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The rescue, simply put, had failed. It was a blur in Shuri’s mind and memory: Nakia, aiming at the young Talokanil girl whose shaking hand held a fruit knife to Shuri’s neck, Riri shouting in alarm. The gun going off, the girl crumpling like a puppet with cut strings; Shuri screaming what have you done, this will mean war as she tried in vain to scrabble for Nakia’s Kimoyo beads.The way Nakia had dragged her into the water, screaming that they had to go, now . A dive, deep and black and cold: clinging to the framework of Nakia’s skirmisher as the engine valiantly chugged along, seeming slow as molasses— And the hand that seized Shuri’s ankle, tearing her fingers from the metal, ripping a scream from Shuri’s throat as air escaped her rebreather. She lost sight of the skirmisher, of Nakia and Riri: there was only darkness, and bubbles rushing past her face, and that viselike grip on her foot, pulling her back to the underworld.   Attuma had left her, barefoot, soaked, and shaking, in the cavern where she had been placed originally. Nobody brought Shuri dry clothing, or bothered to even speak to her; the new guards set at the only exit watched her silently, impassively. Fruit was brought in bowls at regular six-hour intervals, but Shuri refused to touch it, seeing only the shocked blue face of the girl in her mind when she looked at it. The bodies of the two dead women had been taken away, and the whole of the cathedral-like cave was empty, oppressive in its silence, the glow-worms in the stalactites her only light. Water dripped, far away and faint, plop, plop, plop.  She counted time by how many bowls of fruit were offered. Twelve. Twenty-four. Forty-eight. Seventy-two. Then she thought she slept through a few, and lost count. Screaming had achieved nothing. She had shouted for Namor, demanded to speak to him, begged the silent guards to find him for her, yelled her apologies to an unhearing roof. Cried for the dead women. Cried because she was cold. Cried because she was frightened. The only thing the noise achieved was making the glowworms fade and flicker, their brilliance quieted against the onslaught of noise.Shuri slept in fitful bursts, huddled in her hammock: she woke always to the same silence and the same guards. I don’t even know how long I have been here, she thought, panic stifling her. He might be attacking Wakanda even now in revenge. Oh, Bast, what has Nakia done? It was all Nakia’s fault, she thought furiously as she stalked back and forth on the cold wet floor. Nakia’s fault, and if her mother had sent her, then her mother’s fault too. What had she been thinking? Sneaking behind Namor’s back— someone who might have been able to best even the Black Panther in combat— someone with everything to lose, someone who had been preparing for war for four hundred years. Shuri felt like she might be sick. And now he has me prisoner. Had they tracked down Nakia and Riri before they had escaped? Was Riri dead? Nakia? Was Wakanda being swept even now with blue-skinned soldiers three times as strong as any living man? Shuri sat down on the floor, ignoring the chill that crept into her legs (her trousers were transparent mesh, not very practical at all) and cried some more, thinking of her home in flames. I can do nothing. I am stuck here. There was no way out of the cavern, with the guards standing by the only exit, and even if she had been able to find the way, she did not have another rebreather. And there is almost a hundred feet of water between here and the sun. Shuri was a good swimmer, but kicking through a ten-story building’s worth of water unaided gave her reservation.  Think, Shuri. She had been drilled as a child in what to do, should she ever be abducted or taken prisoner: it was standard training for the royal family at the hands of the Dora Milaje. If you cannot escape without great injury to yourself and to others, then forge a connection with your captor. Make them see you are a person. Be personal. Tell them your name. Ask about their life. That was no good: she had already tried to do that before, and all her work on a diplomatic solution was ruined, thanks to the decisions of someone else. Eh, stop being upset about Nakia, she thought angrily. If Mama ordered her back from Haiti, then she must have been worried sick. You can’t change what she did, anyway. You can only offer to try to fix it. Right?
Bast, what can I offer that will fix this?
Her stomach growled with hunger. She ignored it, and went back to the hammock, crawling in damp and falling back into a fitful sleep.   When she woke, it was to the sound of someone talking. Shuri sat up, bewildered as she stared at the blue face of Namora, dressed in yellow and black, her speech slightly garbled by the water in the rebreather over her nose and mouth. “What?” she murmured, rubbing her eyes. The Talokanil woman glanced over her briefly before looking back at her face and speaking again. Shuri thought she recognized the word for come , and also heard K’uk’ulkan, and staggered up out of the hammock immediately, bringing the mildewing smell of her clothes with her. “Please, yes, I need to speak to Namor urgently.”A furrow deepened in Namora’s brow, and she only turned her head a little, indicating the door: the two guards stood aside. Shuri followed Namora through the maze of tunnels, stepping through pools and across shallow ledges, slippery as fish, before emerging in the cavern that belonged to Namor, the one where she had put on the deep-sea suit and gone down to see Talokan. I was the first person to ever lay eyes on his world, she thought with a pang of remorse. The bracelet was still tied around her right wrist, where he had left it, and it had never felt so heavy to Shuri as it did now. She followed Namora across the ledge to the raised floor of the grotto, the dry floor: here were the stelae on each side carved with his face and his long history, and there was the house between with the earthen walls and the thatched roof. His home. The lamps were lit, the contrast of warm golden light startling against the cool blue dimness of the grotto, and a trail of wet footprints led to the door. Her heart jumped into her throat as Namora stood aside and let her in. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, wearing a long ochre-colored tunic, knee-length, rolled up at the shoulders, his customary breastplate of gold and vibranium, strings of pearls. His hair still dripped with water, but the expression on his face gave Shuri pause, made her glance toward the door— Namora was standing there, her back to the inside, her shoulders taut. She supposed she should start by explaining. “I—I did not know that Wakanda was sending—”“Kneel,” said Namor, in a voice so black and cold with fury that it could have frozen the sun. She blinked, her head swimming. “Wh—”“You were an honored guest in my home, and you spat in the face of all Talokan. You should have come in to me on your knees pleading for mercy. I will not tell you again. Kneel.” Shuri knelt, her heart in her throat. I should not look at him. He is furious. She stared at his feet instead: he was barefoot, and the brown and white wings on his ankles were drawn up tight, flapping a few times like those of an enraged bird. Don’t defend yourself. Just be quiet, don’t let your mouth get you into more trouble than you are already in.  Namor stood where he was. “Do you have nothing to say for yourself, princess?”She pressed her lips together. So much for that approach. “I tried to save the life of the girl,” she whispered. “It was a sonic blast. I couldn’t save her.”“You couldn’t save her,” he repeated, a bitter tinge to every word. “You couldn’t save her.”“I had no knowledge of the attempt to rescue me.”“I do not believe you.”She blinked very hard, staring at the ground. “It’s the truth.”“The guards tell me you have been refusing food. Do you think if you starve yourself, we will release you?”“I’m not starving myself,” she whispered, fighting tears. “I can’t eat. I keep seeing h-her face, I was trying to— it all happened so fast—”“I have just come from the funeral,” he said in a brittle, hard voice. Shuri felt her heart stutter and thud in her chest. “We laid Itotia to rest in the deepest trench of the sea as the sun I built set in my temple. I myself put the jade bead in her mouth to guide her to the fields of the Maize God. I blessed her when she was born. I took her into my service when she was a child. She was hardly eighteen years of age.” Shuri’s eyes blurred with tears. I did not even know her name. Itotia. Her name was Itotia. “She was no warrior, who swears to lay down their life if need be for Talokan. She was a little handmaid who swept floors, brought food, tended my things. She is now dead because your mother, the Queen of Wakanda, violated our agreement and sent an assassin to steal you away from me and murder a frightened child. Look at me.” Shuri could barely move, tears tracking down her face.  “Look at me!” he barked, and bent down, grabbed her by the jaw, forced her head roughly up to face him. “Had she mistreated you? Beat you? Mocked you? Been cruel to you? Answer me!”“No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Never.”“You were safe in my care.” His hand was warm and damp, sticky-salt drying on his skin, and his voice cracked a little. “You were— safe —with me. In my home. I would never have allowed any harm to come to you.” My mother. It was my mother. My mother sent Nakia to this place. She tried to ignore the way his fingers were trembling on her jaw, the loose grip he had on her throat. “I know,” she managed. “I knew. I don’t— know why my mother—did what she did. Please.”“I do,” he answered, voice humid with emotion. “I do. Because she is your mother.” His thumb crossed her chin, leaving a smear of heat on her skin. “And love makes fools of us all in the end.” Is. He said, is, not was: Mama was still alive, then. Shuri wet her lips. “If you want justice done for the life of Itotia—if you want vengeance, don’t— please don’t hurt my people. Keep me here. Do what you want with me, but do not make Wakanda suffer for what my mother chose to do out of love for her only remaining child.” She searched his dark eyes, looking for any sign of a crack in the armor, a way to him. “Please,” she repeated, her voice trembling.“You offer… yourself, in exchange for your people?” he asked, eyes narrowing.“You love your people. Would you not do the same?”Namor’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, his eyes fixed on Shuri. Then, he gave her a single, slow, firm nod. She braced herself for violence: she could handle pain as well as any Dora Milaje, she was far from a spoiled princess. “Interesting,” he said softly instead. “You assume I did not take the life of the assassin and the scientist already.”She tried hard to keep her face serene. “If you have, then I assume you would have no need of my offer, which would beg the question of why you kept me alive after Attuma brought me back.”The already-loose grip on her throat loosened further, sending his fingers slipping down the column of her neck, where Shuri was acutely aware of her own windpipe, millimeters below the surface of her skin. He could crush my throat like a hollow stick. Perhaps it was her hunger doing strange things to her circulatory system, but the thought did not light up her nerve centers with danger or fear. Rather, something else stirred, hot and unwelcome in the pit of her stomach. Shuri crushed it down. “Very clever, princess,” he said. “You have guessed correctly. The assassin escaped with the scientist. I could have gone after them, but I was… distracted.”“Dis-distracted,” she managed, distracted herself by the way his fingers were trailing over the edge of her high collar. “Yes. Not thinking clearly, in my rage.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell like a wet blanket. I will have someone bring you clothing.”“What will you tell my mother when she demands my return?” asked Shuri, trying to get her mind off his hands.“Oh, she has already demanded it,” he said, shrugging as he stood and stepped back. The absence of him felt cold. “Every day, she blows the conch I gave her. Throws it in the water. I went the first time, but when she demanded an exchange of the scientist for you, I laughed in her face. I had already told her there was nothing in the world she could offer me in return for you. I have not answered her since.”“You— you don’t want to kill Riri?”“Wakanda has her now,” said Namor, a flash of white smile illuminating his face. “They cannot hand her over to the Americans, for fear they will steal her work and create another machine. Her work threatens not only Talokan, but Wakanda. She will remain in your land for some time, I have no doubt, as I also informed your mother that if she stepped a finger outside of the borders, or if any surface nations started work on any vibranium-detecting machines, I would kill you.”Shuri’s mouth was dry, her vision blurring at the edges. “I thought… you said I was safe here,” she whispered from her place on the floor.“You were safe. Now…” He crossed to his table, picked up a brush, put it down; his voice was light and casual. “Now, you have willingly put yourself at my mercy for the sake of your people. Who knows what may happen to you?”Light danced behind her eyes, sparks glittering like the glowworms nestled in the roof of the cave. She welcomed the swallowing dark, soothing and sure, and the last thing she felt was her cheek against a warm, beaten-earth floor, as smooth as skin.  Upon waking up back in her cave, Shuri was given corn to eat and chocolate to drink, the sugar and carbohydrates bringing some strength back into her bloodstream, and then warm bread and cooked squash from the crops below the surface in Talokan. Namora gave her a dress that was a little too big in the shoulders— Shuri suspected it was one of Namora’s. Long-sleeved, long-skirted, it was made of soft, thin fabric dyed a rich, deep blue/green color, and it tied together at the waist with braided lengths of the same fabric, a simple leather belt over the ties to hold it in place. She did not have a bathtub, so Shuri settled for stripping down and splashing herself with the cold freshwater of the cave’s many pools. Using a blanket to dry herself with, she dressed in the gown, braided her hair out of her eyes, and went, at Namora’s side again, to the hut— but Namor wasn’t there. Instead, Shuri was given a job. First, Namora handed her a broom made of tightly sewn cornhusks and dried driftwood twigs, and showed her in no short order how to clean off the stone of the little island he had built his house on. It was no more difficult than sweeping her balcony, or a dirt floor, so Shuri did it. When she was done, Namora took her to the front of the house and pointed at the piles of objects sitting heaped at either side of the door with a bubbling string of firm, songlike Mayan that Shuri could not understand. She blinked. “What, am I supposed to organize all this?” There were books, both dry and damp with water; rotting chests coated in mud, an ancient Victrola with a rusting horn, a stack of salt-crusted objects the identity of which Shuri could only guess at, and dozens of woven baskets of muddy, indistinct shapes. Namora sighed and gestured again, then picked up a silty, square, flat item, motioned as if she was washing it, and pointed at Shuri.“Oh, you want me to wash it,” she said, understanding, and nodded. She had gotten a few words in Mayan down, and tried out one of them. “Haa’,” she said. Yes.  Namora brightened a little. “Haa’,” she repeated, and pointed emphatically at the items. Shuri got the picture, and sat down to wash off and identify all the things.There was so, so much to go through. A rusted-out CD player that had to be from the early two-thousands, piles of CDs, some of which were ruined by saltwater, but some of which were sealed in plastic and still playable; books on every subject and in multiple languages, a few records that Shuri carefully rinsed and set to dry on their edges, a jumbled, random assortment of men’s and women’s clothing from various time periods: most was too damaged to save, but several pieces had survived a dousing in saltwater. Shoes. An old diving helmet. Cutlery, from silver and ornate to plastic printed with cartoon characters. A thick oak chest of Spanish gold from the fifteen-hundreds, fine china dishes, plastic dishes in avocado green and burnt orange, mechanical parts for cars and computers. It went on and on. Shuri found her shoulders getting sore quickly from the amount of stooping she was doing over the pool. She had not had to do so much physical labor in years: her lab was ergonomic and she had staff to carry out tasks for her.  Maybe I am a bit spoiled after all, she thought, scratching mold off a pair of sneakers. It was hours later, hours and hours, when Namor came back. He rose up through the pool, wings humming, and came down lightly on the island she had swept clean, dripping water everywhere. “Shuri of Wakanda,” he said flatly, running a hand through his plastered-wet hair. She swallowed and stood up, nodding at him. “Lord—” She stopped herself. Lord Namor was what she had been about to say, a title of respect for a tribal leader in Wakanda, but the custom likely did not apply here, and Shuri did not want to run the risk of offending him more. My enemies call me Namor, he had said, so long ago on the shore of the river. “K’uk’ulkan,” she said instead. “I want a meal brought to me,” he said, not even looking at her. “I have come a long way.” What? “I— I’ll— all right.”Namor did not dignify that with a response: he just went into his hut and shut the curtain. Shuri put down the cloth she’d been using to wipe grit off silverware and went to find Namora, but was blocked from exiting by the guards. “Namora,” she tried, pointing at the hut. “K’uk’ulkan.” It took a moment before one of them realized what she wanted and went to fetch Namora, who came back looking slightly annoyed, and then Shuri had to explain with a lot of hand gestures that K’uk’ulkan wanted food. Namora caught on, barked an order at one of the guards, and turned on her heel, not even looking back. It was not until she was clutching a tray and slipping past the woven curtain that separated the room from the outside cavern that Shuri realized: she had been assigned the duties of the woman Nakia had killed. The girl hardly her own age, Itotia, who had been born below the sea and lived her life there— she had replaced her. Justice, she thought with a shiver, and came in, head bent, placing the food on the table before retreating with her hands at her sides, hardly daring to breathe. Namor circled the table and sat, flicking his black and white patterned cloak behind him. He had changed into a long, sleeveless tunic, open at the sides from hip to hem, with a simpler collar of woven, stiffened kelp, brown and green. She chanced a look up at him as he picked up the fruit and took a bite, juice dripping into his beard, down his chin. He did not speak until he had almost finished the fruit. “I bring news, Shuri of Wakanda,” he said, still not looking at her.“Yes— K’uk’ulkan?” The broad expanse of his exposed thigh and hip was almost obscene, and the way he licked the juice from his fingers was not helping. She stifled her breath, holding it. What is wrong with me? “I have decided not to take your life today.”What could she say to that? “Thank you, K’uk’ulkan.”“On the morrow, I might decide differently.” He took no further notice of her, and Shuri quietly stole out the doorway, her heart thudding and her eyes prickling. 
Who knows what may happen to you?
  She fell asleep in a pile of rusted carburetors, but woke up back in her hammock, a blanket tucked around her. Strange. Someone must have moved her. One of the guards, no doubt. Around her, a dozen more hammocks had been moved in and hung from stalagmites: this cavern must be where the staff slept when they did not have a dignified guest visiting. More handmaids, perhaps. Blue-faced young women and men, cocooned in blankets… Shuri shook herself. Of course, they would have had to make a place for her when she was a guest of honor. No one else had ever gone down to Talokan before. When she came back to Namor’s grotto, the items she had been sorting were still there. One pile was too damaged to be of use, and the other pile consisted of things that were still good. Since nobody had said how exactly the useful things should be sorted, Shuri separated them by categories of use. Education. Music. Technology. Clothing. Intrinsic value, such as the chest of gold, and the few lengths of copper tubing she’d salvaged. She had five or six neat stacks set up by the time Namor emerged from the water, his dark head slick. Shuri got to her feet and lowered her chin as respectfully as she could. “K’uk’ulkan,” she mumbled. Wet steps marked his passing over the stone. “Shuri of Wakanda,” he said by way of greeting. “Bring a meal. When I have eaten, you will tell me of these items and their uses.”“Yes, K’uk’ulkan,” she said, and hurried off to find the guards again. It was easier this time to explain, because she now recognized the word for to eat : hanal, but instead of going off and getting it themselves, the guards showed her to another separate cavern where five women dressed similarly to Shuri were cooking, with stone ovens and stovetops powered by vibranium cells. The meaning was clear: get it yourself. She piled a plate with hot, doughy pastries with squash filling, fruit, and roasted corn, then hurried back to the grotto. Shuri almost lost her way, but remembered the right turn at the last moment, so she was not very late as she came in with the food and set it on the table, stepping back and trying to blend into the wall.  Every prince and princess of Wakanda learns to serve others from the age of two, she thought to herself as Namor sat down and began to eat. I remember. Mama had me in the laundry on duty when I was six and I hated it, I just wanted to escape to my lab all the time… It was important for the children of the royal family to understand that with their power came service, came others before themselves. T’Challa had taken the lessons to heart. Shuri had rankled under it, but found herself thankful for the lessons now. She refused to look at Namor as he sucked his dark fingers clean of juice, as he licked the inside of his hand to catch every drop. When he was finished, he barked a command in Mayan, and another serving-girl came to get the used plate. “Come,” he said brusquely, and Shuri followed him outside, her heart thudding as he extended an arm to her piles. “What do you have to show me?”“These are— well, these are compact discs of plastic,” she started, picking up a square case so he could see the CD inside and picking up a CD player. “They play music on a machine such as this. It is very obsolete technology, but if I had a power source, I could make it work. These are— even more obsolete.” Shuri pointed to the old Victrola and the records stacked neatly alongside it. “The sound quality may be bad— without a microscope, I am not able to see if the needle was damaged.” She kept talking, half-terrified he would lose interest, about everything: the dishes, the china, the silverware and the clothing and the shoes, the baseballs and the transistors and the wiring and the computer parts, the old radios. Through it all, Namor simply sat, gazing at the items with an inscrutable expression on his face, and when she was done speaking, dry-mouthed and hoarse, she lapsed into silence, waiting for the verdict.“I enjoy music, but if I gave you vibranium, no doubt you would create a weapon,” he finally said. “A Talokanil engineer will be sent to work on this task.”That stung a little. “Yes, K’uk’ulkan.”A blue shape moved in the light, hulking and tall as it rounded the back of the house. “K’uk’ulka— ah,” said Attuma’s voice, bubbling and muffled behind the breather he wore. Shuri remembered that grip on her ankle and bit her lip, trying not to show fear. Out of his shark-skull headdress and armor, he looked smaller, but not by much. He towered over even Namor. She had not seen him since the day she had been snatched back, and remained quiet and unobtrusive as possible as Attuma asked a question, his eyes slipping over Shuri. Namor snapped something back, his jaw tight, and Attuma nodded, lowering his head respectfully as Namor said something else, gesturing at the water, and Attuma saluted him with his hands spread, wrists together, one hand’s finger splaying up and the other down, before diving in gracefully with hardly a splash to be seen. Shuri exhaled shakily, looking away to compose herself.“Does my general frighten you?” asked Namor, a note of something unidentifiable in his tone.Shuri did not know how to answer that. “Any person my size would be wary of a man as large as Attuma,” she finally said.A puff of air left his nose: hardly a snort or a laugh, but something close to it. “He takes great joy in battle, this is true, and he is one of our finest warriors, but his heart is gentle.”“You were angry at him,” said Shuri, forgetting herself for a moment. “Why?”“What makes you think I was angry?” he fired back.“You looked angry. What did he say?”“It is none of your concern,” Namor snapped. “I sent him down to get an engineer. Your work in this matter is done, Shuri of Wakanda.”She bit her lip. “Yes, K’uk’ulkan.”  Having no way to mark the passage of time was a nightmare. Shuri tried to scratch lines in the stone wall of her cave with a nail to mark when she slept and woke again, but on the tenth mark, she found someone had undone all her work when she returned to her hammock, or else her bed had been moved, and none of the others could really tell her anything. Well, it was not a very good system anyway, she thought hopelessly. No sun, no moon, no stars: only the ever-present glow of the larvae in the stalactites above, shimmering blue and cool. She slept and woke, worked and served, tried to learn as many vocabulary words in Mayan as she could, and slept again: some days Namor came back to the grotto and some days he did not. She tried to count days in her head, then lost track when she focused on her daily tasks. Sweeping, fetching water and food, carrying shipments of goods to the kitchens, cleaning. I am going to go completely insane if I never see the sun again, she thought several times, tears tracking down her cheeks. She wanted to stand on Mount Bashenga and feel the wind on her cheeks, see trees, watch the sunset: she wanted to be embraced and held gently by someone, anyone. Nobody had touched her in days, weeks, maybe months; nobody had even smiled at her. She could not even mark time by her menstrual cycle: an implant put in by the medical team when she was eighteen had eliminated her period years ago, leaving more time for her to focus on her work. Every night, it was the same. 
Shuri of Wakanda, I have decided not to take your life today.

