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saltiestblkgirlofall · 2 years ago

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Spark [Chapter 2]

Summary: She is a spymaster, not a warden. A hunter, not a caretaker. Yet here she is, trusted with the keys that hold the prison of one Erik "Killmonger" Stevens.

Notes: This chapter was super wordy but I set up like...two other stories and some of what Spark's plot going forward will be, so I'm proud of myself for getting this far without a concrete chapter plan (best believe I will be forcing myself to write one this weekend). Just clearing something up: unless I state otherwise, all of my fics take place within the same continuity. All of my fics focus on oc x canon pairings, and those OCs are black women specifically.

Word Count: 3.70k

Warnings: Allusions to racism and canon-typical violence.

Chapter 1 || Next [12/23/2022]

1991, Birnin Zana

Fatuma awoke with a soft gasp, sitting up slowly and blearily looking around her darkened room. The only source of light was from her clock, which emanated a soft golden glow. The preteen scrubbed a hand over her eyes, smacking her lips, as she slowly sat up, tempted to sink back into her silky soft sheets. Her bed was still warm—she’d been suffering from a cold and so her mother had slept with her daughter, the young girl uncharacteristically seeking her mother’s physical comfort. Fatuma’s throat itched and she noticed her water cup was empty. Getting out of bed, she padded over to her cracked door, easing it open silently.

As she headed towards the staircase which lead down to the kitchen and living area, her mother’s sharp voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Is this true, my king?” Fatuma peered over the banister—her eyes widened into saucers when she saw her uncle standing there, clad in his armor. Although she wanted to go and greet him, something rooted her to the spot.

“Yes.”

“I see.” The head of the Emem family ran a hand over her face. Expression strained, mismatched eyes fixed upon T’Chaka. When she spoke again, Fatuma heard the tears in her mother’s voice. A rare display of emotion from the otherwise stoic She-Wolf. “I will…I will update the records.”

T’Chaka’s voice held a pleading note. “Desta—”

“T’Chaka.” Desta sharply said, before her voice softened. “Please. Don’t, Your Majesty. As your Spymaster, I understand. As your friend and sister-in-law…”

“I know.” Another pause. The King swayed on his feet and Desta stepped forward, only for T’Chaka to raise a hand. “Will you tell Faraji?”

“Are you insane—”

“It is a legitimate question, Desta.”

Fatuma watched as her mother paused, then let out a bitter little laugh. “No.”

“Thank you.” Desta Emem turned away from the King, her brother-in-law, and walked over to the small bar, pouring herself a glass of wine and draining the glass. She leaned against the marble countertop for a long time, the King patiently and respectfully waiting for her to speak again.

“…Is that all you want to tell me, T’Chaka?” Desta squeezed her cup. “Is there anything else I should know?”

“…No.” T’Chaka firmly said. The She-Wolf blew air out through her nostrils.

“I suppose both you and I will be telling our spouses some lies, come the dawn. I hope—I pray to Anub that it was worth it, Your Majesty.”

“I know.” A pause. “I pray it was worth it as well.” The King sounded more exhausted, more strained than she’d ever heard him. Repentant, even. Fatuma shuffled away from the banister and back towards her bedroom. The water could wait. Whatever the situation, it sounded grim and she did not care to listen any further.

She pretended to be asleep when she heard her door open. Desta got into the bed next to her daughter and after checking her forehead, wrapped her arms about her daughter and pressed her cheek to Fatuma’s.

The young girl pretended not to notice the wetness of her mother’s cheeks.

“It is my intention to deny any and all ‘exchanges’ to Wakanda.”

