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He readied himself before he left. From the moment he made the choice to visit him, his mother, his sister, Nakia— even Okoye—had told him not to go. Not alone. Not at all. But he had to.
Despite the crimes. Despite the murders. Despite the blood on his hands, he was still his family. Still of Wakanda. Still of their pride.
And yet, T’Challa was not certain this was a wise choice. Least of all alone. Something within him—an unseen pull, another half of his soul—demanded he go. The man he sought was an enemy of the king. An ally of Klaw. A murderer who had tried to kill his family had tried to kill him. Justice had demanded punishment, and exile had been the king’s mercy, just as it had been for the other rogue Wakandans.
Still…he needed to see him. Needed to know if he was still living and maybe...to talk to him. He wished to see his cousin, Erik N’Jadaka. If only to know whether he was surviving in the jungle lands beyond Wakanda’s borders. If only to show him there was more than rage. More than being an enemy, at least.
The ship hovered, frozen in the air, its hum swallowed by the vastness below. Beneath him stretched the deep, dense jungle of Africa—endless green, ancient and untamed. Nothing like the golden plains of Wakanda.
The jungle pressed against him, even from above; it was heavy and breathing and alive.
T’Challa exhaled slowly and prepared himself to make his departure and quest. He slung his panther shield across his shoulder, secured the staff across his back, and checked the chest straps of vibranium knives. His panther mask sealed into place. The onyx cape latched to one shoulder. With one last breath, he then stepped forward.
The hatch opened—and the air screamed.
He fell through the sky, arms crossed, body steady as the wind howled around him. At the last moment, he landed in a crouch atop a towering jungle tree, claws biting into bark. Below, the forest sprawled in layers of shadowed green.
He scanned the area.
Then he slid down the massive trunk, boots skimming the bark until he reached the forest floor with his staff in hand and ready.
The jungle watched him.
Beasts breathed in the shadows. Eyes followed from the dark. This land was not Wakanda’s open plains—it was the shadowed heart of the wild, where predators ruled, and mercy was unknown. It was not as comforting or welcoming.
T’Challa moved forward, letting the dense foliage brush against his suit, the dark green swallowing the black of the panther. Leaves whispered as he passed.
A stream cut through the land. He crossed it—and stopped.
Footprints.
T’Challa knelt, gloved fingers tracing the impression in the mud that was warm and recent.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze toward the darker path ahead, where the jungle thickened and light died.
He breathed in. Breathed out.
And stepped into the unknown.
The air grew foggy, damp, heavy with rot and life. Mud sucked at his boots. Distant animal calls echoed—warnings carried through the trees. Weapons raised, he followed the trail as it led up a slope. He slid, grunting softly as he caught himself, landing in a crouch before rising again.
Then he smelled it.
It was strong, fresh, and putrid.
His grip tightened on the staff. Ahead lay a pool of fresh blood, dark and wet, flies swarming thickly above it.
The stench hit him like a blow.
He was close.
Ignoring the flies and stench, he lifted his gaze toward a narrow, shadowed pass of rocks and fallen logs. A faint, grim smile touched his lips. He moved forward—slow, deliberate. Shield ready. Staff angled low.
Branches snapped.
He spun, scanning upward as deep growls rolled through the canopy.
He froze and slowly raised his eyes, and above him, perched on a fallen log, crouched a leopard—spotted hide taut, eyes burning an unnatural yellow. Demon-bright. Unblinking.
T’Challa held his ground.
Chimps hooted from the shadows, restless and sharp. He returned his focus to the leopard as it snarled, the sound vibrating through his suit and into his bones.
He inhaled deeply, rolled his shoulders, and tightened his grip.
The leopard stalked forward.
T’Challa reached for a vibranium dagger—
—and the jungle exploded.
A second leopard burst from the shadows, fangs aimed for his skull.
He ducked, grunting, swinging the blunt end of his staff into its abdomen. The beast crashed hard into the ground.
The first leopard leapt.
T’Challa hurled daggers—but it dodged, moving with terrifying speed.
He spun, landed, barely steady—
—and the second leopard slammed into him.
His staff flew from his grasp. The weight drove him to the ground. Claws raked his shield as the beast snarled inches from his face, hot breath searing through the mask.
The other leopard circled, low and hungry.
T’Challa growled, grunting, with muscles straining as he shoved against the crushing weight. His claws extended, ready to strike—
Just as the second beast launched—
“Koma!”
The duo of leopards ceased and turned toward the shadows. T’Challa followed their gaze—and slowly, deliberately, he emerged.