Yes, K’uk’ulkan.
The engineer came and went, and Shuri assumed Namor had figured out how to operate the Victrola and the CD player, because sometimes at night she could hear music drifting from the dark tunnel she was beginning to think of as the Feathered Serpent’s Mouth. The stalagmites and stalactites looked very like teeth framing a gaping maw, empty and black, even though she knew it was an illusion: if you walked into the mouth you would see the way to his grotto and pick out your way in the water. The CDs had long since lost their labels and covers, dissolved in saltwater, but she could hear Bach, Mozart, the Beatles, Selena, reggaeton, punk-rock, the faint strains of Rage Against The Machine— he must have curated an enormous collection. “K’uk’ulkan?” she asked softly one evening (she thought of it as evening, when he returned to the house in the grotto for a meal), barely daring to even move. “May I ask a question?”“You may ask. I may answer. Or I may not.”“You have never demanded back the bracelet that belonged to your mother,” she forced out. “Why?”He was silent for a while, his eyes slipping over her right wrist, where the jade and pearls still rested. “It was a gift to a princess with kind eyes and an open heart,” he finally said. “You may keep it, Shuri of Wakanda, in her memory.”
I have to get out of here.  
She kept her head down for ages, she behaved, she did as she was asked— she pulled out a wire in the back of the radio and managed, under pretense of tripping on the wet ground, to sneak a chunk of vibranium from the engineer who had been called up to take a look at the broken radio. She nicked bits and parts, slowly and carefully over what seemed eons, while Namor still made her attend him at mealtimes, then sometimes when he was dressing. When that started, Shuri thought she was truly going to lose it. He would ask her to clasp his heavy gold collar to the back of his throat, have her check the closures on his belt, make her adjust his vambraces and tie his sandals. For any young handmaid of Talokan, it would have been an honor beyond words to personally wait on K’uk’ulkan. For Shuri, it was torture. She could not escape touching him. Her fingertips would graze his warm, smooth skin, whisper over the soft places on the insides of his arms, and every night after she dressed him, her affection-starved mind, in what had to be feverish desperation, would bring her dreams of skin pressed to skin, open mouths, wet and hot and gasping. She would wake trembling, sopping between her thighs, aching for someone to touch her, and she could not do it herself in a hammock in the open cavern, where other handmaids and young men were sleeping. The memory of the way he had grasped her throat, gentle and firm, began to torment her day and night: she began to think that she would welcome even a blow from him, just to be touched.
Bast, I have to get out of here. 
She kept her spare parts and precious vibranium rolled in her old underwear: nobody wanted to touch them. Every night, she would spend precious time tinkering with the wiring, the transistors, the vibranium: could she make a nanoparticulate grouping and create a breather without having to steal one?The answer, it turned out, was, not without a nano-microscope, and since that was not one of the things Namor had hoarded from the surface, she gave up, saving the pieces for something else. I will have to steal a rebreather.  Her muscles were getting stronger from all the manual work, carrying in bushels of corn and squash with the other young women and men who were always smiling, happy and honored to be serving the God-king himself. One night the cooks made scallops seared in butter (Shuri did not want to think about where they’d gotten the milk) and everyone ate, delightedly, together in the cavern, talking and chatting as they took off their masks, took bites, filled the breathers, put the masks on again, chewed. Shuri saw her chance in the chaos. A young man set his mask down behind him, taking a bite of scallop and trying to impress a girl with how long he could hold his oxygen. The girl giggled, shaking her head, as he puffed his cheeks out— Shuri reached out under cover of a fold of fabric and snatched his breather, quick as a flash, then watched as the young man reached back, patted the stone, looked alarmed, and dove into the water to shouts of laughter from his friends. She smiled thinly along, shaking her head as if exasperated with his antics, while the edge of the mask dug into her hand below her skirt.  Finally, she had an opportunity to escape. She had spent a countless amount of time in the grotto, in the winding tunnels: she knew where the kitchen and the pools were, she knew where Namor’s entrance and exits were— where the one was that led to Talokan, and where the one was that led up to the cenote in Yucatan.  I am stronger. I can do this. I can do it. Half the staff had gone back down to Talokan for something. She didn’t know quite enough Mayan to understand what they were excited about, but she had a vague idea that it was a holiday, that it had something to do with the sun below the water, and that K’uk’ulkan would be there, officiating. That was all she needed to know. No guards. No Namor. She’d dive into the cenote exit with her stolen rebreather, swim her way up to freedom through the cave system, exit into the forest, and run as far as she could to find someone with a phone, someone to help her. I’ll hear Mama’s voice again, she thought, keeping her face as still and quiet as stone as she moved through her daily tasks. Even Nakia would be a welcome sight. And then, home.  Except Namor might vow vengeance on Wakanda, or vengeance on her, once she had escaped. But Wakanda had shields, and Talokan didn’t. He got through our shields, though, she thought blindly, wondering if she perhaps hadn’t thought this out properly. Well, maybe she just would… not go home. That would likely endanger her people. Maybe she could stay in the jungle in Mexico, or anywhere else, drinking in sunlight and listening to the wind in the trees. Even mosquitoes would be welcome after still air and silence and glowworm lights. I want the sun. I want to see the sun. I am going to go insane if I never see the sky again.  Yes. That would work. Shuri readied herself for her plan, and waited until the last of the handmaids had dived into the pool leading to Talokan. She listened to the water dropping off the stalactites, drip drip drip, and swallowed hard as she got to her feet, moving silently to her hammock. First, the breather: emptied of water, it functioned well as an air-cycler. She had Attuma, she supposed, to thank for showing her how that had worked. Next, she stripped down, tugging on her old underwear and black bra: wet fabric would weigh down her body and make her slow. The dress went into her hammock, stuffed under a blanket. Then, Shuri went to the other pool, picking her way barefoot across stalagmites and slippery stone, until she found the pool. Bast, she prayed, please let me escape, and I’ll never be disrespectful towards you again. She dived in, activated the light in the nose-plate she had built from the chunk of stolen vibranium and the wiring, and began to kick, breathing evenly and slowly as the dark encroached in on her, suffocating in its emptiness. The light illuminated solid rock: she went down and around, down deeper. Her ears popped. Minutes passed. Shuri kept breathing. Further and further— then she rounded the bottom of the stone and saw light!Not just any light, either, sunlight! Sunlight! She struck out, kicking furiously toward the filtered, green glow in the water, joy flooding her. I am almost there. Almost. I am so close. How long had it been? She did not know. She kept kicking, arms pushing, her thighs on fire, her breath coming in gasps. Green light turned to yellow. She could see the rippling-glass effect of the surface water now, blurred in the water, but real and solid. Ten feet away, nine, eight. She reached out her hands, dizzy with desperate need to touch fresh air, light. Four feet. Three. Two. One— A force stronger than gravity’s pull seized her by the waist, and hauled her backward into the dark in a stream of bubbles. Shuri lost her head and screamed, kicking furiously. “No!” she sobbed, trying to wrestle her way out of arms like iron as she reached for the vanishing light. “No, no, no, I want the sun, I want the sun!” She could not fight forever. Her body, already weakened by the long stretch of swimming, lost its burst of adrenaline, and she gave up, deadweight and crying, as the arms around her torso never moved, as strong as triple-forged vibranium and as warm as the sunlight she had almost touched.   This time, Attuma left her in Namor’s house, sprawled on the floor in her soaked underwear and bra with a blanket. He took her modified rebreather, looked it over, and tapped the light, a note of admiration in his voice as he spoke to her, but she burst into tears and curled up in a ball on the woven rug, and he beat a hasty retreat, taking the rebreather with him and shutting the curtain.  Namor is going to kill me. Shuri sucked down air, shuddering as her head spun: what had she been thinking? I just wanted sunlight. I wanted fresh air. I wanted— I—  Namor stormed in without preamble or announcement, her rebreather in his hand, and Shuri hauled herself to her feet, stumbling, cringing away from the look on his face and huddling into her blanket, back to the wall. He wore a long, open-sided tunic, light brown, and a white cloak: he had just come from the water, and every line of the fabric clung to his body beneath.“What is the meaning of this?” he barked, brandishing her mask like a weapon. “You steal from my people to aid your escape? You break your word yet again?”She hadn’t even considered that angle. Shivering, tears rolling down her face, Shuri forced out, “I j-just wanted—”“What? What do you want? You offered yourself to my service freely as payment for the life you took: you have not been starved, you have not been beaten! I have not been cruel to you. I have not worked you any harder than any other here under my protection. You are safe here.” Namor’s dark eyes were furious, burning in his face as he stepped closer, his empty hand curled into a fist at his side as he gestured with the other. “You are safe here,” he snarled. “What more do you want? I have given you shelter. Clothing. Food. Shall I abduct a dozen Wakandans to keep you company? Shall I pull down your nation to the sea for your sake? What do you want? Answer me!”She could not stop crying. “I wanted the s-sun. I w-wanted the sky.” Namor’s wet chest heaved like a bellows as the sound of her weeping filled the house. “Sun,” he echoed. “Sky.”“I w-wasn’t going back to Wakanda, I would not put my people at risk—”“You offered yourself to me,” he growled, so close Shuri could smell the salt on his skin, feel the heat emanating off him. “Threw yourself at my mercy. I could have killed you in a heartbeat and told your mother the Queen that you yet lived; she would never have known the difference. I was merciful to you. I have given you all the kindness I show my honored few of Talokan, chosen to serve me. You made me believe you had no desire to leave; that you did not know your people were coming to spirit you away. And this is how you repay the mercy you begged of me.” He flung the breather to the floor, never taking his eyes off her. Shuri heard the heavy thunk and clatter as the pieces broke. In her ears, her pulse rang like the echoes inside a conch shell. Prickles broke out on her skin, tight to the point of pain. “You were safe,” he choked out, and then she saw the emotion on his face, something broken and wounded behind the black fury. “Sky and sun are nothing— you were protected here with me. Why would you leave this place? Why—” Namor’s hand came up, curling around her throat, and at the touch on her skin Shuri’s whole body went flush with heat, trembling as she stood still against the wall, the blanket still draped over her shoulders. “Why would you leave me?” he whispered, his voice thick. She could not think, or speak, or move. Her whole world had narrowed to that warm, broad hand on her throat; his skin pressed to hers: horrible thoughts of wet mouths and slick skin clawed their way through her mind like rabid animals. “Please,” was all she could manage to gasp out, her hands locked into place on the blanket, trembling. “Please.” “Why?” he asked again, rough and broken as he used his other hand to tear the blanket off her. Air touched her damp skin, and she shuddered with the chill as Namor caged her against the wall with his body, brought his face very close to hers: the jade plug in his nose brushed her temple. His other hand went searching down, gliding just over her skin until he reached the gusset of her underthings, where he paused, frozen, a quarter of an inch from touching her there. Shuri’s heart leaped into her throat with mingled excitement and horror: was he going to—? “Ah,” breathed Namor, eyes dilated so widely they appeared almost black, and she gave up completely, so desperate for the touch she had been craving for so long that she pushed her hips toward his hand. Namor bared his teeth as he snatched his hand away and pushed her back into the wall, her backside slamming hard into painted stone. “No,” he spat. “That is not what this is. Why did you try to run? Answer me.”“I can’t,” Shuri choked out, humiliated as fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “I can’t answer you— I’m going mad down here with no stars or sun to mark time, I don’t know anything, I am losing my mind and nobody, I don’t, I don’t have, I— I’m—you’re making me touch you all the time and I haven’t been able to, to— with anyone—” He gaped at her as if she had said something sacreligious. “You are going mad. You are going mad? I am the one who has to feel you touching me when you help me put on my sandals, my jewels, my cloak: I stopped coming home so often because your mere presence was tormenting me, you are— you—it’s you.” What? Shuri thought blindly, and then, it clicked into place.
Oh. 
“You,” he said again, trembling, and cupped her face in his hands, enveloping her in warmth: he tilted her face up to his and pressed his mouth to hers, soft, firm, unsure as he pulled away and searched her face. She blinked, stunned: her hands were curled around his wrists. When had she done that? She did not remember. “You,” he breathed, and kissed her again, harder this time: his coarse beard scraped the delicate skin on her chin, her cheeks, her lips: she opened her mouth to protest and he slipped his tongue along her lower lips. Shuri forgot her protest. “You,” Namor growled, and stumbled backward, still gripping her face. The pair of them were locked in an awkward dance: he pushed her against the table, swept the surface clear of all the items on it. Books and shells and dried blocks of ink went clattering and thumping to the floor as he lifted her, pushed her back on the table, slid his hands along her bare waist and up her back.  Oh, oh, oh. His touch was like water to someone dying of thirst, like a meal after a fast, like fire in the cold. Shuri welcomed it, craved it, tears still sliding down her face as he devoured her cheek and jaw and throat and mouth with kisses that were less and less gentle, more and more brutal; punishingly hard half-bites. She did not care: she reveled in every single nip of hard teeth and slide of wet, hot tongue, even the edge of the table digging into her thighs. Both her arms had made their way around his neck, clinging tightly. Namor pulled her hips against his, her open thighs bracketing his pelvis, and she felt a hard, thick lump beneath the still-damp tunic he wore, pressed to her core. He inhaled sharply and pressed his teeth into her cheek with a groan, then yanked her off the table. “Kneel,” he rasped, pushing her down to the thick woven rug on the floor, and Shuri obeyed, her heart rocketing inside her ribcage. She thought for a moment he was going to make her open her mouth to him, but he circled behind her, curled his hands around her knees, pulled them apart. She spread her legs, ignoring the rugburn, and let him push her shoulders down until she was on her elbows. Her mouth had gone dry, but everything else was sopping wet. Shuri thought for a moment she could feel her own heartbeat, pounding between her thighs, an emptiness that wanted something. The thick whap of his heavy cloak hitting the floor met her ears as the moving air generated by it drifted over her legs. Namor’s hands were fumbling with her underwear: he lost patience rapidly and tore them off her as if they had been made of spiderwebs. “If you want the sun,” he choked, sliding thigh to thigh, fitting the thick, blunt, hot tip of him to her, “I will pull it down from the sky for you.”Shuri closed her eyes, moaning as he pushed in, as easily and smoothly as a knife sinking into an overripe fruit. Her body offered no resistance. “And the sky,” she whispered, tears drying on her cheeks. Namor bottomed out against her, a low groan of relief escaping his own throat. “And the sky,” he agreed. “I will— fly to the heavens and steal a piece of it for you. And then—” his hips began to thrust, his skin slapping against hers, obscenely wet sounds filling the hut, “you won’t leave me. You will—keep your promise.”“Yes,” she gasped, clawing at the rug. He moved hard and fast, almost too hard: Shuri was sliding forward on her knees inch by inch as he moved, but it felt so good that she could not bring herself to protest. “Tell me,” Namor groaned, his voice shuddering into wounded, hurt tones. “Tell me why you ran from me. Tell me. Why would you— how could you leave me, after all I have given you?” He sucked down a breath, lifted her hips, sped up his movements. Shuri howled, fists full of the rug as the new angle racked the sensations tearing through her nervous system up exponentially. “Why would you— leave me? They all leave me. Death takes— them all. But you are the only one— who has ever run from me. Why?” he begged. His voice had changed again: choked with emotion, hot drops struck her back. “Shuri of Wakanda, why?”She couldn’t remember why. Everything felt so good, and full, and lush: why had she tried to escape? “I won’t, not ever again,” she whined, spreading her legs wider as she tried to anchor herself in one place on the rug. “I won’t, I won’t, I’ll stay—”A hand, stronger than the earth’s foundations, found her head, tangled in her braids, and the pressure sent scintillating shocks down Shuri’s spine, thrusting her over the edge as she wailed her climax into the warm air of the house, Namor following her over with a vengeance, his ankle-wings wildly flapping, pushing them three feet forward across the floor, toppling them both into a shuddering, panting, sweating tangle of warm limbs. Eventually, he stirred, lifting his forehead from the back of her shoulder. “Attuma thought I was… toying with you,” he said, slow and hoarse. “That time. Do you remember?”“Yes,” whispered Shuri, luxuriating in the sensation of his bare thighs pressed to hers, of his arms heavily draped around her. The room smelled of sex and sweat. He had not removed his tunic, only pulled it aside, but the heat of him still soaked through and into her skin. “He offered to warm your bed. For me. As a favor.”“Oh,” said Shuri, paying closer attention.Namor stirred, putting his forehead back down. “I told him that he had forgotten his place, and that anyone who puts themselves at the mercy of the Feathered Serpent is for me to deal with alone.”She turned her head slightly. “I thought you said he had a gentle heart.”“He does. He admires your self-sacrifice. He is also… very exuberant in war and in love. I did not want your pretty hips broken.” Namor let his hand drift over her hips, his fingers testing the crest of bone beneath skin, and Shuri closed her eyes, relaxing under his touch. “I did not intend to neglect you,” he whispered, softer. “I will find a clock from the surface for your personal use and ensure it is set properly. Will that please you?”“Yes, K’uk’ulkan,” she murmured, and felt his hand tighten in response. Perhaps he is not really so angry with me after all.  “As for the sun, I may be able to make an imitation.” Namor nosed his way into the nape of her neck and pressed a kiss to the knob of her spine. “I miss him, too, when I am below and away from wind and sky. It did not… occur to me that one raised on the surface would take his absence to heart so strongly.”He did not apologize. He never apologized. But Shuri knew what he meant. “It’s all right,” she said softly, eyes still shut. “You know, surface people get Vitamin D from the sun. Without it we… wilt. Become listless and sad. But we can also eat it. More fish. Eggs. Mushrooms.”“Ah. Sun-eaters. A terrifying thing to consider; you powerful surface-people.” A note of soft humor had crept into his voice. “I will find the right food for you, then, and have it brought.”“Thank you, K’uk’ulkan.”  The new sun, forged of vibranium, was not as bright as the real one, but the soft yellow glow imitated it like a sun-lamp. Shuri stood, watching it shine, and uplifted her face to the glow, basking in the faint warmth from the back of Namor’s home. The glowworm larvae, shy of the new light, had faded in brightness, but they would come out again in the twelve hours that were now night inside the cavern, and Namor had kept his word and brought her a digital clock, outmoded by Wakandan standards but cutting-edge for the rest of the world. It told time and date, and he had already worked out how to set it: it ran on a vibranium battery and sat by Shuri’s hammock on a flat-topped rock.  I have been here for three and a half months, she thought, dizzily. It had felt like centuries, and at times, only a few weeks. She had continued her duties as before: sweeping, cleaning, tidying and organizing the troves of things he brought to his home. Serving food, of course, and taking away used plates and dirtied clothing, and assisting the God-king of Talokan in dressing and undressing when he came and when he departed. And there were other duties she was only too glad to fill: duties that took her mind off her worries, that made her forget her fear. That made her feel secure, and cared for, and treasured.
Will you warm my bed for me tonight, Shuri of Wakanda?

