i emerged from my mother's river

by anthropologicalhands

Summary:

Before Shuri goes to Haiti, she first visits the Hall of Kings in the City of the Dead.

She allows herself to be buried in earth — supine, arms crossed — like her ancestors before her. A shaman holds a bowl to her lips; she drinks again of the new heart-shaped herb, born of a flower from the sea. Lord M’Baku of the Jabari observes the proceedings in watchful silence; an honored guest.

Shuri holds her breath and closes her eyes. Sand falls soft on her face.

Her rage is spent. Her heart beats a tattoo in her chest in both fear and hope.

~

Before Shuri goes to Haiti, she first visits the Hall of Kings in the City of the Dead. 

She allows herself to be buried in earth — supine, arms crossed — like her ancestors before her. A shaman holds a bowl to her lips; she drinks again of the new heart-shaped herb, born of a flower from the sea. Lord M’Baku of the Jabari observes the proceedings in watchful silence; an honored guest.

Shuri holds her breath and closes her eyes. Sand falls soft on her face.

Her rage is spent. Her heart beats a tattoo in her chest in both fear and hope. 

~

She wakes up again in water. 

But instead of the ceiling of a drowned throne room, a jeweled sky stretches out forever above her, shimmering with ancient stars. Grasses scratch and tickle her back; she’s submerged at the edge of a river bank.

“Shuri.” 

She twists around, her heart in her throat; her mother stands, dressed in white on the silty sand, not far away at all.

“Mama!” she cries, the syllables breaking like sobs.

She splashes out of the water, ungraceful as a newborn gazelle, unbefitting of the land of her ancestors; she does not care.

Her mother’s arms open to catch her and hold her tight; they are still the strongest she knows. 

“My Shuri,” says Ramonda, tenderly, and tears stream down Shuri’s face.

“Mama,” she repeats, babbling like she’s a child again, clinging close to her mother and inhaling her scent.

For so long, she hadn’t believed in the Ancestral Plane. Then, after confronting N’Jadaka, she wondered if she’d lost her chance, if rage had burned her heart so completely that they wouldn’t come for her.

But then her mother spoke to her on the beach. And now here they are.

~

They are curled up together under a great tree on the bank’s upward slope. Shuri’s tears have subsided; her head rests on her mother’s lap. She doesn’t remember the last time they sat together like this — she must have been very small.

“Is Brother here?” she whispers. “Is Baba?”

“Yes, Shuri,” says her mother, warmly. Even if they never speak again, then at least Shuri heard her mother’s voice without the weight of loss once more. “We are all here. We are all watching over you.”

She smiles at the thought, but remembers a flash of gold teeth in a cruel grin, and falters.

“Is N’Jadaka truly here?” Her voice is tiny.

“He is,” Ramonda confirms, and sighs. Her fingers trace the shell of Shuri’s ear. “I wish his face wasn’t the first you saw.”

“I was looking for you,” Shuri whispers. “Where were you?”

She steals a quick peek up at her mother’s face, creased with sorrow.

“I was there,” says her mama. “But you didn’t want to see me.”

That’s not true, Shuri wants to cry, but is it? She still doesn’t know. Did she really want her mother to see how she burned for vengeance? A vengeance so ruthless that nothing could break it until she was poised to strike a killing blow.

“Why is he here?” she mutters. 

“He is family,” says her mama, simply. “The hatred in his heart is not easily bled, but he is usually different. Reclusive. He spends most of his days walking the edges of the grasslands. We think he looks for his mother.”

So not even the Ancestral Plane is free of shadows. Something pricks at her: an unwanted feeling. N’Jadaka was wrong and cruel when he spoke to her in the burning throne room, but now she feels something like that arrow of pity that struck T’Challa and sank deep into his heart, all those years ago.

Shuri looks out to the river bank, and blinks. The great stretch of silky, silty sand is shrinking under the gentle, inevitable pull of the river. It is higher than it was before.

“Why is the river rising?” asks Shuri, almost without thinking. Then again, with greater horror. “Mama, why is the river rising? We must go further up.”

If she sees her mother limp and floating here, she will shatter.

But her mama doesn’t stand, just grips Shuri tighter and straightens her spine like she is back on her throne. 

“There’s nothing to fear, my child,” she says. “The water is just waiting for you.”

The water reflects the jewel-bright sky. Its shimmer of pink and purple looks like an oil spill. 

Shuri clings closer.

“Is it an omen? Mama, I don’t know these things — you must tell me if it is. Was it a mistake to align with Talokan? My heart wavered, and your guidance helped me to spare him, but if I chose wrong—”

“No, nothing like that, Shuri.” Her mother takes a deep breath, as she used to when she found Shuri and T’Challa in some mischief; Shuri’s stomach tightens at the sound. “The water brought you here. The heart-shaped herb was Bast’s gift to our lineage, but you used something new. What was it?”

“I recreated the herb,” says Shuri, swallowing hard. “I used a fiber from a flower of the Yucatán. The same plant that helped Namor’s mother escape into the sea all those centuries ago.”

“You clever girl,” says her mother, warm as honey. “Challenging tradition even beyond the mortal plane.”

She is teasing, but Shuri cannot find it in her to smile back.

“Have I changed things here?” she asks quietly. “Will it put you and the others in danger?”

“What danger?” asks Ramonda gently. “We worry for our family — not for ourselves. There is no danger to the dead here.”

“You are right to worry,” Shuri says bitterly. “Look at what I’ve done, without thinking.” The water is high enough now that it laps at her outstretched feet, dampening her skirts. She tucks up her legs higher.

“Look at what you’ve done, with intention. You made peace as yourself, by being who you are.”

“Some peace,” she mutters. “We don’t even have a treaty yet.” 

“You are new, Shuri. You’ll change things, sometimes fast, sometimes slow. As T’Challa did before you.” 

T’Challa.

She wants to see him so badly. But no, she must be able to find her brother’s presence on the mortal plane, before she can bear to see him in this one.

“Does it feel better,” she finds herself asking. “To be with him and Baba here?”

“There is no such thing as better,” says her mother firmly. “I would prefer to be with you, but that was not my fate, so I will do what I can from here.”

Shuri is silent, fiddling with her dress.

“Why did you ask me not to kill Namor?”

Her mother looks down at her, and her face gentles.

“It wouldn’t have been right. It would have only caused you more pain. And, child, you did not spare him solely because of me. You looked into your heart, and did what I could not.” 

“I hope it was right.”

When Shuri thinks of Namor, she feels nothing in her heart. Only relief that Wakanda has at least one ally in the world that does not want to drain them. Only weariness that she must guide that alliance forward.

Namor yielded, and he is honest, but it is not peace, not yet.

“Let me ask you this: Do you think he’ll keep his word to you?”

“Yes,” says Shuri. 

Shuri remembers the beauty of Talokan, and Namor’s love for his people. If Wakanda can protect his people, then perhaps he will extend his care to hers.

“Good,” says her mother. “I have no love for that man. He kept you and threatened our people. I would have liked for nothing more than Bast herself to emerge from the Great Mound and rip him to pieces to feed to her cubs. However, if he is bound to Wakanda’s protection for all his remaining years and is true to his word, then I will think nothing more of him.”

Shuri nods. Wonders about Namor’s possible lifespan, how long he will live. 

They sit in silence. The sky is beautiful, and the river calm.

Then, her mother starts to sing.

She sings Shuri’s birth song, one that Shuri has not heard since she was very small. It charts a quiet course through her churning mind, smoothing away the edges of her fear and sadness, soothing the old burns of her rage. 

Shuri listens carefully, memorizing what she once forgot.

When it is over, she kisses Shuri’s forehead. “Do not fear the water, Shuri, despite everything that has happened, for you are my daughter and thus a daughter of the River Tribe, and it is your domain as much as the earth and sky. Promise?”

Overwhelmed, Shuri nods. The song sinks into the back of her mind, a gentle susurrus. 

“Thank you, my love. You can see that I am here, and I am well. I hope it gives you peace.”

The child within Shuri protests that it would give her more peace if they could stay here together. But the woman, the scientist, now knows that her mother is not truly lost to her, and that is the greater gift.

Still, the child compels her to ask, “Can’t I stay with you a little longer?”

Her mother laughs. “You would be bored here, Shuri.”

Not for a few more minutes , Shuri wants to protest, but she is starting to feel it, how the plane slips at the edges.

“How do I leave?” she asks instead, thinking of the last visit that ended with the throne room in flames that scared her awake in her lab, convinced she was abandoned.

“The water,” says Ramonda. “It flowed into the Ancestral Plane when you arrived, and it will carry you back to the Hall of Kings.”

Shuri studies the river, the lazy path it winds through the grasses. The Ancestral Plane exists apart from her, but the river does not? What a strange idea. In another life, she might have started forming hypotheses about constructs of the mind, how they interact with the temporal plane.

But not now. 

“Let the water come to me,” declares Shuri, curling up in her mother’s lap. “Then I’ll go.”

“So stubborn,” sighs her mother, and smiles, her eyes crinkling at the corners. 

So Shuri embraces her mother until the river rises and swirls around them, and gently bears her away. 

She treads water for as long as she can as it carries her out, memorizing the face of her mother in white, under her fig tree with its great branches, glittering in the everlasting light.

Except Shuri looks closer, and gasps.

It is not the tree that shines.

High in the branches, unseen before now, she recognizes the golden glow of panther eyes — dozens of them, their dark bodies resting in the branches. 

How long they were there, she does not know. But one shadow crawls down to the branch closest to her mother, and regards her thoughtfully.

Her heart leaps.

“Goodbye, Brother,” she whispers.

Then, she lets herself sink into the river.

~

She wakes up in tears, coughing on earth. But they feel good. Clean. 

“Breathe,” says M’Baku. He helps her stand on shaky legs.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, his thunderclap voice as gentle as rain. Shuri nods, wiping salt out of her eyes.

“I did not bury my heart after all,” she tells him.

His answering smile is beautiful to see.

“I have another request to make of you,” she says.

 A few days later, she flies across the sea, and M’Baku strides to the waterfalls as her champion.

~

She brings her heart to Haiti, and what she finds there fills it twice over.

All hail Toussaint, the child king! 

T’Challa, the second of his name, who smiles as bright as the sun and runs faster than a cheetah. Who brings laughter into every room and joy to every morning.

Shuri chases her nephew across all of Haiti, scoops him up and tosses him up in the air with her panther strength. Sneaks around him to play hide and seek, then breaks the rules by snatching him up and cuddling him anyways, over his protesting shrieks of laughter.

No child can replace their progenitor. But here is a piece of T’Challa again in the world, when Shuri thought all of him was lost.

Shuri thinks of how her mother said “family,” not “daughter” when they spoke together on the Ancestral Plane. She aches to ask if T’Challa now watches over Nakia and Toussaint as diligently as he should. 

But she knows the answer; her brother and his good heart would never waver in such a bittersweet duty. 

And neither will she. Nakia and Toussaint have her now. They will always have her. 

The world is not peaceful and there is much to fear for the future. 

But here, in Nakia’s house, Shuri finds a sanctuary.

