Chapter Text
The robe was heavy on her shoulders, far heavier than just vibranium would be. Nakia rubbed the hem between the two fingers and tried to figure out what else was woven in. The best bet was gold- gold for the Golden Tribe, gold for the future she had chosen.
It was not a popular metal in Wakanda, not in the modern era when the vibranium mines were deep and productive enough that it adorned every blanket, dress, and wristwatch. Gold was old fashioned. Gold signified the days before, when Birnin Zana was new and Wakanda still traded with far away empires and only hid itself a little.
With every step she took, she travelled further from the people with the answers, but she could not look back. Nakia had done a minor in sociology in college, she knew the importance of small gestures as junctures like this. To look back was to hesitate, and to hesitate was to abandon T’Challa in some small way. Queen Ramonda wouldn’t hold it against her, she was kind, and even Okoye seemed resigned to Nakia bucking the trend, but she had promised herself she would try to be traditional for just this night.
Only when the darkness around her was absolute, lit only by the faint glow of her clothes and weapons, did she stop and give her surroundings a look.
The pitch blackness extended behind her and ahead, but to either side were bare stone walls, smooth but empty, waiting for future queens. The hallway had not changed much in dimensions, though the floor was sloping slightly downwards.
Nakia picked the left wall and clung to it closely, not willing to rely on her own luminescence. Then she forged onwards. Instinct told her there was a way to go still before she reached her destination.
Everything in the Necropolis had been made with the understanding that the monarchy would persist for eons, and the tunnel of queens was no different. Long as the way of the dead had been, the room left for those still yet to die was even longer. Someone, in the ages long past, had anticipated Wakanda lasting until the earth itself crumbled. It was a sort of arrogance that Nakia found herself smiling fondly at. It was not quite conceit, it was… certainty. A faith in their society, in their people, in their ways. Self-serving as it could sometimes be, it was beautiful in a way.
No one had ever successfully convinced Wakanda that they were not eternal, and she hoped fervently that no one ever did.
It was the well-deserved pride that had always made the monarchy tolerable to her, that she had worked so hard to get away from and was now letting herself get sucked back into. It was the grandeur and the power of the ancients, T’Challa’s quiet determination in everything he did, the knowledge that the Black Panther would far outlive him.
This was what ceremonies were for, imbuing everyone with a measure of that same sense of greatness, wrapping them in history and duty until they felt strong.
Sandals flapping, Nakia kept walking, but her mind was far away now.
She remembered her own family ceremonies, the traditions of the River Tribe and the Crocodile totem. They had been more raw than this, larger and longer and more soul crushing. After surviving the trials of the water, this royal challenge was no sweat.
Except… the air in her lungs was getting heavy. Nakia had been in fires before, had nearly choked to death on carbon monoxide in the bottom of a smuggler’s boat, she knew what it felt like when she wasn’t getting quite enough oxygen.The heart rate quickened ever so slightly, the vision blurred. And now the air had a slightly metallic taste, suggesting any number of dangerous gases.
She hesitated. Was she meant to turn back? Was this a test where caution was rewarded? The problem was, it rarely ever worked that way. The point of an initiation was not to reward creative thinking, it was to impress loyalty and core values on you, to make sure you never ran astray. Running was almost never the point.
A few deep breaths later, she made up her mind. The quality of air seemed stable at the moment, she was still getting enough oxygen to function, even if it wasn’t an ideal amount. She would forge ahead. If she started to get faint- then she could fall back. The real danger was blacking out, but she thought she had the discipline to avoid it.
It was possible she had not given this trial of kings and queens quite the credit it deserved. If she was really lucky, she might even end up using her ring blades.
The downward gradient of the hall was growing steeper, and she could feel a slight inward curve to the walls. It was beginning to spiral in, or perhaps had been all along, too subtly to notice. The air was still difficult- thin, she thought, like in the lands of the Jabari. They said the hypoxia made their people strong, and perhaps it did, but Nakia was a lowlands girl, she was not meant to thrive in this atmosphere.
