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The stars are beautiful. The stars are always beautiful in Wakanda, but here, on the mountain that seems higher than the sky itself, the stars are the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. They sparkle off the snow, off the frosted leaves of the trees and the glass windows of the buildings below her.
Did her Baba ever sit on this mountain, admiring the beauty of the stars?
A sob shudders in her chest, chokes its way out of her throat, but she refuses, she refuses to let it get further. She did not slip from the palace during the chaotic aftermath of the battle, did not escape unnoticed and climb this mountain to cry.
She came for the stars. For the stars and the cold, and the sharp air that freezes her tears on her cheeks.
Ten days. Ten days since her Baba was killed in the explosion; seven days since Sergeant Bucky Barnes had appeared in her lab; four days since Erik Stevens—her cousin, her cousin had come to kill her brother, to kill her —
The sob manages to escape, breaking past her lips, and she breaks with it.
Baba is dead, and she hasn’t cried yet, hasn’t allowed herself to, because T’Challa is the next in line, for the crown and for danger, and she couldn’t, she couldn’t let him go into the world without knowing he had her best gear on his body.
She isn’t sure when she’s last slept a full night, when she hasn’t passed out in her lab from exhaustion, only to wake a few hours later and keep going, keep going—
And she’d lost T’Challa, anyways; watched, as his body was thrown off the waterfall, and her cousin—she shudders at the thought of him, of his relation, of the word —he’d reveled in what he thought was death.
Her sobs seem to echo in the sharp air, the stars cold and uncaring above her, and she can’t tell if she’s shaking from crying or shivering from heat loss. Her feeble blanket is no true protection against the brutal nature that is this mountain, and she knew that, and came unprepared, anyways.
Reckless. That’s the word. She’s being reckless with her life, caught up in her grief, in her heartache—
Baba is dead. Dead.
What a cruel word, all hard consonants and sharp movements.
Snow crunches behind her; she doesn’t bother to turn. Maybe it’s an animal, come to eat her. Maybe it’s something worse.
Reckless.
She knows.
“You’re going to die like that.” The voice is low and deep and as soft as she’s ever heard.
She knows that, too, and doesn’t answer, huddling further into the thin blanket that’s doing barely anything to keep her warm. The snow crunches again as he moves closer, as he sinks into the snow beside her, and she still doesn’t bother to look at him.
He doesn’t offer anything, and neither does she, clutching the blanket tighter and trying to quiet the sobs that still wrack her body. Her cheeks are raw from the wind and the frozen tears, her lungs burning, and when she moves her fingers, those hurt, too.
It’s only the fourth time she’s ever seen M’Baku, and the first time he’s seemed anything other than, than—
Than what? A ruthless warrior. A prideful leader.
He had mocked her creations, but he had also helped to save the life of Wakanda.
The first time he’s seemed anything other than what she’s expected , the words eventually come to mind, and she scrubs viciously at her cheeks, trying to remove the tears.
“Do you want to die?”
The question startles her, and she finally looks over at him. His gaze is towards another mountain in the far distance, but she knows he’s watching everything she’s doing, every breath she’s taking.
She knows even if she sits out here long enough to succumb to the cold, he won’t let her die.
Reckless. She’s being reckless with her life, and she knows it, and she doesn’t care, not here, not now.
It’s nearly a minute before she answers, throat raw, voice grating painfully. “No.”
“So, come inside.”
Inside. Down from the peak where they sit, to his beautiful mountain fortress of a home. Inside. Where it’s warm, and there’s hot food and drink, and she won’t be able to enjoy the cold uncaringness of the stars.
“No.”
He looks at her then, and she flinches from his gaze, from what he can see and what he will say. “Why?”
She doesn’t have an answer, not one that makes sense, and that’s terrifying and liberating, because her mind always knows, always comes up with an answer, but not now, not here. She just shakes her head; words won’t suffice.
His head tips back slightly, gaze moving to the stars she’s refusing to leave. It’s another long moment before he speaks again. “Yell to them.”
She finally looks at him, finally dares to face him with eyes silver-lined and cheeks raw. “What?”
“Yell. To your god. To your ancestors.” It’s such an absurd thing to say, to suggest—
And she’s considering it. T’Challa got his chance to be angry with them, to confront their father about the secrets kept and the havoc it wreaked. She never did. T’Challa got to say good-bye, got one more touch, one more smile. She never did.
She never did, and she shifts to her knees, her entire body weak and trembling, and closes her eyes, and screams. It’s a feral sound, a broken sound, of selfish words she can’t say and cruel thoughts she’ll never share. It echoes around the mountain, the stars yelling back at her, and she screams again.
Until her voice is gone, until there’s nothing left but the tears frozen on her raw cheeks, and a small, quiet blossom of silence in her chest. A good silence. A calm one.
She sinks back into the snow, further into her futile blanket, and the Great Gorilla studies her. “Better?”
She just nods, sure now that the shaking is from the cold, because the sobs, the tears, they’ve finally stopped. Wordlessly, he holds out his hand. She stares at it, unable to understand what he’s not saying, and then she does, pressing her fingertips to his, and he’s so warm it burns, and then she’s there, against him, tucked under the protection of the furs draped over his shoulders, curled into his heat.
His arm falls gently around her, and for the first time in a very long time, she remembers what it feels like to know, no matter what, she’ll be safe.
“You have to feel it.” The words are a quiet rumble in his chest, and she clutches desperately at the warmth he’s providing. Reckless. She should have brought more than just the blanket. He keeps speaking. “It’s okay to break, princess.”
For once, the title isn’t said with scorn. For once, he’s being gentle and kind, and she feels new tears for an entirely different reason. “They need me.” She’s not sure what she’s trying to say.
If it was T’Challa, or her mother, or Baba, they would run a hand over her hair, tuck her under their chin and murmur soft words that she’ll forget by morning. But this isn’t T’Challa, or her mother, or Baba. This is M’Baku, the Great Gorilla, on the highest peak of his mountain, in the cold and snow, and he simply offers his hand, palm upturned towards her, and she presses her fingertips to it once again. He cups his hand, curling it around the freezing digits, and that touch means more than anything those forgotten words ever have.
“Yes. They do.” He seems to understand, anyways. “They need you alive, and healthy.” It’s okay to break.
“He’s dead.”
“Yes.”
His skin is no longer burning her, and she presses her face against his chest, taking his hand between hers and squeezing tight, as tight as she can, and he lets her. He lets her break all over again, offering nothing more than kindness, and nothing less than safety.
He provides one of his furs for her journey back down, and carefully fastens it closed at her throat with a pin, shaped not as a roaring gorilla like those he uses, but as a single claw of a panther. Another kindness, another safety.
Every once and a while, on those very hard nights when the stars call, she pulls the fur from its place deep in the back of her closet, wraps herself in it and clutches the pin so tightly it leaves an imprint in her hand, and allows herself to break, knowing she’s safe.