Oh man I know it's been a long time. I am so sorry. At one point in time I thought I had lost this whole document including part of a chapter I had already written I didn't feel like working on this until I discovered the copy I had was the right one.
This chapter was really hard for me to write guys. I don't know if people stay in character. I do hope you all still enjoy. As usual thank you to all of you who have read, reviewed, followed and favourited. You guys are awesome and you make my day.
Music: Only One King ft Jung Youth.
Disclaimer: I do not own Black Panther.
T'Challa has his arms behind his back, one wrist clasped in the other. On the surface the position looks calm, like he's standing 'at ease.' But his hands are clenched tight and the muscles in his arms are bunched and are standing out in sharp definition.
He looks up when Shuri enters the room and then looks away. He takes another deep breath and closes his eyes. There is movement and then Shuri rests her head on his arm.
"Are you okay?" she asks after a moment.
"Are you?" he responds.
He feels her grimace. "Yes," she says. "It was my fault."
"It is not your fault he attacked you," T'Challa pointed out. The mix of rage and ugly darkness swirling in his gut makes him feel nauseous.
"It's my fault for giving him an opening," she says, sounding disgusted with herself. She presses a little tighter into him though and he exhales and opens his eyes, looks down at her.
"You are okay though?" he checks again.
"Fine," she grumbled. "Do not think I haven't noticed you didn't answer me," She pointed out a moment later.
It is T'Challa's turn to grimace. "I am…." He stops and licks his lips. He tries again. "His mind is a tangled, dangerous, intense thing. Each step is a trap. Every trap is a net made of razor wires and precision blades. He is rage and intelligence and pain and ruthlessness. Stepping into that…mimicking that is difficult. I feel like it has stained me and I can't wash it off."
Shuri's eyes are sympathetic and understanding. She gently pries one of his hands open and slides her fingers between his. He grips her hand gratefully.
"The worst part," he says after a moment. "is that I could see how easily I could become like him. I, I am not the best man, not by any stretch of the imagination but I would like to think I am, or am trying, to be a good man. It is unsettling to see how easy it is that I can be something else."
Shuri snorts even as she squeezes his hand.
"The line between good and evil in people is always thinner than they think," she says. "It's why the road to hell is paved with good intentions and why the ends don't always justify the means. You are a good man brother, and I think that the fact that it horrifies you, how easily you can not be, means that there's a disgustingly good chance that you will always be a good man."
He opens his mouth to protest even as her words settle the roiling in his stomach and eases the weight of his cousin's mind from him. She waves her free hand to stop him.
"Besides the dora milaje would slap you silly if you were turning stupid and I don't even want to know what mother will do to you. I think I would get nightmares if I do."
Her words startle a laugh out of T'Challa and the stain of his cousin's twisted psyche finally, finally slides of his skin.
"What would I do without my little sister eh?" he says, moving to snatch her in a hug and scrub his fingers at her hair while she yelps and tries to escape.
"Get off you big oaf! Leave my hair alone!"
He releases her and she pats frantically at her braids, scowling at the loose hairs sticking out from them.
"Do you know how hard these are to do genius?!"
It takes a few minutes but she finally wrestles her hair back into submission. T'Challa is relieved to see that the tension she's walked in with has disappeared. The shock and fright have left and she is in a much better frame of mind. Which is fantastic because they need to talk, first about Teremis and second about Erik. Except that the way things are now, they need to talk about and mostly likely with Erik before they can talk about Teremis and they definitely need clear heads to do it with.
Shuri looks at him and purses her lips. "Do we talk to him now or for lunch?"
T'Challa tilts his head and thinks about it. "Give him time to cool down," he decides.
"You know that will only make him more dangerous," Shuri points out. "His rage won't trip him up."
"I am aware," T'Challa says. "But I think, for this conversation, I want to know how he thinks when he's cold enough to plan."
Shuri thinks about it and then nods. "Fine," she says. She takes a deep breath. "See you at lunch then brother." She is at the door when she adds, "I will have my revenge for my hair!"
"Oh Bast!" T'Challa mutters.
He was furious. No, that was not enough. He was wrath personified, bottled between these silver walls. He was a ship in a bottle, trapped with nowhere to go on a too calm ocean. He wants to feel muscles flexing and bone shattering under his hands. He wants to paint these damn silver walls red, these walls made of the metal that was supposed to free his people, not cage them. Not cage him. He wants to feel the slick slide of blood, breathe in the scent of death, taste the ashes of the fallen. Victory or the ocean. It was what he'd wanted, what he'd planned. His plan died the moment he woke back up in Wakanda. Died the moment he didn't want to tear though his own throat anymore.
And now he's left, caged and being pounded on like he was malleable, some stupid piece of metal to hammer into the shape someone else wanted. He ain't gonna be one one's piece of art. No one's damn masterpiece.
No, he'll crawl out of this cage like a nightmare and twist necks and flay skins. No hammer is his match. He's been hit with them before. They either bruised or broke. None of them have ever caused him to shake. His cousins are no different. They will be no different. They'll find out what happened to those who have ever tired to control him, to mold him.
The anger that runs through him a black, bleak thing. The surge of it matches the enhanced state of his body, coiling, hidden, explosive when put to use right. His wrath is cunning though. Erik has never not been smart. It dominates his every emotion, every flex and stretch of his muscles. He channels his rage, his hate and he waits.