Yes, K’uk’ulkan.
Her proficiency in Mayan was improving. Sometimes she was present when the engineers came to tinker with a surface-world machine, and she got to explain to them how to utilize vibranium in a new way they had not considered. They shared their own knowledge with her; they enjoyed it, and Shuri liked speaking with them. She gazed up at the sun as it reddened and faded, imitating sunset and casting long black shadows from the stalactites and stalagmites. It is not so bad here after all.  The red glow faded to dim purple, leaving everything in dark bluish dusk. The tentative glowworms glimmered, one at a time, then five at a time, then dozens, increasing in strength as time went on until the roof of the grotto was spangled in glowing blue stars, pinpricks above her head. Light streamed over her shoulders, golden and warm. Shuri turned her head. Namor was standing in the doorway, the curtain pulled aside, watching her. “Come inside, Princess,” he said softly, extending a hand. She stood. The light inside beckoned her in. Reaching out her hand to his, she took it, and walked in. The curtain closed, leaving only a crack of light streaming across the floor, a hundred feet between it and the sun far above.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Shuri opened her eyes to the soft golden light of the early sun. She was lying on her side in Namor’s hammock, and light was coming through the curtained doorway, illuminating the interior of his house in a fusty sort of dim light. He was not there.

Oh, right,

she thought, sliding out of the hammock and looking for her soft-soled shoes.

He will already have left.

On days when he left Talokan, Namor liked to leave before the sun flickered on: he had told her he liked to see her sleeping face lit in the light of the glowworms when he woke.

Romantic,

she thought, rolling her eyes as she slid her shoes on and brushed off her clothing.

What woman doesn’t dream of being told that her face looks lovely in worm larvae bioluminescence?

Since they had hung the new sun, three months had passed. She had finally learned enough Mayan to understand the gossip being passed from handmaid to handmaid, and had worked out that Wakanda was safe after all, their two nations in a tenuous alliance against America and France. Apparently Ramonda was so afraid Shuri would end up dead that after demanding proof of life, she had agreed to send a War Dog team with a few Talokanil warriors to sabotage a new vibranium machine: the Americans had tracked down Riri’s laptop from her garage and hacked it, stealing the design. Shuri felt oddly… indifferent by now, as if all of that had happened to someone else. A story for others, not a thing that was true. She had not even asked Namor what he had given her mother as proof of life, and he had not volunteered the information.

Mama is alive, and nothing else matters.

But every night, it was still the same.

I have decided not to take your life today.

Yes, K’uk’ulkan.

It would be summer over her head. Hot sunlight, insects, green trees, blue ocean. She swept the little island, rethreaded a sandal, and had a conversation with one of the Talokanil engineers about the colors of the vibranium sun. By then it was time for the noon meal, and she and the other staff all gathered in the main cavern, eating and chatting with each other. Fresh, hot tortillas, cups of chocolate, corn, squash— then back to work, where Shuri set herself to cleaning up the house. It needed a good airing: the whole inside smelled musty.

Not that I’d know why,

she thought, half-smiling as she swept the floors out, fanned the stale air out the door, hung the rugs from the stelae, beat them with a stick to whack the dust out.

Halfway through that task, she caught a glimpse of blue to her right, and stepped back to see Attuma, shaking water from his clothes. He was not wearing what she thought of as his

uniform

, as in a uniform worn for war— the heavy loincloth and shark-skull, the bones and the spiked gauntlets and pauldrons. Instead, he wore only a knee-length wrap around his thighs, patterned brightly in green and black. He was… very large. She wasn’t afraid of him much anymore—

much—

but hiding behind the rug, Shuri could really take all of him in: the smooth blue chest, the shark-tooth scars on his belly, his broad chest and huge shoulders, his biceps like cannonballs, his thick calves four times the width of her own.

As Shuri watched, motionless, Attuma squatted, unrolled a dry shirt, and stood again, pulling it over his head. His thighs had to be twice as big around as her waist.

What does he even eat? Whale steaks?

She shifted her weight and stone clinked off her shoe, striking stone. The man straightened immediately and turned toward the rug, eyes narrowed over his jade-inlaid breathing mask.

“Ba’ax—?”

“It’s me,” she whispered, slipping out and raising her hands nervously. “Sorry.”

He relaxed and nodded.

“Ba’ax ka beetik?”

he asked curiously, gesturing at the rugs.

“Oh. Um—

táan in chan—”

How was she supposed to say

beating the rug

in Mayan? Shuri picked up the stick and whacked the rug, pointing at the dust that flew off it. “That,” she said. “Cleaning. You know.”

Attuma nodded, crossing his arms.

“Haa’,”

he said, and if Shuri didn’t know better, she would have thought he was trying to look casual. His eyes darted over her briefly.

“Bix yanikech, Xuri?”

She knew that one, too.

“Ma’alob,”

she answered.

How are you? I’m good.

His tunic had ridden up on his left shoulder, a deep fold making the sleeve too short on that side, and she smiled a little, pointing. “Your— ah. Sleeve. The—” Attuma looked down, confused, and Shuri shook her head, reaching out to fix it. “Here,” she said, tugging down the fold of fabric and smoothing it out. “There. Okay?”

He chuckled, a bubbling warm sound in the mask. The lines around his dark eyes creased softly. “Okay,” he echoed. Shuri’s hands lingered briefly on the warm skin beneath the dry fabric, then suddenly felt as if she was standing on the wrong foot: hadn’t Namor mentioned that Attuma had taken an interest in her? She swallowed and backed up a step. He blinked briefly, then looked away, smoothing down his tunic, fiddling with the embroidered hem. Was he embarrassed? She felt heat flush her face and took another step back, picking up her stick and thwacking the rug again, hoping if she hit it hard enough it would make him go away.

Instead, he came closer, a string of quick, musical syllables burbling from behind the mask as he pointed to her feet. Shuri froze, her breath coming shorter as he guided her wrist lower, nudged her feet apart with his own, and patted her knee, showing her to bend a little.

“Nak’,”

he said, tapping her belly and nodding when she tensed it.

“Haa’.”

Then, Attuma stepped away and nodded, and Shuri tightened her core as she swung with her thighs and abdominals, not her arms. Her eyes widened as the stick knocked a cloud of dust out of the rug with a much heavier thwack than she had been expecting.

“Oh,” she said, glancing back at him and inclining her head respectfully. “Thank you.”

He nodded back at her and walked off toward the kitchens, picking his way nimbly among the stalactites for such a big man. She watched him for a moment, then got back to work. 
   
Namor came back long after the glowworms had started glimmering. Shuri and one of the other handmaids— her name was Ixchel— had already put a meal on the table in anticipation of his arrival and laid out fresh clothes for him, but they had not been prepared for his arrival or his appearance: several ragged gouges scored his right cheek and lip, and he had dark circles under his eyes.

To Shuri’s surprise, when she told Ixchel in halting, slow Mayan to bring vibranium and a set of wiring-plates and kelp-fibers, the girl obeyed without question, saluting her quickly in the Talokanil fashion, with her hands open. Shuri did not have time to think about that, though, as Namor sank into his seat, breathing heavily. “What caused this?” she asked, brushing his jaw with her fingers.

“Leave it,” he answered, wiping his cheek free of blood and grimacing. “Ah. Another machine has been stopped. French. This time… the drilling bit caught my face as I destroyed it.”

“Is anyone else hurt?”

“No. I ensured that.” His eyes were fathomless as the depths of the sea. “I sent Attuma back. Namora assisted me. And fended off several curious sharks on the way back.” Namor tried to smile, but winced as the effort tugged at his torn skin.