Fatuma paced the space below the throne room, as the Elder Council met above. It was tradition for the Spymaster to not be seen during such gatherings. She, after all, answered directly to the king. Never to the Council of Elders. She had respect for them—all of them. Their positions were earned, not simply given, just as her own had been. But as she answered to a single leader…

The Americans are likely frothing at the mouth. Fatuma smirked to herself. It was she, after all, who advised against visitors to the country proper. She didn’t trust their leadership as far as she could throw them. Vigilance and suspicion. She’d advised T’Challa, Okoye and Ramonda, when they’d met privately the evening before. She’d spent time in America—sent agents into vital areas of their infrastructure. She knew how they treated their own people. Treated those nations with the resources they wanted and the lack of power to resist. She planned to assign two Dogs to each planned outreach center. They are like sharks—if they smell blood, they shall feast.

“Shall we go ahead with suggestions of an embassy?”

“Only in several countries.” T’Challa said. “The Americans refuse unless they are allowed to establish one of their own within Birnin Zana.”

The Merchant Tribe Elder scoffed, “Out of the question.”

Okoye piped up. “I agree.”

Fatuma paused in her pacing, purposely letting her leg drop heavily. The sound of her heel clicking filtered up through the thin floor—she was sure that the elders had heard her nonverbal agreement. T’Challa, after masterfully disguising his laugh with a clearing of his throat evenly responded.

“I have taken my advisors’ words into consideration and I will not permit the establishment of an embassy on Wakandan soil.”

“My King.” The Mining Tribe elder said. “There is another matter we have been meaning to bring up.”

Fatuma’s lips twitched—she had a sense of what it was. And based on T’Challa’s quiet ‘what is it’, he had a sense of what it was going to be as well.

“The burden of the crown is a heavy one. Perhaps you should take a queen…”

The rest of the meeting was a blur and standard. As they turned to more mundane matters, she made her way to the upper floor and waited outside of the door to the throne room—after a few minutes it opened.

Fatuma inclined her head respectfully as the elders, one by one, filtered out of the great throne room. The Queen Mother squeezed her arm gently before vanishing down the hall with the others, leaving T’Challa alone, staring out at the skyline. She didn’t hide her smug amusement and called out,

“An interesting conclusion, to the meeting.”

“For Bast’s sake—my reign is not even two months old.” T’Challa turned away from the great window with an uncharacteristic scowl. Fatuma smiled—he was going to hate what she had to say, then.

“I think you should get married, actually.” Fatuma folded her arms. “I might weep over Nakia’s loss, but she would make an excellent Queen.”

T’Challa gave her a withering look.

“Nakia is someone I care for deeply. And she cares for me. She has been my lover and she is a close friend and confidant. But…” He left the end of his statement open. Fatuma strained her ears for signs of resignation or sadness, but there was simply a conclusion. “We desire different things.”

“I understand.” Fatuma knew her best spy well. Marriage, queenship, a life tethered to the land of Wakanda…it was not in her nature. Nakia had always been one to look outwards, to look beyond. Her service to her people was in a more proactive, dynamic role. If T’Challa were a mountain, serene, peaceful and unmovable, Nakia—true to her heritage as a member of the River Tribe—was just that. Coursing and unpredictable, yet providing to the people who lived alongside it. It frustrated Fatuma to no end at times. But it was also what she—and perhaps T’Challa as well—loved the most about her. The She-Wolf came to stand alongside him, only for T’Challa to wrap an arm about her shoulder.

“What about you, elder sister? You will be forty, soon enough.”

“Eh, eh! I am thirty-seven, cousin, do not add the extra years.” Fatuma swatted at the King as he began to laugh. “You sound like Halima.”

“Speaking of Halima.” T’Challa thoughtfully said. “I want her reassigned to a particular task.”

“Reassigned to what?” Halima Emem, her younger sister, had been in deep cover in Hong Kong when Killmonger’s coup occurred. When she refused to accept orders, two of her fellow Dogs fled and the others attacked her. Like Fatuma, she had been charged with hunting and apprehending—or killing the rogue agents. Fatuma imagined their ends weren’t kind—she after all, had taught Halima everything she knew. And if Fatuma was vicious, Halima was brutal, built taller and stronger than her elder sister.

