author’s notes: I usually make race ambiguous, but considering the reader is Wakandan & T’Challa’s brother, it’s heavily implied that he’s Black (obviously). Also, he’s shorter than Killmonger, since I looked his height up and learned he was 6’6 and GEEKED THE FUCK OUT. SIRRRRRRRR. Whew. Anyways. The reader also has a brief shirtless scene. Otherwise, no physical descriptors are used for the reader. 

I tried my best to do some research on African and Egyptian religions and mythology to make this accurate. But apologies in advance if I messed anything up. In terms of canon, this will be canon divergent and non-compliant.

The title of this fic is a lyric from Disparate Youth by Santigold.

enjoy!

Your brother T’Challa is dead. And Wakanda has a new king. An American, no less. A guy who was born in America to an American mother and a Wakandan father. Now the man has returned, to a country he barely knows… only to become the king. 

You stand there at Warrior Falls, water soaking through the fabric at your ankles as you’re overcome with emptiness. There’s a deep ache running into your bones, grief weighing your shoulders down. You can still see the cocky grin T’Challa shot you, a brief flicker of personality through the royal facade he always carried. You can still feel the way your lips quirked at the edges when your brother shot you a wink, as if to say, It’s okay, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. 

Just as you can see those reassuring gestures, you can remember the pain flickering across his face. The way his body tensed as the newcomer—‘Killmonger’, he called himself—dealt blow after blow. The limpness of your brother’s limbs as he was deftly tossed into the rushing waters below. 

You approach the edge of the falls and look down, despite knowing it’s a fool’s errand. Indeed, there’s nothing there—his body has already been washed away by the tide. Your brother won’t even get a proper burial. Death in ritual combat is considered honorable, but you think T’Challa deserved better. The other Wakandans may be quicker to embrace the truth, the grim reality that the country is under new rule. 

Not you.

“You knew the guy?” a voice says lazily. It’s Killmonger, standing at one of the outcroppings of rock behind you. You swallow past the burning feeling in your throat, your hands shaking at your sides. The way he dismisses T’Challa… It’s beyond disrespectful. 

Your nails dig into your palms. “My brother.” That’s about all you can get yourself to say, and even those two words feel laborious. You don’t sound like yourself. You don’t feel like yourself. You feel overwhelmingly empty, devoid of purpose. Everything your brother fought for… it’s all under attack now.

“Oh shit,” Killmonger huffs. You still keep your back to him. Unwise? Probably. But maybe a small part of you is hoping he’ll kill you, if only so you could see your brother again. “Sorry,” he says carelessly.  

Your fists clench at your sides. When you can finally summon the courage and fury to turn around, he’s already gone. 

You remain at Warrior Falls for hours. Long enough for the sun to set in the sky, blue-grey fading into yellow-green before sinking into a deep blue-black. The stars twinkle above. Supposedly, in dense cities, there are less stars at night from the light pollution. Here in Wakanda, they settle against the backdrop of the sky with unquestionable brilliance. 

Sometimes, T’Challa and you would sneak out at night and look up at the stars, imagining what other lives would be like. You’d fashion yourselves as travellers, sailors, architects, historians, knights. Anything and everything. It was fun, even just to spend time with your brother. 

Tonight, you look up at the night sky and go on those adventures alone. 

Killmonger is already stirring up trouble, and it hasn’t even been a full day since he ascended the throne. You first hear of the commotion when you’re approached by an elder, who tells you of a commotion at the herb gardens. You head over quickly, heart stalling in your chest when you see the new king of Wakanda with his hand around a shaman’s throat. And not just any shaman—Sope, the leader of the group. She grasps at his wrist in a futile effort of resistance and you feel your stomach stew with unease. 

“Release her,” you assert, your voice breaking through the painful silence that had settled across the space. 

Killmonger turns, his eyes almost gleaming in the dim light of the gardens. Something aches in your jaw as you notice his posture, the disregard with which he crushes the herbs underfoot. He’s standing on one of the plant beds. “You again,” he says coldly. He doesn’t budge. 

“Let go of her,” you demand again. 

Killmonger makes a show of letting Sope go, splaying his fingers before turning on you quickly. He strides over to you, already too close for comfort. 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps. “I’m the king.” 

“And I,” you respond, “am T’Challa’s brother. Royal advisor and prince of Wakanda.” You stand your ground despite your best judgment.

“This isn’t a monarchy, prince,” Killmonger hisses, eyes gleaming with fury. “Your blood doesn’t mean shit. Your brother’s dead.”  

You grit your teeth and ignore that attempt at provocation. “These herbs are the only path to the Ancestral Plane,” you insist, motioning to the gardens around you. If he destroys the herbs, he’ll rid you of any connection to your ancestors. It would be sacrilegious and needlessly cruel. “We rely on the wisdom of our elders to move forward, to guide our actions—” you insist. 

“The wisdom of your elders?” Killmonger interjects with a scoff. “Your elders killed my father!” 

“Your father let a mercenary kill our own,” you assert, glaring at him. “Your father wanted us open to the outside world, open to the same people who have hunted us down for centuries!” 

“Don’t speak ill of my father,” he hisses, on you in an instant. There’s a sharpened dagger at your throat, digging into your skin just tight enough to draw blood. “Unless you want to join your brother in the afterlife.” 

You take a slow breath, ignoring the sting of the blade at your neck. You lock eyes with the man, the king. The warm sting of the dagger sends blood dripping down your throat sluggishly, dipping beneath your collarbone. Killmonger watches it, and for a moment, you think he’s going to dig the blade in and deliver you a swift end. 

But he doesn’t. Seconds pass and neither of you move. “You are not burning down the gardens,” you assert, leaning forward a bit. Daring him to finish what he started. And still, he does not move. Spurred by his indecision, you continue. “If you wish to remain unchallenged, then protect them better. But you will not erase our past.” 

