Chapter Text
Kukulkan arrives in the evening, when the sun is broken and bleeds in pink, in orange and in its golden light the city of Birnin Zana opens its borders and takes him for its own. At once the magic within the kingdom of Wakanda is tangible and ethereal, yet somehow fleeting. The towering citadel of the Golden Palace is accessible to the public and its masses.
A flock of servants pass through with dozens of baskets and totes. Some carry away armfuls of the gold, jewels, textiles, and enchanted goods. Each tote is filled to the brim with precious gifts, but Kukulkan holds the real prize.
The halls are long and the corridors stretch out, he hears the exchanging toasts and friendly jeers. Glasses klink above the buzz of all the gossip as that passes through. Others are lively in their greeting, feeling festive but Kukulkan is aware of what the people of Wakanda think of him.
Even as he reaches the far reaches of the court he hears the people begin to fret, arguing amongst themselves. The long table in the center host an array of fruits, desserts and other fine foods. The court is full and
Kukulkan’s eyes turn immediately to Queen Shuri. She holds an expression as elegant as the fine patterned gown draping her delicate body. A bright scarf is wrapped around her braids. Gold bells hang from the fabric, tinkling with her every move. Her eyes look large and deep as she gazes on Manifold.
Surely, she must be happy.
Kukulkan stands at the edge of the grand court, his presence known by most as the celebration swirls around him. His presence is impossible to ignore, and though he is not dressed in the finery of men, his bare chest and brightly adorned body bolden his status.
The celebration around Kukulkan feels distant, muted as he approaches Queen Shuri and her husband.
The weight of the night begins pressing down on him, a reminder of all he had once hoped for, all he had once lost. But gods are nothing if not resilient, and Kukulkan is no stranger to loss. He knows what he must do. This moment, this night, is a reminder of—perhaps of what he can never claim.
“Hail,” he greets.
“Wakanda welcomes you, Kukulkan,” Queen Shuri says. For a moment her breath hitches and the beat of her heart flutters wildly. “Thank you for being here.”
Kukulkan is at her left and standing to the right of where she commands over the room is Manifold.
Her husband towers beside her, his uniform sharp and refined, its gold embellishments gleaming under the lights of the grand court. But Kukulkan knows that no amount of finery can outshine the presence of the woman standing beside him. Shuri, with her intricate braids adorned with jewels and beads and shells. Her gown shimmering like the Wakandan night, commands the room in ways that no man—no matter how powerful—ever could.
“Kukulkan,” Manifold replies, his voice smooth, though there’s a slight edge to it. He places a hand on Queen Shuri’s waist, almost possessively, as if to make his claim clear. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Kukulkan doesn’t immediately respond to Manifold. Instead, his gaze settles on Shuri, he had come here for her, after all. “I have brought you a gift, Queen Shuri,” he says, From within his cloak, he holds the herb—
She extends her hand. It’s a faint touch, her fingers brushing against the fine skin of his wrist. “Thank you,” she says, her voice soft. “But this is a gift that should be given away from the eyes of others.”
They both understand the significance of this gift, the power it holds, and perhaps more importantly, what it means for them. He inclines his head slightly, a gesture of understanding. His cloak shifts as he lowers the herb back into its folds, hiding the sacred object from view.
“I will tell you of our plans once the day is over.”
“As you wish,” he says. There’s no resentment, only an acknowledgment of the moment. Queen Shuri’s gaze softens, and her hand lingers for just a second longer before she pulls it away, her fingers trailing the faintest of paths against his skin.
Kukulkan’s eyes follow her movements as she straightens, her husband steps forward.
“Yes, but once the day is over I plan to keep you awake all night.”
Manifold whispers this but Kukulan hears every word.
They kiss and the crowd erupts into applause, whistles, shouts of praise, at the sight. Manifold curls a hand around Queen Shuri’s hip in what almost seems like a possessive gesture, the way he extends a hand to traipse suggestively—intimately, over the cut of her dress.
“Join us, Kukulkan,” she says, her voice calm and authoritative. “Let us not forget that tonight is a celebration.”
Manifold nods, though his eyes linger on Kukulkan for a moment longer.
“I hope to learn more about your kingdom in the coming days,” Manifold says, his gaze flicking to Kukulkan’s spear with a hint of curiosity that borders on wariness. His brow is furrowed, not in anger, but in deep consideration. “I hear Talokan is magnificent, where even a half-blood can be king.”
