The council convenes on what to do next. A vision from Bast.
Was fapping around with the draft aaand... had a bit of a mix-up. Sorry for the false alert oof. YouTube Playlist Spotify Playlist
-:- Erik -:- Accompaniment: There is still time by Lorn Erik wakes up gasping for breath, hands on his throat. All around him are Dora Milaje and the red of their uniforms temporarily drowns his vision and enrages him before he remembers himself. It takes effort to push himself up from the cot he’s laying on. His body feels like he’s been sitting in the hot sun for hours and his skin burns unnaturally hot. What the hell had just happened? “What the fuck?” He looks around the space no longer blocked on all sides by Dora and recognizes it to be some sort of office. One of the many buildings lining the main road that led to the plaza. He’d been in some of these offices numerous times in the days preceding the festival and– “What was that?” He speaks again when no one speaks. Someone had just tried to kill him. Why were they all looking at him as if he’d grown a second head? He counts the General, Dora Milaje, Kingsguard, a Tribe Champion, T’Challa, Ramonda and a few others scattered around the room. He stalks toward T’Challa once he spots him amongst the people in the room, ignoring the stranger with dark clothes–a doctor?-- asking him to ‘please sit down.’ He speaks for the third time, now directly to T’Challa, and this time it’s a threat. “What was that?” “This is not my doing, N’Jadaka.” T’Challa’s tone is perfectly calm. “Then what was that?” Erik forces himself to match T’Challa’s tone, his chest feels tight. He prepared contingency plans for all sorts of shit during every day of the festival but what just happened? How was he supposed to anticipate something like that let alone have a plan for it? Someone needed to start talking now . “Someone just tried to kill me.” He gestures to make his point and then stops as he notices the white. He holds his hands in front of him. Blinks and tries to clear his eyes, but it doesn’t change what he’s seeing. There are white spots on his skin. Long thin trails and white spots are now creeping up his arm from almost entirely white fingertips. He touches one of the spots- the skin feels the same, and that disturbs him even more. It's like he’s been stained with bleach, but that isn’t possible. Unless it was a side effect of the extra strong hallucinogens released during the light and sound show they just witnessed. “Someone fucking poisoned me.” He enunciates by sticking his newly ‘bleach-spotted’ arm in T’Challa’s face. He likes the way T’Challa flinches then catches himself enough to pass off as him leaning back, but Erik isn’t fooled and recognizes T’Challa’s fear for what it is. The General steps forward and Erik doesn’t miss the way she angles her body as if to protect T’Challa at her side. She tells him, “My king, it would appear you have been cursed by Bast.” Erik’s attention snaps to hers and T’Challa’s body language, not really the words–which make no fucking sense. He tries to read them— their expressions, their bearings— but learns nothing new. He doesn’t need to take his eyes off these two to be aware that everyone else in the room is watching them, and no one else reacted to Okoye’s words with incredulity, or even shock. His awareness of it has his heart hammering faster. Long tense moments pass in between her speaking and Erik’s grudging response. “What does that mean?” Wakanda took their religion seriously and the existence of the herb pointed to some freaky shit but ‘cursed by Bast’ is another level. What did she mean by curse? His skin is turning white, his body felt like it was on fire, he had just been barricaded by— by what? By holographic panthers?— and now she was talking about a curse?! The General looks uncomfortable and Erik takes the momentary hesitation to grab T’Challa by the arm and pull him closer. He wants a litmus test for whatever the General is about to tell him. T’Challa struggles when Erik grips but they have an audience, so T’Challa doesn’t fight it the way he might have had they been in private. T’Challa’s expression is furious, lips set into a grim tense line that reminds Erik of T’Challa’s mother. “My king, the council has been called to convene to deliberate on the next course of action, but there is no doubt about it. You have been cursed. The omens all point to you as the receiver of a curse from Bast.” Erik listens but his brain can’t move past her first sentence. The council is being called. Not to figure out who just attempted to kill him. No, to decide what to do because his assassination attempt was a curse from their goddess as far as they were concerned. His mind races through all the possibilities, all the ways what happened today could