T’Challa and Ramonda gain some visitors.
Ripped some poetry wholesale from the songs of solomon, yes i'm unoriginal dont @ me. Or do... in a comment.
The doctor isn’t one of the usual physicians and his mother eyes the woman warily when she sets her med-kit down on the low table in the sitting room. T’Challa can’t quite manage relief upon seeing the familiar logo. He’s been feeling awful for weeks now. The withdrawal symptoms had faded somewhat in the first month then came back with a vengeance recently. It left him disoriented if he stood up too quickly and nauseous from simple tasks. His appetite wasn’t good either but he blamed that on the food being served. When the physician asks about his symptoms T’Challa struggles to admit all of them. He had been hiding some of it decently from his mother but in the face of someone who could help, he caves. The physician’s diagnosis doesn’t take long, her face growing more pinched and worried as she reads her kimoyo screen. T’Challa knows it won’t be good, and he just prays it will be treatable. He’s stumped however when she starts to ask what he’s done lately to prompt such a decline in health. Stress and a few skipped meals shouldn’t have been enough. His mother is the one to voice the idea that perhaps their food had been tampered with, but she didn’t share most of the symptoms T’Challa had. The physician is talking about consulting a specialist and escalating the matter when T’Challa’s eyes fall to the anklet. They had been unable to remove it ever since N’Jadaka placed it on him and some days he forgot about it while others he repeatedly picked at the metal. A thought occurs to him and he interrupts the physician. “Could these symptoms be caused by some sort of… poisoning through metal?” He raises his foot as he speaks so they can see the anklet. The physician stares a long time at it before she answers. In those moments it occurs to T’Challa, this physician might report to N’Jadaka before or after they came to see T’Challa. It occurs to him they could lie. Standing besides him, his mother probably has the same thought but she still explains to the physician, “This was a gift T'Challa was given recently. Special alloys can carry different things, it might be an allergic reaction of some sort. Please check.” The physician nods, and a different scan is run on the anklet. T’Challa watches and waits. A part of him doubting the very possibility of this small bit of jewelry being the reason for all his recent issues, another wanting proof that someone most likely his cousin was trying to kill him. After a while the physician shakes her head, “If there are... hazardous materials or compounds in this anklet. I can not see them. May I suggest you give me this anklet for further examination?” Her words are met with awkward silence, T’Challa finally speaks. “It can’t be removed, not by me.” The physician’s brows rise, but she doesn’t ask further questions. Instead she begins a lengthy prescription for T’Challa. Noting his vitamin and iron deficiencies as well as a few other concerning issues as the reasoning for the medicine she gives. She also urges T’Challa to eat more ‘nutritious foods.’ To this neither T’Challa or his mother mention they only receive two meals a day, neither of which were particularly well balanced or even to their tastes. Not starving was the metric they now used and T’Challa some days failed that, with his appetite so low. The physician urges T’Challa to take some of the medicine she had brought immediately but he demures with the promise that he would after he ate. Shortly after the physician leaves, his mother gathers up all the medicine to examine them closely and T’Challa allows himself to sprawl on the single chair in their small residence’s main parlor. In that moment he misses his kimoyo beads, misses his freedom, misses his sister and her ability to always find answers where he himself couldn’t. The thought of Shuri, the ever present anxiety as to whether she was okay and what might be happening just beyond their prison overwhelms him. He tries to control his breathing before they can turn to sobs. “I do not trust this doctor or her medicine.” His mother says after some time. T’Challa looks away from the ceiling to nod. “I don’t either. You have been asking for a doctor since we arrived here, why would one be sent now after so many weeks?” The time he needed one most was past, now anyone who came would just be doing damage control, that or giving him the final push to an early grave. If his cousin truly meant to allow him treatment, he would be taken to a medical facility not this. “If the source is really the anklet… then we should remove it.” T’Challa says when his mother shows no sign of saying anything more. “It might kill me soon, this is not normal.” He adds and pretends not to notice the slight flinch in his mother’s gaze. Before the doctor came she hadn’t known all of the symptoms he’s been experiencing lately. Mercifully