~

When Toussaint laughs at her, Shuri sings to him.

She sings silly songs and pop songs, but most often she sings her birth song — the same one her mother sang to her before she let the water carry Shuri away. 

“I knew this song before I was born,” she tells Toussaint. “Your Baba sang it to me while I was inside your grandma. I liked it so much, I would dance and drum my feet inside her stomach, so she made your Baba sing something else instead!”

She grabs his hands and they do a strange hop and skip and nearly bump the kitchen table, while Nakia laughs and keeps the beat with her hands as Shuri sings again.

Shuri, Shuri, daughter to be, born in the river under the shade of a great fig tree…

“You were born in the river?” Toussaint asks, his eyes huge. 

“No!” laughs Shuri. “I was born in a hospital bed, just like you were. My mama — your grandma — wanted the best of technology, so she had me in the best hospital in Wakanda. That’s how I came into the world. And I liked what I saw, and I wanted to make it better, so I grew up to become head of the Wakanda Design Group. I would not like to be born in a river – too cold! Ask your mama about that.”

She winks at Nakia of the River Tribe, who laughs right back.

She sings it to Toussaint, again and again. She changes the song as it suits the days. That is the type of song it is; its first form is lost to time, but each singer can make it new again, as long as they have the first strand from which to spin a story.

Singing helps her feel closer to her mama, and the swelling and subsiding pain has something of the edge off of it. She imagines her mother seated at the feet of her fig tree, smiling at them from the Ancestral Plane.

It is a song that has always brought her peace. How did she forget it? 

When Nakia and Toussaint are busy with school, Shuri takes long walks by the ocean and marvels at how smooth and calm it looks, despite the power beneath it. At times, it seems the ocean sings it right back to her. The notes shimmer in the air, like her own personal aurora borealis called southwards.

She thinks of Namor; she can’t help it, now that she knows he’s out there. But she thinks of him without rancor, and hopes the Talokanil sleep peacefully now.

~

One week after her arrival, a conch shell sits on the exact stretch of Haitian beach where she takes her walks. 

She might almost persuade herself that it was a coincidence, but when she picks it up she sees Mayan symbols etched by the lip.

Her first, most immediate impulse is to chuck it right back into the ocean. But she holds herself still, and lets the impulse pass unanswered.

The ocean is silent today. She should have taken that as an omen.

She takes a long, slow breath, and heads back to Nakia’s home.

~

She places the conch on the breakfast table between herself and Nakia. They stare at it together, as if it’s rigged to explode.

“How did he know you’re here?” asks Nakia, breaking their silence. “Have you—

“No.” Shuri’s voice is tight. “Except to maintain the peace between our nations, I have nothing to say to him.”

“I see.”

“But it looks like he has something to say to me.”

Nakia grimaces; Shuri sighs.

“Is it a threat?” asks Nakia quietly.

Namor is always a threat, Shuri thinks. Her mother had been forceful with the outside world, but Namor would not last two minutes in the meeting of the UN without threatening to drown them all.

She entertains the thought for longer than she should, then wills it away.

“I don’t think so,” she says. “We want the same things too much. But I don’t like that he came here. I don’t want him to see Toussaint.”

Nakia exhales, shakily. “He wouldn’t…”

“No,” says Shuri firmly; this she knows is true. “He’s not underhanded. He would go to war for retribution, but he wouldn’t target a child to prove a point. Any child. Stay here — I’ll go ask him what he wants.”

~

She walks as far as possible from the house as she can without falling out of sight. It’s still early enough in the morning that there is nobody around.

Shuri blows on the conch. 

Then she yells at the horizon, for good measure and because it makes her feel better.

“ Namor! ” she bellows. “I know you’re there! If you want to speak to me, come out and let us speak.”

He wasn’t far; he rises out of the surf within seconds. However, he walks rather than flies; with some vicious satisfaction, she sees that both of his ankles are bound in bandages. It does not make him look any less regal. Or dangerous.

All hail K’uk’ulkan, she thinks, bitterly. The Feathered Serpent. Namor to the surface world. The god king of Talokan. Father and protector of all Talokanil, the people hidden in the depths of the ocean.

Murderer of Queen Ramonda.

And now, possibly, Wakanda’s only honest ally.

He’s simply adorned today, but the gold and jade ornaments shine and reflect nimbuses of sunlight — it makes it difficult to look at him directly as he approaches.

“Princess,” he greets. “Am I still Namor to you? I thought you declared us allies.”

She inclines her head in concession. “Aj K’uk’ulkan.”

Her rage is spent, but her mouth tastes bitter around his name. He smiles, though it is not particularly kind, and studies her. She holds still under his attention; if he is looking for something new, she thinks, he won’t find it.

“What is this?” she asks, tired, the conch shell clutched tight in her hands. 

“I thought it was time for us to speak,” he says. He tilts his head, like he’s listening for something she’s left unsaid, and smiles. “But I did not want to rush you.”

“So kind of you,” says Shuri, not quite able to restrain her sarcasm. “How did you know I was in Haiti? Are you spying on me?”

“We have a truce,” says Namor, ignoring her questions entirely. “But our nations need a treaty. To treat, we must have a way to communicate.”

It’s a practical reason — diplomatic, even, if one took a generous interpretation of the word. But mostly, all Shuri can think is how strange it is to stand here, speaking with him again. Her stomach twists in on itself, both in unease and longing. 

But longing for what? The man who comforted her through her brother’s death, whose great age made her truly believe, for the first time, that someone understood how deeply it hurt, her failure, and the depth of her grief? He was kind to her, but he was brutal too, and now stands before her in his role as king, asking to confirm their peace, and she must answer him. 

“You’re right,” she says. “But it is not me who you will treat with. I’m not queen.” 

Namor’s mouth goes to a flat line, dark brows furrowing downwards.

“What do you mean?”

“I abdicated,” she pushes on before he can try to interrupt her, “I have no experience and not enough training to be the ruler my people need. Instead, I nominated Lord M’Baku of Jabariland as my champion. In Wakanda, I will serve on his council as both the Black Panther and the last adult of the Golden Tribe. I won’t shirk my duty — as you and I were the ones to declare an alliance, I will formalize it at every step.”

“When I yielded to Wakanda, I yielded to you ,” he insists, his voice low, stepping closer. “Not a paper-pushing king.” 

It should be threatening, but the thought of M’Baku’s outrage at such an epithet makes her snort, struggling not to smile. Namor’s mouth softens into a gentler expression,  as if pleased; it stops her cold. 

“Lord M’Baku is both a fine warrior and leader,” she deflects. “You will see. But as he and I must work in tandem, so you must work with both of us so that Wakanda can protect Talokan. Lord M’Baku will meet you as Wakanda’s voice, and I will meet you as Wakanda’s protector, to carry out whatever is necessary to protect the terms of our alliance. You have my word.”

He regards her for a long moment, then inclines his head. His earrings are different from the ones she remembers— the shape is the same, but the detailing catches the light in a new way.

“I accept. So long as the Black Panther is involved in the negotiations, this treaty can proceed.”

Let us burn it together , she remembers, and her stomach twists again.

“Yes,” says Shuri. She swallows. “But it cannot happen now. Wakanda is still repairing the capital, and we must ensure that the Americans stay away. I must ask for time.” 

“How long?”

“We think in two months, we’ll be ready. Is that acceptable?”

Namor inclines his head, and Shuri irrationally wonders if Talokan has currency with his likeness stamped upon it.

“That is acceptable,” he echoes. “In two months, then.”

“I will call for you in Wakanda,” says Shuri. “Please don’t come back here again.”

She crosses her arms in front of her — a Wakandan salute. He stares at her for a long moment, his head tipped, as if he expects her to have more to say. His eyes don’t falter, and she is grateful for how her traditional salute puts a barrier between them.

“Of course, Black Panther,” he says. When he dives back into the ocean, she can see the healing burns on his back, and her stomach twinges in phantom pain.

She can hear nothing now, but the movement of the waves and water.

~

“It’s done,” she tells Nakia. “He wanted to reaffirm the conditions of our alliance. He won’t come back. He keeps his word.”

Nakia exhales, slowly, and puts her face in her hands. Her shoulders shake. Shuri doesn’t reach out, even though she wants to; instead, she waits.

She can’t imagine what Nakia’s life has been over these last few years. Nakia who is so strong, the best spy in the world, but full of secrets and sorrows and fears.

“Thank you,” says Nakia. When she looks up at Shuri,  guilt shines in her eyes. 

“I won’t let anyone hurt Toussaint. I told you. Nothing will ever touch him, as long as I’m around.”

“I know,” says Nakia. “I know. I knew it years ago. I should have told you then.”

Shuri looks up, astonished. Growing up, Nakia was always certain. She’s still certain, willing to let others hate her for her choices. But she fears them, too. Shuri has not seen her like this before.

Maybe it’s just getting older, Shuri thinks. The people who once protected you start to show you how human they are.

“I wish you had told me, too,” says Shuri, because she needs to try to be honest. But Nakia wasn’t the only one. Her mother could have told her; T’Challa could have told her. 

“You have every right to be angry,” Nakia begins, but Shuri reaches out and places her hand over Nakia’s, as gently as possible, and shakes her head.

One year, two years, a lifetime ago — she would have been outraged. She wouldn’t have understood why anyone would raise a Wakandan child away from home, that anyone would think that to be part of the royal family was anything but an honor.

But a lifetime has passed. She’s seen the ruin of N’Jadaka and its repercussions, and Shuri’s anger is spent. Nakia is her sister. Her sister who is the greatest spy to ever live. The woman who gave birth to a king’s son all alone and built a Wakandan school in which to hide him in plain sight.

And, right now, Shuri just wants them to have what little peace they can, before the world comes calling.

It won’t be easy. But they all do what they think is best, Shuri is learning. Sometimes it isn’t enough. 

And sometimes, it means letting questions rest. 

“Tell me next time,” says Shuri. “When things are more settled.”

Shuri has never been one to kiss, but she does so now, cupping Nakia’s face in her hands and kissing her on the forehead. 

Nakia smiles strangely at her then, as if Shuri gave her a blessing. 

And then she pushes away from the table, to wake Toussaint for the day. Shuri takes the conch shell to her room, wraps it in her least favorite scarf, and sticks it in her duffle bag to be forgotten.

~

When she must return to Wakanda, Toussaint cries.

She cries with him. She wants to take him back with her, to have him run around the restored palace. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to see him sleeping in T’Challa’s rooms, to bring him down to her laboratory to explore.

But the world has never been safe for a Wakandan prince, and now even Wakanda itself is no longer the sanctuary it once was. The world snaps at their borders, panting for a taste of vibranium, waiting for Wakanda to collapse from all the tragedies that have beset them. 

They’ll show them.

M’Baku is king, and wears it well. He told her jocularly that she was welcome to challenge him again when she is good and ready.

Shuri doesn’t want the throne. But she’ll guard it, and count down the years to the prince’s return.

“I will call you whenever I can,” she promises. “Whenever you need me, wherever you are, your kimoyo beads will let me speak to you. Promise.”

