual, which comes with the title. Yes?”
She nodded, glad he had put words to it. “I didn’t believe the ancestral plane even existed. I thought it was a trick of the mind, some— some side effect of the herb playing games with my central nervous system, hallucinations— some part of me still thinks that, even though I know I saw it.”
“Just because something is seen only within the mind’s eye does not make it a lie. And just because a thing is seen with your waking eyes does not make it true.” Namor spread his hand flat and let it hover just above her chest, over her heart. “And to accept the spiritual does not necessarily mean to deny science.”
“Well, then, the reverse must be true. To accept the scientific does not mean to throw away the spiritual, God-King of Talokan,” she said lightly, trying to tease him.
“No,” he allowed, his hand still floating over her chest. “It does not.”
The sun was warm, the wind was blowing, and Shuri, who had not been at a loss for words since she was two years old, could not think of anything else to say. He leaned in closer, into the silence between them, into the space that separated them until he had filled it almost completely, an inch from her nose. “Are you going to kiss me again?” she asked as softly as she could.
“I… am deciding.”
She had to smile. “What’s there to decide?”
His nose brushed hers. “If it’s worth getting a face full of vibranium claws,” he murmured.
“You have my permission to kiss me again,” Shuri told him, hardly daring to move. Her heart felt like it might fly right out of her chest, it was beating so hard, and her mouth was dry and her hands and belly were shaky again. Nervously, she moistened her lips, and Namor’s eyes found her tongue, then her eyes again, then—
She had thought that the first kiss was something passionate, but now she understood that it had been half a recreation, a game, a farce. This was— this was something else entirely. His whole head moved, turning, seeking her deeper and deeper, his hands clutching at her cheek, her throat, slipping down; the blanket fell off, and she felt only the heat of his hand as he traced the curve of her bare shoulder. She did not even care that his beard was still a little scratchy or that the jade in his nose was cold against her cheek. She barely felt anything but heat. Blindly, Shuri put her hands on his collar, flat, pressing, trying to find his skin, to touch him back.
He broke the kiss, breathing a little hard. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Wh-what?” she stammered, very intelligently.
“You are pushing me away.” One hand came up to touch the back of her fingers, frozen on gold and carved vibranium, on pearls and jade. “Are you not?”
“If I wanted you to stop,” panted Shuri, and reached up, trailed her fingertips along his bearded cheek, bumping the jade spool in his ear, “you would not find the need to ask the question, K’uk’ulkan.”
Namor’s face softened, breaking into a delight as bright and joyous as the sunrise itself, and she met him halfway, grabbing his head, crushing half her face into his and kissing him as hard as she could. I’m supposed to move my hands, right? She slid them up past and over the jade ear-spools, burying them in his coarse, damp hair. This is so bad, this is terrible, he probably thinks I am the worst kisser he’s ever had in his life. Then he let out a soft sound from his nose, half a moan, and Shuri reconsidered. Maybe I am doing all right, then.
“Ears,” he moaned, and she blinked.
What?
Her grip on his head tightened, and he let out another sound, the hands at the small of her back pulling her directly into his lap as he slid off the log. “Ears,” he repeated, gasping a little, and Shuri pulled back and realized what he meant: she had part of the delicate tips of his ears trapped under her palm, pressed against his head.
“Sorry,” she mumbled hastily, releasing him.
“They’re very sensitive,” he rumbled, his hands on her waist, and she realized she was straddling him like a cow, very intimate parts pressed against… other intimate parts that were— that—
“I didn’t realize,” she explained, tripping over her own words as she tried very hard to not focus on the object she seemed to be sitting astride. “The ears. You. It— that it is so— they are—”
“You are entirely fearless in battle,” mused Namor, looking up at her, “and here there is no war, yet you are falling apart like a sunken ship.”
Her face burned. “I don’t— I'm not— shut up.”
“Why are you frightened?” His warm hands slid up and down her sides, gentling her like a startled animal. “I am not going to spring on you like a shark smelling blood.”
“Everyone’s— I’m not frightened, I’m just— apprehensive, everyone’s apprehensive of new things—”
“Oh,” he said in a different tone. “You’ve never—”
Humiliation stung her eyes. “No, I haven’t, and if you’re going to make some funny comment about it then you can just—”
“Shuri,” Namor said, very softly, and she made herself look at him. He said nothing else for a moment, just looked her in the face and held her gaze, and she felt her heartbeat speed up again, thrumming like a trapped bird. He took her hand and turned her slender wrist upward to the sky, then brought it to his mouth and kissed the inside, near her palms. She squirmed as the hair on his chin and upper lip tickled her. He did the same to her other wrist; then the inside of her elbows. Heat was gathering between her legs that she was sure had nothing to do with the morning sun. Namor sat up slowly, kissing her, until she was pressed right up against him, still spread over his lap, something hard and thick pressing into her thigh beneath his clothing. His mouth found her shoulders, then her throat, then her jawline, where he pressed a row of soft kisses up until he had reached her ear, and his teeth softly nibbled at her skin. “Trust me.”
“I—” She wasn’t ready, wasn’t close to ready even though her body was screaming assent. “It’s— only, it’s—”
“Tell me,” he whispered, soft in her ear. “Tell me what you don’t want, if that's easier.”
It wasn’t that she was afraid, it was simply that she was not— it was not— One day. But not now. Not today. “Nothing penetrative. No— fingers or— anything else. Please.”
“The Black Panther commands, and K'uk'ulkan hears.” He planted one last warm kiss to her temple and peeled himself away from her, standing and brushing off his sandy, green-clad backside. “As you like. Get in the water.”
“In the— my clothes are going to be soaked,” she said, blinking up at him. He was taking off his— he was , she’d never seen him out of his ornaments, but he was carefully removing the heavy collar, the belt— everything but his dark green shorts and his gold upper armbands was set on the blanket.
“So take them off,” he said, raising an eyebrow. She barely had time to react before he turned and dived down below the surface, his passage marked by a splash.
Shuri stood there, watching; then he surfaced out twenty feet away, his dark, wet head visible above the blue water as he swam swiftly toward the wall of the cove, to a sheltered place where flat rocks jutted out into the water above and below. He turned, caught her eye, smiled, and sank slowly, not even a bubble to be seen in his passing.
I am the Black Panther, and I am not afraid. She hooked her thumbs into her shorts and removed them, then slipped her shirt off over her head, laying both articles down on the blanket. They looked very plain and boring next to the gold and vibranium carved collar and the strings of pearls. The wind was cool everywhere on her bare skin. I am the Black Panther. I am the sister to one king, and daughter to another, and aunt to a third. I am Shuri of the Golden Tribe, and I am not afraid.
And Shuri waded out into the cool water, swimming toward the rocks, where something waited for her beneath the sea.
Chapter Text
Water swallowed her, lapping at her shoulders, as Shuri reached the half-submerged rocks near the southern side of the little cove. It was not very deep water, only about seven feet, and she easily swung around to sit on the cold, smooth stone. Her entire lower half was submerged in the sea.
Now, where is Namor?
His head had sunk below the water for the last time as she had neared the rocks, eyes glittering, and now he was nowhere to be seen at all. Maybe he was only joking. Maybe he meant to trick me… but when Shuri remembered the look in his eyes as he had gone under, she did not think that was very likely. He means to play some game and sneak up on me, she thought, drawing her feet up to brace on the rock and shivering. If something grabbed her ankle in the water…
Then, she saw him. He was twenty feet out, head and shoulders above the water, watching her. “You make a funny-looking fish,” she called out, smiling. Namor’s eyes gleamed, and he sank down slowly, not even a bubble rising to mark his place. Shuri’s belly went tight and knotted with anticipation— then he surfaced again closer to her, hair plastered down flat and dripping, ten feet away.
“Princess,” he said by way of greeting, inclining his head.
“Don’t grab me from below,” she said quickly, hugging her knees.
When Namor grinned, his teeth gleamed in the light. “You don’t trust me?”
“Should I?”
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” he said noncommittally, and went under again, the water closing over his head. Shuri took a breath, but when he did not surface again for a few minutes, and nothing touched her, she slowly slid one foot, then the other, back down into the cove-shadowed water. It’s dark, she thought, biting her lip in anticipation, and it’s cold, and if something starts tickling me I swear to Bast I’ll kick him halfway to the Azores.
A mouth, warm and soft and hot, pressed against her right ankle. Shuri stifled a shriek and made herself be still. She had to trust him— at least try. But he didn’t promise anything, she thought, half-panicked as the mouth slid up her shin, as a hand caressed her left ankle. Then the mouth switched sides, kissing up her left shin and calf— her heel bumped something warm and smooth. His chest? Shuri could not tell. The water was too dim here. She felt a hand slip around her knee, the mouth over it— goosebumps broke out on her whole body, her skin going tight and prickly all over from her spine out to the backs of her arms and legs, her nipples pebbling into tight nubs. Her spine felt like it had been electrified, and the sensation only got worse as hands curled around her knees, a tongue slipped over her inner thighs where her skin was thin and delicate, and a head, thick with rough hair, brushed her lap, perilously close to—
Shuri reached forward in the water: she could see him clearly now, the dark blur that was his head, the expanse of deep brown skin that was his naked back. She grabbed his hair in a frantic movement and he immediately surfaced, blinking water from his eyes. “D-don’t,” she gasped, barely able to look at him. “What are you— what— I said— I—”
Namor frowned. “No penetration. Did I mishear?”
“No, but you were— it felt like you were— like—” She suddenly felt so stupid and young and frightened that she choked off her own sentence, but Namor did not push off and swim away, nor did he roll his eyes at her. He merely waited between her knees and looked at her, patiently waiting. “I don’t know,” she finally said, humiliation burning in her throat.
“Did you mishear me, Princess?”
“What?”
Dark eyes seemed to grow darker. “I said that if the Black Panther commanded, I would obey. Either you did not hear me correctly, or you have no faith in my word. Which is it?”
Her mouth felt dry as a bone, as a desert. She swallowed. “I am sitting here naked, K’uk’ulkan. You cannot accuse me of mistrusting you.”
“Mm. No. Not completely.” He surged a little closer, his belly pressing into the lip of the stone she sat on. How had she never noticed his shoulders were so broad? “I should have expected that, I suppose.”
Shuri gripped the sea-slick rock in her fingers and took a small breath. “What is it you plan to do to me?”
“Do to you,” he repeated, lowering himself back down. “Do to you? I would like to do many things with you. These are not things one does to another, but with them.” He smiled briefly and dropped his voice into a low, soft rumble as his hands, laid flat along her thighs, brushed her skin. “And I would like to do them all as fast as I can, one after the other, but as the saying goes, a man at a feast with no discipline becomes quickly ill. So I will settle for one taste at a time.” His hands slipped down to her knees and gently guided them apart. Shuri could feel the cool sensation of seawater that had not warmed to her skin flowing across her inner thighs, and shivered. “Come to the edge,” he said, and she scooted forward, her backside resting on the lip of stone, her legs in the water. “Lean back.”
“In the water?” she asked, her belly feeling as if she had swallowed her active Kimoyo beads.
“Yes.” Namor took her knees, lifted them in the water to rest on his shoulders, and Shuri forced herself to slide further forward in the water, her back on cold stone, her shoulders and chest above water as she propped herself up on her forearms. “Good,” he said, nodding at her. The jade ear flares bumped her thighs as he did. “And now, itzia, you will have to trust me.”
I can’t, she thought, and then she shut her eyes. I can. I can. I gave him my word. We agreed on a truce, and what is a truce without trust? Although, of course, this hadn’t been exactly the scenario she had envisioned when they had limped together to the ship, both wounded, leaning on each other— but being flexible was a good thing, wasn’t it? I can trust him. With this, at least. “All right,” she said, and took a breath, steeling herself and squeezing her eyes shut.
She heard him laugh, a small sound, then a ripple of water: he was touching her beneath the surface. Warm, calloused hands slid up and over her thighs, cupping her hips— she felt a thumb press lightly into her flesh, and then a mouth, hot and soft, descended on her skin, just above her knee. Shuri shuddered, half her body weightless in the water, held up only by the shoulders of the man beneath it— the other half braced on half-submerged rock. Please, please don’t let me fall, she thought. Strange: beneath the water, his beard felt soft, not coarse at all.
A low, humming sound was coming from below the water. Shuri tilted her head back so that only her face and forehead were above the surface, and realized with a shock that he was singing. She couldn’t understand the words, or make out half of them, but the melody was soothing and gentle. A love song? A lullaby? She had no idea, but she relaxed: surely a man who sang like that…
And then she remembered the haunting, beautiful song of the Talokani, luring her people into the river, into the sea. Had he sang, too? Or had it been only his people? She did not know. For a moment, anger and self-loathing flashed through her as the hands of the man who had killed so many drew further up her thighs, but then she opened her eyes, blindly staring at the sky overhead, as blue as the sea.
Death is just another part of life. A cycle. A great cycle. They run under an eternal sky with their ancestors, all of them, Talokanil and Wakandan alike…
His thumb brushed her, directly in the middle, where crisp short curls had been shaved away, leaving only a thin line of black hair, she knew. And she… she wanted him to touch her, ached for it, almost wanted to grab his hand and sit on it herself, but refrained, her mixed emotions so strong she did not know what she was going to do.
Namor kissed her on the right thigh— the left— then put his head between her legs and plied the flat of his tongue, rough and hot, directly where she was aching the most. Shuri yelped in shock at his good it felt and bucked her hips upward, churning the water: he held her firmly down, one hand spread out on her belly and the other curled around her thigh. Little shocks of delicious feeling were spreading outward from the whole cradle of her pelvis, rocketing down her spine, melting in her belly, making the backs of her arms and legs tingle. She cried out again and curled her toes, arching her back. Please, please, she thought, gasping like a fish. The cold jade ear flares were digging into her thighs, but it only added to the onslaught of physical sensation that was ratcheting her whole body up to some unseen finishing line. It was so unlike touching herself that it was all she could do to cling to the rock, shaking and waiting for her body to be done. Over and over again his tongue pressed, licked, spread apart the most delicate parts of her body— his lips curled and sucked and she almost kicked him in the back with her heels, choking on her own tongue. The sea had seemed to warm up around them. Was it her body heat? Her imagination? Shuri could barely even feel the hard stone beneath her naked back anymore. Tears gathered in her eyes as her body drew tighter and tighter, up and up to the—
He sucked again at her, directly on the bundle of nerves that was swollen and aching, and Shuri came so hard she did kick him in the back this time, on both sides of his spine, her legs churning up the water and splashing. Was she shouting? Was she crying? She did not know. She could not hear herself over the ringing in her ears as she convulsed, stars in her field of vision, and then went limp against the rock like a dead thing, trying to remember how to breathe, and not really even caring if she sank to the bottom of the cove and drowned.
Namor surged up out of the water, crawled up beside her, pulled her bodily up and back by her armpits until only her feet dangled off the edge of the rock, then threw one knee over her waist, looking down and cupping her cheek in one hand. “Princess,” he said, sounding a little ragged.
She barely felt any of it. Everything was soft and peaceful and warm and safe, her mind gone floating away somewhere into the clouds, into a hazy dream. “Ehh?” she mumbled, blinking. “You are dripping all over me.”
“Awake and alive, I see.” His thumb grazed her bottom lip.
“Shut up,” Shuri muttered, squinting against the sunlight and flinging an arm across her eyes. Practically, scientifically, even, she knew what had happened to her body and mind: dopamine levels heightened, oxytocin surging from her hormone producers, respiration and heartbeat accelerated. But this was so— it was—
“Are you glad you trusted me?”
“Did I kick you?” she mumbled.
“You did,” he said, chuckling as his thumb slid to her chin, grasping it gently with the rest of his fingers. “But I am not hurt.”
“Good,” Shuri whispered, and his mouth came down on hers, his body crouched above her like something large and ferocious guarding a prize. Namor’s hand left her mouth, slid down her throat and collarbones, out to her shoulders, where he trailed his fingertips along her arms, all the way out to her wrists, then seized them both and gently, firmly pinned them above her head on the wet stone. She brought her knees up, instinctively ready to fight her way out of the hold, but there was nothing of violence in his face as he broke the kiss, his nose bumping hers.
“Princess,” he murmured, blinking water from his eyes as it ran down his hair. Shuri fought to breathe: how could she be aroused so quickly again? He shifted, putting both of her slim wrists into one of his hands, and drew his fingers down her cheek— avoiding her soaked hair, she noted with satisfaction— gliding all the way down to her chest.
“They’re too small, I know,” she said immediately, looking away with embarrassment.
The hand on her chest, just above her nipple, paused. “What?” asked Namor, with some surprise in his voice.
Shuri did not know how to explain this. Even now, she was a grown woman of twenty-two— it wasn’t that she disliked herself, it was just that she felt— “You don’t have to tease me about them,” she muttered, turning her gaze away as all her excitement faded like a morning mist. She had been thirteen when she had become an assistant professor at Wakanda University, and by fourteen, then fifteen, she had noticed that half her students— who were all her age— had experienced the physical changes that came with puberty— including many very well-developed breasts— and she had simply—
I do not want to hear you say things like this, said her mother in her memory. You are not a child, or a freak, or a scarecrow, or a river-pole, or any of the other cruel things those children say to you. You are a blade, Shuri. Sharp and quick, a thing that pries open secrets in the makings of the world.
And most importantly, you are my daughter.
“You are crying,” Namor said softly, and Shuri took in a short breath, feeling hot tears on her cheeks, her vision blurred as her breath hitched. He released her wrists. A thumb wiped away her tears and a hand, warm and rough, cupped her cheek. “Shuri?”
“Get off me,” she choked, pushing at him, and he immediately swung away from her, kneeling on the rock as she struggled to her feet, hugging herself in shame. Tears flooded her face. The absurdity of the situation truly struck her: she had allowed the man who had murdered her mother to carry her off and entice her into taking off all her clothes; she was naked on a beach in a strange part of this country and she had let him touch her, let him kiss her, let him— “I shouldn’t have done this— we shouldn’t have—” Her foot slipped and she fell to her knees in the shallow water on the rock, barely feeling the shock of pain or her scraped skin. “You think you can— treat me like this, turn my head with some nonsense about spirituality and death not being real and— and— I don’t even know why I came here. Why I let you do this. My mother is dead because of you. You know what it is to lose a mother, and yet you still took mine from me. I called for peace between our people, which you did not deserve, and you agreed, and yet that is still not enough for you— now you want to— to—” She could not make the words come out of her throat, so she spat out others, edged with shaking fury. “I am the blood of Wakanda’s king. I am the Black Panther, and if you ever try to touch me like that again I will mount the Feathered Serpent’s head on a spike in the river as a warning to your people.”
Namor made no expression at all, kneeling silently in the water as he gazed up at her. “Are you done?” he asked, when Shuri did not keep railing at him.
“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Keep being condescending and you’ll find out.”
“You called the deeply held beliefs of both our people nonsense : I do not think I’m the one being condescending—”
“I don’t care about anyone’s beliefs!” she screamed, loud enough to startle a family of gulls from their roost in the rocks. “Mama is dead, and it’s your fault!”
There was no sound then but her barely-suppressed weeping, and the gulls crying. Namor’s throat, exposed out of his collar, moved softly as he swallowed. “Yes,” he said after a long time, and she put her face in her hands, gave up trying to hold back, and sobbed her eyes out. “Yes. It is my fault. I had forgotten how short you surface people live. How you see time. How… infrequent death is to you. I thought I was…” His voice trailed off into a sigh. “No. It does not matter.”
When she was able to rein herself in enough to speak, Shuri asked, “Are you going to leave me here and make me find my own way back?”
“No,” he told her, rising up onto his feet. “That would be cruel, and I am not cruel, regardless of how I have… behaved toward you and your people.” Was it her imagination or were there tears in his eyes, too? She blinked and rubbed her own, but when she looked again they seemed to be gone. “I will take you back to your home, if you will allow me.”
The worst part of it all was that Shuri wanted to stay, wanted to forget all of this. But I cannot, she thought, trembling. “Yes,” she said, wishing she sounded more sure. “Take me home.”
“As you command,” he said, and reached out his hand to her. And Shuri, swallowing back all her emotions, took it.
He stopped on the beach to put on his ornaments again, and Shuri pulled on her clothes so fast that her shirt was on inside-out and still sandy when Namor was ready to fly off. He did not look her in the eyes or speak to her, only held her firmly in one arm, his patterned blanket tossed across his shoulder, and she tried her best not to touch him any more than she needed to. It is just so I do not fall, she thought, clinging to his shoulders as he carried her through the air and over the sea.
Shuri had not noticed the view before: how beautiful it was, how small and distant all her problems seemed from up in the sky. Blue water spread out beneath her, the coastline winding on her left in gray and green. As they descended toward the house on the coastline— she could see the roof of the school Nakia ran— Namor stumbled with his healing foot, and she gripped him around the neck with a startled yell.
“Apologies,” he said through gritted teeth, and brought them to a landing on the soft sand of the beach. Shuri stumbled away from him as quickly as she could: every touch of his skin on hers was— it was— Fire, she told herself, poison, I hate him.
But she had offered something to him, before: her dignity would not allow her to retract that offer. “I can get my Kimoyo beads for that foot,” she said, lifting her chin high as she looked at him. “To heal you. It will only take a moment.”
“I do not need your pity,” Namor answered coldly.
Did he really need to be so prickly? “It is not pity. It is— it is my duty to give aid I promised to give.”
“As you will.” The walk to the house was not long, and she let him in the door, not the window, then pointed to the kitchen chair. He looked entirely out of place in his ancient garb, the blanket tossed across his shoulder, the picture of a god come to life sitting at Nakia’s kitchen table with a cutting board and a knife next to an enormous bunch of green plantains and hanging strands of garlic bulbs. Shuri went to her room, fetched the Kimoyo beads, ignored the flashing purple sigil on her communication bead for her many unanswered calls, and pulled off the medical one as she came back into the kitchen.
“I need a strand of your hair,” she said, tapping the bead’s settings to bring up a holographic cradle. “With the root attached. Or something that has your DNA. Saliva, maybe, or blood?” Namor chewed the inside of his mouth for a moment, then leaned over and spat into the floating cradle of light. Shuri sighed as he sat back, but the medical bead was already calculating madly, glittering: the saliva evaporated with a hiss, and the sigil on it flashed rapidly from purple to cobalt blue, then back to purple, indicating a change in DNA programming. “Ah, see?” she said, momentarily forgetting she was angry with him. Taking a seat in the other kitchen chair, she patted her lap and said, “Now, give me your foot.”
Namor raised his leg and placed his foot in her bare lap, not moving a muscle more than necessary. Shuri took hold of his heel, lifted it, and undid the bandage, placing the bead gently in the crook of his developing, new wing and ankle. “If this is a trick—” he began, voice wary.
“I keep my word,” she said curtly, tapping the hologram interface to begin the healing process. “This might be a little itchy.” Purple-blue veins spread out from the bead along his skin like a patchwork of glowing roots, and Namor went rigid in his seat, his jaw clenched, but did not move or make a sound, even as sweat broke out on his forehead. Shuri could not help but feel bad for him as he sat there, gripping the edge of the chair with both hands— but his wing was healing at an accelerated rate, stretching out, maturing before her eyes. Feathers developed, lengthened, burst into pinions and down. Finally, the vibranium went inactive, the healing process complete, and Shuri took her bead back, attaching it to the rest of the ones on her wrist, lifting his foot and placing it on her chair as she went to get him a drink of water. He had gone ashen-gray under his skin, and sweat was dripping off his nose. She filled a cup and brought it to him. “Here,” she said.
Namor took it in both hands and drained it dry in a single swallow, then sat up and lifted his foot. His good wing flexed and stretched, then the healed, brand-new one copied the movement, and his eyes opened wide in shock. “You…”
“Healed you, yes, I know.” She took the cup back to the sink. “Sorry about the pain. In Wakanda we have sedative chambers for such intensive healing so the person can sleep through the healing process. You should have full range of motion now.”
Leaning forward, Namor stood, testing his weight, then lifted off about three inches from the ground, the wings flapping. “It feels like it was never wounded,” he said with wonder, landing back on the floor.
“Good,” said Shuri, leaning back against the sink. “Hopefully an enemy doesn’t cut it off again.”
The joke fell flat. He gave her a long look. “Are you now my enemy, Shuri of Wakanda?”
She swallowed. “I am Wakanda’s protector. Do you seek to harm her people?”
“Not at the moment,” he answered.
“Then I am not your enemy.” Her communication bead sang out a tune, and she jerked her head. “Oh, Bast, that’ll be Okoye. Please, don’t move a muscle and don’t speak a word, whatever you do.”
Namor’s eyebrows rose as she scrambled to pick up the call. “As you wish.”
“Okoye?” she said as the floating head and shoulders of the ex-general floated into being above her wrist. Clad in the blue and black of the Border Tribe, she looked completely different from how Shuri had seen her every day of her life, in scarlet and gold. “How, ah, how are you?”
“You have been ignoring my calls, Shuri.”
“No, not— ignoring— I, ah, I put away my beads.” Casually, Shuri leaned against the sink again. “I did not want to talk to anyone.”
“I understand grief, my princess. But we must talk about your return to Wakanda. Your presence is needed at King M’Baku’s court— the people want the Black Panther back in the Golden City where she belongs.”
“I understand,” said Shuri, feeling a cold knot of worry in her belly. “I’ll have to wait until Nakia gets back. A week, tops.”
“I am glad you are returning. There have been developments you should be privy to regarding the political landscape of the world.”
“What?” Shuri almost forgot Namor was still in the room. “What’s happened?”
“For one, Everett Ross has been extradited to Wakanda.”
Shuri could not believe her ears. “America agreed to let him seek refuge in Wakanda?”
Okoye grinned. “Let’s say he was… rather forcibly extradited, shall we? Without the consent of their little Central Intelligence Agency?”
It was very hard not to pull a face. “What did you do?”
“Prevented a violation of their own laws, I believe. The right to a free trial and legal counsel? Bah. They treat their own people like dogs. Anyway, he is here at the palace, chatting away like a trained parrot. As you can imagine, this has not made the Americans very happy. They have signed an accord with the French government, who are still angry about our late Queen’s actions at the last United Nations council.”
“So it could be war,” said Shuri, gnawing her lip.
“It could be. M’Baku would like to have a meeting with our… new allies.” From the expression on Okoye’s face, it did not seem she shared the same enthusiasm for such a meeting. “Have you had any contact lately with Talokan or its people?”
Through the hologram of Okoye, Namor was giving her a look that could have bored a hole through a ship’s hull and nodded once, tightly. Shuri swallowed. “Yes. I have— briefly spoken to Ku— Namor.”
“Well, does he seem inclined to build an alliance? Would he come to Wakanda for a council meeting?”
Namor narrowed his eyes and gave Shuri a long look, and Shuri furrowed her brow, trying to communicate with only her expression. Say yes, she begged silently. His stare slipped down across her, then back up: one shoulder lifted and fell in a shrug. “I don’t… know,” said Shuri tightly. “He’s very evasive whenever I ask.” Dark brows drew down in a glare. What? You are! she wanted to yell. Why are you shrugging at me like a child?
“Great Bast,” said Okoye wearily. “All right. You have a week. See if you can convince him to come. I’ll send a ship in seven days. M’Baku gave orders to reinforce the river-mouth so nobody can swim up it again— we learned from that mistake the first time. I’ll see you soon.” She placed her fist over her heart.
Shuri crossed her arm over her chest and the signal fizzed out, the connection broken. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His answer was sullen. “Am I Namor again to you so soon?”
She could not help but roll her eyes and drag her hands down her face. All that conversation, and that was what he was concerned about? “I cannot call you K’uk’ulkan in front of Okoye. She would think I had lost my mind!”
“Ah, so I am to be nothing but your secret,” he snapped in a very insulted tone. “And you have the temerity to ask why I do not commit to meeting your people on their land, where they have the advantage.”
“You promised,” she said, taking a step toward him. “You said—”
“I promised you nothing,” said Namor coldly in a voice that stopped her in her tracks and rooted her feet to the floor. “I offered the princess of Wakanda, daughter of the queen, the gift of an alliance: Wakanda and Talokan against the nations of the surface world that seek to uproot them, and you denied me. I gave you queenship, and you denied that gift, too. I accepted a peace, a laying down of arms on that beach and on that ship. Since you have made clear you cannot offer me an alliance, as you have said— you have a new king, you are a protector of your people and not a leader, and since you have been very clear this morning that you desire nothing to do with me personally, then I am afraid we have nothing else to discuss.”
When Shuri had been very small, T’Challa had put a glass on a table, a cloth under it, and said eagerly, “Watch this, sisi!” then yanked away the cloth so smoothly and quickly that the glass remained exactly where it was, still as stone. “It’s gravity and inertia that makes it do that!” he had explained, beaming. “See, it doesn’t move. Baba showed me.” That was how she felt now, standing in Nakia’s kitchen, the palm trees waving gently outside the window in the breeze as Namor stared a hole through her whole soul. As if gravity itself was the only thing keeping her standing, as if the whole floor of the house had been ripped away by a giant hand. No, she thought, stunned. No, you can’t. You can’t just walk out, you can’t abandon Wakanda— abandon me —
You look at things without seeing them, he said in her memory. And he was right: she had looked at him and seen his body, his face, his ornaments, but she had not looked further, had not really seen him. Shuri caught herself, tried to think desperately. He is arrogant and proud because he is as good as a god, he approached us because we have vibranium and therefore we are close to Talokan as an equal in his eyes— but he does not have our healing technology, or he would not have reacted the way he did to the bead’s work. And he does not want to admit it. I can appeal to his pride. Perhaps…
“You have received an invitation to the Golden City of Wakanda,” she said, barely even registering her own words. “To sit on the council, an honor given to no other leader of any other nation in the world. Only our tribal elders sit in those seats, guarded by the Dora Milaje. Nobody in the world would even be welcome, and yet King M’Baku desires your presence— has asked for it, and passed it on to General Okoye, who now sits in the seat of the Border Tribe her husband once held, and she has passed the request to me, the Black Panther. If that is nothing to discuss, then go swim back to your home, K’uk’ulkan of Talokan.”
His jaw flexed, clenching under his cheek briefly. “We are untouchable below the ocean.”
“Clearly nobody has educated you on America’s historical use of nuclear bombs,” said Shuri. “Weapons that penetrate to the bottom of the deepest sea and turn air and water alike to fire, killing everything for miles and turning what they do not kill to poison and decay. I do not want that for Talokan, and I know you don’t either.”
Namor was very quiet. “I am not flying in any airship of Wakanda’s again,” he finally said.
Is he accepting? “I could ask Okoye to ask the king to lower the river’s defenses, but I am not sure they would trust you to come.”
He scowled, but the resolve in his eyes had wavered. “Trust me? If I so much as see one of your dry-heat traps again—”
“You won’t. I swear it, I give you my word as the Black Panther.”
Namor stalked to the door. “Call for me on the seventh day, then,” he said. “I will not have it said by any surface people that K’uk’ulkan of Talokan spat in the face of the King of Wakanda, and thereby sealed his people’s fate.”
Quickly, she hurried after him, not wanting to end on such a sour note. “It doesn’t have to mean without love,” she said quickly, and he jerked to a halt, freezing in his tracks. “Namor, I mean. Sin amor, that means without love , but—”
“I will not hear a word of that conquering, burning, blood-soaked language in my ears again,” he snarled with sudden vitriol, turning to look at her. “And not from you.”
“Only two, then,” she said, half-frightened of the look on his face. “Will you hear two?”
Air escaped his flared nostrils. “Two words,” he said through his teeth. “I will hear two from you.”
“Two, then,” said Shuri. “Con amor. With love. Namor can mean with love, too.”
There was a heavy silence, in which neither of them moved. When he spoke again, he sounded as frosty as the Arctic. “I will see you in seven days’ time, Shuri of Wakanda. I will bring Attuma and Namora, my advisors. See that you are ready. And if you call me Namor again, with love or without, I will nail the hide of the Black Panther to my wall.”
She couldn’t even be offended at that, not when she had threatened to cut off his head. She had not really meant it, not truly, deep in her heart. She wondered if he meant what he said when it came to her, too. Regardless, she could not afford to take any chances. “I understand, K’uk’ulkan,” she said. “Seven days.”
“Seven days,” he echoed, and turned, walking out the back door down to the sea. Shuri watched him from the threshold, fighting tears— why was she crying?— and she thought for a moment he had turned back to look at her, but then he was a dark blot in the water, and then he was gone, nothing but the blue sea stretching out, unbroken, for miles and miles.
Notes:
I truly cannot believe the amount of support this fic has been nabbing. Nothing I have ever written in my LIFE has gotten this amount of love so fast and it's all due to tiktok and twitter, what the HELLLL. If I don't update as quickly from here on out it's only because I am moving countries in 3 weeks and I may not have time or internet but I swear this will not be an abandoned or unfinished story. I don't know how many chapters this will be but rest assured I have a whole outline now!! THANK YOU
Chapter Text
He did not come back.
Shuri waited every day at the window, her hands clasped tight; she walked on the beach, she sat in the surf— but he did not come back. The shell, orange and red streaked on white, sat untouched under her bed. She refused to even think about using it. I will not summon him to grovel and whine like a child, she thought, pacing the floor and hugging herself. He will come on the seventh day. He promised.
So why did it feel like she had lost him forever? I will nail the hide of the Black Panther to my wall, he had snarled, low and black and furious. She almost wished he would do it, that she could simply wade into the sea and shout Namor, that he would emerge from the churning surf in a fury and throw her to the sand.
At least he would touch me. At least he would be here.
On the fourth day, she shoved away all her panicked, stupid thoughts about the God-King of Talokan and busied herself by studying her collected digital library of Mesoamerican culture, specifically Mayan, on her Kimoyo beads: it was fascinating material, and she figured she had better be more educated about his people’s origins. Between the layers of Classic Period god-kings, stelae, and social organization, Shuri was surprised to find a letter written in 1581 from some Spanish priest in Chichén Itzá to his brother in Toledo, detailing a legend heard along the coastline of a lost tribe. She kept reading, engrossed.
There has come to us a tale on the lips of the natives that I thought would be amusing to you, beloved Felipe. They say a tribe once lived near the sea, somewhat north of this place, and during a time when they all became ill, their gods granted them eternal life, whereupon they all vanished, caught up into the air by their Feathered Serpent God, a demon by the name of Cuculocan. Truly, a heretical piece of nonsense, no doubt laid by the Devil to lead children of God astray, but I know how you like to hear fables. The man I heard the story from had a grandfather, he claims, who went missing in that particular time, and he says that once he walked on the shores of the sea in the north and heard the most delightful and beautiful song in the air, as if sung by Homer’s sirens of antiquity. He was drawn to the sea as if in a dream, but the song stopped with a cry, and when he regained his senses, he saw again his grandfather’s brother standing in the sea: the man had not aged a day since he had seen him last, and most frightening of all, his skin had turned a horrible blue, blue as death and rot. Then, he vanished into the water, and was seen no more.
The rest of the letter was meaningless to Shuri, who was hung up on the ruined spelling the Spanish had made of his name. She quickly keyed in a command for the beads to search the library for all references to the name Cuculocan, and a dozen or more letters came up, some books. She read those, too, as fast as she could, and followed more and more trails, crumbs left through the winding, broken path of history, until the sun was sinking and her belly snarled with hunger. It had taken over two hundred years for the Spanish to bring the Maya under their bloody thumbs, and there was a lot to read.
The superstitious among the Maya Indians still endeavor to worship their pagan god, a being called Cuculocan or Cuculcan, who is known among others as Queztalcoatl…
...on this day we held an inquisition among the Indians, who stubbornly cling to their practices and worship of their Feathered Serpent, even though we have explained with all patience that the Serpent is the Devil Himself, seeking to devour them…
...a woman came shrieking into the square this morning, crying that she had seen Cuculcan with her own eyes, flying above the sea and breathing fire, whereupon the Holy Fathers at the Dominican monastery immediately took her out of sight, to inquire of her what she had seen…
...slaves on the Hacienda Yaxcopoil have claimed to have seen an army of ghosts or spirits rising from the water, blue in color and wielding spears, which they shook with all ferocity, and they claim it is a sign that the spirits and gods of this wild land will reclaim it from the Christians…
Shuri finally put the beads aside when her eyes were so sore she could not read another word and went to the window, her head in her hands. She had read about colonization, about bloody conquistadores, about the Manifest Destiny of Britain and America and superstition in European villages, where they burned people alive as sorcerers for nothing more than the excuse of a differing religious opinion— but Namor had seen it happen with his own eyes, walked the earth when the Catholic fathers had burnt it. Was he in the Atlantic, she thought with a stab of dull horror, when the ancestors of the people who live today on Wakanda’s borders were thrown into it from the decks of ships? People who had not been Wakandans, who had not had the privilege of being safe within borders that the Portuguese and the British and the French had never found—but people who could have been her, could have spoken the same languages. I had a less than one percent chance of being born princess of Wakanda, Shuri thought with sudden, rattled clarity. She did not know how that made her feel. And Namor— he had an even lower chance of being born alive, let alone with the differences that made him a god to his people.
And there was so much to learn about his people: instead of being based on control of food or trade, social ties and hierarchy had been based on the ritual authority of the ruler, and ancient Mayan kings could only claim authority, as tradition demanded, over things like warfare and construction and rituals. With a system like that, the authority would naturally have to move to group control instead of leaving it in the hands of a king powerless to feed or clothe his people. Therefore, in a system where power became decentralized over time and between wars with their own different city-states, the Mayan kingdom had become a collection of small, wealthy, independent states, all engaged in a complex web of inter-state alliances with each other, and then the Spanish had come to destroy and kill and enslave, taking advantage of their strategic weaknesses.
But under the sea, where Talokan was the only city-nation evolved away from its forebears, and all the people were immortal, and its king ruled with absolute, eternal, binding authority…
Shuri gripped the windowsill. They cannot be conquered, she realized, blindly staring out into the night. They have no social weak points. On behalf of Wakanda, I need to be careful with myself, when I speak to them again. Namor might be out there in the sea sulking over their last parting, but she could not afford to make any false steps. I should never have encouraged him in the first place. Inwardly, Shuri groaned. Part of being royalty, being a leader, was being talented in the art of diplomacy, and she had never paid much attention to Mama’s lessons— all that had been saved for T’Challa, since he was going to be king.
Had been king.
Was one no longer.
There was a reason I gave up my birthright, she thought. I was never prepared for the job. I am a scientist first, a princess second. But now… am I the Black Panther first? And after that, what then? Scientist or princess? I do not know.
You are my daughter, said Ramonda in her memory, smiling warmly.
Suhri shut her eyes as hot tears flooded them again, blurring her vision. Of course she had prepared for Baba and Mama to die one day— rationally, everyone knows their parents will die, and Shuri was nothing if not rational. But in her head she had always pictured T’Challa by her side, in white, a king in his own right as they walked behind the coffin of either their mother or father. Instead, she had had to stand by herself at the head of the funeral procession for her mother, who had been lifted away to join T’Challa and Baba, and once the ship had glided off, that was that. Everyone else in her family was together in a place she could not go, and she had been left behind, all alone.
Before she had left Wakanda, still shaken from the aftermath of the battle, Okoye had told her, not unkindly, “Find a place to lay down your grief, Princess, or it will consume you.” But where do I put this? she silently wailed, looking at the moon over the sea as it laid a glittering path out on the black water. Where is a place big enough for me to put it all down? Burning the mourning clothes had been a start, but nothing could replace the gaping void in her heart where her family had lived. She remembered losing her first tooth—a mandibular incisor, she had proudly announced to her family. Mama, Baba, look, look! And for months after, as the new tooth grew in slowly, she had been constantly poking her tongue into the space between her teeth, exploring the absence of what had been a constant presence for so long. She had understood, then, at seven years old, that nothing could be something, that the absence of a thing was a thing itself. That was grief, that was mourning. The absence of a person like a palpable object, like a hole in her mouth she could not stop touching.
Shuri put her head on the windowsill. She was hungry, and so tired; sleep sounded better than eating anything at the moment, so she closed her eyes for only a moment. I’ll get up after I rest my eyes. Only a moment. Just…
Snakes danced behind her eyes, multicolored as scaly rainbows. She wondered what it would be like to touch them— then a fire burst to life behind them, and Shuri was standing in a pool of blood while men in cowls and robes shouted at her, saying that she was an abomination before their god and that she would have to be burned at the stake. You can’t burn me, she tried to shout, I am the princess of Wakanda. I am a person, a human being.
A man snatched her by the wrist. You are no human! he bellowed. You are a demon in human form! Look at yourself! There was a mirror, and she saw to her terror that she had become a panther, all snarling teeth and golden eyes.
No, she begged, no, it’s me, I’m Shuri, I’m in here, please, you can’t burn me. The sky had turned red. She cried for her mother, for T’Challa, for her father, but nobody came. Panther hides littered the ground. Someone help me, please, anyone. Long knives and spears pierced her, but she felt no pain, only shock, and then she realized that it was a dream, that they could not really touch her. She roared and shook them off, scattering men as elation filled her, and above her head a snake coiled in the sky like a dragon. She turned her face up, trying to see, trying to—
The insistent beeping of her Kimoyo beads startled Shuri to consciousness, her mouth tasting like old copper and her eyes bleary. “Eh?” she muttered, fumbling for her wrist. A familiar face glittered into being above her palm. “Nakia?”
“Did I wake you? It’s eight in the morning.”
Shuri groaned and rubbed her eye. “Yes. Is everything okay with T’Ch— with Toussaint?”
“Yes, he’s fine, that’s not why I am calling. I was contacted an hour ago by Okoye, saying that she was sending a ship to escort you and a Talokanil delegation headed by Namor to Wakanda? Why did you not inform me?” Nakia’s tone and expression conveyed only surprise and mild hurt.
“I…” Shuri winced. “Forgot. I’m sorry, Nakia, I truly am— there’s been a lot happening.”
“A lot happening? What are you talking about? You have been living in my house alone for five days, what could possibly be happening?”
Oh, she did not want to have this conversation. “Yes, and I’m sorry. I— what day is it again?”
Nakia now sounded very concerned. “It’s Tuesday the twenty-second, Shuri. Have you not been sleeping?” Her eyes flickered over Shuri’s head and shoulders. “Bast, you look terrible.”
“I’m fine.” Tuesday the— then it was— then the ship was coming in two days. Shuri got to her feet. “I promise.”
“Ah-ah, no. You are not going back to Wakanda looking like that. I’m coming home right now with Toussaint. And I am washing your hair.” That tone brooked no argument, Shuri knew; she’d heard Nakia use it on little T’Challa when he misbehaved.
“All right,” she mumbled.
“Good. I’ll be there around two, I think. Tonight, a hot meal and a good night’s sleep, and tomorrow, hair. I’ll see you soon.” Nakia crossed her arms over her breast and the signal died, leaving Shuri alone at the window with a cramp in her neck from sleeping on the sill.
Did she really look that bad? Shuri went to the bathroom and peered into the mirror, frowning at the reflection. Dark circles under reddened eyes, dry lips, and she could see why Nakia had immediately insisted on a wash day. Her hair, largely ignored after the day on the beach with Namor, still had sand in it, most of one side crushed down flat and the other a tangled mess. She ran her fingers through the grown-out undercut.
We cut our hair, Mama and I, after T’Challa died. Ramonda had kept her snow-white hair meticulously styled, long and thick, and when they had both cut their hair short before the funeral, they had—
Shuri did not want to think about it, or she would cry again. She went back to the window instead, intending to close it, but paused when she saw what was on the windowsill, her heart almost stopping. Was that— seaweed? Had it been there when she had woken? She hadn’t noticed— all her attention had been on the call, but—
It was beautiful, a huge bunch of bright pink, vivid green, blue, and purple kelp, all bound together with a woven band of fiber, but it was already going limp and sad out of the water where it belonged. Shuri picked it up and looked out onto the ground, already knowing she would see no footprints. “Thank you,” she whispered, wondering if he would hear her anyway, somehow. Then she went into the kitchen to find a bucket: perhaps if she submerged it, it would stay beautiful.
“I told you, I’m fine,” Shuri protested as Nakia plopped her down on a stool in the kitchen and started running hot water. “I rinsed it out last night, I don’t need a fuss.”
“You are going to be attending a very important council meeting, not fighting in your Panther habit,” said Nakia sternly, testing the water with her hands. “So you need a good deep condition, and then you are getting braided properly.”
“It’s not going to take all day, is it?” Shuri kept glancing out the window. “They’re coming tomorrow.”
“Yes, and Okoye says she’ll come early with proper clothes for you and I.”
“What, you’re coming back to Wakanda?” Shuri dunked her head under the faucet and let Nakia lather up her hair, scrubbing gently. “For good? With T’Challa?”
“No,” said Nakia firmly. “We’re staying here. But I’m not greeting the delegation from Talokan in this.” She pointed her chin down at herself and her simple dress, pale green with a dyed red hem. “Have you thought about what you want to wear?”
“Who cares what I wear?”
Nakia’s eyes glinted. “Ah, it doesn’t matter how you look? Very good to know. I’ll braid you up tight and put a silk bonnet on you, and you can just greet Namor of Talokan and his delegation in your old tank top and shorts—”
“No!” Shuri blurted out, cheeks on fire. Nakia started laughing, and little T’Challa ran in from his room, skidding on the floor as he halted.
“Mama, can I go play now?”
“Have you put away all your clothes from the trip yesterday?”
“Yes,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other in a strangely familiar position to Shuri.
Nakia’s stare narrowed. “And by ‘put away’ you don’t mean 'shoved all under your bed where I will find them later'?”
“... I’ll be right back, Mama, I forgot something,” he said quickly, and raced toward his room. Shuri had to grin at his guilty expression, and Nakia sighed and shook her head, her own smile fading.
“T’Challa used to do that,” she said after a minute. Her fingers were gentle and firm on Shuri’s scalp. “Look away and put his weight on his left foot when he was evading the truth or having to lie. Do you remember?”
“Yes,” said Shuri, realizing. But the memory didn’t make her teary-eyed or sad, it made her smile. “I do.”
“You do the same thing, you know.”
“I don’t!”
“Yes, you do. You look off to the left when you’re hiding something. You did it when I talked about Namor.” Nakia rinsed out the shampoo and started working in the deep conditioner, thick as pudding, then gently began to detangle Shuri's hair with a wide-toothed comb. “And I am not stupid, Shuri. You are here alone by the beach for almost a week, there is a great big chunk of seaweed, seaweed, in my good washbucket, a conch shell under your bed, you haven’t slept well in days, and you say there has been a lot going on . What is happening between you two?"
Shuri shut her eyes, not wanting to look at another judgmental face. “We’ve been… in communication,” she admitted.
“For the council meeting, or is this communication of a more… personal nature?” Nakia squeezed excess water out of her freshly detangled hair and put a plastic cap on her head. “I’ll make us some ginger tea while that works in. Would you like honey in yours?”
Sitting up felt like being tilted off her axis. Shuri put her back against the sink and nibbled her lip as Nakia put the kettle on and started getting down a couple of mugs. “Yes, please,” she said, trying to wrestle with everything she wanted to say— everything she didn’t want to say. The water boiled, Nakia chopped and grated ginger, and the sharp fresh smell of it filled the kitchen. “He has expressed,” said Shuri carefully, trying to pick out each word, “a primary and… personal interest in me, and a secondary one in allying Talokan with Wakanda.”
All the air left Nakia’s lungs as she stood there by the counter, holding two mugs of tea. “Oh, Shuri,” she said sympathetically, setting down both mugs and bracing herself on the edge. “And you… you…”
“I what?”
“This is clearly a one-sided— I mean, he’s—” Nakia was shaking her head. “I know you both agreed on a truce during that battle, but you only did so because the alternative was death on both sides.”
“His people survive wounds that would kill any Wakandan,” Shuri pointed out. “They are far more powerful than us.”
“So you called a truce because Wakanda would have fallen.” Nakia put a mug into her hands and Shuri sipped it, tasting the ginger tang all the way to her toes. “And does he think you did this because you still have some sort of empathy for him after all that has happened?”
I cannot lie to Nakia. I cannot. Shuri steeled herself. “I do still have empathy for him, Nakia.”
Nakia's mouth fell open. “Shuri. He killed your mother. ”
“Oh, really, I had no idea, thank you for reminding me—”
“You cannot possibly have empathy for this man!”
“My brother had empathy,” said Shuri, too tired to cry or rail or shout. “He found the man who killed Baba and did he kill him? No. He showed compassion and turned him over to America to stand trial for his crimes. He watched N’Jadaka kill Zuri in front of us all, knew he burned the herb garden, knew he was a murderer of hundreds, and still he showed compassion to our cousin in the end, and allowed him to choose his own death. I am not my brother, but he is gone now, and I will show compassion and empathy where I need to, even if it is hard, Nakia, even if everything in my heart is screaming for blood, because I am the Black Panther. I know he has done terrible things. I know. And yet I still... feel things for him.”
Nakia looked away, out the kitchen window, and drank her tea. “Please tell me he has not— you two have not—”
“No!” barked Shuri. “No. We have not done anything but— but—”
“But what?”
“I—” Wretchedly, Shuri gulped down the rest of her tea. “I kissed him on that stupid beach after the battle and I— I don’t know why I did it, I hated him, I thought I’d killed him and— and then— when we met again, when he came here—”
Nakia slammed her cup down so hard on the counter that Shuri jumped. “I don’t even let my T’Challa go down to the beach unless I am with him because of that man and his people,” she snapped. “And you mean to tell me he’s been coming here? Into my house? Has he seen—” She choked on the words, her eyes on fire as she stared at Shuri. “Does he know about my son?”
Her heart skipped a beat. “What? No!”
“Shuri, you must be absolutely sure—”
“He doesn’t know anything about you or T’Challa or— or— he only ever stepped foot in here twice, I think, he knows this is your house but he’s only ever seen the kitchen and— ah—” Shuri pinched the bridge of her nose. “And my bedroom,” she finished, miserable.
“Shuri,” said Nakia, horrified.
“Listen, it sounds worse than it is—”
“You swear to me that Talokan knows nothing of my son. Right now.”
“I would never tell him anything, I swear it. He does not know.”
“Who doesn’t know what, Mama?” piped up a voice from the hallway. Nakia jumped and turned, one hand on her chest. T’Challa was standing there, open curiosity on his face as he gazed between his mother and his aunt.
“Nobody, unyana. Nobody at all.” She kissed his head and hugged him for a moment. “Your room is clean?”
“Yes, Mama. The right way.” He looked properly chastised. “Can I go play now?”
“With your friends, yes. Stay on the football field, all right? I don’t want you going near the sea.”
“Yes, Mama, thank you!” he cried, delighted, and ran so fast out of the door that he almost knocked over a broom. Nakia watched him until he had reached the school, still in view of the front door, and turned back to Shuri, who shrank back a little under that gaze.
“So,” she said. “Namor is manipulating your sense of compassion to gain something from Wakanda?”
“He doesn’t need to manipulate me into anything, Nakia. I gave him what I gave him— medical care— freely. We just talk, we talk about a lot of things.”
“Oh, talking,” said Nakia dryly. “Yes, a lot of talking is done in bedrooms, I am sure. Is this relationship going to cause a problem at the council?”
“There is no relationship! He’s angry at me because I got into a fight with him; he’s arrogant and full of himself and doesn’t understand that other people see things differently than he does because he’s five hundred years old and he’s so conceited, Nakia. He’s terrible and I don’t— there’s nothing. Nothing between us at all.”
Nakia listened, both eyebrows rising higher and higher as Shuri went on. “You got into a fight with him,” she repeated.
“I… may have insulted him,” admitted Shuri.
“Great Bast. By doing what?”
“Does it matter?”
“Everything matters in diplomacy; you know this.”
“Fine, I— I—” She put her hands over her face, groaning. How could she explain this? Ah, yes, Nakia, you see, I let him kiss me and I let him put his mouth on me down there and I liked it very much until I didn’t anymore, and then I got angry and shouted, and after that he became cold and now we are not speaking! “I wanted him to kiss me, and he wanted to do it, too,” she whispered, and just admitting it felt good, like a piece of a scab coming off a knee. He hurt me, she wanted to say, or, I was justified in my anger, and I hurt him. But she could not say that. She could not lie to Nakia, who knew her almost as well as she’d known her brother— who could easily spot a lie from either of the children of Ramonda. “So we kissed. I let him— I kissed him. And then I remembered Mama. And… I was angry at myself, and I took it out on him, and I wish I hadn’t.” That was the truth, simple and ugly, a thing that made her want to cower away from her foolish, stupid self, but it was more honest than a pretty lie. “Because I miss him, even though I know I shouldn’t,” she finished.
Nakia blew out a long breath and put their empty mugs in the sink, where she leaned on it and looked out the window at her son, a blur of brown and blue playing football with his school friends. “So,” she said finally. “Namor wants you, does he?”
“Wanted, Nakia.”
A dry chuckle left her lips as Nakia turned to look at her and put her hands on her hips. “Shuri, you are probably the smartest person in the world, apart from that Riri Williams. You can build a circuit board faster than anyone I have ever met, and you can create things in days that ninety-nine percent of the world has dreamed of making for centuries. But you have had no experience in how people behave towards others they desire.”
What was she talking about? “But he left me here. He said—”
“Hayi, Shuri.” Nakia shook her head. “Once your brother and I got into a fight like this. Both of us said things we did not mean in anger— he wanted me to move to the Golden City and I wanted to keep doing my humanitarian… ah, it does not matter now. I vowed he’d never touch me again, told him my father would knock him into the river if he came back to my house, all of that, and he said things to me that I will not repeat. In less than four days apart from him, I set out to, as I told myself, begrudgingly apologize for my words, and what did I find? He had set up camp in the bush between the Golden City and the River Tribe lands, sleeping on the ground, watching for me to pass by, wanting to come to me, but frightened of my father.” She laughed, a clear, bright sound like a bell. “Desire, love, whatever you wish to call it— it can be one of the strongest ties in the world, above alliances or fights or angry words.”
“You don’t understand. He’s not like a man, he’s…”
“Ah, all men are alike deep down,” said Nakia dismissively. “All people are; it doesn’t matter who they are or where they come from. So here is what we’ll do.” She crossed to her and took her shoulders in her hands, smiling gently. “You go to that council meeting as the Black Panther in the most beautiful, impressive clothes anyone has ever seen. A fit full of drip, as the Americans say—”
“Nakia, they don't say it like that,” said Shuri, trying not to smile.
“And I am going to make you look so good that when Namor of Talokan lays eyes on you, he will forget why he was ever angry with you, and he will beg for an alliance with our nation just to see you again. Yes?”
“All right,” she admitted, sighing.
Nakia’s smile could have lit the whole sky. “Good. Now lean back so I can rinse you.”
She had to admit that her hair had turned out very well. Nakia had a veritable hoard of gels, creams, leave-in conditioner, oils, pomades, and braiding hair, and by the time she had finished with Shuri, it was past sunset. But it looks really good, Shuri thought, holding up a mirror to look at the back of her head. They had settled on something regal, fashionable, and pretty, and the end result was that the front half of Shuri’s hair had been braided into symmetrically crossing, angled cornrows that echoed the V designs of her Panther habit, the back half done up in box braids that had been twisted all together in a thick, heavy halo braid that coiled around her head like a crown. A few soft, loose curls framed her face, and the crowning halo braid had been set with little gold cuffs and white pearls. Just like my suit, Shuri thought, tilting her head from side to side and watching the gold glitter in the light. It was more than just hair. It would say to all of Wakanda my mourning is done, and I have come back, ready to lead.
“Now you look like a princess again,” said Nakia behind her, giving her a gentle hug. “And now I am going to Kimoyo bead my poor sore hands.”
“I’ll put T’Challa to bed,” Shuri told her, hugging her back. “Thank you, Nakia. Really.” She went out to the boy’s room, where he was reading a book, so absorbed that he didn’t even notice when she came in. “Hey, bookworm,” she teased. “Time for bed.”
“Hi, auntie,” he said, beaming up at her. “Your hair looks so pretty!”
I am immune to flattery, you little thing. “Thank you, T’Challa. Your mama did a very nice job. Bed.” She pointed, raising her eyebrows at him, and the boy scrambled up into bed, watching her turn off the lights. “Did you have a nice day while we were inside?”
“Yes! I played football with Samuel and Alim and Andre, and I won a lot. I lost a lot, too, but Andre was cheating. You can’t use your hands. Samuel yelled at him, but then Alim tried to hit Samuel because Andre was on his team.” T’Challa snuggled up into the blankets as Shuri sat on the edge of the bed.
“And what happened in the end?” she asked. Outside, a clear blue glow lit the clouds for a moment, then vanished. Someone’s here, she thought.
“I told him to stop, and then I said since Andre was using his hands, we had to be able to use our hands for three goals too, to make it fair. So we did. And we won. But not all three times.” He yawned. “Samuel says tomorrow we should play Avengers. He wants to be Black Panther, and he says we should be pirates so he can fight us.”
Shuri felt a stab of something sad, almost longing. “Does he,” she said softly.
“Yes. I can’t tell him my Baba was the real one. That’s what Mama says. So I said I’d be a pirate.” T’Challa closed his eyes. “Aunt Shuri, can you tell me a Baba story?”
“A story about your Baba, eh?” Shuri felt a lump in her throat, heat prick at her eyes. “I’ll have to think. There are so many, I could not choose one.”
“Mama tells me them at bedtime,” he said, opening one eye to look at her. “Please?”
“Mmm. Which one is your favorite?”
“I don’t know,” said T’Challa sleepily. “The one about the trucks?”
“Oh, that one,” said Shuri. “Yes. Once, long ago, your mama was helping some poor women captured by... by bad guys. She was doing secret spy work for Wakanda, and your Baba needed to come tell her that he was going to be King after your grandfather had died. So he stayed in a tree, waiting, and watching the trucks, and then he jumped right down on the bad guys’ heads. He got all of them, and then your mama helped him…” T’Challa’s mouth was open, eyes shut, his chest rising and falling at a steady, slow pace, and Shuri paused, watching her nephew. “And they loved each other,” she finished, half a whisper. “So much that it made you, usana. ” Shuri leaned over and kissed him on the forehead, then stood up and turned the light out on her way back to the kitchen.
Nakia was waiting, her fingers cradled in purple light from her medical bead. “Asleep already?”
“Yes. I must be very boring,” said Shuri, giving her a half-smile. "I saw the ship's lights."
“Yes, Okoye has arrived with your clothes.” She stepped back, and Okoye stepped in from the back door carrying a broad, closed briefcase, wearing her undercover look of choice: blazer, trousers, bracelets.
“Princess,” she said, saluting her with both arms crossed over her chest. Shuri returned the gesture, feeling awkward.
“Gen—ah, Okoye,” she said, stumbling over the new form of address. Okoye had been General for so long that it was going to take some getting used to. “Thank you for coming all this way.”
“Nonsense,” said the woman crisply, opening the case with a heavy click on the kitchen table. “The council will take place tomorrow afternoon, and we must dress to impress, as the saying is.”
Shuri drew closer and watched as the dress was drawn out of the case, sparkling in the kitchen light like a thousand golden pinpricks. “That’s…”
“It was your mother’s,” said Okoye softly. “She wore this to her first council meeting as Queen of Wakanda. And she instructed me that it was to be given to you, so I have had it altered to fit. Will it do?”
“Thank you, Okoye. Yes,” Shuri said, looking at Nakia, who had gone damp-eyed. “Yes, it will do.”
Notes:
LANGUAGE NOTES:
- unyana - Xhosa for "son"
- hayi - Xhosa exclamation "no"
- usana - Xhosa for "baby"
Chapter 6: ncuk'emhlophe
Chapter Text
The morning sun was bright and clear over the Caribbean Sea, and the wind ruffled Shuri’s gown, twisting the delicately beaded fabric around her knees and ankles as she stood between Okoye and Nakia, waiting for the Talokanil to come. It was a beautiful dress: traditional enough to please the elders at the council, but still with a modern edge that Shuri liked. The gown was cut on the bias, close-fitting all the way to the knees, where it flared out in a sweeping curve of black silk. Gold beads sewn on in heavy, thick wedge-shaped patterns decorated the front and back, lengthening her petite frame, and it had a shaped, light breastplate that was patterned with the symbols of the Golden Tribe and cut in an arc over her sternum. Hanging strands of gold beads capped her upper arms and looped over each hip, swishing when she walked, and a gold-beaded, slim collar held the whole thing up around her throat. Mama had liked her dresses cut full and billowy as far back as Shuri could remember. This one must be very old, or perhaps the seamstress Okoye had found had changed the cut. But it’s not very comfortable. When I get home, I’m definitely changing, she thought, forcing herself to stand straight.
Okoye wore the blue, gold, and silver of the Border Tribe, her crisp, patterned pantsuit matching nicely with the traditional blanket pinned to her shoulder: Nakia wore the deep greens and browns of the River Tribe, a ceremonial heavy sash draped over her right shoulder over a knee-length, flowing tunic, snug under the bust with long sleeves over tight-fitting leggings and boots. Every single inch of available fabric was embroidered and embellished with polished wood, bone, shells, and beads in intricate designs. Shuri wondered if she was afraid. Little T’Challa had been sent to school, so Shuri had said her goodbyes to her nephew that morning as she packed her bag into the airship.
He’ll come back to his home eventually, she thought, sighing. To Wakanda. And we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
“Do the Talokanil have to walk under the water from the Pacific?” asked Okoye, frowning. “What is taking so long?”
“Perhaps he has changed his mind,” said Nakia, glancing over at Shuri.
Shuri doubted herself briefly, then remembered the vibrant seaweed, floating in the bucket in Nakia’s kitchen. “No. He is coming. We will wait.”
The minutes slipped past. And finally, far out in the water, three heads emerged, three people walking up to the shore. Shuri resolved to be cool and pleasant and polite, like a princess should be, and not stare, and not be stupid. On the right was Attuma, in his hammerhead shark headdress and the bronze collar of bone and vertebrae that protected his gills, a cloak over his shoulder; on the left was Namora in her lionfish frills and a patterned blanket, looking very suspicious of the whole thing, even behind her breathing-mask. Neither of them were armed, which Shuri took as a good sign.
Between them walked K’uk’ulkan, the Feathered Serpent God, resplendent in what had to be his full ceremonial dress. Gold armored plates, carved with ancient Mayan glyphs, rested on his broad shoulders: between them, over his chest, stretched an intricate, heavy gold chain of hanging pearls that dripped water down his bare skin. Over his green shorts, he wore a heavy, scarlet, embroidered loincloth that reached to his knees, and from the back of his heavy shoulder armor hung two long, thickly woven pieces of cloth that were red and white, and woven to look like scales. He had bracelets on his calves, heavy thick gold bracelets on his upper arms and forearms, and vibranium on his belt, but nothing could tear Shuri’s eyes from his helmet. Shaped to look like the upper half of a serpent’s head, the thing looked like it weighed a hundred pounds. Shaped from gold and carved meticulously, it was covered in vibranium. Vibranium gleamed from the eyes, from the teeth, from the carved feathers that formed a solid ruff around the back of the snake-head helmet, and stiff, shaped, flexible spears of seaweed formed even more feathers, encasing his head in a heavy, terrifying crown. He also carried no spear, only a solid gold and vibranium staff, and when they had reached the dry shore and the three waiting Wakandans, they halted, twelve feet away.
“We are honored that you have come, K’uk’ulkan of Talokan,” said Shuri as authoritatively as she could. Namora said something behind her mask, and Nakia looked up, a startled expression on her face. Shuri, put off, glanced at Nakia. “Everything all right?”
“She says that to address the Feathered Serpent without his full title is an insult,” said Nakia. “You must call him Kukulkan, Feathered Serpent, God-King of Talokan.” Shuri gave Namor a quick look, but his face betrayed no emotion whatsoever. He might as well have been carved from gold himself.
“My deepest apologies,” she said. “Kukulkan, Feathered Serpent, God-King of Talokan, I salute and greet you.” Shuri held out her right hand, fingers facing upward and palm out, then her left under it, fingers facing down, palm out, and Namor visibly stiffened. Oh, Bast, I have done something offensive, haven’t I? But he only inclined his head very briefly, then mirrored the gesture back to her, and Attuma and Namora copied him immediately.
“Shuri, Black Panther, Princess of Wakanda. I salute you and accept your invitation,” he said sternly, in a voice she had never heard him use before. “We will board your airship.” He made a motion with his hands, and Okoye turned, stepping up the ramp to start the engines. Attuma followed her in, then Namora, then Namor, then Shuri, who nodded goodbye to Nakia as she stood below on the sand and the ramp closed up.
I should have asked her to come. My only interpreter is wearing a metric ton of gold and vibranium, and he does not seem to be in a chatty mood, she thought as she took her seat on one of the the low, purple velvet-upholstered couches along the back interior walls. But that was silly and selfish: little T’Challa needed his mother and she could not just go without him last minute. “Please sit,” she said, politely indicating the seats. Attuma sat immediately, stretching out a little and craning his neck around to drink in the inside of the airship— and also Okoye, who walked past him to sit in the pilot’s seat. Namora was a little more hesitant, and slid in carefully along the other side. Namor gave the ceiling a good hard look, and when he was apparently satisfied, he sat down on the other couch, the one Shuri was sitting on, but at the other side— the far side, as far away from her as he could be.
Okoye lifted off. Namora gripped the seat and said something to Namor, her blue skin going pale. He waved at her and said something in his own tongue, then turned to Shuri. “My cousin’s only consolation in her discomfort is the fact that if this ship falls from the air, the Black Panther falls, too.”
“How poetic,” said Shuri, keeping her hands folded in her lap. “If I could tell your cousin she has nothing to fear, I would. We will not be long.” Namor translated to the Talokanil woman, and she seemed to minutely relax. “Other surface dwellers have ships that fly very slowly. It would take the better part of two days with theirs. Wakandan ships can make the journey in less than half a day.”
Namora said something back to Namor, and he turned to Shuri. “She says she is glad to hear that.”
“Good,” said Shuri. “And I meant to ask you, Kukulkan, God-King of Talokan; do your people’s breathing apparatuses need fresh water, or have you been able to design the vibranium in the settings in a way that oxygenates it continuously from the outside air?”
He frowned. “Neither.”
That was not the answer she had expected. “Neither?”
“We did not need to design the vibranium to do anything. It automatically converts oxygenated air to breathable water, and breathable water to oxygenated air.”
“Oh,” said Shuri. “I see.”
“You did not notice the suit?”
“The… suit?”
“Yes, Princess. When I showed you Talokan, you were in a diving suit. We had already broken off that bulky tank of air and the tube that attached it to the suit, so we simply fitted it with a vibranium filter for your use.”
“And it was fully integrated into the suit’s system by the time I used it?” asked Shuri, surprised.
“Of course it was. I would never have taken you down if it was faulty.”
“I never noticed,” Shuri told him, slightly embarrassed. “I am afraid I was looking at so much beauty and wonder below the sea that the thought slipped my mind.”
“A mistake many of us make,” Namor said, looking straight ahead and not at her. “Beauty can blind us to danger.”
Bast give me patience. “Yes,” she said noncommittally, and rose up, going to the panel in the wall and pressing it. A flat counter slid out with hot food on it in delicate stone dishes: beef grilled in crusted spices, goat cheese, fish, spicy rice pilaf, purple cabbage, bananas and mangoes. “I do not know if your advisors can eat in their masks, but there is food here if you are hungry.”
Namor said something to Attuma, who looked very interested, but realized he couldn’t take off his breathing apparatus to eat, and sat back mournfully. He then asked Namora, and she eyed up the mangoes, but shook her head. “They will abstain, but they thank you for the gesture,” Namor told Shuri as she brought a plate with a little of everything for him to try. His eyes narrowed. “What is this?” he asked, pointing as he took his helmet off and set it aside on the couch.
“What is— oh, the beef?”
“The burned brown one. Yes. What is beef?”
“It’s cow,” she said, with the straightest face she could manage. “And it’s not burned, just cooked.”
“And cow is…?”
“A surface animal. Big, but not intelligent. Maybe you should try the fruit? The one you gave me in Talokan was good.”
“Hm,” said Namor, sniffing the skewered beef. Namora leaned forward, all tight sinew and nervous energy like she was afraid Shuri might poison him, but at a single look from her king, she sank back and averted her eyes. He tasted everything, but did not care for the beef or the goat cheese, preferring to eat the cabbage, fruit, and rice. The fish he was not sure about, but he ate about half, pronouncing it edible, even though it was burned, as he said.
Shuri watched him, keeping her face serene and polite. This will be easy, she thought, heartened a little. I don’t know what I was so worried about.
They swept into a gentle landing in the Golden City, directly on the palace launchpad, and Okoye completed her checks and made her way toward the back as the landing ramp descended. “Welcome to the Golden City, Kukulkan of Talokan,” she said crisply, and stood to the side, indicating that they should pass. Namor, putting his helm back on, spoke to his advisers, and they immediately stepped back, at attention behind him and Shuri. Attuma was keeping a particularly close eye on Okoye, and Namora muttered something to him. He elbowed her and stood up straighter.
“Attuma says that he is pleased to be taken here in honor by the warrior who almost bested him in battle,” said Namor, settling his shoulders.
Okoye’s head turned very slowly, and Shuri thought she could almost see her jaw working. “Does he,” she said stiffly.
“Oh, stop it,” Shuri said through her teeth, and Okoye sighed, then stood aside.
“Princess,” she muttered, giving Attuma a keen-eyed look as they passed by. Shuri wasn’t paying attention to her anymore, though: half of Wakanda had apparently turned up to see the Feathered Serpent God-King of Talokan, and the platform was thick with people wearing a thousand different colors, watching with every expression from astonishment to anticipation to disquieted confusion, and all talking among themselves as he walked down to meet the greeting party at Shuri’s side.
She stopped short two paces from the King of Wakanda. “My King,” said Shuri, saluting M’Baku with both arms crossed over her breast. Kingship suited him enormously: he wore brown and white, to respect the Jabari, but gold was worked into his gorilla-faced breastplate now. His furred cloak made him look twice as big as he already was, the traditional grass skirt interwoven with black and gold cloth. The Dora Milaje stood ready behind him at attention in their crimson and silver armor, spears polished to a bright sheen. Shuri noted that Ayo still had on the gold collar and bracelets of the General. She’s kept her promotion, then.
“Black Panther,” he said, saluting her back. Then his face broke into a delighted grin and he took her by the hand, grasping it tightly. “It is good to see you back in Wakanda, Shuri.”
“Thank you, my king,” she said, grinning. “May I present the delegation from Talokan?” She stood back and gestured with her arm, and at a nod from Namor both his advisers stood forward. “This is Attuma, and this is Namora: advisers and warriors equally. And you have already met K’uk’ulkan, God-King of Talokan, the Feathered Serpent.”
Namor stepped forward, eyeing up M’Baku, who stood a good head taller than him. M’Baku looked back at him and grunted. “Ah. I am glad you came. I remember you very well, fish-man of Talokan. You broke my breastplate and threw me into the river with a single blow.”
Shuri’s heart sank. No, no, no, you furry idiot, you cannot insult him!
Something glinted in Namor’s eyes. She noted that he spread his feet slightly, the weight of him spread more evenly. “As I shall do again, should you continue to show me such disrespect, M’Baku of Wakanda.” Attuma dropped his shoulders slightly, and Namora tensed.
There was a terrible moment where nobody moved, and then M’Baku bellowed out a laugh, clapping Namor on the shoulder. “Ha! This one will do fine in court, Shuri. I like him.”
Shuri felt weak in the knees. Oh, just go inside and get this done with, she thought furiously. “Thank you, my King. Shall we go in?”
“Yes, yes. I’ve caused food to be prepared.” M’Baku waved her along to his right as Namor walked on his left. “Vegetarian, obviously. I did not know what you fish-people eat, but I read about you enough to make a few assumptions.”
“Vegetarian?” asked Namor.
“It means that there is no meat,” said Shuri.
“Oh, good,” said Namor, eyes slipping back toward M’Baku. “Your Panther tried to serve me burned cow, King of Wakanda. I would welcome anything you have.”
Her face burned. M’Baku found that incredibly funny, and hooted with laughter, pointing at Shuri, who pressed her mouth into a line and kept walking down the hall. “Burned cow!”
He doesn’t have to make friends with M’Baku so they can both make fun of me, she thought furiously, keeping her face calm as much as she could. Then she noticed a pale face among all the Wakandan ones, and stopped almost dead in her tracks as they entered the throne room. “Agent Ross?” she asked, delighted to see her old friend.
“Princess Shuri!” The short American hurried over, his mousy face creasing into a smile. He wore a simple black high-collared shirt, embroidered with white, black pants, and a sash around his waist. “It’s good to see you again. How are you?”
“I am very well,” she answered, shaking his hand American-style. “I heard you had been extradited, but I did not know you would be in attendance.”
“I didn’t either,” he admitted, and glanced over at Namor, then did a double-take; the Feathered Serpent God was giving him a look that could have curdled milk. “Who— ah. Um. Who’s— the—”
“This is Kukulkan,” said Shuri helpfully.
“He may call me Namor,” said Namor, eyes hard as stone.
Oh, Bast. “Ah— he rules Talokan, under the sea. We’ve made peace between our people; he’s here as an honored guest at M’Baku’s invitation.”
“Oh,” said Ross, looking from her to Namor. “Oh, he’s— sorry, sir, you’re the one whose people tried to kidnap Ms. Williams?”
Namor did not respond, and just looked at Shuri. “Yes,” she said. Bast take him, is his pride so enormous he will not even speak to Ross? “Have they given you a seat?”
“Ah, no,” Ross answered. His eyes kept darting from her face to Namor’s, unsure. “No, I’m just here as the guest of the Border Tribe. Well, Okoye specifically.”
“We all have much to discuss, I am sure,” said Shuri, smiling. “Kukulkan, if you will follow me, I will show you your seat.” He did not even reply, simply walked at her side without a single look at Ross, who shrank back, looking equal parts confused and slightly intimidated. She indicated a seat at the left hand of the throne, and he sat, spreading his knees and resting his hands on them as the rest of the elders took their seats. Namora and Attuma stood behind him, taking in the scene, as Shuri took her place on a small, plain, black seat at the right hand of the throne.
For the River Tribe, Nakia’s father, in lime green and yellow, with a cluster of advisors, sat in attendance— for the Border Tribe, Okoye sat in the council seat with a group of cloaked men in blue standing behind her, and Everett Ross standing at her right hand. The Merchant Tribe and the Mining Tribe had sent their elders as well, and a retinue of guards and advisors to join them, and there was also the Jabari Tribe’s representative, M’Bele, who sat with only four men behind him, all cloaked in their furs. M’Baku walked in, turned, sat down on the throne that Shuri had given him, and let out a brief, short hou-hou, the call echoed by the Jabari tribe members. She knew that cry— a call like a warning, a precursor to danger.
“I call this council to order,” he said without preamble. “Okoye of the Border Tribe, call your witness.”
Okoye raised an eyebrow at Everett Ross, who stepped forward, his nose twitching nervously like a rabbit. Every eye in the room was on him. “I’ll get right to it,” he said, straightening his back and clasping his hands behind it. “I was rescued by Okoye— which I’m very grateful for, by the way— I was on my way to be given a mock trial for treason and most likely incarcerated. However, given that I’m an intelligence agent who leaked sensitive information to Wakanda about the Riri Williams situation, America’s not exactly happy about the fact that I’m secure within these borders. They worked out pretty quickly who’d taken me, and demanded that Wakanda hand me back.”
Shuri leaned forward, tense. “Time frame?”
“The time frame given was immediately,” answered Ross.
“Demanded,” echoed M’Baku, chuckling. “And the situation with the French?”
“They’re still angry about the, ah, actions of the late Queen at the United Nations.”
“What actions were these?” asked Namor, calm and cool as a lake, and the eyes of the room went to him, as everyone collectively seemed to harden: this is the man who killed her. Ross cleared his throat and looked at Namor.
“Uh, she laid a trap at a Wakandan outreach center in Mali, and a French special operations group fell into it when they stormed the place for vibranium. She had the Dora Milaje round them up and walk them into the meeting.”
“And we would do it again a thousand times,” said Ayo from behind the throne.
“Peace, General,” said M’Baku, waving his hand.
Namor sat back. “The actions of a noble and just ruler, then,” he said. “So that is what they wish to go to war over? The extradition of this…” his eyes drifted down Ross, and he curled his lip. “I say give him to the Americans and be done with this matter.”
“That is not all,” said Okoye. “Handing over Ross to the Americans will be seen as a sign of weakness by every nation with military firepower in the world. Russia, China, America itself, Great Britain— they crave vibranium and they will burn Wakanda to the ground for it.”
“And Talokan, too,” said Ross, who took a step back at the pure vitriol in Namor’s eyes as he spoke to him. “Sorry, sir. Uh. Since now they know how to weaken your people and kill them.”
“What do you mean, America knows how to kill Talokanil?” said Shuri, a sickening sense of dread in her gut.
“You— well, you built the, uh, the tech for it,” said Ross, who was beginning to look as if he’d rather be anywhere but here. “And you enlisted the help of Ms. Williams to do it. She’s— you sent her back to America.”
“Yes, to her school where she belonged. Everything she developed was kept here safely, away from the American government.”
“I mean, you didn’t exactly give her protection. Did you think after she’d been in both Talokan and Wakandan custody that the CIA wouldn’t track her down for an interrogation?”
Shuri wanted to run out of the room, to throw up, to scream. “You have proof this interrogation took place? That she gave it to the Americans?”
“I do, but it’s not the kind of interrogation you’re thinking of.” Everett held up his phone— such a primitive, ancient communication device that it made Shuri want to put it in a museum. “She’s pretty active on social media. I don’t have access to my old information, but she posted something on her Snapchat account about going to a club three nights ago, and one of the people in the video sitting at her table acting like a friend is an undercover agent I recognize. In another video taken the same night, one she posted on her public Instagram story, you can hear the agent trying to probe her for information about her unexplained absence from MIT, and in a third video on her TikTok, she’s… well, here.” Ross handed Shuri the phone, and Shuri linked it to her Kimoyo beads, projecting a tall screen and showing Riri Williams, very drunk, in a bar, laughing hysterically, and mouthing along to a pre-existing sound recording.
“Oh-oh; I don’t know about you,” sang an unfamiliar woman’s voice, with an entirely different voice following that barked, “Bitch I hope the fuck you do!” Text, added by Riri, floated above her head that stated “ when thoise fish guys say ttheuy can libve in the mf deserttt lmaoooo ” and in the background of the video, a young woman’s pale face turned toward Riri at the last moment, laughing too.
“That’s the agent,” said Ross, pointing as the video froze. A couple of elders made startled, angry exclamations.
Shuri felt icy dread creep up into her throat. “I told her to be careful and not tell anyone! What was she thinking? ”
“She’s a kid, Shuri. She’s nineteen and she was at a club. She wasn’t thinking. And that’s what they were counting on.”
“But this isn’t just— this is public, it’s on the Internet, everyone can— everyone has it. Everyone can figure out from this video how to kill— how—”
“Yeah,” said Ross, taking his phone back and looking very resigned.
Namor leaned forward and gave her a stern glare that she forced herself to meet. “I do not know what that image was, or what half of those words mean,” he said very coldly, “but I understand enough. You should have kept that scientist within your borders, Shuri of Wakanda.”
Shuri could not breathe. The weighted judgment of every elder in the room was crushing her. “Yes,” she whispered, face hot and tears prickling her eyes. “I was not thinking clearly. I… I am sorry.”
“Remorse will not save my people,” said Namor. She could do nothing but nod silently, her head hanging in shame.
“And that is what we are here to help you do,” said M’Baku, slapping his thigh. “Everett Ross, you can stand over there with Okoye. Now. What do we do about this problem? Black Panther?”
Mama would know. T’Challa would know. Baba would know. They would say something wise and clever, solve this problem, and have everyone love them for it. Shuri swallowed hard, trying not to cry in front of the council elders. “I will hear the counsel of the elders first, my King.”
“Eh, all right. Okoye?”
Okoye was quiet a moment. “What can we do? America and France have not declared a war; they have only signed an accord stating that if conflict breaks out, they will side with each other. And I have studied the history of these European countries and colonies. If one country allies itself with one, more will follow, and when that happens, the bloodshed will be like nothing ever seen. We cannot get Riri Williams back here to Wakanda to prevent any further information leaking: they will see that as an act of war and accuse us of kidnapping a citizen to excuse their actions. If we give them Ross, they will see it as weakness and find a way to destabilize our nation.”
“More than it is already,” said Ross under his breath.
“You do not get any input, colonizer,” growled M’Baku.
“Let him speak,” said Shuri, taken aback, and M’Baku waved his hand, annoyed, but acquiescent.
Ross stepped forward. “It’s just that— that’s how the CIA operates. Transfers of power are weak points in a country’s body, like— like civil wars, or widespread unrest, or whatever. They work their way in like a crowbar, set up their own people in the government, and funnel money in to fund anything and everything that can work in their favor. Wars. Drugs. Destroying material goods to destroy an economy. Legislating embargoes. Right now, Wakanda is at a tipping point. The…” He gave Shuri an almost desperate look, and swallowed as he turned to M’Baku. “You’re a good king, your Majesty, but a member of another tribe on the throne after centuries of one single bloodline, father to child— that’s a key destabilization point that the CIA and MI6 will seek to exploit.”
M’Baku scowled at Ross, launching himself to his feet and advancing on him. “You come into the Golden City and insult me to my face? You know nothing of our politics. And if the CIA is sending spies and agents into Wakanda, who is to say you are not a spy, Everett Ross?”
The man’s pale face grew even paler as he backed up a few steps. “I—now, hang on—”
“He’s right, my king,” said Shuri immediately. “I have been studying as well. When the Spanish invaded the Yucatan, long ago, they took advantage of a fractured political system that had been in the making for centuries.” Namor, across from the empty throne, made a quiet, quick movement, sitting up straighter. She would not look at him. Could not look at him. “When the Spanish came, they took advantage of a decentralized people, a people at war with each other. Kings turned on kings, city-state on city-state. They all fell. I saw the faces of the people of Wakanda on the landing platform as we came. I saw confused faces, concerned faces. Not many glad ones.”
“They were glad to see their Black Panther,” said Okoye quietly. “Shuri is right. Wakanda cannot break apart. We have already withstood one storm with N’Jadaka, but even that left fractures among our people—between us all.”
“I won my throne by right of combat,” said M’Baku, turning on her with fire in his eyes. “I will not give it over to another simply because your traitor husband is in prison.”
“Nobody is asking you to give over anything,” Shuri began as Okoye’s mouth went tight and her nose flared. Attuma leaned his weight forward, watching closely. We cannot come to blows in the Tribal Council. “My king, may I ask we take a brief respite for a meal and then reconvene?”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” said M’Baku, turning his back on Ross and settling on the throne again. “You may all go, disperse, eat something. An hour, and we meet back here.”
With salutes and nods, the council filtered out, and Shuri stood, as regally as she could, and went for the side door that she knew led out to a curved balcony overlooking the city. She was not hungry whatsoever, and she could feel Namor’s eyes boring a hole through her as she went.
It is the heart-shaped herb that makes me more aware, she thought, the hair rising on the nape of her neck. Once she was alone on the balcony, she gripped the rail and breathed deeply, staring blind out into the golden daylight.
What are we supposed to do? Sign our own accords, Talokanil and Wakandan? If America has done nothing yet to instigate, could we not simply let it go on and keep fending them off? Surely the United Nations would not allow… but they had allowed far worse, she knew. No matter what they did, it would end in conflict. Perhaps we were all doomed from the start. Where did it begin? With Baba’s death? With the War Dogs? Or was it before that? She fought tears, then gave up trying to fight and leaned over the railing, letting the tears fall. Never before had Shuri felt so helpless, so utterly unable to—
“Princess,” said the voice she both wanted to hear more than anything and did not want around her at all at the moment. She jerked herself upright and wiped her eyes, whirling around to see Namor, still in full ceremonial dress, but without his heavy helm, holding two halves of a mango. His eyes flickered over her and back up to her eyes. “I will go if you do not wish to speak at the moment.”
“I’m— it’s fine,” she heard herself saying, sniffling. “Fine. I see you found the food.” Shuri gestured at the mango with her chin. “M’Baku is certainly helping the agricultural sector of Wakanda’s economy, whatever you may think about his diplomacy skills.”
Namor did not smile, not exactly, but something about his face grew a little less hard. “He is a generous man,” he said, stepping closer. “And a good warrior. But being a ruler takes more than that.”
“Mm,” said Shuri. “Do not tell him that. He’s very proud. He used to be almost as arrogant as you, until I beat him in a show of strength after becoming the Black Panther.”
“Did you? Mm.” Namor did not seem to notice the barb she threw at him. He took a bite of one of the mango halves, and the juice dripped from his mouth, running down his chin, then brought the back of his hand to his beard and licked the juice off, his tongue lapping it. When more juice fell, he turned his palm in and caught another drop, laying the flat of his tongue along his fingers before he made eye contact with her. Shuri forced herself to look away and not have certain thoughts as he finished it. Certain— certain very detailed thoughts. “And yet he won your throne by right of combat.”
“He did not fight me for it,” she explained. “I simply did not attend the ceremony. He came, he challenged, and nobody dared stand against him.”
Namor gave her a long look and swallowed the last of the mango. “You gave him the kingship?”
“Yes,” she said shortly, and looked back out over the Golden City. If he thinks to mock me again, I will— I—
He only came closer, however, and took in the view about five feet away from her on the railing, half an uneaten mango still in his hand. “It’s an astonishing city,” he said. “So much air and light. Like a dream.”
“Dreams can be deceiving,” she muttered, refusing to look at him. Her belly felt like it had shrunk, hard as a dried prune. “I did not even think about M’Baku’s role as king, how it would be taken by the people. He is not— he was an outsider for so long. The other tribes have a… had a different relationship with the Jabari. They do not venerate Bast like us, but Hanuman, they disregard vibranium and technology…”
“You had much on your mind after the battle on the sea, I am sure,” said Namor dryly, and extended the hand holding the mango. His palm was broad enough to clutch the whole thing. “Eat.”
“I’m not hungry, thank you, Kukulkan, Feathered Serpent and God—”
“Stop saying that,” he said, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly snarl.
Shuri kept her face neutral, surprised at how quickly he had lost face. “I am doing as I was instructed by Namora—”
“My cousin takes everything at face value,” said Namor. “I instructed her to say it. I was being—I was—” and he thrust the mango into her hands, then turned and gripped the railing as he glared out over the Golden City. The muscles in his back flexed and bunched beneath his skin. Shuri stood there holding half of a mango and waited for him to speak. “I was being…”
“Childish?” she suggested.
“If you like,” he said sharply. “Now eat something. You have touched nothing all day, and even that dress cannot hide that you are as thin as a blade.”
You are a blade, Shuri. Sharp and quick, a thing that pries open secrets in the makings of the world.
Shuri looked down at the fruit and lifted it to her mouth numbly, chewing and swallowing as the tender, sweet pulp melted on her tongue in a burst of sweet flavor. It was a very good mango. “Thank you,” she whispered, her appetite suddenly returning with a vengeance. She ate it all and turned her back to the view, looking instead at the exterior wall of the palace. “About Riri Williams,” she began, hating what she had to say. “I am so— I cannot express how sorry I am. For what she knows. For what she said.”
“I don’t suppose you would allow Talokan to finally take her into custody,” said Namor, the faintest note of humor in his tone.
“No,” she told him. “She was my responsibility. I should have— I should do something.”
He leaned against the rail. “You can do one thing. Explain to me this… ah, tiq’toq? How did that colonizer say it?”
“TikTok,” she corrected, fighting a smile despite herself. “It’s… social media. Ah, you don’t have communication devices in Talokan, you don’t need them… it’s a network where people can speak to each other, and they make jokes that are repeated to each other for humorous purposes. Once something is repeated enough, it is called a trend.”
“Like a private joke,” said Namor, frowning.
“Yes, only with you and a million other people you are talking to.”
“I would not wish to speak to a million people. What would I say?”
She rolled her eyes. “Anything you want. How to cook a meal you like. Telling a story. Putting on cosmetics. Painting walls. It can be anything.”
Namor looked like he wasn’t sure if she was joking. “And this practice is a... custom among you surface people?”
“It is like oral history, only a thousand times more accelerated and powerful,” Shuri told him. “Don’t ask me to explain the computer algorithms that decide who sees what, or we will be here all night.”
“A whole unseen world,” said Namor, tilting his head softly to one side. “Incredible. And because of it, my people are in danger.”
Guilt washed over her again. “Yes. It is an… often unregulated information exchange that no nation has full control over.”
Something flickered in his eyes. “No nation?”
“Yes, it’s…” Movement past the balcony caught Shuri’s eye. A Jabari woman was rushing to the throne room: that could not be good. “Excuse me a moment,” she said quickly. “I think something’s happened.”
“What? Some new piece of information?” Namor pushed off the rail, interested, and followed her back to the throne room, hot on her heels as the Jabari woman stepped back from M’Baku, who had a face like thunder and was in the process of rising from his throne. “Oh, he looks pleased,” said Namor very dryly as he put his helm back on and caught up his staff from where he’d leaned it against the wall.
“You are sure of this?” M’Baku was saying.
“Yes, my king,” she answered, and thumped her staff on the floor solemnly. “What shall we do with him?”
“What has happened?” asked Shuri, uneasy at the look on M’Baku’s face.
“My people have caught and seized a man creeping his way through the mountains,” snapped M’Baku. “Get the council back in here at once.” A member of the ten Dora Milaje stationed behind the throne saluted him and ran for the doors to the anteroom. Shuri felt weak in the knees. A spy? Was he American? British? CIA, MI6? How had he even found the borders? M’Baku was still speaking, and she forced herself to listen. “Abeni,” he was saying to the Jabari woman who had brought him the news, “tell them to bring this spy here to me at once. He can plead his case before the tribal council.”
“What kind of man is he?” asked Shuri, sinking down on her seat. “French, maybe, or— Russian?” Abeni glanced at her and saluted, looking unsure.
“I do not know, prin— ah, Black Panther,” she amended. Shuri chose not to be particular about the corrected address: she was still entitled to be called princess, as she remained a princess by birth, but it did not matter. “They said he was just some colonizer.” She darted out, vanishing, and M'Baku sat down.
Namor did not go to his assigned seat as the rest of the council members filed back in, but rather stood at Shuri’s left hand. She noticed immediately when Namora shot them a look. “Go sit down,” she whispered, turning her head. He did not move. “Kukulkan, please. Sit. You have been given a seat; you insult the king if you stand.”
He made an irritated noise in his throat and moved off, sitting down on his seat and spreading his knees so the loincloth hung down between his thighs, and he gripped his staff like he expected to use it. M’Baku settled back into the throne and glanced over at him. “Ready for war, Kukulkan?” he asked.
“Always,” said Namor coolly, giving Attuma and Namora a keen stare. “Liik’ik Talokan.” They opened their hands to him, palms out, one above the other, and took their positions, every muscle balanced and ready for whatever and whoever was coming through the doors. “If it pleases you, King M’Baku, I will kill this spying colonizer at a single word.”
A grin spread across M’Baku’s face. “I may hold you to that, Kukulkan. Let us see what he is first.”
Shuri braced herself. Ross had come back in with Okoye, and stood by the Border Tribe’s seat, looking bewildered (or perhaps that was just his face). If I have to question him as to how this new spy entered our land… and didn’t M’Baku say that he could be a spy, too? A double agent of the CIA? That was not a pleasant thought. She swallowed. Behind the throne, the Dora Milaje tensed, spears drawn.
The doors burst open, and in marched four Jabari men, a fifth between them. This man, the spy, he had been prepared, dressed well for the weather in the mountains: he wore gloves and a thick coat, but his face was battered and bloodied and his wrists were bound behind him in vibranium cuffs. One of the men pushed him forward, and he lost his balance, stumbled, and fell on both knees in front of M’Baku’s seat, his hooded coat knocked askew. Brown hair, Shuri saw, thick, straight as grass, and slightly peppered with silver, cut short on the sides and longer on the crown.
“You are in the presence of the King of Wakanda,” snarled Ayo, spear pointed. “Raise your head and lower your eyes.”
The man obeyed, his breathing coming ragged. Shuri could make out a cleft chin under his furred jaw, a streak of blood painted down from his nostril over his upper lip, and blue eyes— she thought for a moment she—
Ayo’s spear dropped from her frozen, nerveless hands. It clanged when it hit the glass and vibranium floor, ringing off the walls with a sound like a bell. “Ncuk'emhlophe!” she gasped, her voice gone strangled.
No, thought Shuri, stunned to her core. No, it cannot be. “Take off his left glove,” she demanded, forgetting for a moment who she was. “Now.” One of the Jabari men marched forward, tugged off the black glove— a gleaming hand of segmented, gold-inlaid vibranium caught the light from the windows and the whole council seemed to take a breath of shock as they recognized him.
White Wolf.
The captive gave her a wry, exhausted smile. “Hello, Shuri,” he said, in his low, gravelly voice.
“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes,” said Okoye, clenching her hands together in her lap. Barnes turned his attention to her immediately. “I trust you have a very good reason for being here, when you were exiled not even a year ago from the borders of this land. Speak.” She glanced at Namor, whose eyes were trained hungrily on the captive. “Or you will be made to speak.”
Chapter 7: The Wolf and the Serpent
Notes:
The lovely and very kind Kuroma_Kasubi is graciously translating this work into Chinese for anyone who would like to read it!! You can find it here: https://mammon189.lofter.com/post/1e802196_2b76aa21b
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
It wasn’t Barnes speaking that broke the silence, or a command from M’Baku, or anything else that Shuri half-expected to shake her senses and bring her back to solid ground. Amidst all her doubt and shock and unease at seeing Barnes be dragged in, among all the shocked stares of the disapproving elders and their advisers, it was Everett Ross that disturbed the stunned trance that lay on the throne room.
He backed into a stool and knocked it over, losing his balance, and Okoye’s head snapped around like an owl, her eyes boring a hole into him. “S-sorry,” he stammered, wiping his hands on his shirt, and that was when Barnes, who realized exactly who was in the room at that point, turned and saw him.
“Mnqande,” he whispered, glancing at Okoye, and she understood instantly.
Stop him.
With a swift movement, Okoye had risen up, grabbed Ross by the shirt, and swung him around to firmly plant him on his backside in front of her like a wayward child. Two Dora Milaje dashed to her side, pointing spears at Ross, who choked on his own tongue, hands in the air, and kept shooting bewildered looks from Barnes to Shuri. “Now, come on— what— what’s—”
Barnes looked to M’Baku, respectfully keeping his eyes lowered to the level of the man’s gold breastplate. “King M’Baku,” he said softly. Shuri made a mental note to get him into the medical lab as soon as possible. His nose looked a little crooked.
“Silence,” barked M’Baku, slamming his staff onto the floor. “Silence! You were banished from this country almost a year ago, according to the report of the Dora Milaje, after that business with the murderer of King T’Chaka. You were given gifts in payment for your service, and now you come crawling back over our borders?”
“I’ve come to warn you of a danger to Wakanda,” said Barnes, still keeping his eyes trained below M’Baku’s chin. “I’ll be brief. The CIA contacted me. They’re putting together a black operatives team to infiltrate Wakanda for vibranium.”
A gasp went up from the assembled seats of elders. “Brazen!” shouted the old woman who had represented the Merchant Tribe as long as Shuri could remember. “How dare they?”
“If they move to unleash their dogs of war, let us send our own,” said Nakia’s father, half out of his seat. “We still have undercover agents in every city in the world, and counterintelligence can—”
“Counterintelligence?” cried Okoye in disbelief. “The Americans seek to send a team of black ops to our sovereign borders to steal our resources!” She looked down, remembered Ross’s presence, and stood up, jerking him to his feet and bringing a knife to his throat. “You said nothing about this to me! I committed an act of international aggression for you, Everett Ross!”
Ross looked as if an egg had gotten stuck in his throat. His eyes bulged. “I— I—”
“He didn’t know about this,” said Barnes, glancing over at Okoye. “He knew about a lot, but he didn’t know about this.”
Okoye did not move.
“Okoye,” Barnes prompted gently. “He didn’t know.”
She was almost vibrating with rage, but she lowered the knife. Ross fixed his eyes on Barnes, blinking. “I— what do you mean? How do you know what I didn’t know? You’re not in the agency, you don’t have clearance.”
“Yeah, well, I can make assumptions like the best of ‘em, Ross, especially when the woman who cornered me was your ex-wife,” said Barnes acerbically. “Not hard to make the connection, especially when I found your marriage license online. The Internet’s real helpful sometimes.”
“My— Val’s seriously heading up this, this team?”
“Yeah, you suspected, huh? But you didn’t have proof, did you? Not that it stopped you before.” Barnes shifted his weight on his knees. “Real convenient for you, I guess.”
Ross suddenly looked small and very, very nervous. “Sergeant Barnes, if this is about Berlin—”
“Oh, yeah. Berlin. Sure.” Every word was venom. “You know what the most unfair thing out of all of this shit is? You got yourself a bonafide free get-out-of-unjust-incarceration card, after you locked up Barton, and that Wanda girl, and Scott Lang, and Sam Wilson. Sam Wilson. Yeah, he told me all about it. No trial, no phone call, no legal counsel, nothing. His sister thought he was dead for two months. Did you know that , Ross?”
“I was just— I was following—”
“If you say you were just following orders I’m gonna break these fuckin’ handcuffs and rearrange your face,” snarled Barnes.
“Peace,” said M’Baku. Barnes instantly lowered his head, but Ross kept bleating like a sheep.
“I don’t know what you want me to—”
“I said peace!” shouted M’Baku, and Ross quailed back, pressing his lips together. “This is not a place for airing out old grievances. If you wish to do that, I will arrange a ceremonial fight to first blood. Is this what you want, White Wolf?”
Barnes shot a look over at Ross, whose eyes had gone so huge that the whites were visible, and was mouthing something like oh god oh god no. “Not today, King M’Baku,” he said.
“Good. Ayo, release his hands. The White Wolf will be an honored guest for now.” The Dora Milaje general stepped over quickly and keyed in the release for the cuffs, and Barnes brought both hands forward, rubbing his flesh and blood one with his vibranium fingers. Namor’s eyes were fixed on the hand, his lips parted in… was it fascination? Surprise? Shuri kept her hands folded as Ayo pulled him to his feet and helped him to her right hand, where he stood quietly, stinking of blood and body odor.
“Hello, White Wolf,” said Shuri softly. “Your nose is broken.”
“Figured,” he muttered, reaching up and touching it tenderly. “It’ll be healed by tomorrow.”
“Which one of the Jabari inflicted these injuries?” demanded M’Baku.
Barnes glanced over at the four men, all of whom were suddenly looking at the floor or walls and not at him or the king. “None of them, honorable king. I tripped and fell down the mountain on my descent into Jabari land.”
“You lie,” said M’Baku, scowling. Then he grinned. “But it’s an honorable lie to an honorable king, yes? Shuri, get him to your laboratory when we’re done here.”
“Yes, my king,” she said, crossing her arms over her breast. Barnes inclined his head and noticed Namor for the first time, who was still giving him a look like he had no idea what to think about the new stranger.
“Who’s the guy in the Aztec costume?” he whispered to Shuri.
She had to fight a giggle. “Maya, not Aztec, and Talokanil, not Maya. It’s a long story. I’ll explain later. Don’t engage if he baits you and whatever you do, don’t insult him.”
Barnes’ eyes were fixed on Namor’s sandals. “Are those feathers?”
“You have a metal arm, he has wings on his ankles. Be quiet, Sergeant Barnes.”
“So,” said M’Baku. “Are there any other white men lining up outside the palace? No? Good. Let us finish the meeting and come to an agreement so we can all rest. White Wolf, speak to us about this team of operatives.”
Barnes stepped forward. “As far as I have been made aware,” he said, “myself, Sam Wilson, and Captain John Walker of the 75th Army Ranger Battalion have been approached in America. Three Russian agents have also been interviewed, and so has a British woman. I don’t know the particulars of their abilities, but I assume they all have some kind of enhanced… situation going on.”
“John Walker,” said Ayo with disgust.
Barnes matched her expression with one of his own. “Yeah, he’s calling himself U.S. Agent now.”
“Do you know if any have agreed to this invasion?” Okoye looked halfway murderous, and still had a grip on Ross.
“Yeah, Walker agreed instantly, all gung ho and ready to serve his country. Wilson told de Fontaine where she could shove her black ops mission. Right after that, his sister’s house was broken into, and the brakes mysteriously went out on his truck. He moved Sarah and the boys into a safehouse and put his Captain America suit into storage in a classified location. It has vibranium in it, as you all know, and he thought it best the CIA keep their hands off it.”
“A good man,” said M’Baku.
“Yeah. Then after Wilson turned her down, I heard she recruited Torres.”
“Who?” asked Shuri.
“Sorry. Lieutenant Joaquín Torres, United States Air Force. Worked with Sam and me in special operations. Young, idealistic, nice kid, and he has Sam’s old EXO-7 Falcon suit.”
“But he’s not an enhanced individual,” said Shuri. “Which means he’s less of a threat, yes?”
Barnes shrugged. “He’s an intelligence officer. He’s as much of a threat as an intel guy can be.”
“And the rest? These Russians?”
“My info’s spotty where they’re concerned. I tried to lead de Fontaine on when she was demanding I sign up, asking questions acting like I wouldn’t say yes until I was sure it would be successful, and I think she might have caught on to me. One of the Russians is a guy who was enhanced with a Soviet knockoff super-soldier serum in the eighties and did minor operations until the KGB tossed him in prison to keep him quiet. Red… something? His name’s Shostakov. The other two are some woman who was spotted in New York trying to kill Clint Barton, don’t know her name; and a genetically enhanced agent who’s supposed to be the best fighter in the world.”
