A week after Shuri places the blade against the sunken space beneath Namor’s unprotected throat; a week after she hesitates and holds back the final blow; a week after her enemy-turned-ally disappears back into the depths of the perilous sea, Shuri finally takes a breath.
And rests.
But these days, sleep does not come easy. She has spent her days at the counsel of her elders; queendom does not suit her half as much as her mantle of “scientist'' did, yet her girlhood has been stripped away, left behind and buried with the bodies of the last of her kin.
The Wakandans around her are believers—how do the dead die when there are those who remember them? How does one mourn when love should overcome sorrow?
These are questions that Shuri holds on her tongue; she looks around and thinks that the answers come all too readily to those who have not shared her pain. There is a part of her yet that still stews in bitterness, drinking its poison in spite of the promises she made to herself as she watched Namor sink beneath the waves.
Maybe N'Jadaka was right. Maybe there’s no going back.
We’re more alike than you think.
So she gathers herself up, picking up the pieces of the Shuri of before— fragments of a girl who still held hope, and weaves and weaves and weaves, binding them into her heart, then goes to bed.
The tendrils of mercy—dreamless slumber and peace, evade her.
These days, she drowns and burns all at once.
“Little cousin,” says the voice in the dark, a lilting, rolling purr that holds all the delight of a predator at the warren of its prey. Shuri leaves her eyes closed, and prays that the nightmare ends.
The voice chuckles. “You’re here. I’m not going anywhere. Might as well open your eyes.”
She twitches, then grits her teeth. But she does not obey. Let him speak. Let him coax and coerce and command— Like she gives a damn at this point.
And sure enough—
‘Princess,” he says, dipping his voice low until the heady tones of his voice fill her ears. She feels the brush of his breath against her cheek—then her lips—
Her eyes snap open; she sits up abruptly, and swipes, black claws out and tipped sharp and deadly,
N'Jadaka chuckles, then grins a grin that walks the tightrope between wicked and boyish at the same time, mischievous delight evident in the way he slips backward, as if he’d expected her to swing at him.
“Ah, ah,” he chides, “not so noble now, are you? Attacking your cousin in the sacred place of your ancestors. Why if they’d see you now—”
“Shutup,” she snarls, scrambling to her feet before she looks around. The next of her words freeze on her tongue.
There is an expanse in front of her that calls to her—long, soothing sounds of grass rippling in a gentle breeze; the soft sifting sound of a lazy river; the rustle of leaves shaded dark in the haze of gentle light. It is a paradise—an eternity wrapped in mercy, carved out by claws and warmed by dappled pelts of black.
But the tree in front of her—and it is their tree, looming like a silent sentinel against a sky of shifting colors—it lies empty. There are no cats lounging on its wooden limbs, no shadows that lurk with glowing eyes. She searches frantically, tracing the branches, desperate, but—
“Don’t bother. They’re not there.”
She whips around. There is fire in her eyes and fire in her heart and the anger— oh, the anger, it burns—
“Why did you bring me here?” she says, voice clouded by fury. “To torment me? To prove yourself right ?”
N'Jadaka shakes his head and she feels the urge to rip into him again, to wipe that smirk off his face. Her nails dig into her palms.
“Truth is, I didn’t do this—you came here of your own volition. And you know it. That ain’t just anger I’m hearing,” he says, tipping his head towards her. “That’s grief right there. You’re just too blind to it. Now—are you gonna take that grief and use it? Or wallow and get nothin’ done?”
There are a hundred thousand things she wants to say. But she holds her tongue even when her heart beats a frantic pace, racing with questions that she secretly thinks she does not deserve an answer too. Dread sinks in.
Why have they not appeared to her? Where is her brother? Where is T’challa ?
“They’re not coming, you know.” N'Jadaka says, voice suddenly soft. “You abandoned them first—when you stopped believing in them. And now they’ve left you—you have the comfort of the land, yes, but there won’t be anyone to guide you.”
Panthers are meant to be silent—never heard, never seen. But Shuri hears his footstep striking stone with astonishing clarity. She steps back.
“Except for me.”
Another footstep towards here, relentless. She curls her fists and bids herself not to flee.