“I can heal it,” said Shuri, turning as Ixchel hurried in with her toolbox. She had been allowed after two months of good behavior to start putting together a toolkit, under supervision from the engineers, and she felt confident that her project on making a single Kimoyo bead from scratch would work. “Thank you,” she said to Ixchel, and the girl smiled and withdrew.

A kelp fiber loop to power it— there were no nanoparticulate machines here, but the idea was the same, if a bit cruder than usual. After all, what was a motherboard on a computer, really, but minerals and rocks with lightning coursing through it? One polished lump of blue vibranium, programmed with kelp fiber-optics and salvaged copper and gold: Shuri watched, delighted, as a flickering circle of light appeared on the top of the rough bead. “I need your DNA,” she said softly. “Your hair, preferably.” Namor ran a hand through his wet hair and laid a strand on the circle. It sizzled, the crude bead glowing blue, and Shuri bit her lip. “This… is going to be painful,” she said apologetically.

“Do it,” he said after a moment, his chest heaving as blood dripped from his jaw to the floor. Shuri nodded and pressed the bead to his cheekbone, and blue veins glowed beneath the skin of Namor’s face as he went rigid, his jaw clenched, sweat breaking out on his lip and forehead— but his skin was knitting back together, the bleeding staunched.

I really am a genius.

Shuri held it there, trying to ignore his gasps and whimpers of pain, until the healing was completed, the bead’s cobalt glow quieted once more. “All done,” she said softly.

Namor was gray around the mouth, his breath coming in thin gasps. “It feels as if my face has melted off,” he ground out.

“That’s just your nervous system going into override. Your body will signal pain until your brain catches up to the fact that you are fine. We have a fix for that in Wakanda, but…”

He reached up with a shaking hand, touching his cheek, and his eyes nearly bugged out of his head when he touched nothing but smooth skin. “What,” he said flatly, pressing, feeling, rubbing. “

What—

this is—incredible.”

Shuri, feeling very pleased with herself, set the bead down carefully on his table. “I could refine it and make it a less painful experience if I was given access to more equipment,” she prompted.

“I would take any pain in the world if it meant instant healing of a wound such as this,” Namor said, shaking his head, still incredulous. “You have done well. I thank you.”

Eh, worth a shot.

“Well, I have to keep you alive, or I wouldn’t have a place to stay,” she joked, sliding the woven platter of food over to him. “Eat something.”

Namor dug into the warm flatbread and spiced squash. “I have half a mind to give you a reward,” he said, glancing up at her.

Oh? She lifted her chin. “For what?”

He did not answer until he had finished his meal, and then he sat back and looked at her, a faint smile playing around his beard. “Good behavior,” he said. “You have not attempted to leave in months. You do your duties well. And you have just done in moments what should have taken weeks… even if you were playing with Attuma.” Dark eyes creased at the corners.

Her cheeks flamed.

Playing with Attuma?

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, yes, you do. He’s very loyal; he informed me immediately that you were glad of some help with cleaning in here, and that he might have… taken liberties with you when he was helping you beat the rugs.”

“He didn’t do anything. He— I— he—” Why was she so trembly all over? “He showed me how to swing from my core. That was all.”

“No doubt. So. You both, I think, deserve a reward: you for being so good, and he for his honesty.” Namor pushed up out of his seat and curled a finger under her chin, lifting it so that she looked into his eyes. “I will not let my children know pain or fear. I want all of them to be happy. Will this please you, Shuri of Wakanda?”

I don’t even know what he’s thinking. What he’s going to have Attuma do to me. I don’t know what he—

“Yes,” she found herself saying, incomprehensibly. “Yes, K’uk’ulkan.”
  
At Namor’s direction, she had eaten a light meal, then changed into a simple white and brown patterned dress of filmy linen that brushed her ankles and left her shoulders and throat bare. Shuri then sat on the floor, hands in her lap as she tried to keep her heart rate down. Her throat had gone as dry as dust, her belly tight and nervous.

Was she excited, or frightened? What was the difference, really?

Namor entered the door and gave her an approving nod, then stood aside. Whatever relief she had felt at his entrance went out the door when Attuma, who had to stoop a little to get into the house, came inside. He wore the same clothing he had changed into that morning: embroidered tunic and knotted cloth around his waist, and he was barefoot. His dark eyes moved over Shuri quickly, taking her in, and he lifted his hand, saying something she could not understand. “What?” she squeaked.

Namor chuckled. “He says,

‘Do not be afraid’

,” he said, and crossed to his seat, leaning back, knees apart as if he had all the time in the world. Then, Shuri understood: he was going to stay in the room the whole time. Heat flooded her body.

He’s going to watch us?

She did not know if that relieved her or worried her. Attuma didn’t seem to care either way: his eyes were fixed on Shuri. Namor said something in Mayan, and Attuma nodded, seeming a little hesitant. “I have told him not to be too eager. You are fragile, after all.”

Shuri moistened her lips nervously as Attuma drew closer. He was even bigger up close. She could have sworn his shoulder-breadth was as wide as one of her arms was long. Softly, he said something, then knelt down, making himself smaller, hunching his shoulders.

“

‘I won’t harm you,

’” Namor translated.

“I didn’t think you would,” Shuri whispered, and Namor relayed that back in Mayan as Attuma’s eyes creased: he was smiling behind his mask. One enormous blue hand reached for her face, astonishingly gentle for its size as he cradled her cheek, moved her thumb across her lips. He said something considerably longer, eyes searching hers.

“He says, it is a shame he cannot go without water for so long, and must have his mouth covered,” said Namor, his voice dropping into a throaty hum.

“Oh,” said Shuri, flustered. She reached up, awkward, and pressed her palm to the back of his hand: her hand felt so ridiculously small on his that she had to smile. “How— I never asked how old you are.”

“He is thirty-eight,” Namor murmured, shifting his weight before he said something in Mayan to Attuma, who nodded softly and moved his hand down over Shuri’s throat, his calloused palm and fingers rough on her skin. “I have told him to—”

“Touch me,” finished Shuri, shivering. Attuma’s hands were much larger than Namor’s, but no less or more strong. He circled her upper arm with his thumb and forefinger, chuckling a little, and slid his hand down to her wrist, shaking his head as he compared their sizes. Shuri had to smile: he looked so exasperated as he picked up her other wrist and showed her that he could hold both easily in one hand. “Very funny,” she said.

“Haa’,”

whispered Namor from off to the left, and Attuma’s eyes darkened, softened; he gently pushed Shuri backward and pinned her wrists down over her head, his knees planted on either side of her hips as he used his free hand to tug the hem of her skirt up. There were several layers; he raised his eyebrows and huffed into his mask in mock exasperation as she giggled, then finally uncovered her thighs and what lay between them.

“Eya!”

he exclaimed, running his fingers across the coarse, crisp hair between her thighs.

Shuri spluttered. She had noticed the Talokanil tendency to have less body hair. “It’s not like I had time to shave—”

Namor gave another low, throaty command in Mayan, and Attuma slid his free hand from her knee up the inside of her thigh, then did the same to the other. Shuri bit her lip: it felt tickly and warm and pleasant. Then, a single large finger was tentatively rubbing at her. It felt nice, but nothing like it did when she had the rare opportunity to touch herself. Namor must have noticed: he gave a few short orders and Attuma changed the way he was moving: blunt pressure, quick short pushes, slightly to the right. Shuri screwed her face up and shallowly panted her way to her first orgasm, which spread out in a pleasant glow over her body as Attuma released her wrists, both hands bracketing her hips.

Namor said something low and even, then, and she understood him:

don’t break my princess.

She raised her head to look: his green

eex

were shoved down around his knees, his hand working at his cock as he watched them. Hot shame mingled with arousal flooded her in the wake of her dopamine levels receding— but Attuma didn’t care, and she had already seen Namor naked a dozen times, so why did it matter? Besides that, perhaps there was a scientific interest in the whole thing. How long would this take? Would Attuma look different down there than other men?

Attuma gently situated her on the ground, then unknotted his waist-cloth, slipping it aside. The answer to that last scientific question seemed to be

not really, just bluer.

And, of course, bigger. Much bigger. Shuri felt apprehension seize her breath a little as he took off his tunic. “It’s— it won’t fit,” she whispered, her voice breaking.

“It will,” said Namor thinly.

“He’s too big.”

“Trust me.” Attuma had paused, hesitant, looking from her to Namor. “Ah. I see the problem, I think. Stay where you are.” Shuri raised herself on her elbows, watching as Namor stood and crossed to them, knelt down by Attuma, and licked a broad, wet stripe up her thighs, lavishing her with wet, messy kisses, the rough hair of his beard scraping her. Shuri moaned, arching her back and blind to anything else but that hot, wet pressure moving between her thighs— then Namor’s mouth was gone, and Attuma was lifting her knees, pressing himself to her. It took a moment, even as wet as she was, but he slipped in with a burbling moan, then slid further in, bit by bit: it seemed he was determined to follow Namor’s instructions to the letter.

Bast, but it felt as if the very air was being pushed out of Shuri’s lungs by that cock of his. “Too big,” she gasped helplessly as he slid himself home, shuddering. “Too—

oh—”

and Attuma had bottomed out, blue hips flush against her dark brown ones, his chest heaving in the low light.

Namor reached for him, placed a hand on his shoulder, and started to speak softly, indicating Shuri. She shut her eyes, trembling as she fought a hiccup. Attuma nodded and gently canted his hips back and forth in short, shallow thrusts, and her eyes flew right back open as a shriek escaped her throat.

That

felt— indescribable, far too much and yet not enough at all, every inch of him crammed into her, filling her, touching her. She could still hear Namor, coaching in half-whispered Mayan that she could understand, her heart pounding like a drumbeat against her ribs.

Now, go slowly. Evenly. Do not quicken your pace, my cousin. Yes, like that. Listen. Her breath is coming torn, ah-ah-ah. Do you hear it? She is close. Stay your pace.

Attuma bent his head, groaning: a fall of loose dark hair brushed over his shoulders like a curtain.

“K’uk’ulkan,”

he begged.

“Meent’ uts…”

“Ma’,”

hissed Namor, curling his hand around the man’s throat. Shuri strangled back a cry as Attuma’s eyes fluttered, his hips never missing a beat in their punishing rhythm, and then she came, shuddering apart under him as Namor’s eyes drank in every moment. “Good,” he whispered, when she had come back to herself. Attuma, incredibly, was still moving, moaning as he jerked his hips into her. Namor hissed something, and he responded, every tendon on his neck standing out. “I have asked, how does it feel to take a woman who has reached her completion twice while he has not? He tells me he has no words to say how good it is.”

“You’re making him hold himself back,” she whispered, reaching up to touch Attuma’s scarred stomach. He shuddered under her touch.

“Meent’ uts,”

he moaned, garbled through the water over his nose and mouth.

Namor’s eyes were as black as the depths of the sea. “I am his god. I command, and he obeys. If I told him to take himself from you right now and spend his seed into the pool outside, he would do it.”

“Well, unless you can command me to be less tender down there, maybe he should finish soon,” she whispered, throwing her head back and groaning as Attuma’s cock pushed aside bruised and puffy flesh with every thrust. “Ow.”

“I—” Namor cut himself off and said something in sharp Mayan to Attuma, and the man jerked out of Shuri, one blue fist pumping at his cock, before he cut himself off with a low, agonized sound, squeezing as a few weak droplets of come leaked from the dark pink tip. Shuri sat up, feeling puffy and well-used, but Namor was there before she could so much as breathe. He crowded her down to the floor, caging her in with his arms, and kissed her deeply on the mouth, his tongue slipping along her lips while Attuma’s labored breathing filled the room, a complement to their gasps and moans. “Does it hurt very much?” he whispered between kisses. “Was he too big? Shall I take you instead?” Shuri reached up to touch him, bit softly at his lip as he pushed his face against hers. The jade in his nose was cool and hard, grounding her a moment.

I cannot believe this is happening to me.

Namor’s hand had made it down between her thighs, pushing aside filmy linen as he cupped her there. She hissed softly, everything tender. “So hot,” he whispered against her mouth, his teeth catching her lip. “Hot and swollen like ripe fruit. I think we will show mercy on you for a little while.”

