One Month Ago
The white man stepped between Namor and the warrior dressed in a hideous blue costume.
"Here's what I propose: return Princess Shuri, release the Americans and take responsibility for the attacks. In return, Wakanda will offer continued protection and whatever else you require."
Ridiculous.
The image of the Agent in a bloodied heap on the beach crossed his mind.
"You assume I left the Americans alive?" The white man's flinch was rewarded with the Feathered Serpent God's snarl. "That's not a deal. I already have what I desire."
Ross turned to the blue warrior—Okoye—with pleading eyes, while she in turn peered at Namor with unadulterated disgust. Disgust that should be reserved for the people subjugating them all.
He forced a chuckle. "Wakanda is weaker than Talokan, but they can manage an army."
Okoye brandished a gleaming blue and gold spear and lifted it to his neck. It fizzled with coils of raw vibranium. Such a weapon was almost as dangerous as Attuma, and it carried all the technological ingenuity of one Princess Shuri of Wakanda.
"We will no longer serve at your whim."
Namor curled a hand around the tip of her spear. It bent between his fingers. Okoye was unmoved. Centuries of various conflicts taught him to recognize the unbending nature of a loyal warrior, a respectable quality when not in opposition to him, so he switched tactics. "Will you dishonor the alliance and judgment of your Princess, the one currently under my watch?"
Okoye faltered.
He inwardly scoffed at their doubt of him, and her. "Your…former Queen asked me something similar. You know the consequences if that spy intrudes again. There is nothing Wakanda can offer Talokan."
"Do not speak of our Queen Mother."
He raised a noncommittal brow, knowing his lack of fear would unnerve her.
"But the conditions have changed," Ross interrupted. The ridiculous metal can he wore made him look rather small like ample replacement for a table in his palace quarters. "A weakened Wakanda harms Talokan. Name your terms. Security, medicine, weapons."
They were desperate for him to ask something of them. He was no political pundit, yet he did not believe for a second America would agree to leave Wakanda and Talokan alone if he were to take accountability, as they purported. Utter drivel.
He would have to make his own preparations.
"What," Okoye seethed, "do you want?"
Namor wanted for little. He had millions of subjects to rule over and protect, no fear of death, hundreds of years of life left in him, and enough vibranium to last those years and thousands more. He was not a human who chased after meager provisions.
His needs, however, were many. He needed to set the world ablaze for what it did to his mother and his ancestors, an option Shuri robbed from him. While he could certainly live without an alliance with Wakanda, he needed Shuri's trust in him. He needed to repay everything he took from her and yield again, and again.
He had needed her in Talokan since the moment she had left, and Chac himself delivered her back to these waters in a repeat of events he'd broken her so thoroughly in. This was the moment he spoke of to Namora: when Wakanda and the strongest human on the surface would come running to him in need.
So, Namor, the Feathered Serpent Water-god, agreed. And then he prepared to erase the land that bore the cursed scientists that threatened them both, but such a plan required time and power of the strongest human to walk the land.
"The Princess told me once of the gifts the ancestors gave her, and she arrived not a week later to kill me with the mantle of the Black Panther. Answer me truthfully or I will kill hostages…"
The Present
Namor drifted in the middle of the throne room, the feathered headdress of the Feathered Serpent God swaying with the silent currents. Around him, injured Talokanil sought rest against the walls and floor. Attuma pulled the water-king's staff out of vibranium man's head and somewhere in the distance Namora and Tozi found a fishing net to hurl his body into.
Shuri's body hovered above Namor's arms. Without the helmet, her curls danced around her head and ears and her limbs hung at her sides.
He had lost innumerable people, the children he loved as a protective father, in his five centuries among the living. "When you age as I do, we all lose everyone we love."
Her people were right to doubt him.
It began with the death of his mother, but there was no end to it. His cousins aged slowly but they, too, would be gone within five hundred years while he had a millennium left in him. His children were strong but even they fell to the march of time. Death was not the great equalizer, as land heathens parroted, but Chac's mercy on humanity—one that did not include him.
She sunk into his arms, and he sunk into her. She had to live or the last barrier between him and the surface world's destruction would be gone.
There was darkness in Shuri's head, and then a flickering flame that grew into a fire engulfing her world. A winged boy, the child without love, fluttered into view, a cold smile plastered on his face as the village in front of them perished in ash.