“I want her to go to Jabariland.” At Fatuma’s furrowed brows the King explained, “Shuri is Wakanda’s only princess and she is the head of our Development Group. As the Queen’s niece and one of the remaining members of the Wolf Cult, having Halima as an unofficial ambassador will show our confidence in M’Baku’s overtures of friendship.”

Fatuma frowned but T’Challa gave a toothless smile. For someone who disliked politics, he was frighteningly adept at the art. Perhaps we are fortunate he does not relish the game so greatly.

Working her jaw for a long moment, she finally conceded, “Halima will kick up a fuss, you know. She enjoys her work as a Dog.”

“I am well aware. But I have confidence she will not turn down what I am prepared to offer her.”

“Oh?”

T’Challa gave a conspiratorial grin. Fatuma raised her brows.

“Truly? That is how you intend to bribe her?”

“Do you think it is childish?”

“A little.”

“I have seen you baby your wolves, Fatuma, is bribing her with a panther cub such a ridiculous notion?”

Fatuma felt her cheeks flush as she thought of Sarabi and Zhali. She did tend to spoil them, that much was true--she planned to leave this meeting and go make them their favorite meal of rice, boiled chicken and yams. “I think Lord M’Baku will take issue with the sort of pets people like us keep.”

“And that is why he will not know about the cub until Halima is already there.” T’Challa turned down the hall which lead to his office—clearly there were reports and missives to review. “I will make the proposition at the next council meeting. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to inform Halima of her new assignment.” Fatuma made a mental note to order some of Halima’s favorite takeout.

“I did notice Lord M’Baku was not in attendance today.”

“One of his wives is ill—he wished to stay behind and care for her.”

“How many does he have?”

“Four, I believe.” Fatuma hummed thoughtfully and T’Challa snapped, “I will not bring back concubinage as the standard, so don’t you even think about asking.”

“The line of succession was never lean when the King had multiple wives, T’Challa.”

“Yes, but the lack of infighting is nice, don’t you think?” Fatuma sucked her teeth, knowing he was correct. “If you are so inclined, you and my mother may chat my ears off about dating when I return from my walkabout in the countryside.” The walkabout had been Ramonda’s idea—a way to restore confidence and security amongst the people following the upheaval of the past couple months. And it was standard for several weeks, up to a couple months a year, for the King of Wakanda to tour the provinces of the small kingdom.

“The crown is a heavy burden. You should have someone to share it with.”

“I have my mother, and Shuri. Nakia has never denied me a listening ear or advice. And I do have you.”

“Mmm.”

“How is Erik doing?” Fatuma’s brows furrowed and she frowned openly at T’Challa.

“You see him quite often.”

“And he volunteers little information about the hours between our time spent together.” T’Challa gave her a pointed look.

“I don’t spend much time with him, T’Challa.” It was true.

The first couple weeks of their new arrangement passed in relative peace.

Fatuma rose early and worked late, mustering up the energy to kick her shoes off in the front walkway before stumbling to the couch. There she would catch an hour of sleep before rousing herself enough to either fall into her bed or pass out on her study’s couch. Her heels were always in place by the entrance to her rooms in the mornings.

Fatuma made a point of checking on Erik’s movements every hour or so, pulling up map on her beads and studying it. So far, he hadn’t done much—he spent a lot of time in the spare study, in the kitchen, in the palace training grounds. The mind-healer assigned to him came to see him in her quarters.

Right now he was in the main living space, although she couldn’t ascertain what he was doing. If he’s eating on my couch, I will kill him. Fatuma thought, and closed her beads’ interface out. When she glanced over at T’Challa, there was a curious look on his face. It was one he got whenever he got down to the labs and tinkered, or was faced with a problem someone wanted him to solve. She didn’t like it and smacked his shoulder lightly.

“Whatever you are thinking of, put it from your head.” Turning away, she called, “I have to meet with Okoye—do not cause trouble while I am busy.” Her beads hummed with a message—when she saw it was blinking red, she frowned. That meant it was urgent.

