Chapter Text
When a pair of Dora Milaje show up at his door to lead him onto an aerial transport, Erik almost thinks that T’Challa has finally come to his senses. But instead of some warehouse or wilderness and a secret execution, he finds himself standing inside the capital’s district courthouse, facing down an old woman in colorful ceremonial garb he does not recognize. She stands upon an elevated dais, and behind her is a sprawling wooden panel carved with a magnificent tree, signifying her authority.
Erik’s not even sure why he is here, because no one tells him anything. So he stands there, increasingly bewildered, as the woman reads him his name and the charges against him. If this is his sentencing, he thinks, then it’s an awfully anticlimactic one.
“Murder of an innocent is not something taken lightly in this country, Mr. Stevens. Even if the killer is a former king.”
Erik’s brows rise. How he wishes there’s someone else here to appreciate the irony with him.
“If it were up to me, I would ensure that you remain incarcerated until the very day of your sentencing. You are far too dangerous and too capable an individual to allow to roam free in our fair city.”
Surprise stirs inside of Erik, this judge makes it sound as though-
“But you have been granted leave by our King T’Challa himself, who has taken personal responsibility for your conduct outside of confinement.”
What the fuck is this?
“For these reasons you are remanded into the custody of the royal guard. You will be released from Fort Hahn and your movement restricted to the grounds of the Royal Palace.”
Erik stares up at the judge in disbelief, half convinced he’d misheard. Released?
The woman regards him coldly, with no trace of sympathy in her eyes. “I hope you understand the depth of kindness that has just been extended to you, Mr. Stevens. Few are ever granted such privileges in this country.”
Then, she nods once at the guards standing behind him.
“Court dismissed.”
-
Kindness?
Erik spends the entire journey to the Royal Palace in a befuddled silence. The city, resplendent in the late-afternoon sun, passes outside the window of his transport. On his original journey Erik had barely been able to look anywhere else, but now, he scarcely pays it any attention. He cannot begin to fathom T’Challa’s motives for making a decision like this. Is the man truly so stupid as to allow his almost murderer to live under the same roof as him? Or does he think so little of Erik that he believes no danger can come to him or his family if he brings him into his home in chains? Erik doesn’t believe for a second in this supposed compassion of Wakanda’s latest king. T’Challa is playing some sort of game, and Erik will make it his mission to uncover the truth of his intentions.
The craft slows as it approaches its landing zone, then stops with a soft shudder as it touches the ground. When Erik emerges from within its confines, he finds the Queen Mother outside waiting for him.
The last time Erik had seen Ramonda, her grief-stricken face had been streaked with tears as she watched him all but tear her son apart. Now, in her extravagant raiment and flanked by her guards, she wears the mask of refined elegance once more, looking every inch the noble queen she is purported to be. Erik has no doubt that her expression will remain exactly the same even if she’s standing before a firing squad. Erik’s firing squad, perhaps, in some other life.
“Auntie,” Erik greets her with a practiced smile.
“Mr. Stevens,” Ramonda says coldly, her expression unchanging as she looks him up and down. “I see you have recovered from your defeat.”
“Oh yeah,” Erik says, his smile brightening as he bares his teeth. “And it’s all thanks to your incredible medical technology! You know… I never offered my condolences about your husband. And I am truly, very sorry for your loss. If only he’d had access to that same technology that day, perhaps his life could have been saved.”
A slight upward tilt to her chin is the only reaction he gets. Ramonda’s self-control is immaculate, despite her obvious anger at the jibe. “My husband lived a full life, filled with joy and achievement. I am sure he is at peace now, seeing his son sitting proud upon his throne.”
Erik’s smile turns dangerous as he shoves down his rage at her unvoiced mockery of his father. “Well, I sure hope T’Challa will live to see those same joys waiting in his future.”
It is not a threat. But Ramonda had always seemed to be the smartest one in the room, the one person who had known better when her son stepped forward to throw his life away. She understands, just like Erik, that all of this is a terrible, terrible idea.
This time, the Queen Mother chooses silence as she studies him, measuring his worth and doubtlessly finding him wanting. Erik lifts his head and steadily meets her gaze. If she thinks captivity will make him weak then she is welcome to think again.
Ramonda’s expression settles into something thoughtful, then, she turns and walks toward the palace. The guards at her side turn in unison and march in after her.
It’s not until his own guards are pushing forward that Erik realizes he’s meant to follow.