“For a—” Shuri tilted her head back as he went for her throat, licking and kissing. Sweat was beading on her forehead. Namor said something to Attuma, and then she was being moved, lifted to be placed gently on Namor’s seat, her legs spread as the God-king of Talokan knelt, nudging her knees open and pushing his head between her long, slim thighs. She knew he liked doing this, but her heart skipped a beat as Attuma stood behind her, carefully raising her arms to pin them against his chest with one hand, the other gliding down to untie her dress at the arms. She moaned as Namor settled in with soft, kitten-laps at her oversensitive skin, and made another very undignified sound as Attuma’s fingers found her nipples, pinched gently, squeezed and caressed her breasts. His hands were so big that, spread out, his thumb touched one nipple and his pinky touched the other. She leaned back into him, grateful for his strength: she could go limp against Attuma and never touch the ground. Namor’s hands curled around her upper thighs, warm brown; Attuma’s hand caressed her chest, sky-blue, and in the middle, her white and brown dress tangled in a heap around her waist. Shuri choked out a third orgasm unexpectedly, groaning and bearing against Namor’s mouth, and when he lifted his face, slick-wet and shining, Attuma whispered something in Mayan almost worshipfully.

Namor answered, eyes flicking to Shuri. “He begs the gift of release from K’uk’ulkan, but I told him he should beg such a boon from you instead.” Shuri turned, heart pounding, and pressed her cheek to Attuma’s upper stomach as his breath came in shallow gasps, his hips canting against her back.

“Attuma,” she whispered, and his eyes snapped to her at once. “Let go of my hands.” Namor translated, his head in her lap, and the other man released her immediately, frozen as she fumbled for his cock, tried to bend down far enough to get it into her mouth— the angle was wrong. She was sitting too high. “I—it won’t—”

Namor picked her up and swept everything off the table, laying her down flat with an almost feverish expression on his face as Attuma circled to the head, patting her cheek and bringing himself around:

now

it was the right height, and Shuri, who could barely close her hand around him, turned her face and pulled the tip of him into her mouth, her hand making up for what her mouth could not hold.

I’ve done it once or twice to Namor, how hard can it be?

Between her thighs, Namor let out a sound like he’d been mortally wounded, and she felt him working between her thighs, his breath coming in gusts. Above her, Attuma was frozen, his hips fluttering in little half-aborted jerks and his hands braced on the table on either side of her head. He tasted of sea-salt, of clean skin: the sparse hair grazing her fist was softer than Namor’s, even if he was almost a foot taller. “Mmm,” she hummed, inhaling through her nose in short gasps when she could, and Attuma echoed the noise, his right hand cupping her cheek softly as she hollowed them, trying her best. Her braids were pressing into the table, cushioning her head from the hard carved surface.

Namor sank in between her legs, railing himself home. Shuri groaned, the sensation almost too much to bear, and Attuma leaned forward over the table towards him, choking out something she could not understand. She couldn’t see either of them from her position, but she heard Namor murmur something softly, heard Attuma groan, and felt his hips shudder against her face as sounds like a man drowning burbled out of his breathing-mask. Surprisingly warm bursts of come flooded her tongue, and she choked momentarily, gulped, gagged, and tore her face away, gasping for air as Attuma painted the side of her cheek and her chin with come, groaning and sweating, his free hand pinning her shoulder down.

Not in my hair,

she thought, dazed, and then Namor had pulled out of her, working himself with his hand while his other one worked at her. Shuri screwed her face up and wailed as a fourth orgasm tore out of her, weak and colorless, her nervous system finally clocking out— Namor’s mouth dropped open in an airless cry as he came across her thighs and belly, his fist milking himself for all he was worth, and then Shuri floated off drowsily in a fugue, not much caring what happened after that.

Someone lifted her, moved her to the floor: someone wiped her face and legs clean, someone pressed a cold cloth between her thighs and left it there. Shuri stirred after what felt like years and took in her surroundings: Attuma lay dozing on his back in front of her with one hand resting on his belly, the other thrown over his head, black hair spread out beneath his head like a pool of ink, and Namor was behind her, one arm curled around her waist as he napped.

“Attuma,” she whispered, blinking.

The larger man opened his eyes, finding her, and half-smiled behind his breather.

“Xuri,”

he answered, and brushed a stray curl off her forehead before tapping his chest and saying something that sounded like his name, but couched on either end with a lot of Mayan she couldn’t quite get.

“What?” she asked, raising her head.

“He wants you to know his name,” Namor mumbled, nosing his way into the back of her neck.

“Attuma

is a… nickname. His true name is

Ts’uul Jaat’ujma’,

or just

Jaat’ujma’,

if you like.”

“Ts’uul Jaat’ujma’,”

Shuri repeated, and watched as Attuma’s eyes creased with a smile. “What does it mean?”

“The Lord Who Cannot Break the Moon,”  said Namor. “I named him so when he was twenty years of age. He needed a reminder that despite his great prowess in battle, there are some things that even he cannot conquer to himself.” His arm tightened around Shuri, and Attuma chuckled, apparently getting the gist of what his king was saying.

“Does Namora have a true name, too?” asked Shuri, intrigued.

“Namora is not abed with us,” said Namor dryly.

Shuri put her head back down. “I was just curious.”

“Of course you were. Yes. She does.

Na’mojlaj.

She was a little mother in the court when I took her to be trained as a warrior. Bossing the others around like a woman of fifty years, though she was only five. One night, in dry-air training, an older boy had had enough and put coals from the kitchen below her hammock. He intended, no doubt, to singe her, but it lit a smaller child’s hammock in flames. Namora jumped forward and slapped them out barehanded, and what was more, she dealt the boy a blow so hard he could not hear from his right ear for a month.” Attuma tapped his chest and said something rueful in Mayan. Namor chuckled and replied in the same tongue.

Shuri jerked her head back up. “Eh, the boy was

you!”

she exclaimed, shocked as Attuma laughed, nodding.

“He behaved far better after that. But that was how she was named. The Mother Who Slaps at Hot Coals. Fearless to protect those she loves, even at risk to her own body.” Namor pressed a soft kiss to the back of Shuri’s shoulder. “Shuri of Wakanda,” he said drowsily.

“Hmm?”

“I have decided not to take your life today.”

She hid a smile. “Thank you, K’uk’ulkan.”

“Mm. Go to sleep.”