You’re not sure how long the both of you stand there, eyes locked on one another, before Killmonger lets out an impatient sound and shoves past you. You don’t follow him as he storms off, instead turning to the shamans. 

“Are you all right?” you ask Sope. She’s massaging her throat. 

“Yes, thank you,” she responds with a nod. She stands tall and looks around the space, a troubled expression on her face. “That man is dangerous.” 

You nod in agreement. 

Sope turns back to you. “I’m sorry about King T’Challa,” she says gently, placing a hand on your shoulder. 

You take a shuddering breath. “...Me too,” you answer, taking a selfish moment to breathe before stepping away and letting her hand fall back to her side. You can sense the shaman’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you’re too lost in your thoughts to think much of it. 

It isn’t long before your duty is called into question, your allegiance tested. You’re standing in the throne room when Killmonger turns to you, almost seeming to move in slow motion as his head tilts and he fixes you with an expectant look. 

“Come here,” he orders. 

Your lips are sewn together. You don’t want to answer to the man who killed your brother. But you have no choice. If Wakanda stands even a chance at preserving its culture and values, you have to remain here, at the— the King’s side. And as much as you hate to acknowledge him, when it should be your brother sitting on that throne… Well, you don’t have much of a choice. You approach and stand in front of him.

“You aren’t bowing,” Killmonger observes, regarding you from the throne. 

“Would you like me to?” you ask. The words almost burn your tongue. Traitorous, dishonest. You’d rather die than bow to him. 

“No,” he responds. Yes, his eyes seem to say. 

You swallow past the burning feeling in your throat. “Why have you summoned me?” you question. 

“Do I need a reason?” he frowns. “Last time I checked, you’re not supposed to ask questions.”

“I’m the royal advisor,” you remind him. “That’s my job.” 

He lets out an unsatisfied noise. “Right,” Killmonger almost scoffs. “Fine. Go. Dismissed or whatever.” He makes a nonchalant hand gesture and you take the proffered opportunity to return to your solitary grief. 

You’re almost out of the room when his voice breaks through the silence. “Wait.” You freeze in the doorway, turning back around. He looks at you warily. “Your name.” 

That’s right. You never told him. Maybe because you were still holding out hope that somehow, this situation would rectify itself. That he wouldn’t even need to know your name, because he wouldn’t be here, sitting on the throne that your brother is so much more prepared to occupy— 

You swallow past your misgivings and tell him your name. He considers you for a moment. “I’m Erik,” he then responds. 

“N’Jadaka,” you correct him habitually. You don’t use American names here. There’s no need for them. His name is N’Jadaka, according to what one of the elders whispered to you this morning. 

“No,” Killmonger argues. His gaze is piercing as he rests on your brother’s throne, legs spread wide and shoulders pressed tall. “I lost that name when my father was exiled from this land. By your father.” 

You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that. Fortunately, it seems as if he’s done speaking with you. “Go,” he orders. 

So you do. 

After that fateful battle at Warrior Falls, you visit the shrine of your ancestors frequently. You’re hoping to contact your brother, despite knowing you won’t receive an answer. T’Challa is dead, and his body hasn’t been recovered. Still, you make a point to visit at least once daily—sometimes twice or even three times. 

It’s been a week now, and his body still hasn’t been found. Maybe he’s still alive.

No. You can’t dwell on false hope like that. It will only be more painful in the long run. Your brother is dead. You saw Killmonger throw him from Warrior Falls; you saw him plummet to the roaring waters below. He is dead. He must be. 

Without a body, though, you’re unable to perform the proper burial rites. Your brother won’t even be granted the dignity of a ceremony. Instead, he’s just… gone. His soul will remain lost in between the realms of life and death, awaiting guidance that may never come. 

You bend your head down, your hand finding the cool ground as you kneel in front of the altar. 

The irony? The eldest son of the family is tasked with decorating the altar. T’Challa was always the one to do it. Now that he’s not here, that responsibility falls onto you. You are all that remains of your family’s bloodline. Everything your father and brother worked for… it’s starting to fade away. And you’re terrified. Terrified for what your land will become, in the wake of this stranger’s rule.   

Tears slip down your cheeks. 

You remain there long enough for your knees to ache when you stand back up. Distracted enough to not notice Killmonger pass by, lingering in the doorway for a few minutes before leaving.

Days later, you open your eyes and sit up, soil cascading down your clothing as you look around the Ancestral Plane. You’ve been here before, though it was years ago. Back when your father passed. You came with T’Challa. Now you’re alone. Seeking guidance, just as you did before. 

A savannah stretches as far as your eyes can see, grasses rustling around you. The sky is descending into twilight, a vivid blue and purple streaked across blue. Here, there is everything… and there is nothing. 

You get to your feet and approach the tree in front of you, its dark branches blinking back at you. Black panthers prowl on steady feet, their eyes bright and eerie in the shadows. You feel yourself starting forward, taking a few more steps to approach the trunk of the tree. 

Before you can make it, a panther leaps down, its form briefly fading before your father appears before you. Your breath hitches in your chest. You embrace him immediately, arms wrapping around him in a hug like you’re a child again. 

“My son,” T’Chaka remarks, his hand cradling the back of your head as he speaks in Xhosa. 

“Father,” you respond, fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic for a selfish moment. You take a shuddering breath and pull back to meet his eyes. “I need your guidance.” He nods ever so slightly, a nonverbal gesture for you to continue. 

“T’Challa… He’s gone.” Uttering the words is even more painful, ushering in the reality. You wanted to pretend as if he were just away, as if he was magically fished from the rivers and brought back to life. But your brother is as good as dead. And now you can’t even visit him in the Ancestral Plane, because his body was never found. 

You try to push past the burning feeling in your throat. “A stranger on the throne, the tribes fractured… This isn’t what you meant for Wakanda.” You shake your head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to do,” you admit, your voice breaking. Your hand trembles at your side and you clench your fist. 

