my precious one

by dontyoudarestiles

Summary:

“You underestimate yourself, my Princess,” says Namor.

“My title is in name only,” insists Shuri. She stands, feeling powerless. He looks at her as if she is as valuable as the gold, pearls, and jade around his neck. “I am not on the high council. What can I offer you?”

“What I want,” says Namor with glittering eyes, “is an introduction.”
–
On her last hunt for the heart-shaped herb after her brother’s death, Shuri is visited by a God.

A God who is tired of war.

Talokan is ready to join the world.

Chapter 1: chicahuacatlazotla

Notes:

chicahuacatlazotla (v.t); Principal English Translation: to love ardently

source: https://nahuatl.wired-humanities.org/content/chicahuacatlazotla

She goes to the rivers.

Wakanda has many.

They are crystalline and perfect, untouched by the pollution of the outside world. She wonders what the wolves at the UN would think. Paralyzed with jealousy, perhaps, to know that there are still such rivers ribboning through cities, without the detritus of oil and coal and smog. Wakandan water is so fresh that during the summer, there are many to stoop to drink and bathe directly from the spout, and even street vendors draw from the water to cook or wash their goods. 

She does not stop at the capital’s canals, however.

It is to the east, where the River tribe live, in the lush river valleys and wetlands, that she searches for the heart-shaped herb. 

She goes alone. 

The Umlambo (1) are not as suspicious a people as the Jabari. But she still does not take her royal airship, which would draw eyes and whispers. Instead, she boards the electric rail in the heart of the capital, its sleek and powerful shape not unlike the tail of a muscular viper. The interior is white, clean, and crowded. She smells faint perfume and sweat, finding a seat amongst the cluster of passengers. There is the low chatter of a family across from her. A group of teenagers on their way to school slouch against each other, playing with their communicator beads, an older version which Shuri herself designed, she realizes. No one recognizes her. She wears a blue kanga veil which covers her almost entirely, allowing only her eyes to peek out at the world, a common garb in the river region.

“Have you seen the latest telecast?”

“—Some actress from that one movie…”

Wisps of conversation swirl around her. Shuri wonders when the last true conversation she had was with another person, besides her mother. And Griot. Even now, he begins to speak in her ear, tinny voice emanating from the Kimoyo bead in her pierced lobe.

“Are you quite certain of this, Princess? My calculations have noted that leaving your Dora Milaje guard has made you vulnerable to—”

Before he begins the spiel of statistical likelihood of accidents, assassination attempts, and other catastrophic events that could occur, Shuri orders softly under her breath, “Griot, I am sure. Should an emergency occur, you have my permission to contact Okoye.” Her veil keeps others from seeing her speaking, her breath warming the cotton fabric over her mouth and nose. 

Pacified, there is a hum of agreement and then a metallic “Affirmative.”

Shuri sighs and accidentally makes eye contact with a small child in the seat across from her, his hand clenched around his mother’s wrist. His little eyes widen and then look away, shy. The shape of his head reminds her, absurdly, of her brother and her heart clenches tightly into a small knot. It always surprises her when his face enters her mind. There is never any rhyme or reason to it. But in moments, when she has forgotten and the grief is not quite present, she is always sharply reminded of the loss.

She barely feels the movement of the train below her body, a distant vibration that implies they have embarked from Birnin Zana and are on their way towards the east. Because all she can see in the eye of her mind is the portrait of T’Challa in her mother’s chambers. It is small, in a silver frame. It is an image captured before Shuri was born. He was about four or five, with a missing front tooth, draped in brilliant purple ceremonial garbs. But he is smiling in the photograph, his little gapped smile, his nose the same as it will be in twenty five years, brilliant and alive—

The train stops. A cool voice comes over the intercom.

We have arrived at Uuka Terminal. Our next stop is Anathi Station.

Shuri exits, not crying. She does not cry when she walks along the River of Grace and Wisdom and Griot scans and scans, but finds nothing growing along the vibranium-laced riverbeds. She does not cry when she searches the surrounding jungle and its creeks, lush with vegetation, but absent of the heart-shaped herb. She doesn’t cry when she goes to the Great Lake and still, there is nothing.

She allows herself only one tear.

The sun sets as it always does. Ribbons of pink and gold and red lance the sky, and the sun sinks into the water, which laps at the rocky shore Shuri sits upon. She is hungry. The air has become a little too cool for spring. But she doesn’t move. Her feet are in the water, gleaming and dark, like polished stone. The pebbles are smooth and cool beneath her toes, the sand unlike any beach in the world. The remnants of vibranium amongst the quartz silica and mica give the white grains an iridescent indigo sheen, which the merchant tribe melt down and form into crystalline gems for trade, jewelry, and decor. Shuri has many of them, inlaid in her traditional necklaces, earrings and waist beads, harder than the finest diamonds, more rare than any pearl in the sea, with a more impressive glitter than any gem on earth. She sifts through the sand slowly, slipping through her hands, marveling at the sheer wealth she holds in one palm; enough here to disrupt global economies, wreck dynasties, destabilize nations, and solve so many of the earth’s problems. Her country is healthy, rich, free of famine and disease, with technology beyond the understanding of the outside world’s best minds. An article from a renowned American periodical had once been titled Is The Princess of Wakanda the Smartest Person in the World? That had been after she had published her first academic study in a South African scientific journal with the permission of her mother. She had been fourteen at the time. And yet. With all her smarts, with all her country’s achievements and riches.

Her brother is dead.

She turns towards the water, sees a ripple in the lake’s surface, a presence where there was none before.

“Princess, I am sensing a disturbance—”

Griot’s voice stutters and falls silent. There is a sudden electricity which vibrates in the air. As if the oxygen and carbon dioxide that make up the atmosphere has come alive. Shuri leaps to her feet, tapping at her Kimoyo beads, which are suddenly, impossibly, unresponsive. 

“No, no, no,” she mutters.

She is alone. She has been since she left the capital. It is only now, with the sound of water in her ears, that she knows it.

He emerges from the depths without a sound. One moment, he was not there, and the next, he was. Shuri stands on the shore, her dual knives in hand, bracing herself, sliding into her stance for defense.

Sturdy as you can, Shuri, she remembers, a friendly voice echoing from her childhood in the sparring rooms of her brother, his hands on her shoulders, adjusting her feet. Hold in your core. Eh, you are getting it now, little sister? 

The man is not a man. Is he? He seems more than that. He is tall, she thinks, washed by the sunset in shades of orange. He is golden. His face is in shadow, the sun at his back, his skin like casted bronze. She can’t see much of his features, but her eyes catch on the incredible headdress he wears, a huge feathered serpent head crafted out of gold, bursts of blue metals gleaming and making up its brilliant crest, craftsmanship like she’d never seen before. Pearls and blue-green jewels and ropes of gold are cast across his chest and broad shoulders in an elaborate chestpiece. He is barely clothed, thickened with muscle, and yet he floats above the water, as light as a dandelion seed on a summer breeze. 

“Who are you?” she whispers, more to herself than him.

She wonders how he is flying so effortlessly, but then notices the silver-threaded feathers at his strong ankles, beating like hummingbird wings at the air. He balances impossibly, but at her words, he alights upon the shore, two feet from her. Too close. She sees his face, his regal nose studded with a jade plug through the septum, dark eyes watching her. 

“My name,” he says in perfect Wakandan, “is K’uk’ulkan. But others call me Namor.”

 

—

Shuri knows a king when she sees one. She also knows how to light a fire. He watches her with some interest as she gathers dry wood and stones for the branches to lean on, clearing a small area of brush and debris for them to sit in the dry sand. 

“You are very good at that,” he says as the fire sparks to life. He is sitting cross-legged like one of the spiritual elders at a ritual feast. She can’t help glancing at his long feet, crowned with wings which now are still except for the occasional flicker. “I would not expect such skills from a princess.”

“When I was small, about four years old,” she says, warily because he is a stranger, perhaps a creature, not even human, “I asked my father, my Baba, why we did not use our nation’s jungles and plains for more farmland. He was appalled. He ask me: ‘do you think we can raze the earth with no consequences?’ I argued with him. Did we need so many jungles? For what purpose? So he took me here.” She nods at the still lake and the crescent moon. “He showed me the waterfalls and the lakebed and the forests. He showed me its beauty. And he taught me how to make a fire. How to climb a tree. How to make a bed in the wilderness, sleep under the stars.” She is silent after, thinking she has said too much. The fire swells in its bed, casting shadows around them. 

Namor smiles. She sees the glint of his canines, which are very sharp, almost feline. “Your father was a wise man,” he says. His voice is pleasant, smooth. He speaks English with an almost musical accent, an ancient one she has never heard before. If Griot were awake, he might be able to place it and whisper it to Shuri to research later.

“He had his faults,” she says generously. “But I loved him. I think he knew I needed to see the country, the water. I used to spend all my time indoors, thinking I knew everything. I was a little smart as a child.”

“Is that not an understatement?” Namor says. “I have heard tales of the Princess of Wakanda. And Wakanda itself.”

“Yes,” she admits. “I am inclined towards science. I always have been. My father worried about that. So did my people. They worry that I worship my computers and formulas more than my traditions and my ancestors and my country. But I learned here to protect our land rather than exploit it. My father said that this made me different from…”

“From them ,” Namor finishes for her. He seems almost proud. “From those who would carve up our world and eat it whole.”

“Namor,” she says cautiously, gently. His eyes flicker in the firelight, following her with interest. She still wears her blue veil, cloaking her, hiding her face and form from his eyes, and she clings to it with one hand, feeling strangely vulnerable without her technology. He could kill me if he wanted, she thinks. “Are you the one who broke my Kimoyo beads?” 

“Ah, is that what you call that communication device?” He glances at her bracelet politely. “Apologies. It was necessary so I could get you alone. Though I am sure your people are coming for you as we speak.”

Shuri swallows around her tongue. Griot had surely alerted her mother and her guards when the Kimoyo beads had blackened and ceased to work. He had most likely triangulated her location already and sent her coordinates to her Umama and Okoye. She knows they only have an hour at most, if that, before reinforcements arrive. 

“It is temporary,” he reassures. “They will recover.”

She wants to ask how? How could he mess with Wakandan tech when U.S. military prototypes could not even begin to do the same? But she holds her tongue. Her mind is leaping and bounding away from her. She makes a bad diplomat, she thinks, asking the wrong questions, wanting to drag Namor into her lab and study his, well, everything, rather than determine why a foreign agent wishes so badly to speak with her.

“What do you want with me?” She asks. 

He speaks. He speaks of his civilization, hidden from the world. A city under the ocean, built out from slabs of vibranium. A city with a sun in its center. A people with blue skin, gills on their necks, and technology like that of Wakanda. He speaks of outside threats, of metal probes from military expeditions, strange machines, and men and women in deep-diving suits, of explosives getting closer and closer to his homecity. He speaks of how for five hundred years he has been guarding this Talokan, this people, how he is their protector, their Black Panther. 

“How?” she says. “How have you been alive for five hundred years? It is impossible. Your physiology–?”

He laughs. It rumbles through her. She can see how his smile upturns, revealing his eye-teeth once more. “That is the first thing you ask? Not about the vibranium or my intentions or how I got around your security systems, but just my body?” 

“You could be a witch for all I know,” she groans before remembering she’s talking to a king . “I mean! What I meant to say…!”

His eyebrows are raised, pointed ear twitching in irritation.

“My apologies,” she says, mortified, because what in Bast’s name am I doing?! “It’s just, this whole thing is beyond what is the usual. Not that you are weird! It’s just curious! I mean, not that you are a curiosity–”

“No offense is taken,” he says, waving away her misstep. His smile is so very beautiful. “I’m very different from you, it’s true.”

“I am only a scientist,” she says finally, regaining her composure after a moment. She fiddles with her veil, sweat pooling on her upper lip. “Why come to me with this? What is it that you want in Wakanda? You cannot tell me getting around our defenses undetected was an easy feat. You have risked so much to talk to someone with no diplomatic power.”

“You underestimate yourself, my Princess,” says Namor.

“My title is in name only,” insists Shuri. She stands, feeling powerless. He looks at her as she is as valuable as the gold, pearls, and jade around his neck. “I am not on the high council. What can I offer you?”

“What I want,” says Namor with glittering eyes, “is an introduction.”

 

—

Okoye, Ayo, and their squadron of Dora Milaje find their princess on the shore of the Great Lake, watching the water, sitting by the smoking ashes of the fire, alone. 

Shuri stands, hearing their questions distantly, feeling their hands on her shoulders, absorbing their fear and concern.

Her heart thrums.

Notes:

(1): the River Tribe are not named in the Black Panther movies, like the Jabari, so I have given them the name UMLAMBO, which according to Google is the most literal translation of "river" in Xhosa. However, Xhosa is a language of many different dialects across many regions, so if anyone has a recommendation for something more appropriate, please feel free to educate me in the comments!

Chapter 2: k'iibal cháak

Notes:

k'iibal cháak: (n) the sound of thunder

https://sites.google.com/a/hamline.edu/maya-society/yucatec-maya-language-resources

“He does not seem to want war, Mother.”

