They had matching ankle scars now. He'd dug his fingers a little too hard into her left ankle, leaving a smattering of bruises and three small half-moon scars matching the size of his fingernails.
Namor directed the healer towards the oxygen tank sitting atop the nightstand, the lone table in the room. Namora's sister-in-law, Fen, breathed heavily through her water mask with every movement. She wasn't used to coming above water — for most of his people, two or three forays above land per year the norm. But she was the only one experienced in handling human — well, half-human — injuries.
After he had fiddled enough with the silver beads encircling her left wrist to retract the Black Panther suit, she'd made quick work around the girl, peeling off the outer layers of clothing to rub salve and cover with vibranium-infused bandages. Blood blossomed across her left arm. His staff hadn't pierced through it completely, her suit having absorbed some of the momentum, but it was deep enough that she wouldn't be able to move it for sometime.
He winced, already knowing that she'd be more upset at having to stay immobile than anything else.
She looked so frail, now — to think this was the woman that brought him closer to death than he had in centuries, suspended him at war's edge, and then forced him to keep living. Her body swayed with the hammock, the beads of his mother's bracelet tinkling with the movement. He had gazed upon that bracelet every day for over four centuries, grazed his fingers upon the carvings and along the beads that it was a surprise it never lost its shape. Yet it was that very accumulation of memory of each bit of the bracelet that he noticed instantly the shortened twine, its ends looking as though they were sheared by scissors.
Interesting.
Fen made a humming noise and he looked up to her blue fingers cradling Shuri's oxygen tank. "She made this herself?" Most of his daily company was composed of hardened warriors, decisive men and women who could make difficult decisions without hesitation. Fen, like her namesake, was the rare companion who offered softness. Her tone indicated surprise, perhaps even respect, for the unconscious woman.
"Her first attempt at accommodating water-life. It is decent, but take it to the engineers. They can develop something better."
She nodded. "What about the exosuits?"
"Too clunky. Ask them to find a way to integrate elements of the exosuit with it."
Fen conducted a final check of Shuri's bandages before slipping out of the room. Shuri would wake soon, by her estimates, but two hours had already passed since he barreled into the cave. The oxygen tank had fully failed on the way, so she had gone at least two minutes without breathing. If the dehydrator experience was anything to go by, being deprived of oxygen was not a pleasant experience.
And she's fully human. He didn't trust her, not fully yet, but trusted her strength enough that she would pull through.
He frowned.
She called me fishboy.
Okoye and Ross lingered on the beach, the former cursing at a kimoyo screen displaying Shuri's last known location. She had left for Haiti without saying a word to anyone, leaving only a note for M'Baku and a shorter one for Okoye.
I need time. I will be with Nakia. -Shuri
The warrior closed her eyes and felt for the Princess' earring in her pocket that she carried with her at all times. It was a relic of her failure, a taunt that she failed Queen Mother once, twice in her faltering to stand by her son, she would not allow it again.
"Okoye!" The former agent called. Swallowing the lump in her throat, Okoye turned to see Ross holding a large conch shell in his hands.
Shuri's lungs weren't working.
Her eyes flew open, her right hand moving to her chest. She prodded one side of her chest and then the other methodically. Satisfied that her lungs were, in fact, doing what they were supposed to do, she cradled the back of her head to chase after the sleep she so desperately needed, but felt a moist breeze graze her skin.
Skin?
She wasn't wearing her tracksuit. When had she stripped down to her night tee and shorts?
She shot up, pulled forward with a hacking cough. Her eyes flashed with recognition at her surroundings.
A blue guard stood nearby.
She scrambled out of the hammock but was unprepared for the pain that shot up her leg. A dull ache bloomed across her chest, extending from the left side of her body. She couldn't feel her arm.
The guard caught her before she hit the floor. Shuri clutched the woman's forearms, her skin slick and cool to the touch. It was then that she registered the cold of the room seeping into her bones.
"Where," she breathed, "Where is Namor?" The name weighed on her tongue.
The guard said nothing, moving her back into the hammock.
"Where is he?"
"I cannot tell you."
Shuri tightened her hold on the guard. "Then take me to him."
"He will come to you."
She repressed a shriek. Her throat was too hoarse, and she couldn't abuse the messenger. She still had her kimoyo beads and suit, but doubted she could plunge into the waters above and swim fast enough to escape in this condition.
"Where are the people?"
"Pardon?"
A rock settled at the bottom of her stomach. Her head spun, her muscles tightening like they did before a fight in anticipation of the worst. "The people he —" Almost killed. She tried again. "We tried to stop."
The guard not-too-gently pushed her back into the hammock.
"He will come to you," she repeated.
There were two of them. A white man who was green in the face, his metal mask flipped open and exposed to the cool, moist air. The other was the Wakandan woman who almost killed Namora.