“Don’t you?” T’Chaka asks. 

“...No,” you answer. You look around the savannah as if it will give you answers. Your father waits for you to continue, patient as always. “I fear the worst. Our very culture is in danger. This newcomer… He tried to burn the gardens, he— There is nothing that can be done.” 

“Wakanda is still very much alive,” T’Chaka reassures you. “A ruler, even one as misguided as this one may seem, does not define our country.” 

“I just… It feels wrong,” you whisper. “To be serving him.” 

“No,” your father corrects you. “You do not serve him. You serve your country.” 

“I know,” you sigh.

“Then act like you do,” T’Chaka responds. That was one thing you always valued about your father: He never pulled his punches. “Do not let him crush your spirit. Wakanda needs you, now more than ever.”

You nod, struggling to get words out. Your father had been keeping pace with you as he walked, but now he lingers behind you. Frowning, you turn around to find his visage fading. Choking on a helpless breath, you try to reach out to him again, but your hand slips through thin air. The scenery around you is melting, shadows briefly flitting across your vision. 

Your eyelids flutter and you soon return to the waking world with a harsh gasp, breathing hard. Your arms are still crossed over your shirtless chest, fists clenched. Your ears are ringing, everything feels too sharp and dull at once. You slowly loosen your fists, getting up to a sitting position despite your muscles’ protests. 

You’re back in Wakanda. The real world, where your father is dead, your brother is missing, and an exiled Wakandan has returned and taken the throne. 

“You’re all right,” Sope reassures you, a comforting figure in light of your panic. It takes you several moments to catch your breath, to ground yourself in this existence. Coming back from the Ancestral Plane always feels jarring. You push yourself to your feet, wobbling a bit. The shaman steadies you with impressive speed, a gentle hand on your waist as your vision spirals. 

“Lightweight,” a familiar voice scoffs. 

You startle, turning to find N’Jadaka standing in the far corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. You hadn’t even heard him approach. How long was he lingering there? Did he arrive when you were already in the Ancestral Plane? How long did he stand there, looking down at you with your arms crossed over your chest and wondering what you were seeing? The thought unsettles you. 

“Show the prince respect,” Sope says sharply, shooting daggers at N’Jadaka. Her courage is commendable, but ultimately wasted on you. 

“It’s fine,” you reassure the shaman, stepping away from her and nodding. “Thank you, Sope. I appreciate your assistance, as always.”  

“Of course,” she responds, stooping into a bow. You incline your head in return, before fetching your tunic. You turn your back on N’Jadaka as you put it on, but you can still feel his staring like a physical weight on your spine. Once you straighten up, you give Sope another nod before exiting the room. 

You’re only given a few moments to yourself before the sound of footsteps graces your ears. You walk a few more steps and pause, turning to find N’Jadaka standing across from you.

“Thought the Heart-Shaped Herb was limited to the Black Panther,” he says languidly, his eyes sharp. 

“And the royal family,” you correct him. “I do not seek the power it gives. Only our ancestors’ wisdom.” 

“Not very bright,” N’Jadaka says with an arched eyebrow. 

You don’t respond to the jab, instead turning your back on the king and walking away. 

…His gaze sears through your skin regardless. 

Safe to say, you and N’Jadaka do not get along well. You were raised Wakandan, born into royalty. You always respected traditions, values passed down from generations. You never knew such— such insolence. Speaking out of turn, ordering the Dora Milaje around as if they’re mere props. Stomping on holy ground without so much as a passing thought of decency. 

No. N’Jadaka is a representation of everything about the modern world: He’s aggressive, impatient, hungry for power, thirsty for violence, and downright blasphemous. He waltzes into Wakanda, dethrones the king, and sits upon the throne of a country he doesn’t know the first thing about. It makes you sick to your stomach. 

While you try your best to be deferential, there’s only so much you can tolerate. Because, as your father said, your duty isn’t just to your king—it’s also to your country. And you will put the needs of your people over the fleeting whims of a tyrant every single time. 

You’re in the throne room when N’Jadaka turns his attention to you once more. That’s another thing you’ve learned: He’s combative. He enjoys provoking people. And though you’ve done well to avoid his attempts so far, you’re starting to break. Your patience isn’t infinite.

“You’ve been kinda rude,” N’Jadaka says. He turns to you expectantly. “How do you address your king?”

You keep silent. You won’t indulge his flights of fancy, his misguided power trips. 

“Foolish,” he mocks you, “just like your brother.” 

That statement makes your blood run cold. “Shut up,” you hiss before you can stop yourself, stiffening like a worn-thin thread about to snap. “Oh?” N’Jadaka hums. He’s starting to grin. “Is that a hint of personality I see? You’ve been bland as hell until now.” 

“Shut up,” you seethe again, eyes burning with unshed tears as you level him with the most malicious glare you can muster. It’s probably a pathetic effort. “You killed him.”

“I can’t undo the past,” N’Jadaka reminds you. He shrugs. “I wish it could’ve been different.” 

“No, you don’t,” you insist. The guy got exactly what he wanted. “You don’t even care. T’Challa didn’t want to fight.” 

“He knew the risks,” N’Jadaka says. “A king needs to be powerful. And if he isn’t, then he shouldn’t be a king at all.” 

White-hot rage prickles down your spine. Everything around you seems to blur and fade in the wake of that remark. You’re moving before you can stop yourself, lurching forward and pulling your arm back.  

You punch the king of Wakanda in the face. 

Silence immediately descends on the air, thick and cloying. N’Jadaka’s head is bowed. You can’t see his expression. 

Then your endless years of training kick in, and you’re genuflecting before him. “Your Majesty, I sincerely apologize, I don’t know what came over me—” you stammer, the words nearly crawling from your lips as your throat burns. You’re immediately hit with a profound sense of regret. Regardless of what this man has done to you, he is your king first. You never should’ve struck him. You stare down at the ground, your head bent low as tears threaten to slip down your face for an entirely different reason than before.