“They have not encountered the Dora Milaje,” said Ayo, thumping her spear on the floor.
“And the British woman?”
Barnes shook his head. “Absolutely no idea. De Fontaine just said she was a scientist with a hazy grip on reality, but I’m not clear on how that’s a tactical advantage.”
Shuri froze in her seat. They’d tried to recruit a scientist. A scientist. And Riri— “My king, we need to extract Riri Williams from the United States.”
“And give them an excuse to wage a war?” M’Baku scoffed.
“We don’t do it in secret. When Okoye and I found her at MIT, she asked if we were recruiting her. We can do that. We can invite her to Wakanda and say it is to teach at Wakanda University. Everything on the table. Passport stamps, a visa, like these people do it. The United Nations might take umbrage, my king, but other nations will be outraged if we are invaded over a perfectly legal visit from one of the United States’ leading minds. We can argue that she is why they invaded in the first place. Riri is brilliant enough to build a nanotechnology armored suit with powered, balanced repulsors and thrust in a rusting garage. What do you think the CIA is going to make her do for them if they don’t get enough power in this group they are assembling?”
There was silence. Then, Namor slid off his seat and stood. “I agree with the Black Panther,” he announced, the first thing he’d said since Barnes had been dragged in. “Here, the scientist will be carefully monitored, so as to cause no further harm to either of our people.”
Barnes shifted his weight. Oh, Bast, prayed Shuri. “Sorry, I don’t know who this Ms. Williams is and I’m not really clear on your, uh…” His eyes took in Namora and Attuma, blue and wearing breathing masks. “Whole… deal…?”
“This is Kukulkan of Talokan, a kingdom below the sea. They have vibranium, too.” M’Baku looked like a very tired schoolteacher whose students simply could not grasp a concept. “Can we move on?”
Barnes stumbled over the pronunciation. “Koo-koo-can?”
“Kukulkan, there’s an L,” Shuri put in, watching Namor’s face go stony.
“Namor is easier for your colonizer tongue to form,” he snarled. “And should it come to a war between your country and ours, every widow and fatherless child in every surface realm will know the name Namor and wail it.”
“Jesus,” said Barnes mildly. “Okay.”
Namor wasn’t done yet. “As for your confusion, which I assume is due to my presence at this council of Wakanda, I must confess I am also confused as to yours; you are not Wakandan and yet you walk in with an arm of vibranium. That should be a wealth beyond imagining, yet you have dressed like a beggar to present yourself at this council before a king, his elder advisors, his honored guests, and Shuri, Black Panther, once Princess of Wakanda, who you do not address by her title nor her rank nor any respect—”
“That’s enough,” said Shuri sharply. “James Barnes was an ally of Wakanda long before you were, Kukulkan of Talokan, and it was not easy for him to find his way here again. You weren’t tracked, were you?” she asked quickly, turning to him.
He shook his head. “Nope. Bricked my smartphone, hated the thing anyway. They can’t track you if you don’t have tech, and the last person besides me to touch my arm was Ayo.” He shot a glance at the general, and she nodded tightly.
“I can confirm this, princess. Barnes’s arm is free of all tracking devices, and is currently only equipped with an electrical failsafe.”
“That one’s no fun,” commented Barnes.
“I am sorry I had to use it on you,” she said quietly.
“Yeah, I know.”
At least something had gone right. Shuri leaned back. “Anyway. You will treat him with politeness, please.”
“Are we all done?” said M’Baku crossly, leaning back. “Yes? Good. I say we retrieve Riri Williams, then. Send a War Dog for her and bring her here. What the United Nations does next will remain to be seen. Any disagreement?” Nobody objected, and M’Baku beat a hand over his chest. “We are done here. Everyone go. Shuri, fix the White Wolf’s face, don’t forget.”
“Yes, my king,” she said, and rushed from the throne room as fast as she could, practically dragging Barnes along, just to escape the piercing look of betrayal in Namor’s eyes.
The quiet familiarity of her lab, with Griot’s voice welcoming her and all her things just where she had left them, soothed Shuri’s soul in a way she had not felt in months. Barnes sat on a table and let her apply a Kimoyo bead to his face, grimacing as threads of vibranium healed his nose and the other bruises and cuts on his face. “I’ll never get used to how fast that works,” he said.
“I can’t help that you live in a primitive country with abysmal healthcare,” Shuri teased, checking his face. “Contusion of the orbital socket, broken nose, split lip, laceration to your cheek. You should take better care of yourself.”
“Yeah, well, that mountain packs a wallop,” Barnes said, smiling.
Shuri shook her head and packed away the beads. “You look so different, I almost didn’t recognize you. The haircut… and you’re smiling ? What’s happened to the old you?”
“I’m doing better,” he told her, sliding off the table.
“Oh, yes, Ayo told me. The Winter Soldier, back in action.”
“And you’re the Black Panther now.” Barnes swallowed, looking over the lab. “We’re losing too many good people. And then someone else's gotta step up and handle the slack.” He fiddled with his hands and looked back at her. “It isn’t right, is it?”
Unexpected warmth flooded her eyes. Don’t cry, you moron! “No,” she croaked. “I am sorry you could not attend T’Challa’s funeral.”
“So am I,” said Barnes, his voice catching. Then he laughed, but it was like a half-sob, and tilted his head up to wipe his eyes. “God, look at us. Crying in a lab like a couple of old people.”
“You are old,” she said, smiling through the dampness in her vision.
“Don’t remind me.” He grinned, but then it faded. “I’m glad you got the chance to bury him. None of us got that with Steve, when he—” Barnes paused, clearing his throat, and looked away, his shoulders settling.
Shuri put her hand on his shoulder, the flesh-and-blood one. “I know. Nobody did. Half the Internet thinks he lives on the moon, and the other half thinks he’s in a freezer under the Pentagon.”
“Yeah, I know all about those theories. Sometimes the truth is stranger than fiction.”
She was really curious. “What, not a single hint for an old friend?”
“You’re not getting jack outta me, Shuri,” he said, half-smiling again. “Sorry.”
“Damn,” she joked. “My plot has been foiled. I’ll find you some fresh clothes and something to eat, eh? You really do stink.”
“I’d appreciate that.” Barnes rolled his shoulders and gave his face a quick look in a mirror-screen. “Good as new. Thank you. And I really hope Okoye’s keeping a leash on Ross while he’s here.”
“You think he could be giving information to the CIA?” Shuri hated the very thought, but anything was possible, it seemed.
“Not directly. He’s got no way of contacting them, and they want him silenced.”
“Then why all the fuss?”
“I just plain don’t like him,” said Barnes baldly. “And what’s the whole mermaid people thing about? Someone needs to get me up to speed on this undersea country. Talokan, is it?”
And now I have to explain all this. Shuri sighed. “He’s their king. He came to us when America found vibranium in the sea and it threatened his people’s safety. What he wanted was the scientist who made the vibranium detector they were using— Riri Williams, delivered to him, or he was going to attack Wakanda. Ross told us who she was and where to find her, and Okoye and I got to her first, trying to get her safely back to Wakanda, but the Talokanil found us before we could escape with her. They took us to Talokan after I offered myself in exchange for her life, and Namor— Kukulkan was there. He showed me his city, his kingdom under the sea. It was so beautiful— his people were Maya before they ingested a vibranium-infused plant, and they became aquatic. Water breathing. Stronger than the strongest man alive. He wanted an alliance, but Nakia came for me and Riri, and he was furious— he retaliated against us. Mother—” This was too hard, too close, too deep to speak about. “She— he gave us a week to bury her. And then we met the Talokanil in open combat, because I wanted vengeance. It only ended because I could not kill him, not in the end. I could hear her. Mama’s voice. Telling me to show mercy. To show him who I was. So I did. And I gave M’Baku the throne and I left.”
Barnes digested that for a moment. “And Namor’s not blue because…?”
“None of them are blue in the water, but he’s got mutated genes,” she explained. “His mother was pregnant with him when she ingested the herb that changed them all. He was born with the ability to fly, and to breathe both air and water.”
“You said Maya? So he’s— how old is he?”
“Five hundred,” she said. “More or less. He’s allied with us because the United Nations are more of a threat to the both of our people than we are to each other. Clothes?”
“Yes, please. So you trust him?”
“That’s a loaded question,” Shuri shot back, feeling a little prickly. “He’s not— he’s a bit unpredictable.”
“Oh, he’s mercurial,” said Barnes, smiling. “You know. Mercury. Winged feet. No?”
She groaned. “Bast, you make the worst jokes. Don’t let him hear you poking fun. He’s very proud. His people revere him as a god.”
“I can’t imagine living half a millennia does good things to a person’s brain,” Barnes muttered. “Hell, I’m only a fifth of the way there and it’s still like scrambled eggs in my head, and nobody’s worshiping me as a god.”
“That’s the trauma, Barnes, not the length of time.” She started rummaging around in one of the closets, pulling out a dark red jomi with silver embroidery around the cuffs and collar. It belonged to one of the scientists, but since it seemed that nobody was really working in the Design Group much anymore, she doubted Dr. N’kosi was coming back for it, or that he’d care. There was a matching pair of pants, and she pulled those out too.
He raised an eyebrow as he stripped off his dirty clothing and headed for the enclosed shower. “I mean, who’s to say, really?”
Shuri had to laugh. “Me, silly. I own a thousand scans of your prefrontal cortex. Don’t get my lab floor dirty, I’m going to incinerate those awful things.”
“Great, thanks.” She turned her back to give him privacy, and after some rifling through clothing found herself a more comfortable outfit— a sleeveless yellow tunic worked in geometric patterns that fell to her knees and a snug pair of white leggings. I’ll change when I’m alone. The last thing she needed was dropping Mama’s dress on the floor of the lab and breaking off the beads. “Does it fit all right?”
Barnes, clean and dry already, was tugging up his trousers, the jomi draped over the back of a chair. “Yeah, kinda snug around the thighs, but—”
The door hissed open. Shuri turned, expecting one of the Dora Milaje, or a messenger, but it was Namor standing there in the doorway, divested of his headdress and wrapped in a white-and-black patterned cloak, staring at them both without moving. Then she realized how it looked: Barnes without half his clothes on, Shuri holding fresh ones. “I see you are… occupied,” he said coldly.
“Hello,” said Barnes immediately. “I don’t think we’ve been introduced. I’m James Barnes.” He extended his right hand, and Namor stared at it until he dropped it.
“I asked you to be polite,” Shuri said, glaring at Namor.
His lip curled in disgust. “I will touch this white man when the sky falls into the sea.”
“It’s fine,” said Barnes, glancing over at her as she pressed her mouth into a line. “Probably the arm. Freaks people out.”
Namor visibly bristled. “I do not fear you or your arm.”
“Really. Because I saw you staring.” Barnes turned his left side toward Namor. “You can look as close as you want.”
Shuri watched, surprised, as Namor gave him a dark, suspicious look, then extended his right hand slowly, fingertips just grazing the interlocking, smooth vibranium-alloy plates, dark as gunmetal, inlaid with gold. “You can move it like a true arm,” he said. “So where are the joints?”
“Here.” Bucky flexed his elbow, and the vibranium shifted. “Shuri designed it.”
Namor’s eyes flashed to Shuri for a brief moment. “Is there feeling in the arm?”
“Kind of. I have nerve relays in my shoulder socket. They let me feel some pressure and allow my brain to recognize spatial limits, and that the arm is part of me, but I can’t really feel cold or heat or textures,” Barnes explained, curling his arm into a fist.
“It was not difficult to build,” Shuri put in, tucking her clothes under her arm. “The problem was the scar tissue from the old one.”
“Old one,” echoed Namor, and turned his gaze to the thick ridges of scar tissue that marked Barnes’s left chest and shoulder.
“Yeah. Had one arm for about seventy years, give or take. It wasn’t a great model.”
“It was ancient Soviet engineering, first of all, and secondly it was a wreck,” said Shuri. “Half the nerve relays malfunctioning on any given day, less range of motion, less balanced.”
Bucky smiled wryly. “Stark kinda did me a favor when he chopped it off, huh?”
“You built him a new one,” said Namor, tilting his head. “There is a tale here I think I would like to hear told.”
“It’s Barnes’s story to tell, not mine,” said Shuri loftily. “So perhaps you should be nicer to him.”
Begrudgingly, Namor turned his glare back on Barnes and extended his hand. Barnes reached out and grasped it firmly. “James Barnes,” he said stiffly by way of acknowledgement.
“Nice to meet you.”
“You may still call me Namor.”
“Yeah, figured.” Bucky dropped his hand and tugged the jomi over his head. “I remember where the kitchen is, Shuri. I’ll feed myself.”
“Okay. I’ll see you later.” The door slid open and Ayo marched in, stood at attention, and tapped the butt of her spear on the ground.
“White Wolf,” she said formally, “I have been sent to guard you by the king.”
“Ayo. I am grateful for the king’s diligence.” He dropped the formal tone, and raised his eyebrow. “Is that a courtship ring I see?”
She let a grin play at her mouth as she raised her right hand. “It might be.”
Barnes grinned right back. “Aneka?”
“What do you think?”
“Finally. I thought you’d never ask her.”
“She asked me, in the end. If you do not end up banished again, you will be invited to the wedding. Come. Let us find some food.”
Namor watched them both leave, then turned to Shuri. “This man speaks like one of you,” he said, looking more bemused than anything. “But he is an outsider.”
“We sort of adopted him.” Shuri found she could not really look at Namor in the eyes. They were alone in her lab, and she could hardly think of a thing to say.
“I see. Like a pet. The white wolf.”
“If you like. What will you do for the rest of the day?” That was something, wasn’t it? Something normal to ask, not awkward at all.
“Namora and Attuma have entered the river to rest and eat. I have assured them I am safe, although if many more of these colonizers flood the place…”
She sighed. “Ross is under supervision for now, and Barnes is a friend.”
“The twitching one I understand. He is obviously weak and small, and has allowed himself to be corrupted by power, yet now wishes to forget what he has done. The other… this man with an arm of vibranium, who says he is seventy years old…”
“He’s a hundred and six,” she interjected.
“A hund—” Namor cut himself off, and for the first time she saw true shock in his eyes. “You said there were things on the surface I had not seen. Is he one of them?”
“Yes,” Shuri said simply.
“Is... is he immortal like me?”
“He could be. I do not know.” Namor’s face had gone slightly gray, his lips pale, and Shuri reached out, worried, as he slid sideways into one of her lab chairs. “I’ll get you water. Wait a moment.” Quickly, she ran in her dress, grabbed a bottle from the fridge in the back, and hurried to him, pressing the cold metal to his forehead and cheeks before unscrewing the lid and pushing it into his hand. “Drink it. Take a breath, eh? You’re all right.”
He lifted the bottle, gulped, set it aside. “I thought it was only me,” he said, some of the color coming back into his face.
Shuri still held his hand. She did not know why. “No. I am telling you, I have seen men and women who don’t die, who are stronger than any others, who can shrink and grow again— who fly in the air like you, who glow with light from other worlds. Who can break whole worlds, and build them again. Did you lose none of your people six years ago? Mysteriously vanished?”
“No,” he said, blinking. “Why?”
“There was a— a being who came to this planet, who destroyed exactly half of all life in the universe. Five years later, everyone came back. You truly lost nobody?”
“All life on the surface, maybe, not under the sea,” he said with a frown. “Or perhaps there was some knowledge of my people needed in order to carry out this… genocide, and the being did not possess it.”
“I was one of the ones who vanished,” said Shuri, and Namor jerked his head around to stare at her. “One moment I was in the palace, watching the battle out the window and wondering if our carefully laid plans had worked, and then the next moment I was waking up on the floor, and one of the Dora Milaje was asking me if I was all right. We didn’t know what had happened, you see. We had instantly just… ceased to exist. Dust in the wind. And then a hole in space opened, and a wizard— a real wizard, not one from a story— stepped through and he had my brother T’Challa with him, and he told us we had to hurry, to gather everyone for a battle.”
“You are inventing this tale,” said Namor.
“I am not! His name was Stephen, he’s the Sorcerer Supreme, but really he’s just learned to use his body’s energy to manipulate space and time and energy in accelerated ways— stop looking at me like that!” She took her hand off his, but his fingers followed hers, encircling her palm gently.
“All right, I believe you. Go on. What did this wizard do next?”
“He opened doors in space and time. Portals of energy. We all came out on a broken, burned, bombed-out plain somewhere in New York, and we fought the being— the Mad Titan, Thanos was his name. And we defeated him. But Stark— Tony Stark, the leader of the Avengers, he died in the process. It was very sad. I did not know him as well as others did, but I went to his funeral.” Why was he stroking the back of her hand with his thumb? Shuri swallowed, trying to fight the irritating way her pulse was speeding up. “American funerals are so depressing, you know. Everyone wears black and there’s no dancing, no celebration, only— only boring— why are you doing that with your fingers?”
He released her hand at once. “My apologies, princess. I was thinking about something sad.”
“What would that be, then?”
“The thought of a world without you in it.” Why were his eyes so intense? She bit her lip and looked away, trying to quiet the hammering of her heart.
“I should— I should show you to your room,” she said quickly. “I called ahead yesterday to tell them how to set it up for you so you felt more at home, and I want to see if they got it right.”
“Did you? That was thoughtful. I will see it.”
As they walked out, she could still feel, like a ghost, the pressure and heat of his fingers on her palm, and she saw his hand rub and flex, as if trying to shake off the memory of hers.
His room was a well-sized apartment decorated in warm, earthy tones of red and brown and white, looking over the river. A hammock had been strung up in the bedroom exactly as per Shuri’s instructions, with a low couch in the sitting area, an attached bathroom, and two Kimoyo beads ready for him on the table. She picked them up, delighted that her order had been completed, and handed them to Namor.
“I sent them your biological profile. You have a medical bead and a communications bead programmed to speak to mine and to Okoye’s in case of emergencies, and I had them made into ear plugs. You can wear them in your flares. Is that acceptable?”
“It is,” Namor said, turning them in his palm.
“I would have made some for Attuma and Namora, too, but I don’t have their DNA samples.”
“The food you provided at the river’s edge will suffice,” he told her, looking around the room. “And where is your chamber?”
“Oh, I’ll be in my old room,” she told him. “Right down the hall at the end, last door on the left.”
“Ah. Good,” said Namor. “In case of an emergency, of course.”
“Right. Ah.” Shuri felt suddenly as if the room’s walls were closing in. “I’ll go and change, and then— would you like a tour of the city square?”
“That would please me,” he answered.
“Okay. I’ll call you on the beads when I’m ready. To answer the call you just press the glowing glyph.” He did not answer, just picked up the two beads and frowned as he inspected them, and Shuri practically fled the room, her belly in knots.
Why do I still feel like that? Like a stupid child? It was that mango, that Bast-damned mango he’d been eating, with his tongue— and the look he had been giving her— Shuri rushed to her own room, opened the door, darted inside, and exhaled hard, closing her eyes.
Don’t be stupid. Don’t do anything stupid to jeopardize this alliance. A War Dog had already left to get Riri with an official document stating she had been selected on her merits as an engineer to guest lecture at Wakanda University for three months, signed and sealed by the king, and Shuri wished Nakia was here. She would have been my sister, if T’Challa had lived, she thought sadly. And then there was little T’Challa, the world’s best kept secret: nobody knew who he truly was except Shuri and Nakia. And Mama.
She looked over her room. Nothing had been touched since the day she had left: there were her discarded shoes, her dirty underwear, her table scattered with half-completed projects and blueprints and tools. The bed was made, but nobody had slept in it. In the bathroom, her towels were hanging where she’d left them, and the white pot of paint she’d gotten out before the funeral was still waiting on the counter.
Oh, she thought numbly, and turned away, undoing the clasp on her neck and shimmying out of the dress carefully so as not to damage it. It could be laid away for another day. She took the pearls out of her hair, but left in the gold, and reached for her clothes from the lab. Nakia hoped to make an alliance by playing on Namor’s attraction to me, but I couldn’t even do that. He’s too— he’s so—
A humming buzz alerted her to the presence of an incoming call, and she automatically turned toward it, clothing in hand, before it registered that it was not Okoye calling, or Ayo. Namor’s head and shoulders floated above her table from her Kimoyo bead, and Shuri yelped and dropped her clothing, then realized she was nude except for the underpants. “Bast damn you, what are you doing?” she barked as heat flooded her whole body and she frantically scrambled for her clothes, shielding her chest.
“Oh, it works,” he said, a grin on his face. “Amazing! The image is so clear!”
“I’m about to clear you—”
“Can you see any surroundings in this? Or just the picture of the person?”
“Just the person, the preset parameters make it so that you can only see head and shoulders, but you can reset them to see a whole body, or a room—” What am I even saying? Shuri tugged her leggings on, turning her back on the hologram. “Give me just a second and I’ll show you how.”
“There is no need. I am just outside your door.”
“Outside my—” Shuri’s breath caught. “I’m changing!”
“And I’m impatient. Besides, it’s nothing I haven’t seen already.”
Bast take him, but he was cocky. “You can wait until I get a shirt on, am I clear?”
“As a calm sea.” The signal sputtered and died. Shuri yanked on a bralette and the closest shirt to hand, a thin-strapped orange tank top, before taking a moment to settle herself and opening the door.
Namor walked in, beads in hand; he didn’t even look at her, just held up his comms bead. “I think I have figured it out,” he said, and pressed the glyph again, activating her bead. “Press left to call Okoye, right to call you.”
“Oh, I hope Okoye lectured you.”
“No, she was impressed. And then to reset the image…” Namor tapped out a few settings on the hologram, fingering the sliders and pinching, until his image showed her whole desk and part of the floor. “Like this, yes?”
Shuri’s mouth dropped. “Ah. Yes? But how did you…”
“Learn to do it? This may shock you, itzia, but I am in possession of a very clever mind.”
“I never doubted your intelligence.”
“No? Then close your mouth. You look like a fish.”
Clearly, he was enjoying having exceeded her expectations. Shuri shut her mouth and looked at the floor. “Do you want a tour or not?”
“I am still considering,” Namor answered, leaning against the wall and tossing up the beads in his palm, catching them again. “After all, I am sure there is much to do in the city, but I think we also have much to speak about with each other. Alone.”
She felt her belly roll into a tight, coiled knot. “Do we,” she said.
“Yes. Unless you think this tentative alliance between us is something so easily ignored.”
“I don’t think that, you—” Shuri bit back a remark she would have regretted. “By us, you mean Wakanda and Talokan, or… us? You and I?”
“Yes,” he said, infuriatingly blank as he pushed off the wall. “Without one tie, we cannot have the other. What better way to make our people see?”
“Oh, that kind of alliance,” said Shuri dryly. “Two of the elders were making noise about a political marriage to secure Wakanda’s loyalty to M’Baku’s kingship, but I did not think to hear that sort of talk from you.”
Namor stopped short a pace from her. “Marriage,” he said blankly.
Oh, how she was enjoying the look on his face. “Yes. To M’Baku. Okoye was in favor, she said that it would be good public relations.”
“To that— that overgrown, fur- covered, bellowing, proud—”
“Eh, careful, they’ll hear you in the River Valley—”
“And you were amenable to this?” Namor’s eyes were almost black with fury, his nose flared.
She felt she could afford to generously quench his jealousy. “M’Baku said it would be only a political arrangement. Nothing more. I would have been free to do as I liked and so would he. But he thinks the Golden City stinks of too much technology and not enough self reliance, and he still sees me as a rude little girl. And I think of him like an uncle. A very large, very loud, funny uncle. Why are you so upset?”
“You know why,” he snapped. One hand made a quick movement as if he was going to grasp her by the arm, but he stopped halfway, jerking his hand back. “You know why.”
“Yes, I know why,” she retorted, losing her temper once and for all. “You are jealous; you think you have some right to me because you got me to take off my clothes and you dazzled me with a pretty sunrise.”
“I have made no claim,” Namor answered, his voice gone hard.
“Oh, haven’t you?! A man may only speak to me and you look at him as if you want to kill him!”
“What man?”
“All of them! Ross and Barnes—”
“They are not of Wakanda.”
“Oh, really? What’s your excuse for insulting King M’Baku, then?”
Namor turned deep crimson. “Were you ever to marry, the princess of Wakanda deserves a fulfilling partnership, not merely a… political necessity.”
“Ah, is that all?” cried Shuri. “What concern you show for my imagined future life. If only you had shown such concern for my mother.”
In one movement, he had crossed the room and caught her by the back of the neck, sure and strong and swift, then backed her into the wall. She did not fight him, or resist: the touch of his warm hand on her skin was like a balm to her furious soul. Even though it should not be. Even though— “I have already told you she died with honor, sacrificing her life to save another. You may rail against me as long as you live, princess, but I cannot bring her back from the otherworld, and neither can you.”
Tears filled Shuri’s eyes. “You never even said you were sorry,” she managed. “Not once. You don’t even care.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head and bringing his brow so close to hers. “No, Shuri. You were right. I know what it is to lose a mother.” She shut her streaming eyes and leaned into his head, weeping silently as he cradled her cheeks, cupped her ears. Namor’s voice had dropped into a low, husky tone, almost hesitant, almost frightened. “I know. I… I know. It has been so long I think I forgot how the pain is… when it is fresh and new and you have not learned to let it go, to put it away in your heart. And I… Shuri. I am sorry. I should never have attacked this place. My wounded pride was stronger than my reason. And I am sorry.”
Shuri could not stop sobbing, not even when he sank down to the floor with her and held her close. “I wanted to help you and your people,” she wept into his neck. “I wanted to make an alliance, I didn’t know Nakia was coming to get me— I didn’t know.” He said nothing, but his warm hands tightened briefly on her shoulder, his cheek pressed against her braids. “And then it all went wrong.”
“I know,” he said, when she had finally exhausted herself of tears and was quiet, eyes shut. “Up with you now, princess. Wash your face. You promised to show me the Golden City.” But he was not flippant, only gentle, and Shuri took a breath and nodded, scrambling to her feet and feeling strangely lighter.
Show him who you are.
“If we’re going into town, you can’t wear that,” she informed him, heading to the bathroom.
“What’s wrong with my cloak?” he asked, peering down at himself.
Shuri grinned. “Too conspicuous. Come on. I’ll find you something to wear.”
Notes:
I swear we're getting smut in the next chapter okay sometimes you need some breathing space for your characters!!! I PROMISE.
Chapter 8: boukha
Notes:
I offer this chapter of Smut as an apology for not being able to update probably for a couple of days because I'm moving countries and the movers are coming next week looool fml anyway PLS ENJOY!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
After finding him a pair of long, loose yellow pants that covered his ankles and a green, hooded jacket patterned with diamonds and swirling circles that served to hide his pointed ears, Shuri and Namor went down to the Great Market. To anyone outside Wakanda, the word market might evoke some quaint little trading center, with flowers and fruit and people with baskets haggling wares, or dusty dark streets and mischievous orphaned pickpockets, but this was the Great Market of the Golden City.
Namor drank it in like water, looking at everything, as Shuri dragged him from stall to stall. He devoured the roasted vegetable skewers she got him, crispy onion and red peppers; he tried a paper trough of spicy curry on rice and coughed with his eyes streaming when the cayenne and chili burnt his nose, then gulped yogurt to soothe the burn while Shuri laughed. He examined the clothing, the shoes, the jewelry: Shuri showed him how to use his comm bead to obtain them. Wakanda did not have currency, but vendors still needed records of their goods, so a simple tap and swipe, and all was considered clear.
“We have trade and barter in Talokan,” he explained to her as they sat together on a stair, out of sight of the street. Two of the Dora Milaje were unobtrusively above and below them, which Shuri had thought a waste: after all, she was the Black Panther and he was strong enough to take five men down at once, but the rules were the rules. “Blue vibranium is more precious than purple, so often people will trade the blue for things they desire.”
“It’s so plentiful here that we don’t even bother using it in trade, just in tech,” Shuri told him. “And outsiders use metals like gold or silver for their currency, but half the time there is no intrinsic value to the metals used in their tokens. They just assign coins or slips of paper a value with a number on it.”
“How does their economy not crumble?” asked Namor, shaking his head and nibbling on a wedge of kwaito cheese with carnival peppers.
“It has! A hundred times. They never learn.” She laughed. “What did you get?”
“Gifts for Attuma and Namora.” He opened the bags and showed her a pair of thick-soled, chunky, bright red sandals, and a large carved pendant of black-alloy vibranium with a decorative gold glyph in it. “And for myself, this.” He pulled out a heavily beaded arm bracelet in gold and green patterns, turning it in the light. “Your craftspeople are nearly as good as ours.”
“Good to hear,” she said, eating the rest of the cheese. “Namora and Attuma won’t be upset if you sleep the night up in the palace?”
“No. They are used to me sleeping in the air. I do not often sleep below the water, in Talokan itself, but in my little temple above it.” He peered out to the river, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hood. “I am glad you have done me the courtesy of guiding me through this place. You did not have to.”
“You are a guest, of course I did.” Shuri nudged him with her shoulder.
Namor shook his head. “No. You are being generous. Especially after making your innermost feelings clear on the personal matter between us.”
She bit her lip and looked down at her feet. “Ah. Right. I— I did.”
“Yes. You did.” He was looking at her now, something almost remorseful in his face. “If a woman lays it hard on a parrot to speak to her, the parrot will never do it willingly.”
“Oh, I am the parrot in that metaphor?”
“If you like.” He half-smiled and looked down at his hands. “There is a custom among the Talokanil. A man gifting a woman a piece of jewelry is a symbol of… connection. Courting, if you like. And her acceptance shows willingness to be courted.”
Shuri felt as if her heart had stopped. “The bracelet—?” Her voice had come out in a squeak.
“Yes, the bracelet.” Namor spoke with slight humor. “So you see why I came back. Why I left you the shell. I thought… but I was wrong.”
But I— I don’t want— what do I want? She nibbled her cheek nervously. “Am I really supposed to give it back, then?”
“No. It was a gift. Keep it.”
She fought the lump in her throat, her trembling hands. “You were not… completely wrong,” she whispered, staring out to the water.
“You do not have to soothe my feelings, princess,” he told her. “You have said it twice: you feel that I seduced you, and that was not my intention. I will not touch you against your will.”
“No, I mean— I mean—” Shuri put the heels of her hands in her eyes and groaned. “I did not mean what I said. It is… complicated. My feelings, I mean.”
There was a long, heavy pause. “I ask that you do not toy with me, then,” said Namor in a very soft, but steely tone. “It is not fair to either of us. Push me away or pull me in. You are not a tide, that you may do both.”
He is turning me down. No. He’s waiting for me to be sure. Shuri felt annoyed briefly, but then realized he was right, which annoyed her even more. Am I sure? Really? Do I trust him enough? She did not know the answers to those questions. “You are right,” she said finally, looking over at him. “And we have so much to— there’s so much to consider with this council, and the information we’ve learned today. We have— we both have our duties to our respective people, and those must come before anything else.”
“Yes,” he answered simply, meeting her gaze. “In a time of war… there is no time for anything else.”
“I am glad we agree,” Shuri told him, twisting the paper that the cheese had come wrapped in between her fingers. That should have settled it all; why did she feel so miserable? “There are many bars in the Green District—places that are open at night for drinking and socializing. Would you like to visit one before we return to the palace?”
“Is it so close to night already?” He squinted at the sky, where the sun was sinking toward the horizon. “Do these bars have balché? ”
“Eh, probably not, but they have beer. And stronger drinks than both.”
“Stronger, you say?” He scoffed. “Nothing in the surface world can make Kukulkan of Talokan lose his wits.”
“Oh-ho, would you like to make a bet?” Shuri prodded, giggling. “I know a place where they have imported boukha , distilled to triple strength. It knocked my brother on his back when he first drank it.” Thinking of T’Challa now… well, it did not hurt at all. “And that was when he was the Black Panther!”
“I accept this challenge, then,” said Namor, slapping his thighs and standing. Shuri beamed and followed him up. “Let us find this boukha place and show them how gods drink among men.”
By the time the sun had sank and the moon had risen, Namor and Shuri found themselves tucked away in a corner of a bar with laughing patrons and loud music, lights flashing as they each downed a tenth shot of the clear fig liqueur. “You are a very worthy opponent, Shuri of Wakanda,” he shouted over the music.
“So are you, Kukulkan of Talokan,” she yelled back. Her head only felt pleasantly light, and her body was warm: alcohol did not metabolize the same now, with the power of the Black Panther running through her, and Namor seemed to marginally have the same advantage. Flushed and grinning, he turned his glass upside down. The two Dora Milaje guarding them had withdrawn to the corners of the bar, still watching, and Shuri wished for a moment that she and Namor could just be alone, like they had been in Haiti, on the beach. “I think it’s hitting you harder than it is hitting me.”
“It is not,” he said, shaking his head and leaning back. “The room is only spinning a little.”
“Spinning! I am steady as a rock! You are drunk, then.”
“No,” he said, laughing. “No, I am not.”
“Oh, really, and I suppose you—” She caught a flash of a pale face, and frowned, looking behind Namor to see Barnes walking in, physically unobtrusive but still standing out like a sore thumb. He saw her and made for their table. “Barnes!” she said, delighted.
“Hi,” he yelled over the music. “Are you guys drinking?”
“I’m not drunk,” said Namor pointedly, hiccupping.
“Yes, he is. Do you want to sit? I can find another chair.”
“I was just coming to send a message,” Bucky shouted. “Riri Williams has landed and she’s in Okoye's custody.”
“Oh, that’s great!” shouted Shuri, delighted.
“They don’t need you or anything, I just thought you should know. Is that—” Barnes sniffed her glass and pulled a face. “Whoa. Figs?”
“It’s boukha, you stupid white man,” Namor bellowed, shoving the bottle at him. “You drink it.”
“Alcohol doesn’t work on me,” Barnes explained very loudly. “This isn’t even… it’s like figgy paint thinner.”
“I said, drink it,” Namor insisted, and pressed it into Barnes’s right hand. “Or else prove yourself a coward, and… forfeit your place in Wakanda.”
He gave Shuri an incredulous stare. “Jesus, how much has this guy had?”
“Ten shots,” she said, grimacing. “Sorry.”
“I will paint this contest on my walls in Talokan. A great battle. The White Wolf... and the Feathered Serpent.” Namor bared his teeth and grimaced at Barnes, who sighed, pulled up another seat, sat, and tilted the bottle up, gulping down the clear spirit and finishing the half-empty bottle in a few swallows. Namor’s expression faded as Barnes set it down and wrinkled his nose.
“Yeesh,” he said, sniffing. “Are we good now?”
“This is not possible,” said Namor.
“He told you alcohol didn’t work on him,” said Shuri, rolling her eyes. “Really—”
“Oh, wait. Damn. Hold on.” Bucky lifted his right hand, rubbing his fingers together. “They’re kinda… going numb. That’s weird. I never—” He sank down in the chair, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled. “Whew. Hey. Shuri. I think I’m drunk.”
“Ha!” bellowed Namor, slamming his palm on the table and pointing at Barnes.
“Oh, this is weird, ” said Barnes, his eyes enormous. “I haven’t been drunk since… uh… nineteen forty three —”
“Weird bad or weird good?” Shuri asked, wondering if it was the high content of the alcohol or the speed with which he had drunk it that had nailed him to his seat.
“I dunno,” he said, looking over at Namor. “Nice outfit, mermaid man. Hoodie. Always… good idea for incognito. But you still kinda stand out, you know.”
Namor guffawed as if that was the funniest thing he’d ever heard. “And you don’t?”
Barnes's metal finger pointed at him. “Okay. Know what? You got it. We’re getting another bottle.”
“This is absolutely not the way I planned you two would warm up to each other, but okay,” said Shuri as she pushed off from the table. She got another bottle from the bar and headed back, but by then Namor and Barnes were locked in an arm-wrestling contest, scowling at each other as spectators stopped to point and grin. Oh, no, the last thing we need is some sort of incident with witnesses. “Here’s your drink,” she said desperately, plunking it down. “Don’t break the table, the owner will—”
“It’s equal,” said Barnes through his teeth. “God damn.” Shuri realized then that Bucky was wrestling with his left arm, the vibranium one, against Namor’s.
“Not quite,” Namor ground out, and slammed Barnes’s arm down hard against the tabletop, only cracking it a little. Several onlookers cheered. Barnes laughed it off and opened the bottle, pouring another round, and Shuri slumped into her seat, relieved that it had not come to blows. “A worthy opponent,” Namor repeated, grinning.
Some time later, Shuri was dancing in a haze of bright, flashing lights, heavy, joyful music shuddering through her body. She did not normally dance outside of traditional dances she’d learned as a child, so club dancing was not her forte at all, but she had finished another couple of shots and felt as delighted and loose and warmly happy as if she was on the top of the world. Across the floor, Namor had managed to make friends with four or five very drunk men, and they all had their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughing and dancing very badly in a circle. Barnes remained against the wall, grinning as he watched it all: she could see flashes of his smile as she whirled around, dancing. Bodies pressed around her, alive and warm and happy, and she wanted it to never end, to never have to go back to the real world, the council, any of it.
Soon, the music slowed, quieted, transitioned into extended notes, a clear tenor singing in Pulaar in gentle, tender tones. Couples began to pair off, locked in slow embraces, leaving Shuri alone on the floor, sticky beneath her feet with spilled drinks.
Heto mi halanma
Mine waddimi yiddema
Ko ane tane holimi
Holimi ko ndjidirmi o Dunne Dunne
Hum hum waddimi yidde…
She closed her eyes, emotion welling over her as she grasped the meaning of the words, let them fill her. A love song. Everyone else was dancing slowly, beaming at each other, some kissing, some embracing, some simply dancing and holding each other, and she had never felt so alone. “Princess,” said a low voice in her ear. She turned her head, then her body, as Namor, smiling a little sadly, took her hands, then her elbows, and tugged her a little closer. “I don’t believe you dance to this sort of song by yourself.”
“People are watching,” she said, eyes darting out to the side. Truthfully, nobody was really paying attention, but all the same—
“Let them watch,” he whispered, his hands slipping to her waist. He was warm, and solid, and Shuri shut her eyes, put her hands on his chest, and moved with the music, listening as an English verse chimed in.
But in the cold light I live to love and adore you
It's all that I am, it's all that I have
In the cold light I live, I only live for you
It's all that I am, it's all that I have
Namor pressed his forehead to hers again, looking directly at her, their noses almost touching as he turned them in a circle. “Will you still push me and pull me?”
“What?” she breathed. She was not inebriated any more, and she didn’t think he was, either; his eyes were too clear for that. She was just dizzy from dancing.
“I told you, I’m not patient,” he whispered, brushing his nose against hers. She shivered. Was he going to kiss her in a bar in the middle of the Golden City? Even worse, did she really care? No, I don’t care, she thought defiantly. Then she remembered the Dora Milaje, who would definitely tell Ayo, who might tell M’Baku, who would embarrass her in front of everyone, and froze, her lips an inch from his.
“The guards,” said Shuri, shaking her head slightly. He made an annoyed noise in his throat. The music was swelling to a crescendo, speeding a little, and Namor steered her back into the thick of the crowd, turning her so that their faces were shielded from any watchful eyes near the door.
Ko ane tane rokimi
Ko nanei nanei nanei nanei nanei mi waddno
Ko jonni jonni jonni jonni jonni mi watti...
“I thought we agreed we had a duty,” Shuri said, his damp jacket clutched in her fingers, the heat of his body seething through the fabric. “To… to…”
“Yes. We said that.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he leaned very close to her ear. “But did we truly mean it?”
No, she wanted to shout, no, I didn’t, but how can I want anything before Wakanda? “You said— you said I should not push you and pull you in turns. Not to toy with you. You said it was not fair to either of us.”
“I know what I said,” he murmured, his cheek pressed to hers, his mouth near her ear. She shivered. “But I have been thinking, princess.”
“Have you?”
“Yes. As long as we do not put each other in front of our people, as long as I vow that Talokan always comes before you, then duty cannot be clouded by… by personal attachment.”
That made perfect sense to Shuri. “I agree. Wakanda can never be put after you. I could not do that to my people. I am their protector.”
“Good. Then we agree?”
“We do.” The music was pounding heavy, a joyous refrain, and the couples around them were dancing, embracing, laughing.
There is a time, a time to love
A time to sing, a time to shine
A time to leave, a time to stay
“Then, Shuri of Wakanda,” Namor whispered, turning them fully in a circle and pressing his nose to her left temple, “you may toy with me, scorn me by turns, welcome me, and deny me to your heart’s desire, and I will crawl to your feet for more.”
There is a time, a time to cry
A time to love, a time to hate
There is a time, a time to sing
A time to love…
Shuri turned her face toward his, found his mouth with hers, and forgot about everything: the Dora Milaje, Barnes sitting at the table, the council, Okoye, M’Baku, all of it. There was nothing but Namor, and his mouth, wet and hot and half-desperate on hers, his tongue slipping over her bottom lip, his hands tight on her hips, her waist. “The guards,” she gasped, barely able to think straight.
“Gone,” he panted into her mouth, and broke the kiss, his breath catching, his mouth still tickling and brushing her cheek as he spoke. “They’re with your wolf.”
“Barnes?” Shuri did not understand. Then she did, after glimpsing the empty seat at their table and the absence of any spears or red armor. “You sent him off with them?”
“He was glad to help cause a distraction. And he took our bags.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. “I am not even going to ask what he had to do to get them to leave us alone.”
“Good. Your mouth can be put to a better use.” He tugged her back toward the far wall, and she kissed him again, her hands cupping his cheeks and finding his neck. Nobody was paying attention at all: plenty of couples were kissing in the dim lights, and Shuri felt her heart thud in her chest. We could be anyone. Just any couple, anyone at all, a normal couple… Nervously, she slid her tongue along Namor’s lower lip, and he made a sound in his throat like he was in pain. She did it again, and he clung to her back, his hands just as hot and broad as she remembered. Everything in her body felt molten, too hot to touch or think about, or else on the cusp of losing solid shape, like vibranium in a crucible. “I wanted to come back to you,” he whispered hoarsely as she pressed a few kisses to his cheeks, to his coarsely furred chin. “I— ah. Watched you from the sea. You paced and wandered and I was too proud, too angry to reach out.”
“You gave me that seaweed,” she whispered, pressing her body against his in a way she’d only dreamed about. Namor pressed one hand to the small of her back, keeping her there.
“A pitiful offering,” he murmured, somewhere in his throat.
“It was pretty. I liked it.” Shuri kissed him on the mouth again and bit very lightly at his bottom lip, making him groan and pull her even closer.
“Where,” he forced out between rough kisses. “Where can we—”
Be alone? Shuri thought quickly: the door to their left led out the back alley, and he could easily fly her to the palace from outside, but— “Outside,” she whispered, pulling him through the door, and no sooner had they tumbled into the alley, the cool night air on their skin, than Namor had gotten her pushed up against the smooth wall, and was mouthing his way, warm and prickly, down her neck. She squirmed, enjoying the feeling, but also slightly worried that he might forget her original instructions. “Don’t— remember—”
“I know,” he whispered against her throat. “Nothing inside you. I’ll listen for anyone coming.”
“I just, I— I need—” She wriggled a little, and he understood immediately, pushing his broad thigh between hers and leaning in, adjusting the angle, and her knees almost gave out. Oh, oh, Bast damn him— Shuri made a sound she could not ever remember making in her life and rolled her pelvis forward, to the side, and back, straining to stay upright on her toes for leverage. “Uhhhnnghh please please, Kukul—k ah, ahhhh—”
“I have you,” he whispered, still mouthing at her jaw, her neck. “Do as you please with me, itzia. You are safe.”
She could not think, could not do anything but frantically rub herself against him, seeking out pressure precisely where she needed it, giving it to herself as her nerve endings exploded in waves of hot light. Her whole body was as taut as a harpstring, winding tighter, tighter, something was going to break, anything, please, please break, please —
And then it did break, like a storm, and Shuri melted, soft and pliant and feeling as if her brain was glowing, forward onto his shoulder and barely able to move. “Home,” she slurred, turning her face into his neck.
He was already bending down to tug his pants up off his ankles, leaving his wings free. “Which direction is best?”
“Just… go to my… window. Balcony. You know where it is.” She clung to his neck, and Namor pushed off from the ground, sailing up through the cool dry air of the evening, the moon glowing overhead.
Her room was dark, lit only by the glow of a single bedside lamp she had left on. Namor landed, and by then Shuri was able to stand again on her own two feet. “I should shower,” she whispered, pressing her forehead to his. “Do you… do you want to join me?”
His eyes gleamed. “Yes,” he answered, kissing her on the cheek, and followed her closely into her bathroom.
I will crawl to your feet for more. Perhaps she might test that proclamation. “You wait while I clean up,” she ordered, pointing to the bathroom wall. “Right there. And— and don’t touch me until I say you can.”
Something a little different shone in Namor’s eyes then. “As you command, princess,” he said softly, and took up his position against the wall, standing ramrod-straight while Shuri hastily cleaned up all the discarded makeup, the hair products, the shower caps, and the mess on the counters. In the mirror, he looked merely patient, expectant. She caught his eye— and her Kimoyo beads sang, chirping, as a hologram popped into view. She almost choked.
“Ayo,” she greeted the general.
“Shuri. Is Namor with you? Barnes returned with three of the Dora Milaje, but he said he lost track of you both in the crowd at some… bar in the Central Business District?”
Shuri did her best to not even acknowledge Namor’s presence behind her. “I am with him, yes. We are simply speaking by the river. It was so hot inside we needed the fresh air. There is no need to worry, I promise. We’ll be back in the palace before you know it.”
“Oh, good. Be safe, my princess.” Ayo crossed her arms over her breast, and Shuri did the same, then turned off her Kimoyo beads as Namor chuckled behind her.
“Speaking, are we?”
“It was not a lie! My room does overlook the river, in case you had not noticed. And we are speaking. At the moment."
“Clever,” he said, still smiling. “May I touch you now?”
“Not yet.” Shuri turned to him, arms crossed. “You may watch. When I am ready, you may touch me, and not before.”
“As you command,” he said again, but softer this time, almost hungry, and Shuri took a breath, let it go, and peeled out of her shoes and leggings, casting them aside and letting her bare skin drink in the air.
Namor tilted his head sideways and reached down, pulling off his own sandals and trousers, but also the ornaments on his legs, and his belt, and when he hooked his thumbs into the last layer, the green shorts, Shuri blurted out, “Don’t. Not those. Yet.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
She fought a grin. “Because if you are standing here with only your jacket on and nothing else below the waist you will look very silly, and I will laugh, and then you will be offended. So don’t do it.”
Namor considered that and withdrew his thumbs. “As you wish.”
Shuri looked down and caught her shirt by the hem, raising her arms up and taking that off, too. He copied her, removing his jacket, and all his ornaments except for the ear flares and the nose plug. Namor’s skin gleamed like polished mahogany, like a work of art carved from the finest, richest wood in the world. She swallowed. Everything in her body, once again, felt very damp and open and molten again, shaky and wanting. All she wore now was her bralette and her underwear, and the God-King of Talokan was gazing at her as if she was the rarest thing he’d ever seen, above the water or below it. Quietly, slowly, she tugged down her underwear, stepping out of them, then stood back up and reached behind her back, unclipping the bra and slipping it off her shoulders. She could hardly look at him, but his soft intake of breath was all she needed to know that he was staring.
Slowly, she stepped back into the shower— a flat-bottomed shower, the floor eight square feet, black marble, with vibranium fixtures and enclosed in clouded glass, the jets spraying from one side and the other, not from above. The automatic lights flickered on, glowing warm and golden. Shuri did not stop looking at him, nor did she speak until she was standing in the dry shower, her feet cold on the rough floor. With a single touch, the water began to spray, soaking her body from both sides and leaving her face and head dry. Still, Namor’s eyes did not leave her.
He never took off his shorts, she thought, wondering why.
“All right. Touch me,” she said.
Namor strode forward, eyes black, lips parted, and stormed her shower, crowding her against the back wall, against the panel of clouded glass that was half-clear from the middle up, the one with the view of the Civic District and the distant mountains. He raked through his wet hair with his right hand, then used it to pin her wrist to the glass, the other cupping the back of her neck as he kissed her.
No. This wasn’t just kissing, this was something open and wet and devouring, something that could pull someone under and drown them. Shuri moaned, nipping at his mouth, and Namor slid his left hand down, spreading it across her collarbones, clinging to her shoulder. “Here?” he asked, hoarse and needy, his thumb brushing the top of her right breast.
This time, she did not shy from her own wants, allow her self doubt and anger to get in the way. “Yes,” she choked, and he slipped his hand from her shoulder, covered her whole breast with his left hand— squeezed gently, let out a shaky sound, pressed and fondled and drew his thumb and finger down to lightly tease her nipple. Shuri yelped, covering her mouth with her free hand: she had never thought anything could feel like that. Her whole right side tingled, the back of her arm prickled, her core tightened. Her whole chest had gotten goosebumps, her nipple tightening to a firm, dark little nub, and Namor was still touching it, still kissing the side of her face, her neck.
“The other one?” he asked, low and soft.
“Please,” Shuri begged, and his left hand found her left breast, doing the exact same as he’d done to the first. She cried out again and stuffed her fingers in her mouth, shaking— this one was more sensitive, how had she never noticed that?
“Remove your fingers,” he purred into her ear, nibbling at the delicate skin beneath her jaw.
“I’ll make— noise —”
“Good.” The words came in a half growl, pressed against her cheek. “I want all of Wakanda to hear you.” His hand slipped further south, cradled her pelvis; the heel of his hand rubbed against her and she moaned, pushing herself against him. “I want everyone from here to those mountains to know—”
She shuddered, closer than she wanted to admit. “K— uhhh, Ku— aaaahh, please please— ”
“Say it,” Namor gasped, never letting up, never speeding up, not even for a moment. “Say it, say it, I want every soul in the Golden City to know who’s in the princess’s room, who’s touching her pel, who’s making her co—”
“K'uk'ulkan!” Shuri shrieked, and for the second time in as many hours, collapsed over Namor’s shoulder in a heaping puddle of afterglow-muddled hormones, panting and trying to keep her hair out of the water. He was murmuring things, sentences she couldn’t grasp with her brain yet, holding her close, and all she could make herself moan was low, guttural sounds that were nowhere close to speech.
He lifted her. Kissed her again. Said something else she couldn’t understand.
“What?” she managed, blinking.
A dry chuckle left his throat. “I said, I will give you a third if you like.”
“I don’t think I can… stand up yet.” Shuri shifted her weight as she leaned back against the shower wall, her knees wobbly, and her thigh pressed into something thick, and hard as stone, and very obvious beneath those dark green shorts of his. “You…” she said, glancing down and feeling her face go hot. “Um.”
“What?” he whispered, trailing his right hand down her arm.
“I got to finish twice, and you…” She could barely make herself say the words. “You know. Seems a bit unfair.”
He grinned his wide, white grin and kissed her softly. “Give me a moment.”
“Okay.” She stayed against the wall, feeling strangely cold despite the hot water and the steam as Namor stepped back, hooked his thumbs into his last layer, peeled them off, balled them up, and flung them over his shoulder without a second look. “Oh,” Shuri croaked, laying eyes on all of him for the first time. “Um. Ah—”
He stepped forward, caught the expression on her face, and halted, tilting his head. “You look concerned.”
“It is just that I have never, I—” She turned her eyes to the sky, face so hot that she could barely see, and coughed. “Um.”
Suddenly Namor looked a little hesitant, half-covering himself with one hand. “Is it so abnormal to the eyes of a surface dweller?”
Why would he ask me that? Surely he would know, if he has done this— I— “No,” she managed, shaking her head. “No, no, it’s not— it’s very human looking. It is not the, the general appearance that I am— it is the, the size of it—”
Namor’s shoulders slumped a little. “Ah. It is too small, then.”
“What? No, that is the opposite of the problem—”
“Ah,” he said, looking slightly flattered again. "Good."
“Hold on. You’ve never had sex either, have you?” she accused, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Yes, I have,” Namor said immediately. “But not with surface people.”
It was Shuri’s turn to say, “Oh,” as she blinked at him. “With… your own people, then?”
He waved a hand. “There was a brief period about a hundred and fifty years ago where a group of my people decided that seeking favor from the Feathered Serpent would ensure them the gift of good fortune in their deep-sea hunting.”
“I bet you enjoyed that,” said Shuri dryly.
“It was only transactional, princess. Not personal.” Namor took a step closer, then another, until the heat of his body was enveloping her again. She shivered. “I enjoy giving gifts when the mood strikes me. But sometimes…” His mouth brushed her cheek again, close to her lips. “Sometimes I think it would not be so bad if I was given them, also.”
“And what gift do you ask of the Black Panther of Wakanda?” she asked, biting her own lip and turning her face toward his.
“You commanded me against one thing,” he told her, his voice dropping low and urgent. “But there are a hundred other ways to find pleasure.” Fingers slipped between her legs, between her upper thighs, sliding back and forth on her water-slick skin, and suddenly Shuri knew what he meant.
“Then I will give you that gift,” she whispered, and Namor pressed his teeth into her throat with a soft groan, then caught her hips, turned her to face the wall, and put his mouth on the back of her neck, his hot tongue pressing flat against her delicate skin. He tugged her back a little so that she was bending at the hips slightly, her forearms resting on the cool marble to support her, and licked his hand from heel to fingertip, then reached down between their bodies. Shuri turned her head, and he slid himself between her thighs, thick and hot as the rest of him. A soft groan escaped his lips as he rested his forehead on her neck a moment. “You are— a true miracle,” he whispered, and Shuri couldn’t help it; she reached down and clumsily worked at herself as he thrust again and again between her upper thighs, slippery with her own body's fluids and the water of the shower. “Aah— ah—”
“Tell me what it’s called in your tongue,” she demanded, her fingers bumping against the head of him, down between her legs. “You said mine was pel —”
“Ahhh it is— kep —”
She grabbed his hand and planted it on her right breast, and he squeezed as if by instinct, his forehead still buried in the nape of her neck. “And this?”
“Chuchú,” he moaned tenderly, his hips quickening their brutal rhythm. He was strong, almost stronger than she was, and Shuri knew that if she had ever tried this without the herb, he would have broken something. I want him. I want him inside me, I want… She was hot all over just thinking about it, about how it would feel, about how he would look. I wish he had left me facing him. But perhaps he is not ready for some things, too. He tried to say something else, but his words twisted off into a smear of unintelligible sound, and he pressed his mouth open to the back of her neck, giving voice to his pleasure in a language without words she could understand perfectly.
She took his hand, guided it down between her legs, pressed her fingers to the backs of his. He made a strangled sound, pushed her flat against the wall on his hand, and Shuri, trapped between his broad, hot body and the cool shower wall, came a third time due to the sheer force of the friction. Shuri shrieked, her toes curling and her legs locked, and Namor echoed her cry with a ragged one of his own, his rhythm failing as he came over his own hand and down the shower wall and over her thighs. She felt it drip down her skin, thicker and stickier than the water of the shower, and as he peeled his body away, both their legs gave out, landing them on the shower floor against the wall. At a breathed command from her the water shut off, and they half-knelt, half-lay together, gasping for air and clinging to each other in the lingering steam.
Namor was the first one to move. “You are all right?” he asked, his voice gone low and warm.
“Uh,” she mumbled, nuzzling into his neck. “Let’s just… sleep on the floor.”
A low chuckle rumbled in her ears. “I think not. Bed.”
Shuri had to giggle at the absolute absurdity of it all. It was funny: he had put his cock between her legs and not into her and they had both liked it. “Kep,” she repeated, glancing down.
“Not so impressive when he is calm, I am afraid.” His thumb brushed her breasts. “Next time… I will kiss these.”
“Will you,” she echoed, feeling happier than she had felt in months, maybe years. “All right.” She got to her feet. “Eh, I forgot to actually shower. I am going to stink.”
“I’ll bathe with you, then,” Namor said, glancing over at her large array of soap and washcloths. “And after that, we can sleep.”
He was as gentle in the shower as he had been the first time he had kissed her. He washed her with care, scrubbing every inch, and following it with kisses until she squirmed away and swatted at him, grinning. Then Shuri returned the favor, fascinated to be given such free access to his bare body, and found a dozen tender spots he shied away from: the soft skin on his inner arms, his lower back, his ears (especially his ears) and the back of his knees, the thin skin where his torso joined his thighs. All these and more she pretended to fuss over, watching him turn crimson until he kissed her again, and then when they were done showering and dried off, she threw on a pair of clean underwear and collapsed into her bed, dizzy with sated happiness.
“You can… stay a little longer,” she mumbled, burrowing into her pillow. “But you’d better go back to your own room.”
“I will stay until you sleep,” Namor said softly, and ran the back of his finger down her upper arm, kissing her shoulder. Shuri burrowed deeper into her sheets and sighed, shutting her eyes. “Then, I will go.”
“Okay.” She yawned, her body feeling pleasantly wrung-out. “Don’t forget, eh? Talokan first for you, Wakanda first for me.”
“Yes,” he said very, very softly. “Yes... I remember, princess. Talokan first.”
Notes:
- balché = a fermented drink made by the maya people with tree bark
- if you want to hear the song that's playing in the club when shuri and namor are dancing, it's a remix that only exists in my head of "There Will Be Time" by Baaba Maal feat. Mumford and Sons. Baaba Maal is a Senegalese musician and singer who performed vocals for the first and second Black Panther soundtracks and I highly recommend checking out his work!
Chapter Text
Shuri woke to the sound of her Kimoyo beads chirping and rolled out of bed to pick up the call on instinct, blinking against the bright morning sun. Had she slept all night? She tapped the bead and opened it to Okoye’s face. “What… time is it?” she mumbled, squinting.
“Time for me to check on you. It is almost nine, Shuri, and nobody has seen you since last night.”
“Oh. I came straight home, I’m in bed,” said Shuri rubbing her eyes and feeling just a little guilty. “How is Riri?”
“She is fine. She’s preparing notes for a lecture today, as we must keep up this farce. But she did ask about you, so I thought you might wish to visit.”
“I would! I’ll dress.”
“Yes,” said Okoye very dryly. “That would be a very good idea.”
Shuri shut her eyes, suddenly remembering the events of last night, and... “I am not wearing a shirt, am I?”
“No, you are not, and I shall forget I ever saw what I have just seen for your sake. Have a good morning.” Okoye flickered out of existence and Shuri groaned, flopping back on the bed and covering her eyes with her arm.
Namor, she thought with some half-horrified delight. He must have gone back to his own room after she had fallen asleep—was he wandering the palace alone? She got up, dressed in the yellow tunic she had forgotten about yesterday, and yanked on a pair of blue trousers and white sandals. You can’t think about it, she told herself firmly, checking herself in the mirror. They had agreed: Wakanda first for her, Talokan first for him. We can still… do this as long as we know where we stand. As long as we make duty come first.
Her hair had mostly held up despite the activities of last night. Shuri took down the halo braid, tying all of them together in a thick gold cuff and letting it hang down her back. There was a long and busy day ahead of her, and she meant to make the most of it.
Riri Williams, her braids all thrown over one shoulder, was in Shuri’s lab, handwriting notes and mumbling to herself about the bio-active properties of vibranium, when Shuri walked in. “Riri,” she greeted her. “How are you?”
The American girl almost fell out of her chair trying to reach her, beaming. “Oh! Hey! Shuri! I mean, uh, Princess Shuri—”
“Ah, don’t call me that. We have a new king now.” Shuri clasped her hand in hers and pulled her in for a hug, grinning. “I’m glad you are here.”
Riri looked a little hesitant. “Yeah, about that, uh— like, what’s the whole situation about? Don’t get me wrong, like I’m fuckin’ stoked to give a lecture at the university here, but… Okoye was being real weird on the plane. She said she’d debrief me, but mostly just said this was an important operation? What’s going on?”
“So,” said Shuri, wincing. “Ah… you have inadvertently released critical information about Talokan to the whole world.”
“I did what?”
“Yes. On your TikTok.”
“My—” Riri went ashen and sank into the chair. “Oh, shit. Ohhhhh, shit. But I deleted it, though!”
“Unfortunately, the damage was already done. The Central Intelligence Agency had a plant watching you that night.”
“The CIA sent someone to spy on me?”
“Yes. You’re a valuable asset to American intelligence now. You’ve been here, you’ve been halfway to Talokan, you helped me build the technology that almost defeated Namor.”
“Shit,” said Riri weakly. “Aw, shit. The spy— I know who it was now. Oh my god. This white girl a couple years older than me, brown hair, she said she was a TA for one of my professors and I didn’t even think about—” She put her face in her hands. “I’m dumb as fuck,” she mumbled. “Man, I let her buy me like five jello shots. Everclear jello shots.”
“You are not dumb,” said Shuri, putting her arm around her shoulders. “Chin up, eh? You’re safe in Wakanda.”
Riri sighed. “But you’re not gonna tell me the rest of what’s going on, are you?”
Shuri grimaced and let her arm drop from the younger woman’s shoulder. “Unfortunately what happens in council meetings is… classified. You’re a guest, and your presence here is so the American government can’t… do things we think it might want to do to you.”
“What things?”
“Force you to use your knowledge against us or Talokan.”
“What? ” Riri leaned back against the worktable. “Why would I do that?”
“They’d find a way to use something against you,” said a voice from the door, and Barnes walked in, wearing a fresh jomi, this one dark blue and embroidered with black and gold. “It’s the CIA. And the woman running it is a sociopath.”
Riri’s eyes went so wide Shuri thought they’d pop out of her head. “Oh my god. Ohhh, my god, you’re, you’re—” She whirled on Shuri. “That’s the Winter Soldier!” Back to Barnes, a shocked look on her face. “I dressed up as you for Halloween when I was, like, ten!”
“I’m flattered,” he said with a small smile. “But I don’t go by that name anymore.”
“Sorry. The hell you doing in Wakanda, though? And why’re you wearing—” Riri fought a giggle, pressing her fist to her mouth. “Nah, I can’t.” Her voice dropped into a lower register, imitating a man’s. “‘You are friggin’ African-Americans, plus Mark, you know what I’m sayin’, which, I’m rockin’ with Mark ‘cause Mark is rockin’ with us.’” She snickered and looked at Shuri for a sign of humor, but Shuri just sighed and rubbed her temples.
“The joke does not make sense. We are not even African-Americans. We’re Wakandans.”
“Y’all don’t get the— okay, maybe TikTok jokes are in bad taste, cause of what I—”
“I get it,” said Barnes, cracking a grin. “Sam wouldn’t stop sending me videos with that sound before I got rid of my old phone.”
“Eyyy!” crowed Riri, striding over to give him a fist-bump, then stopping short. “Wait, Sam like, Sam Wilson? Captain America, Sam Wilson?”
“The very same.”
“He ain’t here too somewhere, is he?” Riri looked around like she thought Wilson might crawl out of a cabinet or sand-table.
“No. He’s in hiding.”
“Mmm, I know what this is,” said Riri, nodding. “Y’all building an Avengers team.”
Shuri’s mouth dropped open. “No, that is not what we’re—”
“Sure you are! Come on! We got the Winter Soldier— sorry, uh, Mark-Going-To-Kwaanza Soldier—”
Bucky snorted and Shuri blinked. “I don’t even know what that is—”
“—and the friggin’ Black Panther, okay, and also your two Midnight Angels, then me, which, I don’t really consider myself an Avenger, right, but I could definitely make that suit again if you asked me to, and— who all else is runnin’ around?”
“Namor of Talokan,” said Bucky immediately, glancing at Shuri with a knowing look. She suddenly found the floor very, very interesting.
“Nah, for real? The flying fish guy?”
“He’s allied himself and all of Talokan with Wakanda,” Shuri explained.
“After you threw him in an air fryer?”
“Riri!”
“What? He could be an Avenger, he’s got superpowers!”
“We’re not recreating the Avengers!”
“It’s actually not a half bad idea,” said Bucky, glancing at Shuri. “If the, uh, thing we were talking about in the council yesterday happens, I mean. Backup plans are always good.”
“I could… I can bring it up,” said Shuri, sighing. “The king may not approve.”
Riri was not to be deterred. “Backup plans for what?”
“We’ll tell you when we can. Just— do as Okoye tells you, all right? I have some stuff to work on in here, and you can use my lab, just don’t make a mess, okay?”
“Okay, okay.” Riri gave Bucky a look. “Whatcha still hangin’ around for, Mark?”
His mouth twitched. “I’m supposed to come supervise you on your trip to the university. And you can call me James if you want.”
“I thought your name was Bucky. Everyone calls you Bucky.”
“My friends call me Bucky.” Shuri sat down at her sand-table, frowning as she drafted out an idea that had been floating in her head since yesterday.
“Ouch. You got any cool World War Two stories? My daddy’s grandma was with the Six Triple Eights.”
A light gleamed in Barnes’s eyes. “Rouen or Birmingham?”
Riri grinned. “All of ‘em. She had this big ole silk scarf Daddy never let me touch that she brought back after the war from Paris. It had fleur-de-lis on it and always smelled like Chanel Number Five. He said she was one of the MPs in Rouen, and the Army wouldn’t let the WACs have guns, so she had to learn boxing to knock out intruders. I never believed him.”
“No, that’s true,” said Barnes, smiling. “But it wasn’t boxing, it was jujitsu.”
“You’re bullshitting me, for real?”
“Yep. I did a lot of reading after the war, sent some letters, made a couple calls to check on folks. Gal named Clara Mae Stevens I met in New York in ‘42 told me she was with the Six Triple Eights and mentioned that the MP’s had to learn jujitsu in Europe.”
Riri was delighted. “No shit! Jujitsu!”
“If you two don’t use your inside voices in my lab, I am banishing you to the hallway,” said Shuri, arching her brow at Barnes as she sent a message to Nakia. “Really, James. Shush.”
When Shuri had finished her project and Riri and Barnes had left to get lunch, she wandered down to the wide, flat crescent-shaped garden outside the palace’s lowest south-facing door, wondering if Okoye had thrown Ross into an office and locked him in. She hadn’t seen anyone all morning except Riri and Barnes. They’re probably all in council meetings. I haven’t been summoned, so—
The sound of shouts and the clanging of metal against metal met her ears, and Shuri forgot what she had been thinking about, running toward the sound in the garden. Oh, Bast, it’s a war already—
But when she walked around a large, decorative rock, she only saw Attuma and Okoye sparring, spears a whirling blur and the footwork immaculately placed on both sides, like a dancer. Okoye’s blanket was draped over a bench, and she was clearly enjoying herself in the bright morning sun— then Attuma misstepped, and Okoye landed a blow to his shoulder. “Ha!” she shouted, slamming the butt of her spear down— then Shuri realized they weren’t spears, they were simply training rods of vibranium. “Two wins for me, and one for you.”
Attuma said something, shook out his arms, clenched his fist. “My cousin requests a fourth bout, to be fair,” said Namor’s voice, and Shuri glanced over, startled: he was leaning against a tree and grinning as he watched the two of them, Namora squatting at his feet and wearing a gorgeously colored, scarlet-orange gown and cloak. “Ah,” said Namor, glancing over, and to her surprise he seemed a little taken off his guard. “We have a spectator. Welcome, Black Panther.”
Shuri felt her heart thud into her throat. “I… do not mean to intrude.”
Okoye raised her staff. “We will fight a fourth round, then.”
Namor said something in Mayan to Attuma, who grinned behind his mask and leaped forward again, clashing with Okoye. Then, the God-King of Talokan made for Shuri. “I asked if Namora wanted to spar with me, but she said she would prefer to watch.”
“Ah,” said Shuri, feeling tongue-tangled and awkward. “I— I brought them something,” she said, and held out two thin, curved rods, a node at the end. “Automatic translators. I am also working on something else that will allow them to eat above the surface while still breathing.”
Namor took the little rods. “Very clever,” he said, turning them side to side in the light. “You made these?”
“Yes, just this morning. You hold the rod along your cheek to integrate it with your nervous system and your speech, and it will automatically translate through their masks.” Shuri smiled, pleased that he seemed to be impressed. “And it translates all spoken language into Mayan for the hearer. I did a lot of reading this morning, and also obtained assistance with the programming matrix and dictionary from Nakia. She was very helpful.”
“So, if I…” He held the rod along his cheek and spoke very softly in Mayan, which was overridden by his same voice and tone, the words in English, emanating from the rod. “You have astonishingly lovely legs, and a beautifully formed—”
“All right, yes, it works,” she said, hot in the face.
Namor gave her a smirk and handed the rod back. “You slept well?”
“I did.” Better than she had in a long time, but she was not going to give him the satisfaction of telling him that. “You?”
“Well enough. It was cold in my room.”
“And your advisers liked their gifts, I take it?” The heavy carved pendant was hanging from Attuma’s sky-blue throat, swinging as he fought against Okoye.
“They did.”
Attuma’s staff whacked Okoye’s knee, and she fell, but used her momentum to pole around, kicking out, which landed him on his backside. “Ha!” she shouted.
He yelled back, and Namor rolled his eyes and shouted something back before looking at Okoye. “He says he landed the blow first, so you are now matched, two and two.”
“Fine,” said Okoye sharply, glaring at Attuma, who had already risen and was grinning behind his mask. “It is a draw.”
Namor translated, and Attuma nodded, agreeing. He and Okoye clasped forearms, and then he turned aside to see Shuri, who he greeted with a wave and a delighted burbling of Mayan that she could not understand. “My cousin says he is glad to see you this morning, Black Panther. Will you fight a round with him?”
“I would be honored,” said Shuri politely, “but that is not why I have come. I have brought gifts for you and for Namora.”
Attuma drew close, interested, and Namora stepped up as well, still cautious, but eyes gleaming with curiosity. Namor explained the purpose of the little translation rods, and Attuma quickly attached his to his mask, the node pressed to just below his ear. Namora was a little hesitant, but at Namor’s urging she put it on, too. Shuri checked both of them and then stood back.
“Can you understand us now, warriors of Talokan?” she asked nervously.
Namora’s eyes widened in astonishment, and Attuma slapped a hand on his thigh. “Yes! And you understand us, Great Jaguar?”
“Great—” Shuri choked on a giggle. The translation matrix was not perfect, and b’alam was the closest word to panther that Nakia had found. “Yes, I do,” she said, recovering. “It is good to be able to speak to you both directly.”
“This is good,” said Namora. “I thank you, Great Black Jaguar, for these gifts.”
“I am glad to give them,” said Shuri. “I am also working on a more modified breathing apparatus for you both, so you can eat and drink above the ground with my people.”
Okoye raised a brow. “Oh, good. Now I can tell this warrior of Talokan exactly what he is doing wrong in hand-to-hand combat with a staff.”
Attuma turned back toward her, his blue skin glinting with sweat. “Very amusing.”
“You rely too much on your strength, and overlook your footwork.”
Attuma advanced, scowling behind his mask. “I do not—”
Okoye slipped her foot alongside his very covertly as he protested, and with a quick flip of her staff, so fast that Shuri almost did not see it, knocked him off his balance and into the grass again. “You see?” she said very calmly. “Even the greatest boulders can be toppled by gravity.”
Namora laughed outright, covering her mouth. “A good lesson to learn,” she said approvingly as Attuma raised himself back up, muttering and brushing grass off his bright yellow loincloth. Shuri looked down, noticed Namora was wearing the thick-soled red sandals that Namor had bought in the market the previous day, and smiled.
“Are they really your cousins?” she asked Namor, watching as Attuma walked back over to the bench and started dressing for the day again, Okoye at his side pinning her blanket back on. “Related, I mean?”
“Oh, you ask if Attuma is my mother’s brother’s son. No, he is not.” For a moment he looked a little far away, his eyes looking out to the river, and Shuri thought he looked younger, somehow. Smaller. “I have no living true family. But all of my advisors, my close generals… they are like my family. So I call them cousins.”
“I see. Okoye called my— the Queen, they all called her Mother .” Shuri felt a pang of resentment, but forced it down; nothing good or productive could come of it.
Namor simply nodded. “A king or a queen is father or mother to their people, are they not? And a father or a mother, to a child— they are like gods, in a way.”
“I never thought of it like that,” said Shuri, looking out over the city, visible over the wall that separated the garden from the fifty-foot drop to the Merchant District. “When you are a child, you think your parents will live forever. And then when you grow up, you know they are just… people.” It had not really struck her until Baba had died— the realization that one day Ramonda would follow him. Shuri walked to the wall and put her hands on the smooth, sun-warmed stone. The sky was a soft, brilliant blue today, scudded with clouds. She shut her eyes, enjoying the simple pleasure of the warmth on her skin.
“I am my people’s father,” said Namor softly. “Their god, their king. They are like my children.”
Her eyes opened as a sudden thought struck her. “You don’t— do you have any real children?”
Namor’s left eyebrow rose. “That’s a very personal question, princess.”
“I’m sorry! You said last night that your people used to come seeking favor, I was just wondering if any of those—ah— encounters ended in—”
“Are we bartering in secrets and personal questions now?” He cocked his head, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Give me one of yours and I shall answer you.”
“A secret— oh, Bast,” mumbled Shuri, and shut her eyes again.
“Something no one else knows,” said Namor, grinning a little. “If you want your answer, that is.”
Shuri cast about in her head frantically, trying to think of something that was not too embarrassing or a truly sensitive secret. Finally, she settled on one. “All right. When Barnes— the White Wolf, when he first came to us, I had a really terrible crush on him.”
A dark cloud seemed to gather on Namor’s brow. “Did you,” he said flatly.
“A completely unrequited crush, all right, and I grew out of it— stop looking at me like that! I was just a kid, I was sixteen!”
Namor’s face relaxed a little at that. “Hm. I spoke with the Wolf this morning. He explained how he came to be in Wakanda, after meeting with a great misfortune. This place, he said, was like a haven to him. A place he truly felt welcomed, at home. It was a great blow when your Dora Milaje banished him.”
“I am just glad he came to warn us,” said Shuri. “He is a good man. Now, don’t think you will escape telling me the answer to the question I asked.”
“No,” said Namor softly, his brows angling up and for a moment, looking almost sad. “No, princess. I have fathered no children.”
Shuri looked away, embarrassed she’d asked. “Certain, um, plants or animals with something odd going on in their DNA makeup are often incapable of reproduction. It is entirely possible that the mutation that has allowed you to… to be what you are, has facilitated that— that difference, as well.”
“I had not considered it like that,” said Namor after a long moment where she was sure she’d insulted him. Then he shook himself a little and sighed. “So. What does the great King M’Baku have in store for his guests today?”
“I suppose we’ll find out when he sends for us,” Shuri said, feeling awkward. “I should probably, ah, go back to the lab and work on those breathers.”
“Have you eaten yet?” he asked.
Shuri frowned. “Oh. No. I forgot. I’ll… find something on my way back in.”
“It is the middle of the day.”
“I know, I just…” Her belly growled, and she sighed, slightly embarrassed. “I forget sometimes, when I’m working.”
“Then I will go with you to ensure you do not forget again.” He tossed his patterned blanket over his shoulder and nodded toward the walls of the palace. “Come.”
Bossy, Shuri thought, but she was hungry, and she could use a moment to rest. So she walked with him back into the Citadel, nervously fiddling with her hands, afraid that everyone inside who passed them and nodded could read her innermost thoughts.
“You,” said Namor, after a solid lunch of bread, vegetable curry, and figs stuffed with cheese and drizzled in balsamic vinaigrette, “are acting like a frightened mouse.”
She set her plate aside. “No, I’m not. Hush. Someone will hear you.”
“We are outside.” He licked the last drop of vinaigrette off his thumb and gave her a look. “Alone. On a terrace. Who is going to hear?”
“I don’t know, somebody!” Shuri hugged herself and looked away, annoyed and excited and embarrassed all at once: was this how it was supposed to feel after you had a sexual encounter with someone?
“My statement stands. Frightened mouse.” Namor slid the oval-shaped plate they’d taken from the kitchen over to his left and leaned toward her. “Princess,” he said. “Will you look at me?”
She couldn’t. It was too embarrassing. “What we did— what we— last night—”
“Shuri,” he said softly, and she turned her face to his, finding only gentle warmth there. “Did I do something wrong?”
“What?”
“Did I hurt you?”
“No! No, you didn’t— you definitely did not—”
“Then why could you not look at me?”
“I…” Shuri shut her eyes and pressed her mouth into a line, shaking her head. “It isn’t you,” she whispered. “It’s not. I promise. I— this is all new to me. And then I asked about children, and you looked so sad, and I thought— I did not mean to bring it up if it was something you were sad about.”
“I am not sad,” he said, moving closer to her. “It was nothing but a… half-considered question in the back of my mind for centuries.” Fingertips, rough and calloused, brushed the back of her knuckles, and he leaned in closer. Shuri’s mouth went dry: was he going to kiss her right here on the terrace in view of half the— “But I appreciate your sympathy, itzia. ”
She nervously laughed and turned her face away from his very fast, her heart thudding. “I don’t know how to do this,” she said quickly. His hand froze over hers, then covered it completely, warm and large. She flipped her hand up and clutched his for a brief moment, then pulled both her hands back into her lap. “Be in a— be— be with someone like this. I know— I know science and engineering and design and bilateral sand-bed processing and, and, and nanotechnology— and p—”
He kissed her softly, just behind her ear, and all Shuri’s words died in her throat as her train of thought stuttered to a halt. “That is how,” he said.
“Not in public —”
“We are as public as we were on that beach.”
“That was different and you know it,” she mumbled, turning her face toward his. Namor was wearing a teasing grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling softly. “I just—it would not be good for either of us if Okoye caught us. Or Bast forbid, someone who would go tell M’Baku.”
“Yes,” said Namor, pulling back a little. “Your people have not forgotten my deeds.” He looked out over the city briefly. “She must have been a queen among queens. Beloved by all.”
“You respected her,” said Shuri softly, drawing her knees up and resting her arms on them. “You still do, don’t you?”
“Of course.” Namor set his jaw a little and glanced over at her before looking back out. “You would not understand.”
“Tell me.”
“It is strange. I hardly understand what I mean to say myself.” Namor bit his cheek, then looked down, shaking his head. “She was my enemy. I hated her for taking you from me. And yet her love for you was strong, and her..." He chuckled. "Her... chu 'lel was so strong. Like yours."
"Chu 'lel," repeated Shuri.
Namor nodded. "The soul, you would say." He looked out again over the city. "You have never asked what my people think about panthers."
"Jaguars," Shuri joked, half-smiling. "All right. What do they think about them?"
"Oh, they're beautiful," he said softly, glancing at her before clearing his throat. "And very powerful, excellent hunters. Kings and leaders wore their skins, prized highly. Any warrior would have desired the strength of a rare black jaguar. Sometimes they even took them to their tombs."
“Their tombs,” she echoed, a little unnerved.
“Yes.” Namor ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head again. "Buried facing to the east, where the sun rises." He pointed east, over to the left beyond the mountains. "The color for the east is red, red as a sunrise. Do you remember the sunrise we watched together, princess?"
"I do," she said softly. "What's the color for west?"
"Black," he said, pointing west to their right. "Where the sun sets." Pointing in front of them, he went on. "And there is south, which is yellow, like maize, and north, which is white. And in the center of it all is the color of water, of eternity, of sacrifice." He tapped the ground they both sat on.
“And what is the color of eternity and water?” asked Shuri softly, feeling she might know the answer.
“Blue,” he told her. “Blue like the sky, like water, bright and clear.”
A chill crept along her back and arms. Eternity and water... “Your people, when they leave the sea…”
“Yes,” he said simply, and looked back. “It makes me wonder often. The gods gave us that plant to change our bodies, to live... what gift did we give to the gods in exchange? So you see. Death, and life, and water. Gifts and gods, as you were given yours— are we linked together, our two people?”
“I do not have an answer for that,” said Shuri. Her cheeks felt numb, as if all the blood had drained from her face. Death and life and water and sacrifice and Mama.
“You look shaken, princess." Namor nudged her arm gently with his elbow. “You are all right?”
“I—I’m fine,” she managed weakly. “I— I am only thinking.”
“Ah.”
“If—” Shuri shut her eyes, exhaling hard. “If this team of invaders comes to Wakanda, will Talokan come to help?”
“That is a very interesting change of subject,” said Namor dryly.
“I only— I was thinking, because Riri said something this morning, and now you are talking about gods and gifts— if, ah, if the king agrees to form a counter-offensive to this group of people, would Talokan have an interest in participating?”
“And by participating, you mean…”
“Joining the team. Fighting alongside us.”
“Who is us?”
“Me, for starters. Barnes, possibly. Certainly Okoye and Aneka. And Riri Williams said she could rebuild her armored suit if need be.”
Namor’s nose flared. “Four warriors are not a counter-offensive.”
“Which is why I am offering you a spot, but if you don’t want it, fine—”
He scoffed. “Offering me? What glory is there in squashing ants below my heel?”
“They’re not ants, they are powerful human beings. Like Barnes. Like you. Some of them, anyway—”
“They are no threat at all. Counter-offensive? Ha. You could defeat them alone with Namora at your side. Perhaps I shall send her.”
What was he playing at? “Namora is a great warrior, but she has the disadvantage of not being able to breathe air or fly, and it is unlikely that any sort of— of combat will be taking place in the river.” Shuri shot him a glare.
“What do you mean to say, princess?” His eyebrow was raised expectantly, and his lips were slightly curved in a smug smile.
“That you have the greatest tactical advantage and strength. Stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like that! Like you know something I don’t!”
“If you want me to join your little team of warriors, it will take more than such a… request. Have you not heard a thing I have said? If one asks a boon or a favor from a god, there should be something offered to the god.”
Her cheeks went hot, as they seemed to do every other hour around Namor. “I would have thought my favor last night would have been a gift, Oh Mighty Kukulkan.”
“Favor,” said Namor, snorting softly. “That was only bedplay.” His knuckles brushed her jaw, and she shut her eyes, unconscionably warm all over. “A little wrestling, a clumsy use of a body for pleasure.”
“I’m not clumsy,” she muttered, thinking about the alley and his thigh between her legs.
“I meant myself,” he said, his thumb trailing across her chin.
Her brain screeched to a halt. That was clumsy?? “I’m not trading sex for— for the promise of an alliance. I— that is—so—”
“Trading sex?” His teeth gleamed as he grinned. “This is not a trade. You give me a gift, and I will decide whether to grant a boon. That is the nature of a prayer to the gods. I do not ask for you, itzia; your life, or your body, or anything. I make no demands. I am only explaining the custom.”
Why was she so aroused? She turned her face away, breaking contact, and made herself laugh, but it sounded forced and thin. “You told me once we could be gods together. And yet you say I must ask you for a divine gift.”
His eyes shone with something Shuri had no name for. “Yes,” he said softly.
“And if I say that I am a god, and that it is you who must ask me for a gift?”
A slow smile, half-predatory, spread along his face. “Indeed. But what gift can the Black Panther give the Feathered Serpent?”
“I have already given you the gift of your life.” And I am beginning to wish I had never given it, you infernal man. “Besides, you have given me a gift already.”
“Have I?”
“Yes. A very precious one.” She leaned back and let him simmer on that for a moment, thinking about her laboratory, the single remaining strand of vibranium-enriched vegetation, so ancient that it was hardly stable— the glow of a purple herb in her synthesis matrix. “Can you guess what it is yet?”
“Tell me.” Namor looked curious, and the expression only intensified as she lifted her chin and pretended to ignore him. “Come, princess. I wish to know.”
“Haven’t you guessed it?”
“The bracelet,” he said immediately.
“Yes. And what else, with that?”
His brow furrowed, and then he realized: his face went blank in shock as he turned to her. “You used the fibers woven into it. You— is that how you became the Black Panther?”
Shuri nodded. “It was a gift beyond all others, and I never thanked you for it. So I thank you now.”
Namor looked as if he had been struck across the face. “Now that is some— by my gift I almost brought about my own defeat, and by your enemy you gained a power greater than…” He shook his head. “But it did not give you the abilities of my people.”
“Not that I am aware of, no. I bio-meshed it with the properties of the heart-shaped herb, the plant used in Wakanda for generations untold to give the strength of the Black Panther to its rulers. My cousin burned the last of the plants when my brother was still king.” Shuri shrugged. “And I did not grow gills, so…”
“Mm,” he said. “No, you did not. I can testify to that.”
Shuri shot a look at him and realized he was staring at the curve of her neck and shoulder with almost— was that greed? “Stop it,” she said, nudging him and reaching up to touch her shoulders, just to be sure, but felt only smooth, sun-warmed skin. He laughed a little and leaned in toward her.
“Honorable K'uk'ulkan of Talokan,” said a voice from behind them, and Shuri jumped to her feet, her heart almost leaping from her chest— it was only Ayo. “Black Panther. King M’Baku begs the honor of your presence at council tomorrow.” She thumped her spear and gave Namor a sharp look as he got to his feet behind Shuri. “Would you like a guard, Princess?”
“No,” said Shuri very quickly. “No, thank you, Ayo. It is all right. I would like to speak to M’Baku, if I may. I have an idea to share with him.”
“Of course. I will take you to him.” Ayo gave Namor another piercing look, which was met with only a placid expression of complete innocence.
“He begs the honor of our presence, does he?” Namor said softly as Shuri bent to gather her things. “At least this king of yours knows how to speak politely to gods.”
“If you wait to hear me beg, you will be waiting still when Wakanda and Talokan both fall into ruin,” she hissed back. Then, she stood up straight and made for Ayo, but not quickly enough to not hear his parting shot.
“Well, if you never ask nicely, you will not receive what you want, itzia.”
“Let me get this straight,” said M’Baku, pacing in his office, which had once been Ramonda’s and was now decorated with wooden carved screens, furs, and admittedly very nice and comfortable chairs. “You want to create a team to match the people that America is sending into our sovereign borders, to fight against them, as we fought Talokan, and you would like the fish-king to be a part of it?”
Shuri stood with her hands folded and her eyes respectfully lowered. "Yes," she said as soon as his sentence had ended.
“No,” said M’Baku just as quickly. “He is not even a true ally: he was invited for a council and he barely accepted, to hear Okoye tell it. The Merchant Tribe and the River Tribe do not trust him, and the Mining Tribe is…” He spread his hand flat, palm down, and wiggled it side to side. “Eh. The Jabari think he is dangerous. We have not forgotten what he did to Wakanda.”
“And he has not forgotten what we did to the Talokanil,” said Shuri.
“Yes, which we did because he attacked the Golden City, and he did that because Nakia killed a woman on her rescue mission of you after you willingly turned yourself over to stop him killing that scientist, who was foolish enough to allow her work to fall into the hands of the American government." He thumped his staff into the floor for emphasis. "If we try to pin down who is responsible we will go round in circles all day long and never get anywhere."
“It wasn’t Riri’s fault, my king. Her only crime was being intelligent,” said Shuri hotly.
“Be silent, Black Panther. I am thinking.” M’Baku went to the window and looked out, then sighed. “Without him, this team would have, who? The Black Panther, this girl in her armored suit, the Midnight Angels? That is four against seven. I would not bet the fur on my back on such odds, let alone Wakanda’s future.”
“And Barnes,” said Shuri.
“Bah, the White Wolf,” said M’Baku dismissively. “I almost forgot. Yes, all right. Five against seven.”
“And with Namor we would have six. He is an enormous advantage, easily worth two or three people. He is stronger than the Hulk, as you said once, and able to fly without a suit. One of the seven that Barnes told us of is just an ordinary woman with espionage and combat abilities as her only heightened skill.”
M’Baku scowled and sat down. “All right. Has he agreed to it?”
“Not… not yet,” said Shuri. “He’s very proud. I think… he was waiting for us to be forced to beg for his help.”
“I don’t care how we get his help, as long as it is guaranteed. I’ll eat a whole antelope, horns and all if I have to.” M’Baku pulled a face. “I like him, Shuri, but I don’t trust him. Has he said anything to you about his stance on Wakanda?”
“He has told me that no matter what happens, he will put Talokan first,” Shuri told him, feeling wretched. “So I told him we must all put our own people first, and I understood.”
“Hanuman’s thumbs,” said M’Baku wearily, clapping his hand over his eyes. “Who let you start doing the private negotiations, ah? What kind of alliance is that, saying you can’t put anyone but your own people first?”
“You would not let Wakanda fall for the sake of Talokan!” she said defensively.
“It’s supposed to be both of us against the outsiders. That is the whole point of why I invited him here! You are the Black Panther, you protect Wakanda but you also protect the innocent.” He slammed his staff against the floor, making Shuri jump. “The Queen Mother would have known how to speak to him. Instead I am left with y—” He cut himself off, his voice cracking, and Shuri felt horrified, hurt tears welling up in her eyes. “Ahhh, no. No, no, I did not mean to— Shuri. I—”
“Do you think I do not know that my mother would have been a better negotiator than me?” she hissed, her fists clenched. “That she would have been gracious and kind and would have always known what to say, when to say it, how to say one thing and mean another and somehow have everything come out all right in the end?”
“Shuri—” He was coming toward her, one hand out.
She backed a step up. “Don’t. Don’t— I am trying, M’Baku, I am trying so hard and I know I cannot— that I am not suited for politics or, or alliances or anything like that. I know , that is why I gave you the throne, and maybe I should not have done that either, because it’s not traditional to not show up for your own ceremony, I know —” A sob escaped her throat, and she hated herself for it. “Don’t you know that every day, every day some part of me wishes it was me who had drowned saving Riri Williams, and not Mama?”
“And if you had died instead, there would now be no Black Panther, and your mother’s rage and grief would have burned so hot that she would have destroyed Talokan and Wakanda both,” said M’Baku softly.
“I’ll get you your alliance,” Shuri forced herself to say. “Whatever it takes. I promise you that, my king.”
“That is my task, not yours,” said M’Baku. “It should not have been put on your shoulders in the first place.” He sighed wearily. “Five members of an elite team to protect Wakanda, eh? I want to see plans. Ideas. Schematics. Show me tomorrow how we can ensure an advantage with five against seven. And, Princess?”
She fought a choked sob. “Yes, my king?”
“I am sorry for my words,” he said very quietly after a moment. “I should not have said them. You may go.”
Notes:
oh my god the movers are coming in two days and im losing my mind ANYWAYYYYYY HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED THIS ONE, MORE SMUT IN THE NEXT CHAPTER I PROMISE
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Chapter 10: meent 'uts
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Shuri felt as if she was being pulled by strings, like a puppet: her feet took her through sunlit hallways and up stairs, her mouth smiled at passing people, her words came out. Good afternoon. Hello. Hi. Her mind was a dazed, hurt thing, limping along half-crushed.
I am not good enough. I will never be good enough. And now everyone knew it, M’Baku had said it in front of her and his eyes had been so sad…
What gift can the Black Panther give the Feathered Serpent?
Vibranium-based technological advances, perhaps, but she did not think that that was what Namor had had in mind when he had said it. She found a corner, leaned against a wall, and swallowed hard, fighting tears. I have to get to my room, I have to think. He had said there was a custom— the gift. She had to choose something to give him, and then he would decide whether or not to give her what she wanted. Her head spun.
What do I want?
A mouth, hot and wet and softly coarse against her jaw, her throat, the back of her neck. Shuri reached up and touched her jaw with shaking fingers, remembering how it had felt. How he had felt.
What gift can the Black Panther give the Feathered Serpent?
She had meant to go to her room, to weep into her pillow hopelessly and feel sorry for herself and hide from the world. Instead, her feet took her to the door down the hallway: it was unlocked and she went in, blind with tears.
I am not good enough. I can give him nothing.
The hammock in his bedroom was empty, a blanket draped across it. She crawled into it, tugging the blanket around her shoulders and breathing in a familiar scent: sea-brine, fresh air, warm clean skin. Tears rolled down her face, across the bridge of her nose, into her ear. I can’t do it, Mama. I can’t. I tried so hard, but I can’t. They should take away the strength of the Black Panther from her and give it to little T’Challa when he was grown. He was the Black Panther by rights, not Shuri: she was a scientist, an irreverent child playing at being grown-up. Look what I almost did when the power was given to me. I almost killed Namor, I almost destroyed everything T’Challa and Mama worked so hard to build—
The bathroom door slid open and she choked on her own tears, sitting up straight in the hammock. “Princess,” said a soft, rough voice.
“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, and in her haste to exit the hammock she misjudged her balance and fell out with a thump, the blanket flopping over her head. She pushed it away in time to see Namor hurrying toward her, concern on his face, and looked away, too ashamed to even look him in the eyes. “I— I shouldn’t have come here.”
“Why are you weeping?” he asked, kneeling down and taking her by the shoulders. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
“King M’Baku— did he hurt you?” Sudden anger crossed his face. “Tell me.”
“Only with his words,” she managed, shaking her head. “I came to—to— I cannot be the Black Panther. It is not my right. You th-think I’m a god, but I’m not. I’m not. And I don’t know how to get you to promise you’ll help us, all this talk about gifts and asking for them and— and—”
“Stop talking. Princess. Stop. Breathe.” A pair of warm hands cupped her cheeks gently.
She sucked in a wet, reedy breath and closed her eyes. “If you’re going to tell me I have to go to bed with you to get you to—”
A thumb and finger took her by the chin. “Never,” Namor said in a voice like steel. “I will never force you into my bed, Shuri of Wakanda. You will come willingly or not at all.”
“But— you said—” She hiccupped, relief and confusion flooding her.
“I said a gift . A gift to give me. Don’t you know what it is?” He brushed her cheek with his thumb, shifted his hands. “Shh. Be at peace.” Shuri took a few more deep breaths and made herself open her eyes, and when she did she saw nothing but gentleness in Namor’s. “A gift, princess. You gave me a taste last night. Can you think what it might be?”
“A taste?” she asked, confused.
“What can the Black Panther give to the Feathered Serpent?” he repeated, brushing her nose with his as he held her face. “The gift of surrender, princess.”
And then she knew, knew immediately: his expression when she had told him to wait, to not move: when she had given him orders. The way he had gone still at last, his eyes warm. Patient. As you command. As you wish.
He wanted to obey her. To follow her orders.
To be told what to do.
Yes, screamed her brain, but other words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “I don’t have the—the experience to, to, to give you what you want—”
“Experience,” he said softly. “If I wanted experience I would seek it out. I want you, Shuri. Show me your power. Grant me the relief of… of having another rule for a time. I will do as you say. I…” She must have had some sort of expression on her face, because he exhaled softly, pulled back, and shook his head. “This is not the time. You are distressed from your meeting with the king. Apologies. We can discuss it another day.”
Shuri sat back on her heels and took a breath, deep and even. No. I can do this. I want to do this. This is what he wants, what I want, and I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do— he’s giving me the yoke. “I will decide when the time is right,” she said firmly, and his face changed, blooming with that peculiar expression she had seen the night before. Heartened by the look, she tried to think of a command. “You will— you—” She cast about and saw the bed, which was too big to remove from the room, but untouched: he clearly preferred sleeping in the hammock. “Go to the bed,” she finally settled on saying. “Sit on it. Wait for me.”
“As you wish,” he breathed, and got to his feet.
“No,” said Shuri, remembering for a wild moment his words: I will crawl to your feet for more. “On your hands and knees. Crawl to the bed, God-King of Talokan.”
A shuddery breath left Namor’s throat and he dropped to his knees at once, then crawled toward the bed. He should have looked silly, but he didn’t: every muscle movement was as careful and lithe as a dancer’s, and once he reached the bed he pulled himself up, sitting on the edge, turning, and waiting for her.
“Good,” said Shuri, and made for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and sliding to the floor in a tangle of knees and elbows. Oh Bast, Bast, what am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing! I want this, yes, but how do I go about it? She took in a shaking breath, stood up, washed her face, and looked in the mirror. “You are Shuri of Wakanda,” she whispered sternly to herself. “You are the daughter of a king and you are going to— you are going to do this. You can do this.”
She wanted to do it, too; wanted it with every fiber of her mind and body. That was an even more frightening thought, but an undeniable one. Shuri had been fighting thoughts all day of his gasping voice, the noises he made when he came, the way his speech stopped being intelligible after a certain point. It made her weak-kneed and hot all over to think about, especially coupled with memories of their fight on the beach, the way her claws had sunk into his skin, the sounds he had made... No, she thought desperately, no, I can’t think about that. She squeezed her thighs together, biting her lip and inwardly cursing the day she met Namor. Should I call him Namor and pretend I hate him? Will he like that? Will he— what do I do? Think, Shuri. Rationally. Take a scientific approach. Go out there and say— I’ll say—something. I’ll do something. Oh, Bast. No. I won’t plan anything. I will just be— me. I will be who I am. Nothing more. And I… I am the Black Panther. I am a princess, and I have had enough of him goading me and teasing me. Yes. I will be like that.
Shuri swallowed hard, closed her eyes, and opened the door, walking out to see Namor, hands flat on each side of his pelvis, head tilted back slightly, and a very noticeable shape under his shorts. He immediately turned his head to her. “Princess,” he greeted her, throaty and half-gasped.
“I have not even touched you yet,” she said, glancing down at him. “Are you so desperate to be told what to do?”
“Yes,” Namor said softly, raising his chin to look up at her as she eased her way between his legs, nudging his cock with her thigh. A little whine escaped his throat and he canted his hips up toward her, his throat exposed. “Ah,” he moaned. “Please.”
“You do not ask,” said Shuri, and grabbed his chin the same way he had grabbed hers. Namor choked on his own tongue and went still, gazing up at her with enormous, dark eyes. “You get what you are given. What I choose to give.”
“Yes, itzia,” he murmured. “What is your command?”
She was so warm she couldn’t stand it, everything thrumming and pulsing beneath her skin, gathered in the single bright-hot pulse point that was her— well, he had called it her pel, had he not? Was there a different word in Mayan for clitoris? Shuri tried to look very royally stern, but found her face recreating the look she had once given to a nineteen-year-old student at the university who had accidentally mixed sodium chloride in the lab and caused an incident. I’ll work with it. “I want you to lie on your back, first.”
He lay down immediately, his arms above his head as if in surrender, watching her with heavy-lidded eyes. “And what is your command now, my princess?” he whispered.
Shuri kicked off her shoes, removed her leggings and her top, and tugged off her underwear. Namor was craning his neck up to watch, gazing at her body like— like— why, come to think of it, he looked almost just like he had when he had been halfway dead of heat and thirst, and she had taunted him. Would you like a glass of water?
Stunned, breathless. Half-disbelieving, half… worshipful.
What is your command?
Well, there had been one particular thing that she had been tormented by all this time, so where better to start than there? She crawled up his warm, living body, straddled his face, and whispered, “Make me come.”
Namor pushed his head up, licking and sucking and kissing, clutching her lower back and her hips with his hands, and Shuri braced herself against the carved headboard, biting her lip to stifle a scream as his tongue swept across her clit, rubbed, rolled, sucked, as his lips pressed and moved. The bristly hair there scraped her delicate flesh, but she barely felt anything past the shocks of pleasure lighting her nervous system from spine to toes. Shuri squirmed down on him, not caring whether he could breathe, and finally found a rhythm, the right one. “That,” she moaned, grabbing the wall, the wood of the bed. “Yes, yes just like th-don’t stop—”
He moaned against her and she echoed his noise, grinding into his face as warm, sweet release swept across her body, and with a loud crack she had fallen down over the headboard, which now seemed a little off-kilter. I broke it, she thought dimly, and crawled awkwardly off Namor’s very flushed and wet face. “Princess,” he said hoarsely, and sucked in a torn breath, eyes shining as he stared up at her.
Her legs were shaking. “Don’t speak,” she ordered, and slid back down his body, kissing him full on the mouth. Namor moaned through his nose and brought his hands up to touch her breasts, but Shuri grabbed his wrists, pinned them down against the bed. It was so different like this, with her on top of him giving him what she liked, instead of the other way around, and Bast, but he looked beautiful, spread out beneath her with his face gone soft and his limbs all pliant. Beneath her right thigh, she felt his cock pulse, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. Those might as well come off, she thought, and broke the kiss, sliding backward. He had already removed his heavy belt at some point, but she tugged off his green shorts, revealing all of him for the first time in the full light of day.
She observed it with fascination for a moment. Broad through the shaft, the same warm brown as his arms, with a thick, dark pink head just visible from under his foreskin, it did not seem as much of a worrying prospect as it had last night in the shower. Shuri ran her hand from his abdomen to the root of him, and he hitched in a breath, lips parted, eyes half-shut. She had never seen a penis— or a naked person, really— this up close before, and moved his thighs apart to get a better look at the rest of him. His thighs were smooth, but both under his arms and between his legs was a crisp thatch of sparse black hair, the same color as the hair on his head. At a soft word and a pat he bent his knees up and spread his legs further. Shuri gently ran her fingers down, cupped his heavy testicles, brushed the delicate skin behind them with her thumb. He moaned again and twisted a little, flushing a deep crimson color all the way down his throat to his chest.
“I think,” said Shuri after considering a moment, “I would like to look at the rest of you.”
“I am yours,” he forced out, spreading his arms, and she pushed herself back up to his face, first. She kissed him on his cheeks, examined every line of his face, kissed his nose, touched his coarse beard, and last of all, licked gentle lines up both of Namor’s pointed ears, making him shudder and whine below her. Then she moved down; she paid attention to his collarbones, to his chest. His soft, flat brown nipples she kissed, then licked tentatively, and when he squirmed and moaned, she sucked at them, making him gasp aloud, clutching at her head, throwing his own head back onto the bed with a cry.
Below that was his belly, solid and broad with muscle and a healthy layer of fat: Shuri kissed him above and below his navel. He smelled like the sea, like water and sky, and she kissed his hipbones, too, dragging her nails lightly along his chest. “I… really like this,” she admitted, too aroused herself to deny it anymore.
“Your mouth,” gasped Namor, one hand finding her face. “Ah…” His thumb passed her lips, and she sucked at it automatically, her tongue curling around it. He made a sound in his throat like a half-sob and reared up to kiss her, but Shuri pushed him back down.
“I said, lie on your back,” she reminded him. “And I also think I said no speaking, but I’ll allow it this time.”
“Please,” he moaned, his hands opening and closing. “Ahhh, please. Mercy. I beg you.”