Ramonda is as regal in her sleeping attire as in her gowns for official counsel. She sits upon her large bed as if in front of the U.N. court, with her chin held high, even as her shorn white hair is contained in a silken bonnet. Her skin is fresh and clean, absent of makeup, which Shuri knows is not unlike the Jabari tribe’s war paint, at least for Ramonda. She listens quietly to Shuri recount what has happened in the past twelve hours on her hunt for the heart-shaped herb. She listens to Shuri explain Namor’s offer of a private meeting in a month’s time. One that normally Shuri knew Ramonda would honor with grace and hospitality. But Namor’s one stipulation has made Shuri nervous. 

He wishes to deal with Shuri alone. No one else. 

And from the crease in her mother’s brow, Shuri knows that Ramonda does not like this plan.

“Dear heart,” says Ramonda gently. “You do not know this man. As far as the N'Charu Silema (1) are concerned, neither he or his civilization exist at all. We cannot trust that his intentions are what they appear. Why would he ask to negotiate with you alone? This does not feel correct.”

Shuri stiffens. “Do you think I am stupid? Or some child who was born yesterday?”

“Ah!” Ramonda exclaims and shakes her head softly. “Of course not. You are so much smarter than any agent under my command. But to me, you shall always be my baby child.”

Shuri rolls her eyes and crosses her arms in slight discomfort. Ramonda always keeps her sleeping quarters on the side of slightly freezing. Shuri, only in a large sleeping t-shirt and shorts, regrets coming here. “Please, Umama. You know I would not lead you wrong.”

“Was it not you who told me that I should only trust empirical evidence?” Ramonda asks with some amusement. “That trusting our instincts is for those who wish to be disappointed?”

Shuri clicks her tongue in frustration. “I should have known you would not believe me.”

Ramonda stands and moves to Shuri, gathering her daughter to her warm chest. Shuri breathes in and smells the familiar scents. Dark cherries and cardamom, a gentle spice that tickles her nose. Ramonda’s sleeping gown is a thick silk handwoven by the Merchant tribe artisans, a vivid red with little white panthers bordering the hems and neckline. It is one that Ramonda has had all throughout Shuri’s childhood. Here, Shuri is safe. Here, Shuri is home. 

“We shall make a plan together,” says Ramonda. “We shall find out what we can. I do trust you, Shuri. But I need you to be safe.” What she does not say, Shuri still hears. I cannot lose you too. 

—

A month passes. It is the height of summer. 

Security has tightened around Wakanda’s Great Lake, despite the complaints of the River tribe, whose ambassador on the high council has begun to watch Shuri with sharp eyes during meetings with her mother. Shuri knows Elder Adeyeye (2) means well, but she dislikes the attention from the man, whose green lip-plate purses at her with disapproval. Oh, she knows they doubt her. She sees the concern in the eyes of her guards, how Okoye does not broach the subject of the man who emerged from the sea, except for the initial panic of that night. She was the only witness to what occurred at the lake; only she knows how effortlessly Namor slipped past Wakanda’s protections, so expertly that no one had even seen him leave. The only hint to his existence was the temporary failure of her kimoyo beads, which were resurrected once Namor left, just as he predicted; and so they can only take her word as to what happened with Namor. That is, if Namor even exists at all. 

Shuri is not bothered by this lack of faith. She does not have the time, nor the energy to reassure her friends that she hasn’t lost her mind. She barely has time to understand it all herself. The implications of Wakanda no longer being the sole possessors of vibranium. The knowledge that beneath the sea, there exists people who can breathe underwater, with technology like her own, weapons she can’t understand. A man who can fly, with pointed ears, winged feet, and teeth like a cat. 

All she knows is that she has to keep her promise.

The meeting place was agreed upon the night he left.

“Go to the banks of your greatest river,” he had said, chest-deep in water, shoulders like mounds of gold in the black lake. “Call my name and I shall appear.” And then he had submerged, a raw power that Shuri has seen from only the best of warriors, M’Baku one of them, her brother the other. 

She follows his instructions, lowering her airship to the cliffs overlooking where they will rendezvous. The River of Grace and Wisdom is very deep, almost a reservoir if not for the rough movements of its waters, the rich black soil swirling through its currents, white foam frothing against boulders and outcroppings of land which jut in its currents. 

In the back of the airship is a small bedroom. Shuri has never used it before. No need. She stands in its center, staring at herself in the wall-length mirror that she never understood the purpose of. Now, she can’t bring herself to look away. She imagines herself through Namor’s eyes, who has only known her as a mystery in a veil. A slender, dark girl looks back at her, tightly coiled hair pulled back simply into a puff. She wears a long dress the color of lavender that bares her oiled arms and shoulders. She has applied little makeup except for the traditional diplomatic markings of the Panther tribe. Her mother had gently applied the vibrant purple paint, made from ground root yams; the color slashes over her cheekbones twice and once down the center of her lips. A collar necklace adorns her throat, silver and inlaid with a single large vibranium quartz. 

She looks so unlike herself. 

“We shall be with you, my Princess.” Okoye watches her from the door with sympathy. “You shall not be alone this time. We promise.”

Okoye thinks she is afraid. Shuri isn’t, not of Namor. How can she be? This time she brings two Dora Milaje with her, who will watch the proceedings from a distance, unseen by K’uk’ulkan, providing protection. If needed.

Shuri sets her shoulders. She shall remain sure it won’t be.

“I know,” she tells Okoye. “But for the love of Bast, do not reveal yourselves unless totally necessary. I told K’uk’ulkan that I would meet him alone and I will keep my word.”

That is all before she disembarks the airship, which cloaks itself and ascends with a faint wisp of air. She walks until she finds a relatively pretty clump of rocks to overlook the water. This shall do. She flings a small silver ball to the ground, which glows for a second before transforming into a large, gleaming red table with two separate, matching chairs. One of her projects she has been tinkering with after seeing the Ant-Man’s suit in action all those years ago on the global telecast. (Of course, Wakanda has no need for such technology on a military or intelligence level.)

Then she sets out the food. 

There is akara, fried bean cakes with a tangy spiced sauce, and dodo, sweet fried plantains which melt in the mouth. And of course, Shuri’s favorite, goat pepper soup, a light broth tasting of fresh spices from the Jabari mountains. T’Challa would always tease her for liking the taste of their enemy’s dinner. She smiles, thinking of him, and then the pain comes. It is like her brother dies, again and again, every day, living when she remembers him and dying again when she remembers he is gone. She turns away from those feelings, towards the churning river. She feels Ayo and Okoye’s eyes on her back, watching, waiting. Perhaps even doubting there even is such a man as she describes. Okoye, on the airship, had even asked Shuri if that night could have been a dream. 

She relishes in calling his name, deep in her throat, over the water. 

“K’uk’ulkan!”

For a moment, there is nothing. Just the hard beat of the sun, the dry breeze against her face, the cool spit from the water. For a moment, Shuri wonders, slightly hysterically, if Okoye might be right. Perhaps she had dreamt him up, alone in her defeat.

Namor arrives on winged feet, surging from the foam of the water. She gasps, takes a step back, looking up at him. His skin glistens wetly, like gleaming bronze, and he is so high in the air, there is no question, he is real. In the light of the day, he is even more magnificent than the shadow of dusk. Distantly, she hears the click and whir of Griot in her ear, awake, recording and capturing image after image. And what images they shall be. Namor has donned his feather serpent headdress once more, this time his forearms encased in armbands of gold, decorated with swirling Mayan symbols that Shuri cannot read. He carries no weapon, like their first meeting and she is relieved. 

“My Princess,” he greets warmly as he alights upon the beach.

Hearing the possessive suffix from him makes Shuri’s lower belly pulse slightly with something she does not want to think about. “Your Majesty,” she says with less assuredness.

“You called for me,” he says, with arrogance and pleasure. He views the table and the food set upon it with some interest, and then even a small bit of delight. 

“I promised I would,” said Shuri, taking a deep breath, trying to quell the strange warmth she feels suffusing her. It is probably just the summer sun, which bakes all it touches. She is slightly glad that they are by the cold, giant river, where the coolness hits them every so often with the breeze. 

“Still,” he says, approaching her with a calmness that Shuri envies. “I am glad you are a woman of your word.” She notices in his hands there is a small slatted box, created out of what looks like dried plantlife. “You too have brought a gift for our meeting.”

“I have,” she says. 

“In my culture, when you enter someone’s home, you bring something of high regard to show your appreciation of their friendship,” says Namor. 

“Well, then I hope this is adequate,” says Shuri, dipping her head, gesturing at the meal. The plates holding the food gleam, retaining the heat of when they had first been pulled from the pot. 

Namor smiles with teeth. “It is more than.” He sits as if the mere chair is a throne, musculature rippling as he relaxes. Shuri knows on some level that he is only a few inches taller than her. If she were to wear heels, Bast forbid, perhaps she would even tower over him. And yet, he is so broad in the ribs and shoulders, and so confident. He appears just as proud and dignified as M’Baku, as arrogant and powerful as Hanuman. Godlike.

Namor murmurs something in his native tongue before plucking the fried plantains from the plate with his fingers. He hums delicately with approval. “This is very good. I thank you endlessly.”

Shuri feels flustered at his good manners. She notices how very neatly he eats, taking small bites and being appreciative, but not vulgar. Umama would like him. The thought is unwanted, but true. She wonders what he would think to know that she had helped the kitchens prepare the meal. It was the control freak in her. She needed everything to be perfect, so she fried the plantains and spiced the soup herself.

“I am grateful you enjoy it,” says Shuri. “I spent last night not sleeping at all, I was so worried about it.”

“Were you afraid I would be offended?” There is that cat-like smile, which Shuri feels more and more privileged to see. Namor looks more tangible as he eats, more human, a bit of broth wetting the corner of his fine lips. 

“No, I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to eat at all,” Shuri admits, slumping a little in relief despite knowing Umama would have her head over her posture. “What does one feed an immortal, eh? What if you are like a vampire in Twilight, who cannot stomach food?” Realizing herself, she feels the heat rush to her face, remembers her humiliation last time from her comment about him being a witch, and she covers her mouth with her hand in horror. “Your Majesty—”

“Please do not apologize!” His eyes are bright and he taps her wrist with his hand in a gesture of… kindness? Shuri has never seen it before. Perhaps it is a common kind of reassurance amongst his people. “You are a funny woman, my Princess. To answer your question, I do need to eat, as do my people. So this meal is very appreciated.” 

Shuri’s heart swells without any reason to do so. Her wrist tingles where Namor has touched her. Despite her initial thought that he would be cool due to him dwelling below the surface, the smooth skin of his hand was warm against hers, almost blazing, as if he is the sun itself. She can only say: “Thanks for ignoring my insolence. My mother always says that my mind moves too fast for my mouth to catch up.”

Namor nods very seriously. “My mother would tell all who would listen that my head was as hard as an orca’s skull bone.”

Shuri snorts impolitely at this.

“She was funny like you,” he says.

They eat a little more in silence. Shuri tries very hard not to rush things, though she does believe she can feel the urgency of Okoye and Ayo psychically, wherever they are. But Shuri is intensely curious. Curious enough to focus on things unimportant to the mission. Her eyes keep wandering to the gift Namor has brought her, still in its wrappings. Eventually, he pushes it in front of her. She meets his gaze, which is intense, dark, and full of expectation.

“Go on,” he coaxes her. His voice is supple. Inviting.

There is that strange feeling again, heat spreading across her hips and navel. Shuri wonders idly if she is ill. She opens the package carefully. There. A rectangle of crude stone, as long as the length of her palm, gleaming blue and alive. Bioluminescent? She feels her mind sharpen as she handles it carefully, feeling its ridges and crevices. Somewhat familiar. No, this couldn’t be… it looks a different shade from the alloy Wakanda’s miners pull from the surface. But.

“Vibranium,” they say together.

“Yours is so blue ,” Shuri breathes.

“Oh?” Namor leans forward. “And yours? The color is not the same?”

“Famously, ours is purple,” she admits, wondering idly if that is something she should have withheld from him. More and more, she finds herself wanting to share her culture, her technology, even her childhood stories with Namor. That is a dangerous line to walk. “I am so… thank you. Thank you for giving this to me. Us.” She sits up straight. “Wakanda will not forsake this trust you have shown us.”

Namor’s eyes have that intense, dark shadow about them once more. “For Wakanda, yes. But also for you, Princess. I cannot give you myself to study in your mainland laboratory, but I can give you a little piece of my city. Perhaps someday, I shall show you Talokan in person.”

Shuri gapes at him a little before remembering herself. “I would love that.” She struggles not to glance around, wondering where Okoye and Ayo are hidden, what they are thinking of this conversation. “I truly would. I would also like to talk more with you about what we last discussed.”

The time has come. Talokan must reveal itself as your country has. And now I reveal myself to you, Shuri of Wakanda, to ask for an alliance. 

She remembers the words as if he had written them down for her to recite. 

“This won’t be easy,” says Shuri.

“I know it won’t,” Namor acknowledges.

“I mean, we would have to discuss borders with several different countries depending on where Talokan is located,” Shuri says, thinking aloud. “And the U.S. would certainly try to invade your city as soon as your existence is acknowledged. Useless colonizers. Who knows if the U.N. would even regard Talokan as a sovereign country? They had a hard enough time when we petitioned for membership. Or if NATO would regard your mere presence as an act—”

“Princess Shuri.”

She looks up from her thinking babble. Namor appears unruffled. If anything, his expression has gotten smoother, softer, a little bit more raw in the eyes.