“I’m all you have left.”
The rage splinters within her; fire flashing in the pit of her stomach with the same terrorizing rage of heart herbs burning and the scent of scorched flesh.
She whips around, claws sheathed and hands backed into fists, reading to slam onto him in a primitive expression of grief.
“What do you want from me?” she screams. Unbidden, a tear appears in her peripheral, and she blinks hard, once, to keep it at bay. “I have lost everything yet I still don’t want you, Killmonger.”
Then, quiet reigns. But for a single heartbeat.
“But you do.”
The answer drops like stone sinking through water—solid, shrouded, but breaking through the silence with an ease that scares her.
“You do,” N'Jadaka repeats. There is a small, pleased smile on his face—one that holds secrets that he has yet to spill. “I am all you have, little cousin. You know all too well that blood begets blood. You know the call—the allure. Revenge and power and all those dark, treacherous things in between that once made you shudder. You took your panther form as a reflection of mine—my pretty little black mirror. That’s why the herb brought you to me that night— no. That’s why you came to me.”
She’s rendered speechless, lips chained suddenly. She wants to lash out, but there is such truth in his words. Bare. Near-earnest in the way he delights in this. And he has never spoken with such honesty before.
“Twice now, might I add.” He winks. “Third time’s the charm.”
Shuri growls. “It isn’t. I don’t know why you plague my dreams but—”
Shit.
She whirls around, clamping hands over her mouth as if she could cram those words back into her throat. Her cheeks turn red, mortified as she is by her slip.
Too late.
N'Jadaka laughs. Laughs and laughs and laughs; head thrown back, roaring out into the skies with unfettered glee. Then looks at her with amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes
“I plague your dreams ?” he teases. “Why, cousin— you’re a step ahead of me. Thinking about me, aren’t you? Every once in a while? Or all the time. Since you’ve clearly been dreaming about me in bed— ”
“Shut up.”
“It wasn’t so uncommon once,” he continues, humour still clouding his tone. “We’re royalty, after all. Kissing cousins ain’t common in America, but we’re blood, princess.”
The smile disappears though, and she’s struck but the sudden change.
“This is something you need to think about too, you know. Remember, blood begets blood. But what of the blood of family?” He cocks his head. “Bloodlines—Wakanda has one queen, and no heir. No promise of stability in the future.”
“If you’re presenting yourself as a suitable partner, might I remind you that you’re dead, N'Jadaka,” she says dryly, crossing her arms. “Plus, why would I ever trust you? Traitor. Our blood means nothing to you.” Her eyes dart towards his face, catching the shadow that slips into his expression.
He shakes it off. “You’re not gonna refute me on the whole cousin thing?” he quips. “Kinky.”
“Like you said, it’s been done before,” Shuri mutters. “In theory anyway. I wouldn’t—It’s the whole— ” she waves her hand haphazardly in the air, "—being dead thing that you’re forgetting.”
N'Jadaka grins. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he says; and in a blink of an eye, before she’s had any time to process what had just happened, he’s caught her in his arms.
Her brain stutters, then winds up, running twice as fast as the adrenaline kicks in. She slams her leg against his with a snarl, only to be blocked by his. He is solid— massive against her, and he knows it, because he leans in, grinning. There is a fervent energy that surrounds him now, maddening in the way it throbs between the both of them. He looks towards her lips.
“I wonder—” he purrs, tilting his head down to meet her gaze, “—what made you open your eyes? Was it because I called you princess, when by all rights you should be a queen? Or— ”
She kicks again. Another block. Another snarl; her wrists wrenched in a careful hold in one large palm of his, warm against her pulse.
“—was it because I was going to do this ?”
Then, N'Jadaka kisses her.
Her cousin kisses her.
He kisses her.
She stops struggling—she doesn’t know whether it’s because she’s startled into doing so, or if it’s because she’s wanted this and her head wars with her heart but her body—it comes to life— But one irrefutable truth remains.
There’s something between them.
And he kisses her with such hunger—tenderness wrought with fierce, untamed rage—a paradox wrapped in heartbeats and lips and tongues; the scent of him—rich and earthy pushing into her; a fire purling in her stomach, dripping down and down and down—
She pushes him back.
