Erik’s POV
Spotify Playlist, (start on track 7, “With You”) Youtube Back at it again and very very sorry it took so long to update. This is my main writing project and this chapter still took forever. Note: I’m using the comics here for some of the worldbuilding but the 201 MCU map of Wakanda. (It just looks prettier) Special thanks and my enduring love to agentmal and galaxiaa7. Shout out to selfinduced, this isn’t your cup of tea but your character insights as always give me life. Tips my hat to cutthroatfics, I’ve taken some of their meta and changes to the Udaku genealogy.
-:- Erik -:- It’s 40 minutes past 6 in the morning and Erik is watching the sunrise. The glass walls of the honeymoon suite are now perfectly clear allowing sunlight to filter in. Hours prior the glass were stained with color. The view is stunning. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get enough. Not if he stays a hundred years. It’s somehow better than his childish imaginings and his adult musings combined. Linda would have loved it. He hasn’t slept, and he feels wired. He’s sitting cross legged, not far from where his husband now sleeps. He hasn’t approached the bed since they returned from their trip to confirm he isn’t dying. A part of him is still waiting for another attempt. He’s ignoring the impulse to touch his face. His new scar doesn’t hurt but he knows it’ll start to itch soon. He’s still a little amazed that the suit protected his face against the force of a point-blank shot. He hadn’t really meant to test it, but now he knows. The look in T’Challa’s eyes as he shot him a third time was something else. Made the preceding negotiation a bit less grating. His grin turns into a frown as he thinks back on the past few hours. He almost died. From fucking alcohol poisoning. Dumb luck and some sort of resistance was the only thing that saved him from certain death. If he closes his eyes, he can still see the fucking shock on T’Challa’s face when he stumbled to the bedroom. He doesn’t know what type of vaccinations or drugs Wakandans were on. Hadn’t been born or lived in the country longer than a week. An allergic reaction was very possible. Or something to do with the herb, his cousin has yet to give him a clear answer on it. The wine only made T’Challa buzzed so it was probably some sort of allergic reaction. When they came back from their trip to the health center, he made a point to flush all the bottles of alcohol he could find. He keeps the two bottles of the specific wine T’Challa gave him. He would research the ingredients later. On his way to the bedroom after dumping the alcohol he realizes someone had come by and cleaned up the vomit and the blood. He changes out of his ripped clothes and heads for the bathroom. His cousin ignores him the entire time, so he takes the hint and keeps his distance. One hour and a shower later, he’s still going back and forth in his mind. T’Challa is a problem, one he’s choosing to let lie. Any other time, any other situation, killing the man would be best. But his own instincts are holding him back. Even if being near his cousin makes him less careful, cockier, and just all around reckless. His saving grace thus far being, T’Challa isn’t firing on all cylinders. Probably dealing with no longer being king or Erik’s own actions, the man is obviously conflicted. Though ever since their first meeting, his cousin has not reacted or done what Erik expected him to. T’Challa hadn’t tried to settle with him quietly, instead owning up to what his father did. He hadn’t denied Erik’s challenge and when he had the choice, he yielded to protect another man’s life. It’s just unexpected, and he honestly feels a bit robbed. If their negotiation was anything to go by, T’Challa’s priority is his family and Wakanda. Erik didn’t have much sympathy for his cousin, T’Challa lived in Wakanda his whole life. Experienced a life, Erik could only dream of. Their definitions of hardship are worlds apart. So yes, it’s tempting, to make T’Challa one more dead problem, but Erik suspects that would probably set him back more than anything. A dead husband wouldn’t reassure Wakanda or its council that he isn’t a threat they should dispose of, post haste. Especially when that dead husband is their well known, beloved, former king. During the wedding preparations he spent most of his time reading briefs, scouring Wakanda’s robust isolated internet network and going through formal documents. The information he’s found has been useful, though not applicable for the moment. Knowing who was who and getting more background of the country’s history didn’t tell him who to watch out for. Or what precedent there was for killing one’s royal spouse and not getting removed shortly after. Exploring Wakanda’s social media and news channels revealed a wealth of inside jokes, art, music and honest to god memes. Princess Shuri is apparently very popular online. Some of her posts and videos had views in the hundred thousand. Impressive for an isolated country with a population of only a few million. Some of the online content he got, but a lot of it went over his head. He still couldn’t tell the tribes apart from names or mannerisms, something that apparently even a child could do, especially since one’s tribe seemed to matter a lot in Wakanda. There is so much he didn’t know. It irks him. Makes him cautious where he knows he should be bold. There’s no doubt in his mind that this is where he should be, but he honestly feels out of place more than anything. He’s dreamt of getting to this point for so long that now the reality is somewhat lacking. And that’s even with the drama of an incestuous marriage and the assassination attempts. The incest part is something he hadn’t remotely expected, but it didn’t bother as much as it probably should have. He didn’t know his cousin, and their wedding night hadn’t felt like fucking family. Even if his cousin could very possibly make him regret it. The older man’s revulsion has been clear tonight and during their weird negotiation. Their wedding night had been something else. But with this agreement he wouldn’t be getting any more where that came from anytime soon. Whether that would be true for the assassination attempts, at least from his cousin, is yet to be seen. He’s reading through a random blog about a Wakandan student's experience ‘abroad’ when his eyes start to droop. It’s been 27 hours since the last time he slept. T’Challa is sleeping soundly, apparently not worried about Erik killing him in his sleep. Something which Erik is still considering. He closes out of the browser on his kimoyo beads and approaches the bed slowly. Going to the side where T’Challa is facing and just stares. His cousins’ breathing doesn’t change, remaining soft and steady in sleep. So T’Challa probably isn’t faking the sleep, though how he could sleep after the night they had is beyond Erik’s understanding. He certainly didn’t trust his cousin enough to just fall asleep, agreement or no. He watches the other man sleep for a while. He is younger than his cousin. It isn’t as obvious when T’Challa was