She opened her eyes to the man she loved with a beating heart. At first, she saw nothing but him. Her mouth ran dry from the adrenaline of a fight, but her ears heard everything: his chest expanding with relief; layers of rushed whispers and subdued cries from over a dozen Talokanil; White Vision's circuit brain still sparking; and further away the pulse of the vibranium sun above them, the dance of fresh seaweed in the markets, children hitting reed pipes, the rush of whirlpools —
When Namor spoke, his voice reached her ears with the force of vibranium slicing through vibranium. His face was soft through a smattering of blood that evaporated from his face and into the water despite the harsh shadows created by the angles of his headpiece.
"Breathe, Princess."
She erupted into a violent fit of bubbles. Something hot coursed through her veins.
"Where am I? What happened?"
"War," he answered simply. His arms twisted under her, one under her back and the other under her knees. "We need to go."
He clutched her closer, and she turned her face into the cold of his skin, fragments of a memory scrambling to piece themselves together. White Vision.
"We need to help him," she protested. She floundered in his tight grip as he tipped backwards so that gravity pulled her further against him. "Let me go. We — I — need to — I'm sorry I — "
Her cheek flattened against his bare chest. One of the pearls dangling from his ceremonial necklace and shoulder jewelry tickled her forehead. Namor was tunneling upwards, up and out into the heat of the vibranium sun. It was as hot as a summer day in Wakanda. The heat in her body escalated to a scorching symphony. She thought, for a moment, that in the chorus of Talokan's waters that she heard her brother's voice.
"How," she started quietly, lifting a gloved hand in front of her face. He raced across the spires of the palace. His foot wings flapped so fast they buzzed as they entered a whirlpool, "is my face feeling every muscle of your chest right now?"
"Not my chest. And how is never as important as why."
Shuri basked in the lights under the glowworms. Her torn watersuit rested on the rock a few paces away, his headpiece next to it. She peered at the palm of her outstretched hand. It was not blue, but when she turned her wrists just so, she felt rather than saw blue and purple dancing in her veins.
Namor assessed her from her right. He told her, in measured words chosen carefully that were not meant to trick but to keep her rage at bay, what he had done. He used more Mayan than usual, either more comfortable now in the way he spoke to her, or the inability of the English language to explain himself entirely.
"Meent'uts." Please. "The world could not lose you today."
She had died once before, after Thanos. And then again when Wakanda buried her mother.
"You need to be alive to protect Talokan and Wakanda."
A protector of two nations, the taker and restorer of her heart said. Her mother held these very hands, shimmering with the pulse of blue sanctity, in her own. Scores of possibilities hung in the evanescent second between the last vibration of his words and his last confession.
"I need you alive."
She said nothing. She thought only of her mother and her brother and the reality of her ancestors.
She was a twice-made protector not by her choice. The first time had been out of a feral need for vengeance. The second was in a damning impetus to protect a Feathered Serpent God who had no love for the surface world and his people.
"Please…" she finally uttered. Leave me. Stay. I need time.
She sighed. There was no time to fight him right now. "Please tell me I don't have feet wings."
The Feathered Serpent God laughed and the axis of her world spun. She turned to face him, returning her hand to her side.
"No, but you are beautiful all the same, Princess."
"Not Princess. Shuri." She wanted to go to him and drown him in the water with her, or lock them both in a dry-trap. She wanted to embrace him and sink —
The shine of her flower-infused skin pulsed and moved her to him. His fingers encircled her thin wrist under the bracelet he gifted her, pressing his lips to a pulsing vein. The sensation was magnified tenfold: the purr of a panther and the listlessness of a serpent, dual desires cried at her to demand more of the water-god and satiate a painful want. It was a want that started in her heart and bloomed outwards, and she wondered if it was too early to moan because he was peppering her hands, her fingers, her arms with small presses of his lips and all the while peering at her with a narrow, unflinching gaze. He looked at her as if he was seeing her for the first time.
The surface of the lake broke. They turned in unison and she recognized Zuma's face. The left corner of her jaw was charred — Shuri didn't remember the girl during the fight, but White Vision had fired at least two dozen times. Her lungs constricted while the Talokanil held out Namor's staff with a shaky hand.
"K'uk'ulkan, one of them is ready to speak."
Namor's visage contorted into contained fury. His hand released her. "Stay here."
Shuri fingers, the very ones that had felt his lips and tongue just moments ago, curled into a fist. "No—"
He straightened slowly, assessing her with a distant look. "It's not a request, but an order."
He dived, and she dived after him.
The alarm that bubbled at the initial contact with the water dissipated when Zuma moved to stop her.
