T’Challa comes to a realization.
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-:- T’Challa -:- Accompaniment: "Little Things" by Vasser T’Challa slips away after the staff selection is finished. He is able to, because his mother pulls N’Jadaka aside for a separate briefing. Earlier in the day, he asked her to engage N’Jadaka for a few hours, to give him time alone. As he leaves, he catches the eye of one of the Dora Milaje that has accompanied them all morning. She starts to follow him, but he waves her off. Mercifully, she listens, and he exits the atrium and the large building alone. T’Challa walks for a while. Eventually, he finds himself in the residential area for active War Dogs. He used to come to this area all the time, years ago. Despite the evening hour and the buzz of the nearby market space, the area is very quiet. He walks through sprawling units of connected living spaces. A central garden and shared lounge area are at the center. The day has, thus far, not gone the way he thought it would. Being able to have many of the same attendants he chose weeks prior is an unexpected boon. His cousin’s odd selection is another. It was good to see his mother and speak to her, her presence grounds him. This ordeal wouldn’t last forever. He climbs up wide stairs till he’s standing at a familiar door. Before he can press the doorbell, it slides open. “T’Challa?” Nakia greets him, a warm smile forming on her face before she pulls him inside. When the door closes, she embraces him. They don’t separate for a long while. She looks well and his hands settle unconsciously on her hips. “It is good to see you.” T’Challa doesn’t fumble over the words as he might have before. “How are you?” Nakia’s expression is warm, if cautious. T’Challa doesn’t know how to answer. He hadn’t known how to answer his mother earlier either. “I am—“ He struggles over the word ‘well.’ “Let’s sit. Have you eaten?” Nakia pulls him towards the nearby sofa and he is momentarily rescued from answering. “I have not.” Not since breakfast. It’s now 4 in the evening. “Let’s eat. I made fish.” He hadn’t felt hungry before Nakia had asked but once he smells the food, his body reminds him. In between bites of fish and rice, they talk. Mostly about inconsequential things. The familiarity hurts, he fervently wishes it would last longer. When they ended their relationship, it has just been easier not to see each other. They have taken “breaks” in the past, but—after him gently and suggestively bringing up the idea of a future together many times —when he finally proposed seriously, she told him ‘no.’ Decisively. Before that he believed she just needed more time. After her refusal, it became clear her previous deflections had not been from indecision but rather from a view of her future that was incompatible with being his queen. It was only then that he realized, devastatingly, her decision would not change with time or perspective. Luckily, it was not hard to have a little distance, after. The past few years have been busy for both of them. Her work as a War Dog makes it easy, as it usually takes her away, even if her position as River Tribes’ Champion brings her back for special occasions. They have both grown adept at avoiding each other, beyond larger social situations. Then his father died, and he wanted her at his side, enough to personally extract her and risk ruining her mission in Sambisa. Seeing her again right before his coronation was exactly what he needed. Her presence, her understanding, had given him the strength to face his people and become Wakanda’s king. Their conversation after his coronation haunts him now. Remembering how right it felt is a painful contrast to how wrong everything is now. It was like things were finally falling into place. Now, in retrospect, he sees it was merely a calm before an even greater storm. He opens his mouth several times to speak but the words refuse to come out. He wonders belatedly how much she knows. Irrationally, he wishes she didn’t know as much as she did. That he could just pretend that none of it was happening while he was with her, without her having to pretend with him. The windows to her quarters are open and the natural light filters through all the fauna and greenery Nakia kept in her living space. He asks about her neighbor. “How is Omoji?” He remembers lively evenings with the older War Dog when he and Nakia were together. “Momoji is fine. Though I have not seen him in days. There’s been much activity in his division.” T’Challa was present for the recent security and intelligence debriefings. He knows what is causing that ‘activity.’ He does not want to think about his cousin’s plans for the Dogs of War. But another question occurs to him. “What happened to the women in Sambisa?” Nakia pauses, mid-bite then continues eating. “Why do you ask?” She does not meet his eyes. He stops eating and stares. “I interrupted your mission; you had to leave.” Nakia nods and finally looks up. “The mission was salvageable. Most of them made it home.” “Most?” “Not all of them had homes to return to or family.” N’Jadaka’s words the day before return to him. ‘Do you think they all made it home? Do you think their families will accept them back?’ Nakia relieves him of having to ask further questions by changing the subject. “Have you talked to Shuri?” T’Challa shrugs. He read her messages, but he honestly felt too tired and then angry and then drained to respond. And there was no easy way to answer the questions she would undoubtedly pose to him. Then there was his panicked call after his ‘negotiation’ with N’Jadaka. “Have you?” Nakia looks away, abashed. “No. She asked about you. I did not know what to say.” So, he hadn’t been the only one avoiding his sister. “N’Jadaka intercepted her at the border.” He doesn’t mean to say it, it just comes out. “I know.” T’Challa nods. Shuri or his mother would have told her. The neutrality in her voice—no condemnation or sympathy—gives him room to speak from the heart of his fear. “He could have hurt her.” Saying the words out loud for the first time feels cathartic. An admission of his own failure, of what could have happened but didn’t. “He has not brought the matter before the council.” She says it carefully, not a question. T’Challa shakes his head. “He agreed he wouldn’t. Not if I…” T’Challa trails off, struggling past the sudden resistance he feels toward discussing their negotiation. “If I helped him.” Nakia’s cautious expression from earlier returns and a voice in the back of his head reminds him that she knew, more than most, the reality of his situation. He tries to clarify. “He is ignorant, about so much. Things even a Wakandan child knows.” Nakia nods. “He wasn’t born here.” “I agreed to help him, to help explain things.” His throat feels tight. Nakia pulls him closer, their food forgotten, and he presses his forehead to her shoulder. Eventually, he pulls away to speak. “The last council meeting did not go very well. Yetunde was very displeased when he left.” The River Tribe Elder had not acknowledged him when he left the meeting, and T’Challa isn’t sure how his cousin’s actions will affect how he’s treated at future meetings. A part of him worries he has been placed in the same camp as his husband; the council has never been shy to voice their doubts about him. And now he isn’t king anymore. “I am not sure how the next meeting will go.” He imagines the different elders will find time this week to speak with N’Jadaka, but he also imagines they could choose not to. River Tribe in particular now has reason to give his cousin the cold shoulder. Nakia doesn’t respond immediately, taking time to trace a birthmark on his arm. “I can’t speak for all of River Tribe but there have certainly been some less than kind remarks popularized in the past two days.” Nakia’s diplomatic wording tells T’Challa it’s probably worse than that. Though a part of him chafes at the cause of said anger. “The development was frivolous.” Nakia knows more than anyone how frivolous it was. T’Challa remembers past budget meetings with her superior on adjusting the allocated amounts for War Dog intervention. Any increase to said budget has always been a fight and decreases happened