The kids at the Center used the word “hella” sometimes- the adults used it more. It was a catching sort of word. It had a weight to it, a fluidity that was impressive in English. So few English words made sense as extensions of the rest of the language, but this one did. Coming from an agglutinative language like Wakandan, the addition of a few extra syllables to strengthen and shore up felt right, felt natural.
Nakia was hella dizzy at the moment.
She still wasn’t going to turn back, she loved T’Challa and his stupid smile and his soft eyes in the morning too much for that, but it was vexing . She had been in sticky situations before, she was a spy, but what she was not in the habit of was feeling weak or trapped. It had been a long time since she’d been in a situation even she could not think of another way out of.
She felt seventeen again, trapped in the initiation house in the dark and the summer heat. She had not been alone then, all her age mates had renounced the River God that year and her cousins had been with her. They’d been taken out of school together, sorted by their mother’s birth clan, hurried into the different low buildings by the river, and left to sort themselves out. Oh, some of the elders came by every day to feed them and make sure they were behaving themselves, and teach them the histories and dances they’d be expected to know for the ceremony, but for the most part it was just them, whispering to each other in that windowless space.
She remembered Borana- who also went to school in the city- and she, quizzing each other on engineering and languages so they would not be too far behind when they returned, hands flashing in quick darts of deeper shadow, the glint of a smile. They had used their kimoyo beads to light up the space with the same, vibranium glow she faced now. She remembered duelling in the center of their temporary home with Dashi, hi-tech staves clanging against one another and lighting up as they collided, trying to predict your opponent in a space where you could barely see while also not hitting anyone else.
When they had finally been let out, it had felt electric, victorious. The sun was so bright and the air was so clean on the outside, and everyone had come to cheer for them as they stepped into the river for the first time as adults. The fact that they still had to say the old chants and tell the River Father that they were grownups now and he could not steal them to his kingdom was almost an afterthought. Never mind the words she was saying, the water was lapping at her feet and it felt so good!
But that, at least, had a point. It was a protection against drowning, a promise that their god who loved every child like his own would not try to steal new fishermen and artists away in freak storms. It brought them into adulthood, forever marked that they were now old enough to hold the traditional positions, to speak up at meetings and make their own way, and no one could challenge them for the whole tribe had seen them come of age. More than that, it was a binding, to the tribe and to each other. No bond was more dear, and few friends could be better relied on than ones who had shared food with you in the lawless world of the dark. Nakia could not marry anyone she had gone through it with, not just because their mothers shared a clan, but because they had shared a rebirth.
This challenge, however, she had to face on her own.
Unbidden, a plea to the god of her childhood rose on her lips. She had been raised with Bast, of course, but where there was a river there had to be a deity of one. Nakia loved him. She did not quite believe in him- not the same way T’Challa believed, the steady faith on one who had travelled to the realm of the ancestors. She had seen too much of the world and its strangeness to put her full faith in anything. One did not have to believe to love. Who cared if there was a palace under the water, full of the laughing souls of children who dove too deep? There was a river and it was beautiful. And there were her people and they were so alive. And she still remembered the magic of that day, ankle deep in the river mud, chanting with dozens of other teenagers, a promise to their parents and themselves. A god was fickle, but her people had not led her astray.
History was complicated, but Ramonda and Okoye could be trusted.
Her mind was definitely getting fuzzy now and she wished she had her beads to make notes, to record certainties in case certainty slipped away. Nevertheless, she did not turn back. She had to trust Ramonda and Okoye. They had never willingly let her down before.
They had mentored her and sheltered her, had cautioned her and comforted her, had given her space to succeed and the tools to pave her own way. They had not pushed, even though she knew Okoye thought she ought to be a Dora and Ramonda thought she had the makings of a great politician. They were not, as a rule, prone to asking for great boons. They would not have asked her of this unless they thought she could handle it.
So she told herself as she moved forward, one slow step at a time.
Then, there was light.
It was distant, just a blue smudge in front of her, glow casting over the ceiling as the hall continued its slow slant downwards. A vibranium phosphorescence, cold as ice, washed over her as she broke into a jog.