awake, but Erik could see the lines in his face in sleep. Even now there’s the barest impulse to reach… squeeze or more efficiently press down with a knife, till this particular problem dies. W’Kabi’s opinions on T’Challa keep swimming in his head. The words hadn’t been very reassuring, but it helps him to mute the impulse. He was already king, there is no reason to be hasty. He shifts a bit, bone tired. His eyes are slowly drifting shut once more. He’d deal with his husband later, right now he needs to sleep. Carefully he sits again, this time leaning against the edge of the bed. T’Challa’s own face a short distance away. He doesn’t realize when he falls asleep. -:- Okoye -:- Okoye’s morning begins with an updated report from the two Dora Milaje stationed at the honeymoon villas. Her eyebrow climbs steadily as the report continues. The visit to medical is unexpected, their accounts of the nights’ events even more worrying. While they had not been present for whatever occurred between the new king and T’Challa, they had been present for the unusual trip and the Medic’s probing. There presumably been an attempt on the king’s life, most likely by T’Challa. Which in hindsight is to be expected, though the king surviving such an attempt is very bad news. Okoye, like several others, had been taken aback by the new king’s offer of marriage, and then heartened when T’Challa agreed. A part of her, however naive, hoped there would be some reconciliation. If the nights’ events were any indication, there would be only more strife between the new king and T’Challa. As General, it is up to her to choose whether to interfere in such machinations or stand back and see how things fell. For now, she would choose duty and stand back. Her own bias or interference could potentially make the situation worse. She would not shed tears if this new king was removed, she only feared the unavoidable instability from the fallout. Okoye re-reads both reports and the accompanying visual recording. N’Jadaka, for all intents and purposes, an outsider, but he is not stupid. His actions and response after an attempt on his life spoke of further planning and eventual retaliation. She had not spoken to T’Challa after the wedding. Perhaps she should have. She already had plans to meet with Nakia in the afternoon. It might be necessary to speak privately with T’Challa before the situation escalates. Hours later, Okoye waits for Nakia. The woman is late. Not unusual but not reassuring after their brief conversation that morning. Since the new king’s coronation, there have been all sorts of rumors running around. If anyone knew what was true among such rumors, Nakia would. Particularly when some of it pertained to the often-set apart Dogs of War. She knows some of the rumors are just regular fear mongering seeking to place blame, but such fear mongering could prove dangerous. Particularly with an unknown and inexperienced king. Nakia arrives 25 minutes after their agreed meeting time. She looks harried and tired. Okoye almost asks about her lateness but decides against it. Greeting her warmly, their embrace extends a bit longer than it normally would have. Nakia smells like soil and vibraniuim, her neck is also damp as if she just showered. Okoye files the information away for later. “I am glad you could make it. I wasn’t sure if...” Okoye trails off meaningfully as they are both seated. She is giving Nakia room to explain herself. Though the image the spy presents to her is one of distinct reticence. Whatever she had been doing earlier, Okoye would be getting no explanation. Which was probably for the best. She doubts T’Challa acted alone if the attempt on the king’s life truly was his doing. Silently, she asks Bast for strength. Nakia goes straight to the point. “You asked about the Hatut Zeraze.” The police. N’Jadaka directed them to open an investigation even before the wedding. Nakia’s eyes are piercing, her body language carefully composed to appear disinterested. Okoye is not fooled. She’s known the younger woman since she was small enough to sneak through the old catacombs with T’Challa. However, she is aware that the conversation they are having is a dangerous one. Nakia has always walked a line between her duties as a War Dog and champion of the River Tribe. Now is no different. “I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors-” She probably started some herself, Okoye thinks. “About king N’Jadaka, particularly the new investigation on Prince N’Jobu’s death.” Nakia’s expression doesn’t change while Okoye speaks. She trusts Nakia would understand what she was saying and what she wasn’t. The investigation is mostly for show, to fulfill all righteousness. T’Chaka killed N’Jobu for treason then left his son. This story was corroborated by Zuri, a well-respected acolyte of Bast and a former War Dog, and T’Challa. “A showy investigation to find out things we already know.” Nakia’s words are teasing but they both knew the situation is not so simple. The shadowy nature of the whole affair is raising its own share of outrage and fear. T’Chaka had been loved and very respected. His sudden death caused no small mourning. That he would hide such treasonous actions committed by a prince of Wakanda was one thing. That a prince of Wakanda would be left to grow up outside of Wakanda, willfully abandoned by the king himself was another. Okoye’s response is curt, revealing some of her current headache with the situation. “A showy investigation that’s a closed book to most and is investigating the royal family and the Dora Milaje for their actions more than 20 years ago.” The questions being raised about T’Chaka’s reign and other potential state secrets were now an issue. T’Challa’s own impulsiveness another. That he would agree to such an unusual challenge and then lose? It looked bad, the royal family looked complicit, and the council would not be eager to take sides until the matter is sorted fully. The council already had their issues with T’Challa, particularly for his actions following T’Chaka’s death. Nakia sighs and leans back into her chair. She rubs her temple then focuses her attention back on Okoye. “Killmonger was known before he came to T’Challa. I did not know him personally, but I know others who did. Until his arrival we were unaware of who he really was. His being a prince and now king, it changes things.” Okoye parses the information quickly; she already knew this. She stood by Nakia in Shuri’s lab as Agent Ross briefed them. Why was- her thoughts stop. Then she looks carefully away. She, too, had to listen for what Nakia was saying, and what she wasn’t. Nakia’s use of the new king’s old moniker was coded language and the meaning behind it is not good. Okoye’s position made her very aware of the work War Dogs did on and off record. If the War Dogs had known of the new king before he came to Wakanda it was probably from off-book assignments. Like Zuri’s assignment with N’Jobu. No, what Nakia was really telling Okoye is that some of these War Dogs who had known of Killmonger sympathized with him, perhaps even shared his views, and