“Get up,” he says. 

You don’t hear him. You’re lost in memories, drowning in the likelihood of your dismissal. This advisory position is your pride. It’s what convinces you to keep fighting when everything feels hopeless. Without it… you’re nothing, no one. And without you here, the remnants of your family’s advances in legislation and leadership will fall apart. 

“Get up!” N’Jadaka yells. His voice echoes through the walls of the otherwise silent room. You look up at him. Sitting on the throne, glaring at you with fury in his eyes… He really does look like a king. (Just not yours.) “Now!” 

You quickly get back to your feet. And this time, you don’t need him to dismiss you—you just leave. 

Wakanda comprises five tribes: the River tribe, the Merchant tribe, the Border tribe, the Mining tribe, and the Jabari tribe. The first king of Wakanda, Bashenga, had sought to unite all the tribes; the Jabari tribe was the only one that refused to comply, and the members instead retreated to the northern mountains. Your brother, you, your father… You’re all descendants of Bashenga. 

The tribes frequently meet under the direction of the king at the Tribal Council, where each tribe’s elders are given a voice in domestic and foreign affairs alike. The Jabari tribe is the only one that remains uninvolved, considering their stance on vibranium. That’s almost a good thing—four tribes is more than enough to create circular conversations.

Truthfully, the Tribal Council meetings were disorganized before N’Jadaka. Now, they’re a complete and utter mess. N’Jadaka seems to almost enjoy the chaos, as he consistently pokes and prods at each tribal elder for his own amusement. He doesn’t take anything seriously, he’s constantly questioning tradition. For every second that passes, you feel like you’re slipping further and further away from the Wakanda your family fought for. The Wakanda you love. 

You try to keep your composure as you sit there passively, allowing a few of the leaders to argue. Killmonger spectates, though you can feel him sneaking frequent glances at you. 

And that’s when you see him. The chair that sits across from you is no longer empty. Instead, a man stares back at you. 

For a second, you’re too shocked to do much more than stare back. Then, as you scrutinize the newcomer, you come to one realization: he is not human. The man’s dark skin seems almost endless, no blemishes or pores in sight. His beady eyes are a deep inky black, entirely unblinking. He tilts his head to the side questioningly, and two more eyes emerge from his temples. 

You think your breath stutters a bit, but you can’t be sure. You suppose it doesn’t really matter, in the end. All you know is this: Anansi has just paid you a visit. The trickster, a symbol of chaos and change. He possesses both an infinite knowledge of the world and a seemingly childlike proclivity for mischief. Completely paradoxical, but his presence here confirms what you had already dreaded: Things are changing. Wakanda will no longer be the same as it has been. 

As if sensing your thoughts, Anansi inclines his head slightly, toward the head of the table. He tilts his head at N’Jadaka curiously. 

Not trusting yourself to keep your composure any longer, you promptly get to your feet and leave the room without another word. 

You end up fleeing to one of the balconies overlooking Birnin Zana. You cross your arms over the railing and try to take a deep breath. Anansi’s visit isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does promise a complex and uncertain future. The trickster can be a symbol of much-needed change, but that can also inflict harm on existing structures. 

You sigh, rubbing a hand across your face. 

“It’s funny,” N’Jadaka says. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him—you’re used to his voice by now. You remain standing at the edge of the balcony, arms resting on the railing. “I don’t remember telling you to leave the meeting.” 

Your jaw clenches. “You didn’t,” you manage to say.

“What was so important?” he questions, taking unhurried steps toward you. “You always take your princely duties so seriously.” There’s definitely some mockery in his voice. He’s taunting you, like usual. You know better than to respond. You’re not falling for the same trick twice. 

You remember he’s waiting for an answer and snap back to reality. “Nothing,” you respond quickly. Too quickly. You can tell he notices, because he stops at the railing next to you and gives you a look. 

“Oh, really?” N’Jadaka asks, arching a brow. “What could warrant keeping a secret from your king?”

You’re not my king. You’re not my anything. 

You keep silent instead of uttering the words. Your emotions are probably visible on your face, but you find yourself too worn out to care. The king already knows you distrust him, already knows you don’t approve of his attempts to uproot your country’s traditions. 

It’s silent for a while, just the two of you looking out at the lush jungle in the distance. You give N’Jadaka a sidelong glance. He’s already looking at you. You turn your head and return your attention to the trees. 

“Why are you here?” you eventually ask. 

“I deserve to be here,” he responds. Immediate, free of hesitation. 

It’s quiet. “Yes,” you relent. You can feel him shift at your side, his shoulder brushing yours as he looks at you in surprise. You decide to take advantage of his momentary lapse in attention. “Why did you challenge my brother?” 

“I wanted to rule,” N’Jadaka answers. 

And there it is. A thirst for power and authority. The same corruptive force that runs rampant in the countries outside your borders. You had always thought Wakanda was different, that Wakandans were above such things. 

Yet here you are, standing next to the man who killed your brother. The new king, who knows more of America than he does of the country he’s supposed to lead. 

“Why?” you ask. 

“In here, we thrive,” N’Jadaka says. He shifts a bit closer, as if willing you to look at him. Eventually you do look up at him, and you’re almost surprised to find the sincere expression on his face. It seems uncharacteristic. He’s a man governed by hatred, vengeance, bloodlust. Or so you thought. “Out there, we’re suffering. We were exploited for centuries, and even now, we’re killed for the color of our skin.” 

The weight of that statement settles in the air and stays there. “So, yeah,” he scoffs. “Forgive me for wanting to save our siblings with the weapons we’re not even fucking using.” 

The passersby below, the glint of metal in the sunlight. There is nothing to distract you from the accuracy of that statement. You take a slow breath, crossing your arms over the railing again. “I understand,” you say.