-
The royal palace is just as magnificent as he remembers, with its wide halls and patterned walls. Everywhere he looks there is the symbol of the golden tribe, and matching panther motifs etched in gold and silver, upon tapestries, and carved in wood and ivory. Ramonda leads him through the corridors, and Erik follows behind, gritting his teeth against the clattering of his vibranium chains. It’s grates at him, the memory that the last time he had walked these halls, it had been as king and conqueror.
Erik may have had the last word in their earlier exchange, but it means nothing when he still walks with shackles around his wrists and spears pointed at his heart. Erik understands, just like Ramonda, that words mean little in the scheme of things. As long as T’Challa remains on the throne and Erik remains at her family’s mercy, Ramonda can never truly lose.
Eventually, they stop before a set of double doors set with elegant carvings of leopards prowling among trees. Two of the guards behind Erik step forward toward either side of the doorway and raise their kimoyo beads in unison. There is a buzz and a click, and the doors begin to swing open. Ramonda steps to one side, signaling for Erik to enter.
Erik would be lying if he said he’s not curious, and he walks forward into a beautiful room decorated in rich blacks and golds. The desks and furniture are made from fine wood, and the chairs and sofas are scattered with throws and cushions. Two bookshelves sit against one wall, laden with books and art pieces, and in an alcove there is a wide bed that looks softer than anything he’s slept in in years. Beautifully patterned rugs and tapestries decorate the floors and the walls. Spanning the far wall are floor to ceiling windows which reveal a stunning view of the city below, lit in the hues of the setting sun. The light takes Erik’s breath away, and for a second, he’s on that clifftop again, bleeding away his dreams.
“I cannot claim to understand why my son insists on inviting you into our home.”
Ramonda’s voice breaks the spell, and Erik turns toward her. “You know, that makes two of us.”
“This chance has not been granted to you lightly,” Ramonda says. “My son seems to have hope that someday you will come to see the error of your ways.”
What about the error of Wakanda’s ways? Erik almost wants to ask. But he knows that all he will hear is another defense of their traditions, one of blindness and willful negligence.
“I do not hold his optimism," Ramonda continues. "I have seen the hate in your heart, and your spiteful, murderous ways.”
“And here I thought murder was just how we dealt with things in this family.”
The way she tenses is a true delight.
“I can acknowledge the injustice you’ve experienced,” Ramonda says. “But none of it gives you the right to walk into our peaceful nation and turn it into a machine of war, or to trample upon our sacred traditions and murder our citizens. The only reason you are standing here right now is because of the mercy of my son. For your own sake, I suggest you do not disappoint him.”
“Worried I’m going to kill him again?” Erik says drily.
“My son has defeated your challenge,” Ramonda says. “And you have no more claim to the throne now than a rat from the streets. If I were you, I would think about what I say and do from now on very carefully.”
There will be no more chances for him if he squanders this one. It makes sense, Erik thinks. He shouldn’t even have this chance in the first place.
-
His chains come off, and in its place, a ring of kimoyo beads is locked around his wrist. Along with it, a small chip is placed beneath his ear. Erik studies the beads curiously as the technician explains their tracking and disabling capabilities in the briefest of words. Because of his situation, the functions of his beads have been greatly reduced compared to even that of a regular citizen. And without the right codes and equipment, the bracelet is impossible to remove.
Ramonda only stays long enough to see him fitted with his glorified shock collar, before she disappears back into the palace with her escort. His guards also withdraw, posting themselves outside his door, spears crossed to bar the exit.
The sun has set completely by the time he is finally left alone in his room, and Erik moves toward the window, drawn by the vision of Birnin Zana stretched before him. The city is lit up at night, and vehicles crawl the streets distantly below. With the power of the herb, even the details at night remain almost as clear as day, albeit washed out and devoid of color. Erik presses a hand to the cool glass, and stares out at the land that had, for just the briefest of moments, belonged to him.
He had come so close, so close to realizing his vision. It’s not that Erik had never thought about the possibility of failure. He had just always believed that it would end with him six feet under, not standing here in the royal palace as a dog on a leash, invited yet entirely unwelcome. T’Challa must be taunting him, bringing him here as a reminder of everything he had snatched from Erik’s grasp. Or does he think he’s reforming him through this exaggerated show of how high-minded he is? That Erik will fall to his knees and thank him for explaining his misguided ways? The king can’t possibly believe he’s rescuing some sort of kicked puppy when he’s already had to put down a starving wolf.
