Shuri awoke to a banging on her door. Sitting upright, she noticed she’d been changed during her forced sleep. The gilded dress she’d worn earlier had been swapped for a satin white shift. Cream-colored and soft to the touch, the dress showed that Namor would spare no expense when it came to her comfort. She frowned at the thought.

The knock is only customary, as Namora and three other Talokaniis glided in without her acquiescence. The woman soldier was devoid of her feather headdress and adornments. Instead, she wore a bejeweled halter that exposed her navel, along with a firmly-woven net skirt. In the dimly-lit room, her top glittered and shined as light bounced off the reflective stones. Despite her casual appearance, Shuri could still spot a scowl underneath Namora’s filter mask. It seemed that the king’s cousin did not share his sentiments for Shuri.

“Rise, my Queen,” Namora announced tartly, standing at the forefront of the other Talokanii women, who were also adorned in similarly shining outfits. “We are here to prepare you for the ceremony.”

If they thought they’d find a willing captive, the Talokaniis were much mistaken. 

“I am the Princess of Wakanda, not your Queen,” Shuri rose from the bed to her full height, feet planted firmly on the ground. “I do not know what is wrong with your bullheaded King, but I refuse to go along with this sham of a wedding!”

Namora did not falter.

“We are here to prepare you for the ceremony,” She continued as if Shuri had not spoken at all. “Please allow us to dress and cleanse you. Ku’kul’kan has requested it.”

At her words, the women flurry into action. It was as if a light bulb had gone off; the women snapped into formation so quickly that Shuri wondered if this moment was rehearsed. To no avail, she tried to twist out of their way, but their grips were iron on her arms and legs. 

They lifted her shift off her body as though it weighed more than a tissue, dragged her to an ivory tub in an adjoining bathroom, and dried scrub the protesting queen-to-be down with sea salt. Her skin is rubbed raw and exfoliated before perfumed bathwater is poured into the bath. The scent is nothing like what she is used to. If Wakanda is thick musk and incense, smoke clouds heavy with musk and spice, then Talokan is light air and vapor, a smell on the wind that you’d miss if you blink too fast. 

She is none-too-gently pushed down into the warm water. The ladies work silently and efficiently, handling the resisting princess with a practiced ease. Two focus on washing her arms and legs with a crochet material that’s alike the African washing nets she uses at home. The other attendant massages shampoo into her coils and finger-detangles her hair with skilled hand. When they’re finished, they leave a net floating in the bath and stand, all three moving away from Shuri. As quickly as they descended upon her, they rise and stand towards the wall, backs rigid as the most disciplined soldiers.

A moment passes, and Namora, who has been standing dutiful watch throughout, gestures towards her own body and looks at the queen-to-be.

“Hm?” Shuri questions. “Ah!”

Namora nods at her and faces away from Shuri. She isn’t sure what use it is for them to turn away when they’ve already washed her, but she is slightly thankful for the modicum of privacy as she washes the rest of her body on her own. 

Of all the situations to be in, trapped in an arranged marriage to a King of an underwater Kingdom previously unknown to mankind was not foreseen in Shuri’s horoscope for the year. At least, the astrologer did not mention it to the princess and queen mother when they made their annual pilgrimage together to the old soothsayer. No, instead, the elderly crone had only grinned, a joke dancing in glaucoma blue-colored eyes, as she insisted to the royals that the stars had one message for them: the Moon controls those in the water just as it controls those on land. 

At the time, Shuri had only seen the wise woman’s words as all-the-more reason to eschew her country’s traditions. The Moon doesn’t control humans. The human body is impacted by the gravitational pull of local celestial bodies. The same influence could be said for Jupiter, Venus, or any other non-Earth object in our solar system.

Now, thousands of leagues under the sea, Shuri sees that the elder had gotten the last laugh.

Discreetly, Shuri scans the room, searching for anything – a tool, a weapon, a resource – that she might use to her advantage. The room is bare, save for the copper bathtub she sat in and the bed she awakened upon. Though, there were indents along the seashell-lined floor that suggested this room once held more, she could only assume that the room had been searched and stripped of anything too dangerous. 

“My Queen, it is time for the next phase of preparation.” Namora broke Shuri’s thoughts, peering down at her through slitted eyes. “We are running behind schedule.”

“I am not your Queen!” She responded, startling the attendants who had already begun crowding her with opened towels. Her bathwater had long grown tepid. “I am a Princess of Wakanda, and I demand to be released.”

“In Talokan tradition, we must ensure – “

“I don’t care about tradition!” Shuri shrank into the tub, refusing to rise. “I don’t care about a wedding, and I don’t care about the moon!”

The warrior woman spoke in clipped Yucatan so quickly that Shuri could not translate it. Whatever the command was, the attendants forcefully grabbed Shuri out of the tub and dried her down. Water splashed around as the princess wrestled, but she, in combination with her slippery skin, was no match for the attendants’ strong grasp. 