“You beg me?” Shuri put her hand on his cock— a little nervous, she wasn’t going to lie— and rubbed at it very awkwardly, but you would never know it from the way he canted his hips into her palm, shuddering. “And what exactly do you wish to beg the Black Panther for?”
“Whatever she will give me,” Namor said through his teeth as, heartened by his responsiveness, she closed her hand lightly around him and pumped a few times, her cheeks hot. “Anything. Princess. I beg you on my back, I am naked before you, I beg you —”
She bent down and licked at the head of his cock, and the noise he made eradicated all the rest of her anxiety around doing the right things, saying the right things. “Again?”
“Meent ‘uts,” he groaned, and she took that to be an affirmative, licking at him again, then experimentally closing her lips around him and moving her tongue across the tip. He tasted of clean, warm skin and the faintest hint of musky salt. Namor made a strangled, keening sound and gripped the bedsheets in both hands, trembling. “Itzia… aaah aahh!”
If he was so far gone he could not even speak his own tongue anymore, perhaps he should take the matter into his own hands, she thought. Shuri sat back and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Touch yourself,” she whispered, and his eyes flew open. “Show me how you do it.”
One broad hand went to his groin, cupped, pulled gently. He pushed himself upright with the other hand, lurching toward Shuri, and kept pumping away at his cock, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Ahhh—aaaah i-i-itzia-a-ah—”
“Don’t finish yet,” she whispered, and pushed him over, back on his back. He groaned, twisting, and kept pumping away with his right hand, gripping the bedsheets with the other. It seemed to take an enormous effort on his part to force words back out in the right order.
“Does the Panther wish that I deny myself?” he rasped.
“Yes, she does,” said Shuri immediately. She did not know exactly what he meant, but at her affirmation Namor’s hand moved a little faster, soft gasps and noises coming from his throat, a blush like sunrise blooming all the way down his chest, and as the sounds became more frantic, he suddenly stopped it all with a gasp, gripping himself firmly and turning his head away as his jaw clenched and sweat broke out on his lip. He let out a ragged moan and looked up at her, blinking.
“Please,” he whined.
She understood then. A climax interrupted. Frustrating, yet somehow pleasurable. “Perhaps I will give you the gift of denying yourself three more times.”
“Please…”
“But I am kind.” And besides, he had said something about her breasts before that she wanted to explore. “You said you would kiss these.” Shuri leaned forward, bracketed his head with her hands so that her chest was in his face. “So do it.”
Namor reached up, but not for her chest— he grabbed her, rolled her over so that he was crouched between her legs and his hands were planted in the bed, and then he licked a hot, wet stripe from the bottom of her ribcage to her right nipple. Shuri moaned, clutching at his head as his tongue circled, rubbed, lapped: his lips closed and he kissed the underside, the top, both sides, and then directly on her nipple, which made her shriek. He sucked, moaned, sucked again. Dizzy, she let out a moan or two of her own and simply let him do as he pleased. He moved to the other, which made her shiver again, her flesh tightening into a million bumps down her right side and her arm. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, his teeth pressing softly into her skin. “Black Panther.”
Why did that make her blush and turn her head away? “I…”
“Strong, too.” Namor kissed her upper arm, all lean muscle. “And resourceful, and clever.”
“Not very wise,” said Shuri with some difficulty.
“No young gods ever are. Grant me the gift of release, Black Panther. I beg you.”
She almost said only if you swear you’ll help us, then closed her mouth. That was not how this worked. Hadn’t he said so? It was not a trade: a gift was given and the god decided. She rolled him over and sat up, her damp skin cooling rapidly in the air of the bedroom. “Finish yourself, then,” she whispered.
A crooked smile spread across his face as he sat up, as she moved back to give him room. He even spread his legs a little, leaning back to give her a better view as his fist curled around his cock again and he gave himself a few gentle strokes. “Ah,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. “Such a gift.”
Shuri felt almost voyeuristic, watching him like this as he shifted his position, found the right rhythm, tilted his head back and watched her from under half-shut eyes. “Do you like when I watch?” she asked, her pulse beating against her throat like a trapped bird.
“Yes,” he whimpered, throaty and half-gone.
“You wanted me to see you like this all along,” murmured Shuri, watching him shudder. “Didn’t you, K’uk’ulkan?”
Her only answer was a tight little teeth-baring whine. Namor’s belly went taut and hard, his hand pumping, and with a guttural groan, he came. Shuri watched every moment avidly, listened to every gasp, intensely interested to see what it looked like— perhaps both out of scientific curiosity and personal interest. He painted a mess of sticky come all over his belly and his hand, his eyes fluttering, chest heaving, even the wings on his ankles tensing up and twitching, and when he had finished completely he collapsed on his back, trembling.
I should clean him up. She went to the bathroom on strangely-shaky legs, everything gone tender and hot, and ran a cloth under the water, then came back to wipe off his warm skin. He turned his head toward her, eyes shut, like a sunflower finding the light. “Princess,” he whispered, and she had never heard him sound so exhausted, so peaceful.
“I’m here.”
“Come to me. Please.”
“I’m coming.” She tossed the washcloth back into the bathroom and curled up next to him, basking in his body heat as he rolled over and curled his arm around her, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “Hi,” Shuri whispered, feeling silly as she put her own arm around him. “Was that okay?”
He sighed deeply, nuzzling into her throat. “It was a gift like none other.” Shuri shut her eyes and relaxed in his arms, cocooned in the warmth from his body.
“Good,” she whispered.
“This bed is… very convenient for things like this,” he said some time later, stirring. “Perhaps I should make more use of it.”
“Mm,” said Shuri, propping herself upright as he sat up and stretched. “Yes, it would be difficult to do all that in a hammock, I think.” Then, realization struck her, and she clapped a hand to her head. “Oh, Bast! I have to get back to my lab. I still have to finalize those breathers for Namora and Attuma and it’s already almost one, and then I have to debrief Riri for the meeting tomorrow.”
“Always work and no rest with you,” said Namor a little ruefully, and tucked a stray braid behind her ear. “I will see you at the council meeting tomorrow, then?”
“Yes, you will.” Don’t say anything to him about joining the team, don’t do it, don’t push it. Shuri slid off the bed and threw her clothes back on quickly, shy all over again as she chose her parting words. “And if you ever want— that again, the— you have only to ask.”
Namor’s smile was as lazy and slow as honey as he leaned back nude against the now-sagging headboard. “Mm. I think I will ask someone to repair the bed first.”
“Oh— oh no,” said Shuri, covering her mouth to stifle a hysterical giggle, and fled the room.
That night she dreamed a strange, disjointed dream about panther-headed gods and tombs, the sea drowning half of Wakanda, her brother’s face smiling at her from the pages of an ancient codex, reaching for her, and when she stretched out her hands and touched him, she saw a flash of purple and blue; his face became N’Jadaka’s, and he was sneering, pulling her in. I told you, cuz. You gonna be the one who takes care of shit, or do I gotta do it for you?
“No!” she screamed, and sat up straight in her dark bedroom, her mouth dry as a bone and her heart pounding out a staccato in her head. It was a dream, she told herself, swinging her feet out of the hot bed and hugging herself. Breathe, Shuri. You had a normal afternoon. You left Namor and went to the lab, and you saw Riri there after she got back from the university, and you did not leave until well after ten at night… then you went to bed and here you are. And it is— she checked her clock. Three in the morning. Yes. And the meeting is today.
Perhaps there was another reason she had handed M’Baku the throne. I would have had to have my power stripped away and given back, which would have meant the ancestral plane again… and if N’Jadaka was there waiting again, that was a terror she could not have borne, especially knowing for sure now what waited for her.
When someone went to the ancestral plane, they should be buried: that was custom. It symbolized death, a sort of funeral, the death of who they had been, then the rebirth of the Black Panther upon their return from the ancestral plane. But nobody had buried her. She had been in a lab, sterile and bright, on a table, while Nakia and Riri watched nervously. Shuri stared at the wall, her heart rate slowing. Death and life, the jaguar, kings…
The door swung open softly, like a whisper. Shuri bolted out of bed and activated her Panther habit, which crackled into existence over her pajamas and throat, leaving her head exposed and her claws out. “Who’s there?” she snapped, crouched in the middle of the floor, every muscle taut.
“It’s me,” said Namor’s voice softly. “Are you going to tear out my heart for coming to see if you were all right?”
She let out a shaky breath and deactivated the habit, standing upright. “Did anyone else hear?”
“No. I simply have better hearing than the rest.” He shut the door behind him and stepped into the dim glow of her bedroom light, wearing loose white pants and no ornaments except, as always, the jade in his nose and ears. “Especially your pet wolf, who is snoring down the hall so loudly that I can hear him through the doors. You’re hurt?”
“No.” She turned her face away from him, trying to soothe her frantic thoughts.
“Ah. Bad dreams, then?”
Shuri swallowed, feeling like a child. “Yes.”
Namor hesitated, glancing back toward the door. “Would you like company?”
“Yes,” said Shuri after a moment, sitting on the edge of her bed. He crossed the floor, drawing closer, and sat beside her. The weight of him sank the bed. “Thank you,” she added, rubbing her eye.
“Mm. I am happy to help. Do you wish to speak about it?”
“Not really,” she mumbled.
“Dreams are only visions of the desires or fears of your heart,” said Namor, looking at her. “When we see them, it can be frightening.”
“It was my fear I saw, not my desires,” said Shuri, rubbing her arms.
“Sometimes they can go hand-in-hand, can they not?”
She closed her eyes and took a breath. Perhaps she could share this with him: he had already bared so much of himself to her— metaphorically and literally. “When I consumed the heart-shaped herb, the one I had made from your bracelet— ordinarily there is a ritual, and the person goes to the ancestral plane, to the brink of death, before being reborn as the Black Panther. They say it looks like a great field with trees, the sky alight in ribbons of purple and blue. I thought I would see my mother, or father… or T’Challa. But I saw none of them.”
“Who did you see?”
Her voice sounded worn and tired to her own ears. “My cousin, N’Jadaka, sitting on the throne of Wakanda.”
“The one who burned the garden where your herb was grown,” said Namor quietly.
“Yes. He was born in America, not Wakanda— it’s a long story. He wanted Wakanda to fling open her doors and give weapons the like of which the outside world has never seen to all the downtrodden people, all the victims of colonizers and oppressors everywhere. But he tried to kill my brother, and he killed many. I saw him there, and he taunted me. Our old Elder Statesman, Zuri—the one N’Jadaka killed—he used to say that it is one’s state of mind that influences who is seen in the ancestral plane.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “And I let vengeance rule me until it had almost consumed both our people. Just as he had. My cousin, I mean, not Zuri.” I cannot even speak clearly. What is wrong with me?
“Until,” said Namor, putting his hand on her free one, “you saw something, didn’t you?”
“What?”
“I saw your face. You saw a vision of some kind. Far away, beyond me. What was it? What did you see?”
“I saw my mother,” whispered Shuri. She had not told anyone about this, not even Nakia. “She was standing in a great field with trees here and there, the sky full of purple and blue light, and wearing white, and she said to me, ‘Shuri, show him who you are,’ and I was…” She could not finish.
Namor’s hand froze. “I saw my mother also.”
“You— what? Really?”
“Yes.” He swallowed and looked away for a moment, as if seeing something that was not there. “She was… standing over me. Beside you. Smiling, reaching out her hand to me. I thought I was dead, or almost dead. But she came to me, too. Just as yours did.”
It was a hallucination brought on by severe dehydration and the burns you sustained, she wanted to say. And mine was surely something similar: I had been speared, wounded, I was enraged, I was desperate… “I am glad you saw her,” she said instead.
“As am I, that you saw yours.” Namor shifted his weight. “I will stay until you sleep, if you wish.”
“I would like that,” she told him, and crawled back into her sheets, closing her eyes and feeling the bed sink around his density like space and time curving around a planetary body as he settled in alongside her, breathing evenly, a warm and solid presence against her back. Gravity. A body in space made it just like a body in a bed, her smaller frame sliding to his as easily as any law of physics could demand.
Ah… in the morning, I’ll get to the lab and finish what I was working on.
In the morning…
“Ooh, you look good,” said Riri Williams approvingly as Shuri walked over. They were all mingling out in the hall, waiting for the council presentation to begin at one in the afternoon sharp, and Shuri had grabbed a high-collared, floor-length, open-in-front coat of white-on-black angular patterns with snug-fitting leggings and a long-sleeved top on beneath, turquoise and white. She’d taken out the thick halo braid entirely that morning, and let all her braids flow back down over her shoulders, studded with pearls and held back with a carved black band, and she only jewelry she wore was—
Well.
“Thank you,” she said to the American scientist, who wore a vivid yellow pair of loose pants and a sleeveless blue mesh jacket cut long in the back and short in the front, a red short-sleeved top underneath, with a beaded necklace and bracelet to match. “You found more clothes? I am glad.”
Riri grinned. “Kinda wanna go hit up the mall, you know what I’m sayin’? I mean, these clothes are gorgeous, but I miss sweats, and—” She squinted at Shuri’s throat. “Wait. Is that… the bracelet? The bracelet?”
“Yes,” said Shuri, swallowing and trying to look very calm. “Is it falling down?”
“Nah, it looks fine as a choker, I guess, but why the hell’re you wearing his jewelry?”
Because maybe I want to extend a visible olive branch, why does she have to make it sound like that? “Clothes and jewelry send messages when you cannot speak what you really feel.”
“And what kinda message’re you tryin’ to send?” Riri’s eyes lit up and she brought her fist to her mouth. “Oh-ho-hooo, shit. You like him!?”
Heat flooded her whole face. “Riri, be quiet.”
“Sorry—”
“His people are wearing gifts from Wakanda, so I thought it was only fair I do the same, if you must know.”
“Oh, right, that’s the only reason. Sure. Ayo met up with Bucky and said you two were getting pretty close on the balcony yesterday at lunchtime.” A grin had spread along Riri’s face.
“Since when do you call Barnes Bucky?”
“Since he said I could, and don’t go changing the subject.”
“I’m not changing the—”
“Oh, it is you,” said Okoye dryly from behind Shuri, and Riri’s eyes widened quickly as she pulled off a very awkward half-curtsy and stood back up, all her humor evaporated. “The little scientist.”
“Uh, hi,” said Riri. “Miss— ma’am. Okoye, ma’am.”
“Do not call me ma’am, ” said Okoye with a lift of her lip. She did look very regal, her neck encased in brown and blue beads, draped elegantly in a blue cloak. “I hope you are both prepared to present your projects. Shuri, will you be requiring the Midnight Angels in this meeting?”
“Not unless the king wishes to see the new design in action,” said Shuri, trying not to giggle at the expression on Riri’s face. “Aneka will be standing by, just in case he asks for a demonstration.”
“Good. And are we expecting Talokan to send a warrior to help this… team you have suggested?”
She swallowed back her doubt. “I cannot speak for Talokan, so I suppose we will all see.”
“What are you wearing around your neck?” said Okoye, eyes narrowing as she looked at Shuri more closely. Shuri felt her heart speed up in a panic. “Is that—”
“Can I just say, uh, your head looks very un-ashy today. Real nice tattoos. Crazy moisturized.” Okoye swiveled her head toward the girl and shot her an incredulous look, and even Shuri gulped hard. Riri bravely pressed on. “Like, I get why it was all— before, you know, must have been a lot of foundation on y—”
“Kindly silence yourself before I show you how we treat rude children in Wakanda,” said Okoye very coolly. Riri shut her mouth with a snap and Okoye saluted Shuri, then strode off to the throne room door without another look at the American girl.
“I cannot believe you just did that,” Shuri hissed, turning her back to Okoye. “Do you have a death wish?”
“What? I wasn’t gonna let her stand here and figure out you got the hots for Fish Stick.”
Shuri shut her eyes and forced herself not to drag her hands down her face: it would ruin her makeup, and she had worked hard on the gold dotted paint on her cheeks and the black line that divided her lip and chin. “Thank you,” she mumbled, checking her timepiece. “Five minutes and we’ll go in.”
Riri beamed. “You got it. And don’t even worry, ‘cause I got all the specifics done for the Ironheart suit to present to the council. Mark two, three, whatever, you know.” She shifted her weight around and examined the Kimoyo bead in her hand. “Crazy. All that data fits in here. I don’t know why I’m, like, whoa, ‘cause it’s basically like an iPhone but smaller—”
“You’re nervous,” said Shuri, recognizing the constant talking, the rocking on her heels. “Relax.”
“Yeah, but what if I forget who to bow to?” whispered Riri. “Man, this is worse than lecturing.”
“You lectured yesterday on the properties of sub-atomic vibranium particles to a room full of five hundred students, and Barnes said you were great. This is going to be only thirty people, tops.”
“But it’s the king of Wakanda,” whispered Riri.
“I told you. Just address him as King M’Baku and don’t look him in the eyes. The Jabari see it as a sign of aggression.”
“Yeah, you told me that, ‘cause they got a gorilla like y’all got panthers.” Riri paced back and forth. “Shit, man. Okay. I can do this. Yeah.”
“If you make a mistake, they will understand. I’ll be right there.”
Riri exhaled hard and tilted her head back, cracking her neck from side to side. “‘Kay. I’m ready.”
Barnes came up the hall from where he was speaking to one of the Dora Milaje and joined them. “You all right?” he asked. “You look a little bit… scared.”
“Man, I’m kinda freakin’ out,” said Riri, blowing her cheeks out and grimacing.
“Don’t sweat it. I’ll stand with you if you want. It’s a good presentation.” He gave her a small, reassuring smile. “You got this.” Riri gave him one back and set her jaw, nodding to herself.
“You saw her presentation?” Shuri hadn’t had a chance to check it over, but she trusted Barnes’s judgment.
“Yeah, earlier this morning. Upgrades to the suit, all of that. It’s good.”
“All right. Good.” Shuri checked her Kimoyo beads, scrolling rapidly through the schematics of Barnes’s arm and his biological information, then past her files on the Midnight Angels, checking to make sure all of her new designs were ready to prepare. “Let’s go.”
“Oh, lord,” said Riri quietly, but the Dora Milaje were opening the doors and Shuri was walking in with Riri and Barnes beside her, into the great room filled with light from the glass windows, the glass floor, the assembled elders, the seat at M’Baku’s left with Namor sitting in it in full regalia, flanked by Namora and Attuma, and the throne with its two tusks curved over M’Baku’s enormous shape. Shuri saluted him, looking politely at his chest.
“My king,” she said formally, and stood aside. “May I present our guest, the American scientist, Riri Williams.”
Riri looked like she might pass out. “Uh— King M’Baku,” she stammered, and awkwardly crossed her arms over her chest like Shuri had done.
“No, don’t… don’t do that,” whispered Shuri.
“Shit,” Riri muttered, and settled for a bizarre hybrid of a bow and a curtsy. Shuri shut her eyes and prayed the floor would open under her.
“And the White Wolf,” she said very quickly, gesturing to Barnes, who stepped up and simply nodded his head at M’Baku, keeping his eyes low. Riri watched him closely, then stepped back with him, mimicking his movements and keeping her head down just as he did. That’s better. “As requested, my king, I have put together a…” she noticed Namora, in her bright red and orange Talokanil court dress, was still wearing the chunky scarlet sandals Namor had gotten for her in the market, and fought to keep her face serene. “A plan, complete with schematics and information on upgrades to the technology necessary to fend off these invaders that threaten Wakanda.”
“Speak, then,” said M’Baku, waving his hand. “Let us hear it.”
Shuri stepped aside and activated her beads. A hologram blueprint sprang to life over her palm, big enough that everyone could see it. “First. My Black Panther habit. I have added a higher tolerance for kinetic absorbency into the nanoparticles, to better defend against any enemy with enhanced strength. I have made some changes to the nanofabric as well, which help with aerodynamic flow, and put stronger magnetic grips in the shoes and the gloves, as well as the knees and elbows.” M’Baku looked impressed, so she continued. “Next, we have the Midnight Angels. I have made design changes to these suits as well, with helpful input from the wearers.”
Okoye snorted. “Yes, as in the fact that we cannot move our arms?”
“It was a first version,” Shuri protested.
M’Baku slapped his thigh. “Will you let the girl speak, you wet-blanket woman? ”
Riri’s mouth pressed into a streak of nothing and her eyebrows rose almost to her hairline. Attuma, in his yellow and green cloak, shifted his weight, eyes on the king. Okoye looked like she might explode. Shuri frantically tried to get a handle on her presentation. “Anyway, as I was saying, I have redesigned the Angel suits for easier range of motion, plus kinetic-energy absorption and redistribution, along with a more streamlined look.” A blueprint sprang to life, almost life-sized, over her wrist, and several people on the council looked impressed. Heartened by that, Shuri kept going. “As you can see, there is less bulk, and it bears more similarity to the shape and line of the armor of the Dora Milaje, while still offering full protection.” The animation she had thrown together played, showing the nanoparticles flowing from the throat and wrists, covering the blue suits in a layer of vibranium-woven armor, helmet included, with its new reinforcement of shining gold-alloy vibranium that circled the crown. More than a few people gave a murmur of approval.
“I like that the nanosuits are kept within the neck rings,” said Ayo from M’Baku’s side. “Extra armor at a moment’s notice.”
Shuri glanced at Aneka, who looked just a little exasperated, and smiled. Clearly, Ayo wanted her wife-to-be as safe as possible, and Shuri couldn’t blame her. “Yes,” she said. “Which brings us to the White Wolf. As requested, I have designed an entirely new suit for James Barnes.” She swiped on the hologram, and her beads projected another image, this one a model of a man’s body wearing loose, dark gray pants, split-toed boots similar to the ones T’Challa had favored, a white, close-fitting tunic of vibranium weave, and a reinforced vibranium breastplate in gray and white that angled downward in V shaped panels. A strap buckled just below the chest, securing the entire thing, and twin pauldrons adorned both shoulders. Shuri had also designed a bracer for his left arm to give his flesh-and blood limb further protection, and a wide, buckled waist belt in repeating patterns of gray and white finished off the look. It was the first time Barnes had seen her finished design, though he’d had plenty of input in the lab yesterday afternoon, and she watched, satisfied, as a pleased expression crossed his face. “If we are to cross paths with John Walker, who, as Barnes has told us, has been the recipient of a… what were the words you used, James?”
“Knockoff super soldier serum,” Barnes put in, stepping forward again. “He has enhanced strength and reflexes, but he’s not up to Rogers’s abilities. In my opinion, anyway.”
“He has had time to train,” said Ayo. “It will not hurt to be overprepared, James.”
Namora raised a hand, stepping forward, and the room fell quiet. “May I ask a question?” she asked, her voice low and cautious.
“Of course,” said M’Baku, waving a hand.
“What is this… warrior liquid of which you speak?”
Shuri blinked at the slightly-off translation, then remembered that in all her conversations and between her lengthy stretches of time in the lab, she had never managed to bring the Talokanil up to speed on the particulars and detailed history of the Avengers. “Ah— it is similar to the vibranium-enriched plant that your people consumed long ago, to change them into the people you are now. European countries, long ago, sought ways to gain advantages in their wars, and a scientist found a way to make a liquid that, when injected into the body, could make a man the strongest form of himself that he could be. The way of making it was lost to history, and many scientists have tried to recreate it, but they have never succeeded in perfectly replicating the original.”
“And this Rogers?”
“A great warrior,” said Ayo quietly. “And a good man. An ally to Wakanda, and a friend to our late T’Challa.”
“He fell in battle, then?” asked Namora curiously, looking from face to face. “Or does he not come to fight for his ally?”
“He is gone,” said Shuri as she noted the expression on Barnes’s face. Namor, for his part, only tilted his head to the side slightly, watching every face in the room avidly.
Riri glanced over at Shuri. “If they all wanted to make it so bad, they could have just used vibranium-enriched…” The blood suddenly leached from her face, leaving it a dull gray. “Oh, shit,” she whispered. “I think— Shuri—”
“Whatever you are about to say, save it for the lab, ” hissed Shuri back.
“Yeah, okay—”
“So,” said Shuri, moving briskly back to her beads, “I have briefed you on the plans for myself, the two Midnight Angels, and Barnes. Now we come to Riri Williams and her armored suit, which I will let her tell you about. Riri?”
The girl swallowed hard, took a breath, and stepped forward slightly. “It— it runs on an arc reactor powered by vibranium,” she said, her voice shaking a little. “The one I used, uh, her,e the last time— the— it was kinda— bulky, so I streamlined the arm-cannons a little to enhance aerodynamic flow.” Her voice got stronger as a few people leaned forward to listen, and Riri tapped her bead, showing a half-size model of her upgraded suit, projected in holographic full color. “Y’all can see I dialed back the red a little bit in case of stealth operations being needed. I’ve also messed with the secondary propulsion blast that can be emitted from the chest, but the downside is that it drains the power by thirty percent for five minutes. Recharging time’s now down to almost zero. Propulsions have been tuned up, and I should be able to achieve fifteen hundred feet of altitude in about two and a half seconds. Other than that, there wasn’t much to improve on. She’s ready to go when y’all are.”
There was quiet, and then Okoye shrugged. “I like it,” she said shortly. Riri lowered her eyes, her mouth twitching into a smile.
M’Baku nodded, clearly impressed despite his initial misgivings. “The makings of a solid elite team, I think. Would Nakia be inclined to return to Wakanda? Her experience as a War Dog would be a good thing to have close to hand.”
“I will send a message,” said Shuri quickly, hoping against hope that it would work out. Across the room, Namor rose from his seat, and everyone paused, looking at him. He was almost too bright to look at: you couldn’t help but stare at the massive, heavy feathered helmet, the gold and pearls and vibranium, the pristine white cloak with its red fringe. His loincloth was secured with a massive disc of vibranium decorated in abalone and gold, and hung down from his hips to his knees in a triangle of dark red weave. Shuri noticed, now that he was standing, he did not wear the solid green shorts she was familiar with, only strips of dark green, waterproofed fabric crisscrossed over his upper thighs like trailing seaweed, and felt her face go warm at the thought of the hanging cloth being the only thing between him and the room of people.
“I will speak,” he said softly, and M’Baku inclined his head, waiting. “To Riri Williams,” he added, and Riri made a noise that might have been a squeak as she inched closer to Shuri. “You were speaking of vibranium before you began to tell us of your suit of armor. I wish to hear what you had to say.”
“I…” Riri gulped audibly and looked at Shuri. “I was… gonna bring it up later. It’s really not, uh—”
He took a step toward her. “You are the one who did what no one else could do. You created the machine that led the Americans to my sea in search of Talokanil wealth. If you have something to say concerning vibranium, I would hear it spoken now.”
Shuri raised her eyebrows at Riri. Say it, she silently begged, nodding her head toward Namor. Riri stared around the circle of elders and representatives, swallowing hard. “I was just— I was thinking,” she managed, fiddling with her hands. “Uh, ‘cause vibranium-enriched plants are what gave Wakanda the Black Panther and Talokan…” she said, gesturing vaguely at Namor’s chair and his two advisors, “its, uh, enhanced people, and so I was thinking, why wouldn’t, like in the forties, why wouldn’t the scientists lookin’ for how to make, you know, ubermensch juice come here? And then I thought, you know, it’s cause Wakanda was closed off for so long, kind of like Japan was, and Talokan’s not exactly easy to find under the ocean, so maybe— I mean, it’s a stretch, but Doctor Erskine is the scientist who made the serum that turned Steve Rogers into Captain America. I did a paper on him in high school. Who’s to say he didn’t hear stories about vibranium turning men into gods or something, and went looking for it?”
Shuri frowned. “Wakanda’s Great Mound is enclosed in our sovereign borders, and the heart shaped herb grows only in Wakanda, but the water-plant that gave the Talokanil their abilities was accessible from the surface,” she said. “Was it not, Kukulkan?”
“It was,” he allowed.
“So— and this is all hypothetical, obviously— let’s say Erskine found a similar plant, or the same one growing off a root or something, whatever. He goes back with it to Germany, right, and succeeds in creating the formula with a couple other biological compounds, but it’s just a little bit off, ‘cause if you’re bad, it makes you worse, but if you’re good, it makes you better, and that ain’t quite what the plants do— anyway, he had tons of research notes, and when he fled to America to escape Nazi Germany tryin’ to steal his work, he obviously took them with him, ‘cause you wouldn’t want those falling into Nazi hands, right?”
“Or destroyed them,” put in Barnes, listening very closely. “He took the secret to his grave. Only one other scientist even came close to creating what Erskine had done, and that was the scientist who created the stuff that’s now inside John Walker.”
“Right,” said Riri, warming up. “We can circle back to that. But why would Erskine destroy his notes and work and shit— sorry, stuff— when he didn’t know if his experiment was gonna work? Rogers took the serum in 1942 and Erskine died, like, right there at the same time. Any scientist knows you don’t destroy your research notes if you don’t even know whether or not your hypothesis is proven yet. So if he was working for the government, his stuff would have just gone right back to them, ‘cause it was wartime and he was working for the Strategic Scientific Reserve, which was directly under military jurisdiction. So all of that would have gone back to the government. And if there’s notes out there somewhere that hint at vibranium-enriched biological matter being the key to creating exactly the right serum…”
Barnes made a half-aborted movement with his right arm. “Then the government, and by extension, the CIA, has it,” he said sharply.
“And that’s a very good reason why they would want vibranium,” said Shuri, realization dawning. “We don’t even have the naturally infused herbs anymore, I used a synthetic made from…” Her hand went to the bracelet around her throat, and she locked eyes with Namor, horrified. “We have to find out what they know,” she whispered. “They were searching the ocean for a reason: in international waters, nobody can stop them legally.” His eyes were in shadow under his helmet, but he nodded slowly, once and briefly.
“I agree,” said M’Baku. “It’s a good theory, ah, but those are a lot of ifs for my taste.”
“Shall I contact the War Dogs, my king?” asked Ayo, stepping forward.
“No. Go get Everett Ross first, and we will question him.”
Ross, slightly more disheveled and unshaven than he had been the last time Shuri had seen him, was escorted in by two Jabari men five minutes later and rather unceremoniously plopped on the ground. “Oh, God,” he babbled, kneeling with his head down. “Uh, please, please don’t kill me—”
“Silence,” barked M’Baku, sitting back on his throne. “We have questions. You will answer. Am I clear?”
“Yes, King M’Baku—”
“Good. Why exactly, and think very carefully here before you answer, Everett Ross, would the CIA want vibranium?”
Ross’s mouth opened like a fish. “W-well, basically, as I understand it, the possibilities are really endless, uh—”
“Don’t sit there playing dumb with us,” said Riri, scowling. “It’s the CIA, man. They’re not gonna use vibranium to solve world hunger and sit around the campfire singing kumbaya.”
“Yeah, well, maybe you should have thought of that before creating a machine that let them—”
Riri’s cheeks went an astonishing shade of plum. “What part of my professor sold my project to the government without my knowledge did you not get , you stupid-ass—”
“Answer the king,” said Ayo.
“Okay, uh, well, Val never really said specifically, but she’s a complete— utter sociopath and said she dreamed of the things America could do with vibranium, so I think it’s safe to say nothing good . And in the wake of the whole Flag Smasher thing, there were a lot of conversations being thrown around at high levels about assets, protection, uh, weapons that could take out super-soldiers, super-soldiers that could take out super-soldiers, they even had a guy come in who claimed he could hypnotize enhanced individuals and that didn’t go anywhere but out the window, thanks very much.”
“Super-soldiers,” said Riri, snapping her fingers and turning to Shuri.
“That’s not solid enough,” said Shuri, feeling slightly panicked. “We need real information, Ross. Please.”
Helplessly, he shook his head. “I don’t— I can’t give you that.”
“I suggest an exchange, once again,” said Namor quietly. “Hand back this… groveling creature that the Americans want so badly in exchange for the information we seek.”
“Will they accept such an offer?” M’Baku glanced at Barnes. “Your thoughts, White Wolf?”
“Probably not,” said Bucky, considering. “That’s a big ask. We would need to offer more than that to get them to give us that kind of sensitive information.”
“What do you suggest, then?” asked the old woman of the Merchant Tribe.
“I suggest espionage,” said Bucky. “People the CIA has no solid information on, haven’t seen with their own eyes. A War Dog or two might work. Send them to DC, maybe work around the bars and lounges near Langley, see what they can get out of some tipsy analysts or secretaries.”
“Nah, that’s the oldest trick in the book.” Riri looked unimpressed. “Like they wouldn’t be trained against that. It’s the CIA! They’re spies!”
“The Meridian Ball,” said Ross from his spot on the floor. Every eye in the room found him, and he winced. “Uh— that might be a starting point.”
“Go on,” said Okoye.
“It’s a black-tie ball held every year, it’s all about diplomacy and exchange and world leaders. Attendees are from every embassy in DC. Ticket sales go to fund the Meridian International Center, they focus on nonpartisan collaboration on global issues. Everyone’s there. Supreme Court justices, White House interns, senators, journalists…”
“And high-ranked CIA agents, I assume,” said Shuri. “Would your ex-wife be attending?”
Ross shook his head. “Are you kidding? Val hates social gatherings. She hasn’t gone to a single one the whole time we were married.”
“See, this is better,” said M’Baku. “Concrete facts. I like it.”
Nakia’s father spoke up then. “If we hand over Everett Ross as a good faith gesture, perhaps the Americans will delay their invasion. Other nations are watching.”
“That is right,” said one of the Mining Tribe representatives. “The eyes of the world are on America. They cannot afford an uproar of protest from their allies if they attack without cause and we hand over this man.”
Ross looked even whiter than usual. “Back… hand me back to…”
“Look on the bright side,” said Bucky very dryly. “At least you won’t be restrained in a glass box while a guy activates your Russian brainwashing kill switch.”
Okoye looked as if she was regretting everything she had ever done. “I am sorry, Everett,” she said quietly. “It is not right. But we may have no other choice.”
He swallowed and set his chin a little. “Yeah,” he said. “I figured.”
“Then it is decided,” said Namor, drawing himself up. “If I determine from this operation that Talokan is indeed at risk, then I will stand at your side, Black Panther, and the side of these others, to defend her.”
Shuri felt like her knees might give out with relief. He’d said it, said it in public in front of M’Baku. She had succeeded. “I am grateful for this generous offer, Kukulkan, and I will ensure that the moment we find out from the War Dogs, I will relay the information to you.”
“Ah,” said Namor, smiling. “No, there will be no War Dogs. My gift is conditional, princess. I will go myself to this gathering, and find out with my own eyes and ears what it is that these Americans know of Talokan and vibranium, and if there is a threat, only then will I stand with you and with Wakanda’s defenders.”
The air seemed to have been sucked from the room. Shuri opened her mouth, but no sound came out. “You… want to go to a black-tie gala,” she croaked, horrified. “In America. You.”
“Yes. Just because I have lived five hundred years beneath the sea does not mean I cannot adapt to a surface culture’s traditions.”
“Well spoken,” said M’Baku. “But, ah, perhaps your first visit should not be an espionage mission, eh? Maybe get a little used to it first?”
“I have sufficiently educated myself,” said Namor, turning toward the king. “Many of your books in the libraries here contain information about America: its origins, its methods of government, histories, indigenous people, colonizers, customs, technology. Of course I would take the first opportunity to learn all I could of my enemy. What do you think I do all day when the princess is in her laboratory and you are sitting on this throne? Swim in the river and talk to the fish?”
Shuri, aghast, had absolutely no retort for that one. M’Baku burst out laughing and slapped his thigh. “Talk to fish!” he bellowed. “Ha! Very good. Shuri, get the Design Group back up and running at once. You will need tools and the right clothing for this operation. Okoye, you will facilitate Ross’s return to the States. When is this gala?”
Ross looked hopeless, but managed to say, “About two weeks out, sir.”
“Two weeks. Good, that’s enough time.” M’Baku beat his staff against the floor. Shuri barely heard his parting words to Ross or to the rest of the council as she tried to find her center: Okoye took the American man out, and M’Baku was speaking again. “In addition to yourself, K’uk’ulkan, who should go?”
Namor looked pleased at being asked his opinion. “Whose face among us is known to the American government as an enemy?”
“They know who Riri is,” said Shuri, glancing over at the other young woman. “So that exempts you.”
She shrugged. “That’s cool. I can sit in the van and run the radio like in the movies.”
“I’m still an undecided element as far as they know,” said Barnes. “But Shuri’s not on their radar at all. I don’t think they’ve realized there’s even a new Panther in town.”
“You’re right,” she said, shaking her head. “I used to run the outreach center in Oakland when my brother was still alive, and I went to a… fundraiser dinner with him in Los Angeles once for underprivileged youth?” That had been a blur: she had been only seventeen and hated every second, but enjoyed talking to the children. “As far as they know, I’m just a princess with a science hobby.”
“Good. The four of you, then. We’ll work out details later.” M’Baku ended the meeting, and Shuri trailed out with Riri. She had been so, so close to gaining her alliance, and it had been delayed another two weeks: she should feel frustrated, so why did she feel as if she had won a war?
“I’ll catch up with you in the lab, I guess,” said Riri, casting a knowing look over her shoulder, and Shuri half-turned her head. Namor had come up behind her, his hand just brushing hers, and she froze: he could not hold her hand as half the elders of Wakanda streamed out of the doors behind them.
“What are you—” she began, stammering.
“You look good,” Namor answered, the feathers on his helmet brushing her shoulders and cheeks as he turned his head away, then back toward her. When he next spoke, it was in a lower tone, something urgent and rough. “And I have missed you all day.”
Shuri’s heart leaped into her throat. “We can’t have this conversation here.”
“No? Where, then?”
“Just—oh, follow me.” She started walking, slowly, as if she was in no great hurry, and he trailed her steps. Down the main hall, into a side corridor, up a flight of stairs, and to a door she knew led to a linen closet she had used to hide in as a child when T’Challa and she had played hide and seek. It was roomy enough for both of them to fit, and she slipped in, her heart pounding, and held the door for him as he followed, squeezing the bulk of his armor and helm through the narrow opening. The door shut behind them, leaving them in a single bar of dim light from a slitted window in the wall high up against the ceiling. “Here,” she whispered, and heard a rustle and clack of pearls on pearls— then he was pressed up against her, all soft smooth warm skin and hard gold and soft woven cloak.
“Shuri,” he murmured into the space between their mouths, and she was gone, the stress of the meeting melting off as she clutched at his gold-armored shoulders, let him back her into the wall, cup the back of her neck, fingered the fiber strands keeping his mother’s bracelet on her throat. “You wore it.”
“Yes,” Shuri whispered, brushing his nose with hers. Half her skin scraped against gold. “Take your helmet off.”
“You don’t like my ko’haw?”
“I like it, but I’d like to kiss you more.”
He reached up, removed his heavy feathered serpent-headed headdress, and it hit the floor with an undignified thunk, but not before Shuri had gotten her hands on his now-bare face and pulled him in to kiss her. Namor groaned into her mouth, one hand slipping down and finding her legging-encased thigh, pulling her knee up to his waist. Gold bit into her flesh, and she felt him already hard beneath the long, hanging loincloth, the disc of vibranium pressing into her pubic bone. “Too many clothes,” he said between kisses, and moved his mouth to her jaw, to her throat, to almost reverently glide past the bracelet tied about her neck. A soft puff of warm air drifted along her skin. Shuri shivered. “You were beautiful in the dress I gave you,” he whispered against the hollow of her throat. “But seeing you in this gift is…”
“Maybe I could wear just the bracelet,” she suggested, sensing him go stiff. “And nothing else. Just for you.”
His voice was half a groan when he spoke again. “Princess—”
“After we succeed in our American mission, anyway.” Now who gives and takes gifts?
“We have two weeks until then.”
“Yes, and I’ll be working most of the time.”
Namor sighed. “Two long, long weeks. Fourteen sunsets.” He licked a hot, wet stripe along her exposed throat and she found herself making a hitching little sound, breathy and entirely unlike herself. “And you will make me wait this long?”
“You are five hundred years old, you can wait longer than that.”
“Cruel,” Namor murmured against her skin. “You are learning to play the game, I see.”
“Does that please you?”
“Yes. Not as much as—” He cut himself off with a grunt, canting his hips softly along her body, and she winced: the armor really did need to go. “I was thinking.”
“Of what?”
“Does it need saying? Of taking you.”
Her breath hitched again, almost a squeak. “Ta-taking me?”
“Throughout that entire council.”
She flushed with heat. “What, the whole time?”
“Yes. I was thinking when you came in, how lovely and regal you looked, and when you spoke, how clever you were, and how much I would like to—” Namor kissed her ear, brought his face back to meet hers, and kissed her again, hot and soft and deep, her back against the wall. “To have you on my throne in Talokan,” he finished, husky and hoarse. “You would have been a queen of queens down there among my people. The Black Jaguar, a goddess like none other. I would have dressed you in jade and vibranium, crowned you with gold and pearls and shells, and given you a throne.”
“There is only one god-king in Talokan,” Shuri managed to force out, trembling at the picture he was drawing with his words. Me, a queen of Talokan. The bracelet… “One throne.”
“Yes, there is only one throne, but my mouth would have been yours alone to sit as often as you liked,” he breathed, pressing his brow to hers. Shuri let out a half-choked giggle and kissed him, flustered and flushed.
“I thought your mouth was already my throne,” she said daringly, brushing her fingers along his jawline, up to his ear flares, and past them to the tapered, sensitive points. Namor shuddered and leaned into her touch, his lips parting. “Or have you already forgotten the gift I gave you yesterday?”
“Never,” he promised, a throaty whisper. “Must I beg it again? Perhaps you would prefer I gave the same gift to you?”
“Not yet,” Shuri told him, the thought of him looming over her in bed a tempting yet worrying prospect. Her belly wriggled in nervous excitement. “Show me how much you missed me. With your— with your hands.”
“My hands,” he repeated, brushing her hair with his nose.
“And I—” She swallowed, half nervous and half very, very aroused. Fear and desire go hand-in-hand. “I want you to p-put your fingers in me this time. Please.”
Namor pulled back very quickly, gazing at her. “Do you?”
“Yes,” she said more firmly. She could take that step, now, into an unknown; she trusted him enough to let him at least edge into that. "Just fingers. Nothing else."
“As you command, then,” he said softly, and pointed at the single counter to the right of her, the wide one used for folding linens. “Sit.”
“Sit— on the counter?”
“Yes. Bring your— here,” he said, and patted the edge. Shuri sat, feeling silly, and moved forward, feeling curiously reminded of the water, of his head below it, of the rock. “Stay just there,” Namor whispered, and removed both bracers, moving to stand between her thighs. He pulled off her shoes, tugged off her leggings, hooked her underwear in his fingers and drew them down, and then looked at her for a moment, a hungry expression on his face. “Lean back a little,” he instructed, and she did, trembling slightly. “Don’t be afraid, in itzia.” He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “Trust me.”
“I do trust you,” she told him and bit her lower lip, shivering as he ran his hands from her bare knees to her naked hips, up across her belly, then down again. Namor repeated the movement, mouthing at her throat and shoulder until she was warm all over, then ran his hand down flat over her pubic mound, cupping her gently and giving her soft pressure against her clit. She moaned through her nose and lifted her right knee, fighting the urge to shove her hips up at him. “C-could you do it harder—?”
He obliged immediately, rubbing in quick, firm strokes, and she let out a gasp, giving up and pumping her hips upward to meet his palm as her skin broke out in goosebumps and her heart rate sped up. “I w-w-want, I want, I—”
“I know what you want,” he whispered, leaning forward. “I know. Ah, look at you. My black panther. My jaguar.” Namor’s thumb was working at her clit, making her pant and strain as waves of pleasure pooled hot and warm in her pelvis, about to overflow. “You want my fingers?”
“Ye-e h-hessss—”
“Show me. Use your own.”
She thought she had misheard, but when she opened her eyes, shaking, on the brink, she saw those dark eyes gazing into hers, and Shuri clumsily reached down past his hand, ran her finger through damp, hot folds of thin skin, and slid it in, shy of his stare. A single finger really did nothing for her. “I— don’t normally, not, not like this when I, when—”
He sucked his index and middle fingers into his mouth, his cheeks hollowed as he wet them, then released them with a soft pop. “Then move your hand, princess.”
Shuri obeyed, and his slick index finger trailed down, testing the waters: he eased it into her body and she shuddered, moaning. His hands were so much bigger, thicker, broader and stronger, brushing against what felt like every nerve in her body, and his finger was moving, curling, pressing against the front, deep inside. “Wh-what’s—” And then he touched something entirely different that lit up every nerve in her spine and also bizarrely made her feel as if she was going to wet herself, and she yelped, her toes curling, stuffing her own damp fingers in her mouth and keeping herself upright with her other hand as he bent to his task. The muscles in his arm flexed and twitched as he slipped in a second finger alongside the first.
Too big, she thought desperately at first; then, almost as quickly, no, actually, it’s fine. Both his middle and index fingers were curling, pumping, beckoning in even, firm movements, and she was about to— she—
Namor put his other hand on her abdomen and pressed softly, her body the only thin barrier between his fingers and his hand, and that was the end. “Please, oh, no,” she choked, and arched her back, her foot kicking out against the wall as she came like she had never come before, mindlessly shaking as she bore down, muffling her shriek with her hands and squeezing her eyes shut. There was a distant sound, she thought as she rode the crest, of water being spilled on the floor. Namor’s cheek was pressed to her hip and he was grunting, mouthing against her skin, groaning: she was shaking so badly she could not move.
It passed at last, leaving her wrung out, thirsty, and trembling. She sat up when she was able to use her arms again and saw, bewildered, that Namor was soaked from shoulders to loincloth, his pupils dilated and his lips parted. Oh. I did that. I— I just— She knew that some people had bodies capable of such a thing, but had never dreamed she was one of them. Would he be insulted? Disgusted? “K’uk’ul—” she began, uncertain, and he let out a shuddering breath, pressed his open mouth to her wet skin, and laid a flat, hot stripe up her thigh, his eyes shut as he tasted her.
“I never dreamed that you could do that,” he whispered when he reached her hip.
“I didn’t know I could do it either. I never— before, I never—” Shuri wiped her forehead. It had become very humid in the closet, and smelled strongly of sex. Her left foot slipped in warm liquid as she tried to move forward. “Ah, Bast, I’ll have to— to clean it up.”
“I will do it,” Namor told her, and snatched a clean towel off the other shelf. “You sit and rest.”
Shuri pulled her knees back up, embarrassed but touched, and watched him; all gold and vibranium and jade, on his knees, wiping her body fluids off the floor of a linen closet. When he was done, she showed him how to throw the towel down the chute that led to the laundry, and slid off the shelf, knees still a bit wobbly as she picked her clothing back up and got dressed again. Everything below her waist felt puffy and tender, and she winced as she stood up straight and shifted her weight. “Oh,” she said, halfway through pulling her shoes back on. He hadn’t had his turn, and Shuri felt she ought to at least bring it up. “You, ah, you didn’t…”
“Two weeks, you said,” Namor told her with a small smile as he handed her one of her shoes. “I can be very patient when I need to be, princess.” Reaching for her throat, he let his fingers trace the bracelet one last time. “And I do not forget a promise,” he murmured, grazing her lips with his. Shivering, Shuri pushed her face forward to kiss him one more time, but he pulled back, eyes heavy-lidded, a small smile on his face. “Ah-ah. If I must wait, so will you.”
I guess that’s fair. “All right. You had better attend all my briefings, though.”
“I will.” Something shifted in his expression. “Wakanda first, yes?”
“Oh.” Shuri had almost forgotten the promise she’d made— that they had made to each other. “Yes.”
“Say it,” Namor prompted, his fingers gliding down her cheek.
“Wakanda first,” she swore, and put her hand over his heart. “And you?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. “Talokan… first and forever, princess.”
Shuri did not want to dwell too long on the look on his face when he said it. “Good. Now let’s go before someone finds us.”
Notes:
TRANSLATIONS:
- meent 'uts = yucatec mayan "please"
- in itzia = "my princess"
- ko'haw = "headdress"
Chapter 11: k'ak'
Notes:
man this chapter took me for EVER to wrangle and gave me so much shit rip in peace to me. also ao3 is bugging out and not letting me reply to like 90% of the comments but i am reading them all!! thank you all v much and please enjoy ch 11 aka namor is justifiably unhinged and arrogant as hell and it fucks everyone OVER. my flight home is in like 2 days and i may not be active for a while bc i have to dose my cats with anti anxiety meds im just WOW a lot going on anyway ENJOY!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Once, when she was small, Shuri had thought nothing was worse than waiting for an exciting thing to happen. You knew something wonderful was going to take place: a trip into the bush, a long holiday in the River Tribe lands with Mama or Baba. All your things ready, but the days stretched on and on and on, each one longer than the last, until the awful boredom of waiting for something to happen made you run around and shout and kick and scream.
She had been wrong. Two weeks of preparing for a mission in America with Namor of Talokan breathing down her neck in the lab, constantly asking questions, and trailing her with that smirk on his face down the hallways was far, far worse. I brought it on myself, she thought dismally as she flopped back on her bed, exhausted from another day of dancing around him. I told him to attend all my briefings. Ah, what have I done?
Even casually touching was torment: her hand brushing his elbow as she pointed to a blueprint, his fingers drifting along her lower back as he stepped past her to look at something Riri was doing, his shoulder nudging hers as he leaned over to touch the clothes the Design Group had made for them. Every touch was like a fire, licking up her skin, burning her heart out. Burning other places, too, especially at night when she tossed and turned, trying to sleep, then gave up and rolled over flat, using her own hands while she dreamed of his.
It’s not the same. Even her usual methods left her satisfied only physically: there was no rest for her mind. Does he suffer like I suffer? Once, she crept out of her room on noiseless feet, listening at his door like a spying child, but heard nothing at all and felt so stupid that she hurried back to her own room, heart pounding.
I will not give in. I said two weeks. I cannot bend before he does, I will not be weak.
They had obtained their invitations via the ordinary way: an enormous donation to the Meridian International Center resulted in two tickets. Barnes, a guest of honor, had been offered one through a War Dog contact at the Pentagon, and Shuri was attending as simply Princess of Wakanda, philanthropist and scientist filling her brother’s shoes. Namor, they decided, was going to be a curator from the Gran Museo del Mundo Maya in Mérida, attending separately from Shuri and Barnes. “You should appear friendly with each other,” Okoye told them both over a projection of Meridian House, “but do not appear to know Namor. It would be better if you arrived all separately, as well, just to make sure.”
Reservations had been made for them; at the Waldorf-Astoria, Barnes and Shuri in two separate rooms, and at the Washington Hilton, one room for Namor, under the name Diego Caamal. He had rankled a little at being expected to answer to a given Spanish name, but he had resigned himself to the indignity in stony silence.
The clothes were almost an afterthought to the planning itself, but that was what the Design Group was for, and they had provided them with full wardrobes. Namor had gotten a little testy when it had been implied that he should probably hide or bind down his ankle wings at the gala. Riri then pointed out that Barnes was hiding his vibranium arm with a glove. Not to be outdone, the Feathered Serpent of Talokan sat down in the lab and tried on socks for fifteen minutes, trying out different weaves and fits, until he settled on a pair that he liked, so that the design team could make several identical pairs.
Okoye had taken command of the operation, as the one with the most tactical experience, and she laid out the plan first in the lab to iron out wrinkles and then before M’Baku again: Shuri, Barnes, and Namor would arrive separately into Washington on two different days before the gala, then attend it, also arriving separately: Barnes and Shuri together, but Namor on his own. Shuri and Barnes would socialize, making rounds, and Namor would mingle and investigate as much as he could. Meanwhile, Riri and Okoye would be running technical support and standing by for a rapid exfiltration if necessary, cloaked in a Wakandan airship a block away from Meridian House.
Shuri felt bad for the ex-general as she watched her talk through the plan in the throne room. After dropping off Everett Ross, Okoye had become quieter and less open, rarely smiling and hardly even training in the yard anymore as she loved to do, mostly keeping to Shuri’s lab and throwing herself into mission planning.
M’Baku nodded slowly, considering all angles. “You will have your Panther habit, Shuri?”
“I will, my king,” she said.
“Good. We cannot afford to lose our Black Panther.” His eyes went to the small team: Barnes, Namor, Riri, Okoye. “With the White Wolf and the Feathered Serpent God in the room, I think you will all be safe, yes, and look out for each other?”
“As well as we can,” said Barnes.
“Eh, listen to me. I sound like a father sending his children to school.” M’Baku sighed, rubbed his temples, and shot a smiling glance over at Riri and Okoye, both standing respectfully with their heads down. “And with this scientist, I think you will be safe. As for…” He hesitated, something crossing his expression, his smile fading, and Shuri saw Okoye’s eyes, distantly focused on the floor. “As for Okoye,” he said gently, “there are no better hands to put you all in than the finest warrior ever born to Wakanda.”
Okoye swallowed and blinked a few times. “Thank you, my king,” she whispered.
“All right, go,” he said, dismissing them with a wave. “You leave early. Get some sleep.”
Okoye was sitting on the terrace against a pillar, looking out over the glittering lights of the Golden City when Shuri found her later, after the sun had set, painting the sky in streaks of purple and gold. “I brought you some food,” she said awkwardly, kneeling beside her with a paper box in her hands.
“I am not hungry.”
Oh. Well, perhaps another angle would work. “Attuma is worried about you.”
“Attuma,” she said scornfully, shaking her head. “He is not.”
“He is. He has nobody to spar with in all of Wakanda except Namora, and she’s started spending her days trying out new foods in the kitchen ever since I modified their breathers for them.” Shuri sat down beside her, listening to the gentle wind that kissed her skin and her hair. “I saw him wandering the halls two days ago, asking people where you were.”
“Liar,” said Okoye, half a smile faintly playing on her lips.
“No, it’s true,” insisted Shuri, glad to make her smile. “He was saying, where is the great warrior Okoye? I wish to spar, and everyone said you were working. Ah, he was so sad —”
“Stop it,” Okoye told her, chuckling a little despite herself. Then the gloom was back, her sad dark eyes looking at Shuri, but not really seeing her. “All I have done in years has brought me grief, Shuri. I cannot afford to let another thing in my hands fall apart.”
“Is this because of Ross?”
“Ross,” agreed the older woman, and looked out to the horizon again. “W’Kabi, imprisoned and exiled to the outskirts of Wakanda, our marriage now dissolved. I will never see him again. The Queen Mother—” Her voice caught a little, and she paused, regained herself, moved on. “And you, Shuri. Snatched from my hands by the same man I now must protect alongside you.” Okoye crossed her legs and bent her head. “The last command your mother ever gave me was to strip me of my rank. I was the best of the Dora Milaje. Now I am…”
“A good security advisor,” said Shuri, trying her best to be helpful. “One of my Midnight Angels. And my friend.”
A tear rolled down Okoye’s cheek, glittering in the dusk. “You are a kind child,” she murmured. “Sometimes you put me in mind of your brother.”
“He was better suited to ruling than I ever was,” said Shuri, hugging her own knees.
“Nobody is ever born suited to rule. You must be taught, and nobody taught you.”
She swallowed. “Baba used to say some were born to be kings, and others had the crown thrust on their heads by fate and chance.”
“Like your mother,” said Okoye softly. “But she was a great queen.” Turning to look at Shuri, she steadied herself and wiped her cheek. “I tell you this, Shuri, not to scold you or to shame you, but to speak the truth. You would have been an even greater one.”
Hot embarrassment flooded Shuri: what did she mean? “I— I was not ready.”
“No one ever is. Not for power, not for a change. Not for loss or war or a broken heart. But these times come anyway, and what we do when they come shows us who we truly are.”
“I gave the throne away when it came to me,” said Shuri, feeling so small and alone and unsure that she reached down to touch the hard floor of the terrace. “What does that say about who I am?”
“Who you were, ” corrected Okoye. “And you were lost and frightened and doubted yourself. All of us have such times. Even your mother. When you and T’Challa vanished for those five years…” She sighed and closed her eyes. “Ramonda was broken. There was no funeral, because there were no bodies. We could not grieve, could not put you two to rest, and she had to keep going. She pushed on, kept working, because to do otherwise would have been the downfall of Wakanda. That is what makes the heart of a ruler, of a leader. It is not prowess in battle, it is not physical strength. It is putting personal desires aside for the good of the people, even when you are lost and frightened and grieving.”
“I do not know if I could do that,” admitted Shuri. It felt good to say it aloud, to confess it. “I was not… raised for it.”
“You are Shuri, daughter of Ramonda and T’Chaka. You can do anything you set your mind to do,” said Okoye softly. Shuri, touched by the unexpected personal language, felt her eyes well up, and Okoye sniffed a little. “Ah, here I am weeping like a fool. Hand me that food.” Shuri grinned and slid the box over, and Okoye opened it, smelling the savory noodles and spiced meat inside. “We leave early, Princess. Don’t stay up all night.”
“I won’t,” she promised, getting back up. “I’ll see you tomorrow, sister.”
“Shuri?”
“Yes?”
“You be careful around Namor,” she said quietly, a forkful of noodles halfway to her mouth. “I would not trust him so freely if I were you.”
Shuri’s face burned. What does she know? Who told her? “He is our ally,” she said neutrally.
“Yes, but he will never put Wakanda before his own people. Keep that in mind.”
Talokan first and forever, princess.
“I will,” she said, and turned, making her way back to her room as quickly as she could go.
Waiting for Namor to check in was one of the most stressful things Shuri thought she had ever done. He’s forgotten his cover, she thought, pacing the hotel room while Barnes reclined on the sofa, napping. Gah, how can Barnes sleep at a time like this? Namor probably blew his own cover on the plane, why did I agree to let him fly commercial from Mexico? I did not even consider customs! Does he know how to get around an airport? Did his fake passport work? Did—
Her beads chimed. She slammed her finger on the bead and brought up a hologram of Namor, and relief flooded her. He was wearing his disguise very well. “Diego Caamal” wore a linen suit jacket and a simple white button-down, and with his jade ear ornaments removed and replaced by smaller, blue plugs, a dangling tassel hanging from one, he looked like some world-weary archaeologist on his way back from excavating an ancient Mesoamerican pyramid. Someone had trimmed the sides of his hair up a little, too. “You’re okay,” she said immediately, then bit her own cheek. Stupid! “I mean— did you check into the hotel all right? No trouble?”
“I did,” he answered smoothly as Barnes got up to peer at him. “Hello, White Wolf.” Without the nose plug, his face looked different, but certainly no less compelling. Or handsome, Shuri thought, then quickly banished the very idea. Focus!
Bucky grinned. “Hi. How was the flight?”
“I could have flown faster on my feet, but it was a very novel experience. The attendants gave everyone water and coffee at no cost, and I sat beside a very kind lady who would not stop showing me images of her fifteen grandchildren.”
Shuri had to giggle at the mental image. “You have all your things?”
“Yes. I will see you tomorrow night. We have much to discover.”
“Looking forward to it,” said Barnes, half-smiling.
“I did not direct that toward you, Wolf,” said Namor airily, and signed off, the signal dying. Shuri flopped backward and buried her face in her hands with a sigh as Bucky chuckled.
“Prickly old guy, isn’t he?”
“You could say that,” she mumbled. “Ugh. I am going to shower.”
“What, you don’t want to try on all your clothes? I think my suit’s pretty snazzy.”
“Snazzy? What is this, the nineteen-seventies? Nobody says snazzy anymore.”
He laughed, his teeth gleaming and the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. “Oh, sorry. Fly? Cool? Neat-o!”
“Stop!” She was giggling uncontrollably, the stress of the situation melting off.
“Oh, I know— lit, I got that one from Sam’s nephews—”
“Bast, you sound like a grandfather. Don’t you have a room to sleep in?”
Bucky grinned. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t forget we have to check in with Okoye,” he added on his way to the door.
“Oh, right.” Shuri activated her comms bead. “Okoye?”
“Present,” said the hologram floating above her palm. “As is Miss Williams.”
Riri’s head materialized to the left, near the border. “Oh, now, this is cool as hell. Hi, Shuri! Can you see me?”
“Yes, I see you,” said Shuri, laughing as a disgruntled Okoye pushed her back out of frame. “Namor has checked in. We are all ready to go. I’ll contact you in the morning.”
“Very good.” Okoye saluted her and the signal went dead, leaving Shuri alone in her hotel room. She exhaled hard, took a very long shower, threw on her sleepwear, and double-checked her Panther habit: all contained within the gold and vibranium alloy necklace made of a single, curved piece that rested on her neck. Then there was the dress, laid out for tomorrow night: a gown with a boat neckline, a low back and a slit up the left thigh in a serious, adult shade of rich, royal aubergine, patterned at the hem with black diamond shapes and gold embroidery that faded around her knees. Shuri went over it with a critical eye for any loose threads or wrinkles, then hung it up carefully in the closet. She had flat out refused to wear heels: they did not mesh well with the Panther habit, so instead she had seamlessly smooth ankle boots with diamond cutaways and a slight lift to the heel. Everything was perfect and ready, even her Kimoyo beads.
So why am I so nervous?
She went to the bathroom and lifted her chin, checking her hair. All was well: she had had it rebraided for this mission in box braids, and in the morning she would decorate them with the little twists of gold wire and the cuffs she’d brought from home, then twist them up in an elegant bun on top of her head for the evening.
You can do this, she thought sternly. You have Okoye and Riri waiting in case anything goes wrong; Barnes will be fine, and Namor can handle himself. Nothing should go wrong, apart from some interested questions about why a princess of Wakanda was attending so soon after her country had surrendered a CIA agent back into American custody. She’d practiced her reply for that one. “I have little control over the political decisions of our new king.” She tried it again, raising her chin and trying for very serene and aloof. “I have hardly any control over the political decisions of King M’Baku.” No, that sounded weird. “I have very little control over the decisions made at court under the leadership of—”
Ugh, no. It would not work. Hadn’t Ross said that the CIA sought to topple countries from within using perceived inner conflict? Would she not be playing into just that if she expressed dissatisfaction with the current king? Shuri groaned and put her face in her hands. T’Challa would have known what to say. She sighed, lifted her face again, and glared at herself. “Pull it together, you moron,” she whispered.
Her Kimoyo beads chirped, and she turned, wondering if Okoye had forgotten something, but instead there was a sound like someone was in pain, and a blurry image of Barnes’ face and shoulders swam over her communication bead. “Barnes?” she asked, immediately on the defensive. Had someone broken in? “Barnes, can you hear me?”
He made a strangled sound, then blinked, his face coming into focus. “Shuri,” he said hoarsely, dragging a hand over his face. “Sorry. Rolled over on my beads.”
“Are you all right?” Anxiously, she looked him over: there didn’t seem to be any marks on him, though she could not be sure.
“Fine.” He wrinkled his nose and looked away. “Nightmare,” he mumbled, as if he was embarrassed about it.
Oh. She pressed her lips together and looked down: she knew what that was like, though perhaps not to the extent Barnes might experience them. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Haven’t had one like that in a while. Thought they were getting better.”
“Do you want to come back over? My room has a kettle.”
“Yeah, if that’s okay. I…” Barnes pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled. “Thanks.” The signal sputtered out and Shuri sighed, heading over to the kettle. The water was boiling by the time Barnes knocked lightly, and Shuri let him in before hurrying back to pour it over the herbal teabags she’d found in their elegant little box.
“Was it a Winter Soldier dream?” she asked as they sat cross-legged on the floor with their backs against the sofa, sipping tea. Barnes wore a loose pair of pants and a plain gray T-shirt, and sweat still ringed the collar and stained the chest. “Or another one?”
“Another one,” he said, opening his medical bead. Shuri took note of the readings: the spike in respiration, the jump in his heart rate. Barnes closed the readings and leaned his head back, exhaling deeply.
“If you want to talk about it, you can,” she said, nudging him. “Remember, I have scans of your brain on file.”
“Yeah,” said Barnes, trying to smile. “Uh. Normally it’s nightmares about— memories of the Winter Soldier, you know. What I did. Like I’m locked into my body and can’t stop myself. Just playing, over and over. But this one was…” He cut himself off and shook his head, and Shuri put her hand on his right arm gently.
“You don’t have to tell me if it’s too personal.”
“Personal,” he said dryly. “You and Ayo tracked me down in the bush after I had a mental break. Early on. Remember?”
“Yes,” said Shuri. “It was not pleasant for you.”
“Not for you, either. Or Ayo.” His cheeks flushed a dim red. “Naked guy with one arm screaming in the grass, throwing rocks. You’ve both seen me at pretty much my worst.”
“It wasn’t a question of being a good or bad person, James,” said Shuri, wondering what he was trying to get at. “You were just… sick, and we were trying to help you get better.”
Barnes was quiet for a moment, rubbing his right thumb over his left, the vibranium one. “When I was… captured in ‘42,” he began, his voice soft, “they ran… they ran experiments on all their prisoners. I got handed to HYDRA, and they shot me full of their attempt at super-soldier serum.”
Shuri nodded. “I know that. Your DNA profile shows that it’s been altered.”’
“Yeah, not— not like Steve’s was, and not to the point that John Walker’s was, but enough to ensure falling off a train above a crevasse wouldn’t kill me.” He shut his eyes tight, exhaling hard again. “Uh, and that’s what I dreamed about. The train. The snow. Only this time I never hit the ground, I just kept falling, and trying to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound.”
She set her empty cup aside and sat back, her hands folded. Maybe we asked too much of him too soon, she thought nervously. “Do you want to shower?” Shuri asked.
“Yeah, I probably should,” he said, looking down at his damp shirt. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“You are not an inconvenience,” she told him firmly. “Would you like me to— I know sleeping alone was an issue for a long time for you. I can call Okoye to stand guard so you know someone’s there.”
“No,” said Barnes quickly. “No, that’s kind, but— I’d hate to bother her. I’m fine. And I don’t think it would help. I already did my little, uh, routine for the night.”
Shuri knew what he meant. It had taken him a long time to find a solid sleeping schedule after so many years of being cryo-frozen, thawed, and frozen again, and even after he had settled into a semblance of a routine he had still needed to double check every exit in a room, block it off for his peace of mind, and turn on white noise to sleep. The only place he really let his guard down was inside the walls of the Citadel, in the heart of Wakanda. “Why don’t you sleep in here, then? The sofa pulls out. Or you can have the bed and I can take the sofa.”
“I can’t kick you out of your bed,” protested Barnes.
“It’s one night. And we both need to be rested for tomorrow.”
“I… normally just sleep on the floor,” he muttered, ears turning red.
“That’s okay,” said Shuri. “I’ll grab you some blankets and a pillow. Go shower.”
Morning brought sunlight, jet-lag, and Barnes in her kitchenette making coffee by a plate of room service breakfast as Shuri shuffled in, wrapped in a blanket with her black silk bonnet on her head. “Ah, you’re the best ,” she mumbled, gulping down the coffee.
“No problem.” He looked much better than he had last night. “You know, in the war we used to dump the grounds in and boil them in a pot. Mouthful of grit, but man, it would wake you up.”
“Gross,” said Shuri, grinning. “I’ll check in with everyone.”
“Already did it.” Bucky wiggled his arm, showing her the beads. “Okoye and Riri say hi. Namor was a little weird.”
“You— oh. You called Namor.” Shuri paused, the hot mug clutched in her hands, unsure what she should say.
“Should I not have?”
“No, it’s just…” She took another gulp. “Weird how?”
Bucky frowned. “I asked how he was, just small talk. He said he was fine, slept like shit because he’s not used to beds, I said I understood that. Then he asked why I was making the morning check-in and not you, and I said you were still asleep, and he said I should call you just to make sure nothing had happened to you, and I said I was pretty sure you were fine, because I was looking right at you, and he got kind of…”
“Oh, Bast,” said Shuri wearily, closing her eyes.
“Uh, not really upset, just kind of weird and cold, and he said something about going out to find food and signed off.”
Shuri sank forward and plunked her forehead onto the counter, groaning. “Great. Just great.”
“Huh,” said Bucky, crossing his arms over his chest. “So it is like that.”
Panic grabbed her by the throat as she jerked back up to a sitting position. “Like what? What’s like what? Nothing’s like anything!”
“Oh, come on, Shuri. Really?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying—”
His blue eyes gleamed with humor. “Seriously? Ayo and I have a running bet on who’s going to catch you two first in a broom closet. Aneka already lost. She said before the end of last week.”
Shuri covered her face as her cheeks burned, at an utter loss for words. “How many people know?” she whispered, miserable.
“Suspect, not know, but it’s not like either of you are being super subtle. Especially after that night out.”
She brought her face up to glare at him. “How many people, James?”
He raised a brow. “Me, Ayo, Aneka, and Okoye’s probably starting to catch on.”
“And Riri,” mumbled Shuri. “Please, please promise me you won’t say anything to M’Baku. The last thing I need is him deciding that he can’t trust me on diplomatic matters with Talokan because of— whatever this is we have going on.”
“Would it be so terrible to let someone else do the heavy lifting for a little bit?” asked Barnes.
“Yes! I am the Black Panther, it’s my job! And I already spent like two months in Haiti away from everyone, and if I don’t— if I’m not— Wakanda’s going to fall apart,” she managed, burying her face in her hands again. “You don’t understand. I have to be— I have to be perfect .”
“You don’t,” said Barnes gently. “Shuri. You really don’t.”
“Yes, I do. If I put one foot wrong…” She shook her head, barely able to speak. “Just don’t tell anyone,” she whispered, wiping her wet eyes. “Please.”
“I promise I won’t,” he said, sliding her a glass of orange juice. “But if you need to go find Namor and have a conversation, you better be real discreet, because Okoye and Riri have us on surveillance.”
She downed the juice and sighed. “You’re right. And I have to pretend I don’t know him. Uuugh. ”
“Try the beads. I’m gonna go dress. Give you some privacy.” Barnes slid his empty plate into the sink. “Don’t forget to eat something, okay?”
“Okay,” she mumbled, and shoved a piece of toast into her mouth as he left. It might as well have been wet cardboard. Shuri chewed, swallowed, and pinged Namor with her comms bead. Please answer, she begged silently, biting her lip, but the moments dragged on, the beads chiming out an unanswered call, and Namor did not pick up.
“He’s fine,” said Bucky for what had to have been the hundredth time as they slid into their rented Uber Lux that evening. Someone had tipped off the paparazzi, and flashes lit up both of them in rapid succession, giving Barnes the look of a stop-motion marionette as he helped her into the car. “He’s been checked on by surveillance.” They couldn’t publicly give names, especially not with the driver listening.
“I know,” said Shuri, folding her hands tightly. The vibranium necklace resting on her collarbones felt as light as air, an ineffective armor against the waiting night. “Thank you for asking.”
After that, they rode in silence. She nibbled her lip and looked out of the window, and back at Barnes. He had gotten a haircut before leaving Wakanda, and his suit, she had to admit, was a very nice one: a black-tie, classic tuxedo, perfectly tailored and subtly patterned so as to catch the light with tiny, woven V shapes. The glove on his hand was bulky, designed to impair the vibranium arm’s movement and mimic an American prosthetic, but after a few drinks Shuri didn’t think anyone would notice. He had shaved, too, and the shadows under his high cheekbones looked painted on as they passed under streetlights.
“You’ll do fine,” he said as they turned down 16th Street. “Just be natural.”
“I’ve just realized something,” she said softly. “This is the first formal event I’ve gone to since my mother— no, since my brother died.”
Bucky said nothing, but he reached across and put his warm hand over hers briefly. “You’ll be great,” he repeated. The car slid to the curb, and Bucky got out to open the door for her. Shuri steeled herself as he extended his hand, and when she took it, slipping out of the warm dark of the car’s interior into an explosion of cameras and shouts from the curb, she wasn’t Shuri anymore, she was Princess of Wakanda, with a princess’s neutral face and a princess’s perfect posture. Barnes escorted her in: they walked through the wrought iron gates hanging from their brick posts, and up a long drive crowded with milling guests in their best attire. She smiled, showed her invitation, was shown the entrance; then they were inside, and Shuri felt like she could breathe again.
Barnes exhaled. “Champagne?”
“I’m all right for now, thanks. Let’s…” Shuri glanced up, unable to escape as a beaming face she recognized from American news headed for her, flanked by three senators and a United Nations chair member. “Ah. The conversation will come to us, it seems.”
And it did: what seemed to be ages and ages of pointless conversation. Shuri had been brought up to handle small talk, though, and deftly accepted what people seemed to want to give her: first, condolences; second, admiration; and third, offers of if you need anything just let me know, here’s my email. My number. My secretary’s number. On and on, rinse and repeat.
Barnes finally pulled her away from the knot of people and over to the bar, where he downed a glass of champagne and sighed. A young woman sidled up to him, grinning. “Can I get a selfie, Sergeant Barnes?”
“Sure,” he said tiredly, and leaned over for the photo. The woman thanked him and raced back to her friends. Shuri had to laugh at the look on his face.
“Not a fan of public gatherings?”
“You wouldn’t be either if you were me.” He slid her a flute of champagne. “Cheers.”
She raised it to him in a mock toast and sipped it. Fruity, dry, and bubbly. And it won’t do a thing. “Should we try for the back garden?”
“Maybe. Or we should split up. I’ll see what I can do.”
“What, on your own?”
He gave her a wry look. “This is American politics, Shuri. The types of conversations you’re going to have at a get-together like this are gonna be real different than the types of conversations old powerful white guys are having with each other. And half these senators’ fathers were in office when I was in the European theater. They’ll trust me.”
Shuri had not considered that. “You have your beads?”
“Yeah. Meet you later.” He moseyed off into a circle of white-haired old men with American flag pins on their lapels, and Shuri watched as their eyes all lit up, delighted to welcome this old war veteran into their midst. He is right, she thought. I could not pull that off.
Then she caught a glimpse of color, of faces turning, eyes lighting up, whispering behind hands, and her heart almost stopped in her throat as Namor walked into the room. All eyes momentarily went to him, including hers, and before their eyes could meet she turned her head, pretending to look at an artwork on the wall before she chanced it and tried again, her eyes drifting over him as if he was nobody.
He wore white pants, gleaming brown leather shoes, and a double-breasted coat of ocean-green silk that shone in the light with circular rippling patterns: instead of a tie, he wore a beaded, brightly-colored medallion around his throat, under his collar, and around his left ear curled a copilli set with a spray of bright yellow and blue feathers, a long one hanging down and brushing his shoulder as he walked. He was not a very tall man— M’Baku made him look as big as a child, but something about the way he carried himself was… Shuri could not breathe. He looked— he looked—
A woman stopped him, a small lady wearing a colorful rebozo over her shoulders stopped him, and said something. He replied, but Shuri could not hear what they were talking about; the woman beamed in excitement, and he gave her a bright smile back. A pang of annoyance struck Shuri to the quick. She turned and politely asked for a glass of scotch, and received a cut-glass tumbler with an inch of amber liquid in the bottom. If he wants to pretend he does not see me, let him pretend.
“Wow,” said a voice to her right. She turned, blinking, to see a thirty-something, blonde woman in a blue evening gown who had clearly had plenty of drinks already and who was beaming at her. “Princess Shuri?”
“I am,” she replied, and sipped the scotch.
“Representative Claudia Smith, Democrat, New Jersey,” gushed the woman, holding out her hand. When Shuri did not take it, she withdrew it, still yammering away. “I had no idea you’d be attending! Can I just say, I am so sorry for your losses?”
“You may say what you wish,” said Shuri coolly. What do you know of loss?
“I want you to know that I was super, super against challenging Wakanda’s sovereignty in the UN. God. What a mess.” The representative sipped her margarita and shook her head. “But, hey, the Pentagon. What are you gonna do, right?”
“You are referring to the Speaker of the United Nations challenging my mother on the use of vibranium?”
“Uh-huh. And then marching in those French guys? What a move!” Claudia smiled brightly.
Shuri forgot about Namor for a blinding second. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the political side of anything,” she lied, trying to smile convincingly. “But my mother was a force to be reckoned with.”
“She totally was!” Claudia set her glass on the counter. “Ugh, I had more bills on my desk to look at this week, and half of them were about Wakanda. Sanctions, something about terrorism? It’s crazy.”
“Terrorism?” Shuri’s mouth went dry.
“Yeah, I mean—” Claudia’s eyes went a little unfoggy for a moment. “You don’t have any, like, political input, right?”
“Not at all,” Shuri said, laughing. “No, I’m a scientist.”
“Right! Outreach programs, I know. Such an awesome thing to do. But like…” She took another sip of margarita. “Okay, so word was on Capitol Hill that you guys kidnapped some CIA agent, and they were saying it’s an act of terror and trying to run a bill through the House sanctioning justified retaliation? But then I guess last week the guy turned up in an alley in Jersey, banging on the FBI field office door in Hoboken, so now all the wind’s out of their sails.”
“That’s crazy,” said Shuri, heart pounding.
“Yeah. Congress told us that they’re in negotiations with the Wakandan government, though, so hopefully it gets resolved, but man. I’m so sorry about all of this.”
“Oh, no, it’s totally fine. Let me buy you another drink.” Shuri flagged down the bartender and bought Representative Smith a vodka tonic, and left her sipping on it while she went to the bathroom and sent a text message through her beads to Okoye silently.
Americans were using Ross’s extraction as springboard for retaliation.
Plan dead in water thanks to our returning him.
Nothing yet on vibranium.
Will update.
She checked her reflection in the mirror, washed her hands, and headed back out. More people had arrived, and dinner would begin at any moment. She caught sight of Barnes, speaking with a few men, but not Namor, and wondered where he had got to, but the doors were opening and people were laughing, chatting, filing through: she had to go in and sit down.
Dinner was subpar, in Shuri’s opinion. Everything was bland and overcooked, but she made herself right at home with a few diplomats from Tunisia and Switzerland on either side. She did not miss the curious, greedy looks at her necklace, but pretended to ignore them. The unspoken thoughts were almost audible to her. Is it vibranium? the faces seemed to say. What could I buy with that? Trade for that? Who would I kill for that?
She had finally caught sight of Namor again at another table: he seemed to be having the time of his life chatting up the Colombian ambassador and explaining Mesoamerican customs in great detail to a fascinated young Mexican man across the table from him.
“You said you are a curator, Señor Caamal?” asked the man as they started filing out for dancing and dessert in the back garden. “I will have to come to Mérida and hear you lecture.”
“Oh, I am not often in the city,” Namor said. “I prefer to be out on the water. But you should go there anyway: the museums are beautiful.”
Shuri fell back on purpose so that she was walking alongside him. “Perdone,” she said softly, and noticed a tendon in his neck jerk as if he was trying to stop himself from looking at her. “I could not help but notice your ear cuff. It is called a copilli, is it not?”
“It is,” he said smoothly.
“It is very beautiful,” she said. They exited the wide back doors and went out into the back garden, which was spacious, dotted with oak and beech trees, and hung with lights that cast a warm golden glow down on the attendees and the tables that dotted the garden. The young man hurried off, and then Shuri and Namor were alone, but still surrounded by people as they meandered through the garden. “Diego Caamal, wasn’t it?”
A muscle clenched in his jaw. “Yes. And you must be the princess of Wakanda. Shuri.”
“I am.”
“Your Spanish is very bad,” he said bluntly. “You use perdone when you are asking for someone to repeat something, or apologizing. You should have said perdón.”
Shuri held her head very high. “I see. I apologize for my mistake, sir.”
“Your apology for that, at least, is accepted.” The delicately pointed tips of his ears had seemed to get no odd glances from the other guests, and Shuri wondered for a brazen moment what he would do if she simply leaned over and kissed them.
“Is there more I must apologize for?”
“We will see. Where is your little dog?” His eyes gleamed with something Shuri did not want to goad on too much.
“My dog, sir?”
“Yes, princess of Wakanda. You entered accompanied by a white dog with one leg of precious metal. You must have lost him. How sad.”
I am going to kick him in the shins. “Sergeant Barnes is likely speaking to other guests. Shall I introduce you to him?”
“I can think of nothing I would like less at the moment.” His tone was acerbic and cold. “Tell me, princess, does the dog sleep in your bed, or at your feet?”
“On the floor,” she retorted, keeping her face calm. “He has nightmares, and finds the presence of another in the room a comfort.”
A muscle in Namor’s cheek twitched. “Yes, I am sure there are many who would find your presence in a room comforting.”
“You forget yourself, sir,” she said very regally, drawing herself up. “I am Princess of Wakanda.”
“I have not forgotten myself, princess,” he said, casting his voice low. “But perhaps you have.” The music started up, and Shuri made herself look over at the crowd as people began to dance.
“We both have,” she whispered in the brief moment when nobody was looking at them. “People know.”
“About what?”
“About us.”
“So?”
She closed her eyes, barely tamping down her frustration. “You will treat this seriously. I cannot afford to lose any more trust.”
Nothing could have been cooler than his tone. “I am not in a mood to be commanded today, princess.”
Shuri swallowed down a shriek of rage. “Please,” she gritted out through her teeth.
“Please what?”
“Please treat this operation seriously and do not let anyone find out we are— we—are involved.”
He chuckled. “Oh, are we? It has been so long it almost slipped my mind.”
Bast, she could strangle him sometimes. “You are—” but someone was moving through the crowd towards her: it was Barnes, and with him a man she had only met twice before, but she recognized him at once. A black American with a small mouth that smiled easily, a neat goatee, and beautifully upturned eyes like a cat’s, he wore a smart tuxedo and his face lit up when he caught sight of her.
“Mr. Wilson!” she said, delighted as he reached for her hand.
“Princess Shuri,” he answered, grinning as he kissed it.
Namor went as still as a statue. “And who is this?” he asked.
“Sam Wilson. The new Captain America.” Bucky looked tense. “Shuri, he’s got something to tell you that you’re probably gonna wanna hear.”
“I thought you were in hiding.”
“Nah, not anymore. Have to find a way to pay the bills, right? I got my family hiding, though. My sister and her kids. I got an invitation to this ball, but between you and me, I felt like it might be a trap. Came anyway, just in case. My other suit’s in the car.” He hooked his thumbs into his lapels and flapped them.
Shuri frowned. “I built your suit with nanotechnology. You should be able to pack it inside a watch, or…”
“Yeah, if I had the tech to do that, which I don’t.”
“Well, what’s the information you have for me?” she asked, hotly conscious of Namor’s glare.
“It’s Torres,” said Sam, wincing. “Friend of mine. Intel officer. The CIA director snapped his ass up for her little Avengers project, and I’ve been playing like I’m not sure yet, I don’t know, stayed in touch. He said he’s been present at a couple meetings with Walker where she’s stressed the need for America to get their hands on vibranium, and presented it to them as a ‘Wakanda definitely has vibranium nukes, this is all about world peace’ situation.”
“But we don’t have weapons of mass destruction,” said Shuri, shocked.
“Yeah, I know that. Same shit as Iraq, right? History repeats itself, but Torres is, like, twenty.”
“Twenty-four,” put in Bucky.
“Whatever. Point is, he’s a kid, and one of his intel buddies— absolutely no connection to the CIA at all— caught sight of an email from the Pentagon about the potential of vibranium for some sort of human resources project, and now Torres is a little more on the fence now than he was before. He tried to ask the director about it and she threatened his family if he didn't comply. Then he stopped calling me."
Human resources. Shuri felt ill. Was Riri right? A super-soldier program? “If they are monitoring what he says to you,” said Namor suddenly, “and you have been given this information to give to us, then this gathering may be a trap.”
Sam did a bit of a double-take. “Uh, who are you again?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Bucky quickly. “He’s a friend.”
“An ally,” corrected Namor, staring daggers at both of them.
“Never mind that, if this gala could be a trap…” Shuri scanned the exits and saw what she had not seen before, so caught up in conversation: a man in a simple tuxedo at every exit, not really guarding the doors but staying close by. “I think,” she said cautiously, “we should stay until everyone else leaves. No scene, no mess. If they want to apprehend us, they can do it in front of everyone.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Bucky. “Dessert, some dancing. I think one of the interns at the Danish embassy was making eyes at me.”
“Making eyes? Dude, this is not 1939.” Sam looked exasperated. “All right, fine. We’ll mingle. Should I grab my suit? I think I should grab my suit.”
“Have it on hand, just in case,” said Shuri. “Spread out and stay within eyesight of each other, yes?”
“Got it,” said Bucky, heading off toward the bar. Stepping aside for a moment, Shuri contacted Okoye: Are you reading any strike teams on the ground?
The answer came back via text. No. Should we be reading them?
Unsure. We are playing it by ear. Stay alert.
I am always alert, came the response, and Shuri smiled and flicked off her comms bead, then looked up to see Sam Wilson and Namor giving each other very long, hard looks. “Bast,” she said wearily. “Mr. Wilson, please go get your suit.”
“Yeah, okay,” said Sam, narrowing his eyes one more time at Namor before walking off.
Shuri turned to him, hands on hips. “What was that about, Mr. Caamal?”
He whirled on her sharply, eyes blazing. “You give me some colonizer identity and expect me to play along with all these people; I do it willingly. You ask me to pretend I am a museum curator and not my own self; I submit to this indignity. You toy with me, and I smother my anger. Why? Because it is all for the cause of finding information from these people, who are our common enemies. And now you say that this man, Wilson, is a great warrior and champion of this nation, a nation that slaughtered its own people, that enslaved and murdered and conquered, and you expect me to smile and be polite to him and treat him as an ally? This, princess, I will not do.”
Shuri pressed her hands together, put her fingertips between her eyebrows, and exhaled as long and hard as she could without huffing. “Sam Wilson has been an ally of Wakanda since before he was Captain America. He risked much to tell us what he just did. Just because he is Captain America does not mean he represents their government. It is… complicated.”
“You seem to have many complicated allies that stand between lines.”
“Have you ever considered that the world has very complex politics and sometimes people are not good or bad but something in the middle?”
“Yes, which is why I prefer my point of view. Every threat to my people is my enemy. It is much simpler, I think.”
“I cannot afford to be simple when my people’s safety is on the line,” she said coldly. “Wakanda first. I promised. Or have you forgotten?”
“Oh, I have not forgotten,” he said, his voice gone dangerously soft. “And now, people are looking at you.”
Shuri held her head high, markedly conscious of the eyes on the pair of them. She forced a smile as if he had said something amusing. “Stop scowling, then,” she said through her teeth.
“I will do as I please.”
“If you look like you’re going to start fighting the princess of Wakanda, someone will come over here to intervene and it will make a scene.”
“Then dance with me.”
“What?”
“Barnes already has a woman and no one is looking at them.” Shuri glanced over and saw Bucky doing a simple two-step with a pretty brunette in a dove-gray gown, and swallowed. “So. Come dance.”
“I hope I step on every single one of your toes,” she said, smiling brightly as he took her arm and led her out under the strings of soft lights, then turned her to face him, his hands resting lightly on her waist as she placed her hands on his shoulders, for lack of a better place to put them. His body heat was still as warm as a sun, soaking through her palms, and his hands warmed her waist through the silk of her gown. “Are people still staring?”
“No,” he answered.
“You didn’t even look.”
“I don’t need to.”
Shuri looked up at him, all her anger and frustration condensing down into a sharp, cold point. “I am not going to apologize for taking care of my friend last night. Your anger over that is your own to handle. My duty right now is to my people, and to yours, in order to protect them both from whatever is coming for us. If you wish to sulk and insult my allies like a petulant child, then you are welcome to do so. But I will not indulge in allowing my emotions to rule me while we are here. Am I clear?”
Namor’s hands tightened briefly. “A panther with a spine of vibranium,” he said very quietly after a moment. “Will wonders never cease?”
“I asked you a question,” she said, refusing to allow herself to crack.
“You did. And you are very clear. I will… tolerate your allies, then, for whatever duration that I must.” His right hand slipped off her waist and followed the line of her body up to her shoulder, where he cupped her upper arm, slipping down past her elbow and up again, his hand briefly covering hers.
“What are you—”
“Doing?” he finished, pulling her hand off his shoulder and holding it gently out from their bodies, his left hand splaying out against her bare lower back. “The waltz. Did you not hear the music change?”
“I— no,” she said, blinking. It had changed, he was right. The band was playing Strauss, and several other couples were excitedly starting to waltz, though about half of them had no idea what they were doing. Namor was not among them: he pulled her body in closer and began to lead. Shuri followed, stunned at the grace of his footwork and the way he effortlessly pulled her along, guiding her through the steps. “Where did you learn to dance like this?” she whispered.
“I told you. Reading.” His white teeth gleamed a moment as he walked her through a twirl, and a few people made sounds of surprised approval as her skirt flared out, billowing with flashes of gold from the embroidery. Namor pulled her back into his personal space. “I read about all the classic American ball dances. It’s much different doing this below the water than above it.”
Shuri had to laugh at the idea of him trying to waltz underwater. “You’re very good,” she admitted.
“Namora thought I looked like a madman.”
“We’ll have to bring them both something back from America. Would they like that?”
He grinned. “A good idea. Perhaps I will capture your president and bring him back for Attuma to defeat in single combat. He would like that very much.”
Shuri snorted despite herself. “I don’t think you can get that in the White House gift shop.”
“Can I cut in?” asked Bucky quietly, giving Namor a look as he edged up on the pair of them. Namor’s smile faded, but he must have seen the urgency on Bucky’s face, because he begrudgingly switched places with Barnes and started to dance with the woman in gray, who looked delighted. “Hi,” said Bucky, his gloved hand resting on Shuri’s waist and leaning in to whisper. “Sam’s got the suit.”
“Oh, good,” said Shuri, relieved as he pulled back. “Are those men still hovering around the exits?”
“Yeah. Sam thinks they’re just normal security, not CIA. They let him out to get his stuff and back in again.”
“Okoye said she didn’t see any sign of a strike team in the area. So this really might have all been a false alarm?”
“Hey, that’s undercover work for you,” said Bucky, smiling. “Stressful. Give you an ulcer if you don’t watch out.”
Shuri shook her head with a sigh. “Well, it’s easier if all I have to do is keep an eye on Namor.”
“You guys fighting?”
“Not… really.” She bit her lip. “I mean, sort of. But he’s still committed to seeing this through, if you are worried about that.”
“Okoye told me to watch my back around him.” Barnes sighed. “Not really the type of guy you trust, huh?”
“Not really,” she had to say.
“Well, at least he likes you.”
Does he, though? she thought as Bucky took her through some more steps. Or does he just see me as a means to strengthen Talokan? Am I simply a source of something he cannot get anywhere else? Doubt filled her, her reason warring with memories of fingers in her mouth, open kisses, moans. No, I cannot doubt. Not now. Later, when we are all safe and home in Wakanda. I’ll ask him directly. Focus, Shuri.
“It is called a copilli,” she heard Namor explaining to the dark-haired woman as they swept past each other. “The feathers…”
An hour later, Shuri was glad she had worn boots and not heels. Most of the guests were drunk, laughing, and dancing to louder music, and her toes were sore. Barnes and Wilson had gone off to the bar to chat, the briefcase containing Wilson’s suit safely stowed in the men’s room inside the house, and Namor had loosened up quite a bit, dancing on the floor with several of the Colombian ambassador’s interns and secretaries. He likes people, she thought, watching him laugh and spin a woman who must have been in her seventies around in a circle. He’s just so proud and arrogant that he does not really… see them as his equals.
A voice by her elbow spoke, startling her out of her reverie. “Yo! Hey! You’re that princess!”
She turned her head to see a young white man in an untied red bow tie and unbuttoned shirt, gaping at her. There was something markedly unpleasant about his face, which seemed to have too much forehead and too small of a mouth, and his brown-blond hair was plastered flat with sweat. He had also been drinking. She could smell it on him, as if alcohol was oozing from every pore. “I am Shuri, Princess of Wakanda,” she said icily.
“Yeah, I know, I saw you on the news!” He slid closer, reeking of sweat and cheap cologne, and fumbled with his phone. “Can I get a sound byte for my podcast? I’m Madison. Madison Bower, from Turning Right, USA. We love Wakanda. I actually used you guys as an example in my staged debate at Liberty University like a month ago as an example of what people can accomplish when there’s no, you know, government handouts—”
“I am sure I do not know what you mean. Wakanda has a vast social support network that assists the elderly and ill,” said Shuri, even more coldly.
He laughed, a little awkwardly. “Yeah, but your people are all… you all work really hard. There’s no, like, lazy welfare queens like here in America or constant wars like in the rest of Africa or—”
“You may be silent,” said Shuri, turning to face him. “I do not know who you think you are talking to, Mr. Bower, but I am the princess of a sovereign nation, and I do not consent to being used as a puppet for American political arguments.”
“I’m not using you, I’m using your country—”
“My country? Tell me, Mr. Bower, where did you receive your degree in Wakandan internal politics? Wakandan history? Have you visited there? Seen it yourself?” His face went red as a beet. “Yes, that is what I thought. You will kindly remove my country’s name from your mouth from here on. If anything, the absence of conflict and impoverishment within Wakanda can be credited to the fact that no American or European powers ever colonized us, enslaved our people, or stole our resources. Perhaps you should bring up that point at your next little… university visit.”
“You know what? Fuck Wakanda,” he spat, almost dropping his phone. “I’m not surprised you people are all spewing a bunch of anti-Western, politically-correct bullshit—”
She had to smile at his little childish tantrum. “Truth is truth, Mr. Bower, regardless of politics, and if you take offense to it then you are an even greater fool than I initially took you for.”
Bower reached out and grabbed her by the upper arm, squeezing hard. It did not hurt, but she stared at him, more astounded at his audacity than anything else. “You fu—”
Crunch.
There was a sudden flurry of teal, white, and brown. Madison Bower’s face— actually, his whole body—went rocketing away from her, his nose exploding in a burst of blood as he smashed into a nearby tree hard enough to rattle lightbulbs out of the strands above. Shuri turned, gaping, and saw Namor, face alight with rage, one fist smeared with blood and his pristine white shirt spattered. Someone shrieked from the bar, pointing at Bower’s folded form. “What have you done?” she gasped as security began to run over.
Namor wiped his hand on his shirt. “He insults you. Your people, who are my allies. Was I supposed to allow him to continue?”
“I mean, no, but we are supposed to be low-key — I was taking care of it!” She turned to the two black-suited guards, putting on her best smile. “I am so sorry, gentlemen. I believe this man has had too much to drink.”
“Oh, my god,” cried a woman, crouching by Bower’s body. “He’s— there’s no pulse, he’s —”
Shuri felt cold all over and shot Namor a horrified look as she scrambled to Bower’s side. If this man is dead, we have just blown our cover. She pressed a Kimoyo bead to his chest, ignoring the whispers. “Griot,” she said. “Vital signs.” This was, after all, a human being, despite his deplorable behavior and words.
“None detected, princess.”
Correction.
Had been a human being.
Now he was with his ancestors, whoever they were.
“Oh, Bast,” she whispered, staggering up to her feet. “Somebody please call an ambulance.” A man whipped out his phone, quickly calling, and someone put a jacket over the red wreck of Bower’s face. Her head spun. I could have simply dealt with him quietly, and now...
“Sir, you’re going to need to come with us,” said one of the security officers, whipping out a pair of handcuffs, and Shuri whipped her head around, panic choking her as Namor simply scoffed, staring at the two men as if they were children at play.
“That is not going to happen,” he said dismissively.
The two men exchanged looks. “Uh, yeah, it is. Hands behind your back.”
Namor’s nose flared until two pale dents appeared. “I caution you. Lay a hand on me and you will end up like that boy.”
“Okay, that’s a count of threatening a police officer. You really want to do this?” Oh, of course they were off-duty police, hired as security for this. Shuri wanted to scream. Everything was falling apart in her hands like wet tissue paper. No, no, no!
Namor lifted a brow. “I would very much enjoy it, yes.”
“Stop,” she said desperately, making her way between Namor and the first officer. “Please, stop. There does not need to be any more violence. Mr. Caamal, I appreciate that you were defending me, but you really must cooperate with these men. Wakanda will show you generosity and assist you in— in finding legal counsel.” Please, she begged silently with her eyes. Please don’t kill anyone else.
Namor looked at her for a very long moment, then nodded, once and sharply. “Then I surrender,” he said with a little sarcasm, and the two men cuffed him, hands behind his back and began to march him to the gate. Guests were pointing, gasping, holding up their phones, and Shuri felt another pang of terror flash through her: now he was being recorded, and the whole world would know his face in minutes. She followed behind, her heart pounding.
Barnes came rushing up, Wilson in tow. “What the hell was that? I thought we all had an eye on him!”
“I— he— he— I have to call Okoye.” She fumbled with her beads. “It will be all right. We’ll drive behind the car. They’ll take him in for processing, we can get him out quietly later tonight. He just has to—”
Another guard stopped her at the gate as the other two officers took Namor through. “Sorry, ma’am. You can’t go out through here.”
“What do you mean, I cannot?” she asked, drawing herself up. “I am Princess of Wakanda, and I will go where it pleases me to go.”
“This exit’s closed.”
“Listen to me,” she said urgently. She could see Namor through the gate, even hear some of the words the officers were saying. I am so close. I just have to— “If you do not let me through this gate, something very bad is going to happen.”
He might as well have been made of stone. “You can’t pass, ma’am. Exit’s closed.”
Behind the locked gates, she heard one of the officers as he patted down Namor. “You got anything on your person you want to tell me about?” Namor was silent, viewing them both impassively. “You’re not a real big guy, pal, and you killed that man with a single punch. You have needles in your pocket? Steroids?”
“Hey, you need to listen to the princess,” said Bucky angrily.
“I said, the exit’s closed.”
The officer past the gate was still talking. “Drugs of any kind? Heroin? Cocaine? Methamphetamines?” Namor did not answer. The second officer was writing on a pad. “You know what, Jim, I think we’ll just take this guy down to the station, make a few calls, and let the FBI deal with him.”
“Listen, bud,” said Sam, bewildered at what was going on but still trying to help. “Move out the way, all right? Just let her through.”
The guard’s eyes landed on Sam. “Are you threatening me, sir?”
Wilson laughed incredulously, shaking his head. “Oh, it’s gonna be like that, huh?”
Shuri tore herself away from the three arguing men and stared helplessly through the gate as the other officer, smirking, tugged Namor around to the side of the unmarked police vehicle waiting for him. “What, not a single answer? You can't talk?" He laughed, and put his hand on Namor’s head to shove him down and into the back seat as he said the word that sealed his fate. “Dumbass.” Then, he made to push Namor into the rear of the vehicle.
Namor did not move.
Beyond the gate, the officer tried again to push him down, struggling. “Hey— stop resisting! Bill, I need some help over here—”
The first officer came around, and reached for Namor’s head. There was a small sound, tinny and metallic, and one of Namor’s hands came up, gripping the man’s wrist. The officer’s eyes bulged with shock as he realized that the handcuffs had been snapped as easily as a toothpick. Namor twisted his wrist, and with a crack the first officer fell to the pavement, screaming and cradling his broken arm. In a movement so swift Shuri almost missed it, he pivoted, turned, and slammed the other officer’s head into the open door, knocking him either unconscious or dead.
“Namor, wait!” she cried, but when he turned to look at her, she saw only pure, unbridled fury in his eyes: then he was gone, racing through the air. Shuri fumbled, putting her comms bead in her earlobe. She then crossed her arms over her breast, right over left, as her suit flowed out from her necklace, swallowing her body in black nanoweave and covering her face. Several people shrieked. “Okay, everyone, we’ve blown our cover. Time to go. Wilson, get out of here.”
Sam gaped at her as the security guard took one look and ran for his life. “Are you kidding? I’m staying with all of you!”
She did not have time to shout that if he publicly allied himself with Wakanda like this, it would have consequences: she simply threw him a Kimoyo bead, leaped up to the top of the brick wall, and tapped her earpiece. “Okoye! We’re in a bit of trouble here!”
Okoye’s voice was in her ear, clear and firm. “We have eyes on you, and we are still cloaked and ready for rapid exfiltration.”
“Yes, it might be a moment,” said Shuri, sinking into a lunge and whipping out her claws. The party was over: distant sirens were wailing, ever closer, people were screaming, and there was so much chaos she didn’t know where to look first. Rapid gunfire spit chips of brick up around her feet: rat-tat-tat, and she ran as swiftly as she could, dodging flying shrapnel as she raced back toward the house, light on her feet as a dancer. Those stupid security guards! “Barnes, can you hear me?”
“Loud and clear. You want me to take out the guards?”
“No. They’re probably going to call in a strike team now that they know the Black Panther’s here and someone’s been murdered. Keep your eyes open.” Shuri swung from a drainpipe and launched herself up onto the roof, finally out of the range of fire. From here, she could see Namor, too: barefoot in the air and racing toward a fleet of flashing red and blue lights further down 16th Street. “Shit!”
“Language, my princess.” Okoye sounded dry.
“If he starts killing every security officer in the city, we definitely lose the upper hand!” Shuri glanced back down. “Can someone get to him?”
Wilson exploded out of the back window in a shower of glass, his white, blue, and red suit gleaming in the moonlight. “I got you.”
“Minimal casualties!” she shouted, then looked down. Bucky had lost his jacket and was trying to direct people to the exits, pointing and shouting, trying to prevent a crush. “I have eyes on you, Barnes. Try to stay out of trouble.”
He put a hand to his ear. “Where are you going?”
To try to stop Namor, where else? Okoye’s voice crackled through before she could reply. “Princess, I am reading three very large military vehicles heading toward you. Likely several strike teams.”
“Oh, great, that’s just what we need now,” mumbled Shuri. “Okoye, how many men?”
“Heat readings indicate each truck has at least twelve men inside.”
“Thirty-six men. Ah, Bast.” Shuri looked up. “Can you stop them?”
“Taking offensive action would be antithetical to—”
“No, not offensive, passive. These vehicles are on the main road. Can you drop a bead on the power grid and turn off all the lights?”
Riri’s voice burst through. “I can cut the power! Give me like two minutes!”
“Okay, great! I’m going after Namor.” Shuri steeled herself and started running again, back out over the roof and across the high brick wall, and the bullets that struck her ricocheted off, charging her suit with purple kinetic energy. She jumped off, landing on her feet in the street, and took off in the direction she’d seen Sam Wilson flying. Red and blue lights were still flashing in the distance, reflecting off houses and trees, and Shuri reveled for a moment in the joy of her own body’s strength. She leaped over cars, tucked and rolled, raced faster than a deer. I can make it. I can.
