Chapter Text
Ramonda had adored Nakia like a daughter from the moment she had first met her. For a while, she had thought Nakia might be the closest to a daughter she would ever have. Shuri had come later, her little gift from the goddesses, but Nakia still held a special place in her heart.
She had suspected, even from the start, that it might come to this. T’Challa was hesitant with his affections and had few friends in his youth. Steely-eyed Nakia of the River people was one of the few who he put his faith in. She knew her son, and she knew what Wakanda demanded of it’s leaders. Eventually, a king had to marry.
Of course, as his mother, it would be her responsibility to make arrangements if he needed help, so she kept a running list of other candidates. There were a few initiates who had washed out of the Dora Milaje but still had the loyalty required of a soldier. There was a lesser daughter of the Mining Tribe a few years older than him who he would probably get along with, if it came down to it. An idealistic Merchant artist, W’Kabi’s cousin’s brother, one of Shuri’s teachers who was trusted by the family.
Nakia had always been her first choice. It was T’Challa’s life, of course, and T’Challa’s hand to give away in marriage as he so wished, but a mother could have preferences .
Now, with the date scheduled and the wedding preparations underway, anxiety was taking hold. Not because she did not love Nakia- quite the opposite. It was because she loved Nakia too much, and she worried about what she had to do.
Still, she needed to give her some warning.
Two months before the wedding was set to take place, Ramonda took a boat down to the River Tribe, and found her way to Nakia’s family compound. The girls had come back from America from Oakland for the weekend, and Nakia’s family had asked for help picking appropriate bride gifts. She sympathized with their plight. It was nearly impossible to make a good show compared to the royal family, impossible to pick objects that would stand out against a palace full of history.
(Her own family had given up and just sent a bark cloth tapestry. The late King Azzuri, probably without ill intent, had sent back a box of diamonds seized from smugglers on the border, a hundred cattle, and a lion skin older than she was. It was easy to be overwhelmed when you married into royalty.)
Runebi greeted her with open arms and guided her to a room full to treasures that Nakia and her relatives were sorting through. Crocodile skins and delicate shells beaded into thick ropes were draped over every available seat, forcing them onto the floor. The River Tribe was not the richest, but what they had they were plentiful in, and this family in particular had enough wealth to accumulate.
Maaza gave Ramonda a wicked smile. “You see what your boy has done to us, your grace? Years I told Nakia to marry him, and now I wish they’d never gotten engaged.”
Privately, Nakia looked like she agreed.
“It’s all beautiful,” Ramonda said, dutifully.
“It’s not enough,” young Nabala said as she moved to check a stack across the room, her lip plate weighing down her movements, giving the tilt of her head a gravity and decorum. “What can you give to a king?”
“We’ll find something,” she assured her, “You have so many beautiful things.”
They settled, eventually, on a set of wooden statues in by a popular, modern artist and an old wooden oar scored deep with carved lines. Wealth wasn’t as important as showing your roots, your heritage and your devotion to the match. (Wealth did help, however.)
When the talk had finally settled down, Ramonda made her move.
“Nakia,” she said, “I wanted to talk to you, before the planning for the wedding gets out of hand. There are certain… rituals, I need to walk you through shortly before the first ceremonies. They must be completed before anyone can wed a Black Panther. I thought the week before the wedding?”
Quiet fell. No one had heard of such a thing- and though a tribe was entitled to its secrets the Wakandan grape vine was run by aunties and almost omnipotent. Maaza looked hesitant on her daughter’s behalf, and even Nakia’s uncle, the tribe’s spokesman, seemed to have misgivings.
“We have our own rituals, you understand. She is still of our blood.”
“Of course,” Ramonda said gently. “But you know the royal family. It’s all pomp and circumstance. It is our job. Certain traditions need to be respected.”
The implication- that the Golden Clan was just strange and that there was nothing that could be done about it- made everyone relax. They’d all sung their way through a coronation or two or three. It was Wakanda at it’s finest, but goodness could it be overwrought.
Nakia finally spoke up, “Of course I’ll be there, my queen. Anything for Wakanda.”