T’Challa lifted his head, staring at the man stepping forward from the darkness, flanked by the great panthera beasts.
There was a pause.
Then Erik revealed himself. His bare chest was mapped with scars—old ones layered over fresh, some still angry and raw. The jaguar-hide half-suit wrapped his lower body, worn and functional, fashioned for survival rather than ceremony. His face was concealed behind a mask of gold-spotted black, its design echoing the leopards themselves. A staff rested easily in his grip. At his waist hung an ikakalaka sword, and around his neck lay a talon-claw necklace, heavy and unmistakably earned.
Slowly, he removed the mask, and his face was revealed—older, harder. His dreadlocks had grown long and wild, framing sharp eyes that burned with feral awareness.
T’Challa stared at his cousin.
The leopards stilled instantly. Their snarls faded, their bodies easing as though a silent command had been given.
Erik snapped his fingers. “Shuka”
The crushing weight pinning T’Challa vanished as the leopard stepped off him. The second leopard padded toward Erik instead. T’Challa pushed himself upright just in time to see Erik kneel, his movements calm and familiar, as though the beasts were nothing more than oversized cats. The leopards sat obediently, tails flicking, as Erik stroked them with practiced ease, murmuring in Wakandan—his accent unbroken.
The sight struck T’Challa unexpectedly.
It reminded him of his panthers in the Golden City.
He rose slowly, retrieving his fallen staff. His shield settled back against his shoulder, his cape falling into place.
Erik smiled faintly at the leopards, ignoring T’Challa as he stood. Then his eyes lifted—locking onto the panther king.
They stared at one another.
Erik’s lips curled into a cocky, primal smirk. He chuckled, patting one leopard as it leaned into his hand, purring. “What’s up, cuz?”
T’Challa said nothing.
With a sharp whistle, Erik snapped out of Wakanda. In seconds, the leopards vanished into the jungle, leaves rustling softly as the green swallowed them whole.
The silence stretched.
Erik sneered. “I could smell your Wakandan stench a mile away. I was enjoying the show—wanted them to eat your ass,” he said lazily. “But I didn’t want you killing my pets.”
T’Challa stood unmoving behind his mask. His gaze traveled over Erik—measured, searching. When he spoke, his voice was calm, low, carrying neither accusation nor fear. “Are you alright?”
Erik laughed sharply. “You’re the one who was almost leopard food. And like I said—I wanted them to eat you.” His eyes darkened. “You look like all the ones who faced me before they died. Even the animals here know whose land this is.” He spread his arms wide, taking in the jungle—its cruelty, its danger—as if it were his throne. “My kingdom.”
“You look as though you’re doing well out here,” T’Challa said quietly. “Alone”
Erik’s expression snapped. “And what do you care? You’re king.” His voice hardened. “What brings you to my kingdom?”
T’Challa reached into his satchel and drew out a small burlap bag marked with Wakandan stitching. He approached slowly, carefully—like one would approach a feral beast. His eyes caught on Erik’s bare chest, the lattice of scars, old wounds crossed by fresh scratches and bite marks.
He forced his focus back and held the bag out.
Erik stared at him. “What’s in the bag?”
“Things I gathered for you”
Erik ignored it for a moment longer—then snatched it from T’Challa’s hands. T’Challa lowered his arms as Erik untied the knot and looked inside. It was food, Wakandan rations, and medicines. More supplies for him to survive.
Erik’s eyes flicked from the contents to T’Challa. His grin returned—sharp and feral. “What’s this? You think you can come onto my land, play generous, try to welcome me back to the kingdom that should’ve been mine?” His voice dropped. “You think kindness fixes what the world took from me? You're trying to be soft with your enemy?”
“I came to see if you were surviving,” T’Challa said steadily. “To let our family know how you fare. And to see for myself.” His voice softened. “You look…more yourself than I expected, N’Jadaka—”
Suddenly, a cold vibranium kissed his throat. In a blur, Erik was inches from him, eyes blazing, blade pressed firmly against his neck.
The jungle fell deathly silent between them and all the jungle around them.
“Don’t call me that name,” he hissed.
He only stared at his cousin, being unsaid.
After a moment, Erik lowered the ikakalaka. He turned without another word and walked into the shadows.
T’Challa followed, strapping his staff across his back as he moved deeper into the jungle.
They emerged into a small clearing—a rocky rise overlooking a narrow ravine. Fallen logs had been dragged into crude barricades. Sharpened stakes jutted from the earth, darkened with age and stained red, positioned to wound and slow intruders, not stop them.