Just as she reached the intersection of 16th and West, Meridian Park to her left, the power died. A transformer blew, an eerie green light against the sky, then another, this one orange. Silhouetted against the light was a man’s form, standing in the air, and Shuri’s heart leaped into her throat as she saw, in half an instant, a huge, pale-winged form collide with the shape. Wilson!
Gunfire erupted somewhere, men shouting and screaming and shooting into the air. Shuri slid into the intersection, dodged cars that slammed into each other as the streetlights all died, jumped over the hoods of other cars. I cannot fly to them. I have to find them. She tapped her ear. “Griot!”
“Yes, Princess?”
“When I healed Namor’s ankle with my Kimoyo bead, did you save a copy of his DNA?” She dodged a motorcycle as it skidded to a stop, its rider falling off, and grabbed it. “Sorry! I’ll park it somewhere safe!”
“Affirmative, Princess.”
“He’s unique, can you track his signature?” For answer, the inside of her helmet lit up, showing a blinking green dot and red dashes to guide her to it. “Thank you!” she shouted, and took off in the direction of the flashing lights, the engine roaring between her legs. “Okoye, how are we on their strike teams?”
“They’re stuck in an intersection,” said Okoye smugly. “These primitive people and their wheeled vehicles.”
“Hey, don’t knock our cars,” said Riri distantly, and Shuri had to smile.
“I’m tracking down Namor. Get Barnes out of there before you find us, yes? It might take some time.”
“Affirmative. Be safe.” Shuri turned right, then left as her map switched and changed. “Wilson, do you read me?”
“Kinda hard to talk right now!” he yelled.
“Do you have eyes on Namor?”
“Eyes and hands, and he’s got—” there was a thunk and a grunt. “Hands! Man, who is this guy?”
“It’s a long story, try to subdue him if you can— your suit was built to assist your strength and amplify it.” Shuri jumped her bike over a ditch and raced off. “I can’t help you if you don’t get him stationary.”
“You try wrestling a guy with Hulk strength! God damn! I don’t even have a good landing situation!”
She squinted at her readout. They were heading south, slightly east. “Can you get him over the ground near the Mall? It’s open. I’ll try to cause a distraction.”
“I’ll aim for it, sure, no promises.” Another grunt and struggle, and Shuri signed off his channel and pinged Riri, revving the engine up faster and faster as she dodged the stopped cars up and down 16th Street.
“Riri! Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, what’s up?”
“You brought your suit, right?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Does it still have the radiative heat capabilities in the Unibeam?”
“Um… yeah?”
She had half-hoped the answer was no. “Okay. Good. Get suited up. If Namor can’t be brought down by Wilson or myself, you’re going to have to take him down. The dry heat will incapacitate him enough to weaken him. Head for the eastern area of the National Mall.”
“Shit.” Riri sounded panicked. “Man, it’s like when Godzilla took out Tokyo. Is he gonna blow up the White House or something?”
“I don’t know, I can’t reach him, but I know he’s furious, we can't afford any more damage, and Wilson can’t take him down, so hurry!” Shuri signed off and accelerated down 15th Street, then south again, heading straight down the eastern side of the White House lawn. Overhead, the tall buildings replaced with open air, she could see Sam’s white form, small and gleaming as he struggled with Namor directly over a series of buildings. “Griot, are those structures important?”
“Those are the Smithsonian Museum buildings, Princess.”
“Museums of what?”
Helpful glowing outlines marked each one as Griot named them. “From left to right: Natural History, American History, and African-American History and Culture.”
“Okay, important, then,” said Shuri, skidding around a curve and heading east. She aimed at Namor with her forearm-cannons, hoping to get his attention, and fired. The resulting shock knocked both men away from each other, Namor recovering quickly and running through the air on his winged feet back towards Sam, who gracefully rotated on his wings and sailed earthward toward Shuri. Yes, follow him, come on!
Sam skidded into the turf, plowing up a furrow. His goggles were broken, one side hanging loose, and there seemed to be blood on his chin. “He’s—” he began, and that was when Namor struck Shuri, carrying her up and away, the world turning on its side as she struggled in his grip.
“Namor!” she screamed. “Stop! Stop!”
“I will kill every air-breathing worm—” His eyes were wild, furious beyond words, his shirt torn and his face spattered with blood as he grabbed her by the shoulder. She could not remember if it was all Bower’s, and prayed to Bast he had killed nobody else. “They dare to lay hands on you, on me, on a god: they insult us to our faces—”
“Stop!” Shuri retracted her helmet, her braids falling loose, streaming over her face as she clung to him, shouting as the wind stole her words. “I know you are insulted. Just stop, just think: if you give the government a reason to attack us it will hurt Waka—”
“I do not care!” he bellowed. “I am sick of waiting; waiting for them to come to us. Let them come, let us burn their world to the last blade of grass! They do not deserve pity or love or mercy, they deserve what I will give them!”
“Even that old woman you danced with?” she asked, and he halted in the air, frozen rage on his face. “Even that boy who wanted to hear you lecture? The woman who asked you about your copilli? You will burn them, too?” His face twitched, as if a river beneath might break through, and he looked at her again, as if he was waking from a nightmare. “I cannot stop you,” said Shuri desperately, reaching up to touch his blood-spattered cheek. “If you wanted to burn the world whole tomorrow, today, right now, I could not stop you. But… I can slow you down.”
Namor’s eyes hardened again. “You should have burned it with me when I offered you the first time.”
“Please don’t make me do this,” she whispered, shaking her head.
“You were supposed to be my ally. And you sit there and let people insult you as if you are the filth on their feet, and you expect me to do the same.”
“In ordinary circumstances, never. But now? For the purpose of this mission? Yes,” she said softly. “You weren’t supposed to kill anyone.” Behind him, something silvery glinted in the moonlight.
Namor was entirely focused on her, his jaw a taut line. “I killed that mewling fool for your sake. I did not kill any others once I heard you plead with me, but now I wish I had. You would never do the same for me. It does not matter. I will fill this whole land with blood until it pours into the sea.”
“Now, Riri!” screamed Shuri, her mask swallowing her face, and activated her Kimoyo beads, sending an electric shock through Namor’s body. His arms sprang open, dropping her, and she fell away on her back, gazing upward as Riri shot a beam of light out of the chest of her suit, striking Namor at point blank range. Shuri could feel the dry heat even through her own suit at this distance, her mouth parching, and caught a glimpse of Namor’s limp body following her down just as Sam Wilson, sweeping up from the ground, caught her in his arms. She clung to his neck, panting as she watched Namor fall and fall, and then hit the ground with a distant thud.
“Damn. Is he alive?” asked Sam, gliding down to the smooth green grass.
Shuri stumbled to Namor’s side and turned him over. Burns and blisters marked his chest and face and body, his lips so dry that they were bleeding and cracked, his clothing charred and blackened, his eyes half-open. She pressed a Kimoyo bead to his chest and quickly scanned the readings, tears blurring her vision. “He— his pulse is low and his respiration is six breaths a minute. Oxygen levels at fifty percent.”
A single tear fell from her eye to his face, absorbing into his parched skin and leaving a crust of salt. Namor’s eyes twitched. “Princess?” he rasped faintly.
She ignored him, looking up at Riri, who landed, retracting her helmet and looking stricken. “Please call Okoye and have her get us out of here. Is Barnes safe?”
“He’s on the ship already, yeah,” said Riri, tapping her bead and walking off to make the call. “Okoye? You better hurry, I think the Feds are gonna be here any second now.”
Namor made a sound that might have been weeping, or laughing: something thin and weak, choked. “Water,” he begged. “I need… water.”
“She’s here, she’s just cloaked.” Riri came back, kneeling down. “He okay?”
“What the hell is that?” Sam was standing at her side, looking up. “Are we about to get beamed up?”
“Help me with him,” Shuri whispered, and Wilson obliged, helping her pull Namor to a sitting position, then draped him over her shoulder, clinging to him tightly as all four of them were pulled upward into the waiting airship.
Something was very, very wrong.
He was burning, k’ak’, tongues licking at his body and eating his heart alive. Uk’aj, he tried to say, thirsty, but nothing came out. He was so weak he could not move. Voices floated around his head, frightened ones and angry ones, and one in particular stood out above all the rest, smooth and calm as a storm. It was only by concentrating very hard that he understood what was being said.
“We think it is due to the vibranium that operates Riri’s suit. It is engaging with his body in a way I do not think any of us foresaw. Please, Attuma, put your spear down. I swear by Bast herself that we will do our best.”
He knew that voice. That one was dear to him, his ek’ b’alam, his Black Jaguar. Strong and sure, focused and brilliant. A face swam before his eyes, dark and worried, a thin mouth, and more words passed her lips, but he could not grasp them.
What is happening to me? Am I dying? The thought was unthinkable, an impossible one, like the sun rising in the west and setting in the east. The Feathered Serpent could not die. A woman’s face, high-boned and beautiful, drifted somewhere in the distance, her sad, sad eyes gazing down at him. A jade bead gleamed in her mouth as she spoke.
You were born to be the Eternal King. A tear fell from her eye. I dreamed you would be a protector of our people, in waal.
Yes. I am. The dream is true. I am. A'jawe… Try as he might, he could not finish the phrase, nor remember the words. He reached out to her as her woven cloak brushed the grass, as she walked away from him, vanishing into the dark. No, he tried to cry out, don’t leave me, but she had already departed from him into the underworld long ago.
A spark flew from his lips, lighting a flame. It swelled, burned, grew. Fire ate away at the green grass of the surface world, fire blazed up the pillars of a house built to look like the haciendas he had loathed as a child, and it brought joy to his heart to see the people running in terror. You are cruel, he thought, and you are colonizers, and I will put an end to your reign… but then he saw the old woman he had danced salsa with; he saw the young man who had smiled and asked after the museum in Mérida.
You will burn them, too? His princess stood there, then, his black jaguar: more precious than pearls or jade, cold and untouchable as the moon. She watched him impassively as flames licked up the feet and legs of the old woman, the young man, the woman in the rebozo, the young woman he had danced with. His tongue caught in his throat. Tell me their names, K’uk’ulkan. Tell me their names, and they will live.
But he could not remember any of their names. Panic burned his throat, choked him. Mercy.
Mercy? Her eyes were as sad as his mother’s, and the flames he had lit to burn all the world touched her own robe, then: her gown of jade, her skirt.
No! No, not you, not you! He reached out, terror overtaking him, but he could not reach her. Not you, not you, no, no, no—
“No!” he rasped, eyes flying open as he jolted upright. Sweat coated his chest, his back, his arms and face. He was so cold, cold to his bones in a way he had never been, and he began to shiver violently. The room was cool, gray walls and soft white lighting. “Sh-Shuri,” he tried, shuddering so hard he almost fell off. He had no clothes on, but that did not unnerve him as much as the seeming absence of any living person. “N-Nam-mora, At-t-tum-m-a—”
“Lie down,” said a gentle voice. “Hey. You’re all right.” Two hands took him by the shoulders, one warm flesh and one cold metal, serving to ground him, take away the disorientation. A person. Someone is here. “Easy. I’ll get you a blanket.”
“Barnes,” he forced out through his teeth. “Where are my people?”
“They’re fine.” Warmth enveloped him. He clutched the fabric tightly, huddling into its folds. “You’ll be okay. You might throw up. It sucks for a minute, coming out of cryostasis. I would know.”
You know nothing, he wanted to spit, but instead his gorge rose and he was violently sick, nothing but bile flooding from his throat. Barnes held a basin under his chin and emptied it when he was done. If he shows me pity, I will skin him alive. But he did him the courtesy of not even offering a glance, only looking over him with a neutral expression in those blue eyes. “My thanks,” he croaked, far less imperious than he wished he sounded.
“Sure.” Barnes lifted his wrist and tapped his beads. “Shuri, he’s awake.”
“Glory to Bast. How is his brain function?” That was her, her voice, so warm and serious and kind. K’uk’ulkan felt himself leaning toward the image of her that floated above Barnes’s wrist, even though her back was turned to him.
“Pretty good, I’d say. He’s talking, sitting up. Let Namora and Attuma know?”
“I will. I’ll come by as soon as I am able.” She winked out of existence, and K’uk’ulkan swallowed, shame blooming in his chest. It was not a familiar emotion, and he loathed it.
“I do not want to see the princess.” That was a lie: he wanted it more than anything, but the idea of her seeing him powerless, cold, and shivering was not an appealing one.
Barnes’s pale eyes seemed to narrow to slits of blue, and K’uk’ulkan was reminded, strangely, of Attuma. “Hm. Okay. I’ll let her know.”
“How long has it been since Washington?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two—” His head spun, and he shut his eyes, trying to hold himself steady. “Why am I so weak?”
“That’s the million-dollar question,” said Barnes, picking up a transparent jug with a tube extending from the top and thrusting it at him. “Drink up. Out of the straw.”
K’uk’ulkan grasped it and sucked at the tube like an infant desperate for nourishment. The liquid inside was slightly salty, slightly sweet, and he could feel strength flowing back into his body as he drained the jug. When it was empty, Barnes took it away, and K’uk’ulkan pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he began to warm up. “Explain,” he said, his voice stronger.
Barnes sat down in a chair and leaned his head back. “You became a liability to the mission the minute you killed that asshole at the party, but even more so when, uh, you started flying after law enforcement. Sam and Shuri managed to get you stationary long enough for Riri Williams to knock you out with her suit’s chest beam— she’s calling it a Unibeam, I don’t know why— uh, and it incapacitated you long enough to return everyone safely to Wakanda without being stopped by the government.” He sighed. “Except it had the side effect of reacting really badly with your physiology. High fever, weakness, low oxygen. Shuri thought it might be because you have different DNA, or the vibranium enhancement already present in your genetic code, or a combination of both. She had to put you in cryostasis for a week just to bring your fever down.”
K’uk’ulkan looked away, remembering moonlight, flying, incandescent rage hot enough to boil the sea. “And what were the results of my actions?”
Barnes rubbed his temples. “Oh. Uh. Well, law enforcement doesn’t know who you are, so that’s a plus. You kind of went viral for a week on the internet. Shuri’s claiming her right of diplomatic immunity to avoid being interrogated by the FBI over the murder, nobody can prove Wakanda was directly involved with it, but she’s being blamed, and that kid’s family and workplace had money. A lot of it, which means it’s likely that there’s going to be a lot of funding suddenly channeled into efforts to make Wakanda answer for his death. M’Baku’s up to his neck in angry messages from the United Nations.”
Making Wakanda answer? K’uk’ulkan shook his head. “No. That is not honorable or just. I am the one who took his life, not the king, and not the princess. I will go back to that land and— and surrender—”
“You can’t do that,” said Barnes simply. “You’re the biggest player on the board that we have here. We can’t afford to lose you from a tactical standpoint, or from a… political angle, because if you get captured or killed it’s going to destroy Talokan.” He sighed. "If it makes you feel any better, I think that little fucker got what was coming to him, one hundred percent. It just blows that it had to be in a circumstance that put us all on the edge of a knife."
It did not make him feel better. Destroy Talokan. From the inside out, just as the little agent had said. And then would come the other powers of the world, to exploit and steal. K’uk’ulkan closed his eyes. Being in the wrong and helpless to fix it was not a feeling he was familiar with, and he did not care for it. “Why are you here with me and not my own people?”
“Do you want the honest answer, or the tiptoeing-around one?”
He opened his eyes and glared at the other man. “Honesty, White Wolf. Always.”
Barnes smiled a little. “Shuri thought I’d be best equipped to subdue you if you woke up under… let’s say less than favorable circumstances.”
“With the rage of battle still in my heart,” he said, nodding.
“Yeah. And Namora and Attuma have, uh, not reacted well to the news that you might die. She went into the river and hasn’t come out except for food, and Attuma just shut down. Okoye’s been trying to cheer him up, but he just sits in the yard, staring at the water.”
“Ah, my cousins,” said K’uk’ulkan, pained as he slid toward the edge of his bed. “I must go to them.”
“Can you— you’re okay to walk?”
“I am the Feathered Serpent God. Of course I can walk,” he snapped, standing up and draping the blanket over his shoulder. He stretched his wings, flexing them, and nothing had ever felt so good. “Are you coming?”
“I guess I am,” said Barnes, and followed him out of the room.
They took an airship to the Citadel, and there K’uk’ulkan found Attuma, sitting alone in the training yard. Tears filled his eyes at the sight of him, staring out sightlessly to the water. “In waal,” he whispered, and Attuma turned, staring up like a man coming to life again, then jerked to his feet, a choked sound escaping him as he held his hands up in greeting, left fingers toward the sky and right toward the ground.
“Ah’ k’uk’ulkan?” he wept, grasping the back of his neck and pulling him in to press his brow to his own. The translation device Shuri had made for him was still operating, but K’uk’ulkan could understand both. “You have returned to us?”
“Namora,” he said, looking out to the river, and then she came, arms outstretched and unbridled joy on her face as she ran to them both, embracing them. “My child,” he said again, almost overcome with emotion as he kissed her brow.
“You live,” she sobbed, collapsing to her knees. “You live.”
“I will never leave you alone in this world,” he murmured, sinking down to raise her back up. “Never.”
“I did not wish to leave you,” Namora whispered, clinging to him. “But seeing you… it put a spear in my heart to see you like that.”
“You were well watched. The Black Jaguar never left your side if she could help it,” added Attuma, grinning broadly. “Day and night, unless she was forced to sit at court, and then it was the White Dog here.” Barnes gave him a wry smile and moved away to give them privacy.
“Really,” said K’uk’ulkan dryly. And yet she was not there when I woke. He put that from his mind. “Is Talokan strong?”
“We have told no one of your illness.” Attuma looked unsure. “Should we have?”
“No. You have done well.” He shut his eyes, forcing himself to swallow his pride. For Talokan. Talokan first. “I have been foolish, cousins. I have made a grave error in my execution of justice and brought insult to an enemy of my ally, and thereby endangered us all, and I must now hide behind King M’Baku in shame.”
Namora and Attuma exchanged looks. “You are the Feathered Serpent,” said Namora. “You hide behind nothing and no one.”
“It is more complicated than I understood at first,” he said, shaking his head.
“What is complicated about honor?” asked Attuma. “A man insults a god, he pays with his life. It is simple.”
“Not to people who have no gods,” said K’uk’ulkan. “I will go and speak with the Black Panther. She and I have much to discuss.”
“If she does not cut your throat in anger,” said Namora rather dryly.
He sighed. “If she does, then I will count it a death well deserved.”
“Do not say such things,” said Attuma, shocked. K’uk’ulkan felt a stab of tenderness for these two: his closest advisors, his friends, and reached out for their shoulders. He had never considered before the idea that he might die: only once, at the hands of his Black Panther, did he fear death, and now… Two is too many times to be too careful.
“It is my wish,” he said, “that should the feathered Serpent ever fall in battle, Namora and Attuma will rule all of Talokan and sit in my throne below the sun that shines under the sea. You are wise, fearless, careful, and clever. Together you will be strong.”
“K’uk’ulkan…” said Namora, startled.
“I have spoken. Líik’ik Talokan.” He drew back and saluted them with his hands, and they both mirrored it back, tears in Attuma’s eyes. “Go to the river and speak to no one here until I have finished talking to the princess.”
“As you command, K’uk’ulkan, ” said Namora, and they both dived into the water, vanishing with hardly a ripple. He watched as the river smoothed over their passing, then turned to Barnes.
“I am prepared. Take me to Princess Shuri, White Wolf.”
Notes:
TRANSLATIONS:
- k'ak' = fire
- in waal = my child
Chapter 12: k'inich
Notes:
this is all i got until christmas and possibly new years is over im SORRY rip in peace, im jetlagged as hell im home for the holidays my enormous family is all getting together and im trying to run everything so if im late updating thats why!!!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
There was nothing left to do but wait for him.
Shuri stood on the balcony outside the empty throne room, staring blindly into the bright sky as she gripped the rail in her hands and prayed for strength, and dignity, and all of the other things she so desperately needed. She had put on black, throat to ankle, a long jomi that had belonged to T’Challa and been tailored to fit her slighter, smaller frame, and she wore no makeup, no jewelry, not even braids. Aneka had helped her remove them two weeks ago, before that awful debrief, where she had knelt before M’Baku and explained everything that had gone wrong, taking full responsibility. She could almost still hear the king’s voice as he stared at Sam Wilson.
This is not a home for wayward Americans! What is this bird-man doing here, ah?
But he had quickly warmed to Sam in the end. Everyone warmed to Sam. He was just that sort of man, kind and open and quick with a smile or a joke. A little like her brother had been. Shuri felt her lips tremble and pressed them harder together. I will go all my life searching for the shadow of my brother in the faces of other men.
And it had been her fault. She had known they could not physically overpower Namor, and yet she had done exactly what Okoye had warned her against. She had trusted him. If it had been only my safety, my body, I could have borne the embarrassment of betrayal, but I put everyone else’s lives into his hands. Bucky had been consoling. “None of us died, okay? Sam’s got a busted lip and a black eye, but he’ll be all right.” It had not served to comfort her. A death was a death, and now Wakanda was even more at risk.
Because of me. These are the fruits of my actions, and I have no one else to blame but myself.
After all, she could not wholly blame Namor. Shuri had been around him long enough, spoken with him enough to understand that he would not tolerate behavior or words that others who had grown in the soil of a world shaped by conquest might overlook or grit their teeth against. He would never apologize for it, either. He had about Ramonda— my pride was stronger than my reason, he had said about her mother, but she did not think that applied in this case. Once again, she mentally ran through the little speech she had prepared and lifted her chin, dreading the confrontation. Likely he would be aloof, uncaring, make a mockery of the whole situation. She decided she would wait to see what he said first.
Griot’s voice piped up. “Princess, Barnes and Namor are approaching.”
“Thank you, Griot,” she whispered, and thumbed off her beads, setting them all aside so there would be no distractions. Behind her, two pairs of footsteps echoed off the curved walls of the balcony, and stopped. “Barnes,” she said by way of acknowledgement. She could tell whose were whose: one set of feet wore shoes, the texture of his steps like sand on a shore, and the other was barefoot, his steps soft and careful, half-dragging.
“I’ll leave you to it,” said Bucky’s voice, and there went his footsteps, off and away. Shuri steeled herself, willing her mind to be strong, and turned slowly, facing Namor of Talokan.
He looked… awful. Barely standing, a slightly ashen cast to his skin, his lips pale, wearing no ornaments or indeed anything at all but a white blanket from the medical center wrapped around his torso and draped over one shoulder. All she could see for a brief moment was his face as he had screamed in his sleep, his fever so high he was convulsing, unable to heal: how he had slid into frozen stillness once she had activated the crytostasis chamber.
The look on Barnes’ face as he had had to leave the room.
How she had sobbed, curling up at the foot of the tube with her face in her folded arms.
He cannot die. He cannot die.
Shuri put it from her mind. He lived now, and he stood before her, and she had things to say to him. The wind lifted a curl, brushed it against her forehead as softly as his fingers once had. “Namor,” she said quietly.
He did not move for half a heartbeat. Then he fell to his knees, a wheeze escaping his throat. “Princess,” he whispered. Shuri’s feet felt rooted to the earth. She could not move or speak, and simply stood, waiting. Namor pulled another breath in and raised his eyes to hers. “I do not ask forgiveness for taking the life of the man, princess, as it was deserved. But by that action, I have caused strife between our nations, and put Wakanda in danger, and now I understand I must needs hide like a coward behind M’Baku’s throne for all our sakes. That was not what I wanted.” He paused for a breath. “So I ask forgiveness for that. Allow me to make it right. I will stand at your side in the next council and explain—”
She forced her face to remain in regal stillness. “King M’Baku has removed me from the council. He believes I have allowed my personal biases and feelings to influence my decisions. Okoye is now in charge of all espionage missions, along with Nakia of the River Tribe, the War Dog, who has been recalled from Haiti due to my error in judgment.”
Namor’s lips parted. “You cannot allow this. You are the Black P—”
“He was right,” she broke in, her lips trembling despite herself. “He was right. I am no great tactician, no military leader. I have no experience running any sort of mission. I am a scientist. Nothing more. And I have— I have decided that I will no longer be the Black Panther.” There it was, out in the open.
“You cannot simply stop being what you are.”
“Yes, I can. There is a medicine, a serum that the shamans of Wakanda can make that will strip me of my power. Someone else— someone else can be the Black Panther. Not me.” Her eyes filled with tears despite herself, and she wiped her cheek. “Not me.”
“This is my doing,” said Namor, his voice stronger as he gazed up at her. “Please. Allow me to repair the damage I have done.”
“I trust Barnes has already explained to you that you cannot.”
“I do not believe him. There must be something I can do.”
“Believe me, then. There is not.” Shuri got hold of her emotions once more. “Fortunately for you, nobody seemed to see you after your interrupted arrest, since Okoye destroyed the power grid. The technology team has wiped all traces of you caught on video at the party from the Internet. So. When you have recovered, you are free to return to Talokan with your people.”
Namor shook his head, slowly, as if in shock. “But we are allies.”
“We were allies. I have been too trusting, and you have betrayed us. You have—” Her voice caught. “You have betrayed me.”
He remained where he was on his knees, his face stunned. “It was for you,” he whispered, and she had to close her eyes against his expression. “Shuri. It was all for you.”
“I know,” she forced out, a tear slipping past her fingers and dripping off her cheek. “I know it was. But you were right when you said I would never do the same for you; a life is a gift I cannot accept or give, and I never will.”
Namor bowed his head, his shoulders tense. “Then let me give another one.”
“I have told you. There is nothing you can—”
His voice was like an oncoming storm. “This was my doing. As recompense I offer you my people, my armies, warriors without number, and should these other powers flood Wakanda’s borders, we will stand against them, side by side… on one condition; we stand with the Black Panther.”
Shuri felt hope against terrible hope rise in her heart. The increased manpower would be more than enough to defend both Wakanda and Talokan, a true alliance, not simply three people sitting in on meetings with a nebulous possible future ahead. “I can’t make any decision on behalf of—”
“Wakanda needs its protector just as Talokan needs its god-king. Side by side. Together. Please.” He raised his head again, and to her shock she saw tears in his dark eyes. “Together,” he repeated, still kneeling at her feet. “Together, or not at all. I swear it, princess.”
She forced herself to speak. “I can only relay your offer to King M’Baku. Nothing more.”
Namor swayed on his knees a little. “Thank you,” he whispered, unshed tears glittering in his eyes.
This was going to be the worst part, the part she had rehearsed over and over, and it was going to be even worse because he looked so— so— “I have more to say to you, Namor of Talokan.”
“Say it.”
“I do not want to see you again.” Shuri made herself look at his face, at the way his faint relief crumbled away into despair and pain. “Not unless it is absolutely necessary, such as at council when we both must be there. It will be easier for both of us this way, I think.”
Namor bowed his head. “Easier,” he echoed, his voice brimming with agony.
“When this is over— at some later time, perhaps, we may speak as we once did with each other. But I cannot afford the luxury of personal attachments at this time.”
He looked back up at her, wet streaks down each cheek to match hers. “Do you remember the sunrise? The cove in Haiti?”
“I do,” she replied, wishing she did not.
A small, sad smile cracked Namor’s mouth, even as tears streamed from his eyes and a sob escaped his throat. “Sometimes, princess, I think we should have stayed there and never left.”
I will be strong. I cannot break. “You may go,” she whispered, her hands at her sides clenched down tightly into fists. “I have said what I must.” Namor got one foot in front of him, pushing upward to stand, but faltered, then went ashen-cheeked and collapsed sideways into the wall, a groan escaping his lips as he sagged forward. Shuri cried out in alarm and reached for him, kneeling as she pulled him into her arms. He was deadweight, one arm draped over her back, his body’s heat burning through her jomi. The Dora Milaje were never far, however, and she knew Bucky had only walked out of earshot of a conversation. “Barnes!” she shouted. “Ayo, Aneka! Khawuleza!” Then she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Namor. Namor, open your eyes. Can you hear me?”
One eye, as dark as the depths of the sea, cracked open. “Chen tech kin wuyik,” he whispered, lighter than air.
I only hear you.
He was fine. He had simply stood up too quickly, dizzy and unbalanced from lack of oxygen, and lost consciousness briefly. Shuri sagged with relief against the wall of the Great Mound’s medical center, watching from behind a screen as Namor sat up in his bed, drinking more water, two healers on either side of him taking his vitals. Namora stood guard at the foot of his bed, watching their every move.
“He’s a tough guy. He’ll be fine in a day or two.” Bucky nudged her from the left, and she nodded, trying her best to keep her face still. “You okay?”
“I am fine,” she answered, finally tearing her eyes away from Namor. “There has been a development. I need to see the king.”
“Yeah?” Barnes walked with her as they left and boarded the waiting aircraft on the deck. “What’s going on?”
Shuri waited until the ramp had slid shut and Ayo was piloting them back to the Citadel before she spoke. “He has offered the full might of his army to aid Wakanda in the aftermath of his actions.”
“Shit,” said Bucky, sitting back. “Hey, that’s good, right? More manpower. Might stand a chance if it comes to an all-out fight.”
“I do not want a war,” Shuri muttered, looking down at her hands. “But yes, if it comes to that, then… I will welcome their aid.”
“So will M’Baku,” said Barnes. “He’s had me on email-answering duty in the offices with Sam. I guess the outsiders have to earn our place here somehow.” He offered Shuri a grin, but she could not bring herself to give him one back. “Hey. Chin up. There’s nobody they can send after us that comes close to Namor’s power, let alone his people, if Attuma and Namora are anything to judge by.”
“That is not why I am troubled,” she said softly. “I told him I did not wish to see him again. On a— personal level. And he… cried, Barnes.”
“Huh,” said Bucky, blinking. “That’s… something. I was expecting more along the lines of, uh, instantly rescinding his offer. Vowing revenge.”
“Truthfully, I thought he might do the same, but…” She shook off her doubt. “I should speak to Nakia when I am finished speaking to M’Baku. She always has good advice for me.”
“Well, get as much of that as you can, while you can,” he told her, leaning back and closing his eyes. “You never know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone, huh?”
“I did not ask— how was Namor when he first woke?”
“He was a mess for the first couple minutes. Jolted right up out of a bad dream or something, yelling for—” Barnes shot her a quick, uneasy look. “Uh. His— Namora and Attuma. Then he tried to sit up and blew chunks.”
“James,” she said quietly, knowing he was keeping something from her. “Tell me. What did he really say?”
Barnes cleared his throat and shut his eyes, no doubt to give her some semblance of privacy. “He called out for you,” he told her. “You first. Then his people.”
But you promised. Talokan first, thought Shuri, stunned. She got up and turned to stare out of the front of the aircraft. Ayo’s head moved slightly, as if acknowledging her presence, but she did not speak, and Shuri bit her lip, bent her head as she tried to come to terms with this new information. It does not matter, she decided, blinking away what seemed to be more tears. It cannot matter. I must still do my duty to my country, as all of us must. She allowed herself to dream for a moment of the beach, the sunrise, the cove: of a quiet house and a quiet life away from war and political intrigue. It can never be, she thought bleakly. Never. I am not Nakia, able to leave as I please; I am the last of the Golden Tribe. My place is here in Wakanda.
M’Baku looked exhausted, and Shuri felt guilty for bothering him as she crossed her arms over her chest and knelt on the floor of the throne room, relaying the offer that Namor had made to Wakanda. “This alliance is contingent, then, on you remaining the Black Panther,” he said, rubbing his temples. “You did not tell me of this decision you were considering.”
Her face grew warm. Yet again, I have misstepped. “Apologies, my king. I thought I would approach the subject with you privately after I had spoken to Namor. I did not think he would wake so quickly, or offer what he did.”
“Full of surprises, this fish-man.” M’Baku got off the throne, coming toward her. “Eh. Look at me, Shuri,” he said wearily, and Shuri turned her face up, trying hard not to cry. “You have done well,” he told her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Yes?”
“Thank you,” she whispered. It was a small relief, to know that she had, at last, done something right.
“Stand up.” She got to her feet and he took her by the shoulders with both hands, towering over her. “Everybody makes mistakes, yes? Even me. But one mistake you did not make was becoming the Black Panther, and taking on your brother’s legacy. Do you hear me?”
“I do, my king,” Shuri said.
“Good. You will remain in the Citadel. White Wolf, tell Namor that Wakanda accepts his proposal of an alliance with open arms. When he is recovered, he is welcome to join us here.” Bucky nodded and stepped outside the throne room, tapping his Kimoyo bead. “Any news from the War Dogs surveilling the bird-man’s family?”
One of the Dora Milaje stepped forward. “Yes, my king. They have nothing to report.” Shuri realized that he had sent protection to Sam Wilson’s sister and her children, and felt ashamed she had not thought of it herself. After such public exposure, of course his family might be in danger from the higher levels of the American government. This is why I must put aside my personal wants. “The one we sent to Everett Ross’s prison, however, reports that he was able to clandestinely sneak Ross an explosive Kimoyo bead, and after a power outage, nobody seems to be able to find Ross. The American government is keeping it under very tight wraps.” A smile curved her lips. “But not tight enough for us to not find out.”
“Very good,” said M’Baku approvingly. “See? Some good news.” He patted Shuri on the shoulder. “Now, listen,” he said, casting his voice low. “When Namor comes back to the Golden City, I want you to make sure he is looked after. Him and his people both. Food, gifts, whatever they want.”
Oh, Bast, I just told him I did not want to see him! “I—I am not sure I will have the time to—”
“What? Of course you will. You only need to come to council meetings when I ask you, and the design group is handling all the lab work. Stop taking so much work on yourself. Yes?”
Shuri felt stricken, but she could not say no. “Yes, of course, my king.” It would be fine, she told herself as she was dismissed and left the room. She could ask someone else to be an intermediary for her: that way she would not need to speak directly to Namor. Perhaps one of the Dora Milaje. It will all be fine.
She tried to speak to Nakia that afternoon, but it was not a good time: she was in the middle of a meeting and told Shuri she would call back later. Wilson was spending his time split between M’Baku’s office, explaining the intricacies of American foreign policy, and the lab, giving the design group input to his updated suit. Even Barnes was unavailable— M’Baku had sent him off to do undercover work with the War Dogs stationed in London, and he would be gone for days.
Shuri holed herself up in her lab, burying her head in busywork as she had always done to escape, but even that did not bring any comfort. After a full day of that, even the design team was looking at her strangely. Probably, she thought, because I have stayed up for a day straight and have not really left. The hours were starting to blur together into smears of various data plots, but it was pleasant to not have to worry too much about what the council was speaking about at any given time. Namor was right, she thought, running simulations of the Unibeam to try to narrow down the problem with it, the issue that had made him so ill. There is something to be said for allowing another person to make all the decisions for you.
It was definitely something to do with the vibranium, she thought on the second day, bending over her microscope. The light particles behaved differently than normal ones, affecting particulates in the blood samples that the medical team had taken from Namor as he had lain ill, but why? She sat and sat, her neck aching: she took notes, she tried again, she introduced other elements into the glowing network of his DNA model that rose above her worktable. Try as she might, she could not make a breakthrough.
“You need a nap,” said Riri on the second—or was it the third?— day, handing her a glass of water. “Go for a walk or something, girl, ‘cause your eyes look like they’re about to fall out of your head.”
“I guess that might help me think,” mumbled Shuri, gulping down the water. "Thank you."
The walk to the green, lush wood near the river where she had planted the new crop of synthetic heart-shaped herbs was not a long one, but her neck was sore and she was more tired than she had thought she was. Shuri sat on a stump, inhaling the forest’s scents: moss, the fresh afternoon breeze, woody earth. Just another minute, and I’ll go back to the lab. It was peaceful here, the purple-robed shamans tending the herbs in the open air, not under the ground as it had used to be. Things change, I suppose. Not always bad or good, just… different. She leaned against a mossy tree and closed her eyes, listening to the sounds of robes rustling, of soft humming, of quiet conversation and the wind brushing through the leaves above.
The human noises paused all at once. The wind kept on. Shuri knew he was there before she opened her eyes: she could hear his footsteps, bare, on soft moss. Almost inaudible, but cautious, with a gentle whisk sound of air moving through feathers.
“I thought I might find you here,” he said softly.
Shuri did not open her eyes. “Please leave us to speak alone,” she whispered, and at a hushed word from the shaman, the rustling robes hurried away until the only sound was the wind in the trees. Then, and only then, did she open her eyes. Namor stood in the clearing, the heart-shaped herbs glowing purple and vibrant at his feet in the soft moss. He wore white and green, a loose patterned sweatshirt with a cowled neck and matching, loosely fitted pants that were snug below his knees, his ankles free, and the jade back in his ears and nose where it belonged. There was something quiet, almost reserved about his face, about how he looked at her. “You look better,” she said.
“You look terrible,” he replied, a gentle smile lifting one side of his mouth. “Have you slept at all in the days since you left me?”
Shuri looked away from him and at the trees, at the ground, at her own shoes, her deep red jumpsuit, before meeting his eyes again. “M’Baku has charged me to ensure your every need is handled. I have put Ayo in charge of this task for me. Has she not done her duty?”
Namor’s eyes crinkled a little at the corners. “Mm. She has been most attentive. That is not why I have come.”
She kept her hands in her lap, her chin up. “I see. I told you I did not wish to see you unless it was absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, Princess. I know.” He took a step closer, careful not to step on the glowing plant life that scattered the mossy ground. “But this is something I cannot ask Ayo about, nor any of the Dora Milaje. It is a matter that concerns only you, and it is necessary.”
“Speak, then,” she said.
Namor came close, came to right where she sat, then sat down himself, crossing his legs. “Wakanda may hold the power to kill me,” he said very simply. “And by extension, to destroy all of Talokan. I want to hear from the lips of the Black Panther whether or not she will use this power against us.”
What? Shuri felt her stomach twist unpleasantly. “I… had not even considered that,” she said, appalled. “Never.”
His eyes narrowed. “Ayo mentioned at noon that you have been at work in the lab these past days, studying my blood to see exactly how and why the scientist’s suit made me so ill. Why else would you do this, if not to harness the power for your own purposes?”
“For— for scientific purposes,” said Shuri, shaken to her core. He thinks I am looking for a way to kill him. He did not even question it. “Sometimes knowing why a thing happened is in itself a reward without then extrapolating that knowledge to hurt people.”
He scoffed and shook his head. “You could at least do me the courtesy of being truthful.”
She blinked, horrified at the very thought. “Truthful? Even if I did create such a thing, why would I? It could fall into the hands of our enemies and be used against us. A weapon that kills certain vibranium-enhanced humans? Not all of them— it didn’t make Namora sick when Riri struck her with it in battle— just some, and I cannot pinpoint the reason. That is dangerous. There is a probability that it could kill any enhanced person.”
“Let us say for the purpose of argument that it is only me,” said Namor very quietly. “That only I can be struck down by this weapon, due to the circumstances of my birth. My mutation. Would you then inform your king of this fact?”
Shuri felt as if she could not breathe. Her throat had gone tight, her face hot. No, she wanted to say, no, never… but she had sworn. Wakanda first. “That would be my duty as a member of the Design Group, yes,” she had to say.
His dark eyes burned. “And should King M’Baku then say, Shuri, I command you to utilize this technology as a last resort, should Namor of Talokan rise against Wakanda— then what would you say?”
“As a loyal member of the Design Group, or as Shuri, Princess of Wakanda?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“You cannot separate these two facets of yourself any more than I can separate being K’uk’ulkan of Water and Sky and being a living, breathing man,” said Namor. His tone was dangerous, skirting the edge of a knife. “You are both, as I am both. Do not seek to push me off with these coward’s words.”
The wind lifted her hair, rustled in the trees. She swallowed back tears and made herself look directly at him. “You are asking me to choose between you and my people. I thought we had both already made our priorities clear. Or have you already forgotten that you swore Talokan first to me?”
He might as well have been carved from stone. “Answer me.”
“If M’Baku said such a thing to me, I would tell him that you would never rise against Wakanda, unless in some— some very extenuating circumstance, and that therefore this— imaginary weapon would be unnecessary.”
“You would defend me.” Namor’s voice had gone sardonic.
“I would defend Talokan, which I have seen with my own eyes,” she shot back. “What would you do if I somehow posed a threat to Talokan? You would defend your people over me.”
“That,” said Namor in a voice like a distant, frozen star, “is exactly what I am trying to do, princess. I never agreed that you should take away parts of my living body and experiment on them in your laboratory.”
Shuri felt jerked off kilter. Oh. I had not even considered… “I apologize,” she said immediately. “That—it was not my intent to harm you, only to find a way to help you.” But I could learn so much! wailed her rational mind, somewhere in the far back. Shut up, she told it furiously. “I will— what do you want me to do with the blood sample?”
“It does not matter,” he said. “You would never do it anyway.”
“I am asking you—”
“And I am telling you,” snapped Namor, jaw hard as he glared at her, “that what I want is clearly irrelevant to what the great Princess Shuri, Black Panther of Wakanda, wants. You want a thing and I give it. You do not want another, so I withhold it. All I have done has been for you. And not once in all this time have you asked what I desire.”
Stung by his words, she lowered her eyes. “I thought your people asked you that often enough that you wanted me to—”
“Look at me!” he barked, and Shuri jerked her eyes back to his, stunned at his wounded tone and the pain in his eyes. “Do I look as if I desire to be toyed with?”
“No,” she whispered. He called out for you first, Barnes had said, and then his people.
“Does this sound like a time for bedplay conversations?”
“No.” Shuri’s eyes had blurred and grown wet despite herself, and she forced her mouth to remain pressed in a line as tears tumbled down her cheeks. “I’m s—”
“I will tell you what I want,” snarled Namor, getting up off the ground. “I want you to get rid of my blood. I want you never to use that scientist’s weapon against me again; I want my people safe, and yours as well. And above all, I want—” His voice cut off and his fists clenched at his sides as he stared a hole through her.
Shuri wiped her eyes. “What?” she croaked, meeting his stare, but he did not answer. He only came closer, as if pulled by strings; so close that his hips were on a level with her face, then he dropped to his knees again, and one hand reached out towards her, trembling, then stopped halfway to her face, pulling back as fast as a striking snake.
“I want,” Namor whispered, his voice gone ragged. She could not tear her eyes from his face, the eyes that could be so gentle and yet were so hard, his mouth that sometimes seemed so ready to smile at the corners. He sucked in a small breath. “I want,” he said again, kneeling at her feet. Both hands found the stump she sat on, bracketing her hips: his thumbs grazed her there, his body moved closer.
Shuri could not move, could not breathe as he crowded her space, slid his waist between her parting knees, brought his brow to hers and cupped the back of her head with his warm palm, the fingers trembling. “Promised,” she forced out in a stuttering whisper. “You— promised, you said Talokan first—”
He let out a soft, dry chuckle, warm air gusting over her cheeks. “And you said Wakanda first, yet you let me live.”
Her hands had, as if of their own accord, found his sides, the smooth, firm expanse of muscle and skin beneath his clothing. “You would do the same for me, if I threatened the safety of your people. You would find a way to stop me without death. You— wouldn’t you? Or would you kill me?”
His mouth moved along her jaw, the softest ghost of a kiss, hardly there, and Shuri shuddered. “For my people? For Talokan?” Then he moved back, and she saw the look on his face as his hands left her. “Without hesitation or a second thought, little princess. As you should have done to me.”
A chill spread up her spine like clawing fingers, but something in his eyes belied his true feelings. Shuri pressed. “You did not finish. What do you want above all?”
Namor’s eyes flickered once over her, and then it was as if a great shutter smashed down over his face, his expression going hard and blank. “I will see you in the next council meeting,” he said coolly, and stood, moving off and away until he was nothing but a blur of white in the green trees.
A single heartbeat, then a second, and Shuri let out a sobbing breath, sliding off the stump and hugging her knees to her chest as she wept. It is over , she thought desperately, he is gone, and I will never touch him or joke with him or dance with him again. What was the point of an alliance if the people involved loathed each other? Who benefited from such a barren friendship? Not Wakanda and not Talokan, only our enemies. I must make it right. I must. But how could she even begin? She raised her face to the sky, crying like a child, and wished with all her might that T’Challa was here, that he would do the work she was not fit for, that he could be king again. It would have gone all right if her brother was here; if she had saved his life, if he had not died.
It is all my fault.
She wiped her nose and buried her face in her arms. I can’t be him. I can’t be T’Challa, I can’t be a good king. I can’t, Okoye was wrong, I can’t. I can’t.
The leaves rustled. Behind her eyes, for a single instance, there seemed to flash the colors of purple and blue, and an indistinct figure in white, but only for a moment. Something seemed to come from inside her, in a still, small voice that was not hers: an answer to her inner turmoil.
So what can you do? You cannot be this and you cannot do that. What can you do, Shuri?
Shuri dragged the heel of her hand over her cheeks and sat up straight, panting. “Mama?” she whispered, shocked out of her tears. She stood, looked around, squeezed her eyes shut again in an effort to see whatever that had been again, but all to no avail. Had it been some message to her spirit from the ancestral plane, or simply her own subconscious?
What can you do?
“What can I do?” she echoed, pacing over the soft green moss. “I can. I can…” And then she had it, the answer, and she took off running back to the Citadel, thumbing her communications bead frantically as she raced over logs and moss, rocks and grass. “Ayo, if you see Namor, please ask him to come to the lab. There is something he should see. And ask him to bring Attuma and Namora, too.” She did not wait for a reply, but tapped out of the channel. "Griot?"
"Yes, Princess?"
"Give me all the information you have on Mesoamerican cultural views concerning blood."
Dusk had fallen outside the great glass windows of the lab, painting the sky in smears of rose and orange toward the west. Six Dora Milaje were in attendance, flanking Shuri, who had dressed in white for the occasion, and Namora and Attuma stood by Namor’s right and left sides, both arrayed in jade-embroidered white cloaks edged with black and red fringe. He wore what Shuri thought of as his ordinary clothing: the green shorts, the gold and pearls and jade, the white-and-black patterned cloak over one shoulder. Both his hands were clasped, hand over wrist, in front of him, and he watched her with keen, dark eyes as she stepped forward and saluted him, Talokanil-style, her right hand’s fingers pointing up and the other cupped and pointing down. He echoed the gesture, to what seemed to be the surprise of Namora and Attuma, who, regardless, copied his movement immediately.
“K’uk’ulkan,” she said formally. “Feathered Serpent, God of Talokan, He Who Brings Rain, War-Maker, Sun-Devourer. I have committed a transgression against you and your people, and I ask you to witness as I take the first step to correct it.”
“What transgression is this?” asked Namora, shocked.
“Peace, cousin,” Namor told her softly, then raised his voice to address Shuri. “Tell us of the thing you have done, Shuri, Black Panther, Princess of Wakanda.”
She steeled herself and moved toward her table, waving her hand over it as it opened and a rack of vials rose up from their refrigerated case below. A puff of fog drifted out like a breath on a cold day. “I have taken your body against your will, your blood, and kept it here. It was meant well, but I know now I should not have done this thing, no matter the reason.” Shuri lifted the rack out, forcing her fingers to stay steady as the dozen or so vials of blood rattled lightly in their settings. Attuma made a startled sound in his throat, but did not move. “I should have remembered, K’uk’ulkan. The heart is the seat of the soul, is it not?”
“It is,” he said softly.
“And chu’ lel , the power of life, as you once said— it is in the blood.” Shuri set the little rack on the other table and turned toward the three Talokanil. “Your anger was justified, Feathered Serpent. I separated your life force from you without your express consent. Both with the weapon that struck you, and with this act.” Namor’s head tilted, very slowly, to one side, his eyes watching her. She swallowed. “So now I will do as I was asked, and destroy the thing that I have taken from you.” With a single movement of her finger in a holographic control panel, an incinerator’s flame lit up over another table, and Shuri fed each vial, one after the other, into the searing heat. Her heart ached with each one— what untold secrets did his genetic code hold? But she had no choice. It was not right, and the ground of scientific breakthroughs made with unethical decisions was not a place she had ever wanted to find herself standing on.
All three Talokanil were dead silent. The last vial went in, and Shuri, sweating from the heat, turned toward them, then knelt down and bent her head, her hands flat on the floor. At least I don’t have to look at him. “I beg forgiveness from all three of you,” she whispered. Nakia had sent her a few more phrases to practice, and she took another breath, then said as clearly as she could, “Ma'taali'teeni'.”
There was no sound for a moment. Then, a rustle of fabric and leather, and a hand was on her left shoulder— Attuma’s hand, enormous and absurdly gentle. “Black Jaguar,” he said quietly.
Another hand touched her right. This one was smaller, with slender fingers, but strong despite its size. “Black Jaguar,” said Namora’s voice, firm and sure.
Shuri felt a tear leak from her left eye, dripping off the tip of her nose as she knelt, waiting. Finally, there was a slip and rustle of sandals, a soft whir of air through wings, and a calloused, careful hand brushed lightly over her hair, paused, and went past it to the exposed nape of her neck, where it rested. Her own words came back to her in a flash of realization: don’t touch my hair, and fragile hope rose in her heart. He remembered. He cared enough to remember.
“Black Jaguar,” Namor said quietly. “You have given back to the gods with honor what you took. Rise.” Shuri got her feet under her and stood up, keeping her head down, as Attuma and Namora’s hands fell away, but Namor’s hand slipped down to her ear, then her jaw, where he had her chin between his thumb and finger. “I name you k’inich, Sun-Eyed. Look at me.” She raised her head to look into his face, and saw only calm. His thumb briefly caressed her jaw, and Namora must have seen it, because she turned her head ever so slightly toward Namor. “You are forgiven,” he said, and pressed his lips to her forehead, right between her eyebrows, before pulling back. “Forgiven,” he repeated.
Shuri wanted to collapse to her knees with relief, to ask to start all over, to forget the events of the past month. But that was impossible, so she simply inclined her head and whispered her thanks as he saluted her, hands open, and walked from her lab with his cousins at his side. When the door had shut, Shuri sank down into a chair and closed her eyes, trembling.
“That was well done,” said Ayo, putting a hand on her shoulder. “Sun-Eyed, is it? I hope it’s not an insult.”
“It’s a royal title,” Shuri managed, putting her hand over Ayo’s and clasping her fingers tightly. “It means— it can also mean radiant. Like the sun is coming out of your eyes.” Why was she trembling? “Griot said that the— there is a jaguar god also associated with, with the sun— the sun goes below the earth and, and is a god, and is a jaguar there—”
“Shuri,” said Ayo softly. “Breathe.”
“And— and fire is supposed to cleanse, so I thought, I thought it was appropriate. I— I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m rambling.” Shuri wiped her eyes and sniffed loudly. “I should… I should find something to do.”
“You should go sleep,” Ayo said, nodding at the rest of the Dora Milaje, who accordingly filed out of the room. “For at least twelve hours. Yes? You look exhausted.”
“Okay,” whispered Shuri. “Okay. I’ll try.”
“I’ll take you to your room,” said Ayo, squeezing her shoulder. “Come along, princess. It’s late.”
Notes:
TRANSLATIONS:
Khawuleza - Xhosa for "hurry"
Ma'taali'teeni' - yucatec mayan for sorry/I'm sorry
Chapter 13: ki'ichpam
Notes:
note for the ppl who are only here for nashuri, after the break where Shuri leaves Namor in the Mound, the rest of the chapter is Okoye and Attuma! a lot of people were requesting it on tiktok and I really loved their whole dynamic so much <3 we will be back to our regularly scheduled shenanigans next chapter
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“Princess. I am detecting the approach of Namor of Talokan. Would you like me to open the door?”
Shuri placed both of her hands on her worktable and bent her head. You knew this was going to happen eventually, she chided herself. It had been several days since she had destroyed Namor’s blood sample in front of him and his two advisors, and everyone’s moods had gotten markedly friendlier. Okoye and Attuma were sparring and even sharing meals, she had heard, and fifty or so Talokanil warriors had set up residence in the river, bringing gifts of their blue-hued vibranium, deep-sea minerals and metals, jade, and pearls, receiving Kimoyo beads and Shuri’s updated breather and translation technology in return. Namor had started opening up far more at council meetings, offering advice and helpful assistance as the Border Tribe, wary of a possible invasion, started migrating further into the flatlands, and Namora had even joined Aneka and Ayo for combat practice a few times. For her part, Shuri had kept to her laboratory, trying her best to avoid Namor as much as she could without being rude.
Except, apparently, he was not going to stand for that any longer.
“Princess?”
“I heard you the first time, Griot,” she muttered, raising herself back up and glancing at her reflection in the glass board. Dressed in a navy blue work jumpsuit with a transparent purple coat over it, she thought she looked very businesslike. Not at all like a princess receiving a king. Maybe that’s a good thing. “Let him in.”
The door to her lab slipped open silently, and Namor walked in, pausing at a respectful distance and nodding at her. “Princess,” he said. In his customary patterned cloak and his heavy collar, bracers, and armbands, but with the addition of a pair of white and red Wakandan-made sweatpants that left his ankles bare, he looked every inch a god playing at being casual.
Shuri swallowed, at a loss suddenly. “I am going to have to reprogram Griot to simply call me by my name,” she said, turning back to the diagram. “There are entirely too many people in Wakanda addressing me by my title.”
A small smile lifted Namor’s mouth. She could see it in the reflection on her workboard. “Your artificial intelligence is very dutiful. It knows its place.”
“Mama used to say she thought AI would one day be smarter than all humans.”
He chuckled. “As long as you can take away the source of the power that gives the artificial life… well, life, all is well. Is that not so, Griot?”
“Affirmative, K’uk’ulkan.”
“Ah, see, he’s smart enough to call you by your name to your face.” Shuri tapped her glass board and called up the three-dimensional model of her own DNA she had been working with. “But behind your back? Mm-mm.”
“I do not doubt it,” said Namor, leaning against another worktable. “So. What are you working on?”
She had been running simulations trying to discover with at least a 99% success rate whether or not the synthetic heart-shaped herb would affect little T’Challa exactly as it had affected her, but he did not need to know that— or indeed of the boy’s existence at all, as Nakia had not seen fit to reveal him to all Wakanda yet. “Hoping I do not develop gills one day from your plant,” she said, banishing the model. “What are you doing here?”
Namor tilted his head softly to the left, looking at her. “I thought I would try to catch a Black Panther in her own habitat, since she never seems to be outside these walls. One might think you were avoiding me.”
“I am not,” Shuri said instantly, face burning.
He raised a single expressive eyebrow. “Really. You all but ran from the throne room after our last council meeting.”
“I— I was needed here.” It was a lie, and she knew he knew it. “I—”
“There is no one here.” He took a step toward her, then checked himself. “I came because we had an unfinished conversation, and I do not like to leave my words unsaid.”
“Did we? I thought you said all you meant to say, the day in the grove.” Shuri fidgeted with a wrench, running her thumbs up and down it, desperately trying to not make eye contact. If I look at him, I will lose my mind. “You know. The part about how you would gladly kill me for Talokan’s sake. Which— I understand, of course. Your people come first, as mine do, and I am not—”
“That is not the conversation I am talking about.” Something was stirring in his voice, dark and heavy. “But perhaps we should not finish that conversation here, after all. It can be saved until after this conflict has been put to rest...”
Oh, she could not stand this. She would be straightforward with him, and hope he would do her the same courtesy. “You are referring to the conversation where you could not tell me what you wanted above all.”
“...or we could have that conversation now anyway,” he said dryly, “which will make everything a thousand times more complicated.”
“What’s complicated? We are already allies.” Bast, do not let him see my hands are sweating.
Namor scoffed, incredulous. “You ask me what about this arrangement is complicated, while freely repeating our words— that I would sacrifice you for Talokan, that you would kill me if I stood between Wakanda’s people and their peace.”
She took a step toward him, letting an indignant note into her tone. “I never said I would kill you for Wakanda.”
“You should have. That would be simple.” He ran a hand through his hair and paced back and forth. “Simple,” he repeated, turning back toward her to brandish a finger like some accusing father. “We have our— dalliances with each other, but always remember to put our respective countries first. That was simple. But in America, I allowed my… my feelings, my emotions to interfere with the task set to all of us, and that damaged our peoples’ alliance. So that is clearly not an option for us. I propose an alternative, princess.”
Shuri’s lips parted. “Are you… are you saying you want to—”
“Wed me,” said Namor, just as Shuri said—
“Break up?”
Silence filled the lab, so still that if someone had dropped a feather on the level above, it would have been heard. Namor stared at Shuri, Shuri stared at Namor, and just as he opened his mouth to say something, Griot’s voice flared to life.
“Princess, you are being hailed. Yama of the Dora Milaje has just re-entered Wakandan airspace. She is carrying—”
“Not now, Griot!” shouted Shuri, whirling on her heel.
“It is an emergency, Princess. She is carrying aboard her ship James Barnes and the two War Dogs who were with him in London, two days early.”
Barnes? She had almost forgotten about Barnes. “If you don’t tell me why an unscheduled return of the War Dogs is so important that you had to interrupt our conversation, I am going to put you on an SD card and throw you into the river.”
“Apologies, Princess. Barnes is suffering from an orbital fracture and a few lacerations along with an erratic heart rate, and he is missing his left arm.”
Namor gave Shuri a startled look, his eyes widening as they met hers. “The— the vibranium one?” he asked, all his weight on the balls of his feet at once.
“Shit,” gasped Shuri, and they both raced from the lab as fast as they could, Namor taking flight and Shuri bounding over everything in her path to reach the landing pad while she hailed the medical group through her beads.
“I told you, I’m fine,” said Bucky very sourly for the forty-fifth time, leaning back against his pristine medical table. He did not look fine, even after a very liberal application of Kimoyo beads: the bruising along his cheekbone had turned a mottled green shade, and the white of his eye had turned an offputting yellow. Most offputting of all, however, was his missing arm: it had been removed at the shoulder socket cleanly, as it was designed, but the absence of it made Shuri feel ill, because of what it meant. Who has it now? What did they want? But Barnes wasn’t speaking about it, and that was even worse.
“James,” she said, reaching for his right hand. “You have to tell us who took it. It could be a matter of national security.”
His mouth pressed into a thin line and he looked away. “It wasn’t the Americans or the British, and that’s all you need to know.”
Namor, who had gotten to the Medical Center first with Attuma at his side, was just as agitated as she was. “If this theft puts Talokan at risk—”
“It won’t,” snapped Barnes, shying away from Shuri’s hand. “Jesus. Can you two just trust me on this?”
“Do not make me get Ayo in here,” said Shuri, hoping she sounded just as frightened and sharp as she felt.
“What are you gonna get her to do, torture me?” And Barnes looked so tired when he said it, so bone-achingly tired and hurt and worn out, that she could not look at him anymore and had to turn her back, taking a few breaths and staring at the wall.
Namor, however, was not so affected. “If you do not explain who stole Wakandan vibranium, I will drag you into the river and feed you to a crocodile like the white dog you are,” he snarled.
“I told you, it’s not anyone we need to worry about.”
“How do you know?” demanded Shuri, turning back. “There could be spies anywhere in—”
“It wasn’t a spy, okay? It was someone— someone from—” He turned red, which made his bruises look almost brown against his skin. “Let’s just say if it was a disguise it was really, really good. And they went to the trouble of making a spaceship to fly off in.”
“A— a spaceship,” said Shuri, remembering the vessels that had dumped Thanos’s army into Wakandan land. I cannot lead my people through another threat like that, I cannot. “Wh— what—”
“It was... a girl. Well, a woman. Part robot, part… alien? Human-looking, blue alien?” Barnes sat up, went off-balance due to there being no counterweight on his left side, corrected himself, and turned a greenish color. “From— space,” he said thickly, and Namor snatched up a curved metal bowl and handed it to him. “No, I’m fine. I’m not gonna—” The rest of his sentence was lost in being sick, and Shuri pressed her hands to her eyes, half-frantic to get the whole story out of him. “Sorry,” Barnes croaked when he was done. “My balance is all screwy.”
“She hit you hard enough to knock you unconscious. That is a very severe blow.” Namor crossed his arms, suspicion all over his face. “You say a blue woman, part machine, came from the sky in a ship and beat you senseless, then stole your arm, before sailing away into the sky again.”
“Yep,” said Bucky brusquely, shoving the bowl away. Shuri was racking her brain: this description sounded so familiar, but why?
A sudden grin broke out on Namor’s face. “I would very much like to meet such a woman. She sounds like a formidable warrior, if she can so easily dispatch the White Wolf.”
Shuri had never seen Bucky look so annoyed. “Okay, look, can you maybe not gloat? She caught me off guard, I’m walking down an alley and suddenly boom, she jumps me and before I even knew what was happening she’s flying off and I don’t have an arm. It wasn’t some great battle—”
Attuma, from his position in the corner, nodded in agreement. “Attacking unseen is a coward’s move.” Then he considered. “But sometimes it is a very effective one.”
“You’re not helping, shark-boy,” muttered Bucky.
“Nebula!” shouted Shuri, remembering all at once. “The daughter of Thanos!”
“Was that her name?” Bucky looked lost. “I guess it was.”
“Yes, don’t you remember? She was fighting with us when we came back through the portals that the Sorcerer Supreme opened.”
“Oh, this wizard tale again,” said Namor, waving a hand dismissively.
Attuma looked fascinated. “I have not heard this tale.”
“It’s a very long story,” Shuri said, not wanting to go off on a tangent. “But Barnes, why would Nebula take your arm?”
Bucky shrugged, one-shouldered. “Why would a crazy alien assassin do anything? But, again. Pretty sure she’s not working for the Americans, unless they have a secret outer-space division we don’t know about.”
“A moon base, perhaps?” said Shuri, raising an eyebrow at Bucky.
“Nice try,” he said, rolling his eyes.
Attuma was lost. “This woman came from space? What space?”
“The— space, like up in the air,” explained Bucky, gesturing at the windows and the sky beyond it. “Out there. Outer space.”
The Talokanil gave him a confused look. “I have been in the air. We flew through it when we came from Talokan, in your airships. I saw no blue women there… aside from Namora.” He grinned at his own joke, and Bucky groaned.
Shuri realized, to her great consternation, that she had never explained space exploration. To properly lay that out, she would have to explain the Cold War, and to explain that, she would have to go into the histories of American and Russian politics. Her head spun. I did not even think of that!
Namor turned to Attuma. “These surface people have explored the air of the sky, true, but also what lies beyond it, just as we have made forays into their surface world,” he said. “They have touched the moon itself, my cousin, and gone so high up that this world we stand on looks like a ball in the elbow of a pitzil on the court.”
“Is this true?” asked Attuma, turning to Shuri. “Your people have touched her face and lived?”
“It is,” she said, grateful that Namor had been able to explain for her. “And this blue woman came from beyond this world. There are hundreds of other worlds out there, so far away that space must be bent like— like this, to get there.” She picked up the end of Barnes’ blanket, then folded it and touched it to the other end before spreading it out again.
The face of the Talokanil warrior was a study in delighted wonder. “I would like to go to these other worlds,” he said. “To see and touch the stars my ancestors watched, and wrote down, and loved so dearly.”
“I’ve not even been yet,” said Shuri, giving him a grin. “In fact, I don’t think any of us have ever been to space.”
“Steve had,” said Bucky thinly, and they all looked at him, his eyes shut tight, his head leaning back. “He told me it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The whole sky goes from blue to black, and then— space folds, and you start going so fast that you see colors that haven’t even been named yet. On and on, and then it’s over and all the stars are different, and there’s another world below your ship. A world you don’t know a thing about yet.” He cleared his throat loudly and drew his right hand over his nose.
Namor quickly looked back toward Attuma to give Barnes a moment. “If I could have made a moon and stars also to set in the depths of the sea for my children, I would have,” he said softly, and Attuma nodded, saluting him. Namor returned the gesture. “Go tell Namora that the White Wolf has returned, and tell Talokan that all is well.”
The bigger man smiled. “As you command, K’uk’ulkan. No need to speak of this blue woman from the sky to any of them, I think. It would only confuse everyone.”
“Very wise,” said Namor, smiling. “Go.”
While they were speaking, Shuri turned back to Barnes, who had composed himself. “I will make you a new arm,” she promised softly. “A better one.”
A faint smile spread over his face. “This one better have built-in kebab skewers.”
She grinned. “And a finger gun like those silly James Bond movies, pow. But sadly all I can offer you is a built-in Kimoyo bead system. Unhackable and untraceable.”
“Aw, man, you mean I don’t get a kebab skewer? I was really looking forward to that.”
Shuri laughed and punched his right shoulder lightly. It was hard to remember what was lightly and what wasn’t, especially with Black Panther strength, but he made a face at her anyway. “I can add some extras. There is a limit with space, you know.”
“Surprise me, then,” said Barnes.
Namor’s feet were as feather-light as his wings as he glided up behind her. “We will let you rest now,” he said, and Bucky gave him a nod, then curled up in his bed, lying on his left side and huddling into the blanket as they left. Shuri felt almost sorry to leave him in the hands of the healers, but they knew their duty as well as she knew hers. She and Namor made it to the top level of the Medical Center, overlooking the misty, high hills of the Great Mound, before he finally turned to her. “I did not know there was so much more knowledge to be had in the world. Beyond the world.”
“It was a shock for everyone else up here on the surface, too,” she said. “Ten years ago we did not even know that life outside this planet existed. Now…”
“Blue machine women steal a friend’s arm,” he said, shaking his head in astonishment.
“Yes,” she said, smiling. It felt nice, like old times, almost: to laugh with him, to smile with him. Then Shuri remembered what he had said in the lab, and the smile slid off her face. “You were— speaking in the lab, before, of— a proposed solution to our problem.”
“I was,” he admitted, shifting his weight. “I was willing to forget I had said anything, if you…” Dark eyes took her in, metering, judging, and she shook her head minutely. Namor nodded and set his jaw a little. “A marriage between two allied nations serves to cement the alliance. There is no longer one nation and the other, for they are all one people beneath two joined hands.”
Marriage. Shuri felt her mouth go dry and her belly twist in shock. So she had not imagined it. He had proposed wedding her. Out of what? Only concern for the alliance? “I… I see,” she said faintly.
“This idea does not appeal to you,” he observed, watching her face like a hawk.
Oh, Bast, was she insulting him? “I— it is just a lot to take in. I mean, I’m— very young. I’m only twenty-two. Most people in Wakanda wait until they’re more mature and settled.”
Namor’s eyes glinted. “Whatever the custom of your people may be, you are assuredly not a child.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I am not. And I— I cannot deny that you are right about the— the purpose, and— I have done enough damage to our alliance already. Perhaps this is a way to repair it.” Why was her heart beating so quickly? Hundreds of marriages in Wakanda’s history had been made for the purpose of alliances: her own grandmother had been a Mining Tribe woman, wed to King Azzuri. She wished she could remember the story behind it. Something about civil unrest, certainly. Whatever the reason, Wakanda had prospered, and her father had been the result of that union. “I will— I will consider your proposal.”
“You are hesitant,” said Namor softly. “Is it because I cannot give you children?”
Shuri blinked. She had not even been thinking about that. And there is another heir to Wakanda already living, but he does not know that, and I cannot tell him. Ah, Bast! “A child would… it would complicate many things.”
“A child would secure the marriage and give both our people a king.”
Shuri’s only experience with babies at all was when they came to be blessed in the throne room at four months of age, screaming and filling their diapers. “Your people have a god. What is a king to that?”
His eyes were full of unfathomable resignation. “A god who can die is no god at all, princess.”
“It is not— the—children that give me reservation,” she managed, looking out over the misty trees. She could not say exactly what it was that made her shy away from the very idea, but Namor only stepped closer.
“You do not wish to share my bed.” The words were lifeless, almost flat in their tone.
“I—”
“I am no fool. We made each other promises, before America, then I acted rashly, and now you avoid me at all costs and speak nothing of what we said. I was foolish. Even more so because I was jealous of the closeness between you and your wolf, when now I see he is nothing more than a friend. I look back and…” He made a guttural sound of anger in his throat, turning away. “If I had not been blinded by pride and envy, it would have been different.”
Yes, and you might have kissed me again, and we could have danced all night and nobody would have died. Shuri felt a lump in her throat and shut her eyes, thinking about it. His hands on her hips, his warm mouth on hers, his body pressed close. A warm, shivering ripple shook her, and she bit her lip to bring herself back to the present. Do I not want to share his bed? That was not true: every moment she had alone to think for more than a few minutes she had lost herself in shameful dreams of his fingers, his mouth, his hands and his soft smile and the sounds he made just for her.
It would have been different.
Namor on his back, filthy and gasping dry air, blood weeping from cuts, his spear in her hands.
It could have been different.
“I would not force you,” he was saying gently. “I have said it before. Willingly or not at all. Have I ever broken that oath?”
“You have not,” Shuri had to say, “but—”
“So. A marriage for the purpose of politics, in name only. Before both our people, we will be united, but you need not share my bed.”
She shook her head, but he didn’t see: he was staring out over the trees. "Now, hold on—”
“It will have to be a ceremony that honors both of our people, of course. I could bring a huipil from Talokan, but perhaps it would have to be colored purple or gold. What are the traditional colors of a wedding among your people? And have you any shaman or priest with the spiritual authority to wed gods?”
Shuri pressed her lips together to keep from laughing hysterically. “K’uk’ulkan, will you please listen to me?” He turned, looking startled, and opened his mouth, then closed it and looked at the ground as she spoke. “I do not— it does not need to be— first of all I would have to present this idea to King M’Baku. Secondly, the elders would all have to agree, as would your advisors. And I cannot even present the idea in court until we hear the words of the War Dogs who brought Barnes back with them from England. Perhaps our alliance will not need to be strengthened at all. And apart from all that, I have not even said yes yet!”
“Ah,” said Namor, looking back up at her. A gleam of mischief shone in his eyes, brief enough that she almost did not register it. “You see, this is why we would be powerful together. You are the reasonable one who has her feet on the ground, and I am as quick in my deeds as the wind changing.”
“And also,” said Shuri, hoping that her next words would not make anything worse, “I would not prefer a cold, lonely marriage to a— a, ah, literally any other kind of marriage.”
Namor went very still and looked at her for what felt like a long, long time. “You are saying that you would— rather share my bed.”
“I would,” she admitted, unable to make eye contact suddenly.
“Even though there would be no child born.”
“Yes.” It was barely a squeak. Shuri felt like her chest was being compressed by something between panic and excitement. The expression on Namor’s face was all disbelief and confusion, some shock breaking through, barely tamped down. He looked as if he was going to say something. Shuri quickly cut in. “But, again, we can speak about it further at a later time.”
“Yes,” he said, and she knew immediately that had not been what he had intended to say. “Yes. Of course. A later time. I am only finding it hard to believe that you would willingly come to my bed in a marriage where no children can be born.”
“I’ve never even thought about having children,” Shuri protested, leaning on the railing. The damp air of the mountain drifted over her throat and cheeks.
“Of course you haven’t. You were not born to the role of a ruler. A mortal ruler cements their rule by providing a lineage for their people to look to. They do not…” Namor waved a hand. “Belong to themselves. They belong to their people.”
She swallowed. “Our line has already been broken. The Golden Tribe no longer sits the throne. I gave it willingly—”
“I know. Thousands of years, gone like silt in a current,” said Namor, moving a little closer to her. “By the results of one decision.”
“If you mean to scold me for what I have done—”
“No. I do not scold. I am not an old woman. I simply want you to do something for me, princess.”
“And what is that?” Her belly was twisting into knots, nervous and tight all over again.
“I want you to think. Think of us, wed, ruling together: Talokan and Wakanda, free and at peace. Me, sitting beneath the sea; you on the throne of your fathers.” Namor brushed his hand against hers, the softest of touches, and Shuri shut her eyes. “Next, I want you to think of what should happen, should some misfortune befall the both of us— as it surely may in these strange times where gods walk among men and people live in the stars— no heir to carry our legacy, and our people shattered. And while you are thinking of that, in itzia, I am going to kiss you, and we will see if you truly wish to share my bed in a marriage that will end like that.”
Shuri parted her lips to say, you don’t understand, but all words left her as Namor’s mouth covered hers, warm and soft. She forgot everything, then: whatever she had been going to say, little T’Challa, Nakia, the council, even her lab and all her unfinished work there, everything but the rasp of his beard against her lips and cheeks, the hand at the nape of her neck, cradling her. Someone made a desperate noise, but she could not tell who had made it. Her own hands found his collar, slid up; her fingers buried themselves in his salt-coarse black hair. One of his hands found her hip, then her thigh: he lifted her and pressed himself in, kissing her like a starved man, nipping at her lips. Yes! This is what I want, what I missed, what—
It was Namor who broke it off, blinking at her like he had been struck over the head. Both of them were pressed up against the railing, likely in full view of half the people working in the Great Mound, and Shuri choked, wriggling away from him and smoothing down her clothing. “I— that— I was not thinking—”
“You do want this,” whispered Namor, and there was such a tone of stunned awe in his voice that she had to stop and look at him.
“Wakanda chooses its kings by ceremonial combat,” Shuri explained very quickly. “In another— when— when M’Baku has become too old to continue, or perhaps decides he is simply done, a new king can challenge him for the throne. Anyone. There is no heart-shaped herb allowed: the shamans make a serum to cleanse its effects from the body, and the two fighters meet on equal ground. One yields in the end. So having a child is not— it does not guarantee that a royal line will go on.”
“I see,” said Namor after a moment. “It would, then, be a marriage for the present time. The Black Panther wed to the Feathered Serpent. That is why you need M’Baku’s permission.”
“Yes,” said Shuri, relieved. “You understand now. This is not some little European kingship where the eldest becomes king on no merit, simply due to who his father was. A king dies, his heir fights in combat, a contender from one of the tribes may or may not come.”
“A better system, I think,” said Namor. “Now I see why you handed over your throne. M’Baku is a formidable warrior, and without the strength that the herb gives you…”
“Hey, I’m not that weak,” she muttered, stung. Perhaps that had been part of it, but he did not need to say it like that.
“No, no insult intended.” He gave her a gleaming smile. “Well. We can both… consider that arrangement if the time comes.”
“Yes, I think so. I am—K’uk’ulkan, I am glad we spoke.” It was nice to be open again, to have that weight off her shoulders. “You can— you may come to the lab any time you like to, ah. To speak.”
“To you,” he prompted after a moment, still smiling.
“Yes! Yes, to me. I would like that.”
“Would you? Good.” Namor reached for her face, trailed his fingertips down her cheek until they brushed her jawline, warm and smooth and slightly calloused. His voice dropped into a low register, almost a purr. “And… may I visit you in other places, princess?”
Her heart thudded so hard she was sure he could hear it. “Such as?”
A wicked glint shone in his eyes. “The gardens?”
“I think you may.”
Namor ran his thumb softly along her lower lip. “Maybe other places. If I find the time. I am very busy, you know.”
“I’m sure you are.” When she parted her lips to speak, his thumb slipped past them, brushing her teeth. His eyes went heavy and soft, his hand stilling. “What with your people arriving. The River Tribe is very glad to trade with th—”
He kissed her again, fully on the mouth, hot and soft as honey. Shuri moaned through her nose and pressed her hands to his chest, clinging to his cloak, to his collar. “Last one. I promise,” he breathed, brushing her cheek with his nose. “I will let you go back to your duties.”
“Oh. Right. Yes.” She swallowed and stepped away, her hands missing his warmth almost immediately. “I have— I have a new arm to make. For Barnes.”
“Yes,” said Namor, nodding gravely. “You do. And I have my people to look after. I will see you later, princess.”
“Yes, you will,” she told him, and hurried away, barely able to keep the smile off her face as she darted off the balcony and back to the waiting airship.
Okoye sat surrounded by her Border Tribe representatives, listening to the two War Dogs give their account of London. It was certainly something—the British scientist who had been approached by the CIA had previously been working under the protection of MI6, and was a quantum physicist. Dr. Starr was the name. She felt that the presence of a gifted physicist might be a threat, however: suppose this scientist was like that other one she had run into during the battle for Earth, who could grow smaller or larger as he pleased? It was not a pleasant thought. No, that is not correct. Lang. His name was Lang, and he was no scientist; that was Pym, his friend. Was it not? Or was that someone else?
She rubbed her temples. Perhaps Shuri’s infernal AI could make a dossier of all of the people who had fought, and list their advantages in battle. Okoye would not have minded that fine warrior who rode the winged horse coming to the aid of Wakanda. They called her the Valkyrie. I remember that. She came from Asgard, with Thor…
Shuri sat placidly at M’Baku’s right hand, dressed in a simple black and silver jomi as the elders shared their opinions on the security of the borders. She was clearly trying very hard to not look at Namor of Talokan, who was in turn very intensely focused on the War Dogs. Okoye inwardly sighed. You are not even a little subtle, my princess. The two of them were becoming a problem that even Ayo had started becoming concerned about. “The princess has never… behaved like this with anyone,” she had told Okoye, incredulous. “She went to a club with him! She danced! It is as if I do not even know her!”
Okoye had put a hand on Ayo’s shoulder. “She is only twenty-two, General. We should let her be twenty-two. But not at the expense of our alliance, I think. I will speak to the king.”
That had been an even worse conversation, had in M’Baku’s office with the door shut. “You mean to tell me that our Shuri is falling in love with the fish-man?” he had choked out, eyes bulging, and then paced for a good minute and a half, at a total and uncharacteristic loss for words before turning back to Okoye. “If he hurts her, I will cut off his funny little wings and mount them over my hearth.”
“Just keep it in mind, but do not say anything to her about it, for Bast’s sake,” Okoye had told him. “We do not want to make this situation worse.”
M’Baku had slapped his leg. “Worse? Worse? The Black Panther of Wakanda has— has eyes for Namor of Talokan! How could it be worse, eh?”
“Because if she realizes everyone knows, my king, she may panic and pull away from him, which could anger him, which will be ruinous for Wakanda.” Okoye had put her hands on her hips. “All those books you have read about history, and yet you could not find a single one about the inner workings of the hearts of young women?”
“You be quiet. She is grieving. How could she—”
“Yes. And she wants love. As everyone does in troubled times. I will leave you to study that. I am going to practice in the yard.”
“Oh, yes,” said M’Baku slyly as she had turned to leave. “With Attuma of Talokan, no doubt.”
Okoye had paused, turned very slowly, and raised a single brow at him. “Do you wish to make some comment on my sparring practice, my king?”
“Sparring? Eh? Is that what you are calling it?” She threw a glass directly at his head. He had caught it one-handed as she stalked off, and she thought sometimes she could still hear him: “If this sort of thing is contagious, half of Wakanda will be living beneath the sea!”
Now, Okoye looked over at Attuma, but not directly, only using her peripheral vision to watch him as he stood like a broad blue pillar at Namor’s side. He is a fine warrior, she admitted to herself, listening to the Mining Tribe elder ask questions of the War Dogs. As strong as the Black Panther, and surprisingly quick despite his size. She was not stupid, either: little gifts had started appearing at her home, the little lakeside house she had been given as a gift by Shuri, where she had started spending far more time now that her presence was required so often at council. Shells, river-weed in various bright colors, carved jade baubles, even a vibranium-bladed knife with a carefully bound fiber and carved bone handle, made with such astonishing care to the balance and weight that Okoye had brought it to their next sparring match and enjoyed using it very much. He had never said a word about the provenance of the knife, but his eyes had shone with unbridled joy when he had seen it in her hands.
If I did not know better, I would say he wishes to court me. Okoye had thought herself done with all such matters long ago. She thought briefly of W’Kabi, banished and exiled, wandering in the long grass. I did not give half my life to Wakanda for only more grief. I did not fight all my life to… She set her face in a calm mask, and let herself think about the day she had been accepted into the Dora Milaje, how W’Kabi had looked at her. He had been traditional, practical, blunt: he had wanted her to stay in the Border Tribe. He had not understood her fierce loyalty to the throne, nor her desire to protect the royal family. He never understood me.
Attuma understood her. Met her where she needed it, matched her blow for blow, even beat her. And that was so rare that she found herself compellingly drawn to it, to him : she found herself at the strangest times wondering what he was doing, thinking about him, about his broad chest and his height, about the stories behind his shark-tooth scars, about the way he smiled when she impressed him. Perhaps that was why she could not quite find it in herself to be harsh with Shuri. There was something to be said for allowing one’s self to be soft after so long wearing armor.
M’Baku ended the council and thanked the War Dogs. Okoye rose up, saluting him with her arms crossed, and turned to go with the rest of them, noting that Namor’s eyes went immediately to Shuri as she left, and trailed her until she had disappeared through the doors. She had to smile a little at the sight of him: five hundred years old, but he might as well have been a boy of seventeen from the lovesick look on his face. Namora seemed to notice it, too, and was it Okoye’s imagination, or did she exchange a small glance with Ayo?
“Ah, our Feathered Serpent,” said Attuma’s voice very softly, behind her head. Okoye did not whirl on him, but remained still where she stood. “He sees the Black Jaguar, and all else might vanish or fall, but he would never see it.”
“I am sure he has much to think about,” she said, as blandly as she could.
“We all do,” he said. “Will you spar with me this afternoon?”
Okoye kept her hands clasped behind her back. “Mm. I am very busy.”
Atumma chuckled. “As am I, yet I make the time.”
She finally turned and looked at him as they left the throne room. “Your duty is with your people who have come all this way, is it not?”
He shrugged, his massive shoulders rising and falling. “I have eaten with them this day and carried messages from K’uk’ulkan. To sit all day speaking and thinking is a blight on the strength of the body and the agility of the mind.”
“On that we agree,” said Okoye dryly. “Very well. We will go to the yard, if you are not needed anywhere else.”
“I am not.” They began to walk together, down to the level where the garden was, and he slipped out into the sunlight, stretching as he divested himself of his court clothing. Okoye pressed her lips together and averted her eyes from the enormous, scarred expanse of blue skin as she removed her own cloak and took out the knife he had left for her, along with the staff she used as a spear for practice.
“What shall we practice with today?” she called over her shoulder, checking the staff for any cracks. The last three had shattered.
“I was thinking that I would let you use my axe,” he replied, and Okoye turned, surprised, as he walked toward her and held out his long-handled, balanced axe, the blade as long as both her hands together. “Try it.”
She shook her head with a chuckle. “It is far too big.”
“It’s lighter than it seems.”
Okoye gave him a look, set down her weapons, and took it. It was far heavier than her spear: she had to use both hands. “I cannot fight with this.”
“It will make you stronger. Hold it closer to the— yes, that’s right.” He came behind her and moved her right hand up the haft toward the blade, her left hand down, and Okoye was reminded, absurdly, of her mother, large hands over hers, showing her how to hold a spear for the first time. But her mother’s hands had been a rich, deep brown, and the ones that covered hers now were as blue as a summer sky. He felt surprisingly warm— she knew his body heat was warmer than that of a human’s, but she had never felt it so acutely before. His chest was almost touching her back. “Now. You swing with this hand— like this.” Attuma lifted the end of the axe and swung forward, and Okoye felt the heft of the weapon, the balance. “Good.” He let go without warning, and Okoye staggered, shifting her weight to hold the thing up by herself. “Swing it again.”
She grunted, lifting and swinging with care. Every muscle in her arms stood out, and Okoye had to spread her legs wider just to get a proper center of gravity. “I prefer my spear,” she said, gritting her teeth.
“A spear is good,” Attuma said approvingly. “An axe is better in close combat. A knife best of all.” His eyes flashed over her, brown and warm.
Oh, so we are talking about the knife now, are we? “A knife can be wrested away and used against the wielder. A spear, not so much.”
“May no one ever wrest yours from you, Okoye of the Border Tribe,” he said quite seriously, and took his axe back. One-handed, he spun it, then planted the butt into the pavement, which cracked beneath his blow. Okoye tilted her head ever so slightly, raising a judgmental eyebrow. Show-off. “But since an axe is not fit against a spear, perhaps we should try hand-to-hand. No blades.”
“No weapons?”
“Your body is the weapon. Come.” Attuma set aside his axe and turned to face her. “Even in that armored suit of yours, you will need such skills.”
“You think I do not know this?”
“I know you do,” he answered, smiling a little. “Which is why I say it.” His bare feet spread apart, and his shoulders hunched. “Now. Let us see what you can do.”
Okoye cracked her neck, exhaled hard, and charged. Attuma tried to sidestep her, but she had been watching his tendencies in hand-to-hand combat: he always went left when he avoided a frontal attack. When he slipped to the left this time, she followed, hooking her ankle around his and driving her elbow into his chest to knock him off balance. He recovered quickly, and instead of falling, pivoted on his right foot, turned her in a circle, and pushed her forward, sending her tumbling into the ground with an annoyed grunt.
“Again,” he said.
He is big, but he is not slow like a big man should be. I cannot use the advantage of being smaller and faster. She got up, brushing sand from her trousers. And he is stronger than I am. Perhaps her smaller stature would be of use. Okoye bent her knees, shifting her weight to the balls of her feet and sliding her right foot out further as she watched him closely for any hint of his next moves, but Attuma remained where he was, still and silent as water, waiting for her attack.
She feinted toward his right. He dodged left and brought up his hands, but Okoye ducked the blow, threw out her foot as she spun, and caught him behind his right knee. Attuma stumbled, caught himself, and thrust out with his right foot. Only her stance saved her from another tumble: she dodged him by bending backward, one hand on the ground, then sprang back up and kneed him in the chest before he could put his striking foot back down. With all his weight on one foot and a high center of gravity, Attuma toppled to the ground on his back, Okoye atop him, her knee folded against his breastbone and her forearm pressed lightly against his sky-blue throat.
“Do you yield, Attuma of Talokan?” she whispered lightly, her heart pounding. It is because I have exerted myself. No other reason.
He was breathing heavily. She had never noticed the shade of his eyes: a deep, rich brown. Without the breathing apparatus, replaced with a gill-covering mechanism designed by Princess Shuri, Okoye could appreciate the shape of his mouth, the way it curved upward at the corners as if he was about to smile, his high cheekbones. The shark’s teeth set into his chin gleamed in the sunlight. “You need not hold me down, Okoye of the Border Tribe,” Attuma said, his broad blue chest rising and falling. “You have put me on my back. I would have stayed.”
“So you say,” said Okoye softly. She was forty-two, and had had a husband: there was no reason for her to be feeling as if butterflies were unspooling from her spine and fluttering into every corner of her body. “But do you yield?”
“To such a warrior? I am honored to yield.” Something warm brushed her outer thigh, near her backside. Bast’s sake. But he was only moving his hands up from his hips to raise above his head in surrender. “So, I yield.”
“Good,” Okoye said haltingly, and realized her face was merely inches from his— she scrambled off and cleared her throat, brushing down her clothing so she did not have to look at him as he rose up. “Best of three?”
“I would only best you again,” he said, chuckling. “That trick was a good one, but now I know it.”
“You are what they call a sore loser,” Okoye informed him, putting her hands on her hips and turning to face him.
He cocked his head at her. “I do not think that is translating correctly. A defeated warrior, bruised?”
She had to laugh. “No, it is an American figure of speech. It means you are unwilling to accept your defeat graciously, and lick your wounds with petulance.”
A grin spread across Attuma’s face. “Ah. A good insult. I will remember it, so that I can shout it at the Americans when they come to this land and I meet them in battle.” Then, his grin faded, but his smile remained as he gazed at her. Okoye glanced at him, unsure.
“What are you looking at?”
“You,” he answered. “I have not seen you smile or laugh like that since we arrived here in Wakanda.” Attuma planted the practice staff in the earth and left it upright as he took a few steps toward her. Okoye felt her skin go prickly, felt as if the earth had been tugged sideways a few feet and left her stumbling to stand. What is he doing? His hand, blue and warm, reached out, but did not touch her as his thumb trailed back and forth a few inches from her mouth, as if he was tracing the shape of it. “Yes,” he said finally.
“Yes what?”
“Beautiful. It is a beautiful laugh,” he explained, and Okoye tried to snort, to dismiss his words, to roll her eyes, but found herself merely standing there with no thought at all in her mind beyond the look on Attuma’s face. “I have a request,” he said next, lowering his hand.
“What is this request?”
“That you come and eat with the Talokanil tonight. With Namora and myself. I think you would enjoy it.”
“I cannot eat underwater,” said Okoye, very caught off her guard. Eat with them?
“You could breathe if you took Namora’s mask. And it is not about the eating, but about the conversation.” Attuma’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled at her again. “Will you?”
Okoye hesitated. She was not sure if she could fully trust Attuma… but she had been at his mercy so many times: what could possibly be different? “I will inform the princess and go with you, then.”
“Ah, good.” He beamed, then composed himself. “I will meet you here at sunset, then, Okoye of the Border Tribe.”
“Sunset. And I will wear something… water-appropriate,” she said, lifting an eyebrow.
Attuma laughed, slapping his knee. “Yes! Water-appropriate!” Then his head cocked to the side again. “Or I can… send you something to wear?”
In the name of strengthening an alliance, Okoye saw no reason why she should not wear something from Talokan. “Yes, as you like. But if I cannot swim in it, I will be very put out.”
“I will find something,” he promised. “Sunset.” And then he was off, axe in hand, while Okoye reeled back and sat on the bench, astounded at herself.
Have I just accepted an invitation to go… on a date??
Namora had presented Okoye with a one-shouldered, woven garment of dyed fabric in a rich red and orange hue, pleated and graceful, that split and gathered at her ankles. Okoye now stood with the Talokanil woman, barefoot and feeling a little nervous, at the river’s edge, looking out over the settlement that the River Tribe and the Merchant Tribe had collaborated on to build for the Talokanil.
Half submerged, two enormous, burnished wooden arms branched gracefully out into the river, diverting the current away from a deep, protected cove at least a thousand yards across in diameter, the water of which was cleaned and oxygenated by several large filters, glowing purple at the mouth of the cove’s opening to the open river. Lanterns hung from the mesh, woven roof stretched between the arms, which offered sun protection on clear days, casting glittering warm light off the surface of the clear water. On most days there was a line of excited Wakandan traders trickling from the market to the Talokanil settlement, but this evening everyone had gone home for dinner, and the sounds of conversation were echoing across the water. Okoye could hear them. Laughing men and women, teasing, joking with one another. It was in words she understood, but it was all a different tongue; a language she had known once, and which now was almost foreign to her ears and her heart.
I am being foolish and sentimental. She cleared her throat and blinked quickly a few times, just as the water parted and Attuma rose out of the murky river, dripping wet as he strode toward them. He wore a long, heavy loincloth embroidered with jade, a cloak edged with jade, armbands and bracers and greaves of stiffened leather— or was it sharkskin? After all, he lived in the sea— all decorated and embroidered. His hair, long and black, was pulled back in a simple half-up and half-down style, as it had always been, a few locks braided and decorated with shark’s teeth. Okoye suddenly felt very plain and simple in her borrowed dress and her beaded necklace. I should have worn something nicer. Vibranium, maybe. A bracelet.
Namora gave a small giggle as he neared them. “My cousin arrays himself like a bird arrays his nest for courting,” she said, giving Okoye a sideways glance.
Oh, Bast. She knows. “Well, let us hope he does not try to dance for me,” she replied dryly. Namora found that extremely funny, and only barely composed herself before Attuma reached them.
“Cousin,” he said to Namora, saluting her with his hands out. She mirrored the gesture and smiled, glancing between Okoye and Attuma, and he turned to her with an almost… that could not be a nervous expression, not on him. “Okoye of the Border Tribe,” he said, and saluted her, too. Okoye automatically raised her arms to cross them, but changed her mind last minute and mimicked his salute: palms facing him, the right hand open and facing down, the left open and facing up. He seemed pleased, and put his hands down. “I am honored to have you as my guest.”
“I am honored to be invited,” Okoye answered, as diplomatically as she could. She had eaten a light meal beforehand, just in case she truly could not eat for however long this meal would last underwater, but she hoped she might at least get some fruit.
“Namora…?” Attuma glanced at his cousin, and she handed Okoye the breather mask, emptied of water and ready to be used. Okoye took it. “You can put it on any time you like. We will take the ferry over, and swim in the water. I did not want you to be swept away by the currents.”
Okoye smiled. “Your concern is appreciated, but I have swam in this river since I was five years old.”
“Ah? Very well. We will swim.” His eyes gleamed. Namora dived in, and Okoye followed, the mask adhering itself to her face at once with a strangely disquieting sensation as if octopus tentacles were sucking to her cheeks and chin. It was something one might get used to quickly, and it was watertight: she could breathe normally, and struck out after the two faster Talokanil with the most even strokes she could make.
When she climbed out on the other side, soaked and breathless and more exhausted than she cared to admit, they were waiting for her. “See?” said Namora, elbowing her cousin. “She swims well. Just slow.”
Attuma held his hand out and Okoye accepted it, grateful she had not worn heavy jewelry after all. Her eyes had specks swimming in them and her muscles felt like jelly. “You are all right?”
“I… will be glad to sit,” she said with some difficulty. “Ah. You are fast.”
He gave his cousin a glance. “Namora, we will join you inside.” She raised an eyebrow, but walked off through an arch in one of the cove’s wooden arms, waving at some other women inside who greeted her. Okoye was glad that nobody else was watching as she allowed herself to sink down on the shore, gasping in air and hanging her head. He sat down by her, chuckling. “Breathe a moment.”
“I am fine,” she said, taking in a gulp of air as she took off her mask. “You are very fast. I should have taken the ferry.”
“Rest a moment. Take as much time as you need.” He leaned back and looked up at the stars that had begun to twinkle above them, sighing. “I am glad to see the stars. They are not the same as the ones my ancestors had, but I like to look upon them just the same.”
Okoye waited for her heart rate to slow and her breath to catch as she looked up at the sky. “Do you see that big cluster, there? The bright ones?” She pointed.
He nodded. “I see them.”
“It is called the Southern Pleiades by Europeans, but we see it as a great horned bull, charging across the heavens. See the horns?”
“I see them. They look like a hammerhead shark’s eyes.” He grinned, then made a small sound of delight and pointed at the Great Mound, just over the horizon. “Ah! There are the Hearthstones!”
“The what?”
“Three stones in a row, the place of three stones! I did not know you could see these here. There is an old story among our people about the Three Stones. The Talokanil believe that they are where the energy of life was born, when Heart of Sky, Hurakán, created the earth.” He pointed, beaming, and Okoye watched as the last star of the Hunter’s Belt rose over the Mound, glittering dimly in the dusky sky. She did not have the heart to tell him what Wakanda saw in that constellation, but only watched, a smile on her face, as Attuma watched the stars with longing eyes.
“It is a beautiful sight,” she said quietly. “I am glad to see it.”
He looked over at her, smiling. “You sound more rested. Shall we go and eat?”
“Oh. Yes, I think that is... yes.” She stood, and he walked with her, all the way to the cove, where the lanterns were lit and the water moved, heads popping up to the surface like buoys.
“Attuma!” The greeting went up in a wave, excited voices: they saluted him and he saluted back, laughing as they dived back into the water. Okoye felt a pang of loss: her Dora Milaje had been like this, so close-knit and happy, and now…
“You will not be able to eat in the mask, but I have brought food for you here,” he explained, handing her a small bowl. Touched, Okoye took a bite of ripe squash and seared corn, grateful for his thoughtful gesture. It was good, and she finished the bowl quickly, looking out over the water as she fastened the mask back to her face. There were pools of light underneath, rippling strangely, and shapes that moved that she could not make out. I am going into an unknown land. Attuma readied himself to dive at the edge, then looked back at her. “Ready?”
“Of course,” she said, and they swam in together, diving down into the glass-clear water among the Talokanil.
Okoye’s first impression was of a great blur of color and light , but then she focused and realized that she could see clearly, even in the water: someone must have added a little saline. Shuri, she thought, smiling as she swam toward a long platform that multiple warriors had gathered around, eating and laughing with each other. No, not a platform, a table, but a table with no legs, for there was no floor: a person could swim up to the edge and suspend there, laughing, and that was what they were all doing. She turned her head and saw Attuma, but he looked—
Oh! They are not blue in the water. She had completely forgotten. Attuma no longer bore that pale-blue cast to his skin, submerged in the water wholly; he was now a perfectly ordinary shade of warm, light brown, and he was saluting his warriors personally, with the hand gesture and a forehead press. Okoye hung back, treading water and watching uncertainly, but he turned toward her and the translator carried through the water.
“This is Okoye of the River Tribe, the bravest warrior of Wakanda, and she has come to sit with us tonight.”
“But not eat,” joked a woman with a topknot and a netted tunic, and Okoye had to smile herself as they all laughed. “Welcome anyway, Okoye of the Border Tribe.”
She sat by Attuma and found herself, to her great shock and surprise, actually enjoying dinner although she could not eat the fish and the fruit served: the jokes were like the jokes the Dora Milaje had shared amongst themselves at table or in training, the laughter and teasing was the same, the stories similar.
“I heard that Kaax was almost eaten by a little crocodile yesterday.”
“That is untrue; it only surprised me from behind when I was swimming, and it was huge!”
“Oh, yes, a great surprise, it was so big; the jaws went boho'och, boho'och—”
Okoye joined in the laughter and looked around. Hammocks had been strung up in one area like a barracks, personal belongings hanging in nets from above each one, and the great table was clearly for socializing and eating: there was a long, oblong area in the center marked out with stones and river-weed that seemed to be either a court or a plain training yard. Nearer the shore, behind her, the shallows began in thickets of water hyacinth and ended where the river met earth and air. It is beautiful, she realized, as the woman with the topknot and net gown, Yolotli, started asking her whether or not Wakandans played “the ballgame”.
“Which ballgame is this?” she asked.
Yolotli laughed. “The only game! The ballgame! We play on the court, there.” She pointed to the wide open space. “You know. The rubber ball, the— you hit the ball with hip and elbow and knee, and you must get it through the hoop. Nobody is better than Attuma.”
“Really?” asked Okoye, glancing over at Attuma, who was shaking his head, laughing.
“Yes, it is true. Last game, he captained so well—”
“You flatter me, little sister,” said Attuma, covering his eyes. “I lost to the opposing team once out of five times. A great disgrace.”
“You are our general: you could never be a disgrace.” Yolotli waved a hand. “And besides, I am biased and very loyal, for I was on your team.” That got a laugh from everyone else, and Attuma pretended to clutch his heart, sinking low beyond the table, then swam back up, grinning.
Okoye laughed with them all, and felt, for the first time in years, as if she could rest.
When the meal had ended, Okoye swam off to the water hyacinths, popping her head above the water to get a good look at their pale purple blossoms. Some had fallen into the water, drifting on the still surface, but many were still blooming, filling the night air with their scent. She shut her eyes and breathed in the air, listening to the distant grasses rustling in the wind, the ripple of the river. The Talokanil had all retired for the night, but Attuma had bent close, and whispered, “Go up for air if you need to, by the shore. I will come.”
I will come.
She was counting on it. Okoye swam up to the hyacinths, nestling herself in a thicket almost four feet high and removing her mask to breathe unfiltered air. The roots were so thick that she could sit on them with her shoulders above the water, so that was what she did. Craning her head back, she looked again at the night sky, where the Hunter was fully visible now, head and shoulders over the river. Three Hearthstones. Okoye had never thought about how the Talokanil might think of the stars, of all things: they were ocean-dwelling people… but even seafarers needed stars to tell them directions. I have not considered many things that I should have… but that is just being human, I suppose.
A head silently broke the water five feet from her. She could feel the ripples against her shoulders. “You look like a river otter,” he said lightly, swimming closer.
“And you look like a crocodile,” she shot back, smiling and touching her chin.
“Very funny.” Attuma trode water easily as he came to a halt just in front of her. “I am glad you came tonight. You looked as if you enjoyed it.”
“I am glad I came too,” Okoye replied, kicking her feet a little. “I have not felt… ah, at home among warriors for some time.”
“Yes. The princess said that the former queen shamed you for losing her.” Attuma sighed. “That was not well done. She gave herself up freely, and never saw you fall. I put my breather on her and took her myself to K’uk’ulkan. But you did not know that.”
“Yes,” said Okoye, rather brittly.
“I wished to make apologies,” he said, looking up. In the dark, lit by the overhead lamps, his air-blue skin looked almost greenish. “A general to a general. I disgraced you to your queen, and it was not my intent.”
Okoye swallowed. Her first thought was you will never know the shame I felt… but he would, would he not? If Namor shamed him publicly to his cousin’s face, to all of Talokan… he would know. He did know. He understood, perhaps more than anyone, what she had felt when she had left her spear in the red earth of the throne room’s central floor. Emotion, sudden and unwanted, swelled in her heart. “I thank you for your apology, Attuma,” she whispered, rubbing her suddenly-sore eyes. “It is most appreciated.”
He gave her a grave nod. “And I thank you for coming. It is not an easy thing to be friendly with people who were once enemies. But…” and he cut himself off, looking away and shaking his head with a chuckle.
“What?” asked Okoye, curious.
He glanced back. “Ah, nothing. Only— only I am glad you saw me as I truly am. Below the water, without my armor and my weapons, where I can simply be… a man. A person. With my people.”
Okoye considered this for a moment, then put her mask back on and slid into the water. He followed her down below the surface, and she faced him, the pair of them dimly illuminated from the underwater lamps. “I have always seen you as a person,” she said firmly. “Even when we first crossed spears… spear and axe-handle, if you like— I saw you.”
Attuma drifted closer, hands grazing her shoulders. “And I saw you, Okoye,” he said softly. “A tenacious and loyal warrior, and a woman with great grief in her heart. Both things at once.”
She closed her eyes, grateful that the river would not show tears. “Do not pity me.”
“Never. But I grieve with you, for whatever you have lost.”
“I have been married,” she said, before she could hide it. “I was married for years, to a man who turned traitor against Wakanda six years ago, and my position granted me the great cowardice of standing by and doing nothing until I was able to stop him on the field of battle. He is now exiled, our marriage has been annulled, and I will never see him again.”