now were among king N’Jadaka’s few truly loyal supporters. Such had been rumored, but now she is confirming it. Feeling more than a little frustrated with the whole mess, she asks, plainly. “His plans, what are his plans?” The man waited 20 years to reveal himself. Granted, for part of that he’d been a child. However, one did not gain the record and moniker their new king held without some sort of plan. Nakia’s expression changes finally, from the composed neutral look to something else. Okoye knows that look from shared lunches and outings. Nakia got it when she was excited. Particularly when she was speaking about her work. Okoye’s stomach drops, whatever Nakia would tell her would probably not be the whole truth. Killmonger had been known only partially to the Dogs of War. He clearly had his own agenda, and whatever Nakia told her would be clouded with her own bias. Okoye listens anyway. “Change. He grew up in Oakland, California, he has lived outside of Wakanda. He knows what it's like, truly like, in the rest of the world. His actions as an American operative, he's trained, Okoye. Perhaps not in the Wakandan way of doing things but he’s no fool- “ Okoye thinks of the report she’d been given early that morning. Indeed, N’Jadaka is no fool though they certainly were for giving an outsider any authority, making him king. Nakia smelled like vibraniuim infused soil when they embraced. What has she been doing? Presumably by the heart-shaped herb garden. “Hearsay and rumor, Nakia. What are his plans?” Okoye interrupts, finally letting her own frustration into her voice, quickly losing patience. Nakia is loyal to Wakanda, this she knew. Though she wondered at the version of Wakanda Nakia is loyal to. “We don’t know. The investigation, it’s digging into what N’Jobu was planning, besides his actions with Klaue. Whatever hasn’t been buried — by now.” Unsaid is who would have been doing the burying. The Dora Milaje perhaps? Or the late king T’Chaka himself. Nakia sounds like a chastened child now. The wild look is gone, and caution is left in its place. Okoye mirrors that caution, then she takes a calculated risk. “There was an attempt on Killmonger’s life, last night.” Nakia’s expression changes briefly then goes back to being carefully neutral. “Is T’Challa unharmed?” Her response makes something in Okoye relax. Kings may change but some things remain the same. She trusted Nakia would piece the rest herself. She would not lecture the younger woman on duty or loyalty, but a reminder never hurt. “Yes. They both are. Have you spoken to Ramonda since the wedding ceremony?” A part of her stumbles a bit over ‘wedding’, despite their breakup she hoped T’Challa and Nakia would reconcile. Now it is looking more and more unlikely. “We’ve spoken, yes.” She decides then that the conversation, at least the coded inquiry part is over. Nakia would not be telling her what she really wanted to know but at least for now, her loyalties were clear. “Good. Did you see Shuri’s post yesterday? The one with the mining tribe girl? what is her name—” Nakia’s expression grows lighter, a smile blossoming on her face. “Efi. They’ve been planning that trip for a while. I hope they got permission for the visit though, sometimes the most important parts slip her mind.” Okoye sighs in acknowledgment. Things changed but also stayed the same. “It’s for one of her experiments. Though I’m sure if she ever gets the courage to invite the girl over perhaps.” By now she’s smiling and Nakia is laughing in response. Okoye gives silent thanks to Bast and calls for a palace attendant. She doesn’t think either of them has eaten lunch. -:- Erik -:- Erik wakes up to the sound of movement but doesn’t open his eyes till a soft chime sounds. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Hadn’t even made it onto the actual bed. The room is flooded with light and it looks like it might be evening. The bed is empty, and he can hear running water from where he’s still seated. He stands to stretch then flicks through his kimoyo beads, the source of the earlier chime. He has a few new messages. A video message from W’Kabi, a briefing from the General and several messages from different ambassadors and one Council Elder. He’s still reading through the General’s brief when his cousin steps out of the bathroom. Fully dressed, though his hair is damp. T’Challa stops when he realizes Erik is awake. There’s a long moment before the other man greets him expressionlessly, “Good afternoon.” Erik nods in response. “Do you need to use the bathroom?” Erik shakes his head, smile slowly forming. Fuck this shit is awkward. “Took a shower while you were sleeping.” This time his cousin is the one to nod. T’Challa looks like he’s looking for an excuse to leave the room. Erik wonders why he doesn’t just leave but then he gets an idea. “Actually, I’ve meaning to ask.” His cousin is already tense, but his face is blank, and Erik can’t get a feel beyond, ‘leave me alone.’ When T’Challa doesn’t say anything in response, or leave the room, he keeps talking. “The General sent me some briefs earlier. I saw your notes on some of it.” He’s being intentionally vague here, he kind of expects the man to walk out on him anyway. T’Challa’s face goes through several expressions. “Some of my notes are incomplete.” They both know why, T’Challa had been king for less than a week. “Yeah, among other things. You mind walking me through one of these?” “For the next council meeting?” His cousin looks about as eager as someone asked to shoot his own foot. Erik has questions so he ignores the impulse to goad his cousin more. “In your notes, you mention previous attempts to develop the land west of Mount Bashenga. I looked through the General’s brief and there’s no written explanation for why it’s taking so long to turn it arable.” He read up a bit on previous cultivations like this one. The average time for land reclamation, provided there was a dedicated workforce, is 6 to 8 months. This time included building fully formed irrigation systems, and other agricultural structures. “The land is a mix of high grassland and mountainous regions; such development takes time and the need isn’t great.” T’Challa's response is logical even if it was definitely a lie. There have been 4 attempts in the past 15 years to cultivate the area. One of his messages this morning had been a separate formal inquiry for the development. So, people wanted this done and there were actual reasons it wasn’t getting done. “So, about the library initiative, is that another low need development?” T’Challa doesn’t respond right away. Erik cycles through pages of information, and some diagrams for said library. “It is not what we would call a ‘library’.” T’Challa’s expression is wry, almost amused when Erik looks up from the development information. “—Though that is a close translation.” All the documents he received were in Wakandan script. Some of the messages this morning and from W’Kabi were in English, but the briefs and T’Challa’s own notes have been in Wakandan. Being told he translated incorrectly is annoying, and he makes a mental note to go back and cross-reference. “So, if it’s not a library, or whatever the Wakandan equivalent to a library is, what is it?” T’Challa raises an eyebrow in response and says nothing. Erik waits till he’s sure his cousin isn’t going to answer him. Well he didn’t expect his cousin to be a doormat, or any sort of accommodating really. “Skip that, why’s the River Tribe Council the only sponsor? This type of stuff is supposed to benefit everyone right?” He’s watching for that pinched look his cousin keeps sporting lately and he’s not disappointed. The wry expression disappears, replaced by what he’s starting to call ‘the neutral face of displeasure.’ So, this library, and he is still calling it a library since his cousin hadn’t given him any other name for it, wasn’t non-controversial. Wakandans were just like everybody else. Erik waits to see if his cousin would be giving him any more information. T’Challa doesn’t. Once he leaves, Erik refocuses on his briefs, making some mental notes. He had been using his kimoyo beads’ built-in translator for some of the words he didn’t know, but now he makes a note to talk with an actual linguist. He doesn’t trust anyone to translate for him and he obviously needs to brush up on his reading skills. The next few hours go by quickly. He calls W’Kabi and they talk a bit. He asks questions and gets some more information about the council and general affairs. He wavers a bit on asking for a correct translation but eventually gives into his own curiosity. “So why does the River Tribe want a library near Warrior Falls?” He says the word library in Wakandan but the rest in English. The video image of W’Kabi snorts, then leans back in his seat. “You mean their new gossip house? Weeeell—” W’Kabi’s words trail off meaningfully, and Erik’s own lips quirk at ‘gossip house,’ so there is something up with the development. “This type of development, it’s for everyone isn’t it?” Even as Erik says the words, he knows they aren’t true. Wakandan tribalism ran strong. W’Kabi laughs, long and loud, until he stops to breathe, chest heaving, and finally responds. “Come now, why would a Border Tribesman go to a River Tribesman’s gossip house?” Erik doesn’t get what’s so funny but keeps his mouth in check, staying on topic. “So, each tribe has their own library?” This time Erik says the word in English and waits to be corrected. W’Kabi seems to consider his words this time. “For the West, library means a place for books correct?” He nods and waits, W’Kabi thus far has been instrumental for getting his bearings. The man didn’t seem to mind explaining Wakandan culture and mores to him. Even if he often explains it through his own bias, Erik knows to read between the lines and take the important parts. “We have libraries, but they are smaller, for collectors. Most Wakandans like their books digital. But the closest translation for what the River Tribe wants is a meeting place.” Erik recalls the building diagrams, it seemed pretty swanky for a meeting place. More like a recreation center than anything. “Where I’m from we call those recreation centers. But what’s the big deal? Everybody gets one, don’t they?” “Everybody gets one. But depending on the population and who gave the most on such and such festival, everyone has more than one. River tribe has several. Now they want another one.” Wakanda’s population has been stable for the past few decades. The country is the size of Rwanda, with half the population. So maybe W’Kabi was referring to the relative size of each tribe? Hearing W’Kabi say 'such and such festival' makes him smile: Wakanda had a lot of festivals and even more holidays. It’d thrown Erik through a loop when he’d gone through a Wakandan calendar year. Eventually he’d just focused on the ones that tradition required the Black Panther or a representative of the Panther tribe be present for. That number is significantly smaller but still more ‘federal’ holidays than anyone really needed. “How much is ‘several’?” W’Kabi seems to think for a moment, then he starts counting on his hands. Erik waits and tries not to laugh; the Border Tribesman is both informative and entertaining. “They have five and a half.” Erik does the math. “What’s the half? How many does everyone else have?” “Mining Tribe has 3, Border Tribe has 2, Merchant Tribe has 3, and the half is for the one at the University. It belongs to Panther Tribe. River Tribe and Panther Tribe. They intermarry so much, aunties, fathers. “W’Kabi shrugs. Erik waits, but W’Kabi doesn’t continue. His mirth is gone, and it’s replaced by something more cautious. He doesn’t know what W’Kabi’s caution is directed at. Erik’s own father or bad mouthing the Panther Tribe? “My aunt is River Tribe.” And so were a couple more cousins and aunties. W’Kabi nods. “When they marry, they join the Panther Tribe, but they still represent River Tribe.” “So, good ol’ fashioned nepotism.” W’Kabi doesn’t respond but Erik takes his non-answer as a yes. He still has questions though. “So, how’d they get this through lower committees?” Wakanda’s government structure isn’t very democratic. Most localities and the different tribes function independently, but there is a winding chain of command that eventually gets to him and the elder council. There seemed to be some attempts at balance and fairness with committee members and judges. Not everyone on these committees were River Tribe and there would be some pushback to what seems to be a frivolous and biased development. “River Tribe, they are used to getting their way. If the Mining Tribe ambassador calls favoritism, they will find something to exchange or hold against them. Till they get their votes. Same for Border Tribe and Merchant Tribe. It takes time, but eventually they get it through. It is how they got their last two.” Erik pulls up a search on other developments. “The last one was built six years ago.” “Around the princess’s 10th Birthday. I remember it, they made a real show.” W’Kabi’s voice has turned sardonic and Erik wonders at the history between him and the royal family. He and T’Challa had been friends. Erik takes some time to read the news feed on the older development’s grand opening. There are pictures of a much younger looking princess and T'Challa. There are also some of T'Chaka. “So, what happened this time? River Tribe’s the only sponsor.” W’Kabi’s smile returns, It’s almost wolfish. “T’Chaka gave the River Tribe a very long leash. However, he is no longer king, and neither is his son.” Erik’s mind makes the connection even as he flashes back to the current development’s history. There’s a note. He skimmed it on his last read-through but now it flashes like glaring lights. The Merchant Tribe rescinded their support recently. Not long after T’Chaka’s assassination at the U. N. Very opportunistic. “What does the Border Tribe want?” Erik can guess at what the Merchant and Mining Tribe want. The Merchant tribe ambassador seems engaged in some sort of pissing contest with the River Tribe, if he goes by some past legislation. The Mining ambassador is not so subtly hinting at a renegotiation of the terms surrounding the control and distribution near Mount Bashenga. There’s also the inquiries about the reclamation efforts west of Mount Bashenga. In this situation however, the Border Tribe has been unusually silent. “The Border Tribe for the first time in years, has the Damisa-Sarki’s ear. What do you think we want?” Erik snorts, hand going up to his new scar. “The General is from the Border Tribe. You’re telling me she didn’t influence T’Chaka or T’Challa at all?” W’Kabi shakes his head, exaggerated. “My love is many things. A strategist. A defender. Her first priority is always Wakanda. However, if our leaders do not heed her. That is not a failure on her part. Merely what happens when they choose their own comfort over what is best for us all.” He wonders what comforts T’Challa and his father had ‘chosen.’ “You and the General both grew up with T’Challa. So even if he’s like his daddy, he’s your friend, yeah?” He’s looking for something, and he thinks he finds it when W’Kabi shrugs. “Okoye understands duty. Kings come and go.” “And you?” Erik doesn’t know how far duty stretches in this situation. Challenge day happened every year, even if the past century showed more stability than some of Wakanda's checkered history. “I believe you have the right to be here as much as any of us. Your father was a prince and T’Chaka did not properly renege your claim. The challenge was fair and T’Challa himself yielded.” “And that’s enough?” Erik knows now after the fact that if he’d killed Zuri during the Challenge it would not have counted against him. The elder man interfered. “It is our way of doing things. The panther line was never meant to be an uninterrupted chain.” “My grandmother. She’s part Jabari. Or so I’ve read.” The woman hadn’t been present for the wedding. Erik has only seen pictures of her. The whole Jabari situation is another thing he doesn’t understand and most Wakandan texts don’t really explain. “Azzaria Udaku is a legend in and of herself. But yes, she is partly Jabari.” Erik has many questions, but he doesn’t think he’ll be getting those answers from W’Kabi. So, he chooses to be direct. “Wakanda is burying its head in the sand. I don’t plan on letting that happen for much longer.” W’Kabi’s own gaze turns questioning. “Wakanda is stuck in its ways. How do you change centuries of tradition and teaching? You are hardly the first to want change, I’m sure your War Dog friends have already told you.” They had, though calling his few War Dog sympathizers friends was a bit much. Erik has been reading, and before that he was talking. At length. Reconnecting with old War Dog buddies of his dad and the rare reactionary War Dog who had come across him in his black-ops days. He’d always been careful back then, when he realized who they were, to shield himself from their scrutiny. Particularly that of the active War Dogs he met. After his coronation many of them came to him to express their support and loyalty. Now he could trust these more than most in Wakanda, for as much as he would. What he learnt was the same each time. Wakanda was too insulated, their technology and culture allowing them peace where their neighbors knew the opposite. Their own policies shield them from the rest of the world. There was no incentive for them to reach beyond their comfort. No reason for them to think beyond their people and their borders. At least while their peace lasted. Though if his own father’s actions were anything to go by, that peace and insulation couldn’t last forever. When the time came, their neighbors would not look kindly on them and neither would the powers they’d spent so many years hiding from. “You have to give them a reason to change. There’s a saying that goes ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it’” “We have a similar adage, but how does that help you?” “Wakandans are operating under that saying. But I’m living proof that it is broken. So, it needs fixing.” -:- General Okoye sends him a message in the evening. As soon as he reads it, he calls her from his kimoyo beads. “Good evening, my king.” The mini visual of her profile is coolly professional but Erik hardly notices. His heart is racing. “Was there any survival gear in the area? Like body armor, weapons or portable heaters?” If someone has been following them or more likely someone has come across Linda’s body maybe—. When he’d bundled Klaue’s body for the flight, then the even longer trek to Wakanda’s border, he had to leave some non-essential gear behind. Some of it was expensive, if whoever found his mess hadn’t taken the expensive stuff... He should have taken her body with him. Fuck. Even if he couldn’t have carried it with him for the trek to the border. He should have brought it on the plane. He should have —. “The Dora we sent found some clothing and survival items, but no weapons or body armor.” The General’s response is curt but curious. Erik mentally goes through the list of people who might even have a clue where Klaue, Linda or he might have been. The area they’d landed was an international junkyard, but nearby border patrol and other issues made it difficult to access so whoever recovered Linda’s body—. He stops and considers his next words. “Was the team you sent able to recover the full list, from the safe house?” “No. Someone already been there recently. Some of the items you listed were missing.” Great, he had a missing body and someone most likely on Klaue’s side of things looting his shit. “As General, my first concern is always Wakanda’s own security. Is there any reason to believe the associate you sent us to recover isn’t dead?” He forces his own rising anger down and thinks. He shot Linda in the chest, gotten some arteries if not her lung. It’d looked fatal to him as he bundled Klaue’s own dead body. But he could have been wrong, he hadn’t allowed himself to think much beyond getting Klaue’s body to the border. Hadn’t wanted to risk his success after twenty years of planning. Not even to hold the woman who’d been with him for some of the most important parts. “She should be dead. Apparently, someone took her body. There’s a very short list of people I know who might be responsible.” Belatedly, he realizes he’s been touching the scar on his face. He stops, in time to catch the General’s eyes flickering from his face and the scar then back to her own notes. The Dora Milaje reported to her. She knew about his trip to medical and could probably guess correctly on how he’d gotten his new scar. Though she hadn't said anything on the nights’ events or Erik’s new scar. He doesn’t know how neutral she really is, and he’s not willing to test it right now. “It would be prudent if you gave me that list so we could confirm your associate’s death and that whoever else is involved is dealt with.” ‘Dealt with.’ The words were sanitized from their true meaning. Whoever he directed the General’s forces to, would probably —scratch that— definitely, end up dead. Linda being called his ‘associate’ makes him chuckle though. Apparently ‘partner’ is too intimate. “I’ll get right on it. Though I have some unrelated questions, before I let you go.” Erik says the last part slowly, while navigating to a document of his growing list of questions and concerns. T’Challa wasn’t gonna tell him shit, not if it was useful anyway and he knew to take whatever W’Kabi told him with a grain of salt. So, until he gets in contact with some actual scholars, historians, or even an average Wakandan, the General is his best bet. He pushes thoughts of Linda away for now. By the time he ends the call it’s 8 in the evening. He makes another folder for all the documents, books and news feed he’s been referencing. It feels like MIT all over again only with much higher stakes. The information overload is already getting to him, but he knows it’s not enough. He’s already at such a disadvantage. He expects everyone to try to use him, if his cousin didn't kill him first. He’s willing to be used, fucking fine with being a tool for the tribes to one up each other. As long as his goals come to fruition, all this bullshit would have been worth it. T’Challa comes back to the bedroom and they continue to mostly ignore each other. There’s an awkward shuffle after he showers for the night when they both head to bed at the same time. Erik thinks about leaving the bed to his cousin but ultimately decides against it. They are supposed to be married and he doesn’t want to give T’Challa too much space. Eventually the man will get used to him. He doesn’t go to sleep for a long time, but he closes his eyes anyway and lets his mind wander. Eventually, T’Challa, who’s lying as far as he can without falling off the bed, falls asleep. Erik follows not long after. -:- Their last day at the honeymoon villa, they spend it mostly outdoors. They’re alone but for the accompanying Dora till the afternoon and then it becomes increasingly clear that their outing is mostly for Wakandans to covertly or not so covertly ogle them. Erik keeps an eye on his newsfeed as more and more pictures and videos of them out and about at the plaza nearest to the honeymoon villa are uploaded and shared and commented on. He and T’Challa don’t actually talk much beyond what’s necessary and they don’t touch either, but people still manage to take all sort of “intimate” shots of them. One of the most shared ones is a picture of them standing by a street vendor waiting on their food. It looks like they’re about to kiss. Most of the comments and shares seem to agree with the original caption. ‘When your husband looks better than the food’ The picture and the caption makes Erik smirk. T’Challa’s neutral face of displeasure makes a comeback but he doesn’t comment when Erik shows him what people are saying. In the picture, they are both standing very close and Erik’s eyes are intent on T’Challa. T’Challa, however, is looking straight at where the food is being prepared but the angle of the shot makes it look like he’s leaning into Erik. They spend most of the day walking and sightseeing, T’Challa being a mostly unhelpful guide so Erik looks up the information on the different places they visit as they go. As the day progresses, there are more pictures, and even more comments lamenting the lack of a kiss. Erik is even tempted come evening to give some of Wakanda’s more romantically inclined what they want. Even with all the politics and stress he feels like a celebrity. It’s kind of fun to have so many strangers so concerned with his love life. Especially when it is really nothing like they think, but apparently a royal couple is a royal couple even if they were cousins and married only to keep the peace. They end the day at an actual local library. Erik takes T’Challa’s subtle jab in good humor and lets himself skim some of the available books for fun instead of information hunting. Which is why he is reading a fantasy novel when one of the other library goers approaches him. Prior to that point no one has come up to talk to them. Sure, they’d talked a bit with street vendors or the random pedestrian but unless they initiated the conversation, they’ve been left to their own devices. “Greetings, my king. Bast Blessings on your marriage. My name is Ijeoma, and my clan name is Chibueze. May I have a moment of your time?” The woman speaks to him in Wakandan and is about his height; her voice reminds him of one of the attendants from the wedding. He guesses she’s from the Merchant Tribe from her thick features. She’s maybe a little taller, swarthy complexion and dressed in a warm green. Erik is a little surprised she came up to talk to him. So far, the other inhabitants in the small library seemed content enough to take sneak pictures of them or ignore them altogether. For once T’Challa is not in sight, though one of the Dora Milaje is. “Hello, I’m not busy right now, so sure.” He decides at the last second not to call her by her name, he’s not confident on the pronunciation and he figures he already sounds foreign enough. “Thank you. I am not speaking on my own behalf but for a good friend of mine. They are not here right now but I saw you here and I decided maybe, you would be willing to hear their plea.” Erik inwardly sighs though he keeps his expression blank, listening. He hoped this is just some fangirl curious enough to come up to him. Since his apparent existence is enough to warrant actual fans. But the woman sounds serious and if he should guess her age it would be mid-thirties at least. He’d need to be careful, no point in making promises he couldn’t keep, or saying something that would cause him grief later. “My friend’s name is Chidi, Clan name Damilola. They made a formal asylum plea two years ago for their cousin’s children, but it was rejected. They are making another plea in a few weeks’ time but the chances of it being heard are slim. With your permission I would like to share their story with you.” Erik takes a minute to parse the sentence and the implications. Then he nods. “I’ve been king for less than a week but I’m curious as to your friend’s story. Do you have a copy of the actual plea I could read?” Erik can see the relief clear in her eyes when she reaches for her kimoyo beads. “This is the link for their public profile, all relevant documents are in the description. “ Erik stands up to scan the link with his own beads. The exchange takes a few seconds, then he motions the woman to sit. They don’t talk long but the story the woman tells is eerily familiar. Dead War Dog, foreign children, no guardians left to care for them and not considered Wakandan citizens by law. The anger that always seems to be there begins to bubble. Why would his situation be special? People fell in love all the time, had kids then died. Wakandans were no different. Ijeoma thankfully doesn’t talk for long, seemingly content to share her friend’s profile, the plea documents and an abbreviated version of her story. She stands to leave around the same time T’Challa makes his way back to Erik. He finds himself wondering if she intentionally timed her conversation for when T’Challa was not present. The thought makes him pause. An asylum plea would typically be heard by Wakanda’s security and public health