have been doctored, faked, hallucinogens that Wakandans regularly imbibed, the fucking herb juice he’d taken. Too many factors and not enough information. Here he was in what was probably the most advanced nation on earth and they were going on about divine intervention and curses . He has to suppress the impulse to scream. The whole thing is a little too convenient for Erik’s liking, and it didn’t explain whatever the fuck just happened to his skin. He wants to hit something, preferably the smug look on T’Challa’s face. Erik addresses the general, “Why is a council being summoned? What do you guys think this ‘curse’ means?” Okoye’s tone is professional as always but Erik can tell how much it pleases her to say what she does next. “A king out of favor with Bast is grounds for an immediate challenge day.” The anger that's been bubbling hot since Erik started choking in front of everyone on live broadcast turns cold. So, that's how things were gonna go. Erik doesn't ask any more questions, but he doesn’t let go of T’Challa either. This wasn’t the first time he’s almost choked to death and he has several people who really want him dead. He spares another glance at the room at large and catches Shuri’s eye in the corner. The princess is surrounded by kingsguard and he quickly recognizes Ramonda standing next to her. Shuri immediately looks down and the queen dowager doesn’t even look at him, but Erik doesn’t look away. His gaze is locked on the pair. If T’Challa and his family thought they could remove Erik without a fight—they have another thing coming. Beside him, Okoye turns and there’s a shift in the room and especially at the entrance as someone new enters. It’s W’Kabi flanked by two men in Border Patrol uniform. Erik watches him scan the room, shoulders lowering in relief as he locks eyes with Erik saying, “My king.” Erik lifts the hand not currently gripping T’Challa close and beckons the Border Tribesman closer. W’Kabi’s gaze skirts from T’Challa to the General and then back to Erik once he’s closer before asking, “Are you alright, my king?” Erik looks around with a dismissive half shrug, responding just as softly, “Are your people looking for who did this?” He’s still holding out hope that not everyone thought his assasination attempt was some great act of god. The change in W’Kabi’s expression brings Erik’s attention sharply back to him. W’Kabi looks unsure, speaking more hesitantly he says, “My king, no one in Wakanda would contest the signs as divine workings of Bast.” Erik swears under his breath. W’Kabi, too? “So now the council is going to convene about me? Decide if they’ll let me stay king?” W’Kabi, who Erik noticed was looking at Erik’s hands, looks up at Erik and smirks. “They wouldn’t dare remove you.” Erik didn’t know why W’Kabi wasn’t worried, but he knew fuck all about all this bullshit, and he knew W’Kabi was as politically shrewd and connected as anyone, so he’d take it. “They wouldn’t?” W’Kabi shakes his head, looking more confident, more lethal, “You have nothing to fear.” Erik tries to let the words reassure him, and he regrips T’Challa’s arm, the man’s sour expression grounding him. A part of him is expecting T’Challa to contradict W’Kabi, and when neither he nor the General speak up it grounds him even more. Just then the General’s kimoyo beads go off, a ranking Hatut Zeraze appearing on display, “We have completed our sweep of the area. The streets are clear; the royal family may return to the palace.” -:- In the interim before the council gathers, Erik pulls up the footage from the live broadcasts of what happened before he collapsed. If he hadn’t seen it in person he would think the footage had to be doctored. The sudden destruction of several monuments was one thing, but the weather change and the phantom panthers that had blocked anyone from reaching him while he choked was hard to dismiss. He ignores the thousands of comments and reactions to pull up emergency access feeds from the War Dog Division and the Hatut Zeraze respectively. No reports of foreign contact, no bomb threats, no suspicious figures and no mass hallucinogens in the air. One more point for actual divine intervention. Erik feels like the only sane person in the country. He’s sure there’s an explanation for what just happened that isn’t ‘act of god’ but with sentiments as they were he would never know. No further investigation would be done on it if everyone was sure it was simply ‘Bast’ cursing him. Some of the sentiments he’s seen online in reaction seem to think he should be dead instead of just cursed, because somewhere in their centuries long history this had happened before and it isn’t just folklore to them. It’s all a bit too much for him to shake off even after W’Kabi’s confident reassurance. BS or not, enough