Toussaint blinks back tears, and nods.

“Promise,” he says solemnly, and Bast , even in his sadness he sounds like her brother.

Toussaint stays in Haiti. T’Challa follows her home on the breeze. The song her mother once sang to her murmurs in her ear as they fly over the crystalline water.

~

When she turns on her data pad, it lights up with messages.

We look forward to your return, Black Panther. The Dora Milaje—

Black Panther, repairs are going well,  but we need—

Black Panther, the Wakanda Design Group formally requests—

There is so much to do. 

Her peace must be merely a memory for later. She tucks it away inside her heart. The song echoes there, growing distorted.

~

Returning to Wakanda is strange.

Shuri thought that healing would mean a schedule of healthy meals, routines that might be new but otherwise mundane, like spars and physical conditioning between WDG lab meetings. 

But her people treat her differently now. They always had respect for her mind and her inventions. But now they look at her with awe, like she’s become something more. 

It discomforts her.

The Black Panther’s mantle has always been something sacred, but she doesn’t remember this kind of reverence toward T’Challa, beyond the natural respect due to a brilliant king.

She was never meant to be the Black Panther. But now, at home, suddenly that is all she is.

The council reminds her that Wakanda has twice gone without a Black Panther in the last handful of years, after thousands of years of an unbroken lineage. They see her and feel safe. They advise her to not protest so hard against being referred to by her title. 

A younger Shuri would have protested that her people are not children to be coddled. But she’s felt like nothing more than a child so many times this year – she understands the desire to be protected.

And she tries. But she wishes she could be just Princess Shuri the scientist again, not a hero from legend. She wishes the ones who truly knew her were around her all the time.

~

Like Okoye.

Okoye knows her, and remains as devoted as ever.

But Okoye is something new now, too, by Shuri’s own design.

She’s a Midnight Angel, who successfully retrieves Agent Ross and the intelligence they need to defuse the Americans’ accusations, to stave off war for another day. 

She’s a mentor to Ayo, sending specific instructions for a new training regime for an untested Black Panther.

And recently, she’s been busy with the Border Tribe, in the company of W’Kabi, newly released.

Shuri has taken care not to think of W’Kabi over the years, and of the betrayal that wounded her brother so deeply. She would still be not-thinking of him, if it weren’t for the release papers that Okoye personally delivers to her — a move so deeply uncharacteristic that Shuri is at a complete loss for words. 

“Why?” she asks, finally. Why now, does Okoye petition for her traitorous husband’s release?

Okoye’s eyes are hard, her shoulders braced. She still stands like a Dora. She speaks of unrest in the Border Tribe. She thinks W’Kabi can help her resolve it, but does not give details of how.

It confuses Shuri — the last time W’Kabi led the Border Tribe, he caused unrest. She offers her aid as the Black Panther.

“Princess—” Okoye, more than others, has a hard time letting go of her former title. “Respectfully, this is a tribal matter. Don’t concern yourself with it.”

“Do you trust him to help you?” 

“I do,” she replies. “And if he is inclined to be traitorous again, he knows I will kill him.”

Shuri signs the forms. Then she tries not to think about W’Kabi again, for if she does, it stirs up memories of when he loved her brother best.

Aneka is away on missions. Riri is back in school and laying low for a time. M’Baku also sees her as she is, but he too is something new. As the first Jabari king, he works hard to balance the needs of five tribes instead of one, and rebuilding a capital city after an unprecedented attack. It wears on him, as Shuri’s new Black Panther training wears on her. They often sit together late into the night, too exhausted to speak.

~

Shuri’s days are so busy she can barely breathe, but sleep does not come easy to her. 

At night, when she collapses in bed, she sings her birth song under her breath. The song blends with the sounds of the river and lulls her to sleep.

She dreams constantly of water now. At the Wakandan riverbank, of the ocean steps from Nakia’s home, at the edge of the Golden City, and even once the Hudson. Sparkling blue, muddy brown, slate gray.

It makes sense that her mind constructs these water scenes. She follows the song, and the song is her mother’s, and her mother was raised by the River Tribe whose blood flows in her veins.

But where there is water in her dreams, there is Namor, waiting for her.

Tonight, it’s an ocean scene — Shuri isn’t sure which shoreline. When she approaches, he steps back, sinks further into the surf. She’s left teetering on the shore, aching to follow him where the song is sweetest.

He looks at her, as if thoughtful. He holds out his hand. 

She lunges, catches his arm and digs in her nails so that he can’t leave her behind. His mother’s bracelet gleams like sunlight under water on her wrist. Triumph blooms in her chest, as beautifully as the flower.

What happens after, she doesn’t see. 

She wakes suddenly, like she would from a nightmare.

In the blurred, hazy moments after waking, she wonders if this is what a vision looks like. Maybe she was wrong after all, and he does want revenge. Maybe he seeks to drown her, and these dreams are a warning from her subconscious.

But she would fight back. Oh yes, that’s what she wants to do in the dream, that’s where her anger went, what else would cause this deep pulsing of blood in her ears, her fingertips and belly. She wants to lash out with her claws, slice through gold and jewelry and vibranium and his garments until he is bare and vulnerable beneath her, and, and—

And.

No.

When she wakes fully, her chest feels hollow as a cavern, the song warbling like a dying thing. She hears water from her window, and longs to jump in, clothes and all.

She locks her window that night, and the nights after. 

~

Two months pass. Shuri does not stop moving. Her work yields results. The capital is cleared of floodwater.

One night, M’Baku takes a deep swig of tea, and sets the cup down with a decisive click on the sturdy table between them.

“Right,” M’Baku exhales, and turns to her. “It’s time to meet again with this fish man. Let the water be a sanctuary again for our people, not an enemy.”

Shuri takes a sip from her own cup. She can hear the river tracing its course; the song lingers around the edge of her mind.

“I will call for him.”

~

It’s time.

Three days later, Shuri stands at the Wakandan river bank, adorned in traditional garb. Her dress and her facial ornaments have been redesigned to center the necklace of teeth wrapped around her throat. M’Baku and his retinue of Dora Milaje are three steps behind. 

The water laps at her feet like a friendly cat. She brings the conch shell to her lips.

Within minutes, the river ripples, and Namor rises out of the water. He’s flanked by Namora and Attuma, all of them adorned in finery: jade and vibranium and feathers. Shuri is transfixed by the resplendent plumage, the jeweled eyes of the serpent headdress. 

She’d forgotten how his necklaces and arm bands gleam wet when they catch the light. The last time she looked at him head on, they were in battle. She had to narrow her eyes against the glint of precious metals, shield her eyes from the glare so that she could block his fist and catch him in her claws. 

Despite how he looms in her dreams, he no longer inspires fear. Now that he’s here to forge the alliance she demanded, she feels alert, wakeful. Her heart beats a quick tattoo in her chest.

She knows the name of the feeling, but won’t name it. 

“Aj K’uk’ulkan,” she greets him, putting the shell down and taking a step forward to meet him, her hands cupped in his greeting.  “Welcome to Wakanda.”  

“Black Panther,” he returns. “The Feathered Serpent is honored by your hospitality.”

He mirrors her gesture and the ritual of it loosens the knot in her stomach. 

“Take me to your king,” he says, his eyes never leaving hers. “Let us talk.”

~

They treat in a small property of her family’s, not far from the spot in the bush where he first approached her and her mother. It is a small house, where her parents used to take their royal children to swim and play among the marshy grasses in relative privacy. 

Lines of vibranium underneath the perimeter of the property will form a protective shield, should a threat ever be detected. Shuri cannot remember them ever being activated. 

M’Baku accepted the house especially because of these precautions; rebuilding is done, but people are still wary; it would be unwise to meet in the palace, and Jabariland is too far away.

The two kings and their trusted advisors sit alone in a broad, sunlit room that opens out to the riverfront. Scribes stand by to take notes. The Dora Milaje watch the perimeter; Attuma and Okoye stand guard at opposite ends of the room. Attuma grins; Okoye’s expression is carefully flat.

M’Baku convened with the council the week before, to make a list of their requests, winnowing down to the most salient points. If all goes well, Namor will meet them next time. Even if the thought of seeing Namor back in the throne room in any capacity — peace or not — makes Shuri’s stomach churn.

If he’s there as an ally, it will be a good thing, she reminds herself. It means that Wakanda is safe.

Surprisingly, Namor and M’Baku do not clash; she wondered if they would. M’Baku has a clear head for diplomacy, and he’s surprisingly adept at hiding his true thoughts when he does not wish to be provocative. Namor is still painfully, alarmingly direct in his demands, but he is not insulting, and so while their dialogue grows fierce, it never feels dangerous; they have each other’s measure. Namora spends the whole negotiation glaring imperiously at them all through her rebreather. Shuri also observes more than she speaks, though she offers her insights as needed.

They speak to seek reconciliation moving forward, to draw up measures to avoid retribution. Namor looks askance at her when M’Baku makes this proposal; she stares coolly back. 

She thinks of Nakia, that Toussaint will not have to worry about his mother being taken from him under the sea.

Namor is still looking at her.

“Aj K’uk’ulkan?” M’Baku prompts. “Are these terms acceptable to you?”

He inclines his head to M’Baku.

“They are acceptable to me.”

Shuri exhales and the negotiations continue.

They talk, they break for meals, they talk some more. As the day closes, the scribes have a pile of notes that will become a remarkably coherent treaty. They will work through the night and morning tomorrow to present the agreement to the two kings. 

Shuri can feel herself breathe easier, despite the corset.

“Now, Aj K’uk’lkan, before we retire for the night. The Black Panther has a request for you.”

That’s her cue.

Shuri steps forward. Namor’s head turns so sharply that she nearly falters as two sets of eyes fix upon her – his, and the jeweled serpent. She keeps her back straight, and doesn’t look away. 

“Aj K’uk’ulkan,” She wets her lips. “We spoke today of exchanging knowledge, to help our nations prosper. I find that practical demonstrations are more useful than just words. Therefore, I wish to invite you to join me as my guest at my laboratory tomorrow.”

The serpent tips its head. Under the shadow, she glimpses his surprise.

“Shuri Udaku is extending you a remarkable courtesy,” M’Baku says. “The greatest technological breakthroughs of the last few decades have come from the Wakandan Design Group, and no more so than under her supervision.”

The pride in his voice is clear; Shuri smiles, remembering how he once scorned her contributions. Even now, they spent a long time discussing how much Wakandan technology they were willing to share with Talokan, if the lines of communication should be only for emergencies. In the end, Shuri argued that more information is better than less, and M’Baku acquiesced, as long as she took precautions so that nothing sensitive would be on display.

Namor inclines his head to her, and the feathers ruffle with the movement, shimmering gently in the last of the sunlight. She wonders what he thinks of the bone ornaments around her neck and jaw.

“You honor me, Black Panther.”

She sees Namora frown, and murmur something to Namor, too quiet to hear. Namor responds with a hand pressed to her cheek; she sits back, still displeased.

“Very well.” M’Baku brings his hands together like a very small thunderclap. “In the meantime, the generals and I will speak on other matters. Or spar, as warriors do.”