“...You do,” he says disbelievingly. 

“I do,” you continue. “You think we haven’t considered that before? But it wouldn’t just stop at helping others. Assuming we helped people like us, used our weaponry… That would inform the world of the existence of our country, the vastness of our resources. We would be at risk of more exploitation, and history would be reversed.” 

“So we’re just supposed to lay down and take it?” N’Jadaka argues harshly. “Just sit there while people die?”

“No.”

N’Jadaka scoffs. “You’ve never even left Wakanda, have you?” 

“I have not,” you admit. 

“Thought so,” he says. “Too high and mighty.” 

“At the moment,” you remark, ignoring that dig, “I find myself more concerned with domestic affairs.” 

The implication is clear. “So, me, then,” N’Jadaka huffs, a dark sound leaving his lips. He almost sounds amused. 

“Yes,” you agree. N’Jadaka is the bigger problem at the moment. You can worry about the citizens of the world later—right now, the lives of your people are in danger. The traditions of your country and your ancestors… It’s all under threat. You can’t save anyone else if the very essence of Wakanda is at risk. 

N’Jadaka exhales in dry amusement, before turning and walking back into the Citadel. You don’t follow him.

When you walk out of your bedroom in the Citadel one morning to find N’Jadaka on the ground, being choked by your brother… you assume you’re having a lucid dream. You dig your nails into your arm hard. Nothing happens. The sight before you remains: T’Challa, your brother—thought to be dead. Here, pushing the new king into the ground and looking unquestionably alive. 

Then you process just what is happening: the absolute lack of resistance in N’Jadaka’s form, as he simply lies there; the fury on your brother’s face; the ear-piercing roar of your heart thudding in your chest. Something’s wrong here. 

“Brother!” you say sharply. “Don’t!” 

At the sound of your voice, T’Challa’s head whips around and his eyes are wide. He stares at you in complete disbelief, as if you were the one who vanished in supposed death and then reappeared like nothing happened. 

“Don’t,” you insist, looking at him expectantly. As much as you loathe some of N’Jadaka’s ideas, you don’t want his blood on your brother’s hands. That would only reflect poorly on T’Challa. What’s more, after your last conversation on the balcony… Well. You’re starting to think there’s more to the guy than what meets the eye. 

T’Challa’s grip loosens as he processes your remark. 

“Looks like you do have a heart under there,” N’Jadaka chuckles at him, his lips quirking into a grin that reveals bloodied teeth. T’Challa punches him in the face again, before his jaw clenches and he gets to his feet and turns to you. 

“T’Challa,” you breathe. Your brother’s infuriated expression quickly melts, and the two of you nearly crash into each other as you hug. 

N’Jadaka gets to his feet. You don’t notice, too preoccupied with embracing T’Challa. “I thought you were dead,” you say as you break apart, eyes flitting about your brother’s face. 

“As did I,” T’Challa responds smoothly. He sends a dirty look to Killmonger before turning back to you. There’s a fond smile on his face. “I missed you.” 

“I missed you too,” you answer. “How did you…?” you try to ask. 

“Enough with the waterworks; Jesus,” Killmonger interjects impatiently, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. “This isn’t a Hallmark movie.” 

Your brother’s shoulders draw tight again. “You will not let me kill him,” T’Challa then says, bringing the tension right back. He looks at you expectantly. 

“Killing the king would brand you a traitor,” you remind him. “You know better.” The truth goes unsaid: You can best him in combat and take back the throne. 

“Listen to your baby brother,” N’Jadaka says tauntingly. T’Challa glares at him. 

You sigh, resigning yourself to a long day. 

N’Jadaka is still the king, but with your brother back from the dead, the question of true power has to be raised. T’Challa hasn’t challenged N’Jadaka for the throne just yet, though you know he’s preparing for it. He must be. 

You’re not the only one who has noticed Wakanda’s current… instability. The Merchant, Mining, River, and Border tribes still serve on the Tribal Council. The Jabari tribe continues to be a distant, unpredictable force. A looming threat on the horizon. Until one morning, when the Dora Milaje warily flank a group of Jabari as they enter the Citadel. 

It’s the first time you’ve seen any of the tribe in a long time. They don’t approve of the country’s use of vibranium, instead relying on natural materials. This city is a giant contradiction to everything they stand for. Their very presence here is nothing short of shocking, and extremely suspicious. They must want something. 

“What do you want, M’Baku?” T’Challa demands, evidently thinking the same thing you are. Your brother, N’Jadaka, and you all stand in the throne room, faced with the leader of the Jabari and some of his companions. 

“Such a frosty reception,” M’Baku, the leader of the Jabari, says slowly. “We saved your life, did we not?” 

T’Challa’s jaw clenches, but he remains silent. 

“Thought so,” M’Baku says somewhat smugly. He considers your group for a moment, the three of you standing there: the American who ascended the throne; the old king, thought to be dead but revived; and you, T’Challa’s brother and royal advisor. 

M’Baku’s eyes settle on you, before he begins to speak in Igbo. As you process his words, your eyes widen and you stare at him in disbelief. 

“What’s he saying?” N’Jadaka demands, noticing your shock. 

“He’s saying…” you try to answer, your eyes still wide. You’re not sure what to do. Well, scratch that. You know what you should do. But you’re not sure if you should tell your brother. He won’t accept it—you know he won’t. 

“What?” N’Jadaka persists, before turning to T’Challa expectantly. Your brother shrugs slightly, appearing concerned but more patient.  

“They’re here to collect their reward,” you recite, eyes still locked on M’Baku. You can’t convince yourself to look away, unable to shake the strange conviction that something will happen if you do. “Our prince. A royal for a royal.” 

“No.” That wasn’t your brother—it was N’Jadaka. And he looks furious. 

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’ll go.”

“No!” T’Challa exclaims, an uncharacteristic panic to his voice. 