She didn't need her watersuit. Her body recognized the water. Her flesh, transformed by a flower of her own ingenuity that in turn was fashioned by the ancestors, throbbed with the waves. Her lungs expanded to welcome the rush of water through her mouth. This was not water that quenched thirst; this was water every lung cell learned to pluck oxygen out of. Every expanse of skin immediately warmed as though a fire burned from within it, heating the water swishing around her body.
It was not as easy as an existence over air, and it took Shuri twice her strength to move and speak. Yet, she let go of a breath and with it the final dredges of her panic. Never would a member of the Golden Tribe be drowned again.
"I have to go," Shuri spoke. It was as natural as speaking above air, but her voice wavered, unused to compensating for water's density. It sounded distorted and lost some of its commanding intonation.
Zuma recoiled. Her eyes widened to the size of saucers as her watermask fell away, but Shuri had already maneuvered her body into the entrance of the whirlpool. Without the weight of her watersuit, she tumbled through it at breakneck speed.
Namor was a speck in the distance. She heard Zuma hurtle after her, and it was only halfway down when she managed to keep her arms pinned at her sides, ignoring the way her hairline threatened to recede at the increasing momentum and the pressure at her eyelids. The bright entrance approached at a startling pace. The flash of Namor and his staff disappeared into the light, each second thereafter stretching for what felt like painful minutes.
Darcy, she intoned to the gods. Please don't hurt her.
She swung her legs out too late and her toes hit the surface of the lake before her face. Her shouting began from in the water and continued into the air. She was met with general astonishment. The Feathered Serpent God stood tall with a gaggle of warriors around him. White Vision's crumpled body rested against a stalagmite, trapped in a net made of thick ropes.
Attuma and Namora flanked Namor's each side. The tips of their spears pointed at Darcy and Val's hearts. Darcy had her hands up, her eyes wide in surprise rather than horror, and Val looked almost…bored. But there was a shake in her hands and a primal fear threatening to break onto her face as she finally faced the god she and her country dared provoke.
Namor's lip was curled into distaste. Shuri had never witnessed him interact with surface-dwellers aside from Wakandans, but his face convulsed with fury, a hotter and redder anger only existed in hints in the way he talked about colonizers before.
"I was able to…stop them from mining it." He'd said to her and her mother about the first mining expedition with an arrogant smile, pleased at himself.
Shuri thought of burning villages when she stepped between him and the Americans, sopping wet in an irreparable tracksuit. A third warrior turned his spear on her, but when his eyes swept over her, he wavered.
"Move," Namor ground his staff into the floor.
"No. If you hurt any of them, it will mean war."
"It already was war. This is another reason among many."
She gnashed her teeth together. "It was already war because you wanted it to be. I didn't tell you but I should have. They wanted to use vibranium to make more weapons like him," she gestured to White Vision, "and assumed we stole him to do our bidding, but we didn't. It's not his fault —"
"Not his fault?" He roared. "You almost died."
"Namor, listen to me—"
"Don't use that vile—"
"K'uk'ulkan. You let me finish." She snapped. "They're planning to attack—"
A slow clap thundered from behind her.
"Oh, this is just lovely."
Namor's eyes jerked to a place above her shoulder. Shuri followed his line of sight to land on Val. The woman clapped twice, thrice, before twirling a blasted strand of purple hair around an index finger. Her other hand lifted to her distended belly and she looked like she was holding back a burp, or stopping herself from puking.
"So this is your…ally. Not a bad choice, your highness."
Dread overcame Shuri. Extraneous variables clicked into place. No. "You had Vision in your pocket all along. You knew Wakanda would never do such a thing or make such terrible weapons against the world."
Val smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. "Not exactly. We lost him a couple times here and there. It's funny, though. My ex-husband was almost as insistent that Wakanda was this utopia too." She crowed. "As if anyone can't not dream about the power they can wield if they just had vibranium. The difference is, you people actually have it."
Namora inched closer to Val, her spear a hair's width away from the woman's chest. Darcy looked genuinely confused and scared, and Shuri prayed to Bast that the woman was innocent of Val's dirty tactics.
Shuri stabbed an angry finger at her. The woman raised an eyebrow as if to say, who, me? "Talokan almost decimated us and they had every chance to do the same to you for centuries. The only lowlife in here is you."
Val smirked, "Doubtful. Licking the boots of your captors, now that is a new low." Her eyes flitted to where White Vision sat crumpled. "Such a shame, I thought we programmed his aim to be better."
Namor thundered at his warriors.