she hadn’t started with how T’Challa hid those things from her. When his mother speaks her voice is deceptively steady. “Do you want to cut the limb off?” At the question T’Challa freezes, totally flabbergasted. That was not what he had been thinking of, maybe as a last resort but not now. “No. There has to be a way. You said you have been exchanging messages with the priests, surely one of them can help you leave this place? Get more materials or maybe—” His mother shakes her head, long locs swaying. “I don’t know T’Challa. Perhaps before but not now. The ones willing to humor me are the ones under heavy scrutiny. Nakia would be—” “Nakia offered you the chance and you refused it, she said herself she would not return here.” T’Challa can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. It’s not like he sought rescue, rather he save himself but it stings how easily she left them to their fate. They’ve heard nothing from her in weeks and that didn’t look to change. They discuss more on what to do but they can’t agree and only his mother has reliable communications outside. With T’Challa unable to convince her there’s nothing else he can do. In the end he takes some of the medicine the physician brought over but not all. When he sleeps that night he dreams of flowers. - Nine days after, the guards that watch their courtyard as well as the attendants that bring their food are replaced. Every single one. With that switch, they lose the funnel of information his mother cultivated for weeks. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to either of them that someone would betray them, or that they were being monitored so closely. However, the food improves, as do the amenities in their courtyard. That along with a different physician who visited everyday to attend to T’Challa marks the beginning of a change. The symptoms and discomfort he felt constantly are eased by the medicine and care he’s given but it doesn’t abate, cementing in his mind that he was definitely being poisoned. T’Challa suspects he and his mother are being managed. Perhaps someone had finally applied enough pressure to garner them better living. There’s no relief or real emotion given to these thoughts. Despair, guilt and anger are much more stable companions than wondering what was going on and who was doing what or more likely, who wasn’t doing what. With a dearth of information, the flow of time starts to matter a little less. The two of them have less to talk about as well, with little entertainment and even less news. T’Challa spends more and more time sleeping, waiting aimlessly for something to happen or change. The change comes almost four months into their house arrest in the form of a procession. T’Challa is wrenched out of an uneasy nap by the sound of many footsteps. His mother—already seated by the entrance—is the first to see their visitors. T’Challa joins her soon after walking across the courtyard, eyes sliding off and away the group of Dora Milaje and… were they Border Patrol? No, just several members from Border Tribe in uniform. Why were they here? Some of the Dora are carrying chests, sleekly adorned containers requiring at least two to lift. The last and oddest thing T'Challa notices is a faint flickering in the distance, high up in the air, a camouflage camera drone. At the end of the procession is N’Jadaka, the general Okoye and… W’Kabi. By now T’Challa has gained his bearings and manages a neutral expression in the face of so many visitors, but his heart is pounding. Anticipation and anxiety at why they were getting this visit. “Good evening aunty, T’Challa.” N’Jadaka greets them once the procession of people comes to a stop. As he draws nearer T’Challa realizes the color he’d mistook for clothing is paint, lots of paint in a dazzling gradient of gold and silver. Why was N’Jadaka wearing paint? What was the occasion today? They’ve been keeping track of the days but he didn’t check today. Was it a holiday? Like before, N’Jadaka is not wearing the Black Panther necklace and the missing regalia soothes his sensibilities just a little. “Evening, N’Jadaka. Why have you come?” Ramonda’s voice is raspy from disuse. The look she and T’Challa exchange tells him, she knows something he doesn’t. Instead of answering, N’Jadaka turns to Okoye, who after a brief moment of hesitation steps forward. She nods respectfully to the both of them before announcing in a script T’Challa has only read in books but never spoken outside of silly play-pretend as a child. After the first sentence he stops breathing, the realization sinking and his mother’s glance earlier finally making sense. No. No! The general pauses in her recitation, waiting—for their response. T’Challa managed to not gape like a fish but a response… a response with no warning, no time to prepare, not even a discussion! He can’t manage that. Thank Bast, his mother is more quick-witted than he. She responds in the same ritual script, her eyes