Kintsugi

When T’Challa was in the pining stages for Nakia, the awkward teen angst of she likes me, she likes me not and she smiled I tripped she must think I’m an idiot, he’d once asked their father, “When did you know you loved Umama?”

“It was love at first sight,” her father would sigh. Shuri was embarrassed to be seen with these two lovesick fools, gossiping like schoolgirls with a crush.

It was a poorly concealed secret that her Baba truly did love her Umama - mostly because the man would duck out of council meetings early, saying, “My wife expects me for dinner, I can’t be late!” or “I need to get her the earrings that just arrived at the market, it’s quite urgent,” while the elders and Shuri looked heavenwards to Bast for patience. But the wives of the capital city thought it was rather romantic. They would cluck at their partners, couldn’t they be more thoughtful, like the king?

That type of love, especially between royal family members, was not common. Sure, many had perfectly cordial, even affectionate, unions, like her grandparents. But there was nearly always a political motive overshadowing everything else. During the time her father had ascended the throne, the Merchant Tribe’s business was booming. Their rapid wealth accumulation drew the jealousy and suspicion of the other tribes. The merchants in turn were angry over the sneers and snubs they received. The possibility of a civil war was distant, but loomed like a faraway storm cloud, making everyone uneasy.

Her grandfather proposed a solution: selecting a queen from the most influential of merchant families. The Merchant Tribe had yet to marry into the royal lineage, and the other tribes would be pacified with the royal family’s veneer of control over the merchants. It was just a bonus that the young king, upon meeting his future bride, was smitten with her.

Despite the appeasement of the tribal leaders, there was still a lot of suspicion amongst the people. As they awaited their queen’s arrival to the capital city, flooding the streets and craning their necks, they muttered about the merchants stealing their hard-earned money and hiding behind the true warriors.

They were not ready for Ramonda.

In her first debut as queen, she wore a dress with fine gold threaded into it, almost too bright to look at directly. Behind her trailed a twenty-foot black train with silver streaks that looked like comets in the night sky, flaunting off the unearthly craftsmanship of the Merchant Tribe. The people stared, open-mouthed with admiration as she walked past them on the way to the royal palace. M’Baku, then an ambassador from the Jabari tribe, said her father gaped like a stunned baboon the entire time.

But Ramonda didn’t just stop at a smashing entrance. She always replied to cold shoulders with such graceful civility that the others felt ashamed. She made trips to visit the homes of the other tribesmen. Her thoughtful inquiries and generous gifts made them feel heard and understood by the royals, for once. Rumors of her being weak were quashed when she was seen sparring fluidly with the Dora Milaje or arguing with the elders eloquently, earning her their begrudging respect.

But those weren’t her only strengths. She was kind, too. Often, she would be the first to welcome War Dogs back to Wakanda, with a soft “Welcome home, my child,” (that was how T’Challa and Shuri had first met Nakia). Otherwise her mother was seen perusing the wares at the markets like any other commoner, to the flattered incredulity of the street vendors. She bought trinkets and sweets for the children playing on the streets, who trailed behind her like baby ducklings. It wasn’t long before the people changed their tune, murmuring “Queen Mother” as she strode past, the magazines often gushing about her newest outfits or diplomatic visits or philanthropic overtures.

Before her, the royal family was seen as the other. Her grandfather was a stately man, proud and just, ruling through respect. Her father was a good tactician, but the stateliness had skipped him - in the early years of his rule he was awkward, and his reticence was misconstrued as aloofness. But her mother was a true People’s Queen.

Because of the close scrutiny she was under, Shuri’s mother took a maddeningly long time to get ready, humming over her many jewelry pieces, passing a hand carefully through fine dresses to find the right one. But back then, Shuri would often whine and drag her feet; she wanted to go bother S’Yan about inventing something that exploded, or exasperate her professors with new computer algorithms, or stream a new song by Avicii, not try on silly dresses.

But her mother would always say, “A warrior must choose the perfect armor before a fight.” Through the years Shuri came to respect this. The queen wielded fashion like a weapon - displayed like a prized sword hung at her hip, naked and honest and ostentatious and sharp. It was no wonder her Baba - and the rest of Wakanda- didn’t stand a chance.