The beads by his hand glint silver as they catch the light from a distant passing train. Erik turns his wrist, feeling the way they roll over his skin. Another marvel of Wakandan technology, a person’s entire life, condensed into a piece of jewelry. The engineer in Erik wants nothing more than to take it apart and figure out how it works. But he has neither the tools nor the understanding of vibranium to directly unlock its secrets. He had seen others using it, had been given a set just after he was crowned king. But then…
Lifting his wrist, he runs his fingers over the engraved characters. Not for the first time, he wonders what it would have been like to grow up here, to have been handed such a set from birth. To be surrounded by so much excellence every day of his life, to not have to scavenge for pride in a society that barely tolerates him, to be allowed to just be without needing to justify his existence. What would it be like to have never needed to think of himself as black, but only as Wakandan?
I’m just trying to do what’s right, T’Challa had said.
Erik is starting to worry that he might have meant it.
-
“You’re serious? A fucking trial.” Erik deadpans when T’Challa stands before him again.
“It is what I promised.”
At nearly midnight, the King had shown up outside Erik’s room with a nod and an apology. He had meant to be present at the hearing, he said. He hopes the room is to his liking, he said. Erik finds he has no more patience for any of it.
“What am I doing here, T’Challa?”
“You are our guest,” says the King. “Until the day of your sentencing, you will remain within the boundaries of this palace. It’s what the court has decided.”
“You know, the way that judge made it sound, it seems more like it’s what you decided.”
T’Challa actually laughs at that. “I know you want to think of me as some sort of despot who can make whatever he wants happen, but all I did was give them a guarantee on my honor as the King. How much weight they placed upon it was for them to choose. You should count yourself lucky that they granted you this freedom.”
“Freedom? That’s what’re calling this?”
“I am trying to help you.”
“You know, you keep saying that?” Erik says. “And I’m… starting to think that you might actually believe it? But I'd really much prefer if you just went through with the branding and the execution or whatever the fuck it is that you guys do and got on with it.”
“Death is not a penalty here,” T’Challa says.
“Why are you doing this, T’Challa?” Erik repeats, forcing every word.
T’Challa heaves a sigh, visibly losing his patience. “I am-”
“And don’t tell me it’s because it’s the right thing or how you’re a good man and all of that bullshit,” Erik says. “Why are you really doing this? What are you getting out of it? You wanna see me humiliated in public? Talked down to by some smarmy bitch who thinks she’s better than me?”
Erik looks forward to it, almost. To reveal the truth of the former king’s betrayal to the entire population, have his hypocrisy marked down on the public record, that almost sounds fun.
T’Challa barely reacts at his provocation. His gaze, when it falls upon Erik, is searching, and Erik doesn't know what he wants to find.
“Why did you come here, N’Jadaka?”
Erik flinches, thrown by T’Challa’s use of his real name. It is strange to hear it spoken, as though it belongs to a different person, the ghost of someone Erik never quite knew how to be. It is the name of a little boy who was briefly a king, and a name few have used for him in more than twenty years.
“You already know why,” Erik says. To take the throne, to forge an empire, to liberate all his brothers and sisters who still suffer under their oppressors.
“Then remind me.”
What is he playing at? “To free the people,” Erik says, matter of fact.
“And how do you plan on achieving this?”
“What is this? Twenty questions? You know my answer.”
T’Challa nods, backing down in the face of Erik's anger. “You want to overthrow corrupt governments through force, and create a new Pan-African empire beyond what was achieved by the British, one where those who share our skin color stand at the top. Is that the gist of it?”
Erik half nods, half shrugs. They’ve been through all of this before.
“Then tell me, do you really think that will work?” T’Challa says. “Sending weapons to arm insurgents in peaceful nations? Has it ever worked for your American masters? Or has it just blown up in their faces when their pet militias start turning their weapons toward the innocent?”
Erik laughs. So this is it? An ideological debate? “You say that like America has ever acted out of interest in saving the world. They have only ever wanted puppets with strings they can pull on, access to cheap resources they can exploit. They are nothing but twenty-first century colonizers who use capitalism to enslave free populations including their own.”
“And you think you’re different?” T’Challa interrupts. “When your methods are the same imperial tools that created these unequal societies?"
“I’ve spent years of my life destabilizing governments.” Erik says slowly. “Contrary to what you think, my methods work perfectly to overthrow regimes. The method has never been the problem, cousin. The problem is that none of these governments would ever put in the money and resources to fix all the things they broke in the process. But with Wakanda, it could be different. Instead of leaving behind chaos we can take over and bring true freedom to the people. They will be glad to have us as their rulers once they see the benefits we offer.”
“Do you even hear yourself?” T’Challa is almost yelling now. “You sound no different from a white colonizer who thinks he’s bringing enlightenment to savages. You will not solve the problems caused by racist imperialism by becoming the same as your enemy!”