“Brother, I can handle myself,” you reassure him. “It’s a small price. You’re alive.” 

T’Challa doesn’t look convinced, his eyebrows furrowed and his shoulders drawn tight. Then you look over at N’Jadaka. “Don’t kill him again,” you order fiercely. The last thing you want is to return to Birnin Zana to find your brother dead, not when you just got him back. 

“Bossy,” N’Jadaka mutters under his breath, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Glad we’ve come to an agreement,” M’Baku says, nodding at the men flanking him. The Jabari are quick to absorb you in their ranks, hands on your upper arms as they guide you out of the building and toward the mountains in the distance. You don’t look back to see the tormented expression on your brother’s face, or the tense scowl on N’Jadaka’s face. 

In hindsight, it was optimistic of you to think you’d be treated nicely. But you didn’t expect to be thrown into a holding cell and chained to the wall like a prisoner. You take a slow breath and try to bend your wrists, but they don’t budge against the unyielding metal of the cuffs around them. Your arms are left hanging above you, numbness trickling down your forearms and into your shoulders. 

You want to say you don’t know what this is about, but you do. The Jabari tribe is trying to use you as leverage, provoking Wakanda and the other four tribes into battling them and starting a war. M’Baku wants Wakanda weak, because that would benefit him. For centuries, the Jabari have remained on the outskirts of Wakanda—almost forgotten. 

Do you think it’s right? No. 

Do you think a civil war is the best solution? Also no. 

Surely there’s a way out of this mess that doesn’t involve unnecessary bloodshed. And if a war can be stalled by you rotting in a cell, then so be it. You were trained for royalty—you’ve always known that you may have to make uncomfortable or even painful sacrifices for your people. This is nothing new. 

Selfishly speaking, though, you’re pretty thirsty. 

Minutes bleed into hours and days. The only way you can even discern the passage of time is by the sun’s movements in the sky. Day to night to day and back again. As time stretches on and nothing changes, you start to wonder if you were forgotten. 

You drift in and out of fleeting slumber, never long enough to feel well-rested. You haven’t been given a single drop of water or crumb of food since you were first thrown into this cell, nor have you seen any visitors. It’s almost miserable. 

But, again. Your brother is alive. The Black Panther lives on. At this point, that may be all you can ask for. You trust T’Challa, trust that he’ll be able to handle any problems that may arise. And if you were given a choice between him and you, well… You’ve already made that choice, haven’t you?

You huff in amusement, leaning your head back to rest against the cool wall. Your wrists are rubbed raw now, dried blood crusted along the edges. Your arms are pretty much completely useless at this point, and your vision is swimming. Falling in and out of consciousness for days on end probably isn’t doing much for your mental state or your awareness. 

So when there’s a harsh thud outside, you barely even notice. It isn’t until the door of your cell is kicked in that you begin to understand what’s happening. Light floods into the dark room, immediately forcing you to squint as a solitary figure stands tall in the doorway. 

“Hey, prince,” N’Jadaka says flippantly, brandishing a dagger at his side. It glows with vibranium as it catches the light. You blink sluggishly; he looks you up and down. “You look like shit.”

You want to laugh. The most you can do is exhale in an amused huff. Your wrists ache, your stomach hurts, your head is pounding, your vision is blurry, and your throat is extremely dry. You have no idea how many days it’s been since that encounter with M’Baku—you lost count.

You must really be out of it, because you blink and N’Jadaka is suddenly crouching before you. He’s a bit closer than you expected him to be, and you blink hard as you try to keep yourself awake. He makes quick work of the cuffs on your wrists with the vibranium weapon. 

You can’t even begin to celebrate your freedom or move your wrists before N’Jadaka is latching his hands on your forearms and yanking you to your feet. You have no choice but to go with the movement, and immediately you’re thrown into a world of grainy fuzziness. Darkness swarms into your vision and you crumple right back down to the ground as your vision fades to black. 

You wake to a dull ache crawling through your bones. You groan and push yourself up, the walls of the Citadel a source of comfort. You’re back home. You rub your eyes roughly and take a slow breath, wincing as your wrists sting and burn. A quick glance down gives you a glimpse of bandages wrapped around your forearms, likely to prevent infection. Other than the wrist pain, some muscle stiffness and a growing headache, you feel… fine. Mostly. Just exhausted. 

Another slow breath leaves your lips just as the door swings open. N’Jadaka stands firm in the doorway, quickly making his way through the room before halting at your bedside. “The Wakandan Royal Guard is ready for battle,” he informs you, in lieu of a greeting.

Your brain stalls for a second. “Wait, what?” you then ask. What happened?! “No, no—” you say panickedly, nearly stumbling in your effort to scramble off the bed. You’re stopped by his hand on your shoulder, which lingers for a moment before falling away.  

“The Jabari tried to kill the king of Wakanda,” N’Jadaka informs you tersely. 

“My brother—?” you ask desperately, your heart starting to pick up again. 

“No,” he answers. 

“You?” you blink, your head spinning. N’Jadaka looks entirely fine. He is an incredibly capable combatant, though—you suppose it makes sense that he doesn’t even have a scratch on him. 

But he still shakes his head. “No,” he insists, leveling you with an unflinching look. “You.” 

“Me?” you repeat in confusion. You’re not really following this turn in conversation. “...I’m not the king.” 

“Yes, you are,” N’Jadaka insists. And then he kneels before you. 

“What are you doing?” you ask disbelievingly. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s. You find yourself sitting up and getting to your feet habitually, ignoring the residual aches in your muscles. “Get up.” 

“No,” he insists. “You are the king of Wakanda now.” 

“According to what?” you huff. “I haven’t even fought anyone—” 

In the blink of an eye, you’re wielding his dagger. N’Jadaka’s hand grasps yours, guiding the blade to hover over his throat. 