Kukulkan’s grip on his spear tightens, but his face remains composed. The comment, though delivered with a smile, stirs something inside him—a reminder of the differences that have always existed between their worlds.
“I am Aj Kukulkan,” he says, his tone even, though his eyes harden just slightly. “You surface-dwellers would not consider me a king.”
The title of Aj , though different from the concept of kingship known to those on land, holds a far deeper significance. It is a title borne of gods, not men, and he wears it with a pride that transcends the simple notion of royalty.
“I do not need a queen,” he adds, the words quiet but pointed.
Manifold’s smile falters for the briefest of moments, but he recovers quickly, his face slipping back into its easy, affable expression. “Apologies, Aj Kukulkan,” he says, the title rolling awkwardly off his tongue, his full-toned accent fattening the syllables. “But you are a half-blood yourself, are you not?”
Kukulkan’s eyes narrow, though his expression remains impassive. The words sting in a way they shouldn’t, a reminder of his unique lineage, of the way the surface world has always viewed him and his people. Mortals often attempt insults disguised as curiosity, but he does not let the Manifold agitate.
“Yes,” he says, offering no further explanation. “Ruling is no simple feat. It requires more than just strength and strategy. It requires wisdom—and a deep understanding of those you lead.”
Manifold’s grin remains,. “I believe I’m up to the challenge,” he responds, his tone light but his gaze sharp.
His eyes dart briefly to Shuri, as if to emphasize his point, before returning to Kukulkan. Queen Shuri steps between them. Her hand lightly touches Manifold’s arm, a gentle reminder of her presence.
The moment passes, and the noise of the court seems to rush back in, filling the space with music, laughter, and conversation.
Kukulkan watches them, his mind turning over the brief exchange. The herb remains hidden in his cloak as Manifold chuckles softly, but there is no humor in it. His hand is resting lightly on his wife’s back as they turn to walk away. “Come, my love, let’s enjoy the rest of the evening.”
As they move through the court, Kukulkan remains still, his eyes following them. The celebration around him reaches its peak, the sounds of laughter, music, and clinking glasses swirling in the air. But to him, it all feels distant, muted. His focus is singular, his thoughts heavy with the weight of what has been lost—and what still remains unresolved.
Citizens, nobles, diplomats fill the court. They rush to greet their queen and king. The stream of guests grows vast as she is urged further into the crowd. Kukulkan’s eyes don’t leave her andis contemplating something deeper, something hidden from those around her. For a moment, her façade slips, just enough for him to see the flicker of something in her eyes—weariness, perhaps, or the burden of the crown.
A wretched reminder of the distance that has grown between him and the woman who once shared more than just fleeting moments with him.
Queen Shuri has made her choice. And for all the strength and wisdom he possesses, Kukulkan knows that there are battles even he cannot win. And, though the thought of seeing her again weighs on him he is ready to bare his gift and finally be done with her.
The night is bright with noise of revelry; the large court full of drums, laughter and gossip. The voices though constant are a distant hum. He finds mortal intoxication rather unpleasant. The needs and wants rolling off their tongue in desperate pleas and moans.
The drink until they are dancing among themselves, with the shadows of the setting sun casting long, golden lines across the floor. The air in the grand court hums with celebration as the crowd passes cups of their chosen liquor, their laughter rising above the sound of drums and music. Mortals easily lose themselves to the night, Kukulkan muses. Queen Shuri stands at the center of it all, radiant and unrestrained as she begins to sway to the rhythm. Her movements are fluid, graceful, the beads and shells in her braids jingling softly as she spins and twirls.
Kukulkan keeps his distance. She is full of life, more alive now than she had been all night. There’s a freedom in her expression that he both envies and admires, and in that moment, she is unreachable, like the sun on the horizon—close enough to see, but forever just out of reach.
Others dance beside her, matching her rhythm, enraptured by the pulse of the celebration.
Kukulkan clenches his spear at his side. The sight stirs something deep within him—a mixture of longing and frustration. He watches the way her body moves with the music, the way her laughter rings out, unburdened. And it is this version of her that Kukulkan has always been drawn to.
The scarf around her braids catches the remaining daylight with every movement, the gold beads and the shells chiming in tune with the rhythm of her steps. She is a vision, and though her face is serene, there is a light in her eyes that was once his to see.
Manifold leans in, whispering something to her, but her focus is elsewhere. She barely acknowledges him, too wrapped up in the dance, in the crowd, in her own joy. Kukulkan notices the way Manifold’s hand falls away, the brief flicker of frustration in his expression as he tries, and fails, to reclaim her attention.