A square room opened at the end of the corridor and every wall was bright as the main mine deep underground. Perhaps it was connected to the mine, a wandering vein off of the main lode used to craft a room of the sacred metal itself.
Across the room was another doorway, this one dark. Faintly, Nakia thought she could see stairs through it. The test was to pass through then. Some terrible trap lurked within, or Okoye was waiting to tackle her, but she could handle that. Dizziness has not taken her sense.
She hesitated hands on either side of the doorway. There was always a catch- and raw vibranium in such quantities was not traditionally “stable”. It still held the meteor energy it had gotten from crashing into the earth long years ago, compounded by eons of tectonic forces and geothermal heat.
But it was too late for second guessing, she’d already let them dress her in it. It was too late to avoid whatever horrible quantum effects the scientists periodically theorized about.
Gingerly, she kicked off the sandals (charged vibranium didn’t like hitting other charged vibranium, much in the same way dynamite didn't like fire) and stepped onto the nightlight blue floor. It was slick as glass. White and indigo nebulas seemed to pulse deep inside it.
No poison darts whistled out at her, like in an adventure movie. None of the Dora leaped out to challenge her to a duel.
Nakia took another step, weapons held ready, checking her corners and peripherals as she went.
Still nothing.
By the third step she was more confident, focused on her goal. The path was clear, she just had to get to the door…
A weight landed on her back, knocking her to the ground. Nakia twisted her torso as she fell, so she landed on her side rather than her front, and swung a ring blade over her shoulder to strike at her assailant. If it was one of the Dora she might have hesitated, but this did not feel like a human figure. Thin claws were digging deep into her back and something thin and whippy struck her ankle.
She might have thought it was T’Challa, but T’Challa didn’t have a tail.
There was fur as well, pressing against what parts of her skin were bare as she fought to throw the creature off. Most of her effort went into protecting her neck- if this was a leopard, or worse, a panther, it would try to bite there.
The ground was too slick to fight on, it took forever to find her feet again, but once she was upright she managed to slide one arm under her attacker’s body and fling them away. Deep score marks on her shoulders and hips already burned with pain and the gushing of blood, these were not claws of diplomacy.
Still, first aid could wait. Nakia whirled on her opponent, determined to finally see her foe. She wasn’t sure what she expected- it surely wouldn’t be an actual animal, Wakanda had very strict wildlife protection laws, but it didn’t fight like anyone she knew and although the priests had many secrets they were as a rule too old for these sorts of antics.
She certainly didn’t expect to see a goddess snarling at her.
The lady Bast was ancient and the stories said she took many forms, but Nakia knew her instantly. This was how she had always imagined her, when she read textbooks and listened to the first stories. Half woman, half panther, dark and beautiful, with wise purple eyes. There was a touch of T’Challa to her features, as if T’Challa had another mother, one made of shadows and the rich black earth of Wakanda itself.
Nakia’s people kept their own god, but Bast belonged to everyone. She was adored, revered, featured in every school play and bedtime story. She was keeper of the sacred herbs, mentor to the Black Panthers, whose words were always spoken but who had gone unheard for centuries. A small, secret part of Nakia resisted the urge to bow, while her much larger, rebel conscience held out. She owed nothing to someone who had just tried to rip her to pieces, even if she was the reason Wakanda existed.
“Are you who I am supposed to meet?” Nakia asked steadily, ignoring the ache of her injured flesh.
“Are you the girl who wants to be queen?” Bast asked, staying very still but watching. Her feet moved slightly, as if she was putting herself in position for the next strike. This was a waiting game. Nakia felt like an antelope in front of a lion.
“You could say that.” Nakia’s palms were sweaty and these antique weapons did not have proper leather or wood grips. It was nothing but metal against damp flesh. She readjusted her hold slightly, trying not to blink.
Bast drew herself up like Queen Ramonda, back straight as the crisp lines of stripweave cloth, tall as a mountain and proud as someone on top of one. “You either are or you aren’t, my child. Give me an answer.”
