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Chapter Text

— Wakanda —
2026

The negotiations between Talokan and Wakanda were not going well. 

Namor had expected this even when he agreed to try. Theirs was a stubborn people; it did not shame him to know that he was the most stubborn of all. Their steadfast determination and refusal to bow to the world had kept them alive and hidden for four centuries. This was their way. Many things would change in the coming years, but not this, he knew. If Wakanda could not be made to bow to their terms, then there would be no alliance. 

This seemed increasingly likely. 

“The fishman asks too much!” M’Baku shouted, voice booming through the Wakandan Council’s hall. Even by the standards of the Wakandans, he was tall and large and loud, at least compared to the Talokanil. Attuma and Namora’s eyes kept following him when he spoke, their fingers tightening around the vibranium spears they held. They did not like him, but none of them liked the people of the land. They could complain when they were alone. Until then, they represented their King, and their King’s word was law. He said they would give Wakanda a chance to convince him, and now they were. That did not mean he was easily convinced. 

“Peace, M’Baku,” Queen Ramonda said, raising a hand to her advisor as though he were a misbehaving child. And, like a child, M’Baku backed down immediately. “Do not insult our guests.”

Namor did not see how this entire situation was not insulting — his people had come on land for the negotiations. He was sat before the Wakandan Council on their territory, with no thought made for the discomfort of his attendants. He had come to offer an alliance after they found the vibranium-detecting machine in the water and made short work of the crew manning it. And still, they expected him to back down at the slightest pressure. Perhaps they truly were kindred spirits — Wakanda was as stubborn as Talokan. 

“Regardless of Lord M’Baku’s insult,” and now Namor raised a hand to silence the anger of his own guards, “our terms are unchanging. We will fight for Wakanda if Wakanda fights for Talokan. But none can know of this. You must hide our existence as you once did your own.”

A muttered grumble rolled through the council, culminating in one of the lords saying, “You mean we must take the blame for your actions! Already, the Americans accuse us of sinking the ship that found you. And now we must alienate the rest of the world and our allies for your safety, no matter how it harms us?”

Namor smiled. It did not reach his eyes. “You have other allies?”

There was no answer for that. 

Namor rose, Attuma and Namora at his back. The Wakandans swiftly followed, reaching for their own weapons or communication devices. He did not care. The God-King of Talokan had nothing to fear from them. “We will continue this discussion at another time, once you’ve . . . considered my offer.” He was not asking. 

Queen Ramonda was a better diplomat than her people. She rose with true elegance and dismissed her council with the wave of a hand. The other tribal leaders took their leave as she approached him. To his back, Namora and Attuma stiffened, imperceptible to all but him. He was always aware of his people. 

“You must not think us ungrateful, Namor,” Ramonda said, not seeming to understand that saying he must do something was already an insult. “But you ask much from a people not used to giving outsiders anything at all.” 

“Your son exposed Wakanda to the world,” Namor said bluntly, hating platitudes almost as much as he hated this language. “Your country put us in danger when they found our vibranium. You owe us a debt. Not the other way around.” 

Ramonda allowed a flicker or irritation to pass over her eyes. He was sure it was only a shimmer of what she felt. “Either way, we will not make an alliance that puts ourselves at a disadvantage.”

“When they come for your vibranium and your land and your people, we will be anything but a disadvantage . . . if you accept our terms.”

Four members of the Wakandan Queen’s guards, the Dora Milaje, still stood in the room. Now, they stepped forward. Ramonda met his dark gaze with one of her own. “And if we don’t?”

Namor smirked, chuckling to himself. Leaning forward, he whispered, “Then you will have a hard time fighting a war on two fronts.”

Ramonda left them to the company of two of the Dora Milaje while she returned to deliberate with the Tribal Council — another insult, though disguised now as a tour of the city. Wakanda was beautiful, he would give them that. The air was fresh even if it did not suit his companions. And the water — the water was cleaner than any he had known outside of Talokan in decades. There was none of the pain that other nations above the surface knew, no one left to fend for themselves on the streets or rot away to illness with no aid or sympathy. Even those who could not be saved were loved, and that love shone through the golden city. 

Why they chose to expose themselves to the world, he would never understand. 

It was night when they returned to the palace. His people would return to the water to rest before continuing tomorrow, but the Queen and council would have him eat with them. Namora and Attuma would not be able to eat — the masks that allowed them to breath out of water could not be taken off that long — but he would. Even if he didn’t relish it. 

They were being led back through the palace when they heard the explosion. 

Attuma and Namora raised their spears without hesitation, Namor already in the air with his wings beating at his feet. He did not have his spear, but a dagger of obsidian and whale bone tied at his waist quickly made its way to his hand. Moving in sync with his own guards, the Dora Milaje raised their spears defensively, standing with their backs to their guests. 

Then, when nothing happened, one of them sighed and muttered, “Shuri.”  

The other woman groaned, lowering her spear in deep exasperation. “By Bast, the girl means to drive me to an early grave!”

Namor did not let down his guard, nor did his generals. He demanded, “Who is this Shuri?”  

A glance passed between the human women before sliding back over him. “She is the Crown Princess of Wakanda, daughter to T’Chaka and Ramonda of the Golden Tribe. She means no harm. She is simply . . . inventive.”

Their words were meant to placate him in the face of a possible threat. And they were no longer waiting for an attack, what they said was likely true. And yet his curiosity burned brighter than before. Inventive. “I was not aware the Queen had a daughter.” Then, without hesitation, “Take me to her.”

The vibranium spear that Ayo held expanded once more, sonic waves passing through the air when she slammed the butt of the spear into the floor. Attuma and Namora returned the gesture. Namor did not move. 

“What right do you presume to have to the Princess?” Ayo demanded. 

Namor chuckled. “Is this not a diplomatic mission we’re on? Why would I not wish to meet every member of your lovely ruling family?”

They did not want to do it, he knew, but the reminder of the nature of his visit made them hesitate. They did not loosen their posture, but the spear retracted once more. “We must confer with the Queen Mother—”

“I have already spoken with the Queen.” Too much, perhaps. He smiled with the bared teeth of a shark. “Take me to meet the Princess.”

Shuri groaned beneath her breath when the doors to her lab opened, not turning around as she continued her work. “For Bast’s sake, I didn’t mean to startle anyone. I was just working on a new kind of Kimoyo bead for Okoye, it is really not so big a deal—”

“Princess Shuri.” Ayo’s voice was sharp and tight. Shuri turned around and grew still. “King Namor of Talokan stands before you as your guest.”

Shuri stood, moving slowly. “Yes, I see that.” Shuri rose, playing with her Kimoyo beads in one hand. She realized she should bow, but too much time had passed for that to be anything less than awkward. Instead, she gestured to the room, silently inviting him in. “Well? Do not stand there with your mouth open like a fish in the sand. Come in.”

She heard Ayo sigh at her and Aneka chuckle, but so what? She was a Princess, he was a King. If he wanted to speak, they would do so as equals — and Mama knew how little Shuri cared for formality. 

Shuri turned and returned to her work as though he were not there. When silence greeted her, she said, “Griot, why did you turn off the music? Bring it back.” She looked over her shoulder at the King, at his dark and confused eyes, the beautiful jade adornments in his ears and nose. And she said, “Do you want to see what I’m working on?”

The King stared at her for a moment, not knowing how to respond. Then he stepped forward and stood beside her, looking down at her hands. “What is this?”

“Shuri,” Aneka began in concern.

“Kimoyo beads,” Shuri explained to him, ignoring her guard. “My own invention. Everyone in Wakanda wears them.”

“What do they do?”

“Many things.” She tapped at her own set to show him. Mama could never again say that she did not make an effort when it came to diplomacy — only that she was not good at it. “Communicate with people, translate languages. Monitor life signs, stabilize injuries. Now I am trying to make a new one for the Dora in battle, but it is . . .” She glanced at the now smoking and ash-covered table on the other side of the room. “Complicated.”

Namor chuckled. “I can see.”’

Shuri scoffed and, forgetting every way in which it was a suicidally bad idea, playfully shoved Namor’s chest. 

Without hesitation, the two blue-skinned Talokanil warriors pointed their spears at her, not a word of warning passing their lips. Ayo and Aneka responded in kind, standing between them and the Princess and King, all four of them ready to spill blood—

Namor clicked his tongue and Namora and Attuma hesitated, waiting for his signal. He shook his head. He had a smile like a shark's. Shuri didn't realize how long she'd been watching him until he said, "Peace, children. The Princess is merely indulging in the ways of her people." He sounded almost playful. "How kind of you to allow us to participate in your rituals."

He was bullshitting of course, but he was doing it for her benefit, and Shuri was grateful. Mama would have been furious if Shuri accidentally started a war. She could just hear M'Baku bellowing, PRINCESS, if you are going to start a war with the fishman, at least do it on purpose! Bah! So disgraceful!  

Impulsively, wanting to thank him, Shuri picked up an intact Kimoyo bracelet and held it out, fastening it around the King’s wrist. "Here. Please take this as a sign of Wakanda’s gratitude and welcome for your visit." Namor looked at her, holding his hand steady. She could not read his expression. He could have fit both of her wrists in one hand with room to spare. Shuri felt absolutely tiny next to him. "I doubt it will work so far under the waves, but it's still cute." See, Mama? I know how to be diplomatic. I didn’t even need those lessons you forced me to attend with T'Challa . . .

“It doesn’t need to work,” Namor said, surprising her. He ran his fingers over the Kimoyo beads, slow and soft. “It is a kind gift, Princess. I will not forget it.” He pulled his hand back, away from hers, and Shuri was startled to realize she was still holding onto him. Namor looked at the beads, then at her. “I enjoyed seeing your city today, Princess.” He drew out the word, lingered on it. Princess. Like it was a term of endearment. “You honor me with your hospitality. I would return the favor if you would consent to coming to Talokan—”

The Princess said “Yes!” at the exact same time as both her guards said “No!”

Shuri scoffed, saying, “Excuse me! I can go if I want!”

“You cannot,” Ayo informed the Princess. “Okoye will never allow it.”

“Okoye is the General! I am the Princess, and if I want to see an underwater city—”

“Your Queen Mother,” Ayo said with just a touch of Okoye’s sharpness, “will not allow it.”

That shut her up. Shuri sighed, rolling her eyes at them and returning to her worktable. Shooting a glance at Namor, she tried her best to say sorry without saying it. Namor’s eyes crinkled in amusement as Shuri went back to showing him the Kimoyo beads. 

Later, when Ayo and Aneka insisted on leading Namor back to the formal dinner, Shuri muttered, “I really wanted to see an underwater city.” 

Namor stepped back into Wakanda’s river that night, glad at least that the Wakandans had not bothered to invite them to stay in their palace. A poor sign for an alliance, but they would rather retreat to the water regardless. Attuma walked ahead of him and Namora was at his side. Both leapt into the river before he did, rushing through the water. They were not as fast as him, but soon they would be back in the place named the Indian Ocean by the surface-dwellers, where the vibranium-constructed currents would rush them back to Talocan. But he wanted to stay a moment. He had so rarely breathed air in his life, and here it was pristine. The stars were bright and silver against an ink-dark sky. Like the glowworms in his cave, or the bioluminescent fish that hunted along the ocean floor. In the distance, he heard the chatter of insects and a loud bellow that he had learned belonged to the country’s elephants. Beautiful. All of it.  

And still, they did not see the urgency of protecting what they had. 

Namor’s ear twitched when he heard movement coming through the bush. He turned, narrowing his eyes and rising into the air, grabbing the dagger from his belt . . . 

Shuri stumbled out of the bush and onto the sand, kicking tangled vegetation off her foot. She said something to herself in her language, only changing to the one they both understood halfway through. “. . . Bast damn me, trying to walk through this place with no light.” She pulled herself back up to her feet, grinning when she caught sight of him. “I was worried you were already gone!”

Namor floated back down to the sand, allowing himself to relax. His hand left the knife. He would not need it. Not with her. “Not yet, Princess. Were you hoping to stop me?”

“Far from it.” Shuri was wrapped in a plain black coat that drowned her body, the hood raised to hide her hair. Now, she shed the coat to the ground, and he saw that beneath it she was wearing a skin-tight black bodysuit, her lithe form on display. He took her in hungrily, eyes wandering over her body until she spoke again. “I want to come with you. I want to see your city.”

Namor smiled crookedly. “Truly? And the Queen Mother said you could do this?”

Shuri waved his concerns away, messing with one of the Kimoyo beads around her wrist. “What Mama doesn’t know cannot hurt her. Can you have me back before the morning?”

Namor nodded. “I can. But what makes you think I will?”

Shuri stopped, looking up at him. “You invited me.”

“Before I was informed that your Queen would not allow it,” Namor reminded her. “Now, tell me why I should risk our peoples’ negotiations to indulge you?”

Shuri considered him for a long moment. The light of her beads lit up her face, shining purple on rich brown. She was lovely. So lovely that Namor almost missed it when she said, “Please?”

“. . . Alright.”

Shuri grinned sharply, twisting one of her beads around and sending a cascade of vibranium nanites over her body, encasing her in a black and gold diving suit that fit close to her body. She looked at him through a clear mask. “Well? What are you waiting for?” Shuri grabbed his hand and dragged him to the river. Namor let her.

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Namor held the princess by the hands as they sank into the water.  

Shuri was a decent swimmer by human standards, but she would shame a Talokanil mother. He didn’t mind. Namor swam in front of her and guided the princess to his back until, confused, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and waited. He checked that her grip was good, that he would not lose her in the darkness of the unlit sea. Then he swam. 

Through her mask, Shuri gasped, holding onto him tighter as they cut through the water. Namor laughed, more delighted than mocking. The wings at his ankles joined with the power of his muscles to speed them through the water. They were lucky. The direction they were going allowed them to move with the river rather than against it. It was no time at all before they emerged into the ocean, the difference immediately making itself known. The taste of the water, its density, the pressure. All of it changed, even if his princess did not notice.

His eyes were stronger than hers. He could see the lights laid against the ocean floor by his people, faint and dim, but present nonetheless. He took her deeper and deeper into the water, pleased and surprised at how well her suit held up. This was another thing she’d made, then. Brilliant. He wanted to know more about these things she built, about the mind that guided such clever hands. 

When they were almost touching the sand with their feet, Namor found one of his people’s vibranium current-drivers. They had such spots in all the oceans, connecting every city and village of his kingdom together and making travel across the water swift. Four hundred years was plenty of time to build such things. Perhaps the princess would like to know more about the things he made, too. Perhaps he would even tell her. 

Namor awakened the artificial current, the water flowing faster before them. Gently, he pressed his hand to Shuri’s. She was clutching his shoulders, the gold-and-vibranium adornments he wore. Namor looked over his shoulder at her. She wasn’t scared. Just curious. He smiled. “Hold on very tight.”

Then he swam into the current, and they were swept away.

Shuri shouted something he didn’t understand, swearing at a god whose name he didn’t know. Then, as the water passed over them and drew them forward, forward, forward, faster and faster — she laughed. 

Her laughter was unlike any other he knew. Light and open and joyous. Full of wonder. The closest thing he knew to it was the worshipful laughter of his people at celebrations, feasts and festivals and weddings and births . . . but no, even that was different. There was a quietness to it, a worshipful note, always there when he was. Shuri’s laughter was open. It hid nothing, not even by accident. Neither was it the laughter of a child. Rather, that of a woman who had forgotten what joy tasted like and was surprised to find it once more on her tongue. He would like to hear it again. 

They passed through several more currents on the way to Talokan. It was only at the last one that Namor pulled them out of the driven water entirely, giving the princess a minute to adjust to the quiet stillness of the deep sea. Shuri’s laughter slowly trailed off, the princess clutching her stomach as though it hurt to be so happy. “Oh, that was amazing! A thousand times better than any plane!” She drifted backwards, floating with her eyes to the sky and her back to the sand. Namor watched her for a long time before remembering why they were there. 

Once more, he took Shuri’s hand in his. His wings beat as he swam forward, showing her the way. “Come.”

"Are we close?"

"You'll see." He wanted to surprise her. He wanted to see what she looked like when something took her by surprise. It did not take long.

One moment, they floated in the middle of the ocean, Shuri treading water as she strained to see. Then the vibranium sun lit up his city, and the princess’s eyes shone. “Oh. Oh, wow.”

Shuri could not remember the last time something had filled her with such wonder. The last time she was amazed, the last time she was surprised. But this — this surpassed all of it. This was everything. 

She ducked backwards, knocking into Namor’s shoulder as a blue whale, huge and magnificent, rose past them, swimming over the city — the city! Great walls and buildings of carved stone in shimmering shades of ochre and turquoise. Blue bioluminescent lights everywhere the eye could see, gently pulsing in time with the movement of the water. And in the distance, a great ball of shining golden light, just like— how had he— “You have a sun,” Shuri whispered in awe. 

Namor grinned with fierce pride. “Yes,” he said, and now he did not sound arrogant at all. Simply happy. “In the darkness of the deepest seas, I created a star for my people.”

Shuri turned to him in shock. “You created this?”

“I did.”

“It’s beautiful.” She looked back at the water-star. In the new, golden light, she could see great gardens where seaweed and kelp and fruits and other plants were cultivated. Children spun through the water, giggling and twirling, weightless, as they played a ball game. Whales and orcas glided through the city with people hanging from their sides. Her heart pounded in her chest, as excited as she was. “All of it, Namor, it’s — it’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Shuri stared across the underwater city, the people swimming peacefully every which way, blissfully ignorant of the world above them. Namor was looking at her when he said, “Yes. It is.” Then he held his hand out to her, and she took it. 

Namor pulling her along, they made their way to the city center, Shuri growing more and more transfixed. People swam above and below her with an ease that spoke of a lifetime in the water. They must have known she was an outsider, but no one looked at her unkindly. Not with their King at her side. And King he was, but not unlike how she was Princess in Wakanda, or how T’— her brother had been King. He swam amongst them and met each person who wanted his attention with a genuine smile, lifting his hands in a gesture like an animal with its mouth open. Floating through the city’s market, two children tread water behind a stone pillar, watching them with shy interest. Shuri leaned over to Namor, whispering, “Should I greet them?” 

“It would honor us if you did.” Without waiting for her response, Namor held his hands open towards the children, his dark eyes warm. “Come, my children,” he said, repeating himself in English for her benefit. “Come meet the Princess of Wakanda.”

Giggling and blushing furiously, the children swam out. One boy and one girl, the latter held her hands behind her back. Casting her gaze to the depths below, she muttered something in the Mayan language they spoke. Namor’s grin widened. “Itzel has a gift for you.”

Shuri looked down at the girl. Itzel. In Wakanda, she would have bent down to meet the child on her own level, but she wasn’t a good enough swimmer to try that here. Instead, the girl rose through the water until they were face-to-face and, rushing before she could lose her nerve, thrust a bundle of plants at her. Shuri took it, looking with scientific interest. They weren’t flowers — she knew of none that could grow in these conditions — but rather colorful kelp and seaweed in vibrant shades of blue, pink, and purple, tied together with fibrous string. It was so lovely, so unexpected, that she felt the weight of her tired heart lighten. Shuri pulled the bundle closer to her heart and said, “Namor, please tell Itzel that her gift is the most beautiful one I’ve ever received.”

Chuckling, Namor did as she asked. Itzel looked at her in shock for a moment. Then, beaming, she moved through the water as quick as a swordfish to press a kiss to the cheek of Shuri’s mask. She exchanged a few words in Maya with Namor before the King leaned forward to whisper something in the girl’s ear. Looking up at her, Itzel struggled to say, “Thank you, Princess.”

Shuri’s heart soared at how adorable she was. “Namor, how can I say—”

“Níib óolal, Princess,” Namor said, leaning in close next to her so the children didn’t overhear.

“Níib óolal,” Shuri repeated. Her tongue was unused to the twists of his language, but she knew how important it was to try. “Níib óolal, Itzel.”

Itzel giggled, clapping with delight. Then she swam off with her companion in tow, looking back at her and swimming faster each time they caught Shuri still watching. 

After that, more and more people came up to them, all of them curious to meet someone from the surface for the first time. Some of them gave her gifts — shark tooth pendants, woven blankets treated with waterproof wax, a flute carved of whale bone that made the most delightful sound underwater. One man gifted her with a vibranium cuff to wear in her ear that would make it point like Namor’s, and Shuri suddenly noticed how many people were wearing pieces just like it. She accepted the gift gratefully and wondered how she was supposed to explain where she got it to Mama. She supposed she didn’t have to wear it . . . but also, she was definitely going to wear it. 

Later, they sat in a room in Namor’s palace as he showed her how to put it into her ear. “Your home is beautiful,” Shuri told him. This was the first dry room she’d seen since they arrived. They’d had to pass through a small passage where the water drained before coming inside, but it was worth it to see the elaborately painted walls of Namor’s home. Bright paints told a story she didn’t recognize but wanted to learn. A jade green and blue feathered serpent wrapped its way around several different spots on the stone walls. She was looking at the closest one when she said, “I already don’t want to leave.”

Namor stilled, his hand lingering at the curve of her ear. Shuri buried a shiver. “Then don’t,” Namor said simply. “Stay.”

Shuri laughed. “Oh no. No, no, no. Mama would have your head, and that would not be good for either of our countries.”

Namor smiled crookedly. “She can try.”

“And she would.” Shuri smacked his shoulder. “I’d rather not see that fight.”

Namor shrugged, turning away from her to a window. Thick glass kept the water from bursting into the room, giving her time to take her mask off. Shuri stood and walked over to the window, looking out on the underwater city. It was so peaceful. So beautiful. She could see why he cared so much about keeping it safe. Why he was willing to wage war against Wakanda and the rest of the world for his people. She would fight with everything she had if this was what she was protecting. “How did you even find this place? Create it?” She turned, facing Namor fully. “How did it happen?”

“How?” Namor tilted his head. This time, his smile was dark. “How is never as important as why, itzia.”

Before she could ask what he meant by that, Namor walked across the room to a table laden with food, fresh fruits and raw fish. Shuri was just thinking that he was getting them something to eat when instead, he picked up a hollowed-out conch shell. Laid astride the shell was a bracelet of jade and pearls and plant fibers, old, but lovingly cared for. Namor drew his fingers over it, not looking at her as he spoke. “My mother’s people were dying when she was pregnant with me. Disease, smallpox brought over by colonizers who razed our homes and enslaved our people, killing and torturing and raping as they pleased.” Now, holding the bracelet in his hand, Namor walked over to one of the painted walls, gently drawing his fingers over a portrait of a pregnant woman. “All that remained of our people were sick. In desperation, they turned to our most sacred gods, but only one answered — Chaac, he of rain and thunder, sent a vision to our oldest and wisest shaman, the only one of our elders who still lived.” Namor’s hand moved over the paintings, drawing her gaze to a blue flower growing from a stone. “A plant unlike anything known to human eyes. Otherworldly. It grew in the water, from a great wall of the metal you name vibranium. Chaac told them to drink the elixir made from the plant, but my mother refused, fearing what would happen to me if she took it.”

Without thinking, Shuri sucked in a breath. She understood the fear he spoke of. Ramonda had only grown more protective in the days since her brother joined the ancestors. T’Chaka and T’Challa, lost in such short time, leaving Shuri her only family. Her only child. She could easily see her mother struggling to know what to do to protect her like that. 

“But the shaman would not leave any of them behind,” Namor whispered. His eyes drifted shut as he told the story. “He told my mother that her child was sick. That I would die if she did not drink from the flower.” He turned on his foot, striding back towards Shuri. Kneeling before her, he contemplated the bracelet in his hands. “The shaman gave her this bracelet, made of the same plant that would save us, as a promise that her baby would be the ruler of their new home.” He looked up at her, and his dark eyes were shining. “She drank from the flower. They all did, and their old lives ended. When death released them, they were reborn into the water. No longer could they breathe air, but instead drew oxygen from the sea. They ran to the one place their attackers would never think to follow.”

“The water,” Shuri muttered.

“Yes. Yes.” Namor looked down at the bracelet thoughtfully, mind lost in another time. “I was the only one of my people born able to draw breath from both air and sea. My ears pointed to the sky. Wings grew at my ankles. I aged slower than any other. A mutant. A god.” Namor smiled, and Shuri wasn’t sure why it looked so sad. “I grew up in the water. But when the time came for my mother to join the world of the dead, she mourned for the home she had known. I promised her that I would bury her in the homeland she had lost so many years before. And I did. It was the first time I ever left the water.”

“What happened?” Shuri whispered, immediately wanting to kick herself for the interruption. 

Namor didn’t seem to mind. He just went back to looking at his mother’s bracelet and said, “What I saw then never left me. My mother’s people — destroyed in every way that mattered. The colonizers destroyed our homes, our fields, our temples. They took my people as slaves and cut down children out of cruelty. They burned our sacred placed and decried our gods as devils. Our home was gone before I ever knew it. I knew that day that Talokan could never reunite with the kingdoms of the Earth. When we burned their settlement to the ground, one of them, a priest, said to me, ‘Tu es inhumano. Tu eres un niño sin amor.’”

Shuri’s eyes widened in pain for him. “The child without love.”

“Yes.”

Shuri turned away from him, wiping away tears. "It was evil of them to call you that,” she whispered with a thick voice. “Evil and hypocritical. They were the ones who enslaved your people, killed them, burned them. You were only there to bury your mother. You are not the one who does not know love.”

Namor gently cupped Shuri’s cheek, turning her back to him. His smile was soft, the antithesis of the man he usually presented. "It is why my enemies call me Namor, for I have no love for the surface world. It is not a lie.”

“But you love your people,” Shuri insisted, grabbing his hands as though she could force him to see what she saw. “You love Talokan. You loved your mother. Namor, you are made of love.” 

Namor flinched, shutting his eyes as though her words pained him. He knelt and said nothing. 

Shuri pressed his hands between her own. His hands were much stronger than her own, but now they were soft, folding to her will. She wanted to tell him something, give him something like he had given her a part of himself—

“My brother,” and Shuri did not know what she was doing, did not know why she was telling him this, but then it was happening and she could not stop, “died a year ago. Not so long before, we lost baba — our father. I—” Shuri furiously wiped away tears. Her voice cracked. “Bast blessed me with this mind, these gifts, but when I prayed to her to let me save my brother . . .”

“She gave you no answer.”

Shuri broke.

Burying her head in her knees, Shuri felt the sobs wracking her body from a distance, as though she were no longer a part of herself. Her body cracked beneath the weight of years of grief, years of death and blood and nothing more. She wished suddenly for her funeral veils to shield her from the world once more, but the world did not care. “Why did she let him die?” Shuri demanded of K'uk'ulkan, the Feathered-Serpent God of Talokan. “Why? Why couldn’t I save him?”

And the God-King told her, “I don’t know. I don’t have an answer.”

Shuri squeezed her eyes shut, a whimper squirming past her mouth. Namor enveloped her hands in his. “Sometimes there is no answer to why. Sometimes a thing simply is, and even the most powerful of us must live with it.” 

Namor cupped her cheeks and leaned forward, and for a moment Shuri thought he meant to kiss her — but no. He only pressed their foreheads together, holding her close in a gesture of comfort. They shared each other’s air, their breaths, until the world seemed to consist of just them in this heaven beneath the sea. 

Shuri wrapped her slim fingers around Namor’s wrist. “Thank you.”

Namor smiled softly. “If you wish to thank me, then I ask that you accept a gift.” 

Namor sat back, letting go of her. Shuri started to follow him, drawn in by him, before remembering herself. Namor did not go far. He simply picked up the bracelet from where he’d sat it down minutes earlier and came to sit beside her, holding it out, an offering. The jade shimmered in the light of glowing blue plants. Shuri shook her head. “Namor, I can’t accept that — it was your mother’s, it’s too much, it’s—”

“It’s what I want to give you,” Namor said simply. “Please.” He took Shuri’s hand and she let him tie the bracelet around her wrist. Despite her protests, she helped him, sliding it further down her arm until it fit just right. “You are the first person from the surface to ever see Talokan,” he confessed. “I ask that you take this as a promise to come back.”

Shuri looked up at him, shocked. Namor’s eyes were entirely sincere. Shuri brushed her fingers over the carved jade. Then she smiled, and it felt real. “Good luck keeping me away.”

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

Namor got her back to Wakanda within an hour of the sun’s rising. Shuri was yawning beneath the mask of her suit by then, struggling to walk back to the palace after hours in the water. She only barely remembered to disguise her face before sneaking in through one of her family’s secret pathways, there to escape in the case of an attack. But they were also convenient for sneaking out to meet with handsome fish-men beneath the sea. 

Shuri collapsed into her bed before anyone could notice her absence, sleep taking her almost instantly. She dreamt of water. She dreamt of drowning — but no, she wasn’t drowning. She was sinking lower and lower into the night-dark water, but she wasn’t scared. Nothing could hurt her here. Nothing would hurt her, and perhaps that mattered more. 

She slipped further and further away from the sun as she felt strong fingers curl around her wrist . . .

“Shuri! Why are you still asleep?”

Shuri startled awake, jacknifing up in bed as though electrocuted. “I’m awake, I’m awake, Mama, I am!”

Ramonda shook her head at her daughter, coming to sit down next to her on the princess’s bed. “Shuri, how late were you up?”

“I—” Shuri yawned, a kind of satisfied exhaustion creeping through her bones. “I don’t know, Mama, I got caught up in something. I couldn’t lose my train of thought.”

If Shuri still prayed, she would have thanked Bast a thousand times that Ramonda did not push the subject further. She was far too tired to come up with a better excuse, and didn’t know how she would explain away an utter lack of progress on any of the projects she’d been working on. The Queen Mother wrapped her strong arm around Shuri’s back, pressing her daughter close to her side. “Come and have breakfast with me,” Ramonda asked. “The Talokani will return this morning. You can sleep then, but afterwards you and I will go down to the city for a while, if you have time. The people miss their princess. It will be good for you.”

Shuri sighed. The last thing she wanted to do was go out and do nothing when there was work she’d neglected in the lab, or a sea-king to see. But she could not deny her mother. Not after the year they’d had. She nodded and felt Ramonda relax beside her. “Good.” Ramonda pressed a kiss to her forehead and stood. “Wish me luck in meeting with the fish-king.”

Shuri laughed at M’Baku’s name for Namor, trying to pretend her heart didn’t beat faster. “Don’t call him that when you see him.”

“I’m getting it out now.”

Then Ramonda was gone, leaving Shuri alone in her room. Knowing she should get dressed to eat, she flopped back on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. In the light of day, and the fresh air of Wakanda, the night before seemed unreal. Too beautiful, too dream-like. Maybe it didn’t happen at all. Maybe she never went to Namor. Maybe she ran down to the river as fast as she could and he was already gone, leaving her to dream of what could have happened. Maybe he left her on the shore like a silly child. Maybe— 

Shuri brushed her hands down her face and only then saw the jade bracelet she still wore.

Namor, known to his people as K'uk'ulkan, the Feathered-Serpent, God-King of Talokan, arrived in Wakanda ready to make an alliance. 

All of Wakanda’s elders straightened when the King walked in. He was different now, dressed more elaborately with shoulder plates of carved gold and a layered collar of vibranium and pearls at his throat. A white woven cloak in the style of his people covered his chest, embroidered with cutting geometric patterns of red and black. He carried a white conch shell striped with cream and orange. Cuffs and bracelets curled around his strong arms. His bronze skin glowed in the golden light of Wakanda. 

From the moment he walked in, he seemed more at ease than before. He sat at the seat offered to him by Ramonda without prompting, Attuma and Namora taking their customary places at his side. Ramonda nodded her assent, and everyone sat down, waiting for the Queen to speak.

“You honor us with your presence, Namor of Talokan,” Ramonda began, eyeing him sharply. He had something planned, she could tell. She just had no idea what, or even if it would be good or bad. “We thank you for joining us again.”

“Your gratitude is accepted,” Namor said, nothing of the cutting bite from before in his voice. “I thank you for inviting me.”

Stranger and stranger. The King was being downright polite. She doubted that was a good thing. 

“King Namor,” M’Kathu of the Border Tribe began, “the Queen Mother wishes to continue where we ended yesterday—”

Namor raised a hand, cutting him off. “There will be no need for that.”

Silence fell. Everyone looked at him, immediately suspicious. True to form, M’Baku spoke first. “How surprising! Now, after days of refusing to budge, the fish-man wants to back out of the terms he set—”

“The—” Namor curled his lip “—fish-man wants to present more favorable terms to Wakanda.” Namor rested his chin on his fist as he spoke. “We will stand on more even ground, as true allies. Talokan will send soldiers to defend Wakanda’s outposts as a gesture of goodwill. We will not even demand the death of the human scientists who wanted to steal our resources, so long as they are held in Wakanda. And the next time that one of these . . .” He whispered something to Namora in their language, his cousin responding before he continued. “Vibranium-detecting machines is found in one of our oceans, we will respond as before. This time, with Wakanda’s aid, we will . . . what is the phrase in this blood-soaked language? Plant the evidence that you did not do this thing.” Namor chuckled, more to himself than to them. “To me, planting a thing is an act of growth. Not destruction.” At the tension he saw in their faces, Namor shrugged. “No matter. As long as we remain hidden, we will do this for you, Queen Mother. The blame will fall on another, and you will be safe. We will do this for Wakanda . . . in exchange for just one thing. One opportunity to plant something far greater.” 

Ramonda smothered a sigh deep in her lungs. This, she expected the moment he started singing a different song. Men like the K'uk'ulkan did not give something for nothing. If he felt he was giving them everything, then he would want everything in return. Still. It was a good offer. He had not even threatened to burn Wakanda to cinders and drown the ashes once. Ramonda could not think of what he might want that she would deny such an alliance. “Very well, Namor. State your terms.” 

Namor smiled, more to himself than them. Then he stared directly at Ramonda and said, “I will have the princess’s hand in marriage. I will marry Shuri.” 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

None had ever heard such silence in Wakanda’s throne room. It was heavy. Physical. You could reach out your hand and feel it, as sure as sand or water slipping through feeble fingers. The Tribal Council stared at Namor as though he had spoken in some ancient, unknown language that made them lose their wits at his words, like a monster from a story. None of them spoke. None of them until Ramonda, staring down from the throne at the King, said, “Get. Out.”  

All at once, life returned to the room. The Dora Milaje leveled their spears at the Talokanil delegation, met in turn with Attuma and Namora’s raw vibranium, all of them ready to rip the others apart. Namor did not move, his expression only changing to be more smug. Ramonda’s hands curled into fists. Her face was hot with rage when she stood, shouting, “Get out! You are not welcome here! Leave!”

Namora bared her teeth behind her breathing mask, snarling in their language, “You dare spit in the face of the K’uk’ulkan—”

“Peace, cousin,” Namor told her in their mother tongue, as unconcerned as a fish at the bottom of the sea that didn’t realize it was storming above. “It would be bad form to kill my bride’s mother before the wedding.”

“After, then?” Attuma asked. 

Namor chuckled and shook his head. Still, his advisors did not stand down, and neither did the Dora Milaje. Ramonda’s eyes burned, furious, blood surging through her veins. “Listen to me.”

“My Queen—” one of the tribal elders started. 

“No!” Ramonda stood, not caring for Namora or Attuma’s blades as she stalked towards him. “I will not hear it! I will not hand over my daughter to you like some prized chattel, not even if you lay waste to Wakanda for it!”

“K’uk’ulkan,” Namora seethed, “please allow me to remind her of the honor it is for the princess to be chosen—”

“Or at least show that you are not one to be denied,” Attuma said, in-tune with his companion. 

Namor did not answer them. He stood, ignoring the way the Dora Milaje and the elders prepared themselves for a fight. He took a step forward, then two more, until he was standing before the Queen. They stared each other down, neither willing to break. 

Namor moved first, but not to withdraw. Rather, he knelt low to the ground, placing the shell he carried at her feet. “When Shuri has an answer, she can blow in the shell and place it in the water. I will speak with her then.”

“You will not come near my daughter!”

Namor looked at her for a long moment, assessing. His face split into a grin like a shark’s. “Tell the princess of my proposal. Tell her I patiently await her response.” 

Then he turned around. The spell broke, and he left with his generals, left them in a stunned and dark silence.

— Talokan —

“They will not consider it,” Namora said, furious, when they were far out in the water, Namor preparing one of the currents for them to swim through. “As though their princess is too good for a god—”

“Do not speak of Shuri that way,” Namor ordered. Gently, but an order nonetheless. Namora shut her mouth. “She is not only a princess now. She is your queen, and when we wed, she will be immortalized in our stories as my wife.” The God-Queen of Talokan, Lady of the Sun and Earth, Goddess of Love and Beauty. Namor smiled just to think of it. 

“And how do we know that the princ—” Attuma cut himself off when Namor’s dark gaze landed on him, correcting to say, “That the queen will accept?”

Namora clicked her tongue. “They did not even allow you to speak with her.”

“And at her own proposal, too,” Namor drawled sarcastically. “It is good then that I already know the answer will be yes.” Oh, he was annoyed, but it was a small thing in the end. He was old, old enough to know that there was no point in upsetting himself over things he knew he would get.

Attuma and Namora shared a look. The former, his friend and general who Namor had blessed on the day of his birth, asked, “How do you know?”

How did he know? How do I know? How do I know she is mine? The answer was simple and complicated all at once. 

“Because I am hers.”

— Wakanda —

The moment the Talokanil were gone, the Tribal Council erupted into arguments, everyone speaking over each other in the fight to make themselves heard.

“We will not stand for this disrespect—”

“The Jabari will hunt the fish-man down and bring you his head—”

“Let us bring the Princess here—”

“Perhaps we should consider their offer—”

“I do not need to consider anything!” Ramonda snapped furiously, shaming them into silence. “This man thinks so highly of himself, he believes that I will simply hand over my daughter — my only child — because he said so. I will not hear of it!” 

“My Queen,” Zawavari, the elder of the Mining Tribe said slowly. “Perhaps we are too hasty in our judgment.” Zawavari must have immediately regretted her words when everyone’s eyes turned on her, but it was too late to take them back now. “Arranged marriages are not so unusual. We have no other allies, yet our enemies gather in the dark. The princess is unattached and of marrying age. Even you only met the late king twice before your wedding—”

“But I did meet him,” Ramonda snapped, growing more and more furious. “I knew him, I went to T’Chaka of my own free will! Namor thinks we are weak. He wishes to extort us, and you think we should let him!”

“My Queen, be reasonable,” Bekele of the River Tribe said.

M’Baku scoffed loudly, smacking a hand on his thigh. “Reasonable! The fish-man walks into Wakanda and wants to steal the princess — does not even ask, just SAYS he is taking her — and you say we are the unreasonable ones!”

“Let us at least ask the princess before we refuse outright—”

“Why?” Ramonda demanded, standing up as she shouted at them. “So that she can sacrifice herself on the altar of alliance? So we may fill her mind with thoughts of duty and you must, until she can’t deny his demands, even in her own head? So that, after losing her brother and father, she can be torn from her country? From what remains of her family? From me?”

Zawavari raised one hand in placation, trying, “My Queen—” 

“I am not only a queen!” Ramonda’s eyes burned with rage and fear. “I am a mother! A mother with only one living child! And he — he means to steal Wakanda and my daughter in one fell swoop! He thinks we will hand Shuri over for him to— to rape and defile, so that his spawn will inherit Wakanda! I WOULD SOONER HAVE HIS HEAD!”  

Before anyone could even realize what she was doing, Ramonda reached down to the shell that Namor had left and, taking it in her hands, threw it against a wall with all her might. It shattered into a thousand pieces, dust and broken shards falling to the floor. Ramonda did not watch. She turned and stormed from the room, none but the Dora Milaje following her. 

Shuri was drawing up plans for deep-sea function in her Kimoyo beads when the door opened. 

“Mama,” she said in surprise, smiling. “Are you done already—”

She stopped when she saw the look on her mother’s face. Her hands stopped moving, falling to her sides. Shuri cast about, looking at Okoye for answers, finding none. “Mama?”

Ramonda stepped forward, staring at Shuri long and hard. She could see the exhaustion in the lines of her mother’s face, lines that had not been there two years before. Ramonda reached out, fingers trembling as she gently cupped Shuri’s face. Shuri held her Mom’s hand. “Mama, what’s wrong? What— what’s happened?” The last time she saw her mother like that — no, no, no, it couldn’t be, they had nothing more to lose. No Baba, no T’Challa, there was nothing— “Mama, please.”

Ramonda tightened her hold. Her back straightened until it was made of vibranium. And she said, “He will not have you.”

The next morning, the Talokanil started to arrive. 

Okoye alerted Ramonda and Shuri immediately, while the two remaining members of the royal family sat eating breakfast. Shuri was wondering whether her mother would notice the jade bracelet she wore when her Kimoyo beads started to glow, lighting up red with an emergency alert. The hairs on the back of her neck rose. She tapped on one of the beads, the General’s face materializing before her. Ramonda’s hand twisted into a fist. “Has he returned, Okoye?”

Shuri’s heart leapt in something other than fear, only for the General to shake her head. “No, Queen Mother, we haven’t seen him. But his people are pouring out of the river, over a dozen so far and more on the way.” For a second, the strangest look passed over Okoye’s face, one Shuri had never seen on her — uncertainty. “But my Queen, none of them have attacked.”

Shuri leaned forward, asking, “Are they armed?”

“Not that we’ve seen so far.”

Shuri had a dozen more questions on the tip of her tongue, but Ramonda got to it first. “What do they want?”

“They . . . I’ve sent some of the Dora Milaje to handle them, but no fights have broken out—”

“What do they want?”

Okoye hardened herself before answering. “They say that they want to see their queen.”

Ramonda stood, eyes dark. “I will see them gone—”

“You misunderstand. They’ve asked to see their queen . . . the princess.”

Shuri bit down on a reaction, not even knowing if it was good or bad. “I’ll—”

“No,” Ramonda said. “Absolutely not. You will stay in the citadel where they can’t get you.”

“Mama, I—”

“No, Shuri.” Ramonda was not speaking as a queen anymore. Her mother’s voice left no room for argument. Least of all from her daughter. 

So Shuri did not speak to her as her daughter. She spoke as the Princess of Wakanda. “If a fight breaks out and I could have stopped it,” Shuri said slowly, “it would shame me. If a single one of our people is hurt, and I might have prevented it only by speaking with them, I will never forgive myself. If a war breaks out, all of us will be at risk — most of all, myself.” 

Ramonda shut her eyes. 

“I only wish to see what they want,” Shuri pleaded. “The Dora Milaje and Queen’s Guard will keep me safe. And I— I will come home immediately if I see him.”

For a long moment, Ramonda said nothing, looking away from her daughter and out the window towards the river. This high in the citadel, they could see nothing. Up here, neither grief nor light could touch them. 

“Okoye,” Ramonda said slowly, “at the first sight of that man, spear him to the ground and bring my daughter back.”

From the water, people emerged. 

At first, only the tops of their heads dotted the surface, peering out onto the riverbank. They shot back into the water when people noticed them, screaming and running away. But their curiosity held. Only a few minutes more and they started to come back up. Waiting. 

They did not have to wait long. Shuri came down to the riverbank with her head high and her eyes carefully neutral, surrounded on every side by her guards. A murmur ran through the river, the same words repeated over and over until Shuri could have pronounced them perfectly. K ko'olelo', k ko'olelo', k ko'olelo'. She stopped at the riverbank, standing between the water and the city. The other Wakandans who had stood there minutes earlier now retreated into the streets, watching and waiting to see what happened. Shuri knelt by the river and flicked her fingers over the surface. Her Kimoyo beads were set to translate Xhosa to Yucatec Maya, and back again. She waited. 

A dozen pairs of dark eyes looked at her over the surface of the water. Curious, cautious, excited. The first of them, a girl who could not be more than twelve and probably not that old, swam forward until she was standing in the mud. She wobbled on unsteady legs, holding her blue hands behind her back. Shuri smiled kindly. “Is this your first time out of the water?”

The girl looked up at her with wide eyes full of surprise. She probably hadn’t expected to understand anything Shuri said. The girl nodded, smiling wide. There was a gap between her front teeth. Shuri’s heart melted. “Yes, my Queen.”

Oh, no. Mama wasn’t going to like that, but Shuri doubted she could convince Okoye not to say anything about it. Already, she could feel the general narrowing her eyes. Shuri paid her no mind. Not now. “I’m honored. How are you finding the surface so far?”

The girl scrunched her nose up, as though this were an incredibly important question and she was putting all her might into finding the answer. “Dry. It’s weird.”

Shuri laughed and shrugged. “Yeah. I guess it is if you’re not used to it. What’s your name?”

Grinning at having made her happy, the girl said, “Nicté, my Queen.”

“Nicté. What a beautiful name.” Nicté giggled, and Shuri echoed her. “Please, Nicté. Call me Shuri.”

Nicté squealed, lacing her fingers over her mouth. “Shurrrr-ri. Shuri of Talokan. How do you get your hair like that?”

And somehow, even though she meant to correct her, to say Shuri of Wakanda, not Talokan, she ended up spending the next fifteen minutes showing Nicté how to put her hair into space buns. 

After that, there was no stopping them. Children chatted easily with her and themselves as they braided each other’s hair, attempting to recreate her look. More and more people emerged from the water, all dying to catch a glimpse of her. A father plopped down in the mud a few feet away, cradling a giggling toddler in his arms. A woman around Nakia’s age, waddling rather than walking with her heavily pregnant belly, asked Shuri to bless her child. Shuri had no idea how to actually do that, but she placed a hand over the woman’s stomach and spread her fingers wide, muttering a prayer to Bast. She wondered if she should try praying to one of Talokan’s gods, but maybe it would work better this way. Maybe the kid would have better luck than T’Challa with a few extra gods on their side. 

The first time one of them tried to give her a gift, Okoye stopped them, lowering her spear in front of Shuri and saying, “Wakanda will accept no gifts from Namor.” 

Shuri sighed. “Okoye, come on—”  

“This is not from K’uk’ulkan!” the young Talokanil man snapped, insulted. “He will have far grander gifts for the queen when they are wed!” His eyes flickered to Shuri and immediately turned respectful, head bowed. “This is only a small token of Talokan’s love for its first queen.” 

He held his hands out, offering her a beautiful mother-of-pearl comb to wear in her hair, but Shuri was still stuck on what he said. First queen. Has Namor ever been married? Surely he must have been — the man was four hundred and fifty years old, for Bast’s sake! There was no way Shuri could be the first. No. That didn’t make sense. 

It didn’t!

“For Bast’s sake, Okoye,” Shuri muttered, “you’re going to start a diplomatic incident!” Not as bad as the one Namor had already started, but still. No reason to make things harder for themselves. 

At least, that’s what she told Okoye when she accepted their gifts.

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

On the third day after Namor’s proposal, someone died. 

Not, as most expected, in a fight or attack. No, not violently at all. Shuri was down at the riverside, this time with Aneka and Ayo as her main guards, when the old man swam up the river. 

It was one of the Talokanil, obviously. He had their blue skin, but hair that had once been dark was now silvery white with age. His skin was wrinkled and papery, taking only seconds to become dry when he was pulled out of the water. There were old scars on his face. White scars, not blue or brown or whatever color they were meant to be. He couldn’t walk out of the river. Not like the others. The strength left his limbs the moment he made it to Wakanda. Others carried him the rest of the way, using a makeshift cot of woven blankets and reeds to ease his burden. His children and grandchildren, equal measures of grief and acceptance in their eyes as they pulled him out of the water. 

One moment, Shuri was sitting with her guards and her guests, joking with some of the Talokani while they showed her how they spun the cotton they grew underwater. The next, there was a crowd at the water. She rose to see what was happening, a path forming for her as the Talokanil moved out of her way—

Shuri’s cry caught in her throat at the sight. The old man, breathing harsh and painful through the water mask he wore, body trembling with the effort it took to do even that much. Without thinking, Shuri went to her knees beside him, grabbing one of his hands with both her own, thinking wildly, He looks like Baba—

“AYO! ANEKA!” Shuri whipped around, searching for her guards. “GO TO THE PALACE, THE HOSPITALS! BRING DOCTORS—”

The old man coughed painfully, squeezing Shuri’s hand. His grip was weak and feeble. Shuri did not think he would last the day. She didn’t even know how he made it this far. But he reached up with his empty hand, fingers shaking as he pulled his mask away. The water spilled from his mouth. He coughed and shook his head. “No, no, my Queen . . . do not send for them.” 

Shuri looked down, feeling as weak and helpless as when her father died, as when T’Challa— “There must be something we can do,” she whispered. She turned, searching for an answer in the faces of the man’s family surrounding them. They were weeping, but none ran. They were prepared for what was happening. Shuri leaned down whispering, “Please, tell me what you need so I can help . . .”

The man breathed harshly. His gills flared beneath the armored pieces over his chest and shoulders. “Do not . . . do not. You have done it.” The man’s breathing slowed. When Shuri tried to take his pulse, it was weak beneath her fingers. “K’uk’ulkan has blessed me many times in the past days. I thought to die at his side . . . but when I heard the news . . .” The old man squeezed her hand. His pulse was growing worse and worse. Still, he smiled. “I only wanted to see K’uk’ulkan’s queen first.”

Tears spilled down her face. She tried several times to speak, to offer condolences or comfort, but could only ask, “Was I worth it?”

The man smiled, and his eyes sparkled just like Baba’s used to when she showed him one of her inventions. “Oh, yes. Yes.”

Medics from the nearest hospital arrived too late. The man smiled and held her hand and breathed no more. Shuri did not stop crying that day.

— Talokan —

“Are the preparations for my queen’s rooms underway?”

Talokan did not have a formal council like Wakanda, but on the occasion that the Feathered Serpent needed advice, there was a war room in the halls of the underwater palace for just that. Now he sat with his most skilled engineers and trusted spies, the most devout priests and knowledgeable diviners, and his most bloodthirsty generals as they prepared for the greatest event Talokan had seen in four hundred years. 

“They are,” Zyanya told him. “Ten rooms have been drained of water already, and I am personally overseeing the plans for the queen’s lab. It will be the envy of our greatest scientists and wise men when it is done!”