They both made a mistake in bearing their identities to him. He would kill them by sundown, describe their faces in detail to the council, and then drown their peoples to within an inch of their life.
The sun would fully dip beneath the horizon in a few minutes. Really, he was being generous.
"You brought an American."
"Uh, former CIA agent." The white man interjected. "Everett Ross."
How stupid did the Wakandans think him, to bring an intelligence agent to his shores?
One minute left. Hot, white anger shot up his spine. A growl tore from his lips. The white man turned from green to puce, but the Wakandan woman didn't back down. When his warriors told him that the Wakandan woman hadn't flinched facing them, was merely confused for a moment before threatening attack, he hadn't quite believed it. But facing her now, her chin jutting upwards like he was too easy, he had no more qualms. It seemed Wakandan women, like the Talokanil, were molded from metal.
"Where is Shuri?" She pierced every word with a snarl, her eyes progressively narrowing.
He'd done this before, when Wakanda still had a queen. But this time, all entries to his air-quarters were heavily guarded. Ahuic, the great whale, lingered about 200 meters below, ready to strike at the whiff of any human underwater within a five mile radius.
"As I said, she chose to come with me." He stabbed his staff into the sand. "You broke my agreement."
The woman snarled at him, the folds of her bright blue suit dimming with the sun. "We are fighting for you as we speak. Wakanda is under siege and we have every reason to expose you to the world. Give us one reason we should not."
He felt his frown falter, but doubled down. "The Princess is with me. We will not release her until Wakanda sends the Americans scurrying back."
"You try to negotiate when the Princess is taken prisoner, again? You give her back, unharmed, and then we will entertain this ridiculous idea of playing guard for you."
The white man stepped forward. Both Namor and the Wakandan hissed at him, but he remained unfazed.
"I'm sorry your people were threatened."
Namor's eyes flashed. Threatened, the man said, as if sending missiles and warships to his waters to mine resources that belonged to him was a simple matter of bumbling, innocent wanderers.
"I tried to stop the second expedition, but unfortunately I'm no longer in a position to do so. But when Okoye and Princess Shuri when they told me they couldn't divulge your secret, I believed them. There are plenty others like them and myself who are willing to take chances. I've had enough of brinkmanship, but you need to be willing take the risk too. Is the position you're putting Wakanda one you'd accept for yourself?" The white man stopped. Namor knew it was so he had a chance to let his words marinate, clearly rehearsed in the art of persuasion. "Okoye told Princess Shuri not to go but she came here anyway instead of going to fight off Wakanda. Not only are you in her debt, you have the world's smartest inventor in your clutches."
The sun was below the horizon. Remnants of its light scattered across the water. Okoye glared at the white man, shooting him a warning.
Ross continued, "Here's what I propose."
One hour later, Shuri decided she liked Talokanil food. What little she'd seen of their cuisine was sea-food heavy, of course, but there was also a diverse array of surface-dweller food modified for underwater agriculture: seasoned corn, mashed avocado and squash.
She paused halfway through her meal, wondering if Talokanil eating fish was akin to canabalism. She'd have to file that thought away for Namor — if she didn't kill him first. She pushed the rest of her meal away, soured by the thought.
At the second hour, the guard changed. An older lady entered the room, her headdress even bigger than the last one's and her answers more taciturn. Shuri gave up trying to talk to them, instead toying with her Kimoyo beads. Her oxygen tank was gone, but the Black Panther suit was fine sans the tears at the arm and ankle. Namor's fingernails had torn through the vibranium. They had to be coated in something, she was sure, because this suit was impenetrable against organic material. The thought irked her — why didn't she think of slathering vibranium all over her naked body first?
The problem was the kimoyo beads' connection. The cameras, vital health measuring devices, and translator were all working fine because they were functions stored locally in the beads. Anything requiring a network connection failed, and so she only had Griot's "all vitals are normal" on repeat and a Mayan dictionary to keep her company. She cursed the god who made her think earrings — her emergency tracker — were unnecessary to bring to Haiti. Considering how many times her life had been at stake in the past five years, it really was stupid.
Great job, Shuri. A genius.
But even if signals worked here, what would she do? Last time, Nakia burst in and inadvertently started a war despite Shuri herself resolving to stay in return for the scientist's escape. This time, she had to trust Wakanda could handle itself. The Jabari, Dora Milaje, and Okoye could handle a couple of Americans.
No one could handle Namor except her.
After three hours, Shuri wanted to burn down the hammock. It was uncomfortable, made her feel like she was in a rocking ship (which, this...prison? guest room?...sort of was). Her lanky, angular limbs kept getting caught in the knots. She was cold, and wearing the Black Panther suit for another layer would worsen its rips and was not comfortable to lay down in.