Attuma blinked. “Annulled by your choice?”
“Yes. I asked King M’Baku, when he came to the throne. He granted it.” Because I wanted… to be cut loose from my past, to be free. How could she claim to have given all to Wakanda when she was still wed to a traitor? Perhaps it had been guilt, as well: Ramonda’s last words, her final order rang in Okoye’s ears every day.
On your feet, General.
“Then I saw clearly,” Attuma said. “You are stronger than most, who would make noise of protest during their spouse’s traitorous actions, and turn a blind eye after, pretending it did not happen. You have done the opposite. I commend you.” She felt a dry sob escape her throat, and closed her eyes, shuddering. Attuma’s hands slid to her elbows. “Weep as you like. You will find no playful word from me on the matter.”
“Thank you,” she choked, and finally recovered enough to clear her throat. Crying underwater was not a sensation she was accustomed to, and she did not wish to repeat it. “You have been an unexpected— a— a very—” She could not find the words.
“I know,” he said with a smile. “As have you.” Both thumbs trailed the bare skin of her arms, and Okoye let herself shut her eyes a moment, floating weightlessly in the dim, clear water, held in place only by his fingers.
“The gifts you left me,” she said, cracking her lids open again, and his hands froze briefly. “What was their purpose?”
Attuma sounded almost hesitant when he answered. “To make you smile.”
“Namora said you were courting me.” It was a half-truth, but Attuma cleared his throat, looking almost bashful, if that was possible for a man his size.
“I— may have— had— I do not—”
Okoye grinned and shook her head. “Five hundred years beneath the sea, and in all that time you have never courted a woman?”
Scoffing, Attuma made a face. “Who has time for such things when one has war with the surface world? Do you know how many ships we have sunk for coming too close to Talokan? The chests of gold and jewels we took from wrecks? There is no—”
Before she could lose her resolve, Okoye surged forward, still treading water, and pressed her forehead to his temple. It was a poor substitute for a kiss on the cheek, but Attuma went very still, watching with enormous eyes as she pulled back. “I am flattered,” she said. “You are a fine warrior, Attuma of Talokan.”
“Oh, only flattered,” he said, eyes narrowing a little.
“No, not only flattered.” How could she say that he made her feel seen, and cared about, and respected? What words were there, in any tongue in the world, to say such things? There were none, she thought, and reached for him, letting her hands find his chest. Attuma gave her a new look, a startled smile on his face, as he covered her hands with his. “I… I do not know how your people court each other,” she confessed. “But I… would… I have— I—” She blew her cheeks out, annoyed at her own inability to put together a coherent sentence. “Eh! I cannot even speak. I am trying to say that if we were birds, Attuma of Talokan, and you had built a nest and danced for me and shown your plumage, I… would come into the nest you had made me.”
There was a short silence. He laughed outright. She felt her face go hot, and then laughed herself as his hands slid up her arms to her shoulders: what a stupid thing to say. “Birds,” he said, chuckling. “Yes. I am wearing my plumage, after all, am I not?”
She clapped a hand to her head. “Bast, what a bad metaphor.”
“No, no. It was a good one.” He reached up and cupped her cheek briefly, searching her eyes, then dropped his gaze. “Well, I cannot take you to my own nest: the hammock is strung in a tower of others.”
“No?” Her heart beat harder, her mouth a little dry.
Dark eyes gleamed. “No. So. I think we must find ourselves one. Preferably where you can breathe unencumbered.”
“Oh, and why is that?”
“Because, Okoye of the Border Tribe,” he said, grinning, “I will not be taken by a woman whose mouth is not free.”
They found a secluded spot, as far away from the center of the circle as was possible, among the water hyacinths, pale in the moonlight. Okoye, slightly unsure of herself, wriggled from the depths and up to the shallows, removing her breather as Attuma slogged out of the water, one bracer already dangling loose, and the next thing she knew she was being pulled from the water, pushed down to the wet mud of the bank, and kissed.
It was not a soft, romantic thing: it was like being eaten alive, like being burned. He kissed like he fought, brutally efficient and fast as lightning, and Okoye brought her hands up on instinct to clutch his back, finding a fistful of impossibly heavy cloak and woven fabric. He pushed himself closer, all his weight on her chest. She broke off, gasping. “Eh, you are crushing me—”
“Oh,” he whispered, rough and heavy in her ear. With a swift tug, he had rolled her over and forward atop him, his hands open and hot against her bare upper back.
“That’s better,” she whispered, and bent her head down, throwing all care to the wind as she pressed her mouth to his. He tried to lift his head, but she grabbed his chin and held him back down. A groan escaped his throat. “You are too eager. You will break me. Be patient.”
Attuma blinked up at her, half-smiling. “I am glad,” he said, watching with hungry eyes as she wriggled out of her soaked gown, the shoulder falling down to her waist.
“Of what, O mighty warrior?” she teased, placing her hands on his chest.
“That at least one of us knows the art of love.”
“Very amusing,” said Okoye, unbuckling his cloak and slipping it off his blue shoulder. He made to reach for his loincloth, but she pushed his hand away. “Ah-ah, I will do that in good time. You tell me of these.” She touched his belly, the scars there shaped like shark’s teeth, and he shivered, lips parted.
“Those— are old,” he said, closing his eyes as her fingers danced across his skin. “I earned them. One tooth for every victory I have won in battle.” A smile lit his face, and Okoye bent down and kissed the scars. When she lifted her head again, he looked punch-drunk, staring down at her. “No one has ever done that to them,” he whispered.
“No? Good. Then I will be the first.” She undid the straps holding his other bracer to his arm, pulled it away, and kissed the palm of his hand, reveling in the soft sounds she elicited from him, the little noises of surprise and delight.
I want him.
The thought was not an unexpected one, not with her body already warming and her sore muscles forgotten, but she felt her heartbeat quicken, her breath come faster. Attuma was breathing shallowly, too, between her thighs his torso hardly moved. “Tell me. Of. Of the marks on your head.”
Okoye swallowed. “The… Dora Milaje often adorn themselves so with tattoos. We all must be shorn and shaved when we receive our spears. The best fighting force of the surface world… having hair is a disadvantage in close melee combat. It shows our honor. Our strength. Our valor. And often to express a little… personal touch, we tattoo our faces or our head. I chose mine…” She reached up, ran a hand over her bare scalp, closing her eyes briefly as the wind kissed her bare body. “I never thought I would be ordered to leave my sisters. I chose something that would always be seen, as I thought…” She could not complete the sentence.
Attuma’s hands were on her waist. She did not know when he had moved them there. “Perhaps I should shave mine to my own advantage in battle, as you say,” he said lightly.
She chuckled, glad of his distraction as she resumed tugging off his clothing. “Don’t you dare. It is beautiful.”
“Mmm.” He slid his hands up, brushing the curve where her ribcage met the bottom of her breast, and Okoye felt suddenly awkward as a young woman: nobody had touched her like that in a long time. “Let me sit up, and I will take it down.”
She stood and divested herself of her gown completely, then, shoving it off and leaving it a wet heap on the bank, and Attuma sat up, pulled off the rest of his clothing until he was as naked as a lion, then knelt on the shore. Okoye sat on her discarded gown and watched, fascinated. In the moonlight, his skin looked devoid of its air-blue color, leaving him a dim, colorless form in the dark— a form with absolutely massive thighs, corded with thick muscle, and arms the circumference of her head. He reached behind his head and undid the first cord keeping his hair back, then the second and third, until all his long black hair, damp from the river-water, fell around his face and shoulders in soft waves. In profile, he took a few breaths, and Okoye could not help but notice how lovely his nose was, with that strong hook and curve to it. Even the deep furrows between his nose and the corners of his mouth were handsome, as if he smiled often. “Attuma,” she murmured, and he turned to face her, wetting his lips as if he was nervous. She stood up, and let him look.
It was so dark that she was not even sure where he was looking, but when he stood up and walked to her, ran a hand down her side from breast to hip, she knew he had seen her. The way his hand trembled was enough to tell her that, even if he hadn’t been in a… particular state that certainly displayed his readiness. “You are…” He shook his head, as if unable to complete the sentence, and kissed her again, his soft hair brushing her neck and shoulders, and Okoye reached up, burying her hands in it, delighting in the sensation as he moaned into her mouth, held her closer.
“Don’t be nervous,” she whispered against his cheek, pulling him by his hands toward the discarded clothing.
“I am a warrior. I am afraid of nothing.” Attuma cupped the back of her neck with his hand and opened his mouth against hers, a sloppy, hard kiss with teeth and a little tongue. Okoye nipped at his bottom lip, sucking softly, and he shuddered as she pushed and pulled him down to his knees, then his backside, then his back. When he spoke again, his voice had gone raspy. “Give me your worst. I welcome it.”
“It is not a battle, you enormous—” She tapped his brow, grinning. “Ah, never mind. I’ll show you. Yes?”
“Please,” he said, and as Okoye threw her leg over his lap, found him, readied herself, she could feel him trembling, the hand on her waist like iron.
“You are shaking. Should I wait?”
He let out a choked gust of air. “I am shaking because if I do not get my kep into you in the next two breaths, Okoye of the Border Tribe, I will lose my—”
He is big, but I can conquer him. She notched him at the tip and sank down, almost all at once: he made a sound like he was dying as she lifted herself up again and took him fully, to the root. And he was good, so good it brought tears to her eyes: every nerve she owned was alight and glittering, and there was not an atom of space left inside her as he filled her to the brim. Bast, I pray you do not let me incur any ill health from having sex in river water. “You were saying?” she asked, canting her hips easily in shallow thrusts.
Attuma had seemed to stop breathing. All at once, his air came back, his hands fumbling for her, gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. “Okoye,” he choked, surging upward, pulling her down onto him where he sat, burying his face in her throat with his mouth open and hot against her skin. “Okoye.” She yelped at the new angle and adjusted her knees, clinging to him as his powerful hips slammed upward into hers, his breaths coming in torn, desperate gusts.
I do not think I will find a climax at this rate. “You can— slow— down—” Attuma just groaned, worked a hand between their bodies, and Okoye stiffened, shocked, as he found her public mound immediately and ran his fingers, quick and deft, across her clitoris. It was good, but not quite what she needed, so she worked her own hand down and used his fingers, showed him silently where to go, how to move, what she liked, and he picked it up quickly, until she was breathing hard herself, just on the edge, and he was gasping into her ear words she could not understand, a litany of sound all streaming into a blur, and then she was crashing over, clinging to him, her face buried in all his soft damp hair, wailing out her climax into the night sky and the river and the water hyacinths.
Attuma groaned and followed her over, his cheek pressed against the side of her head, and they both collapsed into the damp earth, panting as if they had run miles together, tangled limbs. After a moment, he mumbled something Okoye could not understand. “Ki’ichpam,” he breathed, staring at her with eyes that drank in the starlight.
“What?” she mumbled, stirring.
He frowned, raising his head. “Ba’ax?”
There is no way that orgasm was so intense that it has made me unable to understand English. Okoye sat up and peered at him, and saw he was missing his translator, a little indentation along his cheek where it had been. “You have lost your— look,” she said, tapping her cheek. He clapped a hand to his face, eyes comically large, and laughed, dragging his hand down his face. She could not help but laugh back as he looked down, searching for it in the soft ground. “You’ll never find it in the dark. And I did not bring a light.”
He was still chuckling as he looked around. “Táan in chan—” A sigh escaped him, exasperated, and he turned to her, still kneeling as he took her chin between thumb and forefinger. “Ki’ichpam.”
“I do not know what you are saying, Attuma,” said Okoye softly, smiling at him.
He pressed a kiss to her mouth, gentle beyond words, and pulled back, indicating her face with a finger, circling it. “Ki’ichpam,” he repeated.
“Face?” she asked, tapping her cheeks and nose. Attuma grinned and shook his head, then drew his hand slowly, softly, over her bare shoulders, her chest, the curve of her muscles and the flat hard plane of her waist, her hip, her thigh, before raising his hand back up, putting his thumb out, and tracing the shape of her mouth, back and forth, a few inches away.
“Ki’ichpam,” he repeated, raking his hair from his eyes with his other hand, and then Okoye knew what he was saying, and her face went warm, so she put it into his shoulder and let him hold her without words under the night sky above.
Notes:
translations for yucatec mayan!
- pitzil - a ballgame player
- boho'och - this is an ideophone with the root word "bóoch" meaning to peck like a bird so it's like an unspoken understood joke that the crocodile was not that big and Kaax was scared for no reason
- kep - haha cmon you know this one
- ba'ax = "what?"
- Táan in chan-- = "I'm just--"
- Ki’ichpam = "beautiful"
Chapter 14: Iceland
Notes:
HAPPY NEW YEAR!! This was deleted from the previous chapter because it was simply getting too long, and jumping back and forth would have been confusing to read, but it is a little bite sized Nashuri piece before the next chapter, which will be jumping right on into the main plot again and starting to wrap up the story!
I am very grateful for everyone's comments, and I am and always have been willing to approach good-faith, honest, constructive criticism. I do apologize for the pacing of the last chapter if it seemed off. I was writing between Internet outages and juggling holidays with my very large extended family, but starting this week I'll be more able to cohesively get my shit together. Unfortunately, this ship is catching a lot of flack online from antis that have been brigading Nashuri fanartists and writers, so for the wellbeing of my BIPOC readers I will be restricting the comment section from here on out to members only so that none of you have to read hateful comments made in bad faith. I am also still unable to reply to more than like two or three comments at a time before I get an error message from ao3, but I deeply appreciate all of them. Thank you all so so much for reading and I hope you enjoy!
Chapter Text
Shuri paced the gardens, breathing in the delicate scent of the flowers that grew up the trunks of the trees and listening to the rippling pond. It was supposed to be a two hour, late afternoon break for relaxation and clearing of the mind, as prescribed by Riri, who put much stock in concepts like mental health breaks and taking a chill pill once in a while, okay ? Currently, Riri was busy putting the finishing touches on Barnes’ new arm, having overridden Shuri’s playlist in the lab. Shuri had to laugh when she remembered the look on the other technicians' faces as a truly eclectic mix of music, from classic blue-collar American rock to rap to orchestral scores came pouring out of the speakers. “What?” Riri had asked, pointing a wrench in the air. “My dad liked Springsteen!” Barnes, a black fabric patch covering his open shoulder socket, had laughed and given her a high-five.
But that was all behind Shuri, now: she sat down on a rock and closed her eyes, listening for the wind. To be guided, maybe. To feel, not think.
I saw something in the grove that day.
Maybe she had not wanted to let herself slow down and think about it too much. Her grief, her despair, and then that strange, quick flash of white beneath her lids, a voice that was not hers speaking to her. Was it only my subconscious, or was it truly something else? Surely it had not been N’Jadaka. But then, who?
No. It was my mind, creating a construct. It must have been. There is no other logical explanation, surely.
“Princess.”
Shuri opened her eyes, the wind gusting softly over her shoulders, through the latticed white coat she wore. “Hello, K’uk’ulkan,” she whispered.
He wore the same thing he had worn earlier, his hair wet from the river as he reached up and raked it back out of his eyes with a hand. “You are resting. That is good.”
“I am glad you found time to visit,” she shot back, a smile on her face. “How are your people?”
“Very well. Happy. Delighting in all the new things Wakanda has to offer, as your people are delighting in ours. But I think…” Namor came closer and sat cross-legged beside her on the ground with a sigh, leaning back on his arms. “I think I should rest.”
Shuri smiled. “Gods sleep now? Very interesting. I will make a note. Griot?”
Her Kimoyo bead came to life. “Yes, Princess?”
Namor turned and gave her a baleful look. “Put away your little friend. I prefer being alone with you.”
“Well, in that case,” she said lightly, and thumbed her beads off, setting them aside. “You look tired.” He did, too: his eyes had shadows beneath them, and the whites were a little red.
“Mm. Gods sleep, but they work most of all. A busy life. And a long one.” He leaned his head back and rested it on the rock with a grunt. “These gardens are beautiful.”
“Thank you.” She pointed to the nearest tree. “That is a tulip tree. And those are daisies, flame lilies, hibiscus, and wild foxgloves. I think we have wisteria somewhere, but it’s out of season, so the flowers won’t be blooming.”
Namor rolled his head to the side, coming very close to her lap. “Perhaps there is more than one thing to love about the surface world. Their gardens, I think.”
“More than one?” asked Shuri, fighting the urge to reach down and kiss him.
“Mm.” He sighed again, and rolled his head back so that he was facing up to the sky, his eyes half-closed. “The first thing I could find to love about the surface world… is its people. Some of its people, of course. Not all of them.”
“Of course,” she said, shifting her weight just a little so that her thigh, clad in a yellow jumpsuit, was pressed softly against his cheek. Namor smiled a little, eyes still shut, and turned his head more toward her thigh. He was warm, heat seeping through her clothing. “A select few, you mean.”
“Indeed. The intelligent ones. The kind ones. The ones with their eyes open to see beauty, not to steal and conquer. These surface people, I think, I could love.”
Her left hand stole down, gently caressing his head, running her fingers through his dark damp hair, twisting the broad curls away from his head. Namor’s lips parted and he sighed deeply, relaxing against her leg. “That is how I felt about outsiders, too,” she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. “When I first left Wakanda.”
“I don’t want to talk about outsiders,” he breathed, his voice gone hoarse.
“All right,” said Shuri, and ran her finger delicately down, then up the softly pointed shell of his ear, the heavy jade, the smooth warm skin. Namor bit off a moan in his throat, his hand clasping the back of her calf as he turned his head toward her thigh again. “We can talk about something else. What would you prefer, K’uk’ulkan?”
A flush had colored his cheeks a dusky shade of sunset red. “Ears,” he forced out in a throaty croak.
She grinned. “You wish to speak about ears? Very strange, but very well. Yours are—”
In one swift movement, he had lunged over, hands on her thighs, and reared up on his knees, pressing his face against her jumpsuit-clad belly, then up against her sternum as his hands crept up along her back. Shuri clutched at the back of his head with a delighted yelp as he lifted his face up to hers, his chin pressed into her chest. “You know what they are,” he whispered, eyes gone heavy and dark. “You know what I want.”
“Yes, but it’s the gardens, someone will see us—”
He groaned into her clothing, exasperated. “You are the Black Panther. If someone sees, they are like a bird in the sky, a fish in the sea watching. Nothing. No one.”
She had to laugh. “Okay, but I don’t want anyone seeing me! And besides, I offered— I said— the bracelet and nothing else, did I not?”
Namor looked up at her like he’d been punched. “You…” He swallowed, his throat visibly bobbing. “You did.”
“So. Since I did promise. I still have an hour and a half to take on my break from lab work, which you can thank Ms. Williams for, and I have the bracelet in my room.” She ungraciously pushed him off her, grinning. “Unless you are too tired, you know, from all your important work—”
He found the corner of her mouth with a kiss and broke away to whisper, “I will be there in five minutes, flying.”
Warmth flooded Shuri’s whole body. “See you there, then,” she replied, kissing his cheek, and turned, running for the indoor lift as he took off, wings beating toward the ground and taking him skyward to her balcony.
The bedroom of the Princess of Wakanda was dim, the lights low and the windows shuttered. K’uk’ulkan of Talokan, Feathered Serpent, God of Water and Sky, stood in the middle of the floor, eyes fixed on the bathroom door, waiting with his mouth dry and his belly in knots.
She is there. She is beyond the door, just there, about to come out. She has deigned to allow me this. This one thing. The thing she promised. For me. All for me.
The door opened, a crack of light spilling through like a sunrise, like a thousand coins in a ship’s ruined hold, pooling on the floor. He knew that outside, in the Golden City, that the day was ending, that the lights would all be lit in windows, the city streets a wash of colored lights, but inside, there were no people, no other lights or buildings. There was only her, and the golden light, and him.
Shuri stepped out, wearing nothing but his mother’s bracelet around her delicate throat, and K’uk’ulkan’s heart almost stopped in his chest, his eyes taking in everything. Her skin gleamed, smooth as polished jade in the low light. Narrow-hipped, slender, with small breasts, her body leanly muscled, her hair all braided and set with gold, falling over her shoulder— she was the most beautiful thing the surface world could have made. The only good thing it ever could have made, he thought to himself. On her throat, jade and pearls winked in the light.
He still wore all his clothing, but his heart had quickened again, his blood pulsing. Her eyes went to his groin, then back up, a shy, knowing smile on her face. “I think you like it.”
“I do not need you to tell me what I like,” K’uk’ulkan whispered. He was already like a spear’s handle, so hard he was aching. “Come here.”
She obeyed, hands at her sides, and he cupped her throat with his right hand, kissing her as deeply as he could allow himself without losing his presence of mind. She tasted of skin and the soap she had used to wash her face and something sweet she had eaten: all Shuri, all his Black Panther. You could be mine. Not Wakanda’s, but mine and mine alone. He could not say it aloud, never could: his other hand trailed down to her breasts and cupped, squeezed, went further down and slid to the small of her back. “I want,” Shuri gasped, breaking the kiss.
Yes, he silently begged. You want what? What do you want? I will give it to you. Anything. My kingdom, my wealth, everything I have ever loved. I would give you the wings from my ankles if you asked it of me. I would give you a crown. Her deft, clever hands slid under his tunic and touched his bare skin, and his train of thought veered hard into other realms of giving. Ask me to take you to bed, to fully take you. Ask me to join myself to you. Tell me I may do it now. Ask me. Ask me.
“I… don’t know,” she whispered, her voice trembling. K’uk’ulkan slipped his hand gently down between her thighs and felt the heat of her there. “I don’t know what I— what I want.” He slid his finger along her hot, damp flesh, and she gave a moan, pushing her hips toward him despite her words.
“I know what you want.” It was barely a murmur, forced from his desperate throat. “But I will not give it to you unless you ask me.”
Dark eyes found his; hesitant, but longing. “I c-can’t. I— not yet. Please.”
Later. It will come later. He moved his hand, cupping the sharp edge of Shuri’s hip, pulling her close for another kiss, and she gladly clung to him, her hands holding his waist tightly. “All right,” he told her, kissing her cheek, her jaw. You cannot make a jaguar do anything, of course: you must stay still and let it come to you, to rub its face to your hand, to mark you. “Will you have my fingers again?”
“Yes,” she said immediately against his neck. “Yes, I want— I want that—”
He never remembered, afterward, how exactly they got to her bed, which was half a nest of blueprints and sketches and half a bed: papers crinkled and drifted to the floor, Shuri dragged him on top of her, and the next thing K’uk’ulkan knew he had three fingers stuffed into her, full and slick as she tightened around him, curling them as he used his thumb to rub at her, and her back was arched, her mouth open in a soundless cry as she reached her peak without him, tears leaking from her eyes. He forgot everything but the look on her face, and rubbed himself against the edge of her bed like a mindless dog, through his own clothing. My princess. Mine. For me. The scent of her filled the room. It was all he wanted in the world, right now and forever.
When he came, thighs tense and hard as stone, he buried his face between her legs, crying out into her thigh as he shuddered through it. He could not feel anything else at all. There was nothing but the surge of release, better than any joy he had ever felt in all his long life, and when it finally ebbed, when he came back to himself, he raised his head to see Shuri peering down at him, smiling sleepily.
“Do you need to go clean up?”
“Do I…” The words were meaningless at first, but he forced himself to focus. “Oh. Yes. I think so.” He shifted his hips and made a face: it was already drying and sticking to his skin. “But I cannot feel my legs yet, it seems.”
She giggled, and he had to laugh, too: was sexual intercourse in all its forms not an absurdity in so many ways? He dragged himself up onto her bed and laid himself down, breathing deeply as Shuri curled slowly into his side, one hand on his chest. This is all I need. He inhaled softly, exhaled. No. I cannot. Talokan first. I swore, I swore. The bracelet was cool against his shoulder where her neck rested, and he grunted, rolled to face her, traced the beaded pearls with a finger, let one rest on the carved jade. “This is precious to me,” he whispered, letting his finger slip off the beads and glide along her throat. “Very precious. I am glad you… are careful.”
Shuri pillowed her head on her bent arm and gazed at him silently. A faint sheen of drying sweat gleamed on her upper lip and her forehead. “I am sorry I could not— I am not ready yet for— for—”
“No. Do not apologize to me for that.” He reached out, stroked her cheek. “That is your decision. Not mine. But if you wish to speak about it, I will hear you.”
She closed her eyes. “It just— it seems so— final. And I’ve never— it—” She opened her eyes again, pressing her mouth into a line. “It is like traveling to— to Iceland. That’s a country, an island in the North Atlantic. Some people go, and say it’s very beautiful and wonderful, and other people go and say it was terrible; the food was bad, and they were so cold and did not understand the customs at all, and could not feel comfortable there. So you think, maybe I will go one day, or maybe I will not go. And you’re not much of a traveler, either, because staying home is nicer and you know you like it there, and then one day you— you are going to Iceland, and you never expected to be, and you do not know what it will be like for you , and you don’t… really want to land the aircraft yet.”
K’uk’ulkan took all that in. “Well,” he said softly, “you cannot circle the island forever, princess, or else you might run out of fuel and crash.”
She opened her mouth, then shut it, looking up at the ceiling for a long moment. He wished he could read her thoughts, see into her innermost being, her mind: what was she thinking about. After a while, she spoke again. “Sometimes I… think about, what if we just— did it. And— and that it might be easier if I just… closed my eyes and got it over with.”
He shook his head, slightly amused at her perspective. “I told you I will not force you. It is your decision to make. And if it was pushed on you in the heat of passion, you would dislike that very much.” One of his hands stroked her flank, as if she was a sea-creature he was trying to gentle. “I am five hundred years old. You are young. Take your time.”
“You won’t be impatient with me?”
“Oh, no,” he said, smiling. “No, I am very impatient, princess. I will not be angry, or make you feel guilty. I am not a mortal man to push and whine and cajole. And I am grateful you allowed me back into your bed, one more time.” Leaning down, he kissed her again, and she huddled closer to him, her cool hands brushing soft against his back.
She raked furrows into my back with her claws, once.
He dreamed of it sometimes: the screams of fury inside her mask, the pain like nothing he had ever felt, bright and sharp and burning. There had not even been a scar when he had healed himself in the water she had pulled him to, but the memory remained, clear as if it had only just happened. You marked me, he thought, slipping his palm down her smooth, bare back.
And even now, you do not truly know how the mark sank in.
How it will never leave me.
Chapter 15: The Defenders
Notes:
The good news is I got EVERYTHING written up to the start of chapter 18, which will be the end of the Big End Battle, and I think we're gonna have like 20 chapters! Maybe 21? We'll see. Idk.
The bad news is I'm gonna be traveling again for a couple days and won't be able to write for a while. But I'm gonna be reading all of your comments, and you are all LOVELY. Please enjoy. And also yell at me on twitter if you want @neon_heartbeat.
Chapter Text
“Here you go!” sang Shuri, thrusting a long box at Bucky, who turned and wiped his right hand down the front of his shirt. “New arm, as promised, special delivery.”
“Man, almost a three day turnaround?” he teased, flicking the switch deftly to open it. “You’re slipping.”
She made a face at him. “I’ve been taking breaks more often, okay?”
“Yeah, which she should be,” put in Riri from her lab table, a pair of welding goggles pushed up over her head. “Ayo said the Black Panther’s a spiritual role, too, so why not try to be a little more, you know? Less overworked.”
Shuri rolled her eyes. “I don’t see you taking breaks.”
“That’s ‘cause I run on coffee, not heart-shaped magic plants.” Riri wiggled a coil of solder at her. “These new Angel outfits look great, though.”
The door opened, and Sam Wilson walked in, wearing his redesigned suit. Riri had taken the design control of this one, removing the awkward neck and face cowl and adding more kinetic absorption panels. “She flies like a dream,” he said, grinning as he unfolded the wings and flapped them lightly. “Still kinda weird to be neurally linked to these, though.”
“No notes?” Shuri was halfway through removing Bucky’s patch, her hands in the shoulder socket as she fitted the new arm to his shoulder and flicked on the relays that would give him full control.
“Not a one. Handles fine in down and updrafts, steers like a Ferrari. It’s great.” Sam removed his goggles and tapped off the wings, and they folded in tightly, going inert against his back. “Any update from the council?”
“Not so far.” Shuri stood back and crossed her arms, looking down. “Okay, Barnes. Hand?”
Bucky made a fist, then unclenched it, smiling. “That feels better.”
“Good. Shoulder articulation?” He lifted his elbow, shrugged his shoulder forward, and the arm, silvery vibranium with white inlays, clicked and whirred softly. “Oh, that looks great! It’s comfortable? Not poking any nerve endings?”
“Nope. Thank you. Really, Shuri. Thank you.” He gave her a grateful smile, and she returned it.
“Good. So we are— ah. We are pretty much ready for anything.” She looked around at her little team: herself, Riri, Sam, Bucky. “You know, don’t we need a name or something?”
“A name?” Sam raised an eyebrow.
She felt silly even saying it. “Yes, you know. A group name.”
“What, like a band?”
“No! Like the Avengers, but not the Avengers. Because we aren’t the Avengers.”
“I mean, we could find something to avenge,” Bucky said.
Shuri shook her head. “No, that’s not the point. And vengeance isn’t… anyway, I was just thinking about it.”
“The Defenders,” said Riri suddenly, flinging her hand up as if she was in a lecture hall before slowly putting it back down. “”Cause… you know, we’re defending Wakanda and Talokan.”
“I feel like I heard about a group in New York already using that one,” Bucky said, scratching his head with his new hand. “Some kind of fight club?”
“Well, I like it.” Shuri gave Riri a smile. “Defenders.”
Sam shrugged. “Yeah, well, Defenders Assemble just doesn’t have the same ring to it."
“It’s still—”
The lab lights went dim and died, leaving them in emergency lighting, soft red. Griot’s voice piped to life. “Princess, there has been a power outage.”
“What?” Shuri went to the windows, bewildered. There was no such thing as a power outage, not here in the Great Mound where the whole thing ran on a vibranium hub. “Griot, what was the cause?”
“I do not know, Princess. I am running diagnostics as we speak.”
“Something’s wrong,” said Sam, joining her at the window. The valley looked out over the Golden City, only a short flight south, and even at this distance Shuri could see that the trains had stopped running. “We should probably get down there.”
“Oh, Bast,” said Shuri, and her Panther habit covered her from head to toe. “Everyone get suited up. Now.” She thumbed her Kimoyo beads on. “My king? M’Baku? Have you lost power in the capital?”
“We have.” M’Baku looked annoyed, but she could tell he was apprehensive. “Everyone here is fine. It may be a precursor to an attack. Stay at the Mound and protect the vibranium.”
“What, all of us?”
“Yes. You are two children and two foreigners. Stay where you are.”
“Aneka and Ayo’s suits are both here. They will need—”
“They are trained warriors and they’ll be fine without them. That is a direct order, princess. Stay where you are. The Talokanil are already joining the Royal Guard, the War Dogs here in the city, the Jabari warriors, and the Dora Milaje to prepare for any attack. We are well protected here.”
She shook her head. “But this may not be an attack you can fight back with weapons, Ross said that the CIA uses destabil—”
“I did not forget what Everett Ross said in this council, Shuri, and I trust you will not forget my words! Stay where you are!” His image flickered out, and she turned around, facing the other three: the lab technicians were standing there, all bewildered.
“Evacuate to the emergency meeting area,” she commanded, her helmet retracting back. “This is the safest place in Wakanda. No army has ever breached the borders in war. Go!” The techs saluted her, arms over chests, and hurried off to the stairs. She turned back to Riri, Bucky, and Sam, who were already suited up. Barnes gleamed like an off-color phantom in the red lighting. Pink Wolf, she thought absurdly. “Okay. We have been ordered to stay put by the king. So we are going to do as he commands.”
“Sounds good to me. Should I fly recon around the Mound? See if I can get a bead on any issues?” Wilson unfolded his wings.
“Yes, do that. Everyone has their beads, yes?” Three nods answered her question. “Great. Wilson, fly out and see what you can find. Riri, go with him; you have the better HUD array.”
“No time for an upgrade for old Sam, huh?” Wilson joked on his way to the balcony.
“Look, man, someone’s gotta have an advantage.” Riri’s suit, silver and black with a smattering of dark red, gleamed in the light from outside as she leaped off the edge, soaring through the sky, and Sam followed her out, wings unfolding.
Shuri felt a little better. “Okay. Barnes, you’re coming with me. We should go down to the power hub, see if something’s been damaged.”
“This feels like a trap,” he mumbled as they left the lab and started down the winding stairs.
“Who could possibly be waiting down there? Nobody can get into Wakanda unseen.”
“Namor did.”
That did not make her feel better. “Namor is— he— they don’t have anyone like him. Those energy shields are impenetrable by anyone else who isn’t a god with unbelievable stealth powers.”
“I’m just saying.” Bucky checked a corner, slid in, signaled her to follow. “Been in a lot of traps in my day, and this feels like a trap.”
They entered the lowest floor, just above the Mound itself, where most of the light came from the purple glow of raw vibranium and the hub that provided the whole of the building, lab and medical center and research divisions, with power. But now, the hub was dead, the weak glimmer of violet light barely enough to reach them. Shuri took a step forward and frowned. Someone had simply turned it off. It would be simple to reboot, but who could have turned it off? “How did this—”
There was a sound of flesh hitting flesh, and Barnes grunted. Shuri whirled, her cowl sliding back up to protect her face, and caught a glimpse of a pale form cowled in white before it vanished before her eyes, almost vibrating. “Barnes!”
He was flat on his back on the floor, but he leaped back up, raising his legs and flinging himself forward with a look of shock on his face. “What the fuck was th—”
The pale, cowled figure shimmered back into existence right in front of Shuri. She screamed, startled, and swung at it, but her fists went through the figure, and then a blow struck her so hard that her whole suit gleamed brighter than the surrounding vibranium for a single instant as she went hurtling backward to the wall, crushing half the stone. I have to warn them, she thought, opening her comms channel. “My King, we are under atta—” The figure was making for her in the dark, jumping from place to place like a stuttering shadow of movement, and Barnes lunged for it. He managed to catch it while it was solid, and cracked a goggle on the thing’s face with a punch, but it went transparent again and slid from his grasp, then elbowed him in the gut. He reeled back and caught his footing as Shuri tried frantically to make the call. “M’Baku! M’Baku, someone’s here in the Mound, they’re here!”
His hologram came to life, flickering. “Shu— wh— at is t— i—”
“Bad signal,” ground out Barnes through his teeth. The ghostlike figure chuckled, the first sound Shuri had heard it make, and cracked its head against Bucky’s. He snarled, white teeth bared, and cracked it right back, making contact. The mask that covered its face broke, and it spun away, then vanished again, leaving Barnes and Shuri alone.
“Where is it?” gasped Shuri, claws out and standing on the balls of her feet. “Where—”
Two arms caught her by the throat. She sucked in a breath, holding it, and flung herself forward, flinging the figure over her head: it vanished again. Sam’s voice blared into her ear as she tried to knee the ghost in the chest, but it vanished, leaving her slamming against the floor instead. “Sh—y—oh—” This voice fizzled out, lost to static.
She tried anyway. “Wilson, the Kimoyo network is down, you have to get to the Citadel and warn the king, warn everyone, we’re breached—” The ghost landed three jabbing punches to her gut, and Shuri slashed out with her fingers, but caught nothing but air. How do I beat an opponent that I cannot strike? “Sam, can you hear me?” Nothing but static crackled through her ear.
Two hands caught her by the throat, squeezing: Shuri choked and struggled to free herself, but to no avail, even digging her claws in. Help me, she thought desperately. Help me. Help—
With a stunning blow, Barnes was there, slamming his metal fist into the back of the ghost’s head. It would have killed any ordinary human, but this one stumbled, reeling back as the cowl fell and the cracked and broken mask fell away, a scattering of broken white plastic and metal. Shuri sucked in a reedy breath and coughed, staring in surprise as the face of the ghost was revealed.
A woman. A woman with dark, long hair in tangled braids, full lips, large eyes, light brown skin, a wary expression, and a trickle of blood streaking from her nose to her mouth. “You weren’t… supposed to be here,” she said faintly to Barnes, blinking. Her accent was vaguely British.
“You— you’re the physicist,” said Barnes, taking a step back. “Dr. Starr?”
Her eyes met Shuri’s. “It was supposed to be you,” she whispered, and her body flickered, like a bad hologram. “Not this.”
“Where are the others?” demanded Shuri, taking a step forward.
“You’re too late anyway,” said the woman— Starr— as she stabilized to solidity. A fiercely joyful look spread over her face. “We’re already here.”
“Who is?” Bucky’s face had gone as hard as iron, but he wasn’t moving.
Starr raised a wrist to her face. “Change of plans,” she whispered. “I’m taking the Winter Soldier instead.”
A stab of panic lanced through Shuri like lightning. “You’re not taking him anywhere,” she snapped.
The woman in white just chuckled, faintly, as if Shuri had told a not-very-funny joke, and cocked her head to the left. Then, her body vanished, reappeared beside Barnes too fast to see with human eyes, and disappeared again… but this time, Barnes had vanished with her.
Shuri gaped, unable to move as she stood rooted to the spot in horror. When you heard of people in stories vanishing, there was usually a flash of light, or a pop, or a sound of some kind. Barnes had simply been there one moment— then he wasn’t.
Is this how everyone else felt when we all vanished?
It couldn't be. There's not even any dust. He is just gone.
“Bucky!” she shouted, her knees gone weak. This could not be happening. “Bucky!” But no answer came from the walls. She staggered forward, numb, and doggedly rebooted the hub, powering up the Mound again. The lights came back on, and Shuri made it to the elevator somehow, then leaned against the wall, feeling like she might be sick as she frantically tried to call up Wilson again, fighting tears.
He’s gone. He’s gone and I could not stop her. She just took him. She took him.
She took him and he’s gone.
Nakia was having the most stressful day of her life.
Well, nothing could truly compare with the day Thanos and his armies had descended to make war on Wakanda, but this was a close second.
Thanks be to Bast that T’Challa is safe at my father’s house, she thought as she raced to the riverbank of the Golden City with her people, the Talokanil forming ranks in the water. The shields over the river had flickered and died entirely for a solid minute, and reports were coming in from Jabari land and the Border tribe outposts that the same thing had happened: a momentary flicker, long enough for a man to slip through.
Or a few men.
Or an army.
“Nakia,” Okoye greeted her, hand curled around her spear as they watched the water like hawks. “Attuma is sending his men to scour the river. If they see an invader, they will meet the end of a blade. We will be prepared, whatever comes.”
“Of that I have no doubt, my sister.”
Okoye smiled slightly. “There is—”
WOOF.
The sound of the explosion came just after the air of it struck her eardrums, and the force knocked Nakia off her feet, sending her and most of the people on the shore flying backward into the river or to the woods. She fetched up along a fallen tree, gasping, and looked up to see a pair of wings swooping low, gliding upward: dull metal and olive drab. “Okoye!” she screamed, struggling to her feet and scanning the muddy bank. The other woman was lying on her stomach in fire and mud, scrabbling for her lost spear, blood streaking her ears. The winged shape wheeled high over the river, then turned and glided back toward them, and a streak of something burst from its body, sailing towards the pair of them. Nakia frantically set up a shield, covering both herself and Okoye: it was not big enough to defend two people, and she knew it.
Mother. I am coming to you.
With a crash like a tsunami wave, the river burst upward, and Attuma of Talokan swung his axe, slicing the missile in half as neatly as a gourd. It sputtered out and crashed to the muddy earth, useless as Attuma landed on his feet. “Líik’ik Talokan!” he bellowed, then turned as the winged shape braked in mid-air, skidded backward, and shot up like a cork. “Yes, run, you son of cowards!”
“Okoye!” Nakia pulled her upward, and the woman’s eyes opened, her nose bleeding. “Ah, glory to Bast, you are alive.”
“Nakia,” said Okoye, finding her. “You look… terrible.” A smile slid across her face. “I cannot hear.”
“Your eardrums have been ruptured by the explosion. Hold still.” Nakia fished out her medical bead and held it to Okoye’s ear, thumbing through the programs. “Here. Got it. Wait a moment and you will be all right.”
“He will come back.”
“He’s gone upward—”
“He was likely surveilling from twenty thousand feet, and we did not see him because we were not looking.” Okoye struggled to her feet, wavering a moment, then lifted her chin, steady. “We need to regroup.” Healers were already moving through the fallen, the muddied and broken ground scorched, people groaning and struggling to reach aid. “That must have been Wilson’s Torres. The new Falcon.” Her lip curled.
Attuma jogged up, looking worried. “You are unharmed?”
“I am fine,” she said. “I have lost my spear.”
He looked down and picked it up from off the ground, wiping it clean of mud and soot. “May it never leave your hand again until the battle is won,” he said softly as he handed it to her.
Nakia tried hard to keep her face still. “My lord Attuma, where are the kings?”
“I last saw K’uk’ulkan in the council with M’Baku. He will come soon.” Attuma turned back to the river, glancing out. “We should clear out the wounded and transport them somewhere safe.”
“I agree,” Okoye said. “Until Ayo arrives, or M’Baku, or Namor, you are the highest-ranking leader we have.”
If that surprised Attuma, he did not show it. “Okoye, you hold authority as a council member. Hail the captains of your ships and get them to come down here so the wounded can be moved to the Great Mound. Nakia of the River Tribe, you will come with me.”
“Of course, General,” she said at once, and left Okoye coordinating with her Kimoyo beads, following the Talokanil man to the edge of the water, where Namora was already handling evacuation efforts. Dozens of warriors were rushing from the water, preparing for another aerial assault. “Cousin,” she said, immediately turning toward Attuma. Half her face was smeared with ash. “I cannot raise K’uk’ulkan on my communications bead, and the shields over the river have been broken. Wakanda is exposed, along with all our warriors.”
“Perhaps he has broken his own bead,” said Attuma reassuringly. “Don’t be afraid. He will come and fight with us. Nakia, is it possible to repair the River Tribe’s shields?”
Nakia shook her head, wincing. “Our enemy is already inside. It will do no good.”
“We trap them inside, then.” Namora’s eyes were alight.
“A good idea, but if they got in so easily, who is to say they will not get out again the same way?”
“Ah, I see what you mean,” said Attuma as he leaned back and shielded his eyes to peer into the sky before catching up his axe and crouching into a defensive position. “I think that winged man is coming ba—”
With a roar of vibranium-powered engines, a red and chrome streak from the north slammed into the rapidly descending olive and gray shape, the pair of them twisting across the sky, trailing a braided coil of smoke, and a roaring cheer went up from the Talokanil and the River Tribe. “Riri!” shouted Nakia, smiling. “Bast, would you look at that girl fly!”
Bucky Barnes came back to consciousness in a brief, startling moment between sleep and waking. He had been dreaming: he was walking along the streets of New York, somewhere where the air smelled like cigarettes and paper mills, with a short, thin, wheezing blonde boy whose shoes were patched with newspapers. But when he woke, the smell wasn’t tobacco, it was the sharp, chemical stink of fuel, and he was restrained in magnetic cuffs, hands above his head, ankles locked together underneath his bent knees.
He blinked, disoriented. Surroundings. Operation commencing. Where are the exits, entrances, and targets?
No. Those weren’t his thoughts, those were the thoughts of the Winter Soldier. He swallowed and shook his head, inhaling deeply. He was inside a Quinjet, like the one he had flown to Siberia in— it seemed so long ago, now. This one was roomy, and had clearly transported at least several different people. Personal bags were stacked against the wall. That would give him something to do while he tried to free himself from the cuffs. You could tell a lot about a target by their suitcase. There was a dark blue duffel bag with the name TORRES stenciled on the side, two hard-shelled, black roller suitcases, a plaid bag that had seen better days, and another military-issue bag, this one a drab olive, with the name not visible to Bucky from where he sat.
Five. Five hostiles, maybe four if the two black hard-shelled bags belonged to one person. Maybe they both belonged to a woman. The woman Bucky had fought? He didn’t think it was likely. She had looked unkempt and frantic, and that seemed to match the plaid bag. Two military members. Torres and Walker. He craned his head forward, trying to look out of the front windscreen, but could only catch a sliver of light, no details. Testing the cuffs was futile: they had clearly been designed with super-soldiers in mind. Someone’s here. Someone has to be watching the jet. I can’t be that far from the Citadel.
A footstep, heavy and booted, punched the floor near the rear ramp. Bucky hung his head, not making a sound as the booted feet drew closer. With his arms up, away from his body, his torso was an easy target for a good hard kick, but he was less worried about that than who the boots belonged to. They stopped in the cabin, three feet from him. “Open your eyes, soldier.”
That was a man’s voice: gravelly, older, an air of authority to it. Bucky let a thin stream of air out of his nose and raised his head, looking up into a weathered, still-handsome face attached to a black beret and a set of OCPs that sported three blue stars vertically over his zipper placket. A severely groomed, gray and white mustache rested above his upper lip, and the name on his chest was ROSS. This is a general. His instinct was to salute, but his arms were occupied. Second instinct, then. “I’m an American citizen. You are holding me illegally. I have broken no laws and I demand to be released.”
“You demand. That’s cute,” said General Ross, arms crossed. “I know who you are, Barnes. Hard man to find, for one. Especially after your arm was tracked entering the stratosphere and vanished. Do you know how much manpower Langley had to use to even get a tracker on you in the first place? What a waste of goddamn taxpayer money.”
Bucky’s stomach heaved. “You were tracking me? The whole— when— what the— my arm was Wakandan, they made it. There weren’t any trackers.”
“Battlefield cleanup’s a bitch and half,” said Ross. “Especially in upstate New York. You think the National Guard didn’t find a bunch of Kimoyo beads on dead Wakandans? Those things are great. They mesh with any metal if programmed correctly. All it took was a handshake, a pat on the arm. And don’t start asking stupid questions like who did it. Who doesn’t matter as much as mission accomplished. But you had a good time dancing at that party, didn’t you?”
The woman at the Meridian Ball. I danced with her. “Kimoyo beads—” Barnes’ head was spinning. “Those are personal. That was someone’s life, their whole record— Wakandans get the first one when they’re born, and it holds all the medical knowledge in the world, and you used someone’s to track me.”
Ross’s creased face was implacable. “You’re pretty sentimental for someone from the Greatest Generation.”
Anger flared in Bucky’s throat. “And you’re a pretty big dick for a Vietnam vet.”
The other man’s eye twitched, just a hair, and then a fist cracked out like a bolt of lightning, knocking Bucky’s head back into the wall. Stars flashed behind his eyes. “You,” said Ross, are a goddamn traitor, James Buchanan Barnes. Wakanda possesses weapons of mass destruction that it is planning to deploy against every major world power in retribution—”
“That’s not true—”
“—in retribution for our attempts to simply gain an even ground on the playing field, and you joined them: look at you! You’re wearing Wakandan armor, Wakandan-made tech, another goddamn arm that can do god-knows-what!”
He could taste blood in his mouth. “They are good people, and they helped me when nobody else could or would.”
The general gave a humorless little laugh. “Oh, that’s it. I see. You’re upset that America has things like due process and laws and consequences for being an assassin, and Wakanda’s— what? Not a care in the world, hakuna matata, dancing off across the jungle like Tarzan with the lions.”
Bucky spit a gob of blood out onto the floor. “Lions live on the savannah.” If I could just reach my arm, I could contact Shuri.
“Do you really think I give a shit?” Ross crouched, glaring directly into Bucky’s face. “You are a rogue element, Barnes. You were never supposed to be here in the first place. You are in enemy territory, dressed for a war. You are now in my custody, and you’re not going anywhere unless I give the order. Way I see it, here’s your options. First option: you give us information on the location of the vibranium weapons Wakanda has hidden and assist us in this operation. In return, we’ll take you back to the States and grant you a presidential pardon. Second option. You refuse… and we neutralize you as a threat.”
Bucky snorted. “And by neutralize, you mean...”
“We’ll find you a nice empty plot in Arlington, as befitting your veteran status,” said Ross coldly.
You weren’t supposed to be here, the woman in white had said, staring at him. Starr was her name. It was supposed to be you. I’m taking the Winter Soldier instead. “You were going to kidnap Shuri,” he said, and took a small, small amount of gratification from the expression on Ross’s face. “You were gonna— what? Hold her hostage? Demand an exchange? A princess for vibranium WMDs that don’t exist?”
“Not a princess, the Black Panther. She’s a god to her people.”
“Are you serious? She’s only twenty-two, and she’s the sister of a dead king. What were you gonna do when they didn’t give you what you wanted? Kill her?”
Ross snorted. “The next step would be to start declawing the cat. That young woman’s dangerous, and after that stunt in Washington we weren’t about to just ignore her. What, you think people didn’t see her with their own eyes? That kid was murdered at a party by some friend of hers. You were present, Barnes, and none of you even stopped to file a police report. Far as I’m concerned, all of you are guilty by association.”
“Kid? That guy was almost thirty. Do you even know who he was?” Bucky tried the restraints again, biting his cheek. “I do. He was a fucking asshole. He had a stupid little podcast where he talked about shit like how education should be the purview of white men exclusively to bring back western civilization, whatever the hell that’s supposed to—”
Ross scoffed. “I don’t give a damn about his political views.”
“Yeah, you only care about political views when they’re an excuse for you to invade a peaceful sovereign nation for their vibranium.”
“Peaceful? Listen to yourself! You’ve been brainwashed by these people. They don’t want peace, they want superiority.”
If he could just get his wrists out, he could make it. Knock out General Ross’s geriatric ass, make it outside, get under cover. “Yeah, and wanting superiority is a right only America can have, right?”
“I’m not having this conversation,” said Ross shortly. “I’ll leave you with a babysitter. She tends to get feisty when she’s mad, though, so I’d behave myself if I were you.” He stood up and took a step back. “Belova? You can come in now.”
Bucky squinted as a second person entered the room. Smaller than Ross and in her early thirties, with a tied-back knot of hair that was naturally dark at the roots but had been bleached blonde at some point, she was wearing a black tactical outfit and flat-soled boots. She wasn’t what Bucky would have called conventionally attractive— her mouth turned down at the corners like she was scowling— but her round face and her blunt nose were almost cute. She came to stand about four feet from him as Ross left without another word, and crossed her arms, a sound of disbelief leaving her throat. “Zimniy soldat,” she said, shaking her head. “I bet you don’t remember me at all.”
“Sorry,” he said, resting his head against his right arm. She had a soft Russian accent, but he could not pin that low, alto tone anywhere in his mind. “HYDRA-related memory loss. It’s a side effect of cryofreeze.”
She blinked once, then laughed outright, and the smile transformed her face into an almost cherubic expression of joy. “Oh, you are funny, Winter Soldier. Really? You don’t remember? 1999. You came to the old Winter Palace to show the Red Room how to knife a man in the back in complete silence. The most fascinating lecture I have ever attended. Really great stuff.”
“The Red—” Bucky shook his head. “You’re a Widow.”
She gave him a sarcastic little curtsey. “One of Dreykov’s best. But not anymore. I’m redeeming myself.”
“You didn’t know a girl named Romanoff, did you?”
The woman’s reaction was extraordinary. She turned pale and froze where she stood. “What did you just say?”
“Romanoff. Natasha. I briefly met her a couple times. We tried to kill each other, uh, and then we were on the same team when Thanos first touched down here.”
Belova’s eyes went hard. “My sister tried to kill you? Good. I will finish the job.” Her hand went for her belt, where the handle of a knife glinted. Bucky tried to push away from her with his feet, but his back was already against the wall: there was nowhere for him to go.
“No, no, no, wait—wait, wait. I wasn’t in my right mind when I was trying to kill her, and she was coming for me in self defense, okay?”
The woman paused, as if calculating, then slipped the knife back in. “I understand this, Winter Soldier. We had brainwashing in the Red Room, too. Okay.”
“Okay. Great.” He exhaled. “And don’t call me Winter Soldier. My name’s James. But since you’re Natasha’s sister, you can call me Bucky.”
There was a brief silence. “That is a ridiculous name,” she said.
“It’s a nickname. They have nicknames in Russian.”
“We have normal nicknames in Russian. Like mine is Yelena, so you have Lena, or Lenotschka, but only my father calls me Lenotschka, so just Lena, that’s easy. Yelena, Lena. How do you get Bucky from James?”
“My middle name is Buchanan.”
Yelena slapped her hands on her thighs and snorted. “Bee-youuu-can-an? What in the hell kind of name is that?”
He felt heat rise to his face. “It’s the last name of a president, okay— look, if you can stop making fun of my name for five seconds, Yelena, I would really, really appreciate a drink of water.”
“No.”
“What do you mean, no?”
“No. General Ross says you are going to be kept here until we get the vibranium weapons. You can help us, or you can not help us. If you cannot help us, I get to shoot you. Very easy. You decide.”
He shut his eyes, exhausted. “There are no vibranium weapons. There’s no WMDs, there’s no nukes. Ross is lying to you, or someone’s lying to him.”
“He said you’d say that,” she said smugly. “So he told us the truth, didn’t he? Yes?”
“I bet he did. I bet he told you a lot. Did he tell you you’d get a pardon?” he asked, and watched her expression flicker, just for a moment. “Someone said you could make up for whatever it is you’ve done in the past. That if you just did this mission, infiltrated Wakanda, you’d be clear and free. Didn’t they?”
Her face dropped into a mask, stone-cold. “You don’t know anything about it, Winter Soldier.”
Bucky shook his head. “Yeah, I do. I know that forgiveness for whatever it is you’ve done in the past can only come from inside you, and not from any person or any government. You don’t do anything to get your slate clear, you do things to make amends, to make it right with people you’ve wronged. And after this mission, there’ll be another one, and another one. Because you’ll never stop feeling guilt if you rely on this to make it better.” He rested his head against his vibranium arm. The other one was going numb. “That’s what I know.”
Yelena’s brow creased and she looked over her shoulder. “You said he’s lying to us.”
“Yeah? You can’t tell me someone in a position of power never lied to you to get you to do something. Come on.”
She chewed her lip. “Yes. Okay. A couple of times, maybe. But that does not mean he’s lying now.”
Bucky had found the crack. He pushed. “Well, someone’s lying, because I’ve lived here. I’ve been here for weeks. I am telling you, every single meeting I’ve been part of in the past month was focused on defensive action. They simply do not have weapons of mass destruction. America wants vibranium, and they are using you guys to get it.”
“Well, I can’t let you go free,” she said. “What am I supposed to say to the team?”
“John Walker knows me. He’ll vouch for you if you tell everyone I broke out and overpowered you.”
Suspicion colored her face immediately. “How do you know about Walker?”
“Same way I know about Torres. We’ve worked together. Listen to me. Okay? They wanted me on this little team, and I said no, and I ran here to warn Wakanda. If that makes me a traitor, then I’m a traitor. But I’m not gonna let Director de Fontaine dictate my life, or—”
Real surprise flashed over Yelena’s face. “Wait. What?”
He frowned. “The Countess, or whatever. Valentina Allegra de Fontaine. Director of the CIA? Likes giving orders, wears suit-skirts, has a thing for purple. Didn’t she contact you?”
“I have not had contact with that woman since she lied to me about Barton's role in my sister's death and sent me to New York City to kill him,” snapped Yelena.
The pieces clicked. Bucky sat up. “Oh. Hey! You’re the woman! You’re the—that’s you? You’re the one who tried to kill him and… broke Rockefeller Center?”
“I did not break it, okay? A tree fell down, that was all, and it was just as much his fault. But de Fontaine did not recruit me for this mission. That was General Thaddeus Ross, that man back there. Your information is wrong.”
“Then you won’t mind asking the others who recruited them,” said Bucky. At this rate, the fight’ll be over by the time she decides to cut me loose. “Torres. Ask him. He can’t lie his way out of a paper bag. And if Val purposely hid her involvement from you…” He shrugged.
“No. I would know. I…” Yelena took a step back, looking torn. “Ross said it was an officially non-sanctioned operation for the good of the free world, that the Pentagon secretly signed off. He never said anything about the CIA.” Bucky remained silent. She looked at him for a long moment, cursed in Russian, and turned on her heel. “You get five minutes, James Barnes, and then I am coming back inside,” she snapped, leaving the jet.
Finally. Bucky hoped she wouldn’t get too much flack from Ross when she found he’d escaped. He felt around with his right hand and pressed on the palm of his left one, trying to activate the built-in communication system. “Come on,” he ground through his teeth, fumbling. Where was that stupid button? “Come on…”
BZZZZZT. An electric shock seized his body, and the cuffs on his arms sprang open, their magnetic relays reversed by the current. Bucky sucked in a breath and stretched his shoulders, then smashed the ones on his ankles to pieces with his vibranium hand. “Wrong button,” he mumbled, shaking the fuzz from his brain. “Okay.”
Exiting the jet was easy, but once he got outside, Bucky paused, taking in his surroundings as his heart sank. The Quinjet had been landed in abandoned Border Tribe territory, fields of long grass rippling in the breeze as far as he could see in either direction. There was a village about half a klick to the west, but no smoke rose from any chimneys, and the place was silent. The faintest dark line to the north was the only thing that marked the hills that had to be crossed before anyone got to the Citadel. How the hell did Starr move me so far? Maybe her abilities, which seemed to be jumping in and out of reality, had something to do with it. Bending space and time. Like Shuri had said about going to space.
There was no time to worry about that, though. Ross and Yelena seemed to be in a deep, angry conversation, both their backs to him, and Bucky got low into the grass, moving fast and quiet and leaving them behind until he reached an empty home in the abandoned village. He ducked inside, breathing in the familiar scents of woven fabric, the earthy smell of the walls, the thatch on the roof. Okay, Barnes. Regroup and think. You’re gonna have to walk or run across the hills. Maybe south, there’ll be Mining Tribe people still near the Great Mound and you can borrow a ride. He thumbed his wrist, being careful to avoid the electric shock button, and tried to call up Shuri, but the signal sputtered out, weak and lost. That can’t be good. Did they hit the network? Is everyone out there without a radio? He knew enough about the Wakandan communication network to know that Kimoyo beads, while individually powered by vibranium, communicated to each other via a network of launched satellites, disguised as junk to allay any suspicion by other nations and floating in orbit above the earth. Anyone could have taken one out by pure accident, or by simply blowing up anything they saw. Torres, he suddenly thought with a pang of regret. The young intelligence officer had been privy to a couple of Bucky’s conversations with Sam about Wakanda. It was entirely plausible that he’d caught on and eagerly given his superiors the information they needed. God, I need to get better at operational security.
“Okay,” he muttered aloud. “No comms, no radio. Time to get out of here.” Bucky tossed a left-behind blanket over his head, cowling his face and his light gray outfit, and started making his way out, back into the sunshine and toward the hills. He ducked under a broken fence and into a vacant rhino pasture, side-stepping rhino patties, dried in the sun.
“He’s escaped!” barked a faint voice from behind him. “Fan out! Find him!”
Aw, shit. There goes my head start. Bucky flung himself to his stomach, army crawling through the long grass as the hair stood up on the back of his neck. And where the hell’s the rest of the team, anyway? Just a few more feet, and he’d make it to better cover under the shade of a few small bushes growing in the middle of the empty rhino pasture. He kept crawling. Just a few—
A boot slammed down into the middle of his back, pinning him down with viselike force. Bucky didn’t even think: he rotated his left arm backward, slammed his fist into a knee, and took down his assailant, grappling with him in the grass. He just had time to register black cordura and horizontal white and red stripes before John Walker threw him onto his back and slammed his knee down across Bucky’s left wrist, pinning him there. “Hi,” he said, barely even breathing hard. “Man, haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’ve been traveling,” Bucky ground out between his teeth. The other man’s face was a foot away, his forearm pressed across Bucky’s throat. “Get— off.”
“Sorry, Buck. No can do. You’re going straight back to my CO.” Bucky had never noticed how blue Walker’s eyes were. Steve’s had been darker, mixed with a little green, but John’s were a bright, clear, guileless blue. “And you’re gonna help us.”
“That’ll be a cold day in hell.” His vision was going watery and gray along the edges, but his left hand was still free, and he closed his hand lightly, his fingers pressing near the heel of his hand. Just—
“He called me back from Mining Tribe territory for this. You’re not getting a choice, buddy. Sorry.”
Bucky found the button he wanted.
Electricity crackled up Walker’s leg in an arc of visible, blue lightning, and he let out a scream, his body locking up as he fell away. That was all Bucky needed: he rolled over, got to his feet, and took off running. Behind him, Walker was stumbling after him, roaring, “I am a United States agent, and I order you to surrender!”
A shadow swept across Bucky, front to back, like a huge bird covering the sun. Oh, great, he thought as he veered for the cover of the bushes. Now Torres is on my ass. He did not need a combined air and ground assault, he needed—
With a shocking whoosh , fire lit the dry grass behind Bucky in a wide arc, separating him from Walker. He covered his face as he turned to look back, startled, and saw a winged figure wheeling high and coming back toward him— but it wasn’t the gray drab wings he remembered, not the ones Sam had given to Torres— these wings were white and silver, vibranium, and the man between them was wearing white and blue, a star on his chest. “Sam!” he yelled, dropping the blanket and waving his arms. “Hey, Sam! Down here!”
“Yeah, yeah, I see you just fine,” said Wilson, landing and pulling Bucky in for a hug. “Man, what the hell are you doing all the way out here? You look like a big white spot of paint.”
He had to laugh. “Sorry about the inconvenience. I got kidnapped by a ghost.”
“I heard. Lucky for you, I’m getting you out of here.”
“Thanks for the rescue,” said Bucky.
A grin spread out on Sam’s face. “You can thank Redwing. I had him track you the second Shuri came in saying you were taken.” The little drone floated up, chirping at Bucky, who glared at Sam.
“I’m not thanking that thing.”
“Aw, you’re hurting his feelings. He likes you.”
“You’re the one who rescued me.”
“Yeah, but I only rescued you ‘cause I promised Sarah and the boys I’d keep an eye out for good old Uncle Buck.”
Bucky rolled his eyes, shook out his arm, and gave Sam’s wings a dubious look. “Those things can hold both of us?”
Sam adjusted the harness straps around his waist. “Yup. I can carry you damsel-in-distress style, or you can hold on sideways. Hurry it up, though, ‘cause Walker’s gonna be through that fire any second now.”
“Great.” Bucky stepped closer to Sam and draped his right arm around the man’s shoulders, holding on tight as a vibranium side-strap clicked in, holding him snugly to Sam’s torso. “Do me a favor?”
“What?” Sam spread his wings and fired up his repulsors.
“Don’t tell Sarah you had to save my ass.”
Wilson’s laugh could be heard echoing across the ash-filled air as the pair of them soared away, back toward the Golden City, where smoke was rising.
Chapter 16: The Battle of Mount Bashenga
Chapter Text
After fending off Torres and forcing him to retreat from the riverbank, Riri Williams had circled back to the Mound and picked up Shuri, taking her to the Citadel, which was under full guard, bristling with weapons, and housing most of the wounded from the aerial assault on the river. River Tribe healers in green and brown moved among bleeding Talokanil and Wakandan alike. Shuri knew she should walk among them, say things to keep up the morale, but she had no time: M’Baku was in full armor and making straight for her.
I think I am in shock. Everything felt very dreamlike and wrong, as if her feet were not connected to her body. She followed him numbly into the throne room and sank down on her stool, trembling.
“Princess.”
She knew that voice. Her mask retracted, her eyes found him. Namor had obviously joined in defense of his people at the river: mud streaked his arms, and his hair was soaked. He crouched in front of her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “We need… to evacuate everyone to the Mound,” she whispered, blinking fast. “We don’t have communication. We… we don’t…”
“Princess. I want you to listen to me.” Listen? She could barely focus. “Breathe. In and out, deeply.”
“They took Barnes,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “Right in front of me, and I could do nothing. He might be dead.” Her voice broke.
His hands tightened. “Listen to me. You are the Black Panther. The eyes of your people are on you. Put away your fear in your mind, and take it out when the battle is over. Right now, you are needed.”
I am needed. Shuri took in a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. Bast, give me strength. Give me the presence of mind to help my people. Perhaps Bast heard, or perhaps the heart-shaped herb had something to do with it, but the more she breathed evenly and focused, the easier it was to stop her hands from shaking. “My king, M’Baku,” she said firmly, raising her head. The clamor of talking fell quiet. Namor moved away, wiping mud from his cheek. “So far we have seen two operatives: this ghost that stole away the White Wolf and this new Falcon, who bombed the shore of the river. Has anyone seen more?”
“Not yet,” said M’Baku. “They may attempt to enter the borders of Wakanda through the Border Tribe lands: there are no people left there to stop them.”
“If our warriors cannot communicate, how are we supposed to fight?” cried the old Merchant Tribe woman.
“They have likely targeted our Kimoyo network satellites,” said Shuri, standing up. This was good: a problem to be solved. “We could launch another one, but it would take some time, and if it’s spotted on radar, the Americans might take it down again anyway.”
“We do not need Kimoyo beads,” said M’Baku. “We can communicate as Jabari do over long distances.” The Merchant Tribe woman exchanged a confused look with the Mining Tribe elders. “Drums,” clarified M’Baku, shaking his head. “They echo off the mountains and over water. You people are so reliant on your technology, eh? You have forgotten. Once, all the different tribes of Wakanda used them.”
“The Americans won’t be able to understand or intercept the signals,” said Shuri, delighted.
“Neither could we, though,” said Riri, looking confused.
“The War Dogs and Dora Milaje still learn them in our training.” Okoye glanced back toward M’Baku. “We know how to interpret them.”
Shuri was pacing, excited. “If you assigned someone— like a code-breaker, to be with our warriors, to interpret the signals for us? Then we would— ah, my king, you are brilliant!”
M’Baku smiled modestly, waving a hand. “Ah, be quiet. But yes, I have my moments. We were prepared for such a breakdown in communications, and have already stationed drums at strategic points in the Citadel and around Wakanda and Mount Bashenga.”
The doors burst open, and Sam Wilson hurried in with Barnes at his side: dirty, smoky, and sporting a bloodied mouth. Shuri covered her mouth and felt her knees almost give out. He’s alive! “Bucky,” she choked, overcome with joy.
“Don’t get all emotional on me, now,” he said, smiling as he hugged her. “Hi.”
“What’d we miss?” Sam was glancing from face to face, worried.
“Wakanda has set up drums to communicate in a way Americans do not understand.” Shuri pulled away from Bucky and pointed out the window. “More pressing, we need to know who is here and where they are. That woman, the ghost— she was in the Mound itself.”
“She was there for you. Remember? She said she was taking me instead.” Bucky turned to the elders. “Their original plan was to kidnap the Black Panther and hold her hostage for vibranium.”
Cries of outrage filled the room. “How do you know this?” asked Okoye.
“Because General Ross told me so himself. They think Wakanda has highly destructive weapons made of it, and I’m pretty sure if Wakanda doesn’t hand over these nonexistent weapons, plan B is to just steal vibranium. Ross said declaw the cat. Meaning, neutralize Shuri, and then start plundering Wakanda.”
“That,” said Namor very coldly, “will not happen so long as I draw breath.”
Shuri pressed her hands together. “Take away the vibranium, and they take away what America sees as Wakandan superiority.”
“But they cannot steal vibranium in its raw form. After being mined, it is put on the train with sonic stabilizers to be transported to the refinery, and if it leaves those trains, it is very unstable.” The Mining Tribe elder looked stricken. “How many of these people have come?”
“I can tell you who’s here,” said Wilson, glancing over at Barnes. “Walker was in Border Tribe land, south.”
Bucky turned his head toward M’Baku. “So was a woman named Belova. Yelena Belova. She’s a Black Widow, and she was in the Quinjet where I was being held. Also, a general— United States Army. Thaddeus Ross. He’s apparently the commander of this mission.”
“No relation to Everett Ross, I hope,” said Okoye mildly.
“Don’t think so.”
“And in addition to them, the winged man who bombed the riverbank before our scientist managed to force his retreat,” said Namor frostily.
Bucky frowned. “That’d be Torres. Joaquín Torres. United States Air Force.”
“A conquistador’s name,” said Namor, his eyes lighting up. “Good. I will drive my spear so deep into his belly that his ancestors will feel it.”
“Pump the brakes for a second, okay? I think someone’s lying to all these people.” Barnes stepped forward. “Belova, at least— she didn’t have a clue that the CIA was behind this operation— General Ross approached her, and she was pretty upset when I threw Val’s name out there. And Walker honestly believes— or seems to believe— that Wakanda is in possession of vibranium weapons of mass destruction.”
M’Baku frowned. “What is your point, White Wolf?”
“My point is that we should try not to kill them. Take them down, immobilize them, make sure they can’t hurt anyone— but if they’re doing this under false pretenses, they deserve to have a chance.”
Namor rested the butt of his spear firmly against the floor, and the glass rang like a bell. “When the first Wakandan dies at their hands, White Wolf, will you be so quick to offer mercy?”
Blue eyes met brown. “Someone should,” he said softly.
M’Baku sighed. “I understand your reluctance, White Wolf, but this is Wakanda, and these invaders were given a choice. Show mercy, but not at the risk of our people’s lives,” he said sternly. “We have seen four agents and their commander, yes? Then two of the operatives are unaccounted for.”
“And there are two territories nobody has seen anyone in yet,” said Shuri. “Jabariland, and the Merchant Tribe.”
“Walker said he’d been called away from Mining Tribe land to hunt me down when I escaped,” said Bucky. “They’ve got to have smaller means of transportation. Torres can’t be hauling people all over the place.”
“The ghost woman— she transported you through space. She was meant to take me.”
“Yeah, but I didn’t see her at all afterward. Maybe it takes a hell of a lot out of someone to do that. I don’t know.”
M’Baku frowned. “If someone’s coming from every surrounding area, we need to send out reinforcements.”
“With respect, my king,” said Shuri, her hands at her sides. “They are already in Wakanda. They are after one thing. Vibranium. And they have shown that they have no respect for human life in their quest to obtain it. I would—” She swallowed, praying she was not wrong, and Namor gave her a slow nod, mouth pressed into a firm line. Heartened, she pressed on. “I would send every civilian to the Great Mound. The tunnels there are thick and solid, with easy exits but no easy entry for an attacker. We can all regroup there. One single, smaller, heavily defended place will be easier to protect than so much open, unshielded land.”
M’Baku considered this. “Give orders to get the shields back up,” he said finally, turning to his warriors. “As soon as possible. The Design Group can work on that. The Black Panther is right. We cannot allow them to get away with unstable vibranium. A single kilogram is enough to blow the Citadel to the sky.”
“Talokan will protect the river as the people are evacuated,” said Namor immediately. M’Baku gave him a nod, and he returned it. “We have two warriors capable of air support. I recommend they fly surveillance and report back with these drums, and I will join them when all civilians are safe.”
“It is decided.” M’Baku slapped his chest hard. “We will chase these people from our land, and may Hanuman and Bast together rejoice in the glory we will bring them.”
Hastily evacuating everyone to the Great Mound of Mount Bashenga took much longer than Shuri had wanted. Every moment, she kept glancing over her shoulder, sure that General Ross’s team would come upon her in a single moment, but the airships were fast, and within the hour everyone had been secreted away in the myriad of tunnels that wormed through the depths of the mountains. With the shields back up and set to maximum strength, and the whole place bristling with Dora Milaje and Jabari warriors, she felt safer.
“Abeni?” she called, hurrying over to one of M’Baku’s guards. “What have the drums said?”
The woman tilted her head, listening as the beats rang out. “Two ships, one large, one small, southeast, my princess. One ship seen to the north. They cannot leave due to the shields.” Abeni shot her a grin, and Shuri returned it.
“And where is Namor of Talokan?” Is he safe? she wanted to beg. But she could not add that, not now.
If Abeni heard a note of urgency in her voice, she had the good grace not to say anything about it. “Flying reconnaissance at the moment with Wilson and your scientist. The Talokanil have the river secured.”
“Thank you.” Shuri headed back to the medical center, where the wounded were being healed, and ensured she checked on every single one: nobody had died, thanks to the quick response. She saw Nakia, damp and dirty, sitting by an unconscious River Tribe warrior with a broken arm, and when the former War Dog saw Shuri she got up immediately. “Sister,” she said, saluting Shuri.
“Nakia,” she said, embracing her. “I was so worried. Are you all right?”
“I am fine. Those Talokanil warriors are as fast as lightning, or Okoye and I would both be with our ancestors. Praise Bast that they are on our side, and not against us.” Nakia gave her a warm smile. “I am sorry I did not come to you earlier. We were so busy…”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Shuri immediately. “Is— Toussaint safe?”
“He is. He’s here in the tunnels with my father. We are telling people he is a distant cousin’s child. He has fit in so well, Shuri.” Nakia’s lip trembled as she smiled. “So serious for a boy of six. Keeps asking if he can fight, too.”
“Truly his father’s son,” Shuri whispered, and hugged her tightly. “I could send someone to protect him.”
“No, that would mean questions. Leave it. He will be all right.” Nakia went to the wide windows with Shuri and cast her voice low. “As I understand it, the only person who can come into this place is that ghost-woman who took Barnes.”
“Yes. She came, but she did not attempt to take vibranium, only me.”
“I heard. Shuri, you must be careful. You are the Black Panther. If you fall, Wakanda falls with you.”
“Talokan will protect Wakanda,” said Shuri softly, looking out over the misty hills, and beyond them, the empty city. Birnin Zana. Home of my mother, my father. My brother. Me. And so many more. “But I will be careful. They will not try the same trick again. That would be foolish.”
“If they have a woman who can walk through walls, then they will try anything. And if she can take a person with her through the walls—”
“We are as protected as we can be. If they come, they come.” Shuri seized Nakia’s hands, emotion welling in her chest. “Nakia. I have to tell you. About— about who I saw in the ancestral plane. I was not honest. I—”
“You,” said Nakia, squeezing her hands tightly, “can save it until after this battle is won, yes? And we will sit down and have a long conversation all about it.” Shuri felt her throat go thick, and hugged her.
“I wish you had been my sister,” she whispered, closing her eyes before sniffing hard and pulling back. “You stay here with the wounded. I’m going to find my team and get them to M’Baku for orders.”
“Go,” said Nakia, crossing her arms over her breast.
Aneka and Okoye had recovered their new suits, and Shuri had to admit that it was most definitely an improvement over the ones she had designed for them before. Okoye’s had more black and gold worked into it than Aneka’s, but they both gleamed blue in the light streaming from the curved glass windows that looked out toward the Golden City. They had to meet in the office of one of the doctors who worked at the Mound: nowhere else had doors that closed. Open floor plans, what a nightmare. I should redesign that later.
Namor had cleaned up a little, wiping the mud and ash from his face and hands, and Bucky’s broken lip had been healed. Shuri inched closer to Riri, who looked nervous even suited up and encased in armor. “We are going to be fine,” she whispered.
“Yeah? ‘Cause I’m kinda freakin’ out about the idea of a damn ghost in the walls.”
“She can be wounded. Barnes hit her hard. You just have to catch her off her guard when she’s solid.”
Riri choked. “Oh, right. Yeah, that sounds easy. What?”
The doors opened and M’Baku strode in. “Wilson, White Wolf, Namor, Shuri, Williams, Okoye, and Aneka. You are all here. Good.” He rubbed his temples. “The drummers have signaled. An American airship has been spotted making its way toward the Golden City. They do not appear to realize yet that we have evacuated.”
“How many were on board?” asked Sam.
“We do not know yet. But I have had the good news that our shields have been repaired and are back up. They cannot leave Wakanda now.”
“Good,” said Okoye. “Do we know if they have any long-range weapons that can do any real damage?”
“The flying man, Torres, possessed missiles that he fired from above,” said Namor. “Is their flying craft armed?”
“Yeah, it is,” said Bucky, stepping up. “It’s an American Quinjet, developed by SHIELD and used by government agents during clandestine missions. I flew one just like it to Siberia once. It’s equipped with a GAU-17/A Gatling gun on the nose. Six barrels, six thousand rounds a minute.”
Aneka’s brows went up. “You were right,” she said aside to Okoye softly. “Bullets. How ancient.”
“Outdated does not mean less dangerous,” said M’Baku. “So. We have trapped the wasp in the room with us, and now we must wait until it lands before we crush it. They have one advantage: a ghost who tried to kidnap the Black Panther and can walk through anything solid, including our shields. So. I want you to all pair up. Wilson stays with me. Riri Williams, you will go with the White Wolf. Okoye and Aneka, you stay together, and Shuri, you do not leave Namor of Talokan’s side.”
Her cheeks burned. As if he is my babysitter! “My king—”
“No, do not argue. He is the strongest of us, and I want you protected. Wakanda cannot lose its Black Panther again. K’uk’ulkan, your advisers are still with their people, yes?”
“They are,” answered Namor, drawing closer to Shuri as he spoke. “I have put all command in the hands of Attuma and Namora while I am fighting by the sides of your people and our allies. I will ask this once. Why have you not suggested I go out and destroy this aircraft myself? I can make short work of these people alone.”
“Not if that ghost is there,” mumbled Shuri, garnering an exasperated look from Namor.
“Because if you leave the Mound, our combined ability to protect our people goes down exponentially, fish-man,” said M’Baku, not unkindly. “The craft could be unmanned and a trap. It could only have two people on it, eh? And then we would have to find the rest. Stay here, and let them come to us, if they want vibranium so badly.”
Namor nodded slowly. “A good strategy,” he said. “I see. I will do as you suggest.”
After that, M’Baku dismissed them, and Abeni followed them out, ensuring a Jabari drum-reader would not be far off as they made their rounds within the Mound. Shuri walked at Namor’s side, keeping her head held high. “I am glad you were not hurt,” she said softly as they descended a stairway and went into the infirmary, already nearly empty of people. The evacuation had been fast, but Kimoyo beads worked faster.
Namor’s jaw clenched as he turned to the Jabari woman. “You may leave us alone for the time being,” he said quietly, his back to Shuri. She frowned: what was he doing? Nothing about his posture or movement betrayed a single thought as to what was in his head. Abeni nodded and stepped back into the stairwell, and as her footsteps echoed down, he turned back toward Shuri. To her surprise, there were tears in his eyes. “I am— thankful to every god that exists that you were not taken,” he choked out, and pulled her into his arms, his face buried in her hair as he took in deep, shaking gulps of air. “Shuri.”
“It’s okay,” she said into his chest, her arms pressed along his warm, broad back. Has he been holding this back, all this time? He folded forward a little, his head pressed into the curve of her shoulder and throat, and drew in another shuddering breath, going heavy for a moment as his hand found the nape of her neck. “I'm fine. Really.”
“You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered. “You have to be here, because you are the Black Panther, but—” Namor cut himself off, pulling away from her, and wiped his wet eyes. “I will keep you safe,” he said. “I asked M’Baku.”
“Asked him what?” said Shuri, alarmed. To marry me? Oh, Bast, please don’t say—
“To be put at your side. To protect you. Your importance to Wakanda cannot be overstated. I should never have left you to wander the mine with Barnes.”
“You asked him to be paired off with me?” Shuri stepped back, not knowing whether to shriek or start laughing or cry. “For my protection? You said that to him?”
“Yes.” Namor looked almost severe, hands dropping to his sides. “I told him that the only one who could hope to protect you was me. Why?”
“You—” She pressed her hands to her eyes. “You can’t be my personal guard, you have to think of your people!”
“I am thinking of my people. And your people. Both of them.”
“Oh, okay, so if it comes down to it and you have to choose whether to save, I don’t know, Attuma or me, you—”
“Talokan first,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I did not forget. But you are vital to this conflict in a way I did not consider, if the Americans wanted you in exchange for vibranium.”
Shuri shook her head. “Wakanda would never give up vibranium. Not even for me. It would not have worked. They should have realized that by this point. My mother might have been persuaded to part with a small amount in exchange for my safety, but she is gone. My life is not worth it. The dangers it could do in their hands…” She cut herself off and clasped her hands together. “I won’t let it happen.”
“She would have done anything to keep you safe,” said Namor quietly. “It was… a quality to be admired and commended in a mother, but not in the queen of the most powerful nation on the surface world.”
“She was both.”
“She was. Just as you are Black Panther and Princess and Shuri. Just as I am K’uk’ulkan and God-King and…” He sighed a little and shook his head. “And who I was when I was a small boy who had no notion of who I would become. When I did not realize I was different. When my mother named me at her breast.”
Shuri felt very strange. She had never even asked: surely his mother had not named him Feathered Serpent God at birth. “What… was the name she gave you?” Namor looked out the windows, a gentle smile on his face.
“Ah, that would be telling, itzia. No one has spoken that name since my mother was buried.”
She took a step closer, curious. “Well, if you ever choose to share it, I will—”
“Hush,” he said urgently, a hand raised as he tilted his head. “I hear—” Then, his head swiveled, his face toward hers contorted in horror, and the next thing she knew he was racing to her, his winged ankles humming: he slammed into her, his arms wrapped around her, and the whole of the curved window was exploding inward with one hundred rounds per second from a Gatling gun, sending shards of glass flying everywhere.
How strange, Shuri thought numbly, sailing through the air to the floor as her cowl rematerialized over her face to protect it. They look like diamonds in the sunlight.
“Jet up high, move it, move it!” yelled Sam, spreading his wings and taking off in a burst of blue fire. He hadn’t needed to hear a drum to know that the Quinjet had decloaked in front of the medical bay: the thunderous rounds of fire ripping up the place was enough of a calling card. Firing on a hospital? That’s a violation of like twelve Geneva Conventions, he thought furiously, soaring upward. His wings nicked tree branches, dew and mist gathering on his face. Not that General Ross gives a shit. Sam Wilson knew enough about Ross: crusty old Pentagon guy, career military, notoriously difficult, and ruled his chain of command with a boot of iron. Above him, the decloaked jet was hovering in front of the shattered glass, pumping rounds into the building. Sam dived straight through the floor of the jet and out the roof, then landed on the windscreen.
The pilot was not someone he recognized. Burly, middle-aged, and bearded, with a tactical suit that seemed to be red and white, he pointed right at Sam and… grinned? “Captain America!” he bellowed, loud enough that Sam could hear him from inside. “We meet again on the field of battle!”
“Who the hell are you?!” shouted Sam, bewildered. He redirected the built-up kinetic energy to his fist and punched a hole in the windshield, then spread his wings, taking off to go for the right engine. Another punch made quick work of that, and then the jet had lost power, sailing toward the forest canopy in a lazy, smoking spiral. Sam flew back up toward the shattered window of the medical bay, landing quickly and folding in his wings. “Everybody okay?” he called out, looking around. The place was heaped with broken glass, equipment and screens destroyed, half of one wall shredded. “Hello?”
There was a scraping sound, and Sam jumped back, startled, as an overturned medical table shifted and moved. “Sam?” said Shuri’s voice, and he ran over, pulling the table off her. Under it, she was huddling against Namor, her cowl retracting back as she stared up into his eyes. Namor looked more pissed off than frightened, and stood up, pulling her up with him.
“You both okay?”
“Yes. The table was vibranium… medical array…” Shuri looked around, an appalled look on her face. “Who was that?”
“One of the other guys we ain’t seen yet. Namor, you’re bleeding.”
Namor glanced down. A hole in his shoulder was welling blood, but even as Sam watched, the hole closed up. “I was exposed to the gunfire while covering the Black Panther. Her habit could not have withstood the force. It was only about ten bullets. I am fine.” He shook his arm out.
“Ten—” Sam shook his head, hands in the air. “That was a Gatling gun. One of those rounds can rip off someone’s head, and you’re telling me you took ten of those in the arm and you’re just hunky-dory. Man, I should have let you take out the jet.”
Outside, distantly, the drums suddenly changed their rhythm. Abeni, the Jabari woman who’d been assigned to interpret them for Shuri, came stumbling back up the stairs, bleeding from the leg, her eyes enormous. “Black Panther!” she shouted. “Four agents are making their way into the Mound from above.”
“Where is the king?” Shuri demanded. “And how did they get into the hangars at the top? We’re supposed to be on lockdown!” Sam rushed for the Jabari woman and grabbed an unbroken Kimoyo bead, quickly fumbling his way through the system and pressing it to her leg.
“You just hold on one second, okay?” he said, watching her flesh knit together. Abeni took in a breath, then another, turning back to Shuri.
“An order was received to scramble our fighters when that one appeared and started firing into the medical center. The ceiling opened and now it will not close. I don’t know who gave the order, my princess.”
“A trick,” said Namor in a voice gone black and furious.
“Or a simple misunderstanding,” Sam put in, standing up and helping Abeni to her feet. “Either way, we need to get to the hangars.” Four hostiles, plus the guy in the Quinjet: one was still missing. Possibly two, if General Ross was part of the team.
“I agree, let’s go.” Shuri sprinted off, and all three of them crammed into the fastest transport to the hangar bay: the elevator, a circular capsule decorated with vibrant artwork made of repeating circles. Sam awkwardly stood in the corner while Namor wiped blood off his arm and turned to face Shuri.
“You will remain unharmed so long as I draw breath,” he whispered.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she whispered back to him, her voice more tender than Sam had ever heard it.
Sam shifted his weight. “Hey, uh, not to be judgmental, but maybe save all the romantic stuff for after we make it out alive?” Namor fixed him with a dark, cold stare. “I’m just saying. It’s fine and all, but, uh, we gotta focus.”
“I am very focused,” said Namor, seething.
“Okay. Good. Shuri, you good?”
“Yes, I am good,” she mumbled, and Sam could have sworn he could hear her blushing.
“All right. Great.” Sam adjusted his suit, cracking his neck and giving them the best side-eye he could muster. Fortunately, the elevator opened at that moment, and Sam was only too glad to rush out, scoping out the hangar as Shuri and Namor followed. A flying shape descended through the open roof at the very top, accompanied by the roar of engines, and he immediately flung out an arm, holding Namor back, but it was only Riri Williams. The girl landed on both feet and rushed over to them, every armored step echoing off the cavernous walls.
“Y’all seen anyone yet?” she whispered.
“No. They probably hid ‘cause they heard you comin’ a mile away. You ever heard of stealth operations?”
She rolled her eyes. “Sorry for not being in the army, or whatever—”
“Air Force!”
Namor turned, one foot sliding out to give him a lower center of gravity. “I hear them,” he breathed, eyes gliding along the walls. Shuri’s habit covered her face again, and vibranium claws snicked out of her fingertips. Sam glanced at the pair of them, then back to Riri.
“Full cover,” he said softly, and Riri gulped, her face plate slamming down. Adjusting his straps, Sam turned back, so that they all faced outward in a circle, watching and listening to the soft echoes of sound off the inside walls of the hangar. “All right. We stay here. No matter what happens, we don’t leave each other behind.” Soft affirmatives were his only response. Steve would have been proud, I think. I hope. He would have given his right wing to have Rogers in their circle. But we gotta move on. Do the right thing.
Man, I should have called Sarah one more time.
Nobody even saw where the first blow came from. Something threw Shuri across the room like a sack of flour, and Riri fired off her arm-cannons as Torres, clad in drab and gray, soared across the hangar and shot at her. “Aw, hell no!” she yelled, taking off and going after him. “Not your ass again!”
“Williams, do not leave the Mound!” shouted Sam, just before he was punched in the goggles and went sailing ass over teakettle. His wings stabilized him and he leaped back up, one of his goggles cracked. John Walker was coming for him, all in black, blue eyes burning, a look of fury on his face. “That is an order, Riri! Don’t let them bait you outta this hangar!” He hoped she heard him. Without Kimoyo beads or drums inside the cavernous hangar, they had to rely on shouting, and this place echoed like the inside of a drum. He slipped left, dodged a punch from Walker, flipped sideways, and kicked the guy in the chest with all the power he could gather from the stored kinetic energy in his suit. Walker went flying, pitching up against a control hub.
Across the room, a petite blonde woman in black was messing around with one of the control panels: Sam recognized it as the one that opened the lifts to the sublevels, the ones that dropped through holes in the floor down to the vibranium mines. The Black Panther must have seen it too. “Namor!” Shuri screamed, dodging away from a man in a skull mask. “Namor, stop her!”
Namor was midair, headed upward to assist Riri in her grapple with Torres, but at her cry he stopped short and reversed, heading back down with all the speed he could muster. The blonde woman looked up and somersaulted away as he drove his spear into the control panel, effectively destroying the ability to use the elevators, but jamming the holes in the floor open. Sam turned his attention back to the man in front of him, recovering from the chest kick he’d just delivered.
“I’m really disappointed, Sam,” said Walker, getting back to his feet. “I thought you and I had a good thing going. You should have joined us.”
“Nah, I’m good,” said Sam shortly.
“You don’t look it. Where’s the shield?”
“None of your business, that's where.”
Walker lunged for him again, and Sam dodged: right, left, left, down, and sailed upward again, cracking him across the face with a kinetic-energy powered punch that sent the super-soldier staggering across the floor.
“Cheater,” said Walker as he turned back to face him. His mouth was bleeding. A gloved hand went to his lip, came away red and wet. “Bucky’s too far gone. But I thought… maybe you can be reasoned with.”
Sam got in another crack with his elbow, then his knee. "Reason with that," he snapped, bringing his hands up as John recovered, spat blood on the floor, and brought his own hands up. "Let's go."
Walker smiled red and came in swinging.
Shuri was fighting an enemy she had never seen before. Tall, broad, entirely silent, in a silver helmet shaped like a grinning skull, armored and cowled, this agent fought with such precision that she wasn’t entirely sure if he was human. Every move Shuri made was learned instantly and thrown back in her face. Even the heart-shaped herb seemed to offer no advantage: he was just as fast and as strong as she was. If she kicked, he kicked exactly the same: if she punched or dodged, he seemed to know what she was doing even before she did it. I cannot let him touch me. She managed to dance away from close combat, getting in a very few strikes with her claws before he suddenly worked to intercept them. He learns from my movements? Is that it?
A blow struck the man in the mask so hard he went sailing sideways, crumpling to the floor, and behind him stood Bucky Barnes, vibranium arm directly out sideways, sweat and dirt all over his face. “You looked like you needed an assist,” he said dryly.
She put her hands on her knees, panting for air. “Where have you been?”
“Running up a million flights of stairs, because the elevators are all broken for some reason.” He shot a pointed glance over at the sparking, smoking remains of the elevator master controls.
Shuri pressed her mouth into a line, trying not to laugh. “Okay. That guy is new. I think he learns from fighting: he figured out exactly what I was going to do before I did it.”
“Weird, but I’ve seen weirder. I’ll—” He staggered forward, clapping a hand to the back of his neck, and turned around. “Ow.” The blonde woman was holding her thumbs up, frozen, two small metal discs in her gloved hands. For a moment, nobody moved. “Yelena?” he asked, staring incredulously.
“That was… two hundred and fifty volts. Supposed to knock you out,” she said, lowering her hands in confusion. Her accent was faintly Russian. “How are you still standing?”
“Thanks for the help out there in Border Tribe land,” said Bucky, waving a hand toward the south. “Really appreciate it.”
Yelena went red. “Oh? I am glad you appreciated it, Barnes, because that was the worst escape I’ve ever seen.”
Shuri put her hands on her hips. “Can we please get back to fighting each other? This is very confusing.”
“Just—” Yelena put a hand to her earbud, then turned to Bucky. “Ah, shit. James. One more of us is about to come in.”
“You’re… giving us information?” Shuri was bewildered.
The woman’s eyes were wide, earnest, and hazel-brown as she turned toward Shuri. “You’re the princess, yes? Then you should know—”
A blow hit Shuri, sending her flying ten feet across the floor, and when she recovered, the man in the skull mask was standing over her again. She spit blood from her mouth and flung herself to her feet, but the agent had already seized her by the throat. Every move she tried to wrest herself free from that inexorable grasp was counteracted. I can’t die like this. Her claws dug hard into the arm holding her. Cordura, leather, and steel alloy parted like silk under vibranium, and the skull-masked agent hissed and dropped Shuri, clutching at his arm. Shuri dropped to all fours, coughed, sucked in air, and looked up just in time to see a blue streak slam into her opponent, hurling him into the wall. “Okoye!” she croaked.
Aneka swooped in, knocking half of Torres’s wing off with one strike of her knife, and landed on both feet as he spiraled toward the floor. “Princess! Get up!” she cried, and turned back to assist Okoye in neutralizing the skull-masked man. Shuri staggered up to her feet, wheezing for breath, and looked around.
Wilson was still locked in hand-to-hand combat with Walker, assisted by Bucky; Yelena, the blond woman, had disappeared; Namor and Riri, armed with a vibranium spear and arm-cannons were advancing on a terrified-looking Torres, cornering him. Shuri felt a smile dance over her face. We’ve won. We can neutralize them without killing anyone: they’ll never get near the vibranium, and—
A puff of air danced over her face, so light and soft that she unconsciously followed it, and when her eyes met the face of a woman cowled in white, long hanks of tangled dark hair hanging over her eyes, she froze, fear boiling away all her victory. “You're—the ghost,” she gasped.
It was all she had time to say. “My name,” snarled the ghost, “is Ava .” A white-clad fist slammed into Shuri’s side with astonishing force, and she flipped over backward, landing on her feet and one hand as she slid along the floor.
“The ghost is here!” she shouted as the woman in white—Ava—blinked in and out of existence, closer and closer. “Quickly! Protect the elevator shaft—”
Whuff. The butt of Namor’s spear swung through air, fast enough to break bone and shatter steel, but Ava vanished, sending Namor off-balance and recovering where he stood. “What—” he started to say, real alarm on his face, and Ava rematerialized behind him, slamming the sole of her booted foot into the middle of his back. He went crashing forward, slamming face-first into the ground.
Shuri ran for her, leaping over Namor’s back and kicking out, but the woman vanished again, reappearing by Wilson and Walker and knocking the winged man off his feet. Quantum physics. She can make herself phase in and out of reality on a molecular level, why couldn’t she learn how to make herself more dense? That would account for how hard she can hit. Namor was stirring, looking stunned, blood dripping from a cut above his eye and from his nose. Get up, she thought, starting to go to him. Get up! Across the room, Ava was already on Riri Williams, reaching into iand tearing the arc reactor from her chest, effectively trapping her inside her own suit. The petite girl shouted in alarm as she toppled to the ground, but nobody made a move to kill her: that was a good sign. Maybe I can reason with them.
Wilson, still scrambling to get up off the floor, shouted, “Hostile! Hostile! Shuri, on your six—” and she turned, just in time to see another new person. A blur of red and white came crashing down on her: this new man was big and he was clearly well-trained in hand to hand combat. He got precisely one punch in before Namor darted in and kneed him in the chest, sending him flying into a wall, and Bucky left Wilson to rush over and contain him as Namor bent down to lift her up.
“You’re hurt?” asked Namor roughly, wiping blood from his lip.
“We can’t let that Ava woman— Starr— the ghost, we can’t let her take vibranium.” Shuri grabbed his wrist. “K'uk'ulkan, listen to me. If they take raw vibranium out of the sonic stabilizers, the slightest upset will set it off inside the mine, and if it goes off in there, it’s going to cause a chain reaction that will kill everyone in the Mound. Everyone.”
A flicker of worry marked his brow. “I understand, princess. This ghost…” Namor looked truly uneasy. “Tell the others. I will hold her off.”
“Okay.” Shuri let go of him and started running toward whoever she could find, desperate. There was no other way in here to communicate the plan, and Wilson was choking out Walker by the elevator shaft. “Don’t let any of them out of this hangar!” she screamed, dodging another punch from the skull-masked man. Apparently Okoye and Aneka had been unsuccessful in pinning him down, but she had not seen what had happened. We were so close! We had the upper hand! “Don’t let them into the mines!” The back of her neck tingled, and she crouched into a one-legged slide as the man in red and white took a swing at her, narrowly missing her head. “Protect the mines at all costs!”
A shadow blocked out the sun streaming down through the hangar, and the hum of loud engines alerted everyone’s vision up. A Quinjet was hovering, descending slowly, a sound system blaring loud words that echoed off the walls.
“I am General Thaddeus Ross. You are in possession of unlawful vibranium weapons. You can surrender them to us, or I will open fire.”
“I thought you took out their Quinjet!” shouted Shuri to Wilson.
“I said there were three Quinjets! Three! Two little ones and a big one, that’s the other little one!” he screamed back. Walker’s eyes were rolling back in his head, his hands limply falling away from Wilson’s arms, and Shuri turned her head back just in time to see Namor racing upward like a deranged hummingbird, side to side, toward the underbelly of the jet. He sliced off a wing with his spear, rolled beneath it, and tore the underbelly open, removing the fuel tank with almost uncanny precision as it crashed to the ground, rupturing, but not exploding. The Quinjet landed with a resounding crash on the floor of the hangar, but when Shuri raced up and tore off the canopy, there was nobody in the cockpit.
“It’s empty, it was a prerecorded—”
WHAM! The skull-masked man took her off her feet and threw her against the floor, then delivered a series of fast, hard punches to Shuri’s torso. She fought right back with all her might, digging her claws in and dodging from side to side, but he was inhumanly fast, and bigger than her. He backed her into a corner, hitting her across the face so hard she was momentarily stunned, and then two arms grabbed her, holding her down and back. “I’m really sorry, Princess Shuri,” said a sober, young man’s voice she did not recognize. “But we can’t let Wakanda stockpile nukes.”
“Torres,” she spat out, twisting her head. His harness was digging into her shoulder. If I fight him, I’ll kill him. He’s not even a super-soldier. She stopped struggling. “You don’t understand. We don’t have weapons of mass destruction!” Across the hangar, the ghost was grappling with Namor, solid one moment and then transparent as he tried his best to land blows that never struck and was repeatedly knocked off his feet. He saw Shuri and made to rush to her, but Ava blocked his path and threw him down again.
“Okay, sure,” Torres said, sighing. “Okay. Antonia, I think we’re good here. Wanna radio Ross?”
Antonia? Shuri stared up as the agent with the skull mask took it off: underneath was the burn-scarred face of a woman with dark hair tied back in a braid. She raised her wrist and spoke into it softly. Bast, she would have made a great Dora if she had been born Wakandan. Shuri turned her attention back to the young Air Force officer. “Listen to me. Torres, isn’t it? Sam Wilson had nothing but good things to say about you.”
“Yeah,” said Torres sadly, handing her over to Antonia, whose grip around her biceps was like a steel vise. “Good man, but he chose the wrong side.”
Shuri struggled forward a little. “We are purposely pulling our punches. We do not want to kill any of you.” Across the hangar, Okoye and Aneka had spotted her and started running, but she signaled to them silently with her free fingers: stop. Okoye skidded to a halt, grabbing Aneka, anguish on her face. A door opened, and M’Baku and a legion of Jabari warriors burst in, along with twenty Talokanil, led by Attuma: they all stopped short at the sight of the Black Panther in enemy hands. A few of them rushed over to Riri, trying to pry her out of her broken suit. “We understand that someone has lied to you— maybe even to Ross, and we want to show mercy before justice or retribution. Even now, I am willing to show mercy. Please. Just go. I can give the order to lower the shields for you if you promise not to steal our vibranium. But if you stay and fight— we have warriors beyond your wildest comprehension, and they will not stop fighting until your whole country is razed to the ground.”
“Torres,” said a woman’s voice, low and firm. Shuri glanced over, seeing Yelena Belova, her face torn. “We should listen to her.”
He shook his head. “She’s the princess, Ms. Belova. She’s gonna be lying to us.”
The blonde woman shook her head. “No. She’s telling the truth. I got somewhere quiet and ran a scan of the mines. There are no weapons. It’s just a shipping system.”
For the first time, Torres looked uncertain. “I… but I have orders. We have orders.”
A flash of anger crossed Yelena’s face. “You have orders, maybe. I’m a free agent. Good luck.”
“I don’t have a choice.”
“Everyone has a choice!”
“The CIA’s watching my mom!”
“So you knew it was the CIA!” Yelena exclaimed. “You knew all along and you didn’t say anything?”
Torres looked genuinely bewildered. “Why would I have said anything?”
“You need to evac,” said Antonia, her voice gravelly and hoarse. “Now. Ross will be waiting.”
Shuri lifted her head and looked back at Okoye and Aneka. “Musa ukulandela. Hlala apha. Khusela umgodi ,” she shouted desperately. Her voice rang off the walls. “I’ll come back!”
Don’t follow. Stay here. Protect the mine.
Okoye made a sharp, aborted movement, agony on her face, but Aneka saluted her, sharp and quick as a knife. Shuri turned toward Torres, trying to maintain her dignity as her mask retracted back, and hideously aware of the unstable vibranium below her feet, far, far down in the mines. Any explosion could set it off, and she did not like the look of the puddling fuel on the floor of the hangar from the unmanned jet. “I will go with you freely,” she announced. “Wakanda may barter for my release, but I will not bring harm to my people—”
“You!” bellowed the man in red and white as he caught sight of Wilson, standing over Walker’s limp form. Wilson picked up his head with enough time to catch a punch to the face, and both of them bowled over, the man in red roaring as he lifted him by the collar, punched him again, sent the vibranium wings skidding along the ground, trailing sparks. That was all the reinforcements needed: M’Baku bellowed and started racing for Wilson and the man in red, his club raised high.
Shuri screamed, lunging forward. “Stop! Stop, stop, the jet fuel—”
Namor made one last break for her, but Ava materialized in front of him and slammed him off-course before vanishing again and reappearing behind him, grabbing him by his left ear and throwing him to the ground. His bellow of pain and rage echoed off the walls. Wilson halted mid-fight and turned at the sound, horror on his face. “Get the princess out!” Starr shouted, and stuttered back into existence to the right just fast enough to miss his upward kick, punching down on him— but his wings fluttered, he shot forward along the ground, and her fist connected with the floor as he soared up in an arch and made for Shuri.
“Namor, no!” shouted Shuri. “I’m going, get back to the—” Her eyes caught a flash of red and white striped cordura diving for the shaft. “Walker!” she screamed as Torres’s one remaining wing shot both of them upward and wind tore her words away. “Walker, someone get Walker!”