Attuma cocks his head in interest; Namora looks like she deeply wishes to roll her eyes.

“It would be a great privilege, King of Wakanda,” says Attuma eagerly, puffing up. M’Baku looks as thrilled as a child; Okoye looks like she’s turned to marble.

“Princess, are you sure you don’t need me to provide an escort?” Okoye asks stiffly, her grip on her spear so tight that Shuri is surprised it doesn’t snap.

“I’ll have the Dora Milaje with me,” Shuri assures her. “The king personally requested your presence here.”

“Yes, Okoye. Who else would we trust to intervene if a fight goes out of hand?” asks M’Baku, grinning broadly, showing all his teeth. Attuma mirrors him. Okoye sighs, deeply. Namora nods to her, in surprising sympathy.

A flicker of movement catches at the corner of Shuri’s eye, and she sees Namor smiling, for the first time since he stepped out of the water. He notices her attention, and it takes all of her will not to look away.

Their guests go to the river for the night. Shuri lies in the childhood bedroom she once shared with T’Challa and sleeps soundlessly.

~

She flies with Namor to Mount Bashenga early the next morning. 

He meets her alone on the river bank at dawn, a patterned cloak wrapped around his shoulders. It’s early, the sky’s pale gold just lightening to blue as they fly over the mountains and forests. Most of the ride is spent in silence; Shuri slept well enough, but she’s still yawning. 

Eventually, he speaks.

“Your warrior,” he says. “The one we left behind.”

“Okoye,” says Shuri, her eyes on the horizon as she guides her plane to the lab. Namor sits besides her, and it’s making her more nervous than she thought she would be. 

“Right. My general fought her twice. He holds her skills in high regard.”

“She is one of the finest warriors in the world,” says Shuri honestly. She should say it to Okoye’s face more, just for the pleasure of watching her eyes go wide.

“Indeed. Attuma rarely has such praise for another.” There’s a short pause. “In fact, he wishes to start a courtship.”

Shuri nearly jerks the plane off course.

“ What ?”

“He makes decisions quickly, which is an advantage in the heat of battle and occasionally questionable in more personal matters. I told him to wait until I could gather more information before he tries to present bridal gifts.

Bast, he’s wingmanning, thinks Shuri, incredulous, staring straight ahead as if she can draw the Great Mound closer by sheer mental strength alone, because if she looks at Namor she is going to start laughing hysterically and she doesn’t think he’ll take it well.

“I did not know you took such a particular interest in your people’s personal lives,” she says, to stall, the words only a little strangled coming out of her throat.

“I have seen all of them grow up. It is only natural they seek my advice, though most prefer not bring these particular matters to me.” he says. From the corner of her eye, she hears a clink of vibranium against gold; he’s crossed his arms over his chest.

“No, no, I appreciate your…discretion.” Wrong word, but she is trying to be polite. “And it’s good that you asked me. Attuma would be disappointed: Okoye is married. She will brain him with her spear if he doesn't take the hint.”

Okoye would not , actually, but there’s no reason to hedge.

“I see,” says Namor. Then he winces and sighs, pressing his fingers to his temple. 

“Everything all right?” Shuri  asks, frowning. She still doesn’t know how long he can stay out of the water in non-battle conditions; she’s made some adjustments to the temperature control in the laboratory for his visit but they still have air time to go.

“I am well. I am simply not looking forward to bringing this information to Attuma.” He sounds rueful , of all things. “My general will be respectful, of course, but he is occasionally dramatic.”

“He’s going to mope?” Shuri translates.

“Yes. Namora will not be pleased.” Another sigh.

“And she will tell you,” surmises Shuri, a little fascinated at how human he sounds; she would have thought that he considered himself above such matters. It makes him feel a little more familiar.

“She will. Namora’s greatest strengths are her honesty and persistence.” A pause. “I will not hear the end of it until Attuma recovers.”

Shuri bites her lip, to keep from grinning.

“At least he doesn’t write bad love poetry.”

There is a small but telling pause. She sneaks a glance at him and her mouth drops open at his unsmiling face.

“No — not really?”

“Don’t let his ferocity in battle mislead you – he is well-learned and his phrasing is quite elegant. He is less elegant about ending his recitations at the appropriate length.”

Shuri gives up, and laughs freely.

She can tell he’s smiling, even without looking at him.

~

Namor should look ridiculous in her lab. All of that jewelry and mostly naked, leaving watery footsteps across the floor.

He probably doesn’t even appreciate how much trouble she went through for his visit — anything that needs temperature control or special care has been carefully sealed off, and the unusual humidity that sticks Shuri’s dress to the skin of her back, not to mention all the sensitive projects sealed off in secret rooms and under the sand.

But he doesn’t look ridiculous. In fact, he seems completely at ease, and she is the one who feels self-conscious, because he immediately veers off course to study the graffiti she’s splashed across the walls.

“Is this yours?” he asks, leaning close to study the black and white patterns, the bold, staring faces.

“Some of them,” she admits, fiddling with her bracelet, and stopping. But Namor’s attention is still on the walls. He steps back, craning his neck for a better view.

“Remarkable,” he says. “What was your inspiration?"

She squirms, thinking of the murals that covered his hut and the great pains he’d taken to explain the stories behind them. She’s as proud of her artwork as she is of her gadgetry, but it’s harder for her to explain.

“Just things I find interesting,” she offers, flimsily. “Shapes and forms I see in my mind’s eye. Other artists from the city. They help clear my mind.”

He nods, accepting her explanation without laughing at it, and turns to look out, stepping toward the wall of windows, and into the chasm veined with violet strands of vibranium. She follows close behind, her cheeks hot.

“So this is the place where the Black Panther spends her time and where Wakanda builds her future.”

“It is,” she says, leaning back against the main worktable. Her shoulders relax, and she raps her knuckles against the chrome surface. “And I hope it stays that way. If I can spend time here, it means that Wakanda does not need the Black Panther to act.”

Shuri watches him prowl around prototypes she built in her teens, fascinated. She spent longer than she cares to admit, choosing which gadgets to be displayed, not only designs that she was proud of, that wouldn’t be foolish to show to an enemy, but also anything he might find simply interesting.

Pieces that also, she hopes, emphasizes what a great ally that Wakanda could be, rather than a threat. 

He pauses in front of one of the sealed display cases: one of the earliest prototypes she made of T’Challa’s suit. He studies it, his head cocked to one side like a bird’s; Shuri holds her breath.

“How did the Black Panther return?” he asks. She can’t read his expression from this angle. “Until you appeared to me in our battle, I thought the mantle was buried with your brother.”

She steps up next to him, to gaze at the design she once laughed at as old-fashioned and is now one of the dearest pieces she keeps in her lab.

She studies Namor’s profile, and remembers the story he told her all those months ago, tracing a history of a hidden civilization painted by his own hand on the wall.

A gesture of understanding. This is no different.

“The Black Panther gets their power from a heart-shaped herb. In our folklore, it was first shown to my ancestor, Bashenga, by Bast herself. It no longer grows in Wakanda. An insurgent burned the whole grove, so that there would be no more panthers but him. Nothing remained — no leaves or roots or flowers.” Shuri swallows hard; it is still so difficult to say. “I could not recreate it in time to save my brother when he got sick.”

Namor waits, compassion clear in his eyes. 

Shuri closes her eyes, takes a slow breath. Thinks of T’Challa standing behind them, listening quietly, like he always did when he asked after her research. 

“After I came back from Talokan, I remembered what you told me about your mother’s bracelet,” she touches her wrist. “About the flower that saved your people. I took a fiber to see if the properties might resemble the herb’s powers. And it did.” 

She casts diagrams and photos across the walls’ interfaces as she speaks, showing the clean, tidy progression from plant to new herb. It looks so simple after the fact — not like the slapdash, frantic efforts of three young women desperate for any advantage against the powerful foe.

The powerful foe who now stands in her laboratory as an honored guest, soon to be bound by treaty to protect and be protected within Wakanda.

“And you succeeded in bringing the Black Panther back to life,” says Namor. He shakes his head slowly. Chuckles to himself. “Incredible. To think that something so sacred was held intact for hundreds of years in my mother’s jewelry. And you didn’t even have to destroy it to find its secrets.”

He glances again at where the bracelet wraps around her wrist; she fights the impulse to fiddle with it.

“I didn’t want to destroy something so beautiful, with so much history behind it,” she says, reaching over to untie it. “If you want me to return it—“

Namor holds up a hand, shaking his head. “It was a gift, sincerely meant as a token of goodwill. Please keep it – Chaac willing, it will continue to be a symbol of unity between our people.”

“Of course. I do not wear it lightly.”

“I appreciate your care.” His voice is low and admiring. A shiver curls up her spine. “You would be a dangerous enemy. It pleases me that we are not.”

“As it pleases me,” she replies, taking refuge in the formality of these words— the ritual of it all. Her mother and brother were the ones who truly had a gift for it, but she’s learning quickly. Learning from Namor, too, when he isn’t threatening death upon Wakanda. “I wondered if you would be angry.”

“What for?”

“That I used your gift against you.” It feels bold to say, but not dangerous.

“Ah.” A smile turns up the corner of his mouth. “Well, that is the way these stories go. Gifts fashioned into weapons and used against the giver. But cycles must go on, and new gods must be born somehow.”

“The Black Panther was not born,” Shuri objects. “It is a mantle that has been passed down for generations.”

“Yes, but this herb is something new. By your own admission. So, what are you?”

“I am Wakanda’s protector.”

“As I am Talokan’s,” says Namor, eying her, a slight smile tipping up the corner of his mouth. “And look what I am — I look at you and see something similar.”

She doesn’t know what to make of how he looks at her, and no clever quip springs forth for her to parry him.

“Perhaps.” She clears her throat. “But we can debate this point another time. I have a question for you, too.”

“Of course.” Delight flickers across his face. He clasps his hands behind his back, and turns toward her, attentive.

Right. Shuri clears her throat, and coughs — it’s gone a little dry.

“What can you tell me about the Talokanil’s siren song?”

He frowns. 

Shuri feels a little silly, to call sonic hypnosis by such an imprecise, fanciful name. 

But out of all of the mysteries of Talokan, this one holds a strange fascination. The Talokanil must have inspired the depictions of sirens as mermaids, not birds — the enchanting voices from the sea. Of the women (always women) luring sailors to their death with their beauty and their voices. 

Shuri enjoyed the stories as a child, if only because they satisfied some primitive, childish part of her that still thought that men were just a little bit dumb.

The idea is a lot less funny now.

“What do you wish to know?” he asks.

“Anything.”

He scratches his ear. “It’s a harmonization intended for guerilla strikes. Powerful, but all you would need to do is block out the frequencies to proceed as yourself. Even something as simple as covering your ears would be effective. If you need it, I can request any data you require from my scientists – they might provide greater insights.”

She stands straight, and takes a step towards him. 

“Do you need any special equipment to make it work?”

“Instruments can amplify the scale of hypnosis, but we only need our voices to create the effect.”