people here took it seriously that he had to take the potential consequences seriously. He didn’t know what to expect in this council meeting, but he’d be damned if he let them see him flinch. He was going to walk out of this the same way he’d walk into it: trusting in himself, in his plan, in his success. -:- Once the council convenes, it's a stark difference from previous meetings. This time the meeting is about him instead of including him. They don't ask for his opinion and he’s not allowed to speak. It’s like he’s on trial. Humiliatingly reminiscent of his first audience with them, when he’d been in chains. They discuss the evening’s events, debating the implications of the so-called ‘omens’ and gesture to him without addressing him like he’s a prop. Some of it he understands, most he only half listens to to keep hold of the flow of things. Border Tribe’s Elder is staunchly on his side of things, but he’s fighting against all of Wakandan superstition which, after today’s events, is at an all time high. The other three vary in their disposition, but all four are treating the situation as grave. He doesn’t need W’Kabi’s hovering at his side to know his legitimacy is openly being questioned. Not just by this council of senile assholes but the entirety of Wakanda. More or less the entire population had been watching that broadcast, nevermind those who had been on the plaza ground floor when the statues started falling. He hasn’t asked about the casualties, if there were any. There hasn’t been time, just this ominous hush as others deliberate about him. He tries to tamp down the feeling rising in his chest. Losing his cool, in front of the council, wouldn't make him more legitimate in their eyes. Every time he looked at their faces, the general’s and finally T’Challa’s face, he feels his self control threatening to break. The council seems to come to a decision and Erik tunes in as Mining Elder Rajvahi clears her throat to speak. “In light of the nature of this evening’s events, we have decided further guidance is necessary. The priests of Bast must be called for formal divination.” What did ‘divination’ even mean here? No one explains anything to him, and he’s reaching a point where he just wanted to get to the verdict. Would he lose his kingship over this or not? They adjourn the council, to resume after the ritual at the Temple of Bast, with Dora Milaje approaching him to escort him. The distance from the council rooms to the temple isn’t that far and he steams in silence. The queen dowager prevented him from moving Shuri back to the palace with his own people so now he doesn’t even know where she was. If this is the beginning of a coup he wanted his hostages where he could see them. Erik insisted back in the throne room that his cousin come with him to the temple. With all the moving parts right now he didn’t want the other man out of his sight. He didn’t want any more surprises and while he may not have Shuri in easy reach, T’Challa would have to do. Their arrival is greeted by several priests. Among them the man Erik used to call ‘Uncle James’. It's a slap to the face, being confronted by the man at a time like this. Erik hasn’t forgotten how close he came to killing Zuri at the waterfall and now with everything that happened today the same man would be ‘divining’ his future as king?! His heartbeat picks up and a dark adrenaline fills him. Whatever happened in this temple, it wouldn’t be him dying or losing his throne and he grips T’Challa’s hand a little tighter. Erik transitioned to hand holding on the way here, the contact reassures him he hasn’t lost it just yet. Worst come to worst he would kill T’Challa and deal with the rest. The General and the Dora they came with don’t follow the two of them and accompanying priests into the temple. They’re led into a large open room, and he recognizes that it’s the same place where he first took the herb. Just like the first time, he can see only two exits in the underground room, and the number of priests sets off a feeling of claustrophobia. At this point Erik is at his limit, angry not just at Wakanda for being so superstitious but himself for not anticipating something like this. A country that used trial by combat to decide it’s king wouldn’t blink at whatever bullshit divination these priests would pull now. As Zuri gives him a spiel on what’s about to happen he just barely manages to pick out the important part. Something-something ‘appealing to Bast’, faithful communion, divine will, a destiny chart? What was that? Oh and he couldn’t leave till the divination was complete. Blank stares when he asked how long it would take. “So, what do I do while you all chant.” Erik isn’t trying to be funny, but he honestly can’t take any of this seriously. Zuri directs