“You sound so certain,” Erik says, almost saddened by the depth of T’Challa’s conviction. “But what have any of you done but stand aside and watch as billions have bled and suffered?”
“There are ways to bring about the change you seek that does not involve wanton violence, N’Jadaka.”
Erik laughs. How can a king be this naïve? “History would disagree, cousin. What, did you think the whites granted us freedom because we asked nicely?”
“So you would sacrifice millions of innocent people, trade their lives for your idea of freedom?”
T’Challa phrases his question like an ultimatum, and it’s in that moment that Erik truly sees the chasm stretching between them. Here is a king who cares about innocence, about death. Here is a warrior, a protector, an aristocrat who has been groomed from birth to believe that justice is an idea that actually holds meaning. T’Challa has no idea of the innocent lives Erik has already sacrificed simply to get to where he is now, of all the times he’s bled and starved and lied just to so he could live to one day stand before him as an equal. Death means nothing to him, not anymore.
“Why not?” Erik answers. Sooner or later, everyone dies. It will be worth it. It has to be worth it.
“I want to believe that there is still a chance for you, N’Jadaka,” T’Challa says, his voice heavy. “But you are making it very difficult for me to justify my faith.”
Erik falls silent, surprised by the sadness he hears in T’Challa’s voice. Why does this matter to him? What does he care what Erik does or does not believe? Erik is not so deluded as to think that T’Challa considers him family, or that this supposed trial is anything but an attempt to legitimate his inevitable execution. That day in the throne room the man couldn’t even bring himself to ask him his name, had whispered how he was ready to kill him where he stood. Yet now he believes in him? Erik isn’t nearly that naïve.
“You are wrong to think as you do,” T’Challa continues, his voice dangerously soft. “And I will prove it to you.”
“That’s it?” Erik says. “That’s the reason for all of this? To save my poor misguided soul?”
“I do not expect you to change your mind overnight,” T’Challa says. “But in the time that you are here, I hope that you may come to see that there are other ways to change this world.”
“Like hiding in the shadows?” Erik says, stepping forward. “Standing by and doing nothing as those around you die in misery? Because Wakanda has done so much good for the world already.”
“I understand the wrongness of our old ways now. You have shown me as much.”
Erik loses his words in an instant. Just days ago T’Challa had been defending Wakanda’s traditions. What is this?
“Wakanda will not stand by and watch any longer, knowing that there is more we can do to help.”
For a wild second, Erik almost wants to hope. But he knows what T’Challa’s words represent. He can see it now, well-meaning aid efforts that bring no meaningful change. Charities and relief workers that only treat the symptoms of a broken system, just like every other white nation looking for something to feel good about centuries later. In this moment, he hates the man before him, he hates this entire country that sat on its wealth and technology and did nothing as millions around them were enslaved and murdered. Wakanda is just as guilty as any colonial power, an accessory to their crimes the moment they chose to trade the lives of his downtrodden ancestors for their own peace and security. The suffering of his people had never meant anything to this country, just like Erik had never meant anything to the family that should have cared.
“I’m sure it will make things much easier for your conscience,” Erik says quietly.
The king’s face is drawn, but Erik thinks he’s not imagining the sparks of anger he sees mirrored in T’Challa’s eyes.
“I can see you have no plans to be reasonable tonight,” T’Challa says, stepping back as he speaks. “Your lawyer will be here in two days’ time, and I advise that you take her advice seriously. This country has much worse punishments than death for a man like you.”
It will be so easy to kill him, Erik thinks, this self-important, naïve, irritating king. If he slits his throat and bleeds him dry, then how will he posture and lecture and dance about like this?
T’Challa turns his back.
“Hey!” Erik shouts, stalking forward as T’Challa moves toward the door. “Hey! We’re not done!”
The Dora Milaje part as T’Challa departs the room, and then turn toward him in unison. Their spears cross, blocking the way out.
“Hey!”
Erik is just about to shove through them when fire erupts inside his veins. He crumples, the breath knocked from his lungs as electricity tears along his nerves, quickly replacing any thought that isn’t of agony.
The pain disappears as quickly as it came. And when Erik finally comes to his senses, skin tingling, muscles burning, the Dora Milaje are still standing in the same spot, watching him dispassionately. One of the warriors lowers her hand, and the light from her beads dim. The chip behind Erik’s ear is hot against his skin.
Erik breathes hard, watching them, and he remembers. To them, he is nothing more than a feral stray.