“As it should be,” Namor said, approving. “I have every faith in your abilities.” Zyanya glowed under his praise. Namor turned his attention to Abi, who sat eager to give her report on what their people had seen in Wakanda. He nodded and she eagerly leaned forward to give her explanation. 

“The Feathered-Serpent’s judgment is right in all things,” Abi said, sounding even more pleased by the events of the past week than him. “Our people have swiftly grown to love the Queen as one of our own. Though some had their doubts, she has proven herself to be as beautiful, kind, and wise as you professed when you announced the union to come. She speaks with every Talokani who asks to see her and accepts their gifts, no matter their station. She adores the children, treating each as her own.”

Namor smiled to himself, just a little. He already knew that Shuri was all of these things of course. The ease with which she welcomed Talokan into her heart, her empathy for him and his people, the brilliance of her mind . . . Shuri was all of the things he’d said and more. There could be no other for him. 

His smile fell when Abi continued. 

“Just this day, Apoxpalon of the southern village went to Wakanda to look upon her before he left our world, and died in the Queen’s arms,” the lady said reverently. “I saw her cry over him as though he were her own father as he set out on his journey to Xibalba.”

Namor looked up in surprise. “Apoxpalon? I thought his family would send for me when his time came.”

Abi cast her head down, whispering a quiet prayer to Chaac before explaining, “He wished to meet your beloved at least once before he left us.”

Namor shut his eyes, allowing himself a moment to grieve. He had held Apoxpalon on the day of his birth. His mother had been one of his most favored generals, and even after her long labor, she did not wait for the traditional turn of the moon’s phases before asking him to come and bless her child. Namor remembered how he wriggled and squirmed in his arms, born only hours earlier and already so energetic, so alive. 

And now he was gone. 

“I will retrieve his body tonight,” Namor muttered, already knowing that he could not be moved. “I will take a jade stone to him so that he may find his way to Xibalba. It will be done.”

“It will be done,” Abi repeated. “K’uk’ulkan, a final request?” Namor gestured for her to speak. “I wish to become our queen’s handmaid when she arrives in Talokan. It would honor me to be her shadow in all things, her last line of defense when her guards have fallen, and she who is sacrificed if the queen shall fall under my eye. If it is your will, I will do this, and I will not fail.”

Her request should not have surprised him, but it did. Abi was an excellent choice for such a role — intelligent, outspoken, strange but never unkind when it was unearned. Trained in the ways of battle and spycraft alike, religion and art, she would be able to guide Shuri when Namor was busy elsewhere. She would be a loyal friend to her, as she had been to Namor since the day he pardoned her for murdering her husband. “If that is your desire, so it will be.”

Abi nodded gratefully, bowing her head in respect. “I will serve her with my life.” 

Nodding, Namor was ready to end their meeting then and start his swim to Wakanda . . . 

But there was one who had still not had his say. 

“K’uk’ulkan,” Abund began loftily, “please reconsider your decision. Abi is not a servant, to be given to some outsider—”

“I am not to be given, father,” Abi seethed. “She is our queen. It is an honor to serve her, as it is an honor to serve the Feathered-Serpent.”

“Our queen,” Abund muttered. “Our queen, and yet Wakanda still refuses to even acknowledge your proposal, never mind your union.”

“The gods are wise,” the diviner Eztli said, attempting to diffuse the situation as Namor’s hand curled into a fist. “They test the strength of this most holy union with magnificent obstacles. When Aj K’uk’ulkan overcomes them, it will prove his dedication to the Queen, and hers to him.”

“The gods are spiteful, is what they are,” Abund snapped. “Nearly five-hundred years, the Feathered-Serpent rules alone, and when he takes a bride, she is an outsider?” He scoffed. Abi squirmed uncomfortably in her seat at her father’s behavior. “We wish only to honor their princess — an honor that no other, in Talokan or above has ever known in over four hundred years! To make her EQUAL to the Feathered-Serpent, God-King of Talokan!” Abund pounded his fist on the table. “And they refuse us! Such disrespect is not worthy of the honor—”

Namor’s hand found his dagger, fingers so swift that Abund was still speaking when he pointed it at his throat. The old warchief stopped, the blood leaving his face as the room was silenced. Abi let out a soft breath, gripping her jade shark-tooth pendant for comfort. 

“You disrespect your queen,” Namor whispered. His voice dripped with icy venom. It struck the blood and turned the spine to glass. None could bear the weight of his rage, but bear it they must. I will make them bear it. “You disrespect my queen. And her family.” It did not matter how many times Ramonda refused him. It did not matter how long she kept them apart. Shuri would be his, and then her family would also be his. Her disapproval was a temporary obstacle, but to disrespect his queen? That was treason. 

Abund sucked in a sharp breath of pain when Namor gouged each of his cheeks with the knife, leaving two long, mirrored lines of blood on his face. Namor’s eyes did not waver once. “Abund?” His lord said nothing. “If you ever disrespect my wife, I will know. I will know, whether you say it aloud or think it in your head.” He reached out, wiping the watery blood from the general’s face. Namor looked at his fingers, then looked up. “And if you do, I shall tear your head from your neck with my bare hands, and present it to my bride as a wedding gift.” Namor did not need to ask if he was understood. He knew that he was understood perfectly clearly. His will would be obeyed, or he would enact a most godly form of vengeance. “Abi?”

Shuri’s new handmaid rushed to say, “Yes, K’uk’ulkan?”

“You will see to it that everything is in place for Shuri’s arrival to Talokan while I retrieve Apoxpalon’s body for burial.”

“Of course, K’uk’ulkan.”

Namor nodded and, finally, lowered his spear. Rising from his chair, he said, “And Abi?”

“Yes?”

“You will report to me any speech of treason. No matter the source.”

“Yes, K’uk’ulkan.”

— Wakanda —

Shuri was locked in her room when Namor returned to Wakanda. She didn’t even know what was happening until she got up to sneak down to the kitchens to sneak some leftover qumbe only to find that she couldn’t even get past the door. 

“Griot! Unlock my door!”

“Sorry princess, but I can’t — Queen Ramonda’s overrides are in place. I’m not allowed to open it for you.”

“You—” Shuri stopped, thinking quickly. Mama hadn’t locked her in her room since she was nine and blew up half off the Dora Milaje’s training grounds trying to improve on the flamethrowers. Even then, she relented halfway through the night so Shuri could get a snack. But Shuri hadn’t blown anything important up in weeks . . . 

Mama’s not trying to keep me in, she thought distantly, the pieces fitting into place. She’s trying to keep someone out. 

For a moment, Shuri just stood in the middle of her room, frozen in place. Then she flew into action, running across her room to the giant glass doors that separated her from her balcony. Shuri was suddenly, absurdly grateful for tradition. Particularly the tradition that meant her balcony had never been fully upgraded, and all she had to do was unlatch and open the doors, run out, and—

There. Standing a hundred or so feet away from the citadel was a gathering of Talokanil. From this distance, Shuri could see that their eyes had a luminescent quality to them, shining in the dark like a cat’s. An adaptation to help them see in the darkness of the deep sea, and she would have been so much more interested in that if she wasn’t looking for him —

He was there.

Namor was there, standing before the citadel, before her mother, and arguing his godly head off. He must have come for Apoxpalon. One of the old man’s children had told her his name while his family wrapped and covered him in burial shrouds. The woman had added, almost casually, that K’uk’ulkan would come to Wakanda to collect his body. 

Which, of course he would. That was the kind of leader he was. No matter what Mama said, he cared for all his people. So of course he came. Of course. It didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t here for her. 

But maybe . . .

Shuri stepped further out on the balcony, leaning over the polished railing. Ramonda and Namor seemed to have come to some kind of agreement. Namor stood with his arms crossed in the shadow of the palace, speaking quietly with one of his warriors. Maybe Attuma. He seemed irritated now. Shuri wondered what he would say if she was down there. She wanted to be sure, wanted to know what he was thinking, but it was so hard. Shuri knew the twists and turns of neurons, the process through which matter became energy and back again, how to construct machines that could save and destroy life in equal measure. Matters of the human heart were foreign to her. Nevermind the heart of a god. 

Oh, she liked people. And most people liked her just fine. But she’d been pulled from her age-grade when she was ten, and had only stayed that long because Baba and Mama insisted it was important for her socialization, whatever that meant. (It was possible they had a point. Shuri just preferred to think they didn’t. That way it wasn’t her fault for begging on her hands and knees to move up in class.) She’d graduated university at fourteen, had her own lab at fifteen, was in charge at sixteen, and by the time she was an adult all of those social milestones had passed her by without waving. And she didn’t mind. Shuri didn’t think she minded. She had her family, and the Dora Milaje, and Nakia. She had T’Challa. It had been enough. 

Then T’Challa died, and Namor looked at her, and now it wasn’t enough anymore. 

So maybe the fact that the first man to ever try courting her did so by walking into her country and demanding her hand in marriage was bold. Maybe she liked bold. Maybe she liked the way he walked into a room and made her forget her grief and her pain and her loneliness. Maybe she liked the star he’d crafted at the bottom of the sea, the star that cast glorious golden light where once there was only darkness. Maybe she liked him. 

Okoye says that sometimes men desire a thing one moment when their blood flows south, only to discard it when their senses return. Perhaps he had only wanted her in a fit of passion. Perhaps, now that they had been apart several days and Mama was relentless in her refusals, he no longer thought she was worth the effort. He was a god to his people and could doubtless have anyone he wanted. It wasn’t impossible.

Look up, Shuri thought, staring down into the dark as she gripped the railing. If he looks up, he still desires me. There. That made sense. That was evidence. She could handle evidence. Quantifiable, measurable, stripped to the core evidence—

Namor looked up. 

Shuri’s heart leapt into her throat. She leaned forward eagerly, a grin slipping over her face before she could stop it. She could tell the moment he saw her from the way his dark eyes glowed under the stars and the harsh lines of his mouth softened, gently tilting up at the corner. When he looked like this, he was a different person. When he looked like this, she wanted to say yes.

Shuri waved at him, and only later remembered that she was still wearing his mother’s bracelet.

Namor watched her for as long as he could before someone, someone from Wakanda, snapped at him. Another minute, and Namor and his entourage left, Namor carrying the shrouded body of the Talokani. Shuri watched him go. She watched and watched and watched until he was gone. It was a long time after that before she was able to think clearly. When she did, there was only one thought in her head.

I need to see him again. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

The next morning, Shuri went down by the river and ate dragon fruit and mangoes with the Talokani and whispered to the first person she could, “I need a way to speak with the king.”

The woman, perhaps five or so years older than Shuri herself, looked up in surprise. She started to open her mouth, a thousand questions on her tongue — then her gaze fell on the Dora Milaje stationed nearby, and she stopped herself. The woman nodded and whispered, “Of course, my Queen.” She folded her hands in her lap, an absurdly pleased smile tugging at her mouth at being asked to help. “Anything.”

She slipped away when Shuri distracted her guards with a question, dipping into the river so neatly and easily that she did not let loose a single ripple. Shuri’d almost forgotten about it when she reappeared an hour later, carrying a woven basket covered with a blanket. “Gifts for the princess,” she said, graciously setting them before Shuri on the shore. Shuri was about to dive in when Okoye lowered her spear between the princess and the basket, the guards taking it to look through. Shuri watched, wondering if she would have to sneak into the barracks and steal it back . . .

And grew still when something ridged and hard was pressed into her hand. 

“When you are ready,” the woman said, quiet but pleasant, as though they were having a perfectly normal conversation, “blow into the shell and place it in a body of water. Anything that connects to the ocean. He will come.”

Okoye and Aneka were still inspecting the fine clothes and coral jewelry piled in the basket. Without looking at her, Shuri slipped the shell into her pocket, trying not to smile. “Thank you—” She realized, abruptly, that she had never asked the woman’s name. Mama would be ashamed if Shuri wasn’t already shaming her in a worse way. “I’m sorry, you’re—”

“Abi, my Queen.” Abi smiled, sharp and conspiratorial, as though they were in on a secret together — and now they were. “Happy to serve.”

Shuri knew that days didn’t change in length. An hour was always an hour long. A long day was as long as any other when considered rationally. But human perception of time changed, stretching out when you wanted time to go by, and gone too soon when you wanted to enjoy it. And today? Was a long fucking day. 

By noon Shuri was called home, her mother growing more and more worried about her. No matter how much Shuri argued for it, she knew that Ramonda hated her being by the riverside. And so the rest of the day was spent in the citadel. She locked herself in her lab and tried to care about making adjustments to the Dora Milaje’s spears, or the Queen’s Guard’s armor, or even one of the dozens of projects under Wakanda’s outreach programs. None of them held her attention. She kept going back to her Kimoyo beads, to her underwater suit, to plans better-encrypted than Bast’s own secrets so her mother never knew of them. A part of her liked to think that if she just told her mother how she felt . . . that she felt anything at all other than fear and disgust at the thought of Namor’s dark eyes looking up at her through that night . . . 

But Ramonda had already lost one child. And be it to death or love, she would not lose the other without a fight. 

Excusing herself from dinner early would be suspicious. She sat in her chair and struggled not to squirm as she finished a bowl of lamb stew and two of rice pilaf before she felt like it was late enough to be tired. Shuri, yawning, stood and stretched her arms. “I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.”

Ramonda looked up in concern. That seemed to be the only way her mother ever looked at her now. “Shuri, are you alright? I’ve seen you stay up later than the moon!”

“That’s why I’m so tired, Mother!”

Despite herself, Ramonda chuckled. Sitting back in her chair, she held her hands out to Shuri, gesturing for her to come over. Reluctantly, Shuri did. In private, Ramonda didn’t feel the need to wear one of her elaborate headdresses. Her hair, cut short since T’Challa’s death, brushed against Shuri’s cheek when Ramonda pulled her into a hug. She sighed softly, holding her daughter’s bony body in her strong arms. Her voice was weak when she said, “I can’t lose you, Shuri. Not you. We have lost too much already.”

Guilt spread through Shuri’s veins, icy and black and sludge-like. “You won’t lose me, Mama,” she whispered. Then, wanting to try, she said, “Even if the fish-king had me, I would still come home—”

“He won’t have you,” Ramonda snapped, looking up at her. Her hands tightened around Shuri’s arms, not enough to hurt, but enough to be felt. “Shuri, I promise you I will not let that happen.”

Shuri winced, knowing entirely well what she planned to do. Knowing equally well that she would not stop now. "Mama, it's alright, it . . . it would be alright."

The dining room, once full of light and laughter and joy, now lay shrouded in death and memory. Two untouched plates. Chairs that no one sat in anymore. A painful clinging to that which was no more. Shuri didn't think Namor would force her to stay under the seas and never visit home. But she didn't know if she'd ever want to come back to this.

Shuri bit her lip, trying not to cry in front of her mother. There. That is the truth, and now it's real. She did not want to come back to a Wakanda where her grief choked her. She could not forever be a shadow of those lost, not even for Ramonda. She wanted to live. Needed to live, to live and love and allow the thrill of discovery to sweep her away again. 

"No, Shuri," Ramonda whispered. "No it wouldn't be."

Mama, I am sorry, I'm so sorry. Shuri wrapped her arms around Ramonda’s shoulders and squeezed tight to hide the tears in her eyes. I'm sorry I won't stop. But I won't. 

Bast save her. There was no stopping now.

Shuri met him on the riverbank. 

For a while, she wasn’t certain he would come. The night seemed to grow darker as she waited. The stars winked mockingly. The water was still. Until it wasn’t. 

Shuri bit her lip against the instinctive smile. Namor rose through the water rather than walk, his wings propelling him upwards, their beat like that of a hummingbird. For a moment, he looked darkly suspicious . . . but then he saw her, and he did not fight his grin. “Shuri.”  

Shuri shivered and oh, she liked how he said her name. Drawing it out. Tasting it. Savoring it. Like it was an indulgence. 

“I wasn’t expecting you to summon me tonight,” Namor admitted. “I apologize for taking too long to come to you. I was on land, hunting and attempting to commune with my mother regarding our union, but she never answers me.”

A shadow passed over his eyes. Shuri tried to imagine him praying, if he would be buried like the Black Panther rituals, or if he kneeled before altars and sacrifices like any other man. It was hard to imagine. He was so unlike any other man. The thought was almost funny, but it was a little too sad to quite make the cut. Of course he wants to speak with his mother. What would she not give to ask Baba and T'Challa for advice? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. “Maybe the dead think gods don’t need answers.” 

Namor chuckled darkly. “That would explain much.” He closed the distance between them, wrapping one hand around hers, dwarfing her palm, her delicate fingers. "But let's not linger on such things. It has been too long since we've spoken. I don't want to lose our time to buried pain." He turned her hand over palm-up and drew the tips of his fingers over her pulse. Like he wanted to kiss her there but didn't know if he was allowed. "You summoned me. Does that mean you have an answer to my proposal?” 

"I—" Shuri looked around at a twitch of movement in the bush. An animal, no doubt, but it made her nervous. "Can we go somewhere private? Just to talk,” she insisted belatedly, and didn't know if she was trying to convince him or herself.

Namor grinned, a little too smug to be innocent. "As my Queen commands."

"Don't call me that!"

Namor laughed, and Shuri couldn’t help but laugh too, just a little. It was funny, wasn't it? Here she was, twenty-three and finally sneaking out of the house to meet with the boy her mother disapproved of. Eccept that the boy was a five hundred (four hundred and fifty-five technically, but it wasn’t like she did the math or anything) year-old king of an underwater empire fully intent on making her his queen. After speaking to her once. Come on, it was a little funny. He had to be insane. 

As opposed to how sane and rational it would be to say yes after speaking to him twice, Shuri thought. In which case, maybe he was right. Maybe they were perfect for each other. 

Bast, we haven't even started talking yet. Sometimes Shuri wished she could make her mind shut up. And I haven’t decided if I'll say yes! Because truly, that was the problem— oh, shut up!

Saving her from herself, Namor led her into the water as Shuri's vibranium-nanite suit formed around her body, dark but lined with purple light. Namor lifted her up on his back before she could ask, guiding her hands to the center of his chest where the gold and vibranium that rested there was cold beneath her touch. She seemed to weigh nothing at all to him. Namor cut through the river faster than should have been possible, the water curving to meet him, bowing to the sea god's whim. Her suit was skin-tight, and she could feel his broad, strong muscles beneath her legs and arms. Her shiver didn’t come from the cold. 

They went through the same current system as before. Speeding through the ink-black water, Shuri could do little more than hold onto him, her anchor in the middle of the sea. The water passed over them. The light was bright and blue and sudden. 

They emerged slowly into a cavern. Shuri blinked as her eyes struggled to adjust the light, strange and natural at the same time. The cavern, carved into underwater stone, stood dozens of feet tall, as tall as a Wakandan hospital. Bumpy stalactites lined the ceiling, dripping glow worm larvae that shone blue. Shuri stared in awe. “It's beautiful here.”

“I'm glad you think so.” Namor rose out of the water and onto the rocky ground. He held a hand out, helping her to her feet. “If you say yes, this is where our wedding will be. Since we fled the land, my people have always held our ceremonies and celebrations in the water . . .” He smiled, not unkindly. “But as I can breathe air, and you must, I've decided they can wear their water masks this once.”

“. . . thanks?”

Namor seemed to accept this as an answer. Dripping water, he started to walk off, not waiting for her to follow. Shuri watched his back, tempted to stay put just to spite him. But that would be missing the whole point, and she was too curious for that. Namor led them further into the caves, never checking to see if she was following him, until they came to a hut deep inside the twisting pathways. Namor stood to the side, bowing at the waist and spreading his arm out to welcome her. “Please, princess.” 

Shuri stepped forward, curious, peering inside. It was different from the buildings in Talokan, built of wood and clay alongside stone. Smaller and more intimate, the room she entered had a hammock like the ones she saw in the oceanic city, as well as a table laden with fresh fruit. Woven mats and rugs lined the floor. She stared across to the inner walls. Tall murals coated each wall, a mirror of the ones in the underwater palace, the paints ancient and fading out of the sun’s sight. But one caught her attention. 

“Is this new?” Shuri pressed her fingertips to the painting, looking down. They came away with the faintest impression of wet paint. 

“It is,” Namor said, coming over to stand behind her. “In your honor. Do you like it?”

“It’s . . .” Black, gold, blue, and green paint came together on the wall to create a portrait of their meeting. Herself, transformed into a black panther through his art. A great serpent faced her, blue and jade-green like the ocean it ruled. The panther’s claws reached out to meet him, catching the feathered-serpent on the scales. Her mouth was open, long fangs sharp. But it wasn’t violent. It didn’t feel violent. “It’s beautiful.”

Standing at her side, Namor smiled and ducked his head, looking for all the world like a schoolboy who’d impressed his crush. “Good. I would like to spend our wedding night here . . .” Shuri’s heart leapt. “But first I want to know if there will be one.” 

Shuri looked away from him, fiddling with her beads. T’Challa used to point out whenever she did that, laughing at her inability to keep her mind still, but T’Challa wasn’t here. No one was here to stop her. 

“I’ve been thinking,” she said, because she had to say something, “and now I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what I want.” 

And Namor, Namor who she half-expected to blow up at her for not immediately giving into his demands, said, “Alright.”

Shuri stared at him. ““Alright?””

“I am already decided. You are not. I knew I would have to wait for you to come to a cho—”

Shuri threw one of her beads at him. 

Namor blinked twice when it bounced off his nose, staring at her with confusion unbefitting a god. “Ow.”

“How can you be so calm about this!” Shuri demanded, throwing her hands up. 

Namor tilted his head, giving her an odd look. “Would you prefer I yell?”

“I don’t know, maybe!” Shuri said, knowing entirely well that wasn’t what she wanted. “It would make the decision easier if I hated you!”

“You don’t hate me?” Namor questioned, sounding far too pleased by that.

“Of course not!” Shuri snapped thoughtlessly. “I wouldn’t be here if I did!” She only realized how that sounded when Namor grinned. “Oh, shut up.” She turned on her heel, her back to him. She couldn’t think straight when she was looking at him. She couldn’t think straight like this either really, but she liked to imagine that now her thoughts were zigzagging rather than looping. There were a thousand questions she could have asked, but over and over, she kept coming back to just one that mattered. “Why? You’re—” She scoffed, gesturing at him. “You’re handsome, powerful, the god-king of Talokan. You could have anyone, anyone in the world, anyone of your people! Why do you want to marry me?”

Namor eyed her. “You should think more highly of yourself, princess.”

“You should answer my question, Namor.”

Namor chuckled. “Of course.” He stood closer to her. Close enough to touch, but never reaching out. “Perhaps you’re right. There are certainly those in Talokan who are stronger, better warriors, more deadly. Some are as beautiful as you, though you will forgive my bias in saying that none are more lovely than you.”

“Flatterer,” Shuri said, rolling her eyes.

Namor’s gaze sharpened. “Flattery is a lie, itzia. I do not lie. If I say that you are the most beautiful to me, then that is the truth as known by the gods.”

Shuri swallowed and thought, dazedly, Who knew intensity could look so good on a man?

She was still staring at him when Namor began to speak again, his voice demanding her full attention. “Others are smart, but none will convince me that they are smarter than you.”

Well. Shuri wouldn’t argue with that one. 

Namor, noticing her lack of response to that one and smiling to himself, went on, saying, “Even so. None compares to you. To the way you look at me. The way you speak to me.”

“. . . you’re going to have to explain that one.”

“It . . .” His harsh brow furrowed. “It is a difficult thing to explain.” Namor reached out then, and Shuri sucked in a breath — but he only trailed a finger over the jade bracelet she wore. The one he gave her. “I love all of my people,” Namor told her, deathly serious. “The loss of any one of them, by age or battle, is a deep wound. And any one of them would die for me a thousand times.”

He said it as a fact, and Shuri knew that it was. The Talokanil loved Namor endlessly, loved him the same way that Wakanda loved her family. Maybe more. Half the reason Mama hadn’t declared war over Namor’s demands was the Tribal Council’s fear that the retaliation would destroy Wakanda and the rest of the world with it. He could declare war, and they would rise out of the water to fight and die with him. He could declare peace in the middle of a battle and they would throw their weapons down without question. He could even name a human girl from the surface on the other side of the world their new queen, and they would cross the sea for the chance to look at her. 

Namor looked upon the murals he’d painted over centuries. The Feathered-Serpent God. Do gods get lonely with only us for company? “They love me. They love me as subjects love their king, and mortals their gods. And others — like your mother, your council — they fear me. They speak with respect, and breathe only when I’ve left the room. Or they are like the humans who come on their ships to defile our home and steal our resources.” Namor curled his lip. “Cowering in the face of something they don’t want to understand.” 

“It sounds lonely,” Shuri said, not even realizing she’d spoken until it was done. “To be loved like that.”

Namor stared at her for a long moment. “Yes,” he said, his voice gone low and raspy. “Yes, it is.” Namor looked at her again, looked at her with those wide brown eyes, dark and shining, and Shuri—

Shuri was seen.  

“But you . . .” Namor’s voice was gentle. Honest. Reverent. “You spoke to me, invited me to see your lab, your mind’s child. You talked to me like you would anyone else.” The corner of his mouth tugged up in a smile. “You hit my chest.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I will never ask you to apologize to me for that. Shuri—” He reached forward and took Shuri’s hands in his. Shuri stared up at him, swaying closer. Namor’s eyes were pleading with her to understand. “You looked, and I knew that you could understand me. That you might even want to know me, to know me differently from any other.” He brushed the pad of his thumb over her palm, and Shuri squeezed his hand in gentle response. His gaze intensified. “You say I could have anyone I want — who would I want more? I’ve had men and women, lovers and paramours — enough to know the many ways to desire someone. Shuri, I am nearly half a millennia old now. Old enough to know when I want something . . . and I have wanted enough to know that this is a different kind of wanting. I am decided on you, Shuri. I will have no other.”

Shuri shivered beneath the weight of his gaze, heart thumping in her chest. She leaned up to press their foreheads together in a mimicry of the last time they spoke. This close, his breath hovered over her lips, warm and sweet. Shuri struggled to order her thoughts, wanting nothing so much as to kiss him, nothing so much as to say yes. "What if . . .” She licked her lower lip, and Namor’s eyes followed the motion in a trance. “What if I say no?” Shuri challenged. “What then? What will become of Wakanda if I refuse you?” 

Namor sighed, as though the question irritated him. Irritated, yes, but he almost seemed to expect it. “Shuri,” Namor took one of her hands and placed it over his heart. It beat steadily beneath her palm, ancient, but strong. Namor rested his hand over hers. Holding it there. “I swear upon my mother’s people that if you deny me, you will suffer no consequences. Wakanda will suffer no consequences. I tell you this so you know that my sole desire now is you. The rest is . . .” Namor’s eyes burned. “Dust.”

Shuri swallowed. Struggled to remain in control of her own thoughts. “What if— what if I'm not decided on you? What if I think I am, really, truly think it, only to live another ten years and realize I was wrong?”

Namor stared at her for a long time — long enough that Shuri thought, wildly, that he might change his mind now. Then he cupped her face and said, "Then you would cleave my heart in two, princess. But I will not keep you where you are unhappy. If you find in ten years you no longer feel as you do now, then I will let you go.” His eyes softened. He brushed his thumb over her cheek. “Oh, but they will have been the happiest ten years of this long life.” 

Shuri moved closer still. Now when she spoke, her lips brushed over his. “Ask me again. I wasn’t at my own proposal. I want to hear it now. Ask me.” 

Namor pressed closer to her, careful not to overstep . . . but by Bast, she would not have stopped him if he did. “Shuri of Wakanda,” Namor said, her name rolling honey-sweet off his tongue, “she I would name the Lady of the Sun and Earth, Goddess of Love and Beauty . . . I want you as my wife. I want to have you, and I want you to want it too. I want to wake with you, go to sleep with you, eat and swim and dance and laugh with you. I want to have children with you, and when you die in forty, sixty, a hundred years, they will remain by my side and keep your memory alive through their eyes.” Then, because it was worth saying again, “I want you. Marry me.”

Shuri, heartbeat loud in her ears, said, “Yes.” And she kissed him. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Namor breathed harshly when she pressed her mouth to his, as though in spite of everything he didn't think she would ever lay her hands upon him. But she did. 

The spell broke — or rather it shifted, changing to stretch over their taught skin and wandering hands. Shuri slid her fingers experimentally over Namor's cheeks, his hair, his ears, his shoulders, his back. His whole body was firm to the touch, nice and muscular and compact. And warm, almost painfully warm. His heat enveloped her, making her a part of it, joining them together on a thermodynamic level. And Shuri . . . Shuri let it. Wanted it. Needed it. Yielded to it. 

Shuri let out a gasp when she felt something hard and thick press into her thigh, taking her by surprise and nearly drawing her away from the moment. Nearly. 

Namor shuddered. Breaking the kiss, he took a step back from her, dragging in a harsh breath. “I should not,” he muttered. He ran the harsh line of his nose over her own and breathed her in. “You must return to Wakanda tonight. Plans need to be made—”

“Make them later,” Shuri muttered, squeezing at his shoulders, the strong muscles of his back, trying to get her hands on more and more of him. “There’s time. We have time.” 

Namor groaned when her fingernails skimmed over a spot on the small of his back. “Not enough time.”

Shuri grinned. “Three days. Come to Wakanda in three days. We’ll get married then. I’ll talk to Mama. I’ll handle it.” Which she was definitely not looking forward to, but that was a thought for when Namor didn’t have his hands on her, his strong, strong hands . . . 

As though reading her mind, Namor squeezed her waist, his fingers wrapping around to her back. “By the customs of your people, I will marry you on their soil,” Namor whispered into her cheek. “By the customs of mine, I will bring you back to this cave and wed you again. My people will feast and celebrate in honor of their new Queen for three days and nights while we stay here, in this house, to consummate our union.”

Huh. Weird. Shuri always thought people were lying when they said they could feel their hearts beat faster. “Alright,” she said. “Three days.”

Namor grinned and kissed her again. “Three days.”

She wasn’t sure if it was too much time or not enough. Could both be true? In three days she would be a wife. In three days, she had to convince her mother how much she wanted it. 

One of those things sounded a lot more enjoyable than the other. 

— Wakanda —

Namor took her up the river, stopping just before they would have been standing in the mud rather than swimming. His hand lingered at her wrist, and Shuri pressed her fingers to his palm in return. “When I next see you, it will be to bind our lives and people together,” Namor told her, eyes dark with promise. “The sun cannot move fast enough.”

“The Earth revolves around the sun,” Shuri pointed out. “Not the other way around.”

And Namor, who was not used to being corrected, chuckled and kissed her fingers. “My Queen speaks, and the gods rush to obey.” He wanted more, to kiss her again, but if he did then they would never stop. He started to turn, to go, but something stopped him at the last moment. He watched her, the gentle sway of her body in the water, the lights of her suit, the lovely dark pools of her eyes. And he said, “You’re going to be perfect, itzia. A perfect queen. Leader. Wife. My—” Something tight and dark in his chest loosened. He said, “In chan watan. My everything. I can’t wait.”

Then Namor let go of her hand and turned, disappearing back in the water. Shuri watched him swim away until she couldn’t. Then she finished the trip to the river shore alone, walking out onto the bank. 

Where the Dora Milaje greeted her.

Shit. 

“Shuri . . .” Ramonda’s voice broke. “How could you frighten me like this?”

Shuri stood in the center of the throne room, the Tribal Council convened around them, her mother before her in a white gown embroidered with beads of glass and baobab and bone. To a Western eye, she might have looked like a bride. Shuri knew they were mourning clothes. More than that. They were the clothes a ruler of Wakanda would wear when they declared war, mourning the deaths to come. 

"I'm sorry, Mama," Shuri said, the guilt eating her alive. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I meant to be back before sunrise—"

Ramonda cut her off, voice sharper than a knife's edge. "When you came back is not as important as what you were doing.”

"Princess," Okoye said, deathly serious as she gripped her spear, "we thought Namor kidnapped you and stole you away beneath the water. Queen Mother was preparing to declare war to get you back."

"Good thing I came back when I did then, right?" No one laughed. Shuri figured that was fair. "But Namor didn’t kidnap me. I went to talk to him of my own free will—"

"And why would you do such a thing?" Ramonda demanded. "Why would you go knowing what he meant to take from us?"

“Why?” Shuri stared at her mother. “How could I not? He asked me a very important question — it was time to answer.”

“He already had an answer.” Ramonda curled her hands along the arms of the throne. “If he comes back to Wakanda expecting any other than what I already told him, I will not hesitate to make sure he never comes back—”

“Mama, I said yes!” 

Ramonda’s voice cut off in the middle of her thought, her mouth hanging open in horror. Silence fell over the throne room. Everyone looked at Shuri in various arrays of shock — even Okoye, stoic, fierce, unmoving Okoye stared at her in guilt-ridden horror. And Ramonda . . . 

Ramonda looked as though her world was ending again. “My child, you can’t.”  

“Mama—”

“NO! I won’t allow it!” Ramonda stood and crossed the space between them in short, quick strides and cradled Shuri’s face in her hands. Her fingers shook. Her lip wobbled. “Shuri, did he hurt you? Threaten you?”

“What? No!”

“It’s alright, intombi, he can't hurt you here, I swear it—” 

“Mama!” Shuri grabbed her mother’s hands and held them to her cheeks, looking into her eyes. “I swear on Baba’s life, he did not hurt me. He was . . .” She thought of Namor’s body against hers, his devouring mouth, his strong hands, and said, “He was a perfect gentleman. We just talked.”  

Ramonda sighed in relief, her grip growing lax. When she opened her eyes again, she was just confused. “My own heart, what did he tell you to twist your mind like this? The past years have not been so bad that we need to make alliances with those who threaten and coerce us.” Ramonda’s gaze darkened. “Shuri, I would sooner go to war with the whole world on our own than sell you to him.”

“I was not sold, mother,” Shuri insisted harshly. “I summoned Namor, I spoke to him, and I made my own decision. He’s—” She sucked in a breath, knowing this was the hard part. “Namor’s coming back in three days to marry me.”

For a moment, nothing. Then the chamber exploded into noise and motion, everyone talking over each other as they fought to get a word in. 

“ABSOLUTELY NOT! Wakanda will not bend to the fish-king—” 

“This could be some kind of trick to catch us with our guard now—” 

“We must secure the river border—” 

“Someone must meet with him to discuss the terms of a proper alliance before—”

“I cannot endorse accepting this man’s threats after—”

“ALL OF YOU, SHUT UP!”  

For once, everyone listened to the princess, turning to her in shock. Shuri breathed harshly, staring at them with wide dark eyes, hardly hearing herself. Ramonda shook her head, running her hands over Shuri’s shoulders to try and calm her, but the girl wrenched herself away, stepping back. “You . . .” She looked across the throne room. “Have any of you stopped to ask me what I think of this?” 

There was no response. Shuri made a harsh sound that was not quite a laugh, but could not be called anything else. “For all that you refuse to send me away against my will, have you asked me what my will is? If I would be willing to sacrifice myself for the sake of my people — or that I might want to? That I might not even think of it as a sacrifice? Did none of you think of that?” She thought of the god-king, the gentleness in his eyes as he showed her around Talokan, his righteous anger when he told her the story of his people, the genuine hope he held in his voice when he asked her to marry him properly. His joy when she accepted. “Namor . . . Namor spoke to me as an equal. He asked me for my hand, and I accepted, as is my right.” She looked upon their stunned expressions, throat tight, wondering how she could make them understand, make them see. “I am not a child to have my choices made for me anymore! I am not the teenager I once was! I am a woman, and I have made my choice!” 

“Your choice,” Ramonda hissed. Her eyes were burning, equal parts rage and pain. “And what is that?”

Shuri stood, alone, in the center of the room with her back to the door. And, staring her mother down, she said, “My choice is him.” 

Shuri and Ramonda both waited for the other to back down. Neither did. It was a long time of just that, just quiet frustration and anger and pain, before Ramonda said, “All of you, get out. I must speak with my daughter.”

When the council left, Ramonda did not return to her throne. No. Instead, she took off her headdress, cradling it in her hands as she sat down on the stone platform. She looked very, very tired. When she spoke, it was with a voice that knew of the pain to come, and knew that she could not stop it. “Shuri, why are you doing this?”

For a moment, Shuri just stared at her mother, wondering what she was getting at. Then she let herself break. She sank to the ground. “Mother, I’m sorry. I know how my decision pains you—”

“And that’s not stopping you?” Ramonda didn’t even sound angry. It might have been easier if she did. No. She was just . . . Tired. Tired and broken. “Please, tell me . . . what have I done to deserve your wrath?”

Shuri’s heart broke. “Mama . . .”

“Please, Shuri.” Ramonda shut her eyes, a tear making its way past the barrier. “Please , just tell me and I will make it right. Whatever penance you demand, I will make it, so long as it is not this. Anything but this.”

Shuri shook her head. Going to kneel before her mother, she bent her chest low to the ground, gripping Ramonda’s hands in hers. Now, they hardly looked like mother and daughter. Now, they were as a Queen and her supplicant, both of them trying to make sense of a situation without understanding how it ever happened in the first place. “Mother, I am not doing this to hurt you. I am doing this because there is nothing else for me now.” 

“But there is,” Ramonda insisted. “There is, there is all of Wakanda waiting for you . . .” 

“Wakanda.” Shuri’s voice broke. “Mama, it’s not enough anymore. Everywhere I go, everywhere I look, I see them. I hear T’Challa’s laughter in the market and turn to find him, but he is never there. I get excited when I make a breakthrough in the lab and run to tell Baba before I remember. When I walk through the bush, I see the scars left on the earth by N’Jadaka and Thanos.” She looked up through tears. “Even you are not the same as you were.” Ramonda started to speak, but Shuri squeezed her mother’s worn hand, silencing her. “No, no, do not twist my words! I love you still. And I don’t blame you for anything that’s happened. I know it’s not your fault.” She reached up, cupping her mother’s face in a mimicry of how Ramonda had held her. “But this is not the home I knew. And staying here . . . surrounded by my own grief like this . . . I can’t do it anymore. I can’t.”  

Ramonda did not look at her. Ramonda did not look at anything. She closed her eyes to the world and wept in silence, unwilling or unable to share her grief. Shuri sat up and stretched her arms around her mother’s back, embracing her. For a moment, Ramonda did not react. She just sat there, stony and silent. 

Then she broke for the second time that day, and held her daughter close to her. They cried. 

Shuri was asleep in her mother’s arms when Okoye returned to the throne room. 

The Queen Mother sat before her throne, salty tear tracks dried down her face. Her hair, turned white by time, was exposed without her headdress. Shuri seemed small and child-like in her arms — but no, that wasn’t true. Not anymore. Maybe it hadn’t been for a long time. 

Okoye retracted her spear and latched it to the belt of her armor. Walking slowly, she knelt before the Queen and her daughter. “Queen Mother?” 

Ramonda raised her head. “Okoye . . .” She started to speak and stopped herself. “Okoye . . . why?” 

Okoye reached out a hand to her leader’s shoulder, offering whatever sparse comfort she could. It wasn’t enough, could never be enough. But it was what she could offer, and Ramonda took it gratefully. “Has the princess changed her mind?” 

Ramonda shook her head. No, Okoye hadn’t thought she would. She knew the look of a woman set in her choices when she saw it. And Shuri . . . Shuri was a woman now. An evil thought. A true one. “She will come back, my Queen. She will always return to see you.” 

“But not to stay,” Ramonda said in a voice that broke and broke. “She will never stay again. How can I do this without her, Okoye?” 

“I don’t know,” Okoye said honestly. She did not know what it was like to lose a child, nevermind two. She only knew that pain was inevitable, and for all the comfort that Bast and the ancestors could offer, it was for them to live with it. “My Queen . . . Shuri will always be your child.” Her eyes were gentle and sad. She shook her head. “But she is not a child anymore. She is a woman, with a woman's heart and a woman's desires. And you will only push her away if you deny her that.” 

Ramonda did not face her. Instead, she looked down at Shuri, the girl’s face so soft and innocent in sleep. She committed every line and pore and blemish to memory. The sharpness of her cheeks, the gentle curves of her eyes. Not knowing when she would get another chance. And she said, “We must send for Nakia so she can attend the ceremony . . .” 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

The next three days were a flurry of chaos. 

The citadel, already pristine and beautiful, was polished from top to bottom until every inch of gold and wood and stone and vibranium shone. Flowers and lanterns were strung across Birnin Zana in anticipation of the princess’s abruptly-announced nuptials. For three days, the entire capital smelled of roasting food and spice as the Wakandans prepared for the feasts to come. More and more Talokanil poured from the river, bringing with them fish and squid, clams and oysters, lobsters and crabs, seaweed and kelp, water-grown corn and beans and fruit. They filled the capital’s streets alongside Wakanda’s citizens, filling corn tamales and tortillas with the readily-offered beef and lamb of their hosts. Laughter filled the city for what felt like the first time since T’Challa left them.

What Shuri wouldn’t give to have him there. 

The entire time, Ramonda threw herself into the preparations. She slept, ate, and spoke only when necessary and mostly to give instructions. The Queen Mother paced the room as Shuri was measured for her wedding garments, speaking aloud to herself. “. . . and the K’uk’ulkan has sent his cousin Namora to finish the negotiations, but Bast save us, she might be even more stubborn—”

“Mama, I am being poked to death over here, and you are trying to make it worse with politics— OW! I know that one was on purpose!”

“It was not!” the dressmaker snapped. “You give us three days to make the grandest wedding clothes ever seen in Wakanda, but are surprised when we must move quickly! Stand still and you will not be poked as often.”

Shuri scoffed. “As often?”

“Yes. Now hold still.”

Shuri grumbled but did her best to obey, holding her arms over her head as pins were driven through the fabric of the half-finished gown, occasionally sticking her in the arm or stomach. Ramonda stopped her pacing, turning to stare at her daughter. There were dark circles under Shuri’s eyes from exhaustion, but there was excitement there too. She had hardly slept since returning to Wakanda. Excitement, she said. No matter how many times Ramonda said to leave everything to her, Shuri refused, insisting upon overseeing everything personally. Ramonda knew her daughter. She recognized a Shuri that was trying to keep her mind occupied so she didn’t have to think about what truly weighed upon her. 

Ramonda tried to smile for her. “It will be worth it when you are done, Shuri. The fish-king of Talokan will not be able to take his eyes from you.”

“Still getting that out, huh?” Shuri stretched her neck to look at herself in a polished obsidian mirror that had been Namora’s begrudging gift to her when she arrived that morning. She was starting to look like a bride. Slowly, but surely. By tradition, the vibranium-threaded silk was to be hand dyed with pigments made from crushed-up plants and stones and shells. Everything was coming together now, no matter who wanted it. Mama had blocked off the week so she would have to make no appearances outside of Wakanda — and had her people furiously scheduling meetings with every world power they could for the months to come when she would need to keep her mind busy. Shuri understood. She did the same thing in her lab all the time. 

Shit, she should talk to Namor about getting a lab . . . 

Ramonda was looking at her with that strange mix of grief and pride again. “It will be good, Shuri,” she said with the ringing pain of a promise. “Even if nothing else has been done properly, this will be.” She smiled and squeezed Shuri’s hand. “It seems that the entire world has given you a gift except for me. It’s time to fix that.”

“Mama—”

“Shush, child. Just let me do this one thing.” Ramonda disappeared from Shuri’s room for a moment, leaving her to the mercy of the dressmakers with their pins and needles before she returned. With a flick of her fingers, she dismissed the other women, leaving the two of them alone. In her hands lay a box of golden-brown wood from the Jabarilands, threaded through with natural vibranium that shone in the light. Ramonda waved her Kimoyo beads over an invisible seam and the box opened to her, its contents shimmering. Shuri stilled. 

“Umama . . .” She recognized it. Of course she did. She must have seen the photos and video from Mama and Baba’s wedding a hundred hundred times. She rewatched the footage countless times in the days after Baba’s death, as though she could will the ancestors into releasing him with memories of their joy. It didn’t work, of course. Nothing did. 

But by Bast, what a perfect gift. 

Shuri carefully reached into the box and took the diadem in hand. Delicate links of vibranium, polished until they shone, grew warm in her hands. It dripped with stones that were not stones, but rather rounded shells gently tinted purple and green and blue. An heirloom passed down from generation to generation of Ramonda’s River Tribe ancestors. 

And now, it was hers. 

Shuri sniffled. “Thank you.” There was nothing else to say. It was a perfect gift. Everything she didn’t know she needed from her mother. “Just . . . thank you.”

Ramonda’s smile was warmer than the perfect beam of sunlight. She gestured for Shuri to tilt her head down and she did, feeling the metal lower over her braided hair. The shells dangled against her forehead. The weight was just enough to notice, perfectly balanced. It settled and rested there. Shuri looked up at her mother. Ramonda smiled through watery eyes.

"There," said the Queen Mother. "Now you are ready."

After three days exactly, the Feathered-Serpent returned to Wakanda. 

He came with Attuma and Namora at his side, rising from the water like solidified vapor, like heat in the desert. Namor carried no spear this time. Though his brow was set, there was an ease to the way he moved. He was relaxed. Pleased. Happy. 

Ramonda met him at the river with the Dora Milaje. Talokanil and Wakandans alike filled the riverbank, straining to see the bridegroom. The Queen Mother, resplendent in sunlit yellow-and-gold, paid them no mind. She met Namor’s sturdy gaze with one of her own, the two monarchs taking each other’s measure. He stopped walking a spare few feet away, dripping water. Neither spoke. 

Of all people, Attuma broke the silence. “Jaguar Queen,” the Talokani crowed, a set of Kimoyo beads around Ramonda’s wrist handling the translation, “we have come for a wedding! Is that what greets us today?”

Okoye’s hand was twitching for her spear. She knew because hers was too. “It is,” Ramonda said shortly. In her hands rested a set of clothes, carefully folded and delicately made. She held them out now. “A gift.” The words were rot on her tongue. “Wedding garments, fit for a King of Wakanda.”

Namor looked down, studying the gift. Soft black silk, embroidered with intricate, looping swirls of silver and gold and purple and pale-jade green. The colors blended into each other, forming a mixing pattern of stylized rivers and trees and flowers and stars. The cut, the style . . . so similar to what T’Challa used to wear. Tears burned the Queen Mother’s eyes. She banished them with a thought. I will not let this man see me cry. All of Wakanda had watched her mourn her husband and son. But the mourning she did for Shuri belonged to her and her alone. Namor was not allowed to have it. 

Namor took the clothes in hand and looked at her. “They are beautiful, Queen Mother.” The words were slippery on his silver tongue. “Talokan thanks you for your generosity. Is there a place I can prepare?” 

“A place has been made ready for you.” Ramonda turned and began the long procession to a building in the city, on the opposite side from the palace. The Dora responded immediately, falling into place around them. Another breath, and Namor and his constant companions followed. The King and Queen walked in step through the Golden City. All around them, music played and her people called out well wishes for the couple. Hundreds of feet beat in time with the music of talking drums and balafons and koras and akotings. The K’uk’ulkan looked around, his brow furrowed with curiosity. Seeds and salt fell through the air to wish prosperity upon them. Children danced with their friends. Couples spun around the streets, giggling. Talokanil spotted the crowd, joining the festivities with unsteady legs and eager grins. Namor allowed the smallest of smiles to grace his lips. 

Until Ramonda said, “If any harm comes to her because of you, Talokan will know no mercy.”

She said it almost casually — but no, that wasn’t right. She said it with the resigned sigh of someone who had already made up their mind on something and couldn’t be moved, even if they didn’t like it, even if they wanted to move. Namor knew it well. The K’uk’ulkan never made promises. Promises were the sickly sweet poison of the coward. He stated what would happen if someone either did or didn't do what he wanted, then he made it so. So he knew what it sounded like when someone truly meant what they were saying.

“I know,” Namor told her. Meeting fact with fact, the musical heartbeat of the city keeping them from being overheard. 

Ramonda nodded slightly, just inclining her head, just enough so he would know what she meant. “And Namor?”

The second Ramonda heard him say that his enemies called him Namor, that was the name she gave him. Any less, and he wouldn’t have respected her the same way. 

Ramonda looked at him then, and the darkness of her eyes cut him to the bone. “Make her happy.”

“I will.” Fact for fact for fact. 

“Nakia!”

Shuri was being squeezed into the vibrabium-boned corset of her gown (and whoever decided to model the damn thing after her Warrior Falls regalia was evil, mother) when she saw Nakia, beautiful Nakia, her almost-sister Nakia, Nakia who never returned Shuri’s calls to see if she was even coming— “I wasn’t sure you’d come!”

Mama would be proud of how well she filtered that. 

Nakia stepped into the princess’s room with a small smile. “Like I’d miss it.” She looked around at seamstresses trying to sew her into the gown and frowned. “Oh, I could not have gotten here fast enough.”

Shuri could have told her that if she ever answered her calls. 

But then Nakia was shaking her head and shooing away the other women in the room, turning her attention to Shuri’s back. Burying her hands into the layers of vibranimn-purple fabric, Nakia deftly pulled at a few strands of woven thread and beads, locking them into place. Immediately, Shuri could breathe again, the dress finally falling into place around her and releasing its grip on her ribs. Scowling into her mirror, Shuri muttered, “Thank you, usisi.” 

Nakia squeezed her shoulders with the same quick smile that T’Challa once loved. “Any time.” 

Shuri started to say something, anything, but then Nakia was draping the lines and lines of beads over her, lacing them around her neck and chest and waist. She spoke as she worked, saying, “When was I meant to hear about this fish-king stealing you away from us?”

Shuri shot her a look. “When you answered my calls.”

Nakia paused in the middle of grabbing something before shrugging. “That’s fair.” She said it and let it go. Shuri relaxed some. “Queen Mother tells me you talked to this Nay-mor once before he decided to marry you.”

Nakia’s voice was gentle, not judging. Not worried, either. She waited to hear Shuri’s side of the story, and the soon-to-be Queen felt her anger slipping away. Yes, Nakia had left after Thanos. Yes, she did not come back for T’Challa’s funeral. Yes, she was here now. Yes, that was enough. “His name is Nah-mor,” Shuri insisted, her cheeks going warm. “Or, he says that’s what his enemies call him.”