She was alone.
Finally, another guard trotted into the chambers, her mouth barely visible through the water sloshing against her lips. She spoke to the other guard in hushed whispers who then left.
"He is coming." The newcomer nodded to Shuri. "Please change."
Shuri looked around the room. "I don't see anything."
The guard lifted a webbed finger at the nightstand. Shuri crouched and pulled one of the drawers open. It was stuck, like it hadn't been opened for months. After a swift yank, the drawer loosened and slid open to reveal a shimmering dress the color of teal, not unlike the one she'd worn before. But if the last one had been covered in jade stones, this one was made of it, woven into the fabric itself.
She'd researched jade when she'd returned home, before her mother was killed. Jade was expensive and sacred, engraved with spiritual retellings and fit for only royalty to wear.
The guard politely turned her face to give her some semblance of privacy but eventually trudged over to hold her bandages in place and gently lift her arms. The long dress was a welcome barrier against the cold, but not thick enough to warm her up completely. Her neck piece was heavier, and the earrings longer, its stones brushing against her neck. Whoever had bandaged her did a respectable job. The pain her ankle began to subside but she was careful to put her weight on right side. Her old abdominal wound hurt more.
They moved slowly out of her room and into the catacombs lit by shimmering glow worms above. An eerie sense of déjà vu overcame her as she entered Namor's chambers. He was the most clothed she'd ever seen him, wearing a cloak that covered the entirety of his upper-half.
"Not my chest, woman."
This time, Shuri resisted the barb and spared him no patience. "What did you do? Where are the Americans?" She fingered her kimoyo beads. "If you hurt them, I will kill you right now —"f
"Are you cold?" He appraised her with a calculating look.
"Shut up!" She shouted at him, across his desk. His staff was placed horizontally across it, a barrier between him and her. "Answer my question."
"I cannot 'shut up' and then answer —"
She lunged. One of the bandages tore and she hissed, tears springing to her eyes. Namor bent over the desk and extended his arms as though he was going to touch her face. Instinctively she took a step back, grasping her arm and adding pressure, hoping it would sooth whatever stitches or skin she'd torn.
His hand paused mid-air. He curled his fingers in and returned them to his side. "You are in no condition to kill me and shivering. Why did you not ask the guard for a blanket?"
"I didn't think you guys were the type to need them." She bit out. "Do water-people get fevers?"
He titled his head. That was a no, then. But she didn't have time to explain to fish-people — mutant, half-human, whatever — the finer limitations of human physiology. She'd told Sam two days were enough to handle this mess but now she was back to square one, deep underwater, wearing a bast-foresaken Disney princess dress, arguing with a jackass about why she didn't think asking guards to make her stay post-kidnap more comfortable was necessary.
"You asked me to answer your question, so I will answer only one. I did nothing of concern. Your oxygen tank supply diminished and I brought you here."
"Nevermind why you brought me here. Where are the divers? You went ahead and did what you wanted, even though I told you Talokan was under a potential attack on the condition I helped." Her voice rose with every word. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the guard move into a defensive stance. "You betrayed my trust and took advantage of our promise, knowing only we pay the cost."
By the end, she was shrieking. Her body shook, and she hated how her anger was always so closely tied to her core these days. She was angry, not upset, so why did she want to cry? She'd done enough crying in the past 24 hours. Was this Wakanda's princess, reduced to weepy tirades?
She stilled her erratic breathing, and tried again. "Wakanda can't protect Talokan if you don't let us. I can't believe you when you say you want to protect your people, and then behave against our treaty. Weakening Wakanda harms you too."
Namor lowered his hand towards his staff. Shuri panicked for a moment but relaxed when he lifted it away from the desk, clearing the space. His hands grasped a conch shell, cut in half, that carried in its crevices an assortment of paints. She wondered if this was his new move: biding time by doing ordinary things like cleaning and painting.
When she opened her mouth to speak again Namor lifted a hand and gestured to the walls around him. Her eyes caught onto a familiar series of murals, the walls of his office his canvas.
The caricatures were entangled with one another, acting out a movie in snapshots. Humans turning the barest shade of blue. Diving into water, heads bobbing with forlorn gazes at their previous home. Diving further down, clutching their children close. Finding a source of light underneath, their hope in vibranium. Namor carving their sun. A sprawling city flourishing, with Namor as King and protector against a series of enemies and threats.
Finally, the last one, its status as the newest painting clear in its glossy, reflective nature: Namor fighting Shuri and finally yielding on his knees.
"We have never had allies before."
Shuri couldn't place his tone, if he was proud or remorseful. Her eyes were still tracing the yellows and browns and golds of the mural.
"When you came to me about this invasion —"
"Potential invasion."