him to an area where he could sit and wait, but Erik doesn’t move just yet. T’Challa keeps talking to the priest after the spiel ends so Erik doesn’t check out immediately, committing every word to memory but understanding very little. The feeling of not knowing and being totally out of his depth just keeps growing. The destiny chart is mentioned again, this time in reference to T’Challa. He needs to look into that when he gets a chance, if he gets a chance. Erik is itching for action, to do something, heck leave if that’s what it took to stop this mess. Instead he waits. Whatever these priests ‘divined’ in the next however many hours, he would still be here. He hasn’t gotten this far for superstition to dethrone him. T’Challa takes a seat not too far from where Zuri is and then closes his eyes as if in prayer. Erik follows and sits a little behind T’Challa with his back to the wall, keeping everything in his field of vision. Then the priests begin to chant, and Erik—eyes open, he doesn’t trust this shit—watches the spectacle. Like everything else relating to Bast this week, it’s tediously dogmatic. Soon enough the only action is chanting, in words he can’t even be sure are Wakandan. A few minutes pass like that and he quickly starts to get bored. Erik rubs at his arms. He’s caught different people staring but no one has directly acknowledged the change in his skin. The creepy lack of pigment is only on his hands and arms, as far as he can see. He’s not about to check the rest of his body now. At some point he starts to nod off, the day and for that matter the week has been long, a non-stop production. The priests chant on and on. The words are unintelligible and after a while blend together in a long hum. Eventually he closes his eyes and allows himself a light rest, reminiscent of a time when 48 hour missions were common for him. -:- T’Challa -:- Accompaniment: Backstroke by Deffie T’Challa opens his eyes to a purple sky, and the sudden change startles him out of his prayer. Why is he in the ancestral plane? He stands up cautiously, eyeing the vast expanse. What he can see is bare when compared to his visit after his coronation. The trees, panther spirits, and scenery that had dotted the landscape then are not visible. Instead there is simply a path of packed earth winding through the savannah grasses. He decides to follow the path and see where it leads. He assumes this must be a vision from Bast–what he and the assembled priests had been praying for. But why was he receiving the vision and not a priest? What did Bast have to say to him after Her actions mere hours before? He walks and wonders. A showing from Bast hasn’t happened like this in generations. T’Challa could only guess how angry She had to be to act in such a manner. When N’Jadaka fell to the ground – well, T’Challa hadn’t expected him to stand again. T’Challa was as pious as the next Wakandan, but in that moment a reverence had swelled within him he had rarely experienced before. Reverence, and elation. Bast was intervening, delivering Her judgement on N’Jadaka for all to see. The justice of it lit a fire in him. T’Challa would have never petitioned for anything like it, and it made him feel small to be the object of Her attention. They were all small to Her, momentary, and She was granting them all a precious gift to allow them to bear witness. His happiness dampened a bit at the realization that N’Jadaka was cursed instead of dead, but the outcome– T’Challa is almost sure might as well be the same. Bast cursed his cousin in front of all Wakanda on her name day and hadn’t even allowed N’Jadaka to lead the final rites honoring Her. He was clearly out of favor and the priests would be calling for another challenge day come morning. That still didn’t explain the marks of blessing. T’Challa had come up with no accounting for it in all the hours since he spotted the marks appearing on N’Jadaka’s skin, just after he realized the king would live. Why would She bless him? Why would She bless him now? Was there still some purpose he served? In this holy space, out of his world and out of his body, T’Challa felt distant from the confusion, the uncertainty, from everything but his reverence. Still walking along the path through that open space, T’Challa scans eyes in every direction. T’Challa’s recollection of previous accounts of visions received in this manner from Bast always included a witness. Who would be his witness? Or perhaps he was the witness and one of the priests was the proper receiver of this vision? The thought makes him feel a little giddy, this would be history someday and it’s an immeasurable honor to be part of such divine justice and instruction. He is still pondering what this vision, and his place in it all, could mean when a door