“You have bested me in battle,” he declares.

“That’s not—” you break off helplessly. 

“You care about tradition,” N’Jadaka says, his eyes locked on yours. “I get it. But Wakanda needs you.”

Wakanda needs you. That’s what your father said too. You swallow hard, fighting off memories of T’Chaka. You instead regard N’Jadaka kneeling before you, looking for a hint of deceit or trickery on his face. There’s only honesty, desperation. 

“Please,” he implores you. N’Jadaka leans forward more and the blade nicks him a bit. You immediately try to pull your hand back, but his grip remains steady. For a long moment, you remain there: you, on unsteady feet, grasping his blade; N’Jadaka kneeling at your feet, his hand guiding his dagger to his own throat.

“Okay,” you agree, “but I’m not killing you. And get up.” 

Just as N’Jadaka starts to relinquish his grip on the blade and get to his feet, there’s a new presence in the doorway. 

“Brother,” T’Challa says, his eyes glimmering with relief. This time, he’s the one to cross the distance and hug you. You lean into his embrace immediately, your eyes burning with unshed tears. You thought you would never see him again. You had just gotten him back, but you were worried you would meet your end in captivity. 

“What should we do?” you ask him once you break apart. It’s habit: asking your brother what to do. He was the king and you were his advisor. 

“What you should do,” T’Challa corrects you with a gentle smile, resting a hand on your shoulder, “is follow your instinct. I will support you every step of the way. As your advisor, if you’ll allow me.”  

“Thank you,” you respond relievedly. “Yes, of course. That would be wonderful.” 

T’Challa studies you for a minute, his hand finding your cheek and his gaze flitting about your face. “How you’ve grown,” he remarks. A rare smile graces his lips. Pride flickers in his eyes. “Father would be so proud.” 

“Not to ruin the vibe, but,” N’Jadaka drawls, “we gotta figure out what to do with the Jabari.” 

“We?” T’Challa repeats with scorn. You can practically hear his thoughts: There is no ‘we’. 

You place a hand on your brother’s forearm, giving him a pointed look. “Yes, we,” you say, attempting to stifle any of his arguments. Against all odds, N’Jadaka surrendered the throne to you. He wouldn’t have done that if he were intent on destroying Wakanda or changing it altogether. That gives you some hope for the future, even if you know you’ll need more proof than that as time passes. 

N’Jadaka shoots T’Challa a victorious smirk, just quick enough for you to miss. T’Challa scowls, before shaking his head. “You are right; there are bigger problems at the moment,” he nods to you. 

Past grievances momentarily pushed aside, the three of you summon the tribal elders and get to work. 

Against all odds, you manage to avoid a war with the Jabari tribe. Thankfully. You’ve been hoping to cement their presence in Wakandan affairs for some time now, and with a new seat at the Tribal Council and an influence on legislation—in addition to several other concessions—M’Baku was satisfied. T’Challa and N’Jadaka both seemed displeased in their own ways, but then again, the two men are warriors. They were ready to defend Wakanda, which you’re grateful for. But as the king of Wakanda, it’s your job to ensure things don’t get to that point. 

Between the new treaties, legislative ventures, and responsibilities that you take on in the coming time, you manage to make time for a small act. An olive branch. Something that should have been done a long time ago. (And idly you wonder, just how many other people have slipped through the cracks.)  

“N’Jadaka,” you say, placing a hand over the man’s heart as tradition mandates. The two of you stand in the throne room, an elder from the River tribe and a few Dora Milaje warriors as witnesses. N’Jadaka wears Wakandan clothing: a deep burnished orange accentuating the sharp lines of his form, the strength of his broad shoulders. You can’t deny it: he looks very good. But that is not the thought a king should be having, especially in this moment. You pull yourself back to attention, a smile twisting the edge of your lips. “I grant you naturalized citizenship from this point forward. You are afforded the rights and privileges of a Wakandan.” 

“Thank you,” he responds, eyes looking suspiciously bright. N’Jadaka stares at you for a moment before, without breaking eye contact, stooping low into a genuflect. 

You feel the breath leave your chest for a long moment. “You… don’t have to do that,” you manage to say. The weight of his attention, the sight of him bowing to you… It is quite something. 

“Maybe I wanted to,” N’Jadaka replies with a lopsided smirk. That gesture shouldn’t be as attractive as it is. 

You huff and avert your eyes for a moment. “Well, thank you for your dedication,” you say wryly, hoping you don’t look as flustered as you feel. “You may get up.” You have to fight off the urge to give him a helping hand—he doesn’t need it, and it would appear too friendly in current company. 

“Thanks, Your Majesty,” N’Jadaka responds, standing up to his full height once more. 

You roll your eyes and he grins. 

Surprisingly, your life doesn’t change much as you adjust to your role as the king. You’d been in your brother’s shadow for so long… You didn’t quite realize just how well-prepared you really were. In reality, the decisions you’re faced with are ones you’ve already seen: whether through watching your father, guiding your brother, or standing against N’Jadaka. 

T’Challa is still the Black Panther, and he takes on a role somewhat similar to your old one as royal advisor. His insight is still invaluable, and the two of you have always worked better as a team. He doesn’t seem particularly disappointed to be relieved of his kingly duties—in fact, he eventually expresses to you late one night that he’s grateful for the chance to spend more time with Nakia. After all, T’Challa has always been the warrior. And, as he says, you have always been the royal one. 

Of course, you’re quick to fight off that accusation, because it makes you sound like some sort of disconnected rich kid or fool drunk on power. T’Challa reassures you that isn’t what he meant, shaking his head in fond disbelief before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and smiling. Your brother has been doing more of that lately: smiling. It’s nice to see. 