Even in her regal pose, her nails glimmered like knives- oddly metallic. Nakia did not think she wanted to give a wrong answer.
“I want to be queen,” she said, “I have come all this way, haven’t I?”
Upon hearing that, Bast leapt at her again.
There was no good way to strike a god. Nakia had participated in a few speculative planning sessions to ensure Wakanda would be able to defend themselves from whatever Thor was, shortly after the battle of New York, but most of the plans she’d fielded had involved getting under his guard and stabbing him in the back. Full scale battle plans were Okoye and T’Challa’s territory, Nakia’s job was to poison people.
In an absence of ways to sneak out of this one, she settled for an upper blow, under the guard and ribcage, while her other hand fended off those terrible claws. The lighter chakram of India could be twirled to better their close range potential. The technique was not commonly used with the heavier Wakandan equivalent, but Nakia hadn’t spent semesters abroad to not be showy . If she was lucky, it might throw an ancient being from time immemorial off her game a little.
No such luck, Bast rolled with the punches, ducking low and lunging to Nakia’s left, giving her access to her open flank. Nakia was forced to back up, holding her weapons out in front of her like two small, circular shield.
“Why do you want to be queen?” Bast asked as she stalked forward. Her pupils reflected the light at certain angles, making her eyes look empty and bright.
The question was odd, but mid-battle quizzes often were. Nakia’s uncle used to shout at her about fishing rights and the minutiae of tradition as she practiced- back when she was young and still settling into her role as his de facto heir. In training as a War Dog, she and her fellow fledgling spies would play a game with njiga throwing knives and languages that was staggering both in its complexity and potential for missing fingers.
In short, she was used to thinking on her feet. Besides, she had been fielding questions from nosy old busybodies for months, ever since she and T’Challa had gotten back together.
She slid on her knees under the goddess’s claws and then bounced back up, back in the center of the room. “We’re finally in a place where we understand each other.” It was the answer for stickybeaks and fussy uncles. On the other hand, Bast was acting like the sort of lady who’d stop you in the market to tell you that you needed to buy more meat because you were getting too thin.
Apparently, however, her excuse didn’t slide with the warrior goddess, protector of the children of the sun, guardian of the spirits of the night. She hissed, an oddly deep, throaty sound, like she was choking and determined to make someone pay for it. It might have been laughable, if Nakia hadn’t spent some time with leopards in her day. The true black panthers of Wakanda were rarely seen, but the leopards of the plains near the city were spoiled and willing to come out to show off for wide eyed school children. Still, they were wild animals and they spooked… all too easily. It was best to keep a force field between field trips and an animal that fast and pointy.
You always knew when they were losing patience because of the noises they made. They were the belly singers of cats. Everything came from somewhere deep inside them, accompanied by more air than any one creature ought to be able to hold inside of it.
Nakia hesitated- a primal fear gripping her, accompanied by a sudden sense of belated religious wonder as she realized for the first time what she was seeing, what she was hearing.
In one swift rush, Bast raked one hand across her arm. The sleeve of the robe, vibranium and heavier earthly metals, caught some of it, but her exposed wrist took at least a few claws of damage. Instantly, blood began to ooze, wine red against Nakia’s dark skin.
Her back was bleeding as well, but it was somehow more real to see it.
It was going to be impossible to explain these injuries to her mother. They would definitely be visible with her wedding outfit.
“Why are you getting married?” Bast asked again.
There was a right answer to this, Nakia knew. There was always a right answer, a proper path to take. She just needed to identify it.
“I love him, and he loves me,” she tried, which wasn’t a lie in the least but wasn’t entirely true either. The horrible growl, like cloth ripping and distant thunder, started up again in the back of Bast’s throat.
“It was the right choice for him,” Nakia said, “He is king, and there must be some marriage or else poor Shuri will be left with the mess and we- we get along. I will be a good queen.” It’s what everyone had told her. No one can argue, she will be a good queen. She’s eminently qualified, by birth, by training, and almost by temperament. And she loved T’Challa, she really does, like she has loved every good thing that has come into her life. He is kind and funny and brave, and for too long she worried they could not keep each other.