occasionally when money was routed elsewhere. “I fear what will be left after all of this is said and done.” It’s too easy for a dispute over a new hub to turn into something ugly. T’Challa doesn’t want a feud on his hands and he’s not looking forward to whatever trouble his cousin will undoubtedly start while king. “You will have a peace offering at least? They lobbied hard for this new hub.” Nakia’s words are a sardonic sort of reassuring. River Tribe pushed very hard for their new hub. When this situation with his cousin is resolved, he would have to have something to offer them. His father used similar tactics when dealing with Wakanda’s tribes during difficult times. T’Challa nods affirmatively and moves on. “How is Mommodu? I was surprised to see his daughter was one of the attendants at the staff selection.” Nakia raises an eyebrow in response, surprise and curiosity clear. Mommodu is an uncle of Nakia’s and statesman for River Tribe. “I haven’t spoken to him since I returned. I didn’t know Mabintu was entered for selection.” T’Challa considers the young girl’s name, knowing full well he would probably forget after their conversation. He and Nakia both have many distant cousins and aunties and uncles several times removed, all with children and siblings and lovers and wives and husbands. He strove to remember the names of those he worked with on a semi regular basis but beyond that, well. He is human. He remembers the faces, however, and the round-cheeked girl has been to more than a few of Shuri’s birthday parties. T’Challa continues musingly. “I recognized many of the faces this year.” He knows why: his mother formed the selection criteria and it originally was meant for him. Hence the high number of children and cousins of influential families among the selected attendants. He had chosen several attendants from his parents’ staff for his own selection just after his coronation. Given his husband’s decision to go first this morning, he’d chosen many of the same people again. He had not, however, chosen Momodu's daughter. N’Jadaka might have. T’Challa hadn’t been paying attention. The conversation shifts to other topics: Nakia’s fathers, her work, some gossip in her division and even some of the entertainments Nakia was catching up on while home. When T'Challa leaves her hours later, he feels lighter. -:- The next day during another stilted breakfast, he asks N’Jadaka to see Agent Everett Ross. He made plans to visit Shuri later in the day, but he didn’t know where Ross was detained. N’Jadaka tells him not to worry about it. The whole conversation annoys T’Challa because it somehow turns into him giving N’Jadaka a lecture on the agricultural plants near the southern border. He rationalizes he would insist on speaking with Ross later. He doesn't get the chance to ask again that day. They're both in meetings together for most of it. When N’Jadaka goes off for a separate engagement T'Challa goes to see Shuri. The conversation they have leaves him feeling disturbed. The first thing Shuri does is apologize to him for getting caught at the border. He spends the next few minutes reassuring her he isn’t angry, that it isn't his reason for not coming to see her sooner. Then he asks about her studies and her new girlfriend. The latter he heard about from Nakia, after which Nakia had shown him a video someone posted of the two kissing. Shuri shows him pictures and the conversation moves to other things. It's blessedly normal, until the end. Someone messages Shuri. The only reason he notices, since her kimoyo bead notifications are muted, is because she tries to hide it. "Is that Efi?" He is only teasing her; his mood is much lighter than it was in the morning. “No, someone else." Shuri's tone is odd. "A university friend? You can answer them if you want, I don't mind." It’s good to know she’s making friends outside of her coursework. Shuri shakes her head and turns her attention away from her kimoyo beads. "It's not important." He refocuses on the prototype she had just been presenting and asks, "Is this fire resistant?" He's pointing to the base of the prototype, whatever material Shuri used looked temptingly flammable. He has recurring memories of fires and other hazards emanating from Shuri's 'home brew' projects. When she was working in her lab it was usually not an issue, but for her own personal tinkering it happened more often than he would like. Shuri doesn't respond, and he turns back around. She's texting rapidly before she realizes he's watching her and freezes. She has her display open and locked to her view only, all T'Challa sees is the translucent blue screen. The soft blinking in the corner tells him whoever she's talking to just sent another message. “Are these flame resistant?" he asks again. He isn’t bothered by her distraction. Whatever she is being so secretive about she would either tell him or she wouldn't. She shakes her head. "There’s no need. It’s just to transfer excess energy." She finishes typing as she responds, before closing out of the display and joining him by the prototype. T'Challa lifts the oblong shaped object. "What happens if you overload it?" Shuri shrugs. "It won’t work." He is skeptical. "And the base won't catch fire?" "No, there is a fail-safe." T'Challa has her demonstrate the failsafe, with a fire retardant on hand. The prototype's base doesn't catch fire. When he checks the time again, two hours have passed. He only planned to be there 30 minutes, maybe an hour. “Brother?" Shuri's tone sounds hesitant, it brings him out of his more scattered thoughts on the rest of the evening. “Yes?" He's still thinking about whether or not to accept any of the dinner invitations he’d received this week. “Are you—" Shuri doesn't finish the question. It makes him uncomfortable. This probably has something to do with N’Jadaka, whom Shuri has not mentioned even in passing throughout their conversations. When the silence stretches longer, he gently prompts, "Is this about N'Jadaka?" Shuri nods quickly, then shakes her head. “Yes. Wait, no. It’s about you. I was very worried that you haven’t been responding to my messages and then everything at the border happened—I just worry about you." Smiling reassuringly, he tells her, "I am sorry for making you worry." He is, he doesn't know why it has been so hard to just respond when she messages or come by to see her. Shuri’s kimoyo beads flash, another message. “Who keeps messaging you?” he asks, bemused, having nothing else to say. He doesn’t want to lie but he knows any further conversation into his avoidance earlier would be unwise. Shuri looks resigned. “N’Jadaka.” T’Challa’s blood goes cold. “About what?” T’Challa’s mind goes through several possibilities and rises to a new increasingly familiar panic. He cuts himself off before he’s tempted to speak with less than careful wording. What reason would N’Jadaka have to talk to his sister? Shuri wouldn’t meet his eyes. “It started because of Barnes. He wanted me to send him my treatment plan. Then he just kept messaging me about... other things.” Shuri sounds frustrated. “Has he made you uncomfortable or said anything—improper?” He’s not sure how to finish his sentence. T’Challa treads carefully. Shuri shakes her head. “He’s been very nice.” The suspicion in her tone settles some of his panic. Shuri knew to be suspicious, to be careful. “Is this what has caused you to worry?” T’Challa doesn’t want to worry Shuri or involve her at all in this mess. “Brother, I’ve heard things...” Shuri doesn’t finish whatever she started to say. T’Challa opens his arms and embraces her so her head is resting under his chin. When they separate, he tries to find the words that would not only comfort her but convince her to let things be. “I know things have changed in a very short time, and it will take us awhile to adjust—” Shuri’s expression remains unconvinced. His mother probably said something similar to her already. T’Challa tries to put more conviction into what he’s saying. “N’Jadaka and I—have things to work out between us, but I will be fine. I appreciate your worry for me, but I do not want any of our issues to affect you. In fact, I need you to do something for me.” That last sentence catches her attention. “I need you to continue your directorship here. The lab, your projects, your studies, everything you already do. I need you to continue as well as before. Give no one an excuse to suggest removing you from your current position.” He needed Shuri to turn her attention elsewhere. What is going on between N’Jadaka and him is dangerous. He didn’t want Shuri anywhere near it. She smiles hesitantly after a moment and nods. Her expression is serious as she promises to do her best. Then she gives him a side hug, asking one last time, “You are really all right?” T’Challa thinks back to the morning, the night before, three nights before, the wedding night. His throat closes up. He can’t tell her ‘yes.’ He isn’t ‘all right,’ and he realizes now he doesn’t know for sure that he will ever be while N’Jadaka is king. He would be lying to her, but if it meant she would be safe, he would lie a hundred more times. “Wakanda and I will be fine.” His smile is more genuine. After he leaves, he decides not to accept any dinner invitations, instead eating alone. Then he goes for a walk on palace grounds. His feet lead him to the garden N’Jadaka mentioned days before, during the massage. That night he has trouble sleeping. At some point in his sleepless delirium he thinks another massage would be nice, and then he realizes what he’s thinking and stuffs the thought in the darkest corner of his mind. He wakes up sometime in the middle of the night to the sound of N’Jadaka masturbating to him, again. He doesn’t think he will ever get used to it, but it is at least not as alarming as the first time it happened. He remembers how he had woken up that night sometime in the very early morning. That first time he hadn’t immediately known what the soft rustling sound meant. Had wondered a bit idly, innocently, what it could be. Without context he just—turned over. Which put him face to face with N’Jadaka who was very much awake and looking right at him. The meaning of the sound, the rhythmic movement of fabric and skin, comes to T’Challa then. To make matters worse, N’Jadaka doesn’t stop now that T’Challa is awake and watching him, if anything it seems to spur him on, and he lets out a pleased groan. That action breaks the spell and T’Challa had swiftly turned back over. N’Jadaka’s response is a low chuckle that pricks T’Challa’s sensibilities and his pride. The man really had no shame. Later, much later, after the sounds stop and N’Jadaka falls asleep, T’Challa has a hard time going back to sleep. And that was just the first time. T’Challa has begun to more reliably ignore the sounds around him when he wakes in the middle of the night and wills himself to remain insensate. The better to get back to sleep. -:- There is a council meeting the next day in the afternoon. It begins well enough, moving from local news and updates to ongoing projects like the newest upgrades in the mountain science center or tentative plans with the agriculture plants. Then they arrive at the procedural arrangement for Bast’s festival. Most of the decision making was made months in advance and underwent weeks ago, but N’Jadaka goes over the time-table again. Then he starts to change things. T’Challa tries his best not to react one way or another, watching different elders disagree, push back or remain damnably silent on the changes being proposed. For the most part N’Jadaka seems focused on reducing the spectacle, which T’Challa doesn’t understand at first, until he realizes such efforts were aimed at the other tribes or major clans participating outside of Birnin Zana. The Panther Tribe’s program gets tweaked some, but not to the degree of the others. It is such an odd thing for his cousin to care about. Rajvahi, the elder of the Merchant tribe, appears very irritated. “Birnin Bashenga’s presentation is almost two hours long, it cannot be condensed into a twenty-minute segment. Not when Birnin Mena Ngai has a three-hour long broadcast in the evening.” N’Jadaka’s response is nonplussed. “Birnin Mena Ngai can share their time slot with some of the events that lose time in the morning. An hour for Birnin Bashenga’s presentation is too long.” It would also clash with the new arrangements his cousin made that set the Panther Tribe’s broadcast on each day of the festival as the crowning highlight. Rajvahi doesn’t argue the point further but their displeasure is clear from the set of their mouth to the irritated shifting of their tribe’s guard. T’Challa makes a mental note to approach the elder later and discuss alternatives. Discussion continues and then another disagreement arises, this time on the priests officiating each day. “I don’t want him to officiate. He’s not the only priest, is he? Have someone else handle the prayers.” N’Jadaka speaks dismissively, as if his request/command isn’t totally outlandish. Rajvahi isn’t impressed. “Zuri is by far the most senior priest for this ceremony and has officiated for years. We would ask no one else.” “I don’t want him officiating. He wronged me and my father. It’s an insult.” N’Jadaka doesn’t seem prepared to listen and at the mention of his father the room’s atmosphere changes. Wakanda and its council were still processing the news of what N’Jobu did, and the suspicious events surrounding his death. That his father had never spoken on the matter or N’Jadaka’s existence is another uneasy matter. “Have you spoken to Zuri since the challenge?” T’Challa thinks Elder E’Nena is trying to be helpful but N’Jadaka is not having it. “Not yet, he’s made himself very hard to find for some reason. The last time I asked to see him, I was told he was unavailable.” N’Jadaka’s tone is dark and T’Challa winces. He didn’t think his cousin sought the priest out to simply ‘talk.’ He is also reminded of their ill-fated challenge and just how angry N’Jadaka had been with Zuri. Border Elder Sanpani joins the fray, surprising T’Challa. “This year’s Memorial Day will include the late King T’Chaka’s last rites invocation. Zuri is his head priest. It is only right that he officiates, whatever your grievances with him. You need not have him officiate any other ceremonies or next year’s Bast festival.” The elders keep talking amongst themselves and to N’Jadaka. Names barely recognizable to T’Challa are tossed around, potential officiators and alternatives to having Zuri lead the Memorial Day rites. It becomes clear very quickly N’Jadaka is not willing to change his mind on the matter. Not even Sanpani, his cousin’s strongest supporter amongst the elders, is able to sway him. T’Challa listens, half numb to the discussion. His gaze passes from one elder to the next, most don’t meet his eyes. They were discussing his father’s memorialization and he would have very little say in it. If N’Jadaka had his way, the man who was his father’s spiritual guide and close friend in life would not be able to say his final prayers in death. If N’Jadaka had his way, this last rite would not be done properly. It infuriates him. T’Challa thinks, a little desperately, on what he would give to settle the matter. To obtain this last observance for Wakanda’s former king. To have his baba honored properly. It comes to him, as he watches the room. N’Jadaka in contrast with the tension and discontent of the room appears at ease. Cheerful even, poised, not unlike his panther moniker on the throne. Where some of the standing attendees like Okoye or tribe champions shifted from time to time, N’Jadaka does not, displaying inordinate martial discipline. T’Challa leans down to where N’Jadaka is seated and says, voice barely audible, with the elders still speaking amongst themselves. “Will you do it for time? If you allow Zuri to officiate this rite, I will give you time.” N’Jadaka’s expression doesn’t change. T’Challa watches for any reaction, and when none appears, his heart sinks. ‘Time’ is the only thing he thought N’Jadaka might concede. Then N’Jadaka responds, just as quietly and casual as ever: “Three hours.” T’Challa’s heart rises and he answers immediately. “Yes.” After their exchange, N’Jadaka clears his throat. Waits for Yetunde to finish speaking. “If you insist, Zuri can officiate the last rites as part of the first day. But I want someone else for all the rest.” There is