committees. He recognized a few of the names of the sitting committee at the beginning of the asylum plea document from the abbreviated list of people who’d sent public congratulations the day prior. So, if Ijeoma had the courage to approach him about something that is technically not under his purview, that doesn’t suggest anything good of the type of people in those departments. He makes a note to look over the names. Even if he doesn’t pursue this, the type of people who would deny such a case are the type of people who would deny him his birthright. He’s still scrolling through some of the plea documents when T’Challa calls him. “N’Jadaka, are you ready to leave?” T’Challa using his Wakandan name sounds odd to his ears but it makes sense while they’re in public. Erik casually exits out of the documents and stands. If he thought, he'd get anything useful out of T’Challa he might have mentioned the plea and Chidi’s story. But he doesn’t and something tells him T’Challa, like his father before him, probably wouldn’t have thought twice about denying asylum to foreign kids with an alleged Wakandan parent. Till Erik showed up at their door anyway. Well karma’s a bitch. “Yeah, show me where to check one of these books out. Think I’m keeping this one.” -:- Their last night at the honeymoon suite, Erik can’t sleep. He spends the hours doing more research. On the council agenda, the council members, lower committees. As much information as he can find. He reads through Chidi’s plea documents several times. Watch the video where they tell their story and stares at the pictures of the two children, ages 6 and 9, both living in South Sudan. The rage is back but it’s turning him in circles. Chidi is non-binary and masculine in appearance. That throws him for the loop, but it doesn’t make them any less compelling. Their plea had been rejected on grounds of not enough evidence. There hadn’t been enough proof that their brother, an inactive War Dog marked missing in action was indeed a parent to the children. How exactly they had come to that conclusion hadn’t been noted in the committee hearing but there is a whole segment on whether the children’s environment is also grounds for asylum. Those had also been rejected. There were thousands of Sudanese children in similar situations the committee rebutted and the case of their nephew and niece were not compelling enough to grant asylum. It makes Erik’s head spin. His parents were married, his dad’s name is on his American birth certificate and his dad gave him the War Dog tattoo as a baby. His dad literally did everything he could to eventually ensure Erik could seek and gain asylum. All these facts together were what enabled him to even enter the country let alone challenge for kingship. But for everyone else, with a Wakandan parent or relative, there was virtually no way in. The most recent asylum Wakandan courts granted was in 2008 to the relative of a priest of Bast. There weren’t even any formal ways of naturalization. So, outsiders remained outsiders for life. They couldn’t hold leadership positions or vote on matters above local affairs. Which he supposed made sense, for a country that prided itself on being totally isolated and hidden from the rest of the world. Around midnight he finds himself in the room he almost died in, two days prior. Ironically, he’s been craving a drink, but he’s not willing to risk whatever they have in the fridge again. He falls asleep on the lounge listening to the weird electronic beats Linda would always play. -:-13 Hours Later -:- The throne room is unusually quiet when Yetunde enters flanked by River Tribesmen. The border tribe boy, W’Kabi, is already present. Talking quietly with their newly named king. They seem to be the last to arrive. It is intentional of course but something he notes anyway. The General greets him cordially, as do the other elders. He greets them in turn and waits for N’Jobu’s son to acknowledge his presence as the others have. T’Challa is standing to N'Jadaka's right. He is dressed conservatively much like his mother. Even now he sees the panther tribe’s matriarch in the man’s gaze and stance. T’Challa’s face is carefully constructed, impassive and bland. Whatever his feelings are for his cousin and his new position as consort, he does not allow it to show on his face. T’Challa nods once to him when their eyes meet but does not speak. Finally, N'Jadaka ends his conversation with the Border Tribe’s leader and turns to face him. Yetunde knows N'Jadaka noticed his entrance, just as he knows the man decided to ignore him. Only addressing him when he deemed it appropriate. Their new king smiles at him, gold incisors peeking, easy and facetious. “Thanks for joining us, I know some were worried the River Tribe would abstain from this first meeting.” The insult is clear, as is the warning. But he is not easily cowed, not by a boy young enough to be his son. “We are here. I am sure everyone else is ready for the meeting to begin.” N’Jadaka nods and moves towards the throne. Once the king is seated, the General speaks, an introduction and customary greeting. Followed by each council elder with their ceremonial greeting. The king speaks last, his traditional greeting in accented Wakandan, gaze moving over each council member. Then he prompts the General to give the initial reports, in English. The agenda is not overly long. An inquiry for the construction of a new Hub, redistribution of land for an agricultural plant in the southern part of the country, and an update on the ongoing investigation on the late prince N’Jobu’s death. After her report, the floor is opened to the other council members to speak. E’Nena the Mining Tribe Council elder, unsurprisingly speaks first and not in English. “We have heard accounts from the former king and a priest of Bast. But we have not heard a full account from you, my king. So, we ask again, who are you?” She had not even pretended her inquiry is related to the day’s agenda. It is very in-character. Yetunde rearranges himself in his seat, waiting. Her use of Wakandan is curious. Emphasizing the ‘who’ segment of her question while carrying the weight of people and place. After the drama of the past week, the question might seem redundant, but Yetunde could already see several ways this round of questioning could go. The king seems to consider the question, gaze roving over the room, expression open and challenging. Then he speaks also in Wakandan. “My name is Erik Stevens. My baba N’Jobu, called me N’Jadaka. I was born and raised in Oakland, California. I grew up on stories of Wakanda, its people, its wonders. I knew my dad was a prince. That I was also a prince, but I didn’t know why we never went home. Just that home existed.” Seemingly on a whim, the king stands up from the throne and walks off the dais. Then he turns facing them all. Yetunde notices the way T’Challa reacts, tensing in response to his husband’s movements. His eyes locked on the man now standing. T’Challa’s wariness is unsurprising. The marriage had been unexpected, and provided it lasted would take some adjusting