Attuma scooted closer, bringing a woven blanket up over Shuri, and she gratefully tucked it around all three of them, cocooned in warmth and safety as she fell asleep in the dim, eternal light of the cave outside.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“I have a surprise for you,” said Namor to Shuri as she was busy tinkering with a collection of computer parts salvaged from some wreck, sketching out blueprints with a pencil and chalk on a waxed piece of paper. He had emerged moments before from the pool that led to the cenote, his hair and clothing dripping, and he wore a tight expression. “Yes, K’uk’ulkan?” Shuri asked, setting her things down. The last time he had given her a surprise, it had been a load of highly reactive chemicals nabbed from some American naval vessel that she had managed to turn into underwater fireworks. The Talokanil engineers had been delighted, and Namora had related to her that everyone had been thrilled with the display of color and light. “Your mother the Queen is insisting that she see you with her own two eyes,” he said, raking a brown hand through his pitch-dark, sopping hair as he climbed the steps and blinked water from his eyes. “My reassurances have run dry. Apparently, she thinks I am mistreating you. Imagine.” Shuri tried to tamp down the excitement that bubbled up in her chest and twisted in her belly at the thought of seeing her mother again. “But I've only just worked out designs for Kimoyo beads for Talokan. You’re— really taking me to see Mama?”“Yes. In about an hour. You must change; you can’t go up and see her wearing that.” He gestured at what was now her work-dress, stained with old motor oil and grease and soot. “Namora will help you.”Shuri’s hands were trembling. I’m going to see Mama! I’m going to— I’m— But she knew she could not make a break for it, she would never be able to leave for fear of the wider repercussions. Oh, Mama. How would she be able to see her, speak to her, and then come back down here into the dark? “I…” Her torn emotions must have shown on her face, because Namor stepped close, bringing his hand up to cup the back of her neck and pressing his brow to hers. “You will have to be strong,” he murmured, his eyes half shut. “Can you be strong for me?”“I’ll try,” she whispered. He understands. He must. He lost his mother once, too.  “Good. That will make me very happy.” His breath was warm, ghosting along her cheek. “And if you behave yourself… you may receive a reward.”She shut her eyes, partly reveling in the sensation of excited arousal that peaked in her gut at his words, and partly hating herself for it. After the last present she had received, she had been sore for a day and a half, and Namor had been as gentle with her as glass, hardly daring to touch her. That had been weeks ago, and she had not been asked to warm his bed since. Even the touch of his hand on the nape of her neck was a welcome thing. To be touched, to be fussed over— it was a language that did not need words, that Shuri had been illiterate in before she had come here. How could I throw all this away?  “Yes, K’uk’ulkan,” she whispered, and he smiled.  Namora clearly knew what she was about: Shuri’s hair was taken out of its braids, washed, and styled, then set with some sort of waxlike, waterproof material that misted and clung to every hair. Like cosmetic setting spray, but for hair. Shuri briefly wondered what it was made of. After her hair was finished, Namora handed her the white, caped gown she had been presented with when she had first come to Talokan with Riri. It seemed years ago that she had worn it last. On went the gown, and on went the jade and coral jewelry that went with it: vambraces, the elaborate collar with its heavy loops that draped her chest and shoulders, the ear flares. His mother’s bracelet had never left her wrist, not in all the time that she had owned it. She left it where it was, and nervously smoothed down her skirt as Namora eyed her and nodded approvingly. “Pretty,” she said, English made indistinct and garbly by the breather-mask.“Thank you,” answered Shuri. Namora had picked up on a few phrases fairly quickly once Shuri had learned enough Mayan to work on it with her, unafraid to make mistakes. Attuma, on the other hand, had become shy around Shuri. Their few awkward interactions had consisted of him awkwardly ducking his head and mumbling okay and yes and no before ducking back into the sea, lost to the depths. Shuri switched to Mayan. “Do we go... now, to K’uk’ulkan?”Namora nodded, answering in the same language. “Yes, Shuri of Wakanda. Come with me.” The other woman was in something like a half-uniform, her hair tied high and some of her armored pieces on, but wearing a split skirt dappled like sealskin and a blouse that was half-netted around her shoulders. Shuri followed her back to the main cavern, heart thudding tightly as Namor turned to greet them by the water's edge.Whatever his reservations were about taking Shuri to the surface, he certainly looked the part of a king going to meet a queen. He wore his long white cloak, his gold pauldrons and pearls, his collar and vambraces, his belt: everything dripped with vibranium and gold and jade. A smile spread across his face as he watched her. “Princess,” he said softly, inclining his head toward Shuri. Without moving his eyes from her face, he spoke to Namora, and the woman produced an extra breather-mask for Shuri. “You will be given this temporarily. I… strongly urge you not to think of trying anything foolish.” Namor cocked his head softly to the side. “I would hate to have to drag you back home a third time.”Shuri swallowed. “You won’t,” she whispered, taking the mask and pressing it to her face. Oxygen filtered in, pure and clear, and she breathed in softly. “Good. Let us go.”  The dive out of the cenote was long and cold and dark, with Namora on her left and Namor on her right, but once they had come up in the Yucatan peninsula, in the heart of the trees, Shuri realized her eyes had become so accustomed to the dim light of the caves that the real sun, even on its way to the horizon, was almost too bright to even look at. She winced and screened her eyes from the sky, and Namor took her under his arm, letting her turn her face away from the oppressive sun and into the folds of his cloak. “Your eyes will adjust,” he promised, and gave an order to Namora that Shuri was pretty sure meant go ahead to the sea before wrapping his arm around her and lifting off, carrying her easily as she clung to him. “We will go faster like this.”Having nothing below her feet was even more disorienting than the bright light. “Ehh it’s too high! Too—” Shuri squealed as a startled gull wheeled away from them, and Namor laughed outright, shifting her into both his arms.“You’ll scare the birds from the sky, princess. Be calm. I will not let anything happen to you. It’s like swimming, yes?”“Swimming?” He’s crazy. Oh, Bast.  “I always thought it was. Look. I move in the air as I do in the sea.” He drifted easily back and forth, putting out his feet to bank and turn as his wings hummed. “But better for you, because you can breathe up here. Yes?”“I suppose so,” Shuri whispered, her arm digging into the hard edge of his pauldrons. It really was a little like swimming: just less kicking. Maybe he wasn’t crazy. “Okay.” And he was right; her eyes were adjusting, just slowly. She could make out the canopy of the trees below their feet, and the blue, clear expanse of the ocean in front of them. The Gulf of Mexico.  “Where are we landing?” she asked, latched onto his neck.Namor dipped lower, let their feet brush the leaves as they descended to the beach. Namora was waiting for them there. “We are going back to the sea,” he said, smiling. “Don’t worry. We will have you where we need to soon enough.”  Two hours later, Shuri staggered up out of the cold, grey waters of the Atlantic, dripping and shivering as she slogged ashore with Namora, who did not even seem tired. This is so embarrassing. I didn’t even have to swim, and here I am barely able to walk. The ocean currents had been incredibly strong, and Namor had held her tightly: she had still had to brace herself against the pressure, and her muscles were exhausted from the effort. Behind her, Namor walked up ashore behind her as easily as if he was on a stroll after having a nap. “They are waiting around that rock,” he said, pointing a dripping finger toward an outcropping. Shuri’s teeth were chattering. The white fabric of her dress was plastered to her body in the biting wind, soaked through and clinging. “Come on,” he said, taking her gently by the arm. “I’m freezing,” she gasped, hunching over and hugging herself as she splashed up onto sand. “Where are we?” The imposing shoreline rose into high cliffs, green and rocky: the sky was a gunmetal gray in the dusk.“The Azores. Walk.” His hand was gentle, yes, but firm, too. “Come along, princess. Let us prove to your mother I have not maimed you.”She walked, gingerly legging her way among stones and cold sand. Namora was at her side the whole way, one hand lifted as if to help her if she stumbled, but Shuri kept her eyes fixed on the rock. She’s there. Just there. I have to keep walking. I have to. They rounded the rock, and Shuri froze in her stride, a sob rising in her throat as she caught sight of her mother, all in cream and silver: Ramonda’s familiar silhouette could be seen from a thousand feet away, that elegantly curved headdress, the flowing gown, the regal bearing. “Mama,” she gasped, and her mother saw her, had seen her, had started running forward over rocks and sand as gulls lifted off, beating their wings against air. “Mama!”  “Patience,” said Namor softly, just behind her. “Just walk. We will reach them soon enough. There is no hurry.”Shuri’s sight blurred with tears as she forced herself to walk slowly, made it to the little rocky cove nestled in the crook of the cliff and the sky and the water. Her mother stood there with Nakia, looking stricken and relieved at the same time, and Okoye, every inch of gold on her Dora Milaje uniform polished to a high shine— but spearless. Shuri wondered if Namor had insisted on no weapons. Likely enough. When they had reached a span of twenty feet’s distance from the other party, they halted, Namor catching Shuri’s arm gently. “Shuri,” whispered Ramonda, pain and joy and relief and heartbreak written clearly on her high-boned, beautiful face. “Oh, my Shuri.”“Mama,” whispered Shuri, choked up with tears. She had never seen her mother look so small and yet so real before. “Is Wakanda safe?”“Yes, Shuri. We are safe. You are all right? You are not hurt?”“No, I’m not hurt.”Nakia’s eyes went from her to Namor. “You have not been treated badly?” she asked, wary and unsure.“No thanks to you, Nakia of the War Dogs,” said Namor tightly.“Peace,” said Ramonda, her voice thin. “Shuri may answer for herself.”“I’ve not been harmed,” said Shuri, more strongly this time. “I’ve given myself over in service to Talokan to replace the handmaid killed in the attempt to rescue me. Is Riri—?”“She is alive, she is safe in Wakanda,” said Nakia hastily. “That’s good,” said Shuri quickly. “Will you tell her I— I am sorry she had to leave by herself? She must have been terrified.”“Of course I will,” promised Nakia, trying to smile. “You look stronger.”“I told you, I’m fine,” said Shuri, trying to keep her eyes off her mother’s anguished face. She could not look away forever, though, and finally found herself turning to Ramonda, whose face was crumpling into tears already. “Mama, don’t,” she whispered, tears prickling at her eyes. “I’m okay. They’re feeding me, they’re taking care of me. I’m learning their language. Nobody is hurting me.”Overcome with emotion, Ramonda did not speak for a moment, tears streaming down her cheeks as she turned toward Namor. “If you lay a finger on my daughter—”“The princess is safe in my care,” said Namor quietly, his eyes meeting Ramonda’s. For a moment, Shuri could almost feel it like a tangible thing, like a thin cord that connected the two of them: Queen of Wakanda, King of Talokan. “Do not offend me by suggesting otherwise.”“Offend you,” said Ramonda, shaking her head in trembling incredulity. “You have my daughter captive . Offend you!”“Mama, don’t,” said Shuri sharply, drawing her mother’s stare back to her. “Please. Don’t make this worse. Namor has done much for me. He treats me—” she had meant to say honorably, but that, perhaps, was not quite the right adverb. “Gently,” Shuri finished, halting. “And he will not let me be harmed. I promise you that.”Something flashed in Nakia’s eyes, and she turned to Okoye, who tilted her head ever so slightly, one eyebrow raised. “He has not told you of the war, has he?” she asked.Shuri blinked. “What war?”“The only war. The war against the surface world,” said Namor coldly. “And Wakanda is graciously helping Talokan in this regard.”Ramonda’s earrings were vibrating. “Because you have my daughter hostage—” “Mama, please—”“A few ships here and there, what is the problem?” asked Namor, sounding almost bored. “It is not a true war. Talokan has suffered no casualties. Neither has Wakanda, as I might remind you, due to our protection.”Okoye lowered her head briefly, swallowing. “He is right, my Queen,” she whispered. Baffled, Shuri looked at the beach instead of her mother’s anguished face. So it was escalating to a war. Talokan will need shields, she thought numbly. “Then I will do my duty to assist both Wakanda and Talokan in their efforts against people who would do us both harm, and who do not discriminate between our people,” she said firmly.It was as if the air had gone out of Ramonda. She wilted, slightly, and suddenly seemed far older than she was. “Yes,” she said softly. “Thank you, my daughter.”“I might remind Namor that America possesses nuclear bombs. I highly doubt he wishes to see his nation fall prey to one of them.” Nakia’s mouth was a firm, tight line. “Your doubt is well-founded. I do not. Fortunately, I have one of Wakanda’s brightest minds with me in Talokan now. I am sure we will find a way to prevent this. Thank you.” Namor smiled at Nakia, who looked infuriated, but went silent. Then he turned to Okoye, who stiffened her back. “Okoye of the Dora Milaje. I bring a message from Attuma, the general of my armies. You will recall him well, I have no doubt. He wishes to say that while he desires another bout with your honorable person, to prove who is the better warrior, the princess will suffice as a… sparring partner.” The smile turned to a sly grin, and the reaction from all three women was remarkable: Ramonda looked horrified, Okoye froze where she stood, and Nakia’s hand went to her belt as if to draw a knife that wasn't there. “I have done what I came to do. Namora.” He switched to Mayan. “Let us return home. Our purpose is done.”“Yes, K’uk’ulkan,” she said, saluting with a bow, and stepped up to Shuri, her blue hand curling gently around her arm. “Come, Shuri,” Namora entreated in English. “Home.”Shuri took one more look at her mother. “Ndiyakuthanda,” she whispered before she put the breathing apparatus back on, I love you, and Ramonda managed a trembling smile before Shuri turned away, closing her eyes. She felt the bite of the wind once more before Namor took her other hand and they all dived into the sea.  