some disagreement on who should be officiating the remaining ceremonies. Eventually they decide on Priestess Ibiefo. By the meeting’s end T’Challa can’t even feel relief. Only new apprehension rising at what he promised. In the moment it hadn’t seemed like a huge deal to give time, so that his father would be honored appropriately during the festival. Now, he wishes he was less hasty. N'Jadaka uses the offered time a few days later in the morning. T'Challa expects many things, but certainly not what actually happens. -:- N’Jeri -:- Accompaniment: “Big Fax” by Anik Khan “You know the captain knows where you all come to smoke.” Kalib says this after taking a drag from the herb cigarette. Njeri snorts and takes back the cigarette, “If she needs to find us, she knows where we will be.” They smoke for a while in silence. Njeri hasn’t been able to take one of their usual breaks in days. Too much going on made it difficult to slip away and remain unnoticed for the time it took to smoke through a stick or two. It wasn’t this busy during the late King T’Chaka’s first few days. Even with his odd ascension and the previous Queen. “Have you seen the new King?” Kalib’s voice is curious, eager. The boy is among many of the numerous prospective attendants brought in for the new King. “Hasn’t everyone?” Njeri knows what the boy means but the question is vague. They have seen the new King. They were Kingsguard. It is their duty to watch, to guard, to listen. “I wasn’t selected for his personal staff.” The boy’s tone is forlorn. “I will be sent home if I don’t get an assignment.” Kalib continues while Njeri smokes. “What masteries do you have?” Njeri can already guess but they ask anyway. “Standard. But I have an order in counseling, my fathers are counselors, so I learned from them.” Njeri blows an intricate cloud of smoke. “There is your problem, you do not stand apart with such credentials.” Most Wakandan citizens have standard mastery, unless they were from some providential family or part of an ancestral hold that required, they focus only on a certain craft or trade. Every year many youths were brought to the capital and every year many youths returned home or found some assignment so they could stay in the capital. Of those youths brought to the capital, a few were picked to be presented before the King and his family. With credentials like his, Njeri guesses the boy hadn’t been picked for his skill. Influential family no doubt, and a pretty face. Kalib opens his kimoyo beads again for the third time in 8 minutes to answer a message. Definitely a pretty face. If he is smart, he would attach himself to some distant cousin or clan benefactor. Njeri puts the flame out. “If you want to stay in the capital, have one of the people you keep texting sponsor you.” Kalib doesn’t respond and Njeri doesn’t expect him to. The boy brought him Kush, from a well-known distributor near his clan home. If nothing else, the boy has good instincts. He had come to Njeri, after all. He just needed to persuade someone to sponsor him. It wouldn’t be Njeri, however. They were well past the age for such dalliances. Alone, Njeri makes their way back to the Palace. Taking the backways and cutting through a private garden on the south east side. They arrive minutes into the shift change. Abayo, their second, sends them a disapproving glance as they shuffle casually into formation. They weren’t Dora; they were Kingsguard and that smoke break was well deserved. Minutes later, the guard captain joins the formation and gives her report for the evening. Njeri listens with half an ear, whatever was said now would only be repeated throughout their watch. They tune back in when their name is called. “Njeri, Abayo will be reposted to First Chamber Guard.” The new posting is greeted with quiet murmurs and a few looks. First Chamber Guard is a Dora posting. Right by the Kings’ quarters and the last place Njeri wants to be. They have heard the rumors and speculation surrounding the new king. Who recommended them for this position? They were old guard yes, but they weren’t the only one. Njeri has long since grown comfortable at their old and familiar posting. Right by the west gardens and not far from where they normally take smoke breaks. They certainly weren’t among the more active or attentive Kingsguard. Which, now that they think about it, might be why they were chosen. When they look to Abayo, they can see similar understanding in keen eyes. Well, it’s a good thing they savored that smoke break, it might be their last for a while when serving on duty. -:- Their first evening on duty as First Chamber guard is mostly uneventful: a slow but steady flow of attendants back and forth, an unsurprising number of Dora and finally, nearing midnight, the king and his consort themselves. The king barely glances at them as he passes, but Njeri catches the king consort’s eyes. The young man looks bothered. Njeri wonders which of the consorts’ favored Dora held this guard before them. Already Njeri is putting uncomfortable pieces together. Kingsguard were a general defensive force. For official events or the more spread out locations, for places not necessarily people; and they certainly were not meant for guard positions this close to the king’s personal quarters. Those were meant with good reason for Dora Milaje. Yet the new king has chosen not to use Dora Milaje guards so close to his wing. Kingsguard liked to make noise but the Dora were without match and were meant to protect and serve the King. Njeri doesn’t like the implications of split or uncertain loyalties. Early in the morning, around the time Njeri would normally take a smoke break, the King leaves his quarters. The time is noteworthy, if only because Njeri remembers being newlywed themselves a decade or two prior. One is not disposed to leave their marriage bed so early unless they must. Or if something is wrong with said marriage bed. The king does not acknowledge them beyond a nod their way, but they can tell they are being observed. He also doesn’t go far. Seemingly content to watch the city below. The long, wide walkway between the rest of the palace and the king’s quarters have a magnificent view of the Capital; elevated and heavily reinforced glass on all sides. Eventually, the king returns back to his quarters but the whole incident is puzzling. Abayo says as much after they’re released from their posts by two Dora. “What do you think is going on? With the new king?” The Mining Tribe man looks apprehensive. “It is not our business.” Njeri dismisses the man’s concerns. Both of them were age mates. Born within a year of each other but the man often deferred to Njeri. Even if he thought Njeri careless at times. “It will become our business soon if we remain at this post. You say it all the time, we are not Dora and now you are fine with guarding the king’s quarters?” Feeling annoyed, Njeri asks, “Will you tell the king, ‘please choose some Dora to guard your quarters?’” The last part is said mockingly. “We are not bodyguards. The Dora Milaje are meant to guard the king.” Abayo’s tone is stubborn now so Njeri speaks plainly. “And the king does not trust them.” They walk the rest of the way home in silence. -:- Erik -:- Erik wakes up feeling restless. Even after watching the sunrise, he still feels uneasy. It’s nothing specific. He decides to hold off on a shower and work on his hair. Retwisting his locs would take a few hours at least so he wakes T’Challa up too. T’Challa’s offer in the throne room was very unexpected. Erik wrote off their little negotiation weeks ago for the situation with Barnes and Ross as a one-off thing. For T’Challa to offer himself up again, at his mercy for three whole hours—Well, it hadn’t been a difficult choice. His cousin even managed to make Erik’s change of heart on the issue seem magnanimous instead of indecisive. It’s earlier than T’Challa normally gets up, but he doesn’t make a fuss after Erik mentions using his time. When he joins Erik in the ensuite bath, Erik throws up a countdown timer. Growing locs was a big decision for him when he first went deep cover as a fresh Lieutenant. Finding the right hair products, learning twist techniques then twisting and retwisting it