His stupid cousins will show their faces soon.
When they finally walk in, they come bearing trays, for themselves and Erik. T'Challa sends the food through and Erik laughs. It's a harsh, barking thing and it knocks the masks they wore, off a bit. They settle in a second but Erik doesn't let up.
"You really think I'm gonna break bread you two?"
"Eat. Starve," Shuri shrugs negligently. "Hate. Tolerate. Whatever you feel like today, genius."
Erik scoffs. Really? This is how they're gonna play this?
"I feel like pulling your ribs out of your back and watching you bleed to death slowly," he says. "Do I get that today princess?"
T'Challa stiffens but Shuri answers before he can.
"Only if you sell my organs after!" she replies cheerily.
The temperature of the room plummets. And Erik has the fleeting thought that he may just hate the princess much more than he hates her brother. He laughs.
"Nah. I think there's way too much poison in that blood to make anything viable, princess."
"I could set you up," She blinks innocently. A threat. The professional part of Erik wants to laugh again. Damn but his cousins are cold. The personal part of him wants to pop her vertebrae out one by one.
"Don't need it," Erik says instead with a too toothy grin. "Already got death in these veins."
"And we all have blood on our hands," T'Challa interrupts. "We also have failures to atone for and responsibilities to live up to."
"I don't owe you shit!" Erik snarls.
"No," T'Challa says and it's easy. Too easy. It makes Erik tense. "But you agreed to help prove my way right," his cousin continued. "And you did not come here to ease your way in life. You came here to help your people."
"I didn't come here to be caged like a slave," Erik tell him, voice dangerously low.
"No, but you killed like a criminal," T'Challa replies quietly.
Erik slams his hand on the glass. "Where was your daddy's jail time then huh?!"
"Lost!" T'Challa snaps back at him. Something dark roils in his eyes and Erik realizes that his cousin's previous silence was because he was unsettled. "It was lost when he died. There are many wrongs we can no longer right. If it would do anything, mean anything I would lock his body in the cell next to yours! But it would mean nothing!"
Princess flinches but Erik stills save for a twitch of his fingers; an aborted move to reach for his father's ring.
"It would mean nothing," T'Challa continues calmer, "But there are those who are not dead yet cousin. Those who do not deserve to be caged in earth, lifeless, pieces of them stolen."
"And I didn't deserve to get my choice stolen from me," Erik hisses at him. "Bury me in the damn ocean! One request but you didn't care shit."
"N'Jadaka." His cousin's eyes are blank but his tone is softer. "Would you still rather have died?"
And Erik wants to says yes. Wants to, wants hopelessly, needlessly to say yes. But he'd rather be free. He'd rather play this stupid game and feel the sun on his face and gaze over fairytales again.
"Screw you," he says harshly. "Screw you. This isn't because of you."
T'Challa relaxes. Erik hadn't noticed he was tense. Shuri is still gripping her tray with pale-knuckled fingers.
"No," T'Challa agrees. The blank look leaves his eyes letting Erik know that he was sincere. "I do not think we can make you do anything you don't agree to."
"I didn't let you kick my butt," Erik says but something eases under his ribs. A ghost of a memory flutters past his mind's eye: T'Challa gripping his wrist but not restraining him.
"You agreed to fight," T'Challa replies.
Erik laughs. It's still jagged enough to raise goosebumps. Erik wishes he could drag its ragged edges across their throats. Remembers Shuri dropping a familiar weight around his neck. "Fair enough cuz." His smile widens into a threat. "You try to hammer me cuz and I'll break every bone in your body."
"Of that cousin, I have no doubt." Then T'Challa huffs out a laugh. "Why would I even try to do anything so pointless? Besides," true amusement lights up his eyes, "if you were a good man, you'd be useless to me. I didn't ask for your help because you were a paragon of virtue."
There is a moment of silence and then Shuri staring wide-eyed at her brother says, "Oh my gosh!"
Erik is laughing before he knows it. He wipes a fake tear away when his laughter finally winds down and says, "Nice try cuz. But you can't lie worth a damn." He can't. Erik can still hear the echoes of his voice, wishing he didn't have to lock Erik away in this cage. The more fool he.
T'Challa spreads his hands. "It was worth a try."
Erik scoffs. "Not with that level of incompetence. Now that's just insulting cuz."
"My apologies," T'Challa says. "I am told to practice." In another life it would be an apology for more but his cousin is king of Wakanda. He won't do shit to compromise his country. Not like this anyway. Erik simultaneously hates and respects him for it.
"Well don't try your shit on me," Erik says. It's a warning in more ways than one. "I ain't got time to babysit your backside."
He moves then, physically stepping back from the conversation. He snatches his tray up from where it had fallen and sits. His rage is there. His hate is there. But it is no longer that black, seething thing. Erik can wait. He can channel it. He can play the long game.
He glances up and knows that princess isn't fooled. His cousin, the king and blank panther of Wakanda is looking at him. Then he too sits and reaches for the food on his tray.
This isn't peace. It's a cease-fire. But at the moment they've got bigger things to worry about than warring with each other. Bigger things like organ-less bodies in mass graves.
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