“Could you create the effect outside of water?” she speaks quickly, so her voice doesn’t quaver. She steps closer.

“It would not be as strong, but I could.” His eyebrows crease down. “What are you asking me, Panther?” 

“Could you sing to me, so that I could feel the effects myself?”

During rebuilding, she interviewed survivors — they told her of a complete blankness in their minds, like a slate wiped clean. No real desire for anything other than to be submerged in the water. A level heart rate even as they walked to their deaths.

Shuri has listened to recordings over and over again. The haunting, beautiful song sounds nothing like the song that sings her to sleep but startles her awake with strange dreams.

And yet, both compel the listeners toward the water.

Namor’s frown deepens, then his face smooths out to something more inscrutable.

“Why do you ask this of me?” He asks, his voice low, even though the entire lab is empty. Even though the whole damn mountain is empty, except for Ayo and her most trusted Dora. 

She holds her chin high. “I’m a scientist, and the recorded audio doesn’t induce hypnosis on its own. I would like to experience the effects in a controlled setting.”

Namor crosses his arms. His rings wink in the white light. 

“Panther, you are asking me to use a weapon on you. Our nations have barely begun our alliance. I am in your care on your territory. There is a great potential for a misunderstanding, and you have me at a great disadvantage.”

He doesn’t sound angry, or threatened; only matter of fact.

“Griot,” says Shuri.

“Yes, Shuri?” says Griot, and Namor turns his head sharply at the voice. “Do not be alarmed, K’uk’ulkan. I am an AI — my purpose is to assist Shuri Udaku and protect personnel in any way.”

“I see,” says Namor, his eyes narrowed.

“Griot,” says Shuri. “Could you make a recording so that I, Shuri of the Golden Tribe, made a formal request of Aj K’uk’ulkan to run a controlled experiment for the sake of future coordination in combat. No harm should come to either of us, if we participate with our full consent within the Wakanda Design Group’s standard protocols.”

“Noted, Shuri. Aj K’uk’ulkan, do you consent to the terms of this experiment?”

“I acknowledge them, but I hold back my consent,” says Namor. He looks at her. “Why, really, do you want this from me?”

“In case there’s an accident or I run into someone else who uses technology with the same effect.”

He scoffs. “There is no one else who could do this.”

“That you know of,” points out Shuri. “What if one of your people betrayed you?”

“That would not happen in Talokan,” he says darkly, going very still. Shuri shivers, but stands her ground. 

“It almost happened to Wakanda — it could happen anywhere. I would like to understand what kind of countermeasures I would need for myself and my physiology. But to do that, I need data.”

She keeps moving closer to him; he stands his ground, letting her slip into his space. His eyes search her face, like he doesn’t quite believe her reasons.

“So you wish to see if you could break the hypnosis?”

“If I had to.”

“You won’t,” he says, confident.

Cocky, thinks a snide voice in her head. Anticipation curls in her gut.

“I’d still like to try,” she says. “Like you said, who knows what new powers I have as the Black Panther? And I’m sturdy; you wouldn’t harm me.”

Curiosity flickers in those dark eyes, and Namor shifts back, but his shoulders curving in, as if his whole body is drawn toward her against his will.

“You trust me to do this.”

He says it like a fact but Shuri considers it as a question. Shuri trusts that he won’t hurt her. She wants to understand the pull of a compelling song.

“I believe we want the same things,” she deflects. “And this is only an experiment.”

Finally, a little shamefully — she’s curious to hear how he sounds when he sings. She liked how his voice washed over her when he told her the story of his mother, and the birth of Talokan. For a while, it drowned out the white noise in her head, the strange static of grief. 

She’d like to have that feeling back.

Namor is still looking at her. His hand drums against his bicep, his rings flickering under the overhead lights. The lab is not flattering to him; it makes his skin look washed out, and paints deep shadows under his eyes.

Frustration stretches thin inside of her. It would ease if he agreed to do this one thing for her, that much she knows...

The seconds stretch by, and still he won’t drop his eyes from her silent, imperious demand.

Finally, and with great deliberation, he inclines his head toward her.

“Very well. But I don’t think you know what you’re asking,” he murmurs.

He looks up, speaks louder. “Griot, I consent to the terms of the experiment.”

Triumph unfurls within her.

“That is why this place exists,” she spread out her arms, indicating the whole expanse of her lab, and also putting some necessary space between them. “It’s a place for discovery. We’ll learn something, as long as you do not hold anything back.”

He laughs, without humor. “Do not even consider it.”

~

She orders Griot to start recording her physiological reactions and any other necessary biodata; Namor listens to her instructions with interest.

Then, it is his turn.

“Your lab is soundproofed, right?” He jerks his head toward the entrance of the lab, where Ayo and her guards are stationed.

“Correct,” says Shuri. 

“And your guards won’t interfere?”

“They have strict instructions not to interrupt us unless Griot alerts them. Do you need anything else?” she prompts. “A glass of water?”

He glares at her, but then smiles broadly,  his teeth glinting.

“If you would.”

She had been joking; she glares at him, but goes to get one away. When she offers the glass to him, he wraps his hand over hers, trapping her fingers, so that she must hold the glass too as he drinks. His skin is surprisingly warm.

She puts it away, takes a glass herself. Drinks it away from him. Turns back.

“Let’s begin,” he says. 

~

His voice is not a singer's voice, a little offkey. But soothing, with a rasp on the lower notes, like a cat’s tongue.

Distantly, she can hear Griot rattle off her vital signs, cognitive ability, and other details of how the hypnosis affects her physiology and her brain, but it all means nothing. She feels like she’s sunk into a warm bath.

She can feel herself unspooling, the tension no longer holding her so close together. All political obligations, her personal fears, sink softly beyond her subconscious. It’s all right, she doesn’t have to worry about it anymore.

She drifts. She imagines pipes. She imagines singing with him.

~

When she wakes up, his hands are warm on her shoulders and his eyes are large and his breath is warm against her cheek. Her skin prickles with goosebumps, despite the humidity.

“Heart rate accelerating,” notes Griot, and she’d die of mortification under any other circumstances. As it is, she pushes at Namor, harder than she means to, and Namor releases her.

“Are you satisfied?” he asks mildly, in a manner that makes her think of the darkness of the cave.

“Yes,” she says curtly to avoid sounding breathless. “That’s all I needed.” 

“You don’t want to try yourself?” he asks, a little slyly. “See if you could hypnotize me?”

He is teasing me, she thinks. Except there is something very intent around his eyes that makes her shy away.

She clears her throat. “Thank you for the demonstration.” 

“My pleasure, Black Panther,” he says quietly.

He doesn’t say it like a title, she thinks, the thought far away as if still under his song. He says it like it’s her name.

“Good, that’s taken care of. Now, let me show you something else, yes?”

~

The remaining hours pass quickly. Shuri shows him a set of kimoyo beads — to replace the conch’s somewhat inefficient communication. She explains the Wakandan symbols and how to twist and manipulate the beads to communicate and heal. 

In turn, he gifts her a rebreather to take apart, offers to send research to help her design better water suits, and they discuss vibranium’s unique qualities underwater. 

Just groundwork, really. Planting seeds for future collaborations.

The more she talks, the more she can shake off the strangeness of the experiment’s aftereffects. And the more Namor focuses on the technology in front of them, intent on understanding, the less she’s trying to linger on that look on his face when he held her. By the time they need to return, she is almost cheerful again.

They return to the house in mid afternoon, when the sun is brilliant and the shadows long.

There’s laughter from the shore; Attuma and M’Baku are bathing in the river, bruised but with no lasting damage. Namora floats nearby, not quite as imperious as the day before. 

Namor goes to join them, quickly enough that Shuri might think that he’s trying to get away from her, if it weren’t for how he quickly and unceremoniously dives in the water, and does not immediately reemerge.

He needs a way to move around for long periods on land, she thinks, idly.

“Black Panther!” M’Baku waves at her. “Come join us! As you can see, we are getting on quite well.”

“I will find Okoye first, and she will swear that to me!”

She goes to find Okoye instead, who confirms that the fight did not endanger the treaty, and then is entertained by its expansive retelling over a meal of fresh fruits, grilled fish,  vegetable pilau and more. 

M’Baku and Attuma are one jug of palm wine away from swearing themselves as blood brothers. Even Namora is laughing, and asking Okoye about the lychee, describing a similar crop they grow in Talokan’s gardens. 

It feels strange, but in a good way. Like grinding gears that have finally clicked into place. When she looks away, she catches Namor watching her, his chin cupped in his palm, half hiding his face. 

“Perhaps, it might not be too early to consider demonstrations like these between our kingdoms,” he says. “It might not be too early to consider an exchange of some kind.”

“That would be nice. A display of some kind could go a long way.” Shuri thinks of pitz, and how Toussaint would laugh while trying to catch the ball on his hip. “Like games, new inventions, or anything decorative – like jewelry in the marketplace.”

“Or the arts. Do you sing, Panther?”

There’s something intent in how he looks at her, waiting for her answer.

Shuri cannot sing in front of an audience, or while busy, or running around trying to balance a nation on the world stage. Shuri can sing in peace, for family, for a little boy with a brilliant smile, and no one else.

“Not really,” she says, embarrassed. “I would rather dance.”

“Of course,” he says, and then nothing more on the subject.

~

That afternoon, the scribes present the treaty. It is read and signed with little fanfare. 

They see the Talokan delegation off early the next morning, and Namora laughs when Okoye’s takeoff kicks up dust at Attuma.

Before they go, Shuri presents Namor with a customized set of kimoyo beads. She sent in a last-minute change, after their visit to the lab; instead of the ancestral bead that every Wakandan child receives when they are born, she inscribed his name in vibranium on a bead of pure jade.

She ties them around his wrist herself. They sit incongruously against his arm guard. She feels his eyes on her the whole time.

“Thank you, Panther,” he says. He fingers the jade bead, the vibranium glowing violet under his touch.

“Of course. May our nations look forward to a generous collaboration,” she replies. 

He smiles at her. “May we speak soon.”

We want the same things, she thinks. I was right. 

He really has a nice smile.

Her heart beats that quick rhythm again, the one she feared to name.

Then the Talokan delegation sinks back into the river, and it’s like they were never there.

Besides her, M’Baku lets out a deep sigh.

“That went remarkably well,” he says. 

“Okoye says you nearly got thrashed in one to one combat,” says Shuri.

“I was victorious in the end.” M’Baku rumbles, his eyes laughing. “I would have liked to fight the lionfish as well as the hammerhead, but perhaps next time. They are worthy opponents. If only the United Nations were so civilized when they summon us.”

Shuri smiles. “Our alliance will be different.”

“Thank Hanuman, and thank Bast too,” says M’Baku. “And whatever fishy god their king prays to as well. We’ll need all of them.”

And hope, too, she thinks, finally giving the feeling its name. 

The breeze is cool and comforting on her skin.

~

After Namor leaves, Shuri doesn’t hear her mother’s song in her dreams.

It should be a relief, but it troubles her. It makes her want to walk down to the Riverwalk, see if she can catch it again.

