Chapter Text
Becoming the White Wolf
Bucky Barnes sat, meditating in his hut on the bank of a wide river he couldn't quite remember the name of. His hut was comfortable, dark and cool against the African heat, all over it was safe, for the first time in over seventy years he was actually safe. T’Challa and Shuri had assured him as much. There was a thump against the clay wall of the hut and Bucky cracked an eye open, the children were coming. He could hear them screaming and laughing before they poured into his hut after the pigskin ball they had been kicking all along the river’s edge. He grinned at their willing approach, they trusted him, their parents trusted him. It was more than he thought he deserved. “Molo ingcuka!” Exclaimed the children, they waited patiently for his reply, gathering around him. “Molowie?” Bucky asked with a crinkled brow, he hoped he was pronouncing things correctly, he was still guessing at the language. Xhosha was unlike any language he had been exposed to under Hydra or his time on the run, it had a complex series of clicks which were both beautiful and extremely difficult to master. Shuri had left him with a holo-list of phrases to practice, things that would get him through the day. She expected him to practice, telling him that she was, "Not going to program his head full of the language and it would be a healthful activity to learn."
The children grinned widely and jumped in the air. He could not understand why, but the children had taken a liking to him. He still wore the markings of the children from earlier in the day, a series of yellow and blue lines across his cheeks and streaked through his beard and a red spot of ocher in the middle of his forehead. In the back of his mind he hoped that the substance did not stain, but in reality, he could not bring himself to care, this was his home now and if they wanted to use him as a canvas, it was nothing worse than what Steve subjected him to growing up.
He bent down, smiling gently at the shy child, Nuru, who liked to show him shells. She loved shells, her own hair was braided with them and she liked to make music by way of a drilled shell, it always created the most haunting melody.
A little boy who he had somehow not seen before now was staring at the gap where his arm should have been. Bucky held very still, not wanting to scare the new child and having no means to explain himself.
The language barrier was frustrating but he would learn, he would have to. But for now, all he could do was pull the knot in his kikoi and expose what was left of his scarred shoulder. The children all moved close to see and Bucky felt embarrassed as their wide eyes fell on him.
The boy reached out and traced the scarring with a slim finger, awe in his eyes. Bucky could not imagine what the boy could be in awe of, but the child took a step back from him and gave the Wakandan salute, arms crossed over his chest and a serious look on his young, painted face.
“Ingkuca! Yibambe!” The boy shouted at the others, who all saluted with grins and crossed arms before charging out his open door, dust rising from their bare heels before disappearing among the other huts.
Bucky stepped out after them, into the warm evening air that buzzed with excitement. From what he could gather from the elaborate dress of the adults and his own face being decorated, a festival or ceremony of sorts was going to take place.