appears. The door is not in the common wakandan style. It stands free with no attached structure. After some deliberation, T’Challa walks to it and opens the door and steps through. Moments later his immediate surroundings melt away into something totally unfamiliar. He goes from familiar purple skies and a bare expanse to an apartment unlike any he’s ever been in before. Through shaded windows he can see the purple sky, but the room is entirely unfamiliar. He is also not alone anymore. There is a child sitting on the floor, beside a box. T’Challa walks closer, his gaze settles quickly on the ring the child is holding. It's his grandmother's ring. So that meant... this must be N'Jadaka. The realization makes his heart sink. Why would Bast want him present for Her vision...? Weren’t Her actions and curse enough? What more could She have to say to him? He doesn't get much chance to question the situation or examine this child-form of N’Jadaka before someone else appears. T'Challa catches sight of a tall figure draped in purple cloth before sinking to his knees. He knows instinctively who She must be despite him never seeing Her before. Bast’s arrival fills the room with strange light and new pressure. T’Challa watches from lowered eyes as She approaches the young N'Jadaka, now on his feet. The sight of him, standing arrogantly as if he was Her equal, irritates T’Challa. You didn’t stand in the presence of Bast. Not unless She commanded it. “I want to talk to my dad.” N'Jadaka’s voice is childish, like his form. T’Challa recoils further— the outrage— how dare he speak to Bast in such a way! The goddess’ response is equally puzzling. “You have talked enough, I called you here for a reason.” When the goddess addresses N’Jadaka and only N’Jadaka, it becomes clear to T'Challa that while the goddess had arrived to speak in this vision, it was not for him. The realization burns: he would be only a witness. After She speaks, something changes. T’Challa looks on, more wary. Where a boy once stood, the adult N’Jadaka now stands, markless, wearing dark fatigues like the ones he had worn upon entering Wakanda. The goddess turns to address T’Challa: “Rise. Look. You are a witness.” T’Challa can’t find the words to respond and the goddess doesn’t seem to expect them. He stands up slower than he knelt. When his attention returns once more to N'Jadaka, he sees that Bast’s form has changed as well. The glimpse T’Challa first caught before falling to his knees was of a figure sheathed in a thick shawl, too shadowed for him to make out. Now Her form is that of an older woman, wearing a dark green ensemble in the style of a western suit, Her face is discernible but not one he recognizes. Dark skin, thick features and a soft ephemeral glow are the only things that mark Her as the goddess T’Challa knows She is. N'Jadaka can see him now, he can tell because the man appears as if he is about to say something directed at T’Challa but… can’t quite speak. Had Bast silenced him? N'Jadaka must come to the same realization because he turns away from T’Challa to face the goddess once more. T’Challa can’t see his expression but he can see the tension in N’Jadaka’s stance. Her expression is somber, perhaps even irritated, but nothing like the wrath he would justly expect. “We spoke when I first granted you my gift. Do you remember?” Bast continues, “You made a promise, N’Jadaka son of N’Jobu.” When N’Jadaka speaks it's as if he can’t quite breathe. “I already started, what the fuck is this for?” “My daughters call for your blood. If you are not careful, they will kill you.” “I know that. I’m watching them, and him too.” N'Jadaka doesn’t turn to T’Challa when he says ‘him’, but he knows who his cousin is referring to. The exchange unnerves T’Challa, it’s too informal. What could his cousin have promised their goddess? Hadn’t She just cursed him? “Your distractions do not serve me. My blessing extends only as much as your goals remain mine. Do not mistake my forbearance with condonation.” The goddess’ gaze is severe, cold, the somber expression giving way to something more calculating. “I want what you promised. This is my leash.” At Her last word, a thread of purple light suddenly appears, extending from the goddess. It connects the goddess to N’Jadaka, winding like tendrils around his body, his limbs, his neck. As it solidifies, growing larger and brighter, the color turns warm gold and then seems to constrict. In response, N'Jadaka abruptly curls inwards, collapsing to his knees as if struck, but no sound escapes. “When the five children treat in full communion to advance my domain, when you have paid blood tribute for your father’s house, and when your heart, which now disdains you, pleads on his king’s behalf, then my curse will be lifted.” Something