She can’t be doing this. He’s dead. He’s a traitor. He’s her cousin.
And yet—
And yet.
He takes it as a rejection because he steps back. The smile on his face threatens to slip off, though he struggles to hold the air of nonchalance. He shrugs.
“Fine, do it your way, then. You gonna marry that fish boy?” he asks, then looks away toward the horizon. “He’ll ask, you know. He’s pretty much already done so.”
When he turns to her again, there is an eerie light in his eyes; possessive. A warning. A sheen rolls over his eyes, the panther surfacing.
“You shouldn’t though—it’s a stupid decision. You’re not meant to live under the sea,” he says, before—
“We’re panthers—only time we swim is when there’s food involved. You should know that.”
She reels back, shocked by the shift.
He laughs again. “Kidding, kidding."
She fights the urge to groan.
"Still, think about what I said. We could rebuild our line. Strengthen Wakanda. The whole being dead thing might prove to be a hindrance but—”
A breath hitches in her throat.
“—there are ways around death itself,” he finishes cryptically. “And I don’t intend to stand around doing nothing, princess.”
“ Queen,” she corrects sharply.
“There we go, flexing your power already. It’s a pity you didn’t put as much flare into your fight with me. You might’ve killed me yourself. Beaten me into submission like a true pantheress.”
“Don’t mock yourself like this,” she says, turning towards him.
He shrugs. His eyes grow sly. “Why not? Seems like you enjoy fighting nowadays—you like the feeling of the battle rage, the blood. The burning. It’s a pity you didn’t kill him,” he adds with disdain. “It would’ve saved me a lot of problems. But I can teach you to take more power in time. I could teach you everything. You wouldn’t need to burn the world with Namor when you’d have me instead.”
His words are a spear, and they drive into her—there is a part of her that still wants to destroy—chaos and destruction within the swipe of her claws and the timbre of her roar. She will carry her anger, her grief, her hunger, for the rest of her life.
It doesn’t mean that N'Jadaka’s words don’t tempt her though.
But Shuri shakes her head.
“I don’t want to be a monster,” she says, quietly, but firmly. “I need to keep Wakanda safe—my people are now my priority.”
He sneers. “Don’t be noble. You and I both know that power is the only thing that will keep your people safe.”
Shuri has a response though, this time. She’s thought about it all those sleepless nights, those endless days.
“You could’ve joined me, you know. Joined us.” She swallows, but the rest of the words come out like a stream, a litany. “We would have welcomed you. You could’ve done so much, Erik— ” A breath chokes in her throat—a lump, a broken heart.
He shrugs. Then grins a half-grin, unrepentant—though there is a tinge of sadness that makes itself known nonetheless. “You know what they say right? Leopards can’t change their spots and all that. I am what I am, princess.”
“We’re panthers.”
“Panthera pardus,” he corrects, ever the scientist—even in his pursuit of villainy; even in death. Panthers. Leopards. All the same. And you have my spots now, cousin. All over that suit of yours. I’ve marked you.”
“They’re from my markings,” she protests, half-heartedly.
“And the gold? Is that from you too?” he quips back.
“It’s my design. My suit,” she barks out. “Keep your foolishness to yourself.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, princess.”
She glares at him, before she sighs, softly. Her limbs loosen. “I was serious, you know,”she says hesitantly, before her voice grows stronger. “My brother gave you a chance. I would too—if you’d want it.”
“Ah, but you know what I’d do with that chance.” He quirks his lips. “I can’t change. I’m dead, princess. A ghost in your head.”
There is something in him that slips out of its boundaries, and Shuri feels it wavering, here in this liminal land between everything all at once.
But he’s not ready for it yet. He has not convinced her. She has not convinced him. They are at an impasse.
“One day,” she says cryptically, leaving it at that. He’ll understand.
“One day,” he agrees before he gets to his feet. His movements are smooth, fluid like water, and when he stands up, it is with a grace unknown to man.
Then, he walks away.
Just as he reaches the edge of the grass; just as his form blurs into that of a great, black, beast, he looks back, eyes glinting in the light.
Then, he disappears.
She wakes up.
Alone.