Apparently duty wasn’t the right answer either. Bast swiped at her idly, like a house cat playing with string. Dizzy and dismayed, Nakia took a step back.
“I want to do what’s right for my country,” she said, and hated how feeble she sounded, hated how she felt stripped down, her sense of self melting in the blue light.
“For your country,” Bast asked, smiling in a way that got on Nakia’s nerves somehow. It reminded her of N’Jadaka, with his horrible grin and determination to tear everything she had ever worked for to the ground. And how dare he! This was her nation, her Black Panther, her world that she had worked so hard to right in some small way. Opening up Wakanda had been her crusade, for years, and he had come so close to turning it into a bloodbath- a wicked mirror of what it could be.
Righteous fury, at this trial, and these questions, and this goddess daring to stand in her way, boiled up in her throat, filling her lungs with something more reliable than air.
“No! For the world. I can make things better. So maybe I’m not impartial, or perfectly devoted! Maybe I’ll question him, or shape his policy. But that’s my job. I am not a queen, I am a spy who is marrying a king, and I don’t intend to give myself up for him. He will not change who I am or what I do. Because I can make things better. We can make things better.”
Nakia paused to catch her breath, her vision blurring. Bast’s perfectly still form was wavering like disturbed water. “I have seen what we can do for people. There are so many outside of this country who need us and we’re already helping them. Our technology, our experience, our money, is saving lives and giving hope to those who have never been allowed to have it. We’re already changing things. That is why I want to be queen. Because I would be good at it. And yes, because I love him.”
She waited, panting. After a long pause, Bast tackled her to the ground.
The recommendations for raw vibranium did not include wrestling. In fact, it was generally agreed that it was better to not let it impact anything, much less another piece of vibranium. Nakia had been moving lightly, trying not to encourage an energy event, keeping her own body in between the floors and walls whenever necessary. Now, toppling backwards fast, wrists held tightly to her chest by Bast’s sharp hands, ring blades clattering to the floor, she realized how badly things could go in the next second.
They hit the ground. There was a high ring, metallic but oddly shrill, that resonated through her bones more than a noise of its pitch ought to. There was no explosion. Bast rolled off her chest, and Nakia opened her eyes, only to find the small room full of ghosts.
There was no other word for it. They were almost see-through, glowing with a faint blue light. As Nakia stared, several walked right through her, leaving nothing but a faint sensation of static.
There were at least a dozen of them, in the same shapeless, vibranium and gold robes she was wearing. Some wore the tattoos of trainee priests, others had the half shaved heads of Dora Milaje initiates, and a few looked like they were about to be kings and queens.
Nakia watched T’Challa’s grandmother, a graceful woman with a heart shaped face and a short, dark ‘fro, walk across the room cautiously, freeze halfway, and start gesturing to someone Nakia couldn’t see. Around her, other shades fought, argued, or walked away. As they left, more came in- the young would-be royals came in through Nakia’s door and left through the one across the room, while the priests and the Dora came in across the room and left through the door Nakia had entered in. It felt like being in the middle of a train station at nine in the morning, and being invisible.
“Now I’m certain there’s something in the air,” Nakia heard herself whisper.
Sitting next to her on the smooth floor, Bast laughed. She looked more agreeable now that her terms had been met. “Vibranium holds energy. You are smart enough to figure out the rest.”
In all honesty, Nakia wasn’t. Gods and ghosts weren’t her realm, she left that to the experts. Of course she knew some things escaped explanation- there was the heart shaped herb, for one- but she’d always been happy to never have to deal with them.
She glanced at the goddess, who still looked so much like her childhood dreams of her. “And you, are you just energy too?”
“Something like that.”
Nakia touched her wrist, still bleeding, and started to wrap it in the hem of the robe. “You pack a good punch, for energy.” She thought she could see older ghosts coming through as well- a few were wearing face paint in styles that had stopped being used centuries ago. “What is the point of all this? The walk, the air, the attack. Are you trying to harass people?”