To distract herself, she reviews the footage from their siren song experiment. She watches herself match Namor step for step, following after his gleaming form. 

Timestamps show that they moved further than she thought, for longer. Namor led her on a curving path through the lab, up the stairs. She watches her body, how it ascends when she can’t feel her own control.

Objectively, it is just two people walking around a room. It is a sterile, classic, controlled experiment. Still, she finds it difficult to breathe when she sees how close Namor lets her get to him before stepping back on their predetermined route, as if in a dance. 

Once or twice, her body paused on the stairs (so she could fight the hypnosis, hah!), and Namor reached out as if to take her hand. But then her body would move again, and he would resume walking. He never touched her except at the moment that he brought his hands to her shoulders, waking her. 

The extensive cameras in the lab let her check different angles, view the same experiment from different angles, so that nothing is hidden from her analysis. Again and again, she watches how Namor opens his arms to her.

She finds an angle that gives her a clear view of Namor’s face as he sings, and replays it, entranced.

Idly, she wonders how different the experiment would be by the water. Could he have taken her hand and drawn her in, since his powers are amplified by water? Would the sound be more like a caress, less like an echo?

“Griot, start to run the tests to find the frequencies we need to design sound dampeners,” she instructs. “Then lock the footage — no one else will need access.”

“Yes, Black Panther.”

~

One night, the song returns.

Shuri, dance for joy like you did in the womb, for your fate will be here soon.

She wakes up with a dry throat.

It sounds like Namor.

The weather gets cooler. Along the Riverwalk, the breeze is lovely.

~

The song is changing. New lyrics start low, and drag against the riverbed of her spine as she sleeps.

Shuri, daughter of the river, alone on the shore…

And on it goes. It wonders at what she’s doing, where she’s going.

Shuri wishes she had one answer, and could stick with it, but it changes day by day.

Namor has not contacted her, though he sends promised data, reports, and questions from his scientists. 

She calls him exactly once, to make sure the beads work as expected.

“It is very strange to see you like this, Black Panther,” says Namor’s flickering image. There’s a bluish cast to his skin, and his hair floats.

“I could say the same to you,” she says, propping her hand on her chin, regarding him. “Are you in Talokan?”

“Yes. My farmers requested my time to inspect a new crop, so I cannot speak for long.”

He sounds clipped; distracted. She wonders if there is a problem with pests, or with rot. What sorts of troubles do underwater farmers face?

“Right,” says Shuri. “Well. I’m glad it’s working. You can hear me?” 

“Of course. Did you expect a different result?”

“Experiments fail sometimes, even if you take all necessary precautions.”

“Unfortunate, but true. Speaking of which, did you get what you need from ours?”

Her cheeks warm. “As you said, it is very straightforward to understand.”

“I see. And you haven’t tried singing it yourself, Black Panther?”

“What? No! And you said that humans couldn’t sing like that, anyways.”

“So I did,” says Namor, but there’s an inscrutable quality to his voice, a furrow in his brow. “I’m sorry, I must be going. Another time, Panther.”

He vanishes abruptly, leaving Shuri and all the rest of her questions behind. 

~

She jumps at every call that comes through her beads. It’s never him.

This, Shuri reminds herself, is a good thing. It means that no one is trying to gnaw at Talokan’s borders, that they do not need Wakanda’s protection. Every day that Talokan remains undetected is another day that Wakanda’s loyalty is not questioned.

Rather than wait around, she follows through on her promise and speaks to Touissant as often as she can. Their conversations are not very long, for childhood and playmates distract him easily, but he always picks up immediately. His laughter echoes around her room and she hugs a pillow tight and wishes he was here to jump on the bed with her.

~

Bast’s blessing gave her super strength and powerful reflexes and heightened senses, but as Okoye likes to remind her, none of those gifts are of any use if she doesn’t practice with them.

Okoye and the Dora Milaje drill her mercilessly. She dodges arrows and spears and electric daggers.

Bast , those hurt. Aneka didn’t particularly seem apologetic, either. They are relentless; some exercises stretch so long that she wonders if she’ll fuse with the Black Panther armor.

“Again,” Okoye orders, the merest twitch of the lips betraying her amusement.

She’s happier these days, even as she beats the new Black Panther into the dirt. Her tribal matter has been resolved, and W’Kabi has conducted himself well enough that he remains with the Border Tribe, rather than returning to the jail. Last Shuri heard, he’s taken over the care of the rhinoceros herd — a great labor that doesn’t leave time for treason. 

Shuri wants to ask if Okoye forgives W’Kabi now, if he is the reason she’s happy. But that is not a conversation she wants to have lightly, and her time is still filled up.

She visits Agent Ross in his safe house to discuss foreign intelligence and how to best keep western powers at bay. He is pessimistic about their chances, but he also doesn’t know the full extent of their relationship with Talokan.

She strategizes with M’Baku, and both of them marvel at how difficult it is to wrangle the council without constant infighting. 

She misses her mother, but she resists the temptation to return to the Hall of Kings. Namor wasn’t wrong; the new heart-shaped herb might have changed her, and she’ll need to understand that first before undergoing further rituals.

In her lab, she digs into the reports that Namor sends over. She starts drawing up designs for suits for sustained water. Suits for sustained travel on land.

She continues to hear her mother’s song in Namor’s voice. 

She starts walking the river at night, alone. She’s not afraid; no one would be foolish enough to attack the Black Panther. And Namor does not appear.

It’s all in her head, she thinks. 

But she doesn’t want it to stop. The song is changing. She yearns to hear it in full, to hear how it ends. What it asks of her, as the melody coils in the hollow she made in her heart.

~

Daughter of the panther, claws tipped in gold, come into the water…

She’s by the ocean again. The golden sand stretches for miles; she sees no buildings, or anything that might reveal where her mind’s construction has brought her.

The water laps at her bare feet, soaks the hem of her white dress. She’s in her mourning clothes, her earlobes heavy with ivory, her hood draped to hide her face from prying eyes.

Namor stands opposite of her in all of his finery. His arms are crossed in the Wakandan salute; his kimoyo beads gleam wet from his wrist. She would return the gesture, except she holds a conch shell in her hands. Just beyond them, a small fire flickers in the sand.

So close to the water? Shuri wonders. There is nothing else except for the two of them.

Her throat is dry. She wants to sink into the ocean. She imagines the salt water will be cool against her skin. 

“You cannot come into the water dressed like that,” says Namor, the same way he had in his hut when she wore his gifts of jade. He takes the conch shell from her hands; she doesn’t need it anymore.

He reaches toward her, his fingers catching on the ends of her cloak. With both hands, carefully, he lowers her hood so that it falls back against her shoulders. His hands caress her shoulders, then slide toward the clasp at her throat.

She lets him unfurl the cloak and toss it aside, like he’s unveiling a bride. Perhaps if she looks more carefully out into the water she’ll see the whole of the Talokanil watching. 

But no, they are alone.

He cups her face in his hands, brushes his thumbs against her cheeks. He holds her like that, and she wonders if he will kiss her.

He does not. But when he reaches up to remove her earrings, she sees that his fingers are pale with white paint.

Why is he here? Did she give in, and call him? 

His fingers creep under her beaded neckpiece; she helps him. When she takes it off, she is gratified to see her panther’s necklace underneath. 

On her wrist, she sees his mother’s bracelet.

He does not touch either of them as he undresses her further. Her garments pool at her feet, and she grasps his hand to keep her balance as she steps out of them.

Now she’s naked before him, except for his mother’s bracelet, her kimoyo beads, and the teeth at her throat. The sun is warm against her face and across her shoulders. 

“What do you wish to do with your clothes?” He asks, and nods to the pile of white.

“We burn them,” she replies. “It is either that, or burn the world.”

His smile is like a dolphin’s. Joyful, but with a threat of teeth.

“Then let us burn them.”

They burn the clothes in the fire, the delicate cloth burning up easily into nothing but ash. Shuri watches them go with almost academic curiosity — nothing like the ritual she performed in Haiti. Namor hovers beside her. His wings, she notes, are fully healed. The tips of the feathers brush her ankles, tickling her.

“Now, you are ready,” he proclaims. He cups her face in his hands again and kisses her, and his mouth tastes like ash and blood. She kisses back, eagerly.

Then, his hands around hers, he leads her into the water. He starts to sing again.

Shuri, daughter of the sea, born in the river, under the shade of a great fig tree…

His voice is not a singer’s voice, but it pulls at her, makes the horizon turn gold and slow like honey where it kisses the ocean. She joins his song, as she has wanted to for so long.

She hears wind rustling grass. It’s not a sound she recognizes by the sea.

She turns.

From the shade of her great tree, Queen Ramonda looks calmly back.

~

Shuri wakes up screaming .

Worse, she wakes up shaking, her skin tight, her insides twisted up into knots she must snap herself. Gasping, she reaches between her legs and muffle her whimpers facedown in the mattress. 

She wonders if he can hear her.

She can still hear Namor, tracing the edges of her consciousness with his voice and fingers, and the ache tightens further in her belly.

The wave crests and breaks inside her, and she sags back against the bed, exhausted.

She passes her hands over her clammy face, breathes deeply.

That was a construct of your mind. The sky wasn’t jewel bright – it wasn’t her. It wasn’t really her.

And it wasn’t him either.

What is he doing to her? He yielded to her because they wanted the same peace; she thought he would take every advantage to keep it.

Why has he not reached out to her, even to speak the terms of their alliance? What is he waiting for?

Her heart is thudding, desire still pulses between her legs, and she wants to jump in the river.

Restless, she rolls off the bed and paces the room on shaky legs. On impulse, she goes to the drawer where she placed the conch shell, convinced that with the kimoyo beads, she wouldn’t need it.

The conch shell is smooth in her hands. Its surface seems to pulse against the grooves of her fingertips. 

Still trembling, she raises it to her ear. 

Shuri, daughter of the sea, born under the shade of the great fig tree… 

Namor sings to her as if his lips brushed the curve of her ear, his hands coming around her. 

Come to the water, and I’ll help you breathe. Come to the water, and sing with me…

She sways, longing to lean into the touch, then remembers herself, and horror slides down her spine.

He is singing to her, clearer than she has ever heard him.

This is no dream.

He’s singing her mother’s song. He’s changing it into something new. Something that compels.

Her stomach clenches, in longing and rage.

The anger she thought was spent flares back to life.

She changes quickly, her Black Panther suit weaving over her body, and takes one of the lesser known passages down to the hangar, and sets the coordinates to the Yucatan.

~

On a sandy beach, she blows on the conch shell and asks him to take her to Talokan. They must meet privately, she says.

She forgoes the kimoyo beads. They were a gift in peace, and now he robs her of it.

She waits. The song continues, pressing fingers into her thrumming pulse. It’s taking too long.

“Forget it,” she mutters.

She brought the rebreather he gifted her; she puts it on, breathes, and dives.

She knows, she knows, there’s no way that she can reach Talokan without some kind of suit. But she can’t hear the song down here, and she goes down far.

She should be feeling the pressure now, she thinks idly. She should be losing oxygen, nitrogen, but her mind feels clear, still sharp with rage.