…

Shuri thinks of that as she is marched to her wedding by a contingent of guards. Normally, Xhosa weddings are bright and loud, with an abundance of singing, dancing, and drinking. Wearing white is considered an ill omen, fit only for funerals. But this windless afternoon, the people are silent, wearing only white and not a single stitch of another color - a subtle act of rebellion.

Dissent through fashion, Shuri thinks, a little hysterically. Her mother would approve.

As she passes by her people, worn and subdued, she notices their eyes catching on the panther marks on her face. They perk up a little, shaking some of the weariness from their shoulders, standing a little straighter. Black Panther, they murmur. The Talokan warriors raise their weapons menacingly, and the whispers die down. But there is a fire newly lit in her people’s eyes.

She is marched into the city plaza, where a raised platform has been hastily erected. It is reminiscent of a squashed pyramid: layers of smooth stones stacked like a multi-layered cake. Stairs cut through the center. At the top, flanked by Talokan soldiers, stands Namor, his finery glinting in the sun. His headdress is a massive yawning serpent of gold and sapphire and emerald, jade feathers spiking outwards from the skull. His shoulder plates, neck guards, gauntlets, and boots are also gold, studded with bright turquoise. The armaments contrast sharply with his emerald shorts and blood red cape, the harsh lines of his abdominal muscles.

He looks handsome and powerful, she admits to herself bitterly. Meanwhile she feels like a prized rhino trussed up for the fair, as she is herded up the stairs.

“Princess,” Namor says, his eyes raking over her. She fights the urge to cross her arms and hunch over. “You look beautiful.” Ignoring her disgruntled expression, he turns to oversee the crowd.

It looks like most people in Wakanda, even the reclusive Jabari tribe, were rounded up for the event and placed in neat squares, soldiers patrolling around them. A projector and speaker have even been set up for those farther away, so everyone can see and hear what happens on the platform. Yet there don’t appear to be any Talokan civilians in attendance, only soldiers. Namor is putting on a massive spectacle for them and the Wakandans.

“Today we mark the union of two great nations: Talokan, and Wakanda!” Namor booms. The Talokans stamp their feet and blow their conches; the Wakandans stand silent, fire burning in their eyes.

The guards then drag forward a middle-aged priest in front of Shuri. He is Wakandan, she notes with surprise. The man shivers and clears his throat, his eyes darting nervously to the two guards dwarfing him.

“K-K'uk'ulkan, great Feathered Serpent God, King of Ta-Talokan,” he stutters out, as if reading from a script he memorized ten minutes ago. “W-we are honored and f-flattered you have decided to take a bride from the surface, the crown jewel of Wakanda, the Black Panther.” He glances at Shuri, apologetic and regretful. She tries to look reassuring, but she must miss the mark, because he cringes and continues. “Today we gather to observe the sacred union of two g-great warriors.”

The next hour passes in a daze of rituals. Some are familiar Wakandan practices, like tying vibranium bracelets around their hands. To her surprise, he re-gifts her his mother’s bracelet; he is still unaware of its role in the resurrection of the Black Panther, then. Other wedding traditions- like sitting by an alter adorned with cacao, exchanging white flowers, and tying their hands with red lace - appear to be Mayan customs. Every time she falters, he raises an eyebrow challengingly. She would then hurry to comply with whatever he asked, not wanting him to make good on his promises to execute Nakia or Riri.

Finally, the priest turns to her and chokes out, “B-by the blessings of Bast, a-and K-K'uk'ulkan, d-do you accept the F-Feathered Serpent G-god as your husband?”

The nerve of Namor - elevating himself to the same level as their god. The priest looks ready to pass out from the blasphemy. Shuri isn’t that traditional, and even she can commiserate.

“I do,” she grits out.

“And you, K-K'uk'ulkan, w-would you do us the honor of accepting P-princess Shuri of Wakanda, the Black Panther, as your wife and q-queen?”

Queen? What is he playing at? She is a prisoner.

“I do,” he says, smiling his shark smile. He gestures to her roughly. “Now kneel before your new god, my queen.”

The silence grows more deafening as she stares at him. Hasn’t he humiliated her enough? As the moment stretches, his grin collapses into a scowl. Two guards suddenly step forward to grab her arms, and she startles. Without thinking, she yanks her arms away and reflexively crosses them in the shape of an X to activate the the panther suit-

Which she doesn’t have. She blinks and falters, the adrenaline draining away.