There’s a pull in Kukulkan’s chest, an urge to step forward, to draw her focus away as well. But this night is not his to take.
Queen Shuri laughs again, spinning away from Manifold, the music sweeping her into its embrace. Her husband seems content in chasing her.
As the night wears on, and the celebration reaches its fever pitch, Kukulkan remains in the shadows, watching, waiting. They tire easily. As he expects, when mortals pass around their cups and continue to dance the crowd of royals and nobles disperses through the night. Some have chosen to sleep upon the court, others have chosen their bedmate for the night. For some the celebration continues, the palace abuzz with joy and excitement.
Kukulkan’s eyes scan the grand court as he strides forward, his steps measured and purposeful.The room is still alive with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and music, but it all feels distant to him, the echoes of a world he would never belong to. His gaze is fixed on one figure in particular: Queen Shuri, radiant and regal as she stands beside her new husband, Manifold.
For Kukulkan the night has come to an end. Beneath the surface of his grandeur, there was something far more intimate and unresolved. A message had been sent in secret—a request for a private meeting between him and Queen Shuri, away from prying eyes and the ever-watchful gaze of the elder council.
The music and laughter from the celebration fade into the distance as Queen Shuri and her guards lead Kukulkan through the winding corridors of the palace, their steps quiet but purposeful. She glances over her shoulder, making sure they are not followed, and—her eyes meet his. As darkness settles over Wakanda, they come to a stop in a dimly lit room, away from the eyes and ears of the court. Her guards stand to attention outside the door upon their entry.
Kukulkan follows closely, as they cross into a corridor. It’s as if the palace disappears completely; the walls shutting to reveal a hidden doorway.
“We’ve had to be smart about our operations here, so everything is hidden in plain sight.”
The workshop of Queen Shuri has a life of its own, colorful and bustling, illuminated by great fireplaces and stark light spearing in from the windows along the high walls. The room they enter is not the actual workshop—that is situated downstairs, just below the great arching mezzanine within easy reach of visitors and couriers, assistants and students.
Here, nestled above the space is intimate, silent, a stark contrast to the noise of the celebration just beyond. Doors shunt softly behind them, and for a moment, there is only the sound of her breathing, shallow and heavy.
“Kukulkan,” Shuri says, her voice a whisper as she turns to face him. There’s no hesitation in her steps, her presence commanding even in this quiet moment.
She is close now—closer than she has been all evening. He reaches into his cloak and pulls out the herb, the soft linen cloth folded neatly and nearly glowing. He had held onto it for so long.
“I’ve retrieved this for you,” Kukulkan says quietly, holding the herb out to her. “A gift. One that belongs to you.”
Queen Shuri’s eyes widen slightly as she takes the folded cloth from his hand, her fingers brushing against his for just a moment. The touch is electric, a spark that sends a jolt of energy between them. She holds the herb close, examining it, understanding its power. “Thank you, I, truthfully, I didn’t think you would.”
“For you, and only you,” Kukulkan replies, his voice steady, though his heart races. “It is a symbol of what will be.”
Shuri’s eyes meet his again, and there is a flicker of emotion there—gratitude, perhaps. She holds the herb to her chest, her gaze softening as she looks up at him.
“Thank you,” she whispers, her voice so low it is almost drowned by the beating of his heart.
She turns then, the herb once again hidden away. Kukulkan stands, his gaze intense as Queen Shuri bings forth a map. The soft rustling of paper fills the room, Shuri’s face, no longer poised and composed, now bares the traces of strain from the news she shares—a coup, one that had festered beneath the surface, hidden within the trusted walls of her council.
“The usurpers,” Shuri says, her voice hardening with determination as she points to several locations marked on the map. “They are hiding within the city, embedded in our very heart. They plan to dethrone me, to claim Wakanda for themselves.”
Her hand shook slightly as she gestured to a cluster of dark inked spots on the map, marking where the usurpers had gathered their forces. “They’ve been biding their time, using the chaos of recent events to hide their true intentions.”
Kukulkan’s sharp gaze follows her every movement. This was no simple act of rebellion—it was a direct threat to Shuri, to her reign, and to the stability of Wakanda. The familiar surge of protectiveness rises within him, mingling with the resolve of a warrior preparing for battle.
“Wakanda,” Kukulkan says, his voice low but steady, pointing to a dark mark near the heart of Wakanda on the map. “It seems to have been under siege for quite some time now.”