“Already my people are at risk,” says Namor. “It used to be that the surface folk would get close to our home only once every half century. Now twice in the past month we have had to take…” and here his voice lowers, becomes a thing full of smoke and anger, “… measures.”

Shuri again feels very far out of her depth. She takes a staggering breath.

“I would die for my home,” says Namor. “But I cannot lose any more of my people. There are as many of us as blades of grass in your plains, but even one loss feels like the end of the earth as we know it. I am willing to struggle, to negotiate with our enemies, to ensure we can live in peace.” There is a tension in his expression, a struggle between his pride and his duty. Shuri sees his open hatred of those oppressive forces who they both know would destroy Wakanda and Talokan at the first opportunity, all for the sake of the little rock that lies between them. She, in a way, grieves that he has come to the decision that he must risk his very existence for peace.

“I understand,” she says thickly.

Namor smiles softly. “I knew you would,” he says, as certain as if he’d commented that the sky is blue. “That is why I came to you. They are poisoning the waters more and more. Their oil rigs, their explosive mining. Do you think an alliance between our nations could make a difference?”

With their shared technology and military might? Shuri can only say, “Yes, of course.”

“I have walked upon land before,” he tells her. “Disguised myself.” Here he smiles at her, and they both think of Shuri cloaked and veiled entirely when they first met, a secret joke that Okoye and Ayo would not be able to comprehend. “I have entered cities and villages, interacted with teachers and universities. But never have I approached the halls of your leaders. This is foreign to me. So now I turn to Wakanda and hope our countries can be tied together, exchange our knowledge, stories, and lean on one another when necessary in the times to come. I wish for an alliance.”

“I hope for that more than anything,” Shuri says and means it. She has sneered at the ancestors, abandoned her altar and left the candles unlit for ages, unable to forgive them for abandoning her when she needed them; but she can’t help but think that this might be what the ancestors intended for her destiny. “Which is why you must meet with my Queen, your Majesty. Not just me. She can negotiate on your behalf. Get you a lawyer. Many lawyers. You’ll need good ones.”

He eyes her. She knows now he has studied human cultures, but she wonders how ready he is for how bloodthirsty these politicians, reporters, and the general Western public can be. “I agree to meet your Queen. On one condition.”

He moves to speak further, but there is an interruption. From the water. Shuri sees with her own eyes the strange change to the river’s current. And then, bursting from the current, two warriors. Blue-skinned, with strange water-filled contraptions over their mouths, tall spears arcing over their heads, feathered head-pieces made to intimidate.

“My king.”

They speak the same native language as Namor, but from their contraptions come a metallic translation, a watery voice so different from Wakandan A.I. Shuri itches to take one apart and discover what makes it work.

Namor frowns, standing slowly. They kneel before him. Suddenly, Shuri realizes that this was not planned. She does not rise, decidedly uncertain.

“Do not engage,” she whispers firmly under her breath to Okoye and Ayo, Griot humming at her ear, transmitting the message to them. “Do not engage.”

“The surface dweller lies,” says the female warrior’s translator. Or at least Shuri assumes they are female. Their features are more delicate than their larger partner, humanoid and fair. “Our sonar has picked up two heartbeats, humans, watching from the forest.” Their finger swivels, pointing damningly at the tree line.

Shuri stiffens from her seat. 

Namor turns to her, expression brooding. “Is this true?” he asks. Shuri feels the full weight of the question. Have you betrayed me?

Shuri looks to the two warriors, still on their knees, and feels slightly offended at the hypocrisy. “You said to come alone and I agreed,” she says, trying to keep the attitude from her voice, to keep the atmosphere light. “I told my people this was a dinner only for two.”

His eyebrows, pinched together, quickly relax. His mouth twitches at the corner. Trying not to smile? “Princess,” he says warningly, but she can hear some humor there, hidden in the back of his throat. 

“I see you have brought uninvited guests,” she continues, sniffing slightly. Then she addresses Namor’s warriors. “I apologize if my guards have frightened you. From where they wait. For my return. In the jungle.”

Perhaps it isn’t the best diplomatic decision to tease strange new warriors of a different race. She sees them both physically bristle at the implication of fear. She is sure it is only the presence of their king which stalls them from rising to the challenge. 

“Perhaps now you shall learn not to interrupt so easily,” says Namor, and she realizes he is scolding them. She looks away politely so that she can’t see their shame. She’s done the same with many a Dora Milaje being lectured by Okoye. “Go. It is nothing. I am unoffended.” 

There is a shuffling, a murmur of “yes, my king” and then the splash of water. They are alone once more. Shuri thinks she can physically feel Ayo and Okoye relax. Thank the ancestors they have more decorum than their underwater counterparts. 

“A thousand apologies, my Princess,” says Namor stiffly, looking at where she still sits. “I cannot express my regret enough at my subjects’ disrespect.”

Shuri with clarity knows that this must be difficult for him. He is a king, a god. One who has never had to deal with any power other than himself. And here he comes to Wakanda, to beg for help, now bending to ask her forgiveness. 

“Your people value you. It is a good sign to me that they are so protective,” says Shuri plainly. “Please don’t lower yourself. In different circumstances, I know my guard would have done similarly. All is well.”

Namor looks at her. She feels his eyes linger on her face, her nose, her mouth and neck, where he was unable to see during their first meeting. She feels the back of her neck grow hot against the cool clasp of her necklace and her throat feels very dry. 

“You are considerate,” he says.

“I do think this illustrates that we must make this official,” says Shuri and then coughs awkwardly, knowing how that sounds, what kind of relationship that might imply. Namor seems unaffected as he retakes his seat. “I mean. We should probably agree on a more neutral location for you to greet our Queen. There is a reason your people are so nervous. And my own folk will not be pleased to know that two warriors slipped past our defenses so easily.”

“I agree,” says Namor very softly. “I agree.”

Shuri smiles at him, trying to reassure. It is not her strong point. She has always been the blunt one. T’Challa is the one who is good with words. Was good with words. She taps her kimoyo bracelet nervously. A holograph of the Earth flickers before them in shades of red. They discuss the merits of one meeting place over another. She notes to herself that Namor understands the language of longitude and latitude as well as any airship captain. They consider several options before deciding finally on an uninhabited island in the Caribbean for a meeting place. It is a neutral zone, ignored by locals and the relevant government as it has little resources and is too small for a settlement. Perfect for this world-changing meeting.

The sun blazes. The food has all been eaten. Shuri knows that it has been a few hours longer than initially expected. She looks at him and the knowledge that this is the last time they will be alone together for a long while seems very important.

“I wish you safe travels, my Princess,” Namor rumbles, eyes falling. She realizes he is looking at her silver collar and she touches it self-consciously where the gem is set. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty,” she says. She hesitates for one moment, knowing she shall be lambasted for this choice once she is pulled in to report to the Queen. She doesn't care. In one smooth movement, she unclips the Kimoyo bead at her ear quickly, without thinking, and approaches him, pushing the earring into his broad, warm palm for a moment. “A gift. From me. Should an emergency occur or if the plan must change, just tell the bead to contact me. It shall know what to do.” 

It takes a moment to realize that Namor is still. Unmoving. Her hand is a temporary hostage, his grip firm and unyielding when she goes to pull away, her slim fingers enfolded in his large ones, hot with blood. She does not know what to do, like a gazelle spying a predator in the grass. Paralyzed. 

He bends his head, murmuring into her ear, her hairs rising and on fire at his breath on her neck, “I thank you, my Princess.”

He backs up from her, taking all that warmth away, taking the bead, and she barely stops herself from staggering, a weakness in her legs. Namor makes one last gesture, one with cupped hands and a bowed head. And then he is gone. 

—

“A fish man! I cannot believe it!”

“He had a feathered serpent head! It was as if Bast was in the flesh before me!”

“What shall we do? What can we do? He flies, Ayo! The man flies!”

The talk washes over Shuri. She is exhausted as she watches Ayo and Okoye speaking in panicked whispers that become too loud to qualify as whispers any longer. They are in the Great Chamber, waiting for the high council to grace them with their presence. They will be shown the recordings of Namor, of his and Shuri’s conversations, of their exchange of gifts. They will have many questions. A headache begins to blossom behind Shuri’s temples, matching the small pit that has formed in her ribcage. Somehow, she knows seeing Namor in person would soothe her. 

Why? To feel this way towards a man she barely knows?

She leans her head back against the headrest of her chair. 

When shall she see him again?

Notes:

(1) N'Charu Silema: the Wakandan intelligence agency who maintain a global spy network through reconnaissance and infiltration, primarily to keep Wakanda's existence a secret from the outside world.

(2): As they do not name the River tribe elder in either of the Black Panther films, I've named him Adeyeye, a Yoruba surname.

More world-building this chapter! Hope you like :3 Please feel free to comment!

Chapter 3: k'áatik

Notes:

k'áatik: (v.t) to want something.

https://sites.google.com/a/hamline.edu/maya-society/yucatec-maya-language-resources

—

namor

He ignores the prying questions of Attuma and Namora as they leave for deeper waters. 

Every time he closes his eyes and thinks of the Wakandan Princess and her insulted expression at their interruption, at their accusation, such rage fills him, the likes of which he has not felt since his last journey among the upper world. To offend her, to affront her, upon only their second meeting… he is a boiling, uncontrollable ocean and he cannot answer their questions or hear their apologies. 

He ascends to his inner sanctum, knowing neither warrior shall follow. It is there, in front of his mural, depicting all of Talokanil history since the imbibing of the sacred leaf, that he strips out of his regalia, the headdress, and his bands of gold. He is dripping water, but he is endlessly warm, too warm, his blood thundering with something he has not felt in centuries. 

He had already begun the portrait of their meeting, of course. It is significant, the first contact between their two nations. He sketched her as he knew her then, a woman concealed by a vivid blue hood. He had only seen her eyes in the light of the fire, after all. He was unable to capture her guardedness or long dark lashes in the visual record. Nor could he convey how her hands were deft and quick as she laid out the stones for the fire, the slender hands of a princess. 

But now he knows her face. How he had stared at her on this day. She must have thought him uncivilized. He conjures the image in his mind, as if she were standing before him. Her deep, rich skin, as lustrous as a black pearl, massaged with a fragrant oil that filled his every breath. The sharp, determined angles of her face. The sensitive shape of her lips, adorned with a slash of purple. And, more than all the others, he imagines how that silver necklace displayed the delicate curve of her neck. It drew his eyes to her throat, enticing, distracting, as if to say, imagine your mouth here. 

She looked like a Goddess. 

He is scrubbing away the still-wet paint from the walls when he hears Calatzin enter his quarters.

“Attuma and Namora look as though they have seen the face of Chaac (1) himself.” He is not yet entirely in the room, standing cautiously at the doorway. 

“They have angered me,” Namor says without shame, gently smearing away the princess’s eyes. They are not good enough. They shall be, he determines. “I will make it right with them soon.”

“What is this?” Calatzin says. He has always been the best of Namor’s advisors. Humble, wise, always enduring the impetuous turns of Namor’s mood with ease. In this moment, however, Calatzin says sharply, with some panic, “Never since my birth have I seen you redo the mural, my king. What has inspired this change? Have the Wakandans refused our offer of friendship?” 

“No,” Namor murmurs. “The Princess was most hopeful that her people would accept.”

“Then why, my King?”

“I simply did not capture the moment as I should have,” Namor says. He had tried to sketch her without feeling, to think of her as a mere dignitary, with no other importance to her. But to do so would be lying to the future generations of Talokanil. Let them see her as K’uk’ulkan sees her. Value her as he is beginning to value her. “The fault is mine.”

Calatzin is aghast, but of course it is Namor’s fault. He is the one who has miscalculated. He had not expected her when approaching her nation. Oh, he had surfaced to do his research of course, to steal newspapers on the street like a beggar, slipping into a city library to read of her mother and their politics. But no research could have prepared him for her.

Before this day, he had only two goals. The first, to make parley with the Wakandans. The second, to introduce Talokan to all of the surface world in a new age of peace. But now there is a third, tattooed upon his chest. 

The third is Princess Shuri of Wakanda. 

—

shuri

“Ah,” says M’Baku of the Jabari, the only one speaking. The rest of the high council are notably silent. The Merchant tribe elder has her head in her hands. Ramonda herself has covered her mouth in a gesture that Shuri knows means something has shocked her beyond words. “So there really was a fish man, eh?”

Shuri tries not to laugh, because it really isn’t very funny. The images of Namor on the hologram projection keep moving in a projection on the far wall and he looks fearsome despite his gentility, his strength obvious, his guards frightening. Shuri knows they could view him as a potential threat to Wakanda if she is not careful. “Yes, Lord M’Baku,” she says. “There was.”

“So.” M’Baku bites into the flesh of an apple very crisply, as if in consideration. The sound of his chewing echoes throughout the hall. Shuri sees Ramonda’s eye twitching with irritation. “You are sure he means no harm?”

“He never made a threat,” Okoye admits. Eyes swivel to her and she bows once in apology. “I do not mean to interrupt. But my lieutenant Ayo and I were listening the whole time, as you saw. He was…” And here she looks at Shuri with raised eyebrows, “... very polite to our Princess Shuri.”

Shuri feels them all staring at her, still in her lavender dress and purple face-paint, a rare sight, as she is known for her white lab attire throughout the kingdom. “He was very clear on what he wanted,” she says in a small voice.

“That he was,” says Ramonda, her expression very taut. “Very clear.”