And then she hears a cry.

“Wakanda forever!”

To her amazement, every Wakandan below crosses their arms to mimic her accidental salute. “Wakanda forever!” they yell in harmony. “Long live the Black Panther!”

There is a beat of silence, then the guards descend on the crowd.

Screams rent the air as the Talokans brandish glistening spears and sharp batons to subdue the Wakandans. She watches in horror as the carefully curated sections of people scatter in chaos, like a wet paint smudged violently. Mothers struggling to shield their children, a teenager taking a nasty blow to the head, a man falling like a discarded puppet.

“Stop!” she cries. “Stop, I’ll kneel-” She falls to her knees. “Please-”

Namor gives her a dark look, before turning back to the audience. “Enough, Wakanda!” he yells, and everyone freezes at the raw anger in his voice. “Your new queen will be escorted to Talokan. Focus on rebuilding. Don’t wast energy on petty rebellions. Soon enough we will be at war against surface world.”

Shuri is dragged down the stairs and to the river, hands tied behind her back. Under Namor’s watchful glare, she is forced unceremoniously into a dive suit. The suit will prevent the pressure from crushing them and is so bulky it will make them effectively helpless underwater. A guard attaches vibranium oxygen filters onto the sides - a feat of engineering she had once been thrilled by. Now she shivers as she thinks of the suit being yanked off of a bloated corpse.

“K'uk'ulkan,” a Talokan warrior calls, jogging up to them. It is Aapo, the guard who punished Myra for the panther marks. He spares Shuri a nasty glance before saying something in rapid-fire Mayan. Namor looks considering, then nods. Aapo gives a terrifying grin and pushes into the crowd. He comes back dragging a wide-eyed Myra.

“What are you doing?” Shuri demands.

“A little insurance policy,” Namor says pleasantly. “You put one little toe out of line, and she,” he nods at Myra, “will pay the price. And it appears Aapo seems to have taken a shine to her.”

Shuri is shaking with anger. “He- you- you can’t-”

Namor smiles grimly. “Must we lie to ourselves, my queen?” he says, so sweetly she wants to claw his tongue out. But instead she turns to Myra. For a split second, Shuri thinks she sees something flash in Myra’s eyes - satisfaction? But she must have imagined it, because she blinks and Myra just looks worried, her lips pursed, her hands trembling.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Shuri babbles, helpless. Myra just shakes her head as she is herded into another deepwater diving suit.

A guard double checks the suits are operational, then calls out to Namor. The feathered serpent king raises his hand, pointing it straight at the sky for a beat, before dropping it in a sharp motion. Immediately, the Talokanil dive into the water. Aapo puts Myra over his shoulder and jumps in with a violent splash.

Namor suddenly moves into her field of view, and gives her a humorless smile. “It is customary to carry the bride over the porch of her new home, no?” He grabs Shuri before plunging into the lake with a spinning dive, propelling them downwards with powerful strokes. The water seems to bleed light the farther they go. As she is engulfed by darkness, Shuri prays once more, even though her cries for help have so far been unanswered.

She doesn’t know what else to do.

…

Shuri’s head is spinning from riding several currents. In the endless darkness, she loses all sense of direction. Finally, after several hours, patches of light appear above them. As they get closer, Shuri can see the outline of a cave starting to form through the haze of refracting light. She instinctively sucks in a breath as they breach the surface of the water with a splash, and looks around as much as her suit will allow.

They are in a small underwater cave filled with air. It is connected to multiple dimly lit tunnels. Two woman in white wrap dresses rush forward, just as Namor pushes himself up, all harsh lines and ropy muscle, water cascading off of him. Shuri looks away as he hauls her up.

The women bow their heads low, arms held up to mimic a serpent’s mask. Namor repeats the gesture, then speaks to them in a low voice as Aapo surfaces with Myra. He dumps her roughly on the ground. Shuri winces.

She hears another splash, then feels hands adjusting her suit. She tenses - but it’s just Eloy, the guard who defended Myra. He disengages the breathing apparatus and helmet from her suit, before moving to help the handmaiden up gently.