Shuri nods, her jaw tightening. “The people are beginning to sense the unrest, but the council keeps a tight grip on the information. They believe they can outmaneuver me, but they’re mistaken.” She traces a finger along a line of key locations surrounding the capital, noting the strategic points the usurpers had fortified. “I have a way to lure them out, to force their hand.” Kukulkan leanes closer, his eyes narrowing as he studies the map with her. “They’ve remained within the walls of the city, orchestrating their moves from behind closed doors, beyond our reach. They’re cowards, using their power from the shadows. If we try to strike at them within the city, we risk losing everything. I won’t have Wakanda torn apart by civil war.”
Kukulkan’s hand hovers over the map. “Then what is it you will do?”
“Draw them out,” she state, voice taking on a sharper edge. “We make them think they have the upper hand, that they can attack on their terms. But instead, we set the trap. We make them leave their safe havens within the city walls and fight alongside their soldiers, where they’re vulnerable.”
Kukulkan’s gaze remains fixed on the map. Her plan was audacious, but it carried the weight of desperation—of a ruler willing to take the risk to protect her kingdom. He considered the possibilities, weighing the gravity of the situation, knowing that what she was proposing would force her into a confrontation with those who had once been closest to her. The political intrigue, the betrayal—it was a different kind of battle, but no less dangerous than the wars he had fought.
Then, sudden, soft and unexpected, she reaches up, her fingers lightly grazing his cheek, and Kukulkan inhales sharply at the touch. His composure faltering for the briefest moment. Her touch, so familiar.
“When word came of your arrival, I didn’t believe it,” Queen Shuri admits, her voice quiet. “Yet, here you are. I can’t decide if I feel relieved or flush with guilt,” she continues, there’s a lightness to her voice that betrays her demeanor.
Kukulkan’s gaze shifts as her words hang between them, delicate but laced with unspoken tension. He stands before her, his posture unyielding, but inside, her admission stirs something deep.
“Guilt?” He repeats, his voice soft yet measured, careful not to betray the flicker of emotion stirring within him—the memories stirring within. “What would you have to feel guilty for, princess?” The term slips from his lips, unintentionally intimate, though he doesn’t retract it.
Their eyes meet briefly, the weight of that familiar endearment bringing a flicker of warmth to her otherwise composed face. “Perhaps for welcoming you,” she says. “Perhaps for not knowing how I would feel when I saw you again.”
Kukulkan stands in silence for a moment, taking in her words. He had prepared for many things on this night—for diplomacy, for tension, for the possibility of animosity—but not for this. Her words strike deeper than they should, and he is caught off guard. He had come here with a purpose, yet standing before her now, he feels unmoored, as if the very ground beneath him is shifting.
He steps closer, his voice dropping just low enough that only she can hear. “You owe me no guilt, princess,” he says, the name falling from his lips with a softness reserved only for her. “I am not here to claim what was lost. The past remains as it is. But I have come to see you with my own eyes.”
Her gaze falters; a glimpse of the weight she’s carried since they parted. There’s a moment of silence between them, thick with unspoken words, before Shuri steps back, regaining her regal composure. “And what do you see?”
“I see someone who has moved forward,” he says at last, his voice steady though his heart betrays him. “And I see that grief has not consumed you.”
“Tonight is a night of celebration,” she reminds him, her tone once again that of a queen addressing a guest. “Let us honor it as such.”
Kukulkan inclines his head in agreement, though inside, the storm of emotions still churns. “As you wish, Queen Shuri.”
Her eyes flicker with something he can’t quite name—she reaches out, a fleeting gesture, her hand brushing his arm before she pulls back. “I wish for you to give me another gift.”
Kukulkan watches as she leans in, testing him, maybe even urging him to move away as she places her fingertips over his beating heart. The touch is light. Her hands are warm; he is too aware of them, the way they speak words into his skin without a voice.
There’s a gravity that comes from the tension between them. It is a heat that thrums between their bodies, prickling Kukulkan’s skin so that with every pulse a wave of anticipation washes over him. His jaw aches and his hands tremble. There is guilt and a sickness stirring in him somehow. He shouldn’t have let them get this close, at this moment, it is not what they need.
Queen Shuri’s fingers linger and trace over his skin. Her warmth seeps into him, igniting memories of what once was, and what could never be. Her breath brushes against his lips, and in that moment, it’s just them—just the space between them that seems to grow smaller.