Shuri does not know what those words imply, but Ramonda is looking at Okoye, who looks back, and it is as if they know something Shuri is not privy to. She does not like that at all. 

Ramonda sighs and refocuses on the council. “My daughter. You did well in telling us of his existence. I’m sure all present who doubted the word of the Crown Princess feel shame at their wrongness.”

Someone coughs faintly.

“Thank you, my Queen,” says Shuri, wishing she could gloat: suck it! Alas, she has to be the bigger person. “The truth was shocking to hear, so I understand. It was more shocking to see it a second time. See him . I mean.”

“And he really snuck through Umlambo land! Up the river?!” Adeyeye is clearly offended. “Like a snake into the chicken coop!”

“Wakanda is no chicken coop, Lord Adeyeye,” says Ramonda warningly. “He came here for a reason.”

“But why meet with the Princess at all? And alone!” argues Temweka (2), the Mining tribe elder. Her beaded hair swings and clatters as she shakes her head. “It would have been more respectful to approach you directly, your Majesty.”

“What is done is done,” says Ramonda. “Shuri has been a good emissary. She has done her people proud in helping to understand our new… neighbor.” Shuri notices Ramonda does not say ally. Or friend. Neighbor. As if Namor and his people are village folk who live down the road and might come for dinner. “Now, we shall talk more of this potential partnership. There is much to consider. The Princess has already negotiated an official introduction in a month’s time.”

There are vocalizations throughout the chamber, some eager, some fearful.

M’Baku smiles at Shuri above it all. “Now you have done it.”

—

She cannot sleep. Of course.

It has been a week since her last meeting with Namor. A week of reports, of tests, of endless explaining and endless pleading. A long week.

The night is dark outside the window of her bedroom. She sees the faint glow of Birnin Zana, glass skyscrapers and shallow halls reflecting the stars. There is little light in the city except for the inoffensive stutter of sun-powered lanterns; all placed carefully to curb light pollution from blocking out the heavens. Shuri watches from above, from her palace, a bird in an endless sky. This quiet, this darkness, it unnerves her.

She retreats to the small personal lab that branches off of her bedroom. A present from Baba. Nakia had clicked her tongue disapprovingly at this discovery, years ago.

“You had a bad habit before,” she had said, even as she laughed. “Now you will never sleep!”

How right she was. It is where Shuri spends many of her evenings and early mornings, forgoing her bed in preference of her sleek white desk and the comfort of her experiments. Shuri enters, the frosted doors sliding shut automatically behind her. She watches as the holoscreens blink awake around her. Pale reds and blues douse the room in color, text windows opening and neon graphs populating, showing her the results of Griot’s calculations regarding the Talokan vibranium. The specimen itself is located in an analyzing pod, which she peers into every so often, seeing its strong cobalt shine. She reads the findings seriously, taking notes on her holotablet, comparing the mineral makeup of it against Wakandan samples. It is intensive work. It is confusing. Invigorating. Shuri feels herself buzz with excitement for the first time in a very long while.

She is interrupted. A metallic chirrup from her beads, for once off of her wrist and on the side table in her bedroom.

“Princess Shuri, Namor of Talokan is attempting to contact you,” says Griot smoothly without a hint of judgment. “Would you like to accept his video-call?”

Shuri pauses. She looks at the screen Griot is displaying, where a small photo icon indicates it is Shuri herself who is calling. But it is Namor, with her kimoyo earring. Her heart thrums. Idiotically, she looks down at herself and realizes she is only wearing a thin, tent-like t-shirt and nothing else, baring her slim thighs. If one were to look closely, where the fabric has grown supple and slightly transparent, the imprints of her stiffened nipples are visible. 

I cannot greet a king like this!

But there is no time to redress. She tries to keep only her shoulders and above in the video call, but this feels even worse, as it draws attention to her hair, kept back in braids for sleeping, and her face, which is dewy with her nightly skincare creams. She sighs. She swipes across the silky holoscreen finally, accepting the call. So be it. 

Namor’s face flickers before her. Her impertinent heart leaps. Fool! It is not as though he is truly here! The background is dark. She can make out the suggestion of rich tapestries behind his pointed ear, a bluish reflection refracted across his face from distant water. But he is dry and on land, her maroon earring visible at his earlobe, having replaced the jade pair he had previously worn. Absurdly, she wonders idly if she should craft him a matching nose piercing with the same color scheme. 

“My Princess,” he says, so low he sounds almost sibilant. “I see that your technologies are even more advanced than my expectations. Is this device one of yours?”

“One of my designs?” she asks, settled by his praise and forgetting how she is supposed to be ashamed of herself. “Yes, I developed it with friends at university a few years ago. So I cannot take all the credit.”

“But I’m sure it was your idea,” he says with a wave of his hand. 

“Well, yes,” she admits. 

“Your modesty is uncommon,” Namor tells her. 

“But your technologies are equally evolved,” she says, remembering the translator masks that his warriors had worn wistfully. “Just… different.” Her stomach clenches, twists around itself, anxiety returning, and she tries to remain confident, even in her state of undress. His eyes are intense, glinting in the low light, watching her image and not the lens very obviously, blatantly. She holds her arms casually in front of her breasts, trying to calm the flutter of her heart.

“I apologize if I interrupted your sleep, my Princess,” he says to her.

“Oh, no, no, no,” she says in a too-high pitch, a little too eager. “I am just working in my lab for now. I found it hard to sleep, just a little.”

His expression ripples, and she swears he frowns at her, a cloud crossing over his brow bone. An emotion she cannot read. He is a shark, surveying a weak meal in steady waters with his flat, compelling manner. “And you have… others with you now?” 

Others that have seen you like this? Or others who are listening to our conversation? 

“No, no, no,” she says and wishes she could just die. He probably thinks her ill-mannered. She finds herself babbling before she can control herself. “I have my own lab across from my sleeping quarters. Of course I forbid anyone from coming here. You could say it is a kind of sanctuary for me. We are alone, if you are worried about eavesdroppers, Your Majesty.”

The sharkish look fades from his face, tense shoulders relaxing, which Shuri hadn’t realized had been tense in the first place. “But of course. Yes. That is understandable. It is good to have a separate, private place for your passion.” He tilts his head, satisfied, and she notices his broad shoulders are draped with a beautifully woven cape. 

 “I trust you have a reason for your call?” she says, willing herself to sound normal.

“Yes,” he admits. “I wanted to see if your Wakandan device would be limited by the depth of Talokan. Clearly, I underestimated it, and its creator.”

Shuri laughs nervously. She has heard all about her brilliance since she was a small child. But never from a man like Namor. He no longer wears his feathered headdress, and the difference it makes is startling. She sees his dark tousled hair and striking brow, his deep set eyes, the well-groomed facial hair. She knows he is handsome. But she has not felt his handsomeness swaying her until now, and she understands that this attraction is dangerous. As dangerous as the perilous, undeniable gravity that exists between their nations, as their enemies gather on the horizon.

“I remember from our last meeting, there was a request you didn’t get to make,” she says aloud. She feels newly determined to set aside these inappropriate feelings. Because what could come of them, truly? He is a powerful being who has no interest in her as a woman, she is sure of it. A God-King. The path forward is shaky enough without adding her immature crush to the pot. Yes, she thinks, pleased with herself. She shall be professional and welcoming, but impersonal. “What can I do for you, your Majesty?”

“Yes. I had intended to make it my sole requirement for meeting with your Queen,” he mentions off-handedly, echoing his words at their meeting, interrupted by his people. 

She sharpens her attention. “I am listening now,” she promises. 

Namor’s eyes reflect the holoscreen in front of him, a harsh blue square in his dark iris. “I have already agreed to meet with Wakanda regardless, you know. I cannot take back my word once I give it. It was a frivolous request regardless. Perhaps you would like to forget it until we begin to work on a proper treaty.”

“Ooh, you can’t just leave me hanging like that!” Shuri exclaims. “Do you even have the tiniest idea of how much I want to know?”

Namor laughs at this, the sound echoing in her lab. 

“I am serious,” she says, whining a little in spite of herself. “If it’s so unimportant, you can just tell me!”

“I wished to invite you to visit Talokan,” he says. “As our first guest from the surface world.”

His voice comes through precisely, as if he is in the room with her. Shuri stills and opens her mouth to speak, but finds nothing there.

He seems almost—and Shuri cannot believe it—shy. “I think now it would have been an inappropriate demand. At least as a requisite to an official meeting. But once I have met your mother, perhaps, you shall accept the invitation.”

He sounds like a boy asking her to dinner.

“She would not have agreed,” Shuri admits. “But…” She grins and looks over her shoulder, slightly paranoid that perhaps a spy was hiding in the walls. An invitation to see the most secret society in the world, with new otherworldly technology, in a city made of vibranium? Umama would be crazy to think Shuri would say no. “I say yes! A million times yes! Better to ask forgiveness than permission, eh?”

Namor blinks at her twice, and then there is a smile. A golden smile. “I am honored to be trusted with the Wakandan princess.”

“More than trust, it is greed,” sighs Shuri. “You are so… fascinating.” Then, she flushes a little, ears going hot. “I mean… I am eager to meet your people. Learn your ways of life. And your science! I have been dreaming about all the possibilities.”

“I look forward to building something great with you,” he says silkily. 

Build something great with you. The words curl in her chest, make a home there. And then the reality sets in and she looks away and tries to calm her breath, because maybe this is all for nothing.

“I worry for us,” she admits.

“Worry?” he says. He says something in his native tongue, and the tone is so warm, so tender, she could almost mistake it for an endearment. She is sure that is not the case. “Together, side by side, surely there would be no imperial power on earth that could threaten us.”

She believes him. Secretly, in the dark part of her she has never truly given in to, she wishes she could see him in combat. Muscles clenching, white teeth bared in a snarl, his feathered headdress terrifying his opponents. She wonders if he would use a spear or a sword. She knows he would be magnificent. 

“It is not that,” she says, eyes closed. “Wakanda has never in our history had an outside alliance. With anyone. Even the countries we border. I worry our citizens have become used to the isolation. That they would fear you, rather than understand you.”

“My Princess.”

Shuri opens her eyes and sees that he has drawn closer to the camera. His eyes are pools of darkness. He reaches out to her projection, his powerful forearms in frame. Heat shoots through her navel, remembering how warm his hand had been, holding hers. She feels hyper aware of her inner thighs, her abdomen, the tight flesh of her nipples. 

“I fear the same might be true for my people,” he says. “But we shall never know if we do not try. And you forget, we are better than them.”

She nods, slowly, glancing at the image of her that he is seeing in the left hand corner of the screen. She looks slightly mussed, as if she has just emerged from sleep, yes. But her posture is good, her expression is serious. She can do this. She has persuaded her mother and the high council to enter a conversation with Ahau K’uk’ulkan. Now, she agrees to be the very first to visit his beloved city. In a way, she believes that this simple exchange has done more for the relationship between Wakanda and Talokan than any royal diplomat could have hoped to achieve. 

T'Challa would be proud. 

“We shall succeed,” she declares. “We shall succeed and better the world for it.”

“Of course, my Princess,” says Namor. “But first, we shall rest.”

“Ah, you sound like my mother.” Shuri rolls her eyes (only a little, he is a king, after all), but doesn't protest. “I hope you sleep—if you sleep.”

“I sleep,” Namor says with a sigh, as if becoming used to her teasing. But he still nods to her before reaching to end the call. “And I hope I dream tonight, just as I hope you do.”

When the holoscreen dims, the kimoyo birds singing that the connection has died, Shuri stands in the lab for a moment, alone.

But this time, she knows she will see him again.

Notes:

(1) Chaac, the Mayan deity of rain, thunder, and the sun.
(2) Again, the tribal elders are not named in either film, so I have given the Mining Tribe Elder the South African name Temweka, meaning "beloved" and ironically also the actress's middle name.

-

I am also a little overwhelmed by how much support this fic has received! Thank you to all who read and comment, you don't know how much it means to me <3.

Chapter 4: na'atik

Notes:

na'atik: (v.t); to understand something; to guess correctly at something.

https://sites.google.com/a/hamline.edu/maya-society/yucatec-maya-language-resources

The Wakandans arrive first on the shore.

Shuri does not know whether this is to their advantage or to their deficit. As they step out onto the white beach, sand sifting under their feet, she feels the tension spring into existence around her, because now all they can do is wait.  

The Caribbean water gleams like a calm plate of turquoise under the pale sky, tepid waves rolling lazily up to their feet. If Talokan contains half the beauty of this place, then it is no wonder that Namor and his brethren would kill, maim, and even die to preserve it. This thought warms her, affirms her. 

And, of course, her mother is resplendent.

“No, set that down over there,” Ramonda directs coolly as men and women carry short tables and chairs move to and fro.  “Yes, that way shall do. What are you doing, Kibibi? Please. To the left. Yes, that is much more appropriate.” 

In a way, the preparations are no different from any other gathering of the Five Tribes. There are the usual courtesies, the Elders leading their chosen advisors to the feast tables, speaking intimately with each other, good-naturedly arguing, and telling stories of feasts past. There are the lush flowers of all shapes and colors. Elaborately woven tapestries and rugs are spread over the sand. The food is placed carefully and with purpose. 

It is only that all present know this feast will change the world. 