“Bey, K'uk'ulkan,” the women murmur, bowing. Namor nods. Without as much as a glance at Shuri, he glides into one of the tunnels. Aapo gives Myra a leer before following. The taller of the two women glances reproachfully at his retreating back.

“Trouble, that one,” she says. Her low voice is tinny through the mask's translator.

“When is he not,” Eloy mutters darkly, then blinks rapidly at the four women staring at him. He blushes a deep shade of blue. “Ah- K'uk'ulkan asked me to keep watch,” he says, shifting awkwardly. “I’ll- uh. Just be over there. Call if you need anything.”

The shorter woman says something in Mayan. Eloy blushes again and all but runs towards the corner, causing the women to break out of peals of laughter. Then they turn to their Wakandan guests.

“Welcome, my Lady,” one of them says to Shuri. “I am to assist you in- ah- getting ready for the wedding night.” The two giggle. For a moment, Shuri feels her vision start tunneling. A strong hand grasps hers, and she grasps it like a lifeline. It is Myra’s. The handmaiden looks at her with such a soft, familiar expression that Shuri begins to relax. The Talokan women look at them curiously.

“What are your names?” Shuri says to them. Her voice is steady.

Abha and Zyanya, they say. Their chatter is lively as they carefully extract Shuri and Myra from the suits, before leading them through another tunnel into what looks like a dressing room, full of clothes and jewelry. Eloy refuses to enter the room. He stands stiffly at the door, his back to them, as the women giggle again.

“He passed twenty-four rounds around the sun,” Abha says, grinning as she removes Shuri’s clothes and makeup. “Boys around his age are so fun to tease.”

Shuri furrows her brows as she is slipped into a simple white dress. “How long do Talokanil live?”

“One hundred fifty turns around the sun, on average for men,” Zyanya says, clasping a jade necklace onto Shuri's neck. “One hundred sixty for women.” The woman starts dabbing red powder and black kohl around Shuri's eyes with cold hands.

“Could you please teach me?” Myra says, gesturing at the makeup.

Zyanya frowns, and then brightens. “Ah, you are her handmaiden in Wakanda, no? K'uk'ulkan said you would be helping us prepare the queen.” Shuri blinks, but Myra looks unsurprised and listens intently to the Talokans’ instructions. Shuri sighs as familiar warm hands touch her face.

“The kohl- what is it made of?” Myra asks.

Abha looks delighted to have such an attentive pupil. “We crush basalt rocks near the fire vents,” she says. “Sometimes we add biotite, to add shine - but we will try that another day.” They chatter about fashion, until Myra suddenly winces and puts a hand to her bruised cheek.

Abha frowns. “What happened?”

“Aapo, he…” Myra trails off, looking at the ground. The two Talokans look almost as enraged as Shuri.

“Let me put a salve on it,” Zyanya says, holding a glass blown cup filled with airy white paste. As soon as she applies it, Myra sighs with relief. “This will heal it quickly. Oh, Aapo might be the head of palace security,” she says darkly, “But there are enough rumors about him that I’m surprised he’s managed to keep his post.”

“Rumors?” Myra says, wary.

“That he is a mean drunk. And beats his women,” Abha says, in a low voice.

“And he is sadistic with new recruits,” Eloy says bitterly from the doorway, still facing away from them. “He takes pleasure in hurting them.”

“Of course, he is a great warrior and tactician,” Zyanya says, sounding conflicted. “And K'uk'ulkan knows best-”

“He only keeps Aapo around to appease Attuma,” Eloy interrupts. "They are cousins."

“Attuma is… head of the army?” Myra says.

“Yeah. Used to be, I mean,” Eloy says, shifting. “But now Namora will be the new chief of the army. Attuma is going to be taking over as governor of Wakanda instead.” Shuri stiffens. Abha notices.

“Ah, enough talk about depressing things!” she says quickly. “Eloy, can you please escort the queen to Namor’s quarters?” She turns to Shuri. “Someone will bring food for you and K'uk'ulkan to share, before,” she giggles, “your wedding night.”

As the women hand her off to Eloy, Shuri barely notices Myra tapping on her skin. Be brave, my panther. Numbly, Shuri follows the Talokan guard into a maze of tunnels, absentmindedly noting the path. Not that there’s any hope of escape. She feels like she is having an out-of-body experience: she is walking, and she is also looking down at herself in detachment.