Well, that settled it, Ramonda thought with a sinking heart. Even her family knew Nakia could rarely be dissuaded from a course of action once she had decided on it. She had gone to school in America for a year, over her family’s protests, had joined the War Dogs, had once helped W’Kabi capture a rogue rhino alone. She was unshakeable.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Maaza asked, shaking Ramonda out of her mood.
“No, I’m sorry, there’s just so much to do at the palace. And I need to make sure my daughter hasn’t smuggled home too many American snacks.”
There were knowing smiles. The Princess Shuri was well known for her occasional antics both on and off social media. America had made her bolder, which Ramonda hadn’t fully realized was possible.
She and Ayo took their leave.
It was done.
The night before the first day of the wedding (the first of so many) she tucked Shuri into bed, over Shuri’s protests.
“Just sleep, please,” Ramonda sighed. “I worry about you when you’re up at all hours of the night.”
“I’m not a child anymore, Mother ,” Shuri squirmed. “And I have a new 3D printer the Americans sent us. It’s primitive but there are some interesting components-”
“Shuri, please?” she pleaded.
Her daughter froze, intelligent eyes fixing on her face. “You’re upset. Mama, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing. There are just a few things I need to take care of before tomorrow. There are traditions, when a king gets married.”
Shuri rolled her eyes, instantly dismissive. “Someone has to do it, I guess.”
As Ramonda left she could already see her messaging a friend, which meant all hopes for an early bedtime were hopeless. At least she was in her room. At least she was safe.
She had raised warriors, of course, but sometimes a mother was allowed to worry. Sometimes she put Wakanda aside and thought with her heart.
Nakia was waiting outside of her guest suite, dressed in full battle gear with her ring blades slung over her back. “You did not tell me what I was supposed to wear,” she said, and underneath her usual polish, Ramonda thought she sounded nervous.
As she stood, Ramonda thought she smelled T’Challa’s cologne, woody muhuhu and sharp resins. Her family had not arrived from the River District yet. Of course he would want to comfort her before this trial.
Okoye laughed. “You chose well.”
“Is she coming with us, my queen?” Nakia asked, falling into step behind Ramonda.
“None of that, please,” she chided. “Soon you will be a queen as well. But yes, Okoye will accompany us. The Dora have always played a special role in protecting and guiding members of the royal family.”
She could feel Nakia’s eyes on her, appraising the path they walked down the quiet halls of the royal compound, taking in every detail. Even on the eve of queendom, she was a War Dog to her core.
Okoye held a torch- fireless and sleek- lighting the way as Ramonda led them down into the public spaces, the Hall of Kings and the wings full of relics that are open to the public during the day, the offices where the quiet bureaucracy of royalty occurs.
“Through the gardens,” she warned, more for Nakia’s sake than anything. Okoye already knew where they were going.
Nakia stopped walking. “The burial grounds?” she asked.
It was one of the oldest parts of the palace, as old as Wakanda itself. Along with the temple of the heart shaped herb, the mines, and the ancient houses of the four tribes, the burial grounds of the Black Panthers had survived for millenia. It was not unchanged, of course, all things changed with time. But it was sacred.
Even Nakia, as nosy as she had been as a child, had given it its due respect. T’Challa, always conscientious, hadn’t been able to go within ten yards of the place without saying a prayer to his ancestors.
“Something like that,” Ramonda said.
They walked through the garden, into the deep recesses where the teak and eucalyptus trees grew so tall that it almost seemed like part of the jungle had moved into the city. Past a certain point, even the happy noise and light of Birnin Zana seemed to fade.
The Necropolis was sprawling but not grandiose compared to the city that had grown tall around it. Perhaps once, though, long ago, it had been splendid. The heavy pots, burnished in gold and enamel, that marked each monarch’s grave were as tall as a man and three times as wide around. Looming over the pots were crypts of mud, brick, and metal, still no bigger than a closet or a small hut. The rich colors painted on them seemed grey and desaturated in the dim light. Vibranium gilt flashed in Okoye’s torchlight.
The crypt Ramonda stopped at was not especially presupposing. Its decorations were more subdued than its neighbors, its capped peak did not reach as high. Even the lintel of the long barred, dusty door was low.
She listened closely for the sound of Nakia’s hesitation, and was rewarded with a confused sigh. Then, she reached down and turned off the hologram projector in the doorway.