Nakia lifted a brow. “Are we his enemies?”

“According to Mama.” Shuri glanced up at Nakia through a veil of beads. “Can you keep a secret?”

Nakia looked at her. “I was a spy.”

Shuri rolled her eyes. “Can you keep my secrets?”

Nakia considered that before nodding. “If you like, usisi.”

Shuri did like. “That day in the lab, Namor invited me to see his kingdom, but Ayo said no, and Okoye and Mama would have said no, but—” 

“But you went anyway,” Nakia teased.  

“It was an underwater city! What scientists would I be if I gave up the chance!” Nakia chuckled at her as Shuri continued. “It was so cool, Nakia, we spent the whole night together — ah, don’t give me that look, he was a perfect gentleman! — and it was the day after that he . . . you know.” Shuri gestured vaguely. “Pissed Mama off?”

Nakia rushed to hide a snort, failing completely. Finishing with the beads, Nakia did her makeup for her, dotting white paint around her eyes and cheekbones, over her forehead and chin, down her lips. “So, you do like him?” 

Shuri only thought of it for a moment before saying, “Yes. Yes, I do.” And oh, that did weird things to her chest, things she wasn’t used to. “I know he’s . . . stubborn and ruthless and honestly a bit of a dick sometimes, but—” Shuri leaned forward, forgetting that Nakia was still doing her face paint. “Sorry, sorry, but— but Nakia, he’s noble, and gentle, and he cares about his people, he cares so much! And he’s so smart, and — and he respects me! He thinks I’m the most brilliant person he’s ever met, and he says . . .” She trailed off for a moment. “He says I’ll be a good queen.” A long beat passed. “No one’s ever told me that.” 

Nakia stilled and stared. “That’s not true— that can’t be true.” 

Shuri shrugged, a little sad, but still smiling. Nakia looked at her for a long time before turning back to the paint. When she was done, Nakia handed her the obsidian mirror. Shuri stared.  

Her dress, long and weighted at the hem so she could send the skirts whirling in the air, was a deep, vibrant purple and smooth as a still lake. Beads of baobab, gold, vibranium, river shell, and jade draped over and around her. Curved animal horns hung from her ears, painted black and set in gold. The white paint, stark against her rich-brown skin, accentuated the sharp lines of her face. 

Mama’s diadem crowning her. The bracelet that had belonged to Namor, to his mother. 

“Well?” Nakia said. “What do you think?” 

Shuri stared at herself another moment. Then she said, “I think . . . that I’m ready.” 

By custom, Wakandan weddings took place beneath the sky. 

Shuri walked down the streets of Birnin Zana with Nakia at her side and a Talokanil guard surrounding them, Namora and Attuma along with others she didn’t recognize. The city cheered her on, sending her their strength, their enthusiasm, their love. The sky was bright, bluer than the ocean. Seeds and salt dappled her thick curls like they dappled the earth. When they walked past groups of Talokanil, the sea people reached out, trailing their fingers along her dress and arms as they shouted, Na’, na’, na’, na’. Shuri smiled back at them, reaching out to return the touch—

Then Namor was in front of her. 

They stopped in the center of the city, the crowd closing in a circle around them. Shuri didn’t notice the hundreds of other people watching them, waiting for them to begin. She only saw Namor — K’uk’ulkan — dressed in the clothes of her people, face painted to match hers, his arms and neck draped in beads of the same design. He was handsome, he was always handsome, but— 

But now he was hers. 

Zuri’s shamanistic successor, Sope, circled them, creating an invisible barrier between the betrothed couple and everyone else. Even Ramonda was made to stand back as the warrior shaman spoke, her words silvery and powerful, as though sent directly from Bast herself. She turned first to Namor. Her voice was rasping and creaky when she demanded, “Swear.”

Shuri’s shoulders tensed and she could have slapped herself for not telling Namor the traditional vows when she had the chance— 

“Swear?” Namor demanded. “By whose laws?”

“By the laws of Bast herself, guardian of the Black Panther who is the guardian of Wakanda!” The shaman’s voice rose with her hands. “Swear by her law that as Bast protects Wakanda, so too will you protect she who binds herself to you!” 

Namor’s eyes found Shuri’s, dark and deep. He did not look away when he said, “Very well. I swear by the laws of Bast and all that she guards that I will protect she-who-makes-herself-my-wife with my own life and mind.”

Shuri smiled without thinking, wondering who told Namor the words. Mama seemed unlikely, but maybe she just didn’t want Namor to embarrass her daughter in front of all of Wakanda. Or maybe one of the shamans had seen fit to make sure he knew what he was doing. Or maybe Bast spoke the words directly to his ear, one god to another. That was a romantic thought, but weddings were for romance. 

Sope held out a wooden bowl of paint towards Shuri. “Shuri, daughter of T’Chaka, do you accept this vow?”

Shuri looked at Namor, just long enough to make him wonder before saying, “I accept this vow.” Shuri dipped three fingertips into the paint. Crossing the distance between them, Shuri reached out and drew her hand down Namor’s face, until his brow and cheek were slashed by three lines of purple paint. He had to shut his eyes, twitching a little, screwing his nose up, and By Bast, is he ticklish? Perhaps the panther god was real. This was too good to be true otherwise. 

Before Shuri could be tempted to test her theory further, Sope turned to her and ordered, “Swear!” 

Shuri’s tongue felt thick and clumsy when she said, “Swear? By whose laws?” 

“By the laws of Bast, the mother of the river and forests and mountains! Swear by her law that as Bast is sanctuary to Wakanda, so too will you be the sanctuary of he who chooses you!” 

Shuri always thought the division of who got to be protector versus sanctuary was pretty sexist, but Mama would absolutely pinch her if she brought it up now. So she only considered doing it a little bit before saying, “So it will be. I swear by the word of Bast and all she loves that I will always give sanctuary to the-one-who-will-be-mine, and never falter from his side.”

A huge breath of shared relief passed from every Wakandan in the crowd, even Ramonda, and, hey! She wasn’t going to ruin her own wedding like that after fighting for it so hard! Mama, show SOME faith in me! Absolutely no respect. 

Returning to her unaffected regal air, Sope turned and held out the paint bowl to Namor, saying, “Namor, son of—”

. . . 

. . . 

Ha! And they thought I would screw things up! Shuri wasn’t even mad. This was WAY too much fun to be mad. Oh, if T’Challa were here now . . . 

“K’uk’ulkan,” Namor corrected, still managing to sound cool and unaffected. “Son of Fen.” Never tearing his eyes from Shuri, he dipped his fingers into the paint. When he spoke, everyone leaned forward. “I accept this vow.” He drew the paint over Shuri’s eye and cheek on the side opposite his own. Mirroring each other. Shuri shut her eyes, feeling the gentle sweeping motions of his hand, his warmth. When she opened them, Namor was cupping her cheek. He stared at her. She stared back. Then . . . 

Her patience broke. Shuri’s hands shot out, grabbing Namor and yanking him down to meet her. She kissed him, and he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off the ground, kissing her back like a starving man at a feast, like there was nothing in the world he wanted more than her. And they were married. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

For everyone else, the celebrations in Wakanda would continue for ten days. Ten days and nights of ritual, music, festivals, and food as they paid homage to Bast and the ancestors, asking them to bless the marriage and the alliance that came with it. But for Shuri, it was over at sunset. 

The sky was turning golden-pink and orange when the silent signal came for them to leave. Since that morning, they had spent the day in the city, the sun beating down on them as they danced and laughed. Bast, when was the last time I laughed like this? Namor didn’t know what to do when the two of them were pulled into a circle to dance, feet beating on the earth. Talokan had its own dances, but they were performed underwater, in the sway of the waves and currents. This was a group dance, many rings of people slotted into one another, with the center circle being their two families — Shuri, Namor, Ramonda, and Namora. Once, Baba and T'Challa would have been there. In a kinder universe, maybe even N'Jobu and N'Jadaka. 

But in this world, Shuri had to quickly show Namor what to do, how to move his feet to drum against the ground and twist around in the group circle at the same time, everyone moving together all at once. He still ended up tripping over her when she moved too fast for him, knocking all four of them to the ground. Embarrassment, foreign and unfamiliar, colored his cheeks, but then Shuri laughed so hard that he couldn’t stay upset. 

But when night prepared to fall, it was time for them to leave for Talokan.

Shuri was already exhausted, full from a day of feasting, the taste of the kola nuts she shared with Namor still on her tongue. She was wondering how Bast expected her to go through a whole other wedding ceremony when just one was enough to knock the wind from her when Namor took her hand. He didn’t seem tired, the bastard. Or maybe he was just working extra hard to make sure he appeared unmovable after accidentally revealing to Wakanda that he was not instantly perfect at everything. Particularly things that involved wearing sandals. 

The walk from Birnin Zana to the riverside was too long and not long enough. The color of the city and clothes and flowers was the only thing that kept her away from thoughts of T’Challa — a wedding procession, not a funeral procession. Namor’s arm looped with hers, his hand at her elbow. He was unwavering at her side, swiftly taking to the role of protector like he swore. Shuri leaned into him, heartbeat drumming in her ears alongside the music. He pressed his hand over hers, large and warm and all-encompassing. They walked. 

Along the river stood and swam hundreds of Talokanil, chanting and clapping as they played their own music. When the royal family got closer, more people emerged from the water in pairs, each carrying something large and heavy between them. Namor stopped in front of his people as they cracked open the first oiled chest, displaying its contents to the Wakandans. Turning to Ramonda and Shuri, Namor bowed respectfully at the waist. “Umtshakazi,” he said, pronouncing the Xhosa word in a thick accent. The bride price. “Paid in full.” 

Each chest was opened to them — shining earrings and bracelets and collars of gold and jade. Strings of pearls, lovely with their glows of white and black and pink and yellow. Exquisitely woven seasilk gowns and cloaks, softer than a panther cub's fur. Musical instruments made from shell and bone. Fine art carved out of jade and obsidian. And vibranium, so, so many vibranium tools and adornments. Ramonda watched as they were brought forth and handed over to Wakanda, easily over a dozen chests. The bride price marked the end of the courting period, of the gifts and entreaties and negotiations that came with it. Paid and paid and paid. Ramonda would have never asked them for it, but the moment the Talokanil heard about the tradition, they insisted. Talokan will owe no debts, Namora’d said. Ramonda thought it was more likely they were bragging. Showing off their wealth, everything they were bringing to this alliance. Paid and paid and paid. It was an immense price. Far more than anyone in their right mind would have asked, even for a princess. 

And still, it did not compare to what she was losing. 

Namor and Shuri were given a few minutes away from the prying eyes of the crowd to change — not a tradition, but a necessity given where they were going. Namor emerged back on the beach in his vibranium adornments and green shorts, Shuri joining a moment later covered up to her neck in her deep-water suit. Ramonda’s throat tightened. Shuri smiled through tears. The vows had been made, the price paid, the traditions completed. It was time. 

Shuri moved first, throwing her arms around her mother and holding her close. Ramonda sank into the embrace desperately, holding her close for what might be the last time in a long time, neither knowing when Shuri would next surface. 

“I’ll be back, Mama,” Shuri whispered. “I promise I’ll come see you.” 

Ramonda squeezed. “I know. I know, my heart.” She just didn’t know when. Ramonda forced herself to break the embrace, smiling as she struggled against the tears. “Just don’t take too long.” 

Shuri nodded and swiped away a tear with the back of her hand. Then, squeezing her mother’s hands one last time, she turned and rejoined her husband a step into the water. Instinctively, Okoye started to follow her before remembering. When Shuri looked back, the general of the Dora Milaje was blinking rapidly while Nakia wrapped an arm around her shoulders. 

Shuri was close to crying herself when Namor brushed a kiss over her temple. “I have three gifts to give you in the tradition of my people,” he whispered, just for her to hear. “If it pleases you, I can give you the first now.” 

Shuri looked up at him, but Namor was giving nothing away, just smiling impishly. He was good at that. Shuri gave him a look before giving in with a nod. Whatever it was, at least it would keep her in Wakanda another moment— IS THAT A WHALE? 

It was. Or rather, it was a killer whale, an orca, swimming up to the riverbank until it was all but beaching itself, waiting for its cue. Namor watched expectantly for her reaction, so long that he started to wonder if he’d made some horrible misstep and upset her— 

Shuri knocked her new husband out of the way in her run to the water, shouting, “YOU GOT ME A WHALE! ”

“I— an orca, yes.”  

Shuri would never concede that she squealed that day, no matter how many people said so. “Oh, this is SO much cooler than the rhinos!”  

Now, Namor and the other Talokanil were laughing and smiling brightly alongside her, pleased by just how obvious her joy was. Even Namora’s mouth tried to wrestle itself into a grin before she got it back under control. Shuri stood beside the killer whale, who eyed her almost curiously in return, probably unused to non-blue people approaching it. Shuri looked from Namor to the orca and back again, silently asking what to do now. 

Namor was happy to oblige. “Here, in chan watan.” He stood beside Shuri and gently guided her hands into place, showing her the proper way to grab hold of the creature's back and dorsal fin. "I'll teach you to ride properly later." Someone on the shore laughed before yelping in pain. Namor did not care about this person's amusement or pain. Only the light in his wife's eyes. 

My wife. He was sure his uncontrollable grin looked mad or smug to those looking on him from afar. All that mattered to him was the way Shuri’s mouth widened. “For now, hold on. We won't be long.” 

Namor clicked his tongue and Shuri had to walk backwards as the great beast pushed itself back into the water, wading deeper into the river. A few steps, and it was up to her knees. Three more until the water stirred at her hips, her waist. Namor was patient, waiting for her to take each step, guiding her the whole way. Now the water sprayed her face. Now it was up to her chest. Now her neck. Shuri twisted one of her Kimoyo beads, the helmet of her suit covering her head. The glass mask in front of her face lit up white and purple. She looked back at the shore, smiling broadly, and waved to Nakia and Okoye and M'Baku and Mama. They waved back, Mama shimmering in the sunset in her gold and yellow gown. Shuri would miss this until she returned. Miss them, and be missed in return. But she liked that it ended this way. Happy. Laughing. Golden. 

See you soon. 

— Talokan—

The distance between Wakanda and Talokan meant that it was earlier in the day when they arrived than when they’d left, but in the underwater caverns the glow worms made the dark ceiling into a starry sky. 

The caves were already filled with people the moment they stepped out of the water. Shuri was wiped by that point, her legs tired from hours of walking and dancing, her arms from hanging onto the orca the whole way (her orca, nothing was ever going to top that gift). But the Talokanil pulled her from the water and fussed over her, checking that she was comfortable, struggling through words of English before Shuri turned her translator back on, fiercely glad that she’d managed to find the time to make some upgrades. This time, the words came out in clear and unaccented Xhosa as she listened. 

“. . . prepare for the rituals with Aj K’uk’ulkan, my Queen.” A woman stepped into place at Shuri’s side, leading her deeper into the cave system. Shuri suddenly recognized her as Abi, the woman who’d given her a shell to summon Namor. She was smiling, serene beneath her water mask, clothed in a braided dress of deep red. “Has anyone explained what is to happen next?” 

Shuri turned back to Namor. He was following her as the rest of their retinue dispersed, until it was just the three of them on the way to Namor’s dry-air home. Namor arched a brow at her, just as confused, but in a different direction. “No one told you?” 

“It’s been a busy three days,” Shuri muttered back. Maybe she should have given herself a week — but she wanted him now, and a week would have just been four more days to forget stuff. She worked best with a short deadline. Plenty of panic and excitement to get the blood in her brain running. How was it her fault this wasn’t true for everyone else? 

Abi smiled softly back at her, reaching out to set a hand on her arm. Her nails were sharp — knife-sharp, crueler than panther claws. Shuri hadn’t seen anyone else in Talokan with nails like that. They had to be deliberate. “Do not concern yourself, little queen.” Little queen? Really? “It is not so complicated.” Now they were going past the little house, to a spot Shuri hadn’t seen before. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The water was warmer here, separated from the great pools that connected to the ocean. Steam rose from them, heating the cavernous chamber. A hot spring. Shuri’s mind started racing, wondering what heated them, if it was some invention from Talokan or if it was natural. And if it was natural, did that mean there were volcanic faults in the water heating them, or— 

Abi took a step back so she was behind them and bowed her head. “You will bathe with Aj K’uk’kulkan and prepare for the ceremony. When you have washed and dressed each other, our priests will burn incense and present offerings to the gods. K’uk’ulkan will lead you through the vow of devotion that comes afterwards. Since you have already feasted, you will be left alone after that while the rest of us dance beneath the waves.” 

It took Shuri a minute to take in everything she said. Mostly because she was still processing you will bathe with Aj K’uk’kulkan. Which would have been good to know three days ago. One day. That morning. Twenty minutes— 

Abi bowed and left to return to the others and they were mercifully, cruelly alone. 

Shuri expected there to be some pause, some awkwardness. Instead, Namor just sat down with his legs dipped into one of the steaming pools, languidly removing his bracers, the cuffs around his biceps, the gold-and-vibranium layered collar around his throat and neck. All of them he laid on the ground, leaving the jade set in his ears and nose. Only then did he seem to notice that Shuri wasn’t doing the same. “In watan?” He turned back to look at her. “Are you coming?”

“I—” Shuri felt warmth flood her cheeks when, without waiting for her answer, Namor removed the sole piece of clothing he wore, leaving it on the wet stone ground before slipping into the water. For the first time in her life, Shuri’s brain stopped working. “I.” She wrapped her arms around herself. Think. Come, Shuri. You were the leader of Wakanda’s technological advances since you were a teenager. You’ve seen people naked. Even men. Even handsome, muscular men who were not your husband . . . 

She took a step forward. Another. Fumbled with the beads at her wrist and felt a shiver pass through her body when the suit melted away, leaving only her utilitarian black shorts and bra. Underarmor, but she was definitely not armored now. 

Namor smiled at her when he felt the water move again, rushing to form itself around Shuri’s lithe body. He didn’t seem upset or disappointed when he realized she still wasn’t fully naked — just. Confused. “Is this how bathing is done in Wakanda?” 

Shuri struggled not to avert her eyes from him. It was nothing like in the movies, where piles of well-placed bubbles and carefully angled cameras and unrealistic lighting made it so everything was implied. No, Namor was entirely on display for her, the clear water doing nothing to disguise what the gods had gifted him with . . . 

Shuri was running the calculations through her mind and wishing that Bast had not made her so tiny when Namor said, “Shuri?” Now he was concerned. “Have I upset you?” 

Shuri’s eyes shot up. “No! No, that’s not—” She took in a breath, trying to calm herself. Her heart was beating fast in nervous anticipation. The heat of the water had sweat running down her face, mixing with the pool. She tried to twist the maelstrom of her thoughts into a coherent sentence. 

Namor looked down at himself with an odd frown. “Am I . . . displeasing to you?”

“NO!” Shuri shouted before reminding herself that, despite appearances, there were still other people in the rest of the caves. “No. The opposite. You’re . . .” She swallowed. “You’re perfect. I’m just . . . nervous.” All her effort for that. Five words. Wakanda’s finest, everyone. 

“Oh.” In the time it took Shuri to blink, Namor had moved closer to her. Lifting a hand from the water, he tilted her chin up so they were looking each other in the eyes. Don’t freeze. “We’re only bathing, Shuri. That’s all.” 

“Oh.” Well now she felt embarrassed and silly. 

Hesitant was not a look she ever thought she’d see on Namor’s face. But it was the best way to describe him when he said, “I won’t touch you, if you prefer to wash yourself.” He frowned, as though frustrated with himself. “No. I mean to say I will not touch you at all if that’s what you—” 

“It’s not,” Shuri said quickly, so quickly that Namor smirked despite it all. “It’s not . . . just bad nerves. It’s—” She struggled to think of the right word in their common language. “Anticipation. I . . .” Shuri swallowed. “I want you. I don’t exactly know how to make that want a reality.” 

“Oh.” Namor’s gaze slid over her, from her damp curls to the droplets of water coalescing in the lines of her collarbones, and lower still. A sly smile curled his lips. “Well, let’s see what we can do about that.” 

Namor took his time showing her what to do, how in Talokan they used sand to rid themselves of rough and dead skin, then bathed with a soap made of whale fat and scented with the oils of flowers and deep-sea plants. His hands glided down her arms, her back, almost without warning — showing her how it was done. Shuri shivered, but he kept the touch gentle, even cleaning the paint from her face. He was being so slow that everyone must have wondered what was taking so long, and Shuri could imagine what they thought it was. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to care. 

Shuri let out a little moan of shock when Namor grazed his fingertips over a spot on her stomach she hadn’t known was sensitive. She moved by instinct, grabbing Namor’s hand and holding it there. Namor froze behind her — trying, she realized, not to press too close lest her remind her of his nakedness. A kindness, but all Shuri could think at the moment was, Remind me.  

Shuri turned around in her husband's hold, grabbing the boldness that struck her with both hands before it escaped. “It's my turn.” She rested her palms against Namor’s collarbones. “Let me.” 

Don’t freeze. Shuri drew her hands down her husband’s chest and arms and back like he showed her, trying her best to find the level between over-eager and shy. Namor was muscular, not like those American men who starved and dehydrated themselves, but firm and compact and real. The paint dissolved in the water around them, dissipating until all that they had carried from Wakanda was gone. Shaking her head, Shuri tried to focus on the act itself, scrubbing at Namor’s bronze skin until she was satisfied. Of course, that just made him more attractive. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if Bast hated or loved her. 

“Alright,” Shuri said, leaning back to look at her work. “Are we done?” 

“We can be,” Namor told her. His eyes glinted impishly. “Unless you want me to get your legs?” 

Bast save me. “Save something for the wedding night, gods.” 

Namor was quick to get out of the water after that. 

A little too quick. “Hey, don’t get my hair wet!” 

They went back to the hut, Shuri keeping her eyes on Namor’s back (well, except for a few small peeks . . . just a few). When they were inside, Shuri itching for something to cover herself, Namor said, “The first gift—” 

“Which was amazing.” 

“—was to show the majesty of our home, and a way to explore it on your own.” 

“I’m going to name her Ichaphaza.”  

The corner of Namor’s mouth twitched up in honest amusement even as he tried to be serious. “Your second gift,” and now he took up a little bundle from a cushioned bench, holding it out to her, “is to welcome you into our people as one of our own, and show our beauty as well as yours.” Namor unfolded the bundle of fabric for her to see — a gown. A beautiful, beautiful gown of white seasilk in translucent layers, embroidered at the hem with Mayan symbols in bright jewel-like colors, adorned at the neck and chest by a wealth of carved jade. 

Shuri reminded herself to breathe, running the soft fabric through her fingers, sleeker than water. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. When her eyes met Namor’s, he was watching her, eyes alight with fire. Shuri bit her bottom lip and watched him trace the movement, emboldened. “Aren’t you going to dress me?” 

Namor watched her a moment longer, unmoving, stiller than the jade he offered her. Then he took her chin in one hand and tilted her up to him, capturing her lips with his, exploring her mouth, devouring her. Shuri gasped, moving to meet him, fumbling for a moment before settling her hands on Namor’s shoulders. When he released her, she chased after his mouth, a pit of wanting burning in her stomach. Namor bumped his nose against hers and whispered, “I will enjoy taking this off tonight.” 

His words were still running through her mind when he turned her around and unfastened her bra, Shuri moving to let it slip to the ground. His hands were careful when he draped the gown over her, fastening the jade collar at the back of her neck, the caped sleeves making her shiver when they brushed over her arms. “Lovely,” Namor whispered. “Blessed of Chalchiuhtlicue.” 

“Who?” 

“She of the jade skirt,” Namor said reverently. “Wife to Chaac.” He bent low to kiss her cheek and released her. Shuri stumbled forward for a moment, already missing his hands. Namor followed her with his eyes. “We should hurry,” he told her. “So we can return.” 

Namor showed her how to tie his loincloth and hip cloth into place, and Shuri only fumbled a little when she did, growing used to the sight of him naked. She wasn’t surprised by the disappointment that rose in her when he was covered — the nerves and excitement had been battling back and forth since they left Wakanda. For now, the latter was winning. Shuri moved faster as Namor directed her in placing his gold belt, his pectoral collars, his arm bands, his embroidered cloak. She fiddled with the ties of the cloak, muttering, “I want it to be perfect.” 

“You did it,” Namor said simply. “It will be.” 

It had been more than a year since Shuri smiled this much. She hoped it never stopped. 

“I think we’re done,” Shuri said finally, stepping back to examine her work. It was easily the most clothed she’d ever seen him, a fact that took nothing away from his beauty. She was actually feeling pretty proud of her work when Namor reminded her what it was for. 

“Yes we are,” Namor said, brushing his knuckles over her cheek. “Are you ready?” 

Weird. By her family’s traditions, they were already married. She was still nervous.  

Shuri laced Namor’s fingers with her own. “Yes.” She nodded. “Let’s finish.” 

Shuri was quickly learning that Talokan had a lot more gods than Wakanda. 

Namor and Shuri knelt in the center of the cavern, surrounded by hundreds of the denizens of Talokan, warriors and advisors and diviners and farmers and weavers and children and more, their heads bowed. They echoed the myriad of priests who circled the couple, wearing headdresses of Quetzal feathers and deep-sea fish fins, burning sweet incense as offerings of food and plants and hunted animals were placed before them. Yum’Kaax of the maize. Awilix of the moon. Kinich Ahau of the sun. Cizin of death. Baalham of the jaguar. Itzamna, god of kings. Gods of east and west, south and north. A dozen and one gods who created humanity. K’uk’ulkan, K’uk’ulkan, K’uk’ulkan. 

Shuri’s knees were aching by the time she heard the words Namor had told her to listen for, straightening her spine. “Chaac, Lord of Rain and Abundance, we call upon you to bless the marriage of your champion, Aj K'uk’ulkan! We plead with you — let this union strengthen all of Talokan, so that when the time comes, all the world shall know the might of A’j K’uk’ulkan! We beg a boon of your wife, Chalchiuhtlicue of Talokan, of still-water and childbirth — bless our Queen, our Shuri of Talokan, her own chosen champion, with a child who will flood the Earth and conquer our enemies! An heir who will be the pride and might of all of Talokan, who will slay all those who would harm us and burn their kingdoms to ashes!” 

Yeah. Namor had just smiled and said "Yes!" when she asked if that part was necessary. 

The priest went on, eyes turned to the glowing ceiling as he roared, “Glory to you! Glory to Chaac! GLORY TO K’UK’ULKAN!” 

A thousand people echoed, “GLORY TO K’UK’ULKAN! GLORY TO K’UK’ULKAN! GLORY TO K’UK’ULKAN!” 

“Glory to Shuri!” 

“GLORY TO SHURI! GLORY TO SHURI! GLORY TO SHURI!” 

All at once, Talokan’s people knelt, bowing low to the ground as they paid homage to their new Queen. Shuri lifted her head to look at them. Attuma and Namora, all the priests and priestesses, all the diviners and advisors and everyone else who’d squeezed themselves into the cave going to their hands and knees to press their foreheads to the slick ground. They chanted her name until their voices turned hoarse. Shuri Shuri Shuri! They prayed for the gods to bless her with glory and victorious battle and strong children and a lifespan to match Namor’s. Shuri Shuri Shuri! She had never heard her name repeated so many times in one day. In one year. 

Chaac's priest, conch shells arranged in a collar around his throat, blessed first them with saltwater, dampening their hair. It ran in delicate rivulets down Shuri's face, her nose. Namor, kneeling in front of her, reached out and took her chin in hand, running a finger over her bottom lip. On instinct her mouth opened, allowing the saltwater to wet her tongue. “What the water has brought together cannot be torn apart,” Namor said, voice gone low and husky. “This is my vow — to feed you, warm you, care you for you as a part of my own body, the first and last guardian of my heart.”

Shuri shivered under his dark gaze, chasing his hand when it left her. Head warm and clouded, it took her a minute to remember. When Chaac’s priest blessed them with freshwater, she mirrored him, reaching out to gently press her thumb upon his bottom lip. Namor did as he knew to, opening his mouth to the clean water. Shuri started to speak before he suddenly caressed her hand, running his fingers over the slender bones of her wrist, her pulse. His eyes were steady on hers, burning with a hunger that had she recognized in herself. Shuri’s voice was far away when she spoke. “What the water has brought together none can separate. This is my vow — to clothe you, comfort you, love you as dearly as the blood in my veins, the first and last guardian of my soul.” 

The starry blue of the cavern twinkled, making Namor look even more unearthly than he already was. It was almost over when Namor stood above her, Namora placing a black fur pelt in his hands. Moving in front of her, Namor draped it over Shuri’s shoulders, holding the ends together to pull her closer to him. Shuri reached out for it, feeling the soft black fur between her fingers. When she looked up, she caught Namor’s gaze with her own and held him there. And Namor . . . Namor looked at her with honest pride and desire and— something. Something else. Something deeper. “Shuri,” he breathed, and she shivered at the way he said her name. “Accept this as my final gift. I spent three days in the land of my ancestors, hiding from human eyes, to bring this to you, and only found one worthy of your magnificence in the final hour before you summoned me. Accept it as my vow to protect you, to provide for you, to keep you warm in the coldest depths of the sea. Accept, and I will be devoted wholly to you and no other. Will you do this? Will you accept and become my wife?” 

Shuri held the fur cloak tight around herself. It was so large that it dwarfed her, even more magnificent than the silver furs of the Jabari or the panther skins that by tradition lined the beds of the royal family. And this — this was her last chance. If she accepted now, she would be his wife, bound by the laws of both nations. Her last chance to deny him. Her last chance to go home. To return to Wakanda for good, with her family, her friends, her people, her brother. 

To never see Namor again. 

“I will.” 

After cheers and toasts and blessings and more offerings to the gods, the caves were finally emptied, leaving them alone. Shuri half-expected her new husband to literally carry her off to bed, and wasn't altogether against the idea. Instead, Namor took her by the hand and led her back to the hot springs. The echo of their footsteps bounced off the cave walls, the only sound left. When they made it to the pools, Namor turned to her and said, softly, “My people do all things in the water. It is the source of all life, and one day all life will return to it. We are born in the water and we die in it.” Their fingers wove together, fitting perfectly into the spaces made for them. Namor kissed her knuckles and looked down at Shuri through lidded eyes. “We create life in the water. May I do this with you here?” 

Shuri was flooded with warmth, heady and strong. Her blood spilled into the veins and capillaries of her face, and she was grateful that her skin was too dark for Namor to realize.  “Yes,” she whispered, voice cracking. Then, stronger, “Yes.”  

Namor’s smile was different from any other she’d seen from him. Soft and sweet and honest and hers, entirely for her. He raised his hands to the jade of her dress, to the hidden fastenings there. The silk slipped away from her body, eased to the ground. Shuri hurried it along, shoving the fabric away until she was bare before him once again — moreso now, nothing covering her chest. Namor did not hide his stare, the hunger in his eyes. His hands slid down her sides, over her flanks until they found the last strip of clothing she wore and tore that away too. Shuri sucked in a breath, completely exposed. Namor knelt before her. Exhaled against her stomach. “Ki'ichpam.”  

Namor took a step back, then two. It took him less than a minute to rid himself of the clothes he’d worn for her. Then, without preamble, he slid beneath the water, head popping back up a moment later. “Join me, in yakunaj.”

Shuri joined him. 

The water, warm and comforting, rushed to cover her. Shuri gripped the stone wall to keep her head up. Namor floated an inch, maybe two, away from her. Shuri looked him up and down, the water hiding nothing. She was newly grateful for earlier, for already seeing him like this. The awkwardness dissipated a little now that she knew what to expect. Namor cradled her hip bones in his hands, his strong strong hands. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her nose. Then he dipped below the water, trailing his hands over her strongly-corded thighs, finding their way to her knees. A gentle nudge told her what to do, and she listened, holding them further apart, preparing herself for the intrusion. Now, now, this is it, do it now before I lose my nerve— 

“Ah!” Shuri heard her own cry echo through the caverns when Namor fit his mouth over her cunt, his tongue finding her clit with instinctive ease. Hand slamming over her heart, she swore to Bast that she felt him moan against her. Shuri started to cover her mouth when one of Namor’s fingers breached her cunt at the same time as he sucked at her, applying such intense pressure to the nerve-endings there that she screamed, and she did not want anyone to hear her— 

But no one’s here. No one was there for what might as well be miles. They were gone beneath the water, gone to the feasts and dances and games to celebrate her marriage. 

Shuri could be as loud as she wanted as they celebrated. 

When the realization hit her, nothing could stop the stream of noises that poured from her mouth. A sob wrenched itself from her when Namor’s beard tickled her, coarse hair rubbing the raw, sensitive skin of her cunt. Two of his fingers, broader and longer than her own, found a spot inside of her that she didn’t know existed, and she screamed and almost kicked his face in her effort to hold him there. She felt every pleased chuckle and moan that passed Namor’s lips, pressed into her skin until it spread through her whole body, finding itself echoed in her mouth. 

The air seemed cool now in comparison to the heat running through her blood. Namor was relentless, devouring her like he’d been lost in a desert for weeks and now the finest nectar of the gods was being offered to him. It felt good, felt right, and each move pitched her pleasure higher and higher. Every muscle in her body was being wound tighter and tighter, and— and— Gods, “Umyeni wam, sithandwa sam, intliziyo yam, ukufudumala kwam—” Shuri rambled in her mother tongue, not even knowing if Namor could hear her, but saying it anyway. “Please Namor, please, Namor, Namor, my—” Namor gripped her thighs tight, focusing all of his attention on her clit, her cunt, pressing forward, licking, sucking, tasting— “FUCK, K’uk’ulkan—” 

Shuri collapsed into herself and into him, her moans reverberating through the towering walls of the cavern as her pleasure crested to a breaking point. Giddy warmth filled her limbs, her head, turning her limp and light and pliant. The water seemed cool in comparison. Her eyes shuttered closed. Exhausted. 

Shuri almost fell asleep in the water before startling back to the world when Namor wrapped her in his arms, lifting her up and out of the spring. “Come, in yakunaj,” Namor whispered, carrying her like a bride in one of those American movies Baba used to watch with her. “You must sleep.” 

Shuri shivered and shook her head, bumping her cheek against his chest. “No, we didn’t—” She fought off a yawn. “We didn’t finish . . .” 

“There will be plenty of time for that.” They made it back to the hut, and then Namor was laying her down in a bed laden with woven blankets and soft furs. He sat next to her on the bed, stroking her cheek. Shuri struggled to stay awake, to watch him, but her head was fighting her. “Two nights to come, and thousands more after that,” Namor promised. “You’ve had a long day. Everyone asked much of you, and you did not disappoint.” His eyes, the color of molten obsidian, shone with pride. “You were magnificent, itzia.” He swept down to press soft kisses to her temple, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. His beard tickled her. Shuri smiled drowsily. “You were as perfect as I knew you would be. Such perfection is exhausting. Sleep. I will bring you more pleasure tomorrow.” 

“Promise . . .” Shuri muttered, voice trailing off as she lost the fight to keep her eyes open. Sleep took her. Namor held her. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Shuri woke in the arms of her husband. 

Namor was already awake when she started to drift back to consciousness. Slowly, she became aware of her cheek pressed to his chest, his skin warm and soft against hers. He drew a hand down her back, over the sharp ridges of her spine. Mapping her. Shuri groaned into his chest. 

“Speak up, in watan.”

“I said good morning.” Shuri drew herself up to rest her arms on Namor's chest. The steady beat beat beat of his heart filled her head, calm and reassuring. Namor was very naked beneath her. She couldn't say she minded. “What's that mean? In watan?” 

Namor smiled slyly. His hands moved, fingertips sliding up Shuri's sides until she shivered. “My wife.” 

“How possessive of you,” Shuri mused. “What about what you called me yesterday?” Yesterday? Last night? This morning? Honestly, she had no idea what time it was. “In chan watan, what's that?”

“My little wife.”

Shuri choked on a laugh. “That's condescending!”

“Shall I stop?”

“I didn’t say that.” Testing a theory, Shuri drew her nails over his chest, accidentally catching his nipple and flicking it. She winced, an apology on her tongue in the split-second before a groan rumbled through Namor’s body. She looked up at him. Namor stared at her, pupils large and dark and narrowly focused on her eyes. 

He’s waiting for me, Shuri realized. Waiting to see what she would do, what she wanted. She shifted to get comfortable, and his erection pressed into her belly, large and imposing and suddenly impossible to ignore. Namor groaned, tossing his head to the side so he wasn’t looking at her. The cords of his throat strained. He was doing everything he could to restrain himself, to be kind and respectful and take things slowly. Shuri wondered what would happen if he didn’t. Imagined him throwing her onto the bed, pressing her face into the furs and taking what he wanted— making her want it too— 

Shuri sat up, cheeks burning. She tried to channel that heat to the rest of her body, the curves of her hands and her long legs drawn up over him. Namor looked at her curiously. His hand found hers, found the delicately-lined tattoo that laced its way up her arm and shoulder, ending in an eruption of heart-shaped flowers behind her ear. He traced it with rough fingertips, sending a shiver down her spine. Shuri straddled his hips, feeling the clusters of nerves between her legs pulse when she pressed against his cock. Her entire face was on fire, but she was determined to push past it. She remembered the night before, how good he’d made her feel, how— how safe. She wanted to feel that again. 

Namor shifted and groaned beneath her. His hands settled on her hips, squeezing tight before he remembered himself. Shuri heard a sharp breath and realized it came from her. “You can,” she muttered. Then, louder, “You can grab me if you want.” If you want. Shuri could have smacked herself. If you want. Bast knew damn well that it was what she wanted, even if she wasn’t ready to say it. One step at a time. 

Namor’s hands closed around her waist, his palms alone dwarfing her. He squeezed and the muscles shifted, blood pooling in the skin. Shuri wondered how strong he really was, if it was more effort for him not to break her in half than to do so. The thought sent a thrill through her. Her husband was not so much taller than her, but his broad shoulders and strong muscles and big hands made him seem so much bigger. Larger than life. Godly. 

And now he wanted her to be in charge. To do what she wanted. 

So, Shuri decided to figure out what that was. 

Running her long fingers over Namor's chest, Shuri rolled her hips. She was already wet, could feel how he was affecting her. Without entirely knowing how she started, she slid her aching pussy along the length of Namor’s hard cock. They moaned at the same time. She pressed further into him, roughly jerking her hips, grinding her clit against him. Namor squeezed her hips and Shuri would have sworn she felt the bones shift. Namor brought his knees up, feet flat on the bed, pushing Shuri further onto him. She leaned back against his knees, cradled in his lap. The muscles of Namor’s thighs trembled. Like he was desperately trying not to thrust up into her and take her as she was. “What do you want, itzia? Simply tell me and I will do it, whatever you need. Anything, itzia, please.”   

Namor’s voice was warm and heady, sweeter than raw honey. She recognized the word for princess after researching his language with Griot. From anyone else it would have been condescending — especially since she was no longer a princess to him but a queen, his queen — but Bast take her if she didn’t like the way he said it. “That,” Shuri said as she slowly rolled her hips, grinding down on him and smirking when he groaned, “is what I’m trying to find out.” 

Namor eyed her with huge pupils. Deciding, she thought, how much rein to give her. His hands slid down from her waist to her thighs, holding her secure when he suddenly moved, bucking his hips and bouncing her in his lap. Shuri yelped — a sound that was decidedly unsexy, damn him — then let out a soft gasp. It was like before, when Namor used his mouth on her but — but different, not as direct or intense, but slowly growing and mounting. Like the time around when she first started masturbating and took a whole afternoon just to finger herself, not finishing until the end. Shuri curled her nails into Namor’s chest, scratching him as hard as she could, barely managing to knick the skin. And Namor— Namor snapped. 

He was faster than her, inhumanly fast. Namor raised up in the bed, wrapping his strong arms around Shuri’s waist and dragging her close, closer still, pressing his chest against hers. Bringing his legs towards them, he used his calves to barricade her in his arms. His broad palms fit under her thighs, squeezing. His breaths pulsed over Shuri’s neck, her collarbone. His lips glided over her sweat-slicked skin, soft and warm. A feast of options calling to him, he settled on trailing sharp kisses over the top of her breasts. 

All of this, before Shuri could even take a breath. 

Shuri scrambled to hold onto him, nails scraping Namor’s back like she was falling down a cliff and just needed to grab something. He purred in response, rocking up against her, sliding his cock over her wet cunt. His eyes were molten glass when he asked, “Is this good?” 

Shuri huffed out a laugh. “No complaints.”

Namor hummed thoughtfully before he licked a stripe over her nipple, Shuri harshly sucking down air in response. He panted slightly, his breaths turning her flesh cold. “Ah, but this is not the question I asked, in yakunaj. I said is this good?” He shifted, settling her fully into his lap, bracing her ass in his broad hands. “Yes or no will suffice.” 

Shuri glared down at her entirely insufferable husband and curled her arms around his neck. He was thick and pulsing against her, as affected as Shuri even if he didn’t show it. And Shuri decided that she wanted him to show it. 

Shuri kissed the pointed peak of Namor’s ear, braced herself, and rode him. 

The smirk fled his face and Shuri’s grin was sharper than her claws. 

Namor rushed to meet her, rutting up against her as she bounced in his lap, both of them chasing each other’s pleasure as well as their own. Leaning next to his ear, Shuri whimpered, whined, and whispered, “Yes.”  

Namor groaned painfully, crushing her close to him. There would be bruises later, but Shuri did not know that yet, and would not care if she did. Namor presented his hand to her, two fingers pressing against her bottom lip. Shuri opened her mouth for him, didn’t think before sucking on his fingers. Namor murmured something that sounded like “reward” against her throat. Then his fingers were slithering between them, down the over-sensitive flesh of her chest, her stomach, petting the pink lips of her cunt, before finally finally finding her clit and putting his hand to furious use and fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK— 

Shuri came in time with her husband. It hit her at the base of the spine and sent her sprawling in his arms, drooped against him like a marionette with her strings cut. Below, Namor’s muscles, his tense, taught muscles went loose all at once, calling him to go limp. It was all he could do to hold onto his little wife as he finished, his release spent across her thighs, the warm and sensitive lips of her pussy. He watched as she came down, transfixed. Her unsteady breaths, the rise and fall of her chest against his own. The way she shook. How her fingers twitched. She wasn’t fighting for control or trying to regain her dignity. She was completely spent, drowning in pleasure, and could do nothing but exist in it. Shuri rested her temple against his shoulder, holding onto him for dear life. 

Namor would not fail her. He took his little wife in his arms and gently laid her back on the bed, covering her with the black fur he had skinned and tanned for her. He sat back, basking in her presence. She was lovely — Shuri was always lovely, but especially like this. Spent and satisfied, still shaking from the pleasure they had shared. The fur covered her, but he was intensely aware of his release between her thighs. What he would have given to finish inside her— 

No. It was for Shuri to decide when that happened. He could hope it would happen before they returned to Talokan, but to ask would be to place pressure. He swept down to kiss her, and Shuri breathed into him, held onto his shoulders. She was flustered now, a little embarrassed for some reason, but happy. He wanted to keep making her happy. The world seemed dull in comparison to her light. His joy — filling her, hearing Shuri beg for it, getting her with child — would wait. 

Shuri flopped around on the bed, suddenly confused. “Was this bed here a week ago?” 

“No.” 

It did not take long for Ramonda to call. 

Shuri was sitting up in the reed and sipping a spiced cacao drink when her Kimoyo beads started to sing, alerting her to her mother’s call. She started to answer on instinct before remembering that she was still naked. Panicking, Shuri cast about the room for a minute before realizing she had no idea where any clothes were. Panicking worse, she grabbed the closest thing she could — her jaguar fur, and she was really getting a lot of mileage out of it already — and threw it around her shoulders, making sure she was covered before finally answering. 

Shuri thought she was doing a pretty good job at looking normal when her mother’s image materialized before her, regal and poised as ever. Well, Shuri wasn’t there yet, but at this point she was pretty pleased with “not naked”. Though considering Mama’s face, maybe she shouldn’t be . . . 

“Morning—” Shuri yawned, still having no idea what time it was. Namor had just said “what some call early morning, and others late night” when she asked, and that was over an hour ago now. And that wasn’t even factoring in the time zones. “Morning, Mama.” 

There was a dark chord of concern in her mother’s eyes, but Ramonda seemed determined not to show it. "Shuri. How are you?"

A thousand questions bound into one. Are you well? Are you safe? Has the fish-king hurt you? Forced you? Do you need help? Shall I send the Dora? Shall I come myself? What do you need, what do you need? So much weight in three little words. Shuri tried to answer all of them. "I'm fine, Mama. Just tired." When Ramonda looked briefly horrified, she rushed to add, “We got here early, and the ceremony lasted all night.” She tightened the pelt further around herself, praying to Bast that she had not left any bruises or love-bites exposed. “Namor has been very—” She almost said good, but that was sure to be misinterpreted. “—very kind. And . . . respectful.” Hot blood filled her cheeks, but Mama shouldn’t be able to make it out. Especially not in the dim, glowy ambient lighting that the Talokanil preferred. “He’s getting me food right now.” 

“At least he's feeding you,” Ramonda muttered. Shuri really hoped she wasn’t going to directly ask if they had sex. She just got a sex life, she wasn’t ready to discuss it with anyone. Least of all Mama. No. Absolutely not. 

“Of course he's feeding me, Mama!” Shuri scoffed. “Bast, can you imagine him going to all this effort to get me only to not even bother?”

“Yes,” Ramonda said quietly.

For a moment, neither spoke. Shuri shifted, not quite meeting Ramonda’s eyes. Ramonda watched her for a long while before sighing, relaxing her shoulders. “I'm sorry, Shuri. I . . . misspoke.” Not exactly, but Shuri would take it. Ramonda tried to smile. “Tell me, how was the ceremony?” 

Grateful for the change in subject, Shuri told her mother all about it, the gods they prayed to, the hours-long prayers for her health and long life (leaving out the small army of children that Chaac was expected to provide for her), the jade gown she wore (and not how Namor removed it), the hot spring (that Namor certainly did not bathe with her in), the glittering blue caves that required no caveats, and how bone-tired she was when it was all done. “They made Warrior Falls seem short and sweet, Mama,” Shuri complained with no malice, unable to hide how much she actually enjoyed it. Maybe not the droning hours of ceremony, but learning about it at all. The prayers that were sung versus those that were whispered versus those that were shouted. The colorful clothes dripping with jewels of the sea, the parading traditions of a culture at once so similar and so different to her own. T’Challa would laugh at her for actually enjoying something traditional, and she would scoff and say that she was a scientist who wanted to see how things worked for other people, it was completely different. He would have loved that kind of thing. Even if he tried to tear Namor's head off for how he proposed. 

She missed him. 

Almost as she thought it, Namor appeared in the open archway, still naked and holding a bundle of food wrapped up in bright-green palm leaves. Not wanting Ramonda to see him, Shuri rushed to say, “Mama, I’m going to eat now. Call me tomorrow? Please?” 

Shuri could see the protest hanging from her mother’s lips, the concern in her eyes. But Ramonda made herself smile and say, “Of course, intombi. It will be morning for you just before I eat dinner with Nakia tomorrow. I will call you before then?”

“Yes,” Shuri said immediately, grateful, aware of Namor watching her. “Yes, that works. See you then.” They exchanged goodbyes for a minute longer before Shuri hung up, her mother’s form dissipating before her. Namor watched her, saying nothing before he sat down on the reed bed and handed her the food. 

— Wakanda —

Ramonda shut her eyes as her daughter’s image dissipated, Shuri’s wide smile and the dark marks trailing her neck burned into the back of her eyelids. She lowered her hand. “What do you think, Nakia?” 

Nakia sat at the Queen’s side, just far enough that the Kimoyo beads hadn’t sent her image to Shuri, allowing her to watch unnoticed. Now, she slid closer to Ramonda, head bowed respectfully before she looked up and placed a hand on her shoulder. “She seems alright, my Queen. Healthy, happy.” 

Ramonda chuckled darkly. “Oh, yes. Absolutely glowing.”  

Nakia winced internally, showing nothing on her face like the good spy she’d been. Neither of them had missed the blanket that Shuri wore in place of clothes, or the hickies along her neck and collarbones. It was no secret what happened on a wedding night, even if Shuri thought she got away with it. But Nakia thought she saw new light in her eyes, one that had been missing for the past year, ever since . . . ah, but maybe she was ready to move on. Maybe it was time. “She didn't seem to be in pain.” When Ramonda didn’t respond, Nakia ventured further, “And she seemed happy when she told me about him. About Talokan, how he showed her his city.”

Ramonda sighed through her nose. “I still cannot believe she went there without the Dora Milaje or anyone else. Twice.”

Three times now, Nakia thought but didn’t say. Now didn’t count. Shuri was no longer the Dora's charge. It was for Namor and his people to defend her. Bast help him if he ever fails. All the power of the oceans will not protect him then. 

Ramonda shook her head. “Nevermind. As long as she is safe for now.” She looked up at the woman who was as her daughter-in-law. “Will you stay for a few more days? Will Toussaint be alright?” 

“Of course, my Queen,” Nakia said. “He’ll be waiting at the school for me when I go home.” 

Ramonda nodded. “Good.” She tried to smile. “That’s good. Hug him for me when you return, won’t you?” 

“I will,” Nakia promised, knowing the Queen Mother was wondering how long it would be before she hugged her daughter again. “I will.” 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

While Shuri ate, Namor painted. 

Smoked fish wrapped in broad green leaves and corn cakes flavored with honey were her breakfast. She ate slowly, savoring every bite as she watched her husband. At some point, he had pulled his green shorts back on along with a jade-dyed cloak when he noticed her mounting awkwardness, and now he stood before one of the murals that covered his walls, beautiful in his focus. He took to the work with a slow kind of ease, every brushstroke precise. He knew what he was doing and he was good at it. Shuri couldn’t help asking, “What’s this one going to be?”