“Me? Never.”

His laughter accompanied her all the way down the hall.

—

When Erik was a small boy, he found sitting still difficult.

His teachers all claimed that he was ‘bright’ but ‘disruptive’, simply because his lessons bored him. Who gave a shit—he did his work, he got straight As, so he amused himself. If his friends got distracted by him fiddling, he felt that it was their business, not his, but this attitude got him hauled into parental conference after parental conference.

His fourth-grade teacher, Ms. Duggan, sneered down her hawk beak nose at him as she recounted his latest offense, which had been attempting origami with his loose papers while the rest of the class worked on their math test.

(A math test that he had naturally aced.)

Although normally Erik’s mother accepted teachers’ critiques with a practiced smile, this time she dropped the pretense of politeness.

Demanding to know if her son quietly working on origami required both the principle and a hall monitor to be hauled in. When Ms. Duggan stammered, scrambling for answers, Dr. Cassandra Stevens gave Ms. Duggan a snarl of a smile and informed her that if she was called down to the school again for something so innocuous, she’d bring the board into this. She also informed Ms. Duggan that her son would not be serving a late detention, given that he was eight and she would not have him walking back to their apartment after the streetlights came on.

Erik had clutched his mother’s hand as she walked with him to the parking lot, keys jangling in her hand, black leather purse slung over her shoulder with his detention note peeking out, heels clacking loudly against the asphalt. She muttered under her breath in her thick Southern drawl, occasionally sucking her teeth and scowling. When they were both in her ‘82 Honda, she took a deep breath and stared out across the parking lot. When the heat in the car became too much, he tugged on her sleeve.

“Momma?” Erik asked timidly. “You mad at me?”

Cassandra took a deep breath and turned to him, sighing softly and ruffling his hair. “No, baby, of course not. But remember what I told you about doing extra in class?”

He pouted at her. “But I was bored.”

A fond, sad smile crossed her face. “I know, Erik.”

“Mr. Pritchard says you should skip me.” Erik said.

“E-Erik w-we’ve spoken a-about…” Cassandra tripped over her words and took a deep breath. Erik reached out and put a hand on her shoulder, which made her smile as she turned to him. “You know your daddy and I don’t want that.”

“Why not? I’m the smartest kid in school, everyone says so, Momma.”

“Because you are a little boy, not some excuse for the district to try and look good while failing everyone else left and right.” She swiped her thumb over the apple of his cheek. “Wouldn’t you miss Kareem, Danny and the others?”

He saw his mother’s point—he’d be sad without his friends, but still.

As quickly as his mother entered his mind, he banished her again. He wasn’t ready to mourn. He wasn’t ready to lay those memories to rest.

When will you be?

“Erik.” He took a deep breath and looked forward, at the woman staring across the table at him.

Madhi was a silver-haired woman with sharp eyes, a sharper tongue but a warm and honest heart. It was her job to be utterly impartial, and her commitment to her role stunned him. Not once did he detect resentment, anger or even disdain. Simply an open ear, sound advice, and perhaps even a bit of understanding. When he returned his attention to the elder woman she smiled a little.

“Done daydreaming?”

“I wasn’t.” He insisted almost childishly.

“Do you think you’re up to speak about your family today?” She laced her fingers together.

“Everything’s in my file, doc.”

“I knew Prince N’Jobu, Erik.” She reminded him. “And I’m aware of what’s in your file. But I’m talking about your father. Your sister. Your mother.”

Erik fell into silence and he saw Madhi give a quiet, understanding quirk of the lips. Progress was glacial and some part of him deep inside felt guilty about making her job harder, but at least she wasn’t gnashing her teeth in frustration or throwing her hands up. His first and last attempt at therapy back in the States ended with the doctor, some tweed-wearing Becky from Upstate New York throwing her hands up and trying to put him on medication. After that, he’d been reluctant to try again, but T’Challa had mandated this shit…

“Alright, what about your interactions with your family here? T’Challa tells me that the two of you sparred the other day.”