Kukulkan’s hand rises instinctively to her waist, pulling or pushing— closer , his body responding to the gravity of her presence. He can feel the warmth of her skin, the softness of her breath, and for a moment, he forgets everything else—her husband, the kingdom, the past. All he can think about is her, here, now.
“A story,” he says, voice low, almost reverent, “because I cannot give you what you ask for. Not in the way you hope.”
The warmth of her skin spreads through him, sending tendrils of emotion he had no wish to feel. Yet here they were, closer than they should be, and the weight of everything unspoken presses down on them both.
Kukulkan’s heart beats faster. Beneath her touch, his body, and its mortal wants begins betraying the stillness of his face. He knows what she is doing—testing, pushing, perhaps even daring him to react.
“A story?” She repeats softly. “Very well. A story.”
Her fingers remain where they are, over his heart, and he feels as though there is something dangerous in their closeness, something fragile. But he cannot pull away, not yet. Perhaps this is what she wants —to see if he will falter, if he will break.
“A story of avarice,” he begins, his voice steady despite the turmoil within him. “As most cautionary tales begin.”
His eyes flicker to hers, and he sees the curiosity, of expectation. He inhales sharply, feeling the rush of memories and the sharp edge of want that slices through him.
“Once, there was a king who believed he could have everything,” Kukulkan continues, his gaze distant, as if the story were not his own. “He ruled a kingdom beneath the earth, vast and powerful, but he desired more. He thought the world was his for the taking, that he could bend anything to his will—land, sea, beats and man and even… hearts.”
Queen Shuri’s eyes search his face, her expression softening for a fleeting moment. She pulls back, her hand slipping away from his chest as though she, too, has realized the danger of this proximity. Kukulkan’s jaw tightens as he pushes forward, knowing he must tell her what she already knows, what she likely suspects.
“But the king was blind,” he says quietly, his voice thick. “He didn’t see that power and love cannot be taken. They can only be given freely. And in his pride, in his desire to control all that he saw, he lost what he valued most.”
“The lesson, of course, is that avarice is its own punishment,” Kukulkan finishes, his voice softer now. “The king may have had the world at his feet, but in the end, he found that all his treasures were hollow… because what he truly sought was something he could never possess.”
Silence stretches between them. Her touch lingers, and Kukulkan takes a breath, steadying himself, as if the tale has weighed on him for centuries. His chest tightens as he looks at her, the queen draped in gold and power, the woman who he is to only share political ties with. If only, he thought, we could share nothing else beyond our breath.
Queen Shuri’s lips curl into a faint smile. “Life has a way of forcing our hands.”
Kukulkan’s jaw tightens, the weight of her words settling over him. “Yes,” he says quietly, “it does.”
“Do you intend to stay the whole night?”
“I should not be here,” he replies, “This is not my place.”
Her grin fades slightly, her eyes searching his face. “And where is your place, then? Beneath the waves? Away from everything that makes you feel?”
“You know nothing of what I feel,” he says, his voice edged with an emotion he can’t quite contain.
Queen Shuri tilts her head, studying him with those deep, knowing eyes. “Perhaps not.” she concedes. Her gaze is unwavering. “I did love you, Kukulkan, though I thought you were much too prideful to return my feelings and I suppose I was right,” she says, softly. “So, I have come to terms with our relationship. Now I wish to let you go peacefully.”
And as she steps away, the warmth of her touch lingers, leaving Kukulkan standing alone with the echoes of her presence. She’s stepping back into her role, her regal poise returning. The gold in her scarf tinkling with every step.
Kukulkan stands rooted to the spot, watching as Queen Shuri and her guards disappear down the long corridor. They become mere shadows, a distant image fading into the grand halls of the Wakandan palace. His fists tighten at his sides, his spear trembling slightly in his grip as he struggles to maintain his composure. His usual calm he wears like armor slips. Something sharp twinges in his chest, a pang he cannot shake. His throat closes, and suddenly the air feels too thin, too stifling, as if the very air is turning against him, pressing in from all sides.
His skin pulls tight, his muscles coiling like a spring wound too tightly. As though he is diminishing—shrinking inward, collapsing under the weight of emotions he can no longer keep at bay.
Kukulkan feels it keenly now. The finality of it.
He had known it, perhaps, in some part of himself, but seeing it— feeling it —the reality of her departure. His eyes remain fixed on where she once stood, where her presence had filled the space with an energy he had always been drawn to, lingering like a shadow in the depths of his heart.