All too soon, Eloy deposits her and hastily departs. Shuri comes back to herself slowly and looks around.

The room is not too big. There is a low table, with pillows lying on the ground in lieu of chairs. In the corner, next to a large chest, hangs a hammock piled with blankets (she quickly looks away). The back wall is covered in paintings. The history of Talokan, she realizes. She traces their Mayan roots, to the vibranium-based water plant that changed them, to the building of Talokan, to fighting countless wars, and finally, a feathered serpent with its claw raised above a-

“Black Panther,” someone hisses, and she whirls around.

It is Namora. The Talokanil warrior scowls as she deposits a plate of food on the table. When she stands up, she tightens the grip on her spear.

“Namora,” Shuri says, glancing at the food warily.

The Talokan scoffs. “Please, if I were to kill you, I would do it with my bare hands. I do not need underhanded tricks.”

“Good to know,” Shuri says drily. “Why are you here?”

Namora lip curls. “Because I wanted to deliver a message.” She steps almost toe-to-toe with Shuri, who refuses to budge. “Imagine, our god, who has refused to take a bride for many years, despite the scores of our finest Talokan vying for his hand. Then imagine he finally does take a bride- but to our horror, it is a disgraceful surface dweller who murdered innocent servant girls and ambushed our warriors with trickery. A coward in panther’s skin.”

Shuri clenches her jaw. She feels guilty for that, but- “Your god tried to kidnap a young girl who did nothing wrong, held me hostage, murdered my mother, and invaded my home! Don’t throw stones in a glass house, Namora.”

“You think you are so clever, orphan queen,” Namora hisses, and Shuri steps back, feeling as if she’d been struck. “Watch your back. I have no need to kill you, when there are plenty of Talokanil who despise their god’s new bride. They celebrate the stars showing that Wakanda will drown in fire and poison.”

Shuri feels a chill down her back, but refuses to drop eye contact. “The stars!” she scoffs. “Did the stars tell you that I almost killed your so-called god?” Namora winces. Good. She’s hit a sore spot.

“Enjoy your meal while you can, my queen,” the Talokan says darkly, and sweeps away. Shuri stares blankly as she leaves.

Invaders have taken over her homeland. Myra has been dragged into hell with her. And she’s married to a murderer.

“Bast,” she says out loud, “What good are my prayers if you don’t answer them?”

“Perhaps you need a new god,” Namor says, stepping into the entrance.

Shuri startles, but forces herself to stay calm. “A new god,” she says. “And what, you’re offering to be that?”

“If it would please my queen,” he says, tonelessly, before turning to the chest in the corner. He meticulously takes off each piece of his outfit: first his headdress, followed by his armaments. His hand skims the the band of his shorts-

“What are you doing?” she chokes.

He ignores her, removing only his belt and not the shorts. She sighs in relief.

“At ease, my queen,” he says drily, moving to collect the blankets from the hammock. “I do not take my women unwilling. It might shock you that I have failed to sink to the new levels of depravity you expect of me.”

She crosses her arms. “Yes, tell me what a kind and generous god you are, after murdering my mother and threatening my people,” she hisses.

His jaw works. “I will not lace my words with false apologies. I did what I had to defend my people, just as you did.”

She narrows her eyes. “You let me live,” she accuses. “And then forced me to marry you. Why was that necessary?”

His eyes flash. “If I had murdered the last Black Panther, you would become a martyr. Your people would have revolted immediately. Talokan and Wakanda would have suffered heavy losses," he says. "No, I plan to keep my fiercest enemy close, and deploy you and your people when needed. It is only a matter of time before the surface dwellers attack us. Which is why we must strike first.”

She curls her hands into fists. “Neither I nor my people are weapons, playthings for you to use as you wish-”

“It was your brother who so carelessly revealed the potency of vibranium to the world!” Namor snaps. “And that girl you foolishly protect - she is not even Wakandan, yet you risked yourself to defend the person who built the one thing that could threaten us. Do not claim naivety, my queen, when it was your people that hastened our downfall.”

“Don’t,” she says, voice full of brindled violence, “talk about my brother. You have no idea. He saw what happened when we isolated ourselves, turned out backs on people that look like us and suffer at the hands of colonizers. He created outreach centers to help poor children, to foster scientific advancement. It is not his fault if everyone else is evil!”