“It’s aight.” He shrugged lightly. Sometimes T’Challa’s capacity for forgiveness and tolerance made him want to smash his fist into his cousin’s face. Killmonger hissed that it was weakness and foolishness. Idiocy, even. Erik, Erik Stevens who once held an idealistic view of the world and of his future saw it for what it was. A form of strength. A willingness to embrace the shunned child, despite the disapproving gaze of the village. “It’s different.”

“From your exercises in the American military.”

“Yeah.” He felt, for the first time, that he was actually learning things again. As much as he hated to admit it, his cousin did know a thing or two.

Their session continued as normal, Mahdi silently reading through the journal she had him keeping, reminding him of their exercises and after bidding him a good evening, she departed, leaving him alone with his thoughts.

His mind, he found, was a frightening place. It was a thought he’d increasingly had, in the last few weeks.

After pulling the spear tip free of his torso, Erik had awoken expecting to see the afterlife, only to see a panther the size of a horse staring at him. He did not need to be told who he was facing, for the orchid-colored eyes which burned out of Her face told him that he faced a goddess.

He was inclined to spit at Her, curse Her for Her passivity, but something not quite fear and not quite reverence stopped him in his tracks.

N’Jadaka. Son of N’Jobu and son of Cassandra.

His father’s name had not stunned him. His mother’s had.

“If you’re here to tell me how you always loved me or some shit, I’m not tryna hear all of that.” Erik snarled. Bast tilted Her head and a low rumbling reached his ears. It didn’t take him long to figure out that She was laughing at him.

Even if I were so inclined, I would not beg forgiveness of you. Bast’s maw parted in mimicry of a smile.

“Where am I?”

You lie on the precipice between life and death. The goddess said. She got to her feet and loped past him. He felt inclined to follow. They passed between rows of baobabs, the call of the savannah distantly reaching his ears. He followed her into grass which tickled his bare feet, then rose to his knee, his waist and then above his head. My consort believes I should let you die. But death is easier than living—no, N’Jadaka, it is not yet your time. You carry my gift within you—and you shall use it for purpose higher than rage.

“What purpose?!” He roared at Her. “I had my purpose!”

Did you? Bast stared at him. Beyond war, Erik Stevens, N’Jadaka Udaku, what was your purpose? When the ashes settle, there must be something to fill the void. Revenge only sustains one for so long. And when revenge is taken, where does purpose go? After reducing the world to nothing, would you have ruled the ashes?

“I--”

And what of your mother’s ancestors? What of their sacrifices and struggles, only for war and destruction to be their ultimate legacy?

Erik was silent. The goddess gave what he assumed was a pointed look.

Go, Erik. The panther melted into the great, pale stalks of grass. Heal. Seek atonement. Rediscover your purpose.

The goddess had not visited him again, since that meeting. He had awoken on a metal slab, thrashing and screaming until his throat was raw. That had been three weeks ago.

The first familiar face he saw was T’Challa’s. His cousin looked exhausted, yet told Erik that he was pleased to see that he was awake.

“Why save me?” He’d demanded. His final wishes rang in his ears. "Just bury me in the ocean with my ancestors that jumped from the ships because they knew death was better than bondage." Yet here he was. Alive.

“Because She decided it was not your time.” T’Challa had answered simply. “And She can be insistent, when She is ready.”

And so he continued to live, all because a fucking god decided she wasn’t finished with his ass.

He couldn’t decide if he wanted to laugh, to destroy something, or to cry. Bonus: Spark Lookbook! (Prologue, Ch. 1 and Ch. 2) Taglist: @chaneajoyyy @muse-of-mbaku @tchallasbabymama @blackpinup22 @shimmerwriter @theunsweetenedtruth @why-wait-4-eventually

#black panther #erik killmonger #black panther fanfiction #oc: fatuma emem #saltyblkgirlwrites #erik x oc #erik x fatuma #fic: spark

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