Then, the hangar was gone and she was in the sunlight and fresh air, rocketing toward a Quinjet a thousand feet above the top of the Mound. Three, there’s three, Sam had said. The two small ones were destroyed: this, then, was the big one. About the size of the Royal Talon, or maybe a little bigger, it floated above the Mound, its cloaking shimmering away to allow Torres to carry her on board, where she was put on the ground and locked into magnetic restraints without much preamble at all. Torres gave her an uneasy look as he quickly replaced his damaged wing with a new one, then dived back out of the jet.
Boots struck the floor. She looked up.
“Hi there, Princess,” said General Thaddeus Ross, craggy, mustached, and grim. “So nice of you to join us. Sit tight, would you?”
Chapter 17: The Only Choice
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Okoye had not hesitated. The moment Shuri, being pulled upward by Torres, had screamed out Walker’s name, she had seen what was happening and dived into the elevator shaft, Aneka at her side. Their suits, powerfully built, accelerated their descent, but even that was not fast enough for Okoye. “We cannot let him get his hands on vibranium!” she hissed as they landed on their feet at the bottom, the repulsors powering down to hibernation.
“Where is he?” whispered Aneka, looking from side to side as they spread apart, listening. “He cannot have gone far.” The mines were quiet, all the workers having evacuated to safety, and the only sound was the gentle hum of the automated train system. Dim purple light shone down on them from the raw vibranium in the walls, and soft white light glowed from the sonic stabilizers.
“Not too far,” said Walker’s voice, and Okoye hurled her fist forward as she whirled to the left, but he caught it in his fist, a deranged grin on his face. “Huh. Not so tough now, are you?” Aneka kicked him full in the face. His head snapped sideways, but he caught himself and brought his hands up, as if ready for a fight. “All right. Round two. Let’s go.”
“You fought my Ayo in Europe,” said Aneka sourly, flipping her knives to face forward.
“Yeah. Three on one. Not a fair fight. Let’s see how the odds look when I’m who I’m meant to be,” he snarled.
Okoye brought her spear down. “Then fight,” she snapped.
And John Walker grinned.
Up above in the hangar, Bucky was fighting for his life against the skull-masked agent, who’d turned out to be a woman called Antonia, and who was the best damn hand to hand combatant he’d ever seen. “It’s a computer chip in her head!” shouted Yelena at him over the sound of Talokanil and Jabari who were trying to take down Ava Starr, to no avail. “It gives her mimicry abilities!”
Bucky went sailing to the floor, thrown by a punch, and clambered back up to his feet. “What, she’s a— robot?”
“Are you a robot, Mr. Metal Arm?” Belova jumped up on one of the comms displays, messing with the settings. “I’m going to get communication back for you guys.”
“How? Didn’t you guys take down the satellites?”
“Huh? No. Ross couldn’t get clearance for that. Starr broke in here and just turned them all off at the source.” Yelena frowned and fiddled with the hologram layout, ignoring the bearded man in red who was still fighting Sam Wilson: they appeared to be fairly evenly matched. “The Kimoyo network runs off satellites, yeah, but you still need ground power, which seems to be funneled through this… ah. This stack.” She flipped a circular switch, looking way too pleased with herself. “There.”
The bead in his arm crackled back to life. “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Bucky, and ducked under one of Antonia’s swinging blows. She might have a chip, but I’ve got something she can’t imitate. He dodged left, then left again, getting a solid punch in the nose for his efforts. Tears were gathering in his eyes just from the pain of having his ass beat, and his nose was bleeding. I got one shot. One shot. In a swift movement, he feinted to the left: Antonia lunged to her right to block him, leaving the back of her neck exposed, and Bucky’s left arm clapped down on it, the electric shock activated from the palm of his vibranium hand frying the chip and sending three hundred volts up her spine. Antonia gurgled, going stiff and trembling, then collapsed in a heap, unconscious, but breathing. “Yeah, you stay down,” mumbled Bucky, wiping his nose with the back of his gloved right hand and spitting blood on the floor.
Starr had set her sights on Namor, and even as fast as he moved, she was faster, phasing in and out of existence as she delivered blow after blow. Namor reeled back, flew high, came back down: still only a tenth of his hits landed. The pure rage that had bloomed on his face at Shuri being taken had slowly been replaced by the dawning realization, writ clear on every line of his expression, that he had met a match to his own abilities.
“You! White woman!” shouted M’Baku at Yelena, swinging his club at the vanishing and reappearing Starr as his Jabari warriors did their best to assist him. “We have communications back up! Do not open the canopy over Wakanda; trap these invaders in with us!”
Yelena immediately bent to mess with the controls. Namor slammed one foot down, rising up five feet, and drove his spear toward Starr: she vanished and his spear sank deep into the concrete floor, cracking it outward in a radius three feet across. Starr reappeared by his left shoulder and grabbed the back of his head, slamming his face directly into his own spear, and Namor’s nose gushed blood as the jade plug tore open flesh. Attuma let out a wordless bellow of rage and terror, and Starr phased through twenty feet of space with a half-senseless Namor in her arms, then threw him so hard into the hangar wall that a landed Dragon Flyer came loose from its tethers and went crashing down on top of him, burying the God of Talokan in ten feet of smashed vibranium-alloy, plexiglass, stone, and concrete.
“Namor!” shouted Bucky, instantly rushing for the pile with Attuma at his side. The Talokanil warrior paused halfway to the mess, head cocked and eyes closed, then aimed the butt of his axe at empty space, and it was only by either astonishing luck or some prescient knowledge that the heavy counterweight slammed directly into Ava Starr’s kidneys as she materialized with her back to him. Reeling and shocked, she stumbled forward, and Yelena leaped forward off the power console, landing on the other woman’s shoulders and thumbing her electric disks into Ava’s temples. Starr’s eyes rolled back in her head and she fell to the ground, deadweight, as Belova easily flipped away from her and landed on her feet, panting a little.
“Walker’s in the mine,” she said without preamble to M’Baku, who was breathing heavily himself. Bucky started digging through rubble, finally finding a brown arm with a heavy gold and jade gauntlet: he swept off the shattered mess of glass and concrete and pulled Namor out, torso-first.
“With Okoye of the Border Tribe,” said Attuma, glancing at Bucky. Barnes nodded, checking Namor’s pulse: it was there, strong and sure, and he was coming around. Attuma turned on his heel and dived down into the shaft, M’Baku close behind in a rustle of grass-skirt.
“Namor. Hey, pal. Wake up.” Bucky lifted him, one arm across his shoulder, and laid him down sitting up against the power console. “Namor?” The man’s nose was already healing despite the fresh blood smeared down his mouth and chin, and Bucky adjusted his nose plug so it wouldn’t be crooked when it finished closing up. I had to do this to Steve a couple times, didn’t I? “Namor. Let’s go. Up and at ‘em. Rise and shine.”
“Shuri,” rasped Namor, eyes fluttering open. He focused on Bucky, and one hand gripped his belt urgently. “Water. I need. Water.”
“Anyone got any water?” bellowed Bucky over his shoulder. One of the Talokanil hurried over, offering what seemed to be the equivalent of a hand grenade: Bucky opened it and doused both himself and Namor in a small explosion of seawater. Salt burned his eyes. “Ow,” he mumbled, blinking and rubbing them. When he could see again, Namor was on his feet, looking as strong as he ever had, blood and water running down his chest.
“I thank you, White Wolf,” he said firmly, clapping a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.
“Sure,” said Bucky, eyes still stinging. “No problem.”
Yelena turned back toward Wilson and the older man in red and white. “Alexei, stop!” she shouted, waving her arms.
“Look!” bellowed the man, beaming even as he pushed Sam further back. His mouth was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to care. “Look, Lenotschka! Didn’t I tell you! Captain America! He fights me again!”
“I told you, I don’t even know who you are!” Wilson accelerated his boosters, ascending upward, and slammed back down, a boot striking directly into his opponent’s solar plexus. Alexei went skidding backward, gasping. “I have never met any big-ass Russian Santa Claus.”
“It is me! Shostakov!” said the man, looking wounded as he stumbled back up to his feet. “Your greatest enemy! The Red Guardian? I fought you in Korea!”
“Oh, my god,” said Bucky, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Wrong Captain America.”
“What do you mean, wrong Captain America?” Yelena looked bewildered.
“It doesn’t— I’ll explain later, okay, we need to get to Walker before he gets his hands on vibranium.” Bucky glanced up and shielded his eyes as a drab winged shape plummeted through the hangar doors above, directly for Ava Starr, and sighed as Torres, looking stricken, grabbed her under her arms. Namor wrenched his spear out of the concrete and made to throw it, but Bucky touched his arm, staying his hand. Shostakov ran to Torres’s side immediately, picking up Antonia as if she was no more than a sack of flour and draping her over one shoulder. “Joaquín,” Bucky said wearily. “You can’t get out of Wakanda, kid. The shields are back up.”
“I gotta—” The young man was in tears, his face streaked with dirt and smoke as he fumbled with a harness to attach Shostakov and Antonia to his hips. “Sergeant Barnes, you don’t understand, sir, they got my mom under surveillance. My whole family.” He lifted the unconscious Ava with some difficulty, gasping. “I just gotta do this one mission. Just one. And then they’ll let me go back to my normal job. General Ross, the director— they promised.”
“It’s not gonna stop with one,” said Sam, advancing toward him. “You know that. Torres, man. Come on.”
“I can’t,” he whispered, shaking his head. “I gotta— I gotta—”
“Lenotschka?” asked Shostakov, extending a hand.
“No,” whispered Yelena. “No, Papa. I’ll only slow you down.” She offered him a smile, but her eyes were wet. Torres’s hands were shaking as his wings spread, and he lifted all three of them out of the hangar, leaving a trail of smoke behind.
“They’ll be stuck in the Quinjet,” said Sam immediately, unfolding his wings. “And they got Shuri in there.”
“Yes, they do,” said Namor, voice gone black and furious.
A phalanx of Dora Milaje came running in, Ayo at their head. “Communications are back up!” she shouted, automatically beginning to salute, then realizing nobody in the hangar was a Wakandan superior officer, and settled for directing it at Sam Wilson, who awkwardly returned it. “We’ve received word the princess has been taken—”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, she’s up above in the Quinjet and Walker’s still down in the mines with the Midnight Angels, the king, and Attuma.”
“I am going to retrieve the princess,” said Namor, switching his spear into his left hand.
Bucky shook his head. “Wait. No. If that jet blows— that’s a big jet, and if it falls straight down, the explosion could set off a chain reaction and kill everyone in here. And there’s already jet fuel everywhere. I’m not taking that risk.”
“So what do you propose we do?” shouted Namor, thumping his spear on the floor. “Let her die?”
“She can handle herself, she’s the Black Panther.”
Yelena edged forward, looking slightly worried. “About that, ah—”
Ayo whirled on her, spearpoint at her throat in a millisecond. “You have no right to speak to us, invader.”
“She’s on our side, she’s the one who opened comms,” said Bucky. The General of the Dora Milaje hesitated, but lowered her spear. “Okay. I’m thinking we start evacuating people from the Mound if we can. They can’t leave with the shields up. Ayo, try to raise Shuri on the Kimoyo beads— did she have hers on when she was taken?”
“I don’t remember,” said Ayo, looking anguished. “I could— Griot might be able to—”
“No. You are right, White Wolf. There is no time. We must get the people out of the Mound.” Namor whirled back toward his warriors, slammed his spear into the concrete again, and lifted his hands. “Hear my command,” he shouted in a voice that rang off the inside walls, and they all returned the salute. “Get both the Talokanil and the Wakandans to safety. Hide them in the rivers, in the mountains, in the forests. Keep them safe as if they are your own mothers, children, fathers. Líik’ik Talokan!”
“Líik’ik Talokan!” they shouted back, and ran for the exits. Namor turned back to Ayo and Bucky, eyes burning.
Riri Williams’ voice piped up from the corner, under a pile of red armor and rubble where she had fallen when Ava had torn out her arc reactor. “Yo, not to be annoying or whatever but did y’all forget about me?”
Namor did not even blink, a note of command entering his voice. “Get Ms. Williams to safety in the princess’s laboratory. She is no good to us in battle without her suit, but she may run operational control with the communications array and the help of Griot.” Ayo saluted and raced over, peeling Riri out of her smashed and too-heavy suit as Namor continued. “Myself and Wilson are the only air support we now have. I will fly out of the Mound and see if I can put eyes on the ship that Shuri is being held in. Wilson, you are on evacuation surveillance. Ensure everyone is safe and unharmed on their way out, and clear their path of any opposition, should it arrive.”
“Yes, sir,” said Sam automatically, halfway to snapping a salute before catching himself.
If Namor found that amusing, he didn’t show it. “Barnes, I want you here watching the exits to the mines with the Dora Milaje. Do not allow Walker to leave this place with vibranium.”
“You don’t have to tell me twice,” said Bucky. “Everyone’s Kimoyo beads are working, right?” After a check and confirmation from all, Sam spread his wings and jetted skyward toward the opening of the hangar, Namor matching his speed, side-by-side.
Shuri remained as quiet and unobtrusive as she could in the corner where she had been restrained as Torres landed and dumped Ava Starr and Antonia onto makeshift cots, the bearded man in red and white dissolving into tears as he slumped down on a cot. “My Yelena,” he wept, head in his hands. “This is all my fault.”
“Pull yourself together,” barked Ross, marching toward the cockpit. “She made her choice. Torres, get those two revived.”
“They’ve got pulses, sir, but they’re not responding.”
“God damn it.” Ross pivoted and tapped his earpiece. “Walker. Walker, come in.” He flicked it again. “U.S. Agent, respond.”
“Sir, it’s probably the— the fact that he’s too far underground, you won’t be able to raise him.” Torres looked like he was about to cry, and Shuri could not help but pity him. He’s so young, she thought, and then, no, he’s my age, isn’t he?
“Yes, I’m not a moron, Torres! Restrain those two, I don’t need them waking up in a panic and tearing this jet apart. Now!”
The Kimoyo bead in her habit crackled to life. “Shuri, can you hear me?”
She stiffened and turned her head. “Riri?” she whispered.
“Oh, shit! Yeah! They’re evacuating us from the Mound. Are you hurt?”
“I’m captured. I guess they don’t know our comms are back.” Shuri cast her voice extremely low: with her mask on, they could not see if her mouth was moving, and over Ross’s shouting, nobody could hear her. Torres was clipping something around Ava’s neck and locking down Antonia’s wrists and ankles with cuffs that looked surprisingly similar to hers. “Listen. Walker— I saw him going into the mine, but he’s not back up here yet.”
“Yeah, they’re busy stopping him. Okoye, Aneka, M’Baku, and Attuma. He doesn’t stand a chance.”
“If you can raise somebody, just— let them know I’m all right, okay? They haven’t demanded anything yet—”
Ross stormed toward her, brandishing a finger. “Hey. Hey. Stop talking. Take that mask off.”
Shuri retracted her mask and stared up at him innocently, her eyes wide. “Me?”
“Yes, you. Who are you talking to?”
“My AI. Griot,” she lied. “He says your two agents here are dying.”
“Very funny.” But Ross’s cold eyes darted to the two unconscious women all the same.
Shuri kept her face straight. “He also says your mustache is… how do the Americans put it? Oh, yes. Wack.”
“You know, there’s one thing I can’t stand,” said Ross coldly, “and that’s disrespectful, spoiled little kids making my job difficult.”
“I’m not a child—”
He grabbed her by the throat, dug his fingers into her Black Panther habit, and tore: she shouted in alarm as the nanoweave glittered out of existence in patches, purple, and then he’d found, between the shimmering panels, the necklace she used to contain it. With a yank, Ross ripped it off her throat, and there she was in her tight-fitting black undersuit, feeling horribly exposed and small and naked as he held the necklace in his hands, examining it. “All of that power in this little thing,” he said, and with a sharp twist, snapped it in half, tossing both broken pieces aside.
“No!” Shuri shouted, lunging forward, but the magnetic cuffs around her ankles and wrists stopped her short, pinning her to the wall with her arms above her head. My suit! My suit’s gone! Without it, she could not hope to survive a fall from this height. So much for my escape plan. She gritted her teeth and pulled against the restraints with all her might, but only managed to separate the cuffs by an inch until she had to give up. “You monster,” she whispered.
“That’s cute,” said General Ross, turning his back to her. “Don’t think we made those cuffs just for you, princess. HYDRA had those on hold for the Winter Soldier and Captain America. In case of emergency. Big, red letters.” He opened a black case, but Shuri couldn’t see inside it, no matter how she twisted. “Plenty of failsafes for super-soldiers. Don’t want them getting ideas, you know. Running around, thinking they own the place by virtue of being stronger than anyone else.”
“I hope you told John Walker about that,” she said angrily.
“Torres,” said Ross, ignoring her. “You’re on call. Cloak and wait by the hangar until Walker’s ready for air evac.” The younger man looked miserable as he saluted and dived out of the Quinjet, leaving Shuri alone with the general and the two unconscious women. “Walker’s not an idiot,” he said, almost conversationally. “Wakanda, however, could stand to eat a piece or two of humble pie.” He turned around, a vial in his hand, and Shuri’s eyes went right to it, frozen. It was something… black-blue, murky and poisonous-looking, with a gleam to it like mercury, something solid.
“What is that,” she said very flatly.
“Your slice.” For the first time, General Ross smiled. “What, you think we just… left that vibranium mine alone in the ocean? I guess we have Wakanda to thank for that: you distracted those siren… sea-people long enough for us to get down there and mine it. Not a lot, with the tools we have. Just a gram. But that was all we needed to synthesize a… cure.”
“A cure for what?” Shuri choked out, stiffening against the wall as if she could sink through the steel if she pressed hard enough.
“A cure for… oh, let’s say, the problem of an uncontrollable enhanced individual,” said Ross, shrugging. “You didn’t think we’d start a program without a failsafe of our own, did you?”
Cold horror settled on Shuri’s skin, raising the hair at the back of her neck and settling like a hard, tight knot in her belly. “You did want vibranium to make super-soldiers,” she whispered, numb. “This whole time. You knew we didn’t have weapons of mass—”
He chuckled. “You misunderstand. I’ve already got the weapon in custody. It’s you, Princess Shuri. You are the vibranium nuke. A walking, breathing WMD, capable of unbelievable levels of destruction if she so pleased.”
“But I’m not the only— you lied to— you didn’t tell Barnes, because he’s— he—”
“He’s what, enhanced? Sure. But he’s not an issue for us. He’s old. He’s broken. He knows exactly what he’s capable of, and he refuses to do it. Walker, though— Walker’s perfect. The perfect soldier, the best weapon in the United States arsenal. You point him like a gun and pull the trigger. That’s what we need more of.” Ross tossed the vial in the air and let it fall back into his hand, fiddling with one end. “But word is now you’ve got another enhanced individual in your little group down there. Flies without wings, I hear, and stronger than the Hulk.” His lip curled in disgust. “So I figure, two birds, one stone.”
“You’ll never catch him,” said Shuri, her jaw clenched. “Not if you tried for a hundred years. He knows I am here, and he will come for me. When he does, General, I recommend you run.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Thaddeus Ross, and approached, vial in hands, a syringe fitted to the tip.
Below the earth, deep in the mine, Okoye, M’Baku, and Attuma were locked in combat with John Walker. Aneka had been knocked off her feet and her suit damaged beyond workability several minutes ago, but she still kept desperately throwing knives at Walker, who dodged them as easily as a fish dodges a rock thrown in a river. He was impossibly fast and strong, and Okoye had gotten in several cuts and blows, but not nearly as many as she would have liked. Praise Bast that I am in this suit, or we would both have fallen. Her suit had also been damaged, though not quite to unusability: half the armor had been torn off over her right arm and chest, but she still had protection enough to fight. Attuma and M’Baku had been welcome additions: the Talokanil’s own enhanced strength was enough to even the playing field, and M’Baku was a fine warrior, his club whistling through the air. And we need all the help we can get.
“Pin him down,” grunted Okoye, sending Walker backward with several whirling sweeps of her spear. Attuma swung his axe, but Walker dodged: M’Baku brought down his club on the American’s shoulder, then, finally landing a blow hard enough to jam the super-soldier’s left arm out of its socket. Walker screamed, falling to his knees, and Attuma hip-checked his shoulder hard, sending him toppling over on his back. Okoye landed atop him, the shaft of her spear pressed against his throat. “You will never leave Wakanda again, you—”
Walker braced his feet on the ground and thrust his pelvis upward, knocking her off balance. She recovered, but dropped her spear in the process, and then the report of gunfire shocked her like a physical blow: she staggered, and her ears rang: the pistol in Walker’s right hand was smoking.
“If I can’t find your weapon,” he gasped, his left arm dangling awkwardly, “I’ll take whatever I can find.”
Why is my chest so warm? wondered Okoye. M’Baku was charging at him: Walker turned, snatched a canister of raw vibranium off a conveyor belt with his left hand, his bloodstained teeth bared in pain. She tried to make for him, to fight him with M’Baku, but her breath was coming all wrong, short and wet. She fell to her knees, gasping. Her vision blurred. M’Baku was too late. A winged shape descended, grabbed Walker, ascended again.
M’Baku’s voice cut through her shock as he shouted into his Kimoyo bead. “White Wolf! Do not let them get away! He has vibranium!”
“Warrior,” said Attuma’s voice, gentle and soft. She turned her head, shaking, trying to find him: she fell to her forearms, choking. “Lie still. I have a healing bead. Lie still, Okoye.”
“He’s— getting away—” Attuma rolled her over to her back, as easily as if she had been a cat.
“Yes. And you are wounded.”
He shot me? He shot me. Oh. That was her first thought, then, as she touched her chest and it came away with blood that gleamed almost blue in the purplish light: what a coward. Okoye grimaced as Attuma placed a bead in her chest wound. Flesh and bone knitting together was not a pleasant sensation. “Don’t worry about me. Go. Just. Go.” M’Baku had already taken Aneka back up the elevator: when had that happened? She could not think. All she could see was Attuma as he pulled her into his lap, cradling her gently with his hand against her chest.
“I will not leave a fallen warrior. Walker cannot leave Wakanda if the shields are up. He has nowhere to escape. And K’uk’ulkan rules the skies. He will go nowhere.”
Okoye closed her eyes. “They will try to get away. If he drops that vibranium… if they even brush against the shield with it—”
“Yes,” said Attuma simply, his hand pressed over her skin and his eyes full of resigned grief. "It is very likely."
She swallowed hard. I will survive this wound, but not a vibranium explosion. “I did not think I would die like this.”
His fingers cupped the back of her neck, gentle and warm. “Neither did I. But I am glad to die at the side of Okoye of the Border Tribe.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “My spear,” she whispered. “Please.” Attuma reached over, pulled it into her grasping fingers, and covered her hand with his. She smiled faintly in gratitude: to him, and to Bast. “Tell me. Tell me about the place— where your ancestors are, Attuma.”
“I will show you. We will walk together there,” he promised, his forehead low and almost touching hers. “In the paths of the Maize God, under the sky, forever.”
Bucky steeled himself at the edge of the elevator shaft, crouching slightly. You have one shot, he thought, adjusting his stance. He could hear Torres’s engines firing, and he knew those things could hold at least the weight of four adults: it could easily hold him, Walker, and Torres. You are out of your mind, said the other half of his brain, the rational one. Sometimes, he thought that part of his conscience sounded an awful lot like Steve. His old therapist would have had a field day with that.
Yeah, okay, maybe I am crazy, but I can’t let him get away. He listened intently, heard the whine draw closer, and just as Torres burst through the elevator shaft, Bucky jumped, both arms out, startling the surrounding Dora Milaje: their shouts and cries filled his ears.
He forgot about them pretty quickly, though. His flesh and blood hand caught in black cordura and leather and shoelaces, digging into his fingers like wire at the velocity he was moving. The gloves did absolutely nothing. Bucky screamed in pain, and the scream was echoed by Walker, who glared down at him, kicking frantically: Bucky switched hands so that the weight was on his vibranium arm, and started trying to claw his way up Walker’s thighs. Torres kept ascending. “Mayday, mayday, hostile on Walker, hostile on Walker!” he yelled into his earbud. “Sir, I’m coming up!”
“Sam!” Bucky bellowed into his own comms. “Sam, I’m coming out the top, you better get your ass over here now!”
“Copy that! Where the hell’s Namor at?”
“I don’t know, I don’t see him!” Bucky got a kick to the face for his efforts and spit out blood as they cleared the rim, rocketing toward empty air.
“Oh, fuck! I see him! He’s—”
The deafening roar of gunfire filled the air, but Bucky kept his eyes on the cylinder of vibranium in Walker’s left hand. A kilogram. More than that, probably. He was shit at converting the metric system. Off to his ten o’clock, a green and brown blur was busy buzzing the Quinjet, flashing gold in the sunlight as the pilot swiveled and aimed, the Gatling gun’s barrel blazing as round after round flashed past Namor and buried themselves in the shield over the Mound, two thousand more feet up. Wherever a bullet hit, hexagonal plates glittered with lavender light, overlaying the sky beyond.
It was maddening. He could see her, but not get to her yet. She was inside the aircraft, her dark upraised hands visible through the tiny glass windows of the jet: she was being held captive like some common prize of war, with no proper respect for the Black Panther, and K’uk’ulkan’s rage was enough to burn the world whole.
You have taken my princess.
The man in the cockpit, General Ross, was like any other surface-dweller. Pink-skinned and pale, a mustache of grey and white, a look of anger and confusion on his own face as he steered his craft from side to side wildly and tried to shoot the God of Talokan from the sky. K’uk’ulkan had been dodging the bullets with ease, trying to goad the man into crashing his ship against the shield. Shuri could survive that: her suit would give her protection, and he could catch her if she fell— but now the man’s lips were peeled back as he bellowed in savage rage, firing again and again, and one bullet grazed K’uk’ulkan’s side, nicking away skin and flesh.
He touched his side and lifted his fingers, seeing his own blood, and beyond his hand he saw General Ross’s feral grin as he reached up and flicked some mechanism inside the cockpit.
The speaker outside flared to life. “You want some more of that, flyboy?” Inside the cockpit, it almost seemed that a red shape flashed, swelling and bulging. “Come and get it!”
The wound on his side was already closing: the humid, water-thick air above the forest was assisting that. K’uk’ulkan tossed his spear to his other hand and returned the grin with one of his own.
I am the Eternal King of Talokan; I am He Who Walks In Air And Water. I am the Feathered Serpent, the Rightful Lord Who Takes, and my kingdom is an empire without end.
“Ajaw’e ch’ah’toh'eh,” he whispered, and dove for the jet.
Nothing in the world compared to the joy of victory coursing through him as his spear, forged vibranium, the shaft of gold alloy, inlaid with jade, pierced the plexiglass windscreen as if it was paper and drove through General Ross’s monstrous red chest, out the other side, and through his seat. Scarlet skin faded to white. The man met his eyes, pale weak blue, and choked on blood as the spear was torn out, as K’uk’ulkan pushed off from the spiraling jet, his winged feet carrying him up and away.
There was only one thing left to do. Open the side; then his princess would be freed. He reversed direction and came back down, a hundred feet a second, his spear in his hands.
I am coming for you.
Bucky’s hands were locked in Walker’s belt. He grabbed for the vibranium as Torres, in an attempt to shake him off and avoid the scattered fire from the Quinjet, went into a tight spin. Wind tore at his face, his clothes. The Quinjet kept flying higher, circling to avoid Namor. The thought entered his mind for a single absurd moment that Torres and the jet were forming two halves of some bizarre spiral DNA dance, helixes reaching up and up and up. He reached for Walker’s hand again and missed. “You’re not gonna win this one, Bucky,” said Walker, staring down at him with blood all over his face.
DNA. That was a song, wasn’t it? Some song Riri had played in the lab. Bucky got his metal hand around the strap on Walker’s chest, over his good arm, his right arm, the one he was using to hang onto Torres, and hauled himself up, almost even with the man. “Give me the vibranium, John,” he said through his teeth.
“Go to hell,” Walker ground out, unable to kick him anymore or defend himself: one arm was locked around Torres, and his dislocated left arm hung limp: that hand was still gripping the canister.
Bucky didn’t even glorify that with a response. Torres was still shouting into his earbud, panicking. “We’re at three thousand feet, sir, you gotta keep the jet still or I can’t land—”
A brown blur, flashing gold and green, dived for the Quinjet and carved off the whole left side with a spear. Sparks flew as metal fell away, trailing smoke, and Bucky took advantage of Walker’s momentary distraction to lunge for the canister, to grab it, to tuck it into his elbow, to scream for Sam to catch him as he fell safely with it in his arms.
But that didn’t happen. Bucky grabbed it, and Walker bellowed in rage and tried to snatch it back. Bucky pulled it in with his right hand and grappled with his left, and he must have pressed some hidden switch or something because John made a sound like a startled grunt, and Bucky looked down, just in time to see a foot-long stiletto blade of vibranium that had penetrated Walker’s chest just below his sternum, blood staining his metal hand as he instinctively pulled it away. Oh , he thought numbly, pulling his arm away, I didn’t…
Walker coughed a spray of hot blood across Bucky’s face and neck and his hand came up to clutch at the wound, bumping the canister of vibranium in Bucky’s right hand out of his fingers, and then at least two kilograms of raw vibranium was gone, arcing earthward toward the forest in a glimmering, tumbling freefall.
At the same time, he heard Sam shouting, “Shuri!” through the Kimoyo bead, and Bucky looked up just before Walker, using the last of his strength, kicked him free of Torres to see Shuri, falling out of the Quinjet, hands and feet bound.
Not wearing her Panther suit.
Not even conscious, from the limp way she tumbled like a ragdoll.
Well, hey, maybe I’ll die in the vibranium explosion before I hit the ground , thought Bucky numbly, flipping front to back as the sky and earth traded places, blue-green-blue-green. Better than dying in the snow. A lot warmer. There was always a bright side.
Oh. Hey. Now he remembered some of the lyrics to that song Riri liked. Weird, how it came to him with such clarity now, as his blood started pooling in his head and his breathing started going strange and heavy, his eyelids drifting shut as one line played on repeat through his head.
I got power, poison, pain, and joy inside my DNA.
Sam wheeled right and tucked his wings in, aiming straight down for Bucky, who was a pale blot against the dark green of the mountain forests below as he fell. He hadn’t seen Shuri fall out of the jet until he was already in his dive.
Compartmentalize. Take care of one thing before you check off another. She’s higher up than Bucky, I got plenty of time, Namor’s in the air. She’ll be—
Bucky’s voice, dizzy and half-slurring, crackled to life in his ears. “Sam. Hey. Dropped. Vibranium. Vibe. Rain…”
Panic spiked his heart rate. “The fuck you mean, you dropped it?” shouted Sam, looking from left to right wildly. “Where? Where is it?”
“I… don’t…”
“Nah. Uh-uh. You keep your eyes open, you hear me, don’t let those G forces get to you! Bucky? Buck!” There was no answer. Sam accelerated. He was so close, closer, closer— and he grabbed Bucky, changing direction and peeling out as fast as he could toward the river. “Namor!” he screamed, Bucky’s deadweight body in his arms. “Namor! We got a big fuckin’ problem!”
I am K’uk’ulkan, God of Sea and Sky, the Feathered Serpent of Talokan.
He was frozen midair. He could hear his own heartbeat, thudding in his ears, as time seemed to slow around him: this was an illusion. Time did not slow or stop: of that he was living proof.
His enemy was tumbling dead to earth in a jet he tore apart with his spear: he did not need to worry about that. He was more concerned with the fact that a container of explosive material powerful enough to decimate every living being in a four-mile radius was falling down upon the heads of his people and their allies: he knew because he had given the order to evacuate the mountain beneath his winged feet. The projected arc of the container would land it at the southern foot of the Great Mound of Bashenga, where innocents were rushing only twenty feet below the surface of the earth. Talokanil. Wakandans. Children, infants, frightened mothers and fathers, little brothers and sisters, old men and women. All of them were going to die if it struck the ground.
But there was a second thing to worry about: Shuri of Wakanda, the Black Panther, was lifelessly falling to earth, and something had gone terribly wrong. She did not respond to anyone’s shouts to alert her through her Kimoyo beads, she wasn’t even moving, she was as limp as a rotted leaf as she fell, and she was not in any protective armor that might possibly save her life when she struck the ground: it was gone, along with the golden necklace that held her Panther habit.
I promised. I swore. A hundred times I swore.
Talokan first.
Her wide, bright smile flashed before his eyes: the way the wind lifted her beautiful soft hair, the way she wrinkled her nose when she knew he was teasing her. Her laugh, her delight when she solved a problem. The way her fingers brushed, cool and firm, against his skin.
I swore: Talokan first.
But she is going to die.
In the end, there was no contest at all: there was simply the only choice he could ever make. He made his decision, and it only took half a second, a precious moment between breaths, before he was plummeting toward Shuri faster than any other creature in the water or air.
He needed his hands, so he dropped his spear, the spear that had been given to him when he came of age, when he took the throne of Talokan. It was nothing compared to the warm, solid woman he caught in his arms. He did not pause or hesitate to even check if she was alive before he changed direction, the wings on his ankles a flurry of movement so fast that a human eye could not follow them, and without his hands free, he ran across air to the tumbling, glittering speck of metal that contained enough destruction to kill everything he had ever loved in his long, long life.
He caught up, a mere fifteen hundred feet from the surface of the ground.
He struck it sideways with his hip, like a pitzil in the court, to stop its fall, then followed it and kicked it upward, sending it careening away upwards to the sky, away from the ground.
Except his vibranium-chased sandal struck a spark.
And as he turned, covering Shuri with his own body, cradling the back of her neck in his hand, the world of the sky was enveloped in purple-gold flame and boiling heat, scorching the life from him, draining his strength away. All he could hear was Sam Wilson’s voice, screaming mayday! mayday! into his ear before the inferno melted the Kimoyo bead and left him in roaring silence.
He fell.
Notes:
Regarding the phrase "ajaw’e ch’ah’toh’eh": I have tried my damndest for like a month and a half to recreate accurately what exactly he said in Yucatec Mayan in the film that was supposed to mean "Imperius Rex". Ajaw'e = King, and the rest of it is similar to his birth name, which means something like Righteous Taker as far as I can tell. Any input is appreciated GREATLY. Thank you!
Chapter 18: ahen
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Shuri opened her eyes, blinking in the bright sunlight that warmed her cheek as she painfully lifted herself up, one handed. Pain shot through her ribs as she inhaled, and she grunted, panting shallowly. Rolling over was easier, and she automatically pulled in her hand and pressed it to her side. “Griot,” she whispered, disoriented. Her head was throbbing, almost nauseating in its intensity. “Lab… status?” Something had clearly happened to her lab: why was she on the ground?
No answer came. The wind tugged at her. She lifted her arm, but saw nothing on her wrist: her Kimoyo beads were cracked and broken, in pieces all around her in the bracken. The only one left whole was the medical bead, half-buried in the dirt: she crawled to it, picked it out painfully, holding it in the palm of her hand along with most of the remaining communication bead. The glyph was still faintly glowing. “Griot?” A faint hologram tried to answer, but nothing came, and the comms bead sparked out and died for good, going dark.
Dragging herself to her knees, Shuri groaned as she pressed the medical bead to her chest and her ribs, a painful tingle knitting her bones back together. Peering upward, squinting, she saw only the underside of the forest trees above, wreathed in sunlight and sending shafts of golden light to the floor. She tried her best to remember what had happened: no, she had not been in the lab, she had been falling, barely awake, and something had struck her, caught her: then there had been heat like nothing else she had ever experienced, and a free fall, and… why did she remember Sam Wilson’s voice screaming, a sudden jerk, a fading cry? She seemed to recall still being in a pair of arms the whole time. Did he redirect me to a shallower impact? He must have. So if Sam did not catch me, then…
“Namor,” she whispered, all her confusion narrowing to one singular, bright point of panic as her fingers clutched the medical bead. “Namor caught me. Oh, Bast. Where is he?” Shuri pressed the bead to her upper arm, crying out in pain as it slowly healed the fracture, then her foot. Her clothing was singed in several places, she could smell burnt hair, and there was a swollen blister on the back of her right hand that made her dizzy to look at. “Please,” she choked. “Bast. Ancestors. Anyone. Hanuman, even. Help me find Namor. I am— praying. Please. Help me.”
The wind curled around her. Pushed her. Blew northwest, insistent and soft and strong, like the breath of a child blowing out a candle.
Shuri did not think. She only scrambled, every bone in her body still hurting, over old-growth logs, over moss and stone and fallen limbs, northwest.
“Bast,” she bit off through her teeth, doggedly sliding down a log and crying out in pain as the impact jostled her sore body. The wind kept blowing, soft and sure. Shuri followed it, pulled by it, gasping for air and feeling lightheaded. Perhaps a lung had been punctured. She hoped not. Something felt all wrong: the fractures in her arm and foot, her ribs... they weren’t healing properly. She tried her hardest to remember what had happened before the fall—she’d been on the Quinjet, and General Ross had given her that horrible stuff, that vial of poison… she’d felt the needle puncture her skin, unable to get away, and seen the back of her hands and arms veined in black before she…
Like T’Challa. When he had the strength of the Black Panther stripped away.
I have no strength.
I am nothing now. Not a Black Panther. Not a scientist. I don’t have Griot to help me, or anyone.
I am only Shuri.
“Namor,” she gasped, fainter than air. “Namor. Please…”
Over a fallen log, in a trench dug by his own body’s sliding impact, she saw him at last. Shuri climbed weakly over the last upturned and broken log in her way and slid to the bottom of the trench, tears in her eyes as she crawled on hands and knees to him. He was lying on his face, burned badly, skin cracked and bleeding, raw and black, open weeping wounds, and he did not move or seem to even breathe. “Namor,” she choked, reaching him. “Namor. It’s me, it’s your Shuri. Please.” She tried to get her hands under his arms, to lift him: his skin cracked and bled and slid away from raw red flesh, the water in his body escaping his skin faster than it could possibly be replaced. “Please,” she sobbed, recoiling in horror. “No, please…” Tears fell from her eyes, straight down to his burnt and blackened back, and Shuri saw that the liquid was absorbed immediately, vanishing almost as she watched. Hope replaced her horror. Water. Water! He’s still alive, he needs water! She looked around frantically. The mountains fed brooks and creeks that rushed down and fed to the great river of Wakanda that trailed west: there was a lake at the foot of the mountain, but she did not know where precisely she was.
The wind gusted, curled around her. Leaves rose, drifting in the air. She listened.
Yes. She could hear the rushing water now, but it was too far to reach on a broken foot hauling two hundred pounds of dying man along with her. Despair threatened to drown her. She could not possibly do it. Her rib was crackling in her chest: her lungs felt all wrong. What is the matter with me? The Kimoyo bead should have healed her, made her whole. It was a perfect match to her genetic code. What had gone wrong? “Namor,” she croaked, kneeling at his side. I have to try. For him. “K’uk’ulkan.” Shuri ignored his ruined back as best she could: she strained to drag him to his knees, upward. “I’m going to get you to the water,” she gasped, managing to get her knees under her body and pushing upward, lifting his torso to drape over her shoulders, ignoring the agony that flared through her arm and her foot and her chest. “Come on. One more time. I did it— before. I’ll do it again. I can do it. I can try.” Every breath sent a stab of pain through her, every movement was torment, but she took one step, then another, setting her sights toward the treeline, on her next five steps.
I am only Shuri. Just a human. But any human can withstand anything for five— five seconds. And then. And then you count again.
The wind caressed the back of her neck, like a hand guiding her.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
Step. Slide. Drag. Breathe.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five.
She went on and on until she could go on no more, time smearing into a meaningless blur. The sound of rushing water filled her ears. Her vision went stormy at the edges, blotting out the trees. The world tipped on its axis, and all went blessedly dark, the wind smoothing her hair away from her temples, tendrils caressing her brow.
And Shuri’s last conscious thought was, Mama?
“Does anyone have eyes on Shuri or Namor?” shouted Nakia, running the surveillance counter in the makeshift command center that Riri had set up in Shuri’s lab. “Anyone?”
A Dora Milaje’s face appeared above her beads. “No, Nakia: I am sorry. We are still searching the eastern slopes.”
“Keep searching. How is Okoye?”
Another hologram of a man in white healer’s clothing answered. “Stable and healing in the medical center with the rest of the wounded.”
Riri swiveled around. “Y’all better get eyes on that jet. If what we heard over Shuri’s bead is right, then there’s two people in there who can’t get out, and we need ‘em alive, okay?”
“Jet spotted!” Sam Wilson sounded triumphant. “I got eyes on Antonia. She’s crawling out of the wreckage, no smoke, no fire. Scans indicate that Ava Starr’s in there, too, wearing some kind of dampening collar. And I see Shostakov, trying to pull out Antonia. M’Baku and Attuma are one minute out in a Dragon Flyer.”
“Oh, fuck yeah!” Riri punched the air, and noticed a few raised eyebrows from the other techs. “I mean…” She cleared her throat. “Good work. When y’all find Shuri, let King M’Baku know first, okay? And does anyone have eyes yet on Namor, either?”
Namora’s voice punched through the system. “I am in the western forests, scientist. I have found his spear.”
Agony woke him from sleep, wreathed him in fire.
He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out of it but bile: there was no part of his body that did not hurt. Convulsing, he rolled to his side, and tried to scream again, but his ruined, burned throat only made a dry clacking sound, like insects in the wind.
I must be dying. I will die any moment. No one in the world can live with pain like this.
But he did not die: he forced his eyes open, his vision clouded and gray, and saw rippling light, green, blue. His left hand reached for the moving light, anguish finally escaping through his lungs and out of his mouth in a wail of pain. “Na’,” he sobbed, shaking. “Na’!” His vision swam, but his hands unexpectedly plunged into blessed, cool, deep water, relief surging up his arms and spreading over his body as he crawled with his elbows into the depths, the torment quenched like snow over coals, hissing.
I am whole again. His vision cleared below the surface as his eyes rehydrated: his arms and legs healed themselves swiftly of their deep burns, smooth brown skin replacing the burned, dead material that had been sloughing off his flesh. K’uk’ulkan surfaced, mouth open and eyes shut as he took in the sunlight on his face, as his strength returned. He opened his eyes slowly, taking in his surroundings: he swam in a deep mountain pool in a stream, rocks and thick trees gathered on either side, green moss and fog drifting through the cool air. The sun gleamed through the leaves and branches in fog-thick gold shafts, dappling the surface of the water in patches of glittering light. He must have landed near this pool by the hand of some benevolent god, or great good fortune…
Then, K’uk’ulkan caught sight of a dark form, lying on her side at the pool’s bank. He did not remember even deciding to go to her: he was simply by her side in the next breath, rolling her to her back as she lay limp across the stones and mud and bracken. “Shuri,” he gasped, cupping the back of her neck in his hand, pulling her into his lap. There was a blister on her hand and another on her shoulder. The right side of her face was swollen and bruised, a cut on her cheek welling blood, and her breathing was so faint that he could hardly hear it. Her lips had gone grayish, her eyes slivers of white. “Ma’! Maaaaa’!” he roared, shaking her. “Ahen!” Terror threatened to drown him as he lifted her, fumbled all over for any sign of her injuries. The grating bone in her arm and ribs seemed to be the answers he sought. “In itzia, ahen! Ahen!” What was hotter, the fire that had burned his body or the tears that slid down his cheeks? K’uk’ulkan choked back his frantic sobs and rocked her in his arms, eyes shut tight. “I am… I am the God-King of Talokan, the Feathered Serpent, and I command you to wake. Live. Shuri. Live.”
She did not move, ashen and still. He let himself weep, then, crumpling over her body. “Ba'ax kin in beetaj?” he whispered, brushing her curls off her forehead. Some had been singed and burnt, shriveled to crisps. “In ek’b’a’lam. Ma’.” Tears rained down on her battered, dark face. Perhaps I was not K’uk’ulkan, but Chaac all along: I rain and water her. She is the earth, I said, and I am the sky and water. My Shuri.
And then he saw the tears he shed sinking into her skin, swallowed up by her body until nothing was left but the slightest tinge of salt on her cheeks.
Can it be?
K’uk’ulkan lifted Shuri in his arms like a child, cradling her. “Stay alive,” he whispered, over and over, pulling her into the water of the deep pool and carefully holding her face above the water as she sank slowly, her skin gradually losing its gray tinge. “Stay with me, here. Stay. Pa’atení. Wait. Wait for me, Shuri. Pa’atení, Shuri. Pa’atení.”
Her first impression, the first thought that entered her mind, was weightless, and the next was cool. Everything felt beautifully serene and peaceful except for her face, which felt too hot: she flipped over to her belly and sighed as her warm face settled into the cool embraces of whatever she was floating in. Air, maybe. But it felt a little odd, and the light behind her closed lids was green-gold. I must be dead, and in the ancestral plane.
Something shifted against her, stirred her hair. Was it wind? She opened her eyes, slowly, and saw Namor of Talokan floating beneath her, a look of absolute awe and wonder on his face. Light shone off his heavy gold collar, sending reflective glints all over her face, her eyes. His hair moved like seaweed, ruffling slowly: he parted his lips and spoke, and she could hear him as clearly as a bell. “K’inich ek’b’a'lam, kuxa’an’bech?”
“Namor,” she whispered, dizzy. This must be a dream. “K’uk’ulkan.” He drew closer, a hand raised, stroking her from temple to throat to collarbone. She shut her eyes, smiling: this must be a dream or a hallucination, because she was fairly sure she’d had a pretty bad whack to the head. “I carried you,” Shuri mumbled, letting her eyes close. “All the way to the river, to the pool. But I think… I fell down. I’m sorry I didn’t make it.”
“You did,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Shuri. You are below the water.”
“I…” she started, and froze: she shouldn’t be able to speak underwater, let alone hear herself. But she didn’t remember holding her breath when she had turned over to face the depths, and even now there was no panic, no frantic choking. “Am I dead?” she whispered, noting with detached clarity that no bubbles came from her mouth when she spoke, as if it was a dream. How can I speak without air to move past my vocal cords? “Are we dead together?”
“No, you are not dead. You are breathing,” he whispered, reaching up to brush her cheek with his fingers. “Alive. You are… like me.”
“What? Am I blue? Do I have gills?” She reached up for her neck, and was relieved to find no gills. “How…”
“How is never as important as why,” said Namor softly, drawing toward her. “Don’t you remember?”
Memory began to flood back, and Shuri let herself sink deeper, pressing her hands to his breastplate. “It must have been— that, that stuff Ross gave me—”
“He’s dead,” said Namor softly, shaking his head. “He is dead.”
“You killed him,” she said quietly.
“I did.” He swallowed, his throat bobbing. “For you, princess, and for Talokan, and for Wakanda.”
She wished she felt sorry for General Ross’s death, but she could not find it in herself this time. War has made me hard. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing. She shook her head and bit her lip, thinking about more pressing matters. “I’ll have to— run tests in the lab. I wonder if my breathing air is going to be a problem? I can’t be exactly like you, I don’t have wings on my ankles. What?” Namor was smiling widely, shaking his head as his hands slid down her back, dancing over the bare spots where her undersuit had been torn or burned away. “What is it? What? Why are you smiling?”
“Because in the face of a living miracle, in itzia, you still insist on pulling it apart, to pore over every shred and bit of bone and flesh.” He pulled her down to him, weightless in the water, and Shuri felt warm, despite the water’s chill, as his mouth grazed her cheek. “So. Let the miracle be. And live in it. Just for a moment. Can you?”
“They’ll all be looking for us,” she murmured, her hands naturally finding a place to slip down to his belt, around his back, to healed, smooth skin over thick muscle.
“They can wait five minutes.” Namor’s hand slipped over the back of her neck softly, and she reached up her left hand, cradling the back of his fingers in her palm. The light from above the water was glimmering off his ornaments, flecking her in gold: she could see the spangled reflections. He pressed his brow to hers, then, and she saw nothing at all, except the light dancing over her eyes. “You brought me to the water,” he whispered. “My Black Jaguar.”
“I couldn’t let you die,” said Shuri, reaching forward to lay her palm along his face. Namor swallowed and leaned into her palm, a sigh escaping his mouth. She smiled. “I still think this is a dream, if I am being completely honest.”
“Then may we both never wake,” he said, and kissed her, warm and gentle and deep, as the cool current drifted past them both. Shuri clung to him as tightly as she could, never wanting to let go. All the pain was gone, her body whole: she tugged him closer, thinking of nothing but how happy she was and how much she wanted it to go on forever. Her teeth caught his lip, and Namor groaned, then pushed his thigh between hers. She made a soft noise, grinding down against him: he felt so good and solid and real that perhaps this was not a dream after all. “Shuri,” he said, low and warm. One powerful kick with his free leg, and they had rotated: she was under him now, looking up at his face and beyond it, the surface of the pool behind his head shining with sunlight. He looked every inch a god-king, crowned with light from above. All the jade in his ears shone pale, bright green, half-translucent with watered sunlight. “We still have… much to discuss,” Namor whispered, his voice gone thick. “I would speak to you above the water.”
“Spoilsport,” she mumbled, her belly fluttering very nervously. “Ah. All right.” She kissed him again and swam to the surface, hesitated only a moment, then emerged and took a slow, careful breath of air.
Breathing should have been hard: her lungs were full of water— but instead she simply… was able to breathe the air as normally as she had ever done it, just as Namor did, going from sea to sky in one seamless breath. Namor surfaced beside her, head sleek and black as an otter. “This makes no sense,” she said, treading water and turning to look at him. “Absolutely no scientific sense at all.”
He beamed at her. “Now you have set foot in my world. Welcome.” Shuri splashed him and he ducked below, then caught her up from underneath and flew across the surface as she giggled, bringing them both to rest on a log that had fallen halfway into the pool. Namor held himself over her, pretending to snap at her nose. “Ah, you have roused the fish in the pool, now, princess,” he teased.
“Eugh, not a fish, they’re so cold—”
“Well, not fish, maybe something warmer,” he amended, and leaned down to kiss her warmly on the mouth before pulling back and leaving her breathless. “There. Now. I think… we should revisit that conversation we had about a certain form of alliance.”
“Oh,” she said, raising her eyebrows as her belly twisted expectantly. “Yes, I think— I think it is a good idea. But there is one problem.”
“What is that?” Namor drew back, uncertain.
“Only that I cannot wed a man who has never told me— told me that he loves me,” said Shuri, her heart thudding in her chest.
“Have I not…” Blinking a few times, he let his voice trail off, and then his face broke into a smile like a sunrise. “I have been a fool.”
Shuri cocked her head as imperiously as she could. “Oh? Have you some custom against saying such things to a woman you intend to marry?”
“Not at all, my princess.” He bent closer, both his forearms bracketing her hips, and Shuri let her hands trace down over his collar, his chest, his belly. “Shuri. I—”
A voice cut through their play, sharp and shocked. “K’uk’ulkan!?”
Namor shot upward and away from Shuri so fast he almost backflipped over himself, then righted his posture and came sailing down from ten feet above the pool. “Namora?” he choked, landing on his feet as the Talokanil warrior stood with her mouth open, staring at him from the edge of the thick forest. “How— ah, how are the people? Is anyone hurt?”
She swung her harpoon-spear, whacking down a leafy fern as if it had personally offended her. “How are the people? You ask this of me now? After I have been searching for almost an hour, K’uk’ulkan, looking for you?”
Shuri sat up, soaked and disheveled. “Namora—”
The woman whirled on her furiously, brandishing her barbed spear. “Hey!” she snarled, and Shuri thought better of any argument, raising her hands in surrender. “You do not speak, Black Jaguar! We have all been worried sick over the two of you, and I find you in love-play in a river? For shame!”
Namor bolted forward and caught the harpoon-shaft in his hand, holding it firm. “My cousin, you will raise no weapon to Shuri of Wakanda.”
Namora tried to wrestle it back from him, emotion all over her face. “I will raise my weapon to whom I please!”
“Then raise it to me!” he barked, thrusting it away from him and opening his arms. “Raise it to me, Namora!” She hesitated, unsure, and Shuri scrambled off the rock, bewildered. “If you threaten this woman, it is the same as driving your harpoon into my heart. She saved my life, cousin. She has saved my life twice now, as I have saved hers. You may be angry: I have never forbidden that. You may rail and beat against even me. But do not threaten our Sun-Eyed, my Black Panther. Never do that again. I have spoken.”
Hurt and confusion played over Namora’s expression for a moment, and she lowered her spear with a wet sniff. “I thought you were dead,” she whispered, her voice damp with tears. “And Ayo and Aneka have been weeping when they think no one can see, frantic for the life of the Black Panther.”
“Everyone is alive, then?” asked Shuri, taking a few steps toward Namora, who turned back toward her and bent her head.
“Yes, Black Jaguar. Even our wounded enemy is being healed under heavy guard. Their leader is no more.” Namora wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I was given orders to tell King M’Baku of you first, and then others.”
M’Baku would be frantic to find her, Shuri knew. She felt a pang of regret: I should not have waited so long in the water. I have let them down again… but as Namor cupped the back of Namora’s head and pressed his forehead to hers, whispering gently, she did not feel so bad.
“You have done well, cousin,” he was saying. “And I am sorry for the pain you have endured. Now. We will return.”
“Wait. I have something for you, K’uk’ulkan,” said Namora, bending down to search through the undergrowth. “I dropped it when I saw you and— well, here it is.” She picked up his spear: a length of gold and vibranium alloy, the spearhead forged of vibranium, deep blue, the haft inlaid with jade-carved panels. Namor swallowed, clearly touched, and held both his hands out to receive it as she carefully set it in his palms. “May it never leave your hands again, my lord,” she whispered, saluting him with open hands.
“And may you be at my side always while I wield it,” he answered. Then, he turned to Shuri with a deep sigh. “Come,” he said. “It is time we greeted our people.”
“And got debriefed,” added Shuri, climbing over fallen vines.
“And got debriefed,” he agreed, very wearily.
The rest of the day and all of the next ones passed in a blur. Meetings, debriefs, half the population of Talokan showing up from the sea to celebrate, dinners, working out how to handle five agents of the United States now in Wakandan custody, plans for the future alliance between Talokan and Wakanda— all of it went over and around Shuri like a rock in water.
Frankly, she did not need to be involved. The only titles she bore now were Chief Designer of the Wakandan Design Group, and Princess as a courtesy by right of her birth. There was no Black Panther left in Wakanda to sit on the stool at M’Baku’s side.
So after all her obligations had been fulfilled, and all the damage repaired, Shuri sat in her lab with Riri Williams more often than not, analyzing her own DNA, solving problems. Problems such as programming a new set of Kimoyo beads to mesh with her altered genome, testing the limits of her newfound and strange water-breathing abilities, trying to work out why what General Ross had injected her with had done what it had done.
How, after all, was never as important as why.
In the end, Riri figured it out. It was like alloying metals, or chemistry: one element could be mixed with another to make either a better version of both, or something new and different from either. Pure sodium, for example, was essential to life, but mix it with hydroxide and you got a caustic substance that would give you chemical burns— mix it with chloride and you got table salt. Something in the synthetic heart-shaped herb Shuri had created from a single strand of the ancient plant that had changed the Talokanil had reacted strangely with the substance made from sea vibranium: she had lost her enhanced strength, her reflexes, and her superhuman stamina (retaining a sharper sense of smell and hearing, oddly enough) but she had gained the ability to process oxygen through her skin and lungs, enabling her to heal quickly in water, to breathe it, to speak in it and see as clearly as any Talokanil might. She could even survive at deeper pressures: she tried it in the deepest parts of the river that she could find.
Anything to distract her from the next steps that she knew she would have to take.
Because M’Baku had agreed to a proposition that she had laid at his feet: an idea that had come from Namor of Talokan, but one she had presented, and the next few days meant hard conversations and decisions.
“You think if you ever be the Black Panther again it’ll keep on the way it is?” Riri asked one night, leaning on the sand table to look at the DNA model as strains of music floated out of her speaker.
“I can’t say for sure,” said Shuri, fiddling with her bubble-model. She kept running the same simulation: introducing the heart-shaped herb back to her DNA kept coming up as likely resulting in four separate outcomes, all running at approximately a twenty five percent likelihood that each of these would happen. Shuri wrote all the outcomes down, posted them to her boards, and stared at them, her eyes trailing over each letter and word.
Outcome One: The two strains complement each other, resulting in me gaining both the Black Panther and my additional water-breathing abilities.
Outcome Two: Only the Black Panther abilities would be regained, resulting in things just as they had used to be.
Outcome Three: Only the water-breathing abilities would be retained, resulting in me being able to swim at deeper depths without a suit and breathe water.
Outcome Four: The two strains cannot coexist. Total catastrophic system failure, resulting in my death.
“I am going to recalculate these,” said Shuri after a moment as Riri stared at the boards. “There is also a slight chance that any outcome resulting in me becoming the Black Panther may result in cardiac arrest and death—so…” She punched in numbers and turned back around, her heart sinking. Now it was a fifty percent chance that she might die, and a twelve and a half percent chance of any other outcome. This is less than optimal, she thought dismally.
“Maybe you just don’t need to be the Black Panther, then,” said Riri nervously.
“Wakanda will always need a protector,” murmured Shuri, gazing at her new chances, written up on the board in bright blue light. “But don’t worry. I won’t do anything stupid until all of this has been wrapped up. I promise.”
Riri shook her head. The silver cuffs in her braids clinked softly, like wind chimes. “Uh-uh. You are not about to wait till I’m gone and do somethin’ dumb. Are you bein’ for real right now?”
“Riri—”
“There is no way I’m comin’ back here to go to your funeral!”
“Okay, okay.” Shuri sat down and rubbed her eyes. “What about my wedding?”
The American girl revolved slowly on the ball of her left foot, mouth open. “Your what?”
Shuri grinned. “M’Baku sent me notes on the last meeting. There is quite a lot of talk from both Talokan and Wakanda that we need to cement our alliance, and nothing brings people together like a big party.”
“Hold on. You’re marryin’ M’Baku?”
“No! What? Eugh!” Shuri folded forward, giggling. “He’s like my uncle! No, Riri, they want me to marry Namor.”
“Oh, my god,” said Riri, collapsing to the floor and laying flat out on her back with her hands over her eyes. “You ‘bout gave me a heart attack.”
“I mean, they also approached Attuma and Okoye about it, but she said she’s not ready for another marriage so soon and he didn’t think he was high ranking enough to really glue the whole— you know.” Shuri looked back at her notes, her eyes vaguely tracking over the letters. Outcome Four: the two strains cannot coexist.
Riri peeked out from between her fingers. “Man, I knew those two had something goin’ on. Nobody practices fighting that much in one day. Not even the Dora Milaje. Wait, so… did you say yes? How’s this work? You got proposed to through M’Baku, so… do you have to say yes to him and then he tells everyone?”
Shuri laughed, turning back to her. “No, it’s not like that. I’ll show up to the council tomorrow morning and give my answer. It’s tradition. When a king takes a bride, she has the option to say yes or no. It’s very formal. She enters the council with a cup of beer in her hand, pays respect to every elder, and then goes before the king who wants to wed her. If she doesn’t want to marry him, she pours out the beer, takes off her shoe, and puts it in front of his feet. If she wants to marry him, then she gives him the beer to drink. It symbolizes… ah, something. Mama would have remembered. Anyway, after that, then the family of the bride calls for a price to be paid and the closest male relative of the bride comes forward to accept the payment from the king.”
“Price?” Riri looked horrified. “You get bought? Like a cow or a chicken?”
“No, not literally bought! It’s traditional! It’s for the king to prove he can provide for the bride. Like in America when the groom asks the father of the bride if he has his blessing. The father saying yes or no has no real impact, it’s just a tradition.”
“Well, what about Talokan traditions? Do you have to… I don’t know, lasso a shark or something?”
“I hope not,” said Shuri, laughing. “I’ll talk to Namor tonight before I accept. We’ll work something out.”
Riri got back up and playfully punched her in the arm. “I cannot believe you,” she said, turning back to her table. “Out here getting married and you ain’t even told me.”
“I haven’t told any Americans yet. Barnes and Wilson don’t know either. It’s still kind of… in progress, you know, until it becomes official.”
“Yeah, okay, but c’mon.” Riri kicked her chair into a spin, slowly revolving back around to face Shuri. “Do you need bridesmaids? I’ve never been a bridesmaid before, but I mean…”
“Oh. I did not even think about that.” Shuri fiddled with her fingers. “I’ll let you know, though. Yes?”
“Sure,” Riri told her. “And if you don’t, you know. That’s fine.”
“Princess,” said Griot. “Namor of Talokan is outside the door.”
Heat flooded her face at Riri’s expression. “Oh. Tell him I will be out shortly, will you?”
Riri snapped her fingers. “I knew it. Shark lassoing time. Have fun in the Marianas Trench, girl.”
“Stop it!” Shuri buried her face in her hands, giggles escaping in a flood as she rushed to the door. “That’s it, you are going to be put in the wedding, and I’m going to put you in something so uncomfortable. A really terrible corset. Just you wait.” The door slid open, and Namor stood there, dressed in a simple, textured green sweatshirt with a deep cowl, his collar peeking out from the folds, and knee-length white joggers above his leather sandals. “Hi,” she whispered, feeling shy all over again.
“Princess,” he said, then leaned to peer around her, his eyes on Riri. A smile flashed across his face. “Oh, look. A very small scientist. I almost did not see you.”
Riri waved at him, the DNA molecule bubble model still in her hand. “Hi, Barnacle Boy. You better have her back by bedtime.”
Chuckling a little, Namor shook his head at her and closed the door, thumbing the lift button to take them up. Shuri leaned her head against the inside walls of the elevator and sighed deeply, all the stress and work of the day easily rolling off her shoulders. “It’s good to see you,” she said.
“It is good to see you too,” he answered, crossing his arms and tucking his hands into his sides. “I hear a princess is making a very important decision in the upcoming days.”
“Oh, yes,” said Shuri lightly, a grin on her face. “In fact, the princess was the one who brought it up first to King M’Baku, when the battle was finished with.”
“So I heard.” Namor rested his back against the wall, gazing at her softly. “And what will her answer be?”
“I’m not telling anyone before the day I decide. That’s bad luck.” Arching a brow at him, Shuri pretended to study the artwork inside the lift very hard. “Everyone knows that.”
“Ah, you are cruel,” he said, clutching his chest. “Making a god-king wait for his answer like a mortal.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “How would we even blend a Wakandan wedding and a Talokanil one? What are your people’s customs? You said a while back something about, ah, a shaman? And a huipil?”
Namor pushed off the walls as the door slid open, letting a soft breeze of dusky wind drift across both of them. It caught at Shuri’s lab coat, the transparent material fluttering in the breeze, and tugged at her loose trousers. “Yes. We retained many customs from our ancestors. Flowers, the altar, the conch shell blowing to the four points, the bride and groom in white…”
“Oh, no,” said Shuri immediately. “White is a Wakandan mourning color. I can’t wear white to a wedding.”
“No, of course. Your huipil would be embroidered in any color you please. I will have one made.”
“We can talk about that in a moment. There is something I need to— tell you,” said Shuri, clasping her hands together as they walked to the rail and looked out over the valley, the thick trees, the fog; the carved black panther that looked toward the Golden City, an eternal reminder of what she had lost. “I could not tell you before, but now that it’s come up— it was not my secret to tell, so please don’t be angry with me.”
“I could never be angry with you, Shuri,” he said softly, catching her arm just below the elbow and turning her to face him. “Ah. Look at me.” She raised her eyes, swallowing, and leveled her gaze to meet his. “There. Now, tell me what is weighing on you.”
Shuri nodded slightly, willing herself on. He must know. There can be no secrets between a bride and a groom. “In the traditions of Wakanda, when a man takes a bride— part of the ceremony is that the bride’s family receives a gift from the groom. It is given by the groom to the eldest male member of her family.”
“And your family all walks with their ancestors,” said Namor. “You have no one to receive the bride-price. Is this what troubles you?”
“Well…”
“If it is a question of tradition being followed, I am sure M’Baku would stand as an honorable choice for such a—”
“No, that’s not—” Shuri shook her head, pressing her lips together. “I have— my brother, before he died, he fathered a son. I have a nephew, K’uk’ulkan. His name is T’Challa, son of T’Challa. He and I are the only members left of the Golden Tribe, the line stretching all the way back to Bashenga himself, and he is six years old.”
Namor blinked. His hands dropped from her arm, and he stepped back, his face blank. “You did not tell me this when we were discussing— when—”
“I know, I know. Do you see what I meant, though? He cannot claim the throne until he has come of age: M’Baku may still remain king, and even if I were queen of Wakanda, I would not need to bear any heirs as long as little T’Challa…” Her voice caught in her throat, and she took a breath, shuddering into the wind. “That was why I said you did not need to worry about fathering children,” she whispered. “Because another scion of the line of T’Chaka my father already lives. And he will be something for the people of Wakanda to look to when the time comes.”
There was a long silence. Namor turned away, pacing back and forth slowly, pausing to look out over the city, and Shuri remained where she was with her hands clasped in front of her. “M’Baku is a popular king now,” he finally said. “Wakanda loves him. He led in this battle.”
“No one can contest M’Baku’s bravery and leadership, but popularity will fade over time. Traditions run strong here. The Merchant Tribe is already muttering about needing a Black Panther on the throne again,” said Shuri uncomfortably. “And soon the Mining Tribe will, too.”
“And this is why you keep yourself locked away like a treasure in your laboratory, is it?” He turned to her, looking almost resigned. “Trying to discover if the herb you grew will turn M'Baku into the Black Panther?”
She looked down at her feet. “I have suggested that, and he refuses to take it; he says it’s something that goes against Jabari tradition. No, I am trying to work out what the chances are of— of me ever being able to take on that role again. Nobody knows about it except Riri. And, now, ah, you.”
“I see. Chances. And what are these chances?” The look in his eyes made her quail a little, but she held firm.
There was no going back now. “Um… very low chances of possibly retaining either or both of the, ah, water breathing, plus the strength of the Black Panther, and a… somewhat higher chance of me dying from it.”
“No,” he said immediately, striding to her. “No. Stay as you are, Shuri. Come with me to Talokan.”
She pressed her mouth into a line. I knew he would ask. “I do not even know if I can live at such a depth in the sea; there is so much I do not—”
Namor came closer, taking her hands. “Then don’t live in the heart of Talokan. Stay in my home, between sea and surface, in my ts’ono’ot .” His hands slid up her wrists, thumbs grazing her forearms as she avoided his gaze, as he pressed his brow to her temple. “You can live there. I will come to you every day, and bring you anything you want from the surface world. All of Talokan will come to pay respects to the Sun-Eyed Black Jaguar.” Soft and low, his voice dropped, his breath drifting across her cheek. “To my queen.”
Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath. It was tempting, so tempting: the thought of living under those bioluminescent stalactites, pale-blue and shimmering, in his warm, snug home. Instead of laboring under the yoke of leadership, she could simply be Shuri— working on improving Talokanil infrastructure, crop yield, protective shields; perhaps even finding a way to bring them stars in the sea.
But the specter of the Black Panther would always call to her, somewhere in her mind. Wakanda could not be bereft of its protector and savior. I would never know what would have happened if I had taken the heart-shaped herb again, she thought, exhaling softly. And that would be a torment to my mind forever. If in the future Wakanda ever came under attack and I was not there to protect them, the small chance that it could have worked, that I could have saved Wakanda… that would consume me until the day I died.
Shuri opened her eyes and turned to Namor, pressing her nose and forehead to his. “I will give my answer tomorrow,” she whispered, bringing up her hands to cup his neck. “But being your queen will not absolve me of my responsibilities to my own people. If you… if you woke up in the morning, K’uk’ulkan, and you were suddenly mortal— no wings, no ears, no flight or strength in the water, and there was a cure to make you whole again, but it would more likely kill you— if you did not take it, and stayed safe, yet the next week your people came under attack and were scattered in the seas, Talokan lost, can you tell me you would not agonize over the fact that you could have saved them? That there was a chance, and you threw it away for the sake of your own life?”
Namor let out a shuddering breath, torn and damp, and Shuri felt a hot tear streak her chin: it was not hers. He was the only person in the whole world, perhaps, who understood the choice that lay ahead, and Shuri cupped his cheek in her palm, feeling the soft bristle of his beard against her skin. “No,” he murmured. “No, I cannot tell you that.”
“Then you know what I must do.”
A choked laugh, bitter and bitten off, filled the air between them. “Would it make a difference if I begged you on my knees?”
She shook her head against his, brushing his cheek with her fingers. “I am sorry.”
“No one will benefit from your death. Wakanda will blame me. War will—”
“I will tell the elders what I am going to do so there will be no war. Talokan will be safe. I have already considered that.”
“And have you considered me?” Namor forced out, every word a cracking agony. “Have you considered how I will feel, watching you die a second time?”
“Of course I have. Of course I—” Shuri pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, shutting her eyes. There was no consolation for the grief on his face.
He was not done. “Have you considered the grief of your loss? A young princess, gone before her time: a bride that I hardly had the time to— to—” Try as he might, he could not finish the sentence, and cut himself off, tears tracking down his cheeks. “Eya, Shuri, look at me. Look at me.” She met his eyes, her lip trembling as she watched his face— so impassive, so stern, yet so warm and open— crumble into tears. “You should be loved,” he choked out. “You are loved. By me, Shuri. And no amount of time is long enough— a hundred years is not enough, a thousand years is not enough. And you ask me to wed you and then let you die, robbed of the love which you should be given.”
“No,” Shuri said, clinging to his forearms as he cradled her face in his hands like something precious. Her throat had gone thick and wet: her eyes were stinging. You are loved by me. “You will not just let me die. It’s not so black and white. There is a fifty percent chance that I will not make it and a twelve point five percent chance of each other possible outcome resulting in life and that is still a fifty percent chance that I will live. It’s just statistics.”
“Always the scientist,” he whispered, smiling despite his tears. “Well. Then I have a condition myself before I wed you.”
“What is that?” she asked, sniffing hard as he wiped her tears with his thumb, lingering on her cheekbone.
“Only this. That, before you decide to consume your herb once more and put your life in the hands of the gods, you take back the throne that I gave you.”
Shuri’s mouth dropped open. “What? Why?”
“Because, princess,” he whispered, trailing his fingertips down to her shoulder as a soft, bright smile broke over his face, “I am God-King of Talokan, and I will have the queen of the greatest nation in the world, or none other.”
She closed her mouth with a snap, cheeks gone warm. “But I can’t beat M’Baku in ritual combat.”
“You said yourself that those fights are weighted to one side or the other. Decide it beforehand.”
Ugh! He was right, she had to admit: T’Chaka’s daughter on the throne would be far better optics for handling outsiders, and M’Baku was a good king, but he was tired of ruling. She could see it every day in the slump of his shoulders, the heavy shake of his head, the circles under his eyes. He is happiest at home in his mountains, and this war has weighed heavy on him. Besides, she would have the support of at least two tribes, if not most of them. “All right,” she conceded. “I’ll speak to the council about it. But I… I have my own condition, too, God-King of Talokan.”
“Name it,” he murmured.
She swallowed hard and looked Namor in the eye. “I want it to be a real marriage. I want— I want to—” Bast, why was her face so hot? “I want to be with you. Really be with you. I want—” Shuri exhaled shakily, embarrassed by her own words: don’t be stupid, you are a grown woman and you have gone to bed with him!
“You have only to ask me,” Namor said softly, lifting her chin with a crooked finger. “Say it.”
Puffing out her cheeks, she took a deep breath and tried again, squeezing her eyes shut and speaking very fast so that all the words would come out at once with no time to get stuck in her mouth. “Iwanttohaverealactualsexwithyouontheweddingnight.”
Silence bloomed. Namor tilted his head to the side, wrestling with a close-lipped smile as she cracked one eye open, wincing. “Say that again, but… maybe slower.”
Well, she had said it once, why not again? “I want. To have real, actual s— ah, sex with you. On the wedding night.”
“I had thought that was a given, it being a wedding,” he said, a light teasing note in his voice.
She pushed his hand away from her chin, giggling. “Oh, stop. I want— I mean, I think now I am ready, and I want to experience— all the things I haven’t yet.”
That wide, white grin she liked so much lit up his face. “Princess, if we were to do on the wedding night all the things you have not done in bed, we would still be there at the next waning of the moon.”
Well, he didn’t need to say it like that. “I’m not that inexperienced—”
“It is not a needle-prick at your experience, it is simply an illustration of the many, many things that can be done between a man and a woman. Or even two men and one woman, or three men, or two women, or—”
“Okay, okay, I get the point!” said Shuri, blushing furiously. “I do not want a whole delegation in my bed, thank you.”
“But,” Namor added, “I think I can promise an… illustrious and fulfilling wedding night. If that is what you want.”
“I really just… I don’t want to take a fifty percent chance of not ever really—not—having—you know,” she finished lamely.
He sighed, gentle resignation in his eyes. “Then I will grant you that condition, princess.”
Shuri snapped her fingers. “Oh! I almost forgot. Little T’Challa will be there, just so you know. They’re announcing his identity in front of the council with Nakia formally when he stands to receive the bride-gift.”
“I look forward to meeting him.” Leaning forward, Namor pressed a kiss to her forehead, warm and firm. “I am told after we are engaged we cannot see each other until the wedding?”
“Yes,” said Shuri, closing her eyes and leaning into his kiss. “It’s a tradition.”
“So it is. I will see you in council tomorrow, then.”
“All right,” she said, squeezing his hand.
“Princess. One more thing.”
“Hm?”
Those eyes of his were warm and dark as raw honey. “I have been wondering. In the debrief, you stated that Griot had been broken when you regained consciousness. How, then, did you find me? How did you find the water?”
She gnawed on her bottom lip. “It’s going to sound crazy.”
“Tell me.”
Shuri shifted her weight. “I would have thought— if someone had told me what I am about to tell you, I would say they were hallucinating. That it was all in their mind, brought on by— by pain and disorientation. Ah. But— it was— like a hand in the wind. As if… it was guiding me, pushing me to you. And I thought… someone was there. It felt like someone was there. Telling me where to go.” She met his eyes, and there was no hint of mockery or disbelief in them at all. “And then… there was you.”
Bucky Barnes paused at the door of John Walker’s cell, a bowl of fufu and peanut soup in his metal hand as he gave the prisoner a long, even look. He had come a couple of times, acting as an intermediary in the whole thing with Attuma at his side so Talokan wasn’t left in the dark on anything, but John had refused to speak to him, glaring at the wall in his gray jumpsuit. It wasn’t even really a cell, frankly: he had a whole bed in there, and a toilet, and a table bolted to the floor. All vibranium, of course, along with the cuffs on his wrists and ankles that only came off for one supervised hour a day. He’d healed from being skewered pretty quickly, and now he sat on the ground, staring at the bowl in Bucky’s hand. Attuma stood behind Bucky, quiet, large, and wearing a yellow shirt, embroidered with green, with his heavy sealskin jade-embroidered loincloth. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to the elbow, exposing his muscle-corded, thick blue forearms, and he casually leaned on his axe as he watched Walker.
“Hi, John,” Bucky said, sitting cross-legged. “Dinner?”
“No,” said Walker. He was starting to grow a beard, which didn’t help the slightly deranged look on his face.
“You trying to starve yourself into being set free?”
“I’m not hungry.”
Bucky laughed outright. “Oh, that’s bullshit, and we both know it. Our metabolism runs five times faster than normal people. You’re pretty fuckin’ hungry, John.” He tore off a piece of fufu with his right hand and rolled it into a ball. “Tell you what, though. I’ve been sent up to inform you that the council’s decided what to do with you, Torres, Starr, Dreykov, and Shostakov.”
“Not Belova,” said Walker flatly.
“No, not Belova. She’s been offered diplomatic immunity on account of her actions during the battle. Left pretty fast, though. Last I heard she was making for a safe house in Budapest.” Bucky dipped the fufu into the peanut soup and tossed it into his mouth. “Mmm. So. You wanna know, or you want it to be a surprise?”
John gave him a dismissive grunt. “You killed Ross.”
“Me, personally? I didn’t kill anyone.” He swallowed and loaded up another piece of fufu. “First time for everything, I guess.”
Walker leaned forward, eyes burning blue. “Director de Fontaine is going to come for me. She promised my wife— I have a child, Barnes.”
“Okay. Well, just so you know, there’s no actual record, apparently, of you being here at all— any of you—since this was technically a CIA black-ops mission— uh, I highly doubt Val’s going to risk the government’s ass trying to reel you back in.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Really? Attuma, you want to tell him?”
A grin spread out over the larger man’s face. “Gladly, White Wolf.” He turned to Walker. “You and your compatriots are to be publicly cast to the feet of the highest surface authority there is. At the same time, Talokan will reveal itself and all its power to the rulers of every kingdom there is. Your people will have no choice, facing two nations that hold vibranium and that are allied together: they will have to accept the accusations pressed upon them publicly if they hope for peace with Talokan and Wakanda.” The blood was leaching out of Walker’s face, leaving him pale as a ghost. “And I am assured by Wilson that it is very likely you will meet the same fate he did when he crossed international borders to fight an unsanctioned war.”
“No,” said Walker, trying to smile. “No. They can’t… they can’t put us on the Raft.” His smile melted away as he stared at Bucky, who was simply sitting, eating his food, and ignoring him. “Barnes. Barnes. Tell me they’re not— they can’t— Bucky—”
“Don’t call me that,” said Bucky, wiping his bowl clean with the last piece of fufu. “Damn. Looks like I finished the food.”
Walker slammed his cuffed wrists against the vibranium-fused plexiglass of his cell wall, rage in his face as Bucky turned away. “I did my duty to my country!” he screamed, spit flying from his mouth as he slammed his wrists down again and again. “I did my duty and you people— have— vibranium, you cheated, it isn’t fair ! It’s not fair!”
Attuma switched his axe-handle into his other hand and leveled a gaze at Walker that made the man quiet down and take a step back. “You, John Walker,” he said coolly, “are what they call… a sore loser.”
She could not sleep.
Nothing worked. The sun had long since set, and the moon was on its way to sinking, too: Shuri tried warm milk and lying very still with her eyes shut, reading a book and flexing her toes and pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth. Nothing worked. She rolled over in bed, burying her face in her pillow, and groaned.
If I cannot sleep, I might as well work. So she got up and went to the bathroom, splashing her face with warm water and giving herself a good long look in the mirror. The contusion on her face was gone from the fall she’d had, with not even a discoloration to mark where the bruise had been, and when she slipped her silk scarf off her head, every braid and plait was precisely where it should be. She half-smiled as she remembered Nakia’s delighted excitement, Okoye’s calm joy: they had done her hair together, one on each side, in preparation for the engagement ceremony tomorrow. Her braids fell to her elbows, and in the morning they would be sewn and twisted and pinned into place in an elaborate style fit for a princess.
Or perhaps it is actually today. Is it past midnight? Shuri did not want to check. She went back out to her worktable and tapped open her messages. “Griot?” she said softly, and the AI flickered to life, its hologram presence a comforting glow. “Have you completed your final calculations on the herb?”
“Yes, Princess. The numbers have not changed, nor are they likely to.”
“Thank you. That is all.” The AI powered down, and Shuri closed her eyes. A half and half chance of life or death. Chances. What a funny word. It could mean a totally random event: meeting by chance. Or a probability. Or an opportunity— people said, second chances, or third chances. Maybe this was all three: a random event, an opportunity, a probability. Mama had not believed in chance. Everything was meant to be, everything was a purposeful and poignant event devised at the hands of Bast and the ancestors. Even death, for life and death were linked. You could not have one without the other to give it meaning.
She shut down her calculations and set aside the beads, walking over to her closet and opening the doors to give the clothes she was going to wear when the sun came up one more look. High-throated, with a heavily beaded collar and necklace in purple, yellow, white, black, and blue that draped over her shoulders, it had a snug-fitted bodice and full skirt of black-on-black fabric that fell in thick folds like an opening flower and a heavy, full cape with the lining picked out in purple and blue sequins and gold thread and pearls in geometric designs— it was going to be supremely uncomfortable, but she would look every inch a princess. Every inch a queen.
She let her hand trace the delicate work. M’Baku had welcomed her message with relief, sending back his own: I think that is a very good idea, my princess. I will be glad to get home to my own citadel, where things are quiet. There would be no worrying about whether or not she would lose the ritual battle. He might play at almost beating her for the sake of his pride, and the pride of the Jabari, but she had T’Challa to thank for his people becoming closer to the other four tribes. You laid the groundwork for me, she thought wistfully, letting her hand drop. Thank you, Brother.
Her first foray into rule had been fueled by revenge and hatred. This time, she vowed silently, it would be nurtured by love for her people, and love for the Talokanil, and love for… yes. Love. Because love was stronger than hatred, than revenge. Unity was like triple-forged vibranium, and discord was as strong as straw. I owe my people this. And I will do it gladly.
Notes:
TRANSLATIONS:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
NA' - "Mama"
MA' - "No"
BA'AX KIN IN BEETAJ - "What am I going to do?"
AHEN - "Wake up/awake"
KUXA'AN'BECH -"Are you alive/do you live?"
Chapter 19: sibulela
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“Are you sure we can’t make an exception for Torres?” asked Shuri anxiously as Nakia smoothed down her skirt and fluffed out the cape. The morning sunshine was busily glittering off the beads and embroidery, sending flecks of light all over the walls in spangles of purple, blue, and gold every time she moved, and her braids had been pulled into a high knot, set with shells and pearls and gold cuffs, heavy and secure on her head.
“Wilson tried, but Talokan insisted they have justice done for their people who were wounded in the assault on the river.” Nakia squeezed her shoulders and gave her one final look. “Oh, you look great.”
“You don’t look too bad yourself,” said Shuri, grinning. It was true: Nakia wore a traditional River Tribe gown of yellow and green that gathered at her waist with a crocodile-leather belt and left her right arm bare. Golden yellow paint marked her cheeks and chin. A wreath of waterlilies, bright yellow and pink with thick green leaves, draped across the crown of her head. She beamed and brushed her skirt down.
“Well, I am the only living female relative by marriage of the Princess of Wakanda, so of course I had to put on my best today,” she said. “Now.” Nakia clapped her hands. “T’Challa!” she called, and little T’Challa came scurrying in immediately. “Ah, there you are! Silly boy.” She cupped his cheek and kissed him on the head, and Shuri had to take a moment, looking at the six year old in his black jomi embroidered with gold and green thread.
He could be T’Challa, a child again. The wide smile, the gapped front teeth: that was all her brother. But the eyes… those were all Nakia. “Auntie Shuri!” he said excitedly, gazing up at her. “Wow! You look so pretty!”
“Oh, good, because I cannot even move, it is so heavy. See?” She pretended to wave her arms slowly, stuck in place. “Uuuugh! Oooooh!” T’Challa giggled. “Okay. You are ready?”
“Yes!” He straightened up immediately, a serious look on his face. “I remember. After you give the king the cup, they ask who— who—” T’Challa’s face screwed up, thinking. “Who stands to receive the brideprice. And then I say it’s me, because I’m T’Challa son of T’Challa, brother of Shuri.” His s’s came through with a soft lisp, and Shuri smiled. “And then… the king of Talokan gives me the gift, and I say thank you to him. Right? Mama, is that right?” He turned, searching for Nakia, and his mother gave him a warm smile.
“That is exactly right. And if you make a mistake, I will be there to help you. So don’t worry.”
Satisfied, he turned back to his aunt, his eyes lighting up with eager excitement. “Is it true that the king of Talokan has wings on his feet, and he flies, and he rides sharks, and he has a spear, and—”
“Eyy, who is telling you all these things about the king of Talokan?” Shuri asked, laughing.
“My friends in the River Tribe!” T’Challa said. “Hibo said King Namor is scary. But if you’re marrying him, he can’t be that scary, can he? That’s what Mama said.” Nakia pressed her lips together and looked away, fighting a smile.
“Oh, Mama said that, did she?” Shuri crouched down in her swathes of skirt to look her nephew in the eye. “I will tell you a secret,” she whispered, and T’Challa came close, eyes bright and eager. “All grownups can be a little bit scary, sometimes. They might look different from what you are used to. But it doesn’t mean they are bad people.”
“Like Attuma,” said T’Challa solemnly, nodding and touching his chin. “His shark teeth.”
“Yes. You have seen him. Those are because he is an honorable warrior. Down below the sea, the throne is made of a great big shark jaw with big teeth all made of jade. And on the throne is carved the words: this jade tooth bites. ” Shuri snapped her teeth together and pretended to growl, and T’Challa grinned. “So they mean he serves the throne and the king that sits on it well.”
“I remember Namor’s real name,” said T’Challa. “Koo-koo-kan.”
“K’uk’ulkan,” corrected Shuri. “It is okay if you do not say it right. He will understand.”
But T’Challa frowned. “Ku-kulkan,” he tried, a furrow of concentration on his face.
“Ah, don’t tell that one he might make a mistake,” said Nakia softly, smiling. “He’ll work on it forever.” Shuri gave her a grin and nodded back at T’Challa.
“You stop the sound in the back of your throat. Like when you say T’Challa. Between the t and the ch. Try one more time. K’uk’ulkan. Hear the stops?”
The boy took a breath. “K’uk’ulkan,” he said proudly. “Like that, Auntie?”
“Very good,” said Shuri. Nakia motioned quietly to the doors, the cup of beer in her hand. Shuri took a deep breath. “Okay. I think it’s time. Are you ready?”
“Uh-huh.” She could hear him practicing under his breath, K’uk’ulkan, all the way to the doors of the throne room, and outside it, Nakia took her arm.
“I am so proud of you, sister,” she whispered, so only Shuri could hear. “And I know T’Challa would be, too.”
Shuri tried to hide her emotions. “Thank you,” she whispered, holding her head high, and Nakia leaned forward and knocked.
“We have come!” she announced, loud enough to ring through the doors and into the throne room. “Open to Shuri, daughter of Ramonda, daughter of T’Chaka! Open to the sister of T’Challa!”
The doors swung open, and Shuri walked into the sunlit chamber, guided by Nakia. T’Challa waited by the door with two of the Dora Milaje. The whole place was packed with people, but her concern was mainly the circle of elders, a little island of open floor for her to stand on. When the light touched Shuri’s gown, sparks flew, a million golden stars moving across the walls and ceiling. Soft sounds of approval rose from the council seats, and even Okoye, resplendent in blue and black and gold, was smiling. She gave Shuri a nod, then raised an eyebrow and turned her head toward M’Baku. Shuri went to him first, stately and slow, and knelt. “M’Baku, King of Wakanda,” she said formally, saluting him. Nakia was holding the cup for her. “May Hanuman smile upon your head, and the heads of all Wakanda.”
“Rise,” he said quietly, smiling.
She rose up and went to each of the elders: Mining Tribe, Merchant Tribe, River Tribe, Border Tribe, and Jabari: she greeted the elder shaman, Sope, while her assistant, Zawavari, stood by and watched, and finally she greeted the Dora Milaje. “Ayo, daughter of Kani,” she said, kneeling and bowing her head. “May Bast smile upon your head and the heads of your sisters.”
“Rise,” said Ayo, thumping her spear-butt against the floor in greeting.
And of course, she had to greet the Talokanil where they sat at the right hand of M’Baku, so she turned, making her eyes see what she had blinded herself on purpose to until now so she did not stumble.
Namor.
He sat, knees spread, wearing the most elaborate adornments of jade, pearl, gold, vibranium, and coral she had ever seen: his ko’haw gleamed like the sun itself, every mother-of-pearl tooth in the serpent’s mouth polished to a bright, iridescent sheen. At his sides stood Attuma and Namora, in similarly gorgeous clothing— Attuma in deep greens and yellows and browns, Namora in orange and red and gold. Both of them were smiling. Shuri approached, knelt down, and bent her head, her heart thudding. “K’uk’ulkan, God-King of Talokan,” she said, her voice ringing out as clear as a bell. She could not say, may your god smile down — Talokan had only one living god, and he sat here in front of her. “May all the gods you have ever known smile upon your head, and the heads of your people.”
“Rise,” he said softly. Was it her imagination, or was his voice a little shaky? Was he nervous? She lifted herself up and went to the center of the circle. Nakia put the cup into her hand, bowed her head, and walked backward to stand with her son, holding his hand tightly and smiling as Shuri revolved slowly to face everyone in the council, the cup in both hands.
“I am Shuri, daughter of Ramonda, Queen of Wakanda: is there anyone in this place who will tell me it is not so?” she asked.
“There is no one,” answered Okoye. A shout of agreement went up from the crowd.
“I am Princess of Wakanda, sister to T’Challa, King of Wakanda: is there anyone in this place who will tell me this is not true?”
“There are none, inkosazana,” answered M’Baku.
She turned toward the throne. This was all ritual, all silly tradition, but it sent a chill up her spine anyway. “Who comes to the throne of Bashenga to ask to be joined to me in marriage before Bast and Hanuman? Speak, stranger, and make yourself known.”
Namor rose. Clearly, someone had briefed him on the expected response. “I have come. I have asked. I have spoken.”
She lifted her chin. “Name yourself, that I may make my choice.”
He rested the butt of his spear on the glass floor, and from the way he looked at her, the room might have been empty of all but the two of them. “I was born Cha’ah Toh Almehen, son of Ixchel Ejen, a woman of high birth in Zama in Mayab, the land of my fathers. I was named K’uk’ulkan by my people when I came of age: I am called Namor by those who are not my own and by my enemies, and I am God-King of Talokan, the Feathered Serpent, He Who Bridges Sky And Water, the Lord Who Conquers in Righteousness. I have lived half a millennia in this world, and my empire is without end. I come to ask the hand of Shuri, Princess of Wakanda, once Black Panther, Protector and Guardian, who I have named K’inich, Sun-Eyed.”
When his voice finished echoing off the walls, Shuri inclined her head. “Are there any who say this is not true?”
Namora stepped forth. “There are none from Talokan who say so,” she said clearly, and stepped back, looking pleased at her part going off without a hitch. Attuma grinned at her.
The Merchant Tribe elder raised her stick. “There are none from the Merchant Tribe who say so,” she proclaimed, her aged voice wavering. Loud cries of agreement rose from behind her.
“There are none from the Jabari tribe who say so,” announced M’Bele. He got a roar of hoots and echoing thumps on chests.
“There are none from the Border Tribe who say so!” Okoye cried. The Border Tribe raised their fists.
“There are none from the River Tribe who say so!” Nakia’s father looked proud beyond words.
“There are none from the Mining Tribe who say so!”
M’Baku thumped his club. “It is done, and it is said, and it is good,” he said, and then all eyes were on Shuri as she held the cup of beer in her hands, gazing at Namor, who still stood on the floor. A dead silence fell. Gold reflected off her clothing as she moved towards him, and prayed she did not trip on the hem of her heavy gown. Carefully, step by step, she reached him, and when she stood before him she lifted the cup until it touched his mouth, when she tilted it, and he closed his eyes, drinking deeply. She could feel the heat of him, radiating around her. The urge to touch his chin and guide it was almost too strong to bear, and Shuri had to lower her eyes a moment to contain herself.
When he was finished, his eyes opened again, dark as the depths of the sea, and he gave her a long, searching look. She smiled softly and turned to M’Baku. “I have chosen, my king,” she said aloud, and the council erupted in sounds of relief and delight.
“Well chosen. Now.” M’Baku sat up straight and looked out over the assembled crowd in the back, the council, until his eyes lit on little T’Challa, standing with his mother. “A price must be paid, from family to family. Is this not so?”
“It is so,” said Shuri very seriously.
“So! Who stands to receive the bride-price?” He gave an encouraging smile toward the doors, beckoning, and little T’Challa gulped, then bravely stepped forward.
“I stand to receive it,” he said, clearly and firmly even with his childish lisp, and the room breathed out in wonder, in realization, in grief, in joy.
“And who are you, child?” asked M’Baku gently, raising his eyebrows as if to say, you’ve got this.
“I am Prince T’Challa, son of King T’Challa, who was the brother of Shuri.” His brown, soft eyes met hers, and she smiled, her heart warm. A few people in the crowd were weeping. Little T’Challa turned back to search the crowd, uncertain, and looked back toward M’Baku. “Did I say it right?” he asked, which got a wave of laughter from the crowd.
“Yes, you said it right,” M’Baku affirmed, and Shuri could have sworn there was a tear in his eye. “Come here. Come up and stand by your aunt, now.” The boy quickly hurried up and stood at her side, staring up with unbridled curiosity at Namor, who gazed right back down at him.
“T’Challa, son of T’Challa,” said Namor very seriously. “No amount of gold or riches on this earth or in the sea can compare to the esteem of the value I hold your ts'ée na' in. So I must offer you one thing only, one thing in all the world that my people treasure.” Shuri felt a lump come to her throat as he received something from Attuma, then turned with both hands out to present T’Challa with a long, cut, fleshy spear of what looked like aloe, or blue agave: it was clearly an aquatic plant, but veined with blue, and she was sure if the sun had been any dimmer she would have seen it glowing. “This, my child,” he said softly, “is what gives our people their differences; their abilities to breathe the water and live in the seas. Their strength. It is fresh, not dried, and will remain so as long as it is kept wet. I give it to Wakanda in exchange for my bride, that you may use it wisely, and to you, T’Challa, in case of some great need.” A gasp and murmur went up from the assembly, but Shuri saw Namora’s eyes go to her, not a speck of distrust in them. She nodded solemnly, and Shuri returned the nod.
“Thank you, K’uk’ulkan,” said T’Challa with enormous, awed eyes, and took the fleshy plant in both his hands, staring down at it with a big grin. “Wow.”
“The gift has been given,” said M’Baku. “The wedding will take place a month from today. So!” He turned to the full room as Shuri and Namor reached for each other’s hands. She squeezed his tightly. “May Bast and Hanuman bless them!”
The crowd erupted in song and cries of joy. Shuri let the cacophony of sound wash over her, uplift her, and never let go of Namor’s hand.
“Why in Bast’s name does tradition dictate that the bride and groom do not see each other for a month?” demanded Shuri, holding very still as the seamstresses pinned the waist of one of her wedding dresses on her. The wardrobe room was full and bustling, everyone delighted to be working on a wedding and not a war, and Nakia was grinning at her from the window where she sat.
“Staying apart for a time makes the wedding sweeter. You know that.”
“I do not!” Shuri felt her face go warm as the women all laughed. She did, though, in a way: Namor’s absence was like a hole in her routine. Without him popping into her lab to steal her away for a meal, her days felt long and thin and dragging.
Does he feel the same way about me? He had said he loved her: surely he was somewhere right now, much as she was, being fitted for his wedding-clothes and thinking about her. Was Attuma teasing him? Namora? All of Talokan had come up the river from the sea, which had kept the Design Group busy churning out improved rebreathers. Everyone would be able to eat at the wedding feast, and no one would be left out. She had a dress for the Wakandan palace-walking ceremony, where she would leave the Citadel in the early afternoon and go to the river in full view of the whole city: then there would be a traditional bath in the river— usually attended by the close female family members and friends, it symbolized the crossing over of the bride into the realm of a new family. It was traditional for the groom and his friends and family to come upon them in the river and tease them, splashing and stealing clothes until they were made to give them back.
By then, night would have fallen, and there would be a dinner in the Citadel, where she would wear her second dress. The next morning marked the actual day of the ceremony: Shuri would rise with the sun, dress in her third (and most uncomfortable) gown, be attended by her friends and family, and walk through the city yet again, all the way out to the sacred grove where moss grew thick on the trees and the heart-shaped herb blossomed. There, Sope would conduct a wedding that blended Talokanil and Wakandan traditions. After that she could change into her fourth gown and everyone would attend the wedding-feast, which promised to be of astonishing size and proportion, such as Wakanda had not seen in decades. And finally afterward, she and Namor would be free to go to bed as a married couple: a room had been prepared in the palace for their use.
Shuri had seen the room. It was airy and warm, walls paneled in geometric angles of light brown wood, woven carpets on the floor in brown, red, orange. The bed sat on a platform of teak, with sheets as crisp and soft and white as clouds, the blankets in earth-tones: the en suite bathroom had an enormous tub carved of stone. It was beautiful and serene and calm, and every time she thought about it, her belly flipped in tight knots.
What if it hurts? What if I hate it? What if it turns out I’m really bad at sex, and I can’t get out of my own head, and he thinks I’m stupid? What if I can’t do what I used to be able to do when I had the strength of the Black Panther in my veins? Of course some of these were irrational thoughts: Namor would never think her stupid, and she had not heard a complaint from him at any other time concerning her sexual behavior, but some of her worries seemed to be more logical— namely the first two. She considered asking Nakia for advice, but decided against it: she did not want a sex talk with the mother of her brother’s child. Okoye had been married, but she would be a completely awkward choice: Shuri had known the woman since she was a baby. Aneka and Ayo could likely offer no insight to her fears, either. She gnawed on her lip and looked out the window, lost in her thoughts, and worried.
Cha’ah Toh Almehen. I did not even know his true name, and I am going to marry him.
Bast, I pray this is not a mistake.
“Riri,” Shuri said the night before the day of the river ceremony, sitting down on the balcony of the crowded dining room and opening a paper box of rice and chicken. She had escaped a dozen celebratory conversations, and slipped out the door with a smile and a wave. To be on the quiet, breezy balcony was like a physical relief. “How are you holding up?”
The American girl grinned. “Don’t even. I’ve been getting buttloads of Wakandan formalwear delivered to try on for weeks. Not that it isn't great and all, but I'm ‘bout ready for this wedding to be done with so I can sleep. How are you ?”
“Oh, I just— well, same, really.” She grinned and popped a forkful of rice into her mouth. “But, um, I wanted to ask a question. Sort of. It’s— normally the type of conversation I would have with my mother.”
“Oh. Oh. That kinda conversation. Okay.” Riri set her food aside and leaned back. “What’s the question?”
“I am… nervous,” admitted Shuri. “About— the wedding night.” She pushed the food around her box with her fork, chewing on her lip. “Have you ever— you know. With a man?”
“Uh,” said Riri, rolling her eyes heavenward. “Um, kissing and making out, yeah. Sex, like, once or twice. Not really my speed, though.”
Shuri looked away. “Oh. I didn’t— I am sorry, I should not have assumed—”
“No, no! It’s cool. I mean, I’ve tried dudes and girls, you know what I’m saying? And some guys are fine, and some girls are fine, but I just— I think I’m what they call a… biromantic, uh, demisexual? Maybe asexual? Like, I don’t really— I have crushes, but I’m just not into having sex too much. Are you— you mean you and Namor ain’t had sex yet? I thought y’all were—”
“We did things that didn’t— didn’t involve— actual— ah, you know.” Shuri drew her knees up and hugged them, her appetite gone. “And I definitely like it. Him. Things, doing things with him. Sexual things.”
“Oh, I got you.”
“I just— wanted to ask someone what I should expect, and what I should— do, and things like that.”
“I mean, I don’t know what it’s gonna be like for someone who isn’t me. But my biggest tip is, uh, make sure you got some lube.” Riri gave her a grin. “I can make sure the bedroom has some in the drawer.”
“Please,” said Shuri gratefully.
“Sure! Oh, and pee after sex. Otherwise you’re probably gonna get bacteria all up in your business, and then you’ll get an infection.”
“Lube during, pee after. Okay.” This was easier: a simple set of steps to follow, like the scientific method. She felt a little better.
“That’s about all I got. Sorry.” Riri gave an apologetic little shrug and smiled at her as she finished her food. “You gotta get to bed. Big day tomorrow.”
“I know, I know.” Shuri offered a weak grin. “Thank you for the advice.”
“I wish I could do more. See you in the morning.” Riri got up and walked back inside, and Shuri tilted her head back and rested it against the wall, sighing. I suppose I will just do what I can. He will tell me. But I don’t want him to feel he has to hold my hand all the way through. Agh! Bast, just send me someone who can help me! The wedding is in two days!
“Shuri?” asked a warm, low, familiar American voice. She rolled her head to the side: Bucky Barnes was sliding the door shut and giving her a concerned look. His hair was growing long again, and he had started to tie it back. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” she mumbled, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.
“You’re not crying, are you?” He walked over and sat down, his plain brown and white clothing almost blending him into the dusk, even with the lights on the balcony casting them both in a warm golden glow. “Your wedding starts tomorrow. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m just—nervous. That’s all.”
A note of humor warmed his voice. “Oh. Cold feet, or wedding night nerves?”
“The latter,” admitted Shuri, eyes wandering to the lights of the city below. “I don’t have a single person, apparently, in all of Wakanda who can give me advice about it and it not be weird.”
“I can give it a shot. What are you nervous about?”
“You don't have the required body parts to empathize with the issue, James,” she reminded him, a smile finding her face despite her concern.
“Eh, try me anyway. What’s the concern?” He leaned back and bit into a banana, chewing.
“Okay. Ah. Well.” She cleared her throat and fiddled with her hands, trying to find the right words to convey it all. “I… am… ah, I have never had penetrative sex. It was just something I never— had— I wasn’t— really a big thing on my radar until I— until Namor. And I wanted to just hold off on it. I was nervous.”
“Sometimes it just takes the right person for stuff to click,” said Bucky, nodding.
Feeling a little better, Shuri went on. “Right! Yes. So, I guess… I guess I am not really afraid, I am just not— it’s like a leap of faith, you know? Is it going to hurt, will I hate it, will it be bad? I don’t know the answers. And I can’t really know before I do it. What it will be like, I mean.”
Bucky pondered this, finishing his banana, and tossed the peel into a compost container. “You’ve liked all the stuff you two have done so far, right?”
“Oh, Bast, yes,” said Shuri immediately.
“Communication’s not been an issue in any of it?”
“No.”
“Well, then there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Ninety percent of fulfilling sexual experiences is communication. ‘Oh, I don’t like this position,’ or, ‘hey, stop doing that thing you’re doing with your mouth, I don’t like that.’ ‘Give me one second, I have to take a moment to settle in.’ Get that down, and you’re gold. The other ten percent is physical compatibility, and I think you’re probably okay in that regard.”