Namor did not pause in his work, continuing to trace smooth dark lines while answering simply, “Us.” He ran his fingers over the cool stone, drawing her attention to the way the colors curved. It was still so new, only a sketched outline of what it would be. Shuri tried to imagine it filled out with color and detail, imagining a great serpent the size of the sea wrapped around a panther that birthed a country. Then she wondered if Namor was turning her into a romantic, an artist. He better not. T’Challa would be laughing at her with their ancestors. 

Shuri watched him even after she finished eating. She was still learning him, taking him in, and this was a new Namor. A content one. Four days ago, she wouldn’t have thought it possible. Now, he seemed entirely at peace with the worlds below and above. And why not? He won.  

The good mood suited him. He looked over his shoulder at her and smiled warmly. Setting the paint down, Namor returned to their bed, peppering feather-light kisses over Shuri’s temple, her cheeks, the bridge of her nose. Shuri giggled, blissfully happy for the first time in years. She knew that every day wouldn’t be like this — how could it be, with a mercurial god for a husband, and the problems both of her homes faced? — but now she knew that it could be like this, and would be sometimes. And that was enough. 

“I’m looking forward to returning to Talokan with you,” Namor told her, barely louder than a whisper. “Everyone is. You’ll like our home.” 

His hand pet her bare stomach, sending tingles all through her when he brushed over spots she didn’t know could be sensitive. The corner of her mouth tilted up. “I’m guessing you’ve already found a way for me to live underwater?” 

“Everything has been prepared,” Namor assured her. “You’ll have plenty of space, all of it air-tight so you can move around comfortably. Everything you need and anything you want.” 

“Thank you,” Shuri said, suddenly remembering something she wanted to ask about. “I want a lab.” It occurred to her that she could have phrased that as a question, but oh well, too late now. “I’m a scientist, an inventor, I won’t stop—” 

“A lab has been prepared for you.” 

Shuri cut herself off. Namor was looking a little too cheeky. She was still watching him when he continued, “You will have all of Talokan’s resources and scientists at your beck and call. Simply ask, and I will send to Wakanda to see about having whatever you want from your old home brought here.” 

Old home. Shuri stumbled on that for a moment before taking in the rest. “Oh. Thanks?” 

Namor arched a brow. He was really hot when he did that. “What did you think was going to happen?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe you thought I was going to sit around on a throne all day, being fed fruit and looking beautiful. And that wasn’t going to happen.” Well, maybe for a few hours. But then it would get old. 

“I’m glad you’ve decided to voice this fear of yours now, after both of our people’s ceremonies when nothing can be done about it.” 

Shuri hadn’t known Namor could be sarcastic. She kind of liked it, but he’d better start directing it towards other people if he knew what was good for him. “Ah, and when would have been a good time, sweetheart? During our first, second, or third conversation?” 

“Third.” 

. . . He actually wasn’t wrong about that. Shuri rewarded his intelligence by kissing his neck the way he’d done for her earlier. It seemed to have the desired effect. Namor’s eyes drifted shut in pleasure. He held Shuri close to him, stroking her spine. “I would not have denied you your joy, Shuri,” he whispered, and it took her a moment to realize he was talking about her lab. “Your joy, your brilliance. I want to see it every day.” 

It occurred to Shuri that in the past day and a half, they’d spent more time together than the entirety of their brief “courtship”. But gods, what a lovely day. 

Especially the orgasms. 

They spent the day talking and kissing, until Namor knew Shuri’s mouth and neck and breasts and thighs better than she did. Now, he was resting his head on her stomach and listening as Shuri told him about the battle against Thanos, gesticulating wildly. “—meanwhile, I’m in the lab trying to save the synthezoid by removing the mind stone so it can be safely destroyed, but then—” 

“Why save the machine?” Namor asked, sounding genuinely curious. “Couldn’t you just build another one?” 

“Not really. Not the way he was made.” She didn’t really want to get into the intricacies of Vision’s vibranium structure, the Mind Stone, and— hold on, that sounded like a great time. Oh well. Another day. 

“Hm. Kill him then.” 

Shuri laughed, thinking he was joking. Then Namor looked up at her, and she swiftly realized that this was not the case at all, oh Bast. “We couldn’t just let him die without even trying! He was a person.” 

Namor hmmed dispassionately, tracing smooth circles on her stomach. “Unlike the Wakandan soldiers who died in his defense?” Shuri had no retort. “It seems a simple equation. Your enemy wanted the stone. By protecting the machine, a fight was prolonged that could have been avoided. Even if this Thanos was able to repair the stone, at least his soldiers would have had no reason to fight you before he arrived. And you would not have been at risk then.” 

His words were cold, uncaring, but not unkind. It wasn’t cruelty to him — just a fact, the way things had to be. Shuri knew immediately that if it had been Talokan’s soldiers at risk, he would have killed the Vision without hesitation. Maybe he would have been right. 

Shuri was suddenly, deeply grateful that she was not the one who had to make hard choices like that. 

“I suppose as long as you have your people and your Queen safe, you’re happy,” Shuri teased. 

“Yes.” 

There’s no arguing with this man! “Regardless of what you think should have happened, that’s how it went.” Shuri absently stroked his hair. “We fought as long as we could, but Thanos still arrived too soon. The stone was destroyed, and the Vision died regardless.” Alongside many others that day. In the years that passed, towns and cities and countries across the universe erected monuments to those lost in the Snap, but Wakanda still had one for the soldiers lost that day who did not get to come back. 

But she didn’t tell him that. Skipping over the way her guard was killed and she was thrown across a room (somehow, she didn’t think he would have a calm and rational reaction to that), she explained what happened when Thanos arrived, how he undid time to fix the stone (which earned her an unimpressed look from Namor), and what came next . . . 

Shuri’s voice caught in her throat. “It was the first time my brother died. But I . . . I didn’t think . . .” 

Namor was moving then, sitting up so he could take Shuri in his arms and hold her. He’d done similar things several times over the past day, but this time there was nothing salacious to it. He tucked her head under his chin and Shuri melted into his hold as Namor stroked the nape of her neck. “My lovely sweet girl,” Namor whispered into her hair. “The gods have been too unkind to one who shines so bright.” Shuri said nothing, just burying her face into his chest. “It must have been horrible, to have him back after five years just to lose him again . . .” 

Shuri stiffened, realizing she’d forgotten one tiny, somewhat consequential part of the story. “Not exactly,” she muttered, sitting back so Namor could see her. She could read the confusion on his face, in the slight furrow to his brows and tilt of his mouth. Eventually, she would learn all of his expressions, memorize them and press them into her mind. Right now, she couldn’t bring herself to focus on it. “I was lost that day, too. T’Challa and I came back at the same time.” 

Namor’s eyes went stony and still. He was stiff against her, not in the fun way this time. His grip around her hips tightened until Shuri sucked in a breath, pushing at his hand. “Namor.” 

He snapped out of it then. Not all the way, but enough to loosen his grip, moving his hands up to her waist as he whispered apologies. “Forgive me, in yakunaj. I was lost in thought and forgot my strength.” 

The brief ache was gone already. There was no pain now, no bruises. His attentions when he took her earlier had certainly been harsher, if more welcome. Shuri settled back onto his chest with a shrug. “It’s fine.” 

“No it’s not.” Namor’s eyes burned. “You should never be in pain.” He smoothed his hands over her side, pressing closed lips to her temple. Shuri sighed softly and relaxed into him. He was still stoic, but he was remorseful when he said, “I will remember. It won’t happen again.” 

Shuri nodded, hit by a wave of tiredness. “It’s fine,” she repeated earnestly, preparing to doze against his chest. “I believe you.” 

“Thank you,” Namor whispered as Shuri shut her eyes. She was still awake when he said, “This Thanos is lucky to have already died. I would have cracked his skull open and made him watch as I removed his heart to gift to you.” 

“I don’t think I needed that much detail,” Shuri muttered with a yawn. “But it’s the thought that counts.” 

On the third night, Namor licked into her like a man starved. 

Shuri thrashed around on their bed, possessed, held down only by Namor’s strong hand laid flat against her pelvis. Her husband stared up at her from between her legs, dark eyes turned possessive, lit by a flame that was paradoxical to the stormy sea he normally was. Shuri yanked on his hair, a forest fire of energy building up inside of her that had to go somewhere, but Namor was unmoving. He held her leg in one hand, tugging her closer to him. Her thighs were covered in his marks, his claim written out on her skin for any who dared that close. The cool jade in his ears brushed over her heated flesh. His tongue swirled around her clit, and Shuri whimpered, repeating over and over, “Namor, Namor, Namor, Namor—” 

“No,” Namor said suddenly, cutting her off. He moved, just a few inches, barely anything, but he had stolen his mouth from her and that would not do. 

“Namor, PLEASE!” Shuri begged. 

Namor held her down with both hands when Shuri tried to pull him back into position, half-furious, half-mad with lust when he said, “No. My name. Not the name of that blood-soaked tongue. My name.”  

And Shuri wanted to, truly wanted to. But then his tongue was on her again, driving her crazy, driving her insane. And she wasn’t sure she remembered it right, and how many apostrophes were there again, and— oh, oh, ohhhh, “K’uk’ulkan!” 

Namor moaned against her cunt, and the vibrations flowed through her body like ripples in a pool of water. Shuri squirmed and Namor rewarded his wife, deftly sliding two fingers into her, curling and pumping to the sweet music of her voice, only stopping when she said, “K’uk’ulkan, please fuck me, please, oh . . .” 

Namor paused in his ministrations, only noticing he did so when Shuri whined for him to continue. He didn’t, keeping his broad palm flat against her stomach when he asked, “Is that what you want?” 

Shuri tossed her head, looking down at him. She slowly grew still when she realized Namor was deathly serious, needing an answer. She remembered what she said and felt the blood flow hot through her face. Nerves, yes — but also excitement. A thrill. Namor would make it good, she knew. Make her feel good, make her feel safe. She wanted that. Needed it. Needed him. 

A great relief passed over Shuri, so great she almost came from that alone. “Yes. Yes, I want it.” She turned her heated gaze on Namor and he returned it tenfold, eyes burning into her. She liked it. Wanted it. Shuri nodded and told him, “Please, K’uk’ulkan. Please.”  

Her words lit a fire in him, and the god-king of Talokan wasted no time. Sitting up, he curled his hands around Shuri’s thighs and pulled her towards him, grinning fiercely when she let out a surprised little squeak. He swept down to lay soft kisses across her neck, her sharp collarbones, her breasts. Shuri giggled from his attentions, bright and happy. He wanted her to never stop. He wanted to die with that noise in his ears, the last thing he ever heard. He wanted it to follow him on his journey through Xibalba. An eternity of joy. That was what he wanted from her. That was what he wanted to give her. 

Taking her mouth once more, Namor took himself in hand and was moments from entering her when Shuri put her palms flat against his shoulders, stopping him, saying, “Wait, wait, hold on—” 

Namor was a king. A god. Nearly five hundred years old, and well-experienced in the ways of pleasure and the body. He did not whine. And certainly no one was capable of proving him wrong, so he must be correct. 

Namor forced himself back, curling his fingers into the blankets. Sitting back on his knees, he asked, “Are you alright, in yakunaj? Are you— did I hurt you?” 

Shuri laughed, shaking her head. “Bast, no, nothing like that.” Legs trembling, Shuri swung her feet over the side of the bed and stood, steadying herself against a wall. When she could stand on her own, she pulled Namor along with her, her husband watching her curiously. He didn’t know what she was doing, planning, but he wanted to find out. 

Shuri was still giggling when she led them out of the hut, retracing their steps from before. Namor watched her, enjoying the way the soft blue light splayed across her lovely skin, paying more attention to that than where they were going. Already, she seemed so at home. Already, she belonged there, below the water. 

He finally paid attention when they stopped walking, arriving back at the scattered pools of earth-warmed water. Shuri turned to him with a broad smile, brighter than the sun. In the darkness of the deepest seas, I created a star for my people.  

And now he would bring them another.  

Namor was still lost in his wife’s eyes when Shuri turned around and grabbed his hands, squeezing excitedly. “This is where you wanted to do it, right?” 

Oh, his wife was brilliant. Absolute perfection, crafted by the gods for him to take beneath the seas. Wanting to show her this, show her how lovely and amazing she was, Namor cradled her face in his hands and kissed her, kissed her senseless, kissed her until he forgot about the worlds above and below. Shuri sighed into his mouth, happy and relaxed. That was how she should be all the time. Would be, if he had his way, and he always did. “I will make you happy,” Namor breathed into her, noses bumping, Shuri grinning against his lips. “So, so happy.” Of all the vows he’d made to her, this was the most important. He would do anything to keep this promise. 

Namor wrapped his arms around her back, fingers inching lower, until they were gripping her thighs. He lifted her into his arms in one swift motion, grinning fierce and proud at her shout. Shuri scrambled to hold onto him, scratching ineffectively at his neck and back before managing to grab hold of his shoulders. He guided her legs into place around him, his hips. Shuri let out a surprised little gasp, feeling him hard against her again. Namor nipped at her sharp jaw. 

He stepped into the water. 

It was different, in his arms. Like this, she felt like she could do no wrong. Like she didn’t have a country of people watching to see how she would fail them next. No, Namor thought she could do no wrong, and she badly wanted it to be true. He held her close, and she felt safe like that, the water flowing over her back, her shoulders. Holding onto her, mouths moving against each other, Namor whispered, “May I?” 

Shuri shuddered. His eyes were dark on hers, they were always dark, but they seemed so much more intense when he looked at her like that. And she heard herself say, “You may.” 

Then Namor was inside her, filling her, and, Oh Bast— 

“Is this alright?” Namor asked, growing still. Patient. 

Shuri laughed, a little manic. She licked her bottom lip, and Namor’s gaze followed her tongue like a man possessed. She nodded to put him out of his misery. And Namor— Namor was big. Large and thick and hard inside her, filling her up more than her delicate fingers ever had. Ever could.  

But Namor . . . Namor was still being careful. Holding her close, but staying still. Not moving until she was ready. And he’d spent so long getting her ready for him with that clever mouth, that pink tongue, those fingers. Working her until she was soaking wet and aching and pleading and now, she just — she wanted him. 

“Please, K’uk’ulkan,” Shuri whispered into his pointed ear. “I want you. Need you. Please move.” 

And Namor, a willing supplicant to his god, obeyed. 

The water should have made things awkward, made it difficult. It didn’t. Namor knew the water and it knew him. He moved with force, with ease, Shuri weightless in his arms as he fucked her. Shuri clawed at his back, helpless. Namor wasn’t punishing, but he wasn’t taking it easy on her either. His hips rolling forward, smooth and constant, his length filling her completely. And Shuri, she felt— she felt— she— 

“Fuck, K’uk’ulkan!”  

His name ran smoothly off her tongue now, over and over as the pressure inside her grew stronger, more powerful, taking her over. It was different from before, different from when she touched herself. She’d never managed to make herself come with just her fingers inside, always needed more — but the way Namor was expertly manipulating that her, the way he made her all full and complete and whole, his arms supporting her, his hands holding her tight against his broad shoulders and strong muscles, his tongue in her mouth— just— just him, surrounding her, filling all her senses— “K’uk’ulkan, myeni wam, Bast, I’m— I’m—” 

“Is it good, in watan?” Namor demanded, pressing the harsh line of his nose into her cheek, breaking their kiss. Shuri whined, wanting him back, wanting all of him all at once, but he was relentless. “Is it what you want?” 

Shuri nodded just as Namor rolled his hips into her again, a painful keen breaking itself in her throat. “Yes, it’s— fuck, yes, Bast, it’s perfect— OH!” 

“Once more,” Namor whispered into her ear, his breaths turned harsh and ragged even as his pace inside of her grew, both of them rushing towards the ending. “Say my name just one more time, my princess, in watan, in itzia, in yakunaj! Once more, and I am yours forever—”

Shuri cupped Namor’s face in her hands, leaning forward to whisper to him as her pleasure grew and mounted and crested, a wave breaking itself on a rocky shore— “K’uk’ulkan!” 

They broke together. 

Shuri woke the next morning in her husband’s arms, the sun nowhere to be found. Namor would disagree. He was perfectly happy with the sun lying in his bed. 

This time, Namor didn’t let her sleep in. Shuri groaned when he passed her the silk and jade gown she’d worn at their ceremony, vaguely wondering where that had been when she was naked for most of the past three days. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?” 

Namor watched her with bright amusement, his wife’s blissful expression from the night before still imprinted in his mind’s eye. He shook his head. “It’s time.” 

“Time?” Shuri’s mind was working slower than normal, trying to decipher what he meant. “Time for what?”

“To go.”

It seemed as though the entire city of Talokan was present to see K’uk’ulkan return with his new queen. Their new queen. Tens of thousands of people surrounded the jade-tooth throne where Namor led her to sit, Aj K’uk’ulkan hovering in the water behind her. When Shuri sat in the center of the great shark jaws, the city cheered to Namor’s fierce, proud grin. 

Hands sweeping over the arms of the carved stone chair, Namor whispered to his wife, “Welcome home, Shuri.” 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Shuri had never expected to be Queen. 

When she was a child, T’Chaka was invincible. Her Baba, the latest in a long line of kings, of Black Panthers, that would never end. She did not know then what he did to N’Jobu, or how he had abandoned N’Jadaka by the time she was born. Maybe it would have mattered to her if she did. But privately, Shuri thought not. Baba would always be Baba to her. He could not, did not, protect everyone, but he protected her and that was enough, and she thought it would never end. 

Then it ended. 

But she’d had T’Challa, and that was as good as still having Baba in some ways. He was Crown Prince his whole life, raised since birth to be king. In the years before Baba’s death, he was already Black Panther, their father’s aging body no longer able to handle the burden of the warrior’s mantle. He sat in on every council meeting, advised their father, trained with the Dora Milaje, received reports from the War Dogs. Half-king already. Warrior Falls was just a formalization of what he already was, hurried along by time and violence. Even N’Jadaka, even Thanos, just further convinced her of her brother’s invincibility. The greatest Black Panther Wakanda ever knew, twice escaping death’s drooling jaws. 

Then the third time came, and the teeth crushed him. 

Her fault, she knew. Hers and hers alone. If she had been smarter, better, faster . . . if T’Challa had trusted her more, confided in her sooner, and surely it was her fault he hadn’t . . . then she could have done it. Then she could have saved him. 

But she didn’t. And so the burden of rule changed hands once more. 

This time, Ramonda made no bones about the fact that this was not, could not, be permanent. T’Chaka was gone, and her mother was older than her face showed. She would have no more children. Wakanda would have no more heirs, not from her. Shuri’s time was coming, whether she wanted it or not. 

But then Namor found her, and the world changed again. 

Shuri Udaku of the Golden Tribe, daughter of kings, sister of kings, bride of kings, mother of kings. Never king herself. 

Others might have turned down a proposal on that alone, refusing to give up their power. For Shuri, it was a relief. She was Queen, but Queen Consort. Namor remained the Feathered Serpent, Talokan’s great protector. She would not have to lead armies or wage wars. The difficult questions of what to do in a changing world, a dangerous world, were something for her to worry about, but not make decisions about, or at least not on her own. Her solutions would be science, invention, what her mind could imagine and her hands make. Not orders. Not rule. 

And in a few years, when they had children, then they would be the new heirs to Talokan and Wakanda. She thought there might be some guilt one day in transferring the burden from her shoulders to theirs — and such little shoulders they were, not even given form yet! But they would be like T’Challa. Raised to it, ready for it if the time ever came. When it came. However many children she had — two, three, maybe four — she would make sure all of them were ready for the pains that might await them. This time, she would not fail. Namor would protect them, but she would prepare them. 

But for once, she had time. Plenty of time, a long time if she wanted. And until then, she could be her own kind of Queen. 

Namora greeted them at the palace. The descendant of Fen’s brother, himself dead before Namor’s birth like his own father, she stood as his only living family member. Over time, some of his cousins had more or less children, but they were always lost to predators or battle or disease or cruel elements, until only Namora’s line remained. She was fierce and strong, raised in her king’s shadow to be his companion and second-in-command since she was born. He doubted she ever thought she’d see him married. Now, he wondered if their children would grow up calling each other cousin. 

Namora bowed her head and held her hands up in their customary greeting, speaking first to Namor. “Ajawo’ K’uk’ulkan. Your return home most pleases us.” Her king returned the gesture, and she turned her attention to Shuri. This, Namor had worried about. Namora never questioned her king, but she did question her cousin. Of all his advisors, she was one of the least enthusiastic about accepting someone from the surface, no matter which gods the priests claimed sent her. He wondered what she might do, and did not expect the answer. 

Skipping the greeting entirely, Namora leaned forward in the water to press a kiss to Shuri’s cheek — or at least, the glass shield of her suit’s mask. Shocking them both, Namora simply stood back and said, “Cousin. Please, be welcome in your new home.” 

It was not what she was meant to say, what Namor had approved. But it was better. Less formal, more familial, at least as much as Namora was capable of. The kind of thing Shuri would prefer. The new Queen was still reeling in surprise when Namor and his cousin shared a glance, at once understanding each other. She did not like it. She did not need to. Namor was her King, and that meant that Shuri was her Queen now. Nothing else mattered. 

Namora very nearly smiled when she swept her hand out towards the magnificent stone palace’s entrance, welcoming them inside. Namor took Shuri’s hand in his and drew her forward. His smile was real and honest. This was her home now. He wanted to keep her forever. So he would. 

Namor was used to getting what he wanted, but this was the best prize yet. 

They showed her the palace, the gardens of coral and seagrass and red kelp and sea lilies, the courtyards where he trained with his closest warriors, the grand halls where they feasted. He took joy in her amazement, the delighted spark of her eyes. The palace had taken many years to construct, but now it was old even to him. No others survived who had seen its construction, nor their children, nor their children’s children. Through her eyes, it was new again. New and beautiful. 

Shuri giggled when a school of fish swam alongside them through a garden, used the water to lift her to the ceilings of rooms to look at carvings, and asked questions about everything she saw. And he answered them all, delighting in each question even as Namora grew more and more frustrated, like a mother whose child kept asking “Ba'axten?” over and over. 

But he was most excited to show her this. 

“And these,” Namor said, using his vibranium bracers to activate a door, “are the Queen’s Rooms.”

A panel in the wall opened, ushering them into a new space with an identical door opposite them. The stone shut in on itself once more, enclosing them. Shuri looked around, feet hovering a few inches above the floor, asking, “What’s going—” 

Namora took a water mask from a pouch at her belt, carefully fitting it over her mouth and nose, filling it with water. At her signal, Namor waved his hand over a circling pattern of vibranium and mother-of-pearl. It turned within the wall. Along the floor, shadowy vaults opened, sucking the water out. The water level dropped immediately. Namor took Shuri by the hand and led her down to the stone floor so she did not fall or lose her balance, knowing that it would be a long time still before she was a swimmer on the level of any Talokani. Fifteen seconds, and the room was half-full. A minute, and Namor was running his fingers through sopping hair while Shuri's suit retreated into the beads of her bracelet, the Queen asking, “Who designed this? Where does the water go? Are there other rooms like this?” 

Namor felt rather than heard his cousin’s sigh as he answered. “A team of engineers many generations ago now, back to Talokan, and yes. We use such rooms to cook, to clean our clothes, to make medicine, to grow food.” 

“I was wondering about the corn.” 

Namor chuckled, more to himself than to her. He waved his hand and the next door opened, leading them deeper into the palace. Namor lowered his hand to the small of Shuri’s back, pressing her forward. She went of her own accord, eyes widening as she looked around. Namor watched her reaction, not recognizing the feeling that was overcoming him, starting at his fingertips and infecting the blood. Uncertainty. He wanted her to like it. The rooms were old and unused, almost forgotten in the centuries that passed with no one to fill them. Everything had needed changing. He picked new details based on what he’d thought she might like based on the colors of her clothes, her underwater suit, the rare jewelry she wore, the design of her lab. The floors were redone in polished white and black stone that reminded him of the contrasting layers of her lab in Wakanda. The anterooms, the halls, the bath, the moonroom where they’d eat dinner together, all of them had intricate murals inlaid in the walls, swirling patterns of jade and gold and polished vibranium that shone blue and purple. Some were simple but beautiful geometric patterns like he wore on his cloaks. Others told their stories. But it was thinking of her reaction to the bedroom that unmoored him. 

Shuri stood in the doorway, the shine of her dark eyes telling him only that she was moved — be it for better or worse, he couldn’t tell. Still so much to learn about her, his panther queen. The room she looked on was a masterpiece of his engineers and architects, and they had worked until their fingers bled to have it finished in a matter of days. The shining mosaic floors that mirrored the style of Wakanda, the midnight-purple ceiling that glittered with cut crystals. The bed had been a particular challenge since all of Talokan used woven hammocks that swayed with the motions of the sea, letting the water rock them to sleep. But his finest craftsmen had taken their duty seriously, and the result was magnificent, the wooden headboard carved with flowers in the shape of the one Chaac had sent to them all those years ago. Pillows and a mattress were stuffed with seabird down. Furs and woven blankets completed the picture. 

But the walls . . . the walls he worried about. Of course, he wanted to paint them all himself, but there was too much to do and he was not god of time. So this room, he decided, would wait. These walls he would fill with images of their life together in the years to come, their children, the wars they won together. 

He waited for his wife’s verdict. 

Shuri turned around in the center of the room, taking excruciating time to examine every detail, from the patterns on the soft rugs to the detailed carvings on the bed. She was looking up at the ceiling and going “hmm” a lot when Namor broke. “Is it to your liking?” 

In as far as he ever broke, at least. 

Shuri turned a shrewd gaze on him, eyes narrowed. Namor did not back down, meeting her gaze head on—

Shuri laughed. “You’re really easy to rile up, you know?” 

It was good Namor appreciated his wife’s sense of humor. Namora did not, but he did. 

Namor dismissed his cousin when Shuri flopped back on the bed, asking her to make sure that the scientists were ready in Shuri’s lab when they arrived. Namora acquiesced, not questioning her king even as they both knew the detour was not planned. Shuri was lying down with her arms behind her bed and her legs crossed when he made his way over to her, grinning up at him. ““Queen’s Rooms”. Does that mean there are King’s Rooms somewhere?”

“There are.” Namor joined her on the bed, trailing a hand over her calf. His gaze, already intense, swiftly grew heated when he remembered being between those legs the night before. 

Shuri, sensing where his mind was going (mostly because hers was following), took her leg back and pressed her foot against Namor’s chest, holding him in place. “Staaaay!” 

Namor stayed. 

“I don’t know how I feel about my husband having his own room,” Shuri said, half-teasing, half-serious. “His own bed. What if I grow lonely?” 

“Well, I don’t have my own bed. I have a hammock in a room submerged in water, which would be most uncomfortable for you.” 

“Semantics.” 

Namor’s grin was sharper than a shark’s. Somehow, Shuri didn’t mind. “The Queen will be pleased to hear that I intend to spend as many nights in her bed as she desires.” 

“Hm.” Shuri put her leg down, reaching up to loosely grab hold of her husband’s cloak, pulling him down until he was on top of her with hands planted firmly on either side of her hair. “That might be acceptable. If the Queen wills it so.”

“Mm.” Namor pressed a kiss to her neck, the curve of her ear. “My Queen is most gracious and merciful.” He ran his hand down flat over her lovely neck, her collarbones, her breasts, lower and lower. “It would please me to grant her a gift, to thank her for her . . .” He nipped at the warm point of Shuri’s pulse, feeling as much as hearing her gasp. “Boundless generosity.” 

Shuri’s hands slid over his shoulders, holding him to her. “Would— would that gift distract us from the lab I’m supposed to be getting much longer?” 

Namor considered that. “Not too much longer.” 

“Estimate?” 

“Less than one of your hours.” 

“. . . we can work with that.” 

Never one to mislead his new wife, they made it to the final remaining room of the Queen’s just fifty-eight minutes later with a promise to continue that night. The door, vibranium to protect against any explosions (intentional or not — Namor entirely remembered how they were introduced), opened and a dozen of Talokan’s finest minds bowed to their new Queen. Namora joined them, though she only inclined her head in acknowledgment before whispering to her cousin, “Was that truly necessary?” 

“Please, cousin,” Namor teased. “The Queen and I were concerned with matters of only the highest importance to Talokan.” 

“Such as?” 

“The establishment of an heir.” 

Namora scoffed at him. Shuri’s laughter could be heard on the other side of the palace. 

She was still trying to tamp down on her giggles when Namor introduced each of the scientists and inventors to her, saying, “My children, the Queen headed Wakanda’s technological development for several years as princess. You will heed her advice and commands as though they pass from my own mouth, and advise her in the ways our own technology is crafted and used so that her brilliance may shine upon Talokan as well.” 

It was odd to hear Namor call them “children” when all of them were visibly older than Shuri. Odder still when they bowed as respectfully to her as the Tribal Elders did for Mama. But she kept her eyes straight and head tall, accepting their kindness with the gesture of greeting that Namor had shown her, hands cupped, wrists pressed together. “Thank you for your kind welcome. I look forward to working together to prepare Talokan for the new challenges and threats rising in the world, so that we are stronger than ever before.” 

It felt presumptuous to say we like that when she had only just arrived, but it seemed to have the effect Namor had promised. The Talokanil scientists looked upon her reverently, ready to jump to work at once if she commanded it. And already, she could feel the ideas piling up in her mind — ways to remove the pollution ever-encroaching on their borders, bigger and better greenhouses so they could grow new varieties of food, Kimoyo beads adjusted to the genetic structures of the Talokanil so their health could be monitored, weapons and spears and armor . . . 

Namora looked at her sharply when she said this last one, mouth pressing into a thin line behind her mask. Turning to her cousin, the warrior said, “Our war costumes and weapons are bound to Talokan by tradition hundreds of years old, as old as Aj K’uk’ulkan. I will not see our ways sacrificed at the altar of progress.”  

Shuri had to bite her tongue not to groan. Thousands of miles away and hundreds of meters under the sea, and still she had to listen to people saying she did not respect tradition? All she said was new spears! It was not that big a deal! 

But Namora thought it was, waiting for her king and cousin’s verdict. Namor considered her carefully before saying, “The world above has changed. They have new ways of killing us; we must have new ways of stopping them. Talokan will rise to meet these new challenges, or we will die.” He looked at the Queen, soft. “I trust Shuri’s advisors to guide her in making sure the new armor and weapons are in line with Talokan’s culture and traditions.” 

Shuri was mature. Queen of Talokan, a wife, a mother to thousands. She did not stick out her tongue at Namora. 

She only considered it. 

Talokan welcomed her new Queen with a night of festivities. 

This time, it was Namor leading her in a dance as the waves carried them, one hand at her waist, the other laced with hers. The whole time, Shuri felt bad for laughing at Namor’s attempts at the Wakandan dances. Even with her suit, she could not move anywhere near as easily or gracefully through the water as him and had to rely on her husband to remember which way was up when the water left her disoriented. At least Namor was a good sport about it. His chuckles were quiet and subtle, passing from him through her spine as he held her, Shuri’s back to his chest. He was firm against her. Shuri pressed closer to him. 

The city was bright and glowing. Her stomach was full from the feast. The water carried children’s laughter to them. When Namor spun her, she could see Attuma and Namora dancing nearby, along with a dozen other pairs as the underwater sun shone on them. It was nice to see them underwater, the blue blush of their skin gone. Attuma was grinning fiercely after leading his warriors in a mock battle for her entertainment. Apparently the dozen or so injuries that came from this was “impressively low”. Namor had laughed at his friend’s theatrics in the fight. Shuri clapped politely between wincing whenever someone was hurt. 

But it was their armor, their weapons, that reminded her of their earlier conversation. 

“Namor,” Shuri began as they moved against a wave. It pushed back on them with each movement, Namor’s graceful strength the only thing keeping her upright. “I wanted to ask something—” 

“And you may,” Namor interrupted, “and I will strive to answer, but not if you continue to call me by the name of my enemies.” 

Shuri gave him a look. “K’uk’ulkan.” 

Namor made a sound like a purr. “Continue.” 

Shuri swatted one of his pointed ears. “As I was saying, I’ve been thinking since earlier, when you showed me the lab.” 

“Is it not up to your standards?” 

“No, it’s—” Namor suddenly moved back, and now they were spinning through the water, now upside down, now pointed to the faintest of blue lights from above. Shuri scrambled to grab his arm, squeezing tight. “It’s amazing! And I love it, I can’t thank you enough.” 

“You don’t need to thank me at all,” Namor murmured, pressed close to her back. “It pleases me to please you.” 

Shuri chuckled. “That explains our wedding night. But don’t distract me!” Shuri caught him, weaving her vibranium-covered fingers through his thick hair, tugging gently. Namor froze, eyes going soft as he let out a little groan. Shuri would have to keep that in mind in case they ever argued. “I want to start a new initiative as my first act as Queen. I want to invite more Talokanil to join my lab.” 

Namor frowned, not so much upset as mildly confused. “Have my scientists offended you in some way?” 

“No! No, I don’t think anyone here could offend me if they tried!” And Shuri wasn’t convinced their tongues would let them. “That is not what I mean. I don’t want to get rid of anyone. But I want to bring in new minds, people close to my age. Younger, even.” 

“Ah.” The confusion was gone, but he was not yet convinced. “I won’t stop you if that is your desire. Only it is not usual for our young people to be scientists or inventors. They are soldiers, hunters, farmers. They care for their siblings and cousins and the other children of their families, if they do not have children of their own. Of course, there are always those with an eye to understanding the ways of the world around us—” his hand slid down her back, caressing her “—be it through artistry or science. But they apprentice with more experienced minds. They do not do these things on their own.” 

“Ah, but they will be learning from a more experienced mind.” Shuri beamed at him. “Mine.” 

Namor chuckled. “I can only imagine.” 

“Well, it works for me. That’s what I want, anyway — fresh minds, new perspectives. People who are intelligent, but not so set in their ways that they cannot see new solutions to new problems.” She raised a brow. Teasing. “Or old ones, for that matter.” 

“That does sound like you.” Namor kissed her cheek. “Very well. Your new assistants will help you find people for this. Abi, as well. She was a priestess once, and can ask the temples to put forth the best minds of their people; they will know these things.” Namor twisted around until he was in front of her again, taking both of Shuri’s hands in his as he sent them rolling, spinning in a circle until Shuri was laughing with him. “Tomorrow. Tonight, we’re dancing.” 

Shuri’s head was still spinning long after they’d stopped. Squeezing Namor’s hands, she said, “Works for me.” 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE LEAVING ME IN CHARGE? I’VE BEEN HERE FOR A WEEK!” 

Namor gave her an odd look, raising his brow. A spear was balanced in his hands, but it wasn’t his battle spear, laden with gold and pearls. The hunting spear was even sleeker, but less decorative, the vibranium polished and shining. Namor handed it back to Attuma before waving the warrior away with a command in the Talokanil dialect. Attuma bowed to each of them before leaving, swimming up and away from the palace courtyard. Namor turned his attention to her. “Is there a reason I would not? You are Queen.” 

“A week, Nam— K’uk’ulkan!” 

Namor frowned. “How many days is this? You should speak with Abi about learning our calendar. It will be much better once you do.” 

“See!” Shuri shouted, as though he had proved some intrinsic point about the universe. “You want to leave me in charge of the whole empire, but I don’t even know the calendar. Whoever you leave in charge should at least know the calendar!” 

“I don’t think it will be that much of an obstacle.” 

Shuri scoffed, throwing her hands up in the water. “Why do you have to leave right now anyway?” She was just getting used to the day-to-day of being queen — working in her new lab, blessing little babies, comforting the dying and their families, attending ritual after ritual after ritual, good Bast, there were so many — and now he went and dropped this on her? “It’s not been ten days since our wedding, and you’re already tired of me?” 

Her teary-eyed pout was entirely fake, but Namor didn’t seem to notice. “Of course not.” He swam over to her, cupping the back of her head with his broad hand. “It’s nothing to do with you.” 

Shuri told herself she did not sound like a child about to stomp her foot when she said, “Then why?” 

“The migration season is coming,” Namor said simply. “The whales will chase the food to colder waters as the temperature rises, and many sharks and fish will do the same. With how quickly the waters change and die now, it is more important than ever to make sure the city has enough food for when they’re gone.” 

Namor seemed to consider the conversation over with that, moving to pin his cloak in place. Shuri absolutely did not consider it over, demanding, “But why do you have to go?” She wrapped her arms around herself, searching for the perfect balance of real and fake nerves. “We’re just wed. I’ll miss you.” 

Namor’s eyes softened. He slid his hands down to Shuri’s shoulders, leaning down to press their foreheads together. Shuri let her eyes drift half-shut, leaning forward in his embrace. “I apologize, in yaakunaj. It is not ideal. But there is no duty above protecting my people. That includes providing for them. It includes keeping their spirits high. Sending them out without me is failing at both.” 

Shuri grumbled, knowing it was a losing battle. “So I can’t say anything to convince you to stay?” 

“Hm.” Namor looked down over her, considering. “Are you with child?” 

Shuri smacked him in the chest. “Stop it!” 

“I think not, then.” Oh well. They would simply have to continue trying when he returned. A horrible fate. Simply terrible. He tilted Shuri’s face up by the chin, kissing her cheerk through the glass of her helmet. “Attuma and Namora are coming with me. Abi and my advisors will aid you in anything you need. I will not be gone more than five days.” 

“Five days too many.” Unable to kiss him properly, Shuri squeezed his hands. “Oh, go. Just come back soon.” 

“I will make every effort to do just that.” Namor didn’t make false promises. Shuri appreciated that about him. If he’d said he would definitely be back, no ifs ands or buts, she wouldn’t have believed him, would have thought him a liar for promising what he couldn’t guarantee. But he said he would do everything he could to come back to her, whatever it took to return to her side, and she believed that. “Lean on our people. Besides,” Namor's eyes glinted, “they all just want to impress you.” 

“That makes two of us.” Shuri pressed two fingers to the front of her mask, then to Namor’s cheek in an imitation of a kiss. “Come back quickly. Don’t get eaten by a shark.” 

“Don’t worry, in yaakunaj. That hasn’t happened since I was a child.” 

“You— what? Namor, get back here!” 

Shuri unclenched her hand when her mother finally picked up, her figure forming in the shining light from her beads. “Oh, thank Bast!” 

“Shuri? Intombi, what’s happening?” Her mother stood straight, immediately ready to send all the armies of Wakanda to her daughter if need be— 

“Mama, QUICKLY, I need you to tell me everything I need to know about being Queen before the handmaid comes back with my clothes!” 

“You— what?” 

Shuri waved her hand, hurriedly explaining, “Namor left me in charge for a few days while he’s off being all masculine hunter, look at my spear, but no one ever taught me how to be in charge— shit, she’s back!” 

Shuri rushed to put her arms behind her back, presenting a calm smile as her bedroom door opened and Abi stepped in, her prize in hand. “Here we are, my Queen,” she said thickly, Shuri’s Kimoyo beads working overtime to translate while keeping Ramonda on the line. The handmaid held out a long gown, painstakingly dyed purple with mollusk shells that must have taken weeks or months to collect, and dripping with pearls. “Would you like my help dressing?” 

Shuri shook her head, bringing her hands closer together. “Oh, no Abi, that’s fine.” When she saw how the handmaid’s face fell, Shuri rushed to add, “I need to take care of my hair first.” 

“Oh, I can help with that!” 

Shuri thought she heard her mother laugh. “I mean no offense, but my hair is a little different from everyone else in Talokan. I can handle it.” 

Abi, stubbornly determined to help, chimed, “Then I must watch and assist in any way I can so that I may take over the role in the future. Talokan’s queen should not be left to do such things for herself.” 

Shuri wondered if it was truly privileged to wish that the kingdom of people throwing themselves at her to do her bidding were just a little bit less eager. 

Admitting defeat, Shuri ended the call with her mother and walked Abi through her hair care routine as slowly as she could, letting the familiar motions of moisturizing and oiling calm the pit roiling in her stomach. But gods, why did Namor have to leave her in charge? This was ridiculous! What was the point of a man if not to handle all the hard parts of life she didn’t want to deal with? Bast, of course you would see fit to end the patriarchy in my time! You could not wait for my daughters? 

When she’d done everything she could to stall, even asking Abi to organize the silk hair scarves Nakia had given her as a wedding present, she finally let the handmaid dress her so she could hold court for the day. “There we are,” Abi said with a note of satisfaction as she fastened a vibranium belt studded with pearls around her waist, holding the whole thing in place. “Ah K’uk’ulkan suggested that you hear the people’s complaints within the light caves so that you feel more at home. For today, at least.” 

They were in Namor’s hut in the caves now so she could prepare, liking her rooms below the water more when he was in them. She really should ask someone to move more of her stuff down to the palace. Maybe when Namor was back. “That’s fine, Abi.” She wore her beads on one wrist and Fen’s bracelet on the other, and switched between playing with one or the other, T’Challa’s laughter echoing through the halls of her mind. She made herself stop and lowered her hands to her side. “Abi?” 

“Yes, my Queen?” the handmaid said as she drew thin red lines of paint over Shuri’s cheeks and chin. 

“What am I going to do?” 

Abi seemed only mildly confused before answering. “You will hear the people’s complaints and tell them what to do. As K’uk’ulkan is father of Talokan, so you are mother. It is your duty to lead and command, and we shall obey as children do a wise parent.” 

Shuri was plenty smart. Wisdom was something she always needed help with. “But if I'm supposed to be the judge and jury, shouldn't I have to study the law or something?” 

Abi frowned, just growing more and more confused as Shuri spoke. “You are Queen. Your word is our law.” 

“That— that can’t be it!” 

“But it is.” Finishing with the paint, Abi took a step back, giving her an odd look. “You are Ix Shuri, our Jaguar Queen. We trust your word above all things. If you say your word is just, we will follow.” 

Shuri bit her lip, seeing a thousand logical ways that could go wrong as a form of government for literally anyone, but all that came out was, “But what if I’m wrong?” 

Abi laughed like she’d told a hilarious joke. “You are a god. No one thinks that will happen.” 

No one but her. And Shuri had a much more realistic assessment of her own divinity. Which was none. 

But there was no point in arguing. Abi — and, Shuri realized, probably everyone else in Talokan — was coming at it from such a different mindset that they might as well be from different species entirely. Wakanda was a monarchy, but even they answered to the people and the Tribal Council. Even the royal family had laws they were expected to obey. They weren’t Bast with her divine authority. But Namor — K’uk’ulkan — people prayed to him. When Namor left, the gathered priests said that his mere presence was a blessing on the hunt, his continued favor more precious to them than the water they breathed. 

And now, one visit and a spark of attraction had spiraled into him bestowing the same authority on her. 

Shuri didn’t know if she could handle that kind of responsibility. She wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t wreck the whole city in the handful of days Namor was supposed to be gone. He had more faith in her than she did. He had more faith than her period. 

She guessed that would have to be enough. 

The throne of the light caves was different from the magnificent shark jaw in the center of the city. This one was carved from dark blue stone, the back and arms chased in gold and vibranium. Shuri sat perched forward, the blue light shining off of her throne, her jewelry, her eyes. Raising her hands in Talokan’s symbol of the rising sun, a roar of approval rose from the crowd gathered. Shuri tried to smile, nerves tumbling over each other. The crowd had fallen into a bow when she lifted her hands, and would stay there until she bid them otherwise. Shuri hid a swallow before saying, “Talokan’s Queen speaks to her. Rise and respond.”  

The words came out in thickly-accented Maya, hard-won and well-appreciated. The crowd rose, returning the gesture of greeting. Shuri was sure that if she looked at her chest, she would be able to make out the movements of her heart beneath the flesh. 

Abi, standing at her back and beaming with pride at being given a place of honor, said, “Chamaltuux of the Northern Talokanil village may present her offerings to Ix Shuri.” 

Chamaltuux, a woman whose arms and ears were decorated with mother-of-pearl adornments, stepped forward and went to her knees before the throne, pressing her forehead to the wet ground. “Ix Shuri. Please accept the finest pearls from my family’s harvest this season.” 

“Níib óolal, Chamaltuux—” Someone else came and opened a stone-carved box for her and, by Bast, those were some big pearls. Sekhmet damn her. She didn’t even know what to do with these. She still didn’t know how she was supposed to get through the giant pile of clothes and jewelry she’d been gifted in the past few weeks, but people kept insisting on adding to it. 

Before she could decide what to do, Abi leaned next to her, whispering, “The polite way to reject a gift would be to accept it, then gift it back. Or I could send it to one of the temples as an offering, if it pleases you.” 

But Mama would say that was a despicably rude way to start off her rule. So instead, Shuri smiled and tried to channel T’Challa’s regality when she said, “Níib óolal, Chamaltuux. They are as lovely as the stars above the sea. I will make sure to put them to good use.” She just had to figure out what that would be. 

Another supplicant offered her the largest fish from their catch and asked her to bless their son's marriage; Shuri gladly granted the request and, looking at the fish that was bigger than herself, resigned herself to the fact that her diet was going to mostly consist of seafood for a while. A priestess of Chalchiuhtlicue, her white hair artfully piled atop her head, offered a dozen of the goddess’s blessings to the Queen before finally requesting Shuri’s presence at a ritual that the capital city’s temple to the goddess the next day. Considering it was apparently a fertility ceremony “in Ix Shuri’s honor”, she had a feeling she knew what that was all about. Shuri looked to Abi for a way out of it, but the handmaid seemed more excited than Shuri when she got her new lab. She tried not to look like she was seconds from banging her head against a wall when she accepted. 

The next visitors were far more welcome. 

Shuri rose from the throne and held her arms open, her smile entirely genuine. “Nicté! Itzel!” Sweeping her skirts along the stone floor, Shuri bent low to the ground to take the two young girls in her arms. Shocked, they giggled to her and each other. Their black hair was done up in the twin buns she’d taught them. Shuri sat back on her feet and bopped Itzel’s nose, the young girl’s face screwing up in surprised joy. “Now, what do my two favorite subjects need?” 

Holding a hand over her mouth to hide her giggles, Nicté whispered in her friend’s ear. Itzel, swaying back and forth on unsteady feet, held something behind her back. Before she could lose her nerve, she held it out, arms stretched towards Shuri as she shouted, “For the queen!” 

Shuri’s eyes crinkled as she took in the woven band of white flowers, their petals soaked and bruised from the trip. They were the lovelist thing she’d ever seen. Grinning ear to ear, Shuri bowed her head. Twisting her fingers around the flower circlet, Itzel hesitantly reached out, lowered it over Shuri’s curls. Shuri smiled at the pair. “A crown for a queen?” 

Smiling shyly, Nicté nodded. Shuri brushed a kiss to each of their cheeks and squeezed their shoulders. “Thank you. I will treasure this gift like no other.” 

Shuri sent them off in a flurry of laughter, the girls holding hands as they chased each other out. Chuckling, Shuri returned to her throne, feeling slightly better. Even if she didn’t know anything else, she still knew how to be a sister. 

“That was well done,” Abi told her as Shuri settled back. Eyeing the tired-looking man who was coming to beseech the Queen next, the handmaid was quick to say, “Aj K'uk'ulkan has stores of food saved for emergencies, diseased crops or poor hunts. Simply say it will be done.” 

“What—” Shuri quickly shut her mouth when the newcomer stood before her, the cavernous hall falling silent. She straightened, trying to remember how T’Challa used to sit on his throne. Regal. Simple. Like it came naturally to him, like everything always came naturally to him. She didn’t think she’d ever get there, but his memory might just get her halfway. 

The newcomer was a man who breathed heavily into his water mask. Dark half-moons turned his undereyes purple, a harsh color against his blue skin. The blanket around his arms seemed to be there more for warmth than formality. “Ix Shuri.” He went to his knees before her. “I am graced by your presence. I only desire that it had been on a kinder day than this.” 

Shuri leaned forward, forgetting formality. “The pleasure is mine. Please tell me what happened.” 

Raising his head, the man flushed vaguely green before he caught his breath. “An oil spill. In my home — the Northern village, Jaguar-Queen, a hundred miles from here. Our food and people are poisoned.” 

Someone from the crowd hissed. “Americans.” 

“Yes. Jaguar-Queen, I’ve come to ask you to spare some food for our people—” 

“You can have it,” Shuri said immediately, mind working faster than her mouth. “And I’ll call Wakanda personally to have them send equipment to clean up the water.” She smiled. “We’re used to cleaning up other countries’ messes. Medical assistance too. We’ll do everything we can.” The Talokanil standing closest to her seemed shocked, and she could not tell if it was in a good or bad way. Too late now. It wasn’t like anyone could make her stop. “I am going to speak to my— Queen Ramonda, and ask her to send Wakanda’s emergency medical response teams, as many as they can spare on short notice.” How did Mama always manage to be perfectly calm and reassuring in every situation? Shuri tried to channel some of that energy. “That’s the point, right? Of this alliance?” She smiled and hoped she didn’t look like a teenager like she did ninety percent of the time. “To help each other.” She turned back to her supplicant. Calm. Reassuring. Just act like you are back in your lab and the fate of hundreds of lives does not immediately rely upon your choices. “If that’s good?” 

“Good?” The man whispered, stunned. He bowed his head low to the ground, tears in his eyes. “It is more than good, my Queen. You are as the holy men say — a blessing, sent by Chaac.” 

He thanked her a dozen more times before allowing himself to be dismissed. As soon as he was gone, Abi stepped forth to say, “Ix Shuri has matters of the highest importance to Talokan to attend to. We must go now to contact Wakanda. Anyone who has matters of immediate consequence may speak to Aj K’uk’ulkan’s advisors. Those seeking justice may seek audiences with the priests of Chaac or Chalchiuhtlicue, or wait until Ix Báalam next holds court.” 

A single silent stomp of her lady’s foot had everyone bowing as she led Shuri out, the queen incredibly grateful as she’d been moments away from fighting off a headache. When they were out of the crowd, Abi said, “Aj K’uk’ulkan told me that you would need a break in your lab as soon as possible.” 

For a moment, Shuri was just stunned. Then she couldn’t stop the grin that overcame her, circling Fen’s bracelet around her wrist. “Smart man.” 