She feels the orca get close before she sees it; the displacement of water pushes her down, makes her spin head over heels. When she rights herself, she sees the great, streamlined beast floating above her, Attuma leaning over from the harness, extending a spear toward her.

“Black Panther!” he calls, and she reaches for him gratefully and he reels her in.

“I was just coming to get you. How did you get so far down?” he asks.

“I swam,” she replies. “How else?”

~

“Aj K’uk’ulkan wishes to give you time to rest, if you need it —“

“No,” she says. “Take me to him, now.”

Attuma looks a long moment at her.

“Of course, Black Panther,” he says, uneasy.

Namor is standing outside his hut when Attuma presents her. His concern is palpable. She’s forgotten the ethereal glow of the caverns, how they soften his face.

“Black Panther,” he says, and crosses his arms in front of his chest. She can see her kimoyo beads on his wrist.

Her burning rage ignites into an inferno.

Attuma hovers, clearly unwilling to leave them alone.

“Aj K’uk’ulkan,” she says, clinging to the greeting by her fingertips, even though she wants to call him Namor again. “We need to speak privately.”

Namor studies her.

“Leave us,” he orders. Attuma bows, and slowly, reluctantly, sinks back into the stump.

“What were you looking for?” he asks. “Attuma says he came across you swimming at depths that would suffocate most humans without specialized equipment. I would call it remarkable, if I wasn’t concerned. What made you so desperate to see me?”

Something in her breaks.

She throws his conch shell at his feet, shattering it and pieces skitter across the cavern floor. He does not flinch; simply kneels to picks up one of the larger pieces, and holds it up to her.

“What is the meaning of this, Black Panther?”

“To stop you from whispering poison in my ear,” she seethes. 

He is deathly still. Very slowly, he tilts his head to the left.

“Poison? I do not understand you,” his voice is mild, but balanced like a freshly sharpened knife.

“You said that the siren song could be stopped just by closing your ears. Did you lie?” She presses forward, her eyes on his lips, the flex of his throat. She can’t see any signs of subvocals. She hadn’t thought to check.

Namor stiffens. His anger swells between them.

“That is a grave accusation.” His voice is deadly in its softness. “What did I do to provoke your ire?”

She prowls closer, unsheathing her claws. 

“You said it could be stopped. You said it could be defended against. So why are you in my head? Why do you sing to me and make me feel like nothing is enough?”

Shuri throws herself at him with a jungle cat’s snarl —not the war cry she’d hoped for, but close enough. He grunts, stumbling back. His hands grapple with her, dodging her blows.

Namor throws her – she skids back, her feet slipping on the slick cavern floor. She unsheathes her back claws and they scrape for purchase.

“ Sing to you?” He says, incredulous. “I sang to you at your own request. You swore there would be no misunderstanding.”

She lunges again; he dodges, grabs her fist, and throws her. She twists and crouches low, using her claws to find her grip. 

“This is no misunderstanding, I heard you. All the way here, whispering in my ear, trying to lure me down.”

“ Lure you?” He looms over her, brimming with cold fury, and she’s reminded of the desert, when he pushed the spear through her belly. “You think my word is so weak that I would break a treaty where the ink is still wet? I thought you trusted me.”

She pushes harder, throws all of her strength behind it, and he goes flying, crashing into the wall of the cavern. He jumps back to his feet and swipes at his lip — his fingers come away stained red. His mouth presses in a firm line, and his eyes seem to glow.

She doesn’t wait; she springs and catches him around the middle; if he had his wings, he might have dodged, but instead they both crash to the ground. This close, she can see the faintest lines across his face, where she scratched him in their battle. She has her claws at his throat, her knees stretched wide so that she pins the top half of his body.

“You sing my name,” she hisses. “ Come to the water, child, and I’ll help you breathe. Sink between the waves with me? ”

She feels him freeze beneath her.

“Where did you hear this song?” he demands. His face blurs beneath her – her rage obscures everything except his flesh under her claws.

“It’s mine,” she snarls, but it comes out like a wail. “My mother sang it for me, my brother sang it for me and now I hear you , but you’re turning it into something else. Sheath your claws, forget your baobab tree, I’ll guide you down into the deep. ” Her claws sink further in, and his jaw tightens.  “I hear these words in your voice. Would you deny it? Would you deny this song?”

He stares up at her, winded and wild-eyed. He looks like she’s gouged out his chest, like he did when she cut off his wings.

“Yes,” he says quietly, his brow furrowing. “I know those words. I have sung this song. I deny neither of these things. It came to me in whispers, begging to be formed by me. I do not know where it came from.”

He is now still beneath her, unresisting, despite her claws at his throat. Shuri trembles with rage and adrenaline, left reeling.

“It’s mine, ” she cries again. Her claws bite into his throat.

Astonishingly, he begins to laugh, sharp and bitter. It reverberates through her, makes her thighs clench tight around him to keep her grip. His face swims back into focus; she is close enough to see the dark circles under his eyes. He hasn’t slept, either.

“Then between the two of us, you must be the siren, Black Panther.” He tilts his head back, his throat pressing further into her motionless palm. “This song has not given me peace for weeks. I thought I knew better than to let the cat’s tail pass in front of my eyes again, but I did not think to close my ears to you.” 

Why does he say it like that? she wonders, distracted as his knuckles drag down her side, then his hand encircles her knee.

“Is this vile accusation merely another pretense for an attack?” His hands come up, tracing over her suit. “Tell me, Black Panther, what else did you map while I was a guest in your lab? What new weapons have you brought for me?”

This could have been different, he’d said in the desert, just like this, bitter and defeated, even when he had the upper hand.

“No!” she cries. She lets her helmet dissolve, so that he can see her honesty. She must be a sight: her eyes are ashen from the sleep she’s lost, from the grief and the secrets and the haunted dreams. “I swear, by the memory of my brother, K’uk’ulkan, I did not come here under false pretenses.”

His eyes pierce through her — enraged and hurt. His emotions are so very open. She hopes her own are equally apparent, despite the salty burn she can feel at the edges of her vision.

The way the light flickers behind his eye when he makes the choice; the deliberate concession. Whatever he sees, he chooses to believe.

He slides his hands off her body, and she shudders, wishing they would come back. He makes no other move to push her off.

“Then we have each other by the throat, Panther,” he says, his frustration thick. “I will be generous and forgive your intrusion, but you want to be appeased, and I don’t know how to appease you. ”

Shuri exhales, and to her horror it sounds like a sob. “Prove it. Prove that you haven’t turned the song into something it shouldn’t be.”

“How can I prove that?” he asks, quietly. One hand circles loosely around her wrist, where she had him pinned by the throat.

“Sing it to me,” she begs. “Please.”

He looks at her a long time, his hand warm and strong and around her wrist. She loosens her grip, just a fraction. Unknown to him, she’s made modifications to the suit. If his song starts to trip into the frequency to hypnotize her, her ears will be sealed and protected against his song. Then, she’ll know if he speaks the truth.

“Very well, Panther,” he acquiesces. 

She releases his throat entirely; he exhales, and he starts to sing.

~

Shuri, daughter of the sea, born under the shade of a great fig tree…

His voice is low, and hoarse from their shouting match, but he sings her mother’s song clearly. Shuri tenses at the familiar lines, waiting for her limbs to go slack, waiting for his voice to sink her into oblivion. 

Instead, his voice washes over her, as it did at their first meeting in this place. It creeps past her nanite armor and rational mind, through her skin and bones until it reaches that sacred hollow she made inside herself when she burned her mourning clothes, to make room for something new.

When she heard it again, her mother’s song spoke to that tender newness. It longs for her. It begs her to submerge and rest in the river — not to drown, but as sanctuary. To float like a child in the water of the womb and grow without disruption. 

When Namor sings, she hears something new: a bid to not dwell in the sorrow of the world into which she was born, discover new wonders in new worlds.

Her eyes blur with tears. Her trembling grows worse. It is only a song. A dear song, but nothing more. 

And yet it has tugged free the longing inside her from the hollow; now it floods through her, until she is dizzy with feeling.

She’s so tired of longing, surrounded by others but always empty. Toussaint and Nakia fill her heart, but they are so far away, and they are a secret she must keep close to her chest. M’Baku is there, but he has lifted Wakanda over his shoulders to share her protector’s burden. Ayo and Aneka hone her body to help her get stronger. Okoye flies missions as her Midnight Angel. The Wakanda Design Group pushes the boundaries of vibranium ever forward under her guidance. She is no longer one thing but many.

So much love, but no peace. She is always moving, trying to keep up with the ground shifting under her feet. 

She has nothing that is only hers right now except her dreams. Her tears fall freely.

Something brushes gently at her face. She blinks and Namor’s face swims back into focus. His eyes are kind again, like they were when she spoke of T’Challa.

“Do you believe me?” Namor asks softly. His hand cups her cheek, his thumb tracing tear tracks, and Shuri’s mind is such a blur of sensation that even reflex doesn’t let her bat him away.

“Yes,” she chokes on a sob. “But how did you hear it? In Haiti? When you were spying on me? You must tell me now.”

“I did not,” he says, his brow is furrowed. “This song was sent to me before I met you in Haiti as a whisper in my ear.” 

She can’t look at him. Her anger is spent. Now, she is only tired, and longing, and full of more questions than answers. 

How, she wants to ask, should ask, but right now she can’t think, not after hearing her mother’s song made new, with Namor beneath her. She has miscalculated — she’s not empty, she’s given him room to get under her skin. Now he can dig into her heart and stomach through her suit, his hands pulling her ragged and taut and thin, like glass spun out as thin as thread. 

Or maybe he was already there, and time has slowed down enough for her that she has the perspective to see it, now. 

It’s so loud in her head, all the time, but now all is quiet, but for the steady pulse of blood.

It stirs her longing; it drowns out everything else, but him.

“Why did you sing it?” she asks, her heart hammering in her ears. She remembers Griot’s readings, her body’s level heart rate while under hypnosis, how her pulse only thrummed harder when he touched her. This is not hypnosis — this is something else.

He laughs again. “My reasons are not mysterious, Panther. I sang because I was alone, and I was thinking of you, and I thought it would please you.”

“Like a gift?” Her eyes dart down to his wrist, scratched but still wrapped with her beads. The jade is particularly beautiful, she thinks.

“An offering,” he corrects. His hand is still on her cheek, his thumb brushing over her lips. His eyes glitter, despite the dark light. There’s an undertow in his words — an unsaid question that tugs hard at her gut.

We want the same things, she thinks. He wants me here. 

I’m here. I want it. I want him.

There’s nothing left to do.

So, Shuri lunges forward and sinks her teeth into his neck. Namor’s muscles spasm under her teeth and hands. He groans, perhaps in pain but it sounds like something else.

She rears back and kisses him, and the molten tide within her surges up. He kisses her back, one hand slipping down to press at the nape of her neck, the other caressing her flank, tracing up her hip. She pushes him down, angles her head to press him deeper into the ground. It’s new. Exhilarating, for she doesn’t feel shame. She’s burning, with this hunger so close to being fed. 