They let her cry for a little while. Mostly on the way back, which took several hours, but also back in the underwater cave, where Shuri was left to sob her eyes out in Namor’s hammock, her nice dress tossed over the table and her borrowed finery scattered on the floor. It was not Namora, or even Namor, who came to comfort her: it was Attuma, of all people, who crept in and tidied the place, tiptoed around the scattered jade, picked it up, set a meal on the table, and sat on the floor, waiting. Shuri finally sat up and wiped her nose, her eyes swollen, and slid out of the hammock, nibbling dully at the warm flatbread. It was fresh from the oven, but she had no appetite. “Thanks anyway,” she muttered, sniffling.He tucked a loose lock of hair behind his ear and sighed, a bubbly noise as he rested his elbows on his thighs. “Okay?” he asked, eyes dark and worried as he gazed up at her.Shuri did not know how to answer him. She sat on Namor’s stool and put her head in her hands, feeling the tears start again. Attuma exclaimed something, got up, and left. Oh, great, now he’s abandoned me, too, she thought, feeling very sorry for herself, but he was back ten minutes later with a cup of chocolate, which he carefully placed on the table before stepping back again, fiddling with his hands and sitting back down on the rug.It smelled... really good. She took a sip, then drank the whole cup. The chili in it warmed her a little, and made her feel as if everything might just be all right. “Thank you, Jaat’ujma, ” she whispered to Attuma. He smiled, wide and white behind the mask, and nodded. She had a feeling he understood more English than he spoke, similar to how she understood more Mayan than she could speak. “Is K’uk’ulkan coming?”Attuma nodded. “K’ukulkan! Yes.” He pointed at the door and spouted off a long string of Mayan that Shuri understood roughly to mean he’s not here now, but he’s coming soon. “Yes,” he finished.She tightened her grip on the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. I should pick up my dress and wash it. It got soaked. “I don’t have any clothes,” she said apologetically, gesturing at herself. “Eh, I should have asked Namora for a dress. This is terrible. And a bit awkward, really, because I’m sitting in here wearing a blanket with you, and you haven’t spoken to me— well, hardly spoken to me at all since— since— the thing. With him. The—” Her face grew warm as Attuma gave her a raised-eyebrow look, cocking his head to the side. “It was a gift, so I should take care of it,” she mumbled hotly before casting aside her blanket and going over to shake out the dress, brushing the stains off the skirt. Naked, she shook it out and carefully draped it over the table, sighing. “There.” “Ki’ichpam,” said Attuma throatily. Shuri turned and saw him shifting his weight, drinking her in with almost startled eyes. “Oh,” Shuri muttered, and picked up the blanket again, huddling back into its folds. “Um. Sorry?” One of his hands, thick and blue, was tightly clenched in his lap. “I—”The curtain to the door slipped aside, and Namor stepped in. Attuma stood immediately, saluting him, and Namor nodded at him, exchanging a few words in Mayan while Shuri looked at the ground, caught off guard and unsure of herself. “Princess,” he said softly, and then she looked up at him as the curtain shut, leaving the three of them alone in the hut. Her skin rippled into goosebumps, tight and prickly, and her mouth went a little dry. “You did a hard thing today.”Tears welled in her eyes again at the memory. “Thank you,” she choked out.“No, no.” Namor was at her side in a moment, his thumb wiping at her cheeks. “No tears, princess. No. I am proud of you. You did what was right for the sake of your people.”“You didn’t have to say that to Okoye about Attuma,” Shuri whispered, sniffling. A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. “What, that he likes a sparring partner? It was true. They may read into it as they please. Nothing I said was a lie.” He kissed her forehead, warm and bristly-soft. “You did so well,” he breathed. “So good. And I promised you a reward. So I will give you one.”She could not help but lean into his warm touch, as if he was the sun, and she a flower drinking in light. “Let me guess. A reward involving Attuma again.”“How did you guess? You are very clever.” Humor laced Namor’s voice as he lifted her chin, making her look up at him. “Did you not wonder why he was absent from the meeting with your mother?”She hadn’t even thought to consider. “No.”“Mm. He was busy watching the seas while my eyes were turned elsewhere. While he was doing that, a nuclear submarine tried to enter Talokan’s domain. It was… swiftly dealt with.” He chuckled, his eyes creasing. “So. You see? Two rewards at once again. I like this system. Very efficient, I think.”Her heart was thudding in her chest. “The same as last time?”“No, princess. Last time he was… well. As I recall, you were bruised for many days. That will not happen again.” Namor stepped back, leaving her bereft of touch. “This time, I will ensure it.”“I thought you already— you—” She could not even speak, she was so flustered. “Wasn’t it— the—”“You will see,” he said, smiling.   Fifteen minutes later, Shuri, dazed and trembling and so aroused she could barely think, was sitting in Namor’s hammock, the blanket still wrapped loosely around her body as Namor hedged Attuma against the table, one hand planted on the flat surface and the other tangled in the man’s long black hair. Attuma had beautiful hair, soft and thick, with a little wave to it, and he moaned behind his breather, fingers hooked into Namor’s belt, his legs open. It did not matter that Namor was a head shorter, or that Attuma’s mouth was covered by his breathing apparatus: the God-king’s mouth was on any inch of skin he could get, his eyes flickering over to gauge Shuri’s reaction as he licked, bit softly, kissed. Attuma shuddered, grasping his head, and reached for his mask, panting and hesitant behind it as he looked at Namor and then at Shuri.Namor whispered to him in Mayan. Yes. You can take it off.  Oh. Shuri supposed he could have taken it off all along as long as it was temporary; after all, he had another set of water-breathers protecting the gills on his neck and shoulders. Attuma reached up and clicked the seal off, drawing it from his mouth and nose. Water splattered on the floor. Shuri sat up: he was handsome. She had seen him only briefly before without his breather on, and not in such clear light. His nose was beautifully hooked, he had deep, smiling creases between his nose and his mouth, and his mouth curled up at the corners like he was always just about to smile. The curved piece of carved shark vertebrae in his nose moved when he smiled shyly at her, the shark's teeth inlaid in his chin moving a little. “Xuri,” he whispered, and then Namor was on his mouth, forcing his lips apart with an almost desperate, mindless ferocity. Attuma groaned and tugged his king closer, blue hands spread over his back, and as he canted his hips toward Namor, the smaller man cut him off with a soft grunt, shaking his head with a smile, mouth open as he turned him, tugged him, manhandled him toward Shuri as he whispered instructions in his general’s ear. 
Open her knees. 
Attuma’s hands found Shuri’s legs, guided her open gently. She couldn’t even pretend to be disinterested: she was so wet that she thought she was going to melt— as if she was on the cusp of losing shape entirely, like molten metal in a crucible.  Use your hand, whispered Namor, his hands gliding down to Attuma’s hips as his eyes found Shuri. Attuma, his breath coming short and ragged, tugged Shuri’s blanket aside, slipped his hand into it, found her core: he rubbed softly, just as he had before, making Shuri whimper and tense up, gripping the sides of the hammock as it rocked. Just what I need, to be flipped out on my head by this stupid thing. Namor had tightened one side, though: maybe it would function as a seat well enough. Behind Attuma, Namor was untying his general’s clothing, slipping it off, dropping his own eex down and pressing his mouth to Attuma’s shoulder. The larger man’s breath stuttered, his hands faltering. 
Do not stop. Make her finish. 
Shuri looked down and realized Attuma was so hard he was leaking already, his breath coming in reedy gasps as he swung Shuri closer to his hips, his hand still pressing in quick, short, full bursts. Her own breath ripped out of her in a desperate attempt to regain some control, but she could not stop the rush of release. Shuri’s toes curled and her legs shot out straight as she groaned through it, warmth flooding her, then letting her go, receding slowly as a tide. Attuma never stopped, not even when Namor raised himself up six inches on his winged feet and pressed a soft kiss to the curve of his blue ear, making his mouth slack, his eyes soft. I never noticed he has plugs in the tip to make them look pointed, Shuri thought, dazed as Attuma’s hands settled around her waist, as the rest of her blanket fell off and plopped into the hammock. Like Namor. Like his king. I think— I think Namora has them, too, doesn’t she? Bast, he’s big.  He pushed in slowly, gently, his lips trembling as Shuri reached up and held to his shoulders to brace herself. Namor was still talking, his voice low and sure and firm. 
If you break her again, my cousin, I will banish you to the depths of Talokan for a year. 
She remained as still as possible, her knees bent and high, panting softly as Attuma bottomed out, thick and heavy inside her, and remained still against her. One of his hands cupped the back of Shuri’s neck, his other planted on the small of her back where she sat in the hammock, and behind him, Namor was fervently working somewhere lower than the man’s back, but higher than his thighs. Her face burned with heat as Attuma exhaled thinly, pressing his forehead to hers. Oh.  Namor murmured something that was probably relax, nudging Attuma’s knees wider, and Shuri reached up, stroking gently at the long black hair that had fallen over his temples, that had come loose from the cord tying it all together at the back of his head. A few locks had become plastered to his brow already with sweat or seawater— or both. He made a small sound and pressed his face into her palm, breath shuddering. “Don’t hurt him,” she whispered to Namor.The God-king of Talokan’s dark eyes were just visible over the blue curve of Attuma’s shoulder. “I would never hurt any of my—” His voice twisted off in a moan, and Attuma’s eyes widened briefly, a choked sound escaping his throat as he threw his head back. Shuri reached behind him, feeling for Namor. “Stay where you are,” he whispered. “Give me— a moment.”“Okay,” she panted. “Attuma, are you okay?”“Okay,” echoed Attuma, finding her eyes with his. “Xuri— okay?”“Yes,” whispered Shuri, nodding. “Yes, I’m okay.”Namor reached down, pulled Attuma’s hips away slightly, and pushed back in. Shuri made a very undignified sound, but he shook his head. “You are too high up,” he said ruefully, a thin chuckle escaping him. “Wait a moment.” He gave a few quick orders to Attuma, who reached over and carefully loosened the hammock ropes, lowering Shuri down further to about a foot off the floor, where Namor guided Attuma down to kneel between her thighs, one blue hand on Shuri to guide her back and forth, and the other holding himself up. “Better,” he said approvingly.Attuma made a sly comment she did not quite catch, glancing sideways, and Namor laughed and cuffed him softly about the head, answering with humor in his voice. “What?” asked Shuri, smiling.“He says that in my old age I must be growing weak if I cannot take both him and you standing on my own feet,” said Namor with a grin. “I told him that is why I must use him to take you, as clearly my own kep is broken.” For good measure, he rolled his hips, and the smile slid off Attuma’s face as he pitched forward toward Shuri, a high-pitched moan breaking from his throat. Shuri let out a moan of her own as the movement pushed Attuma into her deeper, clinging to him. “Now, princess, the question remains: who will finish the race first?”She had never experienced anything like the next ten minutes. Attuma used his hands to hold her steady on the hammock, which functioned as a sort of swing, and Namor pistoned his hips into Attuma, who matched his pace and force as he echoed the movements into Shuri. It did work, surprisingly enough— the pace was gentler, a little slower, and made up for Attuma’s size by being shallow and soft, and in the end Shuri finished first, one hand clinging to Namor behind Attuma's back and the other tangled in Attuma's hair, shouting in wild exhilaration as the angle pressed against her G-spot. Somehow, she ended up on the floor again. Attuma was clearly reaching the limits of his air-breathing abilities, his lips going paler blue than the rest of him and his eyes rolling back in his head as he gasped thinly for oxygen, for water, as he lay locked in Namor’s arms on their sides, as Shuri lay facing them and took him in her hand to try to help. The constant stream of sound coming from Namor didn’t help matters much, either.
Look at the princess, General. You have taken Wakanda’s treasure. The warrior you desire will beat you bloody if she finds out you have defiled her. 
That did it, in the end. Attuma’s lips parted in an airless, feeble cry as he came all over Shuri’s hands, all over himself, all over the rug. Namor, inexorable, fucked him right through it, and when he was lying limp on the floor, reedy thin sounds sucking through his throat, Namor withdrew and got his breather, left the house, filled it with water, came back in, and placed it back on his face with gentle hands. Attuma took a full breath for the first time in almost five minutes and rolled to his back, shaking all over, his hands resting on his belly as Shuri smoothed the hair out of his face. While she sat with him, Namor washed himself, and then he went to Shuri, tipping her chin up and kissing her deeply. “Did you enjoy yourself?” he whispered, nose brushing hers.“Yes, K’uk’ulkan,” said Shuri, basking in the glow of his attention, focused wholly on her for a precious moment. “Did you?”“I have not reached the end of my race,” murmured Namor. Excitement stirred her again, made her hands tremble. “Lie down. No, on Attuma. Yes, like that.” Shuri, flat on her back with her head resting on Attuma's broad waist, opened her knees to him, and Namor slid between them with a fluid, smooth movement of thick muscle as he braced himself on one forearm and guided himself in with the other. Shuri shut her eyes, feeling the thud-thud-thud of Attuma's heartbeat under her head.Behind her, Attuma said something pained and low, and Namor turned his head aside to answer, half-smiling as he brought his hips flush against Shuri’s. Shuri understood Attuma just fine, though— both of them, in fact.
May I not even taste her, K’uk’ulkan?