The image of the door disappeared, leaving only a dark maw, inviting them in. Before Nakia could step forward, Ramonda threw out an arm to stop her.
“Your kimoyo beads,” she said. “Give them to Okoye, please?”
Without hesitation, Nakia handed them over. She knew how ceremonies worked. You did not question the demands made of you, not until you knew the game.
Ramonda gave her a fleeting smile. “Before you go in, are you certain you wish to do this? Weddings have been called off for less. T’Challa would not hold it against you, and neither would the people.”
Nakia held her head high. “You have brought me this far. And I will admit, I’m curious.”
“I think you are supposed to say that you love my son too much to imagine leaving him, my dear,” Ramonda said, with a rare laugh. “But that will do. Come with me then, and see those who came before us.”
She led Nakia into the dark, where the ground gave way to stairs, steep and hewn from uneven stone. They stayed clumped together, almost touching, she and Nakia and Okoye, so the little pool of light from the torch does not leave them, and by that torchlight the carvings on the wall start to appear. Shiny metal, silver with a hint of the blue of raw power, showing the deepest cuts.
Vibranium, just unstable enough to glow faintly.
At first, all there are is shapes, triangles and squares and delicate lines, creating a mosaic of geometry. The deeper they went the more the vibranium glows, and by the time they’d reached the bottom of the stairs it suffused everything with a faint glow- almost enough to see by.
Okoye handed the torch to Ramonda, their hands touching briefly. It was as close to a reassurance as Okoye was wont to give, and she appreciated it dearly. It meant, You can get through this, I know you can .
Coming from Okoye, who had walked five women through a hallway much like this one, it was not an empty comfort.
Ramonda moved with queenly grace to one wall, where the sacred geometry gave way to pictographs, people, spears, and an ever familiar panther. Still drinking everything in, Nakia trailed her and knelt to examine the carvings more closely.
“The first king of Wakanda was Bashenga,” Ramonda said, startling her, “But before he was a king, he was a man with a wife, Sakhmakh. Her mother was Maatkare who was a priestess of a goddess Bast in Kerma and the town of Ter. His wife’s goddess helped him find the path to peace between the tribes. Without her, there would be no Wakanda.”
“I have never heard of her,” Nakia replied, mild but still doubting. “I recall many queens, but not her.”
“Aluel, his second wife is more famous,” Ramonda acknowledged. “It was her son who became the next Black Panther.”
So much of Wakanda’s long history was told in stories, passed down from generation to generation. Some were too sacred to even write down. It had taken Ramonda years of searching to find an old songsinger who verified what her predecessor had told her, who reaffirmed a secret thousands of years old, passed from royal spouse to royal spouse.
Nakia traced the lines, almost touching the stone but not quite. Sakhmakh’s hair fanned out from her face in the pictures, twists unfurling like a lion’s mane. Aluel held a shield out, protectively. Nakia absorbed it, dark eyes intent. Then she looked up, and gave a silent nod.
There were fifty more kings after Bashenga, and Ramonda found herself falling into a comfortable pattern, the words she had been so worried about remembering falling easily off her tongue. There was she who first cultivated the heart shaped herb, and she who protected the tribes from raiders with a spear in hand, and she who drank the blood of her enemies and nursed a panther back from death. Every now and then, Nakia would squint with recognition. She had always minded her history.
When they came to Queen Consort Wanjeri, Okoye gave a delighted little sigh at the sight of the Dora Milaje’s spears- familiar even in a picture three thousand years old.
“Yangi was the first ruling queen of Wakanda,” Ramonda said, “And because some members of the tribe were not sure about a woman taking the heart shaped herb, she married one of her guards, the earliest members of the Dora Milaje to pacify them.”
Nakia frowned. “I thought it was just because she was a lesbian.”
“There were probably multiple factors,” Ramonda said swiftly, “But I am telling you this story as the queen once told it to me.” Shuri would have fought back- and probably won since there was no denying the recent historical evidence that the queens had been terribly in love. Nakia just rolled her eyes, and drew a little closer, staying in the circle of light.
“Wanjeri protected her wife with her life, if necessary, and asked others, her sisters in arms, to do the same. She was absolutely loyal.” Slyly, Ramonda glanced at Okoye, who jumped in.