"— you did not mention that Wakanda was also under attack."
Hadn't I? She dragged her eyes from the mural to rest them on the Feathered Serpent God's face. She'd traded some barbs with him, tried to get him used to the idea of negotiation, thrown her shell at him, and then tagged along. He wasn't the type to ask for details, preferring to jump to conclusions and go even more insane, if possible, at the prospect that anyone was planning to harm them.
Huh. So she hadn't mentioned it. It didn't seem important at the time.
His pointy ears twitched at her silence. "So it is true."
"They don't need me. Okoye and the others can handle it."
"The Feathered Serpent did not need the help of the Black Panther."
"Clearly, you did. And still do."
She couldn't tell what he was thinking. His lips thinned to a measured line, his thick eyebrows framing penetrating amber eyes. Only a tiny scar from her shell marred his golden skin.
"So you chose to come to me."
"I chose to help your people."
He sat at his desk. The garish bands around his arms and wrists jingled. Honestly, it was a surprise he'd sneak up on her mom and her looking like that. She should've been able to smell his arrogance and hear him from a mile away.
She wondered if that's why he dressed her in outfits like these: to adorn her lithe body with noise. Her natural form was made to slip quietly through air and slip away. Panthers were sneaky; they crouched and waited to strike in moments of silence between chaos.
The moments slipped by, but Namor was an immortal and could always win a waiting game. She had to bring him back to her rules of this game they'd crafted for themselves.
"Did you kill the Americans?"
He breathed in deeply like it pained him. Her kimoyo beads flared to life, her finger hovering over the bead that would launch the Black Panther suit in a moment's notice.
"No. I did not kill them."
Her jaw loosened. "What?"
"I can kill them if you wish."
"What? No. No. This is good. That — I, where can I speak to them? Are they here?" She joined him at his desk. Her neckpiece didn't seem so heavy anymore. "Or did you let them go?"
"I am not a shaman."
"So they're here, then?"
"Yes, they are safe."
Shuri sunk her head into her hands, grateful to the stars and sun above. Maybe it wouldn't all go to hell. Okoye, Nakia and Sam could stall, and somehow it'd work out. She didn't know how yet, but this was one more catastrophe averted. If she pushed her luck, maybe she could talk to some of the divers and submariners now, work out a deal and present a unified front to both Wakanda and America.
Namor didn't seem to notice her tumble of emotions, looking almost...shocked. Confused, even. She lifted her good arm up to jolt him from his reverie. She'd never seen the man lose focus before.
"Let me meet the Americans. Where are they now?"
He shook his head. "I answered two of your questions. Answer one of mine. Why did you not tell me Wakanda was under attack?"
"I already told you. Things were moving too quickly, the others went to help, and I needed to make sure you didn't blow the treaty into pieces." She hoped the bitter insult would derail him from further questions. It didn't work.
"Is that it?"
She pinched the bridge of her nose. What was he trying to dig at? Did he want confirmation that she acted in good-faith? Not for the first time that day, she lamented not paying more attention during her trips with her brother, watching him navigate new waters after Wakanda opened up to the world. He was not the most naturally charismatic, but had an earnest way about him that soothed people's doubts, bestowed with the command and presence of a leader her father had (his dubious familial choices aside).
Shuri, on the other hand, is — was — a prankster. She loved to laugh and charm people with her wit and style, impress with her inventions, and love with compassion. She was made to help people with her intelligence, not be a peacemaker between warring nations.
Or maybe she was. She hadn't done too shoddy of a job thus far.
"I'm...not sure." She answered honestly. "Everything moved too quickly, and I can't lie and say I was only thinking of the Talokanil. Wakanda is my home. I was worried about the fallout, and I still am, which is why I need to meet the Americans." She glared at him. He didn't move a muscle. "After our...battle, I thought vibranium was a curse disguised as a blessing. Not worth all the war and greed, if maintaining this technology meant so many lives lost."
This was a bad idea. In hindsight, Shuri would pinpoint this at the moment everything changed, that something finally melted between them. But for now, a half-truth was enough.
"But I'm an inventor. An inventor can't invent without new ideas, possibilities. Talokan has the same vibranium we do, yet you and your people helped me restore something I thought was lost forever. I guess...I thought that I could help you too."
The bracelet he'd given her sat openly on her right wrist. Namor couldn't have known the magnitude of her words, but perhaps it was precisely because the bracelet was as important to him as it was to her now that she could share this, even if they saw two different things looking at it. To him, a vestige of his past and likely the only woman who loved him as a person, not a god. For her, a gift that enabled her to continue her brother's mantle.
"My turn," she said, not wanting to wait for Namor's reaction. My rules. "Why did you save the divers?"
A beat. "Sympathy."