“Compatibility… I see. Um. He is— I have seen him. Naked, I mean. He’s… I haven’t seen many people naked and, ah, in the state he was in when I saw him, but I have some concerns about. That. Compatibility.” Her face burned.
Bucky cocked his head to the side, interested. “Really? How big?”
Shuri held her hands about six, then seven inches apart, her face as hot as the sun, before making a circle with her fingers, trying to remember the exact width of him. “About— that,” she mumbled awkwardly.
“Oh, you’ll be fine,” said Barnes at once, waving a hand. “Little bit of lube and some patience.”
Something in her chest loosened a little. “That’s what Riri said. It won’t hurt?”
“Not if you go slow. You’ve got time to do whatever you want. Take it easy the first time so you know what you’re getting into. And if he’s rough and you don’t like it, yell real loud and I’ll come in and kick his ass.”
Shuri laughed out loud for the first time in days at the mental image. “I’d like to see you try.”
“Okay, granted,” admitted Bucky, the smile-lines around his eyes deepening, “he’d probably kick mine first, but I think I could get in a good punch with this bad boy.” He flexed the fingers on his vibranium hand. “Never did thank you for the kebab skewer.”
“In my defense, I didn’t know you’d discover it in the middle of a battle,” she protested, grinning. “You’re doing the river ceremony, right?”
“Oh, sure. Attuma basically demanded my presence. Said it wouldn’t be complete without the White Wolf howling at the women. And since I got invited, Sam got invited.” Bucky grinned. “Part of it’s the idea that the groom’s trying to kidnap the bride while she bathes, right?”
“Yes, but it’s all in fun. It’s a good omen if the groom manages to even touch the bride. The women are all very staunch protectors.” Somehow, she felt lighter, even excited now for the following two days. "And they get their revenge in the end. You'll see."
“I’ll be sure to stay clear of Ayo, then,” he said, chuckling as he got up. “Sleep well.”
“You, too,” she said, and leaned her arms on the rail, gazing out toward the water.
Dawn broke clear and red-gold, and Shuri got up with the sun, too nervous to eat as Nakia came in with a tray of food. The whole morning was spent in seclusion in her bedroom as was tradition, the only people allowed in Nakia and Riri.
“I mean, look at this thing,” said Riri admiringly, smoothing down the front of her skirts. Deep blue and deceptively simple-looking, her dress came with a brightly patterned kente cloth that draped over her right shoulder and pinned in place at the hip. “I really gotta take it off at the river?”
“Yes,” said Nakia, laughing. Her own green and brown clothing was more subdued, the cloth over her shoulder green and yellow. “You take the shoulder-cloth and tuck it around yourself for modesty when the men come upon us.”
“Anyone tryin’ to steal my dress is gonna get a kick to the balls,” said Riri firmly.
“That’s the spirit,” Nakia told her with a wink. “Don’t worry. We’ll get them.”
Shuri didn’t know whether she wanted to change instantly into her palace-walking gown and run to the river on her own or put it off forever and race to the lab. He’ll be there, at the river, she thought dimly, pacing back and forth and watching the sun’s inexorable slide past its apex toward the horizon as the day dragged on. He’ll be there, he’ll come to me. Excitement and worry had drawn her guts into a knot again, and she wrung her hands, exhaling deeply to try to unravel it.
“Eh, Shuri, you will wear a groove into the floor, walking like this,” said Nakia, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t be worried.”
“I just want it over with,” mumbled Shuri.
“Come on. Let’s get you dressed,” Riri suggested, eagerly picking up the gown she was to wear.
Fifteen minutes later as the rest of the women began to pour in, chatting and laughing, Shuri stared at herself in the mirror. Swathes of deep purple silk flowed out from below a loose, hooded tunic of the same material, patterned in black and gold diamonds: her shoulder-cloth was black, white, and purple, gold threads worked into the pattern, and her braids had been twisted together into an elegant bun at the back of her head, set with cowrie shells and gold wire. She tilted her chin, checking her face: golden paint divided her chin and lip and marked her brow in small, perfect circles, expertly applied by Nakia. I am ready, she thought, turning back to the party.
“Is it time?” she asked formally, and Nakia stepped forward, eyes misty with emotion.
“Yes, Princess. It is time.”
Sope walked at the head of the procession, Zawavari at her side carrying a censer of burning spices, filling the air with sweet, scented smoke as the procession made its stately way to the river’s edge, people thickly clustered at every corner and on every sidewalk. The shaman sang in Xhosa, heartfelt and warm, and Shuri only barely listened to it: she was going hooded with her head bent, clinging to Nakia’s arm on one side and Riri on the other.
We thank the ancestors for this daughter of Wakanda, for this daughter of Ramonda, for this daughter of T’Chaka.
Shuri kept her eyes on the street. Baba, she thought, can you see me? Are you with me, Mama? T’Challa, do you hear the words Sope sings?
Step after step, slow and careful: this was a solemn occasion, and the laughter and play would come after, at the river’s edge. Someone in the crowd cried, “Sibulela!” and the cry was taken up, echoing after every stanza of Sope’s song.
We give thanks!
The sun’s beams slanted across the roofs of the houses, lighting the streets in gold and white. It was like this when we had the funeral, Shuri thought. Mama’s was a cloudy day, but T’Challa’s was so bright and clear, the sun shining. The kind of day he loved.
The wind slipped across the back of her neck, drifting ghostlike across her cheek as her vision blurred and a tear fell from her eye. She sniffed and raised her head a little, still focusing on the street as Nakia, who must have heard her, squeezed her arm gently. Behind her, she could hear the Dora Milaje singing. They had been given permission to vacate their duties, instead leaving M’Baku with his Jabari warriors and the Kingsguard to attend him during the length of the wedding festivities. Shuri may have had only a nephew left to her as a blood relation, but she would have sisters by the dozen to stand behind her.
The river was cool and the mud was soft between her toes as Shuri, a dozen Dora Milaje, Okoye, Aneka, Ayo, and Nakia all started undressing, the mood much lighter out past the city limits. Zawavari was there, too, overseeing with a smile on her face as the glittering beaded armor and red silk and leather, the gowns and tunics and wraps were put to the side, folded neatly on rocks. Golden light flooded the banks, the sun sinking toward the horizon as the breeze ruffled the reeds along the shore, the heavy perfume of the water hyacinths filling the air.
Riri balked a little at the undressing. “I really gotta— for real?” she mumbled, trying to avert her eyes from all the uncovered skin.
“It’s just a body,” said Shuri, grinning at her while she pulled her tunic over her head. “Wear your cloth if you like, though.”
“Nah, it’s a tradition, right? So I gotta do it. Okay.” Riri gulped and dropped her gown quickly, hugging her chest and looking around wildly as if a hundred strangers were about to come rushing out of the bushes. The Dora Milaje were already mostly in the water, wet dark arms and hands splashing each other, glossy heads ducking under and coming back up, laughter filling the air, and Nakia, halfway through folding her dress, stood up, her shoulder-cloth casually draped over one arm.
“I remember my first wedding,” she said, smiling. “I was about eighteen and I felt the same as you. Don’t worry. You get used to it fast. Shuri forgets that as a princess, she’s had the honor of attending every single wedding in Wakanda as a courtesy since she came of age.” She gave Shuri a pointed look, wiggling her eyebrows.
Shuri wrinkled her nose at Nakia and folded her shoulder-cloth. “Okay, okay. Riri, you can stay in the shallows if you want to, with your cloth on, until you feel comfortable.”
The American girl clutched her shoulder-cloth to her chest. “Cool, then, I’ll just do that,” she said, and scampered off to the reeds, sinking down into the shallow water and shyly watching from a short distance.
“Americans are so funny about this sort of thing,” said Nakia, shaking her head. “Ah, she’ll adapt. Come on.”
Nakia was right: after about five minutes, Riri had joined the rest of the women, her cloth tossed back to the shore as she helped someone scrub down Shuri’s back with a cloth and goat-milk soap in the waist-deep water. Okoye was smiling more than anyone, and Ayo noticed it.
“My sister,” she teased, “one might think you are looking forward to the bath more than the bride.” A peal of laughter rose up from the Dora Milaje, and Okoye lifted her head very regally.
“I do not know what you mean, Ayo, daughter of Kani,” she said, feigning ignorance.
“Ah, I do, Okoye, daughter of Korabo,” said Aneka, a wicked smile on her face. “Perhaps you are hoping that while the princess is protected from her suitor, a suitor of your own will come and carry you off!”
In the resounding chorus of giggles, Okoye placed her hands on her hips, flustered. “Perhaps you have mud in your head instead of brains, Aneka, daughter of Kyana.”
“Then we all must share her affliction,” said Ayo, laughing, “for if she does not speak the truth then I am no Dora Milaje!” Even Shuri laughed when Okoye splashed Ayo with river-water and the woman dived under and came up soaked, a huge grin on her face.
From the bank, Sope called out the traditional warning. “Women! Warriors! Protect the bride! I see a disturbance in the water; someone comes!”
The Dora Milaje ranked up immediately, surrounding Shuri in a circle, and none too soon: the water exploded upward in a crash, giving way to Attuma and Namor, black whorls painted on their cheeks— and Namora, yellow paint on her blue face, grinning and wielding a rope. From the reeds, a dozen Talokanil men rushed out, laughing and whistling, along with Sam Wilson, Bucky Barnes, M’Baku, and three or four Jabari, all wearing loincloths and soaking-wet tunics.
Shuri looked upward, covering herself and trying to catch a glimpse of Namor. He was gilded in the sunlight, flashing gold and green, and hovering above the circle. “Honorable warriors!” he called down, and her heart thrilled to the sound of his voice, which she had not heard in a month. “I may come down and snatch my bride from your midst: beware!”
I wouldn't mind that, she thought, grinning up at him.
“Try it,” shouted Ayo, shaking a fist in mock anger. “We shall stay here until the sun is dark if we must!”
“Very well, very well,” he answered with a smile. “Talokan! Seize their clothes!”
Riri shrieked and clung to Shuri’s shoulders as the warriors dived into the river. “Uh- uh, they’re gonna get my feet!” Shuri yelled and held on to Riri, laughing as the men surfaced and picked up the clothing, holding them against their bodies and joking good naturedly while the Dora Milaje shouted and protested in mock outrage.
“What a strange design, here, Itzamna! Look, such detailed work!”
“Ah, very beautiful! I will give it to Kaax, he can wear it at the wedding.”
Sam and Bucky, along with M’Baku and the Jabari, made it ashore and shook out a few leather skirts. “Now, this is real fashion,” said Bucky admiringly, holding it up to Sam’s waist. Ayo started laughing, and Sam slapped his hand away. “What?”
“Man, I don’t need to look any more like Tarzan than I already do. You can take this one,” said Sam, picking up a formed and beaded red breastplate and shoving it at Bucky. Aneka hooted, cupping her hands around her mouth as she shouted at him.
“White Wolf, I did not know you were possessed of such a pleasing figure, to wear our clothing!”
“Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises!” he shouted back, grinning.
“You cannot wear that,” said M’Baku sternly, then picked up Riri’s blue skirt and thrust it at Bucky. “Here. This is more your color, White Wolf.”
Above their heads, Namor was circling like a bird of prey intent on a rabbit. “Attuma, Namora, my cousins: break their ranks,” he decided. “Quickly!”
Attuma beamed and went straight for Okoye, who howled bloody murder as she was lifted up over his shoulder, pretending to wrestle with him. Namora looped her rope and caught Aneka around the torso, tugging her away with a huge grin, and Ayo splashed Namor as he descended on the knot of women all protecting Shuri. “You shall not get near this woman!” she cried, laughing.
Namor’s teeth flashed white when he grinned. “Ah, brave warrior!” He kicked water at her, and Ayo spluttered, splashing him back, but he was fast, and in another moment he had slipped past her and Nakia and caught Shuri by the wrist. She shouted and pretended to struggle away, but she was too late: his warm arm had crooked around the back of her neck and he was kissing her, hot and full on the mouth in front of everyone. Going slightly limp with relief, Shuri pressed her hands to his bare chest, feeling that familiar heat gathering in her belly, between her thighs as her heart thumped heavily in her chest.
It was not to go on forever, though. With a shout of feigned outrage, Ayo splashed them both with water, and Riri jumped in, tugging Shuri away from Namor. He let go of her, thrashing in mock protest, and Shuri wiped water out of her eyes. There was gold paint from her lip on his mouth: it had smeared. The Dora Milaje were all on Namor, then, pulling him back and away. “Ah, ah, such a hot-blooded man! Here he is, subjecting the bride to indignities!” cried Aneka indignantly.
“What is to be done?” yelled Okoye from her position over Attuma’s blue shoulder. He helpfully turned so that she was facing the group. “What is to be done with such a man?”
“A cold bath!” shouted Nakia, wielding soap, and the whole river exploded in merriment as the Dora started gleefully stripping Namor down. “A bath! A bath!”
Namor protested, laughing, as his warriors feigned attempts to rescue him, but all were pushed aside or tugged away: Shuri covered her face, hysterically giggling as he was peeled out of his ornaments, his collar, his sandals and his belt, his cloak: Riri happily held it all to ensure nothing was lost in the river. When Nakia got her fingers into the waistband of his green shorts, Namor tried to wriggle away. “No, no, lovely women, brave warriors, not my eex—” Despite his protests, Nakia divested him of his green shorts, and he laughed, trying to cover himself with his hands as the Dora Milaje hooted and teased, cloths soaped up and scrubbing him roughly.
“Our bride may have bitten off more than she can chew!” teased Yama of the Dora Milaje, giving exaggerated looks down toward the thatch of coarse hair between Namor’s legs.
“Someone must tell me: is that a private part, or a giant eel?” asked Ayo, scrubbing him under his arms, which he good-naturedly lifted up for them. “Shuri, come here!”
Shuri splashed her way over, grinning: a dark crimson blush, hardly noticeable, was blooming over Namor’s paint-smeared cheeks and nose like the last moments of a sunset. “Ah, I see the confusion,” she said, peering downward. “Well, General, I am sure this is no giant eel.”
“Really? How can you tell, Shuri?”
“Oh, it is very simple, General; I will tell you. There are no teeth!”
Laughter bubbled up from everyone: Talokanil and Wakandan alike. Even Sam Wilson was shaking his head and grinning. Namor’s eyes never left Shuri, not even when Attuma kissed Okoye on the cheek and the Dora Milaje all yelled in pretended outrage, threatening to wash him, too.
Dinner went by in a blur. They left the river and went back to the palace in their damp shoulder-cloths, giggling: they changed into fresh clothes, they went to the small banquet hall, and there Shuri sat, Nakia and little T’Challa on her right and left hands with Okoye, Aneka, Ayo, Bucky, Sam, and Riri at a long table that faced the other long table where Namor sat with Attuma and Namora and a dozen warriors and their families. M’Baku and the elders sat at a high table that connected both of the long ones. The food smelled incredible: corn soup, warm baked tortillas, spiced goat, cups of thick chocolate, jollof rice and plantains, beer, roasted chicken, baked chicken, vegetarian samosas that M'Baku inhaled by the dozen, peanut soup, fufu, barley and bean stew, fried cassava sticks— and Shuri had absolutely no appetite.
She was hungry for something that wasn’t food.
Namor sat, gleaming in white and gold and green, his tunic thickly embroidered with threads spun of vibranium that shone blue in the dark. His hair fell in soft, coarse curls over his forehead, his beard had been trimmed up, and every movement reflected gold. She barely noticed what anyone else wore. I am only twenty feet away from him. I could jump up and just kiss him now: I could— but that was a crazy thought. She’d promised to adhere to the traditions of both their people for this. She wanted to stick to them— or had wanted to. But ugh, he looked so good sitting there, his eyes flickering over her every ten seconds.
Not that she could blame him. Her second gown was a rich green-blue confection of mostly transparent silk net, embroidered with lotus flowers and leaves, papyrus and reeds: water-plants, she knew. The bodice and upper sleeves were structured so as to leave her shoulders bare and her sternum exposed, and hints of gold shone through the embroidered stems and blossoms. Her hair had been let down, too. Her braids (which, glory to Bast, had stayed dry during the river ceremony) all fell down her back, decorated with gold and pearls, and she had pulled a few over her left shoulder to catch the light.
Namor, she noticed, was not eating much either.
One more day, she thought, almost dizzy with the idea. One more day. Marriage, then queenship soon after as she had promised, and at some point she would attempt to take the heart-shaped herb again. I don’t have to think about that now. I just want to think about the wedding. She still had only told Riri and Namor of those plans: it would be a shame to put such a damper on the wedding, when everyone was so happy.
You don’t have to, whispered her heart as she looked at Namor, deep in conversation with a little Talokanil boy who had climbed up on his lap, excitedly chattering on about something. Look at him. Every line of Namor’s face showed serious interest in what the boy, who would not have been more than three, had to say: he nodded and pointed around the room, explaining something as the child listened. He loves. He loves deeply, and without reservation. The young boy’s mother came to fetch him, smiling, and Namor ruffled the boy’s hair before handing him over. You could be happy.
But Wakanda needed a protector. Shuri poked at her food, trying to nibble at the chicken. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight, she thought dismally. Ah, well. Nakia will have to deal with my under-eye circles again, I suppose. We are probably running out of concealer.
When dinner was over, she did not miss the way Namor’s eyes trailed over her as she rose and left. The food on his plate had gone untouched, and his hands, curled into fists, were pale at the knuckles; his lips parted as he watched her go.
Notes:
TRANSLATIONS:
inkosazana - Xhosa for "princess"
ts'ée na' - Yucatec Mayan for "aunt"
sibulela - Xhosa for "we give thanks"
Chapter 20: The Light That Enters
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
When the sun came streaming through the windows, Shuri sat up, momentarily disoriented. She had been having a dream about the ocean, about bioluminescent plants that lit her way: there had been a tree down there, somewhere, and… well, now the dream was fading in her waking mind.
Oh.
It is my wedding day.
She kicked her legs out of bed and slid out, surprised she had managed to sleep so well. It was an hour or so past sunrise, and her room was full of morning light, pure and clear as if nothing in the world had ever touched it before. Opening her wardrobe, she stepped back and stared at the dress, meticulously put on its form. The dress, the one that the Talokanil women and half the royal seamstresses had worked on for days, the one she would put on today and be married in.
Long, rectangular panels of sheer, white linen fell from the delicately puffed shoulder-sleeves, the heaviest, longest one in the back, the front one brushing her ankles, and each and every panel of linen was edged in pearls and jade and coral and feathers, thickly embroidered with flowers and plants, with entwined serpents and black jaguar heads, with miniscule beads of blue and purple vibranium, gold thread, silver thread, thread of black and green and purple, of red and blue and yellow. Around the throat, and over the breast was laid an intricate network of heavy, carved beads, similar to the one she had been given in Talokan when she had first stepped foot in the underwater cenote, except the beads here were not only jade and polished coral, but also solid, gleaming, raw vibranium, blue and purple: pearls and gold spaced them. There was also a headdress: a strand of jade and pearls would circle her head, and two hanging strands would frame her face. Jade discs chased with gold were ready for her ears, and her forearms would be clasped in thick gold bracelets that reached from wrist to elbow, set with jade, pearls, coral, and vibranium all carved in shapes of jaguar heads and serpents. There were no shoes: she would go barefoot.
This is going to be so heavy, she thought, exhaling hard. Nothing she could not handle, though. As soon as the ceremony was over, she would take it off and change into a lighter gown for the wedding feast, and after that…
No. Don’t think about that yet. Don’t get distracted. She dragged her hands down her face and turned away from the dress, looking blindly down at the river, glittering in the sun. Was he down there even now? Getting dressed? Thinking of her?
The door opened. “Shuri!” cried Nakia, rushing in and hugging her. She was carrying a cosmetics box and was not yet dressed, wearing only a simple caftan and a silk scarf over her hair that rustled softly against Shuri’s cheek. Then, Nakia stepped back and examined her face with a critical eye. “You look like you slept better.”
“I did. Hello, Namora,” said Shuri, glancing over Nakia’s shoulder and smiling at the Talokanil woman, who slipped in, holding a small box in her light blue hands. Namora returned the smile and set the box aside. She wore a simple gown of crinkled yellow fabric, and as more people filed in carrying bags and boxes, Shuri began to feel a bit overwhelmed.
“My lord K’uk’ulkan sends me with a message for the wedding,” said Namora, settling down at Shuri’s side as Nakia plopped her down and started opening the box of makeup. “It is this: don’t be nervous.”
“Very kind of him,” said Shuri wryly. “I feel like a snake is eating my belly.”
Nakia scoffed. “You are just hungry. You did not eat anything last night.”
“Neither did K’uk’ulkan,” said Namora very archly. Nakia laughed, and Shuri found herself smiling anyway.
“What did you bring, Namora?” she asked, indicating the box.
“I have been charged to tie up your hair for the wedding,” she explained, opening it and taking out leather thongs and a few long pins of jade. Nakia raised an eyebrow and exchanged a look with Shuri, who blinked very quickly. “A high knot, as is customary among noble women, to show off your face, and balance the headdress,” continued Namora, noticing the looks on their faces. “It will not be very tight, and you may let it back down again easily after the ceremony. K’uk’ulkan has explained that you do not care for others touching your hair, but I have done this many times for many women who have been wed in Talokan, and I would be honored to tell my warriors that I did this thing for the Black Jaguar.”
Shuri considered this. “Okay,” she said at last, slipping her bonnet off. Namora clapped her hands in delight and turned for her box. “Nakia can help if you get stuck.”
“Do not mess with her edges,” Nakia put in, already unscrewing a tube of dark orange concealer for Shuri’s under-eyes. “I will handle those.”
“Of course,” said Namora, and began to hum softly under her breath as she began to work.
When all was done, and Nakia and Namora had changed into their ceremony clothes, Shuri stood, weighed down by jade and vibranium and pearls, and stared at herself in the mirror as she tied his mother’s bracelet on her left wrist, where it was sure to be unnoticed in all the rest of the wealth and abundance she was dripping in. Her base makeup had come out flawlessly, and Nakia had meticulously painted bright purple and white lines curving under her cheeks, a pair of mirrored dots near the inside corners of her eyes, a few dots above her brows. Her hair was twisted back and up in an elegant, high looped knot with her braids wrapped snugly at the base, perfectly balancing her facial structure, and Nakia had gone over Namora’s work bit by bit, adjusting and loosening or tightening, but there was really not much to fix. Pearls and jade carved into flowers studded the loops of hair. Combined with the headdress and the gown, Shuri felt more of a princess than she ever had before.
Maybe it is just because I have never worn anything this elaborate in my life. She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Eh, it’s a little uncomfortable. I will simply not bend at the hips.
The feathers rustled as Riri Williams hurried in. Her braids had been taken out, her natural hair bouncing in clouds of curls above a bright blue gown printed with spiraling, circular red accents, gold thread worked into the patterns. “Oh my god!” she squealed, clapping her hands together and spinning on her right foot. The beaded bracelets on her wrists rattled softly. “You look so good! Aaah! Can you even walk in all of that?”
“I haven’t tried yet,” said Shuri, laughing. As always, Riri’s enthusiasm was infectious. “It’s almost time?”
“Yup. Nakia and me and Namora and baby T’Challa are all gonna walk with you.” She hopped rapidly from foot to foot, beaming with excitement. “That merman’s gonna lose his damn mind when he sees you. Oh, my god. I wish I had my phone.”
The walk through the city streets to the sacred grove was not as long as Shuri had been dreading. Wakanda’s streets were clean, and her bare feet padded lightly on the hard, smooth surface, her head high as she walked with Nakia on one arm and Namora on the other, Riri walking ahead with a wooden bowl heaped full of every flower that grew in Wakanda and tossing them to the ground every couple of yards so Shuri could walk on them. Ahead of her, Zawavari was leading the procession, hands up and lifted to the sky as she chanted the traditional call-and-repeat to the onlookers that was a staple of every Wakandan wedding.
Shuri kaRamonda, Shuri kaT'Chaka!
Inkosazana yethu!
Uyaphi? Uyaphi?
Ukutshata nokumkani!
Ngowuphi ukumkani?
Ukumkani waseTalokan!
People lined the streets in their best clothes, waving and cheering, shouting for good luck. As they passed through, the people of Wakanda fell in behind them, singing and beating on hand-drums, unbridled delight filling the air. Shuri saw the greens of the River Tribe, the purples of the Merchant Tribe, the reds and oranges of the Mining Tribe, the browns and whites of the Jabari, the blue and gold of the Border Tribe. There were even a fair few Talokanil, dressed in white and red and yellow, singing in their own tongue, singing for joy with all the others, dancing in the streets as the procession swelled and grew until it stretched almost all the way back to the Citadel. Zawavari’s voice was soon drowned out by the singing and drumming. The whole of the world might have been roaring for her wedding, and all Shuri could do was keep walking.
Once they had reached the grove, the singing quieted down to silence, everyone keeping very solemn and grave as they parted off, finding places to stand or sit in the thick moss. Shuri remained where she was as everyone sat, her eyes searching frantically for Namor, and then, as two people parted, leaving a space between them, she saw him.
He stood, straight as a rod, one hand clasped over his wrist by a circle that Sope had marked out in the moss with flowers of every color: white and red, yellow and pink and purple. Other people might have been there, standing with him: Shuri took no notice.
Because he was looking at her, now: he had found her, and his lips parted as he lifted his chin very slightly, taking her in with a look of awe on his face. Namor wore a long, heavy cloak thrown over his left shoulder: tightly woven, red and white, and fringed in gold and jade pendants, secured at the right shoulder with a single pauldron of gold. A white, loose tunic embroidered at the hems and elbow-length sleeves with red, blue, and green thread reached to his waist, and he had exchanged his heavy gold collar for a single enormous piece of jade set with vibranium and a huge pearl that hung from his neck, covering half his chest. His wrists were adorned with gold cuffs set with coral and jade and vibranium, his belt was heavy leather studded with vibranium, his thighs were crisscrossed with strips of white leather, and the heavy triangular loincloth hanging to his knees was scarlet and gold, fringed with heavy gold beads. Barefoot, he stood in the moss, and the wings on his ankles flickered and pulled in close to his skin: they were the only sign of his inward emotions. On his head he wore nothing at all, but his jade ear-flares caught the light like sunshine through leaves, and a single line of black paint stretched from cheek to cheek across his nose.
Shuri did not notice when everyone had taken their place and a stillness had fallen on the grove. She was looking only at Namor. Nakia had to nudge her a little. “Everyone’s ready,” she whispered softly. “Go to him, sister.”
Her mouth was dry. She took a step, her heavy beads clacking against each other. Namor was gazing right at her, as if he could not tear his eyes away. Another step. Another. Her feet sank into soft damp moss, chilling her toes. Another step, another. Sope was smiling, the breeze was blowing gently, and Namor was waiting for her, just ahead. Two more steps, and that was all. She reached him and stood at his side, and at a soft word from Sope they both turned to face her.
“We honor our ancestors,” intoned the shaman in Xhosa, reaching her arm out and pouring water on the ground. “Water, to nourish them.” Zawavari handed Sope another cup, and she poured that one out, too. “And beer, to make them glad of heart.” Someone was burning incense and spices: smoke was drifting among the mossy trees, the scent of it filling Shuri’s nose. She hoped she wasn’t going to sneeze. Beams of sunlight struck the ground, made solid by the wafting smoke. “We honor the ancestors of Shuri, daughter of Ramonda: we honor the ancestors of Cha’ah Toh Almehen, son of Ixchel Ejen. May they hear. May they be honored.”
“May they be honored,” echoed the audience softly.
“Step within the circle,” said Sope, and Shuri and Namor stepped in, so that they were fully enclosed in the flowers. At a direction from Zawavari, they both knelt facing each other, and took each other’s hands. Namor’s fingers were trembling a little, and Shuri squeezed his hands, trying to be reassuring. His eyes darted down to her left wrist and back up to her face, and he swallowed hard.
Sope turned and took a conch shell from Zawavari, then, speaking in careful Yucatec Mayan for this part of the ceremony: Namor had assisted her with learning the right words to say. At her side, Zawavari translated into Xhosa for the rest of the crowd. “We call to the four winds, to present this woman and this man to them.” She faced east and blew, a long, haunting sound. “East, to call upon the fire of the spirit within them.” Sope turned north, then, and blew again. “North, for the air of their breath, that lives within them.” She turned a quarter again to the west and blew. “West, for the water of the blood that gives all life and that is within them.” Finally, she turned south and winded one last call that echoed through the thick trees. “And south, for the earth and the body that it makes, which all these things reside within.”
Shuri saw, to her astonishment, that Namor had tears brimming from his eyes and dripping down his face, leaving brown track-marks in the black paint across his cheeks. She tightened her grip on his hand again and he squeezed back quickly, sniffing a little.
Zawavari stepped forward and set a tray between them. Shuri smiled as she saw what was on it: this was always her favorite part of a Wakandan wedding. “And now we will taste of the four elements of a marriage,” announced the shaman-in-training, beaming. “Take the lemon and taste it, Shuri and Cha’ah Toh Almehen: this is the sour taste of the disappointment that will come to you in your marriage, for no marriage is without its trials.”
Namor’s eyes did not leave Shuri as they both picked up the lemon slice and bit in. She felt immediately guilty: perhaps for him that grief would come sooner than later— but she forgot her emotions as her lips puckered and she screwed her face up. Several people chuckled. Zawavari smiled and held her hands out, palm-up, continuing the ritual. “Bitterness, too, is a part of any marriage. You will fight, you will have anger, you will disagree and argue. Taste of the vinegar, that you may understand that no marriage is without bitterness, and remember to never let it take hold of you.”
Namor sipped the small cup of vinegar and his face contorted into a moue of disgust. Half the spectators laughed, and he stuck his tongue out as Shuri gulped down her own cup as fast as she could, wishing she could spit it to the ground. It tasted awful and dried her tongue out. Oh, just you wait, she thought, grinning at Namor.
Zawavari waited until the hilarity had died, and smiled. “The most desired part of a marriage is often heat. Passion is a good thing, and helps two people to grow close in love, but passion may also grow into anger or hatred, if it is not expressed properly. So, Cha’ah Toh Almehen, Shuri, taste of the cayenne, to remind yourselves that you will always support and encourage each other in passion, lest your passions consume you.”
Shuri was fairly sure she could hear Sam Wilson laughing over everyone else as she sucked the cayenne pepper off the spoon. Across from her, Namor was coughing, eyes red and streaming as he shook his head, laughing at himself and fanning his mouth. Finally, Zawavari indicated the last small dish.
“At last, we come to sweetness. Sweetness makes a marriage happy: joy will be come in great abundance to two who pledge to work hard at building it, at nourishing it. May all sweet things be brought to you. Taste of the honey, Shuri and Cha’ah Toh Almehen.”
His eyes did not leave hers as they ate the dollop of honey off the provided shallow dishes. It was almost too sweet: Shuri’s teeth ached, but the color of the brown raw honey was almost the same color as his eyes when the sunlight hit them just so. Sope revolved slowly in a circle, the smoke billowing about her knees and ankles from the little altar where she was keeping the conch shell, intoning in Xhosa. “If anyone can give a reason to bar the union of this man and this woman, speak or be silent forevermore.” Nobody spoke. Nobody even moved a muscle. “Kulungilie,” she said approvingly, it is good, and motioned for Shuri and Namor to clasp hands facing each other again, kneeling on the moss. “Shuri, daughter of Ramonda, daughter of T’Chaka, sister of T’Challa, aunt to T’Challa: Black Panther of Wakanda, Princess of Wakanda. Do you consent to wed the man before you? To shelter him, nourish him with the fruits of the earth; to tie yourself to him and none other? To defend and protect him, to love and honor him?”
“I so swear that all this will be my doing,” said Shuri softly, never taking her eyes off Namor’s face. “And in my promise I offer tortillas and cacao, to signify my oath.” Nakia came up to them very regally, setting a basket of tortillas and a cup of chocolate by the circle of flowers. Namor let go of Shuri’s hand, reached out, and took a bite of the bread, then drank the chocolate: his eyes flashed down, then up to Shuri as he smiled.
“Cha’ah Toh Almehen, K’uk’ulkan, son of Ixchel Ejen, brother to none: Feathered Serpent of Talokan, God-King of Talokan. Do you consent to wed the woman before you? To shelter her, nourish her with the fruits of the earth; to tie yourself to her and none other? To defend and protect her, to love and honor her?” He had clearly learned this part of the ceremony by heart, and his eyes gleamed at the words Inyoka Eneentsiba, thought Shuri privately thought “Feathered Serpent” sounded better in Yucatec Mayan.
“I so swear that all this will be my doing,” said Namor very firmly. “And in my promise I offer maize and cacao, to signify my oath.” Attuma, looking very emotional and dressed in his best, came up with a woven tray containing an ear of corn and a cup of chocolate. Shuri picked up the corn and took a bite, reveling in the taste— she was actually very hungry, and it was juicy and warm, buttered and salted. A gulp of sweet chocolate, and she had set them back down, taking Namor’s hands again.
“Iyenziwa,” said Sope, raising her hands high. It is done. Zawavari handed her a crown of flowers, which she set on Shuris’ head. Then Zawavari handed Sope another one, which Sope put gently on on Namor’s. White and red flowers brushed his forehead, and he shut his eyes as if some great weight had been lifted off him.
“Iyenziwa!” cried Zawavari, facing east, then north, then west, then south and proclaiming it to all four corners. “Iyenziwa! Iyenziwa! Iyenziwa! They are wed!”
The guests exploded into shouts of joy, singing and dancing, chanting and cheering. Sope could barely be heard over the commotion. “You may pledge before all with a token of love, if you so desire,” she shouted.
“This is the only token I have to give,” Namor said, smiling, and leaned across the space between them to kiss Shuri on the mouth, firm and warm. His tongue slipped out and pressed along her bottom lip, sending heat rocketing down her spine. Someone wolf-whistled. She was pretty sure it was Barnes.
“Eh! Save that for tonight!” cried Okoye, laughing, and Shuri pulled away, her flower crown slipping over her eye, hot-cheeked with embarrassment as gales of laughter swept the crowd. She didn’t remember standing up or walking out of the circle with Namor, she only remembered Nakia saying we have a dinner to get ready for and being caught up in a joyful clamor of noise as hundreds and hundreds of people began to file out of the grove, singing and drumming.
Shuri was starving.
Her appetite had come back the moment she had sat down at the long head table outside in the massive courtyard and the scents of the enormous feast had found her nose. Making herself eat slowly was a trial, but she tried her best to do it anyway. There was just so much food! Flatbreads baked with garlic and ginger, beet chermoula, pear sauce, goat cheese infused with herbs, with garlic, with honey and berries, black-eyed peas in bowls the size of her head: roasted lamb and beef and antelope venison, couscous, fish baked in thick crusts of turmeric, fruit of every kind poached in wine, in saffron; corn cooked over charcoal grills and rubbed with cream and paprika and salt, vegetable curry with so many spices that Sam Wilson reached for milk with his eyes streaming, fried yucca, plantains, rice pudding, mango pudding, chocolate, coconut pudding with nutmeg— the list went on and on. The courtyard held thousands, and it seemed all of Wakanda and Talokan were crammed in, seated on the ground, on the chairs, on cushions, on walls. The cooks had outdone themselves, truly. Shuri made a mental note to thank them personally tomorrow morning.
At her left side, Namor picked at his food, barely eating. She chose not to comment on it: M’Baku was sitting to her right, and she felt that if she said anything he might tease. Something about the set of Namor’s jaw indicated that he did not feel like being playfully mocked at this point in the proceedings. He had given her a quick look when she had entered with Nakia and little T’Challa, his eyes slipping over the gown she had changed into, and then he had simply… sat there looking strained and pushing his food around his plate.
Shuri looked over at him covertly. He had not changed so much as taken off some of the heavier adornments: out of the heavy gold pauldrons and cloak, and without the thick black line of paint across his cheeks, he looked less… holy, more approachable; more like a man, and less like a stern statue of some ancient god. She wondered if the jade plate hanging over his chest was bothering him. Glancing quickly down at her own outfit, she figured she could rule out her appearance as a reason for his behavior. Her own gown was not stained or inappropriate— well, at least for a Wakandan wedding; a long, flowing white-to-green ombre skirt gathered into a stitched set of folds at the navel, something like an ancient Egyptian loincloth. The waistband was stitched in a thick layer of glittering gold sequins, and her chest was covered by twin wedge shaped panels embroidered in gold and black to evoke the dappled patterns of a jaguar’s fur that met above her navel and left her sides and sternum bare. A design of sequined wings picked out in gold and black and white spread out above the leopard spots and over her shoulders, flowing into a cloak that swept the floor and echoed the ombre effect of the skirt, feathers embroidered and sequined as if they were falling from her shoulders. She’d let her braids down, and they hung over her shoulder, clinking softly with gold and little jade beads as she ate.
“My friend, you are not eating,” said M’Baku warmly, leaning past Shuri to look at Namor. “Is the food not to your liking?”
“What I have tasted is very good,” Namor said stiffly.
M’Baku’s eyes went from him to Shuri, one brow raised, and she pressed her lips together and shook her head at him slightly, no, don’t. Clearly, he must have understood. “This has been a trying week for us all,” he said. “You both must be very tired.”
“Yes. Tired.” Namor’s mouth twitched. They had been sitting at the table for almost two hours, and the sun was almost finished setting by now, painting the western sky in washes of crimson and orange and faint purple, the dusty, leftover blue of a fading day stretching out over their heads like a canvas.
T’Challa piped up from Nakia’s side. “I don’t want to go to sleep,” he said fervently, his eyes taking in the lights being lit in the massive courtyard. “Mama says there will be dancing and music.”
“Yes, and your bedtime is in thirty minutes,” said Nakia, pinching his cheeks fondly. He deflated and sat back, his lower lip jutting out. “Ah-ah, do not give me that.”
“When I am a grownup, I will stay up all night long,” he mumbled.
Namor chuckled softly and turned to him. “When you are a grownup, T’Challa son of T’Challa, you will look back and say, ah, I wish I was little T’Challa again, and I could go to bed early.”
“I will not,” said T’Challa, half-smiling.
“Oh, yes you will. I have been a grownup for a very long time, and it is true. Ask your mother.”
“He is right,” said Nakia, shaking her head very solemnly.
“But you’re a king,” T’Challa informed him. “Kings do as they like. Don’t they?”
M’Baku slapped his thigh and let out a guffaw. “Ah, not always, little nephew. Kings must work very hard to make life good for their people.” Shuri’s face was warm. Namor had reached out to her under the table, his fingers gently trailing across her left wrist, idling over the ties of his mother’s bracelet, and even that little touch was making her cheeks hot and her breath shallow. “But I think you might be right. Kings may decide when they go to bed. Especially on their own wedding nights. Do you not agree, K’uk’ulkan?”
Namor lifted his chin. “I do,” he answered, his fingers slightly withdrawing from Shuri’s arm. Her skin felt cold in his absence. “And if I made such a choice for myself, I would have gone to bed hours ago.” Shuri could feel her pulse in her ears, thudding with embarrassment. “But I would not leave my people so soon in the evening. And I must dance with them before I go.”
“Dance as you please, then,” said M’Baku, smiling widely. “If I insisted on strict tradition and kept you from your bed until the early hours, I am sure I would be rewarded sooner or later with a knock on the head from a great big spear.”
Shuri choked on her wine. Nakia snorted and covered her mouth as T’Challa, missing the joke, looked between grownups for an explanation. Shuri leaned forward. “It is a grownup joke,” she explained, grinning. “You will understand when you are older.”
The boy beamed back at her, the gap in his front teeth showing. “Are you going to kiss him again, Auntie?”
“Oh, yes, lots and lots,” said Shuri cheerfully, watching Namor get flustered in return and almost drop a cup of beer on himself as he stood up.
“M’Baku is right. I think it is time for a dance, don’t you?” he said quickly, smoothing down his tunic and taking Shuri’s hand. Nakia pressed her hands to the table and bent her head, shaking with silent peals of helpless laughter as M’Baku waved for the music to start and Namor tugged Shuri out to the middle of the open courtyard.
“Ah, I was having so much fun with my nephew,” she protested, grinning. Half the people who had finished eating already crowded them, shouting well-wishes and saluting Namor.
“You can have your fun another time,” he said softly, reaching for her. His hands, hot and firm, brushed over the exposed skin at her waist, and his eyes flickered down, then back up. “That dress… vexes me.”
“It’s just a dress.” Someone was playing drums, and Namor pulled her close, thigh to thigh.
“Just a dress,” he agreed, voice gone dark as his hand spread out beneath her cape, up her bare sides, her back. A soft sound emerged from his throat, and Shuri felt her pulse quicken. “Just a dress. And this is just a body.” The other hand slipped down, briefly cupping her backside, hidden by the cape, and she made a sound of her own. “And this is just a very fine p’u’uk iit.”
“You had never told me your name before,” she whispered, and his hand stilled. “Your real name.”
Namor moved his hand, sliding it up her side and down her arm to finally hold her hand. “To name a thing is to give it power… or to take the power away,” he told her, revolving them both in a circle to the beat of the drums. Shuri did her best to match his steps and the way his hips moved, but she was not the world’s best dancer— Nakia, on the other hand, had left the table and was putting everything she had into it as she danced with Okoye and Attuma and Namora, off to the left. “You have not yet asked what it means.”
Sweat was beading on her chest, her forehead. It was warm, surrounded by so many people dancing. “I will ask you when we are alone.”
That must have pleased him, because Namor smiled and said nothing more, only danced. Shuri gave up, panting, within ten minutes, and still he danced as she watched from the sidelines: one heel raised at all times, his powerful thighs corded with muscle as the rest of the Talokanil joined him and the singing and drumming steadily increased to a fever pitch over the course of what had to have been more than half an hour. It was like some form of higher consciousness, she thought, watching Attuma’s eyes unfocus and Namora’s face turn to the sky. A spiritual experience. The opening of a door between worlds. Like the heart-shaped herb’s effects, almost, only these people were not dying and still, only seeing with their inner eyes, they were alive: so alive. If I had the strength of the Black Panther, I would join them. I would dance forever and ever. She almost resented her weaker stamina, watching them as Namor lifted his hands, singing— or was it a chant? Something long-winded, formal and metered: his people responded in unison, and then he was coming to her, sweat dripping off his body, soaked through his clothes, his chest heaving like a bellows. Every line of his wet tunic clung to his body beneath. She could smell him. He carried the scent of salt, of musk, of wet linen and the tang of metal, and his eyes were gazing at her; black, black, black.
“You are my wife,” he said roughly, when he had enough air to.
Shuri straightened her back. “You are my husband,” she whispered. If this was a ritual, nobody had briefed her on it, but that felt like the right thing to say. Namor nodded briefly, then turned and saluted M’Baku, who nodded back at him. She had just enough time to think, oh, Bast, it’s happening, we are going, before words had been exchanged and Namor had taken her hand in his overheated, damp one, trembling with exertion, and they had left the courtyard and gone up into the palace, where the air was cool inside and there was nobody to bother them.
Namor paused outside the doors of the room that had been prepared for them, his breath back to a normal pace. “I have officiated every wedding in Talokan for five hundred years,” he said softly, gazing at the doors. “I never considered that there might be such… torment involved. To be forced to wait so long to see each other. To touch each other.”
Shuri wet her lips nervously. “I missed you, too,” she admitted, looking over at him. “And I’m… I was… I am a little— ah— just a bit worried.”
“What do you have to worry about?” asked Namor, turning to look at her. Sweat still shone on his forehead and cheeks, drying in the cool air.
“Ah, you know, just— new— new experiences, I suppose. And I don’t have the same strength I used to have. Before. When we— did things.” Bast, I sound like a foolish child. “I— let’s not talk about that now, ah? Will you tell me what your name means? Ch’aah Toh Almehen?”
He smiled softly, his teeth briefly flashing white. “Ah. Not Ch’aah, it is Cha’ah. Funny that you should say it like that.”
Shuri returned the smile. “Why is it funny?”
“It is like a joke,” he explained. “A word that can mean another thing if you say it a little differently. Cha’ah means, ah, the light shining off a polished thing. The light that enters your eyes and blinds you for a time to all else. But Ch’aah means water dripping down from something. A little drop.”
“Oh,” said Shuri, pleased. “Well, you are dripping all over my floor, so I suppose it is apt.”
A chuckle left his throat. “Yes. And toh means the right thing to do, or straight, a straight line.” He gestured with the edge of his flat hand. “Good. Upright. Almehen is just the… power, perhaps, or title I would have had on the surface, since I was born to a noblewoman. It means generous. Good-hearted.”
“Oh, like the word gentleman in English,” said Shuri, glad of the linguistics conversation to take her mind briefly off the rest of the night. “From jentil, Old French. Born of a good family. Valiant. I see. So all together, I suppose, your name means something like…” She frowned. “The shining Lord who… blinds everyone… and is good and righteous?”
He laughed aloud at her clumsy translation. “I hope I do not blind everyone. More like… hm.” Namor drummed his fingers against his thigh. “I have never translated it to English before. The Generous Lord Who Dazzles With Radiance and Rules Rightly.”
“That is a mouthful,” said Shuri, grinning. “I think I’ll stick with it in the original language.”
“It would please me to hear you say it to me,” said Namor softly, his hand grazing up the back of her bare left arm. She shivered and took a breath, determined to get it right.
“Cha’ah Toh Almehen,” she said firmly and slowly, ensuring the glottal stop was where it belonged this time.
“Very good.” His hand found the nape of her neck, and she leaned into his touch, reveling in the warmth of him, the solid presence there. “And now, Shuri, I think it is time we go see what sort of room they have prepared for us.”
“Okay,” she whispered, swallowing. Then, he lowered his hand, opened the door, and stood aside, letting her walk in first: he shut it behind her and the lights clicked on, warm and golden. She walked a bit further in and looked around: it looked much the same as it had always looked when she had seen it before. Warm, earthy colors, the angular patterns of the wood paneling on the walls, the fresh soft sheets, the rugs, the teak platform, the low sofa and table and the pillows on the rug: all of it was familiar, and yet alien as if she had never seen it before. Someone had put a large covered tray on the table, and there were scattered marigolds and jasmine on the floor and bed. Namor walked in a wide circle, looking at everything but touching nothing, and when he had completed his round he turned toward her.
“I,” he said softly, “am going to bathe.”
“There’s— a shower and a tub in the bathroom,” she told him, and immediately wanted to kick herself. What a stupid thing to say: of course there were bathing facilities in the bathroom. “It’s— very big. The tub, I mean.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “I see. You may join me if you like. Or not. It is entirely your choice.”
“Oh. Okay,” she said, and watched as he walked around the bamboo-woven partition that divided the bathroom from the bedroom. The moment he was out of sight and the shower started running, Shuri dived for the left-hand bedside table and opened the drawer. Nothing was in there except a few small folded pieces of cloth. She hurried to the other side of the bed, heart pounding, and opened the other drawer in the other table, sighing in relief as she pulled out a small bottle of personal lubricant, an American brand she was not familiar with, but which was silicone-based, meaning it would not absorb rapidly into their skin. She had not even considered that. Bast be praised for Riri Williams. She set it on the table and went to the mirror, exhaling deeply.
From inside the bathroom, she heard Namor. “Princess, you should see this bath.”
Her interest was piqued. “Really?”
“Yes.” There was a heavy slop and rippling sound: he had clearly just gotten into the water, and there was a brief, cut-off moan as he settled in. That sound did something to Shuri: sent her spine tingling and her heart thudding strangely.
It’s fine. It’s just him. I’ll get in and it will be fine, and if it’s not, I’ll yell for Barnes. The mental image of an incensed Barnes storming the bedroom was enough to make her grin, and some of the tension eased away. She undid the closures on her cloak, letting it fall to the floor, then wriggled out of her dress and her underthings until she was standing as naked as the day she had been born in front of the mirror. Shuri twisted from side to side, lifting her arms to sniff them and wrinkling her nose: she must have been sweating more than she realized. The flat planes of her lean belly, tight with muscle, gleamed in the soft light of the bedroom. He likes me. My body. My heart. Me. All of me. He does. And I am going to him. A single strip of crisp, tight black curls marked a line down her pubic mound as if to say, this is the right way, down here! Shuri fought a grin at the thought of Namor unable to find his way without a sign to show him. She put her hands on her hips and twisted from side to side, then bent over and stretched her legs and arms before tying her braids up off her neck and shoulders in a bun on the top of her head. Okay. I am going. Everything will be okay.
Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself and walked to the partition, circling around it and into the bathroom.
Namor was resting in the deep stone tub, only his shoulders exposed above a blanket of white waterlilies and green leaves, steam rising in the humid air. His discarded clothes had already been put down the laundry chute, but his jewelry was all neatly laid out on the bathroom counter, apart from his ear flares and his nose plug. She crept in as silently as she could, but his eyes opened, just the barest slit of dark brown peering through. “Princess,” he greeted her, his voice gone husky. His hair, still wet from the shower, lay plastered flat along his head.
“My king,” she answered, and the slightest, smallest hint of a smile played at his mouth. She crept closer, her belly twisting in knots as she bent her knees to bring her face close to his. He turned his face up, eyes searching her face, and had just started to sit up in the water, bringing his mouth close to hers, when she whispered, “Move your feet.” Namor paused, smirked, and drew his knees up, making space as she slipped into the water at his feet and stretched her legs out alongside his. The heat soaked into her all the way to her bones, and she sighed, resting her head on the broad rim of the stone tub. It was more refreshing than anything: the oxygen in the water melted away all her fatigue. Shuri wondered if it had the same effect on Namor. From the way he shifted at the other end of the tub, resting his cheek on the edge and watching her with bright, alert eyes, she thought maybe it did.
Slowly, she slid her right foot along the front of his left shin, avoiding his wings, and then along his calf. Firm, solid muscle, smooth skin. His eyelids fluttered a little. Shuri caught her bottom lip between her teeth and explored further, up past his knee, to his thigh: a great expanse of skin, lying inert, the muscle beneath quiet. “Tormenter,” he murmured. Then the skin below her foot flexed and hardened: he sat up in a rush of water, disturbing the flowers, and leaned forward until he was in the middle. “Come here.” Those dark, honey-brown eyes were fixed on hers.
Shuri sat up then, meeting him with her forehead softly, brushing her nose against his. “I stink,” she mumbled as he gave out little sharp breaths, ragged air gusting over her chin and cheeks. “I need to wash off with soap.”
“I don’t care,” whispered Namor, his lips just brushing hers as he found her arms, lifted them up over his shoulders. She clung to him tightly. “After. You can do that after.” His mouth pressed into her jaw, his lips soft and warm, and he kissed her hard, there, up the column of her throat, his tongue flat on her skin as he groaned. “I have been— waiting— so long. For you. For this night. Shuri.”
Trying to say, please just be careful, I’m not as strong as I was, came out instead in an unintelligible smear of sound that seemed to come from the center of Shuri’s very soul. Her heart was pounding wildly, every bit of her body was hot and prickling, and her belly felt full of molten gold. No, not her belly— it was lower, between her legs: she was sure if she had not been in the water, she would have been dripping. Ch'ah, she thought stupidly, ch'ah means dripping. She forgot all about asking him to be careful. “Please,” she managed to blurt out, just before he found her mouth and nipped and sucked, his tongue sliding along her mouth, her lips. She moaned aloud, and Namor echoed hers a moment later, his right hand cupping her left breast, his strong thumb slipping across her nipple again and again; his other hand was frantically clutching at her back, her waist— her hip, then, and brushed against the front, between her legs, where she was burning the most. Shuri yelped and jerked her pelvis forward, clinging to his head as he tugged her closer, into his lap, his hand gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. A great slosh of water went over the edge of the tub. She barely heard it. Something warm and solid was trapped between his hip and the soft part of her belly where her thigh met her torso. All the moisture in her mouth evaporated as she wriggled against it, and watched his face go tight. “Please,” she begged again, and he kissed her hard, hard, almost painfully hard, before pulling away sharply with a slosh of water and bracing himself against the far end of the tub.
What? What’s wrong? She remained where she was, kneeling at his feet as he took in deep breaths, his lips parted, his eyes dilated so widely they were almost black. “You have to,” he began, and swallowed. “Ah. Shuri. I am. I am trying to be gentle with you. I do not want to break you.”
Oh. She knew she should feel touched by his consideration— after all, he had remembered and taken into account her physical limitations, but she only felt a little frustrated. Remember, you wanted this, she reminded herself, and took a deep breath, trying to banish her frustration. “Yes. I’m sorry, I…”
“No, no. Don’t be sorry. Don’t apologize to me.” He raked a hand through his damp hair, water dribbling down his cheeks, and took a long look at the water, exhaling hard. When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured, every word clear. “I have been burning for you. Every day that we have been apart, I have been burning, and it has been made all the more agonizing to be at your side in front of so many, unable to touch you. And now that the time comes, I… I am afraid.”
What? What? He was afraid? Him? The God-King of Talokan? He was afraid? Shuri’s mouth dropped open. “Afraid of what?”
Namor chuckled dryly. “Ah. Afraid I will harm you. Afraid I will lose my mind with desire. Afraid I will wake and this will all be a dream. Many things. But moreso I am afraid that if I take you in full, I will not be able to let you go when you choose to attempt to put on the mantle of the Panther once more.”
Shuri ducked, putting her face straight down below the surface of the bath and took a good, deep breath of oxygen-rich water, trying to compose herself. So many emotions and thoughts went racing through her head at once that she pressed her hands to her eyes, comforting herself with rote recitations of mathematical formulas until her mind calmed down and she surfaced again, blinking water out of her eyes. Namor was watching her. “I would never keep you away from Talokan, and you cannot keep me from Wakanda,” she whispered softly. “We cannot pursue our own interests above what is good for our people. That much is still true.”
“The curse of kingship,” said Namor ruefully, closing his eyes.
“I do have one interest. I don’t want you to burn,” said Shuri, making her way to him in the tub. He made a sound in his throat, guttural and low, his lips parting as she slid back into his lap, as she traced the lines of his face with her fingers. “I don’t want you to be afraid.” The pads of her fingertips trailed over the bump in the hard bridge of his nose: the tired hollows under his eyes, his high, blunt cheekbones. “And I will take every precaution I can when the time comes. I swear.”
His eyelids fluttered as she cupped his cheek, and he turned his head into her hand almost unconsciously, his hot breath washing over her palm and fingers. “In xk’eech,” he murmured, and she did not need a translator to know what he was saying.
“I will not leave the man I love without any thought for protecting myself, my people, and his,” Shuri whispered, her belly trembling with excitement at finally saying it aloud to him. The last defense was down: it had been said.
Dark eyes snapped open at once, meeting hers like lightning meets earth. In another breath, he had reached up and seized her by the back of the neck, finding her mouth with his again, his hands roaming all over her. Shuri tried her best to keep up with him, but had to settle for clutching his neck and shoulders and face as he kissed her everywhere his mouth could reach, throat and jaw and chest and lips, as he lifted her closer to him; as he kicked off, holding her close, flew upward out of the bath, landed, came down wrong on his feet, sprawled out face-up on the wet floor, and laughed aloud as he pulled her closer atop him. “The man you love?” Namor whispered, kissing her again. “Say it again. Say it. I wish to hear you say it.”
“I love you,” she breathed between kisses, tugging him up to a sitting position against the tub. “And I don’t care if you are called K’uk’ulkan or Cha’ah Toh Almehen or Namor or Inyoka Eneentsiba, I don’t care. I love you in every language.”
There were tears in his eyes. “My Sun-Eyed Black Jaguar,” he whispered, voice gone thick with emotion. “My princess. My Shuri.” He kissed her again, cupping her face in his hands, and rolled over swiftly, smoothly: Shuri lay on her back on the floor, hands clutching his back as he kissed her down her throat, down her sternum, on both breasts— his soft tongue paying special attention to her nipples, suckling and kissing, his bearded cheeks rasping against her skin until she was shivering and tugging at his hair. He went further down, then, laying a thick wet stripe along her belly, down to the thin strip of hair— but he missed it entirely, and lifted her right leg by the knee, kissing the inside of her thigh until she was wet and squirming, then took the other one, licking and suckling up the inside of her left thigh.
Bast, Bast Bast Bast, please, please just, just—
Was she praying, or cursing? Was this frustration or delight? Could it be both at once? Yes, Shuri thought blindly, it could be, and it was.
“I am going to taste you here,” he said roughly, and she looked down between her legs, gasping for air: Namor’s head was between her thighs, his dark eyes gazing up at her like a supplicant kneeling at an altar. “And when I am done, we will go to that bed out there, where you are going to have me in any way you desire.” He kissed her lifted left thigh, waiting until she formed a half-slurred yes of consent: then the God-King of Talokan’s mouth was on her, his hands curled around her thighs, and Shuri could do nothing but arch her back and give voice to her delight, free and open as the sky.
Notes:
TRANSLATIONS:
The Xhosa call-and-repeat for the procession goes basically like:
Ramonda's Shuri, T'Chaka's Shuri!
>>Our princess!
Where are you going? Where are you going?
>>Marrying the king!
Which king?
>>The king of Talokan!
MAYAN:
p’u’uk iit - ass, butt
In xk’eech - my beloved / my love
Chapter 21: To Shelter Her
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
He carried her to the bed, after.
Shuri lay there, drowsing and damp, and luxuriated in the feeling of soft blankets and sheets on her bare skin while Namor crawled on top of her and kissed her softly, fully, goading her mouth open. He tasted like her: earthy musk, half alkaline on her lips and tongue. She ran her fingers through his thick hair, let her hands trail down his naked back, cupped his backside; he moaned softly and rested his head in the crook of her neck while she touched him.
“It’s hot,” he whispered after a moment, and kissed her temple before hoisting himself up and heading for the large glass sliding door, the one that overlooked the south side of the Golden City and offered a spectacular view of Mount Bashenga. Shuri propped herself up on one elbow to watch as he slid the door open, letting in a cool evening breeze that gusted past the bed and made her shiver. “There,” said Namor, satisfied, and put his hands on his hips, offering her a very nice view of his bare behind and muscular, broad back as he took in the view. “Much better.”
“Come back here before I get too cold,” said Shuri, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders.
“Cold? It’s only late summer.” But he came back anyway, crawling up on the bed and kissing her tenderly, brushing her jaw with his fingertips and pulling her close. “Mm,” Namor hummed, brushing her nose with his. The cool jade bumped her face. Her arms and legs were tingling, everything below her waist slowly pulsing back into molten, hot need. Slowly, he eased down flat on her back on the bed, snatching a pillow and setting it aside, then settled himself between her thighs, kneeling over her torso, and kept kissing her, touching her, running his hands down her sides, her hips, her breasts.
What is he waiting for? Shuri came up for air, gasping. “I want—” she began, closing her eyes and trying to find words. “Please. Just— I— you.” She reached down between their bodies and let her fingers brush the stiff length of him that had not flagged once in all this time, and Namor’s eyes went heavy, his hips thrusting softly as if by some instinct. “Please,” she whispered again.
“Me,” he echoed softly, and inched closer, nibbling at her ear and bringing his hips into alignment with hers, his cock lying heavy and thick on her flat abdomen. “Do you? Is that what you desire?”
“Yes,” Shuri whispered.
“Look down, princess.” She lifted herself on her elbow and looked down: with their hips pressed together, his cock reached almost to her navel. Shuri’s heart went hammering off the inside of her ribs at the sight. “Are you very sure?”
Oh, Bast. “M-maybe only put it in halfway.” Namor’s mouth felt just as hot and soft and swollen from kissing as she was between her legs. “Please.”
“Ahh,” he groaned, teeth pressed into her throat as he withdrew his hips, began to explore her with his fingers, to ready her, open her up. “As you command.”
Eh, wait! The lube! “Wait— I can— I have something, let me up,” she started, feeling ashamed to stop as Namor pushed back on his forearms and let her scramble awkwardly to the table, retrieving the lube. “It’s— it will help. Just in case. I don’t— I don’t want it to hurt.”
“I would never let you be hurt,” he said, looking surprised at the small bottle. “What is…” Namor uncapped it and spread a little between his fingers, sniffing it, testing the consistency. “Hm.”
“I still want to— here.” Shuri squeezed a small amount onto her hand and reached down between her legs: it already felt astonishingly hot and slick down there, but the expression on Namor’s face alone as she put her own fingers into herself and rubbed was worth it. “Okay. I think I’m ready now.”
He swallowed. “Lift your hips.” Shuri obeyed, planting her feet and pushing up: Namor tucked a pillow under her hips and knelt between her thighs with a sigh, his hands trailing over her belly. “Shuri,” he said hoarsely, dragging his slicked fingers down and spreading her open, rubbing, teasing. She hitched in a breath and bit her lip, conscious of her warm cheeks and the intent look on his face. “If I harm you, you have only to say the word and I will stop.”
“You could never hurt me,” she managed, reaching for his shoulders.
Namor chuckled, half breathless already. “Bold words,” he whispered, his voice cracking as he reached down and fit the blunt, thick tip of him to where she knew he belonged. “Ah. Just— let me—” He pushed softly, carefully, his jaw tight and his eyes half-shut with concentration. “Breathe,” he whispered. “Relax your body. Good. Like that.” Shuri made herself relax. Don’t hyperventilate, she thought, and bit her lip as he worked his slow, careful way in. The last time he speared me, it felt much worse than this, she thought, and fought a giggle at the thought. Her body welcomed him easily after that, as he stroked every nerve her body seemed to possess on the way in, as nerve-endings down her thighs tingled. Then Namor hit a dry patch: he sighed and pulled out again, and her eyes flew open at the immediate loss of feeling. She did not even care that it had pinched. “Patience. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Back— get back in, that w—I— aaah—”
“Patience, I said,” he gasped, hoarse and gravelly, and she pressed her hands to her eyes, wanted to cry or shriek: it wasn’t deep enough — and then he slid back in, back all the way, lighting her spine up in glittering pleasure and pushing a stuttering yelp out of her throat. Flailing, she gripped the back of his neck. “Oh,” he choked, buried to the hilt and trembling without moving. “Sh-Shuri.”
Bast, it felt as if he was lodged in her lungs. “I’m not, not hurt, I n-need you to d-do, to do, to—” She slid her hands further down to his hips and tugged at him. “Move,” she begged, craving whatever that had been. “K’uk’ulkan—”
“Say my name,” he whispered, his hips moving in a shallow rhythm. Shuri wanted to scream: it wasn’t deep enough and he knew it; he was doing it on purpose. “My true name. Say it.”
“Fine Cha’aaaaaah T-Toh Alme— hehhhhnnn—”
His hips snapped back to full action, and she screamed out loud, scrabbling at the sheets and holding on as he fucked her, one hand on her shoulder and the other curled around her knee. “Louder,” he gasped, mouthing at her knee, raising the back of her knee up to hang from his shoulder: Shuri wailed at the new angle, which pushed his cock up directly against the front of her insides and touched her G-spot, which, she remembered so vividly from that day in the closet, had— it had— “Louder, princess. That window is open. I want all of Talokan to hear you, to know which king’s bed you share—” He lifted both knees up, then, over his shoulders, which pressed him even deeper, and Shuri let out an inarticulate screech, writhing both toward and away from the oversensitive nerves in her body. It was perfect and horrible and too much and not enough, all at the same time, and when the dam broke and she flooded his chest and throat, she was sobbing every single one of his names loud enough to be heard from the Border Tribe.
When she came back to herself, out of the drowsy afterglow, he was there. He gave her water, kissed the salt off her cheeks, wiped her down with a cool wet cloth, and hummed softly, lying down alongside her and wrapping her in his arms.
“I don’t… remember you finishing,” she breathed, when she could speak again.
“That is because I didn’t,” Namor said, mouthing at the back of her neck. Against the small of her back, she could feel something pressing, hard and insistent. “I have waited this long. I can wait a little longer.”
“Mm.” Shuri turned and nuzzled into his throat, sighing. Then her eyes popped open as a thought struck her. “Oh, Bast. I might be bleeding. Was I bleeding? Am I—”
Namor shook his head. “A little smear or two. Nothing to worry about. I cleaned you up.” He kissed her again, and she relaxed into the bed, slightly embarrassed, but not as much as she might have been before. “You are not in pain?”
“No,” she said, tucking her hand under her chin and looking up at him.
“Mmm. Good.”
She felt herself smiling broadly for no reason, and he smiled back. “What… do we do now?” she asked, feeling like an idiot.
“Whatever you would— what would you like to do?” he asked, propping up his head on his hand and gazing down at her. “You tell me. And we will do it.”
“Oh—hmm,” said Shuri, gnawing at her lip. She had a couple ideas— some of them born of daydreams— okay most of them born of daydreams, and she was all too eager to see if they could work. “Lie on your back, then.”
He rolled to face the ceiling, hands raised up by his head, and watched her through heavy-lidded eyes as she crawled up onto his thighs, running her hand up and down his cock. “Are you going to tell me what you are doing?” he asked, looking faintly amused. His humor turned to an open, soft-faced moan as Shuri slicked her hand with lubricant again and slid her fist from base to tip and back down again. Her hand barely closed around him. “Oh,” he whispered.
“Does that… feel good?” she asked hesitantly.
“Yes,” he breathed. She curved her palm over the broad head of him, letting the smooth wet skin there rub against the inside of her cupped hand, and he made a strangled sound, jerked his hips up so hard that she almost fell over, stopped himself, and covered his face with his hands. “Ahh aaaaah s-s-tohh— stop, stop it is too—”
She slowed, pausing with her hand on him. “Hurting?”
“Very sensitive,” he managed from behind his fingers, his hands trembling as he slid them down his cheeks. “Ah.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She bent down and kissed the skin she had been so cruelly treating a moment before, and he groaned deep in his throat, reaching for her cheeks. That was an idea. She sucked at him a little, experimenting with her lips and tongue as she had once before, but this time she used her hand to make up for what her mouth could not reach. His reaction was intensely satisfying: he drew his knees up with a shout, clinging to her head with trembling fingers, and pumped his hips in short, shallow thrusts, not quite deep enough to gag her as she used her tongue as much as she could. The wings on his ankles were just on either side of her neck, where his feet were planted: one pair was folded in tightly, trembling, and the other was spasming out in fluttering, erratic flaps that brushed cool air along her cheek.
With a broken, shuddering whine that twisted off into a sharp, choked cry, Namor bucked upward and Shuri’s mouth flooded with come. It was slippery, warm, and tasted of salted musk: she swallowed without thinking. He was groaning above her, wracked with little shivers as more filled her mouth, and she licked and gulped until he stopped coming, then lifted her head to look at him while his knees collapsed and his ankle-wings went limp.
He looked like a ruin. Splayed out on the clean sheets, crushed jasmine in his hair, his eyes damp and his mouth swollen, a sheen of sweat gleaming on his brow and chest: Bast, but he was beautiful. Shuri moved his legs and braced herself over him, kissing the bump on his nose. “Are you alive?”
“Haa,” he croaked, finding her eyes with his. Yes. One hand flopped upward, cradling her neck clumsily, clinging to it. “ Haa,” he repeated, low and soft, eyes half-closing into contented slits. “Mmm. Shuri.”
“You can’t go to sleep yet,” she teased, lightly batting at his cheeks. “Wake up. You promised me a whole night of everything I wanted to do. Waaaaake up.” She started to chant in a sing-song voice, bouncing on the bed. “Waaake up, K’uk’ulkan, waaaake up, K’uk’ulkan—
Namor groaned and pulled himself to a sitting position. “This is the problem with such a young wife,” he said, and Shuri caught a glimpse of a mischievous gleam in his eye just before he caught her around the waist and pulled her into his lap as she shrieked, giggling. “You have far too much energy for an old husband like me.”
“Then you shouldn’t make promises you can’t keep,” said Shuri, beaming at him.
He groaned and buried his face in her throat, inhaling deeply and nuzzling at her skin as she squealed and twisted in his arms. “Ahh, maybe you should be more careful what you make me promise,” he warned against her neck, his hot tongue lapping over her skin and making her shiver. She shifted against something hard, and felt her face warm with the rest of her body.
“You have a surprisingly fast refractory period.”
“I have never received a complaint about it before,” he said, grinning up at her as he pressed a bristly kiss to her chin. “Let me think. Shall we try a different position this time?”
Everything between her legs throbbed as if her heart was beating down there. “Ah— sure,” she squeaked. “What— what kind of—”
“Well, you could have me like this, on my lap,” he said, resting his cheek on her arm. “Mm. But you might get a cramp in your foot.”
“What else, then?”
“Do you remember how you took me in the bathroom that night?” he whispered against her shoulder, eyes gleaming. “My chest to your back?”
“Yes,” she whispered, recalling the way he had broken apart between her thighs. “Standing up?”
“No, in the bed. I’ll show you.” He heaved forward and rolled her gently to her belly, lifting her hips up until she was kneeling, her head and shoulders down on the bed, and then he pressed his own hips against her backside. “Like this,” he said, lowering himself to mouth at the shell of her ear. “Shall we try it?”
Shuri saw no reason to protest. The bed was soft and comfortable, and he would do all the hard work. “Yes, let’s. If I don’t like it, we can change?”
“Of course,” Namor said from behind her. There was a shift and scuffle of skin on sheets, and then his hand was between her thighs, wet and warm, to open her again. Shuri huffed softly and spread her knees wider, especially as he crossed over her clit again and again with his fingers: he had to know what he was doing. A shudder wracked her. Dimly, she heard his voice. “Are you all right?”
Fire was stoking hot in the pit of her belly. “I— I—” she stammered, and groaned her way through a toe-curling climax, shuddering with her face in the sheets. Namor did not wait: he whispered soft things in his own tongue that her dazed brain could not grasp and slipped himself home again, a soft whimper escaping his throat. She gasped as he settled in, flush and thick and full: this angle was entirely different from the first one, and it did not quite feel as if he was wedged up against her organs now. “Oh,” she choked, fists in the sheets.
“Oh?” His voice was a throaty moan, his breath hot on her back as he nosed at the nape of her neck. “Is that... good or bad?”
“I…” Experimentally, she tilted her hips, and Namor’s breath caught in his throat as the angle shifted, deepened, gave him more room to move: Shuri answered the moan he let out with one of her own as his hips began to move at a measured, swift pace. “Yes yes yes ahhhh, ah-ah-ah-ah Bast this one is good, don’t stop, don’t stop—”
Namor let out a garbled stream of syllables that could have been Greek for all Shuri knew and kept moving, his pace as even and slow as he could make it. “Touch. Your pel.” Ragged and ruined, that voice was nonetheless a command. “Shuri. Touch— yourself, do it—”
Reaching down blindly and pressing at herself with frantic fingers, Shuri moaned, trying to find— there it was. Warmth shook her whole body, pulses of scintillating energy dancing at the corners of her eyes, at the edges of her skin, everywhere: Shuri let out a groan and fell apart yet again, and no sooner had she gone over the edge than he followed, gasping and rocking his hips into hers in an erratic rhythm as his body went loose and limp, falling over her, his arms like pillars, his chest a roof. The words of the wedding ceremony came back to Shuri in a sudden bright spark: to shelter her. His forehead was bent low, resting just below the nape of her neck. She smiled to herself and scraped her braids away from her back, letting them spread on the sheets. Gold cuffs tinkled softly, and a warm sigh drifted along her skin. “I like that one,” she whispered, her hand finding his, the one fisted in the sheets by her head.
“So do I,” he mumbled, a little hoarsely. “Mm.”
“What does… what does it feel like for you?”
Namor chuckled softly, kissing her bare skin. “Mmm,” he said again, and rolled off, lying on his side to look at her. “Let me think. Very… well, you have always felt cool to me, here—” he touched her shoulder, indicating her skin, “but inside, you are… warm. And… very…” He struggled with the words for a moment, smiling sleepily. “Ah. Wet. And very… close, tight around me. Just… perfect. You are perfect.”
Shuri wriggled closer to him and kissed him softly. The jade in his nose pressed into her cheek, but she hardly felt it. “We should sleep at some point. You look exhausted.”
“I am only tired because my wife has wrung me dry like a wet cloak,” he teased, kissing her mouth. Then his stomach growled, and he let out a self-conscious laugh while Shuri raised an eyebrow. “And also I am very hungry,” he admitted.
“They left food. Go ahead.” She stretched out on the bed, relaxing while Namor heaved himself off and went to inspect the contents of the dish. The scents of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and chocolate filled the room, and for a while Shuri dozed off.
She woke what might have been a few moments later, or hours: someone had tucked a blanket over her and closed the door to the balcony. The sound of water running came from the bathroom, joined by the soft clink of stone touching stone. Shuri rolled over and squinted past the bamboo partition, which had been knocked aside earlier by their enthusiastic exit from the bathroom. Namor, still naked, was standing with his back to her, over the sink, washing something small and green, and as she focused she realized it was one of his ear flares, the carved jade being turned in his fingers under soap. His nose plug and the other flare, with its center rod and vibranium counterweight, sat on the counter to dry. Shuri simply watched him for a while, how he bent over the sink to clean the holes in his ears and nose carefully, how he dried off the jade with deft fingers. It was a strangely domestic and ordinary task to see him engaged in. When he was done, he turned around to come back to bed, and stopped short at the sight of her, eyes open, gazing at him. “Ah,” he said, smiling faintly. “Hello.”
“Hello.” Without the jade, his face seemed… smaller, somehow, softer. Shuri sat up, holding the blanket to her chest out of habit. “I… I should shower. What time is it?”
“Ah. I don’t know exactly, I ate and fell asleep on the couch, there, where I was sitting.” He gave her an almost shy smile as he indicated the sofa. “I think it is close to sunrise, though.”
“Oh.” Shuri stuck her legs out of bed and checked the hologram clock built into the bedside table: it was 4:19 in the morning. “You’re right. Oh— I forgot, M’Baku’s calling the council to work out what’s to be done with the Americans, isn’t he?”
“That’s next week,” Namor said, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
“It is?”
“Yes. There is a one week reprieve from council matters and all state business. It is a holiday. Remember?”
“I— I forgot,” said Shuri honestly. “Eh, you can’t blame me. Half my days for the past month were taken up with memorizing a hundred rituals and trying on clothes.” She got up and left the blanket, slipping past him to the shower, where she turned the water on and stuck her hand into the jet to test the temperature. “I mean, how many rituals and traditions do we need around here? You stub your toe, there’s probably a tradition about what to do for it. Bad breakup? Ritual. Your friend’s husband is being a rhinoceros’s ass? Ritual.”
Namor laughed, turning to face her. “They bring a heightened sense of life,” he said softly, watching her shake water off her hand. “A… bridge of sorts between man and the gods.”
“Like the dance you did with your people?”
“Mm. Yes.”
“It was… a powerful thing to see,” she said quietly, waiting for the cold water to go warm.
“You should see us do it underwater,” Namor said, smiling. “We had to practice for two weeks to get it to look right on the surface.”
Shuri grinned back at him and stepped into the finally-hot water, soaping up the washcloth. “Hmm. Is my husband going to stand there and watch me bathe, or is he going to join me?”
He was in the shower almost before she had finished her sentence, his hands running down her body: one swift movement and she was up against the wall. “I do— I really do need to actually— wash—” she gasped between kisses, wet skin to skin, slippery and slick and hot. “I—”
“You’ll have time,” Namor whispered into her ear as he lifted her bodily until she was sitting on his forearms, back to the wet wall. “Plenty of time. Yes?”
The oxygen in the water soothed her sore legs, the burn of her muscles. “Yes, okay,” she panted, and reached down between them, guiding him where he belonged: Namor pressed himself fully to her, and they both moaned, forehead to forehead as he moved in sure, quick thrusts. “I love you,” she whispered, and he made a sound like he was in pain, his teeth bared briefly. Every inch of her skin was tingling. She barely knew what she was saying. “My feathered serpent. Mine. My— my king without love, who has so much, such love to give, I’ll give you mine. You’re mine.”
A torn, choked sound burst from his throat, and he pressed his cheek to hers, gasping hot air along her neck. “In Shuri. Ahhh… in k’inich ek’b’alam. In itzia, in xk’eech—”
“In weey, in íicham,” she whispered, and he pulled back, startled. “I learned that one. For you. Did I say it right?”
Water dripped off his hair, trailing off his cheeks like tears. “You did,” he managed. “You did, in atan.” His hips canted again, his mouth descending on hers, hot and frantic as the water kept running down and over them. “You did.”
“I’m telling you,” said Riri, looking very knowing. “She ain’t comin’ out of that room up there for the whole week.”
“No, I still say four days,” Bucky said gravely, shaking his head from the sofa.
She tossed her hands in the air. “Explain that. It don’t make sense. He’s a god. He’s like the Energizer Bunny. Goin’ and goin’.”
“Yeah, he’s a god; she’s a human being who doesn’t have Black Panther powers anymore, and I’m pretty sure humans with no super-stamina have a limit.”
Riri put her fists on her hips. “Okay, and have you ever had sex with an enhanced person while you were still human? Or vice versa, I guess, have you ever railed a human while…” She gestured at him from head to toe. “Now, I mean. The way you are. Huh?”
Bucky’s whole face turned a brilliant shade of pink. “This isn’t about me, okay, first of all, and second of all, you’re a kid, and you don’t need to be asking—”
“Excuse you, I am nineteen, grandpa! I’m a fully grown adult!”
“Y’all are nasty.” Sam Wilson leaned back, covering his face to hide his grin. “They got a week, they’ll take a week, matrimonial activities notwithstanding. Shortest royal honeymoon I ever heard of, but—”
Namora walked into the lounge, her red, sleeveless sweatshirt a stylish match to her red, thick-soled sandals. “Wilson? Oh. Good. You are here. I have been sent a message about your family.”
Sam sat straight up, the humor all leached out of the room as Bucky mirrored his movements, alert and startled. “What? What’s wrong? Sarah’s okay? The boys?”
“Yes. They are all safe. A War Dog team observing them reported to M’Baku and stated that they had seen men in black clothing… stalking them like animals to be preyed upon.”
“Well, shit,” said Sam dryly. “The American government’s surveilling my sister and her kids, now.”
“Not anymore. They were disposed of by the War Dogs. It was made to look accidental.” Namora sat down on the sofa and took a bite of a banana, brushing off her long woven skirt. “That is the news.”
“They can’t come right out and admit that the ex-Secretary of State is dead because he was caught in a sovereign nation operating a terrorism scheme, so they’re gonna try to flush us out under the table,” said Bucky sourly as he leaned back.
“Yeah, and it’s only gonna get worse until we do something publicly,” said Sam, rubbing his face. “Well, I guess I know what item one’s gonna be on the docket when they call the council next week.”
Riri looked concerned. “Wait. Namora, is my mom okay?”
The Talokanil woman nodded as she finished her fruit. “Yes. A War Dog went to the city she resides in…ah, Xikako?”
“Chicago,” said Riri helpfully.
“Yes. And she also was being watched closely by the men in black clothing, but the War Dogs sent to watch her used a friendly deception and assisted her into moving her possessions from her house and into another one. Now she is residing in a high-security, private…” Namora circled her finger in the air. “I do not exactly have the right word. Like a group of houses together, with a tall wall around them, but still inside a city. A very small village?”
“Oh, a gated neighborhood,” Riri said, nodding and looking relieved. “That’s good. She’s gonna flip when I tell her what I’ve actually been doing.”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, I bet your mom can’t wait to hear how you’ve been making bets on how long ol’ Bird Boy— sorry, K’uk’ulkan—can spin out the honeymoon for. You know, you really oughta do a couple more lectures at the college for your cover story. Just sayin’.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “Okay, first of all, Bird Boy’s rich comin’ from you, and second of all, I know you just want me out of here ‘cause you know I’m gonna win the bet against New York over here.”
“What wager is this?” asked Namora, glancing from face to face.
Sam held his hands up, laughing. “Uh-uh. I am not answering that one. Bucky?”
Barnes sank back into his chair, a grin on his face. “We’re betting on how long it’s going to take before K’uk’ulkan and Shuri finally tear themselves out of bed. I say four days, Chicago says a week—” Riri stuck her tongue out at him, grinning despite herself.
The Talokanil woman immediately straightened her back. “The Feathered Serpent has never had a paramour for so long as he has had the Black Jaguar, and his strength is without end. My wager would be… a week in full. And on the day they call the council of honorable elders, I wager they will both be late.” She smiled.
“Yes!” Riri pumped her fists. “See? Okay. If me and Namora win the bet, you guys have to, uh— you get lab-cleaning duty.”
“My harpoon needs to be sharpened,” said Namora, casting an eye at Bucky. “Your arm will be a good tool for such a task, White Wolf.”
“There. Harpoon sharpening and lab cleaning for a week. And if you win, Bucky, uh…”
“You two have to come tend the goats with me in Border Tribe land for a week,” Bucky said, laughing.
“Now, hold on,” said Riri, alarmed. “I never even seen a goat in real life. You serious?”
“Yeah, I’ll teach you how to feed them, city kid.” He kicked his feet up and stretched out. “Namora, you like goats?”
She looked interested. “We have no such thing in Talokan. I would like to see these… kohts?”
“All right, it’s settled. Don’t forget to remind me to tell M’Baku at the council next week about Walker.”
“What about him?”
“He thinks Belova’s in Budapest.” A slow grin spread out over Bucky’s face. “I figure the second he’s back in American custody, he starts telling every single superior officer who’ll listen.”
“Are we setting a trap?” asked Sam, interested.
“Don’t tell me you’ve never taken some sense of pleasure in simply seeing the government’s time and money wasted, Sam. C’mon.”
“You’re somethin’ else, you know that?” Sam leaned his head back, laughing outright. “I’d like to see the look on their faces when they roll up to find fuck-all.”
“To find— I do not know this phrase,” said Namora, looking perturbed and tapping on her translator. “To find… sexual intercourse in abundance?”
Riri buried her face in her hands, shoulders shaking as Sam shook his head earnestly. “No, it means like nothing. Absolutely nothing. Man, we gotta get Shuri to input a translation guide to American slang.”
“Well, first she must leave the bed,” said Namora, grinning broadly.
Shuri was so, so sore.
It had been a pleasant soreness, at first, fixed by quick dunks in the tub so that oxygen could curl through her cells, repairing and refreshing, but now, three and a half days in, her thighs ached, her abdominals were burning— even her arms hurt. The worst thing wasn’t the pain, it was that she wanted so badly to keep doing all the things that caused the pain— but human bodies, even ones that recovered quickly in water, had a limit.
Namor’s hands, deftly massaging the lactic acid out of her thigh muscles, paused as she groaned out loud. “You are still in pain? I will run a bath. You have not been in the water in a day.”
“I can’t even walk to it,” she mumbled, embarrassed at her own limitations. Everything between her thighs was puffy, swollen, and sore. Even her hips hurt, as if she was a ninety year old grandmother.
His eyes burned with tenderness. “Then I will carry you.” Shuri wanted to protest, to say he shouldn’t need to do that: she could find a way by herself… but the water promised relief for her sore body, and the idea won out.
“All right,” she whispered. Namor leaned over and kissed her gently, then went to the bathroom and ran fresh, warm water. She could hear the gushing and rippling from where she lay in the bed, which now had sweat-damp sheets stained with wilted flower petals and various body fluids. The room reeked of sex and crushed jasmine, the air cloying and humid. Shuri rolled out of bed and limped painfully to the sliding glass doors, pushing it all the way open and reveling in the cool breeze that washed the air clean before her right thigh cramped, giving out, and she stumbled.
Namor was there to catch her. He lifted her up in his arms, bridal-style, and kissed her forehead. “I’ll have it cleaned,” he murmured. “Bath.”
“Okay,” breathed Shuri, and tucked her head against his throat as he carried her to the bathroom and laid her down gently in the tub. The loss of his warm body was made up for by the heat of the water, and Shuri moaned aloud as relief flooded her muscles, tipping her head back and resting on the edge of the tub. “Bast, that’s nice.”
“Good. Take all the time you need. I’ll be back in a moment.” He rounded the partition and spoke in a low tone, and Shuri closed her eyes as the outer door opened, as quiet, murmuring voices drifted about the room. The Golden Citadel employed an army of housekeepers, and they were quick, quiet, and professional beyond words: when Shuri climbed out of the tub, exhausted but pain-free, the room was spotless, the sheets changed, and a fresh meal for two was waiting on the table in front of the low sofa. Namor met her in the bathroom with a loose caftan for her, and Shuri shrugged it on, barely keeping her eyes open as she stumbled to the sofa and gulped down fried plantains, curried chicken, yellow rice, and flatbread.
“Thank you,” she mumbled through a mouthful of bread and plantains as Namor handed her a glass of cool mint tea. “I’m so hungry.”
“Eat as you like,” he said, tearing off a piece of bread and mopping up curry with it between bites of plantain. “I am in no hurry.”
When her belly no longer felt like it was glued to her spine, Shuri leaned back and closed her eyes. Just a moment to rest my eyes, she thought dimly— but the next thing she knew, she was being lifted in gentle arms, carried to a fresh, clean bed, and covered in crisp sheets that smelled of sunlight and wind. Oh, she thought, sinking back into sleep. My hair is going to be a wreck.
When she opened her eyes again, it was evening, and the wind was ruffling across the sheets tangled in her caftan. Shuri sat up and slipped it off her head, lying back down and sighing before turning to her left. Namor was in bed beside her, sleeping deeply with one arm thrown above his head and his mouth slightly open, chest rising and falling in an even, slow cadence. She felt more than recovered now, and rolled over to face him, reaching out one hand and brushing her fingers across his dark nipples. He was firm and solid everywhere else, but soft, here, these two small discs of thin skin the color of rich earth. He was soft in sleep, too: his muscles all relaxed, his face younger, smooth and untroubled. Shuri curled closer and kissed his chest softly. When his only response was a soft snore, she kissed him again, pressing her tongue to his flat, soft nipple, and licking.
That woke him up. With a soft sound, his body went from inert softness to something hard and alert, a moan escaping his lips. “Shuri,” he whispered, one hand clutching at her head in sleep-fogged clumsiness. Then, just as quickly as they had grasped it, his fingers left her hair. “I— apologies—”
“You can touch it if you like,” she whispered against his skin. “Just don’t pull. I’ll have someone rebraid it.” Another flat stripe of her tongue laid down along his skin, and Namor let out a guttural sound, burying his fingers in her braids and tugging her closer. She liked that, actually, quite a lot: she inched closer, spread herself out over his lower body, kept lapping at his chest and kissing him everywhere she could think of until he thrust his hips up against her chest with a moan, something stiff and hot protruding into her sternum. “Ah. Does my husband want something?”
“You know what I want,” he whispered, throaty and hoarse. “Shuri.”
“Well, I want to try something new,” she told him, and shimmied up his naked body, pressing her left hand down into the pillow at the right side of his head and fumbling between their bodies with her right. “Something I haven’t done yet.” Straddling him, Shuri reached over the bed and squeezed out lubricant into her palm: the bottle was half-empty. With a sigh, she slicked him from root to tip, and she did not wait before settling down precisely where she wanted to, sitting full on his cock until she bottomed out against his hips.
Namor made a sound like he was dying as he fumbled for her waist, gripping her hard. “Princess,” he gasped. “ In xk’eech, I—” Powerful hips canted up, almost knocking Shuri off her perch, and she seized his wrists, pinning them down. His breath caught in his throat, fluttering: his eyes went dark and heavy-lidded.
“You stay where I have put you,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he whined, biting at his lower lip as she started to thrust her own hips, as if she was riding: it felt great— her nerves were all singing, her whole body was tingling. “Yes. Ah. Aaaahh. My Shuri. My—” His throat was corded tightly, as if straining against some unseen bond. “Shuri. Please.”
“You can do as you like when I’m done,” she said rather imperiously, and kept bouncing on him, concentrating on her own climax, which was building slowly, but strongly. “Don’t move. Don’t you move. Don’t— don’t—” Her breath was coming short and tight. “Ah— my K’uk’ulkan, my—” Shuri lost the rest of the words in a gust of breath, groaning out her orgasm with her head thrown back and her hands tight around his wrists, and the moment she had stilled her movements, gasping, Namor surged upward with fire in his expression and grabbed her: one hand tangled in her braids, one pinning both her wrists against the small of her back.
“My wife, who vexes me,” he snarled, and pulled her down flat to his chest, thrusting his hips up hard into her as she moaned freely into the curve of his sweat-damp neck, her teeth finding him there, nipping sharp at his skin. “My princess. My—” His words tore away in a ragged moan, and for a long moment— or perhaps many moments— the only sounds from Namor were sounds all smeared together like paint on wet paper as he fucked her from below, holding her in place with a hand like an iron vise, and finally came apart beneath her with a ruined, gasping cry, shuddering and pressing his face into her cheek. “My Shuri,” he whispered, voice shaky when he could form words again.
As the dopamine and adrenaline wore off, Shuri realized that the grip he had on her wrists was so tight it was actually painful. “That hurts,” she whispered, wriggling her arms, and Namor let go of her as if he had been singed before rolling her over to her back, pulling himself away from her, and picking up her arms with a worried look on his face, his breathing still unsteady. “I’m fine,” Shuri explained as he lifted her wrists and rubbed them gently.
“I did not mean to hurt you.”
“It was just too tight for a moment.” She sat up, the breeze cooling the sweat on her face, and let him look over her hands anyway, poring over skin and bone as if it was hidden treasure. “I’m all right.”
Namor lifted her wrists to his mouth, kissed them softly, his coarse beard gliding over her arms, her hand, her fingers; over the spiraling geometric design inked into the back of her right hand. She had never seen him look so forlorn. “I think… it would be a good idea to bank these fires for the time being,” he mumbled, setting her hands down on the bed. “You are— I am much stronger than you, and if I lose myself to passion I will hurt you.”
“You mean to tell me you have been holding back, all this time?” she teased, but her smile dropped when he only met her gaze with an even look. “You— have you? Really?”
Namor crossed his arms. “I could break your bones with one ill-timed position or movement, Shuri. I have been very careful not to do such a thing. I am still trying. But it is… becoming more difficult as time passes.”
“Oh,” she mumbled, and looked down at her wrists. Perhaps that was why he had been so nervous, before. And while part of her yearned to take him again, the memory of just how hard he’d been gripping her echoed from her skin like a physical thing, and she was not partial to the idea of her pelvis or wrist being snapped like dry wood. “Okay.”
Namor leaned forward and kissed her. “I have been considering a solution,” he murmured. “After you take the throne, when you drink of the heart shaped herb once more— you will have strength like mine, and we can truly throw our caution to the wind.”
“Did you forget the risks?” Shuri turned her face into his cheek, kissing him back. “The chances of—”
“I did not forget. I simply have a solution: I am K’uk’ulkan, God-king of Talokan, and I forbid you to die.” There was a tinge of bittersweetness to his voice as he mouthed at her chin and pulled back. “So. You will have to obey. And after, there will be time.”
If only it were that easy. “Time for what?” she whispered, tears filling her eyes despite herself at the look on his face.
“For anything we desire,” he said, and kissed her again, warm and deep.
It was Riri and Bucky, engrossed in a conversation about Stark tech and its limitations, who saw Shuri and Namor, dressed in a belted plum-colored caftan and a pair of wrinkled blue joggers, respectively, creep out into the public lounge area on the tenth floor of the palace, at nine in the morning. Riri sat straight up in the middle of a sentence about how his story about seeing flying cars in the nineteen-forties had to be made up, giving Bucky a look of open-mouthed disbelief, and Bucky grinned, checking his watch.
“Well, look at that, would ya? Four days.”
“How’d you— there is no way you— you—”
“Morning,” said Bucky loudly, waving as he ignored Riri’s spluttering half-sentences. “You two looking for anything in particular out here?”
“Coffee,” said Shuri immediately, swiveling toward them. “Ah! Riri!” She rushed over and the two young women hugged. Riri pulled back, giving her a critical look. The princess's eyes had dark circles, and her hair was a wreck, but she looked happier than Riri had ever seen her.
“Don't take this the wrong way, but you look beat to hell. Want me to get Nakia up here?”
“You know, I think— I think I’ll just cut out the braids and wash it myself,” said Shuri, smiling. “Don’t bother her, eh?”
Bucky was watching Namor get coffee. Two careful pours into two mugs, milk and cinnamon in one, milk and sugar in the other. He carried them over to Shuri and handed one to her, never taking his eyes off her as he moved. “You gonna go visit with the Talokanil?” Riri was asking. “I think Okoye was down there hanging around with Attuma and Namora.”
“That does not surprise me,” said Namor dryly, sipping his own coffee.
Riri grinned. “Oh, I’d love to hear your opinions on Attuma and Okoye’s—”
“Attuma is a man not often given to the passions of love,” Namor elaborated as he lowered his mug. “It brings joy to my heart to see that he has found a worthy partner.”
Shuri opened her mouth, but just then the outer door slipped aside, and Namora strolled in, laughing. “White Wolf! Scientist! Wilson has learned how to fight with Attuma’s axe; you must come to th—” Her face paled to a milky-blue as she registered Namor and Shuri. “K’uk’ulkan! Black Jaguar! So soon— so soon you have returned from your wedding-bed?”
“We lost!” Riri yelped, clapping her hands over her face as the Talokanil woman’s mouth dropped open, wearing an appalled look. “I know, I can’t believe it either—”
“Don’t worry, goats don’t bite. Much.” Bucky was beaming.
Shuri gave Namor an incredulous look, but he looked just as confused. “What in the name of Bast are you three talking about?”
“You could not have her abed for even so little as three more days?” pleaded Namora. “Ah, K’uk’ulkan, I boasted of your virility, of your great power, and now I have shamed myself before Americans, which is even worse than shaming myself before Wakanda—”
“Hey!” said Riri indignantly, hands on her hips. Bucky was outright cackling, tears in his eyes as he covered his mouth and fought snorts.
“What?” cried Namor, blinking.
“Will someone explain to me what is going on?” demanded Shuri.
“We made a bet!” shouted Riri over the sounds of Bucky’s laughter. “You weren’t supposed to be out of there for a week, goddammit!”
Bucky got enough breath back for a sentence or two. “They both bet a week,” he wheezed. “I said four days. I win.”
Shuri’s mouth dropped. “A week? I’m only human, okay, Riri? How about you get into bed with him and see how long you can handle it?”
Gently, Namor’s hand curled around the small of her back. “You honor me,” he whispered, and kissed her ear before raising his voice. “And no, Namora, you forgot to account for the greater strength on my side.”
Namora threw her hands up, exasperated. “We would have won our wager if she still possessed the strength of the Black Jaguar.”
“Man…” Riri flung herself down on a couch. “There goes the rest of my plans for the next week. Goats. Seriously. ”
“Well, you’ll get a day off to witness something fun,” said Shuri, grinning as she exchanged a glance with Namor, who smiled back and nodded. “Something really fun.”
“What? Why? We handing the bad guys back to America early or something?”
“No, not yet,” said Namor quietly, one arm around Shuri’s back as if it had always belonged there. “Something else. But you will all be guests of honor, and your presence will be a joy.”
Notes:
TRAAAANSLATIONS you know the drill by now cmon
-in xk'eech = feminine form of "my darling, my lover"
- in weey = masculine form of "my darling, my lover"
-in íicham = my husband
- in atan = my wife
Chapter 22: Warrior Falls
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
This damn corset is so uncomfortable. Riri shifted, trying to stand up straighter and avoid the bottom edge of the stiff thing digging into the skin of her waist as she stood at the foot of a massive waterfall with hundreds and hundreds of people crowded below every rivulet and crashing streak of white foamy water, standing on the wet orange-red rocks in tiers like a big layer cake. She could see them if she turned around and craned her neck way back: red and orange, green and yellow, purple and gold, brown and white, blue and black. All five tribes had shown up for this, and Riri, Sam, and Bucky were standing with Nakia and little T’Challa. Behind them stood the Dora Milaje, in what had to be traditional wear: red tube tops (except for Ayo, who wore gold) and layered, knee length skirts and leggings. Everyone was chanting, singing, playing drums, a rhythm that felt like being in the middle of a chant at a Bulls game. M’Baku-lo-o-oh, M’Baku lo! It was the kind of noise that was trying to amp you up, get you excited for what was coming next. Riri glanced over at Sam: he had been awkwardly chanting under his breath at first, but now he was in full swing, bouncing from foot to foot. Bucky Barnes, standing on her other side, was more swaying from foot to foot, singing under his breath and looking very serious. Both of them were in traditional wear: brown leather loincloths and a big piece of patterned, white and black and brown cloth that hung from their left shoulders, along with a couple smears of white and purple paint. Nakia was in River Tribe colors— Riri briefly wondered if it had something to do with the fact that she’d never actually married into the royal family— though in Wakanda stuff like that didn't seem to matter as much— and her son, the little prince, wore the same thing as Sam and Bucky, only smaller, and with a little more purple to his outfit.
Riri herself had been handed a beaded corset and a piece of blue and red cloth that tied around her forehead with what looked suspiciously like real, actual bones or teeth or something hanging from it, down behind her ears. She had been too afraid to ask what they were at the time. In front of her, standing with Nakia, was Namor. He was not the only Talokanil present— most of them were standing with the River Tribe, but he was the only one wearing a thick white cloak and gold shoulder plates, so he definitely stood out the most. Namor’d gotten right into the chanting, singing to himself and swaying his hips, stomping his left foot in the shallow water in time with Nakia, who was holding her son’s hand and singing along. M’Baku lo-o-oh, M’Baku lo!
By his side stood Shuri, in a short pair of woven purple pants, gathered halfway down her thighs, and wearing a brown tube top sewn with tiny yellow and white beads. Her hair had been done up in Bantu knots, and her face was painted with white dots over her eyebrows and below her eyes, down her cheeks: smears of gray ash-like paint marked her shoulders and face. She sang along, shooting reassuring smiles at her nephew, and watching the sky. They’d all come up the river on barges, hundred of barges carrying all the people of Wakanda who could make it, and M’Baku was supposed to land at the falls at exactly nine o’clock in the morning, but maybe he was running—
With a fluttery whirr of vibranium-fueled engines that Riri recognized instantly as being from the Royal Talon, the great ship sailed up gracefully to the edge of the pool of water that emptied out into two hundred feet of air below. It revolved to back up to the ledge, and the rear gangplank slid out and touched the surface as the crowd’s yell reached a pitch, cheering and singing M’Baku’s name. M’Baku lo-o-oh, M’Baku lo! And there he was, all six foot five of him, walking down the plank in his grass skirt with no shirt on, white paint smeared down his chest, grinning and holding his clubs, one in each hand. Once he was calf-deep in the water, he paused. The Talon flew off, and Sope, the old shaman, raised her hands and her staff high. Zawavari stood by with a string of what looked like beads over her arm. Both women stood out in their robes, bright purple against the rippling pool.
“I, Sope, daughter of Aino, give to you: King M’Baku of the Jabari Tribe!”
M’Baku raised his clubs, spread them apart, crossed them over his head to resounding cheers, and knelt swiftly as he pulled them apart again. The crowd went dead silent, every single person saluting him, whether it was the Wakandan tradition of crossing arms or the Talokanil one of two open hands with the wrists pressed together, fingers up and down. The only sound for a couple seconds was the rushing of the water around them. Riri felt chills spread up her arms and down her legs. Damn.
“Victory in ritual combat,” announced Sope, “comes by yield… or death. If any tribe wishes to put forth a warrior, I now offer a path to the throne.” Little T’Challa gripped his mother’s hand tightly.
“Iyo!” shouted a man in white and blue and gold from the Merchant Tribe. He stepped forward, and the old woman sitting at his side who Riri knew was the head of the tribe, the elder who sat on the council, said very clearly and loudly in her wavery old voice, “The Merchant Tribe will not challenge today.”
“Hayi!” shouted forty people from the Border Tribe in unison. Okoye stepped forward. “The Border Tribe will not challenge today,” she said loudly.
“Yibombe!” shouted a woman from the River Tribe, and the rest of them echoed the shout. Nakia’s father raised his right hand. “The River Tribe will not challenge today.”
“Hayi ngoku!” called the whole of the Mining Tribe, and their elder called aloud, “The Mining Tribe will not challenge today.” Her clay-coated braids gleamed in the sunshine.
“Maefa!” shouted M’Bele, and the whole Jabari Tribe responded, “Ya!” He set his club’s end down hard. “The Jabari Tribe will not challenge today.”
Sope raised her voice again, gesturing at M’Baku. “Is there any member of a royal blood who wishes to challenge for the throne?”
Shuri stepped forward so quietly that it took Riri a hot second to even realize she was walking away. “I, Shuri of the Golden Tribe, daughter of Ramonda, wish to formally challenge for the throne.”
A cry went up, excitement and cheers. M’Baku stepped to meet her, and they must have exchanged some words that only Sope could hear, because the old shaman turned around and lifted her staff. “The challenge is accepted!” she shouted, and everyone went quiet as drums started beating out a frantic, quick rhythm.
Two masks were brought out: both wooden, but one carved like a panther’s head, the other like the face of a gorilla. Shuri got the panther one, and M’Baku got the gorilla: Riri didn’t understand much Xhosa beyond a few simple words, but she got the gist when both the Dora Milaje and six or seven Jabari warriors hurried down to the water to circle M’Baku and Shuri, hedging them against the falls with spears and clubs. Fight or get whacked, huh?
“Let the challenge begin!” proclaimed Sope.
T’Challa clung to his mother, worried. “Mama, is Auntie Shuri going to die?” he whispered.
Namor bent down. “Not today, little jsob,” he whispered. “Do not be afraid.”
“Your uncle is right,” said Nakia softly. “Watch, T’Challa. There is nothing to fear. Your Baba did this twice.” T’Challa still needed some reassurance, though; he reached his other little hand up to Namor’s, and Riri had to smile a little as the Feathered Serpent held it firmly in his own.