“Since then the Dora have changed. We no longer serve the king, we serve our nation. But Wanjeri’s intentions were true. She knew what she fought for.”
It was a challenge, and Nakia, always an idealist, took it.
“I know what I fight for.”
The curve of Okoye’s lips in the blue light was as sharp as Nakia’s blades.
“ Good .”
There were twenty more Black Panthers after Yangi, a long line of relatively unremarkable queens and kings and their relatively unremarkable spouses. Ramonda named the names quickly, and did not linger over their accomplishments. Okin, the first male consort, did receive a moment’s pause, but little more. Nakia smiled fondly at Queen Dahya the Proud- a favorite of hers when she had been young, Ramonda remembered, but continued on silently.
Then they were at the gate. It was little more than a groove in the stone walls, a space where the vibranium laced carvings looped together and then stopped short, leaving a few feet of darkness before the images started back up again.
Nakia’s brow furrowed. “Is this supposed to represent the first great war?” she asked. Oh, she always did have a mind for history- not just Wakandan but African. The First War, when Wakandans had been forced to fight off their neighbours, and then Wakandan had turned against Wakandan, tearing the tribes apart- that was exactly the sort of thing she would remember.
“There were three consorts crowned then,” Ramonda said. “But none of them were ever initiated here. In fact, this place was nearly forgotten. In the chaos, the old ways were nearly lost. Only the Dora Milaje kept the tradition alive, and when the next queen was crowned-”
“Taru,” Nakia said, absently.
Okoye suppressed a laugh, and her eyes met Ramonda’s over Nakia’s head. Who was giving the speech here? They both seemed to be thinking.
“Indeed. The Dora Milaje were the ones who took Taru and taught her these rites again. It was after this that Wakanda became isolated- first by the mountains and then by technology. We had seen the danger of war. We had nearly lost everything. Now when I was young, the queen before me asked if I would protect Wakanda’s sovereignty. That cat is out of the bag, as they say, so all I will ask is if you will protect her traditions. When the time comes, will you pass this rite on to the one who comes after you? If you cannot make it that far, will you do everything in your power to make sure the Dora Milaje can counsel and protect the next royal spouse.”
“I will,” Nakia said, but the solemnity of the oath was undercut by the impression of roteness, the sense that she was saying it out of duty and not determination. Ramonda knew what Nakia looked like with fire in her eyes, and this was not quite it.
So she pushed. “Do you swear it? For Wakanda?”
“Yes, of course!” There was the anger, the flash of flame that had saved her and her daughter when death was at their door. There was what they needed, what she would need to get through this.
Ramonda nodded. “Good. Then put your weapons down.”
Nakia hesitated. “You would have me face this unarmed?”
“Would you if I asked?”
At that, she took offense. “Yes, you are my queen! But I am allowed to ask questions.”
“My sweet child, no one has ever had the power to stop you, try though we did. Now, I am glad we could not. No, you will not go in unarmed, but you do need to leave your weapons here.”
She hoped Nakia could take the hint. Blessedly, she seemed to pick up on the implication, swung her ring blades off her back, and dropped them on the ground with a clatter.
“Wonderful,” Ramonda said, trying to ignore Okoye rolling her eyes behind Nakia’s head. “Now, shall we move on?”
It only took a few steps to cross the darkness, and reach the next era. It was, overall, a peaceful one. It was also interminably long. Wakanda had survived since the dawn of civilization, hundreds of generations longer than any other dynasty or nation. Few people had longer memories, or more crowded history books.
There were almost two hundred Black Panthers in the peaceful time after the first war, men and women who had led the people to build up their walls, cultivate their natural protections, and foster a reputation for peace and poverty that could make most adversaries underestimate them. A few had still tried- there were isolated raids and attacks, but they had made off with little. Aside from the loss of a few Vibranium weapons and the occasional outsider quietly taken in, Wakanda had lost and gained little in those years.
It had been marriages that had made that diplomacy strong, that had solidified the ties between the clans until they were unbreakable and forged Wakanda’s hard won tranquility. Out of respect for the men and women of the clan she had married in to, Ramonda tried to remember as many names as she could. There were just so many .
Okoye helped.