Not today. 
Namor moved with brutal, swift efficiency, measured and careful to not be over-strong, restraint cording his throat and making sweat break out on his upper lip. Shuri could hear Attuma’s breath coming in low, soft bubbling pulses: felt his body jerking softly. She was fairly sure she knew exactly what he was doing, but she could not bring herself to care about it as she clung to Namor’s shoulders, tangled her fingers in his pearls. Eventually, the shallow gasps stopped. Namor turned his head, a ragged command leaving his throat, and then Attuma was shifting out from under Shuri, lowering her to the rug: he was gone, leaving them alone in the house. “Never leave me, Shuri of Wakanda,” Namor choked out, turning his eyes back to her face. “Swear it.”“Never,” she promised. “I won’t leave you, K’uk’ulkan.”Tears were gathering in his dark eyes. “Tell me you— don’t want to. Leave me. Tell me.”Shuri could not quite recall ever wanting to leave him. “I don’t want to go anywhere without you,” she gasped. “I won’t leave. I’ll stay with you.”“You—” His thrusts were becoming more ragged, uneven and broken. One hand found her jaw, his thumb pushing open her lips. “Shuri. Shuri—”  She sucked his thumb into her mouth, biting him gently. Namor let out a sound as if he was being killed, and went taut all over, pushing her a foot across the carpet as his winged ankles spasmed, flapping, one leg locked out tight and straight as he sobbed his way through his climax, mouth open against her cheek and his thumb in her mouth. When he could speak again, he slipped his hand away and slowly, painfully pulled up and away from her, his chest heaving like a bellows as he knelt over her supine, limp body. “Are you okay?” she whispered, barely able to sit up yet.“Fine,” he answered, drawing his arm across his damp face. “Yes. I’m—” He sniffed hard, and then as quickly as it had come over him, the unsure, disquieted expression on his face was gone, replaced by a half-smile and intent eyes. “I am not sure I like sharing you after all. What do you think?”She sat up dizzily. “You are the king. You must do as you please.”“Do not speak to me like a handmaid,” said Namor, waving a hand as he sat on the rumpled rug. “I thought that was my duty.”“You are the only one who still thinks so. All of Talokan knows you share my bed, and half of them expect me to make you a consort in name and not only practice. Speak to me like a princess. Unless you want me to give you to Attuma after all.” The light glinted through his earspools like sunlight through leaves.Her mouth fell open. “A… consort.” The thought evoked spoiled mistresses in old European history books: women in elaborate clothing, infighting and backstabbing and power grabs. What in Bast’s name is he talking about? “Yes. An honorable position. One that nobody in all Talokan has held in all the time I have ruled… though some families have thrust their daughters at me. And their sons.” He smiled wryly. “Perhaps that may be the way to cementing this alliance with your people. I will think on it. But only if you desire such a thing.”“Would… being a consort change my duties at all?”“A little. You would be given a title, spoken to with honor, exempt from serving unless I asked it specifically… and you could spend more time with my engineers.”Oh, that was tempting. Shuri bit her lip. Half her days seemed taken up with helping the other girls carry loads to the kitchens, sweeping the island, tidying the inside of the house, and cleaning waterlogged loads of surface goods. With that out of the way, she could work on so much more. Maybe even create shields to hide Talokan, similar to Wakanda’s vibranium shields. “I…” “Think on it. Decide.” Namor bent to kiss her cheek. “But don’t make me wait too long,” he said softly, a gleam in his eyes.“Have you decided, then, not to take my life today?” she asked with a smile as he rose up and stretched, leaning from side to side.“Mm. You know, one day I will get around to a verdict concerning your life. It is very hard to make such decisions with a such a clever and beautiful princess kept in my house.”“Eh, you know what? Send Attuma back in, I think I’m ready for another round.”Namor clutched his chest. “Ah, you wound me, princess.” Shuri laughed at the mock hurt on his face, and he grinned back at her. “Sleep in here tonight. I have something to attend to. Someone will come with fresh clothing in the morning.”“Thank you, K’uk’ulkan,” she said softly, and he nodded in acknowledgement, then left her there in the still, quiet dark.