hard. “Who is he that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke? Who is he that cometh like a thief to our hearth? Perfumed with saffron and myrrh, wreathed in conquest and many wives. Who is he?” Her response is scathing and T’Challa fights a smile after the third verse. That smile is fleeting as he realizes they would only go back and forth till he gives an answer of acceptance or refusal and his gaze meets N’Jadaka’s. The man looked bored. Did he understand the insult? Or did he not care? What was he thinking? The rest of the procession is not so at ease and T’Challa can see similar thoughts in Okoye’s eyes and W’Kabi’s restlessness. As the king’s speaker she would continue this ancient ritual proposal till someone else rose to speak for the king. “He is the son of N’Jobu. He is the grandson of Azarria. He is beloved of Bast. He is young yet tested. He is Wakanda’s Damisa-Sarki.” Okoye’s choices are exacting and diplomatic. If such an introduction were done for T’Challa it would go on for minutes, but N’Jadaka is not as established… or loved. His mother glances his way and T’Challa gives her a discreet nod, ready to respond for himself. T’Challa focuses only on Okoye while speaking, worried that if he saw N’Jadaka’s disinterested face he would lose his words. He borrows only a little from the traditional script, taking inspiration from other places. His prose is not as beautiful as his mother’s but he’s proud of it, it’s all improvisation after all. There needs to be one more back and forth before he can refuse the proposal. “The watchmen that went about the city found me. The watchmen that went about the city wounded me. Their keeper took away my veil and charged me wait. I sought him, but could not find him. I called him, but he gave no answer. I charge you, O daughter of Bast, why is thy beloved more than another’s beloved?” Okoye’s expression, professional as ever, shows a bit of hurt when he finishes speaking. He supposes he could have kept his words focused on N’Jadaka but he hadn't remembered in the moment. N’Jadaka was certainly not beloved by Okoye. When she doesn’t respond after a natural pause, another voice, sonorous and fluid, joins the proposal. “My beloved is Bast blessed. My beloved is merciful. He held the enemies of his father in his grasp and did not slay them. My beloved prepared a table before me so that my tribe may feast and make merry. My beloved avenged the restless so that they may find rest. This is my beloved, and this is my friend. O daughters of Bast. ” W’Kabi continues on longer than Okoye would have managed, revealing the skill in intonation and poetry that had won him hearts as Border Tribe’s champion. T’Challa’s eyes sting, it’s not too long ago when such skill would have been turned in his favor. Now it’s used against him. He needed to respond in similar length and quality or break the ritual and more or less accept this engagement. “Go forth, O ye son of Orimeja, and behold king N’Jadaka with the crown wherewith his father crowned him. A band of violence, capped with the death of thousands. In the midst thereof lay many wives, a tree endlessly flowering. Such is your beloved who would pull me away?” A breath, another… T’Challa exhales, eyes skittering from the procession of mute watchers to his mother besides him. Had she expected this? Had she known? What was he supposed to say? He couldn’t possibly agree, but to deny he would need a very good rebuttal. One which he had been given no time to compose or practice. They could argue this ridiculous tradition out in court instead, and give all of Wakanda a show. “My beloved is Chief among ten thousand. My beloved is adored by his wives. He is black like pearls, his locs dark like fine metal and voluminous as the sea. His eyes are as great eagles, washed by the sun and grandly set. His lips drip with honey, his hands are as vibranium rings, his legs are pillars set to marble, his steps goddess blessed. On his right follow hundreds of thousands, to his left are lands already conquered. My beloved calls you, your king bids you obey, will you deny him?” As if on cue, the assembled Dora begin to open the chests that had lay closed before to reveal… gifts. T’Challa can see the artful packaging of clothing, jewelry, incense and fragrance. Specially wrapped books, a delicate looking statue and a few other things he can not name without drawing closer. They were acting as if he already agreed, as if he couldn’t refuse. T’Challa shakes his head. “I am the son of T’Chaka, the Iris of Bashenga’s Daughters. As the lily among thorns, so is my love among my brothers. As the olive tree amongst dessert, so is my beloved among my sisters. I sat down under her shadow with great delight for her fruit was sweet to my taste. She brought me to her banquet house and her banner over me was love. Stay with me to drink, comfort me with stories: for I am sick of love.” He sees the exact moment his declaration hits home and is