for hours. On the rare, but much-loved, occasion he would make an appointment with a loctician. Then he’d come to Wakanda and he could in theory see a hairdresser whenever or learn to use the various tech on his own time. His new wardrobe had come with a set of toiletry items, among them hair products. He just hasn’t been able to find the time till now. He doesn’t know if he likes all the new hair products he ordered. Wakanda’s humidity is affecting his hair in a way he’s not used to, and the sweat is annoying. They’re more than halfway through the allotted time and it’s not going as smoothly as he liked. “Wait—Show me again. I think I got it this time.” He’s getting a little frustrated and T’Challa’s obvious annoyance is not helping. The source of his frustration being the “Ukujiji” T’Challa’s been using to retwist his hair. There’s a trick to it, and he can’t get it to work right. When T’Challa does it, the hair just curls almost like magic into one tight organized twist. When he uses it, it twists, but not all the way. He hands the Ukujiji back so T’Challa can show him again. T’Challa twists a braid fully in less than a minute. The first time T’Challa used it he’d done a full twist in less than 30 seconds. Much quicker than if Erik did it by hand. T’Challa demonstrates slowly, and Erik tries to grasp what he’s doing wrong. Then he hands the Ukujiji over so Erik can try again. Erik holds the parted hair in place and runs the device from the tip of the strands to the root. It goes better this time, but he has to do it much slower than T’Challa. “Hold it when you’re almost done, so it knots better.” T’Challa tells him this right before he pulls the Ukujiji away. He obeys, and after a few moments, takes it off. This braid at least is much better than his first few attempts, but it still took longer than when T’Challa did it. Just to untwist his locs had taken the two of them almost two hours. T’Challa only mentions towards the end when his hair is mostly loose that there was something, they could have used to untwist it faster. That little revelation prompted Erik to ask about what other stuff he could use for his hair, and that's when T’Challa offered to bring out a hair tool he had lying around. Erik didn’t expect T'Challa to know that much about locs, but apparently, he sometimes helps his mother with hers. Which is why he had the Ukujiji in the first place. For the moment, Erik swallows his pride. “You’re better with it. I’ll buy my own later and practice.” T’Challa responds not unkindly, “It takes some getting used to.” Then he takes the small Ukujiji and moves to the next part, parting it carefully with the edge of a comb, then applying some hair cream before working it over. It feels better anyway, to have T’Challa do it for him. By the time Erik completely resigns himself to just letting T’Challa work on his own, there’s only 15 or so minutes left in the 3 hours T’Challa gave him. So much of the time had gone to untwisting and washing his hair. It meant Erik would be struggling to finish them on his own soon. T’Challa works quietly, only occasionally having to go over a twist twice. The movement and the relative quiet is relaxing. It almost makes Erik regret wasting time trying to learn to do it himself instead of just letting T’Challa do it. When the timer beeps zero, Erik waits for T’Challa to stop. His hair is about 3 quarters of the way done; he could probably struggle through the rest on his own. Much faster than he would if he was doing it without the hair tools. He doesn’t want to. T’Challa doesn’t stop, moving to the next parted section. “Look down,” T’Challa instructs minutes after the 3 hours were over. Erik looks down so T’Challa can better reach the hair on the lower part of his head. T’Challa’s hands brush his mid-back, the touch suspiciously nice. Considering his skin isn’t sensitive, not after the extensive scarification he’s done. He’s just... hyper-aware of T’Challa. He also hadn’t put on a shirt after he washed his hair, it twisted better wet. Erik waits patiently for T’Challa to finish. The situation feels domestic. Somehow stronger than the scalp massage when they’d been washing his hair. There’s nothing sensual about it, everything about T’Challa’s actions is perfunctory and yet, Erik thinks he could get used to this. Having someone help with stuff like this, being able to just relax a little. Twenty-two minutes after the timer flashed zero, T’Challa finishes retwisting his hair. Erik tilts his head back, shakes a bit. The twists have grown since the last time. “Thanks, this would have taken forever if I did it myself.” T’Challa steps back, turning the Ukujiji off. “I need to take a bath. You can start breakfast without me.” Erik takes the dismissal for what it is and leaves the bathroom. -:- T’Challa -:- Accompaniment: “Blood in the Cut” by K. Flay “Put her down!” N’Jadaka’s hold on the attendant’s neck does not loosen. He doesn’t appear to have heard T’Challa at all, his attention focused on the attendant now suspended inches above the floor. Her eyes are wet with tears, pleading. T’Challa cannot remember her name or recognize her face. He had heard her scream while doing his evening ablutions and rushed out of the bathroom. T’Challa says again, more calmly. “N’Jadaka. Put her down.” His husband half turns his head towards him. “Someone has been sabotaging floats, sending contradicting orders in my name, and using servants like HER to do it.” T’Challa heard in passing of various minor errors and delays to do with festival preparations, the most significant of which were complications with the floats that they’d received word of today. The notion that it might have been active sabotage rather than happenstance is new. T’Challa parses the information then, without hesitation, comes to stand directly in front of N’Jadaka, right beside the choking woman. N’Jadaka meets T’Challa’s eyes and still does not release her. ‘How dare he?’ is all T’Challa can think, but he steadies himself. He tenses his fists briefly before making himself relax them. He is no longer herb-strengthened, and as Erik is, he has no chance of overpowering him. He has to diffuse this as quickly as possible. “This isn’t about her.” T’Challa places his right hand on N’Jadaka’s arm. “How would you know? Were you the one giving her orders?” N’Jadaka punctuates his words by jostling the attendant suspended beside T’Challa. T’Challa speaks once more, holding his gaze. “No, I have not. Put her down and we can handle this properly.” N’Jadaka’s nostrils flare and he sneers dark and angry. “Someone is trying to make a fool of me. Making me look like I can’t throw a parade without tripping over myself, and this bitch is working for them!” T’Challa doesn’t allow N’Jadaka to shake her again and digs his nails deep into the arm that holds her. His other hand goes for the nerve cluster in the man’s side. His cousin is still growing accustomed to the herb. T’Challa knows the nerve pain will be particularly painful to N’Jadaka’s heightened senses. Grimacing with a snarl, N’Jadaka finally releases her, and she falls to the floor, coughing and wheezing. T’Challa releases his grip on N’Jadaka and addresses the young woman without turning to face her, voice level, “Leave us.” He doesn’t look to see her immediately flee. His focus is entirely on N’Jadaka. “She is a citizen of Wakanda, who as king you are sworn to protect. She is also in your household, who as head of the Panther tribe is under your stewardship—” “You think I’m fucking stupid? Your mother chose all these attendants to sabotage me. If you think I won’t kill—-“ His blood runs cold at the idea of palace attendants killed for his husband’s tantrum. “You are being irrational, there is no proof that it was her doing that caused what you have uncovered. You are just angry and seeking to take it out on someone.” Even as T’Challa says the words he knows it’s not totally true. He is not privy to all his mother’s machinations, but he can guess she probably has something to do with today’s events. “Take it out on someone? What? You wanna take her place?” N’Jadaka’s voice has gone curious and his eyes still angry, have an odd gleam. “If I have to.” T’Challa’s heartbeat races and N’Jadaka