Traps were everywhere—bone snares, concealed pits, weighted branches rigged to snap down with lethal force. Low fire pits burned constantly, their smoke thin and masked by jungle scent. At the center stood a rough shelter—part hide, part bone. Inside, the ground was packed dirt layered with woven grass and furs. Jaguar pelts and leopard skins are draped over the frame. Animal skulls hung like warnings. Human bones among them.
Weapons—handmade, scavenged, reforged—lined the interior and exterior. Hollowed gourds and stone basins collected water from a nearby stream.
T’Challa took it in, heart tightening.
A snarl snapped him to attention.
The two leopards emerged from the shelter, eyes locked on him. He drew his vibranium dagger instantly.
Erik whistled.
The leopards backed off.
Erik tossed the bag aside and stepped toward the fire. A slab of freshly cooked meat hung above the flames. Nearby lay the remains of a dead okapi. With his sword, Erik cut free a leg—blood still dripping, scent heavy in the air.
The leopards snarled, eyes blazing with hunger.
Erik lifted the meat higher, smirking as he murmured playfully in Wakandan. Then he threw it, and the leopards charged—one seizing one end, the other clamping down on the opposite side—growling as they tore into it, bone cracking under powerful jaws.
T’Challa watched as the two leopards gnawed at the stripped bones of the okapi, their jaws cracking through marrow as they fed, and he took in the reality of how Erik lived in the jungle.
It was a perfect image of exile—of an outsider and a banished one, far removed from royalty, far removed from the throne. Erik was no longer part of the royal family. He was an enemy. And yet T’Challa had come anyway, compelled to see him, to tend to him, to witness the kingdom Erik now claimed as his own.
Erik cut a slab of okapi meat and hung it above the fire before sitting beside his rough shelter. “Sorry,” he said cockily. “I technically don’t get guests out here.”
T’Challa said nothing. He watched as Erik tore into the cooked flesh, took a savage bite, then grabbed a piece of fruit, sliced it open with his sword, and shoved it aside—never once looking at his so-called cousin. After a moment, T’Challa moved closer and sat beside him. Neither looked at the other. Only the fire burned between them.
“You don’t have to wear the damn mask,” he sneered. “Take it off. Don’t matter anyway.”
He glanced at him, then slowly removed the mask, letting his face be revealed to the jungle, and set it aside.
Silence followed, broken only by the low growls of the feeding leopards. “I am glad you are doing well out here, N’—” He stopped when Erik’s glare cut into him. “…Erik. Erik, I mean. At least you are surviving. You are proving it.”
“Yeah. Yeah,” Erik hissed. “You sound real damn glad to see me alive. Like, I’m still family or something. Like, I’m not the same enemy who wants you dead. The same one who lost everything because Wakanda took it from him. The same one who wants what you have—what I deserve.”
His eyes sharpened, predatory and dangerous, and even the king felt a chill run through him. “Why are you really here, cuz?”
“I came to see if you were alive,” T’Challa said quietly. “To see if you were doing alright. And…I am glad you survived. Your wound could have killed you.”
Erik dragged his fingers over the scar near his heart. “You shouldn’t have let your people save me,” he said. “All it did was keep me alive long enough to keep fighting for what I want.”
“Perhaps,” T’Challa replied. “But we share something, even after everything you have done. Even after the hatred you carry.”
He stared into the flames. “We are family. And I could not let you die.”
Erik tore another strip of meat free and chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the fire.
“I didn’t come to drag you back,” T’Challa continued. “Not today. Maybe not ever. But Wakanda is open to you. I came alone, so you would know I meant it. You are my uncle’s son. That makes us family.”
Erik laughed sharply and shook his head. “You sound like you’re going soft.”
He turned fully then, and T’Challa braced himself.
Erik’s stare was that of a predator locking onto prey—cold, calculating, lethal. The same gaze that had haunted T’Challa on the battlefield was heavy with pain and fury.
“If you want to strike me,” T’Challa said steadily, “then do it. Do not hold back. I see all the hate in your heart. So full of anger and hatred that someone like you or anyone in this world doesn't deserve to possess, and I am here for you to summon it all out.”
Erik only leaned closer instead. He smirks. “All that shit is behind me,” he muttered. “But you’re right about one thing. We are alike.”
T’Challa felt a hand slide behind his neck. A firm grip.
A pull forward.
Their foreheads met.
Erik was suddenly inches away—close enough for T’Challa to smell blood, smoke, and jungle heat on his skin. Close enough to see every scar carved into that powerful body, trophies of survival, of rage, of conquest.