rewarded with a little more response from their audience. W’Kabi’s frown is not nearly as satisfying as the puzzled look on N’Jadaka’s face as he eyed his own retinue. T’Challa wonders how this was explained to him, was this his idea in the first place? Did he think they would be too surprised to respond? Too dispirited to refuse? He waits for a response from quick witted Okoye or silver tongued W’Kabi but none comes. They hadn’t prepared for him to bring up Nakia. Nakia with whom he still held an engagement. An engagement they could argue was broken, an engagement that could be nullified by the king himself in fact. But they don’t and T’Challa silently praises Bast for the reprieve. When the time to respond runs out T’Challa breathes a sigh of relief. N’Jadaka shows no sign of leaving however and instead pulls both the general and her husband for a quick conference. His mother leans in closer so that she could murmur into his ear, thick in her mother tongue: “He won’t leave. We need to negotiate.” His mother is proven correct when N’Jadaka once again steps forward. Not too far away someone in the party of onlookers that had accompanied N’Jadaka gestures discreetly and the flickering high up in the air disappears with it. Without the trappings of ritual sonnet proposal he openly threatens them. “I’ve been advised to take care of you and auntie here. Make sure a doctor comes by and enough meals are delivered everyday but it doesn’t have to be that way. With how busy things have been, I might forget. Being married to me is the best you could do given the current situation.” T’Challa doesn’t mince words, gaze sweeping over the witnesses around them. “This is house arrest. What you are describing is intentional starvation and negligence. If you are threatening that or marriage—it is not a choice, N’Jadaka. Such threats are illegal.” And unbecoming of Wakanda’s supposed king. “And yet here we are.” N’Jadaka has the audacity to smile, wide enough that T’Challa can see soft pink quartz peeking from the adornment he had on his lower jaw. “What will it take for you to say yes, T’Challa? Let's talk.” T’Challa looks from N’Jadaka to the gathered few. They were all hearing him, all knowing what he had just threatened and what he might do if his ‘proposal’ went denied. Then he turns to his mother, pointing with his eyes to the door. A signal of retreat. Unexpectedly, his mother shakes her head—once. Then she says to N’Jadaka: “What will you offer a new wife that you have not already given to the ones before him?” Ramonda uses Wakandan, not the flowery script of the earlier poems but the standardized modern form everyone used. Here the word ‘wife’ was gender neutral. Indicating the person being married into a family. T’Challa inhales and counts his breaths. Would they really negotiate his marriage? Just like that? “Protected immunity for him, you and your princess wherever she is, better living conditions and a position as an honored consort in my harem. That’s three ranks above everybody else.” N’Jadaka rattles off easily. “Is that all?” Ramonda’s tone is disdainful, T’Challa shakes his head. N’Jadaka offering them basic decency wasn’t the prize he thought it was. “What do you mean is that all? I’m giving him power over my harem and extended protection for you and your daughter.” “Harem rankings can change, favor can change, your protection is limited.” “What do you want?” N’Jadaka has the nerve to sound frustrated. As if they were the ones being unreasonable. His mother takes her time to answer, meanwhile T’Challa racks his brain to think of other caveats they could request for marriage, though N’Jadaka would probably refuse the more he thought about it—which might be the point. “Grant us protective immunity this means releasing both of us from this place and providing an agreeable place of residence as befitting a panther tribe prince and princess with the corresponding amount of attendants. Agree to only take one panther tribe wife, there will be no others from our tribe only T’Challa—” T’Challa realizes with a sick feeling why his mother would insist on such a caveat. What was preventing N’Jadaka from marrying his sister when she returned? N’Jadaka doesn’t look perturbed by the requirements thus far. They’re not much different from what he already offered. “—Make T’Challa your one and only prince consort and allow him to serve on the elder’s council.” This is when N’Jadaka disagrees. “No. I don’t want a prince consort. I want a consort.” “Consort is too low, T’Challa is Panther Tribe’s prince.” He used to be king, T’Challa thinks as he listens to his mother and N’Jadaka argue. Surprising to no one, they are unable to reach an agreement, but instead of letting it rest N’Jadaka claims he will ‘think’ about it. He doesn’t take back the proposal gifts either. That more than anything promises he will return and this argument will continue. Neither Ramonda nor T’Challa see the king and his procession off.