Abi turned back to her, dark eyes soft. “You did well. We all thought you would.” 

“Everyone but me?” 

“Yes.” 

Shuri chuckled, tapping at her beads until her suit started to form around her. Still. Maybe it was the cynicism that came after Thanos brought Wakanda to her knees . . . but she couldn’t help thinking, If Chaac sent me, then what did he send me for? What’s coming?

It was a good thing, Shuri decided, that she did not believe in gods. Except for her husband. She just needed the one.

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Abi started off her tutoring with simple phrases. 

Hello and goodbye, please and thank you, yes and no, the Mayan consonants foreign to her tongue. When the handmaid felt she had mastered these, they moved onto what she felt would be most useful to the Queen if she could not rely upon her beads — how to ask for food and directions and help, how to call upon a guard or soldier to defend her, how to ask where K'uk'ulkan was and to be taken to him. And prayers, prayers to Chaac and Chalchiuhtlicue, who Abi recommended praying to at least once a day. But these prayers weren't like the ones Shuri knew. 

“Singing prayers are the most important and the most powerful,” Abi told her one day when they were coming back from the smiths, carrying blocks of raw vibranium for the Queen’s latest spear design. “The gods always hear these prayers, though it is up to them how they are answered, if at all.” 

“Is that what I hear all the time?” Shuri asked. Her arms were already tired, even though Abi was easily carrying three times as much as her and didn’t seem bothered. “Singing? I thought it was music, or whales or something.” 

“The whales sing with us sometimes,” Abi said helpfully and, wait, what? “But yes. Someone is always singing in Talokan. The whales are singing now in fact.” She tilted her head to the side, her brown eyes lovely in the blue light of the city. “The gods are good. K’uk’ulkan will return soon.” 

“How can you tell?” Shuri asked, already giddy at the thought of her husband’s return. Three days should not be enough time to miss someone, but she did. She did, and she hoped he missed her too. He better miss me. I’m his wife. 

“The whales,” Abi said simply, long after Shuri had gotten lost in her own thoughts — not that it was hard. “They sing of his return. The hunt was a good one. We will feast to celebrate.” 

Which was another thing she was probably going to be in charge of, but for once, Shuri didn’t mind. “I thought just male whales sang? To attract females?” 

Abi laughed. “Who thought that up?” 

Shuri considered it before realizing she didn’t know. “I don’t know. Some colonizer probably.” 

Abi laughed louder. 

Namor swam ahead of his companions. He always did, trusting his own arms and legs and wings more than any animal, no matter how intelligent. But now especially he wanted to get home sooner than everyone else. His wife was in Talokan. That was more incentive than he’d ever needed . . . 

And yet. 

They were still some miles from the city when a scout spotted him. Jakka. This one, Namor knew since he was a smiling child, perhaps younger. He had overseen the man’s training as a frowning youth and his growth to a scowling man. He was often the first to see Namor when he returned from his visits to the other villages of their empire or his missions defending against the colonizers of the surface. Jakka was moments from sounding the signal on his conch horn that would alert the city to Aj K’uk’ulkan’s return when Namor lifted a hand in the water and shook his head. Silence. 

Confused, Jakka obeyed his leader. When they were close enough to speak, Jakka said, “What is wrong, K’uk’ulkan? Are you followed?” 

What had overcome him? Namor wasn’t sure himself until he spoke. “No. I only want to surprise Shuri with my return.” He was smiling when he said it. He wasn’t used to that. Another effect of Shuri’s presence in his life, he decided. She did these things to him. He could not bring himself to be upset by the change. “Where is she?” 

“In the light caverns, K’uk’ulkan,” Jakka told him. “She hears the people there.” 

Namor’s smile was sharp. “This I must see.” It would take time for the rest of the hunting party to drag their prizes back to the dry buildings of the city where the whales and sharks and fish they caught must be processed for storage. He was fast enough to make it to the caves before the people became aware of their return. 

So he did. 

Namor cut through the water, knowing the ancient paths better than he knew his own hands. He knew where to emerge so he was not immediately spotted, fitting into the back of the crowd, everyone more focused on Shuri in the center of the cavern. He could not blame them. He couldn’t tear his eyes from her either. 

Shuri was lovely in a gown he had made for her, ink-black and laced with shining shells and pale-blue jade that reflected the cave’s blue light back on her. Embroidered patterns of jaguars lined her skirt. She wore her black fur around her arms for warmth. A queen in every way. My queen. He wanted to stay and watch her a while longer, see how she acted when she didn’t know he was there, how she ruled their people. 

Shuri did not disappoint. 

“Before Ix Shuri departs to meet Aj K’uk’ulkan upon his arrival, she will hear a final matter,” Abi announced, waving forth the Queen’s last visitor of the day. “Aapo of the Reef Villages seeks your word on a matter of personal import, which has seen no resolution in our courts or temples. Your word on the matter is to be final.” 

“I will hear the matter out,” Shuri said, entirely proper. 

Three people stepped forward — a young man, Aapo, a fisher of the reefs surface dwellers did not know of. Opposite to him stood an elderly couple Namor did not know as well, though they lived within the boundaries of the city, Xoc and her husband Yaak. Aapo held a shivering young child in his arms, perhaps five or six years of age. The poor thing clung to his hair and refused to look anywhere else. Aapo’s eyes were a mixture of terror and determination as he faced the queen, ignoring Yaak and Xoc’s eyes on him. “Ix Shuri,” Aapo said, doing his best approximation of a bow with his daughter in hand. “I am grateful for your willingness to hear me.” 

“And your willingness to hear us, as well,” Yaak said, stubbornly scowling at the other man. 

“Peace,” Abi reminded them before taking a step back. “Ix Shuri will hear you, and she will decide the matter. Speak no more of it when she is done.” 

Shuri leaned forward, looking between the two parties. Namor was so distracted by the layered choker of shells she wore that it took him a moment to realize she was speaking. “—tell me what’s happened.” 

“My Queen,” Aapo began, the slightest tremble to his voice as he spoke, “it grieves me to tell you that two moons ago my husband, Tadeas of Talokan, fell in battle with a colonizer ship.” 

“It grieves me to hear this,” Shuri said, looking genuinely sad for him, like she wanted to stand up and give Aapo a hug. Knowing the grief that the gods had burdened her with, Namor didn’t doubt that she would in other circumstances. 

“Your kindness warms me,” Aapo told her. “But with his death, he left behind our daughter, Patli—” 

“His daughter,” Xoc snapped. “Ix Shuri, Patli was born some years before Tadeas met this man! When they wed, Aapo took Tadeas and Patli with him to the reefs, away from our family!” 

“It is the tradition of our people for a married couple to live with the husband’s family,” Aapo said, ignoring Xoc entirely as he rose to his late husband’s defense. “Tadeas and I agreed that we would prefer it to be my family, rather than his. It pained him to remain in Talokan after his first wife died in childbirth. My family took to him with love and kindness, and he thrived with us.” 

Yaak scoffed, as though the mere words were ridiculous when spoken from Aapo. His wife seemed to agree, saying, “My Queen, by the laws of our people, Tadeas’s child should be raised by his family following his death! Yet Aapo has refused to relinquish Patli to us—” 

“I am her family!” Aapo shouted, looking first to his in-laws, then to Shuri, wide eyes wild with desperation. “I have raised her since she was small, so small she could barely speak. She knows me as Yuum, her father. By the laws of our gods, by Aj K’uk’ulkan and his mother, I am her family and will raise her as such . . . if our Queen does allow me.” 

Aapo went to his knees before her, head bowed into Patli’s neck as the girl clung to him. Shifting to hold her closer, Aapo placed a hand flat upon the ground, beseeching Shuri when he spoke. “Please. Please do not take her from me. She is all that remains of him, all that brings me joy in this world. Please, I beg you as a subject begs his ruler and a mortal their god, do not make us part.”  

Namor watched the scene with pained sympathy. He had known Tadeas, and knew the battle he fell in. The blood that spilled from the colonizers that night had not been enough to sate his desire for vengeance at such a kind man falling to the sea. He knew what his decision would be if he had been the one to hear the man out — but he wanted to hear Shuri. 

Shuri stood, the shells and jade beads of her gown clacking as she walked forward. Kneeling low to the ground, the city joined her, until Namor was the only one left standing. Shuri would have surely seen him if she was looking anywhere other than at the little girl in front of her. Shuri laid a gentle hand on Patli’s shoulder. “Patli? Will you speak with me?” 

For a moment, none moved. Then, slowly, surely, Patli uncurled her hand from her father’s hair, setting her little feet on the ground as she turned to face the queen. She was an adorable child, with paint spread over her face in uneven lines, likely formed by her own hands. Her cheeks dimpled when she smiled hesitantly at Shuri. Shuri smiled back. “Ix Shuri.” She tried to bow and almost fell over her feet, giggling when Shuri caught her. “Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.” Namor could live a thousand thousand years, and still never see a brighter sight than his wife’s smile. “Patli, listen to me, this is important.” Her eyes turned serious, but not unkind. “You are the one who is most affected by this. You, not them. I want to hear what you want.” 

Namor shifted, moving low to the ground as he traced his wife’s eye. It was a different approach, but entirely logical. A new perspective. He might not have ever thought of it, but it seemed such an obvious question the way Shuri asked it. He waited. 

Patli looked up at the queen with wide, dark eyes, so like her father’s. And she said, “I want to stay with yuum, Ix Shuri.” Then, blinking through tears, she added weakly, “Please.” 

“Impudent child,” Yaak hissed. “Aapo fills her mouth with lies—” 

“It is not a small thing to lie to one who is queen and god both,” Abi warned, eyes glinting dangerously. “Consider again what you accuse your son-in-law and granddaughter of, and rethink your words.” 

Yaak shut his mouth. 

“I’m settling this now,” Shuri said, standing once more. As everyone followed her, she said, “Patli is going home with her father. You want to see her, make the effort to reach out and visit every now and then.” She nodded to Aapo, as though he were not looking at her with relieved amazement, with worship, and made to leave. “Dismissed.” 

At the exact moment she stopped speaking, the booming drone of a conch shell sounded throughout the caves, announcing the hunting party’s return. Everyone looked around, searching for the source of the sound — and bowed when they finally saw him, more and more people going to the ground until it was only him and Shuri still on their feet, staring at each other. 

Namor inclined his head to her. “In itzia. Did you miss me?” 

Shuri’s answer was to run across the room and jump into his arms, grinning ear to ear. “What do you think, idiot?” And just like that, the regal queen of a moment ago was gone, given way to the princess he fell in love with. 

Namor found he liked them both. 

Shuri eagerly showed him around the new projects she was working on in her lab, her underlings hard at work with masks over their mouths and gills. Shuri spoke, only half-sure Namor was actually paying attention and not just staring wistfully at her as she went on, “—and I’ve made progress with the new Kimoyo beads for Talokan, but look! I had an idea to change the design, and now I want them to look like pearls. I think people will like that better here. What do you think?” 

“I think you are right, as I often do.” 

Shuri scoffed and rolled her eyes, unable to keep a smile from overtaking her. “Charmer. And here are my plans for a new suit!” 

Namor frowned, concerned. “Is something wrong with yours?” 

“Of course not, I made it. But just because something works does not mean it cannot be improved!” She showed him the design pad she had brought over from Wakanda. The changes would make it sleeker, improve her eyes’ visibility, and withstand the immense water pressure of the city better . . . “And I want to change the colors.” She smiled toothily, distantly acknowledging that she was searching for his approval. “Jade-green and white, to match you. And I got these pearls I thought I could incorporate—” 

“All of you are dismissed,” Namor said abruptly in the mother tongue. The scientists and engineers, half of them young recruits from Shuri’s youth program, turned to him. “The queen and I have matters to discuss privately. Do not return today.” 

With that, they left without question, only sparing a moment each to make the rising sun gesture for the royal couple as they left. The door shut behind the last person. Shuri looked up at Namor in confusion, wondering if she’d done something to piss him off without realizing. “K’uk’ulkan? What—” 

Namor kissed her. Kissed her like he was starving, like the four days they spent apart were the worst hell he’d ever lived through and he was grateful simply to be returned to her side. His hands came up to cup her jaw, holding her close to him. Shuri fumbled for a moment before grabbing him in return, squeezing his strong shoulders. She was breathless when Namor broke the kiss to press their foreheads together, his nose bumping hers. “I apologize for upsetting you,” Namor whispered. “It was not my intention. My desire for you clouded my thinking.” 

Shuri chuckled, drawing his mouth back to hers. “Apology accepted.” It was not good lab etiquette to have sex on her work table . . . but then, who was to say Talokan didn’t have completely different lab standards? Loophole. 

Namor’s tongue was demanding against her own, and Shuri strove to match him. His hands drifted low, knotting in the silky fabric of her gown, finding their way under the flimsy skirts, up her thighs. Shuri wondered, in the back of her mind, if his desire for her would ever fade. Hopefully not for a long time. She liked the way he used his hands. Like now as they wrapped around her wrist, tight enough that she would have to take her Kimoyo beads to the skin later to get rid of the bruises she so treasured. She loved the marks they left on each other — okay, more him on her, but her skin was about a thousand times more sensitive to that kind of thing, and he bore the ten-minute hickies she gave him with pride — but it would be a mess if mama or Okoye ever saw them when she called. 

Oh, but she loved getting them. She loved this — Namor, holding her wrists to her sides as he layered kisses down her throat. His mouth descended across her body, fingers twisting into her dress and pulling the fabric away, exposing her to him. His hands found her breasts, cupping them, rolling a nipple between his fingers. For a while, Shuri had wondered if he would think them too small, but if anything Namor seemed to like how well they fit in his hands. 

Shuri moaned, leaning back against a stone table and clutching the edge as Namor palmed her breasts, sinking lower still. He left wet kisses over her belly. Shuri sucked in a breath when his mouth trailed lower. One hand gave her breast a last squeeze before wrapping around her hip to hold her in place. The other leisurely delved into the soft folds of her cunt, taking his time, his wife growing more and more wet under his careful care. When his mouth found her for the first time in days, it was sweeter than coming home. 

Shuri shivered under his attention. Namor was on his knees before her like it was where he belonged. She gripped her his shoulders when his tongue twisted inside her the way she liked, shoving his face closer to her cunt. Shuri searched for her voice, saying, “You— sometimes I think you like this more than me.” She squirmed, instinctively canting her hips towards him. “Eating me out.” 

Namor purred against her clit, making Shuri suck in a breath when the vibrations rolled through her. “Is that the phrase for it?” Namor sucked on the bundle of nerves he loved so much, chuckling. “I’ve been away from you for four days. I’m starving.”  

Shuri echoed his laugh. His hair was thick and smooth between her fingers. “Well . . . what kind of queen would I be if I let my subject go hungry?” 

Namor moaned, Shuri’s pleasure building on his tongue. When her orgasm came, it was slow and gentle, rolling through her like the waves on a calm day. Shuri’s hand tightened in Namor’s hair, holding him closer to her. Namor squeezed her hips, never wanting to let go. It was . . . calm. Intimate. Shuri was still learning all the ways they could do this. She’d yet to find one she didn’t like. 

Shuri pulled Namor away from her, breathing heavily as she looked down on him, panting, awed. Then, only half thinking it through, she pushed Namor down on the floor by his shoulders and straddled him. Namor sucked in a breath, staring up at her when she swiftly shoved his shorts down and lowered over his cock, enveloping him in her warmth. His pupils were dark and large. Shuri smirked the same way he did so often when she started to move and he breathed in harshly, grabbing her hips hard enough to bruise. “My turn.” 

Every morning, Abi asked Shuri where she wanted to eat breakfast and if she needed help dressing. 

To which Shuri usually answered, “The moonroom, and no but thanks.” At which point the handmaid would sigh, despondent that Shuri wouldn’t allow servants to handle every facet of her existence for her, before heading off to the kitchens to ask them to prepare something fruit and/or corn based. When she returned minutes later, Shuri would already be dressed, having used her beads on any marks that the previous night's activities had left behind. Abi would help her with her hair — which she was steadily getting better at, to her delight — and in putting on any intricate jewelry. When Shuri insisted she didn’t need to wear jewelry every day for the rest of her life, Abi silently responded by removing her own necklaces and ear points and bracelets because, she insisted, she could not dishonor her queen by wearing more or finer jewelry than her. Then Shuri would sigh and say fine, alright, you got me and let Abi adorn her with as much jade and pearl and gold and vibranium as she liked, the handmaid smiling all the way. 

After which came the weirdest part of the ladies’ routine. 

The first time she saw Abi sit down at a table and start to paint her nails with a clear varnish, she said nothing. The other woman’s nails were shark tooth sharp and well-maintained. Clearly she was proud of them, and Shuri assumed it was nothing more. 

When it happened five times in five days, she got curious enough to ask. “Abi, why do you do that every morning?” 

Abi did not lift her eyes from the glazed pot of varnish as she continued painting, simply answering, “To keep them fresh, Ix Shuri.” 

Simple enough. But Shuri had learned early on that Abi had a habit of assuming she knew things that were common knowledge in Talokan, and frequently only half-answered questions, leaving the rest unsaid. So, different question. “What kind of paint is that?” 

“Ah. Snake venom.” 

What? “What?” 

Abi nodded, as though this were an entirely ordinary thing to say and Shuri was the crazy one for questioning it. For a moment, Shuri somehow thought the handmaid was talking about the shade name before she clarified, “Yes. Sea snakes. The venom is most potent.” Abi’s smile was sharp. For a moment, she looked frighteningly like Attuma or Namora. She held her hand up, light glinting off her shining nails. “I raise them myself. This mixture comes from a lovely yellow and black creature bred many generations for the property of her venom. Death is slow, but the paralysis is swift, the pain of the lungs and heart magnificent. Do not fear, my queen.” Abi brushed a long lock of her own hair from her face, the movement sure and swift. She never made a scratch. “None shall harm you while I am close.” 

“Oh . . .” Shuri cleared her throat. “Do you carry the antivenom?” 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Okay, good.”  

So that was terrifying. But at least now Shuri understood why Namor didn’t think she needed any other guards. 

The morning after Namor’s return, Abi returned from ordering the queen’s breakfast when Shuri was still half-dressed, trying to figure out the complicated layers and loops of braided fabric. Giving up, she was standing in her room waiting for her handmaid to return, sighing in relief when she did. “Thank Bast. You win, I can’t get this damn thing on myself—” 

The sound of the door slamming shut rang through Shuri’s ears. She turned. Abi was standing there, the blood gone from her face, turning the blue skin a sickly grey. Making sure the door was locked, she rushed over, taking Shuri’s hands in hers and turning them over. Shuri tried to pull away, asking, “Abi, what are you—” 

Then she realized what the handmaid had seen — the bruises wrapped around her wrists, her upper arms, her collar bone, her hips where the dress still didn’t cover her. Shuri hadn’t had time to take her beads to them. She hadn’t thought to. 

“My Queen . . .” Abi began before taking a deep breath through her water. “Shuri. Please, speak only the truth. On my life, on my honor as a lady of Chaac and Chalchiuhtlicue and you, I will not allow word of this to leave this room. Did K’uk’ulkan do this?” 

“No!” Shuri shouted, suddenly realizing what this looked like. 

Abi eyed her, deathly serious. “Then who?” 

“. . . well, okay, it was him, kind of.” 

Abi shut her eyes, a look of incomprehensible pain passing over the lines of her face. For a moment, she looked far older than she was, as old as Namor. Then she opened her eyes, and they were black. “This will not stand.” 

Abi started for the door, looking as determined as Attuma in training or Namora at any point in her life, and Shuri had to grab her to stop her. “Wait, that’s not what I mean!” 

“Then what did you mean?” 

From anyone else, it would have been an accusation. From her, it was just . . . earnest. And sad. She did not want it to be true — she was only willing to accept it being so. Accept it and carry out the consequences. 

So thank Bast it really wasn’t what it looked like. “Abi, I swear he didn’t hurt me. He didn’t. It’s just . . .” Oh, Sekhmet above, this was embarrassing. Shuri would almost rather be having the sex talk with mama again than be in this conversation. Almost. “They’re from sex.” 

Abi blinked at her several times. “Sex?” 

Please don’t make me say it again. “Yes.” 

“Only that? Nothing else?” 

“Nothing. I swear.” 

Abi considered that for a moment. “Consensually?” 

“Oh, for Bast’s— yes!” Now, she rolled her eyes, glad that the light in her friend’s eye was slowly growing less murderous. “Yes, extremely consensually. K’uk’ulkan . . . forgets his strength sometimes.” Her face grew warm. “And I . . . like when he does.” Bast, what a strange situation. It felt like a twisted version of those American movies where young girls would have parties and stay in each other’s home and talk about boys and kissing and sex in hushed tones, giggling the whole time. Except neither of them were giggling and her mother wasn’t a few rooms over, thank Bast, and Shuri was fully comprehending for the first time that she was a grown, married woman with kinks and temptations and stuff. And she didn’t even know what all of the stuff was. 

But for her part, Abi just seemed relieved, clasping Shuri’s hands and murmuring, “Thanks to Chalchiuhtlicue.” She lifted her head. Her eyes were rimmed an odd shade of purple. “I am grateful to know this. It . . . it pained me greatly to think K’ul’ulkan capable of such a thing. I would not have considered it before . . .” She shook her head. “But the evidence of my eyes is more important than my feelings. A lesson hard-learned is not soon forgotten.” She squeezed Shuri’s hands before letting go. “Let me help you dress—” 

“Abi,” Shuri interrupted, “you never told me how you two met. You and the king.” And it might be nothing, she might be just a servant — but Shuri was too observant to really believe that. 

Abi stilled in her movements. She stood at Shuri’s back, looking over her shoulder into a mirror. “Oh. It was some years ago now. The queen would not be interested—” 

“I happen to know that she very much would be,” Shuri told her, gentling her tone. “If you want to tell me, that is.” 

Abi fiddled with Shuri’s gown a moment longer, looking away. Then she shrugged, and the movement was so strange on her, it made her look tiny. “I left the home of my family when I was little more than a child to serve in the temple of Chalchiuhtlicue. Here, in the capital. I became an acolyte. I was still young when I became priestess in my own right — ah, but I was the most devout. Some serve Aj K’uk’ulkan in battle. I served him in the most holy of ways, by serving the gods. This is how balance is maintained, how our world persists. Service.” For a moment, her eyes shone with remembered joy. “And I loved it. Every moment of it. It was so different from how I was raised, in one of the trench villages.” She shivered. “It was . . . cold there. And lonely. Only myself and my mother and father when I was young. And then myself and father. And even he was gone most days, a warchief of our village.” Her mouth twisted into a sneer. “Those of the trench villages defend the empire against creatures of the deep, old and cruel things that K’uk’ulkan still bears scars from. Only the cold and hard are suited for such a life. Abund served Aj K’uk’ulkan every day, but never took me to be blessed as was proper, never even mentioned my name to him. What kind—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “But I found my heart here. The lady of the jade skirt governs fertility, childbirth. I was priestess, midwife, confidant to many women. I learned. I made friends. I laughed. All things I never did before.” 

Shuri stared at her through the mirror as Abi turned, sitting down on her knees before the bed. Turned away from her. As though she didn’t think her legs could bear the weight any longer. “Abi . . . what happened?” 

Abi considered the question for a long time. Too long. Then, “I stopped.” 

Shuri felt her heart break. 

“I was informed by my father that I was to be married. This would bring several of the smaller trench tribes into my former one, binding them to him. I had to leave the temple. I had to leave everything.” She picked at her hand, as though daring the venom-coated nails to cut the skin open. “This was service to Aj K’uk’ulkan, even if the king himself was unaware of what was happening. More important than a single priestess could be. Who was I? There were dozens of ladies of Chalchiuhtlicue within the city alone, nevermind the empire. This would be more than I could do there. That is how he said it. And I . . .” She sucked in a breath. “And I was crafted to serve.” 

Evil, Shuri thought, unable to speak. Evil. 

“So I was married,” Abi said simply. “I was not happy about this. Considering my husband’s complaints, he was not pleased with me either. I had no interest in children of my own. I did not know him and did not consider him worthy of my service. I preferred growing strange plants and collecting venomous snails to speaking with him or preparing his meals.” For a moment, Abi smiled. “I was a strange child once. Some things never die.” She held a hand up, looking at her nails. “He was not one of them.” 

Shuri had not known Abi even was married before. “What happened?” 

“What happened? I happened.” She tilted her head at the memory. “He was . . . not like K’uk’ulkan. Not kind or respectful. Your bruises were familiar. And I decided there were better beings to serve.” Now, she grew confident again, remembrance settling into her. “So I let him have his way for the day. I let him say whatever he wanted, do whatever he wanted, touch whatever he wanted. We drank together, laughed together, ate together. I fed him the dinner I made for him.” The laugh that left her mouth was not human, but Shuri didn’t know what else to call it. Maybe it was too human. Painfully so. “I remember his death throws. The choking, the pleas, the purple veins of his face, the blood pooling in his eyes. I thought it would be horrible. And maybe it was.” Her mouth stretched into a grin. “But really I just wanted to see it again. Does that make me bad?” 

Shuri thought of the warriors in Wakanda and Talokan alike who delighted in a good fight, in vanquishing an enemy. She thought of T’Challa, holding court for a young woman with bruises on her neck, saying that crimes committed to protect oneself were no true crimes. Namor, more than willing to kill anyone who hurt his people, who hurt her. “No. No, not at all. It makes you human.” 

Abi frowned for a moment. “I suppose that’s a compliment.” 

Shuri couldn’t quite laugh, so she tried a smile. “I meant it as one.” 

Abi smiled back. “Then I take it as one, Ix Shuri.” She shook her head. “If it helps you to know it, I was taken before Aj K’uk’ulkan for it. I went willingly. I made no effort to conceal it — truly, I felt I had nothing to hide. If he killed me for it, he killed me. I was ready to begin my journey through Xibalba. It was in the gods’ hands, and I trust in those more than any mortal’s.” 

“But he didn’t kill you?” 

“He did not.” She chuckled. “Clearly. He said . . .” Abi’s eyes turned soft. “He said that a crime had been committed, but not by me. I was to be free to — to do anything. Return home, marry again, return to my temple. Even my father did not dare question his judgment, though I think he’s always wanted to.” She shook her head. “But I did not want that. I was changed by the experience. I had a new desire burning through me. I wished to serve Aj K’uk’ulkan. So I did, and I have ever since.” 

Abi stood and walked, taking Shuri’s hands in her own. She was warm, even so far underwater. Her hands were sure. “Then Chalchiuhtlicue sent you to us. Sent you to me. And now I see a new path forward.” Abi squeezed her hands, never coming close to scratching her. “I have sworn to protect you against all things — even K’uk’ulkan. If I had to.” 

Shuri chuckled softly. “I don’t think you’ll have that problem.” 

Abi smiled. “Glory to K’uk’ulkan, glory to Shuri. That makes me happier than anything else.” 

She leaned forward and kissed Shuri’s cheek, and Shuri realized that, after Namor, Abi was her first actual friend in Talokan. One of her only friends in the world, really. Huh. 

As though nothing had happened, Abi released her, a cheerful prayer song on her tongue as she set to work fixing Shuri’s dress and picking out coral jewelry for her to wear. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Shuri and Namor had not been married a month when the time came for Talokan to fulfill their end of the bargain. 

Shuri spoke quickly as around her, the Talokanil prepared for battle, recording a message for Ramonda and Okoye. “Mama, our people saw a ship headed to Wakanda, the same kind that Namor stopped months ago. They put some bugs on it — my design — and it’s CIA. I’ll be there before you can stop me. Love you.” 

Kind of cowardly, but she had a right. 

Shuri thought she’d have to argue with Namor to even go. Instead, he was ready and waiting for her, having prepared Ichaphaza himself. (The orca now seemed to regard Shuri as minimally competent, which was more than she could ask for.) Namor was almost confused by Shuri’s surprise. “Of course you’re coming. We need you, remember?” 

Which she did remember. It was just . . . surprising. Still. To be treated as an adult, an equal. Namor didn’t even assign her a guard except to remind Namora and Attuma to protect her if it came to that. He seemed to think she was fully capable of handling herself — or that he was more than enough protection. She couldn’t really tell. 

From what she’d heard, Namor usually swam ahead of the group, only the scouts going beyond him. But tonight he went with her on Ichaphaza, guiding them both to Wakanda’s waterways. When the waters changed from salt to fresh, when Shuri started to look nervous, he reached across the broad back of the animal to set a hand over hers. “Do not fear, in itzia. No harm will come to you.” 

Shuri tried to smile, but soon gave up. “I’m not scared, K’uk’ulkan. You’re here.” 

— Wakanda —

The attack was as swift as it was horrible. 

Shuri hesitated under the surface of the water, holding onto Ichaphaza’s dorsal fin as the others dispersed. Just a few meters away, the Talokanil began to poke their heads above the water, scoping out the ship. They didn’t seem concerned. Angry, but not worried. They knew what they were doing. Talokan had come to fulfill her promises to Wakanda, and there would be no stopping them. 

It started with a song. Shuri hesitated before clicking her tongue, Ichaphaza rising through the water for her to see the others. She could only half-hear them, Namor having already warned her to plug her ears. She wasn’t sure what the point was though. War songs weren’t uncommon, from the chants of the King’s Guard before battle to the drummer boys of English colonists two hundred years ago. But the Talokanil weren’t using instruments. Rather, it was the low, haunting call of their voices that reached out to the ship floating atop the ink-black water. Besides, they were supposed to be stealthy, taking the CIA by surprise— 

Someone jumped in the water. 

Shuri flinched backwards, gripping Ichaphaza’s dorsal fin. The animal was calm. So were the blue warriors raising their heads from the water, adding their voices to one another, overlapping each other. It was a beautiful song. Like something hidden in the back of her memory — her mother, singing to her as an infant, rocking her in her arms like the waves of the sea . . . 

Another person jumped. Then two, then three, then ten, then Shuri realized what was happening. 

This is not a fight, Shuri thought, suddenly sick to her stomach as she stared in horror. This is a massacre. 

The song changed, pitching higher and higher. Now, they weren’t just calling. They were demanding. The seductive lull of gentle fingers along your wrist suddenly changed as that hand gripped your neck and held you underwater. 

No blood, Shuri thought distantly. T’Challa had been coughing up blood by the end. His lungs torn to shreds from hacking, disintegrating within his chest. He thought she didn’t see, but Okoye brought the rust-stained bedclothes to her in the hopes that she could use the blood samples in making a cure. It didn’t work. 

Not a problem now. Namor’s warriors moved fast, pulling the bodies deeper under, until it wouldn’t matter if the thrall broke. They were never coming back up. They were too far gone. 

The song spun on. Even through her helmet, her ear plugs, Shuri felt the changing the flow of blood in her brain, making her dizzy. She clung to her pet tighter, terrified to let go and find herself dragged down with the rest of the surface. The water was calling her, pleading with her to embrace it. And maybe it meant its sweet words. 

But to a human, the ocean’s embrace was not so different from drowning. 

The singing stopped, heads popping back underwater when gunshots fired in the air. Ichaphaza didn’t wait for Shuri’s signal, dragging her back under. Shuri gasped, looking around wildly at the floating bodies, the blue and living alongside the dead. Ahead of her, Namora and Attuma prepared their spears. She couldn’t see Namor. 

Then they started to leap from the water, and the rest was blood and screams. 

When the cries faded and it was time for Shuri to do her part, Namora marched her through the ship, the tip of her spear coated in blood. The “fight”, insofar as it could be called that, had been short. Nothing like how T’Challa or the Avengers fought. Merciless, that was the word. Cold was another. Their songs had decimated the ship so thoroughly that there were no more than a few bodies and smears of blood, Namora deftly leading her away from them so she didn’t have to look. 

T’Challa killed in fights, Shuri reminded herself. He killed N’Jadaka, would have killed Klaue. This way we didn’t lose anyone. It was a hard truth to swallow, but one she had to remind herself of. 

At Namora’s side, Shuri found the control room where the information she needed was. She worked quickly, Namora guarding the door so no one interrupted her. As her beads infiltrated the computer systems and planted the new information, she realized that it would have been the people in here — the heads of operation, the ones in charge — who didn’t hear the song. Who tried to get out, to get to the helicopter for safety. The ones Namor had thrown into the sea. 

She worked. 

It wasn’t hard. Examining what remained of the ship that Talokan had already infiltrated had given her access to their records, including a final message that never left the ship. “They weren’t Wakandans, they were blue— EVERYONE’S DEAD—” It ended there as the researchers had been pulled out of the sky. Sacrificed to an uncaring sea and a vengeful god. 

Still. Pretty definitive. 

Shuri was finishing implanting the evidence of alien intervention — she felt a little guilty for using technology the Guardians had thoughtlessly left behind on Earth, but they were in space and Wakanda and Talokan did not have the advantage of distance — when Attuma arrived. “Ix Shuri.” The warrior held his hands up in greeting. “K’uk’ulkan requests your presence. There is a conquistador who surrendered in the Queen’s mother tongue, begging for mercy.” Xhosa, Shuri realized. That was what he meant. They’d spoken her language. “K’uk’ulkan wants you to question him before he is killed.” 

Conquistador was the only Spanish word the Talokanil retained, the only one her translator didn’t bother with. They used it to refer to most white people honestly, but especially the ones who came to Talokan and Wakanda’s waters looking for vibranium. The pale surface-dwellers and their leaders and soldiers were the worst. Shuri reminded herself of that as they walked down the halls. No one on this ship was innocent. They’re all CIA, all coming to my country, my home to threaten us and steal from us, maybe even overthrow us. Murderers, if not murderers-in-waiting. More people would have died if we didn’t stop them. My people. T’Challa would have seen the logic in that, even if he didn’t like it. Baba would not have thought twice. 

So Shuri tried not to. Being Queen was about more than being nice. It was about keeping her people safe. 

No matter the sacrifices. 

Namora announced her as they were brought to the room where Namor and the prisoner awaited, the latter a pale man with blood and bruises obscuring his face. His wrists were bound. His head hung low. “Conquistador! Lowest scavenger of the dirt and seas, the filth that dare not touch Aj K’uk’ulkan’s feet! You are honored above your worth to stand before she of the Earth and Sun, Queen of Talokan, Goddess of Love and Beauty, Ix Shuri of Talokan—” 

“Shuri? Wait!” The CIA agent struggled against the bindings, lifting his eyes to her— 

“Ross?!”  

For a moment, they just stared at each other, all eyes on them. Then Shuri ran across the room, thinking nothing as she fell to his side, grabbing his wrists and searching for the knife she had somewhere— 

“Shuri!” Namora shouted suddenly, just barely stopping herself from outright ordering the queen back. “You are not— he is a prisoner.” She turned her eyes on Ross, acidic and disgusted. “A conquistador. The worst kind.” 

Ross only understood one of those words, but one was enough. “Shuri, what’s going on?” His cheek was bruised. He was struggling to even speak, nevermind be comprehensible. “What’s— what are you doing here? You know these people?” 

Shuri looked around and remembered where she was. Namor was sitting on a bench at the head of the room, managing to make it every bit as regal as his throne. In one hand he held his spear, the raw vibranium head coated in blood. There was not a scratch on him. He propped his chin in his palm, watching her, unblinking. She hadn’t seen him after a fight yet. This was the first time. His blood was hot. Shuri was sure that if she placed her cheek against his, he would burn her. When he stared, she couldn’t tell if he was angry with her or Ross. Or both. It might be both. 

Well, I’m not happy either. One of us will just have to deal. “Don’t say anything,” Shuri whispered in English. “Okay? Not a single thing.” Trust me Ross, them saying conquistador is a COMPLETELY different vibe from me calling you colonizer. 

Luckily, he seemed to believe her — or he at least trusted her more than anyone else in the room. Which might be damning with faint praise, but sometimes that was the only praise you could get. Shuri squeezed his hand and wished them both luck as she stood, looking at her husband. “K’uk’ulkan . . .” She resisted the urge to do a little wave. “I know this is . . . confusing—” 

“That’s one way to put it,” Namor said in clipped English. “You are the Princess of Wakanda, Queen of Talokan. Is there a reason you approach this conquistador like a friend?” 

Next to her, Ross mouthed What? several times. Like she didn’t get it the first time. 

“This man is Everett Ross,” Shuri said, deciding honesty was the best way to go right now. Also, she couldn’t think of a good lie. “I first met him in 2016 — ten years ago,” she corrected when the translation got her confused looks. “He was a friend of— of my brother, T’Challa. When he was almost killed taking a bullet for an agent of Wakanda, they brought him to me to treat him and I saved his life.” Whispers. Shuri rushed to add, “He helped us fight N’Jadaka, the cousin who tried to murder my brother and steal his throne. He’s a friend of Wakanda.” 

Namor leaned forward, eyes immediately catching hers. “That does not make him a friend of me.”  

Around the room, the Talokanil readied their spears, all of them aimed at Ross. His unswollen eye bulged. “Uhhh, Shuri?” 

“I know, shut up,” Shuri muttered, just as nervous. The friendly faces of the people she’d known a day ago were gone, replaced by Talokan’s finest warriors. Here, that meant more than the best fighter — it meant being the most willing to do what was required of them. You will heed her advice and commands as though they pass from my own mouth. But that meant nothing if Namor was right there, telling them to do the opposite of what Shuri was saying. “K’uk’ulkan, my husband—” 

“Husband?!” 

“I said shut up!” Bast, they should never have let him into Wakanda. She was going to have a lot of explaining to do if he got out of here alive . . . so maybe she wouldn’t, actually. 

Namor was not amused. “In yaakunaj, none of that explains why he is here. None of it guarantees the safety of Talokan or Wakanda.” His gaze was sharp, slicing Ross to the core and sending him slinking back, like a dog with his tail between his legs. She thought of M’Baku, threatening to feed Ross to his children if he spoke out of place. If Namor threatened him, it would be no joke. “Explain this or stand aside.” 

She didn’t plan to stand aside. “Ross.” Shuri nudged his side, gesturing frantically for him to stand up. Come on man. “Why were you here?” For a moment, she wondered if he did betray them. If, somehow, he was the confirmation of Namor’s worst fears. That even those she thought she could trust betrayed them in the end. 

Ross struggled to stand even with Shuri supporting his side, quickly bowing his head in Namor’s general direction. “Your— your majesty?” He glanced at Shuri to check if that was right, and was visibly relieved when she nodded. He let out a breath and continued, struggling to pull his story together. “I swear, I’m not here as an enemy of Wakanda. As soon as I realized what was going on, I decided to join this mission to help Wakanda.”  

Namor let out a sharp laugh. “I am curious how you think you will convince me of this.” 

Shuri winced, the man in front of her a dark-eyed stranger. She elbowed Ross, silently pleading with him to hurry up, do better. Ross struggled to help them both out. “The new CIA director is suspicious of Wakanda after the . . .” His eyes traveled across the bloodied room. “Attacks in the Atlantic. They thought vibranium might be there, but everyone on the expedition died. We lost the whole ship.” 

And now you’ve lost two. Shuri really didn’t want to feel guilty for the CIA of all people, but it was hard not to when Ross looked like he was about to keel over, when the blood on his face matched the smears on the floor. 

“Everyone else thought it was Wakanda immediately,” Ross said slowly. “But I’ve known them for years. I didn’t believe it for a second. Especially after—” His voice stumbled. “After losing T’Challa? Even if it was their style, they’d never risk it. Not with the whole world watching. I thought if I came with them, I could get word to the queen and let everyone know when we got close, what to expect, maybe sabotage the mission if I had—” 

“And you did not inform Queen Ramonda of this earlier for some clever reason, we assume,” Namor drawled. 

Ross swallowed. “They’ve been watching me like a hawk. Especially the new director. They know I don’t agree with them. By the time it was safe to send a message . . .” He looked around. His sickly pale face somehow got paler. “Well. You know. Kind of got distracted.” 

“Oh, I know. I was there.” 

Asshole. 

Namor considered him carefully, thumb rubbing the shaft of his spear. Shuri refused to be turned on. “I suppose if this is true, you are not an enemy of Wakanda. Though I still have no reason to believe this without proof . . .” His mouth widened like a shark’s. “But let’s say I did. Not an enemy of Wakanda does not mean you are not a threat to Talokan. You know too much.” 

Shuri’s eyes widened. Ross’s would have too if half his face wasn’t swollen. “I don’t— I don’t know anything! If I knew any less, I’d be a sponge! I didn’t even know Shuri got married—” 

“But you know now,” Namor said. His words sent ice through her veins. “You know enough. And that’s too much.” 

Namor stood, spear in hand, and Shuri thought, Oh Bast. He’s actually going to kill him. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

Shuri stepped in front of Ross, swallowing hard, eyes wide and dizzy. Ross gripped her wrist like he was scared she’d run off and leave him there if he didn’t hold onto her. Shuri didn’t move. She couldn’t. She got him into this, she had to get him out. She had to try.  

Namor leaned forward, hand curled around his spear. Dark eyes trailed her, curious. Shuri almost wanted him to get it over with, whatever it was. She wondered if he’d just kill Ross in front of her and act confused when she cried, or if he’d tell her to look away, if he’d try to comfort her afterwards— 

Namor didn’t move. 

He was just looking at her, like he was waiting for something. Shuri spared a moment to wonder what had gotten into him. Did he want her to beg and plead? Throw herself and Ross on his mercy? He must have known that wasn’t going to happen— or at least that she would hate him for it when the thing was done. 

Then Namor’s eyes gleamed, and it hit her. 

Her third day in Talokan, Namor had begun her riding lessons with Ichaphaza. Shuri thought of him standing behind her, the palm of his hand eclipsing the back of hers as he held it against the orca’s flank, saying, “This is not an animal to be tamed or domesticated. This is an animal to be reasoned with. Won over. One you must enter into a pact with, one of mutual respect and admiration.” 

And Shuri, pressing her tongue to the back of her teeth, said, “Like you?” 

Namor had chuckled softly before agreeing. “Yes. Like me.” 

He’s giving me a chance to convince him. 

Which, thank Bast, because it would be a terrible start to a marriage for her husband to kill her friend. 

Shuri quickly switched her translator from English-Maya, back to Xhosa-Maya, not wanting Ross to understand and interrupt her while she was saving his ass. Then she schooled her face into something she thought was regal enough — she tried to channel Ramonda — and said, “My heart, I think it would be unwise to kill Agent Ross. Talokan can make use of him.” 

Someone, probably Namora, scoffed. Attuma let out a bellowing laugh, the same one he made when someone said a hilarious joke at dinner. Shuri ignored them both, keeping her eyes on her husband. 

Luckily, Namor was doing the same. “Talokan has stood many years without the aid of conquistadors.” He sneered in Ross’s direction. “I don’t fear for our chances.” 

“Talokan is strong,” Shuri echoed, giving the warriors a moment to bang the ends of their spears into the floor when she did. “But the colonizers have had many years to invent and perfect new ways of destroying countries, communities, whole civilizations. Raw strength is not enough. We have the opportunity now to gain a unique advantage — inside knowledge from one of their own agents. Isn’t knowledge the most powerful weapon?”

Namor considered her. “I quite like my spear.” 

“Yes, but knowledge is what tells you to aim for the heart and not the foot.”

Namor chuckled, not disagreeing. Shuri felt the warmth return to her as she grew more confident. I can do this. She could not tame Namor, could not browbeat him with her logic. But she could reason with him. Argue with him. Remind him why, of everyone above the sea and below, he'd chosen her. Her mind. Her skill. Her passion. Her. 

Shuri walked through the room with brazen confidence, all eyes on her. Already, she could see that the Talokanil were carefully considering her words. From anyone else, they might have dismissed such an idea out of hand. But she was their queen, and they loved her well. They might not agree. But they would listen. 

Standing at Namor's back, she drew him to sit once more and looped her arms over his shoulders, speaking directly to his ear. “Imagine having intimate knowledge of the Americans' new defenses before they're even made. Knowing when and where they plan to look for vibranium when their ships have not yet set sail. Every time they think to make a move, we would know. And every time they started to get close to the truth of Talokan, he could throw them off. Obscuring our existence right in front of the enemy.” Two minutes before, Namor had been all but humoring her. Now, he carefully considered his wife's words, weighing the advantages of killing Ross versus letting him live with the utmost attention. Shuri went in for the kill, murmuring in his pointed ear, “He has been a friend of Wakanda. He could be a friend of Talokan.” 

For a moment, no one spoke, all eyes on Namor as he was utterly still. Then the Feathered-Serpent rose and crossed the room, standing before Ross, looking down at him. None could tell what he was thinking. Shuri dug her nails into her palm, hoping against hope that she had done enough. 

“Everett Ross,” Namor said, switching to his strongly-accented English. Shuri sometimes thought the way he spoke English was on purpose — he wanted the colonizers to know his disdain for their tongue. He settled a heavy palm on Ross’s shoulder. His grin was worse than a shark’s. “I am told you owe my wife a life debt. Consider yourself blessed by the gods, for now you owe her two. You will not die tonight.” 

Namor whistled to Attuma. The warrior sighed, clearly having hoped for a more exciting ending as he grabbed Ross and slung him over his shoulder like a sack of water yams, Ross yelping in pain and shock when he did. It would have been funny how much Attuma dwarfed the agent if not for how terrified he clearly was. 

. . . Well, it was still a little funny. 

The others filed out of the room behind Attuma and his charge, Namora at the back to keep them in order. Shuri started to follow, the knot in her chest unwinding as the adrenaline abandoned her. But Namor stopped her with a single movement, two fingers trailing along her upper arm as she made for the door. “Stay a moment, in watan. If you will.” 

Shuri looked up at him. His expression was still serious, closed-off as the others lingered in their leaving, waiting to see if Shuri or Namor would need them. But his eyes — Namor could hide nothing from his eyes. And now, they were hungry. 

“I will.” 

Namora shut the door when she was gone, leaving them alone. Namor left his spear atop the bench he’d been sitting at. The computers were all shut down. When the water took them, they wouldn’t function, but just enough information was left to be recovered. Enough that the evidence Shuri had hidden in lines of primitive code would be recovered. Enough to protect both their people. 

Namor caressed her face, brushing away a stray strand of curled hair. It was getting longer, growing fast. Shuri would either need to have it cut or braided soon. She’d kept it short since T’Challa’s death . . . but maybe one more change wouldn’t hurt. 

One of Namor’s hands was sticky with dried blood when he said, “I desire you.”  

And Shuri, placing her hands over his, said, “Please.” 

Shuri was suited up and ready to get back in the water when they emerged from the ship twenty minutes later. Namor pressed a soft kiss to her temple before walking off, rejoining his cousin and her underlings as they prepared to sink the ship. Her head was still uncovered when she spotted— “Ross!” 

Shuri almost barreled into his side before remembering that he was injured and settled for lightly wrapping her arms around him in a hug. He still winced, but he made an effort to hide it. She winced too when he pressed closer to her and didn’t think to hide it. Ross’s exhausted face turned to worry. “Are you okay?” 

“Oh, yeah.” Shuri waved it off. “Little sore, but—” 

“What!” Ross looked around. It was dark in the night. Even Shuri could barely make out the strong forms of the Talokanil milling around the ship with their water bombs, floating at the surface of the water. Their eyes glinted gold in the low light. To Ross, it must have seemed like they were surrounded by sea monsters. He wouldn’t really be wrong. “Did he— Shuri, are you okay? You two were back there for . . .” Ross leaned closer, as though that could stop the Talokanil from overhearing. “Did he hurt you?” 

The idea was so absurd that Shuri laughed. “Nothing a warm bath won’t fix.” She directed him to lean against the railing that separated them from the water. Ichaphaza lingered at the top of the water. Shuri pulled out a small fish from a pouch at her belt, tossing it to her. Ichaphaza leaned high in the water to catch it, chirping her delight before ducking below the surface. Ross stared. 

Shuri leaned back casually, aware of the eyes staring up at her from the deep. They weren’t a threat. Not to her, at least. But to him . . . 

“Shuri,” Ross whispered, holding her wrist tight, “what’s going on?” 

Shuri started to answer and stopped just as fast. What was she supposed to tell him? What could she tell him? There was stuff he needed to know if her promises to Namor were going to be kept, but she had no idea where to draw the line. Namor would never want him to know too much about Talokan, and neither would she. But there was no way of knowing how much was too much in this situation. “Namor rules a kingdom like Wakanda,” Shuri said simply, deciding to figure it out as she went. The best discoveries come when we set our minds free. “One hidden from the world to keep them safe when they were going to be killed. We made an alliance, sealed with marriage.” That was not the only reason they got married, or even the biggest one for her, but he did not need to know that. “They . . .” Her neck itched. “They were responsible for the earlier attack. The vibranium the CIA found? It was theirs. And they aren’t happy.” 

The Talokanil were beginning to slink away from the ship, joining their companions in the water. They couldn’t sink the ship until Ross and Shuri, the only obligate air-breathers, were off it. More and more eyes looked up at them, golden and reflective in the moonlight. Ross glanced at the water and moved away from the railing. “He was gonna kill me.” It wasn’t a qustion, but Shuri nodded anyway. “What did you tell him?” 

There was a new look to his face, one she didn’t recognize. But no, that wasn’t quite right. She knew it — she had seen it at times, briefly, when he talked to Mama or T’Challa. All business. He had just never looked at her like that. “That you are an ally of Wakanda. That you could help us.” 

Ross’s eyes darken. “How?” 

“. . . Maybe you should rest before we go—” 

“Shuri.” A dozen pairs of eyes snapped towards them, their owners ready to rip Ross apart with their bare hands if he continued speaking to her in that tone. Ross didn’t see. “Don’t bullshit. Tell me what my life cost.” 

And Shuri, only hesitating a second more, did. 

Ross withdrew further and further into himself, his face growing pinched. When she was done, he said, “You should’ve let him kill me.” 

Shuri reeled back like she’d been slapped and quickly waved away a guard who thought she actually was slapped. When she returned her attention to Ross, she was losing her patience. “Everett. Dude! I went out on a limb for you! In front of a man who could very easily rip you limb from limb. Literally! I put my neck on the line! Do you know what will happen to me if you don’t go through with it?” 