The panther was Wakanda—calm, hidden, precise. But Erik was a lion—relentless, dominant, unyielding.
T’Challa’s heart thundered as Erik’s grip tightened, iron-strong, his other hand pressing to his cheek. Their foreheads pressed harder together, breath mingling in the heavy jungle air.
Neither moved.
Neither one of them spoke; all they did was stare and feel each other.
Both stared at one another—enemies bound by the same blood, the same inherited line that coursed through them. Broken men, each having lost a father who had been a brother to the other. That shared blood should have united them, yet it had forged them into rivals. Still, T’Challa did not look away from Erik’s eyes.
Erik spoke first, his voice low, rough. “When you first looked into my eyes—before all the battles, before we crossed blades—when you finally saw me… I’d had so many people look at me. Even the ones who died by my hand. They looked, but they never saw me.” His voice curled into a soft snarl. “You did.”
T’Challa felt a shiver move through him at the sound.
“Tell me,” Erik continued, quieter now. “What did you see in my eyes?”
T’Challa swallowed. “At first… I saw someone I did not know. Someone carrying so much darkness, so much hunger—someone willing to claim lives just to be seen. Back then, I saw an enemy. A threat I had to stop to protect my people, my family, Wakanda.” His voice softened. “But now… that certainty has faded. I do not know what it is I see in you anymore.”
Erik let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “When I saw you looking at me, I thought you were like everyone else. Another king stares without understanding. But somehow…” His gaze sharpened, raw and honest. “You were seeing more. And it felt good. There were times I wanted to disappear. To be done with everything. But when you looked at me—really looked at me—it felt like I existed.”
Thoughts of Linda flickered through his mind, distant and dulled. She had loved him, yes, but even she had never truly seen the broken child he had buried deep inside. Not the way T’Challa was seeing him now.
Their gazes locked more intensely. T’Challa felt Erik’s hands firm against his cheeks, holding him there, forcing him to stay.
The jungle fell away. The leopards, fed and silent in the trees, watched from the shadows, forgotten. Wakanda, family, duty—everything vanished as T’Challa felt his heart slam against his ribs, heavy and relentless.
Erik felt the familiar urge rise—the instinct to strike, to kill, to take the throne by force. He could end it here. Yet he didn’t move. Instead, he saw the same loneliness reflected at him. A king surrounded by people, yet isolated all the same. And somehow… that recognition felt good. It made the world feel less empty.
“I’m going to tell you to do something,” Erik said quietly, command threading his words. “And I want you to shut up and just do it.”
T’Challa didn’t answer at first. Then, softly, “What is it?”
Erik leaned closer, their breaths mingling. “Close your eyes,” he murmured. “And open your mouth.”
With his forehead still pressed to Erik’s, T’Challa studied his face one last time—every scar, every shadow. Then, slowly, he obeyed.
Soon, in seconds, he felt something wet poking his lips while he stared and about to burst his eyes open, but he went into submission mode and felt that wet poking feeling entering his cave, and his body under his suit was like going into flames. He kept his eyes closed and felt more of the hot sensation going deeper into his mouth.
Erik drove more of his pink muscle to dive deeper, seeking and feeling his own, caressing it like he was tasting it, and it was tasting very good.
T'Challa kissed the other man deep and more avidly, taking it all in, and he was taking in something so good and stronger than Nakia. Way better than Nakia. And felt so good than Nakia.
He felt hands massaging his back and neck, his own hands were slowly drifting up, Killmonger moaned as he felt hands slowly caressing arms of scars, and to the bare chest with all the scars were crowned. He moaned, feeling the hands stroking his old and fresh ones, and he moaned deeper, and T'Challa melted more into his embrace, feeling his grip tightened and he just couldn't let go and felt the grip squeezing his shoulders.
Erik felt the snaking hands coiled tight around his waist, and he just could not release him.
T'Challa slowly opened his eyes when Erik slowly pulled back, both panting, cheeks and bodies flushed, and their lips were feeling a bit swollen.
T'Challa stared and blinked and stared and mumbled. “That was...something.”
Erik, in a few seconds, only shrugged. “You are a good kisser. Not bad. My old girlfriend was not a good kisser, and I had many kissed me, and none were as good as you”, he said, smirking.
“You really are an animal.”
“I know. I tried, cuz” he said with a wide smirk.
T'Challa couldn't help but smirk back, shaking his head, and he stared at the farewell of the sun and the moon arriving. “I...I...I have to go; my family is probably worrying about me.”