prowls forward, crowds him back, reaching deliberately for T’Challa’s throat. T’Challa doesn’t flinch. N’Jadaka wouldn’t kill him: threaten yes, harm yes, but T’Challa believed he served him better alive. For now, anyway. His gaze doesn’t waver even as he’s lifted off the ground by his throat. N’Jadaka’s thumb flexes at his windpipe, pressing slowly till he finds he struggles even harder to breathe. Still, he doesn’t look away or struggle. He doesn’t know how much time passes before N’Jadaka moves. His husband takes a few steps backwards and T’Challa’s vision swims with the motion. Then, N’Jadaka throws him, finally releasing his throat. T’Challa struggles to take a lungful of air, gasping and coughing. The force and strength behind the throw makes sure he lands, moments later, on the bed. He can no longer keep his composure. He’s still struggling to breath when he scrambles upright, on his knees. N’Jadaka stalks closer and T’Challa realizes, heart sinking, where this is going. He hadn’t expected the man to keep his promise anyway. Still, gasping for breath, he gets his feet under him, crouching low. He would not make it easy. Once N’Jadaka is close enough T’Challa kicks him in the face. The kick connects but N’Jadaka grabs the leg and pulls him closer. T’Challa swings wild, trying to escape the hold. N’Jadaka barely leans back fast enough to avoid a kick to the head. T’Challa uses the moment to turn on the captive hip and kick viciously with his free leg. His heel punches N’Jadaka’s hand, which then releases T’Challa’s ankle. Swinging his body mass to nimbly pop up on hands and toes, T’Challa swipes up a heavy solid statuette from the nightstand and smashes it down across N’Jadaka’s head. After mere seconds recovering, blood streaming down his face, N’Jadaka lunges for him. T’Challa drops the figure, undamaged, to throw himself backward off the bed but N’Jadaka has finally called on his preternatural speed and is on top of him the next instant. T’Challa manages to strike N’Jadaka one more time in the ribs before N’Jadaka back hands him across the temple. The force makes his head spin and vision go white at the edges. It reminds him eerily of their first encounter just like this, weeks before. The inhuman strength disorients him long enough for N’Jadaka to pin him. One hand splays across his collarbone, threatening at the base of his neck, and presses him down onto the bed. Moments pass as T’Challa gets a hold of himself. Head still spinning, fighting back nausea. T’Challa grips the forearm over his sternum to pull it off. It’s useless, of course it’s useless. Then he catches sight of N’Jadaka doing something to himself with his free hand. His struggle intensifies, and he tries desperately to wrench N’Jadaka’s arm off, nails digging once more into flesh, his body contorting in his effort to get away. N’Jadaka groans, not in pain, the exhalation splattering T’Challa with blood. His nose appears to be broken and bleeding profusely. His hold on T’Challa doesn’t loosen as he pushes T’Challa’s whole body higher on the bed. The shift allows T’Challa to see what he is doing with his other hand. N’Jadaka is stroking himself. While he has T’Challa pinned. N’Jadaka’s earlier words, “I’m a man of my word,” rings in his mind like a taunt, repulsion makes T’Challa release the arm like he’s been burned. His cousin agreed he would not rape T’Challa. That did not, it seems, include forcing T’Challa to be in the vicinity while he touched himself. Gingerly he lets his arms fall to his sides and tries to block out the sounds N’Jadaka is making. His head is still swimming; he may have a concussion. T’Challa tries, at one point, to get up from under his arm but the action proves futile and the sounds N’Jadaka makes grow even louder. He realizes once more his cousin enjoys feeling him struggle. All impulse to move stops. Beyond the nausea and the intense urge to get away, T’Challa feels numb. This isn’t right, he thinks dully as N’Jadaka masturbates over him. This isn’t right, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. This isn’t right, and this is going to keep happening. Bast preserve him, he thinks, he pleads. He has only tried to do right by this man, who entered his house a stranger, and look what it has gotten him. When he can stand, he is walking out of these chambers and— a myriad of things he can’t do come to mind. Eventually, N’Jadaka leans towards T'Challa so his entire forearm is resting flat on T'Challa's torso, blood dripping on T’Challa’s nightclothes and down around the sides of his neck. He doesn’t flinch away when N’Jadaka lets his forehead rest against T’Challa’s shoulder, eyes closed, and teeth bared. He can hear N’Jadaka stroking faster. The minutes that pass are longer than they have any right to be, until at last N’Jadaka goes still. This time when T’Challa tries to roll away, there is nothing stopping him. He forces himself not to run and leaves the room and the king’s wing entirely. -:- Nakia -:- Accompaniment: “Cloud Party” by MUTO T’Challa won’t look her in the eye. He arrived at her door quarter past 10. Like his visit earlier in the week, he is unaccompanied by Dora Milaje. Unlike his earlier visit, Nakia knows immediately that something has happened. T’Challa is wearing his pajamas, and there is blood on his collar. Dried blood on the side of his face. He looks lost. “T’Challa?” When he doesn’t respond she lets him into her apartment. The door slides shut, and she takes a good look at him in the evening light. He didn’t look injured, though his clothes were a bit rumpled. This visit hadn’t been planned. There were marks on his arm, specks of blood on his clothes. She had been getting ready to write a report before T’Challa arrived, so her workstation is powered up and displaying an array of documents and pictures as well as her unfinished report. She passes the window where her work desk is, to enter the kitchenette and grab some glasses and alcohol. On her way back to the couch where T’Challa is now seated, she carefully turns off the workstation with a gesture. When she glances over at T’Challa she sees he’s paid no attention to her actions, gaze fixed on the blank screen of her entertainment display. T’Challa doesn’t look injured. But not all injuries are visible and she’s uncomfortably aware of just what these injuries might be. Intimate park violence is familiar to her; it came with the work she did. The people she met. % She sets both glasses down on the center table. Then pops the bottle open and pours them both a liberal amount. The alcohol is strong and plentiful, something she’s sure they’ll both need. Assuming the Dora Milaje or perhaps the Hatut Zeraze didn’t come by within the hour. Then she sits down. There is a world of space between them and T’Challa makes no move to come closer or speak. Neither does he accept the cup when she offers it. So, she sets his cup back down on the table and sips at her own drink. The warm, bitter taste distracts her while she waits. She is prepared to wait as long as she has to. T’Challa had come to her for a reason. Okoye told her weeks ago, T’Challa tried to kill his cousin. Her correspondence with Ramonda more or less confirmed things were not well with the newly married couple and then there was T’Challa’s visit earlier in the week. His voice had shaken when he said, “He could have hurt her,” in reference to Shuri’s presence at the border. Eventually, T’Challa speaks. “Someone sabotaged some of the opening ceremony plans.” T’Challa’s voice is perfectly level and conversational. “The floats, and some design issues with the engineers.” Nothing major, Nakia knew, they were minor issues easily fixed with time. Time, however, that isn’t available given the festival began in less than 12 hours. “Tomorrow I will have to deal with whatever issues such ‘sabotage’ has caused, deal with the saboteurs themselves and...” T’Challa trails off. Swallowing, he concludes, “Speak with my mother.” Nakia notes the small tremors in his hand. “I will... preside over the festival’s affairs and present an image of decorum—” T’Challa stops speaking. He seems to be looking at nothing at all. Then he meets her eyes for the first time since they sat down. “I miss you.” T’Challa looks tired. “I’m right here, T’Challa.” “I miss being with you, being close with someone I want to hold in my arms.” T’Challa is slowly approaching the reason for his visit. “As a prince and a citizen of Wakanda, I am aware I took many things for granted that others in this world do not, but I confess it would never have occurred to me that one such thing is safety in my own home… my own bed.” She doesn’t react outwardly to his confession. T’Challa may dance around the brevity of the grievances committed but she understands him clearly.