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In the flames, there was a voice. A voice longing to be free. She thinks the voice is her, but it screams so loud and for so long, that any trace of personality fades from it. It is just . . . hurt.
There was a little girl. A name . . . Trusille. A beautiful girl with pink ribbons in her hair and sunshine in her eyes, and the innocent hope that only a child could ever truly know.
"I want to be an astronaut when I grow up," Trusille says.
Her own hands are so small. She remembers. Playing in the bedroom while Mama and Papa bickered outside. She tried not to pay attention but they were so loud!
"Her powers are getting stronger B'Ela!"
"I can control them . . ."
"You cannot control evil! She tried to kill me for goodness sake! There's wickedness in that child . . ."
Trusille's voice carried on in the background oblivious. "Then I'd go everywhere! And you'd be there too! We'd have all kinds of adventures . . ."
She'll never forget the last time she ever met her father's eyes. They were not the eyes of a warrior. They were the eyes of a tired man. Right up to the point the door shattered, and the wood splinted. Her mother was screaming. Her father grabbed his blade, an exquisite cut that she knows now was made of pure vibranium. She also remembers how he hung from it. How his blood dripped on the floor as she hid under the bed. And Trusille. Trusille was under her bed, not six feet apart. She remembers reaching forward but the door was already broken. And Trusille couldn't stop crying. That we how they found her. One minute her face was distorted with the intensity of her screaming. The next, she just lay there. And her mama. Never the same. Screaming.
"Witch! Witch!" She was only seven. But she remembers the first time she looked out at the night sky, cold and hungry, alone in the world. Where once was her papa's face, now were unfamiliar faces. Witch. And it wasn't long before her family's murderers realised that Trusille was not the only child. Then began the running. And the killing. She had no choice in that. But somewhere deep inside, she wishes she could have been more than just a witch.
"You must eat."
Nothing. She just sits there. There is no reason to do anything. Isn't this nice? To feel nothing. T'Challa is dead. And with him, everything she ever loved about Wakanda, it makes her physically ill. Of course, if she'd eat, she'd probably feel worse.
"Phalaesia." It's River. She sees why they call her that. Her facial paint is like a river. Forever flowing. Forever free. Why does the water cut through the rock? Because of its persistence. Beautiful. "He's going to start killing people if you don't eat!"
The smell of the soup makes her feel nauseated. It is sometime later when River somehow manages to coax her to the throne room. Oh yes. She's been strong for twenty one years. There's no need to try and be a hero anymore.
There at the end of the room, bathed in the simmering pools of amber from the flames under the pillars, sits Erik. And he looks, dare she say it? Worried.
"You look sick Phalaesia."
"I am sick you pretentious git . . ."
"You need to eat."
Her cackle is loud and hoarse. "Why? What is there to live for anymore? I have nothing left. You know all about my powers. Soon they'll be out of my control. And then what?"
Rising from the throne like a wisp of silver smoke, Erik descends down the steps to her. There is a grievous sense of being too close. She once thought he was so handsome. His features so strong, his manner so confident. But that was when she was strong enough to take it. And she's not anymore.
"Then I unleash you upon the world," he whispers.
"I won't do it."
"You can't stop me."
"I'll die before I let you use me . . ."
A flash of guilt in his eyes dies before it can meet the light. "You will not die, Laesia. Because I'm not going to let you die. You say you've lost your meaning to live. But the truth is, you're just hanging on to some false feelings for that man."
"I loved him," she growls. "I loved T'Challa and you took him from me . . ."
"But did he love you?" Erik counters. Her voice falls. "No. I thought not. Why would he want damaged goods . . ." Flames lick her mind. Where there was stillness now movement follows. She roars. A battle cry. And swipes out at him. There are no words. The training kicks in but not with precision. Parry for parry. Block for block. She's light. And fast. But she's aching. And hungry. And tired. It's not long before he simply grabs her arm, hurling her across the room. She's up again in a flash, spitting out the blood, and ready to go again.
"Stand."
She halts with her fist ready to deliver the next punch. Of their own intuition, her legs stand. And she remembers. Why her father stayed well away from Wakanda. When the King commands, the Ardunine will always answer. Always.
"Come here."
And she does. Erik bids W'Kabi open the doors. And she stares back in horror, unable to fathom what he is doing. The first ten are Wakandans, bound and gagged, but she has never seen them before. The next, are four who she does not know. But there is . . . a feeling that she has seen them before. And the last one.