Shuri watches the flurry of activities from a polite distance, wading nowhere, her bare feet lapped at by the cool water. She spies M’Baku, who cannot be missed with his sheer size and immense white furs, which he wears over one shoulder even in the burning heat. His lower lip purses dramatically as he strolls along the decided area. She smiles to see him watch the ripples of the shoreline with suspicion, as if every clam which surfaces with the tide could be spyware crafted by the Talokanil. 

“Please be sure to hide that scowl when they arrive,” she tells him when he nears her. “They shall take one look at you and decide you mean to skewer and cook them over the nearest fire.”

“Ah, my dear friend,” says M’Baku regretfully. “If only I could. Then this whole stressful affair could be put to rest.”

She frowns at him.

“Oh, I forget myself,” he says, shamelessly teasing. “You want to ally ourselves with the fish people. My mistake.”

Shuri sighs and looks out to the horizon. She knows M’Baku does not truly mean the words he speaks. He says them mostly to bother her. But she also knows others share this opinion, which strikes at a sore spot she did not know she had.

“I want more for Wakanda,” she says. “As did my brother. It has been too long that we’ve stood alone.” She glances at him. “The wolves outside our walls are only getting more and more desperate.”

A heavy hand lays itself on her bare shoulder. He squeezes softly and she remembers T’Challa’s funeral, how M’Baku had bowed to her and spoke of promises he made to the dead king, to protect her. “You might not see it now, but I know you would be a good Queen, Princess,” he says.

She laughs. “Don’t speak too loudly, now,” she says. “The ancestors might hear you and condemn me to that fate.”

“Insolent youth,” he accuses, sucking his teeth at her. “Laughing at tradition once more, I see.”

Ramonda has entered Shuri’s field of sight. Shuri thinks of Namor, in his traditional garb, and how similarly he reveres his culture as Ramonda does. “Perhaps tradition is not all bad,” she admits. 

And then, a commotion amongst the crowd of Wakandans. People crane their necks, men point towards the horizon, where Shuri has just turned from. She hears their cries of excitement and alarm. She follows their attention, the glare of the light on the water making her squint slightly. 

There, in the distance. 

“Whales,” says M’Baku, jaw slack with disbelief.

Not just any whales. She stands on tip-toe, hears the buzzing of Griot, who creates a holographic binocular over her left eye without any prompting, calculating and zooming in on their heat signatures. A whole pod of them, she sees in wonder, ten in total. 

“Five orcas, three sperm, and two blue whales,” counts Griot smoothly as if this isn’t an impossibility. They are breaching, fanning their tails above the water, their huffing breaths spouting in the air, moving strangely slow.

He is here.

They emerge from the depths. As alien and strange as they are, the Talokanil are beautiful. They have lovely skin ranging in shades, from the palest noon sky to the deepest midnight blue. Decorated brightly, Shuri spies familiar shark-skull cowls, and armor made out of leather hide, white glass, green stone. What really draws the eye is the metal, harpoon-like weapons strapped to their sides and legs. There is a noticeable shift in the Dora Milaje, M’Baku whistling to his Jabari entourage to stand at attention when they catch sight of the still-sheathed weapons. 

Let there be no blood spilled today, Shuri finds herself praying. She does not know if she even still believes in the spirits, but she clasps her hands behind her back regardless, closes her eyes, and begs them silently. Not this day, when we are so close.  

The gasps around her tell her of his arrival, even with her eyes closed. She feels M’Baku’s hand on her shoulder tighten its grip minutely, a protective gesture that she knows is unnecessary. When she looks up, she sees him, a familiar shadow hovering above the beach, the silver whisper of his winged feet reaching her ears. He is imperious and great, just as she remembers, but still he takes her breath away as he descends. She is reminded that he is as graceful as any Wakanda airship. Behind her chest, she feels the warm touch of pride.

“Queen Ramonda of Wakanda.” K’uk’ulkan greets her mother with his gesture of cupped hands and bent neck. “It is an honor to receive your invitation to break bread and make treaty. The people of Talokan will not forget this gesture of good faith.”

Ramonda steps forward. It is so obvious that she was born to lead, Shuri thinks. Baba made the right choice all those years ago. She is a vision in her striking white gown, her head-wrap scarf a brilliant gold which shimmers under the rays of the sun. Startlingly calm amidst the nervous visages of the Elders, she dips her head, the barest form of a bow.

“The feelings are reciprocated, King K’uk’ulkan of Talokan,” she declares to him. “We make history here today, our two nations. We greet you and invite you to dine with us. May we find today fruitful, informative, and the beginning of a friendship that extends beyond our lifetimes.”

Shuri, who knows Namor has lived half a millennia and not aged past thirty, smiles.

“Let it begin,” M’Baku says lowly.

Shuri was right when she told Namor that her title, at times, is an empty one. She sits on the sidelines after her mother’s speech, watching as Ramonda speaks with Namor easily, with none of Shuri’s nerves and all of T’Challa’s charisma. Shuri knows she has no role to play here, not until the beginning of the welcoming rituals (which shall not occur until sunset). She is a Princess, but she was raised as a second. No one had ever mentioned it, of course, especially not when she was a child; but sometimes she would see her father’s attendants looking at her during their visits to the palace, saying with their eyes: you are the spare.

She cannot change how that shaped her, even now when T’Challa is dead. 

Introductions are made. The Elders commune with Namor’s advisors. There is much talk of the Talokanil’s whales and questions about the Wakandan airships. Polite, but tense answers are exchanged. No one approaches Shuri. She loses sight of Namor multiple times and understands why they have not yet spoken. He is very sought after, fielding questions from the River tribe about how the protections around Wakanda were foiled in their waterways. She sees his arms lift as he allows the Merchant Elder to examine the craftsmanship of his regalia, the spill of the meshed cape down to the ground, the jadework of his necklaces. She wishes she could go to him, speak to her friend.

She tries not to feel disappointed at the thought. Her friend.

“You are Princess Shuri of Wakanda,” says the humming voice of a translator.

She turns. A pair of Talokanil gesture at her with cupped hands, one of whom she recognizes as the large male guard from the river. He is tall and strapping and Shuri resents having to crane her neck up at him.

“Ahau K’uk’ulkan has requested we introduce ourselves to you,” says the warrior. “This is Bembe, our head vibranium-smith and premier scientist. He is most eager to greet you.” He pauses and adds awkwardly, “I am known as Attuma.”

Bembe is slender with dark, cobalt skin, youthful with huge eyes. He gasps and bows deeply once, two times in his excitement. “Your Majesty!” 

Shuri blinks in surprise. “Ah, there is no need for that,” she says, a strange kind of greed overcoming her, knowing that this person has the answers to her many, many questions. Questions that she has saved in the notes application of her kimoyo beads. Perhaps she is not a skilled leader, perhaps she might never be, she thinks as she smiles at an overwhelmed Bembe. But she will always be a pursuer of science. “Please. Let us find a place to sit. I’m sure we have much to talk about.”

The Talokanil have brought food. Baskets upon baskets of food. Bembe piles a plate high with long rolls of dried seaweed, cuts of smoked fish, fried strips of yucca, and, oddly enough, four different kinds of steamed sweet potatoes. Shuri wonders idly about the logistics of their food systems, how they could cook all of this underwater, before realizing that she is free to ask. Bembe is very informative when he is not chewing, and she watches with astonishment as he moves his breathing apparatus from his mouth and nose to the sallow gills at his throat with ease.

“We are going to be very good friends,” she tells him seriously.

They speak for so long that when Shuri looks up, she is surprised to see the setting sun, lighting the whole sky and ocean aflame. Not literally, but the color is so vivid that she sees the imprint of it still when she blinks. M’Baku approaches her and she knows it is time.

“Excuse me,” she tells Bembe, who appears adorably disappointed. “I am needed.”

M’Baku lays his hand on her shoulder once more, leading her towards a makeshift stage in the center of the gathering. “You shall make us all proud this evening, my Princess,” he says, surprisingly sincere. “We shall both do our best.”

Shuri has performed this story with her Umama, Elder Zuri and T’Challa since she could walk. She sees the musicians with their drums and their flutes, remembers all of the notes and could recite all the words by name. But she has never performed it without her brother. He is no longer there to grin at her over the heads of the audience. Or hold her hand reassuringly during the instrumental portion. His absence is like a sore, and now it flares, painful, obvious.  

And to dance in front of the outsiders, in front of Namor? Her heart seizes slightly. But she kicks off her leather sandals, watches M’Baku do the same. 

Elder Adeyeye stands. He is impressive in his sharp green suit, matching the jade of his lip-plate. “I shall act as our jeli for today,” he says solemnly to the silent crowd. “In our practices, the jeli (1) is the one who retells our history. Many have come before me and many will after me.” 

Around him, the lanterns are lit, casting their audience in eerie shadow. Shuri doesn’t know whether she should be grateful she cannot see Namor because of the darkness or saddened. She doesn’t have time to dwell on it regardless. A drummer starts a slow, steady beat upon the talking drum, the odondo (2), its notes high and calamitous around them. 

Adeyeye sways. “This is the story of our people.”

M’Baku steps to her side, trades a smile with her, where T’Challa used to stand. Nerves and grief make her slow to respond, but she does, and they join hands together, squat slightly where they stand, the sand gritty beneath their bare feet. They move. As they dance, long stretches of leg and arm, Adeyeye’s sonorous voice tells the story of the first Black Panther, the unnamed warrior shaman, uniting the tribes. Shuri does not worry about making a mistake. They are simple movements. Every Wakandan child by the age of five knows these steps. She braces her forearm against M’Baku’s, to symbolize the great war over the meteorite of vibranium, and then touches her palm to his, to indicate the peace which followed. 

“A union prevailed. Four tribes agreed to live under the King's rule, to safeguard Wakanda’s people and her borders.”

It feels odd to dance without the weight of her long braids slapping against her shoulders, down her back, she thinks distantly. She and her mother had done the hair cutting ceremony the same day that she had failed to save T’Challa. It had been a rite of mourning they had not done when Baba had passed. But Ramonda’s child, the powerful king, dead in his prime, well, that had required a greater sacrifice for the ancestors to receive him. She turns on cue. In the darkness, she thinks she can see Namor, who has never known her except with her tight fade and cropped curls. 

“The warrior shaman succeeded. He became King and the first Black Panther, the protector of Wakanda.” 

Their arms reach up to the vermillion sky. M’Baku is so much larger than her brother that she nearly bumps her forehead upon his chest. He steadies her with a small touch. And then it is over. They break apart, victorious, to the whooping of the Jabari, the whistles of the other tribes, even the soft, light calls of the Talokanil. Adeyeye, M’Baku, and Shuri bow, sweating, pleased, as their new friends and allies show their appreciation.

There is much to celebrate.

–

namor

Jealousy is not an emotion Namor is familiar with.

Over the centuries, he has taken whoever he likes to bed and they have joined him always with enthusiasm. His rooms are strewn with rare treasures, texts, and art. He always sleeps in comfort. The sea is his domain. And yet, as he watches Shuri dance, touching the huge man beside her with ease and familiarity, he realizes he has very little he truly wants. He is turbulent, a frothing current roaring inside him as he sees their hands collide, over and over again, their movements matching as if they have danced together since birth. 

“Lord M’Baku dances well,” he hears one of the Wakandan delegation exclaim in surprise. “Thank Hanuman!”

M’Baku. Namor considers the name. The man was introduced to him by Queen Ramonda as a leader of one of their tribes. An appropriate match, he realizes with trepidation, for a princess. He has power and influence and land to offer her. If she were to ascend to the throne, he would be knowledgeable about the affairs of their kingdom. And of course he would desire her. She is a vision, her hands held aloft, her two-piece skirt and blouse a muted violet, her dark skin beautiful against the white sand. He would be a powerful choice for a husband. 

But he is no god.

Shuri staggers slightly. No one else seems to notice, their eyes on the reciter. Namor sees, because his eyes never leave her. It is just a second. But Namor sees M’Baku place his hand against Shuri’s little waist, bared at the midriff, a finger sliding against the silver beads slung across her hips. 

Namor burns.

—

shuri

He finds her after the ritual.

She eats very little, sitting by her mother’s left at the table. Ramonda leans into her when the conversation with a dignitary lulls. The Queen whispers into her ear, “He has been very accommodating.”

Shuri isn’t sure what to say back to this. She knows Ramonda means Namor. She cannot help but resent that Namor has been following her mother around as if he were a devoted attendant, ignoring Shuri entirely. It is logical he does so, of course, Shuri isn’t stupid. Their future relies upon Ramonda trusting Namor, liking him, learning about him. But her feelings aren't logical. The resentment bubbles in her gut, making her shift with discomfort. “Good,” she says eloquently. 

“You like him,” Ramonda says. Each word falls heavily between them. 

“Mother, don’t be silly,” Shuri says, even as her belly sinks to her pelvis in a cold rush. This whole time she thought she had been carrying her secret attraction very well, hidden as if she had shoved it to the bottom of a bag. Now she worries she is so transparent that even Namor knows. “We haven’t even spoken.”

“Oh, please,” Ramonda says. Insists. She points her fork at Shuri. “Don’t even bother lying to your mother. Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Shuri decides to say nothing at all. 

Ramonda doesn’t seem angry. “I have always known about all your little romances. Ever since your first crush on that poor Dora Milaje when you were fourteen.”

“Ay, Umama!” Shuri hisses, ears feeling ablaze. “That was very long ago.”