“No. What?” 

“. . . Probably nothing, but still! Everyone would be upset and disappointed and what if next time they go, bah, there is Shuri, trying to save a colonizer again! Silly girl! If only she had kept her word the first time, she might have had a chance! Quick, let us distract her with xocolatl and shiny things so she doesn’t notice us killing them over here!” 

She was exaggerating, but there was truth to what she said. One’s word was everything in Talokan. Namor prided himself on always keeping his oaths, always following through on what he promised. Even if what was promised was incredible violence. And Namor was the model by which all of Talokan styled themselves. If Ross wouldn’t follow through on what she said, who would believe her the next time she started making promises? 

Plus Namor would kill Ross, but that was obvious by now. 

“Shuri,” Ross whispered, “I can't betray my country. I'm not a traitor.” Shuri started to speak, but he intercepted her. “Helping Wakanda out is different from spying on my country for someone actively killing my people!”  

Shuri wanted to argue but felt herself come up short. What could she say? He wasn’t wrong. Even if he acknowledged that his country, or at the very least its government and leaders for the past three hundred years, fucking sucked, that was a thousand miles from actively betraying it. And Ross was the kind of white man who thought he could change the system from the inside, be one of the good ones. Shuri and Namor were the kind of people who knew that once the skeleton upon which all the organs and flesh and skin was built was bad, you had to scrap the whole thing and start over. She wasn’t going to convince him that way. 

But maybe that wasn’t the way. 

“Imagine,” Shuri began in a soft whisper, “an invasion. A real invasion, not this playground spat, with hundreds of those singers. Thousands, even. Imagine them drawing an entire city into the sea to drown themselves before anyone even knows what's happening. Imagine what would come next.” For Namor, she had woven a tapestry with her words, showing what Ross could do for them. With her friend, she did the opposite, showing what Namor would do to them. “You think Wakanda is strong? Ruthless? I hardly knew the meaning of the word before. Wakanda was never colonized, never bled the way our brothers and sisters did, looked away from their suffering so we wouldn’t. Talokan is what remains of a people killed and enslaved. The descendants of people willing to risk death or worse to escape the fate waiting for them, and they did. They will stop at nothing to protect themselves. They don't care if they have to drown your whole country if that’s what it takes. They’ll do it.” And now Shuri prayed to Bast that she would never have to find out if she was a liar or not as she said, “And I'll let them.” Ross gaped at her, horrified. Shuri couldn’t tell if it was from her descriptions or her. Maybe both. “You are saving three hundred million people this way, Ross.” Her voice turned gentle. She looked more like the teenager he'd met now than a queen. Almost enough to pretend. “Protecting your people. Protecting all of us.” Please play the hero. Please be the kind of man that falls for that savior bullshit. “You’ll be saving them.” 

The last defenses of Ross’s pale eyes dropped, and Shuri knew she won. Even if her heart didn’t. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

For the Talokanil, it was a short swim the rest of the way to Wakanda. For Shuri, it was mild. For Ross, it was fucking insanity. 

“What do you mean we're swimming there—”

“Oh shut up, you'll be fine,” Shuri said, swinging one leg over the tall railing so she could jump down beside Ichaphaza. “My whale will take us the rest of the way—”

“Ix Báalam,” came a familiar voice, “you must not.” 

Namora swiftly moved to step between Shuri and Ross, her spear aloft to keep the man from taking another step. Ross eyed it with a sick look, leaning as far away from the warrior as he could. Namora did not care. In the brief time they'd known each other, Shuri had yet to see her care about anyone's opinion but Namor's. 

Shuri sighed, still straddling the damn railing. “And why not, Namora?” 

She would have loved it if Namora had a reasonable explanation. Namora had never been reasonable in her life. “It is shameful for our Queen to lower herself and her mount for a conquistador. It would dishonor Aj K’uk’ulkan’s gift to her. If he must take Ichaphaza, he may do so by having his ankle tied to her tail so she might drag him the way.” 

A beat passed before Ross said, “I'd rather not—” 

It was only Shuri shouting, “Namora, don't!” that stopped the warrior from sending her spear through his hand as she'd been inches from doing. Instead, Namora knocked his legs out from under him, sending Ross toppling to the slick floor. She pointed her blade at his throat and bared her teeth behind her mask. “You will not speak to me, colonizer,” she hissed. “If I was allowed to cut out your tongue so that your bloody words could not twist our Queen’s mind, I would. I would turn your bones into daggers, but they are too weak and frail. They would do better to feed our crops.” 

“ATTUMA!” Shuri shouted. “ATTUMA, YOU'RE TAKING ROSS WITH YOU! AND DON'T LET NAMORA GET HIM!” 

So they made it to Wakanda. 

Namor rode alongside her, one hand over hers, pressing it to the smooth skin of the whale. When she looked across to him, he had a small, true smile gracing his mouth. 

Namor could always tell when they made it to the riverways. Shuri’s sensors told her the difference between freshwater and saltwater, but for him, it was instinctive. Immediate. He made a signal with his hand, and they rose through the water, the lights of Birnin Zana greeting them. Shuri blinked when they broke the surface of the water, taking her helmet down. A crowd was already gathering on the shore, roaring their approval when they saw her. Shuri realized, abruptly, that it was the first time in a month that the people of her home had seen her in person. She wondered how she looked to their eyes — her suit, white and jade-green rather than panther black and purple. The necklace she wore was a choker made of layered shark teeth that Namor had brought back from his hunt. Her ears were pierced with jade flowers. A solid line of black paint stretched over her eyes, suitable for wartime. She’d braided her hair for function. It was not her best work. 

Ramonda waited for them on the shore, clothed in blue vibranium-silk. Even from twenty meters away, Shuri could see the relief take her when she rose from the river. Not waiting for them, Ramonda waded into the water, soaking her gown. She didn’t care. She threw her arms around Shuri in an embrace, dragging her close and holding her. Ramonda shuddered when Shuri returned the gesture, the girl coated in the salty scent of seawater. It made her too different not to notice. Scent was the sense most strongly tied to memory, and this was not the scent of her baby. Not anymore. 

Shuri wasn’t thinking of this at all. Shuri was only thinking of the warmth of her mother’s embrace.

Then Ramonda let go of her and grew stiff. Shuri turned to see what she was looking at and couldn’t stop herself from groaning. 

Watching Namor and Ramonda in the same room was like watching two tomcats unexpectedly run into each other. 

Like a pair of cats, they would stop and stare at each other narrowly, sizing up the competition. Shuri liked to imagine Ramonda raising her hand towards him like she was going to strike him in the face with a furred paw. She wasn’t too far off. And she didn’t put it past Namor to start hissing. 

“Mama,” Shuri hissed (ha), putting on an exaggerated smile. “K’uk’ulkan and the Talokanil stopped a CIA ship on its way to Wakanda. It was a rousing success.” Come on, Mama. Help me out here. 

“Was it?” Ramonda asked. 

Before Shuri could answer, Namor cut in. “It was. Talokan has fulfilled her vows to Wakanda.” You just had to say vows, Shuri thought. Namor’s sharp smile made her think for a moment that she said it out loud. “This is a blessed day — if successful, we will have made great strides in protecting both of our homes.” 

For all the gods blessing them, neither Ramonda or Namor seemed happy to be talking. 

“Well then.” The corner of Ramonda’s mouth tugged up in a facsimile of a smile. “We must celebrate.” 

Shuri never liked formal feasts. They always made her feel awkward and small, even before — before Thanos and T’Challa and Baba — just before. They were traditional and stuffy and she had to wear stiff clothes that didn’t suit her at all. And the food was always good, but the laws of hospitality meant she had to eat a little bit of everything, including the things she didn’t like. 

But tonight, she let herself enjoy a particular form of entertainment. 

Because by those same laws of hospitality, Ramonda could not be rude to a guest. And Namor would not be rude to the person feeding them. 

Dinner and a show. Shuri ate her spiced lamb stew and watched them in earnest, eyes swiveling back and forth like it was a tennis match. 

“Are you enjoying the food, Namor?” Ramonda asked, the very face of politeness. “It must be so different from the fare in Talokan. I imagine you eat a lot of fish.” 

Not an insult, but a sharpness to her tongue that let the table know she was bordering on it. Shuri looked to Namor for his response. 

“More than that, but you are correct.” Namor tore apart a piece of bread drizzled in honey, eating slowly and keeping his eyes trained on the Dowager Queen. “The queen seems content.” 

A subtle strike. Calling her queen, not princess. And calling her content — a suggestion of something less innocent? Shuri was eager to see where this went. 

“Truly?” Ramonda turned to her daughter. “Well, Shuri? Does the food of Talokan meet your standards?” 

Uh oh. This was a spectator sport. Shuri had to take herself out of the line of fire. “It’s quite different from Wakanda, but more than satisfactory.” She slipped a subtle smile to her husband. “We also eat a lot of corn.” 

Ramonda hmmed. Unimpressed. “How nice.” Shuri wondered if her parents ever had dinners like this with her in-laws. She needed to research this. “And you are happy in Talokan?” 

“She is,” Namor said before Shuri could answer. “The people of Talokan love their queen, and she has adapted remarkably.” 

Ramonda’s smile was thin. “Clearly. And is it the tradition of Talokan that men answer for their wives?” 

“The lamb stew is lovely,” Shuri said, like she was trying to get her participation grade in class. 

“My apologies, Queen Ramonda, in watan,” Namor said sweetly. He took Shuri’s in his, rubbing her palm with his thumb in a way . . . reminiscent of . . . other things. “How rude of me. It is only that I felt the question directed moreso at me than my lady wife. My mistake.” 

Messy. “Talokan is beautiful,” Shuri said, grabbing her glass of watered-down palm wine with her free hand. “And everyone has been incredibly welcoming. Especially K’uk’ulkan.” 

Another hmm. “And you are able to keep yourself busy there? You are not under-stimulated?” 

Shuri choked on her wine. “I—” she struggled to stop coughing. “The king has provided me with a lab. I want for nothing.” Except for Namor to stop caressing her hand while she was trying to contribute to a conversation. Still didn’t make him stop. 

Namor sipped his own wine, never tearing his eyes from Shuri. And he kept. Touching her. “The queen is wise and intelligent beyond her years.” 

“And she has so few years compared to you,” Ramonda said sweetly. Shuri heard Ayo choke from somewhere. 

Mama, Shuri thought, holding in a groan, you cannot call my husband a cradlerobber to his face! Again, she did nothing to make them stop. How could she? This was the most entertainment they’d had at a family dinner that wasn’t her fault in years. 

“Most people do,” Namor said with an honest shrug. “Such is the reality when you have lived as long as I.” 

The barbs slid off him like water from the feathers of a shoebill. If Shuri didn’t know him, she would wonder if he even perceived the insults. Since she did know him, she could see the way he was holding in laughter in the slightest tilt to the lines around his eyes. Ramonda might have been pissed, but Namor was having a great time. 

Shuri glanced at the other guests around the table — Namora and Attuma, Abi, a few of Namor’s other high-ranking generals and warchiefs, the elders of Wakanda’s tribes. Everyone was watching them. Attuma stared with rapt attention in between devouring the Wakandan feast, the water covers at his gills allowing him to breathe. Abi seemed mildly miserable in a Wakandan dress of bright orange and yellow vibranium-silk, which had been Shuri’s compromise when she saw the look of horror on her friend’s face when she tried to give her a tracksuit. But even she had paused in her incessant need to look after her queen as she watched the back and forth between their two countries’ royals. 

“I am curious, Namor,” Ramonda began anew, still using the name his enemies gave him, “how the queen compares to your previous wives?” 

Shuri almost gasped out loud. 

Namor’s lips thinned. “There have been no other wives,” he said shortly. Both of them were a single tone switch from being outright rude. At a royal dinner. Shuri was going to hold this over her mother’s head for the rest of their lives. “Shuri is the first and only. I have no intention of taking another.” He turned sharply, facing his wife and pulling her hand towards him. He pressed a kiss to her palm. All eyes were on them, but he had eyes only for her. “Shuri shall be first and last. When our children are ready to rule and Shuri has left this realm, I will abdicate my throne over to them and retire from public life, spending as long as it takes to prepare myself to join her. I will focus entirely on our children and the preservation of my people’s history and traditions. I shall have little interest in matters of the mortal world when the sun is gone.” 

Everyone was staring at them. Shuri blinked rapidly, as though there were tears in her eyes. Namor’s singular focus was her, her light, the slight tremble to her lips. His hand encompassed hers entirely. She liked how he did that. 

The dining room doors were thrown open, and someone new strolled in. “Greatest apologies for being late, Aj K’uk’ulkan,” the man, a Talokani, said through a water mask, the new set of pearl-like Kimoyo beads around his wrist. “I was not invited to the slaughter, and so found myself late for the dinner.” 

Namor’s eyes narrowed threateningly, warning the man into silence. Shuri stared. He was familiar. She’d definitely seen his face before around Talokan — maybe they had even been introduced — but she couldn’t summon his name. 

Almost as surprising as the sudden entrance was when the newcomer sat down beside Namora, forcing Abi from her seat. The handmaid showed no reaction to this, simply stepping aside to stand behind Shuri. Shuri found herself mirroring Namor’s expression, narrowed eyes, pissed-off tilt to her mouth. She tapped Abi’s hand, drawing her down to ask, “Abi, who is that man?” 

Abi looked like she was trying very, very hard not to roll her eyes. “That is Talan, my Queen. He is the warrior Namora’s husband.” 

It was a good thing Shuri wasn’t drinking her wine just then. She would have choked to death. “I— I didn’t know she was married.” Though now she knew where she recognized the man. Talan. He showed up at dinners and festivities sometimes, always at the edge of the group, but rarely acknowledged by her husband. He’d faded into the background for her. If she’d ever thought to consider him, she might have figured he was one of Namor’s advisors or maybe one of the priests or diviners that shadowed them. 

She was about to say something to this effect when Abi added, “No one likes him.” 

Shuri had to shove a hand over her mouth not to laugh out loud. “Abi!”  

“I am not being rude,” Abi insisted. “Only truthful. He has K’uk’ulkan’s ire, and is not respected as one of his advisors. He does not fight alongside the warriors as one of his station should. I am not entirely convinced that Namora likes him.” 

Which, considering Shuri hadn’t even realized she was married, might just be true. “Then why are they married?” Not polite dinner conversation, but damn it all, she had to know. 

“No one is quite sure,” Abi told her. “It is only known that Namora decided to marry after an age, and decided upon a man no one particularly knew of or cared for. It is confusing.” 

She could always trust Abi to be honest. Maybe a little too much. 

But the unexpected entrance seemed to have stopped Namor and Ramonda’s politeness battle in its tracks. Returning to her meal, Shuri wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or disappointed. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

They were to stay in Wakanda for seven days and nights while their people came together to decide the next steps and celebrate the strengthened alliance. And because Namor suspected his little wife was feeling homesick. 

Shuri brushed off Abi’s attempts to follow them to her room in the palace. Talokan’s queen had waited as long as she could before asking Ramonda to be dismissed — or that’s how she would have put it once. Now, an adult, a married woman, Queen in her own right, she waited until it was not too rude and told her mother they were going to retire for the evening. Ramonda kissed her cheek and said nothing to Namor — which was probably the nicest thing she’d said to him since the wedding. 

Namor eyed the Dora Milaje that followed them. In Talokan, the guards patrolled the city borders, the place where sky met sea, always on the lookout for surface encroachment. But not the palace. Not their home. And why should they? No one of Talokan would harm them. He wondered if it was him they were following or if the surface people truly had so little trust amongst themselves that such caution was necessary. Neither was good. He would be glad when they returned to the water. He hoped Shuri would be too. 

“Okoye,” Shuri said drowsily, “we’re at my room now. You can leave us alone.” When Okoye didn’t move, Shuri rolled her eyes. “Unless you intend to stand in a corner and stare at us all night.” 

Okoye stiffened, tilting her chin up. “If need be—” 

“Go to bed!” Shuri threw her doors open and ushered Namor inside, scowling. “By Sekhmet, I am the only clear-headed person in this country today!” 

Namor didn’t answer. He was too busy looking around her room. “You have a . . . most interesting sense of decor.”  

“You can just say I’m messy.” 

“You are messy.” 

Shuri gasped. “You didn’t have to say it.” 

The room was exactly as she’d left it — which, yeah. Not great. What? She’d been kind of busy getting married. Years ago she’d argued with Mama for three days about how she had to be more mindful of her maids and clean up after herself. It ended with Shuri being solely responsible for keeping her room clean. This backfired on both of them as Shuri now had to clean, but was allowed to let it get dirty for as long as she wanted. Such was the art of compromise — no one was happy. 

“I am not one to leave the truth silent,” Namor said. Unnecessarily. “You are not this messy at home.” 

At home meant in Talokan to him. Shuri thought it might mean the same to her. One day. “I actually was at first. But no matter what I told them, the maids insisted on cleaning up after me, and I felt guilty making their lives harder.” So maybe Ramonda’s lesson did have a point. “I’m worse in the lab. Stopping to clean would break my concentration.” 

“Hm.” Namor trailed his fingers over a carved dresser that held perhaps a tenth of her clothes. “This room is . . . unlike you.” 

Shuri shrugged. “It’s traditional.” 

“Perhaps that’s why.” 

He wasn’t wrong. The walls were vibranium-laced wood hundreds of years old, nearly as old as the Black Panther mantle. The balcony she’d looked at Namor from was older than him. The walls were hung with beaded tapestries in bright colors. The panther furs on her equally-traditional bed were something she frequently removed. 

Namor twisted his arms around to remove the layers of gold and vibranium and pearl that decorated his neck and chest. Shuri stopped him. “Let me help you.” 

Shuri stood at his back and went to work on the layers of metal, poking her tongue out of her mouth. The lights were off. The night was quiet. Namor said, “The colonizer. Your . . . friend.” He said the word with more disdain than she thought was possible. “He will do what you said?” 

Shuri hesitated before nodding. “He will. I think I put the fear of you into him earlier,” she teased. 

Namor wasn’t amused. “As long as he does as told, he will not die by my hand. I make no more promises than that.” 

Shuri paused, holding a strand of golden shells in her hands. They were heavy. She wondered how he wore these all the time without his neck killing him. “You really would have killed him if I couldn’t convince you?” 

Namor did not lie to his wife. He would not make a habit of it now. “Yes.” 

Shuri swallowed hard and put the shells away on top of a small table. Looking at her, Namor’s eyes softened a fraction. “For your sake, I would have been merciful. His death would be swift and without pain. We would have brought his body to Wakanda so he could be given a funeral in the ways of his people.” 

“Generous of you,” Shuri sniped. 

Namor didn’t mind. “I am used to the ways of war and death. You are not. I will endeavor not to expose you to it in the future, if you would prefer that.” 

“I am not a child,” Shuri insisted, though Namor’s tone wasn’t patronizing. 

“I never said you were.” 

“I have seen death!” 

“I know you have.” He stopped her with a gentle touch, bringing his fingers down the side of her face. Shuri grew still. “That does not mean it is easy for you.” Namor brought his forehead against hers, a gesture he often made with the Talokanil. “I speak only the truth with you. You know this. Life has been unkind for you. I would like for the future to be better. Softer. Everyone in Talokan knows to prepare for war. Everyone trains for battle, everyone knows how to fight. But no one is made to fight.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, another to her temple, another to her cheek. “You know death and pain. That does not mean it has to be your life, your world.” 

“It’s yours,” she said, a little petulant. Like she was a child again, wondering why she couldn’t fight with T’Challa or T’Chaka, even though she didn’t really want to. She just didn’t want them to do it without her. 

“It is my life so that it does not have to be everyone’s.” His eyes were very gentle. Giving her a chaste kiss, Namor looked through a set of drawers, finding a long silk scarf of purple and blue patterns. “I have belonged to my people since before my birth. I am Talokan given living flesh, warm blood. I protect them with everything I am. I could never have known another life. You are not the same way.” 

Allowing her to sit in this revelation, Namor wrapped the silk around her hair with careful hands. He’d seen her do it over a dozen times when they prepared for bed, while he lay naked having spent his release inside her. He liked to watch her then. The way she poked her tongue from her mouth in concentration, watching herself in the mirror Namora gifted her. At ease, domestic. Now, when Shuri pressed a hand against the soft fabric, it required no adjustments. 

Shuri drew him to the bed, instructing Griot to turn the lights off. She was sore and tired from the long day. She wanted to fall asleep in her  bed, in her husband’s arms. She wanted to forget. “Hold me. Please.” 

Namor held her. 

Shuri buried her face in his chest. Namor’s arms stretched around her, settling in her lower back, holding her close and tight. He ran hot, he always did. His warmth seeped into her. She sighed into him. “That’s not all you are, you know.” 

Namor frowned before remembering what he’d said. “That is all that I need to be. Talokan is everything to me.” 

“What about me?” Shuri pouted. 

Namor chuckled and kissed her. “You are part of Talokan now. I would give my life for you a thousand times over.” 

“Oh, so I am the same to you as any of your people?” Shuri half-teased. “You make me feel so special.” 

Namor considered carefully before shaking his head. “No. Not the same. My people are the blood in my veins. But you are the only person in my life that I have chosen. And I would choose you again, in any life, any situation, any time.” He laced their fingers together. “I am Talokan’s. I am yours. Today it was difficult to be both. But I would have it no other way.” 

Something tender and painful squeezed in Shuri’s chest. “You never had a choice.” 

Namor frowned. “I was sent by Chaac to protect and lead my people. I would do no different. I would choose no different.” 

How do you know? But for once, Shuri bit her tongue. It was late and they were both tired. And she thought that even if she probed, Namor really wouldn’t understand what she was asking. He was reverent in a way she wasn’t. He put his trust fully in the gods he prayed to. If he was told from the day he was born that Chaac sent him as his people’s champion, then he believed it with his whole heart. He couldn’t imagine another life. He wouldn’t understand why that made her sad. “But you’d still choose me.” 

Namor breathed her in, shuddering beneath her. “Yes.”  

Shuri shuddered and let herself relax in her arms. I am the only thing he has ever chosen for himself. Just me. The thought was oddly humbling. She didn't want to mess it up for him. “I'd choose you too, you know.”

Namor chuckled and kissed her and kissed her and kissed her. “I know.” 

The next day, Shuri was grinning ear to ear after managing to get the Talokani entourage following her around to change into matching Wakandan jumpsuits. She was the only one smiling about this. Everyone else looked like they were waiting for the first opportunity to “accidentally” spill something so they could change back. Shuri wouldn’t let them. If she woke up every day in Talokan and wore ten to twenty pounds of jewels and metals, they could put up with this for a week. 

She still gave Abi a nice purple dress. As a treat. 

“Good morning, mother,” Shuri said, gliding to sit with her mother on a balcony. The table was laden with food for breakfast, bowls of sliced mango, sweet dragon fruit sorbet, hard-boiled eggs, papa and akara, yam cakes, and fatira. Her stomach growled. “Missed me?” 

Ramonda smiled wanly. “Always.” The elder queen reached forward to fix her daughter’s food, but Abi was already on it, filling a wooden plate and looking to Shuri at every new dish to see if she nodded. Ramonda gave her a sharp look. “And you are?” 

“I am Ix Shuri’s lady,” Abi said, either not noticing or not caring about her tone, “and I serve at her pleasure.” A pair of Talokanil guards lingered a few feet from them. Shuri never had guards in Talokan. Namor said she never needed any. “Will the Queen require anything else?” 

“I’m good, bestie,” Shuri told her, digging into her plate. “You’re dismissed.” 

Abi took this as her signal to stand two feet away. 

Shuri rolled her eyes. “I don’t know what she does when I’m not around.” 

“I have my snakes.” 

“Oh, of course.” Shuri looked over the balcony. They sat above a training courtyard where Wakandans and Talokanil filtered onto a plane of packed dirt. Okoye stood at one end, balancing her spear, dressed in her training reds. Attuma was on the other end with a pack of his soldiers. His hammerhead helmet was gone. He didn’t like to wear it outside of battle or special occasions where it could be damaged in a way that wouldn’t be a good story. When he felt Shuri’s eyes on him, Attuma bowed, lowering his massive vibranium axe. Shuri grinned, leaning over and cupping her hands around her mouth to cheer. “Come on Attuma! Make us proud!” 

“Hey!” Okoye shouted. 

“Don’t back down, Okoye! Show them how we do it in Wakanda!” 

“Whose team are you on, Shuri?” Ramonda asked, trying not to smile. 

“Please, Mama! I am of Talokan and Wakanda. I want them to destroy each other equally.”  

Ramonda chuckled, pouring them both some fig tea while Attuma and Okoye bowed to each other in respect. The sharp cling of vibranium on vibranium rang through the air. Attuma was faster than he looked, putting all of his immense strength behind each swing of his axe. Okoye was elegant, skilled, and gave no corner. Where Attuma had the Talokanil’s strength, the land was strange and foreign to him, and he refused to cleave to it. Okoye moved with ease, with confidence. The first time she landed a strike on Attuma’s cheek, he took a step back and raised a hand to the cut, pressing his fingertips to the blood there. When he looked up again, Okoye scowling fiercely, there was something like a smile below his water mask. 

Shuri chuckled, digging into breakfast, filling herself with fatira and eggs and fruit. Ramonda alternated between looking at her and looking down on the courtyard. When she spoke, her voice was carefully neutral. “It is nice to have you back in Wakanda.” 

“It’s good to be home. But Talokan is beautiful.” 

“I would like to see it.” 

Shuri tore off a piece of bread. “You’d have to ask K’uk’ulkan about that. I don’t even know how we’d get you there.” And Namor wouldn’t like it. But she didn’t need to tell her that. Least of all because they both knew. 

Ramonda elegantly lifted a brow. Shuri still couldn’t do that without looking sarcastic. “Not Namor?” 

Shuri couldn’t help a small smile. She shook her head. “Not to me. He’s . . . he’s not my enemy.” 

Ramonda sniffed. “I suppose that’s good.” 

Shuri rolled her eyes, looking back over the courtyard to where Attuma had Okoye in a chokehold with his axe. For once, Wakanda’s best warrior seemed to be struggling. “It’d be nice if you were happy for me, you know.” 

Ramonda was an expert at biting her tongue. Shuri was an expert at getting what she wanted from her family — or what remained of them. She could almost feel Ramonda holding back a sarcastic retort. “If my daughter is happy, then that is all I can ask of her.” 

“How come no one ever taught me to do that with my words?” Shuri demanded. “Say one thing and mean another? Or mean nothing?” 

The corner of Ramonda’s mouth twitched up, fighting a smile. “I didn’t think it would serve you well.” 

Shuri shook a fork at her. “It probably wouldn’t in Talokan, but you didn’t know that.” 

Ramonda said nothing in response, sipping her tea and holding it up in a toast when Okoye slashed Attuma’s calf. “Are you planning to come back to Wakanda soon?” 

Shuri’s stomach rolled. “We haven’t talked about it—” 

“But we are always open to an invitation from Wakanda’s Queen.” 

Shuri jumped a little when Namor swept down beside her chair, pressing a quick kiss to her temple. He smelled of salt and clean water. “Forgive me for being gone when you woke. I wished to swim first.” 

“Apology accepted,” Shuri said, knocking back a chair for him to join her. “Breakfast?” 

“Please, in watan.” Namor accepted a helping of everything, speaking in between curious bites. “To answer Queen Ramonda’s question, it was my thought that when our children are born, Shuri and I will spend more time in Wakanda so that they may be raised with a love for both of their homes.” 

Shuri choked on her mango. 

Both Namor and Ramonda responded to this with more concern than was necessary. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine!” Shuri insisted, waving them off as she struggled to take in some water. Ramonda backed up, reluctantly, but Namor remained at her side, his strong hand flat against her back. She gave him a look that was half-irritated, half-pleading. Don’t do this to me. Not now. I just want to get through breakfast. “We don’t need to start talking about that yet. That’s— that’s still a long way off.” Months. Years. She was still young. Couldn’t she have a year to enjoy being married before people started asking why they didn’t have kids yet? 

. . . Probably not. 

Namor decided to drop the subject, suspecting his wife was as of yet uncomfortable with discussing such intimate matters with her mother. He was prepared to move on from the whole thing when Ramonda said, “So you will come back? When . . . that happens?” 

Shuri looked from her mother to her husband. Namor looked back at her, smoothed his thumb over the back of her hand. The choice is yours. He would never present anything but a united front with his wife while they were in public, and she was the one most affected by such matters. If she wished to visit Wakanda as much as possible, he would join her whenever he was able. If she wanted to go back to Talokan and never leave, he would strike down any who tried to take her back. Though this was a dangerous trail of thought, leading him to think of his lovely wife bound and held in Talokan, where only he could see and keep her, her existence dedicated to his mouth on her and the way his cock filled her. Such thoughts were unsafe to think in the company of his wife’s mother. He put them aside for a more suitable time. 

Still though, Shuri did not answer. “I thought perhaps we might change homes with the turns of the moon,” Namor said. “One month in Talokan, another in Wakanda. Too long from either would be unwise. In yaakunaj, what do you think?” 

Shuri tore her bread into smaller pieces until she could no longer put off an answer. “Maybe. It’s not something I’m thinking about right now, alright?” She scowled furiously and dunked her bread into a thick porridge. “I’m still enjoying life in Talokan. I want to focus on that for a while. Can I just do that?” 

Shuri, to her own ears, was saying that she was still moving on from her grief and the ache in her chest, and she wasn’t ready to come home to her mother or have children just yet, even if those were things she planned to do someday. Namor heard about half of this and thought he heard it all. A fact that would no doubt have consequences. 

But they would deal with that when it came. 

Namor looked curiously over the courtyard. “Ah. Attuma is losing.” 

Shuri followed his gaze. Attuma was pressed down in the dirt, Okoye atop his chest as she pummeled his face with her fists. “. . . he doesn’t seem mad about it.” 

“He isn’t.” 

Namor did not want her to be the one who took Ross back. Shuri knew this and didn’t want to disrespect her husband by ignoring his concern. So instead of giving him a chance to say no, she just left. He couldn’t have a problem with it if he didn’t know ahead of time. 

Shuri wondered if this was what people meant when they called her immature. 

As an olive branch, she wore her Kimoyo beads so Wakanda and Namor would know she was safe. This led to her covering them with her hand when they started beeping furiously in the middle of a meeting with American ambassadors, intelligence agents, and high-ranking leaders from the CIA, but at least she was alive. Things could have been so much worse. 

. . . 

That probably wouldn’t be a good enough defense. 

Oh well, she’d figure something out. Maybe a very good apology? She did still need to thank him for her shark-tooth choker . . . 

When Ross spoke, the flirty thoughts fled her mind. Wakandan doctors had erased the bruises from his face and the ache from his bones, but his eyes were darker than they’d been. “The attack was . . .” Ross swallowed. “It was swift. Brutal. We didn’t even see them coming, didn’t know— They did come on a ship, but not from the water. It was similar to the kind we saw from the Guardians when they joined in the Battle of Earth. They— they didn’t speak any language from Earth.” He described them a bit more from the information Shuri had taken off of SWORD’s database — the leather coats they wore, their badges, their weapons. “They were looking for vibranium. It’s why they attacked the ship in the Atlantic, and why they were gunning for Wakanda. I only made it out because they didn’t notice me.” He turned to Shuri, and she hated the edge of betrayal in his eyes. “I lost good people on that ship. If Wakanda didn’t find me, I would’ve drowned with it.” 

If you didn’t stop them, they would have killed me. Guilt was a dark feeling. Like black sludge dripping down your back. Shuri twisted her hands behind her back and said nothing. It worked. That’s all we needed. Wakanda was safe. Talokan was safe. Ross was safe. 

It worked. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Rarely in a happy marriage did misunderstandings come about because two people deliberately misled each other. 

At least, that was the case now. 

From Shuri’s perspective, it started like this. 

At least once a week (and she was still getting used to the damn calendar), there was some kind of ritual in Talokan that required their appearance. Talokan had more gods than there were stars in the sky, and Shuri was sure that if she told Namor that, he would have some kind of poetic way of linking the religion and the stars and maybe say something romantic about her eyes, and she just wasn’t always in the mood. But it was a fact of life in the underwater kingdom, and she did her duties by her people. 

On this day, it was the lady Ixchel they honored, she of midwifery and medicine. Shuri sat in the center of an underwater temple at Namor’s side, head bowed as the priestesses chanted. The god-king’s eyes were closed, his hands pressed to the stone floor, face relaxed. Pregnant women came to Ixchel’s temple hoping for the goddess’s blessing — an easy pregnancy, a quick birth, a healthy child. A woman whose gown was adorned in images of jaguars and snakes circled the temple, pouring a thick dark liquid from a great vase, speaking in a low and powerful voice. The elixir mixed into the sea water, inhaled by the Talokanil. Shuri couldn’t feel it the way they could, but the glowing lamps, the distant music of conch horns and turtleshell rattles, lulled her into a heady mindset. 

Nearing her, a priestess drew Shuri’s hand up and painted a symbol on the back, even though she was covered in her jade suit. The lady of the temple bowed her head, eyes shut in reverence. “May Ixchel, Goddess of making children, ease our Queen’s pregnancies so that her children may be welcomed to Talokan with a light heart and eyes full of the moon.” 

Shuri sighed a little internally, daring a glance at Namor to her side. He was smiling fondly, the way that made her think, I know it’s a lot, but go along with it. 

It was not that Shuri didn’t want children. She did! Very much, in fact. It was just something she always thought would happen eventually. Like when she was a child and adulthood was something that happened later. When she was young, everything good and bad alike seemed like it would always be later. Being able to put her talents to their true potential. Losing her parents. Gaining power. Becoming a mother. More and more things that always felt like they shouldn’t be happening yet, but they just kept happening, and— and she wanted a break. She was just married, just starting to learn how to live alongside her grief. She wanted to be a wife and a queen and an inventor and enjoy her time with her husband. She was young still, not yet twenty-five. She would be young for a mother in Wakanda, but it didn’t occur to her that no longer would she be unthinkably young. No. Motherhood could wait. 

Shuri reached out to her husband, taking his hand in hers. Namor returned the gesture, linking their fingers together, gently petting the back of her hand where the paint smeared. It spread to his fingers, his palm, turning his bronzed skin blue. He didn’t seem to mind. 

Namor lay in bed with Shuri in his arms as his little wife slept. Shuri slept longer than he ever did, even when he was a child who spent all day swimming and hunting and returned to his mother’s arms exhausted. Namor didn’t mind. He liked to pamper her. His happiest days now were when he returned to their rooms, bathing with her, cleaning her back where she could not reach and leaving soft kisses over her neck. Shuri liked to indulge in a long bath, and he did this with her even if he did not entirely understand the appeal. Afterwards, she would wrap her hair for the night and burrow under the piles of blankets that adorned their bed. Namor rested behind her, Shuri’s back to his chest, his arms warm and strong around her. He was usually gone again before she woke, busy with the business of ruling. But he made sure to fall asleep beside her whenever he could. Like this, their marriage was bliss. Nothing could upset him when he lay in their bed. 

But tonight, something did. 

Namor rested a broad hand over Shuri’s stomach. His brows were furrowed. He did not wish her to know it, but something weighed on his mind. By Wakanda’s calendar, it had been some three months since they were wed. Patience was a skill he had been forced to nurture over the centuries. It was not something that came naturally to him, but it was a necessity. He waited to be old enough and strong enough to protect his people. He waited for Talokan to be restored to the once-glory of their ancestors. He waited for his equal to be shaped by the gods and sent to the Earth to find him. All of this, he waited for and received. But now he found himself facing an impatience he could not beat. 

Three months, and Shuri was still without child. 

It should not have frustrated him so. It should not and yet it did. Such things took time. He was not ignorant of this. But the more time passed, the more he became aware of it, wanting to catch every moment in his hands and hold it tight. This was beyond his abilities, great though they were. And for this, there was no time to waste. Already they would not have enough. 

Action was necessary. 

The day after the blessings at Ixchel’s temple, Namor rose early from their bed, leaving a soft kiss upon his wife’s cheek and a flower on her pillow. He would speak with her when the day ended and he knew what he would do. But first, he wished to speak with Abi. 

Shuri’s handmaid spent most of every day with the Queen. She knew and loved her well. As a former priestess of Chalchiuhtlicue, she was well-trained in the ways of midwifery. She should be the first he spoke to. 

He met her in the halls before the underwater sun had even dawned. He’d often wondered when she found time to sleep. He wasn’t actually convinced she did. 

Abi smiled when she saw him, carrying a basket of cacao pods for Shuri’s xocolatl. Her hands occupied, she bowed her head in greeting. “Great K’uk’ulkan. May I be of service?” 

“You may.” 

Abi’s eyes brightened. She left to give the cacao to the cooks and rejoined him, hair neatly done in a style that Shuri had taught her and wearing a bracelet of Wakandan make. “What is it my king needs?” 

Namor steepled his hands, pressing them to his mouth. He did not want to seem concerned, but he did. Shuri brought this out in him. “It has been three months since our marriage, and Shuri is not yet pregnant. Is there reason for concern that you know of?” 

To his immediate irritation, Abi chuckled. “Aj K’uk’ulkan is impatient. Many women plead for a boon from Chalchiuhtlicue and Ixchel for months and years before their prayers are answered.” Abi pressed her hands together in consideration. “Ix Shuri is young and healthy, and you are God in the Sky, in the Seas. Pray to Chaac and Chalchiuhtlicue. Keep the gods in your heart, as you always have. They have not yet abandoned us.” 

No, not us, Namor thought darkly. Just the rest of their people. But that was a wrong to be righted in the future. “It seems patience is something I shall have to ask them for.” He smiled. “I will speak with Shuri—” 

Abi’s eyes widened in concern. If he were anyone but who he was, Namor thought she might tell him no outright. “I cannot stop Aj K’uk’ulkan from such a course of action,” which was her way of saying please don’t. “And yet . . . many women feel a shame from such a thing. They believe it is their fault, that their husbands blame them, that the gods are punishing them for some imagined fault. Such a feeling . . . it takes root and is painful to remove.” She spread her hands apart, considering. “If eighteen uinal pass, and Ix Shuri remains without child, there may yet be reason for concern. Until then it is better to take joy in the quiet of your home without children.” 

Eighteen uinal. Three hundred and sixty days. More than ninety had already passed. He never would have thought it an eternity before. But to hurt Shuri . . . unthinkable. “Many thanks for your advice, my lady.” He held his hands out to her in their greeting. Abi returned the gesture with instinctive ease. “Return to your duties. We still have thirteen uinal to wait.” 

In this way, they continued to assume that they were of an understanding. Until they didn’t. 

Namor rested his head back, one hand gripping a blanket strong enough to tear. Their bedroom was hot and humid with lust, Shuri’s mouth wet around him. He could still taste her on his tongue, the warm humanness of her, the sweetness of her release, her salt-slick skin. His blood burned. Shuri’s tongue curled around the head of his cock, her hand pumping the length of him. Her movements were slow and studious. She catalogued his every expression, every reaction. When he sucked in a breath, the flicker of his eyelashes, the tension of his belly. He rolled his neck, squirming, pressing his face into the blankets, the pillows. Shuri smirked around his cock. “You are—” Namor choked on a breath, Shuri’s free hand palming his balls. His teeth slammed together. “You are magnificent, in yaakunaj.” 

“Yeah?” Shuri asked, grinning at her progress. “How would you rate me on a scale of 1 to 10? Is it better than the first time I tried this?” 

“I would not diminish my Queen and heart by reducing you to a number— ahhh—”  

“Boo. You’re so easy to please.” 

“Or perhaps you simply excel at pleasing me,” Namor suggested, clever tongue curling around each word. 

Shuri beamed, determined to reward him. Her hand grew fast, tight around the hard length of him. Her lips, plump and bruised from his kisses, formed a seal around the head, sucking. Namor grew loud and quiet all at once, words abandoning him in favor of harsh moans and loose grunts. His hands twisted in the blankets, the dark furs. Sweat beaded on his forehead, something new and foreign to him. The need for release built into a tightening in his stomach, his abdomen, turning his muscles on themselves— 

Namor moved suddenly, harshly. Pulling Shuri’s mouth away, he lifted his wife into his arms. She yelped into his neck. Namor turned her over on her stomach, her hands rushing to hold herself up as Namor lined himself up behind her, his chest to her back, his mouth against her throat. And he slid into her cunt, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her back to him. 

Namor’s hand slid down her belly, pressing against her, feeling himself inside her. Shuri moaned, turning warm and pliant in his hands. He was thick and long, bigger than any toy she’d ever had, bigger than she’d imagined when he courted her. His teeth skated over the cords of her neck. He rolled his hips, thrusts turning strong and harsh. She cried out with each one. His cock curved along the sensitive walls of her cunt. A few more thrusts and he snaked his hand beneath her belly, rough fingers finding her clit, wetting them with slick from her cunt before kneading that sensitive spot. They fell over the edge together, Namor’s mouth opening in a silent cry. Shuri made enough noise for both of them. When his release spilled into her, she was shaking, weak and pleasure-wrecked in her husband’s arms. Namor held her, soft lips pressed to the back of her neck. One hand found her own. Shuri laced their fingers together. 

They laid together for a long time. Namor curled along the length of her body from behind, growing soft inside her. She was full of him in every way. His scent filled her nostrils. His warmth bled into her skin. His beard was rough against her neck. It tickled. 

Namor was playing with a strand of her hair when Shuri joked, “You know you do that so often, I’d think you were trying to get me pregnant.” 

Something changed. The air shifted. She felt Namor’s expression change, his lips curl into a frown. “Yes.” 

“Yeah— yes?” 

“Yes, I am.” 

For a moment, Shuri twisted around to look at him. And it occurred to them at the exact same time that there had been a very big misunderstanding. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Shuri threw a pillow at her husband. “What the HELL are you talking about?!” 

Namor caught the pillow, but was not childish enough to throw it back. Shuri kind of hoped he would. It would have given her more ammo in the argument to come. “Itzia,” Namor said, sounding about ten thousand more times upset than he’d been five minutes ago. “We discussed this. We were of one mind. What is this change?” 

“When? When did we “discuss” this?” Give me your receipts!” 

Namor made a noise of deep frustration. “I said when I proposed marriage that I desired children with you. I was entirely clear on this point.” 

“Wha— that is not a discussion about having children! That’s a wishlist!” 

Shuri could not remember the last time someone looked at her as though she were stupid. She was not happy to have it happen now. “We are wed,” Namor said in a quiet tone that implied he was keeping the depth of his anger under tight control. His eyes were like great rainclouds before it began to pour — dark and foreboding. “We were agreed on the matter of having children. If you have changed your mind, it is your job to inform me of this. Not the other way around.” 

Shuri’s heart beat fast, her face growing warm with rising anger. “Wanting children does not mean I want to start immediately. I’m only twenty-three, we just got married!” 

“And what exactly is your timetable, princess?” Namor asked with deep, deep sarcasm. “Perhaps you should write it out for me? It may be easier for us both as you hate using your words so.” 

“Fuck you.” Shuri turned and stood, drawing a fur around her shoulders to cover herself. She regretted it when she saw it was the jaguar fur he’d gifted her, but not enough to take it off and leave herself naked for their argument. “You do not speak to me like that.” 

“If you spoke to me of your true thoughts at all, we would not be arguing now,” Namor said, blunt. “You have lied to me by concealing this. You have disrespected me as your king and husband. If you expect me to not be angry, you are greatly mistaken.” 

Shuri scoffed, turning on her heel to face him. Bowing exaggeratedly, she drawled, “Apologies, oh great Feathered-Serpent. I was unaware that it was my duty as your wife to lie quietly as you impregnated me. Thank you greatly for educating your little, idiot wife on this matter. Shall we start now?” 

“Do not twist my words,” Namor seethed. “You know entirely well that is not what was meant. I have asked for nothing from you but honesty and given the same in return. You are the one who has deceived me.” 

“I did not deceive you by not wanting to start popping out children like a tennis ball machine as soon as the ink on our marriage certificate dried! I’m still young, I didn’t want—” 

“Too young to marry?” Namor asked. “Too young to rule? To share my bed? If that were the case, I would not have asked for your hand. I did not think you childish. Was I wrong?” 

This time, the heat that filled her blood was borne from shame and embarrassment as much as anger. Of course, that just made her angrier. “I am not a child. I thought you knew me better than this — clearly I was wrong.” 

Namor’s face twisted in frustration. “We argue in circles. I will speak to you tonight, when your temper has cooled.” 

“My temper?!” 

“You need not prove my point with your tone.” 

If Shuri had a shoe at hand, she would have thrown it at him. But he was gone from their room by the time she found one. 

When Abi came to the queen’s room with her midday meal, Shuri was still sulking, fuming as she paced the length of the glittering murals that lined her floor. Abi stopped to stare in the doorway. “Ix Shuri? Are you well?” 

“Yes,” Shuri bit out. 

“Oh. Are you unhappy?” 

“Also yes.”  

“Ah.” Abi set a tray down on the table where Namor and Shuri sometimes took their meals, setting up lunch as she spoke. “Have you spoken to K’uk’ulkan about what upsets you? He may be able to ease your mind.” 

Shuri could not stop herself from shouting, “He is what upsets me!” She stopped her stalking when Abi flinched, concern written in her eyes. Shuri made herself calm down, taking deep breaths. Abi was not the one who’d upset her. It wasn’t right of her to lose her temper — especially not as Queen. T’Challa would have never done that. He was always mindful of how his title affected every conversation, every relationship he had. He wouldn’t yell at a servant because he was angry with someone else. 

Self-chastised, Shuri accepted a cup of tea from her handmaid with a small smile, reassuring the girl that she wasn’t mad with her. She took long, slow sips. It was warm, but bitter and unsweetened, smelling thickly of herbs. Abi had begun to bring it to her twice a day starting around a month ago. When asked, she said simply that it was a mixture she learned as a lady of Chalchiuhtlicue, something that newly married women drank— 

Shuri looked into her cup with suspicion. “Abi. What is this?” 

The handmaid continued about her work, slicing open a dragon fruit as she answered. “Tea. The same as always.” 

Shuri struggled not to tear her own hair out in frustration. “Yes, I know that, but what does it do?”  

Abi frowned, confused. Not in the way that she couldn’t answer the question — more like she didn’t know why it was a question in the first place. “It is a gift from Chaac’s wife. To help your body prepare for a child, and allow your womb to more easily accept Aj K’uk’ulkan’s seed—” 

Shuri put the cup down and screamed into a pillow. 

When she was done, Abi just stared at her for a long moment. “Should I call upon the physician?” 

Frustration sparked in Shuri’s stomach, tight and painful. She straightened her spine. “No. No, I want you to prepare Ichaphaza for me. I want to— to—” She could not go back to Wakanda. Not yet. Mama would surely take the opportunity to make her even angrier with Namor. Shuri needed time to decide if that was what she wanted. It might be, but first she wanted to ask someone else, someone who knew such things, who could help her . . . “I want to go to Haiti. I need to see my sister-in-law.” 

The blood fled Abi’s face, leaving the blue hue of her skin deathly pale. “Are you— you are certain, my Queen?” 

Shuri nodded, growing more sure with every passing moment. The answer had come to her by instinct, but the more she thought about it, the more secure she felt in the wisdom of her choice. Yes, Nakia would know what to do. The once war-dog and woman her brother loved could handle any problem, from kings to husbands. Truly, this situation was uniquely well-suited to her. “Yes. Let’s go immediately.” 

Namora was at work polishing her favorite spear when the handmaid arrived. In truth, the raw vibranium of their weapons needed no sharpening and hardly ever required repairs. But Namora was a proud woman, and proud of her pride at that. Nothing less than perfection ever satisfied her, and asking for more than satisfaction was pointless. 

Namor glanced up at Shuri’s woman, but did not pause in her work. “Does the Queen summon me?” 

“No, Warrior Namora,” Abi said. Her hands turned over on themselves, betraying her anxiety. “I merely wished to inform you of what is going on so that Aj K’uk’ulkan is not taken by surprise or thinks that something bad has happened.” 

Namora frowned. This was not uncommon. “What is happening?” 

Abi strained to speak. Then she said, “Shuri is leaving. She will stay with her sister-in-law, in Haiti. I do not know where we will go after.” 

Namora stopped tending her spear. Noise rose in her ears, fuzzy and painful. She looked up. “This cannot be.” 

“But it is,” Abi said, not looking at her directly. “She wishes to go now. I must prepare her mount for her and we shall leave.” 

“You mean to go with her?” Namora asked sharply. 

“The way is dangerous. If she is not careful, Ichaphaza will take her through waters even Aj K’uk’ulkan does not pass alone. I must go and guide her.” 

“Why?” If Namora were human, a conquistador, she would have spat. As it was, she would not pollute their waters, not even with her disgust. “Leave her to die if she is so ungrateful. You are of Talokan. You should remain.” 

Abi looked no happier than Namora — in fact, she seemed bluntly miserable. But that did not keep her from holding her head high. “I am of Ix Shuri. I will go with her.” 

Namora’s mouth twisted. “Num. You disappoint me.” 

“I am aware, Warrior Namora.” 

Namora scoffed. “You are too changing to be of Talokan. You claim loyalty to AJ K’uk’ulkan above all things, but would strike him to protect the princess.” A fact that bit at Namora’s pride, that her cousin and beloved ruler would give his wife a guard to protect against even himself. He was not mortal and should not conduct himself as such. Shuri would never have need of such a guard — but it seemed the Queen Consort did not agree if she was leaving. “Now, you leave with her as though she is where your belonging lies.” 

Abi flinched as though wounded. Still she spoke, “As K’uk’ulkan loves the Queen above all things, even himself, I must also love her above him. I betray neither in doing the duty he set to me.” She raised her eyes, looking directly at Namora for the first time since she arrived. They were dark and lovely. “And I would betray myself by not going with her.” 

Namora stared at her a while longer. When Abi did not speak again, the warrior swam closer to her, peering into those boundless eyes. Many said that Namora’s gaze was as fierce as her cousin’s spear or Attuma’s axe. Still, she was unshaken. 