Riri looked back at the pool. Someone had given Shuri a shield, oval and about three feet long, with a long central handle poking out of the bottom and the top like a kite, a short-handled spear to go in her other hand. She spread her legs and waited for M’Baku to charge, and charge he did: Riri covered her mouth with her eyes open wide as he brought the club down in a swing and it cracked off the shield. But Shuri was quick as hell: she dodged the next blow, darted under M’Baku’s swing, and got in a shallow cut to his left arm. A cheer went up from the crowd. M’Baku got his footing back and thumped Shuri across the back, sending her splashing into the water. The Jabari warriors and the Dora Milaje inched in closer, spears and clubs pointed at the pair of them. Shuri got back up and feinted toward M’Baku, making him flinch to the left, then got in another cut on his right thigh as she slipped past, smaller and faster. An enormous cheer went up from the crowd.
“Man, I can’t watch this,” whispered Riri, terrified. Her heart was pounding, her adrenaline up.
“She’ll be fine,” said Bucky, putting his hand on her shoulder. “They have to play like it’s real, remember? He’s the leader of his tribe. He can’t lose face.”
Everyone could only watch as M’Baku landed a blow to Shuri’s face with the handle of his club, breaking mask and skin and setting her nose gushing blood as she fell to her knees. In front of Riri, Namor’s back visibly tensed. Sam hissed, sucking air through his teeth. Shuri was unstoppable, though: she ditched the mask, lurched back up to her feet, and swung her bladed spear at him blindly. M’Baku swung his club and full-body-checked her sideways. Water kicked up in a splash, and once again Shuri was flat on her back, soaked in water. She lay there a moment, gasping, and M’Baku brought the club down (but not as fast as he probably could have), just missing her as she rolled to the side. Then, Shuri kicked upward into his right thigh as hard as she could.
Riri shrieked in glee as M’Baku staggered and went down, his leg momentarily paralyzed. “Yes, girl, get his femoral nerve!” she yelled, but her shout was lost in the roar as Shuri, taking advantage of the larger man's temporary inability to get up, jumped up on him, wrapped her legs around M’Baku’s neck, toppled him backward with her weight, and forced the handle of her spear under his throat.
“Do you yield?” she shouted, keeping a tight grip. “Do you yield, M’Baku?”
His hands clutched at the spear: he cut himself on the blade and hissed. “I yield,” he said, slapping the water three times, then repeated it again, louder. “I yield to Shuri, Princess of Wakanda.”
And the whole place roared with an echo of wild cheering, screaming, Shuri’s name being sang over and over as she stood up, as she helped M’Baku to his feet: as M’Baku shooed away Sope and raised her hand in his enormous one, smiling to all Wakanda. Little T’Challa was crying, his face buried in Namor’s cloak, and Nakia was crying, too, but probably more out of joy than her son. “Look, T’Challa,” she was saying, kneeling with her arm around her boy. “Look, your auntie is okay, eh? Don’t cry.”
“I will take him,” said Namor, and when Nakia nodded, he picked up T’Challa easily, patting his back. “There, in jsob. Take a breath. It is all over.”
“I thought she was going to die,” wept the boy, his face buried in Namor’s neck and his arms tight around his uncle’s shoulders. Riri realized she was hugging Bucky and jumping up and down. When the hell did I do that? Sam was hugging her, too, both her and Bucky, yelling over the top of her head.
“Yeaaaah, Shuri! That’s how we do it!”
Sope beamed as she took the strand of beads from Zawavari— and then Riri realized it wasn’t beads, it was a necklace of what looked like teeth, big teeth, white and polished. “I now present to you,” she announced, holding up the strand, “Queen Shuri!” She turned and draped it around Shuri’s neck, letting the teeth rest on her chest, and the two women, one young and one old, embraced as the crowd roared and the Dora Milaje danced, their spears held high. Little T’Challa forgot his tears and started cheering, too, his fist in the air, and Namor set him back down, laughing as the boy danced beside his mother.
Shuri turned to face the crowd. She was dripping wet, with blood gushing from her nose and smearing her cheek and her lips, but the smile on her face was big enough to light up the sky itself. Riri whooped as the new queen crossed her arms over her chest and shouted, loud enough that it rang off the stone, “Wakanda forever!”
The crowd saluted back as one, every eye on her, every pair of arms crossed. “Wakanda forever!” they shouted in response, and the whole world seemed to breathe in silence for a single bright moment before the drums rang out a joyful beat again, and the celebration continued on, the sound rising up and up into the sunlight.
Night brought cool wind and a clear sky, the dim echo of a thousand block parties in Birnin Zana floating up to Shuri’s balcony where she stood in a glittering formal gown of black and gold, kente cloth draped over her shoulders, listening to the joy of her people. M’Baku was inside somewhere milking his minor wounds for all they were worth, boasting of the strength of the new queen to everyone who would listen. “And to think,” he had been heard to say loudly and often at dinner, “that was all without the strength of the Black Panther!”
He hadn’t been wrong, much. Being quick and bright on her feet had won her that battle, despite the understood agreement that she would be the victor: he had not made it an easy win. Shuri’s nose still echoed with the ache of the blow he had struck her. She rubbed it tenderly. Namor had been quick to offer a medical bead, but Shuri had declined: it was important for people to see that she had not won without a struggle. At least she had stopped bleeding before the coronation feast. She would have hated to sit there with gauze stuffed up her nose in front of the elders.
And now, there is only one thing left to do. Well, really, two things, but one must come first, and she had spoken to the elders about the proper way to do it. I will consume the heart-shaped herb, and see if the ancestors— or whatever higher powers there may be— grant me the strength of the Black Panther once more. Shuri was not looking forward to it. Would she see N’Jadaka again, in that otherworldly copy of the throne room, drowned in water and burning with fire? She swallowed and decided not to think about that: she put her mind instead to the things she had spoken to the council about.
If she was to die in the attempt, then she had made it clear that Okoye was her next choice to rule as both queen and Black Panther until little T’Challa came of age. Okoye had been shocked by the very idea, but everyone else had agreed right then and there that the ex-general was a brilliant strategist and a good and just woman: what more could one ask for in a queen? Shuri had also made clear her will in that Namor would be the one to do with her body as Talokan saw fit for its dead, whatever rituals there were. “And after I am dead, do not wait to mourn before revealing to the world what destruction has been wrought by the intelligence agencies of the countries that sent these agents to us,” she had said firmly. “Justice must be brought, and swiftly. Reveal them. Speak to the United Nations as I would have done myself, exactly as we previously discussed.” Namor had nodded, fire in his eyes and a set to his jaw that indicated that he might like to do more than simply speak where the surface nations of the world were concerned.
Now, however, the whisper-soft woosh of feathery pinions revealed his presence as he crept up beside her on the balcony. “My Queen,” he said softly, the back of his knuckles gliding up her arm. Shuri opened her eyes, giving him a smile.
“Hello, K’uk’ulkan,” she whispered. “Finally escaped?”
“I left the White Wolf dancing with half the Dora Milaje,” Namor said, a smile in his voice. “When will Wakanda send the Americans home, I wonder?”
“Ah, does my husband grow tired of our guests?”
“Guests? No. They are friends. But they must miss their own people.” He drew closer and nosed into the bare nape of her neck, exhaling softly. Shuri shivered. “Their families. Friends. Lovers.”
“Eh, now, what happened to banking the fires?” she whispered, playfully shoving at him.
“What, can I not kiss my own wife?” He nibbled at her ear roughly, and Shuri giggled, wriggling away. “Mmm. You squeak like a seal.”
“Your kisses feel like a seal. All bristly.” She kissed his cheek anyway, wincing when it put pressure on her sore nose. “Ow.”
“You are still in pain,” he said at once, and drew away. “Where are your beads?”
“It’s fine, just sore, and I’ll use them in the morning, I promise.” Shuri took his hand in hers. “It’s just achy when I touch it. Or when my pulse increases.”
“When your pulse increases, hm?” Namor turned her palms upward and ran his thumbs over the delicate inner skin of her wrists. “Then I think you should use your beads now.”
“And why is that?” she asked, casting her head very regally up at him.
“Because, little queen,” he said, a smile playing about his face, “I have plans for this evening involving you and an increased pulse that will not run the risk of harming you at my hands.”
“Oh, do you?” Shuri felt her heart thud a little, her nose aching again.
“I do. And a throne room emptied of people.” Namor bent his head closer to hers, breathing his next words softly. “And an empty throne.”
Shuri felt a stab of pain in her nose as her heart pounded wildly and her lips parted in shock at such a bold and irreverent idea, but his face changed to alarm as something hot gushed down her upper lip. “Oh—” she choked, covering her face at once. Namor pulled off his loose shirt immediately and held it to her nose, guiding her to sit with her head leaning forward on one of the benches on the balcony. “Sorry,” she said, muffled through the fabric.
“Don’t be. I should not have teased you so.” The hand on the back of her neck was warm. “Ah, I shall speak of something else. Mmm. What shall I speak of? Ah—Talokan is making plans to return home. They take with them gifts of Wakandan technology and leave behind their own— including the designs for water-balls, you know, our ja’wóolis. Your design group was very interested in them.” Shuri winced as he pulled the shirt away from her nose, checking it. The blood had slowed to a trickle, but it was not clotted wholly, so he pressed the wadded-up shirt back to her face. “Attuma is morose. I think he will be visiting often to see Okoye.”
“She will pretend she could care less,” said Shuri thickly. “But she likes him very much, I think.”
Namor chuckled. “She does. Ah. Chin up.” Shuri obeyed, and he checked over her nose. “There. Well. If you wish to retire to your chambers…”
She gave him a long look. In the dim light from the rising moon and the city, his bare torso gleamed like a statue carved from marble. “The throne, you said,” she whispered.
“Yes, I did.”
“Explain, my husband.”
“Only that there are many things one may do to one’s queen while she sits a throne,” he said softly, a glint in his eye. “And while one kneels at one’s queen’s feet.” Shuri chewed on that for a moment and reached for her Kimoyo beads, fumbling for the medical one. Namor cocked his head to the side, smiling. “Your heart rate is increasing again. I can hear it.”
“Show-off,” she muttered, and pressed the bead to her face. Her nose burned a little as the bead healed her, but she hardly felt it. “If we are caught—”
“We will not be caught,” he promised. “We will be quiet and quick as little minnows. Come.”
The imposing throne with its twin curves meant to evoke the tusks of a bull elephant, black against the light from outside the huge glass window, sat alone on the great square of red clay, cut from the earth where Bashenga had first been blessed by Bast herself with the heart shaped herb. It made Shuri think of some sort of abandoned city, a lost empire. Here was a silhouette, a featureless flat shadow where only hours before she had sat for the first time and held council. Hours before, or a thousand years before? Perhaps it was all the same to the throne. An unbroken line of kings, reaching back and back and back to Bashenga: what and who was Shuri, really, in the grand scheme of things?
She forgot about all of that, though, as Namor’s mouth came down on the nape of her neck, mouthing hot at her skin, his tongue slipping across the delicate knobs of her spine. “My queen,” he whispered, his right arm coming up across her chest, his other hand slipping its way up her left arm. Shuri let out a soft sound, trying to stifle a moan as heat snaked through her belly, puddling between her thighs like summer honey. “Sit. Take your throne.”
She did not want to stop touching him. Somehow, she made it to the throne, sank down into it— then found herself gripping the armrests as Namor knelt in front of her, lifted her heavy skirts, and ran his hands up the insides of her legs. Every touch was like fire: she had missed him so, so much. “K’uk’ulka— aaah —”
“Shh,” he whispered, kissing her knees, dropping his soiled shirt, half his face hidden in folds of black cloth. “Be quiet, in ch’u’ujuk. Or they will hear you.” Shuri gripped the armrests harder and willed herself into silence as he slid his hands further up, pulled aside her underthings, and ran his thumb from her core to her clit in one swift, sure movement. She bit her lip in embarrassment when the squishy-slick sounds of her own body met her ears, but Namor only repeated the gentle swipe, a rough little sound escaping his own mouth. “You are so wet,” he marveled, his eyes heavy-lidded in the dim light of the dark room. Outside, a display of lights from the city streets below lit them suddenly in bright green, changing to blues, then purples, then pinks and yellows and back to green again. Several bars must have opened at the same time. Shuri could see the outlines of his face between her knees, every bump and line marked out in bright neon highlights and deep black shadow. She tugged her skirt up, her breath coming shallowly, but Namor only pushed her hands away, a smile on his face. Shuri could see that smile, lit in every color in the dark. “Patience,” he whispered. “Command and I will do as you please, my queen.”
She let her head fall back against the back of the throne. “Then use your mouth, my king.”
“Ah, gladly I obey such a command, ” he moaned, and the next thing Shuri knew his mouth was on her, lips opening, tongue pressed flat and licking as his fingers sank into her body, beckoned, moved. She clapped a hand over her mouth and lifted her knees, tense, breath hitching— it was not quite the right rhythm, so she reached down and guided his head, up and down, up and down, just a little off to the right. When she had found it again she let go of him, gasping, and Namor kept up the rhythm, never speeding or changing as the flat of his tongue coaxed wave after wave of sensation from her.
“Please,” she heard herself babbling between her fingers, mindlessly choking out words as she neared the end, her toes curling up by his shoulders. “Please, please, K'uk'ulkaaa-a-an please please—”
It was very like being struck by a crashing wave, she thought dimly as her climax swept over her, took her, sent her legs kicking out and her back arching and tore sound from her throat, wrung sweat from her body. Either that, or riding down a very long slope after a hard hike to the top. She sucked in air, trying to calm her thudding heart, and looked down in time to see Namor rest his head on her thigh, his open mouth pressed to her skin. “My queen,” he whispered, voice gone hoarse and throaty.
Half of his body seemed to be swallowed in her skirts, but his fingers were no longer inside her. Shuri raised an eyebrow. “And where have your hands gotten to, my king?” He gave her a knowing grin and kissed her thigh again, hot breath ghosting down her skin, his beard scraping her. She knew exactly where his hands were and what they were doing: his shoulders were flexing rapidly, short quick muscle movements.
“I am burning for you,” he whispered. “Please.”
“Do you wish me to command you in this way, as well?”
“Yes,” whimpered Namor, pressing his forehead against her skin. “Please. Tell me. Tell me. My queen. I am in your hands, I am at your command.”
Shuri reached down with her foot, feeling around until she found his thigh: she slid up it and found his smooth eex and the tense and shaking hand pressing hard against the front, the other hand digging into his bare thigh to keep himself at bay. “You cannot touch yourself through your clothes,” she admonished him, reveling in the expression on his face. “You will rub yourself raw. Pull them down.”
His breath caught, choking in his throat as he obeyed. She could not see him, but she could feel him, thick and hot as he brushed against her calf. “What does my queen command now?” Namor whispered.
“Finish yourself,” she said as regally as she could. “But if you get it on my nice clothes, I will bar you from my bed for a whole year.”
He threw his head back with a low moan, his hands working where Shuri could not see, then wriggled forward, burying his face in her lap and inhaling deep as weak, ragged sounds came floating up from her thighs, muffled by the gown she wore. His orgasm must have hit him hard, because he twitched suddenly, a loud groan bursting from his throat as he hastily stifled it with her skirt, his body shaking, rocking against her legs. After a long, heavy-breathed moment, he raised his head with a smile like a satisfied cat. “I used the shirt,” he whispered, voice gone heavy and soft around the edges.
Shuri giggled in spite of herself. “Good. Now get up before someone finds us.”
“Oh, no, that is out of the question, my queen,” Namor said, pretending to yawn as he stretched his heavy arms out and pinned her in her seat, resting his cheek on her lap. “I am too tired. Mmm, I think I will sleep right here.”
“You are terrible,” she hissed, grinning as she pushed at his bare shoulders. “Get up! What happened to being quick as minnows?”
“This minnow is sleeping. Shh.” He was laughing, his chest rocking against her knees. “A very tired minnow.” But eventually he peeled himself off her lap and kissed her, getting to his feet and stuffing the soiled shirt into his belt. His knees were stained red from the hard-baked clay. “I think it is high time we both made our way to bed.”
“I think you’re right,” said Shuri, kissing his cheek. “Come on. They moved all my things into a new room. Let’s go see what it looks like.”
By the time they had reached the fourteenth floor, Shuri started to realize whose rooms she had been given, and it was enough to make her step slow and her chest grow tight. All the joy and fun from earlier was siphoning away as she reached a familiar pair of double doors, carved with swirling curves that evoked panther heads, a queen consort’s crown, the oblong lines of cowrie shells.
I used to come here when I had bad dreams, she remembered, tracing the handles. I would go inside, and she would say that I had nothing to fear, because Baba had made it so no bad dreams could ever come true in Wakanda. Had they changed everything about the room? Did she want everything to be changed about it? Would it be worse or better, to sleep in a bed that had been untouched since her mother had slept in it?
I cannot go back. I can only go forward. Shuri put her hands on the doors and pushed them open.
It was smaller than she remembered it being when she was a child. But I was smaller then. The walls were the same: thickly carved with concentric circular and oval designs, painted a soft creamy gray like a stormcloud, with built-in bookshelves framing the inside of the doors, but the decorations had been moved, some changed out. The woven colorful baskets were still up on the wall, and so were the woven platters, but someone had hung a spear and shield from the— oh. Yes. She was the ruling queen, not a queen consort by rights, so she got the spear and shield on the wall to face her bed, as T’Challa had had. Mama would have been technically entitled to them, but she did not think it was apt because she had not won the throne in combat. I had forgotten about that. Three straight-backed, circular chairs faced each other in the middle of the floor, a small round table in the middle, and a long, broad shelf stuck out from the wall near the balcony. I suppose that can be my workspace. She would see about having it altered to be a sand-table. There was also a wardrobe on the other side of the room, near the bed, with a long, polished mirror framed in carved teak. Shuri knew there was an attached bathroom through the doors to the left, because the ones to the right led to Baba’s room.
No, not Baba’s rooms anymore. They had been T’Challa’s. Now they were… well, they were Namor’s, for whenever he chose to stay in Wakanda. That made her feel very odd, to suddenly put it into perspective: the rooms did not really belong to Baba or Mama, but to the King of Wakanda and his queen, or the Queen of Wakanda and her Prince Consort, whoever those people happened to be. Baba and Mama had simply filled the spaces like wine poured into clear vessels... and now they were gone.
She turned and looked at the bed instead. Low, plush, wide, with a glossy black screen above the headboard and a long round tube-pillow at the foot: Mama had always kept her room and her bed neat and aired out and very tidy, with minimal fuss, because she did not believe in smothering one’s skin with multiple blankets. Someone had put a fluffy duvet on the bed, thick pillows at the head, a patterned blanket across the foot, and a couple of braided rugs on the floor.
She could almost hear her mother. Open the window and let the room breathe. You will get sick if you keep breathing in the same air. A smile found her lips, and Shuri crossed to the sliding glass panels and opened the window. The night air gusted in across her face and body, plastering her gown to her skin for a moment: pressure equalized, and her gown fell straight again. “There, Mama,” said Shuri softly, looking out over the city below. “Now the room is breathing.” Ramonda’s room faced the North Triangle, the oldest part of the Golden City. Lights and celebrations were still going strong. Someone shot off a firework, the night temporarily banished by a shattering explosion of gold and purple light.
Lost in the view and in her own thoughts, Shuri did not even realize Namor was next to her until she heard him sigh. She turned and looked at him: his eyes were bright, drinking in the fireworks. “We have nothing like this in Talokan,” he murmured. “They would never work underwater.”
“Certain chemical reactions might give the same effect if someone were to work on developing them,” Shuri said softly.
“Yes. Perhaps.” He reached for her hand, warm and sure, and she heard the unspoken question there.
“In the event that I survive the heart-shaped herb, I will come to Talokan with you,” she told him, and his fingers relaxed on hers. “I will stay there. With your people. I will assist them for a short time before I return to Wakanda.”
“If you become the Black Panther again,” he said quietly, “you will have to stay here. Wakanda needs its protector.”
“And its queen,” she pointed out. “I could try to split time evenly between two places. But I wanted to tell you— I want you with me when I take the herb, K’uk’ulkan. I have already spoken with Sope and Zawavari. We normally— outsiders should not see the process, but I asked them to make an exception for you, and they have granted it.”
His lips pressed into a thin line. “As you wish,” he finally said, looking out to the fireworks again.
“Hey,” Shuri whispered, nudging his shoulder. Namor only lowered his eyes. She tried again, using one of the words she’d been practicing with Nakia. “Eya, ki’ichkelem.” Namor’s eyes darted to hers, a ghost of a smile on his face. “There. Now. Don’t look so sad. I’ve made Nakia promise to have the fastest medical technology we possess on hand. If anything goes wrong, I’ll be okay.”
“A week,” said Namor quietly. “I will remain here, and send Namora and Attuma home with our people.”
“I would do it tonight if I could,” Shuri muttered. “But traditionally the country is in a state of celebration for seven days after a new ascension. I will not take that from them.”
His fingers tightened on hers. “Seven days. So quick to gamble your life.”
“I just want it over with. I want to— part of me just— I really want to know what will happen,” she confessed, turning to face him. “Nobody has ever done anything like this before, not in the history of my people or yours. Aren’t you even a little bit curious to see what two conflicting strains of vibranium-enhanced materials will—?”
“Not at the risk of your life,” he said a little sourly. “But…” and Namor’s arm slid up, tucked itself around her shoulders. “But it is your decision,” he whispered. “Not mine. If it was mine… no. You must make what choice is best for you and your people.” He pressed his nose, his mouth, to the soft skin behind her jaw and ear. “And I will stand beside you, whatever choice you make. Until the end.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, resting her head on his shoulder. “If it is not too much to ask, could I… could I sleep alone tonight?”
“Of course,” Namor said immediately. “Nothing you could ever ask of me is too much, Shuri.” He kissed her forehead. “You have already given me gifts beyond any of my dreams. Take as many nights alone as you wish.”
She did not have to say thank you. He knew. He always knew. They stood together on the balcony for a while, watching the glittering showers of blue and purple sparks, the green bursts of rain, the gold: then Namor kissed her again and left her alone, a single solitary figure in black on the balcony, looking out over Wakanda below.
Notes:
TRAAANNNSSLLLATIONS:
jsob = nephew
in ch’u’ujuk - my sweet, sweet one
eex - pants or shorts
Eya, ki’ichkelem - hey, handsome
Chapter 23: The Final Threshold
Notes:
listen
you read the tags
you know nashuri pegging was coming
do not @ me
Chapter Text
“Keep your hand open and flat,” said Bucky Barnes, guiding Riri’s fingers. “Yeah, like that. If you curl your fingers, you’re gonna get bit. And would you quit being so nervous? This is your third day out here.”
Riri made a face at him and flattened her hand so quickly that the feed rolled off it. The goats clustered at her ankles bleated excitedly, nosing around in the grass for the pellets. “Oh, shit! Let me try it again.”
On the other side of the paddock, Namora was delightedly darting out a hand to stroke the rough fur of the animals, a little shy of the new creatures but happy to explore. “White Wolf, do they all have such strange eyes? The pupil is flat. I have just noticed.”
“Yeah,” he told her, lifting three rakes with one hand. “Just like cows and horses. Okay. We’ll feed them and then get to work cleaning out their shelters today.”
“Cleaning? You mean poop? Goat poop. Gross.” Riri wrinkled her nose as she held both her breath and her hand flat— a goat’s lips flapped across her skin and the pellets were gone. She grinned. “Yo, Bucky! I fed one!” In search of more pellets, one of the goats butted its hard head into Riri’s thigh, and she toppled sideways into a pile of hay. “Ow, what the fu—”
“Well, look at you go, Chicago,” he said, tossing her a rake where she sat. “Namora, you got the feed handled?”
With a single swipe of a harpoon-tipped spear, the burlap bag of feed opened, gushing pellets into the trough. Namora tucked her blade back into her belt, but the stampede of goats that rushed the long, narrow feeding trough almost knocked her off her feet. She yelped and jumped away backward, laughing as one of them butted her in the hip. “They are very strong beasts!”
“You’re stronger,” said Riri, laughing and brushing hay off her ass as she watched Namora tussle with the goat. “Look, he can’t even move you.”
“It will take more than an animal to move me,” said Namora primly, casting a look over at Riri, who felt a little tongue-tied— Namora’s eyes were so big and dark, like a Disney princess or something, and she had really good eyebrows. It was just something she’d noticed over the past couple of days. And she didn’t smile a lot, but when she did, it was just…
“Yeah,” Riri said awkwardly. Dammit, that’s not a cool thing to say. “I know. You’re— pretty.” Namora blinked and tilted her head to the side. “Pretty strong, I mean.”
Hefting a rake over his metal shoulder, Bucky cast a look over at both of them. “You’re lucky you’re stronger than they are, Namora. The bucks can knock a grown man down if they put their mind to it. Real territorial during mating season. Okay, Chicago. Time to go. Grab that rake and let’s hit the sheds.”
Namora grinned and scratched one of the goats behind its ears as Riri, grateful for the interruption, tromped behind Bucky with her own rake in her hands. It was a beautiful day, bright blue sky and a cool breeze, the kind of day that would have been perfect for taking her old Ironheart prototype for a ride. Barnes wore simple, woven clothes of gray and brown, his hair tied back at the top, and brown leather sandals. “Thanks for the save. You know, you look like White Jesus or somebody,” she informed him as they reached the sheds. She liked giving Barnes shit: everything rolled off his back.
Bucky snorted. “I really don’t know if that’s supposed to be an insult or a compliment.”
“It’s a scientific observation, thank you very much. You know what? It’s the shoes. Those them shoes that the five thousand people got fed with one slice of bread in or whatever. Galilee 15’s.”
The creases at the corners of his eyes deepened. “Aren’t you still young enough to be in Sunday school? It was five loaves and two fishes.”
Riri pointed at him, grinning. “Ah-ah, see? You know ‘cause you was there. Everybody thinks you’re from New York, but I know the truth. Can’t fool me.”
He shook his head and laughed. “You know, you talk a lot of smack for someone who can’t even put three words together in front of her crush.”
Riri’s face burned and her heart started thudding. “Smack? Smack? What is this, 1980? And also, for your information, Grandpa, I do not have a crush on Namora. She’s just really cool. Okay?”
His blue eyes almost vanished in creases of laughter as he bent to the task at hand: the manure in the paddock. “Uh-huh. Get that shed open and start raking out the goat shit, Chicago.”
She stuck out her tongue at him and opened the wooden door, the wafting smell of goat shit slapping her in the face. Gross, she thought, wrinkling her nose, but it didn’t smell all like goat shit, it smelled metallic and rusty, like… Her gut dropped. “Hey, Bucky? Smells like blood in here or something.”
He was at her side in a moment, hunching down and crawling into the shed, where he pushed open panels on either side to let in light and air. “Shit,” he said shortly, and Riri could see a hairy goat lying down on its side in the musty hay, but it wasn’t moving. “Namora!”
The Talokanil woman shoved her head in, looking alarmed. “White Wolf?”
“Run as fast as you can down to the village and tell Nceba that one of her kidding does has died in labor.”
Namora turned and bolted. Riri turned back. “You said yesterday— kidding means she’s, like, pregnant or something, right? Was pregnant?”
“Yeah,” he said, feeling around at the dead goat’s backside. “Giving birth. Shit. Baby goat’s nose is almost out, and I think…” Bucky leaned down, pressed his ear to the dead goat’s belly. Riri held her breath, watching. “Kid’s still got a heartbeat,” he said, raising himself back up. “Must have just died a couple seconds ago, she’s still warm— okay, Riri, you’re gonna need to sit here. Here at the back.”
She scrambled to do as he said. “The fuck you want me to do? This is only my third day! I’m not a damn goat midwife!”
“If we pull on it, we could break a bone. I’m gonna imitate contractions. Baby goat’s gotta come out soon or it's gonna die.” He pressed his vibranium arm around the dead mother’s belly and nodded at Riri. “It’s not gonna fly out like a rocket. You get your hands in there and feel around and tell me when the head’s out.”
“Oh, my god,” whimpered Riri, but got her hands in anyway. The mama goat’s interior was swollen and wet, but she could feel a slimy little nose a couple inches inside. “Okay, I’m ready.”
Bucky bore down, his face going red with effort, for about six seconds, then released: then another six seconds. Riri concentrated on delicately feeling around the baby goat’s nose as inch by inch, contraction by contraction, the head slid out slow and easy. “Head’s out,” she yelled, looking down. A tiny little goat face, eyes closed, covered in a sheet of thick membrane and smeared with blood and gunk, was protruding from the big goat’s backside. “Damn, this is fucking nasty.”
“Get down in there and pull the forelegs forward real slow and gentle,” said Bucky through his teeth. “Hurry.”
Riri closed her eyes and took a breath. It’s like shoving your hands into an oil tank. That’s it. That’s all you're doing. Just— She slid her hands into the goat, apologizing out loud to the dead animal— it just felt so wrong — and felt a tiny hard hoof, a front leg, pulled it forward carefully— then the other. “I got the legs!” she gasped.
“Okay. I’m gonna push. Ready?”
“Yeah—”
He bore down again. “Pull!” he gasped, and Riri pulled, slowly and carefully. The whole baby goat, soaked and shining black from head to toe came slithering out right into her lap, slopping her with body fluids and blood, and Riri scraped the membrane clear off the baby’s nose. The little guy had to breathe, she knew that much, and he couldn’t do it if he had gunk all over his airways. Bucky crawled around the dead mama goat and hunched over her lap, blowing puffs of air into the baby’s face. “Come on,” he whispered between puffs. “Come on, you little fighter. You got this.”
Riri rubbed the baby’s sides, her heart thudding in her chest like a hammer. Come on, baby goat! And with a weak little maa, the kid’s eyes fluttered open and it shook its head from side to side, sneezing, bleating again, shivering and thrusting out its little front legs. “Holy shit!” she gasped, staring at Bucky, who exhaled hard with relief. “Holy fuckin’ shit!”
“Congratulations, Chicago,” he said, grinning as he took off his shirt and rubbed the shivering baby goat down with it. “There’s something to put in your cover letters, huh?”
Her hands were shaking violently as she tried to help Bucky rub the goat down. “Man, what the—”
“You’re in shock. It’ll pass. Sit still and breathe.” Bucky cleared the baby goat’s eyes of gunk and lifted the tail. “Hey, would you look at that? It’s a girl.”
“A girl,” repeated Riri, clutching at the goat. “It’s a little baby girl goat?”
“Yup.”
“Maaa!” squeaked the kid, tail shaking. Bucky closed the panels to the sides of the goat shelter, dunking them all back into warm dim dark like a closet. “Yeah,” he mumbled as he returned to rubbing the little goat dry, “can’t let you get too cold, huh? We’ll get you some milk from the other mamas who gave birth this week. You’re gonna be okay.”
Tears were streaming down Riri’s face. Now why the hell am I crying? She went to wipe her face, but remembered what was on her hands and reconsidered real quick. Oh, right, I’m in shock. Bucky had finished wrapping the baby goat in his shirt, and wrapped his right arm, the warm one, around her shoulders. “Man, I’m all covered in goat shit and blood and—”
“I’ve seen worse,” he said, rubbing her arms. “We’ll get you washed up and some tea to drink down in the village. Nceba’s probably gonna name the goat after you. She’s not had a lot of babies born this season in her flock. Every new one’s a gift. Special. Hey. You okay?”
“I don’t know, I can’t stop crying,” she bawled, tucking her hands into her side and leaning into his shoulder. The newborn kid, drowsy from the exhausting experience of being born, opened one eye to look at her, sneezed again, and rested its little chin on its forelegs. “Man, that baby’s so fuckin’ cute, what the hell?” sobbed Riri.
Bucky started laughing. “You’re gonna be just fine, Chicago. Come on. Let’s get out of here.” Blindly, Riri crawled on her hands and knees to the open pasture, where the world seemed overwhelmingly huge after the dim little goat shed, and the wind cut into her soaked clothes like a knife. Namora was already coming back, waving her arms.
“Nceba will arrive soon!” she shouted. Then she checked herself as she caught sight of Riri. “Are you all right, Riri?”
“No, I’m— I delivered a goat,” said Riri, shaking so badly that her teeth were chattering.
“Oh,” said Namora in a very different tone, and took off her cloak to wrap it around Riri’s shoulders. “Birth is often a sight worse than battle. You have done well. Does the kid live?”
“So far,” said Bucky. “I’m waiting for the umbilical cord to fall off naturally, but I figured I’d let Nceba handle that. Will you take Riri down to the village?”
“Put a shirt on before Nceba gets here,” said Namora with a sniff as she tucked her arm around Riri. “Come, Riri.”
“I am never having babies,” said Riri, staggering off down the road. “Not ever, ever, ever. ”
“I have been of such a mind since my childhood,” Namora told her, squeezing her around the shoulders snugly as Barnes faded into the distance behind them. “It is good to find that someone on the surface shares my feelings.”
“Yeah?” Riri felt warmer, suddenly, somehow. “I never got the chance to— I wanted to, um, just say I’m sorry about the— the stuff that happened in Talokan when y’all had me down there with Princess Shuri. Queen Shuri, I guess, now, but she was princess then.”
“There is no apology needed,” said Namora warmly. “I was… happy that we had guests. We had new clothing made for the princess, but none for you— we expected to kill you quickly, you know. So I took some from my own home to dress you in.”
“Wait. I was wearing your clothes the whole time?” Riri clutched the patterned cloak tighter.
“Yes. It was hard to find another Talokanil woman as small of stature as you.” Namora grinned.
“Ha-ha. Very funny.” Nceba passed them, hurrying to the goat pasture, and Riri barely even noticed. “So, um, I guess we still got a few more days out here with the goats. Before I have to leave and go home, I mean.”
“Nceba may need extra help with the new kid,” said Namora, nodding. “Perhaps we could come here together and— and help her with it.” Her sky-blue skin was turning almost a lavender-purple color that Riri'd never seen before around her nose and cheeks, and then Riri realized... she was blushing.
“I think… I think I’d like that,” said Riri, her heart doing something funny and fluttery inside her chest that she’d only felt a couple times before in her whole life. “A whole lot.”
“There’s been a good omen in the Border Tribe, my queen,” said Okoye as she walked with Shuri to the hangar. “The female kid who was born in such unfortunate circumstances four days past still lives and grows strong. We have Ms. Williams and the White Wolf to thank for it.”
“We will send them word,” said Shuri, smiling. “Have our guests all left? The Talokanil have all gone home?” She had tearfully said her farewells to Wilson, Barnes, and Riri, sending them home with guards, which would be temporary until the address to the United Nations. Riri had foregone all Wakandan formalities and hugged her in front of everyone, and Shuri had embraced her right back. “You take care of me and Namora’s baby goat,” Riri had whispered in her ear, sniffling.
Now, Okoye answered her question. “Yes, my queen. The Americans have all been reunited with their families and are all under guard by War Dogs. Only your husband remains in Wakanda.” If Okoye was feeling wistful at the thought of the departed Talokanil, she did not show it. The Royal Talon was waiting, imposing and beautiful in the last rays of sunshine as the ramp descended to the ground. Shuri’s simple black caftan whipped around her legs in the wind. “You are sure that you will go through with this, then?
“I am resolved,” said Shuri softly. “And I am glad that you will be there with me, sister.”
A muscle in Okoye’s cheek twitched, as if an unseen river of emotion beneath was threatening to break free. She saluted Shuri, arms crossed, and followed her into the Talon, where two Dora Milaje were already waiting in the cockpit. “Let us go,” she said softly, and the ship lifted off.
Shuri had some time to think on the flight. Since the Necropolis had been burned, it was no longer suitable to use as a place to administer the heart-shaped herb. She had consulted with Sope, who had advised that the most spiritual natural place in Wakanda now was the green, mossy glade where Shuri had planted the new heart-shaped herbs: where she had wed Namor. The glowing purple-blue blossoms had spread thickly under the expert cultivation of the shamans, and now they twined around trunks of trees, hung from branches, nestled themselves in mossy bark and crevices of stone. It was a quiet place, a holy place. Yes, Sope had said, they could do the ceremony there.
And of course, Nakia would have Kimoyo beads close to hand, just in case. Two elders from each tribe would come, and all the children who trained with the shamans would be there. She thought of little T’Challa, so worried for her during the ceremonial fight: Nakia had decided he should be left in the dark until after it was over. My little nephew, she thought, I must now fight an even harder battle than that one. Because this was truly stepping into unknown territory, all scientific knowledge gone, empty. There was no precedent for what she was about to undergo. No possible way of knowing anything. I can only trust.
What did she know? I know when I took the herb the last time, I saw N’Jadaka. I saw the throne room, where my mother died. Just as it was. So if I do not die immediately… I will see someone. That made her feel a little better. The glimpse she had been given of her mother, crowned in white, smiling beneath a sky shimmering with green and purple light: that glimpse… whether it had been a construct of her mind, or a true look beyond the thing that separated life and death, she did not know for sure, but it had made her believe that there was something beyond what her eyes and mind could see and feel and know. Whatever that something was… well, she was about to find out.
"Okoye," she said softly after a long silence.
"Yes, my queen?"
"What did Nceba name that baby goat?"
The ex-general lifted her chin a little. "She is a resilient little thing, who grows strong without her mother, and thrives in the company of the others around her." Something damp softened Okoye's eyes. "Nceba has named her Shuri."
The Queen of Wakanda walked over soft, damp moss, barefoot in her caftan: she took it off along with her Kimoyo beads and handed everything ceremonially to Namor, who stood all in white, as if he was in mourning already, at the edge of a circle that had been marked out in the turf, the black rich soil shoveled into a shallow trench. Nakia stood by with her father, and Okoye with her uncle, and M’Baku stood with M’Bele, everyone— everyone who was supposed to be there was there, and Shuri was glad. If I am to die, I will be surrounded by my people.
Her caftan removed, she wore only a simple breast band and shorts, the same clothing she had worn when she had won her throne back. Sope draped the ancient necklace of panther teeth that had belonged to Bashenga around her neck (they felt heavy and warm) and Shuri saluted her: the whole glade went silent, saluting back as one.
Then Shuri climbed into the trench and simply breathed, resting: her back was on cool soft earth, rich with water, and it strengthened her as she let her thoughts go where they would.
I do this for my people. Both Talokan and Wakanda. I do this out of love. For Mama, for Baba, for everyone who has ever loved me. To protect. To save. To help and defend the powerless. My people. I am Queen. I am Princess. I am a scientist, and I am…
I am just… breathing.
K’uk’ulkan watched closely. The quiet precision and movements of the ceremony was like a dance: Shuri lay in a shallow grave in the midst of a circle of plowed-up black earth. The soft glow of the heart-shaped herbs hanging from trunk and branch cast a bluish-purple hue on everything, but four torches burned around the circle to give a little more light. He was reminded, uneasily, of their wedding: an altar with the four winds marked out upon the circle. Was this a wedding of a kind, too? What would Shuri join herself to at this altar? The Black Panther, or nothing at all, or some wayob that would draw her down to Xibalba, where he could never follow?
He wanted to drive his spear into the heart of the earth: to snatch her out of the grave and fly away, far away to where no one could ever find them again. But he could not. I promised her. He watched, and he waited, hope fleeing his heart. The shamans in their robes delicately selected a herb, plucked the seed from the throat, and dropped it into a stone mortar held by another shaman, who ground it with a pestle. No words were spoken, no songs or chants sung. Shuri lay quiet, her chest rising and falling as the liquid from the pestle was poured into a shallow earthen dish with a spout, and that dish was given to Sope, who walked forward solemnly with it in her hands until she stood within the circle, then bent down to Shuri.
“Allow the heart shaped herb to restore the powers of the Black Panther, and take you to the ancestral plane,” she murmured, and K'uk'ulkan watched as the potion they had ground, purple and shimmering, was poured into Shuri’s mouth. She drank every drop, and remained quiet, her eyes closed. Sope stood, raising the cup as black veins appeared on Shuri’s dark face and chest, lit by the glow of something bright and purple shining behind her skin. They moved from her throat to her chest to her belly. K’uk’ulkan kept his terror forced down as he watched her slowly struggle for breath, small gasps escaping her throat.
Was this how it looked when my mother drank of the plant given by Chaac?
“T’Chaka,” intoned Sope. “We call on you: come here to your daughter. Ramonda, we call on you: come to your daughter.”
The observers murmured softly in their own tongue. Shuri must have seen something behind her closed eyes: for she inhaled softly, her eyelids fluttering. Then her body quieted in its struggle, and she lay as one dead. Sope whispered something to the other shamans and the little ones who were in training, and they took spades, covering Shuri over in rich black earth. Foolishly, with tears blurring his vision, K’uk’ulkan thought: But I have not put a jade bead in her mouth: how will she find her way to the Maize God’s fields?
Earth buried her. Flames burned in their torches.
She is fire and earth: I am wind and water.
He remained where he was, tears marking his cheeks as his hands clasped around her empty, still-warm gown, as the last spade of soil covered her beautiful bright face, and then all of them were all together above the earth and Shuri was alone below it, waiting for what the gods would give: death, or life.
“Where are you hiding?” She walked down the hallway, delighted at stealing away her brother for a glorious rare afternoon of playing in the palace. “Bhuti! Where are you? I am going to find you!”
Footsteps on the carpet. Dust drifting in the sunbeams like motes of gold. The soft jingle of her bracelets as she pushed the closet door open: her brother’s laughter, the gap in his front teeth showing as he caught her by the wrists and pulled her inside, tickling her under her chin. “Aha! Sisi! You found me!”
“It’s my turn now!” Her own voice echoed off walls, twisted, turned on itself. Baba had called for him. He was sorrowfully letting her go, walking away into the dark. “No, don’t go! Wait! It’s my turn!”
“We can play another day, Sisi. I have to go with Baba now.”
“No! Come back, we haven’t finished playing yet,” she cried, stretching out her little hands toward him. “Come back! T’Challa, please, come back!”
Shuri opened her eyes and sat up, crumbling sand that did not cling to her clothes or stain them falling away from her body as she stood up straight, gazing at her surroundings. She recognized what she was looking at after a moment. A sea, stretching as far as the eye could see, shone in colors reflected by the sky, adorned with every color of aurora borealis she could imagine: these could not be real. Pink, red, purple and blue, green and orange and gold: sheets of rippling soft light glowed above her head like rainbows. She stood on a sandy shore, and behind her was a scrubby plain dotted with palms and acacia trees. She turned, taking it all in with astonishment. The ocean crashed on the shore, a soft rushing sound that felt soothing as a heartbeat.
She felt she should walk toward the trees, so she did. Her feet touched grass, but did not come away dirty, and there weren’t any rocks or thistles, and there was not a breath of wind despite the sea. Surely this cannot be a real place: it defies every law of physics... but surely if any place existed outside the realm of science, this was it. When she had come within forty feet of the closest acacia tree, a large, catlike, dark shape with bright eyes shining gold moved in the branches, dropping down to the grass. Shuri froze as a glimmering sheen of purple light moved across the panther and left in its place a man in a white jomi, embroidered with gold and silver, both of his hands reaching out to her. He was not thin and gray from pain as she had last seen him: he was as full of life as he had ever been, and his movements were confident and strong.
“Sisi,” he said, and smiled the gap-toothed, gentle smile she had known all her life. “What, no hug for your brother, eh?”
“T’Challa?” she choked, and raced to him, tears streaming down her face as she jumped into his arms, her own arms wrapped around his neck as she sobbed, “Ubhuti wam!”
“Usisi wam,” he whispered against her cheek, his big, strong hands warm and tight against her back. “You see? You found me, just as you always do.”
“I met your baby,” she choked into his neck. “He’s so big, I can’t believe you didn’t tell me before. And I’m married now! And there’s so— there’s so much to tell you.” Shuri was babbling over her own words, crying and laughing all at the same time as she peeled herself off T'Challa.
“I know,” said T’Challa, smiling. “I have seen it, Shuri. I was with you all along.” He took her hands in his and held them tightly as she scoffed, tears dripping from her eyes.
“Now, how can you have seen it if you’re— you’re—you know.”
“Dead?” said T’Challa. “Oh, I see. You think that because I am dead, we cannot see each other. It is not that simple. The curtain between here and there… it is thin in places where life and death almost touch, for example. When you might be a moment, a breath away from entering the ancestral plane; when it is very near. Just around the corner, just out of sight. And it is then that I can see you, and you might see me.”
“Yes, I saw that. I saw Mother,” whispered Shuri. “I— is she here?” She turned, perhaps expecting Ramonda to step out from behind any tree or bush.
He chuckled. “Eh, you cannot go around seeing everybody now, can you?”
“Why?”
T’Challa squeezed her hands. “Did you know that your very first word was why? ”
“It was?”
“Yes. Mother had been trying to get you to say baba for two weeks, and finally you looked at her and said, why? ” He grinned, that gap-toothed smile that she loved so much. “Baba laughed for a whole day. And here you are, still asking why. You are nothing if not consistent, little sister.”
“Ah, shut up,” Shuri said, laughing, but sobered at her last memory. “I… I am sorry that I did not find a cure fast enough. For you. When you were— I didn’t go to you.” Tears filled her eyes again. “I did not go to you. My brother. And you were dying, and I was— I was trying, I’m sorry, I tried so hard—” Her voice broke.
“Eh, come here,” said T’Challa, pulling her into his arms again for a hug. “Do not worry about that. Dying is not— it is not always some majestic slipping away into another world, Shuri. I am glad you did not have to see me go.”
She closed her wet eyes, breathing in his familiar scent: the fabric of his jomi, the faintest hint of leather and open air, even the smell of the burnt ozone left in the wake of his Panther habit as it dematerialized. It smelled like him. Like home. “I miss you so much,” she whispered thickly. “Every day. But really, T’Challa, why can’t I see Mama?”
“One person comes to you when you receive the heart shaped herb, but when you step away from the lands of the living and into the ancestral plane for the last time… then we will all be together,” he said softly. “You are at that place now, Shuri. You stand on the final threshold. One step forward, and you will be able to see them all. Baba, Mama, Grandfather Azzuri— all the way back to Bashenga himself.”
She wanted to see everyone. She wanted to so badly it almost hurt. But… “You mean that it is not up to chance whether I live or die, then? It is my own decision? I thought… statistically speaking, there was a very high chance of—”
“Always the scientist,” said T’Challa, grinning. “But yes, it is your own choice.”
“Will I have the strength of the Black Panther, or will it be affected by the other strain of vibranium that is now in my system?”
“You are the scientist, not me. I cannot tell you that,” he said. “I can only tell you what you can choose. Forward, or back. That is the only choice any of us ever make. But if you do not choose soon, the choice will be made for you.”
Shuri wiped her eyes. “Okay. If I don’t— if something—does dying hurt, T’Challa?” she whispered, her voice trembling in her throat.
“Mm. The moment itself, or the thing that kills you?”
“The moment.”
“No,” he said seriously. “No, Shuri. It is as simple and easy as falling asleep. You take one breath there, and the next here, in this plane, where you can run forever under a sky that never fades.”
She tilted her head back, gazing at the sky and all its colors. “I only have one more question,” she whispered, turning to look at him. Tears blurred her sight: she scrubbed them away. She could not lose even a moment of the sight of him, more precious than vibranium. “You said you could see me when life and death were meeting. Did you… in the forest, when I was lost after the battle. I was dying, and I could not find Namor. Were you there? Did you see me then?”
“Yes,” he said softly, stroking her cheek with his hand. She closed her eyes and let the tears leak down her face, untouched. “Tell me, little sister: what is the law of conservation of mass?”
She sniffled, but answered: she had known that answer since she was three. “For any system closed to all transfers of matter and energy, the mass of the system must remain constant over time, as the system's mass cannot change, so the quantity can neither be added nor be removed. Or, if you like to make it simple, matter cannot be destroyed or created, only changed in some way. ”
T’Challa’s bright smile could have filled the world with light. “And so it is. Yes, Shuri. I was there. Just around the corner, just out of sight. I was the ground beneath your feet. I was in the sunlight. Every leaf of every tree, every rock and stone. And I was the wind that led you to him.”
She came up gasping, tears streaming down her face as soil grated into her nose, her mouth, her eyes, she choked on dirt and spat it out, blind, choking for air as a clamor of shocked voices met her ears, as hands touched her. She shied away from them, startled and hyper-sensitive, coughing until a voice she knew well shouted, “Leave her alone, leave her!”
My K’uk’ulkan. She looked for him, eyes still streaming, and reached toward a blot of white: he caught her in his arms, his chest heaving as he embraced her and brushed dirt off her. “I saw him,” she sobbed, clinging to white woven fabric. “My brother. I saw him.”
“Shh. Shh. Take a moment. Regain yourself.” Namor’s voice was worried and low, and someone brought water: he washed her eyes clean of dirt. “Better?”
She blinked, wiping her face. Everyone was staring at her with astonishment written clearly on their faces, and even Nakia looked worried. “Yes, thank you,” she whispered.
“Well, is she the Black Panther or not?” asked the Merchant Tribe woman, leaning on her stick.
“A moment of peace, honorable grandmother,” said Namor thinly before turning back to her. “Shuri. You are not ill? You do not feel—”
“I feel fine,” Shuri said at once. “I really do. I feel— I—” She looked at her hands for a moment, at the tattoo over her right one, the creases in her knuckles and skin. They did not look any different. “Griot? How are my vitals?”
The AI’s holographic form sprang to life from her Kimoyo beads, clasped in Namor’s hand. “Very strong, Princess. You are in perfect health.”
“Ah, Shuri,” choked Namor, and embraced her tightly. “Shuri,” he repeated before letting her go.
Nakia edged closer. “My queen,” she said softly. “I cannot say how glad I am to see you have survived.” She opened her mouth to go on, but caught the look on Namor’s face and withdrew, smiling.
M’Baku marched over. “Enough of this,” he said, extending his hand. “Come, my queen. Let us see whether your Bast has blessed you or no.”
Shuri lifted her chin and looked at him for a moment. This was nothing like it had been when she had known for certain whether or not she had gained the strength of the Black Panther. Before, she had ensured she would know: she had punched a body-form clear across the room, built her suit, known for sure before she had sailed earthward from the Royal Talon and landed in the snowy-rock circle of elders, with confidence and fury burning in her throat like fire.
Now, however, she stood in the green mossy glade, in the dark, fire lighting the faces of her people, her friends, her family: she had no surety of her abilities, and M’Baku was waiting, his hand extended to her. Doubt bloomed in her heart like an ugly, thorned weed. What if it didn’t work after all? What if I am about to make a fool of myself in front of all the elders? In front of Namor? In front of—
But T’Challa’s smile, gentle and bright, burned behind her eyes.
And Shuri knew the answer without knowing. Because that was the nature of faith.
She took M’Baku’s outstretched hand, exhaled hard, and locked him in. The Jabari leader’s hands were enormous, but… incredibly, she found she matched him without straining at all, and he puffed his cheeks out in astonishment as she forced his mighty arm to the side and held it, looking him square in the eye. “It… it worked,” she whispered, just as shocked as M’Baku looked. Beside her, Namor said something in Mayan that she did not understand, and collapsed to his knees, bowing his head.
“It worked,” echoed M’Baku, clasping her arm with his hand. “It worked!” he bellowed, turning to face the circle of astonished elders. Sope began singing in joy, hands upraised, as Zawavari clasped her hands to her face with emotion. “Glory to Hanuman! Glory to Bast! The Black Panther lives again!”
Namor came to her room that night.
He had not come any other night, not in the previous week, but now he crept in as soft and quiet as a mouse, slipping past the connecting doors and shutting them. “Wife,” he greeted her.
“Husband,” she answered, turning away from Griot’s calculations and leaning back on the sandtable. “You will be pleased to know that I have retained some of the abilities of your people. I would even go so far as to say they have been enhanced by the heart-shaped herb. My cellular replication is greatly amplified. It is possible, actually, that I may not age very quickly at all. Without proper experimentation, of course, I cannot say whether I could survive at the depths you do, but my muscle fibers seem to be very dense, so—”
“I did not come to speak of muscles and fibers and enhancements,” he said softly. Wearing only white loose pants, his hair damp from whatever swim he had taken earlier that evening, he looked beautiful: a work of art, some master sculptor’s lost work of a forgotten god. “I came to speak about the next mission.”
“Oh, yes.” That was first on the agenda for next week: the visit to the United Nations. Shuri had been crafting the speech for hours as she had worked— mostly to take her mind off daydreaming. “What about it?”
“Your wardrobe people are insistent that I wear a suit. They have measured and measured and measured. But… I am not sure they have gotten it correct.” A small, playful smile danced over his face. “I think I need a more practiced hand.”
She had not forgotten his words about what he looked forward to once she had the strength of the Black Panther again. Shuri shut off her hologram-integrated desk display without blinking. “Hm,” she said, trying to hide her excitement.
“Now, I know it has been some time since you have intimated yourself with my… dimensions,” he went on, walking over to the chairs and leaning on the back of one. “But I have confidence you will be able to assist me.”
She walked up to him very closely, just barely touching him, the hair on the back of her neck alert and prickling. “Do you think I might need a measuring tape?” she breathed.
“I trust your mind,” said Namor, smiling. “And your— hands—” It came out a little half-swallowed, because one of hers was slipping down his belly and across the front of his pants. “And your strength,” he managed to say, recovering.
“I see,” Shuri whispered, and kissed him hard, wrapping her arms around his head and shoulders: he groaned into her mouth and caught her up before going airborne, wheeling through the space above the chairs and landing her on the bed on top of him. “Ah—”
“I’ve missed you,” he whispered, lunging up to catch her bottom lip in his teeth as she frantically tore off her own clothes, fumbled with his, and landed herself back down flat over him. He kicked one foot out and flipped her over, putting him on top again, and shoved his face into her bare chest, all teeth and tongue and open lips. “My Shuri.”
She clutched him to her, reveling in the sensation of bare skin on skin, the rasp of his coarse hair, the rock of his body. “My pants, off, get them—”
Rrrrrip. She did not even care he’d torn them off her: she had others. “Shuri,” he growled through his teeth, nipping at her jaw and throat, lifting her, his hands grasping down her back. She flipped them again, her thighs straddling his hips, and clawed his pants off, but he had surged up again, catching her— then they were airborne again, her legs locked around his naked waist, and he had her against the wall, a foot off the ground as his wings beat a frantic, hummingbird-like blur below her feet. She reached back with one arm blindly and found the bookshelf, knocking a row of books off as she clung on. “I want my wife,” he snarled, roughly jostling her hips. “I want my queen, my princess, my—”
Shuri did not even care that she was being held up by his hips, one arm, and a pair of wings that seemed to defy the laws of physics. “Yes, yes,” she hissed, kicking his backside with her heels, and Namor lifted her hips, notched her at the tip, and sank in and in and in.
It felt different: fuller and richer, as if more of her nerves and reflexes had been activated: I could have had this, all that time? she thought, clutching at his neck with her free hand. Every nerve felt like a swelling tingle of full, rich sensation that went rocketing up her thighs, through her belly: she let out a wail and hung on tight as he started to pump his hips. Was he being rough? She could not tell. But he certainly was not holding back, as evidenced by the way the veins were standing out in his throat and brow. “Do not move,” Namor gasped, one hand clutching at her hips. “My Black Panther. You are mine.”
“I’m mine ,” she choked back defiantly, and gripped his back hard enough to sink her short nails into his skin. He let out a moan, biting at her ear. “And you’re mine.”
“Greedy,” said Namor thinly, redoubling his efforts between her thighs. Something fell off the wall. Shuri did not care. “Taking and taking, little panther.”
She licked his ear, the delicately pointed shell of it, warm and soft. Namor let out a high-pitched, weak sound and his wings stuttered, sinking them back down to the ground abruptly and slipping from her body before he caught his footing, his feet on the floor now as both of his hands pinned her wrists to the rough wall. She moaned as he covered her throat and jaw with biting, hard kisses, as he bent his head to do the same to her chest. “Back in,” she begged. “Now.”
“Ask nicely.”
“Please, just— just—”
“Ask very nicely.”
Shuri sucked in a breath and lifted her head. “Ah— Mighty K’uk’ulkan of Talokan, I beg you to put your— your— kep back inside me, because if you don’t, I am going to have to make you—”
“Make me what?” he whispered against her breast. Her skin rippled with gooseflesh, the reaction pebbling her nipples into hard dark nubs.
“Make you— p-put it—” Shuri could not even think. “Maybe I’ll treat you like this, eh, as you are treating me.”
“An interesting and provoking thought, but you have no kep,” said Namor, hot against her throat as he moved up.
“Then I’ll make one,” she snapped, wriggling and futilely trying to reach him, barely paying attention to what she was saying. “A big vibranium one just for you, you— annoying— teasing man—” His mouth had fallen from her skin, and he was gazing up at her with eyes dilated to utter blackness. “What?”
“Could you?” he whispered, his ears and nose turning wine-red.
“Could I— oh.” Shuri caught her breath for a moment. She was not unfamiliar with the act— being married meant suddenly everyone in Wakanda who had ever been married started to speak very freely in her presence about certain things, but she had never done it herself, though the thought had intrigued her greatly. Did he share the same idea? “Yes, of course I— I could. Do you— you want me to—”
“Please. Yes. I have often considered such— a— such—” He swallowed and stood up straight, looking away from her. “It is not something I have spoken of before. Give me a moment to put my thoughts in order,” he requested, and Shuri, confused, but amicable, nodded. Namor walked to the bed and sat down, his naked body gleaming with sweat in the light. She walked to her worktable, calling up a prototype as she glanced over her shoulder at him, who was still sitting quietly, head bent.
“I am here when you wish to speak,” she said softly, taking the prototype out of the sandtable. The last nanoparticles of vibranium had clicked into place, and she deleted the record, then set the thing she’d made down on the conversation table before sitting herself next to Namor on the bed and resting a hand on his knee.
He took a deep breath, as if he had been sleeping. “Among my people, in Mayab, I am told it was an act of… power, of dominion over another, to engage in such acts, man to a man… but we believed it could be holy, too. A sacred power, like… like the power of a god exerting his will on mankind. The Spanish scoured all such things from the culture, the people, in the name of their god, their dogma. But in Talokan, we preserved these things about our culture, and grew in understanding of them as time passed. Man to man, woman to woman— it is all good and fit. Three may reside in a home, or four or five together. This is good to help raise children, to teach and learn: two women and two men know more things between them than only one woman and one man. Even three women or three men, or two women and a man, or two men and a woman— ah, but I am losing my thread on the loom,” he said, shaking himself. “What I mean to say is… that act, the act of a man being taken, is a thing denied to me, as God-King, because I am God-King. I cannot be taken in such a way by any man or woman in Talokan. I may… conquer, I may not be conquered. And I have always wondered... what would it be like?”
“To be... conquered?” asked Shuri, trying to make sure she understood.
“Yes. I think I felt something like it with you, before. When you cut my wings.” Namor tapped his shoulder, eyes fixed on something distant. “Tore my back. Spilled my blood. It was terrible. And beautiful. Pain, but… sweet to my taste. It was like when we played in bed, when you demanded and I obeyed.” Slowly, he turned to look at her. “Before now, I would have outwardly denied my— my interest in such an act, but now I see more than I once did. Other beings, powerful men and women, walk the earth as I do. I am not alone, and I… I may have the title of a god among my own people, but I am not— truly a god, I think, in the house of my wife, the Queen of Wakanda, whose power now is equal to mine. So now I say to you that I would be honored and humbled to be taken in such a way by my Sun-Eyed Black Panther, if she is willing.”
Shuri’s mouth had gone dry, her belly in knots. She swallowed and met his eyes. “I… I would,” she whispered. “I just have no experience with— with— that. I would not want to—”
“Hurt me?” He smiled. “You could never truly hurt me, Shuri. But I would understand if you felt reluctant.”
“I’m not reluctant,” she said, moving her hand up to his shoulder. The idea was actually a little exciting, despite the fact she had never engaged in it before. “I… I want to try it. You will have to tell me what to do.”
“Ah,” said Namor, lifting his chin. “Ah— yes. I’ll be back in a moment.” He kissed her on the mouth and got up, heading for the bathroom, and Shuri got up at once, paced a few times, and blew air out of her cheeks.
“You can do this,” she told herself, staring at the item she had created. The straps that would fit around her hips rested inert and loose on the table, and she picked it up, weighing it, looking from side to side. Grey, sleek vibranium particulate alloy made up the smooth shaft, which looked like a very blunted, slightly tapered, thick club of some sort. She attached it to her hips, tightening the straps to shrink against her skin, and experimented with the weight, swinging her hips from side to side. Shuri had to laugh at the sight. It felt ridiculous, a fake penis that did not even look like a penis attached to her: maybe—
The door opened. She turned around and saw Namor standing there with his mouth open, staring at her hips before collecting himself and going straight to the bed. “We will need a considerable amount of your lubricant,” he said softly as she approached, climbing up by his knees. “I—” His eyes went to the strap, went back to her face, and back to her pelvis again. She might have thought he was terrified, had it not been for the fact that he was bruisingly hard between his thighs and his breath was shaky, the tip of his nose red. “You are. So beautiful,” he choked out. “My Shuri.”
“How do we—” Shuri bit her lip, smiling at the expression on his face. “Do you face me or away from me, or how do you want to—”
“I’ll show you,” he whispered, coming up for a kiss. His tongue flicked along her bottom lip, warm and sure, and she gave him as good as she got, biting at his lip and sucking a little. When he pulled away, he looked dazed, his mouth swollen and wet. Shuri pulled the lubricant out of its drawer near the foot of the bed and slicked her hand with it, and Namor swallowed visibly before rolling to all fours, presenting his backside to her. “Be soft with me,” he whispered, his head turned back to look at her.
Shuri used her thumb and fingers, slipping experimentally between the soft, thin place behind his testicles and the bottom of his tailbone. His skin was very delicate here, and warm, and clean. She instinctively pressed a kiss to the smooth skin of his thigh, and was rewarded with a small sound: she moved higher and kissed the little crease where his thigh met his backside, and higher, biting gently at the thick muscle above. Namor twitched and grunted, his skin rippling into bumps, and Shuri patted his thighs apart. “More room,” she whispered, and he obeyed at once, a gust of air escaping his lungs. She just touched him, then: ran her wet fingers up his cock, danced her hands between his legs, smoothed her palms over the dips at his lower back, kissed his skin everywhere she wanted to. By the time she had explored all she could find, his breath was coming in hot, sharp pants, his cheek and shoulders pressed against the bed and his hands gripping fistfuls of sheets. “Am I not being soft enough, my lord?” she teased, slicking the toy with a handful of lubricant.
He gave a shaky little laugh. “Y-you must ready me with your hands,” he forced out. “It is not like a pel, which wets and readies itself—”
But Shuri knew that: that was basic anatomy, so the latter half of his sentence was drowned in a choking groan as her fingers gently opened him. “Relax yourself,” she whispered, slipping in a slick finger.
His voice came out in a whine. “It feels— very big—”
She had to giggle. “That is just my finger, silly man. Breathe. It can’t go in any farther, can it?”
“No,” he whispered, and rested his forehead on his arm, breathing deeply. His pointed ears were tinged a deep berry-red. Shuri felt his body slowly, slowly relax, and moved her finger and added another one, whispering softly as she patted his back with her free hand. “Ahhh,” Namor whimpered, his knees spreading further despite himself. He reached back with his own hands, gripping the backs of his knees, trembling. A long drop of fluid leaked from his cock, dripping down onto the sheets in a viscous string. “Please. I—”
“Does it feel good?”
“Yes,” he whispered, throaty and half-lost. “Yes, my love.”
“Okay. Ready?” Shuri wiped her fingers and settled herself, gnawing her lip with concentration. “Just tell me if I am doing it wrong, okay?”
“Yes,” choked Namor, and then his mouth slipped open in a silent, airless expression of utter adoration as she carefully slid the toy strapped to her hips into him. He remained beneath her, prostrated and shuddering as she bottomed out, stroking his back.
“There, that’s all, no more. It doesn’t hurt?”
“It’s— it—” Namor’s eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from under his lids. “Please,” he rasped, slipping his hands to grasp at the bedsheets. “Please. Move.”
Shuri put both her hands on his lower back to brace herself and began to gently roll her hips. It was an odd sensation, doing this, but Namor whispered half-choked guidance and she settled in quickly, ensuring she did not go too fast: the sounds being torn out of Namor’s throat made her pulse quicken and her thighs go weak. She was grateful for the pressure against the front of her pubic mound. “You are okay,” she whispered, rubbing at his skin gently with her thumbs. Perhaps she should say encouraging things: he looked half-gone already. “You are doing so well. Breathe.” A shuddering gasp drew air into his lungs. He was sweating, the water absorbing back into him almost as quickly as it was leaving, pale salt stains left behind like ghosts on his dark brown skin. “Good. Oh—” Shuri bit her tongue: the pressure in her nervous system was building to a throbbing nebula between her thighs with every thrust against him, and she couldn’t think what to say or—
She never stopped moving, all the way through it, her heightened senses in overdrive as her first orgasm ripped through her like lightning. “My love,” she gasped, when she could speak again. “Ah—”
“You finished,” spat Namor, clutching the sheets so tightly she was sure they would tear. “Please. Again. I w-want—” Air sucked thinly into his lungs, came back out in a gust. “Use me as you will,” he begged, burying his face in the sheets. “Ahh— my queen—”
“Tell me how it feels,” she demanded, planting her hands on both sides of his face and canting her hips a little more roughly. He arched his back, gasping. “Tell me.”
“Th-the—the— there — ahhh — a—”
“Have you lost the power of speech, K’uk’ulkan?” she whispered, bending down to lap at his ear with her tongue. He let out a thin, keening whine, and shuddered. Shuri stopped moving her hips and reached between his legs, cupping and pressing, tugging gently with her hand, and felt more damp stickiness. “Ah, are you wet for me here, as I am wet for you?”
“Please,” he finally managed to say, caged beneath her arms. “Please, my queen, my love.”
“Shall I finish you with my hand?”
“No,” gasped Namor, turning his head back up out of the sheets sharply. “No, I w—I can finish if you, if you— keep doing as you were doing. Please. Give— give that gift to me.”
“Okay,” she whispered, and kissed his shoulder, setting her hips to rock again as she lifted herself up a little more. Namor grunted, shifting so his back was more sharply arched, changing the angle of entry a little, and then he went rigid, mouth open, tears glittering in his lashes. Shuri slid her hands back and kept a firm grip on his hips, the gentle smack of her flesh hitting his an even beat, and then her husband, God-King of Talokan, the Feathered Serpent, dissolved into a wordless, writhing, crying mess as he came and came and came. She could feel his thighs going hard as iron as his muscles tensed, his body strung tighter than a bow, and then it was over, he was gasping, blindly clutching at sheets, his hips jerking into thin air as he emptied himself all over her bed and his own skin, unintelligible broken sounds streaming from his mouth.
Shuri held onto him until he had gone quiet and limp, looking half-dead, before she slipped out of his body and set the toy aside to be cleaned thoroughly later. Water, he needs water. Namor’s lips were parched and ashen. She slipped to the bathroom and filled a pitcher, pouring a cup and wetting a cloth, and when she came back into the room he was lying on his side, head moving sluggishly from side to side. “Shuri?”
“I’m here,” she said, climbing back up to the bed and rolling him gently to his belly again. “Shh. I’m here.”
“You left me,” he slurred, tears in his dark eyes. “I thought…”
“Did you black out for a moment?” Shuri wiped his forehead, his back, his backside. “I only went to get water.”
“Water,” Namor echoed, and propped himself up on his elbows, gulping at the cup she gave him. When he had drained it dry, he rested a moment, then drew his knees up and away from the mess on the bed, the tip of his nose still tinged a dark red as he avoided eye contact with her.
Shuri reached out with the damp cloth, wiping down his belly. He shivered, but did not shy away. “You okay?” she asked softly, touching his jaw with the tips of her fingers.
“I… do not know,” he rasped, a little hoarse. “I…” The back of his hand ran across his nose briefly, his eyes still not meeting hers. “It was—” Namor took another shuddering breath. “It was so good,” he whispered finally, his voice cracking. “I did not know it could feel like that.”
Shuri tugged the sticky sheets off the bed and crawled up next to him, hugging him tightly to her chest as he shook with quiet sobs. “You are okay,” she whispered, stroking his hair, kissing the curve of his shoulder. “Just breathe. Was it too much?”
“It was much, but not too much,” he finally managed to answer, his tears subsiding. “Ah. I have not wept like that since the first time I lay with a woman.”
Shuri grinned into his back. “You wept your first time?”
He chuckled. “Very quietly, after she was gone. I was astonished that I could feel such things, things I had never felt before.” Namor shifted and rolled to face her, dried tears salting the corners of his eyes and the bridge of his nose. “I am glad this thing was done with you, Shuri.”
“So am I,” she whispered. “I really… liked it. Is that strange?”
“No,” he said, bumping her nose with his. “And now, to express my gratitude, I think I can offer you a throne.”
“A throne?” she said, not understanding for a moment. But I am already queen…
Namor parted his lips and touched them with his fingers, then slid down her body, pressing kisses to her body all the way from mouth to navel until he reached where he meant to go, and Shuri moaned aloud, tangling her fingers into his thick hair and shuddering against him. “This throne,” he whispered, and pulled her over on top of his face, holding her in place by her hips just above his nose and giving her soft, kittenish laps that made her shriek and struggle for more. “My queen,” Namor forced out before burying his mouth into her, onto her, his beard rasping against delicate skin and his hot tongue pressing, lapping. Shuri yelped, grabbing the headboard with both hands and grinding into his face with reckless abandon.
“Ahh— aaaaah don’t stop don’t stop don’t—”
It had to eventually end, though, as all things must, and Shuri ground her way through a climax that hit like the Royal Talon’s thrusters, arching her back and shaking, tense, before she went loose and pliant and collapsed over his head. Namor edged out from under her hips and slid his hands up her backside, over the small of her back, over her shoulders. “Is all well?” he whispered.
“Ye-eh-es,” she panted, her head swimming as she rolled to her side and shut her eyes, Namor crawling back up her body and peppering her skin with kisses. “Eh, you tickle.” He was warm as he lay alongside her, his arm draped over her waist as he tucked her head below his chin and sighed deeply. “Mmm,” she hummed, settling in.
“When will you come to Talokan?” he murmured into her hair, stroking the nape of her neck.
“I will have to run experiments and see if I can actually survive at such a depth,” she told the base of his throat, her eyes half shut. “I’ll know tomorrow. Maybe. If I can get to the lab. But if I do… if I can, I mean, I’ll come with you. To Talokan. After the UN meeting.”
“Good,” Namor said, and kissed her head. “A shame we cannot remove the hands of those traitors and send them to this assembly as a warning.”
“That violates the Geneva Conventions, unfortunately,” said Shuri, smiling with her eyes shut.
“Yes, I know; I read these conventions. Leave it to the surface nations of the world to defang war itself.”
“Best behavior,” she admonished, snuggling closer.
“Because that went so very well for us all the last time we undertook such a mission,” he joked, his hand spreading out over her backside. “Mm. I will show restraint and mercy… for you, my love, and none other.”
“Thank you.” Shuri kissed his throat and sighed, basking in his warmth, and the pair of them drifted off to sleep together, soft breathing and tangled limbs under a sky that shone with stars.
Chapter 24: Ix K’inich Ek’b’alam
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“I would like to extend a warm welcome to the representatives, ministers, ambassadors, and diplomats gathered here today,” said the Chairman of the United Nations, his glasses glinting in the lights from the cameras. “Especially on such short notice, as this hearing was rather, ah, quickly called. Thank you.” A murmur of acknowledgement went up from the large crowd. Every single member nation in the UN was present, a dignitary at each one surrounded by staff, UN ushers lining the walls, news crews crammed into the back in a tangle of cameras and wires. “Many of you were personally invited, as well. Welcome.”
A slim woman at the desk marked UNITED STATES OF AMERICA raised her eyebrows and tilted her head to the right, tapping away on her phone, but never looking up, as if the whole proceeding was beneath her attention. Her dark plum suit was immaculately cut, and not out of order, but the violet streak in her black hair raised a few eyebrows from the older officials in the room. At her side sat the Secretary of State, a craggy-looking, bearded older man in a dark suit with a flag pin on his lapel. When his glasses caught the light, they reflected like blank, gleaming discs.
The chairman continued. “Without further ado, it is an honor for me to welcome Queen Shuri, daughter of Ramonda, sovereign ruler of the Kingdom of Wakanda.”
The doors at the end of the hearing room opened. Heads turned in surprise: many had not been expecting this. The French ambassador’s face turned a sickly yellow color as the new Queen, a petite young woman with the wide-set eyes of her late brother and the elegant, high cheekbones of her mother, came sweeping in as if she owned the place. Her hair was pulled back, braided high atop her head and cascading down her shoulder in a thick plait, and she wore a purple, form-fitted gown cut high in the front to expose her knees and lower in the back, patterned with gold down the front. A cloak of rich, bright blue that hung from her shoulders and left the tops of them bare swept the floor behind her, also patterned in gold and silver, diamonds and lines in geometric patterns. The immaculate white-soled high-top sneakers on her feet were the same shade of blue, the laces gold. Gold clasped her upper arms, her waist, glinted from her hair, and an elegant, C-shaped necklace made of what seemed to be a single thin bar of gold rested on her throat, but that was not what got the attention of most of the people in the room as she made her way to the front of it. Two Dora Milaje in cloudy-gray, snug-fitted dresses with silver bracelets and necklaces, diamond-pattered cloth draped over their shoulders, were also not what everyone’s eyes turned to, not what the press pool started whispering about. That attention was reserved for the man at the side of the Queen of Wakanda.
He was not a very imposing man, but the expression on his face and the way he carried himself made him look ten feet tall. He wore a sea-green suit, blazer and trousers, immaculately cut, that contrasted with his warm brown skin beautifully and shimmered with a blue cast in the light, and as he passed row after row of desks, soft sounds of shock went up like a wave: his ankles had wings on them, white and brown like the wings of ospreys. They shook once or twice as he walked, flexing and fanning, before folding back in. Under the blazer, across his chest, he wore a broad, solid-gold collar studded with pearls and jade and— someone gasped and said it from the Germany table, and then everyone realized— raw vibranium. Blue and purple, solid and glowing: the blue carved flowers glowing in his earlobes (and his ears were pointed at the tips) were solid vibranium, the ring on his finger was vibranium, the bracelets visible as he pushed his sleeves up to sit at the table next to the Queen were gold set with vibranium; even the buttons on his blazer were vibranium. It was an outrageous, flagrant display of wealth. A woman at the French table, her eyes fixed on his suit, choked, “Merde, même ses vêtements en sont tissés!” and sat back in her seat, gaping. The cameras in the back went wild, snapping and buzzing, and the woman in the plum suit at the American table, her eyes fixed on the raw vibranium dripping from the man in green, leaned over and whispered something into the Secretary of State’s ear.
The two Dora Milaje who had walked in flanking the Queen reached up as one and lowered their microphones, eyes cast down at the table. Queen Shuri sat very straight and raised her chin as the Chairman spoke again, leaning forward a little. “Welcome. I hand the floor over to the Secretary of State of the United States of America.”
“Yes. Thank you.” The Secretary of State adjusted his tie, eyes fixed on the pair at the table. “I would— I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman, I’m afraid I didn’t catch— who is the gentleman at the right of the Queen of Wakanda?”
The Chairman of the UN glanced down at his cards. “A guest,” he read off, shrugging.
“A— all right. Well. The Director of the Central Intelligence Agency has just informed me that he is wanted in the District of Columbia for questioning in relation to the homicide of one Mr. Madison Bower, and as such, I would like to move that he be taken into custody by the United Nations Police immediately.”
That caused a stir from the audience, but nobody at the Wakandan table moved a muscle. “With respect, Secretary, the UN Police does not exist to extradite people, no matter who they may have harmed.”
“Harmed?” blurted out the woman in purple. “Harmed? That guy turned a kid’s face into meatloaf.”
“Madam Director, you do not have the floor—”
She scoffed. “Oh, can it. We’re taking him into custody.”
“He will not be taken anywhere,” said Queen Shuri, sitting placidly in front of her microphone. “When the Sokovia Accords were written into law in 2016, Mr. Chairman, you will remember that a clause was included on page two hundred forty-one, section C, paragraph 5, stating that any enhanced being who uses their power for the purpose of defense in a nation other than the one that they reside in is subject to the protections of their nation of residence: if they seek out diplomatic immunity from their resident nation, and if they are given it, they cannot be legally extradited to the country where the incident took place.”
“The Sokovia Accords were repealed last year,” said the Director of the CIA rather sharply.
“And, Mr. Chairman,” Shuri went on, ignoring the Director, “the United States of America ratified that clause into federal law in light of several incidents on their home soil, along with many other nations that now sit in this chamber, meaning that by America’s own laws, this man cannot be extradited there.” The Director’s mouth tightened into a hard line as a few people whispered, nodding.
The chairman leaned forward. “Has the gentleman sought diplomatic immunity?”
“He is Prince Consort of the Queen of Wakanda.” Over the shocked uproar in the room, Shuri continued. “He holds every diplomatic immunity that my nation has to offer, and any attempt to violate his sovereign person will be swiftly… discouraged.” The Dora Milaje exchanged looks with each other across the table, a small smile on each woman’s face. “I apologize for taking the floor, Mr. Chairman. Please proceed.”
The Secretary of State looked appalled as he scrambled for his notes. “The United States has reason to believe that Wakanda is responsible for— for seven people’s deaths. They were on a classified surveillance mission over Ethiopia, and they went missing somewhere near the border of Lake Turkana. Nobody has been able to locate them, and all attempts to reach out to Wakanda have been rebuffed. We were promised cooperation along with all the nations of the world, and yet Wakanda refuses to help us find these people, refuses still to share what could be a renewable energy resource with the outside world— temperatures are rising globally, the most extreme weather we’ve seen in decades, and Wakanda still hoards resources that could help us heal our planet. We strongly urge commitment to international efforts for global peace. Thank you.” He sat down and mopped his forehead with a handkerchief. The Director of the CIA, whose eyes had gone right back to the vibranium on the Prince Consort’s clothing, sat motionless.
The Chairman spoke. “I now extend the floor to Queen Shuri of Wakanda.”
She folded her hands in her lap and sat very straight as she spoke. “I have no knowledge of any surveillance team that went missing near Lake Turkana. I do, however, know of a violent and ruthless attack on the capital city of Wakanda, involving airstrikes on civilians, by a team of hand-picked, enhanced individuals sent by your nation for the purpose of stealing vibranium and abducting my sovereign person from Wakanda.” A murmur swept the crowd. “You speak of cooperation and commitment to efforts for peace, Mr. Secretary, but what you truly mean is that all other nations should lie down quietly and without a great fuss so that America may put its boot across their throats. Your attempt at appealing to the issue of climate change is without merit: if all the nations of the world ran off vibranium-powered renewable energy for a decade, it would not reverse the damage you have done to the world’s forests and seas.” Her consort nodded briefly. “Cooperation? Commitment? You break every code and law of warfare known to this body in order to steal that which you do not rightfully possess. And you would use it for weapons.”
“Order—” began the chairman as the room erupted into shouts.
“That is an entirely meritless claim—”
“They would use it for weapons—”
“Order!” The chairman rapped his gavel and the room quieted. “Queen Shuri, I respectfully remind you that accusations without proof are not to be leveled against members of this body.”
“I am aware. Fortunately, they are not without proof,” said Shuri, tapping a bead on her wrist. “Months ago, this body will recall that my mother sat here, just where I am now. The question for some time afterward was whether or not Wakanda was responsible for a SEAL team vanishing in the Atlantic Ocean, after a vibranium-detecting machine had stumbled upon an ocean vein of the ore there. We were emphatically not responsible, but during the Wakandan investigation, I met the people who were and went with them willingly to see their great nation. My Kimoyo beads, however— my communication devices— those were bugged by the director of the CIA, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine, who is sitting just there, Mr. Chairman. Then, they were given to Agent Everett Ross in order to allow the Agency to spy on my grief-stricken mother.”
“That is—” De Fontaine laughed incredulously, glancing from Shuri to the chairman of the UN. “Wow. Wow. I mean… talk about meritless accusations, am I right, Mr. Chairman?”
“And when the Agency arrested Everett Ross for sympathizing with Wakanda’s plight and trying to assist us, de Fontaine then took the beads into her personal custody,” said Shuri, tapping open a hologram that appeared to show a frozen frame of de Fontaine standing at a kitchen counter. Several people murmured in the audience, whispering. “What she did not know, Mr. Chairman, was that Kimoyo beads can be programmed remotely at distances over three times the circumference of the earth quite easily, and that they can contain data exceeding one billion terabytes. The Wakandan design team was alerted by Everett Ross that the Director was in custody of them and wrote a simple code reversing the bug. We now have recordings of every day that Director de Fontaine went to work at the Central Intelligence Agency: every classified briefing and meeting, every document she signed, every conversation she had, for months.” The sudden silence in the room was like the quiet roar of the ocean. In her seat, Valentina Allegra de Fontaine was turning stark white, and the Secretary of State, staring at her, had become an extraordinary shade of red. “I am aware that by the laws of this body, gathering and then sharing classified intelligence of this kind, especially with other nations, could be construed as espionage. Rest assured that none of this information will escape the security of Wakanda… unless Wakanda sees fit to release it.” The Queen of Wakanda let that sit in the air for a moment before she continued. “However, one particular string of repeated recordings over the span of several months, Mr. Chairman, contains the proof you have so kindly reminded me that I must present in order to levy my accusations against Director de Fontaine.” She flicked her fingers, and the hologram above her beads vanished. Several dozen phones buzzed, and people started picking them up, looking stunned. “You will find, honorable members of this body, that you have all been sent a copy of these recordings, strung together for your viewing convenience, to your personal devices.”
The Indian ambassador clapped her hand over her mouth as the sound started to play from her phone, de Fontaine’s voice speaking clearly. “Well, yeah, Thaddeus, I want people capable of destroying infrastructure. This is the CIA. We need manpower and at least five agents who can do some real damage against a five foot five girl hopped up on magic mushrooms in a catsuit. This isn’t rocket science, just find someone. I already have an Air Force kid with knowledge of a wingsuit locked down.”
Fontaine got out of her seat, turning her head to see where it was coming from. “Turn— turn that off—that is not authorized for press—”
“You will also find footage of the assault on Wakanda’s capital city included,” continued Shuri. “And a very interesting conversation that my Kimoyo beads recorded between myself and General Thaddeus Ross, United States Army. I trust this evidence will be enough to have this woman detained by Interpol, Mr. Chairman?”
The chairman was staring at his phone in shock, but he looked up quickly. “Ah. Well— in light of this evidence—”
“It’s fake,” hissed de Fontaine, face alight with barely-controlled rage. “These people have technology beyond your wildest dreams; you think they couldn’t create falsified footage of whatever they want to justify their actions?”
“And what actions would those be, Director?” asked the representative from Afghanistan, eyes narrowed.
“Murdering the seven people on a surveillance team that were peacefully, may I just say, flying in uncontested airspace!” De Fontaine threw her hands in the air, scoffing, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.
“Do you have proof these people were killed by Wakanda?” asked one of the women sitting behind the Venezuelan table.
“No, I don’t have proof, they’re missing.”
The Brazilian ambassador leaned forward. “What were their names?”
“I… I can’t release their names.”
“If it was a routine surveillance flight, then it would not have been classified, yes? Why can’t you release the names?”
De Fontaine looked like she had swallowed a lemon. “I don’t have to explain these things to you. They’re dead, Wakanda killed them all, and now they’re trying to pin the blame on America with this doctored footage!”
Queen Shuri turned her head slightly to the left and nodded, and the Dora Milaje sitting there tapped her wrist. The doors opened yet again, and a phalanx of Dora Milaje in full ceremonial garb marched in, herding five people in plain gray jumpsuits with their hands bound behind their backs. Cameras snapped and whirred, clicking: flashes burst from the press corner as the leader’s face was recognized, whispers going up, and Valentina Allegra de Fontaine went ghostly pale as John Walker’s cold blue eyes focused on her. “What— what is—”
“You may judge the falsity of my statements for yourself,” said Shuri quietly. “Does this look falsified with technology?”
“You,” Walker snarled at de Fontaine, dropping to his knees with the rest of them: a young Latino man who was holding back tears, two women with dark hair, one of them burn-scarred, and a burly, middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and beard. “You promised me my wife and baby would be safe!”
One of the Dora Milaje tapped him gently with the butt of her spear and muttered something. He fell silent, but not before the whole room started talking in every language under the sun, all of them shocked, many of them angry. “I’ve… never seen this man before in my life,” said de Fontaine weakly to no one in particular.
“That is not what this recording shows!” shouted the Algerian representative. “Time-stamp, five minutes in!”
In the midst of the chaos, the Prince Consort of the Queen of Wakanda got up from his table and walked to the prisoners as calmly and smoothly as if he was taking a stroll through a garden. Gradually, the room fell silent, every eye on this strange man as he stood looking at the room. “I exhort that this body,” he said, in careful, clear, accented English, “show mercy with their justice to these five people. They were unwitting tools of a regime that uses terror and destabilization to topple empires… but the empire that the Queen of Wakanda has built will last longer than any nation, and so will the empire I have built.”
“What— what empire is that, sir?” asked the Chairman, bewildered. “You’re a consort to a queen, not a king.”
“I was a king in my own right before this woman’s grandmother was born,” he said coolly. “My empire is below the sea, and our numbers are like grass. Here is our wealth.” He lifted his hands to show his clothing, the vibranium on his wrists and chest glinting blue in the light. “And here is our power.” One of the Dora Milaje handed him a spear, and he took it in hand, then physically lifted up a foot off the floor, his wings humming, and flung it with inhuman quickness into the back wall of the room, sending the Spanish ambassador ducking and covering as it stuck into the thick oak four feet deep, quivering. The man lowered himself back to the floor in the dead-silent room. “Hear my words. If justice is not brought concerning the people truly responsible for the attack in Wakanda that wounded both our people, not only will we obliterate your nations without quarter or reservation, but we will give arms and armaments, weapons beyond your imagination, to the countries and the people of the surface that suffer from the colonization and oppression of your imperialist nations. America. Britain. Spain and Portugal. Russia. France. You who have gained power and wealth from the labors of others, who have fed on blood and grief to claw like animals up to where you now stand: you will be eradicated by the people you have stepped upon the throats of for centuries after we drown your coastal cities and lay waste to your governments.”
“But that is all ancient history,” said the French representative, her voice quavering in the heavy silence.
He turned toward her, eyes burning, and she fell silent. “I was born to a woman of Mayab after the Spanish conquistadores burned our lands and turned our people against each other; enslaved and raped and murdered in the name of their god and their king. I have lived five hundred years upon this earth. It may be ancient to you, but I do not forget. My enemies have called me Namor since the days of the conquistadores, for I am sin amor, without love, for the people of your surface nations. Show justice, and you will receive mercy. Turn a blind eye… and you will see what my people and Wakanda can do.”
The cameras were still whirring frantically as the chairman stood up. “Director de Fontaine,” he said, and two plainclothes men stood, heading for her. “You’ll kindly go with these Interpol officers now, and they’ll figure out the paperwork.”
“Excuse me?” said de Fontaine, mouth open. “Uh, I want my lawyer, I want every lawyer I have, now. You can’t— get your hands off me, you can’t detain me, don’t you know who I am?” The cuffs clicked down. “What the hell are y— this was supposed to be a hearing about Wakanda’s refusal to cooperate—”
“It was a hearing,” said the Chairman, nodding at the officers as he shuffled and organized his papers. “Yours, in a way. And I’m afraid the UN does actually have the power to detain anyone without diplomatic immunity that the General Assembly has good reason to believe committed war crimes across borders. They codified that a month ago, actually.”
The Secretary of State sat with his mouth wide open in stunned surprise as de Fontaine was taken out, but he stirred as the young Latino man kneeling on the floor sniffled. “Sir, Mr. Secretary, sir,” he whispered. “I’m First Lieutenant Joaquín Torres, United States Air Force, sir, I just wanna know if my mom’s okay. Maria Mercedes Torres. She lives in Texas, sir. Director de Fontaine said she was gonna hurt her if I didn’t do my job. Please.”
“Oh— well, son, I—”
“Sir, I think you should hear this,” said a voice from another table. Over the speaker from the Mexican ambassador’s laptop, de Fontaine’s recorded voice could be heard, pausing every now and then as if she was listening to another person on the phone. The room went quiet as everyone stopped to listen.
“Torres? Stop calling me. Jesus. I don’t care if you have moral reservations. Your aunt— she’s undocumented, right? This is very simple. Okay. If you do what I tell you, I’ll pull some strings and have her green card expedited. If you don’t, well… Yes, I’m serious. I have agents posted in your neighborhood. Very cute yellow curtain in your mom’s kitchen window, by the way. Did she make that herself? I might be in the market for one.”
The Secretary of State turned back toward Torres, opening his mouth as if to say something, but then he caught sight of the expression on Namor's face. “You know what, son,” said the Secretary of State, turning back away quickly from that piercing stare, “I think I’m gonna have your family checked on myself, and why don’t we see about getting all of you lawyers?”
“Okay,” said Torres, and burst into tears.
The rambling old farmhouse, painted white and surrounded by oaks draped with long beards of Spanish moss, had sat placidly for sixty years on its foundations. The Louisiana autumn heat still baked the grass outside, but the last weak rays of the setting sun streamed into the living room, where a whole group of people were sitting, glued to the TV as the seven-thirty news came on. “Shh, Cass!” whispered a woman with her hair in braids, smacking her son on the head lightly. “Listen!”
“Welcome back to GNN. I’m Charlotte Adams, it is seven-thirty PM, and we have some more information about our top story of the day— of the week, actually, possibly of the year. The director of the CIA has been arrested for unlawful actions taken against the sovereign nation of Wakanda, with the DC attorney’s office citing an operation she personally spearheaded that, up until now, was a highly classified black-ops mission using enhanced human beings. The names of the agents who participated have not been released to the public, but at least one of these people involved has been confirmed to not be an enhanced person, and has already taken a plea deal. The others are in a holding location that has not been released to the public either, Jack, but I think it’s safe to assume that they are being held somewhere that can contain enhanced human beings.”
“Yes, absolutely, Charlotte, and what’s astonishing to me about this case is the fact that Queen Ramon— excuse me, Queen Shuri of Wakanda— that’s going to take some getting used to— uh, witnesses in the press pool at the United Nations have stated that she claimed to possess highly classified intelligence used by reverse-bugging a Kimoyo bead, which was initially stolen from her, I believe, by the CIA, and bugged. I think the concept of, you know, sort of pulling one over on the CIA is really igniting a lot of discourse among the public. Let’s take a look at what some folks were saying on the steps of the Capitol, where a vigil demanding justice for Wakanda has been going on for three days.”
“You went to Wakanda, Uncle Sam?” asked the other little boy, staring in awe at the man on the end of the sectional. “Really?”
“Really. Shh. Big secret.” Sam Wilson grinned at his nephew, winking.
“Don’t tell anybody,” said the other man sitting by Wilson, his ankle crossed over his knee. His brown hair was pulled into a ponytail, but his blue eyes gleamed with good humor. “I mean it.”
“Yeah, or what?”
“Or else, that’s what.”
“Shh!” Sarah Wilson’s eyes were still glued to the TV. “Honestly, y’all!”
“In related news, Hungary has made a formal complaint against the United States after a SEAL team, allegedly acting under direct orders from the Department of Defense, broke down and damaged an apartment complex in Budapest. Four people suffered minor injuries, but there were no fatalities…”
“Idiots,” said a woman’s voice from the kitchen. “That was a smart move, James. I am impressed.” The speaker emerged: a woman with tied-back dirty blonde hair, a broad, cheerful face, a blunt, turned-up nose. She wore a flannel shirt and leggings, fuzzy socks printed with cats on her feet. “Okay. Macaroni is ready.”
“With hot sauce?” exclaimed AJ, leaping out of his seat. Cass scrambled to join him.
“Uh, of course, with hot sauce. See? These children have taste.” She wrinkled her nose at Bucky, who rolled his eyes.
“Do not eat that on my sofa, Lena,” warned Sarah. “Kitchen. All of y’all. Now.”
“Come on,” Yelena whispered sotto voce to the grinning boys. “Stools at the counter and then you can poke your head in to watch the news.”
Cass sneaked a spoonful of Kraft macaroni directly out of the pot, his eyes closing as if he had tasted heaven itself. “Mom, can Aunt Lena stay forever?”
“Aunt Lena’s staying as long as Uncle Bucky’s staying, and he’s staying as long as I am,” Sam called over, laughing at the disgruntled look on Bucky’s face. “Now hush up, they’re back to talking about the CIA director.”
On the TV screen, a thin man with a microphone was standing in front of the Justice Department building. “There is some talk going around that Director de Fontaine may attempt to take a plea deal, the terms of which would likely put her in a high-security prison for about twenty years with no chance of parole before being allowed out under surveillance, instead of being found guilty at trial and sentenced to up to fifty years for war crimes. It’s very rare that a government official would get a sentence with no parole— really a sign of how seriously Washington is taking this.”
Back in the studio, an immaculately dressed woman and man were sitting at a desk. “It probably has something to do with the fact that Wakanda promised to supply the colonized global south with vibranium weapons if justice wasn’t served,” said the woman flatly.
“Oh,” said Sarah, covering her mouth as her eyebrows shot up. “That Charlotte lady’s about to lose her job.”
“She’s right, though,” said Bucky, shaking his head and smiling. “Good for her.”
AJ came running back in, his glasses askew. “Did they say vibranium? I wanna see the fight in Wakanda!”
“They’re not gonna show that on TV, bud,” said Bucky.
“We’ll tell you about it,” said Sam quickly, catching the crestfallen look on his nephew’s face. “Me and Bucky, and Lena, and Riri when she comes back for Thanksgiving, okay? I promise.”
Brightening considerably, AJ nodded. “Okay.”
“And—” Sam cocked his head toward the kitchen as his tone changed. “Cass, if you ate all that sriracha mac n’ cheese and didn’t save me any, I’m gonna delete your Fortnite account. For real this time.”
Cass popped out of the doorway, giggling. “No, Uncle Sam! I saved you a whole bunch, I swear!”
“A whole bunch? Uh-huh. I’m comin’ in to inspect it.” Sam jumped up off the couch and went to the kitchen, AJ in his wake, leaving Sarah and Bucky alone on the sofa.
Her dark eyes slipped over to him. “Hey,” she said warmly.
“Uh, hey,” he answered, sitting up a little straighter.
“I just— I want you to know you can come around any time,” she said, smiling a little. “Any friend of Sam’s— you got a place to stay out here.”
“Oh,” Bucky said, relaxing a little. “I— thanks, Sarah.” A faint smile flickered over his own face. “I appreciate it.”
“Sure." A gleam of mischief sparked in Sarah Wilson's eyes. "As long as you stop changing the channels on accident with that new arm.”
“It doesn’t change the channels,” he said, laughing.
She snorted. “Sure it don’t. Damn thing’s probably radioactive. Old Mrs. Johnson said the minute you stepped into church last week it gave her a headache, and every time you’re around, her phone signal goes up three bars. Explain that.”
Bucky pulled his flesh and blood hand down his face. “Sarah, for the last time, my arm does not have 5G technology, and old Mrs. Johnson needs to get off the internet.”
“I’m just sayin’!” He tossed a pillow at her, chuckling, and she threw one right back, her grin bright enough to light up the dusky room. “And everyone’s askin’ why I let you go walkin’ around with hair like Tarzan or somebody.”
“Maybe I like it a little longer,” said Bucky ruefully.
Sarah nibbled at her lip and looked at the ground. “Yeah, it looks nice like that,” she said softly, and Bucky gave her a warm smile of his own, rare and bright as snow in spring.
The news was still going. “Barry, any news out of Wakanda?”
“Not as of yet. Their media correspondent, a former Dora Milaje by the name of Okoye, we understand, has released a statement that the Queen and Prince Consort of Wakanda are very busy traveling on private business and do not have any comment on the trial at this time.”
The ceiling of the underwater cavern glittered like the stars she already missed, blue bioluminescence from above and from the bowls around her casting a glow on everything that the light of the torches did not touch. Shuri sat with her feet in the cold saltwater of the pool behind the house that led down to the depths, down to Talokan itself, and just breathed. Behind her, warm golden light from the doorway spilled out over her shoulders like sunlight as her husband moved the curtain, coming to sit by her.
She rested her head on Namor’s shoulder and closed her eyes, simply happy to be here, in the quiet dim light, with him. “We were sitting just here when I gave you my mother’s bracelet,” he whispered, resting his chin on her head.
“I remember,” she answered. “I remember thinking how big your hands were when you tied it to my wrist.”
Namor laughed softly, wrapping his arm around her. “You know, I am small compared to most of my people,” he said, tucking her into his side. “Has there been any news from Wakanda?”
“Not yet. Okoye says she keeps sending the same message to everyone who asks. She hates email. She says it is ancient tech and completely ridiculous, but it is the only way to communicate with the media.” Shuri stretched her neck up and kissed his cheek. “If there are any developments, you shall be the first to know, my love.”
“Mmm. I like the sound of that.” He pressed his nose to her cheek and planted a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “And the taste of it. Sweet. Say it again.”
“My love,” she breathed, and got another kiss for her efforts, this one deeper and warmer. He sighed and shifted his weight, bringing his knee up to press against her thigh as he cupped her face in his hands and opened his mouth against hers with a moan.
“Very sweet. Mmm.”
Shuri reached up and dragged his head down, down, until he was lying on top of her. “My love,” she repeated, kissing him, and he slipped an eager hand down and under her simple dress, fisting swathes of fabric in his fingers as he pulled it up and away from her hips. “I seem to remember that we were on a schedule,” she whispered as he exposed her and buried his face in her chest, hot tongue rasping over her skin.
“They can wait. On the land, I may be Prince Consort to the Queen of Wakanda, but here, I remain God-King of Talokan, and you are my Lady Sun-Eyed Black Jaguar, Ix K’inich Ek’b’alam.” He lifted her knee, pressed a line of kisses down her thigh, and Shuri, moaning, gazed up above at the beautiful glowworms, her eyes dazzled with blue light. “And when my wife pulls me between her lovely thighs, then I must obey.”
“You should not let me boss you around so much,” Shuri advised, gripping his cloak and lifting her head and her knees with a groan as he slipped into her, seated himself, rocked gently. “Ohh—”
“Perhaps I enjoy it,” he whispered roughly, smiling as he moved. “Mm. Ah. Perhaps I— desire very badly— to be told— what to do— by my wife—”
She gripped his shoulders and dug in with her nails, making him gasp. “Faster, then.”
He pressed his forehead to her cheek, mouth open and panting shallowly, and when he finished he went heavy and sated on her, sighing. “My love,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to her left breast. She did not even care that she had not finished— it was so nice to just have him close to her, to listen to his breathing— but he ducked down, slipping down her body and half into the water to lick between her legs in even, firm strokes as she moaned and clenched his cheeks in her thighs, burying her hands in his hair.
It did not take long. She gasped out his name, eyes blinded by blue stars, and felt him smile against her skin before he slid back up her body and pulled her into the water.
“Say it once more,” he whispered, when they were both submerged, heads below, weightless in the endless dark.
Shuri smiled. “Cha’ah Toh Almehen,” she whispered, and Namor kissed her softly on the lips one last time, then took her hand.
“Come,” he said softly. “Let us go to our people.”
There are two living deities enshrined now in the stelae and carvings, in the paintings and in the pottery of Talokan, Great Empire-City of the Deep, the Eternal Kingdom, World Without End.
Once there was only one, the Feathered Serpent God, who they call K’uk’ulkan: He Who Bridges Sky and Water, Rain-Bringer, War-Maker. He is the one who blesses the infants when they are born. He is the one who oversees the planting, the harvesting. He is the one who referees all of the pitzil games— his most important duty, if you asked the children of Talokan.
The adults know better. It was K’uk’ulkan who made the Great Sastun to give all of Talokan the light of day and dark of night, and K’uk’ulkan who protects his beloved people from the outside world that seeks to devour them like a great hungry shark. He is the one who sits on his jade-toothed throne on the holiest and most important days, to speak to everyone who can hear him.
Once, there was only one living god in Talokan.
Now, there are two.
She is Queen and Consort, Ix K’inich Ek’ba’lam, Lady Sun-Eyed Black Jaguar. It was she who invented and helped make the stars that now wheel floating in the deep water above the city, showing all of Talokan the constellations and wandering stars that their ancestors so loved, long ago; she built the glimmering blue shields that now hide Talokan from the outside world; she showed them how to use minerals and vibranium and phosphorous to create brilliant displays of light that pop and glitter in the water on holy days, delighting the children; she increased the light that the lanterns give, which made it possible to widen the fields of crops and stave off curious sea life from eating them up. Under her hands, Talokan is greater now that it was before. The children call her Xuri: she is from a distant and lovely surface realm that many of them who attended the wedding have already half-forgotten, like a dream, but on this the children and the adults agree: the people there are just as clever and just as beautiful and just as wise as their Sun-Eyed Lady, the Black Jaguar.
She is not always there with them— neither is K’uk’ulkan, but sometimes he visits his people to swim and walk among them and he is alone, and he looks sad when he comes without her. But she always comes back after she has been away, and when she returns it is a great cause for celebration, and games, and the bursting sparks of blue and green over the great temple of the Feathered Serpent, in the light of the setting sastun. They have their carvings and paintings, their jewelry and their ornaments, their walls and stelae, to remember her by whenever she leaves them for the surface world: a great black jaguar, one hand holding stars. She is always shown side by side, whether in paint or stone, with her husband, K’uk’ulkan, the Great Feathered Serpent; one hand holding his spear, and the other clasping hers for all eternity.
Notes:
And that's it, everybody. Holy shit, we made it. This is the first thing I've ever written that's gone viral on twitter and tiktok and had over 50k hits, let ALONE 100k, and I am flabbergasted by the love all of you showed it, the art, the hilarious memes, everything. I hope everyone who waited until it was complete to read it enjoys it! THANK YOU!!
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