"Zarmon!"
"Stay where you are."
"What are you doing . . ." she hisses as W'Kabi and his gang of bandits set them up, so the group of Wakandans is on one side of the room, and the four men, plus Zarmon, on the other.
"I'm giving you meaning. Because you see Laesia . . . this man is more than your contact."
Zarmon is not looking at her. Suddenly the ground is very interesting. You could hear a pin drop in this room. Because she knows that this has to play out. And she finds herself saying, "Explain."
"Didn't you ever wonder why he was so obsessed with you?" Erik continues. "Always coming back for you? I did the research. Klaue was responsible for the murder of your family. But you've lived for far too long, thinking it was you they meant to kill."
She doesn't want to hear this. It's where it's going, it's where it's taking her. She has so little left to remember her family by. To tarnish it would surely destroy her now.
"Your family were doomed as soon as you were born," Erik continues. "A conduit. The first in a long line of Ardunine who were capable of creating energy, not just channelling it from vibranium as your forefathers did. Klaue spent ages searching for you but your Father, B'Ela was vigilant. He kept your family moving. Kept you out the way. He had to die. And Trusille? Trusille was to make the crime scene look more random."
Her unseeing eyes. "Stop it . . ."
"When T'Chaka brought you to Wakanda, he found out who murdered your family."
"You're lying," Phalaesia growls. "You're a murderer, and a thief. I don't trust a word you say."
"But you'd trust some old fashioned photography? Look." She's staring at the pillar. She doesn't want to look. She doesn't want to see. But when he says it again, when the King commands it, against her will she complies. Trusille's body on the ground. They were dragging her from the room. There was a camera on the corridor. An old rusty thing. No one ever really took it seriously. Until now. When the man dragging her sister's body shows his face. And he may be younger. He may be less scarred. She came face to face with Death. The man in the picture is Zarmon.
Still he doesn't look at her.
"And now we're going to finish it," Erik smiles. "You're going to get your revenge. What you've spent decades searching for. And then, you will find peace again." Something however, doesn't add up.
"The Wakandans," Phalaesia murmurs. "What are they doing here?"
"These four men, aided Zarmon in the murder of your family," Erik explains. From his coat he draws a stick, expanding into a glistening blade of finely polished vibranium. She Snatches it from the air as he tosses it toward her. "I want you to kill them."
Zarmon's eyes meet hers. "Laesia forgive me . . ."
"Shut up!" His head snaps back as Erik strikes him with full force. "Do it. Kill them. Finish it."
The blade is so beautiful. How ironic that this should be the weapon of their destruction. It will be Zarmon first. And then his thugs with him. And then the rest . . . she catches herself. There is heat behind her eyes. The way there always is when they are glowing. Death. Again her eyes meet Zarmon's. All she can see is her father's body hanging indecently from his own spear. Heard her mother crying. The pain is indescribable.
Yet as she looks around, at the room where once T'Challa stood, she knows that to kill these men, would unleash a far greater evil.
"No."
Erik curses. "Do it!"
She tosses the sword onto the ground. "I cannot. I may be broken. I may even be useless but I can still think for myself. You cannot bend my will to yours."
"Can't I? Fine! I'll tell you what. Either you kill these men, or I will command you to kill the ten."
There's a child among the Wakandans. No more than ten. Reminds her of River. Hanging her head only makes the tears come faster. Maybe she could chance it? Maybe she could control her powers. Her lust for blood. She can make it work . . .
"I'll kill myself."
"Take your own life, and I will personally torture the life out of this godforsaken country. I'll make their streets drip with blood. You cannot bow out. Make your choice!"
T'Challa would be ashamed. With the Queen. And her daughter missing, who now protects Wakanda? The Sun is coming up in the windows. It is the end of this.
"I'm waiting . . ."
"Erik please . . ."
"Five . . ."
"I can't . . ." She cries.
"Four . . ."
"Don't make me . . ."
"Three . . ."
"Erik!" She shrieks.
When she hits one, everything moves in slow motion. Erik's lips moving. If there is a Hell, there she will be. She's coming. Right now. But not before she finishes this one, this man, who is going to make Wakanda burn. The energy breaks from her flesh like the stone that starts the avalanche. And the room drowns in her torment.