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Sometimes, when life seemed so bleak, he would take the time to undo the black vambrace he had taken to wearing. It is the universal sign worn by those whose mate had passed, covering the remnant of a faded Soulword.
His word used to be a vibrant gold, bright and luminescent on his dark skin, much like the gold of the armour that N’Jadaka had worn but now the vivacity of it had faded away along with the last breath heaved by his destined, more silvery than the proud gold it used to be.
He would trace the jagged line that make up N’Jadaka’s handwriting, each sharp edge that mirrored the sharp tongue his mate had and the lingering hue of gold that had been the same shade of N’Jadaka’s skin when it was bathed by the glow of Wakanda’s sunset.
T’Challa would immerse himself within the fantasy of what could have been if only they had more time.
Of what life could have been if Wakanda hadn’t abandoned him.
If he still has N’Jadaka by his side.
If his other half is still alive.
He used to dream of a life where he would have his soulmate with him, loving them in any way, be it romantically or platonically. He will always love whoever his soulmate is.
But life is cruel.
His destined stood on the opposing side, filled with too much pain and hatred for the injustice done to their people to feel the bond resonating between them.
If only thing were different.
If only they had meet in different situation.
If only they were given the chance to at least get to know each other better before going at each other’s throat.
T’Challa wanted to know about his mate beyond the cold details listed on the report that Ross had given him.
He wanted to know how warm the sun of Wakanda would make N’Jadaka’s skin become, he wanted to know whether his mate would share his love for the spices of Wakanda’s cuisine, he wanted to know the face N’Jadaka would make when he is relaxed.
He wanted to know every little detail of his mate, all the big and small one that make up the person who Bast had destined for him.
But all that dream is just that.
A dream.
A fantasy of a lost chance.
Memory of warm blood on his hands haunted him day in day out, saturated into his very being and could never be washed away for it is the mark of a mate’s killer.
He lives the rest of his life with that weighed absence trailing behind him, a hollowness that ached deep in his bone, a coldness that cannot be chased away despite the countless warm body that had made its way into his bed.
The war ate away at him, each death adding more to the heavy weight on his shoulders but he preserved on, powering his way through the mass of body and carnage left behind by the invading force.
He has a wish to fulfil, a dream to be made a reality and promise to uphold.
He will put an end to the suffering of his-N’Jadaka’s people. He will live long enough to make N’Jadaka’s dream into a reality.
T’Challa will make sure the legacy that he leaves behind will tell the story of N’Jadaka and what he had strived to achieve.
He will make all of that happen so that when he finally heaves the last breath, he would be able to face N’Jadaka and feel himself worthy of him.
He could only wish that N’Jadaka would accept him when they finally have all the time in the world to get to know each other.