% “He attacked one of the attendants tonight, he believes she’s one of the saboteurs.” Nakia‘s mind goes to some of the young people she’d seen about the capital. Hopefuls for the Panther Tribe’s staff selection. “What happened to her?” There is blood on T’Challa’s clothes. N’Jadaka is not Wakandan by birth and his history spoke of casual violence on a level Nakia is, unfortunately, more familiar with. More than most Wakandans. That he would carry that violence with him into his kingship is not surprising. “I stopped him from taking it any further.” That didn’t explain anything. T’Challa doesn’t seem keen on explaining further and finally reaches for the cup of alcohol. He doesn’t drink from it, just holds it. “He changed the seasonal planting rotation three days ago. It went into effect today, and the greenhouses in Ilanga courts will be scrambling for weeks to adjust.” She waits and listens. T’Challa is going somewhere with this. “He had several meetings that I wasn’t present for, two with Elder Rajvahi.” T’Challa stops, starts again. “The mining tribe has been talking about renegotiating the mining agreements for years. And now—” T’Challa takes a deep breath, and then another. As if he is on the verge of laughter, or tears. “Now that may just happen. Along with every other ill-advised thing my father spent years trying to circumvent. He isn’t trained for any of this, Nakia. He doesn’t know anything! And he’s making decisions for all of Wakanda!” T’Challa’s voice has risen in volume by the end; when he speaks again it’s softer. “The council. They’re watching him and testing. But they are not stopping him, Nakia. They’re just using him. I never thought—“ T’Challa stops mid-sentence, once again, searching for words. Nakia can see the trembling is worsening. He takes another deep breath and continues. “Your director agreed with his plan for redeployments. Half of the drafted workforce aren’t even active anymore. It’s ridiculous!” T’Challa stops again, breathing audibly faster. This topic at least, Nakia knew all about. The redeployment has been one of the most well received initiatives within the division in years. As it stood, she is looking at a field promotion as well as increased funding for her self-assigned projects. Something that she would only have dreamed of weeks ago. T’Challa has never really been interested in her work. That is, not beyond the initial glamor of her being a spy for her country. Much of what she did was classified and often heart wrenching. To observe so much injustice, so much pain and suffering yet remain silent, unobtrusive. Wakandans viewed the Dogs of War as a necessary precaution but most barely spared a thought to what they really did, besides keep Wakanda safe.% The initiative that T’Challa has so angrily disparaged would change that, permanently. Even if it is reversed in a few months or years. Already, funding and increased analysis is being funneled into projects like hers. For development, for intervention. Part of it is re-activating older Dogs of War and calling in even older favors. Something that within the division is expected and supported. Something that T’Challa and his late father would have never pursued. There has been talk and actual meetings for more concentrated efforts in target regions. Beyond this redeployment initiative, talk of fully funded, fully backed missions. The type of operations she dreamt of when she first realized how minimal Wakandan intervention truly was. There is a new energy throughout the division. Even the older Dogs are participating. Old reports and newer cases are being brought forward. In the past week alone more than thirty War Dogs have been recalled back to the capital and even more would be joining; to be re-deployed within the month. It is beyond some of her wilder fantasies. But she can see the fine print and it frightens her. The first target regions are places of global economic importance on the African continent, points of interest. Mines, ports, points of contention. Removing foreign influence and intervening for positive change would not be easy. They would inevitably be fighting against imperial powers with deep roots and deeper vested interests. In the face of such opposition, ‘intervention’ feels like an innuendo. The draft proposals were describing hostile takeover; the creation of strongholds. The words ‘satellite state’ are already being thrown around. But that isn’t what T’Challa wanted to hear. T’Challa had come to her to be comforted, and she would, but her thoughts were her own. If T’Challa spent the night, she wouldn’t be able to get any work done. She doesn’t feel right preparing reports towards these new initiatives with T’Challa so close and obviously not well. “He shouldn’t be King. What he’s doing. What he’s done. Bast, why didn’t he die?” T’Challa’s voice carries such emotion. Darkly, she wonders what exactly N’Jadaka is holding over T’Challa’s head to keep him in line. Two foreigners weren’t enough, not with the treasonous words coming out of his mouth, not with what she knows the king has put T’Challa through. Nakia didn’t exactly disagree. N’Jadaka had not been prepared in the proper way to be king. He is ignorant in a way that would only cause problems in the future. His actions towards T’Challa, and now one of his attendants, showed Nakia the type of man their new king was. Not a good man, not someone deserving of Bast’s favor or the title of Damisa-Sarki. Yet by Wakandan tradition and rules of ascension, he’s king. An outsider by birth, an Udaku by blood.% T’Challa has always had faith in Wakandan tradition. In their importance, their justness. Even the ones most disliked are, at times, ignored. She can see cracks in that faith now. It gives her a small sense of vindication. T’Challa is receiving his own lesson in the horrible helplessness many people around the world knew as their daily reality.% “He is not all powerful.” Nakia chooses her words carefully. “Even if the council is being opportunistic, they have Wakanda’s best interest in mind.” She hoped. T’Challa shakes his head. “Will it matter? After he’s made decisions that won’t be undone by the outcome of the next challenge day?” Such as putting Wakanda’s greenhouses on a stockpiling schedule that presaged something serious, like war. But T’Challa isn’t just here to talk about Wakanda’s future or its current and untested leader. T’Challa has yet to say the words outright but Nakia knew. N’Jadaka hurt T’Challa, intimately. T’Challa retaliated during their stay at the honeymoon villa. But neither matter has been brought before any formal council. Nor would it be if the events of the intervening weeks were any indication. The two still shared a living space, and what must be highly aligned schedules given T’Challa’s words. Tomorrow, T’Challa would be expected to stand beside his husband and officiate over the festival ceremonies. Nakia has seen pictures of the two of them together, from the honeymoon and the past few weeks. She supposed that to the casual observer they looked fine, perhaps even ‘in love’ if one is inclined to such naivety. N’Jadaka’s gaze was possessive enough to be mistaken for infatuation, his hand on T’Challa’s shoulder or side reminiscent of something romantic. But T’Challa’s eyes and body language told the truth. Even if the distance between them did not. To Nakia, T’Challa’s discomfort feels almost physical. Like his earlier words on safety, in his home, his bed. Nakia watches him tip the cup to his lips. When he sets the cup back down, it’s mostly empty. % “I should go, it’s late.” T’Challa smiles, apologetic. Nakia shakes her head. “You are always welcome, T’Challa.” She doubts