“This was Wemusa? No, this was Wemusa. First Ebla, then Wemusa, then…”
“Ojore,” Okoye said helpfully. Of course she remembered, he looked to be of her clan. “King Ojore.”
“Yes. Then Biye, then three daughters of the Border clan in a row, then five queens and a king whose names are not even in the books.” She gave Nakia a significant look, “You see how easy it is for history to forget you. This is not a job for those seeking glory.”
“I am a spy,” Nakia shrugged, “No one goes into that field for the recognition.”
“It is much the same with queenship. It is not a job that is kind to its holder. You do not wear the crown, the crown wears you.”
“And this is the lesson?” she asked.
“One of many. I am afraid there are more to come.”
They made it through Dayo rhino tamer and Zawadi the proud, before Ramonda ran out of names to give and resigned the rest of the queens to silent mystery. It was, in a way, a blessing. If you were forgotten, chances were your time was peaceful. At time, one prayed to live in an era that would be forgotten completely, but Ramonda had realized when she saw her nephew’s shark toothed smile that she was not meant to live in uninteresting times.
Ahead, there was another patch of darkness- an internal chaos set off by unrest within Wakanda, the ever closer threat of growing empires. This one was even longer, almost three yards before the gentle glow of vibranium returned. Wakanda was chosen by the goddess, but that did not make it perfect. If anything, it had given them even more to lose.
“You know what happened here?” she asked.
Nakia bobbed her head. It was a Western habit, but Wakanda as a whole had picked it up years ago from imported television shows, and now young people like Shuri did not even remember a world where those little gestures were not a part of their language. Even T’Chaka, in his later years, had picked it up, and Ramonda had never quite been able to stop herself.
“Good. Then I do not need to explain what division within our nation can cost us. Three of the challengers to the throne from this period came from your tribe, two from mine,” she’d had to look that up in the royal archives, “And while a challenge is not always a bad thing, it is if it drives us further apart.”
She looked Nakia over. She had not worn much jewelry- instead coming prepared for battle- but she still had on a necklace with a smooth river stone set in it. A small marker of her heritage, in an otherwise entirely pragmatic outfit. Even undercover, she usually wore it.
“Take off your necklace,” she said, “and promise me that you will never let your family keep you from making the right choice.”
“Never,” Nakia said, already casting it aside with only a hint of hesitation. Once you were this far, Ramonda remembered, you were willing to do anything.
Still, she worried Nakia was not doing it for the right reasons. The point of the questions, of the hall of dead queens and kings, was to remind the betrothed of their responsibilities to the throne. Nakia’s ethos had never been focused on the Golden Clan, or even Wakanda. She made the choices she made because she thought they were right, utterly and earnestly. She acted out of compassion and love for others, not duty.
Ramonda feared that- however admirable it was- it would not be good enough. Not for what was ahead.
She could only do so much, however. Nakia and Okoye were eager to move forward, neither of them seemed to share her concerns. And there was only so much longer she could drag the recitation of history out.
Sooner or later, they were going to reach the end of the hallway.
Within minutes, they had passed another millenia of Wakandan life and were at the third gate, the third great war. Nakia pulled off her boots almost before Ramonda could ask her too and forswore her personal claim to the throne so long as she and T'Challa's remained alive and married. The rhythm of rituals became familiar once you understood the foundation they stood upon.
The next few centuries of Wakandan history went all too quickly. There was Lawin, history keeper, and Kassa, first to fly, and Thema, who had designed the oldest extant portion of Birnin Zana. There was Wasswa, father of twenty, five of whose children had been Black Panthers in their time. There was M’Barika of the Border who had defended them as colonizers had come to their very doorstep. And then they were practically within the reach of recent memory. Ramonda could recite every royal now, their deeds had shaped the city as they knew it, the world she had grown up in.
N’Bushe had been beautiful and strong, her mother the daughter of a refugee from what would become Kenya- just a few decades before the force fields came up and cut Wakanda off completely. Senwe and Serwa had been siblings, both married to the same man, one of the last kings of Wakanda to practice polygamy simply because keeping the royal family small was one of the best ways to keep the kingdom stable. (A small number of potential challengers to the throne was healthy, encouraged even, but too many just asked for trouble. Two, three children, that was ideal, and even that invited dangerous factions further down the line. Her husband's brother's son proved that.)
