Disclaimer: I do not own the original canon nor am I making any profit from writing this piece. All works are accredited to their original authors, performers, and producers while this piece is mine. No copyright infringement is intended. I acknowledge that all views and opinions expressed herein are merely my interpretations of the characters and situations found within the original canon and may not reflect the views and opinions of the original author(s), producer(s), and/or other people.
Warnings: This story may contain material that is not suitable for all audiences and may offend some readers. There is a reference to a significant death, though this death occurs offscreen and only the body is described/referenced. Please utilize understanding of personal sensitivities before and while reading.
Author's Note: Before y'all start kvetching at me, I haven't seen Black Panther yet at all. My information for this piece is based on two things: 1) Will Corona Pilgrim's Avengers: Infinity War Prelude, Issue 1, and 2) my knowledge of how psychology actually works. Maybe the explanation she gives in the movie is better; maybe she didn't come across as teenager-ishly arrogant in Letitia Wright's portrayal. Essentially, this is the result of having read that comic before going to sleep and then waking up to Kelly Clarkson's version of It's Quiet Uptown from that Hamilton Remix thing.
In related news, I'm officially an old fart because my first thought was "oh, baby, you're so young". I may definitely be as sadistic as Blue is always saying because that thought was immediately followed by "what's the worst way to learn better?"
Fem Power Challenge:
Fill Number: 08
Representation(s): Shuri; Woman of Color
Bonus Challenge(s): n/a
Word Count: 1213 (Story Only); 1248 (Story & Epigraph)
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Unimaginable
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There are moments that the words don't reach.
There's a grace too powerful to name.
We push away what we can never understand.
We push away the unimaginable.
– Lin-Manuel Miranda, "It's Quiet Uptown"
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No one challenged her ascension.
All five tribes accepted her as Queen, as they had her brother before her. Even the Dora Milaje, led by a stern-faced Okoye, bowed to her leadership. The responsibility for her people's well-being was a heavy burden, even greater than the mantle of the Black Panther that she also now wore. In her weaker moments, she was jealous of T'Challa, for having years to adjust to the weight of one role before being thrusted into the other as well.
In those moments, she wanted to scream at him. Why didn't he stop her? Check her arrogance as she had so often checked his ego? Why did he not urge caution over cementing her belief in her own brilliance? He was, above all things, her brother, her protector. Why did he fail her so spectacularly in this one instance where she had needed him most?
Why did he have to die?
It would always hit her then, the blow made anew by her rage.
He needn't have.
He was only dead because of her mistake. She had rushed for a technological solution to a problem that was organic. She had thought she had found shortcuts to heal a man who have been deliberately and routinely broken in order for weapon to be shaped from the pieces. She had thought herself better than those who had more experience simply because they had failed in the past.
She had forgotten the most important lesson her father had tried to teach her: no man is truly above another. Failure breeds wisdom as much as it does regret.
In those moments, when she was crumpling under the weight of everything, she reached for the words of another man, the very one she had disparaged in her hubris as many had before her. They were not his words, but it was he who gave them to her.
Your legacy is what you make it.
With a deep breath, she would renew the iron in her core. Then she would raise her chin, not in arrogance but in challenge, and move forward to carve her path through the world.
She was not a princess in need of saving.
She was a queen and she had this shit handled.
That would be her legacy.
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They had not been expecting to face the Winter Soldier. It had been a few years since Shuri had flushed the trigger words—a full year since Barnes had cleared his probation. Her method had clearly been a success.
There had been those who had protested Shuri's treatment, claiming that there was no way it would work. Loudest among those voices was Dr. Jennette Rhodes, who had been easily countered when people realized that she was James Rhodes' sister. Steve Rogers had been quite clear about the potential influence that Tony Stark could wield and how petty the man could be, even against an innocent man. Rogers had recounted the story of everything that had happened in the so-called "Civil War" and how Stark had just arrogantly thought he alone knew best, making sure that everyone who disagreed with him was silenced. No one wanted to agree with something that such a man would undoubtedly back after watching Rogers' earnest but shy smile.
No one had really noticed that Tony Stark himself had not truly weighed in on the debate. If questioned, his answer was always a shrug and a flippant deflection. If pushed, Stark pushed against the pressure but still refused to discuss it. Many used that as evidence of Rogers' claim that Stark was too narcissistic to admit that he had been wrong.
So, none of them had been expecting to face the Winter Soldier. None of them had been expecting their enemy's recitation of random words to do anything. Even Barnes had been surprised when the random bits of Russian had triggered a conditioned response which should have been long since removed. Of course, he had; she had removed the memory of the words from his mind. She had removed what her algorithm had pinpointed as the undesired response to those words, leaving the rest of his memories intact. Her reboot had solved the problem.
Except people are not computers and conditioned responses do not dwell only in the mind.
Really, they had been lucky there had been only the one casualty though it had felt differently in that moment. It had felt more like her own heart had been ripped out rather T'Challa's. She had sat there, the weight of her brother's broken body draped across her lap, and keened her loss to the world. Those who had fought alongside them, supported every step taken along this path, had stood in an awkward circle around them. No one seemed to know what to do once Barnes had been subdued and the enemy who had wielded him like a sword escaped to who-knew-where.
She had been left to her grief ...and her guilt. Already, her brilliant mind was pointing every single thing she could have—should have—done differently. Every flaw that she had brushed off before was suddenly highlighted in horrifying clarity. Every word she had boasted tasted bitter and sour now, with T'Challa's blood tainting the air.
She had not felt so young in years.
She had never felt so alone.
Then someone had stormed through the crowd of superheroes. Voices had risen in angry protest. Hands had pulled her from T'Challa, gentle but not giving an inch to her fight to keep hold of him. She turned on the person manhandling her, vibranium claws squealing against metal armor. Despite her grief-inspired attack, Iron Man had not stopped until they were fully cleared of the corpse that had previously been a great king. Even when the slashes had turned to weakening blows of her fists as her keening turned to screams of rage-filled pain, he had kept her in the loose circle of his arms, creating a safe space to vent.
Eventually, they had sunk to their knees. The screams had given way to weeping. Like her Baba had when she was still little, he held her as she cried, making no attempt to stop her tears. He offered no words or platitudes, merely support. He did not point out the obvious (this was her fault) or rushed her through this first expression of loss (the enemy was still out there).
With a compassion which had been denied him in the same situation, Tony Stark had merely held her as she grieved a death that had been caused by her own hubris and use of shortcuts. When she was finally numb enough to consider attempting to continue the mission, he had whispered a single phrase, something to serve as both comfort and warning.
"This is not the end; your legacy is what you make it."
Like the phoenix of ancient Egypt, she had risen from the flames that had threatened to destroy her. She had taken a deep breath before raising her chin, no longer in arrogance but now in challenge. She had made this path and could only walk it to its end.
She was not a princess in need of saving.
She was a queen and she would get this shit handled.
That would be her legacy.
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An Ending
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