for T’Challa. “When I was ten years old, I came back to our apartment to find my father dead with claw marks in his chest.” N’Jadaka says the words dispassionately as if reciting lines from a play. It is both eerie and captivating. Inviting them to place themselves in the shoes of a child, having recently lost his father. “After that, I was raised by strangers. My mother was already dead, and my father’s best friend disappeared. Eventually my anger formed into intent. I wanted to kill my father’s killer.” N’Jadaka lets the words sink in, his eyes once more on T’Challa, whose expression remains stony. “To do that I had to know who would have wanted to kill him. So, I dug up all those old stories and eventually, give or take a few years, I realized what my father tried to do. Who killed him and why.” They all already knew who N’Jobu’s killer was. Corroborated by Zuri, an eye witness, and T’Challa himself. Though the specifics of his death were still buried in hearsays and rumors. Collectively, they wait for N’Jadaka to continue. “My father gave Ulysses Klaue the information to successfully infiltrate Wakanda.” More titters, louder this time. This is new information. Yetunde notes the border tribe boy doesn’t react beyond a tightening of his mouth. So, he already knew, and this is shaping into a calculated play. Quietly he applauds N’Jadaka. Better for such news to come from him than rumors and hearsay later. T’Challa’s expression remains cool if tight, as his husband continues. “Why would N’Jobu do such a thing?” This time it is not E’Nena speaking but Rajvahi, The Merchant Tribe Elder. Yetunde sighs inwardly, while he had the same question, he is very aware of how they are all playing into the man’s hand. Already he can see how this exchange will go. N’Jadaka hums as if in deep thought. “What would drive a prince of Wakanda to betray his home?” The man then reaches for a box, unnoticed till now on a nearby table. He pulls out journals, worn and weathered. How convenient, Yetunde thought with another sigh. The General’s face is neutral although, like T’Challa’s, tight. He has no doubt most of the information N’Jadaka would ‘reveal’ today was already known to the two. “My father kept journals of his time as a War Dog in America. It’s how I was able to piece the real story together.” A story that would no doubt align with N’Jadaka’s own goals. Yetunde has questions of his own, about the man’s past and his capabilities as king. But he is starting to realize that no real work would be done till all the gathered members satisfied their own curiosity. He is also aware that whatever questions they’d ask would probably be used by the man to turn the discussion to places none of them wanted. Already they were moving in less than productive directions, complete with each elder taking a turn to peruse the journal’s contents. When he finally injects himself into the discussion, he cannot hide his own irritation. The man is obviously playing them, his answers polished, his reactions manufactured. He knew a player when he saw one and their new king certainly had a story to sell. “There is already a formal investigation into N’Jobu’s death and his dealings in the U. S. While it is important, we set things right, I find it tiring to rehash things we already know.” He ignores the titters and the looks. If the other council elders wish to be played or continue to dig for good gossip, he would not stop them. However, there is still work to be done and, presumably, N’Jadaka is up to the task. N’Jadaka’s full attention is now settled on him. Yetunde chooses his words carefully. “We know your background through foreign records.” Which was honestly archaic enough that a decent Wakandan engineer could hack it. Let alone someone in their intelligence division. “That does not, however, tell us how well versed you are as a leader or in Wakandan matters.” His gaze drifts to T’Challa. “Your decision to marry our former king was a good one. T’Challa and each of our champions have trained from a very young age to lead Wakanda and take on the mantle of Black Panther. You, as far as we are aware, have not.” Silence stretches after his words, and they all wait for the king’s response. “You’re right.” N’Jadaka’s response is nonplussed and his smile self-depreciating. “My own dad denied me the chance to grow up in Wakanda. Then my uncle.” His words carry heat, reminders of past grievances. “I made my own training regime. I’ve seen some of the training your champions do. I went through worse, alone. Knowing I could die, and no one would care. I won’t go into detail since you can read about it yourselves.” A silent nod to Yetunde’s own words, his records as an American operative would be common knowledge soon. “All the things Wakandans take for granted, community, safety, home. I didn’t have that. I never got to be Prince N’Jadaka. I grew up in a country that wanted me dead or in prison. So, I became Lieutenant Commander Erik Stevens.” Then the mask cracks. The smile fades and the king runs a hand through dark locks. Frustration or annoyance, Yetunde isn’t sure. He turns casually, walking towards the throne. Journals forgotten on the table; movements unhurried. He motions casually to his cousin. “T’Challa?” The call is undemanding and T’Challa approaches him equally unhurriedly. When they meet at the edge of the dais, the king laces their hands together. T’Challa remains quiet, appearing totally at ease. They stand before the throne, facing the gathering of elders. The very image of unity, a re-merging of the panther line. “My cousin T’Challa is the first in our family to do right by me. My father never brought me home and my uncle abandoned me. T’Challa could have denied me my birthright. But he didn’t. He could have refused my challenge, he didn’t. He could have turned down my proposal, but he didn’t.” His eyes move from each elder, searching. “I am learning to be king N’Jadaka. I can’t promise I won’t make mistakes, or that I’ll know everything my husband does. I can promise to put Wakanda and its people first, always. I want my actions to speak for themselves.” A player indeed. Yetunde smiles ruefully. He expected it, but it still stings. Any further inquiry to his qualifications could now be seen as an attack on the royal family’s judgement, his own husband’s judgement. It would also be in direct opposition to Bast’s own will. The herb did not reject him, neither did his own cousin, his own family. “For too long we have talked, with little action.” W’Kabi’s voice follows shortly after N’Jadaka. “Bast has brought our Prince home and given us a king in her own image.” W’Kabi’s words were not exactly untrue but they carried weight behind them. To become Damisa-Sarki, Bast had to acknowledge one as deserving. The timing of such acknowledgement however encouraged less than flattering insinuations of the former icon. If N’Jadaka’s words lifted T’Challa beyond reproach, W’Kabi’s were a barbed reminder of past grievances. Yetunde is not surprised when less than 2 hours later the River Tribe’s proposed Hub development is struck from the agenda.