Okoye pointed out a few relevant to her calling- those who strengthened the Dora Milaje or were members in their youth, or those whose daughters joined the Dora and achieved power. Twakoseka, three generations before Ramonda, had been one of the Dora before marrying the queen and then had rejoined after her death, when her brother-in-law came to the throne.
(“ You did not ever,” Okoye said, “ stop serving Wakanda. You simply shifted focus a little. ”)
The darkness ahead was getting closer, and Nakia was getting antsy. She knew where history ended. But Ramonda lingered on the final queen in the line.
Her predecessor had been thoughtful, gracious, and ready to kill for her country. She had given this speech far better than Ramonda ever could have hoped to. She had made sure she knew what she was getting into, without violating the rules, and the words she had said that night years ago still lingered in her mind.
Nanali had been a great queen. Even carved in stone, she kept some of her regal bearing and warm smile. Nakia watched as Ramonda paused for a moment and paid her respects. There was something about having your successor’s eyes on you that made you all the more aware of your place in the world.
Ramonda’s place was in the palace, next to her son. It was in the graveyard up above when she joined the ancestors. It was on the wall, just down from Nanali, where bare stone was waiting for her.
Nakia’s place was impossible to discern. She had always been everyone’s first choice for T’Challa, and she had always been so determined to prove them wrong. Even now, she had only acquiesced to queendom once she had turned Wakanda upside down, bared them to the world and thrown everything into chaos.
She would get entire armlengths of this wall dedicated to her, if she didn’t kill everyone first.
Okoye took the torch from Ramonda’s hands and gave her a querying look. Was it time?
Yes , Ramonda said back, silently.
The cry of the Dora was piercing, especially in a small space. Okoye sounded it once, and smirked as her sisters melted out of the waiting darkness, stomping their spears.
Nakia did not jump, but she did lean back somewhat. Even spies could be surprised sometimes.
“This is the final step,” Ramonda explained, “You have a chance to turn back now, go and never speak of this again. Or you can continue and face what is ahead.”
“I want to continue,” Nakia said, chin stuck out mulishly. “No matter what.”
“Then take off what remains of your clothes,” Ramonda said, “Makeba?”
Makeba came forward, with the heavy robe and big sandals of the initiation in her arms. Nakia stripped, trying to give off the impression that she did this every day, and stepped into the proffered clothes. They weighed heavily on her shoulders and glowed slightly in the dark.
Ramonda stepped up and gestured to Nakia’s head, “Can I? I know there is not a mirror here, or a hair pick, but it will have to do.”
“Of course,” Nakia said, and stooped so Ramonda would unwind her Wakanda knots. It was an awkward position so Ramonda pulled her down to the floor so they could sit and uncoil each of the dozen little rolls, leaving curls that held almost as tight to her head as the original hair do. It was almost enough to make Ramonda smile. She’d already had her locs when she had gone through, and Queen Nanali had rolled each one individually between her fingers, checking that nothing from outside would go forward, into this sacred place.
Once she was certain that Nakia was as bare as she had been at birth, she stepped away.
“Ayo, her weapons.”
They were not the ones Nakia had left on the floor, though at a glance they looked almost identical. Nakia weighed them in her hands, testing the feeling of them, and seemed to find them satisfactory.
“We’ll want those back, before you get any ideas” Okoye warned her, “They’re national treasures.”
Nakia laughed. “What isn’t in this place? My queen, is there anything else I need to do?”
There wasn’t. Ramonda could not keep her any longer.
“No,” she said, drawing Nakia close for an embrace. “You will walk forward alone. It’s hard to get lost. Just-” she paused, trying to find something she could say, something that was right to say. “Remember who you are, Nakia of the River tribe. Remember what you are here for. Our hearts are with you.”
“You have the hands of a Dora and the heart of a queen,” Okoye said. “This is the same challenge we face when we make our vows- we all survived it. You must as well.” As with so many things Okoye said, there was an underlying implication of ‘ or else ’.
“Go get em’!” One of the younger Dora whispered, and there were giggles from their number.
Quickly, Nakia kissed Ramonda, and walked into the dark. Eventually, the vibranium blue of her tunic faded away entirely, and no one could see where she had gone.