“This is a crime,” Shuri assured Namora as the ladies covered her body in a thick, light-smelling lotion. “You are making a big mistake.”

“You all cannot do this,” She yelled as they clipped her nails and plucked her eyebrows. “This is not right!”

“I am going to escape, and when I do –” Shuri began after they dressed her and applied paint to her face and body.

“You are going to what, Princess?” It was the first question Namora asked her, throughout the hours she’d been in preparation for the wedding. “What are you going to do?”

By now, hours had passed. The attendants did not tire in their efforts but they did not move with the same quickness of vigor as possible. Even Namora sounded tired and resigned to the Princess’s incessant fighting. Most of all, Shuri had exhausted herself out. Before Shuri could think of an answer, a knock sounded.

A hulk-sized warrior, the one they called Attuma, stood in the doorway. His frame took up the entire space. 

“He is ready,” was all Attuma offered.

Namora nodded at him and smiled briefly, the softest action Shuri had ever seen from her, as she materialized an air filter out of seemingly nowhere.

“Oh no,” Shuri spoke. “Don’t you dare!”

-------------------------------------------------

When she came to, she was not alone.

The King of Talokan sat beside her. He wore an elaborate, gold-brimmed animal head cowl with green and blue plumage sprouting at its back. His chest was bare, except for a string of pearls and his customary brass and blue shoulder plate. A gold armband curled around each of his biceps, and a beaded bracelet wrapped around his left wrist. He knelt on the ground next to her her and used a poker to adjust a well-lit hearth with a roaring fire. He looked into the flames, the bright color dancing golden-red in his eyes. 

“Sweet dreams, Shuri?” Namor asked, eyes remaining focused at the task at-hand. 

Shuri’s hands were bound together by rope, although it was an unnecessary precaution. She laid on a thick, circular mat on the ground, layered with animal fur, skins, pillows, and other soft comforts. Sleep’s embrace threatened to draw her back into the void, but she shook herself out of it and sat upright, yawning.

“Yes, I dreamt that you dropped dead and everything you loved fell to ashes before you.”

“I forgot that Wakandan wedding vows were so cruel,” He laid his palm upon his heart. “Such vile words, from such a pretty mouth.”

“Don’t you know it’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding?” She sneered at him.

Much to her chagrin, he fully turned towards her and took in the sight of his reluctant bride.

The Princess had been prepped and pampered in the finest that Talokan had to offer. Her skin shined with body oil; her hair and lashes tinted with onyx; her lips colored with ochre. She wore a dress made of jaguar skin that connected to her neck with a trail of jades and emeralds. Swirling white lines climbed up her fingertips to her elbows. On both forearms, she wore vibranium armbands. Her nails were painted silver, the same crystallized tint that dusted across her eyelids and cheeks. 

He did not try to hide his interest in her, moving his eyes up and down her body.

Between the bedding and the fire, the room felt hot, stifling. Most of all, Namor’s presence alone seemed to suck all the air out. Shuri had to manually pace her breathing, lest her heart would break free of her chest. 

“Before?” He moved away from the hearth and laid next to her, though she tried with no success to put more space between them. “Our wedding is happening right now. While we are in here together, my people are out there, feasting, drinking, dancing, rejoicing in honor of our marriage.”

“This marriage is a sham,” She said to him, throwing up her bound hands at him as proof. “Your people rejoice for nothing.”

“In the eyes of Talokan and the supreme god Tlāloc, we are husband and wife.” He spoke sincerely, unclasping the bracelet from his wrist. 

“You are not listening to me at all,” She began, just as he began untying the rope around her wrists. “Namor, you don’t have to do this.”

“No,” He shook his head. “I must do this.”

“There are other ways.”

“Other ways?” He paused, fingertips slowing on the last knot. “I told you the story of my people. We were hunted down, beaten, killed. I did not choose this war; it was brought to me. What would you have me do? You look at me as if I have many options. I do what I must to protect my people.” 

The rope fell to the ground in one singular loop.

“Some things, a King must do because it is right.” Slowly, he now wrapped the bracelet around Shuri’s right wrist in place of the rope ties. “This, I do because it feels right.”

“You have been decorated and painted in the colors of bridedom.” He continued, looking deeply into her eyes; she met his challenge, unblinking, and his heart swelled with pride at his choice in wife. “I’ve tended to the fire, just as the first man Mixcoatl did for the first woman Cōātlīcue. Incense has been burnt and offered to the gods. You wear the mane of a jaguar that I hunted, killed, and skinned with my own hand. And with this final act, I have made us one.” 

“Wait!” She placed her hand over his.

Namor paused at the contact. Shuri had to think quick.

“You said that gods do not bargain with mortals, but can a wife not bargain with her husband?”

His mouth quirked, and though he did not laugh, she saw a sparkle in his eye, as if he knew a joke she was not privy to.

“Depends,” Namor brushed his thumb against her knuckles; she ignored his action, keeping her hand atop his in spite of her discomfort. “What is the wife bargaining with?