Bury me in The Ocean (Erik Killmonger/Black Panther au)

3

Anila twisted and turned beneath the thin sheet she slept under, or of that she'd tried to sleep under. After her parley with T'Challa, Erik was the only thing that toyed with her mind at night, as if her memory loved him more than she had, it asked for him. 

The castle burst with colours and sounded with voices that rattled its walls. Men and women alike lingered between the shadows — no matter how little there were — as the upbeat music whisked past them.

Anila sat aside her brother, Chief Moran, presiding over the crowd. "Do I need to be here?" She asked tirelessly, watching the callousness of his hand rest carefully above hers. The celebrations Asharn had were nothing short of tedious to her because she had always attended each of them, and they were all as she had complained — the same. 

"Of course you have to be here," Moran's brows furrowed, "it is important our people see that we are united, that we stand together as one, especially when we have a new king, it's imperative that he sees us the same, besides if this goes smooth enough, we might even form a stronger bond that outstrips the other tribes," he explained lowly. "Wouldn't you like that, Anila?"

Of course, she thought not bothering to stifle and eye roll. Though Asharn resided on the southern outskirts of Wakanda, word had travelled fast of the king that dethroned T'Challa. The long haired warrior, with golden fangs for teeth — rumoured — more courageous than some, braver than most. The people spoke of him reverently, but Anila found it difficult to remember his name the same way she'd remembered her brother always saying, "the enemy of my enemy is my friend" — as he had even said before sending an invite to the capital.

Her eyes studied the crowds, there were government officials, senators, kings and queens, presidents and prime ministers, and other important figures, but amidst them all, their king wasn't amongst them.

"He's not even here, Moran," Anila turned to her brother. "He might not even come,"

"I was very explicit in the invite..."

A sly smile spread across her lips as she watched Moran tighten under his noble garments. If there was one thing she knew her brother despised was being disappointed, and to her amusement, he was at the precipice of disappointment. "All this time wasted, effort and such..." she taunted.

"Don't you think I would know that?"

"Then you should—"

The blare of trumpets interrupts her then, as their gaze turns in unison when the door slid open. The Dora Milaje poured through the castle doors in a river of red, silver and black with the pride of the Boarder Tribe and other sworn swords. Over their heads a dozen banners whipped back and forth, emblazoned with the head of a golden jaguar.

From her brother's tales, Anila knew many of the warriors, but the reverent ones were the General, Okoye, deep mahogany skinned with a sheen that made her look younger than her years, tall and graceful with a spear in hand. W'Kabi — the hand of the king (and the husband of the general) — was as starkly graceful as his wife, where he shed his traditional gowns for black cloaks and intricately made jewels, a blue cravat tucked in his shirt paid enough homage to his lineage. They were both — all — as Moran described, but the king himself was something other than what Anila had thought.

King Erik — N'Jadaka — was tall and stocky, with small beaded ridges spread across his skin, though he was a heavily suited, his shirt fluttered opened so it was all true to see. His hair was dreaded and neatly plaited to the back of his head so his face — God, Anila gaped in cold shock — that was beautiful in every way thought possible, could be seen but there was a grim cast to his face that made him look serious.