“Sometimes I don’t attack,” a slim hand pointed. “Look, there is your friend, Okoye. She just nodded to me and walked through. She did not need much vetting, that girl. But you are more complicated, Nakia. You have a deep mind and a deeper heart. I needed us to be on the same page.”
The holographic vibranium echo of Okoye left, to be replaced with another would-be-member of the Dora Milaje, holding her spear like a beloved doll.
“It seems awfully unfair,” Nakia observed. “T’Challa just had tea with his Baba in the spirit world and we have to go through all this.”
Bast shrugged, “The Black Panther is already my servant. They need guidance more than anything, thus the ancestors. But all others who would serve Wakanda and my emissary, who would protect them and guide them, they need a- ah- background check.”
“I am simply saying, you could have come and smacked your boy Erik upside the head.”
She laughed, “You and your lover did that for me. All happened properly. T’Challa survived and you protected him. I see the look you’re giving me, Nakia. Normally people don’t question the whims of gods, sent from the stars to guide them.”
“Well,” Nakia snapped, “Someone has to. You said you came from the stars. Are you the spirit of the vibranium? I knew this must be connected to the main lode, we’re close enough to the mines for it to be a stray vein.” Vibranium carried energy, absorbed it and held it. The meteor of the ancients had travelled in space for who knew how long before landing, and it held power that remained impossible to explain. A goddess from space, Nakia could almost understand.
“Something like that.” She sounded too much like Queen Ramonda now for comfort, “Nakia, you’ll need to go soon. It’s not safe for anyone to stay in this place, breathing this air, for long, and I’ve already kept you. However I wanted to speak with you first.”
Nakia leaned forward and grabbed her blades, slinging them both on one wrist. “Please, devourer, speak away.”
For once, the goddess picked her words carefully, as if even she was afraid of what she was saying. “You are not a traditional choice for the throne. In other times, I might think you dangerous, but the world is changing quickly. There are powers at play I cannot comprehend or match. Once, this metal,” she patted the floor, “And your people were the most powerful thing on this planet, but that is not the case anymore. There are threats to this place that Wakanda cannot face alone.”
“The Avengers?” Nakia frowned, “They’re chaotic, but they seem to be under control.”
A young Ramonda, translucent and lovely, walked into the room, looked around, and then came to stand next to Nakia. She was still caught in the past, her hair was dark and her mouth was moving with ancient, blurry words, but her presence was heartening. It almost made up for what Bast said next.
“No, no. Things far worse. The universe is much bigger than just your little planet, my dear,” Canine teeth like knives flashed as the lady of light laughed, “I have seen the stars, remember? Consider this a warning, Nakia, daughter of the River Tribe. Your planet will not always be safe. I am counting on you. You are what Wakanda needs, what humanity needs. Keep them safe.”
Then, with one balled fist, she hit the floor, hard, sending a shockwave through the room. Nakia flinched, a lifetime of warnings about being Careful With Vibranium rushing back to her. She just barely managed to keep her eyes open, and watched through half closed lids as the metal bound ghosts flickered and disappeared. Bast was gone too, like a shadow at midday.
The walls and floor were a little dimmer, the whole room diminished somehow. The exit on the other end beckoned. Mindful of the warning about the long term effects of staying too long, Nakia went and fetched her sandals, and fled.
There was another, shorter, dark hallway outside, one that she could almost entirely navigate by the dull glow of the room behind her and the shine of her garments. The stone floor was cool, but clean, slanting upwards.
The air quality slowly started to improve as well, Nakia noticed, as she entered a taller, wider space full with life-size statues of Dora Milaje warriors flanking either side. It was darker here, full of shadows and a little more dust, but she felt like she could finally breathe at last. The Dora watched impassively as she took a rest in the center of the floor, appreciating the feeling of full lungs and a rapidly clearing head.
Back in the real world, dark and safe and comforting, that blue space with her god and the past all smushed together almost seemed like a dream. Perhaps it was meant to be that way. Except… her shoulders still stung, and when she touched her wrist she could feel the drying blood.