The Black Panther suit was still in the midst of covering Shuri's arms when she swept a leg under the nameless warrior pointing his spear at her. He tumbled into the lake as leapt in front of Darcy, thwacking Attuma's new spear. For the second time that day, his spear snapped. She twisted her body and thrust her hand forward with her claws bared. Her fists meet air, the shark-themed warrior proving adept at dodging despite his large size. Using his blocky build to her advantage, the strength of two plants gathered in her legs as she slammed a foot into his belly.
He gagged and fell over sideways. Another spear swiped at her. Namora stabbed the air between her legs and her shoulder and neck, keeping Shuri busy with leaping around the quick movements to form an offensive stance. Above their heads, Namor vaulted into the air, his staff hanging still for half a second before it would swing down and inevitably slice through the weak flesh of his target.
Val screamed. Shuri leapt.
Her right foot connected with Namor's thigh, and she spun to land her left heel onto his chest. He flew into a narrow recess in the cavern, crushing a stalagmite along the way. She landed on the balls of her feet and teetered forward. The thought of severing his wings crossed her mind but she really didn't want to heal him again. Another punch will do. As she approached, he started to stretch out an arm to hook around her neck. She lifted her arms to block him. It was a trap; the movement left her abdomen open, and at the last moment he landed a hit on her side with his foot in the same spot he'd stabbed her cleanly through. The ache shuddered through her body.
"Don't," she wheezed, collapsing to the ground near his fallen staff. "Don't hurt them." I don't like fighting you like this.
Namor answered with a deep bellow. He hovered above her, pulling back a fist. She felt for his staff and smiled when her claws hooked into its pointed end.
And she swung. It connected with his back and his body sagged over hers. His shoulder almost collided with her jaw. She writhed from underneath him and jumped onto her feet. She bared her claws at the rest of the Talokanil who swung their weapons at her.
"No one touches these prisoners until we hear from Wakanda," she shouted.
Killmonger's jeering laugh joined her, but his presence now was not foreboding or terrifying. In the aftermath of her mother, he only seemed like a small, lost, and angry child. You didn't hold back this time.
I only win when I fight as who I am fully. She answered, sending a fearsome gaze at every warrior. Whatever it was on her face that had them flinching in fear and awe, she leveled it. When I was no longer vengeful, and no longer like you, I only had love left to fight with, N'Jadaka.
Her cousin, N'Jadaka, son of N'Jobu, quieted for a moment.
Touché, cuz. And then he was gone.
The other Talokanil moved closer, encircling her. Zuma stood furthest from her and began to lower her weapon. Namora barked at her to fall in line while she closed in on Shuri.
Namor groaned and pushed himself off the ground. He looked eerily somber at his defeat in front of a crowd warriors and turned his eyes to her. He approached slowly, each step a thunderous clap in the cavern. The other Talokanil took another step.
"I cannot let them live." Each word pierced her like an arrow, even though he spoke apologetically. "You must understand why. When this happened with the American scientist, it led to our nations warring. Is that what you wish: to side with them, when they injured a dozen of my men and condemned you to death?"
"I built a machine and it somehow brought him here. Your anger should be directed at me."
Something in him softened. "I do not care right now about the reason, Shuri, and I will not fault you when you were hurt." He picked up his staff and shook it of debris.
Shuri held her arms out and heard the muffled cries of Val and Darcy behind her, although Darcy was more muttering variations of "holy shit" under her breath.
"Move," he intoned plainly.
"Absolutely not."
Namor's chest rose and fell, breathing so heavily that the jade in his nose almost cracked. "And make the same mistakes? The short lives of humans should induce urgency, yet a god learns from his errors faster. You ask for mercy. Mercy will kill us all."
"I had mercy on you!" She shouted. He said nothing, tilting his head and lifting a hand to swat her away. Her heart thudded in her chest. She swerved on her heel to stop him. "Take the offer you didn't last time. Keep me instead."
He stilled. The Talokanil warriors looked at each other. Namora made a strangled sound while the glowworms above their heads sparkled and the soft sobs of some of the other Americans came to the fore.
Namor's jaw loosened. Faint traces of something indiscernible colored his face. "Shuri, do you understand—"
"Yes."
"We are not bartering with your life."
The panther mask dissolved to reveal her face. "I am."
He swiveled around, brandishing his staff at the warriors.
"No one touch my Queen," he ordered, "and return the Americans to their prison."
Zuma grabbed her by the hand, a reassuring squeeze and an apology in her eyes, as she was whisked out of the cave.