“Not so long that I don’t remember how heartbroken you were when Ndey proposed to her partner,” Ramonda says. Shuri can hear the laughter in her voice. She shakes her head. Her life is always giving Ramonda amusement. 

“You are seeing things, Mother,” says Shuri. “There is nothing there.”

“Were he a servant, I would not be so concerned,” says Ramonda as if Shuri hadn’t even spoken. “Even if he were the heir to one of the tribes. We could do something there. But he is more than that. He is a great hope for our people. An alliance we cannot threaten because of…” She waves her hand at Shuri as if to say because of this. Because of you.

“Whatever it is, it isn’t reciprocated,” Shuri says. Her mouth is very salty all of a sudden. She gulps a glass of water for something to do. 

Ramonda laughs a little callously. “You must be blind. He was watching you the whole night.”

“I didn’t see that,” says Shuri, even though the words lighten her. She feels as if she could purr. Ridiculous. “He hasn’t even said a word to me.”

“His eyes said enough.” Ramonda peers at her, as if trying to look inside her. “Promise me you will be careful.”

“He could have whoever he wants, Umama,” Shuri says, wielding the words like a cudgel, a desperate attempt to make both herself and Ramonda hear them. “He does not want me.”

Ramonda is shaking her head, moving to speak, but then her eyes flicker over Shuri’s shoulder and she smiles coolly. “Hello, Ahau K’uk’ulkan.”

“Your Majesty,” says his voice. Shuri determinedly turns very slowly, eyes on the ground so she won’t be disappointed when he looks only at Ramonda and not her. “I hope you are enjoying the festivities.”

“It has been a wonderful night,” says Ramonda sincerely.

“Forgive me, but I wished to steal your daughter away for a moment,” he says. It is as if he threaded the words with gold. And then he addresses Shuri. “I have not yet had a chance to greet you, my Princess. For that, I am sorry.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Shuri says agitatedly. “Why are you always apologizing? Aren’t gods supposed to be arrogant and do whatever they like?”

“Shuri!” Ramonda says, outraged.

“Maybe I like apologizing to you,” Namor says. There is the sound of clinking pearls and shifting metal when he bends to look at her. “Perhaps this is a god doing whatever he likes.”

Shuri swallows and finally meets his gaze. He looks very good, she realizes with despair. His eyes are two dark ponds, reflecting her own nervous face back at her. She sees that he still wears her kimoyo bead, standing out obviously, very sleek and modern with all his ancient jewelry. Something about seeing him wear her gift makes her lungs go strange and tight. 

“Will you do me the honor of talking with me, my Princess?” he asks, not breaking eye contact. He could not be more sincere if he tried. 

Shuri tries very hard not to be embarrassed that her mother is right next to her. “Okay,” she says after another beat. “Mother, may I go?”

Ramonda straightens her back and fusses with her earpiece, the one that Shuri knows Okoye is listening in on. “Of course,” Ramonda acquiesces. Her face says I told you so and please behave at the same time. 

They go to the waterline, where the tide has lowered considerably since the evening began. She can now see the rocks, flooded tide pools, and algae-covered detritus that make up the shallows, a little biosphere all on its own; it’ll be visible only for a few hours before the sea hurries to cover it all up once more. A tiny green crab scuttles and tries to hide under a rock, still too exposed even half-buried in sand. She sympathizes silently. 

“I meant it,” Namor says. He is slightly more clothed than their last meeting, she notices, a little relieved. He wears a slender jade circlet rather than his feathered headdress, his thick meshed cape bracketed with gold at the shoulders. She notices a hint of his naked chest, taut with muscle, and looks at the ground. “I don’t mind apologizing to you.”

“I mind,” Shuri admits. “It is weird to have a god begging forgiveness. That’s the opposite of what a god should do.”

“Oh, but I have not even begged, my Princess,” says Namor silkily. She sees the flash of his canine in the dark evening and feels her stomach seize. “You would know if I were begging.”

“Stop,” she says, because even she knows this is flirting. And then she laughs. A God is flirting with her. Namor, flirting with her? “What are you doing? I mean. What are we doing, exactly?”

“I am talking with you,” he says. He steps closer to her, his hand grazing her wrist. Her skin is very warm. She suddenly feels the cold touch of her waistbeads against the point of her hip when she hadn’t been aware of them before. 

“Sure, you’re right,” Shuri says. She has always prided herself on not caring what other people thought of her. Even when she had that stupid crush on Ndey, she had never tried to impress her or draw her attention. But now she desperately wants to know what Namor thinks of her. She wonders if his eyesight is better than hers, if he can see her clearly where all she can see is dark shadow. “But that’s not all.”

“And we are touching,” Namor admits. 

Shuri feels his fingers slide between hers. He is impossibly dry where she expected him to be perpetually damp. He is holding her hand, she realizes, and she is so surprised that she says nothing as he gently leads her along the beach, his thumb tucked over hers a little possessively. 

“You touched him like this,” Namor says.

It takes a moment for Shuri to understand what he is saying. “Who?” All she can think of is how her mother probably has several guards following her, witnessing this. Bast!

“M’Baku.” His voice is a thing made out of heat and anger. “Is he your intended?”

M’Baku. My intended? She can’t help it. She makes a sound like an elephant and covers her mouth with her free hand. “You cannot be serious!”

Namor presses his lips together in a very human way. “You are laughing.”

Shuri clears her throat and makes a decision. She leans her shoulder into his broad chest, delighted at how warm he is against the cold spray of the ocean. She holds his hand more firmly, noticing how he delicately strokes her palm with his thumb, where her skin is paler and more sensitive. “M’Baku is a grump and a stickler for tradition,” she says. “When my brother took the throne, M’Baku tried to challenge for the title. He called me a child who had no respect for our ancestors. But he is a steady friend, now that my brother is gone. He also has no interest in me.”

Namor leans closely to her. She smells his breath, fresh like alkaline, sweet like fruit. His eyes, his mouth, are very near. “And you have no interest in him?”

“No,” Shuri breathes and looks away first. “None at all.”

Her attempt to gain control over the situation doesn’t deter him. The cool tip of his nose brushes against her temple, where she has placed a single silver bead in her cornrows. “Good,” he says. And then he confesses to her hair, “Because I have an interest in you.”

“Your Majesty—” she tries to say. The sand shifts under her feet. This conversation isn’t going how she thought. Why is Umama always right? she thinks with exasperation. 

“K’uk’ulkan,” he pronounces carefully. “We don’t need to be so formal. I desire to hear my name from you.”

“But, your title,” Shuri protests. Her brain is stopped on the word desire. What else does he desire from her? What is the manner of this interest? “That’s what is proper. You are a King. My Baba used to scold me for calling my mother Umama in front of others, you know.”

“I thought it would be a simple request,” he says and he sounds imperious, or he would if he weren’t saying all these things into the shell of her ear. “A simple favor, between friends.”

Friends. 

“Is that the extent of your interest?” she asks sourly. She crosses her arms, dropping his hand even though she doesn’t want to, backs up a step so he isn’t towering over her. “Just… friends?”

“No,” he says boldly. She hadn’t expected that. She sees the muscles in his arms clench and then relax, as if he is fighting the urge to reach for her. Still, he maintains a respectful distance, distance that she resents now, even though she is the one who created it. “I wish to be so much more than that.”

Shuri struggles to think. He doesn’t move to intrude on her space again, but it almost doesn’t matter, because his black eyes rove over her, catching on her naked belly and her waistbeads as if he is petting her physically, caressing her. She can feel it, imagining those warm hands on her skin, and it stokes the flame in her, creating a bright tender feeling between her legs. She knows what this means, there is no confusing it for anything else. More than that, she wants him back.

“There couldn’t be a worse time for… this,” she says bitterly. She thinks again about how somewhere in the night Okoye or one of the other Dora Milaje is watching them. Maybe some of his people are watching them too, not trusting a surface girl to be alone with him. Yet. “We haven’t even started talking about how to introduce you to the U.N. Or what trade will look like between our peoples. Or any of the other million things that need to be written down and argued over and written down again.”

Namor is smiling at her. This annoys her even more.

“You know, before you happened, I hated politics,” she grumbles. She toys with her waistbeads, fidgeting, trying to forget about his eyes which cling to her every movement.  “Now I can’t get away from them. Your fault.”

“I can only imagine,” he says, and she hears fondness there, which warms her more. “You are meant for better things than being locked in rooms to argue with old men.”

“I’m a fixer,” Shuri declares. She throws the words towards the ocean, beginning to pace a little, like how she would in her lab when faced with a particularly difficult equation. “You show me a problem, I can invent something for you. A new solar power inductor. A different design for an arc reactor. But I can’t string fancy words together and force people to listen to me.”

“You did for me,” he says huskily.

“And I’d do it again,” Shuri sighs, begrudging, because it’s true. She stops when she is close to him again, greedy for him, wanting. She steps to him, her nose nearly brushing his chest, saying without words: touch me again, please. “Even though I hate it and am bad at it.”

“I won’t take your sacrifice lightly.” He reaches out for her and she closes her eyes when she feels his slender, hot fingers against her cool cheek. It is a tender kind of gesture, a gentleness there that she wants to savor. Namor cups her neck lightly, thumb mapping the harsh cut of her jaw. “But I also won’t hide what I feel. What I want. That is impossible for me. I have lived too long. When I know what I desire, I fight for it.”

“What do you desire, K’uk’ulkan?” she asks, even though she knows. 

He is silent at first. “You,” he murmurs finally. His eyes glow, shining golden in the moonlight, and it’s like she’s given him a gift, just as rare and good as the vibranium was to her. “Even if the timing is bad, like you say. I wish to know you.”

Shuri relaxes, her muscles buzzing with happiness. “I do too,” she admits. “I want to know everything about you. Your world. But you, most of all.”

“Little scholar,” Namor teases. “I’d like that very much. How about we learn together?”

Shuri squints up at him, even as she feels his thumb trace the bottom of her lip sensually, even as she tilts into the touch, encouraging it. “Slowly,” she cautions. “Things are very delicate and I…” She squirms a little, trying to look away, but his hands are both cupping her neck and she doesn’t want them gone. She grasps his wrists, trying to steady herself. “I won’t be responsible for failing my mother. For failing our peoples. If something goes wrong between us.”

“Of course, my Princess,” he murmurs. He is very soothing. She gets the feeling he’s trying not to spook her. “Should you tell me you never wish to see me again, if you were to despise me entirely, I would accept your feelings. But I would not blame Wakanda.”

Some invisible, intangible weight lifts from her. To know that she won’t ruin it all because of what lives between them, pulsing and beautiful and right. She could kiss him, she realizes. She could just go on tip-toe, sway into him, and catch his beautiful mouth in a kiss. Without worrying about anyone else, or Wakanda, or Umama, or even herself. She could just—

He looks at her through half-lidded eyes. “Slowly,” he repeats, as if steeling himself against her. As if she’s going to run away with his virginity.

She smiles. The urge to grab him and kiss the look off his face is still there, but the fire that once roared through her has become embers. Insistent, yes, but less urgent. And now, as she glances over his wide shoulder, she can definitely tell there are two or three shadows a few meters from them, ever-watching. If possible, she’d like their first kiss (First! Of what will be many, Bast be good) to be a private thing her mother will not lecture her about. A secret between them only. 

“Slowly,” she agrees, only a little disappointed. But she covers his hand with hers, where he is cupping her neck. “Will you answer me if I call? Like at the river?”

“Immediately,” he says shamelessly. “Of course.”

“Then I think we have all the time in the world,” she says, already planning.

If she is going to seduce a God, she will need all the time she can get.

Notes:

(1) A jeli is a West African practitioner of oral history, which they recount through poetry, storytelling, and/or music. Also commonly known as a "griot". This is what Griot, Shuri's AI, is named after, so I've elected to use the word "jeli" to avoid confusion. "Jeli" is the word for griot found in many Mande languages, which are common in West Africa.
(2) Odondo: the "talking drum" is a widespread instrument with many different names. I chose to use its Akan name, a language commonly spoken in Ghana, where the actress Michaela Coel, who plays Aneka, is from. The talking drum is also extensively used in the Wakanda Forever soundtrack.

Because Wakanda is meant to be an amalgamation of many different African countries, I'm trying to pull aspects of culture from many different places.

Also a note, the Talokanil food I mention is representative of what Mayan-Yucatec people ate before contact with Spaniards. I also added seafood I thought would be accessible to them!

Edit: Thank you to the commenter who corrected me about Letitia Wright’s ethnicity! I’ve adjusted my 2nd note here. Just a reminder that I love helpful advice and please always feel free to correct this author who has no beta <3

Chapter 5: chuyik

Notes:

chuyik: (v.t); to sew, to stitch something together

https://sites.google.com/a/hamline.edu/maya-society/yucatec-maya-language-resources

shuri

Everett Ross knows nothing. Of course.

His face flickers on the holo-projection. Weak American WiFi, Shuri thinks scornfully. 

“I don’t even understand what the question is,” Ross says, baffled. “I called you, remember? About the oil rig situation in the Pacific.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Shuri impatiently. She can’t bring herself to take him seriously. Why exactly should she care about the woes of an evil American company? She had glanced at an exposé about their Board of Trustees floating around on the internet. Reasonably speaking, they could all be indicted for crimes against the Earth had they been Wakandan. And the ‘situation’ has been mostly ignored, barely making international news. Especially since there were no casualties. An alarm had gone off, an evacuation had ensued, and then the ocean had swallowed the equipment whole. Boring. “We know nothing about that. Truly.”

