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"Have you ever considered letting it go?" King T'challa asked. "Perhaps you'd find more peace that way." T'challa, otherwise known as the Black Panther, sat with his arms folded against his chest, and his stomach resting at the foot of the bar's table. He wasn't too fond of New York's greasy cuisine. In this city, everything was covered with a grime that made the food taste bitter.
"Never," said his companion, a heavy built man, with three scars scratched against his black face. His head was shaved right down to his skin, and in the right light, you could even see your own countenance reflected against its smooth surface. This man was Black Manta, or as T'challa called him, David. He was pirate who scoured the seas, looking for something that he could never have: revenge.
The bar for the night was empty, T'challa had reserved it just for the two of them. As much as he disliked it, his friend was rather found of this little bar that sat at the edge of New York. It was almost like David (the man known as Black Manta) was looking for a place to hide from the world.
"Do you have any idea what he did to me? To my family?" David screamed. His eyes darted from table to table, searching for something to hold on to. T'challa knew that look. The fear in a man's eye is something that is not easily forgotten. A long time ago, David's father was murdered by Aquaman, and ever since, David had dawned the guise of Black Manta to bring his father's killer to whatever bloody justice Manta seemed appropriate. He was a man consumed by vengeance, a fate T'challa knew all too well. For it was not long ago that King T'chaka, the previous king of Wakanda, had been lost. And it in so doing, T'challa, ever the dutiful son, ever the strong leader his country needed, sought to find his father's killer, and tear asunder all who stood in contrast to his will. Mercy was not a word T'challa had.
But that was over. Wasn't? True, the sting of his father's passing would forever haunt the corners of T'challa's heart, and no words, wise or foolish, would console that hurt.
"You don't have a right to throw stones your majesty," David spat. "You did the exact same shit."
T'challa wanted to counter, to bring up the fact the situations were different. But were they really? T'challa had gone on, what others might call, a rampage to find answers. He had even tried to murder an innocent man, just to snatch at whatever ease that might bring.
David sucked his teeth and scratched his facial scars, a habit he had whenever he became frustrated. And this was always a sign that he was going to talk about Arthur Curry. "I still don't see why you trust Arthur," David said as he poured himself a glass of expensive whisky. That's how David was, he craved the finer things that the world had to offer, but even that could not dissuade his anger. Even that could not temper the flame that smoldered inside. And for a brief second, T'challa could almost see David's scars pulse.
"I don't trust Arthur Curry," T'challa said, "But we are both monarchs, I of Wakanda, and he of Atlantis. Any aggressive move or action upon him would be an act of war between our nations." And a good king does not seek out violence when it can be avoided. Even being seen with Manta in this place would be a sign of war against Atlantis. However, T'challa never feared retribution, or rebuke, Wakanda was strong enough to withstand any assault. Atlantis could not say the same. "Still, you might try forgiveness against Aquaman. If for nothing else than for yourself. Did you not once say you wanted to search the ocean depths for the rarest treasures?" T'challa asked, trying to steer the conversation away from Aquaman.
"That was a long time ago, T'challa. So far that it seems like a childhood dream."
"Yet it is not." T'challa sipped his drink. "Vengeance has consumed you my friend."
"Well, when a son loses his father by hands that are not of god, what else is there to do?" David asked. His scar pulsed as his brow furrowed. "I'm not gonna let some fishman get away with murdering my father."
T'challa tried not to scoff. How many fathers had David taken away from their sons in this blood feud? He was no innocent, yet T'challa still found himself seeking out David's company. There was a solidarity between them, an understanding of what it means to hold your father's body as the life seeps from his skin like the juice from a crushed fruit. There is no greater pain to a son, than to see his father, a being as great as a god, shrink to the size of a man. Were they both cursed to lose those who loved them? And if so, what would they have left when the dust settled? T'challa had Wakanda, a country who expected him to lead them to greater glory. David had his ship, a vessel built from calloused hands, and tired ingenuity, able to traverse the depths and the surfaces of every sea. But was that enough? Two sons willing to bare whatever cross to fulfill their fathers' ambition.
"You're such a dutiful son, aren't you?" T'challa whispered.
"No more than you are, Mr. King Wakanda." David raised his glass. "So, to us, the dutiful sons."
T'challa did the same, "To the dutiful sons. My we find peace in our fathers' memories."
And they drank deeply, and the laughed loud enough for the dead to understand, and for one night at least, they felt as if their family was once again whole.