Queen Ramonda hadn’t lied about it being weird. Every bit of her concern had been well meant. There was nothing like nearly being murdered by the seminal figure in your nation’s history, to make you rethink a wedding.
There was nothing like an ominous prophecy to make you all the more determined to go through with it.
In that state of mind, Nakia forged onward, through rooms of spears and preparation, until she found herself stepping out from behind an old, sealed door, into a hall she knew well. It was in between the rooms of the Dora Milaje and the royal quarters, in the center of the royal palace. The head priest of the order of the Herb had a room a little way away. How clever, she thought distantly. You send queens in with the dead and out to into the center of the palace, and the others do it the other way around.
Then, she was engulfed by bodies. Ayo got to her first with a joyous hug, but soon Nakia was surrounded by the rest, kissing her hand and congratulating her, delight clear on their faces.
“Nakia,” Ramonda said when she finally managed to extricate herself from the press, Okoye trying to reestablish decorum among her ranks. “You have no idea how glad we are to see you,”
“Down there, she-” Nakia began, only to be quickly silenced.
“Your journey was your own,” Ramonda admonished gently. “I’m afraid we’re not encouraged to talk about it.” She hesitated, worry apparent in her eyes, “You are safe, aren’t you?”
“I few scratches,” Nakia replied, giving her a quick hug, to lessen her concern, “I’d like to get them looked after quickly, but otherwise I’m fine,” Rattled, but fine.
“Of course, of course. Let’s get you back to your room, someone will bring up a first aid kit, and some food.” Ramonda squeezed her tightly and rested her chin on Nakia’s head for a second, not an easy feat. “I am so proud of you.”
This was the part where she decompressed, and helped the others calm down as well. Nakia knew her role, and she knew how this ritual (how all rituals) went. She smiled.
“I hope someone has my clothes?”
The had her wounds stitched and dressed, stripped her of the ceremonial clothes and helped her get back into her familiar battle wear and beads, which she quickly discarded for a loose day dress. Xoliswa brought her a bowl of stew from the kitchen, full of beef and sorghum.
Slowly and with some prodding from Okoye, the Dora Milaje drifted away, leaving Nakia with Ramonda, who was helping her retwist her hair.
There was a knock on Nakia’s door, then Shuri cracked it open. “Are you done with your secret society meeting?” she asked, sounding grouchy.
“We are,” Nakia said, “Come in, Princess Shuri.”
Ramonda’s lip twitched, which meant she appreciated Nakia humouring her baby, while also thinking that baby needed better manners.
Shuri climbed onto Nakia’s guest bed instantly and leaned against her mother. “I tried to follow your beads, but they flickered out in the gardens,” she complained, “We need to fix that dead transmission spot.”
Her mother rapped her lightly on the head. “So you can keep snooping? I don’t think so.”
“You don’t understand, it’s a national security hazard! What if someone goes missing there, or is kidnapped. It’s a huge blind spot in our defenses.” Shuri kept complaining, about satellites and interference from underground vibranium lines, and the potential catastrophe waiting in their backyard, and Nakia slowly relaxed. It was nice for things to be back to normal.
When the argument was over with, and Shuri was playing with some sand from her pockets, she leaned over to whisper in Ramonda’s ear, “I might got see T’Challa. He said I could come by any time,” and the queen’s expression turned to one of recognition, and sympathy.
“Come on Shuri,” she said, quickly “Let’s leave Nakia to rest.” With some effort, and many more goodnights, Ramonda pulled her daughter out of the room. As she left, she wrapped an arm around Nakia’s waist one last time, communicating both comfort and pride.
When she was gone, Nakia snuck down the halls, past the secret passage to the place deep below the earth where the goddess slept, and into T’Challa’s bed.
He was asleep- despite his promises that he’d stay up for her. She didn’t blame him, he’d had a long day, and judging by the book of foreign policy open near his bed, a long evening.
Wakandan nights were warm, and bedding was thin- just a single sheet tonight. She climbed into the low bed next to him, and snuggled under it.
“My love, I adore you,” she whispered, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, “But man, your family can be strange.”