Ross comes more into focus and she sees he has discarded his cheap sunglasses to move the kimoyo bead closer to his face. It is a most unflattering angle, she thinks uncharitably. “Princess, there are rumors going around my circles that it was your people who caused the sinking,” he says. “And if they’re sniffing around, I would be taking this very seriously.”

“Eh?” Shuri could laugh. She doesn’t. She does think it would be hilarious for Ramonda to chew the UN out once more in front of their reporters, this time for slander instead of attempted robbery. “Let your government know that Wakanda has no interest in their little oil rigs. It is more likely to be a competitor company, no? You and your small-minded billionaires. As if Wakanda has any need for oil. Are we going backwards in time?”

“That’s the thing,” says Ross. His eyes dart around, as if he was afraid of being watched. “It wasn’t an oil rig. Allegedly, it was a drilling mission. Somehow, the CIA has got it in their minds that there could be a deposit of vibranium in the sea floor.”
Shuri sits up very straight. “Shut up.”

“And a lot of it, if it’s got Allegra involved,” he continues. “Look, just keep your eyes peeled, okay? Because if it wasn’t you guys, it was somebody else, somebody we don’t even have a name for yet.”

Shuri palms her mouth, a little afraid. Vibranium, in the hands of the Americans? Or any other country with a vested interest in war or weaponry? “You’re certain no one knows who might have done it?” 

“No, and the only motive they can find points right to Wakanda,” says Ross. “I could get in a lot of trouble for giving you this information. So be careful.”

The connection fizzles out. Shuri doesn’t move for a moment. She imagines vibranium weapons of immense power, beyond the missiles normally pointed across the dilapidated borders of Wakanda’s enemies. She imagines Talokan in ruins, razed and destroyed so the CIA can get their hands on sacred materials, to make war against her people. 

It is a horror beyond comprehension. 

“Griot, crosscheck the coordinates of the OCM disaster with the location of Talokan,” she orders.

On the golden holo map that Griot constructs in front of her eyes, the two purple circles in the Pacific create a kind of lopsided Venn diagram. It is a damning visual. 

With a sigh, she says, “Griot, please call Umama.” 

There is never a dull moment in the present.

—
Message from: Princess

Was this you?

Attached: The New York Times @NYTimes
Mysterious oil rig sinking leaves OCM baffled and Wall Street stock down nytimes.com/152a7c

—
Message from: K’uk’ulkan

Yes. 

—

One of the unintended side effects of Wakanda’s new friendship with Talokan is the flush of new developments for the River tribe. Lord Adeyeye is most pleased with the new outposts that have popped up along his waterways. The new constructions are part of the cultural exchange agreement with the Talokanil. It is easy for them to surface at the outposts and greet curious Wakandans, many of whom visit the sites with food and music, eager to share and learn in ways that neither Shuri or the council had expected. 

Another side effect is the joy.

As Shuri emerges from the royal airship in front of the main outpost, she sees a flock of young boys, muddied and screaming, passing a stained football between them. Among their team, Shuri realizes, is a scattering of Talokanil youth. Their water masks cover their determined expressions as they expertly tap at the ball with their naked feet, webbed and sturdy without shoes. They have created a makeshift goal in the middle of the courtyard, constructed out of discarded wooden crates and fishnets. Shuri feels the cool wet mist from the tall fanned spouts surrounding the courtyard, producing a light humidity for the Talokanil to tolerate the beating sun. It works admirably well. The ball soars overhead, bouncing into the goal. There is a united scream, slaps on the back for the victor. They play like brothers and sisters do, she realizes.

When she walks into the building, there is a smile across her face from ear to ear.

“Something good has happened, yes?” asks Aneka when Shuri enters the main corridor. She smirks. “You have not smiled so big since the feast.”

“Hush,” says Shuri. “Is he here?” 

She doesn’t have much hope for it. Namor never announces himself. Oh, they have talked since their walk on the beach. Sometimes, he calls her or sends her brief messages. Waters are unruly today. Give Queen Ramonda my well wishes. Sleep soundly, princess. But he never knows when he’ll be available for his seat in the (very sappily named) Hall of Friendship. Shuri understands—he is a king after all. So she is often alone here. 

She doesn’t mind. It’s a beautiful structure, a glass and steel dome that glitters on the river like a huge egg, half covered in vibrant green water-vines and algae. As she walks along the marble floor, she avoids the deep, room-connecting saltwater canals, inlaid into the floor for the comfort of the Talokanil. The architect in charge had listened with the patience of Bast herself to all of Shuri’s requests. He had done a very good job. The entire structure is swimmable and half-connected to the river itself. Shuri closes her eyes as they walk and hears the calm movements of the water, smells the light, salted air and smiles a little. It’s become her place to breathe without any pressure, without any Elders to sniff at her or mothers to worry over her, where she can think. 

So when Aneka nods that yes, Namor is here, mentioning that he arrived a little after dawn, Shuri is shocked. 

“And no one alerted me?” she demands.

Aneka and the two other guards trade looks. 

“What?” Shuri self-consciously runs her hand over her hair, pulled high from her face in her twin puffs. She has not cleaned up her fade in a long time and so the curls blend together where before they were sleekly defined. She briefly wishes she had a mirror so she could fix herself and then scowls, because feelings are stupid and so is she. 

“The Queen requested that we not interrupt your schedule,” Yama admits. She has always been a loyal member of the royal guard, one of Ramonda’s personal favorites, but Shuri frowns at her regardless. “The King was meeting with a few advisors and one of our Elders. Planning something. And you have been very busy in turn, your Highness…”

“Bast protect me from scheming mothers,” Shuri hisses a little. “Did the Queen request this of you, truly?”

“Yes, Princess,” sighs Aneka. 

Shuri glances at the doors, doors which certainly lead to Namor. Namor who she has not seen in person for what feels like a very long time. She has not gotten very far in her plot to seduce him. What a seduction might even look like, she isn’t sure. She doesn’t know what would appeal to a God, so different from her. She doubts flowers and chocolates would suffice, as if they were in a Western romcom. Nor does she think weaving a bracelet in the Wakandan courting tradition would impress him. Even knowing he is so close and that she is unprepared, she stalls with indecision. 

Not that she wishes to avoid him. Mostly, she wishes to avoid all the things she should speak with him about. The OCM situation. The CIA’s quest for vibranium at the bottom of the ocean. Politics, bah! The nerves blunt her courage and she thinks escape might be a better option. 

“Perhaps if he is busy with matters of state, we shouldn’t bother him,” Shuri says, unable to find her tailbone. Maybe she can work on the heart-shaped herb in her palace lab, she considers. Mother has been very insistent on Wakanda’s need for it, because of the absence of a proper protector. But the thought of failure once again makes her heart burn. 

Aneka relaxes a little. “Of course. I shall have the Royal Talon set for take-off.”

Shuri swallows her pride, pooling in her throat like bile. It is as she’s turning, tail tucked and fleeing, a tiny bit disappointed, that she hears the doors creak open behind her. 

“Her Majesty, Princess Shuri,” announces one of the attendants from the inner room breathlessly. “The Daughter of Wakanda has arrived!”

Shuri hisses through her teeth.

“Well, you are already here,” says Yama diplomatically. “Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to greet him.”

The inner rooms are Shuri’s most favorite of the whole building. She designed it specifically with Namor in mind. The walls are not walls at all, but huge aquarium tanks of sea water, casting the whole room in watery light that Shuri hoped would make the Talokanil feel more at home. She had forbidden the architect from placing any fish or sea life inside, slightly afraid of offending without meaning to, so instead there are several granite statues carved by Wakandan artisans, some of Talokanil warriors with their harpoon weapons, others of Wakandans and Talokanil shaking hands, even a visage of children of both peoples playing together. Shuri thinks it looks awesome. In the center of the room is a grand throne, framed by the huge aquarium tanks and decorated carefully with minerals and pearls. It draws the eye.

It draws her eye, because Namor is standing from it and walking towards her.

“Hi,” she says intelligently. “I heard you were here! And busy! Sorry if I interrupted anything, my guards were just telling me—” 
The words die in her throat, because he takes both of her hands in his and squeezes once, twice. He has such large hands, she remembers.

“It is very good to see you, my Princess,” he says warmly. Too warmly. In front of several important-looking Talokanil, one of whom audibly harrumphs and dives into one of the inlaid pools, disappearing under the water with a judgmental splash. 

“Hello,” she says, determined to be normal. “I didn’t mean to disturb you from your work.”

“Nothing was disturbed,” he insists. “I was hoping to see you today.”

Shuri isn’t stupid. She knows logically that Namor is dangerous, even when his eyes are so soft, his hands so all-encompassing. When she asked him if he had destroyed the oil rig in the Pacific, he hadn’t avoided the question. He has destroyed recklessly, with his own admission, with power she can’t truly comprehend, with no shame. She wonders how many disasters at sea were him and not bad luck.

And yet she doesn’t feel revulsion.

Instead, looking up at him, while he is looking happily at her, she thinks: would he do the same for Wakanda?

And an insidious voice, one she doesn’t recognize, whispers in her ear: would he do the same for me?

“I wanted to see you too,” she says honestly, pushing aside that dark little voice in her head. “Me and Bembe have been working on something you might be interested in.” 

“Ah, you had a laboratory made for you here?” her unknowing prey currently asks. His strong brows are lifted with interest and he looks at her with such intensity that Shuri has a hard time breaking eye contact. 

“But of course,” Shuri says gruffly. “Me, away from my inventions? It’s like asking you to be away from the water.”

“I am before you now, aren’t I?” She hates how she thinks his prideful gloating is cute. As if a God can be cute. “In the air and still standing.”

“Only because I have made it tolerable for you,” Shuri says with a roll of her eyes, meaning the balanced humidity of the air and the UV-filtering materials which keep the room cool.

But he grins at her, purposefully misunderstanding. “I think you could make death itself tolerable with your presence, my Princess.”

Shuri’s stomach does its best impression of a double knot. “Could you leave the flirting for later?” she hisses, glancing at her guards and his people meaningfully, who are all watching them. She sees some of them turn away, the Talokanil humming melodies that aren’t unlike whalesong, while Yama and Aneka fiddle with their spears. 

“Of course, your Highness,” Namor says, obviously lying as his eyes laugh at her. 

And she remembers then that he has her hands captive. Tugging them away only makes her miss his hot, reverent touch, so she doesn’t protest when he moves to her side, offering his left arm for her to hold. Like a proper gentleman, she thinks and feels dumb like a girl with a teenage crush, even as she takes it, her heart thrumming hard. 

“You’ve never been to the lower levels?” Shuri asks him as she walks with him to the swirling staircase, a wide coil of marble that becomes subterranean as they descend. 

Tall acrylic glass panels reveal the blue depth of the River of Grace and Wisdom, revealing that they too are underwater. As if they are in an aquarium, but the exhibit is all around them completely. She feels very small facing the expanse of the river, with huge silver fish darting through the dappled light above their heads, colorful weeds and kelp and flora fluttering in the rush of the currents. Namor pauses at one of these enormous windows in the first lower level, pressing his hand to the glass idly.

“No,” he says, eyes absorbing the sight before him. “Your people can truly create marvels, building into the deep. And so quickly. It has only been a month since the feast.”

“We have been as non-disruptive as possible,” she tells him, a little worried he would be offended at their invasion of his dominion. “We used materials that encourage growth in the native flora and double-checked the riverbed could withstand the weight of the foundation.”

“Ingenious,” he murmurs. “And this is our world from your perspective.”

“Yes,” she says. “It’s beautiful. Wakanda is landlocked, as you know. We don’t have the benefit of oceans like the coasts do. But our rivers are strong.”

“I know,” he tells her. “I’ve swam through them many times.”

“Sneak,” she calls him. “You know you’ve probably broken so many international laws, hopping borders without a passport.”

He smirks. “What are human laws to a God?” he asks her.

“Impossible,” she says. “You are totally impossible. I doubt that reasoning would be admissible in court, your great big arrogant Majesty.”

“And what court could hold me exactly?” Namor wonders aloud. “Perhaps the only one who could craft such a prison for me would be you.”

“Okay, well I guess your power really will go unchecked,” Shuri grumbles, even as they finally find the frosted doors of her laboratory. She taps the security code deftly on the slick number pad and allows the security system to analyze her Kimoyo beads with a few brief flashes of neon. “Please recognize as a guest, King K’uk’ulkan of Talokan.”

There is a whirr and then a click as the doors come ajar. 

 “And so this is where you do your thinking,” says Namor as they step inside. 

“Most of it,” Shuri says. She has the pressing, idiotic urge to impress him, so she doesn’t protest when he reaches out to touch the smooth tables and poke at the holograms which blink at them. Griot is thankfully silent. She tries not to think about how she would’ve snapped viciously at anyone else when Namor touches the graft of vibranium he himself had given her, displayed in a white case. “With some assistance. Hi, Bembe.” 

“Your Majesty!” Bembe looks up from where he is hunched over a schematic. Poor thing. His smile warps and his eyes bulge when he realizes he is in the presence of his King. “Ahau K’uk’ulkan!” It only takes a second before he becomes a babbling mess of flailing limbs and bulging eyes. Shuri can’t truly blame him. Namor can be frightening at the best of times.