They are breathing hard, standing so close to each other that she can make out the faintest traces of panther claws on his cheek. It startles her insatiable scientific curiosity. She touches her own cheek in the same spot and asks, before she can think better of it-

“Why didn’t those heal?”

Namor blinks, looking thrown off by the non-sequitor. “I assume it is because you and I are both empowered by vibranium. Only a diamond can scratch a diamond.” He looks over her head, far away for a moment. “Contrary to my people’s belief, I am not invincible, only immortal.”

To him, everyone else must appear as ephemeral as a tide that crashes onto the shore and spends itself in a flash. Only he watches the inexorable cycle replay.

"You are too jaded," she says. "Humans may be 99.9% genetically identical, and yet no one person is the same. Generalizing mankind... is scientifically impossible."

“When you live as long as I do,” he says quietly, “Your sense of optimism washes away like a cliff in the tides. You all realize human beings were created with an immutable base nature: greed, lust, violence. The 0.1% variation counts very little, in the end.”

“So all hope is lost,” she says dully. “You have condemned the rest of us for crimes we will surely commit.”

He hesitates, searching her eyes intently. “There were a handful of moments,” he says, “where I though... I might be wrong.”

“When?” she challenges.

“One of those moments was when I met you.”

Shuri’s eyes widen, and she takes a step back, suddenly finding their closeness suffocating. “When- when I almost killed you?” she says, recovering quickly. “And reminded you that you bleed, just like me?”

“Yes,” he says, eyes so terribly honest she feels frozen, caught in the powerful wave of emotion. “I was given no choice in what I should be. From birth my people worshipped me. Of course, I am grateful to Chaac who showed us this salvation. I love my people. But for my entire existence I have born the Atlas burden of their wellbeing, their protection, their expectations.”

His eyes take on a faraway look. “But you! You had no expectations of me. In fact, you were the first who was bold enough to make demands of a god! I thought, what a novel experience.” He laughs a little. She is mesmerized despite herself. “And when you accompanied me through the city, on paths I had traveled a billion times, you allowed me to see with your fresh eyes the beauty I had taken for granted. For a moment, I entertained a foolish hope.” His expression becomes grave. “And yes. Even when you tricked me and nearly ended my life, I thought, here is my equal. Someone with fire in her veins, who looks at me, like I was any other man, even when I was anything but that.”

And then: “It could have been different.” The same words he said when he speared her on that beach, lifetimes ago.

For a brief moment, Shuri feels the infinitesimal spaces between seconds, the blurred lines between what-ifs, the alternate worlds between it could have been different. Namor’s eyes are pitch black, but as he moves closer, walking the spaces between those seconds and what-ifs and worlds, she sees in his eyes, there is a fire too, and she can’t- she can’t breathe-

She takes a shuddering breath and steps back. Namor blinks and studies her. Whatever he sees makes his expression shutter.

“Take rest,” he says tersely, gesturing at the hammock. A second later he is gone. Shuri sinks to the floor, wrapping her arms around herself.

What is Namor playing at? What is she doing? The questions swirl around endlessly like the Talokan water currents, tossing her mind around. She doesn’t know how much time passes, only that Myra is suddenly on her knees before her, her lovely face lined with worry.

“Princess,” the handmaiden says urgently, cupping her face, scanning her body. “Are you-?”

“He didn’t touch me,” she says. Myra looks intensely relieved. Shuri just feels numb. “How- how did you find me?”

“Namor sent me,” Myra says, wary. She switches to tapping in their code. Seems like I’m a double insurance policy. If any Talokanil cause trouble for you, he asked I notify him.

“Namora said a lot of Talokanil were upset he married me,” Shuri says, listless.

“Namora was here?”

Shuri nods. Myra frowns, but then she sees the plate of food and nudges Shuri toward it. “You should keep your strength up,” Myra suggests.

Shuri just closes her eyes and slumps forward. She is overwhelmed by ominous prophecies, her wedding, Wakanda’s invasion, Namor's cruelty, Namor's kindness, Namor-

Myra hugs her, and she clings onto the other woman tightly. She wants to reassure herself she is safe, in Myra’s arms, a fragile peace shivering in this moment. But she is too afraid to open her eyes.

Because if she looks back, she might be lost forever.