he has anywhere else he wanted to be. “I do not want to go back.” T’Challa’s voice is smaller now, as if the admission is some sort of horrible thing. “You can stay.” “Thank you.” T’Challa reaches once more for the cup. She refills it. They drink in silence. The next time Nakia checks the time, more than an hour has passed. The alcohol and the day’s events remind her how much more comfortable she would be in bed. When she stands, T’Challa’s gaze follows her. He doesn’t move, however. He’s slept on her loveseat before. When they’d been younger, usually during their ‘off’ periods. Tonight, doesn’t feel like one of those nights. “Come to bed.” The ritual of preparing for sleep with T'Challa so close is comfortingly familiar. Nakia washes her face then wraps her hair, all while T'Challa, who finished his ablutions sooner, watches her from the bed. When she comes to lie down beside him, the careful distance from before remains. His hesitation is endearing, T'Challa being many things but never presumptuous. He would not touch her unless invited to. When she twines her hand in his, he grabs back tightly. Casually, she draws closer till their sides touch. The position isn't the most comfortable; they're still facing each other. T'Challa doesn't seem inclined to let her hand go. Time passes, and she waits for the tension in T'Challa's body to subside. For his heartbeat to slow down. Every time she thinks it will, though, T'Challa shifts and his heartbeat elevates with it. She feels her own eyes begin to droop in sleep, so she moves. T'Challa makes an odd sound when she lets go of his hand to turn away, but she grabs for him a few moments later. Pulls him closer, till her back is to his chest and his arm rests at her hip. This time when T’Challa talks it’s different, more halting, less sure. “I went to the central market today. Like we did the day after my coronation.” Nakia knew, from his tone- superficially casual, a brittleness- from the shape of everything he’d said since arriving at her door, that T’Challa is approaching the heart of what troubled him. “You know, I never really believed. That my cousin would remain king. But today, at the market, everyone - the vendors, the market goers - when they spoke to me, they asked about him. It made me realize that for them this is just business as usual. Things are no different than when my father was king.” T’Challa breaks over the word ‘king.’ Nakia wraps his arms tighter around her, close to her ribcage. T’Challa’s forehead is now resting at the back of her neck. She can feel warm wetness from where his cheek presses against her skin. “Tomorrow I will preside over the ceremony of Bast like my father before me. But all the Wakandan people will see is him. He doesn’t care. He—It’s just a pretty display to him; meaningless.” Nakia remembers his earlier words about fixing the issues the saboteurs caused. T’Challa was not doing it for his cousin; he did it out of respect to Bast, his people, his country. But anything T’Challa did now would be attributed to N’Jadaka or viewed as T’Challa supporting N’Jadaka’s kingship. She can feel T’Challa’s whole body trembling against her back. “How can he be Bast’s chosen?” She squeezes his hand and T’Challa takes a deep breath. Slowly, the shaking subsides, and his breathing slows down. She speaks for the first time since they laid down. “What happened? After the attendant?” She thinks T’Challa needs to tell someone. He takes so long to answer, she almost thinks he won’t. “This evening, after I stopped him from choking her, he picked me up by the neck, threw me on the bed, held me down, and–” T’Challa’s tone is nonchalant but it’s like he loses interest in the topic after a point. Nakia doesn’t say anything, waiting to see if he would say anything else. She has heard stories like this for years. Men, women, children assaulted, destroyed by what was done to them. Offering them the comfort of her presence and attention was the most she could do in many cases. And now, she thinks, in painful irony. Now, because of this king, who is making T’Challa suffer, she will be able to do more for the next stranger she meets. But she can only do for T’Challa what she had done for them. She listens silently as T’Challa continues. “At a certain point in the honeymoon, he agreed that he would not do what he did on our wedding night again. I imagined our agreement as a line that he would not cross. Even if I did not really believe he would keep to it.” T’Challa sounds sardonic, as if he were discussing some mild annoyance and not rape. “Thus far he has kept to his word—I just realized tonight, his line is drawn in a different place than I had thought.” If she has not heard similar words perhaps a hundred times before, she thinks she would be more horrified. “In exchange for his silence about our American guests, and the promise that he would not kill Barnes—” he pauses momentarily, “I agreed to give him access to my body.” She guessed correctly. “I thought when I went to him that night that he would do like he did on our wedding night. But instead, he gave me a massage and only on my back.” T’Challa sounds unsure now, as if doubting the memory or his own reaction to what was simply an “innocent” massage. “I bartered access to my body again this last week, and much more time than before and he used that time to have me retwist his hair.” T’Challa sounds as bewildered as relieved. Unused to the feeling of being grateful with the bare minimum. “You have done nothing to feel guilty for.” N’Jadaka choosing to play ‘nice’ didn’t absolve him of his previous actions, or any promise he wouldn’t do it again. T’Challa, like most Wakandans, has never dealt with this sort of violence. “I’m not. I know his actions are not my fault. I keep thinking if I just reported him, I would not be here now.” “Why didn’t you?” It might have been a neat case or a very messy one. Assault is ground enough for separation, and usually much more severe repercussions. Even if the assailant is a king. “I don’t know. I just wanted him gone and there was wine, and he choked. I expected him to die.” T’Challa is referring to their honeymoon. “Did he hurt you again tonight?” She avoids calling the hurt by name, mirroring T’Challa’s unwillingness. It is never too late to tell someone, get separated, seek justice. But she doesn’t think T’Challa will, at least not through proper channels. “No.” It sounds like a lie. Gently she prods him. “There is blood on your clothes, T’Challa.” T’Challa’s shrug presses against her shoulder. “His blood. Not mine.” More silence and no further explanation. The king probably isn’t dead, just injured most likely. “What did you do?” she asks when no explanation comes. “I thought he would rape me again, so I hit him with a statue on the nightstand. I broke his nose. Then he pinned me down and touched himself while bleeding on me.” T’Challa’s tone is very calm recounting the details of what happened, but Nakia sees right through it. She could count on one hand the number of times T’Challa has been this vulnerable in front of her, probably in front of anyone. "There are moments. Sometimes, when I think, maybe things might become bearable, maybe things can be salvaged. But he proves me wrong every time. He married me to terrorize me. I am a toy to him. The prize he won when he became king." One of the first and most painful lessons her mentor, Asaani, taught her went something like this: ‘Just because you have the power to do something doesn't mean you should.’ "I'm sorry." T’Challa’s voice is trembling, probably from embarrassment, distress or both even. "You have nothing to be sorry for." Nakia is still learning her lesson. When she turns back over to face him, T’Challa’s eyes are red. She makes her demeanor as warm and delicately compassionate as she can, holding his gaze. Whatever else he needed to say she would listen, and she would not judge. Eventually T’Challa says, “It isn’t bearable, and he isn’t going to stop. I have been assuming his reign would be temporary. I realize now that I have held to that, to endure this. But it isn’t temporary. It’s real.” T’Challa looks up, staving off more tears from forming. “Bast save me, this is real and it’s not going to stop.”