“Researcher,” greets Namor and then says something smoothly in their language in a tone that Shuri can’t quite understand.

Bembe makes an inarticulate sound behind his mask, as if choking on emotion. “Of course, my King!” He waffles for a moment before he finally jumps into an emergency airlock pod, one of many that dot the room's walls. As if in slow motion, Shuri watches through the windows as her only chaperone shoots into the surrounding river water, a stream of bubbles breaking behind him like cheap tinsel. 

“You’ve scared away my helper,” Shuri complains. Though maybe she’s more upset that there’s no social boundary between Namor, her and their feelings any longer. Nowhere to hide. She envies Bembe for a moment for his easy escape, watching through the underwater window as he swims away, graceful as a dolphin. Unlike him, she has to be brave. “What was that about?”

“Just a small request for some privacy,” says Namor. “And what a clever mechanism you’ve incorporated here, these little doors into the water. You’ll have to tell me how you came up with such an idea.”

“Flattery won’t make me less annoyed, you know. He was supposed to help explain some of our work,” Shuri mutters, crossing her arms. “Do you know how hard it is to find someone who can keep up with me?”

“I’m sure it is most difficult, my Princess.”

“Tch!”

In the end, Bembe’s absence doesn’t matter too much, because Namor doesn’t need any direction from her or his head scientist. He is guided almost magnetically to where their Project sits on a slender mannequin in the middle of the room. 

The Project, the idea she has determinedly not mentioned to her mother or any other confidants. The object she has been tinkering on when she cannot sleep, designing when she has any small moment to herself. A new suit. With a pang in her heart, she knows it’s the first she’s ever worked on after T’Challa’s Black Panther armor. Wakanda’s first collaboration with Talokan. And perhaps it shall provide a way to Namor’s heart, her treacherous instincts whisper. It is skin-tight, made for optimal movement and to withstand the pressurized depths of the ocean, outfitted with an internal oxygen-conversion system that flows throughout the body. The black body is inlaid with vibranium, ribbons of it shimmering in shades of reflective teal. The mask is not unlike the breathing apparatuses used by the Talokanil. Shuri knows that Bembe will agonize over the color of the suit itself for decades if she lets him. Apparently different shades of blue have various different meanings in Talokanil culture, not unlike textile patterns for Wakandans. But regardless of its unfinished status, the suit looks incredibly impressive. More so than its actual practical capability. For now. 

“This!” Namor proclaims and then falls quiet. 

“Have I stolen your words, your Majesty?” Shuri means to tease, but finds herself a little too breathless when Namor locks eyes with her. 

“You could have all of my words, anything of mine, if you only asked, Shuri,” he says. Her name in his voice sounds like a pearl on a thread.

“That’s dangerous,” she says. The urge to run away isn’t there anymore. All she wants to do is sit there in the moment and be with him. Somehow that instinct is even more frightening. “I could ask for too much. Then what?”

“You’ve earned it,” he says as if it’s an easy thing for him to admit. “You have built me a palace in your rivers. You have extended your friendship despite having every reason to be suspicious. You have shared your technology with my people. Already, you have given me more than I could have asked for. Perhaps it’s time I return the favor.”

“K’uk’ulkan, please,” says Shuri and finds her tongue locked up. What can she say to that, really? 

“And now you use your gifts to create a miracle. A way for you to be able to visit my city, to keep your promise,” Namor says. He hasn’t taken his eyes away from hers for even a moment. He takes a solid step towards her, with such powerful intention that she nearly dives into the airlock pod herself. “For you to experience my culture as I have yours.”

“Well, it’s not done just yet,” she babbles, because she sees his sincerity and it makes her deeply uncomfortable. She’s always been that way with praise, letting it slide off her back and only embracing it when she is satisfied with herself. That doesn’t happen often. So now, instead of being smug, she squirms, as she often does around him, lacing her hands together and fidgeting her thumbs. 

“Even so,” he says. “You are made of wonders.”

“Well, don’t lay it on too thick,” she warns, trying to joke because what else can she do when she’s afraid, nervous, overjoyed, all at once? “I’ll grow a massive head.”

Namor looks at her, futilely trying to hide how affected she is. But he graciously allows her to keep pretending when he breaks his gaze, once again looking to the Project, hands crossed behind his back. “Does it have a name yet?”

“Project Yemaya,” says Shuri, grateful for the change in topic. This, she feels no embarrassment or bashfulness over. She can explain her inventions inside and out for hours, knowing every bolt, every diagram, every mistake and correction by heart. Unlike her emotions, which have always been hard for her to comprehend. She comes up to Namor’s side and handles the sleeves so he can more accurately see the veins of vibranium in the weave of the fabric. “In our culture, she is a water spirit, a powerful deity who our elders say bring the rains and the crops. I’m not sure about all that, but it seemed an appropriate name, no?”

“Yemaya,” Namor repeats, leaning closer. She smells the freshness of him, like air right before a rainstorm, something electric and bright. “I can see it.”

“Good,” sighs Shuri. “At least you like it. I was afraid the elders would call me a blasphemer again.”

“Again?” 

“I have a bad habit of pushing their boundaries a little too much for comfort,” Shuri admits. When Namor feigns a scandalized expression, she boldly reaches over and punches him lightly in the arm, scowling at him. 

“Troublemaker,” Namor says in a tone far too approving to be appropriate. He has taken her blow very bravely, clutching at his falsely wounded arm with some drama. “Whatever shall I do with you when you visit my city? My world is entirely made up of rules. You’d be a terror to my cihuacoatl (1). I can see them cowering before you as we speak.”

Shuri imagines seeing Talokan through his eyes and feels a frisson of excitement run up her spine. She can’t wait. “Me, the troublemaker? You’re the one breaking five hundred years of tradition. Out of the two of us, I’d say you’re the real trouble.”

Namor sighs heavily and looks at his feet as if in deep contemplation. “Trust that I am paying for my rule-breaking every day. Paying dearly. With every audience I take, every meeting I attend, there is a courtier who appears by my side to beg me to change my mind.”

Shuri considers him. “Why?” she asks.

Namor stops his study of the floor and meets her gaze. “Why what?”

“Why end Talokan’s isolationism?” she asks. “Yes, the humans are getting closer. But surely you have the technology to hide. Or fight them and win. Why reveal yourselves? Why take that risk?”

He turns from her, throwing his face into profile. She sees the hard jut of his lower lip, the harsh slant of his nose. He has changed out his jade nose plug for a pearled one, she notices. It gives him a daintier appearance, if Namor could be dainty. Shuri has never been very inclined for masculine men, always finding herself usually attracted to women of a strong build and men of a delicate nature. But Namor is undeniably the opposite of those waif-like men in her past. He is muscled all over, thighs and biceps thick and strong, his features hard and male and unforgiving, even his jewelry accenting the sheer breadth of him. He looks even harder in this moment.

“That is a very complicated, long answer that might not be very fun,” he says, not terse, but not inviting either.

“I have the time,” she says, even though she doesn’t. She is supposed to be in a meeting with an urban planner in an hour; but she imagines Umama won’t be too mad if she pushes it because of some delegation with their new friendly ally.

Namor is silent for a long time. Shuri guides them to a narrow side room off from the main laboratory. It’s a warm, comfortable room, overlooking a school of silvery fish flickering in the dark river, with a refrigerator with refreshments and a plush red couch. Shuri often uses this couch to grab short stints of sleep when her moments of epiphany fade and her exhaustion catches up to her. She imagines this won’t be an easy conversation to have.

She is right.

“Eight years ago, there was the Taking,” he says, and she knows thanks to Bembe that this is the Talokanil’s word for the Snap, Thanos’s attack. Her heart seizes a little in her throat. “We were helpless. I hate to admit that, but it is true. For so long, we have been k'a'am (2). Untouchable. No surface man has killed any of us for generations, despite how hard they tried. And then, in one afternoon, I watched as half of my people disintegrated around me, washing away in the current. There were screams for weeks. Children, mothers, grandfathers, entire clans, just gone in an instant.”

Shuri holds her breath. 

“My people are like my own children in a way. I’ve known all of them since birth. Seen them grow, ride their first whale, sometimes wed and have their own children. But their deaths in front of my eyes was like the rage of Chaac.” He takes a deep, stuttering breath. “I was powerless as their protector. Never again.”

Shuri reaches over and grasps his hand very hard.

Namor blinks at her, surprised, but she sees the tender gratitude there, his dark eyes like velvet. “It was only later that we learned of your people’s battle against the invader.”

“Thanos,” she says. “It feels so long ago now.”

“The mad titan. He came from the sky, like out of one of our legends,” he says and then mutters a foreign word that is bitter and dark. “I would have killed him myself if I could’ve. We heard the news too late. It burns me that because of my people’s isolation, I was unable to take revenge against him.”

Shuri feels her own rage, old and still raw, rise under her skin. “I would’ve helped you with that. Ugly purple bastard. The Ironman killed him too fast. Wakanda would have had him begging for mercy.”

Namor hums in agreement. “As would I. Regardless, our people returned to us. After five wretched years of mourning.”

Shuri nods slowly. “I…” She hesitates. “Only a few people know this. But I was Snapped too.”

Namor goes very, very still. “Snapped?”

“I turned to dust,” she explains. “I prefer your term. I was Taken. Snapped? Such a silly way to phrase it. Americans called the time between the Snap and the resurrection event ‘the Blip’. When I woke up and heard that, all I could do was laugh. Blip. Very unserious people, Americans.”

Namor is not the most frightening man Shuri has ever met. She has known violent, uncontrollable villains, poachers and invaders from colonizer countries attempting to slip through Wakandan borders. She faced down the Usurper, Killmonger, and nursed the white super-soldier back to health. Murderers of a kind, both of them. But as she looks at Namor now, he straightens and darkens and it’s like she’s looking at an endless river, calm on the surface, but raging below, eyes cold like ice. It’s a rage she’s never faced before, the rage of a God.

“If it were in my power,” he says, so quietly she has to strain to hear him, “I would resurrect this Thanos. I would breathe life into him, just to kill him a hundred times over for the offense of harming you.”

Shuri knows this man means it. “Thank you,” she says, heart thundering, and she feels his fingers tighten around hers. “Truly. If it’s any consolation, I remember nothing from that time. In a way, that’s what terrifies me the most. My mother has always told me stories about our ancestral plane, where we reunite with our people when we pass on. But I didn’t go there when I was Taken. Actually, it was like I went nowhere at all. I just blinked. In one moment, five years passed, but I was still the same where the world had changed. Moved on without me.”

Something in his face softens at this. “A Blip in time,” he offers.

“Hmm,” Shuri says, begrudging. “I still think it’s stupid.”

“Yes, yes,” he says, putting his hands up in surrender, laughing at her. “As you say.”

“I understand now,” she says, a little more seriously. “Why all this effort, going against your traditions. Even if it’s hard.”

“The time has come.” Namor dips his head the barest amount. He is still cradling her hand protectively, as if he could prevent her being Taken again simply by willing it. She likes this, how firm and warm his grip is, how he holds her as if it is the easiest thing in the world to do. “I can no longer pretend that we are any less a part of this Earth than your surface countries. I refuse to hide any longer. If I alone must drag Talokan kicking and screaming into the light, if my people regard me with disdain, so be it.”

“You’re not alone in this,” she promises. “Wakanda will be by your side, every step of the way.”

“And you?” His gaze holds hers and he is close now, dangerously close.

“You know better than to ask me that,” Shuri gripes, but she doesn’t push him away when he leans into her, the warmth of his cape brushing against her bare arm. “I’m in it with you. Together.”

“Ah, but I still cherish hearing it, my Princess,” Namor tells her. “Together it is.” 

Shuri wishes to reach over, to grasp that regal face and kiss the smugness away. To kiss him until they both forget about every problem plaguing them, to lose herself until they’re the only people left in the world. 

She doesn’t kiss him. She pats his hand and stands up and escorts him back to his entourage, smiles politely at the Talokanil, even though one of them scowls at her suspiciously. She bows to him in goodbye, allowing him to bow to her turn and she leaves for the mind-numbing meeting with the urban planner. 

She behaves.

For now.

Notes:

(1) cihuacoatl: supreme judges in Aztec government, they were responsible for criminal and civil complaints. I imagine that Talokan would have a similar government structure, with the patriarchal edition of Namor.
(2) ka'am: Yucatec Mayan for "strong"

Some timeline notes! Allegedly, Infinity War (when the Snap occurred) was set in 2017-2018, Endgame (when the Blip occurred) was set in 2023 about five years later, and Wakanda Forever takes place in 2025. And Shuri officially is confirmed to be Snapped by Marvel, so while her age is a bit screwy, I'm saying she's 23 years old physically, just because I said so! The MCU timeline is cursed and I hate it haha!

I also want to acknowledge that I've been away for so long for no particular reason other than an insecurity in my writing that I'm slowly working on overcoming. In my absence, a serious accusation was levied at one of the main cast members of Wakanda Forever. I won't address this accusation here, as the claims are incredibly serious and involve real people, people I've never met before. All I know is that this community of writers has some of the most talent and love and generosity I've seen. I'll continue to create in this space and I hope others will too <3 Thank you so much to those who commented, asking if this fic would be continued and wishing for my return. It means more than I can say. Love to you all!