As for N’Jadaka, he’s still around. You can tell he sees Wakanda as home now, which makes you happy. You were quick to enlist him in helping to train Wakandan forces on the martial arts techniques he learned during his time abroad, so that you’re better equipped to defend yourselves when the time comes. And of course, thanks to his initial insights—that conversation on the balcony after the Tribal Council—you’ve been thinking more about your country’s isolationist policy. T’Challa and you will consult your ancestors about it soon enough.

Something you do have to get adjusted to… is N’Jadaka’s staring. He stares a lot. At first, you put it down to being on opposite sides of a fledgling conflict: him as the new king, you as a remnant of royalty. But even after the events of recent weeks—your brother’s return; agreement with the Jabari tribe and captivity; his rescue; your new position as king—he is still watching you. You’re not sure if it’s different now, or if it’s always been like this. It’s hard for you to tell. Sure, he held animosity toward you before. You could explain the constant attention then; he was wary of you. But now? His eyes follow you around the room, latching onto you and not letting go. 

T’Challa has certainly taken notice, as he asks you about it one afternoon. You admit that you’re not sure what the purpose of N’Jadaka’s attention is, and your brother gives you a pretty weird look—something between exasperation and irritation.  

You don’t really understand what his reaction was for until a few weeks later. You’re standing on another one of the Citadel’s balconies, looking over Birnin Zana’s gleaming skyscrapers as the warm air greets your skin. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?” you ask habitually, blinking and turning around to find N’Jadaka in the doorway. He regards you for a moment before stepping out onto the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. You hadn’t expected to see him today—though he does reside in the Citadel now (much to your brother’s irritation). 

“Giving me a second chance,” he responds. 

You smile slightly. “You’re welcome,” you say with a nod. It’s quiet as he settles at your side, standing at the railing just like you were all that time ago. It’s ironic—the cityscape looks exactly the same. It feels like so much changed, and yet a brief glimpse at the buildings has you thinking that hardly anything changed at all. 

“I’m sorry about your father,” you venture to say, hoping the remark won’t be unwelcome. 

N’Jadaka stills for a second. “Me too,” he then says, eyes set on the sun climbing down the horizon. The afternoon light casts a warm glow on his skin, just a hint of amber sparkling in his deep brown eyes.

As you study him, you remind yourself: Neither of you can change the past. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Accepting it, learning from it, is enough. Maybe it isn’t about what you can’t do, but what you can do. How to prevent stories like N’Jadaka’s from happening again. 

“So how does a Wakandan citizen court his king?” he asks, apropos of nothing. 

“What now?” you ask incredulously, eyes blown wide.  

“If I want to court you,” N’Jadaka repeats slowly, eyes still not leaving your face, “how do I go about it?” 

Your fingers jitter at your sides. “If you wanted to be king again, you could’ve just said that,” you say in mild amusement. 

“Nah, that king shit is a lot of work,” N’Jadaka huffs jokingly. A pause. “Looks better on you, anyway.” 

You huff in disbelief. It’s quiet for far too long, and you realize he must not have been joking. You gave him plenty of time to rescind that remark, but he didn’t.

“Making an offering to Oshun,” you blurt out, “down at the river.” 

He blinks at you. 

“...If you were serious,” you add quietly.

“Is that before or after the kiss?” N’Jadaka asks with a lopsided smile. Again, he’s stupidly handsome. It’s almost irritating, and definitely nerve-wracking. 

“......After,” you manage to say, barely getting your thoughts sorted out in time to process what he just said. The kiss? Surely he doesn’t mean… 

“Good to know,” he hums. 

The two of you soon gravitate toward one another, and N’Jadaka kisses you. Your hand rests on his shoulder; his hand briefly dances up your neck before finding your jaw, his thumb resting on your cheekbone. It’s a surprisingly tender movement, and you can’t help but lean into him. 

Of course, just before you start to believe it’s actually happening, the moment is swiftly broken. “Good afternoon,” T’Challa says, appearing out of nowhere. He’s standing in the doorway with a knowing expression on his face. He looks far too smug. 

You flinch so hard you nearly fall backwards. N’Jadaka steadies you with a hand at your waist, which probably only makes things look worse. You glare at your brother. “You scared me,” you remark, scowling at him. 

“Apologies, brother,” T’Challa replies inauthentically. 

You resist the urge to throw something at him. “Did you need something?” you frown instead. 

“Not yet,” he answers, leveling N’Jadaka with a long silent look. T’Challa stands there long enough for things to become truly uncomfortable, the tension in the air sharp enough to draw blood. Then, as if nothing happened, he turns around and walks away. 

“Forgot about him…” N’Jadaka nearly groans, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “He’ll warm up to you……… eventually.” Maybe. 

“You don’t sound convinced,” he notes. 

“I’m not,” you respond with a laugh. Your brother can hold a grudge like no one’s business. And considering N’Jadaka nearly killed him, well. Safe to say that animosity won’t be going away any time soon. Civility will likely be a miracle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to kill you,” you joke. 

“Cross that bridge when I get there,” N’Jadaka shrugs, before gently pulling you forward and kissing you again.

©2026, @defectivevillain | @defectivehero, All Rights Reserved. Reblogs are greatly appreciated—just don't steal or share outside of Tumblr, please.

author’s notes: GUYS there’s fanart. omg. it’s so beautiful. thank you so much @abhorrentanathema <33333

Here’s an alt scenario that I found funny.

You, a few months after you started to date N’Jadaka: Brother, I have to tell you something. And you may not like it. T’Challa, dryly: You’re dating N’Jadaka. You, shocked: Wha— How did you know that? T’Challa: I have eyes, brother. You: Okay. You’re not… mad? T’Challa: That the man who tried to kill me is courting my little brother? …Perhaps. You, scowling: I’m not little. T’Challa, continuing unimpeded: I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It has been very obvious. You: *standing there in stunned silence* T’Challa: And you have been happier as of late. You: I— T’Challa: That’s the most you will ever hear me say on the matter. You, still reeling: …Fair enough.

thanks for reading! <3

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