Namora turned sharply and swam away, returning to her spear. “Go. Do your duty. I will inform K’uk’ulkan.” 

“Thank you, my Lady.” Abi hesitated by the open doorway. “And . . . goodbye.” 

Namora wondered at her hesitation, but the handmaid was gone before she could question it. She watched the doorway for a while before returning to her work. 

Chapter Text

— Haiti —

Shuri walked out from the water like a spirit in a vision, like the goddess the Talokanil declared her. Shuri didn’t feel like a goddess. She felt small and angry and irritated. Nothing humbled you as quickly as walking away from an argument without winning. No matter how much you told yourself it was a tactical retreat, that was still a retreat. 

Nakia’s home was near the beach. A blessing since behind her, Abi was still blue-skinned and gilled, with a mask full of water over her mouth and carved vibranium and glass over her neck and shoulders. Shuri glanced back at her as they walked through the night. “Are you gonna go back to Talokan?” 

“No, my lady,” Abi said quietly, clutching a hand over her heart. “I will not.” Her eyes were lowered as though in shame or pain. Resignation, that was it. Shuri almost wished she were in a better mood. She would have asked what was wrong. 

Shuri appeared on Nakia’s front step long after the rest of the town had gone to sleep, knocking loud, shivering and holding her arms around herself. When the door opened, Nakia stood in front of her with a bonnet around her hair and a robe around her shoulders, staring dimly. She had never looked so . . . so human to Shuri. “Usisi? What’s wrong?” Immediately, Nakia’s spine straightened, a War Dog on the hunt once more. Shuri almost wished the problem were serious enough to require it. 

“I fought with Namor.” 

“Ah.” A look of deep understanding overcame Nakia. Understanding and amusement. “Well come in.” 

Within five minutes, Nakia had Shuri sitting at a table in the kitchen, wrapped up in a fluffy pink robe. Her nearly sister-in-law sat across from her, having changed her bonnet for a silk Wakandan scarf in the face of company. And Abi, ever helpful, was wandering around the kitchen as though she lived there, preparing tea for all three of them. Yes, even Nakia, who looked at the Talokani newcomer like she’d lost her mind when Abi set a teacup down in front of her, gently pouring until she was satisfied. Nakia eventually decided to ignore her. 

Then, to Shuri’s eternal fury, Nakia laughed. “Ah, your first argument as man and wife! A momentous occasion! Let me mark the day on my calendar.” 

“Don’t touch your calendar!” Shuri cried. “This is not funny!” 

“It’s a little funny. For me.” 

Shuri groaned, throwing her hands up and leaning her head down, looking away from her. Nakia’s eyes softened. She reached over and laid a comforting hand on Shuri’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened.” 

So Shuri told her. 

Nakia sat and nodded in understanding, occasionally urging Shuri to continue when she started to trail off. When it was done, the once War Dog only considered for a moment before saying, “Eh, it sounds like a misunderstanding.” 

Shuri wondered if she had always been this quick to anger or if marriage brought it out in her. “Nakia!”

“What? It is not some unsolvable problem like you think.” 

“It might be,” Shuri said, edging too close to despair for her own liking. Despite herself, she did not want it to be unsolvable. The scientist in her did not want to believe there was a problem she could not fix. The romantic in her pleaded for it not to be so. And yet the anger burned hot. “Nakia, I don’t know how to fix this!” 

Nakia shrugged. “Why not? You misunderstood him; he misunderstood you. Now you understand each other. You’re already better than before.” 

“It doesn’t feel better.” Shuri stood, pressing her palms to her closed eyes, as though to rub the feelings in her head away. It didn’t work. “He— he was an ass, worse than a stubborn rhino! He accused me of lying to him!” 

“He thought you did lie to him,” Nakia said honestly. “He thought you would begin trying to be pregnant as soon as you were married.” 

“Well he didn’t tell me that!”  

“Did you tell him that you didn’t want to start immediately?” 

Shuri’s silence was answer enough. 

Nakia nodded to herself and stood so they were at eye level. “Is it typical in Talokan for couples to have children as soon as they are married? Are most of the women your age there mothers or soon to be?” 

Shuri already knew the answer. “I don’t know.” 

Nakia gave her a hard look, not believing her for a second. Then she turned to Abi and asked in Maya, “How soon do those of Talokan begin to have children?” 

Before Shuri could order her not to say anything, Abi answered, “When they are married, Lady Nakia. Many are married by the time they are the age of myself or Ix Shuri.” 

Shuri was gonna have to have a talk with her about privacy at some point. 

“Thank you, kind lady.” Nakia returned her attention to the princess. “If Namor had the cultural expectation of having children immediately upon marriage, and you said nothing to the contrary, giving him no reason to question such a belief.” 

“Well he should have questioned it,” Shuri hissed. “I would have! I did! He must have known that about me, that— that I am not a woman to be reduced to marriage and motherhood, that I do not wish to myself to it while I hardly know who I am on my own.” 

“No one is ever on their own,” Nakia said softly. “But alright. Even then. The man has many powers as you have told me — I do not believe you have mentioned mind-reading as one of them. There is nothing wrong with you feeling these things, Shuri. You are a person before you are a wife; you are Shuri before you are Ix Shuri of Talokan. You have every right to that. If he ever disagreed, I would free you of him myself, I would not hesitate. But he has a right to know. To be spoken to honestly and openly. You are not more correct because you have a modernist point of view and he does not.” 

Shuri curled her arms around herself, scowling. “He knows I am not a traditionalist. He knows that.” 

“And yet you married a man who is the very embodiment of his people’s tradition. That is more reason to discuss things, not less.”

Shuri knew that. On some level, she knew that. But . . . “I thought he knew me.” 

Nakia’s eyes softened. She sounded far older and wiser than her years when she said, “You never really stop learning the people you love. I promise you that the day one of you is gone, you will learn a thousand new things about each other you could have never imagined. Some people think it a tragic thing, that this means you never really know the people you love. But that’s not true. You just get to love them more each day.” 

Wistful longing laced through Nakia’s voice, like the incense that Namor’s priests burned at their ceremonies. Soft and sweet and sad all at once. Shuri suddenly felt guilty about burdening Nakia with her problems when she knew entirely well that she was still recovering from the loss of T’Challa, as much as Ramonda and herself. Everything she’d complained about seemed so petty then. What was arguing with your husband next to the loss of the sun itself? Shuri suddenly imagined what it would be like if Namor died. If, as immortal and invincible as he seemed, Bast conspired to steal him as she had stolen her brother. Her heart ached. She did not want the last words they ever said to each other to be an argument. Even leaving her brother to die without her wouldn’t be as bad as that. At least T’Challa died knowing Shuri loved him more than the sun itself, that she worked until his last moments to save him. He had died loved. Not everyone had that privilege. 

Shuri swiped the tears from her eyes, her thoughts a turmoil. She muttered, “He was an ass. He accused me of lying. But I— I jumped to anger. I did not give him a chance to explain himself.” She turned, pacing as she struggled to reconcile what she knew with what she felt. “But he twisted my words! I— I thought he twisted my words.” Or had she twisted them herself, not wanting to ruin the peaceful happiness they’d known, the sweet bliss she went to sleep in every night with Namor at her side. “Okay, fine. He misunderstood. And that is not . . . entirely not my fault. But he wanted to make a traditionalist of me, and that is not what I am! He knew that at least!” 

But it did not take tradition to want children. He wanted a family. She knew that. She wanted it too. Just not— not immediately. Maybe tomorrow, but not today. And how could he have known that if she did not say it? And besides . . . everyone he’d ever loved was gone. His mother, his father he never knew, all the people he’d loved over five centuries. Could she blame him for wanting someone who would never leave? Never leave him alone on this cold world, with no one who truly knew him? No. She could not blame him for that. And what was worse, she knew she couldn’t. Damn Namor — but he had become a weakness for her and the more she thought of it from his point of view, the more she ached to make things right. Maybe . . . maybe she could. Maybe things were not broken beyond repair. And Bast knows the stubborn snake was not going to apologize first. 

Shuri said, laughing a little, “I guess I should have known when he did not say anything when people kept praying for me to give them a prince.” Though she thought Namor would be just as happy with a princess. He better be if he knows what’s good for him. 

From behind her, the confused voice of her handmaid said, “But he did, my Queen. Namor ordered the people not to speak of such matters to you any longer. He did not wish for you to feel guilt or shame for not quickening yet. He did not wish for you to think you did something wrong.” 

And Shuri thought, Oh Bast damn him . . . but I miss my husband. 

— Talokan —

Namor dreamt. 

He dreamt of smoke and blood. He dreamt of walking through ash, so much ash, his wings torn from his feet. He dreamt that the white ash mixed with his own blood to form a disgusting paste on his feet, sticking to him like clay, like pain. Pain. Yes. That was what he dreamt of. 

A scream pierced his ears. 

Namor turned this way and that, not knowing where he was. Shuri screamed again — and yes, that was Shuri, that was his wife. He knew her, knew her in life and death and dreams, in the shadows between worlds where only the gods walked. Where was she? She was in pain, he knew. He had to find her. He had to save her. In watan, do not fear — but where was she? 

Namor ran. He ran toward the voice. Or he tried to — still, he did not know where he was, where it was coming from. The noise seemed to come from each direction, pounding in his ears, filling him until he could not be certain of his own thoughts. The whole sky was filled with it. The water, he needed to be in water — but no. Not until he had Shuri at his side again. Not until she was safe. Even if he died, she had to live. She had to. He would not know what to do if she didn’t. 

There. He could hear her clearly now and wheeled in that direction, running as fast as he could without his wings. And still it was not fast enough. It never would be. 

When he saw her, she was tied to a tree in the center of a cleared field, surrounded on every side by pale-faced men, men whose features were dim and indiscernible. Demons. Not men at all. Not in any way that mattered. 

Shuri screamed when she saw him. “K’uk’ulkan!” She pulled against the ropes that held her, but they just grew tighter. They bound her arms, her legs, her throat. Her round belly was almost obscene in the thin white gown she wore. Her face, her lovely strong face, twisted in pain. “In wíicham, help me!”

He could do nothing else. 

Namor tried to run to her and felt himself cry out in pain. He looked down. The tendons at the base of his ankles had been cut. Now the blood flowed, rivers spilling from his feet and tracing their way home to Talokan, poisoning the water. His people would never be able to swim there again. They would have to leave. They would always had to leave. 

Shuri, get to Shuri, in yaakunaj, in paalal. 

Namor tried to run again, but his feet turned to stone. He was becoming one of the statues of their gods, old and dead and crumbling under the weight of the conquistadors. He had to move. He could not move. 

Shuri screamed in pain. The flames were coming, they were here, they were taking her, he could not get to her in time— 

Namor woke with heat in his throat and pain in his lungs. He looked around. He had expected to find himself in the room he shared with Shuri, prayed to Chaac she would be resting against him, sharing her warmth. But she was not there. For a moment he panicked — but no. This was his room, the one underwater where she could not sleep. Why was he here — oh. They argued. 

Namor was still thinking of this when a tall figure appeared in his doorway, looking upon him. “Aj K’uk’ulkan?” Attuma stayed a respectful distance away. Namor realized he had spoken in his sleep. Perhaps he had shouted, even screamed. He was grateful to his friend for not mentioning this, even if they both knew. Sometimes that was the only way a thing could be survived. 

“I am awake, my child.” Namor rose. He wanted to run his hands over his face, sigh, be alone. But no, he could not do this. Aj K’uk’ulkan belonged to his people before himself. He must be strong . . . even for Attuma. “Where is Namora? Where is my cousin? I wish to speak to her.” He hoped that no one knew of his argument with his love. But if they did, it was a problem for later. First, he must consult with his cousin. Namora was not most people’s first choice when it came to matters of the heart. But she was the only family that remained to him, and certainly the only person he was close to who could shed light on matters of a woman’s heart. 

A strange sort of nervousness overcame Attuma. His broad hands tightened around the handle of the axe kept at his waist. A strange purple paint decorated his nose and cheeks — a gift from Wakanda? Where did he get that? 

Before Namor could question any of this, Attuma said, “I will summon the Warrior Namora.” And he was gone. 

A little too fast. 

Namora arrived to the Feathered-Serpent’s rooms in short order, dressed not in her warrior’s clothes, but in a gown of sunset-yellow and warm red. Despite the brightness of her clothes, her face was as one carved from stone. She held her hands behind her back when she spoke. “Aj K’uk’ulkan summoned me?” 

“I have, my child.” Something in his heart surged at the term of endearment. A painful reminder of why his wife was not at his side. 

At least the dream was clear to him in its meaning. His soul had reminded him of her importance, how destructive the loss of her would he. He must right things. 

Namor stood, drawing one of his cloaks from its stone stand, one of black and gold and white and purple that reminded him of his wife. He pinned it at the shoulder with a brooch made of bone that he had received in Wakanda. With hope, Shuri would understand that he wished to reconcile. “Cousin, I wish to speak to you of a matter regarding the Queen.” He told her of their argument, his confusion at Shuri’s words, the rising anger that had overtaken their senses. But as he spoke, he became aware of Namora’s face, the dark concern in her eyes, the way her hands twisted around themselves as she struggled to hold something back. The Feathered-Serpent gave his cousin a hard look. “Namora. Speak your thoughts honestly. You will have no rebuke from me.” 

For a moment, all was still water. Then Namora said, “Ix Shuri has left Talokan. She has retreated to Haiti with her sister-in-law and her handmaid.” 

Namor stared at his cousin, mouth turning dry despite the seawater that bled into his skin. “No.” 

“I— I am sorry, K’uk’ulkan.” 

Namor shook his head. His movements were slow, strange. What was happening? “No. She— she cannot be gone.” Namor’s hand twisted in the cloak, gripping painfully, crushing the bone pendant in his hand. “No.”  

Chapter Text

— Haiti —

Shuri stayed the night at Nakia’s home, falling asleep on her couch. When she woke, someone was staring her in the face. She blinked. “Um . . . hello?” 

The child’s face perked up in a smile. “Hi!” 

Shuri really didn’t know where to go from there. 

“Touissant!” Nakia, still putting in her earrings as she prepared for the day, rushed into the living room and set gentle hands on the boy’s shoulder. “What are you doing disturbing our guest?” 

“I wanted to meet the princess,” the boy — Touissant — whined, turning puppy-dog eyes on Nakia. 

The once War Dog was not impressed. “And now you’ve met her.” Nakia shooed him away with her hands. “Go and get dressed for school before we’re both late. Go on, go.” 

Touissant groaned for a moment before obeying, his resistance giving like water beneath a reaching hand. It reminded Shuri of something, but she couldn’t remember what. She watched him go. “Since when do you have a son?” Something like betrayal tainted her mouth, gross and metallic. How old was the kid? Six, seven? He couldn’t be . . . 

Nakia shook her head. “He lost his parents in one of the accidents caused by the snap. A plane crash. He had no one else.” 

Immediately, Shuri felt the guilt. Doubting Nakia, of all people — how could she? Surely if T’Challa’d had a child, he would have told her. Surely Nakia would tell her now. How could she even imagine otherwise? “Sorry, usisi.” 

“Do not be.” Nakia smiled wanly. “Are you going back to Talokan?” 

No-nonsense Nakia, the woman who could solve any problem, returned. Shuri was deeply grateful for her, even if she didn’t know it. And she wanted to show it. But she’d never really known how. That was the difference between them, she thought. Shuri could solve every problem but the heart. 

Shuri sat up on the couch so Nakia could sit beside her. She drew her feet to her until she looked and felt like a teenager again, leaning her cheek against her knee. She wasted as much time as she could before answering. “Yes. I will. I just . . .” Shuri hated when she struggled to put her thoughts into words. She was normally so good at it. This entire experience was far too humbling. “I don’t know how to go back. Losing like that, like a dog with its tail between my legs.” 

Nakia shook her head. “When you see an argument as you versus him, you’ve already lost.” Her eyes glittered in memory. “T’Challa and I argued a lot before we figured that out.” 

Shuri stared at her. “Shut up! No you didn’t!” 

“Oh, yes.” Nakia nodded wisely. “You just never saw because T’Challa knew you’d make fun of him if you knew how often he lost.” 

Shuri laughed. “I mean, obviously you broke up for a while, but I never thought . . .” She leaned forward, eager. “What was your first fight?” 

Nakia laughed at her, but acquiesced. “We had been together for a while. T’Challa wished to court me formally, and I knew what that would soon mean. Marriage, queenhood, staying in Wakanda. And he knew I didn’t want that, or at least not then. I was still a War Dog. I didn’t want to be locked away in the Citadel. I wanted to change things in the world.” 

Something in Shuri’s chest tightened. It sounded so similar to her argument with Namor, but she couldn’t imagine T’Challa and Nakia fighting like that. Maybe that was part of being married — suddenly people saw her as an adult to involve in such matters. Someone allowed to know about love and sex and child-rearing. Even Okoye, when they talked over the sand beads, occasionally let slip a groan about W’Kabi or Attuma, the Talokanil general having apparently taken to leaving her courting gifts in the form of dead sea creatures. It was intimidating and fascinating at the same time. Like stepping into another world that she never knew was in her backyard. “What happened?” 

Nakia smiled warmly, years turning the memories soft. “We fought. I yelled and he yelled back. He almost never raised his voice, so you know he was upset. And I told him to leave my home and if he ever came back, my father would toss him into the river.” 

Shuri couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing, imagining her brother, great and mighty Black Panther, tossed on his ass right outside the river border. “Amazing. And he came back?” That sounded right to Shuri. Of course T’Challa would go back. He always gave into Nakia. 

Nakia chuckled, more to herself than Shuri. “Well, I waited for him to come back. I waited three days and nights before breaking down on my mother’s knee and begging her to tell me what to do.” She winced. “Mama was . . . less than sympathetic.” 

Shuri could sympathize. She would rather run for the hills than ask Ramonda for marriage advice right now. She’d be shipped back to Wakanda in seconds. 

Nakia told her, “She called me childish for waiting around for T’Challa to come begging to me like he was not Prince and Black Panther. I was cruel for my words, my lack of sympathy. I refused to understand him and yelled at him for not understanding me. And she dragged me out of my home by the ear and told me to go apologize.” 

Ouch. Shuri was suddenly grateful that Ramonda would undoubtedly take her side in any argument against Namor. Even if she was wrong. Especially if she was wrong! 

“So I went, at once grudging and grateful. I truly did miss him.” She smiled softly, eyes shimmering, and said, “Then I found him in the gardens of the Citadel, T’Chaka yelling at him the exact same as my mother! Except he looked even worse than me.” 

This time, Shuri’s laugh came from deep within her belly, deep and aching. Oh, she wished she could see that. It should have made the family photos. “So you made up?” 

“We did. And eventually we argued more and made up more. We got quite good at it at some point.” Nakia ran her fingers gently over the back of her hand — something T’Challa did once upon a time. Her voice was close to breaking. “And, eventually, we figured out what I told you. Fighting is easy. But love is not a war, and treating it as one leaves no winners.” 

That sounded true. Shuri certainly didn’t feel like she’d won anything. “Well . . . at least now I have you to tell me this.” 

Nakia smiled knowingly. “Oh yes. So much easier than finding out the hard way.” 

Shuri didn’t have a watch, and there was no clock in Nakia’s living room. But the sun was high and bright. It made her feel hopeful. Namor would say it was a good omen. T’Challa would say it was easy to have hope when the sun shone upon you. She missed them both. She could still go to one. 

Shuri sighed and looked out a window. In the distance, she could hear the rolling ocean, smell its salt. She smiled to herself. “Guess it’s time to go home.” 

— Talokan —

When Shuri told Abi it was time to return to Talokan, the handmaid nearly dropped the tea kettle she was holding in her surprise, letting out a joyous gasp. “Chaac is good, Ix Shuri,” she gushed, insofar as Abi was capable of gushing over something. “I am grateful. Most grateful.” 

Before Shuri could even respond, Abi had already set to cleaning Nakia’s kitchen and refilling her water mask and the rebreathers that covered her gills. She was so happy that Shuri wondered if she genuinely thought they would never return to Talokan. But that was ridiculous. No one believed she was gone forever. Right? 

. . . 

They needed to go now. 

The trip back on Ichaphaza seemed impossibly long, even if Griot told her they made good time. Shuri emerged into the cenotes where she and Namor were wed before the orca had even stopped swimming, propelling herself upwards. Her suit dissolved into her Kimoyo beads as she emerged into warm, humid air. Even so far beneath the water, it was warm. That was one of her favorite things about this place. It was easy to be happy with the warmth on her neck and the light of the glow worms above her. 

Almost as soon as she appeared, Shuri was accosted by the servants who tended the cenotes. Their expressions were a mixture of relief and blank fright. One of the handmaidens who helped her dress for her wedding stepped forward and ran shaking hands over Shuri’s arms, checking up and down to see she wasn’t injured. They let out a sigh of great relief when they saw that she was alright, bowing their head and whispering, “Glory to Chaac, my Queen.” They kissed Shuri’s cheek. “Aj K’uk’ulkan was not himself with you gone.” 

Shuri couldn’t help the little smile that overcame her, guiltily happy that Namor was as upset as herself when they were apart. “Where is K’uk’ulkan now?” 

“He has gone to the surface, Ix Shuri,” one of the servants told her. “Aj K’uk’ulkan sought to visit the resting site of Queen Mother Fen.” 

“Ah.” Shuri scrunched up her nose. “And where is that?” 

“The—” Abi said a series of words that Griot eventually translated as, “Yucatan Peninsula. Near the water.” 

Somehow, all that Shuri thought was, No one told me that being married would involve riding a whale this much. 

Namor pressed his hands into the grass, kneeling as a supplicant before a god. Beneath the centuries of dirt and dust rested his mother’s bones where he’d placed them in the earth. He had never wanted it as her final resting place. If it was his choice, Fen would have been interred deep within Talokan where he could easily make the pilgrimage to her memory whenever he needed her guidance. But he could not have dishonored her wishes if someone made him. His mother had given up so much for him — her home, her whole world. The one thing he could give to her in return was making sure her body was laid in what remained of her home, where his father and ancestors were buried. It wasn’t enough, but it was what he could give her. 

That was where Shuri found him. Eyes closed, breathing in the scent of the grass, his skin unfamiliar in its dryness. She sat beside him and he knew her immediately, without opening his eyes. He knew her by the way her breaths came and the sense of her body next to his, lithe and strong at once. He almost didn’t look at her, fearing that he would find that she was a ghost, an apparition conjured by his mind, starved of her. But he had to look. He couldn’t not. 

Namor looked. 

Shuri sat beside him with a wan smile, still wearing her deep-water suit up to her neck. The pearl and jade shone in the bright sun. Her eyes were dark and lovely, like polished obsidian. She was so beautiful that for a moment, he forgot their argument entirely. How he wished they could stay in that moment forever. 

Namor spoke first. “I did not think you meant to return. I believed you meant to divorce me with your leaving.” 

Shuri blinked several times. “Well. That’s a bit dramatic. Divorce takes more than that.” 

“In Talokan, a couple is no longer married if one announces their intentions to separate and abandons their home.” 

“. . . OK, it’s not that big of a leap. But fine, I’ll take the L.” 

“I don’t know what that means.” 

“I’ll explain it later.” Shuri shifted on the ground. This little oasis of nature was untouched by man, maybe for centuries. She wondered how many colonizers had come back here, attempting to build on the land that held Namor’s mother only to meet his spear. She couldn’t say the thought didn’t make her smile. “I almost thought I wouldn’t find you here. It was such a hassle getting from Talokan, I started to think Bast was punishing me and next I was going to the Ancestral Plane.” 

Despite himself, Namor smiled for her. “You should give thanks to your ancestors for intervening on your behalf. Bast saw fit to grant mercy.” 

“I come from a long line of highly persuasive people.” 

 “That explains much.” 

Shuri chuckled, unable to say he was wrong. They sat in silence a while longer, enjoying the noise of the land — the buzzing of bugs in the trees, the distant sound of water rolling along a sandy shore. Shuri had rarely known such a peaceful place in her life. It wasn’t what she was normally drawn to. Her lab in Wakanda was the opposite — white, glass, decorated with her own art and blasting music. It was different . . . but she found she didn’t mind. 

“Nakia said . . . ” Shuri shook her head at herself, letting out a breath of frustration. “She suggested I apologize. And I . . . unfortunately . . . agree with her assessment.” 

Namor looked at her with a brow arched, almost sarcastic. “Unfortunately?” 

“I don’t like being wrong.” 

“Neither do I, but that is still not how I would begin an apology.” 

Shuri scowled and crossed her arms. “Alright, mister God-King of Talokan. How do you do it then?” 

Namor assessed her with a long look, something curious and almost calculating behind his dark eyes. Then he said, “If I were to apologize—” his eyes crinkled at the corner “—which I of course would not have to do, being the God-King of Talokan, I would begin with my offenses. So that there could be no further misunderstanding.” 

“Of course,” Shuri echoed. 

Instead of correcting her obviously mediocre apology, she waited expectantly. Namor chuffed before continuing. “If I were to outline my wrongs, which I as a god do not have—” 

“Never.” 

“—then I might say that I wronged my wife in not listening to her when we argued, and leaving as though her words were unimportant to me. I might attempt to explain my thoughts.” 

“Though as the Feathered-Serpent, you should never be made to explain yourself,” Shuri said with a matching crinkle to her eye and gentle amusement in her voice. 

“Of course not.” Namor looked at her. His eyes turned serious. “But if I must . . . I would tell her that I had thought us of one mind. That I believed we wanted the same thing. I felt I was . . . lied to.” 

The fiction, flimsy as it was, fell away. There was a rawness to Namor’s voice that Shuri had never heard from him before. She wondered if she had ever heard him vulnerable before. He was always so sure of himself and his place in the world — but maybe now he wasn’t so sure of his place with her. That was never what she wanted. Shuri reached out and took his hand in hers. His fingers were so much larger around her thin ones; he held tight to her. “I did not mean to lie to you,” Shuri said honestly, the anger that overtook her only a day before gone and forgotten. “I didn’t think I had to explain— I didn’t want to explain,” Shuri admitted, her voice turning rough. “I thought you understood me. Completely, without having to say anything. I liked that.” 

Namor shook his head. “You are too interesting of a woman to be so easily dissected.” 

“Flatterer. Someone wants to be forgiven.” 

“Yes,” Namor said easily. “That is the point of apologizing.” 

Shuri chuffed and swatted his arm. Realistically, this was far more likely to hurt her than him. But he rubbed the place of her smack affectionately, like he appreciated even that touch. Shuri smiled softly. “I didn’t lie when I said I want to have children.” She shrugged, more at herself than him. “But I should have explained that I didn’t mean right away.” Namor started to speak, but she stopped him before he could interrupt. “And that is my fault. I should have told you. Maybe even before I agreed to marry you.” Shuri drew her knees up and close to her chest, resting her chin atop them. “But I’m not even twenty-five. I have things I want to do, ideas and potentialities that would always come second to a child. And I don’t think I’m ready yet to be second in my own life.” 

Namor considered her words carefully before asking, “Very well. And when will you be ready?” 

“I don’t know,” Shuri answered, reminding herself to be honest and not just irritated. “It could be tomorrow. It could be five years. Does it matter?” Shuri took his hand once more and squeezed. “It’s not like we don’t have time.” 

Namor looked at her and there was something unbearably sad in his eyes. Shuri didn’t think he’d ever looked at her like that. She never wanted it again. “I understand you, Shuri. I shall try to at the least. And I forgive you for your part in our disagreement. I beg you to forgive me for mine.” And Shuri opened her mouth to say yes, of course she forgave him, but before she could he said, “But we will never have enough time.” 

Before Shuri could question him, Namor reached out a hand, brushing a long twist of braided hair from her face. “You say you are young. I am many years older than you, but it will be centuries still before my body is ready to leave this earth, if such a time ever comes. But you . . . ” Namor’s eyes darkened with pain. He looked away sharply. “I don’t wish to speak of this. It only—” It hurts. More perhaps than anything Namor had known in a long time. Most weapons could not harm him, but it was not the pain of the flesh he feared. 

He looked at Shuri — so youthful, so beautiful. Her dark skin smooth and still untouched by time. The very image of the goddess his people named her . . . but if there was a secret to passing on his immortality to others, Namor did not know it. If he did, his mother would still be there and he would not imagine the years with his wife slipping through his hands like desert sand, like water. He wanted more time with her than the world would give them. He wanted to live eternally with her and their children, never watching his sons and daughters grieve Shuri as he once did Fen. 

The gods were not so kind. That’s how he knew he was one of them. 

Shuri rested her cheek against Namor’s shoulder and drew him back to himself. “Then we won’t talk about it. Alright? We don’t have to talk about it right now.” 

The thought appealed to him. But . . . “We must speak of it eventually.” 

“Since when is eventually now?” Shuri smiled with her teeth. “I’m sorry. You’re sorry. Let’s go home.” 

Namor looked at her for a long time, committing her sharp features to memory. As if she would be gone before he could see them again. And he said, “Yes.” 

Namor fell asleep with his cheek pressed against Shuri’s belly, like he was listening for a heartbeat that wasn’t there. Shuri stayed awake a while longer, drawing her hands through his hair. It was so dark and lovely. Ink-black softness against her hands. He was always so intense when he was awake. It was a privilege to see him peaceful in his sleep. Shuri pressed a kiss to her fingers and laid them against Namor’s temple. He didn’t stir. 

The longer Namor slept, the more Shuri thought of what he’d told her. She’d thought of what it would be like if they had a child — the trials and tribulations, the joy and laughter, yes. But . . . but. 

If they had a child, Namor hoped they would be immortal. And Shuri wanted the same — no parent should face a child's mortality. Bast knew the toll it took on Mama . . . 

But she thought she understood now. Why it had cut Namor so deep. Knowing Namor’s age, there was no guarantee he even would die. But Shuri would. She would, and when she did she would leave behind the family they built. And when she did, her children . . . if Namor was right, if his prayers were answered, then they would be as he was when Fen left him. Children. She would never see them grow up, get married, change the world. She would never be a grandmother in any way that mattered. Shuri would never see what kind of people their kids grew up to be. 

Or . . . or maybe worse. Because maybe they wouldn’t be immortal. Maybe they would be like her and not Namor. And then — then Namor would watch all of them age. Her, their kids, all of them growing old and grey and weak before his eyes. Shuri thought that was worse. Children grew to know their parents would die eventually, even if they couldn’t accept it. Lovers rarely died together, Romeo and Juliet notwithstanding. But children . . . parents shouldn’t have to outlive their children. If Ramonda had taught Shuri anything, she taught her that. 

Shuri thought she understood now why Namor had been so upset. Why waste time when it was always going to be gone too fast? 

Shuri pressed a soft kiss to her fingers and laid them against Namor’s temple. He sighed in his sleep. His hands tightened instinctively around her waist. Shuri smiled down at him. “I will give you a family,” she whispered and wondered if somewhere in the deep recesses of sleep, he heard her. “One day. One day, I promise. We’ll fill your life with so much love and joy and laughter, you’ll feel it long after I’m gone.” Shuri resolved to wake up every morning and ask herself if she was ready. Not today. But maybe tomorrow. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Many prayers were said throughout the palace when K’uk’ulkan returned with his queen. Attuma laid a great shark he’d hunted at the feet of the Feathered Serpent’s temple and led the warriors in a chanting song of thanks. Namora suspected he was secretly glad that the alliance with Wakanda did not fall through only because he would not have to end his courtship of the warrior Okoye. He thought and spoke of little else these days, the old fool. It seemed that K’uk’ulkan had started a trend — all of Talokan was in a romantic mood. 

It was deeply irritating. 

Namora was not a romantic. She never had been. It was not in her nature. She was born the last in a long line of warriors, destined to fight at the side of Aj K’uk’ulkan, blessed by Chaac as one of the few to share their king’s blood. Then her mother died in battle when Namora was still young. Such was her fate. Namora understood even as she mourned. There could have never been another path for them. 

But it left her with a problem. Namora was the last of her line. Her ancestors, what remained of K’uk’ulkan’s cousins, had been lost to time. Disease, brief spouts of famine, the vicious creatures that lined the deep-sea floor, battle with those above. All and more had taken his family from him. She was all that was left. 

So Namora knew at a young age what she had to do. Marriage became a dreaded priority. She was horrified at the thought of falling in love. Love would mean having something to lose. Worse — it might mean prioritizing a single person over her duty. And nothing could be more important than that. No. Nothing could ever matter more to her than her king, than Talokan. It was this single thought that shaped her decisions. 

So Namora did not marry for love. To even entertain the thought would have felt like a betrayal of herself. She refused all mentions of courtship, romance, suitors. Even K’uk’ulkan began to worry after her, pointing out handsome young men and women of his army, eligible temple daughters, the maturing children of his friends and advisors. Namora turned her cheek to all of them. To indulge in courtship would have been to invite romance. Feelings would follow and — no, that was not acceptable. Namora was not just a fighter. She was a strategist. It became necessary to lay the matter to rest, so she did. She found a man who was the last son of the last son of someone important, with no charm and little of anything she liked, and married him within the moon’s turn. 

At the time, it was a scandal. Namora didn’t care for scandals. She returned to her life as though nothing had happened, because nothing might as well have. Her life would follow the same path it always did. Only now she had security. She would always need to have children. K’uk’ulkan needed his cousins, his most trusted companions, his only family. But if Namora wasn’t careful, she would have allowed it to distract her from what mattered most to her — being the king’s best and most-trusted general. A true warrior of Talokan. Never. 

So she would have children. When it occurred to her to do so and when Talan was not annoying her too much. Perhaps when the war with the surface was won and the world calmly settled into a new order. That would work. As long as she didn’t die fighting before then. How deeply inconvenient that would be. 

Although . . . she remembered the look her cousin gave her before her wedding. He was helping arrange beads of gold and vibranium into her hair. Her wedding gown had been a gift from him, the most lovely thing, blue and dark and embroidered with more pearls than she’d ever seen. She wasn’t one for jewelry, truly. But it was a special occasion, even if just for everyone else. She allowed it. And when she was ready, she turned to face K’uk’ulkan, ready for him to escort her to the cenotes where the priests would burn incense and say prayers to the North, East, South, and West before binding Talan to her in matrimony. 

But then K’uk’ulkan looked at her . . . and he was just so sad. “I cannot object if this is what you want, Namora.” 

He said nothing more, but it was enough. Namora gave him a sharp nod, but didn’t respond. Her cousin accepted this as he accepted everything about her — without question. Then he took her to be married and Namora spent the night preparing to accompany Aj K’uk’ulkan on a trip to inspect their forces in the far eastern tribes, near the landmass humans named Australia. Her life continued largely unchanged. And she just might have been happy to stay that way until she died in glorious battle, having secured her bloodline and her king’s future . . . if not for Shuri. If not for Abi. 

A part of Namora truly wished that things could have continued. If only Namor had skipped over Wakanda entirely and finally begun their great war against the surface. She would have never been made to question anything. But it was hardly the duty of the gods to consider her opinion. No, instead Aj K’uk’ulkan, the Feathered-Serpent God and immortal leader of their people, he of the sea and sky, fell in love. 

Namora contemplated this as she stood in the Queen’s laboratory, examining the new spears that the inventor had designed for Talokan’s forces. She could admit that they were good. Well-balanced, efficient without being plain. And Shuri had stuck very close to the traditional design of their weapons, careful to incorporate the pearls and jade. They were beautiful. It was very nearly enough to make Namora forgive her. 

Namora set the vibranium spear down with a sharp slap of metal on stone. “They will do.” 

“Okay,” Shuri said, giving her an odd look. “We can start production and—” 

“You may speak of this to Attuma.” Namora turned on her heel and left, her original spear, the one her mother gave her, latched to her back. 

“Oh . . . okay,” Shuri said awkwardly. “See you—” 

“I’m sure.” She made her way out the room and down the halls, sighing in relief when she returned to the water-filled part of the palace. She hated exposing herself to the dry air, but it was a necessity she bore for the sake of the only man in her life she cared for. One she had been made to bear significantly more often now that he was married. Joy. 

Namora grew still in the palace garden, aware of a presence behind her. She turned, floating higher above the reaching underwater flowers and seaweed, looking at — “Abi.” She hid a swallow. “State your purpose.” 

Abi swayed in the water like she was born to it — and she was of course, all children of Talokan were. But there was something to her . . . something strange and bright in the darkness of her pupils. She moved like it was no effort at all, like the water bended to her and not the other way around. Perhaps it did. Namora could imagine it did. 

Somehow, Abi approached without Namora noticing she’d moved. She blinked and then the other woman was mere inches away. Before Namora could speak, could even think of something to say, Abi held out her hands. “You left before Shuri could give you this.” 

Namora looked down. Abi held a spear, one of the Queen’s design. Namora’s eyes hardened. “You may pass on my thanks.” She didn’t take it. 

Abi tilted her head, giving her a long look. “I certainly may do that. But it would not be proper to lie to my queen.” 

“A shame.” Namora looked around. There was no one else in the palace garden. The underwater sun was moments from setting. They were alone. 

Abi smiled slyly. “You are not happy with our beloved lady Queen.” Namora was hardly one to deny the truth. “May I ask why?” 

Namora looked away sharply. She was no longer thinking of Abi’s eyes when she said, “The Queen is . . . her actions were harmful to Aj K’uk’ulkan.” She hurt him. All he does is love her, and she hurt him. How could she? 

“Ah. Shall I request an apology be made?” 

Namora scowled. “Absolutely not.” 

Abi widened her lips in a grin. Her teeth were nearly as sharp as her nails. “I’m given to understand they made up entirely. Everyone was adequately apologetic.” 

“I don’t see why. Aj K’uk’ulkan could not have done anything wrong.” At least nothing that could possibly justify his distress when he discovered Shuri was missing, the fright on his face when he awoke from a dream he would not even tell her or Attuma about . . . No. Nothing could make up for that. Nothing could make that worth it. 

“Ah, neither do I,” Abi said, shocking her. “But no one has to be wrong in an argument. Someone just has to be hurt.” 

“More than enough hurt was had,” Namora snapped. “In all my years, I have never seen my cousin so—” Namora cut herself off. She did not have to explain herself to anyone. Certainly not a handmaiden. 

Yet Abi nodded like she’d laid her heart bare. Calm and sympathetic. She never lost her nerve. It made Namora want to strangle her. “They hurt each other.” Her eyes darkened. For a moment, she seemed to be somewhere else entirely. “But better to hurt someone because you care too much than not at all, isn’t it?” 

Namora wouldn’t know. She never let anyone close enough to hurt her. 

Abi smiled suddenly and brightly, though it did not seem as true this time. “That is what I think at least. I have seen far too much of the latter.” Before Namora could respond, Abi reached forward and placed the spear into the warrior’s hands, uncurling her fingers until Namora had little choice but to take it. For a moment, Abi’s fingers closed over hers, thin and delicate. They floated in the water together. “I hope you will give us a chance to make it up to you.” 

Us. Not her. Not Shuri. Abi wanted to make it up to her. Namora did not know why that mattered. 

Abi let go of her. They looked at each other, saying nothing. Then Abi was gone, twisting in the water and returning to the palace. 

Namora watched her leave. She thought of K’uk’ulkan, how upset he’d been when Shuri left. But also how happy he’d been when she returned. The joy on his face, in his eyes, after he woke alongside her again. And she thought that maybe . . . if K’uk’ulkan loved . . . then maybe it was not such a bad thing to do. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

“Be polite when Mama sees you,” Shuri hissed under her breath, giving her hair and gown one last glance in the mirror Abi held for her. 

“I will respond as I am treated.” 

Nodding to herself, Shuri dismissed the handmaid before casting her gaze at her husband. “That is a recipe for disaster and I am begging you to reconsider.” 

Namor clicked his tongue at her, mouth ticked up in a teasing smile. “A Queen does not beg.” 

“Ah, neither does a King, but no one told you that last night.” 

Namor chuffed out a laugh and was still smirking when the doors to Wakanda’s throne room opened for them. Ayo and Aneka were stationed to either side of the carved wood-and-vibranium doors, faces stony. The tribal elders stood in a circle before their low seats, waiting for them. And in the center, Ramonda sat in the vibranium throne, a strained smile at her lips. 

Shuri gave the most perfunctory curtsy possible before rushing forward, throwing her arms around Ramonda and kissing her cheek. “Good to see you, Umama.” 

Ramonda squeezed her eyes shut, struggling not to clutch Shuri to her and never let go. “It is good to have you in Wakanda once more, child.” Shuri leaned back and Ramonda brushed her thumb over the girl’s cheek. “But unfortunately, this visit is for business.” Ramonda’s eyes slid past her to Namor. Her jaw set into a hard line. Her nod was more of a light twitch. “Aj K’uk’ulkan. You are welcome in Wakanda.” 

“Thank you, Queen Ramonda. I feel . . . ” Namor looked at his wife with a sly smirk. “Most welcome.” 

Brat, Shuri thought, biting her lip to keep from smiling. (And to torture her husband, but that was a given.) Ramonda only glared a little. That was probably the best they were going to do. 

Ramonda sat down upon the vibranium throne. Everyone swiftly followed, Namor and Shuri sitting opposite her on low stools of Jabari wood. Ramonda tilted her head in Okoye’s direction, the general sitting beside M’Kathu of the Border Tribe. Back straight, Okoye held up her wrist and swirled her fingers over the smooth surface of her Kimoyo beads. The vibranium sand came together in a slow river, threading together to form an image — a message. “Everett Ross sent us this last night.” 

Team on the way. G Ross leading. Requesting extraction. 

Shuri sucked in a breath. She’d never gotten a text from Ross with less than twenty words. The man had a tendency to ramble on when he was nervous, and if things were bad enough to contact Wakanda, he had good reason to be worried. But this wasn’t nerves — it was fear. 

Namor wrapped a hand around Shuri’s, squeezing gently. She looked at him. His eyes, forever dark and lovely, were directed right to her. They said, Do not fear. You are my Queen, no harm will come to you in my care. We will make it right. Aloud, Namor said to the room, “This Everett Ross has been an ally to Wakanda and Talokan. Sending this message may yet cost his life. Talokan will assist in retrieving him.” 

The Wakandan elders seemed to collectively blink. Shuri couldn’t really blame them. Yeah, she knew that her husband was a big softie at heart . . . upon occasion. But even at his best, Namor’s mercy never really extended to most humans. Especially not white men. And especially not American white men. Shuri gave him a questioning look. His only response was, “Talokan protects those who protect us.” He turned to his wife with a softness in his eyes. “And he is a friend to my people’s Queen.” 

Shuri absolutely would have kissed him if it weren’t for the council and her mother and the imminent threat of Ross dying horrifically. But there was always later. 

Okoye nodded sharply, returning the room’s attention to her. “We were briefly in contact with Ross after you were called here. An extraction point has been determined — one of the Outreach Centers, near Haiti and Cuba. He was careful to warn us not to come too close on Wakandan ships. The CIA still harbors suspicions of us.” Okoye grimaced, as though even the thought of bending was bitter to her. “We . . . must avoid provocation.” 

Ramonda nodded. “A former War Dog has been sent to get Ross from the states to the Outreach Center. I trust her with my life—” 

“Nakia?” Shuri said. 

Ramonda scowled at her. “—as does Ross.” 

“Yeah, that’s Nakia.” 

Ramonda sighed heavily, probably wishing she could give Shuri a sharp talking-to without Namor declaring eternal war over it. Then she said, without looking at them, “Talokan’s assistance in extracting him would be accepted.” 

Shuri clicked her tongue. “And appreciated?” 

Ramonda gave her a sharp look. Shuri grinned. “And . . . appreciated.” Ramonda looked like it physically hurt to say that much. Shuri considered this an improvement. 

“The Dora Milaje are ready to move,” Okoye said, cutting the tension with a tongue even sharper than her spear. “Is Talokan?” 

Namor’s eyes gleamed. “The sooner, the better.” 

They prepared to leave. 

Ramonda stopped Shuri as she neared the river, moments from joining the other Talokanil who had already jumped into the water as she suited up. Shuri stopped, looking at the hand around her wrist. So like her own, but lined by time. They looked at each other. 

Ramonda spoke first, swallowing thickly. “You are well?” 

It took Shuri a moment to realize it was a question. “I am. Yes, I am. And happy.” She smiled with her teeth. “Very happy. I promise.” 

Ramonda smiled wanly. “Good.” She squeezed her daughter’s hands. “That is good.” She looked like she wanted to say more but stopped herself. “You saw Nakia a few weeks ago?” 

Shuri frowned — did Nakia tell her mother Shuri was there? “Yes,” she said slowly, wondering if Nakia told the Queen about her argument with Namor. “I—” 

“She told me you met Touissant.” 

Shuri shut her mouth. Now she was just confused. Why would Ramonda care about that? “Yeah. He seemed like a good kid?” 

An odd sort of relief overtook Ramonda’s eyes for a split second. Then it was gone, the queenly mask that she showed Wakanda in place once more. “I will tell her you said so.” Ramonda leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to her daughter’s cheek. “Stay in Wakanda for a while. When Ross is returned. It has been too long.” 

It would always be too long for Ramonda. “I’ll talk to K’uk’ulkan,” Shuri promised. 

Ramonda’s mouth twisted. Shuri couldn’t tell if it was because she still thought of him as Namor, or if Ramonda just didn’t like the thought of asking him for anything. But she nodded and said, “Of course.” 

Before Shuri could say another word, Ramonda turned sharply and walked away. Shuri stood there for a while, watching her disappear to the bush. Then she heard Attuma shout for her from the water, and she couldn’t stay. Shuri walked into the water and left the land behind. 

They were nearing the outreach center when Namora approached her cousin’s side. She spoke quietly so the Queen couldn’t hear, busy swimming further ahead so she could meet the Dora Milaje contingent. “Xail reports discontent amongst the nobles of the capital city.” 

Namor looked at her sharply. Namora’s face showed no change to most people, no concern or even interest. But he had raised her when her mother fell in battle, and he knew the look of worry in her eyes. “Do not wait. Tell me now.” 

Namora eyed Shuri’s back, the faint glow of her pearls and jade, before saying, “She reports whispers that the alliance with Wakanda is the worst kind of weakness, that they and all others of the surface should be wiped out. Some find Shuri’s behavior disrespectful — to themselves, to you. They dislike how she breaks with tradition. They do not want technology from Wakanda or anywhere else that is not Talokan. And . . . ” 

She was hesitating. An almost frightening thought — Namora never hesitated. “Speak freely.” 

“These thoughts are not my own,” Namora whispered in their mother tongue. “But they do not think you should have taken a bride from the surface, especially one who is not descended from the same people as our own. They think she is too weak, too small and frail, and this weakness is why she has not yet conceived. Or that she is too proud, thinking herself smarter than Aj K’uk’ulkan—” 

“Enough.”  

Namora stopped. 

Namor took in a breath he didn’t need, his jaw and brow set into a scowl. “Apologies, my child. It is not you who angers me.” Though his anger was undeniable. His people loved him, he knew. And their trust in him had been unshakeable for longer than he could remember. It angered him to hear his love questioned — angered him nearly as much as it hurt him. 

“Most of the people love her,” Namora said, hesitant. “It is only the discontent of a few, unused to being challenged.” 

“A few is too many,” Namor said bluntly. “Tell Xail, Bembe, and Abi to bring me names.” He thought carefully for a moment before adding, “Wait until we are done here to speak of this to Shuri.” How he longed to keep it from her. Shuri had enough stress in the world without concerning herself with wrong opinions. But she would never forgive him if he did that, and so he would not forgive himself. 

Namora nodded shortly. “Yes, Aj K’uk’ulkan. I will speak to the spies and—” Something in her face shifted again, but this time Namor couldn’t place it quickly enough. “Abi.” 

Before Namor could question her reaction, a sound made its way through the water — Helicopters. 

Both readied their spears, swimming up to the surface. Later, Namor thought, brushing it aside. To Namora and Attuma, he said, “Fight to win.” 

They went into battle. 

Shuri pulled herself out of the water, shoving her body onto the wooden platform. Above her stood the outreach center. They were supposed to meet the Dora Milaje there and collect Ross from inside — but considering the helicopters from above and the gunshots she heard inside, that wasn’t going to be as easy as they hoped. 

Shuri was certain Namor would tell her to stay back and leave the fighting to the warriors. With that in mind, she ran ahead out of hearing range so he couldn’t say she ignored him. A mask covered her face, made of vibranium tinted jade-green, dotted with precious pearls. She was no Black Panther, but Okoye and Nakia had seen to it that she was a fighter. And her suit was as good as any she made for T’Challa. A few stray bullets bounced off of her as she ducked into the shining building. It opened for her automatically, recognizing her as a daughter of Wakanda. It was a short way from the doors to the research rooms. Shuri pounded a hand against the vibranium door, hearing fighting from inside. Her heart leapt into her throat. “Okoye!” 

She heard the distinctive sound of vibranium slicing through the air. It did not stop as Okoye shouted back, in Xhosa, “Ross is hidden in Lab 6. Get him and go!”  

Shuri didn’t need anything else. She’d memorized the layout of the facility during the ride over, and the path came to her on instinct. To her back, the Talokanil filled the building, knocking down doors and meeting the Americans in battle with great war cries invoking Chaac, K’uk’ulkan, Shuri Sun-Eyed. Their cries bolstered her, driving her forward. Ross, I must find Ross. When they had him, they could retreat. She didn’t want to lose a single Talokani to these people—

“Shuri!” 

She stopped halfway down a long corridor, breathing harshly. Ross? She was only halfway to where Okoye had told her — but no, that was his voice, she knew it. Lab 4. The door opened for her. 

Ross was crouched on the floor beneath a workbench, small and frightened. He let out a deep sigh of relief when he saw her, unfolding his limbs to stand. “Oh, thank God you’re here.” 

“Thank me before you thank God,” Shuri said, relieved to see him uninjured. Her helmet came down, dissolving into nanites. She pulled Ross into a hug, eyes squeezing shut. “It’s good to see you—” 

A blue shape flew past the corner of her vision, knocking Ross away from her and into a wall. Abi, her dark hair dripping with vibranium and shark teeth. She wasn’t armed, but when did she need to be. Teeth bared, letting out a cry to Chalchiuhtlicue, she raised her hands and plunged her sharp thumbnails into his eyes. 