like holy fire runs through T’Challa as She speaks. Her words are a proclamation, etched into his memory. T’Challa revels in it, while N’Jadaka continues to jerk and writhe and heave in breaths. Eventually, with difficulty, N’Jadaka staggers up to stand upright. “What did you do to me?” N’Jadaka sounds on the verge of tears. The goddess’ expression doesn’t change but there is an almost but not quite curl to the set of Her lips. “I curbed your distraction.” Then the goddess turns to T’Challa and Her gaze softens. It’s humbling. She moves towards him and he just wants to drop to his knees again, to drop his gaze, prostrate himself completely and worship at Her feet. Her form changes back to how She first appeared to him, aged in the wisdom of millenia, swathed in rich purple cloth and taller than him by several inches. When She is directly in front of him, She cups his cheek. The touch is gentle, tender, and the overwhelming comfort makes his eyes close in spiritual relief. “Have strength, T’Challa. Wakanda will endure.” Her words are like an anointing. Her touch is more soothing than anything he could have asked for. He opens his eyes reluctantly. He is only a witness, but he had wanted—no he had needed something more from Her. Beneath his reverence, his awe and revelation, he’s still so confused. She must see through him to his heart's desire because She spares a glance at his cousin, before looking back at him. “T’Challa. You have never disappointed me.” With those words, the vision ends. The warm purple light from that sky is replaced by the cold light of the temple, and he feels the floor under him where he sits. He doesn’t have much time to reorient himself because someone yells in alarm and T’Challa jumps to his feet. Mere feet away, N’Jadaka holds a blade to Zuri’s neck. His gaze dares anyone in the room to challenge him. They are all frozen, watching their king in deadly silence. “You heard her. Make that plea, now.” His words are directed at T’Challa. The command doesn’t make sense at first. What did N'Jadaka mean? When he finally connects the goddess’ prophetic decree with his cousin's action he stiffens in disgust. “It does not work like that, N’Jadaka.” Or, at least, he didn’t think it did. N'Jadaka could not terrorize him into an acceptable plea. It has to be genuine. N'Jadaka presses the blade to Zuri’s neck and T’Challa, tired and a little desperate, utters the sort of words that could go into such a plea, voice flat. Nothing happens, as expected. He waits, heart pounding in his chest, for N'Jadaka to slit Zuri’s throat. N’Jadaka doesn't. Instead, he throws Zuri away from himself with a frustrated shout and makes a swift cut on his own hand. They all watch the blood well in his hand and fall to the floor. Nothing happens. T’Challa almost laughs, would have if N’Jadaka didn’t look seconds away from killing someone. Bast, what had he been cursed with? Zuri scrambles away and N'Jadaka doesn’t pursue him. His gaze seems to be locked on where he cut himself. “I am the Panther Tribe, if I kill every cousin will I have won the Panther Tribe then? Huh? That enough blood tribute?” T’Challa wants to scream, what was wrong with this man? “Enough! You cannot deceive Bast. There is no way to swindle your way out of Her curse.” T’Challa’s anger overtakes his initial panic and he feels… exasperated. Was this truly who Bast had chosen to bring about Her will? An outsider with so little knowledge of Her or Her ways? Someone who thought he could trick Her? N’Jadaka glares at him and T’Challa holds his gaze evenly, eyes resting particularly on the newly appeared, soft “white” of his forehead. Waiting for whatever the man would do next. Threaten him again perhaps? Make good on his threat to kill someone? “Why did she look like that?” N’Jadaka finally says. “The goddess?” “Yeah, not really what I thought a ‘goddess’ would look like. She looked like a lady I used to know.” When She first appeared, T’Challa thought She resembled their grandmother on their fathers’ side. “She tends to speak through familiar faces.” Or so he recalled from somewhere. What had N’Jadaka promised Her? He knew Her demands to lift the curse, but something had prompted this ridiculous string of events in the first place. Bast had not rejected N’Jadaka in the beginning after all. T’Challa hadn’t even known one could commune with Bast the way N’Jadaka presumably had at some point. “What did you promise Her? When did you speak with Her? During your coronation?” Whatever She’d asked, why couldn’t She ask it of a more suitable candidate? N’Jadaka doesn’t answer immediately, eyes closed, the open wound on his hand slowly closing. Finally, his breathing now even, his expression cool, he opens his eyes, looks right at T’Challa, and speaks. “Wait and see.”