Erik glanced, he nodded, and slowly let go of the king.
T'Challa pulls himself together, putting his mask back on, ready to depart.
“When will I see you again?”
He turned to Erik, standing up and standing behind him, and his eyes were locked on his. He stared deep into him, and he felt...he wanted to see him again.
He walked back to him. “You will see me again.”
“When?”
He walked closer and placed his hands on his cheeks, foreheads touched again, and he lifted his mask just a tip for his lips to appear, and Erik saw a smile on his face, and felt the wet tip of the tongue going back into his mouth, and only held him close in return.
T'Challa pulled back. “You will. You will see me again. A few nights or tomorrow night.”
Erik then held his waist. “Swear on it?”
“Promise,” he vowed. “And...maybe being out here and far from the meetings and king duties...it does feel a bit peaceful out here, and I kind of envy you for living out here.”
“Thought you might. You are always welcome in my own kingdom”, Erik said, smiling.
They have in common. They were related. They lost both their fathers. And both, despite being majestic and mighty, were broken men and suffered. Perhaps they are not different from what they thought.
Their fingers intertwined.
“You will see me again. You will. And perhaps...even sooner than you think”, T'Challa vowed, smiling. He wants to see him again.
Erik smiled, kissed his lips again. “Tomorrow night?”
“Tomorrow night”, he vowed.
*
The night shone through the jungle, silver moonlight threading between the towering trees. Deep within Wakanda’s heartland, the jungle lay hushed and watchful, alive yet holding its breath. A bushbuck moved through the undergrowth, feasting calmly on fresh grass, its hooves quiet against the damp earth. Unaware of the eyes upon it, the animal wandered toward the nearest watering hole.
It drank from the still, dark water.
Then—
A rustle.
The bushbuck froze. Its ears flicked sharply, swiveling as its eyes widened in alarm.
With a sudden, panicked bellow, it bolted, crashing across the shallow river as instinct took over. The jungle erupted. Two leopards burst from the shadows, muscles coiling and releasing as they gave chase. Behind them, the hunter king surged forward, spear gripped tight in his hand, a mask shadowing his face as he ran.
The bushbuck tore through the vine-choked jungle, desperate and fast, branches snapping in its wake. The leopards roared, their speed terrifying, fluid, relentless. Erik matched them stride for stride, his movements sharp and predatory, spear poised, waiting for the moment to end the chase. The jungle was dense, unforgiving—but the prey was skilled, fighting for every breath, every heartbeat. Leaves lashed across Erik’s bare, scarred chest as he ran. Sweat gleamed under the moonlight, tracing old wounds and newer ones alike. His breath burned, but he welcomed it. This was no hardship. This jungle was his home—far more than any city, any throne ever could be. He had learned to thrive here. To survive. To fight.
No prey escaped him.
The bushbuck began to falter. The leopards closed in, jaws snapping, breath steaming in the cool night air. Erik narrowed his focus, ignoring the sting of branches carving fresh marks into his skin.
The end was near.
Then suddenly—the bushbuck stumbled.
It crashed into the swampy ground, rolling once before collapsing. Erik and the leopards skidded to a halt, watching as the animal twitched, shuddered, and finally lay still and now dead.
Erik raised his spear—then stopped. His eyes locked onto the cause. It was another spear that gleamed from the bushbuck’s side, embedded deep, proud, and feral in its placement. Before he could react, the leopards lunged, tearing into the carcass with low, satisfied growls, their hunger finally sated. He removed his mask slowly, eyes still fixed on the spear. A sound drew his attention. He turned toward a narrow rocky ravine just as a shadow shifted within it.
There—
He stood.
T’Challa crouched high upon the stone, his panther suit blending seamlessly with the night, his claws dug into the hard rock like a living embodiment of Wakanda’s spirit. He looked untouchable. Tested. Proven. A ruler of the jungle where no man survived without earning it.
Erik smirked, lowering his weapon. T’Challa leapt from the cliff, landing lightly before him. He removed his mask, a knowing smile crossing his face. “I had it,” he said, smirking.
He smiled back. “Oops. Thought I’d show you how I hunt my own way.”
Erik chuckled softly.
As the leopards purred nearby, bloodied and content, the two men stepped closer—until they met in a quiet, deliberate kiss beneath the moonlit canopy.
“You came… as you promised,” Erik murmured.
“I keep my promises.”
They were a dysfunctional family. A dangerous bond. Broken, scarred, and stubbornly alive. They had suffered. They had survived. And now, they stood together—unapologetic.
They were predators.
And that was what they shared.