Ross cried out in pain as Shuri cried in terrified shock. Abi paid attention to neither, drawing one hand back and swiping her nails across his throat, blood spilling down his skin. Shuri screamed, throwing her hands over her mouth as she slinked down to the floor, staring at the green blood— green? 

Shuri stared in sheer confusion as Ross’s body — the thing-that-was-not-Ross — shifted, changing into a new form as he died. Something green-skinned and pointy-eared and— and— What the fuck?!  

Abi kicked something away. Vaguely, Shuri recognized it as a syringe of some kind. She hadn’t even noticed it in his hand. Idiot, Shuri thought distantly as the handmaid attended to her. Stupid girl. 

“My lady,” Abi said, carefully cupping Shuri’s face and tipping her this way and that as she checked for injuries. “I followed you and saw the weapon in his hand. I could not allow him to hurt you.” 

Shuri shook her head, still staring at the body. “You did what you had to, Abi,” she said, slowly coming back to herself. If that wasn’t Ross, then— “Do we have Ross?” 

“The great warrior Namora continued on the path told to us by Okoye,” Abi assured her. Shuri could have winced in sympathy for the Americans about to die at Namora’s hand if they hadn’t just tried to assassinate her. With a shapeshifter. Shapeshifter! Where did they even get that? 

Abi cast a disgusted look at the corpse. Shuri thought she would have spat on it if it was a respectable way for a queen’s lady to behave. “Should I have left him alive for Aj K’uk’ulkan, my Queen?” 

Shuri shivered. “I’m sure he’s grateful you didn’t.” Shuri didn’t know if there was a worse way to die than a poison-slicked nail to your eye. But she was sure Namor could think of plenty. 

Abi was still fussing over her like a mother hen when the door opened again. Namora and Ross appeared in front of them. Abi’s eyes lit up. “Hey—” Ross cut himself off, looking around. “Holy fuck—”  

“Yeah,” Shuri said, waving him off. “How’ve you been?” 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —

It was dawn by the time they made it back to Wakanda, but the Golden City was awake and waiting for them. Cries of joy and victory fell over them as the contingent emerged from the water, Talokanil walking alongside their Wakandan compatriots. Ross walked between Shuri and Okoye, silvering hair soaked in river water, teeth chattering before someone threw a woven blanket over his shoulders. Shuri looped one arm through his elbow and mirrored the motion with Namor on her other side. She rested her head against her husband’s arm, ready to collapse into bed from the effort of the mission. She thought, already half asleep, that the only thing that could make the moment better was if T’Challa was here. 

She said as much to Namor when they were back at the room still set aside from her in the palace. He smiled into her neck. “You mention your brother more often these days, itzia. More often and with more joy. It’s good to see.” 

Did she? Shuri hadn’t realized, but she thought it might be true. “It’s easier, I guess.” She drew patterns into Namor’s hip with her fingers. “When the pain isn’t the only thing around. When there’s something to look forward to in the morning.” 

“May we have many mornings,” Namor murmured into her hair and kissed her temple. Lying like that in his arms, Shuri fell into a restful sleep and when she dreamed of T’Challa, she smiled against her husband’s chest. 

Shuri’s happiness didn’t last as long as she would have liked. Which would have been forever. But she also would have settled for a full day, Bast damn it. 

“I did not wish to tell you last night,” Namor said, apologetic. “The battle took precedent, and your joy following our victory made you glow. I could not dash it.” 

“Consider it dashed,” Shuri said, pacing the length of her lab. “What did—” Shuri stopped, nearly biting her tongue. What did I do? She knew what she did. She was the child who shunned tradition. It was true in Wakanda and it was true in Talokan. There was a time where she wouldn’t have changed that for anything, but she didn’t know if that time was now. “What should I do . . . what can I do to make it right?” A part of Shuri despaired. She was still no substitute for T’Challa. She was still the trembling girl M’Baku roared against at Warrior Falls. She didn’t want Talokan to be like that. Not them too. 

“You need do nothing,” Namor swore, reaching out to hold her chin before stopping himself, remembering how she hated that. Instead, he trailed his fingers down her bare arm. “Our people love you. Talokan loves you. I love you.” He kissed her temple, then her nose, then her lips. His facial hair tickled her. “It is change, that’s all. My people have done things the same way for four hundred years. That has kept us alive.” 

“And I’m the one messing it up.” Shuri pulled out of his grasp. She could almost hear the titles they would give her. Killer of Talokan. A modern plague. The Queen of doom. “They think that after everything they’ve survived — everything you survived — I’m going to be the one who destroys it. I’m going to ruin it all.” 

“If they think that, then they’re wrong,” Namor said resolutely. “You bring new life to Talokan. And to me. You could not ruin it if you wanted to.” 

Shuri resisted the urge to sniffle, her eyes feeling oddly prickly. She threw her arms around her husband, burying her face in his broad chest. Even with all the force she could muster, he didn’t budge an inch beneath her. He was strong and steady, better than the earth beneath her feet. If she could hold onto him forever, that would be all that mattered. “Never leave me,” she muttered into him. 

Namor gave him an odd look. Confused. Like he never would have thought of that. “Of course.” 

Those two words were the whole world to her. Shuri reminded herself that Namor would still live long after she was gone. A burden for him, but an odd relief for her. He wasn’t going anywhere. Not ever. Shuri never had to worry about losing him. The only way that would happen was if she pushed him away — and he was pretty resilient to all her worst habits so far. No. Namor wasn’t going anywhere. There was only one thing that could make it all perfect. 

Shuri leaned back on her feet, glad that she and Namor were close in height, even if he was still immense enough to dwarf her. Physically, at least. Shuri liked to think they were pretty even on everything else. She reached her hands up to cup Namor’s face. He was still smiling when she said, “I want you to make peace with my mother.” 

The smile fell quickly. 

“I don’t see why I should fall on my knees before her in forgiveness when she is the one who crosses me at every turn,” Namor spat. 

“Because she’s not going to do it.” 

“Not even if you ask her?” He demanded. “Ask her as you are asking me now?” 

“I don’t know,” Shuri admitted. “But I’m not asking her. I’m asking you.” 

For a moment, Namor looked as though he wanted to argue. But he didn’t. He just looked at her for a long moment, searching for something in her eyes. Whatever it was, he must have found it. His dark gaze softened. He caressed her cheek, pressing his forehead against hers. The cold jade of his piercing pressed against her nose. Shuri accepted the embrace, leaned into it. “I will do this for you,” Namor whispered. “But if she rebukes me, if she refuses to make things right on equal terms, I will not make a second attempt.” 

For Shuri, who had yet to see Namor fail at anything, this was more than enough. “That’s all I’m asking for.” 

The Talokanil walked the streets of Wakanda, celebrating a triumphant battle with an equally triumphant hunt. Attuma and Namora headed the hunting party. Namora pounded the butt of her spear against the ground in tune with the Wakandans’ cheers. Attuma didn’t wear his headdress. It would have been pointless considering he carried the front half of a freshly-killed great hammerhead atop his shoulders, so enormous that outside of the water, it required two more people to help him parade it through the streets. Shuri, stamping her feet in time with the crowd, cheered them on. For this, she wore a fusion of Talokanil and Wakandan clothes — a Wakandan corset that Ramonda gifted her, the draping seasilk skirt of the ocean city, a panther jaw of gold and jade framing her face. Beside her, Namor wore a woven skirt of Wakandan-design, white and black paint swirling over his chest in grand, sweeping patterns. A decorative gold-and-vibranium belt adorned his waist. A grand headdress of quetzal feathers crowned him, somehow magnificent instead of ridiculous. What could she say? Her husband could make anything look good. 

The Talokanil knelt before the citadel where the rulers of their two nations were gathered in celebration. With a show of strength, Attuma lifted the nearly six-meter long animal above him before settling it on the ground. Blood had dried around the creature’s gills. Attuma thumped his chest, letting out a warrior’s cry that sounded through the city and mountains. “Aj K’uk’ulkan! Ix Shuri!” He let out a crying prayer to Chaac. Shuri secretly thought that Attuma could give even M’Baku a run for his money when it came to over-the-top dramatics. “The gift of a magnificent hunt, a sign of the gods’ own favor!” He thumped his axe along the clay ground. “This is my gift to you.” 

Namor clapped his hands together before making the Talokanil gesture of greeting to his warrior. “My child, we accept your gift.” He flashed a sharp smile at his wife. “My Queen?” 

By Talokanil tradition, it would have been the worst insult for them to refuse the gift. And as his rulers, Attuma was obligated to offer it. But sometimes after a good hunt, you really wanted to keep your trophies for one thing or another. But there was a way around this. And Attuma had already indicated his desires to them before the hunt, letting them know what he wanted done when he returned victorious (when, not if). Shuri called back, “A great gift from a great warrior! It can only be met with the same!” She copied Namor’s gestures. “Warrior Attuma, I  return this gift to you. May it bring you pride as great as your skill!” 

Attuma wasted no time in bowing low at the waist, leading the crowd of Talokanil and Wakandans in making the rising sun gesture. Then he turned to Okoye, who was only a few feet away guarding Ramonda. He boomed, “Okoye! Warrior of Wakanda!” 

“Oh Bast,” Okoye muttered while Shuri and several of the Dora Milaje grinned or snickered at her. 

Attuma was undeterred. “Will you accept this gift as a show of my favor? My awe at your strength and grace in battle?” Attuma’s eyes suddenly seemed awfully big and doe-like. “Will you?” 

From a Talokanil general, it was the equivalent of reciting Shakespeare’s sonnets beneath Okoye’s window. She probably would have killed him if he actually tried that. But even Okoye wasn’t made of stone. And a great hammerhead was enough to move any gal. She struggled for several moments to kill the smile at her lips before finally saying, “I . . . accept your gift.” 

The crowd went wild. Shuri spent the rest of the celebration planning Okoye’s bachelorette party in her head. 

Shuri, Namor, Ramonda, and the generals of both were returning to the palace to prepare for dinner when Namora pulled Shuri aside. 

“My Queen,” Namora said formally, a habit she wouldn’t break even though they were cousin-in-laws. Shuri was pretty sure she was wearing her down. But probably not in a good way. “I have a request to ask of you.” 

Shuri struggled not to look as surprised as she was. It didn’t really work. “Oh?” She bit down on the tangible excitement in her hands, not wanting to ruin whatever moment they were having. “What do you need, Namora?” 

Namora looked distinctly uncomfortable asking her for anything. It was probably the most emotion she’d ever shown in front of Shuri. She was touched. “As my rightful Queen and ruler, you are entirely within your rights to refuse.” 

“Yes, but I’d have to know what you want before I do that.” 

Namora scowled deeply. It was kind of funny now that Shuri knew she had other expressions. “By rights and custom, I gifted you the finest shark teeth from the hunt.” Shuri nodded. “I would like them gifted back.” 

Oh, Shuri was absolutely going to gossip with Abi and the Dora about this. “Of course.” Better to get on her good side quick. “Can I ask why?” Namora looked at her sharply. Shuri just smiled. “As your Queen.” 

Namora looked like she wanted to curse her until the Feathered-Serpent conquered the Earth. “I . . . wish to make a gift for someone.” Every word seemed like it was being pulled out of her by force. “Someone of importance to me.” 

Who? Shuri’s first instinct was Namora’s husband, but as far as she knew there was no affection between them. “Can I ask who?” 

Namora looked away from her. Her cheeks turned faintly purple. “You may. I would simply prefer that you did not.” 

Shuri would have loved to ask. She wanted to. But it would have been royally dickish when she knew that Namora was honor-bound to answer. T’Challa would say it wasn’t kingly. Shuri wasn’t a king, but she figured it was close enough. “Very well. K’uk’ulkan and I will gift them back after dinner.” 

Namora’s face relaxed the barest amount. The equivalent of a gigantic heave of relief from her. “Many thanks, Ix Shuri. May Chaac send his blessings upon you.” 

“You’re—” 

Namora walked away. 

“—welcome.” 

Well. Shuri thought that went pretty good, all things considered. 

The feast hall was filled with music when they sat down to eat, all of it traditional but lively. Cupbearers flitted around the room, filling wooden mugs with palm wine and balché. The mood was looser than the last time they were all gathered in a room together. Shuri felt pleasantly warm, teasing her husband with longing looks, touching her tongue to her bottom lip. Namor gazed at her unabashedly, hungrily. Shuri giggled before turning in her seat to throw her long legs across Namor’s thighs. Namor wrapped one hand around her calf, stroking occasionally. Shuri wriggled her feet. 

Ramonda glanced over at them, a mug of watered-down palm wine held to her lips. She hadn’t spoken much since they returned, simply congratulating Shuri at the ceremony and pressing a swift kiss to her daughter’s cheek. Right now, she didn’t look victorious. Just weary. Just like she had ever since T’Challa’s death. 

Shuri shot her husband a significant look. Namor sighed to himself, seeming to already regret giving in. But a promise was a promise. Namor stood, Shuri’s feet sliding away from him as he did, and pounded his empty mug on the long wooden table, calling the hall to a silence. Flames flickered from coal-filled braziers. Gold light bounced around his face, somehow making him even more regal and divine than usual. “Children! My friends!” Talokanil and Wakandans alike sounded back their joy. “Today we celebrate more than victory — we celebrate an alliance that has already yielded fruit for Talokan and Wakanda alike!” Namor pounded his cup on the table again, a sound that echoed through the hall. He turned to Ramonda. “And to the Queen Mother.” Namor raised his cup. “UKumkanikazi uRamonda.” 

Ramonda’s gaze cut across the room to Namor, wondering just what he was doing. Shuri could tell. She was thinking the same thing, wondering just what her husband thought she meant when she asked him to make up with her mother. 

Namor, unfazed, continued. “Wakanda’s brave Queen has led her people and family through horriffic disasters. Even . . .” Namor slowed. For a moment, a spark of genuine respect and sympathy shone through his eyes. “Even through unspeakable loss, she has protected her people and her daughter. She is a loving, fiercely protective mother.” The room was silent. Namor pressed a hand over his heart. “I cannot imagine the pain of losing two children at once, nor will I pretend to. The Queen Mother’s strength and resilience are traits I pray my children inherit.” Namor pounded his mug. “Ramonda!” 

The crowd echoed him, calling out all at once, “RAMONDA!”  

Shuri’s eyes shimmered as Namor went back to his seat, rejoining her side. Shuri, warm with wine and love, took Namor’s face in hand and pulled him into a fierce kiss, holding him close. Her eyes drifted shut. Namor’s hand trailed down her cheek, her neck, all the way to the small of her back. Shuri pulled back, brushing their noses together. His jade plug was warm with their body heat. “I love you.” 

Namor shivered and smiled against her lips. “In yaakunech, in watan.” 

Shuri realized it was the first time she ever told Namor she loved him. How wonderful for the words to bring her such warmth, such kind joy. She pressed her cheek to Namor’s, gazing past him to her mouth. Her eyes turned pleading. 

Watching them, some dark thought in Ramonda’s mind was banished. Her eyes softened. Her lip trembled, remembering T’Chaka, how they used to laugh in public at their own secret jokes. Alone in a crowd of people. It still hurt to miss him sometimes. She didn’t want to miss Shuri too. 

Ramonda stood, a cup of carved Jabari wood in hand. She raised it high and called out, “And to Aj K’uk’ulkan.” Namor sat back in his chair, looking at her with confusion. Ramonda smiled, a little wan, but kept going. “A dedicated ruler to his children. A brave warrior who always fights at the front lines with his warriors. A—” Now she looked at her daughter, voice catching in her throat before she cleared it. “A loving husband to his wife. We are honored to call him our ally. I . . . ” She stumbled over her words. “I am pleased to name him family.” 

Shuri, Namor, and just about everyone else stared at Ramonda in shock as the Queen Mother elegantly swept back to her seat, drinking a toast. Slowly, people started to follow her lead, returning to their food and their wine and their laughter. And though Shuri never said a thing about it to her husband or mother, no one who saw her could deny the joy plain on her face. 

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

Shuri would maintain for a long time that Namora’s divorce was her fault. 

No one really agreed with her. But they couldn’t exactly say that to her face, so she continued smugly taking credit for the destruction of everyone’s least favorite couple. And it started with a meme. 

“Kan!” Shuri interrupted her husband’s painting one morning, rushing over with her Kimoyo beads prominent before her, laughing to herself. “Sithandwa sam, you have to see this.” Shuri expectantly held her beads out for Namor to see. 

Namor considered deeply before frowning. “What is it?” 

“It’s a meme!” 

“What’s that?” 

“It’s— it doesn’t matter, exactly, it’s just supposed to be funny.” 

“But why is an electronic communication comparing one of these pathetic white politics men to a ‘DJ Khaled’ funny?” 

Shuri then spent an unfortunate amount of time explaining the context behind the politician’s views on women and comments about his wife before giving up and showing Namor the original tweet where the . . . singer(? Shuri really didn’t know anything about Khaled other than this tweet) infamously said he didn’t eat pussy. This seemed to be Namor’s sticking point. “Why would he speak such insults to his wife on a public forum? Why would he even think that?” 

“I don’t know, my love,” Shuri said, covering her mouth so he didn’t see her struggle against a laugh. 

“It’s insanity,” Namor spat. “Do all men of the land think this way?” 

“I hope not.” 

Namor shook his head in disgust. “Colonizer thinking.” 

That seemed to be that. Namor returned to his painting, and Shuri returned to sending memes to the Dora Milaje group chat, resigned to the fact that her husband was no T’Challa when it came to sharing funny images she found on the internet. 

But it didn’t end there. 

Without Shuri even knowing about the intricate web weaving in the city beneath the waves, Namor told Namora about the enraging incident. Namora didn’t care. So Namor told Attuma, who was a huge gossip and cared immensely. It was said that his roar of disgust could be heard across all the oceans of the kingdom. Soon, knowledge of the incident had spread through the ranks of the army, to the common people, even to the temples. Before Shuri even knew what was going on, it became a trend amongst the Talokanil for men to call each other Khaled to insult their sexual prowess. The big risk was doing this if their partner was nearby. Then, their wife or husband or lover could choose to either defend their partner and delegitimize the attack, or stay silent. It was in this environment that the Event happened. 

It was a holiday in Talokan, as it often was. There was always something to mourn or celebrate. Today, they were celebrating. The city’s priests and singers recited the tale of the Hero Twins for them. Shuri held her chin in her hands as she watched, stomach full with spiced chocolate and roasted fish and corn cakes. She leaned into Namor’s side, her cheek pressed to his arm. Namor twined their hands together with a tight squeeze that let her know he would kiss her if not for her deep-sea suit. 

The stories and songs gave way to a banquet for the Talokanil; Shuri had already eaten, not wanting to force the celebration above-water. Balché flowed freely. The palace was filled with laughter and Shuri eagerly joined in, warm and flushed and giggly. People threw jokes around as easily as breathing. It felt like home. 

Of course, with booze and irreverence flowing so freely, it had to come up. 

“Aj K’uk’ulkan!” shouted one of Attuma’s lieutenants, a tall and muscular woman called Saya. “There is a rumor amongst your people that demands your immediate attention!” 

Namor leaned forward. “All that of is importance to my people is important to me. Speak.” 

Choking on laughter, Saya yelled back, “There are some who question our King’s ability in his marital duties! They say he is a follower of this . . . ” The hall went quiet. “DJ Khaled.”  

Namor was too busy struggling against his desire to laugh to make any kind of response. Shuri, a bit drunk but deeply in love with her husband, understood on some level the importance of her response. She struggled to stand (or rather, float with her feet on the floor) slamming her palms on the table and announcing to the crowd, “Then these rumors do Aj K’uk’ulkan injustice! For the King fulfills his duties well and often, and with great enthusiasm!” 

The crowd erupted with equally enthusiastic laughter and Shuri sank back into her chair, beaming at Namor, Namor beaming at her. And suddenly, Shuri deeply wished that she could breathe underwater, that she was part of it as the Talokanil were, and she could kiss her husband without fear of her home killing her. It was this thought that Shuri was despairing over, groaning mournfully into Namor’s muscular bicep, when the trajectory of their family changed. 

Attuma, still roaring with laughter, challenged Talan. “Brother!” For it would not be strictly correct to refer to Talan as warrior , or indeed, anything complimentary. “Can the same be said for the husband of the Feathered Serpent’s own cousin?” 

Another wave of laughter rolled throughout the room, everyone turning now to Namora to hear her defense of her husband. 

Namora, saying nothing, raised her cup to her lips and stared straight forward. 

The mood turned sour very, very fast. 

Talan seethed in his seat, glowering at the royal couple, who seemed to have everything he didn’t (because they did). He bared his teeth and growled back, “Our leader is fortunate. Not all are cursed with such an obstinate wife.” 

This statement offended Namora, Namor, and Shuri so much that the entire room was immediately fighting to defend the honor of at least one person. It was Namora herself who rose above them all, standing to shoot her husband a cutting look. “Do not speak to Aj K’uk’ulkan in that tone.” 

Talan looked up at her. “Sit down, Namora.” 

Now Shuri was pissed. “Don’t talk to her like that!” 

“You don’t command me!” Talan snapped at the Queen. 

“She does,” Namor and Namora snapped in the same furious tone. 

At this point, the only option that would have allowed Talan to save face was an immediate apology and some light grovelling. Talan elected to do neither. “Be silent, Namora! No one needs you to bark nonsense now that Ix Shuri is here to do that—” 

The spear appeared out of nowhere, nicking Talan’s ear and slicing into the wall behind him, tearing a vast hole into a mural made of jade and turquoise. Talan, slowly, lifted a hand to his ear and looked at the blood there. 

Shuri turned to her husband. Namor stood beside her with his hands flat on the table, his ceremonial spear gone, fire in his eyes. His jaw was clenched, the muscles of his arm flexed, ready for a fight. No, Shuri thought, not a fight. An execution. 

They were of one mind on the subject. 

Shuri followed his lead, standing to shout, “Silence!” (Because shut up was childish when you were a queen.) “You do not speak to me like that, and you definitely do not speak to your wife like that—” 

“That is unnecessary, Ix Shuri,” Namora said quietly. She no longer seemed upset. Standing with her head high, Namora announced, “Talan and I shall no longer be wed. And as I am not his wife, he may speak to me as he wishes.” 

Namora left, sparing not a single glance to anyone as they stared and Talan spluttered. 

Shuri stared the longest, long after Namora was gone. Her first thought: Can she do that? And then: She’s so badass. 

Shuri rushed after Namora, giving Namor a look that said handle this as she did. She wasn’t sure exactly how that ended, but considering the next day, Talan’s things had been removed from the palace and there was no sign of him in the city, she figured it was handled. 

“Namora!” It was a struggle for Shuri to rush down the underwater halls. Namora looked back at her with a kind of are you kidding expression that said more than words could. She had to be perfectly still for half a minute while Shuri caught up. “Are you alright? Are you . . . are you going to be alright?” 

Namora arched her brow in a deeply unimpressed fashion. “Yes. Why?” 

“You—” Shuri stared at her. “You just divorced your husband.” 

“Yes. I wasn’t particularly fond of him.” This seemed to be as much emotion as Namora was willing to spare on the subject. 

“I know— I mean, I guessed— but— still!”  

“Are you well, Shuri?” 

Now Namora seemed concerned for her. Shuri didn’t know how it got this way. “Am I well?” 

“That was my question.” 

Shuri scoffed. Then she did it again, just for good measure. “Am I well. Here I am, just trying to be a good cousin-in-law, and you don’t even want my help!” 

“I don’t need your help,” Namora said simply, because she was never willing to waste air (well. oxygen.) on obvious things. “And you are already a good cousin.” 

Shuri looked at her, searching for any sign of sarcasm. And, finding none, she smiled. “Thank you Namora. But really. Do you need anything?”

Namora almost smiled. “Just a moment alone.” 

And that was something Shuri could give her. 

Abi was brushing her hair when she heard the knock. 

She had just finished tending to her snakes, along with a new group of poisonous snails she was monitoring. They came from the waters of the giant island humans called Australia. She had already seen Shuri off to bed, their Queen in a shockingly good mood considering the events of the night. Abi understood. She had hardly been sad to hear of Namora’s divorce. 

Abi gently floated moreso than swam, pushing her door open. She smiled. “Good evening, Warrior Namora. What do you need?"

Namora stood in the hall, looking quietly out of place in her flowing orange gown and elaborate hair feathers. Abi didn’t mind. “You mistake me,” Namora muttered — which was strange, because Namora never muttered. “There is nothing I need.”  

“Oh.” Abi couldn’t say why that made her sad. Only why what Namora said next made her so happy. 

“But there is something I want.”  

They shared a look, neither moving, neither breathing. Then Abi moved aside to allow Namora in, shutting the door behind her. 

Namora stalked around the center of the room, not looking directly at her. Abi waited. She was good at that. “I—” She turned away, struggling. “I have something for you.” Without waiting for a response, Namora thrust a hand out to her, fist closed tight around a length of silk string. 

Abi was curious, but not enough to risk upsetting Namora by asking. She took Namora’s hand in hers, careful as she unwrapped her fingers, the object in question floating down through the water and into Abi’s waiting fingers. Her chest grew warm. “Namora . . . ” It was a necklace. A dozen and one shark teeth, arranged so the largest hung in the middle as a pendant. Her eyes softened. “My Lady—” 

“There is very little in my life that is mine,” Namora blurted out, looking at her directly for the first time. “Almost nothing. And I have been happy this way. I am devoted to Talokan, to Aj K’uk’ulkan, to Ix Shuri.” 

“Yes.” Abi nodded. “As am I.” 

Namora repeated the gesture with a sense of deep relief. They understood each other. But she already knew that. “Yes, exactly. But . . . ” She breathed harshly, drawing water in through her lungs, over her gills. She moved closer. Abi did too, almost unconsciously. “So much of my life has been about service . . . to our gods, to men. May I have this for my own?” 

Abi looked up at her, dark eyes shining. Then she did something so beautiful and amazing that Namora could have sobbed — she smiled. “You may.” 

And Namora kissed her. 

Chapter Text

— Wakanda —
2027

“Daughter of Bast, your visits are as irregular as your thoughts.” 

“I missed you too, Okoye.” Shuri grinned wide, throwing her arms open for a hug. Okoye did not stop to respond. Shuri hoped she never changed. “Kan and I are having dinner with Mama tonight.” 

Okoye’s eyes sharpened. “I am not on the security detail tonight.” 

“Really?” Shuri feigned innocence. “Huh. You know, Attuma isn’t either.” 

Okoye’s blood was too scared of her to try blushing. She just grew more stern and intense-looking. Adorable. If Shuri had known what Okoye was like with a crush, she would have tried her hand at matchmaking years earlier. But she was happy to take credit for it now. Even if it had included very little action on her part. 

Shuri walked past the guard, avoiding further questions. If Okoye looked too closely, she would notice that Shuri was walking to her old labs, not her room. And Shuri did not have a good reason to go to her lab. The one that Namor had built for her in Talokan now rivaled the one of her homeland, filled with tools of vibranium and sharpened bone and jade and nanites. The walls and ceilings shimmered with paintings added by Namor and Shuri in concord, dizzying arrays of jet and crushed pearl. But Shuri wanted her work today to be a surprise for her husband, and Namor was always welcome in her lab at home. She needed privacy for this. 

Her lab was empty when she stepped inside. It smelled different. Clean, but unused. Vaguely chemical-scented, like someone came through once a week to make sure no dust gathered. Shuri’s heart ached the tiniest bit, but now it was easy to move past it. There would always be things a person left behind that they would miss. It wasn’t enough to make her give up the life she’d built. “Wake up, Griot, you lazy oaf.” 

“Princess. To what do I owe the pleasure?”  

“Ah, don’t kiss up to me. I’m not shutting you down yet.” Show spread her fingers through the air, activating the computer systems. “I need you to assist me in a minor procedure.” 

“Medical?”  

“Yes,” she said. “I need to remove an implant.” Shuri took out an advanced med kit, laying out the materials she needed while Griot prepared the surgical equipment. Laying her left arm out on a freshly-cleaned procedure table, she wiped the inside of her elbow with an alcohol pad, sterilizing the skin. A quick scan showed the vibranium implant to be just below the surface of her skin, her flesh, dutifully pumping hormones through her system. Shuri positioned her arm, instructing the A.I. on what to do. “Okay. Ready?” 

“When you are, Princess.”  

“Perfect. Confirm procedure?” 

“Procedure: subdermal contraceptive implant removal. Proceed?” 

Shuri smiled, just to herself. She said, “Proceed.” 

Okoye heaved a tired sigh as she sunk into the healing spring waters. The heat was like a kiss for her muscles, stiff and sore. Being off guard duty for the night, she had devoted herself instead to training the youngest of the new Dora Milaje recruits. She was still the best of Wakanda and everyone knew it. But even her muscles got sore. 

“I always forget the beauty of Wakanda’s waters.” 

Okoye would not show surprise. She peeled her eyes open slowly, settling her gaze on the warrior of Talokan. Attuma removed the rebreather from his face, water spilling on stone as he stepped into the pool. Okoye only half-glared at him, suggesting her high regard. Okoye would not show surprise. She peeled her eyes open slowly, settling her gaze on the warrior of Talokan. Attuma tread water without effort, as easily as most people stood. The gills along his neck were covered, allowing him to breathe and gaze upon her comfortably at the same time. Okoye arched a brow. “Warrior. Is there a reason you’ve decided to interrupt my peace tonight?”

Attuma’s smile came to him naturally when she was around. The ease, he thought, of existing in the company of another so well-suited to oneself. Attuma carefully formed Xhosa words in a heavy accent, saying, “Queen Shuri speaks highly of the healing properties of Wakanda’s natural baths. We were invited to partake if we so wished.”

Okoye grumbled, but offered no further argument. Wakanda’s landscape was dotted with pools like this, but the finest were maintained beneath the citadel and they were rarely empty. But this room was restricted to the royal family and those closest to them. Ramonda, Shuri, and Namor were upstairs at dinner. And even Okoye only had twenty-four hours in a day. Some of that had to be spent bathing.

The fact that Attuma was here was pure coincidence, she was sure.

“The General has avoided giving me a direct answer since last we spoke,” Attuma said, apparently unwilling to let this drop. Bast damn him. Okoye wished she was more annoyed. “I was told to wait for the turning of the moon. I have waited. The moon has passed.”

“And you desire an answer.”

“Such is the point of asking.”

Okoye sighed, biting at the inside of her lip. “I have already told you. I will not marry again. Not after how I was betrayed before.”

“I would not betray you,” Attuma boasted.

Okoye laughed. “No one ever will until they do. But that is not the point. I belong to Wakanda, body and soul. You belong to Talokan.”

“The same may be said of Aj K’uk’ulkan and Ix Shuri.”

“That is different,” Okoye insisted, repeating the arguments she had already told herself a dozen times. More times, she recognized, than she would have had to if she really wanted to say no. But that was all the more reason to remind herself. Remind them both. “They’re royalty. Shuri is the sole living heir to Wakanda and Namor has no descendants. It’s expected of them to marry and have heirs.” And they are both worse than stubborn rhinos. None of us could have stopped them if we tried for a thousand years. “And it is expected of us to serve without question.”

Attuma seems unwilling to concede the point, but neither does he argue it. Recognizing his current strategy would not work, he did as any good General did and changed tactics. “If you will not remarry than I will not ask again.”

The words stung, taking Okoye’s breath. Suddenly the water seemed too hot.

“But . . . ” Attuma took a careful movement forward. Okoye did not stop him. “It is possible to love a person outside of the bonds of marriage. Ties that matter no less, but may still be put aside in honor of a thing greater than ourselves.”

“And the difference between that and marriage is?”

“Truth,” Attuma said quietly. Okoye had moved closer to him at some point without realizing. Now they were inches from each other. “Duty. In marriage, one’s greatest obligation is to their spouse. Even above their own life. I shall happily hold your life over my own, Warrior Okoye Wakanda, General of the Milaje. But not over Talokan. Never either above Aj K’uk’ulkan or Ix Shuri.”

“Or their heirs,” Okoye whispered.

Attuma nodded his assent. “Or their descendants.”

Okoye nodded sharply, mostly to herself. We understand each other. Something inside of her stomach loosened. A dark pit of anxiety and betrayal. Scar tissue, left behind from W’Kabi without her husband ever landing a blow on her. It would never really go away, she knew. Okoye was not so childish as to think otherwise.

But neither was she so stubborn as to think that denying herself joy could spare her further pain.

“You are more stubborn than the sharks you hunt, Attuma of Talokan.” Okoye settled her hands atop his shoulders, leaning on his broad strength. He relaxed beneath her and cupped her cheek. Okoye smiled. “You are lucky that I like that.”

Attuma smiled, flashing his sharpened teeth. Okoye traced the shark teeth embedded in his cheeks. His arms wrapped around her waist, lifting her up. Okoye chuckled against his throat, unable to stop herself from grinning. Attuma sunk beneath the water, lifting her up and settling her atop his shoulders, her legs slung over his back. Okoye buried her fingers in his hair. Attuma’s mouth found her and Okoye cried out to the sky, letting out the feelings she couldn’t stop.

Shuri giggled beneath her breath, drawing Namor forward through the night, shushing him every time they stumbled across a twig or rock in the brush, making noise, startling some poor animal that just wanted to hide in its burrow. Namor couldn’t help his curiosity, the way his heart fluttered and his mouth instinctively ticked up into a smile to see her. Shuri’s hand, so soft and sure wrapped in his own. Her hair, falling down her back in jade-woven braids, so much longer than it had been when they met. The lightness with which she ran. He was under her thrall. Anyone who’d ever thought there could be another for him was foolish. “Where are we going, in yaakunaj?” Namor asked with a quiet chuckle.

“You’ll see,” Shuri teased. “We’re almost there.”

Namor sighed but could not stop from grinning, following after his wife willfully. The Golden City gave way to the bush that surrounded it, to acacia trees and patches of grass and monuments to battles won and lost. The ground below them grew damp, clay-like. Namor felt a shift in the air and raised his nose, taking in the scent of fresh water spilling through the earth. It mingled with the scent of Shuri — flowered perfumes and metal and the lingering scent of sea salt. Namor sucked it in greedily, the smell committed to memory.

Namor stumbled when Shuri finally stopped them, standing before the river. Shuri turned to him, smiling. She still held his hand and now she pulled him forward. River water lapped at their feet, then their ankles. “Come with me.”

Namor followed her into the water, curious, a little confused. “Shuri—” he wrapped his tongue around the syllables, delighting in the taste of her name “—in yaakunaj, in watan . . . why are we here?”

Shuri smiled up at him, biting her lower lip. The moonlight turned the light of her eyes silver. “Our people do all things in the water.” She drew him back further. The water rose, over their calves, their thighs, closing in on their hips. “It is the source of all life, and one day all life will return to it. We are born in the water and we die in it.”

Namor’s heart beat faster, hearing her repeat the words he had said, so long ago now. Her held Shuri’s hand up, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her palm. Shuri cupped his cheek. “We create life in the water. May I do this with you here?”

Namor’s heart surged, calling him to obey, to take her here, in the water and under the watchful eyes of the moon. His hands closed around his wife’s hips. Shuri’s fingers, her clever clever fingers, pulled his shorts down and away, leaving him exposed to her. His blood pooled low. Shuri was warm and soft beneath him. He let his hands trail below the water’s surface and under Shuri’s skirt, lightly tracing his fingertips over her bare heat. Shuri let out a harsh breath. Her pupils were large. Namor was sure that his were the same.

Without hesitation, Namor lifted Shuri into his arms. Her legs wrapped around his waist. Shuri cried out when he slid his hard cock into her, Namor groaning into her neck. “Yes,” he breathed. Then, louder, “Yes.”

Namor moved inside her, Shuri quaking around him, crying out her pleasure to the night sky. And together, they fulfilled the promises they made to each other.

Chapter Text

— Talokan —

The Royal Talon Fighter set down in the agreed-upon spot in the Yucatán Peninsula. The glamor rose, vibranium shimmering into sight. The Talokanil delegation rose from the cenote, watching. One stepped up and out of the water, hammerhead shark skull shining. The Talon Fighter opened. The Dora Milaje emerged first, spears in hand, rings and necklaces glinting in the morning light. Queen Ramonda of Wakanda followed, head held high, gowned in black vibranium silks and a towering headdress. Attuma inclined his head. “UKumkanikazi uRamonda. Ix Shuri has prepared a ship to take you to Talokan.” He stepped aside. The submersible rose from the water, glimmering with purple lights. “Please.”  

Ramonda nodded and waved her guards forth. Okoye remained at her side, following the Queen into the ship with only a single glance to Attuma. He followed, stepping into the water as the ship closed. Behind them, the Talon Fighter shimmered, fading into a mirage. The submersible closed. They dove into the water. 

Two Talokani women piloted the ship, fingers dancing across a touchscreen. Both were young, perhaps younger than Shuri. They wore Kimoyo bracelets in the style of shining pearls. Speaking to each other in Maya, they seemed to only belatedly notice their arrival. One raised her hands in the Talokanil greeting. “UKumkanikazi uRamonda.” The words came through in the metallic voice of the translator. “I am known as Zulia. This is Mayal. Our Queen is pleased you have come.” 

Ramonda smiled tightly. “As I’m sure I will be too, once I know why. ” 

Zulia laughed and said something to her friend in their language. Mayal echoed her amusement. Okoye frowned. “What is so funny?” 

Zulia shook her head, waving away her concerns in a gesture so reminiscent of Shuri that it almost hurt. “It is good news. This, we know.” Mayal said something to her and Zulia giggled in response. Turning their attention back to piloting the ship, they did not speak to the Wakandans again. Ramonda took a seat, her chair inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She curled her fingers over the arms of the chair and focused on her breathing. It was not bad news. It could not be bad news. Shuri would be alright. Bast could not take another child from her. 

The ship slowed, changing directions. Ramonda’s grip tightened. They were rising through the water now, emerging into a grand cave of otherworldly-blue glow. Zulia and Mayal drew their fingers in a circle, bringing them to a standstill. They adjusted their rebreathers, the jade and vibranium masks filled with water. “We have arrived.” A door in the submersible opened, creating a pathway out of the cenote, leading them to a stone floor covered in woven mats, dyed bright colors by underwater planets and rare stones. The two Talokani girls rose. “Follow us.” 

They led the Dora Milaje and the Queen through the underwater caverns. Here, more of the Talokanil were walking around, carrying clay bowls and food and blankets and jade figurines in hand. Ramonda recognized this as the “final touches” stage of ceremony, where everyone ran around gathering the things they’d forgotten about until the last minute, the things small enough not to be written on any one person’s to-do list but too important to be skipped. They were taken to a small chamber carved into the natural stone walls. Here, handmaids flittered about, laughing and joking to each other in their mother tongue. Ramonda listened to the translation coming through her Kimoyo beads for a moment before tuning the chatter out. She looked around, eyes searching out— “Shuri.”  

Shuri bowed her head as a sharp-nailed and blue-skinned woman strung pearls around her throat, dripping across her chest and waist. She turned to see her, and Ramonda’s heart ached. A diadem decorated the young queen’s hair, made of polished vibranium and rounded shells, white with a faint glow of blue and purple. Ramonda’s wedding gift to her. 

“Mama!” Shuri grinned and held her skirts up, running over to her. She threw her arms around her mother, and Ramonda sank into the embrace. “You’re here!” 

“I was invited.” Ramonda took a step back to look at her daughter. She looked healthy, happy. She glowed in the dim blue light, dark eyes shining with her natural mirth. Ramonda relaxed almost without noticing, reassured by her daughter’s presence, her easy joy. She smiled against the tears in her eyes. “You’re glowing.” 

Shuri laughed a little too loud. “Funny you should say that—” 

“Ix Shuri,” said the woman with the sharp nails and sharper teeth. “The ceremony is ready to begin.” 

Shuri huffed, and it was so achingly familiar that Ramonda chuckled. “Well they can’t exactly start without me! Two minutes alone with my mother, please.” Because Shuri was the kind of Queen who was too good to ever not say please and thank you to her servants. 

The Talokanil bowed, making their rising sun gesture. Shuri returned it with a secret smile as the room cleared out, leaving only them. Ramonda held her daughter’s hands tight, knuckles straining. “Shuri.” She hated to question a good thing, but it was too confusing not to. “What is happening?” 

Shuri squeezed her mother’s hands and took in a deep breath. Working up courage. “Alright, alright. Mama, I wanted to tell you myself but I also wanted to tell you in person, and everyone said this had to be done on the most auspicious date, and apparently that’s today—” 

“Shuri. Your words.” 

“I know, I know, use my words.” Shuri sighed. Took in a breath. And said all at once, “I’m pregnant.” 

. . . 

. . . 

. . . 

Ramonda deeply regretted telling Shuri to use her words. 

“Mama?” Shuri’s smile faltered. She snapped her fingers as though Ramonda was hypnotized. “Maaaaaaa-ma?” 

It occurred to Ramonda that she should probably smile now. “I’m so . . . ” It did not take long for her face to hurt. “Happy!” 

“No you’re not.” 

“Of course I am!” Ramonda insisted, too quickly. “I’ve always wanted grandchildren.” 

“Right,” Shuri said, her glow dimmer than it had been a minute ago. “You just didn’t want Kan and I to have children.” 

“I didn’t say that!” Ramonda cupped her daughter’s face and pressed their foreheads together. It took a moment for Shuri to relax into the embrace. “I will love them because they will be half of you, and I love all of you.” 

Shuri hazarded a small smile. “And the other half?” 

Ramonda pretended to think about it. “I have nine months to get used to that half.” 

Shuri barked out a laugh. Neither of them pointed out that she’d already had a year to get used to that half. 

Shuri walked out behind her mother, following the long train of her Ramonda’s silk gown through the caverns. Around them, her people beat the ground with their feet and clapped, singing praises to Chaac and Chalchiuhtlicue. Shuri glanced around, trying to hold back her grin. She knew it was a serious moment and she knew that she was supposed to be serious to match. It was just hard to care in the face of so much joy. 

Then she saw Namor, smiling like he only ever did for her, and she stopped trying to hold it back. 

Namor took his wife’s hand in his, eclipsing hers. Namor always said she was the sun. Shuri wondered if that made him the moon, controlling the tides themselves in his chase after her. It was the kind of poetic thought he would have. She wondered if it was the effect of the pregnancy or if he was just rubbing off on her. 

The cenote grew quiet. Namor and Shuri stood before a pool of shimmering water, its light blue and silver, like the vibranium that hid within Talokan. Namor stepped into the water first. It molded around him, cleaved to him, moving to fit him instead of the other way around. Shuri didn’t know if it would ever come that naturally to her . . . 

But Bast damn her if she hadn’t come a long way. 

Shuri slid into the water. The pearls and shells and jade of her gown sat atop the skin of the water. A priest of Chaac, adorned with conch shells and a crown of feathers, pressed a stone bowl into the god-king’s hands. Namor held it worshipfully. He did not spill a drop as he held it up to Shuri’s lips, tilting it so the midnight-blue liquid slid into her mouth. Shuri had already analyzed it, tested it, taken it apart molecule by molecule in her lab as soon as Abi told her about the ritual and what was expected. It was entirely safe — for her and the baby — but she had no idea how it was supposed to do what all the priests and medicine men and midwives said it did. When she had ranted about this to Namor, he just smiled and said, “Some things are not meant to be known. Only . . . seen.” 

That is the last thing she thinks as she slips into unconsciousness, her lax body propped up by her husband’s strong arms. Some things are not meant to be known . . . just seen . . . 

Shuri opened her eyes. Around her, dirty-grey water shifted, diffusing the sun’s light. Shuri blinked, covering her eyes. She tried to look around. She was underwater, but she wasn’t scared. Her suit was gone, but she was breathing. Shuri opened her mouth to test it. The water slid in easily, filling her lungs. It didn’t hurt at all. 

Drawing herself forward, Shuri pushed her head above the surface. The city that greeted her was not one she recognized, not the Golden City of Wakanda, nor the capital of Talokan. It was dark and grey, metal and glass and plastic. Towering buildings of glass windows turned the sunlight into a weapon. Smoke filled the air. Shuri stepped onto the ground and felt her feet sink into an inch of ash. “What . . . ” She wet her lips. “What is this?” No one can hurt me here. This is at best a dream, at worst a vision. Either way, no one can— 

Shuri covered her head as a fighter plane crashed to the ground in the distance, going up in flames as it burst upon concrete and asphalt. Her ears rang. Smoke stung her eyes. She saw someone — or something — emerge unharmed from the explosion. Shuri took a step back, blinking—

And suddenly found herself propelled forward in time. 

Three people stood before her, deep in serious discussion. She belatedly realized that they were speaking Maya to each other, the Talokanil dialect, oblivious to her presence as she was hidden by a tall and broken stone. Shuri pressed her back to it, braving a chance to look at them. Two were young men, as young as Shuri or younger. One was tall and lithe with tightly curled hair; the other, shorter and stockier, made for fighting. She could not see their faces. She had the strange sense that she wasn’t supposed to. And while Shuri was not one to put much stock in superstition, instinct existed for clear and reasonable biological purpose. Like not dying. 

The third person was a woman and the only one Shuri could clearly make out. She was . . . 

She was.  

The woman — or perhaps girl; she looked younger than Shuri, really — was tall and wiry, holding a spear with the head pointed to the sodden ground. Her hair was shorn short on the sides, leaving a mass of black curls atop her head. Her freckled skin was the color of aged honey — bright and brown and golden. She was thin but muscular; she held her spear with every intention of using it. She wore Talokanil armor, but no water mask. 

And her ears were pointed towards the sky. 

The woman waved to her companions, dismissing them. “Go. Bring me their heads.” 

The two men did not hesitate to obey, though they muttered a well-worn argument at each other. “She always sends us to do the messy work!” 

“Bah, but try telling Baba that!” 

“I can hear you both!” The woman snapped. 

One of the men turned around on his heel with a smirk. Somehow, Shuri still couldn’t see his face — it was blurred, shifting in place, refusing to lay forth any details. He sounded like he was laughing when he shouted back, “We know! That’s why we say it!” 

The woman grumbled but didn’t stop them, turning back to face the pool of water. Settling her spear against the cavernous wall that enclosed them, the woman knelt and dipped her hands into the water, splashing her face. She shivered. “Bast protect me. Chaac bless me. Glory to Aj K’uk’ulkan, glory to Ix Shuri—” 

Shuri choked. 

Before she could breathe, the woman grabbed her spear and flew into a fighting stance. “Coward! Reveal yourself to me and I might kill you quickly— Mama?” 

Shuri struggled to come up with anything coherent to say. This was not normally a problem for her. It was very much a problem right now. “Uhh . . . ” 

Great stuff. Really. 

Anger fled the girl’s face. Standing straight, she tossed her spear to the side and strode forward. “Mama!” Then she was wrapping Shuri in an embrace, holding her tight and breathing into her throat. “Mama, what are you doing here? You are supposed to be preparing for the birthing chamber, they— by Sekhmet, they could try to kill you again!” 

Shuri’s head spun. She looked down at herself for the first time, her arms laden with bands of vibranium and gold, her fingers grown callused from work and time. She brushed a thumb over the lines of her palm. Her hands hadn’t looked like this a minute ago, had they? The difference was miniscule, but it was there. Shuri knew her own body. And this . . . this was the same, but not. 

The fact that she was far more heavily pregnant than she ought to be hardly even registered. 

“Mama?” 

Shuri’s eyes snapped forward. The girl was watching her with a mixture of confusion and concern. Shuri felt that. She was feeling pretty fucking confused herself. Yes, Namor said that the ceremony was to show her a vision of their child’s future. She knew that. She just hadn’t believed it. 

. . . Bast, he was going to be so damned smug about it. 

“I’m okay,” she said, half to herself. “I’m okay . . . ” The name didn’t come to her. Not yet. “Daughter.” 

If her tone was uncertain, the girl didn’t notice. Cupping Shuri’s cheek, she pressed their foreheads together and took a deep breath. Her eyes were darker than the bottom of the sea. There was blood on her face, but no cuts. The harsh line of her shoulders relaxed. The corners of her mouth showed the beginnings of smile lines. Suddenly she didn’t seem frightening at all. She just looked like a girl. Confused, a bit frightened for her; a battlefield was no place for the pregnant. But mostly kind. Loving. Good. Shuri knew in her heart that her child was good. Did all mothers feel this way? 

“I won’t disappoint you, Mama,” the girl uttered quietly, a solemn vow. “I won’t fail. I remember what you said.” 

Shuri frowned. “What did I say?” 

The girl’s mouth turned upwards in a smirk. Dark eyes glittered like raw vibranium. “Eat the sky. Drown the earth. Make them pay for what they've done, what they've always done. I won't disappoint you.” 

Then Shuri fell backwards through a pool of water, still reaching out for her daughter. 

Shuri awoke with a gasp, scrabbling at Namor’s chest and scratching his bronze skin, kicking the water. If not for her husband’s solid hold on her, she might have ducked beneath the water and drowned, too confused to realize what she was doing until it was too late. Shuri’s cheek smacked his chest. She heaved, forcing air into her lungs. Around her, whispers. For the first time in her life, Shuri struggled to think. 

“Shuri?” Namor held her carefully, brushing her hair from her face, concern forming a divot between his brows. “In watan, are you well?” 

Awareness came back to her slowly. She flexed her long fingers, holding one up, turning it over and around. It was as it should be . . . 

But it was so real. 

The words came to Shuri without thought. When she spoke, it didn’t really sound like her at all. Her voice, her accent, her fervor. But the words . . . the words were simply true. 

“I have seen our future, and our future is the daughter that grows within me!” Shuri could almost feel her eyes glow. Distantly, she realized that she was speaking flawless Maya. “I know her face, and she knows what she will do! She is the Sea Serpent who will drown our enemies and eat the Sky, Talokan’s great protector!” And suddenly, she knew her name. “K’abel!” 

And all through Talokan, the name echoed.