She lets her armor dissolve; she wore a thermal bodysuit for the dive, but it’s stifling in the heat of the cave. It’s no easy task, getting out of it. She barely wiggles out of her top half of the suit, rolling it down to her waist, before Namor’s groan reverberates deliciously through her and she has to hold still, thighs trembling where they bracket him. He rocks up, and uses the momentum to roll her underneath him. 

“Are you appeased, Panther?” He asks, grasping her jaw so that she must look at him, his thumb again brushing the seam of her lips, swollen now. 

“No,” she goads. She could reach for him, but she scrabbles for a hold instead. She wants him to come down to her. “You have not done nearly enough.”

“Greedy,” he scoffs, and his teeth glint like pearl under the blue bioluminescent light. He presses another wet kiss to her neck and then slithers down her body, his teeth sinking into the soft swell of her exposed breast. His thumb parts her lips and slides a burning path down her neck, over her sternum, strokes secret words tantalizingly low on her stomach. 

“Don’t laugh at me,” she wheezes. 

“I am not laughing, Panther,” he murmurs. His hand slips even lower, his touch is lighter than she thought it would be. “You must tell me what you want.”

She squirms and pulls his hair, wanting his mouth. He goes willingly, biting her lower lip, biting them fuller and pressing her into the ground. He peels off her body suit and tosses it aside, where it crumples like a snake’s shed skin. His gaze drifts even lower, and she’s painfully conscious that nothing is hidden to him, even as heat slides low in her belly. 

She wants his skin. If he is to devour her, she wants to devour him in turn. Exchange after exchange, every time they meet. A symbol for a symbol, a death for a death, longing for lust. In this moment, it’s so close that Shuri could cry.

“All of it,” she demands. “Anything you have — anything you can give me.”

He laughs again, and his fingers slip down and fill her, her insides so soft and wet they glide in with little resistance, and Shuri chokes and rocks her hips up, silently begging him to go deeper.

“Anything, then?” He murmurs, and kisses her again. “Everything, then, that I have. For you, Shuri.”

Oh, fuck, she thinks dizzily. That might be the first time he said her name. His voice presses against her, sealing her more tightly against him.

“Say it again,” she whispers.

He continues touching her, smiling into her neck as he works her open. “All hail Shuri Udaku, of the Golden Tribe. Shuri, commander of angels. Most honored ally of Talokan. Siren of the shore.”

Between each title, another kiss, further and further down her body. His fingers tease, his thumb circles her clit with the lightest of strokes.

“Yes,” she gasps, encouraging him. “Like that.”

He takes his time, devouring her bite by bite, the agony stretching right into anticipation. She bites and claws her fingers down his back. He tastes of salt and smells of char.

He works the knot of longing inside her with his hands and tongue and even teeth until it snaps and she nearly kicks him. He laughs, and it is a joyful sound even amid the gentle trickle of the water in the caverns and the obscene sounds where their bodies meet.

It’s like being in the maelstrom – she sees and feels all that happens, but it’s all at once and unrelenting.

He’s inside her; she locks her legs tight around his waist. He exhales against her throat, murmuring something she cannot quite understand, but the vibrations against her hypersensitive skin is all she needs.

Gasping, she turns her cheek to the cool ground, and catches a glimpse inside the hut, of a mural of a man interlocked with a great cat. For a moment, she wonders if Namor wasn’t quite truthful, if he did, in fact, foresee this moment. The two of them intertwined, mirrored creatures merging into one?

When she comes, she arches up beneath him, spine curved as a bow, pressing herself into him as though they are melding into something new. 

~

As she comes down, she finds herself staring at the mural again, and realizes that it is a battle, not a love scene.

She feels, unexpectedly, a little silly.

She feels sore, and sticky, and moves away from Namor on shaky limbs. She hunches in on herself, shivering. Namor sits up, still naked, and looks at her without saying anything. Waiting, she realizes. He’s still catching his breath, too.

No, he did not foresee this, she realizes. He is something new, but he is not omniscient. He’s not a god. Neither is she.

Coming down from the post-orgasmic haze, she’s too aware of her too human body. It’s a strong body, and has served her well, but it feels heavy and clumsy now.

Involuntarily, her eyes go to her thermal suit. There is no way she can put it on without cleaning herself up first. There’s a rising panic, rippling in her stomach and into her lungs.

She turns to Namor. Opens her mouth up, and closes it. Tries again.

“Is there anywhere that I can...” No, she can’t say it. She gestures at herself, and the mess of scratches and love bites and sweat and other things she can’t bring herself to say in front of him, despite what they just did. She feels young and foolish.

Bast, what was she thinking? She is human, even with all of her proud intelligence and new strength. Still capable of mistakes.

She bites at her lip. The cool air stings the marks his teeth left, and she shivers. She glances at the pool in front of the hut, wondering  with a detached sort of curiosity what would happen if Attuma or Namora or any other Talokanil witnessed this.

“These caverns extend further back than you can see.” He says kindly, and holds out his hand to her. “There’s a spring where no one will disturb us.”

Another offering, she thinks, irrationally, even as she places her hand in his and lets him tug her to her feet. 

She lets him lead them, still naked, to a washroom and a depression of hot water. She splashes in, mindful of her hair, the heat a welcome respite. 

They don’t speak, but somehow, the basic steps of scrubbing, rinsing, and scrubbing again is enough to soothe the anxious whispers at the back of her head, the wonder at the fact of something new that is fundamentally changed about her experience. 

He doesn’t ask if she is all right, but takes a cloth in hand and helps her clean herself up. His touch lingers, but it’s soothing; she leans back into him, accepting the comfort.

Her heart rate is coming down. Shuri can look at herself and recognize that she is not mad. She is human, and despite his great age, so is he.

When they are done, he wraps a cloth expertly around his hips, and holds out another to her. She wraps it around her body, and ties it off at the nape of her neck, the thin cloth yielding easily to her knots. 

Now she is clean. She could request to be returned to the surface.

“Stay and rest a while,” Namor says, as if he can read her reluctance. The heat has soaked into her bones and made her sleepy, and the desire to run away is no longer so immediate. “I will return you to Wakanda before morning.”

Is this an offering?

But no — she is human again, and so is he. Humans sleep, and humans desire to sleep next to those they desire.

So she fits herself into the hammock. His skin feels nice, and the weight of him is comforting. His arm drapes around her waist, his hand heavy against her thigh.

In the silence, the drip of water down the cavern walls and the gentle lap of the water against the steps, the gentle rocking of the hammock, is enough to let her heartbeat slow. The maelstrom abated; the hollow cavern within her is no longer cold and hollow but vast, intermingling with the calm sea.

It lulls her.

Here is peace, she thinks, surprised. 

They lay together a while. Her eyes grow heavy.

“What is the story behind your mother’s song?” He asks, eventually. He tips up her chin, so that she must look at him and focus, not drift off to her dreams. “I have heard nothing like it before.”

“My mother was of the River Tribe.” She feels him go still beside her. “Before I went to Haiti, I saw her in the land of my ancestors, and she sang it to me. It’s an old song — the type of song that everyone sings in their own way. She would change the words to suit me. Just as you did.”

“I see,” he says. His hold on her is light, and careful. As if he thinks she will struggle to get away if he holds her any tighter.

Interesting, she thinks. Does he think she’ll recoil from him now? What was the point — she signed the treaty, as did he, without forgiveness and with a promise not to seek vengeance.

Everything else? They’ll see.

“You said the song came to you as a whisper. Where?”

“In my dreams,” he replies, shifting in the hammock and hitching her further up against his chest. “In dreams, I stood by your river, among people in crocodile skins. It whispered your name to me, and it inscribed its meaning a little further each night. And each time I saw you after, the rest of it took a firmer shape in my mind.”

For some reason, Shuri thinks of the dream that brought her. How her mother watched her and Namor burn her mourning clothes, and Namor singing her song. 

It was only a dream. But Shuri wonders.

“I still want to know how I heard you sing from so far away,” she says, to distract herself from that uneasy line of thought. 

“There are many possibilities. You were revived from a fiber of the sacred plant that transformed me in the womb into a king – that seems to be the most probable option. If I were so inclined, I would ask the gods themselves.”

“But you won’t,” she guesses. “Why not?” 

“Even gods don’t know how hearts can connect,” he says firmly. “I do not see how knowing now would change what has happened here. It is done.”

She still wants to know. But that will wait until she gets home. There are other matters she wants answered, and now they have the space for it.

“This cannot affect our alliance,” she says quietly, because it is something a good protector should say.

Namor laughs, and indulgently thumbs the inside of her knee, drawing circles that make her skin prickle again with interest. 

Stop it , she scolds herself, embarrassed.

“No. I keep my word to the people of Wakanda, as I keep my word to my children. What happens between us is our own affair.”

He makes it sound so simple, as if his will alone will make it so. Shuri wonders about other things.

“Can it be?” She presses.

He noses her temple, the jade cool against her skin. “Why not? There is no one else like us.”

“You say that, but it’s not quite true,” she insists, “They’re just up in the stars. Or New York City – you can’t throw a pebble without hitting one.”

But her argument is pedantic; they both know it. She eyes the murals surrounding them, and wonders if he will immortalize this moment between them after all.

It’s frightening. She cannot take it back. But it’s tangible now. She has him, real and under her hands. It will take time to know this part of herself, and reconcile it with who she is becoming. But she’s no longer adrift.

They want the same things. He sang a song for her. It no longer echoes in the back of her head, now that it’s passed between them.

But still. 

Something echoes in the cavern that she cannot name. Twisting in Namor’s arms, she stares up at the curving ceiling of his hut.

“What is that?” She asks.

He tips his head up, following her gaze, and closes his eyes to listen. She stares at the points of his ears and wonders if they move on their own. She has time to do that, now.

“It’s the song of the sea,” he murmurs. Namor draws her back down to him, one hand cradling the back of her head, to gently press her ear to his chest. “It holds the voices of all the living and the dead — ourselves, and everyone we have ever loved.”

Shuri is silent, straining through the sound of her own pulse to hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat. And beyond his heartbeat, the sea. And now there is her own heartbeat, lighter and faster, joining it.

“Shuri,” he says. “Do you hear them?”

They listen to the song of the sea, gentle this far underwater. This must be it, she thinks, the first form of her birth song, before it became something else. 

It sounds like a song sung to a king, a daughter, even a lover.

It sounds like her mother. Daughter of the river that flows into the sea.

I hear her, she thinks, and it’s not a thought in horror. 

“I do,” she murmurs, and closes her eyes.

Shuri sleeps.

 

Notes:

Ever have a story that starts out as just Vibes and then has the audacity to mutate into something else?

Thank you for everyone who stuck through this monster of a oneshot. I saw BPWF last year and it hit HARD. I love Shuri's story, and the Namor/Shuri dynamic potential is very much my jam in nearly every way. Also Ramonda's impact, whether emotionally or from the Ancestral Plane.

Thanks again!

04/29/2023 edited note: I've gone back and forth about using 'umama' since posting and it turns out, i was using it incorrectly! so updated the beginning of the fic to remove it.